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Today’s Bisexual Thoughts: 17 March 22

17 Mar

First, a Happy Saint Patrick’s Day to those who celebrate it!

Today’s Thoughts are twofold. The first one was a memory of sitting in my eighth-grade geometry class and our teacher calling the role and putting an “O'” before everyone’s last name and declaring that today, we were all Irish, which first confused us, then had all of us laughing. He said, “May the luck of the Irish be with all of you today!”

Then hit us with a surprise test that everybody failed except five of us who passed it (including me and reminding me how much I despised math) and since the majority of the class did poorly, we had to sit through a headache-producing review of the lesson the test was based upon. Not the best Saint Patrick’s Day I can remember.

The second one was all about my gay boyfriend who was obviously and proudly Irish. Even though he was born here, he spoke Gaelic like an Irish native (and probably because of the grandmother who raised him) and had tried to teach it to me and, uh, that didn’t go well but it meant so much for him to offer to teach it to me.

We awoke on Saint Patrick’s Day and he had announced that he had taken the day off from work as the wife and kids got ready to go about their day, leaving me home alone with him and as I sat and pondered where I could go to find a job that wasn’t a temporary one, he took it upon himself to show me how lucky he was on this day to be Irish… and so madly in love with me.

At that point in my life, I’d slept with a lot of men and it wasn’t that “all of them” were slouches or all nervous in the service but none of them could hold a candle to my boyfriend when it came to being sexual and so responsive. He was an amazing human being and an even more amazing lover; he was a cocksucking fiend and to the point and extent that he made me look like I didn’t like doing it and fucking him, wow – when I say that being in him was better than a lot of pussies I’d been in, I’m not exaggerating and there haven’t been that many men I can say that about.

It was a whirlwind of passion and sex and it began the moment I walked into the living room to get something and literally got tackled to the floor so he could get his mouth on me. It happened so fast that I don’t remember “losing” my underwear and I would later think that it was a good thing that I hadn’t gotten completely dressed because when I would have a moment to look for my underwear, they had gotten destroyed.

Hmm. I’ve written before about him and how emotional he was during sex but this day, he wasn’t as emotional as I’d come to expect. More passionate. A sense of urgency combined with a focus so intense that I was wondering if there was something wrong with him. Normally and when we had sex, made love, or just flat out fucked, he was the happiest with me having my way with him but that day? He was having his way with me. In the space of maybe two hours – and don’t quote me on the time because I could have been way off – he sucked me and rode me so many times that all I could do was lie there and let him do whatever he felt like doing while my beleaguered mind was trying to figure out how he was able to make me cum, keep me hard, and do something else to make me cum somewhere in him.

At one point, I had wondered if he had slipped something into my coffee that would account for it but he categorically denied doing something so “underhanded” and I believed him… kinda but the assault on my senses pretty much stuck my ability to think in neutral for the duration.

From time to time, he’d stop ravishing me to tell me how much he loved me and how lucky he was to have found me and blessed that I hadn’t rejected him or his feelings for me. “Being Irish is a good thing, my love!” he proclaimed as he sat astride me for the second or third time and working his ass on my dick and with, again, an intense focus that was starting to bother me because I’d never seen him like this before. While I was kinda/sorta used to seeing him cry copious tears of joy when we had sex, he didn’t shed a single tear this day but it wouldn’t be until I got my first “bathroom break” and got my head somewhat cleared that I would notice that he wasn’t displaying his happiness “as usual.”

Man, he did a number or three or four on me. He would alternate between “taking me” fast and hard and slow and easy. I would realize later in the day that he kept taking me the way he did because he knew that if he had let me off of my back, the table would have turned and he confirmed that there had been method to his madness and admitted that he wouldn’t have been able to do what he had wanted to do. I couldn’t be angry with him although I did let him know that if he had decided to take all of this to his room, um, that would have been better than me lying on the hard-assed floor that the thin carpeting didn’t do much to make any less hard.

Later – and when he’d finally run out of whatever “gas” was driving him – I felt bad having to attend to the rug burns he’d gotten and especially on his knees, which looked like someone had taken a cheese grater to them. “It was worth it,” he said as I busied myself cleaning his “self-inflicted” wounds.

