Apr 302016
 

Z is for Zilches, for my A to Z Challenge. Zilches mean: a quantity of no importance. This was written two months ago. 

“I want us to work, I’m willing to do whatever it takes. Tell me how many people you have been with,” that’s how my husband began the phone conversation one late night, about two weeks after asking for a divorce.

photo credit: Numeri via photopin (license)

photo credit: Numeri via photopin (license)

He knew about 3 or 4, I told him about all 8.

“You’re disgusting,” he said, “and I’ll remember I said it this time.”

What difference does 3 make or 8? We weren’t together, it was none of his business who or what I did with them. I was honest when he asked, and I was being punished for it.

“I knew you would sleep around, I just didn’t know it would be that much.”

I fail to see where the problem is, where the number makes any difference. He knew and accepted I did sleep around, why should how many matter?

Slut shaming.

They were not significant and they didn’t lessen his significance. The significance of any number in my life is the fact that my husband is the ONE who I have trusted and confided everything to, the ONE who I have truly bared my soul and laid myself out vulnerable. He is THIRD in my life who I have confessed to loving, but he is the FIRST that I really exposed my heart to.

*As a follow up: over the course of two months, he will occasionally call me in a similar manner about wanting to get back together at all costs, but first he needs to know all the details of what I’ve done in the time that he’s been away. I think it really bothers him not to know. And then I’ll hear some excuse of why he doesn’t want to be with me, or worse – many reasons why he doesn’t want to be with me. No kidding the last time I heard this was April 21, right before our wedding anniversary.

I think he does this for two reasons:

  1. He seriously feels like he needs to know every detail of my intimate life; and,
  2. He is currently fighting/arguing with his girlfriend and he wants to have me lined up just in case.

It’s taken me about two months to figure out he has zero intention of being with me again, he is simply playing with me for some unknown reason (but clearly I can guess).

Apr 292016
 

Yummy Men is truly the ultimate of my Slutfest week stories, for the letter Y for my A to Z Challenge.

Slutfest: a week and a half between my husband leaving me, my travel back to our home, and packing up the remainder of our stuff to move it across country and say goodbye to every thing I knew. My sis A named it that with her friends in the periods between when they were single, and my sister helped me design an online profile to attract the type of men that only wanted a hook up. Apparently, I’m the only one of her friends – herself included – to do slutfest completely sober, all the more reason why I’m suited to it, she commented. I am truly emotionally unattached to sex, if I chose to be so.

photo credit: Condoms via photopin (license)

photo credit: Condoms via photopin (license)

Slut fest total: 8 in 1.5 weeks, 3 of them prior partners

.

I went for the “pretty boys“, mostly the young military men newly formed and sculpted, the ones who spent hours a day at the gym and hours more being active at work. They would even message me asking if I were interested in someone younger. I went strictly for looks and perhaps that is why I was overall unimpressed with skill, except the last guy. I am often not attracted to looks, it is not important to me, and maybe that’s I changed my tactic this time – to be the opposite of me; plus if they were just going to be a body to fuck and nothing more – the body should be in peak physical form to satisfy me..at least in theory.

Again, the reality is that these men overall didn’t bring skills to the table, perhaps they thought their gorgeous bodies were the only thing needed. And they were pretty to look at, to touch.

But many of the men couldn’t stay hard (I heard a lot of condom griping), didn’t care about my pleasure, foreplay was unimportant, sex was the monotony of ramming as fast as they could without angles or even rhythm.

Sometimes I wondered if I was just there to fill the empty places in them, the same way that I was using them. If it even mattered at all what the opposite person in front of us wanted or needed, because they were just a distraction from ourselves. The men didn’t know me any better than I knew them. Was I another notch on their post, a conquest gained, or did they seek me out to combat the lonely holes in their own lives?

I used sex for all the wrong reasons during slutfest, but I am still glad I did it. I felt desired, I felt like I could find another and that I didn’t need to worry about being alone the rest of my life; I felt like I could relax and rest and recuperate before pursuing something a bit more real and authentic – whatever that ends up being.

I don’t think I’ve got fucking out of my system wholly, I do after all truly enjoy sex for the sake of sex, but I am more ready to take a deep breath, be a bit more patient and less desperate, and seek out someone compatible rather than a distraction I was to discard immediately.

Apr 282016
 

I’m not even trying to match X for my A to Z Challenge. Might as well admit it now. So this is for the letter X.

