Will I cheat?

I just wanted a place to talk about some slut shit--I never intended this to become a relationship blog, y'all, but that's exactly what it's becoming.

Cute Asshole whom me and Mr R have known forever turns out to be a bigger slut than anyone I've ever known, which is really quite sad, because his European girlfriend, even though they are 'separated' still waits for him, and is keeping herself uhm.... "pure" and he's whoring it up and out. Turns out he's been whoring it out since high school---damn dude. Guess I don't feel so bad about that whole situation anymore. :/

Mr R and I have been busy editing a film, doing the jobs of 20 people. Something I really really love, is we get pissed and frustrated at and with each other, but we're still loving to each other, and we're never pissed for long.

But... when I'm with him, I mean, he's so fucking beautiful, but I remember fucking him for the first time and how exciting that was because I didn't really know him. Now when we fuck it's even better and better every time for him, but it's kind of been sliding in a shitty downhill trajectory for me. I have to be really drunk and playing some slut music in order to get into it. FUCK! I didn't want to turn into one of those women like so many we all know, that can only fuck with the sparks from the beginning of a relationship. And because of this, when I see him, I love him with all my heart, I really do, so much sometimes I just ache for him... but I can see myself cheating on him. Oh god, I hate admitting this. Why can't I just exist within a loving healthy relationship without growing bored with it?

So I live to go out and smash the town, downing shots, crunking, dancing all night long. I can envision at some point, MR R--being older than me and with a job with varying hours, wont accompany me. This is where the danger lies. I'm not about to start bragging about how I look--I only see flaws in the mirror--but when I go out, I get swarmed. When I'm alone, I hit-on the big chicks (shut up, BBWs appeal to me :) but stupid young boys follow me like I'm the Pied Piper. I know how I look is quite different than the person I am, and alot of people see what they want and see stereotypes in my face and body.
Anyway, I can imagine after downing some drinks, as you know drinking makes me horny, dancing under pulsing gold white purple and green lights, flossing with some baller, as I'm rubbing my little ass on him with his hands on my waist I reach back with my hand and cup the back of his head, stroke my long nails through his hair, up and down his neck. I do this anyway when I'm dancing, and it never fails to bring the tumescence.
But.
I can imagine myself taking it a step further, as it is so very dark on the dance floor, and with so many bodies twisting and grinding together, a sweaty pit of relationship-destruction. My sweaty skin sliding against his, I'll turn around in his arms, stroke my hands up his body and if he doesn't stoop down, I'll have to jump to get that kiss. Kissing... is kissing cheating? No. But I likely wont stop there. I might have so much preemptive guilt that I wouldn't actually go through with any sex, but I fear that I'm always going to be unhappy with Mr R for the stupid stupid reason of not feeling sexually satisfied or excited.
I mean, He excites me. He does. I love his body, I love to see him in his sharp and sexy fucking clothes, I love to take those clothes off him, I love how we laugh together, how he cares about me, how we work and have fun together, how he's gentle without being spineless. But. But he's never given me an orgasm. Granted now, I have NEVER had a man give me an orgasm, and according to girlfriends, vaginal orgasm is hard to get from penis porking.
Granted also, since my UTI, I am wary of letting any bacteria-filled things near my vag, namely his tongue as DUH!--it's bacteria ridden and I'm still dealing with residual urethral pain months later. So if he doesn't do cunnilingus to me, then it's no wonder I'm not orgasming, right? He has tried during sexy time, but it makes me giggle like a little fucking kid getting their armpits tickled. In some way I'm not ready to let go unabashedly, and since I know how bad cock tastes when I gobble it, I worry I will never be clean enough.

If only I could do yoga to let me taste my own pussy.

Fanstasy of Abuse?

After we're done having sex, I give the prerequisite time allotted of lying next to him, but then I want to get up and get on with my life. He reaches out to me and says, “Don't you want to snuggle?” He wants to lay his head on my chest and listen to my heartbeat, to clasp my hands in his big ones and gaze into my eyes and I just.... well, I don't have orgasms from sex anyway (just masterbastion), so I kind of view it as just another fun and occasionally borderline-painful thing that we do.
Yall, what happened to me? I always wanted a tender man, but now that I've got one…
I hate to disclose this kind of information, or even mention it because I like to think my mom's choices in husbands didn't affect me at all, but our stepfather was an abusive man. I rarely saw it myself, but I would hear them fighting at night. I've only been hit in anger by a man a few times, all on one night—-that was the ex boyfriend long long ago. He busted me up pretty good, and I hate him still with a passion. Yet... in some way, I respond better to violence than I do to tenderness. I'm baffled with tenderness. I don't knoe what to do with it. During fucky-times I've encouraged Mr R to whip me with his belt, but he gets this weird look in his eyes, part fear like he's wondering if I'm damaged (shut up, I'm not) and part sadness. The sadness really gets me.
Now that things are going suspiciously good between us, I can even feel myself growing harsh towards him, wanting to pick a fight, wanting to self-sabotage the relationship because I want him to get angry at me, to yell at me, to grab my wrists and hold me down and hurt me. Why am I so sick? I don't feel like I'm comfortable with a man who has such a gentle voice. Is it because in some way I don't feel like I deserve kindness? Or am I just, in fact, damaged? Most of my sexual fantasies involve, in some way, domination and forceful submission. Although I am the aggressor sexually, always initiating, and certainly in such tight control of my own life personally, maybe that's why I go to the opposite end in my fantasies. I don't think I have the fantasy of being raped, that's fucking painful yall, but I do want him to turn to me for once, grab me and throw me down on the bed, rip my shirt off and bite my shoulder and neck, growling how he's going to make me his woman. I need some animal connection, certainly, that kind of passionate romance most girls imagine at some point in their life. I know for all practical purposes, the tender and caring man is the one we should go with to procreate—-as he will be the caring father, the caregiver if we are in need (he wont just dump our ailing asses ) and less likely to fuck you up financially by like, syphoning your bank account or something. He's trustworthy. And I love that, I really do, but...

