We’re all just here to hurt one another.

I’m in a mood.  A bad mood.

I spent another magical night with The Golfer last night – our eighth since February.  He’d texted to confirm that morning that he would be too busy to hang out and said he didn’t want to disappoint me by making plans.  Two hours later he took it all back and asked me to come over at 4.  He apologized again.

Suddenly it all made sense.  He was actually thinking of me all week, worried about letting me down.  He wasn’t being a dick; I found it a kind gesture and agreed to come over at 6.

He met me at the door with a giant, sparkly smile and wrapped his arms around me from behind and filled his hands with my breasts.  He may have nibbled on my neck.  He told me his plan to talk to me, bathe me, tease me, feed me, then fuck me and that’s just what he did.

We took a shower together then fit ourselves together like a puzzle in the Japanese soaking tub and he massaged my chest and breast bones and watched me intently as my head lolled and my eyes pinched shut from the attention.

We sucked and fiddled with each other and both came close to cumming before we remembered The Plan.  Sushi arrived, we dove in to the food, me wrapped in his monogrammed robe, and then we went at it.

I clawed and bit him as he ravaged me with his perfect cock.  He rained down blows on my ass and hips and twisted and bit my nipples until I cried.

I came so hard I hiccuped my ecstasy and when he finally came buried deep in my ass I sobbed and laughed as eveyr cell I have seemed to fuse into one giant ball of molten feels.

We took another shower and fell asleep an arms reach apart.

I didn’t sleep again.

I dreamt that Dream TG callously dismissed me the next morning with a brushing away motion of his hand as he looked at important papers.  Go, Hy.  I won’t be walking you out.  Bye.  I was devastated and humiliated.

I awoke with a headache and sense that I’d only been asleep for an hour or two.  I got some water and went back to bed and hoped we’d fuck again in the morning.  We didn’t.

He quietly got up and let his dog out and got in the shower.  I took that as my cue to leave and got dressed while he casually watched from the shower.

“Do you want me to help you with the bed?” I asked him.

“No, that’s ok,” he answered, looking me up and down with a hungry look.  That was new.  Usually it’s just a look.

“Ok.  I gotta get home to the dog.  Thanks for everything last night.”  I opened the shower door to kiss him goodbye.

“Thank you,” he replied and gave me my usual peck on the corner of my mouth.  I’d hoped using his mouthwash might encourage a real kiss, but I was wrong.

I drove home listening to Lizzo with the windows down.  The post-dawn roads mostly empty, my body and mind still.  So this is how it is.

We smoked pot and drank wine and laughed so hard I cried.  We flirted and fucked and talked about what I don’t know.  Then the sun rose and it was all over.  Poof.

And as much fun as it all was I spent a tremendous amount of time processing our interactions: why don’t we touch when we sleep?  why don’t we fuck in the morning?  why won’t he kiss me on the mouth?  why has he said stupid things to me about other women?  why don’t we see each other more often if he knows what we have is so rare?  I was completely emotionally exhausted and couldn’t wait to see Peter for our Sunday pool date, to fill up on his sweet, loving energy.

I needed a hug and I knew he’d wrap me in his arms, kiss me, tell me how much he loved hanging out with me and hang on every word I said.

Home and still warm and buzzing from TG I texted him before 8 asking if he’d like to come over around noon or 1. At 10 he texted back to say he’d just woken up, but wasn’t feeling that well.  He was hungover; he’d be over at 1.

At 1 he texted to say he was freaking out – he’d found blood when he went to the bathroom -and he was en route to an emergency clinic and he’d call me as soon as he could.  I haven’t heard from him since and am not all that surprised.

I also don’t believe any of it.

I think he’s hungover and wanted to hang out with his new lady and I couldn’t quite argue against blood in his urine, now could I?  Short of emergency surgery or death, there’s no reason he couldn’t text me an update or answer any of my worried follow up texts.  None.

