I’ll show you my tits.

Two days.

Day 1, Wednesday night, 1:25 am:

The Neighbor: I can hear you laughing on your phone

Me: Haha really??  Talking with a jr high friend :) Wanna come fuck me??

TN (at the same time as the text above): I’m sleeping asap but you should stop by and get fucked tonight :-)

Me: lol You have to come here.  I have my kid.

TN: Leaving the door unlocked just in case!

My heart skipped a beat.

The next 10 minutes were a blur.  The friend with whom I was on the phone got only occasional “uh huhs” from me as I continued to text TN.  He said he was naked, in bed, and near sleep.  I begged off the phone and texted him again.  He said there was “0% chance” of him moving.  I insisted.  Then silence.

I weighed my options and quietly exited the apartment.  I’d be gone for no longer than it’d take to let the puppy out and come back, but that was all I was allowed.  I tried the knob next door, its metal cool beneath my hot hand. The door swung open.

“TN,” I called out quietly.  His apartment was bathed in utter darkness.  I stepped through the entry way and bumped into a box and slowly made my way to his bedroom.  “TN?” I called out again, questioning my own presence.  Still total silence.

His hallway was pitch black.  I pushed my hand out in front of me and felt for his door.  It silently swung open and I stumbled blindly to his bed.  I patted the covers looking for his form in the sea of his bed.  He was somewhere in the middle.

“TN!” I say again with more volume.  Out of the darkness a large hand grabbed my arm and pulled me down into a heap of warm sheets and skin and muscle.

He mumbled something, barely coherent.  “Are you really already asleep?” I asked.

“Mmmhmm,” he replied and found my face with his hands and his lips were on mine.  I could still see nothing.  He took my hand and guided it to his crotch where it was filled with an enormously hard erection.  Pulsing and bobbing.

“Jesus Christ, TN.  You sleep with that thing??” I say into the darkness.

“I do when I hear you open my front door,” and he pulled me down again and I squeezed and stroked and tugged on his meat delightedly as his scent filled my nostrils; the scent of a sleepy man, altogether different from one who is alert, a musky perfume around us.

I still couldn’t make out even an outline of his face or body, my eyes were filled with blackness.  I peppered my kisses and touch with words. “We have to go back to my house.” KISS “We have to.” STROKE  “I can’t stay here.” KISS  “My baby is there.” KISS “We must go back.” And my face fell swiftly to his rod for a few good licks.

He answered by pulling my shirt off and plunging his face onto a pendulous breast with gusto.  “TN… really, I can’t stay.”  I knew I’d won when he pushed me back and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

Day 2, Thursday night, 7:30 pm:

TN: Ready for Scrabble?

Me: Sure

We started the game at the kitchen table.  TN played with my kid and puppy between turns.  I kissed booboos and put babies and puppies to sleep. Once alone I played footsie with his cock and when he was trying to concentrate I’d flop my breasts out of my shirt and let them rest on the tabletop.  I finally broke my 15-game losing streak last night.

TN was hilarious in his loss.  He grumbled and bitched while I rejoiced.  I jiggled my tits in his face and bounced up and down in sheer joy at my win.  I eventually turned his frown upside down.  No one can resist true jubilation, after all.  Or tits.

I’d told myself I wasn’t going to fuck him.  He’d worked me over just fine the night before and I’m trying to put some distance between us, but I was suddenly struck with an idea as he made to leave.

“Wait,” I called out.  He stopped and turned and I closed the distance between us.  “Lemme give you a consolation prize.”  His eyebrows raised then his face split in a grin as I grabbed his cock over his shorts.

“You played hard.  Now you deserve to be hard,” I whispered in his ear.  I swear the sheer cheese of that line made it hot.

It wasn’t long before his pants were around his ankles and he was reclining in my fuck chair.  I suckled on his fuzz-dusted balls and his hands cradled my head.  I pulled my tits out of my shirt and let them rest on either side of his shaft as my mouth worked the head and top half.  I wanted to fill my mouth with his cum, that was all my goal was, but he had other plans.  “I think it’s time we go to your room.”

