You teach people how to treat you.

Peter and I met today at a little pizza house down the street from my office. I kicked off my Calvin Klein pumps for my battered Chucks and walked under rain-heavy clouds, my laptop in my tote. I was immersed in my work and a glass of white wine when he arrived all long legs, lean hips and a shy smile.

He looked worried which kept me rooted to my seat. What was he here to tell me? Were we going to say goodbye? I wasn’t sure what would happen; I have no experience telling people they can’t treat me a certain way.

We made pleasantries and I marveled at his dashing good looks. “So, why did you want to meet besides showing off how pretty you are?” I said breaking the ice, smiling slyly.

He made a coiffing motion with his hand and smiled back, laughing.

He explained the circumstances that prevented him from coming over Sunday and apologized again for hurting me. “You deserve to hear from me in person and not over text,” he said. He’s disoriented and lost since ending his relationship last month and he’s been couch surfing. He’s also somehow already gotten entangled with another woman who wants him to move in with her. He looked hurt as he told me.

“I don’t want to repeat my past,” he said. “But she seems to think we’re a thing and it’s not what I want.” I did a little probing and discovered she’s a woman I noticed on his Instagram despite no social media trail I could see. (“I’m psychic,” I told him.)

“Get out, Peter, you can’t keep staying there with her. You don’t seem to realize your effect on women. You are so pretty and so kind and so sweet and we are all so horribly treated that just the most minimal humanity shown us is seen as interest or intention to commit. You need to be sensitive to this about you and be responsible for it. Get the fuck out of there before you hurt her.”

“This is why I love talking to you,” he said. “You’re so mature and respectful and straight forward. I believe everything you say.”

“We’ve known each other for years now and I care about you. C’mere.” I moved my purse and patted the seat next to me. He moved closer and we embraced. I nibbled on his lips and he stroked my hair and back.

I told him about The Golfer and The Vet and how his flakiness has been coinciding with their whatever; I wanted to show him what a woman typically deals with.

“All my friends who date experience similar things: men are fucking awful to us. Please, you can stay with me when Pey is gone, sleep on that bed, you don’t have to share mine. We’ll get high and watch cooking shows and I’ll play with your penis.” I pulled him down to my lips again as I laughed. “It’ll be like a slumber party!”

He laughed into my kiss. “Thank you, and I may…” he hesitated. “It’s just I’m never jealous of you and all the men you go out with, but I’m jealous of her.”

“That’s your gut telling you to get the fuck out. You have got to end it now before you hurt her more. Look at these men I’ve been dealing with: yeah, it hasn’t been awesome for me, but they’re being honest and setting boundaries. They’re not interested in a relationship with me and they’re being very clear; I’m free to leave if I wish. You need boundaries.

“I was in a 3-year long relationship with someone who loved all I offered him, but didn’t really want me and it was devastating. Don’t do that.”

“I heard that “you teach people how to treat you,'” he replied.

“Yes, exactly. That’s why I called you out yesterday for hurting me and why I called The Golfer out for ignoring me for 3 weeks. If I decide to accept less than I deserve or want it’s on me, but I have to set the boundaries. We all do.”

I don’t know why, but I feel like it’s a losing campaign with Peter. He’s catnip to women and he doesn’t know how to be on his own. I don’t know why I care, but I do. I just really don’t want to see him ‘shipped up so soon.

I also feel something – that this one-month chick is being so damn nutty and capturing his attention and being rewarded – What about me?? Why is her fucking ridiculous behavior attractive?? Am I chopped liver? It kinda sorta feels like it. I’m in the Sex Silo, but not the Girlfriend one. Maybe if I were clingy and inappropriate I’d have a boyfriend by now, maybe Peter would want me – except I don’t want Peter, he lies. It’s all so fucking fucked up. I’m fucked up.

But whatever.

I “taught him” not to treat me like that and I was rewarded with a warm smile and a kiss of friendship. It wasn’t half bad. And hopefully I’ve spared some idiot chick years worth of heartache loving a man who was “too nice” to hurt her to her face and instead cheats on her for relief behind her back.

