Three points of contact

This is one of my more tenuously-strung metaphors but it’s the one that entered my mind as his lips were fixed to mine, his left hand was cupping my tender pre-menstrual breast and his right hand was inside my pants exploring the floodlands between my legs. After a rushing thought of now, this is the life, I remembered old occupational health and safety training that ladders should only be climbed with three points of contact. I preferred that this tradesman was connecting to me in three simultaneous ways rather than the ladder fastened to the top of his work vehicle.

At one stage I opened my eyes to the view of the weak moon trying to illuminate the bay past storm clouds and the sparkle of lights from beachside homes and I was comfortable for once in such a public setting. I feel truly alive out in the contrast of bad weather during summer and was glad sightseers were deterred so we could use the clifftop lookout he knew about. His thumb had also wriggled inside my rear passage and I didn’t have much choice but to be transfixed on the wooden deck. I looked down and saw my almost-torn shirt revealing the pushed-up breasts his hand was learning by feel and I admired their alabaster-sheened swell when earlier I was hoping my period would arrive and bring with it relief from fluid retention.

He freed the wandering hand and brushed aside a couple of empty drink bottles left on the picnic bench behind us. His desire was raging and he had to taste me. This was the man who only a couple of hours ago spilled a drink because he was nervous and gave me a polite kiss on the cheek goodbye in the car park until he realised my hands were gripping his muscular shoulders. I reluctantly let go because we had already said we were interested but I couldn’t read the new signal of him leaving after one kiss — and I was tired of moving quickly and being discarded afterwards. He walked a few steps, turned suddenly and asked if I’d consider spending more time with him that evening. “Yes,” was the correct answer.

My lust and inner pragmatism fought a minor war at the bench and I pulled my pants down but kept my shoes on and pants around my ankles as I didn’t want to return down the dirt track with wet feet collecting mud. There was no logic, come to think of it, as I’d slipped in some mud on the way up. Being awash with lust is like having the same weakened powers of the mind as when drunk. I leaned against the back of the bench and he made a diamond shape of my lower limbs and kneeled on the cold concrete with his head between my legs. One of my hands grasped the bench and the other the zip and gusset of my pants to elevate my legs above his head. We would have looked ridiculous but at the time I could think of no other position or place I would have preferred to be.

He licked and probed with his tongue and my body curled around his with contented desire. He inserted fingers — lots, I don’t know how many — and plunged inside me until my body was alternating between screaming for kinder treatment and wondering if I might orgasm from the aggressive digital poundings. He must have curled some fingers and caused contusions with his knuckles as it’s the only explanation for internal sore spots the following day. He wasn’t brutal or unskilled but seemed overwhelmingly hungry, as if feeding from everything I could offer would barely temper his wild lust.

I came a couple of times but can’t recall how. In my reverie he pinched my nipples and I squirmed against the bench in pain — he apologised and stopped, and then something inside his head snapped and he became convinced that he had to fuck me. I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or intimidated by the surprising sexuality of this man but I needed to respond as my condoms were locked in my car. I hadn’t spent much time exploring his iron-built body and his jeans were still on, and I delayed the safe sex conversation by raising his shirt and lowering his jeans. I moved closer and my forehead almost crashed into a rock-hard wall of abdominal muscles. I held his buttocks as I took his flaccid cock in my warm mouth and his glutes were equally solid. I peeked down and saw upper thigh muscles that could have held up a bridge. It has been said that women like men larger than them as it feeds some kind of need for submission, but all I could think about was being together another time and fucking in every position and every room of his house until we couldn’t breathe from the effort. I assume that’s more basic lust than a desire to submit.

He was enthusiastic about the ministrations from my mouth but I couldn’t find a way to get him hard. I was about to ask what he liked and he said he couldn’t come while standing (phew, it wasn’t my technique) and he sat next to me and I buried my head in his lap. His cock is the ’short and thick does the trick’ type and I could take most of it in from the side. His testicles were surprisingly compact, like grapes — as much as I’m becoming weary of learning new bodies at the moment, they never fail to surprise me. I thought incorrectly that a quicker tempo would work for him, but long and slow sucking got him hard and he placed a hand on my head and guided me softly. Again, I was incorrect as I assumed from his earlier behaviour that he’d be rougher. He soon said he was going to come and spilled a small amount of fluid in my mouth and sank against the bench. I nestled against his smooth stomach as he recovered.

