The Littlest Death.

Whoa, it's daytime and I'm writing in my blog. How fucking weird is that.

I had a very long conversation last night with someone that I love. It is extremely odd for me to have these conversations with her, because I never really know how to react with them. I want desperately to continue our conversations, but I know that any further conversation is just going to be frustrating.

So here it is, for those of you in the know, I am certain you have all been waiting for one of two blogs. One about S---, and the one about A-----. Well, those of you sick fucks that were hinge my first pop out of the bag would be S---, you are just going to have to wait, this one is all about A-----.

I was performing with her brother in law. He was a fine guy, all things considered, and he was an excellent swordsman. We fought live steel, the rush of defense and offense, the sharp metallic ring of the blades connecting over s muddy field, the dull stink of sweat and armor, the soft grunts of exertion as two men shuffled about the field, locked in some sad little replica of something infinitely more primal. It was fun, swinging around elegant pieces of steel like we knew what we were doing.

She was stunning, and she often came to each us reherse. I loved it, because I felt like I was performing for her, showing off my manliness in front of the unattainable. It made me a better fighter, it made me push harder, focus closer, move faster. The dance of steel is not unlike the sexual combats, though the piercings tend to be a little less final, though easily as dangerous. The slow dance, the sounds, the stink, the feral exhiliration, it's all the same, really. I fought like I wanted to fuck, harshly but with finesse, the quick jabs and slow thrusts, each one measured and precise, in my own amaturish little way. I fought like I wanted to fuck her.

We finally were ready and we performed at the Faire. It was great, lots of stories, but the real story I brought from it played itself out on the last day.

"so, I hear you and Phil are going to take M----- and I out after?" who the fuck is Phil? Who the fuck is M-----? "Certainly? How about ice cream after I get a chance to clean up?" must find this 'Phil' fellow. "sure, give me your number and I will call you!"

We didn't go for ice cream. We went for Event Horizon and a heavy make out session on my couch. We didn't watch the film, and I didn't fuck her. It was amazing. She had the best tits I had ever laid eyes on, and even now, I look back on those days and have to restrain my turgidity.

"Why didn't you fuck me that first night?" she asked me later, and my response was lame. Something about not wanting to take all the tools out of the bag, wanting her to come back for more, blahblahblah. The truth? I was terrified of not being able to please her. I was scared. I didn't know how the fuck I had somehow gotten this incredibly hot piece of ass back to my place, and I didn't want to fuck it up. I guess it worked, cause she came back almost every weekend for two years.

The sex was incredible, some of the best I have ever had. She fucked with everything she had, danced the little death like it was the last goddamn thing she would ever do. She would grind on my cock like it was the best thing in the universe, and I fucked her every single way I could.

"don't worry about making me cum, i almost never do. Its fun without it, and it takes an act of god to bring out my orgasm." I became that act of god, and I stopped counting sometime after 300. Sure, she didn't get her rocks off every time, but I am certain she never faked it. She was never ambiguous about that, never left me wondering if I had satisfied her.

I remember one night, I was playing swamp the boat with my tongue, and my roommate started up with his girlfriend in the next room. Oh wow, she was loud as fuck. Screaming and panting like a bitch in heat. A----- suddenly stopped moving in time with my caresses, and she started to laugh at the absurdity of it. I was so pissed off, I hurled a shoe against my wall and told them to shut the fuck up. I really screwed it up for my bro, and I don't think his little bitch ever forgave me for that, but I didn't care I had a goddess to fuck, and his little two dollar couldn't even compare.

Our relationship was explosive. The sex was breathtaking, and the same passion that went into our bed play also went into our fighting. Oh, they were glorious, those fights. Screaming and yelling and crying and breaking things. We fought with our backs to the corners and our spikes out. We never turned physically violent, but oh man out barbs drew blood.

She started sleeping with other guys somewhere in there, and I was pissed. Aroused like a motherfucker, I will admit that. She turned me on something fierce with her escapades, and I never could accept that. I yelled at her for cheating on me, and she told me to fucking deal with it.

