the life and musings of a kinky slut


This is how you get your pussy privileges revoked.

I met Bacon via Twitter. I don’t remember who slid into whom’s DM’s. 

We first interacted when I was in med school. I, at the time, lived quite far from home so our interactions were of the photos/flirty messages/FaceTime mutual masturbation variety. 

Later, after I started residency, we figured out that we lived near enough to each other. So,  inevitably, we transitioned into a FWB situation. In retrospect, though, I can now see the F part was lacking in more ways than one.

The first time he came over, I was awkward as hell. Thankfully, at a certain point, he told me point blank “stop talking” and the fucking was half way decent. I realized after the fact I was not at my best, having been out of practice while in school, and I felt like I needed to make it up to him.

The second time he came around, much better. Straight to the point and pleasurable for both parties involved.

I flubbed on our third would-be encounter due to my job. I don’t remember if I was specifically on a nights rotation, but I suspect I was as he was set to come over early morning and I fell asleep on my couch waiting for his arrival. When I woke up an hour after he had left, I apologized profusely and asked him to come back. He refused, his ego bruised enough to reject waiting and wanting clean pussy. (Part of the reason I fell asleep is because I took a shower in anticipation of his coming over. Me, a considerate ho. Him, just a dick.)

Subsequently, there have been multiple other times I have invited him over without any follow through. 

Once, I reached out and he declined because he was busy. Another time he declined because it was early AM and I quote “I don’t want a repeat of last time”. Mind you, I had apologized profusely that time and now again to try to ease this man’s ego.

The incident that has now gotten him cut from my roster occurred this Sunday morning.

Saturday night (and Sunday morning, and now in fact) I was (am) incredibly horny. If you follow my Twitter, you would have seen the post in which I admitted this. I reached out to him via the app and via text message. This was around 1am. No reply, so I went to sleep.

Since I was off work, I left my ringer on. Around 4:15am, I woke up to his text. We did a flirty flirty and came to the plan of him coming by after the gym. I asked him to text me when he was leaving his place to make sure I would be awake. I was gonna jump in the shower and wait for him in my lobby just to make sure I would not miss him. This plan was formulated around/just before 5am.

8am rolls by, myself actually haven not fallen back asleep because again I didn’t want to make the same mistake as last time, and there was no message. In my head I’m wondering if this man is gonna flake. So I send a text.


And what, you may ask, was his reply.

“So… I was in the shower when your text came in. But now that I’m out it feels like you’re rushing me, so I’mma pass.”

To say I was flabbergasted is to understate my astonishment. Did this man really just send me this text, jumping to extreme conclusions at 8:30am on a Sunday morning?

In that moment, I had multiple realizations at once.

One, a tangent: The night before I was hanging out with some friends. One of them, a close friend of over a decade, was commenting about another man on my roster and stated a simple but profound opinion. “You deserve better.” 

Though the man was different, the situation was the same. Bacon was being an absolute asshole. I waited for three hours, ready to jump in the shower, clean and primp myself, and bless him with some wet good pussy. Instead, he decides to treat me this way. No sir, you will not treat me like this. I deserve better.

Two: This motherfucker don’t like me. He keeps harping on one mistake I made months ago and for which I have apologized profusely on multiple occasions. He is taking for granted my wanting him sexually. His message was not kind or thoughtful. This man is a dick.

Three: I don’t need this man in my life. Every day, every moment, we chose who we allow to be a part of our lives. We create our world by filling it with the people and places that matter most to us… or who we must tolerate for existence. I have to interact with my coworkers for this paycheck. I plan and execute events with my friends because we love each other and love being around each other. This man though, it’s giving no.

Being a part of my life is a privilege, not a right. And he, in that moment, had lost his pussy privileges.

Within five minutes of his text, I knew what needed to be done.

My reply:

“Wow, I sent a simple check-in text because I have been awake for the past three hours in anticipation of you coming over and this is your response. Yeah, Imma pass too.”

I sent my text, then immediately went on Twitter and blocked him. I deleted our DM thread. I deleted our text conversation. I deleted his contact.

All I wanted was some morning sex. Why is it so hard to find a link up where I call (or he calls me), we arrange a meetup, we fuck, we cum, and he leaves? This should not be that fucking hard. And yet, here we are. 

This is so tiring.

More deadweight cut from the roster.


Swordfighter makes me smile. 

He likes to randomly text me that he’s thinking of me or is checking up on how I’m doing because my job is insane. Every message is a reminder of my desire to get back to him.

I have been reluctant at times to talk about him or bring him up to people. Happiness makes me nervous. Old doubts and fears creep up, worry that what is now glee could turn ghastly sooner than I think. But in those moments I remind myself past is not necessarily prologue. And I like this man. I really REALLY like this man.

