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.

It’s how we always do things. The practical takes precedence over the emotional. It was cold, so the socks stayed on.

Naturally, no other garment can remain and effect true practicality — at least, not when the most significant achievement being aimed for is an abundance of orgasms all round. But socks keep your feet warm, and there’s a lot to be said for warm feet when you’re engaged in prolonged fellatio.

Not that practicality as a concept should be knocked, but it’s also safe to say that it hadn’t been the main feature in this particular turn of events. Getting into the right position required much heaving, grunting and the occasional giggle — but again, it was a means to an end. The required positions were achieved, and the resultant touching, licking, stroking, pinching, caressing always pleased.


I always enjoy a good solid straight forward orgasm, unenhanced by the wonders of nature, but goddammit  I just love it when said enhancement is there. The climax takes on a different hue — in fact, several. The jagged breathing as I near my peak melts into layered waves of bliss, each color more vivid and intense than the last, my lungs expanding to fill my chest cavity, until I finally burst and come, showering rainbows all over the room.

There was a moment one time, where I floated above my supine body, and watched such a set of proceedings unfold from above. My head on his leg, my tongue millimeters from his cock, where until recently — up until my attention was too severely distracted to continue — it had been engaged in providing some pleasure of its own. His head resting on one arm, regarding me with a knowing smile as his other hand engaged itself in painting me into a bed mural; my legs akimbo, a spreading dark patch beneath me, evidence of what had just ensued.


Of course, I’m not without my own contributions to the hoopla. How he responds to my tongue is a source of pure pleasure for all concerned. Me, because I delight in his enjoyment, and him because…. well, because show me the man who doesn’t become an inanely grinning Mr Happy when their cock is firmly ensconced in the mouth of another, and I’ll show you a wax model. It takes a moment for the cock to realize where it is, and then it all of a sudden grows into its full glory, and hits the back of my throat — requiring my best gag reflex control skills.

It’s enormous fun. Watch this space.

My eyes rake the ceiling in idle and vain search  of cobweb or crack upon which to focus. From somewhere beside me, I hear you whisper huskily:

“You’re writing again, aren’t you?”

In truth, no. Not this time. This time I am concentrating on exhaling and regaining some composure. I say “some” intentionally, for “all” is simply a pipe dream at this point. In the space of — what, three hours? Four? — I have lost all semblance of reality, and my outer identity and sense of self have been shed like so many outer garments.

I need to remember this. Above all else, it intensifies that oh-so-fleeting moment, dissipating almost as soon as it comes into existence. A sweetly poignant memory to cherish when this bubble bursts; but one for which albeit briefly, I must burst that very bubble in order to claim.

As I drift off into the never-never land to which you succeed in transporting me, a tiny part of my brain holds back, clinging to the here and now by the skin of its metaphorical teeth, and making tiny notes in the margin of my consciousness. Barely perceptible yet spine-tingling kisses become a rhythmic stroking of my skin, in a manner precisely calculated to send delicious shivers through me.

The word “precise” sticks in my head: it’s such an appropriate word. Every move you make is precise. Accurate. Meticulous.

Your tongue glides across my skin, and I feel you breathing. With no external restraint, despite hankerings to the contrary, you have me enthralled and supine; expectantly frozen in place, barely moving a muscle — save those that move of their own volition. As you close in on your prey, encircling the final location, the delectable fever of anticipation grips me from within. I can barely breathe — I know what will happen, yet I cannot predict the form it will take.

And then it begins — more exact and on the mark than ever before. I gasp, and silently scream my bliss to the rising heavens. The meticulously detailed locale of your soft tongue inside me is of an accuracy hitherto unparallelled. If all this were not enough, you manage to indicate your own pleasure vocally, which just sends me over the edge. That tiny part of my brain loses its tenuous hold and joins the remainder of my grey matter in space, as I spiral ever upwards into sheer ecstasy.

This is an experience that I never want to consign to oblivion — and yet oblivion is the place towards which I feel myself headed.

