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.
I am so grateful to not have a roommate right now.
Yes, I miss human contact almost every moment of every day
of this current health emergency, but both the individuals that I have lived
with in my two previous years of medical school would have driven me up the
fucking wall by now.
As of today, I’ve (mostly) been in my cozy one-bedroom
apartment for seventeen days. Yes, I am
Though I have no one physically in my space, my current
irritation comes from an upstairs neighbor who has decided social distancing
and self-isolation means they will exercise twice a day doing something that
causes dull banging noises to emanate from my ceiling. I understand, but I also hate them.
To keep myself from not going mad, I have reverted back to
my soothing hobbies. I started
crocheting a scarf, but then remembered that crocheting is quick and efficient,
so I’ve switched to knitting, which is much MUCH slower, but calming. I purchased one of those discount memberships
to Starz, so I’m semi caught up on Outlander.
Actually, it was a costume piece on the show that is the inspiration for
the large scarf/shawl I’m working on.
I’ve binged many a Netflix offering.
(Holy shit, Tiger King.)
I’ve been re-reading the Kushiel series. I bought the six books secondhand at the
beginning of the semester on a lark (and because they were so cheap; $5 apiece
for each book). I’m quite happy past me
was so hopeful. Present me is appreciative
of the distraction. I’ve laid out
blankets and pillows on the floor, curled up, and enjoyed diving into that
I cook almost every meal, wasting time and giving me another
distraction. Grocery shopping ten days
ago was an excellent decision.
I absolutely love my Keurig Mini. My daily warm beverage habit includes one cup
of coffee each “morning”, then two cups of tea sometime during the rest of my
day. And I’ve been hydrating because I’m
trying to hold off turning on the air conditioner. My insanely low electric bills have been
joyous and I don’t want to lose that just yet.
Speaking of “morning”, I’ve kept to no set schedule except I
am up when the Sun is up and I go to sleep as some point after the Sun has
set. My alarms now are to remind me to
journal once a day, (handwritten so don’t expect any daily updates here), and
for timing of how long I must boil my pasta.
In academic updates, my Surgery Clinical Shelf Exam was this
past Friday. It’s this big test that is
given nationally to every third-year medical student (just not at the same
time). My Surgery rotation was twelve
weeks long, all building up to this, yet another, high stakes exam. Studying for it during my first two weeks of
social distancing gave me a goal, a purpose.
After I completed the exam, which I did, surprisingly, feel pretty good
about, instead of a release there was an overwhelming sense of dejection. I couldn’t stand around and talk with my
classmates, asking them how they felt.
We couldn’t bitch about how difficult the rotation had been, couldn’t
hug each other. I didn’t see any of my
classmates after the test. However, we were screened for our temperature before
we started our exam. This was mildly
I was taking two extra classes, on top of my clinical
rotation, before the pandemic started. One
is completely online, and the other was in a classroom. Our in-class experience has since
transitioned to online, though it will end in about three weeks. I am grateful for these distractions.
I need distractions.
I am not one to sit idle for more than a day or two. It doesn’t suit me. I need things to do, projects to complete, a
goal to work towards. Yes, I am that
person on a vacation that appreciates scheduled fun, even if it is only one
thing each day to grasp onto.
So, because I am me, I signed up for a one day online
educational event and I applied for an all weekend one as well. The cynical part of me keeps reminding myself
to list these things on my CV for when I have to apply for residency. The soothing part of me points out that
having things to do helps me stay grounded, stay sane.
I try to talk to at least one person every other day over the phone or via Zoom. I’ve talked to my Mom the most (obs), but also best friend in Vermont, and work best friend back home. Twitter messenger has kept me close with my Petty family. And my classmates, who are still in the apartment building, text almost daily.
From my work best friend, I learned some production gig
workers have committed suicide. Anxiety
and depression are assholes.
This experience keeps us all so far apart, and puts undue
pressure on our sanity, but for us to endure this we must find ways of staying
Yes, I am touch starved, but I was that before all of this started. I miss hugs hello and hugs goodbye from my friends back home. I miss random back rubs from Community Boyfriend. And random knee rubs or hair scritches from all my friends.
