This week’s activities will involve doughnuts, movies and knitting because, quite frankly, I’m too ill to do anything more exciting!
It’s Sunday afternoon and I feel like shit. Normally there would be a perfectly viable explanation for the banging headache and aching bones. Normally I could blame drugs or alcohol or some kind of decathalon sexcapade with an uber enthusiastic toyboy. Sadly, that is not the case this weekend. I have actually been very well behaved. I’ve eaten healthy, exercised moderately and abstained from all my usual vices. This, however, doesn’t stop my usual health issues from giving me a good kicking every now and again. Long story short, I am no longer taking steroids for leukopenia as my doctor and I believed the last course had done its job. It hadn’t. I’m now lethargic and achy on the sofa, with tonsilitis and a mouth full of ulcers. I tell you, a piss poor immune system is not pretty.
On the up side, you really find out who your friends are when you’re a shivering, sweaty, smelly mess of lurgy. Weston, with no ulterior motive than to make sure I was ok, turned up on my doorstep at 1am this morning with a big bag of medicinal weed and apparently, the inability to smell me. Quite the blessing as two hours later I passed out in his arms, a dribbling and perspiring wreck. He did, of course, offer to take my mind off of things by eating my pussy, but was gentlemanly enough not to push the issue when I politely declined.
The Mountie was keen to take me out today, a date offer that I was quite surprised to receive. I did, however, have to decline his offer due to illness and my dedication to a boxing movie marathon…men beating the shit out of each other never fails to perk me up. The Mountie kindly offered to run any errands for me and, unsurprisingly, to lick me out should I feel the need. I honestly don’t know why the idea of me, debilitated and lacking in personal hygiene, urges men to offer me cunnilingus. Is this a new fetish I haven’t heard about? Or does my pussy taste like beer?
No news from Mr. Cwtch, but I wasn’t expecting any. I wonder if telling him I’m sick would propel him to offer me sexual favours?
Finally, I received another late night message from the Tattooed One. I didn’t reply, but this time it took me a good 12 hours to hit delete. That man makes me weak and I don’t like it.
Drugs: 0 – weed and prescription meds don’t count!
Alcohol: 3 pints of Budweiser.
Physical Health: Meh.
Mental Health: I meet a new psychiatrist tomorrow. It’s an older woman. Bless her, but I highly doubt she’ll know how to deal with me!
I’ve known Mr.Cwtch for 18 months now. He’s been boarding at a nearby pub while working as a carpenter on a local development. I’ve written about him before, but never in great detail. Despite the odd flirtation and drunken kiss, nothing noteworthy has ever occurred between us. He didn’t even earn himself a Dating Dramas’ nickname, until now.
Blue, Robyn and I were indulging in a little midweek drink at our local watering hole, when I ran into Mr.Cwtch. The chitchat was polite and friendly, finding our feet after some months absence. Blue’s evening was cut short by babysitter restrictions and Robyn left early with a craving for pasta. Mr. Cwtch and I were left alone, propping up the bar and joining in the banter with the other patrons. It didn’t take long for the white elephant in the room to reveal itself,
‘What’s the deal with you two?’ A middle aged woman questioned between sips of cider, ‘I’m getting a vibe…’
Cwtch and I smiled at each other.
‘We have a little history,’ I giggled. Cwtch grinned at me and nodded.
‘Out of curiosity,’ I whispered to him, fully aware that the beady eyes of the local gossips were watching our every move, ‘have you missed me?’
Cwtch downed his pint and grabbed a hold of my hand, ‘lets go for a walk’.
The roads were deserted, lit only by the orange glow of the street lamps and small beams of light peeping out from behind resident’s curtains. The air was clear and surprisingly warm for a British September. We found a bench near the river and sat down, his arm wrapped around me as I draped my legs over his.
While I smoked a cigarette, Cwtch went on to tell me how attractive he found me. He said he thought about me often and had even tried to find out where I lived on a few occasions, my absence at the pub where he boards proving a frustrating mystery to him. He had missed spending time with me and had regretted not telling me earlier how much he liked me.
It was nice to hear. I’d had quite the crush on this muscular, tattooed skinhead from South Wales and its does a girl’s ego good to know some of those feelings were reciprocated. I was, however, fully aware of his girlfriend back in his home town.
‘I wanted to see you, to spend time with you. I really, really wanted to fuck you, but I care about her and I was scared about how I felt about you. I didn’t want to hurt her. I still dont, but I’m pleased I saw you tonight’.
Cwtch expressed remorse at only having three weeks left on his work contract. Three weeks and then he’d have no reason to be in my little rural town. No reason except me.
