Tricky Tricky

It starts as it always does, with my hormones driving me crazy and turning me into a moody, murderous bitch. Something small, insignificant really, sets me off and I round on you, irritable and snappish, going off into the deep end almost immediately, my voice rising in volume and pitch till I’m screaming at you, your face an unreadable mask of calm that for some reason aggravates me even more. I needle you, looking for a reaction, pushing for it, but you only reply to my questions with short, to-the-point answers that bring angry tears to my eyes. I want to hit you, to hurt you so that the ineffable calm of your visage is wiped away, and with that in mind, I move towards you, some form of violence at the forefront of my thoughts. But before I can raise my hand, you flip me around and grab me in a bear hug, pinning my arms to my sides even as I struggle and curse you in frustration. Your voice is in my ear, saying, "hey, hey, hey, calm down, there’s no need to do this." My freer hand beats against your side ineffectually and I grow increasingly violent until you have to let go of me. I turn around immediately, asking you, "who the fuck you think you are? And how dare you treat me like that?" Before I know it, I’ve burst into tears, my helplessness at their arrival making it all somehow worse.

You don’t answer, simply gather me in your arms and hold me tight to you. I still struggle, not sure why, but wanting to struggle anyway. I am still crying, my cheeks wet with tears, mouth twisted in that strange way that mouths do when people cry, and I feel like I’m heartbroken. You repeat the words again, softer this time, "hey, hey, hey. Calm down. Come on." I try to, but before I know it I’ve been taken over by another heaving sob, and your lips are pressed against mine even through the salty rivers of tears running down my cheeks and most certainly flavouring my lips. I breathe you in like I’m gasping for air, half-sobs catching in my throat as you drown them out with your kiss. I need this. I need it hard and raw and deep, like I’ve never needed it before. My hands reach behind your head and slip through your hair, settling at the nape of your neck, pulling you deeper into the kiss. Your left arm is still wrapped around me, your right hand tangled in my hair, and you guide us to the couch, laying me down very slowly onto it. You settle in above me and start to kiss me again, moving away from my mouth to slowly kiss up all my tears, from my eyes to my nose to the little drop on my chin. I blink at the feel of your tongue on my cheek as it tastes my tears, wanting you close, never far away. You pause for a moment to look into my still-confused, slightly teary eyes, and you say, low and clear, “I love you. Please don’t cry.”And as you come back to kiss me again, this time there is a heat to the feel of your salty tongue on mine that is unmistakable.

I can feel your body hard against mine, and I scoot a little so that it moulds to my curves, wanting to be in contact with as much of you as possible. Clothes are starting to feel like a hindrance, but just as I’m contemplating reaching down to pull off my top, your lips find my neck, a few inches below my ear, and I forget everything. Your lips are gentle, your tongue soft and warm and wet, and I melt under your touch. I squirm against you, my breath catching in my throat, and you shift a little so that I can feel your hardening cock against my thigh. I love that feeling, and grind against it, so that you know that I’ve noticed. Your head cocks slightly as I do this, your body stilled, enjoying the sensation.

We are both in a hurry now – me, because I just want to be fucked into oblivion so that I can give my raging hormones an outlet, and you because...well, you want me and you want me now. My top is pulled up over my breasts, and while your mouth dips to my nipples and you roll around them with your hot tongue, I quickly tug it off and out of the way, thanking my stars that I’m not wearing a bra. You are soon kneeling over me, one hand fiddling at the fly of my jeans, trying to undo the button. I help you with it and we slide it down so that you can slip your hand down, under the elastic waistband of my panties, to stroke my pussy lips. There is a fierce ache in my loins and I need to put the fire out as soon as possible, but your light strokes are causing all coherent thought to flee my mind. I moan, at which your head snaps back up, regarding my half-closed eyes with a wicked grin, and I find that I am moaning into your mouth, which has covered mine with furious intent. I can still taste my tears on your tongue.  Your fingers are still stroking, stroking, stroking my pussy lips, gathering all the wetness there and slowly spreading it upwards so that you will have enough to stroke my clit with.

I want to spread my legs wide for you as you do this, so I push you off and tug my jeans and underwear off in one hurried tangle, lying back down with one leg hooked over the back of the sofa, watching you as you take your t-shirt off – my eyes drinking in the sight of your muscled chest and arms and your smooth stomach – and then home in on my pussy. You settle with your face hovering just above it, leaning on one arm while you resume stroking my pussy lips with the fingers of the other hand – long, languid strokes that are sending shivers down my spine and making me squirm. You’re teasing me mercilessly and I almost want to weep again from the helplessness, but I stop as I feel your finger drifting further and further upward till it stops just short of my clit. You hold it there and I can feel you looking at me, and I know you’re waiting for me to make the next move. Almost like a marionette on strings, my hips roll, and my pelvis rises slowly towards your waiting finger, and I shudder as my slick clit meets your slicker digit, just the fleetest touch before you move your finger again and press down on my belly to make sure I don’t buck again...yet.

