It is almost 10.30am, and I am sitting alone at the dining table of a man whom I adore, but who keeps me like a mistress. As I write, it is impossible to distract myself from the intrusive pain in the middle of my back. For here, the skin is somewhat missing, the wound somewhat infected, and the inconvenience somewhat high. Just like I was, the night before last. High that is, not infected. Oh, curse my paper thin skin, and curse synthetically fibred carpets.
Of course, I had not intended a weeknight all-nighter. If only I had not had that less than perfect date that afternoon... He was lovely and long-haired, but young. There was no chemistry. No one was to blame, of course. But one always hopes. I must confess, sometimes I mentally throw myself on my knees, staring up at the heavens with bulging eyes, shouting, "Oh lord, send me a long-haired, well-spoken, exceedngly clever pretty boy that I can exist with in a mutually adoring relationship. In fact, lord, send me a man just like the one I am in love with now, only better. One who actually wants to be with me, instead of lurking around the feet of his ex like a lost puppy, longing for her to have sex with him, get back with him, all the while grabbing a fistful of my hair and telling me he loves me. And that he loves her. And that this is so hard for him. Amen." Then I mentally wipe the foam away from my mouth, and continue to maintain a vague aura of a reasonably well-adjusted member of society. Oh, how I digress.
After the date, I made my way back to the Reichstag. I refer to it as such because I have tried every method I can to produce a positive, healthy situation out of this mess. That would be the loving relationship I desire, and, I might add, so richly deserve. I have failed every time, so whilst I may be rather uncomfortable with taking any leaves out of Hitler's book, I have taken to referring to myself as "Holding my nose, and entering the Reichstag." And at this point, I am probably sounding a little unhinged, so I am praying, dear reader, that you have the same morbid sense of humour as I.
So, back at The House, the ex (who now, of course, lives there... don't ask) was receiving some of her entourage of boys. I actually rather get along with her, which makes the situation more weird, both because of my position, and because I think she often treats Alistair less than well. This particular night, there were three boys, all clever, all interesting, some a little too young, but you can't have it all. And then Courtney, the boy that I am about to enter a houseshare with, stopped by too. We have not known each other very long, but we instantly hit it off, perhaps because I instantly threatened to abuse him... In a way I wish I hadn't, because despite being clever and very pretty, I have instant friend-chemistry with him. Not even really friends-who-fuck chemistry. Which made it all the more strange when he very quietly and discreetly propositioned me with both sex and narcotics. I'm just a girl who can't say no, as the song goes. Actually, I say no to most, which explains why I am perpetually frustrated. The wine flowed into their mouths, the gin flowed into mine. We ended up in the dungeon.
Alistair had to crawl up to bed, sulking that he could not stay up and party, due to work obligations. Kit had a pretty face and long hair, but at the grand age of twenty-three, had some developing still to do. And I found his habit of writhing around mewling in order to encourage someone to rough him up so utterly annoying, I really wanted to kick him in the head. So I did the only thing I could. I got vaguely wasted and danced to NIN. But then something happened. Something wrong. Something unexpected and wrong. And we all know how much I like wrong. Kit grabbed me by the hair and forced me over his lap. "Instant hilarity," I thought, and decided to go along with it for the sake of amusement. I abuse boys, but I don't get dominated by them... I need a man for that. How it pains me to write this, but whilst his spanking technique needs a little work, his attitude was surprisingly good. I might have to hate myself, because I actually found myself willingly entertaining him. When he dropped all of his cocky-young-man-with-something-to-prove act, he showed a hell of a lot of potential, and was quite sexy. He spent the rest of the evening trying to entice me into bed, which I would not do, because I was entertaining Courtney, and was already sexually booked-up, as it were. It was all very romantic. Shortly before Kit retired, he threw me on my back and plunged his fingers into my pussy... and then the unthinkable happened... I gushed/squirted, call it what you will. I am not a lady who produces much fluid of any kind as a general rule. To date, there are only three men who can do this to me, now including Kit. And he did it faster than any of them. I hate myself, it was awesome.
He went to bed, and I carried on the party with Courtney, we talked, we smoked... we had sex. It wasn't bad sex... but, and I do hope he feels the same, it was like having sex with a brother. And not in that hot incestuous fantasy kind of way. Chemistry is a funny thing. And now we have come full circle, because as I lay there on my back, with legs thrown over his shoulders, I knew, I just knew that I was wearing a hole in the middle of my back. It didn't hurt much, but then, nothing hurts much when I am fucking. I have lost count of the amount of holes I have worn. And it really doesn't matter whether I am fucking them with a great big strap-on, or they are rogering me senseless... I am infected and moist. Hey, referring back to an earlier sentence, it looks like I was infected after all. How we all laughed.