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.

 


This life has a price.

For the last 3 weeks there have been no men in my life, but “no men” for me means something drastically different from what it does for the average woman.  It means I don’t see anyone in person, a distancing from my online pots, and my Instagram and Snapchat accounts – the ever-present, looming, wet-tipped hardon of my life – also take a backseat.

Men are everywhere for me, inescapable, a pleasant white noise at best and nails on a chalkboard at worst.  I’m under no misconceptions that my lifestyle and my choices exact a toll on me.  Nothing in life is free and that includes love, sex, and even the magic found in each.

A few weeks ago I fell beneath several grunting, thrusting bodies.  I collected spooge in my ass and pussy, kissed hot, fat tongues and puckered assholes.  I drank sparkling alcoholic things, highlighted my cheekbones, and tenderly cared for the lips between my thighs with the diligence of a working girl.

I was ravenous, high from one hot tryst to the next hotter tryst.

The Aussie’s gorgeous giant slab of meat split me in two as his furry chest tickled my heaving breasts.  His pale skin and eyes and dark dusting of hair across his muscled body reminded me of The Neighbor.  We spent the afternoon holding hands and making out on a busy tourist-trap street and fucked like animals under the curtain of night.  He tasted of booze and the Ben and Jerry’s he insisted we buy him; his cock tasted like an A+ feels.

He’s a temporary resident, a long-term visitor, busy at the local university doing nerdy things.  I love that a science-y foreigner managed to bury 9″ of fleshy steel in my ass.  Our second date included a quickie in his dingy co-op bedroom.  A bottle of wine split between us and with little formalities.  I was there for a reason.

He set down one of his two wine glasses, climbed on the bed and straddled my hips with his feet.  I unwrapped him like a present and let him disappear into my face.  We tore off our own clothing and I backed up to him like a mare in heat.  He slid in long and hot and came deep and rolling while holding my waist from behind. I wished I’d won the argument to pull his curtains back to view any foot traffic outside.  I do love to give a good show.

We spent another 10 hours together doing uniquely university things, drinking beer and befriending strangers.  I awoke on his bed to him reminding me I had to get home to take care of the dog.  That dog is my savior.

The Universe decided to send me another well-endowed foreigner a week later.  The Doctor was in town for a convention of brilliance and as a European he and his wife had a different kind of sensibility about monogamy.  His hall pass was also a direct pass to my ass.  Twice.

After dinner we tore the bed apart in his upgraded hotel room.  A night of teasing and talking made us sizzle and the origin of his accent eluded and enticed me.  He delighted in mystifying me, but once I’d wrapped my lips around his cock he’d whispered its Baltic origins with a chuckle.

We lay entwined on the couch after our first round and drank the bubbly we’d gotten.  Deep thoughts, deep words with a stranger passing through [me].  He asked if he could fuck me in my ass bareback.  I said Yes and he bent me over, spit in his hand and slowly pushed in.

I froze from the intensity, clung to the couch like a drowning woman as orgasm seized my body.  He moved gingerly, then with longer strokes as he felt my ejaculate splatter on his bare toes.  I came again as he filled me up in my dirty place.  A first for me.

We showered and kissed, his skin slick and as ever such a novelty to me.  I never get to taste these intimate moments with my lovers.  The tender moment of wiping away bubbles or caressing the smooth curve of a wet buttock, the little hanging pouch between his legs.  A place where a man is as vulnerable feeling as a woman: bathing and relaxed.

On the bed atop a blanket of towels he took my ass while I lay on my back.  I thrashed and moaned, cried from the unbearable ecstasy of the impaling of my body.  He cried out, dumped more jizz up my ass, and crumpled on me panting.

I set my alarm and fell asleep in his arms and he walked me to the door at dawn.  I grabbed some coffee and a croissant from the continental breakfast downstairs on my way out and smirked at the two young men staring at me from behind the front desk.  Thanks, Hilton.  I’ll be around.

