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.
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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.
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