A box of chocolate February 14, 2013

 

 

I would bring her a box of chocolates, but she would only hate me for it, just as she did that night in the bar when she humiliated me for bringing her flowers and candy, when she never told me she hated those kinds of gifts, and that somehow, I should have been aware of this fact, that night when she seemed ready to turn me into a cuckhold, inviting me for this belated birthday drink only to spend most of the night flirting with the bartender, so intimate their connection, I suspected that night she would likely leave with him, when I exercised my only option and left.

I still recall her screaming at me over the phone, as to why I left her at the bar, as I took the long stroll up the hill for home, as if I had spoiled one of her grand plans, even a box of chocolate could not make up for, and every day since I have relived those moments in the bar and afterwards, revisiting it all, examining into the most minute elements for something I might have missed, might have done differently, something I could have changed that might have brought about a different outcome, assuming finally I could have done nothing, she would have gone off with the bartender, condemning me to watch.

 

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Her nails

  

When her nails click on the table top, I think she’s angry, though at times when I look up into her eyes, she seems calculating.

All this might be wrong.

But each time we come to the same place at the same time, I check out her fingernails,

 whether they were polished or not, what color they are, do they match the color of her lips.

The brighter the color of lips and fingernails tells me she must be horny, other colors mean other things much like a mood ring.

They are darkest in a bad way when she looks at me.

I recall her nails being blood red those few times we dated, a color she long ago abandoned, except when around other men in our office who I think she’d like to date. It drives me wild to think about, even if none of it is true.

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For her pleasure May 31, 2026

 

I didn’t know it at the time, and only learned it now, but with a girl like her, it has to be pleasing her or it will never work.

This is what sissy world and their goddesses understand best, and I think that was the lesson she learned on the cruise with that old lady.

Men are best when they serve her interests, and that their who lives should be focused on ways to make her happy, not their own pleasure.

This is how women really survive, shifting the balance of power, if not literally castrating men, the way Goddesses do when creating sissies, then making sure the men who want her attention must serve her first.

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Finding out the hard way June 8, 2026

 

as I noted, the pills the doc gave me don’t work, or at least I didn’t think they did, and so I kept on increasing the dosage until they did – moderately, enough to wrap my hands around when I got there.

Since the surgery, I religiously kept to the prescribed dosage, feeling the tinkling at times, but nothing dramatic. Upping the dosage did enough to keep me content, even if I had to create the satisfaction for myself.

Had I been wiser, I might have read the instructions better.

While I did take the pill at the same time every day – a pill that would allow me to be ready on the unlikely chance I would actually need it.

What I did not notice was that the effects were cumulative, safe enough at the recommended dosage, but magnified with each escalation.

Thus was the shock when I saw the pretty young black woman on the train, a woman who made things worse for me by wearing an amazingly tight white blouse. Not only could I not stop staring (a repeat of those uncomfortable horny days at our office years ago), I dared not leave my seat, having mysteriously grown a third leg.

She noticed me noticing, too, shifting from foot to foot at the far end of the train car, but never fully away, as if she enjoyed someone admiring her. When a seat opened after several stops, she sat, but did not turn away completely, leaving me full view of her blouse, her amazing boobs, and yes, also amazing legs.

When she got off a stop before my stop, she looked worn out, as if she’d made love in her brain the whole trip, glancing briefly at me through the window at where I still sat on the inside of the train.

When my stop came, I still didn’t move, figuring it might take a few more stops there and back to shrink the leg my excess use of the pills had provided me with, leaving me more than twinge when I finally got up and out – a lesson learned the hard way.

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Butt what June 7 ,2026

Things have changed since my surgery 2 years ago,

I used to be a tits and legs man.

I still am to some degree, something has been added since that puzzles me 

When I was young I could not stop from staring at women's chest s 

Size never mattered but I really got off on cleavage

I often wondered what the nuns who taught looked like underneath their habit, did they have cleavage too

But what still gets me off is any woman wearing a white shirt with breast poking out 

Pretty or ugly or, anywhere in between mattered not

lately I started noticing women's butts and tight jeans 

Everywhere I Go women seem to be wearing garments that literally are so tight I could see everything without my x-ray glasses from where I was a kid 

On the train or walking down the street , I seem to be behind women with these tight little butts, that's all I look at the whole way down the street until either they turn off when I do ,

This became something a problem I when I noticed the butt of a girlfriend to a local politician, the two of them scheduled to be married short ly,

She noticed me noticing her and to my surprise she strutted several times in front of me ,

When I looked away she moved to where I was looking  I started to react 

Now it's become an obsession I can't look anywhere else but at the butts of the women working in front of me or behind or on the train

the sticky revery of remembrance Sept. 22, 2013

 

Her fingers drip with it,

even in her imagination,

gripping too hard until

it burst in her hands,

not sweet so much

 as bitter sweet,

 like all love is,

still she doesn’t let go,

holding onto it,

 feeling it throb,

 each beat of it

to the beat of her heart,

her rapid breathing,

the groan she hears

 she emits

as she keeps hold,

 not one bit of this real,

 save in the memory

of what once was,

 that perfect moment

 she says she

could have died for,

perhaps a part of her did,

part of her that went with him,

 part of her like him,

never came back,

 leaving her with

the sticky revery

of remembrance

the wish for it all

to happen again,

 clinging moist fingers

on something

 too slick to grip,

 a memory of love,

of a man she still loves,

dripping through her fingers,

and he may be dripping, too.

 

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Pump up the volume

 The pills the doc gave me after the surgery never really worked, these low dose medicine designed to keep me aroused and yet did nothing,

When I really wanted something, even if I could not do anything with anybody after the result ,

I just want to see if I could still get it up like that when I think of her, 

The way I got it up sometimes like I did those nights whenit's still was possible to do something ,

So I started doubling the dose and felt the tingles there  if not quite a balloon , more so what I looked that old photos, not the nude ones but the ones in when she was going out and I imagined her being with someone else ,

It's hard to feel like a cuckold with nothing else is possible,

So i increased the dose again, just to see what would happen, just to see if the tingling amounted to more than just a twitch,

And I felt something more, growing inside and outside me, and finally I had it, more for medicin recommended, and more of a tingle that turned into something much better and themore I coveted her photos, the more intense it became until I pumped up the volume pointlessly, alone and yet somehow satisfactory