I paid for my glass of wine and he walked me out. A line of cars on the street waited for the light to turn green as we kissed on the sidewalk in front of them; I cupped his buns and pulled him closer and we smiled into our kiss at the little show we were giving. I walked back to my office and the clouds let loose little kisses of rain along the way.

I’ll see Peter again soon.

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I guess it feels a little weird now.

I had butterflies and little lead balls tossing around in my belly.  The Golfer kept changing his mind about where to meet him.  Country club, no, his house.   Then country club again, no, house!  I called him en route.  “You can’t keep changing your mind!  Where do you want me?”  He clearly wasn’t sober.

We agreed on his house, but when I arrived with my sex toys, bottle of wine, and his pack of American Spirit Yellows only the dog barked back.  I pressed the doorbell button again and heard loud music coming up the street.  Windows down, head banging, white country club baseball cap on, there he was in all his smiling glory.  He waved emphatically at me, his teeth glinting.

He was so happy to see me, he said.  I was so nice, he said.  He held me and cooed into my neck, told me how hot I was.  We went out back to smoke and he laid down in the shade of a tree.  He’d picked out his outfit just for me, had his house cleaned just for me.  I told him I didn’t believe any of it, but he insisted.

We laughed at his drunky drunkenness and I sipped my rosé, nonplussed.

He suggested we take a bath together in his Japanese soaking tub, a deep, circular shaped tub with a little seat in it.  The water was cool-ish and we contorted our bodies so that my knees were under my chin and his legs were wrapped around me.  We were nose to nose as he massaged my breasts and chest and shoulders.

“I really like you,” he said.  I could see the amber shine in his brown eyes.

I looked him squarely back, “I like you, too.”

“We have this… connection,” he continued.  “This chemistry.  It’s special.”

“It is…” I answered noncommittally, but sincerely.  He was drunk, after all, and while lovely to hear, there’s a lot of salt to add to this.

We sat in that tub for what seemed like forever, folded together like twins in utero.  His penis tapped against my vulva from the Jacuzzi bubbles and I laughed.  It was like my own fleshy vibrator.

He spoke about his general loneliness and how much he looked forward to seeing me each visit, how it took him days to recover from our sexual escapades and how much he loved fucking me.

I decided to give him the better spot in the tub and, wrapped in a towel, sat on the edge.  We laughed hysterically as he drunkenly tried to maneuver up onto the seat.  It felt good to feel something other than lust with him.

He asked me to guess how many women he’s slept with since meeting me.  He seemed to think we’d been seeing each other for 4 or 5 months (it’s been since the end of February, so… 3 months, I guess).  I knew the answer must be zero, but I guessed 2.

“Ha!  Not even close!” he said triumphantly.  He made a “zero” with his hand.  I suppose there was some implied significance for him on that.  Of course, I couldn’t say the same.  I’ve been sleeping with Peter and The Vet since I met him.  Combine the 3 men and I’d say I have a pretty great relationship.

Peter is sweet and loving and listens to me with rapt attention.  The Vet texts me on the reg and takes me on dates.  And The Golfer is a blast to be with and fucks me senseless.

The other side of all those coins is that Peter had a girlfriend and is a liar.  The Vet wants a swinging partner and is newly out of some crazy relationship.  And The Golfer ignores me for days on end.

I guess they’re also all the worst relationship.

The Golfer didn’t press me for an answer on my number, but he did want to know how I felt about us, sexually.  “Do you have this with anyone else?  Have you ever??”

I answered him honestly.  “No, I have never.”

And it’s true.

I have never in my life been ridden over such cliffs of sheer rapture.  Each time together seems to top the one before and I never think I’ll actually survive.  I didn’t explain it quite like that to him, but I assured him that I wholeheartedly believed that what we have is special.

