Here

Yes, it’s been a while. I moved in with the Boyfriend, things got busy (see previous post), he got a new job, I didn’t, then I did, and I’ve been trying to pick up more work so I can pay the bills. Sex fell off the radar. It happened on occasion (usually the weekends when he could get enough sleep and actually relax), but nothing as amazing as we’d had in the beginning. I got disappointed and frustrated, had a PTSD-induced meltdown, then recovered and we moved on to better days.

I’d pretty much forgotten about this blog until two people mentioned it. First was an ex-boyfriend to whom I’d sent a link (probably ill-advised, but at the time I thought… never mind. I have no idea what I was thinking). He told me it was somewhat uncomfortable to read, and I totally understand that now. There are times I just want to share everything that’s in my head with everyone around me, but it’s generally considered a bad idea.

The second person to mention it was the Boyfriend himself. After a night of particularly exciting and fun romps between the bedsheets, we stood in the kitchen, me sashaying around in a bathrobe, preparing breakfast while he prepared a pot of tea and got ready for work. The look on his face was one of happy contentment and a little bit of something like, I don’t know, glee? We talked about my work, how much writing I needed to get done that day, and he pointedly asked if I was going to be posting the previous night’s escapades to “that blog you’ll never let me read?”

I didn’t have an answer for him, but I sort of figured I might post something, and here I am. Details? No. Not really. No handcuffs were involved, although he did pin my wrists at one point. No D/s occurred, and I was on top for most of it. I joked that he should count himself lucky to have found a girlfriend with an oral fixation, and he chuckled. “That’ll be my next facebook post right there,” he said, and I smacked his shoulder.

Most nights I fall asleep with his arms around me, or mine around him. It still turns me on when he hints at dominating me in any way, but most days he just wants me to find my footing and be independent. He finds strong, smart women sexy, so I find it one hell of a compliment that he’s with me, especially on those days (like today) when I don’t have enough work to pay my bills and I end up apologizing for being such a lousy girlfriend. He just shakes his head and holds me close when I do that.

It’s funny how this started out as a blog about my foray into escorting, only to evolve into a blog about a relationship. I didn’t mean for that to happen, nor did I expect it. I’m certainly happy about it, though.

Digging

In the past five months, my life has taken quite a turn. Met a man, fell in love, moved in together, merged our lives in all the messy ways couples do.

He’s given me a garden. A bare patch of dirt that we weeded together and have been busy filling in with herbs and flowers. On weekends he takes me to nurseries and buys plants with me, then we come home and get our hands dirty. Digging in, putting down roots.

On Sunday I found a soft silk halter top I’d forgotten about after my move last year, and wore it out on our most recent garden outing. The sun felt good on my bare back, and I felt liberated and free in the open air. Common sense told me to put on sunscreen, but I seldom listen to common sense. The result was a mild sunburn, but nothing so bad that I worried about it too much. Monday night after we’d had dinner and late night showers to wash off the dirt and sweat, he tackled me on the bed and bit into my shoulder. I gasped at the sensation, and relaxed into the pain. He bit more, harder, all around my back and shoulders, eliciting more gasps, sighs and shudders as I found myself happy to be at his mercy.

My first official night as a resident of his house, we both fell into bed exhausted after midnight. I assumed he’d be too tired for much more than snoring, but he surprised me by flipping me on my back and getting down to business for the next half hour. We spent several days adjusting to being around each other more often, and sex slowed down again. Sometimes the rhythm works for us both, and a break is good. Other times I find myself moody and withdrawn, wondering what it’s going to take to rekindle his interest. He’s learning to let me work through things on my own until I’m ready to talk to him about what’s bothering me, and he listens. “I can’t read you mind,” he reminds me, “so if you’re upset, you need to let me know what I can do about it.”

