poeticdesires

the life and musings of a kinky slut

Intentions

Alone

I am alone.

The current state of our world necessitated canceling my vacation plans. I have a week to do as I please, but currently, really, I have nothing big to do.

I am broke. The computer I am, right now, typing on took away all of my money until I get my next paycheck at the end of my vacation week.

There are things I can do at home. I have a thousand page novel I have started reading. (Paused on page 102 to type this.)  Plenty of movies and television shows to binge. (Almost finished season two of Too Hot To Handle.) But, ultimately, I am alone.

So much of my current circumstance was unavoidable. Residency it as it is, and I need a laptop to work. People will do as they will and thus we are all living in a slow boring hell of a pandemic.

So here I am tonight, writing.

The positive parts of the situation rest solely in the people around me, the network of friends who keep me centered and keep me sane. I thank God everyday I got to come back home for residency.

Friday night, I made my vision board for the year at a small party with my med school friends. Again, like last year, I opted to draw my vision board. Something about transferring the ideas from my mind to paper felt right. This year’s words are: Confidence, Companionship, Care, and Calm. (Yes, I went with a them.)

I want to grow in my confidence as a physician and especially as a surgeon. I want to walk into any OR knowing I have the skills to help my patient and trusting in the team around me to get the work done.

As is well known, I want someone in my life. A partner by my side, to give and receive love, to be my rock while I help hold them up, companionship through this crazy reality we are all living. Let’s see who comes into my life this year. (Honest confession: I am scared that I will never find my soulmate, but I’m going to keep trying, fear and all.)

I care about my friends, my family, my patients, my coworkers. I probably care too fucking much. But also, I am cared for and about. I deserve love and affection, attention, ease. Saturday, I spent all day watching animated movies with my friends while eating and drinking and laughing. More of that this year, please.

I want to bring a sense of calm to the people around me, to be a safe harbor for them. I want people to know in me they have love abundant in whatever form they need.

So here we begin 2022, still in a pandemic, and my life dominated by a consuming career that is trying to break me. I refuse to be broken, though. I refuse to allow medicine to consume me whole. Instead, I will grow and become stronger, while remaining a person of light and love in the midst of hardship and darkness. 

Alright, time to learn to be a badass.  2022, let’s do this. 


Friends with Strangers

~ New Year’s Eve ~

I knew I would be ovulating during the New Year’s holiday which meant I knew I would be horny all the time. I would wake up horny. I would walk around horny. It was just going to be my existence for a few days. 

Best friend stayed at my place Thursday night. We did not fuck. I specifically wore clothes to bed so I would not even hint at wanting to fuck best friend. Like I said before, I love best friend, but I do not want to fuck him.

Best friend woke up before me and headed out into the living room. I laid in bed, awake, sitting in the fact that I was horny. I had a decision to make: rub one out or ride out the angst for the day.

I chose to rub one out. It was a good decision. 

At first I worried about best friend hearing me. And then I remembered he is a grown ass man and it was my fucking apartment.

I kept my night clothes on (cause lazy), shoved my dildo up my cunt (cause I’m greedy), and humped my vibrator while listening to a problematic singer. That nut was good.

The rest of the morning was spent in mundane fun with the bestie. We went grocery shopping so I could cook traditional New Year’s foods. We went to the liquor store for supplies. (We were suppose to day drink cause vacation.) And, spur of the moment, we got pedicures. My toes are currently a sparkly gold.  I’m hoping it manifests wealth and abundance for my year.

When we got back, I started cooking, and then he had to leave. Previous plans.

I was nervous, spending New Year’s by myself. I am a person who needs other people. I have accepted this, so going into this holiday evening I mentally set myself up with small victories in mind.

One: Get dressed up. Like really dressed up. Shave. Do my hair. Put on makeup. Pick out a sexy outfit. Premiere the bad bitch coat. (I bought a bad bitch coat a while back but had yet to have a worthy function to which to wear it until Friday.)

Two: Go to the bar and get your bubbly. The ticket for the event included Prosecco. I love Prosecco. If I did nothing else, I was going to the bar and getting my (paid for) free drink.

And three: Say hi to the hot bartender and the pretty waitress. Both confirmed they were working the party. Since I bought my ticket right in front of them, at minimum, I wanted to show face.

So, with those three goals in mind, I started getting ready at 8pm. I left out my place at 10pm. 

I looked good. Really good. Red lip. Face beat. Titties up and out. Cute heels on. Bad bitch coat making me feel like a bad bitch. 