You navigate your way around my body using your own as leverage, and I marvel at your care and attention to detail. My outpouring of pleasure is both metaphorical and literal — not to mention seemingly endless.

Yet that which truly astounds me is your own participation. There is no distance; admittedly, physical distance would be quite a feat at this stage, but mentally it would not be considered that unusual. However as I writhe in exquisite agony, whimpering with pleasure, you are there with me. I feel you. I sense you through every pore on my skin.

You are precisely where you wish, desire, and intend to be — I couldn’t ask for anything more.



It’s been wonderful — thank you.

I keep thinking about you at inopportune moments, and getting wet. TMI? I don’t care. You should know about these things. You’re all the way over there across the other side of the world, and I’m here. The weather is getting hotter, and frankly — so am I. And i don’t see why i should have to go through this alone. In fact, a bit of sympathy arousal is what I’m after — at the very least.

So when my body is doing something mundane like shopping at the grocery store for a present for a long-unseen relative (flowers or chocolates, despite my offspring’s best efforts to convince me to buy them marshmallows, because they adore them), and i’m standing waiting patiently in line, my mind is off on flights of fancy, thinking about you, and me, and that date we have planned. What you’d see physically is the following.

You’d see me rifle through my purse for my credit card, simultaneously grab my two kids by the scruff of the neck and hold them down and still, converse amiably if vacantly with the person behind me that yes, it is a complete pain in the ass that the shop won’t sell us beer because of stupid fucking licensing laws, although to be honest it’s a wee bit early in the day for me for beer.

Mentally, it’s a different story. In my mind, i’m standing in front of you, as you hold me in your arms, and you kiss me, and i kiss you back, and i can feel your large, thick cock with its magnificent hard-on pushing into my thigh, and i can feel you grinding your hips against mine, and your hand in the small of my back pulling me closer than close and I feel your palm on my cheek as your lips explore my own and your breath on my cheek as our lips almost part and you whisper my name and my hand runs over your well-defined shoulder, and up your neck pulling your head closer to me and your hand gravitates from my cheek to my nipple and pinches it, eliciting a sigh and a wail of arousal from me and we kiss and our bodies fuck through our clothes, each feeling the passion of the other, as we lean against the wall, knowing that there is so much more to come.

Amazing how erotic the mental images are that can be conjured up while standing in the line at the grocery store.

Don’t you think?

Considering where my head has been recently, you may find it surprising to hear of one of the more touchingly sweet encounters of my sexually active life. This was a while back, with a wonderful sweet person who has since moved on to other things.

But I still think of him with deep affection, and a shudder of thrillingly sexy sensation.

Oddly enough, he holds the land-speed record — before and since — for the shortest time between meeting face-to-face, to horizontal naked macarena. Through no insistence of his own, or arm-twisting or any kind of coercion. It was just that I desperately wanted — needed — to feel his arms around me from the second I laid eyes on him, and I knew he was more than willing, so I enabled it.

He was wonderfully charming and very old-school in his attitude.. and while it was clear from our pre-meeting emails and phone calls that he was simply sizzling with lust, (as, I do confess, was I) it was also blatantly obvious that he was not the sort of man to make any overtly forward move, for fear of being thought pushy or impolite.

Fortunately for both of us, I’m not a shy or retiring person, and waiting around patiently does not suit me.

Especially when a man looks at me with eyes so clear and sweet that I could have dived right into them, then and there. And has the sort of loose-limbed, tall, strong and yet comfortable body that just begs to enfold you within a massive bear hug, into which you could feel comforted and protected and lost and safe and warm all at once.

I kissed him almost as soon as I saw him. In other words, he had me at “Hello”. So to speak.

“So how did you get into swinging?” I asked him, as we drove along, his hand resting gently on the gear stick, and brushing my knee each time he changed gear.

“Well,” he said, “It started when the first woman i saw after my divorce told me she had a really strong wish to try it, so I suggested that we try a swinger’s club. And we did.”

“Are you still with her?” I asked him.

