He Loves Me

“I love you.”

He’s on top of me when the words come tumbling out. And there we are. It has finally happened: for the first time ever, he has told me he loves me.

“I love you, too!” I blurt out perhaps too quickly and perhaps too eagerly. At this 4 am fuck session with his eyes on mine, naked, stripped down. My room is a mess and we’ve been drinking for far too long.

And I can tell by the look on his face that he’s surprised by the response. I’m comfortable with this. I’m okay with being vulnerable. I am well practiced in the art of unreciprocated love, and having been in this exact situation a few months ago, looking at someone I love, and saying it, and not hearing it back – well, I know by now to say it back. Although, only if I mean it.

Being right here, right now with him is now so much more exhilarating than it had been just moments before, because he loves me. I kinda thought that maybe he loved me, but I didn’t feel too pressured by the issue. The exact status of our relationship is complicated and casual over the course of almost two years now. I guess the funny thing is, I knew I loved him a year ago. I had made plans to tell him back in 2015, when things were weird, but then they got weirder, and he fell off the map. I had wanted to tell him first because I know that love is important to him, but I guess after a nine month hiatus I had forgotten about that part. Damn it. I wanted to say it first.

He pulls away a bit and says it again, “No, I really love you.”

“I love you, too,” I repeat with the same level of seriousness and enthusiasm.

And here we are. Almost two years later, and he loves me. I guess part of me isn’t even phased by it because after fucking someone for two years, should I love him? What kind of misery would it be to fuck someone and not love him after two years? I mean, yeah, I’m familiar with that kind of misery, having done it before, but I don’t engage in it anymore.

He kicks back the sheets and comes in closer. He kisses me. He loves me. And I wonder what kind of wildness is this, to be with a man who loves me. I must admit that at times I don’t understand the purity of what love is, or what this means, or who we will be after this. In a few hours he will leave again, just as he always does, with intermittent missives throughout the week, and then I will see him again, and – does this change anything? Are we different now?

Although, really, I should be asking: what does it mean to love a man that I could never be with? I’m starting to think that there might be a hidden amount of pain underneath this new revelation, so I hold onto him the best that I can, and I fuck him the best way that I know. He will be leaving in a few hours to return to a life that I know nothing about, but that doesn’t matter because I love him anyway. So I guess that’s the thing about love: I don’t really understand it, but I love him regardless. I know that this is all we have, and it is the best we have. I love him, and he loves me, but there are no white picket fences in our future. No shiny new homes. No babies and birthday parties. No old age and happy endings. All we have is us, right now, naked and touching, and it’s good enough for love.

And how soon before this love will tear us apart. Tomorrow I will be sitting at a bar with a man who wants to be my boyfriend, and he will resume his conversations with his fiancee across the country. The hardest part about this love we have is knowing that love is the best we can do, but it is also the most painful thing, too. To love someone in the face of knowing that there will be no fairy tale endings for the two of us together. For the two of us maybe with other people, but not with each other. Swallowing the constant departures and pressing circumstances of life in a world where a love like this will only suffer from a social anemia. I love him despite the fact that my friends say I should never see him ever again. I love him even knowing that there is a whole part of his life and who he is that I know nothing about. I take the gamble and love him anyways. I love him because I am afraid of what would happen or who I would be if I were the type of person who couldn’t love. I am afraid of what I would miss or how empty I would be if I didn’t love him right here and right now.

It is hard to love. It would be easy to just fuck him and feel relief when he walks out the door. But it would be stupid to think this love means that he will choose me ever time over anyone else. I would like to be the one, but he is filled with demons, more demons than I know how to handle, so I wonder what kind of destruction awaits me on the other side of love. I am a monster myself, and he is my kingdom of flesh for right now before he leaves and I am left to roam aimlessly, looking for more man to feast on. But I love him, and I wish that our love were enough to solve all of these problems, even though I know it isn’t, but I try nonetheless.

