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I have fucked only one dick for the past six months.
This circumstance occurred without forethought or premeditation. The sex was intentional; the lone participant was not. But being in medical school affords itself a plethora of barriers to my would-be gratifications.
Timing is always an issue, studying 6-14hrs per day every day, the pressure and guilt of surviving school suffusing every waking moment while on campus.
My social circle has, up until the end of May, been my fellow classmates and a few upperclassmen. This limited pool includes either people already coupled up or folks who have shown little to no interest in me. Frustration, thy name is Poetic.
My trips home have been brief and/or busy. Those normally on my roster have been unavailable.
The last time I fucked another dick was New Year’s Day. If it wasn’t for masturbation, I’d go insane. Even with fapping, I’m barely holding up.
Fucking Gent has been my slutty sexual reset. Every time, I arrive at his place frustrated and wanting. I leave freshly violated in every way I love.
In many ways, fucking him has been a natural part of my medical school life. His place is one hour closer to my school. Sunday mornings with Gent are an orgasmic send off before my long trek back to my studies. We chat, he buys me breakfast, and we screw vigorously before I hit the road. My two most recent trips back home featured just such interactions.
It’s a little funny how often I forget how good we are together in bed, especially right before he enters me and I start moaning for the next thirty minutes to two hours.
Gent likes toying with me mentally, posing challenging questions I feel I must rise to the occasion to answer. Or he’ll just say something that he may not realize is ridiculously hot to me, and I have to decide if I want to pursue this intellectual line of flirtation.
Case and point, a recent text conversation:
G: What are you up to?
Me: At a barbecue with my former coworkers. Currently sitting on a blanket chatting with friends at Gunpowder State Park. How is your stomach feeling?
G: Interesting park name. Stomach will be fine eventually. Enjoy the barbecue. I’ll talk to you later tonight.
G: Personal question. Are you in your period right now?
Me: No, finished up. You literally get to see me right before and right after my cycle.
G: That’s too bad.
Have I had the “crime scene sex” conversation with this man? Did he remember my frustration at the less than elegant way my ex described an activity we would never partake in?
Did Gent know asking this question would set off a chain reaction in my brain, my horny self contemplating different scenarios of how to get back into town to possibly make this happen with him?
Probably not, but fucking with this man has both carnal pleasures and intellectual teases that make me bite my lip randomly throughout most days.
When I got to his place, opened the unlocked door, and flopped down on his bed, it took me less than ten minutes to bring up his text question.
“I was wondering how long you’d last before you asked about that.”
We laid on his bed, his eyes on his phone, one of my arms draped over one of his arms, my face and free arm clutching a stray pillow.
He then proceeded to stand, pull off my underwear, and climb on top of me. No question, no warning, but simply removed the slightest of barriers for his dick to slide inside me. That right there, remembering that act, is the latest in a long line of moments that when thinking about them make me instantly wet.
I started moaning immediately.
“Shh,” he whispered.
I can’t help but get loud when we have sex. Usually this is just a feature of our sessions. This time, though, was different.
It is incredibly difficult for me to not scream while we fuck. I am quite vocal: moaning, sobbing, mumbled words, multiple expletives. Never quiet. But the way he gave that simple order. So much of our last fuck was my just trying not to disobey his wish.
My face in a pillow. Biting on and sucking my bicep. Whimpering, deliciously pathetic, wanting so desperately to scream.
Gent has made a point lately of making sure I ride him each time we fuck. With my current research position including a three-quarters of a mile walk from my parking space to my cubicle, my thighs are in their best shape yet to enjoy this part of our sex. I grip his headboard and rock my hips, hoping the banging isn’t too loud. Occasionally, he’ll put my hands on his chest to get me to sit back. I am hyper aware of my nails, making sure to grip with the pads of my fingers. He is not a fan of marks unless he is making them on me.
Another position he enjoys is me prone, thighs together, his chest against my back, his head against my head, his hands gripping my shoulders for leverage as he slams into me. In particularly carnal moments, he sinks his teeth into my shoulders. I always want him to bite me more, harder. I look forward to rubbing those remembrances from him later.
The question of how long this is going to last lingers in our interactions, like a rich scent you know will eventually dissipate, but you don’t want it to ever leave.
Blue dress still on, only my panties gone, Gent fucking me from behind, lying on my side trying not to moan, he spoke as he rocked my body back and forth, my cunt gliding on his cock.
G: I liked your latest posts. I jacked off after reading them. Let me ask you a blunt question: Is If about me?
(I am my most honest during sex.)
G: You know you are a dear friend, and I greatly enjoy this time with you, especially being inside you.
(Note: We are still fucking as we’re chatting.)
G: But, one day, I look forward to you refusing me.
Me: It will come. (No, I didn’t realize the irony of my words at the time.)
Me: As soon as I’m in a relationship, I know this will end.
The week before, while we waited for our respective meals, Gent had me download some dating apps: Bumble, Coffee Meets Bagel, Hinge, and Tinder. He didn’t accept my medical school excuses. Gent is a good friend.
The day will come when Gent and I stop having sex. Until then, I’m enjoying my slutty sexual outlet and sexy Sunday morning muse.
~ a poem ~
Every month, without fail, it happens.
I’ll find myself in my closet,
or in my bathroom,
or on my bed
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.
cry into my hands,
It only lasts for
two or three minutes.
Then I take a nice long deep breath,
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.
~ 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,
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
[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?”
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.
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.
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?