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Yesterday was a frustrating day in personal human resource management. I deleted Mr NYE’s messages, kicked him off my hotlist and filed him away in my mental rubbish bin. I must’ve accidentally put him in the mental recycling bin because he came back.
He lost his mobile phone.
I didn’t know whether to feel guilty for lambasting his name or to ask him nicely to fuck the hell off.
A couple of days is brief enough for an explanation to be true but long enough for my bullshit detector to glow a soft red in warning. Knowing when someone isn’t being truthful is easier after having met and dug a little into their motivations, but this still-invisible man has the art of mind games well and truly mastered.
He said he was available for a few consecutive days so I picked a day, the suburb and a time to meet and asked him to choose a café and get back to me.
I think he’s lost his phone again. Funny that. There are lots of cafés in the suburb I chose, too.
ArmyDude made a tactical and timing error by sending me a ‘I miss you a lot’ message while I was despatching Mr Which New Year’s Eve. I replied with terse feedback about my place at the bottom of his ladder of priorities and I’m trying not to think about him because it’s easier on me (me, me, me, me, me). He didn’t respond – come to think of it, he never does when dissent or an argument is brewing. Absence is starting to cure my overly fond heart and perhaps ending contact with him would be better for my wellbeing than gorging on last-minute scraps of time, enjoyable as they are. I could end it today via an impersonal means like the mobile phone, but he deserves more than that. Unfortunately, more than that is face-to-face contact which is when I’m weakest with him. Fuck. I’ll sort it out another day.
I don’t think I’ve annoyed anyone else. Perhaps it’s unresolved sexual tension that a licking or bottom smacking or two will fix. On that, the inspiration for the two-week rule in my previous post has made some calls and found a terribly seedy motel for some exploration and enjoyment (of each other, not the motel). He used the word ‘sordid’ and I’m excited as all get-up about that. Nervous, too, and we haven’t even kissed, but I’m sure that will get sorted out along the way.
I enjoy the task of assigning a codename to someone new. He travels and could be anywhere at any particular time, lives the inner-city lifestyle but seems happy enough going barefoot in the park, and could stroll the streets and charm everyone in his path. And I already know he has a thrilling sense of adventure. I hope he likes Urban Vagabond – I say that because he’s the only person apart from my partner who is aware of this blog and, while I’m sure we won’t be indulging in mutual censorship because we’ll have more enjoyable pursuits to engage in, I still hope he likes it.
He returned from his Christmas sojourn, I texted a polite 24 hours afterwards to suggest some meeting dates and he hasn’t replied within a couple of days.
Car crash? Kidnapped by a vigilante mob of Santa’s elves? Phone stolen? No, I logged into the dating site this morning to clear a message and he’s at the top of my hotlist in big red letters declaring online now. Big red letters declaring control your sarcasm appeared above my head. I will need to heed them as this trying to meet new people gig is getting tiresome.
I’m glad this man hasn’t come to ill harm nor thrown himself off a bridge in regret for offering himself to a stranger on NYE, but a brief ‘thanks but I’ve changed my mind’ would have been appreciated. Unsettling feelings aside about his overenthusiastic launch strategy, he was unattached, 10 minutes from home and could have been a nice diversion from my missing-in-family-action partners. We will never know.
To borrow the axiom of a wise and experienced man I met the other day, if you haven’t met someone within two weeks, it probably won’t happen. It is a handy rule of thumb and the timeframe seems consistent when recalling aborted contacts of the past six months, although the circumstances and reasons vary in all sorts of interesting ways.
This was also the week of the married policeman whose response to my question about realistic availability was, “Do you do phone sex?” Next. And the man featuring only cock photos in his profile, but seriously, it’s the ugliest cock I’ve ever seen, and I’ve never seen what I’d consider an ugly one before. Ever watched those Italian home-style cooking shows when pale grey pork sausage mince is force piped into shiny animal intestine sausage skins and tied in a constricting, too-tight twist at the top? Like that. Five photos was five too many.
