I want time. Someone who kisses me, long and slow, makes it seem like we could do this for hours… because we could.
I want control. A hand in my hair, gripping hard, pulling back my head and then biting my neck.
I want comfort. Hands held at night as we drift to sleep. Starting another day together with a kiss on my knuckles.
I want sex. Languid and meaningful and all consuming, sweaty and sensual and connected. Hard fucking that still feels like we’re making love.
I want security. To never wonder if this is the last time because there is no last time until we die.
I want a future. Planning things: adventures and vacations and grocery runs.
I want energy. To feel that spark but also grounded and comforted and protected.
I want affection. Kisses just because. Back scratches and head scritches.
I want passion. To fuck, fall asleep, and wake up with hands on me ready to go again. And again. And again. Someone who will cum inside me. Feel their warmth filling me and then the stickiness seeping out.
I want babies. So many babies. Cubby limbs and cute little toes. With my curly hair and dark eyes staring back at me like mirrors.
I want more. More than just casual sex. More than just the best orgasms. I want you after sex too.
I want a partner. Someone to love me just as good as how you fuck me. Another set of hands to change the diapers. A sounding board for my goals and worries. A lover, confidant, and a friend.
I want to feel worthy of all the things that I want.
I want to know, to believe, that they will come true.
Sex is not love; but we are really REALLY good at fucking.
He laid naked on the bed, hard and waiting, the literal embodiment of my wet dreams. I was so incredibly wet. I didn’t masturbate this morning, wanting (if we were to actually fuck) to feel everything. And I felt everything. I came at least half a dozen times in our 35 minutes allotted.
As I climbed on top of him, I asked, “When you cum, can you cum inside my mouth?”
I couldn’t kiss his lips, but I could nuzzle my face into his neck and smell him. Breathe in his scent deep. Lick his skin. Kiss his neck, his chest, suck just a little… But then I had to stop because I wanted to bite him.
Rules rules rules.
I rubbed my clit up and down his length a few times before a mere flick of his hips sunk him deep inside me. Thus began a litany of curse words, exclamations, and moans.
“Tell me when you cum.”
Most every time I obeyed with a jumble of barely intelligible words, but they got the point across. This was some of our best fucking.
So many positions. I rode him to my climax twice. He graciously sucked on my nipples as I pushed against the wall, leveraging my weight to get my hips to rock just right. There are multiple avenues to my orgasms. With the delicacy of dealing with my nipple rings, I had forgotten sucking on my nipples is one of my favorite pathways to pleasure.
After I half-collapsed on top of him, panting hard through my second orgasm, he rubbed me and whispered, “Breathe.” I asked, “What do you want?” His answer, “You on top.” He bent his knees, grabbed my hips, and thrust up into me over and over again. I moaned into his ear as another orgasm blew through me.
He twisted us into missionary, my legs around his waist, then by his ears, then twisting into a scissored position. I loved the scissor the most. He pushed my hair out of the way so he could see my face. He kept smacking my ass. I curved my legs around him to pull him in more, possessively wanting every inch of him in me. I gripped the bedframe; it rocked even harder with our exuberance.
I had orgasm synesthesia with his dick inside me. The three I remember were a pale green forest color shining through from the sunlight, a pale blue fabric like one would use for a light kerchief reminiscent of the clear water in a stream, and a pale gold silk draped across his brown skin. I don’t remember which three orgasms triggered the visions, but one of them was definitely from the scissor.
One orgasm I had was incredibly long. He rubbed on my clit, sensitized by our fucking, and it broke quick. But it, and I, wouldn’t relent. He kept rubbing and rubbing and I kept cuming and cuming and I refused to tell him to stop.
He turned me face down. Nudged my legs together. “Spread your ass checks.” And slid into me. I was so very wet and he felt so very good. He bent down, ran his head against mine, growled into my ear, bite my back hard enough to bruise (swoon), and held me close as he thrashed into me. It was as if he wanted to meld us into one undulating flesh. It was wild and carnal and intimate and connected. Like I said, some of our best ever.
He pulled out, flipped onto his back, and I began to worship his cock. The problem with wanting him to cum in my mouth was that I also wanted to languidly suck his cock for days. Not conducive, as it were, for the hot finish we both wanted. I rubbed his cock on lips, licked up and down the shaft, sucked on his balls, and wished for more time. I always want more time with his cock. I pushed his hand in my hair, encouraging him to fuck my face, but I could tell this was not going to finish him in our short amount of time.
He pushed my shoulder, shoving me back into missionary. My legs around his waist. His teeth on my breast. I came again as he frantically fucked my unending wetness, his desperate sounds now filling the air. He pulled out, said, “Suck it,” and I obliged as he came into my mouth. I sucked and sucked and sucked until he pushed me off of him. I licked up the cum on his leg and in his pubic hair. His cum had no right to taste that good. It was honest-to-God creamy and delicious. If I had known how good his cum was, I would’ve asked to do that from the beginning.
