I didn’t feel wanted, valued, until I started fucking.
Yes, I am smart, but too much of societal training had ingrained in me that my worth must be centered around how men viewed me. Mind you, I’m pansexual, so yes this is especially fucked up.
When men want to fuck me, I feel good about myself. I see myself different, appreciate my curves more, my exuberance in the bedroom more. I take pride in my titties, my abundant wetness, my dirty talk, my joys of hair pulling and ass slaps and genuinely being a filthy naughty good girl. Dick makes me feel good on many levels.
As I worked on my mental health with Doc, I got better at seeing my reactions to others’ actions and words. I better understood why I thought this or felt that. I got better at understanding inner me. My motivations and how they shaped the thoughts living in my head.
Now, with my career about to start, and new ways I can find value in myself and my life, I am tripped up yet again on this concept of value.
Am I valuable as a person in a would-be partner’s life beyond my body? Is my brain, my actions, my words enough to be cherished without the gift that is my curvy wonderland?
My stratification of friends with benefits (FWBs) is based on two distinct categories: the fun and the fucking. There are many who score high in one category and low in the other. My objectification of their skills versus my appreciation of how they make me feel feels fraught. Isn’t my valuing their bedroom abilities no better than any random man valuing his set of jump offs? Does my sexual drive in the context of friendship negate the possible ickiness of it all?
Yes, I know I am overthinking this. This is an overthinking post.
Part of me thinks, by bringing titties and pussy to the table, my sexual valuing of them is more equal than exploitative. I’m never trying to abuse my friends and there is always consent in everything we do. No one is coercive or forced in our interactions, and sex is never required but merely hoped for and on occasion expected (…?). However, even without sex, I value the laughs. The hugs. The walks in the park (literally). The meals they buy me (cause I’m still broke until July) or the rooms they cover (cause ditto), but am I playing into a trope? Am I in actuality exploiting them when I say I’m “valuing” them?
On more than one occasion, I’ve worried that my friends wouldn’t be my friends any longer if fucking were no longer an option. In retrospect, this is absolutely ridiculous. Every FWB was a friend first. Every FWB has brought me joy, made me feel good about myself before we were ever naked in each others’ presence. Every FWB adds something special in their own way to my life.
I guess this is just me wondering about a problem that doesn’t actually exist because I am oversensitive to language that is accurate but in and of itself does not denote a positive or negative connotation.
My brain was doing the swirling donut of doubt and doom, but I think I just logicked my way out of it.
Okay, it’s like this. I feel too much. I remember and I feel and I confuse what was with what is and what could be. And then my mind starts spinning out numerous scenarios trying to game out what ifs and I feel feelings about those maybes and the too much becomes even more. So yes, I’m burdened with all of my feels, too much.
Did you know that’s a trauma response?
It is?
Yes. You try to predict scenarios so you can be ready for them, but they never actually come true, and instead you occupy your mind with these false futures instead of dealing with your difficult now.
What is my difficult now, Doc?
That’s my question, so I’ll reflect it back to you. What are the difficulties that your mind is actively running away from?
Well, there are always the greatest hits. That I’ll never be good enough. This or that enough. That I’ll never have what others have even though I know comparing myself is never fair to myself. Fears of failure, loneliness, and despair. Inadequacy. Ineptitude. Independence translating into isolation and eventual endings, evaluating where and how I got it all wrong.
We know these, have heard these, and have worked to dispel them from your mindset. What plagues you today, in this moment, at this very second?
The memory of the sounds when we last fucked. The scent of his cum on the rag he left in the bathroom. His face when he turned to me one last time before he left. I want to go back there, stay there, be there.
You are there. You’re trapped there. But this is not there. This is here. You are here. Be here.
But I don’t want to be.
Well it’s my job to make you. So, be in this moment, on that couch, talking to me. Whining about dick.
Okay Doc, harsh much.
Honest, always. Ask yourself these questions: Will it ever change? Will what you have ever be more, ever be enough? Is this what you really want?
I don’t want to answer those questions.
I know. But you have to.
Not yet. Not today. A reprieve? For one more day, one more session, one more moment where my silly dreams are just a little less silly. Just once more, with all my feelings.
Okay, next time. Think on it. Sit with it. And then speak the truth, the hard real truth, your truth to me next week.
