Saturday, August 31, 2013

What Giving the Ropes Away Means to Me

This morning as I was packing up the ropes to give away, a warm glow came over my heart. I called Sweetie to see if she wanted to keep one as a souvenir and I kept one of the pink ones too, along with the one SG left back in June. It might seem corny to say this, but I could feel the magic in all the ropes. I could feel myself reconnecting with the warm memories they held, reconnecting with that part of myself.

The warm magic feeling stayed with me the whole bus ride to where I was meeting the first person (and also best choice) who responded to the post I put on Fet yesterday. One dude responded with “I’ve never seen your at (Regular Dungeon) before.” Given that all the groups he’s joined were things like “Older Men Looking for Younger Women (Under 39)” I told him I was probably too old for him to have noticed. He wasn’t getting my grown-ass woman ropes, that’s for sure.

Anyway, the girl I gave the ropes to is new and town and looking for a wing girl, so I think I made a new friend in the process. That makes me feel like I’m awesome at life.

I’ve been enjoying having little closures lately. Since I can’t change our living situation, I’ve been doing my best to make small symbolic changes, parsing out the letting-go so it seems manageable.

I loved my rope experiences with Sweetie, though the last few were a little sad. I’m so proud of her talent and all of the sensations and emotions and hot sex the ropes helped us share.

I can see a time some day down the line when I might want to be all wrapped up in my own pastel ropes, but for now they’re tied up (ha.) with trying to soften what I wanted so that she could fit into it and be comfortable. Like my original shiny Christmas ribbons fantasy, it was a niced-up version of what I really wanted, a way of sanitizing the deeper and more problematic kinks. (I still want to do the Christmas ribbons someday, though.) They also feel like they were part of my whole trying-to-be-gay thing, trying to make myself acceptable by accepting the muted emotions that came from playing with her. Those ropes were such a marriage of repression and release, and it was a relief to let them go.

I’d considered keeping them in case I wanted to learn the knots someday (The Lady of the House may be disappointed that they’re gone…) but I really don’t have any desire to top anybody that way, not even myself. The next ropes to squeeze me don’t have to be pretty; they can be rough or plain, as long as they belong to a Him.

Friday, August 30, 2013

The Best! Possible! Email! Ten Minutes of Fireworks to Celebrate!

I am reinstated to my full time position at the school that is my heart's home. That means benefits and being able to afford my own place sooner! I am so happy I could explode.

Roadblock #8: Scared I’m Too Old

I’ve always had a poet’s preoccupation with the finiteness of life, and it used to be much worse. Lilacs are my favorite flower and every May I used to worry my head off about whether I’d smelled them enough that year. Of course, once I made room for a bigger life and other flowers, the lilac-urgency relaxed, but I still do feel very upset about the passage of time, especially with my 39th birthday coming up next week.

I came to both my career and my body at a later-than-usual point in life. At work, I’m surrounded by experienced twenty-something teachers while I’m just starting out. In the dungeon, it’s hard not to feel inferior to the women who knew what they wanted right away and claimed it. I am so ashamed and embarrassed for being so far behind, for all the time I managed to put off growing up and making the most of things.

Although I’m pretty sure I don’t want a person to come out of me (I have space issues, people!) my biological clock is pissed off at me and twisting the knife in my gut lately. How did everybody else find the right people to make families with? How did they trust themselves and their partners and the world enough to take such big risks? Why did I automatically count myself out for so long? I try to tell myself that the family I was with Sweetie was what I needed for a while, but now I am just absolutely terrified that I missed my chance to find the family I really want. Although I know millions of ladies are in the same boat, 39 seems like an INSANE time for me to realize I want a male primary partner—that statistic about being more likely to get struck by lightning gets stuck in my head sometimes and it’s paralyzing.

I remember the panic I felt when I first realized how valued younger women are, and that I was now sharing the dating pool with them. I was fussing about how some crush of mine had taken up with his 24-year-old student and another guy friend of mine said “Um, because he can!” as if she were some special privilege he was entitled to claim. It pissed me off so much that she was assumed to be better than me simply because of her youth.

Given the societal dictate that younger is better (How often have I been in a rope class where the teacher who needs a demo bottom automatically chooses the youngest and smallest girl in the room?) just how in the world am I supposed to compete? I’m so excited to find authentic ways to connect and express mindful adult sexuality and it doesn’t always feel like there is a market for that.

I’ve known for a while that I’m having a pretty classic midlife crisis—grief for what I have missed and a worry that I won’t be able to make everything out of my life that I want to. I’ve wasted a lot of years thinking that I’m too big, too ugly, too old for men, and I’m still trying to take apart those assumptions.

There’s no way in this world that I would ever want to go back to my own twenties, though. I was selfish, mean, and afraid of every kind of intimacy. My body may have been better by some narrow, sexualizing made-up standard, but I didn’t have a single clue of what to do with it.
The current version of myself is decidedly the best one I’ve had to offer, but I feel so very, very scared that no one will ever want it, that there will always be some younger, better girl standing in the way.

Back in the spring I had to break off a friendship with one of my guy friends for a while because he (42 years old, I think) kept talking about the “vitality” of his 24-year-old crush. I have vitality—all you need is life and excitement. I know the biological clock pressure is false because I don’t need to reproduce to have the kind of family that I want. I can’t go back and start over so that I’d have more experience by now. I know that any guy who’s that into youth is a creep and not the guy for me.

The birthday-panic is so strong this year both because of the divorce and because of the times I’ve felt so close to having what I wanted. I’m going to try and filter out the influences that make me feel old and dried up (Bye for now, porn and pre-Criss 30 Rock episodes…) and get out in the world among the real play and real bodies. Though I do occasionally like to play as 17, I can’t and don’t want to be younger, smaller, or magically at some further-along point in my life. I can only do my best exactly where I am and hope that the right folks’ll meet me here. 

Divorce Times Week Eight: Help! I’m Kind of Stuck

I had a dream this morning that I was walking along in my favorite park and all of a sudden the trail got way too steep and became a rock-climbing situation. I realized I’d gone too far up and when I looked down, I saw an enormous dried up river that must’ve dried up fast because there were abandoned kayaks and all kinds of other detritus in there. I couldn’t go up, I couldn’t go back, but then I noticed a light trail someone had trod in the grass right near where I was. Animals were playing two-by-two in the riverbed, and yapping dogs heckled me as I headed off into the woods.

That little trail is exactly what I need right now, because I feel trapped. I feel so stuck in this living situation and I have no idea how to get out. We’re getting along fine as roommates and friends but the sadness of the apartment is just so draining, it can’t possibly be healthy. I don’t know how long it will take us to save up and get out of here, but right now it seems like forever. My job isn’t enough hours and she still has a long commute that eats up lots of gas and money and time.

A friend at church suggested just taking my time, getting used to this new job before I keep pushing ahead and try to find a second one. It sounded AMAZING when she said it—such an awesomely simple solution.  The idea of being gentle with myself and just having time to breathe and settle in seems foreign to me—so much of the past few years has been about powering through. Student teaching, my first crazy classroom, the urgency of trying to save the marriage in various reasonable-to-misguided ways, it’s all taken a lot of strength and determination, such a commitment to unraveling negative thought-patterns and undoing habits. It’s been very hard work and I’m tired. I should be okay with the idea of an easier job for a while and sometimes I am, but I still feel trapped on an impossible path where I can’t see the next turn.

