I am a mentor.

I found this welt Saturday morning.

After the onslaught of painful emotions a couple of weeks ago, I feel more stable. I spent time with my child last week and was Mommy again; a place I love, a place from which I draw strength and balance. And I even got fucked a couple of times by The Neighbor.

The first time was the night he shared this photo with me. I’d made my friends pasta with a homemade spaghetti sauce and topped it with arugula and goat cheese. We drank 3 bottles of wine and scarfed everything off the table. My kid hung with us and chattered away with my friends as though being far from an adult were no big deal. We all took turns reading Sandra Boynton books and then we reclined on my sofa, opening our hearts and our ears to each other’s lives. Ten o’clock came around and I was alone with a brand new text in hand.

“Oh shit! I’m sorry I forgot about tonight! I got busy. Are they still there?” he wanted to know.

“Nope, they just left.”


An hour later, his meaty cock was cradled in my hands and I was sprawled on top of him, inhaling his clean, soapy scent.

“Maybe we should go somewhere where there’s a locked door between us and the rest of the house.”

Good idea. I always seem to lose my head when he’s around. Naturally, I would be devastated if my little one came walking out to find me with our neighbor’s private parts in my mouth.

So, we went to my bedroom — a pleasant Thursday night surprise for us both — and we rode each other until we were shiny happy people. I drenched us, he wailed on my buttocks and flanks, we talked and cuddled and kissed, and I was alone by 12:30 am.

Friday was a planned outing for us. He had to work late, but I didn’t care. He came over at 9 and surprised me with dinner plans at my favorite restaurant on the planet. I jumped up and down and didn’t believe it. This place is unrivaled in my city and it’s expensive as fuck.

We arrived at 9:30 and the place was jam-packed. We loitered with 30 other hipsters with money-lined pockets in the warm waiting area drinking wine and brushing up against each other.

He would occasionally pinch my nipple and I would lock gazes with a stranger over his shoulder knowing he could see us misbehave. I still couldn’t stop the giddiness from bubbling up and I would jump up and down and beam at him for my happiness was uncontrollable; my heavy breasts jiggled against his chest and arms as if to celebrate, too.

Dinner melted in our mouths, conversation flowed. We talked about the sex toy I was going to surprise him with later, how he would never fuck me without a condom, and how I wanted to fuck a couple and he didn’t braided in with his work, my work, how I wasn’t going to completely dump Jason because a bi-sexual man is hard to come by and I shouldn’t burn that bridge, life in general, hopes, dreams, family. You name it, we talked about it between morsels so delectable I swear I came a little. Then it was time to go.

I thanked him profusely all the way home and then beat him soundly at strip poker.

Naked in my chair, I told him how pretty he was. He seemed surprised. A lovely creamy man, sprinkled with dark hair, and his arousal jutting up to his belly button. I don’t know why he was surprised.

In my bedroom I produced the new toy. A little vibrating cock ring. It was interesting, but it threw us both off our game. Lesson learned. So we went to old-fashioned fucking and spanking. I impaled my face on his tumescence and delighted in his rod pulsing and straining against my hand and lips. His arousal caused me to sprinkle ejaculate on my feet folded beneath my bottom as I did my cock work.

Later, his fingers curled deep inside of me, with a bird’s eye view of my cunt, he drove me to an orgasm that split me in two, just like the night before. I sobbed into a pillow and laughed some more. He crawled up my body and pulled me into his arms still quaking. He kissed my mouth and my temple. I played with his chest hair.

At 3:30 he went home.

I have promised myself numerous times that I will not decode another’s behavior, but I find it nearly impossible to resist. The point of this post is more or less to document understanding of myself gained. He’s 27. He’s an incredible human being, but he has me neatly in a box and I am struggling to find one for him.  It’s my job to make this work for me.

The thing of it is, I have to admit that he has my heart and I also have to realize that it’s ok if I don’t have his. Full stop. It’s my decision to keep on with him. Someday I will have someone’s heart, but it’s not now, and until then, I am going to look on this as if I am his mentor.  Maybe it’ll save my heart.

