J

Bro, esta es mi manera de pedirte perdón.

Eran las 4:53am y te saqué de mi casa a la que venías a quedarte una semana. Llevabas un día.
Veinte minutos antes había sacado tu maleta al corredor y el vigilante venía a acompañarte para que salieras. Cuarenta minutos antes, había llamado a la policía.

Llamé a la policía porque me empujaste,  y empezaste a alzar la voz. Me diste miedo. Mucho miedo. Entenderás que no podía compartir mi cama ni mi casa con alguien que me hiciera sentir amenazada. Conozco bien en lo que se han convertido las amenazas de los hombres conmigo y por eso precisamente, no estiro en lo más mínimo, la posibilidad en lo que ello pueda convertirse.

Te recuerdo, porque sé que no lo sabes, pero te habías caído en la sala varias veces, tratabas de que las paredes te sostuvieran, así no hubiera. Tropezaste en el estudio, casi rompes mi lámpara favorita y desgarras las cortinas. En el lapso de quince minutos, abriste tres cervezas, no te tomaste ninguna. Entrabas y salías de la cocina como si allí en esa oscuridad, fueras a encontrar algo que te salvara de la borrachera.

Recorrías las habitaciones de casa como si estuvieras en un laberinto. Y seguro que lo estabas, seguro lo estás todavía, tratando aun de entender la gravedad de lo dicho y hecho. Balbuceabas improperios dirigidos a mí, todos. Entretanto yo te observaba desde el sofá, exigiéndome sí, para encontrar a aquel a quien había invitado complaciente a compartir mi vida esos días. Yo también bebí, bebí bastante y celebré la noche contigo hasta el punto cuando llegó la violencia. Yo conozco la mía y si seguíamos por ese sendero, la fuerza me llega a exceder, los motivos me sobran y la necesidad de protegerme me convierten en otra bestia a la que no quiero conocer tanto.

Solo pude ver algo que me recordó esas escenas que me llenan de tristeza, en las que  un hombre y una mujer que están juntos, se confiesan, hacen pactos, los sellan con besos eternos, llegan a ver la vida juntos y en ese momento, en ése instante del descontrol, se conectan los diablos y juegan a ver quién es más poderoso en el caos y todo aquello queda diluido por siempre, como si jamás hubiera existido.

Me gustan los juegos, pero de ése, el de los diablos que se muestran los dientes, me he retirado definitivamente.

Te invité decenas de veces a sentarte conmigo, a parar un poco y simplemente conversar y quizás,  tomar un poco de agua. Todas las veces me dijiste que estaba tratando de decirte qué hacer, que quién era yo para pedirte qué hacer o cuánto tomar o no. Me dejaste sin argumentos.

Seguramente pude haber sido más compasiva,  y creer en el J sobrio, o al menos en el 'Tú' de unos tragos antes, pero la verdad, hay cosas con las que no quiero lidiar. Perdóname si soy muy dura al juzgarte, pero siento que estamos en lados muy diferentes de la vida: yo creo en que si nos estamos conociendo, finge compostura, mientras te veo mejor y te descompones, pero al menos tengo cómo entenderte (o creo cómo), pero sobre todas las cosas, sé consciente de la mujer con la que estás, ya te he contado mis historias dolorosas y espero que me hayas escuchado, que me cuides de más tristezas de las que tu puedas hacer parte -no tiene que ser una promesa- al menos, trata. Yo muy probablemente no supe ignorar al J enrarecido y decirte con más cariño, con más dulzura, que ya, que ya estaba bien y que estaba todo bien.

Sé que me faltan muchas lecciones de la vida entre dos, pero ésas las quiero escoger yo, sin miedo.

Cinturones

De niña, fuí castigada con cinturones. Mucho. De eso venían mis padres.

Hoy me gusta que me castiguen. Sí y distinto, y que lo hagan mis amantes.
Hoy, de hecho siento una fascinación absoluta por las cuerdas de cuero que me puedan someter. De las formas que quieran, puedan, su naturaleza permita.

Pido a la hora del amor, siempre, todo lo que me gusta y pido amarre. Pido cinturones, específicamente. A ellos, algunos, les parece extraño y hasta fuera de contexto que una hembra feroz como yo, pida sometimiento.

¿Será qué tienen ideas raras sobre lo que es una hembra así y sobre lo que puede significar el sometimiento en algunas circunstancias? Estoy segura.

Tampoco quiero darle muchas vueltas a si es que tengo algún lío fundamental, sórdido y oscuro que me haga actuar así, de hecho siento que abordarlo así es mi manera de acercarme desafiando lo  aterrador y brutal. Así como lo hago, siento que lo convierto, que lo hago mío de la mano de mi placer.

Mis bellos hombres -a quienes acaricio contándoles esto- son abrumadoramente complacientes. Siento que los hombres con los que he estado buscan ser mis objetos de placer  y también, en ese intercambio, le dan la vuelta a la percepción popular, ciega y negativa de ser "eso". Y mientras escribo, justo ahora mismo hago una pausa para mí  -y pienso- que debe ser mi comprensión extraña de los lenguajes y las palabras... y la vida (jajajajaja), que ser objeto en este caso, es la RAZÓN misma del placer.

Vuelvo a las cuerdas. A los amarres. Y a mi vida en el placer de dos. Seguiré pensando que entre dos, en el placer de los dos, hay que jugar así, abierto, directo, amplio, duro y hondo.

Pecadora

Justo hace unos días, le decía a una de mis amadas mujeres, que estos años de no creerme el amor, me habían endurecido el corazón y me hacían portarme como una insolente que a pesar de llevar mucho reclamándole al amor por su ausencia, ahora que lo tenía en frente hablándome, lo desafiaba con silencio y escepticismo.

Me sigo castigando porque en mi vacilante amor, a muchos de los hombres de mi vida atormento y los corto como si todas sus faltas fueran gravísimas e imperdonables, y yo una vez más, me quedo atrapada entre el querer hundirme en ese corazón, amarlo entero y unas ganas inmensas de crucificarlos.

Yo, que le ruego al amor que me escuche y que me encuentre, me sigo haciendo un daño tremendo creyéndome pecadora irredimible, porque la forma en que he decidido abordar mi vida sexual me hace una suerte de condenada, una perdida, una mujer indigna de la dulzura, de la inocencia, de cualquier  asomo de ternura, porque el cariño no es para gente como yo, y que por eso no puedo amar y nadie me puede amar.

Para mí solo están reservados los condenados, los muertos, los cerdos, los vacuos.

