I’m not going to want to marry you.

Or, “You and I will never date.”

Or, “We’ll never be a ‘thing’.”

Or, “We won’t ever be serious.”

Words that never fail to fall upon my ears like long, whispering razors that snake to my bare and beating heart.

Did I ask you to marry me?  To date me, to be a thing?  Have I seemed serious about us???  I thought I was already clear before we ever met that I was not looking for a relationship.

An open woman – one who relies not upon traditional trappings of commitment or even time – is open to all things, not just the few things she actually wants in her life.

There are also uninvited guests in the form of nervous men who think her attitude must be a self-serving [female] plot to entrap him in an unwanted relationship and therefore must be headed off at the pass with a preemptive THIS IS ONLY TEMPORARY I DONT WANT YOU.

I have had countless conversations with these men over the years and struggle to not sound defensive or hurt or some combination of the two, and not because I am either of those things, but how do you respond to someone who says that to you without sounding brittle?

When you’ve learned that after a date or two, possibly a handful, after having had sex that he has already – and unilaterally – decided he must remind you that there is no future together.  That you have not made the cut?

So I say, calmly and with some mirth, “Well of course not.  I don’t want to marry/date/be serious either.”

He* exhales breath he didn’t know he was holding.  “Good, because most women end up falling in love with me.  It’s such a problem.

I laugh, pour him some more wine.  Poor guy.

“You and I lead very different lives, Mr. Man.  You see, when you are kind and decent and the sex is good you have to fight women off; they fall in love and they pursue you with vigor and adoration.  If the sex is good, they think it must be love!  Am I right?”

He emphatically nods and appears relieved that I “get it,” this terrible thing that happens to him because he is a tender, intuitive lover and thoughtfully checks in via text every day despite not wanting a “serious” relationship.

Inside I turn black and pieces of my heart flake off and disintegrate.

“Let me tell you my experience, friend.  When I have great sex with someone and feel a connection I treat him with respect and I want to see him again, naturally, right?”

He nods with complete understanding.

“I make this known to my lover and I am then inevitably seen as one of those women who have fallen in love and must be pushed away.  I can neither pursue a connection nor admit I want one lest I turn into some lovesick idiot who confuses sex with love.”

We sit quietly.  Me uncertain he believes me and he probably thinking I might have the most elaborate trap of all.

I want to deny that I could fall in love, but I no longer bother; it’s absolutely possible that feelings could develop for one of these men because I can both fuck and love* – Sunday to Sunday – but what I can’t seem to do is find anyone who wants to do both with me so I cauterise the flow and keep it discrete.

The only difference between me and one of those “other” women he is so intent on avoiding is that I know in no uncertain terms that when a man says he doesn’t want a relationship he is not worth my energy beyond our tangled limbs and his fat, hot meat deep inside my body.

If he doesn’t see a future with me, then neither will I.

Troy seemed to like to tell me all the reasons why he would never date me, then The Neighbor felt similarly inclined.  Never mind I didn’t want to date either of them – Troy was an asshole and TN made it clear he wasn’t into me – yet they each felt it necessary to ward me off, to draw an X between us, a Protego totalum spell against me.  Fuckers.

I broke up with TN 4 separate times based on his heartless prophecy and yet the bastard just wouldn’t leave me alone.  I allowed him to lead me into a relationship he ultimately never wanted and then one cold January day in 2015 he abruptly left me.  The lies he’d lived having crushed us both to smithereens, me to oblivion.

I will never do that again.

If he says he doesn’t want me I believe him.  I heard his sultry voice, I saw the white teeth which shone while the words flowed out of his smile.  Our knees touched on my couch, wine in hands.  He had come over just to hang out and see me.  Sex wasn’t expected, just talk.  He likes me, after all.

But not that much, Hy.  Don’t be a silly girl and fall in love.  He only wants your pussy, your energy, your you.

Well, I only want his* submission.  And I only want his dick.  Two can play at that game, gentlemen, but don’t cry to me about all the women who fall in love with you.  They’re more human than me, they’re normal people with hopes and warm, beating hearts.  They’re lovely and pure and you’re ruining them with your fantastic expectations of connection without any commitment and feelings.  How lazy and entitled can you be?  Shall we love ourselves for you, too?

I don’t love hearing the words they insist on sharing – it makes me feel sideways and miscategorized – but I appreciate the insight because now I know what to do with him.

In the past I was hopeful that he might be wrong about his feelings about me.  He’d wake up one day with me nestled in his nook, our evening sex perfuming the room and another long lazy weekend planned ahead and realize he was in love despite his best efforts to avoid it because I am just that lovable.

Today I know that’s Hollywood bullshit written by writers whose love lives were arrested while reading either romance or fantasy novels due to their bad acne, overbite, and social anxiety.  The little guy always wins!  Except that is truly fiction.

I believe him now, these men.  He sees nothing with me other than the next hot sexual encounter.  I believe him.

But don’t worry about me.  He is safely sorted in the Do Not Pursue file, to be then neatly refiled into the one called Do Not Maintain.  Should I feel a glimmer of feeling – even the slightest flicker of affection – he will be moved to the Must Remove From Life folder immediately.

And I must admit that satisfaction rolled through me like a drug as those very words spilled out of my smile to land on his ears, wine in hands.

*”He” and “his” is not one man, but many.

**A timely tweet by one of my wives, Girl on the Net, a few days after my smile landed on his ears.




I exhausted Tinder.


Sorry, girl, Ryan Gosling is taken.

Apparently, when you’re a picky motherfucker like me, Tinder runs dry after so many “Pass” swipes.

Look.  I haven’t heard from the Bad Texter in over a day so I texted hello about 30 minutes ago (I also texted 6 other men).  Of the 7, 4 responded immediately.

Naturally, I only want one to reply, though I’m not sure why.  I’ll just be hustling in the inevitable.

When the stars align.

There’s an eerie balance to the universe.  One thing expires, another blossoms; a door closes, another one opens.  People who are closely bonded find themselves on similar cycles of mood, energy, menses, luck.

For me, the stars have been aligning, one by one, to bring me to my knees on the alter of Pull Your Head Out of Your Ass.

I’m finally admitting to myself that, yes, I want a relationship.  

A real thing to nurture and take care of.  I want to be fucking special to someone, not just a fun time — my fun bags be damned.

Admitting that is much harder than you might imagine.

To say I want to be loved shows you that I am soft where I wish to be hard, that I have a chink in my armor.  It means I will have to be honest for a change with both myself and the men I date because right now, I’m a giant liar.

“No, I just want something casual!” I might say laughing, which roughly translates to “I don’t need you to call me, to make plans.  I don’t need you to say nice things or let me know you care.  I don’t need to share myself with you in anyway because you are a blip on my radar, just one vessel of many in my dating sea.”  In other words, I pretend I’m self-sustaining And don’t give a fuck what you do.

But the truth is, I’m not and I do care.  I care very much.

My little relationship with the Bad Texter has taught me that I am capable of developing a connection outside a bedroom and though I wonder that he might not be a good candidate for me in the long run, I’ve decided to practice my truth-telling with him.

I will tell him I am looking for something real and that I’d like to explore that with him.  Because that’s actually the truth, crystal ball malfunctioning or not.

What that means is, I will say that I care about him and that my feelings are ripe to develop and that I want to explore them with just him.  

Well, to be more specific, I want him to date only me.  Baby steps, ok?  I don’t think I could put all my eggs in his basket.  Admitting I have feelings is big enough, thank you very much.

Then I will wait to see how he responds because there are only two things that happen when you tell the truth.  You either hear what you want to hear or you hear what you fear.

I suspect he will tell me he’s not looking for a girlfriend at which point I will kiss him goodbye and thank him for our time together.  He won’t have any idea how his easy-going nature and focus on me helped put me back together, but I will never forget our brief time together.  

I’m tired of lying to myself and everyone else.  It’s time for the truth: I want to be special.

Next step will be to look for a man who thinks I’m amazing.

“It’s total perfection.”

It started out like this.

I’ve become high on love.

I dream about sharing my feelings with him and it’s a long, terrifying jump to crystal blue waters below, that feeling of my breath being stolen on the way down, the slap of wetness beneath my feet, the subsequent rush and rise to the top.

In true 7th grade fashion, I admitted to him that I like him “a whole lot.” You might be rolling your eyes at that, but it was a big deal to me.

