Lucky

Jewish Indiana Jones is such a fundamentally decent guy. I'm really glad to have found him. It's been so long since I had baggage-free, drama-free sex with a guy who read all the terms and conditions before signing up. The fact that we share a lot of the same intellectual pursuits/hobbies is just icing on the top of the cake.

I need to keep this guy around for my sanity.

I didn't even realize this until right this moment

wait did I really just fuck 3 different guys in a ten day period

huh I guess I did

Snippets

I looked into his eyes a few times. I've always liked his eyes. They're brown and heavy-lidded and so expressive.

-----

With no one around, he was very loud. I heard every wrung-out, guttural word in my ear as he came. I clawed his thigh as he cradled my head.

-----

I should have held him more. I should have kissed him more. I should have told him more things. I should have I should have I should have--

There was a moment afterwards. We were standing outside my car with the door open so the space (and us) could air out when I stepped forward and linked my arms around you, burying my head in the crook of your neck. You leaned in too, and the momentum caused me to rock slightly back and forth on my heels, a motion I maintained as your hands spread (and wandered) across my back, my waist, my ass, and back up again. For a minute or two, I didn't say anything. Even though the air was brisk and cold, I pretended that my body heat was enough to warm you--that I was enough for you. And then I pulled away so we could climb back into the car.

Welp.

There's lust, and then there's chemistry.

The former I can ignore, the latter I cannot.

That Last Time

The last time I saw you was after a brief gig your band played in the basement of your friend's house. I had thought the night would end with me driving home from there, not from your room again after unexpectedly leaving the event early. All pleasantries were promptly skipped as soon as we were inside.

You grabbed my hips and pulled me to you; the clothes came off quickly because I only had an hour before I had to drive back home. Despite the initial brusqueness of our encounter, the moment slowed deliciously as you peeled off my underwear. The dark-eyed look on your face floored me, as did the way you dove between my legs, my period having at last ended for that week. You tongued as deeply as you dared, one hand cupping my breast, and my knees could have buckled from when you turned me over to slip two fingers inside while your lips kissed my other entrance. To throw me off balance even more, you landed several stinging slaps on my ass, a hit to accompany every subsequent moan from my mouth.

No surprise then, that you slid in embarrassingly easy as I propped my legs on your shoulders, your flushed face framed between my ankles--an image I'd revisit often once I returned to my own home. The harder you pushed, the tighter I clenched, my fingers gripping the bedsheets to the point of tearing. At one point you bent down to kiss me with both my legs fully trapped between your flesh and mine. Before the pressure became too much for me, I felt completely...covered, if that's the right word. Held down, the way I was to the bed and by you. You and that glazed expression and parted mouth. I felt like I didn't belong anywhere else but there.

Like I was yours.

[insert wine analogy here]

What I enjoy about (much) older men is that they explore every available inch of skin with a painstaking slowness I’ve never found with anyone else. This one was no different. Tall and lean, almost gangly were it not for the subtle musculature of his chest, he kept his head down to press kisses along the length of my legs, rubbing circles on my knees while I pushed my head back into the pillow. The bed was wide and indescribably soft, as soft as the sound I made when he buried his face between my thighs as if it called him home. 

He crooned about the perfection of my body in a low-toned, quiet voice. I wish there’d been a way to record them, but “You feel so good” loses its impact through a speaker rather than the whisper in my ear that it was. Still, his murmurs and muted groans were my favorite part of the brief hour I had in his room. The second favorite came when he spent himself across my chest and belly, and leaned to lap up every drop. I kissed him deep right afterward; his tartness lingered in my mouth. I rather liked it. 

So appreciative. Kind. Sweet. Traits I’m unexpectedly describing a 35 year old man who had initially lied about his age before I found out on my own. Age gaps become less of an issue the older I get though. I also have very little room for concern or complaint, considering the post-hookup discovery of ages for two of my past men: Ben, and Shane from my cousin’s wedding. Do three (nonconsecutive) occurrences make this a trend now? I’m not sure how to feel about that yet, haha.

For now, I intend on seeing him again. He’s too kinky to discard.

The Mind and The Senses

I’ve apparently chosen the perfect day to have a date. The sun is out, the breeze is crisp but not too cold, the Atlanta skyline towers as a lovely backdrop to the moment the boy turns his head to greet me: a dark-haired, blue-eyed, 6’ frame that solidly fills the button-down shirt and slacks he has on. 

