It appears I’ve abandoned my Dating Like It’s 1995 project. I know because I’m back on Bumble and I’ve jumped into a pile of dicks — I mean dudes — again. It kinda feels good. Too good. Like I’m not all here, just tethered by a string dancing in the gale.
Time to carefully back away again and get back to 1995. I liked it there a lot. It was quiet and real and rooted through the ground beneath my palms.
It’s not because it’s taboo or transgressive, or even because I’m in charge. It’s because in that bubble of time where a man bends his knee to me I can finally let go.
I want to dominate so I may trust.
A year ago I met Nate. I never really named him other than tagging the name in the footnotes of my writings. He felt like a shadow to me, sand through my fingers. I didn’t want to name something I knew would be temporary.
He found me on CollarSpace. Approached me like a normal man, but respectful. Not simpering or demanding, an all too common combination in the male sub choice of communique. Simpmanding. Demanpering?
We met on an October night at a local wine bar and drank two bottles of wine. His long legs capped with cowboy boots crossed at the ankles stretched out past our table. We laughed and talked under the stars for hours until hunger drove us out to find a diner.
He walked me to my car and I let him snake his fingers inside my panties. He was usually dominant he said. He kissed me hard, almost painfully, and brought me to climax. I came down my leg and my juices pooled in my shoes.
At the diner we talked some more and stuffed our faces. His black leather jacket crinkled and he periodically had to flick his jaw-length blond hair out of his eyes. “We’ll have to make sure you have a hair tie,” I said mischievously.
We said our goodbyes in the parking lot under a street lamp and tried to hide our lascivious petting from the occasional other diner coming and going. He dropped to his knees and buried his face in the apex of my thighs. At 3 am we were virtually alone.
He was an intense A-type workaholic with his own one-man business. His passion and focus was entirely on his career, but he could no longer ignore this burning need to be dominated. He wanted the freedom of no control.
He was never very good at just casual sex he said and wanted to make a real connection with someone, not just a one-time thing, which was perfect for me. When we met I was still licking my wounds after a crushing D/s disappointment and I was refocused on going slowly.
We hung out ol’ vanilla style a few times, established expectations in communication and made out. He tasted of weed and tobacco and I liked to eye his long hair with disdain. “You don’t like my long hair, do you?” he’d ask smiling.
“Nope. Not at all,” I laughed.
Over the next 4 months we played with our deeper drives. The first night I took control I didn’t change out of my work attire, a black pencil skirt and cream colored silky button down with its own black tie tied loosely into a bow right where the last button held at my cleavage. His eyes bugged when I opened the door. The black sash would end up around his neck while his hands and feet were bound.
For weeks he’d come over and I would have a different sash, ribbon, or tie. A length of pink satin wrapped gently, yet firmly around his ball sac and the base of his shaft, my sash tied through his smile, and the little black velvet ribbon I used to use on The Neighbor bowed about his beautiful, pale neck.
I used my “BDSM Starter Kit” on him and experimented with the flogger, the ball gag and the blindfold. And while bound and blind I liked to slip a plug a boy had once left behind – a boy whose name I don’t even recall – light pink and slender, angled like a soft little diamond deep into his clenched hole while I milked his cock and he cried out begging to cum.
Nate was tall and lean and he loved to do domestic service for me. I’d sip wine while I watched him put away the dishes wearing my black lace panties with cherries on them, his pink meat stuffed inside the lace basket.
My room lit with candles offered us the safe space to seek that which we wanted so badly. His trust in me was an aphrodisiac, his complete submission a harrowing, yet utterly titillating experience. Every touch, every sound, every kiss and lick I gave was for a purpose: submit to me.
I liked to ride his face until I came with him bucking beneath me for air. He’d look drunk when I’d slide down his body to suck his cock and sound near-to-tears when I finally gave him permission to fill my mouth with his seed.
Afterwards we liked to sit on my balcony so he could smoke and we could come back to earth and our bodies. It was during one of these post-coital, aftercare moments that I realized my true drive to dominate. I wanted to trust him. I wanted to trust him so badly.
My relationship with Nate, while brief, was also the first time I said, “No, don’t treat me that way,” when he was vague or slippery about plans. We talked on the phone semi-regularly to touch base and recalibrate. He was eager, willing, and listened to me. I felt heard.
The very last time we were together things felt a little off. He was distracted and I was struggling to enter my dominant space. I checked in with him, corrected things and we forged on.
I wore my harness replete with a slender black dildo the length of my middle finger and after cumming twice myself via his face and cock I unbuckled his ankles and put them on my shoulders. His eyes, uncovered so he could watch, glistened in the candlelight.
I felt an incredible sense of power kneeling over him with my little mini hardon. He was so open to me, waiting, trusting. I dribbled lube all over his crack and hole, pushed inside and shuffled closer to the backs of his thighs, and began to thrust as I played with his chubby dick.
