Living in Unreality

I know you're reading this. Dark-voiced stranger, bitter and dark like good chocolate, dark and sweet and bitter and good.

There's a writing shaped hole in my life. Maybe you can help me fill it. No, you don't have to do anything. Just be there, wanting me a little. Let my words be a letter to you.
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There are other friends I should be writing to, one dying of cancer, another of old age. Letters on paper would be the right thing to be writing tonight. I have dispensed with the right thing.

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The drugs I'm taking to keep myself panic-free have stripped me of the ability to orgasm, though arousal is possible. I used to fantasize about not being allowed to orgasm, so this ought to strike a kinky chord for me. I used to come over and over to the fantasy of being told I would never be allowed to come again. Like so many daydreams, it's better left in the realm of unreality.

Are you better that way, too, my dear?
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I saw my lover last week. I'd been staying away, not wanting to take what little sexual energy I have away from home, but it was his birthday, and I was in the neighborhood with an hour to kill, and honestly, I needed to feel something.

I wriggled my body underneath him and inveigled his cock into my mouth. Choking, suffocating under the blankets, I clutched at his ass, willing him to fuck my mouth. Stop trying to be nice: fuck me already.

And then we rolled over and I gave him the birthday treatment. And then I rolled him sideways and made him thrust into my mouth again. I didn't let him go down on me and I didn't come close to an orgasm but I felt energized and whole for a little while.

It seemed so simple and natural. I went to C's house and gave him a blow job for his birthday. I have to remind myself over and over again that my husband wouldn't see it that way. And you don't see it that way, either, do you? You see it with a mix of jealousy and love and regret and things I don't know. But not simply.

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I can't have orgasm and I can't visit the dark places where things are complicated. I'm experiencing medicated buoyancy, and everything is light.

No spark

In my dream I was moving away, not to leave him, but to pursue other parts of my life. I thought sadly of the lover I'd also be abandoning.

In daily life, I'm trying not to move away. I keep searching for the spark. It could still be there somewhere. I try to maintain hope.

Despite my lack of attraction to my husband, we still used to have great sex. I'd go to sleep thinking, that was the best ever. And then, another night, it would be even better. So any excuses I have (and I have many) are invalid.

I do think he's lost the spark some, too. He's told me that his drive is much less than it used to be. We have sex because we ought to, maybe. We have sex because we need to, because it is an essential tie of our marriage. But half hearted sex does not fill the need, not really.

At the same time, I feel as close to him as I ever have. I've been emotionally needy, and he's been there for me. There's a depth to our connection I feel w/no one else. So maybe I worry about the sex aspect too much.

I know this is kind of a lame post. Probably that's all I'm up to these days. My spark has gone, after all.

Echos of Love Lost

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Blow Jobs Great and Small

I've sucked a lot of cock in the past few weeks. Far more than usual for me. I'm losing count, thinking it over.

The queer boy. I didn't ask for hir story. Maybe ze is post-op? Whatever. No matter. There was a cock, somewhat small and inclined to floppiness, and I sucked it to the sound of moans and commendation and the taste of my stale spit.

The Craig's List couple. I wanted to watch, first. She went down on him and I found her clit with a finger, marveling narcissistically that even though it felt like I was touching myself, I couldn't feel it.  Their mouths were sticky sweet from diet coke and chewing gum, but when it was my turn, his magnificent dick tasted of warm flesh only and slid clean down my throat while she fondled my breasts and he fingered me to orgasm.

Complicated Lover, who has my favorite dick ever. Everything about him in bed is right. Why do I fuck anyone else when there's this? When I give him head I drool and slobber and lose my rhythm and probably bite. I mean, I've got no technique. He's too thick to swallow and besides the concentration that takes is impossible.

My husband. He'd just showered. I forgave a taste of salt and notched the tip of his cock into that spot in my throat that makes him groan He likes to keep his cock there, sometimes shoving my head down so I take it deeper but never slipping into my mouth to be sucked or stroked with my tongue. When we fuck, it's the same, he likes me to grind against him, and it's good, it makes me come. Giving head can make me come, too, with a little help, but instead he pushed his balls against my cheek and they were like used saran wrap, sticky and slick, and my desire died.

The Quiet Man, whom I've come to love. I enjoy the curve of his dick, which seems to send it exactly where we both need it to go. Sometimes the more I give him head, the softer he gets. I feel guilty. Not that I can't please him, because I know I do. I think he'll keep a hard on when he's with someone he can really open his heart to. He's waiting for true love, and I wish I could give it to him. Instead I give him tenderness and the best blow job I know how to muster.

