poeticdesires

I do this every year, take an inventory of my life and talk about the fun I had on my birthday. With this being a milestone year, I really did it big: a nerdy convention, a Beyonce concert, and five Broadway shows in the span of one week. It was incredible and all I deserved to usher in the next decade of my life. I loved it and will probably be talking about it for the rest of this year because amazing. 

And while the joy has stayed with me since that vacation week, other more not so fun thoughts keep sitting on the surface of my mind. 

This is a milestone year, a huge change from one part of life to the next. Turning 40, while also coinciding with being half way through residency, has me thinking about what I want the next phase of my life to look like.

I have options, opportunities, and people all swimming around in my brain vying for attention. But the rub is I don’t know what I want.

I’ve struggled to decide the path my life will take beyond my job. 

One thing about this career: you start on the ride and it just keeps going. An MD stays an MD pretty much until death. MD’s don’t retire so much as they work less. And I don’t mind that specifically because my career is dedicated to helping people in a political climate keenly focused on stopping me. So my career gets to be a giant FUCK YOU to the people I despise, and I like that. 

But living my life in truth and honesty job wise and politics wise seems so easy, even though from others perspective it is the most difficult. For me, work is work but life is life. And trying to figure out my life is where all the murkiness floats up.

Am I ever going to get married? Maybe… But if I never did, would I be okay with that? 

I enjoy the freedom of single life, of being poly, of doing what I want with whomever I want whenever I want. Navigating the compromise of a committed relationship is at times alluring and daunting. I’m on the apps, and I’ve edited one of my profiles to be completely honest: I have a big brain, a big mouth, and a big ass. None of those things are going to change. Is there someone out there who can handle those disparate parts of me? Appreciate them? Encourage them? Love them? Because I’m not willing to sacrifice me to be the someone you have dreamed of. I’m not willing to lessen myself to make you feel bigger. I suppose I’ve been single this long because I’m not willing to act dumb, be silent, or change my body because of other people’s thoughts or opinions.

Let’s be honest: being single as a woman with modest means has been fun. I have had so many adventures, gotten in interesting circumstances, and have so many stories to tell – so many that I often read back on this blog and think ‘oh right, that did happen.’ Is that life, though not exactly the same, still close to possible with someone committed to me? 

Can I have a child? Do I want a child? 

Sometimes I think about my mother, the life she lived, how in the waning year of her life over and over she would tell me I was the best thing that ever happened to her. Though she would never characterize my existence as such, in its essence I was a happy mistake. She got pregnant while dating a married man and decided to keep the child. 

For me growing up, safer sex practices and the availability of contraception gave me the knowledge and freedom to never end up in the same situation. My having a child necessitates intention and choice in ever aspect of the process. I literally know how to start or stop it at every point. But to be brutally honest, a large part of why I’m not a mother is before jumping into this decade of life, I didn’t relish the thought of raising a child alone. I’m making more money now than I have ever in my life, so my finances are finally stable enough that I feel it is responsible to have a child on my own. But again, do I want that? Once you are a parent, you never stop being a parent. Do I want that?

I take responsibility in my work life. I make decisions and just go. Only forward, no turning back, all my effort and will towards meeting the career goal. But with this, my decision whether or not to have a child, I stand at the fork in the road and I keep waffling. Is my indecision my answer?

Pair this with the other parts of my social life and one can only laugh. 

I love attention. Fucking love it. I have this habit of texting multiple people at the same time to increase the odds of engaging in conversation with at least one because I want attention. I want interaction. My most depressed days often coincide with being alone for an extended period of time, especially in the setting of no interaction with anyone. I need people in some doses to feel like me, whether that’s in person or simply texts or calls. 

And so I find myself currently talking or texting or flirting with multiple people, not sure where any of it is going but enjoying the attention of it all. I’m trying to not put any expectations on anyone and just allowing the interactions to be as they are. 

I’m tired of taking the lead on things, tired of nudging things towards what I want because it seems so easy for them to ignore me. So instead, I’m enjoying and periodically ignoring them. Don’t initiate, but absolutely respond. Let them dictate. I’m so tired of games that I’m just not willing to play them any more. You want to talk to me, talk to me. You want to fuck me, then you have to ask for it. This former second or third fiddle is playing for herself from now on.

