The bastard's dillema

It is tiring to have an affair. There is the running around, the secrecy, the planned meetings called off at the last minute, the terror of an unanticipated phone call, etc. It's a damned mess. But a regular affair has at least one thing going for it, a certain consistency. Unfortunately, the mess of an affair is that they tend to be quite heart wrenching. There are feelings involved that make every move a sticky one.

Besides, I don't wish to play the game of emotional tug of war that is required to have a full blown affair. And so I am forced to find a series of encounters. These vary in their enjoyability, but mostly rate high. They're new, exciting and fun. In the last few weeks, I've had a few, and I've enjoyed every one. The annoyance, however, is that these games are mostly one shot affairs. On the good side, that's brilliant. On the downside is the problem of replication.

I enjoy the thrill of flirtation, the dirtiness of barely knowing a name, but I prefer, in the long wrong, the sex. Perhaps it is me. I do not tire of the same food and I likewise don't get bored of eating the same pussy. I would eat the one assigned to me (as if I were a child handed a bride--told here you go, don't screw it up) if only I had the opportunity. I am an obese man rationed to a few good meals a week. Some would say, a few good meals a week? We thrill at the opportunity. I, however, prefer a steady diet of thrice a day. I am no superman, I could not keep such a show up indefinately, but I am okay with a few weeks only eating 10-15 times. Is that so wrong?

Well, of course it is, I'm married and I don't get to play that game. Well, I'm not supposed to. So I continue my search for consistency without the emotional game. I prefer a woman with a mind, a conversation partner, a roll over and make a witty remark kind of a girl. The difficulty is in finding one that doesn't fall in love with you, begin feeling sorry for your wife, etc., etc. Discretion is a bitch.

Advice for staying married

While I must admit to being something of a terrible person, I have always wondered about those less terrible people, who have affairs because they don't love their partner anymore. What keeps them with these people? Money? Children? Some unusual obligation? I don't particularly know. I'm not one of those people. I'm happily married, though my penis seems to think otherwise. This guide is about how not to get caught in your fun endeavors.

Always use condoms--Easy enough. Trusting the person you're sleeping with should be a default, but sometimes a test can be missed, a symptom could slip by and not being single, you don't have the option of getting it treated quietly.

Keep your condoms someplace safe-- Unless you're somehow in a marriage in which your wife or husband forbids genital contact (poor soul), you've probably eliminated the need for these. It's great isn't it? Sex is about a billion times better bareback. Well, now that you're out in the world, screwing near strangers (or coworkers), and you're playing it safe, you need a place to keep this little buggers. Someplace convenient but where your spouse, whether prying or innocently looking for something, won't stumble onto them. This is where you need to know them a little bit. Don't choose a spare battery drawer, even if you think you're the only one who changes them. If you can avoid bringing them home at all, all the better, just remember to make a trip to pick them up before any rendezvous (and bring enough. I know that 1, maybe 2 will cover you 99% of the time--if not, tell me your secret!--but there are few things as sad as an unexpected readiness for round 3 to be defeated by a rubber shortage).

Never do it at home--I know, it's convenient, it's free and you know exactly the last time the sheets have been changed. Believe me, I get it. Here's the thing: home is where the spouse lives. They can come home at any time because of a business trip cut short, a shopping trip ruined by rain (really? you're screwing someone in your house while they're shopping? I'm not sure if you're brave or stupid), a workday that went wrong and they took off early, etc. There are more reasons though. Mostly in the left behind category. If your sex life is as interesting as it should be, disrobing is not something that is being carefully planned. Socks and bras have a tendency to be launched across the room, perhaps a dog or cat, if you have them, will think a piece of clothing is a plaything, and then there are the condoms. Let me tell you a story. When S. was over a week ago, and we fucked each other silly for a few hours, we somehow managed to go through 4 condoms. That's a lot. Unfortunately, I only recollected 3. I found three, 3 wrappers and 3 rubbers, duly collected them (not forgetting the little ripped off tops) and put them into a small trashbag, which I put into the larger trashbag and tossed that into the dumpster. Safe. Then, while tidying the house later that day (W. being out of town for a business trip, so luckily I had the time) I found another wrapper. Fuck. Thus began a mad tearing up the house for the used condom. Little thought of fact: when lying around, those things are practically invisible. After 45 minutes, I finally found it. Thank the lord. I'll also mention that before S. left, we spent a good 10 minutes looking for her sock. So, moral of the story: do it at their place (if they're single) or do it at a motel.

