I was doing something benign and unrelated the other night – probably brushing my teeth – and the thought occurred that I was looking forward to meeting someone. The thought wasn’t bound with conditions or doubts; it was just a clean and clear flash of hope with a trail of warming optimism. I must have been brushing my teeth as I then remembered looking in the mirror to make sure I was still myself.

Of course, things changed the next day.

In less than 10 minutes I decided to meet Seven, I sent The Drummer a message to let him know I was organising a drink for that night and, oh, the Country Boy sent a message or five. He leaves me be for several weeks when I want to know what happened and then lucks on the precise time I organise to meet someone else. I have upgraded the firmware on my phone and text messages now scroll line-by-line at the top without opening them; the downside of this nifty feature was that I could see an essay of the last few weeks’ happenings unfolding, together with a never-ending editorial about how I had failed him.  Each line brought me closer to tears but I quickly confirmed drinks with Seven before I could change my mind and throw the damn phone in the bin.

I read the Country Boy’s messages properly: his horror year continued with a family emergency on Christmas Eve and it was the first Christmas Day without the family member who passed away recently. Once presents were opened and lunch was cleared, he appeared to have drunk himself into trying not to care any more.

He was upset with me for breaking my agreement to take it easy on each other and he said any meaning behind his absences was in my head only. He concluded by saying if I meet another man interested in a threesome, he’d like to participate (I don’t know where that came from).

I replied later that night to address some of his points and I also said it was too early for me to consider his request to stay in in contact. He came across as immature and still feeling sorry for himself at times and I need to maintain distance until we are more resilient. I would never tell him what to do but I think he needs to look for and meet other women when he’s ready, not for me to rub in how fantastic and suitable I am by comparison (although I have to admit that would be my ideal outcome), but maybe there is someone else who is content with what he can give.

To return to the initial point of this post, I met Seven for a drink that night and will write about that next time.

Only weeks ago The Drummer and I debated about a television documentary featuring a prostitute who provided services for disabled clients. His view was that she was undertaking a valuable service for members of the community who might face difficulties meeting others; mine was that she was selling a service like any other sex worker and by lauding her are we showing how patronising we can be towards disabled people? Thinking about this in detail raises many other views and biases: the truth probably lies elsewhere as neither of us has experience being or living with a physically disabled person.

I was given the opportunity to eat my words or live by my conviction when I read the profile of a man in a wheelchair. On the positive side, he’s local, of a similar age, I find him attractive from his photos and his profile reads as someone who has a positive attitude and knows what he’s about. On the cautious side, my mind wandered to how the logistics might work if we ended up meeting and liking each other. He has lived a full and active life but his profile didn’t go into detail about being able to drive, his living situation or the sexual side – nothing he should feel compelled to tell the world in a profile, of course, but I’m curious as there are unusual considerations and I don’t enter into anything lightly.

He accepted my contact request and sent a message saying he was looking forward to talking more. I responded and we’ve exchanged a few more brief messages but haven’t been online at the same time. I have sent him a note asking if organising a time would be easier, but he hasn’t been online for a week.

Six

A contact request was waiting for me from someone who sounded familiar. Very tall, thin, divorced, located in a suburb where I’d met someone before, oh, hang on … I scrolled to the photos at the bottom and it was indeed SL, who I met last year and never returned my last message after we had sex. In a fit of indignation I blocked his little white arse off the face of the earth, but I then settled and thought I should have added the request so I could send some blunt feedback. I wonder if he had forgotten me that quickly or, whatever, I need to let it go.

Seven

He sent a contact request when I was online and we chatted for a while. I haven’t felt this comfortable chatting to anyone else and we had the right balance of fielding background questions and engaging in playful conversation. He sent a follow-up text message after I gave him his phone number and things were proceeding smoothly, however, there are just little hints of inconsistency that don’t mean much individually but could add up to him being too smooth an operator. Another part of me would prefer not to get involved again with someone attached, which might be making me look for fault with him.

I don’t know. He’s going on holidays at the end of the week so I might have a couple of weeks to form a definite opinion.

Eight

He met the usual wish list and had ‘separated’ checked as his relationship status. I added him and he wrote a note thanking me because it was hard to meet women who wanted to spend time with a married man. Heh? I re-read his profile and the text implied strongly that he was not in a relationship. I knew he had lied about his status, but I sent an innocently worded message asking if he was separated and had so recently re-united that perhaps he hadn’t updated his profile, or maybe he was lying to me and not given me the choice to make a decision based on reality? I hope I don’t receive a response.

