“That will forever be the hottest porno I’ll ever see my entire life,” he said after I came long and hard the first time, his cock buried deep inside of me.
This was after I pet my pussy with legs splayed. After I tied him up and sucked his cock. After I rimmed his tight little anus with my finger as he slid deep inside of me. After he untied his hands and pounded into me. After he scratched my back and bit my shoulder. After he wailed like a mad man on my flanks grunting and moaning like a goddamned beast riding his mount into the belly of hell.
And lastly, after I came and sobbed a second time he dragged me up and out of bed.
He helped me stagger to the mirror. “Look at her.” I swept my tousled hair out of my eyes, but some was still plastered to my face. I was rosy from the crown of my head to my pink polished toes. “Look.” He squared my shoulders off with his hands. “Now that’s a fucked woman.”
“Mmmhmm,” I nodded and wobbled into the living room. Lost, happy, heavy. We’d somehow recalibrated tonight.
He picked up the vacuum and finished what he started over an hour before.
When he left, he sucked on my nipple through my shirt as I praised his housekeeping, “As soon as I remember my name,” I told him, “I will write you a glowing recommendation.”
He smiled and kissed me one more time and I thanked him again. “And don’t forget, you’re welcome to vacuum for Noodle when she comes Friday, too.”
You said you didn’t want me to ask Downstairs Neighbor to vacuum, you’d do it. You didn’t say when, but I knew you would keep your word. I put on my new white linen night shorts and a men’s Hanes tank-top, see-though and delicious on my heavy breasts. I can’t figure out if you’ve seen me more dressed in day clothes or night, but you’ve given me inspiration to look sexy before bed for months now.
Your knock came around 9:30. You were dressed for the gym, no smiles, just your vacuum cleaner in hand and a look that said, “Let’s get this over with.” I felt guilty. My floors were covered in chewed pencil and torn sheepskin rug from the puppy. You plugged it in and started combing through the debris.
I didn’t know what to do with myself. Your mood, usually bright and sweet, was somber. I asked if you were ok. You shrugged. I busied myself with moving big objects out of your way, bending over, pulling my shoulders back. I’m not sure you noticed.
Then the vacuum began to smoke. “Fuck,” you murmured as you turned it over and started taking it apart, a tendril of grey twisting up to the ceiling.
I hurried to comply as you tinkered away. No luck. “Are you mad at me?” I ventured. The energy in the apartment was off, weird.
“No, not at all. I’m mad at the dog.” We both looked at her plaintively looking at us from her crate, cute beyond measure, but guilty as sin.
“Ok, good. When you’re not your usual chipper self I feel bad, like it’s my fault.”
“That’s sorta your problem,” you answered, “I’m really fine.” I knew what you meant. I was projecting.
As D-Day looms heavy on my mind I am hypersensitive to all our interactions. I’m reading everything into nothing, you poor thing. You have no idea. “You’re right,” I forced a smile on my face and sat to watch you switch to my behemoth of a vacuum and continue cleaning.
When mine died, too, you went back to fixing yours. With the motor running and no smoke to speak of you went about your task. “So, how was your day today?” I asked you.
“Eh. It wasn’t that great, not that bad.”
“What’d you do tonight?” I had hoped my earlier pics would have prompted you to rush over, but you’d said you were “busy.”
“Nothing.” My heart lurched. You just don’t get it.
“How was your day, Hy? You’re not your usual chipper self, either.”
“Eh. Not that great, really. I wasn’t nearly as productive as I wanted to be and when I feel that way, I get angsty and can’t chill at night. It’s one of those nights for me. I don’t really know what to do with myself.”
“I’m the same way.” You quietly passed the cleaner by the couch and I looked off towards the kitchen, my thoughts lacing through me like barbed wire.
Your wave caught my eye. I turned to look at you and you used your fingers to draw your mouth up into a smile. It had the effect you wanted: a smile tugged at my mouth. “Ok,” you suddenly said with a silly exaggerated sigh. You started to take off your shorts. You were rallying for me!
