Baby Blue

 What can I say? What can I do? What does it matter? There was always a value in jumping in. Head first, over heels. Just going for whatever I wanted and needed and craved and valued. It was now or now and never never. It was always now. And now now. I want and I need and I want and I needed this right now. There was never a question. Never a need for a resolution in the moment. I would hear, I'm not stopping until I hear you cum, and never you better cum.  I wonder and wonder and wonder about this, probably from a depth I haven't explored for years, because, why would I? What use is it for someone like me? A person who understands her worth and her value and the depth of the words at their core- and if only good girls cum, then, I am bad. And what do bad girls get, truly? I wonder this sometimes. Do bad girls cum, too? Because I think they do. They do regardless of whether or not you think they should, right? Bad girls cum and good girls do, too. So which is it? Was I always a bad girl, just waiting until you told me so? Or was I always a good girl and the bad girl thoughts I have, are just so bad to ever say out loud? It is a bit of a conundrum. I think this is worth exploring and wondering about, and maybe for you, too? I have struggled with this for so long, it always made me wonder, honestly. 

I remember the red Jetta and the electrical tape forming an "x" over the headlights. I probably still have the image saved. I have it printed, somewhere, I am sure. There was a time, when I thought this was peak. Your blonde curls over your shoulders, a big mess of hair and I wanted it. All of it. I wanted to see it moving around when we fucked. It was never made love because we weren't doing that. We wanted to do that, but we never did, honestly. It was always fucking. And fuck, did we fuck, alright. I took him in like it was a cure to a disease, and boy, was I trying to cure it. I would wake up thinking about him making me cum and I would go to sleep thinking about him making me cum and I would fuck other boys thinking about him making me cum. It was a tragedy. A comedy. Mostly, I think I just didn't know how to process my emotions. My ADHD. Probably, autism, too. I felt like it was something I was missing. I remember the first time, and I know he does, too. We kissed and licked each other's tongues until I felt like I could rub off the skin of our bodies between our clothes. I remember teasing each other until I couldn't stand it anymore. He didn't push it. He didn't pressure me. He just let me grind on him until there was only some fabric between us, then just skin, and then, until there was no lines anymore, it was just sex. I was on top of him until I slipped out a moan and came. He didn't know I was so close and he kissed me and pushed through until he did, too. I got mad at him. I thought he lied about being a virgin. Because, he didn't cum until after I did. I thought that it was a fluke in the system. I have only his word to go off of, but he swore it was his first time. He swore that he only fooled around with his ex. Before this, his ex offered me a ride home. I remember we listened to The Good Burger Soundtrack for the ten minutes or so until she dropped me off. She warned me. She said, be careful. I almost... knew. I almost knew what she meant. But, I played dumb to get more information. I didn't know how to trust my gut back then. I said, innocently, what do you mean? She just looked at me, then back at the road and said, just be careful, with him. I wish I could go back in time and undo it all, but also, I don't. I am glad I experienced it. I am glad that I screamed my head off. And he held my hands up against the garage while I said, Don't, touch me! and please, and leave, and stop, and don't call me anymore when I found out that he had asked someone else to get back together with him and she said no and then he asked me, like I was second place. Like I didn't matter to be asked first. I never wanted to be second place. Like he didn't just demonstrate, at my birthday party, how he liked to fuck me and how I moaned when he was on top and he would lift my ass in the air and I would SCREAM his name. It was a game. It was all a game. I was a second place prize in his game. And his best friend, he giggled and took pointers from him, in my parent's living room, while I wondered why on earth the prom queen came by to wish me a happy birthday, like I had invited her, which I had not. I invited a small group of five guys, which were all there. But my ex boyfriend showed up. And his friend, who made a mixed cd for me and I didn't like him back, not like that, and the prom queen, too. With a strange and awkward arrival. And then? I was in the driveway, screaming, for him to go. To leave. To just fucking leave, because how much more can you embarrass me on my birthday? And I think that it was just an invitation to the rest of our relationship. Because, it simply, did not end there.