Karma has a way of laughing in my face at regular intervals. One of my long time and regular roster members has politely asked to step back from our usual calendar of meetups citing life worries. I get it, I truly do, but it could not have come at a more comical time. The last time we fucked was, as per usual, hot and extraordinary. We were vigorous, as is our nature, and it involved an extended period of anal sex leading to one of the best orgasms of my life. However, the recovery from that session has been complicated by a betrayal from my body. Y’all, a bitch has hemorrhoids. We fucked so hard I have hemorrhoids and I’m mad at myself for this, mad that my body has finally started to betray its age, but mostly mad that karma decided to do this now. I suppose then it’s a good thing I will not be fucking him for a while cause my booty hole needs a break. But shit, why do all of the best things in life come with unforeseen consequences?

Conversely, my… Shit I don’t even know what to call this man anymore. Hmm, new name is AAP. (No you don’t get to know what that stands for.) Anyway, AAP asked (via text) to incorporate more sex into our interactions. Mind you, this was not a request on my part. I just wanted to see them more and he brought up sex. He is another person where I feel karma coming for me. I thought about him as a forever person only for him to take a step back, but now he wants to move forward in this particular way and I find myself annoyed. On occasion, he’s been mean spirited towards me, slightly passive aggressive, in a way that doesn’t quite sit right with me and I’ve wondered what I am getting out of the interaction. Where is this ask for more sex coming from? Why do you want to go in this particular direction? I don’t get it. I’m not in a mood to analyze it. And beyond an occasional text, I don’t see it going as he plans. But we’ll see.

I’m talking to this other guy I recently met (so recent that I don’t want to give him a name yet). He is interesting and witty and smart and thoughtful and really everything I want in a partner. But quite frankly I’m hesitant. It’s very fresh, very new. I worry that since it is all so new I can’t put any expectations on what we are or what we could be. I’m open and honest in our interactions, but I’m also realistic in that we just starting talking. And I don’t know what he wants. And I question what I want because it feels too good to be true. And I’m almost holding my breath waiting for a red flag or a disappointment. All I keep thinking is, ‘This is great, but when is he going to tell me he’s not in a place for a relationship or he just wants to have fun without commitment or he doesn’t see me that way.’ Yeah, I self sabotage. I know it. For now, I’m just going to enjoy the ride that has literally just started.

Also, I met a boy at the nerd convention. We’ll call him Sword Fighter. He was cute and charming and we are suppose to get together in a couple weeks to see if there is something there. We had a scene that was incredibly hot (impact, breath play, biting) at the convention, but we didn’t kiss and didn’t fuck. We’ve texted a bit and we mesh on different levels. But he already has multiple partners. And he lives three hours away. So I don’t know what this could be other than maybe some occasional visits and great hookups. Shit, this is me self sabotaging again, isn’t it. Why do I keep doing that?

Okay, enough rambling. Wrapping this up.

I don’t look my age. I actually hope to never look my age. I absolutely don’t feel my age. And I endeavor to never act my age. I’m just going to be me, and see what happens. I’ll keep you posted.

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~ erotica ~

“You look beautiful sweet girl.”
“Thank you Daddy.”
“Why did you ask to meet?”
“I was pretty tonight and wanted you to see me in my dress. Also I was feeling especially horny and so I thought of you.”
“Always happy to be on your mind.”

He kissed me on my forehead, pulled out the tall chair at the bar, and helped ease me into my seat.

“What would you like to drink tonight, baby?”
“My favorite, please.”

He waved over the bartender.

“Bourbon neat for me and a whiskey sour for the lady.”

We sat at the corner of the bar in the back, dim lights barely making our figures perceivable from twenty feet away. We tended to gravitate towards dark almost private corners. 

The slit in my rose gold dress rose to middle of my thigh. He slid his hand up my skin and settled it on his usual protective possessive position.

