What the fuck did I do?

Does it matter if no one reads?  If a blog is not read does it exist (like the tree in the woods that no one hears fall)?  Or does it exist for me and that's all that matters?

You know that I know that this is rhetorical and therefore by getting no answer to these questions I will understand that you, dear reader (note the singular because I'm sure you're not plural), are of an intelligent enough disposition to refrain from commentary when the answers are so obvious.

"I see a man without a problem
I see a country always starved,
I hear the music of a heartbeat,
I walk, and people turn and laugh.

Is it in my head
Is it in my head
Is in my head here at the start?
Is it in my head
Is it in my head
Is it in my head, or in my heart?

I pick up phones and hear my history.
I dream of all the calls I miss.
I try to number those who love me,
And find exactly what the trouble is.

Is it in my head [etc.]

I feel I'm being followed,
My head is empty
Yet every word I say turns out a sentence.
Make love to a stranger
Just asking for directions
Turn from being help to being questions.

I see a man without a problem. "

When I started humming it I didn't realise how apt it was, but now the words stare back at me.  Those last three lines about making love to a stranger asking for directions. Do I turn from being help to being questions or does the stranger turn from being help to being questions?  The former makes me worry for the burden I impose, the latter makes me worry about the burden of deceit I must carry.  But sod all that, it's a beautiful song from The Who's finest hour (I love Quadrophenia, takes me back to my teenage years, not that I was a mod beating up rockers on Brighton Beach, but I have always hankered for a Vespa).   So thank you PiP for taking me to that Quadrophonic place today!

I want touch
I want to be wanted
I want genuine, can't stop squirming passion
I want post-coital giggles
And the warmth of the moist embrace

Fluids shared and enjoyed (not just a service)
Curves pressed against muscles
Limbs entangled in lust and laughter

A trip to the sea
A drive to the canal
That's all it needs

It's half time by the sea
But back to work in the city
But that's ok
Our worlds may be divorced but our minds are engaged

Patience is a virtue
And the patient will be rewarded with vice
In heaven

Today I stare at the screen and will messages to appear
They don't

Today I contemplate someone hurting
Who I can't touch
But I think of her nonetheless

Today I take her in my mind
And have her in my soul
And pleasure her with my thoughts

Say "Today" and I think of Smashing Pumpkins:

And then I thought of some six word stories for me.  So here are my efforts to date:

Number One - Work:  Pissed on from a great height.

Number Two - Love:  She left and it never was.

Number Three - Sex:  All those women, so little time.

Number Four - Life:  Mother died, world diminished, I changed

I can't shake this question out of my head.  The answer for me is no.  But the opposite question intrigues me, which is Have you ever not said I love you when you would have meant it. 

I've been in love with four girls/women over the last thirty years (omigod that makes me sound soo old!) and I only told two of them.  I never told my first love and just when I was good and ready to, she broke my heart by losing her virginity to a holiday romance.  It took years to get over that, and even now, writing this I can feel the pain.  And yet, with hindsight she would have been wrong for me.

I told the second and I married her (and we're still married now after 22 years which ain't bad I guess).  I told the third and it nearly ended my marriage, but I chose to stay and sort things out.  Number 3 was a beauty, five years younger than me.  Ironically, in light of my recent bad behaviour we never had sex (although she did introduce me to phone sex, and it was brilliant with her).  Number 4 I never told because it would have done no good, for either of us, because neither of us would have acted upon it. I don't know if she knew, but I suspect she did and that's why she ended it.

I was reading about athletes and sex at the weekend.  Apparently abstinence before an event is no longer considered necessary.  I once had two intense hours of the best sex ever (up against the wall, carpet burns, over the back of the sofa, hard, long, noisy orgasm type sex) and then went out and ran a PB (personal best for the unitiated).  So abstinence does not work for me.  Which is a bloody relief because all that training is bad enough without the thought of no naked sweaty, moist moments.  And I don't think she'd wait that long for me.

There is someone who waits for me.  She craves me and I her.  But finding that spot where we can overlap and make sparks fly and body heat to warm these winter days is illusive.  And in the meantime I stray to more easily acquired, but ultimately empty, embraces.

I toyed with switching off the PC, texting a location, and driving across the mountains towards the sea.  Mr Sensible stopped me (bastard!).  But she had existing plans already so it wouldn't have been anyway.  But it might yet be.  No, that's too vague.  It will be; it's just a matter of when.

And then my mind wandered and I wondered? Should I call the agency?  I considered my options and I recalled a previous rendezvous.  She was a light skinned Indian girl from Liverpool.  Pretty and petite, smily and bright (once again I thought of how many of these graduates chose this career to repay their debts...I believe in Belle de Jour, because I've met her on more than one occasion).  She had full, soft lips and kissed with playfulness and passion in equal parts.  We undressed and she tenderly and attentively took my cock in her mouth.  It wasn't long before I felt the tingling and buzzing spread from the centre of my being out across my chest, down my arms to my finger tips, along my legs to my toes.  I stopped her and turned her onto her back onto the bed.  She was already wet when I went down on her, but soon she was dripping and her groans of pleasure (and this time not faked I was sure) filled my ears.  She stopped me slipping my fingers inside ("I'll cum immediately" she said) and so I continued with my tongue in the groove and over her clit and my lips on hers.  Her twitching turned to writhing, her moans turned to gasps, her flow increased and I knew she was close.  I gripped her arse and pulled her towards my eager mouth, willing her closer and closer.  She in turn pushed my head hard into her pussy and I licked ever harder and faster.  She came with a barely contained scream and a outpouring of cum that I eagerly swallowed.  For minutes she held me there, her body tense from the orgasm, and I playfully teased her with the tip of my tongue, and she instictively flinched but continued to push herself into me.  Then she relaxed. 

I moved up the bed, lay alongside her and gently, ran my index and middle fingers along and around the engorged opening.  She just kept smiling; a warm, wanting smile.  She was torn between wanting more pleasure and pleasuring me.  I could tell.  The climax subsided and she insisted I cum inside her.

She put the condom on me and I lay her back and slid (with her expert guidance) inside.  I had been so aroused by her orgasm that within a minute I had cum; not an explosive ecstatic orgasm, but a needed climax nonetheless. 

We talked a while.  I showered and dressed.  And returned to the real world.

The next time I want it (tongue, head, cum, fuck, flesh, sweat, lust, moans, cries, scents) real.  Pleasure for pleasure's sake, not money for God's sake.

So I didn't make the call.  Can't say I won't, but I'm ready for something more.  Sooner rather than later.