Your black gym shorts fell to the ground followed shortly by your grey shirt. The pile of flesh behind your boxer briefs wobbled tantalizingly before me. “Go get your panties.” My face lit up.
“Yes, really. Go!” Your smile split your boyishly handsome face.
I jumped up and ran into my bedroom, picked out a pair of red and pink striped bikini underpants and raced back, my arm behind my back. You looked at me skeptically and then laughed out loud as I brought the ridiculously girlie panties round in front of me. You took them, gave me a haughty look and stalked as manishly as possible to the kitchen for privacy to change. You came back out with your heavy meat cradled in red and pink, your balls bulging out of the crotch, not quite entirely covered.
You pulled your shoulders back and strutted back to the vacuum, chin held high. My peals of laughter and delight rose above the engine. I buried my face in my hands. It was utterly ridiculous and wonderful and so many other things. My exhusband and you, TN, share some things, namely a brooding, introverted nature. My experience has always been that once my exhusband entered that head space he never came out; it was my job to make him ok, everything ok, me ok. But you, you’re not my exhusband, you’re better at controlling your demon, you’re smarter. You saw me, saw my need and you rose to meet me, to draw me out. It was unexpected and loving, dammit. You were loving.
“I had a thought earlier tonight to come over, cum on you, and then leave. Would you have liked that?”
The question made me shy. Its demeaning undertones demanded trust and it made my heart race. “Yes, I would,” I replied plucking at my shorts distractedly.
“I thought you might…” your own shyness surrounding such an audacious act evident.
“You know, you should utilize me more. This isn’t going to last forever.”
You came to where I was sitting and turned off the machine. I stroked you and felt your cock leap under my touch. I came around to take pictures. You politely obliged me. Your rigid pink manhood jutted out of the tops of the fabric, the vacuum at your hip.
“I think it needs your mouth,” he observed. “That’s not going to end any time soon.”
I fell to my knees and slurped on your sweet skin, tugged on your sac. You moaned and pressed your hips forward, pulled away and switched the vacuum back on. I sat back down and watched you enter my bedroom. I hurriedly followed and picked up the floor, tossed my vibrator in its bedside basket and sat on the bed smiling like an idiot, so happy.
Then you took it right back out and tossed it to me with a meaningful look. You wanted me to masturbate while you vacuumed. I giggled as my pussy giggled, too. “I’m not going to clean one more inch until that thing is turned on.”
I rolled my eyes and laid down, dying of embarrassment, excitement crawling through me slowly. The engine of the vacuum drowned out the one between my legs. I reached my left hand around under my buttock and slipped two fingers inside of me. I caught the jerk of your head as you stopped to watch. You switched the light off so I wasn’t staring into the brightness and then I felt your crushing weight on me, your mouth latched to my nipple.
I drew my fingers out of my sopping pussy and ran them through your hair, clutching you to me. I began to quake. My body had already released itself 5 times just a few hours earlier to thoughts of being watched by you and loved by another. You said I’d have to go for 6 or die trying.
I could smell me on my fingers, my perfume strong and heady, ready to beckon all the rutting men around me to my sex.
You sat up then and pushed your erection into my mouth. I sucked as my clit buzzed. I remembered catching my lips on the edge of the head in your car Saturday night and I quivered, pushed down farther on your shaft. Sucked, sucked, sucked.
You moaned as I began to shudder and the orgasm spilled down through me, your deliciousness muffling my cries of pleasure. The hardness of your arousal in my mouth counterpoint to the fluid spasms running through me. You kissed me fiercely and laid down, your head at the footboard.
“I’ve never done that before,” I said in a panting exhale.
Tentatively, I began to stroke you, you were so hard. “I came 20 minutes before I came over. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have. You have any idea how many times you’ve said that to me? I don’t know why you do that. I’m right here.”
