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Painkillers administered and ice packs applied to my bruises, I went to bed. Warm, white-sheeted, cosy woolen quilt-covered haven, and I made my nest and curled in it and nothing was going to disturb my darkened sanctuary.
My mobile phone interrupted the peace with a message — just why are the ’silent’ mode’s buzzes obscenely louder than the ‘discreet’ mode’s? The Drummer was at work and I had already said goodnight, and everyone who knows me is aware that messing with my earlybird habits is not a good idea. Out of curiosity, I peeled back the covers, disturbed as few millimetres of my den as possible and dug the phone out of my handbag.
It was the lovely young man from the past few posts who disappeared, returned with a flurry of phone calls, ran off again and seemed to be back with a new campaign of attention at well past bedtime o’clock.
He asked if I wanted company. Oh yes, indeed, but I’m warm, sleepy, comfortable in my self-imposed pillowy exile and I’m not coming out to answer the front door even if you have your cock in one hand and a bottle of lube in the other.
He said he was ten minutes away and would only drop by for a kiss and be on his way again. You don’t know me too well, do you? I know what these kisses turn into and I’ll be encouraging it more than you, young fox.
Can I pay you a visit? Actually, you raise a greater issue that I’ve never had ‘another’ here and I need to discuss such things with my partner beforehand. That’s a problem for tomorrow; go away, and sweet dreams.
Can you send me a photo? Easy, spread legs, swoosh the peace-violating phone about under the covers and hey, the first shot of my hand on my girl bits worked a surprising treat. Send me one now you’ve woken me up and got me masturbating instead of dreaming.
Did you get my photo? The half-erect slab of cock that I’m currently pleasuring myself to? Um, yeah, got that, thanks. Go away, I’m busy.
Can we talk on the phone? I murmured drowsy hmms and yeses to his suggestions of oral sex and long fucking sessions and oh, rimming, hello that woke me up!
Can I send you another photo? Yes, and hanging up the phone will give me a chance to finish the self pleasure I had started. Thank you, randy golden-haired boy who is still claiming not to be chasing a booty call.
Bzzzzzzzz Oh. My. God. A photo came through of an erect, circumcised cock launching through the zip of a pair of dark blue jeans. It must have been long to justify the gentle arc of the shaft, weighing down towards the head, much like the Sydney Harbour Bridge’s superstructure. The glans flared noticeably from the end of its length and caused me to wonder intently how the contrasting girths might feel.
Did you get that photo? Oh, yes, I’m, um, just looking at it (and having a very sweet orgasm). Very nice, carry on. I really do need to sleep now as I need to get up in six hours. Talk tomorrow.
How about we meet somewhere, just for five minutes? The voice that told me to contact you initially has woken from its slumber and said get dressed, conservative girl, you can sleep another time. All right, I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’ll put some clothes on and meet you at the end of the next street.
I saw his car pass the corner as I shuffled past the neighbours’ houses in track pants and a t-shirt found hanging off a door knob. I didn’t know so many properties in the neighbourhood had security systems and my path up the street was bathed in flashes of sensor lights like the catwalks of Fuckville.
Ohhhhh, he kissed as beautifully as I remembered. My faculties were earlier too blurred to hunt down undergarments and his hands roamed my unfettered breasts and squeezed nipples with the subtle pressure I didn’t know I enjoyed so much. Five minutes, ha ha ha, I knew you were talking crap but I’m glad I listened. His shirt went missing in the darkness and his chest was polished metal smooth and why was my head so sleepy but my body squirming so enthusiastically? He bent over some centre consoles and hand brakes and other things I couldn’t see and removed my shoes and pants and went down on me. I made funny little noises and ran my hand along the musculature of his spine as his tongue fucked my re-wettened hole and toyed with my clit. It was very warm in the car.
When he came up to relieve leg cramps I pushed him back on the driver’s seat and he helped my unco-ordinated fingers with undoing and removing his jeans and underwear, his ruse of innocence well and truly eroded. His balls were of the finest satin and OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT GIGANTIC THING IN MY HAND?
