Song of the Week: Tear You Apart

Okay so maaaaaaybe I have a lot of pent up energy. I'm being very good and writing a lot of papers anyway. But I'd rather be doing this:

Not Sweetie’s Favorite Thing: Ropes and Tears

So many posts lately have tears in them. I’m hoping I get to the other end of the tears soon, to some more good things.

Last Sunday at home, we wanted to play with the ropes some more, so I could have a picture and Sweetie could practice her knots. I got home from church and was ready, if a little sleepy still from the night before. I stripped down and stood in the middle of our bedroom, hands-to-elbows behind my back, but a few minutes into her harness work, I said “I’m having some not-hot thoughts…”

In fact, they were fairly hot, just also sad. She stopped working for a second, gave me the rope to hold behind me and asked what was wrong.

“It’s just reminding me of Fireguy. The moment when he took off the ropes and I was free and playful. I loved that so much and I never got to write about it.”

In fact, I think I did write about it, but I never really got to honor him, that friendship, those genuine moments I liked so much, the way that I wanted to because I was so angry and scared. I had to cut off the connection to make his betrayal less painful, but just like with Bill, Fireguy’s jackassery didn’t make my affection for him (or maybe even his affection for me) any less real.

I started to cry and Sweetie said “What do I do? Do I take it off you?”

“No, leave it on.” She put her arms around me as tight as the ropes were and I cried, feeling pink and naked and beautiful and loved and sad and real, still holding the rope behind me. Her shirt grazed my nipples, still standing alert from my flushed skin. After a few minutes of me standing there pinkly sobbing, she got some tissues and dried my eyes, but I drew the line at letting her blow my nose.

The moment I was crying about was this: back in Fireguy’s basement, I’d been laying with him on a futon on the floor, laying back on my tied arms, blindfolded. He said, “Come on, I turn over, I need your arms.” I was about to be spanked for something, and I felt so adored—it was moment of pure play and friendship. My shoulders ached and he said he wouldn’t make me lay on my arms next time, but I said I didn’t mind the hurt. We were like puppies, we were like kids, we were like friends. It was a moment of my guy-dreams coming true and I was crying because I’d lost it. Crying for all of the fleeting moments of connection that get buried under avalanches of fear and anger and shame. For the ways I can’t connect and all the miracle ways that I do. For the times that I just. Stop. fighting. They’re beautiful, and those were beautiful tears.

Sweetie took off the ropes and I cried some more. She stakes such good care of me at times like this. Sure, I would rather have had sex that afternoon, but letting my heart bubble over was almost just as good.

Another Pretty Pink Scene With Sweetie

I’d been half-planning to stay at the party by myself after the discussion, to try and meet people without the safety-net of Sweetie, to see if I might try a little bit of playing with men if I could, but I felt lazy about that and just wanted to play with Sweetie, because I already trust her and she’s so dreamy with the knots. She was tired but glad enough to give it a whirl.

They have these nice red padded kneeler benches there. Like this, but red:

I spread out my fluffy silver blanket on one of those and drank a glass of wine, chatting with Sweetie and passersby. Except for one couple getting all roped up, people weren’t quite getting started yet, so we waited. I felt like a princess on my throne sitting there sipping my wine.

Once we’d waited long enough, I told her what I wanted. She’d learned plenty of knots you can safely use for a collar, so I asked her to do one. She’s averse to putting a leash on me, but I guess it feels okay for her with adorable pink ropes. She got the idea of tying the collar to the decorative cuff around my wrists and I thought that would be awesome. While I was presenting my neck to her so she could work on the collar, I tried to unbutton her shirt, and she smacked my hand away in a very reprimand-y way—and I burst into a huge giggly grin. I told her I’d never been happier in my entire life, and it was true.

Once she got the collar done, she took down the top of my dress and took off my bra. Besides the idea that I might be seen, my favorite part of being topless is the way I notice the softness of my hair on my back and shoulders, soft and warm and friendly. She guided me to kneel on the kneeler, my elbows on the upper part, so that she could tie my ankles. I was wearing fishnets and I opted for leaving my heels on.

Once I was all nicely bound, she pulled up the back of my skirt and started spanking. At this point, Chumbawumba came on the sound system, “I Get Knocked Down, But I Get Up Again,” and we both laughed so hard. As I’ve said before, Sweetie’s spanking style is subtle and sweet. she says her hands get sore, though, so it’s time to start warming up to the idea of getting implements—I’ve since invested in a cute pink flogger, we’ll see how that works.

This is the time when I just totally relax. My face gets all relaxed and wide-eyed, like a little angel or a damsel-not-quite-in-distress. This is the part where I feel like a pin-up, all simper and flouncy hair, and always hope people are watching. She pulled my hair and I felt even prettier. Someday I hope to convince her not to stop or ease up when I say “ow.”

I turned over (no small feat with hands and ankles bound) and asked for my glasses back so the front of me could be exposed and I could watch what was going on around me: a girl in cute red sneakers looking dubious as she got smacked in the ass with a metal ruler. A queer-looking punk chick getting very loudly flogged by a dapper guy with a feather in his hat. In time to “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” You have to wonder who the heck made this playlist. Drinking my wine with tied wrists was pleasantly awkward. I wiggled my feet in the ankle cuff, which was now wrong side up. I sat there until I started to feel too exposed, and then we curled up under my blanket.

