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The fates have smiled down on me; over the past three days I’ve been able to arrange a trio of meet-ups with the men in my life.
My mother keeps telling me that I need to “get out” and “date” and “find a man.” I keep telling her that I’m doing fine, just fine in that department. Of course, I hesitate to provide her any evidence of how fine things are. And I’m not sure she’d be particularly convinced anyhow.
She’ll only believe that I’m doing fine when I bring a man home to her, wearing his ring on my finger and holding adoption papers for my children with his signature. I’ve attempted to tell her that I’m not, emphatically not, looking for something so serious at this point, but she cannot or will not believe me.
What I am looking for — and finding, for now at least — are a few really nice connections with men who can rock both my cunt and my heart. And they do. Oh wow they do.
I’ve gotten myself into the enviable position of being able to enjoy these relationships on a regular basis, such that most of the time I am either looking forward to a date or recovering from a date. While I can’t claim that it’s enough, it’s pretty darn close.
And after three days’ worth of dates, my skin is buttery from the near-constant soaking it’s taken in silicone lube. Bruises scatter across my breasts; a tiny one lingers on the inside of my upper arm. I feel each and every muscle in my legs and ass. They’ve been through some dramatic exertion, and I love to feel them complain as I move about.
I’ve been stroked, cuddled, whispered to, kissed, hugged and fucked more just in these few days than I was in the last ten years of my marriage. Perhaps best of all, I’m content for these relationships to stay in the realm of the casual. They don’t need to get serious. They’re wonderful just as they are.
Despite anything my mother might want to believe, I’m doing fine. Just fine.



