Life imitating art.

C’mon, Baby.

“Mm… I love being with you,” he said as he wrapped his arms around my naked body and pulled me closer to his.

“You’re so curvy and soft,” he kissed my hairline and stroked my hair while his other hand slid along my exposed hip and buttock, “and I could just pet you forever and ever.  I don’t want to stop.”  His hand gripped my skin and kneaded it gently.

I cuddled in closer and hitched my knee up higher over his thigh and wound my legs through his.  This didn’t even feel real.

Looking into his big green eyes didn’t seem real.  Watching his broad shoulders square off above me didn’t seem real.  Feeling his rock hard cock deep inside of me didn’t seem real.  Breathing his breath as I came hard like a river pounding down a mountain didn’t seem real.

“I wish I could stay here all night,” he murmured against my temple.

“I wish you could, too.”

He’d arrived with a blast of cold air at his back and scooped me up into his arms and maybe called me Baby.  His lips were cold and the dog tried to steal my thunder.  I poured him a glass of white wine and we talked about our week apart across my kitchen island.

He periodically came around behind me and nibbled my neck and ear as I shared my silly travails.  I periodically walked around to his bar stool and stood between his knees, a perfect fit for a kiss with this ridiculously tall man.

I ran my hands along his lean sides and I melted into him.  Nothing felt more sexy than his wanting to talk to me about my day.  No one is ever interested in my day.  But Peter is.

And so I took his hand and led him into my pink bedroom with the soft afternoon light and lit a candle.  When I turned around he was on his knees, his face squarely at breast height.  We laughed at the hidden bonuses of being such different sizes and I crushed his pretty face between my jugs.  Oh, Peter.

Our afternoons together are not predictable, but I rely on their presence in my life and he predictably listens, laughs, licks, lusts, and empties his balls into me at least twice so I may leak with his jizz as I go about my night.  No aroma is better than a well-fucked woman with rosy cheeks, after all.  Eat your heart out, perfumers. 

We like to compare ourselves to the Joy of Life painting beside my bed while we bask in our sweat and the fluffy remnants of our orgasms.  Sometimes we are the couple on the lower right, that afternoon at one point we were the couple on the middle left, upright and reaching for one another.

No matter what, we’re on the right track for finding joy in life: naked, together, wanton, dancing in a motherfucking field of velvet hedonism with meadow-scented air.

And if we were actually in that painting, then Peter would never have to go home.

 

 

February Photofest
Masturbation Monday

This is how you lose me and this is how you get me.

How I like to be approached.

Good sex cannot be underestimated.  Its positive effects, its impact on the spirit, its sparkly-ness.  Good sex is like a good meal: memorable in its fleetingness, but much appreciated, and the last time I had good sex was with Peter, probably the day his boss caught us.  It’s been a long fucking time – no pun intended.

I’m too tired to go into details right now, but I saw him again on Friday.  We hadn’t seen each other since before the holidays and we didn’t get out of the foyer with our clothes on.  Lots of kissing and me on my tip toes and him moaning and smiling into my kisses.

A couple of hours and many shared orgasms later he took a shower while I basked in his sweat and cum clinging to my skin.  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said about having to take a shower.   Of course I didn’t mind – this isn’t about hurting his girlfriend, after all.

When he was over me and buried deep inside I gazed into his green, cat like eyes, so happy to be back there with him.  There’s something to be said about a true affinity for someone: it’s lovely, comfort food.

The next night, after a long, boozy day with some besties, a young man came over.  I barely knew his name, but he was tall, polite, and cute, and we talked for hours before I said something sexy like, “Hey, you wanna bang?  Cuz I do.” (I didn’t really, but it was close).  He nodded and the kisses commenced.

His shoulders were broad and his skin soapy and delicious and his mouth was beautiful between my thighs.  I mounted his hips and rode him until he warned me he was going to cum and I told him to just let go and enjoy himself.
He emptied himself into the condom deep inside of me and I rained down around his hips and slipped and slid on his hot, smooth skin.

He dressed in the dark and I wrapped myself in a robe; he winked at me as he rounded the corner down the stairs.  I fell into bed and noticed his belt on the floor.  Whoops.

Peter lamented about us going so long between visits and texted sweet nothings the next day.  Scott, the man with no belt, seemed pleased with himself, but I barely heard from him today.  I still can’t quite figure out why a human would avoid another human whose body they were inside just hours before, but there it is.  He’s done it.

And after contemplating my attachment style these past few days I see no future – even a casual one – with a man who essentially ignored me after his face was buried in my pussy for 30 minutes the night before.  I have no room for that person in my life.

Peter on the other hand… It was like coming home being lost in the deep green pools of his smiling eyes.  Ever attentive and interested in me and my life we talked and came and cuddled and fucked and talked and cuddled some more before he had to head home to his girlfriend.  I’ll never call her “lucky,” because, well, I wouldn’t want to be her, but I hope he’s half as good to her as he is to me because everyone deserves to feel that kind of special.

As for Scott the Belt-less, well… he just doesn’t get it, I guess, and he won’t get me, either.

 

 

February Photofest

I am a fantasy.

I gripped his throat as I bore down on him, clawed at his chest and pinched and twisted his nipples.  My hair hung about my shoulders wild and messy, and my breasts bounced as I rode him until I wore myself out, slumped down by his side and sunk into the mattress and an alcohol-laced sleep.

In the early dawn light his hips pulsed slowly against my rump and I sighed.  I was tired — but he persisted and so I engaged.

I played with his fat morning wood not absentmindedly until he asked that I climb back on top of him.  I obliged.  Tore open the condom, rolled it on.  “Guide you in,” I told him as he lay below me with his arms above his head.

