I never wanted this blog to become a dumping ground for my dating travails. I find it boring and embarrassing, frankly, that I have lost myself in the minutiae. This is behavior better suited to a young girl than it is a fully grown woman.
I also realize that as I’ve weaved this tale of love I have done my friend a disservice. When I write I can only say what I think and feel and I have somehow earned an army of friends who are devoted and want only the best for me, therefore when there is a perceived slight, they charge loyally at my foe. And I feel guilty for it.
I say all of this because I spent last night with The Neighbor and it was nothing like what I expected. My need to dump my heart out here has put the horse before the cart and I am reminded that I need to embrace patience, not thrash around like a wounded dog.
The second we laid eyes on each other I could sense a reconnection. He asked me how my day was, my week. Turns out we both had really shitty weeks and were hardly sleeping. Yes, he was entertaining Vanilla Ice Wednesday night, but big fucking deal. We’re not monogamous. He made no promises to me that night. He only ignored a text of mine. Big fucking whoop. I have to grow up about this.
My unrequited feelings aren’t his fault. He’s everything I’ve said he is and more I’ve yet to unearth.
As we crossed the busy street to the grocery store I spread my arms wide and tilted my face to the night sky, “Goddamn, I love summer nights! I hate the heat here, but I love the nights no matter how hot they are.” The warm, 80 degree wind gusted against us as if to prove my point.
“You know, I wasn’t feeling up to going out, but now that I’m out here in this, I kinda wanna do something. You willing to go out?”
“Yep, sure am!” I say.
We flirted and played on our little errand — my hand deep in his jeans, his hands on my ass — and on our way back he asks if we could go to dinner. “Can you go out like this?” he motions to my apparel, a low-cut purple shirt with Little Miss Sunshine stretched across my tits, a navy corduroy skirt, black flip-flops and braids in my hair.
Dinner was awesome. He ordered us a bottle of wine and I took pictures of him snuggling his wine glass. I posted them to Facebook and even tagged him with his permission. I secretly reveled in knowing his jealous ex-girlfriend was going to have a fit seeing those. I’m sure he did, too.
I opened up about my week, some of my confusion and discomfort. He set my mind at ease with kind words and ribald humor, said he wanted to fuck me immediately.
I told him about The Beggar from the night before and we laughed. He said he was proud of me for saying No. He’s the one, after all, that’s always saying I’m more than just a pussy.
I also discovered that some of my hurts were misunderstandings. Thursday night he’d come by and knocked, but I wasn’t home, then he’d gone straight to sleep. — This is where patience must needs enter my life, friends.
In the car ride home I folded myself over the console and gave him road head. I’ve never had such a willing and happy recipient in my mouth, so big and swelling as I lapped and sucked. When passing a truck he would shove my face down hard on his shaft. “That was for the truck, wasn’t it?” I observed.
Home, happy, and horny we tumbled through his front door. Minutes later my pussy is stretched wide and he’s buried deep and I’m soaking the both of us. When I sink down on top of his mast and feel him in the middle of me, just there, I place my hand on my belly and press. “I can feel you,” I say and start to rock, and then his hands grip my hips tightly and I’m sliding back and forth like a piston, my arms heavy and tingling, my cunt clenching down hard.
We flip a few times; sometime my legs are hitched up on his shoulders, sometimes they’re splayed open as a smile.
I cry, I laugh, I dive head first into the sensations I experience with this fellow both in and out of bed. When we banter it’s easy and fun; we trust each other. I’m so relieved to be here with him, grateful that this exists in my world, less afraid of losing it somehow.
I start to cry harder when he’s on top of me, our pelvises slamming against each other, and when he hears my sobs he begins to lose control. He grunts, rails into me and empties a load of semen, falls limp on top of me, kisses my neck. We pant together silently.
We’re sideways on his soccer-field of a bed.
He asks when the last time was that I’d gotten a good “dicking.” I had to think for a minute. “Whenever we fucked last. Sunday. You??”
Never mind that I fucked Kevin Thursday and he likely fucked Vanilla Ice on Wednesday. That’s not the point. What I told him was true. The last good fuck was him, hands down.
Some of you have been asking what I want out of this and I’m flummoxed. I haven’t thought that far I’ve been so busy dealing with a melting heart. My excitement over not being dead inside has taken priority over what happens after I disclose my feelings. Who the fuck knows??
Right this second I would say I want him to want me as much as I do him. That would look like him inviting me to hang out with his friends, plan things together, trips, outings, whatever. Boyfriend-y stuff, but I wouldn’t want to not date other men, either. I love first dates, absolutely love them; the rush of the hunt, the dance of words and bodies. And don’t get me started on first fucks. I go into each pairing like a skeptical believer. I plan on being disappointed, but the Gods will rain down tears of joy upon our writhing bodies if I’m wrong, my cunt a cathedral of pleasure.
So what I want is simply for things to stay the same, but for me to have a little more access to him, fair warning when I won’t, and a tentative blending of lives.
As for me, I’d like to accept the fact that I need a lot from a lover, be open to finding someone who really wants me, and fill every cell I have with patience. I hate that I’ve painted The Neighbor into a corner of youthful disregard and ignorance because he’s none of those things. He’s young, yes, but he has always been straight up with me; he’s never lied, he’s always present when we’re together and he’s a big, big fan of mine in real life. I doubt I’d handle myself as well as he has if a fuck buddy reneged on the arrangement like I have — Nah, of course I would. I’m a nice lady.
Having such a strong connection with someone both in and out of the bedroom without a commitment is an advanced emotional move for me; I can barely handle it. I want to apologize for taking you all on this roller coaster with me — or maybe I should charge admission?? — you have all stuck so close by my side and I have relied heavily on your feedback and love. Up, down, angry, happy. But I’m going to work harder at not pitting Me against Him anymore. It’s exhausting for me, unfair to you all, and especially rude to him. His ability to compartmentalize is more honed than mine (go figure), but that’s not his fault. His life has made him that way as mine’s made me.
All I know is this fucking learning curve has fucked my game something fierce and I’m going to work hard to get back on track so I may milk this amazing situation to death… and his beautiful cock.