“What was the occasion tonight?”
“Work dinner. Yearly awards ceremony. I like to stunt on my co-workers every once in a while, remind them how bad of a bitch I can be.”
“I think they know that from your work everyday, sweet girl.”
“Yes, Daddy, but this is different. The OR is gross. What we do is amazing, and gross. Me looking pretty is not something they often see.”
“But I do.”

He leaned in and nuzzled his nose to my ear as his hand crept higher. 

“And you look exceptionally fuckable tonight.”
“You always make me feel so special, Daddy.”

His free hand grabbed my chin, pulling my gaze to his.
“Because you are, my sweet girl.”

The hand on my thigh crept still higher, now feeling the wetness that sprang from my lower lips.

“You are smart, talented, beautiful, and a fucking badass. Do you hear me?”
“Yes Daddy.”
“That’s my sweet girl.”

He kissed me like the first time, when we stood in a light drizzle on a fall night years ago, after he said he wasn’t the relationship type and I said I was married to my work. His tongue took possession of my mouth then and now, demanding its due, forcing waves of pleasure to pass over me. I swooned the first time we kissed. This time, I was glad I was sitting down. 

His middle finger tip gently swept aside the hood of my clit and ever so slightly grazed the sensitive ball of nerves. I gasped into his mouth.

“Daddy,” I moaned breathlessly. 

He bit my lip. My eyes shot open. I don’t know when I had closed them, but now I stared deep into him.

“Mine,” he said, not as a question but as a statement of fact, a declaration. No matter what others thought, what we seemed to be in their inquisitive stares, all that mattered was that I was his.

“Always,” I sighed.

He leaned back, bringing his hand to his face. I watched as he inhaled my scent and licked his finger.

“What time do you have to be at hospital tomorrow?”
“I don’t; day off. Do you have to go into the office?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Oh. How much can I have of you tonight?”
“I have to get back in about an hour.”
“Oh.” I tried to not show my disappointment too much.

At that moment, the bartender sat down our drinks.

I picked up my glass, swished the liquor and mixer around, and threw back the alcohol in a few gulps.

“My place?” I asked.

He huffed, and a large grin spread across his face.

“Of course.” He grabbed his drink, took three big gulps, and stood.

Instinctively, he reached out his hand to mine and I grabbed it. I used it for balance as I hoped off the tall bar stool onto my heals. My eyes were almost to the level of his chin.

“You are so tall.”
“And you are so beautiful.”

He spun me around, taking in the floor length dress.

“More of this. I want to see you in more dresses.”
“Well, you know this one is special. You got it for me that one random Spring Sunday as a reward for me cleaning out my closet. We went to that little boutique.”
“Yes, and…” He leaned in. “I fucked you in that dressing room while the attendant at the cash register pretended to not hear us.”
“I remember. You wouldn’t let me moan.”

As he leaned into me, I could feel the hard on forming in his pants.

“We should get going. You do have to get back to the office.”
“Yes, but not before I sink so deep into you you’re crying and climaxing at once.”
“Promise?”

He kissed me again, cupping the back of my head and half dipping me. I gripped onto his shirt, wishing only to rip it off. His hand slid down and pressed into my back as the other swept over my hip to then grip my ass. One of my legs rose, pulling his hips towards my crotch.

“Ahem.” The bartender coughed, getting our attention. Our check sat in a black leather billfold. 

We turned back towards each other and laughed. Daddy pulled out a $50 and handed it over saying “keep the change”.

He then gripped my hand and led me out of my favorite dive bar less than a block away from my apartment and my bed.

As we walked out, I wondered what people thought of this older looking man in a business causal suite leading my young looking self in my formal gown away. 

But the wetness between my pussy lips didn’t actually fucking care.

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I am a stupid stubborn asshole. 

I have been sick for a week and only barely told anyone about it. 

Yes, the job because they had to know. 

Yes, the partner because he would’ve caught on pretty quickly. We text everyday and when he asks “How goes it?” it’s the one opportunity in my life where I don’t have to lie when answering. Also, unfortunately, he tends to be a better advocate for my health than I am. “TAKE ALL THREE DAYS!!!! Yes, that is me yelling.”