What had been wet had dried and the push in was yummy.  I rocked and he guided my hand back to his throat.  I guided his hands to my breasts.

I worked on him, gently crushing his throat with my hand and rocking my hips, punishing his little nipples.  I filled his greedy mouth with my breasts and he suckled as he curved up inside of me again and again.

I rode him until I exhausted myself and slumped down by his side, deja vu. He began to pulse against me again.  I lifted my legs over his hip and he pushed back inside of me and curled around to my breast and latched on.

Later, as he jerked himself off beside me, he whispered that he wanted me to make him my bitch, code to grab his throat again.  I looked into his eyes and felt a million miles away.  I pinched his nipples and scratched his abs, whispered to him that his jizz was mine.

He came in a tumble and soiled my hand and filled his belly button.

I dozed for a little while, spooning him.  He pulled me closer into his back and seemed to fall asleep.  My alarm went off, the sun had crested and the room was bright, the sky a light grey.  I quickly and quietly dressed as my phone chimed with my ride’s arrival.

He stirred and rolled over, sat up for a peck and a hug and I left, exhausted.  I’m not sure I like fulfilling fantasies.

You don’t know me.
February Photofest

I fucked two guys on Christmas night: A holiday tradition

I sort of mentioned it, but I had my SEVENTH blogging anniversary on December 17th.  It was 8 days later that I decided to post about an incredible Christmas night from the year before, the first time Troy and I met Jack.  It was the launch of a beautiful friendship between the three of us.  Troy eventually got married and embarked on starting a family; his iPhone iMessages are now green texts whenever I reach out to say Hi.  He’s moved on.  Jack is still in my life in a sweet orbit and occasionally we collide.  We rarely see each other but when we do it’s beyond lovely.  He has a new wife. This was originally published 12/25/11 and when I read it today I barely recognize that woman.  My writing has improved exponentially as has my life changed.  I hope you’re all having a lovely holiday season with your loved ones!  I love you all!!  xx Hy

::

Tonight is my one-year anniversary of becoming a libertine and creating a left-of-center, non-vanilla lifestyle. For real.

Prior to a year ago, I was a newly single woman embarking on a non-monogamous dating path. That much I knew. But I didn’t know how far I swung out of the mainstream until a surprise package landed in my lap late December 25th, 2010. That’s when I knew I was forever changed.

Troy was a man I’d men in early November and our sex was electric. I made him cum 4 times our first time and he’s the one who opened my body to wonders I didn’t know existed. He was a demanding, gentle, talented lover, but out of bed he was cruel, punitive, and dismissive. Our sexual affair lasted as long as I could stand until he betrayed me with a friend. I mourn the loss of his cock and skill, but celebrate the freedom from the bullshit.

One of the many things that Troy and I bonded over was our shared fantasy regarding a third man. He wanted to suck a huge cock and I wanted to watch men suck each other.

So we embarked on a hunt via AFF to find a third. Man after man didn’t pass muster. Troy would routinely meet them first to make sure they weren’t creepy, then I’d meet them, but no one clicked. We were becoming discouraged.

Then, it all came together. Like the twinkle in Santa’s eye. It wasn’t planned, it was a happy accident. Suddenly I had two men before me, a fire in my hearth, and cocks all over inside me.

Here’s the story as I documented it one year ago today:

The other night I was suddenly and unexpectedly childless. I invited Troy over for companionship since a trip he had planned for fell through (a wild jaunt in the mountains with an Amazonian Russian doll, no less).

I surprised him with my childless status to which he immediately jumped and texted Jack, a 20-something computer-systems-IT-type dude; European in stature and British in intonation, to come to my house instead of his for an initial meet and greet.

Troy was agitated and nervous as we waited so I pushed him down on my couch and sucked and stroked his cock for a few minutes with expertise, then climbed on top and drenched his hips with my pussy juices as he pile drove into me and came like a rockstar.

Finally Jack arrived. Tall, pale, polite, floppy-haired and bespectacled. The perfectly innocuous third to our fantasy.

I sat on the couch next to Troy. Jack sat in a chair. We chatted. Then someone suggested Jack sit next to me, essentially sandwiching me between them. The men began discussing auto-oral stimulation and I mentioned I loved to sit and hold my breast in my hand like this. Then I asked if Jack would like to hold it. Then I told Troy to hold the other one.

I sat there in stillness. The universe swirled around me as two large, warm male hands each cupped a heavy breast tenderly, eagerly.

“What do you want us to do next, sweet Hyacinth?” Jack asked.

“Kiss my neck,” I firmly replied.

And they did. Two pairs of soft lips on balanced sides of my neck, nibbling away. Their hands kneading and strong on my tits still.

With locks of soft hair brushing one side of my neck and the fine stubble of a shaved head on the other I tell them, “Now unbuckle your pants.” They do and I reach into each of their laps and hold giant, rigid cocks. Jack is 8″+, Troy is close to 8″

All salacious hell breaks loose and the next 3 and a half hours or so are a fucking blur. Literally.

If memory serves me, Jack flipped me on my back, hefted my knees high and peeled off my panties. He fell onto my pussy with gusto while Troy kissed me deeply. It hurt for a few strokes and I had to say, “Flatten your tongue, Jack, flatten it,” to which he did immediately. This went on for a few minutes before things switched gears.