Recriminations

I should have known it was over when they refused to move the meeting later so I could attend. When I called in at 8 everything had already been decided. All of my suggestions were shot down. "I don't know what you want from me," I said.

"We want you to think about whether this is really want to do anymore."

In other words, leave.

So I did, with minimal fuss. Because I could have fought but what would be the percentage? Revenge might have been nice, but I have no desire to destroy what I helped create.

I might even forgive them. Someday.

"I like you too much," I said.

He laughed. "I think you like me just the right amount."

Did I detect a note of triumph in his voice? A bit of gloating? Finally, a woman likes him uncontrollably, could even be falling in love with him. Finally a woman wants him more (maybe) than he wants her. The power dynamic is in his favor at long last.

I'm not frightened off by this. QP does not hate women, despite a lifetime of fearing their rejection. I'm happy for him to have this victory. I'm happy to be the one to give it to him. I believe he won't turn it against me.

And though I do like him more than is safe for me, I've grown adept at the balance of friendship and love. I'm keeping my footing.

Imaginary Infidelity

I know a lot of people do it. I know it's ok to think about whatever you want during sex. It's just, I've never done it before, and it felt very different than I'd imagined.

My husband G and I were making out. He pulled me over so my nipple dangled in his mouth. He nuzzled and made that little snuffling moan I usually find so seductive. That night it just wasn't working for me. I didn't want to be there. I didn't want it to be him. So I imagined someone else.

I imagined it was Quiet Person, whose mouth I have yet to feel in such an intimate location. A tingle went through me. I closed my eyes and focused on QP's face looking up at me, QP's hands pushing my breasts together, QP's tongue making circles on first one nipple and then the other.

The tingle came again, more intensely.

G and I started fucking, and I pictured exactly how it would be if QP were underneath me. I imagined the sounds he might make, and my pussy quaked with desire. G was right there, but I was blocking him out of my concious mind so I could ride QP, slow and hard and on and on.

My orgasm was tremendous. I toppled forward and G held my head against his chest. I didn't want him there.

This infidelity feels worse than the ones where I actually AM with someone else. Kicking G out of his own bed -- out of his own fuck -- seems like a terrible offense.

Negotiations and Consent

Handsome Quiet Person was not put off by my cheating ways, or not entirely. He wanted to see me.

Is there really any denying the ravening howl of new-lover lust? Not for me.

I resisted through one long afternoon walk but at some point we found a secluded spot and our lips met and pretty much all was lost.

Except that what was turning me on wasn't him. He doesn't smell amazing. He's not a bold kisser. He's new, and he really really likes me, and that's all it takes, apparently, to captivate me.

I suggested we go back to his place. "I guess you thought over what I told you," I said.

"I have, and I haven't figured out how I feel about it. We could go back to my house, but I don't want to do anything more than what we have already," he said. I agreed, and he went on, "I know, it's strange, a guy setting a limit like that."

I wish I hadn't interrupted. I wonder where he would have gone with that. But I was eager to reassure him. "I appreciate knowing your limits. I don't think it's strange."

So we went back to his house, and in moments we were on the bed kissing intensely, and his smell and taste and timidity were not slowing down my heart rate at all. He pulled off my pants and I asked permission before stripping off his shirt. "Is this ok," I asked, biting his nipple. "Is this ok," I asked, squeezing his ass.

"I'm sorry for being inconsistent," he said, as we stripped off the last of our clothes.

"That's what consent is all about," I said. I sat up an admired his handsomely furred body, his cock  curving over his flat belly, thick and mouthwatering. "I want your cock in my mouth," I told him, "But I've started using condoms even for blow jobs these days." He passed me a condom, but he wilted right away.

"I have performance anxiety," he told me. I knew why. I knew more than I should about him, and that's one reason I was being so careful. It was obvious I wasn't going to be getting a condom on him. And besides... when it comes to consent ... I try to be extra careful.

"Let's take a break," I suggested.

When I was younger I used to say what I wanted, the same as I do today. The thing is, I wouldn't live up to it. I'd get caught up in the moment, and if the guy I was with bothered to take the time to check in again I was sure to just moan and rub his cock in a way that made my intentions clear. No condom? No problem. Got a boyfriend? Already forgot about him. Not sure I like you? So what.

