I first felt it when she flung her glasses open before putting them on like two weeks ago. It was just something in the dorkiness mixed with snark that was just… Yup, I have a crush again.
It’s been such a long time since I’ve had a new crush. Exhaustive soul sucking work will do that.
Her sarcasm is the best. She has a dark sense of humor similar to my own, but she says the shit out loud. She can, though. She’s not an intern.
And, she’s white.
What does it say about me that I judged myself when I first felt the flutters for her because I was starting to fall for someone white?
Wait, am I falling for her? Maybe.
There was a moment in the OR today where I had no choice but to be pressed up against her. My heart raced. I wonder if she heard the quickening of my breath?
She is so good. Levelheaded. Confident. Skilled. So much better than me. And yet, when we work together, she always finds a way to uplift me, to encourage me even as I feel like a fucking imbecile or idiot most days.
I was so happy she was with me in the OR today. She was an emotional rock when the attending was being a total dick.
I think about what it would be like with her. I want to kiss her. More than kiss her.
We’re getting Jamaican food tomorrow. Just us two. A friendly meal, but I want to be more than friends. Yes, don’t shit where you eat, but we only work with each other for another two weeks. And then what?
And then, what?
I’m doing that thing again where I have whole conversations and thoughts and multiple tangents about what ifs and maybes about a person because my heart doesn’t know how to do this.
I don’t know how to do this.
It feels like I’m fucking up before I even get started.
Have I been coming on too strong? Is it too obvious? Am I too much? Do I laugh too hard? Talk too much? Try too much?
I hate this shit.
I really like her.
She probably has a girlfriend.
She’s watched all of P Valley and talked to me about Drag Race.
She calls me buddy and friend. Are those hints? Hints that I don’t want or hints that I do?
She probably has a girlfriend.
I do too much.
Fuck.
Fuck!
Am I ever going to find love?
(Side note: I’m typing this from my iPad because my laptop is all but dead. Audio recording of this sometime in the future when I figure out a work around.)
Update:
We spent two hours at my apartment eating Jamaican food and shooting the shit. I opened up and told her about my life before med school. She spoke about her plans for the day including seeing an ex and decorating Christmas cookies in an attempt to be the bigger person.
I really REALLY like her, but we are just friends. She called me buddy again in parting. I’m taking the hint.
However, and I confirmed this with her (cause I always need reassurance in such things), we will be friends even after we stop working together in two weeks. I’ll take the small victories.
When I first griped his dick, I knew the sex would be good. His dick looked average when he sent me short videos of him jacking off over Instagram. Still, he drove nearly an hour and a half just to come see me. I was going to fuck him, no matter how tired I was from work.
I fucked that man on a work night. It lasted fifteen minutes. It was good, but would’ve been better if it lasted longer.
He was very focused on me for the week leading up to him coming over. He sent me Instagram messages everyday. He wanted to mutually masturbate via DM. I wanted to get to know him. There was a playful push and pull.
And so, on a Wednesday, when this man said he wanted to come to my place to rub my scalp, and was okay with me kicking him out before I had to go to work at stupid o’clock in the morning, I sent him my address.
I showered before and met him at the door in my lobby in just a hoodie, some short shorts, and my slippers.
TQ was tall. And thick. Built like a football player. I liked that.
We chatted on my couch for a bit before I unzipped my hoodie, revealing I was not wearing anything under it.
“Are you okay with me being topless?”
“Sure but know I will look at your titties.”
I took off my hoodie. He kissed me, my neck, sucked on my nipples.
“Okay, come on.”
I led him to my bedroom. He got undressed quickly and pulled out a short strip of condoms.
He kissed me, encouraged me up onto my bed. As I laid back, he kissed me and fingered me and I reached over to play with his cock. This boy was thick. A slight surge of pleasure slipped through me knowing that cock was going to be inside me.