En el fondo, desde mí libertad -de la que no me arrepiento pero que claramente no he acabado de entender- confieso, que me ha costado aterrizar estas dimensiones de la mujer que soy, porque verdad es que escarbando tanto en mi justa del placer y el cuerpo, me confundo y los confundo.


Y es que de este amor sí que he aprendido, he aprendido que soy caprichosa, necia, malcriada, que todos esos años de creerme condenada, no soy. Este es un amor que me reta con cariño, que se me pone de frente y me cuenta de lecciones con amor.

Pero, ¿Qué es una lección con amor de mi lado?

Canciones para 'El Striptease'

¡VIVA EL STRIPTEASE!

Descubrimientos deliciosos para el disfrute de los dos. Ojo a esto que me he encontrado (y seguiré buscando) -porque qué horror- si uno se abandona a la merced de internet, se encuentra cosas que no son dignas de un buen 'collar de perlas'. (El orden es arbitrario. Y no. No las he probado todas)

Cream

'...Cream
Get on top
Cream
You will cop...'

I feel you

'You take me there
You take me where
The kingdom comes
You take me to
And lead me through Babylon...'

Love is strong

'... Your love is strong and you're so sweet
You make me hard, you make me weak...'

 

Bad Things

 '... don't know who you think you are
But before the night is through
I wanna do bad things with you...'

A girl like you 

You've made me acknowledge the devil in me

I hope to God I'm talkin' metaphorically
Hope that I'm talkin' allegorically
Know that I'm talkin' about the way I feel

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6oqJ0JpMj6I

Bad to the bone (yummy)

Bad to the bone

Bad to the bone
B-B-B-B-Bad to the bone
B-B-B-B-Bad
B-B-B-B-Bad
Bad to the bone

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_7VsoxT_FUY

Lluvia

Él es placer. Y en el placer me pierdo, él me lo recuerda cada vez que lo siento cerca, que lo escucho, cuando lo acaricio, cuando me visita  con sus palabras y cuando me lame con sus ojos. No sé si una vez más, esté caminando por una senda prohibida para mí porque pensé que irme al extremo en donde el cuerpo sufre y le gusta, ya no era algo que sintiera que estuviera más en mí, de pronto porque me daba miedo de mí o de él llegar a lastimarnos con rabia. Pero con él, recorrer todo el placer, como es el placer con él, me encanta.

Él, ahora, también sabe lo extremadamente complaciente que soy con mi cuerpo y le pido que me encienda hasta la insensatez, de alguna manera porque percibo que él accede a mis peticiones mientras explora este descubrimiento que soy yo  y estoy segura que ésta será una vía que lo lleve a conocer sus propios extremos, y ya ha empezado a ponerse sus topes.

He visto que tengo esa capacidad de llevar a las personas al límite y a los chicos, mientras están en mí, empujarlos a lugares que jamás habían transitado. Y, cuando tengo un compañero que juega a lo mismo que yo bajo la dulzura, la dicha, y el amor, no reconozco más, qué rostro tiene el descontrol.

El otro día estábamos  'jugando seriamente' en la cama, y él que me incita al trance y rápidamente a encerrarme vencida en el disfrute de su cuerpo con el mío, me dio una bofetada. Yo a él, el día anterior, ya le había hecho lo mismo y otras cosas que duelen. Sin embargo segundos después de pegarme en la cara, y aún enredados y sin parar, me mira con extrema dulzura y me dice, no quiero volver a pegarte nunca más.

Le sonrío.

Es de noche. Llueve incesantemente, tomamos ron, nos besamos y le muestro unas medias para usar con liguero que había comprado esa tarde, me las pongo, voy a la habitación y vuelvo con un trajecito de encaje, me pide que me acerque, que me ponga de espaldas y me amarra las manos con una cinta de satín rojo.

Nada se rompe, nada duele, nada se rasga.

Ruleta Rusa

A quien yo llamo ''árabe" le gusta morderme y dejarme marcas, dice, que son un mensaje directo para él, quien parece creer, que ya soy suya.

He tenido suerte, no solo por haber conocido al árabe, que se ha colado fuerte y profundo en mi vida, si no porque no he tenido que mentir para evitarlo a él, mientras mis heridas sanan.

Él, sencillamente ha estado ausente.

Confieso  que esta vez -otra vez (yay)- no fui yo la agresora. Cierto es que no tenía ningún interés en nadie más que no fuera él, ni tan siquiera intenciones, pero es que a mí, sí que la falta de atención, de caricias y de amor, me llevan hasta dónde ellos estén.

Esa noche, una de mis amigas estaba sentada junto al árabe, y casi paso de largo, de no ser porque ella me detuvo y me lo presentó. No pensé nada, ni lo ví. A pesar de que hablamos los tres, permanecí ciega. El árabe no tenía nombre, ni cara, ni cuerpo. No existía.

Justo a ella, le hablé de aquél otro y celebró conmigo ése encuentro certero, dulce.
Yo ya no suelo hablar mucho de mis conquistas breves y fútiles, que son todas. Ya me aburrí de escucharme.

Corrieron las horas y el whisky y mientras me escurría entre desconocidos, y empezaba a bailar con unas jovencitas maravillosas, su mano apareció, tomó la mía y me sacó del corrillo de muchachitas.

Con asombrosa habilidad rodeó mi cintura, me puso contra la pared, pronunció algunas palabras que en mi estado de avanzado alicoramiento desde luego no entendí, pero sí le dije:

'Si te acercas más, te doy un puño.'
'O te muerdo.'

No me interesaba que un toqueteo atrevido y ebrio fuera a parar a los oídos de él, que entre otras, tenía muchas maneras de saberlo gracias al parche putamente endogámico que es Bogotá. Sin embargo el árabe solo me miraba la boca, me seguía hablando con sus ojos pegados a los míos, e interpretó mi sentencia, como una oportunidad de ponerme las manos encima.

Valiente.

Me dejé llevar a su cama. Ya dije de otra forma,  que la falta del otro cuerpo me ponía inquieta, y debo agregar, que no pretendía reemplazarlo, es que nunca sé que hacer con toda esta tromba de palabras y sentimientos que soy, cuando me ven y me quieren así, niña y bestia; o sea, cuando me ven a mí.

3 noches pasamos juntos. Y en una mañana mientras besaba mi espalda, me dijo 'Un día me gustaría llamarte 'amor'. '

Acá te digo, que yo también quisiera.

Apostar

Mi dolor más grande como mujer, es sentirme rechazada en el sexo. Y sé muy bien por qué me pasa. Inmediatamente me remite a los últimos días de la relación con mi ex-esposo y a la causa principal por la que se fue todo a la mierda.

