I made love.

“I hope we didn’t just make a mistake,” he said as I laid in his embrace.

“Shh,” I answered.  “Don’t think about that right now.  I’m trying to enjoy the afterglow.” I smiled into his chest and squeezed him. He chuckled, but then was serious.

“But what if I just did something really shitty?” his voice was strained and I could see his profile lit by the burgeoning dawn in my bedroom window.

“Shh,” I crooned again.  “You didn’t.  This hasn’t changed anything.  We’re still best friends with incredible chemistry who happen to love each other as friends.”

“But morally –” he dropped the sentence.

“Morals don’t enter into this.”

“No, you’re right.”


Thursday after my double-header softball game and a day filled with rage and nuance he waved at me as my team meandered out of the park.  My ex-husband was there as was Peyton and my girlfriend and her son.  I gave him a sullen/shitty thumbs up in response.  On the way home my friend and I digested more of my relationship with The Neighbor, how ugly she thought 4 am girl was and how she paled in comparison to me; the usual things that girlfriends tell their heartbroken sisters.  I smiled at her efforts, but my heart was still heavy.

As I pulled into my apartment complex after I dropped her off I realized his car was pulling in in front of mine.  Great, I thought.  We parked on opposite ends of the lot and I dutifully unloaded my car with my stuff and made my way for the stairwell.

“Hy!” he called, “Wait up!”

I stood there with attitude.  I was not happy about this.  “Hey, can I come over and hang out for a bit?” he asked.

“If you want,” was my reply.

“That doesn’t sound very friendly.”

“What?  I said’ if you want’.  Come on over.”  I had three tallboys in me and shutting him out completely seemed completely foreign to me.

“Should I bring the left over Jell-O shots?”

“Sure.”  Fuck it.  Why not?

We sat on my balcony with my anger and tension a third party.  He remarked on it and I opened the floodgates and told him everything I’d thought of and put to words earlier that day.  I told him how angry I was at him, how hurt, how unfair it all was that he had her to distract him.  He nodded solemnly and said he understood, he looked crestfallen.

“Hy, this is equally as hard on me as it is on you.  I just manage it better.  I hide it better.”

This mollified me.  “I miss you so much.  I’ve lost my best friend.  We used to do everything together.”

His eyes filled with tears in the moonlight and his voice lowered to a whisper, “This has been awful.  I know.  I miss you, too.”

I shared my dream with him, that I’d called him that morning and a girl answered his phone.  “Is this The Neighbor?” she giggled into the phone.  I was heartbroken.  He said he hasn’t told anyone I’m his neighbor.

He also told me he hadn’t slept with her yet, they’d only been dating for a week, and that he hadn’t touched himself since we broke up.  He was punishing himself, he said.  I didn’t ask for this.  He offered the information. We went deeper, I told him I’d cut myself and why; I set parameters up, boundaries; I wanted nothing to do with her, ever.  His response was it’d be unlikely if they were together still in 6 months.

We tenderly tread through our feelings and gently touched emotionally.  Butterfly kisses of reassurance and resurrection.  We kissed each others’ cuts and bruises and space around us became just the two of us.  My additional passenger of anger slipped away through the bars of the balcony to mingle with the stars.   My heart  lifted.  His words were a balm, our laughter and friendship a warm embrace.

We spoke and laughed about our games and our performances that night.  My sports bra was soaking wet and my legs were caked in dirt.  I pulled my arms into my shirt and removed the bra and threw it in his face. We laughed hysterically as we pegged each other with it back and forth.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” he said suddenly.  He was back quickly and he threw what I thought was my wet bra back in my face.  But it was his underwear.  I laughed so hard I cried and gave him a high-five.  We were back on the rails as friends, our hurts placated, sex off the table.  I was in heaven.

“I want to be friends with you, I really do, but I’m having a really hard time getting over the sex part,” I said more seriously.  “I need some space, you can’t crowd me or rush me.  It’s different for you because you have someone else to be interested in.  I don’t.  I’m all alone in this.”

“I’m alone, too, Hy.”

“No, you’re not.”

“How many dates have you gone on since we broke up?”

I had to think.  “Three maybe?  But I’m just trying to stay busy.   They don’t count.  I’m just looking for someone to love me.  I just need more space from you.”  I told him of the time I slept with Tuesday and all I did was think, “TN doesn’t taste like this.  TN doesn’t sound like this.  TN is bigger, better, more of everything.”

“And I’ll be honest, I want you to think the same thing. I want you to be with her and think, ‘This isn’t Hy’s taste.  These aren’t Hy’s breasts.  She’s not crying like Hy.  She doesn’t suck my cock like Hy.  She doesn’t feel like Hy.  She’s not squirting like Hy.'”  He smiled and laughed.

“Yeah! Fuck any girl who doesn’t cry!”  He always loved that about me, the response in me he could invoke.  “I really want us to be friends.  I really do.  You can text me any time you like, you know.”

“No, I can’t.  You never respond to my texts. Ever.  And I can’t handle that.”

“I promise I’ll respond.”

“I’ve heard that before, too.”

When it was time for him to leave he opened his arms to me for a hug.  We have never been huggers.  Not ever.  It’s new ever since I asked for one that awful Sunday night.  I moved into his arms and his left hand deliberately brushed my breast.  I hit him on the back and he squeezed me tightly, groin to shoulder.  He inhaled my scent off my neck and I put my cheek on his shoulder and wrapped my arms around him.   It was a long hug.

And as he pulled away he caught my breast again.  “TN!” I scolded.

“What??  It’s how I hug!” he laughed and I walked him to the door and we hugged again, chastely.


Friday I woke up smiling and horny as fuck.  My dream had been vivid.  I decided to test the new texting/friendship waters.

I sent him this at 8:10 am:

My dream:  We’re at the fields, you wait for me for some reason.  She weaves in and out between us curious and nervous about our friendship.  I’m exhausted and you offer me a drink at your place.  I sink to the floor on some pillows and begin to drift off.  I’m awoken by your touch.  It’s gentle and kind at first, then more demanding.  Your mouth is on mine.  You taste delicious.  I’ve missed you so much.  Your mouth finds my nipples and I cry out, my pussy gushes.  I whimper and shake.  Your hands undress me.  My response to you is sudden and intense.  “What are you doing??” I ask looking into your eyes.  “Loving you,” you answer.  I don’t believe it.  You plunge your fingers in me and I can’t think or talk.  Your kisses are searing.  I cum again and again into your hand.  And then you climb up onto your couch and close your eyes.  I’m confused.  My heart is racing.  You look peaceful so I leave you alone, stand up.  I am naked.  You open an eye and I hope you like what you see.  I saunter wordlessly into the bathroom and turn on the shower, look for signs of her, see none and step under the water.  My hair is short and I smile, run my hands over my curves.  I’m bathed in light from a floating alarm clock you have.  The time flashes 6:08.  It’s time for me to leave.  Better than Thursday night’s dream, that’s for sure.

