Monday, December 31, 2012

Songs of the Year! I Fought it But There Was Nothing I Could Do!

My id: where Die Antwoord meets Carly Rae Jepsen. Heck of a year!

Thanks, Nice Readers! and a One-Word Resolution

A year ago today, I was broken, hollow eyed, feeling nearly soul-dead. I’d spent a while trying to figure out what magic words to say to win a quasi-Dom’s affection and failing every time. My arm was covered in semi-consensual bruises (still not sure, sorry) and so was my heart. If you’d asked me last New Years where I’d be tonight, I never would’ve guessed “Clothing Optional New Years Party”—I could never have predicted the magic that was this year.

If you’ve been reading this blog, you’ve changed me. You’ve helped me to root around inside myself and start finding the confidence I need to find. My goal was to learn to love myself and though I am not quite there, I am certainly much closer. Looking back at that last Bill day, I feel like I’ve risen above it. I feel nothing but affection, hope, and gratitude to that fuckwad for helping to send me down this path.

But you, the reader, deserve much more gratitude. By giving me a safe place to be my slutty self, you’ve made that self more authentic and beautiful. By making room for heartbreak and mess and fun, you’ve helped me to make more room in myself. This year has been like one of those dreams where you keep discovering new rooms in familiar houses. I know this is just the beginning; there are many more doors to open.

If you’d told me a year ago that Sweetie would be ready to ATTEND a clothing optional party (albeit planning to keep her soft pants on!) and would, if fact, be studying her Two Knotty Boys (talk about people who contributed a lot!!) to find suitably festive knots, I wouldn’t have even known how to picture it. She has been such an adventurer this year—I cannot believe the deep courage of her love, her willingness to push and work and grow for me. I only hope I can learn to offer her the same.

This was the year of the body, and it gave me so, so much, but I see where I want the next part of the story to go. I have a one-word New Year’s Resolution: Connect. This year was about experiences, and I love them all (even the upsetting ones) so much, but I want 2013 to be about relationships—to Sweetie, to dates, to friends and dungeon mates, to fellow writers and kinksters and sex geeks. I look forward to following the opportunities to connect where they take me. Happy New Year, loves. Thank you for your strength and heart.

As I finished typing, this is the song that came on. Fitting.

Friday, December 28, 2012

Confronting Family Shame

 It was a really wonderful Christmas this year, so much nicer than last year’s trapped and desperate feelings that I questioned the worth of my entire dating life. (As I write this, it’s exactly one year after that terrible-hot last day with Bill.)  This Christmas was made extra-festive by the addition of two brand-new family members—Sweetie and I spent most of the trip hugging our brand new baby nephew and bonding with my brother’s new girlfriend, who seems like she was never not in the family. All that plus bonus-visits with old friends made it such a joyous trip.

The worry came when I got home—I was checking the Kitten Calendar Twitter and reposting all the nice holiday shoutouts (superthanks, pals!) and discovered that my brother’s new girlfriend had followed me. My initial reaction was to feel flattered and relieved—there is a little strain to having a secret identity, and the idea of being outed was a little liberating—until I realized the full scope of what she’d be able to read. Then I felt my safe little bubble of a blog close around me and felt trapped and creepy. I became fully conscious of how this might all look to an outsider—just the fact that I was age-play adjacent seemed like enough to get me kicked out of the family. I felt so exposed that I was forced to sympathize with Fireguy’s reaction all those months ago. (Says Sweetie: “Hope you didn’t sympathize for too long…”)

(Really, the reason the Fireguy situation, especially the jealous-partner aspect, freaked me out so much was that it seemed to confirm a fear that I had about myself—that I was inherently harmful and could not get what I wanted without destroying things.)

Anyway, after I found the follow, I called Sweetie at work and just broke down at the idea of my family being able to read this. “I’m so dirty!” I kept saying. I imagined having my nieces and nephews taken away, never being able to hug the baby again. Because I’m an excellent catastrophizer, I extrapolated out to losing potential students as well. If a new family member could find me, then teacher friends could too, and everyone would know. (I found out you can search using a phone number and some phones even autosearch, but that’s an easy box to uncheck.)

Besides wife, family member, teacher, there’s another role I’ve always worried about having: Ruiner. I grew up in an unhappy family that somehow morphed into a happy one the year my niece was born and I met Sweetie. (They both came into my life in 2001, not long after 9/11.) I’ve always suspected that if I messed things up with Sweetie, then the whole happy-family thing would come crumbling down. Though I’m theoretically out to the family (via facebook and many non-Sweetie themed poems) about being bi and poly, I’ve only talked directly to my parents about it, and only when I was sad. (“Aren’t you just setting yourself up for heartbreak after heartbreak?” said mom, not unkindly.)

For some reason, my brother is the one I’ve always worried about telling, even though he’s an up-to-date reader of my poetry. I’ve always been sure that if I mentioned it directly, he'd tell me what a terrible, selfish jerk I am being to Sweetie and it would ruin whatever occasion it happened to be. I’ve always known that if I didn’t work out between me and Sweetie, I’d be the bad guy, and I’d have absolutely no one to turn to.

For all of the work I’ve done here, for all of the rooms and waves I’ve walked into naked, all it took was an accidental misfollow to bring me face to face with deep-seated shame, not just the suspicion but the knowledge that deep down, I’m dirty and bad and have nothing but destruction to offer.

These idyllic Christmases are wonderful and I wouldn’t want to trade them, but I know that to keep them the same, I’ve suppressed an important part of myself—the Christmas that I want someday, with a guy partner and his family and Sweetie would effectively end Christmas as we know it. When we got in the car to come home Tuesday night, I was so desperate to talk to her, to be our true selves, that we didn’t even put on the radio or podcast for two hours, just talked and talked.

My brother’s girlfriend has been blocked, and it’s likely that she didn’t see a thing. I’m glad that the whole thing opened my eyes to the shame that I still have to work against. I’m 38, for crying out loud, and I can’t keep worrying what my family will think, and I certainly can’t keep half-hoping that I’ll be suddenly be not-bi and able to keep things the way they are. As far as I’ve come, I still have to work hard to get myself to a place of authenticity, of naked safety. Other writers have found ways to write through (real or imagined) family suppression, so hopefully I can too.

Friday, December 7, 2012

Dungeon Love and a Happy Anniversary

This place where you are right now, God circled
on a map for you.

Wherever your eyes and arms and heart can move
against the earth and sky, the Beloved has bowed

the Beloved has bowed there knowing you were


This week was the 11-year anniversary of Sweetie and me getting together, of the night she told me, okay, she’d give it a try, and that I would be her first partner of any kind—it’s a lot of responsibility, and I took it, and I am so glad. She and I have had rocky times this past year, and in some ways our relationship is still in limbo, but we have a lot to celebrate, too.

