Saturday, June 29, 2013

Back to the Dungeon Tonight—It’s Complicated



Last week when I ran into Old-Timey Guy and Punk Rock Girl, going back to the Regular Dungeon seemed like it would be an unmitigated joy, and I hope it will be.

But I feel really smushy about it. It’s hard to forget that the last time I was there, way back at the end of February, was my fourth date with The Man and our best scene. I remember standing at the bar in a skimpy nightie and pretty patent-leather heels I’d bought for the occasion, telling him how happy I was to be there.

“You should be happy,” he said “You’re beautiful, you have a beautiful wife, and now you have… me!”

I loved the idea that I “had” him and the energy between us felt so good. We’d only kissed once before that, but I loved the way he rubbed my knee in a proprietary way during the dungeon owner’s “don’t break your toys” speech. He fumbled with his knots though—at one point during rope class the owner came over and asked if he’d got the Somerville Bowline down and The Man was all, “Yep, yep, got it.” but I exchanged a “not so much” look with the owner—maybe that’s when I should’ve known it wouldn’t work…

I loved kissing The Man, even if he was a little withholding with the tongue. I loved the way he expertly slapped his handcuffs on me and shoved my head down when I “tried to get away.” That night he found a loophole to the “don’t restrict my voice thing” he said “You don’t have to speak until spoken to.” I can’t really look back and see that as a red flag, even though I know now that I shouldn’t have trusted him.

But I was so happy to have his attention. During aftercare, he told me he wanted a relationship, not just a play partner, and I had no reason not to believe him. I sat at his feet in my fuzzy pink robe and he stroked my well-pulled hair—I felt SO CLOSE to having my dream. Or, I guess more accurately, my dream did come true, it just didn’t last.

He was fulfilling a lot of needs that night, not least the need to have my head held down. The need that frustrates me and pisses me off the most is the feeling of having everyone see that a man wants me, that I’m wanted and worthy of his attention. Of course I am! Everyone is! But there’s something so gratifying in having everyone see me that way, even as they’re quipping “She got ARRESTED” as my arms are being pulled behind my back.

That need makes me more grateful, more desperate, way needier than I’d ever want to be. I hate that need but I think it’s probably a good thing to embrace it, to have compassion for the vulnerability of it.


At any rate, none of that is what this night is about. Tonight I’ll be there to play with Sweetie, catch up with friends, reunite with my Hello Kitty nipple tape, with the invincible feeling I have there sometimes. If I can find a not-so-nice man to beat my ass for a while, then that would be the icing on the cake.

Friday, June 28, 2013

Happy About Ms. and Mr. Sweetheart


Last Sunday, I had my favorite metamour day so far. Ms. Sweetheart was in town for a meetup with one of her online communities and I was superexcited to spend some time with her. To tell the truth, if we hadn’t been with a rather vanilla-y crowd, I’d’ve been an eensy bit snuggly toward her. I like the way she makes me feel looked-after: During dinner, a chocolate chip from my bread pudding fell on my jeans and she didn’t hesitate to try and clean it off—to no avail, but still.

When Sweetie came to pick me up, Ms. Sweetheart walked me over to the car, saying “Do you think I should’ve blown their minds and told them you’re dating my boyfriend?”

And that’s how I found out that Mr. Sweetheart and I are dating, and I guess he felt the same. When I told him what she said, he said, “Oh, I’ll have to thank her, now I know!”

So yay, we’re dating. We have a weekly phone date on Wednesdays at 8 pm and plans for a visit are starting to come together.

And, (I can’t resist saying) speaking of coming together, during this week’s call he suggested talking about regular stuff for the first hour and then getting smutty after that. Sweetie even gave me the house to myself for the evening so I could speak (etc) without worrying she’d hear more than she wanted to.

When it came time to talk dirty, I was uncharacteristically shy—there are a lot of things I’ve written that I have yet to feel comfortable saying. He was kind enough to do the talking and oh, swoon, what a talker.

I kind of flunked “what are you wearing?” I had cute lacy pajama shorts on but I had to admit to a ratty and less-than-hot old top. Next week I’ll take the opportunity to put on an outfit—for a nudist, I’ve been getting preoccupied about outfits lately. I think that’s partly because I’ve been working out and I’m starting to feel a little more lingerie-able or something.

I was surprised by how intimate and sensual it felt—the sound of his voice made it feel like he was close. I got all warm and soft as if he were there to run his hands over me. He told a rope-themed story full of helpful angles and detail, but the part that gave me such a squirm/twinge/sparkle of lust was when he said something like “I’m getting nice and hard for you” and then said my name. What was it about hearing my name? I don’t think I’ve heard it said to me like that before.

“Are you ready to come for me yet?” he asked, saying my name again.

“Aaaalmost…” I sighed. I couldn’t really scrape together too many words the whole time, mostly moans and breaths and sighs which I felt oddly self-conscious about on the phone but nonetheless could not stop making.

