Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Roadblock #5: Way Too Grateful

There’s a terrible comedy trope about ugly and/or fat girls being adventurous in bed because they’re grateful to be getting anything at all. It’s a horribly sexualized idea and definitely not the reason I’m adventurous, but I do find myself to be guilty of too much gratitude, especially when it comes to men.

Because for most of my life I didn’t think I could attract men at all, there’s part of me that tends to think that a guy partner is doing me a huge favor and suspects he would rather be doing something else. This suspicion rises in proportion to how much I’m attracted to him—the men I want the most are the ones I’m least sure of myself around. I end up feeling self-effacing and desperate, and that makes it very difficult to be a person or make good decisions.

When I’m with a guy I’m superattracted to, something in my brain tells me not to ask for anything, to compromise everything, to do whatever he wants so that he won’t go away. I feel an almost physical strain when I have to assert my own needs—I have to fight hard against the urge to be a complete doormat. I can see how someday that might be channeled and shaped into a healthy submissiveness, but for now, sheesh! How could I really see anything but unbalanced relationships, no matter what they are like in reality?

I’m sure the gratitude partly has to do with having deprived myself of an entire gender for as long as I did—my body is pretty pissed at me and full of understandable urgency. After any breakup, there’s this feeling of what-if-it’s-seventeen-years-until-the-next-guy? Not an awesome bargaining position to say the least!

I’m not sure where I got the deep conviction that I’m undesirable to men. Sweetie has pointed out on many occasions that it’s WILDLY insulting to women-why shouldn’t they be seen as deserving the same aesthetic standards? Why feel like I’m good enough for one gender and not the other? I don’t know.

Empirically, I’m starting to understand that I’m not too ugly or fat for guys. I have flaws and beautiful qualities just like any of the other generous naked souls on the beach. Mr. Shiny Eyes pointed out that the men in my recent life have no shortage of options and yet they chose to spend time with me. I see that and I’m trying to absorb it.

But this is a very powerful block. The past few years have come a long way towards dismantling it, but there’s still a ways to go. I’m trying to do a better job of believing and gathering evidence that I’m desirable. It isn’t their job to make me feel loved and beautiful (Though they certainly help!) it’s mine. I am hoping that the more I treat myself like a worthwhile, lovable creature, the more I’ll believe it.

Unicorn Practice Is Easy Part Two: My Lucky Underwear Down His Pants


I wish I could give you identifying characteristics of the party from last Friday night, because it was a doozie. It hit the spot in a wide variety of ways. A pretty friend of mine even let me take off her dress—I didn’t even know I wanted to DO that! But that’s not what this story’s about.

I’m taking a break from romance until my home situation is ironed out, but that doesn’t mean I can’t keep having adventures. It’s impossible to turn off the flirt anyway. I went to the party with very little agenda other than to catch up with friends, but of course one always hopes that spanks might happen. I wore my short black and white dress that Steampunk Guy inspired me to buy a few months back, with leggings and a shiny red bra that matched my red satin heels. I couldn’t stay long because I had to drive to the beach in the morning, but I accomplished a lot of fun in two drinks’ worth of time.

Let’s call them Cute Master and Pretty Slave. I noticed them as soon as they came in the door. She’s a tall dark-haired knockout and he has that confident, cheery glow that well-sexed men tend to have—very appealing. Once they were settled into the party, I struck up a conversation with him and then she came and sat at his feet. She was wearing a fitted lacy black dress and a collar. I asked them all about their adventures and liked hearing about them fucking in all kinds of nice show-offy situations.

I asked them what advice they might have for a new unicorn.

“The unicorn can do no wrong. You’re what everyone’s looking for.”

When he said that, I had the sensation of sitting in a throne like a princess, the world at my feet. Knowing the realities of secondary-ness in general, I suspected that that might not be the whole story, and a friend standing behind me confirmed it:

“They don’t know what they’re looking for. And they don’t know what to do when they get it.”


(I just want to stop and note that wanting to practice playing as a supporting character doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten that I want my own guy. Just I’m not ready for him yet and I still want to have fun. Plus! People are hot and I am alive.)

Cute Master is a goofball and an instigator. You know I love making friends with good bad influences. When I expressed (uncharacteristic!) hesitation about being the first one naked, he insisted that Pretty Slave take her dress off as encouragement. She stripped down to her corset (Oh such lovely little boobs peeking out the top. Picturing them I wish I’d gotten a little more handsy.) and panties, and I stripped down to nothing. Cute Master stuffed my underwear down the front of his pants, a cheeseball move that I found hilarious.

“Suck her nipple,” he said to Pretty Slave. I was sitting in a chair and she was on the floor. She looked up at me kinda wide-eyed and asked if she could, and I nodded, nervous-but-emphatically. It was the first time I’d been touched that way by a woman who isn’t Sweetie since the year 2000. Her mouth on me felt strange and new and I felt tentative at first but gave in to it, burying my head in her nice-smelling hair as she licked and sucked, gently running my hands over her back. He took the other nipple and sucked too hard (They’re my favorite part of me but sosensitive!) until I had to smack him in the back of the head and the spell was momentarily broken.

Tuesday, July 30, 2013

Song of the Week: Here's The Thing

For the ongoing quest to stay motivated and not feel guilty for being happy about the divorce:

Unicorn Practice is Easy Part One: Note to Self

Hooray, the nice couple from Friday night gave me the go-ahead to write about them, but first here's some information I wish I'd had a few months ago:

How to Hit on a Couple:

1. Pick the cutest couple in the place.
2. Ask them if they have any advice for a new unicorn.
3. Flirt with them until they're doing stuff to me.

Roadblock #4: Misdirected Anger

Don’t get me wrong, friends. I’ve seen some real jackassery in the past couple of years, and some of the outrage I’ve expressed has been proportional. But there were times when someone fucked up at about a 3 and I got upset at a 10, making it hard to have any perspective or move on with any kind of grace, often leaking friendships and potential friendships in the wake of the panic and hurt.

Part of the reason that guys’ messups end up being so devastating is that often I interpret them as containing some information about me. When Mr. Sweetheart forgot that it was our phone date night, I felt like the message was that I was inherently forgettable, not that he was just maybe a little silly and overbooked that week. When The Man acted like I wasn’t there, it activated a deep-seated fear that I might not exist, that he treated me like nothing because I actually was nothing. To fight that fear, I had to fight him, but that got me exactly the opposite of what I wanted. That’s part of the reason I’m trying to excavate and acknowledge those fears—it’s no one’s job but mine to soothe and fix them.

I think another reason I’ve made guys into enemies is out of some crackpot subconscious attempt to stay close to Sweetie, a way to let her keep saving me. We could snuggle up together and bemoan whoever was breaking my heart that week, and it kept me from having to actually go ahead and open up. I’ve tended to blame her introversion and monogamy for our isolation, but I was fighting off expansion too. I didn’t want to lose her to what I really wanted, so I made what I wanted into the enemy.

