poeticdesires

Category: Gent

  • Good Session

    “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but you really are clever. You do these really good things, but then you always find a way to put yourself down… How about you instead use your cleverness to find humor in how your brain twists the good you’ve done.” – Doc

    This past Tuesday I had another therapy session. As per normal, it did not go as I envisioned in my head. Don’t get me wrong, it was still great though. Without fail each time I walk out of Doc’s office I feel a million times better than when I walked in.

    For this past session, we touched on a few topics. The first, which I found surprising, was the idea of therapy as work.

    Doc wanted to dissuade me from viewing the homework he gave me, the tools he’s imparted, and the ideas I have swimming through my head as work. To do so he felt was a trap, setting myself up to fail.

    This was all in response to my non-meditation. I’m suppose to meditate fifteen minutes a day using a musical track he gave me. While listening to the song, I am to repeat a mantra, the lines focusing on parts of my life I wish to change.

    I am open to love in all its possibilities. I see the beauty others see in me. I will love others for who they are, not for who I want them to be. I am good enough to accept and receive love from others.

    The closest I’ve come to meditating was listening to the song a few times before I drifted off to sleep, recalling two of the lines as I slipped into rest. I promised Doc I would do better.

    Second, we talked about my cleverness. I spoke to Doc about a good conversation I had recently, but I prefaced it with the fact I used baby steps to ease my way through the talk.

    Doc immediately jumped on my downplay of my accomplishment. He wanted me to be proud of myself for even having the conversation. And he pointed out that “baby steps” was not a bad thing. In fact, it was what I needed to do to get myself through the conversation. It was what I was suppose to do.

    Doc feels I don’t give myself credit. I always qualify the emotional weightlifting I’ve done. I find ways to not acknowledge my work.

    As a deterrent, or at least to shake up my head a bit, Doc suggested I use my cleverness to laugh at myself. Each time I put myself down, or find one small thing to harp on, he wants me laugh at how my brain works.

    Laugh at how, even though I had this great conversation, I chastised my method. Laugh at how, after having an awesome time with a friend, I harped on myself for the lilt in my voice at our parting. Laugh at the ridiculousness that is, ostensibly, my Little Hater.

    The last thing we touched on was The Gent.

    “I’m not going to tell you what to do, but I’m going to tell you what to do.”

    I laughed.

    You won’t be reading much, if any, about The Gent anymore. We’re done.

    Somehow I found myself in a situation similar to my parents; big shocker there.

    I explained to Doc how frustrated I am. How much I don’t understand what’s going on. How I wondered if The Gent even knew what he was doing was shitty.

    I also talked about why the situation was so hard, why it is so hard to let him go.

    The Gent is the stereotypical guy I should want, the guy I should bring home, marry, have kids with. He is handsome, successful, charming, intelligent, an excellent fuck.

    “Emotionally distant and absent.”
    “Yes.”
    “Like your Dad.”
    “Dammit!”

    Doc hit the nail on the head.

    In wanting to make things right with The Gent, in wanting to tell him how shitty he made me feel in hopes that he would do better, be better, I was seeking love from a person who was not giving it back. I was sinking energy into a person who did not reciprocate my efforts. I was repeating the pattern I learned from my parents.

    So now the hard part is not calling him. Not texting him. Not contacting him. The hard part is going against my nature to forgive, to give the second, third and twenty-sixth chance.

    The hard part is being strong by not giving in. The hard part is putting me first.

    So, yeah, good session with Doc this week.

  • Broken

    I feel broken. Chewed up and spit out. Chewed up and shat out.

    It’s 2:17am when I started typing, technically my birthday. Not the best way to start.

    “No, my brains and my bones don’t want to take this anymore…/So, why you being a dickhead for?/Stop being a dickhead./Why you being a dickhead for?/You just fucking up situations.”

    I’ve been repeating Kate Nash’s Dickhead for the past hour. On the drive home. And now in my room as I sit on my bed and write.

    I cried in the car. I wailed a little, but then made myself stop. I can’t wail in the house; I don’t want to wake my roommates.

    It was like I was knocked over, drawn down my the undercurrent, wrenched off my feet.

    It was suppose to be fun, different. Instead it felt like I was used, drained to my last drop, left with almost nothing.

    Today I ran The Rebel Race.

    Me and my friends were pretty excited. Well really they were excited; I was nervous as all hell. I hadn’t seriously ran since before Fusion. I’d never ran a 5k. Everyone around in the crowd seemed way more in shape.

    But I had my friends. And we weren’t going to leave each other.

    So the race started, and not ten minutes in, we were fucked. The only guy in the group slipped off the monkey bars, landed first on his left arm, and then on his right ankle. His elbow and ankle were in no way good.

    And where was the on site medic? Where was someone to say, “Sorry, you have to stop.” Nowhere.

    My friend, being who he is, kept going, hobbling his way along the rest of the course. I, being who I am, never let him out of my sight.

    We’d already decided to walk the majority of the race, as there were bottle necks at just about every obstacle.

    As we traveled along, we came to a rope ladder, wooden walls to climb over, but never any volunteer at the apparatus. Some in my group were afraid of heights. I was able to climb up and help to coax them over, staying at the top with them. But where was the volunteer?

    And then there was the mud. Oh god, the mud. At one point I was fully submerged in it, multiple times. But no water to wash off my face until I trudged through a few hundred feet of a thick muddy path. I was blind, almost panicking. I wiped my face in the grass just to try and see.

    There was no traction as we somehow scaled a mud high with an incline difficult in normal conditions. I fell a few times, but more scary was how many times I almost fell backwards.

    And no one was on the course with a radio. No one was available to whisk me away if, heaven forbid, I did fall down that very large, very steep hill.

    We didn’t talk about it til after we finished, but there came the realization to us that we could’ve been seriously injured or died.

    The scar that’s lasted the most with me, though, is on my back. There was a quasi water slide portion near the beginning. The one time there was someone at an obstacle, the person holding the hose told us to cross our arms and slide down on our back.