And I invited him to spend Thanksgiving with my family on the wings of a prayer and when he said Yes I felt as though I’d won the lottery. I feel blessed, y’all.

But my lips remain sealed. I cannot say the words that boom in my heart. Those three silly little words.

I’m waiting for something. For the universe to tell me I can handle losing him. For that moment when he looks back into my tear-filled blue eyes and says, “But I don’t love you, Hy. This is just a ‘thing’ we’re doing. I’m not going to love you. You knew that.”

When I feel strong enough to weather that, my words will tumble.

But in the meantime, I float along among the clouds anchored by his mighty cock, his sweet gestures, his wise words. He roots me on every professional step I take and supports me as I navigate my tangled and painful relationship with my exhusband. He is my number one fan.

The rest of our lives is business as usual as I keep my secret. I send him a daily pic and sometimes a series if I’m feeling particularly inspired and have the freedom and privacy to do so. The weather is turning here and I recently wore jeans for the first time in months. They were a little loose, but I felt sexy and began to snap away.

Click, click, clickity-click.

I strip-teased my way down to unzipped pants and exposed breasts. He was happy to receive them.


A day or two later, I dug out my red panties with the peek-a-boo hole tied with a thick, shiny ribbon. I was curious as to what the view was like and twisted and craned my body this way and that to capture a from-behind view.

Click, click, click.

I was pleased and sent those off, too. Again, he was grateful.


Days changed into nights, cuddles turned into sweet talks, expectations morphed into reality. We tangled our parts less than our hearts. It was sweet, fairy dust; glittery longing with no release.

Finally, finally, we carved out some time to lay down inside one another. Peyton was passed out and The Neighbor was over within seconds of my “all clear” text standing in my candlelit room in black gym shorts. I wore a black spaghetti strap night dress with little sprigs of flowers dusted all over it.

We stood facing each other and he took my hand and pulled me closer, dipped his chin and captured my mouth in a long, sweet song of a kiss. I breathed him in, he inhaled me.

I ran my fingers through his hair and he clung to my bottom and pulled me towards the cradle of his hips. I felt his hardness through the thin cotton of my nightgown; my right strap slipped off my shoulder and I pulled my arm out and let my breast fall out.

We moaned into each other’s mouths and I melted into his warm skin. Every cell of my being sang of love, my pussy pulsed and my breath caught as I realized we were beginning to make love to each other.

He pulled back, breathing heavily, “We haven’t kissed like that in a long time,” he observed.

“No, we haven’t,” I agreed, though I’d argue it was closer to never.

I looked into his eyes shrouded in shadow and then his parted lips and reached forward with my own and sucked gently and slipped my soft tongue to meet his. He removed my remaining strap and I stood only in black, lace panties, then he groaned and bent to free himself from his shorts.

He pushed me down on the bed and dragged my bottom to the edge, licked his palm and rubbed it on the head of his giant erection. He positioned himself at my hole and pressed into me. Nothing happened.

Our eyes locked as we both smiled slyly knowing his first push was always the best, my favorite of favorites.

He pushed harder and I began to spread for him. I gasped a little and smiled more broadly. His mouth mirrored mine and then my eyes fluttered shut as the head entered my body completely and the rest of him eased in as if my body were a hungry constrictor.

He kissed me hungrily as his hips began to move, my body completely lubricated. “You’re not wet at all,” he joked huskily in my ear.

“Nope,” I whispered back with a chuckle, “not at all.”

He kissed my neck and my jaw and sat up and pumped into me, his hands braced on either side of me. Each punishing thrust made my breasts jiggle like bowl-shaped domes of Jell-O.

“Turn over,” he said suddenly. “Flip onto your belly.”

I did as instructed, my feet planted firmly on the ground and he slipped back into me.

“Tell me what you see,” I said thinking of my red-panty pics.

“I see my favorite thing: your beautiful body, your curves, this,” and he ran his hands from my waist to my hips. “It’s total perfection.”

photo 1

I closed my eyes and let him plow into me and light me up from the inside. My heart sparkled in time with my G-spot, our skin slapped and our moans mingled.

We moved up onto the bed completely and he pinned my knees together as he rutted on top of me, grabbed my top-knot bun and growled into my ear and struck my flanks once, twice, three times.

I lost time, wanted to be somewhere else and nowhere else. Then we were spent.

“C’mere,” I heard him as if from far away.

He pulled me into his nook and I lay there feeling more satisfied than I had in days, recalibrated. My thoughts felt like warm honey, my bones willow branches.

“Let’s go out on the balcony,” I suggested. It was in the low 60s, a rarity in September here. We dressed in white robes, him in a long Egyptian-cotton shin-length thing with my name, “Hyacinth,” embroidered on the lapel (a bridal party gift of mine from years ago) and me in a little short white one.

And there, on a balcony chair cushion beneath my knees and the breeze caressing us both, I sucked and loved on his cock, his knees splayed wide and confidently in that way that men do.

It had been weeks since I’d spent any time on him and I was ashamed. I apologized and he told me it wasn’t necessary. I answered with more sucking and smiled around his girth.

Eventually, he called me off, said he’d gotten a little too sensitive. We walked back into my room and shed our robes and laid down beside one another, the ceiling fan puffed gently on us.

The night was still young so I rolled to my side and grabbed the vibrator, flicked it on and pressed it to my bare mound. TN kissed my neck and jaw, sucked on my lips and my nipple. I climbed the rise quickly and as his mouth returned to mine I began to splinter.

He caught my orgasm in his mouth as I whimpered and gasped into him.

I fell limp and he pulled me to him as he rolled onto his back. I surprised him when I grabbed his chubby cock with one hand and turned the vibrator back on while on my side.

It was a swift ride with my ear pressed to his chest as it rose and fell quickly; his cock grew in my hand as my orgasm approached, spilled out onto us and faded away.

In his arms I thanked him for saying all those nice things about me as he was fucking me. He said it was nothing, that he loved the pictures I sent him. “I think it’s especially sexy when there are things left to the imagination.”

“Really?” I said, dancing on the edge of a doze.

“Yeah, like that one in the series you sent me the other day where your pants were unzipped but your bra still on. That was damn sexy, by far my favorite of the bunch.”

I perked up a little at that, proud and pleased in equal measure.

“Well, I’m glad. I try to be sexy and not just raunchy.”

“You do a good job,” he affirmed.

I mumbled something into the warmth of his skin, wrapped in love and kisses and compliments and told him again how much I liked him. He squeezed me and said he had to go soon.

I don’t know if loving him more will make me braver or more afraid, but as I’ve been told recently I need to act like the grown up and share my feelings and I agree. Just a few more nights like this one and I might feel brave enough to try.

His favorite.

He invited me to a potluck.

“You home?” he texted. “I just knocked and no one answered.”

“No,” I replied. “I was, but then I left to get baby-blocking pills. Home in 15.”

When I climbed the stairs with my new suitcase I fumbled with my keys and the kitchen mats under my arm my mother had bought me. His door opened. He looked handsome and sweet in his basketball shorts and shirtlessness.

“Hi!” I said beaming. He beamed back. “Were you waiting for me?? What are you doing?”

“Yes. I had my eye on the peephole for 20 minutes waiting for you!”

“Ok, come on in,” I said swinging the door open.

We walked in and I futzed around chattering about nothing as I put my things down. Arms free I opened them and walked towards him. I’d decided to hug him as I would any friend after a time apart. He walked into my hug and held me tight. “You did it!” I said squeezing him. I felt his arms tighten around me and his head bury into my neck.

“I did!” he mumbled into my skin.

I stepped back and rubbed his arms and walked away and went about tidying up my apartment.

“I want to lie down in your bed,” he announced.

“Go ahead. I’ll be right there.”

I joined him and flopped my suitcase on the bed. “Are you packing??” he asked.


“Don’t. Come talk to me!”

I put my chore aside and cleared a space for me to lay next to him. He wanted to know all about my days away from him, every little thing I did. I went through each day, laughing as I set milestones around the pics I’d sent him. He touched my leg, my arm. I leaned between his.

“C’mere,” he beckoned. “Lie down.” I did.

His hands found my skin as we continued to talk. I reached back to adjust my panties and pulled a rip in the lace. “Goddamnit,” I complained, “I just tore my panties! I made a hole!”

“Lemme see,” he said leaning over me. “What about this hole?” he asked with a dirty smirk and a grab for my pussy. He made hard, circular motions on my clit over my panties.

