“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.

Don’t envy me.

It’s boring to keep saying I have an amazing sex life.

But, I do.

I can’t help it.

I live next door to a young man who has grown exponentially in the almost two years we’ve been dancing inside of each other. He knows the switches to flip, the dials to turn, the words to seethe between gritted teeth.

He’s mastered contrition and acquiescence with a look and a softening of his bones and he’s become fluent in my language of sensitivity and large need.

I was asleep before he came along, walking through a dream. Now I am awake, the breeze slick on my eyeballs, the birds in my ears, the flowers tangled upon my face.

I cannot go back to less than this. I will die. Like I was dead before him.  A hull of a woman.

It scares me, this new Technicolor life I have with him. I don’t want it to go away.  And that in turn terrifies twice over.

Does this mean I make compromises I shouldn’t? That I roll when I should dig?

Should Love be a part of my vocabulary, fill the space around me with its sound and feel? I believe I feel it, but I never hear it.

Does my fear of loss keep me from asking for what I really want?

::

I cried to him the other night while faced with the terrible thought: him or my baby? Of course, there is no question, no hesitation, my baby would win. My child needs me to fight and advocate, to protect. The Neighbor has permission to be a part of our lives only, but he’s not in it. Not yet.

“You need to understand that Peyton is innocent, TN, and I do not appreciate the way you’ve been behaving around my baby the past couple of days.” The tears leaked down my cheeks as I said the sad words. “You will not be welcome here if you can’t be better. That child is everything, my number one priority, and it’s my job to keep it that way. Do you understand me?”

He looked at me silently over the chess board he’d set up for us, shocked.

“Anyone in my life would feel honored to read a bedtime story, but not you. You roll your eyes and run out of the house on an errand and an excuse.” I paused and put my head in my hands again, then lifted my tear-streaked face to his waiting one. “Please, please, tell me I have this all wrong and that you do care for Peyton, that you care for the little heart that’s in that body and that you don’t just ‘endure’ the child.”

As the words left my mouth he jumped to respond.

“God, no! No, not at all!! Hy, I’m so, so sorry if I’ve made you feel that way. I just didn’t want to be around anybody tonight. No one! I didn’t mean to roll my eyes when Peyton was talking to me. Please, you’ve got to understand I’m just in a really terrible mood!”  He sounded sincere.

“Then don’t come over here. Don’t do me any favors. If you’re in that bad of a mood to not see the perfection and love that’s in that little person, then stay away. You’re not welcome.” I said it gently, but with a mother’s righteousness.

He nodded that he understood and I cried some more as I remembered my own stepfather, the eye rolls, the impatience, his lies and deceit. And how little I felt, how useless and empty.

“Or maybe,” TN suggested quickly, “You’re dealing with someone with absolutely zero experience with kids.” He let that hang in the space between us.

“Is that the case?” I sniffled, hopeful. “Really??”

“Yes,” he said earnestly, almost panicked that I might not believe him. Then he seemed to have a sudden idea, that maybe this was going in the wrong direction.

“I like being around Peyton, Hy, but I don’t come over here to play with your kid, I come here to be with you. You know that, right? There’s a difference. ” As if to say, Don’t make this more than it is, Hy. We’re still just “having a good time together.” “But, I do enjoy Peyton’s company. It’s just hard for me sometimes.”

I nodded sadly, but I felt better  I get it.  Little kids are nose-picking, million-question-asking, innocent angels.  It’s a tough combination for the uninitiated. “I’ve never dated anyone while I had a kid before, TN. This is new to me. And you and I have,” I searched for the right words to convey “idiotic”, “an unconventional, non-traditional type of relationship. We’ve never discussed Peyton before in relation to our relationship before. We needed to talk about this.”

He agreed.

“I don’t know what Peyton see’s at my ex’s and with his girlfriend. Am I modeling the wrong kind of relationship by not having certain things??” Namely, the unspoken Love and commitment that TN and I never discuss. “Does it matter? Does our loving, positive, sweet relationship make up for what it’s not??” I let the questions hang and TN said he didn’t know either.

Then he said he was a little hurt that I didn’t seem to see any of his sweetness with my baby. He reminded me about how wonderful he has been over the last year he’s been in our lives. The long talks, the patient playing, the sweet hellos and goodbyes. And it’s all true. He’s always been good to my baby and Peyton loves TN like any little person can.  He’d only been noticeably cranky with my sweet one for two days.