Before we fucked, after he had to go back to the front desk to get the key card fixed, as I closed the blinds and we both began to hastily undress, I asked him a question.
“Would you still want to see me even if there were no sex?”
“Yes, we are friends. I’ve told you this before.”
“I know. It’s just that I often need people to tell me something over and over and over again before it sticks. It’s hard for me to believe people like me for me instead of what I can do for them.”
After we fucked, I remarked, “I’m 50/50 on if that was the last time.”
He replied, “I kind of don’t want you to fuck me again. I don’t want you to feel like I’m using you.”
“I haven’t decided yet. We’ll see.”
I’m glad we’re friends. Before the amazing fucking, there was drinks and French fries and funny conversation. I laugh when I’m with him. I feel free and more myself, less the mask I have to wear for the respectability the world requires. I do want to see him again, with or without the fucking.
I had plenty of justifications and reasons for doing it, even though I know I shouldn’t have.
I ran home the last weekend in September.
I didn’t tell many people I was coming because I knew I couldn’t see all the people I really wanted to see. Precautions needed to be honored, so I didn’t even bother asking to see the faces of some of the people I love.
I did get dick, though.
Originally, I had three dick appointments set. Two came through.
Gent was extra generous this trip. He paid for a hotel room for one night closer to him and then another room for two nights closer to the rest of my friends.
Wednesday I drove for 15 hours to drop off my classmate and then land on Second Best Friend’s couch at 3am.
Thursday was a five Zooms day. I woke up at 7:30am to virtually tutor students for an hour. Fell back to sleep. Woke up at 12:30pm for a panel discussion for one of my extra classes (and possibly got a connect for a residency, fingers crossed). I repacked the few things I pulled out. Quick detour for needed coffee. Drove to Gent’s hotel room. Was called Mrs. Gent when I checked in; trippy. I played parking meter hopscotch, gave up, and went to my room. Got a text from Gent saying he’d pay for my parking at the hotel. Moved my car. Bought hotel food (cause I didn’t want to leave the building anymore). Got the food, which included a drink I nursed discreetly for the next three Zooms. Had a Zoom class at 6:30pm. Followed by a small group Zoom discussion at 7:30pm. Followed by a residency Zoom at 9pm. At 10pm, exhausted, I stripped and took a long hot shower. Tried to pick an outfit for brunch with Gent the next day. Snuggled into the covers. Thought I would read, but instead passed out.
Friday was all about physical touch. I started the day masturbating in the spacious hotel bed. I didn’t want to get my hopes up that Gent would want to, and then eventually, fuck me. But after our brunch, he did. Twice. It was good. It is always good. I regretted masturbating that morning, but know I needed it all the same. After my time with Gent, and another detour for more coffee, and checking into the second hotel room, and switching rooms for the obvious cigarette smell, I spent more time in yet another hotel room with another friend. I didn’t realize how much I needed giggles and cuddles and someone to tell me they loved my laugh. That was a good night.
Saturday felt like a series of distant moments. I got to spend a few hours with Second Best Friend at her apartment watching P Valley on Starz while eating chicken and remarking how fucking good the show is. (I’m currently in the middle of my third watch through. Trust me; watch the show.) But that was all she could give me because of family commitments. I hugged her extra tight in parting, not wanting to let her go. When I went to see my mother at her job, she met me in the driveway of the hospital. We stood six feet apart and talked through our masks. My aunt tested positive, my mother often gives her rides, and neither one of us wanted to risk it. But all I wanted to do was hug my mother just as hard as I’d hugged Second Best Friend. That was really hard. Afterwards, I bought Chipotle, a six pack, and watched Disney+ on my laptop back at the second hotel room. I bought air fresheners so the air smelled more pleasant. (It did.) I ignored the couple screaming at each other next door. And the random slamming of the hotel room doors. And tried to not hope that Gent would come by. He didn’t.
Since Gent’s name was on both hotel rooms, I was called Mrs. Gent at least three times that weekend. Not gonna lie: it messed with my head and my heart a little.
I’m glad I went home because I was homesick, and I wanted dick, and I needed a recharge.
But I didn’t get all I wanted, just enough to keep going.
That’s all we can do right now, keep going, until things change or get better or, hopefully, both.
41%. There is the real possibility, an advertised publicized promise, that a rich white man may reduce my student loan burden by 41%, and this will not even touch the vastness of his wealth.
At its core, medicine is about empathy. As a future physician, my job will be to take care of people. They teach us at my medical school to treat your patients like a family member. Essentially, they are trying to remind us that our patients are people, not a disease or a group of symptoms, so that we can fully treat them with care and compassion.