I blame the graduating residency class. They wanted people to come out to celebrate them on Friday night. They picked a bar that was mostly outdoors. I thought I was safe. Low and behold, I was the only non-senior there for the first hour. Everyone kept hugging me and bringing me in close (and buying me drinks). Saturday morning I thought it was a hangover I was feeling. Nope, they gave me the crud. 

I pushed through a Sunday shift barely eating anything because my throat hurt so bad to swallow. Even my saliva, fam. It was agony.

Monday I showed up to work feeling like shit run over, hoping my boss would see me and then send me home, which technically she did… after the morning procedures were complete. Still, I was thankful for the reprieve. 

I limped back to my car, drove home, and couldn’t help but sleep in my car for an hour before dragging myself up to my apartment and sleeping for another five hours. When I woke up, I actually felt worse. I called out for the next day on the spot. I forced down a can of Campbell’s soup, stayed horizontal for a few hours on the couch, and then went right back to bed.

Tuesday, I went to Urgent Care. They diagnosed me with an upper respiratory infection and an outer ear infection. Thankfully, negative for COVID, flu, and Strep. I got meds and a work note. I only managed half a can of soup that day.

I spent the rest of the week cycling between my bed, my couch, and the bathroom.

Getting older is the pits. I don’t remember it taking this long to get better. Taking this long to be able to breath out of my nose again. My god, you don’t even realize the wonder of being able to breathe out of your nose at will, unobstructed airflow in and out. I have had to be a mouth breather for the past week. I’ve felt like a barbarian. 

On my worst days, I was slumped on the couch, in pain, dejected, fighting for every breath. My head swam and felt like a weight. I chided myself for trying to move too quickly through my apartment. I’d tell myself to walk slower during the 20 foot trek from my couch to the bathroom. Once or twice, I cried.

I am taking medicine every 4-6hrs, but since I am on four different medications I set alarms on my phone. 

0200 – All meds 

0600 – Tylenol sinus 

0800 – syrup + Ibuprofen 

1000 – Tylenol sinus

1400 – All meds

1800 – Tylenol sinus

2000 – syrup + Ibuprofen + ear drops

2200 – Tylenol sinus

Rinse and repeat.

I got really good at opening pill packs while still half asleep.

I hate being sick. I fucking hate it. 

I lose all control of a body that now takes much longer to heal. I had to miss work, which was especially galling because it was in a clinic I loved last week. I felt so guilty for not working but also so angry that I felt any guilt about being sick because I was actually factually absolutely fucking sick. 

I could not safely hold a scalpel last week. Shit, I could barely hold my head up last week. Thick, regretfully colorful, gunk came out of my nose every five minutes. At night, when I woke up to evacuate my sinuses, I saw way more red in my tissue than was comforting. My daily shower was a chore. I couldn’t smell my food until after I’d blown my nose and, for the briefest of moments, I could breathe in through my nostrils, allow the chemoreceptors to work, and the taste became brighter, and the scents emerged, and I remembered why I liked that food in the first place.

I subsisted on applesauce and Amazon Prime. I finished The Marvelous Ms. Maisel mostly because their quick talking took my mind off the fact I had barely spoken a word in days. When I tried, my voice was a broken thing. I barely ate for three days at the start, Sunday through Tuesday. Out of morbid curiosity, I weighed myself. I lost seven pounds in just over a week.

Looking at myself in the mirror was how I knew things were truly bad. The face that stared back at me looked like a old crone, hunched over, haggard. ‘That can’t be me’ I thought, even as reality said it was so. 

But it was the mirror that also let me know I was getting better. When the roundness of my cheeks returned. When my eyes no longer looked hooded, but merely open. When color crept back, and my face began to look like my face again, I knew I was on the mend.

I start back work on nights tomorrow. No, I am not looking forward to it. I will be bringing my medications (save the ear drops) with me, as well as a box of tissues and a bag for the discards. I’m not well yet, but I am much better now. And, for brief moments today, I have be able to breathe with my mouth closed. I’ll take the little wins.   