So last minute, after I sworn off the hit it and quit its, I get a message from someone wishing me good morning. I wanted to end my slut fest on a good note, and after the emotional night before, I decide to give it another shot.

I am nothing if not optimistic.

He was cute, a smile that was absolutely contagious, and an amazing body. He didn’t waste time but suggested we go to the bedroom, which was perfect for a hook up.

He takes off his shirts and reveals such an amazing body. I take off my shoes and socks as I watch him.

Suddenly he comes over and pushes me down on the bed. He grips my wrists above my head and tells me that I’m going to do what he says, asking for consent in the demand.

He has this sweet southern gentleman charm about him, and I’m unsure if this is him or because this is what I told him I wanted days ago.

Regardless, I voice my consent. We kiss and our bodies press together, I can feel how hard he is through his sweat pants. I go to kiss his neck and he slaps my face, telling me that he didn’t tell me to kiss his neck.

Slapping my face probably should have been discussed and consented to prior, but he isn’t my first uneducated partner by this point. I’m beginning to realize that many people just do things first and hope it’s okay rather than ask. I was trusting in the fact that if I asked him to stop, he would, but honestly, for some reason that probably is a darker one, I didn’t mind the face slapping. Which he did throughout the course of our time together, a few times quite hard to where my cheek was marked.

He kept a serious face and firm tone, had strong arms to manipulate me where he wanted me.

He was about pleasing more than anything, however. His fingers brought me to orgasm, then his mouth devoured me for so long. He was the first hook up to go down on me, and he was skilled at it. After awhile, he told me to sit on his face, his arms picked me up as he laid there and move me to his face. The wall was a bit close and my forehead hit it as he navigated me over him, but I didn’t pay attention to it, as his mouth already closed on me.

We had already discussed anal, and I said I hadn’t and wouldn’t do anal, but some stimulation was nice, so he asked if he could finger me. I said yes, and he spit and inserted a finger. After a minute he tried two but that was painful, so he went back to one as his mouth fucked me.

He ordered me to go down on him and then have sex with him. He wasn’t fully hard the majority of the time that we had sex. He alternated between ordering me to watch him stroke himself and having sex with me.

When we went to be doggy style, he spit on my asshole and inserted a finger, then two but I protested how it felt, so for some reason then he tried to slip himself inside my ass. I told him no and he slid inside my cunt and asked if that was what I wanted.

The fact that he wasn’t staying hard prevented truly decent sex, but I was already pleased from everything else and it felt good. I liked his commanding presence and the fact that he was about my pleasure. Every time I opened my eyes, he was staring at my face.

At one point, while I was riding him, he told me to spin around but to keep him inside of me. He wasn’t fully hard and I knew it was going to be impossible. He looked up at my pondering face, cracked a huge smile, and told me it was fine. His smile, I can’t stress enough, was breathtaking, and a sign of the softer side of him that I thought he was versus the stern one he was showing himself to be.

When I moved to be reversed, I watched his thigh muscles bunch and tense while I raised and lowered myself. It was mesmerizing until he yanked my head back with my hair, thrusting his hips up as I slammed myself down even harder, arched back.

When I became tired and rolled off of him, he ordered me to suck on his balls while he stroked himself, told me to spread my legs so he could finger me at the same time, and told me that when he came I was to “lick it up”.

He especially loved watching me lick it up. Then he held me and told me how hot I was, how much fun it was, and how much he enjoyed himself. I stroked his chest hair for a few minutes and then rolled over, sweaty and hot. A few minutes later, he left.

He really was a sweet, and gorgeous, man. By far the best hook up so far, and the first I would I would want a repeat performance from.

*As a follow up, he still fantasizes about me and we message each other back and forth at least on a weekly basis even months later. If we ever get near each other, and we’re available, odds are pretty strong we’ll hook up again. I never imagined making a friend out of an online one-night hook up, but he certainly is becoming a friend of mine by this point. 

Apr 272016
 

Wishy-Washy is what he described himself, so I’m using that for W for the A to Z Challenge. While written two months ago, not much has changed with us in these two months. I would like to especially thank my husband for allowing these posts to be shared, as long as I take out certain parts – which that decision was a good one as my intent is not to be hurtful but express heartache and confusion in the ending of my marriage. He is handling me badly – has treated me poorly in this ending, but he is a good guy overall whose intention isn’t cruel.

photo credit: Passing via photopin (license)

photo credit: Passing via photopin (license)

I’m angry, I’m sad. I feel lost. I feel unloved. I feel that this is fair. I feel that I don’t deserve better. I feel that this will rip us apart. I feel that this will make us stronger. I wanted this. I didn’t want it like this. I feel like this is a tiny death that we can be renewed from. I cling to the past. I want to spring off from this towards a future. I’m done. I’m in love.

