archived: december 2015/january 2017

Finally writing to report back on the results of my first attempt here. Despite my period showing up to ruin the week, the person I was talking to suggested meeting anyway that Tuesday night for a bite to eat (actual food, not me naturally.) When he showed up looking like he did--tall, slender yet tightly muscled, and with well-kept dreads that spilled over his shoulders--the corners of my mouth quirked up. I had an idea of how the night could progress.

To no one's surprise, we rounded out the evening at his place, where he cleverly plied me with massage oil and dexterous hands to intended effect. The Xx played in the background while we writhed about half-naked, trying very hard to keep away from my pants. Ultimately thwarted by biology, we parted with the understanding that we would absolutely make plans to meet again and finish what we started. Once the holidays were over, said reunion did indeed happen 2.5 weeks later.

I'll be honest: the first time he went down, I could tell immediately that his style was geared toward women who enjoy direct, more intense, clitoral stimulation. I'm the exact opposite. Thereby followed a small adjustment period, which we quickly sorted out with minimal fuss. Came once, twice, and then fucked him too (decent girth, nothing scary, roughly 7", but who's counting?) What caught me completely off-guard, however, was afterward when he kept us tangled in arms and legs and sheets, talking about the number of interests we shared while periodically kissing my cheek or forehead. I drove home smelling like the heavy-sweet cocoa butter on his skin.

...fast forward a month, and we're still meeting up pretty regularly (when I'm not insanely busy and when he's not insanely busy.) The original aim of the ad was to find a casual, not necessarily perfect, one-off distraction in the middle of holidays so the unusually high amount of chemistry was unexpected to say the least. I don't know how this'll continue (being the full-time employee, part-time student, and poly lady that I am), but he banters well, eats well, and fucks well. I'll make this work.

Let the Record Show

 

Charles, january 2009, manual

Aaron, may 2009, manual

Ben Niel., may 2010, or*l

Taylor, off-on 2010 - 2015, or*l

Dane, april & december 2012, coerc-y or*l, thr**some 

Trey, april 2011, p*netration

Rasmus, june 2011, p*netration/or*l

Zul, june 2011, p*netration/or*l

Chad, december 2011, p*netration/or*l

Shane, august 2012, or*l

George, october 2012, r*pe

Chance, may 2013 – april 2014, ‘relationship’

Asher, november 2013 – July 2016, relationship

Mike, november 2013, p*netration/or*l

Jason the lawyer, dragoncon 2014, p*netration/or*l

Brady, september 2014, p*netration/or*l

Jeff, october 2014, p*netration/or*l

John, november 2014 – december 2017, sub-relationship

Nathan, april 2015, or*l

Mandeep, july 2015, or*l

Stephen, september 2015 – October 2020, sub-relationship/fin-domme

Brandon, january 2016 – december 2017, relationship

Jason the poly-dom, january – april 2016, p*netration/or*l

Andy, dragoncon 2016 – now, relationship

That Italian guy, January 2017, the most disappointing or*l/p*netration ever

Nick, (3) spring/summer 2017, also pretty disappointing or*l/manual 

 

March 1

We didn’t waste too many words on the last day he was in town. I met him on the front porch, acknowledged his presence with a nod, and walked past toward the garage door. He has a soft footfall so I could barely hear him following me down the stairs to his room. Once the door closed, I methodically removed my jewelry (ring, bracelet, necklace), lifted his glasses up to place them on the desk, turned to wrap my arms tight around his neck, and the rest of the motion blurred into a feverish attempt to hold on to each other as tightly as possible.  

I remember sensory items like his grip on my wrists while my back was against the wall, the harsh rhythm of our breaths in the afternoon silence, my underwear dangling off of one foot after being ruthlessly yanked down my legs, his heavy, distinct scent filling my nose, and shortly afterward, my own tart, tangy flavor sliding from his mouth to mine.

We were rough. I bit him harder than I normally would, and he left bruises on the insides of my thighs (like small, blue polka dots.) The force of my first orgasm brought me to the edge of tears that I only managed to choke back before he saw. It was neither the best nor the last—only the last for a long time.

