I fucked two guys on Christmas night: A holiday tradition

I love reposting this year after year.  It’s now the 5th year in a row I’m posting my magical Christmas night story.  It was the first time Troy and I met Jack and it was the launch of a beautiful friendship between the three of us.  It was also the launch of my sex positive journey, a true freeing of a soul.  This was originally published 12/25/11 and when I read it it’s almost like someone else wrote it.  Crazy how time will do that to a person.  I hope you’re all having a lovely holiday season with your loved ones!  xx Hy

Tonight is my one-year anniversary of becoming a libertine and creating a left-of-center, non-vanilla lifestyle. For real.

Prior to a year ago, I was a newly single woman embarking on a non-monogamous dating path. That much I knew. But I didn’t know how far I swung out of the mainstream until a surprise package landed in my lap late December 25th, 2010. That’s when I knew I was forever changed.

Troy was a man I’d men in early November and our sex was electric. I made him cum 4 times our first time and he’s the one who opened my body to wonders I didn’t know existed. He was a demanding, gentle, talented lover, but out of bed he was cruel, punitive, and dismissive. Our sexual affair lasted as long as I could stand until he betrayed me with a friend. I mourn the loss of his cock and skill, but celebrate the freedom from the bullshit.

One of the many things that Troy and I bonded over was our shared fantasy regarding a third man. He wanted to suck a huge cock and I wanted to watch men suck each other. So we embarked on a hunt via AFF to find a third. Man after man didn’t pass muster. Troy would routinely meet them first to make sure they weren’t creepy, then I’d meet them, but no one clicked. We were becoming discouraged.

Then, it all came together. Like the twinkle in Santa’s eye. It wasn’t planned, it was a happy accident. Suddenly I had two men before me, a fire in my hearth, and cocks all over inside me.

Here’s the story as I documented it one year ago today:

The other night I was suddenly and unexpectedly childless. I invited Troy over for companionship since a trip he had planned for fell through (a wild jaunt in the mountains with an Amazonian Russian doll, no less). I surprised him with my childless status to which he immediately jumped and texted Jack, a 20-something computer-systems-IT-type dude; European in stature and British in intonation, to come to my house instead of his for an initial meet and greet.

Troy was agitated and nervous as we waited so I pushed him down on my couch and sucked and stroked his cock for a few minutes with expertise, then climbed on top and drenched his hips with my pussy juices as he pile drove into me and came like a rockstar.

Finally Jack arrived. Tall, pale, polite, floppy-haired and bespectacled. The perfectly innocuous third to our fantasy.

I sat on the couch next to Troy. Jack sat in a chair. We chatted. Then someone suggested Jack sit next to me, essentially sandwiching me between them. The men began discussing auto-oral stimulation and I mentioned I loved to sit and hold my breast in my hand like this. Then I asked if Jack would like to hold it. Then I told Troy to hold the other one.

I sat there in stillness. The universe swirled around me as two large, warm male hands each cupped a heavy breast tenderly, eagerly.

“What do you want us to do next, sweet Hyacinth?” Jack asked.

“Kiss my neck,” I firmly replied.

And they did. Two pairs of soft lips on balanced sides of my neck, nibbling away. Their hands kneading and strong on my tits still.

With locks of soft hair brushing one side of my neck and the fine stubble of a shaved head on the other I tell them, “Now unbuckle your pants.” They do and I reach into each of their laps and hold giant, rigid cocks. Jack is 8″+, Troy is close to 8″.

All salacious hell breaks loose and the next 3 and a half hours or so are a fucking blur. Literally.

If memory serves me, Jack flipped me on my back, hefted my knees high and peeled off my panties. He fell onto my pussy with gusto while Troy kissed me deeply. It hurt for a few strokes and I had to say, “Flatten your tongue, Jack, flatten it,” to which he did immediately. This went on for a few minutes before things switched gears.

I sucked Jack first. Troy wanted me to lead the way, to break the ice, and I was more than willing. I kneeled before him and spread his legs wide, gripped the base and licked from balls to stern. Jack is thick and my hand was filled with his heat. He was shaved clean, which I don’t ordinarily like, but with the contrast of Troy’s trimming I found it intriguing, titillating, lovely. I deep-throated him like Troy had taught me a couple of days prior but I was sorely lacking so he took over.

I watched in awe as this powerful, 6’6″, broad-shouldered, and athletic man gently took hold of another man’s 8″ cock and tenderly put it in his mouth and. bore. down. Like he was born to it. Someone was probably touching me somewhere — I have no clue — I was spiraling up and up as my fantasy manifested before my eyes.

Things switched again. Jack started fingering me, someone was kissing me, someone was licking my pussy and I was squirting. And squirting. And squirting.

My brain began to shut down and be replaced by my glorious cunt, my nerves, my sensations.

Minutes, hours, an eternity? later I found myself fucking Jack – something neither Troy nor I thought I’d do. He pounded into me. Maybe Troy was there licking my clit? I don’t know. Maybe we were in my room, maybe the living room. God, I have no fucking clue, even now. I only know that at some point my vibe entered the equation and I was prone over my ottoman in only a bathrobe and two long, naked men at my head and rear. Jack was under me with three fingers curled deep inside, the vibe held tight to my clit. Troy was at my face, kissing me, whispering how beautiful I was, this was, and his fingers trailed lightly along my back and face as I whimpered and shuttered and cried and came and came and came and poured juices all over Jack’s face beneath me.

