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To all of us with ADHD who live in what I like to call organized chaos that only makes sense to us, between two times: not right now and RIGHT NOW, hyperfixation, and jump from hobby to hobby… And to finding the right person who sees you, supports you, and takes excellent care of your praise kink.
First, I managed to leave for work without the emotional support water bottle I take everywhere.
I’m working on that because my last three impulse buys that I was sure were going to be my new thing are gathering dust in my apartment. The camera I needed to start a photography career, the yoga mat I bought as a promise to get into a whole mind-body routine, and the cute planners I get when I see them then forget to use after a short time are all examples of why I need to hold back. I love the rush of a new idea, but struggle with follow through.
No one tells you in college that once you graduate your life moves at lightning speed. Then you’re looking up two years later, realizing you’re about to turn twenty-five and you haven’t done anything you planned yet.
No dick is ever worth the inevitable heartache, and Shawn has brought me way more of that than he has orgasms.
His gaze passes over me, pausing at my earrings. The translucent sparkly pink resin heart lollipops are tamer than some of my quirkier ones I’ve made, like the dinosaur chicken nuggets, miniature potted houseplants, and rainbows with cute little faces.
My brain short-circuits, attempting to respond with two different things at once. “Glad to touch you later. I mean, thanks, you too.” Immediately, I cringe. Shit. I was trying to say I’d touch base with him later while also trying to say I was glad he was back. Okay, it’s fine. Just—breathe. That happened, and I have to accept it. He probably didn’t notice even though I did.
“The only cure for a broken heart is a new dick to make you forget the old one,” Lauren says. “I think I’m good on toys. As much as I love to read about hot fae men, I told you I’m not brave enough to buy one of those fantasy dildos you showed us.” I stifle a laugh. “Be serious.”
Obviously Mr. Darcy and every other fictional man are the standard, but they don’t exist,” Caroline says. We all echo her with our woes that the fictional men we love aren’t real.
the idea of finding someone else that will accept every facet of me, including my ADHD, is daunting. Obviously I want to share my life with a partner that accepts me for who I am and doesn’t believe I’m too much or too hard to love. Everyone wants that.
Fictional men will always be superior to reality.
My impulsivity feels like a blessing and a curse because my brain operates on two timelines: right now and not right now. When I have strong urges to do something, it has to be then and there to satisfy myself. On the other hand, when I lose interest or am feeling overwhelmed, it goes firmly in the back of my mind to wait until later, if it comes at all.
It’s incredibly attractive that he’s fiercely protective and more than willing to fuck Shawn up if he messes with me, yet also supportive of my need to stand up for myself. He’s a man that would stand by me on equal ground, in front of me to guard what’s his, and behind me knowing I can handle myself while he holds my purse.
“Is this what you need, sweetheart? To get fucked in the dark of the club where anyone could catch you taking my cock like my good little slut?”
“Turn around and hold on. I’m going to fill you up and fuck you until your tight, hot pussy is dripping all over me,”
Fanning myself, here. There’s nothing sluttier a man can do than wear gray sweatpants.
“You like being my little cock slut, don’t you? So good for me, taking me nice and deep while I fuck that mouth.”
“Remember the audiobook you were reading?” My cheeks heat at the memory of what point I was at when he interrupted. “Yes.” “Play it.” “You want to listen to a romance book right now? I thought we were going to—” “We’re going to listen together,” he corrects. “And act it out.”
“I’ll be everything for you, sweetheart. Every fantasy. Every dream. Whatever you need, I want to be it.”
Everyone takes a different amount of time to figure it all out, too. There’s no set way we all have to follow. Some people find their way early and some of us need longer.
“Keep them open. I want to watch your pussy get wetter and wetter until you make a mess all over your hand. It doesn’t matter how far away I am, I’ll still make you come. You’re going to be my good girl and drench those fingers for me.”
“Who’s fucking you?” “You are,” I manage breathlessly. “Who?” he demands. “Who’s cock are you making a pretty little mess on with your come?” “Cole,” I cry. “Love the way my name sounds on your lips when I’m buried inside your pussy.”
“You taste fucking delicious when you’re crying out my name and coming all over my face, baby.”
Cole: Thinking about the first night I fucked you in the truck. The way you sank down on my cock and rode me. No one knows what pretty sounds you make for me. Cole: Be my good girl and meet me in the bathroom. I want to fuck your pussy and fill it with come.
“Goddamn, baby. Look how much you came on my dick.” “My own hat trick,” she jokes. “With an assist.”
“Scream if you need to. I’ll keep you quiet while you take my cock like the good girl you are.”
“Why are we like this?” “Because being in love makes us act weird.” “I love being in weird with you.”
No more…unfortunate incidents for me to add to my anxiety-before-sleep memory rotation if I don’t live at home.
