I Want Him.

The man I mentioned in this post, the man I want to strap me into his homemade bondage contraption: red painted metal, leather restraints, & leopard print pads.    This man, I’m craving him a lot lately.  But I’ve done whatever it is I’ve done to keep him away from me.  After that post, we’ve talked.  As a matter of fact as I was writing that post, we were talking.  But since then, I’ve told him I hate him.  I’ve told him I wish he never would have said “hi” to me.  I’ve asked him to tell me why I like him.   We’ve only really had one discussion since those statements and question, then he vanished.  But since reading someone else’s blog, I’ve kind of got him in mind. 

And I’ve only got him in mind because of what he said the one and only night I spent in his presence.  “Next time, I’ll bring rope.”  

When I met him face to face it was awkward at first.  For me.   I was meeting a man I’ve been lusting after for quite a few years, years that I didn’t even talk to him.  I was scared to meet him.  I’m still scared of him now that I’ve met him.

[God, I hate that I can't put into words what I 'm thinking.  When I'm lying in bed at night trying to get to sleep, it's so easy for me to form words and put those words into sentences.  I think about getting up and writing them down.  But then that's less sleep that I'll be getting, so I just hope what I want to type will come out.  Without problems, w/out rambling, w/out stumbling.  But I do, I do all that and it bothers me.  I'm not a good writer when I sit down to do it.  I wish my brain would have a print button.  Print. print. print.   But it doesn't. . . And well, I get stuck.  Stuck like I am now.  Stuck like I can't get moving.  Stuck so much that I backspace and delete.  Until it all sounds right, but it doesn't sound right.  And I just hope what I'm typing comes across okay, not so scatterbrained.  But it's useless. I'm hopeless.]

And that’s how I feel when I’m around that  guy.  That’s how I feel when I talk to him.  I also feel like I can’t say enough, or I don’t say the right things.  I feel like all I’m trying to  do is live up to an image I want him to believe.  But he knows me.  He knows exactly how I am.  I sometimes hate that he can read me so well, but at the same time, I can take a breath and say, “He knows me. I’m okay. We’re okay.”

That night we met, I felt so awkward.  And scared.  He didn’t put me at ease at all in the beginning.  The only thing that did was him making the first move.  He reached across the space and slapped me across the face.  I was shocked.  I slapped him back.  That lightened the mood so much, so much more than him picking on me.  So much more than our ridiculous chatter about nothing.  

We continued w/ the slap fight.  I had to hold onto his hands to keep him from slapping me again.  But it didn’t stop. And I got in some good shots myself.  This went on for quite some time.  Time enough for us to move positions all over the place.  Time enough for him to wrap his legs around me and pull me close.  Time enough for him to sink his teeth into my exposed neck.  Time enough for me to fall almost in love w/ what he was doing to me. 

Being w/in his grasp was exciting.  Being semi-violent w/ him brought out … I don’t know what it brought out, but sometimes, sometimes I came so close to kissing him.  Our faces would be inches apart and I’d stare at his lips and just wish that he would close the gap and press his lips to mine.  The times he could have he just pushed away.  But he bit my neck.  My god did he bite my neck.  I loved it. I moaned it.  I wanted more.

The violence of slapping each other and liking it turned into foreplay.  And we continued the foreplay.  I don’t remember when, but he finally did it.  He finally kissed me.  And I liked it.  A tingle went down my stomach into my pussy.  I felt myself getting wetter.  That tingle didn’t happen often, but when it did, my god, I wanted it to happen again.  And it did.  It did when I placed my hand on his denim clad dick.  I felt it.  Felt the length. Felt the width. My pussy was lost in tingles. 

He took my wrists in his hands, jerked them behind my back, latched onto my neck.  He said in his silky voice he needed rope.  He wanted to tie me to a tree.  Have his way w/ me, even tho he could have easily that night, w/out the rope, w/out the physical bondage.  He could have told me to stay still.  For him, I would have.   However the rope was missing, so for him it was a no go, but he said.  Next time.  