‘So we can be friends, just friends who go out for drinks or a meal or whatever,’ I suggested, ‘And, if after three weeks you think I’m worth coming back for, we’ll talk about it’.
Cwtch looked like I’d just stamped on his puppy. My suggestion was obviously not what he was expecting,
‘You don’t like me, do you?’
It was at this point that I did my usual disclaimer routine. I always feel obliged to let any man interested in me, know exactly what a bag of eccentricity and fuck ups I really am. If they know the shit bits and still want to be around me, then I figure they’re worth my time.
‘I like you, but I’m not the kind of girl men want relationships with’.
Cwtch shook his head, ‘why do you say that?’
‘I don’t want to lay roots. In 12 months I’m looking to volunteer in war zones. No man would put up with his woman disappearing for months at a time’.
‘I could take a couple months off and come with you,’ he said.
‘…I’m a bit of a slut,’ I continued, ‘not by choice. I just choose men who only want to fuck me. Maybe its the blonde hair and big tits thing, I’m a cliche’.
Cwtch shook his head again, ‘if you and I ever get to that stage, I wouldn’t let you touch me for a long time. It’ll be all about you, me pleasing you, so you knew you were worth more than a fuck’.
‘Look Cwtch, I am batshit crazy! I’m a mess! Borderline and PTSD, I’m seriously hard work, so mistrusting, I’ve been through so much shit. Men don’t want that kind of baggage’.
Cwtch bowed his head and fell silent. I just stared at him, waiting for him to stand up and run away or make some excuse to leave. He didn’t. Instead, he took a deep breath, looked at me with tears in his eyes and, through gritted teeth, said ‘you think you’re the only one who’s been through shit?’
As the night air began to chill and the ripples of the river water echoed behind us, Cwtch proceeded to tell me of his own life experiences. I will not repeat what he said, it is not my story to tell. All I will say, is if my life can be described as a rollercoaster of abuse, addiction and violence, then his is a thousand times worse. I watched his heart break as he sat on that wooden bench beside me. He was hurt, upset, angry, bitter. He carried his ghosts just like I did, fighting them constantly but always losing. When he finally calmed down and his tale was told, he seemed shocked,
‘I can’t believe I just blurted that all out to you,’ he said, wiping a tear from his cheek, ‘nobody outside of my immediate family know this stuff’.
I lit a cigarette and passed it to him.
‘You told me because you knew I’d understand,’ I replied.
Cwtch nodded. I cuddled up to him and felt his body relax into mine, ‘the damaged always find each other,’ I consoled, ‘it’s how we become whole again’.
We sat in silence for a while, holding hands and sharing occasional tender kisses. It was getting late and I knew I’d need to be heading home soon.
‘Can I come in for a cwtch?’ He asked when he’d walked me to my front door.
I wanted to say yes, but I knew a cwtch wouldn’t be the only thing that happened once we were in private. All the excuses I’d offered for why I can’t be in a relationship, he had refuted without hesitation. No man has ever done that before and I didn’t want to ruin all the wonderful things he’d said with a meaningless one night stand. I didn’t want to sleep with him and realise he was just full of shit.
‘What do you want, from a man?’
Cwtch was staring into my eyes with such intensity it was as if he was trying to pry the answer from my mind.
‘I want someone who knows all my messy and fucked up bits and doesn’t care. Someone who is just as happy to curl up on the sofa with a movie and a takeaway as they are to get bollocksed drunk in a pub and act like a twat with me. I want someone who’s going to hold my hand at family gatherings and reassure me that I’m awesome and my family are dicks. I want someone who still thinks I’m hot when I’m sat in my trackie bottoms, drinking tea and knitting! Like everyone else, I want someone who wants me for me’.
‘Sounds like you want me,’ Cwtch said, wrapping his arms around me.
‘No cwtch tonight,’ I said. I planted a kiss on his soft lips, ‘if you really want me, you’ll make it happen’.
And that was it. I stepped inside and locked my door behind me. Despite our emotionally bonding evening, I actually doubt I’ll ever hear from Mr. Cwtch again.
I, like many other intelligent people with too much time on their hands, have a theory. It’s not about who killed JFK, you aren’t required to wear a tin foil hat and no secret world organisations are going to go rummaging through your bins once you learn about it. No. My theory is more frivolous, if just as important. My theory is about sex.
