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A similarity between the non-sexual and sexual compartments of my life is that I am driven largely by the push and pull forces of curiosity and learning. Sexually, the greatest lesson last year was when Jekyll fisted me for the first time. A human hand fitted inside my body and it took two days for me to dare look at the photo because of the shock at my body’s hidden capability. This year Country Hottie sent my sense of comprehension reeling when I squirted for the first time. I was tied up and expecting a simple spanking scenario but the torrents of liquid running down my thighs told me that another bodily secret had been unveiled. I don’t necessarily enjoy the sensation but it could make a fun party trick when I work out how to do it myself.
Mr OMG has caused probably the second-most surprising moment of the year. He called a few mornings ago at an unexpected time that only birds and tradespeople (and me, now) are going about their business and all he wanted to say was how full his mind was with sexual thoughts. I’m not sure what’s behind his increased attentions of late but who am I to do anything but encourage more? We organised to meet on his way home from a Christmas party but I didn’t expect him because I thought he was too optimistic in the time he could leave. However, he called half an hour earlier than he had guessed and was 10 minutes away if I wanted him to drop by. I was in bed reading a book and sleepy enough to desire being draped around him lazily but alert enough to launch out of the covers, strip my clothes and greet him naked.
I left the bedroom door wider ajar than last time to bathe more of his lean body in light from the loungeroom. We mock argued about who was going to devour the other first, and he capitulated after the briefest of jostlings and laid on his back. I used my mouth from the head of his cock past his balls, with the sensation of my wet tongue brushing along the perineum making him shudder like a skyscraper in heavy wind. I wondered how long it had been since someone had adored attention on him there so I made a few passes that caused guttural sounds to escape from deep in his throat.
I flicked and twirled and rolled my tongue around his hole but he reacted most strongly to my tongue diving in as far as I could reach. He wanted deeper penetration and lifted his legs to allow me freer access. I snuck a look up and thought I saw his feet, hands and head in a perfect horizontal row; I’ll have to ask him to do that again when I’m less aroused so I can appreciate his range of movement (and think deviously about other positions that make full use of his flexibility).
He became too charged sexually to tolerate more foreplay and went down on me before we fucked with him on top. It was my turn to make guttural noises from who-knows-where each time his cock sank deeply. He tested the water and said coyly that he had thought again about fucking me anally — in a classic case of reacting before thinking, I squeezed my muscles and ascertained that I felt clean and empty enough to try. Before I gave myself the chance to talk myself out this hasty consent, I grabbed a tube of lubricant out of the drawer, smeared a generous cold glob over his cock and rubbed the surplus between my legs. He winced at the initial chill but shuddered again and almost toppled from his kneeling position as I masturbated the slick fluid along his length — I suspect he’s never had a lubed hand caressing his cock and I plan teasing him to madness another time when he is unfettered by protection.
He laid me back on the bed and lifted my legs so they rested on his shoulders. Before I could ask him to move slowly and not allow the head of his cock to escape, he was half way in and thrusting. I don’t know which of us was more surprised by the smoothness of his entry. We checked each other’s welfare and were both feeling fine. I propped my head on a pillow so I could take in the view of his cock shifting in and out and felt tingling waves of goodness emanating from my centre. He pushed with more determination a few times and said he was all the way in and asked if I felt all right. I muttered a perplexed, “I do, I feel fantastic actually.” His noises told me more than enough about the joy he was experiencing.
He came and withdrew while he was still hard and we collapsed together — in released pleasure for him and thrilled surprise for me. My body accepted and enjoyed his cock with more ease than a finger or a smaller penis and I felt lighter than air. He didn’t understand my sense of wonder but he didn’t have to; memorable moments are often gifted by people who never realise the magnitude of their benefaction.
I was glad I gave him this pleasure and I felt good, too. If there is a next time, I’ll ask if he wants to try doggy style so he can watch the show as I suspect he’ll enjoy that very much.
My birthday is approaching far more quickly than I’m prepared to acknowledge and time is the one thing my planet-sized state of denial can’t stop. I’m of the age and simple lifestyle of not needing anything or wishing for anything beyond a book shop voucher and a bottle of Lanson champagne — hi, The Drummer, if you’re reading.
