Serena had a birthday last week. I had an idea for a few small presents for her. I got her a little notebook in which to write her thoughts, feelings, and plans. I got her a bar of chocolate with six grams of psilocybin. She had asked me if I knew where to get mushrooms a few weeks earlier. I got her a sheet of temporary mushroom tattoos. And I got her a pair of incredibly cute tiny gray cotton shorts. The better for me to squeeze her perfect heart-shaped ass.
I reserved a hotel room, and we made a plan to meet for an hour, maybe an hour and a half, in the middle of the day.
“Will we have lunch?” she asked me.
I told her that she would eat sushi, and that I would eat her.
Serena loves sushi. It was around lunchtime, so I picked up a sushi meal.
I wrote a note in the front of the notebook.

I laid out her gifts in the hotel room…

… and I went about my day.
I had hoped there would be a refrigerator to keep the sushi cold, as I knew it would be an hour or two between when I laid the sushi out and when she arrived. No such luck. Lukewarm sushi it would have to be.
I hid a second key to the hotel room near the hotel bar. I sent her a picture of where I had hidden the key, and said, “The key is under the cushion of the couch. Let yourself into room 216.”

The day was scorchingly hot. When she arrived, she needed a shower. She sent me a few pictures of her pretty body. (“The shorts fit perfectly!” she texted, including two hot photos – one from the front, showing her pretty pussy, and one from the rear, showing her perfect ass.)
As she showered, I waited in the hotel bar, waiting for the photo of her, topless, eating. She took too long. I texted her to hurry. She didn’t reply. My patience ran out, and I went up to the hotel room and let myself in. “Happy birthday!” I said.
She was sitting topless on the bed, eating sushi.
I need to say, here: Serena is the most insane combination of cute, pretty, and hot. That’s how I found her. With a sweet, slightly apologetic smile, looking…. so cute.
“Where’s my picture?” I asked.
She said she was trying to take it. As firmly as I could, I instructed her, “Take it now.”
She was playful, and kept eating.
“Happy birthday,” I said, “but take it now.”
She took the picture, she sent it to me, as I washed my hands in the sink. I dried my hands and opened the text. Damn! She’s so fucking hot.
I remembered that I had forgotten to write a couple of things I wanted to write in her note. I wrote, while she ate.

I rearranged her on the bed, so the sushi would be readily accessible, while I feasted on her cunt. We kissed briefly. She lay back, her head on a pillow. I pulled off the cute shorts she had put on, and dove in.
For the next hour, I feasted. Serena’s pussy is, always, meticulously… clean. She pretty much treats her cunt as I treat my fingers, when with a woman: she cleans it thoroughly just before any encounter. She always smells, tastes, fresh, sweet, delicious.
She tried to eat the sushi, but it was challenging. Her body is responsive to my ministrations. And as the end of the hour approached, my mouth and fingers covered with her juices, she said, “I must have come twenty times!”
I ate two pieces of the remaining sushi, and left her in the hotel room, her face radiant. I sent a text, a few minutes later, thanking her. Another text, telling her I thought I had left my Altoids in the room, but that she should enjoy them. I wished her a good rest of her birthday.
I didn’t hear back. The next morning, I still hadn’t heard. Serena sometimes recoils a little after our dates. I’m complicated for her, I know that.
She’s complicated for me, but less so, and differently.
When she finally texted, she reassured me I had done nothing wrong. “You were perfect!” she said. “My pussy felt so great!”
That’s the last (or it was, when I started this post) I’ve heard from Serena. It’s been a number of days now. I’ve sent a few texts expressing concern for her well-being. I know she’s going through a little personal drama around her living situation, and a larger personal drama (or really, closer to a trauma) around her immigration status. Sometimes those things overwhelm her, and they keep her away from me.
In this instance, my fear, my hunch, is that it’s something different. I’ve written that I fall a little in love with every woman, and this is true. I surf the waves of love. I do it skillfully. It’s fun for me. Sometimes it’s terrifying, sometimes it’s hard, but mostly it’s fun. I like surfing.
Serena doesn’t surf these waves with nearly the frequency, agility, or comfort that I do.
My fear is that Serena’s feelings for me scare her. That her silence is not that I did something wrong, but that I did too much right. That being around me is hard. As she said to me recently, somewhat mournfully, “I know I can’t count on you in certain types of circumstances.” And she’s right. She can’t. I’m not her partner. I’m not her boyfriend. I’m a fun playmate. A friend. A partner in sex and play and fun. But I’m not a reliable person to whom she can turn in pain. I can’t bail her out if she gets in trouble. I can’t provide the kind of support that a real romantic partner would. That’s not what I have to offer.
My life is full. I have a partner. I think engaging with me, given my limitations, given my ultimate unavailability, is hard for Serena. I have no information other than her silence. But it scares me. Not how it has in the past, where I’ve been terrified that a woman’s abandonment of me would somehow end the world. No, I’m less crazy now. If Serena abandons me, I’ll be okay. Sad. Really sad. But okay.
It’s unquestionably true that Serena offers me a sexual connection that is truly rare. Our compatibility is something I’ve only experienced once or twice in my life. Literally. I don’t like to compare humans. And I’m not. But I am saying that there is something truly special, truly spectacular, about our connection. And it would be, for me, an excruciating, tragic loss if she really is gone.
Not a catastrophe.
Not the end of the world.
But a painful, sad loss.
My fingers are crossed that Serena will be back. That she’s just doing the personal work she needs to do to reconcile herself to what I do and don’t have to offer.
There is, of course, another possibility. That her absence has nothing to do with me. That whether it’s her housing drama or her immigration (t)(d)ra(u)ma or something else, she simply hasn’t been in a position to text me. I hope that’s not true. Not because I’m such a narcissist that I want to be at the center of her reasons, but because I truly wish her well. I want her life to go smoothly. To be rewarding. To be safe. I’d like to be a part of it.
But. I will understand if I can’t be.
I’ve read a lot of your posts recently. This is so very sweet and real and relatable.
Aww. Thank you!