Saturday, December 30, 2006
Knowing that he asked Robin to Atlantic City – and, by corollary, not me – made me feel terrible, just awful. The less liked one. And while we were fucking I thought, “Right, if you cry, you’re going to break this off.” So that’s my resolution: if I find myself upset about Daniel, I’m ending it. I really want to talk to Caroline about this. She always helps. I HATE being jealous. I hate it that I’m spoiling what has been such a great source of fun and… well, good cheer in my life for the past month and a half. I’m disappointed in myself. Because I suppose it’s actually an opportunity to grow or something ridiculous like that. And the fact of the matter is, I don’t want an exclusive relationship with Daniel. I just don’t want him having sex with anyone else. There’s really no way to justify those feelings, is there? I slept terribly, and had a number of bad dreams. When we woke up I had to have him in me to get rid of the nightmares, but for the first time ever I didn't come on top of him. And, oh, God, his mouth tastes so good, and he smells so nice… After each dream I’d wake up and shift closer, closer to Daniel, who murmured sleepily and just smiled.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Oh, God. The next morning (see post below) I was walking to the train station, eating pistachios, when suddenly I felt a tremendous pain shoot up from my jaw to my left ear. There was a sharp ache in my ear when I swallowed. After I realized the pistachios were not helping, I reluctantly stopped chewing and gingerly swallowed, fearing that the ear infection I had last year had come back.
It still hurt when I got to the office so I made an appointment with an ENT. Eventually, though, it didn’t feel quite so bad and I figured if I stayed away from the pistachios I should be OK. And then it occurred to me that the problem was not my ear, it was my jaw. I think I did something to it (dislocation? Is that possible?) during my deep throat extravaganza with Daniel. Ow. And: pervy!
Monday, December 18, 2006
When he arrived I was distracted – I was making a cake to take to my friend Polly’s apartment for dinner the following night. We went to my room, and kissed and fooled around a bit, but I didn’t feel that usual heat and knicker-dampening Daniel usually causes. During our last IM session (which I claim to loathe but apparently don’t hate enough to stop doing) I mentioned that I’d been “practicing” my blowjob skills (as per my date with Jefferson). I’d intimated that, thanks to my newfound knowledge, he might be the recipient of some unskilled but eager deep throating.
“I don’t think you can take all of me,” Daniel had pointed out. “I’m big.” No kidding!
So now he stood at the edge of my bed and I faced him, at eye level with his crotch. He dick sprang to attention when I undid his pants; very gratifying. I gave his cock a few welcoming licks, and then settled my mouth around him. “Don’t push, OK?” I said. And then I moved my mouth forward very slowly, trying to take him down into my throat. I kept saying to myself “Relax,” just as Jefferson had said to me, and I let Daniel’s cock rest against my tongue while I concentrated on breathing with a huge obstruction lodged against the back of my mouth. Each time I tried to take him further I gagged, but Daniel was enthusiastic, and I was determined. “It’s hard for me not to just grab your head and thrust down your throat,” he sighed.
“Don’t do that!” My poor throat.
Daniel suggested that we switch positions; he said that I ought to be on my back while he leant over my mouth; this would be a more comfortable angle for me. “You’re almost there,” he coaxed, “You’ve almost got me all in.” (He wasn’t totally hard; that might have been a bit much). So with him straddling my face, I opened my mouth over him again, and took him until I gagged: “You took it all, baby,” said Daniel, sounding delighted. “You’re the first person to ever do that.” And the last, I hoped, but that’s not likely.
Then we fooled around, kissing and stroking and chatting and somehow my roommate Jenny was mentioned and Daniel said, “Or we could just invite her up here!” Meaning, we could have a threesome.
“Uh!” I said, grimacing. “That’s in poor taste.”
That bothered me for a few reasons. One: I’m pretty annoyed with Jenny right now over the state of our kitchen. Two: Last week, when Daniel gallantly killed a cockroach (whose appearance I blame on my roommates, who seem incapable of taking out the garbage), she was standing in the kitchen in very tight, very short velour shorts. I guess he noticed that. Three: Though she’s not like this around anyone I’m seeing, she affects (she admits it; it’s her MO, just as awkward charm is – I hope-- mine) ditziness around men and, furthermore, is very open about how she manipulates men. Four: I don’t know, I thought it was in bad taste, I guess.
SIDEBAR Oddly enough, the other night, Jenny had a similar experience. She has what she terms “booty calls” – a stupid but pretty accurate description – with a former neighbor named Jack. And, as she informed me, “I think Jack wants me to set him up with Anna! I was a little offended!”
Anna is our other roommate. She is a nurse. She’s gorgeous and kind and speaks with a heavy Korean accent. She hasn’t had a boyfriend in five years. “Chuh!” I said. “I’d be offended, too!” Also, we both worry about Anna. We are both maximizing sluttiness at this time, and feel that her participation in the effort would enhance female solidarity. Just kidding. We’re worried about her because, like I said, she hasn’t had a boyfriend in five years. As Jenny pointed out, “That’s two marriages in my time.”
Jenny outranks me on the sluttiness factor, as I may have mentioned. In fact, one Sunday afternoon recently Jenny had sex with her soon-to-be-ex husband and then went round to Jack’s and slept with him. I’ve never had sex with two different people in the same day. But anyway. We both think it would be nice for Anna to date someone. But obviously not someone either of us are sleeping with. So when Daniel made that comment about Jenny, it made me think of Jack and Anna, and how I’d congratulated myself that, thank God, Daniel is nothing like Jack, who, in addition to being an emotional clod is stocky and short (but Jenny’s type, as it turns out).
So that comment about inviting Jenny to my room stuck with me, even when we started fucking, which was, as usual, lovely. I slid on top of him and almost immediately my legs were shaking as I struggled to come, stretching my legs around his long limbs. “Are you going to come for me, Lily?”
Hearing him say my name was almost unbearable. “Say my name,” I panted.
“Lily, come for me. Lily.”
I came then. “But I can do it again,” I promised, cause I wanted to work a bit more. But then that delicious post-orgasm lassitude swept over me, and I was content to rock back and forth on top and watch his face.
“I want to paint you,” he said. “On canvas.”
I smiled. “I want to be all over your pages,” I said. “I want you to look at your sketchbook and see me naked all over it.”
“And I want to take some pictures so I can look at you when you’re not around…”
“We could do that…”
He clutched at my breasts and kneaded them, sucking my nipples and bunching them up with his hands. Now that I don’t find terribly erotic, but he obviously does, and I’m glad to provide this pleasure.
Then he sat on the edge of my bed with my legs wrapped around him and I bounced up and down on his cock. “I like being close to you,” I sighed, because even though I find coming easiest when I’m on top at a certain angle, I love, love, love being thisclose to his skin and being wrapped up in him.
“I love being enveloped by you,” he murmured, and I thought fleetingly of college women’s studies classes: enveloping!
“I can feel you right here,” I said, pointing to a spot on my lower belly, where his dick fit in me.
I lay on my back and he fucked me more, and I kept urging him to come. Oftentimes he pulls out and I finish him off by hand. He has is paranoid about pregnancy, despite never having had sex without a condom (!) and is, I think, much more comfortable getting off via handjobs, but this time he came in me. I repeated what he’d said earlier: “Come for me, Daniel. Come for me, baby.”
Afterwards I made dinner, cause I was starving, and Daniel napped for a bit. While we were in the kitchen, with me at the stove, and him nuzzling the nape of my neck, the picture of domestic happiness, he told me about the other women in his life. Including Robin, and some woman he’s never met, who lives across the country.
“Robin told me that she likes to have three guys at a time,” he explained. “One she’s crushing on [his words], a regular boyfriend, and a fuck buddy [also his words, I hate the term ‘fuck buddy’ as well].” I burst out laughing. But then I sobered up, thinking, Uh, I’m seeing three people, though technically they’re all “fuck buddies”. The hell with “fuck buddies,” Robin and I are Daniel’s Regular Sex Partners, or RSPs. And I thought, I have a crush on Daniel. I want him to have a crush on me. I mean, I know he likes me; finds me amusing and fun and sexy, but I want his heart to race when he sees me, you know? Greedy girl.
So, Daniel went on, he and this girl apparently have lots in common. To wit: she’s had her tubes tied; he wants a vasectomy. She loves vintage clothing; he is Mr. Forties. And, uh, I’m petty -- I couldn’t help thinking, Everyone loves vintage. Big deal. “She sounds great,” I said noncommittally. “Sounds like you have a crush on her.”
“Yeah. Last night on IM I told her that if she were in New York I’d ask her to go dancing,” Daniel admitted. I smiled, wondering if this bothered me, and if it did, whether or not I’d be able to admit it to myself.
When we were done eating it was past 11:00 and we climbed into bed. He asked me about my date with Jefferson, and we discussed how hot it would be for him to go down on another guy while I watched. He keeps returning to this scenario. Then we went back to Robin: “She says ideally she’d like the men she’s seeing to be monogamous,” he said, and I laughed.
“No,” I said, after a minute, “I guess that would be preferable.” Then I said I was, by inclination, monogamous. But what I think I meant was that, by inclination, I’m jealous and insecure. And just now I came across an interesting article by William Saletan on Slate, called “Don’t Do Unto Others.” He illustrates my feelings very well:
“One isn't the number of people you want to sleep with. It's the number of people you want your spouse to sleep with.”
Then the conversation moved around to whether I liked hearing stuff about his sex life. I hesitated. “Well, I like it in the abstract,” I said. Because that story he’d told me about that nameless friend of his and himself both going down on some guy had turned me on, but when I hear about what Robin and he do in bed I start wondering if he’s comparing us. Also, I think the thought of Daniel being with a guy doesn’t seem like a threat to our non-relationship, whereas hearing about Robin always makes me tense. “I like to hear it anonymously,” I considered. “But, really, if I know it’s Robin, then I can’t help wondering if she’s prettier than me, has a better body, that kind of thing.” We lay facing one another, my fingers in his hair.