I wrapped my hand as far as it could stretch around the base, slid my mouth down as far as I could with a few slow swallows and my hand and mouth did not connect. I dived again and again with my lips, pulled his shaft upwards with my hand at the same time and still there was a gap of indeterminable length. Screw you, waning crescent moon with feeble light and not letting me see the Loch Ness Monster Cock. How big is this thing? Just how quickly am I going to split in half and die if we have sex?
He laughed when I accidentally said the last sentence out loud.
We played with the swollen beast until it spurted up his firm belly and we kissed and held each other until he was losing grip on consciousness.
I rued that neither of us had condoms. Fuck, I didn’t have the cognitive awareness to find underpants, let alone protection. The Drummer is larger than average and we have to be careful that he doesn’t mash my cervix to pulp during legs-in-the-air and doggy-style sex. I dated someone years ago who was on an even bigger scale: the old two cola cans stacked atop each other analogy that made even standard positions difficult to navigate and sent the less experienced me fleeing when he raised the subject of anal sex. I don’t know how this man compares in the ignorance of darkness and the passing of time but, by christ, he had better not disappear until I’ve been torn in two.
The same day, Jekyll called about an hour before I knocked off work, absolutely convinced that being locked down in a hotel room was exactly what we needed. Well, yeah, perhaps, but I was still reeling from the morning’s misbehaviour and my overall headspace was more unsettled than the last time we had a few hours together. And a little surge of selfishness spread through my thoughts that all of a sudden my much-craved evening of solitude might be compromised. I fuck like a boy but still think like a girl.
I drove to one of our parks after work and we met to catch up and possibly — I contemplated — to suck his cock and send him on his way so I could dash home, slip into my pyjamas and start a marathon re-watching of the Sopranos on DVD.
He was discussing things of little interest to me like my currently erratic sex drive and why I hadn’t been checking our shared profile; somehow we ended up in an experiment of finding the most pain-sensitive part of my body. Upper inner thigh or inner arm near the armpit? The fucker pinched both at the same time — I squealed at the onset of initial pain and burst into a spray of involuntary tears when the second burning rush hit after he released his grip. I couldn’t stop the tears and he wouldn’t stop apologising which meant I couldn’t stop crying as the searing throbs overloaded my nervous system.
The bruise under my arm was already more than an inch high and two inches wide and I didn’t dare check the damage between my legs. Later I needed to urinate before the drive home and had to wait for other people in the car park to leave. Seeing an opportunity, I skipped behind a tree, crouched, used my left arm to pull my dropped pants forward and my right hand to grasp a branch for balance. The fucking branch broke and I narrowly avoided sending a jet of hot piss into my pants and underwear when I fell flat on my arse. Fuck. I grabbed the more stable tree trunk and an army of small, aggressive red ants launched a campaign down my arm and I fell over again trying to shake the little bastards off.
I drove home with a frazzled nervous system convinced that ants were crawling all over me and couldn’t find any aspirin in my handbag to start reducing the inflammation of the bruise sites. All in all, I’ve had more enjoyable experiences.
My employer is rolling out a series of unco-ordinated, Alice in Wonderland-style restructures where all roads lead somewhere but no one quite knows where or whether a packed lunch is needed because it’s taking rather a long time to choose a direction and get started. The least I can do for my shrinking team is encourage an occasional long weekend to sleep in, go camping, read a book or do whatever it is that takes their minds off working life for a while.
I don’t remember consciously plotting to be alone by granting days off left, right and centre but I strode into the office, realised the crumbling empire was mine all day and sent a message to ArmyDude saying I was by myself if he had time to drop by. I distinctly remember finishing with “to talk” because we haven’t seen each other for a couple of weeks and my intentions were pure.
My intentions remained pure if ‘pure’ is defined in the dictionary as: pure v. / pwoarrrrr / 1. the directing of a colleague into an office ensuite and sneaking behind, locking the door and engaging in whisper quiet but frantic mutual pleasures including the oral exchange of copious bodily fluids. adj. ~ify /pwoarrrrr yeah/ 2. the double-washing of hands and gobbling of mints after engaging in purification activities to ensure traces of bodily fluids are undetectable to the olfactory senses.
