Seeking Arrangement is such a wacky place. So I wrote the other day about my manic pursuit of women with whom to stretch/work out. That’s been going swimmingly. You read about Diana the other day. You’ll read more about her soon enough. There are others who’ve helped me stretch as well. None, as yet, who’s reached the level of inspiration for me. And, I should say, my goal here is to get to 1-3, or maybe 4, women with whom I stretch regularly. And not to fill my calendar with hot women, but rather, to establish a reasonable, sustainable fitness regime which includes a small number of ongoing relationships.

Today, though, I’m not writing about my fitness efforts.

I’m writing, instead, about both the phenomenon, and one instance of, the women on SA with whom I seem to connect sexually, rather than either financially or in terms of fitness.

There’s Jolene. There’s Alexandra. Both of whom – too young for me – burned bright, hot, and fast.

And now, there’s Mira. A delightful, bubbly, interesting, challenging woman 3000 miles away. I’m tough for her, and she for me, because – well, because several times now, I’ve asked her to do things for me that caused her suffering. Not intentionally. She describes herself as a masochist, and, unintentionally, unwillingly, I have hurt her. Made her cry. More than once. Not with cruelty, natch, but with kindness. I’ve touched various third rails I hadn’t anticipated.

I don’t want to do that. I want to make her pussy wet, her mind race. All of which I have done (as she has, in an anatomically corresponding way, affected me).

It’s hard for me to write too much about Mira, because – well, because she’s hard to write about. She’s intelligent, curious, bold, brave. She’s a bit of a pain slut – a month ago, she pierced her nipples, as just one example of this – and she’s trying to figure out how to integrate interacting with me and reading my blog into her day. Which can be challenging. Man, do I know how challenging it can be.

Anyway: my instinct is, Mira will not want to share a picture with you, but and she is hot. [This just in. This is her. Thighs closed, and then, as, of course, I require, thighs apart.]

A classic hourglass figure. Reddish blonde hair. Glasses. A shy, innocent smile on her lips, which are full in an entirely not botoxed way. Her breasts are big, her cleavage delicious. Another guy would look at her and think, “MOTORBOAT.” That’s never particularly appealed to me. But she surely has encountered that.

She sent me a full-page hand-written note. “My body and my mind are both yours,” she wrote (too quickly???). I want to fulfill your requests, to be pushed out of my comfort zone. I would make workout videos with you, and let you save them for posterity. Hell, I’d even plan a flight to where you are if it means I’d get to act on my desire for you.” THIS? HOT. Again – maybe a little too much too soon. But still, hot.

We scheduled a workout, but moments before, she told me she’d rather just talk, and that was just fine by me. I had her dress as if we were going to work out, and I had her show me her ass, her pussy, her breasts, in her outfit. And then, I had her sit down, spread her legs, and touch her pussy while we talked for half an hour. Delightful conversation. Hot conversation. Fun conversation. Interesting conversation.

An hour or two later, she sussed out who I am. It only took a little googling, but she found my real name. She was worried: would I be angry? Would I ghost her?

Duh. No. Lots and lots of women about whom I’ve written here have figured out/learned/been told by me my real name. It happened with her a bit earlier than it might normally, than I might prefer. But, um, no, I’m not walking away from this delicious possibility just because of that. Plus, she told me!

Anyway – we’re working our way through the getting-to-know-you process. She wants to give me everything I want. I want her to give me everything I want that makes her pussy wet. That’s the step at which we currently find ourselves. I’ll keep you posted….


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