“So am I supposed to only cum when you’re around?”
“Not all,” I purred as I took your tip in my mouth, “Not even close. I’m just saying…” and I bore down on you and stroked and pulled and licked and flicked with all my might. You stretched out under me, gasped, then sat up and grabbed me, threw me down on my back and pulled my shorts to the side. My slot was slippery and you slid right in, my panties pulled to the side so you were fully exposed.
The fabric was too much, I begged you to take mine off. You ripped them off with one smooth motion and came back inside of me and pinned my hands above my head when I tried to cover my face. A climax swooped up and through me as you pounded into me. I sobbed as you looked at me with a shit-eating grin on your sweet face.
You held my ankles high as you sat up and reared back, bludgeoning me with your cock. I cried some more, spilled ejaculate down my crack and all over your balls. Panting, I begged you to do what, I don’t know.
You kissed my neck and I inhaled your scent committing it to memory. I grabbed your back and shoulders to pull you all the way into me, more more more. I thought I was going to die and you took mercy on me and pulled out, but then spanked me hard for wanting to quit. Once, twice, three and four times. You slipped back in my hole and pumped some more and laid your hand hotly on my flanks for good measure. Stingy, flashing, writhing.
Then you were done. You kissed me and got up to turn on the light. You lifted my legs to view your handiwork. “It’s not as red as I’d hoped, but good enough.” I could only nod assent.
All of it unexpected.
I sat up and found my shorts as you found your clothes and got redressed. I found my shoes and got the puppy’s leash to let her out for the long night of sleep ahead. You gathered up your vacuum and followed me out the door. “Thanks for that,” you said.
“No, thank you,” I replied.
Back up in my apartment I heard you leave for the gym. Your whistling filled the halls and my heart as you walked down the flights of stairs to your car.
I hope you’ll miss me half as much as I’m going to miss you, TN. You are what I want.
Yesterday I lounged on my therapist’s large brown couch, a foot tucked under my bottom. I’ve worked with this man for 9 years. Nine. And only after the 8 and a half was I brave enough to share a little bit about who I am sexually.
“So, I’m doing ok,” I start, “last week was pretty good. Things are going well with The Neighbor. I feel balanced.” As I sit and talk, my eyes roam about the room, skitter across book titles like Pathology, The Neurotic Child and Adolescent, Inner Torment. I feel like I’m in good company. My face cracks into a smile as I finish my thought, “But I don’t know how I’m going to recreate that feeling. I mean, I had, 8, maybe 10 interactions with men, a great week at work and with my friends. It was magical, but even I know it’s a lot.”
My therapist, a man of about 60 with a salt and pepper goatee and floppy hair, put his hand to his chin and quietly looked at me, said nothing.
“I feel more — ‘stable’ isn’t the right word, nor is ‘secure’ — I feel, calmer. More in control. Ever since TN said the “6 Strikes” thing I feel better about losing him, less on the receiving end. More empowered.” I pause and look at more books: Jung, Freud, Rogers, my friends and mentors. “And I’m certain now that TN is in love with me. He may never tell me, he may not even admit it to himself, but I know he does. There’s no way he can’t. And knowing it for myself makes me feel amazing. I have the love of this young, Midwestern boy next door and I still get to go out on dates and fuck whoever I want.”
Finally, he decides to speak. “It’s interesting to me that you don’t seem interested at all in developing that part of you that is ok being alone with yourself. You describe a life that sounds chaotic to me, but you don’t think so. You are in control, in your element.” I quietly listen and give a small nod.
And he’s right. The thing I’ve worked so hard on the past year and a half is balance and acceptance. My entire life has been comprised of fighting my core urges, and to what end? The demise of a marriage, strained relationships with my parents and sister, heartbreaking disappointments. And all because I was working harder than everyone else in the room just to be accepted. Well, fuck that and fuck everyone else.
