Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Real Sex Lives: Girly Jona, A Jerk-Off Description in the Second Person

(You have arrived in the midst of a grand celebration in which we're running IBWMW's all-time greatest Real Sex Lives.)

This is from Girly Jona, an Icelander living in India who is all about "unconventional girl power" (and whose charming pixie quirkiness is doing shamefully little to dispel my now rather entrenched racist stereotype of what all Icelandic women are like.)

I chose this because I like how it shows that, even if your sexual partner is your own hand, you can, as Jona puts it, "either do it quick and dirty — the equivalent of a drunken downtown one-night stand — or you can treat your body to the full romance of a 3rd date."

Here now, please welcome the lovely Jona:

It’s not a matter of jerking off or not; the question is how you plan to do it.

You can either do it quick and dirty — the equivalent of a drunken downtown one-night stand — or you can treat your body to the full romance of a 3rd date.

Because you are both indecisive and an almighty force in your own existence, you create two separate timelines. For the first one, you take your pants off and throw them in the general direction of the laundry hamper. Your panties follow, but because you’re clever enough to make use of the elastic, they slingshot right in.

Next, you unenthusiastically get your laptop and type in something easily accessible. No need to get creative in this timeline, that’s not the name of this game. Something categorized and well-tagged like xnxx.com will do. You’re frustrated so you go for the rough stuff. Cattle prod tag.

You click through a few videos, but eventually you get a notification from your body: it wants to commit.

You know this because the boobs and cocks in this video, although very much like the boobs and cocks in the previous videos, grab your attention.

The video that’s on the screen features a gang-bang. A slave training. And there is a cattle prod. There is also a tied up girl begging for more cock while her dominatrix offers her up to strangers.

You let yourself get wet before you even bother putting your hand to use. You’re sort of halfway stimulated. You’re still missing the second half of that electric combo of wetness and friction. This really is the laziest possible way to jerk off. It’s the equivalent of having your morning coffee while still in bed so you’ll have the energy to get out of it.

Monday, March 30, 2015

Real Sex Lives: "My Wife's Body" by An Anonymous Husband

(You have arrived in the midst of a grand celebration in which we're re-running IBWMW's all-time greatest Real Sex Stories, which I am this very second impulsively re-renaming Real Sex Lives. Better, yes?)

"My Wife's Body" by An Anonymous Husband is one of IBWMW's most passed around, viraly posts. It's been re-posted on sites ranging from mommy chat rooms ("I think I might want to have sex with the lights on. Is something wrong with me!?") to at least one hardcore fetish site that requires a false name, admissions of fetish preferences, etc... just to look at it.

Anyway, if you are needing this in your life today, well, please enjoy it. Because here at In Bed With Married Women, we like to keep our ladies happy.

***
My wife, like millions of women in this world, has a poor body self-image. She hates her body, in fact, and never stops beating herself up over her extra pounds, or her veins, or her wrinkles, or countless other aspects of her form.

It has always been thus. A few years back, I found a photo of her that I’d taken a decade ago, when we were first dating. She looked at it sadly, and said, “I’d give anything to be that thin again.” Stunned, I gave her a wide-eyed stare and replied, “All you did back then was complain about how much you hated how you looked. Just like you do now.” She admitted this was true, and shrugged, knowing that things will probably never change.

I wish, for both our sakes, that things would change. I’ve tried on numerous occasions to get her to see something different when she looks in the mirror, something more in tune with the reality of her body. I’ve begged her to try to see herself through my eyes, or at least to take my word for it when I tell her that she’s gorgeous.

Because she is. My wife is drop-dead, eye-popping, tougue-lolling-out, double-finger-whistling, instant tent-in-the-pants gorgeous. The first time we kissed , I actually got light-headed. When she crawls into bed, naked, I am overwhelmed. Every day, when she gets dressed and undressed, I can’t help but stare, like a schoolboy catching sight of the girl next door through a bedroom window. Sometimes I can’t believe my luck, and wonder how it is that I somehow conned this beautiful, sexy woman into being my wife.

I tell her all this, but my opinion on the matter seems to have little value. Still, it’s the truth: I love my wife’s body. Every fucking square centimeter of it. Even if she never can, I do. And I always will.