“Kinda,” he said, steering the car deftly around a stalled vehicle in the middle of two lanes — no mean feat, considering that each time his fingers brushed my knee, i could sense an almost imperceptible shiver run through him. “We have, as you’d presume for a swinging couple, a very open relationship. In fact, we’re more like really good friends now than anything else.”

“That’s good,” I said. “I’d hate to think I was treading on someone else’s toes, if i wanted to see you again.”

I already knew that I did.


It wasn’t so much that we were unable to keep our hands off each other. In this case, it was literal. I mean, I just up and kissed him, shocking myself at how bold I had become in real life, how brazen i was even out of fantasy mode, and how proud I was of having the guts to be what I wanted to be; what i felt i really was as a person, down deep below the layers of human frailty, and wannabe, and disappointment, and fear and worry. After this initial jump-start on my part, he took the lead and I… well, I let him. It was lovely. He took my little foot in his enormous strong hands and began to massage the heel and instep, all the while continuing to talk.

During the course of our time together (regrettably short on this particular occasion) we talked a lot.

“Wait!” I said, removing my sock quickly, “no one needs to have to deal with that particular item of clothing of mine. Not when it’s raining outside.”

He smiled at me — that gorgeous, winning smile that had captivated me completely.

Continuing to palpate and stroke my foot, his hands slowly moved up to my ankle, and then further up my calf.

Ever impetuous and over-zealous, i shifted my hips closer to him on the bed, so that he could slide his hand further up the leg of my jeans. He smiled that million dollar smile again, and i nearly dissolved into bubbles of happiness. He was just so lovely to be with.

He continued what he was describing, as if his hands were not roaming up my denim-clad legs, smoothly sending tingles of anticipation through me. I tried hard to focus on what he was saying in order to come back with an intelligent (hell, at this stage I’d have settled for intelligible) reply, and managed a highly unsatisfactory “Uhhmmm… mmm, hummmmum.”

He looked me in the eye. Eye contact does it for me, you may have noticed.

“Am I distracting you with something?” he asked, with a twinkle.

I cleared my throat.

“I was just, umm-hmmm, wondering. You know. If maybe i was, or we were, uhmmm…. overdressed?”

The twinkle brightened further, and he removed his sweater.

“Consider that ball a-rolling.”

Minutes later, as we lay, our naked skin touching for the first time from stem to stern, I became very conscious of how comfortable i felt. We’d kissed endlessly as we’d walked into the room, and he’d mentioned something about how easy it felt when we kissed, and how natural it seemed, regardless of the relatively short period of time that we’d spent breathing the same airspace. This only accentuated it.

His hand parted my thighs, and I felt his cool finger brush along my slit, opening it to further exploration. The juices brimmed over the sides, and i felt his finger slicken as it moved further within me.

He sighed, happily. “Mmmmm… so wet. Wonderful.”

I sighed, unconsciously echoing him. “It’s you, all because of you baby…. oh!”

That last exclamation was as his index finger brushed my clit tantalizingly, and then slid straight into me, with two of its friends as company.

And as his fingers found my slippery wetness, so his mouth found my breast. Specifically, my nipple. He suckled, and then at my urging, bit it gently. He sighed with ecstasy at the discovery of this particular kinkette of mine, and responded with enthusiasm. I yelped with joy.

“I’m a great admirer of the female breast, and baby, yours are beautiful. Mmmm…”


It didn’t matter that we didn’t have enough time that day to explore each other fully. I think we both knew that we’d meet again from approximately the first moment we laid eyes on each other.

When we fucked it was an experience unlike any other. Which, while arguably something that could be said of every man with whom I’ve slept, was an unusual and wonderfully unique situation. He was so passionate,and so genuine about it. It was beautiful. As he bucked above me, and my hips moved in response, and we kissed and kissed over and over, mouths moving on mouths and then spilling over onto cheeks, necks, shoulders, holding each other so close it seemed like we might meld at one point, and as his cock thrust into me over and over it was my turn to cry out in ecstasy… it was wonderful.

Vanilla, served as it should always be — horizontally, anyway.