back home from the weekend.

Cocksucking, ass fucking, and bruises - oh my! 

No orgasms for me though, and that’s really fucking with my head.  I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve cried today.  The sleep deprivation isn’t helping, either. 

I know, I know.  I’m a whiny brat to be so upset about not coming, aren’t I?  I guess it’s just bursting the dam at this point.  Feeling neglected and terribly undesired and.. a word I can’t think of.  I guess it makes me feel shitty and used and worthless and unlovable and all that horrible crap I thought I mostly got over years ago.  I’m that sobbing, heartbroken teenager again, desperately yearning, wanting so badly, needing to be loved and cherished and desired, but feeling so painfully sure that those things aren’t really possible for girls like me.

Feeling.. betrayed? in a way.  It’s that bait and switch feeling again, like with MJ.  There’s never time for me, always something else more important, or more interesting.  And I’m too difficult and unexciting.

The worst part is that I know it’s at least partially my own fault for allowing it to be so.

 

 

 

Fuck, I need a nap.

I’ll write a better post later, one that has more focus on all the good things, and not this shitty shit shit.

 

Thinking about what I wrote yesterday, about setting myself up to be unsatisfied (which is what that whole post was originally supposed to be about..) - I want sexual attention, I want my partner to play with me and touch me and make me come.  But I often feel guilty when they do. 

Yesterday I complained about disinterested touching, but part of it isn’t necessarily their lack of desire, it’s my fear of there being a lack that taints the touching and makes me feel icky  and uncomfortable and unsatisfied.  And I’m not sure where that insecurity comes from, other than body issues perhaps, or the remnants of old self-esteem issues in general. 

So I guess what I need is reassurance of desire along with the touching and attention.  Heh, I guess I’m not as low-maintenance as I like to think.

 

touch me, and love it

I think I set myself up to be sexually unsatisfied.  Maybe I get off too much (but not *quite* enough) on getting my partner off.  There are so many times that I’ve practically actually ordered my partner to come even though I hadn’t yet.  And I know, but refuse to really admit to myself, that boys lose interest in sex after they come.  In my world, they should still want to keep playing and be just as invested in pleasing me as I am in pleasing them.  But the world just doesn’t work that way, does it?  Heh.

And I don’t want to have to ask for it.  There’s nothing that leaves me colder than someone touching me when they don’t want to.  If a partner plays with me just because they feel like they have to, it is the unsexiest thing in the world - I can feel your disinterest all over my skin.  I want you to delight in touching me, revel in the way I moan and writhe and get so deliciously overwhelmed by the things you do to me.  I want you to enjoy the texture of my skin, the sensual softness of my body, the fullness of my breasts, the moist heat between my legs, the expressions you evoke on my face and in my eyes. 

And find pleasure in giving it back to someone who brings you pleasure.   That’s what we’re together for, isn’t it?  Mutual pleasure and sharing?  …Maybe you missed that memo.

 

 

 It’s one of those relationship catch-22s though - I’m not going to get what I want unless I ask for it, but if I ask for it and you do it, I’ll never know if you’re doing it only because I asked. 

I’m concerned about this happening with Xel.  I’m probably worrying too much, as he was very tactile the entire time we were together, always stroking my skin or holding my hand, or kissing me lusciously.  But in bed he was soo much more attentive last year, and I can’t tell if it’s going to be a problem, or this was just an off weekend for that.  I don’t want to get into another situation like I’m in with MJ, that just makes me feel so shitty.  Touch me, and love doing it - is that asking too much?

This is one of the unhealthy things about my relationship with MJ.  She doesn’t want to touch me.  She doesn’t really care about my pleasure at all, and/or seems to be under the misconception that PiV sex alone should get me off.  However, that would be a deliberate misconception, as I discinctly recall our having a long conversation about just that thing, about a year ago.  Funny how her lips agreed, but her behavior never changed.  Even before she comes, she only really touches me to arouse me sufficiently that I agree to have sex.

 

If I suck your dick once and mention that I don’t feel the need for an orgasm that day, that doesn’t mean that I don’t ever want you to give me an orgasm.  Quite the opposite, actually.   Why is it that if just one time, I say I’m happy to pleasure them without them doing anything in return, they think that applies to every consequent encounter we have?  Duh, assholes.  Yes, sometimes I find it satisfying to have a session where I do most of the touching.  But there are also times when I want to be the one getting the attention.  It’s about balance, see?  Why doesn’t anyone get that?    

 

 

scattered thoughts about the weekend

I keep trying to write about the weekend, but the right words just aren’t coming.

I want to write about the sex, of course.  About the satisfaction and delight of sucking his dick, about Monday morning doggy style sex that ended with him shouting and giggling like a giddy three year old.  About debauched kissing in public, on street corners and in museums and the way he fucked my mouth with his tongue and how I gave him a knee-weakening hickey on the train platform that made him glow like a lightbulb.

And I want to write about touching, about physical affection, about how much occassional tender caresses and constant hand-holding steal my heart and make me want to weep with frustration that he lives so far away.

But I also want to write about the distance that I feel this year, a distance that wasn’t there in New York.  And how I can’t tell which one of us, or if it’s both, that are holding back.  And how the sex was fantastic but he didn’t spend time on me like before, how the sex was over for him when he came and how much of a contrast that is from the way it was last year.  How he fell asleep one night while his fingers were between my legs, and he seemed far more eager to explore the city than he did to explore each other’s bodies.  How that makes me feel taken for granted.  And how I want to say something to him about it, but are there words that will say it the right way?

 

 

We talked on the phone for five hours last night.  It felt much briefer than that.  I stood on my own doorstep for several minutes at the end of the conversation, because he never seems to want to say goodbye.

I like him a lot, in spite of the lack of sexual attention (which I expect will be resolved the next time we’re together, as I will definitely either mention it to him or just be more assertive in the future) - I like that he’s so openly and comfortably queer, I like that he’s confident but almost painfully geeky.   I like that he’s got a little protected core of vulnerability, I like that his spiritual views are close to mine. I like that he’s sex-positive and a nudist.  I like that he’s switchy but terribly interested in bottoming, and how he’s got big hangups about some of the very things he’s drawn to and how it just cries out to me to be the one to take him where he’s afraid to go.  I like that he’s as intelligent as I am and probably more so.  I like his baby-soft, tanned skin and strong thighs, slender wrists and big hands, his perfect uncut cock and the rugged-looking stubble on his cheeks that contrasts so delighfully with his oh-so-gay mannerisms.  I like that he’s outdoorsy and competent and adventurous.  I even like the lines on his face and his guarded eyes. 

I don’t like that it’s probably painfully obvious to the entire world exactly how much I like him.  He took a couple of arm-length photos before he got on the train to go home, and even though I felt like I was barely smiling for them, I look goofy as hell.

 

on a more titillating, if not lighter, note

Just to offset all dramaful, slightly obsessive stuff I’ve been writing in here lately, I thought I’d point out a note I wrote last year, but didn’t publish at the time because it was so raw. 

A dirty little letter that I’ll never send.