So, Wifey, if you are reading this, let me say:

I love your smile, because it is rare, and because it is dazzling. I love the mineral-brown of your eyes, and how they go so perfectly with the deep olive of your mostly-Jewish skin and the sweeping dark of your hair. I love your nose, wry, sarcastic, smart-assed. I love your chin, the ideal size and shape for my cupped hand.

I love your lips, a washed-out watercolor red, stretching so carelessly around some shocking swear word or bit of catty gossip. I love your neck, muscled, serious.

I love your breasts, and how they hang down, heavy and full, when you are on top of me in bed. I love to let them rest weightily on my flattened palms, to press them upwards against your chest as you lower yourself towards mine. I love to grip them around the sides like they are dangling fruit, and stroke them up and down, as if warming them up for play.

I love your pale, round, fleshy ass, and how it looks peeking out from beneath your nightgown. I love the contrast between the white skin and black lace on the few occasions you’ve worn those hot panties I bought you. I love the very topmost end of your ass crack, where the thin line fans out like the delta of a north-flowing river to water the smooth, flat plain of your lower back, which I also love.

I love the perfect slope of the little hill between your legs, and the puffy bush of your pubic hair, where I delight in resting my hand, or my head. I love every fold and crease and line of your cunt, the pinks and peaches and browns and reds, the slick of sweat and moisture, the springy curls of almost-black that tangle and pull and stretch.

I love the wide curve of your belly, especially when I have to look up to see it. I love that smile where the cheek or your ass meets the back of your thigh, and constantly want to tuck my hand in there. I love your legs, not fragile girly stems, but the legs of a real woman who has crouched down behind home plate in a little-league game, hiked the Kalalau Trail in Kauai, and yes, kicked a hole in the bedroom drywall when you were particularly angry with me.

I love the top of your head, which I can so easily kiss, because I’m taller than you. I love your feet, even though you almost never wear the cool shoes and boots I buy you. I love how your soles feel to my tongue, and how you pull away when I do that.

But back to your ass. I love, love, love that ass. It really is amazing.

Your body, wife, is magnificent. I must look at it, and hold it, and touch it, and taste it. I want and need it, because it is beautiful.

And I want you to accept that it is beautiful too.


Your takeaway today:  Your ass is amazing--quite biteable, really.

xoxo
jill

Plz comment, share, like RT and otherwise fill with virtual love. And if you are feeling the pull to share your Real Sex Story, write that motherfucker down and send it on in to: jillhamilton001@gmail.com.

(photo re-doctoring courtesy of said Anonymous Husband, who really is quite amazing.)

Saturday, March 28, 2015

Real Sex Lives, Dusky: The Visit to the London Lover

(You have arrived in the midst of a grand celebration in which we're re-running IBWMW's all-time greatest Real Sex Stories. So get comfortable there and have a look.)

This is part 3 of 3 of Dusky's True Wife's Tale. It's so beautifully written and so well captures the shifting tones and moods of the visit to see her lover in London that I really don't want to muck it up with extraneous commentary. (However, if you'd like to get caught up on Dusky's story, start with:  "I Have Had One Great Love and One Great Lover and They Are Not the Same Man" then "I am Going to See That Old Lover")

So sit back, grab a cup of tea or other U.K.-approved beverage, and let's head to London with Dusky to visit that sexy old flame...

Ah hello...

I've been building myself up to writing to you.  Unfortunately things didn't go so well. :(  However, in the end, it hasn't been all bad.  Like everything else with my trip it seems to be a case of not really getting what I wanted, but in the end getting what I needed.  I find it hard to summarise all my feelings and what happened.  So I've just typed out the full story even though it's rather long! Please feel free to edit and post it should it be of interest.  Perhaps as a cautionary tale!

A few weeks ago was my wedding anniversary.  Hubby and I had a lovely day: we went out for lunch and wine tasting at a beautiful winery, drank more wine at home, and had some nice marital nookie.  I was also in the very strange position of spending some of the day packing for holiday and messaging my lover to arrange our date.  The next day I got on the plane to London.