We had to go and replaced our clothes before clambering down the track again. A van was parked close to my car and we could hear excited giggling from its interior. We smiled and I silently bid them as good a time as we’d just had.

We parted and exchanged thank you messages later. I am not allowing myself to feel or predict much because he was the man in the last paragraph of the previous post who responded to the ‘looking for an arrogant but likeable kinky bastard’ words in my profile. However, he has come across as one of the most frank and kind people I’ve met: earlier in the night he seemed eager to impress and I took a while to warm to him as the superhero body shots on his profile were topped with a mild-mannered face and I couldn’t imagine him being the arrogant sod behind the approach, let alone being as assertive in his sexuality as he showed later. I’m confused as all hell but somewhat intrigued by his contrasts. He is either a master player or far nicer than I am and my cynicism may not be worthy of him. I wish I was posting with a delay so I already knew the outcome.

And the universe reclaims balance

I organised a meeting with a tall, lean and deviated personal trainer who was on, on, on, on, soon, soon, soon, can’t wait, can’t wait, can’t wait, and on the day he didn’t get back to me about the time he was free. I already guessed he had flaked but waited until 9pm to send a guarded, “I’ll assume we’re not meeting tonight,” message, heard nothing and received three texts of apology 18 hours later because he was unexpectedly caught up with work. I would have laughed at his lie if it wasn’t so transparent — he’s been free almost every night and suddenly a non-stop rush of unfit people need his services on the same night? The pattern of avoidance was more in line with someone who’s found a more convenient and available fuck for a few hours, and I told him to stop apologising and to end contact. He couldn’t understand why. I might accept lying and disrespect if there’s at least an element of creativity or effort.

I met a business owner fortuitously located near work who was keen on some after-hours shenanigans in his office. We met in a neutral place on a lethargy-inducing hot day and he talked for a good hour and a half about everything until I thought he was either filling the air with nervous conversation or was full of shit and over-testing his game on me. I was dehydrated and needed to eat and begged farewell, but agreed we’d meet for some private fun the following week. He said he’d call Monday and we’d meet either Thursday or Friday of the following week. Never heard back. I realise I could have picked up the phone but I don’t if people make commitments off their own steam — who forgets to organise sex if it’s important? Perhaps he was overcompensating because he didn’t like me and didn’t want to feel bad. The more men I meet, the less I understand about some of their behaviours.

I think Team Canada is gone. We exchanged a couple of messages after we met and he didn’t respond to my last one, so I’m leaving him alone. Now I really wish he had masturbated before we met so the sex could have lasted more than 25 seconds.

I returned to the old dating web site and have had only a few contacts and my local searches haven’t revealed many new members in the three months my account was suspended. I slipped in a daring (for me) sentence about avoiding once-off encounters but would consider them with arrogant but likeable kinky bastards and one took the bait.  We’re meeting for drinks later in the week but I’m either starting to lose interest or my emotional suit of armour is doing too good a job and I’m feeling detached — I’d walk away if I had no sex drive but my antsy hormones are recommending I check him out.

Breaking The Bachelor is a lot of fun

The Bachelor copped it last night. Our meeting wasn’t confirmed until about an hour beforehand as it’s his company’s busy time of year, but he organised a workaround and kept his word. Again, there’s been nothing but refreshing frankness and honesty in dealing with him. He barely had time to shower when I arrived and he answered the door wearing only a long t-shirt. My eyes widened and I said it was a very good idea to answer the door without pants. He stuck his tongue down my throat in response and said we had been vertical for too long.

