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I mentioned in the last post I had to describe someone’s testicles. They weren’t in close proximity to me but have been the source of a painful argument with Jekyll because they were slapping his arse possibly after he cancelled a meeting with me. At this stage I seem to have a lot of words I can’t retract and thoughts he can’t erase because it appears I have overreacted or implied causal events that did not occur. I don’t know because he lives secret lives and is an accomplished liar by necessity but, on the other hand, has no reason to lie to me on this. I poked him with a stick anyway and now I’m paying the price. I need a few more days on this one because I don’t know what to do but I’ll tell the story.
Warning: post could contain several mild sexual references.
The planets aligned with ArmyDude having a free half hour after the time most of my building’s occupants leave the office for the day.
He attended to some makework at his desk as I played spy from the window of mine to check the emptying car park. I sent a text saying the coast was clear and to walk straight into the ensuite if his entrance was unhindered or stop by my desk and discuss work if seen by a colleague (I don’t use Twitter because keeping even a text message to 140 characters would kill me). We had to waste 10 minutes chatting up a pretext of innocence because he bumped into someone he knew. Damn. Ten minutes of waiting when my sex drive has come out of hibernation temporarily is a very long time indeed.
Tick tock, tick tock, please slow down wall clock, finally he slipped like a zephyr into the darkened room to the side. I latched the office door’s lock with the gentlest of clicks and doubly ensured our privacy with the securing of the ensuite door.
He pushed me against the cool white tiles and gave me a kissing worthy of serious stubble rash later. My hands roamed inside his shirt to remember the hardened smoothness of his skin. The “I need you inside me right now” urge simultaneously took over my head and cunt and I reached for the bulge pressing into my hip. He was hard, gloriously, fuckably hard and I made indications towards wanting a solid impaling.
“Do you still have a tampon in?”
“What? Oh, fuck! I forgot. Yeah.” Damn, damn, bad timing, stupid forgetful damn.
“What do you want to do?”
“Suck your cock.”
“Beg.”
“You want me to beg to suck your cock?” This wasn’t written in my script for the remaining 15 minutes.
“Yes. Beg.”
I haven’t done the begging thing since M1 and I don’t want ArmyDude indoctrinated into having a girl kneeling with hands clasped behind her back, doe-eyed stare of desire on her face and gently biting a lip in a feigned angel/harlot demeanour while begging to get him off. Sets a precedent where I don’t want to play at this point.
I took a risk that any old begging would do because his cock was about to spontaneously combust. “I would really, REALLY, like to have your cock in my mouth. Please.”
It worked. M1 would have paddled my backside for insubordination and laziness.
I can almost deep throat his cock although I’m not sure that’s from practice or because he shoves my head forward so firmly my gag reflex can’t keep up. I felt my eyes gloss with tears and betray my craving for rough treatment when a few strokes were particularly crude. He wanked as I took a break and tongued his newly-shaved balls, a sexual ambrosia compared to the description I need to write about someone else’s testicles in the next post. I could feel my inconveniently bleeding vagina swelling with the closeness of ArmyDude as I indulged in a fantasy about having a group of uniformed men walking past and watching from the side window.
I don’t know what track his fantasy mind was spinning because soon he breathed, “Where do you want me to come?”
“In my mouth. Please. I’d love you to come in my mouth.”
“I’m going to come on your face.”
“Seriously? I’m not begging now. If you come in my eyes I’ll kill you.”
“I won’t get your eyes.”
“Grrrm, all right.”
I closed my eyes in self protection as he he blobbed a path around my cheeks and chin down to my knees, leaving an aromatic mess on my skin and remaining clothes. We briskly tidied as best we could, kissed and talked until we had to go our separate ways.
A curiosity of quick-time bungee jump sexual activity is that my oxytocin levels don’t hit singing happy songs, smiling at puppies, wearing an unshiftable grin on my face levels until long after the episode has finished. I ran errands in a dreamy haze on the way home including a vague attempt at food shopping. Apart from buying bags of stuff that won’t make meals when combined but seemed like a grand idea at the time, I didn’t realise until later that night I had a large, white-powdered splodge of dried come on the side of my nose. Whoops.
I broke yet another buzzing appliance (or it wasn’t strong enough to break me) so off I went again to the emporium of smut.
My mood wasn’t appropriate for attempting a choice among the hundreds of garish get-off machines and I chose the oldest and presumably hardest-living sales assistant for help.
“Hi. I hate shopping so let me speak bluntly. I want something for external use that buzzes like a food processor and grinds like a de Walt hammer drill. I’ve been on anti-depressants and don’t need anything fancy but do need a lot of it.”
She flashed a knowing smile and led the way to a stand of pastel-coloured rods and selected a pink tool that resembled a small flashlight. She inserted batteries into the unit and its second control panel and flicked some switches. Holy batshit, with the boost of the additional power unit turned up, the metal bumps on the end of the rod nearly pushed a hole through the palm of my hand. I was pleased.
