Let me count the ways I’m fucked up over Cold War. Or not. Jesus, I’m sick. He sat me down, after a night of rolling on some fairly weak pressed pill ecstasy, to roundabout ask me when I might be available to date seriously again. We sort of did this last time, back in March remember? Only… without the title. Neither of us was really ready to date, but the attraction was there. That magnetism that draws damaged people together and holds them in limbo for each other. Anyway, he asked about what would happen when the need to write my blog ended. I told him that honestly I’m getting bored with it, and by “it” I mean the life- I’m also clearly experiencing Seasonal Affective Disorder as is common this time of year in Alaska. So there’s some depression mixed in (time to up my D3 to 20,000 IU’s!) Then he asked if I would be open to dating, and reiterated his fondness for me. You silly, sweet man. I inquire if this desire to revisit exclusivity was brought on by the love drugs we took previously- he tells me he figured I would wonder about that, so just go ahead and ask again tomorrow after the drugs have worked their way out. I didn’t plan to bring it up again, I could barely contain my excitement. We’ve had these ridiculous feelings since February. Of course we should try again! He appreciated that I could pick up where we left off all those months ago, having not burned the bridge. Well, of course. He tells me that before he didn’t want to ask me to change my life to accommodate him. I respect that, greatly. Also, he intentionally kept tabs on me throughout the year checking to see where I was at on this journey. Though I wanted it then, it wasn’t time. Now, however, is different. Guess how long it lasted this time? 6 days. Insert studio audience laughter.
I ended things fairly quickly when it became apparent the problems before were still very much an issue. Not in a place to be a healthy relationship, not going to poison the well by trying to force it. Take a break, try again when it’s right. Who knows, maybe 3rd time’s a charm. If there will be a 3rd time, that is. He’s leaving tonight back to California to stay with family and *hopefully* get sorted out. I have absolutely no confidence he’ll be back to Alaska, though he maintains that he will return. It’s cool, take as long as you need. I’m not waiting and you shouldn’t either. Also, I’m totally not broken up about this at all. Definitely was not at my local American Legion watering hole last night drowning in White Russians sobbing to my long-time bestie who just happens to be a bartender. He gets it. Damaged people always find each other, often we’re just best friends for life. He knows where I’m at with all this, and why, and he understands better than most why I harbor no ill feelings about it. Good news to all the dicks I’m farming on my dating apps, that hold some concern I might catch feelings for them: I can’t catch feelings for you if I’m in love with somebody else. You’re just a placeholder… or rather, your dick is. Stunt cock, if you will (even more relevant knowing now that Cold War has ED from nerve damage in the service.) Finally it makes sense why he’s so good at, and so inclined to perform, oral- like, at the drop of a hat I had tongue on demand. What kind of sick cosmic joke is it that I, the sluttiest slut that ever slutted, would fall for a man who couldn’t get it up without the aid of a medication? There really is a divine creator out there, and he’s laughing at me. Fuck you, dude.
If you’ve followed along with my journey you’ve learned I have memory issues, which is why I only write about certain types of encounters. That being said, I’m going to recount my favorite moments I’ve had with Cold War because I don’t want to lose them in the fog of my memory bank. I’m not even sure I’ll open this blog entry up to be viewed publicly, maybe this one is just for me. We’ll see when I’m done. I guess I could just use Live Journal, but I’m no longer a suicidal teenager.
Did I ever clarify he’s not Russian, just speaks it? Like, his family is Jewish and they’re FROM Russia, but they’re Israeli Jews. He’s bleached from being in Alaska for 5+ years, all his Middle Eastern pigmentation is practically gone. Maybe I creeped an old pic of him and saw him when he used to be brown- looks totally different. Right now he’s gigantic and white, easily passable as Slavic or Eastern European and maybe was an extra in the movie Hostel. So of course I told him I regretted never role-playing me as an 11 year old Palestinian girl who’s family he just murdered. Crying on command, especially with a dick in my mouth, is one of my many talents. He told me I’m always that girl to him. SWOOOON. See, this is why I caught the feelings. Not his muscly goodness, not his 6’3″ stature, not his incredible box-eating skills. He makes me laugh. Like, that deep, ugly laugh reserved for family and Hospital fires. Which, by the way, he has mentioned several times he finds my ugly laugh adorable. Already suckered him in to finding my unattractive traits endearing. GOTCHA, BITCH. LOVE MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
The way his giant arms scoop me up and pull me in tight for cuddles. He makes me feel so, so small, which of course he reminds me I really am just that small. (I’m reminded of when he offered to beat the shit out of any man that looked at me, if that’s what I wanted. Not what I wanted, but damn. Just knowing that’s an option with such a big, scary looking dude is incredibly empowering.) There is no end in sight for the comments on my height. I should have a custom-made Napoleon-esque uniform made for myself, as a tiny conqueror. It would be perfect, because just like the French I’m not really good for much in the way of self defense or offense. I’m super good at being defeated. But I have an eye for uniforms and flair. Much like Hitler… well now I just want him to call me Mein Fuhrer instead of My Love. Dating a Jew is fun. If I turn the heat up too much, he thanks me for reminding him what his family felt like in the ovens. Insert donkey laugh here.
Forehead, hand, and wrist-to-forearm kisses. Intimacy is expressed in many ways, this is one of my favorites. Maybe I’m just obsessed with Gomez and Morticia Addams. Maybe it’s too far to bend all the way down to kiss my mouth because I’m literally over a foot shorter than him, and it’s not ALWAYS a turn on I look 12 with my braces and braided pig tails. Maybe he was just avoiding my oral herpes breakout creeping up my face. WHATEVER THE REASON, I liked it. I really like when I’m with a guy who wears glasses, and we have the same prescription: Valtrex. Kidding, I don’t take Valtrex. I just pretend you gave it to me, every time. Wink.
