Monday, April 30, 2012

Revisiting the Dream Guy

When I first started dating guys again last fall, I had a very clear idea of the kind of relationship I wanted. While I’m glad to be considering other kinds of connections, it’s worth remembering that this project is about learning to love myself so that I take care of myself in a real relationship with a man. If I’m honest, the dream is one guy.

In many ways, Bill and Fireguy could not have been more opposite, but they had this in common: they were emotionally unavailable and I knew that. I am horrified at how much I deluded myself into thinking that if I just said exactly the right thing and did exactly what they wanted me to do, I could matter to them, they would love me and keep me safe. They both wanted me for primarily physical reasons and they both rejected me as soon as I had any negative feedback at all.

Attaching myself to guys who are not in a position to get attached to me is a way of telling myself that I don’t deserve the attachment, that I don’t deserve a real relationship with a guy. With anybody, really.

As a way to refocus myself on what I really want and take stock of what I’ve learned so far, here’s my new list of what I’m looking for in a guy. Some of these qualities are not things that I myself possess, but that I aspire to.

My Dream Guy:

  1. Has an innate sense of empathy, social and environmental justice, and respect for the human body.  He may not always know what to do about those things, but he feels them. This seems like a lot to ask for.  We’re living in harsh and callous times—even the Mayor of Kittentown has been known to tweet a rape joke! (I know. I’m trying to figure it out about him, too.)
  2. Is an amazing kisser. Before I kiss someone, I should feel like these is at least some potential of a romantic relationship—I’m going to do my best to be honest with myself about this.
  3. Has great taste in music. I’d given up on this one after things with Bill (still the best song sender) got so hurty, but it really is an important part of attraction for me.
  4. Is a top who likes rough sex, but in an affectionate, affirming, and humanized way. He should be open and willing to discuss the emotions that go along with sex, even if it’s sometimes awkward and not-hot.
  5. Is patient, kind, and emotionally available. When I’m around him, I should feel safe, happy, and free, fully able to be myself and get to know him. He is happy to let me run and play—he always trusts me to return.
  6. Is willing and able to share himself, to let me into his everyday life. If he’s in a relationship, there should be room for me to negotiate and ask for what I need.
  7. Is not in a couple with a lot of set-in-stone rules. That doesn’t give a secondary any room to help create the culture of the constellation—it makes it inherently unequal. To paraphrase Cunning Minx: “You got all those rules? You don’t get this.”
  8. Is interested in me (and I’m interested in him) for lots of different reasons, not just kink or my hot boobs. We should be able to be whole people together.
  9. He is big, strong, and tall, loving and affectionate but also capable of throwing me around like a little fucking ragdoll.
  10. Lets me love him as ridiculously much as I want to. Lets me cry if I’m sad. Gets excited with me.

I already found all of these things in Sweetie, so they must be possible in a guy too. I’ll keep my eye out for him.

Sweetie's Knack for Ropes Part One: A Pretty Picture and Two Lists

Sweetie and I had a great time this weekend with the ropes both at a play party and at home. I can't wait to write a whole bunch of smut about her, but for today, just two lists:

What She Learned Online and in Class Over the Weekend:

Simple Shinju
No-Knot Two-Column Weave
Double Butterfly Knot
Somerville Bowline Knot

What Goes in My Suitcase

change of clothes (In this case, pink pajamas)
pack of fresh socks
pretty ribbons
my own fluffy silver blanket

Friday, April 27, 2012

Letter to Bill

Last week, I thought about going back and talking to Bill about what happened between us. I was/am feeling stuck and I thought maybe his point of view would jostle something loose. This morning, my stuckness/curiosity got the best of me and I emailed him my number. As soon as I did that, all the bad feelings came rushing back, I remembered what it really felt like to be with him. So I reblocked everything and sent him this letter:

"But sending you my phone number made me remember how it really felt back then. It brought back all of the fear and anxiety and worry and desperation and shame. Being with you opened up such a chasm of greif, not all of it from you, but still.

Whether you literally wanted me to be a doll or not, wanting to do all that big meaningful stuff (it was big and meaningful to me) without any pesky emotions was treating me like an object. I deserved better. I gave you so much trust, all those first times, all that love.
I wanted to know if you did it on purpose or maybe it was just a bad match, but it doesn't matter. I wanted to know why you didn't want to go out in the world with me, but the fact is, you didn't. I wanted to know why you didn't treat me like a friend, but it doesn't matter now, it just sucked, it was a horrible way to treat somebody.
I'm pissed off at the damage you did. I'm doing my best to repair it.
Forward is a good way to go."

I'm giving myself a gold star for finally talking back to him, even though it was so long after the fact. I hope it makes a difference. Hope it makes me feel free again sometime soon.

What I'm looking for seems really, really far away, but I do know that backwards isn't the direction it's in.

Yay, I Inspired a Poem!

One of my dearest poet pals wrote a poem about yesterday's post. I'm glad something pretty could come out of such an ugly story!

Beginning Rope Class FTW Part Three: Aftercare Is the Scary Part, Maybe

Once he had the harness on, the Gentleman said he wanted to tie my arms back. “To accentuate that gorgeous chest of yours.” While he worked back there, my hands were against his crotch, I could feel him big under my jeans. Friendly. I felt so warm under his hands as he rubbed them up the ropes on my arms, my shoulders, my neck. It didn’t seem like a place for spanking, but he said “Now I really do want to spank you.”  I said

“A little hair-pulling wouldn’t be out of line.” and so he did, gathered up my hair so gently and pulled it slooooowly to the side. Then he brushed it aside gently and kissed the back of my neck, making me all tingly. He ran his hands up to my belly and pressed, pulling me back against him. It was hot in that conference room. A drop of sweat landed on my ear.

“I just want to enjoy you for a few more minutes.”

“Take your time! I’m not in a rush!”

I really enjoyed being enjoyed, except when he said things like “Your tits look amazing.” I even enjoyed that, with a little twist of shame and worry. I don’t want to fall prey to anyone else, don’t want to be anyone else’s vacation-fantasy-doll. This guy isn’t that, I told myself, but sometimes I feel hopeless, like they’re all like that. It’s terrible.

He unwound the ropes from me and I admired the pattern of red marks they made on my chest and wrists, a little pinch-mark on my right arm, where the rope got stuck and stung…

He played some more, in the front this time, making thick rows of loops up my arm. He put his hand on my neck and I felt a swoony falling sensation, but when I opened my eyes he said “I’m practicing completing a circuit.” Apparently you are supposed to touch in two places to make a circuit—it worked, oh boy.

When it got so there was only a half hour left, I suggested we get in some hugging. We sat down and he wiped his brow, got to work winding up the rope, but I said I thought he should attend to his girl first. He agreed, tossed them down and gathered me up. Even though my head had a few worries, my body was totally relaxed, and I completely relaxed into him. I snuggled under his big arm, into his chest and just breathed with him. He ran his hands over me, gently but firmly. It’s amazing to me how things can feel this intimate, this safe, with someone who was so recently a stranger. It’s such a beautiful exercise in trust. It’s a miracle. It’s irresistible to me.