A few days this week I felt optimistic, felt like everything was in its place to eventually work out. There are sometimes clear windows of faith to look through, and I’m so grateful for those days. My favorite thing that happened this week is that, for the first time in years, I painted wholeheartedly. I wasn’t forcing myself to paint through the grief or trying to fight boredom or stress. I just settled all the way in and let the shapes define themselves, let the colors make their own kind of sense. Also, there was glitter! Maybe that’s what I need to do with my life as well, just sink in and let it form like art.

Even though Cute Glasses Place Guy wasn’t the right sort of guy, it was so much fun almost venturing out again into the world of dating. I love the feeling of seeing how far a flirt can go, of putting a new number in my phone and giving it a whirl. Subsequently taking the number back out, but still! I don’t think I’m ready yet, but it’s nice to know that those kind of experiences are out there for me. I paused my OKCupid almost as soon as I put it back up, because I really think that IRL is the way to go.

Just like the not-quite-conscious thing that figures out the paintings, there is something in me that knows how to go forward. I know it’s there because if I do something, even something little, to fight the current (Say for instance texting a certain unavailable dreamboat muse…) a terrible feeling comes over me, like I am annihilating myself. It’s nothing anybody does or says, it’s just my intuition being really pissed off at me for going backwards—my own personal pillar of salt. The way ahead feels lonely without some of these characters, but the way ahead is the only way and I’m trying to listen to myself about that.

This weekend a lot of the people I like are away at a festival, romping around being kinky in the woods together and it’s hard not to feel sad and left out. I feel like the project of divorce and saving up for my own place takes me out of so many good things. On the other hand, I’ve got three get-togethers on the calendar for this weekend and hopefully also some time to rest. I’ll see Cute Master and Pretty Slave on Sunday and I am SO EXCITED to just enjoy the heck out of them. I hope that taking that little risk and letting myself try some new pleasure and adventure will make the path feel clearer, will help me open up a little more to whatever happens next.

A few weeks ago, I made this list of the reasons we are divorcing, to be read during the times when I feel the most despair:

Ten Reasons Why:

1. Being able to do whatever I want in my own bed.
2. Learning to love myself.
3. Remembering how to take care of myself.
4. Breaking my family’s cycle of abuse.
5. Finding myself a partner in crime.
6. No more second-date crying. (The bad kind, I mean.)
7. Following the lead set by joy.
8. The amazing confident feeling I get sometimes.
9. Because I want a family of more than two.
10. To truly honor my poly self.

In the course of typing up this post, I clicked over to Fet and posted a thread on the local rope group’s page. The heading is a sad six-word novel: “Free Ropes (To a Good Home).” I’m doing my best to let go of a little more every day, and I hope it works.

Thursday, August 29, 2013

Play Partner Expectations and Rewriting the Dream Guy (Again)

I’m fighting a fairly large amount of shame in writing these lists. There’s still a big part of me that believes these things are only for other girls, other players. I would like to find the root of that shame and smush it, but meanwhile since I almost dipped my toe back in the dating world last week, I think it’s time to revisit. Two separate lists this time:

Minimum Expectations for Play Partners:

1. I am excited about him (her, them) and he is excited about me. I think I deserve better than lukewarm “If I get to you…” nonsense. I deserve to be a priority, even when it’s just play.

2. Wants to play in public so that I’ll feel like he’s proud of me.

3. Good at hitting me with stuff, tying me up, setting me on fire or whatever he’s there to do.

4. I trust him and he makes me feel like we are being people, not just a set of fetishes.

5. Respects and remembers my boundaries and my voice. Good at sharing and respecting his own, too.

6. Is honest, forthright, and inclusive about/with/of other partners.

7. Provides praise and aftercare as needed. I am so totally a good girl, just admit it!

The Dream Guy:

1. He is looking for and available for love. He has room in his life and his calendar for me and he shows it by proactively making plans and sharing all different parts of his life with me.

2. He loves the ocean and wants to throw me around in the waves. This is indicative of his sense of adventure in other areas, too. The ocean is not just the ocean.

3. He is tall, strong, full of life, probably beardy, and smells very manly. I’m just gonna go ahead and say that he should have a nice, big, friendly penis that loves me. And then loves me again.

4. He is a top and is as sexed-up, out, and kinky as I am, probably moreso. I want to know that I am wanted, to be pursued, ravished, taken emphatically as often as possible. I also want to feel free to climb all over him and show him how much I want him—he has to be comfortable and happy with the amount of sluttiness I have to offer. So much!

5. Then we can go out and ravish other folks, too! It’s very important to me that I have a partner in crime, not just someone who cheers me on from the sexy sidelines.

6. He is loving, kind, (Except when I don’t want him to be), good at communicating his emotions and hearing and accepting mine. He is encouraging but I don’t have to rely on his praise, and I never have to feel afraid except for fun.

7. It would be really nice if he has children and/or a household that would welcome me—I know I want to live in a more-than-two-people household.

8. But no matter who else he belongs to, he also belongs to me, and I belong to him. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve written this, but I’ve seen it happen to other ladies so it must be possible.

9. Maybe he’s Unitarian like me! I sit behind this couple at church who are so adorable it’s all I can do not to hit on them. They always look so flushed and happy to be there together. I haven’t minded being married to an atheist at all, but it would be cool to have spiritual stuff in common.

10. He’s funny and banter-y and has good taste (or good taste plus sometimes unforgivably bad taste) in music and pop culture.

11. He is chivalrous and makes me feel like a princess even/especially when he is busy doing very bad things to me.

12. He cares about stuff and his politics are liberal. He is humane, ethical, and interested in social justice.

I would list some deal breakers but I know as soon as I do, some cutie-pie will come along and subvert them.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

Another Song of the Week: Carried Away

Song of the Week: One More Summer Song

Okay, it's weird for Mike Seaver's dad's son to be tryna be dreamy, but I'm headed into a two-party weekend and you know I'm a total slut for songs of the summer. Plus, gotta get my "Good girl" from someplace!

Monday, August 26, 2013

Gold Star for a Date That Wasn’t

If he’d been the right sort of guy, it would have been a meet-cute right out of a romantic comedy. I had a headachey time trying to get my prescription updated at my regular glasses place, so I tried another branch and there he was: tall, strong, and cute, a little young but funny and game, promising me no young-guy nonsense. Who giggles through the process of ordering contacts? Me, I guess, and it was fantastic. He wanted me to stay until he got off work in an hour, but I gave him my number and went off to finish my errands.

He seemed really excited to see me and we made a plan to get together Sunday night. I was curious to see what would happen. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for sexytimes, but a real date seemed like just the thing.