His legs were sore and he was tired from days without a break but he found the endurance to get on all fours and go down on me. I was squirming happily as he inserted fingers in both holes and licked my clit, and he held his fingers in position when he launched up to kiss me and share my taste. We kissed a few times until he proclaimed he had to go down again (another fine idea) and returned to work between my legs. I can’t remember the last time I orgasmed clitorally with a partner but his fingers worked a treat inside me and I spasmed around them twice until I was a giggling puddle on his sheets.

I think I managed to say thank you before laying back and hoping for a quick recovery so I could jump him. He took advantage of my weakened state and stuck his cock in my mouth. I licked the long trail of pre-come and gagged somewhat contentedly as he thrust in my mouth. My lust stirred again as his legs were tiring and I positioned him on his back and rimmed him. I probably should have placed a pillow under his rear to gain some elevation as I was lying almost on my side with my legs flailing at odd angles trying to find a comfortable position, but I was having so much fun I didn’t want to interrupt the tempo. I occasionally looked up and saw his hand massaging his cock and thoughts of fucking entered my mind. He must have been thinking the same thing as he said, “I think it’s time I gave you a hard fucking.” He was full of good ideas.

When I was packing a bag before I left, I read instructions on the lube bottle that said it could be applied inside a condom. I thought now there’s something I’ve never tried and put the idea away in the back of my head, wondering curiously if the condom would stay in place. I used the opportunity to slick some lube along The Bachelor’s cock to bring him to full hardness and rolled the condom on and rode the man like an unbroken horse. I leaned forwards, sat upright, leaned back, towered over him and gripped the bed head, and bounced until my legs were crying with protest. He grabbed my hips and started thrusting from underneath and we fucked in a mis-matched, messy sweatfest that was an amazing amount of unco-ordinated fun. He was flinging sweat up at me and mine was dripping on him and our hands slid haphazardly across each other’s bodies. I haven’t a clue how long we lasted but we crashed together until neither of us could speak from exhaustion.

We agreed sensibly to a break and he flipped off the condom — it had lasted the distance admirably with lube inside but I forgot to ask if there was a difference in sensation for him. We sprawled in a heap on his bunched sheets and talked a while in the dark. He was tired and hadn’t come and I started brushing my fingertips along his inner thighs and penis to bring his erection to life again. My touches turned into firmer massaging and soft moans crept into his conversation. He took over masturbating and he responded positively when I lubed a finger and inserted it into his anus as we were kissing. As his breathing became deeper, I finger fucked him in tempo and kissed him with more intent. Unlike the frenetic bursts of activity earlier, we merged in the darkness and moved together to bring him to orgasm. It happened on an unexpectedly intimate level and we didn’t feel the need to talk after that.

He wore the t-shirt again to bid me goodbye and gave me another long kiss. It was a shame he needed to work in the morning as he had re-activated a new source of energy inside me and I reluctantly slipped into the night.

A pleasant surprise, good fortune and car sex

Hello, where have Canadian men been hiding from me for so long? I met the man I described in the last post as an angel-faced, slightly nerdy sex maniac, and realised delightedly we hadn’t spoken on the phone when he said it was lovely to meet me. I may change my ambivalence about phone sex if we ever speak late at night, and if he doesn’t turn into an ongoing situation I may develop a very strong liking for calling Canadian phone sex lines instead.

He arrived first at the park (where Mr OMG and I have met a couple of times and I did a paranoia-driven scan to make sure he wasn’t in the area — or perhaps it was a wish-driven scan that he was there and my fantasy mind imagined an impromptu threesome being an amazingly good idea) but the coast was clear and I saw my new prospect eyeing me from atop a picnic bench. I couldn’t get a read on his first impression because I wasn’t wearing my glasses, but when I was close enough to check him out I was hoping like hell he liked me because he was drop-dead gorgeous. Tallish, an envy-inducing combination of fair hair and olive skin, eyes the same green as mine and radiating good health but with a soft belly pressing against his polo shirt that indicated the good life over the disciplined life. It seemed to suit him though, and he needed an imperfection to temper my awe. I sat next to him thinking, “You’re joking, aren’t you? How on earth did such a well-adjusted, polite, handsome sex maniac end up on the sleazy web site?”

