I imagine looking out over a harbor, the morning light gentle, the scent of the bay cold and familiar in my nostrils. I hike my suspenders over my shoulders and step into my dingy. I have to check my lines; one group of crab pots after the next, the water gently choppy, the sound of the boat engine a buzzing throttle beneath my hand as I steer.
I stop, pull the lines. They’re heavy. The little creatures inside move in what looks like slow motion. I pull them up, open the cage and shake them out into the bottom of my boat, toss the pot back in the water and move on to the next.
It’s second-nature to me, these motions. It’s part of my life, who I am. I measure them silently in my mind. Chemistry, cock, charisma.
I check 3 lines every day. My AFF, Seeking Arrangement and Collar Space. Each day I find creatures in my pots. Each day I am overwhelmed with the vetting process.
SA continues to be a brutally unrewarding place, but I also continue to be in a desperate financial situation so I stay on in hopes that I’ll find that one man who can save me financially as I work furiously in real life to solve for it on my own.
Will, the sugar daddy of ill-manners, and I no longer speak. He behaved even more badly in regards to how I spent “his” $100 and I told him it was fucking bullshit. I don’t know what he expected from me, but a sugar relationship wasn’t it. He thought $100 bought something. Yeah, groceries and gas, asshole.
Collar Space is a tender spot for me. I am inundated with thoughtful, sexy emails from submissive men, but I am deeply reticent after my most recent experience of being abandoned after a vanilla-esque scene. I can’t put myself back in that position any time soon, though I yearn to.
I am still speaking with the first sub who reached out to me back July, but I’m tired of the “How are you?” texts and don’t have the energy to move it further along.
AFF remains my happy place, but last I checked I had five times as many new emails than usual. Apparently late summer has caused the tide to shift a bit and suddenly I am more desirable than ever. I haven’t had the time to sift through all the possibilities there either; the men just lay at my feet, arms and legs waving at me.
My harvest is immense, but my appetite is low.
In a week it will have been one year since I ended my friendship with The Neighbor. One year since he was in my house. One year since we sobbed together. One year since he held me in his arms.
To this day every man I am with is measured against him, our chemistry, his cock. I can’t stop myself. Every time I pull a line and haul a man aboard I wonder if it will be as good with him as it was with TN. When I invite him over and into my bed I pray I’ll feel what I always felt with him. When the man leaves I hope to desire him again. When he speaks I wish to be interested.
Though the answer to all of those things is typically No and I throw him back, head to the next set of pots. The sun on my face, the salt on my lips.
Line after line I pull. Tirelessly, not unhappily. Always looking, always measuring, always the fisherman.