“I’m tired of subscribing to this American ideal that you are only enlightened if and when you love being by yourself all the time. I want to run head first into being me and see where that leads me. I don’t not like being alone, I just struggle with it when I don’t want to be alone. I get tired, I need time outs, I need to be left alone. But on those nights when I want contact and I can’t get it, I’m frantic. It’s true. That’s the only thing I’m trying to work on changing.”
“But all these dates,” he counters, “you put yourself out there and, I can’t help but admit again, it just all sounds so chaotic.”
“No. I love it. I love people, I love the energy. And what’s so different from having three dates on Monday from having three friend commitments on Sunday?? It’s still a lot and I can handle it. Driving from one to the next I feel more alive, like I have a purpose, like I’m really me.”
Comfortable silence hung in the air and the red digital numbers on the clock ticked by; that indoor ivy plant everyone has languished in a beam of sunlight to my right.
I sometimes wonder if I should tell him everything about my sex life and if I’m doing myself a disservice by keeping my proclivities a secret. I’ve opened up to him about Troy, but not the group sex or MMFs; he knows that TN and I have an active sex life, but no clue to what deeply penetrating degree. But it’s not the acts that are relevant, it’s the feelings behind them. And I’m completely open about those.
So, I feel strangely balanced after a week filled with dates, sex, blowjobs, desire, wanting, emails, laughs, friends, activities, accolades at work, drinks with friends, and tons of quality time with TN. We talked for hours, flirted, kissed, petted and played. He surprised me multiple times with sweet words and kind gestures, a desire to stay with me longer than even I wanted. And all without sex. All without me wanting it.
I’m happy to feel this empowered calm, but I’m fighting a knot of nervousness that it will melt under the bright sun of my exposed week without my child by my side. My life is cyclical: non-custodial weeks find me frantic and scrabbling for things to fill me and my time, custodial weeks I am soft and centered. Having an awesome non-custodial week, while exciting, is also generally a fluke. And I’m a little worried, though I wish desperately I wasn’t. But again, it’s me, so I’m going to walk right into it and see what happens.
Last night after I’d read Little Critter and Spider Man books and tucked in my sleeping babe I went back out to my couch. I text some friends, catch myself giggling and realize I was in that place within me: I wanted company. So, instead of fighting it, I texted TN this with a note that said, “They’re lonely.”:
I hit send and then realize I was actually goddamned exhausted. Hmm. Fancy that. But, I’m going with this shit, so I get up, put the leash on the puppy to take her out one last time before I went to bed and literally ran into TN on my way out the door.
“What are you doing here?”
“You said your tits were lonely.” The puppy wraps her leash around his legs and wriggles against his shins.
Bent over untangling him I look up at him, “They are still lonely. Stay here, I’ll be right back.”
We lay on the couch and he curls into me, a yang to my yin. He discovers I’m insanely ticklish and makes me squeal and plead. How could it be that after 7 months he doesn’t know this about me? It’s telling. Then he pulls down my tank top and suckles on my breast. Heat floods to my core. I haven’t been touched, really touched in days. I stroke his hair, we chit-chat between his suckles, he rubs my legs, my mound over my little pajama shorts. But I didn’t touch him.
I’d made a bet with him on Friday on our date that I wouldn’t touch his cock until he asked me to. His bump-condition-thingy (and no, it’s not an STD, just an unfortunate rash for those of you who have been wondering) was torturing the both of us, causing him anxiety and me frustration, so the bet was to alleviate both for us. Of course I lost the bet two hours after I made it because he caught me completely absent-mindedly massaging it as he stood behind me. Talk about fucking stupid. It had taken the both of us a few seconds to even realize what I was doing! Oh well. But I had reinstated the bet and last night I was sticking to it. I wanted the control. He had other ideas, however.
He peels off his clothes and his erection springs out and down like a falling tree, bobbing and swinging under its own weight. I snuggle up beside him and pull my covers closer to me. I don’t know what to do. He tells me to hold it.