“Ohhh…” he said in that “You little scamp,” voice, sort of affectionately chiding.
I shrugged. It’s the truth.
Then he said, “Seriously, you’re the best looking girl I’ve ever been with. I’m constantly stunned that you’re with me.” Item: I’m not great looking. My nose is too wide and I have to the pluck dark hairs on my face, which breaks out. And also, item: when he said that I thought: So, how come you’re with this Robin, eh? If I’m so great?
I smiled and kissed him. “You’re gorgeous,” I said, cause it’s true.
SIDEBAR. Now, a few things. One: I included that he said I’m the best looking girl he’s ever dated in this blog entry. My passion for compliments about my physical features is apparently bottomless, as is my insecurity about my looks. I constantly take off my glasses and unwind my hair for photos, and I’m always aware of how I stand on the thin-fat continuum compared to other women in the room. I am not proud of this; it’s a fact. I used to think I wasn’t vain, just insecure, but maybe I’m both – an ugly combination. I think I’ve always thought I was ugly because my parents never told me I was pretty.
I don’t think they did it to be cruel. I think that a) it didn’t occur to them b) they didn’t want it to matter. They didn’t want me to think that prettiness was an attribute that really counted for anything. But it does, of course. Never mind all the studies that suggest prettier people are better paid, better liked and more successful; it matters because people want to feel attractive. And my parents never told me that I was pretty – they still haven’t for that matter, although of course I do receive compliments along the lines of “That looks nice on you,” and “You skin looks good,” “Have you lost weight?” etc., etc. But never an outright, “You’re so pretty.” Should I have a daughter, I will tell her she’s beautiful every day, until she gets tired of reminding me how looks aren’t important.
The other main reason I never felt pretty growing up was that my closest friends were often noticeable beauties. My very oldest friend (I haven’t seen her in years, though we do e-mail occasionally) was a girl named Brett Hallon. When we were kids, we had matching bowl-shaped haircuts (why? why?), but Brett had blond hair and blue eyes. It was just a given that Brett was beautiful, and in fact she was. When I went to high school I met some people who had known her. “Oh my God, she was the most beautiful girl in the world,” said this guy, who was famed in my class as being the handsomest guy. Another confessed he’d had a crush on her in pre-school. You get the idea.
One day my mother ran into Brett on the street. I must have been about 16. “She looks great,” my mom told me, “Her hair’s really long. She looked really pretty.”
I was livid. “Thanks, Mom. I really needed to hear that,” I spat, as though there wasn’t enough beauty to go around, as if Brett being beautiful meant I couldn’t be pretty. I was ashamed of my behavior, but now I think it upset me because it was the first time I could remember that my mother had ever commented on how pretty someone was. And it wasn’t me. Anyway, in addition to this, while I was in high school (not the high water mark for me, self-esteem or attitude-wise) my three closest friends had perfect skin, blond hair and blue eyes, and were all at least 5’5”. I was just used to being the plain one. It’s like in a group of girls, one of them has to be the prettiest, and one is the plainest. I was used to being the plainest.
So now when I receive compliments about my looks I feel vindicated, like everything I’ve learned in 33 years of living and more than half of that in therapy has made me pretty, like it’s a moral victory. Being told I’m smart or nice cuts no ice with me; I already know that. I crave being told I’m gorgeous, cause it makes me feel like I’m not this freak who’s too short and has spotty skin and dark hairs on her upper lip.
Anyway, I didn’t date seriously until I was out of college and, come to think of it, I was never fed a steady diet of compliments even by men who wanted to get into my pants. I mean, I was confident that these men – some of them, anyway – loved me, and found me attractive. And no doubt they did, though generally not attractive enough to stop what they were doing and remark on it. Daniel seems compelled to tell me I’m gorgeous when we meet up and then before, during and after sex. Maybe this is part of the reason I’m so enamored of him. That’s an interesting idea.
Bottom line: Daniel has a huge cock. No, wait, that wasn’t it…
Bottom line: I’m emotionally retarded and have yet to forgive my parents for things that were finished years ago. SIDEBAR ENDS.
Then Daniel fucked me doggy style. Now that’s when I like to be called a whore, I’ve discovered, so I hinted, none too subtly, that this was what I wanted to hear: “I want to be a whore for you,” I whispered, feeling his torso thrust against my back with that solid, thrumming pump.
“You’re such a good slut,” he breathed obligingly, pushing against me. “Cockslut. You’d like to have two cocks at once to please, wouldn’t you?”
After a while I got on top of him and rode him. As usual, I was soon on the verge of orgasm. But I was so wet, it was like there was no tension between his cock and my cunt. All of a sudden it felt like he’d slipped out, or had gotten soft. But he was still there. I think that slickness might be attributable to my period. Then, with a shudder, I came, relieved.
“You’re so tight when you come,” he breathed, “It’s like you squeeze me out.”
Maybe that was the problem.
Then I lay on my back again, with my legs on his shoulders. It used to be that fucking like this was painful, but now I really like it. I wonder if my insides have become all loose and wanton, eh? Will that make my girl parts less appealing to men?
In the morning I thought I might consolidate my sexual power by blowing him, even though I was pretty tired. It occurs to me that I’m giving a lot of head lately!
“You’re converting me to blowjobs,” Daniel smiled as I worked him over with my mouth, and then my hands. When he came it was just a tiny spurt of thick white gunk.
“I think I’ve wrung most of it out of you,” I observed.
Then we had to get up. “What are you doing this weekend?”
I looked at my date book, and recited my plans. “I’m free on Saturday night… What are you doing?”
“Well, tonight Robin’s moving to her new place in the city, and she wants to break in the bed.” (Hmmph. She has a place in the city now, does she?) “And this weekend, we’re going to Atlantic City.”
I did a double take. “Really?”
“That’s so cool.” But I was thinking, Why not me? Why her?
And the upshot of the whole thing is I’m sure she’s his favorite (like we’re a harem, for God’s sake), and that she’s prettier, sexier, hotter and more fun than me.
Then I got to work and found out that my temp assignment is ending, which means I’ve got to make an effort to find a job. Ken Smith, whom I was fantasizing about seducing, brought me into his office. As soon as he told me to sit down, I knew; I’d never been asked to sit down before. He seemed nervous; I think he was afraid I was going to cry!
This was all so depressing, but then I got some good news: Jefferson has been tested, and he’s all clear. We have a date. Now it’s not 100 percent accurate, because, although it’s unusual, positive HIV results can take up to six months to become apparent in the blood, and even so, well, after we start having sex it’s not like he won’t be fucking anyone else. But I’ve decided that these are risks I’m apparently prepared to take. Also, Adrian, who works with Marc, invited me to their very swanky Christmas party. It’s on the same day as the one at Dor-Oops will be, so even though I have to bid farewell to my chances of pulling Ken Smith, I can still wear my pink dress and drink champagne that night.
Then last night I went to visit Polly, her boyfriend Theo and their new baby, Ginny. Seeing them so happy and exhausted in their tiny apartment, I just thought, I can’t have a baby until I have a decent sized home. Baby paraphernalia has taken over almost every inch of the place. And I’m sure I still have lots of growing up (or living somewhat dangerously, if you like) to do before I settle down.
It was a long 24 hours.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Later we lolled around, discussing whether we should watch a movie. “Do you want to stay over?” Jefferson asked.
I had thought that was the plan, anyway. “Yeah,” I said.
We kissed and rolled around, while the Todd Rundgren album played in the other room. “I feel like I’m making out in someone’s basement,” I said dreamily.
“Teenage sex,” agreed Jefferson.
After a while I said, shyly, “You could hit me, of you want.”
I shrugged. I was ambivalent, but surely this time would be better. "Just..." I swallowed. "You hit my face,” I reminded him. I was still smarting (geddit? Smarting!) over that.
“It’s OK, I’ve got a better idea now,” Jefferson said.
I saw him bend over and drag a box out from under his bed. I caught a quick peek of a pair of handcuffs.
He laid me on my stomach, across his bed. “Do you trust me?”
“Are you scared?”
“Don’t worry; I won’t be rough.”
“Hmmph,” I said.
I felt something drag lightly across my ass – a tasseled leather tool of some kind. Lightly, quickly, he slapped my ass. OK. I breathed.
He hit me again, and again; now harder. When it grew very painful I said, “You have to stop; please,” and he did. Then he took out another tasseled leather thing, much like the previous instrument, but bigger. He slid it through my legs, just brushing my pussy and, I couldn’t help it, I thought – does he clean this thing? Stop thinking! I ordered my brain. But when I wasn’t thinking, I was in danger of being in pain.
He hit me across my ass, and then against my back. Actually, when it wasn’t too hard I rather liked that – it felt like a firm massage. But again, it got painful, and when I couldn’t stand it anymore I pleaded for him to stop, which he did.
Then Jefferson gently pushed me back onto the mattress and covered my head with a pillow, so I couldn’t see. I heard a crack, like a whip cutting the skin of the air in the room. Good lord.
“I’m going to do this very lightly,” Jefferson promised. I felt a thwack against the backs of my calves. It was a cane. Hey! It didn’t hurt, or rather, it wasn’t so bad. Then he lifted the stick from my legs and the sting was unbearable.
“Jesus Christ!” I said.
“I know,” said Jefferson. “It doesn’t really hurt while you’re being hit, it hurts afterwards.”