But the point is: I don’t trust him.  And if I’m honest, I don’t trust anyone.

People are dangerous, men even more so: they take and use and discard.  They’re precious and weak.  They’re selfish, unenlightened, and fragile.  And I bear it all like blisters on my skin, suffering, but still able to function and hike the mountain.

The Vet answered some recent veterinarian questions for me the other day and we briefly caught up.  I called him on his offer to be friends, but I know that was just bullshit.  He’s done nothing to foster a friendship since he said that’s what he wanted.  And despite saying he couldn’t handle even something casual I can see his online activity in search of such a thing.

My loneliness hit a peak as I sat on my couch, my makeup recently touched up for Peter’s imminent arrival, and my child’s absence palpable.  I put my head in my hands and cried.  Why does no one want me?  Why am I so bad at this??

Then I thought of the wife of the married man I’m talking to and how she thinks her life is perfect.  She thinks she has a loving and devoted husband – and she does – but he is also duplicitous and conniving.  She would be obliterated with the knowledge of what her husband does for his survival.  She’s “got someone” and it’s about the cruelest kind of fantasy one can have.

And I thought of the friend with a lifelong partner who’s a raging alcoholic who’s nearly lost his job because of it and only miraculously not killed anyone when he’s wrecked his car during blackouts.

And of the friend who’s cheated on her husband over the years as she’s dealt with his neglect and battled her depression and sense of unworthiness.

And of the friend whose baby daddy comes and goes as he pleases and isn’t reliable.

They’ve all “got someone” and I wouldn’t want what they have just so I wasn’t so alone on a sunny Sunday afternoon in June.  But I’m still sad.  I’m still lonely.

I swiped a thousand times on my reloaded dating apps and lazily browsed through Instagram when I came across this:

View this post on Instagram

 

I have such a crush on this guy. He repeatedly shows me how big his heart is and that it’s the little things that make up the best part of a relationship. After replacing my license plate covers at 5:30 in the morning because I forgot to the night before a road trip, and then setting out a beer in ice for when I returned from said road trip after being stuck for HOURS without snacks and a bathroom break (and not letting me enter till I had a few sips to relax), I’m reminded how lucky I am to have him as my sidekick through this life. He constantly makes me want to be a better version of myself and to continue to grow in love, patience and kindness ❤️ now I just gotta find some creative ways to repay him 😉

A post shared by Becca Kufrin (@bkoof) on

It hit me like a ton of bricks.  Everything this reality tv star wrote is what I have longed for my entire life: to be seen.

I’ve never had a boyfriend or husband do anything remotely close to this.  I’m so starved for attention that when anyone does the absolute minimum that would constitute human decency I feel softened from the inside out.  It’s nothing short of pitiful.

I haven’t lost sight of my two big epiphanies, either: I have long entangled getting something from a man with him loving me; I do things for others in order to make myself feel special to them – they don’t make me feel special to them.

These broken survival skills are most obvious in my dating life, but easily apply to my life in general.  I don’t feel seen by my friends, either.  They overlook me and fit me in when convenient, even when I’m explicit in my need for help or caring.

It’s like we’re all just here to hurt one another.  Take one look at the news and it’s confirmed: babies crammed in rooms with no beds, separated from their families, my rights to my body being stolen away, one state at a time, more assault victims being panned and crucified.

And in my pocket, my little corner of the world, wives are being lied to, burdened and hurt, men are stifled and stunted.  I’m constantly being slighted and cast aside.

I’ve come at it from every angle.  Caring, not caring, hard, soft, all ages, all attractiveness levels.  I’ve abstained, I’ve indulged.  I’ve paid for dating services and done all the free ones, I’ve done nothing, too.  I’ve been Me across the board and all I feel I have elicited is an erasure of myself.

No matter how hard I try to draw the outlines of myself to the world I seem to remain hidden.  Except here.  Here I am seen, here I am real, here I am heard.

