Yes, I realize that almost losing your life while engaged in “adult fun” requires a certain level of stupidity.  While I may have seven years of college and three advanced degrees under my belt, I have never professed to be a smart woman.  

Every good story comes with a bit of a back story.  This one is no different.  I will make it as brief as a long-winded southerner can.  You might want to take a bathroom break now.  Not sure how long this will take.  

So, I had recently broken up with my fiance.  That is a story I will save for another day.  You’re welcome.  Before ending that five-year stint in relationship hell, I was married for 20 years.  I was 19 when I got hitched.  No, it wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done.  Are you starting to recognize the pattern?  Oh, and my ex-fiance was 19 years younger than me.  You see where all this is headed. 

I tell you all of that to say to you this: I had been with two men my whole life.  And the thought of being with another man, even though I was well on into my good ole 40s, was scary.  And I knew NOTHING of dating in this “modern era.”  The last time I’d gone on an actual DATE, Duran Duran was living in an “Ordinary World,” the Cranberries were still “Linger”ing, and Arrowsmith was still “Cryin’.” 

I will also add (and then I’m gonna call it a day on the back story.  You’re welcome), while I am FULL of confidence, and I think I am hot af, I never really “got it” when men told me I was attractive.  Ok, who am I fooling?  I had low self-esteem, ok?  

So, after about five minutes into this breakup from my fiance (again, never said I was smart), I hopped right on the online dating train.  I am studying profiles.  Swiping right.  Swiping left.  Crying.  But, it’s whatever.

Then I see HIM.  I’d heard about the whole catfishing thing, so I was a little leary of what lay before me.  His profile checked off ALL of the boxes.  I could tell he was smart, witty, enjoyed the same movies and music.  But, fuck the bull shit.  He was LITERALLY the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen.  He looked like Johnny Depp and Heath Ledger had a baby.  SEXY!

Thinking I’d NEVER catch his attention, I took a chance and swiped right.  

By God, if the sexy motherfucker didn’t send me a message.

Now, I can’t divulge his name.  But let’s just say he was THE KING of my dreams.  Get it??  THE KING??  Not a very typical name??  

I should have tucked my tail and ran when I saw the name.  I know.  But I COULDN’T (not a smart woman).  I was sad and lonely.  And he was everything I’d ever dreamed of in a man.  AND he was FUCKING SEXY!

So, The King and I texted back and forth.  He never pressured me to talk on the phone.  He let me make that decision.  And when I heard his voice.  Oh, dear Lord.  It was like honey poured over gravel.  

Well, this long-distance love affair carries on for close to two months.  Then he popped the question.  Can we meet?  

I didn’t know what to do with myself.  YES!!! I want to meet your sexy ass.  But what are you going to think of me?  Did I live up to your expectations?  Are you gonna take one look and get back in your car and drive that long hour back home?

Well, it just so happened that he asked that question on a straight tequila night, so the obvious answer was, how fast can you get here?

And there was zero chance that would be fast enough.

I spent the next hour ensuring that I was as sexy as possible without seeming too slutty.  

Makeup on point? Check.  Hair properly scrunched to maximize curls? Check.  Pushup bra on?  You bet ya!  C’mon, King.  Let’s dance.

He called as he was pulling up, and I met him outside.  I am a tall woman, around 5’8″ without heels.  And what woman is going to meet the man of her dreams in flats?  A smart woman!

He was not a tall man.  At a glance, I was guessing 5’5″, 5’6″.  But when he walked directly to me and wrapped his arms around me, kissing me deeper than I’d ever been kissed in my life, I gave fuck’s sake about how tall he was.  He was already a giant in my mind.

We somehow managed to traverse my front yard without any real sort of vision.  I was walked backward, and he pushed me towards my front door.  His lips never left mine, and I was consumed by his scent.  WTF was I getting myself into?

Conversation.  Tequila.  Kissing.  You know where this was going.  And that’s exactly where it went.

Though the thought never entered my mind, as he was unbuttoning my jeans, he whispered, “I’m in love with you.” in my ear.  

Well, if the panties I wasn’t wearing weren’t already dropping, by God, those sons of bitches fell the fuck off.

And before I knew it, I had moved on past my ex-fiance.  And I had introduced another man into, well, myself.  I won’t go into too much detail because who likes someone who kisses and tells?  Let me just say I’d heard of the myth about being “fucked to sleep.”  It became my reality.

I woke up the next morning on the couch, entangled in his arms and legs, and I was sure I had met my next mate.  

Parting that day was such sweet sorrow, but I knew that wasn’t the end.  And for once, I was right.

Though he lived over an hour away, we both agreed that our connection was far too strong to let that short distance come between us.  

And so it was.

The following weekend, I was to spend it at his house.  But I couldn’t wait.  So, clad in a pink and black corset, black lacy undies (I made an exception for the sake of the look I was going for), black thigh highs, black fuck-me platforms, and a black robe, I hopped in my car and took off on the trek through two counties to see the new LOML.   

Worried I was going to get stopped on the way because I WAS speeding (I couldn’t get to him fast enough), I practiced what I’d say to the cop who pulled me over.

“Well, officer, I believe honesty is the best policy.  No, I am NOT a hooker.  Yes, I realize that I made a poor wardrobe choice before leaving the house.  But, if you SAW WHAT HE LOOKED LIKE.  I know you’re a reasonable man.  Have you never been so hot for someone that is going, what? 10-15 mph over the speed limit just seemed ok?  Thank you, sir.  Yes, I will slow down…as soon as I get there.”