The next week was a man from Seattle and he wanted a date for Friday night rather than having to hang out with his colleagues.  We met at a hotel with comfortable couches and ate truffle fries and drank wine.  The music pulsed and the floor began to fill.  I took him by the hand and led him to the hall with the single-use restrooms, pulled him into one and locked the door.

I unbuckled him, turned around and lifted my skirt.  He pressed his little dick in me and pulled my hair as I came on my shoes.  He followed suit inside of me.  I splattered water on the water my body had dumped to dilute any scent.  We scurried out, still holding hands, and canoodled on the couch.  We agreed shortly after that it was time to say goodbye.  Goodbye, Seattle.

Those were encounters which energized me.  They were on my terms, the men were fun and open and listened to every word I said.  I was done when we were done; there was none of the mismatched energy after an encounter.  No, “Why the fuck hasn’t he texted???”  The last week before I took a break, though, I had too much.  Not sex, but too many men in my space and on my energy.

I made dinner for my friend who cat-sat for me while I was in London, had a date with an Asian American man with the whitest name ever who made jokes about it and helped me with two bottles of sparkling rosé.  I met with a long-time pen pal about being my sub, and topped it off with the man from Seattle.

Four dates in 5 days, constant fire and bubbles in my belly.  Seduction becomes as second nature as saying Hello for it all starts at Hello.  And all the texts, the emails grooming the men for meeting me and falling in love with me for 12 hours or less to get what I want.  It costs me something, this dazzling nature of mine.

And before that there were all the men from what can only be called a March Madness.  Michele, and Jean Luc, JJ, Garrett.

It’s at once a fun game and an exercise.  I’ve needed the rest and reflection for in it I have recovered from my gorging.  I must have needed the reminder that I could go hard if I wanted.  It’s impossible to maintain.  I want something intense and sexy, I want there to be an actual future with someone.  I guess I should stop saying Yes to all the sexy visitors.

Nah, who are we kidding??  I’ll always say Yes to a passerby.  They’re the very best kind of man who leaves because I already know they will.  That’s a price I can live with.

 

 

Bright English mornings.

Hy stands on a small rug in her boots with Jean Claude's giant shoes and sunlight
A domestic scene.

I am not darkness or anger, nor hate or despair. I am sunshine and sweetness, pleasure incarnate, a playground of words and sensation that slips hot and silky down the gullet of my life and warms the belly of my soul.

I want to rip myself open for him and roll in our blood and semen and juices and fall asleep to baritone giggles and my own soft exhalations of peace. His pile of meat cradled in my hand, his hand on my hip, lashes to lashes as our chests rise and fall together, drunk on each other and happy.

When we are through twirling with comets and tasting each other’s sweat I want him to know exactly how I like my coffee because he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving me while the moon shone bright in the night’s sky. He is here for all of it. All of me. And especially the morning and long hours that follow.

He’s seen all of me, suspended and cascading. Swallowed me whole and is still thirsty for more. There is no possibility of him ever getting his fill.

Truthfully, I want him to bore into my center and spread like a fever, never to leave, incapable of leaving.

And then we have coffee, mine black. His with a splash of whiskey.

 — Excerpt from my, “I am Whiskey in His Coffee, in the Eroticon Truth anthology, 2018 available here.

When I wake up to the sun I am always alone for either I or the man I was with has typically stolen off into the night like a shadow, the intimacy we shared washed away with each step like tears in the rain.

I don’t know how to be when I see a naked shoulder and peaceful, stubbly face. I wonder how I must look, honestly.  Will he find me as fetching in the singularly innocent sunlight as he did under the cast of the lustful, boozy night before?  The tall Englishman I met sure seemed to.

Six-foot-four with magnificent, wild dark brown hair that glinted with the occasional silver thread and walnut colored eyes we met on a big dick website because when you have one and you crave one it’s a good place to start.

For weeks we chatted and talked on the phone.  He’s close with his family and friends, fit, loves his career, is paid handsomely and attends business meetings regularly not far from where I live.  This could parlay into something beyond our March days together, I didn’t know.

