Impulse Control

I adore my new boyfriend, Mr. Esquire.
I really do.
He is a simple man, a guy's guy.
He likes college football and golf.
He listens to what I say, and doesn't ask too many questions to which I would have to provide uncomfortable answers.
He buys me pretty things. He makes sure I eat.
He is handsome, yet insecure enough about it to not be an asshole.
He is, as far as I can tell, very honest.
He is easy to get along with, and liked by the people I introduce him to.

Really, we have next to nothing in common.

I'm none of those things, do none of those things.
I can generally be found whizzing through this life without much thought for consequence (until it's too late).

Which is probably why I recently found myself drunk on wine and high on temptation at the mercy of the restauranteur's hands.
Afterwards, I would tell myself that it was the drink, maybe.
I didn't know what I was doing.
I would mostly have been lying.

Because the truth is, I loved the feel of his hands as they traveled my body - caressing my hair, pushing up my top, taking off my bra, holding my tits firmly in place as he licked and sucked my nipples until they could have cut glass.

(You know how I feel about hands.)

I loved the way he pushed me back onto the ice machine and maneuvered me out of my jeans.
I loved the way he insistently pushed my thighs open, so that he had free access to my dripping slit, from which he drank voraciously, as I squirmed in pleasure over the cold metal of the machine and marble bar.
I loved the way he looked kneeling on the floor, the glow of the monitor casting an eerie green glow over his blond hair as he lost himself in me.
I loved the abandon I felt as I realized that we were probably easily visible in silhouette to anybody passing by.
I loved the palpability of the desire and passion washing over me in waves as I undulated with the flow of his touch, his grasping.
I loved the way he clasped his hand over my pussy and firmly fingered my hole and sucked at my earlobes and neck as I breathlessly told him how I had fantasized about him fucking me.
I loved the feel of his hardness straining against his pants, trying to seek out my waiting wetness.

I felt completely owned, at his mercy, his willing conquest.

"If I'm going to do you, it's going to be light, because I want to see everything," he said, and I let loose with an involuntary frustrated gasp.

I composed myself enough to replace and rearrange my clothing. He never stopped touching me, lips, tongue, and hands everywhere.

He tried to bet me $1000 I would not be able to avoid coming back in for the rest of the year.
I told him it was a stupid bet - I'd rather have the money.
"I'll give you the thousand even if you do come in. I have to see you again before the year's out."

And even though that indicated a shift in power, I still felt completely at his mercy, his willing whore.

I try to avoid thinking about it now, because I feel guilty.
I do adore Mr. Esquire.
But if nothing else, I know myself, too.

I'll be back.
And if the money is offered, I'll probably take that too.

p.s. I finally updated the links list - removed blogs that appear to be (more) abandoned, added some new ones of interested, dusted, lit incense, yougetthepicture.

Small Town

Okay.

You know how sometimes, when you go to a place and you keep running into someone who looks really familiar, but you think there's no way you know this person?

Yeah.
That.

I went out tonight to a place here in town that I hadn't been to in a while (I'm y'know, all straight up and shit since Mr. Esquire came into the fray). I saw a guy I see every time I go in this place, but I knew I knew him from someplace else. Or he looked like someone I knew from someplace else. He looks different now. There are a lot more tattoos, thinner, more mature, hotter, rockabilly mother fucker.

Tonight, he finally asked me, "where do I know you from?" After some serious mulling over of the question at hand, we figured it out.

I named the person I thought connected us, and that was it.

Damn. Now I remember. The last time I saw you, you were on my floor, sucking my toes with your crazy ass foot fetish, and I'm thinking "what the fuck?!"

Now I'm feeling a little odd remembering what is now a virtual stranger in that way. And a little embarrassed I didn't make the connection sooner.
I mean, hello? Toe sucking is an activity generally reserved for the familiar, I should think.

I know I didn't fuck him, so that's good, because that would be really horrible. The not immediately remembering and all.

But if I let him suck my toes, there must have been something, so that's not so good.