I’ve never needed Hy more.  I’ve also never needed someone more.  Looks like it’s gonna have to be me…

 

 

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Password Level achieved.

I dig his little idiosyncratic spelling of “cum.”

“Fuck I can’t wait to get soaked in your fucking cumm,” he texted at 8 am Sunday morning. “Can we start now?” I asked where he was.

“The country club.”

We had plans later that day for me to come over again and watch the next episode of Game of Thrones. He would text more throughout the day. A video of him playing with his hardon (“I have never sent anyone something like this,” he’s told me), little notes about the day dragging on and his eagerness to see me. Finally I was able to commit to arriving at 4 pm.

Two weeks earlier I’d arrived around 6:30 for GOT. Sushi was on its way and I brought a bottle of his favorite, a Malbec — and some American Spirits Yellow at his request.

“You’re so nice to me,” he purred into my neck as he wrapped his arms around me from behind while I set my things down on the kitchen island.

I had butterflies; he oozed sex. The kind of sex that was terrifyingly exciting, the kind that nurtured an apprehensive unease and simultaneous thrill not unlike looking up at the massive roller coaster with 14 corkscrews and 3 loops at 100 mph and wondering how you’ll survive it.

But survive it that night I did. Sushi never came as it was supposed to, but I sure fucking did.

We rewatched the week’s previous episode and I spread my knees for him while he stared intently at my pink puss. His reverence and delight emboldened me to show him what I otherwise am shy about. His fingers pulled my lips apart and dipped inside. He disappeared into his room and came back with a fuchsia colored silicone egg with a long tail.

He squeezed it and it buzzed and pulsed then he slipped it inside of me. He’d bought me another toy, apparently. How thoughtful.

The toy was only a novelty, though, and soon we were naked in his bed writhing and grappling with one another like Grecian wrestlers. His cock, thick and angled just-so, pressed my release buttons and I drenched the bedding and screamed and bucked with joy.

His depth of desire has no bounds, nothing is off limits. It’s like I’m a mountain to be conquered and no crevice or swell is off limits. His tongue bathed me from head to toe, his fingers found every hole, his cock, too.

We showered and he peed on me again, delightfully. His watchful hazelnut eyes on my blue ones, registering my reaction. I smiled at his mischievousness and turned my bottom towards the stream unbothered.

We paused only long enough to watch that week’s episode, curled up on one another on the couch. When it was over we were naked again. My Hitachi – thoughtfully plugged in by him – drove me up over the moon as he railed up hard and deep inside of me. My cunt rained on us both and I sobbed unabashedly, spent, completely soaked in my own cum, and entirely out of my body.

I had watched him, as if from a seat in a theater, pull my cum which had pooled in his belly button and spread it across his chest and lick his palms clean. One hand guided my hips and his other pressed on my clit as I gyrated wildly on top of him uncaring of how things jiggled or swung. I was nothing but my electric pleasure and he was the conduit. His cock, ever hard, fascinated me and seemed inhuman, robotically stiff. Who the fuck is this man??

We would take periodic breaks for a cigarette, a sip of wine, or a bit of weed. Did I even walk the earth that night or did I simply float from couch to bed to backyard in a ghostly coital haze?

He finally came while in my ass with the Wand buzzing mightily against my mound. I think I found God.

We padded back into the living room and finally sorted out the sushi situation. I ate like it was my last meal then left at 11:30 with a chaste peck on the corner of my mouth from him at the door.

The following Saturday (on my custody week) found him drunk and drugged to the extent he canceled on me an hour before we were to meet. “Crushed” is too strong a word; I felt crumpled. I did a new thing where I said how I felt and left it at that, then held my breath for his reaction the next morning and was relieved that it was human; I could look forward to our next GOT date.

I arrived as promised at 4 pm with a bottle of white, my Hitachi, and his requested box of Yellows. Driving through his posh suburb by the golf course I felt my skin burn with anticipation and wickedness. On the street children played and mothers hovered, trees literally dripped with swinging, laughing kids as I drove towards my suburban den of iniquity.