I will teach him how to stroke my body and how to be with a woman; I will praise him and lavish him with support and kindness. In return, I will allow him to take my trash out and lift boxes for me; to be kind; to bring me to passionate heights; to tell me I’m beautiful; and to gently share my life with him under the auspices of neighborly friendship only.

I hate that this post has morphed into some kind of relational/emotional document.  God, it’s tiresome and tedious.  I want to be the old Hyacinth; the one who eats men for breakfast, lunch and dinner, the one who tumbles with new men every month and week sometimes.

I don’t like having feelings.  I don’t like them at all.  The closer I get to healing the more the feelings come and I am conflicted and confused.  Why can’t I feel nothing while simultaneously having the ability to feel on command?  It doesn’t seem fair.  But, shit ain’t fair, is it?

I am holding off bringing more men into my sheets because of TN.  If he finds out, which of course he would because I’d tell him, I feel as though I run the risk of turning him off of me all together.  I’ve slept with only two men since I’ve met him due to my grand experiment to slow down and now I don’t know what to do.  I am lost and lonely and often bored, overwhelmed by unrequited feelings, and ready for more with someone, or at the very least to be kept preoccupied by many.

Have I mentioned how much I hate that this is what this post has morphed into??

So, yeah.  I am a mentor.  Let’s see how well this works for me, my lizard brain, and my thumping heart.

I get “permission” to post cock shots.

The Neighbor and I hung out last night after my friends left. It was terrific and we even got a little fucking in (I’ll write about that later, I promise).

We laughed about my “sock-cock shot” and he asked if he’d sent me one of him. I told him no and got excited — god knows this woman loves a photo of a penis.

So he showed me this and I about died.


And then we laughed our asses off as we compared my version.

I think I needed a third pair to really do the man justice.

Then I said I wished I could post these somewhere. He said, “You should!” of course not knowing I actually do have a platform. So, I’m taking that as a green light for my conscience and sharing with you all; for the ones who asked to see and for those who’d like a good chuckle.

There’s something wrong with me.

When I participated in the Bare Your Sexual Soul Day I went back to a place that I loved and memories of my exploits with Troy filed my head and my belly.  The men, the cocks, the raw, animal sex where I felt nothing but my hole and my cells for hours on end; the emotional upheaval of being connected to a sociopathic narcissist; and the intense pleasure I received for abusing my body via sex.  It all felt so good to relive those moments, but I was also walking the edge of concern.

Then, a friend wrote of her father’s passing and another friend wrote of his experiences with a cruel lover followed closely by a run in with my mother — who, besides my father, is the lynch pin in my world view and of my personal views of myself.

The first two things are important because I could closely and strongly relate.  I had a tortuous relationship with my father and I watched him die a horrible death.  I know now that I would never truly wish it on anyone because even a man deserving of no mercy should be granted it.  His spectre haunts me to this day and the pain he caused me is often like a cruel friend luring me into complacency only to rear its unruly head when I least suspect it.  And my affair with Troy was beyond my control, my compulsion to fuck him, to do anything he wanted of me, so all-consuming I felt lost and ravaged for months.  It left me in tatters.  And well, my mother is slowly emerging as a villain to my heart and the realization has been devastating.

I’d already begun asking myself Why do I need sex so much?  Why do I like it to hurt? when all of these things occurred  and it has become clear to me now: I have always meant nothing to those with the most power over me.  Who I am and what I am has never been enough and never will be and therefore I seek out connections that reinforce this belief: I wield sex to fulfill the painful longing in my being.

Last night, a Saturday, I had no plans.  Jason decided that our plans were to be cancelled and The Neighbor was going to a party in hopes of getting laid.  The night before, Friday, he had ridden me until I was a puddle and narrated my journey as he put me there.

As he’d slid his cock deep inside of me he said, “First, you get wet, oh so wet,” and he continued to stroke my grateful body’s cavern.

When he pounded me into my sheets he breathlessly said over me, “Then, you get incoherent.  God, I love watching this.”.