Like anyone who lashes out, I’ve often done it out of a sense of helplessness. For most of my life, I’ve seen myself as someone who is made automatically powerless by men, who has to always fight to get that power back. That’s just a false impression brought about by the tropes of trauma, and I’m doing my best to train myself out of it.

But I think a lot of the misdirected anger came from frustration—it was hard to live without male companionship all those years—I’m angry that I’m almost 39 and just now learning to let go and enjoy PIV sex in the grown-up way that I want to. I’m very sad that it took me this long to make friends with the penis, and now I have this ravenous urge to make up for lost time that just hasn’t translated into real life.

I am angry at Sweetie for all of the shame that came out of our mismatch, all of the times she called me a slut or a stupid cunt or a whore, all of the times she contemptuously spat out “Just because I don’t want to fuck anyone else…” or “Just because I don’t have a penis…” She said “fuck” and “penis” in the same tone of voice she might also use to say “George W. Bush.” I’m angry at her for reinforcing my fear that I’m a bad feminist for wanting to submit, and I’m angry at her for crying over recreational bruises or hot blog posts. The things I most love about myself, or most want to love, were the things that made her miserable and bitter.

I am so angry with myself for refusing to admit what I really wanted, for keeping us in a no-win situation for so long. I’m angry about the nonsense I’ve put up with in the hopes that the right boyfriend might take the pressure off and save the marriage—I’m so glad if that factor is never a part of my dating life again.

When we made the decision to divorce, about 80% of the anger just evaporated. I started to feel embarrassed about all of the times I’ve lashed out, and I made a mental apology list. I’ve been unblocking and refriending people and doling out apologies, and each one is a humbling relief. It feels good to come out and say hey, I was an asshole, but I’m committed to being less of one.

About a year ago, Sweetie and I had a terrible fight during which she locked the door and refused to let me leave. When I finally got past her and out the door, I sat in the car and called my mom to ask her to help me get a divorce. Mom talked me out of it, telling me that even if I had a different partner, I’d never be better, that the fights were a part of me I couldn’t change. (Never mind that no one else had ever locked me in an apartment or called me a cunt.) I am excited and inspired to start proving my mother wrong, to heal myself and then find partners who can disagree and express unhappiness without being terrifying, to stop going through the world always a little bit scared. I believe I can be better.

Monday, July 29, 2013

Beach Party as Benchmark: A+

Every year, a bunch of the regional poly and bi groups get together and have a party at the nude beach. Last year that party was my first day there and it went like this. Although last year’s day was a good, healing experience, being in the middle of so much sadness with Sweetie made me feel isolated from everyone and kept us from really being part of the party.

What with the divorce, it seems like this year the party should be sadder, but it was a pure joy. I drove down by myself (I could’ve carpooled, but the divorce grief can be unpredictable and I wanted to be able to make a quick getaway if need be.) and was so excited to spend the day with a favorite friend, The Lady of the House, who happens to be one of the best pals to have come out of these adventures. There are people there that I had all kinds of connections with: One friend who remembered me fondly as his first rope top, a group of adorables I remembered from a good game of Cards Against Humanity, so many nice people I’ve seen naked bunches of times.

It was the prettiest beach day you’d ever see. The sky was bright, the breeze was gentle, and the sun was hot but not oppressive. I spent the day chatting and flirting in the water or just bobbing around happily by myself, snoozing to the sound of good conversations, and making new friends over a pop culture reference laden game of Taboo. If this is supposed to be the year of connection, Saturday was one of its most successful days.

My marriage (and the attendant anger and shame) was unquestionably isolating me, and the further I get from it, the more I feel myself opening up and getting more warm and confident. It’s so cool to look back and see how far I’ve come. If I can get us safely through this transition, I can see so much flirty, friendly, lovey-dovey goodness on the horizon. That was a comforting thought as Sweetie and I slogged back into apartment-sorting yesterday.

Also! I just want to come out and say that it’s very important to me that my next partner(s) love the ocean. 

Friday, July 26, 2013

A Girl-Crush, A Wall of Grief, and Gold Star Breakup

This’ll be a long post, but I appreciate the way the three things fit together so here goes.

Way back in May when I met Steampunk Guy and Steampunk Girl, I hit on them both but I kind of backpedaled, so there was confusion all around and awkwardness between me and her. When he asked me about it the day after our first couch-date, I gave my standard not-usually-attracted-to-non-Sweetie-girls-but-I-wouldn’t-rule-it-out answer.

But when (a little over a week ago) the day finally came for our first metamour coffee, I thought back to my intentions that first night and realized that my first thought on seeing them was “I want these two to do stuff to me.”

We were meeting right after I’d just had a job interview, so I was feeling all competent and happy. I changed into my favorite blue dress in a café bathroom and felt glowy as I drove out to the suburbs. She’s chosen a coffee shop on a little Christmas village of a street near where they live. When I saw her, there was just no question as to whether I’d been hitting on them both. She’sjustsopretty. She’d come right from work and was wearing a vintage white wrap dress with cap sleeves and pearls. She had on pretty white sandals with wedge heels. I imagine we looked like an adorable pair of ladies.

She took charge, which was helpful since I’d wondered how a submissive and a bottom would fare. She bought me a perfect iced latte and even though it was eight million degrees out, I was glad to stroll down the street with her.

I felt like I bonded with her immediately. We talked and talked and talked. She made me feel superwelcome in their life, even suggesting adding me to one of their Google calendars. (Swoon, I know. I just couldn’t picture him actually doing that.) Even though he’d made it clear that I was just borrowing him from her, she made me feel like we were actually sharing, smoothing over the things about him that don’t always make sense, finding lots of things in common about what else we’re looking for. We’re both really strong women who like to stay that way until it’s time to submit, and out in the world that presents us both the same vexations sometimes. I told her I’d love to be her wing girl when it’s time for dom-hunting.

And here’s where it gets really swoony: She was amenable to the three of us doing snuggly things. That just made my heart giggle. I felt my inner unicorn wanting to come out and romp around, and why shouldn’t it? Without the weird half-monogamy I’d been arbitrarily giving Sweetie, a whole new set of possibilities opened up, and I was giddy with the release.

After I hugged her goodbye and texted him a high five, I drove back into the city inspired as all getout. My smutty imagination and my friend-making heart were all fizzy with hopes and dreams and scenes.

But. She’d reiterated their semi-rule about not dating people who are midbreakup, and I did feel that hanging over me. That was a particularly optimistic day in divorcetown, but what if they decided it was too big of a risk? And trying to make my divorce seem adorable all the time seemed like a recipe for disaster. I couldn’t stand the idea of them joining the overlarge pile of friendships wrecked by my mismanaged love life—I want that to happen exactly no more times.