I was in a dreamy, sleepy state and held the phone to my ear with my shoulder while I rubbed my nipples and clit.

“Come for me.” (Is there a better sentence in the universe?) and I did come, a new kind of orgasm swelled up and crested like an obedient (but still naughty) wave. I heard him come on the other end of the line too, and we were together and happy. We panted our way back to regular talk until it was time to say goodnight, at which time I texted him 1. The doodle I’d made during the regular part of the conversation and 2. A picture of the wet crotch of my PJ bottoms.

Even writing this a couple of days later, I still feel like we should high-five. Instead, here's a star:



Steampunk Guy and Two Kinds of Sex-Tears



So my second date with Steampunk Guy was very much like the first, except in the daytime, for the decadent housewifeness of it all. I got all dressed up and made sure that my little black-and-white striped dress was short enough so that he could see my lacy, hot-pink underpants when I walked up the steps in front of them. Putting on the outfit is a bigbig part of the fun, even if it stays on for like two minutes.

I just love kissing him, being in his arms, the way his whole body curls up urgently against mine, the instant gratification of him.

I did make a playlist, not necessarily just for him, but it’s called “Something Like Makeout Music,” made mostly by dropping in whole albums that wouldn’t disrupt the process too much. He says LCD Soundsystem makes him feel like he’s in a Nineties movie about the Eighties.

This time he brought ropes, and it was so good to have them on again. He was competent and careful, honoring my no-intentional-boob-hurting limit (I’m happy to report that he makes a really good effort to respond to feedback, even feedback he can’t do anything about, as you’ll see toward the end of the story.) and just generally having perfect hands about it. I liked to stop and wrap my arms around him and kiss him while he wound and wove the ropes. The smell of him was a little bitter, as if he hadn’t showered that morning or had been doing sweaty work—you know I get drunk on that smell.

On the couch, he was hard on my hair and my ass-cheeks, but was gentle about being the first person to put a finger in my asshole. I couldn’t quite lose self-consciousness about it, but I was glad to have him in there. He had me cradled in one arm and the other gloved hand probing slowly—I felt so calm and cared-for, ready to just settle in and behave myself.

Until he smacked me in the hoo-ha and I had to laugh and smack him back for being so porny.

“What’s porny about that?”

“Seriously, it’s what they do right before spitting on their hands…”

I really, really like giving him a hard time. I like how impossible and incorrigible and silly he is. The sex is pretty perfect, but the banter’s what’s getting me attached.

The perfect sex moments…him grabbing the back of the ropes while I was kneeling in front of him so he could go into me harder. When I asked for a little break and he gave it by fucking me slowly and sweetly, my brain spritzed itself with all kinds of bonding chemicals. I warmed to him, melted to him. I let him in and it felt so perfect. And I told him it felt perfect even though I knew it would only make him more incorrigible.

That melty moment was a reprieve from the feeling I’ve always had, the certainty I’ve always had that men are hopelessly separate from me, unattainable and ungraspable. He was there, we were us, there was wholeness. Straight women must get used to this feeling, but after all those penis-free years, I’m still waking up to it, feeling fragile and young and fighty about needing men the way I do.

He turned me over so that I was on my belly and covered me completely. His soft, fuzzy legs held my legs down, his arms over my arms. He held my head so I couldn’t move and I felt a rush of relief. Absolute joy. Helpless and safe, what I’d been waiting for all along.

“This. Is. My. Favorite.” I sighed, my head smushed into the couch cushion.

“Why’s it your favorite?”

“Because you’re all over me.”

He turned into a growling animal and fucked me harder. The Smiths were singing “Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me” and though I knew this wasn’t that, the music and the pressure and relief pushed the experience to something transcendent and I did what he wanted me to do, which was cry. Real, deep tears this time and he came. It was lovely in a way I can’t get my head around.


So what can I do about having such deep pressing needs met in such a casual situation? What I did was enjoy him for a couple more hours, put an apron on over my ropes and make him a sandwich, argue about whether I was a hipster or not based on the fact that I think Arcade Fire is makeout music. (My argument is that I like things too sincerely to be a hipster, he says I sincerely like hipsterish things. Says Steampunk Guy.)

We finished the conversation we’d started about the Scary Party in a way that made me feel satisfied and safe. He said I really should write down this line about how The Man probably got hit on more than I did during that mess of a thread, probably girls writing to The Man and saying  “I’d shut the fuck up for you.” I’m happy to know that Steampunk Guy doesn’t seem interested in me shutting the fuck up. Although, best of luck to him if he did!

Anyway, my point is that we had lots of fun. He kept asking how he could help keep me from feeling sad when he leaves and I honestly had no idea. He just isn’t a wrap-you-in-a-blanket-and-say-sweet-nothings kind of guy, and really I’ve learned how much nothing sweet nothings can mean. And really felt fine until he started to get dressed.

