I cum two different ways.

The tale of two orgasms: G-spot and clitoral.

Two nights ago The Neighbor came over after Peyton was in bed.  I was laying on the couch in front of a fire, he was dressed in a t-shirt and silky basketball shorts.  He stood between me and the TV and waited, smiling.  I looked more closely and could see the outline of a large, heavy cock straining against the fabric.

I reached out and stroked him and looked up smiling.

Minutes later he had pushed me down on the bed, licked his palm and rubbed the head of his cock and pushed inside of me.  He was huge and hot and brutal.  His lips nibbled my neck, his arms wrapped around me and we spun around the bed like wrestlers as we sought deeper, harder, more more more.

His hips curled into me and I wrapped my legs around him to pull him in closer. I ran my hands over his back and gripped his muscled shoulders which strained to pin us both in position.  I inched over the edge of the bed as he kept railing into me.

My pussy squelched a little and I lifted my head, curling my spine and a bloom spread hot and round through me, like a tendril, a rush.  It hit me again as he growled and kept curling into me as I ground down against him.

Lights sparkled behind my lids and the white-hot wave rolled out of me through my fingertips, the top of my head.

I cried out and he shh’ed me.  “Hy,” he said urgently, “Peyton might hear you!” It was true.  I had been yelling like a banshee as the g-spot orgasms washed over me.

He put a pillow over my face and we laughed as he kept fucking me and I screamed into it as another one hit me.

When we were done we cuddled and I caught my breath.  I felt stupid, heavy, happy, like I would guiltlessly give away national secrets.

::

Last night we cuddled on the couch and watched American Psycho (“I have to return some videotapes.”).  I was tired, but happy, and faded out at the end of the movie (as I typically do – so sexy).  When the movie finished we went to my room to cuddle.

I laid in his arms and we talked about a transwoman friend of mine who’s having troubles with her soon-to-be exwife.  I staunchly defended my friend who finds her ex to be rather stubborn about a certain issue and TN couldn’t understand why I, “someone who is so empathetic,” couldn’t understand the ex’s point of view.  It wasn’t an argument we needed to be having and he decided to deflect.

He turned to me, stroking my arm, and said, “You are so beautiful,” and kissed me.

I was taken aback a little.  As much as he says he finds me beautiful, it still isn’t that common.

I kissed him back and said thank you.  “No, really, you are.”  I beamed a smile at him in the dark, the one little votive candle really only casting darker shadows, not light.

“I can feel your smile right now,” he chuckled.  “It’s like radiating out at me.”  I giggled and nodded my head, our chat completely forgotten.  “Wow, was that all it takes to end an argument?” he laughed.

I told him hearing how beautiful he thinks I am will never get old.  He wondered if the power of the words would fade with time.  I scoffed just a little and said, “You might be surprised how little I’ve heard those words in my life. My mother doesn’t count.”

While we’d been talking I’d been gripping his cock.  It’d gone from chubby to quite hard once we’d kissed and he’d told me I was beautiful.  “How long has it been since you’ve masturbated?” he asked.

I couldn’t remember.

“Ok, then.  It’s time.”

I pulled out my Hitachi and we settled into position: me on my back, legs splayed, the head of the Hitachi on my underpants, him on his side, head cradled in his hand, his free hand roaming over me.

I flicked it on and the buzz took me away with the jolt of a speeding roller coaster.

TN watched intently as I tensed and shook a little, my roller coaster car twisting and turning this way and that. And then it had reached the top
of the steepest climb and I was falling, crashing. The roar of my own blood in my ears deafening, the fall so swift my breath left me.

I continued to plummet into the depths of release and my body arched and I moaned and whimpered as quietly as I could. Then finally the ride was over and I could climb out of my seat.

I lay there limp and panting only faintly aware of TN beside me. He put my hand — which had drifted away — back on his cock now a raging erection.

“Do it again,” he said softly. I could only nod as I began to stroke him.

As the buzz io the vibrator hit me it connected me to his cock through my hand; it was as if it were my cock in my hand.

Surprised at this new sensation I kept my hand moving. The faster I went the closer I came to cumming and then it hit me like a blast of air in a storm and I bucked and made weird noises and spasmed out through my eyelids. I went limp again.

And then he made me do it a third time. And I died. La petite mort and all that.

I laid there and contemplated my navel, my love, the true beauty of my body, this magical thing that happens to it basically whenever I want it to, and then I considered the differences: the bloom vs. the fall.

That’s the best way I can describe the two. I would never be able to choose between them, though they are very different.

Lobster vs. truffles. There’s no bad choice.

How are they different for you?

He masturbated while I watched.

hy_pjs_boobs
This is what you get the morning after you jizz on your own chest in front of me.

I was open with him.  “I don’t mean to make you feel badly or self-conscious, but I would very much like it if I knew you were getting as much pleasure as me, if you had the occasional orgasm in my presence — I feel guilty, greedy.  It’s always about me and my pleasure, never yours.”  I paused, thinking about what to say next as he looked at me softly with his icy blue eyes.

“And you’re not getting the pleasure of giving,” he finished for me.

“Yes,” I breathed with relief.  He got it.

His “apathy,” as he calls it, is what he struggles with the most.  He appears to be completely unflappable when it comes to social intricacies, connecting, receiving, and giving.  He has built himself an iron island and no one may ever let him down.  It’s emotionally impossible after 29 years of fortitude.

He doesn’t care about things.   What those things are, I couldn’t say, I haven’t poked around too much for fear of hearing I am one of them, but he is working on cracking open enough to the vulnerability that is inherent in caring about something, maybe someone.

Almost as if on cue, I began to feel unwell the days following that conversation.  Sex was off the table.  So we cuddled and talked and let our words probe each other rather than our body parts, but aching/hungry/ass belly aside, I was still set to drooling last night when my absentminded cock-stroking awoke the beast.

