poeticdesires

the life and musings of a kinky slut

5.15.18 PMS is an asshole

~ a poem ~

Every month, without fail, it happens.
I’ll find myself in my closet,
or in my bathroom,
or on my bed
crying.

My mind will be saying the worst possible things about me,
worse than what anyone has ever said to my face.

(We all know those parts of ourselves,
the exact buttons to push.)

It doesn’t matter what I’m doing.
I stop,
sit,
cry into my hands,
and sob.
It only lasts for
maybe
two or three minutes.
Then I take a nice long deep breath,
stand up,
and go about the rest of my day or evening.

It sucks, even when I know it’s coming. Because it comes every month.
And I have yet to prove it wrong.


4.29.18 If

~ a poem ~

I’d come home to see you every two weeks, no excuses.
I’m not made of money, so we’d go havsies on a plane ticket for the odd visits,
and I’d drive for the even ones.

My grades would not be allowed to suffer.
Anything less than a 75% on an Exam would incur immediate punishment.
You’d decide what that is.

I want your ring on my finger
and your baby growing in my belly.

You’d come visit me at school once a season.

You’d text me randomly,
asking for a photo of my hand.
You’d want to see your ring on me,
just cause.

I’d face time you most nights.
I want you to see my face, and hear my voice, as I moan your name before I fall asleep.

In your apartment, I’d never wear clothes.
In my apartment, you’d hide little surprises for me.

Each time you’d visit would be a surprise.
I’d find you waiting for me outside the building, drop all my things, and run into your arms.
I wouldn’t care who saw or what they thought of my childish glee at your arrival.

You’d want to meet my friends;
you’d rib the boys and flirt with the girls.
All the while, you’d hold my hand and make me feel all gushy inside.

I’d promise to only apply to programs within a three hour drive of you.
You’d scoff and tell me to aim higher, be brilliant.
I’d fall in love with you all over again.

We’d marry at the end of my second year.
Have babies at the end of third and fourth.
We’d wait until a few years into my residency before having number three.

We’d live in a house with a backyard
and a basement
and a den
and so much grass.

We’d spend Sundays with the house smelling like coffee and the air filled with laughter.
We’d snuggle up in a pile on the couch to watch sports.
I’d thank whatever god there is for our life.

I will never stop loving you.


3.27.18 03 Detoxed

I’m glad we fucked before we got drinks.

I am always tense around him before sex. I keep wondering if it will happen, worrying about how I look, what I say. Am I witty enough? Fun enough? Worthy of his cock inside me? All of this is silly shit, yet I can’t help the thoughts running through my brain.

He took that tension away within fifteen minutes of my arrival.

“Can you be naked when I get out of the shower?”

His quotes consistently make me grin.

This wasn’t a marathon session, but quality over quantity always.

He has this way of guiding me exactly how he wants me. A grabbed shoulder, a push, a nudge. It’s the subtle things about our sex that I’ll miss.

Each time we had sex, I knew, could very well be the last time. This time I was right.

He had me ride him, made sure I came multiple times. We finished with me on my hands and knees, him pumping hard and fast.

Our sex left my spirits buoyed knowing I still had time to spend with him.

He didn’t know where he wanted to go. I wasn’t hungry, but did want a drink. In the car, I was chatty, bright. I remarked on the pretty houses we drove by, memories from my previous gig work in the area, and a random joke I wanted to keep going.

We ended up at a bar in a trendy neighborhood. It was busy, so we sat on stools and ordered from the bartender. He was hungry, got a couple appetizers. I sipped slow on a delicious flavored martini.

Alcohol making me brave, I ended up asking one of my dick-drunk-ridiculous questions.

“Why do we have such bad timing?”
“I don’t think we have bad timing. We only have bad timing if you want something else than what we are.”

He seemed more open, though it may have been my lack of nervousness allowing me to be more inquisitive. It probably helped that we knew we had to have a difficult conversation.

Though actually it wasn’t that difficult. We both knew things were to change.

I wanted reassurance he was happy, that this relationship was better than his last. He alleviated my worries, for now.

He needed me to understand what he could give me from here on out, that for now he didn’t see that changing, but he couldn’t promise it wouldn’t. Again, I understood.