The rest of the evening’s timeline is blurry for me.  I’d finished the bottle of rosé on my own in an attempt to level the playing field and was feeling no pain.  We ordered sushi and he promptly passed out.  I tried to wake him up, but without success.  I dozed and woke disoriented.  His phone lit up in his dark bedroom and I looked at the locked preview screen.

Someone said they were 15 minutes away.

Another girl wrote simply, “Heyyyyy.”

Forgetting that we’d ordered delivery I panicked.  What if some girl was on her way over right now??  He’s passed out in bed, I’m all alone!  Shit fuck fuck!

I tried to wake him again, but he was incoherent, so I moved his phone to touch his hip and texted him myself in hopes his phone might reach the lizard part of his drunken brain and wake him up.  It didn’t work.  However, I did get to see how he has me programmed into his phone.

“Extremely Wet Hyacinth.”

Jesus Christ.  Well, that’s better than Old Gross Hyacinth.  I’ll take it.

It was about then that the doorbell rang and it occurred to me it was sushi.  I ate alone at the coffee table and put his half away and padded back into his room.  It’d been at least an hour since he’d fallen asleep and I’d kept myself busy patting his dog and generally trying to sober up.

I easily roused him this time.  “Sushi came,” I said.  “Yours is in the fridge.”  He grabbed me and pulled me in for a kiss and we rolled around.  I reached for his cock, but it was only half hard.  I kissed his neck and he sucked on my nipples.  He was apologizing about his hardon and I was telling him to shut up about the time I stuffed it inside of me.

He was hard now and I moved clumsily on top of him.  The roller coaster drop was tamer this time; I wasn’t screaming and holding on for dear life.  I was cumming, but more quietly.  We stopped after a few minutes and he apologized some more.  I could see him struggling to be present, the booze continued to tug at his consciousness.

We moved to the living room and he ate and we watched the finale.  I barely paid attention, it sucked so bad, and he was asleep with his head on my lap anyway.  When it was over he took my hand and led me to his room where we fell asleep spooning.

I can’t say that what I experienced for the next handful of hours was sleep.  He snored, a drunken buzz saw.  I didn’t bother to wake him, but my pussy was wet and ached.  I pushed my ass into the cradle of his hips hoping that when he awoke in the morning we could finish what we started.

I got up and peed, I drank some water, he kept snoring, I pushed my ass into his belly again.  Finally, a little before 6 am he stopped snoring and slept peacefully and I, too, sunk into slumber.

At 6:13 I felt him sit upright in bed and fling off the covers.  He started the shower.  “Hey, you,” I said sleepily.

“I’m already 30 minutes behind,” he said.

Well, shit.

Without a word he got in the shower.  I took it as my cue to leave and gathered up my clothes and things.  Fully dressed I opened the shower door and he leaned out to kiss me.  Once, twice, three times on the lips.

“I’m so sorry for being so lame last night,” he said.  Also once, twice, and three times.

“Don’t be.  I had a great time.”  I fondled his warm, wet penis and sac.  “I want to see you this weekend.  I’m out of town next.”

“I might have a golf tournament,” he answered.

“Well, we’ll figure it out.  I want to see you.”

He kissed me again, on the corner of my mouth.

I grabbed two cigarettes and left.

On the way home, dawn just barely over the hilltops, I wondered why I’d had such a good time.  The man was hammered when I showed up, remained drunk, passed out, wasn’t able to fuck me due to his inebriation, and was non-committal about seeing me the following weekend.

But he’d also been sweet.  So sweet.

And complimentary and funny and fun and easy to be with.  I wasn’t inhibited – who was he to judge me? the guy was plastered on our date – and that chemistry he spoke of was palpable.  Half the time I can’t even remember what we talk about, but there’s a constant stream of chatter between us.  It’s easy.

When I got home, still high from it all, I texted him a photo of me on my balcony, legs up on a chair with my coffee mug on the patio table.

“You weren’t lame at all in case you’re still thinking that.  I had a great time – hope you did too!”

