Second first date.

His text messages are scintillating. I’m at a complete loss, living with flushed cheeks and a smile I can barely contain. I am in so much trouble.

This is a call for an intervention. I am in wayyyyyy over my head. I’ve realized a whole lot in in the last week. I dated him casually eight years ago, but I’ve patterned A LOT around him, since.

  • That spelling penchant of mine? We know where that came from, now. I’ve learned two new words this week and have had to adjust to being in a constant state of arousal.
  • My predilection for menswear? Shit. Also here. I am barely clinging to my self control as he sends me a pic on his way to work. Dear God. I should write some of the ideas that he’s inspiring, down.
  • Library dates. Nobody has ever come close to comparing to the one he showed me.
  • Strip club dates, be still my heart. I became something of a legend when I took him for the first time. I may have capitalized on this one a few (dozen) times since then. It’s never been as fun as when I took him.
  • Rough sex. This is where all my behind-closed-door favorites, originated.

H- I always wanted to please a woman until she screamed.

J- I volunteer as tribute.

H- Do you mind if I try a few things I’ve always fantasized about?

J- Nooooo….Do I need a safe word?

H- I don’t think so? Just talk to me. I really like stealing the words out of your mouth with pleasure.

  • The good Daddy vice. I’m only attracted to the good ones, and he is THE BEST. Every date was always contingent on the little’s being safe, sound and out of earshot.

So.

Three more months of his self-inflicted celibacy while drowning in the intoxicating details of a man whose left me smiling and picking out men who reminded me of him, since. I feel like I’m in high school again, with his texts whistling at me to test my resolve even further.

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Doomed. I. AM. DOOMED. My walking Achilles is free balling it in court today on my behalf and I’m biting a hole in my lip just thinking about it. I’ve never been jealous of criminals before. This man. This incredibly intoxicating muse of mine is tying me in little bitty knots… and there’s a whole lot more of that to come.

I’ve been trying to think of a safe first date. Not dinner. NO MOVIE. No car rides, no dark rooms, no dancing.

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Shopping.

What could possibly go wrong?

🙂

 

Dangerous

I’m in new territory. I’m not on my A game and I am flailing a little. It’s more than a little embarrassing. My i’s are not dotted. My t’s are not crossed.

I have been spelled into submission and I am flagrantly risking my hard-won freedom whilst I tie myself into aprons and slip into heels with the raw anticipation of seeing him for the first time in 8 years. I am woefully predictable when it comes to certain vices and he’s a walking list.

In a tie even, be still my heart.

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He’s driving to work and voice texting me from his car. Apologizing for his grammar and punctuation. I’m so turned on that I feel flushed. This is the guy who created my penchant for smart men. Not just smart though… smarter than me. Eeeeek.

I text Miss Fancy the same screenshot.

J- I’m in danger. Humongous danger.

She agrees.

F- You’re in trouble.

He sends me his playlist and I love what he listens to. He wears a tie every day, y’all. Every DAY. He doesn’t love it, but I can work with that. I am nothing if not inspirational when inspired.

I’ve ghosted a few dozen men and deleted my Tinder account.

The poor pilot. He will not stop texting me. I’ve been sending him a few here and there because I can empathize with how much worse the silence is than disinterest, but I think maybe it might be easier if I just full Casper.

There is one factor…

He’s celibate. He took a year off and when my eyebrows bounced to my hairline, he laughed and quickly invited me to have sex with other people. Again. Instant shocked eyebrow face lift.

D- Is that a deal breaker?  I understand if it is. I’ve been in an open relationship for years and don’t have any problem with you having sex, but I’m not right now.

Chaste dates with a man that embodies nearly every last vice and craving, I possess?

What am I getting myself into?

All Hail The King.

Too many hours into his day, he showed up looking every bit the wet dream he is. I am incredibly tempted to strip my clothes off at the door, pull his work shirt on and ruin it for him permanently. Not because I want to be possessive, but because I want him to think of it every morning that he gets dressed for work.

We’re at that level of Good-God-Get-Naked inspiration.

In true fashion, I cooked. I dug potatoes. Miss Lovely called and asked right away:

L- “Mmmm what did you cook?

I’m ridiculously domestic, and when you satisfy me, I feed you. I suppose it’s my Mormon roots rearing their subservient head. At any rate, I cooked it all… and we didn’t touch a single thing. I didn’t eat so much as one slice of the tomatoes I’ve been waiting for since February. He’s the meal I’ve been craving, the vitamin I’m deficient in and the best friend a girl could ask for.

He’s the Viceroy of Vulva. Lord of the Labia. King of the Clitoris.

Mr. So Fucking Good I Can’t Think Straight.

I was on the phone with my darling Lovely as I ran around the house in breathless anticipation.

L-“Well I hope you have a wonderful time tonight”

I choked on the beer I was drinking and laughed.

J- “I’m more concerned about where I can find a wheelchair, tomorrow.”

I guess I should feel a little guilty about the situation. I’m incinerating some pretty enormous cardinal rules I’ve always held… but.

This adorably funny man is my animated sex toy. My wish? His command. He’s where I want him and how I want him, for as long as my hungry body desires. I don’t know how he does it, I’m just grateful to be on the receiving end of such titanic inspiration.

K- Where do you want me?

Y’all. Is this real life? I’m torn between tying him to my bed and tossing him the rope. Realizing now why they sell those Clone a willy kits   because I’ve seen the promised land in this penis. He should be mass produced and widely distributed. We can all remember our favorite orgasm and after last night, I have a new favorite. Bless him.