We giggled as it rose stiffly against the elastic of his shorts and I gripped it happily and squeezed.

“I’ve thought about what you said the other day,” he said huskily, close to my ear, “And I’m not going to jerk off until Saturday night.”

“Really??” I asked incredulously.

“Yes, really.  When you come to La Maison du Voisin, then I’ll cum all over your face, in your mouth, and maybe in your pussy.”

“That’s a lot of cumming!” I said impressed.

I was touched by this grand gesture.  La Maison du Voisin night marks the very first time he’s offered to cook for me, hang with me, and tuck me in next door.

It’s not as romantic as you think, however.  It was originally a gesture of contrition and remorse.  Saturday he let a drunk girl pass out face down in his lap and, panicked and drunk, he stroked her arm and shoulder in a creepy, intimate way while our knees bounced against each other in the back of a bouncing pick up truck.  My warning looks served only to heighten his discomfort and feelings of helplessness and rendered me anxiety-ridden and miserable.

That night, he offered me La Maison du Voisin.

The next day he woke me up to say he feels bad that he continues to cross boundaries with other women he considers in distress.  It was at that moment I realized he’d tossed me bones: Wanna come over to my house Saturday??  Would you like for me to make you dinner?  You can stay the night, too.

“Did you offer all that La Maison du Vosin stuff because you felt bad about the drunk girl?”

He admitted it was true, but that he still really wanted me to come over and do those things for me.  So, ok.  I’m gonna take it however it may come.

I squeezed the cock hot and thick in my hand and it pulsed a little.  I told him I wished I was up for fucking.  He hugged me and said it was ok.  I wasn’t sure if I should try, but I decided to grab my Hitachi.  His eyes lit up.

I put the buzzing head on top of my plaid, pink pj shorts and rode the vibrations to a quick and powerful crescendo.  I panted, whimpered, and arched my back, and through fluttering lashes I watched his hand move to his cock and begin to blur.

His hand was fast and fapping and I watched his massive thighs flex and relax again and again.

“Do it again,” he said.

My stomach felt ok, so I decided to oblige him.

Again I flipped the switch and rose swift and high, like a rocket, and his hand continued to be a blur as I watched entranced, his muscles flexing and releasing like a wild animal on the run.

I came hard for a second time and lay limply beside him, his hand idling on his stiff cock.  “Could you have cum?” I asked, assuming we were done.

“I’m trying to cum!” he said with a smile.

“But I thought you weren’t cumming till Saturday…” I said confused.

“Yes, but I figured jerking off next to you was totally allowed.”  He smiled broadly at me.  I agreed it was absolutely allowed.  “Cum a third time,” he whispered.  I knew he was telling me he needed to watch me for a little longer, that he was close.

I flicked the switch back on and gasped the second it hit my clit.  The rise was fast, but I was spent.  I knew this was for him.  I turned my head to the side, let the little row-boat of my orgasm bump against the dock, and watched his hand become an arc of Caucasian skin.

His eyes were tightly closed, his chest knots of muscles.  He grunted and gasped and began to buck into his hand even as it slammed down into his lap.  His stomach clenched and he crunched up a little, his hand slowed and spurts of milky white choked out of the abused head.  A little glob landed on the silky nest of his chest hair.

He laid back down with a sigh and squeezed out more semen, slowly milking himself.

“Fuck, that was hot,” I said, the vibrator forgotten and turned off.

He leaned over and kissed me and I kept my eyes on the glistening tip of his cock.

He rose then and walked around to the other side of the bed, my side, and his still rock hard cock bobbed by my face.  He leaned towards my face and I opened my mouth and gently drew him in.  He tasted salty and clean.

Then he pulled away and smiled.  “I just wanted you to taste it.”

“Thanks,” I said.  “It tastes delicious.”

He came back around and we cuddled some more until my lids were heavy and my smile left an imprint in his chest hair.  He rolled out from under me and pulled up my covers, leaned over and kissed me goodnight with soft, long strokes.

I’m looking forward to Saturday and lots more of this cum-flavored contrition.

I shaved my pussy bare for him.

He played my body like an aged rock star, the strings of my body a part of his own, my notes his own voice and my reverberations deep in his bones.

I lay on my back and my lashes fluttered, the ceiling fan silently whirred.  I briefly thought, “I need to dust,” and then was jerked back by his soft tongue lapping at my pussy.  My newly shaved bare pussy.

I have resisted the trend to make myself look prepubescent for years.  I’ve ranted and raved about it, been stubbornly against it, but The Neighbor’s birthday was a couple of weeks ago and I wanted to do something special for him.  Something he’d never ask for and something I knew he quietly wanted.

“I’ve never been with anyone who’s entirely shaved,” he mentioned to me once.  “I know you think it’s nasty, but I think it’s kinda hot.  Forbidden.”  I’d listened patiently, snug in his nook, and played with his chest hair.

Lina was all shaved,” I said quietly.

“Ugh.  Don’t remind me!”

And that was the moment I made my decision.  I wanted to erase her from his memory banks and replace her with visions of my creamy, smooth cunt, shaved just for him.

I was surprised to realize that the decision felt good.  There was no pressure to conform or to “look like that.”  This was a gift for the man I love.

The night before his birthday I stood under scorching hot water and let the heat soak into my bones.  I filled my hand with cream and spread it on my little patch of hair.  My 5-blade razor made quick work on the top and I pulled and stretched the folds of my vulva to get all the little hairs hiding in the crevices.

Then, despite Dumb Dommes’ misgivings about shaving your own asshole, I bent forward, spread my cheeks, slathered on shaving cream, and carefully lay the razor in my crack and dragged outward until the blades came out hair-free.  I was smooth as a petal now.