There was years of this. Years and years. Off and on and off and on and off and on.... I can't say there are a lot of times in my life that I allowed him back in, but when I did, it was always a fucking nightmare. A disaster. An absolute mistake. I let him fuck me while my best friend threw up on the sheets in the guest room. And then I just forgot about everything. But I had also fucked another ex-boyfriend that week. I wanted him back, but then I remembered everything that came with it, and I realized, I didn't want it anymore. I didn't want him, anymore. He didn't grow, at all. I had. It was strange, looking at him and realizing I had grown so much in just a year, and he was just the same. Same job. Same paycheck to paycheck. Same living with his mom and the dog that bit two of his friends. The dog that liked me, inexplicably. I just didn't know what to do. The same time period when I fucked a friend for pity, because he told me, crying, his dad had cancer, and I didn't even like him that way, but I let him fuck me and somehow I came, and I think it was because I knew there was no future with us, that I was able to just enjoy the moment for what it was, and then I felt bad, because this was also when I found my, now, ex-husband, and fucked him on a porch, that I was told by my coworker, while we were fucking, that it was unsafe to stand on, let alone whatever we were doing, at the time. I didn't cum, then. I think it was that I did like him, and that the co-worker telling me about the porch thing while someone's dick was inside me bit, that was a factor, I'm sure, too. Either way, I let this toxic piece of shit fuck my ass while my friend was puking in the next room, but I didn't know that, at the time. I was a fucking mess. That is abundantly clear. I was a fucking mess and I knew it. I knew I was a mess. I couldn't stop or prevent it, because my toxicity was a fast moving train and I was just walking towards the front, like, yes, this is the direction I should move. Instead of just, oh, I don't know, getting off at the next, fucking, station!?

Once, I called him, crying, and he didn't have a car, inexplicably, the guy with a bunch of Volkswagens suddenly didn't have anything to drive, but he lived with his (step) dad and told me that he jerked off in the same room with his friends and half brother watching porn at his (step) dad's house because this was before porn was readily available on phones and people were looking up dead bodies on the internet, as a group, on rotten.com and before things were allowed to be private without fucking up the home computer with viruses and worms, but, obviously we all did that anyways, and pretended we weren't looking up porn on the home computer when they stopped working. Gee, I have no fucking clue how I could have accidentally downloaded these viruses, whoops. He walked to meet me, I was practically barefoot. It was raining. I think I lost just one flip-flop/shoe and he picked me up. He carried me on his back while I was drunk and crying. I dropped my favorite AC/DC pint glass that I had gotten for myself and one for my best friend. We somehow got in a fight at the "dickyard" (if you know, then you know) and I dropped my glass, or she dropped hers and I gave mine up, or something, I don't even fucking know. There was something with the umbrella, too. I think I left it. Or something? I left, after my friend's birthday celebration and a broken pint glass with "AC/DC" on it and a lost umbrella. And a lost shoe. And I was dating someone, who I was entirely sure was gay (and I think he is dating a man, now) and I felt... out of place. I looked like I crawled out of American Eagle and an episode of The Simple Life and that wasn't me. I was playing a role, as I had often done around that time of my life. I was in a role. A role that I was playing just to get the attention of a boy who never with a capital NEVER thought of me that way. I dated a few boys around that time and I never had a chance, I wasn't popular. I wasn't cute, like that, but I sure did try to be. Either way, it was July, I was in a jean skirt, probably, and a band t-shirt and trying to suck in my gut, that was probably small compared to the one I have now, and I had one shoe, fake blonde hair, probably a bob, and a "chocolate" sliding cell phone in iridescent green that a trans man bought off me later on (what does that even say about my style at the time, I have no idea), and I was being carried by someone who I knew was toxic and he also, did show up to rescue me, which seemed, at the time, like it was a testament to his actual green flags, but no, he was a walking red flag who happened to meet me in hopes of fucking me, which I didn't know was actually a red flag, at the time. I just wanted to be seen. Heard. Fucked. I wanted him to come and do these things to me. And I called him to do it. I let him tuck me in and hug me in bed. I was drunk. Sad. Tired. My feet had blisters. I think he gave me clothes to wear. I had a boyfriend. I still put my butt up against him and he spooned me. He made the tiniest gesture. The hint of desire. I met him. I met him there. I acted like I was asleep. I was wide, fucking, awake. I pressed back up against him. I grinded into him. I subtly let him know I wanted him. I let him slide up my hips and grind against me. Tease me. Until he pushed my underwear aside, and then slipped in. He said, fuck into my ear and I smiled. I let him slip in and eventually, I gave him indication I wanted him. We fucked. We fucked all over the place. The bed was squeaking. Maybe it was a mattress on the floor. That would sound right for him. Either way, I let him take me and I took him and I fucked until I came and he did too. And then. Then, I felt remorse. I was sad I did it. I was sad that I cheated. I was sad that what I wanted, the whole time, was to be told I was not a good girl, that I was naughty, nasty, that I was a bad girl, indeed. And I deserved a little cum from it. I told him I didn't actually know what I was doing, and he apparently, was a little fucked up from that. But, he married a friend of ours, someone I worked with, had a kid with her, and he took on her other son like he was his own and I think he was fine. For awhile. He seemed like he grew up. I thought I did, too.