I sucked Jack first. Troy wanted me to lead the way, to break the ice, and I was more than willing. I kneeled before him and spread his legs wide, gripped the base and licked from balls to stern. Jack is thick and my hand was filled with his heat. He was shaved clean, which I don’t ordinarily like, but with the contrast of Troy’s trimming I found it intriguing, titillating, lovely. I deep-throated him like Troy had taught me a couple of days prior but I was sorely lacking so he took over.

I watched in awe as this powerful, 6’6″, broad-shouldered, and athletic man gently took hold of another man’s 8″ cock and tenderly put it in his mouth and. bore. down. Like he was born to it. Someone was probably touching me somewhere — I have no clue — I was spiraling up and up as my fantasy manifested before my eyes.

Things switched again. Jack started fingering me, someone was kissing me, someone was licking my pussy and I was squirting. And squirting. And squirting.

My brain began to shut down and be replaced by my glorious cunt, my nerves, my sensations.

Minutes, hours, an eternity? later I found myself fucking Jack – something neither Troy nor I thought I’d do. He pounded into me. Maybe Troy was there licking my clit? I don’t know.

Maybe we were in my room, maybe the living room. God, I have no fucking clue, even now. I only know that at some point my vibe entered the equation and I was prone over my ottoman in only a bathrobe and two long, naked men at my head and rear.

Jack was under me with three fingers curled deep inside, the vibe held tight to my clit. Troy was at my face, kissing me, whispering how beautiful I was, this was, and his fingers trailed lightly along my back and face as I whimpered and shuttered and cried and came and came and came and poured juices all over Jack’s face beneath me.

They talked about me like I wasn’t there; marveling at my body and its responses to them. I loved hearing every word. They compared their sensations at “bottoming out” with me, how amazing it was; how eager I was; how incredible I felt and how good I tasted.

And I came some more.

Then I sucked Jack with Troy burying himself deep inside of me, essentially controlling Jack’s blowjob with his thrusts. As Troy so aptly pointed out later, I was, literally, a FUCKING COCKSUCKER.

Later, I lay on my back in my bed with Troy to my left and Jack over me and deep inside of me, the vibe at my clit. Jack had never fucked with a Hitachi before and he kept up a steady stream of comments, “Oh my God. She’s clenching. I can feel her. It feels so good. Oh, Hyacinth…”

And then as he came he pulled out, stripped off the condom and Troy sucked him dry, then was suddenly looming over my face, blocking out the light, and snowballing Jack’s yummy, tangy cum into my eager mouth.

I finished myself off with the vibe, Troy’s hand on my throat, Jack quietly waiting at my feet. My mind fragmented. Then Troy says hoarsely, “Hyacinth, I need you to suck me like only you can.” And I did. And he came brilliantly in my mouth, warm and delicious, like heated vanilla.

There were times during the night when I could hear them wondering aloud whether or not they’d “broken me” as I lay trembling and gasping in a literal puddle of my own making.

I always said, “NO. Just give me a minute. Don’t stop.” And they didn’t. They kept going and going, playing off of what each other was doing to me, juxtaposing their strokes, their styles.

The strongest two snapshots I have in my mind from that night are 1) of my face pressed into the ottoman with unimaginable sensation skyrocketing out of my pussy through every vein of my body and Troy’s breath mingling with mine as tears slipped over my cheeks from the sheer magnitude of it all, and 2) of me on my back in my bed, Jack silhouetted to the right, Troy on the left. They’d asked me what I wanted them to do as I held the vibe desperately to my clit, and I’d whispered, “Touch each other,” and they simply did. Just them on their knees, I think they might have touched their chests or maybe just a hand, I don’t know, but it was enough for me to explode in orgasm through every cell of my body.

This event is important for a couple of reasons.

First, my self-esteem seems securely anchored not in the fact that men want me, but that I am, indeed special. Other women are not like me. I have something to offer that few do. Gone are the days of me feeling lacking because I don’t cum easily with men — lo, I’ve only clitoraly orgasmed with four lovers ever and two of them I loved (my only two loves, actually, one by accident and Troy was the 4th).

Men should feel lucky to come across a woman like me who loves sex, loves men, is open-minded, kind, intelligent, fun, and really fucking sweet in her pursuits to be the best lover possilble.

Secondly, I feel like I’ve been given the most precious gift ever: attention. I never, in a million years, expected Jack and Troy to focus all their attention on me. Never. It was the most brilliant gift I’ve ever received. I hope I accepted it with whatever grace and humility I could possibly muster at the time.

After so many years with no attention even remotely charged with sexual energy and then to be the sudden and unexpected recipient of loads of it healed wounds I didn’t know could be healed.

Lastly, It was the beginning of the rest of my sexual life. It opened me to experiences, people, and possibilities I never knew could exist. It was my final puzzle piece. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the launching point for a titillating, salacious year of sex. A brilliantly difficult, but passionate year.

Best Christmas present ever.

Finding a D/s dance partner is one long and lonely night.

I have always known why I want to dominate.

It’s not because it’s taboo or transgressive, or even because I’m in charge.  It’s because in that bubble of time where a man bends his knee to me I can finally let go.

I want to dominate so I may trust.

A year ago I met Nate.  I never really named him other than tagging the name in the footnotes of my writings.  He felt like a shadow to me, sand through my fingers.  I didn’t want to name something I knew would be temporary.

He found me on CollarSpace.  Approached me like a normal man, but respectful.  Not simpering or demanding, an all too common combination in the male sub choice of communique.  Simpmanding.  Demanpering?

We met on an October night at a local wine bar and drank two bottles of wine.  His long legs capped with cowboy boots crossed at the ankles stretched out past our table.  We laughed and talked under the stars for hours until hunger drove us out to find a diner.

