Sad Masty

Stop here if you’re looking for one of my usual entries, this one is more for me. If you’d like a good laugh, let me direct you here. I write things I want to remember because I have significant memory issues, which is why I generally only write the exceptionally good encounters and/or things I learned from. I write them comically so I can share with my friends and fans in a way that makes the most sense for me; I like telling my stories, I like making people laugh. This isn’t going to be quite like that. Ready for a sad masty if you choose to tug it to this train wreck? You were warned.

What primed me for this low of lows was a particularly grueling weekend of very little sleep, working, stress, and tragedy. Friday night my friend killed himself, I learned about it right as I showed up to work on Saturday. (I also had developed a debilitating ear infection that I would be treated for in the ER twice- I’m talking, nausea, vertigo, fucked up equilibrium stuff with also an insane amount of pain.) I was called in early to relieve someone going to the ER, there was no one to relieve me as I stifled my grief as best as possible. That was… draining. Saturday evening I get home to cry it out, maybe distract myself on my phone. A 19 year old I’ve never talked to before hit me up on MeetMe and asked how my day was. True to form I didn’t bother following proper etiquette, I told him I was having a rough night. He said he was too, just sitting there in his military jacket, bottle of whiskey, and his gun with a bullet in the chamber. Full stop. Deep exhale. I felt my stomach drop. FUCK. God damn it, kid. Just had to be me you reached out to, right? OK, I’m in. Long story short, I convinced him to meet me somewhere public without his weapon. We live in different towns, I called the Troopers to meet him instead. They picked him up and took him to the hospital to get some help. We’ve messaged a few times since. I’m keeping tabs on him, promise. That night I did not sleep a wink, I stayed up all night talking through it with a mountain of a man that messaged me on Plenty of Fish and seemed to have the extra attention span to waste having a real conversation. Sunday I worked early, all day. Napped for an hour after work, went to bed early. Woke up just a few short hours later and had this overwhelming, awful, skin-crawling anxiety I couldn’t shake. Insomnia has been a lifelong struggle, I’m used to not sleeping, so I just figured this was mostly residual icky from all the previous couple of days. Then it hit me what day it was. My dad’s deathday anniversary. Fuck. 6 years and it still hits me like a freight train full of static noise and sadness. I haven’t eaten since… maybe Saturday, on the way to work I think I pounded a protein shake. I am the picture of health.

I spent the next hour or so posting snaps that were memories of Dad. The funny ones, the good ones worth mentioning. I’ve said it before, he was a Marine during the Korean War. He also survived Pork Chop Hill. So, ya know. Even if you don’t take my word for it he was a great Dad, his record in that respect is commendable. He got the clap 7 times while deployed for war- in fact, the Navy had him circumcised at age 20 to help with healing. Did I mention he joined the USMC at 17? Oh man, he was so handsome in his dress uniform he was scouted to be a recruitment poster, but he was a naughty, naughty Marine and they decided not to make light of that. I don’t doubt it, either. I have his fancy-pants dress uniform pic- guilty smile and all. He had the guiltiest of guilty smiles, like the cat that ate the canary, so much so his nickname back home in Montana and North Dakota was Smiley. I’m Smiley’s daughter. Shocker. Silver tongued and fluent in bullshit, he was excellent at roasting and subtle insults you wouldn’t realize were underhanded until later. I would burn down every children’s hospital in this country just to listen to him make fun of my mom all night until she loses her temper one last time. If there were a devil, I would bargain my soul for an hour with Dad while he’s piss drunk. TAKE ME TO CHURCH, DADDY! Until his very end, I would sit on his lap and make him take selfies with me- his nickname for me was Skinny, mine for him was Asshole. The picture in his obituary is cropped, but I was sitting on his lap; we were inseparable. He had one tattoo- while drunk in Japan on R&R he met a lovely lady and had her name affixed to his arm in an anchor. He never saw her again. Joan, if you’re still out there, I bet you were a total babe in the 50’s. See, he was like the poster child for what NOT to do while enlisted… which is kind of the most Marine thing ever… but I digress.

