Cock in hand, hard muscles beneath the pads of my fingertips, moans, sweat, my weeping cunt. We fucked nearly every chance we got for days. Bare cock, warm pussy, cries and sobs interlaced with sunshine, hot tubs, movies, and cock holding in darkened theaters and titty sucking in hot water.
Six am Sunday morning and his headboard shook, I cried out his name, and he flipped me and fucked me and told me how good my pussy felt. When we were done I was so hungry I felt sick. He offered to run to the store and get stuff to make me French toast, or pancakes if I preferred. I suggested we go to my favorite local diner instead. And so we did.
We sat at the counter and I sipped black coffee. He ordered an apple juice. No one goes to breakfast together at 9 in the morning unless they spent the night together. I felt oddly proud to be seen in public with him; filthy in the daylight after what he’d just done to me for hours.
I left him after breakfast to take my puppy to the Greenbelt. I stood in the cold creek water and breathed in the musty spring air particular to this part of the country. Creek bathers and dogs riddled the trails and pebbled shores. I felt centered, back to myself. I used to live next to this trail head years ago and I made daily excursions with my old dog. I was single then, too, only motherless and clueless as to my own true sexuality. But not now. I’ll never be that girl in the creek with her dog again, though, I am.
The last six months have been hard for me. I put the brakes on indiscriminate sex; tried to reconnect with myself and face the pain I’d been keeping at bay for months and years; keep the libertine in me engaged and happy; be present as a mother; and practice patience and lack of control. A tall order to be sure.
And then I met him, The Neighbor. A young, Midwestern man with boy-next-door good looks, and a cock that I literally dream about. He was sweet and unassuming and he surprised us both by smashing down my objections to becoming lovers with a neighbor. Meanwhile, I kept going with Jason, the original lover of the four, but to say we were misfiring is an understatement. I felt like I’d made a commitment to the snapshot and he was part of it despite being flaky and distant when we weren’t together and leaning heavily on me emotionally when we were. If I wasn’t listening to him retell the same stories about his crazy ex-girlfriend, I was listening to lengthy theories that could be applied to his PhD thesis. Or, I was being criticized for my dirty talk. And Phillip, well, the sex and cock were amazing, but that was it. He is kind and gentle, but I never felt that spark. I haven’t heard from him since I told him we had to use a condom next time. I’m more than a little relieved. Kevin and I were supposed to fuck again last week, but after a condomless night with TN I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It didn’t feel right. I begged off, but might keep him in my back pocket for when after TN and I are done. Lastly, Tuesday, my most recent man, was a flop in bed. Nothing to write home about. He was nervous, I was consumed with thoughts of another man. He said ignorant things that turned me off of him. I am done with him; no more.
Juggling the men, my grief, and my thawing heart has built me new emotional muscles. As my readers, you’ve seen the inner workings of my mind and the mess, but I sincerely hope that to outsiders I’ve looked more in control than I’ve felt. I open up here and say my heart’s honest truth whether it sounds sniveling, selfish, or stupid. It’s been humbling to get some feedback, heartwarming to get others, but one thing is for certain: I wouldn’t be where I am today without this outlet and without all of you.
I attribute my past week with my young lover to the growth I’ve experienced: I am relaxed, happy, at peace with having no control. I’m not entirely convinced I want to make him my boyfriend and that realization — that it’s not up to him — has set me the fuck free. I am regularly surprised and mildly confused by things he does. He says he wants to be alone, but knocks on my door in his swim trunks and asks if I’ll join him in the hot tub. He never commits to a tryst, but he’s disappointed when I don’t sneak over. He fucks me without a condom, though he told me it’d “never, ever happen“. He invites me to a matinée, offers to make me breakfast, but talks about when he will “date someone for real”.
I sometimes worry that I will run out of salacious stories for you all if I slow down too much with TN, but then I remember all the ones I never shared from my distant past and the ones from my old blog(s). Besides, so long as his beautiful rod seeks my pussy I will have something to share. And I will.
For instance, I sucked his cock in the hot tub Sunday night. He kept his eyes peeled for the rent-a-cop, I filled my face with his tumescence. He sat on the edge of the tub, his left leg wrapped in mine, his body shielded me from our downstairs neighbor’s eyes in case he went to his balcony to smoke. He giggled and delighted in my brazenness and told me again that the next girl he dates has to love sex and blowjobs. I assumed the other half of that unspoken sentence was, “just like you, Hy.” I offered him a bare breast, my green bikini top pulled to the side, his scruff abrasive on my tender skin. “You are wild. I like it,” he said. And then we climbed the three flights of stairs and went to our respective doors.
Things are clicking, and I feel that I owe you all a big Thank You for helping me get here. So, from the bottom of my dissolute heart, I thank you. Thankyouthankyouthankyou. I will do my best to continue to be honest, disgustingly erotic, and true to who I am: Hyacinth Jones, lover, mother, and woman. My deepest wish is that you all stick around while I make good on this promise.