    Little did we know this slide was merely a tarp laid over ground littered with rocks. I didn’t know I’d been hurt until my eventual shower at a friend’s home a few hours later.

    When I felt the sharp ache on my back from the warm water, I knew something was wrong. My friend gasped when I raised my shirt. I was bruised. Abraded. And one very long scratch down my back.

    To add insult to injury, water stations on the course ran out of cups and water. Certain pieces of equipment were broken. Their “medal” was a cheap dog tag that for some reason I have not taken off. The free beer ran out, so we had to settle for two free meal tickets, the equivalent of a hot dog. But they, somehow, still had bottles of water to sell us.

    As we tried to wash away the mud from our bodies, our clothes, our hair, it just never seemed to end. Piles of shoes, shirts, and other detritus littered the grounds. There was mud everywhere. Everywhere.

    And they made us pay for parking, $10 in a field with grass up to our knees and no organization whatsoever.

    And our walk away gifts were a cheap draw string bag and a plain white cotton t-shirt with black lettering.

    I just feel used, abused. It felt like I’d somehow ended up in a physical impact scene with no consent and no aftercare.

    But there was a saving grace: I was to see the Gent tonight. I thought, Okay, that will be my aftercare, spending time with a friend.

    When I left Baltimore at 10:45pm, yes I was tired, but by the time I got to his place it would be my birthday. So I drove, preferring softer music this go round instead of my usual Friday night club mixes.

    And as I arrived at a spot to leave my car, I was pleased I would get to spend some time with him.

    But then he texted saying he was not home yet. And then he texted saying he didn’t know how long he would be. Since I was already there, I decided to wait.

    I reclined my seat back and let my eyes close. When they opened again, it was 1:15am. I was hot, achy.

    I texted him, asking for an ETA. And then I thought, Why am I here?

    I texted back, telling him nevermind; I was heading home.

    I cried in the car on the way back.

    Between the shit storm that was that race, and then waiting for a friend who couldn’t be there because he was dealing with another friend’s emotional breakdown, I was done.

    I was…broken.

    Today is my birthday. Happy 29th to me.

  • Drunk Blogging

    My roommate DeepEnd makes the BEST Long Island Ice Teas.

    Haven’t done this in a while. Blogging while I’m drunk. But I didn’t want to go to bed without blogging, cause if I wait til tomorrow morning, I’ll either blog or run on the treadnill, but not both cause then I’d have to wake up way early.

    I was SO horny today that I masturbated for like an hour. And then my roommates made fun of me because I was worried they’d be like offended by the noise, cause I can get loud, what with the screaming and stuff. But then SkinnyBitch was like, “The first time I hung out with you a guy hand his fist inside you for like two hours.” And I was like, “But ya’ll know I’m uber polite.” And it was funny.

    Amethyst makes the best Crescent rolls. They were just what I needed when I was lying on the couch watching Private Practice for a few hours.

    Before I was downstairs practicing my self suspension, before the Long Island cause only stupid people rig when they’re drunk. Yeah, so I practiced tying myself and I totally rocked it. I got myself in a sideways suspension and was on the ground tying my left leg into a Futomomo (learned that term at Shibaricon), and then pulled myself up and secured my hip harness and tied my leg up and was like, “Yeah. This is awesome.” And I tied a one-handed ankle cuff on my right leg and attached the wraps around my chest to my ring and pulled up and ankle and it looked so cool. And then I realized I had no one around to take a picture, and that kinda sucked, but then I remembered I’m going to Fusion and I was like, “Yah know what, I’ll do this again there and get someone to take a picture.” Cause I don’t have any pictures of my tying myself and no one knows you’re a rigger, let alone an awesome one, unless you have pictures of your work.

    I’m suppose to be tying two of my friends at Fusion. And tying myself. And hopefully getting tied. Yeah, I think my Fusion gonna be awesome.

    I was talking about it with the Gent today. He called me, cause I had a nightmare about him and woke up and texted him and he told me he was okay and that made me feel better. But then he was busy tonight so I couldn’t see him. But then he called and my new iPhone 4s was being stupid and he mistakenly hung up on me and I was screaming at my phone in DeepEnd’s care and SkinnyBitch was like, “You know that’s inanimate (wow, I think I spelled that right) object and it can’t hear you.” And then DeepEnd was like, “Yes it can. My phone has an app that responds to when I yell.” And I would have found their conversation really funny except I hadn’t talked to the Gent in a really long time. But then I got him back. And we talked for a little.

    He’s not coming to Fusion. I had this awesome fantasy of him magically appearing, possibly at my abduction, but that’s why I called it a fantasy, cause it’s totally not going to happen. But at least I’ll get to see him when he’s back from his work trip.

    So yeah, I’m gonna have an abduction at Fusion. That, I’m sure is gonna be an awesome blog post. This one…I don’t know about. But then again the last time I did this, which was like a long time ago, people seemed to like it. So yeah.

    PS. So my friend’s blog, no two of his blogs, cause he has like three, were hacked and I’m not happy about that. I read his blog. I like his blog. I really like his blog cause then I get to read his thoughts on stuff and he’s really insightful and wise. And it gives me a piece of his life while he’s far away and busy. So whatever this Saudi Terrorist bullshit hacking of my friend’s sites is needs to go away so I can have my blog posts back. Dammit!

    Okay, time for bed. I have work tomorrow. And Sunday. And family obligations Monday. So I should, well, sleep. Yeah, that. And then wake up and run on the treadmill because it makes me happy. Not because I love it when people notice I’ve lost weight. Or when my clothes fit better. Or when it’s easier for me to suspend myself. Or that I feel more sexually confident the fitter my body gets.

    Yeah, sleep now. Stop typing, Kristen.

    So SkinnyBitch introduced me to My Drunk Kitchen on YouTube. I’m probably gonna watch those tomorrow. And then read this blog, cause I’m not gonna spell check it or anything. Cause, well, I’m drunk and it’s more funny this way.

