Like when you become a cat for just one magical moment.
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Appreciating the little things.
Tag: Sinful Sunday
A quiet morning.
I woke up this morning to quiet, a stillness. No one was texting me and – more importantly- no was not texting me.
I told The Golfer last week that I was busy for two weeks and would hit him up when I got free again. This morning I realized I could see him tonight, but my resistance to rejection is either high or low, depending on how you look at it: I don’t want to process yet someone else not wanting to spend time with me.
I don’t remember the last time my life was this man-free. I have always jockeyed for attention and sex from someone. If there wasn’t someone on deck, then I was plotting how to get someone there.
Today, I took my baby to the airport at 5 am to fly to the west coast to be with my sister, took the dog to the river for a two-hour hike and binge-watched Broadchurch on Netflix – the entire first season.
And I completely forgot about The Golfer.
I also avoided doing some administrative life things, but oh well. Sometimes I’m a shitty adult. Sometimes I kill it. Who’s signed up for 4 gym classes this week? This girl.
I took a selfie for the first time in weeks while on the trail and it’s so not sexy, so not revealing, so not sexual in any way I felt like it was worth sharing.
Just me being me. Hot and sweaty at the water’s edge sitting on an exposed root of a 50 ft tall cypress. No nipples, no nudity. Paddle boarders and kayakers rowed by in the baking sun while the dog cooled off in the dark waters along the bank behind me.
I felt calm. And relieved. No one was hurting me and more importantly, I wasn’t allowing it.
It was like walking by a perfumed woman.
One minute it was there: real, wonderful, delicious in its lingering scent. Like a garden around the corner in full bloom.
And then, as if swept away on a breeze, it was long past me and the space between us convinced him he was wrong: it was nothing to pursue or look forward to with me.
He had decided he would cancel our date tonight and any further engagements.
The Magical Sub was not so magical after all.
And I was right.
I choked on tears in the car when I got the first warning text at 12:30 expressing his reservations. I was headed to the grocery store to buy supplies. I sat in the parking lot instead and replied, calmly and warmly. Four hours later he finally confirmed he’d had a change of heart.
No matter, really.
I’d driven straight home and crawled under my covers in my workout clothes and cried off and on into my pink velvet pillow shams for the rest of the afternoon.
The house was a mess and there was no food. I’d gone to no trouble. Fuck him. Fuck it.
I didn’t respond to his last text apologizing and saying he felt like an asshole. Well, yeah. You should. Not going to argue with you; I’m going to walk away with my head held high, tyvm.
Prior to this afternoon he’d excitedly asked me about my rope skills and sent drooling emojis about seeing me again. There were lots of warm smiles and exclamations from him.
I guess the bright cold winter air sobered him up.
I can’t quite understand why I even keep trying, to be honest. Such a waste of my everything.
My last Sinful Sunday of the year. Click below for everyone else!
I am a Super Mom.
Peter is a ray of sunshine in my cloudy, lonely, busy, lovely, exhausting, fun and complicated life. Each week we send a few texts; sexy, funny, flirty. We narrow down a time to meet and we make it happen. In my office on rare occasions, but mostly in my little apartment with dozing animals and late afternoon sunshine as our backdrop where I get to see the green of his eyes.
Yesterday he darkened my doorway with a smile and a sweet kiss hello. I gave him a Topo Chico and he sat on a kitchen bar stool while I wedged myself between his knees and we talked forever like we always do and I melted against him.
“I like this height thing,” I said and dipped my head just a smidge to kiss his soft lips.
I’m barely taller standing than he is sitting. We laughed into each other’s smiles and ran our hands along each other’s arms and chests. He cupped my breasts and moaned, pulled my “Super Mom” shirt up and over my head. My bare breasts bounced between us and I arched my back. He knew what to do.
I held his dark head to my breast and leaned into his wet, suckling mouth, pulled back and tore his work shirt off and matched up our nipples and wriggled a little.
He stood up and towered over me.
“Well there goes that height equity,” I quipped.
He took my hand and I led him back to my room.
Eyeing my bed I laughed, “But we’ll be equal again in a minute.”
Naked and astride his narrow hips I stuffed him inside of me and rocked and rolled on him with abandon. He grabbed the hams of my ass and massaged them against his shaft until we both lost our shit entirely. Moaning and groaning, cussing and thrusting.
