Coming Back
This is a repost from my sex blog. I don't have time to do another one:
'I've decided to re-open all of my blogs and let the sunshine back in.
In April, I broke up with my husband of 7 years (on-and-off-and-on-again). He was pretty much my one and only perpetual antagonist of my 20's, our love full of tumult and divinity until we finally settled down and moved in together about 4 years ago. It was so shocking when we finally made it to calm, stable waters and we were living happily ever after with a cat and dog and things were going swimmingly. It was the relationship I had always dreamed of. I wanted no more than for him to realize that he was my "one" and I his. It happened, we built a house together, and then I lost myself somehow.
As aforementioned, I have this "soft spot" for gentler sex. Sex that is more emotional lust than physical, that soothes the soul and excites the mind. Naturally, the second I broke up with the hubby, the sex was profoundly different (read: better). The suffering and loss we were about to endure weighed heavy on our minds and hearts and we took to the bed several times, giving all we had left to each other, in the form of the beast with two backs.
This is not to say that the hubby still fucked me almost violently. One of the things that I love about him is that he's a man's man kind of man and fucks like one too, but the softness and the romance were never in his arsenal of seduction.
When I moved out, I was free. I was new. I was THIRTY. My twenties were spent under the guise of house slash trophy husband - in a proverbial intergenerational, interracial, homosexual relationship.
Why did it end, you ask? There are too many "reasons". Mostly due to my doubt of the everlasting. Much of what we had was too good to be true. A lot of it was things getting stale. The sex wasn't exactly working. My heart started to roam a little bit. I have a horrible time communicating. I wanted more. I didn't have enough time to commit fully, the way I wanted to. And I'm selfish.
A few weeks went by and I was plagued with guilt for having made the decision and being totally happy with it. Naturally, one of the first things I did was I banged my ex boyfriend. The fireman one who gave me everything I wanted and more and yet still it was never enough for me. I ended our breakup with "Do you have any questions?" as if he was an employee I had to let go (I must say, it felt like that). Poor thing. But of course, he was happy to hear from me and knew exactly what the phone call meant and he came over, with his tall, burly self and his pierced dick, and gave me a mediocre shag. Notably, he had trouble keeping it up, something that was never a problem before, but I gathered that his head was way too much into it. I am the best thing to ever happen to him after all.
I tried one more time with him, one night after work, drunk, vulnerable and horny. Again, it wasn't as good as I remembered it being when we were together. The funny thing is, when we were dating (in between one of the hubby hiatuses) the sex was the best part and the relationship was ass. He was the first and last guy whom I had sex with several times in one day. He's a big guy, so we were able to come up with all sorts of positions and he did whatever I wanted and threw me around and picked me up. The possibilities were endless. But alas, emotions got in the way and I had to stop returning his calls.
The next post-divorce lay came from a not-so-unexpected source, the internets, but in the form of a not-so-expected man of Colombian decent. I don't usually date anyone who doesn't have an Anglo-Saxon background, who isn't hairy, big and balding. This man was neither of these things. He had an accent, dark(er) skin, could speak several languages and had an uncut cock (another thing I try to avoid). He was extremely passionate and well versed in the ways of the sex. I was impressed by how he handled the situation and needed very little foreplay before he was auspiciously hammering his thick prick into me, slowly then like a jack rabbit, then taking it out to breathe and shoving it back in all the way to that spot that makes me wince and smile all at once. He was good. Problem was, he was in an open relationship and it got messy and we did it one more time and now we don't talk anymore.
Since right before the breakup, I acquired another job working at a gay restaurbar. The worst and best thing about working there is that there are a lot of reunions. I have been running into men I fucked 7-10-12 years ago. I've had some wonderful rendevous and some horrible mortifying moments. Is my spell check still on???
Needless to say, I have hooked up with one or two, but I haven't been doling out sex regularly. Actually, I've just been making out with guys and trying to keep the sexual partner number as low as possible. The last thing I want/need right now is a boyfriend or a social disease. I just don't have time for either.