Hay otra cosa, también me imagino los NO, porque estoy tan jodida con esa asociación, que les permito que entren cuando ni se asoman y que me destrocen por noches enteras. Entonces, como esa jugadora que soy, vuelvo a decidir apostar y una vez más estirar mi suerte a ver si ese alguien con el que esté, se aguanta que esta niñita meta en su cama a otros tipos, como excusa para sentir que casi cualquier otro imbécil me encuentra irresistible, que su incapacidad de comprenderme como ese animal sexual que soy, es lo que le impide estar conmigo y que desde luego, el problema, es él: por miedoso, por inmaduro, por idiota y por eso, no puede estar con una mujer como yo.

Sin duda, no soy tan mujer como yo pensaba.

Estando con alguien, he viajado a ver a mis amantes y desde luego, he mentido. La última vez fuí tan cruel que pienso que por fin algo en mí ha cambiado, y que estoy en el camino a la recuperación de este desahucio sentimental al que me he sometido. En los amores, el tiempo racional para mí no existe, no entiendo de años, entiendo de semanas que son eternidades y de noches-días. De manera que yo qué diablos me iba a imaginar que al amante maravilloso con el que fantaseo seguido y hace años, me iba a parecer un desabrido frente al modesto, tímido y otro moribundo del amor, que recién había conocido y que además, me hacía hablar de mis sentimientos hacia él, con tal serenidad y deliciosamente desprevenida, que hasta mi tono de voz, llegó a sorprenderme. Sin embargo, ese arraigado espíritu de arrogancia e inseguridad, me hizo apostar y aposté todo, otra vez.

Durante el viaje, el pobre amante estaba irremediablemente disminuido cuando le confesé, que de pronto, nuestros días juntos iban a ser muy diferentes y que durante las llamadas telefónicas, debía permanecer como una puta tumba. Su seguridad, su actitud de puedo con todo y a tí te agarro como quiera, donde quiera, se evaporó. Ya no sabía de qué hablarme, ni cómo tratarme, ni como dormir conmigo, ni cómo hacerme el amor, ni cómo nada, de todo tenía miedo. Recuerdo mirarlo y decirle: 'hermanito, te voy a acorralar sin piedad hasta que vuelvas a ser ese man, con el que teníamos un trato. Un trato de un fin de semana, de cuatro días, a miles de kilómetros de distancia.'

Sus ojos azulísimos, su cara preciosa, me desesperaba, me molestaban sus besos, sus caricias, que me preguntara cualquier cosa... y el sexo, desde luego ni borracha pude hacer nada.

Eso sí, fiel a la militancia sexual, traté. Fue trágico.

Fuí, volví y me dí cuenta que ahora no, el sexo así,  ese que me desprotege, que me vuelve una aplanadora.

Pero un no se asomó, un no que me imaginé y sigo tentada a apostar porque obviamente me sigue pesando la vida en el cuerpo.

Cancún

Cumplí una nueva fantasía sexual y su ejecución, fue magistral.
Tuve que hacer una escala de cinco horas en Cancún. No bien me bajé del avión quise dirigirme de inmediato al mostrador de la aerolínea para poder deshacerme de mi valija, no sin antes ofuscarme en el camino, tratando de descifrar las confusas señales del aeropuerto.

La dependienta de Avianca me dijo era muy temprano para registrarme en el vuelo, de manera que me fui a buscar un sitio en donde pudiera almorzar algo, tranquilamente. Cuando caminaba buscando una excusa para emputarme otra vez por alguna idiotez, ví que venía caminando un hombre altísimo y muy guapo. Ya eso, me dejó  sonreír. Traía una valija mediana y vestía una camiseta naranja, pantalones cargo color caqui y unos zapatos de trekking.

Un  cazador avezado, identifica en segundos lo que quiere y lo que el instinto le pide; para ello se alista, se pone en posición, sin que se oiga ni siquiera el murmullo de su respiración.

Sin el más mínimo apocamiento me quedé viéndolo desde la distancia, y mientras yo sonreía, pensaba, ¿de dónde será? Tenía pinta de ser un infante de marina gringo y dije, gracias Dios.

Entré al bar, pedí una cerveza y una hamburguesa, mientras las pantallas de televisión se dividían entre noticias de la Fórmula 1 y fútbol, un partido entre Inglaterra y Alemania. Estuve allí cerca de una hora, fui de nuevo al mostrador de la aerolínea dejé mi maleta y me dirigí hacia la puerta de embarque. Una vez pasada la requisa de seguridad, busqué un espacio en el  salón correspondiente a mi vuelo, acá ninguna puerta de embarque estaba separada excepto por números en las paredes. Y allí lo ví, otra vez. Estaba caminando, llevaba un 'backpack' y varias bolsas, como si hubiera estado de compras en los almacenes del aeropuerto. Tras un par de horas, decidí tomarme la última birra antes de abordar, y de nuevo él,  deambulando, como buscando algo.

El bar estaba en medio de las salas, y tenía vista a todas las puertas para embarcarse, así que dónde él estuviera, lo iba a ver. Confieso que levanté la mirada de mi libro más de una vez, para espiarlo y poder adivinar a dónde iba, pero sobre todo, por que me encanta mirar. En una de esas, coincidimos y en ese gesto se resumió  una conversación a distancia. Se sentó diagonal a mí. Le dí tiempo, que viera el menú, que ordenara, que se acomodara. Una vez tenía su margarita en mano, le pregunté en inglés hacia dónde viajaba. Me dijo, voy para Colombia. Y le dije, ah qué bien. Yo igual. A lo que responde, voy por poco tiempo, tengo una escala de cinco horas. Me quedé pensando y le dije que cinco horas en El Dorado iban a ser aburridísimas a esa hora. Llegábamos cerca de las 11 de la noche. 'Todo va a estar cerrado' qué te parece si más bien, dejas las maletas en mi casa y nos vamos a tomar tragos a un bar y luego te devuelves, estoy a 20 minutos del aeropuerto. Lo peor que te puede pasar es que llegues muy borracho a tu próximo vuelo.'

 'Jajajaja, es una magnífica idea'.

En el avión nos sentamos juntos, la silla contigua a la suya, estaba vacía. (vaya, vaya, rompiendo con todas las leyes, nunca se sienta el chico guapo al lado, nunca el chico guapo te habla o le hablas, nunca la silla de al lado está vacía).

Bebimos unas cuatro cervezas en el avión, tomamos un taxi, llegamos a casa, salimos a un bar. En el bar hablamos de su natal Suecia, de su cumpleaños número 40 que había ido a celebrar con amigos a Cancún y de su partida inminente hacia Perú.