In other news, Jekyll e-mailed the user name of a woman on the site he wants me to approach on our behalf (he also asked if I’d like to set up a shared account because I’m on holidays and would have time. That was the easiest ‘no’ in history. Let me do that again. No. No. No. No. No). And, like ArmyDude, he doesn’t have time to see me yet thinks a threesome with another person’s schedule to co-ordinate will magically happen. Reality check, please, my role as the most available isn’t an enjoyable one at present.
The woman on the site states that she’s attached and wants penpals with possible adventures further down the track without her boyfriend’s knowledge. In addition to my instincts screaming attention-seeking time waster or site fake account to attract men to buy subscriptions and my new two-week rule is already a guarantee, her profile photo features a man whose face is clearly in focus with his arms wrapped around her in a Hallmark Valentine’s card kind of way. No. No. No. No. No.
I gave myself an early mark from work the other day and sauntered home half an hour before my usual departure time. The Drummer’s car was in the driveway and the front door was unlocked; he usually greets me at the car if he’s home and I idly wondered where he was.
Of course, he was where one would expect a man at home by himself when his partner isn’t due home for the foreseeable future: on the floor lying against the lounge suite with pants by his side, cock in his hand and a vibrator in his anus, wanking in synch with some porn starlet on the computer taking a gigantic phallus up her bottom.
In fantasyland, I’m sure a woman entering the front door after a long day, shoulders bearing the weight of the world and hands gripping the evening’s dinner, would drop everything and dive to her man’s cock, wanting nothing more than contributing to his pleasure. Nope. I looked, looked again to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating, said hi and went about unpacking the groceries. Perishables need to be refrigerated as soon as possible after purchase.
He was still going when I returned to the lounge room and asked me to rub his balls. Okay, I’m not completely heartless, even when I’m several steps behind someone else’s state of arousal.
I almost screamed for an ambulance when I reached down and saw the smeared and bloody mess around his balls and anus. I was sure he was haemorrhaging but was too full of distracting feel-good sensations to notice that he appeared to be bleeding to death.
He didn’t share my state of panic.
“It’s just that cherry-flavoured lube you don’t use, darling.”
Oh, I remember that stuff. Vile shit. Tastes like cherry-flavoured bronchitis medicine mixed with battery acid.
Carry on.
I may have been skulking about the online dating site again, well, all right, I have been skulking about the online dating site again. Nothing sinister, just clearing the smiles and messages my vagina receives when it’s online and comes up at the top of the search list.
There is a most interesting man though who has caught my interest: intriguing, firstly because he looks attractive in a tall, fair, possibly kinky and rather fuckable way, and secondly that he might be a nutbar. Part of me is saying run for the hills and don’t look back, but my curiosity is busting to know how this story will pan out (I’m good at pretending I’m living in third person when I set myself up for a disaster).
If you hadn’t met someone apart from a couple of brief messages and profile photos, and with no concrete plans to meet for the first time over Christmas, would you commit to keep New Year’s Eve clear? No, neither would I. He has.
We exchanged a few polite text messages (he uses ‘too’ and ‘to’ in the correct context, which is a good start although I’m sure lunatics do that as well as sane folk) and enquired about each other’s Christmas holidays. He got to the topic of New Year’s Eve and asked what I was doing. I replied that I didn’t know my beloved’s work plans and was uncertain (and I’ve only had one enjoyable NYE in thirty-and-a-few years on this planet so it’s hardly my favourite night out). I asked about his plans and he replied it depends what you’re doing.
I got a cold shiver typing the previous sentence.
We will need to meet when he returns from elsewhere and preferably well before the end of the year. I like the possibility of this chap (he’s single if he’s being honest in his profile, and it could be a break from creeping about the suburbs late at night and the deathly silence of my telephone because married playmates are gobbled up by family commitments this time of year — I know I made that bed and have to lie in it) but the pressure I can do without. A first date on NYE rates about the same level of well-meaning stupidity as a first date on Valentine’s Day and I am not going there.
Speaking of my orgasm, mine has changed over the years like a sexual chameleon experimenting with its colours by walking across a field of rainbows. Sometimes I wonder what makes me get off, let alone the confused but determined partner at the other end of my body trying to find the secrets of making my cunt explode.
In the fog of ageing memories, I can recall being able to come doing nothing more than crossing my legs and leaning into the seam of a pair of jeans. Some pleasant thoughts later, a gentle, awakening tingle would sunburst through my groin that no one would notice as long as I paid heed to my facial expressions.