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D and I met in medical school. He is very attractive: average height, medium brown skin, rugby fit body, long brown dreadlocks, and a cocky personality that I couldn’t help but find appealing.

In medical school, I was honest with D in a way that I often could not be with other classmates. I hid parts of myself at times from them for both creature comfort and a wish to not be judged for my previous and continued subculture life. But with D, somehow he could tell something was up, something about me was different. He once told me it was in the way I carried myself, in the random things I knew about sexuality and sex, and the initial edited stories I told him. It wasn’t long before I allowed myself to be truly myself around D.

Our chill times together were occasionally transactional but in an oddly funny way. I’d come to hang at his place, he’d randomly ask me for this or that, and I’d charge him. He’d laugh but then pay me for whatever random thing it was he wanted or needed: folding his clothes, helping him get face masks, or walking him through the process of signing up for a big test.

Other times, when we hung out with mutual friends, it was just kind of fun and relaxed, nothing big.

But when my honesty extended to my sex life, or rather lack therefore while in medical school, I let it be known I found him attractive. He played it off often, saying he refused to fuck anyone in our class for fear of drama. No matter my insistence that all I wanted was dick, he politely declined. 

Well, until we were about one month away from graduating, had all but finished our requirements, and had way too much free time on our hands.

I came over to his place. He had just gotten out of the shower, clean and refreshed. He laid on his bed and invited me to give him head. I setup my blue tooth speaker, stripped down to just my underwear, and enjoyed myself for about an hour.

His dick was beautiful. A fun time was had by us both.

I reminisce on this moment now because of the randomness that is life.

This past Sunday, I flew back from my vacation in New Orleans. As soon as I leaned my head back in my Uber, ready to sleep for the roughly hour long drive home, I got a call from D. He had previously offered to come visit me a few times, including this day, but we’ve never been able to make it happen including this past Sunday. Resident life such as it is.

So instead he asked me about my life. I asked him about his. We caught up.

But then he veered the conversation towards my sex life, or once again lack thereof. Lately, I’ve had sex only, at best, once a month. Life has been kicking me in the teeth, so my lack of good dick is on par for my current circumstances. But then D told me he still remembers our one session at his place fondly, says my blow job was one of the best of his life and he, in retrospect, was kicking himself for not taking me up on my offer sooner. My ears perked up. I was no longer tired. Why was D mentioning this?

Way too often, I forget I make an impression on people. This situation with D is just example number 45 or so of me putting less stock in myself than others.

That being said, D offered to be added to my roster. My next vacation is around my birthday, so the rough plan is for me to drive up to him on that Tuesday, spend the night, and then drive down to a concert on Wednesday. 

Yes folks, you read that right: I have scheduled (almost) birthday sex three months in advance. 

My life is so random sometimes.

We will need to have a conversation about expectations. I want his dick in more than just my mouth this time. But anticipation of seeing him again, of fucking him again in whatever way we collectively agree, has brought a small smile to my face for the past few days.

I do love having something to look forward to, especially knowing that it’s good dick.

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~ erotica ~

I am his beck and call girl. 

I spend my days quietly waiting, hoping, for his text. When it arrives, it is a place and a time to meet. 

Most often, he sends a hotel name. “The Hyatt downtown, 5pm.” There is always time to shower, shave, and show up smelling sweet and clean.

Sometimes he tells me a restaurant or a bar. On those nights, my moans might be muffled by his hand or the crook of his neck, or drowned out by loud thumping music, or ignored by a driver behind a partition. I know which restaurants in the city have the cleanest restrooms, most spacious supply closets, and filthiest allies.

Occasionally, we meet at an apartment in an unassuming brownstone filled with beautiful barely used furniture and a citrus scent that permeates my clothes after I’ve left. When we meet at the Brownstone, I know I won’t be back home until the next day. I fall asleep in his arms, wake up to breakfast ready with him fully dressed and a kiss on the forehead before he’s off to work. He pays the rent for the place and has offered for me to move in. For now, I politely decline, instead enjoying our times together and not blurring the separation between my time with him and my life without him. 