I know all too well that considered consent doesn't happen on the fly. These days I stick to my limits or know in advance if I'm likely not to. I don't count on anyone else to respect my no if I don't respect it even more. What did QP know about consent? I had a feeling not much. So I gave him time to collect himself and consider what he wanted without the distraction of my naked body up against his.

We ended up kissing some more and taking a nap. It was intensely sweet.

I need to be careful with that man. I have a feeling I've already gone to far, for both of us. When it comes to consent, love and friendship are a lot harder to navigate than sex.

Type Three Orgasms

I spent a large part of Sunday with Quiet Man, and Monday I took the day off from work to spend it with Complicate Lover. It was extreme indulgence. I feel sated and fat, like I ought to fast for a few days.

CL pushed me hard. He gave me orgasms until I was satisfied, then forced more on me until I begged and fought, then held me down and growled, which made me come some more.

I used my safe word when I started to feel like I'd be too sore to fuck if he didn't stop.

The orgasms were good. I arched my back and clenched my pussy at each peak. They hurt a little, from g-spot stimulation, if his fingers were inside me. They felt a little hollow if his fingers weren't inside me.

"Type one orgasms," I said to CL. "I figured out why I only have type three when I'm alone."

"Wait, what's type two?" he asked. "Is type one good or bad?"

So I had to go back and explain.

Of course orgasms vary widely. Different women experience them differently, and while some have just one set way of coming, many have a range. My range is wider than three, but I can generally class any orgasm I have as one, two, or three.

One - g-spot or external stimulation. Mildly pleasurable and spasmodic. Leave me wanting more.

Two - AKA why I'm primarily straight. I only have these from fucking. Not from finger fucking and not generally a dildo. either. Mostly only cock can give me this level of out-of-control pleasure. Loudness, full body spasms, and major enjoyment.

Three - The best possible feeling ever exploding my entire body. This orgasm can go on and on, if pushed, or end and leave me completely satisfied. If I'm alone, it's loud and messy and involves thrashing around a lot. If I'm masturbating after sex and my partner is sleeping, it's just a quick full body clenching and a near-painful peak of concentrated pleasure. Like swigging a shot of whisky, it burns and elates and leaves me relaxed.

Type three orgasms are fueled by fantasies. Generally degrading fantasies, where I'm being forced to do something repellent, or punished for being an out-of-control slut. I can't get lost in fantasy when I'm with a partner, so I only have these when I'm alone. Or on the phone, that seems to work, if my caller wants to call me names and tell me how he'd use me.

"You need to distance yourself from that extreme pleasure," CL ventured.

I used to only have type 3 orgasms. Back when I was young and disgusted by sex. When my stepfather licked me to orgasm and slid a finger into my too-tight pussy. Back then I had blinding orgasms even though they were the last thing I wanted.

Another Conversation

I don't want you to watch me come.
When I come, I want you to feel it
In your spine. In
the back of your skull.

I want you to feel my cum searing into your insides.

Then,
when I pull out of you,
you can see it
mixed with your cuntwine
slickening my cock shaft.

Then you can taste it . . . us, blended.

Think of it this way: My cum, not
running down your hand, but
pumping
through your veins.

[words by him, conversion to blog post by me. Used with permission.]

Masturbation Fantasy Fancy Cake Fun Time

I've been a bad girl. I know that's why he's making me lay like this, tummy propped on a pillow so my ass is raised and my cunt exposed, arms stretched up over my head. (Except, of course, one of my hands is actually between my legs. But let's not let that spoil the fantasy.)

Shift.

It's the one day a week I'm allowed to have an orgasm. I've got five minutes to come as much as I like. If I can't come in five minutes, I'll have to wait until next week. I'm so close but I can't get over the edge. I've been holding back too hard, too long, and I can't reach my release that quickly anymore. Five minutes passes. This has just been another tormenting denial.

Shift.

I'm tied spread eagle. Chained, actually. Cold metal on my wrists makes me shiver. My nipples harden and ache. There will be a man in to fuck me soon. I'm just a hole to him, a hot, wet hole. Or am I? If that were all I were, why would he bother hurting me?

Shift.

I'm back in the first scene, exposed and guilty and fearful. He's spanking me, and I'm wriggling more and more frantically. Am I trying to avoid the burning blows or to more effectively hump the pillow? Either way, he decides enough is enough and holds my back down with his knee. He keeps on spanking me, telling me all the reasons I deserve it. (My orgasm tears out of me with a wail like a subway car on a curve. I'm flopping around the bed panting when I hear footsteps approaching the door. Time to pull down my skirt and act composed.)