    Once every couple of months makes this refreshing, right? Not, like, stupid, I hope.

    Bed now.

    So there is this guy… NO! Bed now.

  • Uncensored

    Save for brushing against each other while in passing, we didn’t touch for hours. He did this on purpose.

    “I haven’t decided if I’m going to fuck you tonight.”

    It was the first time I’d seen him since right after my spring break. The first time I’d seen him since he told me he had a girlfriend. The first time we’d gotten together in a month.

    He’d canceled on me twice since, so I didn’t actually think I was going to see the Gent last night, but then he showed up.

    “How are you going to feel if we fuck?”
    “I’ll be fine. Wait, am I lying to myself? My emotions are my emotions. It is not your job to take care of me.”
    “You’re my friend, so of course I want to take care of you. Of course I care about your emotions.”

    I wanted to fuck him. I really wanted to fuck him. I didn’t want to think about how I’d feel after.

    Since I decided to be completely open and honest with him, no longer censoring my thoughts, stopping myself from asking questions or relaying my opinions, words that I never thought I’d say left my lips Tuesday night over french fries among the din of the bar/pool hall.

    “You know you are going to break up with her. She wants to wait til marriage for sex, and you are such a sexual person.

    “I mean, it’s obvious, it is so fucking obvious that you should be with me.

    “So when you break up with her, because you are going to break up with her, I’ll be here, and I’ll say, ‘Alright, let’s do this.’

    “And I’m not saying that this is it or I’ve found the one or some bullshit like that. But our chemistry is amazing. And you’re a good friend. And you make me laugh. So I think we should give this a try.”

    When we finally did touch, it was outside while we stood beneath an overhang away from the light rain. He asked me my odds on us fucking that night.

    “60/40.”
    “In favor?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s high.”
    “Not really. It’s just favorable.”

    He had been playing a song over and over again for the past week. I said I had as well.

    “Wouldn’t it be weird if it were the same song?”
    “It’s not the same song.”

    But he was right; it would’ve been weird.

    His endless repeat reminded me of European pop rock, trance-like, with unintelligible lyrics, though I thought the vocalist was singing about waiting.

    As I listened, his phone resting on his right arm, we both leaned over the railing. My left arm snuck up against his. It didn’t matter that three layers of clothing stood between our skin. It felt intense to be near him.

    I closed my eyes and took in the music. I swiveled my hips, finding myself wanting to dance.

    My endless repeat was J. Cole feat. Missy Elliott – Nobody’s Perfect. Truth be told, J. Cole has nothing to do with why I love the song. The back beat and Missy Elliott’s chorus make me want to hear the single over and over again.

    Nobody’s perfect, Nobody’s perfect, A, A
    But you’re perfect for me
    Nobody’s perfect, Nobody’s perfect, A, A
    But you’re perfect for me
    We rumbling, we riding
    He like to go inside and
    I love to go all night and
    We rock the boat Poseidon
    I love to call your name, name, name
    And baby I love to call your name, name, name, yeah…

    This wasn’t a marathon session, unfortunately; we only hung out for a few hours at the bar. He walked me to my car and said he was going home, alone. No reason why, other than the time. It was around 10:30pm.

    “If we start fucking, I won’t want to stop.”
    “I’ve trained myself to survive on an hour’s sleep.”

    I looped a finger through his belt.

    “Not in public.”
    “Right, your job.”
    “Conservative company.”
    “You could use your job as an excuse for just about anything.”
    “Yup.”

    We finally hugged. He let me linger in his arms as I took in his scent, a scent I caught in passing throughout our evening. I had almost forgotten how good he smells.

    As we parted, and he strolled away, for a moment he paused, spinning his keys on his finger, a large grin on his face. This is how I remember him.

    With Shibaricon in eight days, his now frequent travel for his job, and me neck deep in busy season, I don’t know when I’ll see the Gent again. But I do so look forward to our next encounter.

    I’m guessing when I bring this up to Doc, he’ll praise me for sticking up for myself, not sitting idly by and letting life shit on me.

    I did something different. What comes of it, though, is yet to be seen.

  • Following The Rule

    “The rule is do what you want.”

    I parked a block and a half away. He carried my toybag up the stairs to the second level to check in. He paid my admission; I’d forgotten to swing by an ATM.

    I looked through the throng and saw Diamond was there. I rushed into her arms for a hug. Murphy walked in. I introduced the Gent. 

    As everyone chatted, I stepped away for more hugs. Coming back into the conversation, it seems Diamond had read my blog, which sparked the interesting moment of “I don’t know you, but I know about you.”

    I gave Gent a tour. The smoking lounge.  The darker somewhat quieter third floor.  The second floor packed with hard points. I reminded him he had an easy out clause if he wanted or needed to go.  He said he hadn’t seen anything new.

    I saw Lochai. He said cigar time would be starting soon. I grabbed my humidor and headed downstairs. Gent followed.

    He sat in a chair; I sat on the floor. I explained I never sat on the furniture in the smoking lounge. People filtered in. I got my first request for cigar service. I grabbed my lighter and cutter and made my way over. Ten minutes later, when I looked around, the Gent was gone.

    I hung out in the smoking lounge for about an hour. But, because I am who I am, I went looking for him to make sure the Gent was doing okay. Heading back up to the second floor, I paid a toll.

    In the lounge area, I hugged KnownUnknown from behind and greeted Nomad. Since Nomad had never been to the Playhouse, I gave her a tour. 

    First we peaked our heads into the smoking lounge. Then we headed up to third floor, where I saw Gent was watching an impact scene. Making our way down to the second floor, I pointed out to Nomad that a Murphy was tying. Did she want to go watch a Murphy tie? She quite enthusiastically nodded her head yes. I was glad I could make a Nomad happy.

    I found KnownUnknown again and we chatted more.

    There was a raffle; I lost.  I don’t have good luck when it comes to raffles. 

