Dee's Journal

"That, yes. Also, no ass. No biting. No choking. Oral is only foreplay."

Lips then relocked, and hands on clothes were much quicker.

We continued our frantic babbling while I had one hand inside his shorts squeezing a butt cheek and he lifted one side of my open blouse behind my head to leave it dangling on the arm I was using. I told him not to pull my hair, and said I wanted advance notice if he desired something out-there, giving feet as an example. He okayed and uh-huhhed and didn't add any more don'ts of his own.

"Eat me first," I said, "then I lick you just before the condom." My height and contours don't make for a worthwhile sixty-nine.

"Yeah yeah," he said. I wasn't sure he heard me, but I saw him pull a foil-wrapped three-pack out of his pants pocket.

Then there was a lurch to the bedroom, me in bra and undies with jeans still on one leg, him in an undershirt, hobbling with inner and outer trou on socks and shoes. He insisted on undoing my bra and slobbering my girlies before attending to his own garments.

His lips were now quite enjoyable. But boob love could wait. I flopped on my back on the bed, lifted my legs, and yanked off my undies. He knelt on the floor, and I surrounded him with my spread thighs.

Her lips were now very enjoyable. And tongue! As he got me wet outside, my inside fizzed.

I lay there and let this happen. And keep happening.

"Yeah yeah!" I wailed, legs vibrating,

Then I remembered that I'd said foreplay only.

Shitfuckgoddamn! I thought, maybe already too far gone. Yeah, there it was, heat shooting up from my belly, flashes along my spine. Can I fake NOT having an orgasm?

My neighbor in the apartment above had moved in seven months earlier. If he was home, he probably got too much information from my holler of "Lemme suck!" I hoped Curt just took it as enthusiasm.

Whole body still buzzing, I dug my elbows into the bedspread and forced myself to sit up halfway. Curt knelt onto the bed, hauling off his undershirt, one leg now clear but for the sock. This may have been the worst blowjob of my life, sloppy tonguing as he slowly, shallowly fucked my face, his focus on getting a condom out of the foil.

He was at least as eager as I was, pulling back to latex himself. I was still having aftershocks. What he pushed between my labia was thick and hard. Either I kept cumming, or Orgasm The First yielded to Orgasm The Second. I. Did. Not. Care.

This time, there were definitely writhing limbs and spine-shaking contractions. Don't know about the trembling lips.

His cock felt like it was everywhere in my pussy, latex sliding along each cell, but for all I know, right then I might have cum on a crayon.

There was a lot of sweat, from both of us, mixing when I pulled him down and his chest flattened my boobs, and when my thighs squeezed his hips as I wrapped my legs around him.

Our bodies bounced the bed. On each landing, I thought I could feel the spiral wire of the journal.

As I tapered off, he was still pounding. "Cut loose Baby!" I rasped, hoping he was holding back.

He was. Two strokes later, he drove his deepest, held steady, and gave my neighbor more excessive information.

I went limp. Curt disengaged and grabbed two tissues from the nightstand box.

Slowly regaining the use of my lungs, I watched him slide off the scumbag into one tissue, then use the other to get some of the glop off his wang. Very practiced, I thought. Cuteness has gained him experience.

Soon we were side by side, kissing and nuzzling, his free hand playing with my tits.

Am I liking this too much? I thought, with a brain immersed in a bucket of oxytocin.

Stroking his hair, I said, "Don't think I didn't enjoy this, or that I'm not grateful. But this followed two years of celibacy. My body might have been a pushover. That may not happen again."

His smile looked more knowing than I had expected from him. "Do you always worst-case?"

"I don't build castles in the sky."

"What I've picked up from what you said," said Curt, speech pattern returning to uncertainty and blamelessness, "is that you aren't looking for anything emotional or romantic, and maybe just a friend with benefits. Did I get that right, and if so is it still right?"

"Wow!" I said. With a grin I put a hand to the side of my face, thumb to ear, pinky to mouth, miming an old phone handset. "I can see how you get through work every day!" I put on a sexy voice. "You really know how to support a customer."

He looked both flattered and chagrined. "You really know how to dodge a question."

"Yeah, right, FWB. Just don't tell my mother, she's had too much excitement."