I sent it knowing I wouldn’t hear back from him.  The night had been intense, intoxicated or otherwise; I was still processing it and I hadn’t been a drunken fool like he had.  I would give him space, me too, and then text him today, Wednesday to check in about the weekend.

I sent a pic and decided to be direct.

Good morminggggg.  I want to cum see you this weekend.  Are you working Monday?  I’m out of town next weekend

I wasn’t expecting to hear back for another two days, but not long after I got this:

I’m not working [on the Monday holiday] but have a golf tournament

True to form: exact, factual.  That’s him.  I decided to stick with my directness.

Is any day this weekend good to hang out for you? I’m flexible so…

He didn’t respond to my pic, he didn’t offer a solution, he hasn’t replied to my last text as of this moment.  My Irishman sits on my shoulder and whispers sweet, positive nothings in my ear.  He’s a big fan of The Golfer and thinks that he and I will ride off into some delusional sunset together.  We routinely make bets that end with his scrotum decorated with a fanning of clothes pins because I won (or lost).

He thinks that TG will call or text me in a timely fashion.  I say he won’t.  Currently I won the Monday morning bet that I wouldn’t hear from for at least two days.  MI said that of course he’d call me because of everything he’d confessed to me the night before.  I think we just like playing our glass half-full and -empty roles at this point.  TG isn’t relationship material, lets be honest.

And here’s where I repeat that:  he isn’t relationship material.  Not like this, anyway.

Not drunken, non-communicative, golf-obsessed, and neglectful.  He doesn’t fit into my New Universe.

Then why keep going?  Because I genuinely enjoy spending time with him.  It’s easy.  I have 90-95% of my energy going towards mothering, my career, my home, my friends.  Five-to ten per cent gets siphoned off to worry about whether or not I’ll hear back from him.  If that.

I still struggle with why he feels the way he does about me and I fight hard against any body-shaming my mean and shriveled inner voice wants to cast my way, but I am learning to accept whatever comes my way for however long it feels almost-effortless.

My Irishman said this to me in his beautiful lilt: “So you know he likes you now, and every day after that you have with him is just a bonus.”  How very “in the moment” of him, but things now feel weird between TG and I.

He shared a lot of stuff that felt really great to hear and I just don’t know where to stick that. In my cap, I suppose, but he’ll inevitably return to the planet Hyacinth and beg me to cumm [sic] all over him again and things won’t be weird anymore.

For now he’s left me hanging with one more text:

I have golf planned all over the place.  I’ll let ya know

Except The Vet has asked me out, ready to see me any night of the weekend I am free. When I find out from my mother which night they want Peyton I’ll let him know.

And since I am languishing in TG’s communication purgatory I’m not committed to his inattention and am ostensibly free; I’m a busy woman! Unless TG gets back to me first and it matches with my night off in which case that’s where I’ll be.

It will be a race to see who fits into my busy schedule first – The Vet or The Golfer – not whose schedule I can fit into.

A woman is pulling her pj pants down with one breast exposed under a shirt
Ignore this.

I have daddy issues.

I don’t understand women who like their fathers, who trust them and turn to them for support.  Fathers are dark and dangerous, manipulative and cruel.  They froth at the mouth at infractions and cry, salty tears when they need a hug from the mother they never had.  Fathers whose daughters like them are mystical creatures.

Men who love and nurture their little women in ways that create strong, healthy bonds and boundaries for a lifetime of beautiful relationships?  Those exist??

I certainly didn’t have one of those.  Fathers and daughters who love and respect one another are only people who exist in books and movies and who are overheard in coffee shops.  They’re not me and my dad.

I don’t bring it up all that often, but no one without daddy issues would have a life like mine. She would never accept what I do from men.  She would assert herself and say No, she would insist on her needs being known and valued.  She would never stand for mistreatment.  But that isn’t me.  I have daddy issues.

Even saying the words makes me cringe. It’s so trite, so predictable, but there it is. I have daddy issues the size of a goddamned 747.