I feel shy, but do as he says. In my hand it’s thick and hot, a beautiful dusky pink. I slide the skin up and over the head and back down again. He rolls onto his back and I climb up on top, spread his knees with my own and watch him tug on his meet, his balls bouncing as if on a blacktop.
I lean over and breathe hotly on the head, let spit slip out of my mouth onto the head. I look at him and his light blue eyes are boring into my own darker ones. “Ok. Just the tip,” I say. “Don’t worry, you’ll still be a virgin when I’m done.” He laughs, but cuts it short as I take him into my mouth. His hand rests on the back of my head and I never get “just the tip,” as he eases his cock as far as I can take into my face. My pussy pulses. He just took control.
I lave his cock with my velvet tongue and grip the shaft with my left hand, bracing my weight with my right. His thighs tense and relax in rhythm to my ministrations. He is close. And fast. He grabs me and hauls me up his chest. I’m still clothed, but he’s buck naked, his chest hair springy against the cotton of my tank top. He kisses me hard, I beg him to let me finish, but he instead he orders me to roll over onto my back. “But, why? I don’t understand.”
“I don’t want to cum, yet.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Do you understand now?” he asks as he shifts my shorts to the side and presses the head of his cock into my hole.
“Yes. Yes, I understand,” I moan as he slowly pushes all the way inside of me. My pussy weeps with joy, my chest swells. I feel one with the primordial loam, all woman-kind, the sun and moon and stars. There is nothing more pure, more me than this moment of being filled with the perfect partner.
I am overwhelmed with a sense of balance I can’t create by myself. The sounds of sex, of his breathing, his taste in my mouth and the stretching of my center by him. I cry into my hand, my arm, anything to stifle the noise from my slumbering child in the next room. I grip the wire head-board and push back with all my might. He mewls his own passion, losing control.
He flips me over, pulls my pants off. “Mmm. I haven’t seen you from this angle in too long, Hy.” I can’t speak. I only raise my bottom higher for him. He slides back in and roughly pushes my shoulders down, grabs both my arms and yanks them back. Both my wrists are held tightly, painfully, in one of his. With his other he grabs my hair and pulls my face up out of the mattress. His cock rams into me. Tears run down my face, gasps are all that escape me. I rock my hips back on him.
“You love that, don’t you, you dirty little slut. You fucking slut.”
“Mmmhmm,” I manage to reply. “Yes.”
“Yes, you do, you slut.” He roughly shoves my head down and pins my arms down by side and slams into me. I’m sobbing dryly into my white sheets. My center is blooming. This is the first time it’s more than I can handle.
“Roll over again, Hy. I want you on your back.”
“TN, you’re killing me. I want to die,” I say as I comply.
“You’re not going to die. You’re going to do as I say.”
What little protest I had in me was lost into his crushing mouth and his hand buried in my cunt. He began to stroke. I whimper and grasp at shoulders, hang on for dear life. The climax swells up and over me in a thunderous crash. My ejaculate spills into his cupped hand and splatters all over us. My center is now flaming so brightly it’s painful.
I grab his wrist panting and pull it away from me. “No, really. Please,” I look into his eyes, hold contact. “We have to stop. I’m going to fucking die. I’m going to die from sex. Truly. My belly hurts.”
He chuckles and kisses me softly. “Ok, sweetie. I’m sorry for breaking you.”
“It’s ok. I think it’s my cervix. And I have to pee.” I stagger into the toilet and relieve myself. When I return to the dimly lit room he’s mostly clothed, he’s trying to figure out how to stuff his giant cock into his jeans.
I feel embarrassed that I had to cry uncle and I feel supremely stupid, like Sex Stupid, which happens frequently with him. I can’t remember my name. “What’s the capital of Peru?” he asks.
“No it isn’t.”
“Yes it is!”
“What’s the capital of Honduras?”