“Well, there’s a hole in there, too,” I teased.

His hand worked magic. I had trouble finishing my weekend story. When I was done he pulled my panties down and pooled his shorts on the floor, spread my knees and positioned himself over me.

“Ok, tell me about your weekend,” I said as he dipped his fingers inside of me.

“When my parents met me at the airport,” he began, “the car was packed and my brother was in there.” He removed his hand from me and gripped his cock instead and aimed it at my wetness. “We went immediately to the cabin,” he said as he slid inside of me.

I struggled to concentrate as he slowly, gently fucked me. His words never wavered as he pumped against me. I gripped the metal swirls of my headboard and did my best to listen.

He spoke of history tours and museums, “That’s when I bought you your souvenir — I’ll have to bring that over later,” he said to himself as he continued to thrust. His face was placid, his hips were rabid. I was a laughing, titillated mess.

His story finally over we forgot to talk anymore. He pounded into me and my pussy squelched around us. I kissed his neck, grazed my teeth against his jaw and kissed his ear. He buried his face in my neck and hair and kissed me, sucked on my breast and pistoned away like a mechanical pony.

I tossed my head back and forth and watched him through my lashes. His eyes never left my face.

He stood up and pulled out, exhausted. “I need a break for a second,” he panted and offered me his cock. I took him in my mouth, my pussy a light, fragrant bouquet in my nostrils.

“Mmm, I taste good,” I mumbled around his meat. “You should try this for yourself some time.”

I continued to slurp and suck and grip until he gently pushed me back and told me to scoot over. He spread my knees and pulled me to the edge of the bed and kneeled down. His mouth descended on me with gentle pressure. I told him to use his fingers to stretch my hole and he obediently followed directions.

I panted and writhed under his ministrations. My hands tingled, I saw stars. I needed a break and begged him to stop. He lifted his head and climbed up on top of me. I pulled his face down to mine and kissed me off of him like a layer of frosting.

He fingered me, he fucked me, he sucked me, he loved me, he hit me, he watched me. I fucked him back, bucked on him, loved him, watched him back.

Standing on the floor, my bottom hanging off the edge, he parted my legs like the sea and watched my tits bounce and flounce to the rhythm of his cock. His face beautiful in the soft light of my room, his shoulders broad and arms flexed.

He reached behind him and handed me my vibrator. I came hard and loud around him. I quivered and cried as he told me I was hot and beautiful, how good it felt. He handed it to me again and another orgasm screamed through me.

He pulled out and pulled me with him as I sobbed alone. “Hy, it’s ok. Come here,” he crooned and opened his arms. I moved into the crook of his arms and cried into the fur of his chest. His fingers traced the lines of my back as I tried to gather myself.

“I’m sorry,” I squeaked.

“For what??”

“For making your erection go away.” He’d gone soft during my second orgasm.

“Aw, it’s ok. It’s tired, don’t worry.” I still felt bad. Then again, he is only human and an hour of vigorous, hard fucking can undo any man.

We lay tangled together for a while until I got antsy. This is when he usually leaves. I felt it. But I was wrong.

I got up and handed him his glass of wine. He made no move to leave. Instead we lay in bed and I asked more questions about his weekend. He was happy to be home, back where he belonged, he said. “That reminds me, lemme go get your gift.”

He slipped out and was back in a minute. “Have you heard back from Jack and Emma, yet?”

Last night I’d received an email on Adult Friend Finder inviting me to a sex party in another city in November and December. I’d mentioned it to The Neighbor and he was interested. I’d immediately texted my friend and ex-lover Jack to ask what he knew about it. TN wanted to know if Jack and Emma would be willing to help him feel comfortable being watched while having sex. “I’ve only ever been watched once, and that was with Marian. I’m nervous,” he’d told me.

“No, not yet. Lemme check.” I tick-tacked away on the laptop as he pulled out a slim white, rectangular package for me. I stopped typing and looked at it. It was a beautiful metal bookmark.

“Oh, TN. Thank you! It’s beautiful!” I felt awkward and flattered in equal measures, the hot laptop warmed my naked belly ignorant of my emotions. The price tag was still visible: $18.

This gesture, this nice, non-keyring-with-flashing-first-name gift, floored me. It was kind, it was sweet, it was thoughtful. It wasn’t him. But, I guess it was.

I opened it and read the inscription on the packaging as he told me more about the artist. “He wanted to incorporate nature into all his designs and felt that art and the world should coincide as one, not compete.”

I put it down and searched my email for any response from Jack and Emma. There was none.

“Are you really serious about this sex party?” I asked.

“I am. I’m really interested.”

We’d go the end of December. After our 5k in early December. After a night spent shrooming together with Downstairs Neighbor. After plans of spending Thanksgiving together.

“What are you doing next Saturday?” he started to ask me as I folded the computer shut. “Oh fuck, you’re in San Fran, aren’t you? Fuck. I was going to ask you to go to a potluck with me. Oh well, you can be there in spirit because I need you to tell me what to cook and how to do it. I need an Italian themed salad.”

I laughed lightly and gave him a recipe for something decidedly not a salad; a tomato, garlic and basil concoction that melts in your mouth and makes bread the vehicle to heaven.

Eventually, the clock, though still early, crowded in on me. I stood and dressed in a t-shirt and pj shorts and went to light some firewood. He followed. He nibbled on Peyton’s Halloween candy and we talked about my trip tomorrow — both my nerves and the pedantic what’s and whens — as I sat in front of the fire.

He intermittently sucked on my nipples and I seductively played with myself between my words of cooking wisdom for his potluck. It felt stupidly normal, stupidly awesome.

“I am so happy to be back he said,” lying on the floor and tossing a softball in the air. “Being back makes me realize all that I have here.” I looked up from my recipe notes and bounded over to him and playfully flung myself down on him, pinning him down.

My free-spirit burst at the seams as I playfully humped him and he wrapped his arms around me and giggled at my antics. I kissed his cheeks and hopped up off of him as quickly as I’d descended and returned to my spot on the couch to finish his cooking instructions. It was as honest a reflection of my feelings as I could possibly muster.

I studied my note and gathered myself back up.

“I’m getting antsy,” he gently warned. “I need to go home soon.”

“I know, I’m hurrying,” I answered with a smile.

I finished my recipe and handed it to him. He bent down and kissed each breast in turn and then me. I walked him to the door and I confirmed that he’d be up 6:10 am so we could leave by 6:20.

“G’night, Hy,” he smiled over his shoulder.

“G’night, TN,” I said back and shut the door. His words of wonder at what he would do for the next 7 days rang in my ears, his words of longing for my pussy, his words of praise. They all enclosed around me like a giant hug and have moved with me from room to room.

“I had to tell the sex party people that you’re my boyfriend. I hope that’s ok,” I’d said worried.

“No, it’s ok with me,” he’d answered.

Has something happened? Has something changed? Is there a happy ending to this??

Interlaced with these frilly sentiments are jack hammer reminders of old words, cruel and dirty. I haven’t forgotten a thing, but goddamn does it feel good to try to forget.



Even I can’t stop the seasons.

Love and interest are fickle friends.  For months I was moon-eyed over my young lover.  I noticed when his car was home, if his lights were on.  I held my breath when his door slammed shut — would my door rattle from his knuckles 2 seconds later??  Seeing his boyish face made my day, hearing his deep, news-broadcaster voice tickled me, and seeing his fit, hair-dusted body made me want to unwrap him like a Christmas present and pounce.

But something has changed.

It is the autumn of my affair with The Neighbor.  Spring brought passion and bursts of colors; highs were the only notes on the breeze.  Summer was long and arduous — I barely survived the heat of my own emotions, his refusal of me, and our irrefutable chemistry.  Today, it is fall.  The leaves of my love are turning and will soon waft to the ground like so many dizzying streaks of gold.  When winter comes, the blanket of cold will insulate me as I rejuvenate away from him and our strange, misshapen relationship.

I don’t know when or how it happened, but it did.  His glorious, meaty cock still haunts me and I admit to lusting after it, but my conquering of it is no longer tied to my heart.  If I get to wrap my fingers around hot pinkness, then so be it.  If not, oh well.  I will live without sex.  A piece of Hy dies as I write that.

Saturday night was a dazzling night in our hobbled relationship.  As asked, I woke him up in time to get ready.  It wasn’t my fault that calling his name and gently shaking him didn’t work and my only option was to slip my hand beneath his puffy white comforter and find his sleeping manhood with my hand.  What else should I have done?  Honestly.