He walked me to my car and I let him snake his fingers inside my panties.  He was usually dominant he said.  He kissed me hard, almost painfully, and brought me to climax.  I came down my leg and my juices pooled in my shoes.

At the diner we talked some more and stuffed our faces.  His black leather jacket crinkled and he periodically had to flick his jaw-length blond hair out of his eyes.  “We’ll have to make sure you have a hair tie,” I said mischievously.

We said our goodbyes in the parking lot under a street lamp and tried to hide our lascivious petting from the occasional other diner coming and going.  He dropped to his knees and buried his face in the apex of my thighs.  At 3 am we were virtually alone.

He was an intense A-type workaholic with his own one-man business.  His passion and focus was entirely on his career, but he could no longer ignore this burning need to be dominated.  He wanted the freedom of no control.

He was never very good at just casual sex he said and wanted to make a real connection with someone, not just a one-time thing, which was perfect for me.  When we met I was still licking my wounds after a crushing D/s disappointment and I was refocused on going slowly.

We hung out ol’ vanilla style a few times, established expectations in communication and made out.  He tasted of weed and tobacco and I liked to eye his long hair with disdain.  “You don’t like my long hair, do you?” he’d ask smiling.

“Nope.  Not at all,” I laughed.

Over the next 4 months we played with our deeper drives.  The first night I took control I didn’t change out of my work attire, a black pencil skirt and cream colored silky button down with its own black tie tied loosely into a bow right where the last button held at my cleavage.  His eyes bugged when I opened the door.  The black sash would end up around his neck while his hands and feet were bound.

For weeks he’d come over and I would have a different sash, ribbon, or tie.  A length of pink satin wrapped gently, yet firmly around his ball sac and the base of his shaft, my sash tied through his smile, and the little black velvet ribbon I used to use on The Neighbor bowed about his beautiful, pale neck.

I used my “BDSM Starter Kit” on him and experimented with the flogger, the ball gag and the blindfold.  And while bound and blind I liked to slip a plug a boy had once left behind – a boy whose name I don’t even recall – light pink and slender, angled like a soft little diamond deep into his clenched hole while I milked his cock and he cried out begging to cum.

Nate was tall and lean and he loved to do domestic service for me.  I’d sip wine while I watched him put away the dishes wearing my black lace panties with cherries on them, his pink meat stuffed inside the lace basket.

My room lit with candles offered us the safe space to seek that which we wanted so badly.  His trust in me was an aphrodisiac, his complete submission a harrowing, yet utterly titillating experience.  Every touch, every sound, every kiss and lick I gave was for a purpose: submit to me.

I liked to ride his face until I came with him bucking beneath me for air.  He’d look drunk when I’d slide down his body to suck his cock and sound near-to-tears when I finally gave him permission to fill my mouth with his seed.

Afterwards we liked to sit on my balcony so he could smoke and we could come back to earth and our bodies.  It was during one of these post-coital, aftercare moments that I realized my true drive to dominate.  I wanted to trust him.  I wanted to trust him so badly. 

My relationship with Nate, while brief, was also the first time I said, “No, don’t treat me that way,” when he was vague or slippery about plans.  We talked on the phone semi-regularly to touch base and recalibrate.  He was eager, willing, and listened to me.  I felt heard.

The very last time we were together things felt a little off.  He was distracted and I was struggling to enter my dominant space.  I checked in with him, corrected things and we forged on.

I wore my harness replete with a slender black dildo the length of my middle finger and after cumming twice myself via his face and cock I unbuckled his ankles and put them on my shoulders.  His eyes, uncovered so he could watch, glistened in the candlelight.

I felt an incredible sense of power kneeling over him with my little mini hardon.  He was so open to me, waiting, trusting.  I dribbled lube all over his crack and hole, pushed inside and shuffled closer to the backs of his thighs, and began to thrust as I played with his chubby dick.

The movement to penetrate was harder than I’d imagined.  A foreign curling of my hips and a strength in my thighs I didn’t have.  The more I pumped and fondled the more he strained against me.  I was on the verge of being thrown completely off the bed by his pleasure.  I shook with the effort to  take in the power of his submission, I was about to be on the floor!

“Nate,” I said tapping the rock hard thigh against my chest.  “You have to stop pushing on me.  You’re about to fling me right off.”  We’d have laughed if we weren’t both drowning in power and submission.

He relaxed and I pushed into him further and continued to squeeze and jerk on his cock.  It all felt a bit like patting my head and rubbing my belly, but I was determined to see it all to the end.

He came mightily and I braced myself against his muscles.  He shook and cried and and the air vibrated around us.

I slowly pulled out and grabbed a towel to wipe his bottom.  He was embarrassed there may be a mess.  I told him not to worry and tucked the towel beneath him and unwrapped the harness from my hips.

We lay together, dazed, incredulous that any of it had happened.  As per our little routine we got up, put on robes and went outside.  I could barely move and felt like I had fallen flat on my face from a four story window.  My legs shook with the effort of walking and I would end up hobbling for days.

He puffed on his weed and I sipped on wine under the moon on my balcony.  He left sooner than I was ready, though it was probably an hour.  I’d needed more time to come back into myself.  He seemed eager to run out and I could almost see him waiting the appropriate amount of time until he could.

We’d talk about it – the pegging and the disconnect – and he agreed with everything and validated my feelings.  We would never attempt that level of D/s again unless he was fully submitting.  I felt good about the chat, so did he.  And I’m glad because it was the last one we’d have while engaged with one another in the dynamic.

He called not long after to give me the update that his career taking off and he’d have no time for us.  I wished him well and accepted my fate.  We texted off and on over the months and even had a nice chat.  He was dating a vanilla girl and No, she didn’t know about his predilections.