And it’s dangerous. Whenever I’m in that vulnerable position, I wonder if he’ll ever come back. I always try to make plans during that time. Bill resisted it like crazy, said mean things during aftercare either because he was an oaf or to deliberately set me off balance—it drove me nuts and made me feel desperate.

But this wasn’t that. This was just sweet hugging. I invited him to an upcoming play party but he said he was busy and encouraged me to go with Sweetie. (I am! Yay!) He said I shouldn’t let fears and heartbreak stand in the way. I like that he was rooting for me and Sweetie to get some good experimenting in, too.

Saying goodbye was hard, even though he’s brand new. I wanted him to kiss me, and said so, but he said he was feeling shy. I’m not sure what that means, if he likes me that way or not. I’m always a little afraid that a guy will forget me, but he didn’t.  He asked me out again and we are making plans that don’t involve ropes or fetishy things, just getting to know each other. That seems like progress.

I’m trying to get out of the habit of seeing each character as a solution to the last. Instead, I’d like to experience him as a nice new friend. A very snuggly one. 

Thursday, April 26, 2012

Zone of Proximal Development

Triggers and My Voice: The Story of a Hard Limit

Note: If you’re someone who gets triggered by mentions of non-consensual sexual violence, you’ll want to skip this one.

Last week I talked a lot about being protective of my voice and being subject to panics. I’m unsure if these facts about myself disqualify me from experiencing BDSM in the ways I want to. I guess I thought there would be failsafes or at least compassion in case someone’s triggered, but that doesn’t seem to be the case so far. I’m trying to not judge the whole “lifestyle” based on one group of people.

A lot of things contributed to me being an anxious girl with shaky self-worth. I had both a happy childhood and a terribly abusive one. Both my mother and father were physically and verbally abusive to myself, my siblings, and each other. They often fought loudly about sex. One night, I’m pretty sure I heard my dad rape my mom. I got it to stop, in fact, by crying loudly. “Now you made (me) cry.” she said as the action simmered down in there.

But the biggest factor in me being protective of my voice was something that happened when I was seventeen. I’ve been telling the story in the same stupid way for twenty years: I was promiscuous in high school and it lead to an inevitable conclusion of rape and assault. That is a bullshit way to tell the story—it’s sad that I only realized recently that there was no cause-effect relationship. It was a terrible, evil crime, not a path I put myself on.

What happened was, my friend Sheri and I lied and said we were going to each others’ houses so that we could hang out with her boyfriend and his friend and get laid. That didn’t take very long, so after the guys were done with us, they dropped us off in the park three doors down from my house. We were considering sleeping in the park when a pickup truck full of hooting and hollering people we vaguely knew pulled up and asked if we wanted to go to a party and we said sure—I thought of how mortified my mom would be if she knew I was riding in the back of a pickup truck.

They either put something in my drink or I drank way too fast. I don’t remember drinking very much at all, but we were playing Quarters around the time that the guys started asking, “So which one of us are you gonna fuck?” I was woozy and tired and I didn’t want to fuck anyone, no matter how known for it I was. But I knew I didn’t really have a choice—I wasn’t in any condition to stop anybody, and this was kind of who I was now. So I chose Willie, the cutest guy at the party. He was a tall, skinny African American guy, cute but with kind of a dismissive face. I chose him partly because he was there with his girlfriend, I think her name was Lisa, a blond in acid-washed jeans. I thought he couldn’t do anything with her there, but he sent her home.

Willie took me to the party host’s bedroom and told me to get undressed. “All the way,” he said, and I did. He got on top of me and put it in, humped quickly and mechanically. I opened my mouth to cry out, not for help, but to moan so I’d be doing a good job. He put his hand over my mouth and I shut up. When he was done, he left the door open so that the whole party could see me scrambling around for my shirt.  

That’s when I started to get sick, just throwing up copious amounts everywhere, so, so much. I must have passed out then and when I came to, I couldn’t see, and they were hitting me with something hard. (I found out later it was tennis rackets) and yelling at me for throwing up. They were screaming all kinds of names at me, but I just remember them saying I was bad. I’m not sure how many people were doing the hitting, but Willie and Lisa were two of them.

I screamed and screamed and screamed and some angel neighbor called the cops. When they got there, Lisa or some other blond girl took me into the bathroom to try and clean up the blood that had spattered all down my shirt. I remember she was talking to me so sweetly.

So far we have three reasons why my voice (which includes these paragraphs) feels like a lifeline that could get taken away: “saving” my mom by crying, Willie’s hand over my mouth, and the screams that maybe actually did save my life. But the fourth reason is much guiltier: I didn’t tell the police the sex part of the crime. They couldn’t get it out of me. Everyone knew, but I refused to say it on the deposition. I’d been drinking, I was a slut, I didn’t know how to prove I didn’t deserve what happened.

I didn’t know how to prove I didn’t deserve what happened. I’ve told this story so many times, but never understood it quite that way.

I felt like I couldn’t really say it was rape because I’d chosen him, I didn’t try to stop him. The Accused had somehow become embedded in my consciousness, having the opposite (?) of its intended effect. I knew the danger of being “put on trial” for it and I wanted no part of that. So I lied my face off and told the police the assault story without the first part. A few of them, including Willie, did some jail time for the assault, but the fact that I didn’t tell the truth about the rest of the crime makes me feel like a co-conspirator, like I didn’t do enough to protect myself or my fellow women.

The crying, the hand over my mouth, the screams that saved my life, the guilt over not telling, they’ll always be in my body. Sometimes they make me very hard to be close to, but they also make me brave, protective, and they make me try to be transparent.

I guess what I want people to get out of this is that you never know what stories can be inside someone’s body. Every single person you touch, even in the most casual way, sitting next to her on the bus, tying him up at a play party, or hugging them on a first date, has a body full of stories. Give up the idea that enough negotiation can make those complications got away. The stories inside us, even the screams, are beautiful and deserve to be treated with care.

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Song of the Week: Goonies R Good Enough

Someone needs to write a paper on the psychosexual overtones of The Goonies, especially as it concerns the young female characters.

Beginning Rope Class FTW Part Two: I Feel Conflicted About My Boobs

When Sweetie saw the above photo, (it’s a crop, the original does show my very smiley face) she said “If you want them to stop fixating on your boobs, maybe you shouldn’t…” I’ll get to unpacking that statement in a few paragraphs.

As we settled in for the presentation, the Gentleman left the rope on my wrist and did that thing where he looped it into itself, to make a kind of a handle. (To give it some “flair” he said.) He kept the handle in his lap. There’s no other way to say it, the guy has good energy. Sitting next to him he definitely felt like someone you’d meet at a snuggle party; warm, safe, open.

The first part of the presentation was about different ways to use sex toys with ropes—ah, my old nemesis, the Baggie full of vibrators. They didn’t seem so scary in the light of day; though I’m not sure I’ll ever warm up to big bouquets of machinery. It’s an awkward talk to sit through on a first date, but once she got to the ropes part, the Gentleman and I settled into each other. Our legs touched. He put his hand on my leg.

The woman who was getting demo-ed on left her clothes on. She had the prettiest smile, and it was fun to watch her settle in under the presenter’s hemp ropes. She built her a harness and then showed everyone how awesome it in to yank someone around by a rope in the middle of her chest. The presenter crab-tied the demo-lady and said “Wouldn’t you like to fuck someone like this?” Then she climbed on and pantomimed it.

