Don’t wake me up.

In the bright light of morning, our debauched fun last night is irrefutable. I was boss for most of the night, then it was his turn. I am the upperclassman by default and it comes surprisingly easily.

Don’t get me started on the open bottle of lube, the tired-looking Hitachi, the dirty dishes, and empty popcorn bowls scattered about the apartment. It’s goddamned beautiful.

Whimsical glass butt plugs, garters and stockings, wrists and ankles bound, candle light, exclamations of beauty and lust, an obedient man/a domineering woman//an obedient woman/a domineering man, kisses and whispers and fucking and sucking, slurping and swallowing, eating and drinking, cuddling and touching, talking and laughing.  On and on and on it went.

And when I thought I could handle no more he begs me for one last thing.  “Can we please watch Bubba Ho-Tep now??”  He’d been so good, I couldn’t refuse him.  Curled into his lap, his soft belly my pillow, I dozed and started from time to time.

“Wait,” he said as the end credits rolled, “I want one more thing.  A goodbye fuck.  Come on.”  And he grabbed my hand and dragged me into my room which, bathed in warm candlelight was the crime scene of passion: silk scarves pooled like blood, pillows lay about the floor like broken bodies, and the ties on the bed a hint of how it’d all come to pass.

Then he fucked me one last time, took my breath away, and kissed me all over as I lay in the wet spot he’d made me create 2 hours earlier while wrapped up in restraints.

Finally, it was late.  “We have a race to think about,” I said.  “I’m fucking exhausted.”

He kissed me again and I wrapped myself in a white robe, gingerly stepping over the toys and pillows and scarves and walked him to the front door where I kissed him again.

“I’ll text you early tomorrow,” he said.

“Ok,” I waved at him and yawned.  “See you tomorrow. By the way, that was goddamned fantastic.”

“Yes.  Yes it was,” he agreed and he finally left.

I’m immersed in a libertine’s wet dream.

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There was a man here first, then a woman. She had never been in a 4-point restraint before.

Being friends with benefits.

A friend is someone with whom you share common interests and feel safe, someone whom makes you feel right and better; a good person with a good soul with whom you’ve chosen to spend your time.  There is trust, love, camaraderie.

And, simply put, a benefit is a perk.  In this case, a sexy perk.

So, a friend with benefits is an amazing person you feel connected with that comes with a tasty topping.  It’s specialIt’s also a colossal pain in the motherfucking ass.

I make friends easily.  I’m jovial, warm, open, and forgiving. I don’t make everyone my friend, but I have a knack for finding something in someone else that I can plug into and I can make it work.  Once a friend, always “just a friend.”  And my lovers, well, they either stay “just my lover” or become a boyfriend.  Until The Neighbor.  He blurred the lines of both like he was a giant eraser and my rules faded pencil.

He waltzed into my life under drunken starlight, fucked my lying, irresponsible girlfriend in my bed within two hours of my invitation into my life and was in my bed with only me — and firmly out of her life for good — within 7 days of our paths crossing.

Cigarette in hand and laughter on my lips I’d looked out over my balcony that November night and saw a pale, dark-haired man leaning over his banister.  “Hi!” I’d called to him.  “Your name is TN, right??  We met briefly a few months ago.”

“Yeah.  And you’re Hy, right??”

“Yep!  Wanna come over and hang out?”

And the rest is, as they say, history.

I resisted sex with him for several days repeating, “I don’t shit where I eat, I don’t shit where I eat,” but obviously to no avail.  He was sweet and charming, utterly disarming.  I found him to be wickedly funny and loved his dry Mid-Western sense of humor.  And he was fun to play with.

Those first few nights together are a blur of red wine and Scrabble tiles, blind excursions down jeans and hands up shirts.  He brought me DuraFlame logs like it was his job and took out my trash with a sweet sense of duty.

He blew my mind in bed, his giant cock stroked me from the inside out like he was made for me.  I drenched everything we laid on and we reveled in our compatibility.  My expert mouth drew from him his sweet seed for the first time in his life, his expert hands and hips drew from me mountain-like climaxes and gut-wrenching sobs.

I kept Peyton far away from the both of us as a couple, but couldn’t help but introduce him as our neighbor; soon I was introducing him to my friends, too.

We gingerly discussed boundaries and expectations.  I insisted I could handle it, he reiterated it would all end when he looked for “the one.”

Jason and Phillip were decent distractions, but neither of them could stand up to the searing spotlight of TN.  They soon faded into the shadows and I was left with only one man on my center stage.  And then I was fucked.

It was at that moment that I realized I was in love with my young “friend with benefits”.

The friendship, so tender, natural and easy coupled with the electric, intensely satisfying sex overrode every good intention I’d had for us.  I simply didn’t care what I’d promised to him.  I was in love.

Book and movie endings filed through my brain on a reel, friends came forward with real life anecdotes about friends with benefits having happy endings, and my heart pattered with hope and frivolity all the while my relationship with him unraveled in a glory of fire and lights.  He ripped out my heart, stomped on it repeatedly, yet came back again and again with tender, healing touches.   I stumbled and gasped.

I felt like an animal in a trap: in pain, confused.  I didn’t know what was happening to me or where the pain was coming from.  It took me weeks to realize it was wrapped up in the silken plundering of my cunt and convivial chats we continued to share.  My bad boundaries and pulverized heart didn’t know any other way of coping with the pain he’d left me in.  I needed him to get over him.

And  I am now a thousand miles away living next door.  To the outside eye, you’d never guess the distance between us.