The movement to penetrate was harder than I’d imagined. A foreign curling of my hips and a strength in my thighs I didn’t have. The more I pumped and fondled the more he strained against me. I was on the verge of being thrown completely off the bed by his pleasure. I shook with the effort to take in the power of his submission, I was about to be on the floor!
“Nate,” I said tapping the rock hard thigh against my chest. “You have to stop pushing on me. You’re about to fling me right off.” We’d have laughed if we weren’t both drowning in power and submission.
He relaxed and I pushed into him further and continued to squeeze and jerk on his cock. It all felt a bit like patting my head and rubbing my belly, but I was determined to see it all to the end.
He came mightily and I braced myself against his muscles. He shook and cried and and the air vibrated around us.
I slowly pulled out and grabbed a towel to wipe his bottom. He was embarrassed there may be a mess. I told him not to worry and tucked the towel beneath him and unwrapped the harness from my hips.
We lay together, dazed, incredulous that any of it had happened. As per our little routine we got up, put on robes and went outside. I could barely move and felt like I had fallen flat on my face from a four story window. My legs shook with the effort of walking and I would end up hobbling for days.
He puffed on his weed and I sipped on wine under the moon on my balcony. He left sooner than I was ready, though it was probably an hour. I’d needed more time to come back into myself. He seemed eager to run out and I could almost see him waiting the appropriate amount of time until he could.
We’d talk about it – the pegging and the disconnect – and he agreed with everything and validated my feelings. We would never attempt that level of D/s again unless he was fully submitting. I felt good about the chat, so did he. And I’m glad because it was the last one we’d have while engaged with one another in the dynamic.
He called not long after to give me the update that his career taking off and he’d have no time for us. I wished him well and accepted my fate. We texted off and on over the months and even had a nice chat. He was dating a vanilla girl and No, she didn’t know about his predilections.
Since Nate I’ve met one young man, though we had no chemistry; talked with one on the phone who was basically so unintelligible I wondered how he got through life; and have emailed with a dozen more. My requirements are specific and my need a lazy one so it’s not much of a combination to move the needle towards a match.
Dozens of men a month send me disgusting notes about being my personal toilet or sitting on their faces to the point they pass out. Demanding that they be dominated because they want it, calling me Goddess and Mistress and all sorts of honorifics as if they’ve earned it. It’s as exhausting and ridiculous as regular dating, just with a kinky and sometimes disgusting twist. It’s not all a complete loss, though.
Recently I found a man who ticked all the boxes, though the ink on his divorce wasn’t yet dry and he couldn’t seem to find the time for me. I told him my interest had waned, but to reach out if things changed on his end.
And – more excitingly – I’ve found an Irishman who is an astoundingly good match – aside from the distance, that is.
He’s everything I could hope for and our emails are long and interesting. Perhaps I will meet him while I’m in the UK in March. I’d been seriously considering popping over to Dublin even before he and I began chatting, so maybe this is a good opportunity for me. Or just another chance to meet someone I can’t have long term. I seem to be really good at that.
This dance of D/s is so prolonged, so intricate. There are steps to follow, dips to learn, twirls to master. My pickiness is born out of slap-in-the-face after slap-in-the-face as I’ve learned the moves of the kinky world. Some men can’t handle submitting and lash out by disappearing. I have to be cautious and hold the bar high above my head – oh so high. It is delicate and fragile, this power exchange, yet empowering and exciting. I can’t fuck around.
I am so clear on what I want and what is acceptable and I never wonder if I’ve made the right choice, but I do miss dancing with someone… and barely being able to walk for days.
I’ve been beyond busy socially. Men, men, Peyton, Peyton, family, family, friends, friends, repeat. It’s been a lot to manage but I am happy, centered, strong.
In lieu of a convoluted post about everything that’s been going on I’ve decided to break it down into a rudimentary timeline from Eroticon till now. (Shit, I still need to do my Eroticon recap.)
That’s the gist.
I’ll tell more of the stories within this soon, but what’s important here is that I’ve identified better what I do and don’t want in a partner.
For example, I do not want an overly familiar, needy monogamous type such as Michele, nor an insecure guy who doesn’t listen like JJ. I wouldn’t mind another Garrett – a sugar daddy who is trying all this on for size and is generally expendable, though lovely. And both The Aussie and The Doctor are just visitors here and exclusively fun only with their giant penises, which would be fantastic to have on the reg. Jean Luc is across the Pond and has rendered himself obsolete, I’m afraid. Perhaps he’ll rally. Perhaps not.
And over all they have all thought I was the cat’s meow and that has been a different kind of dating experience for me, one in which I’ve found great pleasure. Obviously.
So, there you have it. The down and not so dirty of what I’ve been up to lately. But don’t worry, I’ll tell you all about how The Aussie fucked me every which way on our first date and our second date was a lovely starter fuck followed by a marathon of football, beer, and talking and how The Doctor managed to make it to my List of Firsts. [Spoiler alert: he came in my ass. Twice.]