I don't know what he remembers, but apparently he either likes his memories, or is using the old familiarity as a new jumping point, because now, he's all smiles, flirtatiousness and friendly.

It's weird.

This town is too small. I have got to move.

I Suck. And Not in a Good Way.

I mean, here I (maybe) titillate you with the prospect of recounted debauchery only to let you down.

I'm sorry, dear reader.

At least I can cop to my transgression, so that's a step in the right direction, no?
In the meantime, the blogosphere has changed. I see maudlin enterprise and/or (more) complete abandon of some of my favored (and linked to) fellow bloggers.

Is there some fascism afoot of which I am not aware?

I hope not.

'cause if there were, then I might feel slightly more standoffish about telling you stuff...

Like since it appears I'm not going to be independently wealthy anytime soon, I've decided to try for dependently wealthy.
Which in my case, generally means making myself available to Mr. Esquire whenever he feels like trying to give it a go. Which is, most days, at least once.
And by "available," I do mean the belly-up kind.
(Except for those times I'm on fours. Although lately, he's gotten crazy and I've actually been on top for a second.)
Also, I have to listen to him, and for feck's sake, feign interest in whatever legal bullshit he's up to his ears in that day. Because the poor punter has nothing more to talk about. It is, at times, downright excruciating.

(ok, for those of you who are thinking right now, "what a bitch!" I assure you that I am already fully aware of that, and really am trying to make the best of it. Lemons to Lemonade, you know.)

It makes me crazy.

Where is the Justice in this world?

I have a very well-off high-profile not bad-looking professional man who bends over backwards to do what he thinks I want, and all I can think about is:
1) how can I use that to my advantage, and
2) when will Junior be back in town, because I'm dying to be fucked like the (not very professional or forward-thinking) whore that I am.

Not Dead Yet

Holy shit!
You're still here...

And surprisingly enough, so am I, it would seem.
Not sure how that happened, but okay.

Thanks for the comments and sentiments - it means loads. When reading the comments left on a sex blog make you tear up, it really does give cause for pause, know what I mean?

I guess I should update.

It's a bit late to do that now, but I can report that sometimes more is just... more.

I had sex six times this weekend (the arrival of an unplanned but well-received crimson tide preventing lucky 7) and still don't feel fucked. Possibly because for the first time in quite some time, all of those six times were actually with the SAME PERSON.

I know.
That's crazy talk.

Oh well.

The scenery was nice, and I got a really fantastic book about plants that I hope will help me to improve the state of my landscaping.

Stay tuned for more details of my salacious weekend and further tales of my ongoing debauchery, because although I've taken a longish type break from sex here in the ether, on the ground, it has continued to be ridiculously down and dirty.

XOXO.

Hole

Do you understand grief?

No, me neither.

But I do now realize that no number of cigarettes smoked, no amount of wine or liquor consumed over convivial times at the bar, no multitudes of men, no amount of cock will fill that hole, cross that divide, deliver me.

Miss you, dad.

What a Fucking Week

It's been awhile since my last post, and even longer since my last juicy one, so to speak. I've been busy, blahblahblah.
I know you want to hear about the goods, so in a nutshell (and for myself as a memory cue, as I have lots of posts brewing about in my twisted little head, but no time to write them yet), here's the sum-up of my week:

Wednesday I went out with an incredibly hot motorcycle "club" member. Dinner, casino, my house. First time on the back of a bike in too long. This man gets a gold star for his pussy-eating skills. Demerits, however, for poor planning. No condoms, so no sex. Safe sex is important! Also, delayed demerits for leaving marks. Tacky! To thank him for the multiple orgasms as a result of his skillful use of tongue, lips, and fingers, I blew him like I was a porn star.

Thursday I fucked my ex-husband, who texted me with a to-the-point "sex please!"
He comes armed with a new script for Viagra and wants to practice using condoms. Gold star for longevity; I'm kind of pissed that he can keep it going for much longer now than he ever could while we were married. Ah well. Better living through chemistry. Demerits for poor condom choice. He broke out of the Magnum about halfway through the deed. Thank goodness I've been using those lately and could tell that we were no longer having safe sex. Safe sex is important! Next time he'll have to buy the double-extra-large size, and then fend off the shopgirls as they proposition him on his way out the door.