The problem is, working at a gay bar is extremely difficult (especially on Fridays and Sundays) because everyone is so drunk and horny and cruisy. Unfortunately, a lot of the men come in there and treat the staff as though they work at Studio 54. It can be fun or funny sometimes, but it's never the right ones that hit on you. They have no qualms about sticking their hands down the back of your pants, starring at your crotch while you recite the specials or unbuttoning your shirt while explaining that you'll "get better tips this way". It's all so offensive and flattering to be objectified in such overt ways. Some days I can't stand it though.
Sometimes I slip up from all the absorbed sexual energy and I'll spend hours masturbating to free internet porn or I'll go online cruising for sex. Mostly, I just keep it to myself and I don't hookup, but every since I've been "free" it seems as though I'm living my single life all over again, the one I had forgot about. The one where I'm constantly cruised and prodded and accosted for sex (no strings attached of course). Thrice this week I have made out guys who stopped kissing me after they really got into it for fear of intimacy. Perhaps I'm just too good of a kisser? I've gotten pulled over by a hot motorcycle man demanding that I "hop on the back" but I had to go to work. I have a top drawer full of phone numbers left in check presenters at the restaurbar. And I'm far from satisfied.
And then it happened.
The hubby and I have been sending late night (read: drunk) text messages to each other, reminding each other of how badly we miss the sex. Funny how we want it most when we don't/can't have it anymore. Last night, I oblidged and I went over his house. It wasn't an arranged booty call, we were just going to hang out, and we did, and it was lovely albiet bittersweet. I couldn't help but feel regret for all the family stuff I left behind, that I threw out the window. The kind of relationship people spend their whole lives looking for, I just spit out and threw away.
He very matter-of-factly broached the topic of sex and I was speechless. He asked "You would rather just throw down, right?" And I shook my head yes. I didn't understand the need for discussion or making sure it was okay. That was what got us in this mess in the first place. My mind was flooded with flashbacks of when he would just grab me and kiss me and molest me because he couldn't take it any longer : not devouring me. He showered as I tried my hardest not to look through his things to find evidence of "another woman" but I caught myself, realizing, he's not mine anymore. I took me away from him, he can do whatever he wants. This is how it's going to be.
He got into bed and looked at me, faminshed, so hungry for my sex. We kissed. His skill remained and still his passion waned although it seemed as though he had wanted this for a long time. I tried not to drift off to that dark place I have gone so many times before. I was surprised he didn't wear his cockring, something he enjoyed doing to make his wang thicker, bigger, harder...I guess he was trying to prove to me how much I turned him on, and proveth he didith.
He caught himself a few times, his innate desire to push my head into the pillow, to grab me and contort me into different positions, to push and pull at me. He did choke me while we did it doggie style. I liked it and submitted to this, for as little as it lasted. I'm not a total prude after all. When I looked back at him, each time, he came down and kissed me, they were nice, sweet, deep, short kisses, but he tried, compromised even. We did several positions, even cranked out a new one. One of the things I loved about being with him is that we came up with at least one new position a month. When I got on top, I couldn't contain myself any longer...watching him watching me bounce up and down on his thick prick, his eyes gazing ravenously as he slid inside of me over and over again, the sounds of the bed squeeking making the neighbors jealous and outraged, the noises of slick lube and wet sweat, the sight of his muscles pulsing, the smell of lust. I exploded all over his chest as he demanded I give him my load. I came so violently that my asshole practically vomitted his cock out of me and he desperately tried to stick it back it, to no avail, it was too late: my insides were expanding and contracting so hard there was no room for anymore of his big dick. It was as futile as trying to jump into a super fast double-dutch. Then, I layed next to him and engaged in nipple play until he came hot thick come all over his hands, up my back and left arm and almost in my left eye.
It wasn't that awkward afterwards, but it was. I tried to act like this is what I wanted. But it wasn't. I will always want more. Even if it is already perfect. We shall see what comes of this."