Uncertainty fled him. "How was my audition?"

Smug bastard! Smug, cute, just-the-right-height bastard! "You've earned a callback. When my body has adjusted."

"I like this adjustment," he said, fingering a nipple that was now almost the size and firmness of the end of my thumb. My Mediterranean legacy gave me large, dark areolas. They yearned for his mouth.

Smug bastard who brought two more condoms! Achievement had swept away his self-deprecation.

I forced myself to smile sweetly and say, "In my journal entry, do you want to come across as an obnoxious asshole?"

That worked. His eyes opened fully and his look sobered. "No, definitely not." Despite having earlier shrugged off my journaling, this clearly mattered to him.

"Good," I said, leaning my bosom closer. "Keep that in mind as you resume what you did before we got to the bed."

Boob love could wait no longer. Curt was nice enough with hands and mouth, but I've probably had comparable treatment before. Yet this time, for the first time, I was on the way to what might be a nipple orgasm.

"You okay with me, uh, fingering?" I said, then added, "Myself?"

I think what he said into my left breast was "Uh-huh." The affirmative kind.

So I did that. And, in a couple minutes, I came. Oops, no, I 'caym.'

For the third, freakin', time.

I have never slut-shamed anyone. At that moment, I was close to doing it to myself.

When I was able to pronounce, "Another indication," I did so, and followed, "that my body is making up for lost time. Again, I'm really happy with you. But please understand how I feel."

"I think I do," he said earnestly, still aware of the threat of his journal entry.

I looked along his body. His putz had some girth, but was soft. I took that to mean he was still recovering, and I hadn't deprived him of anything. Yet.

I said, "I'll call my sister now. Then we can take a shower, and if you like I can help you out."

"Sounds great!" Probably his absolute truth.

Silly wet soapy fun, during which I jerked him off. Unwrapped, but angled well away from me.

There was also some slow, deep kissing.

At least once, I started it.

Our wet bodies together felt very, very nice.

I wasn't scared by that. So, naturally, I worried about why I wasn't.

Light, friendly chat as we dressed. A light, friendly kiss at the door.

In a while, I got out the journal.

I don't think I feel anything emotional, about him. Nor he about me. But I feel good. In a way I don't recall ever feeling, about sex.

Maybe I'm more mature now. A responsible grown-up who manages a store that upholds her beliefs.

Maybe after two years of diligent masturbation, my body has figured out what works best, and responds well to arousal.

Maybe this guy is just too damn cute.

As I think about what might happen at our next session, I don't know what worries me more: That it'll be a letdown...or that it won't.

***

April 17

Between Donna and me and, to some extent, Pop, we got through the first extended-family dinner since Mom's stay in the hospital. Pop mostly did fetch-and-carry when he didn't have to cover his main responsibility, limiting Mom's activity. There's no way we could keep her out of the kitchen completely, but she agreed to do no more than make one pan of lasagna. We cut it up small to make sure everybody got some.

Unhelpfully, this was an extra-large turnout. Donna was able to trim the sit-down-and-eat crowd to 18, with everyone else agreeing to be drop-in well-wishers who would quickly get out. Couldn't get around this, it was Mom's first public appearance since getting home, with a life now to be restricted by her angina.

This time I did all of my cooking at Mom & Pop's, and made two different healthy-foodie dishes. Donna boosted her output of eggplant parmigiana. This had the two of us in the kitchen for long stretches. At one point, when we were the only people there, she said quietly, "So, it went okay yesterday?"

"It did," I said, trying for brightness and showing a smile, all quite sincere. I hoped that would close off the discussion. But this was Donna.

"You really like him?" asked the big sister who was as eager to get me married, and maternal, as Mom and Pop were.

"We had a whole lot of fun," said the little sister who remained resolutely single, and continued a long trend of questioning authority, and had her own ideas about things like food and sex. And what I said was true. My first full-smash sex with Curt was excellent. Physically. What else I felt about it was complicated, and self-inflicted.

"Fun is a good sign," said Donna, her own smile naughty-but-nice. She wasn't against pre-marital sex. She had dabbled in it a fair amount, in her day. But it was always with 'marital' as the clear end point. She and Ron had two kids, in rapid succession, and were now in a four-year breather.