We kept going.  He kissed me, stroked me, buried his face in my neck.  I ran my fingertips along the ridges of his back muscles delighting in the loss of my control, the sensations of impalement.

We turned me on my side and his long shaft found new spots deep within me, he noticed it, too.

And then finally on my stomach with my face buried into my mattress I cried and shook and pressed back on him with all my might.  “Ahhh.  The crying.  The last step.”  And he released himself into the condom, waited a few moments and took me up again to where I was nothing but sensations of a collection of cells and heaving lungs and a tear-streaked face.

We slipped on robes and stood on my balcony watching spa-goers below us.  I stood behind him and wrapped my arms around the soft cotten, pet his hard chest and nibbled on his neck.  He turned around and we stood locked in an embrace high above the people below us.

I felt safe and important, forgetting that my feelings had been bruised by his request to start our evening at 10 pm.  I had been hoping we’d do something more “date like,” but that was folly.  This is what I have with him.  I am no pseudo girlfriend, despite my wandering, uncontrollable emotions.

After more belly soaking sex and an orgasm later we were playing poker together.  Chatting.  I said very clearly that I couldn’t rely on him for anything.  That I can’t.  How could I possibly?  He said that was a terrible thing to say and I made it even more terrible for not recognizing it.  Later, in his bed after yet more sloppy, delicious sex I apologized for hurting his feelings.  He said his feelings weren’t hurt.  I was confused.  He insisted he felt nothing about it, that it was simply an offensive thing to say, but I still couldn’t understand the logic.  I said as much and tried to explain that it wasn’t personal.

“If I’m having a bad day, you’re not supposed to be there for me.  You’re not supposed to come and hang out with me and be there for me.”

He said he would be.  Which only has caused me yet more confusion.

We talked about our relationship.  He believes it will go out with a whimper rather than a bang; he thinks it’s going fantastically; I am down to only one lover now and I can’t have it all be up to him, it’s not fair.  Not to him, not to me.  If I’ve learned one thing in my life is that I am too much for anyone and my sex drive is among the traits most delicately – or indelicately – rejected in me.  I sometimes get the sense that TN thinks I think of nothing else, when in reality, I am inundated with thoughts and feelings so much more pressing I can barely function some days.  Like this week.

So, I sat alone last night after beers with one of my dearest friends.  Antsy, anxious, sad, in pain.  The Neighbor, my crush, gone for the  night, and I alone with my thoughts with no outlet for my building release.  I scoured OKCupid, but saw no one of any interest.  I sipped wine, I watched TV, I read, I ate food that tasted like cardboard.  I remembered to drop off my rent check and so layered on warm clothing and walked down to the office.  The cold night air coated my arms and body like salve.  I felt immensely better for it.

And as I stood by the drop box I looked up at our building and my eyes were automatically drawn to his empty, lit bedroom window.  I stood there numbly, dumbly, wondering why I was frozen in place.  I breathed the chill into my chest and felt more pain as I turned and walked away and then suddenly I was vomiting into the bushes.  Hard and fast, with tears in my eyes and a sense of surrender in my heart.  Headlights alerted me of a coming driver and I quickly dashed up the back stairs to avoid being seen such a mess.

I calmly reentered my apartment and headed for my bathroom sink.  Cold water splashed on my wrist near a nasty burn, crusted and bright red, and I expelled the rest of my dinner.  The burn drew my attention and I contemplated cutting myself and wondered where on earth I’d find a spot on my body that TN wouldn’t notice.  And so it came to me that I am truly broken.

I have been thinking about opening up my AFF account again because this calm, this one-man show who has his eye on a woman who has yet to make herself known to him, is bringing me to my knees.  I have aligned myself with yet another person who finds me wanting. I am a mother.  I do not want more children.  He is looking for something better.

I told him last night, while wrapped in his arms in his giant, unbelievably comfortable bed, that if he were older and wanted no children things would be very different.  He was surprised.  I felt relieved to get it off my chest.  I said no more about it.  He shared that he has always worried about my feelings for him, though I have revealed nothing outright.  It has been a general concern of his.  I was somewhat offended by this since I have been above reproach in most things involving my feelings for him: it is a girlish mistake to make this something it is not; he’s never done this before.  He should be the one that’s the loose cannon.  Not me.  He’s never done this before.  He’s young and inexperienced.