They talked about me like I wasn’t there; marveling at my body and its responses to them. I loved hearing every word. They compared their sensations at “bottoming out” with me, how amazing it was; how eager I was; how incredible I felt and how good I tasted.

And I came some more.

Then I sucked Jack with Troy burying himself deep inside of me, essentially controlling Jack’s blowjob with his thrusts. As Troy so aptly pointed out later, I was, literally, a FUCKING COCKSUCKER.

Later, I lay on my back in my bed with Troy to my left and Jack over me and deep inside of me, the vibe at my clit. Jack had never fucked with a Hitachi before and he kept up a steady stream of comments, “Oh my God. She’s clenching. I can feel her. It feels so good. Oh, Hyacinth…” And then as he came he pulled out, stripped off the condom and Troy sucked him dry, then was suddenly looming over my face, blocking out the light, and snowballing Jack’s yummy, tangy cum into my eager mouth.

I finished myself off with the vibe, Troy’s hand on my throat, Jack quietly waiting at my feet. My mind fragmented. Then Troy says hoarsely, “Hyacinth, I need you to suck me like only you can.” And I did. And he came brilliantly in my mouth, warm and delicious, like heated vanilla.

There were times during the night when I could hear them wondering aloud whether or not they’d “broken me” as I lay trembling and gasping in a literal puddle of my own making. I always said, “NO. Just give me a minute. Don’t stop.” And they didn’t. They kept going and going, playing off of what each other was doing to me, juxtaposing their strokes, their styles.

The strongest two snapshots I have in my mind from that night are 1) of my face pressed into the ottoman with unimaginable sensation skyrocketing out of my pussy through every vein of my body and Troy’s breath mingling with mine as tears slipped over my cheeks from the sheer magnitude of it all, and 2) of me on my back in my bed, Jack silhouetted to the right, Troy on the left. They’d asked me what I wanted them to do as I held the vibe desperately to my clit, and I’d whispered, “Touch each other,” and they simply did. Just them on their knees, I think they might have touched their chests or maybe just a hand, I don’t know, but it was enough for me to explode in orgasm through every cell of my body.

This event is important for a couple of reasons.

First, my self-esteem seems securely anchored not in the fact that men want me, but that I am, indeed special. Other women are not like me. I have something to offer that few do. Gone are the days of me feeling lacking because I don’t cum easily with men — lo, I’ve only clitoraly orgasmed with four lovers ever and two of them I loved (my only two loves, actually, one by accident and Troy was the 4th). Men should feel lucky to come across a woman like me who loves sex, loves men, is open-minded, kind, intelligent, fun, and really fucking sweet in her pursuits to be the best lover possilble.

Secondly, I feel like I’ve been given the most precious gift ever: attention. I never, in a million years, expected Jack and Troy to focus all their attention on me. Never. It was the most brilliant gift I’ve ever received. I hope I accepted it with whatever grace and humility I could possibly muster at the time. After so many years with no attention even remotely charged with sexual energy and then to be the sudden and unexpected recipient of loads of it healed wounds I didn’t know could be healed.

Lastly, It was the beginning of the rest of my sexual life. It opened me to experiences, people, and possibilities I never knew could exist. It was my final puzzle piece. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the launching point for a titillating, salacious year of sex. A brilliantly difficult, but passionate year.

Best Christmas present ever.

 

I might be too hard.

The script was the same, yet different.

I sat on his lap, naked and spent, resting in the cradle of his big arms. He stood and turned and gently lay me down on the crisp hotel bedding. I promptly fell into a demi-sleep, drunk off the $350 bottle of wine we’d split and the dozen orgasms.

His giant paw had slammed into me as I urged him on and I came in great rushes and filled his hand; his white mustache had crushed against my lips as he breathed in my orgasm like a drowning man. He hadn’t touched a woman in 5 years.

Franklin almost hadn’t come to meet me, he’d confessed. When I shared my pictures with him on Seeking Arrangement he’d found a couple of them to look “hard.” “Like you were a retired dancer.”

“Gee, well thanks for taking a risk on me.”

“You’re much more beautiful than your pictures, Hy. I was very happy to see you walk into the bar.”

He was an enormous man — more bear than human — and more than a foot taller than me, possibly a hundred pounds heavier.  He wore a brown houndstooth blazer, those type of 1980s metal glasses that all business men used to wear, and smelled delicious.

He’d been conned at least twice in the six weeks since joining the site, but the few hundred dollars he’d given away were such an inconsequential amount to him he laughed it off as a learning curve.

After cocktails, dinner, wine, and dessert, we headed to the lounge of a nearby hotel where he grabbed me and kissed me.  It turned me on that he’d told the servers and wait staff to pay attention to us and they’d be rewarded for their attentiveness.  It turned me on that he oozed power and confidence.  It turned me on to feel so small in his presence, taken care of.

He insisted I get whatever I wanted at dinner and urged me to not think of cost.  How different life must be to not have a care about money.  Everything I do from eating to dressing myself passes through the “Can I afford this?” filter.  It made me giddy and nervous.

“I think what you want is a boyfriend,” he’d said over dessert.  “You want to hang out with someone you like and who likes you and to not always rely on him for money.  That sounds like a boyfriend.”  I was too embarrassed, too afraid to answer.  Is that even true?  I couldn’t say and I quickly changed the subject.

At the copper bar in the swanky hotel, my lips swollen and my belly buzzing he leaned in.

