Weekend confessions of Abby N. Flicker

So after the monster hangover last week and all that entailed… panic attacks, self loathing, and of course… parent resenting… I jumped right back on the horse, the noble stallion called alcohol abuse… I wasn’t GOING to drink, but I spent the beginning of the weekend arranging everything for Italy this week, so I can go back and ship my stuff over (well, I booked a return flight…)

Then, due not to being an international billy-no-mates but rather just a series of plans coincidentally misfiring… I wound up on Friday night with nothing to do and nowhere to go.

I used to have a few friends near my mum’s house, but most of them have either migrated to the capital city or even left the country itself. I have one remaining friend in the area…. but he’s someone I really shouldn’t….

You see, and I don’t want to sound like, full of myself here or anything, but this guy was my best friend for a couple of years, and let me tell you, my milkshake brought him to the yard. If that’s not a euphemism for giving him oral or something, but rather just means he likes the cut of my jib, and if we take jib to mean hot pants. I mean, he likes me, I friend-zoned him, but I didn’t even have the decency to be consistent about it.

In fairness we only ever met because of this really hot guy I was pretending to be ok with casually fucking when I was 16. Hot guy came to my house one time when my friend was staying over and brought his buddy along… we got on great, discovered we were neighbours, and the rest was… a messy drunken friendship. We used to spend hours watching Seinfeld and smoking joints and drinking masses of cheap wine and cheap cider and whatever we could scrounge from my parents. He was always in my house, he would just pop in and stay until ridiculous o’clock, he ate dinner with my family, or depending on what was on the menu, he’d go home, feed and maybe even bathe and then head back over to mine for the rest of the night.

He always outstayed his welcome but I liked having him around most of the time… He was easy to talk to, funny… it was fun. I was mean to him. I bullied him and when he pissed me off I’d say “get the fuck out of my house, Steve.” And Steve would look at me nervously and go “ha” and I’d fix him with my bitchiest look and say “no, I’m serious… get the FUCK out of my house.” Anyway we drank a lot together… we drank bottle after bottle of wine and then I’d be horny and lonely and he’d muster dutch courage and violate the vague line I’d set out, that he was not supposed to cross. He’d kiss me suddenly, with his whole body, urging me… and you know, I have a high sex drive and a desperate, easily flattered ego.

When someone pounces like that, with every nerve and sinew… strongly driven by desire of me, it is VERY HARD NOT TO GET INTO IT. And in my defence, I mostly tried not to, I mostly pushed him away in disgust and told him to go home… but it did, of course, turn me on, this huge attraction he would so often spring on me. But then A LOT of things turn me on… and I liked him, I really cared about him as a friend. I had a lot of respect for him, despite how mean I was. I was only mean because I didn’t want to encourage his feelings, but obviously that’s like trying to put out a fire with vodka.

I was totally naive, I clung stubbornly to my idea of our friendship, him as a kind of gay friend accessory, and I refused to accept his feelings as valid or serious. We hung out every single day… I missed him desperately when he wasn’t around but really, honestly I just wanted to be friends. I only wanted to fuck him in the sense that I want to fuck every man…. So many times I forgot, or stopped caring, or toyed with him on purpose, exaggerating my behaviour… letting him catch a glimpse of underwear… just because I was bored…

We both drank far too much. He gazed at me needily, my friend said. He looked at me with begging in his eyes… He LOVES you she said. I just thought it was such an affront to me, this love… There’s nothing more unattractive, more misshapen and creepy, than unwanted love… I wanted us to be best friends. I wanted to talk to him about everything… but I didn’t want to respect his feelings, because they ruined everything. But I knew it was me, I fed it too… I was too aware of my own guilt, that I sometimes flirted with him but pretended it was just him reading into things… I’d “accidentally” let him catch a flash of underwear… I’d get drunk and snuggle up to him, for my own gratification.. I was pretty much a horrible selfish uncaring dick. However, he could keep trying, because aware as I was of my own fault, I didn’t get angry when I pushed him away, and when I lost control and let him kiss me, with a passion I don’t think anyone has ever had for me… all over my face, neck, chest… smothering me with desperate kisses…  I would say no, no, no… I don’t want to ruin everything… because I just wanted to know, yes, I still had him… but I was never angry or weird the next day, because I couldn’t blame him for something he did drunk… and we didn’t talk to it, and I told myself he just tried because he was drunk, and it wasn’t a big deal….