We planned on meeting on a Monday and getting a room.  If things went well he’d take the rest of the week off and tour the country with me.  Then tragedy struck a week before my trip: his uncle passed away.  There would be a funeral to attend during my stay, but he was committed nonetheless.  He wanted to meet me.

And so I woke up in that terrifying morning gaze twice, fingers and bodies entwined, smiles and snatches broken wide and open, all filled up.  I was out of my body and terrified, yet happy and at home.  This is what normal people do, I thought.  They wake up together.

On Michael and Molly’s font doorstep we’d kiss goodbye, sweet and fervent, all too quick after so much time.  Fifty-two consecutive hours spent together ended with, “I’ll see you in June.”

And then I cried in Molly’s arms.

::

We met at noon at a swanky London hotel in Kensington where I poured my heart out about my secret double life – the blog, how I was Hy, my tits on the internet – all before we’d even dropped off our bags in the room.

I paused and charged forward. “Do you still want to hang out??”

“Yes.”

And instantly the two parts of my lives zippered together. 

We strolled under dinosaur and whale bones and wove our way in and out of the crowds like old companions laughing, talking, sharing, and under gigantic tapestries and paintings I found myself hoping he would kiss me in some empty room at the end of a great hall.

When night fell, still and seated at dinner with the wine flowing, he told me how much he liked me and how much he was enjoying our time together and I bloomed and flirted shamelessly.  Confident my advances would be returned, his cool British demeanor replaced with enthusiasm and warmth, we melted into one another along the dark London streets back to our room.

There, under the gentle guidance of some delicious English sparkling wine, we played with each other.  First Hang Man to riotous laughter, then with our bodies lit with exploration – stop and go, learning, pivoting – followed by a cool dark dawn with fingers entangled, face-to-face, and hours of talk peppered with dozing.

I blow dried my hair while he worked on his computer below my elbow, a towel wrapped around his waist.  I applied mascara in the bathroom mirror while he brushed his teeth.  The most prosaic of things novel and new.

I had survived my first morning with a man.

On Tuesday we traversed the city to his car and headed south to Brighton on the English Channel.  We ate ice cream in the cold, bright afternoon sun and sat on deck chairs on the pier and watched the people go by.  Too shy and out of my element to make the advance myself, I could only wish he’d kiss me at the end of the windswept pier behind the carousel.

My inexperience with a date lasting longer than 6 hours had begun to take its toll on me and I was fraught with insecurity and fear, worry and disgust that I had done something wrong.  He was done with me, tired of my shit, I told myself.

Emotions tumbled through me as he led me from place to place in search of what he said was the perfect Brighton souvenir for Peyton, some thing called a Brighton Rock.  “He’ll love it!” he assured me.  “It says ‘Brighton’ all they way down as you eat it!”

Words were streaky jumbles and I found speaking difficult.  I fought to appear normal until while crossing a lush, green courtyard I nearly burst into tears as we passed a man playing Stand By Me on his electric guitar.  I felt unmoored and lonely, lost.

I circled back around to buy a second to compose myself and dropped two 50p coins in his guitar case.  The tall Englishman didn’t seem to notice my struggle, though he had stopped to wait for me.  He never let me out of his sight.

That night in a little village inn somewhere north in Sussex I took a slug of wine, sat in one of the two red chairs and cried after he stepped outside.  “I’ve got to call my mum.  I’ll be back in 10 minutes.”

Each tear a streak of fear and anxiety.  This kindness, this ease was too much for me, and I just couldn’t read him.  If a man isn’t pawing at me, is he interested?  Am I?

He appeared to be the type of man I’d want to know: educated, globally minded, kind, thoughtful, funny, sexy, and loyal. He understood complex situations and was sensitive to his own limitations. “I’m penny wise and pound foolish,” he told me.

I breathed through my tears and held my beating heart as I heard him approach from down the hall.

His face was drawn.  “How are you?” he asked.

“I’m ok.  I’m wrung out.  How are you?”

“I forgot to pack a suit, so I’ve got to sort that out, and I really think my mum needs me there.  I feel guilty for enjoying myself with you…”  We decided together that we would cut our trip together a half-day short so he could go home to his parents to prepare for the funeral on Thursday.  The decision felt good.

