I need you to tell me that you value our friendship and that I mean something to you. That I’m more than a workmate and more than just one of those meaningless interns you have hooked up with. I’m vocal and open about my feelings, everyone knows that. I adore you, you are like a brother, someone who knows me better than most. Over the past few years you have shone a light on parts of myself I didn’t even know were there, parts that have gone on to become integral and essential parts of who I am today. I’d do anything for you and you know it.
I need you to tell me how you feel, tell me that our friendship means something to you because as you’ve never said the words, my shitty self worth and ability to spiral things out of control means that I don’t think you care about me and that I don’t mean anything to you. It’s not that you’ve ever done anything to make me feel this way, it’s because my head is a shitty, dark place that some times my fears and my self doubt get the best of me. It’s why when I freak out and have a panic attack I get needy and clingy – it’s because I get desperate for something to make me feel validated. If I provoke you and start an argument at least I feel like you are acknowledging me. It’s the same reason I get jealous and pissy at you over stupid things (like when you comment on the other girls we work with) – because you don’t explicitly say that I mean anything to you, my stupid fears get the better of me and tell me that you don’t care about me because I’m worthless and nobody would like me anyway, and your saying thing these things about others just proves it.
It’s not that your actions don’t say it, it is that because I am the way that I am, I need to hear the words. I need you to give me a hug and hold me and tell me that you care about me.
When I started my job I hit off with B straight away. We work in a pretty social environment, where after- and outside of work socialising is encouraged, so it was only natural that we became friends. About a year after working together, he encouraged us and his wife, S, and I became friends. I spent time with them and their kids, went out partying with them and things were great.
In the background, all along, B and I shared a connection over our mutual interest in BDSM and kink. There was the odd fooling around while drunk, but essentially B and I became like brother and sister. That was until S became pregnant with their third child. B started pulling away and even though we see each other at work, our friendship drifted onto the back burner.
Recently they have been having issues in their marriage – he wants to explore sexually, and with other people, and she is feeling pregnant, emotional and insecure so there have been arguments and tears and silent treatment. B and I started talking about it (we share some kinks, and sometimes you need to talk to someone who “gets” it) and the shit hit the fan. She knew we were talking about their sex life and completely ignored me for a week (refusing to even message and thank me for their daughter’s birthday present – B thanked me and when I asked if S liked it, he admitted to that me she was upset with me and made him say thanks because she didn’t want to speak to me).
Things came to a head today when she text me because B had obviously told her that she is putting up walls and he can’t talk to her, so that is why he has been talking to me. I said all the things I thought I should (he just needed someone to talk to who would understand, he’s been there for me in the past, I only ever wanted to help and would hate to think I had done the wrong thing, etc, etc). I thought everything was all good and well, so I text B and said that I hoped talking to S was the right thing to do, and that I hoped I didn’t say the wrong thing. We talked about some other stuff (he was out and hadn’t spoken to her) and later, this evening, I text to ask him if they had spoken because I would hate to have said the wrong thing. Well, apparently I did, because I get a text not long after from S saying that they have family staying so haven’t had the chance to talk and that they need some time to themselves so could I please stop texting him.
So here I am, Sunday night, feeling like shit and upset because I was trying to help my friend (B) and I end up being made to feel like I’m interfering and causing problems. I know S is pregnant and emotional, and maybe if she wasn’t things wouldn’t have gone down this way, but I’m now the one who is apologising and feeling like I’ve done something wrong.
Fuck being friends with couples, you only ever get caught in the middle of their shit and end up feeling like you are the one doing something wrong.
[I could really do with a hug, even a virtual one].
The worst thing about an unwanted pregnancy is that despite the fact that you make the decision to terminate and process it mentally and emotionally, your body doesn’t understand this and instead continues along as if you are thrilled with the news.