Since Nate I’ve met one young man, though we had no chemistry; talked with one on the phone who was basically so unintelligible I wondered how he got through life; and have emailed with a dozen more.  My requirements are specific and my need a lazy one so it’s not much of a combination to move the needle towards a match.

Dozens of men a month send me disgusting notes about being my personal toilet or sitting on their faces to the point they pass out.  Demanding that they be dominated because they want it, calling me Goddess and Mistress and all sorts of honorifics as if they’ve earned it.  It’s as exhausting and ridiculous as regular dating, just with a kinky and sometimes disgusting twist.  It’s not all a complete loss, though.

Recently I found a man who ticked all the boxes, though the ink on his divorce wasn’t yet dry and he couldn’t seem to find the time for me.  I told him my interest had waned, but to reach out if things changed on his end.

And – more excitingly – I’ve found an Irishman who is an astoundingly good match – aside from the distance, that is.

He’s everything I could hope for and our emails are long and interesting.  Perhaps I will meet him while I’m in the UK in March.  I’d been seriously considering popping over to Dublin even before he and I began chatting, so maybe this is a good opportunity for me.  Or just another chance to meet someone I can’t have long term.  I seem to be really good at that.

This dance of D/s is so prolonged, so intricate.  There are steps to follow, dips to learn, twirls to master.  My pickiness is born out of slap-in-the-face after slap-in-the-face as I’ve learned the moves of the kinky world.  Some men can’t handle submitting and lash out by disappearing.  I have to be cautious and hold the bar high above my head – oh so high.  It is delicate and fragile, this power exchange, yet empowering and exciting. I can’t fuck around.

I am so clear on what I want and what is acceptable and I never wonder if I’ve made the right choice, but I do miss dancing with someone… and barely being able to walk for days.

I didn’t mean to write this.

I’ve written at least half of another post about Peter.  His impishness, his deliciousness, his joyous energy.  I started it yesterday morning and pecked away at it throughout my day even as he and I reconnected after a weekend of typical silence.

For weeks now, like clock work, we have come together.  Once, occasionally twice a week, but always.  Our texts are brief, but flirty.  Reassuring.  Sometimes we talk about life and the world before I wedge myself between his knees and kiss his sweet face.  Sometimes we don’t make it out of my entryway before we head to my bed.

My orgasms skitter through me like leaves in the breeze, his face wears a beautiful mask of pleasure while he buries himself inside of me.  He tells me how amazing my body is, my breasts, how good my pussy feels.  His sweat beads and drips down on me like a leaky faucet and I brush away his apologies.

“Get me dirty, baby,” I say. “Get me fucking dirty.

I wanted to tell you all how the last time we were together he was busted by his boss thanks to GPS.  He drives a company truck and he’d left his phone in it when he came up to see me.  Two hours later he stood up to remove his socks and come at me for a third time when he suddenly something caught his eye out the open window and he dropped low.

“That’s my boss!” he mouthed, panicked.

He got dressed so fast he left his underpants behind along with a load inside of me.  I wore his underwear the rest of the day and throughout the night.  I loved the reminder of him.

The reminder of our closeness, the trust, the thrill, the fun, the kindness and connection.  I’m a filthy slutty whore, but I am also so sweet it makes my teeth ache.  I want to belong to someone.

And that’s why I couldn’t finish that post.

No matter how kind Peter is – no matter how open, sweet, thoughtful, patient, passionate, kinky, soft, and surprising – he does not belong to me.  I am still alone.  I am still choosing the unavailable man.

It makes me so sad to write that.  I’m embarrassed.  I know better, right??  Or maybe I don’t.  It’s so much easier to get fucked than it is to get loved.  I can get fucked any hour I want, but love is so much more elusive and painful to obtain.

If I take stock of my life and am truly honest, I am sad.  And tired.

I can’t rely on my family – they’re hit or miss – and my local friends are best when it’s convenient for them.  I have pulled away from everyone in my life and over the past few months I have pulled away from the blog.  Or maybe it’s been years.

I don’t have anything new to say.  It’s the same shit, different day.  I’m still a lonely fool.  Nothing new here, guys.

At the start of the year I was in London with my people and I felt so loved and special and appreciated. Safe.  I spent a couple of magical days with Jean Claude, but he fell apart and disappeared.  Easy to fuck, hard to love.

Then there was Elliot and I fell hard for him.  I walked around in this blissful pink fog that whispered to me, “He’s safe..”  He said all the right things and it seemed like he was going to love me right up until the moment he couldn’t.  Or wouldn’t.  I don’t know.

Peter swept in at about that time and has been kissing my booboos ever since.

There have been so many other men peppered throughout.  Walker who drove himself right through me, The Doctor, The Aussie.  Smart, interesting men who loved to fuck me, but loving me was never even an option.  They weren’t soul-less.  Loving me was just never an option.

I think a lot about how isolated I am.  After a long day sometimes I cry on my way home because I know my house is empty.  Tonight I tearfully put on my pajamas and daydreamed about having a man who loved me who’d take one look at me wearily climbing the stairs and say, “Come here, Hy.”

He’d take me into his arms, rip my shirt off and stuff his face with my breasts, push me against a wall, dip his fingers into me and let me cry as he fit the rest of himself inside of me.  He wouldn’t be afraid of my tears; he’d understand his gift and my broken appreciation of his offering, my need for release, escape and love.

