“It’s total perfection.”

hy_striped_tank_jeans

It started out like this.

I’ve become high on love.

I dream about sharing my feelings with him and it’s a long, terrifying jump to crystal blue waters below, that feeling of my breath being stolen on the way down, the slap of wetness beneath my feet, the subsequent rush and rise to the top.

In true 7th grade fashion, I admitted to him that I like him “a whole lot.” You might be rolling your eyes at that, but it was a big deal to me.

And I invited him to spend Thanksgiving with my family on the wings of a prayer and when he said Yes I felt as though I’d won the lottery. I feel blessed, y’all.

But my lips remain sealed. I cannot say the words that boom in my heart. Those three silly little words.

I’m waiting for something. For the universe to tell me I can handle losing him. For that moment when he looks back into my tear-filled blue eyes and says, “But I don’t love you, Hy. This is just a ‘thing’ we’re doing. I’m not going to love you. You knew that.”

When I feel strong enough to weather that, my words will tumble.

But in the meantime, I float along among the clouds anchored by his mighty cock, his sweet gestures, his wise words. He roots me on every professional step I take and supports me as I navigate my tangled and painful relationship with my exhusband. He is my number one fan.

The rest of our lives is business as usual as I keep my secret. I send him a daily pic and sometimes a series if I’m feeling particularly inspired and have the freedom and privacy to do so. The weather is turning here and I recently wore jeans for the first time in months. They were a little loose, but I felt sexy and began to snap away.

Click, click, clickity-click.

I strip-teased my way down to unzipped pants and exposed breasts. He was happy to receive them.

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Striptease.

A day or two later, I dug out my red panties with the peek-a-boo hole tied with a thick, shiny ribbon. I was curious as to what the view was like and twisted and craned my body this way and that to capture a from-behind view.

Click, click, click.

I was pleased and sent those off, too. Again, he was grateful.

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Days changed into nights, cuddles turned into sweet talks, expectations morphed into reality. We tangled our parts less than our hearts. It was sweet, fairy dust; glittery longing with no release.

Finally, finally, we carved out some time to lay down inside one another. Peyton was passed out and The Neighbor was over within seconds of my “all clear” text standing in my candlelit room in black gym shorts. I wore a black spaghetti strap night dress with little sprigs of flowers dusted all over it.

We stood facing each other and he took my hand and pulled me closer, dipped his chin and captured my mouth in a long, sweet song of a kiss. I breathed him in, he inhaled me.

I ran my fingers through his hair and he clung to my bottom and pulled me towards the cradle of his hips. I felt his hardness through the thin cotton of my nightgown; my right strap slipped off my shoulder and I pulled my arm out and let my breast fall out.

We moaned into each other’s mouths and I melted into his warm skin. Every cell of my being sang of love, my pussy pulsed and my breath caught as I realized we were beginning to make love to each other.

He pulled back, breathing heavily, “We haven’t kissed like that in a long time,” he observed.

“No, we haven’t,” I agreed, though I’d argue it was closer to never.

I looked into his eyes shrouded in shadow and then his parted lips and reached forward with my own and sucked gently and slipped my soft tongue to meet his. He removed my remaining strap and I stood only in black, lace panties, then he groaned and bent to free himself from his shorts.

He pushed me down on the bed and dragged my bottom to the edge, licked his palm and rubbed it on the head of his giant erection. He positioned himself at my hole and pressed into me. Nothing happened.

Our eyes locked as we both smiled slyly knowing his first push was always the best, my favorite of favorites.

He pushed harder and I began to spread for him. I gasped a little and smiled more broadly. His mouth mirrored mine and then my eyes fluttered shut as the head entered my body completely and the rest of him eased in as if my body were a hungry constrictor.

He kissed me hungrily as his hips began to move, my body completely lubricated. “You’re not wet at all,” he joked huskily in my ear.

“Nope,” I whispered back with a chuckle, “not at all.”

He kissed my neck and my jaw and sat up and pumped into me, his hands braced on either side of me. Each punishing thrust made my breasts jiggle like bowl-shaped domes of Jell-O.

“Turn over,” he said suddenly. “Flip onto your belly.”

I did as instructed, my feet planted firmly on the ground and he slipped back into me.

