My heart turns blacker: The new rules

I am at that place again.

That place of keening frustration and battered ego, hopelessness.

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

“You’re not half bad yourself.”

“Wanna get outta here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But oral sex is ok?” he countered.

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

“Ok,” I relented.  “Do it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmm,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

::

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

I never heard from him again.

::

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lol [crying upset emoji]

[cry-laughing emoji][devil mask]

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

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

::

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

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

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

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

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

 

Hy & The Welder chat 1

Hy & The Welder chat 2

Hy & The Welder chat 3::

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

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

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

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

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

These are the new rules.

 

I’m done being the Cool Girl.

Last night Bones got lost in a book and forgot about me.

An hour plus after he was supposed to arrive he finally pulled his nose out of his pages and texted me back, “lol I’ve been studying.  Sorry.”

This was after he’d said he’d “try” to make 8:30, but had some reading to do for a job he was gunning for.  I’d said ok.  At 9:30 I hadn’t heard a peep from him and texted him.  I texted again at 9:45, “WTF??”

“Kind of caught up in this book,” was his reply after his little lol text.

“So you just wasted my time, basically” I replied.

And then, “I’ve been waiting around for over an hour and not a peep from you!  Not like you and totally not cool  Book or no book.”

He apologized, said it was a dick move, etc.  We went back and forth, me asserting myself and my anger.  “Tonight sucked,” I wrote.

“I was distracted and lost track of time…”

And then he said, “You’re absolutely right.  This new job is super important to me and my career.  I was heavily focused because of that.”

I told him again it was a dick move and then scoffed.  “Hey, don’t do that to me.  I had no way of knowing how important studying was to your career – but I’d have been more than understanding if you’d just rescheduled because you needed to focus.”

He admitted that was true.  He asked me how he could have made it better when I told him I was going to bed because it was obvious he wasn’t going to try.  “Well, the second you realized what you’d done you could have apologized and said you’d be right over with a bottle of wine.”  He agreed with that, too.  But nothing happened.  I’d wasted an entire kid-free night.

I’d spent my precious time on a man whose value of me (and my time) were nil.

Yes, he apologized, yes he admitted it was shitty, but I can’t get that time back.  Nor did he offer to reschedule or make it up to me in anyway.  An entire evening was lost.

I’ve been impotently raging against this devaluation for years by means of not being disrespectful.  I am always available when I say I am, I never forget a commitment, I’m not late or get lost in a project and lose track of time.  That has never happened to me in my entire fucking life and therefore I can’t extend any kind of understanding to others.  It’s simply unacceptable.

I set alarms on my phone if I’m worried I’ll lose myself in something because I value people’s time.  In fact, I don’t do things I’d rather be doing (such as writing) because I’ve made a commitment to someone, someone who hasn’t actually earned a goddamned thing from me — and that’s on me.  If there was ever anyone who gave the milk away for free… well, it’d have to be me.

I’m not bashing Bones — he fucked up, big deal, moving on — what this has demonstrated to me are two things: 1) I devalue my own time, and 2) being the “cool girl” only hurts me.  Gone Girl, anyone?

I am a single mother; I take Peyton any time my ex travels for work or leisure and I pick my baby up from school every day of the week even on my ex’s custody weeks and stay busy until he’s done with work around 6.  The divorce decree says we have 50/50 custody, but we don’t — it’s more 75/25 — therefore my free time is extremely rare and highly valuable and yet I treat it like I have a ton to give.

I have to stop saying yes to every heavy breather with a hardon who asks me out after 5 lines of text; they haven’t earned it.

The last time I was child-free I had 6 dates in 7 days and the accumulation of my efforts was one above-average date where I came under his slamming hand, a dud, road head and an awkward fingerbang, a mis-fire, a drunken chat, and date number two with Mr. Magic Hands.  In other words: nothingI could have been writing, is all I hear when I look back on it.

If I don’t value my time, then why will anyone else?  This is somehow connected to my eternal hope for a connection, to never say No because maybe the next guy will be a great connection, a great love.  But it’s gone sideways.

I find myself saying yes to complete strangers, men who’ve only met the standard of catching my eye and not offending me.  The bar can’t get much lower at this point.

Which brings me to my second realization: Being the Cool Girl doesn’t affect the outcome.

Have you ever tried to fill a bucket with holes with water??  Yeah, that’s the Cool Girl effect: useless.