“Wanna get a room?” he murmured hotly.  I nodded.

At the front desk I held his hand and giggled.  In the elevator he cornered me and smashed me against the mirrors with his weight, his hands roamed like a lech and I arched into him.

We left the room in a tangled, wet mess two hours later; I had to relieve the dog who’d been cooped up for 12 hours.  He didn’t need to stay without me and I suppose $500 for a couple of hours wasn’t a big deal.  He walked me to my car, kissed me again and sent me on my way.

It’s unclear if he is interested in me beyond our night together.  I have thrown my hat into the ring, but he has yet to respond.  The entire transaction, the entire night and ensuing days, have felt like they happened to someone else.  His lack of response has not affected me; he will either want to see me again or not.

His tender post-coital care came close to cracking me.  Kindness is my kryptonite, it’s the big spoiler.  Use me, fill me up, leave me and I will stand tall and still.  Show me a soft side of you and it is my undoing.  His distance since the date has allowed me to shore up the hardness he said he saw in my images.  Perhaps he was right.  I have been in the trenches for so long…

The story could end there, but it doesn’t.

Enter stage right a British expat who lives 1000 miles away, Luke.  He’s my age, tall, beautiful and neglected by the woman in his life.  We stumbled upon each other – as people do – completely by accident and have found in one another a salve to the wounds we carry.  With him I admit to even having them.  He knows me as Hy.

He’s realized he’s a man who is alive and not a martyr searching for meaning in the drudgery of his life and I have realized (again) that I want to be cared about and accepted.  Cherished.   Ben first lit me upon this notion and I have had a wobbly several months since our time together.  I’ve fucked and frolicked, but as usual have kept to myself emotionally.

Luke is literally in my pocket and is the last person I think about and the first when I wake up.  I want to make all his dreams come true then set him on a plane stuffed full of affection and sex.  I want the person sitting next to him on the plane to look at him and think, “That guy looks goddamned happy.”

He’ll arrive home satiated knowing he’s not alone and that someone sees him and I can be safe from long-term vulnerability even while feeling the ghost of his arms around me.  I fully recognize the irony of this, but it feels like a step in the right direction.  At least I’m trying.

Ben is across an ocean and so busy I don’t hear from him for weeks at a time.  Our distance (among other things) was the golden key to unlock my own secret yearnings for deeper, softer, kinder things in my life.  I was forced to admit to having a heart again, but not suffer the vulnerability of trying to maintain the exposure.

Luke is closer, can see me more easily than Ben, but he is still far away both literally and figuratively.  He has commitments at home that would forever prevent him from being nearby long-term.  We will always be apart even if our feelings are together.

And yet, I want him all the same.

I imagine waiting for him at the airport. He quickly closes the distance between us when he sees me standing there nervously, wraps me in his arms and kisses me deeply and passionately.  I hope everyone around us is jealous as they see our affection and joy in one another’s arms.

It feels like we’d be stealing a moment, but I can almost taste him I want it so badly.  I want to be a fucking thief because with him I don’t feel hard.  I feel soft and real, nearly a whole woman with an entire back story.  Not just some sex-kitten ready and willing for anything.

“I’ll let you fuck my face, my ass, my pussy, all of it.  You just can’t leave for 3 days and you have to hold me close and look at me like you’re the luckiest man alive,” I texted.  Tears filled my eyes.  My biggest fantasy and my darkest secret is to be cherished while I am ravaged.

“You are, without any doubt, the sexiest woman I have ever seen or spoken to.  There’s something about you.  I’m getting butterflies…” he replied.  And later, after he picked his name for the blog, encouraged me to lay it bare for him in this post when I told him I was feeling overwhelmed.

“I like what I see,” he said again.

::

How could anyone find me aloof?  How could anyone think I was unaffected by men??  I am avoiding pain and searching for myself.  I’m not trying to hide.  Clearly I’m a walking contradiction: I’m hard, I’m a puddle; I’m distant, I’m a shadow; I’m bold, I’m bashful.

I have successfully managed to untie my self-worth from the behaviors of men, but have I let loose of the ribbon entirely?  Does my understanding that I have no control somehow translate to apathy?  I don’t think I’m apathetic — Luke proves that, Ben proves that — but I am terrified of the closeness and now I worry that it’s trickled out and changed colors in the light of day.  It’s ugly out there.

Franklin’s silence is logically frustrating, but emotionally I am a flat line.  Never mind I think we could be great friends and have a very mutually beneficial relationship.  I feel a distant stillness about his non-response  He’s just yet one more man who wasn’t right for me for one reason or another.  I let go of any kind of “us” the day after I lay naked beneath his great bulk and didn’t hear from him.

There are so many others that I never bothered to include here, men whose time on the stage of my life was so brief, their impact on me negligible, that they are included in the credits as “Crowd Member.”  They’ve contributed to the story, but only as moving props.  Or as fucking ones, as the case may be.

And I largely felt nothing for any of them.  Just blips on the radar regardless of how they behaved afterwards.  It bothers me how little I feel sometimes for these local men, but it’s effortless.  I come by it naturally.  Perhaps after years of mistreatment I have become a product of it.   No wonder the prospect of Luke’s affections and attention is so utterly irresistible.

He says he has hazel eyes with green in them.  I imagine they’re like a sun-dappled forest, both deep and light, waiting.  I want to lie down on the forest bed and melt into the leaves and moss.

