SEX TOY – AN EROTIC LOVE STORY IN FOUR PARTS (PARTS 3 & 4)

January 17, 2010

Part 3

Sex Toy is my lover.  Sex Toy is his name, a sort of demotion from L, which is the name on his birth certificate and by which I’d called him until learning, some weeks ago, that my L was in fact a sex addict — I mean Sex Addict, the real deal, the whole megillah — which means that, far from being “my” L, he was pretty much free-for-the-asking-just-stand-in-line L.

I’ve seen Sex Toy since the day I found out, but I wasn’t ready to talk about the big day, the day L was outed as Sex Toy.  So here goes.  This sucks the big one.  In a bad way.

How did I “find out?”  I’m pretty sharp.  You can’t get much past me.  It took only about a year for me to began to realize that L’s 6,000 provocatively posed photographs, many not even bothering to show L’s face — a usual feature of personal photos. in addition to the masturbatory videos which were charming renditions of L’s hand and L’s penis, with a glimpse of stomach and testicle — and, at the end, an eye-popping stream of white creamy stuff which in sheer volume seemed to have a life of its own – it took only about a year to begin to realize that this wealth of images of L’s nether regions and gallons of creamy white stuff might be a sign that there was something going on that I probably should know about.  The thing is,  L shared this with me; nothing was hidden; nothing was secret. Well, at least among these things, nothing was secret.

But there was a secret.  L himself.
 

Oy.  Wait.

So I asked L straight out: “Are you a sex addict?”  The fucker said: “Yes, I am.”  Open, disarming.  Well, fuck you, you fucking fucker.  (I am less calm and disarming than he at the best of times, which this was so not.)

I read up on sex addiction and I found the most stringent, diseased, dysfunctional description of sex addiction I could find, presented it to L and asked him, unpleasantly:  ” Is this what you are?”

He accepted the document·  Not too much time went by before L — who had become the most annoying man on the planet — returned to me the document I’d given to him.  That lying creep had calmly and precisely annotated the clinical text, indicating which of the elements of the disease applied to him and which did not.  Most of them did — I noticed that the two which he repudiated had to do with acts of violence.  I allowed a smug: “Well, look what he disavows!  What a surprise!”

At this point, L is calm, open, breezy and comfortable with life.

At this point, I am a steaming runaway train, hatred and disgust overpowering even the blood in my bloodstream.

I will make it short now, so we can get to the fucking, which is why you are here, right?  So while I’ve got your attention, I’ve gone in for a little talk therapy.  So sue me.

I make a quick decision, which is that I have to buy time because I can’t make a quick decision.

“Get the fuck out.”  Forceful.  Passionate.  Dignified.  Eyes flashing.

“Shall I come back later, this evening?”  Calm, poised, gentle.  Yech!

“Eight.”  There goes forceful, passionate, dignified.  Also departed: eyes flashing, since I’m now crying, and my eyes are gooey wet. Oh, charming.

It is 3pm.  I’ve got five hours to make A Plan.

If you’ve read other stories I wrote about L, you pretty much know what my plan turned out to be, so here’s the short form:

Since addicts are liars, unreliable manipulators, untrustworthy confidants, disloyal associates, the best thing is not to have them in your life.  If the situation exists that for some reason you find yourself having, for any reason, to retain an addict in your life, you must dehumanize dehumanize dehumanize. 

From now on, I will refer to L as Sex Toy.  I will not discuss personal matters, nor will I set up future plans, make promises or demonstrate effection.  The same rules bind Sex Toy.  I can at least try to make L as miserable as I.  Benefit:  I won’t have to wonder if every word out of his mouth is a lie if no words are coming out of his mouth.


I will tell L that I’m keeping him around for the phenomenal sex until a non-addict truth-teller signs on.  This is the story I tell myself, too.  Myself, however, knows that the deal is a tad more complicated than that.

 Eight pm.  L is prompt.  Always.  Infuriating.  He doesn’t know the new rules yet, so he has brought me grilled root veggies from a vegan place I love (I’m a vegan – L is a vegan when he is with me, but maybe he won’t be, with the new rules.)


We aren’t hungry.  For food.  But I move away from L and it isn’t difficult for me to remain cold while I give “instructions” because I’ve had hours to become cold with fury.

L, now Sex Toy, is placid as he unquestioningly accepts every stipulation.  I had hoped that he would cry.  But I had known that he would not.

I want him so badly that I am trembling.  I despise myself for this.  But there it is.  Sex Toy (ST, okay?) is hard as a rock -– his jeans bulge –- and his arms have gooseflesh.  I want to call him L, not Sex Toy, and, for this night only, I will.