It’s also the same effect as trying to make someone else happy or to control a situation.  The outcome will almost always be that the one who’s trying to make the things better will end up exhausted with no better outcome than had they done nothing.  The bucket will remain empty and leaking.

As Gillian Flynn writes, “Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.”  I’ve always been afraid to be honest about a man’s bad behavior.  Telling Bones he was a shit was monumental.  I’m not the Cool Girl anymore; it only exhausts me.  I’m leaving the bucket dry.

I can’t make someone respect me or my time, I can only act in a reasonable fashion (don’t misinterpret this as “in a cool way”) to their treatment of me.  That doesn’t mean pretending I’m not pissed or disappointed.  That takes 10 times as much effort on my part as it does to behave authentically and say, “Hey, man. That was shitty.  Fuck that.”

The difficulty for me arises in the foreignness of this behavior.  I have never been able to be truthful about my upset with anyone, almost ever.  Not my family, not my friends, not my exhusband.  Certainly not my boyfriends and definitely not my lovers.

Being that honest and vulnerable equates to emotional death to me: I am wrong, I am unworthy, I am not good because the person I’m sharing this with will say it’s so.  I truly am an easy going person — I rarely take things personally —  but I’ve taken it too far.  I’ve set it up where no one has to work to earn my time and when they disrespect me I act as if I’m unbothered, neither of which are even remotely true.   My time is valuable and I am bothered.

So when I told Bones that my night sucked it wasn’t just me pointing out the obvious (that he was a dipshit) it was me saying I’m not going to work so hard to make bad behavior ok anymore; I demand and expect more.

I don’t expect to ever see him again, quite frankly — or 4 of the 5 men from the other week – and even though it bums me out, I can’t honestly feel real loss about it.  How can I??  He’s given me no reason to care other than feeling self-conscious about my battered ego.

I have told a couple of other men in my orbit that my time is valuable and I’m not interested in chasing them down and that’s a new approach.  Some have ignored my message and others have promised they understand.  I’m not holding my breath about any of it; their behavior is irrelevant.  It’s about what I do.

Truthfully, I don’t give a fuck anymore.  It feels as though the cross-ties have been unhooked and I may walk freely now, do as I please.  I am no longer interested in pretending and no dogs are in the fight.  Call me, don’t call me, but I’ll figure out some personal line in the sand and when we cross it I’ll do the next thing I need to do.

Haven’t heard from you about our date tonight despite texting to confirm a few hours in advance?  Well, I’m just going to find something else to do.  You don’t show up when you say you will?  I’m leaving.  You take 3 days to respond to a question?  I’m going to delete our thread and forget about you because that’s how you deal with bad behavior.

I would never put up with a friend doing to me what Bones did last night or what any 100 other men have done to me over the years.  No question, absolutely not.

There’s got to be some effort, some benefit to me sharing myself with them beyond just some raw hope that they’ll come around to my side and treat me like I’m valuable.  Like, real effort.

I’d like to meet someone who’s put some sweat into getting me there and keeping me there.  I don’t even want a fucking relationship, just someone who’s respectful.  I had no idea that was nearly as impossible as finding love.

I can’t quite reconcile the amount of positive attention and heartfelt letters I receive almost daily online from Internet men claiming they’d worship me if they only had the chance with the amount of real life men who ignore me in equal measure.  The dual reality is almost too much to bear.  Which am I?  Special or not special??

My only conclusion is that people everywhere – men and women alike – are being overlooked by those nearest them due to some strange proximity phenomenon: we never seem to want what we can have and can’t see what’s right under our noses.

Regardless, I am no longer interested in low standards or seeming cool. The bar is going to be raised up and I’m going to be as uncool as the situation warrants.  I expect this to feel at once terrifying and liberating.  At the age of 40 you’d think I’d be past this point of resistance, but you’d be wrong.  I’m just now breaking it down.

 

 

 

 

It’s the little things.

I pulled out of my parking spot and headed down the long row.  A movement caught my eye to the right.  A young woman and man rushed into each other’s arms.  Their open car doors gaped as they pressed their bodies together.

She was slender, cooler than shit with rocker layers and bleached hair.  He towered over her in faded black jeans and Vans.  They hardly moved even as they clutched at one another.

I craned my neck to watch as I crawled by.  I imagined the breath they were breathing, not their own, but of the other’s.  They held still, locked in this fervent embrace, their lips pressed in long release, not passionate consumption.