“Ok.  Wanna get more of a consolation prize?”

“Is this a consolation prize for me?  Or a prize for you for winning??”

“Eh.  Whatever,” I countered, and locked my bedroom door behind us.

Quickly, he’s naked and I slipped my panties off; I’m clad in a skirt and shirt only.  I pushed him down on my bed and got back to work on his shaft.  Soon he’s near the brink and he insisted we fuck.  He rolled on a condom and, still fully clothed, I sunk down on his cock.  Slowly.

Quietly I moaned as I savored every inch as it filled me, stretched me, christened me.  The moment my thighs touched his a warmth spread out in my chest to my arms and my belly twitched.  I moved, his hands gripped my upper thighs,  and the heat spread up my neck to my scalp and my pussy released its joy on his belly.  I ripped my shirt off and looked down at him staring at me, my breasts bouncing with my efforts.

The fabric of the skirt was like burlap.  It had to go.  I wanted only him on my skin.  It ended up in a heap on the floor in two seconds. Fully naked, atop him, I gripped his chest and slipped and slid on his pubis, his cock my pivot point.  My pussy released and released and released.  I could feel his balls pushed against my ass crack.

Breasts in his mouth.  My body shuddered.  My pussy cried.  My mouth devoured.  He flipped me onto my back, never broke contact.  He pounded into me.  I cried.  I laughed.  I kissed and kissed and kissed.  He came hard.  I cried uncle and he answered by hitching my ankles up onto his shoulders.

At this angle my pussy sounded like nothing on this planet, save for a soaking wet, well-fucked cunt.  Sloppy, slappy, slick.  I could feel it spattering.  He moaned his pleasure and finally let me rest.  I said I needed to roll over and cry.  He gently helped to my side, but never left me.  Then he kept rolling me over to my belly.  And he started to fuck me all over again.

I buried my face in my pillows and sobbed.  My bare mattress was ruined.  He railed into me and grew larger inside of me as I cried, “Your fucking cock, your fucking cock, ohmygod your fucking cock.”  And he came again.

Orgasm number 3 came quickly after as he lay on his back, in awe of himself and his desire.  His hand was a blur, the abs he’s been working so hard for deliciously outlined in shadow and light.  He spurted his third load into my eager mouth and shoved the pulsing length to rest on the pillow of my tongue.  The back of my throat caught the rest.

End, Day 2.

And now, here are my Scrabble tits.

"That's not how you spell it."

[I’m not usually that lopsided, by the way.  I just feel I have to put that out there.]

I don’t require sex, but I get fucked anyway.

I worried that he was trying to cancel on me when I got this text:

So fucking exhausted :-(

So I assured him that fucking tonight was not a requirement.  I thought, “Hmm, it’ll be nice just to make him dinner and chill, watch A Game of Thrones maybe…”

Butter-poached sea bass, braised kale with bacon and onion, and a roasted cauliflower with caramelized yellow onions and goat’s milk puree were on the menu.  He’d mentioned before how impressed he is at my cooking skills and I wanted to really knock his socks off.

While chopping crispy bacon bits he walked up behind me and hefted my braless breasts into his hands.  I arched my back and pushed my bottom into the warm curve of his groin and fed him a piece of bacon.  He squeezed my breasts.  I fed him another piece.  He pinched my nipples.  “Nothing better than breasts and bacon, no?” I stated.

I turned around and took his scruffy face in my hands.  “I love your 5 o’clock shadow,” I purred before I dipped my mouth to his.  It was salty, like mine.  Bacon-y.  He took a hand off his face and put it on his bulging shorts. He was huge and hot.

I took another piece of bacon, “SIT,” I commanded.  He grinned and complied.  I straddled his legs and pressed my pubis into his face.  He opened his mouth and breathed hot breath through the cotton of my dress.