Don't use your credit card, dummy--Speaking of motels, they're a great way to get you caught. If you're the person who controls the finances, you may be tempted to believe that you're the only one that looks at the bills. You're not. Even though you may accuse your spouse of never looking because they rarely look, they'll glance at it from time to time. Keep this in mind. If you have a mysterious noon charge from Motel 6, they're going to know. So, here's the workaround. Get a credit card in your name delivered to you outside of your home. Work will do. If that's not feasible, use cash whenever possible. Most hotels/motels require a card on file to charge you in case you run off with their towels, so you can try to find one that doesn't (they're sleezy, but they exist) or you can get your fuck buddy to put theirs down. It's a complicated business, I know.

Don't use your cellphone either--Yep, they keep track of everything. Every call and every text. If you're somehow only screwing the same person once, so the calls are kept to an absolute minimum, you can get away with it, I'll admit. But as soon as 3 or 4 are placed back and forth, you're going to need an excuse. What's worse is when your fuckbuddy, feeling horny, places a booty call. Now there is nothing better than a delivery order for your sex, but there is also nothing worse than trying to keep that conversation away from your spouse who's sitting 2 feet away from you. The solution is called Tracphone. A prepaid cell is the way to go. Keep it turned off at all times (you don't want that one ringing and try to explain it) until you get a chance to check it, or if you're expecting (and can actually take) the call. They can call you if they want some and it won't get you in trouble. That is convenience.

Keep your lies in check--Don't say you're playing golf if you weren't. You'll have to have played with someone and that conversation can come up. If you say you went shopping: BUY SOMETHING. Make sure that the time spent is proportionate to how much you would normally spend. Don't invent friends and don't make your friends into patsies for your extra-marrital fun. They don't want to have to remember when they supposedly did something with you--they're not getting any from the equation.

Keep it outside of your circle--Friends and coworkers are out unless you really want to get divorced. The problem is this: you have a connection with these people, you're probably attracted to them not only because of their body, but because of their mind. This is called a relationship. Even if you're only wanted a quick screw, they may be thinking of something a little bit more. Let me tell you folks, there is nothing worse than a jilted lover, especially when the relationship they had imagined you two were cultivating was really just a sexual release for you, with them playing the role of warm sex-toy. It's just not a flattering thought. Keep it to the bars, the internet and creepy underground connections. I suggest gay guys that aren't really attractive, yet find some weird thrill in hooking you up with people. I don't get it, but I've run into a number of these fixers. God bless, is all I really have to say to that.

Don't lie to them--This may seem counter-intuitive, but don't lie to the men and women you're banging. Tell them you're married. This may lose you some (and bring you some, I might add) but it keeps things from getting out of control. If they think you're single and just wanting a bang, and you repeat that process a few times, they may think that something is blossoming. See above about jilted lovers. Don't let their expectations get out of control. Granted, most of the time you'll just crush their little dreams, but occasionally, they'll get righteously indignant and rat you out. Whoops.

Have fun-- You're a terrible person, sleeping with others while married to someone you want to stay with. Do you realize that? You are standing against everything society has ever stood for and you're doing it for...for what? You're breaking your promises to this person, you're lying to them and you're deeply humiliating them in ways that are hard to imagine. It's fun though, right? God damn it's fun. Enjoy you're devilishness.

The tale of S.

It has been a while, but that is because it has been an interesting week. Perhaps I will update the rest of the week, but let me tell you about last weekend.

S. was in town to visit family and so we decided to grab a few drinks together. This was good and fun. We caught up, we gossiped, we voiced the ethereal nothingness of a successful conversation, laughing and joking and speechifying and agreeing in a way that we would not remember later, but that was entirely satisfying.