But by now I recognize the tactics involved in angling for a couch date. He didn’t make any clear plan on where to take me, he texted “You’re so much fun, it won’t matter what we do.” I told him I wanted to go out and do something, but he suggested coming over and watching a movie. When I mentioned that there’s a movie theater near my house, he didn’t text again. I was happy to put my PJs on and go to bed with my chick-lit book.

Yes, it sucks that he bailed, but I think it’s so cool that I persisted with what I really wanted. In the past, I’ve let guys make every excuse until there they were on my couch, even though I really wanted to be dating. Couch dates are fun but they get so claustrophobic when that’s all there is.

So although I don’t know what I’m really ready for, I know I want real dates and public play. I’m a princessy girl who likes to be shown off, and I think that’s something I deserve. Go me.

Why It’s Awesome That I Cried at the Munch

It’s not my favorite kind of adventure to write about of course--I would much rather be describing underpants. But I do think it feels like a good step.

Saturday was one of those days where everything kind of caught up with me—the breakups, the divorce, another summer almost gone without having found my Beach Guy. I got sick of the guys who hit on me on the nude beach always not being the dream guy, sick of this summer in general and at the same time wanting to go back to the beginning of summer and somehow do things right. Stepping out of the forward flow of time is never a good plan, but I guess it’s understandable.

When I got home from the beach already feeling a little blue, I found the two letters informing us that, per our request, the city had dissolved my life partner status with Sweetie. In this time when everyone’s working so hard and making so much progress for marriage rights, I’m officially leaving Lesbian Island on a husband hunt. Nobody ever failed worse at gay marriage than I did.

My mood dropped all the way, but I couldn’t stay home and wallow. I got on the bus and wallowed there instead. I sent texts to Angel Face and the Lady of the House asking for support and strength, and they were both very kind. I walked the blocks from the bus to the bar feeling the prettiness of the cool night but being lost in my own failures and despair.

This was the same munch where I met Fireguy last year, and I knew that several nice friends were going. When I walked in it was lively and crowded and I was greeted with hugs, but I was sad and scared and I didn’t know what to do or where to sit. I felt lost. Luckily a girl I know from poly circles was there and she guided me to a seat and asked what was wrong.

I told her about all the heartbreaks and frustrations and she said “You sit there. I’m going to get you a drink.”

While I waited for her to come back I chitchatted and resisted the urge to run—I’d told myself I should stay for at least one drink no matter what my mood was.

She brought back a Long Island iced tea that was so strong I was afraid to drink it—I’ve really been keeping alcohol to a minimum lately. But I kept drinking it.

I started telling my friend about all of the things I was sad about, all the things I missed. Another friend’s husband came over to give me a hug, and as he held me I just broke down. I just let myself cry and nobody thought it was weird at all. In fact, they gathered around me. Friends and acquaintances, even some girls who I thought didn’t like me. Napkins were brought for nose-blowing. One girl told me “Well, your boobs are amazing, so I know it’s his loss.” and I laughed and things started to be okay.

Things went back to pleasant chatting. I finished the drink and the nice friend who’d bought it gave me a ride back to the bus stop.

I was still sad. I sniffled my way through church the next day (Totally okay since this month’s theme is vulnerability) but by coffee hour I was chatting with friends and signing up for a new spiritual development group. I came home inspired and found some nice friend requests in my Fet inbox. And! An invite to a party at Cute Master and Pretty Slave’s house! Just exactly the right thing. Woohoo for maybe some smutty adventures.

The fact that I could break down in the middle of a get-together and people took it with such matter-of-fact caring, that’s an amazing thing to me. I worry so much about being isolated by grief, about not being out adventuring enough, but it seems like I really am doing something right. It makes me deeply happy that I was so accepted and looked-after, and it will make the next sexy adventures around those folks all the more meaningful.

Friday, August 23, 2013

Roadblock # 7: Why I Am Afraid of Young People

“Every generation thinks it’s the end of the world.” –Wilco

“Your pussy doesn’t care about your politics.” –Mollena Williams

***Note: As soon as I finished sitting in a diner and writing this post in my notebook, I went to an eye doctor appointment where I got totally asked out by a really excellent 28-year-old. He may be scrolling through at this moment and realizing he bit off more than her could chew, but still, if that’s not incentive to kick down this roadblock, I don’t know what is. As if the Steampunks and all of my other younger pals weren’t incentive enough!***

Amusing as it was, my foray back into the world of OK Cupid ended up being kind of triggering. It gave me kind of a trapped feeling—I’m sure that was partly because I’m not ready for dating, and also there’s something I don’t like about online sexting, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Anyway, it was fun at first to indulge in some non-goal-oriented flirting. I wound in an amusing game of Truth or Dare with a twenty-something guy and there was absolutely nothing wrong with that until he revealed, about eight messages in, that he has a rape fantasy. That in itself was not enough reason to stop the conversation—lord knows my fantasy life isn’t chock full of consent, so I feel like I have kind of a double standard being bothered by it.

But really, WHY is it okay to say the word rape to a girl you’re trying to get somewhere with? I didn’t ask him that, just moved the conversation on to other things, but I felt icky about him so I said a nice goodbye. He was kind of a snot about it, so I guess I made the right choice to cut him off. It was a fine afternoon’s entertainment, but it also inspired me to try and tackle this topic that I’ve stopped and started writing about so many times.

People who are in their twenties spent their entire formative years in a culture where rape jokes are part of the mainstream. Sarah Silverman (who I love, but who definitely adorabled rape jokes into okayness) and Seth McFarlane (who I think I would punch in the face if I could) both came along at the same time Buffy was getting sexually assaulted by Spike, and I really freaked out about it being taken so lightly. After a while, though, it became so normal that I, like most people, just kind of stopped fighting it.

Last spring, I was standing outside work at dismissal time and I heard some sixth grade girls joking about how their guy friends were trying to rape them. I put on the teacher voice and said, “Girls, I know you’re just kidding, but that is a very serious thing so please don’t joke about it.”

“It’s not serious to us!” They said, and went back to laughing and roughhousing.

There are studies that have shown that the definition of consent is eroding, and umpteen million books and articles have been written connecting those changes to the advent internet porn. I definitely don’t feel comfortable making blanket statements about porn’s relationship to real-world consent. I use it myself, about once a week, and not nice feminist porn either. I just troll through YouPorn like anybody else. I actually think it’s helped me to figure out some things that I would like to have happened to me, and in the years before I found the courage to date men, it gave me a safe way to experiment. Like any other porn user, sometimes it gives me ideas I want to use (I am a girl who genuinely likes to be come all over) and lets me experience things that would be terrifying in real life. (I probably wouldn’t like to be come all over by 100 guys.)

I don’t feel ashamed of using porn and I don’t think men should either, but at the same time, I did enjoy the time before guys wanted to choke me. Whitney Cummings has a great joke about that:

And I miss the time before guys would mention rape and expect to get somewhere with me. There are very good things about taboos being more out in the open, but dating just seems too harsh sometimes. I don’t know how much of the harshness I’m perceiving has to do with my own fears and past traumas (and Sweetie’s Rape Crisis Center view of men) and how much of it is actual sociological change.

