Friday, May 9, 2014

Ode to a rising star

I'm resisting the urge to call him.  I sense that I need to as the texts that flew around couldn't capture the nuances of what I was trying to convey.  But in the end, I came to the realization that the phone call wouldn't be for him.  It wouldn't be something in his best interests.  Instead, it would be solely for mine...  to smooth over the rough, jagged lines he painted of me with softly vibrant colors, surreal, masking the truth.  What was best was to just let him go.  Now.  Not later.  Because in the end, you can't contain that sort of talent and energy and light and it'd be grotesque to even try to collect it and display it, recessed in a cabinet, arranged in a shadow box just because it was convenient for me.

And it was a first.  A fuck buddy just broke up with me over SMS.  After only two encounters.  Not just a slow fade but an all out abrupt "let's not see each other" kinda breakup backed up with violent emotion.

We met off of Growlr.  A mid-twenties cub, originally from the east coast and now trying to make it out here.  And he's doing it.  Using his artistic talents to succeed in "the industry" and he's nothing but giddy that his career is starting to take off, breaking all the rules and name dropping all over the place which isn't really coming out of a place of affectation but that he just hasn't yet been burned enough to keep his contacts a secret.  And I'm smiling softly to myself and turning it back constantly not to the others but back to him.  To his name.  Because the resume isn't as important as what you can bring to the table and if you're on your ass out of a job, you need to be confident enough in your abilities to be a catalyst that makes shit happen and not just merely a competent cog in the machine.

Yeah, I didn't know what the fuck I was saying but he ate that shit up like a fat kid at a Vegas buffet.  And he gave me those eyes.  Those innocent puppy eyes that looked up to me with adoration that not only made the years between us more apparent but also, ironically, made me wanna do some really nasty, dirty things to him.  So naturally, for the rest of the night, I'd address him with diminutives that would make his permanently ruddy cheeks flush even more.  It was cute.  Aww...  Pumpkin!

And the dirty things I did to him?  Like I said, we only met twice.  Two over-nighters.  And I managed to fucked at least five loads into him and fuck even more out of this self-professed top.  He wasn't sure about bottoming.  It never felt good for him.  But he claimed I had a "magic dick" that just went in easy and hit all the right spots.  And I think he just enjoyed letting go and having someone else take the lead.  He was by no means a passive guy.  Engaged.  Didn't fight me but played with me, accepted what I was offering and engaged enough to know when to contribute...  in tandem.  In between, I'd stroke his smooth body, my hand leaving trails of red as it danced over his skin.  He had that complexion where you can almost see the blood come up to the surface to meet your hands and follow it where ever to wanted to go.  He'd be curled up into my chest, his scruff tickling a nipple, while his cum that he shot all over me started to cool and run and dry, sealing us together.  And then I'd feel his dick perk up again.  It's a straight one.  Solid.  Symmetrical girth from base to tip, anchored into his body at a permanent, perfect forty-five degree angle.  So yeah, I could tell when he was ready again and then we'd fuck all over again.  At one point, I had just fucked a load out of him but knew he needed a break.  So I rolled him over and gave him a massage.  My cock grazing his ass over and over until I couldn't help but hold him down as he writhed, groan, and maybe even winced having just got off...  and pummeled his ass until I growled a huge load deep inside him.  He quickly bucked me off, rolled over and shot another load that sprayed so hard he messed the sheets.  All this within 15 minutes between loads.

Then the text.  The text that said he just wants to be friends.  He knew I was partnered going into it, but he needed more than a fuck bud that would get together just every month or so.  To save himself from heartache, he needed to delineate a line that moved me to the platonic, a state that I couldn't realistically abide by.  So now he's made me out to be some asshole that used him for his holes.

And I've resisted the temptation to correct him.  In the end, I want him to get what he's looking for and unfortunately I'm not it.  Calling him is just a desperate attempt to greedily maintain this high I get when we're together.  And besides.  In bed/out of bed: you can't contain talent.  It wouldn't be fair to try.

4 comments:

Zen Mann Silver said...

With such talent and a resume, you'd think he's be a little proper with ending it. I guess not.

"On to the next," I say.

AJ said...

Sounds like that episode of Sex & the City when Maiden broke up with Carrie on a Post-It.

Dre Sync said...

haha something like this happened to me but it was sort of a longer more protracted break up, all over text

CoolTop said...

Decades ago, I used to meet guys on a chat line called IRC. It wasn't as base as hookup sites are now-- most of those guys I just met for coffee or on bona fide dates, though I did have sex with plenty of them. It was a gossipy little world where I lived, endlessly entertaining as a source of gossip about who liked and met up with who. I had sort of never experienced that. But occasionally I would meet someone who would say, "I've heard about you. You just fuck people and never talk to them again." I was single then, and actually sort of lonely, and anyone I had a connection with at all, I tried to maintain it beyond sex (if it ever even happened-- I was much less of a whore than than I am now). So this was mystifying. I could only think of one guy who might have said that about me, and it was some guy who very strenuously only wanted to suck my dick and have me work his nips, in one rigid standing position, until I came down his throat. I thought it was bizarre that he would turn around and then say I was what he claimed to think I was, when I'm really, really not (even now, when I'm not single any more, I like talking to guys who I fuck afterward and keeping up with them if we click at all; I'm pretty sentimental even about a good fuck). Basically, you really can't control what someone thinks about you or what box they decide to put you in. And you might be putting *them* in the wrong box, too.

And don't forget, there are plenty of dudes out there who *want* to be used for their holes :^]