Then anti-depressants came along a few years ago and changed everything – for better and for worse, as most changes bring.
Medication 1 made me marginally more stable but the price was a libido akin to a neutered housecat. I can’t recall how my orgasm was affected because I didn’t devote a lot of time towards breaking through my apathy. A higher dose did nothing more for mental stability but turned my vagina into a dusty museum with a ‘this exhibit closed’ sign tacked to the front door.
Medication 2 provided the edge to help me consider suicide for the first and second times, woke me most nights with cold and clammy night sweats and killed the ability to orgasm after returning my desire to have them again, if only to try to induce sleep. Lying awake at 2am with a brain that won’t switch off its catastrophising thoughts — and knowing a sleep-assisting orgasm is 40 minutes away with even the most powerful of vibrators — is among the nastiest of ways to spend the unconscious hours.
Medication 3 created a pleasant doppelgänger of insulation: I looked like me, I did the things I usually did, but I was dreamier, hazier, detached from life. Not happy, not sad, not laughing, not angry, not much, really. I needed the break from normal life though and had only one descent into the furious darkness where I became scared for myself. The upside was that I got my masturbation to orgasm time down to 30 minutes – oh, the joyous text message to Jekyll when I cracked the half-hour barrier! And there was associated desire showing its head amongst the fuzzy greyness of my being!
After the medicated holiday from myself, I needed to be me again, and have been for some months now. My desire levels seem healthy enough (she says with the image of a 69 with rimming on her mind) but my newer – and seemingly permanent – orgasms are a challenging learning curve to manage with myself and with partners. Getting myself off with fingers alone can bring pins and needles and cramps to my fiddling fingers because the build-up time is still long (unless I’ve had earlier mental or physical stimulation and am long-aroused before I masturbate). My clit and its surrounding beds of nerve cells seem to have densensitised after repeated abuses, and vibrators have been a godsend (and part of the cause, really) to find and exploit my pleasure spots to reach orgasm. The upside is that my orgasm is deeper, more body-shuddering and the prize awarded at the end of a long slog is fucking awesome in its stress-depleting qualities. I feel good, purely and emptily good.
I sometimes have to bring out the, “It’s me, it’s not you” talk if I know I’m not going to come with a partner. I need to be quiet, relaxed and allowed to sink into my surroundings, while the sex I enjoy most isn’t quiet, isn’t relaxed and I do absolutely no sinking into anything except someone’s warm flesh with hungry ferocity. My great-memory sex isn’t the same as my get-off sex and, while no partner has said anything, I know one or two have been perplexed when I moan and groan and wriggle and then get up and rescue their overworked tongues. They can help me all they like (and I really, really like), but ultimately I’m responsible for my bodily pleasures and knowing what makes my body zing – no one can be expected to know if I’m still finding my way around in this new world order of pleasure.
I don’t know why I wrote all this; perhaps it’ll help me demystify my body to the next person in my life, or I’m home alone and just thinking about doing myself.
I have no idea what mental processes drive ArmyDude’s behaviour at times, but I remain swinging between being baffled and impressed. I hold close to my heart his tenderness when he gifts me with secrets and I know he’d come galloping with the cavalry if I was ever in danger or needed a shoulder to cry on. The less gallant side of his character is that he has no compunctions about keeping me in line when I’m being princessy and precious.
Unfortunately for me, he has worked out I secretly enjoy his refusal to put me on a pedestal. If I dig through the crap that clutters my psyche, I think I enjoy the contrast to The Drummer’s near-idolatry of me — it’s the occasional release in pressure of feeling sacred on a daily basis to being occasionally treasured yet kept on my toes, I think.
ArmyDude is the man who has almost cried when telling me about the unhappiness of his home life, yet has bent me over his lounge suite and ejaculated on the small of my back, leaving me stranded like a garden ornament until he ambled off to fetch a wash cloth, knowing I wouldn’t dare allow a drop to spill on his carpet.