I wept in therapy a week and a half ago as I pieced together my disastrous date with Milwaukee. After having sex with him Thursday night that I don’t really remember, I went home to sleep it off and when I returned to his hotel room to go to brunch he accosted me.

His breath smelled of liquor at 11 am and as I pushed him off of me repeatedly he kept after me with lurid promises of what he’d do to me later.  He thought he was being sexy.  I thought he was being boorish and disgusting.

I pushed him, shoved him, told him I wasn’t a sure thing and to knock it off. Then he jammed his finger up my skirt as I peered out a window and almost got inside of me before I twisted away and yelled at him again. “After he assaulted you, why didn’t you leave, Hy?” my therapist asked gently.

I couldn’t answer her.

“Where did you feel it? Where did it come from? This knowing it was wrong?”

“I don’t know. I just knew I didn’t like it. I was very clear about him stopping and I yelled at him. But then I went downstairs with him to wait for a car to go to brunch…” I looked up at her watching me. “Then he said something else disgusting and I jumped up like this and shouted, ‘STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT I DONT FUCKING LIKE IT!!'” I demonstrated for her, something I don’t think I’ve ever done in years of working with her.

“He apologized and looked contrite. I should have left then. I should have left in the room. I should have left when I woke up with a vague sense of irritation and unpleasantness naked in his bed. But I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

I don’t know,” I said as I began to cry. I had this overwhelming familiar feeling related to my reaction to him. There were moments in his room that morning when fear rose up in me. Would he rape me? Hurt me? But they quickly passed as I danced and maneuvered away, but still remained within his reach.

When I’d shared the date with him with two of my dearest friends, one said this:

I think the most important question you have to answer for yourself, Hy, is why you don’t trust your gut? Why do you plot the course and then follow all the way through to an inevitable conclusion when you knew he wasn’t a good fit? Is it because you’re curious, because you desire the sex/companionship regardless of the quality, or because you feel you owe it to someone not to “back out” once the process starts?

Our message string is deleted that far back but I clearly remember saying to you, when someone is lousy over text/phone it’s never good in person, and you were not acknowledging your gut feelings. You kept saying maybe it will be better in person. You kept reaffirming what you believed his good qualities were and that he deserved a chance.

I’m checking you on this because it was quite clear to me he was acting in an odd and uncomfortable way and despite your acknowledgment of this you insisted on pushing through to the date. Why is that?

Maybe it’s a FOMO thing, you just have to be 100% sure you’re not “missing” something and so you go all the way until you can no longer deny that it was bad to begin with. But that isn’t trusting your gut is it? That’s more like being a scientist, running the experiment until you have the hard fought data which ultimately proves the initial hypothesis.

I told her she had every right to check me, that everything she wrote was true, but my internal compass is off. Though my gut is always right I continually override it.  Why??

“Tell me why you didn’t leave,” my therapist pressed.

“Because I wanted something from him…” I sobbed, humiliated, hurting.  “We were supposed to go to my favorite brunch spot, then my favorite restaurant for dinner.

“It was like that with my father.  I would be trapped with him in a booth and he’d be telling me disgusting things or droning on and on about himself as if I were there simply to listen to him and I’d be begging him to stop, to see me, but I needed new tires on my car or I wanted that fancy dinner or some spare cash.

“I endured his awfulness so he could give me things and I could feel taken care of by him for once in my life, to feel loved.”  My whole body shook with remorse and disgust and shame.  “If he gave me something, then it proved I was good enough.  That’s why I never leave.”

The feelings for the girl I was welled up inside of me and poured out my face.  I felt like blackness rose from me like steam.  No matter how awful, how gross, how in appropriate my father was I stayed the course because we both knew I was there to get something from him, and him from me.  And I was never able to make him stop despite my efforts to make him be a decent human being to both me and my sister.

