The Death of Mr Henry

Mr Henry has sadly suffered a hissy fit of epic proportions, which has led to his ultimate demise.

Once he was a studly and virile lover. Sadly, over the years his prowess waned considerably, and he has been reduced to whining and wailing dramatically in lieu of any real sexual interaction. His famously short cock, albeit rich in girth, lusts vainly after strapping young Korean lads, who wouldn’t touch the crusty old gaijin with a barge pole, and so much more so not their own.

His fetish for being cuckolded was what brought about his final downfall. Unable to accept that the woman who he repeatedly claimed to love over the course of 12 years, to whom he said over and over “It’s you. It’s always been you. It will always be you.” was free of him, and no longer wanted anything to do with him, he self-imploded.

The final straw came when she told him of her life and her stable of studly, sexy, virile lovers who have never even looked at a little blue pill, and her ongoing divorce. To her, as to most normal humans, this was called “news”, or “what’s going on in my life, man who I haven’t seen since 2006”. To him, this was an invitation to self-harm, throw a temper tantrum, and finally, completely, and utterly, lose his shit.

Upon the presentation via Facebook and email, of certain lewd and inappropriate suggestions on his part, and their subsequent rejection in their entirety, Mr Henry lost the plot. Expunging himself of much hoarded bile and ill-feeling, he wrote a pissy little note to this author, speaking of how he had also expunged himself of her and anything to do with her — and how this had delighted him.

And then he ceased to be.

He was, as the Pythons would have it, an ex-Parrot. Or similar. Although as metaphors go, parrot is quite appropriate for Mr Henry. When he spoke, whether on paper or out loud, much squawking did ensue. As he got older, so his writing got grayer, like the hair on his arms, back and shoulders. His notions became more staid and repetitive. His syntax grew stodgy and stale. His charm waned considerably, and his bright spark all but vanished. His delightful eloquence gave way to turgid loquacity, and his originality transmogrified into plagiarism and dullness.

In short, what was once love gave way to vitriol and ill-wishes. Misbehavior attractive in a rambunctious, tousle-headed child became loathsome and vile in an overgrown, immature malcontent. Was he always this way? Not according to my perception, certainly not then. But now — no question.

So goodbye, stranger who was once my adored love. Goodbye, farewell, good riddance, don’t let the swing door hit you on your wrinkling, saggy ass as you flounce away.

Rest in peace.

 

Dare

Dare to breathe. Dare to feel. Dare to let your guard down.

Dare to acknowledge the difference between a one-off fuck, and real feelings.

Dare to believe that such a thing can happen.

Dare to have your head turned by compliments.

Then you dare to screw me over.

How dare you.

 

Sex and love; anger and appeasement

Originally written and published several years ago. Republished today just because.

It’s been over a year since Henry and I broke up, and I’ve said very little about the relationship that was, since that happened.

This is not me breaking my silence. Not exactly. But i feel moved to write, which happens less and less frequently these days, as I feel my world slowly crumble before my eyes — so I let the muse speak from within me, and I lay myself bare before you.

The nature of the connection between Henry and myself was incredibly real and intense, and the break-up shook me to my core. Having now — finally — achieved closure, due in no small part to him, I believe I can start moving on emotionally, and mentally.

Physically was never really an issue. Which is odd, and yet unsurprising. The physical aspects of sex, while utterly fabulous while they last, have a habit of being short-lived and fading to the level of distant if fond memory, causing a mysterious smile to play about the lips of the one remembering, and a knowing glint to sparkle in their eye. It’s the mental shit that screws you over. Yes, indeed.

Henry was my muse. My soul mate. He understood what I was thinking before I’d had the chance to articulate it to him. He knew how I worked, how I ticked, how I’d react to any given situation. He cared for me very much, in a manner that I was both unused to and blown away by… he loved me so much! He wanted to protect me from any and all harm, which, of course, he couldn’t do, but it was his wish that I should be happy. More than anything else, he wanted that.

At one point there were nasty horrible people who wanted to harm me. Henry wanted to banish them and all memories of them from my life. He was the Walter Raleigh to my Queen Elizabeth, as he gallantly, if metaphorically, laid his cloak over the shit-strewn puddles of the blogosphere so that I might walk without soiling my dainty feet. (And considering the size and heft of my ass, my feet are comparatively pretty damn dainty.)