I drove back home. I had planned to leave at stupid o’clock in the morning, but I didn’t end up leaving until 9am. The delay of four hours made it so I could mail in my application for a medical training license while in town, though, so it was worth the wait.
The drive was pleasant. I hate the drive because it is so long, but now I know there are only a few of these left in me before I am settled back at home.
I matched near home. I get to go home. Be with my family, friends, and everyone important in my life.
In less than two months, I’m coming home.
I crashed that night with Baltimore Best Friend. She updated me on her life. I updated her on mine. She invited me to a poetry reading on Wednesday. I tried to delicately lecture her (to no avail) to get the vaccine. It was nice to see her.
Saturday April 10th
I attended my Aunt’s funeral. She had died suddenly a little over a week before; heart attack.
I picked up my mother and drove us both to the services. She looked better; she’d gotten her hair cut and wore makeup. I’m still worried about her, but then again I learned that from her.
It didn’t occur to me until we were pulling up to the funeral home that this would be the first time I had seen family since I matched. In an instant, I realized the day was going to be even more emotionally trippy. Throughout the experience, conversation kept switching between how much we loved and missed my aunt and congratulating me on matching back home. Life is odd.
There wasn’t a repass; nebulous plans were made for the summer after more people got vaccinated.
My mother and I had lunch at her favorite seafood restaurant. She paid.
I dropped her off, ran a stupid errand, but then found myself tooling around the zip code where I had apartment viewings booked. I’d scheduled ten viewings over three days of different options for me to live. I looked at places and mentally decided to cross some options off my list.
And then I saw one complex that I had not seen online, an apartment building I’d been in before I started medical school. An old classmate had lived there. I remembered how much I liked it. I made a mental note to call them on Monday.
Sunday April 11th
I checked into my hotel room. It was closer to my soon-to-be zip code. On my way, I got a text from Gent asking if I was in town.
“Yes” “What are you doing?” “Grabbing a cup of coffee from Starbucks and then going to check into my hotel room.” “Where are you staying? I’m headed back from XXXX.”
I texted him my hotel.
“Got it. Opposite direction.”
In an effort to increase my likelihood of seeing him, I wrote out my schedule for the week and sent him the pictures.
I liked my room. Big comfortable bed. Hot shower. A couch. A desk. All that I needed.
I nested, got food, and relaxed for the night.
While on Twitter, I mentioned I was in town. A local friend invited me to dinner, their treat. Since I had Wednesday lunch plans with Gent and I was to be apartment shopping in the area on Tuesday, I figured Tuesday night would be best. I accepted the invitation.
Monday April 12th
9am Brazilian waxing. I liked the girl who did it. She now has my business for the foreseeable future.
I also discovered where my post office will be.
I called the apartment building I saw on Saturday and scheduled a walk through same day. I love the building. It was just as good as I remembered. New, sleek, all the amenities, and all of my must haves. I applied the same day.
My frame of mind and reference is starting to shift, slowly but it is shifting. It never occurred to me that I would not need a co-signer from my application, that my new doctor salary changed the way people interacted with and treated me. I was approved for the apartment in six hours. Already, I have my new home.
Tuesday April 13th
I had nothing but time. I got my hotel room until Friday because I anticipated needing to visit multiple apartment complexes, but now that was mute.
I called to cancel each appointment and then, with time on my hands, decided to make money.
I drove for Lyft and ended up in an airport parking lot.
Sitting and waiting for a ride, I got a text from Gent.
“Where will you be after 4:30?”
“I’m actually near you right now. Waiting for a Lyft ride. Found my apartment on my first look, so no more apartment shopping needed. My week is free.”
“Cancel the ride and let’s grab a drink.”
I met him on the patio of a non-descript bar. We each ordered a drink, chatted.
“Can we talk about the text message?”
He’d sent me a longer-than-normal-for-him message about three weeks prior.
“Sure, we can talk about it.”
“I read it as jealousy, which is confusing.”
“No, it wasn’t jealousy. Jealousy would imply ownership or me wanting to own you, and we both know if I wanted to have you I could. No, I felt used.”
That… stung.
We talked some more. He had to take a work call. I sat, thinking.
I got a text from him.