All those intense experiences make it easy to forget this was just a second date. I’ve never had this reaction to any other date—in fact, I hung up the phone with Mr. Sweetheart the night before feeling close to him even though he is six hours away. Being clingy at the end of a date just isn’t me—I’m usually just ready to go back to my book or whatever.

The sad feeling really doesn’t have much to do with actual him, so I don’t know what’s triggering it, unless it’s purely just my inability to be casual. I do feel overwhelmed by the number of commitments he has, but that’s who he is, it’s who I like.

“I had a really good time and I’d like to do it again, but this is all it is.”

And I LIKE what it is. I just don’t know if I’m built for it.


Tears or no tears I went on my Fet page and listed him as someone I’m “considering.” Even that vagueness feels vulnerable, but while I was laying there thinking things through after he left, I watched this TED Talk about how vulnerability is the key to connectedness. Who knows. He says we’re fortnightly, so I’ve got at least that long to figure it out.Or figure out that there's nothing to figure out.

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Welcome to the Summer of My Ass




It’s funny to have a whole body part that I’m really just getting to know. Toward the beginning of this project, around last spring or so, I started pushing the boundaries of what I did with myself and discovered (among other things) that I have an asshole that would really like some attention.

Aside from encouraging Sweetie to put knots there when she’s harnessing me up, I’ve never really shared that part of my body with anyone but myself. There have been times when I’ve used the above Little Pink Thing during sex with Sweetie, but I was always really shy about it, putting it in myself and not really inviting her to participate, asswise. (Except to smack it, of course.)

Even with partners I felt less shy around (I feel like I can be dirtier with guys for some reason) I’ve always reflexively steered errant fingers and other things away from there, and now I am resolving to steer things toward it.

Last Saturday, Sweetie and I only had a few hours before we had to get up and clean for the in-laws’ impending visit. (That we were thinking of having sex at all shows that I’ve come a long way when it comes to compartmentalizing and getting on with things—it used to be that a family visit would shut me down for WEEKS) I put on a little nightgown and some lacy undies and Sweetie stripped down to nothing. I got the Little Pink Thing ready with a condom (Just to be safe since I don’t know what kind of plastic it is), got on all fours and put it in. I’m not usually one for buzzy things, but this one feels like a massage from the inside and a sense of calm descended over me. I put my arms around Sweetie and kissed the heck out of her.

The earth-shattering thing happened midsex when I asked her to push on the Pink Thing for me.

“Like this?” She reached around and moved it in and out gently.

“Ohmygodyes. Yesyesyes. Ohmygoodness.”

I could NOT get over it. Just the way that little bit of pressure from her fingertips on the toy turned a mild little ass-massage into fireworks and turned me into a very happy animal. I felt so inspired and grateful and close to her. I feel silly for waiting so long to invite her to be part of my ass-love, but I just thought she was too…pristine or something. Dumb. Should stop putting artificial limits where there are none.


So with that auspicious beginning, I decided I’d like to spend this summer having many things done to my asshole by others. Three out of four partners seem willing to lend a hand. Wish me luck! Hooray!

Friday, June 21, 2013

Happy Tenth Anniversary, Sweetie!



Ten years ago, in a rose garden in Upstate New York (before gay marriage was legal there) in a ceremony officiated by a poet, Sweetie and I said our vows in front of our family (even the most conservative members attended) and friends. It was a perfect day, exactly the way we’d envisioned it.

To celebrate her general state of wonderfulness, here are ten things I love about Sweetie:

1. She is beautiful. She has the most baby-deer sincere eyes, softsoft shoulders, spectacular bosoms and highly smoochable lips. My body fits perfectly with hers and the smell of her is the deepest of animal comforts.

2. She is smarter than anybody. She has absolutely no patience for nonsense except for (thank goodness!) mine.

3. She is my best friend. Sometimes, especially if we have a nice, leisurely Saturday afternoon ahead of us, we’ll lay down to have sex but seeing her face will make me just start yammering. She opens me all up, and though sometimes I know I have just a few more words than she’d prefer, she’s always, always there to talk with. I’m so very grateful.

4. I love the way she gets really worried if she sees a groundhog or some goslings about to cross the road. She’s protective of everything, especially me—once before we were even dating, it started to rain and she was worried that I’d left without a coat, so she went to my house to get me one.

5. I’m happy doing nothing with her. One of the best weeks recently was the week when the new Arrested Development season came out and we spent all kinds of time binge-watching episodes. Oh, Sweetie and me and our love affair with the couch. And the bed. And the garden. And the porch.

6. She’s so unbelievably generous! All week this week, even though she has her own full-time job, she’s been coming into school with me early every day to help pack up my classroom. She always takes care of me so well and I know I could never even BEGIN to make it up to her.