We eventually came to the end, we had a huge falling out. He started spreading rumours about me, I think, or else he said his friends said I was an annoying bitch, and I was heartbroken anyway, and I called him to talk it out like adults but brought a raw egg in my pocket when I met him on the street between our two houses.

I asked him again, what did he say? He called me a bitch, and I knew he was right, I was a total bitch, so I hated him with all my heart and an eerie grin crept across my face, not the expression I wanted to show right then but it stretched out against my will as I delivered what I thought would be a crushing, cool as fuck, one liner… and brought the egg down on his head. Now that I think back, I realise how fucking stupid it all was. He stood there and said, yeah, you ARE a bitch. You’re a fucking bitch Abby. I’m glad I said that, you’re a fucking bitch, you always were a fucking bitch.

And I laughed at him because there was egg dripping down his head and I said yeah fuck you too, and I ran home and cried in my bedroom and wished I hadn’t done anything and hated him and hated myself and wondered why I thought the egg thing would be cool or funny and wished I could rewind it all. We didn’t see each other again for ages, and then we made up at some point but we weren’t best friends any more, we each had our own separate friends and I wasn’t sure where our friendship stood at all. I apologised for being a horrible bitch… I don’t remember the conversation but I apologised for all my awful behaviour.

Then about a year ago when I was in the first most sluttish throes of my separation, we crossed glasses again… after a few years total radio silence. We sat, we drank, we talked candidly… I recounted my sorrows and he shared about his ex… he told me, she was jealous of me, despite the fact that I only saw him once or twice while they were together, because I lived in Italy. He must have talked about me a lot… he said, one time I invited him over and he arrived and I was trying on some leather clothing. I didn’t remember this, but he said it drove him crazy… I was wearing some leather outfit and he said I looked incredibly sexy… he couldn’t stop thinking about it… and his girlfriend went ballistic because he told her he had gone to visit me. So I sat and listened and cringed and remembered how much of a selfish cock… how mean I was with my so called best friend’s feelings.  He clearly liked me a lot. And what the fuck did I do? I invited him over to watch me try on leather outfits? I don’t even remember the occasion properly but I know myself and I was of course doing it on purpose. I promised myself not to toy with a man like that again. What an egotistical bitch…..

Anyway that night we drank a bottle of his parents whiskey and sat on the carpet to smoke out the window. We wound up holding each other… in perfect honesty it didn’t occur to me that it was a prelude to sex or kissing, I was just drunk and sad and lonely and heartbroken and drunk. He stroked him hair and held me in his arms and I felt my sadness booming deep down… but also strangely calm, at peace. I have my friend back… lovely… I thought dreamily as he stroked, stroked, stroked my hair, and my jawline… I would have been happy to stay like that, to fall asleep in the arms of someone who cared, just for this once…. but it shifted, then we were aligned differently and our mouths met. There’s something about kissing someone when you are on the verge of tears… it’s oddly passionate. We kissed and I saw us moving in his desired direction… it had been so long, I no longer held the control like before. Times had changed, he wasn’t some inexperienced boy any more, hoping for a shot with the girl almost next door… He was holding me to him, he wasn’t asking me to allow him… and while I wondered if it was what I wanted, or if it was a bad idea, or if I even wanted him to stop… he lifted me up, his mouth locked to mine, and carried me in his arms into his bedroom. I was dumbfounded. A few years have passed, of course…. he’s… well, It was terribly passionate, sweaty… hot… he surprised me…. There was only one condom and it broke or was filled quickly or something happened, but we managed to find other ways to completely negate whatever friendship we had. I lay on my back and he stood over me, looking down on me… “have you any idea how sexy you look right now?”

Mmmm… that’s what I like. I like to hear that, very very much. I happened to be wearing matching underwear that day, for no particular reason… He pounced on me, with 6 or 7 years of experience and distance from how it used to be…

I snuck out of there in the morning and back home… my mum at the door going to work… I told her I fell asleep on his couch, pissed… I don’t know what she believed, but I slept like a baby… it took 12 hours or so for me to stop desiring my friend… I cooked up schemes in my head, to get us privacy… I wanted to feel those eyes on me again, lustful, admiring… he surprised me in bed… I was impressed. I guess a lot of it was, how much he wanted to fuck me… and to be honest I was always curious too…