    I checked-in with Gent. He was doing fine. He encouraged me to go back to mingling.

    I made my way to a corner with friends. I sat on the floor in front of them. Among those seated was N3rddom. We talked about the scene he was planning for me: kidnapping, beating, mean meanness. 

    N3rddom pulled me into his arms. I leaned into his legs, happy for the embrace. He talked into my ear. We watched the scenes going on around us. N3rddom then went for water. TwistedView came over, rather punchy.

    After he relieved his ease, he sat behind me. Gent reappeared and sat with him. I turned to Gent and mentioned he had not yet ripped my shirt; he had promised me the gesture earlier in the week. Giving TwistedView the first yank, both men ripped open my gray tank top. I sat back in between Gent’s legs.

    I grabbed his hand and put his fingers into my hair. He massaged my scalp. I let myself float away again.

    Nomad and TeddyBear started showing off bite marks. Inspired, I bit Gent’s left arm. He reached down and started playing with my nipples. I felt the warmth rising in my abdomen, but I wanted more. Softly with his hand, Gent veered my face to his other arm. I bit down hard again.

    With both bite marks complete, I wasn’t done just yet. He continued to play with my nipples, scratching, twisting, pinching hard. I bit here and there on his arms. Eventually, I asked permission. He gave it.

    As I leaned forward, my abdomen convulsing, he ripped the back of my shirt open. Digging his nails into my skin, he scratched up and down my back. He glided his fingers under my bra hooks, but did not open them.

    When he finished, I realized I wanted something. Turning around, I put my chin on his knee and said, “I’m hungry.”

    “What do you want to eat?” I looked down at his crotch and then back up into his eyes.

    “I’m trying to think of a reason to say no.”  I pointed at my face.

    “This…this is me pouting.”

    “Well, you shouldn’t go hungry.”

    I pulled his cock out and started sucking.

    “No balls?”

    “Getting there.” He wore jeans, which made it difficult, but I was able to pull out his balls and suck on them. He softly put his hand in my hair and pet me as I played. I practiced my deep throating, able to resist most of my gagging, opening up my throat as I stroked his cock.

    “Is your friend still coming with us?” I didn’t have time to enjoy his cock for long. It was near the end of the event.

    “I’ll go check.” I put his cock and balls back inside his pants, zipped, and belted his jeans. Checking with Slut, she did still need a ride.

    I bopped downstairs into the smoking lounge to retrieve my shoes, socks, and humidor. There was no one in the room. Hmm…

    Scurrying back up to the lounge area, I packed my humidor and pulled out a condom. Finding Gent sitting close by, I whispered in his ear, “You should come with me.”

    I took him down to the smoking lounge and closed the door behind us. I pulled the condom out of my bra.

    “Ok.”

    He motioned me towards a chair. He pulled out his dick, put the condom on, and had me bend over. As he fucked me, I cursed and moaned. I heard the door open and close, but took little notice of it. He fucked me for only a few minutes, just enough to tease me.

    Breathing hard, I took a moment before I stood up. When I did, I saw we had had an audience of two. They clapped and complimented us. We headed back upstairs.

    Retrieving a Slut, we headed home. 

    I dropped off Slut before taking Gent back to my place and his car. 

    As we were about to get out of my car, I leaned over and kissed him. We had never kissed before, but I was the following the rule. Our styles were similar, his soft lips exquisite fun as we lightly sucked and played.  Gentle strokes of his tongue ended the evening just right. 

    I gave him better directions home. We hugged goodnight.

  • On Our Way

    He arrived late. There was traffic. There was rain. I was nervous.

    He parked in my driveway, leaving room for another car to fit beside him. I gave him a hurried ten cent tour of the house before I grabbed my things and got us into my car. My bag was heavier than normal; I stuffed everything into the one rolling case.

    Since we’d lost an hour, I wasn’t sure where we’d eat. And I needed gas. 

    We got on the road. I briefly stopped for fuel. We decided to just head to the city and find food nearby. As we got back onto the interstate, traffic slimmed, and we found ourselves in the city with an hour before the party started.

    We both wanted steak. We choose a nice restaurant I had actually visited a few times. I mentioned this, noting that I ate there during special occasions with my father and brother.

    “I could be your Daddy.”
    “I…Ah…No comment.” If I could have, I would’ve turned beat red.

    We walked through the chill wet air to the restaurant. We sat in a booth at the bar.

    “Do you want to see me do something dorky and cute?” 

    The table between us was huge. I got up, nudged him over, and sat beside him.

    “Wow, that is dorky and cute.”
    “Does this freak you out?”
    “What do you think?”
    “Yeah, you don’t get freaked out.”
    “Rarely.” 

    I sat back on my side.

    He wanted a drink, which made me want a drink. We ordered our food and our booze.

    I tried to take a cute picture of myself for FourSquare, but the lighting wasn’t right. I settled on a shot of our drinks, which arrived rather quickly, and his hand. After I checked-in, he pulled out his phone and, using his flash, took a picture of me. I sipped my Platinum Margarita; he drank his Blue Moon.

    Our server brought over bread. I waited, wanting him to have the first slice. He could see this, and asked me if I wanted bread. I told him he was hungrier. I had had food more recent than he, therefore, to be polite, I wanted to wait for him to eat first.

    “What’s the phrase? Ah, yes. My Momma raised me right.“

    “Eat the bread.” I split the slices in half and started nibbling. He ate his portion too.

    He told me, for the party tonight, I should do whatever I wanted.

    “But that’s not what you said before. Before, when we spoke on Wednesday, you said the rule was I was to not worry or check up on you. I like to follow the rules, so which is it?”

    “The rule is do what you want.”

    Our food arrived. He got his steak medium well; I got mine medium rare. I tried not to judge. The lobster mashed potatoes had a sauce on top that looked like it could be cheese based. He doesn’t like cheese. (Once again, I tried not to judge.)  I ate some off the top.

    “Could you move that a little closer to the center?” I didn’t realize I had monopolized our shared side dish. I pushed the bowl in the middle.