I had a revelation this week about intimacy, false intimacy, specifically.
All these years I have struggled with how I am treated because I felt like there were connections, real things occurring between me and the men in my life. And they were happening, I just called them the wrong things.
I called them trust and respect and intimacy. I should have been calling them hunting, playing, and gorging.
We did the dance of lust and curiosity, girated and slobbered on one another. Pulled hair and smacked flanks and spent hours cultivating a persona with 26 characters and a few vegetable emojis until our fingers were exhausted and our bellies full of pursuit. Until we were over as quickly as we started.
I’m wondering how I could have been so wrong for so long, to expect so much of the right answer from the wrong equation.
First of all, how can anyone get to know me if all we do is text then drink in a dimly lit room bathed in each other’s pheromones?
Secondly, they haven’t done anything to earn my trust so why am I so surprised when they’ve broken it? I hand it out like candy in Halloweeen night like the daddy-hungry little girl that I am.
I have expected something from nothing, for a rose to bloom out of granite.
So now I’m on my way to meet a man I hardly know and I don’t care about. He’s from a neighboring city and used the word “laconic” to describe himself. He’s 5’7″, good looking, charming as a Labrador and he will suffice for tonight because the truth is… I think I’m ok with nothing right now.
The rose can come later when it makes sense to grow. Right now, all I want is to feel the honesty of cold, hard rock.
A fine looking, grown ass man — who’s also looking for something serious and whom I met on AFF — grilled me yesterday via text.
“How many guys are you talking to these days??”
I was taken aback. Prior to this question he’d asked me how my day was going.
“My day is going alright. And why do you ask that?? That’s sort of out of left field.”
He insisted it wasn’t. “It’s just a question.”
I was honest with him and said I was, though I use the term “dating” only to mean I’m chatting with and occasionally going for dinner or drinks. There are no feelings involved or sex. I’m browsing. Then he called me a “serial dater.”
I didn’t know what that was so he clarified that it’s dating more than one person at once.
I was confused. Isn’t that the definition of dating?? Then he explained his opinions further.
“It’s harder to get to know one guy when you’re dating several don’t you agree? Nothing wrong with it, it’s just harder in my experience to get to know someone when my time is split between multiple people.”
I pointed out that clearly I don’t agree and he went on to say it one more time for good measure: you can’t successfully date if you’re talking to more than one person.
And maybe that’s true for him because he’s a man and he doesn’t get a dozen incredible emails from a dozen great women a week like a woman might (like I sometimes do). How can I possibly decide who to invest my time in if the criteria are first come first served?
So whoever sent me the email first gets the girl?? I don’t think so. I think we all have to earn someone’s time and being first in line is hardly considered doing any work.
Likewise, he clearly doesn’t want to be one of many and this was his way of strutting around the coop. And I can respect that to a degree, except we’re not meeting people in grocery stores, dances, and shopping malls anymore (I heard that’s where it used to happen prior to the internet, anyway). We shop online with endless choices.
Today women are inundated with suitors and men are put in the undesirable position of having to stand out and they can do that in one of two ways: complain about the game or pretend it doesn’t exist.
You can guess which one is more appealing.
No one wants a man who gripes that there are others when it’s the very nature of what we’re all doing. I’ve thought a lot about what he said and I keep returning to the same conclusion each time: Until the cream rises to the top, you keep on churning. Eventually the right person will show himself.
“I’m not feeling it between us.” He made a back and forth motion with his hands at chest level. “I think you’re very beautiful — very — fascinating, intelligent, really funny, but I just don’t know if it’s there between us.”
I sat beside him, about 18 inches away, a wine glass in my hand. I looked away, swallowed. I felt trapped and helpless, foolish. Of course he doesn’t, I thought. Men never want me.
I’ve spent the last couple of days fighting that voice and it’s left me low and energy-less. I hate that voice.
Since none of this is happening the “normal” way for me I have been out of touch with things. None of our dates have lent themselves to anything more than a brief goodnight kiss. He’s responsible and has dogs and has left after every one and declined to come up after another when we instead sat in his car outside my building where I worked really hard to convince him I didn’t actually care about dick size, only the size of a man’s heart.
On the couch I continued my case, “I want to get to know you, Rex, I want to unwrap you and discover the man inside. To learn about you. I find you interesting and kind and sexy. I want to keep learning about you. You intimidate me because you’re so grown up and accomplished; I’ve never dated an adult before…” My voice sounded desperate and clingy to my ears, but there was nothing to do. It was all true.
I looked away again when he didn’t respond and he said something about me shutting down. I dragged myself back up to the surface. “You’re right. I am. I’m trying. This is just so hard for me.”
I looked at him, my face an implacable mask. He said he couldn’t read me. I told him that was the point.