While washing dishes together yesterday, I dug down into what was bothering me, and broke my silence of many hours to let him know that I needed more sex, please. My body is tuned to a higher sex drive than most women, it would seem, and without it I can get seriously irritable and unpleasant to be around. I also mentioned missing some of the rougher aspects of our early sex life. The tender stuff is wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but the pain, rough handling and domination that we’d be dabbling with before was more enjoyable than I’d ever imagined or experienced with other partners. He leaned over the sink and looked at me, still withdrawn, as I stared at the pan I was drying. “Okay,” he said. “See? That wasn’t so hard. Just talk to me.” He wiped his hands on a towel, took the pan out of my hands, put it on the counter and took my hands in his, then kissed them. A few hours later we lay in bed, tumbled and bitten, but very happy.

Communication is a wonderful thing. So is being honest with myself so I can be honest with him. The deep stuff can be disconcerting to look at, but it’s necessary to dig through it to see the other side.

 

Away

Lately I’ve been having dreams about ex boyfriends and other awkward relationship situations. This morning I dreamt I had two lovers and had to choose one, but didn’t want to, so kept both. One was injured and had to go to the emergency room, and the other took him, leaving me alone to panic because I didn’t have a cell phone number for either one, and no way to contact them. I woke feeling awful, and found it difficult to look New Guy in the eye when he rolled towards me in the pre-dawn dark and blinked at me sleepily.

We were both raised Catholic, and although I’ve long since left the church, he teases me that something of the faith still remains in my system. It’s true, despite shifting all that guilt in therapy, I still feel as though I’ve been cheating on my lover when I dream of someone else.

I had the pleasure of welcoming in the First of May with him early after midnight, and felt the pangs of loss as he drove away this morning to help his mother for the next few days. Thinking of May Day and of Beltane, I was glad that we had at least a little time together before he went away, especially after not being together much over the past week. This page caught my eye this morning:

Beltane is the Sex Sabbat just as Samhain, held six months hence, is the Death Sabbat. All other Beltane (also called May Eve or Walpurgis Night) customs are minor compared with those that explicitly celebrate human sex and fertility. Up to the Protestant Reformation in the 16th Century, marriage vows were conveniently forgotten at Beltane in many rural European villages. Newly formed ‘couples’ went into the plowed fields at night to lie down together and copulate in order to ensure the fertility of the coming year’s crops. The Catholic Church could not stamp out this ancient pagan tradition. It took the dour Protestants who suppressed May Eve celebrations in England by passing and enforcing laws against public gatherings around Maypoles with their accompanying dances and fertility rites.

Kinda looks like the Catholic church missed out on the two of us, too. We’d spent much of the previous day weeding his garden and looking for new plants, so that counts as plowing the fields, as far as I’m concerned. In fact, shortly after I’d arrived yesterday to help with the weeding, he lured me into the house and upstairs… then brought out the handcuffs. Hinged ones, not the type with a chain between the bracelets.

Once the cuffs were on, I found myself quite compliant, really wanting him to dominate. He is a self-described dork (which I find very appealing) who has a lot of respect for women, so he doesn’t come across as the sort of man who gets off by humiliating anyone. In fact, it’s a fuzzy line for both of us, and we’re still figuring out where the borders actually are. Instead of humiliation, he seems to be drawn more to control, whereas I seem to like pain. He pointed this out as I lay on my back, still cuffed, by suggesting we try some nipple clamps. “Really?” I raised my eyebrows. “What makes you think I’d like that?” I asked, actually wondering if they might be too painful for me. “Well,” he said, lying on his side, head propped up on one hand while with his other hand took one of my nipples and stretched it out, “you seem to like this quite a lot.” I sighed contentedly. “Oh yeah, that’s right, I do.”

After a few seconds of hard twisting and tweaking, he rolled onto his back and pulled me up to straddle him. Even when I’m on top, he’s still in control. His hands guide my rhythm and pull me close or push me away. Close in, his mouth on mine, we breathe into each other. I can scream or whisper then, and he drinks it all in. Pushed away, he looks into my eyes and we share that dazed, orgasmic look that lovers have when all the gears are meshing in the right ways. We have so much eye contact during sex that there are times when when simply sitting across a table from each other, a gaze can bring back a hint of that intimacy in an unguarded moment.