Anyway I know I’m a silly girl but I wound up the next night, having a repeat… in my house this time, and again without condoms. We fucked for a short while anyway… just to see what it was like… of course… and he sighed in my ear “I love you” to which I didn’t reply but I held onto his back tightly as the sadness and reality seeped into the moment. I realised I was doing a bad thing again, and I stopped, and I remembered where there were condoms but I didn’t say. I tried to leave and he kept pulling me back and forcefully kissing me, holding my neck… making me stay… and little sparks jolted me from within…. man, I wanted to straddle him right there… but I reclaimed my dominance as he gripped my neck just a bit too tight and I told him “look, there’s a fine line between your forcefulness being a complete turn on and being actually scary. You’re starting to cross it…”

He let go of me with a flicker of recognition, look who’s back, it’s Abby- the- Bitch. He saw the moment was over, the chance had passed, I wouldn’t be his like that again… not unless, maybe, a lot of drinking…. who knows.  That was the end of that. My mother asked me, isn’t Steve coming over again? And I said no, he was annoying me…. I wonder what she thinks of my friendship… maybe she just presumes I fucked him all along. I can’t tell how much of my bullshit my mother believed in my teens… and bullshit, if it goes unchecked… well, you really never know how good a liar you are unless people call you out for lying.

Anyway… This little story was just because, I wanted you to know about my friend Steve… and after last time, I said no… it’s just not fair of me to go using him for friendship and randy drunken antics when he clearly wants and will continue to want something more. The thing about the male-female relationship is, for me anyway, if a man likes me, he’s gonna like me a real lot… I’m like Marmite, baby. I have a polarising effect on men. And if he likes me, like, likes me, then the slimmest, dimmest chance of my becoming his… even for a moment… is totally worth risking or destroying the friendship. He’s got better friends than me, he’s got funner friends than me, and he can talk to them too, in a way he can’t talk to me. I’m just the selfish cunt who used to lounge on the couch, resting my feet on his lap, mischievously aware of what might be going on underneath my restless tootsies… and whine and moan about how there are no men around, and how much I wanted to meet a hot guy… I mean, I fucked a lot of his friends. But that was after all, how we met.

So on Friday when I had nothing to do and nowhere to go, I trampled the little voice of reason telling me to leave the poor bastard in peace, and I said no, I just want to see my friend… and I texted him sup, homeslice? Are you around? He immediately said he was in the area and would call in… He probably ran to my house. He was pretty sweaty… So we watched some comedy shows… ate takeaway with my parents… hung out… it was nice. I had a few glasses of wine, he no longer drinks at all. Coincidentally, he quit drinking the day after our last… reunion. I have a strange niggling feeling about that… honestly I don’t know how to take it.

But Friday night, he’s sitting there beside me, he doesn’t keep my eye contact and it’s a little unnerving…. But I was beginning to nurse the idea of just fucking him a little tiny bit, just to like, get it out of my system… like a noble sort of friendship thing… hmmm… when my stepdad burst in, home from the pub, with three of his oldest, drunkest friends over from California for the weekend. My teetotal pal Steve took this as his cue to leave… goodnight… my stepdad met him in the hall and told him regally, he was always welcome… to pop in… even if I’m not there, he’s welcome… he’s one of the family… thank you, thanks… good night… I  followed Steve out to the hall and wondered would I give him a hug and be a bitch, do some sort of lingering, confusing squeeze, or let him feel my breath hot on his neck… but he gave me a quick smile and we waved at each other from a metre away… and he left, thank fuck, before I could do anything stupid.

I joined the drunken middle-aged folks for a little while. They had a bottle of 18-year-old Jameson which went down a treat… beautiful stuff. Let me tell you, it won’t be easy-going back to the normal cheap shit after tasting that. My… that was a lovely tipple. I was witty and soberer than everyone so I said a few great one liners and then retired to bed, perfect showmanship… I started to write a post about how much I wanted to fuck my friend, but I let it simmer for the night, and when I woke up it was just horny rantings with terrible spellings. I know, I know, my best posts, right? Well whatever.. I woke up disgusted with myself and infinitely grateful that nothing had happened. For someone who is really not interested, I am giving totally the wrong impression. It’s not my fault I’m incurably horny, but there’s no excuse for me toying with someone over and over again… I like to tell myself “he’s a grown up, he can look after himself” but I’m a woman, I have my wiley ways… how is he supposed to resist my tipsy flirtations?

