Gent values the ten years we’ve been a part of each other’s lives more than his current new relationship.
Gent won’t date me. The power imbalance between us, his knowing how much I want to please him, doesn’t sit right with him.
He thinks we shouldn’t fuck, but as I was three steps away from exiting his home he pulled down my skirt slid his dick inside me. We fucked in the entryway in his home, then up on his couch.
“I guess we’re friends who fuck,” he said after pulling out to cum on his carpet and not inside me.
I like picking at his brain, asking him questions and hearing his sideways answers. I like understanding, or trying to understand him, a little more each time we see each other.
His not dating me got me angry. His canceling on me last minute got me angry. His plan for a phone call that never happened got me angry. When he cited his reasoning for not dating me during our rescheduled meetup, I broke my baseline pleasing facade for three minutes, actually speaking my raw unfiltered feelings. He wants more of that. I don’t know if I like that unguarded me.
I don’t know what I want. I sometimes think I want a husband and kids. And then I hear a five year old whining to their mother about not getting to buy something at Target and I rethink all my assumptions.
He asked me how I saw our future. I said I could think of two scenarios. One, I stay single and stay fucking him as a friend. Two, I find someone like him, but not him, and then we are friends who don’t fuck.
He said he could see himself being my friend and fucking me long term, no matter his relationship status otherwise. He pondered on how we would be in each other’s lives if and/or when we have married spouses. He values our friendship more than I realized and wants to sustain it. This broke my brain for a moment. He’s really good at doing that.
I like having a place that is my own. I like fucking someone and then they leave. Lately they’ve left before I want them to, but that’s cause I’m greedy for cock and not some deep seated emotional bullshit. I like the idea of occasional sleepovers, but permanent residence bothers me in a way that is difficult to articulate beyond, “I like my shit how I like my shit and I don’t feel like sharing or compromising on it.” Maybe this will change as I grow into my career. Or maybe I will only get more independent and start an actual rotation of dick appointments. We’ll see.
But I do know it is my hope that Gent and I will remain in each other’s lives, hallway sex or not.
“I’ve had my dick inside your asshole. I can watch you pee.”
Kourt came by to see me for my birthday. We couldn’t arrange anything for the actual day of because of work but a few days after still worked.
“Should I bring anything?” “Besides condoms… nope.”
As it neared closer to his arrival time, I found myself nervously cleaning. Yes, he had already seen my apartment but this was two weeks and zero downtime later. He texted as I was scrubbing in the kitchen. I took a breath, threw away the Clorox wipe, and scurried down to the lobby.
He sat relaxed in a comfy chair across from the elevator. We hugged in greeting and I escorted him up.
As we walked in the hallway towards my door, I kept trying to stay next to him but he kept falling back. Then I realized it was the dress: medium grey, ample cleavage, and tight in all the right places.
I had brewed coffee right before he texted. When we walked into my apartment, I offered him a cup. He politely declined. I began to doctor my drink when I felt his hand inch up the hem of my dress.
“Damn, that ass.”
He leaned in and began kissing me. I held the measuring spoon set and box of sugar in the air as our lips danced. Kourt is a good kisser.
“Go ahead. I’ll let you finish making your drink.”
He smacked my ass and then stepped back. Cup of coffee in hand, I turned and saw his pants were unbuttoned and unzipped. A casual glance at his boxers told me he was quite hard. I gestured for us to sit on the couch.
I curled up beside him and started chatting. Occasionally, he would reach down and stroke himself through the fabric of his underwear as we talked. It was the best kind of distracting.
Halfway into my cup of coffee, about seven to ten minutes of talking, he spread my legs and looked down.
“Your pussy is so pretty.”
He leaned down between my legs and began to kiss, and then lick, at my clit.
“You are so wet already.” “It is my superpower.”
I moaned as he savored me more, one leg up on the coffee table to give him better access, my cup in my left hand floating in the air, my right hand stroking his locs.
“I should let you finish your coffee.” “I do not care about my coffee.”
He got on his knees in between my legs and ate me out as I lounged on my couch. This was the first time I had fucked on said couch.