That was the first time that Sweetie seemed curious about what was going on in the room. We stayed for a bit and watched—I liked the couple with the big knife, she got us interested on the cute boy/sadist dripping wax onto a man’s chest hair and then peeling it off.

A guy who was in the discussion with me said the dumbest thing: “If you ever need a sadist, he’s your guy. and he won’t cross any of your limits, because he’s gay.” I couldn’t even begin to take apart all the things that are wrong with that statement, but I left that to meditate on for later.

All in all, it was a good adventure, and it was time to go home and go to sleep.

Next: Ropes and tears, not Sweetie’s favorite.

Hey! I Might Be Able to Let Myself Heal!

I still feel like I’m going forward on this project, but in the time since Fireguy inadvertently set off all those triggers, I’ve been in and out of a very dark place, seeing the world through rape-colored glasses, really feeling the feelings that have been inside me, holding me back all this time.

The other day when I decided to push back aboutblaming-the-victim assumptions in the local kink scene, the post and some people’s responses to the post opened up a whole new reservoir of shame and fear, to the point where yesterday I was on the couch crying into the phone to Sweetie “It wasn’t my fault, it’s wasn’t my fault, it wasn’t my fault.” (Tip for girls like me: marrying a trained Rape Crisis counselor can come in handy sometimes!) I felt ashamed, afraid, attacked, I felt like I was alone in a dark hole.

But I think I am almost where I need to go. Part of the reason I’m so intent in convincing others to stop focusing on what victims “should’ve done” and put the blame where it belongs is because I am almost ready to stop blaming myself for the rape and assault that happened to me in high school. I feel like I’m so close-one little more step and I can be at forgiveness. I can stop fighting.

We hold onto the idea that we could have done something to protect ourselves as a way to give ourselves power in a situation where we had none. I held onto the idea that I should’ve done something to protect myself as a way to give myself power in a situation where I had none. It makes sense, but I’m no longer willing to take the blame. I want to let myself off the hook for all the times I couldn’t protect myself, as a child and as an adult.

So I’m giving myself 2 weeks—no Fet Life, no BDSM, no body adventures. I want to talk it over with myself, stop getting triggered by outward stimuli, stop trying to solve things, stop taking the project outwards. That doesn’t mean I won’t ever be able to join the conversation, it just means that, for now, I need to make myself safe and see what I can do.

I told Sweetie this morning that I’ve gotten all the way to Forgiving Myself Station. Now I just have to wait for the train. I’m so close, just one more stop. Sweetie suggested that I get Hermione to help me find the right platform, and that sounds about right. Maybe my inner Hermione (or some other nice, smart witch) can help me find my way there.

Intermediate Rope Class With Sweetie

Since I got the tricky discussion group part of Saturday night out of the way, I can write about the fun parts. We weren’t sure which rope class section to go to, but Party Mistress had seen pictures of Sweetie’s rope work and thought we were ready to move up to the intermediate class. Spousal high-five!

The class was run by an adorable middle aged D/S couple. (If kink has taught me anything, it’s how to be awesome at being middle aged. I need to know!) I’m especially grateful to the slave/wife, because she offered to swap her Hello Kitty nipple tape for the purple plaid that I’d brought.

I stayed clothed, though, for the first part of the class. When the teacher asked me if I could put my arms behind my back, hands to elbows, I was so glad to. the teacher was impressed by how easily I did it—I love finding out that things I didn’t know were skills are skills!

I’d only been in a restraint harness once before, and that’s with Fireguy. When we learned how to find the radial nerve to avoid causing hand damage, I said “Oh! That’s why my thumb was twitching that time!” It’s scary to realize how much can go wrong with just a little carelessness—I know that’s so much pressure on tops, too.

The teacher said that Sweetie learns faster than most people do—his wife thanked her for learning so quickly so that she didn’t have to stand there demo-ing forever. Once or twice, the teacher put his arm around me to show Sweetie how to situate the rope. I smelled him and I was like ooooh, yeah, men. Thank goodness I didn’t say that out loud! Even though it was just being done in a demo mode, it felt good to have them both working on me at once. That isn’t something Sweetie would do in a scene, but I hope she will someday. I have a lot of dreams.

Despite the fact that the teacher kept reminding sweetie to pull tighter, we ran out of rope before she finished the entire harness, but she got enough done for me to feel the effect-tension, restraint, beautiful knots and a princess feeling. I wanted to strip down and let her practice more. I went into the bathroom to put tape in my nipples, the first time I’d tried such a thing. It felt much better going on than it did coming off, that’s for sure. I loved the way it looked, the way went with my blushy cheeks and flushed chest. I think I’m obsessed with pink because it’s the color of vitality in me, assurance that my blood’s flowing. Also, cute.

When I got back out on the floor I pulled down my dress and took off my bra, sort of bearing my breasts for all to see. Everyone was very busy with their own rope lessons, so I felt normal and not as noticed as I like to be. As Sweetie wound the ropes around me again, the teacher encouraged her to touch more. She was still a little stiff and self-conscious, but she did take her time to run her hands under and over my boobs, shoulders, hair. At times like this, I feel like we are a miracle of a nine-year marriage. After class, we took ourselves next door to Rita’s for some ice cream.

Next: another pretty pink scene.

More Tantra! Moremoremore!

I'm still in the middle of trying to write about last weekend's adventures, but I went to a Tantric writing workshop last night and it reaaaaaly hit the spot.