His beautiful face focused on mine as I sought release atop him, careful to leave no marks on him with my clutching, pawing hands. He tasted salty and sweet as he gritted against his own pleasure, my green-eyed beast of a man.
Once, twice, three times I lost myself in his breath and deep, wet kisses with him buried entirely inside of me. I grabbed my Hitachi and pressed it against my mound as he twitched and gently bucked against me. I came like a banshee that time and collapsed on top of him as he finally let go and came with me, dumping all his delicious jizz into my hungry little body.
“Fuuuuck,” we said, and laughed and panted together conspiratorially.
We talked and giggled some more until I noticed the beautiful late afternoon light filtering in through my window.
“Can I take some pics of you for the blog? The lighting is so good right now.”
He said yes and I fluttered around him adjusting sheets and clicking my phone and pressing my body against his and clicking some more. I felt shy and awkward, but really didn’t want to lose the light or the opportunity.
I mentioned writing something about this moment and he said he’d want to read it. I admitted to having already written about him. “Oooh, I want to read!” he said as he buried his face in my breasts.
I held him close and laughed. The truth is I’m nervous to have him read me, but am willing. He didn’t press and I didn’t offer more.
I clicked the camera a few more times – click click click – before we showered and washed away all remnants of our sex with the little green and white stripped bar of soap a girlfriend brought me from New Zealand.
“Does she ever leave town?” I asked. He knew what I meant.
“She’ll be visiting her sister’s new baby in January for a whole weekend,” he answered. “Would you like to have an overnight??”
“Fuck yeah, I would,” I said and pulled his face down to mine for a kiss.
I gathered the socks for him the dog had squirreled away while we were busy and finished our tryst with more smiling kisses on my tip toes. Time with Peter is at once long-lasting and quick and I wished I wasn’t saying goodbye.
“Bye, gorgeous,” I called to him just before he rounded the corner to the stairs.
“Bye, sexy,” he called back.
I locked the door and finished getting dressed then scurried off to an event for Pey, filled to the brim with Peter. Just like a good Super Mom should.
Ed. Note: Pic posted with Peter’s permission.
This is gonna hurt.
I spent yesterday on the water with friends and slathered a generic brand of SPF 30 Sport sunblock on me. Twice.
I think I may sue.
Want to join in on writing Every Damn Day in June?:
I’ve been braless for four days.
Dawn in London.
By my little kitchen-bed.
Heart fuller than it should be, as full as I need it to be.
It’s heart-shaped.
My loneliness, that is.
Erotic.
Your cock choked and purple at attention in my warm hand, beautifully bound with a wide, golden ribbon, wrapped with a bow. Your gift to me.
How I yearn for its obedience and your loss of control which I catch on the wind as you set it free. I collect it like so many wild flowers on a morning walk, my pile of power a sumptuous, heady fragrance.
I look back over my shoulder at you, wriggle down on your hips, clasp your throbbing meat in my hands and slowly milk you. Long, friendly strokes, light slaps, a tug on your bulbous scrotum.
Your cries caress my ears, your semen spurts dutifully into my hands, my smile curves upon my lips. The leather around your wrists groans with the strain of your body arching into its ecstasy. Just like I wanted you to.
Mm.
I hope to continue my travels along the lanky lines of your body, the pale valleys and cut ridges, the tender spots of your emotional domain.
I’ll miss you while you’re gone.
I have a boyfriend.
Kind of.
His name is Faisal.
He’s got four legs and a tail and actually “he” is three.
Three four-legged, furry, needy, loving, demanding, individual, pains in the ass who are always happy to see me. Even the cats.
They cuddle around me on cold nights and stretch long and lean like pelts laid out in the warm summer heat.
They give about as good as they get, which is to say a lot and nothing.
I feed and care for them, provide them with my body on which to lay and adventures for the dog and loving indifference for the cats. They in turn withhold any longstanding urge to murder me and lick my face off.
I cannot imagine my life without them and their ceaseless demands for care and attention.
Sometimes I think they are the only things on the planet who care where I am and if I am alive because who else is going to feed them?
But more importantly, how else will they center their universe without me as their sun?
Shut up. I know there are a lot more suns than just me, but let me bask in this idea that to them I am integral to their happiness.
If only I knew a Faisal on two legs.
