I'm tired of wasting all my precious time.
I haven't been writing. And I haven't been reading much. Turns out I like it that way.
The sex is just as good.
And my life is better.
Thanks for reading!
Sincerely,
Reed
reed.kisatchie@gmail.com
Monday, August 27, 2012
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Waterpark wonderings
Well look at that. I’ve written 100 posts, but I’ve only published 95 of them, not 100 like I thought. So it looks like I gave myself an “out” to keep writing for a while. And I've been writing. Just not feeling like blogging. But today I’m going to take advantage of my wiggle room and blog a little bit.
The kids and I went to the waterpark today. I spent a lot of time checking out the various flotation devices. As in, “In the unlikely event of a water landing, your breasts will become flotation devices.” Lucky for me, I know how to swim or I’d go straight to the bottom.
But you know what got the best physical reaction out of me? (Not as good as this one, fortunately. I guess I’ve been trained out of that by sleeping with a naked woman for so long. How sad.) A trim woman with some mommy pooch and hardly anything up top. I just can’t stop looking at tiny titties. Breasts that leave something to the imagination. And my imagination can be pretty good.
Anyway. Not only was I gauging the flotative capabilites of various females, I’m pretty sure I was being checked out by one or two or three. And naturally (for me) I have to wonder why. Is it because I look like a male model? Hah. Maybe a male model of a drowned rat. Is it because I’m halfway in shape compared to most people? I can only hope. Is it because I’m some kind of spectacle? That would be ok too. But then I had this thought that maybe they’re just staring at my nipple ring. And perhaps wondering if I’d like to see theirs. Well, yes, I would, now that I imagine you asking. (I told you I had a good imagination.)
And once again I wonder, has this been going on my whole life (assuming I’m not imagining it with my good imagination)? How would my life have been different if I hadn't been so shy?
P.S. One thing’s for sure. After all that female flesh on display, I really hope we’re getting some tonight. It’s been 9 days. We haven’t had a dry spell that long since our restart 3½ years ago.
The kids and I went to the waterpark today. I spent a lot of time checking out the various flotation devices. As in, “In the unlikely event of a water landing, your breasts will become flotation devices.” Lucky for me, I know how to swim or I’d go straight to the bottom.
But you know what got the best physical reaction out of me? (Not as good as this one, fortunately. I guess I’ve been trained out of that by sleeping with a naked woman for so long. How sad.) A trim woman with some mommy pooch and hardly anything up top. I just can’t stop looking at tiny titties. Breasts that leave something to the imagination. And my imagination can be pretty good.
Anyway. Not only was I gauging the flotative capabilites of various females, I’m pretty sure I was being checked out by one or two or three. And naturally (for me) I have to wonder why. Is it because I look like a male model? Hah. Maybe a male model of a drowned rat. Is it because I’m halfway in shape compared to most people? I can only hope. Is it because I’m some kind of spectacle? That would be ok too. But then I had this thought that maybe they’re just staring at my nipple ring. And perhaps wondering if I’d like to see theirs. Well, yes, I would, now that I imagine you asking. (I told you I had a good imagination.)
And once again I wonder, has this been going on my whole life (assuming I’m not imagining it with my good imagination)? How would my life have been different if I hadn't been so shy?
P.S. One thing’s for sure. After all that female flesh on display, I really hope we’re getting some tonight. It’s been 9 days. We haven’t had a dry spell that long since our restart 3½ years ago.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Happy 100
When River and I started fucking again in 2009 after a year and a half dry spell, I took careful notes to try to determine whether anything -- time of day, time since our last fuck, etc. -- was affecting the erectile dysfunction I was left with after getting a vasectomy five months previously. I never discovered any correlations. I had bad times and ok times (there were no longer good times) with no correlation to anything that I was aware of.
My notes eventually morphed into my first anonymous sex blog. But they also made it easy to keep track of how many times we’d fucked since what we called our “restart”. One day I announced to River, “Happy 100!” “100 fucks?” “Yeah!” River smiled and said “Here’s to the next happy 100!” And sure enough, some time later we’d racked up another 100.