He stopped, kissed me. I tasted myself on his lips. “I think we should move to the bedroom.” “Yes, we should.”
He began taking off his clothes in the livingroom and allowing each article to fall to the floor. I lifted my dress over my head.
“My god, your ass is fucking gorgeous.”
I unhooked my bra as I walked backwards, smiling in his direction. He grabbed the box of condoms from the counter and followed me.
“Lights on or off?” “Whatever you like.”
I clicked on a lamp with a soft glow. He sat on the edge of my bed, legs spread open. I got on my knees and began to lick and lap up his cock. This time it was his turn to moan.
“I love it when you suck my dick.” “I love sucking your dick. It’s fun.” “God, I want to fuck your face.” “I want you to fuck my face.”
“Do you want to 69?” “I would love that.”
He climbed on the bed. I climbed on top of him. I rolled my hips and ground my clit onto his lips. He thrust up as I sucked his cock, lapped at his balls and perineum. I came with his cock down my throat.
“I want my dick inside your pussy.” “I want your dick in my pussy.”
He momentarily struggled to unwrap the plastic surrounding the box of condoms before literally riping it open with his teeth. He sheathed himself and then turned his attention to me.
“I want you right here from behind so I can look at that ass. Fuck, you are so beautiful.”
He slid inside me. I came undone.
“Such a good girl, taking all this dick. How does it feel to have all this dick?” “Oh god, you feel so good. How the fuck do you feel so good? Your dick is fucking heaven.”
After he came, tearing off the condom so he could paint my back, we lounged on my bed for a few minutes. I lazily circled my finger around his nipple.
“Why does that feel so good?” “Hmm, maybe nipples are your cheat code too.” “I’m getting hard again.” “Already?” “Yeah, maybe that’s my superpower. I’ve gotten hard five times already today.” “Really?” “Eh, is that a lot?”
Somehow we ended up back on my couch, this time both of us naked. He stretched out both arms and legs, his gorgeous dick half hard and on display. We chatted about his recent vacation with the Mrs. and the fun things they did together. He spoke about being adrift at work. I asked him what he wanted from this part of the conversation. He said he just wanted me to listen, so I did.
He then leaned over and began to suck on one of my nipples. I stood up and flipped myself around on the couch, and sat on my knees to give him a better angle. He reached his right hand down to stroke himself as he sucked one and then the other.
“Can I get some lube? I want to stroke myself right.”
I flitted into my bedroom and brought out my favorite lube, a gift from one of my kinky friends. He dipped his hand into the soft buttery lube, then stroked himself anew. I sat again on my knees, raised my nipple to his mouth, and cradled his head as he sucked back and forth. I nibbled on his ear, sucked on his neck.
“No hickies please.” “Okay, but I like them on me.”
His left hand gripped my ass, then ventured towards my asshole.
“Can I put my fingers in your ass?” “Yes, I want your fingers in my ass.”
After some more lube, he slipped one, and then two digits, inside me.
“Your asshole is so tight.”
He kept sucking on my nipples. I started rocking my ass back onto his hand.
“You can fuck me in my ass. You can fuck me in every hole. If you do, I’ll be wet and dripping.”
“Get on your knees on the floor. I want to look at your ass while I stroke myself.”
He pushed my coffee table back to make room. I sat in child’s pose in front of him. He stroked his dick across my ass cheeks. I began grinding my ass into the base of his shaft and balls.
“Please fuck me in my ass. I want you to.”
He smoothed lube over his cock and pressed every so slightly against my entrance.
“Go slow. Please, go slow.”
He pushed and relaxed, pushed and relaxed, pushed and relaxed. Slowly, he eased into me. I let out a guttural moan into the floor.
“Pause, please pause. Go in and just stay there.”
He did. I acclimated to his girth, and then slowly he began to ease out a little, and then back in, and shortly thereafter I was bouncing my ass on his cock as my pussy and my nipples throbbed. I teetered back and forth between pleasure and pain, cursing and moaning like some feral thing. I felt raw and fantastical and beaming and bubbling with orgasmic energy.
“Fuck, I’m about to cum.” “Cum inside my asshole. I don’t care.”