I wonder about other medical schools.
I go to an HBCU. I thank God for that fact often. Sometimes I begrudge it too, but more for societal reasons than educational experiences. Our school was founded from the gift of a different white man. Life’s ironies abound. We don’t have the same resources as the rich predominantly white medical school ten minutes down the street. But when I sat in lecture and suffered through Nephrology, I looked around and saw people like me. I looked at my professor and saw a man that could favor one of my uncles. I didn’t worry about being judged for my Blackness, where I came from, or who my family is.
I often wonder if they stress compassion, empathy, and just basic human decency at predominantly white medical schools. As an HBCU, our patient population is mostly disadvantaged peoples. Our hospital is the safety net hospital. Everyday our work is about caring for those whom society has ignored, undervalued, or downright betrayed. Compassion and empathy are baked into our curriculum, into our classes, into all of our education. I don’t know if the same is true elsewhere.
Our country has a humanity crisis. I don’t know how to make racists care about non-whites. I don’t know how to make sexists respect the wisdom of non-males. I don’t know how we make our country better when the seeds of hate and discrimination are from where the very roots of our country sprung.
I know that Black mothers are less likely to die in childbirth if their Obstetrician is Black. I know that Black children are less likely to die in their first days of life if their Pediatrician is Black. I know Black men are more likely to receive vital routine screenings for life threatening illnesses if their Internist is Black. But Black doctors are only 5% of the physician population is this country, despite Black people being 12% of the general population overall.
I don’t know how to fix all of these problems.
But I do know a rich white man just made a lot of lives better for more future Black doctors. And, hopefully, we will make the lives of our future Black patients better, too. And maybe, just maybe, this is a good start.
Dripping. I was dripping wet. The dildo kept slipping out, but the slickness made the repeated thrusts faster, harder, smoother. I moaned into my pillow, and continued to pound the toy into my wanting needy pussy. My moans turned into a growl. I rolled over, got up on my knees, piled up the pillows. I reached from my vibrator, nestled it into the mound, and flipped the switch to low. Threw my head back as I rocked my hips, rubbing my clit against the deep vibration. A hand reached for the wall, steadying myself against the growing wave. The other gripped the vibrator against a pillow, getting the right angle as the tension built. And built. And built, until it broke. I screamed, back arched, tears flowing as the orgasm ripped through me, muscles tensed and pulsed and released. I fell forward, sobbing my ecstasy into the pillow as the waves kept breaking, beating, billowing into my body. I saw deep gold and blue cloth sown together into a cape and then draped over my shoulders. God stroked my cheek, then kissed it, and told me I was their loved child, I was doing great, and I would be okay. I cried more tears of joy and ecstasy and faith, hope suffusing me, and collapsed over onto my side.
It’s my Clerks year. You either get the reference or you don’t. And if you don’t, that’s cool. My brain has way too many random scraps of barely useful information.
I’m still here. And still single. And still horny.
Also, she’s back. And Green Eyes is still a bitch.
Too many of my friends are leading lives I want to live and it’s driving me crazy. I see them in relationships, preparing to pop the question, planning weddings, about to have children, and I want to fucking scream. I want to gnash my teeth and bellow and wail and hurt someone or something or just myself.
Save the eulogizing; I know I’m not supposed to compare myself to others. I know my life is far more than it was just a few years ago. I see the path I am on and know great things lie ahead. But I also know what I want beyond the career, beyond the money and prestige and helping everyone else except for my damn self. I know. And I don’t have it and can’t get it.
I’m caught between this place of selfishness and selflessness. I keep being that great friend to everyone else, going beyond what they possibly would for others. I don’t see it reflected back towards me, though. I want someone to cuddle up to at night and wake up with in the morning. But I also have loved having my own space again. And not being someone’s maid. And not getting angry when someone does some stupid shit in my space. It’s just, can I actually have someone in my life and my world and my space without them driving me absolutely fucking nuts? Cause like Green Eyes, I too can be a bitch, and I don’t want to be a bitch towards someone, but it’s gonna happen. And how do I deal with that?
I think of having children and sacrificing for them endlessly and exuding that unconditional love, no problem. I think of that in a relationship and I get angry. Very angry.
It’s cause I’ve already done this in multiple “relationships”, and every time I was taken advantage of by someone, I just shut down. No wonder I really like casual sex. I show up, we’re fun, and I leave. I want an extended causal sex relationship that gracefully morphs into a romantic relationship. I want a needle from a haystack. I want what might not be possible. Shit.
Also, I’m scared about not being able to have kids in the future. And never really truly being in love. And all of the existential bullshit you would expect from a single person in their thirties.