We talked and I listened to his problems handling women falling for him regardless of his frankness about wanting only casual interactions, but I also empathised somewhat with the single women who had sampled him and found that if some is good then more would be better. It was too early in our conversation for me to say outright that I simply just wanted to fuck him for as long as it lasted and walk away smiling when our time is done, but I must’ve come across as safe within my relationship situation and he said he wanted to kiss me. I agreed in record time.

He has full lips, though not to the extent of mine, and our explorations were lush and with plenty of warm real estate to roam with lips and tongue. He kissed more slowly and deeply than I’ve been used to but we sorted out a pleasurable middle ground.

Dusk was falling and we broke to find somewhere more private to shed some clothes in his car. I don’t know which god of lust was smiling down on us, but while the car park was busy because of a function at the sports pavilion, the gate to about 50 acres of parkland had been left unlocked. We drove through excitedly like we had been given the key to the city and found a small clearing behind a copse of trees. Traffic hummed in the distance but the boundaries were well planted and no other soul was around. Life was good. We laughed about an escape plan if the gate had been locked behind us and I hoped we wouldn’t need one as I don’t carry wire cutters and a chainsaw in the car (I hadn’t confessed to him how well I knew the park).

He flipped open the back of his wagon, sat on the tailgate and I stood before him as he removed my bra and t-shirt and worked on my hardening nipples with his mouth. I remove only essential clothes if there’s a risk of being discovered but it was a treat to bask half-naked in the lazy summer air. I took off his shirt and we got to know each other better with our hands. His body was warm but his cool hands raised goosebumps along my spine and in circles around my buttocks when he shifted my jeans down.

He suggested moving to a more horizontal position inside and I clambered in and helped myself to removing his shorts and underwear. His entire body language was still relaxed except for his cock, which was strained hard and glistening at the tip with pre-come. I asked if I could explore and he said yes. He was clean and healthy tasting but I didn’t suck for long as he already said his endurance would be limited after not wanking for a couple of days. I am starting to wish delightful men would masturbate before meeting so I could enjoy them more fully.

I settled back against a rolled blanket and he fingered me and worked my g-spot. I was wet and could smell myself becoming more fragrant in the confined space of the car. We became too aroused to wait longer and I demonstrated my appalling co-ordination skills when I’m shaking with lust and couldn’t get the condom on. He helped, thankfully, as it seemed to be insideout regardless of which way I had the damn thing. We shifted limbs to negotiate a suitable position inside the car and there wasn’t much room for more than having him on top. I held his cock between my legs and noticed he had softened with my delay and penetration was awkward, but he hardened again quickly and came within barely a dozen strokes.

We laid around for a while and realised a couple of hours had flown. We both needed to rise early for work and had hoped but not expected to have sex at the first meeting. We apologised to each other for seeming rushed afterwards as we scrambled into our clothes but agreed to meet again soon.

I felt invigorated when I smelled traces of him on my clothes after I returned home. Although I seem to be more adapted these days with partners transiting in and out of my life regularly, I’d be joyous if he became ongoing. He seems to have had many lovers but limited experience outside the vanilla realm, and I left with a gentle, “I have ropes” as we parted. I’d also like to test his claim about having a quick recovery time.

Don’t let me near the computer when ovulating

I had the call of the wild and felt like a lash-out before the structured work timetable kicked in again.

I re-activated a suspended log-in on a free web site that doesn’t allow nude photos or references to sex as far as I can tell (all the men on there like movies, taking “ladies” to dinner and walks on the beach), but somehow the Stepford Wives approach has turned the site into a cesspit of lowest common denominators trawling from behind their keyboards and false hobbies. I ran away when the first person who made contact ended up confessing to being 15-years-old (and sent photos to verify) but I think the person who asked repeatedly if I’d go bareback for just three strokes, how about two, awww one then because it doesn’t really count? was the one who sent me running. I left my account logged in and stepped away for an hour and there were another 25 similar demotivating experiences-to-be waiting to launch. I closed the laptop’s screen and walked away for real.