TQ was almost excellent. Don’t get me wrong, the sex was good, but TQ was thick but quick. We fucked for maybe fifteen minutes. He liked going deep, finishing his stroke pattern with a thrust that seemed like he was trying to hurt me which could’ve been great but eh… How do I put this? One trick ponies have one trick. I’m varsity and he’s JV. I wanted the pump fake crossover ankle break spin move bank off the backboard game winner kid of play, but he just gave me free throws and one or two 3’s from the top of the key.
He finished by painting my ass with his cum. I asked him if he would finger me and suck on my nipples while I rode my vibrator. He did and I came hard, screaming how much I loved having his thick dick inside me.
And then he didn’t stay.
I used the restroom and by the time I was done he was already putting his clothes on. At the time I was appreciative because, deep down I knew if he had stayed we probably would’ve fucked again randomly in the middle of the night when I should’ve been sleeping before work. Now though…
He left. I striped the bed, took a shower, and went to sleep.
Next day, radio silence.
Friday, quiet as well.
Of fucking course.
We limped along, DMing off and on for two more weeks. On the first night of my vacation, I messaged him saying he should come visit me again.
“Hey, I’m sorry but I want to be honest with you. I just started seeing someone else seriously.”
“Understandable; good luck with your new relationship.”
As quick as TQ and I started, we were done.
Part of me wonders what would’ve happened if I hadn’t invited him over that night. Part of me wonders if I’ll ever get to actually date anyone. This shit is confusing and kinda hurtful.
I’m tired of being pumped and dumped.
Part of being an FWB is being a fucking friend. But so many dicks tend to forget that first part of the acronym.
Comments Off on What Happened to the F in the Acronym?
I’m on three different dating apps swiping right on so many people because I want their time, their dick, and their attention.
I will text previous hookups just for their replies and some possible sexy conversation because I like the attention. Each interaction, each picture or message, is a dopamine hit to my brain washing over my body like a smooth draw from a joint.
I get antsy when I don’t have someone’s attention. Frustrated even. Angry, or depressed, depending on the day. I crave attention.
Of course, I want it on my schedule with my availability because, you know, I’m selfish. (I’m leaning into the fact that I am not as sweet and as kind as I often portray.)
I crave what I don’t have. On days when there is nothing to do, no fun to be had with others, on these days especially I yearn for attention.
The fact that I have not been able to establish a consistent FWB situation is incredibly frustrating. Consistent weekly dick would be enough to fill my attention quota, though I would still be on the apps seeking out yet more attention from others, not because I would need it but because I am greedy.
I already know dating me will be… interesting for some folks. The push and the pull of me wanting you to focus on me, or me wanting you to go the fuck away.
I am quick to judge, quick to condemn, and fully a snob about so many things. I will not forgive some slights, unless you have bomb dick. Bomb dick will let you get away with so many sins.
But the one sin, the one that is hardest to forgive, is not giving me full undivided concentrated attention.
I want your gaze, your focus, your energy directed on me.
Like, you don’t realize how difficult it’s going to be as an intern until you are crying in the bathroom after your shift sobbing, “I will get better at this. I will get better at this.”
And yet, it happened once during my first rotation. At least it only happened once.
I’m lucky to have friends, former medical school classmates, who matched close to where I currently work. On the miraculous weekend days where we actually are free to see each other, we bitch about work. We can’t help it. When you work anywhere from 11 to 15 hours a day five to seven days a week, you don’t really have much else to talk about.
I love and hate that this is my new life.
I get to be a doctor. My dream is literally coming true right before my eyes in the moment, and yet there are moments where I just want to scream and cry and quit.
It’s so hard.
I learned what necrotic tissue smells like yesterday. It was the worst smell of my life. I can’t forget it. It permeated the room. It got trapped in my mask. It was so strong, I wondered if I was about to vomit on my patient’s bed.
I didn’t. I kept my cool, cleaned off the dressing, and left them to rest. I then walked down the hallway, ripped off my mask, and gasped for air for fifteen seconds before heading off to clinic.
I will, most likely, smell that wretched scent again sometime before my four years are up.