Ugh… sad and boring.
Read another post. A sexier post. This one is shit.
I wake up with it,
walk around all day with it,
live in it,
feed on it,
and go to sleep with it
on my body and in my mind.
I imagine you slipping behind me
as I’m sitting on the floor studying.
You sit down, legs astride mine.
Chest against my back.
Chin on my shoulder.
Nose nuzzling my ear.
“Are you ready for a break,”
you ask as your hands grip my waist.
Then slide down my sides.
Lift up my dress.
Hook the edges of my panties,
I wriggle out of my undergarment,
kick it aside.
You have just enough time
to release yourself from your pants
as I sit back down,
now on you.
I tilt my head back
right before your fingers
into my hair
and pull my lips towards yours.
I moan into your mouth
as I slowly rock
up and down.
Up, and down.
Your hand reaches inside my dress,
grabs my breast and
Your fingers will leave bruises.
You break the kiss
to bite my neck,
then bring your knees up against my back.
You tear off my dress in a hurried rush.
Pull my breasts from the cups of my bra.
Take them into your mouth
one, then the other.
I arch my back,
curse and sigh;
it’s all too much and not enough.
My arms encircle your head,
pulling, holding you to your meal.
I can feel it growing, surging,
my pleasure a wave
building up to a height I haven’t felt
My hips feel your grip again
as you push and grind me harder,
harder on your cock.
Your mouth on my titties,
your hands urging me,
as I’m grinding, riding, writhing on your cock
and I never want to leave this fantasy world.
My real world is void, empty. My real world is a lonely bed and yearning for titty sucking nasty fucking love.
You will never read this. I’m writing this letter because it is a way for me to get these thoughts and feelings out of my head without ruining our friendship. I like you. No, I more than like you. I’ve more than liked you since the second time we hung out. You were so kind and so smart, and I didn’t even realize I more than liked you until you were walking me outside to my car and it hit me that you made me smile for the past two hours and I wanted more time like that with you in my life. I asked my friend if you had a girlfriend. She found out that you did, and thus dashed my hope for anything more than friendship with you, but I accepted it because you are one of the best men I have ever known. We exchanged poems, and talked about queer healthcare, and challenged and uplifted each other this past year. There is a reason why I call you Brain Twin; we think a lot alike. It is why I know I can’t do anything to jeopardize your happiness. I know you are happy. I can see it in the way you smile on Instagram with your girlfriend beside you. I thought about saying these things to you in what may be the last time I ever see you, ostensibly a double-stuffed Oreo delivery. But even if it is the last time we speak, I would feel worse if these were the last words you heard from me. Instead, I’ll probably just joke about crashing on your couch sometime next year for aways. I’ll probably look nice and smile a grin that hurts. But I’ll stand six feet away, and I won’t be that girl who ruins a friendship because I let my selfish emotions overcome the genuine affection I have for you as a person, the good man that you are. So instead I write this letter, and say the things I can’t say to you:
“I’ve liked you for almost as long as I’ve known you, and I don’t know if the feeling is mutual, but if you’re ever not in a relationship, I’d want to give this a try because when I think of you I can’t help but smile til my face hurts.”
Bye Brain Twin, and good luck with your future. I know it will be a bright one.
I had previously seen one grey pubic hair before. Ever time it emerged, I plucked it and tried
to forget its existence.
Recently, I had not been trimming my pubic hair. People do random things to amuse themselves
while in our current isolation. Mine was
letting my pubic hair grow longer than it has been since high school. With the length came the discovery of a
second hair. The one I knew about was on
the right. But then I saw one on the
And then a second one on the right, only farther down,
therefore normally out of my view.
And then, to my dismay, I looked on the left again, saw a
hair and thought, “Is that grey? Or is a trick of my eyes?”
I shit you not, folks: it was half grey. As if, when it began growing, the melanocytes
were taking a nap. But then, in the middle of growing, they woke and said, “Shit,
we’re supposed to be working” and thus affixed melanin to the bottom half of
Yes, the grey portion was the top half.
I am the first person to admit my pussy has had an excellent
run. Fists. Dicks.
Other things too have made their way into me, and it has been
glorious. Unfortunately, I cannot say
that as of late. Besides my dildo, my
pussy has been lonely in 2020 and for a good portion of 2019 as well.
But damn body, three and a half grey pubic hairs!?
It seems excessive, almost judgmental. I am still young. I haven’t even pushed out procreation
Can’t the salt-and-pepper wait until I at least have spawn!?
Truth be told, this is probably life having a little fun at
my expense. Pictures of my father late
in his life show he had salt-and-pepper coloring: grey at the temples and full
through his mustache.
Mother nature, I guess, just decided to locate my slow loss of melanin a little farther south.