I support our troops.

Hy on her knees 3
Imagine me with him.

Or “troop” as the case may be.

Captain was tall, 6’2″ and broad-shouldered.  He hunkered a little, as if to dodge something from overhead.  His texting cadence was respectful and succinct.  He was in town visiting his family on a pre-deployment leave and was going stir crazy at home.  Would I be interested in meeting up for a drink?

His Tinder profile ached with a Marine’s loneliness: he’s never around long enough to put down roots, always looking to meet new people.  My heart cracked a little.

“Yes, I’d love to meet you for a drink.”

We sat in the horseshoe-shaped booth for hours.  I drank my wine, he sipped his beers with measured resolve.  “I command 50 18 year olds.  I don’t drink like they do,” he explained.  I drank like a 40 year old who’d taken a Lyft to the bar to meet a 26 year old Marine.

He’d been deployed more times than I could keep track of and he was weary.  He felt a 100 years old and heavy.  I made jokes about nothing and flirted with his old soul, tickling him out from under the weight of the world.

Drinks gone I asked if he wanted to catch a ride home with me.

“I’d like that,” he said.

Minutes later we stood in the dark dog park behind my building and I teased him about the length of his jeans.  “Aren’t your ankles cold?”

I walked up to him, a building light cast a dark shadow along the right side of his face.  I grabbed his hips and tilted my head up.  I smiled at him and lifted up on my toes; the light glimmered in his dark eyes.

He tasted of the coffee I’d made him to perk him up and his lips were pliant.  I wanted to give him the best fucking night of his life.

Hy on her knees 2
Is my writing less impactful because my tits are out?

On my couch he pounced.  Passionately, with wild abandon.  I encouraged him with little whispered yeses and moans.  He pulled my skirt and panties off and roughly shoved my knees apart.  His clean shaven face crushed down on me and I felt his purr against my plump folds .  For a moment I felt as though he had dived into a deep well — he wasn’t there, but beneath the surface.

I dragged him up to kiss me and his fingers replaced his mouth.  He hooked into me and he was tough in that perfectly delicious way.  I gushed around his hand and I felt him freeze on my mouth as he realized I’d just ejaculated into his hand.  I nodded to answer his silent question and kissed him more.  He slammed his hand into me again and I came once more, drenching the poor motherfucking couch.

The next few hours of my life were a daisy chain of orgasms and puddles and trembling limbs.  His cock, a manageable size, found its way buried deep in my ass.  A first for us both.

I stood on splayed legs scrutinizing the sensation, begged for more lube, and then came like a mare.  My juices dumped from above as if from a bucket.

He fucked me over the toilet as I went to toss a condom, he lifted my leg on the counter and I watched us in the mirror, my hands pressed greasily against the glass.  I rode his face, his cock; I rode him backwards and upside down.  He was inexhaustible and I was not going to give up on him.  Occasionally I pleaded for a break and it seemed like he’d count to 15 in his head and then come at me like a rocket all over again.

Condom after condom slipped away, wrappers strewed about my room, my bedding soaked with our sweat and my juices.

Near 4 am he climbed on top of me, a familiar position, his weight heavy and slick on top of me and he finally came in a long, low grunt.  I trembled and fell limp, my hands prickled, my eyes filled with stars.

It had been months, many months, since a lover found such delight between me and him.  Captain, starved from months of duty, lusted for the release that civilians take for granted.  He drank every ounce of the moment of his effect on me and me on him.

We lay together panting and I immediately drifted off; I had work less than a handful of hours later.  He stirred.

“Hy, I’m really sorry, but I have to go home…” he seemed heartbroken.  “Can I call you in November when I get back?”

“You better, Captain” I said.  “And it’s ok, honey.  I get it.” I could barely open my eyes.

“Yeah, I just really need to be in my own bed.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself.  I’m ok.”

He got dressed and I staggered to my closet and put on my robe.

At the door I wrapped my arms around his waist and he stooped to kiss me.  Despite plans to see each other the following day I had a sinking feeling I wouldn’t be able to pull it off.  This would likely be the last time I’d see him for quite some time, possibly forever.

He thanked me again and walked outside.

“Goodnight, Captain.  Be careful.”

“I will.”

I wondered if he’d meant to add a “Ma’am” at the end out of habit.

I didn’t get to see him again before he went back to base.

Hy on her knees 1
Fuck the haters.

 

A ghost sneaked into my bed.

It’s been a little over one year to the day from when The Neighbor said he “didn’t want to do it anymore.  Meaning: date me.  I have never gone through such a brutal break up in my life; my divorce wasn’t this painful and I can’t quite figure out why.

Maybe it’s because I decided to trust an untrustworthy man.  Maybe it’s because I was truly me with him.  Maybe it’s because I loved him more.  I don’t know the answers.

The entire year of 2015 was spent working hard at healing and digging deep into my own psyche; what was wrong with me that I had allowed that to happen to me?  I had willfully ignored a frantic voice in me to end things with him the summer before he did.  I had been so desperate for it to be wrong I crushed any chance I had at listening to it.

Bereft and ashamed of myself I gave myself a couple of months to catch my breath before I began dating again.  I activated dating sites and met men with a clear idea of what I wanted: financially secure, smart, kind, funny, and hung.  Gee, Hy, would you also like a unicorn and mermaid with that perfect man??

It’s laughable only because it’s an impossible thing to look for, but I was intent nonetheless.  I believed with all my heart that he was out there and unless I put myself in front of him how else would I ever find him?

Tall men, short men, hung and average, smart to dim witted, I dated them all and even fucked a few, their differences from TN as much as a relief as it was a heartbreak.  Was he really so unique of a man??

Imagine my surprise then when Bones unbuckled his pants and I saw a penis much like my old love’s.  Same thickness, same length and the man attached to it is built in an eerily similar way.  Shorter and less stocky, but densely muscled and powerful all the same.

None of this registered in the heat of the moment as our clothes peeled off.  It wasn’t until he threw me down on the bed and pressed into me, his lead-like weight pinning me to the mattress and his giant dick entering me that I was reminded of what it used to feel like to fuck TN.

If Bones had somehow gotten his hands on some Chanel Blue for men and had a hairy-as -fuck chest I could have closed my eyes and thought it was The Neighbor.  But only for fleeting moments.  These two men don’t fuck the same, how could they?

TN knew every inch of me and Bones had only just touched me.  He didn’t know how to bring me to the heights TN did.

The second time he came over it was a similar experience and my sobriety only served to heighten the similarities until I looked at the whole picture.  Bones came over at 9:30 after Peyton fell asleep and stayed with me until the very last second he could.  The sun was barely up when he looked at me with puffy eyes and kissed me with his lips together to hide his morning breath.  “Bye, have a good day,” I said and then went and woke up my sleeping angel.

The third time he came over was after midnight on a Sunday.  He had been four states away for the entire week and wanted to see me, something about fucking the shit out of me.

He left in the afternoon, a little later than planned, and I was disappointed.  “You’re not going to be able to come over,” I texted.  “It’ll be too late!”

He told me he was coming over.

I don’t think I believed him until he called a little after midnight and woke me up.  I was groggy and discombobulated from a lucid dream.  “Hey, I’m on Cement Ave.  That’s near you, right?”

“Yeah, that’s really close,” I croaked.

“Are you ready to be fucked up against the wall?”

I woke up a little then and could hear his smile.  I laughed.

“How long have you been thinking about that?” I asked.

He paused, then, “Nine-hundred miles.”  We laughed together and I shuddered.  He was actually going to show up.  He made a promise and he was keeping it.  He seemed to understand the value of a woman willing to have sex with him.

There was a soft rap on my door a few minutes later and my heart skipped a beat.  I padded to the door.  He stood in the doorway with backpack and duffel bag and a crooked smile.  He kissed me, gum in his mouth, set his gear down, and turned to me.

I felt shy and awkward, makeup-less and sleepy.

We fell into each other’s arms and I was reminded of what an incredible kisser he is.  I got lost in his whiskers and lips and began to lead us to my candlelit room.

I kicked the animals out and shut the door and he pushed me against the wall and, just like he’d promised, fucked me up against it.  The cold sheet rock pressed against my warm palms as his hot hands twisted the flesh of my hips in his hands.

He slipped out and I ejaculated and moaned, ground back on him and writhed on my feet while he pumped into me.  He popped out again and again I squirted.  I needed something to grip and he turned me around to the footboard.  The bed immediately protested with loud squeaks.

His height was perfect for entering me from behind, not unlike TN’s.  I pinched my eyes shut and concentrated on the new man slamming his hips against the backs of my thighs.