It’s less about his relationship status and more about taking away my ability to make a decision with accurate information.

I found a button, though, to click and lock down the age and location brackets so no one more than a decade either way in age or more than 30km can contact me. This pleases me somewhat — I still have to find and filter unsuitable men but at least not waste time on the far-away and barely-legal ones.

I have discovered some odd new rules that help me sort contact requests: I say no to those looking for women up to 15 years younger but no more than a year older (I know it’s their choice and preference but something about the lop-sidedness makes me uncomfortable). I instantly block anyone saying “I don’t know what women here are looking for” or other negative statements (searching is difficult enough without overcoming bitterness before getting to know someone) and anyone with a profile using the word ‘fun’ more than once is discarded as seeking a quick fuck-and-run. I know I am getting older and the group of suitable men is shrinking but I will wait for someone where interaction feels comfortable and open.

One

We chatted for a while and the topics become more adult-oriented without going too far. I was feeling comfortable and we exchanged phone numbers so I sent him a text messsage later in the day to touch base. Two days later he replied with a brief and vague message; I responded and didn’t hear back.

A couple of days later I deleted him from my contact list and received a phone call and text message within 15 minutes asking why I had done that and if I still wanted to catch up. I said no because I thought he had lost interest — he texted a couple more times and I didn’t reply. Interested people show interest and don’t wait for drama.

Two

I sent him a contact request and we chatted for a while. I can’t work him out because he told me several of his secret places for misbehaviour and asked me out on new year’s eve without meeting beforehand, and then he gave me his number and said he never did that and I needed to be discreet. He’s intriguing but I think I’m too jaded to sort out if he’s open-minded and quickly trusting of me or a rampaging sleazebag trying to pretend he’s innocent.

Three

He approached but the only wording in his profile was “I DON’T REVEAL PERSONAL DETAILS ONLINE.” What the fuck?

Four

I added him as a contact and he opened with a question about my open relationship status. I explained and he said, “Why would you do that to someone you say you love?” Things went downhill quickly and he bid me, “Good buy.” I felt a bitter thrill that he couldn’t spell a three-letter word while making a grand statement of a departure.

As usual, this may take some time.

I’m reading between the lines of his alternating enthusiasm and absences that he’s again struggling with grief, unsustainable working hours and other pressures that are pushing him back into a depressive hole. One day he’s promising to catch up, the next he’s forgetting to cancel and leaving me angry, and I haven’t been shy in telling him how his self-absorbed behaviour has affected my planning. Something was invariably going to snap because at the moment I don’t have the inner resources to be his stabiliser.

He sent a long and rambling message that I should again consider someone who is more available and reliable, but he didn’t end things or reach any kind of conclusion. I could sense from his up-and-down pattern that this message was coming, but I was angry before all else that he seemed to be leaving the decision to me. I wrote back with some thoughts and stubbornly didn’t offer which way I was leaning. He fired up at my suggestion that perhaps he should seek someone else who doesn’t want much of his time – it wasn’t my fairest fighting, but I hope it stops him saying what’s best for me.

We agreed to sleep on it. I want to keep seeing him and work through this ongoing rough period, but I’m wary as his return to normal life has no end date at this stage. I am equally tempted to pull up stumps and tell him to leave me alone as I can’t deal with the upheaval again, but I know after a few days’ relaxation both of us will probably regret rash actions. However, if we keep limping along, our holiday rest might make everything artificially salvageable until he is thrown back into his overloaded routine.

I’m happy to enter battle as I’m harbouring a lot of work and seasonal tension that wants an outlet, but I have no idea what I want to fight for or against. I am going to wait for him to make the call.

Postscript: I softened and he softened and we agreed to take it easy on each other during our holidays. I sent him a message a couple of days prior to Christmas and hadn’t heard back by Boxing Day, so I sent a message saying I could deal with challenges but not a lack of communication so I would leave him in peace again. He didn’t reply and I still wonder what happened. 

My sense of observation is usually crystal clear when reading other blogs and knowing when people’s attempts at re-uniting won’t work, but I ignored the signals in my own situation. We weren’t going to last long if the circumstances causing our problems weren’t resolved so I set myself up for failure again and let hope overrule logic. I will never say no in the future if he is organised and stable but I think I would probably feel guilty for not supporting him more at this time. Regardless, I need to deal with the current situation and move on.  