I smelled good. Long hot shower. New perfume. Lotion all over my body.

I was feeling myself when I walked out that night.

When I got to the bar, there was a line which was hella annoying. We all had purchased tickets so I didn’t understand why it was taking so long to get everyone into an outdoor bar. 

It just so happened that the two people who stood behind me were two light-skinned sisters in town visiting for the holiday. We got to talking, clicked, and I asked to chill with them for the night. They were down, so there I was having made friends with two strangers.

Inside, we posted up at the bar with the hot bartender hard at work. There would be no flirting, but I still got to admire his work. And he worked, making drink after drink after drink.

I saw the pretty waitress. We hugged in passing as she was on her way to delivery yet more drinks.

My new friends and I nursed our cocktails and chatted. As midnight came around, I was hella happy.  About ten minutes after the ball dropped, half the bar had cleared out. This gave us enough room to get up and start dancing. The DJ was fire. We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

Around 12:30am, the crowd was 75% gone. I dashed back up to the bar, caught the bartender’s eye, and told him how great he did. “This was chaos. You handled it well. You did a really good job.” He thanked me and I dashed back to my friends.

Highlight of the night for me was dancing the Wobble. Line dances are the fucking best. About twenty of us smiled and shook our asses that night. Good times.

Around 1am, I offered to drive the girls wherever they wanted to go. Their plan was to move to another bar. My plan was my bed. On the way to their next spot, their in-town friend informed them a fight had broken out at the bar. Night ended.

New location: their Air B&B. The girls were sweet enough to CashApp me some money. I texted them when I got home.

It was quite a successful evening. Happy New Year!


Best Friend, Not Boyfriend

~ Thu Dec 30th ~

I don’t want to fuck my best friend. 

We have been friends for literally half of our lives. We have each gone through a lot of shit, both together and separately. I value having him in my life.

We have this loose maybe promise that if neither of us is married at 45 that we maybe might get married. 

But I do not, DO NOT, want to fuck my best friend.

We used to fuck a lot. About a decade ago, there was one year where we fucked on almost every holiday. It started with Thanksgiving. Then Christmas. Then New Year’s. Valentine’s Day. I think we even snuck in Arbor Day. But we missed Fourth of July and that stopped the streak.

When he got sick, something just switched in my brain, and I’ve never been able to see him the same way since. The vulnerability, the idea of losing him. I don’t know. Protective brain overrides horny brain and here we are.

I often remind myself when he is around to not fuck him. The last few times we did fuck, later it didn’t sit right in my head. It is totally possible to utterly love someone and simultaneously never want to be with them in that way.

So I was more than pleasantly surprised when I brought him to happy hour and some of my other friends were feeling him. There was good conversations and fun flirting and I thought, “This. This is what I want for him. Yes, other hot people being into him. Yes, my friends becoming friends. God, I hope they fuck.”

Compersion is indeed real.

Happy Hour this Thursday was more fun than usual. I was on my winter vacation, so had all the time in the world. For the first time in years, I closed the bar with best friend in tow. He makes friends wherever he goes.

In looking for him, I made my way to the bar and then found myself flirting with the extremely hot bartender. I forgot how much fun it is to flirt with bartenders.  I sat next to a pretty woman who turned out also worked there as a waitress. It was late, so her shift was up, but she hung around just to chill. While enjoying their companying, I learned my New Year’s plans went up in smoke. The pretty waitress encouraged me to buy a ticket to the bar’s party for the next night. I figured, fuck it. What do I have to lose? 

I drank some more. Had good conversation. Really enjoyed myself.

Yeah, Thursday was a good night.


Bus Stop Guy

~ A conversation with myself while driving in the car ~

Who takes the bus on Christmas?

Actually, you don’t know if he was waiting for the bus. He could’ve just been sitting on that bench, needing a time out from his family, or his partner. Or just some air.

You don’t know why he was there. You just know he was staring at you.

Although, can 20 seconds be considered staring?

The length of time for you to pause at the stop sign, see him seeing you, look right, look left, look straight ahead, see him still looking at you, and then turn.

He was fine. That’s probably the biggest reason why you’re still thinking about him.

Too fine, actually. Liked he stepped out of a BET holiday movie.

That’s why you thought about doing something ridiculous – like offering a stranger a ride on a national holiday even though you were already running late or yelling out your car window asking him if he was single and liked women. That’s why you are even writing this 10 minutes later while driving in your car using voice to text because it is still nagging at your brain.

That man was FINE fine. Was that a missed meet cute? Or just a fluke?