Then Sweetie and I took our trip up to my mom’s and my sister’s. We didn’t acknowledge it at first, but it would be our last trip together for a long while. It was kind of okay. We played with my niece and nephews, chatted with the family, set off bittersweet fireworks. I felt numb-to-anxious most of the time, and when I hugged my baby nephew, my recently-admitted family urge twisted up an ache in my belly.

But it was alright until it was almost time to leave. I was doing one of my favorite things in the world, playing Mario Kart with the kids (I play as Peach, obviously.) when I started to get a really bad headache. I went out to the porch to get away from the game, and while I was out there I checked my phone, and it was dead. I get really attached to things, even gadgets, and I hadn’t backed up my numbers or my favorite texts, so the broken phone just went ahead and opened up the grief floodgates.

I didn’t quite escape crying in front of the kids, but we got out of there and once we were driving away, the sobs came hard and fast and ugly. I realized that my family would never be the same, and I felt like such a bad person and a failure for breaking up the marriage.

With pauses for friend and job search stuff, the sobs came hard from Sunday to Wednesday. I felt like I was gonna die.

In retrospect it seems crazy that in that state I was trying to make plans with Steampunk Guy, but we did have a whole bunch to talk about. I kinda felt like he was already gone, but you know I’m generally open to goodbye sex. But because of where I am on his list of priorities, his plan-making style takes a lot of self-confidence to deal with. I’d generally find out the day before if he could fit me in, and that worked fine for the little spate when I was working 60-hour weeks and having four partners, but it wasn’t working now. In the process of trying to convince him to include me more, I realized I was negotiating for a thing that had already passed.

If I really had seen him as a treat, it would have worked, but once I realized I liked Steampunk Girl too, I wanted real relationships with both of them. I knew he didn’t have room for that, and I was in no state to navigate it anyway.

I’d hoped to have the conversation in person, but it was weighing on me so I wrote him a bye-for-now love letter. He wrote back kindly and understandingly. Being a reader and a listener, he’d noticed the difference between what I want and what he has to offer. Although I was feeling sad about having to let go of him/them for now, reading his replies made me feel like I’d unlost him, like the warmth of the connection between us was still real. I hope it comes around again, lord knows I’d still love to climb all over the two of them, maybe someday when I’m all happy and settled in. But for now I’m really proud that I put the friendships first and did what I needed to do to take care of myself. There’s a lot of power in admitting what I want and I’m glad that they both helped me see it so clearly.

“We are being awesome at this breakup.” I typed, “Two gold stars.”

“Two gold stars and a pony sticker. High five :)”

I told him he could go ahead and make that a sparkly unicorn sticker and that’s the story of my first breakup that ever ended in a high five. Compared to that mess of a breakup with The Man, this feels like a miracle, it feels like I’ve come so far. Thanks for getting me here, pals. I'm sad we're not snuggling, but I’ll be so happy to see you around town.

Thursday, July 25, 2013

Another Song of the Week (For My Inner Nikki Minaj)

This song's just as true as the sad ones. Just because I loved my ex-wife doesn't mean I can't have optimistic days, or an awesome breakup anthem, or a little fun.

Well That Didn't Last Long!

I was planning to hide the blog for a bit because of the Sweetie grief, but it turns out there are still things to share. Phew!

Monday, July 22, 2013

Song of the Week/Little Blog Break

Grief is kicking my ass. Even though I still see Sweetie every day, I miss her so badly it feels like I might die. The old life is gone and the new one seems like it might be a mirage.

I'm gonna set the blog to private in a little bit, at least for a few weeks. I need some space to go ahead and fall apart.

Friday, July 19, 2013

What Divorce Is Like So Far

It’s hard to write about divorce without ending up using clichés, so forgive me.

Although there’s a lot of sadness between Sweetie and me, it feels like all of the tension is gone from us. After the drama of breaking the news to family and friends, we settled into what I hope is a grief-muted version of our future friendship.

For sleeping arrangements, we take turns for who gets the bed and who gets the foldout couch. For the most part, we’ve stopped snuggling, even during snooze-alarm time. We still walk around naked in front of each other and she’s still beautiful, maybe more beautiful now that I know she’s got a chance of being happier some day. We got a second air-conditioner so that all of the sorting we need to do can be done in relative comfort.

There aren’t any more reasons to fight, so our time together is punctuated by sad kindness. She still listens encouragingly about everything and still sends luck when I go out on job interviews. If I’m going to aim for independence, I guess I might have to get out of the habit of calling her whenever something electronic isn’t making sense.

Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but most of what was toxic between us seems gone, and so is a lot of my anxiety and fear, replaced most days by a clearheaded sense of forward motion.

Once I realized we’d both be free to pursue what we really want, I stopped feeling envious of the happy couples around me and started to be inspired by them. In fact, seeing my best friend Angel Face and his new partner in full-on NRE adorableness was part of what prompted me to make the decision. I know love is a long way off for me, there’s so much to take care of first, but most days I’m pretty sure I’ll get there, and it makes it so much easier to just let everyone around me be what they are.

Although most of the time it seems like everything is moving itself forward, sometimes it does get overwhelming to think of how much has to happen to get us safely and happily to the next life. I’m laid off from the school district right now and I try not to get freaked out about how urgent my job search is. I’m pretty great at job interviews but it’s hard not to think about all of the other teachers who are out there looking too.

I look forward to being on my own, having my own apartment, remembering how to rely on myself. I see glimpses of the life that I want, it isn’t too far away, but I know I have to honor the heartbreak too. It was a relief to let go of the struggle, but so sad to let go of the daily life of us. I hope there really are parts of it that we can keep.

I do get scared that I won’t find a job, that I won’t be able to get us where we need to go.  For the past twelve years she’s taken care of us financially, but I’ve always been the one motivating us, pushing us forward, and I think that’s still true.

I can picture my own apartment, plants in the bright windowsills, a new bed with flowered sheets. I want to be there so badly but it still feels selfish, it still feels like something can make us stay here. I want to be in the new life so badly, safe and settled in and ready to heal.

Letting her go (and letting go of the idea that I had to change for her) has helped me to appreciate her and what we had, and the friendship that we eventually will have. I’ve been walking through the world knowing there’s always someone to take care of me, and that’s both a good thing and a bad thing. I’m interested to see what I can be without her over-protectiveness, without her backseat driving, but I’m grateful for how much love and care she’s given me.

This is the biggest cliché of them all, but I did this so that I could learn to love myself. I just need the strength and resources to get us out of here—I need the universe and hiring committees and landlords to cooperate and get us through, to help us to do this big loving thing for each other so that we can both be healthy and free.

Today I decided to just stop, rest, let myself feel all of the complicated things. (And watch way too many episodes of 30 Rock) I’m gonna try to do that as much as I can.

