So, I basically suck. Peyton has been home sick with me most of the week, it rained all day for two of the days and now today I’m feverish and laid up. Blah blah blahbity blah. Therefore, I didn’t have an OUTSIDE picture for you guys. I debated on what to do about this and decided to cruise through my personal archives. If I could find something, great, if not, shit out of luck.
Turns out, I had a bit of foresight!
My pic from today is very basic, stark, even. I took it on my old balcony who knows how long ago. I walked out topless hoping a gardener or maintenance man would see me. I don’t think any did, but I did get my shot.
Next week’s theme is BEFORE & AFTER. (We haven’t done that one, yet, have we??)
a sentence about why you chose this particular photo
if you want to be anonymous or not
a hyperlink or URL to your Twitter handle (if you have one)
a hyperlink or URL to your blog post (if you have one and post, it must have my Boobday banner and a link back to me and only posted on Friday)
Emails sent to me with all of this info plus the theme will be given preferential treatment. I will not look up links.
My OUTSIDE tits:
NOT my OUTSIDE tits:
I chose this pic this week for outdoors, as there’s just enough to see that it’s the great outdoors, down under style! :)
This picture was taken in the forest where, a few months back, I decided to regain my freedom.
The snow is just starting to melt, it’s still a bit chilly here, but I found some pretty flower on my way up the path, which I decided to use as a prop ;-)
I like the way the branches cast shadows on my chest.
I have rather a lot of outdoor boob pictures but I decided to go with this ones from the level crossing Scavenger Hunt I did as the boobs really are taking centre stage and, as I feel that Boobday is about showing off everything including imperfections, this is a rare shot where you can also see the large scar on my tummy.
I nearly forgot today was Friday. In the vortex of my addled brain this week, I seriously thought today was Thursday. Again.
And the ironic thing is that all of these ladies sent me their pics days in advance! To that end, if I’ve left anyone out or didn’t link through, or give proper credit, girls, email me and I’ll fix it right away.
However, without further ado, I give you many luscious titties. I believe two sets are sisters, one is a first-time submission, one is after a skinny dipping session in the late Australian summer, one is a second time participant, and the others are return ladies showing off bras, tan lines, jewelery, and massive cleavage.
Please give these generous friends lots of love here or click through to the blogs, if listed, and leave love there for her. And pass it around on Twitter and such with the #Boobday hashtag.
Thank you all for being so goddamned wonderful. This week has been brutal (as evidenced by my lack of posting) and to see you all rally all on your own for this today has made me happier than you can possibly know.
Wanna participate in Boobday? Go here and read the guidelines.
PS: An enormous, heartfelt THANK YOU to those who have tossed bills into my hat lately. You are all kindhearted souls.
A friend is someone with whom you share common interests and feel safe, someone whom makes you feel right and better; a good person with a good soul with whom you’ve chosen to spend your time. There is trust, love, camaraderie.
And, simply put, a benefit is a perk. In this case, a sexy perk.
So, a friend with benefits is an amazing person you feel connected with that comes with a tasty topping. It’s special. It’s also a colossal pain in the motherfucking ass.
I make friends easily. I’m jovial, warm, open, and forgiving. I don’t make everyone my friend, but I have a knack for finding something in someone else that I can plug into and I can make it work. Once a friend, always “just a friend.” And my lovers, well, they either stay “just my lover” or become a boyfriend. Until The Neighbor. He blurred the lines of both like he was a giant eraser and my rules faded pencil.
He waltzed into my life under drunken starlight, fucked my lying, irresponsible girlfriend in my bed within two hours of my invitation into my life and was in my bed with only me — and firmly out of her life for good — within 7 days of our paths crossing.
Cigarette in hand and laughter on my lips I’d looked out over my balcony that November night and saw a pale, dark-haired man leaning over his banister. “Hi!” I’d called to him. “Your name is TN, right?? We met briefly a few months ago.”
“Yeah. And you’re Hy, right??”
“Yep! Wanna come over and hang out?”
And the rest is, as they say, history.
I resisted sex with him for several days repeating, “I don’t shit where I eat, I don’t shit where I eat,” but obviously to no avail. He was sweet and charming, utterly disarming. I found him to be wickedly funny and loved his dry Mid-Western sense of humor. And he was fun to play with.
Those first few nights together are a blur of red wine and Scrabble tiles, blind excursions down jeans and hands up shirts. He brought me DuraFlame logs like it was his job and took out my trash with a sweet sense of duty.
He blew my mind in bed, his giant cock stroked me from the inside out like he was made for me. I drenched everything we laid on and we reveled in our compatibility. My expert mouth drew from him his sweet seed for the first time in his life, his expert hands and hips drew from me mountain-like climaxes and gut-wrenching sobs.
I kept Peyton far away from the both of us as a couple, but couldn’t help but introduce him as our neighbor; soon I was introducing him to my friends, too.
We gingerly discussed boundaries and expectations. I insisted I could handle it, he reiterated it would all end when he looked for “the one.”
Jason and Phillip were decent distractions, but neither of them could stand up to the searing spotlight of TN. They soon faded into the shadows and I was left with only one man on my center stage. And then I was fucked.
It was at that moment that I realized I was in love with my young “friend with benefits”.
The friendship, so tender, natural and easy coupled with the electric, intensely satisfying sex overrode every good intention I’d had for us. I simply didn’t care what I’d promised to him. I was in love.
Book and movie endings filed through my brain on a reel, friends came forward with real life anecdotes about friends with benefits having happy endings, and my heart pattered with hope and frivolity all the while my relationship with him unraveled in a glory of fire and lights. He ripped out my heart, stomped on it repeatedly, yet came back again and again with tender, healing touches. I stumbled and gasped.