This doctor shit is really fucking hard.
Having the title means nothing if you are not the person your patients need you to be. The access, the vulnerability. Sick people allow you to see them and touch them at their worst. It still boggles my mind when I walk into a room to talk to a patient, and then pull up their gown to look at and touch their body. Where else is this allowed, is the norm, where at times you freely relinquish your bodily autonomy?
Seeing what my patients go through scares me. It gives me this new perspective on life, on how I would deal with situations if I were them. And frankly, I would do it so different.
If I am going to die, fuck chemo and radiation and surgery. If I am going to die, I am quitting my job and leaving this wretched place. If I am going to die, I will suck and fuck every dick and cunt from here to kingdom come. I won’t live my last days in a hospital bed with folks desperately trying to give me another shitty thirty minutes when I could be enjoying five joyous ones.
Every day of intern year is another day to feel like an idiot, a fuck up, and wonder if you’re about to hurt someone or if you will ever get it right.
I struggle to hold onto my child like whimsy in this profession. I struggle to keep to the values that got me this far. I know what I want to do in my career, but getting through the next 3 1/2 years to be able to do that is going to be… rough.
What makes it better are the patients, the staff, and my family and friends. When I walk into a room, introduce myself as doctor, and then my patients keep calling me doctor throughout our encounter. When the staff in the hospital call me Doc when they walk through the halls in greeting. Each time my friends tell me how proud they are of me. Each time my mom introduces me as her daughter, the doctor. Each smile and hug and heartfelt congratulations. It’s been enough. Enough to keep me going. Enough for me to not quit.
I don’t want to quit. I want my clinic life, with my diverse queer patients giving them comforting affirming healthcare. I want to work less than 12 hours a day. I want to have weekends and vacations and a life with the people that I love and care about. I want a life outside of medicine.
It’s funny, in conversation with one of my coworkers I mentioned that I go to a happy hour once a week. They were shocked that I had some thing, even though it’s just a little something, that had nothing to do with medicine, but I was able to regularly keep it in my life.
My work cannot be my life. My work must be my work and my life must be my life. Intermingling of the people is fine, but I cannot live to work. I most definitely work to live.
Four years. Just four years until the life that I truly want comes to fruition. Four years until my sleep is truly restful. Four years until I can think about getting a dog. Four years until I can think about getting a house.
“To be frank, I can’t make anymore promises regarding our sessions…Will you promise to at the very least keep in touch?” “Yes, we can keep in touch…” “…I will also say I’m a little salty you didn’t write about our last session…God, the sexist thing about you is how you maneuver the English language…”
I didn’t know our last fuck would be our last fuck.
“Aren’t we so fun…” “Fun and frustrating in equal parts.” “What’s so frustrating?” “Sir, you must know this conversation is making me horny. Not waking up to fucking you last night, or this morning, made me horny. Thinking about your dick in any and all of my holes is making me horny.”
He came seeking pussy for what I didn’t know would be the last time simply from the power of my words. Texts at 5:30am because I woke up horny.
Sloppy head.
Calling him Daddy, and him calling me a Good Girl.
It was good, and, as always, never as long as I wanted it to be.
I rode his face and made myself let go, pushed myself to grind my pussy to my satisfaction rather than my usual cautious gingerly face fucking. I gagged for him, gave him better head than I had others in quite some time. I wanted more. I always want more.
I striped the bed naked, my ass backing up towards him standing at the edge, and earned a final fuck on his way out, fast and hard and deliciously dirty.
At the front door, I told him to go sit on the couch. I wanted his dick in my mouth one more time. He really had to go this time. Next time. There was no more time. There is no more time.
Keep in touch, though I may never touch him again.
We had an awkward (cause we are over explaining awkward people) conversation about why he doesn’t do sleepovers per his rules with his wife. I over explained how he didn’t have to worry about me catching feelings. This was friendship with fucking. And then he stood me up two weeks in a row and our interactions (well lack there of) felt like he was lacking on both fronts.
And the truth came. And that was that.