Was that some kind of Zen thing? Jefferson hit me again, across my back, then across my ass, and again, eventually, I begged him to stop. Then I sat up. “Jesus Christ!” I said again. “That’s unbelievable!” I meant how the cane hurts when it’s over, not during the actual caning.
“I know.” Jefferson held up the stick for my inspection.
“Is that wood?”
I shook my head. “This is what Victorian schoolboys got punished with?” He nodded. “Those headmasters must have been complete pervs. OK,” I said at last. “So what else did you hit me with?”
“Well,” he brandished a long braided black leather switch. “This is a cat of nine tails.”
I knew that, thanks to a long-ago production of The H.M.S. Pinafore. Again, Victorians: total pervs! Just in case you don’t know, a cat o’nine tails is a leather whip, which has nine braided leathers “tails” attached to the body of the whip. “I didn’t even hit you with the braided part,” said Jefferson, “Just the ends.”
“Oh,” I said. Apparently I hadn’t been able to manage the braided part. Sigh. “And what’s this?” I pointed to the first thing he had hit me with, which looked like a cat, only smaller.
“That’s a flogger,” he said dismissively. It looked like an oversized chenille pillow tassel.
“Oh.” Well. I hadn’t gotten very far, and I didn’t feel like this had been much fun for him, what with me making him stop every minute or so. Nonetheless.
Then he pulled out his box from under the bed and brought out a little cord, attached to two lipstick-shaped tubes. “A bullet vibrator,” he explained. “Have you used one?”
I shook my head. “I’ve never used a vibrator.”
It was like a replay of my conversation with Daniel. “No, never.”
“How do you masturbate?”
“With my hand,” I sighed. “And I wear my underwear, cause I like the friction. Most of my underwear is worn through by the crotch.”
“I bet that’s hot.” Jefferson smiled. “I’d like to see that.”
I was embarrassed: “There’s nothing much to see, really. I just lie on my stomach.”
“Oh, I could tell you were the type who lay on her stomach to masturbate!” Jefferson sounded pleased at the idea. “Do you use a pillow?”
“Really?” He sounded disappointed.
“No, no pillow.”
He slipped a condom on one of the bullets, and slid it inside me. Then he placed the other bullet over my clit, and turned the vibrator on, handing me the lever to turn it off. “You never use a pillow?”
“I’ll be back,” Jefferson said, and disappeared.
So there I was, with a vibrating piece of plastic inside me like a tampon, and another device thrust against my groin. Hmmm. Nothing much going on. At last I realized that I could adjust the pressure on the vibrator: aha! I turned it up. Still not much of a reaction… a little more. For an instant, I felt a shudder through me, but my body adjusted quickly. I turned it up a bit more, and again, a restless twitch shook me before I grew used to the humming. I looked at the switch; it was almost on the highest speed. I turned it all the way up.
Gah! Ow. I flicked it down a bit, and lay there. It occurred to me that Jefferson had introduced this vibrator to many people’s orifices. He’d put a condom over the bit inside me, but what about the part currently snuggling up against my clit? Did that part also go into various anuses and cunts and whatnot? Oh, God, what a thought.
Eventually Jefferson returned. “I didn’t realize I could turn it all the way up,” I explained, turning the vibrator off and yanking the bullet out. “Um, does this part always go here?” I meant, does this particular bullet always go inside? Which part gets covered by a condom, etc?
They can go anywhere,” Jefferson lectured, “This can go in your clit, or your ass, or…”
“I know, I mean, do you put condoms on the other parts? I mean, this part,” – I pointed to the bullet that had been rubbing my clit, “Could go into someone’s ass, you know? I mean--”
“Well, that would be a problem if I didn’t clean my things,” Jefferson twinkled.
“Do you want something to drink?”
“Do you have Diet Coke?"
“Yes, but it’s been up someone’s ASS!” Jefferson hooted with laughter, and collapsed on top of me. I smirked, relieved he wasn’t offended that I’d worried about his sex hygiene.
He pushed me against the mattress and lay on top of me, shoving his body against me. “You know I’m going to fuck your ass,” he crooned in my ear, “And you’re going to say, ‘Oh, Jefferson, don’t stop!’” Here he switched into falsetto, presumably imitating my voice. “And I’ll say [and here Jefferson lowered his voice to a bass rumble,] ‘Yeah, take it!’”
I snorted against the pillow. “That’s very sexy.”
Jefferson continued in this vein for a while, acting out a dialogue in which I moaned with delight and he grunted macho platitudes. It was like I had been transported to Planet of the 14-Year Old Boy. It was pretty ridiculous. “Do you do this with everyone you sleep with?” I gulped with laughter. “Cause I can see it must be a huge turn on.”
Eventually we fell asleep. I am a light sleeper, and a restless one. At one point Jefferson woke me up: “Suck my cock,” he said. His voice was thick and dark with sleep.
I slid right down and took his cock in my mouth. First the lesson, now the practical! I was strangely nervous.
He shoved his dick into my mouth, all the way in. I could hear the saliva slap against his dick. I kept gagging and choking, it was sloppy and loud and I went at it eagerly.
Eventually Jefferson pulled his cock out of my mouth and groaned. He came, and came and came, with a series of sighs and jerks, a long spume of liquid. It was everywhere. I was leaning over him, watching his face as he came, and his come was all over my stomach. It got into the ends of my hair, my face, even my right nostril. I blew my nose.
It got light and we lay close together. I stroked his thinning hair, which stood up around his head like a crown. “I love your hair,” I smiled
Thursday, December 07, 2006
As usual, we nattered away for an hour or so, sitting on his sofa. At one point Jefferson observed that we hadn’t kissed or anything – was it his responsibility to make a move? I had kind of expected him to. In part because, you know, part of what we’re doing is dominance/submission, but also, I don’t know, I was just waiting for him to take the lead cause it’s easier that way. Easier for me. If I don’t make the first move, then I can’t be rejected. I said as much. But then I launched myself at him eagerly, and we made out on his couch, listening to Todd Rundgren.
In his bedroom he sat in the armchair while I undressed. I was wearing tights, which seem to demand a teasing, stripper-like unveiling, but, I don’t know, it seemed so calculated. So instead I just dragged them off. Jefferson observed that my disrobing technique seemed a little perfunctory.
“I know,” I complained. “It just seems coy to strip off like that.” What’s my deal with coyness? I’d like to be sexy, but I hate the thought of being sort of … well, the only way I can think of it is Jessica Simpson-like. The combination of total obliviousness and salaciousness. I’d like to be sexy because I’m straightforward, not sexy because I’m too dumb to realize I’m being a tease. But really, I have to work on this. There ought to be a happy medium between taking off my clothes and pretending I’m Carmen Electra performing strip aerobics. Perhaps I should undress slowly – but not too slowly-- while maintaining eye contact and not smiling. Not frowning, but not smirking, either. Hmmm.
“I like you in skirts,” Jefferson said, eyeing me. “That’s a good look on you.”
I like wearing skirts cause I hate the way my legs look in jeans.
“Thanks.” Naked, I edged into his lap. “I’m insecure about my looks,” I explained. I don’t know why I felt compelled to reveal that, but as he’s read much of this blog I guess it’s not a surprise. I squinted at Jefferson thoughtfully. “I bet you tell all the smart girls they’re pretty and all the pretty girls they’re smart,” I realized.
“I don’t think--”
“No, you’re not calculating,” I said. I looked at him. “I like that.”
“Why don’t you undress me?” Jefferson suggested at last. I lifted his pullover and t-shirt over his head, and then tugged at his pajama bottoms. He was pale, and freckled. “Wow,” I said. I liked the way he looked, especially his paleness. I commented on this.
My mouth traveled down along his belly and towards the crop of fair, curly hair that covered his groin and lower abdomen. I buried my face in his groin and sniffed. He smelled sort of sweet. “You smell like maple syrup!” I said. “Or maybe a granola bar…” I sniffed again. “An Oat and Honey one?” I considered.
My mouth moved around to his cock and I breathed him in, and licked at him, like a cat. He stood up and I repositioned myself, on my knees, so I could suck him off.
“Here,” he said after a moment. “The underside, here, is the most sensitive. You don’t have to pay much attention to the tip.”
I felt chastened. I have always felt proud of my blowjobs, but perhaps they are given with more enthusiasm than skill.
“OK.” I wrapped my mouth around his cock again, and started sucking away. He pushed his cock further into my mouth, and started to gag when I felt the tip hit the back of my throat.
“Relax,” said Jefferson. OK, OK. I took a deep breath, and took him in again. “Don’t give me a blowjob now, just concentrate on taking it in,” he said.
“Ah,” I said. When his cock reached the back of my throat I thought for a minute I couldn’t breathe, but of course I could. It’s like when you swallow but keep the back of your throat closed. It was just pressure in a place I wasn’t used to. I held up one finger to signal, Wait. I got a bit more comfortable with his cock sitting against my throat. Then I moved a bit, and Jefferson pushed his cock forward, and I felt it slip into my throat. Tears sprang to my eyes; I gagged.
“You took a lot in!” Jefferson said encouragingly.
I sat on my haunches, bemused. “I always thought deep throat was a metaphor,” I gasped. “I didn’t realize you could actually swallow a dick.” I felt like the world’s biggest ignoramus. What had I thought deep throating someone meant? I guess that if you gagged, you had done it. Jesus Christ! How come I hadn’t realized that, logically, after it hits the back of the throat, the cock can go further? Down? I rubbed my eyes.
This is what it means to have your mouth fucked, I thought. Never mind blow jobs, this is having your mouth fucked. I took him again, and as I struggled past the tension and pressure Jefferson said, “I’m all the way in.” I looked down and saw no part of his dick whatsoever, it was all in me, hard and full. I was thrilled. He pushed his dick a little farther into my throat, the farthest it had been. I felt my throat widen a bit. Then I gagged, and gasped.