“Dude, no one knows that shit even on a good day! What’s the capital of Canada?”
“Canada City??” he says wryly. We laugh and I walk him to the front door.
“Fuck, that was awesome. Thanks. It’d been way too long,” I say with a shy grin.
“Yes, it had.”
“I’m sorry I had to stop. Maybe my body forgot how to fuck you.”
“It’s ok, I had fun. We’ll practice some more.” he replies as he pulls me close for a long, slow kiss. And then he leaves and I shuffle off to bed. Feeling balanced, feeling nervous, feeling sore, but mostly, feeling happy.
“I had a really great time tonight,” he said sounding surprised and pleased. He kissed me then walked out the door.
“Me, too,” I answered back.
My feelings about The Neighbor, as everyone knows, are complicated. I’m not sure what the split is for me between being cool and being a mess, but there’s definitely both residing in me. The messages he sends me are all over the map: leave me alone, come to me; I want you, I don’t want you; we’re dating, we’re not dating; you’re the hottest woman ever, I want a woman who looks nothing like you. I’m beginning to forgive myself for my mood swings. I’m only human, after all.
Last night we had plans. Around 7 I texted him to ask when we were hanging out. He said, “How about after dinner? At 8?” Immediately, I’m put out. I’d turned down a dinner invitation with Roy because I figured eating would be part of my time with TN, but ok, whatever. Again, more mixed messages, no communication. He’s not to blame, the fact we don’t talk enough is.
I read something today that really resonated with me: There are three things typically at the root of what upsets us: 1) an unmet expectation, 2) a thwarted intention, or 3) a communication issue. Makes sense, right?
Last night I was in a foul mood. A mood Hyacinth rarely indulges in, actually. I’m uncomfortable with being angry or irritable; I’m afraid that no one will allow me to feel this way and then reject me. When TN came over I was sleeping in my robe. We laid down together and dozed and chatted. I told him I was in a bad way and he took my hand and put it on “my security cock”. He immediately got hard. I stroked him while I told him about my date with Mitchell, my ambivalence about my second date, my long week, my fairly good day.
We inspected his bumps on his belly which were fading and he pulled his cock out. I gripped it, but couldn’t bring myself to suck it. I wasn’t even in the mood for his dick. “Wow. You really are feeling bad!” he commented.
“Yep,” I threw over my shoulder as I left the bedroom.
He followed me out and caught up to me. “What can I do to make you feel better, Hycie?” he asked kneading my shoulders.
Leave me the fuck alone, is what I thought, but instead I said, “I don’t know… I just feel like shit. I’m hungry for one, and don’t have any wine. Let’s walk to the store.”
I got dressed and he watched me while lounging on my bed. “So tell me more about Mitchell. Do you guys have chemistry?”
I didn’t know how to answer. “I can have chemistry with anyone for two hours. I don’t know.”
“What’s our chemistry like?”
Now I really didn’t know how to answer. “What do you think our chemistry is like?” I volleyed back.
“It’s good. Really good.”
“Ok, then, I agree. With Mitchell, it’s hard to tell. It’s not like what you and I have.”
We went next door for him to put on his pants and send an email. I laid down in his bed. He came in and turned off the lights. “Hycie needs to be spooned,” he said and crawled in behind me and wrapped his arm around me, his hand filled up with a breast.
I wanted to just disappear. This push and pull on me has exhausted me. I don’t find it remotely amusing anymore. Either come at me or just leave me alone, but don’t be kind to me when I need kindness. It’s not fair. Then I felt his arousal against my bottom.
“Is that your thigh or are you hard?” I asked.
I wriggled back a little and he drew my skirt up over my hip and hit my flank hard. Sparks flew through me. “Do it again.” His heavy hand came down again. And again. He traced the hot spot with his fingertips between spanks and my mood shifted. This felt better. This physical pain at his hand. I arched back harder into the cradle of his hips. “More,” I said.