-----

When he slid in too quickly, I winced and hissed. “You’re hurting me.”

We held still, allowing for my body to accommodate him.

“You’re hurting me,” I repeated, softer, gentler, and it sounded like a sigh.

His words came in hot, damp puffs into the crook of my neck. “I’m sorry I’m hurting you.”

“It’s okay.” My hand cradled the back of his head. “I know you didn’t mean to.” 

placeholder since i forgot one for march

everything hurts and I'm dying

not really but I have been crying off and on for the past week because asher and I have broken up I suppose

but is it a breakup if this was never a conventional relationship to begin with???

Niches

I go to John when I want to be spoiled.

I go to Jason when I want to be teased.

I go to Stephen when I want to be thrilled.

I go to Asher when I want to be loved.

A September Entry in the Harem

Stephen reminds me of a giraffe: tall, long-limbed, wide-eyed, and sooty-lashed. He evens walks like one, generous strides made in a leisurely, nimble-footed gait while I have to break into a near-run to keep up. He rumbles rather than speaks, his voice never rising above the lowest note I can personally manage, and talks in dry, restrained asides, like he’s always joking to himself. Pale-skinned, pale-eyed, pale-haired—he’s as white as they come. He’s a funny, strange man. (But fit! Always fit for me it seems.)

His pert, red mouth flushes prettily after going down on me and parts open with still more longing when I press the crotch of my worn underwear to his face. He gives a full body shudder then, slowly rocking back and forth as if he cannot quite believe that this is happening to him. Neither can I. The laugh that bubbled up in my throat as he told the things he wanted me to do him, good god! Such vivid, painstakingly crafted images described from one pervert to another: this blue-eyed, blonde-haired man kneeling in the corner, wrists bound behind his back, a deep black gag between his lips, and an intricate chastity cage holding his 7” cock in place, quite spellbound by the sight of me writhing in his bed with another man. He’s an interesting one, for sure.

He already has a longterm girlfriend who’s currently toiling away somewhere on the West Coast so while circumstances keep them apart, I’m free to explore with him entirely new fields of sexual deviancy: voyeurism, cuckoldry, bondage, etc. There’s an endless amount of speculative discussions about our potential late at night; hopefully he’ll stick around long enough for me to tick a few more things off my bucket list. I rather enjoy his debauched ways. 

When I (didn't) Know, remix

When did this all even start? Was it a conscious, deliberate decision? The best I can manage is to narrow down the timeline to the April visit of this year, the month I was connecting with Nathan in that feverish, intense freefall. He was there to anchor me, I suppose—is that quite right? No, he was my confidant, my reality check, my…reminder? During one phone conversation, Nathan asked me if I’d ever give up everybody in order to be with one person, and the first person I thought of was Asher.

Could I have done it? No really, could I have truly done it? I nearly did. The temptation to be uncontested #1 in someone’s life for once was almost overwhelming. I’ve never had that, the unassuming confidence of coming first, occupying the highest rung on a list of priorities I wouldn’t even need to consider. What did it feel like, having that kind of security? To always know your place? Deep down, I knew I could be that for Nathan, and he for me. I liked him so fucking much. But for how long? How long before we’d begin the inevitable slip-slide down each other’s lists? Before we fought? Before I came to resent him for keeping me tied, before he came to resent me for having such a storied sexual history?

There were too many variables. Then again, Asher isn’t exactly variable-free either. No relationship is—but he’s the one whose variables I’m familiar with. That’s not the sexiest reason for choosing one person over another, but remember, Nathan ultimately didn’t give me the ‘luxury’ of choosing. On the last night, I essentially cried into the phone for two hours while he told me in the softest voice imaginable why he was preemptively ending our whatever-we-could-have-been. And in the morning (that I somehow, fitfully slept through), I called Asher so he could murmur and let me tell him all about it in a voice that sounded as swollen as my eyes. Then I spent the rest of April with him as I had already planned on doing anyway. We left things as they were, and did not quite leave them as they were.