He was the John to my Yoko. We were constantly together, always thinking each of the other, living only until we could be together again when separated. He would be with me at work, in the bottom corner of my screen and I frankly wonder how it was that I ever managed to achieve anything at work, since talking to him was infinitely preferable.

I missed him. Over the last year I used my experimentation to block out the searing pain of missing him. I met others, some who may even one day take his place in my heart. But no one replaced him because he’d not gone anywhere. I was angrier with him than I think I’d ever been at anyone before in my life — besides myself, against whom I had an ongoing viciously rude dialogue for many years, until therapy helped me work out that particular kink in my system. He had betrayed me in the worst way precisely because I relied on him more than I’d ever allowed myself to rely on another.

He hurt me more deeply than anyone else ever has — because he loved me more than anyone else ever has. As I loved him. As clichéd a qualification as it is, I loved him. Truly. Madly. Deeply. With all my heart and soul… with every creamy-skinned centimeter of my body and mind.

I loved him but I had to let him go. The reality was too much for him, the fantasy not enough. It took me a good year to get over him, and now, thanks to him and the honesty that always prevails with him (if occasionally somewhat tardily), he stepped up and took responsibility for what he had done, thus quieting my rage and soothing my deep hurt.

I miss him. I always will. I was June to his Henry Miller — yes, that is the source of our names. And in some way, the love I had for him will never be extinguished entirely. I owe him so much; were it not for him and his fabulously perverted mind I would never have been able to melt down the final barriers of my repressed upbringing; nor conduct such a carefully constructed sexual experiment.

I thank him publicly for everything, and acknowledge equally publicly that he will always own a corner of my bruised and battered heart.

Goodbye, my darling. I will only ever wish you well.

 

Harmony

It’s an unspoken sense of understanding that so rarely occurs that when it does, it bears remarking upon — not to mention, documenting for posterity.

I mean, it’s not news to any of you that sex can be absolutely fucking awesome. Not always, it’s true. Sometimes, when the mood is wrong or the chemistry isn’t there, or even when the stars simply haven’t aligned for you that particular time, the sex can be utterly disastrous and downright depressing.

There are those who say that with sex, even a bad one is good — as Mel Brooks might say of a nectarine. Not me, but others. You know the sort. Those whom we refer to as “them”.

However, there are times, when the sex exceeds all expectations. When the sense of “holy FUCK that was amazing” is doubled, even tripled. The stars have aligned, the chemistry is A+, and it’s there. That indefinable  unspecifiable spark of something that converts great sex into a divine experience that leaves you googly-eyed and speechless for hours.

It’s when thoughts convey the deed to be done, and no words are required. It’s when the minds meet and concur and the bodies simply follow suit, like the good submissive entities that they are.

Following a protracted period of spent bliss, where his hands have stroked her skin until she can no longer breathe for joy, he moves himself oh so slightly, but enough that she immediately understands, and moves in harmony to meet him. Not a word, nor a look has passed between them, but they both know what this means.

He slides in from behind, and she shudders with repressed ecstasy. She doesn’t even need to tell him “Harder!” — he knows. She doesn’t need to push her nipple at him — he’s already there, pinching it to extract the sound from her that spurs him on yet further.

Man and woman, body and body — harmony personified.

When such an occurrence happens, which it tends to do with Dodo-like rarity, it’s one to be kept with the memories to be stored up for the old age home. I personally look forward to shocking the staff at the facility, as they wipe the leaks from whichever end of me to they are currently paying attention, with stories of fisting, anal sex and the panache with which I used to execute my world-famed blow job — not forgetting the jaw-ache that followed, and the rueful grin with which I then turned to the ever-grateful recipient.

But most important of all, I record said incident for posterity here.

Don’t tell me I never do anything for you. 😎

 

Bugger off.

Dear Shit-for-Brains,

I’m not interested. Please stop contacting me.

Read that sentence again.

Now read it again.

Got it? Good.

This is the last email of yours I will bother reading — the rest will be deleted immediately. Since this is our last communique, please read and internalize the following:

1. My name is not a come-on, it’s the name of a character in “Blazing Saddles”.

2. You only get one chance to make a first impression. If you blow that, you’re pretty much screwed — but not in the good way. Asking me my rate? Are ya shitting me?

