My parents have faux-rented the guest room to a young Navy man who is working security somewhere up the way while waiting to be called back... to duty? I've never been in the military or really dated a military man, so I'm not sure what they call these things. But I hear he's a bit tatted up and attractive, so the next few months could be amusing.

No, not in that way.

Just the standard, "there's a hot man running around in a towel upstairs" way.

It doesn't feel like Friday to me. It feels like it should be Sunday, with how drained I am and how much has gone on since Wednesday.

I've been reading a decent amount of poetry. Derrick Brown and Mindy Nettifee. They're amazing. I saw them perform a few weeks ago alongside another favorite of mine, Buddy Wakefield. So good.

On Wednesday, after we talked, GV8 had to take one of his friends to the airport, which is when I posted about what had been going on, from his computer.

I popped his laundry into the washer and walked up the street until I spotted a sushi place that seemed like it could be decent.

The food was excellent, presentation was amazing, and, apparently, the sushi chef liked how enthused I was about his raw fish artwork that he sent over a special plate of various types of sashimi on the house.

It was... really good. I hadn't really been able to eat earlier that day, I think I had an orange and half a sandwich (which caused nausea), so by the time I was able to sit down to dinner, it was passing 7PM and my body was wrecked by the parade of emotions I was putting it through.

I sat there, eating amazing sushi, a non-rice roll I had never tried before, reading Nettifee's Sleepyhead Assassins... not quite unwinding, but relaxing as much as I could. Her words, her imagery, they're so soothing to me. I'm going to be posting my favorite verses from my favorite poems in here sometime soon.

Walked back to the apartment and moved the laundry into the dryer. He came back just as I was going downstairs to get the dry laundry, I saw the loft was open and lit, so I wandered in.

We talked while I put his laundry away, then he showered, and went to bed still wearing his briefs. There was a no-naked-time rule being enforced. I showered, then slid into my customary tight black wifebeater and black and white striped underwear.

Curled up in bed beside him after massaging his calves and arms for an hour or two, and he pulled me deep into his chest, both arms around me, spooning.

I could have laid that way for hours.

I matched my breathing to his, the unsteady rhythm, just a little off each time, feeling us rise and fall as a unit.

Around 130AM, a noise sounded outside. Fearing someone was trying to break into the loft, he got up quickly, went used the restroom, and dressed. A hoodie. I didn't think about it. I know I should worry somewhat, and I did, but something that that man does very well is take care of himself, no matter what.

False alarm.

We woke early in the morning, Thanksgiving.

I don't remember what we talked about, though I'm sure we cuddled and kissed, but he suddenly rose and told me he had a challenge for me.

A challenge?

He said he was going to take a shower, and when he got out, he wanted me to please him in whatever way I felt possible and necessary, for as long as I felt was necessary, without ever touching his cock. He wanted to see if I could do it, what I would do, without his prompt. He said I was sexually proficient, but he was concerned that I did not know how to please him without sex.

Which... sounds odd, I suppose, without the backstory.

I've had a hard time showing him affection on more than a physical level. Not just sexual, mind you, but also platonic physical contact. I'm comfortable, so comfortable with touching and pleasing. I'm confident in what I do and that the men I sleep with want me to do the things I wish to do. There's no smothering in sex, especially if you're pleasing someone. I worry about smothering. I worry about coming off too clingy, too dependent, too submissive, as I mentioned early.

So I show love, I show care, through my body.

Which meant I never felt really comfortable doing anything special for him that wasn't in the bedroom.

And, really, there's not a good deal of things that are one-on-one that I haven't already done, as long as you toss male submission out, and any of the wilder, less hygenic fetishes.

So there's only so much "special" to be had on a pure activity level.

He felt I wasn't understanding him because of this. Because he's so dominant and wants that person serving him and I, I was so trying to restrain that part of my nature, which meant we entered into this situation where I was only focusing on the sex.

Which most men would enjoy.

But then there's that "more".

He finished his shower, got out, dried, suggested music (which made me feel like a moron because I should've thought of that on my own), so I went out to my car and got my copy of The American Dollar's "A Memory Stream". Fantastic album.

I started at the feet. To the calves, to the thighs, to the ass, flip over, the muscle the runs along the side of the shins, top of the thighs, head every so often laying on his stomach, kissing each part as I finished the rub, moving to the hands, the forearms, the biceps, flip over, to the waist, the back, the shoulders, the neck, his entire body coated in oil.

Two and a half, three hours.

My arm is still sore, it hurts to text, and I'm not even going to attempt to pick up any sort of writing implement.

Tongue sliding up from the lowest part of the back to the top of the neck, my body following. Back down, rimming. So many people shy away from it, and I understand, but it is an amazing, amazing, amazing sensation. I won't do it for most people, though, and I won't do it for that long.

Back to the feet, my foot fetishest. He loves it. Nuzzles, licking, suckling, nipping at the smooth calluses. Fingers, palms, ears, lips, rolling hips. Another hour or two, I work over his body with my hands and mouth, making sure to seek out the backsides of joints, the places that so few people touch that are extra-sensitive.

By 1PM, we're both naked, reclining opposite each other. He loves to watch me masturbate. His feet stray near and, for once, I don't shy away. I carefully let my toes stroke his balls, he orgasms twice.

With all of that, there's still the no sex rule.

I think it's a combination of him knowing that we can't keep it "just sex", that it always ends up becoming more, connecting us more, and a sentiment we both expressed at the split, that if we were to attempt to take a few steps back to just having sex occasionally, it would be a massively letdown from the intimate lovemaking we enaged in, that it would feel too wrong, too awkward.

And he doesn't know where we're going.

Later that night, Playboy texted me. Wants to come down next weekend. Then Pseudonym Pending, though I slept through that, then Restaurant Retard (I need to come up with a better nickname than that if he ends up recurring) the next day.

I suppose I should be glad of myself, that I've not had a guy I wanted regularly just one-night me in some time. Even Mr. Brush-off was up for more, and I would've been okay with that if he had not had a "it's complicated" girlfriend pop up.

GV8 has texted me a few times since that morning, talking about scheduling, the dessert I got for him, his hopefully upcoming vasectomy. I'm trying not to worry about it.

Forced myself to go out, grab dinner, see a movie, then meet up with some friends.

I forgot how much I keep to myself, socially. I could go out, and I do, but more often than not, I just keep to myself, hole up with a book in a coffee shop and people watch, not really wanting or needing to interact with anyone.

Wandering around, looking at the Christmas displays in stores, eating on a patio to watch the people bundled up in their California winter-wear walking by, listening to the Christmas carols being pumped into the air.

It's a weird experience, from March to now. March through, at least, May, was a non-stop exercise in awful for me. Out every night. Social obligations through the roof. No alone time. Three months without a night to myself. I'm surprised I did not go insane and flee the country. At least now I get weekends, if I force it.

I'm fairly sure I'm going clubbing tomorrow. I think it will be good for me to get out and move, work more on trying to get into the moment instead of thinking non-stop about everything but what I'm doing. Let go that vaunted control and trust in myself.

We'll see. It's 130 in the morning and I'm hitting that babbling stage. I should hire someone to write a CliffNotes version of every post and put it at the top so people have this mad wave of text flooding their monitor.

Oh well.

Tomorrow will be another day to see what I can do with this life. Let's see what happens.