The impressive thing about this lady is that she does a lot of self-bondage and even self-suspension. “I do this a lot at home,” she kept saying, but she stressed the need to keep your hands free, for safety and for other reasons. “I’m not Houdini,” she said. I’d always thought of ropes as being so dependant on finding the right top, but I like thinking of it as something I might be able to play with on my own.

When the demo was over, it was time for us to play. “What’s gonna happen now?” I asked the Gentleman, and he said he wanted to put a harness on me. Okay!

I put my arms up and smiled, relaxed, let him loop the rope around me. He has a soft, slow touch, and soon enough the ropes started to feel like they were hugging me, and I started to simmer down into subspace. What I love about a harness is the ways it feels on my back—like support, like someone’s holding me up so that I don’t have to for a while. It’s such a concrete way of feeling cared for.

He commented on how amazing my boobs are, how could he not? Remind me to tell him to try and compliment other things as well—sometimes I feel like a floating set of breasts, the way guys fixate on them. But the tricky thing about that is, I fixate on them too. I WANT them to have lots of attention, to be seen, showcased, enjoyed, played with, adored. I physically love the way that feels.

But the problem is, I don’t like worrying that they were the only reason I was invited. That is a Catch-22 about fetishes in general: How can I know that I am a person and not a thing, that he likes me as me and not just as a collection of fetishes? My nice pal Bo Blaze said a few weeks ago to look within and ask myself, but clearly my instincts are warped.

This gets back to my deepest fear, one of the convictions I have that’s hardest to fight: That there is no reason a man will ever want me for anything other than sex, and that the only thing sexy about me is my breasts. That idea has been in my head at least since I was 14, maybe longer. I am not sure where it comes from, but I know it’s really damaging. I think it leads me into situations that don’t just objectify me; they objectify my partners as well. I know that that fear keeps me from being able to feel the closeness I so desperately want to be able to feel.

Anyway, back in the rope class, I wasn’t thinking of any of that. When other folks stopped what they were doing to gape and exclaim, I just felt playful and seen. I did feel like a person. It’s weird how a positive situation can still unearth negative emotions. Today I’m just feeling conflicted about boobs.

Next Time: Even More Swoony

Sweetie's First Rope Kit!

Can't wait to let her try it. We may get to do our first public scene together soon, if I'm brave enough.

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Beginning Rope Class FTW Part One: Playpal Ex Machina

“So take what you can from your experiences of heartbreak, yes. But be careful not to take too much, or you’ll wind up letting it define you. Don’t create new generalized fears that make it hard to hear your intuition—and hard to find the love you want and deserve.” Jaclyn Friedman, What You Really, Really Want

At the end of last week, I felt like I really had to give up a lot of my kinky dreams, especially submissiveness and public play. I was worried that there just wouldn’t be a safe place for them or any way to express them without being objectified. But a new friend came along at just the right time, like Playpal Ex Machina.

When I saw him (let’s say the Gentleman) seated at the diner table with his adorable wife, he was exactly as geeky-cute-tall-big as I remembered from the Poly Living conference, when he went upstairs to fetch me a pillow for the snuggle party. Plus, he had that thing I go bonkers for: really big hands. Long, wide, meaty, with a plain silver wedding band on his left hand.  The four of us had a nice lunch. He was kind of shy, and so was Sweetie, so I chatted mostly with the wife. I don’t have a nickname for her yet. I told them a little (but hopefully not too much) about my recent adventures and they didn’t run away screaming.

I also let him know (as opposed to asking) that I’d be writing about him here, without using names or cities, and that maybe someday I’d tell him where to find it. I’m thinking maybe like...eighth date for that? After that little spiel, I breathed a sigh of relief—I guess I have a creepy little fear now of being rejected for blogging, but in this case, he didn’t seem to mind at all.

Anyway so the rope class was in a conference room at a hotel. The Gentleman paid my admission, and after we signed our waivers, they gave us membership cards for next time. I liked that in a nerdy way—kinda like being in a superhero fan club.

A lot of the folks there seemed like they might be in a superhero fan club—it wasn’t a crowd that would’ve looked out of place in a comic shop, that’s for sure. While the presenter was setting up, one of the party organizers gave a demonstration. I was superpleased to see my new friend pull a set of bright, shiny, peacock-blue ropes out of his bag. We were learning a one-column tie. A column is any part of the body that you are isolating. The leader pointed out that if someone is working on one of your columns (in this case, our arms) then you could let someone practice on the other. Why is life so awesome sometimes?  As the gentleman worked on one arm, a nice little middle-aged lady with shortish purple hair worked on the other one. Standing there with my wrists out for them I felt a little burst of joy, like this is something I was made for.

I loved watching them work the rope, put it in the right place above my wrist, check the evenness of the tie. Other times with ropes, I hadn’t been allowed to watch, and that’s a shame. Learning with my eyes open, my clothes on, with someone who feels like an equal and not a pursuer or a mentor, this might actually work. In my education classes there’s something called the Zone of Proximal Development: that’s when learning is just challenging enough to be interesting but not so hard as to cause excessive frustration. That seems like a good place to be, and so is this.

Next: A Little Snuggle During the Demo

A Little Email Adventure: Bill's Here to Help

I’ll write about beginning rope class (FTW) soon enough, but first I just wanted to give away a little secret: I emailed Bill last week. The heading said “Way, Way After Aftercare,” and I just asked him to do sort of a postmortem on our shenanigans, especially since I couldn’t get over the fear that doms would always want me to be a doll the way he did.

 I couldn’t believe he wrote back, but he did, and said he’d be happy to help. He also said he never wanted me to be a doll, which kind of revolutionized my idea of what happened.

 Of course I couldn’t go through with the call; it would’ve been a one-way ticket back to smittentown. But the fact that he’d have been willing to help was kind of comforting—maybe my taste in men isn’t as completely fucked as I thought it was?

 Anyway, I told him I still wish I could have seen him as just a playpal, because jeez, we could have come up with some stuff. I think I’ve been nostalgic for him this week because I’ve been reminded that “brat” > “good girl”—I always want to remember to fight back a little. I took “Yes, Sir” off my list of fetishes today.

 Also, that situation may have been screwy, but it was perfect in its own way and really belonged to me, as opposed to being borrowed from another redhead. Here’s hoping smittentown will come along again before too long, with someone emotionally available.

Saturday, April 21, 2012

Song of the Day: Good Day!

Happy Poly Sunday Tomorrow! Being Beginners.

 Way back in February, I attended the Poly Living conference and went to a snuggle party. I hit some Tantric roadblocks and didn’t get a whole lot of snuggling in, but I did make friends with a nice couple. The hubby was even kind enough to go upstairs and fetch a pillow for me. Last week, he looked me up-- we are a 94% match on OK Cupid and we both like being nakedy in public. That’s a good start.

So when he told me he’s attending his first beginners' rope class, I offered him myself to practice on. He said he might be fumbly, and that suits me just fine.

Sweetie offered to drive over with me, since it’s a ways away, and go do something nerdy while he and I are in rope class.

Plus, the four of us are going to lunch together! It couldn’t be more what I need right now. I feel optimistic just thinking about it. 