I don’t know what kind of impact he’s having on Peyton in the bigger picture.  Peyton would surely notice an absence if we separated — like when the neighborhood stray cat finally disappears: Where’d Kitty go?  Hmm.  Ooh!  Look at that bug!  La dee da — but my baby would be ok.  It’s my job to ensure that people’s’ departures don’t cause the house to crumble, after all.

We smiled sweetly at each other from our chairs and I giggled my relief, happy we had survived this small tempest.  I felt closer to him.  And then I nearly beat him at chess, my first game ever.

::

Are moments like this a bigger deal than I make them out to be because I don’t want to know that TN, my sweet lover and love, really isn’t a good fit for my life with my baby? Do I make excuses for him?

My amazing sex life — and my easy heart — have me confused.

So, yes, I have a lot of great sex, but I also have a half-cocked heart and a muddled relationship. It’s not all roses for Hyacinth.

When you read about my hot encounters remember I never hear, “I love you, Hy.”  I don’t see love in his eyes, I don’t plan for our future together.  I don’t hold his hand and I don’t even know if I should invite him to my baby’s upcoming birthday party.

::

In the days that followed, it seemed that he made special efforts to connect with Peyton and with me.  My shaky worrying about the state of our affair abated.  Just a little.  I felt lighter, back floating on a little cloud of denial.  Or maybe it’s real happiness.  I honestly can’t tell.

Big, juicy cock, fingers in a cunt, eyes locked in lust, tears slipping into the shells of my ears, blooms of orgasms that opened my soul.  Just the usual bullshit in these parts.

“I’m happy to know you,” I said one night, curled in his nook, tears wet on my face, as my body fell back into place. It was my “I love you.”

He sighed into my hair, maybe he kissed my temple. “I’m happy to know you, too.”

Perhaps it was his “I love you, too.”  I don’t know, but the sex was good.

It’s always good.

Sometimes I hate my body.

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Tick tock.  His heavy hand accidentally marked me.

“You ready?” He stood in my apartment, his gym bag over his shoulder.  I was dressed in my work clothes still.

“Yeah, gimme a sec.”

He followed me back to my room and flopped down on the bed.  Faisal jumped up to purr and meow and twist himself about The Neighbor.  I peeled off my barely opaque white v-neck and my breasts bounced.

“Mmmm,” I heard from the bed.  I flexed my abdomen and tried to push my insecurities away, focus on this man’s approval.  I bent over to roll my skirt down over my hips and sucked in my stomach hoping the swell didn’t pooch out too much.

“That’s right baby, show me those tits.”  He watched me beyond the end of the bed as if I were on stage; I clenched every core muscle I owned and stood up straight and smiled as I reached behind me to unhook my bra, trying to look nonchalant and confident.  His eyes followed my every move as I tried to morph my body into that of a lithe dancer’s: arch my back, pull my shoulders back, face the audience, be lean and beautiful.

I gathered my workout clothes and scrunched up again to thread my legs into my leggings and cringed at how much I must seem the Michelin Man from the side.  I imagined shaking it off, these thoughts invasive and cruel.  Where was this coming from??

TN had stretched out on the bed and begun to absent-mindedly stroke his bulge.  I tucked my breasts into the little shelf of a sports bra and said, “You know, I was about to jerk off when you knocked a minute ago.” I walked around to the side of the bed. ” There’s still time before class starts.”

The ugly voice inside my head was shouting at me, relentless.  I felt awkward in my skin, undeserving, foolish for all of it.  Orgasms can be my reprieve from such thoughts.  TN didn’t spark them when he dropped by, he’d only walked into a snarling ant pit of self-loathing.

“Well, then let’s get going on that,” he replied as he watched me reach for my Hitachi.

I rested my knee on the mattress and planted my foot on the floor, my left arm straight and strong as I pressed the vibrating head to my crotch.  Instantly I was on the magic carpet ride up, up, and up.  TN had a front row seat to my cleavage cradled in white, an expanse of belly which I allowed to be whatever it was going to be — though I hoped it looked flat and muscular — and the swell of my hips encased in transparent Lululemon-like yoga pants.