Yet still, our banter continued.

He pushed me, asking about my obscene levels of eye contact. I pushed back at his almost utter lack of any.

I confess, I probably should’ve eaten something beyond the three wings he gave me from his plate and the few nibs of calamari I nabbed, but I wasn’t hungry. I did end up tipsy by the time he paid the bill as evidenced by my lack of volume control during later parts of our conversation.

In a moment fueled by insobriety, I confessed an idea that’s been nagging me lately.

“I’m contemplating not having sex for a year.”

He asked why. I want to know who I am if sex were never an option when I meet someone. He countered that I’d still be the same person, just without sex. I answered with a simple fact: who we are is wrapped up in what we do. Our actions dictate how we are perceived. So then, how am I perceived when I never allow sex to be a part of the equation?

It’s a thought. I’ll get back to you on if it goes anywhere.

On the way back to his place, a phone call came in over his car speakers. I clamped my hands over my mouth. Giggles desperately tried to break loose, but were held back.

After his call, he asked, “Were you covering your mouth?”

The giggles then came.

Somehow we transitioned into a conversation about our less than stellar childhoods affecting our motivations and actions in life. Each of us had our reasons for who we are. He thinks, deep down, beyond any of my self-claimed labels, I would be happy as a wife and mother. He thinks, ultimately, I just desperately want to be loved. In this he is probably right.

Parked outside of his place, we sat in his car for ten or so minutes chatting at the end of our visit. I suspect he didn’t want me back up in his home because he knew I would drop to my knees as soon as his front door was closed.

He again assured me that we were not through, just different now. We each promised not to ghost the other. There was talk of schedules, and the realization that ours didn’t match up for quite a while. But there was still connection, still comfort, still a person to lean on in each other.

I’m glad I still have Gent in my life.


3.27.18 02 Dick Drunk

The thoughts that run through my brain after I spend time with Gent vacillate so highly as to be comical.

I am not proud of the words I wrote post seeing him last Sunday afternoon, but that’s where my brain was: dick drunk on him.

Therefore I present this blog now eight days later with more clarity and after another good encounter. I’ve written about that second visit in part three of this, I guess, series.

So please, read Detoxed next, and hopefully rest assured of my sober outlook and understanding of my friendship with Gent.

~

Unethical Slut

I knew he wasn’t single, but I slept with him anyway.

I’ve slept with him on three different occasions knowing full well he plans to propose to his girlfriend this summer.

There are a host of reasons why I slept with him:
… from the vain (my god, he is gorgeous)
… to the selfish (I’ve been incredibly horny, and our sex is ecstatic and life affirming)
… to the problematic (just ask Doc).

Sex with him is like waking up from a dream you didn’t know you were in. It’s like water to the thirsty, food to the starving, love to the needy.

There, in his bed, his dick inside me, I finally got it, finally understood how being with only one person for the rest of your life could work. I could fuck him forever and never get enough.

There was this moment. We were cuddling. We’d already planned to spend the day fucking. My head was resting on a pillow over his arm, my face on his chest, my arm draped over his hip, my hand on his ass, and his other arm around me. I made myself memorize that moment. I wanted to live forever in that moment.

There was another. He lazily woke up from his nap, adjusted the covers, I thought to rearrange us on his bed.  Instead, he brushed my legs open and at once was inside me. His chest lay against mine. Our heads pressed together. He rocked his hips slow, in and out. I gripped the back of his neck. Breathed deep. Whispered “Yes” over and over again into his ear. He moaned as he felt me surrounding him. My legs around his hips. My caressing, pressing, pulling him more into me. In and out. In and out. And always “yes” on my lips. It lasted so long; it felt almost magical. That was the best sex I have ever had. That was the closest I’ve ever felt to being one with another.

These moments will not leave my brain.

I didn’t think we were going to fuck. I wanted to. I didn’t know what he wanted. Yet still, we ended up on his bed watching a video on my phone. And then his hand reached under my dress, caressed and pinched my nipple, and we spent the next three hours in his bed.

If he asked me to, I would marry him tomorrow. But he’s asking his girlfriend this summer.

I want to ask him ridiculous questions.

Marry me? Love me? Spend your life with me? Why do we have such horrible timing?