Were there tears?  Surely their hearts sought to break away and leap into the other’s chest.  I watched them grow small in my rear view mirror and felt a pang.

I have never had that, that emotional race into another’s arms whose own heart beat as clamourously as mine.  So open, so free.

I don’t believe any of the men in my life currently have the potential to evoke this kind of situation.  I tend to attract men as cagey as me, as wary and broken.  We are drawn to those similar to us, after all.

On a date with a man in a poly relationship last week he commented on my distance.  “Hy, you are very guarded.”  I at least know my limits with that situation — I could never be beta — but his relationship forces much openness and emotional intimacy.  I have proven extremely difficult for him to get close to over the last year and in contrast to what he has with his girlfriend I must have felt like a brick wall.

His remark struck me as we drank Prosecco in a darkened bar.  It’s true.  I am guarded.  So very, very guarded.  I prefer the dark.

I met up with Bones for a daylight excursion this weekend and I felt exposed to the light.  Our tenuous connection couldn’t withstand the glare and I left our so-called date late at night upset and alone.  We have not been able to repair the damage; I am not sure I want to or can.  I need a man who’s better than me, not as broken as me.

I know that what I witnessed earlier was a moment in two lives possibly never to be duplicated, but it reminded me of the basest need I have: to be desired in such a way that all else melts away except for the two of us.  In a monumental moment in a random strip mall parking lot like I saw today or in a mundane one such as pulling me in for a side hug as we walk a few strides together down a crowded sidewalk or in a sexy one which included a casual nip of my ear at dinner, a hand on my bare thigh.

I want our feelings to drown out our self-consciousness; I don’t want anyone to be more important than me, him, and us.  I realize that in craving this openness I am desiring that one thing I struggle to achieve with people: an admission of my feelings, a freedom to feel.  Oh, the irony.

I want a man to be unafraid to love me fully, yet I can barely share even the smallest sliver of my own heart.

I have a lot of work to do before I find myself to be half of a couple consumed with one other.  A lot of work before I feel safe enough with someone to share more than just the smallest amount bearable, but at least I know now what not to do and one of those things is to settle.

Because the little things lead to the big things and the big things lead to beauty and meaning and joy — big love, big life, big everything.  It’s all connected from the start to the finish.  If I don’t insist on the little things, then how on earth can I expect the big things?

And I want the little things.  Very badly.  Now I just have to be brave enough to insist upon them.

 

 

 

 

When it’s easy, it’s easy.

It’s cold in my living room.  The dog is passed out on his end of the couch.  The rain is tapping and steady.  Two mugs of cold coffee sit near my slippered feet.  Bones left about 30 minutes ago, his gym bag over his shoulder, a little smirk under his beard.

We kissed chastely (morning breath avoidance) and I smacked his ass as he walked out the door.  “Have a good day,” I said.

“You, too.”

I shut the door and smiled, felt normal for a change.  This is so fucking easy I feel like it’s a trick.

Men don’t languish on my couch and tell me hilarious stories on cool, grey mornings.  I don’t sit with my legs on their laps or tell them childhood stories of triumph and trauma.  What I do is fuck then leave — run, really – as far away as I can get.  But I feel rooted to the spot with this man, like I’m watching a trail of ants traverse an obstacle in slow, but steady motion.

A week and a half ago he fucked the ever loving shit out of me and tore me apart.  I knew it was happening, grit my teeth against the pain, and let him fuck me to completion not caring at all at what was happening to me.  And I regret the decision with all my being since.

I’ve winced as I walked and sat down, have basically lived in hot baths with Epsom salts  and yesterday I spent the afternoon sitting on ice packs.  I’m getting better, but all that to say: I haven’t been able to fuck since.

The first day he came over after my injury I warned him of my situation.  He didn’t care.  We watched Netflix, our thighs touched, and I swat his straying hand away from my nipples from time to time.

“Do you need some attention?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

In my bed, in the candlelight, I gave him some.  I sucked and tugged on him until the back of my throat filled with his cum.  I lamented the fact that I couldn’t ride his pretty cock and he chuckled and stroked my temple.   I plugged in the Hitachi and draped the cold cord across his thighs and came when his mouth latched onto my nipple.

Friday night, we played Uno with his friends and he drove us home in my car.  In the soft morning light, I sucked and tugged on him again until he cried out and I guzzled him down.  I  came with the Hitachi, his meaty hands pinched my nipples in rhythm to my cries.

