A 12 Step Homeopathic Remedy for Scorned Lovers

I’ve been leering at the door from my perch beneath this boy’s arm all night. With a margarita in my hand, the red lipstick slightly smudged on the edge of the glass. I’ve been good, though, with my timely laughter at his insipid jokes and my buttery, gooey smiles that I lob at him every time he leans in for a kiss. Yes. Kiss me. I want him to kiss me. As place my hand with it’s red tipped fingers on the denim on his thighs. Love me. I want him to look like he loves me, as I toss a glance around the room, wondering when he’ll show up. Who? Oh, you know. You know what I’m doing here. Coquettish in this bar on a Monday night with a little bit of wild in my eyes. I’m doing the same thing I always do, tapping my foot to the beat of this music while I wait for the subtle vibrations of my phone inside my purse so I can have any excuse to check and see if Victor has texted me.

Of course Victor hasn’t texted me. That’s why I’m sitting in this bar in the first place. Out of boredom. I was getting sick of waiting. My internal little fantasies of Victor whisking through my bedroom door and enacting every dirty detail of my sexual yen – those have grown stale and impractical. Which is why I left my house after sending out text messages like missiles of sexual desperation until one of my anybodies responded and met me at this bar. This anybody – tonight, oh, what’s his name again? Christopher, with his arm around me, the gristle of his beard pressing against my face when he kisses me. Christopher pays for my drinks while I think about Victor. Christopher grabs my waist and holds me on the dance floor while I wait for Victor to walk in the door.

I’m skittish. Mostly because I’m a bad girl, and on the off-off-off chance Victor, the boy that I love, walks in tonight – what then? I’m feeling nervous just thinking about it. The aplomb with which I will have to execute the old bait and dick switch on Christopher. How will I explain to Christopher that I am bolting across the room just to talk to Victor? I am envisioning the hurt in Christopher’s eyes right now, that wounded puppy look that bubbles across the surface as he watches me run up to Victor in a guarded but obviously enamored way. And then there’s Victor, who will probably greet me with a sneer of some sort, or a half-sneer, half-smile tinged with victory and mercy. The kind of look that lets me know that he already knows I’m here with someone else, but that it doesn’t bother Victor one bit to know that I’ve been soothing my broken heart with the touch of other men. Victor, who could easily just shrug me off and push me backwards, stumbling right back into Christopher’s arms, although, who knows, by the time I land back in Christopher’s arms, will he know? Will he see through my veneer? Will he push me away, too, having caught on to the game of me using one man to mend the wounds inflicted by another? 

Or will I have to make the decision myself. As Victor puts me through the ringer of his interminable mind games yet again, dodging me artfully throughout the night in order to assess my true motives, only to grab me rudely on the dance floor away from my friends and into him? I can never tell what Victor is up to or what his game is. If he loves me or if he loathes me or if he needs me to quell his insatiable boredom and voracious libido for another night in heaven. Victor, who could balk or bawl as soon as he sees me with another man – I really have no way to gauge this, because on the one hand there’s the constant conversations he has with himself decrying the promiscuity of lesser woman, eschewing jealousy, avoiding emotion, but I can still feel the craving in his hands when touches me after weeks away. What will happen if Victor walks in this door?

But Victor hasn’t walked in the door. It’s only Christopher right now, with my hand on his leg and his hand on my hand. Intertwined fingers in a disingenuous display of affection, or, at least, for me it’s disingenuous because it’s not his hand that I want right now. But it’s the hand that I have, so I should play it to the best of my ability. As I lean into his neck to breathe him in and kiss him slightly. Not too much. Not here. Not now. Just a bit. If I can’t fuck the one I love, then I should love the one I fuck. So I let him touch me. Christopher. Sweet Christopher. Sweet, stupid Christopher, a man whose utility will be fully realized tonight as I continue to watch all these people who aren’t Victor come and go. A man to soothe the yearning that is rocketing around the back of my brain right now. He’s innocuous right now, steady and lovable, and I am telling myself that I should care more. I should love more. I should give a fuck about Christopher, because Christopher is here. Christopher texts back. Christopher shows up. Christopher touches me like he loves touching me, and he calls the next day because he wants to do it again. Unlike Victor, and I should be grateful for Christopher. Christopher, who strokes my hair and kisses me at night. Christopher, with his cups of coffee when I stumble out in the morning. Christopher, who walks me to the door and kisses me goodbye. Christopher, who is always good enough for right now, but somehow he doesn’t hold my heart. And I don’t think he knows it either, as he buys me another drink and looks at me with an inch of love. 