I hold still in anticipation of what you will do next, neither wanting to look away nor to see what’s coming. My eyelids flutter closed just as you slide two fingers up my lips to either side of my clit, grazing it from both sides and rolling it gently between them. The feeling is delicious, and the sudden thought of your tongue on my clit makes me jump. You notice, and raise an eyebrow at me as I suddenly open my eyes and look straight into yours. You want to know what I want. I murmur, softly, “lick my clit”. You pretend that you can’t hear me, cocking your head with one ear towards me, forcing me to say it louder. “Lick my clit...please,” I groan, the last word punctuated by the slick feeling of your two fingers rubbing against my clit with increased pressure.

This time, you acknowledge that you’ve heard me, and you bend your head low to my pussy, first kissing my mound as you continue to stroke my pussy and clit with your fingers before finally making your way down to my slick folds. The feel of your hot breath on my pussy is already driving me crazy, and my eyes beg you not to tease me any more. Your eyes lock on mine as you finally start to lick my clit, lightly at first, then harder, your tongue soft and warm. My one hand grips the sofa, the other grabs the back of your head and urges you on. I start to buck into your mouth in time to your licks, my face scrunching up from the feeling. You lick my pussy up and down, in long, deliberate strokes, your tongue like velvet and heat. Then you stiffen your tongue and start to tongue-fuck me, making me suddenly greedy for your hard cock filling me up, stretching me, taking me. Me pussy is very wet now. I gasp, my hand still at the back of your head – “fuck me. Please fuck me.” My back is arched from the pleasure of your mouth on my pussy and your tongue inside me, and it only relaxes when you rise, licking your lips and grinning at my need.

You get up off the couch now and unbuckle your belt. I reach up to help you – I can’t have it off soon enough – and then practically rip your jeans off you in my hurry to have you in me. Your stiff cock is soon waving in front of my face, and I take it in my mouth almost my instinct, my hunger now for cock in my mouth, in my pussy – anywhere. You let me lick and slurp at it like a particularly fast-melting ice-cream cone for a little while, your head thrown back and your hand guiding my head, before gently pushing me back. My mouth releases it with a soft pop, and I look up at you, wondering how you’ll want it.

You sit down on the couch, hips nearly at the edge, and pull me over to you, kissing me as you lower me into your lap, slowly impaling me on your cock. I pull my head back as your mouth finds my nipples, focusing on the feeling of fullness and heat as I take all of you in me, bit by bit. I like lowering myself onto you slowly, but you always grow a tad bit impatient towards the end, and thrust the last inch deep into me. I groan. I want to stay like this, savouring how stretched and perfect I feel, but you have other plans. I have my hands on your shoulders, clasped behind your neck, and you place your hands on my waist, beginning to rock me back and forth on your cock with slow, then faster movements. I have love handles which I am often insecure about, but in moments like these they are perfect for you to grip onto, and you are rocking me harder and faster now. I start slipping up and down on your cock, further and further each time till it is almost all the way out on the upswing and I slam down onto it on the way back. I have my eyes closed, my mouth open, and my breathing is ragged. Every so often I look down to see you looking up at me, your eyes a little glazed, your lips full and begging to be ravaged, and I bend to do just that. I suck on your lips as I fuck your cock, and in the midst of this charged soul-fucking, I forget my tears and I forget my anger. I just want to feel you in me, in this way, forever.

Racing Against the Clock

I can't stand the thought of going a year without sex. It scares me. A dry year would be...just...awful. I'd feel insecure, unattractive, unhappy. I do like sex. I do want it. So I'm not too happy that I haven't had any in so fucking long.

I last had sex on around about the 18th of April last year. Today's the 8th of February. I have just over two months to go out there and get some before I sink into depression and then proceed to turn up drunk at The Ex's birthday or something.

I'll admit, I like fucking, even if I'm not as big a fan of it as some other people I know. That might have a great deal to do with my inability to orgasm except under very specific circumstances (count so far: one orgasm over at least fifty-odd fucks). But then again, after much thought, I've come to the conclusion that though The Ex was really awesome and considerate in bed, we were still very young and inexperienced. He was my first, and I was his, so that makes it a given that it couldn't have been the best sex ever (though I didn't have anything to compare it with, really). I really enjoyed sex with him, and have, as a result of the generally good experiences I had with him, developed a healthy appreciation and appetite for sex. But I can't say that I always loved the sex. Not coming kinda does that to you. And when he stopped coming, the fucking suddenly didn't seem all that enjoyable - what's the point of exerting yourself so much if neither of you are getting anywhere? Sure, I like (no, wait; I love) the joyous sensation of being filled up oh-so-slowly; that glorious friction; that irresistible feeling of smoothness sliding into you. Sure. But the next step, the next level -  it just wasn't there after a while. I don't remember climbing that mountain with him more than that one time. (I'm happy to report that he went over it many, many times with me. Lost count of how many times. Heh.) I just think the passion went out of the sex after a while, and then we were just fucking each other for the heck of it. Because it felt good. Or something. 