The space between us vanishes and we are pressed as tightly against each other and kissing as deeply as it possible to kiss without our cells’ merging into a single being.

What is wrong with us?  Me, anyway.  I should want him to be at a million miles’ distance.  And just look at me.  Sheesh.

L and I just can’t separate even long enough to undress –- we simply cannot pull apart.  We have turned into veritable magnets.  I am coming unglued but I am turning into a magnet.
 

After a decade or so, L and I pull apart enough to one-handedly tear off stuff which puddles on the floor.  We help one another so there are essentially two hands for every task.

Eventually, we are naked.  L is wearing socks.  I bought these socks for him.  They are Mickey Mouse socks and he has underpants to match.  My lover is so virile and hot that in these Mickey Mouse duds he is simply the cutest most fuckable man on the planet.  I swear.


We make it to bed in a New York Minute, which is a lot shorter than sixty seconds, which if you have been to New York City you know.

There is nothing tender and premeditated going on here.  It is all rough and tumble.  Two people who are going to do what needs to be done to come as hard as possible.  Any which way.


So we fall onto the bed and we go right past subtle.  I place my hand on L’s head and push it downwards. “Now.”  L understands immediately.  Before descending, he takes the bottle of lube from the nightstand.

When L gives head (do you say that for a man?), he’s a take-no-prisoners kind of guy.  L’s tongue is strong and tireless. (Is there a gym for sex addicts or is sex addiction itself a do-it-yourself gym?  A need-to-know thing which I do not need to know.)  He laps fervently from asshole through clit until I am squirming in frustration.  It is fantastic/awful.


Now, L is everywhere at once.  Here is what I believe is happening:  A magically lubed finger which I guess is L’s left pinky is up my ass, fucking it slowly and gently.  What I take to be L’s left thumb is stroking between my asshole and my labia.  The fingers of L’s right hand open my engorged clit to his mouth and now he does this special thing that I feel sorry for every woman in the world who has not had this thing happen to her, except if she had it happen with L –- which is pretty likely –- in which case I want her off of the planet.
 

So here’s L’s clit thing.  He kisses it.  Actually embraces it with his mouth and kisses it with his tongue and all exactly as if it were a mouth kiss.  He does it gently, teasingly, erotically, slowly, deeply, quickly, dancingly and, when he’s ready to allow me to orgasm, firmly and strongly.  It doesn’t do to beg.  Oh, I beg, because it arouses us.  But I will come precisely when L decides that it is time.  Yes, he is that good.


The orgasm spills over me like molten metal.  My cunt spasms.  It is wonderful.  But not the shattering, full-body explosions which are yet to come.  I don’t have to wait long.  While I am still engorged, tender and throbbing, L exits briefly and quickly to thoroughly clean both hands (his scrupulous cleanliness and thorough consideration of me are two of his sexiest qualities).  Then he is back and copiously lubing his fingers.  We have not been talking.  The new sex-toy status, the new rules, the new constraints have affected us, and we have given over the night to sex without companionability or chattiness.  For me, it is painful.  For L, I have no idea.  I certainly hope that he is profoundly miserable.


L approaches me.  I open my legs wider.  He lies beside me.  We have not kissed since coming to bed.  He kisses me now.  I remain somewhat passive to his kiss –- it feels right, and, sure enough, it excites us.  L’s strokes my labia and slowly inserts fingers into my cunt, finger-fucking me and stroking the sensitive and aching walls of my cunt.  He passes over the g-spot, I gasp, but L moves on, ignoring my: “L, please?” spoken through the kiss into his mouth.


L strokes, presses, teases –- the whole circumference of my cunt which by now is so sensitive to his touch that each stroke draws a sob –- only stopping to graze, but not settle on, my g-spot, so that I can feel an orgasm building but can’t get there.


L moves upwards, still stroking, touching, caressing, patting.  He has left the neighborhood of the g-spot and is now agitating and exciting the upper walls of my cunt. I can actually feel the throb of my need, which is so intense that it feels like a series of small, painful spasms.  My cunt is fairly begging, crying out, screaming for release.

Only L’s middle finger is in me by now and he has reached base camp for my deep spot.  He is giving the surrounding region the same treatment he gave the rest of my cunt.  By now, I am nearly delirious. The point I love/hate.  Beyond pleasure.  Only need.

L approaches and lightly taps my deep spot.  I cry out.  But then he withdraws his fingers, covers me with his body, lifts my legs to his shoulders and proceeds to fuck me so hard and fast that I grab and hold on to his shoulders.


I am still alive to tell the tale.