S was dressed in a seemingly simple dress, but it was hard to keep my eyes off of her. The simple curves served her virtues. I found myself, as we drank and laughed, unable to keep my hands from touching her. I placed my hand on her arm, her shoulders, her knee and there was a thrill in it that all know. We closed the bar down and made our out back to my apartment where I poured us more drinks and put on some music.

The topic stayed mostly in bounds of friendly protocol, but my hands were on a planet of their own, drawn to her like a lick of flame into the oxygen of the air, hungering. We were drunk and so the moment itself is beyond me, but I put my hand on her cheek and she protested weakly that we shouldn't. I kissed her.

I am still thinking about her kiss. S. has a way with her mouth that I have not seen before. We kissed and we grabbed at each other, straining into the other, grabbing hold of clothing and body parts to tighten our grip. We let loose of each other's lips and roamed the neck and ear, our hands still grabbing and pulling. We lost our clothing and collapsed onto the couch. She protested again that we shouldn't. But I want to, I said to her, and she said she wanted to as well. We were gloriously naked.

Yet she kept her hand over her crotch except for when my dick was near her hand. She was drawn to it, stroking it and touching it. I told her I wanted to eat her, but no, she said, just fuck me. I did. We fucked until I was tired and my poor drunk dick couldn't keep up. Oh evil alcohol! I ate her. Oh, what a fantastic pussy S. has. The trim so perfect and elegant. I ate her for what seemed an hour, my vigor restored by her soft moans and my fingers inside her. She told me to get on my back so she could blow me. The mouth again, so incredible. That is a sort of heaven. I flipped her on her knees and we screwed for another good while, my head swimming and my body rejoicing.

Eventually it came to an end, I don't know why (drunken logic, I'm sure) and I picked her up to bring her to the bedroom. We crashed into the coffee table and I thwacked her head against a wall. No permenant damage done, I we back to her pussy. The thrill eating her. We screwed some more until I was sweating and exhausted and finished an then we collapsed and slept. Somehow this sequence, including the conversation took from 2:30 to 6:30. I slept the righteous sleep of the exhausted.

But I was woken up by myself at only 8. I crawled to S. and her pussy, exploring her with my tongue until she awoke and writhed and pulled my head into her and then I climbed on top. The poor neighbors with the shudder of the floorboards.

We fell asleep again, and she woke me a few hours later. Our fun was over, she had her commitments for the day and I had mine.

Call me tonight if you're free, I told her as I dropped her off. Sadly she didn't. Our friendship will continue how it was, which is how I am happy, for that is something I cherish. I can still smell her though when I lose my train of thought and I thrill at the thought of her lips on mine, our bodies pressed together again. Oh for her to come visit her family again, is my greatest wish. This time I want her sober, so the recollection of the bliss is more straightforward and wonderful.

Resolution

Firstly, there is something thrilling about posting on a blog about stupid mistakes and sex while working. It's not that I'm wasting company time (the work is done, my job now is to watch the clock), it's that it is something taboo.

What better way to break silence of the last week. In a nutshell, things have been boring. Interestingly, my baring of my soul and intentions met with reciprocity. Immediately a rendezvous was planned, detailed, setup and anticipated...which killed the fun of it. B and I had come to an agreement that it is what we both want, and that agreement has put a fizzle to the sizzle. The flirting this week has been as heavy as ever, but the payoff is nonexistant and seems like it shall remain that way.

So in a way, this is a post about things done right. No, wait, I'm posting at work. Disaster averted.

More communication

If you feel like saying something, sometimes blunt words aren't enough. Sometimes a barrage of bluntness is needed. Here is the problem: such a barrage can have concussive effects on the subject. This is what happened and now I wait with a terrible thunder of dread to see what retaliation or fallout I have caused.

Communication

Here is to ineffective communication due to slyness, or an attempt thereof. One should never attempt to run the line of innuendo to its logical conclusion as you will still lose the less risk taking chances along the way and you risk also losing even those ready for the ride by not stating explicitly.

I have been making less sense recently.