I know my fear of young people fed into my fear of the Scary Party, (it’s the younger-skewing of the two main dungeons in town) even before the thing with The Man. I felt judged and sexualized there. It was just a fear and it was no doubt made worse by the fact that I was trying not to realize I would much rather play with men than with Sweetie, but it was a sensation like the bad, exploitive aspects of porn. I felt defined by the male gaze in a very unfun way. It was a terrible, desperate feeling that the only way to be worthy was to attract that gaze, and the only way to attract it was to fit into a very narrow set of criteria. If I wasn’t young, small, pliable, childlike, and deeply masochistic, then I was nothing at all.

A lot of that impression is about broken aspects of my psyche just finding expression out in the world. I have referred to it as the Cabinet in Which I Store My Fears. Some of the badness was something I was projecting, but not all of it.

Part of my fear of young people, if not most of it, comes from a sort of arrested development feeling that I’ve carried around since I was seventeen. I still have a general suspicion that I might be conspired against, rufied, raped, beaten and berated by mean kids just because ithappened that time when I was a kid. Now that I am shrugging off (blinking off?) that victim lens, I am hoping I will find fewer ways to end up expressing it out in the world.

I know it’s a skewed lens because many of the dearest people I know, including one of my protectors, belong to that generation I get scared of. I know they have nothing but goodness in their souls and no intention of hurting anybody who doesn’t want to be hurt. Just like I think the TNGers' age cutoff of 35 is mean and arbitrary, so is making assumptions about people under 30. The best solution to dismantling the arbitrary limits I’ve placed on myself and others is giving everyone a chance, getting to know them one-on-one, and continuing to say good nos, parsing out which scary things are within and which are without.

There’s a lot to be said too about my own anxieties about aging, but I’ll save that for another day.

Self-Adventuring: Hand Over Mouth and This, Um, Other Thing

Since I’m partly still in multiple-heartbreaks mode, I have kind of a love-hate feeling towards masturbation at the moment. Still, I’m doing it about twice a day. I’ve always been one of my main (and best) partners, there’s no reason that should change now. Last night when I went to bed I was antsy enough to need personal time, but I was having trouble getting things started. My body chemistry has been off from the grief and I’m not always as instantly ready as I like to be.

My fantasies have been on the rough side lately, so I tried putting my hand over my mouth. To my surprise, my whole body responded. I felt my shoulders relax and a warmth spread down my arms and across my shoulders—it was a miniature version of the warmth I always felt when I was playing with Steampunk Guy, but it was so cool that I was giving that feeling to myself. I was relieved and excited and kind of mentally already writing about it.

And I was instantly wet. I have to admit, too, that the wetness wasn’t just coming from inside. That’s happened a few times lately—I think my hoo-ha is learning to squirt. I think it happened a little this summer but I wasn’t ready to tell anybody about it at the time and there were already too many things to process in that story. (I’ll give you a hint: there was a great big cock shoved all the way down my throat.)

Anyway, I think before my 40th birthday, (September 2014) I’ll be an ejaculating lady. Fireguy once told me it looks like I can do it, whatever that means. More research is needed. It’s not been particularly a goal or anything, in fact it fills me with trepidation and shame, makes me feel really vulnerable even to mention it. But at the same time, I’m curious, and I want to let my body try everything it wants to.

This morning I woke up triggered, for various related and unrelated reasons. (See the next thing I post.) I think the key to letting things unspool in a nonscary way is, as always, trying to temper curiosity with time and self-care. And research!

Thursday, August 22, 2013

Hahahahaha Okay, OKCupid.

So I built a new OK Cupid account this week, mostly because I had a good screen name in mind and I didn't want anyone to take it. It's been good for flirting practice and general amusing dawdling around. Jeez, people click on you more for "single" than for "available."

This flowchart made me laugh so hard. It demonstrates perfectly what a romantic slut I am, as long as you aren't racist:

Yay My Own Bank Account!

For the new job, I wanted my own place to direct deposit. So I marched over to the bank and made my own checking and savings accounts. I got giddy talking to the bank lady about it. It'll be a while 'til we can shut down the joint account, but this feels like a step!

Song of The Week (Because I'm Hankering for It!)

How long til somebody makes me feel like this:

Divorce Times Week Seven: Things I Miss

Things are getting better and worse. Now that I know I’ll be in a classroom soon, the loneliness seems less oppressive sometimes, but there are nights (often Wednesday nights, for some reason) when times slows down and I just don’t know what I am going to do with myself.

Sweetie and I have broken the habit of checking in several times a day, and when I do call her at work or sit down to talk to her, it isn’t the same. When I ask her for help figuring something out, I know I’m missing an opportunity to strengthen my emotional muscles, to build new friendly bonds and/or neural pathways. Little by little, our habits and routines are dying away.

We stopped switching back and forth between the foldout couch and bed. She claims that the couch is better for her back, but I know it’s an act of chivalry and I’m accepting it, because I don’t know what else to do. The window sill that acts as our (now my) headboard used to be cluttered with books, magazines, and art supplies from when we used to spend weekend days in bed together, doing our separate whatever but still snuggled up. I miss her there, I miss when that felt right.

Even after we broke up, she used to kiss me on the head before she left for work, but the other day I put my hand up and deflected it. With my mouth feeling so needy, I couldn’t risk even a forehead kiss.

She’s still my friend, but it’s closing up. I feel myself shutting off from her and seeking support elsewhere and within myself.

We used to have a mug that said “No Coffee, No Service.” for some reason, even when I wasn’t using that particular mug, I used to say that to her every morning when I brought her coffee: “No coffee, no service.” I just realized I stopped doing that a couple of weeks ago.

This apartment is a sucking hole of loss, and half the time I don’t even realize it. I start to think of it as the only truth, that I am the loss and sadness, but on days when I’m away, I start to feel like myself again. The other day when I was driving with The Lady of the House to the beach, it felt like a reunion with myself, a reassurance of my continued existence, a real life after this marriage.

But I miss the feeling of knowing where my family is—not my family of origin, not my sister’s family in the next state, but my own family, my own home. Having everything up in the air is exhausting and every life around me feels more situated than mine. It’s too much ending and not enough beginning. I need something to help pull me forward to the next life.

To give a little tribute to the grief without it swallowing me under, here’s a list of ten things I miss about her:
1. I miss coming home from a date or a night out and getting all kinds of snuggles, parsing out every nuance of the adventure I’d just been on. (I’m having an icky realization that it might have been filling a parental need, the wish to have a mother figure who rooted for me to find love and happiness. Yeesh.)

2. I miss travelling with her, stopping off at rest stops for snacks, stopping on the way home for ice cream. (My eating habits have been getting better and I really don’t mind pumping my own gas, dear.)

3. I miss our podcasts—I don’t think that I can listen to Radiolab or Wait Wait, Don’t Tell Me or Judge John Hodgman without her.

4. I miss the cats being our cats.

5. Likewise the dishes, the sheets, the groceries. We still share all those things for the time being, but they are no longer a representation of our love.

6. I miss thinking of her at the library and picking up weird fantasy novels in case she’d like them.

7. I miss the garden being our garden. Since I might try and keep this apartment, I guess it’ll be my garden. Back when we lived in my hometown, the garden used to be like our whole life, but we haven’t had that in many years.