But in the end, he’s right, and he has no fucking clue.  Or maybe he does.  This has been extremely hard for me because the better and more brutal the sex, the more bonded I become.  There is something wrong with me.

I want so badly to be enough for someone.  To be the right fit, to fill his heart and his loins with excitement each time he sees or thinks of me.  I want him to strike my flanks, bite me, twist my tender skin and use me until I don’t know my own name.  And then I want him to cradle me in his arms, kiss my temples and tell me what a good girl I am, to fill that black fucking hole inside of me that my parents slowly stretched wide with their conditional love and cruel character, and to tell me that he loves me.

That’s what I really want.

And so I sat on my balcony and dragged on a cigarette.  Slowly, deliberately.  Feeling the hot smoke fill my lungs and mingle with my breath as I expunged it from my center.  I got my leather-bound journal and began to write in my chicken-scratch scrawl.  I wrote of my pain, where it comes from, why it’s there and, ultimately, my hope for mastery over it.  I told myself I could do it, that I would survive.  Then finally with tears in my eyes I wrote, “I love you, Hyacinth.  I love you.  You are enough.  Always enough.”

I am beautiful in firelight.

The Neighbor came over tonight as hoped. He beat me yet again at Scrabble with a 48 point word. HUNG. Go figure. We laughed, we flirted. He sucked my nipples in between turns. We snuggled and watched a movie then crossed the street to buy firewood. I had it in my head to prolong the evening. I should’ve just gone with my gut and fucked the shit out of him.

He disrobed and I told him he was beautiful. I peeled off my clothing in the firelight and he remarked on how beautiful I was bathed in it. I swelled with pride.

As I shuffled Tarot cards, he entered me from behind and the coffee table shook. He was sore and in pain from working out and couldn’t keep at it. We shifted to him in my fuck chair and me on top. I rode him until I couldn’t feel my hands and then he slipped out and we laughed and peeled apart.

He noted how fucked I looked: face flushed, braids in disarray.

We kissed and touched and talked some more.

Then I shuffled the cards again and did two readings. The first one was awful, about my financial/business future, the second I focused on him and the cards were telling and embarrassing. He was gracious as I read the meanings as vaguely as possible. He dozed in a sensual pose opposite me on my couch. His shoulders high and broad, his leg hitched up over my pillow.

I told him I’d mused over his sensuality the other morning when I’d woken up in his bed. How I’d been afraid to touch him lest he be angry at me for disturbing him. He assured me he’d never be mad at me for waking him up, no matter how tired he was.

He rose and came around behind me and kissed the top of my head, stood up and started to dress.

“Fuck,” I said as I stood and stalked into the kitchen.

“You really want to be fucked right now, don’t you,” he observed aloud.

“Yes. I played this all wrong. I feel like I should have my woman-card revoked, or something.”


“Yeah, you know, like a man-card, but for a woman. Two nights in a row and you haven’t cum.”

“I don’t care about that at all,” he replied as he grabbed my robe-swathed hips and pulled me close. His breath puffed on my lips. “I had the best time.”

“Ok. You swear?” I ask.

“Oh, yeah. Will you and your pussy be available tomorrow night?”

“Yes, after my kid’s asleep. It’s a high honor to get me when I’m in mommy-mode, you know.”

“Is it?”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely.”

“Then I’d like to reserve a spot tomorrow or Sunday and a chance to rent you out for some other occasion.”

He kissed me deeply, his hands lingering on my waist, and left.

I suck at Scrabble, but rock at sobbing.

I sobbed as he bore down on me, fast and deep. My chest was icy hot and my face was burning like fire. I wept and wept and looked into his light blue eyes; one half of his face in deep shadow, the other flickered with candlelight.

