A lot has happened: Bullshit no longer accepted here

I’ve been looking forward to this moment for weeks, this desire to sit down and write.  Like hunger, the posts still form in my mind, but my body remains far from this place of catharsis and raw sharing, this rich meal of creativity.  The reason why finally occurred to me the other day: I’ve been processing.

The other morning after dropping Peyton off at school, dressed in leggings and a hoodie and sporting two long braids and virtually no makeup, I met a man for a non-date at a nearby greasy spoon.

We met on AFF and though our politics, desires, and physical characteristics match up there was one glaringly obvious mismatch: after a 20-year marriage he is looking to play the field and I am not.

We confirmed the bad timing in an email or two, but he seemed to like me enough to ask me out for coffee anyway.  I agreed because the idea of meeting someone new without the threat of decisions about sex or having to figure out anything beyond enjoying his company seemed like a welcome breath of fresh air.

We chatted over an omelette, brisket hash and black coffee until he had to leave to catch a plane; two straight hours of life stories flew by like 5 minutes with an old friend.  It was the first time I’d been able to be unapologetically open with anyone new.  Nothing was at stake.  I didn’t regret one word, one move, because I wasn’t playing a game.  I wasn’t trying to win him over.

I spoke openly and brazenly, held nothing back as I might with any friend.  It was listening to myself sum up the last 2+ years of my life that I it all came into clear view like Neo finally seeing the Matrix for the first time.

The first year after The Neighbor left me and we attempted friendship felt like I had a bag on my head in a hallway filled with razor blades.  I was blind and in unbelievable pain.  I wanted only to be filled up with cock and my mind blown, but the closest I ever came was with two men — each of whom were just flashes in the pan.  Little did I know what a boon that year would actually be.

I ended the friendship the end of the first year and started year #2 completely TN-free and although it was definitely the best thing I could have done for myself, the rest of the second year could be defined as pure shit from every angle.  My finances were in the toilet along with my emotional and physical health, dicks lasted all of 2-3 minutes as did my interest in them.  My approach to life was simply to survive, not conquer.  It was a shit show with only one little bright spot.

So here I am in the third year, the year I have reclaimed as my own.  I announced to myself and the world in January that I was switching gears, that I was ready to let someone in.  I changed my dating profiles and started to screen for similar relationship goals.  It hasn’t gone well.

I knew it’d take work and time, but I will bashfully admit that for some unknown reason I believed in my heart of hearts that I was the only obstacle to finding love and that once I removed it I would drown in all the feels from all the men.  Go ahead.  Laugh.  I sure as fuck am.

Surprisingly, there are a lot of obstacles out there to finding a good mate.

For one, being vulnerable is tough.  I find myself trying to find that fine line of self disclosure and TMI.  When they ask me about my last relationship what the ever-loving fuck do I tell them??  Do I mention how I was *this close* to dumping him, but then he followed me to my current apartment complex and he still lives there?  Do I mention all the deceit and denial and distance?  That he continues to stalk my nudie profile?  Or do I just say, “It’s been a little over 2 years,” and leave the impression that I’m not still really fucking fucked up about it?  The difficult part of it is that I need someone to be gentle with me because I’m still so very. fucked. up. about it.

Two, turns out I can fuck a Trump supporter, but I can’t date him, and there appear to be a bunch of them in my age bracket.  It’s not because I’m a sore loser.  It’s because I vehemently disagree with his policies, his choices for heads of state and agencies, and on a purely party-line argument, I want the choice to do with my body what I will.  I don’t think these anti-abortion men realize that if I’m forced to have their baby, they’re forced to fork over a shit ton of money for it, as well.  I also don’t know how I’d introduce a Trump voter to my extremely liberal family.  My sister would vomit on her shoes as she clutched her brown babies and black husband closer.