Friday, April 20, 2012

Please, Sir, Part Seven: So Long, Toxic Constellation

A string of nasty texts from Varga Girl, telling me I shouldn’t be mad at Fireguy for taking away my “voice” (who puts another human being’s voice in quotation marks?!) made me realize that it’s past time to finish off this topic.

Even without all of the triggering and hard-limit-crossing and harassing, I’d like to think I’d’ve realized that he didn’t have any room in his life for me. While I was jerking him off at the end of our time, he almost let out an “I love you,” which assured me that he was thinking of Varga Girl and not me. I would never be more than a rebound redhead to him, turns out, I was actually a lot less. (Also during that part was one of the most demeaning things that has ever happened to me: “Put your mouth near it, but not on it. But open. But don’t put your mouth on it. open. But just near it.”)

During aftercare he talked mostly about her, which is really sweet and romantic, but not if you’re the one who actually might need to reflect on what just happened. Also not sweet was more putting me in my place, but not in the fun way. I asked if we could do more public stuff and he said “Well, if I see you at an event and (Varga Girl) is collared to me, then I can have you play with her. But if she’s not there, then I’ll be able to play with you.”

Which would have been fine, had I not wanted to be more than a tertiary character. I would like to think that I would have had the self-esteem to turn down any more play even if he hadn’t acted like such an insensitive clod. I really regret that I left our cupcake taker there, though.

After I got Varga Girl’s texts tonight, I sat on the couch and shivered until Sweetie came home. She wrapped me up in a blanket and held me until I felt a little better.

It’s hard not to catastrophize—he is a beloved character in the local scene, so at the very least I’m probably unwelcome at some parties. It’s maddening that he could hurt me so much and still make me feel like I am the threat. That last phone call, I told him I was heartbroken because I’d wanted to be a part of his family, and he told me I’m too angry for that. The last things I said aloud to him were “”I’ll never be good enough. I’ll just never be good enough.” That’s how I feel when I’m panicking, and I hope it wears off sometime soon.

I came to this constellation with such openheartedness, such joy, such trust—I wish I had noticed that I was getting treated like a threat the whole time.  I wish I would have seen it. All I wanted, all I’ve ever wanted, was genuine affection, respect, trust. He lusted after my fist times like I was a fucking geisha and now all that’s left are reminders that he and his did not think I deserved to be treated humanely.

The cute little unicorn I felt like I was at the beginning of this project seems so far away. I would love to make it back to that feeling before too long. I think the way to get there is to try to give myself the kindness and gentleness that he couldn’t give, and start the project over. Sunday, I’m going with a nice new guy to a beginners’ rope class. Before class, we’re having lunch with our wives. Maybe just being beginners will work.

As corny as it sounds, that Monday night when I was driving to their house, this was the song that came on shuffle (it was on my iPod for my students, I swear!) and singing along with it, my voice felt clear and true. 

Song of the Week: Paradoxical But True

I love the fact that no matter how big the cast of characters is, sometimes it still feels like this:

Please, Sir, Part Six: Censorship and OMG I Heart His Penis

***Note: Sometimes the most liberating characters can also be the most repressive. I have one hard limit, at least one that would be relevant on the first date: Don’t try to take my voice away. This applies physically, to things like gags and breath play, but also to other ways of limiting expression. Ever since our date, Fireguy has been harassing me about this blog. The day after, while I was fragile and trying to piece things together, he told me I couldn’t post about it until the following week. That was a trigger that sent me into a panic. After almost a week of feeling anxious and threatened (but still posting) I explained to him again about the limit, and he apologized. Yesterday he called, expressing all kinds of worry about my writing and cruelly triggering me again. He was specifically worried about Varga Girl reading it. Fuck those two. Seriously. I don’t know how I got in the middle of their mess, but I wish I had run away screaming when I first had the chance.

What had been a freeing, complex, and loving experience has turned into a nightmare. I feel angry and betrayed, but I refuse to be ashamed. I refuse to compromise my point of view so that his and hers can be more validated. Fuck that. And fuck him.***

Back to the fun! So there!

I wish I could spell the moans out well enough so you could hear them. I watched inside myself closely, waiting for when it was time to ask Sir if I could come. They’re hard to predict, I learned. I’d feel pulse start inside me and start to ascend, but it was hard to tell when the peak would come. I felt self-conscious and tried really hard to predict them. I tried to do a good job and ask permission, but my orgasms on the inside are just an ebb and flow, a tide. For a pronounced peak, you’ve got to get me on the outside. Which he would do, soon enough. It’s tempting to draw a parallel between getting permission to come and him trying to control my writing.

“It seems like there should be more hair pulling…please? Sir?”

He obliged and what happened next was my favorite part. Did I already call something my favorite part? Oh well. Lots of favorite parts.

He gathered me to him and just sort of went to town on me, pulling my hair just insistently enough, biting my neck and shoulders, growling-I felt deliciously ravished, still all tied up, maybe blindfolded, I don’t remember. I love feeling like things are all wildly out of control but safe, attacked and protected at once. I felt as adored as a favorite toy, a favorite friend, a favorite girl. Of course my egalitarian poly self wants to qualify that, but it’s how I felt while I was being so nicely mauled.

We settled back into being gentle and my not-favorite part happened—he kept narrating the things he wouldn’t/couldn’t do, and it made me acutely aware of the Relationship Agreement and my own STI status. He said things like “I want to put my face between your legs so much, I’m saying that even though I can’t, I don’t want you to feel like I’m teasing you.”

It wasn’t so much the safety measures as the fact that he kept MENTIONING them—every time he did, it took me out of them moment and back to the email that made me cry, the one denying me “Special” Level 2 status.

But also! I trusted him to TIE ME UP IN HIS BASEMENT! I trusted him to SET ME ON FIRE! And he couldn’t believe that I didn’t have anything that could be transmitted that way? That seems a little unbalanced.

And! Oral sex seems pretty far to go on a first date anyway—if nothing else, I think I’m going back to a one base per date policy. And restraint with a romantic partner? That’s like EIGHTH base.

At some point I did something bratty and had to be turned on my side and spanked again. I felt so cute, still all roped up, giggling, adored.

Then it was time to take off the ropes—he needed my hands, he said. I felt a little sore from my arms being smushed behind my back for so long-there was a pinch in my shoulder.

He said, “Oh, I won’t make you lay like that next time.”

“Nono! I liked it! It’s okay!”

Then I met one of my favorite penises of all time. He told me to take it out and I was so happy to do so—pulled down his underwear and was delighted to take it in my hand. It’s hard to say what I liked about it so much—it just fit. It was friendly, likable, charming. He apologized that it was a little shy at first, but I loved making friends with it, teasing it to life.

Next: Okay, So I’m a Rebound Redhead

Thanks, Sweetie and Mayor of Kittentown!

Even though my quest for a dom keeps going all haywire, I just wanted to take a minute to celebrate how kind and patient Sweetie and MKT always are. It's been kind of a nightmare of a few weeks, and they are always there for me. Snuggles to them.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Home From a Bad Date, I Haz A Sad.

Half an hour! Is that a record? Ugh. I'll give almost anyone a chance, but I just couldn't do it. When he said he was surprised that a girl with a FetLife profile could be offended by anything, I was like, dude, I'm out.