This is the big one.  Here’s the deal.  Let me tell you so you can try this at home:

L has thoroughly, patiently, gently, lovingly (there’s that word), expertly “prepared” me – brought me, and my cunt, to the highest possible state of arousal. My g-spot and deep-spot are good to go.


Then he covers me with his body and I can see his face – his eyes – and he replaces his fingers with his actual cock, like which there is nothing else for fucking.  When L’s cock meets the walls of my vagina and my g-spot and my deep spot, well, the word “cataclysm” springs to mind before the word “orgasm.” I scream –- I flat-out scream.  (It sounds hoarse and scratchy and flat to my ears, but later L tells me I screamed “to wake the dead.”  Charming.)  I ejaculate –- profusely — I can feel it ooze between L and me, and I spasm and shudder and twitch and spasm some more. L keeps right on fucking me throughout my prolonged “orgasm”-cum-earthquake –- he does not stop until it is finished, and I sag limply and mutter: “No more. I can’t…”  (He does not come.  He expects more – and he will get it.) Only then does he excuse himself – he actually says “Excuse me,” the fucker –- to go take a shower –- for me, to be fresh and sweet for me. (If you think that this is the description of The Perfect Man, let me remind you:  “sex addict.”)

L’s shower is my nap time.  I will shower with him after his…turn.

L returns to bed all fresh and clean and smelling of my melon and cucumber soap.  His penis is limp, but not despondent.

I sit at the edge of the bed and take his divine cock in my mouth.  I love to feel it grow large and hard in my mouth – it’s like a magic trick:  put it in water and watch it grow to three times the size in thirty seconds or less!  Amazing real-life phenomenon!

When the real-life phenomenon has occurred, I pull L onto the bed.  From now on, he will do as I say.  He will come when I say he can come.  Yes, I am that good.

L’s ears are exquisitely responsive to my mouth, my tongue and my breath.  Licking, nibbling, suctioning a vacuum, breathing, moaning into first L’s right and then his left ear leaves him hot enough to urge me downward, but I’m not finished with the upper body.  L’s nipples – as sensitive as mine – are erect and taught: I cannot possibly ignore them. I take a handful of my trusty lube, which turns nipple play orgasmic, and go to work on L’s nipples.  Nothing outlandish: the usual stoke, light pinch, friction – you know the drill – but L’s eyes roll back into his head.  This man is hot.  Did my heart good to see it.  I almost giggled.


It won’t take much to make L come –- and I am glad, because my monster orgasm is catching up to me and I am suddenly exhausted.  I give myself a few minutes to relax by latching onto and sucking his balls.  Two benefits: L adores this; I get a rest.
During this time, I do nothing else.  I close my eyes. L is really into it –- has no idea that I’m having a doze.


“Hey,”  wakes me.  I have fallen asleep with L’s testicles in my mouth.  When he realizes, he laughs and strokes my hair. He is fundamentally such a good man. (Sex addict.  Sex addict.  Sex addict.  Sex addict.)

I decide to make him come hard and fast:  my mind is already in the sweet, comforting shower and then back in bed.  But my heart is wholly in making this man as wildly, desperately hot as he has made me.


I put pillows under L’s hips and separate his legs. I watch his face.  I know that in a moment it will be distorted in ecstasy, anguish, need and orgasm.

I lube my hands –- and I mean heavily. I insert my left index finger into L’s rectum and finger-fuck him lightly. With my lubed right hand, I lightly slap his balls and then begin to work his cock, base to tip, lightly, then firmly –- up, then back down –- slowly, then faster –- up, around and over the glans.

Simultaneously, my left index finger finds, strokes, pats and teases L’s prostate and my right hand works his rock-hard cock hard and fast and unhesitatingly base to tip, and back.

L’s back arches, his head thrown back as far as he can go, and he roars.  No words, just a huge sound which issues from his soul and seems to reverberate for hours –- which I will think I hear for days.

Sometimes I take L in my mouth as he comes: it gives him pleasure, it saves on cleanup and is low in calories (5-7 calories per teaspoon).

This time, I was stunned by the sudden force of L’s orgasm and I was overtired.  We tidied up, took a slow, sweet, fragrant, steamy shower and came back to bed to a sweet sleep (Sex addict.  Sex addict.  Sex addict.  Sex addict.  I dare never forget.  What on earth am I going to do?)


Part 4

My lover does it like no other man on the planet.  In the Milky Way, probably.  He is, flat-out, super-fuck.

 What makes it worse is that I love him.  Right down deep from where my soul is hiding out spreading out to the ends of the nerves which populate my epidermis.