Our groins locked in a heated embrace, slick and viscous. He continued to pound into me, then let up and took a leisurely pace, which only caused more racking sobs and laughter from me. My arm or hand intermittently thrown over my mouth and face to keep my cries from awakening my slumbering child in the room across the hall.

“God, I love fucking you, Hy,” he says.

He kept at me. In good ol’ fashioned missionary. He asked me to talk, so I pulled from my writings. I said my cunt was weeping for him; that I could feel him in my goddamned throat. And then I couldn’t talk anymore and he laughed and said he had only wanted to see me try to speak. I told him he’d fucked the English right out of me. And it’s true. He did. He fucked the English right out of me.

We’d played Scrabble earlier tonight and again he’d slaughtered me (I’ve yet to win one game out of a dozen). He’d bashfully told me he’d fucked his ex last night and then I remembered his text). He admitted he’d felt weird about it and apologized. I told him that he never had to worry about me being jealous; he just had to be kind.

My kid was in the room when we were talking about it, so we spoke in code. I said, “Look. The only reason I’d ever not like it was if my ‘dog’ talked about how awesome his new ‘bone’ was and how much he loved his new ‘bones.'” He assured me that his “dog” would never do that. Troy always used to talk about how awesome his other women were and it was more than I could handle. I am a supporter of non-monogamous loving and sex, but not of having it compared to me and what I can do for my lover.

Which is why I loved to hear that he loves fucking me after a night of sex with another woman. I mean, no higher compliment could have been paid. It meant so much.

I love fucking this man, too, and I told him so. Again and again, crying out as quietly as possible.

And when he was buried deep inside of me, his face nestled in my wet neck, his lips nibbling my skin, I slipped up and said, “See… this is why I think of you when I’m fucking other men,” and he answered back with deeper, harder thrusts and a deep throated moan.

When it was all over, when we were both spent, I was embarrassed at my admissions. He eased my discomfort by kindly lying and saying he hadn’t understood half of what I’d said.

I told him I hoped we could hang out again tomorrow night. He said he hoped so, too. And then he threw me a lopsided grin and told me that there was nothing hotter than seeing me lose control.

When he’d first curled his fingers into me, I was perched on the edge of my bed. I fought the spray that I felt building, but to no avail. His mouth was locked on my pert nipple and I filled his cupped palm with my sex despite my best efforts. I simply couldn’t help it. He said later he could feel me fight it and lose the battle; that nothing was hotter.

He wailed on my buttocks with a heavy hand, his eyes fixed on mine and this time I’d met his gaze. I told him he was wicked. He only smirked and fucked me inside out. Reveling in my compulsive reactions to him.

Sex with this kid is warping me, my world. No one sets me soaring like he does. He wondered aloud as he was dressing if it was simply because of the convenience of him. I assured him that any man could be convenient, but it was his combination of boldness, sexiness, and kind spirit that aroused me so. He thanked me. I hope he believes me.

I wrapped myself in a robe and walked him to the door. “Now I take the long walk home,” he teased. He kissed me deeply and I smacked his rear loudly. “And your cat is judging us.”

“No, just you,” I answered with a smile as I looked over at my decrepit cat sitting in the scrabble box lid watching the entryway.

And he left and walked the three feet next door.

I accidentally take screen shots.


What current day courting looks like.

I didn’t mean to catch this exchange, but my phone was locking up on me and I was pushing buttons like a ding dong – like that’d help. When I went to send some pics I found it in my library.

And ignore all our typos. We’re actually quite careful texters normally, I swear!

I’m freaking out.

The Neighbor’s handiwork.

I’m all kinds of anxious today.  The Neighbor came over last night and we played Scrabble and chatted.  I was a mess: nervous, weird, odd.  I tried to explain to him about my work week — which involves FEELINGS — and it made me more a mess.  We laughed about it, I admitted I was feeling strange and we moved on.

Then, he undid his pants and hefted out his cock to distract me from my turn and we spent the next hour or so fucking each others’ brains out and drenching my bed with my juices.

I like this guy so fucking much.