I was in bed by 6 anyway, pondering delicious dirtyness with my neighbour while resolving to leave him alone and stop this madness.

Then the next night, I stayed in with my mum… enjoyed feeling good, and normal… ate cheese, watched episodes of the IT crowd. Realised that as my body returned to its normal levels of hormones and serotonin and whatever it is, I was more able to cope with my mother talking to me.. I was nice to her, I bit my tongue… avoided argument… and we had a nice time, laughing… just getting along well. I could see that for every bit of truly annoying mother rhetoric that stresses me out, there is at least one or two nice, friendly things she says that I am flipping out about by proxy. I’m sorry, mother. I will be nice…

Later on, the drunken revellers landed again, but this time they brought company, a lot of company. A party descended on the house, and my mother and I rolled our eyes, finished our wine, and knowing we could never beat them or get any sleep next door… joined the cider and beer-swillers.

Had a lot of fun… it was a middle-aged party but they were mad, bad middle-aged people with pills and uppers and downers and all kinds of pharmaceuticals… the energy in the house was lively and off the wall. I didn’t take anything, I mean I may party with my folks sometimes but I wouldn’t take drugs with them. There are certain things my parents don’t need to see, and my eyes rolling around in my head as I share my most intimate secrets with the world is not one of them.

One of my old teachers was there… he actually didn’t teach my class, but he worked in my school for a bit. I knew him as Mr Lyons, and I saw him at a party when I was 17 and he still worked in that school… I remember being silly and flirtatious just to creep him out, and calling him “Mr Lyons!” all the time. So on Saturday night he was there and I saw him and bellowed “MR LYONS!” and he shook his head, Jaysus… you again…

He tried to get me to call him by his first name, but I refused to even learn it… I called him MR LYONS all night, giggling to myself, feeling like a naughty temptress although I’m well past having a Lolita effect on men… I used to get a great kick out of being young and making men uncomfortable. But at this stage, the schoolgirl thing… I probably can’t pull it off any more, but I still had a wild one-sided laugh with myself. I thought it was hilarious, randomly interrupting Mr Lyons when he tried to have normal conversation with me, exclaiming loudly “SORRY MR LYONS BUT I DONT THINK ITS APPROPRIATE ME CALLING YOU SIR, I’m sorry but I just don’t want to call you SIR!” and he was like… oh shut up… stop that.. as people looked around with raised eyebrows, and I was massively entertained by my cleverness and mischief. Eventually he left, I like to think I just made him too uncomfortable when I started sitting up on the kitchen counter (I wasn’t getting enough attention) but it’s entirely likely he just left because it was ridiculous o’ clock and daytime and most people left around then anyway.

My mother went to bed around 8 or 9 am and the only other woman went home with her husband a little later. She was a patronising 40 something year old who kept bursting into loud and incorrect singing of the music that was playing…so when she left, I was the only woman left, and came into my own, queen of the castle, the prettiest girl in the room, yay! And I positively blossomed under the male admiration, even though, yes, of course, these were some very, very drunk and high middle-aged men. But fuck it, an ego massage is an ego massage.

I walked on their backs… don’t know why or who initiated it, I’ve never walked on a back before. One of the men walked on my back… it made me laugh hysterically the first time, and I think he really enjoyed that so he kept taking me aside, whispering, as if it was a dirty little secret… and asking to do it again, and then he did it again and I felt obliged to laugh the same way as before, for some reason. I got high on walking on those mens backs… it was glorious fun. I felt dominant, mwahahahah… wonderful stuff.

We smoked joints all night… for some reason we were doing blow backs. I haven’t done a blow back in years, but I know that by hanging out with me for the night, I had swept these geezers up with my youthful energy and they were feeling all bold and young for the evening… also, drugs… One of the men kept trying to whisper to the other… but missed the entire point of the enterprise, ie, the volume reduction and stealth… and I heard him yell-hiss “I’m SO attracted right now… I’ve never been so attracted to anyone in my life… she’s incredible…” now this was said by a guy in his late 40s on ecstasy… but my ego accepts all major currencies. It counts, motherfucker, it counts.

I swelled up with pride at my achievement. I feel like I won “best female in show” at an event where no other females showed up. STILL COUNTS!