When I took the test, five days after my period was due, I did so because I was convinced that the test would show negative and I could stop stressing needlessly. It only took moments for the two pink lines to appear and announce that I was pregnant. I knew who it was straight away – I had only slept with one person, on one occasion, in the past few months and they were out of the picture; this was my decision, and mine alone, to make. Even before the two lines appeared I knew what my decision would be – I’ve never wanted children (hell, I don’t even like other people’s children), I’m single, barely able to look after myself and only two days previous had made the decision to move countries at the start of next year to further my career.
Although I am lucky enough to live in a country where abortion is legal and accessible, going through the public health system would take weeks. I was even luckier to be in a position to have the procedure done privately.
Despite being only four weeks pregnant, I was already suffering horrendous morning sickness – I was constantly nauseous, everything smelt disgusting and my boobs hurt whenever I moved. Mentally and emotionally I was comfortable with my decision but my body constantly betrayed me, reminding me of what was going on and the situation I had got myself in to. Going privately was not cheap by any stretch of the imagination, but waiting another four weeks to go through the public system would mean another four weeks of feeling like death and trying to hide it from my family and co-workers. Nine days (from positive test to the procedure) was miserable, four weeks would have been an unbearable.
When I arrived at the clinic on the day of the procedure I was signed in and settled into a private room where the charge nurse came and interviewed me. She was kind and understanding, and although I had to justify my decision (to satisfy the legal requirements of a termination) I never felt judged or pressured. Once she had taken my medical history, explained the procedure and recovery, I was free for an hour before meeting with the consulting doctor.
I left the clinic and walked the city. When I returned I was taken to meet the first of two doctors; the doctor asked me the same questions as the nurse – why had I made the decision to terminate, did I have any doubts, was I aware of what the procedure entailed. After signing off her consent for the procedure to go ahead (again to satisfy legal requirements) I was taken to see the second doctor. This was also the doctor who would perform the operation and while she questioned me a nurse inserted a needle into my arm. Satisfied with my answers, the doctor once again asked if I had any hesitations (no) and had me take three pills – a sedative to calm and relax and two pills which would help soften the cervix and cause me to start bleeding. After being returned to and spending another half hour in my room, I was changed into a gown and taken theatre. The room wasn’t quite like other operating theatres – although it was bright and clean, it felt friendlier and less sterile.
By this point I was feeling light headed and woozy, the nurse helped me onto a bed and I was introduced to another nurse who put my feet in stirrups. The nurse connected the needle in my arm to a drip and I began to feel even more dozy and light headed. Once the new nurse had removed my underwear the doctor came into the room and begun. Despite the pain relief and sedative the procedure itself was uncomfortable and at times painful; the nurses and doctor talked to me and among themselves and when everything was over the nurse took me back to my room. I was dizzy and feeling ill from the anesthetic, the nurse had to help me to the bathroom to be sick because I was unable to get myself there unsupported.
After spending another hour or so in the room, I was allowed to leave.
When I was leaving the nurse explained my aftercare and told me that because I was only just on six weeks pregnant it was no more than a blood clot, less than 4mm in length. I woke up the next day, cramping and sore, but feeling positive and ready to move forward.
When I got a message online from M – someone I hadn’t spoken to before – asking if I was interested in coming to an “adult party” I sent a half-hearted reply expecting it to a case of all talk, no action.
To my surprise I received a message back the following day with details of who was holding the party (a woman named J), the guests (the host, a couple of her regular male partners (of which M was one), a couple and myself) and the basic premise (Saturday evening, a few drinks and we’d see where the night went).
J answered the door on my arrival wearing a tight, above-the-knee dress which zipped up the front, her breasts shamelessly spilling over the top. She explained that due to unforeseen circumstances the couple who were to join us were not going to be coming but there were three single men coming and we laughed about the fact that they were all running late.
Waiting for the other guests to arrive, J showed me to the kitchen and over a wine she told me about the other guests. It wasn’t long before two of the guests arrived. S was in his early 50’s, European and a great conversationalist (a huge turn-on in my books). In his mid-20’s, R was a sports buff and had the body to show for it.
