Know when to hold ’em.

I’ve been wanting to write a lot lately, but have been keeping quiet and just thinking instead.  I don’t like it; I need to pour myself out onto the page, to see myself wind through the letters and lines like water through a little ravine.

The Rich Golfer, the man I met in person one fateful night has significantly highlighted some of my greater faults and weaknesses when it comes to love and relationships, namely that I love a good chase to the exclusion of all else.

I love the thrill of hunting a man and twisting him to my will, the dark heat of seduction and manipulation.  I mean no ill will, but I light up at the thought of moving pieces across a board.  If I knew any good chess move references, I’d use one here now, but I only know checkmate, and I am wise enough to know that scoring sex is far from the checkmate I really crave.

After our first incredible and drunken night we kept in touch with some basic sexting.  A pic here and there, no real communication.  Interest was mutual.  I finagled a second meeting to return his RayBans, to which he’d shown no real attachment and had even said if we couldn’t coordinate schedules that I could keep them.  But I insisted.  It was the ethical thing to do!

At his posh house near a golf course 5 miles outside of town (and a 30 minute drive from my house) he met me at the door in jeans, a tee, and barefoot.  We hugged and he sniffed my hair and made an appreciative sound.  I was sober and would have to stay that way for the night because of some antibiotics I was on; he had imbibed with some golf buddies earlier and he vibrated sex and oozed an easy confidence.

We sat in a separate sitting area with a record player and candles flickered around us.  His floofy dog made bids for attention while he rubbed my feet and we talked and laughed.

He massaged my feet with candle wax and sucked my toes and took me out back on his little patio and insisted I sit on his lap while we shared a cigarette, my occasional vice.

In his room he ravaged me and his cock stayed hard for hours, magically.  “Did you take something for this?” I panted, spent and cum dumb, my hand absentmindedly joy-sticking his dick.

“No.  I swear.  You’re doing this to me!”

We fucked all night long, my cum soaking the bed just like he’d been begging me for all week on our phones.  Sideways, backwards, standing, sitting.  On his insistence I’d brought my vibrator and as I sat on his hips I rocketed out my skull with a body-shaking orgasm, pouring my soul all over the bed sheets.  I would have cried for mercy had I any water left in my body.

He gently washed me in the shower and the bubbles were slick under his hot hands, his cock still unbelievably hard.

We fell asleep after one more long and punishing fuck with a movie on his big screen tv, sprawled in his king sized bed.

I slept fitfully.  There were moments throughout our coupling – with him inside of me – where I thought This can’t possibly be real.  He’s going to cum then tell me to leave, that it was all just a big joke.  He’s far too hot for me, too rich, too successful.  These thoughts ticked through my mind as I fell asleep cradled in his arms.

The next morning I woke before dawn.  I had to get home to let the dog out.

He got up with me and pulled me down on the couch for one last cuddle.  His hand found my pussy and dug inside.  I came almost instantly.

Without a word he stood up and I followed him into his room, dropping my panties along the way.  He took me one last time from behind with a grinding, gripping dump of cum on my back.

I showered quickly once more and he walked me to the door and gave me a long hug goodbye.  I drove with the windows down, the sun fully risen, my panties in my purse, and my mind racing.

I left for London the following Wednesday thinking about him.  Neither of us could believe that the second time was at least as good as the first and we were still in disbelief over the first time, drunken or not.

We texted a little here and there over the course of my trip.  He’s not much of a texter, but he couldn’t wait for me “to cum back.”

We made plans for me to come over that first Saturday I was home.  How do I like my steak?  Mooing.

I stopped and bought two bottles of wine and arrived in jeans and a tee with the dog.  “Yes, bring him,” he’d said.  I wouldn’t have to rush off this time.

The night flowed like the last time.  He cooked two filets and baked potatoes with a salad.  We ate at his dining room table, a first ever for him, and chatted and laughed about fuck knows what.  It was easy and fun and exciting.

It started with another foot massage and led straight to the bedroom.  We fucked and fucked until we could fuck no more.

“I had such big plans for you tonight,” he whispered huskily in my ear, “but you’ve derailed them all.  I was going to tie you up, but I just can’t get enough of you…”

I purred and cuddled closer, pulled him into every hole I had and screamed with lust as the pleasure of this kindred spirit poured over me while he was buried deep in my ass. I watched him above me, eating me alive with his eyes, grimacing with his own elation. My bellybutton filled with my cum as the room filled with sounds of my orgasm.

“I wonder if it will always be like this,” he mused, collapsed beside me.

“We could find out.”

“Let’s do it Monday,” he suggested.  It was Saturday night.

We cleaned up under a hot rain and he asked if I’d ever had a golden shower.  My answer was to shake my head No and offer him my back side.  He smiled wickedly and peed on my rump as the clean water and piss mingled down my legs to the drain.

“I’ve had two ‘firsts’ tonight,” I said back in bed lying in his nook.  “I came on my back while getting fucked in the ass and I got a golden shower.  I didn’t know I still had ‘firsts’ left in me!”  I couldn’t stop smiling into the candlelight.