Friday I went to dinner with Jose who I haven't seen since his mother came to stay with him a few weeks ago, and who is planning on staying until June (!?). We played some vigorous tonsil hockey, then I had him drop me off at the motel I was staying in for the weekend with my friend (the one who had invited me and my friends to go to Vegas to hang out with him and his friends last month) and his friends. I felt kind of funny about staying out late with him, and sex wasn't happening, so there wasn't much reason to stay out too late.

Drinking games were well underway by the time I returned, and I happily joined in, playing Quarters for the first time since college. Drunken hijinks were next on the agenda, and in a surreal twist that should have been foreseen, I ended up having sex with the friend I love too much to fuck. Which is why I'm calling it "having sex" now. We did that twice. Gold star for pussy-eating and another for being prepared with condoms (apparently _somebody_ thought he might be seeing some action). Safe sex is important! Demerits for being either too drunk or too stoned to come. Poor bastard. Another gold star, though, for gamely attempting to play with me some more, saying "there's no reason why you shouldn't still have fun." I think he was really excited (and surprised) when I told him that I had already had fun. Several times, in fact.

The moral to this story, kids, is: Don't smoke pot! It will make you forget that you already showed him/her a good time and you'll feel compelled to start over even though everybody is already really tired!

This morning (Sunday), we got all hot and bothered and I was excited to try some sober sex to see if we couldn't get that boy off. Demerits for running out of condoms. Gold star for telling me that little fact before I was so turned on I'd fuck the Sonicare.

Junior has been calling a lot recently, so I finally picked him up tonight. I haven't seen him (except once out at a bar by chance) in over a month. He fucked me like a rock star. Two times, just the way I like it - hard and fast. I think I'm going to have some physical support for my decision I made earlier to impose a man moratorium for awhile. He pounded my pussy so hard, I think there's a good chance there will be bruising. Gold star for quick rebound. Demerits for being unprepared for safe sex. Safe sex is important!

Now, he's sleeping in the bedroom, and I'm out here, drinking a glass of wine, listening to the sound of the rain, and telling all of this to you.

Tagged!

I've been tagged by Preheated! It's my first tag and I feel like a real Blogger (tm) now... And maybe like I should send candy, or at the very least, some unagi... ;-)

Without further ado, then, 5 facts about me you wouldn't have known by reading the blog:

1) I used to supplement my income by hustling pool.
Indeed, I found fairly early on that the "but I'm just a girl!" line worked wonders in appropriating easy marks with a willingness to wager.
That, and shots of liquor.
Given my general ability to out-drink most as an old pro (working as a bartender has more than a few perks), it was less like gambling and more like taking candy from a baby.

2) I once was the token non-lesbian among both cast and crew in a short film about a young woman's journey out of the closet.
I played the lead role. The wrap party was.... interesting. To say the least.

3) I hold a Master's degree in one of the social sciences.
I can't begin to tell you how helpful any degree in any social science is in terms of one's ability to maneuver through society and this life. I graduated at the top of my class. I also can't tell you how many times I've heard some variation of "wow, I would never have expected that from you" when talking to a colleague about my personal life. Apparently, I come off looking pretty prissy on the job. (ha!)

4) I am a gourmet cook.
My specialties are East Indian and Mexican. I also love to eat; one only need say the words "there will be wine and cheese" to ensure my attendance at an event.

5) I am heavily tattooed.
Which makes #3 even funnier to me! All of my work (save one piece) has been done by a professional artist who also happens to do tattooing. It is all located in places where I can choose whether or not it shows. I love the pain of the process - it's a release for me.

Whew! That was less painful than I thought it might be.
I wonder if I could convince Lou and/or Peony to respond.... haven't heard from either in a while...