As I toweled off I peeked at my handiwork and quickly covered back up.  It looked foreign, weird, exceptionally naughty.  I blushed and got dressed for bed, excited to see him later.  It was a good night, that first reveal.

But now his birthday had long since passed as I lay with my legs splayed as his wicked tongue stroked me.  The bristles of his beard — which he was growing just for me — were soft and scruffy on my inner thighs and plump vulva.  I was in motherfucking heaven.

He sneaked his right hand under my bottom and slipped a curved finger inside of me and my face sparkled with pleasure, my teeth chattered.  I gasped and bucked and writhed, his face clung to my center like a cowboy wearing the biggest belt buckle around.

“I need a break!” I whispered suddenly.  “Oh my God, I need a break!”  I was overloaded, on the brink of total torture, not release.  “Please, holy shit, you’re so good at that, I need a break,” I panted again as he stopped and slowly slipped his finger out.

His face was plastered with a grin and a sheen.

I closed my eyes and prepared to get a grip when I felt his finger slide back into me, only this time it was multiple fingers.  “No,” I squeaked weakly, “I can’t handle it!”  I felt both his hands on my knees spread me apart.  I opened my eyes and saw him standing between my legs, looking down at me like a hungry cat, his cock buried in my pussy to the hilt.  His dark pubic hair looked stark against my bare mound.

I imagined what he saw then: my bare body, white, with no interruptions, large breasts slightly flattened that jiggled with my giggles as I realized he’d done a switch on me.

“I thought that was your finger!” I laughed.

“I’m insulted!” he said as he thrust into me and smiled broadly.

“Multiple fingers!” I corrected myself.

He gripped my knees from underneath and hauled me closer to him.  My bottom hung off the edge of the bed.  He pushed deeply into me and the tingling from my face, which his talented mouth had begun, ebbed and traveled down to my center.  I moaned and floated away on more blooming orgasms  — pink and bright, soft, long, and cloudy — as he increased the tempo.  I let go and bounced along like a leaf on a rapid.

I wrapped my legs around his hips and locked my ankles pulling him closer.  He rammed into me and his giant cock slid up through my belly to my goddamned throat.

My hands twisted in the sheets and arched my back against him when he suddenly stopped and quietly stared at me.  I was confused.

He stooped to pick something up and held up my Hitachi triumphantly.

I shook my head No.  He nodded Yes then added, “You are going to cum with me inside of you.”

He flicked the wand on and handed it to me.  Defeated I draped my crotch with a sheet for a small buffer and pressed the head against me.  I jumped and began the climb and he started to move.

I lost myself then.  I couldn’t tell where he ended and the vibrator began.  He was my everything then.  My pleasure, my pain, my torture, my release.  He thrust again and again and I burst at the seams, light split me apart, my cells detached and I screamed and rolled my eyes like a wild mare as I was obliterated in darkness and light; his cock my anchor to Earth and to love and to life.  I was split apart like Neo with the Matrix and I began to sob uncontrollably as it went on and on and on.

Finally, I fell back into my shell.  It had released me.

He scooped me up and held me as tears spilled from my eyes.  I felt so, so small.  Eternally small.

I cried because I only ever felt this way with this man and it was always slipping away.  I cried because I didn’t deserve the pleasure.  I cried because I did.

He kissed and crooned to me and I buried my face in his chest and inhaled his sweet, clean scent.  I rolled to my back and he stroked my naked mound.  His fingers felt warm, honest.  My silly shaved pussy was worth every blush and every moment of post-feminist guilt I’d been experiencing.   A passport to 45 minutes of losing my mind will always be worth it.

He told me he would be leaving soon and I squeezed him tightly.  Happy to have made him so happy.  He loved it and I loved that he loved it.

And I felt motherfucking lucky.

It’s not every day I have someone for whom to shave my pussy bare.  He’s one lucky motherfucker.

Pussy trumps cock or I can’t make him cum.

To get The Neighbor to cum I have to do an elaborate dance of tension, pressure, sensuality, and stamina. It is not for the faint of heart. My neck hurts, my arms, my mouth will feel drawn and tight. But I persevere because I love him and I love his cock.

The man may be blessed to have a large cock, but he is blocked. His vice-like grip on himself and his emotions also extends to orgasm when a woman is upon him; neither her mouth or her pussy are always the key. They’re occasional keys.

He laments his troubles, but finds great pleasure in what he gives to me and what I do for him. It’s like an almost-perfect birthday gift. Much like millions of men around the world whose women never orgasm beneath them, I trust him when he says he doesn’t need to cum to enjoy himself. I was that woman for years. I get it.

Not only is giving TN a blowjob a performance, I also have to be in the right mindset to make him cum. The sun and moon and stars are involved every time. And lately, they have been misaligned. I’ve been tired, mildly suffocated, agitated, frustrated, and most recently sad and mourning.

Our relationship is good, but it’s not great. We hover in this purgatory of “everything but…” I have everything but hand-holding in a movie theater. Everything but sweet kisses for no reason. Everything but outings with my baby and my man. Everything but having him be a part of my family.

It’s been weighing on me these past few months and I’ve struggled to stay grateful for the moment and all the “everythings.” But with that comes a fatigue which robs me of my ability to perform. I still slurp and love on him — all the time — but I hold back and don’t slip into that place where I know I can make him cum.

In addition, I become frustrated with him for jerking off before he comes over to see me — typically, his third of the day — so I let that domino topple into the rest and therefore I don’t bother, either. He wants to empty his body of seed? Ok, then I won’t try to draw something out that isn’t there to be had.

The sex continues to be hot as fuck, my love for him is stable, possibly growing, and everything is generally kosher (dare I say boring), I just haven’t felt open enough to go there lately. Until the other night.

