just bad timing

Tag: women

  • Book Two, Chapter Four — The Doorway

    October 11th, 2018.

    I went to work full of energy and exhausted all the same. It was a cold, long night-shoot but I powered through. On my way home at 6am, I texted Mystery Man. “I’m just getting home now. So tired, but can’t sleep. Don’t know what to do with myself.” He answered two hours later, while I was asleep, saying: “Damn, I missed my potential morning BJ?”

    I woke up to read those words around 11am, because my body was like “Daytime BITCH!” I sent him a video of me rolling around in bed naked as a response, because I’m classy like that.

    MM: Mmmmmmmmmm

    C: Hehe come help 😉

    MM: I wish.. Running around all day with meetings. I do want to walk in on you… I want no cock play from you.. I want to walk in and lick your pussy while you watch porn. Mmmm

    C: Mmmm.

    Also, WHAT!?!? This is his fantasy?? Have I won the lottery or what??

    After a few more wordy messages pertaining to all kinds of voyeuristic scenarios, he finally sent:

    MM: So…. How would I get in while you’re in bed?”

    Tingles.

    After exchanging some logistical messages, I was already wet as fuck.

    MM: Send me your address… and quite possible around 12.15-12.30pm something may happen.

    ***

    I put on Erika Lust’s XConfessions Vol. 15 and some loud music. I faced away from the door, as instructed. While I was enthralled by a group scene, I moved to get my womanizer more on point and in that swift motion caught a large shadow in my doorway from the corner of my eye. I swear I didn’t hear him come in at all, just as he had hoped. As soon as my brain registered his presence, my heartbeat accelerated to unprecedented speeds. He walked up to me, and knelt at my bedside. His large hands softly caressed my body, from my neck to my toes.

    “By the way, your neighbours can totally hear every noise coming from here. I could hear you while I stood outside, enjoying the anticipation.”

    Shit. I turned up the music, turned down the porn, and couldn’t give less of a fuck about my moans… I buried my head in a pillow, and propped up my ass. He dove in head first. I couldn’t quite decipher what was hands, what was tongue, what was vibrator… He played as a child given the keys to the castle. I have used the expression worshipping sexually before, but I think this, this was my first real worship. I wanted to explode. My body was entirely convulsing, while his hands kept my thighs from choking him. His fingers went in and around, while his mouth danced around my vulva.

    When I eventually signalled that I couldn’t take it anymore, lying there in a puddle of myself, he licked his lips, and stroked my ass and thighs for a few minutes, before getting off his knees, and turning for the door. I hesitated, unsure of my ability to follow his rules and even more unsure of my legs’ ability to function. Nevertheless, I caught up just before he opened the front door to French kiss the shit out of his face. I wanted so badly to give back, I wanted so badly to suck his dick and make him cum the way I just had. He quickly picked me up off of my knees, kissed my face holding it with both his hands, and said, “No, I told you. I want this to be about you.” And so I let him go.

    ***

    I was laying in bed for 40 minutes when I finally gave up on attempting to sleep. I was exhausted and sleep deprived, but high on adrenaline. High on him. It was a sunny day outside, so I decided to get off my butt and go for ice cream. I strolled down to a local parlour, picked two flavours, and set off to sit in my bliss by a log. The wind was blowing. It was chilly for early October, but the sun hit my leather jacket in that delightful way. I sat there, feeling the air and listening to music, enjoying the incredible simplicity of rippling orgasms followed by fior di latte. I had a cigarette sneakily, praying the cops wouldn’t see me, but kinda not giving a fuck either.

    My phone buzzed.

    FF: Hey gorgeous. What are you up to?

    It was the firefighter. I hadn’t heard from him in a few weeks.

    C: Not much, just having ice-cream at the beach.

    FF: I’m just coming back into town after being away on the coast. Wanna come over and take a shower with me?

    My phone had 4% of battery left when I received that message. I had to make an instant decision. I mean I didn’t get to play with the penis in my bed this morning. Firefighter was a close second when it comes to having been gifted a beautiful package.

    C: I’ll be there in 10.

    FF: Yes! The door will be unlocked as per usual.