He moaned a little and kept rubbing.  I kept my eyes latched onto his hand, then I felt his free hand sweetly trace my breasts.  “Is this ok?” he asked.

“Mmmhmm.”

But it lasted only seconds.

Instead he pulled his shorts down and flopped out his erection, big and juicy before me.  His hand began to whir and the sound of fap fap fap deliciously filled my ears.  My ride was spiraling its way to the clouds, my lashes fluttered, I could see him staring at me as if I were a unicorn passing outside his window.

The orgasm shook me and just before it stole my breath I managed to whisper, “I’m gonna cum!” knowing it turned him on more than anything.

He quickly and neatly replaced his cock beneath his layers of clothes and pulled me into his arms.  I hung on to his middle and laughed, waited a minute then pulled my shit together for the gym.

We worked out side by side, muscles bulged, faces red.  I stared at myself in the mirror hating every goddamned music-pumping second of it.  The orgasm relief had been fleeting — as I knew it would be — I was again beating myself down.

Other women in the class were athletic specimens, all narrow hips and beautifully wide shoulders, firm buttocks and roundly muscled arms.  I was…. not.

I caught TN’s icy blue gaze on my cleavage in the mirror more than once, an appreciative gleam in his eyes, but it wasn’t enough to protect me from myself.  Yes, I thought, I have nice tits, but what about the rest of me??  I resigned myself to the Pig-Pen-cloud of low self-esteem and smiled wanly to the other class members as we put our weights away.  I really just wanted to go home and lie down.  Maybe die a little, hide under a rock, whatever.

When I get like this, seized by self-doubt and hate, I undoubtedly make a decision that will support this belief.  That night, it was making Mac n’ Cheese out of a box for dinner — something I rarely eat, but will always make me feel at once comforted and like a complete failure.  I ate 2/3 of the box in bed while watching The Taste, took a shower, and texted TN for our nightly cuddle.  I wanted to skip it altogether, but he’d asked me to text him and so I did.

I lay there anxiously, tired, a pain pill shivering through my veins.  I heard him snap his fingers through my darkened apartment and appear in my doorway.  He removed the kitten, shut the door, turned out the overhead lights and flipped on the closet light for ambiance.

“What’s going on?” I asked, nervous, irritable, feeling like utter and complete shit.

“I’m going to fuck the shit out of you, that’s what.”  He came around the side of the bed and dropped his shorts.  I reached out for his erection and it bobbed hot, thick, and clean in my palm.  I chuckled half-heartedly and rolled away from him, my whiteness stark against the aubergine bedding.

“What are you doing?” he wondered aloud.

“Making you work for it,” I answered.  He growled and pounced on me, wedged my knees apart and slid deep inside my body with one easy stroke.  His clean strawberry dusted body thrust into my own vanilla scented one and we made a warm body dessert out of two naked people.

I clung to his hindquarters with my legs and wrapped my arms around his broad, fuzzy back; he grunted and kissed my neck and collar-bone.  When he sat up to hitch my ankles on his shoulders I refused.  My irritation and discomfort with my body had grown — my belly felt rounder — and suddenly, the fucking routine that went missionary-to-folded-in-half-to-orgasms seemed tired and only stoked my irritation.

I slipped my left leg between his knees and turned on my side.  He held my right leg with his hand and nailed me to the headboard.  I cringed when thoughts of Troy crowded my sad, addled brain — this had been a favorite position of ours.  I quickly rotated again to my belly and I heard the soft smacking of our bodies on my bottom and Troy thankfully exited stage left.

From his new vantage point TN brought his free, lead hand down on my flank.  Three excrutiating times.  I cried out and went rigid, the sting down to my bone, and then I was granted a reprieve when he got a charlie horse and was forced to stop.  We laughed at his misfortune and pulled apart.

I lay next to him and rubbed his massive hamstring chatting easily.  I was waging a stupid little war with myself and decided to let him in on the secret; I felt shy and worried about opening up to him about my self-loathing and odd flash of low self-esteem.

“I feel really bad, TN.  Like out of control.  I don’t like the way I look all of a sudden.  I hate feeling like this.  I feel so stupid and dumb.”