He came into my room still warm from his shower and smelling of hibiscus this time. I pulled him down to the mattress and splayed my fingers through his chest hair and purred, hitched my leg up over his and pressed my entire body against him. I found myself in a loving and timeless place. I wanted to try this time. He gives so much to me all the time it hurt to think about how little he’s willing to take from me.

My “I Heart Dave” shirt pulled on my breasts as I crawled down between his legs and spread his knees with my body. His erection bobbed hot and heavy, his sac languished below like a bulbous root.

I cupped him gently and tugged then squeezed his shaft with my free hand. He stretched a little beneath me.

I planted my right hand next to his left hip, gripped him with my left, and gently sucked him into my mouth. Soft. Slow. Long. Deep as I could go.

He sighed and pressed into my face.

I closed my eyes then and moved into my dance. I became him as best as I could, listened to every twitch, moan, and movement he shared. His breath caught once, twice, three times. I stopped after each, caught my breath, focused on ignoring my discomfort after minutes on end of continued loving.

He was fighting himself, I knew. I could feel it swarm around me, this battle to just. let. go.

And I was losing.

I paused then and slithered up to his mouth, kissed the corner of it and offered him a breast, popped out over my neckline. He moaned and suckled and twisted my free breast with his hand and stuffed his face with my other breast.

He switched back and forth between my right and my left, mewling and grunting. I repositioned myself so I straddled him; I felt his cock push at the crotch of my black lace panties.

“No,” I said. “Cock trumps boobs.” I wanted to get back to him, to his beautiful, sad penis. I wanted to win.

He sat up suddenly then pushing me off of him and flipping me over. My knees splayed open around him.

He was resplendent in the candlelight, his naked body light and furry, all bulging muscles.

“No,” he countered. “Pussy trumps cock.” And in one smooth motion he pulled off my panties and rammed himself inside of me.

I sighed as I gave up and let him stroke me slowly, his icy blue eyes locked on my face. I couldn’t meet his gaze. I didn’t know where to look. But he knows me well.

He knows that within seconds I don’t have to worry about where I’ll be looking anymore because my eyes will be closed, my head thrown back, my face flushed and my moans uncontainable.

He smirked at me as he witnessed my passion grow beyond my control and I tossed my head from side to side, clutched at his hips, pushed against the creaky metal bed frame.

“Please,” I gasped. “Please, please, please…” I trailed off into a whimper.

“Please, what?” he grinned devilishly, his hips moved slowly. Painfully, exquisitely.

“Fuck me. Fuck me harder. Now.”

And it was as if my words were like a starter gun. He burst out of the gate and slammed into me, his hooves pounding, flying, my body the turf and I blossomed into orgasm again and again.

My own journey to self-discovery — and opening up the the possibility of being orgasmic — was the key to unlocking my box. His cock and my brain are an unstoppable duo, but I had to be present, there.

And as I lay beneath him being jostled by his pounding into my pussy I thought wistfully that I wished I could give him this, too. This hover-over-your-body sensual, ethereal luxury.

He pinned my wrists on either side of my head and jack-hammered into me. My pussy gushed and I felt my juices trickle down between my bottom cheeks. I hung on like a rag doll jockey and hoped beyond all hope that he would cum. But my hopes were for naught.

Exhausted, he slumped over me and rested. He was done.

We lay entwined and breathed heavily next to one another. We cuddled and I played with his diminishing erection. I asked him if he was ok not cumming. He said of course he was. I don’t ask every time he doesn’t cum, but every so often I do. I suppose I should stop, but I just want him to know I care. I don’t want him to think I’m selfish or indifferent to his pleasure.

I take some comfort in knowing he’s cum more with me than he has with any other woman. I’m also the first woman to ever make him cum from a blowjob (his old Domme swung through town a few weeks after he and I met and she was able to make him cum that night — I can’t help but take credit for it, though. I broke the seal.). He also never came with 4 am girl — or even came close. I take comfort in that, too.

It’s strange to be the one who cums, but I’ll take it. And I’ll keep working on cracking his code. His goddamned riddle wrapped in an enigma inside a conundrum. I want him to feel half as good as he makes me feel and I often tell him as much. If he got even a glimpse of what I feel he’d want to return to that place time and time again. I want his key.

I take advantage of the light.

white_slip_morning_evening
Left column is evening, right is morning.

Last week I wore nothing but a white cotton slip and lay in the evening light which streamed in through my bedroom windows. My legs, somehow very tan looking, tangled in my white sheets and bedding.

My hands roamed over the curves of my body and I had the sudden little thrill of the epiphany that I was totally alone and within arm’s reach of my Hitachi. Oh, to be fully grown up and able to do as I please!

I switched it on and held it to my cotton-covered clit. I rode the vibrations up like the train of a roller coaster and came crashing down the other side in seconds.

The ceiling fan twirled silently above me, ever watchful and busy, but with nothing to say.

I sighed and smiled to myself letting a second epiphany come to me: I could take some late afternoon pics.

I clicked and moved, reviewed and clicked again. The light, I noticed, was almost identical to that of the morning which I am we’ll acquainted with, but it was different, warmer, longer. Like long desert shadows on my body.

I sent a few to The Neighbor and snuggled down to watch Murder She Wrote as the sun set completely.

I dreamed of nothing and everything, Jessica Fletcher’s perky, unflappable presence the dark backdrop to my dream reel.

Then I felt a warm heavy hand on my shoulder.

I opened my eyes and there was TN, leaning over me and nude with an angry-looking hardon. He kissed my shoulder and the blue glow from my laptop blinked off as he snapped it shut.  He turned me roughly onto my back.

I felt as though I were still dreaming as he spread my knees with his own and sunk slowly into me. “How can you possibly be this wet?” He marveled as he felt my welcome.

I blushed. “I dunno. I came earlier…” I trailed off as he began to thrust in earnest.