Yes, I am constantly horny, but jacking off every day would
only make me sore and lonelier. Sticking
with a no more than twice per week ration of orgasm sessions. So far, it’s keeping the painful desire at
At the end of this, I will likely have been (mostly) in my
apartment for almost eight weeks. But,
at the end of this, I still want to be here.
So we sacrifice, and stay connected however we can, reminding ourselves that we do this to help others and help ourselves. Because no one wants to get sick. And no one wants to die, either from this virus or by other means.
I returned home from yet another twelve hours shift, feet aching,
and ended up nearly collapsing at his feet on the floor as he sat on our couch.
“Rough day,” Daveed asked.
“Two deliveries, plus an emergency C-section. Very. Busy.”
I leaned my head against his knees, eyes closed, and wiggled
my way into between his legs.
A gentle tug, and then I felt my curls falling across my
shoulders and he removed my hair clip.
“How can something so small hold so much hair?” he mused.
His fingers sunk into my strands, then kneaded my scalp. I sighed.
“My wife, the super doctor.”
His hand traveled down, working out the tense muscles in my
“And my husband, always knowing what I need.”
I leaned my head back, and patiently waited, knowing I would
soon feel the soft touch of his lips.
With that familiar caress also came the raking of his fingernails across
my chest. I gasped into his mouth.
His kiss traveled across my cheek, landing at my ear where
he nibbled playfully. I giggled.
He scooped me up off the floor in those powerful arms of his. My face nestled into his neck, taking in his
scent. He carried me to our bedroom
where he helped me unwind from a long day’s work.
I’ve been (mostly) by myself in my apartment since I got back from an away rotation out-of-state at a large medical center. The only time I’ve been around people in this past week was on three specific occasions.
Once, a friend brought me candy. She went for a quick run to the local dollar
store and was kind enough to bring me back some Skittles & Starbursts. We stood outside my apartment, six feet apart,
talking about how crazy things had become.
She was missing her boyfriend who was with family out-of-state. She said I didn’t need to pay her for the
candy; she was just happy for some social interaction. I was happy to see her, too.
This past Friday I left my apartment at 5:40am to go to the
grocery store. It opened at 6am, and I
figured it would be best to get in early and get out as quickly as I
could. I made a point to smile to the
people working there and tried to stay 6 feet away from everyone I
encountered. It was surreal to see just
how bare the paper aisle was. And to see
so little meat available. And all the
milk (except organic) was pretty much gone.
But I got almost all that I needed.
And I saw a classmate there, which was randomly nice.
This past Friday was also Match Day. The normal celebration was cancelled. Most everyone took to the internet to make up
for the separation. Two of my good
friends live in my apartment building, so we got together in the lounge
downstairs to watch people’s Facebook videos announcing where their residency will
be. Brain Twin got into his number one
choice. I was, and am, proud of
him. Many other fourth year friends also
matched well. We were happy to see them so
joyous, bittersweet though the occasion was.
I’ve spent the majority of this week studying or watching
TV, both activities well suited to get my mind off the state of everything.
There is a drive through test site on my campus. Current students and alumni have been asked to volunteer to help run it. I think I will volunteer, after my exam in a week. Yes, we are still having exams, because we are still medical students, future doctors, and this will probably be a part of everyone’s personal statement next year. A pandemic will do that.
Comments Off on 3.22.2020 The World Turned Upside Down
My Surgery rotation midterm was today. I passed it. It was ugly, but I passed it. I wanted to get some more studying in afterwards, so I headed to the library. I ended up in the middle of a crowd of happy fourth years, smiling and taking photos. The M4s submitted their rank lists today. In one month, it’s their Match Day.
BrainTwin saw me and intercepted me before I slipped through the joyful gathering. He hugged me, a huge smile on his face. We chatted. I asked about his number one. I’m sure he’ll get it.
I’m so happy for him. And proud of him. And grateful that he’s been there for me in my times of struggle.
But I know this means he’s almost gone. His life gets to continue away from here. Away from me.
I know we’re just friends. His girlfriend is gorgeous and will probably be there during Match Day.
But I care about him. And I’m going to miss him. Shit, it’s almost time for me to say goodbye to him.
I told him straight up that I will be there on Match Day and I will hug him in congratulations.