“Tell me what you see,” I said thinking of my red-panty pics.

“I see my favorite thing: your beautiful body, your curves, this,” and he ran his hands from my waist to my hips. “It’s total perfection.”

photo 1

I closed my eyes and let him plow into me and light me up from the inside. My heart sparkled in time with my G-spot, our skin slapped and our moans mingled.

We moved up onto the bed completely and he pinned my knees together as he rutted on top of me, grabbed my top-knot bun and growled into my ear and struck my flanks once, twice, three times.

I lost time, wanted to be somewhere else and nowhere else. Then we were spent.

“C’mere,” I heard him as if from far away.

He pulled me into his nook and I lay there feeling more satisfied than I had in days, recalibrated. My thoughts felt like warm honey, my bones willow branches.

“Let’s go out on the balcony,” I suggested. It was in the low 60s, a rarity in September here. We dressed in white robes, him in a long Egyptian-cotton shin-length thing with my name, “Hyacinth,” embroidered on the lapel (a bridal party gift of mine from years ago) and me in a little short white one.

And there, on a balcony chair cushion beneath my knees and the breeze caressing us both, I sucked and loved on his cock, his knees splayed wide and confidently in that way that men do.

It had been weeks since I’d spent any time on him and I was ashamed. I apologized and he told me it wasn’t necessary. I answered with more sucking and smiled around his girth.

Eventually, he called me off, said he’d gotten a little too sensitive. We walked back into my room and shed our robes and laid down beside one another, the ceiling fan puffed gently on us.

The night was still young so I rolled to my side and grabbed the vibrator, flicked it on and pressed it to my bare mound. TN kissed my neck and jaw, sucked on my lips and my nipple. I climbed the rise quickly and as his mouth returned to mine I began to splinter.

He caught my orgasm in his mouth as I whimpered and gasped into him.

I fell limp and he pulled me to him as he rolled onto his back. I surprised him when I grabbed his chubby cock with one hand and turned the vibrator back on while on my side.

It was a swift ride with my ear pressed to his chest as it rose and fell quickly; his cock grew in my hand as my orgasm approached, spilled out onto us and faded away.

In his arms I thanked him for saying all those nice things about me as he was fucking me. He said it was nothing, that he loved the pictures I sent him. “I think it’s especially sexy when there are things left to the imagination.”

“Really?” I said, dancing on the edge of a doze.

“Yeah, like that one in the series you sent me the other day where your pants were unzipped but your bra still on. That was damn sexy, by far my favorite of the bunch.”

I perked up a little at that, proud and pleased in equal measure.

“Well, I’m glad. I try to be sexy and not just raunchy.”

“You do a good job,” he affirmed.

I mumbled something into the warmth of his skin, wrapped in love and kisses and compliments and told him again how much I liked him. He squeezed me and said he had to go soon.

I don’t know if loving him more will make me braver or more afraid, but as I’ve been told recently I need to act like the grown up and share my feelings and I agree. Just a few more nights like this one and I might feel brave enough to try.

hy_TN_favorite_jeans

His favorite.

Pussy trumps cock or I can’t make him cum.

To get The Neighbor to cum I have to do an elaborate dance of tension, pressure, sensuality, and stamina. It is not for the faint of heart. My neck hurts, my arms, my mouth will feel drawn and tight. But I persevere because I love him and I love his cock.

The man may be blessed to have a large cock, but he is blocked. His vice-like grip on himself and his emotions also extends to orgasm when a woman is upon him; neither her mouth or her pussy are always the key. They’re occasional keys.

He laments his troubles, but finds great pleasure in what he gives to me and what I do for him. It’s like an almost-perfect birthday gift. Much like millions of men around the world whose women never orgasm beneath them, I trust him when he says he doesn’t need to cum to enjoy himself. I was that woman for years. I get it.

Not only is giving TN a blowjob a performance, I also have to be in the right mindset to make him cum. The sun and moon and stars are involved every time. And lately, they have been misaligned. I’ve been tired, mildly suffocated, agitated, frustrated, and most recently sad and mourning.

Our relationship is good, but it’s not great. We hover in this purgatory of “everything but…” I have everything but hand-holding in a movie theater. Everything but sweet kisses for no reason. Everything but outings with my baby and my man. Everything but having him be a part of my family.

