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?


Teledildonics

Y’allllllllllllllllll.

Technology is amazing, but this is some next level kink.

I get requests occasionally to review products and I just don’t want to go down that road. I don’t want to sell anything here so I send all requests to my spam folder. I never check it, but I was missing an important email and found myself looking through the trash.

Which is where I saw this.

nora

So I bought one, immediately. Nora came in a lovely little box on the day my playmate was coming over. Exxxxxxciting. I sent him the login info and gave him long distance access. What a wonderful thing to be alive in the age of Bluetooth sex toys. whoa

I sort of forgot about it after that, because if it’s one thing I don’t need when he’s in my sheets, it’s a vibrator. Remember that amazing erection your high school boyfriend had, that you took for granted? If anything will get me back to church, it’s all the thanks I give to God for the stainless steel he shares with me.

The highlight reel has my subconscious on edge and I’m biting my lip to keep from begging him for more, when the idea hits…

J- Hey… go log in.

He may be at work, watching football, out fishing with the guys,  but with a few clicks, he has full control and I’m struggling to text him back because every time he texts me through the app, Nora bestows another orgasm upon me.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph… he’s even satisfying, remotely. Also, this may be the best money I’ve ever spent.

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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.