He fell forward and nibbled my neck as I wrapped my legs around his cool, clean skin. My gauzy slip moved in whispers with us and maintained a strange level of modesty between us. I felt like a lusty, busty virgin.

He strained into me and contorted me for our pleasure. I cried out and bloomed once, then twice, panted and giggled, cried and begged.

He exhausted himself and collapsed on top of me, his erection stiff as ever, his semen stubbornly still in his body. I asked him of he wanted me to help him cum. He declined. “It’s not gonna happen tonight, I’m afraid.” I snuggled into his nook and squeezed him. I knew how he felt: frustrated, but still completely happy.

We talked some more and kissed. I drew patterns in his chest hair and let Faisal attack our feet; his mournful cries from outside my closed door finally answered.

He left soon after and I returned to my dreams.

In the morning, light streamed in soft and new. I stretched and felt where TN had been inside of me just hours before. I purred a little as I decide to take duplicate morning pics.

I studied the evening ones and copied my poses. Click, click, click. Soon followed by a long, hissing buzz, and a woman’s satisfied cries.

I sent him a few and rolled out of bed to get ready for my day, my night and day rolled up into a neat little loop of breasts, tangled sheets, and orgasms.

I told him how I feel. Mostly.

At 11:11 pm he replied, “Didn’t say I was working late. I said I was busy tonight.”

I replied, “I must have misheard you. Can we chat?”

At 12:41 am he texted, “I’m still with her but later yes.”

I wrote back, “Good deal.” (Thanks, Noodle.)

I had only just gotten off the phone with one of you, dear readers, and I’d been emailing with Noodle and LSAM from about the moment they read my last post, and was only barely under control when, at roughly 1:30 am there was a knock at my door. He was in jeans and sneakers. He had not been naked.

“You look like hell, Hy, like you’ve been at war, or something.”

I smirked and nervously sat down in the chair. What was I going to say to him?? I’d already planned an after-lunch text that simply said, “Hey, I’m ok. Nothing’s changed,” but how would I convey that as a fidgety, cigarette-stained mess?

We shot the shit for a minute or two and then he asked if I was ok.

I told him about what my night was like and he listened with a soft face and direct eye contact while laying on my couch.

“I’ve been wrestling with whether to tell you this or not, but… when I came up to my door the hallway was filled with the scent of vanilla and I immediately thought, ‘Have I been smelling her in his hair this whole time??'”

He immediately jumped in to say this was their first date and it was purely coincidental. Yay for me reining in that crazy.

“I swear I’m not making it up. I smelled vanilla in my doorway. Apparently Vanilla Ice is a big fan.” He raised an eyebrow at my choice of words, fought a smile.

He apologized for the miscommunication, didn’t deny saying he had to work, but didn’t remember saying it, either. I asked him why he felt like he had to keep it secret; explained that I understood our unspoken agreement to not ask direct questions. We explored this new territory together and came up with a new plan. We are allowed to say, “Yes, I have a date, ” but no follow up questions other than, Did you have fun? are permissible. He explained he felt uncomfortable with sharing that information with me, I assured him that all he had to say was, “Hy, I’m not really comfortable answering that,” and I would back off. And it’s true. I would and I would feel ok because it was honest.

The thing of it is, is that we are so totally open in all other aspects that this felt shady. He agreed and apologized formally, admitted that it had been shady of him. I told him of the time a man had gotten stranded outside my front door because I was late meeting him and I had been frantic at the thought of him seeing him. He understood.

People, I know that you all have your opinions on this and no one is wrong. None of the comments were wrong from last night. I truly believe now that he’s had no idea what’s been happening between us.

I told him that what I felt tonight was a surprise to me, as well, that until that moment, I hadn’t realized that I didn’t feel special to him. He looked at me with a pained expression and said, “Oh, Hy. You are so very special. You are the first woman who…” and I thought he was going to say, “… to make me cum, ” but instead he said, “… I’ve formed a close friendship and bond with ever that I also happen to fuck. I’ve never even felt this way about my ex-girlfriends. They were only ‘compatible enough.’ Not like us and how we connect.

“You are so far more and far better a person than just being able to make me cum and those are the parts of you that I like the best.” I asked him to repeat himself; I’ve not heard such a message from moving lips before. He repeated it, slower. I committed it to memory and we laughed.

“The thing is, TN, I didn’t know you think this about me. I’m so effusive in how great I think you are, how great you are in bed. It’s no wonder you ‘feel nothing’ when I share my tales of mediocre sex, small dicks, and bad kissing. You know I hold you in the highest regard. I never knew. But thank you. That makes me feel very special.”

“No, how could you? I’ve never told you before.”

And then, dear friends and readers, I took your advice and I kept opening up. I told him that something had happened to me and that I was beginning to struggle with feelings for him. He looked crushed; surprised, as if I’d just told him I ate babies for lunch.

Silence hung gently in the room.

“You look surprised.”

“I am,” he said, “We aren’t supposed to have those feelings for each other.”

“TN!” I exclaimed, “You of all people should understand this was inevitable. You’ve done nothing but beat into me that I am a person with feelings, more than ‘just a pussy’ and that I should allow myself to feel something again. Well, I am feeling something. And believe me, if I could do what you do and not feel this way I would. Apparently you have more control over your faucet of emotions, I don’t. It’s either on, or off, and no one’s more surprised than me, I promise.

“And I’m mad at you. I’m mad that you’re so kind, sweet, gentle, considerate, know my life, and are an amazing lover. I’m not used to having feelings for someone I fuck. And yesterday I realized that you’re the best boyfriend I’ve never had and it makes me sad and happy all at once. Sad for the old Hy and happy for the future one to know that man like you exists. But it hurts today to know I don’t have it now.”

He volunteered that he saw no future with Vanilla Ice.