But one night I thought the site might serve well for someone on a hit-and-run mission. I logged in and chatted to the most dangerous looking man in a skull-hugging beanie and inked shoulders bulging out of his tight singlet. We met the following day and I sent The Drummer a text message an hour after we met, saying I was already home. Alone.

He asked what had gone wrong — was the man as roguish as expected?

“Well, actually, he’s one of the nicest men I’ve met. He was friendly and generous and all-round lovely, but I felt nothing. I couldn’t even contemplate being naked in the same room as him. Now I have to undo what I started, but I don’t have a rational reason to despatch him except there’s nothing.”

The Drummer pondered on a deeper philosophical level that men and women approach seeking even casual partners from different perspectives. I cut in before he finished, and said, “Yes, women are generally more fussy regardless of the situation.”

“You’ve already thought about this?”

“Oh yeah, as recently as five minutes ago.”

I got home and saw new messages on my phone from the man and sent a message saying it wasn’t going to work and apologised for wasting his time. His reply was, “You sure did.” I didn’t feel so bad after that.

I’m too tired at the moment to think and write in sentences but Mr OMG has emerged from wherever and is sniffing around again. Young Lion disappeared after I sent a message and I assumed he had done a runner, however, he replied after a week saying he didn’t have money to buy more pre-paid credits when his phone ran out. I roared laughing. I was seeing The Bachelor this weekend but he’s now working, however, it’s a long weekend so there is still a possibility. I did make contact with a few other men on the sleazy web site and one seems like an angel-faced, slightly nerdy sex maniac with a spacious car — I think we will need to meet this weekend. Another wanted me to visit him at his office for the first time as it’s only 10 minutes from mine but I didn’t feel comfortable; I think we’re meeting this weekend as well. And there’s a horny personal trainer (his words) who wants to fuck in a park. I wish they all did deliveries as my sex drive is high but I’m too tired to shower and go out. Whoops, I forgot the 21-year-old … I’m kind of hoping he loses interest and pursues people in his own generation but he’s keen on learning to make a woman squirt and I may be able to help. I feel like a dirty old lady even thinking about it though.

And the young lion roared in the new year (quietly)

After a couple of weeks of quietness followed by prickling discontent, I found the perfect way to work the wanderlust out of my system. Just take a woman with a car, a randy man with a train ticket, a picnic blanket and a whole lot of intent.

Young Lion and I had been disagreeing about the situation of our delayed encounter. I wanted to wait until we were free for a hotel meeting and he argued that we should trawl the great outdoors one night until we found somewhere private. I ended up seeing his point of view — even though we were thwarted for 40 kilometres last time — and I packed the car with a rushed handful of regular and never-tried, extra-wide and somewhat anticipated condoms, water, a torch, beach towels and a blanket.

I collected him at dusk and we drove to the nearest beach car park for a scoping mission. The evening had to be the closest to perfect this summer: comfortably warm with the gentlest sea breeze, an azure ocean rippling contentedly and a huge tangerine sun saying goodbye on the horizon — of course, the fucking beach and clifftop paths were packed full of people not there for sex.

We slid somewhat treacherously down some off-the-beathen-track paths to the beach and crawled back up in the hunt for a quiet cove but our luck was out. My leg muscles were complaining but my eye muscles were compensated with the fine view of his skinny denim-clad rear as we hauled up narrow steps in single file.

On the way back to the car park I noticed through some scrubby trees a reasonably-concealed clearing to the side of the path. If we were quiet, we wouldn’t be noticed unless someone was looking for us or we attracted attention. We returned to my car and collected the bag of items, not meeting the eyes of anyone on our walk of suspicion back to the path. I’ve said in the past that I adore the moments of anticipation before the first moments of sex with a new partner, but there we were camped on a blanket in a clearing still visible by persistent light and feeling awkward between whispered small talk and swatting mosquitoes.

