In Which I Come to a Decision, Which is Sort of Momentous

On Saturday night, while I was at Jessie’s party, I kept wondering what Daniel was doing. And longing for him. Imagining him with Robin. I got a bit drunk, and as I walked to the subway station I even cried a little. Thinking: I have to end it.

Subsequent thinking has confirmed the idea. There’s no way around this: we have no future together, since I want two kids and he wants a vasectomy. And even if we did, he doesn’t want a relationship. And even if he did, that’s not to say he would want one with me. But he doesn’t want one. He’s twenty six, and recently out of a three year relationship. And, you know, I don’t want a relationship either. I want to keep sleeping with Jefferson (and whomever he might choose for me to sleep with!). I just don’t want Daniel to sleep with other women. Men, OK. Women, no. Robin? NO.

Which is ridiculous – there’s no reason here. Just jealousy. This can only end in tears: mine.

Anyway, all day Sunday I couldn’t find my way around the idea, and I got a session with my therapist Caroline specifically to bend her ear about it. She agreed with me. “I think he’s dangerous for you,” she said, after I’d outlined all the problems. The thought of Sweetheart Daniel (as we call him in my apartment, because me -- and my roommates -- all agree that he’s a sweetheart) –lanky, geeky, gentle Daniel as dangerous, felt awful. And of course, she’s right.

The other thing Caroline said was that the worst thing about the way our sexual mores have changed is that it makes us ashamed to have feelings. And she’s right about that, too. I have no qualms writing about deep throating Jefferson, but I was originally not planning to post the brief entries (here and here) in which I’d moaned about how jealous I was of the fact that Daniel went to Atlantic City with Robin and not me. That sort of information, to me, seemed to shameful to reveal. It negated my hard-won perception of myself as emotionally carefree, sexually liberated and in charge. It showed me to be just another girl who’d gotten in over her head. It seemed to signify that I had not matured at all since Michael left me in a puddle of misery back in 2002, or even since I was a lonely and self-pitying teenager, nursing crushes on unavailable boys. But, Caroline said, there isn’t anything to be ashamed of. And she’s right. I love Caroline.

Daniel emailed me last night, saying he wanted to get together soon, as well as this weekend. I ruminated all day, getting used to the idea. Finally emailed him to say I was busy this week, but we should go out on Saturday night. When I guess we’ll go to the Flatiron Lounge, site of our first, gorgeous and fantastic date, and tell him I can’t see him anymore. Because I just can’t. If I continue to see him yes, it will in part be a power issue, because ‘the more loving one’ will be me, and I’ll be consumed with envy and longing. But also it will hurt, and it will be better to end it now than in three months, when I’ll have to admit that I love him. Please God, let him at least seem a tiny bit downcast when I tell him I can’t see him anymore.

I wish it weren’t like this. I wish I were a less emotional person. I’ve always been vulnerable like this. I wish I had a thicker skin. I wish I didn’t like Daniel so much. It’s ironic: I can’t see him anymore because I’m so crazy about him. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

A Bit More Ranting

Daniel came over last night. I am so jealous! He invited Robin to Atlantic City, it wasn’t the other way around, as I’d been hoping. It hurt to hear that. It was hard for me to enjoy myself with him last night. I took him deep in my throat and rode him, and we fucked for a long time. Afterwards, I couldn’t think of a thing to say except, “What are you thinking?”– probably the most annoying question in the history of sexual relationships. At least I did not actually ask him what he was thinking. Since it means, “Are you thinking about me? Do you have plans with her for New Year’s Eve?” (NB This incident took place some weeks ago). Afterwards, we just lay there, him reading, and me fidgeting until finally I hauled out my copy of The Joy of Cooking to read about baking.

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.

A Brief Rant (Jealousy, Redux)

Coming home on the train to day it hit me anew: he’s spending 48 hours with her! The entire weekend! What if I tried to commandeer his whole weekend? I am so jealous. In part cause I don’t have any plans for tonight. But IsweartoGod, I don’t know if I can do this. But I love having sex with him. I’m actually kind of angry, too. Mostly at myself though, which is nothing new.

Me and My Issues (Lots of Angst, Some Sex)

On Tuesday Daniel came over. I hadn’t seen him in over a week, since he’d been busy on the last two times we’d planned to meet.

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.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

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?”

“Yes…Oh…”

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?”

“Yeah.”

“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.

In Which Emotion Rears its Ugly Head

I got Fleshbotted by Jefferson (whoo-hoo) on Friday, to my great delight, and then on Sunday I got an email from Jordan. Since the entry picked up by Fleshbot was all about my night with Jordan, I panicked when I saw his address in my inbox. I was afraid he’d seen my blog and was writing to bawl me out. What could I say? “Yes, sorry, I thought your tartan trousers were horrendous, and, yes, I said you smelled wrong to me. Sorry you had to come across that on what was no doubt an innocent Internet trawl for porn.” But, as it turned out, he was only writing to see if I’d finished brooding about the other week, and if I wanted to meet again. It was actually very good timing, and I am going to say yes, for reasons I will detail below.

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.

“Hmm?”

“I’m going to have you inside me later,” I said, a little breathlessly.

He smiled.

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?

“It’s OK.”

“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.

“Sure.”

“Talk dirty to me, OK?”

He smiled. “You like this? You like being fucked?”

“Uh…”

“You need a good drilling?”

That’s it: a drilling. Yes. “Lick my nipples?” I pleaded. He obliged. I came almost immediately.
“You came?”

“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.