“If she stops by can you ask for the check?”
“Sure”
“Stop by my house?”
“Sure”
“What time do you need to get on the road?’
“6:30pm”
“You’re not drinking so figured there would be easier.”
“Point”
And then there was this funny exchange where I needed to go to the bathroom but he’d left his wallet and his card on the table while away on his call and I didn’t feel right leaving his wallet but also didn’t feel okay taking it with me because boundaries and his response when I explained this (of course) was “I’ve been inside you. I think we’ve crossed most boundaries already.”
His house is nice; very nice. I roamed around, and we eventually found ourselves on his couch. We chatted. He had this mischievous smile on his face the whole time. Eventually I realized he kept me talking and kept himself at least five feet away so that he wouldn’t touch me and wouldn’t be tempted to have sex with me. “We’re friends, right?”
“So I can do this now? Come over to your place and have tea and chat?”
“Yes, you’re moving back here.”
“Okay, yes. I’ll bring my crocheting and we’ll talk about nothing more.”
I got into my car and saw my friend had postponed our dinner.
I called Gent, asked to come back inside, and chatted for a little more while drinking a cup of tea.
“Now, isn’t it nice that we’re able to do this without having sex?” His words.
As we left, he hugged me.
“What is this with the awkward side hug?” I turned toward him and gave him the normal squeeze.
Okay, I think we can do this: be friends without sex. But I REALLY like the sex, too.
Wednesday April 14th
I made money and then I went to a poetry reading. I learned I am indeed a snob.
Some poetry is frankly amazing. Some people know how to form thoughts and expand on ideas and play on words and capture my attention and imagination and I am in awe. Too many people have no talent and are uncomfortable to watch.
It also didn’t help that two obnoxious guys sat near me and kept talking shit about all the acts.
Four hours of poetry and occasional shitty stand up and a few good musical acts.
I’ll probably go back to support my friend and maybe flirt with one or two of the talented.
If I am brave enough, I’ll read something someday.
Thursday April 15th
I made money and then I went to see my friend for dinner. I learned I like my friends in small doses.
My friend had a new roommate who, it turns out, is also one of my friends. I did not know they were living together. I also did not know they were having issues. Nothing is ever free.
My friend and I sat outside eating Thai food by a fire pit and catching up. Our conversation started with complaining about their roommate and later ventured into complaining about their job.
But it also featured aspirational plans for their tiny house life and distance trips and general happenings in their life. All-in-all, it was an enjoyable evening.
Friday April 16th
I made money and then I drove to Pennsylvania. I learned how much I smelled like smoke.
[As I knew was likely the case, along with needing to cancel our Wednesday plans, I never heard from Gent again during my stay. He had a work trip. He has a life that does not include me. Everyone has their boundaries. Accept them or not.]
I only needed two Lyft rides to hit my goal earnings for the week. So I got up and got on the road to make the small amount of money I needed. My first ride was a big Black guy named Alphonso. In retrospect, I should have given Alphonso my number.
When I say big… Alphonso was at least (AT LEAST) six feet tall. He curled himself into my not-large car surprisingly well. I apologized for the inconvenience. He brushed it off seeing as it was a normal occurrence for him.
“Why do I smell barbecue?”
“Um, that’s me. I had dinner with a friend by a firepit last night.”
We got to talking. Alphonso works at a big box store. Also, for fun, he DJ’s the breakroom, hence his nickname DJ Breakroom. We talked about Baltimore Club vs. DC Go Go music; we agreed to disagree on our respective opinions.
I told him about myself, my life, school and soon-to-be residency. I don’t normally chat in Lyft rides. I listen to podcasts in my earbuds and get people from point A to point B safely. Occasionally, I put on the radio per rider request. But Alphonso got me talking and smiling on a Friday morning.
When I dropped him off, he remarked, “I’m going to mark you as my favorite driver.”
“Thank you. It was really nice talking to you.”
As soon as he closed the door, I said out loud to myself in my now empty car, “I should have given him my phone number.”
Right there and then I promised myself to shoot my shot often and with abandon. Since I want a mine so much, I have to start trying to get one.
The drive to Pennsylvania was mostly pleasant, though I forgot how much more aggressive drivers get as I go farther north.
When I met Doug at his apartment, we hugged outside my car for probably five minutes.