Response to BDSM Safety Discussion

This is a FetLife post I just did in response to a BDSM safety talk we attended last weekend. The talk was given in response to local predator issues.The letter touches on a lot of the stuff I’ve been working on here.

"What a great night (Sweetie) and I had on Saturday. Rope class, the discussion, and the play party were all so much fun. Thank you for having us.

I’ve only been in parts of the various safety discussions that have been going on, so I’m sure I’ll repeat some stuff that’s already been said. Feel free to correct me if I heard anything wrong…

First I wanted to say a bigbig thank you to (Rope Boss and Party Mistress) for hosting the talk, and to the people who participated, too. It was wonderful to get to sit around and talk about some of the things that had been concerning me, and it made things seem less scary in general. I was worried that I might not want to play after a discussion that deep, and the fact that I was ready to strip right down after speaks highly of the feeling of safety you’ve created.

A lot of the advice that I heard is so valuable, especially the need for subs/bottoms to know how to say what we want and don’t want. Being reminded to treat ourselves like we are worth caring for and protecting is good advice for anyone. I liked the insights that I got about others’ relationships, and I’ll be glad to keep learning more about you and yours.

However, I did feel like the talk was a bit unbalanced. In addition to what bottoms can do to make ourselves safer, I would like to have heard more about what tops’ responsibilities are beyond just the physical “don’t break your toys” rule. Those kinds of conversations would be really helpful to me because I would love to know what the norms are, what’s reasonable to expect.

Focusing mostly on what bottoms can do to protect ourselves had the (unintended, I’m sure) effect of feeling a little bit like blaming the victims. I think it’s important to say that no lapse in judgement, no rookie mistake, no foolish leap of faith will ever mean that someone deserves to be violated, physically or emotionally. Whether we’ve known someone for four months or four minutes, the right to be safe is the same.

I was especially bothered by the advice of “Don’t go over to a guy’s house unless you are ready to have sex with him.” First of all, it sells guys so short—I would have missed out on so many good relationships and friendships if I looked at life that way. Even if I’m ready to have sex, there might be aspects of play that I still need to say no to. Besides, I may be ready for sex, but I’ll never be ready to be raped. It’s just not the same thing.

For the most part, people don’t hurt each other on purpose. It seems like a lack of respectful communication leads to the majority of troubles between partners. For that reason, I feel that fear-based prevention ideas such as and “Warn people of what the consequences are if they violate your limits” are not the way to go. Approaching someone like an adversary doesn’t seem like a good way to begin a trusting, collaborative relationship. Fear may be a way to keep us safe in the short run, but in the long run an us-versus-them attitude is just going to lead to more miscommunication and hurt.

So I guess what I’d ideally like to see is kind of a team-building approach. What are the ways that men/women tops/bottoms, etc can work together to foster more communication and respect?

Thank you again for the discussion and everything else that you do. I look forward to more talking and more fun in the future."

A Vivid Dream

“Or perhaps the dream is highlighting how you have already incorporated the certain aspects or qualities of the people in your dream reunion.” –Dream Dictionary

As much fun as I’ve been having with Sweetie, for the past few weeks I  have been vexed by a lack of new characters in this story. Apparently, my subconscious has some things it isn’t through going over, because my dreams have been on the theme of reunion lately. I know that reading about other peoples’ dreams is not the most riveting thing in the world, but the one I had this morning was so vivid and gave me such a feeling of groundedness while I was in it that I think it might be important here.

In the dream, my entire family had stopped by Bill’s house around Christmastime. It wasn’t decorated or anything, I just knew that’s when it was. In real life, I’ve never even seen a picture of Bill’s apartment—I asked for a picture of his and his parents’ Christmas tree and he didn’t send one. So being able to actually be in his apartment felt good.  His hands were the most vivid part of the dream, those fat hands that I loved. He was sitting down next to me on the couch, and I took his hand. He stood up and I introduced him to my family. EVERYBODY in my generation and my niece and nephews’ generation was there, even my sister’s friends and their kids. I introduced him to them one by one.

We weren’t together in the dream, it was just a visit. He was waiting to hear from someone on the computer, she could’ve been a professional contact or a friend or sweetie, I didn’t know. There were babies EVERYWHERE. I picked one up and cuddled him, wondered if it would make me more appealing, then remembered this wasn’t a connection anymore. (Since I don’t want kids, I always assume that babies in my dreams symbolize less um, biological projects.)

What strikes me about this dream is how solid I felt in it—much more grounded and centered than I generally do. It felt good to be in three dimensions with him. The dream left me with a hopeful feeling that doesn’t really add up, considering that he’s long gone.

Maybe it does mean that I’ve incorporated aspects of him into myself and into what I’m looking for.

And maybe it also means it’s time to finish coming out as poly to my immediate family. I’m pretty sure they know, I don’t really keep it a secret, but I’ve been putting off having the actual conversations. I told my dad back in January, and that went okay, but maybe it’s time to tell my mom and sister and brother. I’m not sure I really want their input on the matter, but it might be the right next step.

Yay, Sweetie Learned a New Harness!

Last Saturday we went to a rope class, a discussion, and a play party, all given by the same group. So much happened in that one night, I'll try to write out all the complicated stuff this week, but first, a pretty picture! She's been moved up to the intermediate class! *proud*

Some Fears I Would Like to Grow Out Of

Yesterday I was having breakfast with a friend who is in the process of transitioning from female to male. I was telling him about my recent dating adventures and subsequent fears. He told me that a lot of the fears I have about men, he has about being a man—they’re things he was worried about turning into. That really made it hit home that my fears are prejudices—no one should have to be scared to become a man because of stereotypes, and I shouldn’t be afraid to date them, either.