Bitch, you are thirsty.

I do look cute today, though.


Crushed

Subtitle: Poetic is being emo again.

I first felt it when she flung her glasses open before putting them on like two weeks ago. It was just something in the dorkiness mixed with snark that was just… Yup, I have a crush again.

It’s been such a long time since I’ve had a new crush. Exhaustive soul sucking work will do that.

Her sarcasm is the best. She has a dark sense of humor similar to my own, but she says the shit out loud. She can, though. She’s not an intern. 

And, she’s white.

What does it say about me that I judged myself when I first felt the flutters for her because I was starting to fall for someone white?

Wait, am I falling for her? Maybe.

There was a moment in the OR today where I had no choice but to be pressed up against her. My heart raced. I wonder if she heard the quickening of my breath?

She is so good. Levelheaded. Confident. Skilled. So much better than me. And yet, when we work together, she always finds a way to uplift me, to encourage me even as I feel like a fucking imbecile or idiot most days.

I was so happy she was with me in the OR today. She was an emotional rock when the attending was being a total dick.

I think about what it would be like with her. I want to kiss her. More than kiss her.

We’re getting Jamaican food tomorrow. Just us two. A friendly meal, but I want to be more than friends. Yes, don’t shit where you eat, but we only work with each other for another two weeks. And then what? 

And then, what?  

I’m doing that thing again where I have whole conversations and thoughts and multiple tangents about what ifs and maybes about a person because my heart doesn’t know how to do this.

I don’t know how to do this. 

It feels like I’m fucking up before I even get started.

Have I been coming on too strong? Is it too obvious? Am I too much? Do I laugh too hard? Talk too much? Try too much?

I hate this shit.

I really like her.

She probably has a girlfriend.

She’s watched all of P Valley and talked to me about Drag Race.

She calls me buddy and friend. Are those hints? Hints that I don’t want or hints that I do?

She probably has a girlfriend.

I do too much.

Fuck.

Fuck!

Am I ever going to find love?

(Side note: I’m typing this from my iPad because my laptop is all but dead. Audio recording of this sometime in the future when I figure out a work around.)

Update:

We spent two hours at my apartment eating Jamaican food and shooting the shit. I opened up and told her about my life before med school. She spoke about her plans for the day including seeing an ex and decorating Christmas cookies in an attempt to be the bigger person.

I really REALLY like her, but we are just friends. She called me buddy again in parting. I’m taking the hint.

However, and I confirmed this with her (cause I always need reassurance in such things), we will be friends even after we stop working together in two weeks. I’ll take the small victories.

Okay, back to the dating drawing board.


What Happened to the F in the Acronym?

When I first griped his dick, I knew the sex would be good. His dick looked average when he sent me short videos of him jacking off over Instagram. Still, he drove nearly an hour and a half just to come see me. I was going to fuck him, no matter how tired I was from work.

I fucked that man on a work night. It lasted fifteen minutes. It was good, but would’ve been better if it lasted longer.

He was very focused on me for the week leading up to him coming over. He sent me Instagram messages everyday. He wanted to mutually masturbate via DM. I wanted to get to know him. There was a playful push and pull.

And so, on a Wednesday, when this man said he wanted to come to my place to rub my scalp, and was okay with me kicking him out before I had to go to work at stupid o’clock in the morning, I sent him my address.

I showered before and met him at the door in my lobby in just a hoodie, some short shorts, and my slippers.

TQ was tall. And thick. Built like a football player. I liked that.

We chatted on my couch for a bit before I unzipped my hoodie, revealing I was not wearing anything under it.

“Are you okay with me being topless?”

“Sure but know I will look at your titties.”

I took off my hoodie. He kissed me, my neck, sucked on my nipples.

“Okay, come on.”

I led him to my bedroom. He got undressed quickly and pulled out a short strip of condoms.

He kissed me, encouraged me up onto my bed. As I laid back, he kissed me and fingered me and I reached over to play with his cock. This boy was thick. A slight surge of pleasure slipped through me knowing that cock was going to be inside me.

TQ was almost excellent. Don’t get me wrong, the sex was good, but TQ was thick but quick. We fucked for maybe fifteen minutes. He liked going deep, finishing his stroke pattern with a thrust that seemed like he was trying to hurt me which could’ve been great but eh… How do I put this? One trick ponies have one trick. I’m varsity and he’s JV. I wanted the pump fake crossover ankle break spin move bank off the backboard game winner kid of play, but he just gave me free throws and one or two 3’s from the top of the key.