I no longer keep track so I have no idea where we’re at now, nor does it matter. “Enough” is how I think about it, at least until tomorrow.
I was reminded of that happy 100 because this is the 100th post on this blog.
I started this blog to cure myself from blogging. At least from the kind of OCD blogging I used to do. I wanted to write more about the real life Reed and River, more backstory, etc. And to be more inviting to comment on. And to have more time to be the real life Reed -- to hang our with my kids, play guitar, be a good friend, whatever it is that I do.
It’s sort of worked, and sort of hasn’t worked. I’m no longer OCD about blogging. But because of wanting to maintain the anonymity barrier for various reasons, I haven’t been as real life/backstory as I want to be. So in that respect, this blog hasn’t been successful for me, and I don’t think it’s fulfilling any needs.
I’m also finding myself wanting to blog, but not wanting to write. I look back on some of what I’ve written and wonder how I ever did it. I’ve started but not finished any number of posts, about kiddus interruptus, fantasy fulfillment, unintentional delayed gratification, dripping pussies, being on an SSRI, River’s infrequent orgasms, being on vacation, porn for women, and some hot fucks with (my) screaming orgasms and whatever else. I start them with the intent to come back to them, but I don’t.
It’s been that way with my whole life lately: wanting to do things, but lacking motivation and/or follow through.
Even this post was begun several weeks ago, and now I’m finally making myself finish it.
I’m not sure there’s going to be another happy 100 here.
To everybody who's commented, thanks! That's what I've been in this for. I regret that in some cases I haven't been up to returning the favor.
My notes eventually morphed into my first anonymous sex blog. But they also made it easy to keep track of how many times we’d fucked since what we called our “restart”. One day I announced to River, “Happy 100!” “100 fucks?” “Yeah!” River smiled and said “Here’s to the next happy 100!” And sure enough, some time later we’d racked up another 100.
I no longer keep track so I have no idea where we’re at now, nor does it matter. “Enough” is how I think about it, at least until tomorrow.
I was reminded of that happy 100 because this is the 100th post on this blog.
I started this blog to cure myself from blogging. At least from the kind of OCD blogging I used to do. I wanted to write more about the real life Reed and River, more backstory, etc. And to be more inviting to comment on. And to have more time to be the real life Reed -- to hang our with my kids, play guitar, be a good friend, whatever it is that I do.
It’s sort of worked, and sort of hasn’t worked. I’m no longer OCD about blogging. But because of wanting to maintain the anonymity barrier for various reasons, I haven’t been as real life/backstory as I want to be. So in that respect, this blog hasn’t been successful for me, and I don’t think it’s fulfilling any needs.
I’m also finding myself wanting to blog, but not wanting to write. I look back on some of what I’ve written and wonder how I ever did it. I’ve started but not finished any number of posts, about kiddus interruptus, fantasy fulfillment, unintentional delayed gratification, dripping pussies, being on an SSRI, River’s infrequent orgasms, being on vacation, porn for women, and some hot fucks with (my) screaming orgasms and whatever else. I start them with the intent to come back to them, but I don’t.
It’s been that way with my whole life lately: wanting to do things, but lacking motivation and/or follow through.
Even this post was begun several weeks ago, and now I’m finally making myself finish it.
I’m not sure there’s going to be another happy 100 here.
To everybody who's commented, thanks! That's what I've been in this for. I regret that in some cases I haven't been up to returning the favor.
 |
Fox in socks, our game is done, sir.
Thank you for a lot of fun, sir.
-- Dr Seuss, "Fox in Socks" |
Friday, July 20, 2012
“I’m horny.”
“I’m horny.” I’m snuggling on River at bedtime and feeling it. If you really want to know, I was looking at the pictures of the soccer babe with the body paint bikini in the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated that I made off with earlier in the week. Even though I don’t read magazines. I show River. “What do you like about the picture? The suit? The small boobs?” Well, yeah, I like the small boobs, but there's that other question. “Is it a suit?” “Oh. It’s the paint. But what do they do with her nips? She’s gotta have pasties.” “Nope. See?”