Recently my work schedule for the rest of the year dropped. And my first thought, as soon as I saw the email subject was, “Finally, we can schedule.” I’ve held out on scheduling our next meetup because my time off was a mystery after the end of this month.

Right before Happy Hour this evening, I texted. 

Schedule just dropped! Can we setup a call to schedule visits?

That last “s” was more important than I realized.

Yeah! Let’s do Sunday? Unless you have a few minutes now lol

I have a sec now.

I called. 

We chatted a little. He’s applying for a mostly remote job (preferred for him). His cats were being cute in the background, as always. 

But then, it was down to brass tax. 

First, there was May, a TBD weekend depending on how his upcoming interview goes. 

Next, June and the weekend before the crush of my job set back in. I’m going to be a fourth year; I still can’t wrap my head around it.

Then July, and BlerdCon, where this all started. If he can swing it, he’ll share a room with me and another of my friends for the event. 

Next August, for my house warming (that is three years late). 

And September, as I already have a set Renn Faire day with a friend who ever only goes once a season, so he’ll be with me for that weekend too. 

And before we knew it, we’d planned out five dates (once a month through the summer into the fall) and I can’t help but be elated. I’m downright giddy, actually. I smiling so hard, my face hurt.

So much time with Swordfighter. I actually might get to see him fight with his swords during a visit. 

Yeah, I really like this boy.


It felt wrong, how we were that evening. How he acted like we were together together. How he just pretended.

AAP had a free ticket to a concert randomly, and I was free enough that evening, so I invited him to stay the night after the show.

After work I had just enough time to run home and change before we shared an Uber to the show.

I looked good. Really good, actually. I wore my new jumpsuit and my healed boots. I sprayed on a smell good and wore some jewelry. It felt like the fun part of adulting. I guess it was, actually: the fun parts of being with him, not the real life shit he ignores and he says we won’t ever be.

We grabbed food right before; he paid. We had box seats. The performance (though almost exclusively in another language) was great. I had a really good time.

Afterwards, I bought a poster for my wall and we made our way home. While waiting for our Uber back, I took note of his less than subtle advances. The graze of my back. The caress of my ass. He wanted to fuck. But did I want to fuck him? I knew if I had to ask the question the answer was no.

And as we waited for our car, it dawned on me how angry the situation made me. He wanted the fun- the concert and the dinner and the fucking- without the real. He was perfectly fine playacting as my boyfriend while denying me the very real relationship I asked for.

You don’t just get the easy parts of me. 

We didn’t fuck that night. I don’t know when or if I’ll ever fuck him again. The situation has left a bad taste in my mouth that has not gone away.

Love and affection, concerts and cafe cuisine are easy. But you have to earn the easy by mucking through the hard parts. The emotions. The fights. The disagreements. The compromises. Telling the truth and figuring out how to deal with it. Shit, we couldn’t even get through the Uber ride without you shitting on my latest musical appreciation and gaslighting me about it. Why are you yucking my yum you prick? I don’t shit on the things you love but I loathe. (And there are a few for which I have bitten my tongue for years.)

Are we done? Truly, are we done? Or will time get me to forget how pissed and annoyed I am right now at how you treat me? How you take me for granted. How you assume and amuse yourself with little regard for how it impacts me.

I deserve better than you. But when will I get it?

Life Is Reason Enough

Lately, I’ve been doing the thing.

On my recent trip to New Orleans with friends, I was getting ready for brunch. Showered. Moisturized. Outfit was set. A little body glitter by the eyes and on the chest because I wasn’t in the mood for makeup. All that was left was my hair. I wasn’t sure what to do with it when my friend Tiff suggested a messy up bun. Not that you would know this, but I generally don’t do messy with my hair. It has to be slicked back, pulled back, braided, quaffed. I am the queen of frizz and I resist it every turn. She arranged my hair for me. But when I looked in the mirror, all I saw was frizz. I tried slicking it down with gel and a brush. I groaned and lamented to Tiff about it. “But Kristen, your frizz is your crown. Own it.” She wasn’t wrong. On anyone else, I would’ve thought they looked cute, stylish, accepting of themself, free. Why couldn’t that be me? I wore my hair, frizz and all (though I did add two bobby pins for the most unruly sections), and received compliments from my other friends on our way to our meal.

Later, while walking through the French Quarter, Tiff and I found two little shops – one displayed rocks and gems, bracelets and rings, lots of little things to touch and possibly purchase; the other, just down the street, was full of fun bits and bobbles, quirky t-shirts and socks, and a random beautiful array of expensive jewelry. Between the two shops, I purchased two new copper cuffs, two pairs of fun socks, another magnet to add to my overwhelming fridge collection and, at long last, I found a snack ring. I wore the cuff and ring right out of the store. The snake wrapped around my right ring finger, feeling as if it belonged there, was meant to be there. I used holiday money (a $100 bill from work and a $50 bill from family) to make the purchases.

