“Mm… I love being with you,” he said as he wrapped his arms around my naked body and pulled me closer to his.
“You’re so curvy and soft,” he kissed my hairline and stroked my hair while his other hand slid along my exposed hip and buttock, “and I could just pet you forever and ever. I don’t want to stop.” His hand gripped my skin and kneaded it gently.
I cuddled in closer and hitched my knee up higher over his thigh and wound my legs through his. This didn’t even feel real.
Looking into his big green eyes didn’t seem real. Watching his broad shoulders square off above me didn’t seem real. Feeling his rock hard cock deep inside of me didn’t seem real. Breathing his breath as I came hard like a river pounding down a mountain didn’t seem real.
“I wish I could stay here all night,” he murmured against my temple.
“I wish you could, too.”
He’d arrived with a blast of cold air at his back and scooped me up into his arms and maybe called me Baby. His lips were cold and the dog tried to steal my thunder. I poured him a glass of white wine and we talked about our week apart across my kitchen island.
He periodically came around behind me and nibbled my neck and ear as I shared my silly travails. I periodically walked around to his bar stool and stood between his knees, a perfect fit for a kiss with this ridiculously tall man.
I ran my hands along his lean sides and I melted into him. Nothing felt more sexy than his wanting to talk to me about my day. No one is ever interested in my day. But Peter is.
And so I took his hand and led him into my pink bedroom with the soft afternoon light and lit a candle. When I turned around he was on his knees, his face squarely at breast height. We laughed at the hidden bonuses of being such different sizes and I crushed his pretty face between my jugs. Oh, Peter.
Our afternoons together are not predictable, but I rely on their presence in my life and he predictably listens, laughs, licks, lusts, and empties his balls into me at least twice so I may leak with his jizz as I go about my night. No aroma is better than a well-fucked woman with rosy cheeks, after all. Eat your heart out, perfumers.
We like to compare ourselves to the Joy of Life painting beside my bed while we bask in our sweat and the fluffy remnants of our orgasms. Sometimes we are the couple on the lower right, that afternoon at one point we were the couple on the middle left, upright and reaching for one another.
No matter what, we’re on the right track for finding joy in life: naked, together, wanton, dancing in a motherfucking field of velvet hedonism with meadow-scented air.
And if we were actually in that painting, then Peter would never have to go home.
I have spent a lovely afternoon and early evening in the arms of Peter. His long, long limbs entwined with mine. Soft, beautiful words falling all over my everything like snowflakes on flower petals on a comet tail.
Good sex cannot be underestimated. Its positive effects, its impact on the spirit, its sparkly-ness. Good sex is like a good meal: memorable in its fleetingness, but much appreciated, and the last time I had good sex was with Peter, probably the day his boss caught us. It’s been a long fucking time – no pun intended.
I’m too tired to go into details right now, but I saw him again on Friday. We hadn’t seen each other since before the holidays and we didn’t get out of the foyer with our clothes on. Lots of kissing and me on my tip toes and him moaning and smiling into my kisses.
A couple of hours and many shared orgasms later he took a shower while I basked in his sweat and cum clinging to my skin. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said about having to take a shower. Of course I didn’t mind – this isn’t about hurting his girlfriend, after all.
When he was over me and buried deep inside I gazed into his green, cat like eyes, so happy to be back there with him. There’s something to be said about a true affinity for someone: it’s lovely, comfort food.
The next night, after a long, boozy day with some besties, a young man came over. I barely knew his name, but he was tall, polite, and cute, and we talked for hours before I said something sexy like, “Hey, you wanna bang? Cuz I do.” (I didn’t really, but it was close). He nodded and the kisses commenced.
His shoulders were broad and his skin soapy and delicious and his mouth was beautiful between my thighs. I mounted his hips and rode him until he warned me he was going to cum and I told him to just let go and enjoy himself.
He emptied himself into the condom deep inside of me and I rained down around his hips and slipped and slid on his hot, smooth skin.
He dressed in the dark and I wrapped myself in a robe; he winked at me as he rounded the corner down the stairs. I fell into bed and noticed his belt on the floor. Whoops.
Peter lamented about us going so long between visits and texted sweet nothings the next day. Scott, the man with no belt, seemed pleased with himself, but I barely heard from him today. I still can’t quite figure out why a human would avoid another human whose body they were inside just hours before, but there it is. He’s done it.
And after contemplating my attachment style these past few days I see no future – even a casual one – with a man who essentially ignored me after his face was buried in my pussy for 30 minutes the night before. I have no room for that person in my life.