8. I miss her body belonging to me, but not mine belonging to her.

9. I miss having dates with her. We haven’t even been to the movies in a few weeks, though I guess that’s still permitted.

10. I miss the pink ropes and all the other snuggly things.

I’m grateful I can write it out. 

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Huzzaaaaaaah For Employment!

Ohthankgoodness I am headed back to work next week. I got hired at one of my dream schools and I am so excited. It's an assistant position so I'll have to get a second job too, but the place is so neat and peaceful that I knew it was the right thing to try. This'll give me a place to learn, teach, heal and grow as Sweetie and I make our transitions.

Tuesday, August 20, 2013

Oh, My Urgent Mouth

Yesterday while I was taking a nice bath after personal time I felt a warm, tingly feeling spread across my mouth and the lower right of my face. I ran my hand over it and knew exactly what it was—the urge to be slapped and to try a hand over my mouth, things for which my own hands just won’t do. Sometimes my body is absolutely humming to get along to the next phase, and I honestly don’t know what to tell it.

Adding the new fetishes to my Fet page only fanned the flame of it. I want to push forward and let my body have what it is so hungry for. Maybe there’s a way, but I know what’s in me besides that physical urge—the part of me that wants love so badly that it will imagine love where it isn’t. But holding myself back doesn’t seem natural or right either.

My poor mouth wants so very many things to happen to it, is dying to be kissed and smacked and fucked so hard I can’t breathe. I know there are other things that need to be taken care of right now, but 50 to 75 blow jobs doesn’t seem like too many.

I can take care of my hoo-ha and ass. I can feel myself up all night and day if I want to. (That’s one of the benefits of being out of work, I guess.) But what can I do for my poor, pining mouth, friends, while I wait for this break to be over?

Oh, mouth, I’m sorry. I wish I could give you everything.

Monday, August 19, 2013

Thank You Note to the Beach

It occurred to me yesterday that I really would have lost my marbles this summer if it hadn't been for the nude beach. I'm so grateful there's someplace I can go to feel 100 % okay with myself AND be loved/shoved around by the ocean AND be surrounded by all manner of penises. (HOORAY!)

It's been so great spending time getting to know The Lady of the House there too--that friendship is one of the things making me feel like I just might be on the right track.

Friday, August 16, 2013

Divorce Times Week Six: Like a Part-Time Flu (But Also Some Little Breakthroughs)

Part of every day is okay. There’s an overarching loneliness that’s hard to take, but mostly I get through it. Sometimes, though, I just run out of trying. I get a bad headache and feel trapped, feel like I’m drowning, and the only thing I can do is get a drink of water and go lay down. As long as I just go ahead and let myself do that, the drowny feeling passes.

With exercise being my main antidepressant, I panicked a little when the city pools closed, but I went back to the gym at the community center by my house. For some reason I can’t stop myself from smiling when I get on the elliptical. Sometimes I am a little bit of a chick lit novel, I think. Zumba classes started up again and the instructor has the hottest ass I’ve ever seen, so I have that to look forward to.

On Monday, the Lady of the House and I had a nude beach day and it was fantastic. We talked our hearts out and I trusted her enough to tell her things I hadn’t told anybody, not even Sweetie. With Sweetie having gotten so sick of the sound of my voice, it’s wonderful that I have at least a couple of people in my life who don’t think I talk too much. (LOTH does think I might think too much, and I’m inclined to agree.) In between swimming and adding cute couples to my mental vision board, we worked on lists of what we want in our next partners. We’re awesome wingpeople for each other since almost everything we like is opposite—besides “Must love the ocean,” of course. I’ll post my list soon even though I’ve already written (and ignored!) many such lists.

One thing I’m proud of from this week is that the other night when I was crying it out over Steampunk guy, I didn’t lean on Sweetie for help. When I was lying in bed crying and trying to write, she came in and put her hand on my back but I sent her back out. I texted Angel Face a few times but mostly I handled it on my own. I cried and wrote and then cried and wrote some more the next day, until eventually they started to feel like productive tears, tears of acceptance, the kind that give my heart a little more breathing room. It’s important that I know how to fall apart and put myself back together without having to depend on Sweetie to tell me it’s okay, to tell me I’m okay.

It’s been a hard week, but I still feel like I’m doing what I can to move myself forward. One of my main goals is to have more community ties by the time my heart is healed, so I looked up a bunch of munches and RSVPed. This week was the local Master/slave meeting and it was exactly the right thing to go to. Everybody was so sweet and caring, and we/they talked about deep, complicated feelings for two hours—that is like emo-girl Christmas! There wasn’t any one person I felt an affinity towards, but the group felt like such a good place to start—one of them, anyway.

I’d still been feeling very reticent about making friends around the scene because of shame about the (way back when) Fireguy stuff and the (still kind of hurty) Scary Party stuff, but the more I talk to people, the more I understand that I’m not alone. The picture I had of myself as an outcast or pariah was a. pretty self centered and b. incorrect. There are definitely some mean girls who don’t like me, but for the most part no one ever says “Oh, that was you?” and runs away or yells at me. It’s just a part of who I am, and someday, I won’t be ashamed of it. While I do regret the fight with Fireguy, I can’t say that I regret the Scary Party thing—I can’t see any other way that could have gone. Plus, I kind of like tops to know that I have the potential to fuck their whole shit up (at least for a night or two) if they ignore limits.

That being said, while I was talking to one of the Scary Party regulars about The Man, a wave of compassion washed over me. He’s just like me, just like everyone—kind of a brokeny person who needs love and fucks it up sometimes. Not that I’d snuggle up to him anytime soon (I’m sure he’d be TERRIFIED at the prospect) but I don’t really feel like I need to be mad at him anymore, and I certainly don’t need to be afraid. With things in perspective, he was a love like any of the others, and he always will be.

So even though the days are long and sluggish, I do feel like I’m continuing to break down walls for myself.

Monday night when I came home all pink and happy from the beach, I was joking around with Sweetie about my “must love the ocean” requirement, and she said:

“You know, I grew up in West Texas. Most of the information I had about the ocean came from Jaws.”

“Come to think of it, most of the information you had about hetero sex came from working at the Rape Crisis Center.”

“Til I met you, yeah.”

Sweetie didn’t make up my fears and barriers, but she was very good at enabling and encouraging them. My fears brought us closer together, made me feel like I had to keep depending on her. I can see that her influence, while ostensibly supportive, helped me to cultivate my fight-or-flight habits instead of learning to react in more productive ways. She loved me through so many panicky tantrums, and I’m grateful, but also that wasn’t a healthy thing.

I want to be away from that influence, so living together is an oppressive thing. Sometimes it’s tempting to just give in, give up on the idea of my own place. This apartment is heartbreaking and suffocating, it sucks out so much energy just to be here. When we first decided we were splitting, I could see my new life so clearly, but now it feels much less clear. I don’t know when’s the next time I’ll fall asleep with somebody, the next kiss, or even the next spank. Sometimes that’s really hard to take.

