So many friends with benefits.

“I’m here.  Tell me No if you can’t.”

I read David’s text and squealed with both fear and anticipation.

“Fuck. Ok.  Only if you’re really here,” I wrote back.

Seconds later he was through my door with his hand wrapped around my neck holding me on my tip toes, his mouth oddly gentle, his tongue soft and sweet.

My towel dropped to my feet when his fingers dug inside of me as if searching for a lost object.  My legs trembled and I gushed into his hand; my juices made a long trail down my legs to the crumpled towel below.

I hadn’t heard from David in months and we hadn’t seen each other since October.  Last year we met in April when I was still completely heartbroken over The Neighbor.  His big, fat cock and transgressive style of fucking were welcome distractions as I limped along away from TN.  However, pillow talk between us — or talk in general — was not very rewarding.

I found myself wrapped up in ridiculous arguments or defending my thoughts and feelings about personal matters.  I eventually went to some lengths to avoid such arguments, but after a disagreement about dogs of all things, I gave up even trying and accepted that we were better lovers than “friends.”

Over time our schedules intervened and we saw less and less of each other and last fall he witnessed me a hot, sobbing drunken mess.  The Soldier had stood me up that night and I’d spent a retched day with an old high school friend and being sexually harassed by him and his knuckle-dragging friend s we day drank.

David came over and pounded my pussy as hard as my heart hurt and spent and used I cried as I knelt over his splayed knees.  His cum mixed with my tears.  I was embarrassed to be so exposed in front of this big, hard man, but there was nothing for it.  It happened.

In January he texted to say his New Year’s resolution was to fuck me in the ass.  My response was something along the lines of, “Good luck with that beer can dick of yours and never seeing each other.”

We texted once or twice more this year until early last week when he reached out again and then Friday when he asked if I were home.

I have no hard feelings towards David.  That’d be like being upset with a wild animal for being wild.  Our friends with benefits relationship is one of mutual satisfaction and convenience.  It doesn’t involve sharing feelings or activities — a ridiculously boring hiking date proved that one — it’s sex and sex only.

I went to my friend’s birthday party with David’s cum dried all over my tits and when the breeze shifted it wafted up to my nostrils mixed with my perfume of hyacinth.

He came on my in great gobs because I begged him to.

After he’d licked me from top to bottom and worked me with his hand again.  After he’d pushed me forcefully to my knees and told me to lick his tight little asshole.  After I’d suckled his balls and choked on his massive piece of flesh and heard him croon, “That’s a good little slut.”  After he’d turned around and spread his cheeks for me and jerked himself as he purred at my warm, wet tongue on his hole.  And after he’d thrown me back on the bed and hitched my ankles up on his shoulders then flipped me around and wailed on my flanks as he buried himself in me.

After all of that he came on my face and tits and neck.  I slumped up onto the bed and laid there with him until it was time to get dressed for the party.

David was there for all of 30 minutes.

How different a “friend” he is than The Artist.  Though similar in age and height as David, he is worlds apart energetically and emotionally.  He’s sensitive and sweet and we have lengthy conversations about life and love and Domination and submission.  He is a neophyte dom himself and also a writer.  He wants to go to writers workshops with me and read my work.  He wants me to critique his.

I’ve resisted sharing Hy with him; he’s too loose, too wet.

Our first night together was drunken and fierce(ish).  His cock curves away from his body and when he mounted me from behind on my squeaky couch I burst into orgasm instantly.  That was his second orgasm of the night and my umpteenth.

We’ve texted consistently throughout the weeks and gone to dinner twice.  I am open with him about my other other lovers and I know of a couple of his.  I like him, though quickly learned that my sexual volume is much higher than he thinks his is.  Despite being dominant I am even more dominant; a moon in a planet’s presence.

Our hookups have been hot and quick.

There was the time he came over and though he promised to fuck me when he walked through the door we ended up chit chatting at my kitchen island for 10 minutes before he grabbed me and fucked me on the counter top.