He shakes in the night as he is sleeping and after we are done fucking. The day breaks in, and quietly I watch him toss and turn. I love him, and I wish that everything were right with the world, but it isn’t. But for right now as I’m with him, it is, so I sink in and drown in my memories of him when he is far away, and while he’s here I love him. This is the best that I can do. This is the best that any of us can do.

And he loves me, too.

Evolution of Old Affairs

I was traipsing around town looking like a little thottie as usual when I ran into someone I used to date two years ago. This is not an uncommon occurrence, and I handle these situations with grace and aplomb as I try to navigate away from old news and into something (or someone) fresh. However, this particular evening, things were not as obvious as usual.

I’ve started to notice that a lot of people I used to fuck are getting married and having kids. I’m very happy for those men, mostly because I try to be a positive person and try to wish the very best for people who have been in my life and done me no harm. I guess I just think it’s funny when I see some dude who thirsted so hard after me in 2012 and then I let him hit in the back of his car, after which we fucked a few times but I lost interest because a bigger dick came along – oh, yeah, it’s funny to think of those guys as having the emotional tenacity with which to find a woman and marry her. I always wonder with those boys: was it her idea, or his? Because of course the capacity within which I knew him was fleeting, but, damn, marriage? Kids? What kind of compromise of his Peter Pan complex lead to this? I, of course, remain true to myself year in and year out and would never fall into the trap of trying to love or marry or reproduce with any of these six night stands, but, hey, that’s why I’m not married and I don’t have kids. These people…I just can’t wrap my brain around it.

So, the guy I dated two years ago is one of the above mentioned men with whom I had a brief affair after ending it to go bang someone else in the bathroom of downtown bars. C’est la vie. But when I ran into him last night, it was all good. I could tell he was happy to see me, and I knew that he was newly engaged due to Facebook posts which I recently unfollowed because I don’t really care about other people’s marital bliss, especially if it doesn’t involve me. We engaged in the usual chitter chatter, the “hi how are you” kind of rigmarole, and then we parted ways. Which felt uneventful at the time, but then I got home and – well, of course. What did I expect: the text messages.

I was sitting on the edge of my bed rolling my eyes, hoping that they didn’t get stuck that way when I realized: isn’t marital bliss supposed to be immune to fuck boy shenanigans like this? What am I supposed to do with this? Reply like it’s 2014 all over again? Doesn’t he have a fiance?

I have to admit something here: I didn’t want it in 2014, and I don’t really want it now. However, I was starting to wonder what fuckery is going to look like for me as I enter my 30’s. I don’t really have the emotional capacity with which to sustain a relationship, so it’s good to know that as I progress in life I’ll still have the option to fuck married men on the side whenever I want. Even if I still have access to the beautiful fuck boys of Oakland, so I’m just going to rock with that for now because it’s been serving me pretty well.

However, as I realized what my ever evolving options are, I also realized: wait a minute – I’m a feminist! While I’ve been pretty content with fucking other women’s boyfriends for a long time, I’ve tried to move away from it recently (due mostly to one angry woman coming to my door with the clear intention of trying to beat me up which somehow, due to my own social wit, devolved into her inviting me to a threeway…life is weird) because after a few therapy sessions I’ve developed a bit more of a higher moral intellect, and I’ve come to realize: maybe it’s demeaning to other women to fuck their boyfriends or husbands. Of course, this moral qualm is easily quashed by my own ravenous sexual desire, but seeing as I don’t actually want to fuck this dude this time, it crosses my mind that the “moral” thing to do is to tell his fiance that he’s coming for me because it’s not like I’m going to lose out on fucking someone I love or anything like that. (Because, admittedly, with the men I fuck who are in a similar situation that I actually love and appreciate: y’all know I’m loyal and y’all know I’m discreet, so don’t sweat it.) However, that seems kinda messy and like it would take a lot of effort, and I just don’t care enough about anyone involved in this situation other than myself to go out of my way to let some poor girl know that her man is still thirsting after me. But it did cross my mind.

So I took that moment to close my phone and my computer and let it ride. Another day, another dick. Can’t let this shit phase me anymore today than it did yesterday.


“Yeah, and now I’m making at least a thousand dollars a week selling weed.”