He came while deep inside, then pulled out slowly. He grabbed a tissue from the side table and cleaned me up. I flopped onto the floor, spent.
“Fuck, that was amazing. You should go clean up in the bathroom, though.” “Yeah.”
He used my restroom, door open. I got up from the floor, then anxiously danced outside of the restroom.
“You can come pee. It’s alright.” “Are you sure? I don’t want to be impolite.” “I’ve had my dick inside your asshole. I can watch you pee.” “Thank you.”
Again, we found ourselves on my couch, naked and chatting. That was when I realized my livingroom blinds had been open the whole time. I looked up at the balcony across the courtyard and one floor above me. Someone was holding their drape back but I couldn’t see their face or form.
“We have an audience.” “Maybe I am an exhibitionist,” Kourt mused.
“I have to go soon.” “Wanna have one more quickie?” “You’re so fucking cute.”
Again, we were back in my bedroom.
“I’m gonna to fuck you really hard.” “I would love that.”
We started off the bed, my body bent over and splayed across the mattress.
“Yes baby, twerk on my dick. Ride it just like that.”
On the bed, he flipped me this way and that. He kept slipping out and then needed more lube.
“Shit, the condom broke.”
He threw it away, grabbed and put on another. Climbed back onto the bed, slid into me, and laid his body against mine. I held tight, arms and legs encircling him. He kissed me and fucked me close as I moaned “yes” over and over into his ear until he came.
Spent, he flopped over onto the bed.
“How was that?” “You were excellent. Best birthday present ever.” “Good good. We are always open to customer feedback and welcome reviews.”
I picked up the covers and wiped away the thick sheen of sweat on his back.
“Thank you for that.” “That was not a quickie. You’re going to be late.” “Eh, I’m a grown ass man.” “I’ll get you a washcloth and a towel.”
Just as before, as he cleaned up, I stayed naked and bounced about in my apartment. And he kept coming back to my ass. He passed by me, kissed me, and smacked my ass more than once.
“Do you want to take the condoms? Or should I keep them.”
I kept the box.
“Do you want your hair tie?” He picked it up from my bathroom counter and secured his short locs back.
“Okay, gotta go.” He kissed me again, rubbed and smacked my ass again, looked down and then back up at me. “Damn.”
We said bye as he walked out the door. I turned around and saw he’d left his vitamin water. I grabbed the bottle, opened the door, and peaked my head into the hallway.
“You forgot your water.” He walked back down, took the water and the opportunity to kiss me again and smack my ass again and, for a split second, comtemplate fucking me fast again.
He walked away with a huge smile on his face.
I stripped and remade the bed, bathed, masturbated to the memories of our fucking, and then took a nap.
I knew within thirty seconds of meeting Zee that I was not going to fuck him.
Zee is a lovely person. He has a great smile. He’s talkative. He has a generally happy disposition. But there was just something. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it at first, but I knew pretty much immediately this was going to be thirty minutes at a Starbucks and that was it.
I wanted to not be a bitch to him. I think I succeeded, at minimum, at being polite. But in thirty-seven minutes, we never clicked.
He plays video games. He’s gone back to school to switch careers, but not nearly at the level that I’m at. I was smarter than him, more cultured, more verbose even though I kept trying to steer the conversation back to him to find some point of common ground. lt was to no avail.
And then there was a point in the middle of our thirty-seven minute date when I realized it. I am a snob. I was judging him for not being at my academic level. I was judging him for not being as successful as I am. I was judging him over the entirety of his being and found him wanting in every category.
I don’t believe in pity fucks. My pussy is a prize. You have to earn it, be worthy of it. As much as Zee is a good person, and as sweet as he was, I was never going to fuck him.
Our 37 minutes were a pleasant conversation, but in the end it was a waste of time.
I am a dime; he is not.
At least I can say I gave him a shot.
In our 37 minutes of chatting, I kept trying to find a way in. But that way in just never came, pun intended.
We spent five and half hours with each other (minus the thirty minutes to get back to my apartment), yet it seemed to fly by. Yes, I liked him from the start.
I met Kourt at a Starbucks that was halfway between his place and mine. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but I was hopeful because we seemed to share interests over the app and his pictures were cute.