Oh, we had a couple of play parties with several other people, but she never fucked any of them. No, that I did. Once. I fucked him in the ass with her laying in bed next to us. Afterward, she was cold and distant and she cried, and I felt like I had transgressed something I should never have transgressed. Oh, it was fun as he'll and left me with the ability to say that I have fucked my ex fiancé's new husband in the ass. But, that's just a stupid thing to be proud of. Not the fucking, mind you, but the maliciousness in which I revelled in that fact.

I don't regret much in my life, though since most of them are from some of my sexual exploits, you wouldn't get that from reading this, but I regret how nasty I was towards the end of that relationship. I fucked up big time, and it took me a long time to rectify with myself the fact that I had lost one of the best things to ever happen to me.

But you see, I didn't. She WAS the best thing that ever happened to me, and I never would have realized it until after she was gone. I look back on those times now and I realize that I have used her as the measuring stick for every fuck, every relationship, every emotional mistake I have ever done. She set the standard for my behavior, she set the bar so high that few since have ever even come close to touching it.

She tought me that I really fucking love sex. I really love the voyeur. I really love the kink, the dirty, the glorious, the highs, the lows. It took me getting my heart shattered to learn an extremely important lesson about myself, and I am so incredibly grateful.

Our last session was... Impressive. Maybe not to her, but it certainly left an impression on me. I had borrowed her car, and she dropped me back off at my apartment. I asked her up for a few, and she said she had somewhere to go, but she would stay for a minute or two. She was dressed in her work outfit, nice professional white shirt, elegant black slacks. I sat at my computer desk and we started chatting about nothing. Her phone rang, and she sat on the floor to take care of it. I noticed a small hole in her crotch. Then I noticed she wasn't wearing panties.

Oh boy. I had to play, and like an immature little boy, I stuck my finger and tickled her cunt with my fingertip right through that small little opening into heavenly bliss. Oh, I should take this moment to mention that her cunt tasted like nothing I had ever had or have had since. It was this intense mixture of salt, sex, seduction, and anticipation. It was amazing, and it was more addictive than any drug. I hate using the phrase she tasted like candy, but she really did. Not sweet candies, but sweat candies. Delicious and prepared like the feast set before a god.

And I played with it and rejoiced in the aroma of her arousal. We had been split for a while at this point, and we hadn't fucked since. Oh my goddess, I wanted it so bad. She got off the phone and we started it right there on the floor. Not for long, she wanted the bed and I lifted her to it with aplomb. I started into her like a rutting bull, and she came on my cock like I've never seen her or anyone else cum. Explosive and intense and I almost lost it right then.

But her phone rang, and she got out of our bed of sin and debauchery to answer. Oh man, she was late, she gave an excuse, and I thought it was over.

I was wrong. Oh my fuck, I was wrong. She climbed back in and we went at it again. She came again, and I was in heaven. I burst into her with one of my top three orgasms of all time, and I never fucking looked back. She got up, cleaned, and I sat there in my computer chair like a helenic God of Fuck.

I love that story. I remember it like yesterday. I remember the way she glided on my cock. I remember her fingers pressed into my back. I remember her thighs clamped about my legs like a vice. I remember her grunting and moaning as if the world meant piss and beans to her. I remember my orgasm slamming into me with the force of a heavyweight knockout blow. The little death? Like hell. I never felt more alive.

She also had a profound effect on my life. She taught me much of myself, and she continues to do so to this day. I loved her with all of my heart and soul, and I love her with equal fervor today.

This is why I believe in polyamory. This is why I carry three brightly burning torches deep in my inner heart. I never stopped loving either of my three great romances. I love them a little differently now, I will grant you that, but it has never diminished.

The best part of that? There are brackets on that inner chambers walls for quite a few more. I wonder, when all is said and done, how many of those brackets will hold a torch? How many more people will I love till death do us part?