Less than an hour later he texted back:

A floating alarm clock?

I asked him jokingly what he thought it meant.  He said he wasn’t sure and asked if 6:08 had any significance to me.  I said only in as much that we always left each other; I’d had no plans of crawling back into his arms in my dream.  Then I told him that everything that happened in my dream happened to me in real life.  I had orgasmed in my sleep and I laughed and wondered if I was writhing around in my bed.

Immediately he replied:

If it makes you feel any better, I woke up humping my damn bed last night

I said it did make me feel better and I asked when he’d have time to talk to me again, I had something on my mind.  I wanted to share with him my idea that maybe we could be friends sooner than I’d thought.  We made tentative plans to talk late Friday night or Saturday afternoon.

At 4:05 pm I was awakened from a nap with another text from him — he really was keeping his word about texting me back.

Date tonight cancelled.  Wanna chat at 5’ish?

I say sure, no problem.

And it’s 6:08 off the eastern seaboard.

I didn’t respond, not knowing what to say to his unusual attention to detail, but fell back asleep with a smile on my face tangled in my comforter with my yellow dress (yes, that yellow dress) hiked up to my waist and my cheeks rosy from sleep.

Around 5 he knocked and I jumped out of bed. My hair tousled, my dress righted, my cheeks still rosy.  “Hey,” I said, “Wanna just come lie down with me?”

He followed me back into my room and kicked off his shoes and laid down on his side facing me.  We made small talk for a bit and laughed.  My heart soared at having my friend back and the irony of us laying in my bed wasn’t lost on either of us.  I offered him a drink and he declined.  I poured myself some disgusting bottled Sangria and made a face.  He laughed then burped.  I told him he was disgusting, but said I was a much better burper.  Sure enough, I proved it between peals of laughter.

“Ok, ok.  You’re crossing a line, Hy!”

“What line??  There is no line anymore!  I don’t have to impress you!”  I laughed at him.

And then I summoned my courage and told him how happy I was all day at having spent time with him again and that perhaps we could forge forward so long as I could reserve the right to back away when necessary.  He seemed excited at my idea.  “Yes, absolutely.  I totally understand.”

I laid back down and we were careful not to touch one another.  “So, I still have those two Dark Knight tickets.  If we left right now we could make it,” I said.  “I’ve asked three virtual strangers and every friend I know and no one can go with me.”

“I can’t.  I’m going tomorrow night at 10.” The unspoken part was with her.

“Oh, who cares!  Come on!” I pleaded, but he wouldn’t budge.

We talked and laughed and teased each other some more.  I was hyper-aware of my cleavage and careful not to let my breasts spill out, but I could do nothing about my thighs showing or my general shape.  His erection was obvious and huge through out.  He mentioned having run out of underwear and free-balling it.  I didn’t take the bait.

Then I said something that made him playfully slap my leg.  I squealed and he did it again.  And again.  It was too much. I jumped out of bed and with my hands held in the air I said, “You have to stop that.” I leveled a gaze at him.   “It turns me on.”  My chest rose and fell visibly.

He leapt out of his side of the bed and quickly put on his shoes and headed for my front door.  Once there he opened his arms to me and I fell into them, his scruffy cheek against mine.  He humped me then with me wrapped in his embrace and we laughed.  I quietly shut the door behind him and headed back into my room.  I had to cum.

I grabbed my vibrator and laid down on my wine-colored sheets.  I’d told him it was particularly difficult to not send him sexy pics anymore.  We both agreed I’d find a way, but I was turned on, vibrating like the wand in my hand.

I sent him this with the note, “Just me in a dress like you just saw me.”


His instant response:

fuck you.  Fuck you so much.

Goddamned vibrator in your hand

I told him that since I wasn’t going to fuck him I still wished I could and that I’d think of how much I loved it while I jerked off.  He could live vicariously through me.

Yeah thanks a lot.  That helps me keep my m ind off of sex

My orgasm was strong and swift and I thought of him over and in me just like I’d promised.  It rained down through me and I screamed openly as I quivered and shook.  I felt a bookend text was in order.  “And now… a cigarette :)”

He quickly replied:

Congrats.  Must feel nice to orgasm.

My happy sarcastic response? “A little. I was lonely.  Gotta get used to it.  But it was huge :D”

Fifteen minutes later, after I’d left for my date with a quiver in my belly he sent this:

Breaking the two-week streak. Life sucks!

My heart was bright, my pussy placated, my smile was genuine.  My date that night was charming and sexy and fun like I’d remembered him but it wasn’t him that was making me feel that way.  It was the knowledge that TN was struggling, that he clearly felt everything I was feeling, too that had lifted my spirits so high.

Later that night when my date was flaccid and small, I called him off of me and I lay in his horrible bed with his arm around me.  I lazily watched the lights twinkling from the beautiful view of downtown skyscrapers and cars whizzing by on the highway below.  I thought the misfire with him was worth only this snapshot and I slipped out of bed at 4 am and went home, fell into bed, and then a deep slumber.


I woke up Saturday hungover and laid in bed most of the day watching Cheers on my laptop.  Sam and Diane were on the verge of breaking up.  They were never any good for each other.  They had only contention to share, not true love.  They each wanted the other to be someone else.  My heart got heavy and I turned it off, showered, and called a dear friend.  I told her of my exploits from the night before, smoking a hot cigarette on my hot balcony when TN came out to flip his jeans over to dry.  He heard, “... and it ended in disaster.

He raised his eyebrows at me and I had to say, “I’m not talking about you!”  He smirked and disappeared back into his apartment.  I quickly followed suit happy to talk to my friend in some AC when I heard a knock.  It was him.

“Do you want a piece of pizza?” he asked.

With the phone still to my ear I nodded yes.

A minute later he came back over and I told my friend I’d call her back in 5 minutes.  He handed me a piece of pizza and sat on the couch with me while I nibbled on it.  I was confused.  What was he doing here??  We chatted about nothing, laughed, teased, talked.

I told him I had decided to be celibate for a couple of months.  His mouth literally dropped open.  He closed it with a finger and let it drop again.  But I was serious, I told him.  After Friday night’s disappointment I realized that I can’t go on like this.  All I do is compare every man to him.  He preened a little.

We started to play a ridiculous game that I love wherein we throw balls at each others’ chests.  You know, that spot right in the middle that makes a delicious thwack! sound?  That’s where we like to throw the ball.

While playing, we talked about our sexual exploits with one another for most of his visit.  It made me fidget uncomfortably for lack of release, but I’m always happy to oblige a man who wants to recount my sexual prowess, so I participated in the banter all the while confused.  He missed my mouth on him he confessed, but, he said, he was back to not touching himself again for at least another two weeks.  “Punishment,” he reminded me when I looked at him questioningly.  Why talk about all this sex stuff if he’s in a sexual purgatory? I wondered.