I arrived in London-town on a Saturday morning.  I messaged the lover on my UK number, letting him know I was in town, and receiving a suitably excited response.  I teased that maybe he'd like to catch up while I was in town?  "Gosh, yes, that would be wonderful" replied the man who was already in the process of booking a hotel room for us for the following night.  Sunday I spent the day at a rather posh luncheon with my uncle, chatting as eloquently as I could manage with the men my uncle & late father rowed with at university.  When I got a spare moment I messaged the lover to say how proud he would be of my good-girl act... he responded "if only your polite company knew what was going to happen to you later tonight."  I was SO excited thinking about exactly what would be happening to me that night.  After lunch I was shaking with anticipation as I prepared for my date... putting on my best perfume, applying the make-up I so rarely wear, slipping the lingerie chosen for his tastes onto my recently de-fuzzed body (normally more bear-like in the quantity of hair), and my most striking and flattering dress.  I looked good and felt great.  He was running late from work, but I didn't mind... he was keeping me updated, and I spent the time having a pre-date date with London, wandering around Westminster, admiring Big Ben and the local attractions in the most beautiful summer evening light imaginable.  My lover rang me to arrange the exact spot to pick me up and I heard his soft, posh, sexy voice for the first time in years.  At last he arrived... and from there I have to say my fantasy went downhill.


He looked good, and seemed pleased to see me.  He teased me about the tattoo on my hand and asked after my family... we checked in at the hotel and then went out to dinner.  In the hotel room he said it was good to see me and kissed me.  It was a good kiss, slightly awkward but sensual.  We could well have gone to bed there and then but we were both determined to have a date to build up the tension.  But maybe we should have stayed in.  If I were to do it again it would be just a private, quiet night in a nice room (not a bland little one with no view and barely more than a bed), with a good bottle of wine and some beautiful music and many hours to talk deeply and passionately before eventually making it to bed.  In any case, we went out.  He took my hand as we walked and told me about his work.  I'm a lot older than the starry eyed little thing that fell for this older man a decade ago, and I was surprised at how much he brags about himself.  I suppose he always did, it's just that it used to impress me rather than bore me.  Over dinner we chatted quite mundanely, just general catch-up type things, about work and home life.  We talked about our partners a lot which I'd planned to avoid but found myself doing.  Neither of us got jealous, but it certainly didn't add to the romance of the evening.  We didn't really flirt or seduce one another at all.  We walked back to the hotel in the same manner and then we were there, just stuck in the little hotel room and its bed.  I sat on the bed and he put the telly on, stripped down to his underwear and joined me.  Intimate as spouses.  Ridiculous.  I'm sure he hoped for a positive reaction to his body, but I was waiting for a compliment myself and some attempt at seduction!  In the end we made a few jokes about the movie on the screen, and then I turned onto my stomach so that I was looking up at him and we started making out.  I got turned on by his touch instantly, and so we continued.  He told me in his posh accent that I have "magnificent tits", and we were soon naked. 


Friday, March 27, 2015

Real Sex Lives: Dusky, "I am going to see that old lover." (pt. 2 of 3)

(You have arrived in the midst of a grand celebration in which we're re-running IBWMW's all-time greatest Real Sex Stories. So get comfortable there and have a look.)

This is a True Wife's Tale update on Dusky. In her original entry ("I Have Had One Love Great Love and One Great Lover, and They Are Not the Same Man"), Dusky eloquently and honestly described the frustration of loving her husband but having little sexual connection with him. Yes, the sex was friendly and loving enough, but she was looking for smoldering and intense.

Instead of just jettisoning her sexual energy and figuring that this was what "mature love" was or something, she began a torrid email correspondence with Great Lover From the Past. The two exchanged sexy photos and deliciously detailed descriptions about exactly how they would like to wreck each other's bodies.

And, because she wants to live her life openly and authentically, she told her husband about the whole thing.

Several weeks later, I received an email from Dusky.

In just under 3 weeks (eep!) I am flying to London.  It is going to be a little 'me' holiday before hubby and I start trying for our first baby.  I will be catching up with friends and family, but also, I am going to see that old lover.

We will go on a date, and most likely it will lead to sex. He has a girlfriend who has no idea what a cheating bastard he is, so it will all be pretty sordid and clandestine.  It upsets me that I am being open and he is lying, but I will take what I can get.  It feels a little pathetic and anti-feminist, but this man is just too important to me to say no to him.

I now define myself as poly-amorous.  I have acknowledged to close friends, to my lover and to myself that this is not just about sex.  I have a relationship with my London lover, and indeed, we love each other.  We also love our partners.  To me it all makes sense and works.  My husband doesn't like that I have a relationship with this man... he wouldn't mind me just shagging someone else, but the love involved is a problem for him.  But at the same time, he has come to understand that I feel a need for this other person in my life, and he has found his way of meeting my needs.  Our basic arrangement is that he knows I contact this man and will most likely be sleeping with him on my holiday, but he doesn't want to hear about it.  We both have full permission for sex with other people, we just have to avoid it interfering with our life together.