Last week, my phone was finally repaired. (No miraculous retrieval of cute texts, I’m afraid.) I’d been using an old kind-of-broken phone and I figured out how to sync the phones so that I could transfer all the contacts and pictures. I figured it out by just poking around, not by asking Sweetie! These are the kinds of things that bring me joy lately, the little victories that make me feel like I might just make it on my own.

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Yaaaay Mollena Williams on Risk!

Tonight I'm gonna give the local Master/slave meeting a try. Excited to listen to this on the way there.

Song of the Week: Same Love

Mine's not the same "I can't change" that they're talking about, but it's just as important to accept.

Okay, So, Really Heartbroken Over Steampunk Guy

Last night I sat on the stoop outside the laundromat watching the cars go by and trying to write this post in my notebook. I started it two or three different ways but kept getting stuck, mostly because I wanted to be saying it to him and not the internet. So I tried to consolidate all of the emotions into a flirty text:

“Not getting over you very fast. Would rather be under you! ;)”

To which he wrote back:

“The fastest over a guy is to get under another one! ;)”

He was just being cute and encouraging, but that text just opened up a floodgates and let me go ahead and be heartbroken. It struck my frustration so perfectly: I don’t want some stranger, some random other guy, I want him.

When we were first breaking it off, I had faith that I would find someone who is actually what I’m looking for—available, open, willing to offer up the occasional “Good girl.” He believed in that guy for me and I appreciate that so much.

I was so proud of how well we broke up that I never let myself have the heartbreak. I think part of me was still trying to mitigate my emotions, to try and be cute for them so they wouldn’t go away, but they’re already gone, at least for the time being, so I have to figure out again how to stop censoring the feelings.

It may be less fighty, but it’s just like any other breakup. I’m hurt and sad and I wish that I could have found some way to make him see me, make him love me, make him actually clear the time out for me every other week. I have that awful feeling of not being good enough, even though that has nothing to do with it at all. I have that childish feeling of wishing I could be like the girls he loves, wishing I had whatever quality they have that made him go ahead and love them. It’s the thing that I’m still afraid I’m missing, the magical ability to be loved by men.

And yes, I see the pattern here; I see the futility I keep setting up for myself, choosing someone who doesn’t have enough attention and then being hurt that he didn’t have enough attention. Crazy, I know, and I’ll try not to do it again. Though of course I wouldn’t have wanted to miss out on this time.

I’m still hurt that what ended up being so meaningful to me—all of those deep, transformative experiences were just sex to him, just something it was easy to scroll past once it was over. And I’m so angry with myself that I have so little experience that everything is still such a goddamned big deal.

I hate my stupid heart for taking away so much fun stuff, past and present. There’s so much shiny and good about the Steampunks that I just won’t be able to enjoy for a while and I feel left out. I feel like another way towards community and connection is cut off, and that makes me feel like I am not doing what I am supposed to be doing. I wanted it to be simple and fun. I wanted to go to their parties and be excited about all the possibilities there. The last thing I want to lose is more parties.

I’ve tried for years to accept the fact that I fall for people so easily but it just seems to cost so much. I didn’t want to love him, I wanted to accept and enjoy what he had to give and keep looking for the one who’s right for loving. Why does that make so much sense on paper but not translate to real life? It irks me to no end.

I know I’m not going to get significantly less lovey-dovey any time soon. I need somebody that I can just go ahead and be bonkers about. It’s just torturing myself to try and fight the current of it. But if I can only have sex with people I can fall for, that feels so constricting. It feels like there’s going to be too much waiting around—maybe waiting around forever. There’s so much about bodies that I’ve just discovered, I don’t want to back away from them now.

Part of the reason I’m having trouble getting over him is that I can’t quite see the way forward—I can’t imagine finding the right guy and being adored when I don’t even know where I’ll work or live. I want to go back to the beginning of the summer when I had a job I loved, three snuggle pals, and a wife with whom things might work out. Or I want to go back to the immediate relief of the divorce decision, that floating, sunshiny powerful feeling that came just before I realized how much work and grief were ahead of me.

I still just really don’t understand why I had to give him up. So much of him (Ha. So very much of him.) was making me happy. I miss the spark of joy whenever I got a text from him, I miss the emphatic kisses, I miss just saying hi and taking off our clothes. It was only a few times. It shouldn’t be such a big deal. But it is.

I so badly miss the person I was at the beginning of the summer, or sometimes was, anyway. I feel a million miles away from the sparkly confidence it took to date him, from the simple faith of just going ahead and giving him my number.

I’m still sad and hurt that he wouldn’t go to the beach with me and didn’t play with me in public. On bad days I still wonder whether he was embarrassed by my age or body, but even if he was, it would just mean that he wasn’t the right person. It wouldn’t mean that there’s anything wrong with me.

One thing I know for sure is that these feelings won’t be solved by plowing ahead to the next partners. As not-romantic as it was supposed to be, the thing with Steampunk Guy was special and specific and I don’t want to move on from it by doing something that means less. With some possible special-occasion exceptions, I want to be really dating the next guy who puts his stuff in me, and I want to like him at least as much as I like Steampunk Guy. It’s such a vexing thing to decide, but I don’t think I can do the less-romantic kinds of sex until I have some basic needs met.

I have to give him credit for raising my standards in a lot of ways. He set the bar pretty high for how attracted I want to be to somebody, for how important chemistry is. In the past I’ve sometimes been able to talk myself into someone because he has nice qualities, but I’m a very sexed-up girl and I want someone I’m superhot for, and who’s just as hot for me. And I feel comfortable saying now that a nice, big, friendly dick is a star priority too. That particular part of him is especially difficult for all of my parts to let go of. Oh, it was a good one. If I were still a poet I would write it poems.

Being mad at myself for loving him doesn’t seem like a helpful emotion. It would be better to just accept it and let myself feel it until it changes into whatever friendly thing is next. Hating my heart is not going to get me where I need to go, that’s for sure. Better just to say thanks and let it do whatever it needs to do, impatient as that might make me.

So thanks, pal. I know you like changing lives and you did. You showed me what I should expect in a man and that it’s safe to trust someone enough to let down my guard. You pulled down a whole set of limits that I was using to keep the world at arm’s length. You showed me what I really want sex to be. And what’s wrong with falling for a really excellent penis? Nothing.

During that text exchange, it felt much better when I stopped trying to be cute about it and just went ahead and told him how I feel, making it clear that I didn’t expect him to do anything about it but still wanting him to know. So many guys would’ve just not written back, but he of course was magnanimous and kind. Knowing he’s rooting for me to find what I’m looking for helps so much even though it hurts too. Even if I love another guy I can’t have, at least this time it’s somebody who was worth it.

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Sunday, August 11, 2013

Roadblock #6: More Family Nonsense

I hate telling sad stories because I don’t want you to see me as someone who thinks I’m a victim. I’m not. I’m a grown-ass woman and I hate that childhood things still affect me. I’m trying to write through it all so that I can move it aside in favor of better things.