 What’s so bad about this is not that I am suffering the pangs of unrequited love, or anything gothic like that, because my love gives every appearance of loving me, too. 

 If you’ve been keeping up with my stories where I’ve been pouring my heart out about my travails with my lover, then you know what the problem is.

 My love, L, is a sex addict.  Self-admitted.  After I sussed it out and confronted him.  After over a year together.  

 Why have I continued to “see” L in the 40-ish days since he confirmed his condition?

 In no special order ; Confusion.  Inertia.  Denial.  Hope.  Fear.  Love.  Sexual need.  Terror.  Insecurity.  Sloth.  Anxiety.  Dread.

Oh, I took steps to assuage the damage to my self-esteem (this was HIS condition, right, so why did it feel as if it somehow reflected on ME?  I knew that it did not, but I felt as if it did.  What the fuck was up with that?  Self-immolation, anyone?)

What were the steps I took?  I forsook “L” and took to calling him “Sex Toy,” in an effort to dehumanize him (I hated it more than he –- he thought it was funny).  Taking as my premise that the only reliable attribute of an addict is never telling the truth, I forbade Sex Toy to talk to me about anything except the moment we were in –- no tales of the office or his day, no promises, no commitments, no future plans –- nothing that could be “broken” or turn out to be a lie.

It didn’t really assuage anything.  It simply highlighted my misery.

The sex was –- the words out of this world, spectacular, explosive get close to describing it.  I hate to be a bore about this, but my stories about L and me really did go into this in a lot of detail, so it’s all out there. ( I really recommend reading them because you can even learn stuff because L and I are really good at this stuff.)

But the thing of it was that underlying it was always this dread, this fear, this sense of loss of safety.  Knockout sex with an underlay of pain.

L was coping better than I.  Was he a selfish, unfeeling, psychotic, sadistic fuck? Maybe he was, but that’s not what was going on now.

After all, he had known all along what was going on here.  The surprise was mine alone.  He had had time to prepare himself for whatever I might throw his way.  I was so disoriented that it actually took me a month to see that there was a vast difference in our preparedness. 

So, yes, I continued to “see” L.  I continued to “see” L’s entire body right down to the hairs which remained unshaven on his balls and down to the very opening of his asshole.  Yes, I did.

And L continued to see the same things on me.  Well, not the hairs on my balls, but you get my drift.

I had sex with Sex Toy –- I’m going to go back to calling him L any minute now –- about twenty times since I “found out.”  Twenty times in thirty-something days.  Normal for us.  Which shows you just how deep my denial ran.  Scary, right?  It wasn’t always sex –- sometimes L dropped in to say hi, but mostly we fucked because we just had to.

I told you about three times we fucked.  When you’ve heard about three, you’ve heard about thirty-three.  But I’m going to tell you about one more.  The final fuck.

I can hear you:  He’ll be back.  Just wait.  Yada, yada, yada.

Well, let me tell you about the Final Fuck as I need to call it.

This time, only I –- and not he –- knew what was coming.  This was a singularly minor — and very bitter — triumph.

Final Fuck was on a Saturday. Sex Toy –- I’m back to calling him L –- arrived at 8-ish.    We never sit down for a meal.  We nosh.  He brought some grilled portobello mushrooms and grilled sunchokes from a gourmet Italian place (I’m a vegan and L eats vegan when he’s with me –- I have no idea what he eats when we’re apart) –- I’ve always got a fridge full of interesting stuff to graze.  That’s what we do:  we graze off of the food and each other.

So, L arrived on Final Fuck night, but, as I’ve said, only I knew what night it was. As I put out the food, I thought:  Neener neener neener.  It was a mournful little neener neener neener.

I put the food on the counter which is a partition between the kitchen and the living room: dishes of olives, grilled veggies, hummous, eggplant salad, sesame paste, salad, pickled veggies, pita, plates, mugs, napkins.  L made Turkish coffee with cardamom.  We grazed and cuddled and cuddled and grazed and belched.

We hadn’t not eaten very much before cuddling became the main activity.  

I became aware that I was naked.  Not a big deal, since all I’d had on were sweat shorts, panties and a tank top –- and scuffs, which I was still wearing.  My three articles of clothing were on the large kitchen table in the middle of my kitchen. L’s work, clearly, since I’d have thrown them on the floor.  And I’d have remembered shedding them.  Maybe.

L got naked around this time and put his clothes somewhere –- maybe he tossed them over the divider onto the living room couch.  He bent me over the kitchen table, brandished the bottle of lube (huh?), which he used liberally, and penetrated and deep-fucked my ass while I held on to the edge of the table.  He reached around my pelvis, spread my legs, possessed my clit, which he teased and stroked with his right hand, until I moaned with a need that was painful. 

