" I was not a good woman. I had too many other things to do. "

So my boyfriend at the time was fucking me (f28) from behind and there was lube everywhere. We've had fun, flirty conversations about anal sex, but I wasn't going to let his cock anywhere near my butt (he was a little on the girthy side, yay me!). I don't say anything, though, when his thumb starts to massage me there as I was caught up in my own world (did I mention he was girthy?). He then proceeds to jam his thumb into my ass and of course I jerk away from the intrusion, but his other hand was already gripping my shoulders (as men do) and for a split second he rode me like a bucking bronco, holding himself in me while I tried to jerk away. Of course he let go as soon as he realized what was going on. There were tears and apologies. I'm not dating him any more, not because of what happened. There's a long story in there somewhere.

Since then, I've though about that moment a lot. And, I have to admit, it makes me wet. I've rolled the scene in my masturbatory rolodex. Not because I'm curious about anal sex. I can just feel his hand on my shoulder, holding me still, like a rein, to reuse the horse metaphor. As I tried to pull away, he held me fast. The feeling was just . . . physical? Visceral? It turns my world a little sideways when I revisit the moment.

Now that the weather has started to turn, I'm starting to remember why I enjoy wearing nylons so much. My legs are the only part of my body I have no complaints about and they make them look even better. Accentuating all of the work I've put in on leg day. And they are honestly one of the few items of clothing that I can stray from the corporate norm without drawing too much attention. At least from HR.

Polka Dots. Colors. Denier. Seams. And that's only what people can see!

Panty hose, knee high, thigh high, stay-ups, stockings.

So much choice for the world and for me.

I love how they feel on my legs. I still experience a rush electricity every time I pull a pair on, even on the dreariest, darkest, earliest Monday morning.

But most of all I love their effect on men. Who knew that such a simple piece of clothing, exposed just so, could lead so quickly to the rest of your clothes being ripped off, your ankles pushed to your ears and getting fucked to within an inch of your life?

I'm not talking hard-core foot fetishists who want to sniff your stockinged feet after a long day of work baking within a pair of Just Kates; who want your dainty nylon encased feet rubbed all over their faces, breathing in the aroma and then rubbing them lovingly against their cocks until they spurt their reward all over your prized Wolfords. Those boys are a new discovery for me, and I must say . . . love them.

I'm not really close with my mother. It still hurts to say this. To face this reality. She would have been the perfect bulwark against the tyranny of my father, but in the end that was Rob. Rob had big shoulders and he needed them. I may well have been stomped into the ground if it weren't for him. I always wondered if I would have turned out different if I had had a more "traditional" mother. Someone who had a deep unconditional love for her children. A "mama-bear" type who would be there for her progeny through thick and thin. I guess Rob was that in my formative years.

Then it was probably Anna's mom. She must have realized that I was missing something. It wasn't like I was being abused, but I just never had anyone show up for me in "those" moments. There was always a gala, an exhibit opening, a dinner party . . . something more important. Anna's mom was there for me when I had my first period, giving me my first pad, and just being "there" for me. I didn't want to tell MY mom because I felt weak and dirty and didn't want to see the disappointment in her eyes.

Then it was the Ex's mom. It still feel overwhelming guilt about what I had to do to her. To her son. I was the daughter she never had and of course she was my surrogate mother.

Now I have a group of mothers. There's Amanda. There's Chloe. There's Sergio and David. A team of people who fill that hole in my life with unconditional love, support, and plenty and plenty of advice. So I do have someone to celebrate on Mothers' Day. It just so happens that someone isn't ONE person, but a gaggle.

I'm exhausted. I had a fair amount of sleep last night, but I'm still a little zonked. The cramps are getting to be a bit much. I've actually got some pitch wrap stuff to do.

AND I have a date tonight.