I’m at some party, and I’m doing the obligatory “talk to the people that you see around town all the time” thing that I’ve gotten so good at. This one in particular is a guy who is in the habit of hitting on me on various media and getting turned down by me shortly thereafter. He has just name dropped and mispronounced the name of a guy that he probably doesn’t know I’m dating, and now I’m looking around the party for my friends because where are they.

It occurs to me that maybe this guy is telling me how much money he makes because he wants me to take it. Really, that’s all I can think of. Although, it might be some weird macho guy thing where he’s trying to impress me, but this is Oakland, and he should know better. Flashing like that only leads to robbery in these parts, although women like me don’t call it robbery, we call it sexuality. And not even sex at that because if you’re good at what you do you get the money up front and then never even fuck unless you kinda want to.

But that’s not my job, although it is someone else’s, so I tell the first hustler I see, “Hey, he has money, go con him.” We’re at a party for people with no money, so might as well level the playing field.

ELust #87

Welcome to Elust 87

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 #88 Start with the rules, come back November 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!


On Secret Identities

Dividing lines…

Ember and Ash


~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Bdsm: Our pleasures are our obligations



~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Change your Cookbook: a monogamuggle’s guide to cookin’ with poly folk

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

When Love is not enough.
the fantasy and reality of my arrival


Shine a Light

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

When You’re Bad
How Women Use Their Sexuality As A Weapon
Dear Fans: Quit Kinkbashing

Erotic Fiction

Big Daddy
The Front to Back Challenge
GAME OF TWO HALVES – role shift
no. 106

Erotic Non-Fiction

He’s Cumming
Washing up
Chew Toy
So many friends with benefits


One Stroke
Early Morning Haikus

He Loves Me

He tells me he loves me, so I smile, and I turn, and I look away. I do not look him in the eyes, and I do not look at his face as I mumble it back softly. Somewhere inside I am shuttering. For some reason I am afraid. To be loved by a man like that is not an easy feat, and I wonder how I got here. Or why I am here. Wrapped up in his love which is noxious and slowly killing me. Why I have forgotten how to run. I wonder how much long I can take this, the pain of being loved by him. Of waking up every day and not knowing what he will do to hurt me today, and why will I put up with it. I wonder if it’s me, and there’s some emotional dearth deep inside me that makes me cling to a man who loves me in the worst way possible. Every day. Or if I am just a hopeless romantic, lost at sea, starving and on the verge. I wonder if his love will kill me one day. If I will wake up in a puddle of violence. Maybe I hope his love will kill me one day, quickly and ceremoniously. Instead, I know that I will not be lucky enough to see it end quickly. Instead, it will kill me over the course of years. Slowly and in a way where over time I become a cripple without even noticing, and one day I will be ugly. Because of him. And his love, which according to the fairy tales and story books is supposed to save me, but in a world like this, his love kills.

The Curse

I treated him like he was disposable, which is why he left me: because I was right. I watched him walk out the door and into another woman’s arms, and I didn’t stop him. I didn’t even blink. I knew that she had something I didn’t have: the desire to be with him forever, to love him, to have a relationship, a future, a life with him. Me? I know better than to pursue the unattainable with a man who is incapable of such grand things. She doesn’t know it yet, but after a few weeks, or after a few months, or maybe even years, she will know what I know: that he is disposable. But I wonder if she will figure out what I know haven’t told anybody yet: he is disposable, but he always comes back. Perhaps I don’t desire to be with him forever, but I will be. I haven’t told him I want a relationship with him, but I already have one. We have a future together, but it’s not the pretty, prim future that girls with big eyes dream about. There will be no wedding dresses or big parties or happy birthdays. Our future together is bleak, but it is a future together nonetheless. Year in and year out of knowing each other. Knowing his small pains and his big pain, too. Listening to everything he says every day, and knowing what it means. Taking him back for the moments between growing pains and break ups and heart ache. Never being anything more than the person who is always there, but never number one. We have been this for each other for years now, and although we do not talk about it when we find our way back to each other, and although we do not cry when it comes to another temporary end, this is what it is. I treat him like he’s disposable because he is. But he always comes back to me. Even though I don’t want him. Because what other woman out there wants the curse of inconstant love while everyone else makes babies and plans? Not me, but here I am, being that person.