One More Breath of Magnetic Air

Last night was a strange one. Complicated Lover was there with the woman he likes and the woman who wants him. I stood around with them for a while but then I started feeling like a harem member and wandered off. Besides, the man I was thinking about was in another part of the club.

He's shy, or so i'd thought a week ago. He's got blue eyes. (I don't remember faces, or eyes, particularly well, but I seem to have a subconscious thing for blue eyes nonetheless.) I know more than I should about him. Let's call him Quiet Person..

QP likes me and I like him back and yes, I do mean like like. He's innocent seeming, though, and I worry about that. "Why?" CL asked me when I called him for a consult. "Most men like being corrupted."

"I've got no problem with the corrupting aspect," I said. "It's more... the cheating. And the not-falling-in-love."

So after we left the club I pulled QP into the alley. "Listen," I said. "I want to say something probably premature and totally inappropriate. Is that ok?"

"Sure," he said.

"I like you, and I'm definitely attracted to you ..." I could feel him waiting for the brush off. I hesitated. I wanted another moment of the mutual attraction. One more breath of magnetic air. "I'm attracted to you and I think it's mutual ..." He smiled at me. If I'd leaned in he'd of kissed me, but I didn't. Instead I finished up with the truth. "I'm not in an open marriage. Sometimes I cheat. I thought you should know."

QP nodded. "I was going to ask you about your situation," he said. He didn't say more. We hugged goodnight.

Today he texted me a random "How's your day?" so I don't know how he took it.

What He Said

"You want me to fuck you? Why should I care what you want? I want you to make me come."

"By fucking," I said. "Don't you want to?"

"Maybe I do. But I'm not going to."

He likes to watch me suffer.

Dirty Pictures, Anyone?

I know some of you've been waiting for this moment, my friends. Enjoy. Then tell me about it.

My doctor has recommended more baths. I admit, I enjoy them.

Undressing

Nobody this handsome has ever been in my bedroom before.

He gives me a show. Not a pretty-boy stripper show. He gives me an "I know you're watching and I'm going to let you enjoy it" show.

He undoes each shirt button deliberately, almost fiercely. The revelation of his flat stomach, his golden skin--I'm rapt.

His eyes are fixed on mine as he unhooks his belt buckle. I can see the bulge under his blue jeans. Is he hurrying as he pulls down his pants? But he hesitates before removing his boxer briefs. They're tented out by his erection. I'm sure he can tell my mouth is watering. I know he's making me wait.

When he does maneuver his shorts down, it's an awkward move. His cock gets caught in the elastic, forced down and then freed to spring back up again.

My whole body is trembling with longing. Lay down with me, you extraordinary being. Lay down, you radiant beast.

He doesn't.
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Clearly there's more to this story, but it's bedtime. Maybe another night.

Tsk Tsk

I had the hotel pool and hot tub to myself when I got there. I hit the button for bubbles and floated around daydreaming about the perfect hook-up. What would my ad specify? Pussy eating, definitely. And a hot tub like this one would be nice....

Someone at the glass pool door broke my reverie. From the distance of the hot tub, I could see a person trying to insert their card in the lock repeatedly. Then dropping their card. Then trying again, more slowly, but with no more luck. I hopped out of the tub and let the person in. The young woman. No, the long-haired young man. He didn't meet my eyes, and I hurried back to the warm water.

From the comfort of the hot tub, I watched him take off his shirt and get in the cold pool. He had good looking shoulders and inoffensive black trunks. It was strange that he hadn't thanked me. I decided to give him a hard time about it if he came in conversation-distance. Maybe he could find a way to make it up to me.

It wasn't long before he got in the hot tub. "People usually say thank you," I said.

He looked a bit frightened. Young, completely thrown off guard. He didn't answer.

"When someone gets out of the hot tub for them, people usually say thanks," I repeated, smiling to show I meant no harm.

"Thank you," he said. "I - I guess I said it too quietly." He looked away from me quickly. The bubbles stopped.

"Well, one of us is going to have to get out again," I said. "I think it's your turn."

"Why?" He looked confused, but willing.

"To turn the bubbles back on. Press that button." I pointed. He clambered out and pressed it and got back in. I noticed his calves. Bicyclist, I decided.

We sat quietly in the bubbles, me glancing at him, him as far away from me as possible. "What are you in town for?" I asked.