7. Strawberry waffles in bed every Saturday. Romantic trips to the Whole Foods for sushi and salted caramels. Broccoli soup in the wintertime. Getting like six fortune cookies with every Chinese food order. Morimoto for fancy ramen on really auspicious or really trying occasions. Beachside sundaes. Making dinner for her and sometimes for her and other sweeties too.

8. She listens to me cry when boys are mean to me and hardly ever gets frustrated with me for letting them. She roots for the dudes who make me happy (the whole cast of characters at the moment) but when times are tough she says the lesbians will always be willing to renew my membership. (She says she has an in with the committee…)

9. She joins me in so many adventures and happily sends me off on the ones that don’t interest her. She’s so good at knots that it makes it hard for the boys to measure up. (Yes that is a challenge, guys. Go practice!) She stands supportively by when nice men are helpful enough to hit me with stuff, and then is happy to hit me with more stuff. (Mostly her lovely hands.) She brings out the growly top in me but also can make me feel sosoothingly docile. She lets me draw elaborate doodles on her back because she likes the tickle of it.


10. She gets superpissed when I don’t love myself as much as she loves me. She is better at love than anybody I’ve ever known-she isn’t perfect but she never, ever lets me down. She never stops letting me know that I am the most important thing in the world to her. I would love to be as good at love as she is.

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Hooray!! It's Time to Rejoin the (Public) Kink World

Okay so readers know I really never left kink,but I haven't played in the local scene since all that nonsense with The Man back in March. Last night at a reading, I was overjoyed to run into my old pals Old-Timey guy and Punk Rock Girl. We picked up exactly where we left off, which is him making me feel all giggly and her alternately egging him on/ adorably shushing us.

They agreed to be listed as protecting me when I rebuild my Fet account and assured me that there's no reason in this world why I shouldn't go to the next party at the Regular Dungeon, which is week after next!

Special underpants must be gotten!

Monday, June 17, 2013

First Date With Steampunk Guy, Part Four: His Huge Life Force



In the course of writing this, I’ve realized that I’ve had an awful lot of first-date sex for someone who keeps saying she’s not casual. I guess the two things aren’t mutually exclusive, but it’s time to acknowledge that some of the things I want fall outside of my lovely-dovey dreams. Some of my favorite adventures have been off to the side of romance and some have been nowhere near it. I’m pretty much in crushtown about Steampunk Guy, but not in the same way that I am for my more romance-oriented partners. Maybe I just want to climb all over him a whole bunch more.

Anyway, back to the couch. As we snuggled, I told him that I was really enjoying the enormous amount of Chi thrumming through him—he thought “You have a huge life force.” was hilarious and worthy of a Fet status, but to his credit he did not stop and update. Anyway, the man has a lot of oomph, and I think it’s contagious.While we were cuddling and chatting, I felt this amazing warmth come over me; heat, well-being, life just simmered through me—he must’ve felt something like it too, because on went the condom. 

He took me by the hair and pushed my head toward his dick, pressing and thrusting--I believe one would call this getting fucked in the face. I pushed him down my throat as far as I could, taking as much gagging as I could stand. I squeezed, licked, sucked. It turns out that the taste of a regular comdom’s okay, but I did miss the taste of the thing itself—it’s a little harder to know what to do with a blow job without the taste to make me all ravenous for it. But I was ravenous for it in other ways.

He put me on my hands and knees and pushed in from behind, hitting new spots inside me and bringing forth more yowling. I got pushed down over the edge of the couch so that my face was almost on the floor. I tried to stifle the screams with a couch cushion.

Then he turned me over, put my legs over his shoulders, and went in so deep that it hurt again, but I decided to take the pain—I really didn’t want him to ever stop. His expression was angry/gleeful, especially when my screams turned into something like sobs—no tears came but it was close enough to crying to put him over the edge. (I know I got mad at Bill way back when for getting turned on by tears. I’m not sure why this is different.)  Again, he came and just kept fucking me until I absolutely couldn’t take it anymore.

During afterglow/aftercare The National started to seem too moody to I put the songs back on shuffle. I was going to skip “You Get What You Give” (given to me by a dear friend whose road mixes have no rhyme or reason except that they are in alphabetical order) based on its general not-hotness, but he liked it so much that I left it on. He went on so ebulliently about the movie-montage moments in life that I have no choice but to love the song now. If we were a thing, it’d be our song.

Some of the things he said made me think that night was a one-off, and ever since Mr. Popular I’ve assumed that overbooked guys might see it as a one night thing. I guess since he texted the next day to see if I’m interested in his partner as well there’s a possibility that more things might happen.

We kissed some more, had pie, and then all of a sudden he was ready to go. He did have a pretty long drive back but I felt a little sad about how quickly he had his shoes on. If there’s a next time, I think I’ll ask for praise and more snuggles. I felt a lonely ache between the time he left and the time Sweetie got home.