    The last time I had seen him, I was blindfolded for the first hour… I hadn’t seen him in a year. It could have been anyone if it wasn’t for his voice. It was kinky and hot, and I mean he is a fucking beautiful human. When he eventually took the blindfold off, I was like, remind again why my eyes were closed at all??? A little shower could be a good time, especially considering I was still bathing in my own juices…

    I walked in and he pulled me in by my little waist. He was 6’7. It was the season of tall men it seems. He waddled still tangled in me to the shower, turned the water on, and started to undress me. No talk needed, just physical attraction. We had the perfect height differential for shower sex. His long, shiny and rock hard cock would hit me deep, as he pulled at my hair, and the hot water glided all over my back.  He eventually turned the water off and carried me to bed. The want in his eyes and his perfect physique were too much for my tired body to bear. We came at the same time.

    ***

    I walked home with my hair wet… As I started walking, I almost taped an Instagram story because it was still a beautiful day but then, why would my hair be wet? What if Mystery Man sees it? I know now that he would have probably high-fived me for the unlikely two-a-day on three hours of sleep. But let’s not rely on hindsight here.

    I strutted in the sunshine through my new neighborhood and let my head be full and vacant all at once. Maybe it wasn’t Antibes after all.

    Maybe I carry the magic with me now. 

     

     

  • Book Two, Chapter Three – The Window

    Phew… I’m going to write this like I just launched myself on the couch and we’re on a video call to catch you up on the last… year. “How have you been babe? What’s new? What’s happening?” I ask you trying to avoid talking about me first. I’m so sick of talking about me. Not because I think I have become boring, oh hell no. It’s been a VERY entertaining year. It’s because I keep doing it, on the podcast, in real life with friends, at work when introducing myself, and for an underpaid job that is called promoting oneself. Inevitably, it sucks the energy out of me when someone goes: “Tell me a story! What’s going on? Let me live vicariously through you!” Welcome to socialising with anyone over 30. So I take a deep breath, put on my performative voice, and tell them about my kinky life and laugh with them. But I’m exhausted. Of performing. Of analysing. Of censoring (to protect identities). Of being a court jester.

    I signed up for this though! We both always knew that it would be this way. I’d have to go first. The story has to start somewhere. Someone has to share first. Then the wonderful magic happens. “Interesting, I wonder how I would feel in that situation…” is usually how we start really exchanging some vulnerability. So here goes, another piece of me, yours for the taking.

    Well, what do you want to know? The kinky shit? Of course! That’s the fun stuff, innit?

    I have to admit, even I am surprised at how easy it’s become for me to talk about the increasingly weird situations I continue to find myself in. I’m not surprised with the turns I’m taking as much as I am with how openly others ask about them now.

    You did what?! Wait, wait, wait… how did that even come about?

    Ok, so I think I’ve blabbered about nothing for long enough. Let’s get to story time, shall we? FINALLY, they all thought in unison.

    (more…)

  • Christine In Twenty Eighteen

    On becoming Christine.

    It has been an interesting time, coming into 2018. Just Bad Timing is becoming a physical thing in less than a month and I think I’m going to have postpartum after it does.

    As you might know, Christine is my pen name. Except that some people now know that I am Christine. I’m having a hard time coming to grips with that. A lot of people have asked me if it’s changed people’s behaviour towards me, the facts they’ve learned here. Of course it has! Mostly in a good way. I get to have deep and meaningful conversations with more people than ever! Yet sexually, it’s done something a little odd.

    I did this insidious thing: I connected my personal Tinder to Christine’s Instagram. Talk about a way to get views and warp your gender stats! So now, on top of five super strategically angled pictures, Tinder dudes have access to justbadtiming. “Maybe I can be your next chapter?” I never thought this would be a recurrent pickup line!

    To be honest, I’m a little over the whole Tinder, ONS craze. I will never really be over it as long as I don’t pick a place to settle down, because you know, a girl’s gotta eat. I do however really feel tired of the whole game. I know I can pick up, I know the sex can be surprisingly good (or bad). It’s feeling like the same night over and over again, with slight variations. This is the problem with the game. Once you have enough market research under your belt, you spend your nights waiting for someone to surprise you.

    After trying so hard to be calculated, to be smart, to market myself over the past couple of months, I sit in front of this blank page again, drinking cold coffee, deeply unsatisfied.