Last night he came for dinner and I learned I’m not the only one for whom this is all new.  He sat on the couch as I worked in the kitchen and I saw a small paperback clutched in his hand.

“No way!” I said incredulously.  “You are not going to read while I cook!  Get in here and talk to me!”

Sheepishly he put the book down.  “But you said you didn’t need any help!”

“I don’t, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to sit here and talk to me!”  I laughed at the ridiculousness of it.  “I have never in my life invited someone over for dinner and they not talk to me while I cook us dinner.”

Apparently, the womenfolk in his world — such as his mother — kick all the men out of the kitchen.

Conversation with him doesn’t flow, except when it does.  He’s guarded, yet open, funny, but quietly so.  We talked about our days and I avoided grilling him with all the questions I have and instead choose the comfortable, yet long pauses that tend to fill the gaps between topics.

When dinner was ready he sat down and I gathered up bowls of shiny steamed mussels and scallops in white wine and butter broth.  I set them down in front of him and grabbed the baguette from the oven.

“I’m sorry if I offended you earlier,” he said.  “I don’t know how to be sometimes.  First dates, fine, second dates, ok, but third and more?  I don’t remember what to do.”

I sat down and wrestled with the piping hot bread, handed him some and laughed.  “So you’re saying you don’t remember your indoor manners?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

That admission seemed to unlock something and we giggled and joked and shared terrible stories about the terrible things we’d done in our past.  It seems I was not the most dissolute one at our table.

After dinner I quickly cleaned up and we sat touching on the couch.  I learned that he rarely, if ever, has interest in anyone after the second date.  I thought, I feel ya, dude, but said nothing.  I think last night was the dozenth time we’ve spent together.

Back in my room he stripped and lay looking at me, his head propped in his hand.  It reminded me of that Burt Reynolds nude and I laughed as I peeled of my clothes, all save for my panties.  I was still out of commission.  He said he figured as much.

I climbed up on his warm torso and dipped my mouth to his.  His lips nibbled and slid across mine, our tongues touched and flicked and his hands kneaded my breasts.  I raised up and filled his mouth with one and cupped his face to hold him there.

“Bite me,” I said.

I moaned as the pain hit me, offered him the other breast.  Rinse, repeat.

I slid down him, his cock hard and bobbing, and sucked and tugged again.  My finger pressed against the starfish of his ass, just a little pressure and he tensed and moaned.  I sucked and stroked and intermittently pressed his button until he shot his load down my throat.  I flopped down beside him and opened my eyes.  His outstretched hand held my Hitachi.

I came and fell asleep spooning his back upon his request.

A crack of thunder woke us both a short while later, I shook a little from fright.  The heavens opened up and the gods fought with mightly clashes.  I wished more than anything our bodies could be doing the same.

Instead we cuddled and moved about, the dog pinned me against Bones’ warm, furry legs.  We took turns draping an arm on each other until the storm stopped roaring in the sky and turned to a distant purr.  

My eyes closed and I dreamed about The Neighbor.  He told me he loved me and regretted everything he’d done to hurt me.  I was ambivalent, yet pleased about the revelation.  When I awoke, it wasn’t TN quietly sleeping next to me and I felt relief.  I knew he wasn’t going to get up and run out at first light.

Dawn rose grey and dreary and my room was still when he rolled onto his side and I felt his hardon on my hip.  We laughed that it had somehow magically found its way out of this boxers.  He moved to his back and began to stroke it, its thick crookedness silhouetted by the grey square of my window.  I watched, mesmerized.

“You can cum on my tits,” I said and smiled.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He straddled my chest and slid between my breasts as I pushed them together.  I opened my mouth and hit the head of his cock as he thrust.  He rose up and rubbed my nipple with his shaft and it spurted on my jaw and neck.

“You came?” I asked looking up at him.

“No!  I think that was precum!”  Neither of us had ever experienced that before.

My breasts glistened and jiggled and I pushed him off of me and climbed between his thighs.  I sucked and tugged and pressed again until he came.  He handed me my wand as I flopped beside him and helped me cum, too.  A familiar routine.

I lay on my back in my black panties and watched the ceiling fan in its circular blur.  He went to the bathroom to clean up and laid back beside me.  Our legs touched from ankle to hip, my hand rested on his muscular thigh, his on my temple.

