J from Cambridge

As I pounded the pavements in the rain this morning, for some reason my mind wandered to J. 

Lovely, wretched J who I knew was wrong for me from the beginning, but with whom I had the love affair I'd always wanted. 

We fundamentally wanted different things. I was looking for a way to ease myself out of a relationship where I was no longer happy, and the more I think about it the more I feel as though he was looking for a way to block the loneliness out. It ended in pain, for sure. Definitely mine, but I cannot say if he hurt at all. 

I've been so mad at him for not letting me into his life. For saying he "didn't see a future for us". Ouch. But now I just feel sad that the time I spent with him I also spent fantasising that it was something different, rather than really taking on board how lovely it was, right then. He definitely spoiled me with gifts. That was rather nice.

But then I also often felt low in his presence because I had no fucking idea what was going on. Just as the sex was fantastic and intimate one minute, he would switch and become very distant the next. 

He also liked to lick my teeth when we kissed. How in god's name do you actually tell someone you love that you find it utterly repulsive when they lick your teeth? Not just lick, either, but full on stick-your-tongue-in-my-mouth-and-swirl type affair. Shudder at the memory.

But still, now with the distance of time and a new love, I think what a shame. What a shame I didn't squeeze all the love out of that relationship when I had the chance. What a shame I didn't let him just be...what a shame indeed. 

Bye Bye Blackbird

J is gone. It is done and over with.

He returned from a working trip and when we spoke it came out that he doesn't think about any sort of future with me. I'm tired of being with people who don't want to be with me. Or who make no effort or room in their life for me to be. I won't be the one who always bends. I am resolute.

The night that I ended it I sobbed like a child. I've been more ok about it than I really expected, but waves of grief was over me a few times today, and I feel myself on the edge again.

This morning, as T and I were making gentle Saturday morning in the sun love, I was near to climax when I realised I was supposed to be with Cambridge with J, and I almost wept right then and there. Not fair for T, I know, but I don't consciously seek these thoughts out, they just hit me.

I am so sad.

The Weekend of You: Evening

We made it inside. J pushed me up against a wall, the one with no pictures on. Kissed me hard. Kept kissing me while I fumbled with his belt buckle, then his shirt. He began to unbutton my dress, but I pushed him away, and pulled the flimsy blue fabric over my head. He smiled, surprised at my lingerie, and pushed me into the lounge.

I lay back on his voluptuous sofa and J peeled off my tight jeans. More surprised smiling and my plan of impressing him through matching black lace lingerie seemed to have worked. He took it off, and threw it carelessly on the floor. J nudged my thighs apart and as I sat up briefly in mock protest he exclaimed at the soft roundness of my belly. He ran his hand over it pinchingly, and told me that he thought it was incredibly sexy. We kissed more, urgently, and my protests turned to encouranging sighs and moans. He pressed himself at my entrace and I snaked my moistened hand between him to make myself wet and ease the first heavenly thrust. He pushed inside my warmth, I felt my brow knit and the first sigh escape my lips.

You like it rough, don't you. I am now on the floor, on hands and knees, showing myself to him. He was quick to enter again, thrusting deeply into me. I arch my back and I hear him groan before he runs his hands down my back, tracing me from widened hips to slender waist, up, up my back and neck before taking hold, fingers clasped through locks of hair. Deeper and harder now, yes. Rocking my hips back to meet him I feel myself surrounding him deliciously, no room to spare. I'm pushed roughly up against the sofa, and his force surprises me. I'm hit with the realisation that he is a lot bigger than me, and could hurt me if he wanted to. He doesn't, not really, no more than I want him to. He's the first lover to discover this side of me for himself. I didn't even need to tell him. His thrusts are hard and fast now, slamming my face into the cushions. I like it, I think he comes, but can't quite tell, and soon he stops. He leads me upstairs to his white room with the colourful covers.

I find out later that when he comes, he slams himself into me and growls into my ear. A loud, unapologetic growl that is satisfying to my ears. I get to know that growl much better over the evening.

We lay in bed next to each other, slightly shocked at how much we're enjoying ourselves. Satisfaction breeds intimacy and our conversation become frank, candid. My hands can't keep away from his beautiful whiskered face. He looks back and I see the shy, delighted, naughty, interested boy in him, creeping out excitedly. Oh I do like him.

The next few hours are spent chatting, fucking, giggling. He leaves the room and I sneak his shirt on, a vast tunic on me. It doesn't smell of him. He seems to have no scent, but rather I can taste him when he kisses me. It's familiar. He likes me in his shirt and takes great pleasure in peeling it off my soft warm body several times over the course of the evening.

We try to watch a film, but in reality sit on each other, chatting and drinking champagne. I play him some music, and he plays me his favourite Beethoven symphony. I'm wrapped up in him, and gently drift off, hoping he wont notice. He does, and takes me softly back to his white room with the colourful covers and puts me to bed. He joins me soon after, and as we lay side by side I press myself into his warmth, and his arms snakes around me before holding me at the roundness of my belly.

1am. I'm awake, having not quite shaken off the stresses of the working week. My eyes hurt, sticking together from unremoved (but by this point certainly smudged) makeup. I creep out of bed, remove it and brush my teeth. Laying back next to him, I wonder distractedly if he will smell my face cream, whether he'll like it. He mutters I must pour you some more champagne in his sleep, and I giggle. He's dreaming about me, I like to believe. Sleep reluctantly comes again.

4:30am. The bed is empty next to me. My haziness thinks he's working, but I can't make out which room next to me he is in. I don't like being without him, and feel bereft. Tossing over whether to leave him alone or to join him, a few minutes later I rise, reaching for the door handle and seeing him at his computer. He smiles to see me, and apologises - he's still on Pacific time after a working trip away. He tenderly cuddles me, warming me and sweetly laughing at my blinkingness in the light. He makes tea, and joins me back in bed.We talk til sunrise.