I’m not sure how the team’s coping but I feel fucking fantastic.
How on earth could a whiff of intuition grant an audience with a man imbued with sincerity and coated in golden-tanned and classical beauty and lips of angels who kiss gently? We said hello, and oh hello you are beautiful I didn’t dare say, and I thought I could look at his beguiling face all day but we walked and talked and let nerves escape through the soles of our shoes on the crunchy gravel path. We wandered the long circuit and sat on a park bench as the sun took its dying beams and we fidgeted coyly and talked and listened and wondered quietly. He held the ocean in his ultramarine eyes and I tried not to drown when he met with my tired but hopeful jadey greens, hmm, perhaps he likes me.
How on earth does one part with grace when it is time to go and the dark is coming and the tummy butterflies are fluttering and he’s sitting closer but not close enough for his message to be readable? We stood and said goodbye and pleased to meet you and all those nice words and we went quiet … like this … and I said it’s that awkward moment and he smiled and dipped his head with the shyness and inner sweetness that was earlier petting bouncy dogs along the path. I thought I may not want to know but need to know and said, I don’t want to go until I say I want to see you again, you know. Here, it is on the table and I feel vulnerable. He spread his gaze and our eyes they met and he repeated my words, and our next words were silent but the thoughts were loud that our goodbye was now galloping a new and untrampled path.
How on earth does one remember a first kiss when the giant waxy moon is washing us with light and lips could seek a warm neck or the tender folds of an ear or the matching pair of the other and he smells so good and there’s his lips and they’re warm and soft and his tongue is here, too? And his shoulders and back are firm and his touch is gentle, oh so gentle, and made my thoughts wander to the joys of peeling the outer fabrics but not now because we have already travelled far today. He said I don’t know what to say and I said don’t say anything but do tell me you’re okay, and he is okay and I arched my neck like a swan and nestled in his chest and he kissed my forehead. May I have another kiss on the lips, because the first was swept away by occasion? Yes, thank you, it’s earlier than I thought and time for another even though our embraces are long and lingering and the moon is above us now.
Years ago I read a pop-psych article debating if intuition was indeed a sixth and special sense or the less mystic accumulation of acquired knowledge and experience that manifests in those “I don’t know how but I just know this” moments. I haven’t a clue because I’m just a trollop on the hunt for more sexual adventures with the shadow of Freud left in my dust, but the mysterious gut feel has been the only consistently sharp sense I’ve owned when mood, fatigue, sex drive and frustration have made my judgement all wobbly.
I thought I’d drained the pool of prospective new partners this time around but was loathe to have a break until I’d made contact with one man who left a smile. No photo, only a few vague sentences about himself and what he was looking for, and some information was missing about his personal status. Normally a profile so shapeless would be passed over but my spidey senses jumped to attention and said Oy, there’s something about this one and I don’t mean in a nutbar way. Righto then. I wasn’t depressed, I wasn’t frustrated, I may have been in a bit of a looking for sex mood but I wasn’t desperate so I obeyed the perplexing message from brainspace central.
I returned his smile and we became caught in an infuriating game of smiley ping pong because my membership had lapsed and we couldn’t make other contact. He was a new member who I assume was loathe to upgrade until he’d tested the waters and communicated with women rather than fend off the men who ambush straight men’s profiles.
At insane o’clock one night when I couldn’t sleep the voice said Go on, upgrade and make contact and see what happens. But I’ve had a bad run — what if it’s for naught and I emerge twice as cynical? Come on, woman, this is hardly in the top 10 of crazy shit you’ve done. Shall we start with the police being called when you were tied up and couldn’t phone home, being fisted in a car, how about the … Bah, shut the fuck up, now you’re just taking the piss.
I nodded off again, woke up bolt upright at 5am, logged on and renewed my membership. I sent a hurried message explaining about not knowing if I’m sane or not but I didn’t want to go into temporary retirement until at least making contact with him. A couple of hours later I went to work and wondered how quickly he’d run for the hills after being approached by a sleepless stalker who uses riotous voices in her head as a decision making tool.