Sometimes, he tells me what he wants me to wear. The tight gray dress, no underwear and no bra. The black skirt with the red top and the black bra. The booty shorts and burgundy tank top and the grey hoodie but unzipped so he can see my tits. On special nights, he directs me to the Brownstone to get ready, a tailored outfit waiting for me. I never know what those nights will bring (an opera, a play, a soirée) but they always end in the fabric ripped off me and delicious teeth marks in delicate places.

He loves it when I strip for him. He asked me to do it once and I’ve done it ever since. In restaurant bathrooms, he simply wants me to hike up my skirt and tease down my top. In the apartment, I do a full show ending on my knees, arms in the air, presenting myself for his pleasure.

When I am brave, I ask him if I might undress him. More often than not, he says yes. I think he likes the attention as much as I do. I slowly unbuttoned his dress shirts, kissing and nipping at his skin, until he can take the flirtation no longer, ripping off his garments and ramming into me. The best is when he orders me to undress him. Never mean but always stern.

“Unbuckle my belt, unzip my pants, and pull out my cock.”

“Run your nails down my chest, then up my back.”

“Slowly massage my thighs up towards my crotch, but stop before touching my dick.”

He loves to call me his good girl when he fucks me. I love to call him Daddy when I fuck him. He always cums. I always cum. Multiple times. He lets me bite and scratch and nip him. He leaves me pretty bruises by which to remember our time. I see them in the mirror each morning and night as I get ready for my day and get ready for bed. All reminders, all little memories. As they fade, I begin to miss him more, and anticipate the next time I’ll get his text.

Once, he told me he’d come over to my place. It was the only time I refused him. He changed the location to the Brownstone and fucked me in the most gentle tender way I had ever experienced all night long. We finished sweaty and exhausted, passing out curled up into one another.

He is my fantasy made flesh, my spoiler, my comfort in cuming, my Daddy. He never makes me feel like a whore. He never gives me money, nor do I ever ask for it, even when I need it, but he drops his card for the check every time, sends me gifts just because, pays bills without my knowing, and takes me whenever he pleases. 

He is mine and I am his, one moment at a time.

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[Side note: Yes, I could have posted something meaningful and thoughtful today, but I did not have the spoons to do so. Instead, please enjoy this random sexy thought that popped into my brain before bed. I will (maybe) be more thoughtful next time.]

~ erotica ~

She raced home after work, thrust the front door open, dropped her things, and immediately went to the study.

When she saw him in his usual corner, sitting and reading with his glasses a third of the way down his nose, she rushed to him, dropped to her knees, and laid her head in his lap.

“Yes, my little one. Rough day at work?”

“Not rough, per se. Just long. Knowing you go on vacation as soon as you’re done with the day makes the day SO MUCH longer.”

“It’s okay, my sweet. Your day is done. Let all of that go. You’re here, now, with me. What is the first thing you want to do for your vacation?”

“You mean besides sitting here with you doing that for an hour?”

He began stroking her hair, and never stopped, from the moment her head dropped into his welcoming lap.

“Yes, besides your head scritches, what else do you want to do this evening?”

“Can we do something… while naked?”

“Naughty already. I can see what kind of week this will be.”

“When I asked what you wanted from the week, you said beach and sand and comfort. Why wouldn’t I want to be naked the entire time. I would think you’d want me that way, in fact.”

“Ok my little firecracker. Yes, we can be naked. What else?”

He gripped her hair, eliciting a sigh he so loved hearing.

“Can we be naked in bed while you do this for a bit?”

“So simplistic. Yet I think you know we will not be just giving and receiving pets for long.”

“I’m counting on it.”

She brushed the palm of her hand across his trousered lap. He was already hard.

“Are we going to be naughty or nice this evening?”

“Why must I chose?”

His fingers sunk into her scalp, clenched, and brought her face to his.

“Which would you like to start with, then?”

Her eyes were half sleepy as she took in the pleasure and pain of the moment.

“I think you know which.”

His teeth sunk into her neck as his free hand grasped her breast through her clothes. His book was forgotten on the floor.

As they laid in bed, her body sore in all the best places, she nuzzled her head into his chest as he stroked her hair. Their legs were interlocked. They were sweaty and exhausted and happy. She absentmindedly purred, one of the quirks he so loved about her.

