My life is insane busy at the moment, my inbox is stuffed with a ton of unanswered emails, my laundry is piled high, I have not been to yoga in three days, I turned down an actual bona fide date offer and those offers of cock, movies, meals, drinks–all turned down to take care of other matters. Soon! All library/professional/career advancement  projects will be complete by Friday and my time will once again become mine. I am feeling like a bit of a shut in. Although I have been doing my part for masturbation month–I am in serious need of a real night out culminating in a good old fashioned dicking down.

I have been daytripping a lot about past lovers, married men, those communications that drift into my world then back out. My past, those few I can claim as love. I’ve had a few, and I want a few more.

Driving the coast line, our hands unable to cease exploration. Yours deep inside my skit–finding my wet slit, heat emanating from my spread thighs. Mine, on your hard cock–straining against your jeans. The drive seemed endless, the anticipation to flesh. Other drivers would notice our hands, recognize that look on our faces. We didn’t care if they turned away–like they caught us in the act, or if they watched, rubbing their own stiffing knob–we were in our own.

We would hide out in my tiny apartment, staying up all night– smoking, drinking, fucking, rest then repeat–talk of poetry, architecture, the way in which you wanted to render me  in charcoal as I lay in repose on my couch–the broken sides of life–his sexless marriage–my unyielding loneliness. My fingers–tender in comparison to how you had just finished fucking me–as they ran through your hair, my sweet side–the I could love you side–even if it is for this shard of time.

Ending up all over the place, fucked and then exhausted and falling wherever we lay. Often I would watch him as I waited for his cock–covered and glossed in me– to rejuvenate. Our eyes heavy, lusty, lost in separate– yet joined thoughts and I would let my fingers slide between my lips. I liked the way it felt, your cum and my cum mixing–joining–culminating, my pussy full of stimulation and still wanting more. Sloppy and wet with us.

I would often come this way, with you watching me. The memory of the way your cock would begin to drip while I stroked my needy folds–the thought makes me still love him.

I love the way his cock drips for me.