I was placated by this somewhat non sequitur. I tossed back one of my own.

“When can I see you next? What are you doing Friday? Are you still busy?”

“I’m seeing Vanilla Ice again.”

The silence became heavy for me and I began to squirm.

“Ok, in the interest of transparency, I’m going to keep going — you told me last night you couldn’t see me on Friday, but you can see her?”

“I was going to have a night off to myself before the weekend.”

“But you’ll see her, but not me?”

Silence. His brain clicked.

“I guess I’ll have to take Thursday off, then.”

Heavier and heavier the room shrank around me.

“The thing is…” I start, but can’t finish. I try again, “You see…” and again I’m verklempt. I take a deep breath. “You see, when this thing between us begins to hurt me, I’m going to have to pull the plug. I’m not going to wait around for you to say goodbye. I’m not going to watch you beat your wings in the nest knowing that one day you’re going to fly off and I’ll be left behind. I’m going to end it before it gets to that point.”

He looked downright sad, his shoulders slumped. “That sounds so ominous.”

“I’m not saying I’m pulling the plug now, but I’m saying I will. When I was dating Jason I once told you what a weird predicament I’d found myself in. You were both willing to fuck me, but were also looking for something else and I was just waiting around to be left. That’s not ok anymore. I have to say goodbye first.”

“That will make me extremely sad, Hy.”

“It’ll make me sad, too, but I don’t want to become a crazy person, I never want to feel jealousy. I don’t want to do that to either of us.”

“And you’re saying you think that’s inevitable.”

“It might be.”

We sat sipping our water chewing on what had just been said.

“I want this,” he motioned between us, “to never go away. What we have here, our friendship, it means so much more to me than the sex, no matter how great it is for us.”

My heart stitched. He doesn’t understand that there would be a long period of healing for me alone, but I didn’t want to say it.

“You still seemed surprised by all of this.”

“I am. I never wanted feelings to happen. I don’t want to hurt you.”

And then I remembered Bi’s recent post and that the past several – lo, many, many – years of my life have been filled with anguish and pain. “I think we’ve all done ourselves a great disservice to think that the human condition can maintain a sense of happiness and contentment. I think we’re built for anguish – and this from the eternal optimist that is, Hy – and it’s the suffering and longing that shapes us. All the great art of our world is predicated on that pain, not of happiness.

“I find beauty in this. You don’t have to be afraid of hurting me. I make my own decisions and I will live. This won’t kill me.”

He agreed, spoke himself of the concept and his deeply personal understanding of it.

“I’m not saying I love you,” I continued (what? I wasn’t going to drop the L-word tonight, folks), “but it’s like unrequited love. It’s unbearable and poignant and we all define ourselves based on surviving it and I wouldn’t trade any of the pain I’ve ever experienced for it. It gave me my baby.”

“What does ‘unrequited love’ mean?” he asked.

“It’s unreturned, one-sided, unfulfilled.”

“But friends can love each other.” He placed the words tentatively between us, almost like a question.

“Yes, they can, but then it’s not unrequited.”

He sat on that for a minute just looking at me. I held his gaze.

“And I’m also confused as to why you keep saying there’s this two month drop date on us. I imagine if you had cancer and were going to die I would milk every second with you because I love hanging out with you.”

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have said that. It was dumb of me. We should just keep doing this.”

“Exactly. You yourself have said you’re in no hurry to get married and have kids, so why can’t we just keep going until it’s time to die??”

“I don’t know why not. It’s just I know this has no future. Realistically speaking, we’ll never get married.” He watched my reaction closely.

“I know. I have a kid, I can’t erase that -”

“And you’re not 12-14 years younger.”

“And I definitely can’t erase that. But I know that’s not me. That’s you. I’m not hurt by it personally, but I wish you felt differently.

“Earlier tonight, when I was so strung out from a bad day and this ‘shady’ business I went and had two screaming orgasms and while it was building I kept saying to myself, ‘This doesn’t take away from anything we’ve had. I’m ok.’ and when it tore through me I really was ok. It was a cellular shift of faith. I’m ok with this going away someday. I will survive it. I’ll be ok when the sex goes away.

“And you should know that I’m going to bring this up again. No shadiness and no elephants in the room between us.”

He agreed. And then maybe because he’d become deliriously tired, I don’t know, he dry humped my cat and I had a visceral reaction to his thrusts and told him so between laughing. “I’m trying really hard not to sit next to you and touch you right now. Don’t do that, please.”

“I think you’d think of something to touch, alright.”

“No, really…”

“And I’d think of someone to do.”

I’d been fighting serious fatigue for at least an hour. He had been too. And no sooner had he’d spoken those words than he said he had to go home. I got up to let him out and couldn’t help but blurt out, “I can smell Vanilla Ice on you,” as the sweet cloud punched me in the face yet again.

He had the good sense to look embarrassed. “Let me smell,” I said as I tried to close the gap between us. He leapt up and ran out on the balcony. I blocked the door and he looked into my eyes steadily, then I leaned in for a whiff. He cringed. “Honestly, I didn’t have to do that, I just wanted to torture you a little. I can smell her from here. Tell her to take it easy on the Victoria’s Secret lotion next time, ok?” My eyes, I know, twinkled, my lips curled in an easy smile.

“You are torturing me.”

“You obviously made out with her. It’s all over you,” I observed with no emotion.

“Maybe, a little bit, yes.”

Suddenly, I had a hunger for him. “Smelling her on you is turning me on,” I murmured and I kiss him. He grabbed me tightly and pressed his mouth firmly on mine. I pull his head down with strength. I imagine how much better this must feel to him than kissing her.

We keep kissing on the balcony, his hands roamed my body, I rubbed his hot bulge. “We’re not fucking. It’s almost 3 am!” he lamented.