With his left hand, L stroked my labia until I begged him to finger-fuck me. Only when he was ready did he insert his fingers and began to caress the walls of my cunt. When my hips began to fuck his hands, he began to caress my clit and finger-fuck me regularly, firmly, calling me his bitch.  Oh, please, make me come, make me come. You’ll come when I say you can, bitch.  Always deep fucking my ass, slowly, steadily, background music, in time with my thrusting hips.

And then when I couldn’t stand any more his hands, his incredible hands, gave me an orgasm that made me throw back my head and cry out — just a wave of sound — and then, as I convulsed and spasmed and thrust and his hands kept working throughout, from deep in my throat: oh, god, oh, L.

When he knew that I had finished he didn’t let me rest.  He seized my hips and he plunged his cock — which had all this time been fucking my ass lightly and gently — hard and fast. His balls pressed my ass cheeks. Out and in again. He was fucking to come now. 

He didn’t care if he split me in two. He was so hot he was moaning and grunting. I had to hold on hard to the table. He pounded me. He was nothing but his need to come. I didn’t exist.  He trembled with need.  His entire body shook.  

And then he got there.  He reached the edge of his cliff and he went over.  The roar that came from his as he exploded was savage and frightening.  He came and he came and he came.  Then he sagged and draped himself over me and we both sagged wearily over the kitchen table.  We nearly dozed.  It was some minutes before we could drag ourselves to the shower and then to bed where, all clean and fragrant, we fell asleep naked pressed into one another.

And I hadn’t said a word.

We woke several hours later, ravenous.  We fell on the food, room temperature now, but still delicious to our hungry selves.  L made more coffee and I steeled myself to talk.

But how to open?  “By the way, remember the matter of your sex addiction?”  “I was just giving some thought to your sex addiction.”  “I’ve been thinking about this whole sex-addiction thing…”  “What are your thoughts on the sex-addiction situation?”  “Are you going to see a psychiatrist?”  “Are you fucking other women?”  “How many?”  “Who?”

Oy.

“L, I’ve been doing some serious thinking…”  Oh, yay, me.  Strong opening.

L was facing away from me, making coffee.  He didn’t turn around.  But he heard something in my tone.  He got still.  He didn’t turn, he just stopped moving, his hands resting on the counter.  When I began to speak, he flinched slightly, as if he were expecting a blow.

It all came out:  This is not verbatim but it captures the spirit of incoherence, fear, stress, incomprehension, relief, misery, pain, regret, guilt, confusion, ignorance.

“I’m not a psychiatrist..I don’t fully understand…I can’t handle the doubts and uncertainties and lack of trust.  I know that this is not a matter of fault and blame but I understand that I am powerless over it and that all I can do is to take care of myself and leave you to take care of yourself and so that it is what I am going to do and I love you but I am going to let go of you because your condition hurts me.”

When I stopped talking, L still had not turned to face me.

When he turned around, he looked as if he had aged ten years.

I wanted to go to the movies and come home to find him gone.  It was about 4 am Sunday.  L had belongings all over my apartment.  Shit and doubleshit.  We looked wretchedly at one another.  Neener neener neener was gone.  I knew that I’d donned the same additional ten years.  Two haggard, weary, bereft, lost, confused, sick people.  

“I have never cheated on you.” His voice, unexpected, fell into the silence like an explosion.  “It was a struggle because my sickness wanted conquests.”

Shit.

I wanted to tell him to stay.  That we would make it work.  I knew that I had to let him go.  That we could not make it work –- that it was a disease and that it would control us before we would control it.

I got into sweats and took the Sunday Times first to the twenty-four-hour coffee shop and then to Starbucks.  I dressed and left in a daze.  L was in a daze, too.  I asked him how much time he would need.  I guessed three or four trips would get everything down to his car –- anyway, it wasn’t my problem.  I knew it would hurt later.  Thank god, I was numb right then.  L said two hours.  I figured more like four.  My local Starbucks has a lovely clean bathroom, so that’s okay, and the vegan bakery opens at 8.

So off I went.  Caffeine-bound, bad news tucked under my arm, more bad news back in my apartment.

I spent about 5 to 9 am that Sunday morning reading the Times, drinking coffee, eating vegan ginger-apricot scones, peeing, talking to friends and their dogs.  When I got home, L was gone.

Sex Toy was gone, taking his sex addiction with him.

He is in his own hands.

I am free of the disease of sex addiction.

I am free.

Everything beckons.  Come with me.

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