I stroked him slowly while I watched his face, his eyes covered in the black mask that had come with his bondage kit.  His breathing was even and ignorant of my presence.  I increased the pressure of my hand and he jerked awake.

“What the hell??”

“Wake up, TN,” I said smiling.

He pulled the mask off and looked at me bleary-eyed.  He rolled onto his back so I could get full access to his erection.

“Can you wake me up like this every day?”

“You say that nearly every day.”

“Well, I mean it.”

I ignored him and continued my ministrations.

It wasn’t long before I swung a boot clad leg over his waist and slowly slid down on him, my skirt hiked up to my waist and my ridiculously tacky sequined wolf shirt sparkling in the candlelight.  His cock hit me in my throat and I flushed with warmth as I rocked on him.  He gripped my waist and I increased my tempo.  Tremors skittered across my skin as a climax snaked its way through me.

He reached for my breasts, but pulled his hands back with a laugh when he got nothing but sequins.  I laughed, too, and bent over and kissed him just as I released around us both.  “I guess I’ll have to take a shower now before the party,” he murmured into my mouth.

“I guess so.”

At the party he was attentive and hovering.  He encouraged me to eat off his appetizer plate, refilled my glass, and was sure to be shoulder to shoulder with me whenever another man came within my orbit.  I was amused and smiled to myself.  Silly Neighbor, I thought, tricks are for kids.

Our chemistry ultimately belied our ruse of easy, close friendship when an old friend of mine cornered him and asked if he and I had ever dated.  His “No comment,” clearly an admission of guilt, her smile of satisfaction an admission of her pride of sniffing us out.

Our dance continues, but the song is ending.  How many loving, connected conversations can we have?  How many tiffs easily repaired?  How many mind-blowing sexual encounters?  How many tears, hugs, kisses, games, and parries before we admit it will never be more than this?

He thinks we will be friends in 10 years.  He thinks we’ll be close friends in 10 years.  How do I tell him that it might not happen?  That I see no such future between us?  That things are winding down?

He came over last night because he was sad.  I rubbed his chest, made him laugh, and finally slipped my hand into his shorts to grip his pretty, pretty penis and rub it to a big, full handful.  He flipped me on my back and filled me to the brim.  The lights were on and I struggled under his steady, smirking gaze as I slowly, embarrassingly lost my shit beneath him.

I drenched my bed and us, climaxed and orgasmed around him, heaved and sobbed little dry sobs and then we talked some more.  He was back to being sad and anxious about an upcoming trip home.  I told him he’d do great, that he had this.  He’d be back before he knew it.  He lazily traced lines on my arm with the pads of his fingertips.  It was close to 2 am and my yawns came more frequently.

We joked about the sexy pics we’d exchanged lately.  The one of him with his fat cock hanging out of his jeans and poking up past his t-shirt-covered belly button and the one where I’m stretched out on my side pulling down my pj shorts.  I wanted him to make that his phone wallpaper and vice versa.  I’m going to stump for it.

Good morning.

“What do you do with the pics I’ve sent you?” I wondered.

“I keep them all.  They’re on my phone,” he paused for a beat then said, “And I appreciate every single one of them.  Very, very much.”

Words like those from him are like cool drafts of water on my parched throat.  “Well, I’m glad.”

More yawning.  More snuggling.  More laughing.

Then he realized the time and dressed.  I called him over to me before he left, “C’mere.  Let me give you a hug.”  I stood on my knees on the bed, letting the sheets drop, and held out my arms.  He walked into them awkwardly.  I kissed him on the cheek and squeezed anyway.  This is what friends do, after all: they support and love.  “You’re gonna do great.  I promise.  Good luck.”

He squeezed back and put his other hand gingerly on my hip before he pulled away.  “Thanks.”

He walked out of my room and I called out, “Safe travels!!” then, “And thanks for the fuck!”

I heard him laugh as he shut the front door behind him and I snuggled down into bed.  The towel covering the epic wet spot pleasantly rough on my bare bottom.

I remember the month of July as the month I couldn’t breathe and food tasted like packing popcorn.  I laid nearly comatose every spare second I had in bed watching Cheers in between fleeting hookups and interactions with him and going to work.  I knew then that it would pass.  I knew it.  I’ve been through worse and came out alive, after all, but fucking Christ was it unpleasant.

I had to let myself be a pathetic, sniveling shit for a few weeks in order to move to the next season.  I molted.  It wasn’t obvious then because I hadn’t fully emerged yet, but I’d like to think it’s more apparent now.  I forget about him most days and I check my libido at the door like a good, stoic German woman should.  She has better things to do than lead with her pussy all day.

I wonder what the future of this blog will be as I enter this strange limbo of autumn.  I am extremely busy — too busy to go hunting — but this is a blog about my dissolute life and I’m not feeling all that dissolute.  I’m beginning to feel like now Hyacinth is that best friend I made at summer camp, but I really, really don’t want to see her go.  Not just yet.

I still want to be dissolute.

I tripped and fell on his cock and then he called me “Sunshine.”

Sunday morning I lay in a strange bed, sunlight streaming in around us. A man lay curled up behind me, his cock buried deep inside of me, my buttocks pushed softly into his thighs. Our breathing was soft and deep. I closed my eyes and he pulled me back into him with a heavy arm. I drifted off to sleep content and happy.

I awoke later and we were disengaged. I turned on my side and spooned him, his round bottom pulled into the cradle of my hips. He stirred and sleepily looked over his shoulder at me, “Good morning, sunshine,” he said as he rolled onto his back and pulled me into his arms and kissed my forehead.

“Good morning, Neighbor,” I answered back.


Monday night my anger at my young lover had reached another breaking point. I couldn’t justify spending one more minute with a man who blithely joked about taking me for granted and who deliberately turned a blind eye to my boundaries. Stubborn as a mule, and as about as enlightened half the time, he could no longer get the pieces of me he wanted while I sat empty-handed, the girl at the coffee shop furtively glancing at the door waiting for her date to finally show up. I was going to leave the building again.

I had drinks with my friend Lindsey and came home determined to once again end this once and for all. I wasn’t sad, I wasn’t even dreading it. I texted for him to come over and “be neighborly.” He said he wasn’t home, but would be soon. He came in and we sat down and I looked at him and said immediately, “I can’t do this anymore. We have to stop. Again. I can’t find love and someone who really cares about me so long as you’re in my bed and you can’t find whatever it is you’re looking for, either.”

He just looked at me, his light blue eyes glued to mine, an implacable look on his face. “I don’t want to fuck you anymore, either.”

My mouth drew into a hard line. “Gee, thanks for that,” but I understood that he was trying to get the upper hand. “But, really, we have to stop this. I cannot be with you when I get nothing out of this. The only reason I picked up with you again was because you weren’t looking for anyone else and we have an incredible time together, but it’s hard on me. You come and go as you please, as your moods and desires dictate. I have no say in any of it. I could justify it all because at least I got sex, but then you love to hold that at bay and torture me with it. The breaking point was when you said you took me for granted the other night. That hurt me so badly, TN. I can’t do it. I can’t be with a man who thinks so little of me that he’d laugh at me and say those things.”

His mouth dropped open a little. He didn’t impress me much the next few hours we talked. He said I should have asked for clarification regarding the “taking me for granted thing.” I said he needed to stop saying reckless, mean things if he didn’t want me to believe them.

“I only meant that sex is the least important part of our relationship. It’s the friendship I value the most! I told you in that moment I’d probably regret saying that…” His voice trailed off as I sat there thinking, “I bet he’s really regretting it now.”

I told him it was bullshit that he wasn’t capable of saying, “Jesus, Hy, I’m so sorry for saying that, for hurting you. I didn’t mean to.” He felt I was condescending to him and he tried to storm out. I had to master my face into a mask of calm lest I burst out laughing at his adolescent outburst.

“No, TN. You’re going to stay here,” I calmly stated as I stood in the foyer doorway, my hand on the jamb. “Go sit down and we’ll keep talking about this.”

He looked at me again as I pulled myself up to my full height. Somehow we were almost eye to eye. I walked over to the balcony door leaving the doorway free. “I’m really feeling the age gap right now,” I said. He walked back to the couch and sat down and waited for me to continue. “What are you going to lose in apologizing to me. You said yourself you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

He sighed and said he was sorry. “Thanks,” I said.