At my first bathroom break, gods – I was a mess. I was covered with his cum and from him riding me and, honestly, I was impressed that he could cum when I fucked him to begin with and even more impressed with the amount of cum he’d wound up shooting all over me as he rode me as if his very life depended on it. I was… miffed because I would have preferred to have his cum in my belly but I was told – and in no uncertain terms – that on this day of Irish luck, I wasn’t going to be lucky to suck his cock at all. Indeed, I let him pin my arms to the floor – I could have easily broken free and he knew that I could – but as the ravishing got going – and I had a few clear seconds of thought – I didn’t know what the hell had gotten into him but, okay, if this is what was going to make him happy…

Yeah, I made the “mistake” later and during my second bathroom break of mentioning that I didn’t know what had gotten into him and he said, “You did, silly!”

I felt… helpless but not really. Being in love with him was… weird in that all I wanted to do was whatever it was that would make him happy but still trying to suss out exactly what that looked like other than the two of us being naked and going for it like wild animals. He had once said, “Just be you; be the man I fell in love with at first sight…” except on this Saint Patrick’s Day, I wasn’t “being me” so much as he took the measure of me and pushed me into a space that was unbelievable then and now.

At one point, I was worried about being hard for as long as he had been doing (and not counting the two times I was “allowed” to go the bathroom) and as he was sucking me – again – I was thinking about what a doctor had told me about how they fixed this very serious problem and even showed me the needle that would be used. Brrr. I didn’t wind up with priapism, thank goodness, but he just had some kind of “magic” going on that when I’d cum, I wouldn’t get all that soft before he’d start working on making me cum again.

It was good. It was scary, too, because I couldn’t figure out where “this guy” had come from. He was always passionate and, again, he loved sucking me off and having me inside of him but this was different. He wasn’t aggressive but more… assertive? than I had seen at this point in our relationship and a hell of a lot more intense, too. He’d be atop me and he’d look at me with those very pretty green eyes and say, “I love so you much…” time and time again.

I’d lost track of time. I can’t tell you how many times I came in his mouth and ass (or, again, how he even managed that trick to begin with). I had realized at one point that when I first went to the bathroom, I could have just gone into his room, climbed into bed, and wait for him but I’d go and retake my place on the floor and he’d begin again. His stamina amazed me. Shit, I was duly impressed with how much cum he was shooting and the science nerd in my head insisted that what I was seeing was impossible but because it obviously wasn’t, the science nerd just shut the fuck up and “sat” with the rest of my ability to think as he kept having his way with me until, suddenly and while once again riding me, he collapsed onto me… and started snoring.

His body was fever hot and as my brain came back online, I noticed that he was no longer sweating and I became very concerned that he was now seriously dehydrated. I got him off of me, checked his pulse and expected to find it racing like the wind… and it wasn’t. I stumbled my way to the bathroom to wet a washcloth with cold water and as I gently – and lovingly – wiped his face with it, he opened his eyes and said, “Hi, lover. God, I love you so much! Shit, my knees hurt!”

Once I was convinced that he was really okay and had tended to his rug burns, oh, yeah – we talked about it because I wanted to know what the hell had gotten into him other than me and how he managed the magic trick he laid on me to keep me hard and cumming over and over. I put it all out there for him to answer and he just smiled and said, “It was the power of my love for you. All of it. Well, except the luck of the Irish that brought you into my life.”

Wait… what kind of answer was that? And, you know what? I didn’t say anything about his non-answer. I blinked. I felt the power of his words and his love for me. I kissed him, told him that I loved him and got in my bed and went immediately to sleep. Upon awakening, god, he “infuriated” me because he was acting like all that had occurred never happened or. to be more accurate, he kept telling me that he didn’t know what I was talking about; nothing “unusual” happened because all we did was have sex, make love, and fucked and it was the best ever so what did I find so unusual about that?

I left it alone. Every time I thought to push the issues that were swarming my mind, he’d just smile at me and “dazzle” me with his green eyes and, again, act like he had no idea what I was talking or even thinking about. I still don’t know what went on with him that day, let alone the “magic tricks” he pulled that had the two of us, combined, spilling a whole lot of sperm.

I’d later talk to my wife about it and, I guess, looking for some sympathy or an explanation or whatever. She listened, would nod every now and then and when I finally ran out of things to say, all she said was, “Well, he obviously loves you, huh?” and said nothing else. I left that alone, too; obviously, I needed answers that I wasn’t going to get. Did I know that he loved me? I did. I could feel his love for me like a comfortable blanket and even intertwined with the love I had for my wife.