I know I don’t want to hear his answers.

I want only his lips against mine, only his dick inside me.

I only want him.

 


3.27.18 01 Unfinished

I wrote this rough draft back in January shortly after returning from winter break. I never finished it, but want to post it anyway for completeness sake. Also this series of three posts will be my last ones about Gent for a very long time, so I want to capture as many of those memories as possible while I can.

~

The Last Time

The last time we fucked was the Wednesday before I went back to school. I knew it would be a goodbye, for now.

It was the makeup for our previously canceled dinner and drinking plans.

G: You know this is cheating, right?
Me: I know, but I also know I care for you and whatever time you can give me I’m going to hold on to with all ten fingers and ten toes.

Part of me wondered if it would happen at all. He and I can sometimes cross wires when it comes to planning outings. This time was no different. A miscommunication delayed our meeting up until 7pm. As I got ready, he informed me he was already tipsy from a lunchtime meet-up with a friend. My emotions, being what they are, feared a last minute cancellation or an unenjoyable evening. Neither of which were our fate.

I wore a pretty dress he’d never seen before, wore my hair down, and even donned earrings and heals. I wanted to look good for him, wanted to leave him with a memory of me he could be proud of.

When I got to his place, I knocked on the door. There was no answer, so I tried the nob. It was unlocked. I entered and announced myself. He yelled a greeting from his bathroom, which was back in his bedroom. I put down my things, walked towards him. He stood at his sink wearing only a towel around his waist.

I turned sheepish. I think he took pleasure in my awkwardness. This view of him was something to be admired, and yet my politeness battled my desire to not take my eyes off him. He walked around, getting ready. He removed his towel. His body was meant to be rendered in marble: cut lines, masculine proportions, and fist biting features I relish remembering even now.

Relax, he said more than once. Around him, it is hardly ever possible for me to do so.

He clothed, called an Uber, and had us on our way into downtown.

We ate at a hipster sheik restaurant.

“Eat the fries,” he said, a stern smile on his face.

Our restaurant was half a block away from the themed bar where we wished to conclude our evening: The Christmas Bar.

The rest of the night, back at his place, punctuated in moments:

Goodbye fucking. Missing you while you’re still inside me.

Trying to remember every touch, every caress.

Your smell on you, soaked in your sheets, hoping it will stick to me as I drive home.

Kiss fuck bite pain pleasure…

“Put your pussy on my mouth.”

“Can I have your ass tonight?”

“I want to feel you cum on my cock.”

Lifting my dress, pulling down my tights, and fucking me against your dining room table.

You, naked against the wall. Me, clothed, knelt in front of you. Your cock in my mouth, fucking my face.


The First Time

The first time we fucked was on the night after I got back into town. An opportune text message, and myself coincidentally nearby, had me turning my car around and heading his way.

I didn’t go to his place with the intention of having sex. Upon my arrival, he offered me a drink. I had a cider or two. He drank a beer. And then there was pleasing, yet blunt, conversation.

G: What is it?
Me: No, I shouldn’t.
G: Come on. You only live once.
Me: Every time I’m in a room with you, I am constantly thinking about fucking you.
G: Constantly?
Me: It’s always at least in the back of my thoughts.

I pivoted the topic. Pulled out my phone, showed him pictures of my school friends, an excuse to sit closer to him.

G: Just so that you know, I’m semi hard right now.
Me: Why only semi?

I went back to talking about school, rambling in my excitement and nervousness. Then took a breath, and said what was on my mind.

Me: I want to give you head right now, but I don’t want it to be weird between us.
G: Why would it be weird?
Me: I don’t know.

I knew. I didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to think about it. I wanted him. That was enough in the moment.

He stood up, slipped off his pants, and sat back on the couch, bare from the waist down, no longer semi erect. His cock was just as pretty as I remembered it, maybe more so. I knelt in front of him. Took off my glasses. Put my hands behind my back.

I hadn’t given head in six months. I started slow. Remembered how much I liked to be playful with a cock in my mouth. He caressed my hair, my back; brushed my chest, my chin.

He took off his shirt, was now naked.

I brought a hand forward. He swept it back, then grabbed the bottom of my shirt and lifted it over my head. He unhooked and removed my bra, my mouth again on his cock. He stood, gripped my arm, and coaxed me to standing. He shoved up my skirt, then pushed me down to replace him on the couch.