On the bed he splayed my knees and slid inside, long and hard.  His arms were stiff beams on either side of me and the faster we clashed against one another the more my bed wailed.  Its screeching filled the room along with my pants and moans and cries for, “More baby, harder, faster, pleaaaaase…”

On my belly, my hands wrapped around the iron bars when I heard, “I’m gonna cum, baby!”  He pulled out and hot globs of jizz sizzled on my back.  TN didn’t do that for an entire year.

We slept comfortably in each other’s arms until our alarms began to chime.  His at 6 am on the dot, mine at 6:02.  We snoozed our phones and stretched into each other.  His warm, hairy arm flung over the dip in my waist.  The phones chimed again, this time one minute apart.  I felt a bump against my bottom, a little tap, tap.

I arched into the well of his hips and felt the fullness of his erection.  He squeezed a breast and pulled me closer as I reached behind me and stroked and squeezed him.  His hand slid down to my hip and buttock.  He lifted the meat so it would part for him and the tip of his cock found my hole.

He pushed in easily and the reverse curve of his cock hooked into me towards my belly button.  I groaned.  He thrust.

Morning sex is different.  I hesitate to call it special, per se, but it’s certainly nothing I’ve had much experience with in the last 5 years.  My lovers steal away in the middle of the night — or I do — and The Neighbor and I rarely fucked in the morning.  That would have meant he’d stayed the night and that was a rarity.  (Though, I would steal over to his apartment early in the quiet morning and suck on his monster cock until he awoke.)

He rolled me onto my belly and I raised my bottom to meet him.  He smacked my flanks and I fell back on him with all my might, the bed obnoxiously loud.  Faster, more furiously, more fiercely he pounded into me.  I came and twisted beneath him.  “I came, I came,” I panted.

He took it as his green light and came immediately himself and sprayed cum all over my back again.

He disappeared for a moment and returned with a towel and wiped me clean.  We lay sprawled next to each other, dazed and satiated.

Bones is a private man and rarely talks about himself.  Sometimes talking to him is an exercise in patience, but his energy is positive and he seems to be enjoying himself when we’re together.  He’s funny and distant, a combination I tend to like.  

It’ll be interesting to see just at what point the ghost of TN is completely exorcised from my bed because I know he still lingers in my heart as a smear of pain.  My reluctance to open up is evident every time I’m with someone; allowing Bones to come over and stay the night has caused me great panic and often regret at offering the invitation in the first place.  But his calm reserve and steady presence isn’t threatening and so I keep offering.

Also, there’s no fucking way I’m passing up time with this man.  I happen to be a big fan of unicorns and mermaids.

Four men, three days.

It’s not unlike what I imagine it’d feel to be warmly drunk on a carousel.  The melodies piping out of the organs in the middle, the slowly oscillating animals impaled on gilded poles, the streaks of light smearing across a park at night,  the captured smiles and snatched words as I slip past.

“You’re so beauti–”

“Yes, baby, that fe–”

“Can I kis–”

I returned from the mountains filled with the love of friends who’ve known me for half my life.  Who were there when my baby was born and when I left my husband.  Who knew me when I had just moved here, fresh-faced and intent on devouring the world.  They call me loving names and accept me for all that I am: ribald, intense, caring, loud, big, and dry when I’m not sloppy wet.

I let Petya go before the break.  We both agreed I deserved more than whatever hot mess it was that he was serving.  And though I haven’t made anything officially over with The Soldier, I’ve let him go, too.  Though because he is an injured soul, I figure the Universe might know what to do with the two of us.  “Happy New Year, you,” he’d replied after weeks of silence.

I don’t remember who else I was maybe kinda sorta talking to before I left, only the ones I’d met and touched: The bad Tuesday night lay who booty called me this weekend, but I was busy in bed with another man.  My old friend, Kevin, whose big, beautiful cock is attached to a guy who seems somewhat ambivalent about how he uses it; I was reminded of why we petered out before.  The fella who happens to be local, but knows me as Hy, and whom has a complicated entanglement.  Read: married.  We met on Instagram and decided we’d be assholes together, a roaring fire in a fancy hotel the backdrop of our first, chaste meeting.

And there were new men to look forward to.  Sex with one, lots of talk with two others, and an interesting combination of flirty, wicked-fast banter and some good ol’ fashioned titty-fucking with the fourth.  Thirty-two, 32, 26, 25.  My head spins even as everything around me is in sharp focus, the detail clear.

To my Saturday night date, the big burly fella with a dark beard and eyes to match, I explained that ultimately I was looking for a partner.  He misunderstood me.  “Hy, I might not be the man for you.  I’m not looking for a longterm relationship.”  I laughed and tossed my hair in that strategic way, pulled my boot-clad legs up under me a little more.  Clearly he had no idea who he was dealing with.

“No, that’s an ultimate goal, but I’m looking to have fun in the meantime, too.  I mean, how would you and I work, anyway?  You’re deathly allergic to cats.”

He laughed like I wanted him to and then he grabbed my face and kissed me passionately.

Later, in the dark, I awoke with his heavy arm flung over me.  The sex had been the kind of satisfactory that you might feel about the almost-fantastic massage you got that last time you went in for a treat.  I enjoyed myself.  I know he did considering his yells as I sucked him off and some kind words after I’d cum.

“Fuck, you’re fun to get off,” he whispered hotly into my ear, his hand filled with my ejaculate.

I’d rolled over drunkenly, sated, and fallen asleep, but now that I was wide awake I felt panicky.

I blamed the dog alone in my apartment for my pre-dawn escape, but truly it was because I don’t know how to have morning coffee with a man anymore.  Would he expect to have sex again?  Were we supposed to go to breakfast together?  Would he look at me expectantly to leave?  I couldn’t bear the unknown and so I dressed by the glow of his phone, kissed him warmly and promised to be in touch, and left.

Slipping through the dark, quiet city I wondered what I was running from.  The idea that he’d want to have breakfast with me or that he wouldn’t?  I couldn’t tell and ultimately decided it didn’t matter.  Both fucking sucked.

The next day, as yet un-showered, I met my complicated friend for ciders and to ostensibly watch football.  I stuffed my face with a hot BLT topped with an over easy egg.  I thought the yolk rolled between my fingers like cum.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

He couldn’t answer right away.  “Maybe I’m an asshole,” he finally said.  “Maybe I just need excitement in my life.  I don’t know.”

“Well I know why I’m here,” I said.  “Because you make me feel special and I appreciate the lengths you go to to see me and talk to me.”  I paused.  “But I’m still processing all this.”

He nodded.

He walked me to my car and the sun shone in my eyes.  I couldn’t see him as I leaned in and tilted my face up.  His beard scratched my face as he only pressed his lips against mine.  I smiled into his whiskers and pressed again.  We broke apart.

“I’m sorry.  I’m still not used to this,” he said needlessly.  Of course he isn’t.  He was an honest man before me.

I drove home, ran a hot bath and soaked away my sins.  The previous 18 hours tucked away on the other side of the carousel.

The blond man waiting for me at the bar was handsome.  I smiled and asked him what he was drinking.  “Club soda with lime.”  I suddenly remembered he didn’t drink.

I asked if he smoked and he said yes so we went outside where I watched him at once dance with the devil and fly with the angels.

With his sober recovery a binary lens for his life, he struggled to explain his feelings surrounding sexual relationships and intimacy since those are rarely black and white.  I smiled, adjusted my bosom to rest on the table top and forced myself to reveal my most newly realized and deep, dark secret: I have intimacy issues and I, too, struggle with managing it all.

His eyes twinkled and we high-fived over the table.  Oh, the irony to make a connection with a total stranger in under 2 hours.  I’m really good at those.

The truth is, there is a part of me that soars high above the fray.  The wind in my face, the ground below a beautiful patchwork of opportunity and hope.  I will find a partner some day, I think.  Then there is the other part of me, the one with no strategy whatsoever, the id which drives my daily search to have fun and be adventurous.  That seems like fucking fun.

The two coexist, they’re not mutually exclusive: I want a longterm, stable relationship.  I want to do whatever I want in the meantime.  Also, what if one of the “just for fun” men turns into the partner man??  I’ll never know unless I try.

He walked me to my car and we hugged.  I wasn’t sure how he’d fit into my life, what with his ambiguous feelings about pleasurable things — I need a man who can go all in with me and not pathologize the loss of control — but, because I am always open to surprises, I let him kiss me in the cold, night air.

He giggled and kept nibbling.  It was pleasant and sweetly intense.  His legs cut through the beams of my headlights as I watched him walk away.