They all have wives. They all started the night singing the praises of these wives, talking about the importance and wonderfulness of these wives… towards the end, towards the midday point… they seemed to have forgotten the wives a little. One admitted to having a sort of open marriage… where the wife winds up fucking 20 year olds and he… doesn’t seem as capable of taking advantage of the arrangement. I find this fascinating, but oh… the dwindling drinks, the starting to pick up opened beers, slopping them, checking for liquid… knocking back anything… I opened the fridge, saw there was no booze left, checked the cupboard, and returned to the fridge… and repeated.  No booze… no bloody booze. We polished off the rest of the 18 year old whiskey. The men gazed at me with the confusion of the truly drunk, the beyond help….

One of them was like a chubby Tigger, a cannonball of energy… obviously it wasn’t all natural, he had a pocketful of rainbows, that guy. He kept pawing at my chest, I don’t know what kind of brain function made him think it was subtle… it was actually so ridiculous, it took me a while to realise it was a desperate attempt to touch my boobs. I don’t really have much boob though so I just thought it was funny. Also I was wearing a very padded bra so I couldn’t feel thing through the cushioning… maybe that was giving the illusion of a greater chestal region. Probably. Anyway I just laughed, if you party with middle-aged men and drink all night and all morning, you have to be reasonable about the flirting. It suits my purposes, ie, my vanity, so I’m nice about it. You silly men… tee hee…

There were the overt come-ons in the form of swipes across my front… then we had a nice little dance, he twirled me almost into the glass doors.. I had fun but left the dance floor before I gave them a little too much encouragement. I may be a bad, bad dancer, but these men are twice my age, any way I lurch around, it’s going to look like missed opportunities and old girlfriends. But I did sit up on the counter a lot, with my legs up… wearing a skirt, obviously…which was probably just as bad…. When one of the final three men fell asleep on the couch, and one was in the bathroom, the remaining partygoer seized the opportunity for alone time and I could see and smell and sense he was going to kiss me… I wouldn’t have done it because I wasn’t attracted to him at all, but I let him sort of believe I would have if it hadn’t been for the circumstances… etc. He nodded at my “no, it’s not a good idea” as if he had also come to the same decision, thinking of his family and all, and he probably felt really undeservedly good about that…

It felt sort of like a good deed, returning the ego boost, a thank you for making me feel good about myself…  It always reminds me of how much everyone is full of shit. These are extremely happily married men, I have never met anyone who wouldn’t cheat given the opportunity and the right state of mind. I guess there were drugs involved, I’m pretty glad I didn’t have any or who knows what I might have done…

Anyway, I stayed up til 1 or 2 pm, polished off the last of the booze in the last of the mostly empty bottles, and went to bed, emotionally hugged my new friends goodbye, and they watched me disappear into my room with bleary eyes. Good night, it’s been real…

I went to bed, I slept shakily until they all burst in on me the next day…still horrifically mangled, to beg me to come to the pub. Come on! You were so much craic last night, come on to the pub!

I considered it for a second… getting up, getting dressed… makeup… bloody marys…

The only woman in the room…

Me stepdad came in, partially recovered… He was one of the first to k.o. that night. He’s now leading the expedition to the pub. “It’s boys only, but you can come if you like! It would be nice actually… come on!” aww thanks you guys…

But no, let’s not. I don’t want… I CANT bear another hangover like that, I just can’t do it. The panic… the fear… the depression… NO. So I smiled weakly and waved them away. I will take the hangover now, thanks. And for my sobriety, for my resolution… you would think I would get an easy time, a nice weak hangover…

But I still had a heavy dose of panic attacks, the frail stomach, the weakness of body, the ache of skin and muscle and the tight stressed jaw. Thank fuck I cut my losses and quit while I was behind. The men continued on to the pub and then to another pub and stayed out all day and most of the night before arriving home, twisted and mangled and with broken shades and missing jackets. My mother stayed in with me, looking after me, bringing me things i wanted and taking away things I decided I didn’t want any more.

I had tea, I had soup, I had half a packet of stilton.

And I found myself, going through the absolute horrors… on facebook… and I threw out the typical feelers of hung-overness, I messaged a couple of friends who were online… hello! How are you! What’s up? PLEASE somebody witness me right now, I need to know I exist, I need to keep the dark back…

And one friend, a school friend I hadn’t seen in years, but we sometimes synchronise loneliness and have a little chat, posted something about a hangover. I rejoice… a hangover buddy! I message him, something like, I bet my hangover could kick your hangover’s ass.