I was pleasantly surprised when he looked exactly like his pictures: big smile, Killmonger hair, and an air of confidence that was appealing.
Originally we were supposed to meet at 10 AM, but I found myself awake, earlier than my alarm, reading a romance novel I wanted to finish, so I asked for an extra thirty minutes. He obliged, and for his kindness I was able to shower, lotion, and present myself smiling and smelling sweetly. (Sun Washed Citrus body spray for the occasion.)
Kourt and I talked and talked and talked. It was easy to talk to him. We talked about books. We talked about movies. We talked about television. We talked and talked and talked. He is former military. I told him about my interesting family situation. He related his own. I kept smiling, and giggling, and just really liked talking to him.
Add a certain point, we sat outside of the Starbucks. I wanted to hear him better, and I wanted to talk more openly without worry of being overheard by other customers. Our conversation shifted because, though we had been blunt earlier and encouraged each other to be blunt throughout, now we could converse about more adult topics.
He is in a non-monogamous marriage. Their rules are simple: neither wants to know what the other is doing and you must always use protection. I applauded his forwardness and honesty.
As the topics turned towards a more sexual nature, we spoke about what we both liked, of course, and we found multiple mutual appreciations. I talked about my blog. He was very happy at the thought of reading my past escapades and consented to me writing this.
As we sat outside, our knees were intertwined. Occasionally I rubbed my finger along his thigh and he would do the same. There was an obvious tension between us. Truthfully, I knew within the first fifteen minutes of meeting him that I wanted to have sex with him. I just didn’t imagine it would happen so quickly.
As we sat outside, the heat was ever present around us. I offhandedly rubbed some cold water on the back of my neck. I forget who mentioned wanting to go somewhere cooler, but I offered up my apartment. He was more than eager to go back to my place no matter the thirty minute commute.
We rushed back to my apartment and, before I knew it, we were kissing in the short hallway in my unit. And then we were in my bedroom. And then we were naked. And then he was inside of me. I moaned and cried out, “Yes! Yes!” And “Your dick feels so good.” And I moaned his name. He loves dirty talk, saying “Yes, that’s my name. That’s who fucking you.” And “Your ass is perfect.” And “You’re so wet.” And “Your hair is beautiful“ as he grabbed my strands to pull on as he fucked me from behind.
First orgasm down, we laid on my bed. I giggled and basked in my unexpected windfall.
“Did you cum?”
“No, but could you suck on my nipples while I ride my vibrator?”
He did and I did and it was enough to open the flood gates for later peaks.
Still lying on my bed, I began to lightly trace my fingers across his skin. He was mesmerized by the light touch. My fingers drifted lower. And lower.
“Do you want to get me hard again?”
“You can get hard again that quick? That’s impressive.”
Fingers lingered down, down. And then my mouth followed. His dick is a pleasure to suck. He immensely enjoyed my truncated blowjob. We were short on time. I had to leave for work soon. I licked and sucked on his balls, lapped at his perineum, and made eye contact as he watched me. He took the hair tie off his wrist and offered it to me just so he could watch me work. I really liked sucking his cock.
“Are you gonna make me cum?”
We didn’t have enough time. Never enough time for all the fucking my greedy self wants.
He fucked me again, this time missionary, my legs wrapped around him, his sweaty chest against mine. I held on tight, wanted to feel all of him all at once. He switched me to my side, fucked me hard and fast, so much so that I almost fell off the bed, but I braced myself with one hand on the floor and begged him to go harder, faster. He came and I came undone.
He washed himself off in my bathroom while I walked around my apartment naked figuring out what I needed to do before I raced away for a work function. When he came out, he put on his clothes and began saying his goodbye. His schedule is free but my schedule is fucked.
At some point at some time in some future I will see him again, I hope. Fucking Kourt has been the highlight to start my day, the memories I will hold onto as I begin nights as a doctor.
Wish me luck folks; the journey is on its way.
(Written very quickly in my car before I start my night shift. Audio to come later. Possible edits in the future. But I wanted to get this out before the chaos of my night shift began.)
This man had the gall to list himself as 5’9” when I was taller than him. And no, I was not in heals.
