Well, as I suspected I blew my writing wad on February Photo Fest and so I’ve been languishing in not writing much this week. I’m also on an antibiotic for BV and I can’t drink for 10 days. Not a big deal at all, but it has allowed me to just really have chill and introspective nights alone with myself which I’ve been enjoying a lot.
I suspect I got the infection from my raunchy night with Brent. Drunk men aren’t the best at not cross-contaminating with fingers in holes, after all. So no booze what so ever and no sex what so ever, either this week. It’s been really really great, actually.
Friends and men both have teased me about giving either or both a try, but I have been unwilling to experiment. I need the puss in tip top shape for my trip to London in the event I get lucky. I also don’t need to feel the wrath of whatever my body would do to me if I were to introduce alcohol.
So, here I am: sober and sexless and loving it.
Of course, having said that, I will be seeing Brent tonight to finally get him his RayBans. I think I’m going to bring my vibrator and some Topo Chico.
This weekend is the last mad push to get ready for Eroticon and I have lists as long as my arm to get finished before I leave next Wednesday.
As far as boobs go, I think y’all will like this week’s submissions – read Sandy’s comment closely.
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 at 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. Brent. That’s 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].”
The man from Saturday, Brent, 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 Brent 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.
Bottles of champagne, Veuve Cliquot!, a hot, drunk young man confused about who to pay attention to, me or my friend with a long term boyfriend who’d been shamelessly flirting with him.
I watched half amused most of the night until at the second bar she began to exclude me where I had made sure to include her. I excused the two of us from the table.
“Tina, I’m not judging what you’re doing here, but why?? I’m single, he’s single, you’re not and you love your boyfriend. Do you really want to do this? I’m not going to compete for his attention with you.”
And then the night ended with him in my bed and his mouth all over me and his fingers lodged in my asshole as he pounded me to fucking oblivion and I came all over us and my poor pink bed like a goddamned vomiting waterfall.
He tried to get me to come home with him in the morning, but I demurred; I needed more rest and time to be alone with my thoughts. The sex was intense and when I closed my eyes and thought of it my pussy would pulse and twinge.
I may have accidentally gained a new pair of RayBans. “Nice,” he said when I told him I’d found his glasses in my purse. “When are you gonna come over and drop them off? We can soak my bed too.”
Another night set loose by bubbles and held by nothing but whimsy, my memory and manners spotty. Who knows if I’ll ever hear from him again. I hope I made his sad day brighter. He certainly brightened mine.
I’ve spent my entire Sunday washing the entirety of my bed linens and wondering when I’ll stop having drunken, loneliness-driven nights like last night.