I returned home and he had left an e-mail with his phone number. He sounds lovely on the phone and looks easy on the eye in a broad-shouldered, sun-bleached hair surfer way according to the photo he sent (I’ve never been a pin-up doll for the surfer set but we’ll see this time around). He’s exiting a long-term relationship and testing the water for distraction without commitment; he may well disappear because of current pressures but I seem to sense this more than he because I’m half a dozen years older and have been around the block a few more times — perhaps for a while I can be the free therapy that’s worth every cent.
We’re meeting this week. After a rough period of false starts and frustration, I can’t wait to see if my judgement has been restored or my last glimmer of optimism was merely a mirage of nude figures on the horizon that I’m not going to reach. I’d put some money on the former, just this once, but not too much money.
I want to form a little story loop and say the next two posts don’t have a happy ending, or even sex, or even sex with a happy ending for that matter. He did that game won, can slack off now behaviour that seems to happen post-chase and capture, and I have let him go. It was tempting to delete the posts and wipe the egg from my face, but I still have an urge to be as honest as I can, so published they shall be.
Also in this week’s burst of optimism, I sent a message to someone local who thought I was the greatest thing since the wheel. He has been the first though to acknowledge he’s too insecure to deal with my existing relationship and possibility I might be having sex — and perhaps satisfying sex — with someone else. It was refreshing in a way to be rejected with frankness; several men have disappeared when they’ve realised I’m not starved of affection or attention but not acknowledged their twitches of insecurity (while my physical life at home isn’t regular at the moment it’s not for me to build illusions of living in a sex-starved cage to feed others’ rescue fantasies).
I met someone for drinks last night, more to get out of the house than anything. I had already told him he was too far away and my energy for meeting people was low but we agreed to meet as we had some non-sexual things in common. Nice night and he invited me back to his place that I needed to check in the map book even though I’ve lived here most of my life; I was half-tempted to fuck mindlessly and leave without a goodbye in revenge for the other events of my week, but I just couldn’t, and headed in the opposite direction and went home.
I had phone contact with someone but his relationship status wasn’t as open as he made out in his profile. We have a lot in common as far as preferences and wish lists but his situation is that he’d be limited to sporadic hotel jousts with lots of planning and high possibility of cancellation at the last minute. I could do that, like with Jekyll these days, if we had a foundation on which to build, but I seem to be the only person on the planet who takes a few fucks to get to know someone, dissipate the nerves and then get off on all the kaleidoscope of fun that can be had.
I worked on an IT help desk for about five minutes in the 1990s but I learnt when solving problems that if something isn’t working, change one thing, test and evaluate. I’m not sure what to change: I’m creating a new profile and might send it into the world next week after I’ve had a little break.
Okay, on with the slide show.
[I promise to make this entry as benign as possible. My motivation for this blog is to document and understand the good, the bad and the ugly, and today landed on butt ugly.]
I have a reasonable idea of the spatial layout of my gastrointestinal tract and knowing when and where I feel full, empty, clean, not clean and combinations thereof. The prospect of anal sex increases my focus on bodily movements though: when preparing for an expected encounter, I eat lighter meals a couple of days prior, pay heed to my bowel movements and do a quick clean in the shower with a finger and gentle soap before leaving the house in case a curious tongue or hard cock probes its way around there. When I’m not satisfied with my feelings of emptiness or cleanliness, I communicate and we focus on the myriad other ways of sharing pleasure.
Something happened a few months ago that’s meddled with my relaxed ritual, and I’m not pleased because I keep thinking it’s not my fault.
I was with Jekyll during one of our hotel afternoons and he made indications towards anal penetration, but we’d gone out for a late breakfast before we checked into the hotel. My stomach was heavy with an impulse order of eggs Florentine, which triggered the gastrocolic reflex too early and I felt increasingly full and uncomfortable with digestive machinations. I told Jekyll I didn’t feel empty enough and but was coaxed into listening to his counter-claim that everything would be all right.
Wrong. I won’t go into too much detail but I was indeed full, the sex was uncomfortable and I called a stop and ran to the shower when I caught smell of the waste I warned him about.