I thought some clothed horizontal fun would keep us occupied until nightfall and I laid on top of him and grinded my pelvis into his hardening cock. We kissed. He’s a good kisser and enjoys lip-to-lip contact, but by the end of the night I had the impression that his sexuality is cock-centric — fucking for him is king and everything else is part of the support act. He asked if I was wet and I reached inside my loose pants and inserted two fingers, withdrew them and placed them in his mouth. He closed his eyes and sucked, not enthusiastically and not out of obligation, but just sucked. We shifted positions and he went down on me for a while and he was competent but again seemed to lack real intensity.

I looked up and we agreed fervently that passersby wouldn’t notice us unless we made noise, and I lowered his pants and prepared an oral attack on the cock that nearly defeated me last time.  He laid flat on his back and I laid alongside him on my side, leaning directly over his cock and I took a long, deep breath in anticipation. His dimensions were easier to tackle this time around because of the angle and his muffled moans indicated he had his hand over his mouth to avoid groaning out loud. My jaw took longer to fatigue and I alternated longer periods of sucking with rubbing my hand up his saliva-coated cock. I heard him ask if I thought I could take the whole length in my mouth. I whispered that I could only try and dived as deeply as I could. The breadth of the head of his cock triggered my gag reflex and I tried a few times until he said it was enough. Puzzling, as I thought most men would like a gagging woman to keep trying to win a cock sucking dare, but anyway, I stopped.

It was probably a good idea to stop with hindsight as I was dripping a serious wet patch through my pants. I gave him two condoms to choose from and asked if the normal size would be would be wide enough. He took both and selected the regular Ansell, looked quizzically at the extra-wide Magnum, putting it and the empty wrapper in the pocket of his discarded jeans.

I lowered myself over his shaft, relishing the opportunity to finally ride him, but wishing we could have started with him on top with my legs in air for a pounding to truly see if he lived up to his claims. However, we’d have been far too noisy to even try. I experimented with a few variations to maximise penetration and settled on about a 45-degree angle with my hands gripping his shoulders. Everything seemed to be working for both of us until my legs started aching and sweat was running down my face so I sat upright to try a more vertical position. After no more than three strokes, an unexpected orgasm gripped me and I stopped speechlessly and quivered for a few seconds. And then rocked back and forward on that angle like a child with a new toy until another climax almost took me down. When I came around, I could hear a panicked voice asking if I was all right. I wanted to yell FUCK, YEAH! but I gasped, “Yes, more than fine, fanfuckingtastic fine, thank you.” He said he thought I was having a heart attack. I explained that I had to pause the important business of fucking to work out ( and not explain to also file away in my head) exactly how his cock elicited such a reaction. He seemed relieved but perturbed and mentioned it a couple of times in text messages the next day. They were quiet and happy orgasms that didn’t cause any extreme reactions and I can only wonder about his surprise.

His back and my knees were starting to ache and we changed roles. A new kind of physical heaven opened when he entered me in the missionary style and I suddenly vowed never to care if he’s ambivalent about foreplay and oral sex because I’d stumble a hundred rocky cliff faces to have him inside me from on top again. I wished we were in a hotel room where we could spread out and have him fuck me until I was seeing stars but I was more than content judging by the feelings smashing around my body.

He was correct in his earlier claims about endurance and we again switched to me being on top because he was getting carpet burns on his knees. I fucked him until my legs were about to give way and had to take a rest. He was close to coming and I resumed sucking his cock until he came as quietly as he could in my mouth. I remembered to collect and swallow quickly to minimise the aftertaste — his semen tasted as rank as last time.

We chatted quietly and stared at the stars for a while (the ants had gone away and we could lay down in peace) until we realised the hour and I had to get him to the station. We collected our things by the light of our mobile phones as I had forgotten the torch in my earlier rush. When we reached the car park, we did another walk of suspicion as two youngsters had parked their car thoughtlessly close to mine and were staring at us impatiently as we put the gear away. I’d have hurried if they had the sense to leave personal space but instead chose to take my sweet time packing.