Las horas pasaban y yo no podía evitar pensar en morderle la boca, un poquito. Volvimos a casa, parece que la altura bogotana me estaba haciendo un numerito e igual a él. En casa, sentados en el sofá y tras repetidos silencios, me dice, en qué estás pensando ahora, y le dije, en cómo es tener sexo juntos. (porque a decir verdad, yo ya entraba a la hora número seis, en esas)

¿Y, te gustaría probar? responde.

Lo tomo de la mano y subimos las escaleras, se acuesta en la cama, dejo la luz encendida porque ya les dije que me gusta mirar y más, si es lo que me llevo a la boca. Yo lo contemplo y lentamente me acerco. Acaricio los contornos de su cara con solo un dedo, lo miro. Acerco mi cara a la suya y le doy un beso profundo, largo, sentido, sólo así sé besar. Nos entendemos, nos perdemos.

(Una vez más estoy desnuda y él todavía no.
Clásico.
Me parece que ellos me sacan la ropa muy rápido.)

Le quito la camiseta. Él es suave, lechoso, macizo, verlo cómo es, me hace venerarlo a él y saborearme ésta narcosis.

Se me llena de agua la boca.

'Esto jamás me había pasado' 'ni a mí' respondo, no es como que yo me ande levantando a todos los tipos que me gustan en los aeropuertos y me los lleve al hotel ó a casa, que haya querido, es otra cosa. Que hoy me esté pasando, es una conspiración exquisita.

Reconozco en él algo muy familiar, que ya había sentido con un amante sueco que tuve hace años en Nueva York. Es una especie de bestialidad muda, entregada, lenta, dedicada, comparable a un estado de meditación profunda. No hay barreras, ni consciencia, se meten peticiones prohibidas entre susurros, no hay ansiedad, el hambre no gana. Él es una fiera poderosa y es gentil, y minucioso.

Disfruto cada segundo de esta derrota sin sangre, pero en algunos momentos allí, caída, la escritora, la esclava de la cacería y la recién rescatada mujer inocente en mí se pregunta, qué es lo que me induce a este sometimiento: ¿reconozco verdaderamente amor en el otro?, ¿busco armar a un hombre que se me extravió en la geografía y en el tiempo y éste fragmento de la vida, me es suficiente? ¿ó, lo que me envilece son éstos cuerpos y a ellos, me daría entera mil veces?

No tengo la respuesta. Pero si sé que desde hace unos meses, tras la muerte de mi madre, la niña ha vuelto y rescato su sexo, ya no más con dolor. Acá solo hay amor.

De pronto, esa es la única respuesta que necesito.

Beaten

The days that leaded to Prince Mischief downfall, on one of my beloved night outings, I went home with one of these boys that normally, would make my senses explode.  During and after sex, I was still comparing how I did feel with each one of them: why little rascal made me go outside of myself in spite of being the total oppossite of what I like in a man, and why I did not feel much with this gorgeous creature.

People, rest assured that this is me, trying to get a grasp of what is it exactly that I look for, what do I prefer and what I would commit to.

I did not know much about this guy, just that he was on a sabbatical and was traveling around the world. I did know his name as he added me on one of his social networks after our first night together. For some reason I am still trying to figure out,  I have decided with some men, to dispossess them from their names; I do have on my contacts, a list of people identified as If they were gang members: The Chilean, xxx, a.m, Texas, Lux.  Perhaps as they say, If you don't name them, they do not exist.
 I have said many times that in the business of love and sex I am pretty practical. Or so I think.
He did leave the next day, and that was that for me. But having met him made me reflect on the type of men I feel extremely attracted to -and that is exactly what I want- I have seen (and I am absolutely grateful to all of them) that each one of my dudes bring something to me, that helps me complete the puzzle of him. This one was 6'2'' blonde, long wavy hair just right above his shoulders. Blue eyes, scruffy -almost yellow- beard. Thick, red lips. Hoarse, raspy voice just like the voices of these men that articulate directly from the throat. He reminded me of a devoted lover from Sweden who kept calling for 3 years, 2 of them from Sweden, whose phonation, speech pattern and demeanor was very similar.

After a couple of weeks, on a fateful Friday afternoon,  he asked me out. I thought the boy was long gone. Following night we met, and I saw him walking towards me and I just really couldn't do anything else but smile and prepare a sumptuous feast in my head. I was sitting there, all weaponry out. Not in the way you think. What I mean by this, is when I am at my most masculine-feminine killer-lover innocent-fierce 'A' fuckin' game.

We were at the bar and sitting -not side by side- but facing each other, eyes locked. Very close, occasionally grabbing legs, shoulders, backs, whispering, drinking, laughing. It was one of those moments where your surroundings matter very little and you are not interested on how anything or anyone looks. Conversation flowed, sense of humor was spot on, there was nothing odd or out of place.

He kissed me.

Hours later we came to my place, poured -at this time- unnecessary drinks, he started a fire, lit up candles and my favorite incense. I was laying on the sofa, just contemplating the entirety of the scene, he came to me, kissed me, and undressed me. Took me upstairs and we made love before instantly surrendering to what was left of the night. We spent the whole day together, fucking, drinking wine, bathing, watching a downpour of epic proportions, napping. Nothing I recalled from the last time, was similar to this one.  Nor the way I felt, nor the way he felt.
Maybe I did not recall shit. Maybe this was the real deal. Maybe we did open ourselves in a different way.
He was a caring lover, dedicated. A good listener. Very close and intimate. He would lay right below my chest for hours and would never stop caressing me, and it felt natural. He would allow all kinds of love on him and like he said 'sugar, was never enough'.

Boy, these people, I like.

Appetite was easy, but making the meal last what it had to, was not a challenge. This is what happens when you cut deals without knowing, but understanding, how both of you feel best. After all, I do think of everything as the now. Now. Now.

This was everything I wanted. He was leaving the country the next day. He left at night, and he asked me if I was going to miss him.

'Oh, yes. (Every inch of you.)'

I woke up the next day with the sensation of a void in my heart. I felt lonely. Why there isn't the same human being that I wake up next to for days, months, years, and we end up kissing endlessly? Where is this one that will make me share all I am, all I know, all I do, all I regret, all I miss?

I did think: if this is the level of love we can exchange with some people that you just met (yes, this is love, don't kid yourselves)  I can only imagine how great and infinite our love can be. I have had that.
I do long for the depths, twists, turns of a whole discovery of two, and nothing would make me happier than sharing this with the right one for a longer period of time, wherever you are, puzzle man.