Peter on the other hand… It was like coming home being lost in the deep green pools of his smiling eyes. Ever attentive and interested in me and my life we talked and came and cuddled and fucked and talked and cuddled some more before he had to head home to his girlfriend. I’ll never call her “lucky,” because, well, I wouldn’t want to be her, but I hope he’s half as good to her as he is to me because everyone deserves to feel that kind of special.
As for Scott the Belt-less, well… he just doesn’t get it, I guess, and he won’t get me, either.
I’ve written at least half of another post about Peter. His impishness, his deliciousness, his joyous energy. I started it yesterday morning and pecked away at it throughout my day even as he and I reconnected after a weekend of typical silence.
For weeks now, like clock work, we have come together. Once, occasionally twice a week, but always. Our texts are brief, but flirty. Reassuring. Sometimes we talk about life and the world before I wedge myself between his knees and kiss his sweet face. Sometimes we don’t make it out of my entryway before we head to my bed.
My orgasms skitter through me like leaves in the breeze, his face wears a beautiful mask of pleasure while he buries himself inside of me. He tells me how amazing my body is, my breasts, how good my pussy feels. His sweat beads and drips down on me like a leaky faucet and I brush away his apologies.
“Get me dirty, baby,” I say. “Get me fucking dirty.”
I wanted to tell you all how the last time we were together he was busted by his boss thanks to GPS. He drives a company truck and he’d left his phone in it when he came up to see me. Two hours later he stood up to remove his socks and come at me for a third time when he suddenly something caught his eye out the open window and he dropped low.
“That’s my boss!” he mouthed, panicked.
He got dressed so fast he left his underpants behind along with a load inside of me. I wore his underwear the rest of the day and throughout the night. I loved the reminder of him.
The reminder of our closeness, the trust, the thrill, the fun, the kindness and connection. I’m a filthy slutty whore, but I am also so sweet it makes my teeth ache. I want to belong to someone.
And that’s why I couldn’t finish that post.
No matter how kind Peter is – no matter how open, sweet, thoughtful, patient, passionate, kinky, soft, and surprising – he does not belong to me. I am still alone. I am still choosing the unavailable man.
It makes me so sad to write that. I’m embarrassed. I know better, right?? Or maybe I don’t. It’s so much easier to get fucked than it is to get loved. I can get fucked any hour I want, but love is so much more elusive and painful to obtain.
If I take stock of my life and am truly honest, I am sad. And tired.
I can’t rely on my family – they’re hit or miss – and my local friends are best when it’s convenient for them. I have pulled away from everyone in my life and over the past few months I have pulled away from the blog. Or maybe it’s been years.
I don’t have anything new to say. It’s the same shit, different day. I’m still a lonely fool. Nothing new here, guys.
At the start of the year I was in London with my people and I felt so loved and special and appreciated. Safe. I spent a couple of magical days with Jean Claude, but he fell apart and disappeared. Easy to fuck, hard to love.
Then there was Elliot and I fell hard for him. I walked around in this blissful pink fog that whispered to me, “He’s safe..” He said all the right things and it seemed like he was going to love me right up until the moment he couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. I don’t know.
Peter swept in at about that time and has been kissing my booboos ever since.
There have been so many other men peppered throughout. Walker who drove himself right through me, The Doctor, The Aussie. Smart, interesting men who loved to fuck me, but loving me was never even an option. They weren’t soul-less. Loving me was just never an option.
I think a lot about how isolated I am. After a long day sometimes I cry on my way home because I know my house is empty. Tonight I tearfully put on my pajamas and daydreamed about having a man who loved me who’d take one look at me wearily climbing the stairs and say, “Come here, Hy.”
He’d take me into his arms, rip my shirt off and stuff his face with my breasts, push me against a wall, dip his fingers into me and let me cry as he fit the rest of himself inside of me. He wouldn’t be afraid of my tears; he’d understand his gift and my broken appreciation of his offering, my need for release, escape and love.
Peter has talked about a weekend together in January when his girlfriend leaves town to visit a friend. Another stolen moment, not mine, just borrowed and molded into something that resembles mine. Hours on hours of us just being together. I cannot even imagine it. When was the last time that happened? Jean Claude, I suppose, but that was an extraordinary situation and wracked with its own issues.
There’s a British man I met on AFF who wants to undress me and explore my body. We haven’t even met yet. How can he know he wants to do that? Of course he’s not looking for anything serious. I’m not serious. I’m the epitome of fuck me and leave me.
There’s another potential sub who wants to meet me in his own nervous way. Things appeared promising until he went dark. As usual, I am a novelty attached to his own uncertainty. Another dead end.
