I have to think about a dick I know to come, so I probably wouldn't make a great lesbian. It can't be anonymous or contrived. I visualize "my man's" dick, the one I know best, not any previous. For a long time even after separating and divorcing, I still thought about ex's by default. He had a good dick, better than he gave himself credit for. Huge head, girth. Good dick when his brain stopped hating me long enough to keep it inflated, when he broke down and decided to actually use it on me instead of using it against me.
Now, I think of P's dick. Still. He has a good dick, too. Knew how to use it. Drippiest I've ever seen. A glorious mess. He's so brown, his dick is quite brown as well, moreso even. Uncut. Nice dick. Worked well. Didn't become uninflated, because he loved me and didn't resent me. Correction. Love. I know he still does. To his core. Like me back to him.
The other night I thought of his dick. And I sobbed afterwards, well, during the afterwards. I miss him more that messy mascara-running tears could completely portray; it's not the first time he brought on and simultaneously ruined an orgasm in the last few months. I miss his dick, but I really miss him. His birthday is coming up and I want to talk to him, send him flowers even, per those stupid fucking flower company reminders I get by email. I want to tell him that I miss him, that I love him, that I still fondle products in the grocery store because of him. I'm silly and he makes me sentimental. I carry him with me, even as I know I am generally getting better about it all.
Marking the seasons apart, I am disappointed and frustrated that I can't tailgate and go to games for his team; each week I catch a glimpse of them on TV and check scores, reports, like a real fan, which I am now. I am befuddled that all my shirts, hoodies, and sweaters are his team colors and I don't want to allocate the bucks to buy replacements, so I feel like I still look like his girlfriend. I wish the Chucks he bought me weren't corny team colors. Yet I sometimes wish I could be corny with him again.
Quiet as I can be, I rarely talk to myself, but now I talk to him a lot. Sometimes I whisper what is on my heart; sometimes I simply tell him that I miss and love him, that I thought of him with this or that circumstance or news item or joke... not that he hears. Not that he'll ever hear. I could never contact him again, considering we are over, considering how things could never work, considering how I burned bridges with my last response, wishing him out of my life after that surprise birthday email from him. It was too painful to have him dropping in half way, being reminded of what I could not have.
Oh, what I would give for it to be possible to have him in even half way.
I hate dating. I hate the chase that others enjoy. I much prefer the capture. Greedy, I want to skip to the prize.
ETA: Perhaps Abby hit it squarely on this one, God's Gift, and my tactics are all wrong.
I always rather enjoyed dating . . . it's the happily ever after part that gives me trouble.
You do seem to know your dick.
I wish there was something I could do, but I know that I'm considerably ill-equiped to do so. Everyone seems to be struggling right now with the unresolved.
The thrill of the case doesn't hold much for me either ... I'm a pretty easy catch.
Oh, Honey...you're so weird. If I were a chick, though, I guess I'd be worse. I'm pretty strange as it is. Wish I could mail you a package of Tickles, just to get you going again! lysnu
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