“I’m happy I could help.”

Our dogs had romped happily during our sex breaks outside and mine whined the night away as he was locked out of the bedroom, but we slept soundly and as dawn broke once again we fucked and bathed again and then he made us coffee.

He was quieter now and put golf on the tv.  I sipped his coffee and sat beside him, sensitive to the new vibe.  I didn’t have to rush off this time, but I didn’t feel welcome to stay, but stay I did because it felt silly to run off when it was unnecessary.  I didn’t want to acknowledge the shift.

Determined to end on a high note, I rubbed the bulge in his red sweat pants and it immediately hardened.  I pushed the coffee table away and knelt between his knees and took him in my mouth, fat and hard.

He moaned and gently touched my hair.  “Let’s go to my room.”

We hadn’t touched the vibrator the night before, but it lay on the ground on his side of the bed like a long-tailed lizard.  I pressed it to me as he pounded me from behind and came mightily.  His skin glistened with sweat and I pushed him on his back, crawled up his legs and licked me off of him and sucked every last bit of jizz right out of him.

He shook and got quiet.  I licked my lips and got up to redress.

Back on the couch, with more coffee in hand, I tried to engage him.  I asked questions about golf, his Game of Thrones encyclopedia that lay like a brick on the coffee table.  He answered, but showed no interest in the connection.  The dogs irritatingly played  on top of us and he kicked them outside.

When it finally felt like time to leave – after 3 too many cups of coffee – he hugged me goodbye, but deflected the kiss I attempted.  His lips fell on only the corner of mine.  I drove home with the windows down again, but my heart wasn’t light.  Something was off.  And I’d left my vibrator behind deliberately on accident.

The following three days opened up to nothingness.  We did not meet up on Monday or any other day.  He explained that it was a week-night and he couldn’t fuck like on a weekend, but I could “swing by anytime” to retrieve my vibrator.  He was also going out of town that weekend.

I suggested we get together the weekend after.  He said he should be around.   Slightly defeated, but not wanting to let on, I told him to send nudes with a smiley face.  He sent a winky face.  Since there was no urgency to see me again, I just ordered a new vibrator instead.  I’d see him when I saw him, I supposed.

It’s been two weeks since that text exchange and I haven’t heard from him.

Last night as I parked a few empty spaces away from The Neighbor’s car it hit me again that our entire 3-year relationship was mostly a product of my will, my plotting, my sheer seduction of him and manipulation of the situation.  He never wanted to date me and yet I moved us both across the board in spectacular fashion because I wanted him and nothing would stop me.

If I pursue RG while he is doing whatever it is he’s doing I will be contaminating the data.  How can I tell if he wants to spend time with me if I am fiddling with our dynamic?  How can I know if I want to spend time with him if I don’t allow him to show me more of who he is?

The Prime Directive of dating here should have always been, Let him show you who he is.  Let him show me he wants me.  Rather than Hunt, chase, devour, win!  But I guess I’m a really slow learner and old habits die hard.  I need to fucking chill out and set my Seduction Level to zero.

So I have sat on my hands for two weeks and not said a peep.  I’ve felt hurt, confused, indignant, sad, hopeful, relieved, strong, weak, proud, humiliated.  I won a bet with a friend that I wouldn’t hear from him in a week.  My heart felt brittle and black.

When that next weekend that we might have met up came and went with no word I stayed the course, remained quiet.  I would not meddle.

And then I just re-read our last texts.

They were friendly, soft, not not interested, so I softened a little and felt my interest rise again.  I decided to place my piece back on the board, though with no strategy in mind, with a funny, sexy, innocuous text Hello.

I feel like I am observing myself in the wild.  What will Hy do now that she has peeked her head out from behind the Saharan bush and identified her target?

I guess we’ll see what his next move is and where I end up on the board. Also, he was probably just thinking about his golf game and taxes for the last two weeks.

 

 

[Ed. Note: the title is from Kenny Roger’s song The Gambler:]

 

Being alone together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His cologne smelled grassy and masculine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alone.  Not together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m dunzo.

Cried in therapy about my sadness today.

She doesn’t know why no one wants to date me. Four men in my whole life have ever wanted to and obviously none of those were the best fit. Hundreds have wanted to fuck me, though. They’re lining up practically.

“If they actually knew you, Hy, they’d want to! Not that they’d know you like I do, but…” her voice trailed off. “But you are so sexy and so big. I don’t think most men can handle it.”

Her little blue eyes sparkled at me surrounded by wrinkles.

“Everyone wants to date Hy,” I said, “and that’s the real me. I just don’t know how to get anyone to get to know me in real life.

“I don’t have any opportunities. Work isn’t an option and when I don’t have Pey I work long hours. All I have is online – like everyone else – but how can anyone know me in one date or in 4 weeks? It’s all set up for me to be meaningless to them.