I came back to reality then and finished dinner.  We ate, laughed, watched a couple of A Game of Thrones like I’d hoped.  When the second episode began he came to sit next to me on the couch, our thighs pressed along the length of each other, his arm over my shoulder.  I absent-mindedly stroked his erection; he casually held my right breast.

When the second show was over he teased me for trying to have sex after all.  I assured him it wasn’t on my mind.  Then I pushed him back on the couch and cooed to him about being so tired; how awful it must be.  I breathed on his shaft through his basketball shorts and I pulled the tip of his cock out from under the waistband and I licked.

My hair tumbled down around us, slick and cool on our hot skin.  I pulled off his shorts and my breasts strained against the flimsy top of my dress as I dragged them on either side of his erection and pink, wrinkly ball sack.  He groaned and said how good that felt.  I licked him from stern to stem and gently rolled his testes around in my mouth, spit slid under his sack.  Then I started to move on the shaft with my hand gripped tight around its girth, my mouth dancing on the head.  I drank in his salty precum and groaned with delight.  God I love to suck cock.

Somehow, we ended up in my room.  Maybe he brought the candle, I don’t know, but he was gloriously naked and I was not.  He shoved me roughly down on the bed and crawled up my length.  “I’m not going to fuck you,” he said with a grin.

“Good.  I don’t want you to,” I boldly replied.

He peeled off my panties and pulled my dress up over my head.  I stretched out under his gaze: rounded valleys of warm, cream-colored skin against stark white bedding.  I felt myself melt into the down comforter beneath me.  This is where I wanted to be.

He made to mount me and I dodged his naked shaft.  He slid it in the fold between my plump upper-thigh and my swollen vulva.  I got wetter and kept wiggling my hips away.  He left me for a minute and proudly revealed a string of golden condoms he’d smuggled into my apartment and dropped them next to my head.

“But we’re not fucking,” I reminded him.

“Nope,” he answered as he rolled one on.

He fell back over me and butted the head of his cock against my hole.  I scooted up the bed a few inches and continued to kiss him back, passionately, with every fiber of my being.  I feel for you, I screamed through my kisses.

His mocking thrusts were becoming more insistent.  I moved away again, closer to my metal headboard.  I was losing ground.

His hands ran all over me; I squeezed his buttock’s flesh in my hands, lightly scraped my fingers on his tender skin and spanked him.  He chuckled as he moved closer and I ran out of room to run all together.

“You have no where else to go,” he growled in my ear.  And then his cock was peeling me open and he was sliding in.  I felt his pressure deep inside of me, practically in my throat.  He went slow — oh, so slow — and I grasped at him with my cunt, sucked on him like my eager mouth did, and as I did I slowly and sweetly drenched us and I began to cry.

I felt exposed and raw.  This was too slow, too obvious.  I felt like he could plainly see on my forehead a marquee of my feelings for him.  I’d turned down sex on my second date with the man from Tuesday night the night before because I simply couldn’t imagine it being any better than what it was with him.  “I am so fucked,” I thought as he watched me in wonder lose my shit beneath him.

All I could think to say was “Ohfuckohfuckohfuck,” or “Ohshitohshitohshit,” interspersed with “Neighbor, I fucking love your cock.”  I felt helpless and devoured as my g-spot sang and my arms and legs became lead.  I pulled his head down to my breast and let him suck while he rocked into my core; taken at nearly every angle a single man can.

He hooked my ankles up on his shoulders and began to press into me with gusto.  My pussy smacked and squelched with my passionate releases, his tempo increased further.  I tried hard not to keep covering my face and instead focused on his mouth.  That sweet, bow mouth with the dusting of faintly red shadow.

I pivoted back on him and pushed against my wall with all my might as he pegged me to the bed.  I could sense his cock swell inside of me, could hear him lose his breath along with the manly moans that began to escape him.  And then he was riveting into me and crying out and I couldn’t help but expel my own shouts and moans of  pleasure with him.

