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. 

small milestones

Last May I had a conversation with him about dating more later that summer, to which he agreed easily, but with a caveat of sorts that this was highly unlikely to evolve into a conventionally monogamous, committed relationship—best summed up in his exact words, “I love being around you, but I don’t love you.” I didn’t raise much of an objection at the time. We’d known each other for barely half a year; what was there to object to? That summer (well-documented in these archives) passed by uneventfully, and so did the rest of the year as we continued talking, connecting, staying in touch—learning more about one another and growing closer as a result.

Should this week have surprised me then, when he came back into town for a visit, and we fell on each other, starving for tangible contact—his, mine, not anyone else’s, not at that moment—ruining his bedsheets, wrapping arms around the other afterward, and I, carefully holding my breath before gently exhaling, telling him how I’ve felt for the past few months? If the previous sentence sounds rambling and leisurely, that is because it intimately parallels my own emotional journey through what has been the steadiest, most stable sexual/romantic arrangement with a partner thus far. The feeling came in time, nearly two years in the making, and didn’t take me by surprise so much as tap my shoulder one day to say, “I’m sorry it’s taken me such a while to show up, but I’m here. I am here.”

I wasn’t sure I would tell him until Tuesday afternoon when we both reclined there in bed with his head on my chest and my fingers combing through his hair. When I didn’t feel afraid, I knew that it was okay to say the words, even if he didn’t return the same sentiment, even if I’d be exposing myself in the biggest way since Chance, even though that was my very first time telling anyone—out-loud—that “I love you (a little bit.) Don’t be scared because I’m not scared either.”

“...I love you (a little bit) too.”

Time changes things and the nature of things so quickly. 

Flavor of The Month

August 2014/Dragon*Con Weekend - Jason the lawyer, slept with him in his room at the Hilton. Met again for another session in October at the Sheraton. Liked to eat ass, had gorgeous sleeve tattoos. Extremely smart in his studied field, but your average run of the mill racist.

September 2014 - Brady the architect, went on 3 dates with him, slept with him on the 2nd. Skinniest guy I've been with yet. Sweet, but too passive.

October 2014 - Jeff the mechanical engineer, met with him twice. 1st meet a failed attempt at sex for multiple reasons (most of which I lay at his feet), 2nd time a success of sorts. Broke it off due to his unearned arrogance in the bedroom.

November 2014 to present - John the WholeFoods manager, tried and true submissive who services me whenever I'm in the area. Zero complaints with him. Probably the best oral I've enjoyed.

December 2014 - Asher was in town, rest is self-explanatory.

-----

I put up holiday pictures on facebook and tagged the single one I have of me and him. Look, it's proof. Not every guy in my life is a dirty secret.

A Matter of Need

The other morning in bed, I got myself off by imagining you and oral. A fairly normal (and regular) routine except you weren’t going down on me. You had me in your lap, hands on my waist and lips to my ear, while I closed my eyes and listened to a hypothetical description of what it’s like to get me off with your mouth. The words felt more rumbled and purred than actually said, but the meaning came clear across.

You’re familiar with every sound I make: that sharp gasp at the first bottom-to-top lick, the softer iteration for when you delve inside with your tongue, the drawn-out sigh at the circles you draw around my shy, peeping hood, and those steady little intakes of breath—a slow-building crescendo—that give away how close I am before the breathing abruptly cuts to choked-off moans.

My scent fills up every corner of the room: the initial rush, so bright and heady, wraps around your head, squeezes tight, and locks you in. You can almost taste it—except, you’re too full with the rest of me. A milky slick that sits so sweetly on your tongue, coating your chin, lacing the inside of your mouth, trickling down your throat, all messy, all mine. You can’t ever get enough.

And you murmur how indescribable it feels to press your lips against my clit, its fleeting contractions baring a shapely nub one second and retreating the next. How velvety smooth my lips are, easy to nip and easier to suck. How easily you predict the timing of my orgasm by the rigid arch my back freezes in, waiting for an internal cue to begin a freefall: the whole-body shudder that starts deep in my belly and frantically spreads north until you have to hold me down so the entire bed doesn’t shake.

The sight of me twitching and trembling to cool down, the flesh between my thighs still flushed rosy. You know every sign, and I believe it because you told me all of this—or at least the you in my mind did.

Judging by how often I find myself in compromising positions with men in my car, I should probably sterilize the interior.

I found out he was back in town the day of, which is say yesterday afternoon. What did I think would happen after grabbing a seemingly innocent drink?

I had my fun though--and so did he. Pretty sure I was going to crash while I was driving back to the car deck, but he swatted me away every time I tried to pull his hand out of my pants.

I made him pay for that later.

Listening to: Night Diving by Thrice

I wish I could tell you all the things I've had to keep to myself. Last night I was with you again, the second time in a month, and after we had our fill of each other, we twisted the sheets haphazardly over us while our legs got even more hopelessly entangled, and I could have soundly fallen asleep in your bed (in your arms) as the music softly played from your desktop.