I poured him a glass of wine as he plopped down in the chair opposite me.  Maybe this was hard for him, too.

Later, in the dimly lit brasserie, we spoke sweetly to one another about our connection and expectations.  We would see each other again in June, for sure, he said.  “I have a meeting in America.  I’ll come out a week before or after.”  I agreed.

And a little while after that, after three courses and cheese and port, I sat on his lap on that same chair in our room and he stroked me through my black tights until I came like a cat in heat and left a wet spot on his jeans.  My fingers dug deep through his wild man hair and my mouth devoured his like I was starving for his flesh.

On my knees I set him free and impaled myself on his meat, gagged and drooled and dove down again.  A hot, wet mess from cunt to cock we tangled on the bed, and in the dark against the white sheets I found myself at the end of his cock buried beneath the waves of our lust and his long, probing fingers which dipped delicately into my asshole.  I was finally where I wanted to be.

And so I came.

Long, hard, trembling, I shimmered beneath him and kissed his neck and growled into his ear.  Fuck.

I slept a dreamless sleep, then in the indigo belly of dawn, I nestled in his nook, my ear on his heart and my hand on his warm chubby cock.

Lub-dub, throb. Lub-dub, throb.

Heart, then cock. Heart, then cock.  I told him what I felt and heard.

“Really…” he said.  I heard a smile.

“Mmhm.”

I rolled on my side, back to his front, guided him in.  Our last morning together.

We rocked and rolled and moaned together until we climbed to our knees where he buried himself into me like a desperate man reaching for something.  He was in my throat, my middle, my everything and when I felt his fingers pull my cheeks apart I begged him to touch me in my dirty little place again.

He slammed into my one hole and tapped and prodded at the other until my climax shook us both and took everything from me.  We flopped into each other’s arms.

“I’ve never been able to do that with anyone else,” he panted. “That angle doesn’t usually work for me.”

“I’m not like anyone else,” I replied, pleased.

“No, clearly not.”

We fell asleep in each other’s arms then spent the morning eating breakfast in the 400 year old inn’s dining room and exploring the garden outside our window.  Big shiny crows kept busy in the distance and purple hyacinths grew in the flower beds at our feet.

I had survived my second morning with a man.

::

On our last day together as we drove north towards his mother’s house I broached the topic of my writing.  “I rather like the idea of you writing about me and me not knowing what you say.”  I would write as if he’d read it anyway I told him.

“What would you like your pseudonym to be?”

“Jean Claude Van Long Dong.”

I laughed the most this last day, free of worry and doubt, hungry for the moments we had left.  We stopped at Hampton Court Palace and strolled through the halls and bed chambers of Henry VIII, and sat on a bench in the garden lined with gumdrop-shaped yew trees.  We kissed as the fountain’s mist kissed us and walked with our arms around each other to the back canal.  A herd of royal deer gathered not far away.

It was time to go.

A couple of hours later at Michael and Molly’s he helped me in with my things and said hello to everyone.  He could only stay for a minute or two — he was trying to make it home in time for dinner and taking me here was quite a detour.

I stood on the front step, he on the ground.  “Thank you for everything.”

We kissed.

“I’ll see you in June,” he said.

“Yes.  June.”

I turned to open the door then looked back over my shoulder.  He was watching me again. We smiled sadly at each other and I walked inside, saw Molly standing there and burst into tears.

“Oh, Hy,” she said and opened her arms.

I hate goodbyes and I want more mornings.

 

It’s all smoke and mirrors.

Reality pulls no punches.

February Photofest

I’m afraid of jinxing it.

I’m afraid of jinxing it, but I am bursting with words.  I have been hiding from the blog for fear that if I lay letters down here my men will whittle away with each click.  I don’t want them to disappear.  Not yet.  I’m not finished with any of them — there are possibly more lurking that I will continue to keep close to my breast.  I don’t want to lose any of them.