Tomorrow we’re driving up to my sister’s to hug the niece and nephews—I wanted to make sure that Sweetie knows she’s still a part of my family. My mom says to bring as many fireworks as possible, and I couldn’t agree more.

Thursday, July 18, 2013

Real Date/ Car Sex With Steampunk Guy Part Three: Thanks, Pal

As I was on my knees next to him kissing him in a fit of post-panic second-wind lust, his hand went up my skirt and inside the back of my underpants. “Hmm, let’s see, how’s your ass doing?”

“Yes. Yesyesyes,” is how it was doing. This time I wasn’t self-conscious, just gave over to the sensation of it and tried not to exclaim too loudly, but jeez, goodness, he was hitting the spot. Let us now praise the summer of my ass.

He told me to face away from him and sit in his lap so I maneuvered myself behind the passenger’s seat and did so. Car sex with a guy is just as awkward as I’d imagined it would be, but also just as hot. I sat down and pushed his cock into my pussy and groaned and sighed. It was hard to get a good angle to push back against him but I stopped caring about that for a little while because oh my goodness his finger was in my ass, further and further in and oh the catharsis of it, the absolute happiness. He pushed into me hard and I bent all the way over and braced myself against the passenger’s seat, hugging it, almost bent in half. Jesus Christ, I was thirsty and sweaty and tear-stained and newly divorced but this? This was exactly right. Sometimes I’m awesome at life in spite of myself.

I pulled away to take a breath and my head got pushed down to him again—more of him being too big, pushing the limits if what my throat could handle, making me feel full and debased and whoreish and scared and wonderful.

He put the seats down so that I could lay down on my belly the way I like, held my shoulders down and fucked me, the car bouncing cartoonishly, the whole world back-and-forth, sweat and fireflies and hazy suburban stars.

Afterwards it was too hot to cuddle much so we lay back and chatted. His hand wandered over to my boob and it felt so good that I almost reached down to finish myself off again (I did that when I got home. Twice.) (Note to Steampunk Guy: More good old-fashioned feeling-up, please. If it’s not too much trouble.) but he was getting his clothes back on. He helped me find my very damp underpants and I wriggled back in to them and lay back down. My sweaty hair was hanging off the end of the pulled-down seats. I was all flushed and content like I’d just been in the ocean. I asked for one more hug and he laid on top of me and smushed me instead-perfect.

Then we drove around. This was a town he used to live in. He drove me past his old barracks and told me about the family of ducks that used to live behind his old apartment. When we stopped at a convenience store for water and Junior Mints, I realized I was having trouble walking and that my hair was a spectacular mess.

I told him the story of why I’m protective of my voice, but it didn’t hold much power in that moment. Now that I knew I was capable of fighting back, of a well-placed “Fuck you,” I had a little more faith in myself and the trauma of all those years ago seemed like the tiny part of my life that it is. Thanks pal.

Monday, July 15, 2013

Real Date/Car Sex With Steampunk Guy, Part Two: A Hand Over My Mouth

We didn’t go make out in a park. After a little more dawdling around, he pulled the car (a little SUV, I guess) onto a quiet side street. He left on the air and the radio. (Top 40. Making out to One Direction is probably the dirtiest thing I’ve ever done.) I told him that I love being spanked in cars. I snuggled up to him and he pulled up my skirt and obliged. He still felt abstracted and I wasn’t sure he wanted me, so I goaded him into hitting harder and harder.

We kissed and he pulled me to him by the hair. My legs were already splayed open and his hand went between them, stroking the already-damp crotch of my panties and then going inside, pushing his fingers up into me.

He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled open his pants, pulled a condom on and grabbed the back of my head, pushing me down towards his cock. I was happy to have him in my mouth, even as he thrust all the way into my throat and I gagged and fought for breath. He pushed my head down so hard that it hurt, hands in my hair, kneeling down in front of him behind the driver’s seat. This is the good kind of humiliating, filthy in just the right way. Writing this makes me want his dick in my mouth even more, in a fantasy world where I could taste it.

Hands still tangled into the back of my hair, he pulled me up to kiss me. I straddled him and put my arms around him, wanting to be as close as physics would allow. He moved aside my panties to put himself inside me. This is a move I’ve fantasized about for as long as I can remember, and it did not disappoint. He has a way of pulling my fantasies out into the real world, and I hope he’d proud of that.

I pushed into him and felt a rush of both relief and hunger. I wanted all of him. I wanted to eat him alive. I held on as tightly as I could as we thrust into each other, and, forgetting that we were parked on a quiet suburban street in front of people’s well-manicured lawns, I let out wails of pleasure.

The bad thing happened so fast—his hand over my mouth, a limit broken. And I was PISSED.

“Fuck you.” I huffed, pulling the hand away and hoisting myself off him and onto the other seat in one swift flutter of movement.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I forgot.” I could tell that it was a genuine mistake, not something he’d done to hurt me. “It’s just, you can’t be that loud…”

I sat and cried, aware of how squishy my bare ass was on the seat, having teacherly thoughts about Clorox wipes. Sobs of panic came out and I felt defeated, like every guy-story has to end this way.

He was being apologetic and asking me if I was okay, but he has also still stroking his cock. I wanted to be the one stroking it, I wanted to be all over it, but I felt like all I could do was go home. “Thrift Shop” came on the radio and made me laugh at the not-awesomeness of the situation.

I asked him to hook my bra for me and when he did, something shifted. Something about the heat and softness of his hand on my back made the story change for me. I pulled him toward me and disappeared into kissing him, ran my hand down his belly to what I really wanted. I could decide where the story went next, and it was going to heat and decadence and not tears. I didn’t have to be afraid of a hand over my mouth any more. In fact (not to reward bad behavior, but I have to tell the truth) I’m kind of attracted to it.

Next: Long live the summer of my ass.

Sunday, July 14, 2013

Real Date/Car Sex With Steampunk Guy, Part One

Real Date/Car Sex With Steampunk Guy

Yes friends, I’m sure there are many very deep and soul-searching paragraphs to come about my ongoing divorce process, but I hope you don’t mind if I indulge myself with this awesome sex story first.

I have to admit, Steampunk Guy listens. After our last couch-date, I’d asked if we could do something out in the world. By the time a fortnight rolled around, I had so much going on that I would’ve gladly stayed in again, but it was a nice surprise when he found an evening and asked me to meet him at a gastropub midway between my house and his. I should probably stop being surprised when guys I'm fucking treat me decently, but really it did kind of knock me out.

Much as I enjoy putting on clothes that only stay on for ten minutes, I loved picking out an outfit that would stay on. I was excited about the idea of kissing him out in the world and more nervous than I’d been for the previous two times.

Bless the suburbs and their parking lots, because any activity I do not have parallel park for is a good one. He looked so cute sitting at the bar waiting for me, a little dressed up as usual in a buttons-down shirt and blue old-timey vest, reading a book. I sat down next to him and kissed him hello. He put his hand on my leg and squeezed, digging his fingers in. I felt giggly elation and animal warmth. My pal.