    I ate my three asparagus spears, which were seasoned perfectly. He looked down at my plate and asked me if I had received my vegetable. I confirmed I had. He remarked that I ate too fast. I argued that, for me, my eating of the asparagus had actually been slow.

    As the meal progressed, I started following his bite rhythm, waiting to eat another morsel until after he’d cut off a piece for himself. He noticed, and told me I should just do what I wanted. I wanted to follow his bite count.

    He ordered a second beer. I drank his and my water; pre-hydrating.

    As the server passed by, we asked for the check. We gathered all the plates and cups into a neat configuration for her to collect them. We left our credit cards at the end of the table. She split the check evenly. I said, since my half was $44, I would make it an even $55 with the tip. He paid $55.01.

    We got up. He held my coat for me as I put my jacket on. We lazily walked out of the restaurant. 

    I was giddy and happy and excited. My belly was fully, I had a slight buzz from my drink, and I was taking the Gent to his first play party.  We were on our way to Dirty Things.

  • Fact

    While lounging on his couch…
    “You are pretty because… Too slow.” – Gent
    “I didn’t realize it was a question.” – me
    “Yeah, I like to throw in questions randomly. Why are you pretty?”
    “I am pretty because it is a fact.”

    While fucking on his bed…
    “I really appreciate you allowing me inside of you.”- Gent
    “God, I love fucking you.” – me

    While fucking on his floor…
    “I have to admit it, I wanted to see if I could wear you out.” – me
    “This is not me worn out.” – Gent
    “I know. Fuck, I could fuck you all night.”

    While fucking on his couch…
    “If you allow someone inside of you, they should appreciate you. If they don’t appreciate their dick inside of you, you shouldn’t fuck them…Fuck, you are so beautiful.” – Gent

    It is an odd feeling to realize, mid stroke, that you are probably having the best sex of your life.

    I was horny. Incredibly horny.

    I’d finished my WinterFire voice recordings, and found myself with little else to do for my day. It was early afternoon, so I ate, seeing as I’d consumed only a cup of juice thus far.

    Unlike the past few days, I allowed myself to gorge (well, in comparison to the other meals I’d had lately). I ate two cups of cereal with two cups of Silk, some leftover Chinese food, and a few chips. I watched Drawn Together and lazed on the couch.

    Randomly, I found myself getting sleepy. I allowed my eyes to close, and thoughts of fucking immediately drifted into my head. Fucking this person and that person on this piece of furniture in that room. Fucking and fucking and fucking. I was crashing.

    With a shot, my eyes opened, and I realized I could actually solve my current situation. I have friends. 

    I texted the Gent.

    What are you doing right now? – me
    Finding clothes. What are YOU doing right now?- Gent
    Wanting to come over to your place and fuck you for a few hours. Interested?
    I think I have some free time.
    Good. I’ll shower and be over there probably about 5:30-6pm.

    I actually arrived at 6:30pm; traffic. I brought my toy bags, just in case, but I pretty much knew this was going to be a solely sex-filled night.

    As I got ready, my horniness would not subside. I listened to one of my mixes from WinterFire on my phone the entire drive over. I didn’t turn the music off til I dropped all my things on his floor.

    He pulled me in for a hug. I reciprocated, but not as fully as I normally would. We drifted into the kitchen. He sipped on some water and noted my tapping foot.

    I was antsy. No, more than that. I wanted to fuck, NOW. I was dropping, hard, and needed a fix. The Gent, being a good friend, obliged.

    He got me to sit on the couch for about thirty seconds, and asked me if I wanted to talk first, since this was our normal way. I said yes, we could talk, or we could just start fucking. A cursory, “oh ok” left his lips.

    I immediately went after his dick. I pulled off his sweat pants, started sucking, and he started moaning. He completely disrobed, naked on the couch, as I took pleasure in the feel of his cock in my mouth.

    He leaned over and pulled up my dress, pleased to find I was not wearing any underwear. He smacked my ass a few times before settling into simply receiving his blowjob.

    Soon, though, he was up off the couch. He picked up a condom from his end table and set out to fuck me. I was still clothed, and would be for a while, as we proceeded to fuck all over his apartment.

    We fucked over his couch. On his couch. On his floor. Bent down on his floor. Bent over his kitchen counter. On his kitchen counter. (He was polite, laying down a towel and a pillow for my head.)  Bent over his bed. And, finally, on his bed.

    I’d been wearing a gray and black cotton stretch dress I bought from Delicious for WinterFire, and, of course, my boots. My boots didn’t come off until he brought me to his bedroom. I didn’t feel right fucking on his bed with my boots on. Instead he fucked me as I bent over his bed and unlaced the intricate pattern from around the pewter rosettes.

    We fucked on his bed, scrambling about in the sheets. He sweated a lot and used the fabric to wipe himself off. I loved the smell of him, his scent permeating around me.

    He made a comment about the blog I posted concerning our first fuck. Of course he had read it, even though he told me he’d stopped reading my blog because he wanted to get to know me without the words. Apparently the word “meh” was used. He didn’t like that at all.

    As he fucked me on his bed, I reminded him of my favorite part of that night, him holding me close as he fingered me and I bit his arms. Gent then sought to fuck me in a similar fashion, my ass cradled against his hips, our bodies spooned together, his head against mine, his arms pulling me in close. It was deliciously intense and one of my favorite parts of the night.

    Eventually we paused. We had fucked on the floor and couch and kitchen, stopped for a bit of water and a strawberry, fucked on his bed, and then finally stopped to chat. Our first round of fucking lasted about an hour and a half.

    He redressed; I stayed naked cause, well, I like being naked. We started talking, our conversation centering on my recounting of my time since I’d seen him.

    I talked to him about Gray’s Cigar Social. I mentioned the moment in the car, us holding hands for a few seconds. The Gent offered up his hand to me. I gladly accepted, often playing with it as I spoke.

