Tag Archives: break up diaries
I felt him come with my fingertips
We used to do this thing, back in my old flat, where he’d lube his dick up and slide it between the cheeks of my arse. Just… thrusting back and forth, where my bum meets the top of my thighs. I love the way it feels, and the sense that he’s so horny he’ll fuck anything to relieve the ache in his dick. Sometimes he’d slip his dick forward and up a bit so it was tight between my labia. Almost-but-not-quite entering my cunt. Often this made me so wet we didn’t need to replenish the lube, and he’d fuck my ass with the stuff left over from before, plus all the quim I’d drizzled out onto him. But we never tried it like this before: me on my front, one hand reaching down between my legs to press the head of his cock tighter against my clit, until I felt him come with my fingertips.
The sofa that launched a thousand fucks
It’s everything I hate in a sofa, this thing: brown; leather; thin metal legs; angular armrests that you can’t properly lean against and a seat that’s too narrow for spooning. I hate this sofa so much that when my ex and I hung out together, I used to sit on the floor. Give me well-worn carpet and a numb bum over sticky brown leather any day of the week. I hate this sofa for every single thing… except fucking. This sofa features in almost every filthy post I’ve written on this blog in the last four years. This sofa launched a thousand fucks.
Please don’t say “you’ll find someone else”
Since I broke up with my ex, quite a lot of people have sought to reassure me that “you’ll find someone else.” It’s incredibly kind and well-meaning, and tempting as all hell to lean in to the idea. Go shopping for men, you say? Sounds fun! Pick one who’s better? Sweet! Hey presto – happiness awaits! I get why people offer this advice, and I don’t want to bat it away with a sarky response because it comes from a place of kindness. It’s understandable and admirable to try to comfort someone who’s hurting. But I don’t really like “you’ll find someone else”, and I thought I’d have a crack at explaining why.
And so I hide
I’m not very chatty on Twitter any more, and it wasn’t until last night when I spoke to a friend on the phone that I realised… I don’t even call my friends that much these days. The last few weeks have been weird and frightening, and they’re only going to get weirder and more frightening until sometime in June when the fear will come to a head and I’ll either sink, swim, or cling desperately to any of the friends I haven’t so far pissed off by ignoring. This is how it works, when my mental health is bad: I hide.
What do you say? Thank you
Note: I wrote this one quite a while ago, and it happened even longer ago.
His flat is filled with mirrors, which is helpful for two people who really love watching ourselves fuck. He plays Massive Attack at just the right volume, which is great for two people who really like fucking to Massive Attack. And as I hold myself up on the corner of the kitchen counter, one foot planted on the surface and another on the shelf nearby, holding my cunt at the perfect height for him to slam his cock home, he growls: “What do you say?” And I tell him, breathlessly, “thank you.”