I work in an afterschool program with elementary students who are very dogmatic about gender. At least once a week, I give them a rousing speech about how limiting gender generalizations are. I’m a social justice-y egalitarian-minded girl and I’m ashamed to be walking around with my own terrible generalizations. Part of the reason I started this project was to learn my way out of my terrible ideas about men, so maybe listing and debunking some of those fears will help.

1. Doll-phobia.  Most of the fears are me-specific. For example, I don’t think that guys want every woman to be a sex-doll, I’m just afraid that my emotions are so ugly and crazy that men will only want to enjoy my body as separate from my personality. As with all of these fears, I’m not sure why I don’t apply them to women—Sweetie seems perfectly fine with my mess of a personality, just as I adore hers. Also, I have lots of platonic guy friends, so I guess that this fear only applies to men who are attracted to me. Which brings me to:

2. Attraction feels like aggression. Whenever a guy is attracted to me, especially in the toppish way that I crave, it feels very dangerous. I guess I have a hard time thinking that guys are capable of feeling genuine affection towards me, so the pursuit I’m craving feel scary and I worry that it is just a way to hurt me. This is a terrible thing to think about people. I always wished I could have gotten to know Bill separate from this idea, but maybe I sought him out because he proved the fear—I’ll never know, because I never really knew him.

3. I’ve always worried that I’m missing some essential quality that would make me appealing to men. I’ve always felt like other women just had some secret that I wasn’t let in on.

As much as I enjoy being a bottom, one of the qualities that I worry about being without is compliance. I’ve been really shocked and hurt by the way that men have tried to control me outside of scene situations. Not ALL of them, of course—the Mayor of Kittentown was a loyal reader and was super supportive of all of my other endeavors as well. He never displayed jealousy, but instead, like Sweetie, seemed to genuinely root for my other adventures to be fruitful. He never made me feel like I had to change or hold anything back. I also have so many wonderful and generous guy friends who have supported me every step of the way. I guess this fear is also top-specific, but I know that the right top would not expect me to be compliant outside of scenes.

4. I’m-Not-the-Pretty-Sister Syndrome: I am afraid that there will always be a woman that he loves better, and that means that I’m afraid that I can’t ever have a relationship with a guy who truly belongs to me. That is a dangerous fear for a polyamorous woman to have—feeling like I’m always going to be less-than is going to be a nightmare if I end up in a constellation. I think the key to this is to make myself start dating only guys who are emotionally available, whether they are in other relationships are not. When I feel loved, validated, and free, I don’t feel competitive.

5. I’m afraid that my size makes me unlovable and untoppable (again, by men). When I first started thinking about dating men, I had strong fantasies about being taken, especially just being shoved into a wall and kissed. But I had this idea that because I am so big and bossy I could never feel what it’s like to be pursued, for someone to want me enough to take the initiative and the lead.

When I was in middle school, my drama teacher told me I was too tall to ever be the leading lady, and I certainly have watched men respond more positively to smaller women.

When I first joined FetLife and started going to play parties, I started to see the reality that men like all different shapes and sizes of women, and that every woman can be a hot showoff sex goddess the way that I want to be. I started to feel that for myself.

Yet somehow, I still get the idea, that guys see me as less than other women because of my size, maybe not les fuckable, but less datable. I was convinced that Bill wouldn’t go out in public with me because he thought I was too fat, and I never had the courage to ask him.

Society does seem to teach us to value fat people less than skinny people, big women less than little. Being not-skinny does come with all kind of stereotypes and assumptions.

One of the worst of these, and one I have to fight myself from thinking, is that a fat girl better fuck anybody who asks, because we’re lucky to be asked at all. That’s part of what makes it difficult for me to wait for the right person/people to come along, even though I want to feel like I deserve the right connections.

6. The other night at the poetry reading, a guy read a story that suggested that the plain woman had to give up the idea of finding a guy she’s attracted to, or she would deserve whatever heartbreak she gets. I’ve felt guilty these past months because physical attraction is important to me, not the only thing that’s important, but still.

7. And I am very worried that I am too ugly for a man. I don’t have a pretty little face; it’s very pronounced and expressive. Remember MySpace profile pics? I never could master the slack, dreamy, passive look we were all supposed to have in those, any more than I can stop myself from smiling in photos where I’m being submissive—nor should I ever have to!

I know that men are not shallow automatons who choose whatever face and body type they are told to. I see all different looks and bodies on women who are in happy relationships with guys. Again, these fears are mostly me-specific.

I hope that by naming some of the fears, I can start to move past them. They seem pretty stupid when I write them all down. I would love to let guys in to prove the fears wrong and start moving towards real connections. I want to stop selling guys so short, give them time to get to know me, and let myself get to know them. Like Sweetie always says, I have a lot of dreams.

Your Friday Happy: Black Widow vs. Chair

Thinking I might have to indulge Sweetie's love of superhero movies a little more often!

Song of the Week: A Mini-Mix for My Inner MIKA

Sometimes my iPod is the body part that benefits the most from my adventures. Back in the habit of asking boys for songs, at least! 

May Is National Masturbation Month and I Am Celebrating!

