Isabella, as I have written, gave me my second first paid blowjob.
We had a relationship that spanned a year or two, right around the time of my child’s birth, coming to an end, shortly after.
I honestly don’t remember if I ended our relationship out of a fit of guilt, or if she did, for one reason or another. What I do know is that, in the final days of our relationship, we established, even more than we had already suspected, that we inhabited partly overlapping worlds – to the point that there was at least one person who played a large part in each of our lives, unbeknownst to us, prior to that. That person no longer plays a large part in my life, in fact, we’re no longer in touch at all. Not with acrimony, life is long, circumstances change. Our relationship – one that predated Isabella’s and my relationship – simply had no situational reason to continue.
Isabella has a name that Google serves up all too easily. By which I don’t mean she’s easy to find. What I mean is, she has hundreds of namesakes, literally hundreds, if not thousands. My hunch is, not too long after I knew her, she got married and took on a new last name, which makes it even harder to find her.
Back then, though, she was a published writer. Not widely published, but she had published a few well-regarded pieces. As far as I can tell, the writing career of the person who had the name under which she was writing then ended right around then. Nothing else exists online by her, and no one claims to previously have written under her name. So like the secretary, about whom I recently wrote a draft (which I may share with you soon), Isabella effectively disappeared.
Isabella shares the crown with the secretary for being one of the two women who taught me the most about my sexuality, about my desires. Isabella loved sucking my cock. She was the first woman I’d ever been with who sucked my cock not as a favor, but as a delighted, honored gift. Even a selfish gift. She was a hungry, greedy, devouring cocksucker. My cock was something she desperately wanted in her mouth. I didn’t even know that was a thing before Isabella.
The secretary taught me a different new lesson – not that she needed my cock in my mouth. She didn’t. She needed something different. She needed to give me what I wanted. I think somewhere on this blog I’ve written about the moment when I asked her about fucking her. Our relationship, like so many of my relationships, didn’t, at least until then, involve fucking. But there came a day when I found myself unexpectedly wanting to fuck the secretary.
“I want to fuck you,” I said.
“Okay,” she said.
In my recollection, I asked her if she had been hoping that a day would come when I wanted to fuck her. If she had been disappointed at my not having fucked her. “No,” she said, puzzled. “You didn’t want to, so why would I want that?”
It was almost as if she didn’t exist except through my desire.
Revelation number two.
Isabella taught me that my cock could be an object of desire, and the scretary taught me that my desire could be an object of desire. I’m grateful to both of these women and sad that the realities of life make it such that contemporary relationships with them seem not to be in the cards.
I liked them, maybe even loved them both, just a little. I miss them and I pine for them. Not just for sex with them. One of my fondest memories of Isabella isn’t sexual. It’s of lying in a loft bed in an apartment where she was house-sitting, snuggling, and just talking. Similarly, I have such memories with the secretary.
I’m not just a dog, you know. I’m also a somewhat pathetic intimacy queen.