I’m the type of girl who doesn’t see a monster in the mirror, as I’m standing there in those bright lights and the blurry graffiti and the golden haze of too much tequila to dull these thoughts. My lipstick is crooked, but my smile is straight, so I march back outside in this mini skirt and these bad thoughts. Where is Victor. Where is Christopher. And if Victor show up, will we run off together? And if I run off with Victor, will Christopher still call? Will Christopher still love me if I fuck someone else, or am I psyching myself up for the end all, be all moment of tonight’s sexual decadence? I try not to over think. In fact, I try not to think at all, because if I started thinking, I would realize that Victor showing up here tonight – it would be a disaster. As he’d saunter in with some blonde chick on his arm, and me with my insecurities and my heart beating faster. If Victor shows up, I know what will happen. A spat, discreet at first, and the unwinding into us going home together. Fucking a lot. Maybe some fighting. A couple days of honey moon bliss before he disappears into the ether yet again, not to be seen or heard from for weeks. And Christopher – he’d be left there at the bar, with his $80 tab and nothing left to show for it. Christopher, all alone at the end of the night, and I’d wake up the next morning with Victor in my bed and a sad string of text messages from Christopher, always the fool, asking where I am. And Victor, that scurrilous dog, he’d grab my phone and throw it against the wall. Victor is about to ruin everything I have going with Christopher right now, and Victor still hasn’t showed up. But that’s just Victor isn’t it – he ruins things. That’s what he’s good at. He ruins my life, whether he’s here or he’s not. 

I lean back into Christopher as we chatter away. Hold me, Christopher. I check my phone. It’s getting late, isn’t it? Shouldn’t Victor be here by now? Shouldn’t Victor be staring at me from across the room already? We’re inching too quickly towards last call. I can feel it, the time aching through my veins. And Victor isn’t here. Fuck. Victor isn’t here.

We saddle up at the end of the night. I grab my thing, dragging my coat on the ground a bit like a little girl. Feeling sulky. Starting to pout. If Victor wasn’t here, then where was he? And who was he with? As Christopher piles me into a cab, picking up on my sour mood. Because I wanted Victor, and he didn’t show up. Christopher, as he undresses me in the dark and lays kisses down on me. I groan and thrash, turning over in my nakedness as he presses against me. This is fine. I’m okay with this. I inhale deeply in my too drunken state and I embrace Christopher. It’s okay, Christopher. You can fuck me. I’ll enjoy it with my eyes shut and this reel to reel playback of the memories I keep stored away in little drawers in my mind for moments like this. Christopher, who is beautiful, in his own way, and these images of Victor and all the awful things he did to me. Christopher, who fucks like he loves me and looks at me tenderly. 

I let Christopher fuck me, and I fall asleep immediately afterwards. I don’t say much, and when I wake up I erase my mind with the poor excuse of too much booze, and I check my phone, and I have no new text messages.

e[Lust] #66

Welcome to Elust #66 -

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #67? Start with the rules, come back February 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

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~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Small Breasts

Watching Her Cum

An Ode to Blow Jobs

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Of Skeletons and Secrets
Would you be bored?

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
Lust Fish


Erotic Fiction

Unbroken by Oleander Plume
A Meal And A Show
Fucking Snow
Getting Off Is So Much Fun
Wicked Wednesday – Merry Christmas
Advent Calendar 24

Erotic Non-Fiction

Christmas Drinks At The Y
Nothing But Mouth
The things he does
The First Submission
Canadian Mist, Eggnog, Ginger Ale and You.
A Peachy Night
Skeletons In My Closet
Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 28
a most pleasant fuck
Sex on Meth

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Masturbation Fantasy’s Unintended Consequence
All Health Care Costs Are Not Created Equal
Keep Private Lives Private
The Myth of Magnum

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

My Subby Not-Quite-Year
He’s Got The Look
On femininity and rebellion
What Fifty Shades Doesn’t Tell You
Humiliation: hotness and hard-limits
Beginner’s Guide to Electro Sex – Essentials


Because of the Way He Held Me
Cricket – A Lusty Limerick

Writing About Writing

7 Signs You’re An Erotica Writer
Why Do I Do What I Do


Best & Worst of 2014 & New Years Resolutions


Munches, The Club and Beyond (Part 1)

Thoughts and Advice on Sex and Relationships

He brought me bacon.
Menstruation. Does it weird you out?

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Sleepless (Guest Post by Mob Moxie)

The hardest part about breaking up, for me at least, has been the adjustment to sleeping alone. I find myself occupied and entertained, during my waking hours, you know, slowly but surely moving on with my life. Even content in a way with this healing process. Then late night hits and the anxiety sets in. Anything past 11pm and I am totally freaking out because I start to realize that I am exhausted from NOT thinking about my ex all day, an that there my very well be no end in sight for me. No sleep on the old dawn horizon, or more perfectly no sleep till the dawn horizon.
I mean it has been two straight weeks of trying everything: Drinking myself into a stupor, moking myself into a comatose state…the list goes on, but you get the gist. I have been trying anything and all things numbing and tiring in hopes of a good night’s sleep. Sadly, it’s not working out for me. I spend all night cold, then eventually hot, I can’t decide which side of the bed to sleep on, the middle of the bed just feels to foreign, every sound scares me, and, worst of all, I can’t stop thinking.