“Yes, no fucking,” I answered and made to touch his chest, but turn and head for the door instead. He followed and grabbed me again. Kissed me passionately.

I kissed him harder and deeper, fumbled with his buckle. He continued his protests, but took off his belt. “Just a suck, no fuck. Please, TN.”

“No.” (And this is where everyone rolls over in their grave because I am begging to feel his cock in my mouth – but wait, bear with me.) “I want you to cum right now and send me a picture of it.”

“Ok. But you have to watch. No picture.”

He waffled for half a second and took my hand and lead me to my room. “Stand in the doorway. You can’t touch me.” He stiffly obeyed and I fumble with my pajama pants, trying to hide my sex from him with a sheet. He came to the bedside and ripped it away.

I lay half exposed to him under my bedroom light.

I grabbed my vibe and turned it on. I asked him to make the occasional sound from his vantage point so I know he’s still there. “I’ll do one better,” he replied and I feel his hot, wet mouth on my nipple over my tank top. I moan and arch, literally think, “He can’t resist me.”

The orgasm is elusive this time. He exhausts one breast and moves to the other, pulls it out of my shirt. I’m shaking with emotion and sensation, denied my release. We can hear the juices of my pussy being jostled by the vibrator. Then I feel his fingers enter me and, without orgasming, I cum all around his fingers . My vulva bright and hot as lava and my core shaking. And the thought, unbidden, comes to me, “He loves me.” I take several little breaks and then when it finally does shatter over me I am shivering and my teeth are chattering, my screams still echoing off the beige walls and the thought of “He loves me” floating in my mind.

He lay down next to me and kissed me again. Held me.

“Ok. Now you can go.”

I dress and walked him to the front door. “So, even though I don’t want to hang out tomorrow, can I come and fuck you for, say, 15 minutes in the kitchen?”

“I don’t know. We’ll see,” I say confidently.

He kissed me again, gave me a soft, tender look, and walked back next door.

Thank you to all of you for your support, kindness, and love. I pushed through this tonight without a drink to numb me and without reaching out to a man. It was your presence that helped me flex this emotional muscle. My gratitude knows no bounds. Also, I told him he’d thawed my heart.

  • I keep remembering more. Like, I never said, “I want you to love me”.
  • He told me how vulnerable I am. I asked him tonight or in general? He said, “Tonight, this week, this month, the whole year.” (I’d had a bad day in general yesterday relating to my kid going overseas with my ex for a week & 2 of my dearest friends having major issues.)
  • He suggested I rub my pussy on him to leave my scent before his date Friday in return for her intense love of vanilla and musk. I told him that was a great idea. He could tell her it was eau de 532 (my apartment number).
  • I told him I’d painted myself in a corner because I no longer wanted notches on my belt and mediocre sex, so I wasn’t remotely interested in dating.
  • He offered the notion that maybe I’d find someone to date “for real” first (before my admission of feelings for him). I scoffed, but he was serious.
  • I texted him right after he left to say I’d finally remembered something I’d forgotten and said I’d write it down. It says, “Its a big deal to me that I wanted to introduce you to my other set of friends that I’ve known for almost 20 years bc I want you to know them and them you because… Because you are good to me and for me and I’m proud of who you are and that you’re in my life.”
  • And – OH SHIT – when I was kissing him after I’d discovered the vanilla clinging to him and became so turned on I began to stammer. I couldn’t speak due to exhaustion and emotion and lust. He asked me my name and I said, “I don’t know. I think it’s Hyacinth.” “‘Hyacinth’?!” he says confused. “Yes, I think it’s a beautiful name…” and I kissed him again.

I have sex in front of fireplaces.

I wrote this January of 2011.

Troy and I ended our affair tonight — or rather, he ended our affair.

I knew it was imminent and wasn’t the least bit caught off guard, hurt, or angry. I actually felt happy for him; I’ve known he’s been struggling and searching for balance.

I texted him earlier tonight and said I was afraid to ask him how his night was going (for the last two weeks he’s been inconsistent and drunk and I’ve been wrestling with hurt feelings and confusion. Part of what I wanted with him was a fun, no strings attached (read: no emotional involvement whatsoever) affair and here I found myself feeling things. Negative things. Yet, I have no hard feelings about the past couple of weeks, nor especially about tonight.)

Through soul searching and good conversation with him I had successfully exorcised the negative and found myself in a good, recalibrated emotional space tonight. I was eager and curious how my evening would play out. The ball was in his court.

When he texted back that he was lonely and trying to resist the urge to go to a bar I offered him solace at my house.

Do you want cock or just some company?

“I could go either way.

I’m gonna hop in the shower then come over.

Will you be my duraflame fairy and bring me a log?

I’ll bring you a hot log, yes.

And I’ll bring a duraflame.

And that’s how I knew what was on his mind… physically speaking anyway.

He knocked on the door 30 minutes later and stooped through my entry smiling. “Hi, Hyacinth,” he said and smiled conspiratorially.

“Hi, Troy.”

We putzed around for a few minutes before he said, “Do you want the good news or bad news first?”

“Bad news, then end on a good note.”

“Well, I’ve decided that I need to wipe the slate clean. I want to refocus on finding a longterm girlfriend. I’ve realized it’s what I really want.”

I sat curled at his feet with the duraflame fire blazing on my back and waited. He looked meaningfully at me and I just listened. “And that means everyone.”

I nodded and told him I figured as much.

“But, the good news is, I’m here tonight. I want to have a proper goodbye.”

And we did. We lay on the floor in front of the fireplace, the glow flickering over our skin. I sucked his glorious cock and filled my nostrils with his soapy scent and delicious masculine flavors. He took a picture of my face a lollipop on his shaft. I knew he was getting close to filling my mouth with his sumptuous cum, but I hadn’t meant to get him that close, so I stopped.