I want to look deeply into those eyes as I breathe his breath and hold him in my hand, feel him beneath my fingertips.  He won’t leave me because he can’t stay.

I may have overshot my target and accidentally convinced men that I don’t need them or want them, but the truth is I used to be open and I was punched again and again like a soft-bellied idiot.  No, Hy.  Goodbye, Hy.  I don’t want you, Hy.  It was fun while it lasted, Hy.  You’re all wrong, Hy.  I chose poorly again and again until I finally wizened up and took my soft self to a higher place where no one could touch me and when I’ve come back down I am no longer soft.  It’s not untrue.  But is it wrong?

A savvy, keen-eyed reader lovingly bludgeoned me in emails for months about how imbecilic I was with men.  She wasn’t wrong.  I grew hardened, memorized my lines, set my sights on the end of the story and skipped over sagging, boring plot lines.  I don’t regret it.  I’ve done what I needed to do, but now in the face of pure kindness I am forced to peel off a layer or two of armor and slow down.

I don’t want to be so hard that I miss opportunity, but nor do I want to be so soft that I am beaten to a pulp.  My friends come to me with all manner of dating questions, their hearts on their sleeves and I chuckle.

I remember when not hearing from a man after a date used to hurt.  I remember when long delays between correspondence bothered me.  Today, those are failings I don’t tolerate and I quickly move on to the next.  No fuss, no fight, just go.  Whether that’s emotionally or physically doesn’t matter.  I’m gone.

This push-pull of hard and soft is the battle between my sense of independence from the pitfalls of dating while my need to simultaneously flex my heart.  I may have stated it before, but it has become increasingly clear to me that my next relationship may very well have to start here.  As Hy.  How else can I possibly get past my own fear and armor?  My very soft underbelly is always exposed here and I am all of me: sentient and sexy, longing and lascivious.

Since I’ve come to realize I am more Hy than anyone else, it may also be time for Hy to be the star of the show.

 

 

 

 

 

 

London crows and London kisses.

On the curb outside Departures I bent a little to hug him.  His arms opened like wings and wrapped tightly around me; we held each other fast.

“I’m going to miss you, Ben,” I said.

“I’m going to miss you too, Hy.”

I leaned in for a kiss and and breathed him in.  This might be the last time I’d ever taste him.  I thanked him again for everything he’d done for me and walked away.

I had barely gone through the automatic doors when the tears started.

::

I cried in the line to get my ticket, as I ate my toast and texted with him, as I searched for my gate.  I cried as I pressed the keys on my laptop and reached deep inside of me for words that would do him justice.

To know that this human being exists fills me with hope, with faith in humanity.  I knew he was different — which is why I accepted his offer of hospitality though he was a stranger — but I had no idea how much he’d touch me, move me.

Tears rolled down my cheeks and my mouth quivered as I texted:

I can’t believe how sad I am to leave.  You are such an incredible person and man and I can’t believe how lucky I am to have met you.  Hi, Ben, I’m Blanche Devareaux.  It was lovely to meet you.

An hour later he texted back and I cried yet more as I told him how grateful I was, how special he was, how I truly hoped we could see each other again one day.  “You are so beautiful,” he replied when I told him of my tears.  “Just everything.  You’re amazing.”

The thing about this young man is he glows and quivers with light.  He’s suffered heartbreaking loss and health issues as a child; is fiercely loyal to friends and family; has chased his dreams and caught them.  His life is nearly exactly as he wants it.  Relatively speaking, he’s a very happy young man and it was like nibbling ambrosia to be with him.

As we drove in to the airport my last morning a 747 came in for a landing, low and massive.  “Look!  Look at that beautiful girl!” he exclaimed.  “That’s my baby!  That’s exactly what I fly!”  Sheer joy bubbled in his voice.

From the moment we met we talked, laughed and teased.  On train rides, through emptied bottles of wine, on car rides, while naked, in London.  We never stopped.  I wanted to share everything I could possibly share, to show him who I really was.  I wanted him to know me.

I listened avidly as he shared tales of adolescent debauchery and of his recent, heart wrenching loss and I asked endless questions about flying.  I might never fear a plane ride again now thanks to him.

The first night on his couch I sat with my feet on his lap and wondered about later, about how we would fit together.

He was built like a jockey, a beautiful little bird with dark grey eyes with inner rings of gold and blue.  “Greyzel,” I said to him, though more accurately they looked like some precious stone polished and mesmerizing.

Exhausted from my magical weekend in Bristol — and particularly my day of travel — I ground down to a stop.  “I’ve got to sleep, Ben,” I said apologetically.

In his bed, with his slender arms wrapped around me and his lithe body pressed against my backside, I felt safe.  Warm, welcome, unbelievably happy, a woman with her face turned up to the sunrise.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” he said and squeezed me and nuzzled closer.

“I know.  Me either.”

His hand stroked my hip and he nibbled my neck.  My body flared awake.  

We kissed and tangled and pulled our clothes off.  I gripped the hot meat jutting at me and he groaned.  He moved to mount me, but I stopped him.  

We laughed when I dug my EroticonLive condoms out of my bag and we had to choose between glow-in-the-dark, dots-and-lines, and some other one which seemed normal.

We ripped open the third package and laughed again.  It was black.

And we laughed yet again that once on we could only get it down half way before it was too tight and too short.

Dots and lines it was.

We moved like old friends reunited and I held him close as he first pushed in.  Long, deep, eternal.