“Want some coffee?” I got up and wrapped myself in my short white robe.

“Sure,” he replied.

I measured the coffee, threw in a cinnamon stick, and thought how strange this felt while simultaneously very normal.  He’d mentioned last night that sleeping over and hanging out was what you did when you slept with a girl if you liked her.  I’m only just now remembering he said that.  I guess he likes me??

We drank 2 and a half cups of coffee and I didn’t really want him to go, but, you know: jobs and such.  We made plans to see each other Saturday night.  Hopefully by then a blowjob will only be a side dish and not the main event.

Here’s to being normal again.

 

 

 

I’m reminded of him.

I should have been writing, but took pics instead.
The morning after.

As my heart and I move further away from The Neighbor I feel the loss of the most special thing we shared: our chemistry. 

Together, in the middle of a dark and swirling relationship the two of us shone bright.  We fucking sparkled like goddamned diamonds.  Noodle saw it first hand, as did all my real life friends even if not that up close and personal.

I re-read old posts of our times together and I think, That was me?  That was us?  We did that??  It almost doesn’t seem real.

I was so madly in love with the feelings I had when I was with him it’s hard to sort out if it was the man I loved or how he made me feel.  It’s irrelevant now, seeing as how we’ve been over for more than a year, but despite the countless hot as fuck encounters I’ve had since our breakup, none have connected to me on the cellular level like his energy did with me.  And I miss it like a motherfucking limb.

Missing it means I’m reminded of him when I come close to it.  Missing it means I’m reminded of him when it’s a far cry from what I remember.  The feelings I had with him are an ever-present spectre in my life and I am confused and sad.  It’s so hard to detangle the feelings from the man, from our stupid, sad “relationship” I constructed out of nothing but tenuous hope and sheer will power.

Bones came over for dinner last night.  I made us lobster risotto with a homemade lobster stock and an arugula salad tossed with olive oil, salt and toasted almond slivers.  We flirted in the kitchen and he was more open.  He grows funnier each time we see each other.  It was easy and sexy and he joked about the workout he’d give me later since I’d missed my morning class.

His willingness to come over and spend time with me is so different from most men, certainly from TN, that it pulls up the hurt I felt for years to spend time with the man I loved.  If that isn’t irony, I don’t know what is.  TN is long gone from my life and a happy, pleasant, eager man is right in front of me and who can I not help but think of??  It’s embarrassing, frankly.

On my couch, brownies eaten with guilty smiles, I leaned in for a kiss.  He is by far one of the best kissers I’ve ever encountered in my life and I’ve never looked forward to a makeout session with anyone like I do with this short, muscled man with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Before long I was on his lap naked, save but for my black lace panties, and breasts shoved into his smiling face.  I unbuckled his pants and pulled his big cock out and pulled the crotch of my panties to the side and pushed him in and rode him like a mustang and goddamn it if the fucking couch didn’t make as much obnoxious noise as my bed.

We laughed and I panted and squirmed around the shaft in my middle.  He hit my thighs gingerly and I told him to hit me harder.  He did and I smiled, but it wasn’t hard enough, not like what he used to do.

I raised up off of him and his wet cock flopped on his belly.  “C’mon,” I said and pulled him up behind me and led him to my room and bent over the bed, feet wide.

He buried himself in me from behind as I gripped the bedding for purchase and locked my knees against the bed frame.  Stars burst up through my limbs and rolled over my shoulders and through my skull.  I lifted my feet off the ground and suspended myself on the edge of the frame, the perfect height to his as he slammed into me.  He wedged his thumb into my asshole, his moans of pleasure mixed with the squeaks of the bed and my cries.

I came again and little sobs tried to escape.  I held them back, the similarity to what I felt with him too much to bear in the moment.

I begged him to cum but he pummeled me instead.  I climbed up on the bed and he followed me.  Two bumping, humping pale figures serenaded by a rudely moaning bed.

I called him baby, moaned about his big cock, my orgasms, general nonsense.  My words incoherent at best, muffled groans at worst.  He pulled out and tipped me over and lay beside me.  I panted and closed my eyes.  My hands tingled like the were pressed on the tips of needles.

I pulled my Hitachi out from under my pillow and swung my legs over his.  “Come here,” I instructed and pulled him towards me, his cock bobbed in agreement.  His motions were confused.  He didn’t know what I wanted.  This was a favorite thing for me to do with TN and I hadn’t done it with anyone since him.