However, over the next few days the lonely ache gave ways to such a wonderful feeling of confidence and centeredness—my favorite side-effect of submission. There’s something good there. I don’t know what the heck to do with it, if anything, but it’s good.

Gold Star for Mr. Shiny Eyes—and Me!


Last Wednesday, something really horrible happened to one of my students. It happened outside school, but it was very upsetting and shook me all the way down to my bone marrow. She’s okay now, but it’s hard knowing that it happened to anyone, let alone to a student I love.

When Sweetie and I got back from trying to visit her in the hospital Wednesday evening, we were sitting on the porch discussing whether or not I should call into work the next day to process. Just as that conversation was winding down to a yes, my phone rang, and it was Mr. Shiny Eyes, asking what I was doing the next day—he’d found himself an opportunity to drive in from out of town and visit.

Glad to hear joy in my voice, Sweetie said of course a visit was fine with her.

For most of last Thursday, I couldn’t move. I felt broken and guilty and devastated for all that I have that my students don’t have—a safe home, a loving group of friends and family, the ability to change my circumstances. I called Sweetie and apologized for needing to schedule some couch time, an apology she found ridiculous. I felt weepy and not-good-enough, hardly a way to go into a second date with someone I’m excited about.

Cleaning the apartment to get ready for him and making dinner for both Mr. Shiny Eyes and Sweetie (yay!) lifted my spirits a little but I felt really fragile and off when he arrived. Just like Sweetie had the night before, Mr. Shiny Eyes listened and listened as I kept on looping back to sad subjects.

After Sweetie had left us alone for snuggle time, I apologized profusely and repeatedly for being such a bad date when he’d come all this way, but he seemed shocked and dismayed with every sorry.

“I came here because I like you, the real you, and this is the real you right now. I didn’t just come here to have sex. But I’m still pretty sure we’ll have sex.

And we did. In fact, he asked if it would be okay to just forget all the kinks and “make gentle love” to me and it’s a little sad how seldom I’ve had that with guys. (But okay, I get other good stuff.) I relaxed into him and it was sweet and hot and satisfying.

Plus, once the lovemaking was accomplished, he was nice enough to end the night with a pretty thorough flogging that buoyed up my spirits even more.

And yet, I didn’t stop apologizing. There’s an annoying almost geishalike part of me that wants to be nothing but cheerful and pleasant and uncomplicated for men. I try to keep a cheery guard up lest they should think I’m difficult or high-maintenance or (that dirtiest of dirty words) needy. I have no problem sharing vulnerability with friends or with Sweetie, but when it comes to men I’m attracted to, there’s this irritating compulsion to behave. It’s insulting to them and stifling to me.


I’m grateful that life kicked my ass enough that I had no choice but to show Mr. Shiny Eyes my sometimes-a-wreck of a self. (I’m also grateful to anyone who reads the full wreck of it here, for that matter!) No choice even, than to at one point put my clothes on and just cry for a bit. He took such nice care of me, and even though second date tears aren’t my favorite thing, I’m so glad for the depth and difficulty that I shared during my second evening with Mr. Shiny Eyes. It’s a step towards learning to actually trust men, and it made my hoo-ha happy too.

Friday, June 14, 2013

First Date With Steampunk Guy, Part Three: I Didn’t Think I Was Feeling that Subby, But…



I wouldn’t have called it subspace at the time, but the way the order of things has slipped out of my brain suggests some kind of altered state. So, Steampunk Guy, if I’ve messed up the timeline, feel free to punish me.

“Whatever happened to this date being clothing optional?’ he asked and I hopped up and got naked. In the time it took me to cue up the new National album, (Pure moody summer makeout music, see above.) he was not just naked but ready to go, complete with condom and safety gloves. (We’d already done the when-were-you-tested conversation, after which we high-fived.)You wouldn’t think someone could look beautiful wearing green plastic gloves, but you’d be wrong.

Last year when Sweetie and I got our new couch, we optimistically chose a fold-down one. Steampunk Guy’s the first guy I’ve folded it down for. (Because my life is awesome, Mr. Shiny Eyes became the second one last night.) After I’d figured out how to work the mechanism and got the bed all situated, he had me lay down on my stomach. I felt all cozy and happy, like I was at the beach.

He went from spanking (He’d mentioned that his tools were in the car, but I didn’t think he’d need them, and I was right.) to probing—pulling me open, pressing me apart. I’m starting to get a little fetish for the feeling of gloved fingers in me. (See the previous post’s hand-rhapsodizing.)

He left my legs together and lay on top of me, entering not-all-the way but from such a lovely angle. I’d never been in that position before. I let out a moan/sigh and said “Aaaaaahhhh, nowonderyouhavelikeninegirlfriends…oh, oh, oooohhhhh..” (and so on) He felt so perfect—I’d been needing it so badly and now I was getting all filled up.