Last Saturday was the holiday party at our regular dungeon—just the phrase “our regular dungeon” just fills me with pride. We missed the dinner part of the festivities because some dear friends were having a going-away potluck, but we got there early enough that the crew was still setting up the furniture.

Everyone looked so pretty and festive—lots of fancy red dresses, formal kilts, shiny studded gauntlets. There were cute little glowy candle lamps everywhere, and a Christmas tree. When we arrived, Old-Timey Guy was shrink wrapping a girl in a red and white plastic corset.

HempRopes was there with his beautiful wife, and meeting her made me wish that I hadn’t sworn off him—she’s strong, vivacious, and smiley, just the kind of lady I wouldn’t mind being tied to—oh well, maybe someday.

I think my decision to swear off casual play was a good one, though. Instead of resenting HempRopes for having a long line of ladies, I felt happy love for the good time that they were all about to have.

Old-Timey guy asked if I would like another star mark from him and looked taken aback when I said “I’ll think about it.” He’s still calling me his “little girl” but I felt distinctly like a woman, and I’m excited that I’m reserving my right to play as one.

Sweetie and I set up our scene in a triangle with the people we love to play next to: Old-Timey Guy and Punk Rock Girl were on the St. Andrew’s cross to our right, and Hot Switch Couple were getting their bag of tricks ready the next kneeling bench over. We all hugged and smiled about the prospect of being near each other.

It was one of the happiest nights of my life. Sweetie made me feel like a rope-covered princess. She ties me to a kneeling bench and figured out how to spank nice and firmly without hurting. I don’t always go all the way to a subby place with her, but this time I did—I felt like I was getting spanked inside a glowy pink cloud of well-being. As I was spacing out to the comfy rhythms, I noticed that Punk Rock Girl was getting flogged to the exact same beat—it was such a lovely feeling of oneness.

I knelt there giggling with joy, mostly naked in from of my friends, just like I love to be. I am so proud of the life that Sweetie and I have created in the last year, the way we have made a space for ourselves in the world where we can be in love and hot and safe and in front of everybody. Even though I’m often distracted by what’s missing from my life, I have to admit that this new life is like a miracle.

Sunday, December 2, 2012

Season's Greetings from My Underpants!

Sweetie and I had a wonderful time at our regular dungeon's holiday party last night. I'll write about it soon, but really, this is the most important thing to say:

Saturday, December 1, 2012

This Week in Fairly Basic Life Lessons

Well, the Man About Town was downgraded this week from hapless to creepy—in his last (or what I hope was his last) correspondence to me he insinuated that I was somehow being dishonest because I needed some space to process things without his input. He said he just didn’t take my boundary seriously—what girl doesn’t loooove hearing that her “no” meant nothing, huh? He’s all blocked/unfriended/marked as spam now, but I’m still kind of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

(Note to self—I believe in magic just enough that I should never mess around with someone who is in a coven—I keep imagining him sending me gross condescending healing vibes or something.)

What I realized was, I acted in bad faith. I didn’t like him. I was ambivalent after our first date, but I thought that might’ve been because I was all swirly about Mister Hazel eyes. On the second date, I was sure that I wasn’t attracted to him—his kisses just tasted wrong, the chemistry was off.

Yet I thought I should go forward with him because he looked good on paper—he had these nice, sensible girlfriends, he seemed stable and smart, he treated me very well. I thought that I should like him. So I asked to go forward as nonromantic play partners, just to see how that went.

In retrospect, it was a cynical move trying to make myself like someone just because he was appropriate. I had this idea in my head that I had to move on from the single boys, the bad boys, the inexperienced, unavailable boys to someone who was more suitable. I was trying to grow up, yes, but going about it in such a coldhearted way.

Being experienced at poly doesn’t make someone a mensch, and I should have followed my instincts—they obviously picked up something that I didn’t. So the fairly obvious lesson is: don’t play with people I am not attracted to. My body knows what it is doing and I need to listen to it. Otherwise, naked pictures of me will keep ending up in the hands of people I actively dislike—that is just not good.

There have been a few times that I’ve wondered if I have to make a choice between the adventures and the blog, but the main characters, the people in the story who mean the most to me, have never given me even a little bit of shit about it. The two guys who have caused me trouble about my writing were people I had reservations about anyway, and next time, I will listen to those reservations.

The holidays are a great time to put my quest for another partner on the back burner and turn my focus wholeheartedly to Sweetie and the rest of my family, to appreciating all of my friends, and to celebrating the fact that I am about to complete my student teaching. There is so much richness that I already have, and it needs my attention. When I return to dating, I will do my best to believe in attraction, in my body, maybe even in love. Just like I did a year ago!

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Meditate on Lily Taylor from Say Anything

The newest (yay!) episode of Poly Weekly  asks a question I am utterly unqualified to answer: How do you get over a deep connection to a Dom?

It reminded me of some advice I recently got from my friend Pagan Boy. I was talking about (still!) pining away over Bill and he said that I reminded him of Lily Taylor from Say Anything, writing a million songs for that doofus Joe. That image may not keep me from reminiscing, but it should help me reduce the number of ill-advised emails I write this holiday season, and that is a victory in and of itself.

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Song of the Week: Walk Through the Fire

Things are looking up, pals. Thanks in part to endless listenings to Once More, With Feeling

Saturday, November 24, 2012

I’m Not Angry, I’m Just Disappointed: Age, Déjà vu, and a Little Metablogging

A few weeks ago, two events conspired to make it really hard to have any faith in this process. I wrote a little bit about it here but I find myself needing to return to the topic. Part of what inspired the sadness of this post was HempRopes, the talented top who suspended me last month.

After we played together, he sent me the picture and let me know that I’d been a vey good bottom and that he’d play again any time, so I asked if we could make some plans. He responded enthusiastically, telling me it was time to meet his wife so that I could be vetted to come over and play at their house. I let him know that I was a ways away from private play but that it was a possibility for the future. The exchange was punctuated with more than a few smiley emoticons on my part.

He said that his November schedule was up in the air but that he’d let me know. I saw his RSVP on a mid-month event but hadn’t heard from him so I planned to go and play with Sweetie.

I should have had a blindfold on. We were at a very sociable venue and I was distracted from our scene. People kept coming over to say hi and for the most part I didn’t mind it until my friend Bubbly Sub came over and gave me a happy naked rope hug, glowing and bragging about how much fun she’d just had with HempRopes. She was all buzzy and glittery with happiness, and it should have just made me happy, but it didn’t. I don’t know why their having played bothered me so much, except that I couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d chosen her first because she is 24, more pliable, more agreeable than I am. There was no way I could ever get chosen if those were the desired traits.

The hurt brought me completely out of my scene with Sweetie—I was struck by the sheer empty futility of standing there naked trying to attract the attention of men, and most of the time failing, at least in the long term. I know much more happy and healthy uses for my nakedness, but in that moment of despair there were none to be had. I felt guilty for interrupting our fun, but I had to get some care and go home.