We reconnected and he pushed in deeply, thrust a few times for good measure.  I clicked the wand on and pressed it bare against my skin. He began to move and he lit me up from within as the wand drilled down from without.  I climbed and burst into flames in under a minute and his hips ground into me, so different from him whom I made hold still.

Sobs bubbled up and two tears, one from each eye, squeezed out and pooled in the shells of my ears.  I came dangerously close to the feelings I had come to seek with him every time we were together.

I threw the toy away and he swung my leg around him to nestle between my thighs.  His face was alight with a smile and I closed my eyes so as not to connect.  I never look into a lover’s eyes.  Just, never.  Even with him, I’d flutter my lashes and only peek at his intense, icy gaze.  It was no different with Bones’ dark blue stare, it was like peeking at the sun; I simply can’t bare it.

Still not writing.
Should have been writing about all of this.

His smile was the same, though.  That grin of total power when I began to toss my head from side to side as his gigantic cock filled me up and choked me from the inside of my belly.  He slowed his tempo when I begged him to speed up, just like TN would, and he watched with pleasure as I began to twitch and choke on sobs that refused to be kept at bay.

Legs over his shoulders, folded up under him, wrapped around him.  He murdered my pussy until I was a rag doll and tapped his shoulder for respite.  He stopped and rolled off.

“Are you going to cum?” I panted.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Will you jerk off on me?”

“I will certainly try.”

Again, so much like him.

He got up and found some lube and stood over me beside the bed.  I put the toy on me again and came quickly watching his hand make a dark blur of his groin.  Instead of finishing on me he climbed back on top of me and fucked me until we were exhausted.  Still no orgasm for him.

Unfazed — or deterred — I crawled between his legs and sucked and slobbered on him until I heard his voice tremble and his breathing jerk, his thighs tense.  He cried out as I gobbled down his cum and wiped my lips on my arm.  TN couldn’t do this for me for an entire year.

I climbed up and lowered down into his arms.  We kissed and smiled and fell asleep shortly after, comfortable in each other’s presence.  I didn’t have to say goodbye wrapped in a robe or see him slip out into the balmy night.  I got to fall asleep to the sounds of his breathing and feel his occasional twitch into slumber.

When the storm the weather men had predicted hit 3 hours later we awoke and moved closer to one another then fell back asleep.  When the dog cried to be let back in he got up and opened the door for him.  When we overslept we laughed and put pillows over our heads and slept for yet another hour together.

When the growling in my stomach forced me from bed I finally put on my robe and got up to make myself some coffee.  “Would you like some?” I asked not at all expecting him to say yes; he never did.

“Sure.  I’d love some.”

Then later, an almost sheepish request for me to make him an egg sandwich before he left for work.

We sat at my kitchen island drinking black coffee and sharing old pictures of ourselves from high school.  I didn’t particularly like that he was scrolling through his phone instead of talking to me, but I suppose it’s just more information to have about him.  He likes to check The Chive while he eats breakfast, apparently.  Maybe all men do this?  I have no frame of reference.

It was a little past 9 when he gathered up his things and kissed me goodbye.  My heart felt still, neutral.  Neither full, nor empty, just waiting.  As he passed around the corner into the morning light I thought about the clench in my chest every time The Neighbor would leave, the pull to wish him back into my arms for yet another minute, another hour, another night.  I don’t know if I’ll ever feel that way about another man again.  I don’t know if I’m capable anymore, frankly.  Or maybe I’ll just never meet another man whose chemistry is such a match to mine.

Either way, the stillness makes me believe I am either healed or broken, both of which I’m ok with.  What continues to be a struggle is that feeling of loss, either of what we had or what I wanted to have.  It’s like the fading of a scar: eventually, I’ll have to squint to see it, but for now, it’s still visible — he’s still on my mind — and I don’t know how to make that stop except to keep moving forward without him.  Just keep on moving.  Without him.

 

Definitely not writing.  It's been harder for me lately for some reason.

A ghost sneaked into my bed.

It’s been a little over one year to the day from when The Neighbor said he “didn’t want to do it anymore.  Meaning: date me.  I have never gone through such a brutal break up in my life; my divorce wasn’t this painful and I can’t quite figure out why.

Maybe it’s because I decided to trust an untrustworthy man.  Maybe it’s because I was truly me with him.  Maybe it’s because I loved him more.  I don’t know the answers.