He turned me over and fucked me so hard that it hurt. I screamed and cried and took it for as long as I could, just kissing him and yowling and carrying on. (It’s possible that the neighbors might hate me.) This is being thoroughly fucked, stripped all the way down to my primal animal whatever. I wailed, I balled up my fists. It felt like I was lighting up and tearing apart, like I was everything and nothing but light and warmth and pain, and he doesn’t stop when he comes, just keeps pushing in and in until I’m breathless and “Oh, wait, okay, I have to stop, sorry…”

As we moved from fucking to snuggling, I was somewhere between ecstasy and trauma, panting and dizzy. “I’ve never felt anything quite like that before.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Eyeroll then, eyeroll now.

My scalp was warm from my hair being pulled so much. My cheeks were blushy with exertion and beard burn. My ass was lightly bruised and my pussy was throbbingly, gushingly wet, trying to figure out what hurricane just hit it. He held me and his fuzzy chest hair felt all nice and soft against my chest.

We got to know each other a little. It turns out he’s military, just got back not long ago. Why do I keep feeling drawn to guys who fought in wars I’ve protested? (Well, I have protested every war since I was in ninth grade.) It could be some urge to connect and humanize the Other. Or it could just be that I like guys who are really strong and tend to be on time. I don’t know, and I never know what to say when someone tells me he’s been in a war, other than “I’m glad you didn’t die.” which is actually what I said.

We talked some more about our respective kinks. He says he’s good with ropes, so I hope I might get to test out his knotsmanship sometime, should we make it to the magical land of the second date.

He looked so happy, and I was too. It was snuggling with a pal. A very smiley pal who keeps laughing to himself for whatever reason.


Next Time: Waves of warmth, sex-tears, then pie.





Tuesday, June 11, 2013

First Date With Steampunk Guy, Part Two: Spanked Before Kissed

“Music or back episodes of Arrested Development?” I asked when we got upstairs, and he chose music.

I sat down near him on the couch and we sat apart for just a moment. He smiled big. He is almost always smiling big, or laughing for some sometimes-indiscernible reason. Charming. Adorable. I smiled back and giggled nervously and he put his arm out for me to snuggle under.

He just radiated warmth. I’m sure I did too. From my perspective, the energy between us was instant and joyful. How awesome is it that someone completely new can just be such a fit sometimes. I heard his heartbeat and felt his beard against my neck. It’s possible that he kissed the top of my head or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. I know he was squeezing my boobs, hard enough to hurt until I told him those aren’t for hurting. (Even after that I still ended up with bruises—should negotiate for unscathed bosoms next time.)

I got up for some reason (Probably to hit skip on the music. He suggested rightly that I might want to make a playlist, but I haven’t been able to really work iTunes since about two updates ago…) and when I came back to the couch, I told him to scooch himself over towards the middle.

“Okaaaay…” he said and then I showed him why—of COURSE so that I could drape myself across his lap for a spanking.

And now it is time to stop and rhapsodize about Steampunk Guy’s hands. Ohman I am smitten with them. They’re big and muscled, with thick, long fingers that don’t always know their own strength. I would go through a whole lot to get to those hands again, to see what other places I can convince him to put them. I miss him already, but he has, like, eight other partners and who knows when/if I’ll see him again.

Anyway, back to me across his lap, girly shoes in the air. At first, he pulled up the back of my dress and left my undies and leggings on. His hand landed on my left ass check with such a perfect and resounding THWACK. Ohboy I missed typing the word THWACK.

He pushed his hand up into my hair and pulled, then pushed my head back towards him so I could reach for a kiss. Please recognize that it is a compliment when I say that he kisses like a teenager—as if some girl had never come along and told him to tone it down with the tongue. Feel free to not tone it down, pal. I liked him in my mouth. I liked his beard soft against my check.

And oh, I get it, I like him. This post is coming out dreamier than I expected.

His spanks alternated between thuddy (another word I’m glad to be back to typing) and stingy, and when I started to wiggle and writhe too much, he tone it down for a sec, let me pause for a sip of my excellent Manhattan, then go harder. He pulled down my leggings but left my underwear (purple with a little white ruffle) pulled down around the bottom of my ass. I wanted his fingers in there, in everywhere.

He pulled me up by the hair to straddle him, and I could feel him hard beneath his jeans. He and his partner has already told me about the excellence of his penis, (Steampunk Guy is braggy and wouldn’t mind me saying so.) and it was living up to the hype. I pushed my wet self against him as he pulled my hair, kissed me emphatically, and ravished my boobs.

I lay back across his lap, facing the ceiling in a breathless haze. He unbuttoned the top of my dress gently and deliberately and pulled each boob out of its bra cup. He sucked my nipples too hard and I had to tell him again, “Those aren’t for hurting. Hurt other things.”


Next Time: We fold down the fold-down couch.