A minute later, as he is wont to do, he began to move inside of me again.  I had given up all hope of any sense of control and let him do whatever he wanted.  He spanked me and pinched me and I just kept crying helplessly, happily.

Finally, he was through with me and he rolled onto his side and pulled me into his big spoon, a heavy arm draped over my waist, his hand nestled between my breasts.

We talked for a while, about what I couldn’t tell you if my life depended on it.  All I know is that his cock, still mostly hard, found its way into my eager mouth.  He came close to cumming again a couple of times, but wasn’t able.  It’s usually his custom to not cum at all during sex.  Or so he’s said.  Certainly, there have been several encounters of ours where he hasn”t.  I do my best to not feel as though I am unskilled; I, of all people, know that you don’t have to orgasm to truly and deeply enjoy sex.

I felt gorgeous and relaxed with him right then.  More so than before and so I grabbed my Hitachi and stood on the floor with my knee hitched up on the bed, the candle flickering to my left, my lovely neighbor splayed out before me.  I turned it on and pressed it against my mound.  He slid closer, under me, and reached his fingers inside.

Immediately, I bucked against his hand.  He stroked his finger against my channel’s padding and I strained not to loose myself so soon on him.  I told him to hold still and I would move against him and the blinding light, the intensity of pleasure that cracked through my cells caused me to shiver for minutes and minutes more when I was cradled in his arms.  His chuckles puffed onto my neck as he held me.

I’ve never been split in two like that before.  I reveled in it, the hormonal surges reminded me of when after I pushed out my baby I lay on the hospital bed, teeth chattering, and comparing it to all the times I’d ever done Ecstasy.  It was like that last night.  I couldn’t think.  I wanted to tell him how I felt about him.  I wanted to lock all my windows and doors and never let him leave.

However, I didn’t, but I also didn’t escape totally unscathed.  I jokingly told him my social security number and a deplorable fantasy I had the other day about a client. ” I am not allowed to think of clients in a sexual manner,” I told him, “I feel horrible.”  He assured me it was ok if I did.  I told him he should leave his friend’s birthday party early tonight to come and fuck me and “do absolutely whatever” he wants to me knowing full well he’ll never do that.  He’s taking the-girl-who-won’t-touch-him and I think he always has hope that might change.

The point is, I didn’t give a fuck how obvious I sounded.  It was a Herculean effort on my part to say only those simpleton things.  Logically, I knew it was the oxytocin, so I was saved from irreparably damaging this magic thing I have going on with a babble of stupid words, but I still said stupid shit.  — ARGH, I’m sure I could fill an entire blog with the stupid shit we say after a bone-jarring orgasm.  But still, he praised me, wondered at me, and kissed me, and then he began to spank me.  So hard I felt his hand prints like a sunburn on my bottom and flanks.  I begged him to ice it and he obliged. The water cooled my bulging, raw pussy lips and wrapped around my waist to end in a tepid puddle under my belly.

He suggested we watch another episode of A Game of Thrones after that and I ended up falling asleep I was so spent.  Granted, it was late, but I had nothing left to give.  Even to the fucking TV at that point.  He woke me up with a laugh and I sat upright for the last 7 minutes, embarrassed and longing for my bed.  He stood up, noted the time (1:15 am) and said it was bedtime.  I agreed, kissed him, gave him a smack on the ass and said goodnight.  I didn’t even care I was going to sleep alone.

I go on first dates reeking of sex with another man.

The Neighbor fucked the shit out of me this afternoon and I had the distinct (dis)pleasure of answering his, “What are you doing later?” with, “I have a date.”

He teased me. I wanted to die. He kissed me, fondled my ass, and asked what I’d do if my date could smell the cock on me. My only answer was, “That’d be hot.”

He wished me luck on my “daaaate” and I cringed.

So, now I sit and wait, my braids still in disarray, and cross my fingers that I’ll discover chemistry with this new fella as bright as what I have with TN.

Nothing less is acceptable anymore.

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.