And then he took the wind out of my sails a little, worrying that we wouldn’t work anymore now that I’m single-ish. He’s worried that I’ll need him to be a crutch during the divorce process, but (still high on the relief of deciding and doing the right thing for Sweetie and myself) I’d never felt less needy in my life. I was certainly a lot more self-possessed than I’d been a fortnight ago. It’s the first time in my adult life that I’m Not Looking for Something Serious  and it’s scary, yes, but also kind of exhilarating.

“We’ll see, okay?” He said ominously.

I could have gone with the little twinge of rejection I felt, gotten sad and gone home right then, but I’m proud that I didn’t.

“I’m not really interested in proving to anybody that I’m not needy.” I said. I told him I don’t expect husband guy to be along until I have time to heal, and that I sure didn’t expect it to be him. He still seemed wary (in the short time since making the decision to divorce, this is only one of the varieties of divorce-cooties responses I’ve experienced) but we Muppeted on to other topics.

He’s been reading me (Even posts that are not about him! Be still my heart!) so I set out to try and find out some paragraphs-worth about him. He told me lots of endearing stuff about family and travel—enough stories to make meaningless sex kinda tough to pull off.

After we were done with drinks and dessert, we went on a little walk around the neighborhood. There was a gorgeous sunset and the fireflies were just coming out. The fireflies gave me a stabby feeling for Sweetie—it’s hard knowing how far I am from being ready for something that deep again. That was actually the second bad Sweetie-pang of the night. The first was when I realized we wouldn’t have our pre-date rituals anymore. No more “Kiss me before I put my lipstick on.” No more Sweetie programming my destination into the GPS. It’s not gonna be easy.

Pangs notwithstanding, I liked walking along with Steampunk Guy, holding hands until they got too sweaty. He chatted to me about the books he’d been reading, something with paleontology and the lost city of Atlantis. I listened in a wine-fuzzy haze, wondering what would happen next, if the end of the street would be the end of the evening or if I was somehow gonna get into his pants. I’d asked if we could go to a park and make out like teenagers but he was being so much of a pal that it was hard to read the situation. I couldn’t tell if he’d already phased me out for the divorce-cooties, and I was ready (but also not ready) to graciously let him go.

Next: I get into his pants.

Thursday, July 11, 2013

Important Heart Updates!

1. Sweetie and I are divorcing. It's sad and hard but the prevailing emotions for me are relief and hope. We called our families and they were very kind and understanding.

***If you're a close friend of ours and this is how you're finding out, I'm sorry. Give me a call if you want.***

2. Mr. Sweetheart (with the help of Ms. Sweetheart's insistence that he talk to me) said he was sorry until I listened. He's one of the few people to make it past one of my breakup letters! We talked for a long time and our official status is now "Friends Who Will See What Happens."

3. I have a date tonight with Steampunk Guy and that makes me happy. I'm grateful to him for being such a treat. And for getting me out of the house! Yay.

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

Song of the Week: Bulletproof

Sometimes I write a million angsty paragraphs. Other times, I karaoke my heart out to a bunch of my adorable queer friends. Weirdly, life is still pretty awesome over here.

Monday, July 8, 2013

Roadblock #3: I’ve Been Half-Divorced in my Head for a While

Friends, I’ve left out a really important part of the story. I haven’t told you how much hurt there is between me and Sweetie. Every loving thing I’ve said about her is true and sincere, but there is a very deep sadness between us that’s getting harder and harder to push aside.

Every so often, we trigger something in each other that is very hard to live with. We only have bad fights a few times a year, but the things we’ve said to each other are a very heavy load to keep carrying. Any couple that’s been together for twelve years might have deep angers and resentments, but in this case I don’t understand how we can get to the point of liking ourselves, individually or together. For a long time she attacked my sexuality whenever we were fighting, so even though she’s almost always supportive now it is hard to accept myself as bisexual. I have a very, very deep wish to be gay for her, to make all of the complications and dissatisfactions (well not ALL of them, I suppose) go away.

Saturday, we thought we got it figured out. We were bickering on the nude beach of all places, exchanging barbs about how I always want her to go in the ocean and she doesn’t want to. It, um, wasn’t really about the ocean. I told her I couldn’t deal with the idea of swimming alone for the rest of my life, couldn’t deal with paddling around by myself with all those happy couples. I didn’t want to hit on them, I wanted to be them.

She pointed out, incorrectly but insightfully, that the wave-frolicking pairs I was envying were all boy/girl combinations. I’m sure this is partly because I was hurting over Mr. Sweetheart, but I know that’s not all.

“I haven’t been your primary partner for a long time.” she said, again wrong but not wrong. What I feel for her is closer to best-friendship than romance to the point where I dearly wish we could skip right past divorce to being pals. But she would have to not be madly in love with me for us to do that.

Having been back and forth about divorce bunches of times, we decided we were finally going to rip the Band-aid off as soon as we got home and start the divorce process. I got up and walked into the ocean, suddenly and completely fine with swimming on my own. It was cold and it took me a while to settle in, pick my feet up, float and even smile. I felt relief. I could finally stop trying to squeeze into this thing that no longer fit me. My long hard quest to somehow what she wants was over. I could stop running and finally turn to face myself.

Of course she swam out to meet me. I started to cry. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“For what?”

I started to cry harder and sobbed out “I want a husband.”

There in the water, cool and naked and facing the person who knows me best in the world, it seemed so clear. It seemed like such a simple truth.

It’s impossible to overstate the amount of shame that my failure to be gay and monogamous has brought me over the years. I felt, I still feel, like I let her down so much. I’ve been given a partner who is almost perfect, almost every single thing a person could need, why couldn’t I just TAKE it? Why couldn’t I just be satisfied?

I’m not sure if I can every really love myself within the context of this relationship. It is certainly very hard to accept being bi, let alone the taboo and crazy-feeling wish for a male primary. Every time some dude wrecks our evening in whatever careless way, I overflow with sorries, for taking away her time and happiness, for the fact that I could never manage to just settle down and let myself be loved.

Day to day, she’s understanding and giving, the most supportive a poly girl could hope for, but in the fights the truth always comes out. Like I started to say, for years she’d attack my sexuality during every fight, calling me a slut or a whore and telling me that I’m disgusting for wanting men. She talked so disdainfully and I gave as good as I got. These days she doesn’t tell me to go suck a dick like she used to, but she does go from zero to you’re-a-stupid-selfish-bitch-and-you-never-shut-up-about-boys every so often. I wish there were some in-between there.

She doesn’t say those things because she really hates men or bisexuals or anything like that. She does it because I do get self-involved, yammering and fussing through every crush, and it makes her feel insignificant. I am not loving her the way she deserves to be loved, and I am not loving myself, either.