I love being in two, my 'nows' are filled with two, but my 'nows' are full of different ones. Perhaps, my ego is so big I need to feel that power of getting yet another conquest. Maybe I cannot bear not being with someone. Perhaps I don't want to be comitted, perhaps this is the way it works for me. For some of you my 'nows' can be distracting. Truth is, I just really want one who fills my 'nows.' And I, will keep looking.

(In the meantime, I will just let these feelings sit until the next best thing, comes along.)

The Mirror

It was months until I finally decided it was time to cut the cord. It was extremely easy and I will get into that in a moment.
Our story was stained from the beginning: I saw in him nothing else than this spoiled kid that was good in bed and that was all. He possessed no other value to me than the fact he and I crafted perfectly sequenced orgasms but I knew from the get go, that I could never fall in love with this guy. I passed sentence to the whole relationship since I pronounced the first 'hello'.
He remained nameless for my friends -even thought they knew I was getting 'some'- therefore there were no stories related to him, no dates, no social events where I would wanted to take him, no feelings he sparked in me, no emotions.

I had a non human friend that made love to me, period.

What was the trigger for me deciding, I had to put an end to the whole thing?
After the boy was M.I.A for a few days I met a gorgeous man, nor was I looking for it, nor did I initiate anything. I was sitting talking to some new friends, and he approached me. His nordic height, hair, accent were an easy sell and boy, when I have these encounters I realize how much I crave the company of these humans that are so astonishing to me. Later that night, we became this convoluted mass of bicolored everything. I would stop just to see how his long hair would look next to mine, when he was under me and our foreheads were brushing each other. We made love many times, we laughed, we had champagne for breakfast and we also played dress up with my fur coats. He would prove my point as he looked better in them.

Sex was indeed pleasant but I couldn't help to compare between the two. Where was this boy that will take me to extremes and made me so hungry for us? Where was the one that while making love, made me feel we have known each other for centuries and with just a glimpse, we shared in silence our fears, our sins, our love, our inner battles. Our loyalties and our honor for both?

I missed him.

Over the weekend we met again with Mr. Mischief but since I saw him, I felt something changed. The night ran its course, with his usual routines of not listening to any conversations, to overcompensating for his lack of purpose and trying so hard, oh God, so hard to make himself useful with new acquantainces but not quite getting there. The run-ins for drugs, the lies, the tricks, the friends that were not for real. The absolute power, given to everything outside himself.

We came home and made love and everything I had for him, was gone.

Days after, I called him and said just exactly that: babe, I just don't feel it anymore...

I didn't want to get into the fact that I was never fully IN. I didn't want to say that I was completely worn off by the fact that I did see a human being with a lot of talent and potential regardless of what I saw our relationship shaping up to be. I saw a man trying to be liked, lost in his own mind, falling for every vice because being numb was always the option, a man for whom the word sobriety was closest to eternal pain, someone that had let his self love slip through his own hands every time the sun went down.

...And I started to despise him.

Maybe he was a mirror I did not want to see anymore, maybe he reminded me of me.



(Peace, bro)

The L Word

Over lunch I distinctively remember saying these words: 'for now I am in the clear, he has not asked me shit... but I know the clock is ticking' In a strange turn of events, the boy that had no option, no future, no nothin' dared to have the conversation, that dreadful talk for many about 'feelings'.

It usually starts with the question, How do you feel about me (us)?  And this time, was no different. I certainly was not expecting it to happen at the time it did, but once we got on that subject -and after I spat my tequila- I knew there was no way around it. But why was I dreading this particular conversation, if in general, I do complaint about the fact that people are not brave enough to talk about it even if it means shit needs to be over? I for one, end things with peculiar demeanor, and often.

The reason is kinda simple: I was going to be blunt and say the words that were the complete opposite of his feelings. So there I was. Eyes on the horizon, breathing in an unsucessful attempt to buy time with each intake, and thinking to myself (let's try  not to be so brutal) So I said: I do enjoy having sex with you, very much...

He did not let me finish, when he asked me,

Do you love me?
Because I love you. And I love you, a lot.

(Fuck)

And then, I felt like those dudes from the movies that give the chick some lame ass answer so they can get laid that night and if they are great at delivering their lines, hopefully many more times. 'Cause once you say I love you, chances are that if the receiving end doesn't replicate, with words and body language, he or she is getting fucked eventually and not in the good way, my friends.

... And I said, I love you too (pause) in a very special way. (oh shit def. not my best performance.)

My 'special' way of loving him was fucking his brains out with full dedication and why not, borderline devotion, because I do adored the way my body received his. With him my petite mort was a sacred, godly place we did build, that we shared in solemn silence and it also was, the most honest moment of us.

Shortly after, he made me wonder if this is the only way I learned to love.

Just Fuck Your Lover

Ladies and gents, the eternal question prevails: Am I falling for my lover?

You and I know that the answer is NO. Is simple: If you would've wanted something serious with him or her you would've open your mouth for something different that wouldn't involve just fellatio.

Let's make this shit personal. I fucked this dude, and from day one, I decided he would only fell in the category of lover. This contract also included the fact that I wouldn't be seen in public with him, nor will meet my friends or will join me on a social gathering of any kind or will I accept any invitations to dinner, hangout during the day, anywhere or go shopping for shit. Why? Well, he was not at all my type -phisically speaking- he was too immature for some things that mattered to me, he was too fucking enthusiastic about a cloud, an accent, the shape of a head, and the likes (a characteristic so annoyingly engrained on this demographic below 30) and frankly this last thing seemed like a waste of precious energy (yawn). It appeared he has no sense of control, selfworth, respect  whatsoever and his surroundings seemed to not include anyone but himself. He could pick a fight just for the fuck of it and he tended to gravitate between maximum euphoria, followed by moments of profound sobbing (perhaps If I enter those last words I may find a diagnosis on WebMd that very likely will result on something like: bipolar, drug addict, psycho, schizo... you catch my drift).


So, outside of the bedroom, no sir. Nada.

But it happened he was just hanging too much at my place oh, 'cause did I mention he also lived with his parents? (lmfao) so nights that will turn into days, he will stay with me, have breakfast with me, lunch with me, get drunk again and will linger for fuckin-ever. Honestly I didn't have the heart to kick him out, but when he talked too much or wanted me to resolve some of his inner sorrows I gladly would've opened the gates of hell. Please for the love of God, just fuck me, fuck me good and shut up. And please, don't overstay your welcome. I already told you, you are my lover.