The next day I met a different young man at the same bar.  He strongly resembled Clark Kent in one of his Tinder pics and I was a little disappointed he hadn’t worn his glasses.  Instead he had on a beanie and was painfully stylish.  All super hip kid, no nerdy Clark, but Clark was special in other ways.

Not only was he stupidly hot, but the banter I’d come to look forward to in our texts carried over seamlessly in person.  We parried zing for hilarious zing.  His Makers on ice impressed me for some reason and the fact that he was 25 made no difference whatsoever.

His legs lay in my lap by the time we finished our drinks and I traced his new forearm tattoo with a finger, though I wished it was my tongue.  “Wanna keep hanging out?” I asked.

“Yes.”

We had to park down by TN’s building and when Clark grabbed my hand to walk up the hill I wished with all my might we might be seen, but it was midnight on a Monday, a true pipe dream.  Instead I focused on a hot, intelligent, sexy boy grabbing my hand and my first reaction was to leave it there.

Clark was like me: he was open for anything in any form it might come.  “I don’t want to limit myself by having expectations.  I’m open to whatever happens.”  Hearing him say that after all the other limitations which had poured out of the other men’s mouths was like aloe on a burn.  Was I hearing him right??  Were we actually on the same page?

Back in my apartment, nervous, we fell into each other’s arms.  He peeled off my clothes, pulled me to my feet, and walked me to my room.  I grabbed a candle and set it down.  When I turned around he was naked and glowing, his muscles dark dips and bright swells of shadows and light.

I had the vague idea that I did not want to fuck him — not only was I emotionally exhausted, but I was bleeding — but I laid beneath his naked body and writhed and arched all the same.  I told him we couldn’t have sex and he bit my ear.  I pushed his head down to my breasts and coached him to suck and nibble until the pleasure ripped through me to my fingertips.

Instead of begging him to fuck me I said between pants, “Straddle my chest, please.”

He hopped up, smiling, and pinned me down in one smooth motion.  I took his cock in my hand and suckled and slurped, my other hand wrapped around and grabbed his bare ass and guided his thrusts into my open mouth.  He grew even more rock hard and I lost my shit.

“Titty fuck me,” I moaned.  “Please…”

He pulled back and grabbed, big, rough handfuls of my breasts and slipped between the mounds.  “Goddamn this is fucking hot,” he said.  I clawed his buttocks and closed my eyes and wished it was my pussy he was pile driving into.  He cried out and fell back.  The ceiling fan cooled the globs of hot cum pooled on my sternum.

He passed me a towel and I wiped my chest before he took me into his arms and held me.  We dozed in that peaceful place that two naked strangers share, the one where you don’t know each other’s last names — though, for the record, we knew each other’s names.

When we came to a little while later I tried to get him to stay, but it was 2 am on a school night.  It really wasn’t feasible.  I wrapped myself in a robe and watched him pick up the trail of his clothes.  Dressed and standing over me he pulled me in for a goodbye hug and kiss.  I staggered back to bed and slept through my second morning workout without regrets.

I always loved the carousel, the movement and motion, the streaks of color when you look out and the curiosities when you looked in, the rabbit with a saddle and the zebra with a bridle.  My life might seem like streaky chaos from the outside, but from my vantage point on my fiberglass steed it’s in motion, it’s twirling, it’s in a good place.  

The big difference between my life and the carousel — despite their many similarities — is that, like that scene in Mary Poppins where they break off the ride onto their own adventure, one day I trust mine will do the same.

And I have plans to see Clark again this Friday.

 

 

 

I fucked two guys on Christmas night: A continuing holiday tradition

For the 4th year in a row I’m posting my magical Christmas night story.  It was the first time Troy and I met Jack and it was the launch of a beautiful friendship between the three of us.  It was also the launch of my sex positive journey, a true freeing of a soul.  This was originally published 12/25/11.  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.

He covered my face with kisses.

I understand that this post may seem like a 180 from the last [two] I’ve posted, but you have to understand that I am a master at juggling balls.

I couldn’t tell you if I am better at it than most or if it’s just simply a part of being an adult, but just because one aspect of my life might be ripping me apart, it doesn’t mean it necessarily bleeds into the rest.

I contain the damage, so to speak, batten down the hatches, seal the leaks and live my life.  Maybe it’s being a mother that’s helped me hone the skill; I’m not allowed to wallow, I have a life to nurture and have to keep my shit together, goddamnit.

In any case, despite the crushing realization on Friday that TN had fed me lies about the man he was and I had gobbled them up like a hungry street urchin, I went on dates and I danced in gay bars and I laughed so hard my sides ached and I got the shit fucked out of me and I fell asleep cradled in a young man’s arms.

This man is a stranger in a strange land, he’s young, he’s an entrepreneur, English is not his second language, it’s his third, and though he speaks in a perfect American accent he says things like, “You make my blood go faster,” which is decidedly not an American thing to say.

I met him on Tinder 10 days ago and he dazzled me with his odd sayings and strange behavior, like sitting on his porch and looking at the stars instead of going out on a Friday night.  He sent me pictures of beautiful ceramics he’d spun and fired himself.

The next night I was unexpectedly child free and I invited him over to hang out.  He arrived tall, disheveled, and dressed like the 25-year-old that he is — he’s way hipper than me.

He stooped to hug me and I felt him giggle into my neck.  “I’m so happy to meet you!” he said and giggled again.

I felt overwhelmed that night by his boisterous enthusiasm.  He sat too close and spoke too long about things a stoned hippie might.

“Are you high?”

“Me?” – long pause – “No…”

“You sure??”

“Oh, yeah.  I’m not high.  I want to be on point to see your beautiful face.”

Ok…

His own momentum of emotion carried him to my lips and in between excited, smiling kisses I said, “I’m not fucking you tonight.”

He fell away from me and with an easy smile said, “Oh, I know.  I didn’t even bring condoms!” and he patted his apparently empty pockets for emphasis.

We killed a bottle of wine over the next four hours and I was shocked to see it was nearly 3 am when I finally thought to check.  He looked at me sheepishly then and said he should go.

He hugged me again and got me to commit to a dinner date on Monday night.  I’m pretty sure I scratched my head as I locked the door behind him.  I felt like I’d been mauled by an overly affectionate bear cub.

Petya came to the US when he was 17 on a baseball scholarship from Russian.  He came alone and was somehow wise enough to know how to use his natural physical talents to squeeze out athletic scholarship after athletic scholarship and his classes weren’t wasted.  In addition to leaving college debt-free, he also left with a blossoming business.

Eventually he needed a business partner and moved here to be close to him.  He hates the heat and thinks it’s unnatural.  “I’m Russian.  This is ridiculous.”  I actually couldn’t agree with him more.

He owns a house a little south of the city and has a dog named Winter.  He works out every day and eats everything in the house multiple times a day.  “I am a barely domesticated beast,” he texted me.

He was a little late picking me up on Monday night and we went to an awful chain restaurant.  I picked at my steak and hid bitefuls in my black napkin.  When the flirtatious waiter came to take my plate away he pushed me to admit I didn’t like it.  “It’s comp’ed!” he declared and sped off.  A manager came and apologized some more.  I said it really wasn’t a big deal.  Petya watched me closely.

“I liked that you were so polite and courteous.  Let’s go.”  And with that we left the crew to their vacuums at 9:30.

At home on my couch he was more relaxed and less philosophical.  He smelled good and was soon nuzzling my neck.  I was tired and hungry still, but couldn’t resist his inertia, his pure enjoyment of me.  I opened my mouth to him and his beard scraped my face.  He bit my lips and I grabbed his wrist and brought it to my breast.

He groaned against my mouth and squeezed roughly.  I moaned into him, arched my back, and redirected his hand under my shirt.

My breast, big and heavy, spilled out of its cup.  He switched from my lips to my nipple and latched on and it hurt exquisitely, intensely.  I don’t like it when it’s soft; I can’t feel it.  My nipples are utilitarian, meant to withstand the life-or-death sucking of an infant.  FUCKING SUCK ON THEM.

He stopped then and stood up on his knees over me.  “Look at what you’ve done to me.”  My eyes fell upon a lovely bulge inside his fashionable pants; it pointed towards his right hip.

I rubbed it with my palm and looked him squarely in the eyes.  “You wanna go fuck?”

His face cracked wide with a smile.  “Yes, I do.”

We stood and in one move he picked me up and carried me to my dark room.  I clung to him and wondered why all these men keep picking me up.  David, The Soldier, and now Petya.  Are they fucking crazy?!  I am not a small woman, but I’m not complaining.  It’s unbearably hot.