Do you think I'll ever find my guy?

Please, Sir, Part Five: Pretty Blue Ropes and Nice Fat Fingers

Next it was time for the ropes and I realized I’d better go pee first. Fireguy cupped his hands suggestively in response to this request and I laughed and said “Too advanced!” I looked around for something to wrap up in to go upstairs and saw nothing.

“Just go up,” he said, “If you run into (Wonder Woman) maybe she’ll return the favor and flash you.”

And then, while applying some hand sanitizer himself he said: “Definitely don’t forget to wash up after.” (Really? Really Sir? I’m submissive, I’m not five.)

I still had a little worry about not being good enough for WW to see, but up the stairs I went, naked except his collar. I could hear her in the living room on the phone. I went into the bathroom and checked myself out in the mirror—I couldn’t believe this woman was me. Everything was flushed and pink, my hair was all bedhead-fluffy and my two little rhinestone barrettes were all askew. My body looked so much more like a pinup than I could have ever imagined. It took a while to pee because I was so turned on.

When I got back down stairs, he positioned me in the middle of the room and said to close my eyes and if I didn’t keep them closed, he would have to get the blindfold. Nothing he ever said came out barking or scary, more like amused/nurturing. That’s part of what made me feel so adorable (aside from little flashes of feeling diseased) when I played with him. It filled such a deep need.

“You’re doing a very good job of seducing me.” He said, and I snuggled into him. He smelled so good, just pure, fresh guy smell. Perfect.

He wrapped the rope around and around me, letting it graze my nipples, framing my boobs, pulling it tight around my shoulders. I found myself looking at him and he caught me with my eyes open. He laughed about me not having done what I was told and I laughed and said “Good, luck to you, Sir.”

He laughed and hugged me and said, “Is this the little brat I’ve been reading about? Maybe you are a little brat.”

We hugged and kissed and laughed and then I had to have the blindfold on.

He pulled my hand behind my back and gently but firmly secured them there. It was the first time a man had really restrained me. I wish I could have seen myself, I felt so beautiful. I felt like art.

There was a futon mattress set up on the floor like a cozy nest, with a light blue comforter and pillows. He guided me over to it and told me to lie down. He propped my head up on the pillows so that I could sit up a little.

“Kiss.” I found his face.

Then (I think then) he tied the ropes around my ankles-just looped them around two or three more times and left rope hanging, like a handle for each foot. He climbed on top of me and held those handles. His stomach grazed me, I was splayed open and gushing wet.

“You’re getting me wet. How come you’re doing that?”

“Um, because I’m having fun?”

So much fun. I felt like a princess, blindfolded and tied up in his basement, with his weight on me. It was a dream come true.

“You little brat—wait, should I be calling you a brat? Is that a bad memory?”

“Well, you could make it a good memory…”

“Nah. How about if you’re my good girl?”

Driving there that night, I’d almost stopped to take a picture of the sky. The sun was low and bright, clear yellow and peaking out behind these wonderful, fluffy, monumental clouds. Shafts of light were busting though the clouds like a revelation. That’s how it felt to be called his good girl.

He climbed off and lay to the side of me. Before he parted my lips to get to my clit, he asked if it was okay.


“God, you’re so wet. It’s so hot.”

“Well, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Well, you said take it slow.”

“No, I mean I’ve been waiting for you for two months.”

“Two months!”

That’s how long it had been (almost) since I first came down here, all the back-and-forth, should-I-or-shouldn’t-I, all the fantasies that came from that innocent  little spanking that seemed a million miles away now. (Also, remember me fighting Bill of from second base on our first date? That seems a long way away now, too.)

Anyway, I finally got what I’d fantasized about so much, his perfect fingers pushing into me. It felt so good, so much. I let out a screaming moan and wondered again how much Wonder Woman could hear. I was on my side, writhing, my arms pinned back, screaming into the mattress.

“Good girl. You’re such a fucking good girl.”

Next time: OMG I really like his penis.

Monday, April 16, 2012

Please, Sir, Part Four: I Burn Pretty

As I was turning over (I think, sometimes I’m not sure of the sequence of things) he took me by the shoulders and laid me down decisively. It was nice, like falling.  I like the part of fire where I’m on my back because I can see what’s going on and watch the pretty flames. He said it hurts more if you watch, but it really doesn’t hurt much. He said the flames burn prettier on some bodies than on others. How it looks is: he has two wands, one with the fire and one soaked in alcohol. He runs the alcohol over me in whatever design he wants and lights it—the flame only burns for a second but it is bright blue and so pretty. There’s something about it that makes me feel like a princess. This time, he took off his shirt and held my hand to his heart.

All the while I was giggling, smiling, having a great time. “What is this sub-space you speak of?” he laughed.

“What, you can’t giggle in sub-space?”

“Huh. I’m learning things from you already. Okay, you can giggle in sub-space.”

I’m really disturbed by the idea that a submissive would always have to have a serious/ecstatic/pained expression. What does that say about my role in the proceedings? Shouldn’t I be here to have fun? Anyway, anyone looking for all-serious-expression-all-the-time would be severely disappointed with me.

He put my foot on his shoulder and made the flames climb up my leg, trying for different swirls and patterns. (“See, this is why I shaved.” he said.) After that, he made plumes. That’s when he mists the alcohol and lights it, about eight inches above my skin. I guess people don’t usually look during this part, but I did. He was delighted by the giggly/scared expressions I made, by the way my body contorted when I startles and half-shielded my eyes.

He warmed his hand and placed it at the bottom of my neck-the fire-kiss. He lit and snuffed the flame again and laid it on the mound of my vagina, and that felt very soothing. “You can do that for at least twelve more hours.” I said.

“But then I wouldn’t have time for anything else…”

He growled and attacked my boobs, sucking hard on the right nipple and playing with the left one. That was the first time I really groaned for him, I couldn’t help it, yelping cries, I thought about Wonder Woman overhearing them and wondered how soundproof this basement is—my guess is, a lot to very.

I sat up on the table and kissed him—he was hard underneath his jeans and I wanted him between my legs. We kissed gently and sweetly and then it was time to get spanked some more. He told me to lean over the table on my elbows and I gladly did. He said:

“Here’s what you have to do for me. If you’re going to come, you have to say, please, Sir, may I come. The sentence has to have “please” and “Sir” and “come” in it.”

“Okay.” I said. This information seemed a bit premature, but I filed it away just in case.

He got a nice spanking rhythm going. To avoid the possibility of me getting distracted by the music, he’d chosen unobtrusive massage music, and he spanked to the rhythm of that. It was pretty funny. I laughed for most of the time but got serious-happy whenever he told me to spread my legs a little wider. My feet kept sliding along the carpeted floor; it was hard to stay upright. That was making me a little shaky. I guess It was a good workout.

He asked if he could leave a handprint on each cheek and I said of course he could. He told me to inhale deeply and when I exhaled, there came the pain. The really hurty parts aren’t my favorite, but I don’t mind them.

There was part where he was sort of ramming his clothed self into the back of me. It was a little embarrassing, kind of reminded me of the bathroom scene in secretary—okay, humiliating.

Once I was standing again, the hardest part of the scene happened. He said, “I have job for you.”