Keep in touch, when all I want to do is touch you, taste you. It almost felt cruel, the irony.
So here I am, back at square one, trying to find another consistent dick who isn’t a dick.
Fuck, that dick was good.
But we’ll always have text message flirting, I guess…
(Originally this blog was going to be titled Rotation Stagnation, but those early morning Sunday texts keep coming through for me.)
Bacon and I have been trying to meetup for maybe a year. Schedules conflicted and limited availability made it take so long. But Twitter, timing, and proximity finally paid off.
He tweeted he was up at 6:30am. I replied “same” shortly after. I began to read a romance novel, and then realized it was an hour later.
I checked Twitter again.
He’d replied, “Whatchu wanna do about it?” about an hour previously. I asked, “You free?” He texted.
Why this negro doesn’t just text me from jump is beyond me, but here we are.
So I ended up in my apartment lobby, freshly showered, sipping a cup of coffee, reading said romance novel on my phone, and wearing nothing but my Hamilton hoodie and a pair of VERY short shorts.
When I first saw Bacon, I realized my error. We had never seen each other in person. He is a larger guy, larger than I normally fuck, and I wondered if I could be sexually attracted to this man like I was through cyberspace.
We chatted after I let him into the building, in the elevator, on the walk to my apartment. As we spoke, I realized ‘yes, this could work as long as he doesn’t talk himself out of pussy’.
He didn’t.
He got the five cent tour of my apartment and I directed us to sit on my couch. Talk, as adults, about what we both wanted.
“What are you looking for?” “Well, I don’t want a relationship.” “Wait, no. I meant in bed. What do you want in bed? I know this is not going to be a relationship. Our texts were very blunt. I tend to be a blunt person, which can be off-putting for some, but no. This is just fucking.”
He wanted head. I wanted fucking or, at the very least, good head for my damn self.
At some point during our five minute conversation, I took off the hoodie because I was warm. Blinds open, not caring about the neighbors, topless in front of this older man.
He’s an Alpha (as in the frat); that was a turn on.
He didn’t want to talk too much because he felt that spoiled the experience. I set some basic ground rules and then we were in my bedroom.
“Do you like to unwrap your gifts?” “Normally yes, but I have limited time.”
I took off my shorts and got on the bed.
“Okay, how would you like to start?” “Please stop talking.” He kissed me to shut me up. It worked.
Bacon is a decent kisser.
He kissed me, bit my neck, and then sucked on my nipples. He gave good head. He used his fingers, pumping in and out of me.
I returned the gesture. Then we ended up 69-ing and I found myself fucking his face to the beat of the music I had playing. It was delightful.
“You need to put a condom on my dick before I cum.”
We tried fucking. It did not work. He was soft almost immediately. He tore off the condom and started sucking on my nipples again.
“What do you want?” “Bit my neck please.” He did.
“How I just sucked on your nipples, that’s how I want you to suck my cock.”
He stood while I laid on the bed sucking him off. He came. He clothed. He cleaned up. He left.
“We’ll do this again some time,” I told him on his way out.
Maybe…
Fucking Bacon was really just a warm up for my Sunday morning masturbation session. After he left, I fucked myself for another forty-five minutes.
I pouneded myself with my dildo. I rode my vibrator. I thought about Kourt fucking me in my ass on my livingroom floor. I thought about Gent telling me to cum. And then I came. Over and over again.
Once, the orgasm was so powerful, I literally growled. I moaned. I screamed. I wondered if my next door neighbors were finally used to my Sunday morning fuck sessions. They’ve been pretty consistent for this past month.
I orgasmed probably seven times. That shit was good. Needed.
I’m greedy. Greedy for cock. Greedy for rough sex and long fuck sessions and all of the orgasms.
Gent values the ten years we’ve been a part of each other’s lives more than his current new relationship.
Gent won’t date me. The power imbalance between us, his knowing how much I want to please him, doesn’t sit right with him.