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He’s Cumming

“Oh my god, I’m cumming!”

He whips out his dick and I look over in glee as, dick in hand, there it goes, squirting out, and now there’s come everywhere. I was kinda hoping he would cum inside me, but I think he’s dealt with too many pregnancies and abortions to fall for that one ever again, although, hey, I’m on the best birth control on the world. Maybe I should tell him. But now isn’t the time for that, as we’re lying there naked and both covered in cum and sweat. The sheets on my bed are slightly slipping off. The pillows are strewn across the floor. It’s like a stunned silence, this moment of afterglow. The sun breaking in from behind the curtains. Both of us lying there, too fucked to move, although I tell him there’s a towel over there, although should I stand up and hand it to him? I don’t feel like standing up. Not after all that fucking. Not after he made me cum like that and the delight of his dick inside me still has me reeling and nailed to the bed.

I don’t know if I should look at him or if I’m supposed to look away. I feel like a greedy child as my eyes graze over his thighs and his cock and the hair on his chest. I’m too afraid to look into his eyes and see what’s in there, so I lean for a little bit and kisses on neck. God, I love to watch him cum. I love to look at him right after he’s done cumming. I like the noises he makes, the things he says. I like feeling his body between my legs as slightly he loses it and succumbs to the sensation of cumming. And cumming. Sometimes I almost want to laugh when he cums, because there’s something inherently funny about cumming. The noises and the motions of cumming – it’s not very serious, but I know if I laugh it might be perceived as ridicule. But, really, I laugh because I’m enjoying every moment of everything that is happening, and I’m thrilled by his dick as he squirts out cum. The beautiful cum. I made him cum. I love making him cum.

God, I would do anything to make him cum. I would make him cum all day, every day, if only he gave me the chance. I would bend over backward just to make him cum, and sometimes I do. I would crawl through dirt with half the produce section rammed up my ass if it would only make him cum. I want him to be cumming forever, here, with me, or at least fucking as furiously as we possibly can. I find a slice of my self worth in his orgasms (and also mine), and I would do anything to make him cum because I know he would do anything to make me cum, too. But enough about me, because isn’t this blog about how much I like to cum all the time? And what about him, the one who makes me cum? The one who makes me cum like crazy whenever I want? I wish that there were some way I could repay him for all the orgasms he has given me, so kindly and so patiently. I know that I will never be able to make him cum as much as he makes me cum, and I guess that is okay, because there are so many men before him (and after, too) who didn’t care nearly as much about my orgasm as he did. It was not nearly as much fun to make those men cum. It is not fun to watch a man cum, after all the work, especially if you know that your own orgasm will never be arriving any time soon. But him? He makes me cum all the time, and all I want is to do the same for him. I want to lie here forever, naked and heaving, covered in his cum and satisfied by knowing that I’m his baby and I make him cum the best out of all the rest of them, ever. If only dreams come true. One day…

When Does Sex End?

Does sex end when the guy cums? Or when the girl taps out? When do we stop fucking? I can never tell, personally, because no matter how much my body might be hurting or shutting down or dried up and desiccated, there’s something in my mind that screams, “Keep going!” Perhaps because I know that this moment will end eventually, but isn’t this everything that I have been working towards all week? Haven’t I wanted, above all other things, to be close to someone else? In the most carnal way possible. We need to keep fucking right now as an act of desperation in order to transcend our skin and our bones, and maybe if we fuck long enough and hard enough, one day we will wake up and we will no longer be separate, but we will have finally become two people in one body. Connected. Not forever, but for as long as it’s pleasant, and cumming is not symbolic of the end of everything that I am trying to achieve here. Cumming is something that I can do over and over again. I go to the gym and work out every day so that when the moment comes for me to take off my clothes and dive in, I will be awake and ready and able to fuck for as long as we need. Until we can fuck no longer. Until I can’t keep my eyes open. Until it is impossible to do this anymore. When my body is wreck and your dick is falling off. Until I can’t possibly cum one more time. Sex ends in a moment of failure, realizing that we are separate now, and we will always be separate, so we might as well sleep it off before we get up and drift apart tomorrow morning (or afternoon). Because sex doesn’t end after one person’s one orgasm, or even if he can’t get it up, or if I’m tired. Sex ends when I no longer want to be close to you, or I can no longer be close to you. Although, if I had my way, sex would never end, and we would be here forever, cycling in and out of fucking and sleeping and eating while the rest of the world melts away. I would like that. Wouldn’t you like that? To fuck me forever? I’ll call it true love, but all you have to do is call me back and come over tomorrow night. It will be wonderful. Forever.

