Lovers: My 2025 Bisexual Retrospective

The champagne is chilling. The confetti
is waiting. The final hours of 2025 are ticking away, and my mind isn’t on
resolutions. It’s on skin. On the ghosts of orgasms past. This year was a
pilgrimage of pleasure, a journey across the beautiful, varied landscape of
human desire, and I was a devoted traveler.

My year began with him. Mark. All sharp
angles and raw, masculine energy. Our sex was a conversation of power. It was
the firm grip on my hips, the low growl in my ear, the feeling of being
completely and utterly overtaken. With him, submission was a physical act. It
was the delicious ache in my jaw, the feeling of his hands in my hair, the way
my body would yield to his strength. His orgasms were seismic events, and my
pleasure was the ecstatic aftershock, the warm, satisfied hum of a body that
had been thoroughly used and adored. He taught me the beauty of surrender to
pure, unapologetic force.

Then came summer, and with it, her.
Elara. She was all soft curves and intoxicating scent. Our sex was a different
language. It was a slow, sensual dance of discovery. It was the taste of her on
my tongue, a flavor more complex and addictive than any wine. It was the way
her breath would catch when I found that perfect spot with the flat of my
tongue, the way her nails would dig into my back not in dominance, but in a
shared, overwhelming pleasure. With her, I wasn’t just a submissive; I was a
worshipper. My mouth was a tool of devotion, and her climax was a sacred,
shuddering prayer. She taught me that power could be soft, that the most
profound control could be in the gentle, relentless worship of another woman’s
body.

The two experiences were polar
opposites, yet they fed the same hunger in me. The rough, possessive grip of a
man’s hands and the gentle, insistent pressure of a woman’s thighs. The deep,
guttural command to “take it” and the soft, breathless whisper of
“don’t stop.” I spent the year learning that my submission wasn’t a
monolith. It was a prism. With a man, it was about being taken. With a woman,
it was about being needed. Both, in their own way, were about being wanted.

As the clock ticks closer to midnight,
I’m not thinking about who was better. I’m thinking about how grateful I am for
both. For the strength I learned from him and the patience I learned from her.
They didn’t just give me orgasms; they gave me pieces of myself I didn’t know
were missing.

So here’s to 2026. I have no
resolutions. I have only intentions.

I intend to find the man who will make
me beg so prettily my voice breaks. I intend to find the woman whose taste I
want to memorize like a poem. I intend to get lost in the power and the
softness, the strength and the surrender. I intend to collect more memories,
more scars, more orgasms that leave me shaking and breathless and utterly,
completely alive.

This year was a feast. And next year,
I’m still starving.



Happy
New Year, my deviants. May your 2026 be as kinky and loving as you dare to be.