So, being with this boy made me wonder if I really wanted a relationship or just to keep fucking around. Or If I am really just a terrible cynic that goes around taking bodies and having no mercy with those I see vulnerable. But after thinking about it, I came to the conclusion that it was not 'them' with whom I didn't want to pursue a fulfilling love life as a couple. It was him. Although my body fully enjoyed what and how we did it together,  the truth is that  I did not see myself with someone with those qualities. I didn't and still don't want to teach anyone anything, save his sorry ass from his demons or act as his mom.

Sugar, I didn't and do not wish to raise you, I hope you come to me taking it like a champ, assuming your feelings and fully understanding that this, we both make. So let´s leave role playing, only for sex.

To sum it all up, in case you have any doubts, the only place you should fall in, is on his or her face.

My Reasons to Fuck a Punk

Laura Linney once said to Richard Gere on Primal Fear  "This was a one night stand, that lasted six months" In this case the month mark has not been reached, but still, the point is exactly the same. I have been wondering why is it that I keep opening my door to this trickster, mischief-maker, borderline delinquent, anytime he wants.

I am claiming full responsibility for deciding I wanted to fuck him. I am claiming full responsibility for still keeping him so tight between my legs, and voluntarily deciding I didn't want to let go.
Here is the thing. When I look at him, I see a kid. I hear a teenager and I touch a boy.

I also deserve to be called a liar if I'd dare to say that I didn't taste a man and felt one. And let me tell you how a man taste like for me: it is combination between sugar cane, and night, and cigarretes, and alcohol, and all of that transformed in this delicious elixir that makes me wanna -not drink- but eat everything inside. And I felt him, when in his bedroom assertiveness  he tells me what to do and exactly, how he likes to fuck me. This is the man that can't contain himself when we are together and all the time wants to be inside of me. And... I want him back. That is probably the reason why we end up fucking an average of 9 times in less than 24 hours.

Yes, I count. I count because that shit, is crucial to me.

His endurance matches my appetite. Punks have 'calle' calle makes people gain a certain behavioral quality that makes them eat, fuck and live as if  everything was going to hell in a second.

In the stupor of sex, I have found his wisdom simply precious and I have reached the point where I understand the many tribulations of his soul, which I am almost sure, know by heart. I know how I sound, but examine your own life and tell me that more than once, you have also felt this type of intimacy. He has been condenmed by his lineage and suffers the pain of a privileged life without substance. This motherfucker is a devoted lover, only dedicated to  my orgasms and is a generous partner that also shares his feelings and talks about what no ones does 'cause people are too fucking afraid to admit that yes, you fell in love, if only for a minute. And so fucking what.

You and I have.

Punk has no past and no future. Particularly the latter.

Tinder Dating in Colombia Part 1

Alright. Buckle up.

I started using Tinder the day after I moved to my pad. That very same early mornin' I left my hand play the swiping game. I was bored and hungover. So, WTF.

Up until then, I have heard many horror stories about how escort-looking some girls were, and how short, motorcycle lovin' ('cause that is minus 30 pts if you must know), sun glasses wearing to small   for their faces, guys were.  Well, in my case yes, there were those dudes, a lot of local military folk (I am a big fan as you know, just not in some latitudes) bold dudes at the age of 36 and one that was like: 'hey I am happily married, but let's have fun.' (This dude automatically won 10 pts for honesty)  ... and let's call him Steve. Well, Steve looked handsome, had a good selection of pics, was tall, fit, and he was half Canadian and half  Panamanian.

I'll take that.


I said... jack-fuckin-pot.  Dude gives me a heart and BOOM: It's a match. Dude texts me, dude calls me, we arrange a date and like I said I was moving so I had lots of stuff hanging around and I am not the kind of person who has boxes and paintings laying around forever. So he offered to help me move. I said to myself you know, why not. I can use someone that uses the hammer, the drill etc. etc. FYI I can manage too, very well in fact, but I just didn't want to.

Steve gets home and shit, he is hot. He thought the same as I kinda heard that silent 'Wow' behind the 'Hi'.

He came in, I showed him around, he loved it. We came upstairs and first thing he did was to sit down in my bed and kinda bounced. I was like huh? and also said mentally 'Oh honey I have a rule, nobody gets or sits in my bed wearing street clothes.'  I said nothin' cause in this non context, words and actions can be misinterpreted EASILY. I know what you are all thinking: how can she invite a total stranger into her house, didn't she think he could've been a serial killer or a thief or a hacker (that's what  I thought) or a rapist or ALL of the above? To be quite frank I did think about it, but I thinking process went someting like this: I have a doorman, a friend is coming, my mom will arrive in a few hours.

So, I felt safe.

Within the first 10 m he said 'Boy you are very beautiful'. I said 'thank you' while I kept on sanding a table.
Listen, I am not a jerk but I do get some things about me.

My friend arrived, my mom arrived -this was not the first time I have made first dates with an audience present- and everyone seemed to be getting along pretty well. Everyone had a chance to talk to each other alone and it all went smoothly except that the dude was all hands and arms and everything in front of my mom and my friend, who knew by know that we just met using TINDER for fuck's sakes. I absolutely love touching people, but this one, dunno, I felt cornered, uneasy. Weird.

Later I found him making a very ellaborate coffee, chatting up my mom, doing the dishes cleaning the  kitchen and for a brief second I said, Do I smell bullshit or do I smell bullshit?

My friend left, my mom went to bed and he said, come sit here with me - I gotta say that I didn't have any chairs so the other option was the floor. He didn't approve of the way I was sitting on my hammock so he guided me on  'how to sit'. His way was open legs, mine and his and our crotches kind of locked. Pfff. (I know many tricks in the book, this one made me laugh) but being the cynic I am I was trying to be less of Erik and allowed him to show me his utter most feelings by you know, rubbing our bodies... and this seemed to make him feel right at 'home'. 

We shared life stories and at a moment he seemed pretty moved to the point of tears when I shared the story of the tragic death of my father. Hours into the conversation, he grabbed my legs, he kissed my feet (and he was not being shy about it) and I let him. Then, I stood up to check on my mom and when I was going upstairs he said, I guess I can't sleep over, right? In my head I went -What gave you the hint that you were going to sleep over? Was it my reaction everytime you put your hands on me and I moved away? Was the fact that after moving I forgot to buy soap so I washed only with water and I told you about it? Was the clear sign that I didn't shave my legs and you saw them? Was it the mistake I made of forgetting to wear deodorant and laughing while recounting the facts of the day with you? That had to be it, honey- I was deliciously dirty and sweaty so I could enjoy myself in the fact that I was a magnificent, flawless, divine queen, dame of pleasure, that was dying to share the finest of this human after a long couple of days of wrapping, unwrapping, stocking, organizing, sanding, painting.