'I've decided to re-open all of my blogs and let the sunshine back in.
In April, I broke up with my husband of 7 years (on-and-off-and-on-again). He was pretty much my one and only perpetual antagonist of my 20's, our love full of tumult and divinity until we finally settled down and moved in together about 4 years ago. It was so shocking when we finally made it to calm, stable waters and we were living happily ever after with a cat and dog and things were going swimmingly. It was the relationship I had always dreamed of. I wanted no more than for him to realize that he was my "one" and I his. It happened, we built a house together, and then I lost myself somehow.
As aforementioned, I have this "soft spot" for gentler sex. Sex that is more emotional lust than physical, that soothes the soul and excites the mind. Naturally, the second I broke up with the hubby, the sex was profoundly different (read: better). The suffering and loss we were about to endure weighed heavy on our minds and hearts and we took to the bed several times, giving all we had left to each other, in the form of the beast with two backs.
This is not to say that the hubby still fucked me almost violently. One of the things that I love about him is that he's a man's man kind of man and fucks like one too, but the softness and the romance were never in his arsenal of seduction.
When I moved out, I was free. I was new. I was THIRTY. My twenties were spent under the guise of house slash trophy husband - in a proverbial intergenerational, interracial, homosexual relationship.
Why did it end, you ask? There are too many "reasons". Mostly due to my doubt of the everlasting. Much of what we had was too good to be true. A lot of it was things getting stale. The sex wasn't exactly working. My heart started to roam a little bit. I have a horrible time communicating. I wanted more. I didn't have enough time to commit fully, the way I wanted to. And I'm selfish.
A few weeks went by and I was plagued with guilt for having made the decision and being totally happy with it. Naturally, one of the first things I did was I banged my ex boyfriend. The fireman one who gave me everything I wanted and more and yet still it was never enough for me. I ended our breakup with "Do you have any questions?" as if he was an employee I had to let go (I must say, it felt like that). Poor thing. But of course, he was happy to hear from me and knew exactly what the phone call meant and he came over, with his tall, burly self and his pierced dick, and gave me a mediocre shag. Notably, he had trouble keeping it up, something that was never a problem before, but I gathered that his head was way too much into it. I am the best thing to ever happen to him after all.
I tried one more time with him, one night after work, drunk, vulnerable and horny. Again, it wasn't as good as I remembered it being when we were together. The funny thing is, when we were dating (in between one of the hubby hiatuses) the sex was the best part and the relationship was ass. He was the first and last guy whom I had sex with several times in one day. He's a big guy, so we were able to come up with all sorts of positions and he did whatever I wanted and threw me around and picked me up. The possibilities were endless. But alas, emotions got in the way and I had to stop returning his calls.
The next post-divorce lay came from a not-so-unexpected source, the internets, but in the form of a not-so-expected man of Colombian decent. I don't usually date anyone who doesn't have an Anglo-Saxon background, who isn't hairy, big and balding. This man was neither of these things. He had an accent, dark(er) skin, could speak several languages and had an uncut cock (another thing I try to avoid). He was extremely passionate and well versed in the ways of the sex. I was impressed by how he handled the situation and needed very little foreplay before he was auspiciously hammering his thick prick into me, slowly then like a jack rabbit, then taking it out to breathe and shoving it back in all the way to that spot that makes me wince and smile all at once. He was good. Problem was, he was in an open relationship and it got messy and we did it one more time and now we don't talk anymore.
Since right before the breakup, I acquired another job working at a gay restaurbar. The worst and best thing about working there is that there are a lot of reunions. I have been running into men I fucked 7-10-12 years ago. I've had some wonderful rendevous and some horrible mortifying moments. Is my spell check still on???
Needless to say, I have hooked up with one or two, but I haven't been doling out sex regularly. Actually, I've just been making out with guys and trying to keep the sexual partner number as low as possible. The last thing I want/need right now is a boyfriend or a social disease. I just don't have time for either.