He thinks we shouldn’t fuck, but as I was three steps away from exiting his home he pulled down my skirt slid his dick inside me. We fucked in the entryway in his home, then up on his couch.
“I guess we’re friends who fuck,” he said after pulling out to cum on his carpet and not inside me.
I like picking at his brain, asking him questions and hearing his sideways answers. I like understanding, or trying to understand him, a little more each time we see each other.
His not dating me got me angry. His canceling on me last minute got me angry. His plan for a phone call that never happened got me angry. When he cited his reasoning for not dating me during our rescheduled meetup, I broke my baseline pleasing facade for three minutes, actually speaking my raw unfiltered feelings. He wants more of that. I don’t know if I like that unguarded me.
I don’t know what I want. I sometimes think I want a husband and kids. And then I hear a five year old whining to their mother about not getting to buy something at Target and I rethink all my assumptions.
He asked me how I saw our future. I said I could think of two scenarios. One, I stay single and stay fucking him as a friend. Two, I find someone like him, but not him, and then we are friends who don’t fuck.
He said he could see himself being my friend and fucking me long term, no matter his relationship status otherwise. He pondered on how we would be in each other’s lives if and/or when we have married spouses. He values our friendship more than I realized and wants to sustain it. This broke my brain for a moment. He’s really good at doing that.
I like having a place that is my own. I like fucking someone and then they leave. Lately they’ve left before I want them to, but that’s cause I’m greedy for cock and not some deep seated emotional bullshit. I like the idea of occasional sleepovers, but permanent residence bothers me in a way that is difficult to articulate beyond, “I like my shit how I like my shit and I don’t feel like sharing or compromising on it.” Maybe this will change as I grow into my career. Or maybe I will only get more independent and start an actual rotation of dick appointments. We’ll see.
But I do know it is my hope that Gent and I will remain in each other’s lives, hallway sex or not.
“I’ve had my dick inside your asshole. I can watch you pee.”
Kourt came by to see me for my birthday. We couldn’t arrange anything for the actual day of because of work but a few days after still worked.
“Should I bring anything?” “Besides condoms… nope.”
As it neared closer to his arrival time, I found myself nervously cleaning. Yes, he had already seen my apartment but this was two weeks and zero downtime later. He texted as I was scrubbing in the kitchen. I took a breath, threw away the Clorox wipe, and scurried down to the lobby.
He sat relaxed in a comfy chair across from the elevator. We hugged in greeting and I escorted him up.
As we walked in the hallway towards my door, I kept trying to stay next to him but he kept falling back. Then I realized it was the dress: medium grey, ample cleavage, and tight in all the right places.
I had brewed coffee right before he texted. When we walked into my apartment, I offered him a cup. He politely declined. I began to doctor my drink when I felt his hand inch up the hem of my dress.
“Damn, that ass.”
He leaned in and began kissing me. I held the measuring spoon set and box of sugar in the air as our lips danced. Kourt is a good kisser.
“Go ahead. I’ll let you finish making your drink.”
He smacked my ass and then stepped back. Cup of coffee in hand, I turned and saw his pants were unbuttoned and unzipped. A casual glance at his boxers told me he was quite hard. I gestured for us to sit on the couch.
I curled up beside him and started chatting. Occasionally, he would reach down and stroke himself through the fabric of his underwear as we talked. It was the best kind of distracting.
Halfway into my cup of coffee, about seven to ten minutes of talking, he spread my legs and looked down.
“Your pussy is so pretty.”
He leaned down between my legs and began to kiss, and then lick, at my clit.
“You are so wet already.” “It is my superpower.”
I moaned as he savored me more, one leg up on the coffee table to give him better access, my cup in my left hand floating in the air, my right hand stroking his locs.
“I should let you finish your coffee.” “I do not care about my coffee.”
He got on his knees in between my legs and ate me out as I lounged on my couch. This was the first time I had fucked on said couch.
He stopped, kissed me. I tasted myself on his lips. “I think we should move to the bedroom.” “Yes, we should.”