As we drove home from the beach, stopping for sundaes and listening to Wait Wait, Don’t Tell Me as usual, the enormity of losing each other kept hitting us and what to do next became a lot less clear. Whether I stay with her or not, a husband seems like an impossible dream-where does one get one of those? How does that happen?

The best thing about this, though, is that I’ve allowed myself to stop denying it, to stop wishing and trying and struggling to be the wife I planned to be ten years ago, to be what’s expected of me, to be what she really wants. I grieve for the nice lesbian wife I didn’t turn out to be, but I’m also glad to be (almost) free of her. (Free of the imaginary me, that is.)

Since Saturday, we’ve been intermittently fine and sobby. We fall asleep separately but she still crawls in with me every night, we still hit the snooze a million times and hold each other in the cool morning air. I wish we could hit the snooze on this decision forever.

Friday, July 5, 2013

Ohno, Mr. Sweetheart. A Breakup, I Think

Last Wednesday afternoon was an especially good one. Sweetie had played hookie from work and we went to our special library over by the city pool. We got out about a million books and then, feeling rich and satisfied, went over to the pool for a swim. I usually go by myself to the pool so I was extra-excited to be there with her. There’s been tension between us for the past few weeks and I was happy to feel it wash away in the sun and water—my heart felt truly free.

Part of the reason for this sense of well-being was that Wednesday night is my scheduled phone date with Mr. Sweetheart. Sweetie had already planned to take herself out and about so that we could have privacy and I had a cute nightgown picked out just in case I got asked what I was wearing. Plus! My visit to Mr. Sweetheart’s place was less than a week and a half away—I couldn’t wait for us to plan it!

Except. A post showed up in my facebook feed that said Mr. and Ms. Sweetheart were on a plane on the way across the country to visit friends. I’d known that they had a trip coming up but had no idea that it fell smack in the middle of our date night.

I felt hurt, disoriented, and left out, as if he didn’t really consider me a factor in his plans. I would have been happy to reschedule our call or even postpone it until after the trip if I’d been asked, but I wasn’t. I calmly left a voice mail saying as much, and he texted back when they landed. He was sorry for “not putting two and two together” and said he’d call but it wouldn’t be “full service.” It seemed pathetic to wait around for a call that he’d forgotten about, so I went out with Sweetie to pick out some new sheets and made some optimistic lingerie purchases while I was at it.

He told me to let him know when I was back from running errands, and when I did he called. He was very matter-of-fact about what was going on, saying he’d be better about the calendar but also just sort of breezing past the hurt. Knowing he was sitting next to Ms. Sweetheart made me feel like I had to reign in my emotions, too. He told me happily about the friends they were staying with and the poly meetup they were headed for. I felt ugly and stupid for having to be a complaint in the middle of his festivities, and would have given anything to be someplace other than sitting rejected in my pajamas as they joyously began their stay. I hated the role I was put in.

Businesslike, he asked me what my driving-to-his-house plans were for the following weekend. I felt startled by this since what just happened had not been resolved yet. It seemed crazy to drive that far for somebody who’d forget a date with me, but I pressed on figuring it’d be resolved by then.

Midsentence their friends arrived and that was that. With a businesslike “Okay, I’ll follow that up with you later,” he started ending the call and I was like “Are you kidding me? You’re hanging up on a conversation about how you…”I hatehate HATED being in this harpylike position so I hit “end call” without really thinking, and when I called back, he didn’t pick up.

What upset me the most was that instead of just enjoying Sweetie and my library books, I was now typing sad texts, turning off the phone, and crying my eyes out. It’s a leap that I take complete responsibility for, but I felt not just rejected by the Sweethearts but by the poly community as a whole—being cut off midconversation in the midst of their revelry made me feel like I’d tried to crash a party where I was unwelcome. What started out as a simple miscommunication had turned into what felt like a public humiliation, and (I have to say it!) not the good kind.

Still, I fully expected it to get worked out, that I would turn my phone back on and find some genuine effort to fix it, but there was none. (He’s gotta do SOMETHING,” Sweetie kept saying, as if we live in a movie and he could tool over and hold a boombox over his head.)

I wrote a gracious (if somewhat disingenuous) breakup text this morning because I didn’t know what else to do. I can’t be with someone who treats me like nothing as soon as his friends are around—I already went through it with The Man and once was too much.

But I didn’t WANT to break up. I wanted him to show that he cared, to somehow assure me that I wouldn’t slip through the cracks again. I wanted to hear from him so badly today that I thought I’d explode, but there was nothing, and I spent most of the day crying and feeling like a failure.

The thing is, everybody, this is the second time I’ve been forgotten in the last couple of weeks. When Steampunk Guy and I were making plans for our most recent shenanigans, he sort of drifted off mid-planning, for days. I had to remind him to finish making a date with me. That hurt less because it’s less of a relationshippy situation.

But still, I’m having a hard time not freaking out about being forgettable. The calendar is my sun, moon, and stars and I would never forget ANYBODY, friend, lover, event or otherwise once they’re on there. Why can’t I find this in another person? Why do I consistently choose partners who don’t/can’t see me as part of their lives? Is there anything else out there for me besides having a hot but tiny role?

Mr. Sweetheart, if you get around to reading this, I hated being the negative part in what seemed like such a fun night. I absolutely fucking detest the idea of not having you in my life and I so wish that things had gone differently. But somewhere in me I need to find the belief that I deserve to not be forgotten.

Roadblock #2: Guys Might Be Ashamed of Me

***Friends, I’m having a very sad day for reasons that I’m not ready to write about yet. They’re only peripherally related to the topic of this post, but it’s hard right now to even feel confident enough to write about the things that keep me from being confident. Still, aside from putting the telephone down the garbage disposal, writing is the best thing I can think of to do. ***

About a year ago at a conference, I was sharing in some group or other and mentioned that I’m a sex blogger. An adorable teenage queer person came up to me after the group and asked “So, you write about fat culture?” I was mystified before I got furious—I rarely think of myself as a fat girl and certainly wouldn’t have thought to write about it. My response was cordial but indignant.

Back when I was dating (or whatevering) Bill, I wasn’t familiar with the norms of casual sex and kept trying to get him to go on real dates with me instead of just showing up in my living room weekly. He made every excuse. For a while I bought that he was too broke for dates but I knew he was going out with his friends, so I got it in my head that he didn’t want his friends to see me. When he finally and un-auspiciously announced that we were never going to goth night together (Goth night was kind of a stand-in for a playspace, before I knew about play parties.) I never had the courage to ask why but I took it to heart that he was ashamed of me and didn’t want his friends to see him with me. He’d made very minor (so minor as to have been possibly nonexistent) fat-themed comments, but I felt like what he was telling me in not wanting to date was that I was too fat and ugly for him, even as he was quite grizzled and (yummily) bear-shaped himself.