Way  more than is good for me.  He told me he’s hanging out with this girl friend of his tonight – a chick he doesn’t really like, but really wants to fuck.  He said he’d consider dating her if she admitted she was shallow and all wrong about the kind of guy she wants to end up with (older, rich, Republican, religious, and conservative).  I take comfort in knowing that’ll never happen.  But still.

I’m pretty certain he has no clue how I feel about him.  He makes jokes about Jason and my Frankenstein boyfriend not knowing that he makes up the bulk of that person.  He’s the guy I want to spend time with, he’s the guy whose cock I transfix on when masturbating, he’s the guy who knows and is liked by all my friends, he’s the guy who knows my kid, he’s the guy who I am totally myself with and rarely is even out of pajamas around.

The others are peripheral beings.  Jason is rich with compliments and affection, Phillip cuddles me and fucks me till morning.  Add them all up and it’s what I want in a partner — oh holy shit, did I just say PARTNER?

But all TN and I seem to do is remind each other how wrong we are for one another.  He’s not older or a parent; I’m not younger and childless.  Other than that, I got nothing to reject him from my prospects list.  Nothing.

And I have been talking out loud to myself all morning saying things like, “TN, here’s the thing, you’ve gotten into my icy heart and I don’t think I can keep doing this knowing that one day soon you’ll stop by to tell me you’ve found a hot girl to date for real.”

… or…

“TN, you’ve weaseled your way into my heart and I don’t know what to do…”

… or…

“TN, I don’t think I can keep having sex with you because I’m beginning to have real feelings for you…”

That last one makes me want to cry.  I have to decide to take what I can get (what I have now) or call it off.

I wish what I have now was enough, but it’s not.  I want him to stay the night, I want to go running with him, I want him to come with me to events of my friends, I want him to check on me, I want him to think of me and tell me so.


I so didn’t want this.

And, of course, the sex was off the fucking charts last night.  He cupped his hand deep inside of me and made me fill it with ejaculate.  I slid my hands down his muscled torso and panted and cried and told him that my panties would be in a wad if he ended up disappearing with his date tonight for the weekend.  He took notice when I said that.

He also asked me how many times I’d want to have sex with someone if I loved him and he had a huge cock if we were to spend, “say, 4 or 5 days a week together.”  I told him I’d never been in love with anyone I saw that much with a giant cock, but if I were, maybe 3-4 of those days.

“Not every night?  Multiple times a night??  I thought for sure you would.  I think you love sex way more than I do.”

“No,” I countered, “not unless we felt like it.  I got shit to do, you know; a life.”  He hmphed.

I vowed a long time ago to not try to decode a man’s behavior towards me, but here I am doing it.  This is what no communication, and an utter refusal on my part to do so will get you: an overwhelming feeling of being clusterfucked.

I want an entire day dedicated to sex and play, but no one else does.

In a way, I’ve struck out twice.

When I was with Jason last Saturday I told him how one of my fantasies was to spend an entire day with a lover, with him, wherein we would fuck and play all day long. He looked at me as he buckled his pants and said, “I don’t know what you think I can do, but I’m only human.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I think I may have stammered, but I bet it came out much more smoothly than that. “Well, I just mean we fuck, rest, play, cuddle, eat, take lots of breaks, but the point of the whole day is to be naked and hedonistic.”

I couldn’t believe I was quantifying it. He sort of shrugged.

Then, I said the same exact thing to The Neighbor and his reaction was similar.


Two young men with strong, healthy bodies and appetites telling me that they couldn’t hang because (and here’s where I’ll fill in the blank for you) I’m insatiable and have unrealistic expectations of them. It’s like I’m married all over again, because, yeah, I’ve never had a day where the bed was the central focus and breaks were for rest, refueling, and revelry.

I’ve been told by some that I am an athletic lover and that they can’t keep up with me. I don’t know if that’s a compliment or a lamentation. My body is far from athletic appearing, let me assure you (size 12 does that to ya), but I admit to pushing myself to my utter limits physically when it comes to fucking. I relish every second. Especially with these younger men; I refuse to be the “old lady” in the bed who needs a rest first. And, to date, I’ve kept my word to myself.