Peter has talked about a weekend together in January when his girlfriend leaves town to visit a friend.  Another stolen moment, not mine, just borrowed and molded into something that resembles mine.  Hours on hours of us just being together.  I cannot even imagine it.  When was the last time that happened?  Jean Claude, I suppose, but that was an extraordinary situation and wracked with its own issues.

There’s a British man I met on AFF who wants to undress me and explore my body.  We haven’t even met yet.  How can he know he wants to do that?  Of course he’s not looking for anything serious.  I’m not serious.  I’m the epitome of fuck me and leave me.

There’s another potential sub who wants to meet me in his own nervous way.  Things appeared promising until he went dark. As usual, I am a novelty attached to his own uncertainty.  Another dead end.

I am going to deactivate what profiles I can.  My heart hurts and the more I talk to men who want my body the more alone I feel.  I want a man to want all of me.  A man I’m attracted to, not some less than appealing schmuck with a pipe dream.  That hurts, too: to be wanted by those I don’t want.  Reminds me of how stupid it all is.

I meant to write a post about how satisfied I am with my quiet little life.  With Peter’s weekly visits and my career.  With my every-other-week dinners-for-two with my little one and occasional emails or texts with potential lovers.  With my busy and involved life of friends and family and my pursuit of better health.  But that is what I want you to know about me.

The truth is I long.

I long for better relationships and deeper connections.  I long to be seen, understood, appreciated.  If only there were one person on this planet who thought of me beyond their penis or what’s convenient for them.  My sister, my mother, my friends and lovers.  Am I even real to them?  Have I convinced them all I don’t need anything more from them?

Maybe I have.  Maybe in my pursuit to survive on almost nothing from others I have misled everyone into believing it’s all I need when what I really need is my very own Peter all to myself.  Someone to wipe away my tears and tear my body apart with his.  To hold me while I crumple and applaud the loudest when I take big, bold strides.

I also need a best friend who will forgo her own schedule to be there for me.  A mother who is consistent, a sister who doesn’t judge.

And I’m sad because I know I am going to lose my Peter some day.  It’s inevitable.  He and I can only go so far.  We don’t talk about the landing.  We’re just locked together mid-air.  Will I nail it?  Or will my knees buckle?

The only person in my life who makes me feel special, wanted, and sane isn’t even mine.  He’s someone else’s.  How fucking stupid am I??

Time to clean up my mascara now.  I’ve cried a river writing this.  It’s hard admitting you’re a lonely clown.

My sweet Peter with Faisal.

I am a Super Mom.

Picture first, then all the words.

Peter is a ray of sunshine in my cloudy, lonely, busy, lovely, exhausting, fun and complicated life.  Each week we send a few texts; sexy, funny, flirty.  We narrow down a time to meet and we make it happen.  In my office on rare occasions, but mostly in my little apartment with dozing animals and late afternoon sunshine as our backdrop where I get to see the green of his eyes.

Yesterday he darkened my doorway with a smile and a sweet kiss hello.  I gave him a Topo Chico and he sat on a kitchen bar stool while I wedged myself between his knees and we talked forever like we always do and I melted against him.

“I like this height thing,” I said and dipped my head just a smidge to kiss his soft lips.

I’m barely taller standing than he is sitting.  We laughed into each other’s smiles and ran our hands along each other’s arms and chests.  He cupped my breasts and moaned, pulled my “Super Mom” shirt up and over my head.  My bare breasts bounced between us and I arched my back.  He knew what to do.

I held his dark head to my breast and leaned into his wet, suckling mouth, pulled back and tore his work shirt off and matched up our nipples and wriggled a little.

He stood up and towered over me.

“Well there goes that height equity,” I quipped.

He took my hand and I led him back to my room.

Eyeing my bed I laughed, “But we’ll be equal again in a minute.”

Naked and astride his narrow hips I stuffed him inside of me and rocked and rolled on him with abandon.  He grabbed the hams of my ass and massaged them against his shaft until we both lost our shit entirely. Moaning and groaning, cussing and thrusting.

His beautiful face focused on mine as I sought release atop him, careful to leave no marks on him with my clutching, pawing hands.  He tasted salty and sweet as he gritted against his own pleasure, my green-eyed beast of a man.

Once, twice, three times I lost myself in his breath and deep, wet kisses with him buried entirely inside of me.  I grabbed my Hitachi and pressed it against my mound as he twitched and gently bucked against me.  I came like a banshee that time and collapsed on top of him as he finally let go and came with me, dumping all his delicious jizz into my hungry little body.

“Fuuuuck,” we said, and laughed and panted together conspiratorially.

We talked and giggled some more until I noticed the beautiful late afternoon light filtering in through my window.

“Can I take some pics of you for the blog?  The lighting is so good right now.”

He said yes and I fluttered around him adjusting sheets and clicking my phone and pressing my body against his and clicking some more.  I felt shy and awkward, but really didn’t want to lose the light or the opportunity.

I mentioned writing something about this moment and he said he’d want to read it.  I admitted to having already written about him.  “Oooh, I want to read!” he said as he buried his face in my breasts.

I held him close and laughed.  The truth is I’m nervous to have him read me, but am willing.  He didn’t press and I didn’t offer more.

I clicked the camera a few more times – click click click – before we showered and washed away all remnants of our sex with the little green and white stripped bar of soap a girlfriend brought me from New Zealand.

“Does she ever leave town?”  I asked.  He knew what I meant.

“She’ll be visiting her sister’s new baby in January for a whole weekend,” he answered.  “Would you like to have an overnight??”

“Fuck yeah, I would,” I said and pulled his face down to mine for a kiss.

I gathered the socks for him the dog had squirreled away while we were busy and  finished our tryst with more smiling kisses on my tip toes.  Time with Peter is at once long-lasting and quick and I wished I wasn’t saying goodbye.