::

My thighs cradled him as he pumped deeply into me, his kisses deep and fervent.  Somehow he managed to hold himself up and reach around my bottom, shift my flesh and slip a strong finger into my asshole.  I cried out and ground down hard on him, clutched at every sinewy, flexing muscle I could.  He growled in my ear.

His room was dark, no nerdy light show this time, and my body fell into a black abyss of sensation which centered on me, like an undulating chocolate fountain, never ending.

His finger remained lodged in me, his cock a hard, fleshy piston, my body a reactive live wire.  I came hard and melted beneath him.

He freed his hand and slammed into me but with a strange cadence.  “No,” I pleaded, “Don’t stop there.  More.  All the way.”  He plunged in deeply now again and again.  Then stopped short again, seemingly oblivious.  “NOOOOO,” I said again.  “All the way.  Please.”

Again he buried himself in me and I rewarded us both with a clawing, mewling climax.   “Thank you,” I breathed into his mouth.

“You’re welcome.”

I caught my breath and rolled over onto all fours.  “Fuck me in my ass,” I said.  I arched my back and wagged my behind.  I imagined they looked like two pale moons  in the dim light.

He pet my sopping pussy and dragged its wetness to my other hole and pushed his meat in.  Slowly, naughtily.  Good girls don’t get fucked in the ass.  Or is it God girls?

He moved gingerly at first until it felt too good to hold back.  He gripped my hips like he meant it this time, nothing soft about his touch.  I didn’t cringe now like I did when he first touched me.  I can’t do light touch.  It makes me want to vomit and run and hide.  I didn’t want to hide now.

I came from just the thought of how filthy we were, how dirty.  Two otherwise upstanding citizens doing this disgusting thing.  I loved it.  And I loved hearing him unravel behind me.  He came for a second time.

Earlier in the night we’d met for dinner near his house.  It’s our 4th date this go around, the first go around having happened in 2015 followed by a two year gap.  We have a little script we follow now.  First drinks, then dinner, back to his place for a little more imbibing, then up to his room where our limbs entwine and he drives into my body.

I enjoy his company immensely: he’s smart, liberal, ridiculously complimentary, generous.  He takes me to the nicest restaurants and buys me stupid-fancy hipster cocktails.  He also plays with my asshole.  I dig him.

::

Hands bound above his head, blindfolded, he lay on his side.  The belt cracked on the bright pink X I had drawn on his right cheek.  “Thank you, Ma’am,” he gritted out.

Crack, crack, crack!

Thank you, Ma’am, Thank you, Ma’am, Thank you, Ma’am.

I’d opened the door to this tall blond man wearing leather and a blast of cold air.  “Ignore the dog,” I said.  It came out throaty, bossy.

He stepped inside and the door slammed behind him.  I raised up on my toes and put my arms around his neck and kissed his cold face.  He tasted faintly of tobacco.

I drew him with me as I fell against the wall behind the door and wrapped his hair in my fingers.  I pulled him off my lips and pushed him down to my breasts.  He dropped to his knees and peeled off my clothes, a cardigan, black velvet boy shorts and a black camisole.  I silently laughed how my thoughtful choice of clothing was not noticed.

He hunkered lower and latched on to my pussy, now eye-level.  I held on to the wall for support, and his chin-length hair.  I let my big lover worship me from his knees for a minute, two, before I pulled him up and undressed him, and led him into my room cast in a cool afternoon light.

I would tie him up, light a candle, draw on him, slip his tiny dark pink nipples between the tines of golden bobby pins, and straddle him as I rode him.  I’d push a pale pink butt plug into his tight little hole, then later my finger, and I’d slurp him up until he’d say, “I’m at a 7, Ma’am,” breathless and with some apprehension.  He was not allowed to cum and did not want to displease me.

Writhing on top of him like a wicked little girl on her wicked little pony I flicked his nipples and held on as he bucked his hips.  What a deliciously good boy he was.  As I drew closer to orgasm I flicked faster imagining the tip of his cock somewhere near my sternum; I was riding a bronco, not a pony.  My hands went numb and my scalp tingled.  It was time to burst through the surface of the water.