We exchange descriptions of how bad we feel. He has a pizza, and I am hideously jealous of that pizza. My mother enters the room and offers me soup, bread, more tea… pain killers… I hiss at her “WHY IS THERE NO PIZZA?” and she gasps, with an indignant “I ASKED you what you wanted, I went to the shop and you said you didn’t want anything!”

“YEAH WELL I didn’t KNOW I wanted pizza. There should be pizza. It’s not fair!”

My mother offers me soup and fish and bread again. NO I DONT WANT THAT YOU KNOW I DONT LIKE FISH! I ONLY WANT PIZZA! But she’s been cleaning up after the party all day plus I’ve already had her bring me lots of things and so she ignores my petulant sulking and tells me it’s my own fault, she ASKED me what I wanted. I yell “UGGGHHHHHH!!!” In exasperation and then go back to abusing my hangover buddy for having pizza. I call him a motherfucking serial rapist and type frustrated strings of letters “ARRRRRGGGGGHH! UNNNNNGGGG!!”

It doesn’t help, I’m all tense and I can’t believe how awful it is to be without pizza now that I know of pizza. Ignorance of pizza was bliss….

He tells me he’s really enjoying the pizza, it’s almost better than sex. And so, sex is added to our conversation. Ugh it would be so nice to get laid now. That would truly hit the spot. We commiserate on lack of sex.. he enters my mental sphere of sexuality. Hmm. Well, of course he’s in another country….and I never considered him that way, and  wouldn’t… except for this conversation. We might have kissed once or slept together in a platonic way… with a little flicker of sexual tension… once… maybe…years ago… but I’m a bit of a tramp actually so that’s not particular to this one guy. I have slept with or kissed pretty much all my male friends … Our chat progresses, it leaves sex, it muddles around in our news, our lives, what we are doing, where we want to be… but the sex has been mentioned, it’s on the table and we both know we are just circling above it, it’s going to be revisited, one or the other of us is bound to bring it up again…

He says he’s too hung over to do anything, his day has consisted of porn and pizza and netflix. Mine has been netflix and food but unfortunately I am in my mother’s house and I don’t really enjoy my bedroom… it makes all my wanking nostalgic, and the post-auto-coital feeling is one of tremendous failure… He says he’s enjoying being home alone. I throw out an innocent, “nice one handed typing…” and he admits, he’s pretty horny right now, but has both hands on the keyboard. You know me and sex and talking about it and masturbation and all, I don’t really think of it as flirtation… in fact I tend to keep my hobby out of conversation if I like the guy… but I am flirting now, just in a casual way, I don’t really care if I sound stupid at all because I’m just shooting the breeze with my hangover buddy. It’s all protected under the “what? That was just all a big joke” agreement.

The conversation escalates… I laugh, I’m typing with one hand too… guess what I’m doing… He says, I’m not gonna lie, that’s turning me on…. Hee hee. I’m eating a piece of stilton actually. Oh…

I realise I feel much better with this distraction from my hangover. My head no longer feels like it’s held in place by a thought, and if I let go of the right thought, my brain will just die… I feel shitty, but a little frisky now…. Things are starting to hum into action downstairs… I consider how long to leave things in the innuendo stage before I retire to my bedroom with the computer…

This morning I looked back over our conversation. It lasted 5 hours….  and reading back over our exchange, I think we were both pretty smooth, and I got another good one out of the re-read… I am impressed with what I said, it managed to be just the right amount of sexy and casual…

We went from joking about masturbation… to… well, I brought my laptop into my room and told my mother I was going to try sleep for a bit.

I started to actually type with one hand. I made a few spelling mistakes… he picked up on it. I played silly-coy, but let him know… actually yes, you’re right… that’s what I was doing… but I stopped because my hangover was too fucking intense. He admitted, the idea of my hand between my legs… was turning him on. As usual, when someone is turned on by me, my sex drive revs into action. We flirted more obviously… he let me know, he was touching himself too… our replies became shorter…

He admitted, “you’re playing a pretty big part in my fantasy right now…”

“Oooh… What part am I playing?” I asked, “I promise I won’t be weirded out…”

He starts to describe what he wants to do to me… nothing creepy there… sounds pretty great actually… I counter with what I’d do…  leaving out, of course, all the really weird stuff I would actually fantasize about, and sticking to a normal run through of just a really good fuck. I don’t want to freak him out with my skeevy honest fantasies… he’s probably doing the same thing and editing all the weirdness out…. Or maybe he’s not, and I’m just a creep.