Steve, said: Can I see you tomorrow? Believe or not I said yes. 
 

The boyfriend

I have pledged not to be with someone who had a relationship, 'cause really what is the fucking point. But he is in one and I -almost- don't care.

Circumstances can be a bitch sometimes (boy I know about those...) but maybe they are in many cases a blessing in disguise. All I know is that there are some simpler equations: we like what we see, we pursue, we get, we either move on or continue to dig deeper and If you deem OK to use your body as a tool for discovery -like I do-  go for it. My encounters with him from day one have been the most delightful thing for my own pleasure and also from day one, I granted him some sort of trust: I have been able to look at him directly in the eyes when we fuck 'cause I have nothing, nothing to hide, this also happens to me when I get to be so outside of myself with all of my senses absolutely compromised, that truly at this point you can make me promise anything, and I will undoubtedly follow through.

Also, I need to stop right here and tell you -because this is also a time to reflect for me- he is not in any way remotely close to the type of dudes I usually date. He is not over 6'. He doesn't have blue or green eyes. He is not a blonde.
He has very short dark hair, brown eyes and has many scars -both kinds-.
He can be childish, speaks loudly and it is extremely rough around the edges, which totally makes for a good deserved spanking session. He also loves to walk around my apartment fully naked and won't feel ashamed that my huge windows are like a giant screen for my neighbors. He will show up at 4 am in the morning and will bring me fresh flowers and a bottle of anything I asked. When he rings me he talks to me, instead of wanting to close some sort of deal. He is not afraid of leaving me messages,  and can call me 'my love' with an astonishing naturality. He will show me all the joint-smoking tricks that exist in the book and would enjoy it as if he and I were 16.

Sex with him is an adventure that makes my head explode. From the moment my lips and his gets close I can tell there is nothing foreign here, everything just fits. From the moment this indelicate beast puts his fingers between my legs, right then and there I have lost all sense of will and nothing can or will stop the escalation of these intricate sensations that every time turn into a delicious exploration of every corner of us.

I must confess that with him, I am not the agressor no more and I am completely fine with it. I don't feel I want to defeat him or leave him powerless. With no one in a long time, I have felt more fememine, more exalted as a woman, more worshipped and lavished in all I am.


Maybe is the fact that he is only 28 and these dudes are totally somethin' else. Who the fuck knows. 

Savages 2

I only had one day left in Montreal before heading back to New York. To my home and to my boyfriend.

But savage and I had to see each other again. Although everything in me was still very much sore after what we endured, just hours before, I just had to feel all of that weight in me, had to visit the depths of my instinct and decided to actively degrade my body to its lowest level to the point where I had to feel pain, was determined to be teared and torn.

We met at a bar and I couldn't be less interested on the vodka or the place or the music. This shit was NOT a date, this was called: can we just cut the crap and fuck, fuck, fuck? So I had two drinks, talked about whatever, 'cause you know sometimes I am ladylike and it's 'unbecoming' to say: Hi, can we fuck now? (blah)

So I told him. Can we fuck now?


We left and took a cab that took for fucking ever to arrive to his home. His building was O.K. clean outside, didn't look rundown or anything. Now, the entrance was another story. The moment he opened the door it seemed like the inside belonged to a building in the Bronx. Walls with cracks, peeled paint, stained doors and one of those, just missing, right across the hall from his apartment.

He said 'Oh, did I mention that I have roommates?' and I said, no. Then he added 'Oh, ok. Well I do.'
There was a long hallway and some rooms distributed on one side of the place. He took me immediatly to his room, where there was an inflatable mattress on the floor, and dishes, dishes with stuff everywhere. I sat on the mattress and opened my legs as the most direct invitation to me. He kneeled and kissed me and submitted me to the bed. Quickly, desperately and furiously I took his belt off, unzipped his jeans and he just slipped my dress off of me.

Oh God I really couldn't wait for him to be inside of me, that very thought of him just completing me with him, made me insane,
'cause I know how this feels,
'cause I love how this is,
... 'cause I long for this moment of bliss.

Savage was a smart, instictive lover. He really just let go and he just WAS.  But at moments I caught him totally gone and fucking me with wrath and hate. He could have shown me his long rows of teeth wanting to scrape the flesh off of my body.
Right then and there I allowed him continue on his sex voyage, inside of himself and just observed this human leaving it all on me.


Something else happened.

This is a man

1- The one that can't believe you are talking to him but rather takes it slow with poise,  and knows that a smile or a good conversation in a room full of hotter dudes -that have been eye-fucking you- won't mean that you will perform the Kama Sutra on his face the same night.

2- The one that is smart enough to feel, that you may.

3- The one that won't charm you with the expectation of a life you clearly won't be part of, although he once thought this was a killer tactic 'to get in yo' pants mama'

People. it takes a lot to impress me. A huge dick, for example.

4- The one that after you slept with him and shared some big 'Lifetime' moments (yes, the ultra-uber-insanely corny network. Think of Steel Magnolias on a fucking Trazodone binge, and no food) and the same week still will call you with a casual 'whats up girl, what are you doing tonight?' and won't expect that you do a replay or be offended by the fact that you have other plans at somebody else's bed... for example?

This is the same man that the following week, fearlessly, will ask you out again.

5- The one that doesn't call you 'cause in his asshole heart, he knows you are better off without him, BUT will find the way to let you know about it.

6- He whom knows that after that late night you went 'downtown', and both of you are SURE that you are not that into him, but in spite of it will remain courtly and gallant, and also will be this guy who is accepting it with dignity and won't be offended by the fact that you were just horny.

FYI those are the best nights to bump into me.

7- This guy who can embrace his own awkwardness and will have a blast sharing it with you.
8-  The dude that is gracious when you introduce him to the whole city that has been your boyfriend.
9- The one that does not make any decisions for you i.e I am not sure she likes me that much.
10- The one that is sure no matter what, that I am a fucking romantic, loyal, faithful and full of admiration for him, particularly in the mornings while I am being handcuffed.

Savages

I call him savage.
 
... and the reason is very simple: we shared around 10 hours of exquisite raw sex.

Not only I had no hope for this twenty something boy, but this particular time I was not actively searching for anything: sweet or bitter. Or hot. Or heavier. Or rough. (or so I thought) I was just contemplating these new group of humans in a new city, in a new country.

At the bar, middle of August, full summer after dancing all kinds of 90´s classics, we stood in front of each other -all sweaty and agitated- and did not exchange a word until it was time to go somewhere else. Bar lights went on, 'O.K guys time to go home' (its equivalent in French) and the boy  asked me If I wanted to join him for a walk. (Hey, you gotta at least admire he was a bit creative)

 I accepted.


