Truth About a Butterfly

She's gone. She's out of my life. Get over it. Move on. Although I speak this mantra many times to myself, I find that I'm nearer to a psychotic episode.

It becomes repetitive and I grow tired of trying to find her in places she no longer exists.

As of this writing, I look for some sort of closure to happen. Honestly, I'm certain that the very memory of knowing her has changed my life greatly, so I decided to recount annals of a so-called relationship that ended nearly a year ago.

Some three hundred days later and still she lingers.

Yes, it's true. I conditioned her into this state of being. Thoughts of a year's worth of connectedness schooled me in many ways.

More often, I find myself delusional. I'm strung out over a potent substance that continues to sap me of my being.

So, allow me to take a hiatus from The Chronicles of Darius Flesher (which believe you-me is about to compound in intensity) to reveal such openness.

Now, how do I categorize it?

It's a little bit of Anal & Interracial. It's certainly, of all things, romantic. It's the very source that compels me to this current state of numbness and embittered resolve.

See, I knew it from the first moment I saw this butterfly. I had sensed that she harbored a dirty little secret. It was there, scrolled across her grill; concealed behind a fresh-liquored grin.

Everything about my instincts cautioned me. Yet and still, I proceeded to move about the club, having ventured through trials of my own, seemingly unaffected.

I watched her interactions with men. Pseudo studs. At nearly six feet tall and dirty blonde, she sported a shapely build, which consisted of firm 36Cs, a curvaceous rump and slope hips, strong. She appeared to hold her own out on the dance floor.

Her moves were more calculated than natural.

At times, she appeared arrhythmic as though she tried too hard to balance her sense of sensuality.

Of course, liquor had much to do with it.

*

The scene was early spring, two years back. It was the season of newness for myself as well, having ended a previous six-month relationship. I headed out with some of my boys for our usual Saturday night thang. We were faithful participants.

After all, the 25 & older club was jumping with female prospects. It reminded me of a prelude to hedonism.

Inside contained the heart of all variable players. I maintained in studious mode. I'd already immersed myself in the requisite lewdness for having attended such an establishment.

I'd nothing much to prove. I knew my indelible bouts with lust and sex left me with consequences. So, I thought I would move about more cautiously in my endeavors.

I admired the honesty many of the females projected at the club. They consisted of a mix between class and crass.

There were no inhibitions when it came time to displaying wanton craves for love and lust. You would've known by the time a techno version of "Heaven" segued into "Stranger in My House" whether you were fucked or fucked over.

Most of these men and women were aware that whether it was through age, children or divorce, there existed a fear of declining self-esteem or sensuality.

It was as though sex defined every ounce of this being. This club allowed for these women to interact freely and test the proverbial boundaries of the flesh. Most of the men displayed nothing short of savagery.

Others succeeded in simply pairing up or evolving into relationships, however long.

I lingered in between.

Nothing was more evident of this fact than the after club sessions, undoubtedly a trip. The parking spots quickly turned into hot lots, peppered with partygoers. It was often the last chance at securing some ass or a compromised version of moonlight romanticism.

On this particular evening, I waited for a good friend to don his groove on. I crossed through the same lot that I'd engaged lewdness in previously.

I respected his need for satiating a piece of ass, as the lot was filled with persons and couples seeking equal bliss.

As I stood nearby an electrical generator, I saw her squatting near a Volvo. The vehicle was filled with black men, several shades darker than myself.

She wore tight blue jeans and a wrap-around blousse, punctuated by high-heel leather boots.

I remembered thinking to myself, 'That's one to look out for!' I mean, c'mon, how many blondes are daring enough to uphold a conversation during an after-club night, before the entertainment of a liquored-up posse?

She sensed my presence and glanced over to where I stood watching her. She would come to let me know, later on in the relationship, that it felt as though I were her protector, savior. Moments later, the car peeled off and miss butterfly fluttered over my way.

I can loosely recall the conversation we had because I'd been engulfed in a lethal combo myself, consisting of many Coronas and herbal enlightenment.