And three, men are just simply shits.  Like Rex who strung me along with days worth of texting and phone calls and long conversations about what it was I was looking for during our 4 dates only to eventually ghost on me like a 23 year old; or Mr. Panties who when I said I didn’t want to have sex that night saw it as a challenge and was relentless until I caved, bragged about his 9″ dick (it wasn’t), and who, while I was dressing by the light of my phone the next morning, had a pair of women’s underwear inside workout pants on the floor by the bed and didn’t know to whom they belonged; or Devon, he who didn’t ask me any questions, who fucked me for our second go-around on our second date in the dark pre-dawn, but the morning before our third date texted to say he “Just wasn’t feeling it,”; or Trey, the big, muscled gym trainer who tried his best to get me to call him “my king,” as he pressed me against the wall of his Amerisuites room roughly 3 hours after we met; or Joe, the single father who worked weeks at a time on oil-rigs in a nearby state who came after 10 minutes (with an 8 minute blowjob) and never got hard again and so we just left it there forever; or the 21-yo (who’s now 23) who was supposed to just be fun, but after fucking for 20 minutes his mom called and ripped him a new one for forgetting to pick up his little brother.  He left to get him and was supposed to come back, but his worry his mother wouldn’t pay for his Spring Break if he left the house again overrode any desire to spend the rest of the night with me; or lastly, Logan, the sweet 28-year-old who I brought home after our first date and let him stick his giant dick in my ass, but who after he fucked me on our second date went to his car to grab his phone at 2 am and just never. came. back.

This isn’t an invitation to pick apart my choices or try to figure out why these men have done what they did.  Some of those men were supposed to be strictly for fun and others I was legitimately gathering data to see if he was a possible mate.  I have found that my needs for cock do not diminish just because I’m attempting to feed my heart  — it’s confusing — but what happened with Logan, being treated like so much trash after many hours of talking and building what I thought was a little friendship only to be literally cast aside…

My cage is rattled.

I have had some pretty horrible things happen to me at the hands of men over the years ranging from benign neglect to all out sexual assault.  I’ve been lied to, cajoled, begged, ignored, and relentlessly pursued, and all of it felt par for the course to one degree or another — even the assaults — but to be left by a lover whom moments before had been buried inside of me as if I were an empty plate he had no more need for… that fucking hurt.  That got to me.

It was the final experience of the past 2 years and 3 months that finally drove it all home: I am worth so much more.

I am worth the effort of someone to get to know, to take time away from other things to spend on me.  My pussy is worth as much, as well.  It isn’t up for grabs anymore just because it’s weeping with need.  Together, my fucking pussy and I, we are an incredibly valuable being deserving of far more currency than I’ve been charging.

I don’t want to fuck anyone just because I can or just because I need to feel something between my legs.  I don’t want to fuck a cluster of cells.  I want to fuck a man, a person, someone who is real to me.  Someone whose heart I can feel beat beneath my ear and whose cock pulses in time because we’ve decided to share it together.  Because he’s earned it.

This shift in me saved my pussy and me from fucking a Trump supporter the other weekend.  BJ was a dashing, funny, charismatic man whom I met on Coffee Meets Bagel.  We’d met for drinks on Friday and it had been a B+ date (he lost credit for talking about his crushingly beautiful ex-girlfriend and not walking me to my car).  The next day while wine tasting with friends, he became effusively day-drunk and wanted to see me again.  Immediately.

After royally pissing off my girlfriend by naively telling him where we were because he was on the other side of town he and his friend joined us.  It didn’t turn out badly.  He was affable and fun and I invited up to my apartment after drinks.  I also told him I wasn’t interested in sex.

We made out like lustful teenagers, but he respected my wishes and we slept curled up together fully clothed.  He in his t-shirt and shorts and I in my pajamas.  The next morning we cuddled and laughed in the soft morning light and I coquettishly rubbed on his bulge and imagined what it’d feel like to be inside of me.  But our hands remained atop all fabric.  By 1 pm, after more napping and canoodling we agreed it was time for me to take him home.  It was right about then I discovered he voted for Trump.

I groaned and felt a visceral clench around my gut.  “Does this mean I have to walk home?” he joked.  Apparently he had decided to ignore my “I’m allergic to Trump voters” line in my profile.  He said he didn’t know why.

I searched my soul for days after and came to the conclusion that he and I could never be more than friends.  Much like having a hard-line religious difference, I have realized my political beliefs in this election climate are as close to a faith as I have ever had and he and I appear to believe in very different things.  And it was with this realization that I felt the full benefit of waiting to know someone before I let them put their blood-stuffed body part into me: I got to walk away from the night unscathed and with all my emotional money; I had spent nothing on being with him.