“Happy vacation, my Good Girl.”

“Thank you Daddy.”

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“What’s your name?”
“Steven.”
“Ugh, another one.”

I have a singular talent for sticking my foot in my mouth swiftly and without notice.

Steven was intelligent, attractive, and funny as fuck. I met him at a kickback this weekend, just a bunch of Black residents drinking, chatting, and chilling, exactly what I needed in the middle of my current exhausting nights rotation.

Steven is a tall, slender but muscular, Black man, smart as a whip, and has this way of engaging everyone in conversation, connecting while conversing. He’s partially bald, with arms that remind me too much of a crush I had in med school. He’s originally from Nigeria, but his family moved to New Jersey when he was a kid.

“My accent comes out when I’m mad and driving.”
“Wow, that’s two Stevens I know now from New Jersey.”

Yeah, I wanted him like five minutes after we met.

He made me laugh so hard that I cried, twice. In an impromptu music session, he sang a couple John Legends songs while being accompanied by a keyboard played by the host.

Like me, he made a decision that drastically changed the course of his life. That impressed me.

Of course I wanted this man.

And, of course, he is currently dating someone else.

I learned that lesson early. If I meet any attractive intelligent Black man in medicine, he will either be gay, taken, or a fuck boy. And I am done with fuck boys.

We had a brief moment before he left. We all hug goodbye by nature, but after he gave me a hug, he said, “I’ll will definitely remember you, Dr. ‘Dad’s last name’.” “Actually, it’s Dr. ‘Mom’s last name.’” “Ah, right. Black families.”

I hope I get to see Steven again sometime.

~

I am never fucking TK again.

TK messaged me randomly saying he was free and asked if he could come over. I was free, so I said sure. I had just eaten an edible and felt happy to have some company.

TK sat on my couch and we started watching a show on Netflix. I let him know I was in a good mood because of the company and because I was high.

TK encouraged me to cuddle with him as we watched the show. Then his hand slipped under my robe and began massaging my nipple. The edible made the sensation even more acute. My breathing deepened, then quickened. I could feel my sex arousing. Could hear my breaths turn into soft moans. I grabbed his other hand and guided it under my pajama pants, pressed his fingers onto my clit, arched my hips up and let my head fall back. My moans grew louder, then turned into expletives. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Let’s go back to the bedroom.”
“No, let’s fuck right here while we watch the show.”

TK is playful by nature, so I went with it. We were both naked in seconds. He stroked himself, gripped my hips, and rubbed his dick against my lower lips.

“Condom.”
“I don’t have one.”
“I’ll grab one. Give me a sec.”

Even when I am high, I still have my faculties for the most part and can mostly control my actions. I was not going to fuck this man, hot as he was, without a condom. I brought out two just in case. He put one on, then turned me so that I faced the TV while he sat on the couch. We fucked while watching In From The Cold.

His cock was pleasing, and I let my pleasure be known in my moans and expletives.

We switched positions, me now sitting on his lap and riding. Like before when we’d fucked, he gnashed at my nipples. “Softer, Jesus, softer. You are always so rough.” Nipple sucking is my kryptonite. Nipple gnashing is not fucking fun. Red, sore, bruised nipples were not something I wanted to experience again.

We switched positions again, this time me face down ass up on the floor.

“How do you feel about a video, or a picture?”
“Can’t. My career. It would ruin.”

I turned to make sure he wasn’t holding his phone in his hand.

“Fuck it, let’s go back onto the bed.”

I paused the show.

Standing on the edge of my bed, bent over, I felt the tip of his cock at my asshole. A small push. And then another. “You are not fucking my ass tonight, especially not without lube, but definitely not tonight.”

Up on the bed, he was inside me, pounding hard, my legs splayed.

“I want to cum inside you.”
“You can cum on me.”
“Where?”
“My tits.”
“No, I’ll just cum inside the condom.”

He finished. I was annoyed. What the ever loving fuck!?!