    I talked about setting up for WinterFire, about the different play spaces, about organizing music. We talked and talked.

    We transitioned back to the living room and his couch. I slipped my dress back on, which he’d flung off sometime during one of our rounds on the couch, or maybe the floor. It was a lot of positions and all over the place, so I can’t be quite sure.

    Any who…We ended up talking about me, but not the “what I did” me. Rather it became the “these are my emotional problems” me.

    Once again, insecurity ran up to the front. I acknowledged it stemmed from issues with my father. I expressed my anger at him, but also my want to somehow form a deeper connection while he still has time on this earth.

    The Gent suggested, instead of seeking out my healing through another, that I work to make me better with just me. (Yes, a therapist would be nice, too. That will happen when I have more money.)

    The Gent asked me what was one small thing we could work on now. I suggested believing people like me for more than what I do for them. He thought this idea was, well, big and broad and no where near small.

    He suggested we start with pretty. I looked at him quizzically. He noted pretty was a big one too, but it was certainly smaller than the idea I had come up with.

    The Gent likes to deal in facts. The way he put it, “Line ten guys up in a room. Maybe three will want to fuck you, but all of them will think you’re pretty. Hot. Sexy. These are opinions. ‘You are pretty’ is a fact. And it’s not because of your eyes or your lips or your skin color or your hair. You are pretty. It’s just a fact.”

    He sat in a chair while I laid out on his couch. I stuffed a pillow under my head and squirmed all about as he spoke. I gave him grins and sideways glances. I wondered if he found my tableaux attractive, cute, pretty. I tried to believe him. (And this is when he’ll say, “There is no trying, only doing.”)

    He made me say it. He repeated it over and over again. He noted not only was I pretty, in my dress or in my dress blacks, but I also had an engaging personality that drew people in. The combination of the two, amazing.

    As he spoke, and I loved hearing the sound of his voice… As he spoke, I tried my damnedest to believe him. I repeated as he wished. I held the mantra in my mind, and frankly I’m still saying it to myself.

    He wants me to get to a point where I exude my positive opinion of myself at all times. He wants me to be able to walk into a room and have everyone notice my entrance. He wants more for me than I’ve ever thought for or of myself.

    Around 9:30pm, he threw his coat on and suggested I put my boots on. He wasn’t kicking me out, but he was worried that my car would get towed. I got one boot on, but then wondered where my other sock was. He found it in his room and gave me the fabric.

    He noted my bra had more hooks than he normally dealt with and apologized for fumbling while opening it earlier. I wasn’t sure how many hooks were actually attached, so I bent over, lifted up my dress, and asked him to check. As I bent over, I presented my ass as I almost always do. He brushed his hand against it, lightly gripping my hips. I popped my hips back, grinding onto his crotch.

    “Oh God, don’t make me fuck you again.”

    I stood up, turned around, and began nuzzling his crotch with my knee. I bit at him through his clothes. I got to my knees, pulled out his dick, and started sucking again. He relented. We fucked more on his couch.

    My clothes stayed on. He used the cotton stretch as a hand hold while fucking me harder still. I came and came once again. That was when he mentioned guys appreciating the use of my cunt. That was when he called me beautiful.

    We fucked on the floor. He hooked his legs over mine and I rode him hard, finding just the right spot as he had informed me before, and I came, hard, multiple times.

    I thought of one way we had not fucked, up against a wall. We tried but we were too close in height, even after I quickly removed my one boot. He decided he would just hold me up. He lifted me by my thighs and I slipped him in. This only lasted for a minute or two. We went back to the couch.

    About half an hour later, we finally stopped, again. He was worried about my car.

    The evening was beautiful. I didn’t actually need to wear my coat, but it made me less self conscience about onlookers seeing how hot I was in a dress.

    He helped me carry my things to my car. I hugged him right this time, and he mentioned talking to me soon.

    As I drove away, I basked in the sore feeling in my abdomen, happy that I had indeed both asked for what I wanted and received it.

    On a constant loop, running through my head, was the sound of his voice, and his words. “You are pretty; it is a fact.”

  • We’re Not Done

    “You should come over.” – Gent
    “Ok, when?” – me
    “Now.”

         Recently the Gent and I fucked, so I guess the game is over.

    If I were to assign the title of victor to someone, I would award it to my pussy, seeing as during the night in question it was fingered, fisted, and fucked.

    He invited me over on a whim. For the purpose of my last statement, whim is defined as not giving me notice and after realizing he would have had to cancel our previously scheduled get-together the next day. He asked me to “bring my toys and an open mind.” Naturally, being it’s my mind, thoughts of actions that I imagine will never happen played out as I drove over.

    When I arrived, he looked a bit shocked at my toy bags, a piece of carry-on luggage on wheels and a matching shoulder bag. I explained to him this was quite normal, and that in fact my bag is smaller than others. This did not dissuade him, as he looked at my bags oddly for a moment or two and snickered.

    We sat and chatted, recounting our lives in the week and a half since we last saw each other. He had an adventure with some of his friends. I had good work and a few extra-curriculars to share. It was nice chatting with him.

    The conversation pivoted to Valentine’s Day, and how no one would guess that he is a romantic. He recounted a few of his gestures past, which were indeed quite over-the-top, sometimes playful, but always thoughtful.

    Currently, though, he had no one is his life to focus on for the holiday. I suggested he use the energy for a family member or a friend. He agreed family was a possibility, but hesitated on friends. I started to explain my logic when he stopped me, saying he had already thought about it and came to the conclusion that he would do something nice for me. Apparently I made one of my faces while processing his statement.

    Reaching into his couch cushions, he pulled out a box of chocolates. I accepted, thanking him for the gesture. I mentioned the last time I received chocolates for Valentine’s Day was many years ago from my father. I smiled, and set the box aside with my things so that I would not forget them.

    His surprise satisfied, he turned to my toy bags. Systematically, he pulled out my things. He looked, asked questions, but also wished for me to see his reactions. My toys did not include my bootblacking kit or my cigars.  They did, however, include my red teddy. He asked me if I was going to wear it that night. I said if he wanted me to. “Wrong answer.”