He began taking off his clothes in the livingroom and allowing each article to fall to the floor. I lifted my dress over my head.
“My god, your ass is fucking gorgeous.”
I unhooked my bra as I walked backwards, smiling in his direction. He grabbed the box of condoms from the counter and followed me.
“Lights on or off?” “Whatever you like.”
I clicked on a lamp with a soft glow. He sat on the edge of my bed, legs spread open. I got on my knees and began to lick and lap up his cock. This time it was his turn to moan.
“I love it when you suck my dick.” “I love sucking your dick. It’s fun.” “God, I want to fuck your face.” “I want you to fuck my face.”
“Do you want to 69?” “I would love that.”
He climbed on the bed. I climbed on top of him. I rolled my hips and ground my clit onto his lips. He thrust up as I sucked his cock, lapped at his balls and perineum. I came with his cock down my throat.
“I want my dick inside your pussy.” “I want your dick in my pussy.”
He momentarily struggled to unwrap the plastic surrounding the box of condoms before literally riping it open with his teeth. He sheathed himself and then turned his attention to me.
“I want you right here from behind so I can look at that ass. Fuck, you are so beautiful.”
He slid inside me. I came undone.
“Such a good girl, taking all this dick. How does it feel to have all this dick?” “Oh god, you feel so good. How the fuck do you feel so good? Your dick is fucking heaven.”
After he came, tearing off the condom so he could paint my back, we lounged on my bed for a few minutes. I lazily circled my finger around his nipple.
“Why does that feel so good?” “Hmm, maybe nipples are your cheat code too.” “I’m getting hard again.” “Already?” “Yeah, maybe that’s my superpower. I’ve gotten hard five times already today.” “Really?” “Eh, is that a lot?”
Somehow we ended up back on my couch, this time both of us naked. He stretched out both arms and legs, his gorgeous dick half hard and on display. We chatted about his recent vacation with the Mrs. and the fun things they did together. He spoke about being adrift at work. I asked him what he wanted from this part of the conversation. He said he just wanted me to listen, so I did.
He then leaned over and began to suck on one of my nipples. I stood up and flipped myself around on the couch, and sat on my knees to give him a better angle. He reached his right hand down to stroke himself as he sucked one and then the other.
“Can I get some lube? I want to stroke myself right.”
I flitted into my bedroom and brought out my favorite lube, a gift from one of my kinky friends. He dipped his hand into the soft buttery lube, then stroked himself anew. I sat again on my knees, raised my nipple to his mouth, and cradled his head as he sucked back and forth. I nibbled on his ear, sucked on his neck.
“No hickies please.” “Okay, but I like them on me.”
His left hand gripped my ass, then ventured towards my asshole.
“Can I put my fingers in your ass?” “Yes, I want your fingers in my ass.”
After some more lube, he slipped one, and then two digits, inside me.
“Your asshole is so tight.”
He kept sucking on my nipples. I started rocking my ass back onto his hand.
“You can fuck me in my ass. You can fuck me in every hole. If you do, I’ll be wet and dripping.”
“Get on your knees on the floor. I want to look at your ass while I stroke myself.”
He pushed my coffee table back to make room. I sat in child’s pose in front of him. He stroked his dick across my ass cheeks. I began grinding my ass into the base of his shaft and balls.
“Please fuck me in my ass. I want you to.”
He smoothed lube over his cock and pressed every so slightly against my entrance.
“Go slow. Please, go slow.”
He pushed and relaxed, pushed and relaxed, pushed and relaxed. Slowly, he eased into me. I let out a guttural moan into the floor.
“Pause, please pause. Go in and just stay there.”
He did. I acclimated to his girth, and then slowly he began to ease out a little, and then back in, and shortly thereafter I was bouncing my ass on his cock as my pussy and my nipples throbbed. I teetered back and forth between pleasure and pain, cursing and moaning like some feral thing. I felt raw and fantastical and beaming and bubbling with orgasmic energy.