I don’t have any posts in my draft pile so things might be quiet here for a while. I’m not in the mood to do my annual review or things I’d like to do in the coming year (‘not make too many mistakes’ and ‘find someone nice’ hardly comprises a list).

Some of the less obvious criteria for sexual positions include practicality in impractical spaces (like cars) and a partner’s anatomy being suited to some positions more than others. More obvious criteria include the ability to orgasm, ready access to reaching other parts of a lover’s body and visual interest – sometimes closing the eyes and feeling without distraction is what’s needed but at other times watching the scene unfold provides a new layer of sensory joy to the experience.

My least favourite common position is the favourite of a lot of men: doggy style. Each time I flip readily on to my knees and brace myself for a good time, but after the first thrust I remember that I have to concentrate avidly with anyone who has a medium-sized or larger penis. From my fading memory, I think Jekyll was the only man of a size small enough for me to relax and not worry about having my cervix smashed into my liver. Everyone since has required a high state of alertness and the Country Boy is no exception.

He was sitting upright and I was riding him quickly and then slowly; the speed depended if he wanted to delay coming and then if he wanted to submit to his urges. In growing frustration, he grabbed my ponytail and pulled me close for a kiss before asking if I’d like him from behind. I said yes and launched into position on my knees and stretched out on my elbows, waiting for the re-introduction of his cock.

“YOWWW!”

I leap-frogged and landed face-down on the covers. He recoiled and was sent flying backwards. We laughed.

I couldn’t help making an understatement and said, “I think that one was a bit too deep.”

He couldn’t stop laughing. Occasionally he throws in an overly-deep thrust as an act of mischief, but this time he’d gone too far out of abstinence and forgetting that he needs to be careful. We shifted back into our respective positions and started again, with me coiled like a spring in case he started strongly the second time.

He was more restrained but I still lowered my shoulders to temper the angle and intensity of the sensation. I was enjoying myself but my constant vigilance didn’t allow me the mental space to relax and move with him – equally, I’m sure I felt more than enjoyable to him but he also couldn’t relax and deliver the pounding that his body was by now telling him was required.

My reward for enthusiastic and stoic behaviour was being rolled on my back with my legs pointing upwards. I know I can come easily in this position and soon after he entered me I was apparently filling the air with swear words. He enjoyed the uninterrupted view from above until I was almost pleading for a rest and he was fit to burst – from other fading memories I don’t think he’s ever come from that position as much as he seems to enjoy it. He split my legs like they were a banana’s skin and drove hard in the missionary position; his orgasm brought his own noises of release and he disappeared into a reverie for a long while.

I settled under his weight and remembered many of the reasons why we go through so much for brief blasts of physical interaction.

“You’ve got such clear urine, it looks like you could drink it like water.”

I’ve tackled years of social programming in response to receiving compliments, from a bashful, “No, you don’t need to say that, you’re better/smarter/whatever plays down the compliment,” to a smile and a thank you that someone has made the effort to relay a kind thought.

In this situation I didn’t know how to respond except with, “Um, yeah, I drink a lot of water.”

The complimentary analysis of my piss kept coming.

“It doesn’t even smell.”

“You’re right, come to think of it” I said abstractly, as I withheld the urge to calculate how much water I drink daily – urinating at will and with an accurate aim was using most of my powers of concentration.

The Country Boy was sitting naked against the wall of the small shower with his legs bent, preparing for the second spurt of the extra litre of water I’d guzzled earlier. He is tall and I had to stand on the tip-toes of one foot with my knee pressing against the shower screen, an arm providing help higher above and my other leg was bent and resting on his shoulder. My free hand was between my legs trying to direct the erratic stream. I whispered, “Get out, you bastard,” under my breath to my bladder when the flow stopped. My legs were cramping and I hoped I didn’t topple before I was finished.

He seemed to enjoy the element of surprise and exclaimed each time a new jet of warmth sprayed him. I managed a few longer bursts and landed streams down his chest and onto his cock. His erection sprang from nowhere and poked upright in defiance of gravity – evidence that he was more into his first golden shower than either of us could have imagined. His enthusiasm didn’t have the desired reaction of me being able to release more easily but I was able to deliver some generous showers on the hand that was now wrapped around his cock and tugging furiously.