I pressed the Hitachi against us both and told him to hold still, to only twitch inside of me.  I felt the pressure swirl somewhere down low and begin to build, stars pressed against my eyes with each blink.  “Ok,” I whispered.  “You may cum now.”

He moved like a healed man on godly legs, wild and desperate.  I stared at his blindfolded face and the jagged grimace that told me he was completely in his body, in me, in us.  He told me he was going to cum peppered with random Ma’am’s and I told him I was cumming, too.  And then we cried out together and I gulped big gulps of air, desperate, dying, living.  He keened his pleasure then lay still, vibrating a little.

I kissed his lips and resituated his blindfold, traced the starbursts I’d drawn around his nipples, now plump and dark rose with life.  He hissed.  “Those are very sensitive, Ma’am.”

“Good.”  I flicked them both.

I came again, even bigger than the first, with him soft and spent in a little pile of flesh beneath me, still safely wrapped in the condom.  He wasn’t sure if he’d ejaculated he said.  I climbed off of him and investigated.  The condom was full.

“Wow,” he chuckled.  “It was an all-body orgasm; I couldn’t tell.”  I wondered silently if it could be said he just had a “female orgasm.”  I could hardly spell my name.

I remounted him, carefully, and removed the blindfold.  I felt shy.  This was the transition back to Hy and him.  Not Ma’am and him.  I talked him through my removal of the bobby pins and pressed firmly with my palm, told him to breathe.  Men are such babies, I thought.

I slowly untied the black neck tie from one of my blouses from around his neck, ceremoniously, and lay down in his crook.  We talked about what we’d just experienced like we were excited children after their first roller coaster ride.

I had to leave in 45 minutes to get my baby from school, he had to leave in 45 minutes to go to work.  “Let’s go sit on my couch,” I said.  I gathered my clothes from the pool of fabric by the front door and dressed.  He plopped down next to me and I put my feet in his lap.  “There’s lotion,” I motioned to the bottle I had ready on the table.

He massaged my feet until we had to go; we kissed and hugged at the door, told each other we looked forward to next time.  I dig him.

 

 

I’m here for it.

My year at a glance, 2017:

I awoke in a strange bed with a beautiful creature beside me.  I made my way to his bathroom and noticed the disarray around me.  Two old, dried contact lenses were curled in the sink.

I returned to him and he held up the covers.  He was an Adonis.  He reached for my breast and I for his cock and it was large, hot, and hard.  I remembered seeing a condom on my way to the toilet and fumbled through strewn clothing looking for it.

He rolled it on and I climbed atop, sunk down, and reveled in the feeling.  His hands cupped my breasts and I watched his washboard abs flex and bend beneath my thighs.

I increased my tempo and came, my hair soft and silky on my own skin making me feel like a goddamned goddess.  I bent forward and let him suckle as he pumped furiously into me and holding me close.

“I’ve came,” he said in his British accent.  “I’ve came…”

It’s been a couple of days and I haven’t heard from him since.

::

I held the little Styrofoam container with my leftovers gingerly in my hand that wrapped around his neck, his hand slid up my skirt like a naughty boy reaching for more cookies.

He pushed my panties aside and began banging against me just like I’d showed him in the last parking lot we’d found ourselves in an hour before.  

Pleasure burst behind my eyes and swelled through my hips as he began banging again only to end up with his face buried against the wet fabric between my thighs with cars passing by.

We may have coffee today.

::

I took his hand and led him down off the trail to the river’s edge where night-runners could no longer see us.  Pushed him back a few feet behind the pylon and fumbled with his buckle.  His maple-colored eyes glinted at me.  His girlfriend never did this kind of thing.  I wondered if he’d tell her when he got home.

I spread the denim open like a book and took out his huge hard cock.  My knees grazed the river debris as I struggled to take him in and keep my slurps to a minimum.  He struggled to keep his moans to a minimum.

He pulled me to my feet and roughly spun me around, hiked up my dress, pulled my panties to the side and pushed himself in.  I braced myself on my own knees, bent like a letter P, and he gripped my hips and plunged again and again.