Butterflies roared in my belly as I rang the doorbell. His great big, black floofy dog barked and the door cracked. His bare shoulder, then face, peeked out. He smiled and pulled the door open for me to step in. He was naked, his cock ramrod straight. He grabbed me and kissed me passionately. I tried not to press the chilled wine against his bare skin.

This Sunday was more of the same, except I was worried if my ass could take another pounding so soon after one from the night before with The Vet. Spoiler alert: it did just fine. We toked, we poked, we joked.

Out back taking long, slow drags off a shared cigarette I announced after countless orgasms and buckets of our cum – his included – that I had officially reached “password level.”

“‘Password level’?” he asked.

“Yeah, like, if I were captured by the enemy if they made me feel this good I’d tell them anything they wanted to know,” I could swear the rose bushes shook with a giggle at me. “I’d make a real shit spy.” He laughed, seemingly happy with himself.

“Fuck, you are so goddamned sexy! UGH!” he said as he snatched his hand off my knee. “I can’t touch you anymore! I have nothing left in me, but if I do, I’ll try and I’m just so tired,” he said mostly to himself. I could barely sit upright in my chair.

He had used the pink butt plug on me that I’d brought over. My plan had been to use it on him while I sucked him off, but he had other plans. After our second shower – and even before GOT started at 8 – under the thick blanket of lust that lay upon us he spread my ass cheeks and buried his tongue in my hole. I squirmed and squealed, horrified and titillated all at once. He licked and sucked and ate like it was a piece of juicy fruit until I felt a prick and a push and he was inside of me.

He pumped while I came and cried and then he was gone, but something else was inside: the butt plug. He lay down and pulled me on top of him and as I double penetrated myself with his meat he passed me the Hitachi. Dear Lord, please have mercy on my soul.

I screamed like a wild animal and clawed at his pale skin. He hissed as a rush of liquid spilled down over his abdomen and cried out with me when we came like thunder together. I shook uncontrollably, kissed his neck and stifled my sobs. My feet didn’t touch the ground again after that. How could they possibly?

We showered a last time then went to have that cigarette where the rose bushes laughed at me. Finally we watched the show and I absentmindedly played with his cock. I had absolutely nothing left in me. I was a bag of flesh and bones, him too, I assume. He’d cum twice and showered three times with me. I lost count of my orgasms after number ten.

When it was time to go I gathered my things. He’d brought me my Hitachi and cleaned butt plug and I put them in the paper bag that had carried the wine. I laughed that it looked like I was leaving with a bottle, when really it was a bag of sex toys.

He wrapped his arms around me from behind and I turned my face to kiss him. He dodged my lips and kissed the corner of my mouth and walked me to the door.

Face to face I tried to kiss him goodbye, but his lips landed on the corners of my mouth again, but I didn’t care. I smiled, happy anyway even if he couldn’t kiss me, and thanked him for yet another wonderful time, then floated out to my car.

I’m pretty sure the rose bushes were still laughing: password level achieved.

Being alone together.

I needed that big, hot cock buried full tilt in my ass just like that.  With the world melted away in streaks and the sounds of the city clinging to my skin like sweat, his big hands gripped onto the softness of my hips.  I needed to feel myself from the inside out, to feel a big body slide against mine, a soft mouth on the apex of my legs, to laugh from ear to ear when we realized we were both carrying around LEGO men with us.  I needed this.

I came to London to runaway again, just like the last two times.  To escape the stifling real life of home where Hy exists only beneath the surface and between the sheets and where I struggle to combine the two very complete sides of me into a whole woman.  London is where I ooze and pulse and flow in all my exposed, dirty glory.

I came with him rooted deep inside of me and loosed my joy in rivulets down my thighs.  We collapsed like two dominoes briefly before he went to the shower to clean himself up.