There was no offer from HempRopes to really decline, since he’d clearly forgotten that I’d asked for plans, but simply to hold myself to my decision, I sent him a note with the heading “Not Cut Out for Bunnying.” He responded that he certainly had had no intention to hurt me, but that he’d put out a call (on FL) and she’d responded. He said “I tend to get myself a queue when I put the call out, so I go in a “first come, first served” order.”

So BS was chosen not for her youth or cheer, but simply for her ability to sit on FetLife and wait for someone to offer to play. So in a way I guess it was her youth—no adult, professional woman would have time for that nonsense. She was, in the truest sense of the word, easy—a thing I will never be.

I didn’t say any of that, of course, I just sent a polite note that a queue wouldn’t feel right to me. He wished me luck and I crossed off another possibility, stunned by the callousness involved in thinking that he saw both me and BS as nothing but a take-a-number bodies waiting to entertain him.

The second blow to my sense of hope came a few days later, after I’d already posted about my general worries and emptiness. I’d had a good playnight with the Man About Town, and in my post-scene glow, I’d accidentally sent a tweet about it to him instead of Twitter. It was a silly mistake and since it had a hashtag in it, he took it as an invitation to look up this blog, even though I’d made it clear that that was considered 29th base—I wanted us to get to know each other better before I trusted him to read it without trying to control it.

After ONE scene, either he thought we’d achieved that level of intimacy or he didn’t care.

I felt trapped. I found myself workshopping emotions I hadn’t had enough time to even think about yet, things it would seem INSANE to share with someone new, especially someone I was casually playing with. He apologized for “leaving marks that scared (Sweetie)” and it felt like this awful, creepy, invasion into my married life. I would have expressed concerns eventually, on my own terms, but having those insights taken from me felt awful.

Still, it was a mistake from a silly mistweet and the whole sex-blogger thing IS a tricky situation. If he would have apologized, I still wouldn’t have played with him again, but I wouldn’t have been quite so bitter. Instead, he was self-righteous, saying “I’m not going to apologize for reading something that is basically public property, that anyone could just stumble upon.”

Which would be a fair point if I hadn’t ASKED HIM NOT TO. I keep coming back to that:

I asked him not to and he did it anyway.

After one scene, he felt entitled to renegotiate our terms without me, to take what he thought he was entitled to, whether I agreed or not.

It is supremely disheartening, that even the most new-agey, married-to-a-high-priestess, referring-to-the-moon-as-She guy would still feel entitled to my inner life after such a tiny amount of time.

It’s enough to make me rethink my attraction to D/s situations. While I do of course physically enjoy being dominated, I think I’ve emotionally used dominance as a place-holder for things I’m not sure I can find or deserve, traits I believed in a year ago—ideals of masculinity that I see in friends and the husbands of friends but not in the men who are interested in me—courage, chivalry, integrity, emotional honesty and strength.

So far, my experience of dominant men has been one of cold cowardice—from Bill wishing simply for a chokeable fuck doll, to Fireguy thinking that my expressing a point of view about my own experience was going to wreck his entire existence, to HempRopes and his “First come, first served.” I started with a fear that that I could never be what men want, that a man could never be interested in my whole self, and I have found character after character to confirm those fears.

I worry a lot about being perceived as a man-hating harpy, and I’m sure that M.A.T. can commiserate with Fireguy to that effect, but I am really, really trying to be flexible and kind. I don’t want to have such a stunted view of men. I want to let someone real into my life; I’m just totally at a loss about how to get there.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Song of the Week: Not With Haste

I may be in a dark place this week, but this album goes a little way towards turning the light back on.

Sunday, November 11, 2012

Burned Out and Wishing for Snuggles

Sorry I didn’t get to finish the Old Timey guy story—it’s a hot story but it just isn’t inspiring me. I just ended up feeling sort of empty about it.

Empty is unfortunately the theme this week. Last Thursday night I had a perfectly fun evening in Man About Town’s basement. He’s a little sloppy with the knots, but he has other qualities, especially in the holding-me-down department. He did a great job and was the first guy I’d trusted with aftercare in a while, but I think I pushed myself too far. He left ass bruises that scared Sweetie, and I ended up in a dark place and sobbing as I was falling asleep that night.

Then, last night, I was at a party, in perfectly-knotted ropes, alternately tickling a topless Sweetie and drawing pretty doodles on her back, and I somehow felt invisible and abstracted from her. I felt so far away from the warm, loving times that we have at home.
I stopped the scene even though she was enjoying herself.

The lonely-for-Sweetie part is easy to remedy—a snuggling-and-hiking Sunday starts as soon as I’m done typing this—but what about the missing man-affection? I like all of the guys that I have played with recently, but only in a really superficial way. I don’t feel a real connection and that feels like it is eroding something in me.

So what do I do? Declare a moratorium on playing with guys until I find the man of my dreams or a time machine back to last year? Maybe. I’ve been looking for guy-connection at kink events, which seems reasonable, but maybe I need a good break from looking, some time to do other fun things and see if I can reconnect with myself and stop feeling so empty. 

Thursday, November 8, 2012

“You Know You’re Chained to My House, Right?” Part Three

So Punk Rock Girl convinced Old-Timey Guy that I should be second. As I stood in the doorway getting ready to be shacked up, I said “Wait, why am I wearing all these clothes?”

OTG instructed PRG to start getting me naked. “What do you want off?” she asked me.

“Everything but undies and socks! Can (Sweetie) help too?”

It took a little cajoling, but finally Sweetie left her looky-loo perch on the stairs to come over and help. She reached around me to unbutton my jeans and as the two women gently took my pants off, OTG unshackled me and pulled my shirt off over my head. It was a perfect wish come true of a moment. I was so happy.

“You have choice whether you want your bra…” began OTG.

“OFF!” I interrupted.

I think Sweetie unclasped it and OTG took it off. That’s not a collaboration I’d’ve imagined a year ago, or even a few months ago, but look at us! Yay, me and Sweetie, we’ve come so far!

OTG looked at me appraisingly ran his hands lightly over my nipples, alternating between gently grazing them and pinching. I love that feeling of being examined and approved-of. The up went my arms back into the shackles and out came the blindfold. I was ready.

He leaned up against me in the front and whisper-growled “What do you want me to do?”

“Um, hitting?”

“What kind of hitting?”

“Around the ass area?”

“What do you say?”

“Please Sir.”

“Please what?

“Please may I have the strappy thing?”

OhmanIlove the strappy thing. Thwack, thwack, thwack, nice thuddy, insistent impact. I wigged my ass for more.

It felt so good but it was hard to fully relax sometimes. I felt nervous that I couldn’t check Sweetie’s expression. I had to resist the urge to keep on calling to her to see if she was okay. Occasionally she’d laugh or chime in with a sassy comment and I’d know she was doing allright.