“I thought it was a metaphor,” I repeated. How did I get to be 33 without realizing this?
He went down on me. That is generally a source of anxiety for me, since I rarely get off. My mind always wanders, and I feel guilty that I haven’t come. He flicked his tongue over my clit with professional skill. “How’s that?” he asked, squinting up at me.
“It’s good,” I gasped. Only every time I thought I might come the mechanism in me sort of broke, and I was left on the edge. “I keep reaching this plateau,” I said. “Um… a little higher…”
We sat on his floor with my legs wrapped around him.
“Wanna get married? Let’s get married,” said Jefferson.
“I want six kids,” I warned him.
He started to laugh: “I’m halfway there.”
I started thinking about myself, and Jefferson, and Jordan and Daniel. And I thought, maybe I’m submissive because that way I only have to obey; and if I obey, I can’t be bad at it. That is, if I’m no good, it’s not my fault. (Is having things not be my fault my driving motivation? Sometimes I wonder). Perhaps my submissiveness is an aspect of sexual insecurity. Funny. Although I didn’t start regularly having sex until I was about 24, I’ve never thought of myself as sexually insecure. I guess it’s because I come pretty easily. As though that makes me savvy, rather than just lucky. Anyway. I wanted to tell all Jefferson this.
“I just have the urge to keep yattering at you,” I said.
“Well, we can talk,” he pointed out. We clambered up onto his bed. “Do you want another drink?”
I looked over at the bedside table, where a quarter inch of whisky sat in a glass tumbler. “I think I’d like to sip yours,” I said at last. “Maybe a very small whisky, please.”
See, when I come across insights like the one above, I don’t generally share them with anyone but my therapist Caroline, and sometimes Marc. I mean, I express my anger and happiness and whatnot, but I don’t like to emote about my thoughts. I just think that most emotional revelations are interesting primarily to the people they happen to. It’s so easy to talk about oneself (ahem!) and while I can do that for hours, I do not want to bore the guy I’m fucking. Oh, and I might as well admit it, I think my instinct to not always talk preserves a little mystery. There. All right. I said it.
SIDEBAR I don’t deliberately withhold information, it’s just that stuff like this – the idea that my instinct for submission might have its roots in my fear of being bad in bed – well, like I said, this isn’t fascinating to anyone but me, I should imagine. Plus, I am wary of revealing just how insecure I am, about my sexual prowess, and my attractiveness to men. There’s no value in that kind of vulnerability, I think. It’s just a roundabout way of asking to have one’s ego stroked with statements like “No, you’re totally hot, you’re the best ever!” And those statements, under these circumstances, mean nothing except that the person asking for them (i.e. me) has self-esteem issues. Self esteem issues are never attractive, and I always want to be attractive to the man I’m sleeping with. Anyway, it’s not Jefferson’s, or anyone else’s, job to convince me that I’m pretty. (That job belongs—or belonged, as that ship sailed some time ago-- to my mother, who missed that part. But we’ll leave my grievances against my mother for the time being, since they’re not nearly as good copy as my sex life). It’s only his job to believe that I’m pretty. Cause I do think any man I sleep with should believe I’m good looking, and that he’s lucky to sleep with me. I would hate to go to bed with someone who didn’t think I was attractive. God willing, I will never, ever do that. I do think a responsible and respectful lover tells his/her partner s/he’s gorgeous. That’s just polite and aids the shedding of inhibitions. Anyway. SIDEBAR ENDS
Jefferson brought me a drink and lay on the bed, and I straddled him. “It’s just,” I started. “I don’t want to fail you. I want you to enjoy yourself here.”
“Are you saying that I don’t have to like you?” said Jefferson.
“No!” I was horrified. Like I said, I have self-esteem issues, but I should hope my sense of self would demand a little more than a man merely tolerating me. “No, you have to like me,” I said sternly, though it’s hard to be stern when you’re naked and sitting on top of someone. “Otherwise there would be no point. No, that’s not what I’m getting at.”
I thought for a minute. “You know,” I said, “With Daniel, it’s like I’m in charge, cause I’m older, and I can’t do anything wrong. We have a great time together,” I hastened to add. “And with Jordan, I can’t do anything wrong with him, either, because he’s in charge. I can fail, but it’s his responsibility. He can direct me. With you, there’s a little more to it. It’s not just me being submissive, and it’s more demanding than what I do with Daniel. And I want this to be fun for you, and not just about you giving me lessons.” At least, that’s the gist of what I said. I was feeling muzzy and rambling. What I think I meant was: with Jefferson, I feel the responsibility not (just) to please him, but for him to have a good time. I know Daniel has a good time. Jordan… I dunno, it’s not about that, exactly; we’re not friends.
“It’s not like there’s only one way for you to be with me,” Jefferson observed. He said some other insightful and nice things, too, only I can’t remember what they were. But he said, “I want to do lots of things with you, have sex with you and watch movies and beat up on you…” That last part was perhaps not the most traditional declaration of intent, but I got the idea.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
As it turned out, this was the case: “Hey!” said Daniel, clapping his brother on the back. Matt was tall, bulkier than Daniel, with a round, handsome face. He introduced us, and we went inside, where we caught the end of the set of a cute singer/songwriter, who lamented, “It’s getting worse…” in a soulful voice over his guitar, the very cliché of the emo boy. Which I thought was pretty funny.
His brother was waiting for a friend. Matt didn’t seem especially taken with me; at least; I didn’t find him particularly friendly. But this may have been because, as Daniel later explained somewhat sheepishly, his brother is used to seeing him with Robin. Ah. Eventually Matt’s friend showed up, and they retired to a nearby table. I leant against Daniel, and he absently stroked my hair. Just like a real date.
“There’s this swing party next month, after Christmas,” said Daniel.
“That sounds fun,” I said. Note the noncommittal-ness.
“Do you. Want to come with me?” he grinned, aware of his awkwardness.
“I'd love to.” I wondered what he was doing for New Year’s Eve, and if I’d have the courage to ask him if he wanted to do something. Probably he’s already committed to Robin. But still!
The singer was great, although I’m not crazy about jazz, and it was nice to just sit in a small café and listen to music, even though I was eating the most boring food and couldn’t even have a drink, thanks to the South Beach Diet. When it was over we bid his brother goodbye and headed back to the train.
At his place we climbed into bed but it occurred to me that Daniel was too tired for sex. Grr! “I can stop nudging, you,” I offered, nobly. “I’m sensitive to your need for sleep.”
“But I’m sensitive to your need for fucking,” he responded gallantly.
“That makes me sound so … needy,” I exclaimed, dismayed.
We turned off the light and spooned, but after a minute or two his hand sneaked over to my pussy and started stroking me. “Not too tired?” I asked, and rolled over on top of him.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Daniel can take a hint, and said, Well, let’s get together tomorrow and on Friday. Ha!
We were fooling around in my room when I heard a shriek. It was Jenny. We were half dressed. I figured she had seen another roach. I am on a tough love drive regarding Jenny and the kitchen: dirty protest! I’m sick of constantly taking out the garbage. She can do it. Maybe I’m not the only one who takes out the garbage, or cleans the kitchen sink of vegetable peelings. But it certainly does feel that way sometimes. Anyway.
A minute later there was a knock on the bedroom door. I opened it.
“There’s a cockroach,” Jenny said. “Please?”
“Daniel!” I called. Just like he was my boyfriend. My non-boyfriend good-naturedly took care of the problem. Jenny was wearing a tee-shirt and super-short shorts, and I wondered if Daniel found her attractive.
“Thank you,” I said when we’d repaired to my room, the insect crisis averted. “For that you get the sex act of your choice. Within reason,” I amended.
We were fooling around, talking and kissing, when he interrupted me: “I’m going to suck on your tits,” he announced, and bent his head to my breast.
It was the matter-of-factness that did me in. I got wet.
We fucked and it was lovely. Being with Daniel is so sweet, and the terrible undercurrent I feel, that it’s dangerous for me to see him, has abated.
“What kind of vibrator do you use?”
“I don’t have one.”
“You don’t have a vibrator?!”
“How do you masturbate?”
“I use my hand.” I’m very low tech.
We were cuddling and nattering away when he said something and I thought, “Can’t he be qui-” and it hit me: Hey! Daniel is not perfect, and he’s not the perfect man for me. He’s nice, and sexy, and cute and smart and lovely, but it’s not the end all and be all if I’m with him. This was compounded by the fact that he soon brought out this idiotic computer game thingy he has (sort of like a PSP, but not) and began playing it. It is a remarkably stupid Japanese game which plays pop songs that the gamer has to tap out the beat to in order to win. Listening to him concentrate on that game I thought, God, can’t you turn that thing off? Then: Hey. I’m a big girl. I can do this. And I believed it.
Monday, November 27, 2006
I’d fortified myself with a bottle of $7.99 Lambrusco, which, for those of you who have sophisticated tastes, is a fizzy red wine much beloved by college students the world over for its sweetness, not to mention its cheapness. Nothing says “I can’t afford Merlot!” like Lambrusco.
Jordan came by at about 7:30, and, in keeping with the polite fiction that we’re friends, I introduced him to my roommate as we passed her in the kitchen. Then onto my bedroom. He sat against the wall, as he had before, and asked me how I’d been. I told him a bit about my date with Jefferson.
“He slapped your face? Wow,” said Jordan. “That’s kind of advanced.”
“Chuh!” I said. “I was really freaked out. (This was my way of telling Jordan to not try anything of the kind with me. Subtle, eh?)
At last he said, “Take off your clothes.”
When I was down to my underwear (pink nylon, bikini) he said, “Walk over to the wall.”