Soccer babes are good. River and I used to play together when we met. Now I’d like to paint something on River. She’d look good in a suit like that. I’ve heard stories from women going out in public like that without being noticed, but I’m not sure I believe them. Wouldn’t it be kind of insulting not to be noticed? Maybe they just didn’t notice anybody noticing.
“I’m horny.” “I like that. It’s cute. What do you want to do about it?” “Fuck you.” “Anything in mind?” “A nice weeknight fuck.” “Sounds good.”
I straddle River and we talk about all kinds of weird stuff while I’m stroking my cock and feeling her tits and looking at her face and getting hard. Something about Jesus I think. Mostly stuff I can’t remember. Something about how she looks resigned to being fucked tonight. She denies it. I believe her.
When I’m good and ready I do the left/right thing to get between her legs and rub my stiffie on her. It’s going in with no hands tonight. Just a smooth segue.
Or not. It’s not going anywhere, despite my efforts. “Is that the right place?” (How long have we been doing this?) “Is something in the way?” She reaches down and spreads her lips. There it goes. Just a little fuck at first. But every little bit feels nice. Gradually deeper as her lubrication penetrates bit by bit along with my cock. I like it that way. More anticipation. And more satisfaction when we finally grind all the way together, my pubes against hers. And fuck.
“The problem with having me on top is that I always want to go slow.” She’s always liked it fast and hard. I like to savor the fuck, every nuance of feeling as the head of my cock slides between her lips, through the frill at the opening of her pussy, into her depths, the sleeve, the box, the varying amounts of friction, sometimes sticky, sometimes smooth, my shaft pushing deeper into her until I feel the soft yielding of her cervix, feel my breath moving in and out, shudder involuntarily at our mutual . . . mutualness.
“Slow is good.” It’s intimate and bonding. Fancy hug. Everything I like. And . . . “I’m getting there.” “Slow finish?” “It might take a while.” I have to work at keeping the feeling building without losing it. Deep down I don’t want to work that hard. Deep down I want to fuck. I’m going faster. “Are you doing that for me?” “I’m doing it because I want to. I don’t really know why.” Something instinctual I guess.
I keep the speed up right through my orgasm. Variety. It can be almost painful sometimes. And confusing. Am I coming? Of course. Then why does it feel like this? Why do I feel like this? I don’t care. It still feels good. Variety. Anticipation and release in a strange and long-lasting combination that often leaves me wanting more the next morning.
But for now it’s a nice horny weeknight fuck.
Soccer babes are good. River and I used to play together when we met. Now I’d like to paint something on River. She’d look good in a suit like that. I’ve heard stories from women going out in public like that without being noticed, but I’m not sure I believe them. Wouldn’t it be kind of insulting not to be noticed? Maybe they just didn’t notice anybody noticing.
“I’m horny.” “I like that. It’s cute. What do you want to do about it?” “Fuck you.” “Anything in mind?” “A nice weeknight fuck.” “Sounds good.”
I straddle River and we talk about all kinds of weird stuff while I’m stroking my cock and feeling her tits and looking at her face and getting hard. Something about Jesus I think. Mostly stuff I can’t remember. Something about how she looks resigned to being fucked tonight. She denies it. I believe her.
When I’m good and ready I do the left/right thing to get between her legs and rub my stiffie on her. It’s going in with no hands tonight. Just a smooth segue.
Or not. It’s not going anywhere, despite my efforts. “Is that the right place?” (How long have we been doing this?) “Is something in the way?” She reaches down and spreads her lips. There it goes. Just a little fuck at first. But every little bit feels nice. Gradually deeper as her lubrication penetrates bit by bit along with my cock. I like it that way. More anticipation. And more satisfaction when we finally grind all the way together, my pubes against hers. And fuck.
“The problem with having me on top is that I always want to go slow.” She’s always liked it fast and hard. I like to savor the fuck, every nuance of feeling as the head of my cock slides between her lips, through the frill at the opening of her pussy, into her depths, the sleeve, the box, the varying amounts of friction, sometimes sticky, sometimes smooth, my shaft pushing deeper into her until I feel the soft yielding of her cervix, feel my breath moving in and out, shudder involuntarily at our mutual . . . mutualness.