Next: Barehanded spanking, a saw horse, a Hitachi, and possibly an Otter Pop.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Oh, It's You. Must Be the Daylight Savings...

Last night while I was enjoying some quality time with the Big Purple Thing, who should happen through my imagination but Bill. He doesn't come out  of my Spank Bank very often, so I was surprised to see him storming around my fantasy, giving me the what-for again.

It might be because the first time I wrote to him, it was the beginning of Daylight Savings Time last year. Yes, it is weird that I remember this.

“You know you’re chained to my house, right?” Part Two

It may not have been wonderland, but the evening did have sort of a down-the-rabbit-hole feeling to it.

Of course I had to try out those living room shackles—there was no use even trying to be cool about it. The first time, it was clothes-on, just goofing around. Old-Timey Guy made ticklish threats without touching me, and I squirmed and giggled. I’m still really surprised that this tickling business appeals to me at all! At that point I got the most (Well, maybe not the MOST) disagreeable nickname—“Twitch.” Sweetie was the one who said it, but OTG saw that it bothered me and decided to go with it. I’d have to earn my way out of it, he said, by being less squirmy. I didn’t see a lot of not-twitching in the near future, and I was correct.

OTG is always trying to goad me into admitting I am not entirely adultlike:

“Are you a good girl?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Are you a good little girl?”

“Uh, no Sir, I am TOTALLY an adult.” The pigtails and the fact that I punctuated this statement with a little foot-stamp may have hurt my argument. Also the fact that I spent most of the night giggling.

He continued with the diminutives the rest of the night, and I was careful to disagree every time. “My three little girls, “he said, as he was setting up his electroplay toys to demo them.

“Two.” I said. “TWO little girls.”

(It occurs to me that this is an odd stand to take, considering that my first dirty-talk pet name was “brat.”)

One of those little girls, Squeak, took my place in the shackles, now naked except for a teeny-tiny black thong. She’s an electro-slut, they explained, it’s her favorite. I’ve always thought violet wands are pretty, but I hadn’t yet had occasion to try one.

How it works is, the “wand” is plugged in, and various glass implements are screwed into it. It is a very mad scientist-type situation. Nothing happens if you press someone’s skin firmly to the glass, but if you hold it near them and graze lightly, little tiny sparks leap out. He held the wand and its flat-headed bulb against Squeak’s nipples and she wiggled, sighed, and yes, squeaked. Then he held out the wand for Sweetie and me to try.

I don’t like the feeling. The sparks are tiny and don’t hurt, they’re more like a tiny, prickly irritation—it’s weird how something as strong as electricity could give me the soft-touch heebie jeebies.

It was really fun sitting with Sweetie watching Squeak enjoy her torture. Usually in these sorts of situations I feel protective/defensive of Sweetie, or just impatient with her, but she really seemed at ease, and not just because Punk Rock Girl was serving her some really fancy whiskey.

As Squeak was getting taken down from the shackles and warming her hands up in OTG’s kilt, I said that I’d like to go in the shackles again please.

“It’s (Punk Rock Girl’s) turn next,” said OTG, but bless her, PRG said that she’d go third because I was the guest. I was really flattered that she seemed to want to see me play!

Next: I may have been tickled with an Otter Pop.

Monday, November 5, 2012

“You know you’re chained to my house, right?” Part One

Sweetie and I were sleepy and at loss for something to do Saturday night, and I was feeling the way I usually do on the weekend, which is buried in homework. We’d just been to the library so the temptation to spend our extra Daylight-Savings hour in bed pretty compelling. But! Old-timey Guy and Punk Rock Girl turned out to be having a last-minute party because one of their events got cancelled—and they live right near our neighborhood!

So Sweetie and I did something that we hadn’t done in a shameful while—we bought a bottle of wine and headed over to our friends’ house to pal around. It felt great.

It ended up being a teensy party, which appealed to both my introverted half and my love for hogging attention. Punk Rock Girl answered the door in a gypsy skirt and corset, with nothing covering her pretty boobs. We’ve seen each other nearly naked lots of times, but this would be our first chance to play together sans nipple tape—hooray! Hooray for boobs! Is how I felt walking into their house.

As I hugged Old-Timey Guy hello, his other slave came bounding down the stairs. She’s a green-haired Muppet-adorable girl I’ll call Squeak. She had on a collar and a little black satin nightie. She had kind of an undergrad way about her, but not unpleasantly so. OTG is the same age as me but his slaves are in their early 20s, which feels a little annoying to me, but who am I to judge. (Answer: the inner judgey part of me that spent many parts of that evening with arms folded, pondering the ethics of nearly consenting to being called a little girl, but I’ll get to that in a bit.)

“Welcome to Wonderland,” he said, “If my shtick gets too much for you, let me know. I generally rein it in at (the public dungeon.)” It didn’t look too wonderland-ish, except maybe for the rather large number of hats. It was a stonerish house like I went to a million times in my college-townie twenties. They had beanbag couches, the TV tuned to Bugs Bunny, and shackles up in the wide doorway between the living room and the dining room. OTG’s spanking implements were neatly arranged on a rack next to the stairs. Cozy.

As often happens when you visit a BDSM person’s house, we were given a tour of the basement. No Scooby-Doo style trick bookcase, but these was a “Naughty Room”—a chilly stone room furnished only with a dropcloth, an ominously tiny chair, and of course loops in the ceiling. Perfect for some Buffy and Spike actions, but we went upstairs.

Next: “I’m nooooot touuuuuching you….”

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Oh, Big Purple Thing

I’ve never had my own big vibrator, and I’ve been wanting one for a while—something really insistent to shut my brain off and make me stop thinking about lesson plans for a few minutes.

So the other day when I was out window-shopping with my friend Angel Face, he helped me pick one out. It was big enough, had the right not-real look (I like the real thing a lot, but for whatever reason I don’t want a sex toy that looks real.) without too many bells and whistles or complicated punch-button controls. I was shy to ask the clerks if it was the bad plastic, so I just bought a box of condoms to go along with it.

It was the first box of condoms I purchased for myself. Sometimes I feel pretty worldly, what with the edge-play and all, but on this matter I am strikingly naïve and brand-new. Angel Face pointed out that condoms are available for free in, like, every queer space around town, and I made a mental note to start taking advantage of that.

When it came time to play with the Big Purple Thing with Sweetie, I felt ashamed. I guess I still feel penis-liking-shame around her (she has made her share of nasty comments over the years, though not recently) and this was almost like having a penis in the room, especially with putting a condom on it. (First time I put a condom on anything myself, actually—can that be right?) I felt like I was being disloyal to her, even as I was wrapped up in her arms.

It felt good, thought, of course it did, and I didn’t know how I’d gone without the sensation for so long. It vibrated my whole body and made me forget the pretty feather thing I was tickling Sweetie with. And then the memories came, and the regrets, somehow not being able to keep Bill in there, MKT and his perfect (but ultimately monogamous) penis, Mr. Popular who never called again afterwards. I miss them, I need them, not those men, but men.