One morning, to scratch off a bullet from our vacation checklist prior to our departure, I took a mile walk to a restaurant we all love in order to pick up a sandwich both Tiff and I adore. I knew I would be alone and that the Sun was out, but I was in New Orleans, this was my vacation, and why the fuck not wouldn’t I put that shit on. I wore a set of leggings that hugged my hips just right and showed off the shelf of my ass. For my top, I chose a tiny dress the flaunted my cleavage. To round off the look, I threw on a small camisole for my arms, carried my red parasol, and stomped the streets in my zip up boots. As I strutted towards Cuchon Butcher, one refrain remained in my head. “I’ve got this shit on.” And I liked it.

Today, just because, I wore a new dress I recently bought as I lounged around the apartment. Tiff and I went to Target a few days after we got back from New Orleans and I spent probably too much money on essentially a new wardrobe: four dresses, one jumpsuit (my first!), one skirt, one cute top, two tank tops, a set of comfy pajamas, and one long sleeve chill shirt. The dress I wore today is pale green, flowing, with a slit up my left thigh, and a scope neck that displays my cleavage beautifully. That same day with Tiff, I bought three new bras from Torrid as well, all of them pretty. Today’s bra is black with red, purple, and white flowers all over. In the afternoon, another girlfriend came over; we lounged on my couch and chatted about life and why are men. Later, we walked to a local taco spot for dinner. As the breeze flowed and the Sun shone and I smiled beside her, I thought, “Yes, this is what life should be.”

Life is reason enough for happiness. Reason enough to eat that food, drink that wine, wear those clothes, or take in that experience. We as a society have lived through some really fucked up shit in the past five plus years. I personally have gone through, and am still going through, emotionally traumatizing experiences in life and at work. So waiting until some moment is deemed special enough for joy is no longer a part of how I operate. Life is special enough. Being here is special enough. Drawing breath, being blessed with the ability to live, is reason enough for me to live my life in whatever way I see fit.

Life is reason enough for joy.

Dwindled Roster

And just like that, there were none. 

I am no longer dating any of the three boys from the friend group. I suppose this was inevitable. It is difficult for one person to fit what three different people want. For me in particular, it was difficult to find the balance of trying to make myself be with all three of them, although for very different reasons. 

The first ended quickly. A bright flash that burnt out almost as soon as it was lit. The fucking was spectacular, and we did have one rather hot rope scene, brief as it was. But we were done almost as soon as we started. I felt I gave more than was received back. It was so often about his emotions, his frustrations, his feelings, his relationships, his job, his life. There was an imbalance in emotional expenditure, and I knew I could not let that remain with this being a year of healing for me. But from him, I met his two friends. 

Verbose lasted much longer. He and I dated, even though we didn’t call it that. I slept over at his place about once every week or two for four months. Occasionally my sleepover was during the week. I woke up early for work and was greeted with a cup of tea and a breakfast for the road waiting for me. We played. We fucked. At times both were great, but it was those times that were not great that were our downfall. I talked to Verbose about the things I didn’t want, but unfortunately that information was not absorbed. I don’t believe it is petty to break up with someone when they do all of the things you don’t like all in the same date. 

I liked Verbose. I liked our flirting via voice messages. I liked our long conversations (when he found the time to not just talk about himself). I liked cuddling with him on his couch and watching television. I liked holding his hand and snuggles in his bed at night. We both ran hot, which made it funny, but waking up with him next to me was lovely. But he licked the front of my teeth, and but my lips as much as kissed them, and never let me kiss his bottom lip. He bit my stomach so hard I pushed him off. He took offense when my friend griped about work for two minutes on the phone when he had spent fifteen to twenty minutes just previously dumping his work angst onto me. He never stayed over at my place, never. It felt like I put more effort into seeing him than he put into seeing me. Again, the pouring out with much less being poured in. Merely wanting something to work does not always make it work.

Bro, the third member of the group, was and is my friend. He clocked my attraction to Verbose from jump, pushed me to name what was happening and supported me as we meandered in our doomed interaction. He took me on dates that were equal parts getting to know one another but also bonding with each other. In the twist of all twists, Bro doesn’t want a romantic relationship with me. No sex. Maybe play. Instead, he wants to be my friend and push me towards the romantic life I actually want. 

It’s good to have people around you who tell you the truth and push you to admit the truth.

I want someone to choose me. I want to be someone’s somebody. I want to date, to be in a relationship, to have a primary partner and grow a life with someone. In a two hour conversation this afternoon, Bro made many observations on what he saw from the conversations we’d had and the ways I’d interacted with his friends. It is easy to talk to Bro about any and everything. So, I did. And he paid attention:
– “Do you see a pattern here?”
– “Why do you think that is?”
– “Have you been working to try to make that happen?”
– “Just because your life looks different doesn’t mean you’re not patterning your decision making off what you saw growing up.”
– “You are worthy of love. Can you say that to yourself?” 