I have written here in the past that golden showers don’t do much for me sexually but seeing his almost unbelievable excitement ramped up my energy levels. When I was finished and saw the look of determined hunger in his eyes, I guessed he’d be up for almost anything.

“Want me to squirt on you as well?”

“Fuck yes. Yes, please.”

We scrambled about in the tight space to give his uplifted arm some room to work my g-spot. I had to place more weight on my legs to crouch lower and my muscles protested sharply. The first orgasm hit me while the first lot of fluid hit him and I became caught in the conflicting thoughts that I was in a fair amount of discomfort yet I felt unreasonably good. His arm must have been straining as well but he wasn’t going to stop until we’d made complete messes of each other.

“Got any more in you?”

“No idea, let’s see!”

I had plenty more in me.

We stood on shaking legs and stretched as I turned the water on to clean ourselves. His cock was still pointing towards me and, as I cleaned him, he started making the murmurs familiar with his sex drive escalating from high to urgent.

In the spirit of finishing what I started, I turned the nozzle away and knelt before him, taking his cock in my mouth as I cupped his balls. He shifted in time with me and took over holding the base of his shaft while I gripped his buttocks as I sucked. Things got a little porny* when he started rubbing the head of his cock over my lips but I played along and flicked my tongue, occasionally sliding him back in my mouth and clamping down with my teeth**.

There was no way he was going to last long. He thrusted faster into my mouth and I did that other porny thing of keeping my mouth open with my tongue out. I refrained from looking up and doing the over-acted wide-eyed look at him as I do have some have boundaries — inconsistent as they may be — and he came in globs in and around my mouth.

It was a day later I realised that I hadn’t asked if he wanted to shower me with gold. I’ll have to run it past him but I believe answer will already be yes.

* I have never got around to jotting my views on modern-day porn, come to think of it. Maybe one day.

** I have never seen proper biting of a cock in porn. This is one reason I don’t like it.

My sports physician is a tall, dark and handsome sort with an athlete’s body and the drool-worthy addition of speaking with one of my favourite accents; it would be easy to envy this doctor-with-the-lot if he weren’t so humble and likeable to boot. I have to strip to the bare essentials to do the mobility and flexibility drills and I am embarrassed about the stored fat on my body while semi-naked and contorting in front of him. It’s an odd contradiction that I’ve never felt less sexual when holding hands with one of the most attractive men I’ve seen and I even make sure I’m wearing plain underwear on appointment days as some kind of suit of armour against I don’t know what, my own lack of logic, probably.

When I’m not being stretched and manipulated, I have been undergoing laser hair removal and can confidently claim that hearing, “If you can’t remove all the hair from your inner labia in the morning, I’ll have to dry shave you,” kills every last shred of association between genitals with sexuality. During my first consultation I was awkward and didn’t know how to broach the subject of the available levels of bikini line lasering. My self-proclaimed ‘flap zapper’ listed the options from a tidy along the sides to the whole lot from navel to anus like she was reading from a pizza menu.

I relaxed and whispered, “So, you do near the bum, too?”

She said, “Yes, it’s a popular area because it’s hard to shave or wax yourself.”

It was a moment when I realised I’ve never been close enough to a woman’s untended butt crack to have an idea of what’s normal. I thought of my own soap, guess and shave blindly routine and ended up saying to the therapist, “If you’re willing to do it, I’m willing to have it done.”

They were famous last words. After spreading, gelling and marking my arse area with a white pencil, she had the machine set to a moderate level for the first treatment and I felt like I deserved a lollipop after being told I had good pain tolerance. Go me, yet another skill I can’t put on the resume. The reality check was last week when she ramped up the setting — the probe felt something like the pointy end of a mobile phone charger that’s been sitting in a hot oven for an hour before being poked with great force at my bum.

When talking afterwards about the process, The Drummer and the Country Boy stated their views that they hoped I wasn’t having all my pubic hair removed permanently. I told them (separately) I was keeping the front triangle because I preferred to have some options and the main reason for treatment was to reduce ingrown hairs along the bikini line. They seemed glad. Again, these were conversations without an inkling of sexual context and were more about me complaining my hair wasn’t dark enough to achieve a 100 per cent success rate. It appears I’m a dirty blonde almost everywhere.

I truly hope the next time I’m semi-naked with someone the context is sexual and I’m not paying more than a hundred dollars for 20 minutes – both the sports doctor and the flap zapper charge more than prostitutes.