I feel very lucky.  I have a wonderful husband, a wonderful lover, plus some very special and completely understanding friends to talk to about it all.


Anywho, that's where I'm at. Let me know if you'd like a post-London update.


Dusky

Well, I don't know about the rest of y'all, but I completely wanted a post-London update.

So, if you're down with it, too...coming tomorrow (dun-dun-DAH)...Dusky meets The Lover

*Real Sex Stories are an occasional feature of In Bed With Married Women--the idea being when someone (originally it was just wives, but really, it can be anyone) tells the truth about their sex life (or lack thereof), we all Learn and Grow, and can thus scamper unfettered out into the world to have smarter, better--I don't know--somehow truer sex. This also means that as fun as it is to mock and or judge someone else's choices, don't be a judgey asswipe in the comments.

Want to share your story? It's easy!  Just rip your soul out and email me the tattered remains.

xoxo
jill

(Photo via LaContessa)

Thursday, March 26, 2015

Real Sex Lives: Dusky, "I have had one great love and one great lover, and they are not the same man."

I chose this to illustrate the concept of having two balls in
the air.  However, not quite sure why model has made a
couch fort of those (exceptionally stylish!) throw pillows. 
(You have arrived in the midst of a grand celebration in which we're re-running IBWMW's all-time greatest Real Sex Stories. So get comfortable there and have a look.)

Real Sex Lives, nee True Wife's Tales, are an occasional feature of In Bed With Married Women. ("Occasional," as Webster defines it, "whenever I am too fucking lazy to write a new post and/or someone happens to send one in.")

The idea behind them is that when someone (originally it was just wives, but really, it can be anyone) tells the truth about their sex life (or lack thereof), we all Learn and Grow, and can thus scamper unfettered out into the world to have freer, better--I don't know--somehow truer sex.

At the very least, RSTs allow you to indulge in the lower pleasures of Voyeurism and/or Judging.* So enjoy.

We are starting with one of my very favorites, a three-parter, from Dusky, a woman who I love so much we've become virtual friends even though she lives far, far away.

xoxo
jill

*Judge all you want, but keep that $%$# to yourself, please. These are real people being brave and 'fessing up.


Dusky, early 30s.

     Jill, thank you for your blog, it is a great read… and also a great comfort to read different experiences of love & sex. 
     I feel I live with a secret pain... I get a pang of hurt every time it is suggested that great sex & great love go hand in hand.  I feel surrounded by the idea that naturally the greatest sex of your life will be with the love of your life. The implication being that sex is a litmus test of the true inner feelings of two people, that if you really loved one another, the sex would be spectacular.
     I have had one great love and one great lover, and they are not the same man.
     My husband and I had a very romantic story, falling head-over-heels in love almost instantly and moving in together in less than two weeks. We stayed up all night talking, talking, talking… and by day we spent hours on end just sitting, gazing at one another and sighing. In between the talking and the gazing, we did manage some sex too. I don't remember if it was great sex then, it was just part of celebrating our enraptured love, taking our physical closeness and affection to the extreme.
     Since the 'in love' phase of our relationship has faded, we are still a ludicrously happy couple. We are best friends, and true partners. I never thought I would want to live with someone full-time, but having found the right person to live with my life is a constant joy, full of love, affection, fun & laughter. Friends and family consider us soul-mates, strangers can see how compatible we are. And everyone assumes our public physical affection is a sign of the great sex we must be having at home.
     The reality is sex has always been the less satisfying aspect of our relationship, particularly for me. After 5 years of trying to train my well-meaning husband to please me, I have pretty much given up.  We have agreed to an open marriage as I feel it is the only chance to get the satisfaction I crave. We continue to have fun, loving sex within our marriage, but now I can look outside for the intense, smouldering, sensual passion that I have missed.
     I have reignited communication with a man from my past. We never lost contact, but until recently we only shared rare & friendly messages. Now we are all the way back to regular, completely sexual communication: describing in detail what we want to do to one another, even sharing porographic photographs of ourselves.  For now it is a little thrill, in the hope that we will make it a reality someday (we live in different countries). I am sure he is not the only man who can satisfy me physically, but he happens to be the one I have experienced who can. The sex with this man was well beyond any other sex I have had. I've always enjoyed sex, I tend to be quite uninhibited, but this man knew how to really blow my mind. Sometimes I am overcome with vivid memories of that sex and I just ache to experience it again.  For some reason we felt an instant physical attraction to one another, and somehow that translated to an intense physical chemistry and sexual compatibility.
     I believe I have two mates in this life, one that meets all my mental and emotional needs, another who meets my physical needs. And generally, my little arrangement which allows me both makes me very happy. But sometimes I am very sad that they are not the same person, that the man I love can't really experience this sensual side of me. It is hard to have sex conversations (and I do love sex conversations!) with anyone other than people I know VERY well. People probably think I'm being prudish when I fail to join in their talk of sexy times with their partners, when I am just hiding the truth that the spectacular sex I would like to be talking about was with someone else entirely.
     An old friend told me a story years ago, before I met my husband. She said a friend had a most wonderful partner, they all adored him and thought she was the luckiest girl on earth to have snagged such a kind, beautiful person. They couldn't understand why she wasn't sure about the relationship. Then one day she confided in them - he was bad in bed. My friend said they reacted as though she'd said he had cancer - they just felt so sorry for her.
     Well my husband isn't entirely useless in bed, but I know how that woman felt. When you're with a wonderful man who is bad in bed, everyone else sees this perfect relationship on the outside, and don't how much it hurts to hide the frustration you feel on the inside.