I have never felt something slip through my fingers the way that evening did. He licked his plate, but was passing on me it seemed.
“What are you thinking?” I asked. He said he didn’t know. “Well, do you know what I’m thinking? I’m sitting here wishing I could kiss you.”
He looked surprised. “Go ahead,” he laughed. “You should always kiss me if you want to.”
I leaned over on my knees and kissed his warm lips. His hands stayed below my hips, perhaps on my thigh. He began to talk. I asked him if he wanted me to stop. He said, No, but I felt like I was forcing myself on him.
I pulled away and he followed me, kissed me more. I breathed him in and waited as my hands roamed his neck and jaw. Nothing.
“I have to get going. It’s a work night.” It was 10:30 when the failure really sunk in. Either there was just no chemistry between us or my strange flailing the previous two weeks had set the stage for this.
“Do you think you knowing about Hy made us both think we were more connected than we really are?” I’d asked before I’d kissed him.
“No! Definitely not!” he jumped to say. “I don’t think that at all.”
We stood up and I walked to the kitchen to send him home with leftovers. He kissed me again at the island and it was intense and sweet, but still stopped short of full-blown passion. I don’t know why.
He dipped down once or twice for more and I eagerly met his lips, but he seemed already halfway out the door.
I handed him his baggies and tinfoil-wrapped pot roast and walked him to the entryway and told him I was free on Saturday if he wanted to hang out again. There was still so much more to say and explore, right? The kissing was good, wasn’t it?? I didn’t know which end was up, perhaps more talking and spending time together would sort it out.
“Ok, sure. I might be going out of town for a bike trip. I’m not sure. I’ll let you know.”
We kissed again and he left and I crawled into bed with the animals.
It’s Saturday night now and I didn’t hear from him about going out of town or not. I assume he did, but perhaps not.
I went on a date with a man recently who was incredibly eager to meet me. He leaned in at the bar as I sipped my glass of Chardonnay and his hand occasionally grazed my thigh. I had no doubt of his attraction for me and I felt the chemistry buzz between us as I imagined what his body would feel like over mine.
We parted ways with a steamy, but appropriate kiss against my car under an abnormally warm winter sun, and I drove away contemplating chemistry and connections.
Another night I had a date with a different man who really liked me. It was our second date (the first was coffee a week before and his eyes lit up when I walked into the Greek coffee house). He texted me nervously the morning after because he was worried he might have said something that put me off, but the truth is as I sat across from him sipping cider under a chilly moon I couldn’t muster an attraction. I tried, but it just wasn’t there.
There was nothing he said that made that happen. It just was.
And as he kissed me and earnestly held me close my heart sank because I felt nothing in return except his soft lips and nicely groomed whiskers. I had to tell him, like Rex told me, that I didn’t feel it between us and if Rex feels as little for me as I did for that other man then that hurts. Not a lot, not a little, but somewhere in the middle like when you studied really hard for a test, but still only got a B-/C+.
I read David’s text and squealed with both fear and anticipation.
“Fuck. Ok. Only if you’re really here,” I wrote back.
Seconds later he was through my door with his hand wrapped around my neck holding me on my tip toes, his mouth oddly gentle, his tongue soft and sweet.
My towel dropped to my feet when his fingers dug inside of me as if searching for a lost object. My legs trembled and I gushed into his hand; my juices made a long trail down my legs to the crumpled towel below.
I hadn’t heard from David in months and we hadn’t seen each other since October. Last year we met in April when I was still completely heartbroken over The Neighbor. His big, fat cock and transgressive style of fucking were welcome distractions as I limped along away from TN. However, pillow talk between us — or talk in general — was not very rewarding.
I found myself wrapped up in ridiculous arguments or defending my thoughts and feelings about personal matters. I eventually went to some lengths to avoid such arguments, but after a disagreement about dogs of all things, I gave up even trying and accepted that we were better lovers than “friends.”
Over time our schedules intervened and we saw less and less of each other and last fall he witnessed me a hot, sobbing drunken mess. The Soldier had stood me up that night and I’d spent a retched day with an old high school friend and being sexually harassed by him and his knuckle-dragging friend s we day drank.
David came over and pounded my pussy as hard as my heart hurt and spent and used I cried as I knelt over his splayed knees. His cum mixed with my tears. I was embarrassed to be so exposed in front of this big, hard man, but there was nothing for it. It happened.
In January he texted to say his New Year’s resolution was to fuck me in the ass. My response was something along the lines of, “Good luck with that beer can dick of yours and never seeing each other.”
We texted once or twice more this year until early last week when he reached out again and then Friday when he asked if I were home.
I have no hard feelings towards David. That’d be like being upset with a wild animal for being wild. Our friends with benefits relationship is one of mutual satisfaction and convenience. It doesn’t involve sharing feelings or activities — a ridiculously boring hiking date proved that one — it’s sex and sex only.