I’ll miss him while he’s away. There are physical pangs we both feel at the same time when we can’t spend time together, a yearning to indulge in sensory connection. When we’re together, we’re most often within reach of each other, if not actually touching. Right now, all I can do is write about it. He did tell me to, after all. “Now you can tell your readers we used the handcuffs,” he chuckled as he put them away yesterday. “You can ask for them anytime,” he said as he hung them on a hook in his closet, “but I won’t always say ‘yes’.”

Oh, go on and tease me, why don’t you. I can take it.

Delays

If it’s not one thing, it’s another.

A few visits ago, New Guy had me pinned down on my bed, running his fingers down my ribcage, telling me that next time I visited him, we’d be using the handcuffs. Real ones, not those cutesy fur-lined ones that look so comfy you could wear them everyday. I asked if I might wear something on my wrists under the cuffs, to avoid leaving marks? He said yes, I may.

Very much looking forward to this, I was a bit let down on my arrival to be told his teenage daughter would be home that night, so no cuffs. We kept our playtime as quiet as possible (which for me is a stretch) and all was well. Next visit to my place found us dealing with my two kids plus others visiting, and then my period arrived. Not a fan of sex during my off-time, I did consent to some blood sport, but it was just as messy as I remembered it to be, and New Guy had to be content with blow jobs for the rest of the weekend. Let it be noted that he did not complain.

Between work, school, kids and other distractions that come up, we’ve had to push a few play ideas to the side for a while. The intimately tender sex we share during the times of enforced quiet is enjoyable, but we both long for the more energetic, meaty side of things. Finding and exploring our mutual and primarily untapped interest in BDSM has increased our desire for more, but life gets in the way, at least for now.

As devorcees of a certain age with teenagers nearly ready to leave the nest, neither of us has a ticking biological clock or the need for more babies. We long to be empty nesters, happy to welcome kids and (eventually) grandkids back for visits, but able to be creative, noisy, messy, and just plain enjoy our sexual playtime when and how we want to in our own home.

Now I’m looking forward to a week without him, as he tends to finals for school and will be caring for his aging mother in another city. I could be upset about it, but instead find myself looking forward to emailing him every day and coming up with more ideas we can work on when he gets back. Sometimes the tease is what makes the release that much better. I don’t know if he sees it quite that way, but I know I’ll be enjoying it.

He’s so much fun when he’s demanding.

bed

He certainly is a man true to his word.

Friday evening I arrived on time, dressed as commanded, and was led upstairs to his room where he sat me down in a comfortable chair and told me to “sit there and look beautiful. Shouldn’t be too difficult,” while he cleaned up and disassembled his old bed. “The new mattress will be delivered in an hour, then I’ll change and we’ll go out to dinner.”

Flashback to a month ago when, tangled in sheets, sleeping dogs, and each other, I told him we’d need a bigger bed. Later he’d told me he had to put that idea on hold so as to afford some home repairs, and I let the matter drop. Now I know better.

There I sat, demurely watching him clean his room while he grinned at me and asked how my day was. He vacuumed, dusted, and even scrubbed spots off the floor while I held my hands in my lap, somewhat entranced by the sight of a man who wasn’t afraid to admit the sticky spot on his floor next to the bed was from a spilled bottle of lube he used to use on himself. “Funny that,” he mused, “I haven’t wanted to jack off for the past, oh, six weeks or so.” His eyes crinkled as he smiled at me, reminding me that we’d both found our need for self-pleasuring greatly diminished since we’d started enjoying each other’s intimate companionship.

Cleaning done, he led me down the hall to a large closet where he kept his “good” clothes. Considering that he prefers to spend his waking time dressed as comfortably and casually as possible, I wasn’t sure what to expect of his more formal wardrobe. There were some nice dress shirts, and bundle of decent ties, a sport coat, leather jacket, slacks, and a suit. He pulled me close and purred in my ear, “this is one area where I want you to be in charge. I know nothing about clothes. Dress me.” I picked out a silver-gray shirt, black pants and the black leather jacket. He chose a pair of black sports shoes. I said no. He dug around and found a nicer pair, to which I said yes. We both agreed a tie was not necessary for the evening, then hung the clothes up in his room and waited for the mattress to arrive.