    He set my toys out in a rather OCD way, very neat and organized on a towel on the floor. He only pulled out about half a dozen coils of rope. He asked what my gloves were for.

    “Fisting.” – me
    “Am I going to fist you tonight?” – Gent
    “Possibly.”
    “Why possibly?”
    “If you choose to, you will.”
    Everything set out, he grabbed a coil of rope and pulled his chair over, placing himself in front on me as I sat on the couch. The Gent does not understand my love of rope, does not understand what it does for me. Still, he asked me to teach him some basic rope work.

    I switched into teaching mode. I took the coil from his hands, placed it back on the floor, grabbed a shorter length, and set out to make him learn. I started with the one column tie, showing him a rope cuff. As I worked, he fingered me. Possibly to distract me. Possibly to see how well I knew my craft. Possibly just because he wanted to. Except for a slight lilt in my voice one or twice, I taught as I normally would. He learned. I moved onto a two column tie. He learned.

    On a whim, I chain stitched the rope while waiting for him to return to the room. He liked the look of it and asked to learn that as well. I showed him quite a few times before handing the rope back to him. He wasn’t getting it. I sat on the floor in between his legs and showed him from my vantage point. He loomed over me.

    As he practiced, I started to distract him. Since I knew he liked biting, I nibbled at his forearm, which is quite muscular, but I stopped myself.

    “Are you worried about leaving a mark?”
    “Yes.”
    “Don’t.”
    I bit down hard, sinking my teeth as much as I could into his flesh. I heard his quick inhale. I bit and sucked at his muscles as he continued to practice. He told me to switch arms. At some point, he stopped practicing and reached down to again finger me.

    I bit. His fingers danced on my clit. I sucked. He moaned as I moaned. With my teeth still tight on his muscles, I asked permission to cum. He gave it, and then told me to not stop. I bit and I cried as my muscles contracted; wave after wave of sensation ran through me. As tears slowly slid down my face, as I moaned and bit, he hugged me close, and I pulled his arms around me.

    By the end, we both were sweaty and breathing heavy. I was endorphin high again, but that’s sort of become the norm for us. Of all my time that night, even with the fisting and the fucking, that moment with his arms around me and tears gliding down my face was my favorite.

    I reassured him my tears were a good sign. There are two ways to make me cry while scening: beat me really hard or make me orgasm intensely.  That moment was rather intense.

    The Gent had never fisted before. This was nothing new to me. I gladly taught him how I liked it, and suggested ways to adapt to other pussies. He rather enjoyed the activity, the many different ways he could control me with his entire hand inside me. What can I say other than I have the nickname for a reason.

    After the fisting, we both lulled into a relaxed high mood. My legs rested against his chair. He rested his hands on my legs. After a time, he began gliding his hands up and down my calves and thighs. He then started scratching my flesh. Eventually his hands again found their way to my clit.

    Soon enough, I again asked permission to cum. He made me wait, torturing me a little, before reprieving my need early. And even as he took his hands away, my abdomen heeded his earlier command. I felt almost trapped on his couch, orgasms tumbling, writhing there for him.

    I told him he had to tell me to stop. He said he didn’t want me to.

    I heard him take off his clothing. I opened my eyes to see him over me, wearing just his white undershirt. His cock was soon in my mouth. As I happily began my work, my abdomen finally quieted.

    He sat. I knelt before him, playing with his cock using my tongue and my face. I rubbed my breasts against him. I fooled around. I teased him horribly. It was all quite fun. At one point I tied his wrists back so he couldn’t influence my sucking of his cock. I rather liked that part, too.

    Once again I tried to deep throat and gagged horribly; baby steps. Once again he didn’t cum.

    He wanted to fuck me. He asked me how this would work. I explained I would safe word if I didn’t want him. He asked what word I would use. I had previously explained the standard stop light approach. He said that was too boring. I then suggest far-fig-new-gen. He was pleased with that option.

    So, the two of us, naked (except for his condom), ended up wrestling on his floor. The entire time we laughed. He is much stronger than me, but I have gotten a bit bendy-er since my yoga DVD, and I realized my hips need only be a little off to hinder him.

    As we’re laughing and sweating and possibly disturbing his neighbors, he pivoted so that I was on top of him. I pulled my hips up so he couldn’t thrust into me. With my chest leaning over him, he took the opportunity to suck on my nipples, which I rather liked.

    Then he said the wrestling no longer mattered because he’d gone soft. I called bullshit. He told me to just look. I, being an idiot, did. In my moment of lost focus, he finally entered me, after fifteen to twenty minutes of our horsing around. It was definitely not how I had fantasized our first fuck; meh.

    With him inside me, I gasped and sunk into the warm feeling of his cock. In that moment, I didn’t give a shit about the game. I was only mildly disappointed I didn’t wait longer. Mildly because I’m competitive. Mildly because he is an excellent fuck. Mildly because when cock is inside of me certain things are no longer worth my effort or energy to worry about.

    I came quite a few times. He eventually did as well. Even thinking about it now, a small grin forms on my face. Yeah, he’s a lot of fun.

    When we finished, it was required that we go get food. I accidentally hadn’t eaten for about nine hours. He wanted Thai. I politely asked for another style of cuisine. He asked me what I wanted. I said Italian, so we ended up at Olive Garden.

    We sat and ate and chatted. My stomach was not happy with me, so I consumed my meal quite slowly.

    “Did you plan tonight?” – me
    “Yeah.” – Gent
    “Oh, okay.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “What did you mean by ‘okay’?”
    “Hmm… That it is kind of disappointing to be so predictable.”

    The thing that had bothered me most about the idea of fucking the Gent was my belief that if we did screw either or both of us would be done with the other. I worried I would no longer be interested in being around him and/or he would also have no more interest in me. And funny enough, that didn’t happen.