“Okay, what can I do?”

Get that bowl of condoms over there and set it on the table. Oh-kaaaay…

“Now I want you to put the condoms on these.” and presented me with a Ziploc freezer baggie full of sex toys.

I wanted to cry. I think maybe I should have stopped the scene right there. Because, dude! You think I’m too dirty to put my sex toys in!? I looked it up and it’s a pretty common safer-sex practice, but it still seemed creepy as fuck. Maybe the fact that a Ziploc of machinery was coming at me an hour into a first date exacerbated the situation.

The other reason I wanted to cry is that I felt small and overwhelmed and inexperienced—I hadn’t put a condom on ANYTHING since the early Nineties. MKT and I always use them, but he always puts them on. I’ll have to remember to have him show me how next time, assuming my sex drive comes back at some point.

I didn’t say any of that; I just said I wasn’t ready. “Not even for this little one?” he asked, brandishing a little silver bullet like the one Sweetie and I have at home.

I don’t know if he could tell how scared I was or how hurt I was determined to be brave and have fun, and there was SO MUCH MORE fun to be had.

Next: “Wash Your Hands,” Pretty Blue Ropes.

Saturday, April 14, 2012

Advice, Please: Care Beyond Aftercare?

As a new sub, I can't always predict what my reaction to new experiences will be. Sometimes they are "Yay!" but other times they are more intense and complex.

These reactions might occur well outside the scene; after the adrenaline wears off, the reality of what happened may sink in.

In a friendship or dating situation with a dom, I feel like I should be able to approach him with these reactions or concerns, but a few times I've tried it and been met with annoyance.

In a vanilla situation, I'd expect the guy to be able to talk about what we experienced together. Is it different for BDSM? Is this something I need to negotiate for explicitly?

Friday, April 13, 2012

Thanks and Good Luck, Mayor of Kittentown!

I am having a hard time this week and feeling very discouraged. Unfortunately one of the side-effects of whatever heartbreaky thing I'm going through is anhedonia. So last night when I got to MKT's house, instead of climbing all over him like I usually do, I curled up with him and talked, then fell asleep on him during our Mystery Science Theater episode. (Serves him right, though, for choosing a Mike episode and not a Joel one.)

It felt really nice last night and this morning to just be held by him. I appreciate his kindness and gentleness so much.

I'm wishing him luck because he's got a date tonight. It might not mean the end for us; he actually said he might like to have a primary relationship and me as the secondary one. He didn't use those poly words, but still, there's a little hope.

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Please, Sir, Part Three: My First Collar and Some Fire

There were two reasons I didn’t do more talking with Fireguy prior to the scene. I wanted to be accommodating and I was afraid that if I asked for too much I would end up being rejected, (lame, I know, and totally my fault.) but more importantly, I was all heated up and curious, just rarin’ to go. All in all, I’m glad that things happened the way they did—I’m learning that the limits you run into, the boundaries you cross, are never the ones you expect, and here come some doozies.

He had me stand under the heating vent while he set up the fire supplies. I was wearing a nice soft fluffy sweater and jeans. My hair was all shiny and curled at the bottom like an old-fashioned movie star.

“Are you comfortable getting undressed?”

It’s easy to get naked in front of Fireguy, even though it was still a little chilly in the basement. He reminded me to take off my socks—I tend to leave them on. I left on my undies for the time being.

“Would you like to wear my collar tonight? You’d belong to me while you have it on.”

“Yes.” He tried to say something else but I interrupted with “Yesyesyes.”

“Well, you can think about it if you want to…”

“Some of these decisions have been premade!”

I’ve never been collared by anybody, even for an evening. I’d fantasized a lot about Bill putting a collar on me, but I think he might have considered that part of “serious relationship” territory. Also he was a little closety, so I intuitively steered away from actual BDSM trappings-never even so much as wore a cuff when he was over. Mostly that worked for me, but I sure did want to know how it felt to have that ritual of belonging to a man, even for a few hours.

Fireguy lead me to the center of the room and told me to get into submissive position number one, which I’d learned the last time I was there. I sat on my feet, legs spread apart, palms up, back straight.

“Good.” he said. “Good.”

I held up my hair so that he could put the collar around my neck. It was about an inch and a half wide, black leather with a ring in the front. He said that if this ended up happening more often, maybe I could have my own collar, in my favorite color. (Which is blue.)

I knelt there as he petted my hair, kissed the top of my head, and generally made approving yummy noises. He bit along my neck and shoulders and reached down to my boobs, playing happily and roughly, emitting adorable growls all the while.

Then he told me to get up and lie down on the table, face down. He asked if I’d take my underwear off for fire safety, but I wasn’t ready yet. He said if I wanted to wear underwear during fire, I should wear cotton ones, they’re less flammable. I ended up taking them off anyway for fire spanks. I’d pretty much do anything for fire spanks. Once my undies were off, he considered my ass and growled again over its spankability. I giggled and said I’m glad I have proof!

It’s hard to explain fire spanks, since I don’t exactly know what goes on back there. Some of it is just—he covers his hand with alcohol, lights it, then snuffs the flame, so that his spanky hands are all nice and warm. But there was also something more burny happening, too, a fire wand held close, maybe. I let it hurt a little more each time before I flinched.

Since we hadn’t negotiated at all, he told me “This time  is pretty much gonna be, if you say stop, I stop.”

Which led to a lot of me saying “I said ow, I didn’t say stop!” which I also say a lot to Sweetie and MKT.

My favorite part of the fire portion of the scene didn’t have anything to do with the flames. I was still lying on my stomach with my face down. He was rubbing his warm hands on my back and then he just took his hand and held it on the back of my head, gently but firmly, and held my head down. He just stood there like that, breathing deeply. It was magic, one of the best feelings in the world.

After that is when I started to settle in and sort lose the sequence of events: sub-space.

Next: I Burn Pretty.

An Awesome Sweetie Development!

Last Sunday night while I was making the cupcakes, Sweetie and I had a pretty nasty fight. It was the kind of panicky fight we sometimes have when I’m nervous about something—in this case, The Levels and feeling diseased. What came out of the fight was good, though: we figured out that, while Sweetie is very supportive about the vanilla part of my poly life (she’s always been a big fan of MKT, though he gets less and less vanilla every day…) she can be dismissive about BDSM stuff outside of our own (awesome!) experiments. She doesn’t understand some of the emotional components of being submissive and so she just sort of glossed over them. Since I’d accused her of being grossed out by my sex life, she also said she’d try to read this blog and listen to the details a little more as a way of trying to understand more.

Once the fight had worn off, I felt stupid for accusing her of any of that—she pushes herself plenty hard and she is amazingly supportive. These guys should know how hard she roots for them! (Though I admit she roots for kinky guys a little less…) All in all though, I do feel supported. I especially like that she has made it her task to MapQuest my date destinations and make sure I understand the directions. She even makes sure there’s gas in the car for me!

Anyway, I didn’t really think there was anything she has to change about herself, but being able to talk to her about the details without feeling guilty or worrying that I’ll gross her out is a big comfort.