We continued to throw balls and then he started to misfire deliberately, aiming for my nipples and my crotch.  I felt like I was on the playground.  I wasn’t wearing a bra and my nipples would flare angrily after each swipe.  We played for what felt like forever giggling like children until finally I told him I had to go run errands.

Our hug was long and sweet again and I felt strong.  Like maybe this really could work out like a flirtatious friendship.  We talked about our sexual activities like old drinking buddies.  “Remember that time you squirted so much you soaked two towels?”  “What about that time you broke my cock?  You did that like 3 times you fucked me so hard!” And the physical stuff was just playing around.  I didn’t mind it.

I closed the door behind him and got my things together and left.  Later I texted that I wanted a thorough movie review.  He said, “Ok.”

That night I rented a couple of movies I wished I hadn’t.  Charlize Theron in Young Adult could be me every other week minus the narcissism and alcoholism: spending empty time with empty people because she didn’t believe she was loved.  And the protagonist couple in Friends With Kids spend a year as just friends sharing a child together until one slips up and develops feelings and, not surprisingly, the man doesn’t see her that way, though he loves everything about her.  A year later he comes to his senses and admits that he’d loved her all along, he’d just been a fucking idiot.

I dozed through both of them, but still felt battered by their messages.  At 10 pm I’d thought, “TN is at the movie now.”  At midnight when I went to bed I’d thought, “TN is likely done with the movie.”  I laid my phone down on my bedside table and forgot to turn it to silent.

At 3:40 am I get a text:

Still up?

I had woken up 10 minutes before from a nightmare.  “Yes,” I replied.

Haha u crazy

“No shit.  Had a bad dream.  What’s your excuse?”

And then knock, knock, knock.

I leapt out of bed.  My breasts jiggled under my white t-shirt that read “I <3 Dave,”  and my little pajama shorts hung daintily off my hips as I quickly closed the distance to my door.

He was standing there in a dress shirt and his nice jeans that I’d helped him pick out.  “Who’s Dave?” he asked and poked my breast as he pushed past me into my apartment.

“A friend of mine.  It doesn’t matter.  What are you doing here??”

“I wanted to tell you about the movie.  It was terrible.”  I took him to my couch.  “Can I lie down here?”

“Of course.”  I laid down with him and he started to recount all the plot holes and how much it sucked.

“Your couch is terrible.  Can we lie down somewhere else?”

“Of course,” I said again and took his hand to help him up.  He was drunk, not a usual thing for him.  And he was here all on his own.  Also not a usual thing for him.  As I lead him back by the hand to my room I thought, He should be with her! He came home!

He kicked off his shoes and climbed into bed and I fell back onto my pillows.  We touched this time, but innocently.  He rubbed my forearm, I had my arm on his belly.  He unbuttoned the top 3 buttons of his shirt then and I slipped my fingers through his chest hair.  I could feel his erection near the waistband of his jeans with my elbow.  He unbuttoned his shirt entirely and I splayed my fingers through his hair and let my hands follow the contour of his muscles as we talked for an hour and a half.

I asked him questions.  Random, innocent things like his most embarrassing moment, his biggest regret, what was one of the best days of his life, when was he most happy?  His answers?: when his brother pantsed him in front of 200 people, not calling Molly Lannister in college, when he was fucking me, and when he was with me.

Our legs entwined, we cuddled unabashedly.  His breathing began to slow instead of him departing.  I smiled as he squeezed my arm in his sleep and began to twitch.  I am encased in love for this man.  Not hope for the future, but just love.  He cannot resist me.  He cannot stay away.  I know without a doubt that he loves me and no matter what the future holds it is a gift.  I feel righteous.

I silently mouthed, “I love you,” into the dark and kissed his ribcage gently and settled down to sleep with a smile on my lips.  I drifted for a minute or two when he rolled towards me and pulled me into his arms.  His hand dropped to my waist and rubbed me.  My heart pounded as his hand moved to my waist.  He rolled back onto his back and took my hand and put it back on his chest.

I ran my hand up to his shoulder and down past his waist to his knee, my arm heavy on his ever-present erection.  My breath was hot on his side and I nuzzled his skin.  I looked up into his eyes and could only see darkness.  I made a decision then.  I was going to make love to him.

I was going to have him one last time and know it was the last.  I was going to put my heart and soul into touching him and loving him and not hide behind closed eyes and fluttering lashes.  I slipped my hand beneath his jeans and the helmet of his cock was sopping wet.  I circled the crown and he moaned.  I arched into him.  I began to love him.

I unbuttoned his pants and his cock filled my hand with a flourish and a pulse.  I felt like I was holding the holy grail.  I looked back up into his eyes and I could see them blazing with desire.  I moved between his legs and before I took his glorious cock in my mouth I dragged myself up to his sweet, beautiful face.  Our eyes locked with meaning, longing, and lust.

I bent down and took his mouth and it was everything I’d imagined.  Our passion ignited like in my dream and I whimpered as he devoured me.  I kissed him again and again then dove onto his shaft.  He arched his back and exclaimed lustily.  He was huge and ready.  I wondered if this was all I was going to get when he suddenly sat up and ripped my shirt off and quickly peeled off his pants.

I fell back down onto him and his hands guided my head.   He reached around and found my slit.  “Jesus Christ, Hy,” he whispered as his fingers found their way inside of me.   Little orgasmic waves rippled through me as his cock filled my mouth.  I could feel he was close when he gritted out, “Get on your back.  Now!” and roughly pushed me up and tore off his shirt and my remaining shorts.

He spread my knees and climbed between them, kissed me again and joked that I probably wasn’t wet enough.  Perched just outside of me he asked, “Have you been with anyone else since we broke up??” the urgency in his voice thick and heavy.

“No,” I whispered back.

“Good.” And he plunged deeply inside of me.  He railed into me, impaled me, kissed me long and hard, our lips locked as were our groins.  My pussy gripped and slobbered on him and I came again and again as I soaked the bedsheets beneath us.  His scent filled my head, his sounds my ears, his cock my soul.

He lifted up and hooked my ankles on his shoulders and I stared into his eyes.  His face mostly in shadow I hoped he could see that I was finally looking back up at him.  I cried out as another climax rolled through me and my hot ejaculate spilled down my cracks.  His tempo increased, his exertion a blissful friction between us and he pumped madly and spectacularly into me, his seed spilling into my emptiness.

He lowered my legs and I blew on him gently.  He kissed me again and started to move.  I whimpered and clung to him.  He flipped me over and pounded into me.  Spanked me hard and pulled my hair.  I trembled and floated above us as I surrendered completely.