**First, some meta-blogging—last night I read one of my smuttier blog posts in public for the first time. It felt great, especially the parts where they laughed. I’d been lagging a bit, but the combination of a few glasses of wine and a warm audience was very restorative. I woke up feeling like today was a holiday, a nice spark/sunbeam feeling for my upcoming adventures—gonna try my best to keep them going. Thanks a jillion to the wonderful hostess and audience—I think I know what the next steps are.**

So May is National Masturbation Month, and it coincides with the fact that I have been dawdling through the self-love exercises in Jaclyn Friedman’s What You Really Really Want. One of the things she recommends is to try masturbating every day for seven days. I would have done that anyway, but she says to try and make it special, to really try and push your boundaries. I recommend trying this—even a handsy-from-way-back girl like me can always learn some new tricks. I’m shy to share some of the experiments here, but here’s a favorite recent self-adventure:

On Sunday when Sweetie and I were driving back from a trip, I was feeling antsy because we’d been away from our bed and missed out weekend sex-reading-napping routine. Also I’d been reading Wicked before we left, which I’m surprised to note is pretty hot in places. So I asked Sweetie if she would mind if I took some personal time on the road. She suggested that I wait until after we stopped for gas, but thought it was a fine idea.

As I laid the seat back, Sweetie offered to switch over to music from her usual podcasts, but I didn’t think that listening to the Extra Hot Great crowd talk about The Avengers would have a bad effect. It seemed oddly fitting.

I borrowed her big green zip-up hoodie to put over me like a blanket. I wanted to show off but didn’t want to be too much of a highway pervert. I pulled my white lacy tank top up and pulled my books out of the cups of my shiny pink bra. I flashed them a little bit, letting the sweatshirt/blanket sit just beneath them. I imagined that truckers were driving by and looking down at me.

I was slow and shy, just brushing my nipples with my fingertips at first, closing my eyes and feeling the sun on my face, looking up at the sky or Sweetie. I felt a little guilty for not asking her to join in. I played with my boobs for miles and miles. I loved letting them poke out from my shirt, seeing them stick up like perfect pink peaks in the sun. I love them so much.

Once I reached down into my pants, it didn’t take long at all to finish. I was very quiet, almost like I had to be stealthy so that the traffic wouldn’t notice. I couldn’t find a napkin, so I wiped my hand off on my jeans. Pretty soon, it was my turn to drive, and time to switch the podcast over to Judge John Hodgman.

Being a Little Bit of a Teenager, Still

“My friends are all adults; I’m still a teenage girl.”--The Echo Friendly

We’re still on Bill, I’m afraid. Even though I haven’t been in touch with him, and after however many paragraphs, it still feels like there’s an invisible ribbon connecting me to him.

Just like Hannah’s Adam on Girls, the addictive thing about Bill (aside from the delicious way he could fling me around the room) was the way that little glimmers of affection/happiness would somehow work their way out of him. On the rare occasions that he smiled, it was like a shooting star, magical but burning out quickly. Genuine moments of tenderness (or what I perceived as genuine moments of tenderness) punctuated the callousness, the dismissiveness, the occasional gentle choking. I guess I can admit now that I am every cliché girl with daddy issues, and those brief flickers of attention hit a nerve so deep that I couldn’t help but crave more. That’s what makes men so dangerous for me.

One such flicker of tenderness happened one morning while I was cooking Bill breakfast. The very sad Nineties song I’d named myself after (not “Pretty Ribbons”—my everyday name is made up too.) shuffled on and I said “Sheesh, what a song to name myself after. Good job, seventeen-year-old me.”

He smiled one of those rare smiles, looked happy and satisfied down to his core, took my face in his hands and kissed me, like seventeen-year-old-me was the most precious thing in the whole world. I’d certainly never seen her that way, it was wonderful to feel recognized and loved for a part of myself I’ve fought all this time.

The next song to come on was Violet by Hole. “At least I didn’t name myself after this one.” I said, “Though I would have been cute as a Violet.”

Again, the smile. He gathered me up protectively and gave me another perfect kiss. Whenever I hear either of those songs, I remember what it felt like when he saw that part of me and liked it.

Who knows what he really meant by it—probably he meant “I like kissing.” But to feel like someone loved the part of me I hated, it hit me so deep and it’s hard to get past it.

In the six months since I started dating guys, I’ve often felt like a teenager—naïve, curious, volatile, needy, horny and scared. Getting all grossed out because I didn’t know it was common to put condoms on sex toys, being all teary-obsessed before I really know someone, feeling like I have to fight for my body to be my own territory, wanting to jump up and down and say “Sex is a big deal, people!” when most people just take it in stride, none of those things feel like being an adult. It feels a lot of the time like being a lost, hurt kid, craving connection and wanting to experience springtime properly, but wandering into pitfalls and getting stuck.

Part of the reason I’m stuck there, is because I want to save that person, fix the traumas, not just the big, scary ones, but the everyday indignities of being a teen girl who doesn’t like herself. I feel like I’m a little bit of a perfectionist this time around, because my real first times were so depressing.

I don’t know where I got this idea, but when I was fourteen, I knew I was so ugly that no one would ever want me. So when Rob Kilgore (I’m sorry, but that’s really his name, and it’s too illustrative not to use.) said that if someone didn’t fuck with him, he would jump in the river and drown, I volunteered. My first kiss was mere moments before my first sex, and I have to say the former was more impressive than the latter. It took all of probably five minutes. My best friend Sherri was making out with her boyfriend in the next room. One of the following songs was playing:

Afterwards, when I was sitting in Sherri’s kitchen bleeding and reading the funnies, I read a horoscope that said my life had changed for the better, and I hoped that much was true.

