Tag: good sex

We fucked like old times.

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We lay cuddling last week in my bed and then suddenly we weren’t.

I grabbed the soft mound of flesh beneath his basketball shorts and squeezed and pressed my cheek on his warm, firm chest then slid my head up until the bridge of my nose rested under his jaw.  I have discovered a place here which is even better than the nook.  It’s my nook within the nook.

He sighed against me and I continued to slide my hand on his stiffening bulge.  His hand traced swirls on my arm and I sunk deeper into a new state of being, so far from stress and worry which I’d been wearing for so long before that moment.

I melted against him beneath my closed lids and let him kiss my face and my lips, his cock hard and twitching beneath my fingers.  I deftly pulled his waistband down as he equally deftly lifted his hips and let me slide them down around his thick, round backside.

The lights were on and illuminated our pale limbs and lit his icy blue eyes upon my darker ones.  Finally, I thought, I could lose myself again.  It’d been far too long.  Boxes and money and my failed marriage, my hurting baby and career worries, they all twirled away like smoke.  None of that mattered.  All that mattered for those moments turned into minutes, were the two of us returning to what we knew best about one another.

My hand wrapped around his giant hot cock as he shifted over me, his mouth was wet and urgent on mine, then his hands were pulling off my little pajama shorts and his knees shoving mine wide apart.  Soon, soon!

I held my breath and clung to his bare shoulders and let my gaze hold his for one, two, three seconds before I had to break away.  Still, after everything, I am a chicken shit to let my soul pool in my eyes for him to see.

Shirt hiked up over my jiggling breasts, cock knocking at my door, a push, a sigh, then the long, deep slide into home.  My home.

This is always where I will feel welcome, like I always belong.

His hips curved into me slowly at first as he warmed up and then the tempo increased to a frenzy.  Banging, moaning, arching, begging.

I breathed in his puffs of breath upon my neck and reveled in his warm, manly weight pinning me to the mattress.  I hoped we disturbed my cranky asshole downstairs neighbor.

He sat up then and did his move, the one that slays me each and every time.  Sometimes I resent his control over my body and our easy slide into a routine, but not that night.  That night my eyes widened with anticipation and I couldn’t wait for the thrill of orgasms his body would play upon mine.

With my ankles hitched up on his shoulders he angled himself inside of me to hit my g-spot and rammed away at me as the orgasms bled through me and I felt my juices release down the crack of my bottom.  I whimpered and bit my own forearm to keep from screaming and thrashed around like a wild animal.

I begged for breaks and he gave them to me before starting up again, splitting my legs this way and that then flipping me over and twisting my long hair around his hand for a better grip and let loose on me from behind.

Tears slipped out of my eyes and I lifted my rump to meet his hips; my breath stolen by his weight and strength surging into me.  I pushed back onto him as he threw himself towards my throat through my fucking pussy.  Such a good boy.

His hand slammed down on one flank, then the other, and I hoped he’d leave a mark on me.  Then I held my breath and hoped he’d cum, but he didn’t, like so many times before.  It’s a rare occurrence now, so we finish when he gets tired, not when he’s climaxed.  So I simply have to wait for him to tire and embrace the selfish feelings of pleasure he so eagerly gives to me.  It’s a tough life, I know.

Eventually, my robust lover grew exhausted and fell limp like a giant, panting puppy who’s run wild in the yard on top of me.  My puppy, though.

It was good to fuck like old times again and it was good to be home.

 

 

I’m not feeling all that dissolute.

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This sex blog affects my life.  I think about it constantly.  I frame encounters with it, interactions, images.  It is a direct reflection of my mind, my eye, and my heart.  The images I post are what I see and how I want to be seen.  The words are my art, the thoughts my deepest secrets, the behaviors the paint, my life the canvas, and this little bundle of 1s and 0s the art dealer to reach the masses.

But, I don’t want to “just fuck” anymore.

I used to have stories every week of this man or that man.  Different, all of them.  Threesomes were my bread and butter, as were random hookups.  Now I just write about the soap opera that is my life with my next door neighbor with the occasional frolic thrown in for good measure.

All I want is this one who is so close, yet so far.  I force myself to go on dates in hopes that maybe I’ll get my hair blown back by one of them and I can finally let go of The Neighbor monkey bar and grab onto the next.  But they all fall short.  Always.