Seconds slipped by and the next thing I knew, and, she would later concur, we were face to face. She was trapped within my arm/space. Our bodies held inches away from one another, as we stood up against the bumper of her Intrepid.

We were both shot. She knew I was boozed slightly and stoned greatly. Through squinted eyes, we both gravitated towards conversation and space.

She spoke of her need for independence while I merely listened and encouraged her not to be the sort of person that would use men for monetary status.

We celebrated her independence. I was attracted to her spirit of self-awareness and sufficiency.

"OHHH MY GOD!" Someone shouted just as we had imbibed in one-another's eyes.

As we looked around us, scattered glass surrounded a portion of the lot around where we stood. Her friend broke away from mine.

And, suddenly, she slipped out of my night and existence, momentarily. I caught her name (which, for the sake of my sanity on this forum, I shall not repeat). It lingered. It was then that I noticed that the scattered glass came from a vehicle that brought me to the club. It happened to be my best friend's ride.

Someone had evidently shattered the passenger's window and stole some of the contents within, including my leather jacket, which had concealed in its pockets, a beefy-sized roach and a slamming mix CD.

The circumstances were definitely shitty all the way around. However, I yearned for the moment to see her again.

*

Two weeks later. Same spot. As I perused the club prospects, I ran into an ex-girlfriend of twelve-years past. She revealed to me how she thought I'd come to hate her for having left me so abruptly. I sensed that she wanted me presently, although, I wanted nothing to do with her.

I searched the room for more probable connections. I'd danced and made eye contact with a few women. I was blessed to have felt studly.

Shortly after midnight, she crossed through, en route to the ladies room. I remember looking over to my friend with a smile, "The night has just begun, my man. The night has just begun!"

I followed from afar. I watched her standing in the back of the room and simply approached her. It took her minutes before she would remember me. She later revealed that our first meeting left a lingering desire.

We grooved to a few sets. The song by Sean Paul, "Get Busy" comes to mind. She remarked on how good of a dancer I was.

I forgot the slow song that played, but I remember feeling our rhythm was out of synch.

It was back to that infamous lot. This time, I climbed in the backseat and invited her to join me. My impulses were fierce.

We locked face to face. At first, her kisses were slow as she studied her assurance to mine. Gradually, her lips softened up and her mouth intercepted the probing velvet of my tongue. The passion contained in her Intrepid was enough to engulf her whip into flames.

Meanwhile, her friend climbed into my boy's SUV. Every now and again, she interfered during our exchange. Of course, we were all feeling just as nice as we had been two weeks ago.

I scribed my digits on a note pad and encouraged her to give phone me. I kissed her goodbye and waited nearly a week before she called.

*

The ensuing weeks ahead were of storybook entries. We romanced. I braved, with every essence and being to ensure she had no reason to creep her presence with anyone else.

Everything I'd been so intimidated to release had subsided with her in my arms.

An entirely new and romantic realm had opened its portal doors for my wonderment. I expressed my self in ways I'd long forgotten.

We strolled by gardens and parkways. I prepared lavish morning breakfasts. I'd used every ounce of my creativity to show her worlds undreamt.

As far as the sex, yes, that first night was off the chain. We parked just outside of my apartment. Up until this point, we merely kissed and opened up soul. On one night,

I remember looking into her eyes and feeling the delusions of love thickening.

"I'll give you the world just as long as you never fuck me over. Just be here and nowhere else!" I assured.

"That's not me. I simply enjoy Saturday night outings. I'm not about that." She answered.

We both acknowledged our fear of loss and commitment with teary eyes. I wasn't the heartening type, but she'd made me, especially on that night.

So, okay, you're wondering about the sex. Yes, we're back again. Our kisses contained coal fire and intensity. Since, I always prided myself as a connoisseur of cunnilingus, I moved down south. She wore a short skirt that I easily manipulated. I tugged her panties to the side only to observe that she had a jet-black bush, which contrasted her dirty-blonde head of hair.

She kept the short tuft trimmed like a land strip. I immediately tasted her sex and felt her wither away behind the wheel. I doubled my index and middle finger into the sopping center of her sex, while my tongue danced slick whiteness on the surface of her clit.