It doesn’t help that he is also so back and forth. “Let’s have sex,”, to “you’re disgusting – I wouldn’t touch you.” He wants me, his wife, to be the other woman because he’s already in a committed monogamous relationship with her. “You can’t tell anyone,” he tells me before he propositions to fuck me.

He compares us in the bedroom – something that deeply disturbs me if for no other reason than I’ve no wish to hear details of their sex life and that it is maybe a reason why he wants me back – for purely physical reasons. For some reason, I am now more emotional and he is more physical when it comes to sex – a complete opposite to how we’ve ever been in all our years together.

He fucks me – expresses how amazing it all was, and goes back to her.

He tells me he loves me – creates a happy illusion for her, still going off afterwards and choosing her nonetheless.

He tells me he believes that his future includes me, that every scenario he envisions I am in it, that I will give him the best future – but he wants what he has with her as long as possible.

I block his number because he calls like we are friends, demands details of what I am doing and who with – he changes his number and yells at me for blocking him. I try to be friends with him, after all I’ve been friends with all my exes, but he has crushed me in a way that I’ve not experienced, and I don’t know how to cope.

I have no self-pride, there are times that I bend because my heart urges me to and I become the other woman to my own husband, and then he leaves it tattered and shredded because he changes his mind, does not know his own mind.

He tells me he wants me back because:

“I think I want to get back together because I pity you.”

“Insert a myriad of negative comments about his girlfriend here.”

He tells me it’s not about her, that his decision has nothing to do with her.

And I…I feel desperate, like I would give him the world to be in his arms, and I hate that desperation. I hate how he can reach into me and manipulate me so easily. I hate how I feel that I deserve to be alone, or second place. I hate how I feel weak and vulnerable. I hate how I don’t know how to move on yet, I am impatient with myself.

I get angry, and it’s all directed at me.

 Posted by at 8:11 am
Apr 262016
 

Vacant would be a good adjective for my next two men, for my A to Z Challenge. There was a lot absent in the experience with both of them – one an entire memory, the other was just a self centered jerk who I still continued with because I was desperate to stop the hurting. I ended up far more hurt than I could have imagined.

photo credit: via photopin (license)

photo credit: via photopin (license)

The ginger I was unconscious for.

I have no recollection of what he looked like, neither his body nor face, though the dating app shows pictures of him. I found two condoms in the trash can the next morning.

That doesn’t make him a bad guy – he was probably unaware of my mind state. That night, after so many nights of crying but still not sleeping, my sister gave me an Ambien, where I apparently had what is known as an Ambien blackout. I probably started messaging him first, regardless of what I did next to unconscious, I gave him my address somehow during this blackout.

I don’t remember him leaving either, but thank goodness he did, because that would have freaked me out – to wake up with a strange man in my bed.

There are just a few moments that I remember, it would all amount to a total of five minutes perhaps, but it was was at different parts.

I answered the door in a flannel.

I remember going down on him and nothing else on a physical level – I don’t remember actually wrapping my mouth around him, just leaning down to do it.

He repeatedly asked: “where have you been the three years I’ve been here?” and I remember thinking he repeated that question a lot.

And compliment after compliment from him.

Thank goodness he messaged me the next day, otherwise I would have been clueless who I slept with during the night. He kept the conversations very focused to things like his free time over the weekend and how he wanted to see me during them.  He was sweet and kept messaging, telling me his work schedule and asking about what I was doing so that he could see me again. Neither of our schedules worked out – I didn’t see him again* and I really wanted to – just to know who he was that I had slept with. It is odd to me to sleep with someone I don’t know/remember.

>>>>>>>>>>Another Night, another guy<<<<<<<<<<<<<

Pull Out Get Out, seriously if I could name a guy (which I can on my blog) it would be that. The dude was gorgeous (slutfest was mostly about female votes on who was the hottest as a deciding factor for my one night stands), but he didn’t ask a single question about me and then left immediately afterwards… seriously he pulled out of my body, rolled off of the bed, stood up, dressed, and muttered about going to smoke as he shut the door…and didn’t return.