Our fear response is activated every time we raise our voices to eachoter, every time someone fights. That raised level of fear increases our heart-rate and our adrenaline, giving a dizzying sort of high and excitement. I know this cognitively, logically, so I talk myself down from the ledge of relationship-breaking fights. I know there is something in me that wants to be hurt physically by him because either I feel I deserve it or because it excites the little girl in me who still views her stepfather as a man she admires and loves.
God, am I really this cliche?
I guess what I'm trying to say is I know I have the choice whether or not to act on these feelings. Just like you can choose to eat that last piece of cake, or to steal from someones open purse. I CHOOSE to restrain these sick feelings, but that doesn't make the urges go away. It's hard even to write about because I feel myself wanting to slip into the fantasy of being hurt by him—-but a fantasy is all it is. When I was actually hurt, it was no fantasy at all. There was blood, there was a lot of crying, there was broken teeth. My world was shattered, crashing down around my ears. I saw it happen with my mother do, so I will not I WILL NOT recreate those bad relationhsip habits with Mr R.
DETERMINED peoples, determined.

UTI's and Language lesson during sex

It took a few weeks of working at him before I got into Mr R's pants :) It was rather a backwards situation, I felt like a young boy trying to coax the skirt off a virgin. Whenever we spoke, I couldn't help myself from seeing (and encouraging)innuendo in everything. My drive was going nuts for him!

On an evening when Mr R's roommate was keeping parents at their flat, we took his roommate's car for a drive. Then it began to storm. We were making out like a couple of teenagers at that time, but as I reached for him, Mr R stopped me, because he wanted our first time with each other to be a bit more special than in his roommates smelly car. A little rain would not dissuade my horniness. I convinced him (easy to do). We lowered the driver's seat and I straddled him. Under the beats of torrential rain, echoing through the interior of the car and drowning out the music, we finally fucking did it. No more teasing, no more flirting or graping at each other through our clothes, fuck this waiting shit--in the immortally wise words of Amanda Blank "I'd like you better if you get inside me". The green and purple lightening lit my skin, highlighting my sharp jaw, my breasts, the dip of my waist.
My knees were bruised and I had rug-burns(car burns?) on my legs for a while from the stick shift rubbing my calf, (and it probably wasn't very attractive from his viewpoint, as with the low ceiling I had to keep my head crocked to one side and broken-looking like that girl in the Grudge) but it was worth it. We had steamed it up pretty stereotypically, so while we were busy, the window beside me was open a crack, rain sizzling off my hot skin.

The second time was at his apartment. Roommate was out for the night getting trashed and would probably stumble back at 4 am. At like 5 pm, I arrived at his doorstep with a giant bottle of Beefeater that had been marked down at the corner market (I'm a savvy slut, hey). We chopped some tomatoes and made light omelets, and in a lull in the painfully polite conversation, I was like, "You wanna start drinking?" and he gave me an enthusiastic,
"Sure!"
The only problem with this sexual encounter was, so I know men love dipping it in, like the very first time their cock enters the vagina. Well he reeeeally likes it, so he pulled out alot to slam it back it, also meaning that he hit my ass a million times with it. BAD. Not good ladies--If yr man hits anywhere near your asshole with his dong, have him take off the condom and slap a new one on, or if he's bare, have his wash that shit. INSIST on it. The sex was mediocre, but a couple days afterward, it began to fucking burn when I fucking pee. Burn. Pee. Burning. PAIN. The Internet tells me i have a UTI, blablabal, I'm on different herbal stuff for it (we're Asian, we know our herbs) and if it gets worse I'll go in. But this really put a damper on our "Romantic Saturday."

So I'm not supposed to necessarily have sex with a UTI, as it can make it worse, so I'm riding him in my apartment as I figure that's the only way to be safe that he's not going to pop out and smack against my anus (did pop out, but only smacked my labia). I have a playlist going, dubstep and remixes, and then on comes Swezak's State of Grace--usually not a good fuck-times song, but there is was regardless.
Mr R knows maybe ten languages fluently. His Moroccan father was ... let's say he was very strict and insistent on education.
so the song is reaching it's end, where the spoken German comes on. With his hands on my naked hips holding me down on his pelvis, he stops to comment:
"Ah, see? That's wrong. It's entschieEEden not entschIIIIeden." He tells this to me while he's still inside me.
Despite this ridiculousness, I feign interest. After all, in his eyes, I'm not only after his junk, I'm also an intellectual. "Oh. Really?" I pant the words out, bouncing up and down on his nearly black-coloured penis.
He raises his eyebrows and nods eagerly.