He crooned to me and pulled me into his arms and tried to rationalize my irrational behavior.  “Maybe you think you’re fatter than you are because your tits are so big,” he suggested not unhelpfully.

“Maybe…” I murmured.

“Hy, you’re very sexy and I think you’re extremely beautiful: your tits, your ass, especially your face.”  I flushed at the compliments and with shame for needing to hear the words.

I thanked him and took a deep breath to embolden me to open up more.  “So, there’s something else.”  I heard him hold his breath a little.  “When I’m in this kind of mood — feeling down on myself — what I really want is for you to throw me around.  But,” and his low timbre joined mine perfectly, “I/you don’t know how to let you/me know that’s what I/you want.”

“Right,” I nodded into his chest.

“Well,” he said sitting up quickly.  “Telling me to work for it is kind of perfect.”

He grabbed my wrists and I said quietly, “Work for it,” and held his gaze.

He repositioned himself between my legs and I tried to wriggle away, but he had me pinned.  I was tired, yet thrilled at this little game before he had to leave and before I passed the fuck out under that rock I’d been pining after earlier.

He slammed into me, stroked me from the inside and nuzzled my neck, gripped my wrists like he was hanging over a cliff and I came once then twice with big, round blooms of pleasure.  It was fast and fierce.  Perfect.

He pulled out abruptly and I lay there bathed in light from the closet, my thighs rested on the tops of his as he sat on his heels.  He ran his hands up from my hip bones to my ribcage and across the soft, mostly-flat plane of my belly.  He groaned approval and apologized that he had to go.  I nodded assent and assured him I was ready for him to leave.

He came around the side of the bed and wrapped his hand around my throat, tilted my head back as if to give me mouth-to-mouth and gently suckled my lips, his tongue soft and pliant while his hand gently squeezed — a kiss so unlike his usual hard, punishing, immobilizing goodbyes.  I melted away into those lips of his surrounded by a little sea of scruff.

And just like that, for that magical moment, the cloud lifted and I felt a bright, shiny love on me, my idiocy be damned.  “G’night, Hy,” he said as he left.  “I’ll lock the door behind me.”

“Good night!” I called out after him and then whispered smiling, I love you, as I have begun to do nightly.

The terrible feelings about my body and my looks were there when I awoke the next day and I am still waiting for them to subside.  I have committed to health, not looks, and I refuse to fall victim to the old bully of self-loathing.  I love my body and what it can do; I love my tits, my hips, my little pot belly.  I don’t know where this sucker punch has come from and I don’t know how long it will stay, but I’m going to do my goddamned damnedest to get rid of it.  Fuck it to hell.

I’m hoping lots of cuddles and fucking are just what the PhD ordered.

I send love notes.

underboob, sexy, panties, see-through top

Love notes 1, 2, and 3.

“You look so hot right now,” he said looking down at me from between my calves.  “You’re like a little sex package.”

His cock, buried deep inside of me twitched and then he pushed in deeper.  I gasped and fluttered my eyes up at him.  “I feel more like a sex pretzel,” I replied and pushed back against him from my grip on the headboard.

I couldn’t move.  My ankles rested on his shoulders and his weight pinned my thighs to my breasts which tried to escape over my shoulders.  I was folded in swells of my own flesh and pinned by the muscular density of a man on top of me.

I was in heaven.

::

He came home a couple of hours early Sunday and surprised me by waltzing into my apartment unannounced.  My bed was stripped and under a pile of laundry.  I wasn’t prepared to see him, but my heart jumped when he filled the doorway.

I went to give him a hug, but he suddenly dropped to the floor, looking around under my bed.  “Where’s the kitten?” he asked.  I stood there with my mouth a little open.

My breasts were heavy and free under my white t-shirt and my little pajama shorts clung to my thighs, but there he was.  On the floor.  Looking for the kitten I’d gotten the day he’d left.  Never underestimate a man’s priorities and brain, I told myself.

Mirthful, I smiled.  “Hey!  Come give me a hug!”  There was a gentle reprimand in my voice  — you pay attention to the woman first, not the cat — and I still wobbled on the beam of our relationship happiness.