The delivery truck was a little later than expected, but the two men hauling the new mattress and box spring up the stairs seemed to know what they were doing and were quite pleasant. Once the bed was set up, New Guy went upstairs to check it out and sign the invoice. Except… wrong mattress. Ours had gone to the previous delivery stop, so the men repacked it and hauled it all back down the stairs and into the truck. We sat. We waited. He apologized for things not going according to plan. Twenty minutes later the correct mattress was being hauled up the stairs, and we became the happy owners of a brand new queen size pillow top mattress and box spring. “Now we need new sheets!” he said with another wide grin.

I leaned over the bed to get a feel for it, face down and arms spread wide. Buttoning up his shirt, he turned to stand behind me and placed his hands on my hips. The height was just right, and I squirmed happily. He leaned in, holding my arms down, grinding against me, then moved away. “If we don’t go now, there won’t be any dinner,” he admonished. I stood, smoothed my skirt, adjusted my stockings, and stepped away from the bed. My stomach growled. Dinner, please.

Dinner was followed by a trip to his favorite local ice cream parlor and a drive across town to find bedsheets that would fit the new bed. Once the sheets had been run through the washer and dryer, we put everything together. Sheets, pillows (including a fancy new one just for me) and comforters were layered on. Where once had been broken-down bachelor’s bed with red plaid flannel sheets and rumpled old blankets, now appeared a rather inviting bed big enough for two (plus dogs) with crisp sheets and soft blankets topped by a clean duvet in my favorite shade of sage green (where that had been hiding all this time, I’ll never know).

Of course we christened it a few minutes later… and again in the morning. “You slept well,” he said afterwards. I asked how he came to that conclusion. “I watched you,” he said softly, “this morning before you woke. You were absolutely still.”

I hugged him close, thinking about how much this bed meant to both of us. It was a financial commitment as well as a social statement. The bed isn’t just his, it’s ours. I burrowed my face into his chest. “You did good, honey. You did good.”

sweat

Not really sure what to write about these days. We’re still finding our footing with this runaway train of a relationship, but it’s been good so far. Word geeks that we are, New Guy and I spend an inordinate amount of time on our iPhones playing Words With Friends, even in bed. Words such as unbelted, vagina, and dom elicit giggles, if not high scores.

Where several of my previous relationships were secretive and kept from the public eye for various reasons (mostly having to do with my stupidity in actually BEING in said relationships), he and I are often running into people we know when out in public. It’s getting to be a bit of a joke how often it happens, but I can’t complain. It’s wonderful to be with someone who is proud to show me off as his chosen partner. Every time I hear one of my friends say “he’s such a nice guy” I smile and nod, not mentioning how the “nice guy” wants nothing more than to tie me up and make me scream. He often fondles the cuff on my wrist, knowing it’s just a small mark of his possession of me. He has bigger plans in mind.

Last night was a cold one, but we managed to sweat enough to soak the sheets around us. I lay on my back with him inside me and above me, his forearm across my neck, keeping me firmly in my place. Leaning in close to whisper in my ear, he gave me my orders for Friday night, including what to wear. When he tells me to say it out loud, that he is my Master and I am his slave, I always feel a flutter in my belly as I say the words. It feels amazing.

In the morning I was in the kitchen cooking up breakfast, dressed only his bathrobe. An hour before that, I’d woken to find him hard and ready for a different sort of work, which suited me fine as I was already wet just from being near him. This time I was on top, but he asserted his dominance by encircling my neck with his hands, gently and with a look of wonder in his eyes. He’s still fascinated by his new toy, and is finding different ways to make it do what he wants.

I wonder what the weekend will bring?

anxiety

“I’m sorry,” he whispered as I lay beside him in his bed. “Why?” I asked, wondering what I’d missed. “Because you’ll have to tell your readers about the first time we slept together and didn’t have sex.” Considering New Guy had recently been told his mother might be dying, I figured it was just fine that I wasn’t getting laid. I snuggled in closer and kept my hands to myself.