She said they’re popular among women who have developed cast-iron clits from delayed orgasms. I understood why and suddenly I wanted to be the hell out of the shop to attend to some live testing.
Before I was allowed to run off with my purchase, she asked if had been working on desensitising myself.
“Have I what?” [long pause while I wondered what the fuck she was talking about]
“Um, nooooooooo [insert guilty smile and sheepish look]. I just keep buying more powerful vibes because I don’t want to lose the monster orgasms I have now. Anyway, how many men with quick or delayed orgasms bother with desensitising if they are still getting off big time?”
She replied, “Good point. Love your work.”
I’ve been at this blogging caper for only 11 months and couldn’t hazard a guess at the average lifespan of sex-related blogs. The postings of some three year-plus veterans who inspired me to start jotting have trickled to almost nothing, no doubt mired in decisions about saving material for book deals or caught in byproduct activity of producing non-sexual words for income. Some sexual comets flew by at a dazzling rate, leaving my mouth agape at the quality and regularity of posting but they crumbled to dust as quickly as they had arrived in the blogiverse. Others I discovered relatively recently, but was too shy to request permission to access now-private journals because I hadn’t taken the time to comment and make myself known. Yet more blogs have had to take second place to life changes, disappear to reduce threats to privacy or writers simply burned out: there’s only so many ways to describe the gnashing of genitals if lust is the premise of a journal.
Here? I still have a lot to say after scanning the jumble in my draft folder, but where’s the sex? I was thinking last night that The Drummer and I have had partner sex probably twice this year plus a few masturbation sessions, but his libido is flat and my enthusiasm is similarly lethargic. We’re creeping along in a cycle of familiarity that the effort of reviving passion seems a lot of work when finances, work, fatigue and health issues need pushing aside to find glimmers of lust concealed underneath. To use my favourite phrase of the moment: I can’t be arsed.
Jekyll and I have met for sexual purposes no more than three times this year from memory. We were supposed to catch up last week but he postponed literally at the last minute (I was sitting in a hot car on a sweltering day watching my temper rise every minute I spent wondering where the fuck he was). He suggested we try again later this week but I’m grumpy at the reverse side of his healthy narcissism that he’s questioning my enthusiasm lately yet he’s been difficult to communicate with for several months now. This discussion will continue and I’m in the mood for it.
ArmyDude had a free night during the week but was too depressed to catch up. He falls into very dark moods similar to mine but withdraws entirely from unnecessary contact at the onset while I tend to lash out before I hide from the world. I saw this one coming because of some problems in his personal life and I was also partially responsible: I gave him some blunt ‘feedback’ when he had his head in the sand about a problem he confided in me. It was another judgement call that being a confidante is all well and good, but this time was impossible in my heart to imply support for his decided ignorance and I elected to give him a verbal kick in the pants. It was a straight, honest kick and I let the issue rest after the first shot — I know he hadn’t discussed the problem with his wife and was probably hoping for validation from me but not this time around. He dropped by the office the following day and seems fine, but I don’t know if he’ll confide so much again.
MB and I have recovered from the disastrous trip last year and developed an e-mail friendship of sorts, which I’m quietly destroying at the moment. He sent a work-related paper that he’s planning to present and wanted an opinion. He made the error of saying it might be over my head and I ripped off a nastygram asking exactly what my pretty little head might not understand because he’s not a nuclear physicist or fucking prime number theorist. Haven’t heard back from him yet.
I was supposed to meet someone last night for drinks but freaked out and postponed. I took the route of self sabotage by probably over-reacting to a message he sent and took flight because I didn’t think I met his perceptions about general sexiness, which were possibly only pre-meeting flirtatious hints. He was kind about my turning into Hydra about being asked to show some cleavage and we might meet next week. I wouldn’t bother meeting me at the moment with my frightening moods so the man is either desperate or a saint (my tits aren’t that great, anyway).
I was going to conclude by contemplating why I am in a prolonged cunt of a mood, but my cunt is soft and pleasing and it’s the completely wrong analogy. I am a nightmare. This episode of depression is far more malevolent than I’m prepared to accept and I have lied by deception to my doctor and people in my mental health circle like ArmyDude about how much of my current life I’m faking. My libido is in the negatives, I don’t have the patience or desire to meet people and the only place I feel safe is under the blankets with the lights off. I also have chronic pain that’s inflaming my temper and will take several weeks to control with medication and, all tallied, I wish society was evolved enough to have affordable and socially acceptable walk-in rest facilities as a crutch between real life and psych wards to check stress at the door for a few weeks before returning to real life. One day. Someone send me money and I’ll start the trial site.
