I've been thinking about this a lot lately: I'm shutting down this blog.
I'm lost, I'm hurting, I'm confused.
If I do continue to write, no one will know it's me. I made the mistake a while ago of giving out my old blog address and I've never been able to fully let go and write the 100% truth of my thoughts and feelings because of it. And let's be honest. A semi-anonymous blog just isn't all that fun because I'm always holding back. Therefore, it has to go for that reason also.
So, thanks for reading and I hope you've enjoyed peeking into my life.
Hopefully, you'll find me again somewhere... only you won't know it's me, will you?
xx
Rose Holmes
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
'Tuesday' or 'Double up'
Last week was a busy week for me. Professionally, I'm still looking for paid work, but my volunteering and professional obligations keep me busy roughly 20 hours a week which means I have to squeeze in dates however I can into my child-free weeks. I continue to wonder how long I'll be able to keep this up, but try not to spend too much time dwelling on it. I look at it as a coping mechanism, not a problem... at least not yet.So, Tuesday.
Quickie and I met online and he had a mysterious dating profile. Just a torso, no info. But he wrote me a great email, sent me some face shots, some cock shots, and was titillating and sexy, so we decided to meet up for a happy hour. It went well enough. We had a couple of cheap beers and we talked about what we were looking for. I decided to try something new with him and state clearly that I was NOT looking for a one-night-stand (I know, I know, I just got done saying that I wasn't looking for anything specific, but it was an experiment). His eyes lit up at the prospect of something casual and ongoing (as all men's eyes tend to do). I was excited.
I had a date with SF at 7 and he had a workout date with a friend, but with 30 minutes left to hang out Quickie suggested we go back to my place. I was immediately turned off -- 30 minutes for our first time? Really?? -- I laughed it off and eventually we had to go.
He walked me to my car and kissed me passionately. Pushed me into the driver's seat and slipped his fingers into my soaking wet pussy. I was barely over being irritated, but it'd been weeks since I'd been touched so I went for it. His kisses were deep and soft and his beard tickled my face. His fingers stroked me and I squirted into his palm repeatedly. Breathing hard, he kissed me one final time, pinched my nipple where his mouth had just been and said, "Have fun on your date."
I drove to meet SF in a puddle.
He was standing outside the restaurant waiting for me. He was tall and handsome in a nerdy way. We hugged hello and I self-consciously tried to hide my soaked skirt. We ate dinner, engaged in lots of banter, and laughed continuously throughout our time together. When dinner was over, we decided to head back to his hotel (he's here for a long project and goes home every weekend) and while walking down the sidewalk he pulled me against a storefront window and sloppily kissed me with a big, ravenous mouth.
Bad kissing aside, once we were in his room the clothes went flying, but he stopped me from removing my 4 inch heels. He bent me over and stroked me, rolled on a condom and entered me from behind. I bore down on him as he pressed against me as my day flashed by me: hard cocks, mouths, pussy, desire, drinks, laughter, hot skin.
It didn't last as long as I'd have liked, but it was fun enough. He ate me out like a champ and I felt grounded once again with a man between my legs. I left his room with just-been-fucked hair and a smirk on my face to all the lobby-goers and personnel.
I fell into my bed with a smile on my face.
I didn't know it at the time, but it was the beginning of a really great week of men and SF and Quickie got it all started. By the end of it, though, I was questioning everything again; my need for a real connection and to feel safe is beginning to rear its ugly head...
I've modified what it is I'm looking for; no longer must he be willing to be a pseudo-boyfriend (all the trappings, none of the commitment). He, quite literally, just needs to be good-looking, have a pulse, and be into me. My thinking here is that if I stop looking for something so specific, then it will be more likely to fall into my lap. This is my way of relaxing, enjoying myself (and men) and being open to whatever form of companionship comes my way.
So, let me give you a lay of the land for last week:
- Monday - 0 dates - me curled up with Jessica Fletcher all night
- Tuesday - 2 dates - one with Quickie and one with SF
- Wednesday - 1 cancelled date - I forgot I have to be up at 6 am on Thursdays
- Thursday - 2 dates - a nooner with Quickie and a date with Professor
- Friday - 1 date, possibly 2 - one with Hacker with a backup plan of Slick
- Saturday - 1 date - finally hooked up again with Slick
- Sunday - 0 dates - I gotta catch my breath
Quickie and I met online and he had a mysterious dating profile. Just a torso, no info. But he wrote me a great email, sent me some face shots, some cock shots, and was titillating and sexy, so we decided to meet up for a happy hour. It went well enough. We had a couple of cheap beers and we talked about what we were looking for. I decided to try something new with him and state clearly that I was NOT looking for a one-night-stand (I know, I know, I just got done saying that I wasn't looking for anything specific, but it was an experiment). His eyes lit up at the prospect of something casual and ongoing (as all men's eyes tend to do). I was excited.
I had a date with SF at 7 and he had a workout date with a friend, but with 30 minutes left to hang out Quickie suggested we go back to my place. I was immediately turned off -- 30 minutes for our first time? Really?? -- I laughed it off and eventually we had to go.