I went to my friend’s birthday party with David’s cum dried all over my tits and when the breeze shifted it wafted up to my nostrils mixed with my perfume of hyacinth.
He came on my in great gobs because I begged him to.
After he’d licked me from top to bottom and worked me with his hand again. After he’d pushed me forcefully to my knees and told me to lick his tight little asshole. After I’d suckled his balls and choked on his massive piece of flesh and heard him croon, “That’s a good little slut.” After he’d turned around and spread his cheeks for me and jerked himself as he purred at my warm, wet tongue on his hole. And after he’d thrown me back on the bed and hitched my ankles up on his shoulders then flipped me around and wailed on my flanks as he buried himself in me.
After all of that he came on my face and tits and neck. I slumped up onto the bed and laid there with him until it was time to get dressed for the party.
David was there for all of 30 minutes.
How different a “friend” he is than The Artist. Though similar in age and height as David, he is worlds apart energetically and emotionally. He’s sensitive and sweet and we have lengthy conversations about life and love and Domination and submission. He is a neophyte dom himself and also a writer. He wants to go to writers workshops with me and read my work. He wants me to critique his.
I’ve resisted sharing Hy with him; he’s too loose, too wet.
Our first night together was drunken and fierce(ish). His cock curves away from his body and when he mounted me from behind on my squeaky couch I burst into orgasm instantly. That was his second orgasm of the night and my umpteenth.
We’ve texted consistently throughout the weeks and gone to dinner twice. I am open with him about my other other lovers and I know of a couple of his. I like him, though quickly learned that my sexual volume is much higher than he thinks his is. Despite being dominant I am even more dominant; a moon in a planet’s presence.
Our hookups have been hot and quick.
There was the time he came over and though he promised to fuck me when he walked through the door we ended up chit chatting at my kitchen island for 10 minutes before he grabbed me and fucked me on the counter top.
And the other time I blew him for a minute or so and I had to choose to let him blow his wad right then or let him fuck me. I chose the latter.
Or the other time I let him spank me until his erection returned and he jizzed all over me.
I have coached him and supported him as a friend would — I enjoy the mentoring space — and I have even spent time guiding him on what to do with his other FWB when he asked. We are solidly “friends with benefits,” but the benefits are beginning to be in his favor, not mine.
Sunday morning he texted, “Hey I’m feeling pretty sad still and I don’t think I’ll be able to get off if we have sex. It’s up to you if you still want to hang out. I’m just not feeling up to fooling around hon.”
“What are you sad about?”
“Still bummed over that girl you know?”
“Ah, I see. Well, as much fun as it would be to hang out with you while you’re bummed out by another woman, I’m really ok just chilling alone.”
His response was a favorite of mine: :/
I’m not interested in being a shoulder cry on about someone else while sex is on the table. Shoulder cry on as just friends? Yes, 100%. As a lover who doesn’t get fucked? No. That would wring me out because that doesn’t feel all that good. There’s no benefit there; I’m just being used.
Talk to me and ask for advice about a death, a shitty boss, a bad day, bad friends, your mother and also fuck the ever-loving shit out of me? Yes. Complain to me about another woman and not fuck me? No. Absolutely not. I expect my lovers to have their shit together.
Part of being friends with benefits is the suspended belief that we’re all we have for the time we spend together. It allows it to be fantastic while practical and uncomplicated.
Bumping around with these two make me miss Ben in a wistful, fantasy way. He’s been busy lately. So, so busy. I don’t remember the last time we spoke but the time I showed him my pussy has long since passed.
“Yes, Hy. God, you’re so beautiful.” I can hear the words perfectly now, like a moment frozen in time.
We talk still about a visit, but as each week goes by I have less hope. There’s a story line for us in my mind that we will see each other for years until we no longer are willing or able. Long distance lovers with a bond across the sea. No one ever gets mad at each other and time and space are natural wedges between us so reunions are passionate and snorted into our bodies like so many lines of cocaine.
We become high on one another until the crash of departure. We are perfect because we are virtual strangers and dream fuck buddies.
Our coupling at the beginning of the summer is as fresh in my mind as if it happened yesterday. I can feel his body on mine and his thick flesh pushed against me as it slid deep inside. His timbre smooth as were his hands which rested on my hips as he pumped into me like a little stallion.
Sometimes I think we should leave well enough alone with the dream.
My other friends are virtual. Men whose words and kindness reach through the ether. Their voices are unknown, their scent and taste a mystery. I don’t know the feel of their crush. One or two want to come see me. Less than that are welcome to. Besides, once you close the gap and touch me it seems to become a game of loss.
How much longer until it’s run its course and the benefits are gone? FWBs is a short game, no matter what kind it is. It’s a filler, a distraction, a fun ride until you find the mini-van you want to buckle yourself into forever.
After all these years I’ve finally figured out that friends with benefits means truly having no expectations beyond the moment of the ride, that moment he’s inside of me. Gah, that fucking magical moment of being filled by another human body. What a joy that is! What a gift!