My first time with a nice big dildo didn’t make me feel all sassy Sex-in-the-City-independent; it reminded me of just how needy I am on the inside. Instead of feeling empowered like a good sex-nerd should, I feel pathetic for needing a piece of plastic for something I should be able to get a human being to do. That’s not the right feeling, to be sure, but it’s the one I had.

Throughout my adventures, especially my self-adventures, I’ve noticed that new experiences can sometimes be triggering—the first time I put something up my ass, I had space-issues for days, but it didn’t stop me from trying again. The Big Purple Thing is upsetting to me specifically because I missed that sensation so much—needing something inside me that way has always made me feel too vulnerable, too out of control, and that’s exactly the reason I need to practice it. I’m resolving to try it again until it doesn’t scare me, and to go back to finding ways to let actual men into my life, even if it means answering even yet still more OK Cupid questions.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Best Hurricane Company (Besides Sweetie): Playing Well With Others

Yes, I managed to stop being starstruck long enough to talk to Lee Harrington and Mollena at one of their recent appearances--it was such a joy to spend time (and learn some knots!) with them.

Playing Well With Others has three of my favorite things--BDSM, etiquette, and cute little drawings. In my awkward-girl quest to figure out how the heck to be, I am always excited for advice, and these two give it in a way that's accessible and welcoming to people of all experience levels. I couldn't put the book down and I'm exited to go out into the world and start putting some of the advice into practice.


Monday, October 29, 2012

A Whole Bunch of Firsts, Part Three: I Heart the Knife

Hung up in those ropes, I felt relaxed in a special, extra consent-y way. Technically, I know I am supposed to negotiate things before the scene starts, but I think I was still capable of looking in my heart and knowing I was a yes.

“I could be really mean…” said HempRopes

“Well, not TOO mean, but…how mean?”

“I could get out the knife…”

Knives have been in my maybe pile for a while, and I felt safe enough to try it, so I said sure. I knew that Sweetie would furrow her brow in concern and confusion, but I also knew that she would support me. I gave the knife the go-ahead.

There was the old-fashioned swish of an opening switchblade near my ear. I was still blindfolded so I didn’t know where it would touch me first, or whether or not it would hurt. I felt a light stinging move up my leg, toward my knee. It didn’t hurt much, somewhere between a sting and a tickle. I liked it, of course—what’s not to like?

When I said I’d play with HR, I knew from classes that he was really good with the ropes, but I’m not sure I would have guessed that I’d be quite so turned on by him. But when the knife grazed the top of my breasts, I couldn’t stifle a sigh-moan.

The ropes felt tight on my chest so he lifted me up and held me by the back of my harness. It was a flashback to babyhood, warm and rocked and cared for.

“Where did the knife go?”

The thigh-ropes were holding my legs up and apart, the perfect position for him to graze the knife around my ass, my thighs, and up the middle of the wet crotch of my pajamas-oh. That’s the moment I keep going back to, you know, during personal time. The knife grazing my clit through soft fabric. The pleasure of an almost-stranger doing such very-personal things.

He held my head and pulled the back of the knife gently across my neck—it reminded me of Bill and his tries at breath play, which is an admittedly odd thing to get wistful about. I wondered if I should stop and tell him about being protective of my throat, but it felt fine.

When I first wrote this installment down in my notebook last week, it felt like it might be the end of the Kitten Calendar story. That Saturday night, I felt like I’d come into my own. I felt empowered by the fact that I could go out and get what I needed, that getting what my body is asking for doesn’t necessarily need to be about romance—there was a deep fulfillment to playing with Old-Timey Guy and HempRopes, despite the fact that I don’t know what bands they like or even—gasp!—who they are going to vote for. I trusted them with my whole self, my whole body, and they thoroughly came through. That really means a lot to me. I spent a little time feeling like a triumphant Casual Girl, but that didn’t last long—that’s another story, though.

It only took a few minutes for HR to take me down. A friend I’ll call Bubbly Sub had been not-so-patiently waiting and watching for her turn for at least fifteen minutes—I don’t think I’ve ever been watched quite so closely.

“Can you stand on your own?” HR asked, and I found that I could. He helped pull me up and then took me over to the wall to take a picture of my pretty harness. Couples who were playing around us stopped to smile and watch me get my picture taken. We hugged goodbye and he said he would play with me anytime I wanted. I hugged Bubbly Sub, who was already stripped down to her undies and tape) goodbye, and after a few minutes of clearing my head, drove home.

I am really proud of how strong I was that night, how much I got to experience just because I put myself out there. I’ll keep posting adventures, of course, but at least for that night, I felt like the quest was complete, like I’d gotten myself where I needed to go.

Saturday, October 27, 2012

A Whole Bunch of Firsts Part Two: Suspension!!

After my flogging fun with Old-Timey Guy, I put my PJs back on and found a spot to stand and watch everybody play. I hovered near a rope-acquaintance of mine, who happens to share a name with the most vexing character on this blog, so I’ll just refer to him as HempRopes. I’d watched him before in rope class and admired his style, and earlier last Saturday night he’d offered to tie me up if he got time.

HempRopes was spotting a young man who was doing self-suspension. People who do ropes on themselves are my heroes; I’d really like to learn that for myself someday.

I was hoping I might be next after HR’s spotting task, and I was!

He gave me the option of clothes or not clothes, guess which I chose? I left my little pajama shorts on but of course opted for toplessness.

HR is kind of my type, stocky and vaguely nerdish. He had very warm hands as he basket-wove the ropes around my thighs. My favorite part of getting the harness on was when he said “Put your arms around my neck” and picked me up by the thigh ropes to make sure they were adjusted properly—I squealed.

I kept getting distracted watching Old-Timey Guy and Punk Rock Girl playing, so I asked for a blindfold. I was surprised to want one after the fainting time. He had a nice leather one that he bucked on loosely and I started to feel all soft and safe.

For weeks and weeks, my brain has been in a state of constant chatter; lesson plans, homework, discipline problems, all of the cerebral, not-sexy stuff that’s really important but can take me out of my body too much. As HR worked the ropes onto me, as his warm hands wove hemp gently around my chest, I heard something strange and wonderful in my brain: silence. Ahhhhhhh, relief.

He was apologetic whenever he had to adjust the ropes between my legs, but I told him he didn’t have to be quite so polite. When he was finished putting the harness on me, he put me in a chair and got to work doing the rigging on the suspension frame. It took quite a while. People strolled by oohing and ahhing about his work, and I felt like I wasn’t there, in a good way. Once the rigging was done on the frame, he came back over to the frame and tied on some comfy ankle supports—it felt like a one-column tie. then he picked up the ankle supports and led me over to the suspension frame.