I crawled up the length of his body and let my hair trail along. We kissed passionately and I rolled to his side. He propped himself up on an elbow and dipped into my mouth, his hand idly sliding under my pj scrubs. His fingers parted my curls, found my lips and began to stroke my slick flesh. He was massaging my clit expertly and I squirted into his hand and drenched my pants.

We laughed as we always do at this attribute of mine, then I said, “I want you to fuck me in front of the fire, Troy. No one’s ever fucked me in front of one before and it’s been a fantasy of mine for years.”

Hearing the words come out of my mouth made me sad — so many years of fires in my life and never once have I had passionate sex in front of one — but all I had to do was turn my eyes back his turgid cock bobbing in front of me as he got a condom ready and I smiled my sadness away.

I was going to get what I wanted now. Finally. I can wash away all the years of unfulfilled desires and hopes now because I know they can come true.

I spread my legs, the fire hot and bright on my skin on one side, the shadows cool and dark on the other, and he slowly lowered himself down into me. Deeper and deeper.

We’ve never fucked like that before; deliberate, thoughtful. We’ve always been a powder keg couple ravaging each other like parched travelers at a water trough (at least, that’s how I always felt – perhaps he was merely matching my enthusiasm). I kissed his ears, neck and shoulders. He buried his face in my neck, plunging deeply into my soaking pussy.

Soon enough I was crying out and he was straining to keep from cumming. Three, maybe four times he had to stop, our bodies joined like helpless animals in rut. “Jesus, Hy, you’re fucking killing me. You’re so goddamn hot tonight. I can barely stand it.”

For me, my center was filled with cock, my legs pressed against hard, smooth thighs, and my entire body swarmed with warmth caused by this man’s skill and care. I felt gorgeous, womanly, divine. I could barely stand it, either.

When he did cum he shook and shivered like a shaken sapling and we rearranged ourselves so he could rest between my legs panting and laughing. I kept inhaling his scent knowing it would be my last taste of it.

Earlier when I’d been sucking his cock he’d told me again it was the best he’d ever had. My gracious reply was, “I feel sorry for the girl that comes after me.” Now, laying in front of my hearth, naked and lusciously fucked I said, “I feel sorry for the man that comes after you. And I still feel bad for the girl that comes after you.”

He chuckled, “Eh, it’s ok, I’m used to not cumming from blowjobs.”

“And I’m used to mediocre sex,” I countered.

We laughed.

Throughout our ~9 1/2 week affair (that’s right) neither one of us ever made me cumming through oral a priority, but it was Troy’s priority tonight. It wasn’t because he hadn’t wanted to or I hadn’t wanted him to we just had so many other things we wanted to do to and with each other; all my squirting, the MMF thing, my blowjob skills. They all kept us distracted. Honestly, though, the real reason I never put it at the top of my list is because only three men have ever made me cum that way in my life (2 one time each only). I have no illusions about men’s skills or my abilities.

Naturally, he made me cum about 15 minutes in, possibly even less. His long fingers deep inside of me, his hand bumping against my opening, his tongue working motherfucking magic on me. I came and writhed and arched my back. He kept his face on my drenched pussy like a cowboy on a bronco. And wave after wave after wave hit me.

“Fuck you,” I gasped. “Just: Fuck, you.”

The feeling of being proverbially fucked was hard to keep at bay. Only two months with this man, the best fucking sex I’ve ever had, and his first real attempt to make me cum is successful all on the heels of a kind, amicable, completely understandable goodbye. Fuck me and fuck you.

“I’m glad I cracked you. If I hadn’t done it tonight, you’d’ve been my first.”

“I’m really fucking glad I’m not your first, either!”

And a little later I managed to say, “You masterful, bald man…”

Then we fucked like we loved to: me on my stomach, full ass in the air, grinding down on his shaft. I could feel his cock grow bigger and impale me further. All my thoughts left me, I was floating in sensation free of worry or concern. This is one of the things that’s so great about the sex with this man: I am able to pack into a little box all my concerns and worries and go with him wherever he wants. I actually allow my control to slip and trust someone else.

Sadly, it all had to end.

The clock became the biggest thing in the room then. He said he had to go and I said of course he did. We got dressed and he gathered his things. He thanked me for everything, for always being honest, for being a good friend and he said he had no regrets. Rather, he asked for confirmation as he cradled my face in his hands and looked into my eyes, “No regrets, right, Hyacinth??”

“No, Troy. Not one.”

We kissed, we hugged, I reassured him there were absolutely no regrets. We drew up new ground rules for our friendship going forward: no naked pics from me are allowed, no sexual contact. Platonic is the name of the game, even virtually.

I promised him I wouldn’t bait or tempt him and that I was really looking forward to being his friend and the thing is I really and truly am. A sense of relief and relaxation washed over me now that sex is off the table; I don’t have to work so hard at not having feelings for someone.

That’s not to say I wasn’t tearful when he left, because I was. I sat quietly in my big, cushy chair and was sad that we’d never fucked in his grotto or in that very chair. That all the sensation and wonder I felt with my body with him was over. But feeling sad about what I got to have with him would be doing it all a disservice. Closing a chapter is never easy, but I still feel lucky, cared for, respected. I feel like the connections we made with each other are like salve to my heart, my sexual being. I could always be myself with him and he loved it.

“You were so great, Hy. Really. Thank you,” he whispered again with tears in his eyes.

“Thank you,” I say, as I stood on my ottoman to be eye-level with him for a last hug and kiss goodbye.

This man helped me to rediscover myself. I would do almost anything to help him in return. I fucking left my marriage because I couldn’t be the sexual woman with my husband that I am with Troy. This sexual odyssey isn’t just about getting laid for me. It’s about evolving as a human being, about reconnecting with myself and with others, my body. About being whole, not a goddamned shell of a person.
….