When I was 20 I cut him out of my life for a couple of years after a long visit of his prolonged vileness and him rifling through all of my things while I was at class.  I eventually let him back in, feeling stronger, and even lived with him for a year after college.  It wasn’t good.  He was mean and hard, but I was living rent free, so…

And then when I was 26 he sent my sister and I a revolting joke about how semen is calorie-free.  It was the final straw and I cut him out of our lives for good.  Shortly thereafter, my sister revealed he’d molested her when she was only 8 years old and I was 11.  Now our relationship was irrevocably over and I no longer had to suffer his pitiful attempts at being my father.

Daddy issues.

I’ve never really read much about the collateral damage of sexual abuse for a child not directly harmed.  Do those papers even exist??  I’ve read countless articles on trauma and personal accounts of abuse, I hear stories on NPR for Christ’s sake, but you don’t hear how it affects the other children in the family.

From the moment my father did that evil thing to my sister I no longer existed.  I never understood why I was suddenly #2 in everything we did, why he preferred her, why she was always right and I was always wrong.  I longed for his approval and love, but was shunned again and again.  He had sins to atone for and I was no longer a priority.  I was his made his mother, and used whenever he needed support.  When he didn’t need me I was invisible.  And so it went until the day he died an excruciating death, alone in a big city in the desert.

My therapist’s eyes were soft as she watched me, tear streaked and miserable fit the pieces together.  That is why I never leave.  That is why I override my instincts.  That is why I stay near a man who doesn’t care to be with me.  Because I want something from them and if I get it it means I am worthy.  I fucking exist. 

Sometimes it’s a nice dinner, sometimes it’s sex.  My father put a high premium on a woman being a “knockout.”  I never felt I attained that level with him, but when men ogle and drool I feel vindicated and seen all over again.  I am real for that moment.  I push aside a man’s poor manners or inconsiderateness because he has promised me something – unspoken, but promised all the same.  I will get his attention, his money, his body, his pleasure.

That means that I have evolved into the ultimate seductress, ever morphing to match the desires of my date.  I prefer white wine, but he has expressed a preference for Malbec, so that is the only kind of wine I buy when I come over.  He wants to watch golf?  Ok.  I will ask as many questions as possible, though really I’d prefer the TV to just be off.  I have no impact, I am not there, but when I am turned inside out, bare skinned and lost in my own broken darkness with a man deep inside of me I am all of me.

I am not thinking about how to win him over, I am only a raw, pulsing nerve feeling our atoms mingle.  Finally, I exist again by losing myself completely.

It feels like this revelation is what I’ve been working towards in the last 20 years of therapy I’ve been slogging through.  I have been trying to close the loop with my father every day of my fucking life since the moment he touched my baby sister.  I have been trying to be seen and loved and wanted in any way I knew how.  And boy, have I adapted.  I have been a machine at getting things.

In the days leading up to this revelation I cut things off with Milwaukee.  I was very frank with him about how I felt about his behavior and while he was crushed, he understood.  It is one of the most singularly healthy things I’ve done for myself since I ended my friendship with The Neighbor or left my husband.  I don’t look out for myself, the drive to get something is so overwhelmingly powerful.  I am terrified of asserting myself, saying No, that is not ok, and then being rejected and failing to get whatever it is I want.

The Saturday after therapy the The Golfer got too drunk on the golf course with the help of a Xanax and canceled plans an hour before we were set to meet.  My initial reaction was to completely accept it and reschedule for the next weekend – the words flew across text before I even realized what I’d done.  Hours later I texted again that while it’d taken a little while to sink in I thought flaking on me in the 11th hour was shitty and that it really bummed me out.

The next morning he apologized and last night as we lay curled together on his big couch between dick-sucking and ass-fucking goodness he apologized again with his lips on my neck.

It was terrifying to admit I was unhappy with him, such a small, reasonable thing, but I don’t do that: I am amenable, pleasing, ingratiating.  Yet, I was still there whole and real and I had promised myself that if he didn’t apologize – truly apologize – I would end it immediately.  But he did and I took a very small step towards being me and not just trying to get something.  I existed without the thing.

And this time I brought white wine.

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.r

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

February Photofest

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