“It’s raining and cold. We should probably go inside.”
Blunt and to the point but in the sweetest way; that is Doug.
I liked his apartment. It was a good size with hardwood floors and a modest balcony.
We needed food and to figure out what our weekend would be. As always, I assured him I would be happy to just spend the time with him in whatever way he could.
We got Thai food, brought it back to his place, and traded turns on YouTube showing music videos we wanted to share with the other. I leaned into new Black rap and R&B hits. He went with nostalgic white rock bands. We are so different, and yet as people we get along so well.
Before dinner, Doug asked me if I was interested in having sex with him that weekend. I didn’t realize he still felt that way about me considering our last visit was just cuddles and hanging out.
When I got into bed, I was wearing underwear and a tank top. Doug got into bed naked. He cuddled up next to me, but never made a move.
I pulled his hand from my belly into my panties. I pulled off my underwear and then my tank top. I asked him, “May I ride your face while I suck your cock?”
I ground my smooth pussy lips against his rough stubbled mouth and chin until I came.
“I love it when you use me like a sex toy.”
His words slammed me back to my conversation with Gent.
Saturday April 17th
He woke up wanting to eat me out again. I let him. He also sucked on my nipples and gnawed at my neck. For as pale as he is, I might start calling him my sweet vampire.
We did nothing big. We never really do anything big. Yet I always enjoy my time with Doug. We ate our Thai leftovers for lunch, got coffee, and then drove to Philly. We strolled around his old neighborhood. He used to live there about a decade ago. He was fascinated to see how things had changed. We ate sushi for dinner and chatted about nothing and everything.
When we got back to his place, I logged him onto my HBO Max account and showed him the first episodes of Lovecraft Country and Watchmen. I think I hooked him.
When we went to bed, I talked to him about my fear of the dark, where my brain goes. He rubbed my back and I fell asleep feeling protected and comforted.
Doug lives three plus hours away. Doug never wants to get married. Doug had a vasectomy, so no kids. I can never only be with Doug. But, when I can be with Doug, I am happy.
Sunday April 18th
I drove back to school. I hate the drive back. I never want to come back even though I know I need to. Each time feels like a punishment. But at least there will be fewer of these soon.
I gave Doug homework before I left. I wrote it on a Post-It note for him to remember. Reach out to a mutual friend via Twitter. Fill in a dating profile so he can have comfort from other people besides just me once a season.
He says he’s gonna start to visit me once a season once I move back. I would like that.
Before I left, Doug and I ate breakfast at a local diner. We split our meals so we both could have some waffle and some French toast.
Then he led the way to Sheetz. I filled up my tank, got coffee, and we said bye. We hugged for really long again. This time, there was this pop song playing from speakers somewhere above us that colored the experience.
“This feels like some sort of Rom Com moment.” He was right; we both laughed. “Okay, drive safe.”
I got into my car but before I closed my door I yelled, “Love you.”
He yelled back, “Love you too.”
I got on the road. I hated almost everything about the ride. It was a normal drive.
Every time I come back, I have to unpack immediately. I throw dirty clothes here, hang up clean clothes there, put the luggage in its spot, plug in electronics, brush my teeth, and collapse into bed.
This is my way.
I made it back. I’m looking forward to not ever having to come back soon.
Do my pops of color fit into the grey scale of your life?
Do you want me? Not just my body; you’ve had that many wonderous ways. Do you want me? My brain and my body and my being. Do you see me fitting together in some shape or manner with the puzzle pieces that are you and your life? I Google Mapped the travel time between your house and my new apartment, your house and my new job.
I feel like I’m playing a game where I don’t know the rules and the refs revel in my confusion.
I was so impossibly wet from the moment I sat down on that patio chair at that random bar to when I left your home three hours later.
I knew as soon as you texted me that lunch on Wednesday was off. I really did want you to see me in that dress. I wanted to get fucked after wearing that dress. Wanted you to peel it off me. I didn’t get to experience that in March, or now after our would-have-been lunch.
I kept going to the bathroom because my panties were soaked and I kept wanting to clean up my slickness.
My Brazilian was fresh, smooth. My slick lips were even more sensitive, wanting, hungry. I think you knew that.
