Mike lives up the block from me. A single guy, Mike has a “quarantine buddy,” a friend who lives elsewhere, with whom he routinely “breaks quarantine.” He goes to his friend’s house. His friend comes to his house. The two of them provide much-needed companionship in this very lonely, very difficult time.
I don’t need a quarantine buddy. I have my family. I’m very lucky in that way – I’m enduring the quarantine with an abundance of companionship, love, affection, and fun. We’re getting along well, and are extremely fortunate not to be afflicted particularly harshly by the economic impact of this tsunami.
In normal times, though, I also like to have sex (and, actually, am accustomed to having sex) with people who are not currently in my house.
In addition to having what, in my household, we refer to as spousally approved sex on the side (or SASS), I’ve long had a thing for “distant buddies.” I’ve had a dozen or more of these over the years, women with whom I correspond, who come to inhabit a special position as it relates to my dominance, wherein they feed my hungers remotely.
One of these – the first, I think – “Mystery Wife” – very nearly became an in-person lover. [I think I may have written about her at one point, and that she either asked me to take down what I wrote or I decided to take it down. I can’t find it now.] My interactions with Mystery Wife were spectacularly hot at a distance, but our one in-person interaction was marred by the fact that, as I remember it, she was a sadistic, cruel person who had set out to make me suffer.
Actually, that’s not fair. It is an accurate representation of what I imagined at the time. But, with the benefit of years of hindsight, I think, actually, what happened is that she was ok with virtual cheating on her husband, but not with actual cheating on him – at least not with me. And she didn’t learn that about herself until we were on the way to her hotel, and she simply couldn’t make herself go through with it. It was an excruciating experience for me.
Another, Sofia, was in every way imaginable a “girlfriend” of mine. Except, you know, that we haven’t yet met. But for seven years, we were intimate. Emotionally, sexually. We shared a lot. I’m aching in my breakup with her (her breakup with me), and/but, hopeful that our relationship will continue as a friendship – maybe not immediately, but one day. As have substantially all of my relationships of any heft. I really fucking hope.
Sofia’s departure leaves me with just my most recent distant buddy, Marina.
The fact of quarantine – and of each of our respective lives – has made Marina spectacularly available to me. Her availability has exceeded the availability of any previous distant buddy – or even an in-person lover. And, it has inspired a return to my long-absent manic hunger to write.
I have been privileged to enjoy pretty much exclusive access to Marina’s body and her compliance for the last six seven or eight weeks. It has been delicious and delightful even as it has been complicated. And not infrequently painful. Marina delights in giving me what I want, but sometimes, she has desires that conflict with mine (like, for example, the desire to spend some time every day doing something other than coming for me). Some of those desires – like the desire to have virtual and, soon, in-person, sex with others – cause me pain. Because I’m a fucking toddler. Others – like the desire to go offline unexpectedly from time to time, to drink with friends in a park, and just not be glued to her phone – are capable of driving me around the bend.
I want so very, very, much right now.
As the quarantine seems to be easing up, at least where she is (if not where I am), I will have to become more practiced at sharing her pretty body with others. This challenge is endemic to the “distant buddy” phenomenon. It’s even endemic to the SASS phenomenon. I can’t plausibly make a claim of exclusivity over anyone (though V often longed for that).
I don’t like this. At. All.
I want her to myself.
Fuck, I want every woman to myself.
I wish I were somehow the only man in the world.
I wish I could have every woman, all the time, at least available to me.
The hardest thing in Marina’s and my relationship thus far has been around this very issue. Marina understandably wants to be free to have sexual relationships with other men and other women. I don’t begrudge her this. I want her to as well. (I don’t really want her to, but I am a citizen of the world, and I appreciate that she should.)
In the face of reality, though, the thing I want is for her to communicate to me about them. It’s hard for Marina to communicate with me in the way I want – in part because it just feels unnatural to her. She’s accustomed to the men whose cocks she sucks, whom she fucks, wanting to imagine – or at least wanting her to pretend, while they are together – that theirs is the only cock she wants, and not wanting to hear about other cocks she may also long for, suck, fuck. Unless, of course, they ask – in which case she freely will give.
I have that same first instinct – the desire to imagine that I’m the only one – but I’m also afflicted by an understanding of reality, by an awareness that I’m not the only one. And in that reality, what I then want is simple: I want to know everything. Always. Immediately. Without having to ask.
I don’t feel entitled to this. At all.
If Marina were to tell me, “Thanks, but it just doesn’t feel right to me to share the details of my relationships with other women and other men with you,” I could respect that. I could understand that. I could live with that.
Fortunately or unfortunately for me, that’s not what she has said. What she has said is that she will do her best to give me what I ask for in this regard – as in every regard. And this is where we run into trouble. Not because the truth is hard for me to take – although it is. But instead, because my appetite for information is essentially infinite and infinitely demanding.
I want to know the complete text of every text she receives or sends from or to any person about whom she has ever had a sexual thought.
Anything less than this, in the context of ostensible full disclosure and transparency, feels to me like inconsiderate disregard.
Of course, I know I’m psychotic.
But that doesn’t change my experience.
Marina is confronting the end of her sexual quarantine.
Recently she spent an afternoon not touching, but with, a former lover of hers. She also had a couple of video dates with a couple of continuing boyfriends, one of whom is scheduled to visit her in the next week or so. They’re contemplating spending two or three days together.
I’ve worked Marina up into such a state that she is a girl who desperately needs to be fucked.
I desperately wish that I were the man about to fuck her.
As she considers how much time to spend with this man, Marina concerns herself elaborately with my feelings, with how difficult will it be for me to lose access to her for the 24, 36, 48 or 72 hours that she is with him. How much pain will I have to endure, knowing his cock is in her mouth, that her pussy is wrapped around his cock.
The honest answer is, as I told her, I’ll be fine. I’m a big boy. What I might prefer is totally disconnected from what I can tolerate, what I can endure. Never mind what’s reasonable or fair.
And it’s unfortunate for Marina, a woman who is so very, very attuned to the feelings of others, that I am so in touch with my own feelings… and choose not to censor them, even slightly. So she knows that I want, that I desperately crave, to be the only man in the world for her.
That it causes me heart-wrenching pain when I know that her mouth is wrapped around some other guy’s cock and she’s not even thinking of me.
That’s not a reason, though, for her not to do it.
And it’s an experience that I’ve endured enough times in my life with enough women that I can understand, that I know, in my heart, that mostly what this has to do with my relationship with my mother, and has little or nothing to do with my relationship to Marina.
Having Marina at my disposal has kept kept my cock stiff for much of the quarantine. Her orgasms have been plentiful. Her edging, even more so. She’s dressed for me. She’s undressed for me. She’s executed meaningless and funny tasks for me. We’ve played with hot wax and ice. And photos and videos. And recordings. I’ve heard her voice, as much as nearly anyone’s with whom I don’t live during this quarantine.
And even if we never meet in person, she will be forever associated with this particular period in my mind. All that said, I trust we will meet in person and I trust it will be soon. And I trust it will be good.