He finished by painting my ass with his cum. I asked him if he would finger me and suck on my nipples while I rode my vibrator. He did and I came hard, screaming how much I loved having his thick dick inside me.

And then he didn’t stay. 

I used the restroom and by the time I was done he was already putting his clothes on. At the time I was appreciative because, deep down I knew if he had stayed we probably would’ve fucked again randomly in the middle of the night when I should’ve been sleeping before work. Now though…

He left. I striped the bed, took a shower, and went to sleep.

Next day, radio silence.

Friday, quiet as well.

Of fucking course.

We limped along, DMing off and on for two more weeks. On the first night of my vacation, I messaged him saying he should come visit me again.

“Hey, I’m sorry but I want to be honest with you. I just started seeing someone else seriously.”

“Understandable; good luck with your new relationship.”

As quick as TQ and I started, we were done.

Part of me wonders what would’ve happened if I hadn’t invited him over that night. Part of me wonders if I’ll ever get to actually date anyone. This shit is confusing and kinda hurtful.

I’m tired of being pumped and dumped. 

Part of being an FWB is being a fucking friend. But so many dicks tend to forget that first part of the acronym.


Attention

I want it. 

I. Want. It.

I’m on three different dating apps swiping right on so many people because I want their time, their dick, and their attention.

I will text previous hookups just for their replies and some possible sexy conversation because I like the attention. Each interaction, each picture or message, is a dopamine hit to my brain washing over my body like a smooth draw from a joint.

I get antsy when I don’t have someone’s attention. Frustrated even. Angry, or depressed, depending on the day. I crave attention. 

Of course, I want it on my schedule with my availability because, you know, I’m selfish. (I’m leaning into the fact that I am not as sweet and as kind as I often portray.) 

I crave what I don’t have. On days when there is nothing to do, no fun to be had with others, on these days especially I yearn for attention. 

The fact that I have not been able to establish a consistent FWB situation is incredibly frustrating. Consistent weekly dick would be enough to fill my attention quota, though I would still be on the apps seeking out yet more attention from others, not because I would need it but because I am greedy.

I already know dating me will be… interesting for some folks. The push and the pull of me wanting you to focus on me, or me wanting you to go the fuck away. 

I am quick to judge, quick to condemn, and fully a snob about so many things. I will not forgive some slights, unless you have bomb dick. Bomb dick will let you get away with so many sins. 

But the one sin, the one that is hardest to forgive, is not giving me full undivided concentrated attention.

I want your gaze, your focus, your energy directed on me. 

And only me. 

Eyes up please.


Hey Doc

My new job is hard.

Like dumb hard.

Like, you don’t realize how difficult it’s going to be as an intern until you are crying in the bathroom after your shift sobbing, “I will get better at this. I will get better at this.” 

And yet, it happened once during my first rotation. At least it only happened once.

I’m lucky to have friends, former medical school classmates, who matched close to where I currently work. On the miraculous weekend days where we actually are free to see each other, we bitch about work. We can’t help it. When you work anywhere from 11 to 15 hours a day five to seven days a week, you don’t really have much else to talk about.

I love and hate that this is my new life. 

I get to be a doctor. My dream is literally coming true right before my eyes in the moment, and yet there are moments where I just want to scream and cry and quit. 

It’s so hard.

I learned what necrotic tissue smells like yesterday. It was the worst smell of my life. I can’t forget it. It permeated the room. It got trapped in my mask. It was so strong, I wondered if I was about to vomit on my patient’s bed. 

I didn’t. I kept my cool, cleaned off the dressing, and left them to rest. I then walked down the hallway, ripped off my mask, and gasped for air for fifteen seconds before heading off to clinic.

I will, most likely, smell that wretched scent again sometime before my four years are up.

This doctor shit is really fucking hard.

Having the title means nothing if you are not the person your patients need you to be. The access, the vulnerability. Sick people allow you to see them and touch them at their worst. It still boggles my mind when I walk into a room to talk to a patient, and then pull up their gown to look at and touch their body. Where else is this allowed, is the norm, where at times you freely relinquish your bodily autonomy?

Seeing what my patients go through scares me. It gives me this new perspective on life, on how I would deal with situations if I were them. And frankly, I would do it so different. 

If I am going to die, fuck chemo and radiation and surgery. If I am going to die, I am quitting my job and leaving this wretched place. If I am going to die, I will suck and fuck every dick and cunt from here to kingdom come. I won’t live my last days in a hospital bed with folks desperately trying to give me another shitty thirty minutes when I could be enjoying five joyous ones.

