Disclaimer…
So I’m going to discuss a person I know in comedic playful way. I’m not going into details so don’t comment asking who he is. For reasons that are totally selfish on my behalf, he will be completely anon. I will not even go into specifics. No descriptions of anything.
You won’t find any articles on here giving you clues because I’ve deleted them. I’m only posting this one because I paid for it and you’ all keep asking for it. It’s the third and final one. You’re welcome to hunt, but you’re not getting him from me. But if you ever come across his Facebook by pure chance, you’re in for a wild one. He has secrets on there that would pop blood vessels. He’s the only reason I’d visit Harlow again.
I need a good session. I need to be blown out properly. And I cannot wait to get back to the UK to make it happen. If I can.
This has never been me. I spent two full years celibate and barely noticed. I was busy, focused. Sex was a vague curiosity at best. My body just switched off and I let it. Quiet libido. Easy. I thought that was simply who I was. Then something shifted. Now I am thirty and I feel like I am going out of my mind.
I do not know if it is age or the fact that once you open a certain door you cannot close it again. All I know is the last few months have rewired me. The frustration is constant. It builds through the day until by evening I am pacing, restless, short-tempered and completely fucking reeling. Work, walking, scrolling, nothing touches it. The only thing that even slightly settles the noise is the thought of getting home and having someone take me apart for hours until I cannot think straight.
It is embarrassing how much space this takes up in my head. I am supposed to be a functioning adult. I am supposed to manage a few months away without turning into this version of myself. But the longer it goes on the worse it gets. My skin feels too tight. My thoughts keep looping back to the same images, the way he pulls my hair just enough to keep me exactly where he wants me, the way he refuses to rush even when I am clearly losing my mind. I used to think I needed control. Turns out I need the opposite. I need someone who takes it from me and does not give it back until I am done.
This has come from nowhere!
The celibate years feel like a different lifetime. Back then the quiet background hum never turned into this. Now it is a roar. I wake up already restless and go to bed still restless. Everything in between is just me trying to keep the lid on so I do not actually bite someone’s head off in public. My temper is shorter. Small things tip me into irritation far too easily. I know it is the frustration talking. I know one proper session, the kind that leaves me boneless and quiet for days, would settle it. But I am stuck here a bit longer and that knowledge is making everything worse.
How Does It Feel?
It sits low and constant, like a dull ache that has decided to live in your pelvis and refuses to leave. Not the fun, fizzy kind of turned-on. The heavy kind. Your body feels too tight, like your skin is one size smaller than it should be. There’s a low throbbing that comes and goes, a clenching that happens without you meaning it to, and this stupid sense of emptiness that no amount of shifting in your seat or pressing your thighs together will fix. You get wet for no good reason and it doesn’t even help. It just reminds you that the need is still there, unfinished.
Everything starts to feel slightly wrong. Food doesn’t taste as good. Music doesn’t hit the same. You get irritable over nothing, the sound of someone chewing, a slow walker, a text that takes too long to arrive. Your patience thins out because half your attention is stuck between your legs, waiting for a release that solo stuff only half satisfies. You can make yourself come and still feel like you’ve only taken the edge off. The deeper ache stays. The restlessness stays. You pace. You can’t sit still. Your mind keeps looping the same images and the frustration builds until it leaks into your mood and turns ordinary hours sharp and over-long.
I could go and get a guy for the night sure, but what’s that, one minute of tongue, and the next ten with a dick in my mouth and a three minute shag?
No thank you! That will cure absolutely nothing. I need the proper kind, the kind I neither believed now knew existed until months ago.
That’s the part most men never really get. It’s not just “I want to fuck.” I don’t. It’s a full-body restlessness with a specific, physical centre. An ache that sits behind your clit and deeper, a need to be filled and held down and properly finished that turns ordinary days into something sticky and difficult. Once you’ve had the good version of that release, the ordinary version stops working properly. You know exactly what would shut the noise up, and until you get it the whole day feels like you’re walking around with the volume turned up too high on everything. It’s not supposed to feel this way. This wasn’t my plan.