Would you like to tell your own story? Just sit down at the computer, rip your heart out, and jot the results down in an email and send it to:  jillhamilton001@gmail.com

(photo source)

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Sex, Laid Out Right There For Everyone To See

I'm digging the debauchery of this one
Hey loveys. Starting, eh, maybe today or tomorrow, I'm gonna to be re-running some of my favorite Real Sex Stories (nee True Wife's Tales.) If you refer to your notes, you'll recall that these are reader-told stories about what really happens in their sex lives. It's not designed to get you off, particularly, but just to share the huge-ass variety of what can and does encompass a sex life, or lack thereof. The truth is Good, I say, and being brave and telling it really does set us free. 

Having written highly person stuff myself, I can say that it is extremely fucking cathartic to get that $%$# written down and out of you. So if you feel called to do so, rip your own sensitive little heart out and write your story down. Whatever it is. It's all just life and we can deal, yes? Send it to me at jillhamilton001@gmail.com, then go forth unfettered.

In the meantime, here's some stuff I've been writing elsewhere while simultaneously beating back one motherfucker of a dark depressive spell. I *think* I've tamped it down, and I'm cautiously stepping forth back into the world, blinking at how bright and lovely it all is.  Anyway, have a look if you'd like--and comment, tweet, like and/or share because that's how they judge how "good" they are:

--Why (Straight) Dudes Aren't  Using Sex Toys. Yet in AlterNet. (Featuring smart and thoughtful wanking commentary from some articulate sex-toy usin' IBWMW readers. Thanks!)

--I Tried Cosmo's Scrunchie-on-the-Penis Sex Tip for Cosmo.

For the latter, I'm not sure if I'm being a total whore because I am indeed having sex for money. Or that I have the best job ever because I am being paid for sex. In my mind, it really could go either way. If it's the whore thing, I'm gonna to upgrade myself to "courtesan," at least, and consider myself the elite expensive kind that only few may experience.

We'll see if that works.

xoxo
jill

PS Think if you want to write something!

(photo via Lady Cheeky, as is my custom)

Wednesday, March 4, 2015

Drought

I haven't had sex in a really really long time. If I were to calculate the exact length of time for you, my eyes would well up with tears, and none of us wants that. (They might anyway, 'cause that's what's going down these days. Don't say I didn't warn you.)

I hadn't even had sex with my damn self, which is weird, because I'm a pretty easy lay. My life situation right now is such that people are pretty much always around me, none of whom want to see or hear me sprawled in my bed, wantonly having my way with myself.

But the other day I decided I should probably have a damn orgasm--for health reasons, if nothing else. I locked the bathroom door and started drawing a bath. I slid down to the spigot end of the tub to angle myself so the water stream could go where I needed it to go.

I don't know if you've ever had sex with a water stream but if you're a woman, it's kind of a sure thing. Usually this would have been a two-minute and out kind of deal. But for some reason, it took just... so long. Perhaps it was because I was slippery and kept sliding away from the water that was supposed to be fucking me. Or perhaps it was that I had become so divorced from my passion that I actually was doing this "for health reasons." 