I dropped Young Lion off and noticed later he had kept the extra-wide condom without mention. He had sifted through his pockets on the way out when he thought he had lost his wallet and couldn’t have missed its presence. I’d have happily offered it to him if he’d asked, and given him a few more to play with. Oh well. It was almost a fitting ending to a wonderful but slightly weird magical mystery night.

Negotiations

The Drummer has changed his mind about having others in the house. I called him at work (this was a couple of weeks ago now) to discuss that Mr OMG was possibly free to catch up with me one night and to double check the newly-agreed arrangement still stood. He said everything was fine and told me to have a good time.

About an hour later he called back to say he had changed his mind and didn’t feel comfortable. I was caught by surprise and backed down immediately; our agreement regarding the open side of our relationship is that we only proceed with things with the agreement of both — anything causing discomfort or angst in one stops immediately with a reasonable explanation.

As things turned out on the night, Mr OMG was going to be too late to meet and has since wandered off again, but I was furious with myself upon reflection that I hadn’t pushed my partner for the ‘reasonable explanation’ about his change of heart. While some of my behaviour tends towards the unconventional side, I’m cautious and sensible and would never compromise our personal safety or security or any of the other things he was concerned about.

We had another talk the next day when he had settled and I had cooled and I raised my side that his reasons weren’t reasonable or rational, however, I’d back down for the moment as I wasn’t going to force him to accept people in our house. In having said that, it wasn’t fair on me to have to try to guess the real and underlying issue such as jealousy or marking territory. We talked in circles for a while and ended up nowhere closer so I’ve let it go for now.

From an overall viewpoint, The Drummer’s ongoing mental health issues are no closer to resolution with medication or therapy; he has deteriorated and the last 12 months has seemed wasted in many ways. We worked out today that he’s been diagnosed and medicated for four years now. I feel resentful at times that my own battles have to sit neglected while a lot of our energy is devoted towards managing his daily navigations and, when disagreements like the current one arise, I need to pick my times and arguments with painstaking thought about the potential ramifications. The last time I went to a psych appointment with him I felt like I was holding a ball of bitterness in my throat that I wanted to spit at the therapist that I had moments of being tired of his problems being the star player while there was little energy or time left to devote to mine. I then loathed myself inside for being petty and selfish and I ended up quieting the inner shrew and speaking as the supportive partner; I’ve lived with enough cycles of depression to know I’ll get through them and The Drummer’s problems are deeper and broader and we don’t know where the end is, so he wins.

Part of me thought quietly that perhaps him granting some time home with another would be part of the sweetener to help keep me functioning while we work through our ongoing rough patch, but sexual boundaries and mental health aren’t suitable bounty for negotiations and trade. We’ll have to come to agreement another day when he is being rational and I am feeling less selfish.

Self-squirting

I grabbed some popcorn and watched a video, tried for myself and made a horrendous mess — I wasn’t expecting quick success but within a minute I had ejaculated with my own two fingers. In the next ten minutes I racked up another four squirts before I saw the moat of wetness I’d surrounded myself in and thought I should give it a rest for a while.

I was having only weak orgasms each time I ejaculated; I’m not sure if this is because my technique needs perfecting or my fingers aren’t long and I could only catch the edge of my g-spot. Not to worry, now that I’ve done it I’m somewhat underwhelmed and am ready to move on to the next big thing. Just need to work out what it is. But in relation to the video, working the fingers in the up and down movement to get the thwuck thwuck thwuck sound is the key — I recognised the sound immediately from the presumably-gone Country Hottie’s initiations and knew I’d hit the right button, so to speak.

The one who didn’t work out

There was one meeting last year I didn’t chronicle. He approached me on the dating site and sent an articulate and heated message, together with a gallery of photos featuring a tall, rangy, dark blonde-haired man who filled nothing but a pair of jeans with jaw-dropping form and muscularity. I was mesmerised for a few moments by his appearance and enticing paragraphs about kink but I replied in the negative, admiring his photos and introduction but saying he was out of my league and all the best. (This was before I learned to say no without explanation.)