He stopped slowly and kissed my dampened neck.  “Here, lay here,” he patted the side of the bed.  He quietly walked into my bathroom and returned with a towel and tucked it under my bottom.  He laid down facing me and rolled me onto my back, hooked me like a fish and began to slam against my cunt with his meaty hand.  I curled the towel around me to catch the spray of my juices as he made me flood into his hand.  “No, no, no,” I begged as I convulsed.

“Yes.  Yes, you are,” he countered in a growl.  “This is so fucking hot.  I love this about you.”  And he kept going until I was a little curvy puddle.  “Ok, you’ve had enough,” he deemed and handed me my vibrator.

I was limp.  Exhausted.  In love.  A little sad.  Saying goodbye.  All of it.

I meekly took the toy in my hand and spread my legs.  “Will you put your fingers in me, please?” I asked.

“Not yet.  Take this first.”  I looked to my left and his cock was in my face.  Turgid and bobbing.  Hungrily I sucked it down.  “That’s a good, little girl.”  I pulsed and my orgasm leapt ahead several notches.

“Look at you, you little slut.  A vibrator between your legs and a giant cock in your mouth.”  I squirmed and convulsed as my orgasm split me open.  I laid there and panted as he kissed me.

“Will you put your cock in me now?”

“Yes.”  He slipped inside of me and I shivered as he lay down next to me, my legs slung over his hips.  He pushed into me as I lay the buzzing head on my sex.

His hands were heavy and demanding on my breasts, his kisses light on my skin when he said, “I want you to fucking cum for me.  Cum for me now!”  He’d never demanded this before.  This was new.  I wanted to make him proud, do this for him.  I searched my body for my orgasm and hooked onto it.  “Do it now, you slut.  Be a good girl.”  I pushed against him and sucked on his shaft with my cunt like it was me gasping for air.

His hand moved to my throat and squeezed.  The storm grew in my core tenfold.  “Cum for me now or I fucking swear I’ll choke the shit out of you.”  He flexed his hand gently and I purred and mewled, my eyes shut tight.  The orgasm pounded into me as he whispered that was what he wanted.  He kissed my temple and my ear and my lips as I cried and shook.

We stayed linked together for minutes while I looked loving at him propped up on an elbow. I ran my fingers through his hair.  I didn’t care what he saw in my eyes.  I wanted him to see it all.  I was done hiding.  This was a farewell between this life between us and I wanted to finally be genuine.  It seemed he did too.

“You’re trembling,” he noticed and he stroked my face and my arm.

We disconnected and he rolled over.  I nuzzled into his nook.

“I hope we didn’t just make a mistake,” he said as I laid in his embrace.

“Shh,” I answered.  “Don’t think about that right now.  I’m trying to enjoy the afterglow.” I smiled into his chest and squeezed him. He chuckled, but then was serious.

“But what if I just did something really shitty?” his voice was strained and I could see his profile lit by the burgeoning dawn in my bedroom window.

“Shh,” I crooned again.  “You didn’t.  This hasn’t changed anything.  We’re still best friends with incredible chemistry who happen to love each other as friends.”

“But morally –” he dropped the sentence.

“Morals don’t enter into this.”

“No, you’re right.”

I finally asked him the question I’d wanted the answer to all night.  “Why did you come over here tonight?”

“I wanted to tell you about the movie.”

“That could have waited until tomorrow.”

“I wanted to see you.  And I was horny.”

I cringed because I didn’t believe it.  “Well, that’s flattering.  Did you think you were going to get laid?”

“No.  I really just wanted to see you.”

We dozed for a few more minutes before he said he had to go.  He kissed me tenderly and said he was walking next door naked.  I smiled at him and laughed and we wished each other a good day.

I give blowjobs in hot tubs.

“I had a really great time tonight,” he said sounding surprised and pleased.  He kissed me then walked out the door.

“Me, too,” I answered back.

My feelings about The Neighbor, as everyone knows, are complicated.  I’m not sure what the split is for me between being cool and being a mess, but there’s definitely both residing in me.  The messages he sends me are all over the map: leave me alone, come to me; I want you, I don’t want you; we’re dating, we’re not dating; you’re the hottest woman ever, I want a woman who looks nothing like you.  I’m beginning to forgive myself for my mood swings.  I’m only human, after all.

Last night we had plans.  Around 7 I texted him to ask when we were hanging out.  He said, “How about after dinner?  At 8?”  Immediately, I’m put out.  I’d turned down a dinner invitation with Roy because I figured eating would be part of my time with TN, but ok, whatever.  Again, more mixed messages, no communication.  He’s not to blame, the fact we don’t talk enough is.

I read something today that really resonated with me: There are three things typically at the root of what upsets us: 1) an unmet expectation, 2) a thwarted intention, or 3) a communication issue.  Makes sense, right?

Last night I was in a foul mood.  A mood Hyacinth rarely indulges in, actually.  I’m uncomfortable with being angry or irritable; I’m afraid that no one will allow me to feel this way and then reject me.  When TN came over I was sleeping in my robe.  We laid down together and dozed and chatted.  I told him I was in a bad way and he took my hand and put it on “my security cock”.  He immediately got hard.  I stroked him while I told him about my date with Mitchell, my ambivalence about my second date, my long week, my fairly good day.

We inspected his bumps on his belly which were fading and he pulled his cock out.  I gripped it, but couldn’t bring myself to suck it.  I wasn’t even in the mood for his dick.  “Wow.  You really are feeling bad!” he commented.

“Yep,” I threw over my shoulder as I left the bedroom.

He followed me out and caught up to me. “What can I do to make you feel better, Hycie?” he asked kneading my shoulders.

Leave me the fuck alone, is what I thought, but instead I said, “I don’t know… I just feel like shit.  I’m hungry for one, and don’t have any wine.  Let’s walk to the store.”

I got dressed and he watched me while lounging on my bed.  “So tell me more about Mitchell.  Do you guys have chemistry?”

I didn’t know how to answer.  “I can have chemistry with anyone for two hours.  I don’t know.”

“What’s our chemistry like?”

Now I really didn’t know how to answer.  “What do you think our chemistry is like?” I volleyed back.

“It’s good.  Really good.”

“Ok, then, I agree.  With Mitchell, it’s hard to tell.  It’s not like what you and I have.”

We went next door for him to put on his pants and send an email.  I laid down in his bed.  He came in and turned off the lights.  “Hycie needs to be spooned,” he said and crawled in behind me and wrapped his arm around me, his hand filled up with a breast.

I wanted to just disappear.  This push and pull on me has exhausted me.  I don’t find it remotely amusing anymore.  Either come at me or just leave me alone, but don’t be kind to me when I need kindness.  It’s not fair.  Then I felt his arousal against my bottom.

“Is that your thigh or are you hard?” I asked.