Sorry, no sex this post either. Perhaps someone will write a post lamenting about sex blogging and moan that some people started blogging about sex but there’s no sex any more. Touché.
ArmyDude didn’t get the job. I’m relieved in a commonsense kind of way but the latent self-destructive part of my mind is disappointed. He sounded relieved as the job wasn’t his cup of tea anyway but annoyed that time has to be wasted jumping through silly career hoops. I sent him a message saying I was sorry about the outcome and he needed to organise time so I can suck his cock again. We’re both practical types.
While waiting for the ArmyDude possibly working for me saga to pan out, my new online profile is reviving a few ghosts of the dating dead.
The man who a couple of weeks ago postponed an hour before our meeting and disappeared into some dating black hole sent a smile to my new profile. Oh, gosh, the internal battle I had between knowing I should take the higher ground and let sleeping dogs lay, and just dying to lead him on until he’s salivating from his mouth *and* cock and dumping the fucker 15 minutes *after* the time lined up for a rendezvous. It took a couple of days for my obsession with the latter scenario to settle and I took the grown-up route and blocked him from further contact. (I still have little revenge fantasies but it’s okay to dream, right?)
My new profile received a respectful message of introduction from the chap I met about six weeks ago, which ended in a ‘it was good to meet you’ peck on the cheek that screamed of the unspoken ‘and we’ll never meet again’. We had no further contact until he was watching BDSM porn and texted to say he was thinking of doing me and then disappeared. Strange once-off behaviour aside, he didn’t deserve bullshit and mind games and I replied with a ‘thanks but no thanks’ message signed off with a different name and I thanked myself for keeping my new photos private (all right, the response and fake name were bullshit but it was the most considerate bullshit I could think of).
Mr New Year’s Eve’s handsome-but-god-I-want-to-smack-it-hard face appeared in a search. He must’ve blocked my old identity as his grinning mug was in high-definition living colour on my monitor this time around. Meh. Blocked.
There is one intriguing tri(anything)-sexual man but he’s proving too far away for either of us to set up a pissing and/or rimming session. A few younger men with plenty of time on their hands were chasing with determination and attempting midnight text message booty calls in parks when we hadn’t spoken on the phone, let alone met. Um, yeah, I’m tired, depressed, apathetic and I’m really going to answer the phone in the middle of the night to meet a stranger when it’s my personal safety being compromised. I know the whole male/male beat set-up and protocol but is this normal these days for casual male/female contact?
I can appreciate the relative peace that comes with staying home and watching DVDs instead of pursuing the prospect of sex. Writing the last sentence trigged a thought that I’ve lost sight of what I’m looking for. It’s obviously more than sex because a few seconds of my hand around my partner’s cock would guarantee some kind of erotic response, but there’s more. Always more.
The restructure at work continues and one of my staff members is being transferred elsewhere. This decision made by higher above will create an empty desk in my office. Oh, looky here, we have approval to advertise the vacancy internally. Even better — hurrah for coincidence! — the role would be a promotional opportunity for ArmyDude. And, to continue the joyous bloody serendipity, he has relevant experience (not referring to the fucking me bit, but the advertised job).
Motherfucking, shitful, cunting, dumbarse, crap-faced, fuckityfucked merciless luck that he has to apply to be seen doing the right thing. He’s not interested in the position as he’s as content as he’ll ever be where he is, but, with long-term pressure on headcount and few opportunities to advance, he has little choice but to play the political game.
We haven’t had a chance to talk apart from guarded e-mails on the work system trying to sort out how to play our cards. I said I wouldn’t sway him in any direction but counselled that work comes first during business hours: he needs to act based on what’s best career-wise and we’ll manage the consequences when we have more solid information.
[Edited to add: a week passed and he applied. Another week passed. I wish I could do that time-chopping in real life.]
Unfortunately, I now hold information. He’s in the final three. Our physical bond thrives on secrets that could destroy our personal lives but my professional boundaries are a loosely-strained fence that could tension into a wire trap with every word I impart carelessly. While I can’t decide how much to confide, I will tell him something as a demonstration of our trust. Neither of us has abused previous exchanges of work-related information and, of the many reactions I’ve felt because of our relationship, I doubt betrayal will be the next.
I’m flailing helplessly. He has to act and I have to sit back and see what happens because any variation from others’ expectations will cause questions to be asked.
This is one of the times I wish this blog was written by someone else and I could sit back with a glass of wine and eagerly await the RSS feeder to despatch the next chapter for my voracious consumption. Then I remind myself that this problem is mine in creation and has to be mine in resolution. I think I’ll have the glass of wine anyway.
I wonder which would be sadder if he got the job: me calling ‘us’ off immediately because I can’t and won’t play both parts of lover and manager, and watch us dying inside daily; or accepting both roles and witnessing our lust wither to hazy memories as regularity and work mundanities kill the crackle of tension that draws us together.