I took my first night off in 5 years and am shaking like a car on bad gas this morning. My silky smooth, freshly waxed thighs were every bit the kryptonite I knew they’d be… but I’m afraid I was their ultimate victim.

A short run this morning nearly killed me, squats are completely out of the question and my 8 pound weights feel like 20. Pale blue fingerprint bruises map out the path he burned across my body last night and I can’t help but blush at a few of the flashbacks.

God bless Mr. Incredicock

and God save the satisfied Queen.

Also, does anyone have a wheelchair I could borrow?

…indefinitely?

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Mr. Incredicock

I believe in giving credit where credit is due. This outrageous temptation turned out to be the most fabulous idea and I look smug today because it has been years since I’ve been so satisfied. I’m pretty sure my eyes are a lighter shade of green and I feel muscles in my spine I didn’t know existed.

I’m an erectile dysfunction survivor.  I’m a nice girl, so I’ve always made the most of a difficult situation but it just sucks. I’ll be blunt; in my experience the closer they get to 40, the softer their dick.

I wish there were a way to sugar coat it, but I’ve had to try to swallow that soft, disappointing noodle, too many times and for the record, making him feel better about it gets really old, really fast. It’s his job to handle things on his end and if he doesn’t?

Peace out of that party, girlfriend..because good Lord in the morning…

You are missing out on some earth-shattering orgasms. I sure was. My favorite new superhero had to listen to me scream again and again all night.  I lost count at 8 and that was early.  God love him, he’s probably half-deaf today because I had no idea that titanium dick existed.

It does exist… and every woman needs one. Post haste.

Women go through all sorts of invasive shit in order to have safe sex. The least men can do is come prepared for battle. I feel bad for any man struggling with getting or keeping it up, but there are all sorts of solutions and it shouldn’t be our job to handle that end of things.

I felt like I was drowning in a sea of semi flaccid dick, when a functioning one showed up to remind me that not all men are created equal.

I feel like sewing him a goddamn cape.

good

Drunk Text Gold

I can’t speak for men… but I can say with absolute confidence that every woman loves a drunk text from the man she craves. I don’t care how tired we are, or how little we’ve slept all week… when that sound comes chiming in, it’s a damn fine day. 3 AM be damned, you are awake AND excited.

My beloved daughter had her wisdom teeth out this week, so I’ve been up late hovering or worrying (or both). I fell into bed early last night with a book, my knitting, my list of seeds planted this year and my journal. Tons of ambition and zero energy.  I’ve been listening to a new podcast lately and it was playing on my phone beside my pillow when I fell asleep.

At around 2 am… I heard my favorite sound my phone makes.

P- Hello…

I went from being dead asleep to smiling and awake in 1.2 seconds. When he’s drunk and inspired he’s spicy-sweet with no brakes. The polite gentleman that I do my best to tastefully flirt with becomes my favorite naughty plaything after a few drinks and I am absolutely willing to miss a little sleep when he’s inspired.

Even if he is a few thousand miles away.

It’s the most pleasant break from the ordinary chaos of my day to day and it sure doesn’t suck when the apology text comes rolling in the next morning either…because everyone should be woken up with a whistle on occasion, right?

Let alone twice.

Escaping The Friend Zone

In my defense… I knew it was a dangerous idea from the moment I heard he was coming to town. He’s been my favorite vice for years, and I’ve known for a long time that this could only end badly.  Just like last time, logic doesn’t slow me down. I gave up worrying about the how’s and why’s of it a long time ago.

What could possibly go wrong?

I could end up even deeper, with a need that can’t be easily satisfied. That’s what.

I made an educated decision to ignore the little nagging voice in the back of my mind,  shaking my head at myself because I know what happens when I ignore her. Too busy fantasizing about him while I shaved, waxed, spray tanned and tried not to bite my nervous red lips, raw.

Some things never change. The first sight of him and his beautiful smile,  the cologne that ties my stomach in knots. Sigh…I’m an adult, not a saint and I silently begged my body to obey the situation and B R E A T H E . . . but.

It’s Him. That same Him. It’s new because it’s been a while… but it’s not new. It’s a familiar sort of perfect that gives me the same butterflies I had at 14.

I’ve learned a lot about perfect in the past five years. Besides the fact that it doesn’t exist, I’ve learned that I had unreal expectations for some of the men I’ve named.  Being labeled as perfect sounds horrible to me. What an overwhelming burden to maintain. However… he just is. Sweetly sexy in a way so primal that I feel like I need to go to Mass this morning to apologize for the sexual acrobatics my subconscious mind has him performing.

He makes me want to listen to slutty hip hop, inspires the most intense workouts and loathe my empty bed in ways I never imagined possible.

 

People tend to live up to their labels and I’ve been known to saddle a man with his worst vice. He’s an exception to every rule I have, which is absolutely fantastic and completely refreshing. Never mind the torturous sleepless nights that have resulted in my ignoring what I already knew would be a horrible hangover.

Just as quickly as he was here, he’s gone again and it’s a new sort of suffering I haven’t even considered for the past 5 years. Weeding isn’t helping, I’m too distracted to knit and I wake up to dreams about him in my sheets. I resent my kitchen utensils because they remind me of him, so the poor whisk has been sent to the pantry until I can look at it without wanting to hop on a plane. I have to just grin and bear it with the spatula.

I am at my breaking point, when I hear a text from him come in… and I’m freshly addicted and grinning like the latest Publisher’s Clearinghouse winner.

Platonic chats about cheese never felt so scintillating because I want just one thing.