There are still two sides of me — the professional, mommy, daughter, sister me and the dissolute, sexed-up, hungry, wild me — but each of them are a little bit wiser now.  The public-facing and the private Me’s have finally realized that all men will have to do some work to get either of them and that bullshit is no longer accepted at this establishment as a means of payment.


I poured whiskey on my tits.

This describes the first sexual encounter I had with Dave. It was November of 2010. I’d already fucked Matt and Ethan to lukewarm results. You can see how hard I tried to make it better than it really was. I no longer fool myself when the sex is mediocre. Can’t say I wasn’t looking hard for what I wanted, though.


Dave is a 36 year old single dad. He’s the lead singer for a semi-well-known punk rock band that’s been playing for ten years by night and a regular working Joe during the day. He looks a lot like John Cusack, only slender and rippled with sinewy muscles. You would never guess at the wonderful surprise that is his cock unless you saw it first hand: it’s long and thick and buttery smooth and fits just right.

We went to a local German festival last night. It was out of town and our first official date. He’d come over twice earlier in the week during nap-time and we drank rum-spiked tea and tasted it in each others’ kisses. He wore a black leather jacket and snake-skinned boots. I wore jeans tucked in to my boots and navy blue scarf.

There’s something alluring about a man who is at once nervous and shy, but also committed to an attraction. Dave has this down pat. He never shies from my advances; he makes his own. He talks dirty about what he’s going to do to my pussy, but has the decency to look abashed and turned on simultaneously.

After sausage on a stick and two pitchers of beer we headed back to our one-bed hotel room. I tore his clothes off and told him we should get a fuck out of the way before heading down to the hotel bar. His skin was soft and cool, his muscles tight and bumpy under my hands. He pushed me back onto the bed and kissed my neck, my breasts, licked my pussy until I was writhing then grabbed a condom and in one fell swoop was back on me and in me pressing deep and lifting my hips to meet him with his arm under my waist.

It was short and quick – a place holder. We got redressed, me braless and pantiless, and went to the bar downstairs. We ordered four shots of whiskey (two for each of us) and a glass of beer and smuggled it all back up to our room where the clothes promptly ended up back on the floor.

God, his cock was marvelous. I sucked it and stroked it and heard his moans of surprise and pleasure. When I felt he was close to cumming I sat down hard on him, my soft thighs around his hard waist. I poured whiskey on my tits and let it run down my belly to where we were joined, leaned forward and let him suck it off my nipples. The alcohol tingled on my skin and the fumes filled my nostrils, his grunts of approval filled my ears.

We fucked every which way until we were exhausted and the easy calm rapport that existed drunk and naked prevailed all morning as we drove back home. He gave me a pep talk for my 2 o’clock date with Troy (a 6’6″ tall man I hadn’t met, yet) and hoped I’d have a good time with Ethan for my dinner date even later in the day. He approved my outfit for my date, gave me a kiss and smacked my ass when I dropped him off.
[Epilogue: I would end up dating Dave for about 3 or 4 months. I’d introduce him to Lina and she would fall in love with him. Dave and I never had good sex after that first night. He was a one-position man and, unfortunately for him, I would always seem to fuck him the night after I’d have amazing sex with Troy, week after week. Can you imagine my confusion that I could be a sopping, squirting mess with Troy on Tuesday and a dry desert with Dave on Wednesday? It’s when I began to understand the power of a really good lover and my dependency on their skill. Dave was timid, never made the first move, would be done in about 10 minutes and relied heavily on the 7″ between his legs and his washboard abs and little else at his disposal. I would dread out dates together, but would keep them nonetheless because of my competitive feelings with Troy. Oh, and I wanted to get laid as much as humanly possible. Let’s not forget that part.]

I had low standards.

II originally wrote this in October of ’10 and I’ve had to update it with more truth. Specifically how he had whiskey dick. I don’t know why I hid that originally. It’s not like he was reading my old blog. Ethan ended up calling me all the time, but eventually flaking out on me. The last time we were supposed to meet was the same night I met Troy. He reminded me that sexual chemistry and promises mean nothing. This is part of my Memories Series, not to be confused with current lovers. This is me reliving my sexual history and seeing what I can find buried in the last year and a half.