It’s been weighing on me these past few months and I’ve struggled to stay grateful for the moment and all the “everythings.” But with that comes a fatigue which robs me of my ability to perform. I still slurp and love on him — all the time — but I hold back and don’t slip into that place where I know I can make him cum.

In addition, I become frustrated with him for jerking off before he comes over to see me — typically, his third of the day — so I let that domino topple into the rest and therefore I don’t bother, either. He wants to empty his body of seed? Ok, then I won’t try to draw something out that isn’t there to be had.

The sex continues to be hot as fuck, my love for him is stable, possibly growing, and everything is generally kosher (dare I say boring), I just haven’t felt open enough to go there lately. Until the other night.

He came into my room still warm from his shower and smelling of hibiscus this time. I pulled him down to the mattress and splayed my fingers through his chest hair and purred, hitched my leg up over his and pressed my entire body against him. I found myself in a loving and timeless place. I wanted to try this time. He gives so much to me all the time it hurt to think about how little he’s willing to take from me.

My “I Heart Dave” shirt pulled on my breasts as I crawled down between his legs and spread his knees with my body. His erection bobbed hot and heavy, his sac languished below like a bulbous root.

I cupped him gently and tugged then squeezed his shaft with my free hand. He stretched a little beneath me.

I planted my right hand next to his left hip, gripped him with my left, and gently sucked him into my mouth. Soft. Slow. Long. Deep as I could go.

He sighed and pressed into my face.

I closed my eyes then and moved into my dance. I became him as best as I could, listened to every twitch, moan, and movement he shared. His breath caught once, twice, three times. I stopped after each, caught my breath, focused on ignoring my discomfort after minutes on end of continued loving.

He was fighting himself, I knew. I could feel it swarm around me, this battle to just. let. go.

And I was losing.

I paused then and slithered up to his mouth, kissed the corner of it and offered him a breast, popped out over my neckline. He moaned and suckled and twisted my free breast with his hand and stuffed his face with my other breast.

He switched back and forth between my right and my left, mewling and grunting. I repositioned myself so I straddled him; I felt his cock push at the crotch of my black lace panties.

“No,” I said. “Cock trumps boobs.” I wanted to get back to him, to his beautiful, sad penis. I wanted to win.

He sat up suddenly then pushing me off of him and flipping me over. My knees splayed open around him.

He was resplendent in the candlelight, his naked body light and furry, all bulging muscles.

“No,” he countered. “Pussy trumps cock.” And in one smooth motion he pulled off my panties and rammed himself inside of me.

I sighed as I gave up and let him stroke me slowly, his icy blue eyes locked on my face. I couldn’t meet his gaze. I didn’t know where to look. But he knows me well.

He knows that within seconds I don’t have to worry about where I’ll be looking anymore because my eyes will be closed, my head thrown back, my face flushed and my moans uncontainable.

He smirked at me as he witnessed my passion grow beyond my control and I tossed my head from side to side, clutched at his hips, pushed against the creaky metal bed frame.

“Please,” I gasped. “Please, please, please…” I trailed off into a whimper.

“Please, what?” he grinned devilishly, his hips moved slowly. Painfully, exquisitely.

“Fuck me. Fuck me harder. Now.”

And it was as if my words were like a starter gun. He burst out of the gate and slammed into me, his hooves pounding, flying, my body the turf and I blossomed into orgasm again and again.

My own journey to self-discovery — and opening up the the possibility of being orgasmic — was the key to unlocking my box. His cock and my brain are an unstoppable duo, but I had to be present, there.

And as I lay beneath him being jostled by his pounding into my pussy I thought wistfully that I wished I could give him this, too. This hover-over-your-body sensual, ethereal luxury.

He pinned my wrists on either side of my head and jack-hammered into me. My pussy gushed and I felt my juices trickle down between my bottom cheeks. I hung on like a rag doll jockey and hoped beyond all hope that he would cum. But my hopes were for naught.

Exhausted, he slumped over me and rested. He was done.

We lay entwined and breathed heavily next to one another. We cuddled and I played with his diminishing erection. I asked him if he was ok not cumming. He said of course he was. I don’t ask every time he doesn’t cum, but every so often I do. I suppose I should stop, but I just want him to know I care. I don’t want him to think I’m selfish or indifferent to his pleasure.

