Bad Text Sex, Good Car Sex, The Exclusive Chat

I’ve been quiet recently. Sorry about that. It’s been a busy few days, but I thought it might be time to update you all with what’s been happening in my life. Are you ready? Drink in hand? Snacks close by?

Then I shall begin …

Big Love

Let’s start with the Big Love obsession. Because, at this point, there’s no way it’s not an obsession. I was happily trundling through my two-week breakup crash course of sad, soppy movies that would absolutely make me cry, until, just like that, I got bored of it all. I got bored of crying, of being sad, of moping around. It was as though I just snapped myself out of it. I mean, yes, of course I still miss him. And yes, I still stalk his Facebook page. And yes, I keep seeing things that I absolutely don’t want to see. And no, I’m probably not going to stop doing that for a while yet.

I need some real action. Right-now action, not just memories of action past. Thankfully, I have a string of men apparently stepping forward for the position.

Now let’s talk about Number 31

Number 31 is The Best Man. And, just as the name suggests, he’s the best man from my wedding to The Hubby. Well, once upon a time, when The Hubby and I had broken up, I accidentally had a bit of a drunken dalliance with The Best Man. And that’s just where the conversation steered when he popped up out of the blue on my phone.

It started with pleasantries and small talk: how are you, what have you been doing, do you still keep in touch with so-and-so? It wasn’t long before he started talking about that night. That accidental drunken dalliance night. You see, in his head, the dalliance is unfinished. He thinks we still have unfinished business to attend to. Why? Because he fucked me so hard and viciously that he made me bleed, which put a really painful and abrupt end to it all. But now he thinks he’s owed an ending. That’s why he’s texting. I know this is true, which is why I’m not really sure why I text him back … or carried on texting. Let’s just put it down to boredom.

Doing what men like him do, he sent me a dick pic. Completely out of the blue. We were flirting, yes, but it was fairly innocent flirting. We weren’t talking about sex, as such. I wasn’t expecting the dick pic, nor did I want it. I especially didn’t want his version of a dick pic. What a mess … and I’m not talking about his dick.

Just as I was coming to terms with the picture, a video appeared. This time, he was beating himself off. Ew. Grubby bedsheets, dirty and bitten fingernails, a messy room in the background … the image wasn’t an attractive one. He could at least have tidied up the space around him a little bit first. Or washed his hands.

He wanted a picture back. Because, you know, they always do. He’s seen me naked already. He’s been inside of me, too. So, stupidly, I sent him a photo back. Because I was bored, because he was paying me attention, because … I don’t know? I reached into my Dropbox folder of naughty-looking shots taken on feel-good days and grabbed one that wasn’t too explicit to satisfy him, or so I thought.

“No, I want to see your fanny.” 

Hahaha, what?! Fanny? I’ve not said that word since I was about five years old, so my lady boner disappeared super quickly. Please don’t call my vagina that. Ever.

I didn’t oblige him with a “fanny” shot [actually cringed], but I did send him a tit snap. What I really wanted to do was stop the conversation dead in its tracks, but I felt almost responsible for getting him to this point. I guess I’d need to see it through until the end. And I did. And for my participation, I was rewarded with another video. It was his come-shot this time. He thought I was happily wanking away with him, but in reality, I was merrily doing the dishes, reaching for my phone every now and then to reply to him. Again, it was all out of boredom and because I wanted attention.

The next night, he sent me a message: “I can’t wait for our games to start tonight!”

Aw shit. It wasn’t a one-off like I’d hoped. Now he wants me to do it again. He told me that he wants us to “finish off” that time we slept together, years ago. This actually brings me nicely to the story of how I went to be with Super Woman one night …

The Hubby and I had broken up for two weeks and I moved from mainland Europe back to the UK. I didn’t really have a choice; The Hubby had gone away with work for two weeks and taken all of our bank cards with him … including mine. He left me with no way of accessing funds (the first time of many) so I did the only thing I knew to do: I went running back home to my family.

During that break, I found myself bizarrely bumping into The Best Man. He just so happened to be in my home town (weird coincidence) and was at a pub crawl in the same bar that I was in … dressed as Super Woman. I have no idea why he was dressed like that. He was the only one in his circle of friends dressed like that, and he never told me why. He was literally at his very own little fancy dress party, just for one. Anyway, we got talking, had a few drinks together, and it wasn’t long before we were in a cab and heading back to his hotel room. Drunk, obviously.