I suppose it has been due to the nature of my infatuation. It is a dangerous one with a woman wild and hot, who wields the power of my devastation with a rough hand. It is generally best then, to cancel the idea, and to stick to safer routes. And so I was on the internet, cruising through the miles of lonely letters and misguided explanations and the hopeful and hopeless missives of those looking and looking and sometimes never finding. It is a sad thing, these people on the internet, when they cannot find what they are looking for, but it is equally joyous when they do, among the rubble of pickiness and ugliness and plain out incombatability.

Tomorrow shall be another gauntlet of sorts, Saturday yet another, if previous plans with S. do not fall through, though I often wonder about her reliability. Too bad, she would be a fun time and a good lay and is probably marvelous the morning after; too many people shed their marvelous as they sleep, its remnants smudged on your pillow case and the remainder a shock and reevaluation.

Confession part 2

So this is what I imagined confessing to B.: I am smitten with you and I am afraid of how the consequences will fall out. This is what I would really confess if I had the opportunity: I am enamored with you. I cannot leave the situation I am in, but the feelings I have for you are not minor. They are lust and intrigue and passion. What I wish is to lie you down and please you. I wish to please you until your head screams, until your throat is sore and your legs are tired and I am practically a pulp. I wish to have you and to fuck you and to eat you and to lay beside you and revel in our happiness.

But I am a coward, apparently, and I cannot bring myself to make the first move.

Wasted Time

So today instead of working I spent an hour fantasizing. I thought of B. and how she would look on my bed. I imagined the cream of my sheets beneath her and the spread of her hair fanned across my pillow. I thought of the coital bounce and shuffle, her arms around my neck, her legs pressed into my thighs; the sighs that we would exhale. I spent more time, however, thinking of her afterward, her perky breasts underneath my stroking fingertips, the small upturn of her lips, the excitement and joy in her eyes. I imagined us lying there for a while, stroking each other and chatting, joking about the day or the circumstance, slowly building each other up for another, slower, fuller round.

I woke up from my reverie and realized that I had things to do and not much time to do it. My heart was beating in my chest, it still is. I felt like I had lost something terribly beautiful because it was only a mid-afternoon reverie and not an extension of reality. It is hard to love the situation one is in while yearning so hard for something else, something new and exciting and dangerous as B. Already I cannot wait to see her again. Alas for the cruel drag of time.

Watchmen

I know that I have overstepped my bounds, but I sometimes feel like it cannot be helped. More than any, I lust after B.. Her beauty is striking and her wit is infatuating. I long to engage in protracted conversations with her, to let our thoughts reach the logical conclusions that they cannot fully come to when we speak in more crowded situations. More though, I see the way she moves and how I could move her and move with her. Yes, there would be something to that. So I have stated my position too bluntly to no avail today.

Here is the thing. What will happen will probably not be with B. or even S., though I would much prefer it. B. has captured my imagination of late but S. has lingered in my mind for many years now. What will probably happen is that it will take the shape of some other lovely, who I know less and who I am less likely to compromise myself and who would have to compromise themselves less as well. It is probably for the better, but it is a damned shame. I hope that I am wrong.

So I have seen Watchmen and it is nothing like the previews. I am not here to review the movie however, I'm here to talk about Dan.

More specifically, how well I relate to him. It is not that I am impotent when powerless, but rather something of an interesting opposite. When I am at my most confident I am more charming, more contented, etc. When I have been smacked down, however, when a project is poor, when passed for a promotion I felt I deserved, I am less charming, less content. In the latter, however, I am hornier, more sly and sexy. I take higher risks. Had Dan (in the watchmen movie) been a superhero, he would not have sprung Rorschach from jail. It was a high-risk maneuver to recapture that feeling of accomplishment he had and lost.

I am here because I have been beaten down. What I have accomplished is not enough, what I have achieved is unsatisfying, what I possess cannot sate me. I prowl for more, I put my body on exhibit for the the lust of others and it fuels my own lust and satisfaction. What comes with it, however, is the guilt of my infidelity. I am frustrated by myself and that frustration manifests itself in the need to be better, sexier, seducing more women, having more sex. I therapist would suggest I simply concentrate my efforts on self-improvement, but I cannot. I am Dan seeking the thrill of the superhero, even though it could get me in trouble and ruin the stability of a good, if sometimes boring, life.