What--? I backed myself to the wall, where Jordan said, “Turn around, and lean against the wall.”
Jordan had thought this out, you know? He planned these scenarios. I liked that: the imagination that goes into it.
“Now stick your ass out, and slowly rub your ass against me,” he said in my ear. I stiffened, and awkwardly put my ass out against his, and pushed against him, clad in his dress trousers.
“Now slowly pull your underwear down—slowly—not all the way…”
Again, I felt strange and detached, like I was taking part in some German Expressionist play. “Now I’m going to slap your ass,” Jordan said. After my night with Jefferson, I was tense. He hit me. It wasn’t too hard; I relaxed.
“Now pull your panties back up, and rub yourself against me.”
“Now pull them down again.”
“Now take them off.”
“All right. Now come back to the bed.”
I followed him back across the room. “Beautiful,” he said, as if I’d just passed a test. “Undress me.”
I went to work. When Jordan was naked he said, “Put my clothes over there,” he said, gesturing to my chair. I balked. This, to me, seemed to be on the domestic ratheer than the sexual side of submission. Stiffly I dropped his shirt and trousers on the arm of my rattan chair. “Now ask for permission to suck my cock.”
“Tie your hair back,” he said, after a bit. “I want to watch you suck me.”
Soon he had me on my stomach, with his fingers rubbing against my clit. I longed, really longed, for him to slip a finger or two inside me, but he didn’t. I pushed myself against him, just as I had earlier, when my breasts had been pressed against the wall and my ass against his groin. “You want me to fuck you?” he said.
He slid inside me and rocked against me. Don’t come right away! I thought. He briefly kissed my cheek, which surprised me and is probably the most affectionate and least sexual physical intimacy we have ever had.
“Can you do something for me?” I whispered, thinking, hmm, this probably violates all laws of submission, but what the hell. “Can you call me a whore?”
He did – and came quite quickly. Damn.
Afterwards, he wanted to know what I’d thought. My real feeling was, of course, that it had been too short. I didn’t say that, though.
“I liked it,” I said, which was true, but also, what else is there to say? I mean, I think lots of things when I’m with Jordan: I’m scared. Is this it? This is weird. None of which I’m going to share with Jordan. They’re not particularly flattering thoughts, after all. Though, to be fair, sometimes I think Ah. Yes, go on.
“Hey, was that not submissive, to ask for you to call me a whore?”
“No, that was OK. Have you been reading about submission, like online or anything?”
No, I hadn’t. No, wait, I had! “Yeah, on Fleshbot...” And I froze, thinking, !@#$ !@#$!. Because, of course, the Fleshbot sex blog round up on submission (with sites chosen by Jefferson) had featured none other than me. And that blog entry was about my date with Jordan, in which I complained that (among other things) he came really quickly and “smelled wrong.” Oh God oh God oh God. I changed the subject.
“I like how you have this story,” I said, thinking of bring pressed against my bedroom wall, of the way it was clear he had thought about what to do to me.
“It’s always been about ideas with me,” he said, and he told about how, when he was growing up, the story surrounding the sex had always been of primary importance to him, in porn, fantasies, whatever.
“Narrative,” I said.
“Look, I don’t want to overstay my welcome,” said Jordan. Which I thought was strange, that diffidence. “But, I’m really hungry. I was thinking I could go get some food at that diner and come back.”
“Sure.” I wanted to have sex again. I hadn’t come.
“Do you want anything?”
“A vanilla milkshake,” I said promptly. I hadn’t even known that I wanted one, but it came right out of my mouth. And, yes, I love vanilla milkshakes, but I think part of the reason I asked for one is because it is, to me, the epitome of an innocent beverage (if beverages can be said to have such characteristics). I was suddenly eager to reassert my innocence.
“A vanilla milkshake. I think I’ll have one, too,” said Jordan, so possibly he missed the symbolism there.
He left and I drank the Lambrusco remaining in my glass, and then started on his.
When he came back we sat on my bed and I drank a bit more Lambrusco, and washed it down with my milkshake, to Jordan’s amusement.
“The only thing that weirded me out was when you told me to take your clothes,” I said, just to remind him that, despite being submissive, I am a feminist. Proving it to myself as much as him, I suspect.
“Yeah, I kind of saw that,” he said. “I saw that that bothered you, and I’m the kind of person who, if I see that it bothers you, pushes it,” he admitted. And I thought, Huh! I would never date someone whose personal sexual motivation was to make me uncomfortable. But then I thought, Oh, grow up. There’s no conflict here: you’re not dating. You don’t have to like Jordan. He’s here to get off, and to help you explore a bit. You’re here to learn something. (Actually, that last statement is sort of funny. It makes me sound like I've enrolled in an evening class at the local community college.)
“I’m naturally very law abiding,” I said, apropos of nothing. “My instincts are to be very obedient to authority.” When I was a kid, I was terrified of upsetting teachers, or my father, who has a very uncertain temper. Now, my father’s temper irks rather than terrifies me, but it still has the power to throw me off balance. But that’s another story. But when I was a kid, I never did anything wrong. I thought it was a sign of moral probity, rather than an overdeveloped fear of authority figures or a lack of a reasonable sense of the ridiculousness.
“Then, when I was sixteen,” I continued, “I suddenly realized that it didn’t matter if I didn’t do my math homework or was twenty minutes late, and for a while I kind of deliberately did things wrong.” Not very wrong: I still didn’t cheat on tests. My great rebellion consisted of cutting classes with my friend Sarah, smoking cigarettes with her in the handicapped stall of the girls’ bathroom. I fought with my parents and antagonized some of my teachers. That was about the extent of it. But still. “Maybe that’s what makes me kind of resistant to authority now,” I said doubtfully. Because I still resent all those years when I internalized all that authority; when I believed that disobeying rules meant I was bad; when angering my parents was shameful.
“Get on all fours,” he said, “And stick your tongue out.” Like a dog! I thought, and obeyed.
He stood in front of me and hastily rubbed his dick, then slid it into my mouth. I sucked him.
“Tell me you want me to come in your mouth,” he coaxed.
“Please come in my mouth,” I said, thinking, but wait! I want you to fuck me again. Damn! But I sucked him, and sucked him, and when I wasn’t sucking him he rubbed his dick up and down. I thought, he’s fucking my mouth. I’ve given many blow jobs before, but this, I thought, is having my mouth fucked. (I was wrong, but more on this later.)
“I’m going to come,” he said. And with a jerk he spewed into my mouth, a thin, transparent stream of cum. It sat in my mouth, waiting, so, after a moment, I swallowed it.
Jordan said nothing. Then I said, “Fucking HELL!”
He gave me a look, and I realized that might not have been the most tactful thing to say.
“Okaaay,” he said.
“No, it’s just,” I began. What I meant was, I never swallow. I swallowed for you. Show some appreciation. “I rarely swallow. I just wanted some acknowledgement,” I said lamely.
He sat back against the wall and I leaned against him. “Do you think you could fuck me again?” I asked. I was still unsatisfied.
He sighed: “No.”
“What, is that you being dominant? Denying me?”
“No,” said Jordan. “I’m forty. I just had a birthday.”
“Oh right,” I giggled, patting his shoulder. “You’re an old man.” I felt like Mirabelle Buttersfield.
“No,” said Jordan. “Even when I was twenty I don’t think I could have fucked you three times.”
I thought smugly of Daniel, who, at 26, has both a quick recovery time and the stamina Jordan seems to lack. Of course this could be because Daniel is pretty active, whereas poor Jordan has to rely on me for all non-solo sexual activity.
We’d previously discussed my job at Dor-Oops Industries (Jordan works in a similar industry), and when he was getting dressed, he said, “Do you work at 123 X Street?”
“Do you know Terry Milliven?”
Terry Milliven is the boss of Ken Smith (my boss – the man I would like to – but no doubt will never – seduce.)
“Terry Milliven is my boss’s boss,” I said, astonished. “How do you know Terry Milliven?”
Jordan smirked as he pulled on his jacket. “I told you: I’ve got connections.” I pictured Jordan walking into my office for a meeting with Ken Smith. And it occurred to me, not for the first time, that I have no idea of Jordan’s last name.
When he left I thought back to my idiotic slip about Fleshbot, and I hoped to God he didn’t get the notion to look for it online. When I didn’t hear from him afterwards I thought, Oh, God, he’s read it, and I felt just stupid and mean. But mostly stupid.
But then, just before Thanksgiving, he emailed to ask if I wanted to get together. I was relieved, since I figured it meant he had not come across that damning blog entry, but I already had plans. I declined, but said we should get together soon. Like, you know, when you give me more notice. I didn’t say that. Also, I think etiquette demands that a man thank his partner for his/her participation in his sexual fantasies on the day immediately following the event. This is something Jordan apparently does not consider important. Can I suggest that “Thanks, last night was fun,” would be in order, or, again, is that violating the submissives’ code? It’s bloody difficult, getting into the submissive spirit while still feeling compelled to insist on proper manners from the men I fuck.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Jefferson had warned me that he was out of liquor, so I bought some whisky. I am not yet blasé enough about going to a man’s apartment for the first time (especially to an apartment that sees regular orgies), or about submission, for that matter, to turn up without reinforcements in the form of mood-altering substances. I wanted Dutch courage. Of course, this involved some angst at the liquor store. I really didn’t want to spend much on alcohol (quantity, not quality is ever my motto), but could I really bring myself to show up at Jefferson’s door with a bottom shelf bottle of blended scotch whisky? I’m pretty vain – I didn’t want to be thought of as cheap. If I did buy El Cheapo brand, I would feel compelled to apologize for it. At which point Jefferson, being a well-mannered Southerner, would probably demur that it was fine. This dilemma took me a few minutes. Finally vanity won over frugality. As it so often does in my life.