The next time never happened.  In 3 months it’ll be a year since I’ve seen him.  And in part it is my fault.  My fault I like him so damn much, half in love w/ him, and I can’t handle it.   So I do everything in my power to tell him to fuck off, then I come running back to him.  Running straight into lust and love and wanting and craving and  . . . I’m almost head over heels for him.   I hate him.  I hate it. I hate myself.   I want him.

I Don’t Ask for Much

So O called me the other day from a phone number I wasn’t aware of.  I answered and I get,  “Hello, how are you? What are you doing?”  I, of course, answer skeptically, because I had no frikkin clue who the hell it was.  He told me to take a guess.  I said, “Why don’t you just tell me.”  He said it was ‘your favorite boy from Kansas.’  After that, it was hit or miss on what I heard of the actual conversation.  I know he was on his way to his friends house.  Just from him telling me, plus the road noise, since he was using his bluetooth.  (Those fuckers pick up everything!!)  I know he said he’s been meaning to call me.  And I think he might have been hinting at something.  Although, I’m not quite sure.

 I told him I was moving next weekend.  Because he asked what I was doing that night, and I said packing.  So I told him where I was moving to, and then I proceeded to say that I was never ever going to move out of that place.  I was going to live there forever.  (Which is my plan!)  He said not even if some guy came over w/ a buff ass body cuz he worked out for 2-3 hours a day wearing nothing but black Calvin Klein boxer briefs and asked me to move somewhere w/ him?  I had to pause. 

In my other post about O, I mentioned loving black boxer briefs.  And well, back in the day I actually bought O 2 pairs of Calvin Klein boxer briefs.   And well, he wasn’t buff or nothing, but maybe he was hinting at what he looks like now? It has been around 7 years since I’ve actually seen him. He could have changed.   Or maybe he now thinks that I like men who are muscle bound and aren’t flexible?  That doesn’t truely appeal to me.

What appeals to me physically in a man is this: his eyes, his lips, his neck, and his fingers.  And in that order, because I usually check out a man starting at the top.  In which case,  I kind of hope I have to look way up to start there.  Ok, so nothing over 6’4” because then sex is just awkward.  And unkind.   Around 6-ish’  is good for me. 

His eyes either have to be blue (any shade, sometimes) or some really, really funky shade, like amber or grey.  Maybe glow in the dark kind.   I can’t stand green eyes or shit brown eyes.  And to me, any shade of brown is shit brown.  I have an almost fetish when it comes to eyes.

His lips have to be full.  None of that thin lipped crap.  I like to be able to feel what I’m kissing.  I like to nibble on bottom lips also, so it helps to have something there.  I don’t necessarily want to hurt him and it’d be nice to have some padding.   Top and bottom lips should be of equal thickness, but I’ll budge on the top lip.

His neck has to be muscular.  It has to look good w/ a chain around it.  Or a button down shirt.  I like em thick.  I like em semi long.  I like to be able to look at it and go, “Oh yeah, that would look great w/ my bite mark on it!”   I want to be able to put my hands around it not have them touch.  A not so noticeable Adam’s apple would be great, too.

His fingers.  The longer the better.  The thicker the better.  Do not confuse thick w/ chubby.  I like to see fingers and know that’s exactly what they are.  I like them to be rough,  callused. I like a man who works w/ his hands.  Knows his way around cars.  Can tinker w/ things to fix them.  A regular MacGyver.   I like dirty hands.  But at the same time, I like those dirty hands to look clean when they’re suppose to, not terminally dirty.

His body has never been a top priority in my adventures of finding a perfect man.  I’ve always been into men who are slightly overweight.  Or as I put it: A man w/ meat on his bones.    I can’t stand a man who is their ideal BMI, to me they look they need fed.  I like that healthy look. 

So muscle bound men can just keep moving along.  And men w/ a little pudge, please park your butt on my couch.  Well, as long as you have blue eyes, full lips, a thick neck,  and long, strong fingers.  (And medium to dark brown hair.)  Ok, and numerous tattoos helps, too!

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