"I'm on college visits," he told me. Oh crap. Seventeen. He was seventeen! I considered if he could mean grad school. No. 'College visits' are what high-school students go on. Grad students are 'looking at schools'. I asked him what other schools he was looking at and he told me why he wanted to get so far away from Memphis. He relaxed and smiled. He really was adorable.

He was afraid to look at me when I got out of the water. When I dried my hair I let the towel cover my face, thinking he could get in a good glance or two. But when I moved to drying my back, he was still staring straight ahead painfully. I imagined he was hoping the hot tub bubbles would conceal his erection. Poor kid. It was just as well I hadn't invited him up to my room. I had thought about it, when we were talking. Blowing his mind with a Mrs. Robinson offer. And then I thought it would be selfish of me. Because for an 18 year old boy, going up to a grown woman's hotel room is a big deal. He might even be a virgin. He might never have seen a fully naked woman in person in decent lighting. I might have made his night or ruined his year. No way to know. It wouldn't be right to risk it.

And besides, I didn't have any condoms and I was pretty sure he didn't have any in his trunks.

I wished him luck, and resisted telling him he was adorable.

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PS I know this sounds a bit egotistical. It's what I was thinking at the time. Feeling confident, I guess. I considered that he might have been totally repulsed and rejected me. The idea didn't bother me. Don't waste an expensive bottle on someone who prefers light beer, right? Is there anything wrong w/being confident?

Whore

Cliff did kiss her when she came in. He kissed her and smiled and she could feel his love around her as warm and real as his arms. Now, in the bedroom, everything is different.

She's disheveled. He's been playing rough, pushing her down on the bed, squeezing her breasts hard, pulling her shirt open and her panties down. She's panting and flushed. He's smiling a friendly smile, but his eyes are cold.

"Your pussy is soaking, Penny. You like be thrown on the bed and used, don't you." His fingers moved caressingly over her aching cunt. She nodded her agreement. Yes, she did like it.

His thumb found her clit and pressed. Pleasure burned through her, melting and inflaming in equal measure.  "You're a little slut, Penny. You know that, don't you? Tell me what you are."

The cruel intensity of his voice scared her. She fixed her eyes on his. "I'm a little slut. I'm your little slut." His thumb began making small circles. Her body shook. "Please fuck me," she said. Fuck me, she thought. Love me. Come back to me. But she loved his harshness. She loved that he could transform his tenderness into such fury. "I need you to fuck me!" she cried, arching against his hand.

"Fuck you? I don't think so," he said. He slid one finger into her, making her gasp. "I don't want to get myself that dirty." His hand left her pussy to rub her wetness on her lips. She opened her mouth, wanting to suck his fingers, but he pulled them away and slapped her face instead. Her face stung with shame and impact.

"I Don't Fuck Whores," he said, enunciating every word. Tears came to her eyes. Was he truly mad at her? What had she done? "I Don't Fuck Whores, and you, my dear, are a whore."

He let his words sink in for a moment. "Not one of those high class courtesans you fawn over on Twitter. They make an honest living. You're the kind of whore that will sell herself for a cocktail and a smile. You're the kind of slut that will get in anybody's car if they promise you a hard cock. Won't you, Penny." All this time he was stroking and teasing her. She wiggled and whined and fought back tears.

"Please," she begged, "Please. Cliff, I only want you. I only want you to fuck me."

He slapped her again. "I already told you I'm not fucking your filthy little cunt. I've got other people to do that." She couldn't quite choke back a sob. Cliff lowered his voice. "I've got all the men in the neighborhood lined up in the hallway, waiting to fuck you, Penny. Won't you like that?"

"No! No, Cliff, I want you!" She tried to wrap her arms around him, but he peeled them off of himself as if her touch was distasteful.

"But they've been wanting you, Penny. Every time you go outside they can smell you. They can smell your dripping, horny cunt every time you walk by. They know what kind of slut you are."

His words were horrible. His eyes were terribly cold. He held her thrashing wrists down on the bed as if it were effortless. She didn't know if it was true, if there really were men in the hallway. It seemed possible. But her neighbors?

"Please don't make me," she begged, hoping to placate him. "Please don't, I'll do anything!"

Cliff laughed. "I already know that. You will do anything, won't you, pretty bird." Penny sobbed again. "Alright," Cliff said. "You don't have to be fucked by them if you are very, very good."