I cried when I relived those moments with 4 am girl and him and how he’d said Peyton was six strikes against me. The pain I feel in my chest at being discriminated against for things I can’t control feels like someone has tampered with my oxygen tank. I feel bleak and desperate, strangely lusting for revenge, but possessing of exactly zero weapons. I sobbed and he looked heartbroken.

“Can we still be friends?” he whispered.

“I don’t know, TN. I really don’t.”

“Then I guess I’ll leave.” It was too early and he was going off in another huff.

“Stop,” I said firmly. He turned and looked at me. “Stay. Sit.” He obediently came back and sat down.

Four hours after he came over I stood and told him it was time to say goodbye and to give me a farewell kiss. “Unless,” I added, “You don’t want to say goodbye and you want to be my boyfriend.” He stood a foot away and may have been touching my arms, I don’t know. I only remember him locking his gaze to mine and saying firmly, enunciating each syllable with precision, “No. That’s never going to happen.” He chastely kissed my jaw and said, “That’s all you’re getting.”

I wanted our lips to touch gently and firmly and to hug him goodbye. I wanted to send him off with a sweet kiss and a tender moment, but he is somewhere else.

I rolled my eyes and said, “Thanks, once again, for misunderstanding me.” I walked him to the door and he slipped next door. I hadn’t made any promises of friendship, nor had he pushed me for any. I went to bed feeling accomplished.


Friday rolled around and I nervously awaited my date dressed in my favorite yellow dress. His name was Law Student and he was tallish and beautiful with milky blue eyes and rusty golden curls. He wore black dress pants and an impeccably white button-down shirt that lit up our table like a diamond on black velvet. I made a joke about the medical tape on our table from taping my broken finger and he laughed, probably relieved at my comedic attempt.

I poured him a glass of red wine and we settled in, our banter as lively and intoxicating as it had been all week. I’d met him online and our virtual chemistry was instant. It was an enormous relief to discover in person it poured over us both like honey, sticking in all the right cracks.

We met early, at 5, so decided to grab dinner after we’d drained our bottle. We walked to his beaten up Toyota and chatted as he drove the couple of miles to the Mexican restaurant. His cologne filled my nostrils and I sighed with contentment, then I giggled as I remembered how I’d stupidly revealed I wasn’t wearing any panties. He asked me what was so funny. “Nothing.”

Dinner came and went with more laughter and a margarita. He left to use the restroom and in his absence I asked two girls at a neighboring table if I could bum a smoke. “Sure,” one said as she handed me one. “Are you on a first date?”

“Yes. How could you tell?”

“Oh, body language,” she said with a shrug. “He’s really cute!” she added. “Good job!”

I laughed and sat back down. LS returned to me and I could see him appraising me with pleasure. “So, it’s really early,” I pointed out. “Would you like to come back to my place and watch Bull Durham?”

“Sure,” was his immediate response.

He drove me back to my car and he followed me home. I was giddy with excitement, hoping beyond all hope that TN would run into this Adonis of a man trailing behind me with his suit jacket slung over his shoulder and smelling like tangy clovers. We made it into my apartment with no mishap and a bad quote from me from Pretty Woman and the penthouse.

“Wow,” he said turning around slowly taking in my apartment. “This place is really nice. Like, really, really nice.”

“Oh, well, thanks. Ignore the pile of laundry in the chair, though, ok?” We both laughed. “Do you want some wine? I only have a little.” He nodded and I poured us two glasses. I handed him one, still standing in the kitchen, when he stepped an inch closer and blocked my way. He looked down at me intently, his mouth parted. I tilted my head up and he grabbed my face and kissed me. Gently at first, then with fervor.

His control unraveled swiftly and his hands roamed all over my body, touching and squeezing my bottom and my breasts. In a deliberate attempt to remain chaste that night, I had left my pussy unshaved. It was clipped short, but there were hairs outside the bikini line and certainly in places I would normally attend to had I been planning on any intimate touching. But I should have known that it wouldn’t matter.

His hand hiked up dress and his fingers found me. I gasped into his mouth, embarrassed and turned on. His finger stroked me, hot and skilled. I gushed around his hand and his ardor increased tenfold. He tore my straps off my shoulders and feasted on my breasts silently. His breath came in heaving gulps.

I bucked against his hand as I released around him again. He pushed me roughly against the pantry door and pinned me like a butterfly to a foam board. I was breathing heavily, my breath quite literally stolen from me. His passionate kiss and touches rendered me speechless. I lifted my chin and looked at him. He kissed me again. I staggered away and grabbed a towel to wipe my ankles and thighs dry and sat down at the kitchen table.

“Jesus Christ,” I managed. “That was fucking hot. Also, I’m not fucking you tonight.”

“Good,” was his simple answer.

I sat there collecting myself and it dawned on me that I was the only one who’d been looking forward to the movie.

We sat down on the couch and talked some more. He kept our glasses full and I watched him walk away with a smile on my face. Not only was he gorgeous, but we had lists of things in common, hadn’t stopped talking or laughing once, and I hadn’t had such a good date in months. I was his first date ever from this website, however, and red flags sprouted like mushrooms all around us. I chose to ignore them and barrel on, however, when he asked me to share some of my bad date stories.

So I regaled him with the all the dates I’d had this year while dating TN. Most were chaste, some were R-rated, but I kept those discreet and not boastful. When I got to Kevin, I said, “Yeah, he was this young kid and he was on my roster for a while.” I froze and slapped my hand over my mouth. “Oh my God, I didn’t mean to say that! Not ‘roster’! That’s the old Hy! Not the new one!”

He laughed at me and his eyes twinkled mischievously. “Sounds like you’ve had a rough time of it!”

“Oh, well, I had another lover, too. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea or anything –” and before I could say more his mouth was crushing mine again, his smile evident in his kiss.

He loomed over me and I fell back onto the cushions and once again my breasts spilled back out. He maneuvered me so my legs hung off the side and he hitched my knees up over his shoulders. My head spun, I pinched my eyes shut. Oh god oh god oh god. His mouth dove down on me and it was hot velvet. I moaned and pressed my hips into his face. His eyes were closed as he lavished my fuzzy pussy lips with his own clean-shaven face.

He reared back up over me and the passion on his face scorched me. I had to look away for a second to catch my breath. “I’m not going to fuck you,” I repeated for both our sakes.

“I know. I like that.” He came down on me again and the sweet taste of my own body filled my head.

I stood up, trembling. My dress was soaked. I left to change into my pajamas and when I came back he’d put his shoes on. “I better go. Thanks for tonight. We’ll see each other again soon.”

“Ok,” I said and walked him to the front door. He opened it wide and bent down and hauled me into his embrace. I wanted so badly for the genie to appear right then and read my mind and have TN see me cradled in this man’s arms, my breasts crushed against him, but, alas, the genie must have been napping.


After I broke things off with TN he, as he is wont to do, closed the gap.

He gave me a bottle of wine Tuesday night when I asked for one. He invited me over to watch the debate Wednesday night and when I arrived with the remnants of his wine and some popcorn my girlfriend had left behind Tuesday night he lit candles and incense and reclined on the couch in a familiar way, peppering our shouts at the TV with brushes on my knee and pats on my elbow. When he had to abruptly leave and run to his office he texted me an hour later apologizing and said how much fun he’d had hanging out with me. Thursday night we had our playoff game against his team. We clobbered them and 4 am girl hung back in the dugout and shied away from good sportsmanship entirely. He had strutted and preened in front of me, laughing and joking with me and my team. It was a little glorious, I won’t lie, and when I got home that night — after two more exhausting games — I asked him to come have a drink with me.

He abstained, but we talked some more about 4 am girl. He asked that I stop bringing her up, that it made him uncomfortable and he wished that it’d never happened. I agreed as much to say, “See? I can respect your wishes, so you can respect mine, too” (I had railed on him about his inappropriate comments about women Monday night and he had finally seemed to catch on).

He left later after lots of laughing and I felt mostly ambivalent. I was still chewing on this “friendship” thing. I wasn’t feeling that old draw, my ankles were firmly crossed. I had LS on the brain, and big time.

Friday morning driving to work I got a text. It was from TN. I opened it up and it was his giant, resplendent cock, inappropriately and gorgeously displayed for my eyes only. I ignored it and praised his fluffy comforter instead.