Jekyll and Hyde were pencilled in for a hotel afternoon the weekend after Denial Day. I sent Hyde a message asking if he’d be interested in some double penetration for a birthday girl, and his reply was, “Lovely, sounds great!” He makes me laugh. But Jekyll is on permanent hiatus and my timing in causing a ruckus with him has fucked the whole scenario up.
I don’t have the prospects or time up my sleeve to conjure a back-up plan. I had thought about going to the local pub’s weekly over-28s grab-a-gran night and hunting down two likely sorts, but I really do want some class together with proven track records in deviancy. Perhaps next year.
Posting in *real* real-time can be troublesome as things happen so quickly. By the time I draft a post that reflects what I’m trying to say, a whole other mini-history is waiting to be interpreted because shit flows downhill for me like quicksilver.
In brief, I approached Jekyll with some information that I had 95 per cent confidence in and he took the stance of the 5 per cent. We had a more sorrowful than I was anticipating exchange of messages and he’s gone. He has left contact up to me so the doors are still open, but I carry so many scars from false pride that I’ll etch another one and won’t initiate contact with him.
I don’t know, I’ll paste what I originally intended below as a lesson in learning to manage the occasional urge to be right and its consequences. The dumb thing is I don’t know if I was right because it doesn’t matter any more.
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I never metadata I didn’t learn from.
Here’s a tip for older players trying to keep up in the digital age: if you are a man found occasionally with a cock in your arse and know your female lover would dearly love to see imagery related to this stylistic concept, do not send photos with great pomp and pageantry saying they were taken, “… Oh [insert breezy sigh here], ages ago, Mr Hairy Balls isn’t good with digital cameras and he’s only just learned how to upload pictures,” when I am the fucking Photoshop Queen (the capital Q is all mine, people).
Open e-mail. Detach photos to hard drive as they were forwarded by Jekyll from Hairy Balls’s camera and too large to view on the monitor (ever seen a condomed cock with carbon dateable pubes poking inches out at 3,000 pixels wide? Don’t do it — watching the Saw movies back-to-back will give you fewer nightmares).
Flick to file manager to open and batch re-size the dozen images in Photoshop and wonder why they’re so near the top in descending date order … hmm, just why are they dated a fortnight ago if they’re history as he claims? They are unedited, I’m sure. Scratch chin. Open first image and check metadata. Open last image and check metadata. Purse lips. Open image from another source to compare metadata and make sure the computer spirits aren’t messing with shit. Hmm, no, I appear to be right and the creation date isn’t lying. Deal with sudden tightness in chest.
Jekyll was being fucked up the arse approximately one hour after he called to postpone our last meeting (the one mentioned only three posts ago when I was sweltering in a car park wondering where he was).
Let’s see what he has to say about the little e-mail I’m about to send asking why he was “running too late from work” to see me yet had time to turn and head in another direction for a man with a ginger pube forest. Who fucks for 11 minutes. And had the red-eye reduction setting on when taking post-fucking happy snaps of Jekyll’s pounded butthole (okay, I found that part funny).
I have no claims on anyone’s personal life but I’m bound to react unpleasantly when treated like the village idiot by someone who knows I’m anything but. He’s brought me other trinkets of his physical life that he can’t show others and I can’t figure out why he’s lying because he knows I don’t mind what he does. I’ve always been Jekyll-neutral. And my pride will be fucking well dented if I’ve been the loser in a game of last-minute prioritisation (it’s almost like a flip of the common surprise when a wife discovers her husband’s infidelity and becomes wounded if she learns the lover isn’t as beautiful as she — why would he walk through molten lava fields to be with her?).
My blood turns icy when steeped in a quiet rage and I have double-checked the metadata from a different source to calm my stomach butterflies before I hit the ‘send’ button. Game on. I have let the casual idiots of late go without protest but I’m not potentially destroying eight months of a bullshit-free association without a decent tussle from being either right or wrong. I sure as hell hope the in-camera date setting was correct because one of the only elements I have no control over is knowing if Furry Nuts is that much of a klutz with his camera.