In order to get situated on the frame, he had to tie me at my heart first—I liked the feeling of that first support rope pulling up from my heart, it stretched me out in a new way. When he was getting my back supported, I had to lean back a couple of times to get the rope into position. Then it was time to lean back all the way and I was suspended, just a few feet off the floor. It felt wonderful, like a cradle. He tied giving me a head-support, but that felt too choky, so my head just hung down, not-unpleasantly.

He rocked me. I felt warm and contained and cared-for. I’d heard other bottoms talk about feeling like they’re in a safe little bubble and I felt what they meant. The bulge in his pants was now friendly against my shoulder every time he rocked me back. I liked the way that it felt sexy but undemanding—kind of matter-of-fact.

Next time: I heart the knife.

A Dream, a Song

I was just thinking last night about how I was in a pretty unsentimental place right now when it comes to male partners, and then I had a dream wherein:

1. I was getting to be real friends with Bill.
2. I said the following to MKT's son: "Say hi to your dad for me, and tell him I'm sorry I missed the movie."

My waking life may be focused on other things, but my dreamlife is still emo.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

A Whole Bunch of First Times Part One: Flogging

Just when I was getting to the point where I thought I’d have no more paragraphs, a whole bunch of stuff happened all at once.

I went to our usual dungeon last night, and it was the first time I went by myself. It felt strange—there’s a whole new level of slutty to standing around in shorty pajamas, no bra, and heels when nobody in particular is looking after you. I was a little worried that I was humiliating myself, but I knew I’d just have to stand there and talk to people if I was ever going to have hope of finding guys to play with.

I sort of had somebody in mind. He was the first guy to spank me in front of Sweetie—his ceramic-star cane is now my nemesis—and also part of the couple who helped Sweetie rescue me when I fainted the time before last. They are both a little younger than me and vaguely steampunk—I’ll call them Punk Rock Girl and Old-Timey Guy. I knew ITG was enough of an expert to make my first flogging experience meaningful—and it was!

I think I may have been a little overeager last night—next time, I think I’ll let people settle in a little more before I ask them to do stuff to me. Old-Timey Guy made fun of me for being impatient (okay, so I may have jumped up and down a little) but agreed, making it clear that it was a strictly demo situation. He gave me the nickname he likes to give subs—“Little One”—which in my case is adorable/hilarious because I am a big giant Amazon.

He started hooking up carabiners to the St. Andrew’s cross. There was already a couple playing on the other side of the cross, an adorable switchy couple I’m quite used to playing next to. (It made for some cute “I know how you feel” moments while chained face-to-face to the girl) Old-Timey Guy instructed Punk Rock Girl to put shackles on my ankles and wrists and get me attached to the cross.  She took a lot of care to make sure that my wrists were comfortable—“I can fix them now, but once he starts, it’s too late.” She got me all snug and settled in and then moved away so that OTG could take over.

He leaned against me and asked “Do you think I’m a bad man?”

I laughed but nodded empathically. The truth is, his face is fundamentally good natured—all beardy and trustworthy. He makes me feel all silly and innocent, plus he is often wearing a hat with a feather in it, but I was overjoyed to play along:

“Oh yes, very bad man.”

“Do you want me to do bad things to you?” More smiling and supercheery nodding.

The first implement he brought out was a pretty silver filigreed thing, shaped like a little tiny garden rake, but dainty and fancy. He said, “Now I’m just gonna warm you up.” He raked the little filigree thing over my back, my shoulders, my neck, my hair, the backs of my knees. It felt firm sometimes and tickly other times. He tickled me with his fingers, too. I never thought that I would like that, but I did. I loved all of the squealing and wiggling. The dungeon owner says ticklers are the hardest on his furniture, and I can see why. Very squirmy!

All the while, PRG was watching and assisting. She was the one who took my glasses off when I needed her to, and the one who told me to keep my head forward so that it’d be a little more safe.

OTG started flogging my back—he’d asked if I liked thing more thud-y or sting-y and this was as thud-y as I had requested. I relaxed against the cross in a semi-subby state until the thuds got a little harder and I had to brace against the pain a little. I gritted my teeth and balled up my fists, but I didn’t cry out or make the stop signal.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No, but you could go a little, um, lower,” I said, wiggling my ass in his general direction.

“This looks like it can take some pain,” he said, and got started, first with the flogger, then with a strap thing that I really, really, REALLY loved. Rhythmically, one cheek, the other, I never wanted it to ever stop. But too soon, he leaned into me and said “My dear, you have now been flogged. Did you like it?”


As a finale, he pulled down my undies and left a heart shaped marked on one side and a star-shaped mark on the other. It hurt like a sonofabitch.

I was sad that it was over, that there wasn’t an aftercare factor, but I hugged and thanked him and helped get PRG into her shackles for their real play. (Really, she helped me help her into her shackles.) It was melancholy feeling, but centered and very warm about the back and ass.

Next: Hello, suspension!

Saturday, October 20, 2012

Why Do Republicans Hit on Me?!

Asking for a playlist is a useful assessment when it comes to finding out if someone's worth meeting. The last time I did this, I was surprised to find a Toby Keith song in my inbox, so I asked the guy if he was a Republican, and he said yes! That he hopes I'm "Okay with that, LOL." This always mystifies me! If you are a Republican, why are you on the FetLife? Shouldn't you be at church? Why would I let you enjoy my body when you want to take away its rights?

Anyway, I didn't say any of that, but I did send this list:

Hmm, well, Let's see. I am
1. Hoping to marry my wife legally some day.
2. A teacher in an inner-city school
3. A sex-positive woman
If your side wins, it will directly hurt my life in many ways. So, no, I am not okay with that.

And he sent back a note about being fiscally conservative, blah blah blah, but also this, which made me laugh:

If this side wins perhaps I should be there to tie you down so you don't hurt yourself. :-)

Oh, election season...

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Love Letter for This Time Last Year

Student teaching is really taking it out of me, friends. To the point where I don’t know how to find myself at all some days.

Loneliness, fatigue, and a way-too-early Christmas commercial have been making me a little pine-y for this time last year, when I met both the Mayor of Kittentown and Bill within the span of a few weeks. Though I really value everything that’s happened since then, they were something really special and I miss them every day. There’s a little piece of me always whispering come back to them. Not out loud, that would be creepy, just around the edges of my consciousness when I’m falling asleep at night or hitting the snooze in the morning. It’s a dusky feeling, a curl-up-by-the-door-and-wait.

For those few months that I had them, it was my first glimpse of what a real bisexual life could be like. It was what I told myself my whole life that I couldn’t have. I was getting along mostly with Sweetie, getting excellent vanilla satisfaction from MKT, and collecting consensual bruises from Bill.

After all those years without the welcome weight of a man on me, I finally had it, and though the transition was sometimes terrible between me and Sweetie (There were a series of couch-themed fights, and the phrase “go suck some dicks” often came into play…) (Don’t mind if I DO, btw.) but for the most part my mood and our sex life improved.