I think back to how I met TN, innocently enough by inviting him over when I had some friends over.  The beginnings were a little weird, to be sure, but there was something there immediately, and though I fought it for a few days — stating loudly that I don’t shit where I eat — I finally gave in to his charms.  And here I am 8 months later in love with him; forced to see when his car is missing at 6:30 am, forced to hear his comings and goings, forced to acknowledge we have no fucking future whatsoever, forced to admit that it’s going to get worse before it gets better.

I feel as though I’ve lost my muse.

What am I to write about at A Dissolute Life Means if I don’t want to fuck anyone else but him and I’m tired of whining about our situation?

TN mentioned last weekend that we had a shelf-life until September (I wish I could remember why he chose that month) and I thought, “Hmm, maybe I can hang on a couple more months.  My birthday is in September, it’d be nice to have him around for it.”  These are seriously some of my thoughts and I’m ashamed of them.  If he didn’t live next door and if we weren’t such good friends I’d cut ties immediately.  Oh, right, and if the sex wasn’t so goddamned amazing.

My current thoughts on the whole mess have been that I’d end it by the end of July.  I have a speech prepared and everything.  But things just keep getting more complicated.  He renews his lease in the next couple of weeks, he’ll be in the same softball league as me, he’s friended some of my friends on FB whom we met at the wedding.  I want to fucking scream.  He’s so enmeshed in my life that this is like a full-blown goddamned breakup without all the benefits of having had a whole boyfriend.  I’m pissed and confused.

So, here I am boyfriendless and in love, undesiring of anyone else and horny as a 13 year old boy, with an audience waiting to hear my next lurid tale and all I’ve got is sniveling.  Boohoo this, boohoo that.  Thank god I have memories to pull from.  Lots and lots of memories.  Because while, and until, I work all this shit out it’s going to be more of the same TN Drama Direct and I’d rather be some place else.  Like maybe on Noodle’s porch sipping some Pinot Grigio while lamenting over our hearts’ betrayals of our pussies.

Fucking hearts.  Fucking pussies.  Fucking fuck it all.

Fuck.

 

I was picked up in a bar

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First (and only) time in 8 years I was organically picked up by a man I met in person, just me, no internet dating site between us.  This happened in July of 2011.

I returned to a bar at 10 pm on a Saturday, alone, to pick up the check card I’d forgotten there the night before during a horrendous first date. Once there, I decided to have a glass of wine at the bar and a couple of glasses in I decided to let a man I’d been talking to on AFF come and meet me, Steven.

Funny thing is, is that I wasn’t dressed to meet anyone. I wore a black tank top with some sequins on it (not fancy, or cute, I assure you), a green skirt with multiple holes I’d sewn shut, and sandals. I was wearing minimal makeup, my glasses, and had my breast-length hair tied in a knot. Seriously, I couldn’t have cared less about my looks and it showed.

And why should I, after all?? Clearly, according to my bad date the night before, I was a troll even at my best, so fuck it. I was gonna sit at the bar alone, lavish attention on my iPhone, drink some wine and meet some dude I was moderately attracted to because he was available for the job and I didn’t want to sit at home alone watching Murder, She Wrote reruns.

No sooner had I pulled out my phone to play games than the man to my left asked me how to spell “rhythm.”

“R-y-t-h,” I start, “No, wait -” and then I was interrupted by the man on my right. A fit, handsome fella with a twinkle in his eye.

“Nope. You got it wrong. It’s R-h-y-t-h-m.”

“I knew that!” I laughed, “I swear!”

“Oh, really?” he countered. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

It was roughly 10:15 when he moved a seat closer to me. I couldn’t stop laughing as I kept pushing my glasses up higher on my nose. WAS I REALLY GETTING PICKED UP IN A BAR LOOKING LIKE THIS??

The answer, he told me, was a definite YES.

I told him a man was coming to meet me later. He said I should just come hang out with him instead, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

“My name is Hy, by the way,” I say hurriedly. I felt like Steven was going to walk in any second.

“I’m Hunter. And I was just about to ask you your name.”

We talk and flirt for the next 45 minutes until I got a text from Steven that his arrival was imminent. Hunter graciously bows out with the excuse he has to use the restroom.