“Bye, gorgeous,” I called to him just before he rounded the corner to the stairs.

“Bye, sexy,” he called back.

I locked the door and finished getting dressed then scurried off to an event for Pey, filled to the brim with Peter.  Just like a good Super Mom should.

 

Ed. Note: Pic posted with Peter’s permission.

Sinful Sunday

Sex is NOT a performance (though everyone seems to think it is).

Every time I see Peter I am surprised.

“You and your underwear never cease to amaze me,” I laughed one day as he stood in my office with his neatly pressed khakis around his thighs.  “Are you wearing any??  I can’t tell!”

We fell into each others arms in a fit of laughter, his camouflaged briefs pressed against my belly.

Moments later we were on the floor careful not to make any noise.  His sock-clad naked body pushing into my clothed one, his mouth on mine until we both came in muffled cries.

We’ve been able to get together roughly once a week for weeks now.  A serendipitous run-in at the grocery store one afternoon reminded us both of our mutual admiration for one another and we’ve been going steady ever since.

He tirelessly listens to my rambling stories.  “I like them,” he says simply when I apologize for going on too long yet again.

He’s devastatingly good-looking and I can’t seem to stop myself from telling him how damn pretty he is.  He works a blue-collar job that requires him to roam about the city and it’s not lost on the women whose homes he has to visit.  He has at least a handful of Penthouse Letter quality stories of his own.

“This one time a college-aged girl answers the door completely topless,” one story began.

“So yeah, I banged her on her couch before I left,” it ended.

Age has no effect on diminishing his appeal to the fairer sex, either.  “Aren’t you a tall drink of water!” a wrinkled little old lady once said.

He listens to my escapades, my feminist rants, all the lessons I’ve learned about sex and dating, my philosophies and outlooks on life.  He takes care of his father and is friends with his mother.  His guilty (and secret) pleasure is cooking shows of all kinds.  We share a culinary vocabulary and interest not commonly found.  He’s home every night by 6 or 7 like his girlfriend expects, but he is open to any and all adventures before the clock strikes.

When Peter and I first began fooling around 3 years ago his erections were rarely a part of our experience.  Simply put, like so many other men, condoms made him wilt.

What made him different, though, was that without missing a beat he put his hands and mouth on me from stem to stern until I could take no more.  Then we’d cuddle and talk as if time stood still, sweaty and his face reeking of me.  I basked in his attention and freedom from toxic masculine expectations.

Orgasm is fun.  Penetration is fun.  But what’s even better is a pleasurable experience.  Pleasure from being seen, pleasure in being devoured, pleasure in being tangled and touched and tantalized.

When sex is about rushing blood to a piece of flesh it’s diminished – literally – into a sum of its parts.

We fuck during the day, sober as church mice.  There’s no hiding or obscuring each other, no soft candlelight to hide my rolls or dimples, my little brown asshole.  I am exposed to his hungry gaze in every way. And I am blessed with consuming every inch of his long, lithe body.

I get lost in watching the muscles along his rib cage shimmer with each  thrust, the cuts and shadows down along his arms and shoulders braced above me.  And what I’ve learned is that when he sees my eyes, dark blue and true, his pleasure seems to spike.

I can sense it in my body, see it on his face.  When I show up below him and allow him in to my person with open eyes it’s the single hottest thing I can do.  And it has nothing to do with his penis.  It has to do with me enjoying myself.

There is a cultural belief that men are simple, that all they need is a willing partner and he’ll be good to go.  Gay, straight, bi, it doesn’t matter.  The trope is that men are “red-blooded” and therefore “easy” to turn on.  Nothing could be further from the truth.

Men are complicated, magical creatures.  Sensitive, complex, afraid.  They carry a tremendous burden to be expected to know everything about sex for both themselves and their partners, and those partners erroneously rely on his hardon as proof that they’re attractive or “doing it right.”

I cannot imagine the weight of that expectation.  It would cripple me.

Sex isn’t a performance, it’s a partnership, an experience.  No one is putting on a fucking show – no pun intended.  We are doing it together, to one another for our own personal gains.  That’s the way it should be.  I use you to get me off and you use me, all tied together, as one, willing our bodies to be conduits of pleasure for the other.

I have never thought men were simple, but I have certainly relied on their belief that they were.

I’ve silently demanded a stud in my bed and been disappointed when they couldn’t deliver.  They expected to perform for me and I let them think that’s what they needed to do.

I wonder how my sex life may have been different had I stepped in and said, “Honey, I’m part of this, too.”  Would they have listened to me?  Would they have even heard me??  Enough men have yelled at their limp dicks or left in a shameful rush for me to wonder if that were true.  I promise you, I’ve tried a handful of times.

These days I’m approaching each liaison I have with the intent to connect and be present for a whole person, not just his erection.  It’s enabled me to have much better sex than I had been having.  My young friend, Walker, for example.  The Aussie, The Doctor, Peterrrrrr, the true definition of a friend with benefits.

It’s amazing what can happen when two people actually treat each other as more than only a vagina or penis.

 

 

 

I thought of Girl on the Net while fucking.

It’s true.

She strutted into my thoughts all English and lovely and long-legged and stupidly smart late yesterday afternoon while a 6′ tall Australian man was doing his best to kill me with his giant cock.

I lay beneath him with my eyes tightly shut and thrashed about – as per normal – and thought about a tweet I’d seen of hers a few days before.