He hit me some more until even the traces hurt exquisitely.
Soon, his clothes were off and my skirt was hiked up over my waist, panties flung to the floor. He entered me slowly and plunged deeply, with care. We rocked in slow-motion, eyes locked together in the darkness, his hand on my head to keep it from bumping the headboard.
“Your pussy, it feels so fucking good. Oh my God, I love fucking you. Jesus Christ!” and he continued his slow punishment.
My cunt pulsed and vibrated around his cock, my chest grew heavy and emotion swelled into my throat. I clung to his buttocks and wrapped my arms around him, his face was buried in my neck. Still slow, still powerfully deep we locked together in the embrace.
He lifted up and drew my legs up to his shoulders and kept at me. All I could feel was him inside of me, his hands firmly gripping my ankles. Then he crossed my legs and I lost it. My pussy cried with my face. Finally he stopped and disengaged.
“We’ve never fucked this gently before,” he said.
“No, but I wouldn’t say it was ‘gentle’. That was incredible.”
We got dressed and ran to the store. He decided to make me a snack since my mood seemed to prevent me from making any decisions. We bought what we needed and headed back to my place.
Crossing the dark parking lot with our bags he mentioned he didn’t think he could ever date someone who smoked. Ok, yet another tick against me seeing as I currently smoke. “Smoking is just something I do. It’s not who I am. I haven’t smoked for years. It’s just a phase.” He’s never criticized me before for my indulgence; this was the first I’d ever heard of it. I felt defeated and my mood tanked some more.
Back in my kitchen he mentions that we’re dating. I’m in no mood for these games and so I said, “We’re not dating, remember?? We’re just fucking and hanging out.”
“But I’ve taken you on dates to redacted and redacted!”
“Ok, then we can start splitting the bill in the future.”
He had me there. “Ok,” I laughed, “we’re dating!”
But really, we’re not. Because remember, TN? I’m too old, I have a kid, and [now] I smoke. I’m not your number 1, like you are mine. Or maybe I am? I have no fucking clue. You’d just told me on our way to the store that I made you feel amazing and you were so grateful to me for that; that you hoped you made me feel as special as I did you.
I give up. I bloody give up. You give me so much and this must be the toll, this constant confusion. If having a loving, warm, sweet, kind, sensual, endowed, smart, funny man in my life means I have to put up with his indecision and cat-like introverted qualities, then so be it. You’re mine, I’m yours. Let’s just call a spade a fucking spade and move on. I’m doing my best to do just that.
We played poker, ate his guacamole, watched some SVU. He sucked my tits when I lost, then he suggested we go swimming. I said, “Sure.”
The pool deck was dark and empty and we headed straight for the hot tub. Steam rose off its surface and the bugs chirped merrily behind the stone walls. I slid into the heat, my back sighed, and soon I had closed the distance between us where I discovered he was wearing gym shorts. No mesh, free cock and balls.
I slid my hand up his leg and he was hard as a rock. I slipped it out and sucked quietly. He threw his head back and said how much he loved it. He grabbed my head and increased my tempo. “You’re such a dirty little slut, aren’t you?” he said. My answer was a whimper and a suck. “Such a dirty, exposed little slut. You love this. You want to be caught.” Again, my answer was a whimper and a suck.
I stopped and looked over my shoulder. “There’s a nook right here,” I pointed to a hidden spot from eyes, “we could fuck, you know.” He leaned forward off the edge and then pulled back.
“I want to, but I think I’ll have to be drunk for that!” he seemed embarrassed at his own inhibitions. I went back to him and stood up. He pulled my bikini top aside and let my breasts glisten under the moon- and pool light.
“They’re so beautiful,” he remarked and dipped his mouth to each in turn. “Your skin is so hot,” he murmured against me and pulled me closer. My belly touched his, his arm wrapped around my waist.
And then, just like that, I was done. “You wanna go up?” he asked.