I'm thinking about canceling. It's not like I'm even entertaining the idea of relations with this boy, but I'm just not feeling . . . ON. It's actually a friend of Anna's and he sounds like a nice boy. Considering the boys I've entertained recently, perhaps this is exactly what I need? It just feels like such bad timing. And honestly, Gymbro has my head all screwed up, I don't know what's up or down.

I just want to sit in my PJ's and watch One Day and bawl.

Attractive.

It's now the third time that I've had to work through the night on a deal in my lifetime at this bank. The only reason I'm even home right now is to shower and change. My spare nylons at work had a run in them and my "break in case of emergency" blouse has already been worn. And to top it off, my cramps have been horrendous. A perfect storm. I think I'm going to wear a burlap bag back to work. "Dress how you feel" they say!

Still so many thoughts whirling in my head, but I've been thankful for the work distraction. Just me, an analyst, my MD and my financial models. A perfect foursome for this, admittedly, confusing time.

I think.

I skipped my regular Stronger class on Tuesday. I just wasn't feeling it honestly. Work has been a bear, so that's the easy excuse. But really, there are just too many odd connections to that class now that I'm going to need some time to get over.

I just don't know if I can look any of the regulars in the face after what me and Gymbro did. I became one of those gym bunnies that me and the other OG's roll our eyes at whenever they invade our class. The bouncy tarted up gym influencers with their brand new TikTok miracle tights that come in hoards to "audit" Gymbro's class and I'm sure end up fucking him, the way Gymbro used to devour them with his eyes. I'm blushing even now typing this up. I became one of them. I fucked Gymbro (or more correctly, he fucked me). TWICE. We left together loudly after his little going away get-together, but there's no way they would assume that we ended up fucking after we left, could they?

Sadie texted me to get in touch with Camera Boy now that Paris Fashion Week is over. This is a crazy idea. I am 100% certain this isn't a power move on his part, so if it isn't, what would be the point for him? And for me?

Father, per tradition, has reached out that he's secured Opening Day tickets for us. It's the only thing that we have together since Rob has never been a baseball fan. It's been a tradition that we've had since I've been a little girl. I'd while the time away scoring the game with my little box score while he attempted to close one deal or another over the phone. I don't think we ever said two words to each other. At least he could say he was physically there. I still keep score, but he now peppers our time together with inane small talk and the usual criticism and disappointment with my life. I'm quite looking forward to it, actually.

So this is a new one. I'm sitting in my desk in my office. Regular work attire (e.g., skirt, blouse, heels) and a disembodied voice tells me to get on my knees. I don't think it's a strange request, so I get up and settle on my knees in the middle of my office.

The voice then begins to issue random commands, which start to escalate quickly. First it's take my blouse off. Then my shoes. Then my skirt, until I'm only in my bra and panties. I don't hesitate to perform any of the tasks. Although I'm mortified to be naked in my office, I feel a certain sense of satisfaction in completing each of the tasks. I can feel everyone's eyes on me as my office isn't really private. The eyes only serve to galvanize me. It has given me a certain sense of pride to complete these tasks.

I went back.

I tried to think of a million reasons not to, but in the end "I just wanted to" was reason enough.

He's not my type. He's arrogant. He isn't that bright. He's inconsiderate. He was leaving the city forever.

But I still called him. And he knew what I wanted. What I needed.

I was giddy through my dinner with Amanda. And she noticed. She also noticed I was a little more dressed up than I normally would have been. Still fashionable. Still respectable. But Amanda saw right through me.

He answered the door in gym shorts and a ripped muscle shirt. He didn't even fucking try to clean up. It was almost a deal breaker for me, but he pulled me into his apartment and I immediately felt that rush of excitement, that surge of . . . I don't know . . . arousal? Again, I felt small and delicate in contrast to his bulk. His big hands grasped my arms and I immediately went back to the last time. His knowing smirk infuriated me, but deep down turned me on even more.

I tried to remain more assertive. More me. But it was just not meant to be. I was immediately pressed up against the wall and his hands explored me over my clothes. GOD I love his hands. They were so strong and brooked no argument. On my breasts. On my ass. Rubbing me over my thong, not even bothering to lift my skirt up. Possessive.