I wriggled back a little and he drew my skirt up over my hip and hit my flank hard.  Sparks flew through me.  “Do it again.”  His heavy hand came down again.  And again.  He traced the hot spot with his fingertips between spanks and my mood shifted.  This felt better.  This physical pain at his hand.  I arched back harder into the cradle of his hips.  “More,” I said.

He hit me some more until even the traces hurt exquisitely.

Soon, his clothes were off and my skirt was hiked up over my waist, panties flung to the floor.  He entered me slowly and plunged deeply, with care.  We rocked in slow-motion, eyes locked together in the darkness, his hand on my head to  keep it from bumping the headboard.

“Your pussy, it feels so fucking good.  Oh my God, I love fucking you.  Jesus Christ!” and he continued his slow punishment.

My cunt pulsed and vibrated around his cock, my chest grew heavy and emotion swelled into my throat.  I clung to his buttocks and wrapped my arms around him, his face was buried in my neck.  Still slow, still powerfully deep we locked together in the embrace.

He lifted up and drew my legs up to his shoulders and kept at me.  All I could feel was him inside of me, his hands firmly gripping my ankles.  Then he crossed my legs and I lost it.  My pussy cried with my face.  Finally he stopped and disengaged.

“We’ve never fucked this gently before,” he said.

“No, but I wouldn’t say it was ‘gentle’.  That was incredible.”

We got dressed and ran to the store.  He decided to make me a snack since my mood seemed to prevent me from making any decisions.  We bought what we needed and headed back to my place.

Crossing the dark parking lot with our bags he mentioned he didn’t think he could ever date someone who smoked.  Ok, yet another tick against me seeing as I currently smoke.  “Smoking is just something I do.  It’s not who I am.  I haven’t smoked for years.  It’s just a phase.”  He’s never criticized me before for my indulgence; this was the first I’d ever heard of it.  I felt defeated and my mood tanked some more.

Back in my kitchen he mentions that we’re dating.  I’m in no mood for these games and so I said, “We’re not dating, remember?? We’re just fucking and hanging out.”

“We’re not?”


“But I’ve taken you on dates to redacted and redacted!”

“Yeah, so?”

“Ok, then we can start splitting the bill in the future.”

He had me there.  “Ok,” I laughed, “we’re dating!”

But really, we’re not.  Because remember, TN? I’m too old, I have a kid, and [now] I smoke.  I’m not your number 1, like you are mine.  Or maybe I am?  I have no fucking clue.  You’d just told me on our way to the store that I made you feel amazing and you were so grateful to me for that; that you hoped you made me feel as special as I did you.

I give up.  I bloody give up.  You give me so much and this must be the toll, this constant confusion.  If having a loving, warm, sweet, kind, sensual, endowed, smart, funny man in my life means I have to put up with his indecision and cat-like introverted qualities, then so be it.  You’re mine, I’m yours.  Let’s just call a spade a fucking spade and move on.  I’m doing my best to do just that.

We played poker, ate his guacamole, watched some SVU.  He sucked my tits when I lost, then he suggested we go swimming.  I said, “Sure.”

The pool deck was dark and empty and we headed straight for the hot tub.  Steam rose off its surface and the bugs chirped merrily behind the stone walls.  I slid into the heat, my back sighed, and soon I had closed the distance between us where I discovered he was wearing gym shorts.  No mesh, free cock and balls.

I slid my hand up his leg and he was hard as a rock.  I slipped it out and sucked quietly.  He threw his head back and said how much he loved it.  He grabbed my head and increased my tempo.  “You’re such a dirty little slut, aren’t you?” he said.  My answer was a whimper and a suck.  “Such a dirty, exposed little slut.  You love this.  You want to be caught.”  Again, my answer was a whimper and a suck.

I stopped and looked over my shoulder.  “There’s a nook right here,” I pointed to a hidden spot from eyes, “we could fuck, you know.”  He leaned forward off the edge and then pulled back.

“I want to, but I think I’ll have to be drunk for that!” he seemed embarrassed at his own inhibitions.  I went back to him and stood up.  He pulled my bikini top aside and let my breasts glisten under the moon- and pool light.

“They’re so beautiful,” he remarked and dipped his mouth to each in turn.  “Your skin is so hot,” he murmured against me and pulled me closer.  My belly touched his, his arm wrapped around my waist.

And then, just like that, I was done.  “You wanna go up?” he asked.


We climbed the stairs and he walked me into my foyer dripping.

“I had a really great time tonight,” he said sounding surprised and pleased.  He kissed me then walked out the door.

“Me, too,” I answered back.

My pussy is better than his hand.

This was The Neighbor’s  reasoning for coming over at 1:30 last night.

“Honestly?  I was about to jerk off when I thought, ‘What the hell am I doing??  There’s a willing girl who loves to fuck next door.'”

I’m not sure if he meant it as a compliment.  I’m not entirely sure I took it that way.  I appreciated his honesty, to be sure, but I still think there’s more to it.  Yes, I’m a willing cunt, yes, I love to suck cock, yes, I’m easy to be around, but one thing I’ve learned about this man is that he doesn’t do anything he doesn’t truly want to.  And right then it was me.

An hour before I had been wearing pajama shorts and a tank top reading Leah Lays London.  I’d looked up when I heard my puppy whimper from the other room and my door push open.  There he was filling my doorway.

He quickly closed the distance to my bed.  “What the fuck are you doing here??” I asked.

“I thought you’d like some of this,” and he pulled his shorts down and flopped out his meat.  “What are you doing up still??  I was hoping to wake you up.”

“I couldn’t fucking sleep.”  He deftly shut my laptop, grabbed my phone and put them on the bedside table.  In two more seconds, his pants were off and his cock was in my mouth, my heart firmly lodged in my throat and my heart beating thunderously.

I should be fucking pissed, I thought.  I mean, I had been.  I’d been downright angry, but by the time he’d walked into my room, I’d settled down, made a game plan, reined in my emotions and I was ready for his surprise offering.  I wasn’t doing him a favor by sucking his cock, I was doing me a favor.

He pulled off his shirt and sat on my chest and fucked my face.  I choked on his length as my fingers curled up through his chest hair.  I scratched his flanks and made him cringe and cry out.  I hit him hard with an open palm as I moaned and mewed around his shaft.  He spanked back when I was done.  I didn’t have many swings in me.

He turned out the light and my room was filled with candlelight.  I pushed him off of me and pulled my shirt off.  My breasts bounced heavily as they were freed.  He grabbed them and stuffed both nipples in his mouth at once.  I straddled his erection and rubbed my pajama-clad  pussy along its length, then kicked the shorts off all together and impaled myself on him as he tried to draw milk from my flesh.