Dan is the everyman in his power and his powerlessness, his living for something that which is not part of his life, the thrill of the forbidden. I am also that everyman. Nite Owl is an appropriate name. I too cruise the streets in the dark hours of the night, seeking out that bang and wow, that thrill and that satisfaction.

Chapstick

Last night was not the success I had hoped it would be. A situation such as this must be watched over and plans of action must be subtly laid. Subtlety, however, is something difficult to conjure correctly. Slip to one side and you have become ham-handed and you have blown what affect you were trying to achieve, slip to the other side and you have ended with a mist of missed opportunity. Such was my fate as I waited like a child fishing--watching the buoyancy of a bobber, trying to discern if the motion was simply the turbulence of the water or the equally subtle tug of the target. The feeling I have, however, is that this game is being played two ways, B. being a clever partner in sparring of all sorts.

Otherwise I purchased today another tube of chapstick, as my lips have been uncharacteristically dry, despite the warm weather over the state. My lips freshly sealed in tempered beeswax (an unflattering comparison, but that is how I feel of the stuff) I was suddenly struck by a memory of a time long gone in a way that would give old Marcel a knowing smile. I shall tell you the story, but first let me warn you. This story, being true as memory can be trusted, is more porn than erotica, more brag than recounting and more fun than most great times can be.

I once knew an S. of the platinum blond variety. The kind of hair that is striking when natural and telling if not. I caught up with her not too distantly and she now negotiates contracts and manages million dollar accounts for an L.A. company. This is to say her personality didn't change. A dresser even in those lazy days of our recently acquired adulthood, she could startle a room into attention and order with only the presence of her personality and the titanium gleam of her hair.

One winter day we unraveled our coats and scarves just inside her apartment and re-raveled into each other on her bed. Such is the outcome of a long cold walk laden with innuendo, promise and dare. Her hands on my head she kissed me with a force to flatten a penny and I pressed into her body almost defiantly. It was a competition of passion that had nothing to do with competitiveness. What I noticed, however, after the headiness of the rush of blood and the force of our exertions, was a single raw jab from the chapped skin of her lower lip.

I pushed her down and she pulled me on top of her, pulling on my t shirt with her hands and on my lips with her own. Wet and hot against my still chilled face, her mouth was a hearth and I was home. As we breathed past the first rush of excitement she pecked and pulled more softly, more sweetly, in a way that was almost more passionate and I felt as if my own lips would melt into hers. But it was there still, that jab of chapped skin. It gave me the clarity to see in my mind's eye the position of our bodies, still mostly clothed on the bed and to remind me of the soft and smoothness of the rest of her.

While reluctantly, I broke our kiss momentarily to pull at our layers. I nearly tore her bra and we laughed a brief moment before we found other occupations. My hands, comfortable as they usually are--on the neck, on the breasts, on the magnificent inward swoop of the waist as it leads into the elegant curve of the hips, on the thighs in the shadow of the v for victory--were like gluttons at a feast, touching everything, wanting everything, being everywhere. I kissed her harder, my heart racing, the chapped skin jabbing me even harder and I loved it.

S. pushed me off with a staggering force. I was stunned by the act, wanting to pull her by the legs into me and me into her and partly afraid I had hurt her. But no. There was a look on her face as animal as the beating in my chest. Like a magic trick I was suddenly fully naked and on my back. S. was on her knees, left hand holding her weight, right hand wrapped around my cock, her back arched and her face peering into mine. Then she took me.

The pleasure of the moments following are obvious. The wrapping of the lips, the twirl and slither of the tongue, the stroking of shaft and balls and the movement of taking in and sliding out--both fast and slow.

What was not obvious was the chapped lip. The way it dug in with the pressure she applied, the way it scratched its way across the underside of me right up the sensitive pink strip above the white of the shaft and below the swollen purple of the head. It punctuated her breathing, her swallowing, her shifting and turning; it amplified her heat and her vigor.

