Glass half empty

Between-meeting communication with the Country Boy dropped off suddenly. I didn’t know whether to interpret the change in behaviour as a natural cooling-off of the honeymoon period, a busy time in his real life or the beginning of the end. He then cancelled a catch-up at short notice and I read too suspiciously into his reason that an impossible-to-get concert ticket had been waved in front of his nose.

I gave him a ‘get out of jail free’ message that I understood if he didn’t want to catch up again, a gross over-reaction that naturally surprised him. At the time I didn’t realise my mental health was out of whack and thought I was behaving logically and rationally. He had the good grace to offer a meeting the following afternoon, and he showed up unshaved, tired as all hell and in decaying work clothes as he travelled straight to the city after work the night before and came to see me straight after the next day’s work.

I managed to push the mental cloud aside, apologise for being so shrill and enjoy him without driving him away permanently. It was a close call. I’m forcing myself to be on my best and least paranoid behaviour until this phase passes.

I think I may have driven Mr OMG away and I regret this even though I thought it was what I wanted. We had a discussion filled with sad honesty: he asked why I hadn’t been in touch and I said I was only ever looking for someone casually ongoing and it looked like we’d never have that. It was easier on me to let things fade.

I added that I was in a constricting phase of despair, as he refers to his depressive periods, and he would understand the urges for isolation from those around us. We talked and he answered all my questions about his psychological background that I hadn’t dared broach before, and he gave me everything, including the nature of his affliction since late childhood and a sincere lack of care at times whether he lives or dies.

I sent him a thank you for listening text message after we finished the call, but after giving each other everything, I doubt we’ll ever be able to go back and face each other. Afterwards though, I still had urges to tell him that when he’s in a state of despair, I can pleasure and hurt him in ways that we need and would understand. I let the thoughts pass unsent.

The battle of the detached

I resurrected a log-in with a view to finding a distraction of the forget-my-current-troubles kind.

Someone I’ve met previously (I didn’t post about the encounter but it was the young man in the e-mail a few months ago) who pinged my profile with the caption “I’d like to know more about you.” I sent a message saying we had already met, together with a brief run-down of the circumstances (I’m not sure how many women he’s had leaving their juices over the upholstery of his parents’ car that he could forget, and my user name for this account is distinct). My response was more a hint for him to keep track of his liaisons than an expression of interest and I returned to the business of searching for something I already knew didn’t exist.

We ended up being online at the same time and discussed his promises of greater pleasure. The next night he had a couple of hours of alone time and invited me over; perhaps this is where I confess he’s half my age if his profile is accurate. This time, in the light of his family home, I could see his face looked older and I thanked our harsh sun for making me feel less like I was splashing in a different generational pool. Then again, being in something for the same reasons can transcend age.

I can’t get a grip on what drives him sexually; I think it’s more about proving himself than letting himself go with abandon. He’s gloriously enthusiastic about toys, rimming and squirting among other things but there’s a cold spot in his heart and he seems detached from the moment. There’s a cold spot in mine at times that is distant and this night both of ours clicked together like the correct combination spun on a safe’s tumbler.

He shoved his long and thick cock down my throat and I took it repeatedly until tears streamed down my face.

He slapped my backside bright pink and I retaliated by doing the same with his; his strikes hurt but I made sure I giggled throughout the stings.

He took me to his bedroom, laid me on towels and had my body convulsing and spraying possibly a dozen times.

He moved into the 69 position and I rimmed him in every way I knew while his cock thrusted in the cleft between my breasts.

He took one of my vibrators and held my legs at the ankles so I couldn’t buck him off when he continued to apply pressure to my clit after orgasm. I had to remove myself mentally from the situation and breathe myself to calmness while the other me was forced to accept the treatment. I wasn’t going to admit defeat.

He returned to fingering me while in the 69 position and I sprayed on my own face. I looked up in my mind-fucked state and wondered how it was raining inside, and realised it was my fluids refracting in a perfect arc above him onto me.

He ignored me when I said I was done after an hour of orgasms of every kind and he turned to lower himself and penetrate me. I flinched when he started to enter me without protection; I grabbed the condoms I had brought but they didn’t accommodate his girth so I sucked him to completion.

