I need a microchip in my brain that gives me an electric shock every time I try to read the fucking comments.
Whenever my female friends and I get drunk enough we end up lying in bed and lavishing compliments on each other as though we’re all going to part for a long time.
Deal with people
A fun day with a delightful curmudgeon of a client. I always think that he and I could be a friends if our circumstances weren’t what they are. He’s a somewhat cold individual with the kind of power in his life that allows him to only deal with people he truly wants to deal with. It must be heavenly.
His questions to me are almost always the same: Who was the last guy you fucked? What did he look like? What did you do? Etc etc. He recently asked me about the first person I fell in love with; it threw me off. How to tell a man you’ve just finished giving a hand job to about the first person you fell in love with who was definitely crazy and arguably abusive while making it sound hot enough to keep him interested instead of accidentally depressing him.
I focused on his appearance- classically handsome- and how we met, which is an act of kismet if there ever was one. We were both travelling in Singapore, waiting around in the same restaurant at dinner time. He approached me after he realized we were both the only fluent English speakers in the building, and he didn’t want to eat alone. Over dinner we realized that we were both on the same flight. Then the same city. We lived maybe a half hour drive from each other. When we went on a date back home I was already besotted with him because, daftly, I loved the idea that we were fated to be together due to our meet-cute. It was a big mistake to think that, as well as to be with him in the first place. But he made me happy, briefly.
T came over last night. It’s been a while. I thought this when I kissed him and then he said it to me, his fist quickly at my mane: “We should catch up more. It’s not right for me to be deprived of this!”. He meant my hair. I laughed, already feeling giddy, that dumb pleasure seeping in.
When he slowly took off my jeans he made a strangled growl and nipped at my hip. I remembered the near painful eroticism of white cotton to men. It’s weird but it’s true. I glanced at us in the mirror on my closet door. He touched his lips to the small of my back. I forgot how he looms over me.
It’s a transitory time for me right now. Things are changing. I’m left wondering what to do with this blog. I like my Tumblr party, but what to do when you no longer have a need for it. I always feel like I’m cruising and not giving it my all. I feel lazy and guilty, like I’m twiddling my thumbs when there’s clearly work to be done.
T was being sweeter than usual. He revels in my promiscuity. “I feel sorry for every man that doesn’t get to fuck you,” he told me. Maybe he felt guilty for not calling me. I’m always the one to suggest hooking up, which feels like I’m annoying him into having sex with me. I was unbuckling him slowly. He made an impatient noise. He couldn’t stop watching my hands.
"I’m sure they’ll get their chance," I said. I like him more when he laughs at my jokes. He grabbed at me, crushing me into the mattress.
"It’s great how slutty you are," he murmured, almost to himself. He wasn’t being sarcastic. If only every man I’ve slept with had that outlook. I wrapped my legs around his waist. He kissed me, then pulled back to watch me. He hadn’t even touched me and I was already wet. I get embarrassed by my reactions to him. I guess I have a little crush. I want to spend lots of time around him and soak him up. Press myself against him until I get lodged in his pores. I love the way he smells.
I might have to move, and that makes me sad. I have lived in this flat for a long time. I’d begun to think of it as mine. I’ve hosted so many fun parties, handfuls of hungover brunches. I’m not sure I’ll ever own property. Not because property is expensive, but because I can’t see myself living in the same area for a sustained amount of time, so why own a home? I move around a lot as it is. I’ve absorbed the mentality that is so often struck upon first generation immigrants: I need to make a name for myself, achieve all the things that my parents never could in a different country. Owning a home is part of that mindset, I think.
A certain client of mine is one of those men who seems to think he deserves a medal for enjoying giving head. As if the act of cunnilingus is so universally reviled that the rare few who look forward to it should be praised as beacons of hope in our society. I sit on his face a lot, which is… awkward. It doesn’t feel good, firstly. And it makes me uncomfortable to have my vulva so close to someones face. It feels like they can scrutinize me and find new flaws when they’re that close. Having someone go down on me feels like a rather intimate thing, too, so it feels wrong to do it with someone I don’t especially like. But I indulge much more than I deny.
T wanted to go down on me, which he’d never directly expressed before. It had just never come up, and I never asked it of him. Sometimes he would kiss me around there, roaming, and I’d clutch his head away gently. Wanting to but not wanting to.
"Please, not that,". I realized I was whispering. He slid up next to me and invited me into the crook of his arm.
"Alright, alright," he replied. We’re the same age- he’s a few months younger than me- but he felt older then. Wiser.
"Sorry. I’m sort of self conscious about how I look down there,"
"Don’t apologize. I still really want to eat your pussy though. I’ve definitely thought about it,". His cock twitched against his abdomen. It made me smile.
"One day," I replied. I want it to happen. I just don’t know when.
Then he wadded me up into a tight ball to fuck me, tugging back on my hair to expose my throat. I couldn’t stop a high bubbly laugh from escaping me. He was going deep enough to make me gasp. My eyes were closed. I felt my cheek on the pillow, his knuckles brushing my scalp. Who knew I could meet someone who I had such great chemistry with, who knew that sex like this was possible for someone like me. That’s what I was thinking, and it made me happy.
Does anyone else sing the chorus to My Humps when they eat something really good, except they replace the humps with lunch? Because that is what I did, alone, eating leftover spaghetti with probably two hundred pounds of garlic and spinach in it. Herb-y and fragrant, even after it was microwaved. Why does anyone bother with pasta that isn’t spaghetti? I rarely eat carbohydrates. It was a big deal for me.
This is a fun game to play, if you’re me: After a bath, scrutinize your body while you put on lotion. Wow, there are so many things wrong with me! Do this until you finally start shivering from the cold, hurriedly put on your clothes, then resolve to never ever take off your clothes ever again.