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.