I finally came for no other reason than I was determined, which, for the record, is quite low on the list of arousing thoughts. I don't remember if it was even good or not. It was just something I needed to have happen that did. Check.

The next day, I woke up and my legs were completely sore. Probably taking a long walk in flip-flops, I thought. Note to self: wear more supportive shoes. For health reasons.

Later I realized, Crap, it was the bath fuck. I had been clenching my legs so desperately, for so long, trying to have that lame-ass orgasm, that I, like, hurt myself.

For the next few days, my sore legs reminded me of several things, none of them horribly pleasant:
1.  I had sex with water.
2.  I had unsatisfying sex with water.
3. Though I consider myself to be in fine shape (Mighty fine! How it is that am I sex-less?) if there were ever a situation in which I had to do some sort of under-spigot competitive clenching, I would not end up on the winner's podium.
but worst,
4. During one of California's worst droughts in history, I had wasted water.

I'd like it think it wasn't entirely wasted. But if you want to report me, here's the web site for the Long Beach Water Department. There you can find several categories of water wasting such as "watering (with potable water) on a day other than Monday, Thursday or Sunday." I'll leave it up to you to figure out my specific violation.

xoxox
jill

(photo source)

Real Sex Story: Abigail, "I'm the girl he fucks."

"I love your site, love your writing, love the theme, love it," writes Abigail, in a single sentence guaranteeing that I'd be running her Real Sex Story. "My friends, (and strangers probably too) are tired I'm sure of hearing me prattle endlessly on about how absurd it is that we live in a culture of people that bow down and worship at the alter of romantic love because often, the other kinds, fuck buddies and mistresses and even friendships that aren't remotely erotic are just as solid, and maybe even more relevant. But you don't see anyone making movies about that. And then I found you."

The thing I like about these is that they give you a chance for hop inside someone else's head and just sort of roam around (careful, don't touch any important brain parts). For that reason, I'm running this completely unedited. Well, that and general laziness.

Also, other housekeeping blog news:  some fuckhead hijacked the "If you liked this story, try this" link thing at the bottom of the posts, linking them to his own stuff (so jerky!) so that's gone for a bit as I figure out how to fix it. Also, a couple people said they had some problems leaving comments, others said they did not. If you are having trouble, let me know in the other comment form in right column or write to me at jillhamilton001@gmail.com.

And finally, my story on Smart, Arty Porn Sites is on Salon and was the #1 most read on AlterNet. Probably 'cause people thought it was porn, but fuck, they clicked, they count.

Here, then, if you have remained awake, Abigail:

I'm the girl that he fucks. Her delivery was deadpan and I imagine her to be in that moment to be beautiful, sitting cross legged and naked. One of those long limb-ed, blank eyed girls displaying equal parts shyly and proudly hipbones sharpened on some eerie combination of youth and food avoidance. Hair tangled, sticking to the sweat and the cum that glistens lightly on a collarbone that was bitten and not kissed. She seeks something more of the earth than of the sky from my sometimes lover, my heart friend. This I know with a certainly that has no foundation for logic but is true nonetheless. A misnomer that word, that 'my' for he isn't mine, but I haven't found, and not for lack of effort a phrase existing within this language to indicate knowledge of another without linguistic ownership. Irritating. He isn't mine, this soul match to mine. I sometimes suspect that he belongs not even to himself but to some lilting Irish tune piped out by an Appalachian mountain dwelling hermit grieving for the womb like embrace of union wages and his long dead wife. He retreats often from this world, and from me, my sometimes not mine loverfriend. Though he lately seems less puppeted by the marionette strings of whatever it is that he belongs to that isn't himself or another. I've never minded the absences, though I'm glad that his mountain piper plays less. He is and was always wildest in the late night early morning, that faded blur between night and day: drunk and sober. A state that he seeks, drawn by that Irish mountain song that no one can remember the words to, that song that only belongs in the grey green blue of a never sober mountain morning. I sometimes but not tonight tell him that I love him. He sometimes but not tonight says the same. Always clumsily, both of us, exchanging that meaningless meaningful word that weighs entirely too much and not enough and it passes between us awkwardly and at random. I'm the girl that he fucks. She tells me this deadpan.
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