He set me down and I ripped his clothes off and he mine.  He was sure of himself, passionate, beautiful.  With his cock safely wrapped in latex he pushed into me, my knees spread, my breath caught, my heart still.  And then we fucked.

We fucked and moaned and kissed and bit and I clawed at his sweaty flanks.  Our bodies ignited and sweat gleamed off of him from the light in the hallway.  My pussy rained down around him and my orgasms passed through one end of my body to the other.  I died a hundred little glorious deaths as I followed his light into the pools of our coupling, a shimmering mess caused by pure exertion and inhibition.  He was lost to his thrusts and I to his punishing hips.

He came with a quiet roar as I held on to his young body then he stilled and rolled off of me.  I lay there and panted, stunned at what had just happened to me.  One minute I was chillin’ on my couch with a weird Russian kid, the next I was being fucked to death by a weird Russian kid.

He was as out of it as me and when I peeled the condom off of him and took him in my mouth he shuddered.  I sucked and slurped and choked a little on his pretty cock and watched with closed eyes his body climb to its peak and crash down into splintered Russian-y bits.  This was not a quiet roar, it was a proclamation.

When he’d caught his breath he said, “Holy shit, that was as powerful as the first time I ever masturbated; I’ve never had better in my life.”  Whether either of those things were true mattered none.  My lips tingled from his semen and my smile was genuine.

He pulled me into his arms and kissed my temples, my eyes, my nose and lips.  I smiled again because I didn’t mind.  It felt appropriate, this bear cub licking me like this.

“Tell me something in Russian,” I said and then listened to the guttural, rolling, wavy words spill from his mouth.  “What’d you say?”

“I recited a poem to you.  It’s about faith.”

When he left he promised to see me soon, his tone relaxed.  “Don’t worry, that’s what texting is for, to string together the real visits.”

The rest of the week was busy.  Work, parenting, life.  Friday night I had my meltdown that I had so naively believed TN when he’d said, “I’m not that guy.  I don’t do social media, I don’t go out, I don’t do fun stuff.  I prefer to be at home!”  And the very painful realization that I had settled for so very little when all along he was more than willing — and capable — of doing all of those things.  Just not with me.

Saturday I limped through my afternoon and listened to my own voice half a dozen times, went on a ridiculous Tinder date, got stood up by date #2 and ended my evening with my favorite gays in a leather bear bar downtown.

Petya had checked in Friday to say he was looking forward to seeing me on Sunday and that it would be the highlight of his weekend.  No one has ever has said something like that to me in my life.  None of my old boyfriends, not my husband, certainly not TN and as I nursed hangover #2 Sunday morning I realized I was looking forward to seeing him again, too.  It would likely be the highlight of my own long, strange weekend.  Except it, much like the entire weekend itself, wasn’t all smooth sailing.

He was late and my risotto didn’t survive.

His apology was more of a defensive retort and I struggled to separate the baggage of TN always being inexplicably late and this isolated event.  He didn’t even know what risotto was, so when I told him that was for dinner how could he possibly know it was so time sensitive?

But we were eating this goddamned dinner regardless so I accepted the weak apology and set before him a perfectly cooked rare filet with herbed-butter, half a lobster tail left over from Thanksgiving, roasted asparagus, gooey risotto and a glass of red wine.

He smiled at me exuberantly as he cut into his steak and he froze.  “This steak is like butter!”  He quickly cut through and put the piece in his mouth, closed his eyes and said, “One, I’m never cooking for you and two, no wonder you couldn’t eat that awful steak the other day!”  We laughed and ate and all my irritation disappeared as quickly as the food.

I cleared the table and walked over to him and stood between his knees, grabbed his head and pushed his bearded face into my breasts.  It was my way of saying all had been forgiven.  We pretended to watch a movie for about 35 seconds before we raced into the bedroom.

It was a brutal coupling of gnashing teeth and loins, of him begging me to kiss him as he buried himself into me, his declarations of pleasure and of me pulling taught his heavy silver necklace as if to steer his passion.

I came to his urgent voice rooting me on.  “Cum for me, Hy.  Cum for me.  I want to feel your orgasm!”  His words, foreign in a familiar tongue, cradled me as I burned from the inside out and I squirted like a fountain in a museum hallway.  “Yes!” he yelled.  “Yes, yes, yes!”

Slick from nose to toes he had to stop to rest and flopped onto my pillows.  I wasted no time to work on him and suck every drop of semen out of his fine, long body.  He tensed and yelled and arched and lost himself to the deep recesses of my throat.  I hungrily guzzled every drop and flopped next to him, happy.

He scooped me up in his arms, tucked his knees beneath my bottom and hooked my knees over his hips.  He began to kiss my face again.  My ears, my cheekbones, eyes, nose, lips and his words spilled out as quickly as his kisses.  “I am so sorry for being late.  That was so inconsiderate of me!  You had this beautiful dinner planned and I was late and you had done so much!  I’m so, so sorry!”

I laughed, happy he had seen the light to a proper apology, satisfied that he certainly seemed to deserve more of my time.

I hugged him back and kissed his temples and forehead and he pressed his face to my warm, damp skin and kissed my breasts.  We lay like this for a little while until I found his sleeping cock and stroked it gently.  “Do you want to watch me masturbate?” I asked.

He handed me my Hitachi and suckled my breast and played his hands across the swells of my body.  I came quickly and hard.  He scooped me back up into the curve of his body, told me how hot and amazing I was, and then the candlelight faded into his even breathing and we fell asleep.

Minutes passed and we awoke together, surprised.  Almost simultaneously we said, “I never fall asleep with someone.”  And then we promptly fell asleep again.

The second time we awoke he dragged himself out of bed and got dressed.  “I have to get up at 6,” he explained.  “I wish I could stay.”

We hugged and kissed again before I let him slip out into the cold, dark night.  His hoodie pulled up over his head, his bear cub smile just barely visible.

I staggered back to bed and slept on my wet spot.

 

 

Chemistry is non-negotiable.

Hy in a striped dress 2
Friday night stripes.

I’m 30,000 feet in the air on my way home from Ann’s and I’m fairly certain of three things: 1) vacation dick is pretty great; 2) cheese and more wine, while pleasurable, does not cure a hangover; and 3) I can’t remember a third thing because numbers 1 and 2 have pretty much taken all my brain power and life force.  I’m sure I’ll think of it at some point.  [Ed. note: It doesn’t happen.]

I could give you a blow-by-blow of my weekend with the ever gracious Ann, but if I jumped into that I’d be missing a bigger, more important theme of my time with her: chemistry — between friends and lovers — and how it’s actually non-negotiable.  You can’t turn it up or down, it just is or isn’t.

Ann and I have good chemistry as women, as friends.  Apparently, I had pretty great chemistry with the man she calls “Shenanigans.”  I also got to see first hand the effortless chemistry between her and a man she can’t explain, Tony.  And last night she invited two of her friends over for a night of drinks and chatting and those women also clicked seamlessly into the tapestry of our weekend.  Again, more good rapport.

Being so charged with chemistry this weekend has made me contemplate who and what I am as a person.  How am I perceived?  What is my impact on those around me?  Should I be more careful?  How do any of us ever find one another?

I arrived Friday afternoon still covered in the sweat and bodily fluids of The Soldier.  He’d come over Thursday when I discovered a free hour in my day.  He’d plunged into me and dripped sweat down on me as he rode us both punishingly over the edge.  We rested, talked easily, and as he was getting up to leave I put him in my mouth and let him bury himself into my skull.  When he came, I felt his semen hit the back of my throat and relished the feel of his hands on my head holding me to him.

I didn’t want to wash him off of me and so I didn’t.

Driving home to Ann’s she laid out our plans for the night: we had tickets to an art show of some kind, a little free time to grab a drink somewhere, then we were hitting a club.  Tony, her on/off again amour wanted to meet us for the drink portion.  I realized then the evening would require I wash The Soldier off of me if I were to be in polite society.

As the night wore on and the purple, pulsing lights cast eerie shadows on the club walls Shenanigans, an old lover of Ann’s, continued to text her from an earlier chat they’d had in the week.  She wasn’t the least bit interested, I imagine still on the high from holding Tony’s hand in the fancy hotel bar we’d met him in coupled with just a basic disinterest, but I insisted that he come over and hang out with us.  I had no ulterior motives other than just wanting to meet as many people in Ann’s world as possible.  And so he did.