I take some comfort in knowing he’s cum more with me than he has with any other woman. I’m also the first woman to ever make him cum from a blowjob (his old Domme swung through town a few weeks after he and I met and she was able to make him cum that night — I can’t help but take credit for it, though. I broke the seal.). He also never came with 4 am girl — or even came close. I take comfort in that, too.

It’s strange to be the one who cums, but I’ll take it. And I’ll keep working on cracking his code. His goddamned riddle wrapped in an enigma inside a conundrum. I want him to feel half as good as he makes me feel and I often tell him as much. If he got even a glimpse of what I feel he’d want to return to that place time and time again. I want his key.

I am not broken.

My tomato red and navy striped sundress swirled about my knees as I followed The Neighbor back to his bedroom, his hand warm and tight on mine. It had been 3 days since we’d been able to touch bare skin, out-of-town friends and wedding obligations having conspired against us.

He pushed me roughly onto his bed. “I think I should take off my shirt,” he said while with one fluid motion he pulled his grey T-shirt over his head. “And of course these, too.” I watched hungrily as he unbuckled brass and brown leather.

His erection sprung free and I growled a little as I grabbed it with both hands, the head neatly available for my mouth.  I tucked it in between my lips and savored its clean taste and warm, smooth head.  He moaned and pressed towards me.

I let my hands slip away to wrap around his thigh with my right hand and the base of his shaft with my left; my face sunk down onto his pole.

I perched on the edge of the bed and the Sunday afternoon light streamed through the slots of the blinds as my neck worked like a strutting rooster.  “I think I should lie down, too,” he said gruffly.

I nestled between his legs, spread his knees apart with my own and fell down onto him.  I moaned and closed my eyes, eternally happy to be lapping at this favorite, magical part of his.  I paused for a second and turned to my right and noticed a mirror propped up on the floor.

I was silhouetted by the window, my breasts swells of light and shadow and my folded knees covered by the dark red fabric.  My arms distended onto something, I couldn’t quite see, but if I peeked just so, I could see the gentle curve of his cock like a dolphin breaking the top of the sea.

“I can see us,” I said and giggled a little.  I moved my hands along his thighs and could still only see my arms moving on something at their ends.  It was arousing to see me and not him, yet feel him so electrically beneath my fingertips.

He moved swiftly then before I could react and snatched up the mirror and gently leaned it above his head against the headboard.  “Now suck my cock,” he said sternly.  I nodded and quickly complied.  “And watch yourself,” he added.  I gave a small shake of my head.  “Do it, Hy,” he insisted.

Reluctantly, I looked up and saw my blue eyes gazing back at me, my mouth stretched wide around the head of his cock.  I quickly closed my eyes, embarrassed to the core.  My jaw looked unhinged, like a snake wrapped around a warm, furry body, and I seemed alien.

“Do it again, Hy.  Don’t be shy.  It’s hot,” he encouraged.

I tried again and giggled and spit around him, pistoned up and down on him hoping to distract him from his intense stare.  It didn’t work.  “Again, Hy.  It’s so fucking hot, oh my god.”  I looked up and saw him looking back at me in the mirror, his neck stretched up exposing a carpet of stubble and vulnerable places.  I contemplated biting his neck for a split second but closed my eyes instead and concentrated on the heat in my mouth.

I sucked and slobbered and listened to his moans for a minute or two.  Without prompting I glanced up once or twice, my cheeks still reddened with embarrassment and lust.  It was naughty.  So, so naughty.

“Do you have panties on?” he asked urgently then.

“Mmmhmm,” I nodded around a suck and pull.

“Pull them aside and c’mere.”  He pulled me up by my shoulders and I straddled him as I moved my black lace panties.

I was sopping wet and he slid in deep and long and without a moment to acclimate to his invasion he began to move, the mirror TN and Hy laid out before me.  “Look at you,” he commanded.  “Look at how fucking hot you are, how beautiful.”

My center tingled and prickled and a wash of heat swept out and up over my shoulders and rolled down to my fingertips.  My breath caught and I whimpered as I watched the woman in the red dress, her large breasts pulled out over her top.  She cried out and pumped on top of a naked man sprinkled with dark body hair, her hands were fists in his chest hair and massaged his lean pectorals.