I tried to keep up, grabbing his length through his flimsy gym shorts. Trying to even out the score. His deep growl reverberated through my head, eating away at something deep inside me. I felt him pushing down on my hips and my shoulder. It took me a second. I thought he was breaking away. But as the realization dawned on me, a switch flicked. I paused, gave him a wink and sunk to my knees.

I've never been on my knees in front of someone like this before. As many blowjobs as I've given, this just wasn't a position I've ever entertained before. The opportunity to be in this position just never presented itself. It felt a little demeaning, honestly. Awkward. The position speaking volumes about a power dynamic. One position a dominant one and another a servicing position. A submissive position. My head filled with emotions not all bad, mind you. I was out of my head with arousal though. Here I was, my back up against a wall, teetering on my heels, pulling his shorts down to his ankles. There was only one next step.

Like everything with Jackass Gymbro there was no ceremony. His cock filled my mouth immediately and there was no stopping him. I tried to stay in control. Tried to manage his depth. But he used my mouth with no delicacy, with no tenderness. I gagged. Tried to remain calm. Present. While his cock filled my mouth and throat aggressively, I tried to pull away a little, but the wall behind me stopped me short. Tears started to fill my eyes, but I wasn't going to break. This wasn't a contest I was going to lose.

Just as I was getting the hang of it, he pulled himself from my mouth and he lifted me up gruffly and we kissed and stumbled towards what I thought was his bedroom. Halfway there, he spun me roughly and I balanced myself on his kitchen counter. He then squatted down and ripped my tights off. I heard the expensive nylon tearing and I remember attempting to turn to ream him out for ripping my favourite pair, but all I heard was an animalistic growl and felt myself pushed to the cold tile of his kitchen island. I yelped at the shock of it all . . . the force, the cold, his strength, but then the passion as his long, flat tongue, his fingers and his mouth forced me open from behind and he devoured me. This beast was exploring every part of me . . . his tongue entered me, teased me, tantalized me with arousal. Even as his fingers, one finger at first, then two, then three . . . overwhelmed me with different sensations. The flat of his tongue, circling, his fingers thrusting, then his thumb, my god his thumb. Then, with one motion he lifted one of my legs onto the counter, holding me open even wider so he could attack me even harder. And I fucking came. And I was not quiet about it.

He gave me a second of respite. I remember the cold tile against my flushed face. I remember trying to rise, perhaps to move to the bed where it was a little more comfortable. But he just growled. A guttural, low growl that spoke volumes. He pushed me back down onto the tile and gripped my thigh and my hips as if to secure me in place. I acquiesced quietly, just wanting more, but attempted to lift a little from the counter to be a little less strained. He was having NONE of it. I felt my hands being pulled from the counter, as I was pushed unceremoniously down on my face, and he held them in the small of my back. I was totally cowed. Totally made to submit. My mind howled some wordless scream, as he took the opportunity to enter me in my moment of weakness. And that scream turned to a moan of passion, desire . . . a realization of a helplessness against his strength that made my stomach drop to my knees and my mind go blank.

And then the thrusting. The sweet friction sending soaring waves of pleasure emanating from my core, outwards. I could feel every part of my body . . . his big hands holding my wrists to my back . . . the ache of my leg that was hiked up on the counter to provide him better access . . . the other leg stretching to find purchase on the floor, my pump long lost . . . .

We never made it to the bed like I wanted. He had me for ages on the counter. Then he effortlessly lifted me up and let gravity lower me down onto him. I was up against the wall at one point. Then on all fours on the floor, my skirt hiked obscenely all the way up to my hips. He spanked me in this position and I just moaned, my mind not knowing what was up and what was down. I remember the burn against my knees, now exposed since my tights were ripped to shreds. Then I was on my stomach pushed down to a prone position, now just hunching along with his powerful thrusts, my mind just scrambled, wires crossed, not knowing how to even react any more.

