“How female can I make you feel?” he asks. He has access to all my true sex stories. I wonder if he’s read a recent post. If he’s jealous of Mirror for being the man that makes me feel most like a woman.
But he didn’t ask “How much of a woman can I make you feel like?”
“How female can I make you feel?” was the question.
“I don’t know but I’d love to find out.” is my answer. It’s true.
I try not to reassure him, in this moment. I don’t want to mother him or any man. It’s only now, hours later, after smoking a joint laced with live resin, that I am laughing at his ask.
Favorite. How female can you make me feel? Seriously? When you know that I am hunting you like a lioness.
You make me feel newly what female is, Favorite. You shake my limits. Leave me shook. I love it. I’m yours. How could you ever doubt it when you know how sure I am?
Using my obsession as a defensive shield against being in love with unavailable you. As usual. True sex stories.
What if I am so utterly female – raw and open, ready and waiting? You’ll leave me wounded and scarred.
I use my obsession with him to get through lockdown. To get through the death of my father and the caretaking and relocation of my cognitively impaired mother. And then, before I am even finally set free from duty: I set a deadline by buying tickets to Barcelona and I reserve a month in a non-refundable Airbnb a block away from where he lives.
He never told me where he lives. I triangulated it from available information and repeated photos and videos from his balcony. I use the words “stalk my married lover” as a mantra. Then tell him about it. It freaks him out.
Everything freaks him out. He has PTSD.
I don’t even know whether I’ll see him while in town. After a few tries of getting him to plan I realize he’s completely incapable so I make all arrangements without his input. I ask before I go if I can see him. He says yes, with trepidation.
I’m still not sure he’s a real person. Is this all a fantasy? Have I been achingly in love with him for two years for no reason?
And so, on the day I am set to arrive, when the messages “When do you arrive??” come through, I burst into tears. I never expect him to remember. He doesn’t always. He isn’t precise.
He visits me the day I arrive. He is concerned with the health risk. We agree to wear masks.
He’s on his way. I remember the advice of my erotic empowerment coach and take deep breaths timed with every second imaginary wave crashing on the beach. Throwing on a little black dress, I make my way down the ancient, circular stairway in my place in the Old City. I stand at the end of the alleyway. Waiting.
And there he is. Swinging his lithe body into the alleyway, bobbing and weaving as he walks towards me.
“Dr. Zoe, I presume” he says from halfway down my street, only he uses my last name.
I laugh. I’ve spent 100 days in Africa this year. Joking about one of the worst colonizers of all time is funny to me, and he’s the only one I know other than my recently dead father who would get all that there is to that joke, or make it.
I don my mask. He approaches. I back away. We maintain social distancing. My heart races.
We’re upstairs in my apartment. Standing near each other but not touching. And then our eyes catch, and we are crying, and he releases the fear and embraces me. Masks come off.
“It’s okay. It’s okay.” he repeats, holding me, embracing me, massaging me.
“Aren’t I supposed to be soothing you?” I ask, knowing he needs it. He denies it.
And then we are kissing. Tongues snaking, bodies swaying, the music wriggles out of his system into my body, dancing us, hands clasped, lips locked.
My father said it takes three days for the astral body to catch up to one during travel. I spend three nights fucking him whilst much of me is still en route.
He takes a shower, washing off the day. I am still dressed. We’re in bed, him naked, pulling at my clothing. And I am naked.
And he dives into my cunt, licking me fast, hard, chaotic. It’s not what I need to come, but the energy he brings to it has me flowing, moaning, easing into true sex stories.
And then I am diving into his cock. Sucking him, licking him. I slide my tongue between his skin and the head of him, listen to him moan, relax. He is so receptive. That’s why he is my favorite. All energies move through him unblocked. He lets me tease him, gently, not really caring how hard he is. Work towards edging, but more exploring. Where is he, what does he need, what makes him yelp and sigh and jump and purr.
Drooling on him, licking him, harder and faster and pulling his skin the opposite of my stroke, frustrating him, teasing him. Sucking him hard and deep and long only to take a breath and a break.
And then I grip his cock and jerk him off while holding my mouth over the tip of him, and as he builds to orgasm his body is still relaxed and I find that beautiful how much he allows the music still to move within him, not clinging to pleasure and straining for it. Not this time. This time he is receiving.
I love to suck his cock. I love his cock. He comes sweet in my mouth. The days and orgasms float by.
“I like the way you grab me” I say, when he is pulling at all my flesh and massaging me, and I am growling and purring and dripping at his inclusive touch.
“I like the way you suck my cock.” he says in reply.