The Cure
I have a cure for this of course. Just not here. I have someone.
I could easily fly that someone out here if he was a normal bloke, I have the money to get him here tomorrow, fill his bank account so he needn’t worry for the next few months. But he would just tell me to fuck off. That’s what he’s like, everything is on his terms, when he feels like it, when he is not busy. He controls everything, and that powerless is as hot as hell. Men are normally desperate, animalistic, one sniff, and they are there, sending you an unsolicited dick pic that just makes your skin crawl. But this one, he’s different. He couldn’t care. His replies come days later, he doesn’t even dirty chat. He dodges any text that discusses sex. If however you can get him into the bedroom, which I’ve managed just three times so far, he will break you in the most delicious way possible without you having to give a thing back to him. This guy, if an oral sex toy ever existed, it would be him, and the batteries don’t run out for hours. He’ll do it, but he makes you wait until you break. You message first, just say “I want the contract!” — No hello’s or ASL’s, that’s all you do. He sends you it, then that’s it, no matter what you discuss or do, he takes your secrets to the grave, and he belongs to you. He is very different. And I can’t enough of it.
And no, it’s not the guy I’ve got a date with with when I get back. To be honest, I’m not even sure I want to go on that date. That guy has sent me two dick pics already. I laughed, shrugged it off, but deep down, it’s icky.
It’s someone else. Someone who knows exactly how long to stretch the silence until you end up texting some bullshit conversation starter just to break it and then feel like a desperate idiot afterwards. You double text, something women shouldn’t have to do. The post-message guilt is obnoxious. Annoyingly we have not even had sex, he doesn’t want it, so realistically I have nothing to control him with. How do you control a guy that doesn’t need sex or money?
I even considered offering a silly amount of money. A down payment for a years worth of his time, one night a month. It’s still an option.
Would he go for it?
I have no idea. That’s how totally unreadable he is.
He’s one of those guys you need to keep happy with the little things. I bought three articles off him. I guess you could count this one as the third and final and I’ve deleted the first two as part of the deal. I traded them for six-months of his debt. It’s nothing to me, but for him, it was worth it.
I am fairly certain he gets around, actually, I know for a fact he does because I know of at least one other person. He’s famous for his one way oral sex, so he’s bound to be in demand. Not in the classic male way, something a little more subtle, more quiet, more secret. Less dirty. Not in a filthy sleeping around kind of way. That’s not his game. The actual lack of dick in this instance makes it seem like you’re not a notch on his bedpost, he’s more of a notch on yours. And because it’s technically one way and pretty damn good, it’s more of a plaque in bronze than a scratch in the wood.
Of course he doesn’t know that I know, she told me about it. Obviously, she could be talking out of her backside. But she described something equally sexless, yet better than sex in every way… which of course, is his calling card. He seems to be that filler episode, the thing women use when between partners but without judgement or feeling dirty or used. Or the tool that the married ones use without the feeling of proper neck deep cheating.
And weirdly, it seems okay. Less offensive. I’m not competing with anyone to please him. But someone must be having sex with him. He is a guy after all, he’s not a god. There has to be a special one, one that has power over him. It’s certainly not me. And I like it that way. But I can’t help wondering…
How perfect is she?
What does she look like?
Is she insanely beautiful, or is she as plain as hell?
So…
I do not want to do anything stupid. I just want to get home and fix it properly. I want the kind of session that leaves me quiet for days. The kind where I walk away feeling empty in the best way, every bit of restless energy finally used up. I want to be able to sit still again without my leg bouncing. I want a normal conversation without half my mind drifting off to the same set of images. I want the reset so badly I can almost taste it.
At thirty the body seems less willing to ignore what it wants. The quiet celibate years belonged to a different version of me, one who could switch things off and get on with life. This version cannot. This version needs the release the way it needs food or sleep. Ignoring it only makes the restlessness louder until it starts affecting everything else.
A few more weeks. That is what I keep telling myself. A few more weeks and I will be back and I can sort it. But the knowledge that the solution is still out of reach is its own kind of torture. Time has never felt this sticky. Every hour stretches. Every evening feels longer because I know another night of this restless energy is coming.