I am going to deactivate what profiles I can. My heart hurts and the more I talk to men who want my body the more alone I feel. I want a man to want all of me. A man I’m attracted to, not some less than appealing schmuck with a pipe dream. That hurts, too: to be wanted by those I don’t want. Reminds me of how stupid it all is.
I meant to write a post about how satisfied I am with my quiet little life. With Peter’s weekly visits and my career. With my every-other-week dinners-for-two with my little one and occasional emails or texts with potential lovers. With my busy and involved life of friends and family and my pursuit of better health. But that is what I want you to know about me.
The truth is I long.
I long for better relationships and deeper connections. I long to be seen, understood, appreciated. If only there were one person on this planet who thought of me beyond their penis or what’s convenient for them. My sister, my mother, my friends and lovers. Am I even real to them? Have I convinced them all I don’t need anything more from them?
Maybe I have. Maybe in my pursuit to survive on almost nothing from others I have misled everyone into believing it’s all I need when what I really need is my very own Peter all to myself. Someone to wipe away my tears and tear my body apart with his. To hold me while I crumple and applaud the loudest when I take big, bold strides.
I also need a best friend who will forgo her own schedule to be there for me. A mother who is consistent, a sister who doesn’t judge.
And I’m sad because I know I am going to lose my Peter some day. It’s inevitable. He and I can only go so far. We don’t talk about the landing. We’re just locked together mid-air. Will I nail it? Or will my knees buckle?
The only person in my life who makes me feel special, wanted, and sane isn’t even mine. He’s someone else’s. How fucking stupid am I??
Time to clean up my mascara now. I’ve cried a river writing this. It’s hard admitting you’re a lonely clown.
This week has been wonderful. Pey is home with me and in my arms and my Whole30 “cleanse” appears to be helping with my pain by reducing some inflammation. I think I need to face it: I can’t live on bread and cheese and wine. What a travesty. But being able to get out of bed without crying out in pain is worth what feels like a sacrifice.
Yesterday the weather cooled off and as it cooled, my spirits lifted. I cannot stand the oppressive heat here. It suffocates me and I feel flattened, trapped. The first whiff of fall and I am floating along in the street. It makes my fantasies of moving to England spike and I open my OKC location parameters to the entire world.
Love you all.
Panicked that he was late returning to work, Peter got dressed so quickly he left his underwear behind this afternoon. His loss, my gain!
“You and your underwear never cease to amaze me,” I laughed one day as he stood in my office with his neatly pressed khakis around his thighs. “Are you wearing any?? I can’t tell!”
We fell into each others arms in a fit of laughter, his camouflaged briefs pressed against my belly.
Moments later we were on the floor careful not to make any noise. His sock-clad naked body pushing into my clothed one, his mouth on mine until we both came in muffled cries.
We’ve been able to get together roughly once a week for weeks now. A serendipitous run-in at the grocery store one afternoon reminded us both of our mutual admiration for one another and we’ve been going steady ever since.
He tirelessly listens to my rambling stories. “I like them,” he says simply when I apologize for going on too long yet again.
He’s devastatingly good-looking and I can’t seem to stop myself from telling him how damn pretty he is. He works a blue-collar job that requires him to roam about the city and it’s not lost on the women whose homes he has to visit. He has at least a handful of Penthouse Letter quality stories of his own.
“This one time a college-aged girl answers the door completely topless,” one story began.
“So yeah, I banged her on her couch before I left,” it ended.
Age has no effect on diminishing his appeal to the fairer sex, either. “Aren’t you a tall drink of water!” a wrinkled little old lady once said.
He listens to my escapades, my feminist rants, all the lessons I’ve learned about sex and dating, my philosophies and outlooks on life. He takes care of his father and is friends with his mother. His guilty (and secret) pleasure is cooking shows of all kinds. We share a culinary vocabulary and interest not commonly found. He’s home every night by 6 or 7 like his girlfriend expects, but he is open to any and all adventures before the clock strikes.
When Peter and I first began fooling around 3 years ago his erections were rarely a part of our experience. Simply put, like so many other men, condoms made him wilt.
What made him different, though, was that without missing a beat he put his hands and mouth on me from stem to stern until I could take no more. Then we’d cuddle and talk as if time stood still, sweaty and his face reeking of me. I basked in his attention and freedom from toxic masculine expectations.
Orgasm is fun. Penetration is fun. But what’s even better is a pleasurable experience. Pleasure from being seen, pleasure in being devoured, pleasure in being tangled and touched and tantalized.
When sex is about rushing blood to a piece of flesh it’s diminished – literally – into a sum of its parts.