And the other time I blew him for a minute or so and I had to choose to let him blow his wad right then or let him fuck me.  I chose the latter.

Or the other time I let him spank me until his erection returned and he jizzed all over me.

I have coached him and supported him as a friend would — I enjoy the mentoring space — and I have even spent time guiding him on what to do with his other FWB when he asked.  We are solidly “friends with benefits,” but the benefits are beginning to be in his favor, not mine.

Sunday morning he texted, “Hey I’m feeling pretty sad still and I don’t think I’ll be able to get off if we have sex. It’s up to you if you still want to hang out. I’m just not feeling up to fooling around hon.”

“What are you sad about?”

“Still bummed over that girl you know?”

“Ah, I see.  Well, as much fun as it would be to hang out with you while you’re bummed out by another woman, I’m really ok just chilling alone.”

His response was a favorite of mine:  :/

I’m not interested in being a shoulder cry on about someone else while sex is on the table.  Shoulder cry on as just friends?  Yes, 100%.  As a lover who doesn’t get fucked?  No.  That would wring me out because that doesn’t feel all that good.  There’s no benefit there; I’m just being used.

Talk to me and ask for advice about a death, a shitty boss, a bad day, bad friends, your mother and also fuck the ever-loving shit out of me?  Yes.  Complain to me about another woman and not fuck me?  No.  Absolutely not.  I expect my lovers to have their shit together.

Part of being friends with benefits is the suspended belief that we’re all we have for the time we spend together.  It allows it to be fantastic while practical and uncomplicated.

Bumping around with these two make me miss Ben in a wistful, fantasy way.  He’s been busy lately.  So, so busy.  I don’t remember the last time we spoke but the time I showed him my pussy has long since passed.

“Yes, Hy.  God, you’re so beautiful.”  I can hear the words perfectly now, like a moment frozen in time.

We talk still about a visit, but as each week goes by I have less hope.  There’s a story line for us in my mind that we will see each other for years until we no longer are willing or able.  Long distance lovers with a bond across the sea.  No one ever gets mad at each other and time and space are natural wedges between us so reunions are passionate and snorted into our bodies like so many lines of cocaine.

We become high on one another until the crash of departure.  We are perfect because we are virtual strangers and dream fuck buddies.

Our coupling at the beginning of the summer is as fresh in my mind as if it happened yesterday.  I can feel his body on mine and his thick flesh pushed against me as it slid deep inside.  His timbre smooth as were his hands which rested on my hips as he pumped into me like a little stallion.

Sometimes I think we should leave well enough alone with the dream.

My other friends are virtual.  Men whose words and kindness reach through the ether.  Their voices are unknown, their scent and taste a mystery.  I don’t know the feel of their crush.  One or two want to come see me.  Less than that are welcome to.  Besides, once you close the gap and touch me it seems to become a game of loss.

How much longer until it’s run its course and the benefits are gone?  FWBs is a short game, no matter what kind it is.  It’s a filler, a distraction, a fun ride until you find the mini-van you want to buckle yourself into forever.

After all these years I’ve finally figured out that friends with benefits means truly having no expectations beyond the moment of the ride, that moment he’s inside of me.  Gah, that fucking magical moment of being filled by another human body. What a joy that is!  What a gift!

If I could I’d have a hundred friends with benefits of all kinds.  The ones only good for sex, the ones who are mooshy and eye-rolling, the ones who are dreamy and perfect and everything in between.  Men are fascinating, exhausting, thrilling creatures and I want to gather them all up and give them pats and kisses and wag my ass in front of their drooling faces.   I’ll manage any loneliness at weddings and birthdays on my own.

What I really want to do is play, to shove the biggest piece of cake in my mouth, swallow it, reach for more and wait for the next knock on my door.  I wonder who it’ll be next time.

 

Avoidance.

Hy at night in shadow
Shadows.

At this point in time I fully admit to avoiding some things.

My fitness, for one, not to mention my creativity, my mental health, and my peace of mind.