He’s an excellent conversationalist too. 

It’s been a while since I’ve had to keep my mind this alert while talking to someone so the quips fly as quickly as the sparks. I only need a few minutes in the Starbucks we’ve convened in to decide that I want to ditch a later appointment I’ve made with someone else. The want becomes more concrete once he kisses me in my car two hours later, and I drive to the restaurant with a slightly sped up heart rate. To make matters worse, my phone buzzes intermittently throughout the dinner, and though delicious as the food was, I make my excuses and leave as early as possible without seeming rude. As I practically run across the parking lot, my phone bounces in my coat pocket, its inbox littered with various men pressing their suit and only one clear victor. 

I have but an hour and some odd minutes to spend at his home, an allotment I make full use of as soon as he shuts the bedroom door. 

Aha, I’ve forgotten how fast my head starts to ache if I keep it tilted too long to kiss someone tall, but I like that I have to stand on my tip-toes while pressed against the wall until he finally takes pity on me and moves us to the couch. At one point, I sit up on my elbows to catch him pressing a kiss on my knee, his hands large and spread-out on my hips. I swallow hard—size-difference kink: another new discovery to file away for later. His lips move to the space between my legs—I swallow harder and tip my head back. It isn’t long before I’m tensing and jerking into his mouth, my thighs locked around his head. 

To my great surprise (and subsequent satisfaction), he’s the perfect size for me. I usually can’t stay on top until the other man finishes due to his substantial girth/length, but I ride the true, razor-thin edge between pleasure and pain with this one. I wish there’s enough time to indulge, but he comes, I sigh, and we disentangle. My hands can’t help but wander over his arms and chest while we chat about things completely unrelated to what we’ve just done. 

I’ll see him soon. Light and fun is exactly what I need right now.  

Over the past few weeks, I reflected on how we ended our last phone call. I realize I threw down that ultimatum out of anger and misplaced pride. I needed the distance in order to pull back and think more clearly. Now I’m done and in a better headspace. What I would like is to start over and resume talking to you again. I probably never emphasized this enough (certainly much less than you have with me), but I liked our discussions—on everything. I enjoyed hearing your perspective on various issues despite my disgruntled, wary wall you kept running into when the topic turned sensitive.

There’s value in our conversations, the lack of which I’ve felt keenly. I want to drill that point home.

I remember what I told you that night. “I’m done putting myself out there.” Apparently not so, because I believe that it’s worth having you around in my life. I’ve missed being friends with you.

The risk I’m running is that you might not feel the same way, but I wanted to open the floor for any possibility of a redo. Perhaps that makes me foolish for daring to try. The only reason I would even bother attempting, however, is because I see something good in it. All I ask is for you to let me know that you’ve received and read this message.

Thanks.

I'm turning 23 tomorrow. I know what my birthday gift to myself is.

An odd choice for a gift, something that's meant to bring joy, but fitting for me. Because it's still what I want.

I suppose that's what counts, ultimately.

I would like to curl up in a ball and think about him without seeming so pathetic.

It's been over 3 weeks since that last phone call, when I gave him the ultimatum to contact me in a month or not to contact me at all, and there's been nothing. I guess he really intends on cutting me off. Aren't I worth keeping in touch with though? Didn't he find value in the things we talked about? Isn't it hard to restart the process of finding someone out there like me--or maybe he doesn't want to find anyone like me.

Will he have lost nothing by losing me? And if so, why does it have to feel the exact opposite on this side?

A Rundown

1. His summer girlfriend breakup did not go well.

2. He's never been friends with any of his exes--it's an established pattern.

-----

I told him he's the common denominator then, by disengaging with the problems that need to be resolved head-on (and sometimes messily) and letting them fester until his past romances blew up at him.

In short, I dodged a big fucking bullet, and in the end, I didn't buy his bullshit attempts to seduce me into feeling sorry for him and compromising my own interpersonal principles to make him feel better. The onus is on him to continue a friendship with me. If he wants to, he'll resume contact again. If more than a month passes, I told him not to bother at all.

I'm stronger than what I want(ed).

And I'm less fucked in the head than he is.

Hah, a 22 year old girl is more mentally adjusted than a 27 year old man. What does that say about him?

What does it say about me?