Yes, he read me for filth. Yes, I needed to hear it. No, I did not throw anything at him. In another life, Bro was a counselor.

So here we are. The roster has dwindled to a trickle. I’m going to see Sword Fighter next weekend. Rollercoaster is falling back into old patterns. Kidney is not treating me like I matter to him. 

I know I deserve better. One of my intentions this year is to achieve just that, better. Better interactions with men in my life. Less settling. Less putting up with bullshit.

2024, here we go.


I don’t know how this happened but I am talking to so many boys right now.

I visited Sword Fighter over Labor Day weekend. He lives not that close but not horribly far away. We picked a city that was a fair split between us and he’d been there before so agreed that it would be a good time. 

And yes, it was a good time. 

I was initially nervous about the meetup. We hadn’t seen each other since my birthday, and I wondered if the spark between us would still be there. But of course, it was. 

My naive self thought I would stay for one night and leave in the afternoon the next day. 

So funny in retrospect. I stayed until I absolutely had to leave to make it to Renn Faire.

There was nothing big about our time except for how focused we were with each other. 

Friday night we had dinner, holding hands on the walk to the restaurant and back. We ate and laughed and talked so much. So much. Talking really dominated the weekend. We talked about our lives, both working and the people in them. We told our stories, the fun and not so fun ones. We talked about our tattoos, his pets, my allergy. We talked and talked and talked. 

And we fucked. 

I found it interesting that during our incredibly hot scene at BlerdCon, we had never kissed. And with the timing of things, we never got a chance to have sex. This was remedied on Friday night after dinner, and two hours on the loveseat cuddled up and opening up to one another. 

In total, we fucked four times over forty hours together. 

The first was intense, an exploration of each other. The second was whimsical, the morning after. The third was late night, woken up by the obnoxiously loud drag races on the street outside our AirBnB, so close to one another we couldn’t help but want to be within the other. The forth was silly, a quickie the morning of our parting before I had to go.

I know so much about this man now, more than some people I’ve known for much longer. I feel like this could be something, but I don’t know what yet. He lives three hours away. This could work, but it will completely depend on if both of us are willing to put in the effort and have the intentionality. We’ll see.

Back here at home, I find myself in the curious situation of talking to three members of a friend group at the same time. 

One is a friend I knew before the other two and just so happened to introduce me one night to their crew. Being the occasional center of orbit for their affections is pushing happy buttons in me I have not felt in a long time. 

They are all so very different, yet complement each other in synchronous ways. Two are married. One recently ended a relationship. In a cruel irony, at times it feels the one who is not married is the one who is the least available, attainable. But I’m still here, and I do not give up or fold easily.

Yesterday, Saturday, I spent twelve hours with one of them. We got coffee, then lunch, then drove an hour to try to go apple picking. The conversation was easy and far reaching and never ending. Unfortunately it was also distracting. We did not pay attention to time and ended up arriving fifteen minutes after apple picking had ended. So, I pivoted.

“You’re going to teach me how to bake an apple pie.”

We bought fruit from the orchard and headed back to my place.

After a quick run to the grocery store for a few missing essentials, and a plea for pardon at the state of my apartment, we spent the next few hours prepping and baking. We ended up baking an apple pie and a loaf of bread, my first for both. We talked for the intervening hours, ate a dinner of leftovers from my fridge, and again never had much of a lull in the conversation.

We were open and honest, telling each other about things we were less than proud of and finding in turn a person who listened and held space and affirmed who we are now as opposed to who we were and what we went through before.

Twelve hours and so many stories later, we ended the night with honesty. We don’t know where this is going, but we do know we like spending time with each other, and do it in such an effortless way that more interactions are surely to come.

This Sunday morning, it was as if the other two friends of the group sensed the time I had spent with the first and decided it was now their turns. 

I spoke to one on the phone for forty-five minutes chatting about life and the last time I had seen him, a visit at my place after he had had fun at a play party. He wanted to check in, make sure we were okay, and acknowledging maybe he had put too much emphasis on sex in our friendship. I confessed the last time he saw me I was high, having taken an edible before his arrival, and my brain was not in a place to share that experience with him. But yes, we were good. Our friendship is still solid. I still want to be around him and interact and see what fun life brings our way. There was talk of a group get together to play Cards Against Humanity. I warned him how much I love that game and plan to be as intellectually vicious as always. I think he enjoyed the challenge I laid down.

Then, as one phone call ended, a surprise FaceTime began. For an illuminating one and half hours, the third of the group and I talked and talked and talked. 

Though I had not planned it, I spoke with him about my inner selves, the personas slipping out when I don’t realize it and acting as my avatar in crucial moments both in play and in life.

“Who was that? That change in your voice?”