And again and again and again it washed over her.

So rapidly, white hot, like a slap in the face the g-spot orgasms came and burst down my door.  I begged to stop, yelled out and felt my miscreant tones join the innocence of the chatty birds outside the open window, and again begged to stop.  “Please!  Please!  I can’t!  I’m going to die!”  My dramatic pleas humorous if not also so arousing to him.

He kindly relented and I sobbed half-heartedly with a laugh and slumped over him clutching his shoulders until I finally pressed my body against his, his cock still buried deep inside of me.

“I’m not going to call those ‘things’ any more,” I whispered.  “Those have got to be orgasms.  I’m certain any other woman would call that cumming.”  I panted and tingled.  “That just has to be a g-spot orgasm.”

He gently pushed me off of him and I slumped onto my side.  He curled up behind me naked and warm against my sundress.  I sighed and smiled.  “I’m not broken anymore,” I said.  “I feel like a normal woman!”  I rolled onto my back and he followed me, his face split by a big grin which matched mine.

I don’t know why I haven’t just called them orgasms all this time.  I’ve felt strangely dishonest since they are distinctly different from my Hitatchi-induced climaxes which are body-arching, breath-stealing bastards of pleasure.  These g-spot originating orgasms are more subtle, softer, and a part of a bigger picture.  They aren’t the ending, they’re part of the beginning and middle; they set me off down the river.

Then I said guilelessly, “TN, you just made me cum like a motherfucker.  How awesome is that??”  We laughed and he kissed me and hugged me and pulled me to him, his boyish smile plastered to his face.

“Well, this was a wonderful way to spend a few minutes of the day.”  I agreed and told him I had to get back to home.

We stood and kissed and I felt righted.  When I got back everything was totally alright.   I was a normal woman, the day stretched out bright and long ahead of me, and I had gotten a proper little tumble in with the man who has my heart.

I fantasize about blowjobs and being a good girl.

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Cardigans are my friend.

It was 65 and muggy and the light grey eyes I’d come to expect each morning would soon be on me. I tried to rest nonchalantly against the wall near the bus stop, but felt anything but inconspicuous with a washed-off coffee stain on my shirt and larger-than-fucking-life tits jutting out arrogantly from my cardigan.

All too soon, I saw him walk up.  His comely daughter tagged behind, her nose buried in her phone.  She rides the bus with me and we never speak.  Her father and I typically exchange small talk until the bus arrives; awkward, yet obligated words.  He’s tall, lanky, Irish.  A transplant with silver hair and matching scruff.

I remembered the pic I’d just taken and sent off to The Neighbor with the note “I’m feeling better about my body.  Will you please fuck me tonight?” and stood a little taller.  The past few days I’ve been plagued with self-doubt and body dysmorphic thoughts, felt heavy and saggy.   This kind photo spun me around and opened my eyes.  I knew this married man found me attractive; his furtive, nervous glances couldn’t possibly be anything but guilty approval of my body.   And I wondered what it’d be like to debauch him for no other reason than because I know I could.

I wondered at the sound that would escape his lips, the taste of his warm, turgid flesh.

I imagined a springy nest of hair, a bouquet of clean man, and a tremble beneath my hands as I gripped him back in my apartment, my bus ride skipped and his daughter on her way without my silent presence bouncing nearby.

He would speak softly about how wrong it was, that he shouldn’t be doing this, that his wife hated to suck his cock. Stilted, Irish lilting.  Magical and halting to my ears.

I would smile up at him, his erection dividing my face with its fleshy stripe and he would be lost on a sea of conflict as pleasurably confusing as watching a stallion mount a mare.

Then I would flick the glistening aperture of his cock with my tongue, unafraid of his body’s response to me, and then suck in the head, letting the helmet catch on my lip like a hook.

My eyes would close then as I lost myself to lavishing his cock with attention. My legs would quake, my pussy would pulse and in seconds he would be fumbling for purchase in my silky hair as he cried out and burst wildly into my mouth and his hips bucked against my face.

I’d stand up slowly as he stumbled backwards to a chair and I would follow him, grinning, and slowly close my tingling, cum-coated lips on his.