I’ve come to the conclusion that, much like karma, good sex and bad sex need to be distributed evenly in the world in order to keep a sexual balance. For example, if you are one of those men who cums, farts, then falls asleep leaving an unsatisfied partner cursing your name, then you will acquire a bad sex token. If you’re a woman who woke up her boyfriend with a blow job this morning, then you’re one of the lucky ones…a good sex token has just been dropped into the proverbial savings jar. One token equals one future sexual experience.
Of course, none of us aim for a bad token but hey, shit happens. My male friend who vomited on his one night stand at the point of ejaculation will undoubtedly have gained a bad token, no matter how many times he protests it was ‘just bad beer’. The time I accidently pooped on the Mountie during some very vigorous anal is definitely worthy of a bad token, even though I clearly never intended that embarrassing mishap. Sometimes things don’t go according to plan. We’re only human after all.
The problem I currently have is that I think I’ve run out of good sex tokens. Don’t get me wrong, I’m quite sure my good tokens outweighed my bad ones, I’m a submissive with a desire to please don’t you know, but I fear I may actually be running out of tokens all together. In short, I haven’t had a proper fuck in ages.
Yes, I’ve had sex. Yes, its been with incredibly eager younger men. Yes, I realise how lucky I am. But the really good sex doesn’t necessarily come from a toned, tanned bod with a super schlong. For me, the really good sex is passionate, sweaty, erotic, limitless, connected. It’s fists clenched around my hair, a hand confidently placed around my throat. It’s my eyes watering and mascara running down my face. It’s puffing and panting, sweating, squelching, jittery legs and barely having the energy to breath but still carrying on because you just cannot get enough of each other. It’s raw, its powerful, its the baring of the sexual soul. Maybe I just have high expectations, but if we’re not happy to die in the soup of our collective bodily fluids by the end of it all, then it cannot be categorised as ‘good’.
I haven’t had that kind of sex in forever, not since Monster Cock threw me around my bedroom, breaking all my furniture and telling me I was going to die. Damn, that was an awesome night. All I’ve had of late is what can only be described as decent shags. And some pretty piss poor ones. Like the last time I slept with the Cricketer. That was fucking awful. The only reason I let him put it up my arse was because I had my period and it seemed less messy. I didn’t even enjoy it. It was possibly the worst anal I’ve ever had, but I did it because I’m the kind of girl who doesn’t like to let anyone down. Guess I earned myself a good sex token for that one.
The sex with Weston is good, always a bit of a knee trembler, but by his own admission he is a submissive and, well, two submissives do not a dominant make. We both want some manhandling but the other lacks the skills or desire to do so. This is not to say that what we have isn’t energetic, orgasmic fun, because it really is. We just both need our sexual souls taking care of as well as our bodies.
As much as I hate to admit it, I miss the Tattooed One. We had just the right balance of lust and aggression, filth and respect. Not that I will be going there again, I mean, sometimes things just run their course and you have to move on, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want a similar sexual connection in the future. The freedom to try anything, anywhere. Yeah, the Tattooed One was quite the playmate. Although now that I think about it, that wave of good sex may have been why my sex tokens jar is currently rocking its own tumbleweeds.
I am left with the following predicament: If all I have left in my jar are bad sex tokens, ( you know, from that time I may have faked it just to get him to hurry the fuck up, or that time I did so much MDMA that my gurning jaw near a penis was like blow job roulette) then all I can hope for in the future is bad sex, which quite frankly fills me with dread. Tiny dicks, men who kiss like bull mastiffs and have fingering skills like a 7th grader sanding down woodwork. If there was ever a reason to give myself over to the Church, a lifetime of barely-there sex would be it! However, If I don’t endure the bad sex, how can I ever earn more good sex tokens? Do I even deserve any more good sex? I’ve certainly had my fill (excuse the pun).
I guess only time will tell…or perhaps I’ll be lucky enough to find a few good sex tokens hidden in the sofa!
To even the untrained eye, it was obvious Weston’s reunion with his girlfriend wasn’t going to last long. In my experience, people always break up for a reason, a reason that is still there should they try to give things a second go. A man like Weston, with his desires for sex, drugs and general anarchy, would be a challenge for any girl. I don’t doubt this led to their separation and Weston’s recent bout of self destructive behaviour.
Not that I’m complaining. When the extremely high and emotionally fragile 20 year old turned up on my doorstep looking for a friend and some TLC, I couldn’t refuse. He was wasted, but also highly entertaining. A fucked up Weston can babble utter nonsense for hours and tears of laughter will roll down the faces of his collective audience as he mumbled and stumbles his way around a social gathering.