“Fuck, I’m about to cum.” “Cum inside my asshole. I don’t care.”
He came while deep inside, then pulled out slowly. He grabbed a tissue from the side table and cleaned me up. I flopped onto the floor, spent.
“Fuck, that was amazing. You should go clean up in the bathroom, though.” “Yeah.”
He used my restroom, door open. I got up from the floor, then anxiously danced outside of the restroom.
“You can come pee. It’s alright.” “Are you sure? I don’t want to be impolite.” “I’ve had my dick inside your asshole. I can watch you pee.” “Thank you.”
Again, we found ourselves on my couch, naked and chatting. That was when I realized my livingroom blinds had been open the whole time. I looked up at the balcony across the courtyard and one floor above me. Someone was holding their drape back but I couldn’t see their face or form.
“We have an audience.” “Maybe I am an exhibitionist,” Kourt mused.
“I have to go soon.” “Wanna have one more quickie?” “You’re so fucking cute.”
Again, we were back in my bedroom.
“I’m gonna to fuck you really hard.” “I would love that.”
We started off the bed, my body bent over and splayed across the mattress.
“Yes baby, twerk on my dick. Ride it just like that.”
On the bed, he flipped me this way and that. He kept slipping out and then needed more lube.
“Shit, the condom broke.”
He threw it away, grabbed and put on another. Climbed back onto the bed, slid into me, and laid his body against mine. I held tight, arms and legs encircling him. He kissed me and fucked me close as I moaned “yes” over and over into his ear until he came.
Spent, he flopped over onto the bed.
“How was that?” “You were excellent. Best birthday present ever.” “Good good. We are always open to customer feedback and welcome reviews.”
I picked up the covers and wiped away the thick sheen of sweat on his back.
“Thank you for that.” “That was not a quickie. You’re going to be late.” “Eh, I’m a grown ass man.” “I’ll get you a washcloth and a towel.”
Just as before, as he cleaned up, I stayed naked and bounced about in my apartment. And he kept coming back to my ass. He passed by me, kissed me, and smacked my ass more than once.
“Do you want to take the condoms? Or should I keep them.”
I kept the box.
“Do you want your hair tie?” He picked it up from my bathroom counter and secured his short locs back.
“Okay, gotta go.” He kissed me again, rubbed and smacked my ass again, looked down and then back up at me. “Damn.”
We said bye as he walked out the door. I turned around and saw he’d left his vitamin water. I grabbed the bottle, opened the door, and peaked my head into the hallway.
“You forgot your water.” He walked back down, took the water and the opportunity to kiss me again and smack my ass again and, for a split second, comtemplate fucking me fast again.
He walked away with a huge smile on his face.
I stripped and remade the bed, bathed, masturbated to the memories of our fucking, and then took a nap.
I knew within thirty seconds of meeting Zee that I was not going to fuck him.
Zee is a lovely person. He has a great smile. He’s talkative. He has a generally happy disposition. But there was just something. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it at first, but I knew pretty much immediately this was going to be thirty minutes at a Starbucks and that was it.
I wanted to not be a bitch to him. I think I succeeded, at minimum, at being polite. But in thirty-seven minutes, we never clicked.
He plays video games. He’s gone back to school to switch careers, but not nearly at the level that I’m at. I was smarter than him, more cultured, more verbose even though I kept trying to steer the conversation back to him to find some point of common ground. lt was to no avail.
And then there was a point in the middle of our thirty-seven minute date when I realized it. I am a snob. I was judging him for not being at my academic level. I was judging him for not being as successful as I am. I was judging him over the entirety of his being and found him wanting in every category.
I don’t believe in pity fucks. My pussy is a prize. You have to earn it, be worthy of it. As much as Zee is a good person, and as sweet as he was, I was never going to fuck him.
Our 37 minutes were a pleasant conversation, but in the end it was a waste of time.
I am a dime; he is not.
At least I can say I gave him a shot.
In our 37 minutes of chatting, I kept trying to find a way in. But that way in just never came, pun intended.