Every day of intern year is another day to feel like an idiot, a fuck up, and wonder if you’re about to hurt someone or if you will ever get it right.

I struggle to hold onto my child like whimsy in this profession. I struggle to keep to the values that got me this far. I know what I want to do in my career, but getting through the next 3 1/2 years to be able to do that is going to be… rough.

What makes it better are the patients, the staff, and my family and friends. When I walk into a room, introduce myself as doctor, and then my patients keep calling me doctor throughout our encounter. When the staff in the hospital call me Doc when they walk through the halls in greeting. Each time my friends tell me how proud they are of me. Each time my mom introduces me as her daughter, the doctor. Each smile and hug and heartfelt congratulations. It’s been enough. Enough to keep me going. Enough for me to not quit. 

I don’t want to quit. I want my clinic life, with my diverse queer patients giving them comforting affirming healthcare. I want to work less than 12 hours a day. I want to have weekends and vacations and a life with the people that I love and care about. I want a life outside of medicine.

It’s funny, in conversation with one of my coworkers I mentioned that I go to a happy hour once a week. They were shocked that I had some thing, even though it’s just a little something, that had nothing to do with medicine, but I was able to regularly keep it in my life. 

My work cannot be my life. My work must be my work and my life must be my life. Intermingling of the people is fine, but I cannot live to work. I most definitely work to live.

Four years. Just four years until the life that I truly want comes to fruition. Four years until my sleep is truly restful. Four years until I can think about getting a dog. Four years until I can think about getting a house. 

Four years, one day and one patient at a time.


Thanks For The Blanket

~a whimsical poem~

I fuck on the blanket you gave me.

I sleep under it naked, too.

It’s super comfy; 

I’m surprised you gave it up so easily.

Tossed it to me like it was nothing. 

You were moving. 

We all were. 

I guess it was lost in the shuffle of your new life.

I touch myself under it, 

tangle my limbs in its comfort 

as I cum for me and my fantasies.

It’s become my favorite blanket.

I don’t think about you when I lay above and below it, 

touch it, 

caress it.

Instead I think about all the dick, 

that’s not your dick, 

it’s helped me get.

Sweat and semen in its stitching. 

My screams muffled in the seams.

It’s red; 

almost too perfect of a color choice

considering the amorous encounters it’s experienced. 

Oh, the stories it could tell about the fun I’ve been having.

Moans.

Groans.

This position.

That position. 

And oh, the dirty talk. 

I kind of wonder if it’s really red 

or if it’s blushing.

So yeah D, 

thanks for the blanket.


Our Last Fuck

“To be frank, I can’t make anymore promises regarding our sessions…Will you promise to at the very least keep in touch?”
“Yes, we can keep in touch…”
“…I will also say I’m a little salty you didn’t write about our last session…God, the sexist thing about you is how you maneuver the English language…”

I didn’t know our last fuck would be our last fuck.

“Aren’t we so fun…”
“Fun and frustrating in equal parts.”
“What’s so frustrating?”
“Sir, you must know this conversation is making me horny. Not waking up to fucking you last night, or this morning, made me horny. Thinking about your dick in any and all of my holes is making me horny.”

He came seeking pussy for what I didn’t know would be the last time simply from the power of my words. Texts at 5:30am because I woke up horny.

Sloppy head.

Calling him Daddy, and him calling me a Good Girl.

It was good, and, as always, never as long as I wanted it to be.

I rode his face and made myself let go, pushed myself to grind my pussy to my satisfaction rather than my usual cautious gingerly face fucking. I gagged for him, gave him better head than I had others in quite some time. I wanted more. I always want more.

I striped the bed naked, my ass backing up towards him standing at the edge, and earned a final fuck on his way out, fast and hard and deliciously dirty.

At the front door, I told him to go sit on the couch. I wanted his dick in my mouth one more time. He really had to go this time. Next time. There was no more time. There is no more time.

Keep in touch, though I may never touch him again.

We had an awkward (cause we are over explaining awkward people) conversation about why he doesn’t do sleepovers per his rules with his wife. I over explained how he didn’t have to worry about me catching feelings. This was friendship with fucking. And then he stood me up two weeks in a row and our interactions (well lack there of) felt like he was lacking on both fronts.

And the truth came. And that was that.

Keep in touch, when all I want to do is touch you, taste you. It almost felt cruel, the irony.

So here I am, back at square one, trying to find another consistent dick who isn’t a dick.

Fuck, that dick was good.

But we’ll always have text message flirting, I guess…