Mr. Smoochy Part I

I am not yet very good at this blogging thing. My voice here still resonates with Dear Diary when it should communicate a certain urbane angst at the state of my personal relations. Please bear with me, Gentle Reader, as I find myself in these pages.

Tonight I have some ranting to do over Mr. Smoochy.

Mr. Smoochy is a dear friend of mine, my confidante, my healer, a white knight who came riding out of the fog to rescue me after my father died. He lost his mother some years ago and was able to lead me, a Virgil to my Dante, through the mists of my grief. Our friendship goes well beyond the bonds of loss, although as between any two people sometimes there are chasms of separation as deep as the universe. As it happens this journey we started, he and I, began in the months leading up to his wedding to Mrs. Smoochy.

My relationship with her has been a fraught one, and although so far covering over half my life, it has been neither constant nor enjoyable. She, and with her, He, came whooshing into my life with the news of my father's death in order to Be There for me. Mrs. Smoochy fell down on that job so completely that it's not even funny. To this day she expects my gratitude for the hours she "didn't have to give" me.

Here are a few random glimpses into the personalities of Mr. and Mrs. Smoochy: they are into BDSM fairly heavily (he the D, she the s), she is an exhibitionist but hasn't fully actualized it, they have an open marriage (mostly so she can cat around), she is overweight and sometimes insecure, he is a tall and handsome ex-Marine, she prefers her friends both gregarious and effortless.

When Mr. Smoochy and I started our friendship, Mrs. Smoochy was happy as most women are that her friend and her husband-to-be got along well. At an inappropriately early juncture, however, she announced that the priviledges of their open relationship did not (and would not) include me. Fine. Both Mr. Smoochy and I were a little puzzled at this, but accepted it with grace. Since we were both online at work, we spent many hours chatting about this and that, much probably falling under the NSFW label. When Mrs. Smoochy went off to East Coast City to cat with another man, and again when she had a bona-fide business trip, or when she went hither and thither, Mr. Smoochy would come and spend movie-cuddle time with me on the couch. Those were some of the best hours of my life, just talking with him in the dark with his strong arms around me. For those all-too-brief moments the world was lifted from my shoulders.

One of Mr. Smoochy's favorite topics is sex. My initial laconism on the topic amused and goaded him further. Sometimes he would plumb the depths of my spinsterhood: Have you done This? Have you done That? Other times he would rush at me with hypotheticals: How would it feel if I touched you Here? Or There?

It wasn't long before he began to discover my weaknesses. My skin, so often untouched, is more sensitive than you can imagine. My neck, particularly below the ear, when plied with kisses and caresses can bring me to orgasm. My flirtation with breath play. My lust for the man strong enough to manhandle my indelicate self.

Mr. Smoochy found and exploited them all, sitting in the dark on the couch. Yet we held true to The Rules decreed in embarassing detail by Mrs. Smoochy. We did not kiss, he did not touch me anywhere he hadn't already in front of his wife, I did not touch him, and although I could not say No I did not say Yes.

Gentle Reader, I have lied to you. We did kiss. On two separate nights, drunk only on our own lust. We did know better. These kisses, they were electric, sizzling kisses.

Exactly the soul-scorching kisses Mrs. Smoochy feared we would have.