poeticdesires

Nothing is less sexy to me than desperation, yet three different men acted as such towards me over the span of one weekend.

Guy 1 I “met” via a dating app.  We exchanged phones numbers and began texting. In the entirety of my knowing him, he came off as over eager.  His insistence on conversations every day was exhausting.  I tried to arrange for our meeting, but he canceled last minute due to work.  Eagerness without accompanying action is a waste of my time.

Guy 2 is a former coworker.  During a fun group outing, and after many bottles of wine emptied by said group, he made it known, in no uncertain terms, that he would like to engage in kinky play again.  He was so insistent, and repetitive, that his partner, another coworker friend, broke down, and said, “She gets it. You want to fuck her.”  Accurate, and awkward.

Guy 3 is an old friend who lately has been sick. As much as I care for him as a person, illness too is not sexy. It was a brief moment of sadness that gave this blog its name.

The last time my friend and I had sex was the definition of lackluster.  Yes, I asked him to be quick, but of the five minutes of penetration, maybe two minutes were almost captivating.  It was a true pity fuck, and solidified my decision to not have sex with him again.

Compared to the experience of those three men, it is striking how not lackluster Gent is.

I saw him again the weekend before second year classes began.  I showed up in a comfy sundress and sandals, laid myself on his bed, and began chatting.  We conversed for a good twenty minutes, him lazily in a chair smirking at my conversation points.

“Do you know what schadenfreude is?”
“Yes, I’m German.”
“Right, I keep forgetting.”
“What are you thinking about right now?”
“I was wondering if we were going to have sex?”
“Why do you wait every time?”
“I know you’ve told me multiple times not to, but I’m too polite. I made my offer, presented to you what I wanted, and I’m in your place, so you get to decide if and when.”
“Why was the sex so lackluster?”

I told him about the above three men and my general frustrations surrounding them.

He got up from his chair, walked to the side of the bed, and coaxed me to my knees.

“It was the desperation.  Desperation is not sexy.  They asked for something that, if I wanted to give it, they should have be taking.”

As I answered his question, Gent slipped my panties off, shoved down his pants, flipped his shirt over his head, and began fingering me. Then slid inside me.

I gripped his sheets. Moaned into his mattress.

He pushed the hem of my dress up, tucked the collar of my dress down under my breasts.

He fucked me from behind. Then in missionary. He fucked me across the bed all the way to his nightstand. I used my hand to shield my head from banging into the wood.

“Don’t lift your hips.”

Gent regularly hits my cervix when going deep and hard.  Usually, I adjust by lifting my hips up. This time he wanted me to take all of the pleasure and the pain.  I gave in, was awash in him.  I cried, it felt so good.

He pulled out, laid down on the bed. I rode him.

He reached up, sucked and bit my nipples.  I pumped my hips quick and hard.  Drove myself to fuck him as well as he had fucked me.

“Are you going to come for me?”
I did.
“Again. Harder.”
I moaned.
“Do you have any more for me?”

This man’s dirty talk was A++.

As my body twisted in pleasure, collapsing down on him, he whispered “Good girl. Good girl.”

He tapped my thigh.  “Suck it.”

I jumped off and enveloped his cock in my mouth.

He then fucked me as I laid on my stomach, using my shoulders as leverage to drive in harder.

He bit my back at the top of my shoulders.  For a solid week into classes, I had delicious backpack moments, the dull ache of his teeth, memories living in my muscles.

We ended in missionary position again, with more hard fucking, and my whispers of “fuck yes” into his ears.

When we finished, we showered and had breakfast.  I wanted waffles.

After food, we had the same conversation as the last time we thought we wouldn’t fuck again.

I don’t want to fuck anyone else, but I know good and well that I have no power over whether or not Gent stays in my life.

For now, I concentrate on my classes, tutoring, and trying to not burn out.

But, on any given day, I wonder if I’ll ever have good dick like Gent’s ever again.

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I have fucked only one dick for the past six months.

This circumstance occurred without forethought or premeditation. The sex was intentional; the lone participant was not. But being in medical school affords itself a plethora of barriers to my would-be gratifications.

Timing is always an issue, studying 6-14hrs per day every day, the pressure and guilt of surviving school suffusing every waking moment while on campus.

My social circle has, up until the end of May, been my fellow classmates and a few upperclassmen. This limited pool includes either people already coupled up or folks who have shown little to no interest in me. Frustration, thy name is Poetic.