So I’m having a pity party on my bathroom floor in the dark, like you do, when my snap inbox starts blowing up with empty condolences from strangers- who are mostly just sad they felt inclined to stop beating their dicks while I posted things not related to fuckin’, suckin’, or nudes. Not all thoughts need to be shared, by the way. Then the offers to console me started trickling in. There’s a special dark place in the gulags for men who prey on emotionally vulnerable women for selfish sexual gratification. Did I want an orgasm? Maybe LATER, but I’d probably have to stop snotting and crying and shaking first. Also, I’d prefer it with someone I wouldn’t be embarrassed to be so emotionally raw in front of. Not some little cunt I’ve never met before that’s just going to get his and leave before I have time to react. I think throughout this journey I’ve come to realize how disconnected some of my followers and fans are from the reality I’m a living, breathing, feeling human being. I’m often told, by disgruntled applicants for my bedchamber who were rejected, that it is “confusing” I expect to be treated like a person while also being so sexually open and promiscuous. Think about that. Take all the time you need. I’m not a cam girl on snap chat just because I post nudes on occasion- endless requests, and violent ugly hate when I don’t comply, will not motivate me to become one either. I’m not a porn star, I don’t plan on making any videos to sell or otherwise. I’m not a sex doll or a fleshlight; if I get the feeling you’re just going to use my body as a receptacle for your knuckle children without any regard for my satisfaction, I will stop all activities. I have no obligation to finish you off, “help” you out, or assist in your orgasm. I’m a person. Basic human respect shouldn’t be conditional to me cooperating with your boner.

I don’t want to hold back what I’m experiencing, I want to let it OUT. Like the flies in The Green Mile, get the darkness out of my body until all that’s left is the husk aching to connect physically again. Charlie Sheen messages me. He gets it. He tells me he misses his parents… and he misses me, too. Without a second thought I ordered him to come over- it’s like 4am. Says he needs to get cleaned up first- I tell him to just get cleaned up at my house. That is the entirety of our communication. Within 20 minutes he had gotten out of bed, dressed, and drove to my house. This is his strength. He knows what’s up- I’m a wreck, I need genuine comfort, he has the ability to make me feel better inside and out. There’s been an occasion where he came over and gave me glorious, glorious head until I’d climaxed in his mouth half a dozen times. And when I was done cumming, I curled into a ball and screamed/sobbed while he held me. Because I was dealing with some personal things related to my divorce/Cold War and I desperately needed relief and distraction. He felt accomplished as a man for bringing me much needed comfort. Much like that time, he knew what I needed was a real hug long before the mouth hug. The second he sat down with me in the dark and wrapped his long arms around me, I lost it.

Buried my face in his shoulder and just rolled through the grief with primal wailing and full body convulsions. His empathy for what I was feeling became most apparent when he began to quietly sob with me. I don’t ever want to forget that. It was real and it hurt and he felt it too, god damn it. He held me tighter and just let me get it out at my own pace without any prompting. I told him about Dad. About the day he died.  Everything leading up to it. How I met my husband shortly after, while I was still mostly drinking it all away. How I lost the woman who raised me shortly after I lost Dad, just a few months later, but I was so fucked up drinking and relapsing on my drug of choice… I couldn’t bring myself to see her in the hospital, and I mixed up the date of her funeral services. I take this never-ending guilt trip down memory lane every year. It’s an ugly mess of a shit show, I’d prefer not to share it (in person) with anyone less than comfortably familiar. An hour, maybe an hour and a half, I was ready to transition off the bathroom floor to more comfortable surroundings. We get up into bed and cuddle a bit. I’ve gotten all the tears out at this point. I’m raw like an exposed nerve. Exhausted. I don’t know what he said but after chatting briefly I brought his mouth to mine and both of our bodies instantly reacted. It’s electricity. You can keep angry sex, hate fucking isn’t for me. When I’m mad, the last thing I want is to be touched sexually. Grief sex though… weirdly enough… pretty high up there on desirability, with the right partner. Charlie or Glasses are my go-to for this kind of release; damaged people find each other, like magnets. I don’t judge them for their damage, they don’t judge me for being a flaming dumpster fire. It works. Back to weird sad sex that fucked up strangers have sometimes: he wants me as much as I want him, he excuses himself to shower real quick.