By the time he arrived, however, Ann was worshiping the porcelain Gods.  I went to let him in and was surprised by how good-looking he was.  Tall as all fuck, scruffy looking in a boy-next-door kind of way.  I knew virtually nothing about him, despite her writing about him over the past two years; he seemed like such a peripheral character, I never bothered to give him my full attention.  Plus, shenanigans.  I don’t have to read about a fella to know if he’s earned that moniker.

He followed me up to the living room and I went to pour him some wine while Ann continued to die somewhere around the corner behind a closed door.  She soon went upstairs to rest.

We followed her and lay in her bed congenially until I playfully convinced him to take his pants off in front of us at which point his strip of Magnum condoms were revealed.  I’m fairly certain that secured the evening for me.  And for him.

I took his hand and led him out of Ann’s room, down the stairs and — he told me later — pulled out a great big cock and did what I love to do.

Sometimes I forget that this isn’t what normal people do.  

Most people don’t travel thousands of miles to visit their girlfriend and then end up sleeping with an old lover of theirs.  They don’t fuck on purple leather couches in the open.  They don’t fuck in their friend’s son’s beds.  But, I guess that’s the kind of person I am.

Shenanigans peeled off my dress and fondled my breasts.  He pulled me up to standing and reached for the condoms while I rolled down my stockings.  We kissed again and I felt his erection bob between us, its hard heat far above my bellybutton as he towered over me.  He roughly turned me around and pushed in.  I held onto the back of the couch and marveled at how we somehow fit even with more than a foot’s difference in height between us.

My breasts swung and I felt an orgasm come up and over me, juices trickled down to disappear at the bones of my ankles.  I briefly thought I was glad I wasn’t soiling Ann’s pretty rug or couch.  At least I wasn’t that impolite.

Time and space stood still.  I wasn’t far from home, I wasn’t in someone else’s living room, this wasn’t someone else’s man.  I was just this seething mass of nerves and drive desperate for release and he was the conduit.

He sat on the couch and I climbed up on his lap and sunk down.  His pale skin was illuminated against the dark purple leather, his cock buried up to my sternum.  He latched onto my breasts and squeezed them.  I faced the staircase behind him and saw Ann’s feet, then legs, then drawn, tired face.  She smiled and paused next to us.  I continued to move on Shenanigans, just a little, as she and I exchanged pleasantries the equivalent of which would be “Hey, girl.  You good?  Good.  Later.”

She padded past us to the kitchen then back up the stairs.  We didn’t see her again until morning.

Alone again we laughed at having just been interrupted and turned back into each other.  He picked me up and I kept my legs wrapped around his waist as he fucked me while standing in the middle of the living room.   An odd sight we must have been, I thought.  My long hair draped across us both and he seemed not to exert himself at all as he pumped against me.

I felt like a kid in a candy shop, frankly.  Free and wild to be me.  He came and let me loose and we wandered naked upstairs where I put my pajamas on and crawled into a little boy’s bed and pulled this giant stranger in after me.  I fell asleep instantly.

I don’t have a recent memory of waking up with a man.  I don’t do that.  I steal moments from busy, scheduled lives, or I run out as soon as we’re done.  It felt oddly normal to wake up next to Shenanigans and oddly normal still to let him push into me, his mouth on my neck and lips.  I couldn’t stifle a  laugh when guilt washed over him.  “Man… we’re in her kid’s bed,” he said.  I told him to close his eyes and not think about the stuffed animals.

My eyes were closed, too, thinking about the treat between my legs.  The great big athletic man rocking away into me as 8 am peered in at us.  He was getting close, he said and I told him to cum all over me, anywhere, everywhere.

He pulled out and laid ropes of pearly semen all over my belly and tits.  We marveled at his artwork and regretted not snapping a pic.  We were both too lazy to get our phones.  I was probably still drunk.

I laid there for a few minutes and blinked, reality slowly creeping in while Shenanigans was having reality crashing down hard on him.  I mean, the guy ostensibly came over to fuck Ann, but he ended up with me.  He didn’t know she couldn’t care less about what we’d done.  He was agitated and fidgety.  “I’m going to go talk to Ann.”  He pulled on his underwear and left the room.

I got up and did my morning ablutions then knocked on her door.  He was sitting on the edge of her bed looking uncomfortable.  I crawled in next to her and told him to relax.  “Tony’s bringing us lattes,” she said.  “One for Shenanigans, too.”

I took him downstairs to leave poor Ann alone until our coffees arrived.  He was nervous.

“Who am I?” he asked.  “How do I explain why I’m here?”

I told him Tony wouldn’t think twice about him, that he’d assume I’d pulled him in off the street and we’d fucked.  I couldn’t convince him, my words were useless, so instead I undid his pants and pulled him out.   He was hard again and I could taste me on him.  He was more fun with his lips sealed.

I licked his warm balls and tongued the smooth patch of skin behind them and dove down onto his shaft until he came with a deep, long guttural moan. He held me to him the exact same way The Soldier had 36 hours earlier.

He didn’t mention Tony again and when they met a few minutes later he fell over himself to explain that he was my friend.  Tony didn’t notice as I’d predicted.

I walked him downstairs, told him this might be goodbye forever, hugged him and shut the door.  I didn’t see him again.

Back upstairs, Tony had let himself up to Ann’s room and was laying under the covers beside her.  I sat at the foot of the bed while Ann rested her head on his chest and he pet the curls at her temple.  We joked like old friends and I surreptitiously watched them interact as I regaled them with my tall and sexy tale from the night before

After hearing from her for so long the somewhat torturous entanglement they’ve had I could see why she always wanted more from him.  He’s sweet, yet different, quirky; his words tumble out of his mouth with a child’s exuberance; he’s bold and bright.

He’s driven and can become hyper-focused; if she’s out of sight, she’s also out of mind, though not in a callous way.  He cares about her.  I imagine it’s much how a lot of men I’ve known have been: The Neighbor, The Soldier, countless others easily forgotten. The difference, though, between the forgettable ones and the memorable ones isn’t the effort they put in or the category of relationship that ensues, but the quality of the chemistry, the intensity.  Ann and Tony have great chemistry.  It’s natural.

All the talk about my raucous night was making Tony visibly antsy, so I left them to their own devices and went downstairs.  I sneaked back up to get some socks and could hear Ann’s cries and skin softly clapping.  I crept back downstairs to wait for pizza and thought about my chemistry with Shenanigans, all shenanigans aside.

We’d laughed and shared stories and talked like we weren’t total strangers, the mysterious atoms of chemistry doing their work.  His oddness was impossible to miss; I could see why she’d nicknamed him Shenanigans.

Later, the two spunky lovers and I ate lunch and cuddled on the couch.  My feet tucked under me and Ann’s on Tony’s lap as he watched soccer and explained his passionate love for it.  Soon, they disappeared back upstairs and I napped on the couch, desperately hungover now.

Time stood still again as I was once more reduced to my physical needs.  I climbed back upstairs and fell into Liam’s bed until Tony came in to say goodbye.  We hugged tightly and I went back to bed where Ann soon joined me.

“I asked Tony to share with me what’s in his heart and head.”  I only moaned and asked if we were really getting back on The Tony Ride.

Since meeting TN, I have greatly edited my expectations of what a relationship should look like.  Brief?  Long?  Committed?  I don’t know — or often care — what it looks like.  If it feels good, do it.  If it doesn’t, don’t.

By that afternoon I had hardly heard from The Soldier and even been told he would keep his last name private.  I could freak out about that, but why bother?  I’d rather enjoy what I have than lament about what I don’t have.  If I ever really need more from him, I’ll ask and make a decision from there.  I like the freedom of being able to fuck some guy while I’m on vacation with zero regrets.  I owe no one anything.

I urged her to seek the same kind of peace in order to enjoy the beautiful thing they share and wondered aloud if anyone had ever died from a hangover.

She left to go shopping for dinner and I buried myself under puffy down covers still wishing I were a more normal friend, one with a lower volume in general.  When she returned we readied a carpet picnic of cheeses, bread and crackers and first one, then another of her friends came over.  We laughed and talked well into the night.  After they left I lay moaning on the couch while Ann hammered out a quick post, overcome with giggles.  It still felt all very unreal.

This morning, I continued to struggle with my shame over my behavior.  Was I going to leave and in the quiet of her home would Ann suddenly realize I was actually a total shit?  I squirmed at the kitchen table as she continued to assure me she didn’t care and loved me all the same.  As a dissolute, wild woman hearing I am accepted just as I am is a remarkable gift.  I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.  Thank you, little atoms.  Thank you, Ann.