In the future, I'll give myself more credit. I did, after all, avoid repeating the destructive pattern in high school.

It's done and I'm okay.

I'm actually okay.

Things I've Been Told

"you’re hard to read"

"it’s difficult to gauge your emotional reactions"

"I can’t tell if you’re mad or just annoyed or…?"

"what does that face mean"

"I don’t know what you’re thinking"

"you keep yourself really distant"

"please tell me what’s on your mind"

Really? I never thought of myself as hard to read—my face gives away so much, I can never hide if I’m upset or happy or excited or w/e over something, but I’m told these things often (and usually by my various paramours or people-trying-to-be-friends-with-me).

But I mean, yeah. I push you away if I feel like you’re getting too close. My walls don’t give unless I think your walls have come down enough too. This doesn’t make me an impossible person to know. It simply means that getting to know me isn’t a light investment. I don’t do superficial whatever-ships with people. I’m a no-nonsense person; show me you’re worth my time and energy.

Does this make me any less worth getting to know?

I would like to congratulate myself on having allowed another guy to eat my brain and my life and all possibility for productive activity.

Thank you so much self, your judgment has always and consistently led me astray.

-----

I sent him that email this morning, and it was basically a baring of myself. No reply. I haven't gotten a real live message from him since last Thursday. This is--this is...I don't even know what to call this. What the hell do you call this. Can he just tell me to fuck off so I'll stop moping and lying around the house after work like a useless sack of human emotions.

Actually, I wish I had sent him the other version of the email instead, which was filled with profanity and more embarrassing confessions from the heart.

Someone slap some fucking sense into me please.

if you still creep on this blog, then read this

I think one of the most enjoyable things about having a new friend is the process of getting to know them. You share your interests, the music you listen to, the films you watch, the things you write, the principles you believe in, the skeletons you hide. They consume what you reveal, and you return the gesture. With each give and take, you learn a bit more about them in a gradual unfolding that enriches the connection you had decided to make. If they’re as invested as you are, the conversations occur almost every day until you discover that there are never enough hours in the day to say everything you want because tomorrow seems too far off in the distance to wait. You find time to talk to them even when you’re busy because the pleasure of their company is worth it. 

That’s not what’s happening here. For any number of reasons—work, hobbies, the personal—you’re unable to uphold your end of what I thought would be a redo of this past May. Or maybe this is exactly what you had envisioned, and I’ve simply misinterpreted the parameters of this experimental reconciliation. Because of that, I believe the short-lived arrangement we had agreed to a few weeks ago must come to an end. I couldn’t have stressed enough the importance of maintaining some semblance of friendship through this, which has been clearly not the case. You understand why I’m terminating this then. 

Another part of why this isn’t working is that I like you. More than I expected. More than I should. At the time that I told you I was emotionally sound enough to have sex, I wholeheartedly believed I was. I am not. The odd silences and sporadic moments of contact since leaving your house that Sunday night have been distracting at best. I’m not in the habit of sending messages that get ignored. I’m not in the habit of opening up about personal things that are left unanswered. I’m not in the habit of allowing people to take me for granted. 

I didn’t understand why I had suddenly been the one to initiate conversations again when prior to Labor Day Weekend, you had all been for repairing ties with me by stepping up yourself. I didn’t understand the abrupt change in mood and response rate in early September until I learned about your depression. That is to say, what you’ve been struggling with puts much of your behavior in an understandable context, but it doesn’t excuse the way you’ve been treating me—which is when I realized I’ve been expecting more out of what was meant to come without any strings attached.  

I’m not used to feeling this vulnerable, and telling you so. 

Suffering from depression in addition to a heavy workload and band obligations have affected your emotional/mental health while reducing your social activity. Please take care of yourself then, but don’t string me along anymore. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like I matter this little to someone. I have to look out for myself too.

He sought my warmth, and I didn't mind.

Out With It

I wish I could just resume whatever was happening with him back in May instead of constantly having to draw and redraw these new boundaries/parameters that wind up blurring and getting crossed anyway. Potential dating! Kidding, now it's cut-off-ties-and-move-on. No wait! He's apologized, and I've extended the hand of friendship without any expectations to sleep with him again since he has a girlfriend. Kidding, now he's broken up with her and has been hankering for time with me. But wait! We should redefine this nebulous thing we've started up again. And on and on and fucking on.