He returns to me clean and beautiful. 6’3″ of Swedish descent, sexually aggressive in the right ways (he’s used to being in charge!) super cute in glasses, lean, well endowed and uncut. I do love foreskin now. Running his fingers along my middle he discovers my surgery scars from having my life saved in 2007. Under the twinkling blue icecicle lights they stand out, I guess overlooked before. He loves my big, pierced tits. Groping and growling as he takes the hoops into his mouth, I’m dragging my newly grown nails along his spin and up into his hair on the back of his head. Over his shoulders. Dig them in a little harder and he bites my nipple with excitement. Sharp pain but not too intense to stop the ride, I remind him “gentle, gentle.” Pawing at me I just want him to pin me down and fuck me as hard as he can into my bed until I pass out from orgasms. Selfish, right? “I just want missionary, but like… really go to town on me.” I can’t ever bring myself to say that; but, he can tell how we work best- for his aggressive stroke, and baby arm of a dick, missionary works really well for both of us to get ours. We haven’t even begun penetration yet, somewhere along the way he mentions he may not be up to performing because he’s been on a bender lately and not in the best of conditions. It’s fine, you’ve been my sexual work horse before, if nothing else comes from this tonight I’ll take some glorious oral and cuddles. He moves down to eat me divinely and I am so beyond excited I have to actively shush myself from progressing too fast and skipping out on his delightful face giving. He bites my thighs. I love how he bites me, often too hard but god damn I’d rather whisper “gentle, gentle” than ask for more. He also kisses my thighs. My pubic mound. My vulva. I feel his warm mouth open on my outer parts as he slides his tongue between them and rests it on my genital piercing. Mmmmph, Charlie. My fingers are in his hair, nails touching down to his scalp. He begins to suck my piercing and my clit while massaging the delicate skin with his tongue. Stick a fork in me, I’m done. I’m squirming and gasping, grasping his hair tightly, wrapping my thighs around his head. I was brought to climax 3 times orally, in quick succession. The words “I want you, I want you,” are falling out of my mouth. Kiss me again, I want to wrap around your whole body like an octopus.

Sexy time was clumsy and brief, we were ill-matched for actual penetration on this night. I’m also out of condoms his size, so we were limited to however many he brought- we only cracked open one, but light-headed/dizzy makes it hard to top a willing partner. It’s not a total buzz kill for me. We ended up falling asleep together like normal people, and I slept well with him. Napped in the day time until he had to leave, but before he left he told me he’d love nothing more than to spend all day in bed with me. Right back at ya. He’s what I call a full service lover. Multifaceted. He’s good for more than just his dick or just his mouth. Later in the day I was struggling with impulse control right as a friend of mine who happens to own the local BDSM Sex Club, Alaska Center for Alternative Lifestyles, advertised a fuck machine for sale at a screaming deal. I had that moment to decide if I wanted to make a luxury purchase for something ridiculous I’ve wanted for years, a gun, or relapse after a 5.5 year hiatus from my drug of choice. I bought the fuck machine. It was delivered with a smile, lots of attachments, and even chocolate for after I take my first ride. I’m sorry, did you catch all that? My emotional needs were met, my physical needs were met, I kept my sobriety from my danger-danger zone, and I didn’t allow the exhaustion, stress, and grief get the best of me. And in the end, I got a prize. A prize I can straddle. Pat on the back, I’m actually pretty proud of how that day went down.

I started keeping an Amazon wish list of sex toys and props I want to add to my collection. If they were to mysteriously show up to my house one day… I’d definitely be inclined to use them in my shenanigans.