What I’m about to say may come as a surprise to you: Sometimes I get sick of myself. I sound like I’m gloating.
Particularly when I look at my Chronology page. Here I am writing about and documenting nearly every sexual encounter I’ve ever had over the past 3 years* and they’re all all, “Oh my god, it blew my mind! I cried and he was huge and it was A.MAZ.ING!”
I cringe now at the long list, but when I started this blog I really just wanted a way to keep track of everyone I was screwing. Now it just seems self-congratulatory.
But that list, and the content of this site, is deliberate. First of all, it’s all true (yep, go ahead and hate), but second, I can’t write about anything else. Not the other parts of my life or what else happens between The Neighbor and me because I’m trying to not to be the worst person in the world.
So, what does that leave me to write about? Well, honestly, all the really great sex I’m having, and I suspect it’s similar for most sex bloggers out there. Others wrote about this one-dimensionalness recently and it certainly resonated with me.
My new life since leaving my marriage has been documented from day 1 and I don’t want to give it up. The Neighbor was just going to be another notch on my belt. He wasn’t supposed to become a great love, but he has and here we are: he’s my main character in a really steamy romance about two semi-kinky people who can’t get enough.
I protect him and his anonymity by only writing about our sex. Go ahead, lambast me for my contradictions and ongoing betrayal, but don’t worry, I’m my worst critic. I’m president of the Hyacinth is a Deceitful Shit Club.
It just so happens the sex is pretty fucking good. And I like writing about it.
That leads me to this: Does this ever get old for you? Because it totally does for me. Post after post saying basically the same thing: Hy got the bejeezus fucked outta her. She’s in love. She’s really happy. Yay, her. Blah blah blah.
Would it be better if I told you about how every once in a while I get bored with our equation of cuddles + erection + missionary + ankles on shoulders + orgasms + hitachi + more orgasms?
Well, it’s true. Sometimes I do.
The point is, that even though I write about having a shit ton of really amazing sex I can still feel blasé about it, even a little bored. I’m almost eager to tell you this because it makes me feel like less of a gloating asshole.
On the last occasion I was feeling antsy about our sex I mentioned it to him and we both laughed at my ridiculous critique. “All I’m really saying is let’s do more and different positions like we used to!” I suggested.
His response was something along the lines of, “If it’s not broke don’t fix it! But ok, we can mix it up!” I was grateful he wasn’t taking it the wrong way and with a grain of salt. He was sweet enough to take me seriously, but also laugh with me. It’s highly likely I was also slightly hormonal and a little out of my mind.
Then, as if to prove a point, he took his erection, shoved it inside of me with him on top, brought me to the point of boiling over, hoisted my legs up and hitched my ankles on his shoulders and brought me to a couple of swirling orgasms before he then lay on his side, still buried in me, and handed me my Hitachi for a couple more orgasms.
His winning remark when we were done? “Now is that really all that bad??”
I laughed and shook my head, but said, “Yes, yes it was!” instead.
The next night he did me doggy-style and I logged it somewhere on this blog as, “Yet another amazing night of sex, ohemgeeeee!” But I hope you now know it’s only because I won’t write about the other parts of me and I don’t want to bore you with the lame stuff about my ridiculousness.
I’m not bragging or trying to make you feel bad about whatever, I just lucked the fuck out this go around — big time — and I’m a writer who needs to write, so here I am detailing yet another night of the awesome sexy time for all to see.
I promise I’m not really an asshole. I just don’t have anything else I want to write about.