You didn’t tell me. If you had told me, I would have…not fucked them. I was greedy. I am greedy because no one is mine. I want a mine.
You are right. If you wanted to make me yours, you could. But do you want that? Will you ever want that with me?
It felt like punishment, fidgeting on your couch, seeing your house, you five feet away and yet never touching me until you hugged me goodbye for the evening. Your mischievous smile made it worse. You were having so much fun at my frustration. “We’re friends, right?” Fuck. Me.
Tears dripped down the sides of my face as the vibrator elicited orgasm, a pale comparison to the remembrance of you inside me, rumbled over my body.
I want you to ask me, no tell me, to not fuck anyone else. Say what I want to be true: that my pussy belongs to you. Take ownership of it. Fist my hair, clamp your hand over my cunt, and rasp into my ear, “This. Is. Mine.”
Will that only ever be in my fantasies?
I had deja vu in your house. I had dreamt of walking into a bedroom like yours, looking out the windows onto the back like yours, and walking into a bathroom like yours. (Though I confess that the bathroom in my dream was much dirtier. Had you cleaned that day?) I dreamt about the view outside your front window too while sitting on the couch though when I had the dream I didn’t know I was sitting on your couch in your house. It was just a random view. My brain does this sometimes, random snippets that mean nothing until they do. I can’t even tell you when I had that dream. They just come sometimes and I forget them almost immediately until I’m in the moment I dreamt and then I remember.
I roused to her gurgles over the monitor, some of the most beautiful sounds I’d ever heard. The normally harsh light of the winter morning was dampened by thick curtains newly hanged in our bedroom.
His heat warmed my back, his left arm slung over my side, his hand gripped my hip. Our nakedness at night always a comfort to my mornings. I extricated myself from his care to walk to her room.
She looked up at me with expectant eyes from her crib. I picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. Slipping back into the warmth of our bed, I laid down nestling her onto my right breast as he snuggled back into my left side. She suckled and cooed as I stroked her hair and smiled marveling at our beautiful darling girl.
“I’m hungry, too.”
I felt his words against my skin. He nudged his head up, pushing my arm out of the way. I gasped as he took my left breast into his hand and began sucking. He draped his left leg over mine. I felt him harden against me. I stroked his head and watched him, his eyes closed, his face one of rapture and bliss. I bit my lip and sighed, not wanting to cry out my joy as my body trembled and moisture pooled at my center.
He knows me too well. His left hand scratched down my belly, my mons, then slipped two fingers inside me with ease, his thumb running firm circles around my pearl. My body quivered and staccato sighs escaped my lips.
“Shh,” he whispered. “She’s back to sleep.”
Sure enough, our girl had lulled at my side, my right arm holding her upright as her head rest against my breast, her beautiful eyes closed, a sweet smile on her face.
He slipped out of me and laid back, bringing his fingers to his lips. My eyes traveled down him and saw he was fully hard.
“Go put her down and comeback. It’s your turn to eat next.”
For just a moment, after setting her back in her crib, I stared at the little marvel and felt my heart ache from love.
Upon walking back into our bedroom, I saw him now seated at the edge of the bed, a blanket pooled on the floor at his feet. He stroked himself slowly, intentionally.
“Are you hungry?” he asked without looking up.
I knelt in front of him and took him into my mouth. I grazed my nails up his thighs and across his chest. He groaned. I licked him from the base, up the shaft, to the tip, and back. I spun my tongue around the head and flicked at the slit. I took his sac into my mouth and sucked. He fisted my hair and brought my lips to his mouth. His kiss was aggressive, insistent; his tongue was to be obeyed.
He maneuvered me onto the bed and thrust his full length into me. Expletives dripped from my lips.
“I going to cum inside you,” he whispered.
“Please fill me up,” I groaned. “I always want to be filled with you. Give me more babies and I will never stop cuming for you.”
“Well, you are a greedy little thing, aren’t you?”
My ass is fat My pussy’s wet Thick thighs save lives Eight inches? Bet.
~
WAP in search of cock that can last half the night and won’t make me sleep in the wet spot. Can live with parents/roommates as long as I never have to hear or see them. Warning: I scream during sex and I am LOUD. Dick pics required before I’ll send you my phone number.