Jefferson greeted me at the door in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. I handed him the bag. “Maker’s Mark!” he said, sounding pleased.
“I read your blog,” I reminded him. I glanced around his living room. Lots of books, artwork by his kids: so, you know, not intimidating. I’m not quite sure how a few square feet could be considered intimidating, but apparently the possibility had occurred to me.
We settled down on the sofa with our whiskies and listened to Neil Young and then Emmylou Harris. I’d been thinking about music on the way over. I’d been playing T. Rex’s “Hot Love” again and again on my iPod. This seemed like an appropriate soundtrack to get me in the mood. As did, oddly enough, Billie Holliday’s “Strange Fruit.” Obviously not the lyrics, but the sinister air of melancholy, and the soft minor key melody seemed fitting as I contemplated being slapped, possibly quite hard, by a man I barely knew.
We talked and talked. Alcohol makes me quite chatty, and because, of course, it’s alcohol, I am a little fuzzy about the subject of our discussion. I think Emmylou Harris, the idea of being an artist and of the importance of loving one’s work were bandied about. I knocked back my whisky pretty quick.
When he brought me a second drink he sat a bit closer. “See, I’m sitting incrementally closer to you now,” he announced.
“Oh, right!” I said, and squeezed just a bit closer, myself.
“You’re getting better at maintaining eye contact,” he observed. He has very blue eyes.
“That’s the alcohol,” I said, giving credit where it was due. This became clearer when we started talking about his writing. “When I’m writing erotica, the sentences get shorter,” he explained. “It’s not ‘My penis did this…,’ it’s ‘My cock. My cock. And there’s no vagina, that’s what you take to the doctor.’”
“Yes!” I cried. “Cause, you know, a penis is flaccid, but a cock is hard. And you know what else?” I went on, inspired, “I think cunt is a perfectly acceptable word, but pussy is really dirty.”
“What do you mean by dirty?” Jefferson asked. I realized that using ‘dirty’ as a pejorative term might put a damper on our evening, which was supposed to be very dirty, indeed.
“I just think euphemisms are dirty.” The alcohol was making me more voluble, but, unfortunately, also less articulate. I tried to remedy that: “With cunt, I think it’s the hard ‘k’ sound, and the dentalization at the end that makes it sound clean. I mean, I like the dirtiness of pussy,” I added, not wanting him to think I was a prude or anything. “I mean, just now I got this kind of shiver down the backs of my thighs.”
“That’s also the alcohol talking,” I said, insightfully. “I wouldn’t otherwise be talking about why I think pussy is a dirty word.” I finished my second whisky. “I’m just going to use your bathroom.”
“It’s at the end of the hall.”
When I returned to the sofa he pulled me towards him and kissed me, sliding his hands all over me. I sighed. He slipped his hands up under my shirt. “This is the part I have trouble with,” he said, struggling with my bra. Like me putting on condoms.
But he soon got rid of the rest of my clothes, slipping my tights off my legs and, briefly, onto his left arm. Then he settled me next to him on the couch, and I curled up against him. He was still dressed, or rather, still in his pajama bottoms and tee.
We kissed. “I just want to smell you,” I announced. I was definitely drunk at this point. I sniffed the crook of his elbow. Nice. We kissed again. “And I’m going to stroke you,” I added, sliding my hand across his groin.
It was already after 8:00; he’d been making me comfortable for two hours at this point, and I was due to leave at 9:00. “OK,” he said at last. “Take your drink into the bedroom.”
So I did. Hey! I thought. This is where the orgies (parts of them, anyway) happen! I looked at the bookshelves, then sat on the bed.
When he came in he joined me on the bed, pushing me back against his pillows and reaching into the drawer of his bedside table. He slipped a mask over my head, where it snagged in my hair. It was the real deal, not one of those wimpy Virgin Atlantic sleep masks. I couldn’t see a thing, not even an impression of light. I sighed. He lay on top of me.
After a minute I felt his dick on my face. He rubbed it across my mouth, and I licked it desperately. I tried and tried to get my mouth around the head, but he wouldn’t let me. “Please?” I said. “Won’t you let me suck you?” He slapped my face. I gasped: “Ow!” I hadn’t expected it at all. I had thought the slapping would be limited to my ass. It hurt. I wasn’t wet. I might have been excited, but I could barely even think. It really hurt.
Then he turned me over and slid me to the edge of the mattress, and spanked me hard. Several times. It was really painful, and I heard my voice whimpering. But it went on.
I don’t know how long it lasted. Not very long, I don’t think. Afterwards, Jefferson lay me on my back and covered me up with his body. He took off the mask.
“Well,” he said. “So we tried that, and it’s not for you. That’s OK.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not that I didn’t like it…” I said. Lying, I think.
“That’s a lot of double negatives,” he pointed out.
“It’s that I let you do that to me,” I was nearly in tears. “I let you. I didn’t even stop you.”
He kissed my face, and was quite soothing. I’m not surprised he has such an active social life. Even though he hit me really hard, and his promiscuity makes me nervous, I think he’s lovely, and I’m going to see him again, no question about it.
He found a cigarette, an unfiltered Gauloise! (How French!) and we split it, with me slouched in his armchair, and him lounging on the bed. It was after 9:00.
“Sometimes I don’t think I’m actually submissive,” I said, returning to our conversation. “I think I like the idea of refusing to do what I’m told,” I said.
“Oh, so you’re a brat,” Jefferson laughed.
I wondered if this was an official term for this particular perversity or if I’m just completely weird. Do I just want to annoy my partners to orgasm?
It was getting late. “Don’t you have another date?” I asked.
“I’m actually headed out,” he said. “I wish we’d planned for you to stay over,” he said. I smiled.
We started to dress. It was at this point I realized I was very, very drunk. The term legless suddenly made sense.
We walked to the subway station. “Are you OK?” he said. I was not too steady on my pins.
“I think I’m going to get a cab,” I said. “I just need a cash machine.”
“I’m going to come with you,” he said. Thank God for that, I was in a real state. He saw me to a nearby ATM and then into a cab. I don’t remember getting home, and I can’t imagine how I managed to give the driver directions. I struggled out of my clothes and collapsed in bed, not even washing my face. I woke up at 4:00 am with a splitting headache, having dreamt about HIV tests given by cheery people who kept mixing up the results and giving them out in public. My subconscious isn’t all that subtle, it seems.
Walking to the subway station this morning, I checked my voice mail. The phone had rung while I was at Jefferson’s, but I’d assumed it was Marc, since I’d asked him to check in. But aha! It was Daniel. He’d called to see if I was free tonight. Since I was playing it cool, I called him back immediately and said I’d love to get together. I believe this is called self-sabotage. I’ll call you sometime, eh? Call me Tuesday night, pal!
Jefferson had threatened – or promised – to give me bruises that would last nearly a week. I hadn’t had the courage to ask him not to (how could this take courage? It’s my ass! What the hell is up with me?). I don’t want bruises because I’m seeing Jordan on Friday night and am not sure of proper sub etiquette regarding multiple partners leaving welts on one’s ass. I can’t see my ass, but I don’t think it’s bruised. I thought it would hurt to sit down. I was kind of excited about being constantly, physically reminded of my night. Which is strange, considering how ambivalent I was about being hit that hard. But anyway, while it stings, I can’t tell if it’s a response to the spanking or just the latent effects of lycra-heavy tights clinging to by skin three days running. If there’s any visible bruising presumably Daniel will tell me. Wow, I am a slut.
When I got to work there was a nice email from Jefferson. He’s lovely.
“OK then. First, alcohol (as I think you mentioned before), that would be very good. Then, I think I'd like it if you to told me to get undressed and let me feel all exposed. During my brief hour or so as a submissive the other week, I enjoyed having my ass slapped. I think I liked it because I found it sort of stimulating rather than very painful. There's one or two other things I can think of, and actually they're quite tame but we can talk about them in person. For some reason I feel quite embarrassed about writing them down. Hmm. I guess the most important thing I'd like you to know I'm nervous, and I trust your experience and good intentions. But I'm sure you knew that already.
What were those things I thought of but could not bring myself to mention via email? Ahem! Well, I'd liked it when Jordan said, "Want to be a good whore and suck my cock?" I liked a) being called a good whore and b) being told to suck his cock. That's the kind of thing I was thinking about. Now, while I think I might have been able to say this to Jefferson in person, I couldn't countenance the thought of emailing him about this. What's up with that?
I'll tell you what's up with that. When I'm really nervous, I often say exactly what's on my mind, just because I find the tension of not saying it too great. Then I can be embarrassed that I've been too blunt, rather than be nervous about what hasn't been said. It's a trade off. I've been awkward when I'm nervous for so long that it barely bothers me anymore. But emailing a man I don't know very well and saying, "Yah, I'd like for you to call me a whore and tell me to suck your cock -- and oh, by the way, you can grip the back of my head while I suck you off, that's nice too," -- is just too much for me to say without tempering it with what I hope is a fetching awkwardness. In person I can minimize my nerves by letting it be known that I am embarrassed and nervous. I've found that this usually buys me some time, and generally the goodwill of whomever is patiently waiting for me to get over myself.
Anyway, this is what Jefferson wrote back:
"You anticipate me. I had already decided to undress you on arrival. I'm not having you over to admire your wardrobe.
"Likewise, your comment that you "don't like pain" had already earned you a spanking. We need to get you past things you haven't tried but "don't like."
Now, that is the most aggressive email I’ve ever received from him. Is it part of his dominant role? It’s a change, though, as previously he’s been exceptionally decorous. If this had been his persona throughout our correspondence, I would have been dead scared, as the English say. Has he guessed that, and is pushing me?