I don’t know what’s going to happen with all the chemically-charged characters from this long weekend of mine; it’s like we’re all a bunch of magnets.  Me and The Soldier and Shenanigans and Ann and her friends.  The Soldier and I will, for a lack of a better word, soldier on.  I’ll see him when I see him.  Shenanigans and I will likely be a fond memory to one another, perhaps occasional pen pals.  Ann’s friends I will long remember for their amazingly hilarious stories — I hope they remember me as fondly.  As for Ann and me, well, I just hope that when she visits me next I can return all the favors, vacation dick included.

 

Hy in a striped dress 1
This is what everyone does in a bathroom, right?

I need you, Internet Boyfriend.

I am feeling lost and sad and lonely.  The Neighbor’s birthday is this weekend and, being silly me, I offered to take him out for his birthday on Saturday, Independence Day.

“So…” I began, “I was thinking I should take you out for your birthday this weekend.  Tina and Amy are both out of town, Peyton is, too, I’d like to do something fun.  What do you think?”

He looked at me with a quizzical look.

“C’mon!  It’ll be fun!  What else would you be doing?”

“I’d go into work then go home,” he admitted. Then he added, “Lemme think about it.”

I knew that was code for “Let me check with my therapist.”  “Ok,” I said.

A couple of days later he called to say I could take him out for brunch.

As you know, Internet Boyfriend, brunch is a sore spot with me.  He never went with me, hated it, he said.  “I’m not a brunch person,” he’d assert.  No matter my protests, he never budged.  The closest I ever got were a handful of 5 am wake-up calls to go to our favorite greasy spoon. I took it, appeased, but still longed for what brunch represented: a closeness, a lazy stroll through the morning after an intimate night, a declaration of couplehood.

Last weekend I told my dates that I wanted someone to go to brunch with.  Both men got what I meant without hesitation.  Last night my date got it, too.  “It’s special,” he’d agreed.

But this offer of brunch isn’t any of those things to The Neighbor.  If I had to guess — and that’s all I can do — it’s because it’s the safest slot to put me in.  It won’t be late, there won’t be much drinking (if any) and then he can bail on the excuse of having to do some work.  I could feel the long arm of his therapist in this decision since I had clearly made my intentions known that I wanted to take him out for the evening, as friends only.  “What do you want to do?” she likely asked.  “I want to hang out with her,” he’d probably said, “but I don’t want her to get the wrong idea…”

It makes me sad because the truth is there is a deep, dark part of me that wants him to come back around to me.  Not as we were, obviously, but as I’ve jumped into the deep end of dating I realize once again how special he is, how special our connection is.

Both Tina and Amy have rekindled romances with their exes.  They look at me with surprise when I say TN and I haven’t slept together once since breaking up or even kissed.  They have both gotten reengaged with their men and — despite all the complexities and confusions it’s caused — are happy with their lots.  I want that, too, but I can’t break him down; he has a steel grip on his resolve, never drinks too much around me, runs out of the house if he does, and because my heart is still dripping with loss I rarely contact him.  The chances of us bumping into each other with lowered inhibitions are nil.

I’ve come to realize that his rejection of me is integral to my wanting him.  The fact that I can’t charm the pants off of him, literally, invigorates me.  I want to know why, I want to solve this riddle.  I can charm the pants off of 97% of the men I meet, why not him?  Hell, why not the Bad Texter?  Even he has me on the hook because he is a complete mystery to me.

As I’ve been given the bitch slot of the day on Saturday it’s caused me to wonder why I even bother, but it’s that inexplicable itch I have to scratch.  Man after man I meet as if it’s my job and one by one they fall to my wiles.  It’s so easy, too easy, IBF.

I’m ashamed to call myself charming because it might come off as arrogant, but I don’t know how else to explain that with very few exceptions I manage to make a man want more of me.  Except the men I want; they eschew me, dodge me, refuse to see me.  Those are the men that draw my attention most: the ones who don’t see me.

Last night I sat at the same dive bar as I had with Remington only 3 days earlier.  We nearly sat at the same table, but out of respect for the ghost of that first date I steered us to a different table.  He was a fine looking man, fit and wirey from climbing, self-assured, a little nerdy looking which drew me in.  We began to talk and I found myself fitting to him as I had Remington, and The Lawyer and Mr. Nerdy, and all the other men.

Remember that ridiculous date I had with the guy with the face tattoos?  Or the power-lifter aficionado?  There have been others I never even wrote about because why?  They all went nowhere.  Yet, without exception they all thought it went swimmingly and wanted more of me.  I’m exhausted being their perfect woman and I am forgetting to look for my perfect man.

I’m so busy being charming and winning them over, figuring them out and being wanted that I am completely forgetting to be discriminating.  Why would I want this guy?  Is he the right fit for me?

He loves camping (I hate it), but, I think, maybe I’m doing it wrong and he can change my mind.  He’s a little bit overweight (and that’s not really my thing), but, I think again, he could lose it, it’s not a character flaw.  He’s a recovering alcoholic (and I don’t really want to mess with that being the drinker that I am), but, again, I can’t judge him for getting his life on track.

And so I have these inner dialogues during these dates whereby I dismiss all my red flags, all the things I don’t really want in a partner, because I don’t want to judge and I want him to want me.  And, what if I’m wrong??  God forbid I make a mistake.

I have this thing about me — I’ve noticed it my entire life — that I naturally emulate whomever I’m with.  When I’m with Sharon, I get a southern drawl, when I’m with Tina my hand gestures mimic hers, when I’m with Amy I walk like her.  Studies have been shown that it’s a likeability factor, this emulation.  We are naturally drawn to those who are most like us, who become familiar.  Books have been written on how to capitalize on it.

I suppose this was something I was born with then the skill was deeply stroked as a child in an unstable home.  To survive my mercurial parents, I had to disappear, figure them out and be as likeable as possible.  It’s led me to success in my career, but loss in love.  I rarely know where I start and they end I am so impossibly contorted to be likeable.  This gift of being a chameleon comes at a price: my own voice, my own way.

At the end of my date last night he asked how I was feeling.  I was his first internet date ever (“I prefer analog,” he’d explained) and it was off of AFF.  The truth was that I didn’t find him all that attractive physically, but I had enjoyed the conversation.  So, I did what I always do and kept him on the hook.

“I’d like to see you again, but I have to be honest, I’m a little worn out.  I go out a lot and next week I have my kid again.  Are you a patient man?”

He smiled, pleased I was interested.  “I am.”

I left it at that and we walked out and had a chaste kiss across from my car where, 3 days earlier, Remington had assaulted my mouth and pussy with hidden skills.

I drove home and got texts from Mr. Nerdy.  He’s excited about our date tonight, a traditional dinner and then an activity.  He’s been amping up the sexual content of his messages and I, quite frankly, don’t know if I have it in me.

I am so tired.

David came over Wednesday — yes, the guy who had taken himself off the market was back at me — and had railed me to oblivion.  He’d picked me up and thrown me around, choked me while his hand slammed into me until I puddled around it.  He bent me over and licked my asshole while holding my hands behind my back, fingered me and slipped his fat, unprotected cock deep inside my wet hole.  I’d gagged on his massive cock.

He struck my flanks, my legs, my thighs until I was fire-engine red and fucked me until he came on my back.  We’d laid in the waning light and talked about safe things: our dogs, physiological reactions.  Then he’d pulled me back into him and rolled on top of me and kissed me passionately until I pushed him off of me and tried so hard to get that enormous dick down my throat.

Tears squeezed out as they had earlier in the night, I’d vomited a little and then he’d flipped me over and railed me again until his muscles seized up from his 60k run over the weekend.  I’d fallen back on his cock and he’d turned me around to finger my ass.

How many fingers and how far he was into me was lost as I tried to cope with his penis.  He coached me as I whimpered, mortified and turned on and determined all at once until I’d vomited completely into my mouth and pulled off, stiff and still, looking for something to spit into.  That was it for us for the night.

We found ourselves trapped in the vortex of miscommunication again and I realized it was so easy to fuck him and let him come around because though I had figured him out I didn’t actually want him in my life as an important person.

I lay there, opposite him with his leg draped over me, his hands massaging my ankle and me stroking his calf thinking how comfortable I am with a guy I would never want to date, whereas the men who want me cause me great discomfort.

Mr. Nerdy has no idea that David sucked it all out of me.  I don’t want to have sex tonight, though I’m sure I will.  I will because I’ll mold myself to him and want to win him over.  Plus, I like sex.  It will likely be good for me to be with someone who’s interested in me beyond just my willingness to put out.  And, he wants to take me to brunch.