This is also the man who was so nervous about a potential threesome with another man he went on a mission to try fucking another of the same gender so he wouldn’t let me down, yet video exists on his phone of when he tied my hands to the bed and filmed his cock fucking my mouth, ignoring my protests that I have said no to video in the past. The bastard was even going to hook it up to his television and make me watch the footage on the larger-than-life screen, knowing I can’t stand watching myself.
He also knows how much I’d like to do oh so many things to him in uniform, yet, when I’ve been to his house, he leaves a row of camouflage gear and perfectly-pressed mess uniforms lined up like a platoon where I have best visibility of them, teasing me with their silence about when they might be used. Drives me mad yet I think it keeps the tension between us taut and sharp.
The other day he needed to leave work to collect some thing or other and asked if I wanted to go for a drive. We haven’t been alone for a fortnight and I co-ordinated a rendezvous point in the time it takes to say, “When?” I seem to have missed the master class in playing hard to get; perhaps this is why he doesn’t bother inflating my ego and treading softly in order to get into my pants because I want to be in his as ardently and openly.
I wanted to clear the air about a communication problem that resulted in a missed meeting recently, but it was damn hard to chastise the man when his hand was down my pants and probing my dark places, let alone ask him to stop because we had a farewell presentation to attend when we returned.
“You can’t keep spreading my wetness around like that; I’m going to smell like a brothel on pay day.”
“So?”
“Bastard.”
“And you love it, don’t you?”
I can’t lie to him – the risk of public exposure doesn’t excite me, but quieter, more secretive dangers make me buzz to the point of squirming in my chair.
He removed his sodden hand and put his fingers in his mouth.
“You can’t do that; your breath will smell like excited girl when you talk to people.”
“So?”
His hand went south again, this time leaving my underwear beneath his fingers and mashing the cotton into my cunt, turning the fabric into a soggy and ripe-smelling mess. He’s done this before and I didn’t bother wasting energy in protest.
Basic, straight-to-the-point dirty talk peppered with swear words sends his heart rate soaring and I launched into a retaliative tirade to mess with his frustration level. I described how much I wanted his hand inside my body again and how I have been craving his cock in my arse for some weeks … before I got to the real-time of asking him to pull over so I could suck his dick, his zip was undone and his cock was in the open, assuming my hand would help provide him with relief.
I looked at the gleam of pre-cum on the tip of his bursting cock and didn’t move a muscle. I think he called me a bitch.
I wound him up further with a story about how I’d like him in uniform and driving me somewhere remote, dragging me out of the car, tying me to a tree and fucking me senseless. He wanked furiously as I described the scenario and he added that he’d take some mates who would blindfold me and take turns without my knowing who they ever were.
“Please, when, I’m up for that … hey, hang on, you can’t take away my ability to see and perve!”
“I would.”
“I don’t like you sometimes.”
(I wonder if either of us would consider this scenario seriously when we are *not* aroused and up for almost anything in heated pre-sex talk. Pssst, I would with the right people and careful control of the situation. It’s actually one of my dark moment fantasies – but without the blindfold, of course.)
We reached the office and he drove straight past and beelined for a nearby car park. He proclaimed that he was so close to bursting he’d have to masturbate as soon as he got back to work if the car park couldn’t afford privacy. I dared him to return to the office, lock himself in a toilet and take some photos for me.
He asked if I wanted to walk back.
I think I’d lost every round of the battle so far.
The car park was mid-week quiet and — bickering instantly forgotten in light of our good fortune — my mouth buried itself in his groin as soon as he pulled over. I was glad he wore dark pants as I may have dribbled too enthusiastically when re-acquainting myself with his cock. His hand traversed the back of my pants and he was fingering me again to the point I didn’t care that another coat of excitement was being layered on my underwear.
When he couldn’t – or wouldn’t — wait another moment before relief, he took over management of his cock and threatened to drown me in come.
We finally kissed. We had forgotten our manners earlier.
I lowered my head again and opened my mouth. He came in great globs, I swallowed furtively and he removed a finger from my arse that I didn’t recall being inserted.
He dropped me off away from the office so we arrived separately and I could stop at the canteen for more mints. On the way back I sent him a text message regarding the difficulty wet underwear posed in walking comfortably to the office. I received no reply but a broad smartypants grin was waiting for me when we bumped into each other at the function.