If I could I’d have a hundred friends with benefits of all kinds. The ones only good for sex, the ones who are mooshy and eye-rolling, the ones who are dreamy and perfect and everything in between. Men are fascinating, exhausting, thrilling creatures and I want to gather them all up and give them pats and kisses and wag my ass in front of their drooling faces. I’ll manage any loneliness at weddings and birthdays on my own.
What I really want to do is play, to shove the biggest piece of cake in my mouth, swallow it, reach for more and wait for the next knock on my door. I wonder who it’ll be next time.
I imagine looking out over a harbor, the morning light gentle, the scent of the bay cold and familiar in my nostrils. I hike my suspenders over my shoulders and step into my dingy. I have to check my lines; one group of crab pots after the next, the water gently choppy, the sound of the boat engine a buzzing throttle beneath my hand as I steer.
I stop, pull the lines. They’re heavy. The little creatures inside move in what looks like slow motion. I pull them up, open the cage and shake them out into the bottom of my boat, toss the pot back in the water and move on to the next.
It’s second-nature to me, these motions. It’s part of my life, who I am. I measure them silently in my mind. Chemistry, cock, charisma.
I check 3 lines every day. My AFF, Seeking Arrangement and Collar Space. Each day I find creatures in my pots. Each day I am overwhelmed with the vetting process.
SA continues to be a brutally unrewarding place, but I also continue to be in a desperate financial situation so I stay on in hopes that I’ll find that one man who can save me financially as I work furiously in real life to solve for it on my own.
Will, the sugar daddy of ill-manners, and I no longer speak. He behaved even more badly in regards to how I spent “his” $100 and I told him it was fucking bullshit. I don’t know what he expected from me, but a sugar relationship wasn’t it. He thought $100 bought something. Yeah, groceries and gas, asshole.
Collar Space is a tender spot for me. I am inundated with thoughtful, sexy emails from submissive men, but I am deeply reticent after my most recent experience of being abandoned after a vanilla-esque scene. I can’t put myself back in that position any time soon, though I yearn to.
I am still speaking with the first sub who reached out to me back July, but I’m tired of the “How are you?” texts and don’t have the energy to move it further along.
AFF remains my happy place, but last I checked I had five times as many new emails than usual. Apparently late summer has caused the tide to shift a bit and suddenly I am more desirable than ever. I haven’t had the time to sift through all the possibilities there either; the men just lay at my feet, arms and legs waving at me.
My harvest is immense, but my appetite is low.
In a week it will have been one year since I ended my friendship with The Neighbor. One year since he was in my house. One year since we sobbed together. One year since he held me in his arms.
To this day every man I am with is measured against him, our chemistry, his cock. I can’t stop myself. Every time I pull a line and haul a man aboard I wonder if it will be as good with him as it was with TN. When I invite him over and into my bed I pray I’ll feel what I always felt with him. When the man leaves I hope to desire him again. When he speaks I wish to be interested.
Though the answer to all of those things is typically No and I throw him back, head to the next set of pots. The sun on my face, the salt on my lips.
Line after line I pull. Tirelessly, not unhappily. Always looking, always measuring, always the fisherman.
As I sit to write I’m overwhelmed with where to start. Do I share with you the potential sugar daddy with whom I’ve connected? Or my explorations into the D/s world? The guys I found on AFF to fuck my brains out? Or the all the men who reject me on Match? The men who froth at the bit on IG and Snapchat? The deep and meaningful emails I receive from kindred spirits?
For every want I have I have an outlet and it’s distinct from the rest. You may think my assignments are personal, but I’ve met enough men who spread themselves across the multiple platforms for similar reasons to know I’m not alone. I can’t say I like hung men on Tinder any more than I can say I want a boyfriend on Adult Friend Finder; it doesn’t fit the audience and it elicits the wrong responses.
Each site has a specific target audience:
eHarmony: serious relationship to marriage; deep, hearty stuff
These are my categorizations, obviously, but I think most would agree with me that this is the basic break down. I admit to anomalies. I have friends who got married off of OKC and some who had years-long relationships off of AFF. There’s no accounting for just how you meet someone and to put blinders on to opportunity would be just plain silly.
I’ve long been clear on the silos of intent for most of these sites, but the sugar daddy site, Seeking Arrangement, was the real recent challenge. It wasn’t until I sat beautifully full of white wine next to a big, brawny country boy who wants to be my benefactor that the last piece fell into place: on that site I could be honest about my financial situation.
On AFF I can shout to the rafters my love for giant cock; on Tinder I can be obtusely flirtatious; on OKC I can hint at my yearning for something deeper; on CollarSpace I can announce my authority and stake my claim; and on Seeking Arrangement I can say that I am in need of some help.