The problem is, working at a gay bar is extremely difficult (especially on Fridays and Sundays) because everyone is so drunk and horny and cruisy. Unfortunately, a lot of the men come in there and treat the staff as though they work at Studio 54. It can be fun or funny sometimes, but it's never the right ones that hit on you. They have no qualms about sticking their hands down the back of your pants, starring at your crotch while you recite the specials or unbuttoning your shirt while explaining that you'll "get better tips this way". It's all so offensive and flattering to be objectified in such overt ways. Some days I can't stand it though.
Sometimes I slip up from all the absorbed sexual energy and I'll spend hours masturbating to free internet porn or I'll go online cruising for sex. Mostly, I just keep it to myself and I don't hookup, but every since I've been "free" it seems as though I'm living my single life all over again, the one I had forgot about. The one where I'm constantly cruised and prodded and accosted for sex (no strings attached of course). Thrice this week I have made out guys who stopped kissing me after they really got into it for fear of intimacy. Perhaps I'm just too good of a kisser? I've gotten pulled over by a hot motorcycle man demanding that I "hop on the back" but I had to go to work. I have a top drawer full of phone numbers left in check presenters at the restaurbar. And I'm far from satisfied.
And then it happened.
The hubby and I have been sending late night (read: drunk) text messages to each other, reminding each other of how badly we miss the sex. Funny how we want it most when we don't/can't have it anymore. Last night, I oblidged and I went over his house. It wasn't an arranged booty call, we were just going to hang out, and we did, and it was lovely albiet bittersweet. I couldn't help but feel regret for all the family stuff I left behind, that I threw out the window. The kind of relationship people spend their whole lives looking for, I just spit out and threw away.
He very matter-of-factly broached the topic of sex and I was speechless. He asked "You would rather just throw down, right?" And I shook my head yes. I didn't understand the need for discussion or making sure it was okay. That was what got us in this mess in the first place. My mind was flooded with flashbacks of when he would just grab me and kiss me and molest me because he couldn't take it any longer : not devouring me. He showered as I tried my hardest not to look through his things to find evidence of "another woman" but I caught myself, realizing, he's not mine anymore. I took me away from him, he can do whatever he wants. This is how it's going to be.
He got into bed and looked at me, faminshed, so hungry for my sex. We kissed. His skill remained and still his passion waned although it seemed as though he had wanted this for a long time. I tried not to drift off to that dark place I have gone so many times before. I was surprised he didn't wear his cockring, something he enjoyed doing to make his wang thicker, bigger, harder...I guess he was trying to prove to me how much I turned him on, and proveth he didith.
He caught himself a few times, his innate desire to push my head into the pillow, to grab me and contort me into different positions, to push and pull at me. He did choke me while we did it doggie style. I liked it and submitted to this, for as little as it lasted. I'm not a total prude after all. When I looked back at him, each time, he came down and kissed me, they were nice, sweet, deep, short kisses, but he tried, compromised even. We did several positions, even cranked out a new one. One of the things I loved about being with him is that we came up with at least one new position a month. When I got on top, I couldn't contain myself any longer...watching him watching me bounce up and down on his thick prick, his eyes gazing ravenously as he slid inside of me over and over again, the sounds of the bed squeeking making the neighbors jealous and outraged, the noises of slick lube and wet sweat, the sight of his muscles pulsing, the smell of lust. I exploded all over his chest as he demanded I give him my load. I came so violently that my asshole practically vomitted his cock out of me and he desperately tried to stick it back it, to no avail, it was too late: my insides were expanding and contracting so hard there was no room for anymore of his big dick. It was as futile as trying to jump into a super fast double-dutch. Then, I layed next to him and engaged in nipple play until he came hot thick come all over his hands, up my back and left arm and almost in my left eye.
It wasn't that awkward afterwards, but it was. I tried to act like this is what I wanted. But it wasn't. I will always want more. Even if it is already perfect. We shall see what comes of this."