We texted. I would be in my son's room, wishing I could meet him someplace. He came over to help me fix some things before. He came over and it was bad. It was a bad idea. A bad, bad, idea. Because, even though I thought I was just wearing rolled up cut off jeans into shorts and a band t-shirt, I was somehow very bad and a dirty, dirty girl. A bad girl, who deserved punishment. And at this point, we unintentionally, started a sexting thing that turned into snap chats that were not innocent. At some point, I think we both realized it was not the best way to go. But, I did start to realize that the things about my marriage, at the time, were not okay, because, he wasn't even a trustworthy man, and he was able to see the toxicity for what it was. He always told me that he loved me and we had something special, and I think we did. I think we did "love" each other in some strange way, but not the way that I know I should be loved. We really loved each other. We loved to see each other cum. In depraved situations. That is how it was love. 

We had a love that was purely about the dirtiest secret you can have about sex. The way that I was a secret. A nasty secret. He and I were always about the lust. About the lick. About the suck. About the holes. The filling of holes, and baby, did we have holes to fill with each other. Did we have things to lick? suck? Fuck? Fuck, we did. We had everything to owe to each other in the sense that we could fulfill the void of lust. The luxury of being able to mess up everyone's life around us, including our own, for the pure reward of making each other cum and cum and cum. What a privileged life to lead. To only have the intent to make someone cum in the most unhinged ways possible. To ride and ride, with bruises and pains and a wake of poor girls crying of boys wishing they understood, of everyone in our family's shaking their heads at us in wonderment. While I slid onto his cock and rode him until we screamed each other's names and laid in our own cums and sweat, for the night. The dawn could only bring reality, and the moment was always the goal. The depravity of the evening was the only thing that mattered. The more it wasn't supposed to happen, the more we wanted it from each other. We were in loving, committed relationships, except when we saw each other. Then it was him and me and we wanted skin to skin. The strangest part is that I never wanted him to lick my pussy and he didn't want me to suck his dick, we were purely just fucking. And fuck, we did. All the fucking. We would fuck until he felt raw and I felt used and I would still lick the sweat off him and kiss his outie belly button and he would press his fingers into my thighs and leave marks that would claim me as his for weeks. He sang in a band and I wrote poetry and we were star-crossed lovers, sneaking out in the night to fuck each other until we screamed in pain and ecstasy. Not caring what the consequences would be immediately after. 

I woke up asking to go to work. I wanted tres nachos, and he was confused. Let's make sure we all know that he didn't drink. Or smoke. He was vegan. And straight edge. He was perfectly fine with me getting wasted, as long as I was riding his dick all night. I went to the dollar drink night at the Village and I only remember pieces of it. I heard, over the years, and it's with those tidbits that I pieced together what I know, but really, truly, I only remember a few things. These things, I wish I couldn't remember. I embarrassed myself. Really. Even from the depravity standpoint, it was fucked. I went to the bar with one ex-boyfriend. The one that I also let butt-fuck me the same week I fucked my crying friend, and met my ex-husband. I let two ex-boyfriend's fuck my ass in the same week, so I get if this is a lot to understand, but at the time, it sort of made sense, honestly. I really just wanted to start over. I had kept trying with ex-boyfriends and it was the week of all boy dishes and I still chose the wrong meals. I sampled it all and still didn't get the best dick, EITHER WAY- I started the night at The Village and I know I did some famous dollar shots. I remember telling a friend of my ex-boyfriend that I had a crush on him, which was a THEME around this time period. I would just blurt out things that didn't exactly have meaning, but they did provide shock value, and they did make me look and feel like an asshole without understanding fully what I said or did or the impact that it had on people I cared about, because ADHD is like that. You don't get to just pick what you say. You just fucking say shit and then you're like, oh, that did come out exactly how they think it did. Fuck. Welp, I guess I could just pretend I meant all of it. Or...? Is there any salvaging this? Probably not, oh fuck. Dammit. I have to live with it, I guess. And then, he told me that his girlfriend was right fucking there. He since has passed away and I didn't go to his funeral because of this exact drunken moment when I had about $5 worth of one dollar shots in less than 30 minutes and I never felt like I could take that time back, even when he was alive to hear me out about it. Then, the crowd of people I was with was like, obviously, wtf? and I was also like, wtf? fuck. So I started walking. I was outside, in the city, at night, in mid 2008ish, and I called my other ex-boyfriend. The one that told his friend at my birthday party, everyone really, how he fucks me, by demonstrating, where he was basically doing push ups and talking about lifting my ass, I called that guy, the one that I attempted to punch in the face, and succeeded, after he grabbed my right hand, but I swung with my left, immediately after. He walked to meet me on Queen Street. He lived by the cemetery, then. I didn't know this part of the city, at this time. I actually don't live too far from there now, but at the time, I was living with my mom in one of the richest suburbs and I was scared, honestly. But, I was friendly, for fucks sake, like I couldn't be earlier with people who mattered, but now I was passing scary people who kept asking me for my number and if I was lost and shit, and I was like, yeah, hi, okay, no I don't give out my number. Until this ex met me with some random people he was with. Years later, my one co-worker told me he met me that night and I was so fucking drunk I don't even remember meeting him, which, I think is really a nuance to the story I am telling. I was just so fucking drunk all the time, I had no idea what I was saying, who I was planning to fuck, and who I actually did fuck. Except, I do remember who I fucked for the most part. Because I kept picking ex-boyfriends, for some fucking dumb reason. Either way, I remember he met me halfway and scolded me, Bets.... and he lead me back to his house and I don't even remember much except that his bedroom had a mattress, probably on the floor, and it was between a window that had an angled wall on each side. A lot of old city homes have this in the attic. I was able to put a foot on each side of the wall for leverage, if that helps. I used this to prop myself up and lift my ass to meet him. I think, for whatever reason at the time, I asked him to cum on my face, and he did. Later, he questioned it, but not enough that it was something that made him not like it, more just like, did you want this? Or??? I cannot remember what possessed me at the time. I just remember I used a pillow to clean up and he was like, please, no but at that point, I was a drunk girl he walked home and then fucked, when he was 100% sober, so he was a hero, right? So what was he going to do? I woke up the next morning and asked him to walk me to work so I could get tres nachos and I ate a bunch of beans and nachos and moaned through it, while he went home without me and tried to make another connection with me, but then I was about to meet my ex-husband and start another toxic relationship, so what did I need him for?

