After the lacklustre first time with The Bachelor, the opportunity arose to take someone else for a test run (and for me to continue denying that I might actually be the problem).
Purely by coincidence last weekend, the man I met a couple of months ago (successful, older, attractive devil, I probably left stains on the leather upholstery of his car, never available) got back in touch. He decided to put more effort into opening pockets of time, and I subsequently decided to put more effort into accepting that everything started well and I can have everything I want but just not when I want it. Hell, the grand vision of one semi-regular lover isn’t working out, so I’ll try to be more flexible towards a rotation of occasional flights of fancy even though being adored for a few hours and then ignored for weeks doesn’t work for me.
We agreed a night, I booked a room at a not-too-expensive-but-not-too-seedy motel and I amused myself masturbating while reading a book as I waited for him to arrive. The book was one of the most anticipated releases of the year and quite possibly the most over-wrought, unbelievable waste of lopped trees I’ve read in a long time. Shame on the publisher and author and there won’t be a film deal out of this one. I almost left the book in the hotel room but thought I might get $5 at the second-hand shop if I didn’t smear girl fluids on the pages.
I answered his knock on the door wearing nothing but a lacy bra, a white shirt and a bold stare. I stuck a finger coated in cunt juice in his mouth. He sucked my finger clean and then pushed me backwards on the bed and tongue fucked me royally. The hint of stubble on his chin scratched along my clean-shaved parts and sent electric goosebumps all over. Then the mental ghosts from last weekend returned and I knew I wasn’t going to relax into myself enough to come; as a smokescreen I sat up and suggested he remove his clothes so I could return the favour. He didn’t take long to lose his suit and I distracted myself with his cock. I should possibly be concerned at how much of my outer life I’m faking at the moment.
We fucked, firstly with him on top and later with me riding him. He’s fit but I wore him out, too. This current state of detachment is turning me into a fucking robot. I looked through the crack between the curtains and saw the sun fading and wondered how many more hours we had until I could go home and be alone.
He played with the contents of the toy bag I packed and asked me to use a vibrator on myself. He took over after a while because I was self conscious with him watching and darkness was well and truly filling the gap between the curtains. I kept reaching 95 per cent but I couldn’t sink deeply enough to find the place where oblivion was teasing. I think he started fucking me with the vibrator and I finished myself with my fingers — I nearly cried with relief that my body finally allowed me release and I apologised to him for taking so long. I was nicer and more forgiving of myself after the hormones flushed my bloodstream.
He laid back and I bent over him and sucked his cock dry. We were going to head out for a quick dinner and return for another bout, but time was about to expire on his alibi and I didn’t know if I was glad or not to be packing my bag and not returning.
I am working obscenely hard during the day on my job search and gift myself with relaxation time as a reward. But when the time comes to grant myself the moments of freedom, I feel guilty that I haven’t earned them or I’m not working hard enough or umpteen other self-defeating messages that play through my head. I may have to give up sex and dealing with people for a while as nearly all of the time the physical follows the mental for me. If my mind isn’t empty, my body will never be content.