It would have been years since he’d tasted himself and he would tell me so.

And then, I thought, I would tell N. all about what I’d done. Every lurid, debauched detail and I would hope he approved.

“Good girl, Hy. Good fucking girl,” he would tell me.  And with encouraging words he would hustle me to my bed and convince me to touch myself.  I would look down on my phone at each chime and see pictures of him “applauding” my dissolute behavior by way of his hand bluring the hardon he’d say I’d created. fap fap fap fap fap, Hy! fap fap fap fap fap

I’d imagine the sound it made — much as I’d imagined the Irishman’s exclamations as I unzipped his invisible pants — and then I would grin stupidly that I had pleased him and I would cum hard and cry out; shudder, then still.  Happy to have had the fantasy.  Happy to have a friend with whom to share.

I get fucked for days.

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I bought some hyacinths the other day.

Last weekend I lay wrapped in the cocoon of my lover’s arms. It was Sunday, the last night I had Peyton with me and my babe slept soundly in the room across the hall. With a warm body beneath me and an orgasm or two under my belt I sighed into the wavy love beams emanating from The Neighbor.

“If you’re ever up for it, I’d really like to cross something off my Sexual Bucket List.”

“Mmmhmm,” he said, his hands on my skin traced secret letters.

“Yeah, I’d like to have sex every day for a week.” He looked over at me, intrigued. “I’ve never done that before.”

His answer was immediate, “Ok. Wanna start now? Does tonight count as 1 or 0?”

“Zero!” I laughed back, not quite believing my ears. I never thought my wishful week would start right away. But it did.

Like Heidi on her mountainside I played with my neighbor — the man I love — and floated on meadows of orgasms and drank from ejaculating streams. The sun bore down on me and my sexual heart and we became golden and gleamed together like a setting sun into the ocean. Passersby could see my sparkle from a distance and wondered over the happy little beauty smiling into trees and whispering to butterflies as if she were a winged creature herself.

Each night he came to me, no matter how exhausted we were, and we capped off our labors with a labor of love. Me loving him. Him loving me. Our bodies locked together.

My darker moments were spent in the shadow of disbelief. This couldn’t really be happening to me. I knew how badly he needed to be alone, to recharge. Yet there he was, every night. Day 4, Day 5, Day 6…

This flippant goal of mine to connect with another body every day for a week transformed us like a spell. We weren’t TN and Hy. We were Him and Her, a couple. A real live couple. Geppetto would have cried fat salty tears as he saw our hearts pound together and our breaths mingle into each others’ mouths and organs.

Friday, Day 5, I made dinner for him and my girlfriend — asparagus soup and roasted red-pepper and sun-dried tomato pasta. We laughed and drank and wore my grandmother’s aprons. Downstairs Neighbor soon joined us and the four of us lay on the floor like school children and played The Book of Questions.

Someone asked a question wherein I revealed some of my dusty insecurities at not being slender. “I have never been slim a day of my life,” I explained. “Even when I was my fittest my thighs touched and I looked robust.”

My friends misunderstood me and thought I was feeling badly about my shape; they all leapt to my defense. They told me how beautiful I was, how unbelievably sexy, how shapely I was. TN’s voice was clear and strong when he said, “Hy, you are by the far the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever dated or been with. You’re better looking than Anna, my exgirlfriend, and better looking than 4 am girl.” He turned to our friends and added, “And she kills it in the sack.”

That night he invited me to stay the night and we made sure that my friend and DN could hear us down below. In the morning we awoke to dreadful hangovers and TN triumphantly declared, “See! Staying the night isn’t a thing anymore!!”

Day 6 we donned our running gear and did a fun run 5k. We painted our faces and raced through the crowds laughing and panting. Through the finish line we went and tumbled into a dance party of runners and strobe lights. The room pulsed with music and lights were softened by human steam.

I beamed at him and we kissed, covered in sweat and surrounded by thousands. I was a beacon of unadulterated happiness. I was a real boy.

We drove home and tangled ourselves into each other, scrubbed clean; shiny, happy people living a dream. Too tired for anything vigorous, I suggested he “slip it in and hold still.”