And, gah! I am dead scared. Thinking about this, I’ve decided not to write back at all. The only kind of response I can give is a sort of chiding, “Hey!” – which isn’t really playing the game, and well, he knows I’m fearful, but he also knows I’ve made the decision to trust him. I want to trust that this email suggests that he has a good idea of what might please me, not that he’s a sadist. So I’m going to put my money where my mouth is and see what happens. If I hate it, I won’t do it again. (I kind of doubt I’ll hate it, though. I think that’s what scares me.)
Saturday, November 11, 2006
The other evening I had a date with Jefferson.
Jefferson emailed me a few weeks ago, after he came across my Craig’s List ad. He sent me a brief note with a link to his blog. I checked out his blog and was completely floored: it was about the dirtiest thing I’d ever seen. He’s a divorced father of four, in his early forties, and apparently all he does is have sex with multiple partners and take care of his kids, though not at the same time. He’s a good writer. All the sex was erotic, the orgy conversations were funny and I was astounded.
I wrote back to say “!” – I thought his writing was great, but I found his depth of experience and number of partners intimidating. I didn’t expect to hear back from him, but he did respond, enclosing a photo. He also used the word “gosh,” which put me at ease. An insightful guy – he could see I am a sucker for what Michael Chabon terms a “dainty lexicon.” His photo showed him to be lanky and blond.
I was so flattered to be the subject of his pursuit. Though of course that doesn’t really make sense, since it appears that Jefferson is not averse to pursuing a fair number of men, women and some transsexuals in the five boroughs. I am a little ashamed to say I was thrilled that a celebrity was interested in me.
I thought I’d like to meet Jefferson – I wanted to see what someone who has huge amounts of group sex looked like in the flesh, as it were – but decided I wouldn’t sleep with him, since he didn’t sound like a safe bet. I noticed that in all of his entries he made a point of mentioning wearing a condom, but it was clear he had sex with a number of men, which I think is dangerous, and is on my list of stuff to be wary of.
Anyway, we wrote back and forth, flirty but not at all explicit emails, which is just how I prefer things to be. Eventually we agreed to meet for a drink on Saturday evening.
When he turned up I was, again, totally surprised. Cute, definitely, but I never ever would have would have picked him out of a line-up as the Man Most Likely to Host Orgies. Come to think, who would I pick out of a line up for that? Hmmm, Jonathan Rhys Meyers, circa Velvet Goldmine, I expect. Anyway. Jefferson was nice, and smart, and older than the men I usually hook up wih. But I loved the idea of being named in his blog! Apparently I want to be a star fucker.
We talked for a few hours, about things like whether or not I might consent to go to bed with him, the nature of submission, and how, when he was a child, he was told that being gay meant you masturbated over a bowl of cornflakes.
“Submissives really have all the power,” Jefferson explained as I gulped down my gin and tonic. “They hold the safeword, and the dominant does all the work.”
“Yes ... Have you ever read Anna Karenina?”
“Well, you know how Levin proposes to Kitty? And she turns him down at first? There’s this whole discussion about it. Basically, all Kitty can do is say yes or no, but by saying yes or no, she wields a lot of power over Levin. She holds all the cards. She can’t do much with the cards,” I admitted, “But Levin can’t do anything without her say so, either.”
We considered that. Later, I thought, being dominant is like playing the queen in chess: you have all the powerful moves, but your status isn’t actually that important. Only the king, whose movements are totally circumscribed, is of import in the outcome of the game. Being submissive is like playing the king.
By the end of the date I was pretty keen to sleep with Jefferson. He’s cute, very easy to talk to, nice, complimentary. There’s something to be said for older men. It’s so easy to feel comfortable with someone when he makes it clear he thinks you’re hot. Or takes pains to let you think so, at any rate.
After several gins and tonics, I was comfortable enough to tell him a bit about my experiences (including my big experiment with Jordan), and we talked frankly about what I might like, how his sex life sounds high risk to me, and how terrified I am of contracting HIV. But the more we talked, the more I felt like these objections could be overcome. Perhaps it was the alcohol. He was so funny and friendly and picked up on my physical standoffishness. He didn’t even brush my hand. It was late in the evening when he briefly touched my cheek. At that point I was pretty lightheaded. “See, thanks!” I slurred. “I mean, I appreciate that you waited until I’d had three drinks before you touched me.” I wasn’t being sarcastic: when he finally did get around to making contact, I was comfortable.
He had plans for later, but he leaned over and whispered in his soft Southern accent, “I’m trying to decide whether or not I have time to take you home and fuck you before dinner,” he said. I burst out laughing. It turned out that Jefferson had to meet with one of his girlfriends for dinner later. “I don’t want to keep you,” I said. Also, I wouldn’t like to think that he would be watching the clock the whole time we were together. Reading his blog, it’s clear he is on a really tight schedule.
“Let me look at my schedule,” he promised. “Is it OK if it can’t be this week?
“No, take you time,” I said, flattered. “I’m sort of amazed you might be able to fit me in at all.”
“Well, I want to see you soon,” he said. “So maybe next week.”
“OK.” We got up to leave.
At the corner we faced one another purposefully. “Well, it was so nice to meet you,” I said.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he warned.
“Yeah, yeah!” I said, in a “Of course, go ahead,” voice. So he did. It was funny. His kiss was very light, his lips soft. We made out. I nipped at his lip just a little. Then we bid one anther goodbye, and headed our separate ways.
Later, I got a very nice note from him. That’s Southern manners for you. Then he offered to have an HIV test. Which was even nicer.
So we’re fixed up for Tuesday, though we’ve agreed that this time we’re not going to have sex since, as I put it,
"I like the thought of getting all worked up, and of being denied (this one time, anyway) -- that's actually quite pervy, isn't it?"
And he agreed.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
After much back and forth, including his invitation for me to meet him at his apartment (No, no, no) it was agreed that I’d stop by the bar he works in on Tuesday night. I thought this wasn’t a great idea, since I figured it would be crowded, he’d be distracted, and I’d feel surplus to requirements. Nonetheless, what the hell.
I went to the bar, which was not at all crowded when I got there just before 8:00. He’d told me he was a bartender, and he’d be the only one there, but when I arrived I thought perhaps someone else was working instead of him. The bartender didn’t really resemble Jon’s picture at all, at least what I’d seen of it. He was short and stocky, with close-clipped dark hair and several silver rings on his fingers. I sat at the bar. “Hi, Lily,” he said.
“Hi Jon,” I said.
“You want a Cosmo?”
He was all right. He had a moderate Philadelphia accent and a huge chip on his shoulder: he’s a not very successful actor, poor man. Within twenty minutes of meeting, he’d managed to let it drop that he’d had three callbacks for this musical, that he was really artistic, and that, while his girlfriend tolerated his non-monogamy, she actually hated it. “But we’ve talked about it a lot,” her said, “And she knows that the only way for me not to feel trapped is to be able to have sex with other women. But she doesn’t want to hear about it.”
“Oh,” I said, thinking, I’m sure his girlfriend can do better. If she doesn’t like him sleeping with other women, why doesn’t she dump him? I don’t think I could be happy knowing that someone I was committed to was regularly bedding other women, or trying to. At this point, there was no way in hell I’d ever want to sleep with him, especially after he made a joke about “seeing if we’re going to bang.” Now that’s class. “I’m just kidding,” he added, anxiously. “You know I’m kidding cause I said ‘bang,’” I nodded, smiling politely. No way, pal, was my thought.
I felt sorry for him. He’s not particularly young, a bit burnt out from constant auditioning, and working as a bartender at a not very nice place. He seemed frustrated. I would be too, if I was a thirtysomething bartender struggling to get a break. Still. I’m not going to bang him, thank you.
“No! I didn’t mean it like that! You didn’t think I was blowing you off?!”
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean that at all. I just usually see people online. I think things are going great with us.”
When Daniel came over last night I insisted that we practice the dance moves I learned on Friday: forward, back ROCK step. Then we adjourned to my bed and started fooling around. “You’re not wearing panties!” he gasped, lifting up my skirt.
“You didn’t notice? You had your hands all over my ass!” I was astounded.
“It didn’t occur to me.” He looked at my pussy. “Wow. Lily.”
“I thought you might like it.” He slid his mouth between my thighs. “Oh….” I said.
He’s got a lot of stamina. I climbed on top of him and came really quickly. We spent the next half hour with him inside me, urging me to ride his cock. "I love seeing you bounce up and down," Daniel said. He smacked my ass (this is becoming a pattern) and nuzzled my tits: “You have perfect tits,” he murmured.
“Thanks. But I can’t take any credit for them." I mean, it's not like I can improve them by exercise, like biceps. I gasped as his mouth clamped onto a nipple. "Yeah. Suck them….”
“Here…” He sat on the edge of my mattress and I straddled him, locking my ankles around his back. “You like it deep, baby? Can you feel that?” he asked. I love that lazy, necessary verbal urging, all that Come on/Yeah, baby/Do that again/You want to take this?/Give it to me/Harder. All those intimate, foolish phrases. I love it.
When at last he came I curled up with my head on his chest and we talked. About how he doesn’t want children, and his ex-girlfriends, and all sorts of things that only reinforce that we really don’t want any of the same things. But by the same token, everything about him is so appealing and sweet and sexy. And he likes me too, that’s the strangest part of all. It grew later but at last I said, “Please fuck me again,” and I lay on my stomach, cause I wanted him to fuck me from behind, doggy style.
“You like this?” he panted as, once again, his cock pushed right through me. “You’re so tight!”
“I want to be a whore for you,” I whispered, my hair stuck in my face. I tried to turn around and look at him, energetically pumping away at my pussy.