I’ve had sex again.

And quite a bit of it, all things considered — two nights’ worth, actually — which sounds inconsequential, but what it means for me is that I’ve found someone I really like, whom I trust, and who has that rare combination of sexual chemistry that really does it for me. This is amazing news.

I met this guy on a whim and we hit it off immediately. He looks like a less muscular Clark Kent and if he wasn’t so damn cool I’d just call him that. I actually canceled my Sunday night date with some dude to hang with him instead. We met at a local pub and I drank Guinness and he had Stella until the place shut down at midnight. We met at 5.

I was so taken aback by his easiness, his sense of fun and calm. We decided to head back to his place to keep hanging out. I didn’t want the night to end and neither did he.

When we got to his apartment we opened more beer and he sat down behind his piano keyboard and started to play. I squirmed on my seat and tried not to feel so overwhelmed as he serenaded me. Eventually, I committed to relax into the experience and let my eyes drift across his bare walls and quintessential bachelor pad. His ex-wife had taken everything.

We sat on the couch and listened to The National and talked, inching closer and closer as we laughed and talked, until eventually kissing was the only thing left to do. We were leaning in together at first, then he stood up over me and pushed me back down into the plush pillows of the couch and kissed me so perfectly, effortlessly, skillfully that my breath was stolen from me. My skin began to buzz and my mind race. I thought, “This is what I’ve been waiting for,” as he continued to stroke my mouth with his tongue and my hair with his hands.

He broke it off for a moment and stood back a little and I breathed with a heavy-lidded, dazed look, “You’re kissing the fuck out of me.” And back onto my mouth he went.

I love kissing. I think that a good kisser is more than just skill. It’s intuition, empathy, creativity, and skill; and this guy had them all. We rolled around on the floor, he grabbed my breasts, I grabbed his cock through his jeans, we laughed some more. Then it was either keep kissing, fuck, or go home, and since it was past two in the morning and neither of us wanted a first-date fuck I went home.

It took 7 glorious little minutes to get to my house where a “Thanks for tonight, pretty lady” text was waiting for me.

I canceled a date with another man Monday night to hang out with him again. We grabbed dinner at his favorite local Thai restaurant and I bought us some wine on the way back to his place. We chatted, but things were cooler. I was a little confused; maybe it was just a one-night thing. He doesn’t have many friends here due to his travel schedule so perhaps he was just looking for friendship?

We sat on his patio and I smoked a cigarette. I was just about to ask him if he was at all interested in a repeat of the previous night when he says, “I have no game, and no idea if a woman is ever interested in me. I don’t know if I should ever make the first move.” That was all I needed and told him as much. I got out of my chair and held his jaw in my hands and kissed him deeply. My body tingled as he kissed me back. I straddled him and he wrapped his arms around me and squeezed. I melted into him.

We went inside and tore each other’s clothes off. His cock was beautiful, his balls soft like buttery, kid-gloves. I wrapped my mouth around him and tried to show a little bit of how much I enjoyed him; not really knowing whether or not our swift slide into sex would really be enough. Then, surprisingly, he pushed me back and spread my knees and suckled and kissed my pussy like it was honey. He made little grunts of pleasure and hummed into my curls. I looked down past the swell of my breasts to see him alternately watching me intently and with his eyes closed in pleasure.

He sat up, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and started ravaging my mouth again. I purred at the taste of my own juices. He broke off for a moment and was back over me, bare, the head of his cock pushing at me. Then he sunk in deep and long. We both sighed.

Why was I fucking him without a condom?? And then he stopped and I couldn’t feel him anymore.

He pulled out and shrunk away from me. I was afraid to say anything. He seemed tortured. I ventured something, but he cut me off with a, “Please, don’t… this has never happened before. Just give me a minute.” I waited patiently while he stroked himself and abruptly he was back and launched himself into me.

His thrusts were as relentless as the kissing had been 5 minutes before. He flipped me over and onto the ground, never breaking contact and got better resistance against the floor.

Suddenly it was over, and all too soon. It wasn’t even close to great. He went soft, was temperamental and slightly cruel about his erection, and then only went for his finish line before he lost it. My expectations for sex are highly metaphysical and an orgasm is never my goal, but even I felt used after that.