I feel like I’m floating on a little raft of seaweed just past where the waves swell and form.  I can see the beach with my towel and my things, but my senses are consumed with salt, long, low pulses of waves crashing, and the tickle of the sea.

Peyton flew unaccompanied to San Francisco for a couple of days during my most recent custody period then went straight to my ex’s upon arriving back home.  Today they all leave by car for a family vacation and won’t return until mid July.

My phone remains mostly quiet except for my frantic checking of world news.  The list of heartbreaking things seems never-ending lately; it’s been a particularly brutal late spring for the entire world.

Knowledge is power, but it’s also paralyzing.  I feel overwhelmed as a member of our global society and even in my own little life.  Tributaries of thought and feeling merge into a raging river only to split off a few miles away.  I have a clear idea of what I need to do, but then remain sedentary.  Not taking care of my body is the main signifier.

I stain it with alcohol and lack of movement, my dietary choices aim to hurt, not nourish.

Yet meanwhile in the other parts of my life I am dedicated and driven.

My work continues to bring me significant pride and satisfaction and my Summer of No Men (or really, Summer of Very Few Men) has brought a sense of calm and balance I have never felt before.

I blocked The Neighbor from being able to view my AFF profile and with that single keystroke the weights attached to my ankles which threatened to drown me were gone.

He remains in my complex, but the sight of his car somehow bothers me less.  My empty, boring nights are a result of my choices and I feel empowered even as The Good Wife and a bottle of Casillero del Diablo keep me company.

I chat with Ben on occasion and have a couple of other irons in the fire, but they’re on low heat and I like that just fine.  My standards for a date seem impossibly high after London.  I want someone to look at me and think, “Fucking shit I’m a lucky man!”  Not, “She seems ok for now.”  Effort means everything to me now.

My avoidance of my physical and creative health is the natural reaction to my career and dating health.  I have yet to master all aspects of my life simultaneously and that has been a lifelong pattern.

If I’m working out regularly and my diet is on point, then I am making risky decisions with my heart.  Slacking at work?  Then I’m probably drinking less.  It’s like squeezing a balloon that won’t pop: it just squirts out somewhere else; I can’t hide it.  At least I haven’t had a cigarette since December and that seems unlikely to change any time soon.

The biggest question I’m trying to answer is why do I have this deeply driven need to balance smart, healthy decisions with their opposite?  Why can I not allow myself to revel in all the sun?  Why must I always be cast in shadows?

The immediate answer that comes to mind is I am not comfortable with that level of success and/or happiness and I’ll admit to that; it’s what I am working so hard to change.  I want all the sun.

The second I hit Publish today I will feel better.  It’s a very caring thing, writing, and I have been actively avoiding things I know will make me feel better.  It seems I want shadow in addition to all that sun — perhaps I need it, I can’t tell the difference — but I’m trying to honor the pull nonetheless and not beat myself up about it.

I’m supposed to see Remington tonight, a reschedule from the weekend, but I’ve asked if we can move it to tomorrow.  I’d like to see him in an old friend sort of way, but I’m content if it doesn’t happen.  Not quite ambivalence, more like acceptance.  That’s a sunny thing.

I’ve skipped lots of opportunities to work out this week, though.  Shadowy.

I’ve focused on my work and goals.  Sunny.

I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine every night.  Shadowy.

I’ve been highly selective about the men I interact with.  Sunny.

I haven’t written all the things I want to say: good v. bad sex, UDP (unsolicited dick pics), the strangely dangerous and beautiful world of IGShadowy.

My hope is that while my little one is away for so long I will get my sea legs and stop floating, overwhelmed by the current and unmotivated to move.  I’d like to honor my quiet mornings and my need to write.  The summer is short, though the heat is long, and I have to get my shit together.

The cicadas are chirping.  It’s time to get started.

Hy in the morning in the sun
Sun.

 

A summer with no men.

Before Peyton started kindergarten my life was set by the sun and moon.  Alarms factored very little into my life.  I led a charmed, though albeit unemployed life for years.

