His sphincter clenched around the middle knuckle of my index finger as I stroked the hot, puffy flesh inside. He moaned and I pushed in all the way.
His wrists and ankles were bound to the bed with various scarves I’d kept in my trashy cardboard sex box. I hadn’t tied anyone up since The Neighbor.
I nestled myself up between his long, pale legs and sucked on his great big hardon, cupped his balls, reveled in the spasms happening around my buried finger. My eyes closed and I lost myself, drunkenly, to servicing this young, supine man.
The details of the evening are generally blurred, but altogether hedonistic. I climbed up and rode him every which way, let him watch my bottom bounce on him, helpless to touch my warm, writhing body. I kissed him everywhere and nowhere, whispered filthy nothings in his ear, and bore down on him in darkness until I exhausted myself.
We stood next to my bed and I took the long fingers of his right hand and gently showed him how to hook into me and beat my pussy until she wept. I filled his hand almost instantly and he was pleased with himself, I was pleased with him.
He loomed above me, the movement from his pumping arm shook the bed, and I waited below until I felt the hot streams of his cum spurt across my closed lids and open mouth. That was fucking hot.
Remington had resurfaced roughly 10 days before, single and available once again. Our first date last summer ended with his fingers in me with my back against my car. Dog walkers passed by unimpressed. We’d tried to meet up again after that, but failed to launch. And then he got a girlfriend. “Well, when you guys break up, hit me up,” I’d said. He hadn’t forgotten.
Our reunion was sweet; I was surprised by how good-looking he was. A Malibu Ken doll sort of man, 25 now (not 24!), 6’4″, lean, dorky glasses that somehow intensify a man’s hotness. We talked for hours and caught up and when one more drink would have tethered us there for the night I invited him to my apartment instead.
On my couch we talked some more until I could bear his flashing smile no more. I leaned across and kissed him and was instantly reminded of that hot summer night in the street. His hands crawled all over me and I straddled his lap, my breasts in his face. He groaned and pulled one out and I let him suck and bite until he got it just right.
I led him to my bedroom, lit a candle and asked him if he had any condoms. “Do you have any Magnums?” he asked. Well, well, well! As a matter of fact, I do!
Deep inside of me he moved and crushed me to the bed, filled me up. We passed out in a heap even as his snores kept me up half the night.
The next morning the cardinals sang me awake and I accidentally brushed against his massive morning wood. “Mmm,” I said.
“Mmhm,” he answered, nearly comatose.
I stroked it harder and told him to put on a condom and backed up into his big spoon. I came, he came, I got up to make us coffee and we spent a pleasant hour or two together while he tried fervently to blink back the morning.
At my door he bent down to kiss me goodbye repeatedly. “Let’s do this again,” he said.
“Yes, definitely,” I answered.
A week later I texted, “Hey! Wanna hang out tomorrow night and drink in my hot tub then fuck the shit out of each other?? lol.”
His reply: “That sounds like a great idea!!”
That was the night I found myself drunkenly defiling him like a horny teenager.
I’d gone back and refreshed my memory of our first date together; he was curious about submission, something I had forgotten about him. We met at a dive bar and he brought his guitar. It sat beneath his legs like a sleeping dog as we joked and flirted.
When it was time we climbed into his convertible and raced back through the chilly night to my place, though our hot tubbing plans were foiled by large orange cones warning us of broken concrete and black, rancid looking water at the bottom of the tub. We sat on the poolside chairs and drank wine instead.
Remington is different: he’s an artist, a virtuoso. A musician who almost can’t enjoy music anymore unless it’s the product of another great artist. As I recall, his profile on AFF spoke of his ability to find rhythm, harmony. He’s trained most of his life to achieve his success and is on the brink of the next big chapter: a full ride to a very prestigious masters program in the fall.