I’m not much of a Twitter user – it overwhelms me – but I caught one of her tweets last week about a post she’d written.  I hadn’t even read it when she came bursting into my thoughts, but the title and her comments in the tweet were more than enough: Eye contact challenge: can you keep your eyes open for an entire fuck?

Well, my answer is a resounding NO and it has always been NO.  I could probably count on one hand – 2/5 of my hand actually -the number of times I’ve gazed into a lover’s eyes longer than .75 seconds at a time from beneath passion fluttered lids.  It makes me want to die.

Like the kind of cringey, never show your face again, humiliating, you can’t look at that it’s too much information about me kind of dying.

So imagine my surprise when GotN’s challenge creeped into my grunts of More!, Deeper, Yes, I love that huge Aussie cock!

I looked up and he was staring at me grinning from ear to ear.  “I love your smile when I’m inside of you.  Just love it.”  His pale blue eyes were crinkled, his face red and brows furrowed.  He was devouring me.  I shut my eyes.  Was I supposed to look back at him like I was going to conquer him, too??  wouldn’t I look ridiculous?

We fucked like animals for a good 20 minutes, deep and punishingly.  He folded me up and turned me this way and that and I was relieved when he turned me around for a spell.  I could finally NOT look at him in peace.

But the final move was with me half hanging off the mattress with him on his knees.  I’d suggested he put on his bright blue sneakers for traction on the wooden floors and laughed at the preposterous image.  A Nike ad, but with sex.

I was going to really do it this time.  I was going to look longer than it took for him to complete a sentence.  “Do you want me to keep fucking you or do you want me to cum all inside of you?”

It was an easy choice.

“Fill me up,” I panted.

I watched him look down at me as his orgasm passed across his features like a wave.  He looked so lost in himself but still with me, comfortable with it all.  I thought, I kinda did that. 

I still failed miserably at GotN’s challenge, but I am now wondering why the fuck I have this aversion to allow someone to look into my eyes.  I know he’s already staring at me – the joy of being male with his sex organ placed on the front of his body, I suppose – so why can’t I look back?

I avoided looking at TN, too, so it’s not just FWBs.  I couldn’t bear to look in my exhusband’s eyes, either, though I may have tried a time or two.  I don’t deny wanting to keep people away from me even while they’re buried balls deep between my legs.  My body, my rules. It’s just odd that even after all these years I continue to employ these little tricks to not connect with people.

So, ok, challenge accepted, GotN.  I’ll look into his fucking eyes next time whoever it is.  I hope you’re happy.

 


Filthy rooms, giant cocks, and deep conversations.

I was in constant flux today.  I didn’t know what to do.  Should I keep my date with The Aussie or just stay home and continue with my Game of Thrones binge?

I went on a date with the two men who are a couple yesterday.  We met for brunch and mimosas and I worked hard to sort out all the dynamics.  The Puppy was overly eager while the Tom Cat was purring and charming.  I was at once drawn in and repelled.

I lied and said I had late afternoon plans.  All I wanted to do was to be alone so I left them with my excuses, got a pedicure and strolled around Target like a retiree.

This morning I had a riding lesson – horses and barn smells and a nice hot morning – then plans to see a movie with The Aussie, but I wasn’t sure I’d have the energy to leave the house.  Ambivalence coursed through me like my blood.  What’s the difference if I just stay home alone?

He texted right as I parked in front of the barn.

“Hey gorgeous!  When and where shall we meet?”

I ignored the text until I was done.  The horse in cross ties, the cool water from my hand splashed on his back, I felt at peace and energized.  Yes, I’d see him.

He was pleased.

After the movie – intense and lingering – I tried to get him to come back to my apartment, but he made excuses about Uber budgets.  I didn’t hide my reluctance, I know, but back to his shitty, dingy co-op we went.

I set my timer for one hour.  If we weren’t done fucking by then I wasn’t going to stay a minute longer.

Walking up to the co-op I cringed.  The eaves were broken off and splintered, trash lay about the front door.  He let us in and I walked past more garbage in the hallway and dirt on the floor.  His room was clean, but the bed was stripped and only a pile of sheets lay atop it.  Was I supposed to fuck on that? He’d told me his bed was inherited, covered in cat piss.

He poured us some wine and I sat gingerly in his office chair and eyed the bed he sat on like it was going to spit on me.

We discussed politics and socio-economic influences.  He was eager to fill the room with words.  I continued to watch the bed and count the minutes.  My alarm chimed.

“I have to leave soon,” I said.

He smiled.  “Ok, so let’s fuck.  I just really enjoy our chats.”

“Is there something we can use to cover the bed?”  I grabbed a neatly folded blanket from behind me.  “Like this?”  He nodded as he pulled his shirt off over his head.

“I know this is all very romantic,” he laughed.

I spread the blanket on the mattress and sat down and watched him undress.  I’ve always loved men’s utter lack of shame.  They all seem so comfortable in their own skin.

He undressed me and soon we were coupled.  I screamed and cried, he told me how much he loved my smile.  His feet kept slipping on the wooden floors so he had to put on his sneakers.  I would have laughed, but I was too busy cumming.

And then he finally filled me up moments before my next alarm went off.

“Will you see me when I’m back in February?” he asked.

“Of course.”

I quickly redressed and I scanned the room again.  The mattress on the floor, the random office chairs doing double duty as laundry baskets, his shoes neatly lined up in front of the bricked-over fireplace, the drawn curtains.  I won’t miss this disgusting place and I don’t think I’ll miss him.  He’s a good fuck, but that’s all it is.  Best to leave it there.

Next time – in February or my dreams – it will be in my beautiful, clean home with the pressed sheets and nice clean surfaces.  I’m certain I won’t waffle then.