finger holds

i wrote:

tonight i will let some guy paw over me.  i will fake passion.  i will do the things one is supposed to do.  all this because death is too close and i am desperate to grasp these, ultimately false, finger holds.

sober

i no longer wish to be sober.

show

he bought a $1000+ camera before the the last time he visited. he bought the camera to take photographs of us fucking—as well as other endeavors. we are perverts. i had no problem being photographed.   he had no problem.

the photos were taken. us fucking. shots of me nude. photos of my lips around his cock.

i imagine they are extraordinary.

i have never seen the photos.

a (gay) friend of his had expressed the desire to see a het couple fucking—which i would have done—and after being told of the existence of the photos, wanted to see them. he and i agreed that we didn’t care and the friend could see. i don’t know if if this ever happened.

he and i fucked in front of folks before. we went to a “sex club” in SF. we had been talking about going there for months. the club wasn’t what we imagined. he and i imagined a hedonistic paradise. we had agreed on certain “rules” before we went. he wasn’t allowed to touch anyone. wasn’t allowed to fuck anyone but me. i could let women blow him but he could only touch me. he wanted to have, “…tits all around [him]…,” and i was okay with that. he wanted me and another woman(women) to blow him and fuck each other in front of him. still that was okay. i had no problem with the whole scenario. was prepared to put on a show for him. you see, he was mine. it didn’t matter. as long as at the end he and i went home together…. and i wanted it as much as he did. make no mistake. fucking a woman in front of him would not just be for him–i’m a pervert and this turned me on. the whole thing was orchestrated so that i was in charge. i had no interest in any other man so we were not looking for some guy to join in.

things did not turn out the way our fantasies imagined.

we went to dinner at an upscale SF restaurant a few blocks away from the club. we drank a heartbreaking bottle of Bordeaux. we talked and were so fucking into each other that the air practically boiled. i can still see him there. his eyes were drunk with love and desire. we loved and wanted each other enough to span decades. and we looked so beautiful that night. i can’t even begin to tell you of his beauty. he’s short and small yet his chest and arms are muscular and developed. he has no body fat. his chest is the most beautiful thing, aside from his face, that i’ve ever seen. his lower body is tiny. his waist and hips are miniature. he has the smallest ass. his tiny waist gives way to tight muscles blooming upwards into perfect chest musculature. his chest can make me cry. his arms are muscled yet small. make no mistake, he is strong and large. i can not describe him. he is short and small yet so so big. the first time i saw him he opened his front door and was leaning against the inner hallway wall. he looked so fucking young and small and beautiful. i wish i had a photograph—though i remember it clearly.

i cannot describe him. he is beyond beautiful. his body is my ideal. naked with him felt natural. the first time ever. my small body against his……. my softness against the hardness of his body. can’t explain it. it just fit.

anyway, we entered the sex club. we toured the different levels and rooms. hardly anyone was fucking. most were voyeurs. we watched a quartet (along with a good-sized crowd) screwing. we messed around a bit while watching. then we left and found an empty (tho’ public) room. i blew him until we both wanted more. then we started screwing against the iron framework of the biggest bed you could ever imagine. i unbuttoned his shirt and my dress was up around my chest. i wanted him on the bed but he was nervous. so we fucked against the framework. i was basically naked as my dress was up. i didn’t care. we fucked like we were the only ones left.

i knew we had drawn a crowd. this made me more turned on. i loved that people were watching us. i loved being undressed and fucked in front of others. i leaned back against the bed frame to better give a view of my chest.

unfortunately, despite his bravado, he didn’t get off on the whole fucking-while-being-watched thing—we discussed this later. it was funny and odd to us that i–who had been reticent about the sex club visit–would be uninhibited while he–who had really wanted to fuck in front of folks–felt awkward. he was worried about me before we went. he was afraid that i would not be able to relax. i was afraid that he would be too out of control…. we left soon after the giant bed fuck. i think it unnerved him to look up and see a wall of people watching us.

outside, walking back to the car, a group shouted, “thanks for the show. you guys were great.”

last chance

though this–weblog thingy–may sound like the naive shit of a young(er) woman, i can assure you that not only am i older (almost fucking middle-aged) but have been young and felt the angst of of a young woman.

i am not young.

in a way, the raw love and desire and hurt i have for him makes me feel like a kid again… and i am ashamed. folks at my age should not have these desires; should not have this amount of passion. we should feel restrictively. however, it is nice to know that passion doesn’t end. though, i must admit that i am more afraid than ever. if i can still feel so despairingly as i do and did, if i can still love as if Death was looming over my shoulder, love as if i had never felt this before, what will it be like when i am even older? when there will be no-one?

i need someone. i am not young and beautiful. men my age want younger women. even him, who knows better, is seeing someone 8 years younger than i am.

my age is suddenly a fucking curse. i never cared too much about age until recently. never cared until i was alone. now it’s become a constant reminder. the men i find attractive want someone younger. and then there is the opposite. i’ve been propositioned by very young men lately. though they are beautiful and undoubtedly nice fucks, i have no interest. young men are beautiful but i need/want more. and then there are all the “older” men—i.e. over 50. i could screw 20-somethings and 50+ somethings–and yet not one of these men are my “fit”. nor do any of them care about me as a person. both groups see me as a nice fuck and a way to show off.

why the fuck can’t women and men at a certain age want each other.

i keep trying to tell him this. but men are simple.

i am so fucking scared. my desire is so narrow. my ideal man is becoming further and further out of my reality. i can’t settle. can’t do it. yet i am fucking older. i have children. i have nothing to offer.

He was my last chance. and i truly thought we’d be together.

kills

so what happened?  everyone wants to know.

i don’t know.  he doesn’t really know.

there are a lot of things.  the distance, my children, his self-doubt.  my insanity.  his insanity.

i’ve been over this every day for the last five months.

it would have been better had we parted acrimoniously.   we did not.  in fact, we are still best friends.  and it kills me.

tomorrow 2

and tomorrow i will fuck a man that i am not interested in.

my thoughts are 3000 miles away.  my love is in New York.

my love will never be anywhere but with him.

tomorrow

and tomorrow i will fuck a man i do not love.

last

the last time i was with him was at the end of March in the Oakland airport.

we had spent the afternoon enjoying each other. fucking and loving. the optimism of the previous week together had become dulled by our impending parting. i had removed my necklace—the joke that i had been wearing for the last ten or more years but had somehow become my totem—and placed it between tissues and tucked it into a card for him to be read later, on the plane. my necklace was the only thing i could give him that truly meant my love.

we stood in the airport clinging to each other. we were both dying over yet another fucking goodbye.

lost. again.

i love you Dave. David. DAG.  Darlin’.  i miss you. miss you and the things we never did. miss the fucking chance we had. miss the simple synchronicity of our selves together.

and it was the fucking same for you.

you know all this. we are lost. again.

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