Wait For The Right Man

Wait for the right man. That’s what I was supposed to do. I was supposed to save myself for marriage, or at least for a man I loved and was in love with. I didn’t do either of those things. I traded the magical, romantic first time for a stoned and drunk fuck. Oddly enough, I’m not regretful. I don’t feel ashamed that I lost it to a known “player”, and I don’t feel embarrassed over the fact that I sneaked out of his house that morning. We both know what happened, but we’re not going to make a big deal out of it. If we did, we would both get murdered. Him more than me, but I’d get my fair share of an ass kicking. I saw him the very next night and everything was normal. We said our hellos, we hugged, and we flirted. Honestly, if I didn’t feel what I feel on the inside I wouldn’t think anything had happened. But trust me. My body is telling me that something happened. I get these little flashbacks, little clips of us.

Me whispering in his ear. His hand clutching my thigh. My tongue tracing his ear. His hands gripping my breast. Then our faces turned and mouths met. His teeth clashed against mine, and my tongue was trapped in his mouth. I pulled back and sucked his bottom lip with me. His hand slid up my back and grabbed my hair. I moaned. Loud. Then I attacked his mouth again. There was no shame. I didn’t think about the fact that he had a girlfriend back home. I didn’t think about the fact that we intended on hooking up with different people that night. I didn’t even think about how he played Samantha. All I could concentrate on was pushing him back onto the bed and getting closer to his body.

There was a second when I remembered that we were both drunk and stoned, but the moment passed and I was back at it. My hands couldn’t get enough of him, and his hands rested on my ass, grinding me against him. I pulled back and mumbled something about hating my long hair. I don’t remember if he responded, but it doesn’t matter now. Soon I lost my shorts, but still had on my stockings. His shirt was off, and so were his jeans. He got up and asked if I minded him taking off his pants. Of course I didn’t. The damn thing needed to come off. He got off the bed and his jeans were off. When he came back on the bed he was hovering over me. I probably should have felt intimidated, but I bit my lip and accepted his challenge. One of my hands brought his face down to me, while my other hand slid down his back and played with the waist band of his briefs.

Things start to blur from there. I do remember going down on him. I remember falling off the bed, trying to get the condom out of his pants. Then I remember him filling me. I woke up the next morning, makeup all over my face, and my hair looking a mess. I rolled over and saw that he was knocked out, with his arm around me. It took me a second to realize who I was lying with and what had happened that night. When I realized that I needed to get the fuck out of there, I grabbed my jacket, shoes, and socks. I stuffed them in my purse and called for my ride. Like I said, I don’t regret anything. I’m pretty damn happy with the way things happened. If that makes me a hoe, then I guess I’m a hoe. If that makes me a slut, then I’m a slut. If people want to judge that one action- create a whole lifestyle for me based off of one night- then let them. I don’t care. I’m not here to please anyone, no pun intended. If I can live with my decisions, then everyone else should be able to accept me too.

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Mermaids.

I came across a quote the other day that I can’t escape.

“I must be a mermaid. I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living.”

Before you ask, yes. Yes, I do believe in mermaids and their existence. You ask why, but I ask why not. Why not believe in a creature so mystical, powerful, and evasive?

By the way, the quote is from Anais Nin.

I Can’t and I Won’t.

I’m sorry

That’s what you want to hear from me

I’m sorry

Choking on apologies

My tears staining my face

My sobs cleaning our slate

A new beginning

A forgotten ending

I’m sorry

Is that all I have to say

Well

I can’t

I won’t

Your dick fucked her

My heart hit the earth

Your tongue pushed its way in

I’m left coping with your sins

I can’t and I won’t apologize

One day you will sink beneath your lies

I try to believe

I try to trust

I try to love

But you make it tough

I’ll never be enough

No

‘Cause I give a fuck

I’m the one who loved

You left me behind

You left me in the dust

And I’m stuck here

Trying to find a way to cope

I’m stuck here

Alone

‘Cause you’ve stolen all my hope

Lovely.

Our hands are everywhere at once.  His full weight on top of my body yearning to be touching skin instead of clothing.  He is placing butterfly kisses down my neck, and I try to remember how to inhale and exhale.  Our ragged breaths are drowned out by our racing pulse.  I push my hands under his shirt trying to reach skin, but even as I feel how flawless he is, it is not enough.  I start to lift the shirt up but he nips at my neck, causing me to forget my attempt to remove his shirt.  I arch myself, molding my body to his.  He emits a sound between a moan and a growl, and I place my hands back onto his body.

As I lift my arms a final time, I slide them up to take the offensive material off of his torso.  My fingers feel like ice compared to his scorching body.  I scratch my nails down his back and feel him curve into me.  His shallow puffs of heat coast over my collar bone and drift into my ear.  He somehow gets my bra loosened and sits up to straddle my hips.  I groan from the lack of contact and reach up to bring him back to me.  He smirks and runs his fingers under my back and into the inside of my bra.  I hear three distinct clicks then feel a rush of air between my breasts.  The feel of his warm fingers against my back causes me to lean upwards.  His hands are not just resting against my skin anymore, but they are bringing my body up to meet his.

But we never collide.

“Why do you do this to me,” I whisper to him as he pulls his hands away, causing me to fall back towards the bed.

And that is it.

I lay awake in my bed, panting, with an ache between my legs.  I groan and turn over in my bed, checking to see how much sleep I got tonight.  Two thirty-seven is flashing back at me in red.

Awesome. I slept for a grand total of two hours and seven odd minutes. Lovely.

These dreams, nightmares almost, seem to get worse the longer I go without seeing him.

Experience.

I have stated before that I currently have a job, but I am looking to start my career.

As I look through the classifieds, I become discouraged.  Every potential opportunity that makes me heart swell quickly evaporates because of one simple word: experience.  There are so many jobs that require experiences, but I do not have any in the specific field they require.

Yes, I would love to write or edit for your company!

Oh, shit. I have to have at least two years experience doing just that? Well, damn.  I want to have that experience! Trust me, I do.  But I am still figuring out how to obtain such opportunities to become experienced and well-seasoned.