He likes my voice, has remarked more than once on it in our exchanged voice messages. I confess, I love hearing him speak both about my voice and just in general. I am a very vocal auditory person. Sometimes I will just lay back, close my eyes, and replay a voice message he has sent me. 

This FaceTime, occasionally while he spoke, I wanted to roll back and close my eyes and just listen and image scenarios I hope to fulfill in the future.

I was also blunt at the end of our conversation, saying plainly what I want, hoping I didn’t scare him, realizing none of want I said was guaranteed, but yes hoping that in my radical honestly I could at least let him know and then let him decide how he wished to react. I fear my bluntness may again be the thing that makes what I want not possible, but I can no longer play the cat-and-mouse game. No more hints and hopes and wishes. We’re grown; we say what we mean and we mean what we say.

Wherever things go from here with Sword Fighter or with the trio, I don’t know. 

A fun thought slipped into my brain while I masturbated this afternoon, but I’ll wait a little longer to share it with all these boys and the world. 

For now, I’ll just bask in the sweet sweet deliciousness of all this attention.

And you all know how much I love attention.


I feel blessed as of late with warmth and love from my family.

On Friday, I attended the wedding of my cousin. 

In a sad twist of irony and life and death, my cousin read my mother’s obituary at her funeral and then I read the obituary for my cousin’s mother at that funeral. We both lost our mothers to start this year.

2023 has not always been kind, but on Friday night we were given a reprieve. 

My new cousin-in-law, her new husband, stole the show during the wedding ceremony with his vows. As he took out his three pages of remarks, there were audible moans and groans but also laughter and quizzical huh’s. What had we gotten ourselves into? 

After his words, there was not a dry eye in the room. He was thoughtful, sincere, anchored in faith and caring, and touching on their beautiful love and love story. You see, both my cousin and her new husband had previously been married and had children from these relationships. They found each other, bonded and blended, their families into one. Their kids were a part of the affair, assisting with the rings and the bouquet. So much love across so many smiling faces. 

My cousin’s response, after her soon-to-be husband’s words: “How am I suppose to top that?” My cousin’s vows were lighthearted and genuine, bringing levity to the moment. They are a good match, balancing each other well. 

After the ceremony, there were drinks, dinner and dancing. Smiles and pictures. And so much happiness. After the sadness of the beginning of the year, we all could use that joy Friday night. 

This Sunday afternoon, my sister called me. She has now made it a habit of giving me a ring once a month. She is older, in her late 60s. I confess, I look forward to these calls more than I realize. 

Having lost my mother and my father, and not always feeling close to my brothers, my sister has inadvertently been filling a part of my heart that has been left wanting. 

We don’t talk about much important: How is residency going? Any plans for more trips? When will we possibly get together again? 

This month I was actually able to give her advice about New York City and Broadway in an effort to aid her with an upcoming visit from her cousins. I was more than happy to share my opinions on shows and recommend a restaurant and wish her a good time on their visit. 

So simple, these moments, yet in the remembering they are really the world.

I guess it is because she is older, and at times reminds me of family members now gone, that I so cherish hearing my sister’s voice and getting to talk to her, and feeling that familial love. 

It’s nothing like sadness, death, and grief to make you appreciate the little moments you get with those you still have here.


I do this every year, take an inventory of my life and talk about the fun I had on my birthday. With this being a milestone year, I really did it big: a nerdy convention, a Beyonce concert, and five Broadway shows in the span of one week. It was incredible and all I deserved to usher in the next decade of my life. I loved it and will probably be talking about it for the rest of this year because amazing. 

And while the joy has stayed with me since that vacation week, other more not so fun thoughts keep sitting on the surface of my mind. 

This is a milestone year, a huge change from one part of life to the next. Turning 40, while also coinciding with being half way through residency, has me thinking about what I want the next phase of my life to look like.

I have options, opportunities, and people all swimming around in my brain vying for attention. But the rub is I don’t know what I want.

I’ve struggled to decide the path my life will take beyond my job. 

One thing about this career: you start on the ride and it just keeps going. An MD stays an MD pretty much until death. MD’s don’t retire so much as they work less. And I don’t mind that specifically because my career is dedicated to helping people in a political climate keenly focused on stopping me. So my career gets to be a giant FUCK YOU to the people I despise, and I like that. 

But living my life in truth and honesty job wise and politics wise seems so easy, even though from others perspective it is the most difficult. For me, work is work but life is life. And trying to figure out my life is where all the murkiness floats up.

Am I ever going to get married? Maybe… But if I never did, would I be okay with that? 

I enjoy the freedom of single life, of being poly, of doing what I want with whomever I want whenever I want. Navigating the compromise of a committed relationship is at times alluring and daunting. I’m on the apps, and I’ve edited one of my profiles to be completely honest: I have a big brain, a big mouth, and a big ass. None of those things are going to change. Is there someone out there who can handle those disparate parts of me? Appreciate them? Encourage them? Love them? Because I’m not willing to sacrifice me to be the someone you have dreamed of. I’m not willing to lessen myself to make you feel bigger. I suppose I’ve been single this long because I’m not willing to act dumb, be silent, or change my body because of other people’s thoughts or opinions.