He got that: “Good slut,” he grunted obligingly. “Filthy bitch.”
It’s hard to be a submissive feminist, I must say. But when I’m told that I’m a filthy bitch and a dirty whore, I’m so excited I can do nothing but whimper, “More.”
Now it’s morning and I’m left in a kind of daze of good feeling. God, I wish I could fuck him every single day. And then spend hours just mooning at him and stroking his chest and tasting his mouth. Unfortunately, no good can come from this excess of hormonal cheer. I may even feel muzzy enough to send him a complimentary email
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
I saw Daniel on Friday night. We’d had a long IM session on Wednesday. In some ways it was really nice, quite complimentary and flattering and sexy and dirty. On the other hand, it was kind of disturbing, as I got full disclosure about him and Robin. He seems to spend a good deal of time with her, which, I am sorry to say, makes me envious. He asked if I’d like to meet her. “She’s not a jealous person,” he added. She sounds perfect.
“Do you think she’d like me?” I asked.
“I think she would,” he said, and this segued into him imagining a threesome. (“I don’t know if I’m man to satisfy you both, but I’d like to try,” he offered. “Just thinking about one of you riding me while the other sits on my face. I mean, damn.”) I deflected this by saying, “I’ve never fooled around with a woman before. I’d probably do it wrong.” Only half joking.
“That’s OK. Robin has. She could direct us,” Daniel explained. Of course she has.
The thing that really scares me about a threesome is I’m sure the other woman, whoever she may be, will be prettier and thinner and with a better body than me. That’s the thing that’s really keeping me from it. If I see how beautiful another woman is, I’ll just think, “How can he stand to be with me when he could have her? She’s the woman he really wants to fuck, I’m just the extra.” If I knew for a fact that Robin was plain and chunky, I wouldn’t mind. However, I’m pretty sure that this is not the case. That says so many damaging things about me, it’s just embarrassing. Nonetheless, it’s the truth.
Daniel and I made plans for Friday and that morning I got an email asking me if I wanted to go swing dancing, since he is a big fan. I missed the swing dancing craze somehow, and was skeptical, but he was really keen, so I said sure.
We met right outside the bar at about 9:00. The dance was held in the upstairs room of a midtown pub and wasn’t too crowded. Daniel looked adorable – he was decked out in a pinstripe suit, complete with a fedora and wing tips. “I have many facets of geekdom,” he explained over drinks while we waited for the dance lesson to start. “I missed you,” he said. I beamed at him and we made out, our fingers entwined.
When the dance lesson started I got all flustered, since I’m not in the least coordinated. Daniel knew what he was doing. But the instructor kept up the “forward, back, ROCK step,” and I got along OK. Standing at attention, clutching Daniel’s hand with my paw, I felt sort of dazzled, and it occurred to me how hot choreography can be. I felt so awkward, and he was smooth, and when I wasn’t concentrating on my feet I looked into his eyes and felt all fizzy. “This is kind of sexy,” I gasped, tripping over my feet. We gazed at one another. Or at least I gazed at him, stretching the high-school flirtiness of the moment. He smiled at me. “I…” I said.
“I’m going to have you inside me later,” I said, a little breathlessly.
Normally I don’t mkind feeling like a fool, but I don’t like to look like this in front of Daniel. Nonetheless, I enjoyed myself. It’s the only time outside of a wedding that I’ve seen couples of all different ages getting down on the dance floor.
We left at about 11:00, and took the train back to his place. He showed me around his apartment but all I could think was, Let’s go to bed, eh? Then his roommates returned, and he introduced me to them. He’d mentioned his roommate Wendy, whom, he said, he’d dated the previous summer. I was surprised (and, let’s face it, pleased) to see that she was quite fat. He’d described her as this very sexually open person, so I’d been intimidated at the thought of her. She was nice. Wow, I am shallow.
Anyway, in his room, he showed me the Disworld art book, and I quelled my instinct to jump him. At last we started fooling around. He uses Trojan Magnums, as I’d guessed. Mmm. We fucked and fucked and the slats of his platform bed got loose, so we moved to an armchair. I sat with my back against him, riding him as he fingered my clit. “You going to come for me, baby?” he hummed in my ear. Yes, apparently.
Then I settled on the floor at his feet and took him into my mouth, as much as I could. He moaned, holding the back of my head close to him. God, it was a lot. I kept kind of gagging, which is hardly attractive. “Sorry!”
“No, it’s OK. You want to snowball?”
I nodded. I hadn’t even known what this was until he’d explained it to me the previous week. This is something he does with Robin. Although you, dear reader, probably know exactly what this means, I didn’t. Basically, he comes in my mouth, and then I pass his cum to him, which he then swallows. What a guy. (“I’d never ask you to do something I wouldn’t do myself,” he said judiciously, when I’d explained I hadn’t had time to shave my legs. A feminist after my own heart.)
I worked on him eagerly, delighted by his moans. “I’m going to come,” he said, and I sighed in relief and pleasure. When he came, I tried holding his cum in my mouth and then just gagged. “I’m so sorry,” I gasped. How insulting is that?
“No, really…I’m sorry!” You make me sick. That’s the message I’m giving him. Good grief.
Eventually we made it back to the bed and soon he was asleep, snoring like a vacuum cleaner. I struggled in and out of dreams. We woke up just as it was getting light and we started fucking again. His bed creaked. It was so loud I was sure his roommates would be woken up by the noise. This was too embarrassing to contemplate, so I tried to ignore the sounds.
I stroked his cock, and slid my fingers around to his ass. Tentatively. I wasn’t quite sure where to put my hand.
“You want some lube?” he whispered.
“OK.” I slipped some lube over his cock.
“No, I meant—“
“Oh!” I giggled. “Right!” I’d never done that before, either. Slowly I massaged his anus, feeling for an opening, wondering where exactly I should put my fingers. But at last I felt my index finger slip inside his ass. It was so tight, clutching at my skin as soon as it let me in. He sighed. I tried not to scratch him, but rubbed against him, sliding deeper in.
“I like feeling you inside me,” he whispered. That’s what I usually say. It felt weird, being on the receiving end like that. When he came it was light out and we went back to sleep.
When we woke up again it was almost noon, and we made breakfast and watched television with Wendy. “What’s this?” Wendy demanded, pointing to a Pepto Bismol-pink tab stuck to the coffee table.
“I think it’s from a Lucky Charm,” Daniel said at last. “That’s either me or Robin.” Robin, I thought, tightening up inside.
I was going out that night, and knew I should start heading home if I wanted to get anything done before meeting Ben for drinks later. Also, I knew that if I didn’t go soon I would not want to leave at all. I didn’t want Daniel to be waiting for me to leave.
We went back to his room and without further ado I took off my clothes. I slid right onto his cock. I was wet and excited, but sore by this time. I rode him and we sighed in unison.
“Can you do something for me?” I whispered. My hair covering me like a curtain.
“Talk dirty to me, OK?”
He smiled. “You like this? You like being fucked?”
“You need a good drilling?”
That’s it: a drilling. Yes. “Lick my nipples?” I pleaded. He obliged. I came almost immediately.
“Uh huh,” I breathed.
“Good girl.” Being called a good girl is, I think, really very dirty indeed. “That was quick,” he smirked.
“You got me all excited,” I said, which is, I think, the correct response in these situations.
He flipped me over and began drilling me all over again. Christ. “Uhh…” I said. “I love the way you pound into me,” I said. It was this sort of solid pumping. Aah.
“This way,” he said, slipping off the bed. I slid onto my stomach, sticking my ass towards him. He bent over me and slid himself back into my cunt. “Yes, yes,” I said, hearing myself groan.
At last he came and again we collapsed, our limbs sweaty and stuck together. I stared at nothing, thinking, Do not ruin this. Do not get too attached. You are not going to mess this up.
“And this is only our third date,” Daniel said, stroking my hair.
Fuck, fuck fuck!
What I really wanted to do was go to sleep and then wake up and fuck him again and again. So instead I watched the clock and at 2:30 I got up. “You’re going to go?” he said.
“Yeah, I’d better,” I said. I got dressed and he walked me to the door, where we kissed, briefly. “Well,” he announced. “I’ll give you a call sometime, and I’ll see you online,” he said. Sometime? I thought. You’ll give me a call sometime? That’s quite an obvious blow off. But what could I say? By the time I had considered whether or not it would be appropriate for me to shrug, Eh, Daniel, I’ll call you sometime isn’t the most flattering way of saying goodbye, you know, it was too late, and I was nodding and heading for the stairs.
I walked home, wondering how long I could possibly do this without becoming insanely jealous of Robin or wanting Daniel to by my boyfriend. Can I last to the new year? Cause maybe we could do something then… were my thoughts. Of course, maybe he’ll have plans with Robin for New Year’s Eve. I don’t think I can do this, I thought, and practiced telling him so. In my mind, though, he protested. I don’t think he’d disagree if I said we’d better not see one another anymore, since he doesn’t want a serious relationship and, truthfully, I don’t think it’s what I need, either, but I’d be pretty damn annoyed if he didn’t at least seem sad about it. What if he didn’t seem sorry? I’m going to wait it out as long as I can because damn, I fancy him. No, that’s not true: I like him. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
So when I saw the email from Jordan I thought, ha! Perfect timing. This will keep my mind off of Daniel, and will serve to remind me that other men are eager to fuck my brains out. I will therefore feel desired and as if the ball is not entirely in Daniel’s court. Which it is. I just have to hope he doesn’t know that. Not ’cause I begrudge him the knowledge that I think he’s totally ace. But because I think that if he did know how I dote on him, he’d run screaming. Which he probably should do, anyway. Sigh.