Saturday afternoon was beautiful here. The city thrummed with a cold front and the sky shimmered with promised winter. I read my book, took a shower, found a man to have a drink with me, but he’d basically disappeared. I had plans with Amy later that night and my friend Tina, but I was antsy and bored. I cleaned everything I could, but really wanted my floor vacuumed. I knocked next door.

“Hey,” he said standing in a workout shirt and shorts.

“Could you do me a favor? Do you have a minute?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Will you vacuum for me?”

He disappeared back inside and came over a minute later. He cleaned my floors as I folded laundry. The fact that he was clothed a 2 ton elephant in the room. When he was finished I went out on a limb. “Do you want to go grab a drink?” I asked.

Again, “Sure.”

We headed downtown and the wind whipped around us as we parked beneath the skyscrapers. We were near my old downtown apartments and I took him on a quick tour. “I fucked in that hotel,” I said pointing to a tall building with flags cracking in the wind. “I also fucked in the fancy one we drove by.” I rather liked my “Hollywood Stars Homes Tour.”

I showed him my old bedroom windows and those of the Original Neighbor with whom I got entangled 15 long years ago. “Wow. The first Neighbor!” he laughed.

We headed to the bar and ordered margaritas and appetizers. I thanked him again for vacuuming and said at least he got to keep his clothes on. “That’s not really a good thing,” he retorted. I shook it off and left the bait on the hook.

As the night progressed and the liquor did its work he moved closer to me, his comments got more laden with innuendo. I didn’t get drunk, but he did. A rarity. We sat and talked with some chick for an hour and I propped my boots up on his chair. He ran his hands over the leather and kneaded my calves as he spoke. The girl regarded us with an open look. I ignored her.

I invited him to Amy’s house with me, but he begged off. We got in the car and we were nearly home with Tina called and wanted me to come and get her. TN had answered my phone and he agreed, so instead of turning left to get us home, I went straight and the night took a turn.

At the house party TN drank more and I saw him unravel and join the rest of the world by losing his iron-like grip on his control. One little thread at a time. He was all over me by now in an affectionate, protective way. We leaned in and whispered and made jokes and finally it was time to take Tina over to Amy’s. I was not taking TN home first. He was fully on this ride now.

Parked in my friend’s driveway waiting for her to put her son to sleep TN breathed with strain in the back seat. Tina lay half passed out in the passenger side. “I think I’m going to puke,” I heard him say. He jumped out and I ran around to help him.

“Hug a tree, honey. You’ll be fine.” I smiled as he dropped to all fours and retched. I patted his back and giggled. “Welcome to the world of losing control, TN! I’m so proud of you!” He laughed at my strange logic and I helped him to stand.

“Wow. I feel a lot better!” I helped him back in the car and we waited a few more minutes before Amy came bounding out to let us in.

We gathered firewood and got the heat going and pulled up chairs. Tina poured us all some wine. TN declined. Across the fire pit he sat with his ankle on his knee, my two girlfriends between us. The warm, yellow light licked at his face and I felt happier than I had in weeks.

We drifted off into the darkness and gathered more wood and I sat back down next to him. He pulled my chair closer and we put our heads together whispering and chatting, laughing at inside jokes. Tina and Amy gave us our privacy.

When the stars were their brightest I had to go lie down. I made sure TN was ok sleeping on the couch and I headed in to the spare room, but he followed behind and shut the door. He tossed me down on the bed and peeled off my clothes, unzipped my boots, and fell on top of me burying himself inside of me.

I moaned and thrust and writhed under him. He panted and kissed and pummeled me into the darkness. First the night and then to sleep.


“We’re not having sex any more, you know. Last night was an accident.” I was smiling as I said this tracing his bow shaped mouth with my finger tip. His hands were tracing lines on my arms as I touched his face.

“I know.”

“Good. We’re just a couple of rutting magnets, but we can do this. No. more. sex.”

“Yes. No more sex,” he repeated.

I drove Tina home and then the both of us. I started to whimper as I climbed the stairs in pain. “You can sleep in my bed for a little while if you want,” he offered.

I fell into a light sleep, woke up 20 minutes later and ran off to fulfill my Sunday responsibilities. “Can I come back over around 1 and nap?” I texted, desperate.


At 1:15 I showed up looking like something the cat dragged in. I didn’t hurt anywhere except my back and I felt like weights swung from my eyelids. “Aw, Hycie. Come in!” he said with a smile when I knocked. He gently pushed on my shoulders and guided me to his bed. I climbed in and modestly removed my clothes while he lit candles and incense, grabbed me a sleep mask and brought me some water. I slept for two hours pain free.

Dressed again and headed back out to fulfill more Sunday responsibilities I quipped, “Well, thanks Lil’ Buddy. It’s been real,” and I disappeared into my own apartment.


I didn’t hear from Law Student at all until today. It was a pointless chat and we have not made plans to hang out again.


Every morning I wake up wishing someone could see this:



My libido is holding its breath.

I went to bed last night after having brought myself to two swift and powerful orgasms.  I panted and moaned under my breath and released with a quiet whimper throwing my head back into my pillow.  I imagined him over me, his huge cock plundering my insides, watching me with that satisfied smirk that he likes to wear as he sees me lose my grip on myself.

But when I opened my eyes I saw only my whirling ceiling fan, dark and dizzying above me.

He is gone.  I know it in my soul.

He stopped by yesterday and before I could keep my little one from reaching the front door it was already swung open.  My baby asked The Neighbor if he’d like to come in.  I said, “No, honey, TN is busy.”

“Then can he come over later to play??”

TN and I looked at each other over my child’s head.  I was apologetic.  So was he.  “No, Peyton, I can’t,” he said.

“Well, ok!  Just lemme know when you can!” and with that Peyton ran back inside to watch TV.

“You’ve just been asked out on a date,” I said to him with sadness in my voice.

“Yeah… and I just said, ‘No.’  I’m such an asshole,” he said with a grimace.

I stood there looking at the man I wanted so badly to feel something for me who resolutely refuses to do so.

“So, I saw our sick neighbor today,”  he continued.  I looked at him inquisitively.  “She was trying to cross four lanes of traffic off of the sidewalks.”  I wasn’t sure why he was telling me this, but I stood there with him in the doorway curious nonetheless.

“Also, I need you to help me with a mission later.”  There it was.

“What is it?” I asked.  My heart stirred, my gut clenched.  This was the starving person at a soup kitchen about to take whatever she could get.

“I’ll tell you later,” he said slyly.

“No, tell me now,” I insisted.

“I want you to help me pick out patio furniture, like, if you have an hour or so sometime this week we can go to the store.”

This would have been terrific fun for me a month ago, a ripe, juicy peach running down my chin and throat after running across the meadow with friends, but in that moment it felt like a rice cake stuck in my craw.  An entire week of my life had been spent being distant from him and he was impervious to and completely ignorant of it.  He thinks I’m still at his beck and call; nothing is awry in Neighborland.

“Why do you need patio furniture now?” I wondered aloud.  He’s lived there for 3+ years without.

“For when I have someone over who smokes,” he replied matter of factly.

I felt the wind being slowly squeezed out of my body, a limp balloon.  In the year I’ve known him he’s had three people over: me, Vanilla Ice, and 4 am girlHe’s planning on feathering his nest for another woman, was my first and immediate thought.

“Who are you going to be having over who smokes?” I boldly asked.

Silence hung in the air as I could see his wheels spinning, searching for an answer.  Finally he said, “Do I need to hold up a mirror, Hy?  You smoke.”

I didn’t believe him for a second.  Not even a millisecond.  He wants me to help him make his place more welcoming and comfortable for the other women he plans on bringing home.  Not me.  Give me a motherfucking break, dude.  Really??  You want to get patio furniture for the woman you insist you don’t love?  The woman whom you spend time with only when you need something from her?

And then I asked him about the mat.  “What the fuck did you do to it??  Did you kick it?”

“Don’t worry about it,” was his reply as he righted it, the “Welcome” still backwards.  “Now, don’t think anything about this, ok??”

“Yeah, don’t worry.  Thanks,” was my dry response.

“So, will you help me with the furniture?” he followed up with a smile.

“Um, maybe.  We’ll see.”

“It’ll only take an hour or so.”  (It so wouldn’t, by the way.)