Let’s be honest: being single as a woman with modest means has been fun. I have had so many adventures, gotten in interesting circumstances, and have so many stories to tell – so many that I often read back on this blog and think ‘oh right, that did happen.’ Is that life, though not exactly the same, still close to possible with someone committed to me? 

Can I have a child? Do I want a child? 

Sometimes I think about my mother, the life she lived, how in the waning year of her life over and over she would tell me I was the best thing that ever happened to her. Though she would never characterize my existence as such, in its essence I was a happy mistake. She got pregnant while dating a married man and decided to keep the child. 

For me growing up, safer sex practices and the availability of contraception gave me the knowledge and freedom to never end up in the same situation. My having a child necessitates intention and choice in ever aspect of the process. I literally know how to start or stop it at every point. But to be brutally honest, a large part of why I’m not a mother is before jumping into this decade of life, I didn’t relish the thought of raising a child alone. I’m making more money now than I have ever in my life, so my finances are finally stable enough that I feel it is responsible to have a child on my own. But again, do I want that? Once you are a parent, you never stop being a parent. Do I want that?

I take responsibility in my work life. I make decisions and just go. Only forward, no turning back, all my effort and will towards meeting the career goal. But with this, my decision whether or not to have a child, I stand at the fork in the road and I keep waffling. Is my indecision my answer?

Pair this with the other parts of my social life and one can only laugh. 

I love attention. Fucking love it. I have this habit of texting multiple people at the same time to increase the odds of engaging in conversation with at least one because I want attention. I want interaction. My most depressed days often coincide with being alone for an extended period of time, especially in the setting of no interaction with anyone. I need people in some doses to feel like me, whether that’s in person or simply texts or calls. 

And so I find myself currently talking or texting or flirting with multiple people, not sure where any of it is going but enjoying the attention of it all. I’m trying to not put any expectations on anyone and just allowing the interactions to be as they are. 

I’m tired of taking the lead on things, tired of nudging things towards what I want because it seems so easy for them to ignore me. So instead, I’m enjoying and periodically ignoring them. Don’t initiate, but absolutely respond. Let them dictate. I’m so tired of games that I’m just not willing to play them any more. You want to talk to me, talk to me. You want to fuck me, then you have to ask for it. This former second or third fiddle is playing for herself from now on.

Karma has a way of laughing in my face at regular intervals. One of my long time and regular roster members has politely asked to step back from our usual calendar of meetups citing life worries. I get it, I truly do, but it could not have come at a more comical time. The last time we fucked was, as per usual, hot and extraordinary. We were vigorous, as is our nature, and it involved an extended period of anal sex leading to one of the best orgasms of my life. However, the recovery from that session has been complicated by a betrayal from my body. Y’all, a bitch has hemorrhoids. We fucked so hard I have hemorrhoids and I’m mad at myself for this, mad that my body has finally started to betray its age, but mostly mad that karma decided to do this now. I suppose then it’s a good thing I will not be fucking him for a while cause my booty hole needs a break. But shit, why do all of the best things in life come with unforeseen consequences?

Conversely, my… Shit I don’t even know what to call this man anymore. Hmm, new name is AAP. (No you don’t get to know what that stands for.) Anyway, AAP asked (via text) to incorporate more sex into our interactions. Mind you, this was not a request on my part. I just wanted to see them more and he brought up sex. He is another person where I feel karma coming for me. I thought about him as a forever person only for him to take a step back, but now he wants to move forward in this particular way and I find myself annoyed. On occasion, he’s been mean spirited towards me, slightly passive aggressive, in a way that doesn’t quite sit right with me and I’ve wondered what I am getting out of the interaction. Where is this ask for more sex coming from? Why do you want to go in this particular direction? I don’t get it. I’m not in a mood to analyze it. And beyond an occasional text, I don’t see it going as he plans. But we’ll see.

I’m talking to this other guy I recently met (so recent that I don’t want to give him a name yet). He is interesting and witty and smart and thoughtful and really everything I want in a partner. But quite frankly I’m hesitant. It’s very fresh, very new. I worry that since it is all so new I can’t put any expectations on what we are or what we could be. I’m open and honest in our interactions, but I’m also realistic in that we just starting talking. And I don’t know what he wants. And I question what I want because it feels too good to be true. And I’m almost holding my breath waiting for a red flag or a disappointment. All I keep thinking is, ‘This is great, but when is he going to tell me he’s not in a place for a relationship or he just wants to have fun without commitment or he doesn’t see me that way.’ Yeah, I self sabotage. I know it. For now, I’m just going to enjoy the ride that has literally just started.