Maybe that entire month taught me to value what I have now: leaning back into the curved space his body makes when he curls around me to watch a movie, hearing the low hum of almost-petulant want at the back of his throat whenever he pulls me into his arms, laughing (or groaning) too loudly at an article he’s linked, running my fingers down the shirt I bought as his Christmas gift (the one he now inexplicably wears for half of my visits), tasting myself on his lips, closing my eyes to sleep after a phone call with him—let’s try that earlier question again. Would I have given all of that up?

I still don’t know for sure, but it would surely have been the most difficult decision I’d have made this year. 

When I Knew, Deep Down

We were on the bed, and Asher was 3 seconds away from dozing off when I realized this night marked the end of a full year of not having seen Chance. My last encounter with him happened late-April ’14 in the parking lot of the Lenox shopping mall at 10pm—not difficult to fill in the tawdry blanks. Since then, I had cut off contact with him for good and struggled for the rest of the year to not think of him every day as my emotional interior mended itself bit by bit. An entire year without setbacks or reneging. I didn’t text him, call him, or try to contact him in the obscenely numerous ways I could have through social media. I didn’t look him up to see the latest updates in his life either. All I had to myself were a very mixed bag of memories.

Half of them were filthy and exhilarating; the other half was one long lesson in manipulation and neglect. When I wasn’t over-the-moon happy, I was miserable, waiting for him to reply to my messages and photos, pretending to hate him, vowing to end things and not, arguing with him and feeling the sting when he’d ignore me afterward for days, beating myself over what I’d *maybe* said or done to upset him. It was a miserable year with a wretched human being for whom I had very strong feelings. The ordeal was over though. I would never have to make feeble excuses for his toxic behavior again, never put myself through the wringer for someone who couldn’t give half a shit about me, never look at him and wonder what went on inside that abusive mind. It was all fucking over.

The finality of it hit me then.

I silently cried while staring up at the ceiling as the tears slid down the sides of my face and onto the sheets.

Asher heard me sniff too loudly, and at seeing my face, a deep line appeared between his brows. He didn't look shocked. “What’s wrong?” He was already half-asleep.

I sighed. “It’s been a whole year since I ended it with Chance.”

He only nodded and rubbed a tear off my cheek. I leaned into his hand, closing my eyes. Maybe this entire set-up—talking about an ex like you still miss him while in bed with your current partner—would have felt wrong with anyone else. The next words slipped out without warning.

“Do you like me the same way I like you?” The question hung in the air. I cringed at the neediness in my voice. Was it so bad, craving a bit of certainty with the people you care about?

“I do,” he rasped softly.

“The exact same way?”

“Exact same way,” he repeated.

I blinked back more tears. My “okay” came out like a sigh. 

The night was late by then, and the moment briskly segued into dressing ourselves and me getting in my car for the hour-drive home. I didn’t think much of that night at the time, figured we had an intense moment and that would be that. Thinking back on this months later though, I think this is when something in our relationship shifted—a subtle deepening of how we relate to each other, laying the groundwork for what I told him at the end of the summer.

This is probably when I knew, deep down, that I love him. 

What I Didn't Have The Strength to Write at The Time of Occurrence

We spent a few hours at a park near his apartment while the sun was out, and the air stayed cool. There were children playing by the lake, dogs catching frisbees in their mouths, and a swatch of gently inclining lawn we could stake a blanket on. I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. When we weren't talking, we were laughing; when we weren't laughing, we were quiet, letting the April afternoon pass us by in cloud-after-neatly-formed-cloud. I remember combing my fingers through his hair as he curved an arm over my hip, uncaring of how many people could see. He smelled clean, like aftershave and warm laundry, and later, in his room, his hands and face smelled like me, lingering oh-so-tartly and sweetly.

I suppose I wore his scent too, in my hair, the crooks of my elbows and inside of my knees, the small of my back, and the center of my forehead where he kissed me so many times. He told me, amid the self-inflicted tangle of limbs locked around each other, that he really liked me. I said it back and let myself imagine a summer of equally eventful dates. I thought I was strong enough not to let my mind wander that far. But I also thought that he meant everything he said. At the end of the night, I kissed him goodbye in the car and left him for what I didn't know would be the last time. That day was the closest to perfect I've had, and I'm terrified of how long I must wait until the next one.