I did a really stupid thing: I text My Mr. Grey.
I don’t really know why I did it. I think I was just overthinking the shitty second week One Ball and I had together, overanalysing all the little flaws I can see starting to appear in our relationship. He’s quite immature and boyish at times, and he really can’t make a decision to save his life, and there are lots of other little things that are making me think perhaps he’s just not the right kind of guy for me. But then, at the same time, there are lots of little things that are making me think maybe he COULD be the right kind of guy for me.
But I text My Mr. Grey anyway, and then he text me back and … well, before either of us knew it, he was telling me how he’d be down at my end of the country next weekend and we were making plans to ‘catch up’. I want so much to be a faithful, loyal and doting girlfriend to One Ball, but the second-guessing is making My Mr. Grey seem all the more attractive and it’s just sheer coincidence – or fate – that keeps bringing us together.
And this is exactly what My Mr. Grey does: he swoops in when I’m in a new(ish) relationship and somehow manages to completely mangle my head. He did it with The Lapdog a few times, and The Hubby. In fact, My Mr. Grey turned up the weekend that The Hubby and I got engaged. There was a part of me that desperately wished he’d have said the thing we both knew I wanted him to say: let’s give it a try. But he didn’t and I moved on.
But now he’s back. Now that I’ve found myself a relationship with someone who I genuinely really care for, he’s back and trying to mangle my head again … and my heart. After all we went through just a few months back; all the confusion and misunderstandings and pouring out our love for each other only for it to fall on deaf ears … and now we’re back to this? Really?
And would you like to know the worst part? I’m DYING to get my hands on My Mr. Grey again. Actually, scrap that, I want My Mr. Grey to get his hands on ME. I want him to abuse me in that way that only he does, fucking my head and my heart and my body all at once. A naughty weekend with him is just what the doctor ordered, but it’s not the right thing to do. I know that.
One Ball fucks me just fine, you know? It’s good sex. Great sex. Fun and passionate and messy … but predictable. I know how he’s going to touch me and for how long. It’s like I can predict every move even when he tries to make things spontaneous, and it’s … well, it’s boring. I’m bored. All the while we had a goal: me making him cum in my mouth, for example, it was fun, but now I’m starting to get bored. That’s why he irritated me during our previous two-week stay, and why I keep picking fights with him over the stupidest things. I need some kinky-fuckery. One Ball gives it a shot, yes, but we all know that My Mr. Grey is the KING of all things kinky-fuckery. Maybe I need something else, too? I don’t know, but I do know that I would give my right arm to be in the arms of My Mr. Grey for one more night.
So what do I do about this?
My first instinct is to say goodbye to My Mr. Grey.
Completely cut him off. I don’t want to play his games. I keep playing them and I never win. The rules change all the time, and I never really know what the prize is at the end. It’s all too confusing. He wants to commit to me but can’t seem to do it without the grand romantic gesture, or a night of hardcore sex. His romantic gestures are wasted on me. Just take a look at what happened with the wedding I never turned up to. I’m not that kind of girl. It’s nice and all, but I just really want him to commit to me – and say the words. I don’t need all of the fluff and crap that comes with it.
My second instinct is the one we should all ignore.
It’s telling me to dig out my hottest, fuck-me-now underwear, pack a bag of toys and lubricants to play with, and trot on over to My Mr. Grey’s hotel room, ready for him to abuse me as he chooses. It’s what I want, more than anything. The thought of it consumes me. My mind trails back to all those times we were out shopping and he’d curl his arm around my waist, pulling me in close and squeezing almost painfully tightly on my rib cage. It wasn’t enough of a grip to be painful, but still enough to remind me of just who wore the pants in our relationship … and it wasn’t me.
And he’d sometimes rest his hand on the back of my neck, casually, as though it were barely even a significant action at all. But it WAS a significant action. To us, it was, anyway. It used to make me feel uncomfortable but in a totally comfortable way. Commandeering, but in a way I wanted him to commandeer.
We fuck differently every time we see each other. It’s never boring. Ever. It’s never the same thing twice, and I’m never expecting whatever it is. He’s in complete control at all times, but there’s one thing I know for sure each time I see him: I’m going to have fun, I’m going to cum, and I’m going to be thinking about what he did to me for many months and years to come. Possibly forever.
My third instinct is the worst.
It’s telling me that One Ball and I have nothing in common; that we aren’t going to go anywhere; that we should break up. There’s a really big part of me that thinks we might just be reaching the end of our lifespan, but I genuinely don’t want that to be the case. But if my head is turned so quickly and so easily by the prospect of another man, surely I’m not as into him as I think I am? Because that second instinct up there … that’s the winning one right now.
Maybe my feelings for My Mr. Grey are telling me just how I really feel about One Ball?
I’ve got myself in a right pickle, folks. I’m not really sure what to do about this.
Watch this space, I guess?