He didn’t comment on the things I did to him during this time, as if I was the apprentice proving myself. I’ve been around long enough to not worry. When our eyes met he looked at me daringly, assured of his cockiness — my body’s responses were all the feedback he needed and I probably shouted a few compliments in the moment along the way. He reminds me of Country Hottie as far as skill in working the female form but without the accompanying warmth of the encounter. But this man is not yet 21 years old, for goodness’ sake. He’ll make a lot of women feel good but not necessarily satisfied until he learns to give more than his technical skills.

Then again, he was probably left wondering why I looked at him sometimes and didn’t have anything to say; I didn’t allow him any opportunity to scratch more than the surface.

Secretly, I’m dead*

NZ returned and made contact. He suggested several options to meet but the available time for real sex in his diary was more cruelly limited than the free time for thoughts of sex. After three or four or five cancellations I left him an ‘I’ll leave it with you’ message and wandered off.

One afternoon a message arrived saying nothing but, “I’m horny.” Well, fuck, so am I, and self destructive and angry and depressed and sad so I win. What of it? We are both losing. He flung another message and said he’d bring supplies and drive to my side of town if I found a hotel. I was tired and ungroomed but I found a hotel.

We talked and he showered and I wanted oblivion without questions or intimacy but I didn’t know how to describe these things. I removed the towel from around his waist and buried myself in his groin as a replacement for awkward words. I could be alone there. He praised me and took photos so I pushed him on the bed and buried myself lower where no one would find me. He has the tightest anus I’ve encountered and later on getting one finger in was an effort. My tongue was fine though.

We fucked but he was too gentle. He came and then fucked me as gently with his fingers until small orgasms rippled through my nervous system. His fingers evolved into polished steel pistons working inside my body and my fingers grasped bed covers and my toes curled and my pelvis undulated on invisible waves. I had squirting orgasms without the fluid and I wondered briefly what my body was doing but I gave in and let it come as it pleased so many more times.

The physical releases ripped emotional threads that were already weak and I started crying with long sobs that halted my breath. I asked him to stop and I closed my eyes and hid under the post-orgasm haze until my skill at acting composed came back. He was tactful enough not to ask about the stream of tears down my face that he would have seen.

I feel so full yet so empty sometimes.

*I always thought this was the last line of Liz Phair’s ‘Chopsticks’, but it’s Secretly I’m timid. My incorrect version suits the post title though.

It’s on

Country Hottie provided some views and skews on the roleplay.

He’s moved the venue to his house, presumably to shift the balance of power even further his way. The premise is that he is putting his house on the market and I will make an appointment to appraise the property as the local real estate agent’s rep. The only other guidelines are to dress as professionally as possible in clothes that won’t be lamented if they’re destroyed. Anything that happens during my inspection remains locked firmly inside his head.

The date might be a few weeks away: I need a couple of framing questions answered so we can be in role from my first phone call and I don’t know his availability for next weekend. My period’s also due the following weekend. I know out on the streets that assault doesn’t wait for bodily cycles, but fantasies are hygienically-modified worlds of desire: we slap instead of punch, bite instead of break, ravage instead of damage, and I have no qualms about pre-editing the elements over which I have control.

I wish it was now. I’m in what seems to be a pre-depression mindset of darkness around my heart and being insulated from life but hypersensitive and prone to crying deep inside. I’d like to ask him to have the Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds’ cover of ‘The Carnival is Over’ playing during the most harrowing of whatever happens, but I’ll be in his hands by then and will only have control of the soundtrack in my head.


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.

Don’t stand so close to me

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 big, mysterious O

Speaking of my orgasm, mine has changed over the years like a sexual chameleon experimenting with its colours by walking across a field of rainbows. Sometimes I wonder what makes me get off, let alone the confused but determined partner at the other end of my body trying to find the secrets of making my cunt explode.

In the fog of ageing memories, I can recall being able to come doing nothing more than crossing my legs and leaning into the seam of a pair of jeans. Some pleasant thoughts later, a gentle, awakening tingle would sunburst through my groin that no one would notice as long as I paid heed to my facial expressions.