Penny nodded violently. "I'll be good!"

"I told them - I told Bart, he's first in line - " Penny pictured her next-door neighbor Bart: retired, diffident, devoted to his lawn. It was impossible that he might be in the hallway waiting to have his way with her. She started to relax a little. "I told Bart that when he hears you crying out in orgasm and begging to be fucked, he could come on in and have you. And then the rest of them, whenever they were ready."

"So I have to be quiet?" she asked. She knew this game. They'd played it before. Be Quiet When You Come Or.... She'd always lost.

Cliff smiled at her again. This time there was almost affection in his eyes. "Don't bother trying," he said. "We both know you can't." He shook his head as if bemused. "And Bart is sooo eager."

Penny laughed. It felt like play again, between them. Cliff grabbed her underwear and pulled them the rest of the way off with a flourish. She lifted her legs and he pulled her down to the end of the bed. He knelt on the floor. She closed her eyes. He buried his face in her folds.

Penny forgot everything but pleasure. She grunted when he thrust his fingers into her, keened when his teeth and tongue converged on her clit. Her hips found a desperate rhythm and soon she was wailing, as they'd both known she would, "Fuck me, oh please, fuck me, fuck me, fuck meeeeee!"

She didn't hear the door open, but Cliff's abrupt pulling away from her body made her open her eyes. There was Bart, in the doorway, grinning at her, his pants already unzipped and his cock in his hand.

Stereotypical Avoidance Behavior.

I was going to try and go to bed at 10:30 every night so I could post here. But I ended up staying up later, as always. And oddly, G has started going to bed earlier. Which makes it hard to write. I prefer to be alone. strongly prefer. I won't say I HAVE to be alone - that would be silly, right? False?  But yeah, I won't write with company.

I don't like that he comes to bed early. It means it's my fault if we don't have sex, not his for staying up ridiculously late.

It's not that I don't want to ha have sex. Just not with him. Argh.

I belive this is a state of mind more than an absolute. I tell myself I'll overcome it. I have before. WE HAVE GOOD SEX. Sometimes.

I'm so fucking ambivalent. Like, I wish he'd go down on me more often. But I don't like him to unless I've just had a shower. And I tend to shower at odd hours, not before bed. So I never let him and then I complain that he doesn't really like to. Yeah, I know.

When CL goes down on me, I know it's for him as much as me. I know he likes the way I taste and smell. I say, "I just came from the gym, I'm stinky!" and he says, "I LOVE that."

I wish it were easy. I wish I could let it be easy.

Blindsided

I've been blindsided. I'm feeling horribly, utterly betrayed. I didn't know real people actually acted like this. It's like I landed in a reality show instead of my life.

Here's where it all first went wrong: When I decided, a couple years ago, to try and fit in. I meant it as a growth opportunity. Accepting people with different values and priorities. Getting past that stuff, you know? But also being more like them. Letting their values influence mind. Making choices to let things go that might keep us from being friends.

We've never been friends. People who are friends don't treat each other like that. I should have seen it a long time ago. I'm blindsided because I let myself be blind.

Decision Point

I guess Complicated Lover was sick that night. Otherwise, would he really have gone home early, leaving me alone with the Beautiful Swinger? I imagine not.

I imagine him not leaving. "I've had enough games," I'd have said, as I did say. "Let's sit in the living room and have one more drink."

The Beautiful Swinger is easy to kiss. it happens naturally. You know how sometimes, the first time with someone new, there's escalating tension and indecision and you wonder whether now is the right moment, or now, or maybe now? There's none of that with BS. He's a pro at setting things in motion. His hugs always include a hand on your ass. Or my ass, anyway.

Point being, he's not surprised or uncomfortable when I kiss him as soon as he's sipped from his aforementioned last drink.  Complicated Lover, though, a few feet away on the other side of the L shaped couch, certainly is. He doesn't say anything as I lean over and kiss BS. He doesn't say anything as BS's hand comes up to cup my breast. (Another one of those moves that could be awkward but just seems sweetly natural from BS.) It's not until I straddle BS's lap that CL reacts. "Whoa, there," CL says, hopping up from his seat and steadying my hand. "You're going to lose your drink."

CL's hand is on my hand. He's standing behind me while I grind my body against BS, still kissing him. I feel the moment lengthen as CL realizes the position he's in, the choice he's made. And then he's down on his knees behind me, hands under my shirt, pulling me back against him and biting my neck, making me shiver and squirm and grin.