Stupid as it sounds, I thought Rob Kilgore and I would have a special connection after that, and that things would change for me in recognition of my new found womanhood—I thought I would somehow be more acceptable to people. What did happen is that his girlfriend, Lisa (in my memory, all of the blondes in acid washed jeans from the late Eighties are called Lisa) quietly called me a freak and told me to stay away from him. But I would always hope for recognition. The following Friday, I wore the same shirt I’d worn that night, a T-shirt I’d designed with an intricate puff-paint pattern of hearts, ankhs, peace-signs. I walked past the high school (I was still in middle school) hoping he would see me, and he did, but he was never more that cordial.

Whenever he was at the youth center, I was always aware of him, and always aware when whatever-song-it-had-been came on. I thought he might notice and catch my eye, but of course he never did.

A while later, maybe a year or so later, I ended up over at the Kilgore house. His bedroom was in an unfinished basement; his bed was a waterbed on a raised platform. I’d worn my favorite underwear, shiny white satin with a bright paisley print. I’m sorry but I have to tell you about the picture he had pinned to the wall: a vivid, comic-like illustration in mostly reds and greens of a very busty woman with her arm getting ripped (Chainsawed? Gnawed off by an alien?) off, bleeding all over the place. It didn’t occur to me then that that was going to look at during. He told me to turn around, bent me over and almost had it in before his dad came home. He and his brother were clearly scared of their dad, they hustled me out of the house. I enjoyed mourning the loss of the underwear for weeks, imagined them tacked up next to the armless lady, another thing to look at.

I don’t know why I didn’t expect more for myself, why I didn’t think I could be part of the world of dating and kissing  and whatever else. I don’t know why, but I counted myself out of the emotional aspects of sex. It was a way to both deny and fulfill my needs at once. Erica Jong would be proud of the ziplessness of the fucks that got me through most of high school. I don’t remember any of them ever wanting to look at my face, but I don’t remember all of their faces either. Maybe that’s where my silly urge to feel beautiful comes from.

I do know that the times I have felt beautiful in front of a man these past six months have been either hard to believe in (as in my very nice relationship with MKT) or have felt like the recognition was shining right through to the center of me (like the first fire kiss)—these moments are very hard to let go of, and I guess I don’t have to. I’d like to have a little bit more perspective, though, so that I wouldn’t have to cling so hard that things get devastating.

My senior year of high school when I came out as bi, I thought that it would protect me from feeling so deeply needy towards men. I did have a few good relationships with guys, but mostly, fighting and denying the need for them all these years made it stronger, warped the need into a genuine scary neurosis. If I embrace it, if I let the need in, do you think it might stop hurting me? Let’s try it.

Vintage Friday Spanking

So I'm pretty sure I'm not going to write back to the guy who had this as his profile pic. But for other reasons.

Song of the Week: Same Mistakes

"I'm still a teenage girl. I haven't changed a bit. I'm still not over it."

Like nearly every yammerer on every pop-culture podcast, I'm enjoying Girls. Hannah's relationship with the emotionally distant and only-charming-to-her Adam helps me understand (and be more sympathetic to) myself in my adventures with Bill.

A Month After Fireguy: On Coming and Writing

A month ago, I had a basement-date with Fireguy that went (consensually) a lot further than it should’ve. It wouldn’t have occurred to me that I could end up restrained and at third base by the end of a first date. It was a LOT of fun buy it was also certainly too much for me.

The next day, I was feeling good but overwhelmed, a little shaky and unsure. I figured I’d give it a few days to let it sink in, then write it through and consider what I wanted to do about that budding relationship or acquaintanceship or playpal arrangement or whatever it was supposed to be. Fireguy, however, went into damage-control mode, quite unbidden and unnecessarily. He texted and said that if I wrote about it that day, it wouldn’t be the “one handed read” that he wanted it to be, but if I wrote about it the next week, then “that would be fine.”

It isn’t that I dislike being jerked off to, either in person or in written form—in fact, until that moment, turning people on had been one of the big joys of writing this. When Fireguy sent those texts, I felt the bottom drop out from under me, both because he was taking ownership of something that’s creatively mine and because he’d reduced this complex personal journey or whatever to something that existed just for his enjoyment. I wanted to handle it properly, so I called him up to talk about it, but I was so panicked that I ended up blubbering and unable to finish my sentences. He seemed irritated: “You just don’t understand what’s going on with me.”

What was going on with him was that he and Varga Girl broke up but were trying to continue as sub and dom, that’s a big deal, admittedly. But what he’d mentioned in the texts was, this guy had embarrassed him on FetLife, and he was very concerned about his reputation. It still makes me so disgusted that he was:

A. A grown man that concerned about his online reputation.

B. Willing to compromise my well-being about it.

C. A dominant man trying to squelch a submissive woman’s point of view.

What I kept asking him, and what I still keep wondering, is what about what’s going on with me? All of that stuff that happened was a big deal to me, and I still wish I could’ve gotten anybody to acknowledge it. I was completely unable to convince either Fireguy or Varga Girl that I was a person in the story, that, for better or worse, something had happened to me, and I had a right to write about it, I had a right to a point of view. I’ll never get them to acknowledge me as a human being, and that is really scary.