We hugged and caught up then, a little stilted at first.  He told me of his adventures and I of mine; he apologized for not being in touch, but he thought I knew he had no cell reception.  Quickly, I unzipped the stifling suit of resentment I’d been wearing, butt hurt at the lack of weekend communication, and stepped out into a light breeze of acceptance.  We lay on one another and laughed and touched and sniffed lightly, like two long-separated and friendly dogs now.

He left soon after, exhausted.  He thanked me for the cookies I’d left on his doorstep and gave me a kiss.

Late last night he returned, his hair rumpled from an early-evening nap.  My bed was made, the house spotless this time.  I was in bed watching Mad Men, Peyton slept soundly in the room across the hall, and a candle flickered messily in the corner.  The kitten purred and zipped around at his arrival like an ill-working moped.

The Neighbor is like a magic trick for my day.  He enters a room and my spirits lift, my heart pounds, the birds sing.  Even when I am confused or angry his presence tilts my view from the trash on the ground to the light filtering through the treetops.  Sometimes my fear of losing him and us closes in on me and I have to beat it off with a stick, other times I feel serene at the prospect of setting us both free.  But he was there in my room last night, determined to be with me despite his exhaustion and my heart swelled, and I didn’t think of anything except welcoming him in.

He walked around to his side of the bed and I went and tucked the kitten up under my arm and joined him in the bed.  The kitten, Faisal, was geeked up on the drug that is kittenhood and sped off.  TN took the lack of feline distraction as an opportunity to latch onto my breast with his face.

It wasn’t until that moment that I realized I hadn’t been touched in 5 days.  I’d forgotten myself.  His absence was so gentle, so quiet.  My time was wholly my own and in my own presence, I forgot my own pleasure.  No child, no pseudo-boyfriend to keep me occupied.  I could have spent the entire weekend with my hand lashed to my cunt and the idea never crossed my mind.  Is Hyacinth horny when no man is around to fuck her?  What a thought…

I closed my eyes and reveled in the sandpaper scratch of his face on my skin and pressed into his mouth.  We tangled and grabbed, gripped and rubbed.  Faisal was taken to his room so there would be no stalking of swinging balls.

When TN slid into me I felt like I was myself again: Hyacinth, fuckable, sensuous, wanted, devoured.  When he is in me I feel like I am home.

His grunts were as loud as the squelching of my pussy, his words demanding and unapologetic.  He pinned me down and pounded into me and my g-spot blossomed big and hard and I concentrated on spiraling it out to my fingertips.

I panted and rolled my eyes into the back of my head and he sat up and folded my legs against my chest and pistoned into me like a jack hammer.  I cried out into my arm so as not to awaken my baby.

Soon, he stopped and drooped a little.  “I hurt everywhere!” he cried with a laugh and rolled off and took me with him into his arms.  His first attempt at snowboarding officially thwarted our usual sexual antics.

I smiled into his skin  and retrieved the kitten.  He purred and played with us until we settled down to watch Game of Thrones at which point he decided to attack a tinkling feather on the floor.

I felt two strong emotions laying there in his arms.  Never one to be truly content for long periods of time, my brow furrowed in the darkness as I tried to put my finger on it, this strange sense of unease.  Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.  Quite the opposite, actually.  I was wrapped in his arms and watching — we now suddenly realized — a Spanish version of episode 3 with Portuguese subtitles.  It was hilarious and conventional, all the puppies and rainbows any self-respecting unicorn could shat out.  But my nerves continued to be on edge, scratching at me.

I live in this space of uncertainty.  I realize I yearn for what’s on the other side, yet thrive in the workspace before it.  I constantly have to remind myself that nothing is in my control, I will survive heartache, -break, -demolition.  I’ve done it before, I’ll do it again.

This is how I talk myself down from the ledge of permanence and of needing “answers.”  The “Do you love me?”s, “What are we doing?”s, and “Am I your girlfriend?”s.   I remind myself of my current happiness and how I am merely a sensitive observer of my own life; a willing participant, but nonetheless powerless to bend others to my will.  And I relax a little knowing that I’m living my life the best way I know how.

And, ultimately, what I find most reassuring about his return — above and beyond his beautiful boyish face, his magnificent cock and his big, fat brain — is that I can send him titty pics again.  That was the worst part of the 4 day separation.  I couldn’t send him my uniquely Hyacinth love notes: my boobs, my body, and my smile.

I get fucked for days.

photo

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.