We fuck during the day, sober as church mice. There’s no hiding or obscuring each other, no soft candlelight to hide my rolls or dimples, my little brown asshole. I am exposed to his hungry gaze in every way. And I am blessed with consuming every inch of his long, lithe body.
I get lost in watching the muscles along his rib cage shimmer with each thrust, the cuts and shadows down along his arms and shoulders braced above me. And what I’ve learned is that when he sees my eyes, dark blue and true, his pleasure seems to spike.
I can sense it in my body, see it on his face. When I show up below him and allow him in to my person with open eyes it’s the single hottest thing I can do. And it has nothing to do with his penis. It has to do with me enjoying myself.
There is a cultural belief that men are simple, that all they need is a willing partner and he’ll be good to go. Gay, straight, bi, it doesn’t matter. The trope is that men are “red-blooded” and therefore “easy” to turn on. Nothing could be further from the truth.
Men are complicated, magical creatures. Sensitive, complex, afraid. They carry a tremendous burden to be expected to know everything about sex for both themselves and their partners, and those partners erroneously rely on his hardon as proof that they’re attractive or “doing it right.”
I cannot imagine the weight of that expectation. It would cripple me.
Sex isn’t a performance, it’s a partnership, an experience. No one is putting on a fucking show – no pun intended. We are doing it together, to one another for our own personal gains. That’s the way it should be. I use you to get me off and you use me, all tied together, as one, willing our bodies to be conduits of pleasure for the other.
I have never thought men were simple, but I have certainly relied on their belief that they were.
I’ve silently demanded a stud in my bed and been disappointed when they couldn’t deliver. They expected to perform for me and I let them think that’s what they needed to do.
I wonder how my sex life may have been different had I stepped in and said, “Honey, I’m part of this, too.” Would they have listened to me? Would they have even heard me?? Enough men have yelled at their limp dicks or left in a shameful rush for me to wonder if that were true. I promise you, I’ve tried a handful of times.
These days I’m approaching each liaison I have with the intent to connect and be present for a whole person, not just his erection. It’s enabled me to have much better sex than I had been having. My young friend, Walker, for example. The Aussie, The Doctor, Peterrrrrr, the true definition of a friend with benefits.
It’s amazing what can happen when two people actually treat each other as more than only a vagina or penis.
For those of you who aren’t familiar with it, HBO picked up the option on the book written by Gillian Flynn (Gone Girl). I never read the book, but I did read Gone Girl and that fucked me up, too. Her lead characters are complicated, fucked up, flawed women, and Sharp Objects is largely focused on the mother-daughter relationship and barely surviving it.
I went ahead and Googled the ending of the book because there was no way I could sit through the finale when it comes out without knowing what the fuck happens and it’s about as chilling as I thought. But it was more than that. The emotional sickness seeps out of the story and right into me. I feel restless and sad. So so sad. So then I popped on Frasier to cleanse the mental palate and here we are.
I probably should have just written instead, but oh well. I’m exhausted from an intense week of work and men. I’ve accidentally had 3 dates, which was not my plan. I see Peter tomorrow then give a second chance to my Tuesday night date who pissed me off. Saw an ex-lover last night for what I thought was just an innocent friend thing, but at the end of the night he threw himself at me in a fit of despair from missing his girlfriend and before that I met a lovely man with chiseled abs for a drink. We plan on seeing each other for fun and frolic when he gets back from vacation. The sad ex-lover will remain just that: an ex-lover.
Tonight I’ll be in bed by 11 and will take some CBD oil and turmeric for my pain and cuddle my body pillow and my dog. Being grown up is exhausting. Just ask our sweet Sandy.
Back in June she discovered she tested positive for the BRCA1 gene and she’s begun the arduous process of taking precautionary measures including considering voluntary prophylactic mastectomy. This week she had her ovaries removed. Please send her all the love and positive vibes you can. We love you, Sandy!!
Last Friday I was sad about Elliot. Sad for what could have been, sad that we’d never be special, sad that it had to end.
I texted him my heaviness.
“Today I’m feeling a little sad that the timing of things was bad for us. I really liked what we were doing: all the talking, the hanging out, etc. It was a sweet and fun 4 weeks in the beginning, a real treat. How you doin?”
“Sorry you’re bummed. I’m OK, doing the back to school thing, getting ready to go out of town for work next week. Making a concerted effort to be in touch with my parents.”
The ol’ “I’m sorry you feel that way” line. It plunged me a little deeper into my sadness, but then something odd happened: I popped back up like a buoy. I had dodged a bullet.