I had neglected my own orgasm in the fray and, in the overwhelming relief of seeing each other, I simply forgot. Being able to smell myself and taste traces of semen at the back of my tongue filled my centre with escalating sexual frustration. The rest of the day passed in a haze of charged daydreams flying through my mind at regular intervals and there were no gaps in time to disappear and masturbate discreetly in the toilets.
Later I sent him a text message saying next time we’re together, he owes me a long and leg-shaking fucking.
It was mysteriously quiet, almost too quiet, as if those who know too much are wary of stepping into my carefully laid trap of consequences.
I never forget. And can wait.
I may well sleep tonight and can breathe again without my lungs pressing against my chest. It’s another day closer to the holidays.
The exercise plan is back on track and the endorphins and muscular pain feel good. My body is still covered with too much fat but my sex drive is returning to a distracting level.
I bumped into ArmyDude today. He has returned from elsewhere and looked healthy and ravishing in a light blue business shirt, as most men do. I am like a bower bird and attracted to the not-too-duck-egg pale, not-too-electric blue that flatters everyone’s skin tones. Not everyone’s shoulders and biceps fill the swathes of crisp cotton so sexily, though. Why is the universe making me wait so long to see him again?
Something happened that was out of my control and my professional life is about to become very fucked up and difficult to manage. I am oscillating maniacally between searing rage and fear after a sleepless night of the nightmare stages of denial, panic and paranoia.
In an act of small-minded, black-hearted vindictiveness, someone briefly from The Drummer’s past who is in my work world has accused him of sexual harassment and inappropriate behaviour. He is not there so it’s impossible for him to defend himself and fill in the other side of the story. (The links between people and places will just need to be glossed over with it being a fairly small town in size and mentality – not everyone knows everyone but everyone at least knows of everyone.)
She doesn’t know me by name or sight, but the people she complained to are part of my peer group and more senior management. She held court with several of them, spewing snake-tongued stories of vileness and bitterness — and they listened. I was ignorant until I took a call from a kindly soul who overheard in a hallway, and I bunkered myself down in my office until hometime, finding it difficult to breathe while a steel trap of horror closed in around me.
I need to go back there Monday with plans in place to, let’s see: find something to tell my staff to pre-empt whatever they end up being told through the rumour mill (it’s inevitable), find a way of dealing with the people who were told things directly because I see them regularly, and harness my urges to hunt down this woman and destroy her with a sustained and relentless form of revenge. I can’t wait for karma to take care of this one as she has done something personal and unforgivable and irreparable and worse than I am able to detail here.
Another prickly concern I don’t know how to handle is, now she’s spoken, the word will be out I’m not monogamous. All respect is given to people who are open about their relationship status, but I’m not. I am careful to the point of blandness during my salaried hours* because people have spare time on their hands to talk about others — I buy a lot more personal freedom by fitting into their straight view of the world than trying to fight it. I’m also not the type to put on a brave face while others look at me sympathetically or disgustedly so impulse control and management of paranoia cannot come quickly enough when my emotions settle.
I have managed to centre the rage in a hot, spherical bundle inside my body, waiting to be directed and hurled silently and anonymously where it will have the most satisfying impact from the sidelines when they don’t see it coming (I’d be a Buddhist if the faith would have me, but the concept of forgiveness is far, far too much right now). The only upside I can think of is that the timing is as good as it could be because Christmas holidays are around the corner. I know it’s not life or death and things will settle when the next new and shiny piece of gossip hits the streets, but I can’t find a way of seeing through the next couple of weeks with reputation or sanity intact. I want to punish and hurt people for damaging The Drummer’s name and fucking with me.
*The moments with ArmyDude are in my control and my responsibility and I’ll go down in flames for them (and him) if the need ever arises. My issue here is loss of control over my identity and perceptions of my image.
I need to get this out of my drafts pile as I need to get back into proper real-time quickly.
I thought about re-activating and updating my online dating account to sniff around for a new distraction, but my pants were too tight.
When I first created the profile, I stalled on the ‘very attractive, attractive, average, cuddly, large, bog ugly’ etc self rating check box. The developer hadn’t thought to include an option of ‘I don’t know, attractiveness is subjective and that’s up to prospects to decide’ for pig-headed individuals who like to think they’re beyond categorisation. I was feeling fit, looking okay and had no qualms about presenting my naked form to a new partner, so I checked the ‘attractive’ box and left it to members to sort it out for themselves.