We are once again back to his firewood delivery and trash removal days.  He curls around me during movies and rests his head on my hip, he vacuums for me in pale peach lace panties and reaches around my breasts to stroke the cleft between my legs.  He shoves his giant erection down my throat and films me as I cum and squirm and whimper.  We nap together.  I make him dinner.  He is my chauffeur.  I am his stylist, his confidante, his buddy, his release.  He sucks on my nipples and insists I take pictures.  He texts me just to say Hi and immediately answers mine.

Vacuum breaks include sucking on my nipples through my shirt.

I am his girlfriend.  I am his non-girlfriend.  And I realize this cannot go on forever.  It is a clusterfuck, but I see the path out.  It seems strangely clear to me.

Saturday morning after breakfast with my friend and a long night of togetherness, TN and I spent the day together.  At breakfast he’d sat next to me and whispered something in my ear.  I’d laughed and winked at my friend.  “You guys are such a great couple,” she said suddenly serious.  I froze and looked at her questioningly and a little uncomfortably.  “No, really.  Y’all are great together.  It makes me sick.”  And with that she continued looking at the menu and we all went on about our morning.

Back at his place I napped in my panties under the clouds of his comforter and he periodically came in to check on me.  Finally he crawled into bed with me and I lay with my hand on his erection and drifted off to sleep.  I awoke on my back, my breasts exposed, and his mouth hotly pulling on my nipple.  I gasped and arched and pulled him closer.

Our warmth puffed out from under the covers as I sat up and crawled between his legs and lavished my love on his rigid pole.  I struggled out of my panties and climbed up on top of him and slid down, the curve of his cock hitting my g-spot as I rocked back on his hips.  His headboard obnoxiously thumped our rhythm to the surrounding neighbors.

I climaxed quickly and shook my hands.  We laughed at my silly, unavoidable quirk.  With embarrassment, I noticed watery blood splatters on him and his sheets.  I insisted that I wash all his bedding for him — his pale blue sheets no match for the body of a woman — and gathered them up and went home.

That night I neatly folded his linens with the care my grandmother taught me.  I wondered what it’d be like to be able to always fold his linens for him, a small effort in love, then quickly pushed it out of my mind’s eye like pants that no longer fit. That was an old habit, thinking like that.  Only an old habit, not a new hope.

Later, he helped me make my bed with my own clean sheets after he surprised me with my first DuraFlame of the season.  “Close your eyes and put out your hands!” he’d said excitedly.  Then he asked to grab my breasts as payment for the bed-making and I let him as I walked him to the door.

Sunday I burned the log as he vacuumed with his resplendent erection straining against the delicate threads of my panties.  I wasted the rest of the log as we lay rooms away twisted in my bedroom naked and aroused.  “We should have done all that in front of the fire,” I said as I walked him back to the front door.

This would look better in firelight.

I went to sleep, sated and light, and awoke later to a text from him.  “There’s a present on your doorstep.”

I opened the door to a cold blast of air and looked down.  It was another fucking log.

I shook my head and picked it up, tossed it on the grate and went back to bed.  He is completely in love with me, was all I could think.

To the world, it’s just a stupid wood-shaving-pressed log saturated in chemicals, but to me — to us — it is love. It’s his heart in a crinkly, red wrapper.  I want to pick it up and hold it to me, but I can’t anymore.  Suddenly I realized my heart isn’t in this anymore.    I’m tired of it, of his limitations.  It’s not that he won’t go farther with me.  I’m beginning to think he can’t.

He is my best friend.  He is my lover.  He is my nemesis, my source of pain.  He is my lesson.  I either accept rejection as part of my journey or I strive to rewire how I view love and find someone who will turn to me with open arms.  It’s that simple.  Do or do not.  There is no try (Jesus Christ, I love Yoda).

I don’t know that I’m going to do much to change the way things are right now.  Our friendship has become more fortified than ever over the past several months.  The pain and heartache somehow forging a strange bond between us, a bearded-lady and her frog-faced lover under the big top.  For better or worse we share something extremely special.

How I simultaneously feel close to and far from him is as mysterious as birds flying south for the winter; I am simply following some invisible compass.

A friend with benefits, indeed.  I think we’ve proven it is possible, just possible and messy.

He leaves for a trip home this Thursday and the morning after he gets back he’s agreed to take me to the airport.  I’ll be in San Francisco for a week.   I texted him that I want to fuck his brains out before our trips, then sent him pictures I took recently of me on my back, shirt pulled up exposing my pink lace bra; one of me masturbating with the Hitachi, my skirt hiked up; and finally, one of my pink pussy, labia peaking out like a little ruffle.  “It looks pretty :)” he’d texted back. “Makes me want to stick something in it…”

Indeed.  I want him to.

I’ve come through this somehow.  With both a friend and a benefit.

I suck big, black cock in my car.

“Oh, yeah, Hy. Suck that big, black cock dry. Suck all the cum out of it!”

Both my hands wrapped around his shaft, my lips wrapped around my teeth to cloak the scrapes. My tongue slipped up and over the head of his cock with each motion and my hands squeezed tightly. My belly rested on my console and his long, dark fingers delved into my slot, my thighs softly wet with my own juices.

I gave it my best shot, but I couldn’t make him cum; the well-endowed man’s curse: teeth and exhaustion. He came close a number of times, but my angle was wrong.

“Come to me after dinner, Hy. Finish me off.”

“I can’t. I’ll be finishing off my dinner date.”

“No. Come to me.”

“It’s not happening.”

And then his plump lips were on mine, his big hand on my breast squeezing gently.

“No, really. You won’t see me tonight.”

And then he climbed out and we parted ways.

Nice to meet you, Nixon. Thanks for the margaritas.

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.”

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

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.