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.
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.
[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.)
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.
Some unexpected and distressing news about an immediate family member was received and in the past few days I’ve struggled from helpless crying into wallowing in denial and crawling towards a listless imitation of life while tests are run and experts make diagnoses and the ground we stand on is shaking uncontrollably.
The illusion of having control over life is strongest when the passage is smooth. Sure, setting goals and making decisions can influence life’s direction, but bad tidings can arrive without warning and with enough stealthy force to warp every perception before the moment the information was delivered. What was enjoyable yesterday is suddenly frivolous and pointless; the pursuit of pleasure was enlivening and spirit raising but is now tainted with guilt; and what am I doing masquerading as a modern-day libertine when, just over there, someone might be dying? Who the fuck do I think I am?
Literally a few minutes before life became gravely serious I had made a hotel booking to meet Jekyll the following day. After thoughts finished crashing between hiding in denial and screaming internally in defensive Fuck it! I still have to live! I confirmed the booking and gave myself permission to seek some temporary oblivion.
Our needs were mismatched from the start. He wanted as much as we could squeeze into the handful of hours, in as many different ways and with memory banks filled with impressions to last until next time. My ambitions were fewer: to live a different life for a while, to forget and to see if my sense of entitlement could overrule my sapping guilt and fear.
He wanted to discuss, probe, be overtaken by lust when hearing me say what I wanted to do with him. I was surly and didn’t want to talk. He tried to pinch my PMT-sensitive nipples to invoke giddy reactions and I wasn’t in the mood to play the lusty nymph. He wanted the full acrobatic display with all orifices stretched to their limits and I needed a firm, uncomplicated fuck.
I got my legs-in-the-air, head-smacking-into-the-bedboard fucking but a voice crept into my head among the ruckus, saying that the least likely time I’ll find abandon is when I’m seeking it. Oblivion only comes when it’s not coaxed or craved or needed.
What does the fucking voice know? I challenged. I’ll throw more bait and surely it’ll erase the distracted mental jumble. I teased the voice with Jekyll’s hand in my cunt, fucking me with his fist and with a good-sized dildo partially inserted in my anus – further and harder than we’ve gone before. I experienced everything from the objective perspective of an observer and stagnated in the nowhere land between sensory overload and orgasm. I added a vibe to my clit and became only more conscious that I couldn’t clear my mental slate enough to find some desired moments of sweet, sparkling nothingness.
He fucked my lubed and prepared arse with what would normally be an overawing pounding and my body took the lot. There was one moment I warned of looming sensory overload: he upped the tempo and perversely my body relished the harsher treatment and is making me pay for it today.
He came again, we showered and returned to our respective realities. I don’t know how I feel, apart from some general awareness of bruises and muscular aches, which isn’t answering the question I just asked myself. Still empty inside, I suppose, and fucking didn’t fill the void temporarily.
The male anatomy is most conveniently designed for daytime sexual activity in cars. If I want some attention administered stealthily while we’re in a train station car park, the most I’ll get is a few discreet fingers and the deepest I’ll get depends on the tightness of the pants I’ve chosen to wear. Note to self: try a skirt without hosiery next time and stop lamenting. And design a prototype car with one-way windows for proper privacy.
Jekyll? Easy. Unzip, gently manoeuvre cock from underpants, nestle into his groin and feast while he keeps half an eye out for passersby. I almost gagged on his cock when someone approached: instead of tapping my head in warning and covering his genitals with his shirt, he shoved my head further down his cock and held me there. (I still don’t know if there really was someone or if he was messing about with my gag reflex – I suspect the latter.)
Tongue kissing him afterwards was a lot of fun. I enjoy corrupting his neutral breath with the musky scent of his cock and the fresh, seawatery-tang of his ejaculate.
I was left a little undertouched and overexcited, and he’s promised next time he’ll return the favour. I’ll carry a blanket in the car to conceal him and I’ll pack my new vibrator. It makes me squirt – just the thing to exact a little revenge when my hand is locking his head down.
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.