The Fuck Feast Sexual Literacy Test

And, speaking of call backs and sexual literacy tests, here’s a list of things that I expect a man to ace on the first hook up:

  • Mastery of Attraction So, this is everything that happens before we get into the bedroom. A mastery of attraction means that you have a rudimentary understanding of the female ego, interpersonal communication and lust. A little bit of flattery, well responded to text messages, and flirtation. This is also the mastery of being attractive, so, y’know, take a shower and put on some nice shoes, okay?
  • Ability to get it up This is crucial. Look, if you can’t get it up, that’s fine. You overindulged. Or you’re nervous. Or you’re just no that into this. That’s fine. However, if you can’t get it up, why did you wheedle your way into my bedroom? Why are my clothes off if you can’t perform? I understand that we all can’t be perfect all the time, but being able to get an erection is crucial to fucking, and if you can’t do that, then you’re just not ready for this, honey, and you’re wasting my time. It’s back to the friend zone for you. Unless, of course, you make up for it with copious amounts of oral sex. That’s cool.
  • Oral Sex To be specific, cunnilingus. This is so day one. If you don’t eat pussy, then get the fuck away from me. If you don’t eat pussy, I can’t imagine what else it is that you won’t do. Eating pussy is the most basic move in the book, and if you don’t have this mastered, then who are you and what are you doing with your life?

Read more →

A Woman’s Experience of Lust Part II

There are snakes in my eyes as I slither between these sheets to wind up the leg of some new beast, slurping up sins and sensation like a newborn Eve on her first night fucking Adam. And what does it feel like to eat meat, red, raw and dripping while white blankets carry the new stains of another night in heaven. I would like to know what it feels like to be good, but I am too busy being bad to ever stop and pause and consider any other alternative option. I just let my fingers do the talking, whispering sweet nothings to the buttons at the top of your pants, singing sweet songs to your zipper as I zip and unzip and pull down and around. We both know what kind of secrets are hidden therein, all those beautiful inches upon inches of – well, inches of you. Read more →

A Woman’s Experience of Lust

Lust, which is just how I like it. But this is my lust, not yours. This is my deep, red sin, not yours. This is my experience of lust, my singular experience. I cannot vouch for your experience of lust, but I am offering you mine in the hopes that it can illuminate and accentuate your own experience of lust. To make it better. So that we can all experience lust on an elevated level, fine tuned and tingling in the night. This is my experience of lust, gnawing raw through the night, while yours might be elsewhere, sipping tea in the sunshine on a vast, grassy field. My lust is a beast, but yours…well, what is yours? Is your lust a rabbit, soft and petting, or a shark, filled with teeth? Is your lust a car that goes fast and crashes through the median? Or an explosion in a coal mine, killing everything around it? Is it blistering and bright? Yellow and pretty? Or does it skulk around, alone through rooms, looking ugly and yelling loudly?

This is my experience of lust. This is my experience of that chafing, fast emotion. It is a dangerous situation that I wade through wantonly, and you are welcome, dear spectator, to watch me stumble down. But you? Well, I expect you to experience lust in your own way, and if you would like to laugh at me while you do, please be my guest. But if anything, make sure that you experience your lust as beautifully as possible, because I certainly am.