Things changed drastically the spring before school started.  I wasn’t making ends meet and so took a second job that required I arrive by 7:30 am.  It felt like hell on earth.  That fall I quit so I could take my own baby to school and ever since I’ve been a slave to drop-off and pick-up and after-school commitments with our summers chock full of camp commitments starting by 9 am.

This summer we’ve decided to cut way back on all of it.  My ex will take care of his weeks and I’m responsible for mine and since money continues to be tight I can’t afford camps and Pey is dragged to my office on short days and dropped off at my parents’ on long ones.

However: NO ALARMS.

No goddamned alarms kicking me out of slumber.  No groggy morning routines.  No interrupted afternoons.  No stolen pockets of time.  No bedtimes.

And it is fucking glorious.

I'm certain the animals were judging me as I did this.
I’m certain the animals were judging me as I did this.

This is the second week of summer vacation and my first week without my baby.  Each morning I awake gently, early still.  I stretch, I let the dog out, I lay back down, I take pictures of my 40-year-old body and think, Not bad.  I research how to make the perfect French pressed coffee.

And then I sit at my kitchen table with the window open behind me and I write and catch up and read my friends.  My bottom was sticking to my cheap plastic Ikea chair so now I sit on a cheap Ikea lambskin.  It’s like a dream come true.

I’m already trying to figure out how to incorporate this into my life come fall.  I struggled to find time to write during the school year; the only time I had free was in the evenings or an hour or two during the day but I found myself worn out and empty.

Was it Hemingway or London who’d get up at 5 every morning and write for two hours then just chill the rest of the day?  I know that’s when I’m my most creative and relaxed and I feel like a motherfucking winner if I allow myself to write in that space.  And yet, I rarely do.

I get distracted by my phone, IG, sexting (if I’m lucky), crap around the house, whatever.

At the Tate with Ben we wandered into the room with some Picassos and Dalis.  He was impressed — this wasn’t what he was expecting to see that day — then wandered into another room with art by people we didn’t recognize.  “You know what makes this art?” I asked him.  “The fact that these people say it is and work so hard to put it out there.  If they didn’t, it’d just be a hobby.”

I’ll never be a lauded author, but I know this is more than just a hobby.  I’m a writer, a poet, an artist.  This summer I want to reconnect more deeply with what makes me tick, what drives me.  It used to be that I floundered aimlessly.  Lately I still flounder, but I have an idea of where I want to go.

It’s been 3 weeks since London, since I allowed anyone to enter my body.  I’ve shared kisses twice since I’ve returned, but I am in no rush for more.  The thought of anything less than what I experienced with Ben shuts me down.  This summer, I have a feeling, will be one with many early mornings at my kitchen table and quiet nights alone.  I need to catch my breath and embrace the writer in me anyway.  I don’t want this to feel like a hobby.  I want it to feel like motherfucking art.

This could end up becoming the summer of no men.

 

 

 

Sometimes it’s a strange path to learn to trust.

I pinched my eyes shut and silently moaned with embarrassment.  I didn’t think I could do it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said.  His English accent made it seem more official.  “God, so beautiful.  Yes, just like that.”

I adjusted the laptop between my bare legs and my naked pussy and looked down the length of my pale body.  The screen was of him, his large erection and stroking hand, his dark grey eyes riveted on me and then, near the glowing green light of the camera, a smaller box of me.

In it my legs formed a sort of low-M where the downward point was the dark line which drew up from the bed to my center to end in more darkness.  I thanked God I couldn’t see it with more definition.

Above that a smattering of short hair, a soft belly, two mounds of jiggly flesh and beyond that my blonde head peeking down at all the action.  I groaned my discomfort even as his words spelled out enthusiastic approval.

He asked for me to spread my lips for him.

Humiliation isn’t the right word for how I felt.  Yes, there was certainly some of that, but I couldn’t locate the source.  There was also shame, embarrassment, worry, flagrant bashfulness.  I have made it a policy of mine to never send pics of my pussy unless and until I deeply trust the man which means 3 men have gotten pictures of me.