It wasn’t great. Like, one of the worst. That’s why it went unfinished, and he’s been trying to finish it ever since. There was a birthday party he attended, that I’m pretty sure he wasn’t even invited to, during which I had to pretend that some other guy was my actual man for the night just so he’d leave me alone. And now I’ve done the worst thing ever and encouraged him with the silly text-sexting. I’ve found myself in a little pickle here. A stupid one. Self-inflicted. Don’t give me your sympathy because I don’t deserve it.

Now let’s talk about One Ball. 

It was One Ball‘s birthday the other day. Buying him a gift was an actual nightmare because we haven’t been together all that long. He doesn’t wear cologne. He does read books but he also has a Kindle, so there’s no much point in me buying him anything he can actually turn the pages on. I thought about buying him clothes or something like that, but that’s such a dangerous area, don’t you think? I don’t know his size. I don’t even really know his style that well. What if I end up buying him something that I like, that he doesn’t like? Awkward stuff.

Instead of a gift, I decided to treat him to some fun. A night out, dinner, me dressed up in some brand new lingerie that was purchased specially for the occasion. Sadly, in that way that all of my plans do, everything fell apart. His car wouldn’t start. The restaurant we went to wasn’t particularly pleasant, but the food was okay-ish. The company wasn’t bad, but it felt a little awkward every now and then. But we couldn’t pay with debit card so then we needed to get cash out, which meant he waited awkwardly in the restaurant while I ran up and down the surrounding roads trying to find somewhere to get some cash out. Drama.

Things took a turn for the better when we walked out of the restaurant, thankfully. We went for a drive because that’s one of those things that we’ve discovered we like to do, and we found a little secluded spot in which I could work my magic. And what I mean by that is, I sucked his dick until he couldn’t wait to fuck me and then I left handprints all over the inside of his windows. Lots of grunting, lots of thrusting, lots of come. Magical stuff.

There is one thing that bugs me about One Ball a little bit, though. It feels like such a weird and stupid thing to complain about, but it really is starting to become a complaint at this point. He just takes too long to come. Ages. Oh my god, too fucking long. Sometimes this girl just really needs a quickie but with him, it’s never that. Am I doing it wrong? Are we doing it wrong? Is it because he has just the one bollock? I don’t know. It annoys me, though.

There’s something else, too. Something equally weird and stupid. So stupid, in fact, I’m almost not brave enough to share it with you at all. Okay, fine, I will … he pulls the weirdest faces when he’s fucking me. I’m not one to put down someone else’s sex face, because I’ve been the star in my own homemade porno; I know what my own face looks like. Sex faces aren’t meant to be pretty. (That’s what I keep telling myself.) But One Ball’s faces? Gosh, I’m almost laughing during sex.

We had the “exclusive chat” last night. He’s going away for work and it means we’ll need to figure out the long-distance thing if we want it to work. I half expected the chat to come up at some point. It’s kinda felt like he’s been hinting at it for a while. It’s been six weeks, give or take, and we’ve shared enough of ourselves to know whether or not we actually like each other. And I do like him, despite the weird sex faces. So, when he asked me if I’d be his girlfriend, I said yes.

I guess I’m in a relationship now. 

Which brings me neatly to my next problem … 

What am I going to do about My Mr. Grey? Are we even meant to be dating other people? I asked him what we were, to define us, and he couldn’t give me an answer. That’s answer enough, right? If he can’t say yes, it’s a no? I haven’t told him about One Ball. As you’ve probably guessed, One Ball doesn’t really know about My Mr. Grey, either. To be honest, I’ve not absolutely no clue what I’m doing or which direction my tangled love life is going to travel next. I’m just going to ride it out. After all, One Ball did tell me he didn’t like long-distance relationships. There’s no point in telling them about each other if one of them is just going to fizzle out anyway …

I guess time will tell. 

𝕊𝕚𝕩𝕡𝕖𝕟𝕔𝕖 𝕟𝕠𝕟𝕖

🥞 D R I P P I N G 🥞 Started my Sunday off t

• A S H E S • I turned my Grandparents into a

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Photo by Yura Fresh on Unsplash