I drenched us, I cried, he moaned and bucked wildly into me.  Without disengaging he flipped me under him and nailed me to the mattress.  I scratched his back and sobbed and bucked back; released all the hours of pent-up anxiety and anger at him  through my vaginal walls and muscles.  I tried to choke his cock with my passionate, angry pussy.

Ankles hooked over his shoulders, pussy weeping, my face leaking.  I weaved words of encouragement and filth all around us.

“I love your fucking cock.  Oh god, oh god.  Your fucking cock.  It’s in my throat.  It’s splitting me!”  Sob, sob, sob.

He flipped me again and pushed my shoulders into the bed.  I rocked my pelvis back on him, gaining greater strokes deep in my well.  He rained kisses down on my neck and ears.  “Holy shit, Hy, keep doing that,” he said as I found a stronger pivot point on which to drive down on him.  “Oh fuck, oh fuck,” he groaned behind me.

And then his semen burst into me and his midpoint pummeled into mine.  He collapsed on top of me, pulled my wet hair off my face and temples, tucked it behind my ear; he kissed my cheek, took a breath, and began to move again.

“Do you like that?” he whispered as he grabbed a handful of hair and yanked my head up, curling into my pussy with each thrust.

“Yes,” I gasped.  “Do you?”

“I don’t know if I always like it, but I like it when it’s you.”  And then he punched my hole with his fist-like cock some more until I was utterly incoherent.

Finally, we rested and I cuddled up into his nook and he trailed his fingers along my waist, I made patterns with my fingertips from his chest to his balls.

“Tonight wasn’t fun at all.  It wasn’t a good date,” he began to explain.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” I say, and I meant it.

“She’s directionless and not interesting at all.  She’s pretty, but not interesting.  I’m sure there’s another better match for her out there.”

“We can all say there are better matches for us out there.”

He paused, surprised. “Even for you?”

“Yes,” I answer easily as I squeeze his mostly hard penis and run a flat hand up to his chest, splaying my fingers through the curls there, “even for me.”

He said he was glad he came over.  I told him it was a dick move to bail on me.  We moved on.  He helped me cum, kissed and stroked me to see me gasp and arch, then held me some more.  At 2:30 he announced he had to go to bed.  I was happy to see him go.  Between replacing his clothes he’d bend over to kiss me again, pressing his mouth down hard on mine, breathing me in.  Then another shorter one, then another.  I wondered what he was doing.

Then, he was gone and I felt 10 different things at once: satiated, nullified, smug, easy, happy, irritated, wanton, precious, weak, powerful — just to name a few.

This blog is supposed to be about my dissolute life, not my dating life.  They are distinct.  I don’t want to keep The Neighbor Drama going.  I am going to pare back on the emotional details for a while, I think.  It’s too much.  I come across as an idiot to some, pathetic to others, and as a superhero to yet more.  It’s hard enough dealing with it in real life, let alone inviting additional scrutiny.  Call me a fucking pussy if you like, I just need to do this.

I meant what I said the other day that you, my readers, have helped bring me here, but I still have to admit that “here” now means I’m going to pull back.  I’ll still share all the gritty details, but I hope to remove the element of weakness from my writing.  I like what I’m doing with this man.  It feels good enough.  I’m not capable of more, anyway, so I need to focus on the beauty of the situation and not the warts.

I appreciate all your intelligent words, your insights, everything.  It’s been such a relief to have friends to rely on, but I also don’t want to take advantage.  I don’t want to be a broken record.  So, hopefully, a little mystery as to what’s going on in my heart might help me feel better about asking you all for some support again in the future.

I dunno… I’ve never done this before.  I’ve never had a 6 month long “thing” with a guy I really like and with whom the sex is off the charts plus a secret sex blog where I get blow-by-blow support and advice because I’m brutally honest about who and what I am.  This shit is weird, y’all…   It’s just weird.  Forgive me.  I’m unraveling a little…

I can feel feelings coming on.

Saturday I was in a tumult. The experience with the Dom from the night before had seeped into my cells. Memories flooded me. Old memories of never saying no, of being misused and looked through. Utterly disrespected.

I felt confusion about the entire night. I was proud of myself for getting the fuck out of there, but also kicking myself for not leaving after he’d snatched at my panties uninvited and suddenly. Jason came over at 8. I was showered and ready to leave the house except I was wrapped in a white robe. We were supposed to meet another lover of his – a woman – for a threesome later that night.

He hadn’t been over in weeks and we’d been misfiring since before Christmas. Unbeknownst to me, he’d angrily recoiled from me when I told him I was sleeping with The Neighbor. We hashed it out one Saturday afternoon over coffee. He claimed to like me too much and he knew his jealousy and anger were misdirected. The meeting was too brief and when we’d parted I ached in my belly. For a fuck, a hug, a kind word. I felt like so much was left unsaid.

Let me re-circle a bit — Jason has always been open about liking me, about feeling affectionate towards me, about his thoughts on my beauty, coolness, personhood. He’s the only one who’s never been afraid to treat me so kindly and I have been tentative in responding, but have felt it a terrific testing ground for my heart. It’s part of why I agreed to go bare with him and why I continue to see him despite his non-compliance to basic communicating etiquette.

That Saturday in the coffee shop I shared with him that there was no way I could have ever known he was mad at me (and therefore not talking to me) because he was so awful at correspondence. So, not only had I been accosted the night before, but Saturday was going to be our first date since our big hash-out. I needed him, his lovingness, his cock, his hugs.

I poured him some wine and led him to my bed where I retold my story. He apologized profusely for being out of commission the night before and missing my 12:30 am text while on my way home in the rain.

He listened with rapt attention. Apologized some more, then said, “Hy, if you want to be dominated, I will do that for you.”

I leaned into the crook of his arm and sighed. This was so much better; having someone to erase the previous night was cleansing. I unbuttoned his shirt and ran my fingers over his hair-dusted skin. My cat sat on his crotch and we laughed at his bad timing.

We kissed. Tenderly. His blond beard tickled my lips and face. He stood up and removed his shirt, pulled me up on my knees and his hands traced over me. He began to – lack of a better word – make love to me, though of course he doesn’t and we don’t. But it’s what it was.

He laid me out so he could see me – he loves looking at me – and he whispered what a good little slut I was in my ear as his naked cock pressed against my hole. I pushed against him as he slid so effortlessly inside of me. I thought of Phillip and their differences; Jason’s kindness added inexplicable flavor, his open appreciation of me even more. I can’t help but think of the others.

His gaze bore into mine. I couldn’t maintain eye contact and instead focused on his open mouth and his cock inside my sloshing pussy. This time, more than any other, I knew he had less control. It turned me on wildly and I continued to constrict around his girth when he pulled out and push against as he forced his way back inside of me. I whispered how badly I wanted him to fill me up with his cum.