Then anti-depressants came along a few years ago and changed everything – for better and for worse, as most changes bring.

Medication 1 made me marginally more stable but the price was a libido akin to a neutered housecat. I can’t recall how my orgasm was affected because I didn’t devote a lot of time towards breaking through my apathy. A higher dose did nothing more for mental stability but turned my vagina into a dusty museum with a ‘this exhibit closed’ sign tacked to the front door.

Medication 2 provided the edge to help me consider suicide for the first and second times, woke me most nights with cold and clammy night sweats and killed the ability to orgasm after returning my desire to have them again, if only to try to induce sleep. Lying awake at 2am with a brain that won’t switch off its catastrophising thoughts — and knowing a sleep-assisting orgasm is 40 minutes away with even the most powerful of vibrators — is among the nastiest of ways to spend the unconscious hours.

Medication 3 created a pleasant doppelgänger of insulation: I looked like me, I did the things I usually did, but I was dreamier, hazier, detached from life. Not happy, not sad, not laughing, not angry, not much, really. I needed the break from normal life though and had only one descent into the furious darkness where I became scared for myself. The upside was that I got my masturbation to orgasm time down to 30 minutes – oh, the joyous text message to Jekyll when I cracked the half-hour barrier! And there was associated desire showing its head amongst the fuzzy greyness of my being!

After the medicated holiday from myself, I needed to be me again, and have been for some months now. My desire levels seem healthy enough (she says with the image of a 69 with rimming on her mind) but my newer – and seemingly permanent – orgasms are a challenging learning curve to manage with myself and with partners. Getting myself off with fingers alone can bring pins and needles and cramps to my fiddling fingers because the build-up time is still long (unless I’ve had earlier mental or physical stimulation and am long-aroused before I masturbate). My clit and its surrounding beds of nerve cells seem to have densensitised after repeated abuses, and vibrators have been a godsend (and part of the cause, really) to find and exploit my pleasure spots to reach orgasm. The upside is that my orgasm is deeper, more body-shuddering and the prize awarded at the end of a long slog is fucking awesome in its stress-depleting qualities. I feel good, purely and emptily good.

I sometimes have to bring out the, “It’s me, it’s not you” talk if I know I’m not going to come with a partner. I need to be quiet, relaxed and allowed to sink into my surroundings, while the sex I enjoy most isn’t quiet, isn’t relaxed and I do absolutely no sinking into anything except someone’s warm flesh with hungry ferocity. My great-memory sex isn’t the same as my get-off sex and, while no partner has said anything, I know one or two have been perplexed when I moan and groan and wriggle and then get up and rescue their overworked tongues. They can help me all they like (and I really, really like), but ultimately I’m responsible for my bodily pleasures and knowing what makes my body zing – no one can be expected to know if I’m still finding my way around in this new world order of pleasure.

I don’t know why I wrote all this; perhaps it’ll help me demystify my body to the next person in my life, or I’m home alone and just thinking about doing myself.

Time to undo and do

The past week has been the most mentally destabilising for a long time and my judgement and self awareness are creeping home wearily from their hiding places. The line between reality and altered perceptions became too blurred to understand, interpret rationally or be reasonable about anything, and I could almost see the edges of my sanity crumbling.

With some relief comes the realisation of how much damage I need to repair amid my rage of self-centredness. Jekyll has been spared largely by avoidance and I’ve limited our communication to brief e-mails bleating excuses of being busy. We might catch up this weekend so I can steal some of his positive energy. He is a gem and I have been thinking he deserves a more noble and honourable person than the one I have been.

ArmyDude and I caught up briefly to talk face to face. He knew from my paranoia-fuelled jibes that I was out of sorts a couple of days before I realised the demons had taken vacant possession of my personality. Every time he asked the heartfelt, “Are you all right?” I’d tear up and ask for an easier and gentler question to answer. He sent a message later that he’s had periods of self-destructive behaviour to the point of considering suicide; kindred spirits can come from the most amazing places sometimes. I said I refused to meet him at his house because I was tempted to ask him to hurt me – he replied that he would have refused because it was for the wrong reasons. He has more integrity than I have given him credit for and we need to have a long talk when I can remember just why it seemed important to crucify his character at the time.