Earlier in the week he’d gotten word that his mother was in the hospital and things looked potentially grim, and I’d offered to watch his dog while he went to visit her for a few days. He called to ask if I could come by the next day to pick the dog up after he’d headed out, and I said screw that, I’m coming over NOW.

“It’s raining and it’s late. Just come by tomorrow. I want you to be safe out there on the roads,” he insisted.

“I can drive in the rain. It’s only ten o’clock. I’ll be there in half an hour,” and I was. We curled up on his sofa together, saying as little as possible. Occasionally he talked about his childhood and family memories. I listened. He held me so tightly I feared he might crush a rib.

Around midnight he got up, took my hands and stood me in front of him. “Are you going or staying?” he asked. I didn’t need to think about it. “Staying.” Up the stairs to his room, then under the covers and wrapped around each other. Sleep came quickly but was over all too soon. Before first light we were up and I was making breakfast while he finished packing.

After a milky-white, dreary damp sunrise, he was off to the hospital three hours away and I was heading back to my house with his dog in the back seat. That was a week ago. I didn’t feel comfortable writing about it until now, as his mother has somewhat recovered and he’s returned to claim his dog. And me.

The first few days away were mostly quiet while he sorted things out with his siblings and the doctors. As his mother’s condition improved, text messages between us went from worried to wistful, peppered with longing and innuendo. One of his Masterly edicts is that if I play with myself, I have to tell him about it, which I did. I described what I was thinking, and where and how I did it. He did the same, texting me one morning at the very moment I was getting myself off thinking about him. It’s nice to be tuned in to each other like that.

Soon after his mother was well enough to be moved out of intensive care, he made plans to return to work and school. I had assumed that his first thought would be to head home and sleep in his own bed, but no, he wanted to see me before anything else. While he had me pinned to my bed and covered in each other’s sweat not long after arriving at my house that evening, he told me “you know, most Masters wouldn’t allow their slave to have an orgasm without permission.” I smiled at him, saying “I do it for you. Besides, I can’t stop coming once you’re in me.” He withdrew a little and held himself back. “I should make you ask for it. You’ll have to say ‘Master, may I?’ before I let you come again.” I think I must have laughed then, as I’m so extremely orgasmic that being touched just-so can sometimes set me off, and he knows it. But I did ask, twice, before we gave up on that idea and went with catching up on more than a week’s worth of sexual tension and releasing all that pent-up stress.

It’s good to have him home again.

pause

Week three with my new man, and things have slowed down just a bit. But not too much.

The weekend was a jumble of family projects, obligations, work and other diversions. Most of our discussions revolved around family and relationships. Making dinner last night in his kitchen, I had to laugh as yet another conversation went by with both of us saying “so I was dating this person before I met you, and…” We tend to bring up past relationships and talk about what we learned from them, which seems to be a healthy thing to do.

The start of the weekend was rough for me, coming out of a stressful work project that wasn’t completed until early Sunday morning (under his watchful eye, I might add). I found myself holding back, feeling out of sorts and wondering if maybe this was indeed the right relationship for me to be in. He could tell I was tense, and asked me what I was thinking. “I’m wondering when I’m going to find our you’re a serial ax murderer or something,” I ventured. “Why is that?” he laughed. “Because it’s too good. I can’t help but wonder what’s going to go wrong. I’m not used to this.” The thought made me squirm. “Don’t think. Just be,” he counseled.

Each morning for three days, one of us would wake up just before dawn and ravage the other. Taking it in turns, I found that while I enjoy taking him, I much prefer it when he takes me instead. It doesn’t matter if I’m on top or bottom, when he’s in charge, he is In Charge and there is no doubt about it. I’m told what I can and cannot do, how I may move or not move, and I submit willingly. We share an abundance of trust between us, and I know he would never hurt me unless I specifically request it. Several times while he had my wrists pinned, he played with the bracelet he gave me last week, pleased to know I’d not had any cause or desire to remove it. No mention was made of the ring, but I’m fairly certain he noticed it was not on my finger anymore.