We picked the wrong evening for the park because the sun was shining brightly and every sports club in the district seemed to be practising in the fields. Even when I mentioned we take a walk to the bushy area, I saw that construction of a new clubhouse building had started and vehicles were parked uncomfortably close to our ingress point. Great, just great.

As a final shot at being industrious, I looked as far as I could see in the hope of identifying an area I hadn’t discovered in the last three or so years. Nothing. The Country Boy was in a heightened state of arousal and had his hands down the front of my loose pants and up my t-shirt while his mouth was traversing my neck; as much as I enjoyed the attention we needed to quickly work something out that didn’t attract the attention of other park users. He told me about his latest fantasies involving leather cuffs and being bent over work benches and I saw his cock becoming close to tearing a hole in the fabric of his pants.

He suggested I kneel between our cars. When I questioned his intentions, he slid me to the ground so I left a trail of cleanness down the side of my between-washes car. He knelt beside me and launched an attack with his fingers that made me glad he was keeping an eye out as I was dually losing my mind with pleasure while worrying about squirting when still wearing pants. After about 15 more seconds of feeling an orgasm begging for release, I didn’t give a flying fuck if I squirted down my legs and had to drive home in wet pants. Bring it on, and soon. Please.

I gripped his shoulders as I curled into him and he took my gesture as a signal to keep going. I came and felt fluid running down my left calf and thought, oh well, I imagine a large mess is probably as inconvenient as a small mess so we may as well keep going. He experimented with my hip angles between jumping up to look innocent to occasional passers-by while I pretended I was casually sitting around. He returned for round two and after I came many more times I leaned back against the car in an attempt to act normally, like drunk people do when they’re trying to act sober, but I gave up and opted for the don’t-move-and-try-to-be-quiet method of appearing normal.

The Country Boy ignored my request to get in the car and instead told me to turn and bend over. With the top half of my body concealed he used his fingers again to make a larger wet patch on my pants and the bitumen below. It was also probably best to hide my head as I could feel an unbreakable grin and wide-eyed stare on my face that would scare most people into calling the police. He gave my backside an almighty slap, told me to stand and said he had to leave.

What?

I was brain-fuzzy and asked why he was depriving himself. He replied that he hadn’t masturbated since he last saw me and wanted to test his ability to abstain until we could meet with privacy (we have tentative plans for a hotel afternoon in the next couple of weeks). No one who knows me personally would ever say I’m a bitch because I don’t tend to harbour behind-the-scenes nastiness, but his comment turned me into one. I knew he’d been aroused for almost two hours and was tetchy so I grabbed his crotch and invited him to get in the car, I offered to unzip his pants and demonstrate the luxurious warmth of my mouth and I told him snippets of fantasies while kissing the sensitive parts of his neck. He fell into my promises and jumped away with equal frequency until I thought he’d lose the plot.

I sent him home in his fragile state but the intriguing thing is his idea has driven me to the point of distraction. It’s as if a rejection of sorts has made me even more determined to get my claws into him and turn him into a quivering and helpless mess. I’m not sure whether to play it cool until we meet to mess with his head or to ramp things up and make his blood run even hotter, but it’s encouraging that we are playing freely with the conviction that we will see each other soon for more.

On occasion he’s called me to his computer to look at a profile or attempt to decipher the subtexts in some women’s messages. I hadn’t trawled any women’s profiles for ideas when I wrote my own so reading others’ self-portrayals has been fascinating. A fair proportion have done the rounds like me and become jaded as their final paragraphs are “don’t” lists of not wanting to be played, not being treated as late-night semen receptacles, not wanting nude photos prior to meeting, not engaging in anal sex on the first meeting – we’ve all encountered the same situations judging from the knowing smile on my face when I read some of their complaints. I removed most of those ‘rules’ from my profile to see if the idiots would be less subtle and more easily identified, but perhaps my tactic was wrong and I needed to spell things out bluntly.

The Drummer received some defensive feedback for writing in his profile that he wanted to see women making more of an effort to contact men. Others contacted him solely to hurl abuse his way as they assumed he was lying about his open relationship status (I don’t understand this behaviour; if you don’t like what someone writes, why not leave them be instead of going to the effort of contacting and abusing them?). I watched one discussion unfold and was shocked at a woman’s tirade because he was already in a relationship. I was tempted to invite her to call me as a reference check but The Drummer sensibly shut down the conversation.