“Look at Early Afternoon Lunch Guy. There’s a reason I didn’t program him in to my phone. What’s the fucking point??”

I began to tear up when I told her I’d programmed my Saturday night lay into my phone.  Rich Golfer.  His real name is almost a “Chad.”

We’ve been sexting a little. An auspicious start to nothing, I’m sure. Nothing says “future relationship,” like, “I want your cumm [sic].”

Peace out.
February Photofest

I’m sad, too.

Good angles only.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

February Photofest

Life imitating art.

C’mon, Baby.

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

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

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

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

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

“I wish you could, too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

February Photofest
Masturbation Monday

I got an extra belt.

I noticed his belt on my dresser this afternoon, coiled like a snake.  Dark brown, almost black, smooth and well-made.  Its low-key fanciness surprised me.

I pulled it through my fingers and watched its shine bend and flex with my hands and smiled.  It was a nice meaty weight.

I’ll think of him, he who couldn’t be bothered to text me after sex, when I wrap it around the throat of my next sublime and willing lover.  If he ever calls to get it back I’ll tell him the dog ate it.

Eat your heart out, asshole.

February Photofest

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

How I like to be approached.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

February Photofest

I am insecurely attached.

In my Psych 101 class freshman year of college we learned about attachment theory and I see it pop up every couple of months in cultural and psychologically slanted articles about the state of affairs in relationships.  The theory, in its most basic form, is how you attached to your caregivers as a child affects your behavior and feelings in adult relationships.

Originally the researchers were only looking at it in terms of childhood development, but in the late 80’s folks began to see similarities in adult relationship styles.  If you were insecurely attached to your mother, for example, you’d be more likely to display similar characteristics in your romantic relationships.

There are four main types identified in adults:

  • secure
  • anxious-preoccupied
  • dismissive-avoidant
  • fearful-avoidant

The bottom 3 are all categorized as “insecure attachment” and I — lucky me — am a couple of those: fearful-avoidant in general and romantically and dismissive-avoidant with my mother and closest friends (according to this really cool test).

“People who are fearfully avoidant in their relationships are uncomfortable depending on others and serving as an attachment figure. Moreover, they worry that others may not be there emotionally when they are most needed.”  Dismissive-avoidant types “… are also not comfortable opening up to others and depending on or having others depend on them. In addition, they are not concerned with the question of whether the other person truly cares about them.”

This understanding about myself isn’t new, but it is important because it explains my total hyperventilation when men I date don’t show up in the myriad of ways one might not show up: ignoring texts, not following up after sex, being vague about plans, commitment, their feelings, etc.  Dating is a hot bed of psychological torture for the insecurely attached among us.  We can’t handle it and it all amounts to fear of abandonment and the push-pull dilemma of going for it or pretending we don’t care.

It’s exhausting.

Enter D/s into my life.  A place where I get to dictate the rules of engagement to control for my inabilities to trust others and my ambivalence to try and I feel a little calmer about things.  Apparently I am also way more devastated when things go sideways, but for a brief period of time I feel goooood.  And it’s worth the experience in general because I get to feel safe for a change.

Things with the Not liberal Liberal Sub have waned significantly since his visit.  I have stopped texting him because I have nothing to say.  He must be feeling similarly, though he did pop a text my way yesterday wishing me a happy day.

It’s just a matter of time before we alert one another to our feelings for one another.  “It was lovely meeting you.  I had a great time.  I don’t think we should pursue anything romantic or otherwise kinky together.  I’d be down for a glass of wine in London, though, if you’re around.”

So now it’s February and my self-assigned January Man Ban is over with and I’m talking to a sexy 39 yo vanilla guy that I kinda dig with ever-changing facial hair, random hot guys who aren’t really worth my time, and staring down at all my insecure attachment trappings thinking, “I got my eye on you, assholes.”

A couple of years ago I realized the benefits of applying the high standards of my D/s life to my vanilla one.  As a D-type I take less shit, I may even be slightly more securely attached, and after this last experience with a demanding and less-than-self-aware sub I feel even more armed to identify behaviors and character traits I don’t want. Insecure-attachment style or not.

If what I really and truly want is a fulfilling partnership replete with kinky sex and tender love then only I can choose for that.  My attachment style is the gauntlet, my will my armor.  Let’s see how I do.

Cheers.

[Ed. Note: If you’d like to read more about attachment theory, read this.]

 

February Photofest

I’ve made up my mind.

I haven’t heard from him. He gave a shit, beige-colored farewell – if I squint at it really hard.

It has become so easy: this man has not earned me.

Byeeee.
February Photofest

My gut said No.

I am not a good listener

when she says no

Twisting, turning, trying so hard

to be polite ohhhh

I must be mistaken, sure, yes, ok

until the sun rises on tangled hair and

deflated balloons and

whisker rash and

an urge to go home

Then the sun rises again

and she hears it true

No, no thank you

that won’t do

It’s you, it’s you, it’s you

We did not meet today.

 

 

February Photofest