He was the self-assured type who saw rejection as merely a roadblock that needed navigating around with a new approach. He returned nonplussed and started sending e-mails and I got caught in a whirlwind ride that conflicted with my earlier judgement — it’s hard for the ego to accept that I’m not going to be enough for someone. A week later he had to take a solo interstate trip and asked if I’d like to join him because he was convinced that a few days together would be an outstanding start to our liaison. He made jewellery and asked me to select a piece on his web site that he could make for me. I knew I had to slow the madness and said no to the trip and the gift but agreed to catch up on his return.

He went away and came back and we organised to meet at a cafe. I arrived a few minutes early and let him know where I was. In standing to introduce myself and look at this glorious man directly for the first time, I saw the briefest but brightest flashes of disappointment and embarrassment in his eyes and I knew I had been right all along. Instead of him owning up to his regret and me confessing that I already knew, we both went into extreme politeness mode and couldn’t have been kinder to each other. Thankfully I had almost finished my drink and he probably scalded his throat gulping a steaming black coffee from one of those tiny espresso cups. The more uncomfortable he felt, the nicer he became; he even phoned book shops to source a book he recommended and wanted me to own.

I insisted on paying the bill (overcompensating again and symbolic punishment for my stupidity and hope), we stepped out onto the street and I received the non-committal, “It was nice to meet you,” and that was the end of our contact. I don’t know why this incident was so embarrassing because I’ve rejected and been rejected enough times; all I can think is that I shouldn’t have placed myself in that situation unnecessarily when I already sensed I was going to be on the losing end.

Bad timing x 2

I was going to meet City Boy last weekend to enact his golden shower scenario, but of the three days I said I was free for an excursion, he waited until the morning of the first day to ask if I was coming around and then let me know he was working the other two days so it was our only opportunity. I’m too far away for last-minute interactions and I was still lounging about in bed. He has gone away for a few days and returns to a casual job where his shifts are allocated at short notice, so it may be some time before we catch up. With the benefit of frustrated hindsight I should have dragged myself out and got in the car, but it was my week off work and I was feeling too relaxed and lethargic in the heat to rush about anywhere.

Young Lion has been so ardent and inadvertently funny in his communication that I have been spending time looking for an outdoor venue in which to finally have a brief bout of sex until our schedules agree to a hotel evening. The train timetables are also on reduced holiday services and it’s hard for him to get around in the evenings — yet another lesson learned about chasing young things who live with their parents and don’t drive. I found a possible venue and called him to confirm he was still free one evening, but spurred by new Christmas pornography he had already masturbated four times that day and wasn’t up for moving from his bedroom, let alone meeting for sex with a real person.  He’s gone away as well for a few days and I keep changing my mind between letting him go before we really start or making more of an effort to pounce him. Even when I’m grumpy at his lack of foresight, his gung-ho attitude is energising and I’ll try to be patient for the right opportunity to go for a test ride.

I haven’t been on the dating side for about three months and I was thinking of re-activating my account but I joined a new gym a few weeks ago and the scales and mirrors told an unpleasant story. I need to devote more energy to lowering my bodyfat percentage and probably looking for another new job before chasing new partners. The Drummer said spending more hours training might wear me out and tame my sex drive, but I shook my head and said the more energy I exhaust, the more I produce and the results will likely be scary. It’s my birthday in four months and I’m thinking about planning a month of mayhem to celebrate. I’ll see.

It’s the last day of the year and I’m not enticed by any of the options on offer so I might escape the heat and stay home. Last new year’s eve I got to spend some time with Urban Vagabond and the previous year I joined M1 late in the night, so I’ve been most fortunate the past couple of years. I live quite straightforwardly without religion and some other major anniversaries as signposts of a year so I tend to live as the days pass. This year, however, has been marked with chronic pain and sadness at the start and frustration and anger at the end, so I’ll have to write about and purge 2009 soon [edited: I drafted a post and it's too self absorbed for release so I'll focus on my goals for the coming year when the time comes]. I also have an urge to write about the most humiliating dating experience that I haven’t mentioned here, so I need to put the pen to paper about him. So I hope you enjoy whatever you do tonight and wish you good health every day.