So, what is it that’s so off-putting about my fantasy? I thought all men, young and old, dreamed of a woman who wanted just that. It’s not like I don’t give exactly as much as I get; they wouldn’t be the ones just pumping away like a prize stallion with a line of mares.

It hurt to see their reactions. I’ve tried to rationalize it as maybe it’s something they reserve for a girlfriend or someone they feel strongly about and therefore doing that with me seems somehow distasteful; or maybe they think it’d feel like a job to them, that I wouldn’t treat them like a human being with needs. I just don’t know. But the resistance feels so much like my sex life with my ex-husband. A wonderful, loving, handsome man who was outstripped by my desires and drive within 6 months of dating and certainly beaten down by the end of 7 years.

The theme of my marriage — in so many ways — was I was too much for him. And the extremely lukewarm reception to my fantasy suggestion seems to back it up.

It just makes me sad.


I fuck and laugh and cry.

I woke up lonely.

With a searing kiss still on my lips I feel the head of his cock push at my hole.  I spread my knees wider, grab his hips and guide him in.  The shaft stretches me wide, the length impales me.  We sigh together as I swivel my hips down harder on him.  I want to feel him in my goddamned throat.

“It’s been too long, Hy.  Too long,” he says urgently against my mouth and I nod agreement, kiss his neck, inhale his clean soap scent.

His cock feels like I’ve come home and tears cry from my happy cunt.  I bathe us with juices, my chest heavy and light with emotion and relief and desire.   He is incredulous.  He can’t believe I’ve  squirted less than 10 strokes in.  He has no idea the wave of feelings I’m experiencing while wrapped around his gloriousness.  He begins to move, we move together.

I have decided to be more affectionate with him like I am with Jason; throw caution to the wind and be more myself.  I tell him I’ve missed him, this.  He says he has missed me, too.  I’m elated and bear down on him with all my might, clench at him like a hand reaching to pull me back to safety as he rears back.  I can feel the tears in my face building now; I venture eye contact, but can’t hold it for long.  I switch to staring at his bow mouth, slightly open with a passionate plea unspoken.

My hands roam his muscled back and his warm haunches.  The flexing of his buttocks heightens my arousal.  A moan escapes his lips and I am more thrilled.

We are in a puddle now and I ask him to flip me over.  He chuckles.  He knows what I want.  I’m embarrassed I’m so transparent but beyond caring.  He pins my knees together with his and enters me from behind.  I raise my bottom high and push against my wall with one hand, grip my iron headboard with the other.

I am being taken.  I am being railed.  I am being.  I begin to sob and laugh as I cum again and again.  The flower is bursting in my chest the pleasure is immeasurable.  I trust him I trust him I trust him and I sob some more.

His pace increases and his hands rain down on my flank.  The sting so bright against the dark passion I’m drowning in.  I can think of nothing else to say but, “Fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck!”  His baritone begins to fill the space over my head; he’s losing it and I buck back wildly as he pounds against my fleshy bottom and cums long and hard into me.  Safely protected by latex.  I wish so badly that I was being filled with his seed instead.

I get 2 seconds to catch my breath.  I’m racked with sobs.  He kisses the back of my neck and tells me how much my crying and laughing turns him on.  He begins to move again.  I am no longer in my body as he continues to turn me inside out.  Finally, he can’t go any more and he stops and drapes an arm across me while I try to piece myself back together.

His hand draws circles on my lower back.

“This is the most beautiful part on a woman’s body.  A man doesn’t have this,” and he presses above my buttocks with a warm, dry hand.

I roll over and lay in the nook of his arm, absentmindedly playing with this semi-hard penis.  We talk about why I laugh-cry.  I tell him the truth as I know it: I cry because I am overwhelmed with sensation and desire and for all the years of mourning I suffered through in my marriage; of never having felt that way with any kind of regularity.  He understands.  He says there’s nothing on this planet that turns him on more than when I do that.  I say we’re lucky then to have found each other.  He agrees.