Dre was moderately attractive, solid 7/10. He was short and skinny and fit, and if I were three inches shorter it would’ve been great, but he was definitely not as attractive as his photos had me believe. He was nice when he met me outside his apartment building though, so I went up.
Dating Apps Lesson #2: If a guy invites you to his place, no matter what he says beforehand, he wants to fuck.
Dre said he just wanted to chill at his place tonight and sip some wine.
Dre really just wanted to fuck.
I didn’t want to fuck tonight. Now that I’ve jumped into dating apps again, I wanted to try something different. No fucking on the first date. Really get to know the person before we take our clothes off. Actually like each other first. Novel concept, I know.
Dre invited me over to his place tonight. I was nervous at first, but he was good at asking me questions and getting me to talk. I didn’t want to monopolize the conversation, so I redirected some of his inquiries back at him. He seemed thoughtful and intelligent enough, until I mentioned something I felt like he should know about.
Dre said he worked in IT, described his job a bit, what he does day-to-day and what his travel schedule was like both before and during COVID. When I asked him about the recent Russian SolarWinds hacking, he hadn’t even heard of it. Dre works in IT.
The intellectual snob in me did not approve. You’re too picky, I thought to myself. Give him a real chance. But it wasn’t Dre’s brain that turned me off.
“Come sit closer.”
Dre and I chatted on his couch for about thirty minutes before he coaxed me to cuddle up next to him. He had Netflix on in the background; The Upshaws. [Side note: I love Wanda Sykes.] I slid over, leaned into him, and started watching the show.
After a bit, he asked if it was okay if he kissed me. “Yes, because you asked first.”
“You’re a good kisser,” Dre said.
“You too,” I lied.
Dre is okay at kissing, but he does this weird wiggling thing with his tongue that is annoying. I kept trying to avoid it by focusing on caressing his lower lip, but he was insistent. Eventually, I was able to end the kiss. My focus went back to cuddling up next to him while watching the TV show. He rested his right hand on my ass, then slid his hand under my leggings to grab my ass.
“I love leggings on a woman.” “Why?” “They make them look more feminine. You don’t wear underwear?” “Not in leggings. They’re too tight.” “Are you okay with me grabbing your ass.” “Yeah, that’s fine.”
I went back to watching the show.
Dre tilted my head back up for another kiss. Give him a chance. I was annoyed, but I went along with it. I thought he wanted to hold my left hand as we kissed. Instead, he slid my hand over his dick in his pants. I resisted touching it, pulling my hand away.
“You don’t want to touch it.” “No, I don’t want to have sex tonight. I don’t fuck on the first date.” “Okay.”
I went back to cuddling and watching the show, again.
“So, what do you like?” “What do you mean?” “What do you like to do in bed?”
I paused for a really long time.
Finally, I said, “I’m gonna go.” And then I left.
Dre wasn’t mean, but I was annoyed and eventually uncomfortable.
“No sex” doesn’t mean head or a hand job as a consolation prize.
This wasn’t what I wanted for the evening, but they were lessons I needed to learn.
Men lie in their profiles. No first dates at guys’ apartments.
I’m back home. Well, in a new home, but I’m back in my old stomping grounds all the same.
Matching into a residency where my family and friends are minutes, not hours, away is giving me hope that I can make it through my training with some modicum of sanity left.
Residency is hard no matter what specialty you chose or where you go. The hours are rough. The work is nonstop. You learn a lot and do a lot. It’s a job that you work towards for years and then can only begin to master after years of grunt work. The Class of 2021’s grunt work starts July 1st (the traditional rollover day for PGY [post graduate year] classes). On July 1st, PGY-3s become chiefs, PGY-2s become upper levels, Interns become PGY-2s, and the Class of 2021 becomes Interns. I am excited and nervous and hopeful, but mostly I want to begin working to start getting a paycheck.
That’s one thing that gets lost in the scramble of residency prep: being a doctor is a job.
I’ve had many jobs, so that is one thing that is soothing me. I’ve had to work with many different people and deal with a myriad of situations. I can do this. I just need to remember that on Day 1 and through Day 365, Day 730, Day 1095, and finally on Day 1460 when I graduate residency and am a full blown attending. I am looking forward to that six figure salary and way less call days.