The interesting thing about all of this, is that I was absolutely wrecked over the relationship. I lost friendships, boyfriends, potentially healthy relationships, etc. I missed out on taking the SATs properly, going to college, I don't fucking know, lots of things. I was just... fine with all of it. It was a stupid fucking moment in my life, that actually mattered. Where, in Gilmore Girls, I chose Jes, which is obviously, the wrong and worst fucking choice, despite the fact he knew a lot about music and reading and shit, but this guy, that boy that I was fucking with was fucking dumb like Dean, so it was like Dean's smarts and Jes's idiot behavior. It was so fucking dumb of me. 

So.

Why did I do it?

Is it not obvious? 

Well, I will try to explain. I was looking for dopamine. I was craving dopamine. And he had a supply of dopamine. He would let me have some. He would take all mine, either way. As long as I was a naughty girl, and I spread my legs and let him give me all his love and dick and cum and I would accept it as it was meant to be. Like I was his Poison Girl. I followed his dumb ass to hardcore shows, I didn't even like hardcore. We fought all the time. He cheated on me constantly. I somehow ended up dating two boys at the same time, both of which didn't want to commit and I just got to cum and cum and cum. Why? 

I deserved it, duh. I was terrible. A horrible human. A bad girl. And I came and came and came. 

I think that this is what is the most confusing part of it all, because, women aren't taught as girls to just enjoy sex, at least not ones like me. I specifically did not grow up to understand that I was allowed to just ask for what I wanted, sexually, and that I could just get it, even in a healthy relationship. I can just say, please slap my ass today. Not all the time, but today. I was bad and you should probably let me know. With your hand. Slapping my ass. And next week? Take it slow and look me in the eyes and let me watch your pronounced lips through your stubble, even after you just shaved earlier in the day. Tell me you watched my eyes roll back into my head after I slid onto you and it was fucking hot. I'll think about that time and time again. The week after that? Maybe I want you to lick me and let me fuck your face until I scream and my legs go weak. Because, I am all of it. I am good and bad and soft and hard and sweet and kind and mean and nasty and I want to bathe in your cum and swallow every last drop and let it spray me and let me lick it up and tell me I am bad and spank me and then tell me I am a good girl and give me a pin to wear on my lapel so everyone knows I am a Good Girl. I don't want to only exist to make you cum so ask me to be your girlfriend because I deserve to have some stability in this unstable world and let me in all the way and let me see all the freaky things you want to do, too, like a spontaneous cock ring and ask me to pull out a vibrator and I'll blush and be weird about it just like I want you to tell me to be quiet so you can work for hours and be weird and make stim noises and I hate when you don't touch me for hours but then you want to hold me while we fall asleep and you wake me up from snoring in my face and twitching and still I keep falling back to sleep on your shoulder like I never have with anyone before because I want it all and I deserve it all and I don't know what story to tell you today because I can do any story in my head without judgement to cum and I've done them all before, in my head, some out loud, and I've been judged and I can't be vulnerable without a commitment and I can say, that you seem to be the only one that I want to try being kind and gentle with afterward and that's new and good and probably better for everyone, if you actually want it. And maybe it isn't bad and I'm not bad. Or good. Or anything, at all. Maybe I am just a woman with wants and needs that change like the weather and if you want to fuck all the seasons, then I am right here with you, and grateful that you want all the cum I have to give, because I want all yours, too. 

But, don't forget to speak to my heart, because I am not a mind reader and I don't know the answers to half the things I ask you. Maybe just tell me you like me back, too.