There was a level of softness between us that wasn’t there last week. Between the stress of my project and his own family-related stress (which I choose not to discuss here), we were a bit subdued, but no less randy. I think we were craving more comfort than anything else, and spent a lot of time simply holding each other, confirming that yes, we both plan to stick around and see things through. A few times one or the other of us attempted to start a conversation around sex play, but it never got off the ground. Real life intervened, and we both stepped up to the task of dealing with it. I’m okay with that.

Sometimes simply feeling your lover’s heartbeat against your own is enough. Sometimes it’s more than just enough; it’s everything.

hold that thought

It’s been a while, I know. Last post I mentioned a date I went on and the nice man I met but wasn’t interested in. Let’s back up a bit, shall we? What really happened was this: after three hours of post-party sleep, I met up with a stranger from teh interwebs for a Sunday afternoon hike in the hills with our dogs. I was feeling what I thought was residual arousal from the party, but it never wore off. By the time we’d finished with the hike, gone out for lunch, and sat around in my kitchen, I didn’t want him to leave. Yes, I said it wouldn’t work out, he wasn’t what I was looking for, etc., but damn it all… By Monday he’d invited me out for Wednesday night to see a film I’d mentioned on our hike, and I agreed. What’s one more date, right? Nice guy, good company, I’ll give it one more shot and then say goodbye.

Not so fast, cupcake.

After dinner, ice cream, and a movie, we ended up parked in the dark, making out in the car like a couple of teenagers. Did I mention we both have teenagers? Wednesday’s date turned into another meet up on Friday, then Friday stretched into Saturday, Sunday, and he left my place late Monday morning. Looks like we’re doing it again this weekend, for which I have no complaints. I told him about my escorting idea because I’d already decided at that point that I couldn’t do it if I had him. I even told him about my romp with Married Man. He listened patiently, then talked about finding me a collar and cuffs to wear when he’s not around, to remind me and everyone else that I belong to him. Sounds possessive, perhaps, but to me it’s a massive turn on.

So what happened? How did I go from relationship cynic hell-bent on getting paid for my fun time, to happily fucking a man I just met who probably couldn’t have afforded my services if I’d gone ahead and worked pay-for-play? I’d often been told that when it’s right, you just know. I’d fallen for other men before, but not for one who fell for me a the same time. It’s surreal, but deeply wonderful. I like it. Discussing our fantasies and mutual desires has been an eye opener, too. We’re moving into territory neither of us has traversed much, and it’s fun. He’s amazed by how my body responds sexually, and I’m amazed at his openness and honesty when it comes to talking about desire. He’s also a total gentleman and romantic, opening doors and bringing me flowers. We’re both switches, so while I get to be treated like a lady most of the time, I also am expected to play to my strengths now and then and be the stronger one. I love it.

The benefit of having looked at escorting seriously even for such a short time is that I allowed myself to move into a different mindset and be open to new experiences involving my sexuality. I bought new clothes, for example, and tried them on for him. He sat on my bedroom floor, watching me change, then pulled me close and lifted each skirt, tasting me for a few moments before letting me go to try on something else. After the second dress, my hands were shaking. By the forth, I could barely stand up as my knees had gone weak. After the last dress came off, I donned a little silk slip and we landed back onto the bed for another marathon session.

Things here will be moving in a different direction from now on, but not entirely away from where it was going. We’re two of the most outwardly vanilla people you might see on the street, but like so many others, we’re keeping things clean only on the outside. There will still be plenty to blog about, I’m sure. I’ll keep you posted.

tequila

Back from a debaucherous weekend, my lovelies. From a sausagefest of nerds (who talked a lot about sex, but seemed to forget that I was a woman sitting there next to them and treated me as one of the guys) to a birthday party filled with balloons, pretty women, young men and booze, to a warm and sunny afternoon spent hiking with a man I’d only just met online a few days before, I rather enjoyed myself.

The sausagefest was enlightening. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise, but it was entertaining enough to listen to the boys go on about conquests, easy lays, disappointments, other men’s wives, and the general gist of boys who don’t want to settle down just yet, if ever.