And then it was done. Again, he finished on my back.

The tidal wave of passion, desire and arousal, just as quickly left my body and only the detritus was left to clean up. My tights were a write off. That was a mistake I won't make again. And my blazer was still near the door where I dropped it.

I was a bit at a loss in the moment, not knowing what to expect. Not knowing what I wanted next. Last time we just lay there. Breathless. But this time, I sensed no empathy. No lingering . . . anything. So just I left. I took my shredded tights off, cleaned up as best as I could, found my shoes and blazer and purse, pecked him on the lips and bade him farewell. For good. He seemed non-plussed and was in no hurry to stop me.

I'm not going to lie. Aside from the bumps and bruises, I felt a little raw. It felt like we shared something really visceral. Not emotional, but a shared vulnerability, a connection over something private that was quickly severed and . . . unacknowledged?

I knew what I wanted when I went over there. I knew that this was not going to go anywhere beyond tonight. I called him for fuck's sake. But I couldn't stop myself from feeling . . . not used. Empty? Not that I wanted a relationship with this jackass, but what we just shared pushed a lot of buttons that had never been pushed before and I was feeling . . . vulnerable?

I'm feeling really raw right now and I'm not really sure why.

Well, honestly, I don't have to stretch too far to figure out the inciting moment. But the "why" of it. I thought I was ready to explore a little. Try some things out. And write about it to try and exorcise some demons. But today, I'm feeling I'm all demons.

I may have lost myself in the moment. Amanda at dinner last night knew it, but she was kind enough not to be offended. She seemed even happy for me. Happy for me that I was excited. Not knowing, though, the extent of what I was up to. The problem is, I did enjoy myself. I was very present in the moment, and enjoyed every minute of it. But I may have unlocked something that perhaps I'm not ready for. Or not able to articulate.

I felt bold and adventurous when I called him. It felt like the right path to walk. The road never traveled. He seemed almost like he was expecting me to call and made no effort to hide it. That fucker. And I was butterflies all day. I wore pretty patterned tights that l though accentuated my legs for him. A short skirt, sweater and oversized blazer. Not that it really mattered in the end. My tights were ruined in a fit of passion. Never going to waste Wolfords like that again.

I cried after. Thank god I was able to leave first. I felt so vulnerable. Not that he took advantage of me, or forced me, or coerced me. I called him. And I was open to everything we did. I guess I just couldn't process everything. Not the emotions. But yes, the emotions. But more the implications. I didn't want him to see might like that. I didn't want him to think it was about him because it wasn't. He's off on a plane tomorrow and good riddance I say. But now I'm left with this mess to deal with and I don't know where it's all coming from and where it's going.

Chloe and I went to a spa "club" today. It was perfectly timed as I just needed some time to unpack. Of course, I unloaded everything on her. Everything that I could articulate at least. There we sat in our robes and slippers lying on a super comfy couch together and I unloaded my sex life on her. She admitted that Trevor is much bigger than her (thank god she didn't see me blush and look away . . . I know girlfriend . . . I've heard you), but his size always made her feel safe. Protected. It was never a dissonant part of their lovemaking. The contrast was never something they explored. It was just his ying, to her yang. I hate those two sometimes. Now I feel like a deviant. We laughed though. I needed that at least. And a massage. And multiple heated rooms. And sitting in a pool.

Iris Apfel died on Friday. It was her glasses that drew me to her. Like Anna Wintour's hair. Iconic. I never saw myself in her style, but like fashion and art, she inspired me. I wear a lot of navy, black and gray to work, but always with a splash of colour, or jewelry that stands out. When I was younger I enjoyed mimicking her style layering. Mixing designer pieces with vintage store finds. I was never going to be as bold as her, but she always extolled the idea of finding your own style path; to take risks.

Well, these risks have, so far, have left me all demons.

More is more and less is a bore.