Yesterday Sweetie got a letter in the mail from one of my aunts, a lovely heartfelt note of thanks and support, telling her she’s still part of the family no matter what. It’s a nice gesture and I’m so glad of any support that Sweetie gets, but at the same time, my own aunt hadn’t reached out to me. I had an irrational, childlike reaction and a wave of sorrow came over me. This is what I was afraid of, being The Bad Guy in the divorce. Something about that letter opened a fresh well of guilt and shame.

It’s a pretty huge leap, but I pictured my mom and aunt sitting around talking about how amazing Sweetie is and how selfish and awful I am for ending my marriage, how I never learned to love or be loved, how I’m a monster and Sweetie’s a saint. It was a semi-crazy reaction that plumbed the depths of childhood anxieties and fears, and tears welled up.

“I’m not doing this to hurt you,” I said to Sweetie, “I’m trying to do the right thing for both of us. There’s nothing wrong with me. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

But in my family’s eyes, I’ve always been something broken, I’ve always been someone who doesn’t belong, who keeps everyone from being happy and safe. My brother once said, after an argument he’d helped instigate, “You ruin every party.” That was a long time ago but it still shapes my self-concept in a fairly unhelpful way. I’ve always felt like I had to somehow earn my way in by finding some magic virtue.

The origin of this is so familiar as to be a cliché. I was an accident. When I was conceived, my Grandmom basically forced my parents to get married. (I suspect Roadblock #7 may be about Catholicism) Thus, my mother always saw me as the thing that took her life away. When she and my dad were fighting, show would often tell me it was my fault—if I hadn’t been born, she wouldn’t be with him, wouldn’t be getting beat up, and all of us would be safe, if only I hadn’t been so rude as to exist.

One of the ways that she expressed her resentment towards me was to automatically take the side of whomever I was in conflict with. If I was bullied on the school bus or picked on in any way, she’d always ask what I’d done to provoke it. I was trained to think of everything as my fault, even things I had nothing to do with.

So my mother and I were in constant tension, my sister was the favorite, and my brother’s just kind of an ass. As an adult, this meant I had a hard time finding a place in the family. Sweetie somehow ended up being my ticket in.

The way my mom tells it, Sweetie changed me into something better—calmer, more easygoing, just generally more acceptable. My niece came along around the same time, and that mellowed out EVERYONE in the family, reduced the general amount of jerkiness in all of us, and we got a second chance at having a happy family.

So one of the things that kept me married to Sweetie for longer than I should have been was the worry that this new version of my own family would go away if I didn’t have Sweetie around to make me acceptable. I’m almost 39 and my goddamn mother’s opinion of how I should live my life still holds power over me. After all of these many adult years, I still haven’t managed to separate myself from her.

In real life, my family has been supportive and kind about the divorce, but part of me is angry with them and really angry with myself for staying in a not-right marriage to try to earn their love. While I was able to approximate their version of love and marriage with Sweetie, the version that I really want is never going to be what they want for me. For whatever reason, my mother is never going to think I deserve for one man to love me, let alone three or four plus their partners and their partners’ partners. And I have to grow the fuck up and realize that neither Sweetie nor my mother is in charge of whether or not I deserve love. Every human being does.

Some people may see our divorce in traditional terms of the faithful partner and the unfaithful one, the heartbreaker and the victim, the winner and the loser, but that bears no resemblance to what actually is. We were both faithful in our own way, we were both victims and heartbreakers, and when this is all done, we will both be winners.

Even more important than letting go of Sweetie is letting go of the need for approval and creating the life I actually want, regardless of how the family might receive it. Until then, I need some distance from them, to carve out the time and space to just go ahead and grow the fuck up. I did it when I moved across the country at 24, and I can find a (less migratory) way to do it now.

Friday, August 9, 2013

Divorce Times Week Five: Jumping Out of My Skin and How We Got Here

Everyone, divorce is booooooring. Well, I guess actually it’s the job hunt accounting for the semi-weekly bouts of crushing ennui. Remind me never to take the summer off again unless I have a really riveting reason, like a more-than-two-person family to take care of or a tour of the French cathedrals. Sitting by myself and being a cover letter factory just ekes away at my soul sometimes-thank goodness there have been smutty blog posts to write!

I’m really worried that this process is not going FAST enough. We’ve been trying to think of ourselves as “living with a friend” to take some of the divorce stigma off our list of things to worry about, but I’m concerned that I’m still being much too dependent on her.

I’ve been financially and emotionally dependent on her since just a few months after we got together. When we got engaged, it was 2002. I may have been craving safety, but so was everybody in the country. Did I just blame my semi-failed marriage on 9/11? No, but it feels like it fits. She and I were actually at the same peace vigil a few weeks before we met. With even my most liberal friends spouting jingoistic threats, Sweetie’s proclivity for tie dye seemed forgivable, almost preferable.

I’d also just moved back to the East Coast from California, and I missed my poetry friends so badly—I really needed the move to have meant something, for the sacrifice to be worthwhile. In the end, of course it was.

It was six months before we moved in together, but we had the emotional equivalent of the old U-Haul joke even earlier on—on maybe our third date (On the couch, where so many of my good dates happen…) I let the phrase “soul mate” slip out. The first time she really opened her mouth and let me kiss her, it was one of my top five religious experiences.

I was literally in the middle of a panic about career and money when she produced a tiny sapphire engagement ring. She’d bought it very soon after we’d started dating. That “let me take care of you” situation is not usually the engagement story we tell—we officially proposed under a meteor shower on her birthday (coming up this Sunday, as a matter of fact) like any respectable poet/philosopher pair would.

So our relationship was definitely about love, but it was about security, too. I had a deep need to finally be taken care of. After my fucked up childhood and ten years of attempted adulthood, I felt like I deserved someone who would seek me out to bring a coat when it threatened rain, who would drive around talking for hours. (Often about boys, little did she know that’d be her life for a long time…) I felt bedraggled and spent, and there was something pure about her that I loved and aspired to—she seemed redemptive somehow, and I guess she sort of was, except I didn’t really need to be redeemed.

The fights started pretty soon after we got together, but she’s also deeply loyal and she supported me while I dawdled through my undergrad years and went on to be a full-time writer, supplementing our income a little with part time retail and teaching artist jobs. She’s worked millions of hours for us, making almost all the money for all but the last six months we were together. During fights, she would threaten me with homelessness from time to time. I felt like I contributed in the usual housewifely ways and I definitely provided us both with a social life, but I’m ashamed that I didn’t build more for myself over the years, that I let myself depend on her so much.

Fast forward to two nights ago, sobbing on the floor because it was one of those grief-sneaks-up-on-me days where I’ve lost hope of ever finding a job or moving ahead or ever being worthy of love. Those days only come about once a week, and they’re getting less intense so I am not worried about my mental health just yet. She helped me through it, telling me again and again that I wasn’t worthless, that our situation isn’t permanent, that it would all work out—all the things I believed so joyously when we first made the decision to split. I feel so guilty for still needing her help. I shouldn’t need her to tell me that it’s gonna be okay anymore. But twelve years is a long time to have been in the habit of needing her, and it’s proving trickier than I’d hoped to get out of the habit, but I am trying.