I eventually managed to get it through to him that trying to control me creatively was crossing a limit. He apologized for that and for breaking my trust. We had a pretty good conversation (even if he did try to rewrite the meaning of the phrase “one-handed read”) and I was relieved that I didn’t have to stay mad at him.

AND THEN HE DID IT AGAIN.

Paranoid and still trying to Smeagol his precious ex, he tried to convince me again to stop writing about our date, trying at first to shame me about the sex parts, but eventually admitting that he was afraid of his sub reading it. He tried to convince me to take out the sex scenes or “make it more anonymous” even though I already don’t use names or locations. He even suggested switching the entire blog to private. “Everyone knows it’s me,” he said, he said he didn’t want his family to read it.

I was beyond livid, I still am. First of all, I had made a clear limit about trying to control me creatively. Breaking a limit once can be seen as an accident, breaking it again is torture. He knew that what he was doing would have a triggering effect, and he kept doing it anyway. When I got upset and panicked, he told me I was too angry to be in his family.

What I heard in all those attempts to control my writing: “My point of view is more important than yours. Nobody in the scene knows who you are, so you don’t matter.”

So right now, I’m still scared. I’m having trouble getting back to the feeling I had before that night-the feeling of being free and loved and starting to accept myself. I really worry that I will never be able to trust a man again, that I can only find men who embody a secret inner wish to be erased.

Part of me want to jump up and down and say “Why don’t you see, what happened was important,” both the experience and the paragraphs he squelched. After all, he did succeed in fucking up the writing process—I was too disgusted and humiliated to finish telling the sex part of the story.

One part I didn’t get to was, toward the end of the scene that night, I did get to try the “Please, Sir, may I come” thing—he was playing with my boobs and I was finishing myself off down below, and I started to feel the wave crest, so I found just the right moment and asked: “Please sir, may I come.”

“Sure, go ahead,” he said, and I did.

Sometimes you don’t know that you don’t like something until it’s too late. There’s some connection there between his wanting a say in the deeply intimate rhythms of my own body and wanting a say in the way I write about the experience—to me, those things are not separate. If you’re keeping score, that’s “”Come for me, you greedy little brat,” yes and “Please Sir may I come?” no. It’s complicated.

As much as I enjoy the feeling of submitting, it seems very difficult to find a guy whose dominance does not spill over into everyday life. Both Bill and Fireguy refused to let me belong to myself after I left the couch or scene. Both experiences were about losing my point of view, and I am very scared of letting that happen again.

Ohno, Second Date Tears

Sunday was my date with the Gentleman, and it was a fail. Sigh. I felt off before I even walked out the door. Sweetie and I hadn’t had much time together during the week, so we were feeling each-other-deficient. My chemicals were a little off from having to leave her, but the Gentleman was driving over from out of town and I’d been looking forward to him and the art museum all week.  Sweetie and I straightened the house in case he wanted to stop in and I got myself all dolled up.

As soon as I was in the car with him I felt like I was fucking up the date. I couldn’t keep myself off of dark topics. He mentioned having had a steak the say before and I didn’t stop myself before I veered into Food Inc, territory. I mostly gave up red meat a while ago, but it’s been a looooong time since I was the kind of insufferable person who'd begrudge anybody a steak. On a topic slightly more relevant between potential playpals or whatever, I also didn’t stop myself from mentioning the slew of scary rape discussions going on on the local FetLife boards and the ethical dilemmas I’d been having about BDSM. I was not being fun.

The conversation lightened once we were in the museum, but when we got to the point of discussing out current dance cards, I ended up telling him why I’d broken things off with the Mayor of Kittentown. I told him that I do worry about only being liked for my boobs. I said that if we had a scene together again it would be helpful to compliment additional things about me.

“That’s nice nail polish you’re wearing,” he said sarcastically.

“See how easy that is?’ I really didn’t mean to make such a big deal about it—it was only a minor quibble with his brand-new topping skills.

“In my defense, you were kind of leading with them.”

….

“What?”

“When you walked into the diner and I saw you, I was like, whoa. I mean there’s nothing wrong with that, but…”

I started to cry.

“Um, I was just trying to look cute. I think I want to go home.”

He suggested that going to see the exhibit we’d come to see would make me feel better, and I agreed, but I didn’t stop talking about it.

“That was so unfair of you to say. It’s just what I look like and you made all kinds of assumptions about me based on it. It’s not fair.”

He seemed defensive, who wouldn’t be, I guess, but “leading with them”? Ugh. I guess they are technically in front of me, but still.

My picture of myself showing up for that date was totally different from what he saw. I blowdried my hair, chose pretty pink makeup, put on a cute purple dress, which, yes, had cleavage, and new stripy platform shoes. I felt pretty and confident because of my happiness at the idea of getting to make new friends and learn new things, of being at lunch with my wife and a date and his wife, it felt like such a happy occasion.

But here’s what he saw: boobs.

He said he was sorry and I acknowledged that I am in kind of a bad place.

We waited in line for the exhibit, for which he’d paid a lot of money, but I just wanted to get away from him and cry. Eventually that’s what I did. He apologized, offered to drive me home, but I said I wanted to be alone, that he should stay and look at the art. I really hope he stayed and looked at the art.

I sat on the museum steps and sobbed in front of the Sunday crowd. I called Sweetie, even though I felt bad for interrupting her creative alone time. She said to start walking towards home and she would come to get me. I hung up the phone and sobbed some more.