3. Repeated attempts to contact a person after they have politely but firmly requested that you cease and desist from said activity, only serves to make you at best a pest, and at worst, committing harassment  None of these attempts are seen as endearing, appealing or in any way likely to get your further then the email stage of things.

4. Behaving in this manner, and then calling yourself “quality” is highly ironic.

5. Finally, saying “it takes two to tango” about repeated attempts to get you to stop emailing me? Seriously? You look old enough to know much better.

Thanks for understanding… finally.

 

 

Comfortably hot

It isn’t an everyday feeling. It’s not even one that you can guarantee a person will ever have in their life. So how do I justify having felt it more than once? Am I super-special or just damn fucking lucky?

And how does a person quantify the feeling of complete and under comfort in the presence of another. The one where you feel as though you’ve known them for a thousand years. Where you gaze at them with warmth and affection, until they put their hand on your thigh and then your gaze turns to one of smoldering longing.

This is comfort born not of familiarity but of chemistry and mutual like-age. Incorporating NRE with unbridled lust, and a propensity to constantly feel the skin of the other beneath your fingertips. Where a finger run softly across your back turns your knees to mush, and you thank the deity of your choice that you are sitting down, as you know that were you not, you’d be in a crumpled heap on the floor.

And then later, as you tingle all over from their touch, and  try desperately to catch your breath after a protracted and deeply satisfying gush of an orgasm, you realise that you have to bid them farewell soon — but you know you’ll see them again. And again. Soon.

Ain’t nothing better.

 

 

The Best Thing I Never Had

I appreciate that the arguments over taste, flavour and preference are almost entirely academic. What I may like, you may hate, and so on. In addition to making a mockery of the reality competitions involving advanced cheffery and food porn, this also applies to the world of attraction between two human beings. (I do not presume to exclude the sort of polyamorous relationship involving 3 or more, but for the purposes of this specific discussion  this is an irrelevant issue.)

However, since I’ve been around the block once or twice, and have the gravitas of my super-advanced age to back me up (no one has been able to convince me that I’m not heading the way of Methuselah ever since I passed the big four-oh), I’ve decided to give you the benefit of my experience and opinion. 

Attraction is a funny thing. There are those who attribute all the highs and lows of emotion, feeling, sensation and sensuality to various chemical surpluses or imbalances. There are those who declaim proudly that true love is true love, and it manifests itself through attraction. (This, as a theory, is bollocks, but what can you do. People. Kfff.) Then there are those who realize that attraction is a subtle blend of the physical, the mental and that x-factor that causes one person to be as handsome as Paul Newman in his heyday, whereas another somewhat resembles the Notre Dame’s most infamous resident.

All of this taken into account, the truth is that the real attraction between two people, happens when they have something in common. It can be tangible — a love for basketball, perhaps. It can be ethereal — a love for fantastic boobs, or blonde hair. It can be the x-factor — an indescribable and untouchable reason that sends two people careening back into each others arms, even after political disagreements, or within the uncomfortable familiarity of an abusive relationship.

But what is so fundamentally important, is that if there is something there — something real, where two minds meet and connect — don’t throw it all away upon viewing a bad photo. Not all of us are as photogenic as <insert supermodel of your choice here>. All of us, however, when met in real life, have the potential to ensnare and bewitch another with the glinting sparkle in our eye.

It’s one thing to initially look at a picture and have no desire to communicate any further. But to establish a line of contact  and talk — non-stop — for two hours, only to abruptly rule out any further communication? That’s just fucking stupid.

Of course, the world is your oyster, and you are free to make the choices as your heart dictates. But you should know something. From the moment you disqualified me with your heartless “you’re not my type”, any attraction I had for you dissipated into thin air, like so much angel dust. Not because you weren’t attracted to me, because believe me, my ego is not so fragile as to be unable to withstand such a blow (!). Rather, because I could in no way be attracted to one who acts in a manner so shallow and pathetic. You implied that you were a mature, intellectually stimulating and intelligent human being — but you betrayed your true colors in one sentence. Not only was I no longer interested from that second on, but I feel as though I had the luckiest escape. As Beyonce so wisely (and beautifully) sings, “you turned out to be the best thing I never had.”