I felt like an animal in a trap: in pain, confused. I didn’t know what was happening to me or where the pain was coming from. It took me weeks to realize it was wrapped up in the silken plundering of my cunt and convivial chats we continued to share. My bad boundaries and pulverized heart didn’t know any other way of coping with the pain he’d left me in. I needed him to get over him.
And I am now a thousand miles away living next door. To the outside eye, you’d never guess the distance between us.
We are once again back to his firewood delivery and trash removal days. He curls around me during movies and rests his head on my hip, he vacuums for me in pale peach lace panties and reaches around my breasts to stroke the cleft between my legs. He shoves his giant erection down my throat and films me as I cum and squirm and whimper. We nap together. I make him dinner. He is my chauffeur. I am his stylist, his confidante, his buddy, his release. He sucks on my nipples and insists I take pictures. He texts me just to say Hi and immediately answers mine.
I am his girlfriend. I am his non-girlfriend. And I realize this cannot go on forever. It is a clusterfuck, but I see the path out. It seems strangely clear to me.
Saturday morning after breakfast with my friend and a long night of togetherness, TN and I spent the day together. At breakfast he’d sat next to me and whispered something in my ear. I’d laughed and winked at my friend. “You guys are such a great couple,” she said suddenly serious. I froze and looked at her questioningly and a little uncomfortably. “No, really. Y’all are great together. It makes me sick.” And with that she continued looking at the menu and we all went on about our morning.
Back at his place I napped in my panties under the clouds of his comforter and he periodically came in to check on me. Finally he crawled into bed with me and I lay with my hand on his erection and drifted off to sleep. I awoke on my back, my breasts exposed, and his mouth hotly pulling on my nipple. I gasped and arched and pulled him closer.
Our warmth puffed out from under the covers as I sat up and crawled between his legs and lavished my love on his rigid pole. I struggled out of my panties and climbed up on top of him and slid down, the curve of his cock hitting my g-spot as I rocked back on his hips. His headboard obnoxiously thumped our rhythm to the surrounding neighbors.
I climaxed quickly and shook my hands. We laughed at my silly, unavoidable quirk. With embarrassment, I noticed watery blood splatters on him and his sheets. I insisted that I wash all his bedding for him — his pale blue sheets no match for the body of a woman — and gathered them up and went home.
That night I neatly folded his linens with the care my grandmother taught me. I wondered what it’d be like to be able to always fold his linens for him, a small effort in love, then quickly pushed it out of my mind’s eye like pants that no longer fit. That was an old habit, thinking like that. Only an old habit, not a new hope.
Later, he helped me make my bed with my own clean sheets after he surprised me with my first DuraFlame of the season. “Close your eyes and put out your hands!” he’d said excitedly. Then he asked to grab my breasts as payment for the bed-making and I let him as I walked him to the door.
Sunday I burned the log as he vacuumed with his resplendent erection straining against the delicate threads of my panties. I wasted the rest of the log as we lay rooms away twisted in my bedroom naked and aroused. “We should have done all that in front of the fire,” I said as I walked him back to the front door.
I went to sleep, sated and light, and awoke later to a text from him. “There’s a present on your doorstep.”
I opened the door to a cold blast of air and looked down. It was another fucking log.
I shook my head and picked it up, tossed it on the grate and went back to bed. He is completely in love with me, was all I could think.
To the world, it’s just a stupid wood-shaving-pressed log saturated in chemicals, but to me — to us — it is love. It’s his heart in a crinkly, red wrapper. I want to pick it up and hold it to me, but I can’t anymore. Suddenly I realized my heart isn’t in this anymore. I’m tired of it, of his limitations. It’s not that he won’t go farther with me. I’m beginning to think he can’t.
He is my best friend. He is my lover. He is my nemesis, my source of pain. He is my lesson. I either accept rejection as part of my journey or I strive to rewire how I view love and find someone who will turn to me with open arms. It’s that simple. Do or do not. There is no try (Jesus Christ, I love Yoda).
I don’t know that I’m going to do much to change the way things are right now. Our friendship has become more fortified than ever over the past several months. The pain and heartache somehow forging a strange bond between us, a bearded-lady and her frog-faced lover under the big top. For better or worse we share something extremely special.
How I simultaneously feel close to and far from him is as mysterious as birds flying south for the winter; I am simply following some invisible compass.
A friend with benefits, indeed. I think we’ve proven it is possible, just possible and messy.
He leaves for a trip home this Thursday and the morning after he gets back he’s agreed to take me to the airport. I’ll be in San Francisco for a week. I texted him that I want to fuck his brains out before our trips, then sent him pictures I took recently of me on my back, shirt pulled up exposing my pink lace bra; one of me masturbating with the Hitachi, my skirt hiked up; and finally, one of my pink pussy, labia peaking out like a little ruffle. “It looks pretty :)” he’d texted back. “Makes me want to stick something in it…”
Indeed. I want him to.
I’ve come through this somehow. With both a friend and a benefit.
I’m in my yellow dress and I’m trying to rest up before my first date with the Law Student. Here’s my question:
If I decide to invite him back to my place to hang out, should I give The Neighbor a heads up? A, “Hey, I’m on a good date and we’re coming back to my place. I just didn’t want you to be surprised if you saw us,” kind of thing.
Here is why I’m torn: 1) He never gave me that kind of consideration so why should I give it to him?, but 2) I’m not him and actually am a considerate individual so that would be me being myself.
What do I do??
Sidenote: I’ve been spending a little completely platonic –and somewhat ironic — time with my young ex-lover this week. I have felt nothing but benign curiosity about what this next phase will look like for me/us. He, however, sent me a cock shot this morning. I think my eyes bugged out. It was an impressive photo, of course, but I wasn’t impressed.