I get very wet, still. There’s no telling what will do it. Sometimes, during a serious discussion with a man, I’m simultaneously aware of the moist warmth completely saturating my crotch. Other times, it’s as much a surprise to me, as it is to the man I’m with, when we both discover how super-flushed our libidos must be getting me.
It’s extraordinary when my entrance ISN’T perfecting primed for the expected incoming visitor. So much so, that I remember exactly the one time last year it happened, and the other solitary time it “went” missing in 2005, too. It made me understand just a bit of how a man must feel when his tank just didn’t launch as he wanted it to.
I felt compelled to tell my partner each of those times, that—
a) this just rarely, rarely happens (err it does not happen) , and
b) yes, you are totally doing all the right things, and
c) just give me a minute, maybe, if you caress my ____ just right there, for a second…
---but to no avail.
So, disquieted I was, when he reflexively reached for the Astroglide.
Usually, though, my wealth of lubrication is an ever-reassuring sign of my still available vibrancy, as a woman closing in on 47; a credit, to all that natural yogurt eating, which I can attest promotes clean, sweet taste and silky texture, as well.
I’ve been wet like this, as usual ---but--- without any sex—well, intercourse— since mid-October, I think.
A man I know has been indulged by me during some of the frequent business consultations we’ve had, over the past half-year. It was always mostly oral on him, with some touches or rubbing on me. My choice, I guess, I wanted to play the servant girl archetype. We started out with him good-naturedly insisting he lick my lips, when on our first meeting in years, we reminisced about our sexual past together, and I reminded him I had always been rather shy with oral receiving.
He had me sit, then lie down, on his desk, with our work all around us. It felt a little clinical at first, my buttocks at the edge of his coldish desk, he sitting on a wood chair, placing his hands on my inner thighs with his head focusing on my catch (Oh, Dr. Gynecologist, what are you doing down there, sir?). He did an admiral job of licking and sucking, nibbles on my lips, around my perineum (which is a real tease-turn on for me), flicking in and out of my hole (ahhhmmm, another enticement) and all over my surprised clit. He made me very juicy, of course. But all that motion made me want to lick him, and have him inside me—partial as I was to PHALLUS as my satisfaction. He was well qualified there, too. A pretty cock, we both agreed. And what man would refuse supreme attention to his manhood?
And, so, we continued over the months. Five times out of eleven, we went for his Full Monty into two out of my three crevices—if you’re into stats, that is. (I stayed shy still, with the oral return.)
Then, for a bunch of reasons, mostly his, we skipped everything for a few visits. Getting myself resigned to no-sex (with mild flirtations), the oral rekindled for him just as suddenly. As far as my recollection goes, it was that way for the last few months— with some visits, still, purely business, without any added curriculum. Two of the times he DID want inside me (any other silent fantasies, unknown to me)—once, he called me with his desire, after I was already home. But each time, and for different reasons, I thought better of it. Last week, we agreed to stop, all together. He had his reasons, I had mine. It was good to lay it out in the air. But disappointing, too. He is my friend. And I was still wet when I saw him this week.
And so, here I am, again, all moist, tonight. I am. I checked. Just now.
Naturally, I have ways to self-gratify.
But I wonder, a lot, when (and if) I’ll ever again have a nice hard, hot, trust-worthy, talented cock to play with (for at least months at a time) -- yes, dear friends, even women who write about sex and talk about sex on the radio, don’t always have the sex life they aspire to. My married friends—many of you, will say, what’s the big deal? Some because you never have sex anymore, others because it’s so frequent, you forget its absence. And you single folk, some of you have given up sex for a set amount of time--for all the many reasons we convince ourselves that’s a good thing to do—or, maybe, you’re a wild (male or female) horn dog.
But there’s enough of you out there-- married or single--who this moment know exactly, what I feel. It’s all pumped and fancied and got no receptive door to knock.
It is said dreams have a way of becoming true. “Lucid dreaming" subliminal delta, REM , or a collective primal slow wave -- in a few minutes, I’ll close my eyes, hold my lonesome little breasts under warm covers, and coax my juicy nether lips to dream up a real- life erotica come- true.
Some might wish upon a star. Others might rub a rabbit’s foot ( on the small and too furry side?). But, I’ve got my bets on my wet and loving chalice. Dream me up a strong, hot man who will whet my flowing rivers to bathe his rhythmic oar inside me for hours.
And if it just stays a dream? At least a wet one it will be…