But back to thoughts for the future. I believe that there's better (waaay better) sex waiting out there for me. And I want to go out there and get it. And I really want to go out there and get it before I hit that ominous one-year mark. I'll just go kill myself or drink myself into stupefaction if I have a dry year to deal with. Also, then, I'll get super-desperate, and try to fuck anyone and anything just to get rid of the stigma. Good decision-making is sure to go down the drain at that point, and I'm not particularly inclined to be in that position. Especially because then I'll become that desperate drunk whore. Nu-uh. That is not going to be me. I'm gonna go out there and get laid with class. Heh.

I'm racing against the clock here now. I really hope this month in Delhi will get me where I want to go. Fingers well and truly crossed.

Don't Speak

Don’t speak.

I don’t want to know what you’re thinking. I don’t want to know how you feel. I have heard your reasons in the past, and can’t hear anything from you any more, because it hurts. It hurts, not because of something you have said or done in the present, but because it is the dull ache of the past, with its memories and its reflected pain – pain that will only ebb once it has flowed.

I understand now why rebounds are so common – sometimes you need someone, anyone, to be there as you recover, as an emotional wrecking ball demolishing you every morning. Someone to distract you and occupy your mind when you let yourself be distracted and occupied. Someone to help you exorcise your demons by turning everything into equations of the material realm, exhausting you physically with repeated lovemaking till your mind shuts down from its extended overdrive and derives a few hours of clarity and peace.

Sometimes we are broken so bad that it takes more than just time to un-break – while we may spring back in our work and our flimsy social relationships, sometimes the fault lines run so deep that we don’t realise how bad it is until one morning, we look in the mirror and can’t recognise the person looking back at us.
Loss changes people. Always. But here, with this, I’m not entirely sure of the extent of my loss, or of the things I’ve lost. What do I know right now of the price I’ve paid in self-respect and self-confidence?

Ramble.

I, like, totally love this statement.
And I just discovered Polyvore. I think the concept is frickin' awesome - though I'm sure it must result in a lot of wasted time, heheh. It's one of those... addictions that I'd love to have.
Sigh. I want an addiction.
Perhaps I already have one, in him. I'm afraid that it really is one, our relationship. It scares me to analyse it like that - and it scares me even more when we talk about it and he analyses it like that.
Desperately wanting things to work out won't make them work out. That's a lesson I learnt a long time ago. I can only hope that goodness follows, and does not abate. I don't even want to hope for anything too specific. Like I'm afraid I'll jinx it... whatever it is.

In other news, I've also discovered Playlist.com. Which I have fallen in love with. My current playlist includes Blondie's Maria (from the 90's, people), Emosanal Atyachar from the Dev D OST, and Shine On by The Kooks, which shuffle with Just Like You Imagined by NIN and Rooster by Alice In Chains. That's about as diverse as I can get. Oh, and the Jonas Brothers and Katy Perry also feature on the list. As does Will Smith. So, yeah, you get the picture. I've thought of a song I want to listen to, and added it. This is the result - the kind of beautiful chaos I've always struggled to embrace.
.
.
.
.
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Which brings me to another thought I often have - the real extent of my self-proclaimed liberal philosophy. I've realised that I don't feel offended or scandalised when faced with most forms of profanity or vulgarity - as long as I don't have to actually see/experience it in person. I love being able to joke about a good fuck with my lover. I love being able to talk about how our professors are such grumps because they haven't gotten any in a while, and I totally love imitating the way MPPP feels up guys sitting by the aisle during his class. I loved the movie Shortbus (so. much.)

So while I love the idea of sex (and love it when I can have it, too), I can't reconcile myself to the idea of casual sex. That bit I find myself unable to deal with. This inability also encompasses casual encounters of the drunk-making-out kind. I'm a rather paranoid, cautious person, which means that I would never let myself get into a situation where Drunk Making Out With Random would happen. Heck, I can understand drunk making out. But when someone says that all the guys she's made out with while drunk "don't count" - yeah, that freaks me out some. A lot. A huge fucking lot.

Maybe it's just that I've never had to look for action (my being committed to someone for the last couple of years might have had something to do with it), or maybe I place meaning and value in being intimate with another - but this is one thing I just can't get my head around. Perhaps it's hypocritical. I know that in my head I secretly want to have casual sex, for the fun of it (and that's possibly the least of my fantasies, which stretch to domination and group sex without much effort). But the peculiar state of my real-life relationship means that I will never, as long as it continues, go there, or ask him to let me. I love too strongly, and have given of myself too wholly, and learnt bitter lessons from too many mistakes, to let that happen. So I don't mind being a hypocrite in this matter, if it means that I know where I stand. It gives me peace of mind. Wouldn't you choose the same, too?