He began to protest until I dropped my voice and told him to listen — really listen — to what he was saying. He giggled at his own absurdity and I felt the helmet of his giant erection butt against my warm, plump skin.

He slipped in and held there. I lay still on my side, his arm on my hip. He moved just a little and I told him not to. He didn’t listen.

He pulled out and slid back in and I felt every millimeter, like a carrot in my hands it felt abrasive, alive and stiff.

He thrust deeply into my core and I gasped and pushed onto on him. With minimal movement we felt each other as though we were on a deep space odyssey; every instrument tuned to the outside, plugged into the inside.

Eight, 10, 12 more thrusts and he stopped, told me to grab my vibrator. Soon, with his magical penis buried deep inside my equally magical cunt, I came like a banshee and quivered down around him.

And as I caught my breath I felt the animal between us alight with passion. He hammered into me with a methodical rhythm, deliberate and punishing, slow.

His breath caught in his throat and 15 seconds later he was crying out and dumping his seed inside of me. Our cumless streak was broken. “We’ll have to resent the calendar with that one,” he chuckled as I rolled over to nestle in his nook.

And on the 7th day, he invited me to his friend’s BBQ. We found ourselves in Stepford playing the “Who do you think is kinky?” game and surreptitiously rubbing each others’ fun parts. I decided the man in his late thirties wearing plaid shorts, flip-flops, and an unbuttoned Polo shirt was a dirty motherfucker. He thought it was the woman in a navy blue Polo dress who had a look in her eye that liked to get naughty.

We both agreed we were likely the only two people there who were so perfectly sexually matched. We were also the only couple there who wasn’t “together.”

We left early to our host’s dismay and I stroked him as his car purred home in the sunshine.

We climbed the stairs and he sneaked inside his apartment and I went to mine. I peeled off my clothes and slipped on a figure-hugging negligee. I felt silly and awkward and all too deliberate.

I wrapped myself like a piece of melted candy in a lemon-drop robe and waited. He waltzed in wrapped in marshmallow white, naked as the day he was born beneath the terrycloth.

We both exclaimed at our little gifts to one another and touched and fondled our treats.

He tugged me back into my room and he told me over and over how hot I was in my lingerie, his cock buried deep inside of me, my heart clearly on my sleeve.

When we were done, we both agreed we were having more fun than anyone else back at the Stepford BBQ.

In all, Day 7 was really Day 8 if we renumbered Day 0 to be 1. It was the most glorious 8 days with any lover/partner/boyfriend/fuckbuddy/whatever of my life. I felt desirable and wanted. Above all else, I felt accepted.

Underneath it all, I was keenly aware that it was a blip on the radar, unsustainable. He was faltering under the strain of daily and/or nightly contact; he needed his space to recoup. But he was a trouper and for that I am eternally grateful. We did something spectacular together.

This wasn’t his first week of continuous sex (his exgirlfriend, Anna, was “a nympho” when they first got together), but it was the first week with him where I got to see his boyfriend side, the side that puts my needs first and who goes out of his way to show how much he cares.

Today, two days after the life raft of sex in a sea of uncertainty, he has retreated and is licking the wounds incurred by contact to such constant, bright sunlight: me. He’s earned it.

I have never been happier with anyone in my life. Not my exhusband, not any old boyfriend. They all professed to love me and they committed their lives to me, yet they all failed to make me feel as special, needed, and desired as this man, The Neighbor, does.

So, I’ve come to terms — again — with my life with him. I will forgo holding hands in return for his acceptance of me . I will give up introducing him as my partner in exchange for the knowledge that he prefers my company above all others’. I will give up waking up in his arms for the dozens of little kindnesses he does for me in a week. And I will let go of hearing I love you because I know in my marrow that he treats me as one treats a love, a true love, and I can live with that.

The “nature of our relationship” is predicated on the idea that it could suddenly end. I am beginning to view this just one of many different approaches to affairs of the heart. Indeed, any relationship can end at a moment’s notice despite proclamations of devotion and loyalty. Perhaps knowing I am borrowing him makes our life together that much sweeter.

I don’t know if I want him in my life long-term, but for now he makes me happier than anyone ever has before and so he has earned a spot in my Today. What Tomorrow holds, I don’t know, but hopefully it’s another 8 days.