Sunday, June 9, 2013

First Date With Steampunk Guy, Part One



My first date with Steampunk Guy was last Wednesday. Aside from a tough day at work, I’d been in such a good mood looking forward to him, especially after he’d told me he would bring pie and Manhattans. (Drinks on a school night, naughty!) He was coming over for dinner and, ostensibly, a couch-movie. I’m not sure why I didn’t just say I was inviting him over for sex, since that’s what I meant. I guess we could have conceivably watched a movie.

He was right on time, and just as cute as I remembered him. Tall and beardy, with such a warm, friendly expression that he would fit in in a Rankin and Bass Christmas special. After my dinner debacle with The Man, I’d been worried that cooking for him was a silly choice, but this is a guy who can keep his phone in his pants.

We had a nice time talking while he mixed drinks and I made dinner. I have somewhat of a Mad Men fetish, so I love cooking for guys, and he suggested that that meant that heels would go better than slippers with the apron and cute button-up dress I’d chosen. I promptly went to change into some coral-colored polka-dot wedge-heeled slingbacks, and he was right, much more gendery.

“So you don’t have a Fet account anymore, does that mean you don’t play publicly?” He asked.

Sigh.

“Um, should I tell you the whole ugly story?”

I hate that fucking story so much. He’d already mentioned that he is a regular at the Scary Party so I tried to be as diplomatic as possible. I really had to take my time and choose words carefully because I could feel the dread and other ugly emotions start to tumble out—not a good look for a first date. I got through telling him without actual tears coming out.

“I think I remember that.”

“Yep, that was me.”

We took our plates and cocktails out to the pretty bistro table in my apartment house’s side-yard. I was a gorgeous and just-warm-enough evening, but an icky silence came over us.

I said “So are you scared of me?”

He said he wasn’t. There’s nobody in the scene powerful enough to keep someone out. Your friends will always be there to support you.

At the time, I took that as encouragement—I’d been wondering aloud if I should wade back out into the local scene or if I’d be treated as a  whistleblowing pariah. He thought that was nonsense just like Sweetie does, and saw no reason why I shouldn’t return to my beloved Regular Dungeon. I talked a little about the support I’d received at the time, even from strangers, told him that that support meant a lot to me, that it was part of what I like about kink in general.

But some mornings I wake up feeling too close to the Scary Party again, unsure if it’s really sensible to play with one of its regulars. The fact that he was aware of what the security staff had done and still supporting the place, can I live with that, even with a very casual playpal? If doms’ friends will always protect them no matter what, how is any submissive safe? That same irksome question again. I feel guilty that I’m processing it here rather than directly, but again, dark topic for a first date. Or maybe a necessary one when things are about to get spanky, I don’t know.

I don’t like the idea that The Man’s mess-up could cost me fun with other guys, and I hate the way that the dom dating pool shrinks of you rule out that party’s regulars—it’s very popular.

Back to the date, the conversation went on to cheerier things and I enjoyed talking to him so much. I love it when I’m so excited about someone that I kind of turn into a muppet. As Steampunk Guy and I chatted and ate, my downstairs neighbor and his little son came out to play in the yard and all of us were completely adorable-the platonic ideal of a summer evening.

The rest of this story is (I promise) very hot. He has the most AMAZING hands and his other extremities get gold stars as well. I’ll write my way through it and see where I get.


Next: Spanked before kissed.

Saturday, June 8, 2013

My First Sexting

I may have mentioned this once of twice, but I’m enjoying Mr. Sweetheart so much. Last Tuesday when I was walking home from work, he texted to ask how I feel about sexting. I told him that it was on my goal list for June. (I do monthly goals with check-boxes. Some of the goals are all virtuous and gym-related, and some are…not.)


So he sent a picture of his lovely junk (First time I’d received such a text—he’s so many firsts!) and I was so happy to see it. I wrote back “For me? What shall I do with it?” but since I’m the sex-blogger he insisted that I be the one to tell most of the story.  (“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be the dominant one?” “I’m instructing you to amuse me with your creativity.”)

Clearly he is a full-service muse.

I got home and started dinner as I started to spin the story. I think I did a pretty good job. I was making tortellini. As I put the water on to boil, I told him about some fictitious Hello Kitty underpants already complete with a wet spot. As I grated the cheese, I tried to convince him to tell me what to do, but he insisted that I tell him what he was telling me to do. As the water started to boil, he sent me an evil grin, and I texted back a bratty eye roll and let that sit while I ate supper. He was excellent dinner company.

After I was done eating, I sent him a picture of my nicely-made bed and got in. Just like he did in the story I was telling him, I pulled up my shirt and down my bra. My nipples were sticking straight up, ready and bright, bright pink. After a few tries, I got a good picture of them and sent it over. I played with my boobs while I waited for the next text to come.

He sent back a try at dirty talk and I rewrote it so it was nastier.

I was conscious of trying not to borrow from scenes I’d already had and written—it was fun to try fiction, to write a fantasy just for him.