He sucked on my breast, felt around my hips, and then ripped down my panties and tights. He put two of his fingers in his mouth, and then into me.

I leaned back, moaned, could hardly believe how my night had developed. He pumped his third and fourth digits in and out of me as I writhed in the middle of his living room.

Abruptly, he stopped, stood up, and walked towards the back, into his bedroom. I removed my skirt, now naked myself, and began undoing my hair in anticipation of his return.

“Come here.”

I obeyed.

[Every time I think about this moment, I bite my lip, take a breath, and then sigh. We’ve had this natural dynamic for as long as I’ve known him. He is effortlessly dominant, and I always want to submit to him. Being given a command, and happily following it, is a small act, yet I didn’t realize how much I craved just that for the past six months.]

He already had a condom on when I walked in. A nudge on my shoulder guided me up onto the bed.  Three breaths later, he was inside me. My legs wrapped around his waist. My nails gripped his back. I breathed in his scent, my head in the crook of his neck.

He laid his chest against my chest, rested his cheek against my cheek. We fucked close. It was intimate intense sex, intoxicating enveloping sex. I didn’t want to let him go.

He turned me over, gripped my hips, pulled me towards him. His chest against my back, our fingers interlaced, and again his cheek against my cheek.

He pulled me off the bed. Leaned me against the bed. Fucked me hard against his bed. He pulled my hair, and head, back.

“Are you going to come for me?”

I did.

Sweaty exhaustion followed, back on top of his bed.

G: Is it weird?
Me: Nope. I will officially add you to my ‘Friends I Fuck’ list. And, for next time, you can bite harder.

I felt high, playful. He looked a little too sweaty.

Me: Are you okay?
G: I think I’m getting sick.

Soon after, I made a polite exit. He was ill the next day, unfortunately cancelling our dinner plans.

I didn’t see him again until a week later.


11.20.17 nerdGirl #1

How is it that every time he is around my eyes find him, as if they have a sixth sense for his presence.

Those arms. That smile. That chest. Fuck, every single part of his body.

It is so hard to focus when I’m around him, yet that is exactly what I have to do. He is one of the smartest people in our class, one of my main competitors.

Still, there is no way I could ever feel ill towards him.

He is kind, and sweet, quiet in the charming kind of way. He calls himself an introvert, but, when I get him alone, he opens up. I’ll ask him a question, or try to trip him up on a topic, and his eyes brighten. He starts talking so fast and is so passionate about the work. Those moments make me want him more.

And fuck, he is so fine.
Like ridiculously fine.
Like thank-goodness-you-are-taken-cause-if-not-ever-girl-in-this-class-would-be-all-up-on-you-all-the-time fine.
He is ‘break the rules’ fine.
He is ‘I could never get enough’ fine.
He is ‘dangerously delicious, please be all up in this’ fine.

Did I mention he’s taken?

And what’s worse? His closest confidant is also brilliant, and also hot as hell, but he is such an asshole.
Like ‘I want to smack him upside his head’ asshole.
Like ‘I want to shove his mouth on my cunt to shut him up’ asshole.
I have had wonderful hate fuck fantasies about this boy from jump.

But I’ve also had delightful ‘pin me against the wall and make me scream your name’ moments while thinking about him during lecture.

What is the cliche? That protestations are really masked affections? Maybe. Not a day goes by that I don’t rant about his annoyances. He is brilliant, too. If he every shut his mouth, I would gladly give him something else, besides his own voice, to enjoy.

Either way, those two boys fill my days, and nights, with private smiles and improper thoughts, distractions needed to release the tensions of our med school lives.


10.9.17 What I Want

It wasn’t a date, though by most evaluative measures anyone else would have categorized it as such.

He paid for everything: the drinks as we waited for our seats, the bowls of steaming ramen in the baking hot restaurant, and the drinks after our meal because I guess he wanted to talk to me for just a bit longer. To be fair, I didn’t want our reconnection to end so soon either.

Internally, I cursed as soon as I saw him again, sitting at the brushed wood bar in the low lit room with the doors open to let the air move. He was just as handsome as I remembered him, maybe even more so with years and experience coloring his brow.

