Just when the anti-depressant residues are leaching out of my system and I want to road-test my new ‘old’ self that orgasms, it feels like I couldn’t score a fuck in a brothel with a fistful of fifties. “I’m here!” I feel like shouting to the world, “You, person with a dick, come and get me.”
The Drummer apologised recently for his current lack of interest in sex. I’m more amazed than annoyed as he’s the man who can get himself off up to five times a day and I used to worry about not keeping up with him. I helped masturbate him to orgasm yesterday and everything still works, but self-tinkering with prescription medication seems to be messing with his sex drive. I fixed myself up later in the day with some lube and the buzzing gift from heaven I bought on my last shopping trip.
Mother Nature threw a spanner in the sexual works a couple of days ago. I don’t like penetration when I’m bleeding, smelly (my sense of smell amplifies at that stage of my cycle and I dislike the merest whiff of my purging), cramping and double checking that tampons are out and towels are down if sex is on the menu. Too much fucking about but that doesn’t stop my mind spinning like a kinky porn DVD of everything I’d like to be doing.
With a bout of warmer weather shining on the southern hemisphere, Jekyll and I explored a park yesterday to determine its suitability to play out some outdoor fantasies. On first glance it was everything we hoped for: isolated car parks, bushland, sturdy outdoor furniture and undercover picnic benches. I want him to sit at a bench as I kneel on the ground and suck his cock while he controls and manoeuvres me with the lead attached to my collar. I also want to be on all-fours atop a picnic bench as he stands on the seat and takes me from behind. If that doesn’t wear us out, I also envision him bracing himself against a tree as I remove his jeans and tongue his arse until he’s so lust-crazed we collect scratches attacking each other on the ground. I wonder if Hyde is into the great outdoors. He’ll get an invitation, too.
On a more detailed recce the park’s features became everything the fun police have stuck their noses into: every stick of furniture is in open spaces under a light aircraft flight path and the scrub is too sparce (I trotted off to pee in the densest bush I could find and Jekyll wolf-whistled when my pants came off – an unconventional but effective way of testing visibility).
We traipsed around until sunset and returned to his car. I sucked him off as he reclined in the driver’s seat before we went our separate ways. He set me a challenge of masturbating but not climaxing for two days and I may have already broken his rules once or twice. I hope for a darn good spanking as punishment next time we meet.
Tensions are rising with ArmyDude. He has returned to his former workplace and we have been flirting incorrigibly with text messages and guardedly in code using e-mail. I keep thinking about his arms in short-sleeved shirts: forearms muscular and sinewy from years of weight training but tapering to refined wrists in contrast, as if he could snap me like a twig or seduce me with a velvet touch at will. Right now I’d like a lot of both. We were thinking about meeting this weekend but his plans changed at the last minute; I’m somewhat relieved as I might eat the poor man alive and scare him off. And I want to feel him inside me discovering, feeling, pushing, pulling, pleasuring, until we’re both sweaty and hurting. And not worry about tampons and towels.
Frustration doesn’t become me.