My trips home have been brief and/or busy. Those normally on my roster have been unavailable.

The last time I fucked another dick was New Year’s Day. If it wasn’t for masturbation, I’d go insane. Even with fapping, I’m barely holding up.

Fucking Gent has been my slutty sexual reset. Every time, I arrive at his place frustrated and wanting. I leave freshly violated in every way I love.

In many ways, fucking him has been a natural part of my medical school life. His place is one hour closer to my school. Sunday mornings with Gent are an orgasmic send off before my long trek back to my studies. We chat, he buys me breakfast, and we screw vigorously before I hit the road. My two most recent trips back home featured just such interactions.

It’s a little funny how often I forget how good we are together in bed, especially right before he enters me and I start moaning for the next thirty minutes to two hours.

Gent likes toying with me mentally, posing challenging questions I feel I must rise to the occasion to answer. Or he’ll just say something that he may not realize is ridiculously hot to me, and I have to decide if I want to pursue this intellectual line of flirtation.

Case and point, a recent text conversation:

G: What are you up to?
Me: At a barbecue with my former coworkers. Currently sitting on a blanket chatting with friends at Gunpowder State Park. How is your stomach feeling?
G: Interesting park name. Stomach will be fine eventually. Enjoy the barbecue. I’ll talk to you later tonight.
G: Personal question. Are you in your period right now?
Me: No, finished up. You literally get to see me right before and right after my cycle.
G: That’s too bad.
Me: Why…?

Have I had the “crime scene sex” conversation with this man? Did he remember my frustration at the less than elegant way my ex described an activity we would never partake in?
Did Gent know asking this question would set off a chain reaction in my brain, my horny self contemplating different scenarios of how to get back into town to possibly make this happen with him?

Probably not, but fucking with this man has both carnal pleasures and intellectual teases that make me bite my lip randomly throughout most days.

When I got to his place, opened the unlocked door, and flopped down on his bed, it took me less than ten minutes to bring up his text question.

“I was wondering how long you’d last before you asked about that.”

We laid on his bed, his eyes on his phone, one of my arms draped over one of his arms, my face and free arm clutching a stray pillow.

He then proceeded to stand, pull off my underwear, and climb on top of me. No question, no warning, but simply removed the slightest of barriers for his dick to slide inside me. That right there, remembering that act, is the latest in a long line of moments that when thinking about them make me instantly wet.

I started moaning immediately.

“Shh,” he whispered.

I can’t help but get loud when we have sex. Usually this is just a feature of our sessions. This time, though, was different.

It is incredibly difficult for me to not scream while we fuck. I am quite vocal: moaning, sobbing, mumbled words, multiple expletives. Never quiet. But the way he gave that simple order. So much of our last fuck was my just trying not to disobey his wish.

My face in a pillow. Biting on and sucking my bicep. Whimpering, deliciously pathetic, wanting so desperately to scream.

Gent has made a point lately of making sure I ride him each time we fuck. With my current research position including a three-quarters of a mile walk from my parking space to my cubicle, my thighs are in their best shape yet to enjoy this part of our sex. I grip his headboard and rock my hips, hoping the banging isn’t too loud. Occasionally, he’ll put my hands on his chest to get me to sit back. I am hyper aware of my nails, making sure to grip with the pads of my fingers. He is not a fan of marks unless he is making them on me.

Another position he enjoys is me prone, thighs together, his chest against my back, his head against my head, his hands gripping my shoulders for leverage as he slams into me. In particularly carnal moments, he sinks his teeth into my shoulders. I always want him to bite me more, harder. I look forward to rubbing those remembrances from him later.

The question of how long this is going to last lingers in our interactions, like a rich scent you know will eventually dissipate, but you don’t want it to ever leave.

Blue dress still on, only my panties gone, Gent fucking me from behind, lying on my side trying not to moan, he spoke as he rocked my body back and forth, my cunt gliding on his cock.

G: I liked your latest posts. I jacked off after reading them. Let me ask you a blunt question: Is If about me?

Me: Yes.

(I am my most honest during sex.)

G: You know you are a dear friend, and I greatly enjoy this time with you, especially being inside you.

(Note: We are still fucking as we’re chatting.)

G: But, one day, I look forward to you refusing me.

Me: It will come. (No, I didn’t realize the irony of my words at the time.)

Me: As soon as I’m in a relationship, I know this will end.

The week before, while we waited for our respective meals, Gent had me download some dating apps: Bumble, Coffee Meets Bagel, Hinge, and Tinder. He didn’t accept my medical school excuses. Gent is a good friend.