What I find so interesting about all of this is that of all things that I admit across these different platforms — my kinks, my heart, my hopes, my sexual needs — the most intimate is my need for money. To say I don’t have enough feels like admitting to a personal failing, like it’s Dickensian England and I’ve somehow brought this upon myself by virtue of my bad bloodlines. My father was, after all, a terrible human being who lost a few fortunes in his lifetime.
But the kind man whom I sat entwined with last Tuesday, and who would eventually fill me with his happy jizz in the parking lot like we were rutting teens, held my fears gently and wouldn’t let me look away. “Hy,” he said. “I want to help.” I was unable to offer more than a tearful head nod. It’s all too humiliating, but why is that? I’m not tearful when I sit across a man I meet on AFF and say I love giant dick; bashful, perhaps, but humiliated, no.
In fact, when I think about it, admitting to my kinks and my sexual needs are the only things that don’t make me shudder and shy away. Breaching this one frontier — financial — has put an even finer point on it: I don’t do intimacy.
I don’t admit to needing love. I don’t admit to wanting love. I don’t admit to having needs. I allude to them on all those sites where it’s appropriate, but I’ve been utterly unable to make any relationship launch because the truth is I’m completely and utterly unfit for a relationship at the moment. I trust no one and myself most of all; I am incapable of choosing trustworthy people and so I will choose to remain alone and get my intimacy needs met via sex and sex only. It will be interesting to see how a financial relationship affects me since that’s more intimate than sex to me.
I’m not satisfied with this long-term, but I am aware that this is my current status: intimacy isn’t possibly and that’s ok. I’ll keep working on it and chipping away as I always do. But admitting it is the first step.
To be clear for those of you who might be wondering, the kind of sugar daddy relationship I seek is one that isn’t based on money. I want to find a wonderful friends-with-benefits who also happens to check in on my financial status and help me out when necessary. I want a man whose money is inconsequential to my feelings for him and thus far, I feel like I’ve found that in this country boy. He’s sweet, funny, sexy and totally and completely into me. He also happens to be married, which is fucking perfect (see above intimacy issues).
One of the most appalling and humbling things about Seeking Arrangement is the used car feel of it. Men messaged me and kicked my tires, asked humiliating and inappropriate questions about my libido and sexuality as if they were staffing up for their penis and when they saw my private photos of my face I never heard from them again. Apparently, I didn’t measure up.
Of course, those men opted themselves right out of my life and that’s ok, but with the exception of the men on Match, I have been found highly attractive on the other sites matching with beautiful men of all shapes and sizes. But not on SA. There I was found wholly lacking, apparently.
On CollarSpace I roll up my sleeves and put my Domme-y pants on. I have been praised for my no-nonsense profile and many have been eager to make my acquaintance. Nothing has panned out beyond some heavy texting with one and a brief text-fling with another. I am extremely cautious there.
And as I flex my muscles I’ve learned what it means for a man to theorize about his submission, but be unable to execute even the smallest of submissions. If a woman you so desperately want to dominate you gently directs you to respond to texts in a timely fashion, you do so. You don’t ignore her for 24 hours. That vanilla shit doesn’t fly.
The sub with whom I’ve been texting regularly for several weeks seemed incredible at first — he was experienced, eager to help me learn, beautiful, hung, intelligent — but he suddenly balked hours before our first meeting and proved it was too good to be true. Under the kind tutelage of my Fairy Domme-mother, Ferns, I told him my desires again and fought the urge to compromise in such a way that I would lose everything I actually wanted.
I said to him:
And I’ve thought about it. Here’s what I want: a sexy af friend I can trust AND have fun with (an occasional drink, board game, day by the pool). If you decide you’re on board with that, then let me know. I’m not really interested in investing in a back and forth waiting (and hoping) for something to change if you’re not.
It’s terrifying to attempt to dominate only to have your submissive partner pull the rug out from under you. The Neighbor was a master at that and I am ever watchful for a repeat performance.
Coming up with that response to the sub was tantamount to my new dating elevator pitch. It’s how I feel across the board and I am set free from the back and forth and negotiations I once found myself tangled in. Do or do not. There is no try.
On AFF I have found many attractive men who like my pitch. The most recent, Poppy, a tall, coffee-with-lots-of-cream colored man built like Adonis, met me on a Tuesday night. He had a winning smile and a way with winks that won me over. We fucked like animals for a couple of hours and he promised he’d host next time.
It’s almost easier on AFF than anywhere else to be myself. I can mention the D/s stuff, my kink for male bi-play, and even admit to having a broken heart. Being non-monogamous isn’t scandalous, nor is it a beacon for one-night-stands. It’s like the catch-all of the dating world.
I’ve met men there who are just re-entering the dating world and who have played there for many years. They quickly learn the dating economics of a sex site and are appreciative of a well-spoken, confident, real woman. The number of bots and scams they intercept in any given day speaks volumes to who the real customer is. On AFF, we all seem like comrades.