Laying on my bed, his hand lazily played with one of my nipples. I grabbed my vibrator, put it to my clit, and let him be mean to my nipples for a few minutes as I came.

He put on his clothes and left as soon as I finished. We hugged bye. He was all smiles.

As I closed the door on him, I knew he would never again be invited into my home.

~

Bacon and I had a random conversation over Twitter today. We both happened to be awake at 6am this morning. I was horny, because I’m pretty much always horny, and asked if he wanted to come over. He did, but he wanted to be up front: he wanted sex without a condom.

What the fuck is up with all these guys trying to fuck me without a fucking condom!?! Have y’all never heard of a sexually transmitted infection or unintended pregnancy. I cannot be fucking pregnant right now. Like for real, what this shit is going on?

We did not fuck. He did not come over. I remained horny, and frustrated on multiple levels.

~

I got stood up for a Hinge date, twice.

Same coffee shop. Same promise to meet me there. The first time he couldn’t make it because of a last minute conflict. The second time he just forgot.

After the second enraging and embarrassing moment, he messaged me saying, “I feel awful. I’m the worst. I still want to meet you. Next time, I’ll come to you. Here is my number.”

I am too kind of a person. I keep vacillating between whether I should message him back and try one more time or just unmatch and move on. I’ve asked two different groups of people and the answer was the same: block him with a swiftness.

In my head, I keep giving him the benefit of the doubt. But also, I was the one who was hurt, twice. So yeah, gonna chalk it up to the game and try again with someone else.

~

I had a Panera coffee date last weekend. It was… whelming. Not great. Not terrible. Just was.

I forget who said that was a sign I should peace out on this dude, too.

There were no sparks. He was somewhat attractive, and somewhat intelligent, but there was no buzz, no undercurrent, no tension, no energy. It felt like practice.

I guess that’s what it was, a practice date for others to come.

This single shit is annoying.

~

I had a guy unmatch with me because I explained that I do not give out my phone number until I’ve met someone in person. I need a vibe check, to get a feel for the person first.

He was hot, had good conversation, and we had some things in common. But I set a simple boundary and he baled immediately. Dodging bullets left and right, I guess.

And so I continue to deal with the foolishness of Black men and these fucking apps.

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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 is 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 theme.)

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. 

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Want to know how you can get the most out of a TikTok Ad campaign? Keep reading to find out how to use TikTok for Business to construct compelling campaigns that cut-through the noise of the fyp.

TikTok reportedly passed one billion users in September 2021, providing a compelling case for adding the platform to your digital marketing strategy. After exploding in popularity during the pandemic, TikTok has become inescapable – even if you don’t use it, the social media you do consume is heavily influenced by it.

There’s a reason that #tiktokmademebuyit is perennially trending. Video-focused, fast and furious, TikTok is a trend machine that has taken the social media world by storm. And it has generated countless niche audiences, at least one of which is bound to be the ideal fit for your brand or product. 

What’s your goal?

First, make sure you’re clear about what you want to achieve. Start with some basic questions. How do you want to present your brand on TikTok? What do you want people to do after they see your ads? How can TikTok ads be used to expand your customer base? 

It’s important to consider the platform’s point of difference if you want to create a campaign that resonates with the platform’s users. You’ll need to be ready to generate multiple, fresh ideas on a weekly, if not daily, basis. You’ll also need to decide how you can translate your brand values and services into something that works on TikTok, be sure to check this site.

You can have fun with campaigns. TikTok ads offer opportunities for brands to be creative with their storytelling. The speed and impermanence of the platform also allows you to experiment in real-time. Provided you don’t post anything heinous, mistakes go largely unnoticed and are unlikely to have any lasting impact.

Know your audience

TikTok most definitely is not just for teenagers. It may skew to a younger demographic, but the sheer numbers of engaged users means that there is an engaged user base spread across the demographics. It should be possible for every brand to connect with their ideal audience.

And connection is king on TikTok. In conflicted times, people want to feel connected to brands more than ever. That is definitely true of Generation Z, and of TikTok users in general. Brands that establish positive connections with their audience can foster greater loyalty than you’d expect given the speed of the

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~ 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.

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