The Torture Of Relief
There’s an irony to this. Being with him is torture too. To be teased and have a guy take it so slowly, is a torture in itself. Annoyingly, he seems surgical. He knows his way around, what he’s hitting, when to do it, how hard, and that should be a turn off. No romance, no passion… but there’s a sexual build that renders both of those ridiculous, a charge, a smell even, an unbelievable anticipation that shouldn’t hit, but it hits, and hits fucking hard.
To have a guy down there for an hour, his hot breaths on you. Just his fingertips gliding over everything with no real pressure, tickling the nerves and having complete control of everything. It’s utter torture. That hour is the longest hour of your life, because you know he’s going to hit you at some point, you just don’t know when. It’s excruciating. But it’s also worship. A kind of worship I’ve never felt with another guy. He has this shit down to absolute art.
He can edge like a bully, restrict your orgasms and deny them if he sees fit. You can’t cheat it either, something happens down there that tells him one is coming, and he decides whether to pull it in or take it away. He’s really sexually cruel. Really dominant. The irony here is though, the more he takes them from you, the more they build up, like a bomb, adding more sticks of explosives with every denial. He cruelly did it to me the first time we ever met, and the explosion had me in tears with terrible muscle spasms all over. He admitted later that he doesn’t normally do it the first time, he only did it because I was a feminist. Why that’s even relevant, only he knows, he just gave me a weird look when I asked. He’s knows what he’s doing down there, and if you ever find his book, you’ll know what you’re in for. He’s retired from the financial side from it full time, has been for ten years, but I know he’ll take a challenge on now and then if he sees the desperation in your eyes, that need to have the worship go one way. Most of us never experience a selfish session, where everything is given to us, and there’s no pressure to return anything, that’s not how me are wired. This one though, has a fetish for seeing a woman orgasm, they are called Pleasure-doms, and very rare indeed.
For once you’re not laying in bed with a guy hoping to have an orgasm, you’re laying in bed waiting for one. And he decides when. It’s an absolutely ridiculous torture that has you in tears. Screaming. Drooling. All before he even touches you intimately. He’s watching you, then, when you least expect it, when you’re ready to get up and storm out, he hits you with it, right where it’s needed, and it doesn’t stop. It just goes on until you stop it. And obviously, stopping it is the hardest part, because you can’t. It feels too good. I feel bewitched by something I shouldn’t have any desire for. He’s not my type. This is the one time I was never shallow, because I wasn’t interest in looks, I had heard about this guys skills for months. His name and expertise are whispered words around Essex, and that’s more than enough to draw anyone in, skills most men don’t come with. But I think he downplays his looks a lot. Because when I met him I was like, okay, wow, I can do this. Part of his plan? Perhaps. Me and Natalie joke that that’s his filter. He only ever gets those that want to experience something wildly out of the norm.
I went in just wanting an interview. I should’ve left well alone. But I’m stupid. I took the lid off of something very different, something very unique.
When you meet him for the first time with the knowledge of what he does, that intrigue pushes you, you can’t help yourself. It’s a curiosity that silences that cat without quite killing it. And once you’re in the thick of it… nothing seems to come close.
I need a good session. I need to be blown out so thoroughly that the noise stops. I need the version of sex that matches the level of frustration I am carrying. Anything less will not touch it. And the fact that I know exactly what that looks like and still cannot have it yet is driving me quietly insane.
A few more weeks.
If he even agrees. Moody bastard.
This time, I’ll never reveal who he is. Ask me until you’re blue in the face. I need him in a dry patch. If something of the sort even exists for him. Of course, he could refuse. I have nothing to barter with. He won’t even take my money. It just depends whether he want to or not. Depends who you are.
He once said to me,
The ones you do want to lay in bed with, either hate you, can’t, don’t want to, or are unaware you even exist. That’s why you never turn down those that do. We weren’t designed to be alone.
And he’s right.
I know his favourite song. That’s it. Other than that, I don’t know a damn thing about him. His Facebook is no help either. I can’t even make him smile for once. I don’t know how to.
Fuck.