We climbed the stairs and he walked me into my foyer dripping.
“I had a really great time tonight,” he said sounding surprised and pleased. He kissed me then walked out the door.
I’m all kinds of anxious today. The Neighbor came over last night and we played Scrabble and chatted. I was a mess: nervous, weird, odd. I tried to explain to him about my work week — which involves FEELINGS — and it made me more a mess. We laughed about it, I admitted I was feeling strange and we moved on.
Then, he undid his pants and hefted out his cock to distract me from my turn and we spent the next hour or so fucking each others’ brains out and drenching my bed with my juices.
I like this guy so fucking much.
Way more than is good for me. He told me he’s hanging out with this girl friend of his tonight – a chick he doesn’t really like, but really wants to fuck. He said he’d consider dating her if she admitted she was shallow and all wrong about the kind of guy she wants to end up with (older, rich, Republican, religious, and conservative). I take comfort in knowing that’ll never happen. But still.
I’m pretty certain he has no clue how I feel about him. He makes jokes about Jason and my Frankenstein boyfriend not knowing that he makes up the bulk of that person. He’s the guy I want to spend time with, he’s the guy whose cock I transfix on when masturbating, he’s the guy who knows and is liked by all my friends, he’s the guy who knows my kid, he’s the guy who I am totally myself with and rarely is even out of pajamas around.
The others are peripheral beings. Jason is rich with compliments and affection, Phillip cuddles me and fucks me till morning. Add them all up and it’s what I want in a partner — oh holy shit, did I just say PARTNER?
But all TN and I seem to do is remind each other how wrong we are for one another. He’s not older or a parent; I’m not younger and childless. Other than that, I got nothing to reject him from my prospects list. Nothing.
And I have been talking out loud to myself all morning saying things like, “TN, here’s the thing, you’ve gotten into my icy heart and I don’t think I can keep doing this knowing that one day soon you’ll stop by to tell me you’ve found a hot girl to date for real.”
“TN, you’ve weaseled your way into my heart and I don’t know what to do…”
“TN, I don’t think I can keep having sex with you because I’m beginning to have real feelings for you…”
That last one makes me want to cry. I have to decide to take what I can get (what I have now) or call it off.
I wish what I have now was enough, but it’s not. I want him to stay the night, I want to go running with him, I want him to come with me to events of my friends, I want him to check on me, I want him to think of me and tell me so.
I so didn’t want this.
And, of course, the sex was off the fucking charts last night. He cupped his hand deep inside of me and made me fill it with ejaculate. I slid my hands down his muscled torso and panted and cried and told him that my panties would be in a wad if he ended up disappearing with his date tonight for the weekend. He took notice when I said that.
He also asked me how many times I’d want to have sex with someone if I loved him and he had a huge cock if we were to spend, “say, 4 or 5 days a week together.” I told him I’d never been in love with anyone I saw that much with a giant cock, but if I were, maybe 3-4 of those days.
“Not every night? Multiple times a night?? I thought for sure you would. I think you love sex way more than I do.”
“No,” I countered, “not unless we felt like it. I got shit to do, you know; a life.” He hmphed.
I vowed a long time ago to not try to decode a man’s behavior towards me, but here I am doing it. This is what no communication, and an utter refusal on my part to do so will get you: an overwhelming feeling of being clusterfucked.
I asked The Neighbor to spank me harder. He usually gets a few good swings in during a fuck, but this time we were lounging between goes and I told him to keep hitting me until he left a welt. It took about a dozen tries, but eventually, it worked. Oh, how it worked.
Then I requested an ice cube rub down to ease my flaming skin. And he cradled my ass in his arms as he slipped the ice over my redness.
I tried a spank or two on him but it hurt my hand with equal measure. I slipped a sliver of ice in his tight little anus and spanked hard. He writhed and absorbed the piece. It was fun for 30 seconds, but I’m thinking I’ll just stay the spanked and not the spanker.