He walked me to my car and kissed me passionately. Pushed me into the driver's seat and slipped his fingers into my soaking wet pussy. I was barely over being irritated, but it'd been weeks since I'd been touched so I went for it. His kisses were deep and soft and his beard tickled my face. His fingers stroked me and I squirted into his palm repeatedly. Breathing hard, he kissed me one final time, pinched my nipple where his mouth had just been and said, "Have fun on your date."
I drove to meet SF in a puddle.
He was standing outside the restaurant waiting for me. He was tall and handsome in a nerdy way. We hugged hello and I self-consciously tried to hide my soaked skirt. We ate dinner, engaged in lots of banter, and laughed continuously throughout our time together. When dinner was over, we decided to head back to his hotel (he's here for a long project and goes home every weekend) and while walking down the sidewalk he pulled me against a storefront window and sloppily kissed me with a big, ravenous mouth.
Bad kissing aside, once we were in his room the clothes went flying, but he stopped me from removing my 4 inch heels. He bent me over and stroked me, rolled on a condom and entered me from behind. I bore down on him as he pressed against me as my day flashed by me: hard cocks, mouths, pussy, desire, drinks, laughter, hot skin.
It didn't last as long as I'd have liked, but it was fun enough. He ate me out like a champ and I felt grounded once again with a man between my legs. I left his room with just-been-fucked hair and a smirk on my face to all the lobby-goers and personnel.
I fell into my bed with a smile on my face.
I didn't know it at the time, but it was the beginning of a really great week of men and SF and Quickie got it all started. By the end of it, though, I was questioning everything again; my need for a real connection and to feel safe is beginning to rear its ugly head...
Saturday, September 17, 2011
'Massage' or 'Falling in love'
I got a massage yesterday. Ninety minutes of rubbing bliss. The massage therapist's voice like fairy dust on my ears, her hands pure magic. I wondered if she fell in love with every body on her table because I certainly fell in love with her a little bit. She knew where I hurt, she anticipated my needs, she connected with me. Especially when she rubbed my feet.
I don't even remember when someone rubbed my feet last; it's such a loving gesture. What I do is fucking. No one cares about me and I don't care about them. If someone rubbed my feet, it'd mean I was being seduced, romanced. Someone was plugging in.
And that's not how I roll. I can't roll like that.
I pulse, I throb, I emanate, I suck, I fuck. I am not tender or loving. I am hard and horny and fuck like I mean it.
So when the masseuse rubbed my aching arches and [lovingly] tended to my twitching muscles I relaxed and floated away on a cloud of prostituted love. L-O-V-E. And wondered (again) when I would ever be ready for this from a single man.
But until I'm ready I'll continue to hide in the crowd, among throngs of men. When I'm feeling lost (or just plain feeling) I cast my net and some kind man will send some 1s and 0s and I feel real again. I can't quite explain this "alone with everyone" concept any better except to say if I stop moving, I feel like I'll die. I'll fucking die from pain and sorrow and the scabs that are slowly forming will never take hold and I'll be this broken wounded woman for the rest of my life.
Each man in my life, however fleeting or however entangled, is part of a patchwork salve to my psyche. He encourages my carnal side, my vulnerable sexual self, he endeavors to coax out my tender side, he is steadfast, he is fickle, he is there. The He in his many forms: tall, short, big, small, near and far. Of course I'm most thankful for the ones who have become parts of my life over the longer term, but even the ones that have come and gone have played their parts.
I don't want to say anything as ridiculous as, "The day someone rubs my feet is the day I fall in love," because that's just plain stupid, but the day someone thinks beyond my pussy and caters to (and wins over) the side I keep so staunchly hidden and protected, will be a big day in my life.
A part of me might just be resuscitated.
I don't even remember when someone rubbed my feet last; it's such a loving gesture. What I do is fucking. No one cares about me and I don't care about them. If someone rubbed my feet, it'd mean I was being seduced, romanced. Someone was plugging in.
And that's not how I roll. I can't roll like that.
I pulse, I throb, I emanate, I suck, I fuck. I am not tender or loving. I am hard and horny and fuck like I mean it.
So when the masseuse rubbed my aching arches and [lovingly] tended to my twitching muscles I relaxed and floated away on a cloud of prostituted love. L-O-V-E. And wondered (again) when I would ever be ready for this from a single man.
But until I'm ready I'll continue to hide in the crowd, among throngs of men. When I'm feeling lost (or just plain feeling) I cast my net and some kind man will send some 1s and 0s and I feel real again. I can't quite explain this "alone with everyone" concept any better except to say if I stop moving, I feel like I'll die. I'll fucking die from pain and sorrow and the scabs that are slowly forming will never take hold and I'll be this broken wounded woman for the rest of my life.
Each man in my life, however fleeting or however entangled, is part of a patchwork salve to my psyche. He encourages my carnal side, my vulnerable sexual self, he endeavors to coax out my tender side, he is steadfast, he is fickle, he is there. The He in his many forms: tall, short, big, small, near and far. Of course I'm most thankful for the ones who have become parts of my life over the longer term, but even the ones that have come and gone have played their parts.
I don't want to say anything as ridiculous as, "The day someone rubs my feet is the day I fall in love," because that's just plain stupid, but the day someone thinks beyond my pussy and caters to (and wins over) the side I keep so staunchly hidden and protected, will be a big day in my life.
A part of me might just be resuscitated.
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