~
Suck my titties while you’re inside me and I will ruin your life forever cause that dick will be mine from then on. I’m the crazy hot sex of your dreams (or nightmares). Be careful: my cunt is addictive.
– signed, The Coochie Monster
~
What I really want is a relationship and then marriage, but my past traumas have now linked sex with affection and orgasms with love so here I am looking for the one when what I actually need is therapy. My head game is amazing, though, so the head games are worth it.
~
Look, I’ve got availability in my Tuesday evening and Sunday midday hotation schedule and I need solid dick ability (minimum thirty minutes of stamina, minimum six inches long with optional foreplay potential) to get me through cuffing season. You will never know my real name and you will be dropped during the summer months. No smokers, no pets.
~
I’ll fuck you for hours if you call me pretty and buy me coffee. I’ll give you head if you buy me drinks. Anal on the third fuck if you include a meal and are nice to the waitstaff, including a generous tip.
~
I’m in town for the week and want to just feel someone else next to me so if you play your cards right, I’ll message you thirty times and then ghost you. Attention, of any kind, is better than risking the Rona for mediocre dick. And there is way too much mediocre dick on this site.
~
I’m horny but I’m also lazy. First one to respond to this message is getting laid tonight. *crosses fingers* Please don’t be more than a thirty minute drive away.
~
I’m bored and sex (any sex) is more interesting than my usual rub rub dildo vibrator routine. Hit me up if you’re available cause my clit needs a break and my cunt is lonely.
I want time. Someone who kisses me, long and slow, makes it seem like we could do this for hours… because we could.
I want control. A hand in my hair, gripping hard, pulling back my head and then biting my neck.
I want comfort. Hands held at night as we drift to sleep. Starting another day together with a kiss on my knuckles.
I want sex. Languid and meaningful and all consuming, sweaty and sensual and connected. Hard fucking that still feels like we’re making love.
I want security. To never wonder if this is the last time because there is no last time until we die.
I want a future. Planning things: adventures and vacations and grocery runs.
I want energy. To feel that spark but also grounded and comforted and protected.
I want affection. Kisses just because. Back scratches and head scritches.
I want passion. To fuck, fall asleep, and wake up with hands on me ready to go again. And again. And again. Someone who will cum inside me. Feel their warmth filling me and then the stickiness seeping out.
I want babies. So many babies. Cubby limbs and cute little toes. With my curly hair and dark eyes staring back at me like mirrors.
I want more. More than just casual sex. More than just the best orgasms. I want you after sex too.
I want a partner. Someone to love me just as good as how you fuck me. Another set of hands to change the diapers. A sounding board for my goals and worries. A lover, confidant, and a friend.
I want…
I want…
I want to feel worthy of all the things that I want.
I want to know, to believe, that they will come true.
Sex is not love; but we are really REALLY good at fucking.
He laid naked on the bed, hard and waiting, the literal embodiment of my wet dreams. I was so incredibly wet. I didn’t masturbate this morning, wanting (if we were to actually fuck) to feel everything. And I felt everything. I came at least half a dozen times in our 35 minutes allotted.
As I climbed on top of him, I asked, “When you cum, can you cum inside my mouth?”
“Sure.”
I couldn’t kiss his lips, but I could nuzzle my face into his neck and smell him. Breathe in his scent deep. Lick his skin. Kiss his neck, his chest, suck just a little… But then I had to stop because I wanted to bite him.
Rules rules rules.
I rubbed my clit up and down his length a few times before a mere flick of his hips sunk him deep inside me. Thus began a litany of curse words, exclamations, and moans.
“Tell me when you cum.”
Most every time I obeyed with a jumble of barely intelligible words, but they got the point across. This was some of our best fucking.
So many positions. I rode him to my climax twice. He graciously sucked on my nipples as I pushed against the wall, leveraging my weight to get my hips to rock just right. There are multiple avenues to my orgasms. With the delicacy of dealing with my nipple rings, I had forgotten sucking on my nipples is one of my favorite pathways to pleasure.
After I half-collapsed on top of him, panting hard through my second orgasm, he rubbed me and whispered, “Breathe.” I asked, “What do you want?” His answer, “You on top.” He bent his knees, grabbed my hips, and thrust up into me over and over again. I moaned into his ear as another orgasm blew through me.