He’d booked me this room in Soho and I’d wandered here aimlessly after my Eroticon goodbyes.  It was a pretty nice room after I’d upgraded it from a tiny hole-in-the-wall.

He had to work late and sent many apologies.  “Shall I meet you in the lobby?”

He was tall, bespectacled, nerdy.  My type.  I had to work to keep up to his long Londoner pace to the restaurant around the corner, a Scottish seafood place.  Over wine we unraveled our stories, our trials.  He met me as me, not Hy, but I immediately outted myself.

“Actually, I’m here for a convention…” and so the story goes.  Secret sex blogger, it’s a big part of my life, Instagram account, been doing it for 7 years, won awards, etcetera, etcetera, blah blah blah.  His eyes lit up.  He seemed to see it as a bonus.

We laughed at the ridiculous way we’d met, but really, he said, “It was just easier.”  He worked 60+ hours a week and every weekend, without fail, he traveled hours back to where his little boy lives with his ex.  “All I can do is this,” he motioned between the two of us.  “And few women understand.  I want intimacy, but I can’t offer more.  It all goes to my son.”

I nodded knowing all too well that drive to connect in any way possible while life swirled around and swept me out to sea far from the shore of another person.  “I get it,” was all I said.  “I really, really get it.”

Sitting there with him at that little marble table something happened to me again, that very thing I seek in the big, dark city of London: I opened up like some great force was attached to a zipper tab pulling down.  All the way, unzippered, exposed, opened up, me flapping in the wind.

The dim candle light which flickered lazily lit my unveiling.  Nothing was off limits for either of us.  Heartbreaks, family, love lost, babies, fears.  And then it was time to go and I had no doubts for our imminent future together.  I wanted to be even closer to this stranger.

Outside he reached for my hand – such a little thing that no one ever does – and I clasped it warmly.  He pulled me into his arms and kissed me softly as we stood on a busy corner like we had done this before.

I nearly skipped back to the room; my heart was open, my hand held, my loins alert.

In the room I grabbed a pad of hotel paper and drew a gallows and ten dashes.  He guessed my BUTT FUCKER and I guessed his PEEPING TOM.  SEND NUDES, BOXERS OR BRIEFS, SQUIRTER, and so on with the giggles and innuendos and references to things we’d talked about over that lazy candle on the marble table.  We couldn’t seem to lose so I upped the ante.  It’d now be strip Hangman.

I lost my tights and he his pants before the final game.  It was my clue.

As the solution dawned on him he threw me a wicked smile and crushed my mouth with his, deeply and passionately.  I clung to him and willed my skin to dissolve to be ever closer.

We fucked until I drenched the bed with uncountable orgasms and screams, until I sparkled pink and the neighbors banged on the wall.  The concierge called twice and, unfettered, I unplugged the phone in a rosy haze while we kept fucking until he emptied his beautiful balls in a dark, tight place semen shouldn’t go.

He left me shortly after – he had a long day of work ahead and he wanted to get some rest for me for the next night we’d be together.

I lay alone in the king sized bed spread eagle, sated, full, not alone.

The next day, completely homeless between beds, I strolled through Covent Gardens’ cobblestone paths and listened to violinists play in the atrium.  I bought a double-decker bus key chain and a London Tube tea towel.  I crossed the Thames and sat on benches and quietly watched the skyline as barges scuttled by.  I had a drink at the top of the OXO building and Facetimed my baby who was in New York City with my ex and then strolled through the Tate flitting from art to art like a fat little bumble bee going from flower to flower.

I took pictures of the Millennium Bridge to send to Peyton (“Its the bridge Volemort’s followers destroy!”) and walked across briskly, like I knew where I was going.  I ended up back at Trafalgar Square and sat on the lip of a fountain and watched scores of tourists take pictures.  A Russian family next to me were particularly enamored with the lone duck paddling behind me.  Are there not ducks in Russia??