They were never going to be long term—besides being monogamous, they both had a deep lack of chivalry—but I still wishwishwish I could have kept them. It feels unlikely that I’ll ever settle into a man again the way that I settled into them. I would love to jump in the sex-TARDIS and go back to being curled up with MKT and his cats watching Mystery Science Theater, or underneath Bill as his eyes bored into me, as he marked me too much with his teeth. As MKT kissed the bruises without asking why they were there.

Of course, I’ve moved forward, had adventures that neither one of them was equipped for, but together, they showed me what it could be like, all the different things to want, how to be a woman who is wanted by men.

It all seems so far away now. I have plenty of offers for friendly and no doubt expert floggings, but the dream of romance (or even the approximation of romance) seems so far away.

I don’t know if I’ll find love like that again, if I’ll ever check my inbox again to find the perfect song. Sometimes this year has an air of finality, a midlife crisis I made the most of and now have to leave. Those two might not have been right, might not have been mine, but they were close, and I let them be close. So, even if I can’t really mean it, come back.

Monday, October 1, 2012

Ohno, I Fainted in the Dungeon

It’s possible that I have been pushing myself too hard. Student teaching is taking up almost every second of my life and it is rewarding but stressful.

I really needed to think about other things, so I was really looking forward to last Saturday, which for the most part turned out to be one of my favorite kink-themed days yet. Our regular dungeon was hosting a poly-and-kink day of workshops, and I went without Sweetie so I’d be more likely to talk to people—it worked! I got to sit and talk with people I usually only get to watch and be watched by. It gave me a wonderful sense of community, and I even made the acquaintance of another fire dom—I would have gotten to be set on fire, too, if it hadn’t been for some bad judgment on Sweetie’s and my part.

The DM had just built the above piece of furniture. It was meant for tickle play, but I spent a fair amount of the day daydreaming about ways to be tied to it.

As has become usual, I was the first one to strip down when the play party was even close to starting. Suspension frames were still being assembled when Sweetie started roping me up, as I danced a little bit to some (oddly appropriate) Chumbawamba: I get knocked down and (spoiler alert) I do, in fact, get up again.

I was feeling extra lovey-dovey with Sweetie and she put my harness on—I hadn’t seen her much during the week and I was full of endorphins from all of the poly chattering I’d done throughout the day. We stopped to kiss more often than we usually do, and I encouraged her to be a little more handsy—as long as she was careful with my Hello Kitty tape. I think it’s the sexiest she and I have ever been out in public.

Then it was time to climb onto the contraption. She strapped my arms onto the Y-shaped cross thing first, and then wound ropes around my waist and thighs to tie me to the back. She kept having to push my glasses up to keep them from falling off. She pulled the thigh ropes rhythmically, the way I like, and I moaned and sighed and nuzzled her. I felt so turned on.

She put the blindfold on me and tied my feet together, making sort of a spreader bar with ropes. She started to spank me right after that, but I told her my foot felt funny. I told her it was time to get down, but I was realizing it too late—I was starting to really freak out because I realized how much time it would take to get me free. I felt trapped, terrified—it’s a feeling that occasionally has to come out, but I would prefer it in less woozy doses.

“Get the blindfold off. All the way off.” I was getting really upset and I felt myself slip out of consciousness as a wave of nausea came over me—I really didn’t want to be the girl who throws up on the dungeon floor, and I didn’t. I became dimly aware that people were helping Sweetie unwind the ropes—it was the guy who spanked me with a star-cane a few months ago and his punk rock girlfriend—gentle voices and people working purposefully at the knots, telling me it was okay,

“You can get out now,” said Sweetie, but I was still tied to the frame.

“Nonono I can’t, I can’t get out yet.”

Finally I was able to climb/fall out of the contraption and into/onto the punk rock girl. I wanted to lay right down on the floor but I was still heaving like I was going to throw up, so Sweetie rushed me to the loo. I am not a heavy drinker, so this is the first time I’ve ever found myself sobbing into a bar toilet. I couldn’t throw up, but I couldn’t stand up without feeling sick. So I just stayed there and cried. More nice, soothing voices, kind people bringing a wet towel for my burning forehead, the Punk Rock Girl making sure we knew there was a spot clear to lay down.

There was something oddly normal about laying on a bench in the dungeon, crying my eyes out. I was covered in a scarf and shivering until I could find the strength to put my clothes on. A kind soul brought over a clean tablecloth to wrap me up in. I was too freaked out for Sweetie to even touch me, but the tears? They seemed okay. I felt like myself. So much myself that I cried because I worried that I wouldn’t be well enough to make lesson plans for my guided reading groups on Monday.

I feel fine as I’m writing this, even if I still feel stupid for kneeling in a constricted position for as long as I did. I might have to be a little vanilla for a few weeks ‘til the scare wears off, but I’m okay. Part of the goal of my adventures is to build a community, to make myself safer by making connections, and my stupid faint let me know that I am reaching that goal. Sweetie and I are not alone. There are nice people in special outfits who will help us when we need it. That is a big comfort.

I am completely exhausted about student teaching and about the other changes I have been going through. I think that Saturday’s shutdown was my body’s way of asking me to please find it some rest. I’ll really try to—it’s the least I can do.

Thursday, September 27, 2012

Not Quite a Wesley and Cordelia Moment, But…

Do you think I should give it a third date?

My Man About Town is a catch in a million ways—he’s warm, sweet, excited to learn knots, excellent with logistics and making me feel cared for. I’ve been to his house and I like both his wife and his girlfriend.

After our hike last night, he sent me a Google Earth map of the route! Romantic, right?

But I just feel like the chemistry is off. I love talking to him but I just don’t feel quite right about kissing him.

If this were a romantic comedy, this would be a part where I realize that I’ve moved past the bad boys and I’m ready for some genuine affection, and choose the Nice Guy. And I really want to do that, but it just feels like we’re more a friend match than anything else. I DO want to be treated well, but a spark is important, too.

Please advise?

Friday, September 21, 2012

Song of the Week: Under My Thumb

Like I said last week, I'm on a busy schedule and sometimes I need songs to top me. Send more!

OkCupid Message of the Week

"So now that we're friends on Fetlife and I've masturbated to your photos, what are your thoughts on teaching me the 'ropes'? I'll supply the mix tapes."

I'm torn between:

1. My love of being masturbated to
2. My fondness for mixtapes
3. My desire to be treated with a modicum of respect


4. My complete aversion from trying to teach anybody to top me

Dangit, three and four win out! 

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

About the Man About Town

The week before my birthday, I kissed four people, which is maybe too many. The only one of those that you haven’t heard about yet is the Man About Town.