It’s not because my pussy is extra special — though, of course it is! — it’s because I am awash with such emotions it becomes devoid of fun.  I have to beat down half a dozen complicated feelings just to send one pic of my vulva.  It’s an exhausting endeavor.  But here I was, legs splayed, all my bits on an iPad in London with a rapt audience of one.

Two hours earlier I’d come home alone from a pleasant enough date with a man who was a big believer in thin pants and no underwear and wanted to just be alone.  It was a boon to find Ben online and awake at 2 am his time.

He was naked in bed with his big cock in his hands.

“Hello, Hy!” he said.

Our smiles were big.

Soon I had stripped down for him and swiveled the laptop around so I could stand and twirl for him.  I felt silly, out of control, and struggled to remind myself that he had seen me in real life, that I had nothing to hide.

“You are so gorgeous, Hy!  Look at your body!”

I squinted at the little square of me and didn’t see what he did, but I believed how he felt about it and pushed on.

“Bend over for me,” he said.

I giggled nervously and did as he asked, my panties around my ankles.

“More, bend all the way.  Please,” he urged.

I bent more and felt my face turn red from embarrassment.  I thought about how differently boys and girls are with their sexuality.  Even after years of trying to reprogram myself I found myself a slave to my earliest insecurities about my body, such as there’s such a thing as a “good angle.”

Men* have proven to me time and time again that they don’t believe in a “good angle,” they adore them all.  The ones where my ass looks “bad” or my pussy looks however-a-pussy-isn’t-supposed-to-look or my tits hang long and torpedo like.  The assumption I carry there is clearly faulty — that there’s a “right” way to look — so when Ben asked me to contort my body in ways in which I couldn’t control the visual outcome I had to trust his tastes… and him.

I had to trust that he wouldn’t say, “Oh fuck, stop it! That’s horrible!” which is the other side to the “good angle” belief.  I had to trust that he wouldn’t judge me.  I had to trust he was enjoying himself.  I had to trust that he was being honest.

At an extremely formidable age, on two separate occasions years apart, boys I liked and trusted ripped the rug out from under me and I have only just recently begun to realize that though I felt at the time I had moved on and not let it affect me that it became an important part of my programming when it came to men: They are not to be trusted.  Ever.

So even before I began to make questionable choices in mates, partners, and lovers, I already had an infected belief.  How self-fulfilling that has been I can’t quantify, but it has surely affected me deeply and profoundly.

I can get naked for a lover in person, because I believe my charisma will overcome any physical limitation or shortcoming they might discern.  I can suck them till their eyes cross and get him to lose himself inside of me, but what can I do an ocean away?  I can’t make him not see me.  I have to trust him.

And so it came to pass that I was spread wide with his watchful gaze on me and his kind, lustful words emboldened me.

I grabbed the Godemiche dildo Adam and Monika had given me at Eroticon — the longer one, of course.  Still bashful I squeezed some lube on it and began to work it in as Ben moaned his approval.  I added the buzz of my Hitachi and the boom of my orgasm laid me out like a pancake.

“That was fucking hot, Hy.”

“Next time we’re together, I’ll do that with you in me,” I said breathlessly.

“Good.”

“I want to go again, though I really wish it was you.”

“Me, too.  Do as I say then.”

He told me to slowly push the dildo in and out.  It was complicated and naughty and I felt like at any minute someone would burst through my door and catch me while I had an open laptop between my legs, my left hand operating a giant and magical dildo, and my right hand pressing a Magic Wand on me.  But no one did and Ben coached me to go deeper.

I did.

Then faster.

And I did.

Yes, he liked that very much.

The orgasm came up and fucking punched me, turned me inside out and left me like a wrapper beside the dumpster.  I yelled out and began to sob.  I clenched and bore down on the cold ting inside of me as the waves tore through my body.

I heard Ben’s voice in the distance beyond my cries.  I convulsed and shivered and felt that keening, soulful pain I always feel with this kind of orgasm; something is just out of reach.  This time, it was literally him.