The day will come when Gent and I stop having sex. Until then, I’m enjoying my slutty sexual outlet and sexy Sunday morning muse.

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I’m glad we fucked before we got drinks.

I am always tense around him before sex. I keep wondering if it will happen, worrying about how I look, what I say. Am I witty enough? Fun enough? Worthy of his cock inside me? All of this is silly shit, yet I can’t help the thoughts running through my brain.

He took that tension away within fifteen minutes of my arrival.

“Can you be naked when I get out of the shower?”

His quotes consistently make me grin.

This wasn’t a marathon session, but quality over quantity always.

He has this way of guiding me exactly how he wants me. A grabbed shoulder, a push, a nudge. It’s the subtle things about our sex that I’ll miss.

Each time we had sex, I knew, could very well be the last time. This time I was right.

He had me ride him, made sure I came multiple times. We finished with me on my hands and knees, him pumping hard and fast.

Our sex left my spirits buoyed knowing I still had time to spend with him.

He didn’t know where he wanted to go. I wasn’t hungry, but did want a drink. In the car, I was chatty, bright. I remarked on the pretty houses we drove by, memories from my previous gig work in the area, and a random joke I wanted to keep going.

We ended up at a bar in a trendy neighborhood. It was busy, so we sat on stools and ordered from the bartender. He was hungry, got a couple appetizers. I sipped slow on a delicious flavored martini.

Alcohol making me brave, I ended up asking one of my dick-drunk-ridiculous questions.

“Why do we have such bad timing?”
“I don’t think we have bad timing. We only have bad timing if you want something else than what we are.”

He seemed more open, though it may have been my lack of nervousness allowing me to be more inquisitive. It probably helped that we knew we had to have a difficult conversation.

Though actually it wasn’t that difficult. We both knew things were to change.

I wanted reassurance he was happy, that this relationship was better than his last. He alleviated my worries, for now.

He needed me to understand what he could give me from here on out, that for now he didn’t see that changing, but he couldn’t promise it wouldn’t. Again, I understood.

Yet still, our banter continued.

He pushed me, asking about my obscene levels of eye contact. I pushed back at his almost utter lack of any.

I confess, I probably should’ve eaten something beyond the three wings he gave me from his plate and the few nibs of calamari I nabbed, but I wasn’t hungry. I did end up tipsy by the time he paid the bill as evidenced by my lack of volume control during later parts of our conversation.

In a moment fueled by insobriety, I confessed an idea that’s been nagging me lately.

“I’m contemplating not having sex for a year.”

He asked why. I want to know who I am if sex were never an option when I meet someone. He countered that I’d still be the same person, just without sex. I answered with a simple fact: who we are is wrapped up in what we do. Our actions dictate how we are perceived. So then, how am I perceived when I never allow sex to be a part of the equation?

It’s a thought. I’ll get back to you on if it goes anywhere.

On the way back to his place, a phone call came in over his car speakers. I clamped my hands over my mouth. Giggles desperately tried to break loose, but were held back.

After his call, he asked, “Were you covering your mouth?”

The giggles then came.

Somehow we transitioned into a conversation about our less than stellar childhoods affecting our motivations and actions in life. Each of us had our reasons for who we are. He thinks, deep down, beyond any of my self-claimed labels, I would be happy as a wife and mother. He thinks, ultimately, I just desperately want to be loved. In this he is probably right.

Parked outside of his place, we sat in his car for ten or so minutes chatting at the end of our visit. I suspect he didn’t want me back up in his home because he knew I would drop to my knees as soon as his front door was closed.

He again assured me that we were not through, just different now. We each promised not to ghost the other. There was talk of schedules, and the realization that ours didn’t match up for quite a while. But there was still connection, still comfort, still a person to lean on in each other.

I’m glad I still have Gent in my life.

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The thoughts that run through my brain after I spend time with Gent vacillate so highly as to be comical.

I am not proud of the words I wrote post seeing him last Sunday afternoon, but that’s where my brain was: dick drunk on him.

Therefore I present this blog now eight days later with more clarity and after another good encounter. I’ve written about that second visit in part three of this, I guess, series.

So please, read Detoxed next, and hopefully rest assured of my sober outlook and understanding of my friendship with Gent.

~

Unethical Slut

I knew he wasn’t single, but I slept with him anyway.