As we talked over the course of our two dates I found myself longing to talk about my own art, of Hy and this blog, my writing. I wanted him to know I knew — even if in the smallest of ways — what it was like to need to create something. There was also something about his obsession with his own talent, his drive to succeed that spoke to a greater understanding about self-expression. I knew he wouldn’t judge me.
The decision to tell him that not only do I have a sex blog, but that I am Hy, was an impulsive one. As he spoke about his achievements I felt an all too familiar pull to share my own successes — a feeling I’ve spent 4 years repressing. But I am tired. I’m tired of the double life, the hiding, the allusion to my talents but no proof of their existence and so I decided to unhook my armor and open wide.
“So I have something I want to tell you and it’s a really big deal.” We sat on the couch, hips to knees pressed against each other, the B.B. King station playing on Pandora, spent from our raucous fucking and just barely clothed.
I explained to him the danger of telling anyone what I was about to share (“It could ruin my career.”) and the significance of me sharing in the first place (“I have never told anyone like this before.”).
He listened with rapt attention and poured us yet more wine. Good, I thought, that’ll make this less painful.
When I was done he said, “What’s my name on there?”
“Remington.” He remembered the joke from our first date about “Remington Steele.”
“Ok, do you say where I live?”
“Then I’m ok with it!”
His smile took up half his face.
“Would you like to see what I wrote about our first date??” I felt shy, expectant.
We sat on my couch and together reread our first encounter.
“Wow. You’re really good!” he said when he was done. I preened.
We scrolled through more recent posts and he saw the Top 100 logo. He was duly impressed all over again and I blushed. It felt like I had finally stepped out from the shadows into the sun — I was free! — and after years of hiding Hy from people in my life this moment stood out. Yes, it was risky, but the bondage had dropped from my limbs, even if only for a short time.
I explained to him my ethical codes for writing about men on the blog. “Since you know about it, I won’t post anything without your knowledge and you always have the right to veto.” He nodded. “But don’t worry, I won’t write ‘shit’ about you, just my feelings and stuff we do together.”
He took his guitar out of the case and played for me and the dog until it was time to sleep again. I floated on Cloud 9 and sipped on red wine with my breasts hanging out like a true reveler.
The next morning he had to get to work by 10 and so we dragged ourselves out of bed by 8:30. I made us breakfast and he got things ready for work. I still felt comfortable with sharing with him, but in the glare of the day I wondered how much he remembered about Hy and the blog. What if it had been lost in our cups? Should I bring it up and remind him??
I’ve spent the last few days since our debauched evening feeling reclusive and busy with other men. I’d told him I had 5 dates this week in order to illustrate the value of my time, not brag (he didn’t seem to hold it against me), but the distance from this young man who knows my deepest, darkest secret has been well-timed even if coincidental.
As each day goes by I feel more exposed, more vulnerable. Not to attack or even judgment, but simply to the elements. I do not share all the facets of my person with anyone. People either get Me, the woman with the career and child, and the open-mindedness about sex and relationships (very humdrum, by all accounts) or they get Hy, the writer, the photographer, the exhibitionist, the lover of sex they can never have (which seems to be highly exciting to most). No one gets both and I’m not even sure Remington will, that’s entirely up to him. After all, TN had access to both, but didn’t want to read Hy because he felt it was too personal to him. Perhaps Remington will be the same, I have no idea.
Not only that, but what if it was a mistake? What if he tells everyone he knows it’s me?? Or even just one person that’s the worst person to know? That’s the more deeply seated fear that prevents me from telling even my closest of friends that I’m Hy. It’s not that I don’t trust them, but maybe they’ll tell their best friend in the strictest of confidence and so on until just one wrong person knows and decides to blow up my fucking life. I can’t expect people outside of my therapist to not share their lives with those they trust, can I??
Ideally my worries will be moot and he and I will have an artist’s appreciation for what the other does; we will get to paint on the canvases of one another’s bodies until he leaves town and nary a thought to public revelation will be had.
All I really want to do, though, is fuck the ever-loving shit out of him until he’s in another time zone. I wish I weren’t so complicated.