I want to buy a house. I want a fancy new car and to finally give up a bunch of my stuff. Living on a budget, making way less money, and worrying about bills has got me in this broke mentality of scarcity.
And yet, I secured this beautiful apartment based on a letter from my boss listing the salary I will earn in the next year, more money than I have ever earned in one year. As an intern. It only goes up from here.
My apartment has a balcony. I already put out one chair, a table, and a trashcan. I haven’t used it yet because cicadas. The Sun streams into the inner courtyard that my apartment faces. I can hear the yelps of people in the pool.
Since moving in, I’ve walked to the grocery store, the post office, the local beer wine store, and a Jamaican spot that is going to get a lot of my money.
This is the nicest place I have ever lived in, nicer even than the expensive apartments I paid for in medical school. I don’t want to move until I finish residency… unless I get married.
I feel safe here, protected, secure.
I splurged and bought myself a new bed. My old one was at least thirty years old, a hand-me-down from a since deceased relative. My new bed has a thick foam mattress that sucks me in and doesn’t want to let me go. I have had the best sleeps in the past week. This may be a problem, but I’ll worry about my alarm schedule later.
Through the generosity of strangers, I have new luggage, soft slippers that feel like I’m walking on pillows, new bed sheets, as well as a weighted blanket and blackout curtains that will come in handy soon. I start residency with a night shift.
The next four years won’t be easy. I’ll be stressed and learn more than I ever thought I could, but I’m happy. I have friends and family nearby. I have real security. And I have this place with all my things.
I had this weird ass dream about a month ago. It was right before a visit home. The imagery was so vivid, and the scenario so odd, that as soon as I woke up I took out my phone and starting writing. I documented the experience originally on Twitter. This is a transcript of the thread.
I dreamt I was inexplicably transported to his house. I’ve never been to his house. I don’t even know where he lives. I saw empty baby bottles in the dish rack and pictures of his marriage. He never wore a ring around me. I was in shock, scared what he’d do when he saw me. 1/n
I dreamt I quietly took two steps down the hall. He stepped out of a room, a stained baby towel on his left shoulder. He saw me, and his eyes went wide. “What are you doing here?” he said in a harsh whisper. “I don’t know how I got here.” I turned around and was back at home. 2/n
I dreamt we met for coffee and I told him about the dream. “What does it mean?” I asked. “I don’t know. It wasn’t my dream. Are you asking me something?” 3/n
I dreamt I was back in the dream. He had gotten me quickly and quietly out of the house. We rushed down the street to a neighborhood bar with an outside second level deck. He hollered up. “Hey Biggs!” A guy stopped talking and leaned over the railing to look at us. “Yeah man.” 4/n
I dreamt he hollered back, “Help her. She needs a friend.” His grip on my arm, which I hadn’t noticed before, loosened and fell away. He looked at me, then turned and walked away. 5/n
I dreamt I was back out of the dream, again with him. He and I casually walk down the street. Suddenly a car has a minor accident behind us, stopping with its bumper tapping a tree. A woman gets out of the car. It’s the same woman from his wedding photos in my dream. 6/n
I dreamt she steps out of the car. His eyes go wide. His light grey suit flaps in the wind as he rushes over to her. She’s older, yelling in Spanish. A black male cop appears beside me. “Looks like it’s a minor accident. Don’t need a witness. You can go.” I turn & walk away. 7/n
I dreamt the cop walks with me. With each step, I kept turning around, surveying the scene, wondering if I should memorize the license plate. She keeps yelling. I feel sheepish. I stop looking and pull out my phone. We take a few steps. The cop looks up and his eyes go wide. 8/n
I dreamt I hear his breathing before I see him. He ran back to me. He stops in front of me winded. Pulls out his phone. People in the neighborhood watch and are gawking. “What are you doing?” I ask. “You need Biggs’ number.” He squeezes my shoulder. “But…” I wake up. 9/9 fin
I didn’t feel wanted, valued, until I started fucking.