Read more →

This is How You Use Her

I am a bad girl. I can’t stop wanting to fuck him every time I see him, which is why I have to look away every time he walks into the room. Even though every time I walk into any room anywhere, I look for him desperately because I want him to be here, now, and I want to feel a certain way. I want to feel my unstoppable lust like a train wreck until my crotch is crashing into his crotch, and things are on fire, and something has exploded, and there are people screaming and crying and gnashing their teeth while we are broadcast across Times Square on some oversized TV screen like an international crisis of utmost importance. This is the kind of thing that makes people wince and want to turn away, but they don’t because there’s something so fantastical about fatalistic self destruction. And that’s what he is for me: my own destruction. Read more →

Date Part IV

My stomach hurts. As I try to stay clever things in this conversation in this nice bar next to the Lake. My stomach’s been hurting for days now, but I try to tamp down on the sensations of achy-ness and discomfort as I sip down this beverage that is intended to dull so many things right now, but stomach still hurts. And he’s sitting there next to me, with his smile and his nice, intelligent things that he’s saying. If he knew that my stomach hurt, what would he say then? What would he have said if I had blown off this date? Would he have been sad and dismayed? Would he have called me again? I didn’t want to bank on him calling me again, because I’m aware of the value of doing things right now and not waiting for next week. So I swallowed a bunch of antacids and called a cab to this bar so I can sit here and pretend not to feel too much pain while pretending to feel like I’m interested in being here and engaging in this conversation.

There was no way I could have blown him off, anyways. Look at him. I try not to look at him as he chews on his food and says things to which I am supposed to respond. What are we talking about right now? Oh, yeah, that’s right. We’re doing the first date, introductory dance of, “Where are you from?”

“I’m from here,” I say, already mildly irritated by the question that I have to answer every time I meet someone new. I’ll never be from anywhere different. I’ll always be from here, which is why people often respond with, “Oh, you’re a local! How rare!” That’s what he says, too, and I hate that answer, although I try to check my hatred and irritation at this conversation, because maybe I’m feeling ornery because of my stomach. Read more →

Burning Sensation

I’m feeling slightly scalded at exactly the place where I can feel his eyes looking at me. My skin might be smoking from the heat that he’s generating with his eyes alone, and I’m shriveled slightly from the sensation of his eyes on my skin. Which I think might be the chemical reaction of lust itching just out of reach and beneath my clothes as I fill my self up with the hotness of wanting and the unbearable desire to suddenly find myself naked and in his arms. But, no, that’s not where I am. Instead, I’m here, which is in the food court at the mall eating a salad while I slowly chew and try to dip into the conversation with clever remarks and without spitting my lunch all over my plate. 

Do I look pretty? I wish I had put on more make up. I wish I had prepared for this moment. I wish I had known he would show up, and, no, I’ve never met him before, but it’s turning out to be a rather unpleasant onset of love at first sight while I secretly hope that my lipstick isn’t smeared all over my face and this dress isn’t very flattering, is it? 

So I smile, and I burn, and I smolder slightly in this plastic chair on the basement level of the food court in the mall. I am wrapped up in flames from his existence as he sits there in that chair, and I wonder if he can smell the charred heart wafting from inside my chest. 

Happy International Pussy Appreciation Day

My pussy. My pussy. My golden fucking pussy.

So I stand in front of the mirror, and there it is, smiling out at me from between my legs. I smile back. At its little lips pressed together, and flesh like tongue poking out slightly.The small hairs that wind out and grow like a well manicured mustache.

“Pussy, I love you,” I whisper as I touch it gently as a sign of appreciation.

“I love you, too,” my pussy whispers back. Read more →

Demoralize Me

I just want to be held. In his arms, with his arm roped around my neck while he’s fucking me from behind. And his other hand in my hair, not gently stroking but violently grabbing and pulling my hair. So that it hurts. I want him to throat fuck me while the mascara runs down my face and all traces of the lipstick that had been smeared along my cheeks dissolves quickly with the saliva that keeps spilling from my lips. I want him to call me a slut. A whore. A cunt. Cheap. Worthless. To spit on me. To slap my ass and shove me face first into the pillow while he fucks me in the ass. Yank on my nipples and touch me and fuck me and that way I’ll know he loves me. I want him to cum on my face, and, then when everything’s all said and done, I want him to ask me, “Who’s Daddy’s little girl?” 

“I’m Daddy’s little girl.”