Maybe because it brought back the Bill feelings, but part of what made me cry on my date (again, or whatever) with Steampunk Guy was when he said (Citing time constraints) he wouldn’t go to the nude beach with me unless Steampunk Girl was there, or maybe the two of them would just run into us at one of the upcoming gatherings. He’s (understandably, maybe) hesitant about playing with me in public, too. There are many possible explanations, but a question bubbled up in the aftermath of that conversation, one that I’m really hesitant to type: “What if he’s embarrassed of me? What if I’m too fat?”

To ask that question in connection with the nude beach, where I always feel so happy and loved and perfectly myself, seems like a terrible sin but I have to confront it—do these guys only want casual sex because they see me as unattractive, or does casual sex just make me feel fat? Or both?

All the way down to my heart, I love my body. My hips and belly are all smushy and my ass is round and of documented spankability. My boobs are round and plush, my nipples are huge and pink and blessedly sensitive. As a series of vacation-day selfies proved to me last week, my pussy is adorable. My arms are long and toned in places and I easily get a golden tan. My eyes are big and blue and my smile is endless and sincere. On a good day, I know I am beautiful.

But I also know that a body like this wouldn’t make every guy proud. There’s absolutely nothing about me that is small or delicate, except for my adorable sneezes. I’m taller than most girls and I do wear size 18 jeans. While I don’t worry about my size on a day-to-day basis, I have resolved to lose the same 40 pounds for the past however many New Yearses. I have an ambivalent relationship with weight loss, complicated by a desire to be loved exactly as I am and a hedonistic resistance to not eating whatever the hell I want to.

A friend of mine recently dropped a whole bunch of pounds, but to me she was the same perfect little adorable angel before and after. I was hanging out with her a few nights ago when I guy came over to say “You look great before but you look so much healthier now.” His saying that to her made me want to a. Give up on men entirely and b. punch him in the face. How in the fucking world would he know whether she was healthier or not and who in the world was he to tell her she was better this way?

A favorite aunt of mine used to tell me that fat is “jerk repellant” but it certainly hasn’t worked out that way for me. I’ve often wondered what makes people treat me with less respect than they do others, what makes guys forget I’m there or treat me as much less valuable that other partners or potential partners. I don’t want to think it comes down to how I look, but sometimes I wonder.

I wonder if, in some guys’ eyes, fat might mean I’m fuckable but not lovable, at least not take-outable. Even as I get in better shape, shrink down, and start wriggling into cute lingerie, size-ism (Or perceived size-ism) makes me hesitant to put myself out there, lest the body that I genuinely love (at any size) be mistreated and/or rejected. Whether it’s true or not it is certainly unhelpful, but hopefully naming the fear will take away some of its power. I want the confidence to know that I am beautiful and worthy and the self respect to just go ahead and reject anyone who doesn’t treat me that way.

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

Roadblock #1: Mom Was a Harpy, Dad Was Kind of a Rapist

Now that I’ve ended up crying on three separate second dates, I think it’s time to look more in depth at the things that keep me from feeling the base-level confidence that other women carry into their sex lives with men. I want to excavate and exorcize the ideas and images that sometimes hold me back from wholeheartedly and trustingly enjoying men in general and PIV sex in particular. I feel a little apologetic about this line of thought since I’d rather just be writing hotness, but hopefully self-examination will lead to more hotness.

My parents fought loudly and constantly on every topic. One night on a long car ride home, I woke to hear them having a way-too-intense discussion on the subject of the Designated Hitter Rule. They fought every year on the day we went to get the Christmas tree. They fought when my friends were sleeping over. But on no subject were they as loud, articulate and traumatic than as they were on the topic of sex.

Before I even really knew what sex WAS, I knew what it sounded like to be a woman who was deeply and bitterly frustrated by her sex life. I believe that my mom had the same hotpants tendencies that I have, but she hated that desire and never found a way to enjoy it or take ownership of it. In recent ill-fated discussions of my sex life, she’s suggested that I just ignore and wait out my attraction to men, with the bone-chilling advice that once I reach menopause, I just won’t care anymore. This does not make me feel less urgent.

As a kid, I was awoken many nights by her screaming indignantly about his inability to get her off. That this was my introduction to the concept of the orgasm makes it seem miraculous that I ever would’ve gotten so good at them. From the fights it seemed like his desire was lower than hers, too—some of the fights started by her trying to initiate something (“I got ready” she’d say, meaning she’d put in her diaphragm, which usually resided on the side of the family bathtub, a monument to her complete lack of boundaries.) only to be rejected. And then they fought, about how ineffectual he was, about how he didn’t love or want her. Because the fights often turned violent, I developed a hypervigilance and protectiveness toward her, even though she ran me down as constantly as she picked at him. (And, in fairness, he treated me with the same emotional distance and rejection as he did her.)

I was probably ten when I was being forced to have this over-awareness of their sex-life, and one night in particular stands out. I’ve talked about it a little here before but I think I need to go into it a little more deeply.

I awoke to hear them having sex. I guess she pulled away midsex because she said, in the most contemptuous voice possible “See? This is what it feels like when someone stops before you’re finished.” Her voice sounded so deeply spiteful and ugly, but in no way did it excuse what happened next.

There were sounds of struggle and she said “NO! NO! Stop! (his name)!”

I knew something really bad was happening and so I started to cry as loudly as I could. The struggling sounds stopped and she said “See, now you’ve made (my name) cry.”

The fight boiled down but the damage was done and I was somehow creepily part of it.

I asked her about this incident during their divorce proceedings a few years later and she says he never raped her. Given my own complicated relationship with sex and struggle I could see how she might see that as true, but I know that after that night, part of me gave up on the world. It seemed too dark and hopeless, and there seemed to be too much threat and danger, especially in male-female partnerships.

Part of me has trouble not identifying with my mother, with the anger and ugliness of her unmet desires, or rather the ugliness of how she blamed everyone for them including me. It’s hard not to feel guilty for loving my dad, given his general abusiveness and the callous brutishness and selfishness of his response to her bad games. It’s been such a long struggle to mentally separate my own sex experiences from those of my parents. It’s hard to see my own urgency as normal and natural, to see men as the sensitive caring humans they most assuredly are, to see PIV sex as something that isn’t inherently humiliation. Even after all these years and all these adventures, I still have to learn that I am not bad for wanting it.

I am so ashamed of that night, for being part of it, part of them. I’m ashamed for the times I’ve been like her and treated partners in less-than-humane ways, for being like him and acting selfish and callow sometimes.

But it’s way past time to realize that I’m not them. Like her, I was born more desirous and aggressive than a woman is expected to be, but I’ve tried to make myself responsible for my own satisfaction. It’s not really me who feels guilty for wanting to climb all over men, it’s my mother, and I am not my mother. I have the advantage of having been born in a more liberated era, and while I am proud of trying to make the most of the tools and advantages I have, I feel compassion for her sex drive being thwarted and unloved for a great deal of her adult life. It doubles my commitment to loving it in myself.