As I fed him chili tacos in a bid to sober him up, Weston amused Robyn and I with tales from his life; the time he let a dog drive a digger at work, the time he took too much ketamine and terrified the police at a free party, the time he shagged a 50 year old woman he’d met at an AA meeting. Each story rolled into the next with no apparent connection, Weston pausing only occasionally to laugh at his own adventures. Weston apparently didn’t need a shoulder to cry on, but an audience to distract him.
As the evening drew on, Weston became flirty and tactile. I knew what he wanted, but I doubted he was physically capable of achieving his goal. I jokingly slapped his hand as it crept under my skirt and up my thigh,
‘Stop it. Not tonight. My son is upstairs,’ I told him.
Weston was deflated, ‘Grrr, why do you have to have a son!’
I laughed, knowing he didn’t mean it as harshly as it had sounded, ‘because I didn’t use a condom 15 years ago, that’s why!’ I replied.
We kissed on the sofa for a while, making out like horny teenagers and berating the fact that I had to keep my knickers firmly on. In the end, the restrictions became too much and, with Weston suddenly realising how late it was getting, we decided he needed to head home. Despite being a bit of a mess, he still knew he had to get up for work in the morning.
The second he said, ‘you’re coming to see me out, right?’ I knew what was going to happen. The corridor to my front door is quite the distance from my son’s bedroom and whatever happened there would never be heard in the rest of the house.
‘Bye then,’ I smiled, pretending to reach for the door handle.
Weston was on his knees with his face somewhere in my uterus before I could even blink.
‘Get up,’ I urged, ‘please don’t, not that…’
Usually I’d be all for a bit of muff diving, but my muff was in somewhat of a state of disarray. I hadn’t done my bikini line in a week and after a day of running errands and fulfilling domestic chores I was pretty sure I didn’t smell too hot. Weston, apparently, didn’t care,
‘Please no, anything but that!’
I yanked hard on his hair and he finally stood up, leaving his fingers rubbing my clitoris. I could feel his cock bursting through his jeans as he pressed his lips to mine. Damn. That thing really is huge.
After releasing Weston’s erect cock from its prison, there was no going back. For a man who openly admits to being submissive, he took no time in pushing me up against the frosted glass of my front door, his hands lifting up my skirt and grabbing at my arse passionately. Spinning me round, he took firm hold of my hips as he eased himself into my untrimmed, but very eager, pussy.
I steadied myself by placing my hands on the cold glass as Weston pounded away. People walked by in the street outside, completely oblivious to the thirtysomething woman getting a vaginal battering from a wreckhead toyboy only millimeters away.
Now, during my earlier chill out time with Weston, I’d downed a few ice cold bottles of Budweiser. I’d been so concerned about sobering him up that I’d forgotten to eat myself. The beers had suddenly gone to my head and with Weston energetically fucking me from behind, I became a little nauseous and lightheaded. Throwing up, mid fuck, all over the frosted glass, was not an option.
I turned around and dropped to my knees, taking that beautiful big dick in my mouth and sucking like my life depended on it. I needed him to cum and leave as quickly as possible, before I pulled a complete whitey and passed out in the hallway.
I’ve always known I give good head, but this time I was the goddess of the blowie. I worked so hard on that boy that only a couple of minutes later he was moaning in ecstasy and shooting a load of hot, smooth cum down the back of my throat. Maybe it was the quick injection of protein, but I didn’t feel ill after that and would happily have done it all again. Unfortunately, Weston was clearly spent.
‘You doing anything Saturday?’ Weston asked as he kissed me goodbye, ‘I want to see you Saturday’.
And so, I arranged another little therapy session for dear, sweet Weston to help him in his hour of need. TLC, the Lola way!
‘We need to talk, I’m coming over’.
Usually when someone utters the immortal words, ‘we need to talk’ it is because a) you’re about to get dumped or b) you’re about to be handed one of those little cards from the STI clinic telling you what your past lover has infected you with. Considering The Mountie and I aren’t in a relationship, I mentally prepared myself for bombshell b).
True to his word, The Mountie pulled up outside my house some 30 minutes later. That pick up truck. That hoody. That dark stubble. I’d forgotten how good he could look. We drove round the country roads in the early morning mist and made our way to our favourite hillside ready to watch another perfect English sunrise. I’d missed our early morning meet ups; the fresh air, the tranquility, the endless landscape.
‘Here,’ Mountie said as he passed me a joint, ‘thought you might want this’.
I got out of the truck and lit the joint, taking in a deep breath and watching the smoke intently as I exhaled. Mountie walked up behind me, put his hands around my waist and kissed my neck. It was nice, but I wasn’t there to get stoned and make out. I’m not 15 anymore.