Instead of listening and respecting my knowledge of my body, Jekyll defended and suggested I learn the ancient art of administering an enema. The thought has drifted through my mind ever since, wondering if one of us was right or wrong or if a formal cleansing was a useful practicality rather than an attempt to obliterate a conflicting guilt trip (on one hand it’s partially for his benefit so I sense guilt trip , but on the other hand he is comfortable with self-administration when he’s been a bottom for gay and bi men he’s had sex with so it’s no big deal for him).
Anyway, as part of the education process I spent part of an afternoon messing about with an enema kit (not the fancypants, scary one that looks like a hot water bottle and hangs in the shower, but a big squeezy bottle with a three-inch tube). Not happy. I got lube over the bathroom floor, fluids escaped during administration and more towels were soiled than I’m going to admit, the toilet needed a damn good scrubbing after expulsion and I don’t think I got enough liquid inside to conduct a thorough cleansing despite the mayhem in the bathroom. The hours of subsequent cramping indicated I tried to force the warm water too quickly or too much air was introduced when trying to piece together a workable process.
Fuck that shit.
I know my body. I also know I don’t like to fail but on this occasion I’m content to flunk the masterclass in scouring one’s insides.
(And remember to follow qualified and verified opinions if searching for advice on the web. I checked about 20 sites and at least a dozen contained conflicting information and advice bordering on negligence. At least I learned how to erase my web browser’s history as I was using The Drummer’s computer and there is such thing as too much information.)
ArmyDude didn’t take up my suggestion to wank to orgasm when he was aroused to the point of stupidity. The following morning he continued sending messages along the lines of wanting to lick me senseless and stick his cock down my throat until his come spilled from my lips. His blunt despatches of intent were far more enjoyable to respond to than his string of apologies earlier in the week (and also made me forget my intention to discuss our future — I’m as inconsistent and hormone driven as he is at times and about to get worse).
By mid afternoon I was tetchy to the point of distraction and looking for a quiet toilet in which to masturbate. He was miles ahead in the frustration stakes and concocted a plan that was just crazy enough to work once and once only. Why sneak around in the middle of the night when a single daylight raid under people’s noses would be too audacious to raise suspicion?
He sent a message after work to let me know when he arrived home. I had spare sports clothes in my gym bag and morphed into the most unfuckable looking person in town in a shapeless t-shirt, baggy old track pants (possibly The Drummer’s, they were so ill fitting), tied my hair tied back sloppily and left the day’s make-up shining from the heat. I parked outside his house and knocked on the door with a handful of work-related bits and pieces to drop off.
He let me in with a friendly g’day for the benefit of the neighbours, shut the door, pulled my (The Drummer’s loose and quickly falling) pants down and tongued my swollen, flooded cunt until my legs needed the support of his hands. He came up for air and I clawed, I kissed, I tore clothes off and I took his cock in my mouth and sucked until tears filled my eyes when he yanked my hair too aggressively. The only words we spoke were, “Do you like my cock in your mouth?” and “Yeggrrmmm.”
He fucked me on the floor missionary style, on the bed with my legs wrapped around his waist and on all fours from behind for one of the deepest and most pleasurable hammerings in recent memory. He placed a hand around my throat and pulled my head up towards him while penetrating fiercely, arching my spine and stunning my brain with a rush of the mindlessness euphoria I’ve been seeking for weeks.
I wished he could have lasted longer with his glorious and effective therapy but too soon heard a warning call of pending orgasm. He withdrew as he pulled me to the floor and forced my mouth around his cock, thrusting frantically to hit the back of my throat, my teeth, the roof of my mouth, the sides of my cheeks. He came and came and came and left his semen in my mouth, on my chin and in a trail down my breast to the floor.
We dressed, he put the work items in a bag to return discreetly the next day and waved me goodbye from the front door. The oversized pants concealed a pair of shaking legs when I returned to the car and I had to bite my tongue to stifle a grin the size of the sun.
The ability of the male sex drive to sometimes overrule logical thought didn’t truly hit home until a couple of years ago when The Drummer and I were engaged in a bitter argument. At the time we had separated but lived under the same roof while finalising new living arrangements (I don’t recommend this to anyone but the clinically masochistic, although it was convenient not having to move back in when we reconciled). I can’t remember the reason for raised voices but we were near the bottom of a descending spiral of misunderstanding and vitriol.
