Life


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.

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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 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.

 

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.

******************************

Epilogue:

It’s been wonderful — thank you.

Suzanne Portnoy recently acquired a Kindle and rather fell in love with the format. She’s asked a few of her favorite sex bloggers to contribute to a new erotic magazine she edits, available on only by subscription on Kindle. I’m honored to be among the contributors, who include some really fine smutmongers. Here are the details:

SexBlogyssey is a Kindle-only compilation of the best erotic blogging, bringing together smart, smutty writing from both sides of the Atlantic. Our contributors write about real experiences and their real lives, with a little fantasy/fiction thrown into the mix. We regularly publish new material, drawing on both new writing and the archives of our contributing bloggers.

SexBlogyssey was created by Suzanne Portnoy, author of a popular but now-retired blog describing her double life as a middle-aged single mother and entertainment publicist with a lively swinging lifestyle on the side. Other contributors include Jefferson, Bad Influence Girl, Joanne Cake, Todger Talk, Kitty Stryker, Mon Mouth, Elegant Slut, among others.

You can purchase a subscription here.

(With apologies to Jefferson for completely pilfering his intro. It’s been a tough week. Thanks, dude.)

The first moments of 2011 were spent naked, panting and kissing. Traditionally, in other words.

The new year thing was by-the-by — it was a tryst much longed for by all parties concerned, and the new year was another excuse to get together and get naked. And you all know only too well how I loves to get naked.

There is a myth that with age, the sex drive wanes. This is simply not true. Separating us chronologically are 17 years, although you wouldn’t know it to look at him. Or to fuck him, come to that.

He calls me “jailbait”. I’m 42.

In terms of experience, we pretty much match each other, thanks to my often wistfully remembered slutfest. And then every so often I surprise him. Or he surprises me.

Yesterday was my turn to be surprised. A confirmed kinkster, although he refers to himself as “conservative”, he took vanilla and spiced it up to a level beyond anything that had gone before. He gave me an all-over body massage that rendered me speechless. I murmured as much, from within my stupor-like haze, and he giggled.

“Good to know. So if I ever want to shut you up, I now know what to do.”

I would have fired back one of my trademark smartass comments, but I truthfully didn’t care. If it meant that I got to experience this fantastic and sensuous hand rub again, I’d gladly remain silent.

At one point he lay down on top of me. I was face down, and so was he — but he held off from the obvious poke-and-prod-with-cock scenario — he’s classy like that.

“Is this what you mean by a full body massage?” I whispered into the comforter.

“Kinda.”

At which point he flipped me over, and grabbed me by the cunt.

*************************

We spent today apart — family commitments, prior engagements and so on. Yet all day long I could feel his touch on me. His fingers between my thighs. His cock in my cunt. His breath on the back of my neck. His legs entwined with mine. It was like an indelible print — it kept me in a permanent daze all day. Thank god for multi-tasking, or I’d not have achieved anything since this morning that didn’t involve sitting and staring blankly into space.

All in all, a most auspicious start to the new year.

I raise a glass to you all — to the new year, to new challenges, to new experiences and new forms of fun. May 2011 be a great year for all of you.

Love,
Juno x

The moment that you feel his hand on your flesh, that’s when you know.

Not all trysts work this way, it can be freely admitted. But there are occasions where you instinctively know that the owner of said hand is one with whom there is something very unusual and special going on.

You know for sure that you two have connected in a very unique way; that the sex will be of the mind-blowing, furniture-moving, scrape-me-off-the-ceiling variety… These are usually the times where you have cause to feel as though an electric shock just ripped straight through you, from nipples-to-cunt, with a nod and a wave at your g-spot.

And you’re right. A casual touch over a table in a restaurant, as he passes you the soy sauce. You take a lump of Wasabi with chopsticks clutched in trembling fingers — what the fuck was that?! Your skin is tingling as though you’ve just been rubbed with mentholated cream, and your heart is beating faster than it should.

You take a deep breath, and try to compose yourself, but there’s no point. You don’t really want to. Such levels of connection are so rare and so precious that you want to savor every second, but still cannot quite help your knee-jerk reaction to deny it, suppress it, re-normalize the situation. Each attempt you make is very clearly in vain.

Nothing seems normal at the moment, but you revel in the abnormality. This is what you thrive on, and you plan to utilize it to the max.

The remains of the Miso soup and the Tuna Tataki are arranged in that lackadaisical manner that the leftover food from a carefully ordered meal is wont to take; sprawled in disarray over the dishes where once they were heaped so beautifully.

And you two sit, exhausted from the effort of eating, but exhilarated at what is to come. From the moment your fingertips touched you knew that you had connected in that amazingly intimate, physical way, and the countdown was on till the required niceties were out of the way and you could be alone.

Although, if the truth be told, both of you had, at separate times, considered sweeping the dishes onto the floor, throwing the other over the table and fucking them senseless. Said thought had rendered the thinker speechless for a while; which had actually gone unnoticed due to the disproportionate amount of body language being used as the primary means of conversation.

Bills are paid and you leave, and as you do, your hands bump against each other, which immediately becomes a firm handhold. The urgency is palpable and rising, and you know that it doesn’t matter where, or what, but you must be alone with him now. Now. NOW! Apparently he feels the same as he drags you down the side street where his car is parked and almost throws you up against it, much as you might have thrown him over the restaurant table, and kisses you for the first time.

It’s amazing how much a kiss can convey; how it surpasses speech in its communicative ability. You know what he is thinking, feeling, needing and wanting — and he knows the same about you.

It’s only a matter of time before it happens. The time it will take for you to drive there. A journey which will not allow you to separate your hands, and a destination where the remainder of your bodies will continue what the hands started.

And all this you know, from his touch.

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