I was grateful that Donna agreed to check up on me, and that she kept this just between us. Yet I hoped somebody would barge into the kitchen and force an end to this topic.

That didn't happen, so I just nodded, still smiling.

Fortunately, Donna allowed herself to become occupied with mixing enough salad greens for two big serving bowls. So we averted one of those moments when she became more stringently Catholic and I became more preachingly organic.

***

April 19

Despite the fact that he hadn't blown our cover at the previous game night, I called Curt before tonight's gathering to make sure that, in front of other people, we'd continue to keep things on what my parents call the down-low.

I mean, things were different now. We had fucked.

"Let's be ordinary gamers tonight, okay? No hand-holding, no meaningful looks."

"I get it," he said. "Nobody should think we're bonded, or anything."

I stopped myself from asking if he'd been romantically involved with anyone else in the group. In fact, my vague notion of us hooking up with others probably shouldn't happen in that crowd. Drama to the Nth. "I'm not dissing you," I told him. "But acting like a coosome twosome would be unwise. We don't want to be trapped in a room full of projectile vomit."

"Very true," he said. "So if I destroy you tonight in Rail Baron, I won't apologize."

I almost fumed. He did that once. But on the basic principle, he had the right attitude.

Yet I think we blew it. In a different sense than what I'd said to Donna, we had a whole lot of fun. Probably more than could be justified from the same old gaming with eleven other people.

We weren't even directing anything at each other. No obvious get-a-room moments. But why would either of us be so intrigued by the store's debut of an advance beta-release of a revised RPG, for which the consensus was that this version wasn't significantly different or better?

I made sure to dial myself back on the two occasions when I was asked about my mother's health. Even though I said quite honestly that she was doing well, and adjusting.

Two other guys got to an early stage of chatting me up, maybe because my persona was so vibrant and upbeat (and recently fucked?). Curt was aware of this, and tried not to show it. He said nothing.

Later, Curt's own aura drew the interest of Melanie, a long-haired cutie still in college. She's maybe a bit shorter than he is.

They spent a while together, just the two. Playing cribbage.

Okay, the people there have a wide array of interests, and new games that come along don't displace old ones, only join them.

But, cribbage?

(Full disclosure. In college, sometimes I played euchre.)

In keeping with my work-night schedule, I left at my usual time.

Curt looked up from his game, and his, ahem, opponent, to join with others in wave-and-farewell.

It's late, so I will not write in this journal, one hundred times, "He's not mine, Bitch."

***

April 21

Tonight after work seemed like a good time for this text exchange, now printed and paper-clipped.

M: Good news is also bad news. My period has begun, right on schedule. My compliments to your brand of condoms. Afraid, however, I'm on the sidelines this weekend.

C: I share in your relief. Does your condition rule out doing friend-zone stuff?

M: Like what? Seeing another weak movie?

C: How about eating? You could pick a restaurant and educate me.

M: I don't think I'll be pleasant company until my next cycle starts. But thanks for asking. See you Tuesday?

C: Definitely. Take care.

I think I know him well enough now to conclude that he wanted to defuse any thoughts I have about him and Melanie.

I think he knows me well enough now to believe that was necessary.

It was necessary. Damn. And it doesn't mean that he isn't shtupping her right now, only that he cares about my feelings.

Okay, he probably hasn't moved on her. Even if she's moved on him.

This is all happening because I don't want other people to think that Curt and I are a couple. I don't want me to think it. I don't want him to think it.

Would it really be so bad if we were?

Did I really write that?!

Yes, Journal, I did. And I'm not going to scratch it out. I'm going to let it sit there on the page, threatening to turn my life upside down. I'll know it's there, even after it's covered by the mattress.

And I'll continue to believe that I can't think any useful thoughts about this until after our dreaded Second Sex Session, which now figures to be nine days from now. If not later.

***

April 23

It was something like sixty years ago that Sam Cooke sang, "Another Saturday night, and I ain't got nobody."

I can relate.

Knowing that this would be an ain't-got night, I put in a whole day at TruFoods, catching up on business-side stuff that I sometimes procrastinate. I won't have anything extra to show for this, because I'm in management, on a set salary, not an hourly wage. I got through it reasonably well, dulled a bit by ibuprofen, but otherwise alert and functional.