His warm touch thrilled me and I kissed him as if this were our last night on earth.

He didn’t cum that night, but he would the next morning when I took him in my mouth.

“How far down can you go?” He whispered, my mouth and hand full of his cock.

To answer I dove down and got to within an inch of his pubis, but it took some effort.  He was too big.

“Holy fuck,” he said.

I continued my work and slurped and sucked; the hair caught in my hands began to knot.  I kept going.  

He tensed then and shoved my face down and reared up into the back of my throat with a cry.  I choked and swallowed then gently released him.

He shivered as I climbed up to lay beside him.  We dozed intertwined like a braid for hours.

That night on the train home — after a day spent at the Tate, crossing three London bridges in my pursuit to buy Union Jack souvenirs, a kiss on the Tower Bridge near where the crows used to pick flesh from the bones of the punished, and eating fish and chips at The Hung, Drawn, & Quartered pub — I rubbed the hot bulge in his pants, openly daring anyone to bother to look.  No one did.

It grew handsomely large and I told him again how much I was enjoying my time with him.  In total it would be only 36 hours.

Back on his couch I opened the little box of condoms we’d bought on the way home and rode him, my black-haired steed, naked and golden.

I bounced and flounced and poured my breasts into his hungry, eager mouth.  He came with a beautifully noisy cry.

Upstairs I sucked on him again and pressed his hips down into the mattress with my arm and — knowing how much he loved to bury himself into my face — impaled myself on him.  

He dragged me up and kissed me.  I asked him why he’d made me stop.

“I don’t want it to ever end.”

I crawled back down and slowly brought him back to me.  His milk tasted of sunshine.

I flopped down next to him and listened as his breathing steadied.

“I want you to cum too, Hy.”

I showed him how to hook in and slam me to climax.  My ejaculate sprayed on the both of us as he slapped my mound.  I squirmed away panting.  

“I’m going to ruin your bed!  You have to stop.”

“I don’t fucking care.”

He went at me again and watched my face intently.  I cried out and released into his palm.  Once, twice, three times.  My orgasms an English daisy chain of pleasure.

Spent, I begged him to stop and pulled him on top of me and held him there memorizing how he felt.  How this felt.  I never wanted to forget.

We fell asleep on a towel.  I dreaded leaving the next day.

This young man, 16-and-a-half years younger than me, unlocked something in my dark heart.  I want this, this thing I felt with him during our short time together: utter and complete acceptance, passion and appreciation, friendship.  

I want a man like him who wants his own independence and respects mine but still can’t wait to see me because it’s not an everyday experience, because I’m fucking special.  I never want to feel taken for granted ever again, not after this.  It’s like I’ve seen how the other half live.  I’ve been eating dry cereal when I could have been eating filet.

I want a man who is proud of my writing and life as Hy, but who also loves and appreciates me.  Ben gave me a glimpse of the future I want.

The morning dawned too soon and I curled into him and pulled his arm around me.  “I don’t want to go.”

“I don’t want you to.”

I ripped off another condom and he finished in me doggy style as we cried out our orgasms together.  Tears pricked the backs of my lids.  This might very be the last time I’d ever be here.

We’d talked the night before about seeing each other again.  His status as a pilot means that he could come see me almost any time for any length of time.  Neither of us can imagine not continuing our friendship, but it’s not realistic to think it will be like this always.  I recognize the magic of the moment and love it even more for that, but of course want more of it.

In the car on the way to the airport I wanted to tell him with my own voice who I really was, but I never got the chance as we animatedly shared yet more of our lives with one another.  Plus, I didn’t want to cry in front of him.  I might not have stopped.

Strapped in and headed home I cried again and choked back sobs as I watched London recede into the distance.  A little bit of my heart forever there, happy and safe with Ben, my beautiful little grey-eyed  bird.

I would cry the entire flight home.  

My heart turns blacker: The new rules

I am at that place again.

That place of keening frustration and battered ego, hopelessness.

I had a magical night with a beautiful, charming man Thursday night.  A tall, lean welder.  I leaned in for a kiss at the bar and breathed in his woodsy soapy scent.  “You’re a good kisser,” he said smiling, his eyes locked on mine.

“You’re not half bad yourself.”

“Wanna get outta here?”

I texted him my address and we jumped in our cars.  Back at my place he stooped to kiss me and turned me around and pressed his body against my back.  His hands reached around and squeezed my breasts and I pushed my bottom into his hot jeans.

He pulled down my panties and curled his fingers into me.  “Harder,” I coached.  “More, faster!”  His hand obediently slammed against me and I filled his hand with my juices.  He groaned and ground his mouth down on mine.

We half-assedly pulled our clothes off and let them hang on our ankles and waddled awkwardly and hornily into my dark room.  He said he had rubbers except we didn’t use any.

I sucked on his chubby — it was only two-thirds hard, I could tell.  I was shocked that he could possibly be intimidated, he was stunning.

Six-foot-three, loaded with muscle, bald as a cue ball with a trimmed beard.  This man had no reason to be afraid and yet there he was at half mast.

To take the pressure off — and to possibly turn him on more — I sucked and slurped on him.  I stuffed all of him in my mouth, a very full mouthful.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a Magnum condom in his hand.

He pushed me off of him and spread my knees apart.  “Please don’t suck,” I told him.  “You suck on me and I’ll die.”  He tried it anyway and I yelped and pushed him away.  “You can only lap at me.  Like an ice cream cone.”