Also, I met a boy at the nerd convention. We’ll call him Sword Fighter. He was cute and charming and we are suppose to get together in a couple weeks to see if there is something there. We had a scene that was incredibly hot (impact, breath play, biting) at the convention, but we didn’t kiss and didn’t fuck. We’ve texted a bit and we mesh on different levels. But he already has multiple partners. And he lives three hours away. So I don’t know what this could be other than maybe some occasional visits and great hookups. Shit, this is me self sabotaging again, isn’t it. Why do I keep doing that?

Okay, enough rambling. Wrapping this up.

I don’t look my age. I actually hope to never look my age. I absolutely don’t feel my age. And I endeavor to never act my age. I’m just going to be me, and see what happens. I’ll keep you posted.

A Drink

~ erotica ~

“You look beautiful sweet girl.”
“Thank you Daddy.”
“Why did you ask to meet?”
“I was pretty tonight and wanted you to see me in my dress. Also I was feeling especially horny and so I thought of you.”
“Always happy to be on your mind.”

He kissed me on my forehead, pulled out the tall chair at the bar, and helped ease me into my seat.

“What would you like to drink tonight, baby?”
“My favorite, please.”

He waved over the bartender.

“Bourbon neat for me and a whiskey sour for the lady.”

We sat at the corner of the bar in the back, dim lights barely making our figures perceivable from twenty feet away. We tended to gravitate towards dark almost private corners. 

The slit in my rose gold dress rose to middle of my thigh. He slid his hand up my skin and settled it on his usual protective possessive position.

“What was the occasion tonight?”
“Work dinner. Yearly awards ceremony. I like to stunt on my co-workers every once in a while, remind them how bad of a bitch I can be.”
“I think they know that from your work everyday, sweet girl.”
“Yes, Daddy, but this is different. The OR is gross. What we do is amazing, and gross. Me looking pretty is not something they often see.”
“But I do.”

He leaned in and nuzzled his nose to my ear as his hand crept higher. 

“And you look exceptionally fuckable tonight.”
“You always make me feel so special, Daddy.”

His free hand grabbed my chin, pulling my gaze to his.
“Because you are, my sweet girl.”

The hand on my thigh crept still higher, now feeling the wetness that sprang from my lower lips.

“You are smart, talented, beautiful, and a fucking badass. Do you hear me?”
“Yes Daddy.”
“That’s my sweet girl.”

He kissed me like the first time, when we stood in a light drizzle on a fall night years ago, after he said he wasn’t the relationship type and I said I was married to my work. His tongue took possession of my mouth then and now, demanding its due, forcing waves of pleasure to pass over me. I swooned the first time we kissed. This time, I was glad I was sitting down. 

His middle finger tip gently swept aside the hood of my clit and ever so slightly grazed the sensitive ball of nerves. I gasped into his mouth.

“Daddy,” I moaned breathlessly. 

He bit my lip. My eyes shot open. I don’t know when I had closed them, but now I stared deep into him.

“Mine,” he said, not as a question but as a statement of fact, a declaration. No matter what others thought, what we seemed to be in their inquisitive stares, all that mattered was that I was his.

“Always,” I sighed.

He leaned back, bringing his hand to his face. I watched as he inhaled my scent and licked his finger.

“What time do you have to be at hospital tomorrow?”
“I don’t; day off. Do you have to go into the office?”
“Oh. How much can I have of you tonight?”
“I have to get back in about an hour.”
“Oh.” I tried to not show my disappointment too much.

At that moment, the bartender sat down our drinks.

I picked up my glass, swished the liquor and mixer around, and threw back the alcohol in a few gulps.

“My place?” I asked.

He huffed, and a large grin spread across his face.

“Of course.” He grabbed his drink, took three big gulps, and stood.

Instinctively, he reached out his hand to mine and I grabbed it. I used it for balance as I hoped off the tall bar stool onto my heals. My eyes were almost to the level of his chin.

“You are so tall.”
“And you are so beautiful.”

He spun me around, taking in the floor length dress.

“More of this. I want to see you in more dresses.”
“Well, you know this one is special. You got it for me that one random Spring Sunday as a reward for me cleaning out my closet. We went to that little boutique.”
“Yes, and…” He leaned in. “I fucked you in that dressing room while the attendant at the cash register pretended to not hear us.”
“I remember. You wouldn’t let me moan.”

As he leaned into me, I could feel the hard on forming in his pants.

“We should get going. You do have to get back to the office.”
“Yes, but not before I sink so deep into you you’re crying and climaxing at once.”

He kissed me again, cupping the back of my head and half dipping me. I gripped onto his shirt, wishing only to rip it off. His hand slid down and pressed into my back as the other swept over my hip to then grip my ass. One of my legs rose, pulling his hips towards my crotch.

“Ahem.” The bartender coughed, getting our attention. Our check sat in a black leather billfold. 