Now I'm home, my legs are crampy, and the cottony thing in my nether cavity is doing what's intended. But I'm spoiled, and now I want what goes there to give me a good time.

I'm sitting in the living room, the journal open on the flatpack construct that serves as a small desk. I'm looking out at raindrops hitting the window. Some of them take on brief streetlight sparkles during impact.

If Curt's out gallivanting with Melanie, this may put a damper on things. Or make them cut past the chase, to the bed.

I haven't been in touch with him since the texts two nights ago. I gave him no reason to think I'd want to interact before Tuesday.

I refuse to be needy.

And, fundamentally, I'm not. Also, from what I know of him, I don't think he's seeing someone else. He's as tentative as I am.

I think this is the time to work out what I'm doing with this journal.

Yes, it puts my thoughts and feelings into words, and the words make the knowledge clear, even unavoidable. But is that the way I'm writing this? As a tool for myself, only?

I know plenty of this stuff without having to write it down. I know my sister's name, I don't have to write it every time I record some reference to her.

So, as private as I know this must be, am I actually telling a story for someone else to read?

Do I have a Carrie/Bridget issue?

This was an easy project for me to start. I've never had a problem with language. Some people might frame that differently, that my facility with language causes other problems, like in my email rants to TruFoods headquarters.

I've always been an avid reader, parting company with my age group in my appreciation of text. I have scant patience when non-readers try to express themselves in social media, without having gained in school the skills they need to do this well.

Wow! Through my nerd glasses I'm really looking down my nose!

Anyway, what I've read and what I've written may have primed me for journaling this way. Maybe I'm too slick to derive the real benefit, and people who don't read or write much are more strongly affected. Still, I have unearthed some truths about myself from doing this. I might not have achieved that without making the conscious effort to write the words.

I'm even pretty good at remembering the gist of what I, and other people, have said out loud.

That raises an interesting point. By adding dialogue, have I crossed the line from self-help to the other kind of journalism? Or 'fiction?'

As long as there isn't some perv between my mattress and bed frame, I'm in no danger of sharing with the world the sex details of two people whose full names are inscribed herein. Not to mention my role in a specific corporation and the details of my mother's health.

So...I guess this can continue to be storytelling?

***

April 26

Attention, Nonexistent Reader, here are some details that I haven't bothered with before. The gaming/comics store is called Justin's League. The owner, Justin Ross, enables the Tuesday game night but doesn't try to control it. He's tall, mostly bald, maybe forty. Single, and not known to be romantically involved.

He's aware of all aspects of a business prone to drawing in tweens and teens, and how easy it would be for him to be seen in a bad light. He's just as aware of this with regard to the game night, and his presence. He requires that anyone under 18, who wants to attend, be accompanied by a parent or guardian. He also stipulates that the young folks get involved only with games that are age-appropriate, based on the industry's rating system. He rarely starts conversations, and is careful when he's drawn in—not because he's shy, but because almost anything he does, even with those of us who count as adults, could put him on Perv Watch.

For somebody working in a field that's about fun, he doesn't seem to have much himself.

This doesn't mean he's antisocial. He's running a store, after all. As noted earlier, he tried to sell me stuff when he thought I was a prospect. And we've had a few brief chats, friendly enough, which I haven't mentioned before, and I'm mentioning them now because there's some context.

Anyway, tonight Justin spent a lot of time at the counter, selling dice and gear and game packs, but also just hanging around there, keeping his distance from us.

I may be reading too much into this, but I think he notices Melanie quite a lot. Maybe just thinking that her presence might inspire bad behavior in other gamers.

Oh gosh, I must be burying the lede. Which is that nothing much happened tonight. Curt and I weren't excessively bubbly this time. Although I think we still drew some attention.

This just in: Melanie and Curt did not play cribbage, or do anything else involving only two people. They were as casually cordial to each other as they were to everyone else there. Even if I were looking for Something Different between them, I don't think I would have seen it.

Curt and I chatted as much, and as casually, as we had done before. I was even in some group chat that included Melanie, with (as far as I know) no undercurrent. This was while we and five other people played an overwrought board game called Liberators and Oppressors.