His bald head shone from the moon outside and he lapped willingly at me.  He slipped a finger in me and I educated him to a climax – twice – then hauled him up and grabbed my Hitachi.  He still wasn’t 100% hard.

His pretty face latched on my nipples and I rode the vibrations to a crushing orgasm.  He rolled on top of me and began rubbing his bare cock on me.

“No,” I panted.  “Don’t do that.  It’s not safe.”

“But oral sex is ok?” he countered.

I was out of my mind from orgasm and lust and wondered if forcing him to wear a condom wouldn’t kill the rest of the night.

“Ok,” I relented.  “Do it.”

He pushed into me and instantly got hard as steel.  And big.

We fucked and panted, gripped each other’s pale skin and I came and came again.  I writhed on him, willing him to lose his shit, and suddenly he did in a long, low, undulating orgasm unlike any I’ve ever witnessed.

He shuddered and humped and groaned and cried out and finally fell limp.

“Holy fuck,” he panted.  “That’s… that’s never happened to me before.”

“What?” I asked, my arm covered my eyes and chest heaved.

“I never lose control like that.  I can always wait to cum, but you…” he searched for words.  “You have a magic pussy.”  I laughed.  I’d never heard that before, but ok.  “You wanna take a shower?”

I was startled.  No one has asked me to do that in a decade.

In the shower we kissed and held each other.  I noted his back tattoos and felt shy in the light of the bathroom until he kissed me harder and turned me around.

I spread my feet and let him reenter me, 100% steel once again.  I came with my hands on the cold tile, his hot cock pushing into my body.  “Will you cum?” I asked, my head hung low.

“No.  I’ll have to wait until morning.”

I hardly slept.  The animals decided to make every obnoxious noise in their repertoire and I never sleep well with a stranger in my bed.  Before dawn his alarm went off and he rolled over and fondled a breast and fell back asleep.  I was happy he was able to sleep, the bastard.

But I wanted more and so I stirred and he rolled onto his back.  His abs were hard and rippled even asleep and I marveled at this warm, marble statue beside me.  I dipped my hand below the covers and felt his hardon which jutted almost past the waistband of his underpants.

“Mmm,” I said.

I kissed his nipple and stroked the heat beneath the cotton.  He was fully erect this time, way more than I could fit into my  mouth.  I lathed on him and he moaned and said beautiful things.

I crawled up on him and sunk gingerly down and immediately came.  He gripped my hips and we moved together and I came like a monster on crack, his cock hitting me in all the right spots.  My hands went numb and my hair swung in long blonde sheets, my breasts bounced like manic beach balls and I cried out along with my squeaky bed.

Twice, three times.  Each time I collapsed on him and heaved for breath in his neck.  The fourth time I sat up and giggled, bashful and greedy.

“Do it again,” I said sheepishly.  I felt like a child asking for yet another scoop of ice cream, more sprinkles.  Just more. 

He laughed and bucked into me while his hands pushed my hips down and back and forth.

I came with a hot blue swell and fell forward and half-sobbed into the pillow as he continued to fuck me from below and then with a long, protracted moan, peppered with shudders, he came deep inside of me once more.

He had to be at work by 7 and it was at least a 30 minute drive so while he showered alone I made him coffee.  I debated on what mug to send him with and landed on a travel mug I’d brought home from my folks’.  I’d be seeing him Saturday night and could get it back then.

::

The next day was Saturday and I texted good morning.  He texted back an hour later saying how busy he was at work and how they’d worked until 10 pm on Friday.  A few hours later I texted again to ask if we were still on for 7.  He didn’t say yes or no, but said he was currently “stuck at work.”  It was 5:30.  I told him my night was his and I was happy to be flexible.  If he was too tired to go out after work (whenever that was) we could chill at my place.

I never heard from him again.

::

The night I met The Welder I had a date that nearly cancelled on me.  I’d yelled at him about trying to bail 40 mins before a date and he’d agreed to one beer.  He stayed for 2 then left.  The second he left a short, older, round man invited me to sit at his table where for the next hour or so they grilled me about my dissolute life and then he asked me out despite knowing I was waiting for Date #2.

The following night I went out with a 21-year-old who’d also tried to cancel on me due to cold feet.  I’d told him to go to hell and he’d begged me to meet him after all.  I couldn’t call him a man unless you judge maturity solely on how big one’s Polo shirt is.  I sent him home with apologies, but I wasn’t able to bridge the age difference gap.  He was too childish.

An old friend, a man whose wedding I’d attended 9 years ago, was at the bar where we’d met with a work colleague and so I went and sat with them.  They were drunk and became increasingly inappropriate with me; their jokes thinly veiled sexual advances and filthy innuendos.  I felt masochistic sitting there wedged between them and then I began to receive texts from the rebuffed 21 yo.

Honestly I couldn’t stop thinking about fucking your tits the whole time [sly winky face]  Sorry for being young.

I responded with, “Well, I’m flattered, but I can’t get beyond the age thing.  I am impressed with your gumption, tho.”

The men I was with howled with laughter.  “He’s propositioning you!” they claimed.  I didn’t believe them until he sent this:

As a 40 yo you need to figure out how to get past [the age difference] so you can be sexually satisfied.

Lol [crying upset emoji]

[cry-laughing emoji][devil mask]

I kid btw… But really I would like to have some fun sexually [eyeballs looking left] IM 21!!! Plenty old [indignant-huffing emoji]

I didn’t respond until the next morning to give another hard NO.