I didn't though. Of course I didn't. I'm always leaving you, always a temporary guest in your room and if I hope for something more permanent than a few snatched hours, I don't even whisper the words aloud to myself on every lonely drive back home, with my knuckles pale on the steering wheel and my mouth pursed tight from the ache in my chest. I never present anything but a casual, level-headed front to you when all I've ever been since May is a young woman burning up with too much want and unspoken passions.

Were I a braver person (to either face my own desires or your decidedly cooler attitude towards me, I can't say), not a single meeting would pass without you knowing the full scope of my longing: the fever your touch instills, the desperate way I claw your back as if to claim what isn't mine, the breaths I hold as my fingers trace the line of your jaw and commit the shape of your eyes to memory. I wouldn't be afraid of the strength of my feelings, and you wouldn't be afraid of the intensity of this side I've tempered for years.

But who could see this nature, my true nature, and not shy away for fear of being consumed by it? Who could--who would--want someone like me, once they learn the truth? Would you? Dare I entertain the thought? I don't. I won't. At the very least I can be honest here.

Monday Night

He was waiting on the porch when I got out of the car, watching me make my way up the stairs. As soon as I reached the top step, we smirked at each other and exchanged two lines about my driving before he grabbed my bag strap and pulled me to him. His beard scratched my cheeks, but I hung on tight anyway and breathed deep so I'd remember his aftershave for later, when the need to recall him (and the moment) would become too unbearable to put off any longer. I pressed harder against him as I felt his hands slip past my coat to grip my hips, and eventually dipping beneath the waistband of my pants to cup my ass. Despite the temperature, the air felt less chilly then, and I shivered for an entirely different reason.

-----

Once we’re in his room, he takes to exploring me with reckless abandon. For that single, precious hour, I let myself succumb to his touch and ban every anxious thought from my mind because with him, I never know when we meet will be the last time we meet. My nails trace new pathways down his back. His hot breath dampens my collarbone. The brutal dexterity of his fingers, wickedly curled as they slide in and out of me, steals any attempts at coherent speech. Sweat beads on the small of my back, makes the hair stick to my forehead, cements us to his dark gray sheets. 

The liquid heat between my legs spread warm over my thighs, and when he looks up, my knees hooked over his shoulders, he wants to see me staring. And I do. I’m entranced. But the intense expression in his eyes causes me to glance away. After that, I keep my eyes shut and open my other senses to accommodate the fullness of what I’m experiencing. When he finally replaces his tongue with his length, it is not pain, but the sweetest of aches that coax the ragged moans from my lips. As for the rest of what occurs, some details are too visceral to record even here. 

During the drive home, I swear I can still taste him in my mouth.  

-----

I burn and burn and burn whenever I’m with him. How long until the fire reverts to ashes again from yet another disappointment that seems an inevitable part of our up-down cycle?

another reason why I should keep this guy

- a couple weeks ago when we met up, I insisted on no sex because I want to see if we have actual friendship staying-power (which we do, as I've been finding out bit by bit). he complied and we spent an hour in his room just half-naked grinding (since it's not sex, I think this counts as a success so shutup)

- right before I left he did request that I sit on his face so he could taste me properly (because the last time I sat on his face, he accidentally sucked blood for half an hour--a story I might revisit when I've gotten over my embarrassment). I complied oops

- did anyone really expect me to say no to that request

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.

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.  

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. 

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. 

details

When I’m with someone or I’m sitting at my desk, hours (days, weeks, months) after the fact, I try to think of that person’s focal point, the single detail on them that provides a jumping off cliff into a lengthy rumination on romance and intrigue. If I can’t find one, that’s usually a warning sign. They hadn’t been interesting enough. I was hasty. I made a bad decision. People like Rasmus and his vanity, Dane and his wheedling, George and his lack of respect: proof that I don’t always think clearly. It happens from time to time—means I haven’t learned my lesson yet. 

The more details I can find, the more fruitful my writing is. For Karen, I don’t know where to start: the dark gray fedora on her curly hair, her tiny brown eyes, that thin, snapping mouth, her richly textured voice. Others, I find to be more easily definable—Ben and his age, etched into his laugh lines and the effortless way he held me; Trey and the glasses I slipped off his face as he took my virginity; Catarina and her wide, splitting grin, validating half a decade’s worth of self-doubt about my feelings for women

.

There are some I can’t contain to a single point at all. Zul and the city of Singapore, that week of freedom and exploration, that entire summer, the days and nights and afternoons and mornings and meals and hours spent in my hostel room together—all of that is him. To talk about one would only lead to the other and then the next, until I’m writing another essay again. But would it be about him, or the experience of having had him as a summer fling? Two years after we happened, and it’s still impossible to separate the two. 

-----

I ramble about all of this to reach an uneventful conclusion. That was what I’d been looking for during my evening with him: something, anything, to draw my attention and latch onto. I found it soon enough in the green music notes on his arms, big and eye-catching (the former, not the latter), and that was (is) enough for me. I like them. They make him more memorable, more interesting. I kept touching them when we were in bed, slowly rubbing each note as if they’d somehow rise from his skin to turn a small tune. He probably noticed.