I dislike the use of adjectives such as ‘good’ and ‘bad’ when referring to sexual activities and proclivities because opinions are almost always subjective and judgements are quite often derogatory.
But I was bad this morning, even by my own [low, variable, gutter-dwelling, interesting, whatever] standards.
I am in a Xanax-induced torpor after days in the mental bleak zone of contemplating the benefits of not existing but having neither the mental nor physical reserves to concoct a plan. Too lethargic to die … hah, feel the Gen-X slacker irony. However, the energy generated by dragging myself to work today roused some urges for controlled debasement (one day I’ll have to describe the internal conflict of self destruction versus commonsense because I still don’t understand its pulls or know its limits).
By 8.30am I had sent a text message to ArmyDude saying how much I wanted his come in my mouth. Preferably today. By 8.35 the surprised target was agreeing with the wisdom of my thoughts (enabler, he is). By 9.00 I was rushing some urgent work so we could meet at the local car park at lunchtime. By 9.30 the awakened target said he needed my lips around his cock soon and midday was too far away. By 9.32 I had agreed with his revised schedule (mutual enabler, I am).
By 10.00am my head was in his lap and a large hand was shoving my head down his cock. By 10.02am I was receiving an accelerated lesson in deep throating without spilling saliva on his car’s upholstery. I failed. By 10.05am my shirt was unbuttoned, my bra was worn as a necklace and his other hand was imprinting aggressive red smudges on my breasts.
By 10.07am he refused to come in my mouth and let it rip from my chin to my belly, leaving great creamy globs on my bra when I squirmed to catch the spurts with my tongue.
Tissues and water can only remove so much evidence from clothing.
I stank. I didn’t care.
The last of the local chaps mentioned in the previous post was enthusiastic in the morning and had performed an impressive flip-flop by early evening. An hour before our meet-up time I received a text message saying he had just arrived home from work, had to start early the next morning and couldn’t catch up.
Hmm, no message sent earlier in the day when he learned he was working back, arriving home at 7pm is hardly the middle of the night for a business hours worker, the bad news was despatched by text message when we’d already established a protocol of speaking on the phone, and no mention of talking or meeting another time … I felt a bit high after inhaling the heady aroma of his bullshit and sent a reply bidding him a good day at work tomorrow and all the best for the future.
Bye!
Five minutes later the universe came through with a reward for assertive behaviour. ArmyDude sent a message asking if I’d like something long, hard and tasty.
Yes!
I got the long and hard while my ankles were entwined around his neck and from behind on all fours with my head buried in a pillow and hands clasping the headboard to stop my happy body being pushed through the wall. I also got a mind-shattering orgasm from four fingers in my cunt and a ravenous tongue in my arse. I got the tasty at the end and can verify that pineapple juice changes the taste of the tasty.
Thanks, universe.
Mr OMG left some of our text messages sitting about in his phone.
His on-the-way-out-but-not-quite-ex found and read a selection.
He called to let me know he was going to ground and provide warning in case I started receiving calls from her.
I said, “Oh, no, [insert cooing noises of sympathy here] that must be difficult to deal with. Take the time you need to sort out your home life [insert the clunking sound of my insincerity and self pity hitting the floor right about here].”
That was two weeks ago.
I don’t answer calls from blocked or unidentifiable numbers anyway. Then again, if she rings I’m in the mindset to run the trash’n'treasure analogy past her that one woman’s trash is my treasure and just throw him out for me, please. I’ll do the recycling thing and send him back, same day, guaranteed.
I activated a blunt and gritty new profile the other day and have 150 messages — most respondents haven’t read the text and almost live in another timezone requiring travel in the fucking Tardis; a handful are insanely young lads who are seeing how far they get before they run off and pounce on the next shiny thing. I got rid of the one referring to me as an ‘older woman’ by asking if I could daub ‘little fucktoy’ in red lipstick on his chest and take photos.
There were a couple of local men and one sent messages saying my getting in touch was the best thing ever. Ever! He disappeared elsewhere over the weekend before we could set up a meeting. I’m catching up with the other one tonight: we have discussed my relationship situation on the phone and he sounds curious but cautious which has never been a good sign. His unavailability several weeknights in a row is giving me a funny feeling of doubt but I don’t know what it’s really saying. We will see.
I’m feeling lonely standing in a middle ground wanting something between a relationship and casual sex. I have all the permission and motivation I could ever wish for but meeting people and trying to second-guess their motivations is a king-sized pain in the arse — I didn’t date this much when I was single and the warped joke is lost on my souring good nature. I wish I gained more satisfaction from anonymous sex and had no qualms about the dumping afterwards; perhaps I should indulge more frequently to purge frustration and develop a thicker skin. I was thinking of giving up and returning to my old life but nothing is gained without effort and I don’t want to bow out with potential regrets of not having persisted.