But I will be kicking him out sometime in the night, under the summer moon, because I will have to wash up and be ready for The Neighbor’s birthday brunch and afternoon surprise (I’m taking him to the batting cages).  He says he’s excited and really looking forward to it.  Strangely, I am, too.

I’m looking forward to figuring this out, IBF.  I’m lost.  I’m sad.  I’m lonely.  And The Lawyer wants to spend time with me on Sunday which makes me feel all the more lonely.  I need you.

 

 

I doubled up.

The words “double date” tickle me because these days it means something entirely different than two couples out on the town together.  For me it’s two dates back-to-back in one evening.  Holla.  How’s that for some great double date ideas??

This past Friday was certainly not my first, but it was certainly my best double date in recent memory.  The last double date I had, I forgot about Date #1 completely and didn’t include him in my own list of who I was datingOops.

Date #1 lucked out and caught me at a time in my week where I was both available and feeling open-minded.  He messaged me on Tinder, but never acknowledged my preference for gold wrappers.  I ignored it and figured he knew what it all meant and followed his lead.  He was smart and quick and even though I’d already made a date with a tall drink of water for around 8 o’clock on Friday night I decided that I could handle a warm-up date with this nerdy surprise.

Date #2 was with a 29 year old lawyer.  An impossibly tall young man with whom I had established my golden wrapper requisite.  “I know what you’re talking about,” he’d messaged.  “I use them.”  I’d explained my preference while blushing furiously.  It never gets easy being a size queen.

I drove to meet Mr. Nerdy with a light heart.  My graphic tee was mostly see-through and my legs looked long in high-heeled wedges.  I had nothing to lose if this went badly; I couldn’t wait to meet The Lawyer at 8.

“I’m in the green shirt,” Mr. Nerdy texted.  I took a deep breath and walked out onto the patio littered with people drinking wine and eating cheese.

Our eyes locked and we both smiled.  He stood to hug me hello and he towered over me.  He was taller than I had imagined.  And more muscular.

We ordered some drinks and settled in.  I laughed and maneuvered through the date with a sense of fun I wore like perfume.  It enveloped us both.  We opened up, we flirted, we shared, we set boundaries.  He was far more attractive than his pictures let on and I couldn’t take my eyes off his broad shoulders and tapered waist.  When he moved his chair closer to my knees and casually dropped his hand on my warm skin my eyes locked with his and we laughed.  We knew we were a match.

He walked me to my car when I realized I was close to being late to my next engagement.  “Do you have another date?” he’d asked.

“No,” I’d blithely lied.

I hooked my arm through his elbow and thanked him for being tall enough to wear my heels.  He chuckled and squeezed my hand.  When we got to my car I turned to him and put my hands on his hips and pulled him towards me and his soft lips pressed into mine.  I looped my hands up to his shoulders and gently massaged him as he wrapped his arms around me.

We had hammered out every detail: we are both looking for passion, for connection, for something steady, maybe a launching off point for something more serious.  He alluded to being kinky and bold; I’d alluded to compliance and perversion.  His mouth plied mine with warmth and verve.  I moaned a little and arched into him and hoped I wasn’t getting beard burn from his 5 o’clock shadow.  That would be hard to explain to Date #2.  His kiss was nice and we vibrated against each other.  First kiss nerves never go away, it seems.

I broke us apart and thanked him again for the great date and we promised to see each other again.  He brought my attention to the large bulge in his dark jeans.  “I sure hope it pleases you,” he said smiling.

I winked at him and told him I was sure it would.

I drove to Date #2 beaming, skipping across clouds like a naughty angel.

As I walked into the restaurant I felt my heart beating more quickly.  I saw my date out back on the patio and he stood to hug me as I approached.  Jesus Christ, he was tall.  I reached up, he stooped down, we laughed nervously.  “Well, hello,” I said, “it’s nice to finally meet you.”

I could barely look at him; his long lashes curled to touch his cheeks and he looked like a kid.  I laughed and said, “Are you sure you’re 29?!  You look 12 years old!”  He blushed and lowered his chin and assured me he was an adult.  A 6’6 1/2″ adult.

“I get that a lot,” he replied in a deep, grown up voice.  “It’s the eyelashes, I think.”

“Yeah,” I laughed.  “Maybe.”

We ordered wine and soft-shell crab and blistered shishito peppers, though the chicken liver mousse was our favorite.  Turns out he, too, is looking for a steady, lovely, sexy, passionate, brunch-going type of relationship.  Too bad he lives an hour away. But then again, maybe it’s a perfectly built-in speed bump.  I don’t know.

On our way to my favorite watering hole I laughed until I cried when I realized his feet were as long as my femur.  “Can you see this?” I guffawed as I pressed a shoe of his to my leg. “You’re a giant!”  He grinned sheepishly while I teased him, but was happy to hold me close as we walked up the hill from our parking spot.  I forgot how amazing it feels to be with a gigantic man.

We ordered drinks and bummed cigarettes off our neighbors and with each drink we sat closer and closer until our lips locked and I inhaled his Old Spice and slipped my hand between his thighs.  He moaned and grabbed me and smiled into our kiss.

“Wanna come back to my place?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

He drove me back to my car and followed me home and seconds after he walked through the door we were writhing on the couch.  His sheer size pushed me down into the cushions and his mouth moved across my neck and breasts with a reckless first-date fervor.

I led him into my dark room and we found ourselves tangled in clothes, then just limbs.  His face fell to my pussy and his fingers snaked inside of me.  I coached him on what to do with what, then relied on raw begging.  His hand slammed into me and as his mouth lapped at me I felt myself gush into his mouth.  He moaned and shivered and slammed into me more.

“Please,” I panted, “please fuck me.”

He stood up and grabbed a condom, rolled it on and positioned himself between my knees.  He pressed into me, but the erection had softened some.  I clung to him as he moved me about the bed and I could tell he was becoming frustrated with his pouty cock.

I pushed him off of me and bade him to lie on his back.  I removed the condom and began to suck.  A nice size, not huge like I’d hoped, but I knew I’d be able to feel him once I got him back in business.

I sucked and lapped and stroked and opened the back of my throat and kissed his pubis with a mouth stuffed full of cock.  His hands were in my hair and on my face and when he was hard as rock again we rolled another condom on.  He scooped me up and held on as he gyrated like a jack-hammer into my wet ass pussy.

I found myself squirting again and he moaned into my neck as he felt it between us.

He began to shake his head and I knew he was at odds again.

‘I don’t think I can cum tonight,” he finally said.

‘It’s ok,” I said stroking his head resting on my shoulder.  “There’s always tomorrow morning.”

We separated and he pulled me against him and I fell asleep next to a great big bear of a man.  I woke up a few hours later and noticed his feet were stuck through the bars of the footboard.  I smiled and got up, did my morning ablutions and quietly crept back into bed.

It was the normal thing to do after sleeping with someone: stay the night and wake up together.  I remember a time when that was common practice, though it hasn’t been in recent memory.  I either tear out of his room under the auspice of a dog who needs me or a bad back and when I have company over it’s during the day or morning so he could never accidentally stay over.  This was nice though, almost normal.

I fell back asleep almost instantly.

When I woke up a couple of hours later it was to the dog scratching himself.  I called for him to stop.  The Lawyer was disturbed now, too, and rolled to his side and pulled me against him.  I felt his morning wood for a moment then drifted off back to sleep.  The dog had begun to scratch again.

The next few minutes were spent drifting in and out of a lazy morning haze and commanding the dog to stop being so disgusting.  We laughed and wiggled closer whenever we could until finally I felt his lips on my neck and his hand on my breast.

I rolled to my back and kissed him, spread my knees and handed him another condom.  He was hard as a brick this time and I was dry and tight until I was hot and wet.  He came quickly on my belly just as I had asked him too and when he handed me a towel to clean myself up I asked him to lay with me while I came one last time.

His hand gently caressed my breasts as I held the Hitachi to my clit and I wondered if he’d ever seen a woman do this before.  I didn’t ask and he didn’t say anything.  I just let the buzz do its job and came quickly myself.

“When do you have to leave?” he asked.

“Thirty minutes,” I answered.  Peyton had a birthday party to get to.

We got dressed and I openly teased him about his towering height now that I was flat-footed.  “You know, 2000 years ago you’d have been earmarked for brawny work based on your size.  But you lucked out and got to be all intellectual and shit.”  He laughed and said he supposed I was right.  I’m sure all the village girls would have wanted him in their hut.