He ghosted the following day.

::

I woke up sprawled sideways on a strange bed naked, a small man lay next to me, also sideways.  I got up to pee and saw our clothes strewn about the floor from the doorway to the bed.  He had straightened to lay on a pillow and I crawled in next to him.  “Did I eat you out last night?”

“I don’t think so.  You can’t remember either?”

“No.”

He climbed on top of me and I fumbled for a condom to happily discover he had Magnums.  No wonder he’d been so mad at dinner that women judged him unfairly for only being barely 5’6″.  

My hangover sucked every ounce of moisture from my body and therefore that big, juicy cock had a hard time getting in there.  He asked me if I didn’t know my body [and therefore couldn’t get wet].  I scoffed and said, “I’m fucking hungover, dude.”

We gyrated on each other for a while, his eyes closed, mine open and watchful.  I grew bored and asked him to cum on me instead.  His short thighs pinned me down as his hand whipped his cock to attention and he spurted on my chest.  He drove me home and gave me a $100 to avoid a no-show fee at the gym.

He left to watch the eclipse a few days later and is currently contemplating an old relationship.

::

He convinced me to move to my apartment from the nearly empty Cuban restaurant against my better judgment.  His eyes glowed when he looked at me and I felt like what Chicken Hawk saw when he looked at Foghorn Leghorn: ??.  We sat on my couch and he lunged at me, his stubble like sandpaper.

“Easy, tiger,” I said.  “I have a date later.”  He laughed and grabbed my breasts, tore at my clothes.  I told him again to slow it down.

His hands were everywhere, his mouth gaping and wet and still abrasive.  I was waiting to feel something, but it never came.

“Wanna see my big dick now?”  Sure, ok.

He pulled out an average sized penis and I sighed.  Maybe it’s not fully hard.

I bent to take it in my  mouth, but it never grew just my boredom.  I stopped and he pushed my head back down.  I told him I didn’t like that.  He apologized and pulled me on his lap and raised my shirt and shoved my breasts in his mouth.  I was no longer participating at this point and shoved him off and righted my clothes.  “Isn’t it time for you to go now?” I asked pointing at my watch.

“Yeah, it is.”

He continues to beg to see me.

::

I don’t usually smoke weed, but this guy lived and died by it.  I took a little puff and waited.  I felt light and giggly.  Down right silly.  We talked on his big pleather couch while his long-haired dog tried to come to between us and cuddle.  I looked at his face covered in an unkempt beard and his head draped in fuzzy hair and wondered what he had beneath his clothes.  His profile had the word “curve” in it for a reason, I’m sure.

We kissed and his beard was too soft, too fine just like his kisses.  He took my hand and led me upstairs, pushed me down on the bed and pulled off my skirt and panties and dragged me to the edge where he knelt and dove down on me.  I told him what to do and he did it diligently, added a finger so I’d cum.

I pulled off my shirt and told him to fuck me.  He stood and undressed, put on a condom and fell on top of me.  I spread my knees and waited for the curve to curl inside of me.  He pushed in, thrust once, twice, three times and I came again.

I was a fish on his hook and his giant beard and curtain of hair couldn’t stop me from climaxing again and again from every which way until he came twice.  I’d never gotten the chance to touch him with my mouth or hands.

::

He lost his erection and slapped his errant penis.  “Fuck you!  Work!” he yelled.  I told him sex was so much more than an orgasm or penis in vagina.  “No, it’s everything,” he said.

He left 5 minutes later and I knew I’d never hear from him again.

::

We hadn’t planned on drinking two bottles of wine on a Wednesday night while his daughter slept in her room, but we did.  And when we kissed I hadn’t planned on it being so perfect.

We moved to his bedroom and peeled each other’s clothes off, reveled in the feel of each other’s skin in the dim light.  His hands molded to me as my mouth tasted him and I blew him as if judges were watching.

I asked if he had any condoms.  He said he was out.  Fuck.