On Match, much like SA, I am repellent. Men I find attractive look at my profile and don’t respond to my winks or likes. How ironic that when it comes to either being sufficiently attractive or relationship material I fall so short. Trust me, the irony is not lost on me.
I have another 4 and a half months to suffer through before my membership expires. I have zero hope of meeting anyone I’m interested in there. Partly because the men who message me aren’t attractive to me and partly because I have come to fully realize my unfitness to be a partner.
Tinder has wrought much pain, frustration, and general male jokery. I’m a fetish for the under 25 set, a challenge for the under 30, and a fine piece of ass for the under 40s. It’s a melee of false promises and aggressive and ridiculous come-ons. My screenshots are proof of that. Occasionally, I meet a comparable man, such as the pretty blond artist who suavely invited me back to his place at the end of our date. I declined that night, but we will reunite at some point soon.
Bumble is no different, but there I get the added bonus of being rejected when I reach out as the rules there state the woman must make the first move. Ok, whatever.
On those sites I am known as me, the mother of Peyton, a school-aged child, a professional, a dog and cat lover. They know I cuss a lot and love to cook and, if they’re lucky, get to experience the underbelly of my public persona, the naked and writhing one.
Not everyone will have the next categories in their lives, but I have yet even more: My Instagram and Snapchat followers as well as my blog readers.
In the past I made a conscious decision to not get too involved with virtual folks who know me as Hy. It was partly part of the anonymous mechanism, partly to keep a separation of church and state. Plus, how could that work? The world is a very big place and I’m not interested in a love affair from Abu Dhabi. But lately, in the last year, I have broken down my walls and connected with many people from my Hyacinth world
I made a handful of female friends on IG who have been very influential over the past several months and I have a couple of male friends whose tumescence are always welcome messages, as are their friendly words. They know my face and my city and I am hopeful that if ever our paths cross we can finally hug hello.
I met Ben through Snapchat, though I am realizing more now than ever, what a freak chance that was. The app isn’t conducive to lasting connections; words and pics literally disappear in moments. The fact that I noticed him is a fucking miracle.
Lastly, the readers who email me via my blog email are the real MVPs. They open up about their lives, share their insights, hurts, and journeys with me. They don’t want anything in return, just to share, and I find myself often wishing they were local mates, men and women I could hug and touch and comfort. I hope they know how much they mean to me even if we never become more than just lighthouses to one another.
I must speak to 100s of people every month in some capacity or another. It’s overwhelming. At the moment I’ve shut them all down except for the occasional peek into CS and AFF; I’m focusing on just three men: Country Boy, The Artist, and Poppy. Plus any stragglers who might pop up in text that I’ve forgotten about.
I remember a time not too long ago — 20 years isn’t that long ago, right?? — when the idea of speaking to, let alone fucking, more than one person was basically unheard of. I’d meet a fella somewhere and all my attention would be focused on him until I knew whether or not it was going to work out or not.
Sometimes it took a week, sometimes it took 3 months, but I never doubted that I was the only woman in this man’s life, nor he in mine. I don’t know when distraction and inundation became the name of the game. I’m not ungrateful for the diverse opportunities to find the exact thing that I’m looking for, but it’s just too much, like listening to 5 radio stations at once and trying to enjoy yourself.
I’ve been plugged up all summer, emotionally and creatively, in large part due to the intersecting highways of dating channels. How can I keep them organized or portray the juggling act I perform each day in such a way that it resonates? How can I express my enjoyment in my aptitude? The challenge my life presents?
This way of life isn’t for everyone. It’s loud and busy, but I know which stations to turn down, which knobs to fiddle with. Currently it’s relatively quiet and peaceful, my phone is often black and when it’s alight with words they’re welcome discourses with quality people.
And at the very least I’m nothing if not organized.
My world exists above firm ground, delicately balanced on stilts. Each one a fine line to a smudged presence below filled with potential and hope.
I have had the enlightened realization that I exist in a disposable world of pocket apps and that an infinite parade of portraits behind me wait to fill my vacated spot.
My politeness precludes hard goodbyes, but my ambivalence ensures my forward motion through the hordes of men that line my own pockets. I’m not the only one drowning in a sea of competition.
They’re like locusts crawling in through every available electronic crack: text, email, IG, Bumble, Tinder, OKC, AFF, Snapchat, KIK.
I have been living dangerously for many months, leaving myself open to the elements, but lately I’ve systematically plugged some of the leaks. Slowly, testing how it feels to be less bombarded, though I am bombarded all the same.
And do you know why I can’t seem to seek complete shelter?? Because maybe — just maybe — the next creature to sneak past my walls will be the next great love of my life.
I am a pioneer, not a debutante. This is what I do. I struggle, I rail, I suck it the fuck up. I am lifted up by many, but it is the hope of a one that keeps me buoyant, that puts me in quiet nothingness.
I am either broken or fixed, but nothing can touch me now.