“Yeah, maybe,” was all I could muster.  I couldn’t look at him three feet away and give all my cards away.  This is a poker game of high stakes for me.  I either blow it by going all in now, or I play conservatively and slowly earn a pile of money.  I’m going the route of the latter.  I want this to happen to him over the course of weeks, like it did with my best friend.  Politely distant, I reminded myself.

He knows Peyton goes to my ex today.  This is where the real work starts.  I am horny and lonely, my soul is sore.  I will be vulnerable, but I need to remind myself that change is uncomfortable by its very nature.  I can’t expect something better if I stay where it’s comfortably painful.

I have to dig deep and live in memory.  Memories of the good times, like when he called me “baby” and kissed me tenderly and tucked me in, when he told me I was the best lover of his life or when he said I was his best friend.  Those memories will assuage my loneliness as I touch myself and writhe with desire alone, or maybe, with another man.  The memories of the bad times — when he told me my very life history is a liability and all the times he disrespected me and held me at bay — will keep me focused as I step further and further away.

I am not a pathetic woman and I refuse to behave like one.

My libido is treading water right now.  A constant companion in my life I’m trying to figure out where to put it.  How do I handle this separation and loss this time around?  Last time, as this blog is testament to, I hunted and prowled and got drilled by as many cocks as I could manage.  But am I still that person?  Am I truly dissolute anymore??

I sometimes feel that raging confusion of lust and pain mingled together where it feels like only a man can stem the bleeding, but my relationship with TN thus far has kept me from that avenue.  What would he think of me if he found out I was racking up notches on my poor, disapproving bedpost?  But now, I no longer care what he thinks of me and the gate has been thrown open.

This morning I woke up and ran my fingertips over my body, once again mourning the loss of my love and the opportunity to share myself with him.  My swells and dips lightly toasted marshmallow, warm and sweet, inviting.  There for the taking, yet refused again and again.  How can he not want me??

I’m thinking about it, my need.  It’s lurking.  A slumbering dragon.  For now Mother Nature has bought me another week of solitary contemplation, but next Monday I will be set loose.  Who will get to see my breasts, taste my skin, feel my  heat and hear my moans??

It can’t be TN.

For your eyes only, IBF.

He knocked at 2 am.

Last night I sat under the eaves of blooming fuchsia crepe myrtles with my friends, drinking bottles of Prosecco and smoking bummed American Spirits.  My leg pressed against the jeans-clad leg of my voluptuous girlfriend with the beautiful mouth  and my other friend sat next to her, her creamy breasts on display with a beaded necklace nestled strategically in her cleavage.   Our friend whose birthday it was made the rounds with her 20 other friends and popped in every so often to check in with the three of us.

“When’s your date supposed to get here, Hy?” asked the birthday girl, her lip gloss shining in the evening sun.

“9:30.  I don’t know why I keep inviting these dudes to our functions.  Please forgive me.  I’m such an asshole!” I smiled and she laughed.

“Hy, you work it!  We love watching you in action.  You have such a way with men,” my big-bosomed friend added.

“Seriously, Hy.  It’s like watching a master.  You are so welcoming with everyone.”

The birthday girl bent down and hugged me and wished me luck and sashayed over to another group of her friends.  The two friends beside me asked me about the new guy.  “His name is Drake, he’s 32, he’s cute.  We texted all night last night.  I’m worried about two things: 1, he doesn’t drink and if he’s in recovery or something I don’t know how that’d work with me, and 2, he’s looking to cuddle.  That’s something that happens loooong after fucking.  I didn’t cuddle with The Neighbor for months!”

As the sun fell behind the industrial warehouses tattooed with graffiti and the strings of little white lights began to come on I got more nervous.  At 9:20 he texted to say he’d be there in 15 minutes.  When he arrived he’s wearing a black t-shirt a size too big, jeans, and a black baseball cap.  He’s ruggedly handsome and broad-shouldered.  I stood up and gave him a hug and in the second before my chin was on his shoulder I saw the approving look in his eye, my spaghetti strap sun dress clung to my curves as if it was made for me, its sheerness a tease.

He immediately introduced himself to my friends, asked everyone what they were drinking and disappeared back into the bar.  My friends and I avoided any knowing eye contact and instead carried on with the other guests. When Drake returned, the picnic table seating had changed again and when he saw an opening across from me he took it.  Soon we were talking, just the two of us, and he suggested we go to our own table.  I obliged, curious and engaged.

We talked for a long time.  He asked me about my marriage, told me about his, he asked about my tattoo, he paid me compliment after compliment just to watch me cringe and blush.  He explained he stopped drinking 5 years ago because he finally realized it wasn’t a good fit for him.  That, and that first round of court-ordered rehab sort of got him to thinking.  “I tried to do it casually, but learned I can’t.  I’m the guy drinking apple juice at a gig.”

“You’re a Sam Malone,” I observed.

“Totally!!  Sam’s my hero!”  I laughed at his disclosure.  I doubted seriously he was the Lothario Sam was.  If anything, of the two of us I am Sam Malone.

After my friends left we remained.  The energy under the trees shifted then.  “I want to kiss you,” he said guilelessly.


I leaned across the table and met his lips, his dark blond five o’clock shadow rough on my skin.  His mouth was pliant, yet firm.  I liked it, but searched for passion.  I felt none.  I sat back on my bottom and smiled at him.  He said he liked my kisses, so I leaned back over the tabletop for another.  Again, no spark.  Where’s the motherfucking spark?  I thought.

When it was time to go he hesitated.  He didn’t want me to drive home.  I was buzzed, but assured him I was fine to drive home.  He wrestled with himself for a minute or two; I insisted he wasn’t responsible for me and that I’d be fine.  I was a little impressed by him, actually.

He walked me to my car and I was careful to not wobble in my high-heeled wedges on the cobblestone sidewalk lest he think it was the alcohol.  At my car, bathed in yellow light from the street lamps, he pulled me into his arms and kissed me again.  His hands roamed along my body and he groaned approval; my hands skimmed his trim, muscular sides and gripped his shoulders.

We made plans to go out on Friday.   He insisted.  I will see if there’s a spark then.

I drove home with the windows down and music blasting, a smile on my lips, confusion in my heart.  Like my fickle feelings the downtown skyline slipped by and the highway emptied ahead of me and all I could think of was my bed.  It was 1 am.

I climbed the 40 steps and texted TN that we might need him to sub at our softball game tonight and in my warm and fuzzy state of mind I jokingly added “WHY ARENT YOU UP??”  He’s a night owl and I am droll at 1 am.

Inside my apartment I lit some incense, peeled off my dress, kicked off my shoes, and made a sandwich standing in only my underwear.  I crawled into bed and flipped open my laptop to watch Master Chef.  I was about to learn which two have to go to the elimination challenge when my front door vibrated with a pounding KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.  It was 2 in the fucking morning.

I walked uninhibited to the front door, my breasts jiggling as I went.  I cracked the door and hid my body behind it.  TN is standing there in only his shorts.  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

“You said you needed a sub for tomorrow.  I thought we could talk about it.”

“Ok, whatever,” and I straightened up and pulled the door wide to expose my state of undress.  Wordlessly I walked back to my bedroom and got back under the covers.  He followed.

He told me about his night and we chatted about the game.  He picked up a ball Peyton had left in my room and began kicking it around.  He lost control and crunched my blinds. I scolded him and we laughed.  He showed me some Bahamavention commercials on YouTube and I struggled to keep my breasts covered as we lolled around on the bed giggling.

“Why are you doing that?” he wondered and tugged on the covers exposing them again.  I rolled to my side clutching the sheets to my breasts.

Because.  You don’t get to see them anymore.”  An odd statement considering I’d answered the door in my panties, but a true statement nonetheless.  I wasn’t going to just lay there on display for him to gaze at and not touch.  I felt like a pea in a pod that had just been pulled open.

“That’s ridiculous,” he answered and before I knew it his hand was stinging on my flank.  Fuck, it felt so good.  I screamed into my pillow and my body tensed.  “Wow,” he whispered as he traced the blooming redness with a finger.  “You can see my fingers!”  I got up to look in the mirror.  His hand was clearly visible, the heat heavy and throbbing.

And because I wanted more I wrapped myself once more in my coverlet to disrupt the flow.  He got the message and said he had to go.  I once more stood up and walked back to the front door and we bantered along the way.  Our parting words were me telling him I wasn’t sure if we needed him tomorrow night because my team doesn’t communicate well and he replied, “Sounds like me.  I’m not good at communicating, either.”  The door shut behind him then and I shook my head.  The man communicates all the goddamned time, he just doesn’t realize it.