We turned back towards each other and laughed. Daddy pulled out a $50 and handed it over saying “keep the change”.

He then gripped my hand and led me out of my favorite dive bar less than a block away from my apartment and my bed.

As we walked out, I wondered what people thought of this older looking man in a business causal suite leading my young looking self in my formal gown away. 

But the wetness between my pussy lips didn’t actually fucking care.


I am a stupid stubborn asshole. 

I have been sick for a week and only barely told anyone about it. 

Yes, the job because they had to know. 

Yes, the partner because he would’ve caught on pretty quickly. We text everyday and when he asks “How goes it?” it’s the one opportunity in my life where I don’t have to lie when answering. Also, unfortunately, he tends to be a better advocate for my health than I am. “TAKE ALL THREE DAYS!!!! Yes, that is me yelling.”

I blame the graduating residency class. They wanted people to come out to celebrate them on Friday night. They picked a bar that was mostly outdoors. I thought I was safe. Low and behold, I was the only non-senior there for the first hour. Everyone kept hugging me and bringing me in close (and buying me drinks). Saturday morning I thought it was a hangover I was feeling. Nope, they gave me the crud. 

I pushed through a Sunday shift barely eating anything because my throat hurt so bad to swallow. Even my saliva, fam. It was agony.

Monday I showed up to work feeling like shit run over, hoping my boss would see me and then send me home, which technically she did… after the morning procedures were complete. Still, I was thankful for the reprieve. 

I limped back to my car, drove home, and couldn’t help but sleep in my car for an hour before dragging myself up to my apartment and sleeping for another five hours. When I woke up, I actually felt worse. I called out for the next day on the spot. I forced down a can of Campbell’s soup, stayed horizontal for a few hours on the couch, and then went right back to bed.

Tuesday, I went to Urgent Care. They diagnosed me with an upper respiratory infection and an outer ear infection. Thankfully, negative for COVID, flu, and Strep. I got meds and a work note. I only managed half a can of soup that day.

I spent the rest of the week cycling between my bed, my couch, and the bathroom.

Getting older is the pits. I don’t remember it taking this long to get better. Taking this long to be able to breath out of my nose again. My god, you don’t even realize the wonder of being able to breathe out of your nose at will, unobstructed airflow in and out. I have had to be a mouth breather for the past week. I’ve felt like a barbarian. 

On my worst days, I was slumped on the couch, in pain, dejected, fighting for every breath. My head swam and felt like a weight. I chided myself for trying to move too quickly through my apartment. I’d tell myself to walk slower during the 20 foot trek from my couch to the bathroom. Once or twice, I cried.

I am taking medicine every 4-6hrs, but since I am on four different medications I set alarms on my phone. 

0200 – All meds 

0600 – Tylenol sinus 

0800 – syrup + Ibuprofen 

1000 – Tylenol sinus

1400 – All meds

1800 – Tylenol sinus

2000 – syrup + Ibuprofen + ear drops

2200 – Tylenol sinus

Rinse and repeat.

I got really good at opening pill packs while still half asleep.

I hate being sick. I fucking hate it. 

I lose all control of a body that now takes much longer to heal. I had to miss work, which was especially galling because it was in a clinic I loved last week. I felt so guilty for not working but also so angry that I felt any guilt about being sick because I was actually factually absolutely fucking sick. 

I could not safely hold a scalpel last week. Shit, I could barely hold my head up last week. Thick, regretfully colorful, gunk came out of my nose every five minutes. At night, when I woke up to evacuate my sinuses, I saw way more red in my tissue than was comforting. My daily shower was a chore. I couldn’t smell my food until after I’d blown my nose and, for the briefest of moments, I could breathe in through my nostrils, allow the chemoreceptors to work, and the taste became brighter, and the scents emerged, and I remembered why I liked that food in the first place.

I subsisted on applesauce and Amazon Prime. I finished The Marvelous Ms. Maisel mostly because their quick talking took my mind off the fact I had barely spoken a word in days. When I tried, my voice was a broken thing. I barely ate for three days at the start, Sunday through Tuesday. Out of morbid curiosity, I weighed myself. I lost seven pounds in just over a week.

Looking at myself in the mirror was how I knew things were truly bad. The face that stared back at me looked like a old crone, hunched over, haggard. ‘That can’t be me’ I thought, even as reality said it was so. 

But it was the mirror that also let me know I was getting better. When the roundness of my cheeks returned. When my eyes no longer looked hooded, but merely open. When color crept back, and my face began to look like my face again, I knew I was on the mend.

I start back work on nights tomorrow. No, I am not looking forward to it. I will be bringing my medications (save the ear drops) with me, as well as a box of tissues and a bag for the discards. I’m not well yet, but I am much better now. And, for brief moments today, I have be able to breathe with my mouth closed. I’ll take the little wins.