He was also the only man during slutfest that I was set up with, a friend of a friend who immediately came over when he heard I just wanted sex and then talked a lot about himself as an awkward getting-to-know you, but wasn’t curious in the slightest about who I was. I knew nothing about him outside of his work (his only topic).

I was tired that night and almost skipped a night of hit-it-and-quit-its and by the time he left me, really wished I would’ve stuck to that instinct.

It wasn’t all bad: he made the sexiest grunting noises, but zero foreplay outside of what I did to him. It was all about him, just like the conversation.

It also felt like he was splitting me in two; he was far too big especially with my body not thoroughly prepped but still he pressed in, pressed on.

Him on top, me on top, doggy style for some stupid reason even though that made him bigger.

He hurt my cunt to mirror my heart, perhaps that’s why I allowed it.

I felt terrible about being with this man, would rather have been a guy of my choosing – which it didn’t feel like it was, this meeting of a friend already negotiated for sex.

However brief  the conversations and connections, at least on the dating apps I saw them first, they engaged with me, messaged at least a bit to get a feel of something.

I was so emotional when I knew he truly left (I had to check because he didn’t say anything); I didn’t quit crying that entire night.

A terrible end to what I thought of as slut fest, the one that spotlight shined the desperation in it.

I was a hole, and no matter how many cocks slid into my hole, it was there incomplete, wounded, gaping, exposed. Disgusting. Unworthy.

…Unloved

*He texts me still, constantly for awhile. Apparently, I was amazing at giving him head and being on top. He wanted to know when I would come back to the state so that we could hook up again, and I gave him that chance when I visited again about a month and half later. I believe that I wrote about that second encounter as well, this man that I had slept with but was meeting for the first time. He was/is nice.

 Posted by at 8:54 am
Apr 252016
 

Masturbation Monday badge - small

U is for Ultrahot (yes it’s really a word) for my A to Z Challenge. This man I experienced a lot of firsts with, and he has to have been the hottest I had ever had sex with (if we’re going by society’s standards – he didn’t turn me on physically the most out of every body.)

He was pretty (seriously look at a photo of him). His photos were of a body that was incredibly sculpted, his smile friendly. He had light eyes and hair. He contacted me within minutes of my new dating profile that my sister had helped me create for “slutfest” – as she called it. In my profile, were a lot of lingerie and me in a bed type pictures so people didn’t get the wrong idea. The tagline and profile was a mixture of corny and pretty direct – I would have never written it myself, but with sis A at the helm of the keyboard, my inner most slut was polished and put on online display.

If he would have contacted me later, I wouldn’t have responded, as his message was generic. The first few guys had the advantage in that I had zero expectations towards communication. And the amount of communication I received in being so direct in just wanting sex was staggering.

We exchanged messages, and then kik (which I created because he suggested it). He was respectful, left openings in the conversations, but didn’t come across as aggressive or desperate.

We met at my place, the place I went back to to pack up the remainder of what I could gather in the home my husband and I had shared – all the way across country (this time I flew back). It was still in the same week my husband had turned me away, and I figured that I needed to empty the house belongings before I looked for a job since I couldn’t guarantee my husband would help me move later. (He did offer to help in about 2 months, but that was no guarantee with two people divorcing.)

I stuck out a hand and introduced myself at the door – how does one make an introduction to an online hookup…a kiss, a hug, a handshake? He was my first ever hookup in such a manner. I asked if he wanted to go into the bedroom; he smiled and said yes, eyes widened in surprise at my directness, but he was there for one reason only and I didn’t want to engage in small talk – I was still crying daily and the smallest things set me off.

I hopped up on the bed and began undressing, he complained he was bloated before removing his clothes. I laughed at his self consciousness as I admired the incredibly gorgeous body that was being revealed. He sat next to me on my big bed, and leaned forward to kiss me. I pushed him back so he was laying on the bed and kissed his neck. He gripped my hair and pulled me onto my back.

He hands were often forceful around my throat or in my hair, an unusual move for someone new who had zero discussion of my comfort with kink. He tried to penetrate me without a condom, even though I stated condoms were to be used before he even arrived. I kicked out from under him and reminded him of the condoms.

He had a hard time staying hard but we were certainly all over the bed when he was erect. I was on top. He was top. He pulled out, put his face down and spit between my legs – the first ever to spit on me and one I tried to not laugh at – it seemed so porn-like; I disliked it but said nothing. He rolled me over for doggy style, where he almost spanked me but instead his hand came down hesitantly, softly down upon my ass cheek; again the hesitation surprised me considering that I found a hand around my throat more risky than a spanking.