Eventually the tears subsided and we sat down to an episode of Project Runway. Nothing like an Unconventional Challenge to lift the spirits of two poor sad ladies.

Every dollar I save, every new thing I try, every time I write out the feelings instead of calling her at work or take the bus instead of calling her for a ride, I’m trying to create a more self-reliant version of me. I just feel like it’s taking way too long.

First Single-Girl Dungeon Night, Part Three: A Vibrator Fit For Judy Jetson

It might seem strange to readers that I didn’t mind that people kind of milled in and out of this scene. I guess it comes down to being with a Master that I trust, in a place where I feel like my well-being matters. Also, it’s very easy to feel at ease with Punk Rock Girl checking in on me, looking me in the eye and making sure I approved of each new development. I’m reassured by her care because I know exactly how tough she is.

Old-Timey Guy was fumbling around in his stuff and plugging something in.

Punk Rock Girl said “Uh-oh, I know what’s coming…”

What was coming was the most enormous vibrator I’ve ever seen. It was the width of a fist, like 15 inches long, and looked like it was from the 1960s version of the space age. The business end was in the shape of the top of an enormous egg, and shiny blue. It’s hard to believe that a girl who was once afraid of a bag of dildos would be okay with this, but I was.

I was still cocooned in plastic wrap, and Punk Rock Girl set to work cutting a hole in the front so they could put the contraption where it goes.

“It’s gonna make you look like you have a penis…” she warned.

“I’m totally fine with that.” Obviously.

I’m not a girl who gets superexcited about devices, but I had fun with this one. I liked the humiliation of being made to hold the cord between my teeth while Old-Timey Guy hit me with his heart-shaped crop. (It still hurts like fuck even through the plastic, but there was a sad lack of bruising.) He leaned over my shoulder and pushed the device in so that I purred and smiled.

“Oh, I didn’t hear you say you like it, I’ll have to take it away…”


After that, Punk Rock Girl took hold of the device and ran it all over me—my neck, my ears, my face, my belly. It was tickly and nice. Then she got a really mischievous look on her face and ran it over my nipples—I shrieked and laughed and it felt amazing.

She put it back in my crotch and got out of the way while Old-Timey Guy flogged the part of my back that was exposed from the plastic. I leaned forward and relaxed into complete bliss.

“Yespleasemoremoremore!” I said, being careful not to turn around. He flogged me for a little bit longer and then (OMG cute) he planted a little kiss at the base of my neck, right in the hollow of my collarbone. Tenderness I loved and which made me nervous, but not nervous enough to stop him.

He came around to the front and held me, moving against the vibrator to press it into my clit. Since all the breakups I’ve just been taking these little rests in men’s affection, little teensy moments of letting go. When he put his hand on my head and said “Good girl.” it was one of those rests. I’d been waiting to hear those words for months, from any number of guys—I heard it and it hit home.

The feeling of being cut out of the plastic was so blessedly freeing (even if I did somehow end up with a hole in my underpants) that I am tempted to indulge in a marriage/cocoon metaphor.

I sat my sweaty ass down to rest. Other Ribbons offered me a massage, and I gratefully took her up on it. It wasn’t a Naughty Thing, but it was certainly welcome and lovely. She worked hard on my shoulders, rubbing out the tension from the restraint and from life in general.

It depends on how you count, I guess, but in spite of V and V’s Hot Girlfriend’s enthusiastic encouragement, I never did make it to my third naughty thing. HempRopes apologized for running out of time, and I felt superproud about having waited with such grace. (The weirdest things are feeling like accomplishments lately, I know.) It helps that I was so busy being thoroughly entertained and also that I was kinda lukewarm about playing with him anyway.

“That’s the problem with having high standards—I tend to like the really popular guys.”

Huh. I guess that’s true. It’ll be a comfort until I find the guy I want to have and claim as my own. Meanwhile, I kicked that party’s ass, and I think that speaks of good things to come.

Thursday, August 8, 2013

First Single-Girl Dungeon Night Part Two: Some Backtracking, Some Good Bad Influences, and Some Plastic Wrap

Though he doesn’t do much in this story besides be pleasantly in the room, I think now’s a good time to backtrack to when I reconciled with Fireguy. The first time we spent together was when he took my author photo, so when the book came out last summer I mailed him a copy, along with a looooong love letter. In the letter, I apologized for my part in our fight and let him know the feelings I’d gotten for him. (How many versions of this letter will I write in my lifetime? At least maybe I’ve gotten past the breakup fight aspect?) Even though I had him blocked in nearly every possible way, he still found a way to get through to thank me for the letter and tell me he was proud of me for the book. Of course I got a little thrill from him being proud.

We didn’t run into each other in person for another six months or so. When I saw we were both in the RSVPs for a Regular Dungeon night back in January, I decided it was time to go ahead and unblock him. I emailed him to touch base and ask if he might be able to bring the cupcake taker I’d left at his house the previous April. (Man, that was an awesome cupcake taker. I really miss it.) When we saw each other at that January party, Sweetie said he and I both turned into Muppets upon seeing each other. While I stood around post-scene with Sweetie’s ropes on, Fireguy and I got the chance to apologize to each other in person. We both expressed regret that we couldn’t jump in the sexTARDIS and do things differently.

Anyway, I say all that just to say he was one of the people I was glad to see last Saturday night. Even though our playing-together time is over, I still really like playing where he can see me and watching him set other nice ladies on fire.

I also had the unexpected pleasure of running into V,a one-date guy from last year, and his superpretty (queer!) girlfriend. Even though they aren’t a match for me playwise, I was so happy to add them both to my collection of good bad influences. They egged me on and watched me play the whole night and I loved showing off for them. Maybe I’m just collecting pals to show off to right now, that’s a good project!

While I was mulling over what to do for Naughty Thing #2,  I stood in my favorite spot, a raised area at the back of the room, watched all the wonders going on around me and did a good job of reaching my chatting goal. It was hot in there so I ditched the nightie and stripped down to my bra and undies, white with pink polka dots and hot pink lace, respectively.

Probably I should branch out from just playing with people I already know, but when Old-Timey Guy brandished a giant roll of plastic wrap, I shrugged and said “Why not?” Though I’m usually averse to plastic, the restraint aspect seemed right. Plus, this is a time for trying new things.

“If you do a good jo—ob you’ll get a flog—ging!” He said in his silly singsongy voice as he made me spin around and around to wind the plastic. Eventually I got dizzy and made him do the winding. My arms were behind my back, hands to elbows. His other playpal for the night (Besides Punk Rock Girl, of course) was an adorably affable Asian girl (I’ll call her Other Ribbons, since she loves them as much as I do.) and she very kindly held my glasses for me.

I was bound from my shoulders to my ankles, so that I could only move my feet a teensy bit. I was trapped and sweating, a little scared but going with the fear. An onlooker helpfully suggested that Old-Timey guy move me away from the stairs, lest I should fall. One new guy was for some reason walking around with a spatula, and I let him give me a few whacks. He had to hit me really hard in order for me to feel it through the plastic. The spatula gave me a heart-pang since that was Sweetie’s implement of choice at home.

Next Time: Punk Rock Girl and the device.