“Slow is good.” It’s intimate and bonding. Fancy hug. Everything I like. And . . . “I’m getting there.” “Slow finish?” “It might take a while.” I have to work at keeping the feeling building without losing it. Deep down I don’t want to work that hard. Deep down I want to fuck. I’m going faster. “Are you doing that for me?” “I’m doing it because I want to. I don’t really know why.” Something instinctual I guess.
I keep the speed up right through my orgasm. Variety. It can be almost painful sometimes. And confusing. Am I coming? Of course. Then why does it feel like this? Why do I feel like this? I don’t care. It still feels good. Variety. Anticipation and release in a strange and long-lasting combination that often leaves me wanting more the next morning.
But for now it’s a nice horny weeknight fuck.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
What am I like?
SophiaX asks, upon reading "In the kitchen": "What are you like ; )".
Maybe I should have an about page that says something like I'm a nice intelligent monogamous guy with kids and the best sweetie ever, who strives, perhaps too hard, to be non-creepy, and how I started blogging after River and I started fucking again after a year and a half dry spell, and remark on how having a sexual renaissance has a way of turning people into bloggers, and say something about being (among other things) a guitar player and a photographer.
Or maybe she wants to know how every little thing River says or does reminds me of sex, much to River's chagrin.
Or maybe she wants to know how mismatched our libidos are.
But I think this little composition of River's that I found in the kitchen a few years ago might be more like what SophiaX is looking for:
Maybe I should have an about page that says something like I'm a nice intelligent monogamous guy with kids and the best sweetie ever, who strives, perhaps too hard, to be non-creepy, and how I started blogging after River and I started fucking again after a year and a half dry spell, and remark on how having a sexual renaissance has a way of turning people into bloggers, and say something about being (among other things) a guitar player and a photographer.
Or maybe she wants to know how every little thing River says or does reminds me of sex, much to River's chagrin.
Or maybe she wants to know how mismatched our libidos are.
But I think this little composition of River's that I found in the kitchen a few years ago might be more like what SophiaX is looking for:
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Homework
River is seeing a physical therapist for some issues concerning her girl parts. They can be somewhat painful after sex, she tells me, especially if she has an orgasm.
Well that explains a lot. I wonder why she didn’t tell me sooner. Like ten years ago. Ok, she probably did, but since it didn’t seem to be an ongoing issue it wasn't something I remembered.
Anyway, she’s got homework this week: have a lot of sex and see what hurts. Sounds good, right? Except if it’s going to hurt, I’m going to have to let her initiate.
Well that explains a lot. I wonder why she didn’t tell me sooner. Like ten years ago. Ok, she probably did, but since it didn’t seem to be an ongoing issue it wasn't something I remembered.
Anyway, she’s got homework this week: have a lot of sex and see what hurts. Sounds good, right? Except if it’s going to hurt, I’m going to have to let her initiate.
Monday, July 9, 2012
In the kitchen
Look what I found in the kitchen this morning!
I hope you know what it made me think of. You may even know what I ask River when things make me think of that:
“Is that a hint?”
Surprisingly, River didn’t come back with her usual answer, some variation on “What isn’t a hint for you?” This time it’s more of a puzzled, “What??”
I can’t believe I have to explain it. But, I guess I do see hers more regularly than she does.
“It’s rather vulvacious.”
“Oh.”
Sigh. That’s what I have to put up with. Of course, she has to put up with me, so in some unfortunate twisted mismatched way I guess we’re even. Lucky for us, we don’t seem to mind too much.
 |
| What does this make you think of? |
I hope you know what it made me think of. You may even know what I ask River when things make me think of that:
“Is that a hint?”
Surprisingly, River didn’t come back with her usual answer, some variation on “What isn’t a hint for you?” This time it’s more of a puzzled, “What??”
I can’t believe I have to explain it. But, I guess I do see hers more regularly than she does.
“It’s rather vulvacious.”
“Oh.”
Sigh. That’s what I have to put up with. Of course, she has to put up with me, so in some unfortunate twisted mismatched way I guess we’re even. Lucky for us, we don’t seem to mind too much.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)