Could I explain what happened earlier in the day? Hell, no I couldn’t. I still can’t. Was it some Irish “magic” borne of the day? Fuck if I knew – maybe. The next day? He was back to his usual self when we had sex including him happily crying. I never saw “that side” of him again and, yeah, it just irked me because he had nothing to say about it. He’d shrug. Or just smile. ARRGH!

My wife put it all to bed by saying, “Sometimes, honey, if there’s an answer to something, you don’t need to know it; just accept it for whatever it was and leave it the hell alone.”

So I did. He was, hands down, the best male lover I’ve ever had. I had to come to grip with him being, in today’s terms, a submissive bottom; he didn’t just want to be “the girl” in our relationship – he was the girl and, often, annoyingly so. The sex we would have was… stellar but what being in love with him taught me outshone the passion and raw lust we’d both display with each other.

Ya know, you get used to how a woman can love you; how she can be affectionate with you and, yeah, how she can get on your last good nerve at times. I can admit to myself that despite all of my prior experiences with guys, none of them had prepared me to deal with him emotionally or physically. Did I know effeminate gay guys? I did but knowing them also hadn’t prepared me to deal with him and his very powerful love for me. Yeah, it had exposed some flaws in me that I hadn’t known existed and flaws that being so very much in love with him got rid of while making me seriously question what I thought I knew.

It just fucked me up having to learn how to take what it’s like to be in love with a woman and “applying it” to being in love with a man. I’d get un-fucked but that’s not the point as much as what the power of love can bring to the table and that love is unconditional and driven by “normal” manly lust and, shit, yeah, he was seriously lusty. I’d sometimes watch him blow me and he would be so focused on it; so very much into it and, yeah, so happy that I had to get used to him blowing me and crying at the same time. It hadn’t “made sense” but I hadn’t known or understood just how happy someone could be and how much joy could be felt. I knew that about myself as a cocksucker but he “took me to school” on that one and, indeed, changed the way I go about sucking dick.

He could bring out a level of passion and lust that I learned I was keeping in check. He made me want to screw him and maybe you know what I mean by that. Whether it was “low and slow” or “fast and hard,” I would feel… compelled to screw him and, sometimes, even when I didn’t “feel” like it. His eyes. His smile. The way he moved. I could do one of his “numbers” and just pounce on him and get my dick into him and he loved it. I would feel bad about taking him like that and on top of not understanding why I wanted to when, before I laid eyes on him, I wasn’t even thinking about having sex with him. He never “complained” about it. He reveled in it and in way that it took me decades to be able to understand and, nope, can’t even explain it but I know it and still feel it in my heart and soul.

He’d sometimes say, “Ooh, look at you being the man I love!” and I admit that it took me some time to figure out what he meant by that but all I had to do was think about how he responded to me screwing him and, yeah, he taught me that if you’re going to enjoy being screwed, enjoy the fuck out of it – and he most certainly did. I understood him… and I didn’t. He was way outside of my experiences with men but, oddly, when I’d think about the girl he was, he made perfectly good sense but, yeah, it’s hard to think of a guy who does guy things like shave and all that in terms that apply to women but I found that I could. I’d see the man that he was… and the girl that he was, too. My wife would laugh her ass off at me whenever I tried to make sense of this and like I really didn’t know what was going on and I wasn’t sure that I really did at times.

It wasn’t about him being a very effeminate gay man; it was about him being… him. His ability to let his love show unfettered. We’d just be sitting and talking or whatever and he’d say, “I love the way you love me…” and if I weren’t already baffled over the fact that I was in love with him, well, saying this didn’t “help” matters because I couldn’t get my head around how I loved him, you know, other than having mad crazy sex with him. I had asked him about that and he just said, “It’s you being you and I love the you that you are.”

Yep, that was helpful, wasn’t it? I think back to that Saint Patrick’s Day that took place so very long ago now and can see how deep his love for me really went. The lust, well, it was always there but what happened that day, and no matter how strange it was to me, wasn’t about lust. It was about love. Raw and pure and to the extent that I saw him a way I’d never seen before and, yes, it scared me. Okay, sure – I’d had guys just take me like they owned me but this? This was different and in ways I still can’t put into words other than to keep saying that he was so intense and focused showing me how much he really and truly loved me. Yeah, they say that you shouldn’t use sex to prove that you love someone but that’s what he did that day and it took me a long time to figure that out.