Well, so much for that. I decided that perhaps wearing jeans to a party made me more invisible than anything, and opted for a dress for the next party. Turns out, I was the only one, but that’s okay. I ended up fending off advances from an ex-lover’s new wife (really not my type when she’s sober, even more so when she’s drunk), was told that I give off an “I’m taken” vibe by some good friends (I’d asked why men tend to leave me alone at their parties and this was their answer), and got my hands in a few married men’s pants. All in all, a delightful evening.

Once most of the party had cleared out and there were just the hosts, another couple and myself left, out came the tequila. I’m not a huge fan, so I only did a half shot while the others downed theirs. This seemed to be a secret code for “everyone get it on” and at first I was content to watch, but once one of the husbands dropped his pants and asked his wife to blow him, I was seriously entertained, if not a bit surprised. She obliged, but only a little. There I stood, thinking “hell, I could do better than that” when he invited me over to help out. In my mind, the wife had already broken a few of my cardinal rules:

1. Never tell your lover he has a tiny dick. She openly admitted to having done that IN PUBLIC to people he knew. To me, that is inexcusable.
2. Never invite your friends, including a single woman you just met that night, to check out your husband’s bare ass because you think it’s so cute, then invite everyone to slap it. I mean, really? If you show the goods, you share the goods. Want to keep them for yourself? Don’t put them out on display. And if your man puts them out there in front of you and invites someone else to do the job you’re refusing to do, don’t be surprised if things get out of hand.

To my credit, I did not give the guy a blow job. I wanted to, sure, but the worst I did was some playful fondling. Within a few minutes, he had his wife bent over the back of the sofa and was banging away at her anyway, and I was happy to watch while fondling the other husband. She’s a gorgeous woman, and I would have happily gone down on her, too, but she seemed more interested in the other wife in the house. I sat there thinking “how is this better than watching porn? Oh yeah, it’s live. And I’m in it.” Good enough for me. The husband of the nervous wife (who seemed to be really enjoying herself now) motioned me over, and perhaps I ought not to have acquiesced, but I did. I was sitting on the back of the sofa, his tongue in my mouth and his hand going up my skirt, when his wife suddenly panicked.

You can’t play with fire and not expect to get burned. Singed, at the very least. What were they thinking? I know what was going through my mind: you are both here, you both see what’s going on, and unless you say stop, I will go. She said stop, I stopped. “No one touches my man’s dick” she growled as she dragged him from the room to stand outside in the cold while she bitched him out. I sighed and looked at the other couple. “This is what happens when she drinks tequila,” the said, by way of explanation.

Half an hour later, after he’d been bitched out and everyone agreed they were both too drunk to drive home, I offered to drive them. I pulled my car around to pick them up and found she had wandered down the block with him in tow, hissing something about “maybe she’ll give you a blow job” while he tried to shush her and finally got her into the car. It was a very silent, very eerie ride,  with the two of them in the back seat at 4:30 in the morning. I was wound up, disappointed, but oddly not too perturbed by the whole thing. To me, the husband was getting off on a common fantasy of having to women at once, which didn’t bother me. I’m not interested in taking him from her, so why would she freak out like that? But she had confided in me earlier that she was insecure about how many women he’d been with, that he might leave her for someone younger and sexier. Me? I’m neither younger nor sexier than she is, in fact I found her remarkably sensual and attractive, but I respect that insecurity, which I find entirely too common among women. We expect you men to fuck around, yet are surprised when you actually do. Personally, I find that a bit ridiculous, but then again, I live by some oddly twisted morals these days.

Home by 5:30 am, up again by 8:30 am and off to meet a guy I’d found online for a morning hike. It was nice. He was nice. We had a good time, and all I wanted to do, in my sleep-deprived mind, was screw him silly. I didn’t, but apparently he was charmed enough to ask me out for another date, which I accepted. I also found myself thinking that I was not nearly ready to settle into dating again, and I’m already thinking of ways to either fuck the guy and let him go, or not fuck him and gently tell him I’m not interested. It sounds cruel, I know, but I can already tell it won’t last, and it’s not fair to drag things on longer than necessary. I know the type of man I want in my life, and I haven’t met him yet. Eventually I hope to, but not before I get this out of my system.

That is, unless he wants to come along for the ride, in which case, he will be entirely welcome.