It occurred to me that it would be awkward for Sweetie to come home in the middle of this so I called to get her ETA and give her a heads-up. Also I accidentally dialed Mr. Shiny Eyes in the process. #togetherness

Sweetie was a half hour away and I was soaking wet. My fingers slipped around inside my plain flowered undies and inside myself—I was ready for him. There was plenty of time for me to come but I kept losing track of time—texting, playing, texting, playing. It’s kind of magical that I could be that turned on by him even though he’s such a long way away.

Sweetie came in before I was finished but was unfazed—she just closed the bedroom door and went to make herself supper. Mr. Sweetheart asked me where I wanted his cum.

“Well, I tried to swallow for you but you pushed me away and it went all over…”

He texted: “As your reward, I lean in, lick your cum covered tits, then offer you a creamy kiss. :) <3 <3 xoxo”

It was a good reward. I was unsure of the etiquette for ending such an exchange, other than to let him know that I’d come. I told him that next time we’ll have to think of a way to metaphorically snuggle afterwards. I’m excited to write him some more stories.




Saturday, June 1, 2013

Midyear Heart Inventory



Fresh from a Sweetie spanking, (First thing in the morning! Before she even had her coffee! That’s love.) I think it’s time to take a look at my adventures’ progress so far this year:

1. My New Year’s Resolution was to connect, and for a while there, it felt like I was screwing it up like crazy. But when I look at the year with perspective, it has been a year of connections: I’ve had amazing big dates with Sweetie and a million little porch dates, too. We’ve had fantastic trips and family visits. I’ve been able to forge deeper connections with my favorite friends, through long walks and long phone conversations. I’ve had good, deep, loving scenes and some that totally revolutionized my idea of myself. And my job (where I would never let a first-grader start a sentence with “and.”) on a good or even a not-horrible day, is nothing BUT connection.

I’ve been sending favorite old posts to Mr. Sweetheart and rereading them makes me feel rich with experience, even though things sometimes do go spectacularly awry.

2. That being said, I am JUMPING OUT OF MY SKIN. I want everything. I want ALL of the penises in me. I want very nice bad men to do very nice bad things to me. The weather’s driven me back into my shorty pajamas and is fanning the hoo-ha flames. Unfortunately at the moment I don’t have a lot of ideas about what to do with all of this urgency. I love jumping on Sweetie, of course, and I will, but this is a man-craving, and I can feel it in my teeth. And hair. And ass. Please, universe, you’ve been so kind, send me some ideas. And some strapping men with nice, fat fingers.

3. But I like the way that things have settled in with Mr. Sweetheart. After the festival,  he’s kept in touch nearly every day. He’s the first guy-who’s-interested to text me heart emoticons. (My BFF Angelface sends them all the time, but that’s different.) Mr. Sweetheart lives a ways away but we agree that we should be able to see each other about four times a year. (How hot is he with the planning-ahead? *swooooon*) He calls about once a week, promptly every time. (again, hot) We talk for a long time and I doodle drawings that for whatever reason keep ending up looking like vaginas. As we talk, this lovely warm energy descends over my shoulders and I feel oriented and safe. He’s good. He’s romantic. He says he likes the idea of us having all of this time to talk and get to know each other before we do more stuff, but of course I’d love to just take the sexTARDIS over and give him a smooch. They’ve got to build me one of those.

4. Mr. Shiny Eyes is going through a lot in his life right now and also lives far-ish, so I really don’t know when I might see him, but it seems like there are more fun times to come with him as well. I hope so.

5. The other guy (He’ll be Steampunk Guy if we have any adventures. The blog needs one of those, don’t you think?) that I like is local, and let us now toast the fact that all of the guys I currently like have cars. (And excellent penises, though in this case it’s only hearsay.) I met him at Poly Speed Dating a few weeks ago. The algorithm hadn’t paired us up but I liked him instantly so I bypassed the checkmarks and just gave him my number. He’s an excellent flirt and a fantastic texter, but he seems kinda overbooked. One-of-six might not be special enough for me, even in an FWB situation, but I really enjoy him, so we’ll see.

6. And then there’s this grief. I’m still a bit broken over what happened with The Man. We were supposed to be friends, after all, and I had such a deep affection for him. There were so many hopes tied up in that first good scene (I should really get around to writing about it.) that the loss still feels like a big one. The grief still makes me run away from guys, but luckily my heart and pants keep me running toward them.

7. I don’t know if I mentioned this, but my publisher dropped the Kitten Calendar book early this year. Something about the press being over-committed, it was really sad when I found out. A “no” from a beloved editor is a particularly hurty one. Looking back over the posts, I still thing there might be a book there, so maybe I’ll make it my summer project anyway. Or else I’ll just work on not having tanlines.


Well, dears, the strawberry waffles are ready and it’s time to crawl back into bed with Sweetie. Happy adventuring to you. May the second half of the year be equally fruitful.