::

This morning I felt wrung out.  I’d spent my Saturday night quietly optimistic about The Welder and filled with hope that he wouldn’t do exactly what he did to me.

Last Monday Bones “got lost in a book” and forgot to come over when he said he would.  I told him he was a dick and he agreed.  We haven’t spoken since.

Remington hasn’t returned my texts in days despite his last text being an emphatic “Yes, please!” to hanging out this week.

Men fall into two columns in my life.  In one, they utterly disgust me.  I am buried under an avalanche of men’s lust and equally repulsed by their methods.  The equivalent of them hunchbacked and jerking off all over me like fiends with their foul words and hideous pictures.  Unsolicited dick pic after another, gross come-ons and pathetic attempts to hump me virtually from all sides.  Me, Hy, just my very person in any incarnation I have.

And in the other they use me and lie.  My attempts to counteract such abuse are pointless, however.  The second I step outside the safety of my home I am contaminated.  The Welder claimed to be a human male, but was actually a fucking punchline for online dating and hope that anyone around here besides me acts like a grown up who respects others.

 

Hy & The Welder chat 1

Hy & The Welder chat 2

Hy & The Welder chat 3::

I fought tears as I purged the darkness of my feelings to a friend earlier.  Surrounded by hipster coffee-drinkers I tried to be invisible.  I feel trapped and hopeless; I can’t not be me, but this level of disregard is more than I can bear.

There is no “fix” to this other than never dating again.  This is dating.  It’s a fucking war of the senses, of the heart, against the clock and all rational thought.  You’d think that finding a man who’d like to be cool and fuck would be easy, but it’s about as equally hard as finding love.  If I wanted to find callous, greedy men then I’d be in luck.  Those are everywhere.

I am distant, I am private, I have issues with intimacy.  I am not looking for a boyfriend.  I am asking to be acknowledged as a human being who doesn’t want anything serious. Why do men think it must be either a serious relationship or a one-night stand?  Why is there nothing in between?? 

I don’t want to be cast away again and again and yet I am.  Repeatedly.

My new approach will be less subtle: Some hoop-jumping and Magnums.  No exceptions.  Since I’ll be used up and tossed in the bin regardless of what I do I will no longer suffer through inflexibility or soft, little dicks.  I will demand what I want and move on, expect only one night with each man who meets my criteria and put my hook back in the water the following day like a good littler fisherman.  And lord knows that I seem to have the fattest and juiciest worms, so I’ll have no shortage of men flopping into my bed, their dead fish eyes staring back at me.

These are the new rules.

 

I told him I’m Hy.

His sphincter clenched around the middle knuckle of my index finger as I stroked the hot, puffy flesh inside.  He moaned and I pushed in all the way.

His wrists and ankles were bound to the bed with various scarves I’d kept in my trashy cardboard sex box.  I hadn’t tied anyone up since The Neighbor.

I nestled myself up between his long, pale legs and sucked on his great big hardon, cupped his balls, reveled in the spasms happening around my buried finger.  My eyes closed and I lost myself, drunkenly, to servicing this young, supine man.

The details of the evening are generally blurred, but altogether hedonistic.  I climbed up and rode him every which way, let him watch my bottom bounce on him, helpless to touch my warm, writhing body.  I kissed him everywhere and nowhere, whispered filthy nothings in his ear, and bore down on him in darkness until I exhausted myself.

We stood next to my bed and I took the long fingers of his right hand and gently showed him how to hook into me and beat my pussy until she wept.  I filled his hand almost instantly and he was pleased with himself, I was pleased with him.

He loomed above me, the movement from his pumping arm shook the bed, and I waited below until I felt the hot streams of his cum spurt across my closed lids and open mouth.  That was fucking hot.

Remington had resurfaced roughly 10 days before, single and available once again.  Our first date last summer ended with his fingers in me with my back against my car.  Dog walkers passed by unimpressed.  We’d tried to meet up again after that, but failed to launch.  And then he got a girlfriend.  “Well, when you guys break up, hit me up,” I’d said.  He hadn’t forgotten.

Our reunion was sweet; I was surprised by how good-looking he was.  A Malibu Ken doll sort of man, 25 now (not 24!), 6’4″, lean, dorky glasses that somehow intensify a man’s hotness.  We talked for hours and caught up and when one more drink would have tethered us there for the night I invited him to my apartment instead.

On my couch we talked some more until I could bear his flashing smile no more.  I leaned across and kissed him and was instantly reminded of that hot summer night in the street.  His hands crawled all over me and I straddled his lap, my breasts in his face.  He groaned and pulled one out and I let him suck and bite until he got it just right.

I led him to my bedroom, lit a candle and asked him if he had any condoms.  “Do you have any Magnums?” he asked.  Well, well, well!  As a matter of fact, I do!

Deep inside of me he moved and crushed me to the bed, filled me up.  We passed out in a heap even as his snores kept me up half the night.

The next morning the cardinals sang me awake and I accidentally brushed against his massive morning wood.  “Mmm,” I said.

“Mmhm,” he answered, nearly comatose.

I stroked it harder and told him to put on a condom and backed up into his big spoon.  I came, he came, I got up to make us coffee and we spent a pleasant hour or two together while he tried fervently to blink back the morning.

At my door he bent down to kiss me goodbye repeatedly.  “Let’s do this again,” he said.