Finally, he shouted that he was too horny to think coherently and suggested we fuck to get the frustration out of his system and then talk. I responded that I was too angry to consider fucking him, in the archetypal gender mismatching that men use sex to purge stress and women won’t have sex when stressed.
We bickered fruitlessly until I cracked and said, “Well! Go and see a fucking prostitute and then we’ll talk. I’m too angry to touch you.” In an odd bonding moment, I scanned the local newspaper and he had the phone on hands-free as we shopped for somewhere suitable to send him. We must’ve come across as naïve prank callers when we asked parlour receptionists about prices, if bookings were required and tricky questions such as what happens if you’re not finished when time is up? Logistics sorted with the advice of some understanding women on the other end of the phone, he disappeared for an hour and I wasn’t stricken by insecurity — the argument inadvertently helped me realise that neither of us would die if we had sex with someone else and started me on the current phase of my life.
It’s a loose segue, but The Drummer’s cock taking over his brain came to mind when wondering what the hell’s going on with the men I know.
The chap from the post before last who sent the message about the BDSM porn with visions of fucking me has disappeared again without trace — either a post-orgasm reality check or studying for a role in the film version of He’s Just Not That Into You (Unless He’s Got his Cock in his Hand and Porn on his TV).
Jekyll came good on his promise (threat) to create a joint profile on the dating site — weeks ago I said I wasn’t motivated and to not bother because we had so few opportunities with each other. Yesterday he surprised me with news that the profile was up and I should pull my weight and start responding to smiles. I asked him to stop, think carefully and tell me exactly how and when we’ll meet other people. I logged on the site to shut him up for a while, looked at one message and logged off. That’ll do until he responds to my snarky questions.
Hyde appeared from his lair and is apparently interested in hooking up with a couple, with me as the fourth person. He asked Jekyll to sound me out even though Jekyll hasn’t been invited to this particular party. Hyde has my phone number and I don’t know why he’s using Jekyll as his pimp. I’m ignoring them both until they sort themselves out.
ArmyDude and I have been sidestepping each other after I provided blunt feedback about his disappearances (fine) without communication (not fine). He has since dropped by the office three times in three days and sent half a dozen messages of apology. Thank goodness this overcompensating behaviour has slowed.
Just when I thought the planets had re-aligned, last night ArmyDude sent a message saying I still couldn’t visit because of the continuing long daylight hours and his neighbours were active until late. I agreed and said we’d need to talk about our future at some stage as our other options to meet were drying up. This sentiment didn’t sink in as I intended. A few messages later he was overtaken by an erection from hell and pleaded me to come by immediately, forgetting his earlier sage message and promising he’d handle any neighbourhood sightings or rumours. I told him to put the phone down, wank until he got off, rest for 10 minutes and re-consider his insane plan. He replied with a frustrated, “You could have been here by now if you’d left straight away.” I referred to my previous suggestion and went to bed.
The boys are behaving strangely. I’ve heard Mars is in retrograde Uranus or something but this broadscale assault of the cock over the brain is bamboozling.
Before a meeting I prepare by packing a notepad, pen, bottle of water, bored scowl and mentally note when I might need to contribute and what I plan to say.
This strategy fools disinterested people that I’m organised and leaves plenty of time to allocate my brain to more interesting ruminations. For instance, yesterday’s meeting from the pits of hell allowed me to indulge in dreaming up celebrity threesomes. Took rather a long time to move past the first one, I must say.
Musical: Henry Rollins and Anthony Kiedis
Sporting: Lance Armstrong and Andy Roddick but 10 years older
Movies: Eduardo Noriega and Aaron Eckhart
Girl power: Angelina Jolie and Miranda Kerr
TV: Robert Downey Jr and Jimmy Smits
More girl power: Kate Winslet and Uma Thurman
Fictional: Professor Snape and Horatio Hornblower (and Dr House, please, please, please)
Doctor Who: Christopher Eccleston and David Tennant
Meeting over.