I’m not sure how I’ve lived all these years with a rapist for a dad, how I’ve spent all these years loving him. In that one moment of desperation, hate, and anger he squashed a beautiful part of me that has been so, so hard to get back—the belief that sex with a man can be loving, or fun, or empowering or even (gasp!) all of the above. It’s hard to trust that if I say what I need, I won’t be punished for it.  It’s hard to believe that I am not as dark and broken and unlovable as that memory. That’s what I’m working on here, and I’m so grateful to have the chance.

Bonus Song of the Week, Just Because...

Monday, July 1, 2013

Song/Resolution of the Week: Ask!

Though it should say, "Ask me and trust me to say no if I don't want to do it and then thank me for taking care of myself."

A Gold Star in Getting-My-Ass-Beaten

It’s time to sing the praises of Friends Who’ll Hit Me With Stuff, and also to get more of them. Yes, I want romance, I want to be adored and rabidly pursued, I want to have a Dom who’s at the party for the sole purpose of yanking my hair around, but until Boyfriend Guy comes along and/or I’m in a playspace with Mr. Sweetheart, it’s helpful to just get on with my life and appreciate a good walloping for its own sake.

Saturday night was everything I’d hoped it would be: I played with Sweetie, hugged friends, I stood around in Wonder Woman posture with my ropes on feeling invincible. But something was missing. My scenes with Sweetie are always wonderful, but they are about feeling quiet, all princessy and soft and snoozy with my ass in the air and my hair draped over the edge of the kneeler. I enjoyed it but when we were finished I needed something louder, meaner, dirtier. I don’t think I’ve ever come out and said this before, but I needed a sadist.

The only guy there who I knew and trusted enough to play with was Old Timey Guy and I wasn’t sure if he would have time to fit me in. As always, I loved watching him play with Punk Rock Girl, and when they were done, he was in social butterfly mode, which I always feel reluctant to interrupt. I didn’t want to pester him but Sweetie was all “Just ask him! Tell him specifically that you need to be flogged.”

He was talking a couple through what looked to be their first flogging scene—his face was all lit up from the joy of being teacherly and he was covered in sweat from his own scene. When I got a chance to ask him, I asked him:

“Can I be the next thing that you do?”

He laughed and gave me some little spanks and then flitted off to do some more stuff.

“You weren’t specific enough.” said Sweetie. (Sweetie’s never met Steampunk Guy, but they seem to be in a conspiracy to make me a braver asker. Begrudgingly I’m grateful.)

After assisting him with giving a new girl a shrink wrap corset (I love that he sees a shrink-wrap gun and thinks “Let’s do this to people!”) I was sad to see that he went over to clear his stuff off the cross he’d been using earlier. At that point I indulged in some fairly unnecessary pouting until he said:

“Just because I don’t have a cross doesn’t mean I can’t flog you. Ohlook! Here’s a chair! straddle it!”

The few other times I’ve played with Old-Timey Guy, Punk Rock Girl was a big part of the pleasure of it—she’d egg him on and help me get into my shackles—so I was sad that she’d gone home early but was still so excited to play.

Sweetie was sitting only a few feet away and I wondered if I should send her to the bar or something so she wouldn’t get jealous or worry, but she seemed excited to watch me be all ridiculous so I kept her near.

Anyway, back to me, in ropes, little purple lace pajama bottoms, and of course my Hello Kitty nipple tape, straddling and red and black banquet chair. He lewdly pressed himself against my back, growling just a little. He ran his hand gently through my hair and as soon as I was all purry-relaxed YANKED UP on the crotch rope with its knots in the right places so that I let out an “Eeek!” and a tumble of laughter. Though we’ve only known each other about a year, it was like hanging out with an old pal. A really nicely filthy old pal.

I put my head down on the back of the chair and he took out a really scary-looking switch—long, skinny, hard with a tiny little tab on the end. I got scared because I usually go for thuddy rather than stingy, and I knew this would sting like a motherfucker. He ran it over my back, across my neck, back and forth on my wet crotch, right where it counts. He yanked me up by my ropes and thwacked, making me wiggly, hot, and screamy. I yowled and he said

“I told you of it hurt too much you had to give me jazz hands!”

“And I didn’t give you jazz hands!”

There’s one toy in his kit that I kind of think of as mine, even though it isn’t. He bought it (and hit me with it) the day I met him and it’s appeared in this story before-a pretty little cane with a blue ceramic star on the end.

“You’re the only one who gets happy when I take this out.”


As before, he tried to leave a star-shaped mark, hitting lightly and counting down to the hard smack, then trying to surprise me on the other cheek. It equally fucking hurt both ways. The cuteness of the star sure doesn’t stop it from stinging the bejeezus out of me, it hurts so badly and I just love yelling about it. I should probably stop trying to say that I’m not a masochist.

He flogged me like I’d asked. It felt good on my back but he wasn’t quite getting the right angle on my bum—I switched to kneeling on the chair with my hands on the back of it. He spanked me so hard that I started to scream-laugh, loving the heck out of the sound of my own voice. There’s such a happy release in those screams, letting them out to be themselves in front of everyone. It’s not exaggerating to say it makes my heart leap.

“That’s what you get!” said Sweetie.

Yes! Yay! It’s what I get.

Next came a paddle. By then a friend of mine had come over near us to get her aftercare, and I apologized for hollering so close to her face, but she seemed perfectly happy and joined in the handful of onlookers cheering us on.

He asked what else I wanted and I asked for the big strap, my very favorite. First he put it around me and pulled me against him, wiggling against my back in such a nice lascivious way. He tried to put it around my neck, which, forget it. Other than getting smacked with the strap, the best was when he wrapped it around my wrists, held my hands in the air in front of me, and tickled my underpins so I’d shriek and squirm and laugh. Don’t know why he’s the only one I like tickles from, probably because he brings out the little bit of little in me.

After the strap came the soft little flogger that he has just because it won’t leave marks on boobs. It was actually kinda fun. I’d tell Steampunk Guy to make note of this, but he only reads the posts that he stars in.

Speaking of Steampunk Guy, I had to mentally high-five him for the amount of fun I was having. He tends to (vexingly) make me ask a whole bunch of times for stuff—I’ve almost learned to stop seeing shame in pursuing what I want, even if I have to ask more than once. This seems like a good step, so thanks pal-who’s-not-reading-this…

Once the scene was done, I pulled Old-Timey Guy into a sweaty hug, thanked him profusely, put my aftercare pajamas on over my ropes, and walked out of there feeling like Wonder Woman. Remember, this was a place I was afraid I could never go back to! There’s just nothing like going home knowing that I’ve gotten myself what I wanted.