"Why don't you just park and come right in." I suggested firmly.

She complied. As we descended the hallway stairs, she showed no signs of nervousness. It was club night again. She had consumed just the right amount of liquor to have a righteous buzz going on.

We kissed. I immediately followed up with the tasting. I lavished in her butterfly folds. The long and protruding labium was ripe for the sucking, taut for consumption. I drank of her womanliness.

She moaned and quivered as I merely touched the entrance to her slivered sex with my cock. With just the slightest push, her excitement escalated as the tip of my dome rested partially between her butterfly folds. Of course, I buried my dick so deep that it threatened to demolish the bottom floor right out.

"Ohhhhhh," her face reddened. Her moans were soft and barely contained. She was left quivering in my arms as I threw her legs back for some shallow digging. At times, I switched it up when I felt I was at the brink of bursting. I would remove myself only to reassert my mouth on her openness. I couldn't get enough of suckling her folds.

That night, I erupted by removing my cock and spraying oceans of my fluidity all over her sex. Droplets of heated jizz caked and matted her blackish pubes.

We then fell into serenity and stillness.

*

As the months rolled by, I expressed a love from the depths of which I'd never known. I tried desperately to have her compensate for my lack of openness in the past. We indulged in lavish dinners. I recited poetry and sung sugary ballads to her soul.

We fucked. We made love, although, she agreed to love me once, she never repeated those words again. I sensed apprehension behind her eyes. I sensed all she had been reluctant to say.

The sex was always hot. We had sweat sessions that left body prints on linen sheets. We did at it on the stairs, in the parlor, in the dining room. My cock penetrated her deeply and lapped up waves of frothy bliss only to be devoured by the equal greed of my mouth.

I tried to keep our discussions on past loves down to a minimal. She once told me how an ex-lover wanted her to fuck another man while he watched. I wasn't so sure if she'd actually had gone through with it. I remember distinctly asking her if she'd ever had two lovers, not necessarily simultaneously, but back to back, on separate visits. She denied having had the experience.

Our months would soon be saturated with scarce visits. I opened up all the more and questioned much of why her time was limited, more so, why she was so reluctant to accept me as her man.

She indicated all the signs that I should've seen had I not been prone to a touch of Helen Keller syndrome. I began to feel the sink of my cock, easily finding its way to the bottom of her cunt. My soul kept telling me someone had been there before me. She denied it when I loosely confronted her.

I couldn't simply walk away. I gave too much of myself, which brings me to Valentine's Day. I'd prepared a huge brunch for this woman consisting of homemade, heart-shaped Belgian waffles topped with mounds of syrupy strawberries and fresh cream, maple flavored sausage links and gourmet, fresh-brewed Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee.

I spliced together fourteen poems and compiled love music for our makings. Helium balloons wafted dizzily through the apartment. A fresh vase of red, long stemmed roses rested firmly on the dining room table.

In contrast, she baked some heart-shaped cookies and produced a card that merely wished me a Happy Valentine's Day.

I overlooked all she had not shown at that point. I overlooked the fact that she had to work and could only spend less than two hours that morning with me. We promised to make up our Valentine's Day two days later. I requested that she sleep over, something that no matter how late we stayed up at my crib, she was unable to fulfill.

She promised to wear something revealing. The only revelation I found myself in was her continued apprehension to show me the love we both knew I deserved.

Yes, I pressured her somewhat. However, she continued to disguise a truth I felt was encompassing her body, mind and soul. On that make-up Valentine's night, I prepared a gourmet meal and decorated the bedroom with an overstretched banner that read:

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!

Crinkly-red confetti scattered throughout the bedroom. More balloons wafted throughout the room. I threw on the soulful grooves of "More and More" by Joe.

She approached me with a sorrowful look on her face. Apparently, Mother Nature was about to produce its tidal-red flow so her logic was, get it while the getting was good. She produced no negligee or seductive garb. It was just straight up nude wear.

I don't recall whether I felt her pussy stretch widely. I only know that the lovemaking was sublime, even though I had immersed deeper soul content than she.