I felt sheepish as I sat and spoke with him. Too many years, too many thoughts I didn’t want to think. Throughout our evening I had flashes of moments in his apartment and longed for new memories to be made.

As the first of three bills came, I asked him if he paid for my drink. “What do you think?” “I take nothing for granted.” Every time I had previously arranged to see him, and in the hours and moments leading up to the appointed time, I never trusted that it would happen. Too often those years ago he left me wanting, so I learned to trust in almost nothing about him, save for the bits of himself he peppered into our conversations after moments of soft cajoling or in the time we shared with one another, as few but lasting as they were.

His eyes are just as piercing as I remembered, his words as subtle and chosen precisely. Often, when he’d have to repeat himself due to the din of the various rooms, I noticed the small ways he changed his query, small but meaningful ways. Always thinking, always noticing, always analyzing, though I guess that’s the both of us really.

Our dinner afforded me close proximity to his still incredibly large arms, knees brushed against one another, elbow to elbow as we sat, ate, and drank. He sweated throughout, occasionally wiping down his brow. I patted him down once myself.

I randomly remarked I was glad I reapplied deodorant in the car, which led to a minor confession of how I didn’t want to “disappoint is the wrong word, but it’s close.” To be blunt, I wondered if he was still attracted to me. I wondered if he noticed the open back of my shirt, or that I wasn’t wearing underwear, a choice not due to his presence but a happy accident of my weekend. I wondered what he thought of me, the life I had lived since we last saw one another an estimated four, or more, years previous.

I still wanted him, really wanted him, but knew the odds of the night being more than consumption and conversation were slight. Still, he is a tease I can never quite let go of.

I showed him the new tattoos, two from since we’d last seen one another. I related, with sadness, how I had to take out one of my nipple piercings. I remarked on the shock of seeing him on television randomly: a local news segment that woke me from a dozed state on my couch. I spoke about the seismic difference my life has taken: new city, new school, new world. He, like others, grimaced when I gleefully spoke of holding a brain in my hands.

For once, I pushed to learn more about him. What was his life like now? What were his plans? Though he told me stories, I confess only the most worry-making of them has stuck. Later, there was a conversation about therapy and why he ended up with the partners he had had. An enjoyment in the drama “crazy” women have brought into his life was spoken. “But I’m not crazy,” I said. “There are levels,” he said. I can’t argue with sound logic, though I do wonder the flavor of twisted I introduced into his world.

His handful of small bombshells included the throw away, “I lost my teacher”, regarding the lack of kink in his life. I was then reminded of rolling a carry-on suitcase to his apartment, showing him my modest assortment of toys to play with, and all the fun that ensued that evening.

Later, he asked, “So what’s the best sex of your life?” I had no good answer. Instead, I pulled out my phone and perused my list. “You have a list?” “I’m a nerd and I like data.” Among the categories, I breakdown by gender and what act each person performed. “Damn, I’m not a full POFAS.”

We had an entire conversation about sex, how his had been lackluster for some time now and how he felt it didn’t matter to him anymore. I lamented about this, suggesting maybe he was having sex with the wrong people. He agreed with my point, but also pivoted to enjoying other simpler pleasures more than sex, namely watching sports on his couch and going to bed early. I, being me, nudged with my idealistic positively skewed perspective, wanting him to have otherworldly sex mostly because that was my experience and has given me an appreciation of connection and awe-inspiring orgasms. But with his multitude of annoying chases and lackluster climaxes, I don’t think he was convinced.

Years back, I confessed our sex had been, up to that point, my best ever. In the moment, though, I didn’t mention breaking a bedframe at camp from fucking for three hours. Or the recent Trouble I got into. I did speak about GFTD, gave him the rundown on why and how things ended, and the difficulty I have remembering any of our interactions fondly; it’s hard to appreciate previously amazing sex when your ex hurt you so bad in the end. Some scars take longer than you’d like to heal.

Towards the end of the conversation, I acquiesced that he was still in my top five. I also let him know, should his current relationship end, I’d be more than happy to have him round out his categories.

Full honesty: it would be hard for me to say no to anything he asked for, but he doesn’t ask for anything, so I’m saved (for now).