I feel like there's bait dangling in front of my face, and he keeps lowering and yanking the hook. I've been talking bullshit for the past few weeks here when I should have just owned what I feel instead of pushing down everything like I always do.

Yes, I do like him. Quite a bit. And I would like a more serious arrangement with him, but I'm convinced/certain that he doesn't want the same, especially considering that he just got out of a summer relationship barely a month ago. I'm ashamed that I would still have feelings for someone who's hurt me the way he has. I'm angry that I can't concentrate on much else. I'm humiliated that I've let myself become more invested in some whatevership than the other party. I know better than that.

Mostly, I'm terrified of feeling more vulnerable than I have in years.

What If

Last night I imagined us taking our time to undress each other in your room. I slid your shirt over your head; you unbuttoned my blouse with such careful fingers. Late sunlight slanted through the window as my skirt pooled on the floor next to your jeans, and the sky had turned deep blue once my knees hit the back of your bed, sending me in a slow, arcing tumble onto sheets that you’d just washed. They smelled like you: fresh laundry, sharp and clean, with traces of the body you wear them out in. I pulled you down.

The rest comes in hazy patches of memory tinged with too much longing. Mostly, I remember our every movement executed as if underwater, my hand fluidly curving over your ass, and hooking my leg over your shoulder seemed like a minute-long task. I remember your weight fully pressed on me, chest to chest, while you buried your face in the crook of my neck until your beard rubbed my skin pink and tender. Without any music in the background, I could hear the choked groans you tried to hide, and my own catches of breath startled the stillness in the air.

I looked into your eyes at one point, letting every wince and lip bite show from how completely you were filling me. You would shift forward, and the bed would pitch along as well to the aching, steady rhythm we set. Time started and stopped, started and stopped. When it was all over, I clung on tight with my eyes squeezed shut, picturing another image within this dream, and let go before those few seconds stretched into something too tense to unravel. I think I decided to stay for the night because for this moment only, I had enough time. 

Hot and Cold

Sometimes the shame of what kind of person I truly am cripples me. Not a confident, cool person, but a fraud, too wracked with insecurities and self-doubt to be of much admiration or help to anyone. This intimidating front I put up, it's convincing so long as I don't let the cracks show because once one of the walls come down, the rest tumbles quickly afterward, and it becomes apparent that I'm not strong at all. Better to keep them (to keep him, to keep her) far from my soft inner body so there's nothing to hurt when we eventually part ways.

If I’m not careful, I get invested too soon and too much. My emotional spectrum exists in two opposite ends: either I've written you off or completely invested my time and energy in getting to know you. Happy, middle-ground mediums were never an option for me. If they were, I would have taken advantage of them by now. Instead, I scare people away, whether by my coldness or passion. The former preserves my defenses; the latter blasts them open. Which is the more frightening, or genuine?

People think I don't care, but I do. 

I care too much. 

Conflagration

I’m burning in ways I didn’t expect with him. Find myself wanting to put my mouth on his length, bite a pattern around his hips, mold my hands to the shape of his thighs, take pleasure from his pleasure—I want to make him feel good. That makes me feel good too. How unexpected. My fantasies have never featured me as the aggressor, or the one who draws out the shudders from the other person’s lips, but the script’s flipped, and what used to be a passive sequence has turned active. No longer done to, but doing. I like it.

I wonder what’s caused the change, but I think I’ve always known. The role switch was already happening when I was with him on Tuesday, spread-eagle on his sheets while he licked an uneven line down my stomach. I wanted to return the favor. Again, the urge returned on Sunday night as soon as he slid my underwear off and pulled my hips towards him, towards his waiting mouth, because I looked right into his face as he did so, and the hunger in his expression—pupils black and blown—elicited a gasp I sucked in at the last second.

That kind of naked longing, seldom experienced and thus so memorable: how humbling, how infectious—and all of that directed at me. I want to make him feel the same way. To have his hips buck at my attentions. To clench tight around him, my nails scoring trails down his back, and swallow every moan he can’t hold in. To see an identical expression on my face staring back, dark-eyed and red-lipped, my voice thick with heat and intent. To listen to his body come apart in my hands as he has done to me. I want to undo him. 

