Hands

Daydreams built on anticipation

It’s a warm Friday afternoon, and I lay my body down for a snooze. Work is done for the week and I have all the time in the world for me. My flat palm absentmindedly strokes my thigh, and I exhale as the pressure connects with my nerve endings.

I am drowning in dick on these apps. The Ice-Cream Man (Mr Whippy) is scheduled for a play session, Yes Chef has a date approaching to check the “is he a murderer” vibe, another three or four on simmer until I can find a time to meet up. There’s the Pleasure Dom and the Bear. The FIFO Man and on and on.

My right hand sweeps up and down my thigh, picturing some aftercare and some warm moments as the dappled light tickles my eyelids.

Meeting for a drink without any pretense of love or longing was so clear and bright. Relaxed and open, no arms crossed and cards placed breezily on the table for all to see. All of us are deserving of pleasure, there’s no call for anyone to settle. We just need to be bold enough to call it what it is. To be real about what we desire and see how we can collide with others to make that happen for all involved. After the first date of this nature, I’m hooked. I want to go on fifty more.

I send photos of my body to these men and they tell me what they’d like to do, given the chance. I make plans to allow it and dream of their hands on me. In me and around me, all of us grabbing at fantasy made real and placed in our schedules.

After speaking with Mr Whippy I come to understand the same lover each month won’t really suit my purposes, and my mind ticks over to imagine a quarterly schedule with each individual. Time between times between the sheets or bent over surfaces plenty to dream up further depravity and satiated whispers in the dark. The type that previously may have curled away like smoke up a chimney.

I wait for someone to arrive in my inbox who doesn’t have a bio cock, and I wait and I wait. But it’s a sausage fest. If I want to be real about my bucket list there’s a clear image of me being penetrated at both ends with silicone at one side of things and flesh at the other. All of us in rhythmic ecstasy and completing the circuit of my genderfuck dreams. Hands clasped as if in prayer to the devil and the deep blue sea of lust and ritual that flows between us. To manifest that now would be getting ahead of myself. I tuck it away til it’s time.

So many of these cock owners seem to be focused on where they can stick them prior to any other enquiry about our shared activity. There’s one sweet human who had told me their cock wouldn’t be in play and it was more about the D/s element for them. We’d swapped writing samples and drifted into a phone friend space, the kind where it didn’t matter what happened and if nothing sexual ended up eventuating. The shifting focus of the queer friendship has never been a problem, and seems right most of the time.

There had been a few contenders that were cunt owners earlier on in the piece, but all were deterred by my no kissing on the mouth boundary. I get it, and I don’t expect them to settle or bend their own desire into a shape that doesn’t work for them. Someone will emerge when it’s the right time and place.

I fall asleep before my hand can do anything beyond a firm stroke of my leg, my belly. Images flicker through my mind of grazing hairy chests and nipples that need my attention. The washboard abs of the man who is overseas til next week who keeps sending me images of his face that looks like he knows exactly what I want. He proves this with his words, and I’m quite taken aback by his accuracy. A sock in the shot protecting his cock from view, inspiring gentle laughter to fall from my mouth as the light hits my eyes and I register the whole picture. The whole picture of all of us tangled and twisted in our own pleasure while getting each other off in increasingly inventive ways.

What fun. What an erotic waiting game, dancing through the moments until it all happens. The season shifts and I face forward in gentle readiness.