He changed my perceptions about being in love, too. It wasn’t impossible to fall in love with a guy and because it was possible, it wasn’t really about being bi or gay or however one identifies in these things: It was 100% about being in love with someone because they were who they were. Not “what are you gonna do for me?” or anything like that; that day, it was him showing me, “This is how much I love you…” and wow. Did he ever! It just bugged the shit out of me that he was so… blaze about it. LIke it was no big deal even though it was, at the time, the biggest deal in my life.

Here’s the thing. It would be a whole lot of years before I’d come across a woman who not only made me feel the same way he did, but who loved me unconditionally and despite the fact that we were both very married. The day we consummated our love and very forbidden relationship? I made love to her for five straight hours and my dick stayed hard the whole time. Something about her made me want to keep making love to her even when I was aware that I had pushed her past her limits and to the point where she told me that she couldn’t take anymore – and I was still hard and ready to keep right on giving her more. God, I loved her so much and I still do but, later that day and as I sat and wondered what the fuck just happened, it clicked in my head that what the two of us had done wasn’t all that different from a long-past Saint Patrick’s Day spent with a man who I also love so very much… and his love for me eclipsed the love I had for him.

The moment I realized it, all I could was say to myself, “Huh.” I got it. Sure, it was lust and all of that but lust that was driven by the full power that love can bring to the table. When I talked to her later, she had said, “If I had any doubts about whether you really loved me or not, you most certainly put them to bed! Telling me wasn’t enough and you had to prove it to me and, by God, you did. I still hate the way you make me feel…”

It’s something that anyone can experience if they’re open to experiencing it but as a bisexual, I got a “double dose” of what it means to be in love with someone and being loved by them. Not specific stuff like having mad crazy sex or doing other things but feeling the power of love inside of you like the thunderstorm to end all thunderstorms. Loving for real. I found out about that by being in love with an amazing guy; then got reminded and re-schooled with a woman. It’s not about what love is supposed to be like; it’s about… love just is. It’s like, shit, how can I explain it… it’s like that first time you fall in love with someone… but it never wears off or gets dulled or blunted by anything. Every day is like that very first day. There’s no need to say, “I love you!” and you don’t need to be told that they love you because you damned well know it; you feel it. It’s as much a part of you as an arm or a leg is.

That day, I felt the power of his love and through the incredible sex we had, I saw him. I felt him deep within me and I still do even as I’m writing this. There’s “I love you” and then there’s “I love you” and, yeah, it’s different. Powerful. Without question or doubt. Truly unconditional. Holy shit. I never really thought or believed that I would feel love like this then I did. Felt it again, too, and to that end, I consider myself to – wait for it – be lucky to have experienced love that strong and powerful.

Now, you might wonder if I felt… weird about loving him and my wife… and I didn’t. I loved them both even as I was learning to understand that I did so “differently” but that was because they were different people… but love was the constant. It just was… and it took falling in love with a man – and being surprisingly ravished by him – for me to be able to understand it the way I do. It’s loving without being “afraid” to love; it’s forgetting all of the times someone crushed the shit out of your heart and soul because the power of the love being experienced just makes you forget those awful moments. You’re either going to be “all in” or you’re going to be… reserved. Guarded. Thinking about all of those time when you dared to love and got burned, crushed, and just thrown away. Letting those moments make you afraid to love or to love with conditions attached.

Putting you in that frame of mind that makes you say or thing, “I love you…” but there’s an unspoken “but” attached and whatever that happens to be. It is insane to experience love like this and finding out that there’s no “making sense” of it and I often think that if I weren’t bisexual, I would have never experience it the way I did with both a man and a woman… but first with a man who was, by his own admission, “all girl.”

Amazing. Unforgettable. I understand how and why we can love someone and in whatever way or “reason” we do; I understand how love can wind up being diminished, blunted, and even subdued because we just have reason to protect ourselves against those moments when love turns into something other than what we want, think, feel, or need it to be. And then, there’s being exposed to love in a way that just stays with you for the rest of your days. Unfettered. Unconditional. And, yes, unashamedly lusty as all get out. Sex, as it turns out, is the “best” way that love uses to speak to us but, yeah, we want proof of love without sex and if there really is a way to prove it, I’ve never learned what that might be and, no, “the little things” don’t always lend itself to proof of love and that’s something I think we all find out.

There’s love the way we think it’s supposed to be for us… and then there’s love that defies all of that and just changes the way you think and feel about it… and it can be pretty scary, to be honest about it. I’ve experienced it and it still scares me but in a very good way.

 
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Posted by on 17 March 2022 in Today's Bisexual Thoughts

 

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