Last night we sat down and had some beers and I talked her through some of the feelings I was having about various aspects of the Fireguy date. Though I’m sad about things not working out with Fireguy, being able to talk with Sweetie helped me to feel safe within the story again, helped me settle back into my body and the gorgeous hotness of what I’d just experienced. I am deeply grateful to her for giving me this gift, even as she is still quite mystified by my love of blow jobs.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Please, Sir, Part Two: Barriers and Cupcakes

I started this story on an optimistic note, but I’m not feeling that way today. Between Monday night and now, the tone of things changed in a few texts and a weepy call. I’m doubting whether it’s really advisable for me to try submitting anymore. I don’t know whether I can find a dom who is interested/patient enough to deal with the messy emotions that come from being a new submissive. I’m not sure I’m interested in those emotions either.

So, another hot/sad story. Someday soon I’d like to have some that are just hot. But I’m sure it’ll still be a complicated hot.

Telling this story may hurt some feelings, and I’m sad about that. I mean this series to be an exploration of my own limits and not a judgement on anyone else.

If you’ve been reading for a while, you’ll recall that Ialmost broke things off (whatever things there were going to be) with Fireguy a few weeks ago. There were several reasons for that.

First, I got scared, plain and simple.

Second, he kept coming across as very guarded, almost as though I were a threat to him and/or his relationships. He was going through some renegotiating with Varga Girl and really feeling brokenhearted about it, but it still hurt my feelings. For example, there was a picture from our photo session of him pulling my hair and me having a nice swoony expression. He asked me not to post it so as not to “minimize” hair-pulling with his sub. But even if I had been a client and not a friend, my experience did not deserve to be minimized either.

He kept saying that he just wanted something casual, even though I hadn’t asked for anything more. I felt like I was having to fight the tide of emotions that I had about him and about my brand new experiences. When he said he might not always have time to talk to me, I flashed back to Bill and got really worried. I really really didn’t want to be a doll again.

The third reason I started to back off is that, for all the cute-wonderful-inspiring that Fireguy and Firewife (she’s asked to be renamed Wonder Woman, how could I say no?) are, they have an official “Relationship Agreement” between them that’s very intimidating. I wouldn’t begrudge anybody ANY tool that helps them stay in a happy poly marriage for THIRTY YEARS, but I can’t imagine I’m the first outsider to find this daunting.

I haven’t seen the Relationship Agreement, but the part he told me about, and that gave me pause, was the Levels. There are Play Levels One Through Four. I thought at first they’d be close to the traditional bases, but they’re not. Level One is “Free Safe Play.” Level Two “is for special people” and requires that any potential partners and THEIR partners get tested for STI’s. He said he was “not interested in Levels Three and Four” but BDSM being what it is, I’m sure those levels might be way too advanced for me. He told me that, since I was treated earlier this year for an STI, I would have to stay (it felt like “would only qualify for”) Level One.

Reading that, I have to say I felt like a piece of meat. We hadn’t even had a date, and already I couldn’t hope to be one of the “special” people. I didn’t like the idea of having to earn his/their affection, although, is that part of what being a submissive is? I don’t even know. I confessed that I had feelings for him and I couldn’t risk being stuck in crushtown again.

Nonetheless, I think people have the right to protect their bodies and relationships any way they see fit, and I wanted to learn more. Plus, I just really like them, and the idea of not pursuing things made me sad.

When I called a few days later and he was glad to hear from me, I apologized for things getting messed up over email and jumped at his offer to start things over. I was really excited to make plans with them. Their house really does feel like such a safe place to me, and I loved the idea of going back there. When Wonder Woman called to set up the date, she asked me what I wanted to do, I said I wanted to decorate cupcakes. But I think maybe I should’ve said I wanted to sit in a diner and talk. Because I knew what visiting him at the house really meant.

I asked her what her favorite cupcake is and she said dark chocolate. It was my first time making chocolate cupcakes from scratch, I couldn’t get over how beautiful the batter was. I tried for fire colored icing but it turned out more peach colored, as you can see.

We had such a nice time decorating cupcakes and I was so happy to get a chance to talk to them a little bit. He made a remark about his fingers being too fat to work with the sprinkles, and ohboy, don’t think I hadn’t noticed. Unfortunately, Fireguy and Varga Girl had just broken up (romantically—they plan to keep up the D/S part of their relationship) a couple of hours before and he was having some other troubles, too. A phone call took him away for a bit, but I was happy to have a nice chance to talk with Wonder Woman for a while.

When it was time to go down to the basement where the fire stuff was set up, I wasn’t sure if Wonder Woman was coming—Fireguy had talked about the three of us playing together, I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to invite her down or what. She just hugged me and sent me on my way though, saying to text her if we needed her.

Am I ever going to write a story that doesn’t make me think I should have talked more first? Is there ever enough talking?

Next: My First Collaring

Etiquette: STI Disclosure and Response

I love reading etiquette, so I figure it’s okay to write some myself. My quest to love and feel safe in my body is a little bit hampered by the fact that three months ago, I was treated for low-risk HPV. I’m not sure how it got in there, since I consider myself a very conscientious haver of sex. In fact, most of the sex I’ve had in the past decade has been with Sweetie, who has only ever been with me.

But still, it happened somehow. It’s a particularly annoying thing to have to disclose, because it isn’t something they usually test for. You can be carrying the virus, but you’d never know unless you have symptoms. Once the symptoms are treated, you don’t really know how long it will take for your immune system to fight off the virus.

But in order to be an ethical player, I have to disclose it. So, as soon as it seems like sex might be on the table, I send this:

“Three months ago, I was treated for low-risk HPV. There're no more symptoms, but there's the chance I could still be carrying the virus. Even with protection, there'd be a little risk.”

The responses that make me feel safe and validated, as opposed to diseased, are the ones that:

  1. Thank me for disclosing! It shows that I’m trying to do right by potential partners, and it is a very vulnerable thing to do. It’s great when that is acknowledged.
  2. Don’t make a big deal about it.
  3. Keep discussions of what we can and can’t do, in the disclose-ee’s estimation, for in-person and closer to the time that they actually become relevant.

It’s hard not to feel like there’s something wrong with me. Even though it’s a very common infection and it’s fairly harmless, it’s hard to fight the teenage slut-shaming feelings that come along with having an STI. A good response goes a long way toward making me feel like my personhood matters.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Please, Sir, Part One: A Song

It'll take me a little while to start in on the (many!) paragraphs about last night last night, but first things first, Fireguy says it's okay if this is our song:

Monday, April 9, 2012

How I Found Out I’m Kinky Part Eight: The Long Goodbye

Later, during the now-usual part where he jerked off and talked dirty, he started in on a little story about going to goth night with me. (I’d been suspecting that we hadn’t gone yet because he was embarrassed for his friends to see me. Goth night is a big holiday reunion spot in our city.) He said “You want me to take you to goth night? And maul you? Tie a little ribbon around your neck to show that you’re mine? Never let you leave my side?”


“Well, that’s never gonna happen.”

My face fell and my eyes misted up. “That actually hurt my feelings a little.”

And that’s when he came.

I got up and gathered my clothes, hid behind the kitchen wall to get dressed.

He said “Awww, I just wanted a fuck doll!”

I just felt so dirty and sad. He sat up and we started, haltingly, to talk. But first he said “What time are you kicking me out?” and I said I didn’t have work that day so it didn’t matter.