He twisted us into missionary, my legs around his waist, then by his ears, then twisting into a scissored position. I loved the scissor the most. He pushed my hair out of the way so he could see my face. He kept smacking my ass. I curved my legs around him to pull him in more, possessively wanting every inch of him in me. I gripped the bedframe; it rocked even harder with our exuberance.
I had orgasm synesthesia with his dick inside me. The three I remember were a pale green forest color shining through from the sunlight, a pale blue fabric like one would use for a light kerchief reminiscent of the clear water in a stream, and a pale gold silk draped across his brown skin. I don’t remember which three orgasms triggered the visions, but one of them was definitely from the scissor.
One orgasm I had was incredibly long. He rubbed on my clit, sensitized by our fucking, and it broke quick. But it, and I, wouldn’t relent. He kept rubbing and rubbing and I kept cuming and cuming and I refused to tell him to stop.
He turned me face down. Nudged my legs together. “Spread your ass checks.” And slid into me. I was so very wet and he felt so very good. He bent down, ran his head against mine, growled into my ear, bite my back hard enough to bruise (swoon), and held me close as he thrashed into me. It was as if he wanted to meld us into one undulating flesh. It was wild and carnal and intimate and connected. Like I said, some of our best ever.
He pulled out, flipped onto his back, and I began to worship his cock. The problem with wanting him to cum in my mouth was that I also wanted to languidly suck his cock for days. Not conducive, as it were, for the hot finish we both wanted. I rubbed his cock on lips, licked up and down the shaft, sucked on his balls, and wished for more time. I always want more time with his cock. I pushed his hand in my hair, encouraging him to fuck my face, but I could tell this was not going to finish him in our short amount of time.
He pushed my shoulder, shoving me back into missionary. My legs around his waist. His teeth on my breast. I came again as he frantically fucked my unending wetness, his desperate sounds now filling the air. He pulled out, said, “Suck it,” and I obliged as he came into my mouth. I sucked and sucked and sucked until he pushed me off of him. I licked up the cum on his leg and in his pubic hair. His cum had no right to taste that good. It was honest-to-God creamy and delicious. If I had known how good his cum was, I would’ve asked to do that from the beginning.
Before we fucked, after he had to go back to the front desk to get the key card fixed, as I closed the blinds and we both began to hastily undress, I asked him a question.
“Would you still want to see me even if there were no sex?”
“Yes, we are friends. I’ve told you this before.”
“I know. It’s just that I often need people to tell me something over and over and over again before it sticks. It’s hard for me to believe people like me for me instead of what I can do for them.”
After we fucked, I remarked, “I’m 50/50 on if that was the last time.”
He replied, “I kind of don’t want you to fuck me again. I don’t want you to feel like I’m using you.”
“I haven’t decided yet. We’ll see.”
I’m glad we’re friends. Before the amazing fucking, there was drinks and French fries and funny conversation. I laugh when I’m with him. I feel free and more myself, less the mask I have to wear for the respectability the world requires. I do want to see him again, with or without the fucking.
I had plenty of justifications and reasons for doing it, even though I know I shouldn’t have.
I ran home the last weekend in September.
I didn’t tell many people I was coming because I knew I couldn’t see all the people I really wanted to see. Precautions needed to be honored, so I didn’t even bother asking to see the faces of some of the people I love.
I did get dick, though.
Originally, I had three dick appointments set. Two came through.
Gent was extra generous this trip. He paid for a hotel room for one night closer to him and then another room for two nights closer to the rest of my friends.
Wednesday I drove for 15 hours to drop off my classmate and then land on Second Best Friend’s couch at 3am.
Thursday was a five Zooms day. I woke up at 7:30am to virtually tutor students for an hour. Fell back to sleep. Woke up at 12:30pm for a panel discussion for one of my extra classes (and possibly got a connect for a residency, fingers crossed). I repacked the few things I pulled out. Quick detour for needed coffee. Drove to Gent’s hotel room. Was called Mrs. Gent when I checked in; trippy. I played parking meter hopscotch, gave up, and went to my room. Got a text from Gent saying he’d pay for my parking at the hotel. Moved my car. Bought hotel food (cause I didn’t want to leave the building anymore). Got the food, which included a drink I nursed discreetly for the next three Zooms. Had a Zoom class at 6:30pm. Followed by a small group Zoom discussion at 7:30pm. Followed by a residency Zoom at 9pm. At 10pm, exhausted, I stripped and took a long hot shower. Tried to pick an outfit for brunch with Gent the next day. Snuggled into the covers. Thought I would read, but instead passed out.