I’ve slept with him on three different occasions knowing full well he plans to propose to his girlfriend this summer.

There are a host of reasons why I slept with him:
… from the vain (my god, he is gorgeous)
… to the selfish (I’ve been incredibly horny, and our sex is ecstatic and life affirming)
… to the problematic (just ask Doc).

Sex with him is like waking up from a dream you didn’t know you were in. It’s like water to the thirsty, food to the starving, love to the needy.

There, in his bed, his dick inside me, I finally got it, finally understood how being with only one person for the rest of your life could work. I could fuck him forever and never get enough.

There was this moment. We were cuddling. We’d already planned to spend the day fucking. My head was resting on a pillow over his arm, my face on his chest, my arm draped over his hip, my hand on his ass, and his other arm around me. I made myself memorize that moment. I wanted to live forever in that moment.

There was another. He lazily woke up from his nap, adjusted the covers, I thought to rearrange us on his bed.  Instead, he brushed my legs open and at once was inside me. His chest lay against mine. Our heads pressed together. He rocked his hips slow, in and out. I gripped the back of his neck. Breathed deep. Whispered “Yes” over and over again into his ear. He moaned as he felt me surrounding him. My legs around his hips. My caressing, pressing, pulling him more into me. In and out. In and out. And always “yes” on my lips. It lasted so long; it felt almost magical. That was the best sex I have ever had. That was the closest I’ve ever felt to being one with another.

These moments will not leave my brain.

I didn’t think we were going to fuck. I wanted to. I didn’t know what he wanted. Yet still, we ended up on his bed watching a video on my phone. And then his hand reached under my dress, caressed and pinched my nipple, and we spent the next three hours in his bed.

If he asked me to, I would marry him tomorrow. But he’s asking his girlfriend this summer.

I want to ask him ridiculous questions.

Marry me? Love me? Spend your life with me? Why do we have such horrible timing?

I know I don’t want to hear his answers.

I want only his lips against mine, only his dick inside me.

I only want him.

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I wrote this rough draft back in January shortly after returning from winter break. I never finished it, but want to post it anyway for completeness sake. Also this series of three posts will be my last ones about Gent for a very long time, so I want to capture as many of those memories as possible while I can.

~

The Last Time

The last time we fucked was the Wednesday before I went back to school. I knew it would be a goodbye, for now.

It was the makeup for our previously canceled dinner and drinking plans.

G: You know this is cheating, right?
Me: I know, but I also know I care for you and whatever time you can give me I’m going to hold on to with all ten fingers and ten toes.

Part of me wondered if it would happen at all. He and I can sometimes cross wires when it comes to planning outings. This time was no different. A miscommunication delayed our meeting up until 7pm. As I got ready, he informed me he was already tipsy from a lunchtime meet-up with a friend. My emotions, being what they are, feared a last minute cancellation or an unenjoyable evening. Neither of which were our fate.

I wore a pretty dress he’d never seen before, wore my hair down, and even donned earrings and heals. I wanted to look good for him, wanted to leave him with a memory of me he could be proud of.

When I got to his place, I knocked on the door. There was no answer, so I tried the nob. It was unlocked. I entered and announced myself. He yelled a greeting from his bathroom, which was back in his bedroom. I put down my things, walked towards him. He stood at his sink wearing only a towel around his waist.

I turned sheepish. I think he took pleasure in my awkwardness. This view of him was something to be admired, and yet my politeness battled my desire to not take my eyes off him. He walked around, getting ready. He removed his towel. His body was meant to be rendered in marble: cut lines, masculine proportions, and fist biting features I relish remembering even now.

Relax, he said more than once. Around him, it is hardly ever possible for me to do so.

He clothed, called an Uber, and had us on our way into downtown.

We ate at a hipster sheik restaurant.

“Eat the fries,” he said, a stern smile on his face.

Our restaurant was half a block away from the themed bar where we wished to conclude our evening: The Christmas Bar.

The rest of the night, back at his place, punctuated in moments:

Goodbye fucking. Missing you while you’re still inside me.

Trying to remember every touch, every caress.

Your smell on you, soaked in your sheets, hoping it will stick to me as I drive home.

Kiss fuck bite pain pleasure…

“Put your pussy on my mouth.”

“Can I have your ass tonight?”

“I want to feel you cum on my cock.”

Lifting my dress, pulling down my tights, and fucking me against your dining room table.

You, naked against the wall. Me, clothed, knelt in front of you. Your cock in my mouth, fucking my face.

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