We drink two thirds of a bottle of Mezcal together. And the next thing you know we’re doing it in the raw on the kitchen floor.
“Are we really doing this on the kitchen floor? Really? This new stage of intimacy, this marker in our relationship happens on the IKEA furnished fucking kitchen floor?” he says, as usual telepaths my thoughts exactly and I burst into laughter.
You asked me “Why do you want me?” and I said I didn’t know.
I didn’t. Don’t ever at first. But there are things I want, things I want more than anything. And people. You. I want you more than anything. I have for two years. You eclipse everything.
Now, though, that the astral body is returning, I know.
I like men that are capable of understanding me. There are so few. You are one.
I like men that only I am capable of understanding. There are so few. You are one.
My heart will be whole if you stay here.
If you self-destruct, a piece of my heart will die with you.
Please stay here.
Dark, dark thoughts. You see only pain. Raked raw. Neurologically, endocrinologically shot. Teetering on your perceived brink so hard for so long that you can’t tell that you are now actually teetering on the objective brink. Riding life on the edge.
I get it, I do. But we all need to heal. We need to prolong, prevent, soothe and love. And I am deep into magic and manifestation. It is my study. I cannot let my lens darken.
“You have to take care of yourself.” I beg. “Or I can’t fuck you in your orchard when you are 80 and I am 75, surrounded by your great-grandchildren.”
I see the tears in his eyes.
He tells me to do things. He intellectually dominates me and commands me to relax in my shoulders and neck.
Favorite commands that I should be in bereavement. That I am blocking it. I talk about it. I tell him the distilled details.
“You know, for a sex blogger, you’re not bad in bed.” he jokes, while inside me. We laugh. And fuck
He’s inside me, again, in the raw.
“I’m fucking you for your mind.” he says.
I can’t receive it for what it is. It distorts and he sees it in my eyes. He stops.
“That’s not the right thing to say.” he realizes.
“I’ve had a lot of men tell me they were not attracted to my body.”
“Well that’s horrible.” he realizes.
It’s not long before he get it. His head resting on my belly, he holds my hips.
“So no matter what you accomplish, how gifted you are, no matter how many things you have done and countries you have been to – it’s your relationship to your body…” he realized.
“Yes” I say, sobbing.
We’re drinking and fucking and talking until 6:30am. I’m sitting on the couch. He’s jerking off. Standing over me. His left hand on his cock and his right on his stomach. Looking at me with such need in his face. When he comes it’s on my shoulder.
“Every last drop.” he says.
I wipe my shoulder with my hand and lick it off. His come is still sweet.
True sex stories. Sitting behind Favorite playing with his cock on the couch. Holding myself up with my right hand. Gripping him with my left. Again he remarks how gentle I am.
“I’m gentle because that’s the way I want it. Just like you’re rough because that’s the way you want it.”
But he doesn’t need it fast and hard, his stroke is slow and slight. I love it. And I love the face he makes when he’s jerking himself off. I think of it while I jerk him off.
“You’re such a heterosexual, sapiosexual woman.” he says, marveling. I don’t know how to take it.
I’m like “duh.”
He keeps singing “Getting to Know You” which never fails to make me laugh, cuts through the awkwardness of the massive unspoken volumes between us and connection neither of us quite fathom.
We can’t stop fucking.
He comes over, washes his feet. Takes a nap, drinks beer.
“So this is you in work mode.” he says, as I work, attending meetings, and, unbeknownst to him – a meeting with the entire marketing team aimed at sharing from the radically transformative personal development lesson we had this week.
I smile, wondering if he notices this or overhears as my share is about money and geopolitics and DH.
Later he asks if I underestimate him.
“No, I don’t.”
“Do you think I underestimate you?” he asks.
“Yes, I do.” I reply. He has no idea. He has barely scratched the surface.
“Is this your mask?” he asks, pointing to my N-95.
“Yes.” I say.
“Your mask is more expensive than mine.” He says
“Yes.” I say, knowing his is one of the Chinese versions that Europe is stuck with, and not even the KN-95.
Mine is one of a pack of 50 I have with me. They are disposable, and the pack probably cost me $60. Still, I know he gets his masks for free.
I think of DH, who has been using the same N-95 mask for 10 months.
It’s all relative.
We’re in bed. He repeats it throughout the third night.
“You’re so female, down to your need for it gentle, your wet, tight pussy…” he says. “Do you know how female you are.” he asks, fucking my slowly. I shake my head no.
My dark mind says “I bet you say that to all the girls.” but I don’t let it out of my mouth. No no, not today motherfucker.