I turned off the wand and gently pushed the dildo out, swung my legs over and pushed the laptop to the side, and tried desperately not to cry with very little success.  I didn’t know how this would translate and didn’t want to completely lose my shit when he couldn’t hold me or see all the nuance in my sobs.

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “That was really intense.  I haven’t felt that since…” I searched for the last time.  “Since TN.”

It was a strange sensation to have that intense of an orgasm with a dildo and not a man and though I did love the dildo very, very much, the truth is it was Ben.  His voice, his energy.

“You did that to me,” I explained in case he was thinking I had just given myself the greatest orgasm ever and he had nothing to do with it.

Spent, I asked him what I could do so he could cum finally.  It had been nearly 2 hours since I’d stripped down and we’d begun our camming fun.  “I don’t think I can cum,” he said, disappointment in his voice.

“Well, try, please.  For me.”

Roughly 25 seconds later he was showing me the globs of white he’d shot onto his belly.  “Oh shit!  It’s in my hair!” he laughed.  “And on my chin!  Oh my god!”  We laughed at how wrong he’d been.

We said our sweet goodbyes and hung up.  I washed the dildo and wrapped it in a cloth and put it back in my super fancy cardboard sex-box, put the lube away.  I felt raw and sad, distantly happy.  I had a moment of panic that what if he’d recorded it?  What if he’d try to sell it?  Or hurt me with it?  But quickly realized it was my old pain rearing its ugly head.  Ben would never do that.  I trusted him.

I found the panties I’d discarded over the side of the bed as if I’d had an in-person encounter and crawled under the covers.  I fell asleep dreaming of a sweet British man and hoping I was starting a new trend: to trust again.

 

*I say “men,” but I can expand this to all lovers I’ve ever had, male or female, and I certainly can attest to feeling similarly about all the lovers I’ve ever had.  I think they’re all stunning in their unique ways. 

Friday, June 3rd, is Boobday!

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This week I’ve been quiet.  I’m dealing with some funky health things and to be quite honest I still miss London.  I miss everyone I met while at Eroticon and I’m still transitioning back to my life after Ben.  That week abroad recalibrated me and I’m struggling to figure out what that means moving forward.

So, I apologize for my silence (and my late Boobday posting) yet again, but I’m still here, not exactly “stewing,” but more or less digesting everything.  It boggles my mind that barely over a week ago I was immersed in a completely different world than the one I continually find my self waking up to here.

Anyway, lots of ladies have sent in their pics to me this week.  Some new, some old.  As always, thank you so much for your continued support and love.

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate: 1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR 2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.  And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts!  This is all about spreading the love!

My tits:

My "Smile often and always" shirt.
My “Smile often and always” shirt.

NOT my tits:

Kate (pictured here) and Kim (next image) have almost identical photos this week and I kinda love it.
Kate’s pic makes me want to cuddle.
You can always tell when my boobday pic is taken last minute as it will usually be in bed. It’s almost midnight here. :)
Very tired boobs tonight. Sun shining brightly over here today. I should have remembered earlier and taken a boobday photo in the sun!
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I love the peak of the South African sunrise over Kim’s shoulder.

Good Morning Boobie World xxx

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It’s my boob-twin, Anonymous Aussie! xx

I finally got my act together for Boobday this week.
As I was leaving the bathroom, bathed in the light from my hallway, I’d noticed how long my hair had grown & the soft glow of the light on my skin. I just had to capture it.

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Welcome, Miss Green, to Boobday! Thank you for sharing with us and showing that beauty is everywhere.

I chose this picture because it reminded me of two water melons in a string bag (you know the 1970’s red string shopping bags lol) all juicy and ripe. I like the way they look in the picture less saggy more luscious lol.

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This is also Lola’s first time here at Boobday. I love the corner of blank space and how her dark hair leads us to her nipple. Check her out at her blog.

Teaching myself to love my bold, bulbous nipples.

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Sandy has been remiss with her sunscreen.

Tan lines (ok ok…sunburn lines)

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Check out the links below to see who else is participating!

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.

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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.