Well, he did ask for one thing. He wanted to see me again. Occasionally throughout the night he apologized for his previous actions, for being an asshole, for hurting me. I didn’t expect it, but was glad that he said the words and seem to mean them. As he was about to walk me to my car, he requested to see me again when I was back in town. He apologized one last time as he hugged me goodbye.

I guess I’ll have something else to write about in a few months. Full honesty (again): his desire to read my writing is why I wrote this blog. It is hard, so hard, to say no to him.

What does it mean when you always want to please someone?


Drunk Blogging: Bittersweet

All of today, I was two deep breaths away from sobbing.

I know my family and friends couldn’t make it because of money, work, time restraints, and the general hassle of traversing hundreds of miles to get to me, but being among so many people who got to share today with their family and friends was hard.

Even though I knew they couldn’t, I wanted my family to be there.

Today was hard.

My new friends made it better. There is a serious emphasis on our group gelling, becoming rocks we can each lean upon. Without my new friends’ love, I would’ve fallen apart on multiple occasions. I am so grateful for the people I’ve met and with whom I get to share these next few years.

Just like today, tonight was difficult. I’m in the curious situation of being “out” but not “free”. There is maybe one other person in my cohort who is queer, I think. My friends know I’m kinky, but most of them are coupled up and have no interest in that part of my life.

[Side Note: It’s a little freaky how I am the hot-vanilla-who-has-a-partner whisperer.  I can think of four different people who are my good friends, so very fucking sexy, and are either married or in a committed-long-term-heading-towards-the-altar relationship. I don’t know why I am their catnip, but it’s a thing.]

I’m so horny and so starved for touch, embrace, love in forms other than hot dirty sex (though I really miss hot dirty sex too. I haven’t fucked since before I moved. To be perfectly honest, this part of my journey didn’t click until I got here. I’m a filthy fucking slut in the midst of average folk. I am so thirsty for some good dick. So unbelievably horny and at a loss to figure out how to get laid without complicate what I came here to do. Yah girl has needs that a Hitachi can subside for only but so long).

Hmm, where was I?

So tonight I had a lot of fun, and damn near cried in a crowd full of people I didn’t want to cry in front of because that would’ve been super awkward.

Along with my couple charms, I have also noticed that a few hot single people have floated into my orbit.  And, of course, that are not interested in me. Seeing your crushes grind against women who are smaller, darker, and prettier that you is pretty tough. Throw in alcohol, horny thoughts, and homesickness, and you’ll understand why I had to leave the party earlier than I planned.

Like, for real? Either the one’s I like don’t like me back OR their coupled up and I’m left dry. You’re girl is pretty resentful and hurt about her current circumstance. It feels like they are politely using me. They flock to me to help them with class and studying, but no one just wants me for me. I’m great for quizzing you on the material, but none of ya’ll fools is looking to wife me or put a tiny human in my belly.

Once again, I’ve swung back to feelings of unworthiness and doubt. Another chorus of my loneliness and heartache. Well, if nothing else, I am consistent.

I cried in the car on the way home tonight. I thought coming here would be great, and academic-wise it’s been excellent, but I’m still the fat friend no one wants to love.  And that fucking sucks.


4.20.17 When I Was Seven

~ a poem ~

When I was seven
I had a pink notebook,
even though I hated the color pink,
and still hate the color pink,
but I remember the Pepto Bismol pages
as if I still held them in my hands.

When I was seven
I had a pink notebook,
and in it I wrote my first poem
which of course was terrible.
No one finds their voice at seven.
I don’t even know if I have a voice now.
But they were words
that formed some sort of idea
that meant a lot to me.

When I was seven
I had a pink notebook,
and in it I wrote my first poem,
and showed it to my cousin Ella
who was my second cousin,
my great aunt’s daughter.
But she was near my Mom’s age, though.
Was more like a third parent.
So when the cancer came,
and I took her to chemo,
and helped her out of sweat wet clothes,
and buried her after bawling
after reading her obituary at the funeral,
I can’t just call her my cousin.

When I was seven
I had a pink notebook,
and in it I wrote my first poem,
and showed it to my cousin Ella
who read it
and loved it
and told me it was amazing.
I’ve been writing ever since.