‘So what did you want to talk about?’
The Mountie shifted about nervously before sitting in the back of his truck and gesturing for me to join him. ‘This is it,’ I thought, ‘hes going to tell me I’ve got herpes, or clamydia, or HIV!’ I sat beside him, my hands clenched together in uncomfortable anticipation.
‘We haven’t seen much of each other recently and you don’t seem to answer any of my messages…’
He trailed off on some mild rant about how he felt I was ignoring him and that I had no reason to seeing as he didn’t feel he had done anything wrong. He was right. He hadn’t done anything wrong, but he seemed to be overly emotional about the fact that I hadn’t responded to every 2am booty call he’d sent over the last couple of months. At first I thought his ego was just a little bruised, but it seemed like a very dramatic reaction. I reassured him that I wasn’t annoyed with him in any way, but he wasn’t convinced.
‘It was just a fuck buddy thing,’ I said, trying to read his body language but failing miserably, ‘but I told you I’d got to a point where I wanted more than that, not necessarily with you but in general and, well, just randomly fucking you kind of went against the new ‘relationship ready’ me’.
I wasn’t sure he understood what I was babbling on about. Maybe I’d thought too deeply about what he was saying, a common side effect of my getting too stoned too quickly.
‘I do like you, you know,’ he mumbled as he put his arm around me.
My mind flashed back to the last time the Mountie shared his emotions. He was drunk, high and horny and had just spent a small fortune in cab fares getting to my house at 4am. He’d said he’d just wanted a kiss. Instead, he’d made me cum so hard I’d gushed all over his chest. Then he told me he loved me. I ignored it.
‘You like my pussy,’ I teased, ‘and my tits. And occasionally my arsehole!’
He giggled like a naughty little schoolboy, ‘well yeah, but I like the rest of you too’.
I couldn’t help but mock him. I wasn’t trying to be mean, I just didn’t know how else to react,
‘Awww, has someone missed me?’
The Mountie’s face suddenly drew very serious and his brow furrowed in concentration,
‘Yeah. I’ve missed you. I do like you a lot and I love hanging out with you. You’re fun and easy to talk to and the sex is great. I just don’t want to be in a relationship with anyone’.
This is where I get confused. Maybe its a guy thing, but for me, a girl, if you really like someone you want to develop some kind of a relationship with them. The Mountie knows me well enough to know kids and marriage are not on my agenda, so its not as if I’d be rushing us towards those couple milestones. If he enjoys my company that much, why wouldn’t he want to spend more time with me? I thought back to all the times he’d promised to take me out on the trail bikes, to go shooting, to go night fishing. He’d been so keen at the time but nothing had come of it. Then I remembered asking him to escort me to a christening, as I was anxious about attending alone. He’d said no, that he wasn’t any good at that kind of thing.
It quickly struck me that the Mountie wanted all the benefits of a girlfriend…the intimacy, the sharing, the fun, the sex…without any of the commitments…keeping dates, making plans, sharing the less fun parts of life. I believed him when he said he liked me and I don’t doubt he’s missed me these last few months, but he’s offering me far too little, far too late.
We sat and chatted for another hour or so, sharing joints and watching the orange glow of the sun peering up over the horizon. That pick up truck. That hoody. That dark stubble. I’d seen this view so many times and never been disappointed, but this time seemed different,
‘Are we ok?’ I asked a forlorn looking Mountie on the drive home. He nodded and smiled,
‘Wouldn’t have minded a blowie!’
I shook my head at him as I stepped out of the truck, ’til our next sunrise Mr. Mountie’.
I still have absolutely no idea what our ‘we need to talk’ moment was all about. I didn’t leave him feeling like anything had been explained or his urgency justified. But hey, at least I didn’t get one of those little cards from the STI clinic…
Life takes some unexpected twists and turns at times. Sometimes these are unwelcomed and can knock us on our arse. Sometimes they offer us opportunities that we never expected. The last few weeks have made me realise that I now fall into the latter category.
I have written about my desires for a great American road trip before. It seemed so far off, an almost unobtainable pipe dream. Without giving too much away, that may not be the case anymore.
As my head spins with potential plans, I’d like to call on all my regular readers and followers to help me with some research.
How many of you live in the US? Whereabouts? How would you feel about showing Lola and Robyn around your hometown, show us the sights, maybe fix me up on a date or two?
Let’s face it, British men just don’t do it for me. I think its time Lola dated American!
Any suggestions as to how we can make this happen would be greatly appreciated!