And then he took his hand and gathered all the juice from my pussy he could and slathered it all over his hardon.  Well, fuck it.  No point now.

I climbed on top of him and rocked the cradle of my hips down on to him, imagining drawing a crescent from my ass to his balls and he moaned and writhed beneath me, mouth full of my breasts.  I came and came and then he began to shake and grew stiff.  He gasped for air and it never ended.  He said between gritted teeth, “I’m cumming for a minute, oh my godddddd.”

I pulled off of him and lay beside him and watched him return to his body, a gentle glow seeping back into him.  I massaged his hand until I noticed his dick was hard again.  He fucked me like a dog in heat and when he flipped me over onto my back he lasted mere seconds as I came again.

We crawled back up to the pillows and I lay in his arms.  “What are you doing Saturday night?” I asked.

We never went out again.

::

“I don’t drink, but it’s ok if you do.”

Hours and many drinks later he drove us home.  I drunkenly led him to my bedroom while he soberly participated in what I can only assume was heavy petting.

In the morning, hungover and slightly appalled at myself for trying to prove my comfort with drinking in front of an alcoholic by drinking more than usual, he began to talk.  And talk and talk and talk.  I looked for the sexy in his words but found none.  I thought maybe sex would shut him up, but it only lasted a few seconds and therefore backfired.

The next time we hung out he brought me a female condom.  We never went out again despite his assertion we’d be forever friends.

::

High with attraction and a little buzzed from the beer we kissed and fucked and rolled around.  “Do me from behind,” I said and stood up and bent over, my forearms on the bed.

He adjusted himself to my height and pushed in, fat and hard, his thumb pressed into my asshole.  I came and became wild for more, there was something about this man, this cock that I wanted to feel behind my eyes.

“Fuck me in my ass,” I said.

“I’ve never done that before.”

“Just go slow.”

He pressed and squeezed his huge girth into my backside and slowly began to fuck me as my pussy rained her pleasure down on our feet.  I couldn’t believe I was taking all of him and he was making noises I’d never heard a man make.

When he came he said it was the most intense experience of his life.

The second time we hung out we fucked awkwardly doggy style on my blue couch then moved into my room where he lost his erection.

“I’m going to run to my car to get my phone.”

He never came back.

::

“My condoms are in my car,” he said.  “Go get them.”

“No.  You go get them.”

He pressed me up against the hotel wall and said, “Call my your king.”

I laughed drunkenly.  He had no idea who he was dealing with.

::

“How long have you lived here?” I asked looking at all the boxes and children’s toys strewn everywhere.

“Three years, why?”

And when sex was done in less than 3 minutes I took my leave.

::

He reached for me in the predawn light of my room.  His hulk caused me to roll a little towards him.  I rolled onto my belly and raised my bottom for him.  He climbed atop of me, spread my cheeks and pushed in, almost perfunctorily.

The position was murder on my back, but I didn’t want to complain.  I was hoping to cum.  I didn’t, but he did.

A week later he texted to say he didn’t want to see me again.

::

I jumped up on my kitchen island and let him pull me closer to him.  We kissed and I ran my fingers through his long, Millennial hair, grabbed a handful and pulled his head back to expose his white neck.

“Are you sorry for being an idiot?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Very sorry.”

We kissed deeply and he was very good for being almost 20 years my junior.

I led him to my bedroom and once naked I admired his chiseled body, the long lines, the swells and shadows.  Wrapped up and safe, he plunged into me and I clung to his hardness like a little girl on a monkey gym.

His stamina was breathtaking and I came like a banshee until he came in a bright cry.

And then his mother called and he had to go.  He did not return as promised.

::

I let the hot tub bubbles skitter all over my body as he lifted my rear end out of the water and finger fucked the living shit out of me.  I suppose I squirted as much as the fancy fountains off the side, but it’s hard to say for sure.

Pruny and spent we moved inside where he bent me over lifted my hips to his and jammed his bare cock in me.  My feet dangled and my hands pressed against the seat of the couch.  I came a little.  He came not at all.  And then he told me he was interested in someone else.

He FedExed me my boots two days later.