I pulled my dress back on and we smoked another cigarette. It was extremely late again and I went home exhausted where I jacked off with my vibe.

He left town for work the next day, but we made plans for him to stop by my house when he got home Thursday night. I got a text at 11:30 pm that said, “Ding dong” and I opened my door and there he was. All 6′ 1″ of him in a black suit and tie and an adorable smirk on his face. I gave him a tour of the house, but my hopes of immediate sex were dashed when I sensed some shyness from him, but I didn’t really care.

I gave him the six pack of Stella I’d bought for him for the next day to celebrate his divorce becoming final and I opened a bottle of wine. Fifteen minutes in his phone rings and he excuses himself. It’s a woman he’s been seeing out of town and someone he’s been having a difficult time with. I can hear her voice on the other end asking him if he wanted to go to Miami with her. He’s rolling his eyes and making pained faces. He’s doing damage control for standing her up earlier in the week.

For whatever reason, I see this as my chance to shine. I give him a look and bend over and untie his shoes, peel off his socks. Next I loosen his tie and pull his shirt out; unbuckle his pants, zip down the fly and pull out his hard cock. His voice is cracking as he speaks, my lips are smiling around his heat. I start to suck in earnest, then come up to whisper in the ear without the phone to it, “You better get off the phone.”

I have no idea how he hangs up, but he does and I pull his pants off the rest of the way and lead him into my bedroom. My bedroom that I’ve so thoroughly reclaimed as my own. My bedroom with the brand new sheets and rearranged belongings. We tumble onto the bed and fuck passionately. We talk and lay around, drink some more, have a cigarette and end up back in bed. We decide that we’ll be each other’s #1; that we both want the relationship trappings, but not the commitment. I’m over the moon. I’ve found my motherfucking unicorn. “Now,” I tell him, “I just need two more.”

He laughs, “You want a stable of ponies!”

“Yep. Pretty much!”

I don’t remember how we fell asleep. I just remember waking up in his arms and feeling his long, muscular legs next to mine. I slid my hand down his belly to the soft nest of hair where his semi-aroused cock lay peacefully. I wrapped my hand around it and stroked until it was rock hard, then pushed him onto his back and straddled him; slid him deep inside me. His eyes were still closed and he was moaning softly.

I rocked on him and kissed his ears and neck. I worried a little that maybe he might want to sleep, but continued anyway. His cock hit my g-spot and I started to giggle as I always do. I reached under my bed and grabbed my vibrator and sat up tall on top of him and placed it on my clit. He moaned a curious, “Oh??” sort of sound as the vibrations hit his pelvis. I came hard with him inside of me and shuddered forward, took a few breaths then lifted off of him, and dove onto his cock with gusto, my scent filling my nostrils.

I sucked and fondled and teased for only a few moments until I felt his cum hit my mouth with a hot rush; his body tense and shivering. He pulled me up and said, “That is my favorite way to wake up.” Funny thing is, it’s one of my favorite ways of waking up a man. Lucky us.

I left to go make us breakfast and let him sleep. He hasn’t had anyone make him breakfast in years. I haven’t had anyone eat a breakfast I made and truly appreciate it in years. It was a win-win.

That was the last time I saw him and I won’t have the chance to see him again for another two weeks, next Thursday, and even then I’m not sure how that will work. I have my kid that weekend and week he gets back. But I don’t even really care.

If there’s one thing all of this is teaching me is that life, at least some parts of it, are extremely temporary and there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s up to us to take meaning out of our lives no matter how short or long an experience.

He and I text frequently and I know he thinks about me — something I’m still shocked about, I mean, why does anyone think about me?? I have no idea — and he’s said some amazing things to me like he expects us to know each other for a long, long time; that I’m awesome; that I’m a “sexy beast”; that he’ll call me if he ever needs to talk to someone. I have no way of knowing if any of this is true, but my new found zen about the whole thing is telling me to take it for what it’s worth and enjoy the sounds of the words in the moment even if they never come to fruition.

[Post script: My hope and naivete runneth over. This is where the walls start to go up, up, up. I never did see that guy again, but it mattered little. I was knee-deep into Troy.]