Enough

I really hate the month of October.

There are things I love about fall - the colors, the flavors, the experience of the season (we all have our rites and rituals and pumpkin spice anything is a marker of fall and it typically arrives in October). There are things I dislike about fall - the ever shortening days, the colder and longer nights, the potential for sleet and snow, the tendency toward gray skies and drizzle.

It isn't the seasonal changes which October brings with it, though, that makes me hate the month.

It's the anxiety. Anxiety I'm usually not cognizant of until all hell breaks loose and I've just snapped at someone I love and they look at me as though I'm a total stranger to them. And in those times, I am a stranger to them. In those times, I feel estranged from myself. That's what anxiety does to me - it disconnects me from myself and from all of those around me.

The anxiety began earlier this year than it has before. Or perhaps I became aware of its presence much sooner. I wrote on my vanilla blog this past week about some anxiety I had been experiencing in my relationship with Doc, and how I had come to process and deal with it. All well and good.

Until I saw him Friday night and we fucked.

I arrived a bit later than usual due to some minor car concerns and a need to shuffle vehicles to make repairs happen.

When I did arrive, Doc was finishing up dinner - steak, medium rare, with chimichurri and broccoli. This man must adore me to feed me broccoli so often. *sigh* It's heavenly, really.

We were half-way through dinner when I asked, "What would you like to do after dinner?"

Doc gave me a look - perhaps quizzical, perhaps confused. "I'm just asking a question," I told him. No hidden agenda. Traditionally, we do a bit of clean up in the kitchen before watching a little tv. We nearly always get distracted and retire to bed before whatever show we're watching is over.

At this point, though, I've already had trouble keeping my hands off of Doc.

"We could fuck," he says.

"I like that plan."

And we did. God, did we ever. He fucked me and fucked me and fucked me. As I came, he came and it was exquisite.

After, we watched John Oliver and an episode of Buffy.

It was during the episode of Buffy that it happened. I was snuggled into Doc's chest as we watched. All seemed to be going well.

And then, Doc sighed.

Immediately, I was gripped with a panic so deep I could barely draw breath. A tear leaked from the corner of my eye. "I can't.... I can't.... I can't...." was all I could think, not entirely sure what I couldn't, just that I couldn't. I wanted to run away. I wanted to tell Doc, "I'm so sorry, but I can't," before fleeing from his presence.

This is ridiculous. And I knew, in that moment, that whatever it was in Doc's sigh to which I was responding was not as scary or as dangerous or as worthy of the fight or flight response as my body seemed to have going.

Was this because of the simultaneous orgasm we had shared not more than an hour prior? It was one fucking amazing orgasm and the intensity of the experience was profound, but to lose all words and thoughts and return to the base instinct of survival which so often means fleeing is not a reasonable response.

But Doc sighed.

That's what they told me when the Singer died. They heard him exhale, as though sighing, and it was over. The medical explanation was something to the effect of all muscles losing tension at the point of death, thus a final expulsion of air from the lungs as the diaphragm relaxes. The Singer died before the final "sigh."

My head resting on Doc's chest, I could feel the rise and fall as he breathed, the tempo of his breaths double-time compared to my own.

Doc is alive. But someday, he won't be, and that reality frightens me.

I do not love Doc in the ways that I loved the Singer. But I love them both and while the idea that - because sometimes things don't work out - my relationship with Doc might one day end makes me sad, the notion that Doc might die overwhelms me with fear.

Which is ridiculous. Doc is young, hale and hearty; he is a healthy eater and he exercises. He also seems to manage any stress well.

After Buffy had ended, we went to bed. Saturday brought morning sex, a day of baking (I volunteered to make the communion loaf - gluten free - for my church), a birthday party. I made chicken tarragon and oven roasted squash for dinner. We ate key lime custard and vanilla ice cream for dessert. We watched two episodes Buffy and headed to bed where we had sex again.

While I cooked, I would occasionally sit with Doc when things didn't require immediate attention. A couple of times, as Doc kissed me, he gripped my hair (pulled back into a ponytail) quite firmly. It made me so wet I soaked through my panties and it made the crotch of my shorts wet.

This time, Doc initiated anal sex in response to a request I'd made earlier in the week. It was absolutely heavenly, especially when I used a vibrator turned on high vaginally and rubbed my clit. It was so intense and so good I begged Doc to go down on me. He happily complied, but having used his hand to apply lube for anal sex, he took a moment to wash up before going down on me.

He jumped in the shower and began washing off. I couldn't keep my hands off of him for that long, so I joined him in the shower, asking him for the bar soap, working up a lather between my hands before washing his cock. I've never understood the appeal of shower porn. Visually, the appeal isn't there for me. Having stroked Doc's cock with sudsy hands in a shower, I have a much fuller appreciation for shower porn, as the tactile sensation of giving a soapy hand-job is fantastic.

After rinsing off, Doc spent a good deal of time going down on me and then he fucked me. Hard. And he spanked me while he did it.

Snuggling after, I told Doc how much I enjoyed smelling myself on his hands. Then I kissed him. "I love tasting myself on you," I told him.

"I don't understand men who wouldn't do that," Doc said.

"Me either," I sighed. "I taste awesome!"

Sunday morning brought more sex, coffee and breakfast after which we snuggled on the couch until I had to whip cream and Doc had to attend to a bit of work.

I'm left-ear dominant and snuggling, my left side turned in toward Doc, I rested my head on his chest. My left ear was resting on the lapel of his robe. I could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in and out. I could hear the beat of his heart. It wasn't enough.

I pushed the collar of Doc's robe aside and rested my ear on his t-shirt. I could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in and out. I could hear the beat of his heart more distinctly. It was not enough.

I reached into Doc's robe, pulling at the hem of his shirt. I shoved it up to his armpits and rested my left ear on his chest, directly against the skin, right over his heart. I could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in and out. I could hear the beat of his heart - his strong, steady heart. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub. I could picture the ventricles and atria of his heart drawing blood in and pushing it out to the rest of his body. I could feel the strength of this fierce and good-hearted man. I was comforted.

It was enough.