He said he wanted to see me again, thanked me for a wonderful time, and said his next two weekends were tied up with family and friend commitments.  I assured him we’d figure something out.  I hope that we do.

 

I have a sexual brother.

Hy getting clean
I still haven’t taken one of these. Better get on it.

We sneaked little boxes of wine into the dinner theater Saturday and giggled as we passed them back and forth surreptitiously between our seats.  We laughed at how much we’d enjoyed the blockbuster and decided to walk across the street to a bar for another drink.

Standing on the back deck sipping more wine I tried to explain how I felt about our connection.  It was light, airy, easy, sexy as fuck.  “You’re like my sexual brother, but that’s an awful thing to say about someone you want to fuck.”  His face broke into a huge smile.  He knew exactly what I meant.

I met Chase 4 weeks ago off of Adult Friend Finder.  His profile read much like mine: mind is more important than form, sex is an art, passion is a pursuit, etc.  He also had a beautiful cock.

We emailed some and quickly discovered we’re neighbors and moved to text.  There was something about him that drew me in, a wording here and there, a punctuation.  We decided to meet on a Monday night and hours before the date he texted that he had more sex than he knew what to do with, wanted me to know as much, but was compelled to meet me anyway.  I appreciated his honesty and there was an underlining humor to his situation that made me smile.

That night we drank cider and talked like old friends and shared stories about our lovers, past and present.  I liked hearing how he worried his dick was going to fall off due to all the action he was getting; he liked hearing how David liked to try to kill me with his giant cock.

I slipped my bra off when he went to get our second round and he moved his chair closer when he sat back down.  There was a steady glow growing between us.

Back at his house, we surprised ourselves with a passionate embrace.  Clothes came off, cock in mouth, mouth on cunt, titty-fucking, vulva massage, fucking fucking fucking.  He spurted hot jizz all over me then got me a towel to clean up.  I laid there and began to laugh.  He began to laugh too.

“I had no idea I could cum again,” he said.  “What a nice surprise!”

I met with him two weeks later and all we did was drink wine and talk.  It confirmed what I felt that first night, that he is a brother in arms in this sexual battle-dance.  We necked a little in his car and I went home satisfied as I was.

He’s lost some lovers since we first met, things have fizzled out, but the bulk of his efforts go to a girl who is insatiable.  I suspect that some time soon I’ll lose him to her entirely as she seems much more open to a romantic coupling than me, but he’s still mine to play with for now, and as we tangled skin to skin Saturday night under a dark purple haze of wine and weed I wondered how she was handling her time away from him.

I wondered if she’d care that he wrapped the reins of my hair around his hand and pulled as he rammed into me from behind.  I wondered if she minded that he beat my flanks with his hand and bit my nipples.  I wondered if she got as wet as me as he pounded on top of me.  I wondered if she begged him to cum rivers on her face and tits.

I woke up yesterday with crusty eyebrows and a film of semen caking my chest.  I was upside down in the bed; he’d put a pillow under my head, though he was at the head of the bed.  I sat up and looked around the dark room and felt for him.

“What time is it?” I asked him.

“Six,” he replied sleepily.

“I have to go take care of my dog,” I said in answer.

I love the morning-after puzzle of Where Did My Clothes Go? and we patted around the bed for a few minutes finding bits and pieces.  At least I still wore my knee socks.

I came and sat next to him and nuzzled his neck as he pulled me closer.  “Are you ok?” he asked.  “I was really rough with you.”

“Yes, I’m perfect.  You were great.  Thank you.”  I kissed him on the lips, my sexy brother, and quietly left.  His dark curls disappeared against the dark sheets, his pale skin bright in the darkness.

I hope I know him for a while.

 

It’s better if we don’t talk.

I sit in a perfumed cloud of semen and spicy sports deodorant; my hands are mine again.

After a brutal week at work our meeting was spur of the moment, motivated by watching him in a porno gangbang with two women who didn’t look unlike me.

He picked me up in the hallway and carried me into my room.  His skin was damp from the rain.

“You just need someone to fuck you, don’t you?” he growled in my ear.  “To make no decisions, to just be taken.”  It was almost a hiss.

I only barely nodded as his mouth crushed mine and his hands gripped my breasts.

I had on boots and a blazer over my sundress; when he got up to kick the dog out I peeled off the coat and sat nervously on the edge of the bed.  He turned to me and wrapped his hand in my hair and tilted my head back.  “You don’t have to say anything,” he said and bent down and kissed me again.

David is a punishing lover, a Romanian coach of sorts.  Brutal, demanding, and then filled with pride and kindness when I comply.  I find myself wanting to comply.  A lot.

His lips were soft, his five o’clock shadow gruff, his hands hot and seeking.  He stroked and pet my pussy and bit my flesh; his clothes melted away and I reveled in the cloth that covered mine, but not his.

He jammed his fat cock down my throat and crooned to me as he went balls deep, his hand hooked into me and began to slap at me.  I suckled on a ripe testicle, arched my back, moaned, breathed in his soapy skin and filled his cupped hand with ejaculate.

He moaned and quivered above me and kept at me.  Cock swollen and banging against my cheek, my pussy throbbing, my chest heaving.

Clothes had to come off now, boots unzipped.  I must be unfettered.

He climbed up onto the bed and slid his cock between my breasts and squeezed them together, his balls on my chin and perineum soft against my nose and lips.   I felt exposed, humiliated, then empowered as he gently turned my face towards his sweet, puckered ass.

“Lick it, you dirty girl,” he panted as he stroked his cock between the mounds of my breasts.

I flicked my tongue, afraid, yet curious.  The giant man straddling my face tensed and froze as I fluttered my wet tongue around his anus.

His fingers hooked back into me and began to jerk me up to orgasm.  The pressure built and I bit his cheek as I came again and created a puddle between us.  He laughed almost maniacally and climbed off of me and rolled me over to my side and helped me up to my knees.

He told me to put my head down on the bed and to spread my cheeks for him.  I felt shame and a thrill, a duality I am not familiar with.  He grunted approval and slipped a finger into my cunt, then another, and maybe another.

My shoulders went numb and a hand dropped away as his arm pistoned into me.

He slipped a finger into my ass and my other hand dropped away as I gripped the bedding for purchase and leaned back against him.

“Please,” I panted, my face pressed into the mattress.  “Please, please fuck me.”  It was a whimper now.

There was a pause while he rolled on a condom and I felt his hands back on my hips as he gently pushed me onto my back, spread my knees and pushed into me as his mouth met mine.

I don’t know how long it’d been since we’d coupled, but as the rain pattered on the window feet from my head I thought about what a gift my body was, his body, everyone’s body.  That we are capable of such existential bliss through a physical act is nothing short of magic, a breach across divides.

He slammed into me and held my wrists.  He pinned my arms, he bit my nipples, he spanked my flanks with bruising blows.  He went wild on me and I met his crashing waves with my sea wall, unbroken, yet drowned in his needs to push me under the surface of my sanity.

When he pushed my legs together and held my wrists behind my back I began to sob as the orgasm seeped into me.  I imagined the other blonde, buxom women he’d pounded in the video and how they had become flushed and breathless.  How their hips and bellies and breasts had rippled with each passionate thrust of his hips.  How they had loved his cock — marveled over it — and here it was in me.  It was mine.

I came harder then and cried out that I was cumming and with my cries I heard him lose it.  He roared his climax, pulled out and ripped off the condom; I began to sob with release as hot ropes of his cum crisscrossed my back and landed in my hair.

I lay prostrate and jerked with sobs and laughter.  He stroked my temple and asked if I was ok.  I nodded that I was and he kissed my head.

“I hate to leave, but I was supposed to head out to the campground when you texted me an hour and a half ago, but I couldn’t miss out on this.”  I understood.  David and I aren’t so great at talking anyway.  His “no guts, no glory” approach to life is too harsh for someone as sensitive as me and I am often left scratching my head and feeling oddly defensive and misunderstood.  We do much better when all we do is fuck.

He got a towel and gently wiped my back clean and sat beside me.  I hooked an arm over his thigh and hiccupped receding sobs.  “See,” he said, “I knew this is just what you needed.  You seem much calmer now.”  He chuckled.

“You’re right.  This is just what I needed,” I agreed.

I got up and had to steady myself, my head was light, my limbs heavy, my hands numb.  I pulled on a sundress and we kissed by the front door.  I wished him a good time camping and thanked him for the good time.

“Bye,” I said as I was closing the door.

The last thing I heard him say was to chuckle and make fun of how I’d said it.

It really is better if all we do is fuck.