He demonstrated skill in holding off. I kept squirting as he slowed his rhythm, then he groaned as he felt me spurt hotly on us. The kisses got deeper and more demanding and I could feel his muscles straining in his back under the pads of my fingers. He shook and cried out and I imagined being filled with hot, loving, moments strung together. A daisy chain of passion filling my channel to the brim.

The night ended with us eating dinner at 12:30 am sans our third wheel. She mysteriously bailed on us and Jason and I killed a pitcher of beer. I wanted very badly for Jason to stay the night; to sleep in the nook of his arm, but he only stayed for another 30 minutes then insisted on heading home. He had research to do early in the morning.

I texted him a “<3” after he left and heard nothing. Super Bowl Sunday I texted, “Thanks again for last night. I like liking you <3 :)” and also heard nothing. However, I texted him a sexy photo of my tits and my pussy (the actual cat, naturally) and he said, “Rover has big titties,” but the more affectionate of my texts were ignored.

I felt let down. After such an incredible, sweet, touching, sexy night together I felt ignored. I put very little pressure on the men I date: respond to my texts is about the only hard rule I have and I’m extremely flexible even in that. I ended up on the couch of The Neighbor. I was taken aback by what a sight for sore eyes he was. His hand was warm on my knee, he fondled a breast and lamented at how goddamned sick he’s been. It’s been weeks and weeks since we’ve lain together. I think of him much more than is probably good for me. He is not normally affectionate with me, therefore he certainly wasn’t Sunday night.

I’m tired.

I feel as though I’m on the cusp of something… what, I’m not sure. I want TN. I won’t lie. It’s him who I think of the most. And then, when I feel like I’m getting too attached I jolt back. It’s mildly exhausting.

Also, after this weekend, I’ve resolutely decided to not tell Jason that I also had unprotected sex with Phillip. I’m approaching this much as I would with an infidelity. It’s a one-off, so why hurt everyone involved? I’ll just not do that again with Phillip: problem fucking solved.

A good friend of mine is coming into town on Thursday. A man who once inspired me to write about my sexual exploits before they’d even begun. He took me to a nice dinner last summer, held my hand and made me cry, then stuffed my face with his hard heat. He has a girlfriend and is a lawyer and – of course – doesn’t normally do this sort of thing. He’s an upstanding member of his community, but after knowing me for 18 months, I guess things change.

So, yeah. I’m not telling Jason about Phillip. I’m not telling TN my feelings about him or what’s recently happened to me. And I’ll likely get fucked in a fancy hotel later this week. I wish things could be different between me and everyone else. I really do. I just can’t wrap my head around what that’ d look like. The idea of losing anyone makes me sad…

Goddammit. This post was horrible. It’s what I’m fighting. I came home and cried Sunday at Super Bowl halftime. I drank a small swig of red wine and texted TN hoping he’d finally be up to seeing me. He was and I was so relieved and scared at all the relief. I wondered if he felt the same way. He’s so different from Jason – he’s determined to keep me at arm’s length and not show too much affection, though I hope it’s hard for him. Seeing him was wonderful. Crying was even better because I never let myself. Sometimes I have to admit that I’m a mess and just let it flow – like this fucking post.

I refuse to decode anyone’s behavior but my own.

I am an unethical slut.

After Phillip left.

I’ve been agitated and antsy all day.  Avoided doing some important work.  Wanting so badly to write a post for this blog, but not allowing myself until I get the work done.  This is a treat, damnit.  It’s almost 9 pm and the work still isn’t near complete, so I decided to go ahead and write here, let it out, expunge my thoughts.

I saw Phillip last night.  He opened his hotel room door dressed only in his boxers.  I was in knee-high tan boots and a green and white wrap around dress.  My girlfriends with whom I’d spent dinner had told me I looked exceptionally beautiful that night, gorgeous even.  I bloomed under their kind words and felt sensational as I strutted through the hotel lobby with my sequined bag and knapsack over my arms.  I was there for a very short stay, is what it all clearly told any casual observer.

We hugged hello, his skin was silky soft.  His lips lingered near my ear.  He offered me some water and he laid back down on the unmade bed.  I plopped down fully dressed beside him.  We chatted, I made him laugh, I relaxed.  He pulled off my boots to expose my hot pink argyle knee socks.  I like to mix it up.

And then after about an hour, the chatting is over.  He rolled over me and kissed me and squeezed my breast with a warm, heavy hand.  I arched into him and sighed, a tiny whimper escaped my lips.  My hands roamed his broad, muscled back.

We stroked over clothes, letting the burn rise.  I avoided his shorts, postponing the glee I knew I’d feel when his hot, tight skin burst into my palm.

He unwrapped my dress from my body like a greedy child on Christmas morning and deftly unhooked my bra, his mouth dipped to my nipples and he suckled.  My silver stretch marks glistened against his five o’clock shadow.

Naked, petted, wet, and hungry he knelt beside my face.  I wrapped my hands around his shaft and took his broad, shining head into my mouth.  I could barely take half of him he was so big, but I lapped and sucked and moaned and worked his glorious cock; his hand rubbed my mound and separated my lips, smeared my wetness around my folds and his fingers delved deep inside of me.

He positioned himself over me and I stopped him.  “Phillip,” I panted, “do you have condoms this time?”


I just looked at him.  The last time we slept together it was the same story and I had given in.  He is not sexually active, I am promiscuous.  I trusted him, he trusted me and my sexual health and so we’d thrown caution to the wind and he’d filled me with his seed for two nights in a row.  But now… now it was different.  Jason and I have an agreement: we don’t use condoms with only each other.





I rolled away from him and he cuddled me.  “We don’t have to have sex, Hy,” he whispered into my ear as he hugged me close.  “I’m happy with this.”

“But I’m not,” I answered. “And here’s the thing…” and I told him my arrangement with Jason.

And then I did something immoral in the world of the ethical slut.  I betrayed a lover.  I fucked Phillip anyway.  Without a condom.  “I can’t not fuck you, Phillip.  I just can’t,’ I barely whispered.  And then he impaled me.

He flipped me on my stomach and pinched my knees together with his.  His giant cock stroked my g-spot as I rocked back on him, my buttocks softly punched against his thighs and pelvis.  Then I was on my side, his hand holding my knee up and he was sliding in and out of me, my juices running down my crack and puddling on the sheets beneath me.

He spanked me, I whimpered, I felt guilty and wonderful and fucked.  Back on my stomach and he pounded against me.  I heard him moan and grunt and felt him shiver inside of me and then he went still.  For only a minute.  And then — oh my fucking god — and then, he pulled me up to my hands and knees and ordered me not to move.

“Don’t move a muscle, Hy.  Be a good fucking girl and let me fuck you.”

“Be still,” he purred from above and behind me.

I whimpered and trembled, and he slowly — oh so slowly — started to stroke my pussy.  His hands on my hips, my fists balled up with sheets so I can be that good girl he’s demanding me to be and be as still as possible.