The Drummer was in contact with one woman and they had exchanged e-mails for some time but hadn’t progressed towards meeting. It was hard to tell him that she was either not ready or was never intending to meet when he had given her his phone number and she hadn’t reciprocated. She was still appearing online but had made no effort to chat again so her interest had waned or perhaps she was an attention seeker. Personally, I saw a picture of her bare breasts on a large monitor and would be intimidated at the prospect of climbing among those mountains.

He has suspended his account to try another site but one final woman’s comments have resonated in my mind. She said he would have to make more of an effort to win her over; quite rightly he gave up and walked away. My inner feminist screamed that one of the trade-offs of equality is that we can’t sit in ivory towers waiting for gallant lads to take all the risks and sweep us off our feet (and especially so for casual encounters).

I know my own tough times when I’ve looked for someone but it’s been eye-opening to witness that the grass isn’t necessarily green on either side of the fence.

I worried the night before our most recent meeting at the park as I sent him a message describing how I’d removed the hair from my girl parts and how soft and slick the ride would be if he wanted to take it. I didn’t hear back that night or the next morning and I thought I’d mis-judged his mood and taken things too far. However, a few hours before we were to meet he responded with a long and detailed message about what his tongue and fingers were going to do with my soft and slick girl parts. I’d only mis-judged his mood in the wrong direction as he had put a lot of thought into choosing the smutty adjectives littering his response.

He was almost hyperactive with pent-up desire when he arrived at the park and couldn’t seem to decide whether to hug me, kiss me, stick his hands down my pants, start with a civil conversation or suggest we take a walk away from the other park users. I recommended we walk as it had been many months since we enjoyed the bushland environs.

We followed the old (and now tatty and overgrown track) to the first concealed area but it had been cleared of trees and debris. The reserve manager may as well have installed spotlights and a camera for all the privacy it offered. We went hunting for our second spot which was in the opposite state of upkeep with the track impossible to find among the lush foliage. We took a long walk around to the other side and scrambled under fallen branches and through bracken to find the large log in what was now a mis-named clearing. I felt blades of swordgrass itching my legs up to my arse when he peeled my pants down but the workings of his fingers soon stopped me thinking about a damn thing.

I can’t come from someone’s fingers being used from behind. I can’t come in daylight in the open. I can’t come while bent over a goddamn hunk of dead tree.

Oh, yes, I can. He did something with his fingers (that feels like two fingers bent so the knuckles are entering first but I  know it isn’t) that made my vision turn white and yellow while orgasms tore through me. My legs became a light and weak mess and I almost fell when he turned me around to face him. He said urgently that he wanted to do something else before we ran from the rain. Rain? I then realised that the spots on my clothes were more like dark patches and I’d mentally missed a whole downpour. His ‘something else’ was toying with my g-spot until I came several more times and was barely capable of staggering to shelter, let alone negotiating the bushes in the first instance.

He led the way towards our cars but I remembered the playground equipment in the other direction had a roof and I wanted to return some of the pleasure he gave me. He said his only goal for the evening was looking after me but my argument to convince him to go my way was easily won.

I sat on the edge of the wooden platform and asked him to stand on the foot rail in front of me and remove his cock from his pants. His lower half and I were concealed by the side panels but his upper half would have been visibly shifting forwards and backwards. He didn’t mind while he was able to keep his eyes open and look out for passers-by but as pre-come spilled into my mouth he took over with his hand. At the time I thought perhaps I wasn’t doing an adequate job but I enjoyed the close-up view of him masturbating and remembering how he likes a hand used on him. He soon came, collapsed on me and explained that he kept thinking about being discovered so he sped things up. He thanked me for my attentions but repeated that he didn’t expect anything; we have a way to go in being completely comfortable with each other again and falling into the rhythm of knowing that our giving and receiving levels out in the long term.

We meandered back to my car and talked for a while. I had recovered enough to start again but I knew he didn’t have a long time left before he had to leave. I said to him that when we next have time and adequate privacy I’d love to be filled with his cock. He smiled but then apologised he wouldn’t have time and I needed to remind him that I said, “Next time.” I’m going to have to tread carefully a while longer as he wants to please me and is more insecure at the moment that I had thought.

But we have returned to our old farewell routine of spanking the other’s backside so all is well in the world for now.