We ended up going to his friend´s place who was out of town. There were pieces of a messy human being, dishes with unfinished cereal, glasses, a half eaten clementine, some bananas a couple of days after their time.  I sat on the part of the couch that had no bags, clothing and papers on it. He offered me some water, followed by some random small talk and then there it was... that recognizable and mute glimpse that clearly says 'I want to fuck your brains out' followed by some silence, and then his 21 year old lips pronounced: 'I wonder how it would be like to kiss you'. To which I replied, getting closer to him and grabbing his chin 'I can help you with that.'

At first he seemed too eager and anxious. It took him exactly 30 seconds to get on top of me. I was immediately reminded of those high school encounters, charged with heavy breathing, clumsiness and desperation and the impending curiosity to feel anything that could mean going further. He lifted me up and took me to the bed (also full of crap). He pulled up my skirt and took  my underwear off and proceeded to lick me. This time he was assertive, slow and had that precise rhythm that this delicate piece of anatomy requires.

Happy Birthday to me.

Hours into the game, and what it must have seemed like days for patient neighbors, the boy wouldn't stop. I didn't want to either, I found a new 6 feet 5 inches lot where I could just do it all. He allowed me to play what I pleased, as he played with me, while we continued the devouring rituals.  We slipped over each other, and from time to time drops of salty, transparent water fell over my cheeks and then it was like a stream that wouldn't end running. I decided to completely surrender to the water, the salt, to the constant dripping almost hurting my face.

I stuck my tongue out so I can only (and intentionally) barely touch his lips.  Words that come to mind now: slower, closer, surprise, push, switch, tease=GAME.

Savage appetite was only fueled by the fact that this body was extremely foreign to him, as his was to me and I must add, while lost in the long swaying, there was a pact of vanishing in both our eyes that concurred: no fear, no future, no past, no intention, no harm.


He was an easy one that would gladly get lost in his body and somebody's but also, It took another encounter for me to learn that Savage, was one very dirty (and scary) boy. VERY.

Enjoying me

Thanks to someone that follows my blog and asked about it yesterday, I thought it was only fair to return his care in the form of some words and for me a way to remind me how much I love filling out this box. If you must know, I have been dealing with packing, giving stuff away, unpacking, tracking and arriving in another country. Then, my mother's illness her doctor´s appointments, her treatment and overall turning my life around. However,  that doesn't mean I have not been enjoying the pleasures of my body.

But let's see where did I leave the last time. After the naked police officer, I came to Colombia and of course I met old lovers. Easy to think that those old flames could somehow be revived and give way to a new story. It should also be known that old patterns from some of them haven't changed and for the love I want to grow, those cannot be there anymore.

New stories can't start with recycled feelings.

I was invited to a party by one of those 'old flames' I must say that I arrived with a guy that was visiting and with whom I had a very short affair. By short I mean one night. Hey, don't judge I also love to visit places and have the option of some 'local love'. So, the one who invited me to this party was surrounded by dudes (I said yumm) and there was one that I set my sights on. I proceeded to toy with the visitor, to occasionally lock eyes with the host, and definitely put on the moves with the new dude. The foreigner decided to retire -not before letting me know how close he'd rather sleep with me that evening- and went back home, safe (and untouched) to his girlfriend. The other two stayed, so I had to make the best of the situation: I wanted the two of them (hahahaha) BUT I knew my friend wouldn't go along with that, so the least I could do, was to play my cards right.

Host and I get pretty hot and heavy at the bar. Host asked me to go home with him. Host and I had one epic body battle in bed.

Next day, I really wanted to see his friend. (and please, and again, save the judgement: I don't have a boyfriend, If you are a dude I am as hungry as you, and I also belong to the party of S.L.G (See, Like, Get) 'cause people in the love quest, time is of essence.

So I wrote to the new dude. Asked him out. He said kinda yes, then hours later, changed his mind. I knew exactly these things: 1) He liked me 2) He is one loyal motherfucker, and I do respect that. 3) If he knew beforehand, after this revelation, he will never be at the same place with me and his friend.

Never.

Friend of the epic battle finds out. Friend got pissed. Friend cannot face me and wouldn't talk to me which I only found out months after getting but silence from him. 

In all honesty, I am not arrogant when it comes to apologizing when I know I am in the wrong. But this is not the case.  If I don't act like I feel I can, I would be completely incoherent. Unfortunately for some 'traitor' is it not a word I use very often to talk about myself.

This is in part my definition of enjoying me (with you).


 

Naked New York's Finest

I joined a dating service called Happn and what it does, is to connect you with people that you've crossed paths with. Let me tell you, the premise sounded super cool to me, 'cause in all honesty I have at least 3 crushes a day with dudes that I find delicious.
(As I am writing this entry there is one sitting in front of me at this coffee shop.)

On my first week of having the app, let's talk of one of those Fridays when I came back home at 2am, with maybe one too many Jameson's on my body, I decided to check out the app and see what up. Well, what was up was this police dude who contacted me and immediately during our 2 minute text exchange, he proceeded to send me the picture that 'adornes' this post. My reaction was -huh?- even though I was drunk I still thought of the following:

1- Is he hot or not
2- Wait. Weren't we just texting for about just 2 min+
3- This is a police man. Police man. Police man. Yum... maybe?
4- Indiscretions like these, are great writing material.

I did reply. with a: Is this you right now? (code for: Perhaps I will be the equivalent of Samantha at FDNY's station... I wouldn't mind...)

He said no. He was on duty and driving on a car patrolling the streets of the very dangerous Upper East Side. Right after, he sent me a dark pic of him while he was working. Didn't like his face very much. He was wearing glasses and seemed a bit off, kinda insecure. Mmmm.

I kept on drinking tequila and we continued our conversation escalating into the very sexual.
I gotta admit I was pushing it, and being really flirtatious because I really wanted to see, how far this will go.

In every sense.

...It was already very late and I started to feel drunk-leepy (yeah, you know, the drunk the falls asleep on the couch 'cause he or she just wanted to the rest the eyes for 5m) He said he was going to take a break.

I fell asleep (I think in the couch) and woke up to see more messages of him pushing me to send him a picture: I. Don't. Do. That. And with the morning light he sent me another pic. still looked not hot, insecure and ... just not my type. I also remembered the naked picture and said: What the fuck was he thinking?

Unlike our Congressmen, Senators, public figures etc. I am somehow careful when it comes to this. God forbid it ends up at a blog like mine.