It was no where near time to meet Dave, my Legoman.  My legs ached from criss-crossing the city and I was sad.  The potion we created from the night before had long since worn off and the drop from the highs of the convention seemed to have replaced my heart beat.  I was so, so alone.

I tried to imagine the day with someone and wondered why that appealed to me.  This day was completely mine to do with as I wished.  The year before Jean Claude had dragged me all over the city and the south of England and while I’d enjoyed it immensely I had still felt disconnected, disjointed somehow.

I meandered back to Soho and was turned away from four restaurants in an attempt to find somewhere to rest and have a glass of wine.  Fucking London and their tiny restaurants.  Finally I found a place to land out of the cold night air and waited for directions to Dave’s near Greenwich.

It was the only Uber I took the entire week.  I couldn’t muster the emotional energy to drag my suitcase through the tunnels of the Tube and navigate another part of the system.  My Romanian driver was nervous about dropping me off in the dark side street his GPS took us.  “It’s fine.”  Dave was right around the corner, his overcoat billowed open behind him, his arms opened wide for a hug.

I nestled closer and said I needed to rinse the city off of me before we headed to dinner.  I dressed quickly and powered my nose while he watched me and we talked about our days. The Italian restaurant around the corner was cozy and I ate almost my entire bowl of carbonara like a hungry street urchin.

Back on his couch he told me how special I was, how beautiful and sensitive and intelligent and open and so many things my brain vibrated with the praise and I faltered with words.  “You’re pretty great, too,” I said.

Our coupling that night was less urgent and more searching.  This would be the last time, possibly ever, we would touch one another.  His mouth was softer, more delicate, his thrusts more thoughtful.  I came more quietly, but no less robustly.  We fell asleep curled around one another.

When morning dawned I watched him from beneath my lids doing the mundane things men do every day of their lives that I never get to see.  He stretched, he staggered to the toilet, he peed and showered and put on deodorant, brushed his teeth and combed his hair.  He put his pants on one leg at a time and fiddled with his cuff links.

His cologne smelled grassy and masculine.

He kissed me goodbye with instructions for his keys.  I could stay as long as I liked.  He wouldn’t be home until after 7, but I was off to my next destination in Pimlico.  Jean Claude was flying down the next night.  I cried.

I cried at my loneliness, the empty bed, the quiet.  This time the potion wore off much faster.

Deep beneath the city of London I sat between many strangers and watched tiles and things whiz by.  My belongings wedged between my knees, my heart feeling like a crumpled piece of paper.  Everyone avoided looking at each other until an American family from Florida boarded.

The mother sniped at her young daughter’s gum chewing and some nice Englishman engaged them almost as if to save the rest of us from their obnoxiousness.  I wished I was home with my dog.

In Pimlico, at the swankiest place yet, I could barely form sentences to staff to get to my room.  I cried in the restaurant and dragged myself back to my room and wept into a scalding shower, the water not nearly hot enough to scorch the loneliness from my being.

I wept for everything I do to connect, everything I lose by doing so, and everything I wish for, but fail to obtain.  I wept for the little me who somewhere along the line was so hurt she cannot trust anyone but strangers and for the grown woman who knows the difference.

I cried until the water began to cool and then wrapped myself in thick terry cloth and spread my tears on the bed.  I dozed and cried for hours until it was time to take another train to meet Girl on the Net for drinks with her friends.  I perked up like a watered plant in her sunshine.  When I left my dirt was once again dry and I drooped sadly as I returned to my room.  Alone again.

The next morning I lay in the cool dawn light, naked, and exposed.  On the agenda was only tea with a shy blogging friend at noon, then many more hours of nothing until Jean Claude arrived.  I decided to allow myself to sink into the solitary layout of my day and slept for several more hours twisted in hotel bedding, took another scorching hot shower, and boarded the Tube north once more.