Dragon*Con Weekend

I had brunch with him on Saturday. Yeah—hadn’t seen him in four months and was unsure of what my next move would be. Scratch that, I already knew what my answer would be. It was only a matter of when. Certainly not that morning, my period ensured that along with his schedule. But the meal was his compromise, and we finally set eyes on each other after an entire summer of false starts and stops that raised more questions that could ever be feasibly answered.

I couldn’t stop smiling as I ate, to my horror. Across the table, he casually tucked into his food while every glance he threw became a loaded gesture.

 

Later, I proposed my own compromise in the form of twenty minutes stolen in my car in broad daylight on a filled parking lot. As soon as I shut the door, he turned my head towards his, body preemptively angled as if to fit over mine, and at that first touch of lips, I grabbed at him, one hand on his waist, the other sliding up his chest. When he grasped the back of my neck with his fingers tangled in my hair, I realized how little had changed from our encounter in May. The heat coiling deep in my belly came as no surprise because my desire had not diminished in the slightest. I wanted—want—him just the same.

Judging by how he tugged at the neckline of my shirt, I think the feeling was mutual.

And as he bent down to leave two teasing nips on my thighs, I felt the impatience in his teeth and the proximity of his mouth, so tantalizingly close to the seams of my underwear that converged at the neat, budlike shape he hungered for the most. The urgency in his hands made me shudder. I hadn’t expected that both of our reactions would be this strong. I hadn’t expected things to circle back here this soon, but no—I did. I’ve never known how to say no to my urges.

Eventually, we disentangled. My locks were falling out of place from my bun that’d cheerfully dislodged during the proceedings. After straightening ourselves, he landed a bruising kiss on me and climbed out of my tiny car. I licked my lips, leaned back on the seat, and closed my eyes, waiting for my heart rate to go down. 

Fool Me Once, Shame on You; Fool Me Twice--

By this point, I know full well I can’t quit this guy so when I made plans to drop by his house last night, nothing was unclear about the nature of that visit.

-----

I’ve fallen back into bed with him because I can’t be bothered to restart my search. What makes me curl my toes has him groaning into my ear, and there are too many of them to count—why go through the same song-and-dance number when he’s pinned me to the mattress with his mouth right then, right now? I could rehash the sequence of events in the weeks following his elaborate apology letter, but I’ve already talked myself hoarse about it to other people and spaces that aren’t here. This is for when I’ve made the decision, the recount of the before, during, after, and everything in between. I’m tired of making excuses. I simply want his hands on me.

And if our interactions seem guided by baser intentions than before, that’s because they are. With any pretenses of dating or romance out of the way, I’m obvious in my lust, an altogether more manageable variable in an arrangement made richly volatile by the new, potential baggage he and I both bring in. Without (his) pressure to emotionally open myself up, there’s only the heat and sweat generated between two bodies pressed tight together, reluctant to break apart for fear of allowing another situational wrench to set us at odds again. This could be the worst call I’ve made this year. This could be the best. Or it could be another call made in the running timeline of my romantic and sexual endeavors that I won’t examine until all’s been said and done.

For now, he lays me flat on the bed, hooks my legs over his arms, and leans in to breathe the heavy scent between my thighs. I’ve come to his house on my period and warned him off of putting his mouth there. Up until this moment, he’s kept away, but the towel rubs soft under my back as he drags my hips closer, his eyes lingering on the darkest corners of myself. A second passes; he mutters a curse under his breath and dips his head down. A sharp intake of breath then fills the room, and I realize that it’s mine.

He can’t stop touching me. I can’t stop touching him. His fingers spread and curl and dig deep for me to rock back against, my face buried in a pillow to stifle my moans. When he slides all the way in, I sink my teeth into his shoulder, sucking the freckled skin there to leave a mark in the morning, and it hurts god it hurts, but it’s a familiar hurt from months ago, a pain I’ve wanted to revisit, but the tight, aching fullness of him can’t possibly hurt worse than what he had dealt me with his absence.

Afterwards, my roaming, restless hands map the shape of his chest while his palm fits over my waist. I inhale the muted, comfortable smell of his deodorant in the curve of his neck, and he drops kiss after kiss in my tangled hair, my damp forehead, my red, wet mouth. I should have left immediately—that’s the protocol, isn’t it? But I’ve stayed, and pressed myself against the whole length of him, and curled my shoulders towards his, and let him catch me up in his arms where his music note tattoos come in and out of view, wordlessly playing a song I have yet to hear in its entirety.