I displayed my kinky side by inserting a vibrating butt plug into her budding anus. She knew of my predilection for being swallowed.

"Promise me you'll drink of my every drop!" I beckoned as she writhed on top of me.

Face to face, we celebrated sex in her favorite position, cowgirl. The orgasms flowed easily.

She kept herself shaved completely, so the sticky substance she secreted coated my shaved cock as well.

Her breasts pressed against my chest. Her tongue and heavy kisses matched the intensity mine produced. I doubled my motions by slightly pushing her pelvis up from mine, so as to create drilling space.

In and out my cock burrowed through deeply. I had the plug inserted all the way down to the base, anally. She quivered in triple time. The intervals in which she moaned and trembled fascinated me.

"Promise me that you'll drink for me. Please!" I was relentless. I counted only once during our numerous sex sessions that such a relished occasion happened, half-successfully.

I rose up off the bed, while the anal plug still vibrated deep in her ass. I rested my bulbous dome on the fat of her tongue. I prompted her hand to jerk me off into tiny spasms that would shortly lead into tumultuous waves.

I asked that she grind for me as I continued to plow her ass with the toy. I erupted in streams that she obligingly downed. Spurts of penned up cum juice filled her mouth unlike ever before. She swallowed completely to my satisfaction.

She left me empty on that Valentine's night, as I'd given everything encompassing of my being. I'd nothing left. Not a drop to give back to myself. I expressed a love of soul and creativity as I assured her that there wouldn't be anyone else like me to ever come into her life.

I asked her that night, "So whose my competition?"

"Yourself." She replied.

*

As the months progressed, I saw miss butterfly thang, less and less. She spaced herself from me. It wasn't until five months later that I happened to simply drive down a hidden rode and short cut through my own town. I saw her car parked in a driveway.

I scanned the digits on her plate. Processed year, car and make. I made the match.

I saw a stocky brutha-man hop out of the house and into her whip. He drove away, making eye contact with me briefly, as I parked beneath the shade.

I realized he had this familiarity about him.

He had a bald head like mine. His head was bald like mine. He was short and stocky, several shades deeper than my brown skin.

The way he drove her car. I knew he'd always been there. What's more, I remember the conversation she had about a boyfriend she had been with for over two years.

It took that sorrowful incident to awaken me from my stupor. It's what I'd known, yet quickly dismissed for fear of not fulfilling my need for redemption.

I left a message on the windshield later that evening. I simply wished her best. I let her know that the sort of love that I gave never asked for her to necessarily match it fully but it required honesty. I imagined he could never come close in twice his lifetime to duplicating my love for her.

However, she wasn't ready for love. I had to come to this realization. She wasn't ready for the intense and devotional means to which I'd been prepared to give.

I had multiple opportunities to fuck. Yet, I chose to be true. It was a rarity in my life to be faithful for over a year's worth of time plagued by doubt and uncertainty.

What I've come to realize is that he'd always been there. I never really saw her for who she truly was, and, maybe on some strange perverse level, I probably entertained wanting to perform some threesome.

I've sensed it on this forum how husbands and lovers were often willing to include some other member of the same or opposite sex into the foray. However, the commonality rests that on some level there needs to be a sort of commitment or honesty towards that partner of choice.

Indeed it's a strange code of devotion. One thing that I keep getting back to is on one night when she asked me off the cuff, "Please don't ever ask me to do that..."

Her reference was in asking her to perform double penetration. I didn't know what stirred that about. I only know that when I plowed into her doggie style, I happened to notice that her anus had a swollen bump. When I questioned her, she remarked that no one had been there but me.

I thought it strange that she would take immediate defense, but again I dismissed it like a fool. On the nights following our let go, I often jacked off to the thoughts of being a member of this fuck sandwich.

Still, there was a part of me that would've accepted her all the more had she been straight up about harboring myself as her anonymous lover. It's what I'd known but allowed myself to have been easily misdirected by her words.

I feel as though I know her lover. I mean, aren't we linked in some sort of bodily experience? After all, my soul felt his presence had branded her orifice whenever she and I sexed.

I know she's still with the same guy. I know where she stays is less than seven minutes from my home.