Tea was lovely and I got to gaze into the most soulful eyes which, to my American eye, resembled exactly a lushly wooded English hillside with their greens and browns.  My friend was sweet and open and funny and flirty and, just like with Girl on the Net, my petals opened to his sunny disposition.  And, just like with GOTN, when I left I drooped again and could only just manage to crawl back in between my sheets until nearly after 10 pm when Jean Claude arrived.

We swept through the neighborhood looking for wine, bought two bottles and laid on my bed.  We talked for hours even though my eyes felt heavy and all I really wanted to do was fuck until I passed out.  But instead of rolling around with our clothes off we talked politics and finances and about family.  He asked about the convention and how I was doing.  He was interested and interesting and wanted to connect.  Finally I begged off, empty as a tin can, disrobed, and fell asleep in his big spoon.

On the second dawn in that room I fumbled for him and found his chubby meat resting in a pile on his thighs.  I stroked and petted and kissed.  I wanted to feel the connection from the night before, but whatever had happened between us was just a spell: his body remained aloof and uncompromising to my touch.

He managed to stuff himself inside of me a time or two and he swelled with concentration.  I  moaned and then he receded to some distant corner of his mind and I was left alone once again with a giant man on top of me who was not thinking of me.

Patiently and entertainingly, I played my fingertips along his skin and ran my body over his, but he couldn’t – or wouldn’t – come back to me.  I grew tired of the attempt to not to be alone and finally gave up, took up my position in his big spoon again and drifted back off to sleep.

We took showers separately and he bought me breakfast in Belgravia then walked me all the way through the Tube turnstile for the last leg of my trip.  He was nothing if not careful in his tender care of me.

We hugged goodbye and I felt a stillness where my heart should be.  I had already said goodbye to him in my own searching way in the dim morning light with him far, far away from me.

On the train north to Michael and Molly’s the urban countryside stopped and started half a dozen times.  I floated gently above my seat and the previous 9 days wove their way around me like silken branches.  I had transcended my earthly American body and inhabited the celestial London Hyacinth with complete abandon and whimsy.  I had never said no, never said too much, never stopped opening myself up.

As the train slowed down to my final stop I took a deep breath; one more day as Hyacinth was all I had left.

I crossed the tracks with my all my Hyacinth things and followed the pathway to an alley where Molly whooshed to a halt in her silver Peugeot.  Sitting on the wrong side of the car never felt so right.

At the house Michael crushed me in a bear hug then stuffed us all with homemade apple pie.  I hugged Cara hello and occupied her over-stuffed chair in the corner while she drank tea at the table.

The four of us, this motley crew of secret sex bloggers and advocates and writers and movers and shakers, perched in our chairs scattered around the kitchen table for hours.  We laughed and drank more tea, the other two women lamented at Michael’s rich foods and their potentially expanding waistlines.  I basked in the intimacy, the beautiful little family unit that I had somehow weaseled my way into yet again.

That’s when I realized: I needed that big, unconditional love and acceptance buried full tilt into my heart… just like that.

And then it was another dawn, another bleary-eyed Molly taking me to the airport, another hug goodbye, another security line to maneuver and another day-long journey home.

Alone.  Not together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m sad, too.

Good angles only.

The man from Saturday, The Golfer, has been flirting with me and I honestly can’t figure out why.

In the harsh Tuesday morning light I look at myself and don’t see much worth physically desiring. He was drunk, that’s how he ended up in my bed, otherwise why would a gorgeous 35 year old man want my middle aged and rapidly sagging-where-it-never-used-to-sag ass?

It’s not the right time of the month for me to be feeling this way – I can’t quite make sense of it – except that I must still have an emotional hangover from that night.

He came and sat with Tina and me already drunk, but massively charming nonetheless. I watched her drape herself all over him and flirt like she was drowning, but I sat in between them and seemed to inadvertently block any real foreplay between the two of them.