The entire year of 2015 was spent working hard at healing and digging deep into my own psyche; what was wrong with me that I had allowed that to happen to me?  I had willfully ignored a frantic voice in me to end things with him the summer before he did.  I had been so desperate for it to be wrong I crushed any chance I had at listening to it.

Bereft and ashamed of myself I gave myself a couple of months to catch my breath before I began dating again.  I activated dating sites and met men with a clear idea of what I wanted: financially secure, smart, kind, funny, and hung.  Gee, Hy, would you also like a unicorn and mermaid with that perfect man??

It’s laughable only because it’s an impossible thing to look for, but I was intent nonetheless.  I believed with all my heart that he was out there and unless I put myself in front of him how else would I ever find him?

Tall men, short men, hung and average, smart to dim witted, I dated them all and even fucked a few, their differences from TN as much as a relief as it was a heartbreak.  Was he really so unique of a man??

Imagine my surprise then when Bones unbuckled his pants and I saw a penis much like my old love’s.  Same thickness, same length and the man attached to it is built in an eerily similar way.  Shorter and less stocky, but densely muscled and powerful all the same.

None of this registered in the heat of the moment as our clothes peeled off.  It wasn’t until he threw me down on the bed and pressed into me, his lead-like weight pinning me to the mattress and his giant dick entering me that I was reminded of what it used to feel like to fuck TN.

If Bones had somehow gotten his hands on some Chanel Blue for men and had a hairy-as -fuck chest I could have closed my eyes and thought it was The Neighbor.  But only for fleeting moments.  These two men don’t fuck the same, how could they?

TN knew every inch of me and Bones had only just touched me.  He didn’t know how to bring me to the heights TN did.

The second time he came over it was a similar experience and my sobriety only served to heighten the similarities until I looked at the whole picture.  Bones came over at 9:30 after Peyton fell asleep and stayed with me until the very last second he could.  The sun was barely up when he looked at me with puffy eyes and kissed me with his lips together to hide his morning breath.  “Bye, have a good day,” I said and then went and woke up my sleeping angel.

The third time he came over was after midnight on a Sunday.  He had been four states away for the entire week and wanted to see me, something about fucking the shit out of me.

He left in the afternoon, a little later than planned, and I was disappointed.  “You’re not going to be able to come over,” I texted.  “It’ll be too late!”

He told me he was coming over.

I don’t think I believed him until he called a little after midnight and woke me up.  I was groggy and discombobulated from a lucid dream.  “Hey, I’m on Cement Ave.  That’s near you, right?”

“Yeah, that’s really close,” I croaked.

“Are you ready to be fucked up against the wall?”

I woke up a little then and could hear his smile.  I laughed.

“How long have you been thinking about that?” I asked.

He paused, then, “Nine-hundred miles.”  We laughed together and I shuddered.  He was actually going to show up.  He made a promise and he was keeping it.  He seemed to understand the value of a woman willing to have sex with him.

There was a soft rap on my door a few minutes later and my heart skipped a beat.  I padded to the door.  He stood in the doorway with backpack and duffel bag and a crooked smile.  He kissed me, gum in his mouth, set his gear down, and turned to me.

I felt shy and awkward, makeup-less and sleepy.

We fell into each other’s arms and I was reminded of what an incredible kisser he is.  I got lost in his whiskers and lips and began to lead us to my candlelit room.

I kicked the animals out and shut the door and he pushed me against the wall and, just like he’d promised, fucked me up against it.  The cold sheet rock pressed against my warm palms as his hot hands twisted the flesh of my hips in his hands.

He slipped out and I ejaculated and moaned, ground back on him and writhed on my feet while he pumped into me.  He popped out again and again I squirted.  I needed something to grip and he turned me around to the footboard.  The bed immediately protested with loud squeaks.

His height was perfect for entering me from behind, not unlike TN’s.  I pinched my eyes shut and concentrated on the new man slamming his hips against the backs of my thighs.

On the bed he splayed my knees and slid inside, long and hard.  His arms were stiff beams on either side of me and the faster we clashed against one another the more my bed wailed.  Its screeching filled the room along with my pants and moans and cries for, “More baby, harder, faster, pleaaaaase…”

On my belly, my hands wrapped around the iron bars when I heard, “I’m gonna cum, baby!”  He pulled out and hot globs of jizz sizzled on my back.  TN didn’t do that for an entire year.