Thankfully, that never came to fruition.

As I turned into the neighborhood of The King’s castle, I pulled over and sent him a text.

“Unlock the door.  Go to the bedroom.  Wait for me there.”

Damn, I was GOOD at this sexy shit!

When I walked into his fortress, I was thankful for its compact size because I had NO CLUE where to go.  Instinctually, I went to the right door (don’t get too excited for me.  I had a 50/50 shot at it).

I walked into his bedroom, and I became encompassed by his scent.  I promise you, I know nothing about pheromones, but I know he was putting them off like a mother fucker.  

Even though I was to be the aggressor that night, I found myself utterly helpless to his desires.  Which, not gonna lie, was totally fine with me.  

But it was during this exchange, I realized my dream man came to me courtesy of a price: my physical comfort and well-being.

I am still unsure if I didn’t notice it the first time because I was so drunk or if he was just taking it easy on me, but oh, Lord!  I was sure by the end of that encounter, I would be found in the bed severed in half.

Again to emphasize, I did not have a whole lot by way of experience with multiple partners going in,  but I was always under the impression that “size” was relative.  It WAS NOT!

That compact 5’5″ frame came equipped with some of the biggest accessories I’d ever even glimpsed on the internet or a video.  It was almost excessive.  Almost.

I know I’m being evasive, but I’m a southern lady, and we are not accustomed to speaking of such matters publicly, but let’s just say that my opinion on a woman’s place in the bedroom probably went a bit beyond “traditional.”

I decided, and I honestly cannot say how I concluded that a woman should derive pleasure from the pleasure she can extract from her mate.  Are we on the same page?  No?  Ok.  I should get off from making him get off.

Over the next six weeks., with that idea firmly implanted in my brain, I withstood all of the jackhammering I could.  And when I tell you it was incessant, I am not exaggerating.  

Now, that doesn’t mean that our sole interactions involved that business.  He was well-versed, artistic, engaging, and, have I mentioned SEXY??  

With all of those attributes in mind, I decided that I was a strong, independent southern woman, and I would simply discuss the issue with him. 

And I did.

He was receptive.  We agreed that as a couple, we were not a fast-food chain, and he couldn’t always have it his way.  On occasion, and we didn’t discuss how often that occasion would come around, he’d stop acting as if he was trying to dig his way to China every time we had “relations.”

Fair enough.  Who could ask for more?

Well, apparently, I could have.

Long story short, the King ended up being one of those crazy kings where encephalitis was eating his brain or something.  Yes, he was THAT crazy.

I tried to shield my heart as much as I could, even though we continued to have contact long after we “broke up.”  The king taught me what the term “friends with benefits” meant.  I love learning new things.

Sparing you the details that went down over around six months, just know that the king continued to be a wack job, and I continued to entertain him.  At this point, it wasn’t about being lonely.  It was more down to he was fucking sexy as fuck, and I managed to pull him somehow.  

Not much changed.  What our time together showed me was that I was a fucking champ.  I was all about bringing my man happiness.  Good for me.  

So, as the summer of our romance was drawing to an end, he invited me to come to see him that night. How could I say no?  You are absolutely correct.  I could not.

So, in my car and off to the hour-away destination.

When I got there, he greeted me at the door and kissed me in that passionate deep way I became accustomed to when we were together.  I guess he was into doing more than one thing deeply?

And it was no time until he was reacquainting with the interior of his bedroom.

And with other things I hadn’t seen or “experienced” in a while.

Now, again, we are going to pause for a refresher course.

He was NOT a large man.  He was around 5’5″, but he WAS toned for his size.  I was NOT a small woman, standing around 5’8″ with no assistance.  

Somehow, during our interaction, the King found himself sitting on my chest, his “royal staff” firmly inserted as deep down my throat as humanly possible, and he forgot that I needed to breathe to live.

I tried as hard as I could to be that champ.  To be the woman my sometimes-man needed me to be.  But by God, the need for air just overtook me.

I tried to push him off of me, but in his head, he had wholly left the plane of existence we were once on together. His eyes were glassed over.  He didn’t even look human at that point.  

He wasn’t budging.  

I started hitting him.  Bucking my body.  Nothing.

Finally, by the grace of God, just as the curtains are being drawn and the black is starting to envelop me, he looked down at me, saw the tears streaming down my cheeks, and immediately stopped.

I said “immediately,” but as soon as he realized I was dying, he stopped.  

And as soon he came back to reality, his only focus in life was to console me.  And he did that so beautifully.

I honestly didn’t know what to make of our interaction, but I found myself lying on his chest during the night, and he thought I was asleep.

He leaned up and kissed my forehead, and caressed my face.  At that moment, I knew that I would be a slave to that man for the rest of my life.

That assessment wasn’t far from the truth.

We are well past the two-year mark since the “near-death experience,” and I still find myself enveloped in his scent, listening to his heartbeat, feeling his kiss on my forehead.  No, those sensations do not come on their own.  He contacts me from time to time, and he reminds me exactly what I’d been missing during the time we hadn’t spoken.

There is SO much more to discuss here.  SO much more INSANITY that this man caused.  But I will, once again, save that for another day.  You’re welcome.

To this day, I am a sucker for his sweet talk.  I absolutely melt at the sound of his voice.  Am I a smart woman?  Nah.  

I guess I’m one of those fools who has to have the last word.  I guess that’s all good unless someone tries to kill you as you attempt to draw that last sound with your dying breath.  Then you REALLY came out of the losing end of things.

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