“Listen,” he said, “I said I like you, and we are friends, but if someone else comes along who can be monogamous, I’m going to have to choose her. I can’t see sharing in a serious relationship. I have a HUGE ego.”

I couldn’t imagine what I might not be doing for his ego. I don’t know why his admission broke me up so much, as it was basically the same arrangement that I had with MKT. I didn’t have the courage to ask him why that meant we couldn’t go out in public together, but I did tell him that I wanted someone who could be more a part of my life, and that this situation seemed more like an affair. I told him I’d have to start scrolling through OK Cupid again, even though I didn’t want to. He said, “Good luck with that.”

Will Do came on shuffle and really summed up our misery at that moment:

I’d resolved not to get bogged down in crushes anymore, so I had to let him go. But I didn’t want to.

“I told you I wasn’t looking for a relationship. My profile is basically a warning.”

“Well, I didn’t see it that way. And there’s a long way between “serious relationship” and “I just came, it’s time to go.”

He stuck around for the rest of the afternoon. We took off the sad music and put on a sad episode of Party Down, the one where Henry might have to move back in with his parents. Bill was getting sick and so he coughed a lot at said “groan” aloud a lot. He made me come again and during that time, I flirted aloud with the idea that maybe I could be a fuck doll for a few more weeks.

He told me I shouldn’t like him, that he deserved nothing but contempt and pity. I said that usually, I treat my friends a little more kindly than that.

“Never gonna happen,” he said, “In fact, no more feedback at all.”

I climbed on top of him and held his arms down.

“Oh, so now you want to be on top?”

“I’m working on my contempt.”

I threw my weight into pressing his wrists behind his head as hard as I could and he pressed back. He grabbed for my throat in a way that almost went horribly wrong.

“Um, that was kind of dangerous. I actually kind of need my trachea.”

He snorted like he didn’t care. I held him down as long as I could but then he pushed back, flipped me over, and forced me onto the floor between the couch and coffee table. He had an “Is that what you wanted?” expression on his face as he grabbed me by the hair and pulled me up so that I was standing next to him. Everything was sore but he kept grabbing, playing, shoving, held my hands behind my back and kissed me. He pushed me into the column in the center of the apartment and bit the back of my neck hard—I joked (and I never, EVER make jokes like this) that I’d just say I’d walked into a door. He pushed me onto my knees and took his dick out, shoved my mouth onto it. He pushed me down to the floor and I said “Sooner or later, you’re gonna have to come in my mouth.”

“Don’t worry, it’s on my list.”

He pulled open the button of my pants and put his hand in. I was dry from having a tampon in and it hurt. I played with him some more but he’d gone soft. He asked what time Sweetie would be home and suggested this might be a good place to stop. I said I did need time to Febreeze the couch, and that I should Febreeze myself too—I smelled like him just as much as the couch did.

I broke things off with him that night, saying I couldn’t stop myself from wanting more of a relationship and that I was weirded out that he wouldn’t go anywhere with me. I thanked him for everything he took me past and did all the necessary internet blocking.
I checked his Tumblr a couple days later and found The Long Goodbye cover and the poster below. At least I knew he was still thinking of me.

The End, and here’s hope for all kinds of moving on.

How I Found Out I’m Kinky Part Seven: Baby, It’s Cold Outside.

This part of the story is really hard to write because it’s the part when I really started not to like myself. I could never really tell if Bill was the one who made me feel so bad or if the relationship just brought up bad emotions. Probably both. I’m not sure what made me quite so scared of Bill, aside from all the hurty stuff we were doing.

We were decidedly doing the D/S thing wrong. He scoffed the first time I suggested a safeword, so I was never sure he’d listen if I used it. We talked a little bit, but any time I had to ask him what he felt, he seemed dismissive and pissed off. During aftercare time, when I was all soft and subby, he’d say things like “Next time, I’ll just come over, fuck you, and leave. I’ll put my shirt on the cat for your snuggle time.” Or he’d say jealous things about my other partners. MKT is a Lego enthusiast, so Bill would say things like “You don’t need me, you can just build me out of Legos.”

I was also really worried that he didn’t like me as a person because he wouldn’t go out in public with me. I don’t mean to play parties, I didn’t know those were even an option at the time. I just wanted to hang out and pal around sometimes. We’d make plans to go places, but he’d always have an excuse to end up on my couch instead. I felt like I was no good to him unless I was naked. He gave me so little praise that, pathetically, I remember the one thing he ever “liked” on my fb. It was this:

As I said before, he called me a good girl exactly once, over email, and then told me not to let it go to my head. His smiles were so rare that I felt nostalgic about them before he was even gone.

The morning after we’d failed to have sex, I went online to listen to some of the songs that he’d sent me, and I noticed that our latest 100-song email thread said “this conversation has been clipped.” I still don’t know what that meant, could’ve meant nothing, but the bottom kind of dropped out from under me: I was sure he was gone. He’d smiled so sweetly the day before when we were listening to Courtney Love singing Violet, and now it seemed like it was coming true: “They get what they want, and they never want it again.” That was one of my worst fears about men, that they’d just fuck me and leave me every time.

I wasn’t sure if it was just Christmas that was taking him away, but he really did seem gone. We’d exchanged songs every day all day for two months, so the drop-off in communication was startling. He sent me only one more song, a generic rock-steady Christmas song, and I asked him to send me a picture of his Christmas tree, and he didn’t. I felt so sad and far gone, and I didn’t feel like I could call him up, so I did that stupid thing of reading his fb posts to other people. I mostly just cried and felt guilty for messing up Christmas for Sweetie.

I wouldn’t say that Christmas was ruined, although I was too upset to eat the extra dough when I was rolling out gingerbread men. But how bad can things be if I was still rolling out gingerbread men?

Our yearly family debate over whether Baby, It’s Cold Outside is romantic or creepy was more vivid and in depth (was I really talking about “Yes Means Yes” around the Christmas table?) until I felt like my ragged psyche was leaking out.

When Sweetie and I got home, I rushed right to the computer to see if he’d written. Sweetie was superpissed because I seemed so beholden to him, and also because I wasn’t helping her unload the car. After I was online for a few minutes, he sent Love Cats, which was a favorite of ours and seemed unequivocally affectionate. But I was still worried, because no, we couldn’t go out, he only had daytimes free.

The last day he came over, I got my period, and I was scared that he would get mad and leave because he wouldn’t be able to have sex with me. I wanted to ask him if he’d meant to blow me off over Christmas, but I didn’t have the courage. Instead, I told him that he could cover my mouth if he wanted to—previously (and still) a hard limit. I really did want to give him everything. He told me about a bad dream. There was this pair of Siamese twins, he said, and he was maiming one of them while the other looked on judgmentally. I didn’t say that that was probably me and Sweetie.

He wasn’t feeling good but we started to play. I put on the makeout mix I’d made and when Someday, You Will Be Loved by Death Cab for Cutie came on, it seemed to emo for us, so I went to get up and skip it, but he wouldn’t let me up. He held me down and I wrestled and struggled, but he kept grabbing me and pulling me back and kissing me, saying, “Is it too emo now?” Of all the things I miss about him, I miss his kissing and his insurmountable physical strength the most.

Next: (Really!) The Long Goodbye