Friday was all about physical touch. I started the day masturbating in the spacious hotel bed. I didn’t want to get my hopes up that Gent would want to, and then eventually, fuck me. But after our brunch, he did. Twice. It was good. It is always good. I regretted masturbating that morning, but know I needed it all the same. After my time with Gent, and another detour for more coffee, and checking into the second hotel room, and switching rooms for the obvious cigarette smell, I spent more time in yet another hotel room with another friend. I didn’t realize how much I needed giggles and cuddles and someone to tell me they loved my laugh. That was a good night.
Saturday felt like a series of distant moments. I got to spend a few hours with Second Best Friend at her apartment watching P Valley on Starz while eating chicken and remarking how fucking good the show is. (I’m currently in the middle of my third watch through. Trust me; watch the show.) But that was all she could give me because of family commitments. I hugged her extra tight in parting, not wanting to let her go. When I went to see my mother at her job, she met me in the driveway of the hospital. We stood six feet apart and talked through our masks. My aunt tested positive, my mother often gives her rides, and neither one of us wanted to risk it. But all I wanted to do was hug my mother just as hard as I’d hugged Second Best Friend. That was really hard. Afterwards, I bought Chipotle, a six pack, and watched Disney+ on my laptop back at the second hotel room. I bought air fresheners so the air smelled more pleasant. (It did.) I ignored the couple screaming at each other next door. And the random slamming of the hotel room doors. And tried to not hope that Gent would come by. He didn’t.
Since Gent’s name was on both hotel rooms, I was called Mrs. Gent at least three times that weekend. Not gonna lie: it messed with my head and my heart a little.
I’m glad I went home because I was homesick, and I wanted dick, and I needed a recharge.
But I didn’t get all I wanted, just enough to keep going.
That’s all we can do right now, keep going, until things change or get better or, hopefully, both.
41%. There is the real possibility, an advertised publicized promise, that a rich white man may reduce my student loan burden by 41%, and this will not even touch the vastness of his wealth.
At its core, medicine is about empathy. As a future physician, my job will be to take care of people. They teach us at my medical school to treat your patients like a family member. Essentially, they are trying to remind us that our patients are people, not a disease or a group of symptoms, so that we can fully treat them with care and compassion.
I wonder about other medical schools.
I go to an HBCU. I thank God for that fact often. Sometimes I begrudge it too, but more for societal reasons than educational experiences. Our school was founded from the gift of a different white man. Life’s ironies abound. We don’t have the same resources as the rich predominantly white medical school ten minutes down the street. But when I sat in lecture and suffered through Nephrology, I looked around and saw people like me. I looked at my professor and saw a man that could favor one of my uncles. I didn’t worry about being judged for my Blackness, where I came from, or who my family is.
I often wonder if they stress compassion, empathy, and just basic human decency at predominantly white medical schools. As an HBCU, our patient population is mostly disadvantaged peoples. Our hospital is the safety net hospital. Everyday our work is about caring for those whom society has ignored, undervalued, or downright betrayed. Compassion and empathy are baked into our curriculum, into our classes, into all of our education. I don’t know if the same is true elsewhere.
Our country has a humanity crisis. I don’t know how to make racists care about non-whites. I don’t know how to make sexists respect the wisdom of non-males. I don’t know how we make our country better when the seeds of hate and discrimination are from where the very roots of our country sprung.
I know that Black mothers are less likely to die in childbirth if their Obstetrician is Black. I know that Black children are less likely to die in their first days of life if their Pediatrician is Black. I know Black men are more likely to receive vital routine screenings for life threatening illnesses if their Internist is Black. But Black doctors are only 5% of the physician population is this country, despite Black people being 12% of the general population overall.
I don’t know how to fix all of these problems.
But I do know a rich white man just made a lot of lives better for more future Black doctors. And, hopefully, we will make the lives of our future Black patients better, too. And maybe, just maybe, this is a good start.