“Yes, definitely,” I answered.

A week later I texted, “Hey!  Wanna hang out tomorrow night and drink in my hot tub then fuck the shit out of each other?? lol.”

His reply: “That sounds like a great idea!!”

That was the night I found myself drunkenly defiling him like a horny teenager.

I’d gone back and refreshed my memory of our first date together; he was curious about submission, something I had forgotten about him.  We met at a dive bar and he brought his guitar.  It sat beneath his legs like a sleeping dog as we joked and flirted.

When it was time we climbed into his convertible and raced back through the chilly night to my place, though our hot tubbing plans were foiled by large orange cones warning us of broken concrete and black, rancid looking water at the bottom of the tub.  We sat on the poolside chairs and drank wine instead.

Remington is different: he’s an artist, a virtuoso.  A musician who almost can’t enjoy music anymore unless it’s the product of another great artist.  As I recall, his profile on AFF spoke of his ability to find rhythm, harmony.  He’s trained most of his life to achieve his success and is on the brink of the next big chapter: a full ride to a very prestigious masters program in the fall.

As we talked over the course of our two dates I found myself longing to talk about my own art, of Hy and this blog, my writing.  I wanted him to know I knew — even if in the smallest of ways — what it was like to need to create something.  There was also something about his obsession with his own talent, his drive to succeed that spoke to a greater understanding about self-expression.  I knew he wouldn’t judge me.

The decision to tell him that not only do I have a sex blog, but that I am Hy, was an impulsive one.  As he spoke about his achievements I felt an all too familiar pull to share my own successes — a feeling I’ve spent 4 years repressing.  But I am tired.  I’m tired of the double life, the hiding, the allusion to my talents but no proof of their existence and so I decided to unhook my armor and open wide.

Click here for a litttle Snapchat Hy and Remington movie.

“So I have something I want to tell you and it’s a really big deal.”  We sat on the couch, hips to knees pressed against each other, the B.B. King station playing on Pandora, spent from our raucous fucking and just barely clothed.

I explained to him the danger of telling anyone what I was about to share (“It could ruin my career.”) and the significance of me sharing in the first place (“I have never told anyone like this before.”).

He listened with rapt attention and poured us yet more wine.  Good, I thought, that’ll make this less painful. 

When I was done he said, “What’s my name on there?”

“Remington.”  He remembered the joke from our first date about “Remington Steele.”

“Ok, do you say where I live?”

“No.”

“Then I’m ok with it!”

His smile took up half his face.

“Would you like to see what I wrote about our first date??”  I felt shy, expectant.

We sat on my couch and together reread our first encounter.

“Wow.   You’re really good!” he said when he was done.  I preened.

We scrolled through more recent posts and he saw the Top 100 logo.  He was duly impressed all over again and I blushed.  It felt like I had finally stepped out from the shadows into the sun — I was free! — and after years of hiding Hy from people in my life this moment stood out.  Yes, it was risky, but the bondage had dropped from my limbs, even if only for a short time.

I explained to him my ethical codes for writing about men on the blog.  “Since you know about it, I won’t post anything without your knowledge and you always have the right to veto.”  He nodded.  “But don’t worry, I won’t write ‘shit’ about you, just my feelings and stuff we do together.”

He took his guitar out of the case and played for me and the dog until it was time to sleep again.  I floated on Cloud 9 and sipped on red wine with my breasts hanging out like a true reveler.

The next morning he had to get to work by 10 and so we dragged ourselves out of bed by 8:30.  I made us breakfast and he got things ready for work.  I still felt comfortable with sharing with him, but in the glare of the day I wondered how much he remembered about Hy and the blog.  What if it had been lost in our cups?  Should I bring it up and remind him??

I’ve spent the last few days since our debauched evening feeling reclusive and busy with other men.  I’d told him I had 5 dates this week in order to illustrate the value of my time, not brag (he didn’t seem to hold it against me), but the distance from this young man who knows my deepest, darkest secret has been well-timed even if coincidental.

As each day goes by I feel more exposed, more vulnerable.  Not to attack or even judgment, but simply to the elements.  I do not share all the facets of my person with anyone.  People either get Me, the woman with the career and child, and the open-mindedness about sex and relationships (very humdrum, by all accounts) or they get Hy, the writer, the photographer, the exhibitionist, the lover of sex they can never have (which seems to be highly exciting to most).  No one gets both and I’m not even sure Remington will, that’s entirely up to him.  After all, TN had access to both, but didn’t want to read Hy because he felt it was too personal to him.  Perhaps Remington will be the same, I have no idea.

Not only that, but what if it was a mistake?  What if he tells everyone he knows it’s me??  Or even just one person that’s the worst person to know?  That’s the more deeply seated fear that prevents me from telling even my closest of friends that I’m Hy.  It’s not that I don’t trust them, but maybe they’ll tell their best friend in the strictest of confidence and so on until just one wrong person knows and decides to blow up my fucking life.  I can’t expect people outside of my therapist to not share their lives with those they trust, can I??

Ideally my worries will be moot and he and I will have an artist’s appreciation for what the other does; we will get to paint on the canvases of one another’s bodies until he leaves town and nary a thought to public revelation will be had.

All I really want to do, though, is fuck the ever-loving shit out of him until he’s in another time zone.  I wish I weren’t so complicated.

Hy and Remington on the couch

He gave me permission to put this on my Instagram.