A challenge has been hearing gossip about his supposedly lax work habits and predilection of sending text messages during work hours rather than working — playing the double agent and ignoring bitching (and having a small laugh that I’m the textee) is one of the unspoken reasons to avoid an office relationship. Breaking up can be easy but listening to character assassinations without being able to defend or agree is a mind fuck without ending.

He and Jekyll have mentioned looking for a woman for FMF threesomes. I am happy to participate if an opportunity with the right person arises but I don’t have the energy to find or meet new people — acting my way through daily life has been energy sapping enough without meeting strangers and being evaluated for my fuckability. I did see a profile of one couple with a bodacious vixen who took my fancy instantly but her husband must have a very, very good personality. I wish I had the cheek to ask if I could borrow her for a day if I promise to send her home undamaged. (Just what is the etiquette with couples when levels of attraction are at polar opposites? A package deal, can be split into components like a surround sound stereo, all or nothing?)

The Drummer has been the recipient of snappishness and avoidance behaviour. He’s ridden it out with stoicism, especially considering I haven’t said much more than I’ve been out of sorts. I shouldn’t hide from him but wallowing is easier than explaining.

Others were left by the wayside including my friend whose birthday I missed. I need to call him when I’m less highly strung and have a reasonable explanation that probably doesn’t include flipping out and hiding in a toilet.

I have been comfort eating and ignoring exercise and need to pay better attention to my body and self respect.

The lanky angel-demon mentioned a couple of posts ago sent a few meaningless messages and seems to have moved onto the next shiny thing in his gaze, thank goodness. I don’t know what was going on in my head even thinking about another hazard-frought situation.

Mr Buzzy died during an aggressive attempt to bring on sleep a few nights ago. I wonder if my broken vibrators (I think I have five dead units sitting in the drawer) can be taken back to a shop for recycling or returned to their manufacturers with emotion-filled letters of complaint. A vibrator might last months or years, but on a cost per use – or, heaven forbid, cost per minute – basis, the industry really is fucked in making so many gaudy plastic and silicon cocks that are fit only for a gigantic fake penis landfill site. One day when humans are extinct, the next super-species will dig amongst our ruins and find mounds of discarded dick substitutes with leaking batteries and DNA samples of tears of frustration.

I need rough sex to make me forget the world and some restful sleeps without nightmares – lots of both. And a new vibrator that doesn’t break when the going gets tough. And a rewind button so I don’t have to remember what I need to fix. Accountability is the right thing but a shitload harder than running away and leaving people by the wayside.

The I of the storm

I have been in bed for 12 hours and slept only six. It’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had for at least a fortnight, almost enough to get up and exist.

I could have masturbated to tempt sleep but the reward seems so far away. I know exercise is beneficial but I haven’t left the house all weekend. The closed doors are protecting those outside from the cyclone.

I know someone I have been wanting to meet is in town but I can’t wish this self upon him. I also know it’s patronising to make decisions on behalf of others but my urge to cosset from a distance is stronger.

I haven’t told The Drummer that M1 contacted me and confessed in a roundabout way that he has feelings. I can’t begin to fathom where this admission came from after months without contact. I could not have made myself clearer at the start and thought our drifting apart mutual. I have handled it and feel bitter for having been given his problem.

I had what seems to be an anxiety attack; I haven’t experienced a vomit-in-the-throat social paralysis like this before. I couldn’t find the venue of a friend’s birthday gathering and, so soon after M1’s assault on my psyche, I hit overload when I couldn’t find the place or anyone I knew. I fled to the nearest shopping centre amongst the comforting familiarity and lull of strangers going about their domestic business, and hid in the public toilets until I felt capable of driving home.

I don’t know if my stabs at ArmyDude are based on reality or if I have been pursuing reasons to lash out and alienate him. I just don’t know. There’s too much to fix to use text messages and he will need to wait until I can talk, elucidate, not cry. I have fucked up if his intentions have been sincere but I can’t tell the real reality from my reality.

I postponed a catch-up with Jekyll, citing fatigue. That much is true. I would suffocate in his blanket of inexhaustible energy and care.

I am a ghost. I am here but somewhere else.