I met the man who woke up my cunt

In November of 2010 I was about to move out of my marital house into my own apartment.  Every cell in my body was screaming and crying, yet my veneer was like a mountain lake.  I was icy, detached.  Lost and lonely.

At the time all I wanted was cock.  Lots and lots of cock.  I opened an online dating account at OKC in late August and slept with my first man in October.

Dave was the second guy I met.  He had washboard abs and looked a little like John Cusack.  I’d invite him over for tea (and bourbon) while my kid napped and we’d kiss a little before he’d leave.  Our first official date was an out-of-town affair at a sausage festival.  “Should I book one bed or two?” he’d asked when making our hotel reservations.

“Surprise me,” was my loaded response.

That night we drank two pitchers of beer and I poured whiskey on my tits as I rode him on the squeaky hotel bed.  It was one of the hottest nights I’d had in years, but little did I know my life was about to change forever the next afternoon:  I had my first date with Troy.

Dave drove me home where I changed quickly and tied my hair back in a messy ponytail.  I clearly had sex-hair, but I didn’t care.  I was turned on by the thought of going from one man’s bed to another’s arms for a date.  Dave thought it was pretty great, too.

I texted Troy that I’d be a little late.  He’d said no problem.  I arrived at the local haunt to find him reposing on the flower beds, all 6’6″ of him.  He stooped to hug me as I tilted my head back to return the embrace.  He was cuter in person, I’d thought.

Lunch was uneventful until he grabbed my wrist and asked after my bracelet.  “What does this mean?” he wanted to know and for emphasis stroked the metal — and my skin — with a long finger.  My pulse quickened and I looked at him with new eyes.  This guy knew what he was doing.

After lunch we went back to his place, a cavernous two bedroom loft-like apartment a few blocks away.  There was a ladder under the dining room table in lieu of a place to sit.  “So I would stop nearly decapitating myself,” was his answer to my silent question.

“Ha!” I snorted, “Us little people don’t have to worry about things like that,” and I demonstrated by passing under the offensive lamp with a twirl.  He poured me a glass of wine and we sat on the couch.  I loved his reach and sheer size.  I’m not a petite woman; I like to be made to feel diminutive, and my personality is huge: hobble me, please.

We made out some that afternoon and I had to pull back from following him upstairs.  The birds were singing too loudly.  I wanted to play hard to get, not roll out the pussy-carpet.  His lips were soft and pliant, his weight pinned me to the couch.  We made plans to see each other the very next day, Sunday.  I left his place not feeling my feet hit the ground and his soapy, masculine scent in my nostrils.

I was a little nervous as I drove to his house after dark 24 hours later.  His physical presence, while obviously anatomically looming, also filled me with a buzzing excitement.  We had chemistry.

He opened the door in jeans and a t-shirt. I walked up the steep wooden stairs ahead of him knowing he was probably checking me out in my tights and boots.  My hips swung harder.  He offered me some wine, I obliged.  I teased him about his freakish height.  We laughed.

Conversation was easy and flowed as we sat on the couch together.  He was on the cushion next to mine.   The conversation turned to sex.

I told him about how my first orgasm was on the back of a horse; about how I once won a blue ribbon in a college equitation competition after I had orgasmed for what felt like minutes in the arena with five judges’ eyes on me; about my first cock experiences (big, tiny, big, etc.).  Then I told him about my wild night with a friend in September.

My story was stilted, but I did my best to remember some of the finer moments: I was soaking wet, he fucked my face, I swallowed his cum, I was vibrating.

He took a deep breath then and told me he had “big cock” fantasies.  About touching one, sucking one, seeing one live and in person.  “Holy shit,” I stammered, “That’s my fantasy, too!  Being with two men…”

His sherry colored eyes bore into mine, the pause was heavy and humming.  Two beats more and he closed the gap between us and his mouth was on mine, passionately.  He laid on top of me and gyrated his hips into mine.  He kept kissing me and kissing me and kissing me.  His hands roamed all over my body, my mind raced.  All logic left my head and I abruptly panted between kisses, “Let’s just go fuck. C’mon,” and I took his hand and he jumped up after me.

On my way up the stairs I unzipped my skirt, inside the doorway it was on the floor, by the time I got to the bed my shirt was off.  I spun around and lay back on the bed to watch him undress.

He was huge, broad-shouldered and had a smattering of soft, downy chest hair.  His cock took my breath away, dark and throbbing between the creamy white of his thighs.  The next several hours were a blur of huge cock in a soaking wet pussy.  I had never been fucked like that in my life.  Never.

He was on top of me, piling into me, so large over my smaller form.  His headboard cracked with disapproval under my grip and I pushed against the wall instead, impaling myself on him.  His grunts and cries compelled me to thrust down harder on him; his cock hard on my g-spot I lost all sense of myself and could do nothing but buck wildly down on him.  He turned me on my left side, swung my right leg over, but kept my bottom leg between his and found a new way to stroke my screaming cunt from the inside.  He pumped into me a few more times, cried out deeply and fell on top of me, kissed my ear.

We laughed, panting, and sweating.  He was overjoyed at going balls-deep with me, said he could feel my cervix.  Said he could rarely do that with women.  I’m unbelievably wet.  Like gushing wet.  My body had become a fucking faucet.  He kept laughing and saying how amazing it was, shaking his head.

I asked him for his social security number and $20.

I let him rest unassaulted until I couldn’t stay away a moment longer. I fell down on his suddenly rigid cock with my eager face.  I was feeling something for a change.  Really feeling something.  The ice had receded and I was warm, then hot.  I felt alive for the first time in months, maybe even years. I wasn’t going to stop.

Fat on the bottom, slightly tapered at the top, his balls pliant in my hands.  I could taste a little of the condom, and a lot of me.  I sucked harder, alternated my grip strength and my exploration of his perineum.   He shot a delicious load down my throat and I swallowed it with gusto, kissed him on the mouth and lay on his big chest smiling and proud of myself.  He was in shock.

I asked  him what his orgasm-in-a-single-night record was and he said, “Three.”

I glibly replied, “We’re gonna break it tonight.”

On top, straddling his hips, I rode him like I was galloping with gunmen at my back.  My arms felt hot and heavy, my face flushed; I relished his big paws on my hips pushing and pulling me on top of him.  My pussy released herself all over the cradle of his hips.  I didn’t know what was happening to me, I felt like a bear in a trap: confused and riled up, seething with something.  I saw stars, had a sense of elation unlike anything else, I kept fucking him, crying out again and again.  He came again.  Number 3.

This time I offered him my social security number and $20.  He smiled and said, “I’m at your cervix.”

On the bottom, I heard more cracking of the headboard, more deep-voiced cries, my entire body was my moaning cunt, pulsing, pouring juices, ejaculating all over us; every thrust is a ripple of pleasure to my very fingertips, except they’re coming at breakneck speed, falling and crashing down on top of one another.

I started to cry and laugh.  It felt so good I couldn’t help myself.  I was completely overwhelmed.  I have left the motherfucking building.  He flipped me over on my stomach and drove into me with violent, hammering thrusts.  I envisioned splitting in two, cried and laughed into his sweet-smelling sheets.  Got impaled.  By a giant.  He came a fourth time like I’d promised he would.

“I know how your hair got to look the way it did yesterday,” he said grinning holding me in his arms.  He gave my long locks a little tug, “From fucking.  Am I right?”  I answered with a shy smile and curt nod.  “Mmm, I love it,” he murmured into my neck.

Something had just happened to me.  This is what I had been craving my entire life.  This out-of-body pleasure, this total consummation of my physical being, my sexual soul exposed and devoured, freedom to be who and what I wanted to be and to shout it to the rafters.  Fuck that whole notion that great sex can’t happen out of the gate, I say.  Either it’s there, or it isn’t, and when your heart isn’t involved that’s all there should be, clearly.

I spent the next 8 months having mind-blowing sex with Troy at the expense of my own emotional welfare.  He was cruel and insensitive on two legs, a wondrous magician of a lover off of them.  He helped me learn my own body in ways I never even knew existed and to this day use with my current lovers.  No woman had ever sucked him off before and my techniques with him have proven tried and true with others of his ilk.  His cock pounding on my cervix and g-spot taught me how to teach others where to find it.  And his rabidly unjust personality taught me to fight for my rights and to walk away with my chin held high.