I have never had an orgasm from a blowjob, but this moment was the closest I have ever come. It brought me up to a brink that I have never balanced upon so long, the exquisite pleasure of the moment brought into full height by the pain of the jagged skin. S. looked up to me while she did this, while I sighed and stroked her hair, when I leaned forward to rub her tits and she only broke eye contact when I leaned forward further to bring her legs up to me so that I could impart to her clit even just some of the pleasure she was giving me. It was like the gentle use of teeth, that sharpness and pain and pleasure of them, only more painful and more minute. I had no concept of the time that had elapsed, but in my mind it was nearly eternal and perfect.

When I could take no more from her, I urged her up and she slid off the bed and prepared to come around the side to join me laying lengthwise. I rushed off of the bed after her. She laughed a single small laugh before I had gathered her legs into my arms and crashed us both into the bedroom wall in a gentle way that still shook the pictures on the wall. We fucked like that in an urgent and frantic way until my arms grew so tired I was a little afraid I would drop her in my ecstasy. I remained on that brink she had brought me to and could go no further. She climbed from a rise to a crescendo but balked when she reached my own heights. We grunted loudly in a way that signaled the frustration and utter joy that is a prolonged orgasm. We collapsed into the bed, her on top and made love slow and exhausted. Our movements were more grinds than thrusts and our breathing didn't slow. I came first, and she soon afterward.

S. smiled at me from where she had laid her head on my chest. "Been saving that one?" she said. "Especially," I told her. We sighed.

There were two more times with the chapped lip, following a similar course, though in wildly different circumstances. The first time after was the next morning: our passion was reserved and warm, culminating in a spooning that rocked across the bed and was like a heavy comforter on cloudy day. The kind of sex that is amplified in pleasure because of the subtle sweetness of the act. The second time we had been arguing politics and we were tired and drunk. Her teeth were a constant companion that night to the jagged edge of her lip, her satisfaction in causing me to wince as great as my reveling in her technique. We received a note from her neighbors complaining about the noise that night. We mixed our pleasure and our pain freely. Hair was tugged, bite marks and scratches persisted for days and I lost a belt loop on my good pair of jeans. When we came we just kept on fucking, only sated when we could go no more. It was a story I would tell my friends to awe them, when I was younger, but truth be told it was the least of the three occasions.

Of course I never told her what the secret had been those times, though they were certainly set apart. Not so much that they were better but that they were unique. It is one of the things you do not tell a girl. Once I thought of telling her about how fantastic that time had been but I remembered a girl I had dated before who had stated flat out that chapped lips were the biggest turn off she knew of. I didn't feel like risking it. We broke up soon after, our relationship one casual and brief.

I know that I would tell W. about the chapped lip thing and she would be embarrassed, but not morbidly so. We share everything like that. Sometimes I wonder if that is part of the problem--the details we do not hide--or if it is a blessing.

Nevertheless there is my story, and now I must tend to my plans and hopes and fantasies for and of B.

Hello

Last night I spoke with S. for a considerable amount of time. Such conversations are my confessionals; Catholics don't get to be the only ones to have such a release. I slumbered and awoke and was not sated, so now there is this.

I tend to be vulgar and pornographic in my thoughts and my mistakes made and wished for tend to be specifically along those lines. This post is innocent and innocuous and others may be as well, but that will certainly not hold true, so newbies beware.

Tonight I hope to create some news to post, and it would be more interesting, but let me confess some background:

There is Mrs. B. (henceforth B.) that is the subject of my fascination. Practically a child, she is nevertheless clever and interesting, funny and physically striking. We work together at a large corporation and when not bogged down with tasks, we talk and we laugh. I am happily married; yet in the way of bastards the world over, the sanctity of the institution is not of my primary concern, although it continuing is. B. is not worried in this way. There has been flirting for some time, glorious in its flit and twitter and exciting in the force of its undertow. There has been a declaration of sorts made at the wrong time and in the wrong company--too bad. There is an electricity in every accidental (few events are truly accidents) touch, every brush of clothes and touch of hands.

So there is much to lose but oh, what stands to be had!

Of course this is oblique and not helpful. Also, though you and I, dear reader, have only just met I have already lied to you. Alas. More to come as well as more from S., something that should not be missed.