    As we spoke, he mentioned how he likes to help his friends improve themselves. Apparently I am his latest pet project.

    “You are a long term project.” – Gent
    “Yup, I am a work in progress.” – me

    Over dessert, which settled better in my stomach than the rest of my meal, which later would sit in a box in my fridge, he started calling me out on my bullshit. My belief that I blend into the background. My insecurity issues. My tendency to put others’ feeling before my own.

    As he sat there, and I was forced to talk about the thoughts I locked away in my head, I realized we were not done with each other. I still liked being around him, and wanted to hang out with him in the future. And darn it, he seemed like he wanted to chill with me as well. That was a nice surprise, having all my unplesant assumptions and fears blown away. It’s kinda like people like me or something.

    As we stood in the foyer of the Olive Garden, takeout containers in hand, it had once again started to snow at the end of our encounter.

    5pm to 11:15pm, six and a quarter hours once more spent together; we’re cool like that.

  • Playing the Game

    We stood under the lights in a back alley, talking. Once again, I was in my dress blacks. Once again, we played pool and drank. This time he won, 3-2. The encounter did not last our normal length; he had to go to work early tomorrow morning, and technically I was still on the clock. Just three hours for tonight’s interactions.

    I attempted to take a photo of him. No matter how hard I tried, I could not get a shot that wasn’t blurred or looked good. For such an attractive person, he is really hard to photograph. Of course there is the fact that he enjoys my struggle at getting the shot. Everything is a game.

    He commented that a dark corner across the street behind some cars would be a good spot for us to fuck. I agreed it was an ideal location, as long as it was on the hood of one of the cars. He suggested doggy style. I didn’t like the prospect of gravel on my hands and knees. He seemed confused. What he envisioned was more bending me over and my resting my hands on the hood. I explained I viewed this as hitting it from the back, not doggy style.

    He asked why I wanted to take a photo of him. I said to attach it to his contact info in my phone. To… He interjected as I was about to give the real answer. I gave it after his interruption. It was an obvious answer. I still don’t have a good picture of him.

    He mentioned how I often, casually, slip into our conversations the fact that I find him highly attractive. It hadn’t occurred to me til he said it how often I’ve mentioned his looks. I guess it’s because I’m not used to someone as handsome as he having an interest in me. I made a mental note to try to break that habit.

    I asked him what he thought my over-under was. How long did he think I would last? He said I was already done. I didn’t understand his logic. He said I had already gone past the point where I’d be mad if I fucked him, therefore it was just a matter of time. He said it was a pity my submissiveness kept me from having what it was obvious I wanted.

    I stood up straight, squared my shoulders, popped my hip, and prepared to tell him the truth. I told him what I thought I never would. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to fuck him; that much was completely obvious. It was that I was not going to ever ask for it. I wanted him to take it. I wanted him to grab me by my hair, drag me to that dark spot behind the cars, and fuck me til I screamed and beyond that. I wanted him to take it; I was not going to give it.

    He made the point that this put all the power in his hands. This made it his decision. He had to want to fuck me. He asked me when I thought he would want to fuck me. I told him never. He thought this was sad. I explained my logic.

    He enjoys tension. He enjoys the build up. We have these both in leaps and bounds. I can’t foresee him releasing when he enjoys the suspense so.

    He disagreed. He said he would fuck me when I needed it. When my desire to fuck him outweighed my enjoyment of our game, then it would happen. I pointed out there was a flaw in his logic. There is a vast difference between need and want. Also, either way, I could fulfill my desire by seeking out another.

    He noted this was a possibility. But, more than likely, it will happen, sooner or later. Either I’ll beg for it or he’ll want it enough that he’ll just take it. He supposed it would happen randomly.

    I noted the two possible outcomes: my begging or his taking. I then inquired if I begged, did that mean he won? And if he took, did that mean I won? He found my conclusions to be too rigid. He assured me, when it happened, it would be obvious who was the victor.

  • Distraction

    I knew I only had a 50-50 shot of seeing the Gent. I knew I didn’t want to wait around at home only to be let down by his inability to have me over. I knew I needed a distraction.

    I ventured out to a kinky happy hour tonight. I dressed cuter than normal, just in case luck was on my side. I smelled good, looked good, and was in a generally good mood, but this was at the beginning of the night when I still held out hope.

    As the evening wore on, my mood slowly dipped down. As the minutes passed, it seemed less and less likely that he would be free tonight.

    I distracted myself with limes, booze, and friends. I spoke with a gorgeous couple, ArrogantSlut and WantAWhip. The subject of rope came up. I had just so happened to bring some; granted it was in hopes of using it on another, but being prepared for one eventuality can occasionally aid you in another endeavour.

    We found a spot to tie, but did not start. It turned out they were about to teach a class on basic rope, a class I felt I did not need. Rain check for later in the evening.

    I found myself at the bar. I slowly sipped my drink. I feasted on the limes of my friends. I realized my night was not going to work out as I had hoped.

    I sent the Gent two photos over text. He responded. We chatted. He confirmed my assumption.

    With the class ended, the lovely couple returned. It was time to cash in the chit. We again found a corner. I decided to be lazy. He sat in front of me as I tied.

    I wanted to be playful, try something new. I had strict parameters: tying only. No beating (punching, slapping, kneeing, etc), as I had hoped. For some reason I didn’t dare ask about kissing or massaging. To me, since one set of intimate acts was off limits, I didn’t bother to inquire about any other.

    I focused on my tying. On skin-to-skin contact. On cinching the rope tight. On having my body near his when possible. On the beauty of the forms. On the playfulness of my practice.

    For a few fleeting moments, I was happy-bubbly-giggly. For a while, I was pleased I’d come to happy hour. For a bit, I wasn’t disappointed.

    We might be able to squeeze in a dinner tomorrow, but more than likely I will not see him for at least a week. Total suckage.

    But I made new friends. I tied up a very cute muscular boy. And I have an open invitation to do it again. I’d call that winning.