Yes, I am smart, but too much of societal training had ingrained in me that my worth must be centered around how men viewed me. Mind you, I’m pansexual, so yes this is especially fucked up.
When men want to fuck me, I feel good about myself. I see myself different, appreciate my curves more, my exuberance in the bedroom more. I take pride in my titties, my abundant wetness, my dirty talk, my joys of hair pulling and ass slaps and genuinely being a filthy naughty good girl. Dick makes me feel good on many levels.
As I worked on my mental health with Doc, I got better at seeing my reactions to others’ actions and words. I better understood why I thought this or felt that. I got better at understanding inner me. My motivations and how they shaped the thoughts living in my head.
Now, with my career about to start, and new ways I can find value in myself and my life, I am tripped up yet again on this concept of value.
Am I valuable as a person in a would-be partner’s life beyond my body? Is my brain, my actions, my words enough to be cherished without the gift that is my curvy wonderland?
My stratification of friends with benefits (FWBs) is based on two distinct categories: the fun and the fucking. There are many who score high in one category and low in the other. My objectification of their skills versus my appreciation of how they make me feel feels fraught. Isn’t my valuing their bedroom abilities no better than any random man valuing his set of jump offs? Does my sexual drive in the context of friendship negate the possible ickiness of it all?
Yes, I know I am overthinking this. This is an overthinking post.
Part of me thinks, by bringing titties and pussy to the table, my sexual valuing of them is more equal than exploitative. I’m never trying to abuse my friends and there is always consent in everything we do. No one is coercive or forced in our interactions, and sex is never required but merely hoped for and on occasion expected (…?). However, even without sex, I value the laughs. The hugs. The walks in the park (literally). The meals they buy me (cause I’m still broke until July) or the rooms they cover (cause ditto), but am I playing into a trope? Am I in actuality exploiting them when I say I’m “valuing” them?
On more than one occasion, I’ve worried that my friends wouldn’t be my friends any longer if fucking were no longer an option. In retrospect, this is absolutely ridiculous. Every FWB was a friend first. Every FWB has brought me joy, made me feel good about myself before we were ever naked in each others’ presence. Every FWB adds something special in their own way to my life.
I guess this is just me wondering about a problem that doesn’t actually exist because I am oversensitive to language that is accurate but in and of itself does not denote a positive or negative connotation.
My brain was doing the swirling donut of doubt and doom, but I think I just logicked my way out of it.
Okay, it’s like this. I feel too much. I remember and I feel and I confuse what was with what is and what could be. And then my mind starts spinning out numerous scenarios trying to game out what ifs and I feel feelings about those maybes and the too much becomes even more. So yes, I’m burdened with all of my feels, too much.
Did you know that’s a trauma response?
Yes. You try to predict scenarios so you can be ready for them, but they never actually come true, and instead you occupy your mind with these false futures instead of dealing with your difficult now.
What is my difficult now, Doc?
That’s my question, so I’ll reflect it back to you. What are the difficulties that your mind is actively running away from?
Well, there are always the greatest hits. That I’ll never be good enough. This or that enough. That I’ll never have what others have even though I know comparing myself is never fair to myself. Fears of failure, loneliness, and despair. Inadequacy. Ineptitude. Independence translating into isolation and eventual endings, evaluating where and how I got it all wrong.
We know these, have heard these, and have worked to dispel them from your mindset. What plagues you today, in this moment, at this very second?
The memory of the sounds when we last fucked. The scent of his cum on the rag he left in the bathroom. His face when he turned to me one last time before he left. I want to go back there, stay there, be there.
You are there. You’re trapped there. But this is not there. This is here. You are here. Be here.
But I don’t want to be.
Well it’s my job to make you. So, be in this moment, on that couch, talking to me. Whining about dick.
Okay Doc, harsh much.
Honest, always. Ask yourself these questions: Will it ever change? Will what you have ever be more, ever be enough? Is this what you really want?
I don’t want to answer those questions.
I know. But you have to.
Not yet. Not today. A reprieve? For one more day, one more session, one more moment where my silly dreams are just a little less silly. Just once more, with all my feelings.
Okay, next time. Think on it. Sit with it. And then speak the truth, the hard real truth, your truth to me next week.