We slept comfortably in each other’s arms until our alarms began to chime.  His at 6 am on the dot, mine at 6:02.  We snoozed our phones and stretched into each other.  His warm, hairy arm flung over the dip in my waist.  The phones chimed again, this time one minute apart.  I felt a bump against my bottom, a little tap, tap.

I arched into the well of his hips and felt the fullness of his erection.  He squeezed a breast and pulled me closer as I reached behind me and stroked and squeezed him.  His hand slid down to my hip and buttock.  He lifted the meat so it would part for him and the tip of his cock found my hole.

He pushed in easily and the reverse curve of his cock hooked into me towards my belly button.  I groaned.  He thrust.

Morning sex is different.  I hesitate to call it special, per se, but it’s certainly nothing I’ve had much experience with in the last 5 years.  My lovers steal away in the middle of the night — or I do — and The Neighbor and I rarely fucked in the morning.  That would have meant he’d stayed the night and that was a rarity.  (Though, I would steal over to his apartment early in the quiet morning and suck on his monster cock until he awoke.)

He rolled me onto my belly and I raised my bottom to meet him.  He smacked my flanks and I fell back on him with all my might, the bed obnoxiously loud.  Faster, more furiously, more fiercely he pounded into me.  I came and twisted beneath him.  “I came, I came,” I panted.

He took it as his green light and came immediately himself and sprayed cum all over my back again.

He disappeared for a moment and returned with a towel and wiped me clean.  We lay sprawled next to each other, dazed and satiated.

Bones is a private man and rarely talks about himself.  Sometimes talking to him is an exercise in patience, but his energy is positive and he seems to be enjoying himself when we’re together.  He’s funny and distant, a combination I tend to like.  

It’ll be interesting to see just at what point the ghost of TN is completely exorcised from my bed because I know he still lingers in my heart as a smear of pain.  My reluctance to open up is evident every time I’m with someone; allowing Bones to come over and stay the night has caused me great panic and often regret at offering the invitation in the first place.  But his calm reserve and steady presence isn’t threatening and so I keep offering.

Also, there’s no fucking way I’m passing up time with this man.  I happen to be a big fan of unicorns and mermaids.

I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.

I’m sick.  Again.

I fell asleep at 9 last night and when I woke at 6, after a mostly productive night of sleeping, my first thoughts were, “How do prostitutes – no – sex workers stay healthy?”

Second thought was, “What the fuck, Hy?!”

When you kiss and fuck as many men as I do, there’s bound to be a risk of just plain old germs, right??

In the last month alone I’ve kissed more than half a dozen men and slept with 3 or 4.  I can’t even remember as I lay here buried under purring cat and throbbing headache.  In equal measures, I might add.

I’m going to have to start taking vitamins, or something. Eat better than I already do, work out harder.  The last thing I want is for my body to betray my desires.  What a fucking bitch that’d be.

I feel like that prostitute with a cough in Love Potion No. 9: shady, a little dirty, sexy nonetheless in a trashy sort of sweet way. 

I don’t have time to be laid up!  I have lots of men I’m eager to touch, taste and meet in all varying degrees of intimacy this week.  A hookup, a scene, a first time, a reunion, and a continuance.  Each one a unique experience I’m looking forward to, each one orchestrated by the Universe, not me — probably not unlike this goddamned cold.

I’ll go into work today for a couple of meetings then head straight back to bed so I might feel up to meeting the traveling businessman whose cock juts from boxers like a geyser as thick as my wrist.

So I’ll be ready to dominate a pretty, masculine sub male who said my bad experience with The Neighbor pulls at his subby nature and all he wants to do is, “serve you, Miss.”

So that my first time with a sexy, bearded [married] man will make it worth it to him to break his vows of fidelity.  That I’ll finally be able to taste his kiss and tug on his beard like I’ve wanted to since meeting him.

So that my reunion with my childhood sweetheart after 22 years apart is tender and real, two teenagers wrapped in 40-something shells hugging and crying (me) and reminding each other of who we really are.

So that when Bones gets home on Sunday I’ll be ready for round 3 with him and his beard and sweet kisses and dry sense of humor, that I might get to know him better and — if I’m lucky — fall asleep in his arms again.  Also, his big dick.

Excuse me while I cough.  I’ve gotta get better.

More aches, more tissue.