Last night I demoted myself to average and logged off without searching. I can’t be arsed being defensive with new people about the winter kilos I have been ignoring for the last couple of months — denial and complacency hit home rudely the other day when I saw and prodded the muffin top rising from the waistband of my favourite jeans. Argh. I know when I’m not comfortable with my appearance and the bell has ding-ding-dinged to eat less and move more (all-or-nothing seems to be my approach to all areas of life — moderation is for sensible, sane people who don’t secretly dislike themselves).
I got over most of society’s emphasis on physical ideals after years of visiting the dietician’s office being callipered and weighed and lectured and told what to eat to complement the national-level sport I was competing in. Those years fucked my self image beyond belief because my bodyfat percentage was in the elite athlete category, I had fat-free, bee-sting A cup tits and not a cell jiggled when I jumped up and down, yet I never left the sports science clinic with ego unscathed. The snarling beasts of insecurity and attitude that nothing less than perfection is good enough took a long time to vanquish. I’m a lot more relaxed and sensible now but the beasts return to stab my pride and pierce my self esteem as soon as I’m not comfortable within my frame.
I’m going for a run. Tune in next time for more distracting posts to conceal I’m not sexually active at present. I started a blog to help bring the mysteries of my sexuality and identity to the surface, toss them into the wide world to gain meaning and skip towards the sun as a more evolved and wise soul – somehow I keep finding new items to add to the catalogue of quirks.
One of the few sexual adventures remaining unchecked on my ‘to do’ list for sooner rather than later is double penetration. Not the one-cock-one-dildo kind of double penetration, but the two-cocks-two-men kind. This aspect is not negotiable.
Jekyll, Hyde and I had DP on our respective wish lists, but two men in one woman got left by the wayside while doing other fun things *blush*, and Hyde’s diary is a continual nightmare to squeeze in another day of sexual experimentation.
My wish comprises a moderate (okay, somewhat more than moderate) craving for two warm and hard bodies enveloping me and a brain-smashing amount of wriggling and manoeuvring and trying as many positions as possible to, um, see which combinations feel the best – all in the name of science, I swear. I haven’t watched three-way porn for so long I have forgotten the common positions so I’ll have to keep thinking about it (and I assume positions for optimal filming angles might differ from optimal pleasure; again, all in the name of science).
I’d like to be warmed up with a visual feast of the two men putting on a little show for me while I smack my riding crop against my thigh and ogle greedily. I may need to be tied to something solid – like a fully-stocked refrigerator — to restrain myself from joining in.
I’ll try to adopt a veneer of modesty when they are double kissing me and double fondling me and double oh yes please licking me and lubing me to a slidey and pliable mess for the taking.
And take me they shall. Perhaps starting with me lying on top of Penis Man (incompetence with naming characters is reason 5,937 I don’t write erotica) so I can be embraced and kissed when I need moments of softness and reassurance. When we’re ready, I suppose Arse Man would enter the tighter of my holes first and move as a shadow of me when I lower myself on Penis Man’s hardness. The thought of all that manipulation and sorting three solo rhythms into a combined harmony is rather exciting. Arse Man can pull my hair at the same time if he’s dexterous enough. Damn it, he will be dexterous enough because it’s my dream and I’ll hurt if I want to.
And at that moment when we are working together, I gather a rush of artery-exploding power will blast through my nervous system as I absorb this man-created fullness for the first time. I wonder if I’ll need to beg them to fight their urges to fuck like competitors and thrust slowly so my body can adapt and appreciate every nuance of movement.
Jekyll and ArmyDude will be up for it, but not even in my most colourful and far-fetched dreams would they play nicely together. Apart from my conviction that they are two different personalities of the same species, like head-locking antlered beasts on TV documentaries, they’d bicker for first dibs of my rear entrance.
I have been a paragon of goodness, Santa, and if you deliver this treat to me I’ll be even better next year. Now is probably not the best time to add a request for Penis Man to be fucking me while Arse Man fucks him — ooh, Santa, add that one to the list as well. Thanks.