    I don’t even know what to think anymore. Throughout the editing process for the book, I have had to go over my life, my decisions, my mistakes, over and over again. The rollercoasters, I’m told make for great story-telling. “Tell us more about that fight”, I’m asked. What is it about human misery, or about someone’s ability to take shit, that is so relatable?

    I have also had to prepare real people for some of the content in my book. No one prepares you for these conversations, especially when you didn’t expect to have to have them. In these conversations, I have had to defend myself, defend my choice to tell the story, defend my plea for vulnerability. How do you do that when you are presently uncomfortable with your own weakness? You push through it. You have to, no one else will.

    So you go home after a long night of explaining why you don’t have a house, why everything you own fits in your suitcase, why you have no money in your bank account, why you want the world to know your secrets… You go home and you sit there in front of a screen, ready to further the cycle.

    And all you can think about, while looking into your reflection, is how you wish someone was there to stroke your hair, to kiss your shoulder or the top of your head, and whisper: “you can do this.”

    It’s a stupid thought really. It’s not like I have anyone in particular in mind. And even if I did, what would I really do about it? Stay, go, leap? I’m craving those instant perfect connections which don’t really exist. The ones that do, they take a long time and building skills. I’m not that girl yet. I’m the girl with the suitcase, waiting to be swept of her feet in some hidden corner of her brain. Yuk, why?

    Why can’t I wish the rollercoasters away? I am trying really hard to be grateful for the glimpses of happiness, for the moments of connection. I am trying to take them as signs of hope, that it’s not so hard to find someone to connect with, that these people who get me, exist. But I’m failing. I’m failing, because I’m tired. I’m tired of having to go the hard way around. I’m tired of being one of those people who will have to go through hell to deserve what some people just stumble upon.

    Or is there such a thing as stumbling upon happiness? Do we just portray ourselves that way, not to let people glimpse into the hardships? After witnessing two “perfect” marriages this week, in their fifth decades of common living, I started to think it was just a relic of the past. Then, I spent more time talking to them, delving into said “perfect” relationships. Both of these women went through hell and back with their husbands. Liam and I’s relationship looks like a walk in the freaking park next to those. That made me feel even more defeated, a coward crippled by egotism.

    I can feel that “expected disappointment” rearing its ugly head and I don’t like it. I am sick of feeling like I need to reassess my decisions, my choices, my life. Can’t someone just want to fit into it? I know this wishful thinking isn’t helpful; I can’t help myself. Doesn’t everyone go through this?

    What are these glimpses for? What do these hyper-fast connections mean? What am I meant to learn from them? Fuck. Can’t one of them just surprise me, and be at least close to my level of crazy? My life feels like driving an old manual car in traffic: stop, start, stall, stop, start, stop, stall, start, stop, sigh. When’s the highway? When do I get to stick my hand out the window, play with the air, feel the wind in my hair and the sun on my face, while I grin stupidly, thinking: “how did I ever get this lucky?”

    “Why did I meet you now?!?!”, exclaimed the last perfect crush. He seems so perfect for me, it hurts sometimes. Dude, I don’t fucking know. I ask myself that on a regular basis, about many of you. Of course, I didn’t say that. I just asked when he would have wanted to meet me. “I don’t know. Earlier?” Well, yeah. But that doesn’t help does it?

    Just when I’m okay with being alone, just when I decide I don’t have to have sex all the time, I can take a break, that’s when I make an impulse decision to take a chance and end up on a perfect date with an impossible guy. Or am I the impossible girl?

    I’m sorry, you’re catching me on a bad day. Most of the time lately I’m good. I’m strong and ambitious and convinced I will succeed. The other twenty-five percent, fine, forty percent of the time, I’m pushing through. I’m putting a smile, my reading glasses and my brave face on.

    “Let’s do this, let’s conquer the world,” I say to myself, as though talking in the plural makes me less alone. I have to be mindful of the intention I’m gonna set for myself this year, it might just come true.

     

    “What is it that you want?”

     

     

    ***

     

    Welcome back my darlings, thanks for still reading. Watch out for the upcoming pre-release of Just Bad Timing, and for cool marketing stuff. 2018 Christine is here to get more naked than ever!

    Yours with all my heart,

    C.