Love & Sex

Maybe it's not the "right thing" to do, but for me, nothing can cure a heartache like the taste of something new


Rating: NNNNN


My last lover walked out of my life without explanation. He is, to date, the biggest love of my life, and when I came home to a half-empty house it left me bent double with pain, with a hole in my heart so big I could put my fist through it. I knew my time was running out with him, though. He is a drug addict, and addicts have a habit of reverting to old patterns when the going gets anywhere close to tough.

Plus, we’d done this breakup dance before and had just recently reconciled. This time I didn’t want to wait for him to sober up and realize his loss. I couldn’t go through that again. I can’t spend my life fixing someone else.

And now, here I am staring at my computer while the cursor blinks over the “fill out a profile” section.

Oh, god! Where to begin? These things are a funny balance of realism and hope. But how bad could this Internet thing be? Last time I tried, it was a telephone service, and it yielded one disastrous relationship that ended in the birth of my child and a good friend in my ex, her father. Not bad.

A day later, I’m considering hiring a personal assistant to weed through the candidates. I date and date and date. I refuse to throw myself at a stranger unless I feel an intense pull, an animal attraction. I don’t want to lower my standards, after all.

But I also know I must leap, and leap soon, lest my brain get in the way and I begin rationalizing celibacy. I will never find my ex I must move on.

I know I’m using an old method of pushing out the old lover with a new one. I’m doing this consciously. Is this fair to the new lover I have yet to choose? Is it fair to my old lover, that I refuse to mope any longer? Is it fair to me that I don’t sulk through the requisite amount of time, whatever that is, before rejoining the game?

I choose a man who’s very handsome, sexy and grounded, but conversation with him is a little stilted. He’s very straight, and I’m an artist. But he is a kind person, the father of one, supposedly happily divorced and somewhat spiritually evolved without being obnoxious about it. I dive.

His lips are wonderfully warm and full, different from what I’m used to, but I like it. The song It’s All Right With Me runs through my head. “They’re not his lips, but they’re such tempting lips, that it’s all right with me….”

His touch is completely different and new, of course, but much to my relief my mind is staying put. It’s not going to an old porno image in my head, something to get my fire going. I find I don’t have to conjure strangers fucking to get into it. No, I’m here with this man, and I feel it’s safe to get wet.

Putting my mouth around his cock is little like tasting a new cuisine. I roll my tongue around it and shove it to the back of my throat, just to see what it feels like, how it fills me up back there.

I grasp it in my fist and feel it pulse. I savour his pre-cum and marvel at how men all taste so different. The fact that I had to convince him to lie back and let me at him is encouraging he’d wanted to taste me first.

But I don’t like being first, can’t get into it if I don’t know a man’s flavour or smell, how he moans or doesn’t, how long it takes him to put his hand on the back of my head, if at all.

It’s a full sensory experience for me. That space between a man’s thighs and balls is the only true test of his scent. And this man’s scent is intoxicating.

This is very good.

Is there anything more beautiful than a hard cock bobbing in your face? I could so easily get lost in this one event. Though it’s me going down on him, I’m beginning to feel a little selfish.

I come up for air and he returns the favour with passion and skill, and then finally I know I want to fuck him to complete the event. I want to fuck him to see the expressions on his face above mine. I want to fuck him to move on to a new phase in my life, where regret has no place and pleasure is guilt-free.

He thrusts into me, and though I’m taken aback at the initial chill of the condom, as I’ve not had to use them in a while, I am wet for him, for me. Those first thrusts are always magic. It’s thrilling and strange and feels so good after a dry spell. He’s pushing out my old lover with each new thrust.

We part ways, and I thank him, though I’m sure he’s mystified at that. I want to tell him how he’s made me feel better, opened new doors for me, or perhaps more accurately closed a chapter of my life. I want to share my joy about how I didn’t feel guilty or cheap or used. I just feel good, sexy, alive and full. But even though I’ve just had this person inside my body, it’s not something I can reveal to him.

Not now. Not with him. For now, I’ll keep my gloating to myself.

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