Love and interest are fickle friends. For months I was moon-eyed over my young lover. I noticed when his car was home, if his lights were on. I held my breath when his door slammed shut — would my door rattle from his knuckles 2 seconds later?? Seeing his boyish face made my day, hearing his deep, news-broadcaster voice tickled me, and seeing his fit, hair-dusted body made me want to unwrap him like a Christmas present and pounce.
But something has changed.
It is the autumn of my affair with The Neighbor. Spring brought passion and bursts of colors; highs were the only notes on the breeze. Summer was long and arduous — I barely survived the heat of my own emotions, his refusal of me, and our irrefutable chemistry. Today, it is fall. The leaves of my love are turning and will soon waft to the ground like so many dizzying streaks of gold. When winter comes, the blanket of cold will insulate me as I rejuvenate away from him and our strange, misshapen relationship.
I don’t know when or how it happened, but it did. His glorious, meaty cock still haunts me and I admit to lusting after it, but my conquering of it is no longer tied to my heart. If I get to wrap my fingers around hot pinkness, then so be it. If not, oh well. I will live without sex. A piece of Hy dies as I write that.
Saturday night was a dazzling night in our hobbled relationship. As asked, I woke him up in time to get ready. It wasn’t my fault that calling his name and gently shaking him didn’t work and my only option was to slip my hand beneath his puffy white comforter and find his sleeping manhood with my hand. What else should I have done? Honestly.
I stroked him slowly while I watched his face, his eyes covered in the black mask that had come with his bondage kit. His breathing was even and ignorant of my presence. I increased the pressure of my hand and he jerked awake.
“What the hell??”
“Wake up, TN,” I said smiling.
He pulled the mask off and looked at me bleary-eyed. He rolled onto his back so I could get full access to his erection.
“Can you wake me up like this every day?”
“You say that nearly every day.”
“Well, I mean it.”
I ignored him and continued my ministrations.
It wasn’t long before I swung a boot clad leg over his waist and slowly slid down on him, my skirt hiked up to my waist and my ridiculously tacky sequined wolf shirt sparkling in the candlelight. His cock hit me in my throat and I flushed with warmth as I rocked on him. He gripped my waist and I increased my tempo. Tremors skittered across my skin as a climax snaked its way through me.
He reached for my breasts, but pulled his hands back with a laugh when he got nothing but sequins. I laughed, too, and bent over and kissed him just as I released around us both. “I guess I’ll have to take a shower now before the party,” he murmured into my mouth.
“I guess so.”
At the party he was attentive and hovering. He encouraged me to eat off his appetizer plate, refilled my glass, and was sure to be shoulder to shoulder with me whenever another man came within my orbit. I was amused and smiled to myself. Silly Neighbor, I thought, tricks are for kids.
Our chemistry ultimately belied our ruse of easy, close friendship when an old friend of mine cornered him and asked if he and I had ever dated. His “No comment,” clearly an admission of guilt, her smile of satisfaction an admission of her pride of sniffing us out.
Our dance continues, but the song is ending. How many loving, connected conversations can we have? How many tiffs easily repaired? How many mind-blowing sexual encounters? How many tears, hugs, kisses, games, and parries before we admit it will never be more than this?
He thinks we will be friends in 10 years. He thinks we’ll be close friends in 10 years. How do I tell him that it might not happen? That I see no such future between us? That things are winding down?
He came over last night because he was sad. I rubbed his chest, made him laugh, and finally slipped my hand into his shorts to grip his pretty, pretty penis and rub it to a big, full handful. He flipped me on my back and filled me to the brim. The lights were on and I struggled under his steady, smirking gaze as I slowly, embarrassingly lost my shit beneath him.
I drenched my bed and us, climaxed and orgasmed around him, heaved and sobbed little dry sobs and then we talked some more. He was back to being sad and anxious about an upcoming trip home. I told him he’d do great, that he had this. He’d be back before he knew it. He lazily traced lines on my arm with the pads of his fingertips. It was close to 2 am and my yawns came more frequently.
We joked about the sexy pics we’d exchanged lately. The one of him with his fat cock hanging out of his jeans and poking up past his t-shirt-covered belly button and the one where I’m stretched out on my side pulling down my pj shorts. I wanted him to make that his phone wallpaper and vice versa. I’m going to stump for it.
“What do you do with the pics I’ve sent you?” I wondered.
“I keep them all. They’re on my phone,” he paused for a beat then said, “And I appreciate every single one of them. Very, very much.”
Words like those from him are like cool drafts of water on my parched throat. “Well, I’m glad.”
More yawning. More snuggling. More laughing.
Then he realized the time and dressed. I called him over to me before he left, “C’mere. Let me give you a hug.” I stood on my knees on the bed, letting the sheets drop, and held out my arms. He walked into them awkwardly. I kissed him on the cheek and squeezed anyway. This is what friends do, after all: they support and love. “You’re gonna do great. I promise. Good luck.”
He squeezed back and put his other hand gingerly on my hip before he pulled away. “Thanks.”
He walked out of my room and I called out, “Safe travels!!” then, “And thanks for the fuck!”
I heard him laugh as he shut the front door behind him and I snuggled down into bed. The towel covering the epic wet spot pleasantly rough on my bare bottom.
I remember the month of July as the month I couldn’t breathe and food tasted like packing popcorn. I laid nearly comatose every spare second I had in bed watching Cheers in between fleeting hookups and interactions with him and going to work. I knew then that it would pass. I knew it. I’ve been through worse and came out alive, after all, but fucking Christ was it unpleasant.
I had to let myself be a pathetic, sniveling shit for a few weeks in order to move to the next season. I molted. It wasn’t obvious then because I hadn’t fully emerged yet, but I’d like to think it’s more apparent now. I forget about him most days and I check my libido at the door like a good, stoic German woman should. She has better things to do than lead with her pussy all day.
I wonder what the future of this blog will be as I enter this strange limbo of autumn. I am extremely busy — too busy to go hunting — but this is a blog about my dissolute life and I’m not feeling all that dissolute. I’m beginning to feel like now Hyacinth is that best friend I made at summer camp, but I really, really don’t want to see her go. Not just yet.
I still want to be dissolute.