Ugh when he’d dive face first into my wet, waiting box and hungrily devour my orgasms over and over and over… I mean at my every whim he would drop what he was doing, fall to his knees, excitedly rip my panties off, and try to lick his way to my center. His hair too short to grip he promised he’d grow it out for me. While his mouth is busy bringing me to climax, he’s growling and moaning to match my excitement. Pleasing me so thoroughly was definitely taken with pride. My thighs would start to close around his head and he’d force them apart, sometimes looking up just to tell me how good my pussy tastes, and how beautiful it is. Yelling it even, as if to announce to the world my downstairs is delicious and picture perfect. All other vaginas should take note. (This is particularly a cherished collection of memories considering he confided in me how I was described to him by his roommate… who I fucked a week before I met him. Apparently Mr. 3 minute misogynist told Cold War not to bother with me, he’d missed a bullet by not fucking me first, and my pussy smelled so bad it should be avoided at all costs. Cold War, unconvinced a man who hates women could give an honest review of one sexually, disregarded the warning. The rest is history. I’d like to add, he was upset I made him wear a condom, but gave me permission to fuck Cold War as if it was even a thought to be shared… I corrected him instantly. To me, “Yeah, you can fuck him. He’s bigger than me, too.” to Cold War, “You missed a bullet, her pussy is disgusting.” Hahahahaha That fragile male ego.) He’d marvel at it, shaved smooth just for him and pierced just for me. More than once he mentioned it was perfect, gorgeous even. He’s gotten better with his hands and I made many messes- I asked him where, when, how he learned this technique. Chuckling, he says YouTube. This motherfucker searched “how to make a woman squirt” on YouTube and it worked. The secret is out, enjoy. After making me cum in his mouth he’d aggressively push my leg and roll my body over, then apply that generous mouth to my perfect asshole. It is perfect. I love it. I’m sure it has it’s own fan base and cult following. Spread open and gripping all my bedding around me wildly trying to hold on, he’d shove his tongue in me and I would lose my mind. He tells me he wants me to have 3 orgasms, at least, every time I request his face between my legs. Marry me.
While we were rolling on the thizz (I feel so hood calling it that!) he would give me so many orgasms, either with his hand or his face, and I would hold on to that post-orgasmic bliss for as long as possible with the biggest shit-eating grin on my face. Eyes closed, just happy and content. He whispered I was so beautiful. Speaking of beauty, I really didn’t understand our dynamic because he’s physically fit (and muscly,) and I’m uh… not. I’m a fat girl, fo sho. I, incorrectly, assumed from the get-go he was into fat girls as is fairly standard in Alaska either out of necessity or genuine attraction. He corrected me twice that he’s not into fat girls- at all. The second time he went on to elaborate (since I waved at myself and mocked that CLEARY he is,) that I have a warped view of myself, and what he’s mostly attracted to is the “gelatinous mass” between my ears. I cannot express how much I love how that’s phrased. But wait, did he just tell a fat girl he likes her for her personality? WHATEVER, I’LL TAKE IT. I do not have a warped view of myself, btw. I’m acutely aware of my body type, and unashamed of it. People assume when you call yourself fat, you’re calling yourself ugly. I’m definitely not ugly because of my weight, however I can promise you I’m ugly on the inside too. Being fat and being beautiful are not mutually exclusive, unless it’s not your aesthetic. I learned he used to be a fatty, too.
And there it is: why someone who could be so good looking, and so smart, have such a weirdly humble presence. Introverted, likes books more than people, nerdy, hates bullies, moderately insecure about his body. Why didn’t I guess this sooner? Of course he used to be fat- fat people have to develop a personality first. Of course he appreciates me despite our obvious physical discrepancies. I wonder if he sees me the same way I see myself most of the time- I know what I look like under this extra fluff. I never lost sight of that. My confidence isn’t based on my looks so being told I’m fat or ugly hasn’t really ever bothered me, and I know I’m conventionally attractive when I’m more IN shape than just A shape. I’ll get there again, I’ve been slow and steady losing my extra jiggle over this last year- I’m halfway done. Patting myself on the back while I’m crying onto an empty plate. His passion is helping people as a personal trainer- specifically, in someone’s home because they’re gym-shy. Ugh. Swoon so hard. Compassion and empathy are so hot. I might be a limp-wristed bleeding heart liberal. Can’t you tell?
Is my blog coming to an end? It’s a definite possibility in the very near future. My writer’s block only seems to let up when I want to write about Cold War. I have tons of content I could write about but none of it flows out with the same voice as before, and I don’t want to just write a shitty tw0-bit book report on some third rate smut rag- I save that for when I review my vagina on Yelp. I’m definitely stuck on someone for realsies. Who knows though, maybe I’ll get a cunt-punt back into the game and find my voice again. One thing is for certain, I’m definitely not stopping my Screen Shot series. In fact, I’m upping the ante- as suggested by Good Will Hunting, I’ll be giving random out of town addresses to the rude fuckboys. All my fuckboy pranks are going to get turned up to 11, now that I thinki about it. Feel free to make suggestions. That should be fun… place your bets on when I’ll be murdered, but it hasn’t happened yet and I’ve been trying really, really hard for years. This break affords me the opportunity to continue knocking things off my fuck-it list. It’s like a bucket list, but with more anal fissures and cum farts. (Aren’t those just the worst?)