We build a sexy story from the ground up, taking turns describing actions and how it would feel, with one hand of course.. every message coming on screen brings a tingle… I’ve never had phone sex or successfully done this by message before. I mean I have attempted sexting, and I used to “cyber” when I was an impressionable teen playing online jailbait, but I’ve always found it awkward and more cringey than it was sexy. This is just… it’s easy because I’m not faking it, I’m just actually describing what I’d like to do in real life. It’s cool… it’s really turning me on.

Our fantasy reaches a crescendo over half an hour, our alter egos thrusting and fucking and having wonderful, exaggerated orgasms. The reality follows close behind… it’s a massive, wonderful orgasm… much much better than the average solo deal… really, wow…

I read back over it and the last two or three lines we typed are barely approximations of words. I sent one message “uo fjuckkkk”

We discussed it afterwards… it was really, really great and totally unexpected. He said “yeah, it gave me an interesting insight into what fucking Abby would be like”

I grin to myself. Yes, very interesting.

Yes. indeed…

Hmm..

Well, I tell him, if we get the opportunity, we will of course have to do this for real.

He agrees, although of course we don’t live nearby, but sure… if you’re in town, that would be amazing…. Oh, it was fun… fun fun fun. And it totally almost fixed my hangover, although it stirred up all my horniness again. Damn it. Eventually he signed off, some time around 2am… “good night, my sexy friend,” he said, to which I replied, “See you later, masturbator.”

Strange little episode though, I’ve never been comfortable describing sex acts like that, apart from in my blogging and that’s different because I’m not trying to turn anybody on, and I’m not reporting fantasy but fact, so it just spills out of me like surplus jizzle. The whole “uh then I stroke your dick…” thing just always seemed a bit sad and embarrassing and I blush alone to myself, thinking no… they can’t find that sexy… they can’t….

And my buddy, my partner in grime, he’s no one I would have thought of in that way… not that he’s too ugly for my shallow sober persona, which is the usual reason I don’t sleep with someone despite them being straight and male, that’s not it at all, as far as I remember (no good recent photos on facebook) he’s definitely with acceptable levels of attractiveness. It’s just we don’t have a lot in common and when we were friends briefly I think we both had other people we were fixated on… so it never really occurred to me, and then we lost touch.. Anyway it was lovely and weird and fun and unexpected… a little moment of recognition between two very horny hung over people. I like that…. It’s oddly rare…. I used to think everyone had a similar kind of sex drive but lately, I’m finding that we are a minority of some sort… I know my “sex addiction” is self diagnosed but it is probably real, otherwise what the fuck DO I have?

It’s probably totally sex addiction.

Anyway if you are a doctor or a psychiatrist or something, I would really appreciate a free diagnosis. It doesn’t have to be official or anything, you can just be like…pssst… I’m a doctor and you are totally a bona fide sex addict. You poor thing, you are doing so well despite your terrible affliction. Well done on the not fucking any old people or taking advantage of your old friend who is in love with you.

If you are a medical person and you think I am not a sex addict, well that’s just like, your opinion. I may not be humping furniture or getting rapey with anyone but just remember, for every miserable bone I detail here, there is at least one other I am too ashamed to mention.

I was going to watch that movie “Shame” because I thought I could decide if I had sex addiction or was just unusually randy,  based on that movie, plus, I’d like to see lots of non-porn movie sex, but then I couldn’t find a pirated copy, so my proper diagnosis will have to wait. But rest assured, I’m going to get a second opinion on my condition, even if it is just 2 hours with Micheal Fassessessassenbender or whatever, mmm he looks pretty hot. He’s Irish, apparently.

Anyway. I’m all tired of typing now. I think I might have another read over my filthy conversation from last night and muse on that for a bit, then hit netflix. I have netflix now. I love netflix…. internet streaming in this house is so bad, I couldn’t handle waiting 20 minutes to load 5 minutes of film, so I got netflix. I’m pretty impressed so far, I have to say…

So. That’s me gone for the time being. Please take two seconds to answer my poll, in the name of scientific research and the advancement of my mental health. Thank you.

 

Later-oonies,

 

Abby N. Flicker.

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