“You feel that?  That’s me fucking you, you fucking good little girl.  I’m gonna fill you up again with my cum.  You want that?”

I whimpered assent again.

“Oh god, your fucking pussy, Hy.  It feels so good.  Keep still.  Keep still.  Be a good little Girl Scout.

And something about those words sent me over the edge.  I saw white sparks, I thought about his Girl Scout-aged daughter and how goddamned filthy a thing that was to say to me and I squirted hard all over us, I became blanketed in a buzz, my skin  alight with pleasure.

His continuous, cruel and slow thrusting gave me opportunity to suck on his cock with my cunt as he pulled out and to push against it as he bore down  into me.  And each time, as the round head of his penis reached the edges of my hole, I squirted uncontrollably and shook with pleasure.

I was out of my goddamned mind.

And his bare cock felt like goddamned velvet.

I rationalized it as he was grandfathered in, he was before Jason, he was safe.  Jason isn’t fucking anyone else, either.  He’s safe, too.  These men are only fucking me.  I trust them implicitly.  And then I felt powerful in having a secret, in finally being the one who didn’t do everything right all the time; for thinking only of myself; for doing whatever the fuck it was I wanted.

He came again, more gently this time, and pulled me into the crescent of his body.  I lay there with his arm between my breasts, my heart thudding against it.  I don’t think we even said goodnight, but just drifted off into a post-orgasmic haze.

A few hours later, silently in the dark, we fuck again.  The helmet of his cock butts against my dry lips.  I spread them apart and the very movement of being spread quickly lubricates me.  Once the head was in, he slipped in and out with no problem.

I stretched like a cat beneath him and felt his dense muscular weight upon me.  I felt helpless and vulnerable.  Revered.  Panting, slipping, splattering of my ejaculate in the dawn; downtown city lights blroke through the hotel curtains.  He came and we dozed again; stayed inside me until he was soft and his breathing was even.  Then it was time for him to get up and go.

He showered, dressed in jeans and a navy t-shirt.  I watched him from heavy-lidded eyes, tangled in the white bedding that hotels love to put on their beds.  He pulled the covers up over me and tucked me in before saying, “Stay as long as you like.”  Then he kissed me and left.  It was the last time I ever saw him.

I realize I have no idea how to talk dirty.

So this is really an addendum to my earlier post. Jason is gone now. He left about 15 minutes ago. I came two more times after he left thinking about us going to a sex club and watching him fuck some chick doggy style while he had his fingers buried deep inside my clenching, soaking cunt.

He didn’t cum tonight and I’m wrestling with that. The good, horny woman in me says I failed. The logical, intellectual one is struggling to believe him when he says (and rightly so) that sex isn’t always about an orgasm. I hate it when I hear that bullshit from men even though it’s the very basis on which my own sexuality and sexual experiences are based. I don’t cum with men. Like, almost ever. I know it’s not all about orgasms. But it’s hard to shake a sense of failure when a man I’m with doesn’t cum.

Add to this the fact that I really, really, really tried. I love to suck cock. So this perceived failure of mine is lingering. I sucked his cock for minutes upon minutes using all my skill and determination until I finally asked if he could cum for me at all. He said he most definitely could and he grabbed his cock with his right hand and started to stroke while I fingered myself in front of him, soaked through my panties and filled my cupped palms with ejaculate then trickled it on his hand and shaft; suckled his ripe, warm balls; trailed my nipples along his thighs and around his pouch; and spit hot, sticky saliva on his head whenever he got dried out. And still nothing.

“I need you to talk dirty to me,” he finally says.

I froze.

I don’t know how to fucking talk dirty.

Not even a little bit.

I tried hard not to derail the moment with my severe discomfort. I told him I didn’t know how. I asked him for some guidance. His obtuse answer was, “I can’t tell you that. It has to be genuine. From you.” MOTHERFUCKER.

After I tried — and failed — at sex talk, Jason gave me a B- for effort. I whacked him and laughed and he gave up trying to masturbate to climax. I had said things that I was comfortable saying, recounted fantasies I had about him while I masturbated. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t right.

“Look, Hyacinth, the thing is, is that you have to say things you think your partner wants to hear.”

“But I’ve never heard dirty talk outside of the typical catalog of ‘Oh, baby, your pussy feels so good,’ and ‘You’re such a good girl, Hyacinth, that’s right: a good girl.'”

I felt defeated and confused, slightly irritated, but also challenged.

He’d fucked me for 30 minutes in my room when he’d first come over, and then watched me use my vibe to finish myself off. Then we sat in front of my fire and I sat at his feet as he relaxed in the Fuck Chair occasionally stroking my hair or breast. He asked how I was and listened to all my stories. Then he started sharing stories about fucking a couple and other women and I found myself kneeling wedged between his spread knees, my lips hovering over his, our breath intermingling. This is how this whole mess got started. I thought we were connecting and then he asked me to perform outside my skill set.

I felt awful. Feel awful. But I’m also pissed. He used the example of the dirty talk he uses on me to illustrate that he says things to me he knows I’ll like (that he happens to enjoy, too). Like waiting for me in my parking lot for me to leave the house one day and then without a word just backing me back into my apartment to fuck me then leave me. His point was that his talk was catered to me.

But, I now realize after having had some space and solitude to mull it over, I’m transparent. I’m open and forthright and clear as a mountain stream when it comes to my motivations. This man is not. He’s opaque, like a fogged bathroom mirror. How was I supposed to know that me describing group sex with another woman and my mouth buried in her musky, delicious cunt wouldn’t turn him on? Most men would blow their wad in a second to hear a woman utter those words, words that he himself might whisper to himself while he’s got cock in hand.

Jason, however, is different. But I guess I knew that.

Eventually I gave up the discussion and just lay on my back, staring at the ceiling processing things. He stood over me, stroking my face. “Don’t worry, baby, we’ll figure it out.” And he rained kisses down on me knowing I was struggling.

I got up and kissed him, his arms wrapped tightly around my terrycloth robe. “You’re not mopey are you?” he asks.

“No, not at all. I’m just dazed. I’m horny, I’m tired, I’m confused. But I’m not mopey, I swear.” And truly, I wasn’t, but I was irritated that he thought so.

When the door shut behind him, the cold air striking my damp crotch, I made a bee line for my room and my Hitachi, and that’s when I let myself get inside his head; I was horny and irritated, lustful and confused. I have to say… not a bad list of things to be feeling. My orgasms were huge. Or maybe it was more to do with trying to please him (even after he’d gone). Maybe I’m more submissive than I knew. I imagined what he’d want to hear (like a good girl). His hand. Deep inside my pussy. My naked body witness to his impaling another. My desires his desires now. I think I get it now. I think.

What’s good dirty talk to you??