I’m calling him that because he’s got a lot of community stuff going on—his art is in local galleries, he’s in the pagan community, and he’s a leader of the local poly meetup, which is how I got to know him. I’d seen him around for about a year, but one night a few months ago during a poly book club meeting I noticed that he’s my type--big and bearish, warm, fond of easygoing public nudity. So I sent him a friend request on Fet Life and I guess my pictures did the trick. We exchanged emails all summer. He’s looking for a new play partner, so we made plans.

Our first date, during that week-of-kissing-four-people, was a hiking date on my favorite leisurely trail. We talked and talked and talked. Then sometimes we talked ABOUT the talking. I felt really comfortable with him and was as confessional as I would’ve been if I’d had two glasses of wine. I told him SO MUCH STUFF and he told me a lot too. It was like a miracle of yammering, I loved it.

I was trying to remember the name of a butterfly* that was helpfully splaying out its wings for us to study when I felt him move in for the kiss. He was gentle, a little tentative, technically proficient, but I’m not sure what I felt, emotionally. Still, I was impressed, and I couldn’t resist high-fiving him and saying “Good job!”

Then I was like “Wait, is that okay to say? good job?”

“Of course!” he said, “Feedback is always welcome.”

Man About Town is close with Fireguy’s crowd, so I talked to him a lot about that situation, which is good because it means that some disclosures are out of the way. It was a relief to talk about that stuff, I’d been afraid to for a while.

The Man About Town is just that, a man. So far, he makes me feel valued, understood, and oriented. My first date with him was a pretty island in the sea of insecurity that was the end of Mister Hazel Eyes. I got home that day feeling comfy in my own skin, pleased to have the rest of the day alone with a good book, not needy or clingy but self-contained.

He asked me out right away, but I was feeling really overwhelmed about everything else that was going on. I told him I needed a month or so to get back on my feet before any more non-Sweetie dates. Then, a few days later, I asked if I could put him on the calendar for the end of September so I’d have him to look forward to. He had absolutely no problem with planning things three weeks in advance, and that is so dreamy. I’m not sure how I feel about him, but I am so proud to have made plans with a grown ass man. Go me.

*the butterfly was a "red spotted purple"

Monday, September 17, 2012

Two Songs for a Good Beach Re-do

It might have just been the beach endorphins, but I was really glad to run into the Mayor of Kittentown and Monogamous Girl at the beach yesterday. You wouldn’t think so, after last time, but it was really illuminating.

They were coming down the path as I was leaving, which meant that we helpfully all had clothes on. He looked so handsome and she looked beautiful—they were glowing with health and happiness. In my version of reality, I would have happily pounced on both of them, but what really happened was, I felt a teensy little glimmer of compersion.

MG and I shook hands bravely. MKT told me about a baby horseshoe crab they’d seen. It reminded me of my nature-y endeavors with Sweetie, so how could I not be charmed? A few moments of chitchat and it was over, and I felt a great sense of accomplishment on getting past that initial awkward. (Though, knowing both of us, I’m sure there’s more awkward to come.) I texted him a *high five* when I got back to cell phone range.

I have to begrudgingly admit that my little jealous breakdown on the beach a few weeks ago is probably a good thing in the long run. It was another (like the millionth) reminder that he was a bigger deal to me than I thought, that I have to stop trying to be casual girl when what I really want is long term relationships. (Just like Rory Gilmore!) More importantly, it pushed me past Mister Hazel Eyes a little faster than I might have gone, and I’m starting to see that as a good thing.

Being ready for (or at least preferring) someone with the possibility for a long term relationship is a healthy and honest thing for me. I am grateful that MHE is behind me if it makes me more open to what comes next. It is time to start believing in love and doing what it takes to get there.

Here are some nicely bittersweet songs from the drive home:

Friday, September 14, 2012

My Crackpot Heart Wants Kryptonite and Other Dumb Mistakes

I keep trying to write around what’s bugging me this week, but it isn’t working. For the most part, it’s been a good couple of weeks. I had such a great birthday and my first few weeks of student teaching have been stressful and busy but very gratifying.

But when it comes to this project, I am lost. Mister Hazel Eyes's disappearance hit me harder than it should’ve, and I’m feeling kind of slutty/rejected because Mr. Popular hasn’t been in touch either. Neither should be such a big deal, but I just can’t get over the never-seeing-someone-again aspect of dating. Things just go by too fast. Since last year, six guys who really meant something to me have come (well, most of them came, anyway) and gone—I am grateful for the experiences and fun that they all brought me, but it all went by so fast that it’s hard not to feel like I’m extra-rejectable, like I’m a failure, like I’m in for a lot more loss.

It seems that whenever I am heartbroken over a toplike person, I get the insane urge to process it with Bill. I guess the heartbreak neural pathways just have his name on them. When I let myself think about it, I feel so unresolved about him, a deep dark, creepy, suitable-for-David-Lynch sadness that he persists in not being around. So I did something foolish that usually works: I wrote him a love letter. I find that sometimes if I write out all of my lovey dovey feelings, thank someone for his contribution, and apologize for my half of things, people can start to feel less haunty. In this case, more haunty. He said, thanks, he’s glad I’m not mad, but that I ruined a perfectly good exit.

I’ve always wanted to show this blog off to him (to show EVERYTHING off to him, really) so I friended him on the fb. It was fine at first, a little inspiring push—it made me feel brazen and hot just to think that he might see some of my smutty details. But after a few days, it felt just like it did last December, like I wanted so badly to be near him but didn’t know how, like I would do absolutely anything to get his attention. And that’s without much clicking—just the tiny bit of not-really-a-connection from facebook was enough for him to start sucking the life out of me, to open up that awful, starving well of want. I took him off, of course, I said goodbye again, exit-spoiler that I am.

Sometimes I really do worry that I’m broken, that the ten years that I spent trying not to be bi have left me too desperate and urgent to be able to make a real connection with a man. I am deeply ashamed of the attachment that I still feel to Bill after all this time—I feel like I’m breaking some rule of adultness that I just don’t let go of things in any kind of normal way. I should be bouncing back faster from Mister Hazel Eyes as well, but it’s hard to get past the hurt of someone not even wanting to say goodbye. I am a good student in everything but this, and I absolutely HATE to have a failing grade on the record, but I suppose there’s no magical sex-TARDIS that would allow me to go back and somehow make it work out—it just didn’t.

I really hope that I’m not broken. I hope that neither my half-closet years nor my mistakes this year have cause irreparable damage. I don’t know what the darkness is that I keep wanting to go back to, but I know that it’s closer to addiction than it is to love, and I know that it is the opposite of joy.

I’d rather follow joy. There’s a lot of good stuff on the horizon, and I thought it might be helpful to articulate this sticky tar pit stuff before it seeps back down into my subconscious. I need some courage, friends, I need to follow the part of myself that knows what it’s doing, my inner Bettie Page, not the glassy-eyed December-girl who’s still worrying how to please someone who has been gone for a very long time.