He never stays the night, which I have decided to stop trying to figure out.  He gets up to go after many minutes of laying with me, perhaps as many as 30.  We’ve been together all night, hours.  I read his Tarot cards twice.  The second time because the outcome of the first wasn’t what he’d been hoping for.  I lied to him about the meaning of his outcome.  I omitted that it meant INCOMPATIBILITY.  I was too afraid that he had asked about me.  The Ten of Cups Reversed.  It would be hard, I told him, arguments and prejudice.  I didn’t mention the incompatibility.

His second reading said all the same things: he’s bright and clever, dependable; he has a decision to make concerning a woman, a woman who is proud and strong and revered among her friends.  He said, “What if that card is about you?”  I told him it would make me very uncomfortable.  He never told me his questions.

When I read my cards I thought about him.  The Lovers, two naked bodies entwined, was the catalyst according to the cards for my inquiry.  I blushed to my roots.  My outcome was Justice Reversed.  It means I feel like something is unjust in my life.  Do I disagree with his decision??

When I’d looked up from my reading he was fondling himself.  My satin black polka dot panties pulled down around his massive flesh.  He’d led me into my room then to take me a place where only he can these days.  He has officially replaced Troy in my sexual heart.  I am both elated and terrified.

Which is why, when he got up and put his clothes back on I walked over to him.  Naked and proud.  I kissed him tenderly, then with more demand.  His clothes rough against breasts and belly, his hands began to roam and I knew I had him for more when he rumbled how naughty I was and melted into me.

I fell to my knees and began to suck.  I pulled gently on his meaty sack and pried his ass apart just a little to press my fingertip against his anus.  His cock surged to a bigger bite in my mouth.

“Come to the bed,” he suddenly says and kicks off all his clothes, lies down on his back.  I fall onto his rod with gusto and each time he moans I wet myself some more.  I had told him his sounds heighten my own arousal.  He’s doing this for me.  I stroke counter-point against his asshole with my sucking.  He sucks in his breath, pleas with me to not change a thing, then whispers to deepthroat him when he comes.

I barely nod.  He’s close and my pussy is pulsing with blood.  His body is quivering with passion beneath my face, his cock diamond hard, then I feel his milk spurt into my mouth and his hands push my head down.  I can feel the bursts on the back of my throat as he empties into my velvety mouth.

He tastes goddamn delicious and I tell him so.  He drags me up his chest and kisses me hard with an open, hungry mouth.  “Fuck, I love your mouth.”

“I love your cock.”

The pride I feel at being the only woman on the planet to make him do that is the crown for my evening, but not his.  He grabs my vibe and tells me he wants to see me cum.  I oblige, and with his fingers buried deep inside of me my body explodes around us.

Not long after this he gets up for the final dressing and walk next door.  He kisses me again and I marvel at how handsome he is; wonder why I havent’ always seen it; know that I’m falling down a fucking rabbit hole of heartache.  At my door I tell him that I don’t have custody of my kid starting Monday.  He wiggles his eyebrows.  I also tell him that I want to celebrate my Anniversary for Passing a National Test on Tuesday.  He says that can be arranged.  At least I think that’s what he says… I honestly can’t remember for the cold was whipping at my bare feet and face and I was distracted by all my emotion and hope for a week filled with just him.

Just him.

I meet friends in swanky hotel lobbies


Who knows what the next few hours are going to hold?

[Update: So, nothing happened.  I mean, lots happened, but basically, it was nothing.  This is an old, dear friend with whom I have a deep connection, but I wasn’t up for it; didn’t want to be at the vortex of his guilt.]

God, I miss The Neighbor.  I keep having nightmares that he’s fucking our other neighbor or that he’s on a date with his soul mate and I’ll hear, “Hy… we have to talk…”  I’ll try really hard not to roll up into the fetal position when that happens.

In the mean time, I feel pretty awesome right now.  My kid’s in bed, I have a snack and a vodka-pom waiting for me.  I’ll smoke a cig later and hope TN feels up for a game of Scrabble later, though I won’t hold my breath because he’s still dead to the world.

God, I’m so fucked.]