We spent the early part of the evening sitting around the living room, chatting over a few drinks. As we chatted J had been receiving messages from a young guy she had met a few times and who said he would be keen to join. Given that he was only 19 and in the past had “cum in ten minutes, obviously felt uncomfortable and hurried off” we were all surprised when he turned up on the doorstep. Shortly after his arrival, realising that the rest of us had been talking for a few hours, J joked that we all knew what we were there for, so we may as well get down to business. After debating logistics (and the fact that the bedroom was cold) the mattress from the spare bed was dragged into the centre of the lounge.
Returning from the bathroom, I found things were well underway. Her dress unzipped and tossed aside, J was kneeling in her lingerie and thigh high stockings between S and the 19 year old. With M behind me, massaging my shoulders and kissing my neck, I watched as she unzipped S’ pants, sliding them down his legs and pulling down his underwear to reveal his already swelling cock. Using one hand to stroke S’ cock, J turned to the 19 year old who had already removed his pants. Leaning in, she took the length of his semi-erect cock into her mouth and began sucking with abandon. Alternating between the two men, J worked both cocks with her hands and mouth, moaning with obvious pleasure and enthusiasm.
While she was focused on the younger man’s cock, S leaned over and removed her bra, allowing J’s breasts to swing free and causing her large dark nipples to harden. S guided her back onto the mattress while the 19 year old pulled down her g-string to reveal a full but groomed, dark bush of hair. With J kneeling in front of him, S stroked his cock briefly before J lent in and began sucking him again. Between her legs, the 19 year old began to slide his fingers into her obviously wet pussy, causing J to moan deeply, the vibrations reverberating around the cock deep in her throat.
Even though it doesn’t really fit with the theme of this blog, I wanted to share something I wrote for another website about my drinking. I find it much harder to be honest about my relationship with alcohol than I do with any of my writing about sex.
Today marks the end of week fourteen of being sober.
Rock bottom was ugly; it was confronting and painful and forced me to look at myself in a way that required honesty and facing some fucking hard truths. Living in a culture where sociability centres around alcohol consumption makes the decision to give it up a difficult one, not because it is a difficult decision to make – it’s one I had no choice but to make – but constantly fighting the urge to drink is hard enough without being surrounded by the belief that getting drunk is Friday night “norm”.
I was always able to tell myself that I didn’t have a problem with alcohol because I wasn’t dependent on it – I could go weeks without a drink!
What I couldn’t, or maybe wouldn’t, acknowledge was that when I did drink, how I was drinking was a problem.
You remember that ad from a few years ago? “It’s not the drinking, it’s how we are drinking”? Yeah. I was the poster girl for that. And then there was that ad about not bringing your friends when you are drinking? In moments of rare honesty about my drinking, I was genuinely scared that someone was going to confront me and use that line – there’s “make a move on anyone and everyone” Kelly, “spend all the money in your savings account and have no idea where it went” Kelly, “fall over and make a scene of yourself” Kelly…
What it came down to in the end was sitting in my car in the car park at work one innocuous Tuesday morning heaving and sobbing because the self-loathing I felt after a weekend of drinking was so horrendous I was suicidal. I hated myself, I hated the lack of control I felt around alcohol and more than anything I hated having to face my behaviour and actions after I had been drinking.
As I sat in my car feeling physically ill and scared of my own thoughts, I realised that I had to stop, I couldn’t keep doing this. All I knew was that I never, ever, wanted to feel like this again, and in admitting that to myself, I had to admit that my drinking was a problem.
I have been a little MIA lately thanks to work (unfortunately not due to something more adventurous) but thought I would drop a quick line as I am headed to my first sex party tonight. Talking to the host earlier today it looks to be three women and seven men (my kinda odds!) and although I will confess to being rather nervous, I’m also incredibly excited.
Stories of debauchery to follow, no doubt!