During our ill-fated and brief affair he told me repeatedly that he was an “asshole” and that sex wasn’t that important to him. I couldn’t believe him, outright refused to really, but in the end I had to believe and take action. I can’t be with someone who is so mired in depression and introversion and finds himself incapable of giving even the littlest glimmer of something. And I definitely can’t be with someone who considers himself disinterested in sex. I ignored my exhusband’s claims and that bought me a one-way ticket to sexual misery.
In that same text exchange I clarified our relationship and we agreed we wanted to continue with a friendship and professional association (we have complimentary careers). Relief washed over me, I saw the lighthouse.
I didn’t think about him again until he texted me Monday morning asking for some advice. We chatted, got him sorted out, made jokes. I put my phone down and forgot about him all over again.
Until that night when he texted me again from a remote work destination.
“I’m at a place called Busty Bob’s that has 25¢ oysters. Probably not gonna try those.” It was a reference to our first date where the oysters gave me food poisoning and I had to cut our date short and it was then he decided he wanted me in his life.
We chatted some, he made more jokes, I replied and then it stopped.
Today he’s crossed my mind and I’ve gone to text him several times, but have stayed my itchy fingers. Our friendship will unfold however it should, but in the mean time I’m going to turn towards sunshine, not rain. Like Peter.
Sweet Peter whose aversion to condoms never stopped him from wanting to have a good makeout sesh and make me cum a few times. We met 3 years ago shortly after things ended with The Neighbor. He never apologized or felt bad for not being able to fuck me with his dick, he just switched gears and ate at the apex of my thighs like the whistle had blown and finger fucked me to oblivion while making love to my face with his soft, supple mouth.
We liked to hang out in my hot tub or go for a swim. He bought a pair of swim trunks that have permanent residence on my bathroom hook for whenever he comes over. “Other friends can wear them, too,” he told me knowing I was a busy woman. He was always a pleasure to be around.
He’s tall, 6’6″, 10 years younger than me, has dark hair and green almond-shaped eyes. His body is lithe and pale, his mind quick, and he’s got a hall pass from a begrudging girlfriend who’s my age.
It wasn’t until things with Elliot began to unravel that I threw caution to the wind and on one of our afternoon trysts let him fuck me bareback. I don’t know why I did that – it just felt right – and the results were miraculous. He was rock hard and delicious. He strained to control himself and slowly stroked us both with long pauses and pull outs.
“I don’t want this to end too quickly,” he kept saying.
We rolled around entwined, laughing and kissing during his pauses. He’d say the kindest things and I would squeeze him and nibble his neck careful not to leave any marks.
He filled me up twice that afternoon and we lay in each other’s arms and I told him all my woes with Elliot. My heart was breaking over one man and yet I found solace in the arms of another, so tender and kind.
We’ve met nearly every week since that fateful condom-free week. As the tears fell in my alone time, he filled me up when we were together. The loss of Elliot made all the more bearable for the tender kisses I got from Peter.
I have to make this quick because I’m headed to Elliot’s for the first time since meeting his wife. This will only be the second time I’ve seen him since then. Exactly a week ago I was ready to end it because I don’t want to be in a relationship with someone who pushes me away and shuts down when shit hits the fan, but I couldn’t get him to call me to do it. The irony.
This weekend, I feel less like ending it, though, and more like just accepting it for what it is: a very pale smear to the bright and vivid thing I believed it to be. Besides, I haven’t been lacking in male companionship, so what does it matter?
Peter filled me up 14 ways to Tuesday the afternoon before I met Eleanor. Our trysts have been filled with passion and cuddles and his long limbs entwined with my mine. And last night a stunning young man whose dark skin burned against mine drove several hours just to come see me. He filled up all my holes with his giant cock and made sure I could see what was happening between us contorting my body in ways I didn’t know it could bend while he drilled into me.
I lay in his nook and he played with my hair and we laughed at how when the drugstore clerk automatically asked me how my night was going he didn’t realize he was ringing up a box of extra extra large Magnum condoms.
“Well…” I hesitated. It was then he saw what was in his hands and he laughed out loud.
“Sorry,” he smiled mirthfully. “I tried to keep a straight face.”
“It’s ok and my night is going really well!”
I slept fitfully in his hotel room and only just now grabbed a short nap. I can still feel the effects of our date – both on the toilet and in my alertness – but Elliot surprised me with a text around 3 pm asking me over for pizza and gelato.
He’s alone tonight and so off I go to see what’s left between us. The only other time I’ve seen him was a chaste and disappointing breakfast a week after the meet and greet with his lovely wife. I don’t think you serve gelato to someone you’re about to dump, so I’m curious to hear what he has to say.