The second his seat is empty, Steven fills it. I hug him hello. My first assessment is he’s not as attractive as I’d hoped: “I’ll be right back. I have to go to the bathroom,” I tell him.

And it was true. I did. But it was to wait for Hunter.

He was surprised to see me standing outside the door. I was startled to see how tall he was. “Hi,” I manage to say. “I want to get your number.”

He smiles mischievously and gives it to me. I text him, “Yo.”

The next hour consisted of me giggling and laughing over what appeared to Steven to be nothing. And I felt awful that he couldn’t figure me out, but how could he know that Hunter was texting me intermittently that I should ditch my date and hang with him instead? So, eventually I text him back, “Ok. Midnight,” and let Steven nuzzle my neck and squeeze my thigh.

(I know, right??)

I even had to turn Steven down when he asked for a ride home. But, really, come on. Presumptuous much?

In the end I met Hunter at another bar where he kissed and held me and asked me to go to his place where he said he promised he’d not try to fuck me. I agreed. Nothing hotter than an empty promise, I tell you.

Turns out he was house sitting for his boss and the place was gorgeous. His girlfriend was moving out of their place and he needed a place to crash. Lucky us.

A couple of glasses of wine later and we were all over each other. He discovered I was pantiless and soon had my skirt soaked through with pussy juice. I looked like I’d been hosed down.

“Oh wow,” he murmured into my mouth passionately, “You’re a squirter!”

We romp and fuck and laugh all over the upstairs. I soak the bed he was sleeping in and two towels. We had to move into a different guest room.

I woke up up this morning cradled in his arms. I was shocked at how good and normal it felt. Maybe I should let more men do it. We fucked some more (a good, hard pounding and a spank or two), then I suckled his cock dry (nothing like a good cum cocktail to start the day off right).

I wanted to keep sleeping, but I could sense my welcome was running out, so I got dressed and said goodbye. And now I’m sitting in a taco shop with ridiculous beard burn and fuck hair contemplating the universe and its mysterious ways and relishing my sore pussy.

[Epilogue: I’d hook up with Hunter one more time about 6 months later.  He was sunburned and too drunk and I was dry as a bone as he silently came.  I never called him again.]

My ejaculate landed on the walls.

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Another from the catacombs of my past.  This was my one-on-one encounter with Ryan.  Before the threesome, after an MMF.  Enjoy.

Ryan and I went on a date last Thursday.  We hung out at a dive bar near his apartment, chatted up all the locals and generally had a great time.  He wasn’t affectionate or touchy-feely and I had a moment of panic that maybe he’d decided he didn’t like the way I looked upon setting eyes on me again.  I shouldn’t have worried.

We fucked like maniacs all night long.  I rode his mocha-colored body while we were both bathed in the blue light from his TV.  He lapped at my pink folds and delved his fingers deep inside of me.  He turned me around and bent me over and pounded me so hard from behind we moved the couch a foot.  We finally decided to move to the bed once the rug was soaked from my streaming cunt.

I’m pretty sure some of my ejaculate is on the walls of his bedroom.  He would take his huge cock and  slap it on my clit with quickfire movements and I’d squirt uncontrollably.  I had to hold my hand over my mound to stop the splatter from dusting my own face.  Then he’d slide deep into me, exclaim at my wetness, and how I’d clench down on him.  An hour or more and he never came; he’d stop, yell out at how good it felt and then laugh at what torture it was for him to fuck me.  He wanted so badly to cum, but also didn’t want it to end.

Eventually, he fucked the shit right out of the both of us, sans orgasm for either, and we passed out in the mighty wet spots on his mattress.

I slept fitfully, if at all, and finally decided to go home at 5.  But, I told him, not before he came.

He smiled and rolled over on his back and I nipped his neck, his shoulders with my lips and teeth.  Trailed my hair down his muscled chest and found his turgid shaft ready for me.  I sucked for a few minutes, learning what he liked and what worked best, and when I sensed he was finally ready I sucked harder, though still slow, steady and silky.  He came in a rush, his cum mild and pleasant in my hot little mouth.

“I see why Troy says you’re the best!” he chuckled.

“I want to fuck you again.  Soon. Wanna come over before my date Saturday afternoon?” I boldly ask.

“Fuck, yeah,” he agreed.