Then I was back on top.  I marveled at his strength, couldn’t keep my eyes off of his arms as he picked me up and fucked me standing, lifting me up and down with such an ease. After some time, I was laid back on the edge of the bed.

Again with the spitting – so strange to me, lube is far more effective if we needed it (and I almost never need it) and it was almost a show with its line of slow spit. Too much porn?

Almost face slapped, and just like his spanking, his hand came down softly on my cheek, the movement tentative. Then he told me to “spit on it, jerk me off,”. Apparently it was my turn to spit, but I just couldn’t do it – I don’t spit for starters. I gave him head instead until he took control right before he came and stroked himself furiously. He came in my face and down my body. The first man to ever do it and an experience I could have done without. It felt a bit rude and a day afterwards (when he contacted me) I recommended he ask someone first before gushing over their face.

Too much porn? I thought that far too often with this man.

He suggested a shower afterwards, complained his butt was big (it was gorgeous like the rest of him), and then asked so many questions about me that I had no inclination to share but didn’t want to be rude. He was sweet and respectful, soft spoken in contrast to his sexual dominance. He laid in the middle of the bed and reached out for me, not necessarily to cuddle but just to be near. I stroked his chest and felt the prickly shaved hairs, thought what a shame – I prefer a hairy chest.

It was not a bad first encounter for a hookup. I liked his dominance – an unknown factor, though some discussion would have been nice. When he left hours later, he was expressed more self consciousness – this time of his hair. I joked he was pretty, that he was slightly obsessed with how he looked.

He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and I shut the door after him, locking it.

*As a follow up, we kept in contact a good month after the fact; he would occasionally begin contact, and I genuinely liked what little I knew of him, though I kept the conversations short.

 Posted by at 8:42 am
Apr 232016
 

T is for talking, for my A to Z Challenge, something I wish far more partners did with each other. There is something delicious in talking beforehand about plans and building anticipation, and talking afterwards and finding out what really worked.

The road trip friend and I have known each other for awhile, perhaps it is for this reason that I am getting specific feedback through communicating long after the fact. Some of my favorite texts from him (and we talked too, but I can look back on the texts):

I loved when you asked me to fuck you.

I loved making your body tremble.

I loved when I was stroking my cock and you were rubbing my nuts and under my nuts

I loved taking you from behind

…you making me cum in your mouth

I did really enjoy it

I love the way you felt

I loved being in your mouth

Really what I took away from this most of all is he liked fellatio from me. Noted if there will ever be a next time.

 Posted by at 8:12 am
Apr 222016
 

S is for Sorry, for my A to Z Challenge.

My aunt taught me that when I wanted to respect how the other person was feeling, regardless of if I understood, I was say: “I’m sorry you feel this way.”

My husband hates this statement. He will be the first to tell you he is powered by emotions, and they are swift and intense for him. I tend to be the calmer, more even tempo during our heated talks (though not in our relationship overall).

So when he yelled and ranted on all the reasons why he disliked me, why he couldn’t be with me, why he didn’t want us to work out anymore, I just got to a point where nothing I said was good enough with his mind made up, and despite how horribly it was killing me in heartbreak, I respected his emotions and his feelings in the moment (and years, months, days that led up to his declaring he wanted to quit our life together).

I didn’t understand them, I didn’t share them, everything in me wanted to tell him how stupid he was being, how emotionally caught up in something that would pass, how he was throwing away the best thing, how he was demeaning and rewriting something that was so beautifully shared, how we would get beyond this, grow from it, learn from it, become stronger.

And I did share those things too, I defended and debated our love and marriage…to no avail.

“My mind is made up,” he repeatedly told me, and when midnight peaked and a new day threatened, I accepted those words and that decision, though there was nothing easy about it.

“I’m sorry you feel this way,” I muttered, head down in defeat and face stained from hours of tears; he hissed how much he hated to hear that.

But I am…so damn sorry.

I’m sorry…
I wasn’t the person he deserved
That I wasn’t the same person he married
That I’m not the woman he wants me to be
That I’m not the woman I want to be
That I’m complicated
That I’m scared
That I couldn’t make it easier
That I couldn’t be more accepting
That I needed more than what he could give me
That I pushed for things I wanted
That I was selfish
That I needed patience
That I am so far from perfect
That I am flawed
That I am damaged goods
That I asked for what I want
That I demanded what I need
That I am guarded
That I make mistakes
That I am defensive
That loving me wasn’t easy
That we had so many ups and downs
That to make myself vulnerable is terrifying
That I was vulnerable to him
That I am hurting
and breaking
and feel lost
and confused
and don’t know what to do
or how to fix this.
That he won’t give us another chance
That despite my honesty, he doesn’t trust
That he won’t have hope in me, in us.