He was there for something, but he wouldn’t quite come out with it. Then he told us he’d hit a major professional milestone, a jackpot, if you will. I heard him say “multi-millionaire.”

Tina, lover of millionaires that she is, perked up and convinced him to order the most expensive bottle of bubbles on the menu then left to go to the restroom. Now just the two of us, I inquired further about the moment for him.

“I’m gonna get sad for a minute,” he said with his head in his hands, “then I’ll be ok.”

I rubbed his back a little and told him it was alright, not entirely sure what he was about to say and not wanting to get overly invested in a drunk stranger’s drama.

“I mean no offense, but today is a really big day for me and I’m spending it with two women I don’t know.”

His friends, nearly as drunk as him, had tried to pry him away to go home earlier, but he’d refused. “I never leave the house, I don’t date, I’m totally alone and I had no one to share this with. Not really. I just tagged along with them, crashed their date.” I kept rubbing his back.

“I know how that feels,” I replied. “Take a deep breath and just enjoy tonight. It’s how I do it.”

Tina returned with her signature bad attitude and the moment was over. We were at a swanky hotel, after all, drinking Veuve Cliquot. The tears would have to wait.

That’s not a normal convo to have with a random drunk dude.

Maybe that’s why I went ahead and programmed his name in my phone, for the simple fact that I’m sad, too. I’m sad that I’m alone and drifting, bouncing from hookup to hookup like a skipped rock on the Lake O’ Many Mens.

I haven’t programmed a name in so long I barely remember the last time. It must have been Elliot, and before that Luke? God, I don’t even know. Both men who for whatever reasons didn’t want to be with me in the end.

As TG and I fucked each other senseless in the soulless black of my room it seemed we both held on for dear life. I wept from the sheer force of pleasure coursing through my body and he acted high on the perfume of my ejaculate and cries.

He flipped me over and licked my asshole and bit my cheeks, he pounded my pussy with his cock and his hands and buried his face between my legs like a starving man with a mouth made of the softest petals.

And then he texted the next day and tried to convince me to come over so we could do it all again. Not only was I hungover and recovering emotionally, but I felt embarrassed. Would he even want me in the light of day? Is it even worth my time even if he did?

He’s tried to get me to come over each night since. He’s funny, awkward, viciously self deprecating, and from what he said at the hotel, hates his mother.

It might appear that he’s one to avoid without question, yet his name is in my phone all the same because I’m sad, too, and for just a minute I’d also like to pretend that someone cares I exist.

February Photofest

I have mixed feelings.

Bottles of champagne, Veuve Cliquot!, a hot, drunk young man confused about who to pay attention to, me or my friend with a long term boyfriend who’d been shamelessly flirting with him.

I watched half amused most of the night until at the second bar she began to exclude me where I had made sure to include her. I excused the two of us from the table.

“Tina, I’m not judging what you’re doing here, but why?? I’m single, he’s single, you’re not and you love your boyfriend. Do you really want to do this? I’m not going to compete for his attention with you.”

And then the night ended with him in my bed and his mouth all over me and his fingers lodged in my asshole as he pounded me to fucking oblivion and I came all over us and my poor pink bed like a goddamned vomiting waterfall.

He tried to get me to come home with him in the morning, but I demurred; I needed more rest and time to be alone with my thoughts. The sex was intense and when I closed my eyes and thought of it my pussy would pulse and twinge.

I may have accidentally gained a new pair of RayBans. “Nice,” he said when I told him I’d found his glasses in my purse. “When are you gonna come over and drop them off? We can soak my bed too.”

Another night set loose by bubbles and held by nothing but whimsy, my memory and manners spotty. Who knows if I’ll ever hear from him again. I hope I made his sad day brighter. He certainly brightened mine.

I’ve spent my entire Sunday washing the entirety of my bed linens and wondering when I’ll stop having drunken, loneliness-driven nights like last night.

Sinful Sunday
February Photofest

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.