I’m sorry he feels the way he does. I’m sorry I do not share his viewpoint or decision. I’m sorry I feel this way.

 Posted by at 8:55 am
Apr 212016
 

R is for Road Trip, for my A to Z Challenge.

Four days after my husband demanded an end to our marriage, I drove several hours away to see a mutual friend of ours. Immediately upon my arrival, she began to discuss what he had told her already. I didn’t want her to take sides, I didn’t want to talk about it.

I visited with her and her children for hours, but already started texting another friend in the same town to get away.

This friend would be considerate about my failed marriage and let me vent if I wanted to but wouldn’t just want to talk about it, had expressed an interest in sleeping with me (with my husband’s permission at the time), and was kinky. He was surprised when I reached out to him, surprised that I wanted to come over and spend the night within hours of contacting him. We discussed going to a swinger’s club where the men walked around naked and the women in lingerie. I had never been to a swinger’s club but it sounded like a lovely distraction.

“I don’t have to sleep with anyone?” I asked, hesitant suddenly and realizing that of course I didn’t have to and how naive I sounded.

“No, and you don’t have to do anything with me, either,” he assured me, and the plan was set in motion.

Twenty minutes before we met, we learned each other’s first names – we had only known the Fetlife names prior to this.

That night after hours of conversation, we laid naked in his large bed (he didn’t have a guest bed) – neither of us wanting to sleep in clothes. We didn’t touch, and he even turned on the TV to watch a movie. I laid on my side, threw a leg over his, and he reached out and stroked my arm with his fingertips, his face never turning from the TV.

I laid there for a few moments, closed my eyes and relished the feel of his fingertips, opened my eyes and appreciated the expanse of chest in front of me. I appreciated his respect to not even once make a move on me, gave me space. I debated my next words, took a deep breath, and asked, “so are you going to have sex with me?” It wasn’t a matter of if he wanted to, I knew he did. He questioned if I was sure, and I reassured him I was, telling him but only with condoms. He muttered he wasn’t sure if he had them, rolled over and checked. My mouth fell upon his back as he searched, felt it odd that I propositioned sex and neither of us had even touched up to that point.

He found some condoms and rolled me over, his fingers immediately and painfully filled me. I felt stretched and not at all ready for the invasion, felt the urge but didn’t to ask how many digits he crammed inside of me, and yet they pounded into my body as his mouth bit down upon my nipple. It was a pain I wasn’t ready for and normally would have spoken up, and yet for some reason I accepted the pain (didn’t welcome it, just simply accepted it) as if I deserved a bit a pain, as if I needed to feel my body in a different way than I was accustomed to.

He was rough with me the whole way through, fucked my throat as his fingers pummeled inside of me, smacked the inside of my thighs and lips as he ordered me to keep my legs open. I welcomed the words far more than the sensations, couldn’t slip into the mindset of the sensations, but did nothing to stop them. When he would ask if I was okay from time to time, I just breathlessly would affirm I was fine.

And I was. I was alive and my body was being thoroughly used. As he fucked me doggy style, his hands would leave imprints on my cheeks. As he positioned me on hands and knees to fuck my mouth and until he pulsed against my throat, he flogged my ass and the tips stung against my wet lips from time to time, leaving a sting for days afterwards.

Whether from his fingers or his rough entry into my body, I would be swollen and sore just as long afterwards, but it was a content sore.

I left him hours before the dawn, unable to fall asleep next to  him. I kissed him awake, already dressed and ready to leave with my bag around my shoulder, and told him to lock the door after me, passed his sleepy form in the doorway and drove the hours away, back to my hometown to fall asleep for an hour before beginning my day.

He text me midday and ask if I got home okay and if everything was okay, since I just walked out. I responded that it had been so long since I had a one night stand, if that was what it even was, and that we both knew I was leaving in the morning, so I was unsure of the protocols and if he wanted a kiss goodbye he could have made the move.

Throughout the day we texted back and forth and expressed what we enjoyed that night and if there would be a repeat.

I left it a bit vague but told him that the swingers club sounded interesting and if were any events he wanted to attend, to let me know.