A pair of ladies, sisters carrying lots of baby gear, came over to ask if I was okay, and I said, yes, sure, it’s just a bad date, and they said “Oh, that explains it. Everything is men’s fault.”

I laughed and sniffed and said I really don’t want to see it that way. They gave me some baby wipes and I started to walk towards home.

Once Sweetie picked me up, I could really unleash the tears. “I feel like a kid.” I kept saying. “I feel like a kid.”

I don’t know why that was the feeling, except that the day had wiped away some naïveté that I really didn’t want to lose. I didn’t feel like an adult woman with all kinds of worth and accomplishments. I felt like a little girl whose body (which she absolutely loves) somehow makes people not see her. Which somehow makes me seem less respectable.

We spent a quite evening at home, went for a little walk. We watched lots of sitcoms. There were these terrifying ads for a Family Guy episode wherein Meg (the teenage daughter) gets kidnapped and tortured, dragged all around in her underwear, and her dad offers 2$ for her safe return. On a comedy! It’s a network show I’m sure many of my elementary-age students watched. How could I NOT feel like the world is a fucking terrifying place?

I don’t want to feel all dark and threatened, helpless. A month ago, I felt strong and beautiful, like something wonderful was emerging from me. But where in the world is safe for that version of me, if even the nicest guys reduce me to a floating set of bosoms?

Because this is not a bad guy, none of these guys are evil and maybe not even intentionally mean. They just seem so conditioned by stereotypes and expectations that they can’t see me, and sometimes I can’t see myself. I know that lots of men are not like that, I hate the way my fears lead me to confirm them over and over. Because I may not be leading with my boobs, but at this point, I am leading with my fears. I’m not sure what the solution is to that.

Wish Me Luck!

On Sunday, the Gentleman is taking me to the art museum for our second date. Strangely, it marks the first time in over a decade that a guy has actually picked me up for a date. I'll take my gold stars where I can get 'em.

Sweetie’s Knack for Ropes Part Four: God Bless the Crotch Rope

This is the first, but hopefully not the last, piece of smut that begins: I got home from church and we had omelets. We read our books in bed for a while—me with my chick lit book and her with a scary alternate telling of the Christmas story. When we’d finished our breakfast and coffee, it was time to get started.

Probably like a lot of long-married folks, I don’t always get naked for Sweetie—I am super-averse to being chilly. But even though I’d only just turned the heat on, I drew the blinds, stood in the middle of the room, and stripped all the way down. I was cold, but a little bit of discomfort actually made me more turned on. Her hands were cold as she moved the ropes over me, as she stopped to play with my nipples a little. I squirmed and laughed and she felt aggressive, just enough more aggressive for it to be hot.

A few weeks ago at ropes class with the Gentleman, the teacher lady told us to always make sure there are knots in the “crotch rope”—“They’re gonna hit something.” she said helpfully. As she ties the crotch rope to the ropes around my waist, she tested the crotch rope for where the knot would land—right on my clit. Sweetie is a rope genius. A…smell started wafting up from me; I was so much more than ready. I looked at myself in the mirror, the first time I’d been able to do that with ropes on. She took some pictures, making me even more turned on. I had a rosy glow and so did she.

Cycles and circumstances had led her to be the less-taken-care-of of the two of us for the past few weeks, so I was determined that she would come first. I couldn’t resist climbing on, though, seeing what the crotch knot could do for the both of us.

As you know, my sex drive has been dodgy for the past few weeks, elusive, bound up in fear and sadness, but as I placed that knot between us, I felt slutty doors open in my heart and brazen sunlight shine in. It wasn’t just our relationship that was shining, but my relationship to everything. I was ready to open up again.

I played roughly with her breasts, the way I love feeling guys do. She has very pretty boobs, pale and almost as big as mine, but with little delicate-looking nipples. They only look delicate, though, she likes them pulled and pinched and bit and I let the aggression out on them, enough to bruise a little.

I hung my breast down into her mouth and she sucked, playing with the other one. All the while I was moving on top of her, any more and she wouldn’t’ve been the first to come. I backed up and played with her a little, she felt so good, a few weeks away is way too long. I was so glad to be back there, slick, warm, and in love. I pushed my fingers inside her and she moaned. I grit my teeth, bore down, and fucked her as hard as I could, kissed her, felt like we were the sex goddesses of my dreams. She felt so good, her skin glowed pink with happiness, she looked (like she always does) like an angel.

I got a little cramp in my leg and climbed down, lay by her side and finished her off. Then it was my turn. I didn’t want it to be over too soon, so I asked her to concentrate on my nipples, she pinched them gently in rhythm, rubbed, played, and kissed them. As she played up top, she ran her arm under the top of the crotch rope so that it pulled hard into my butt cracks and the knot worked my clit. I could feel everything at once. I came, loud and jubilant.

I wanted to just turn over and spoon, but I had to get up for her to take the ropes off. As we snuggled down into spooning, I didn’t drift off the way I usually do. I felt energized, inspired.

A little while later, we got up and drove to the nature center for a walk. It was a perfect spring day that smelled like wisteria. There was an art installation in the woods—someone had knitted cozies for the trees. We sat on a sunny bench and birdwatched. There weren’t too many, but we did see a tufted titmouse. We started to feel like we just might make it.

***Writing this down in my notebook this morning made me so turned on that I had to take some, as we call it in our house, “personal time” before I went to my Environmental Conservation final. Lots of fantasies I’d been afraid to look at, about her and others, came rushing back and I just had the best time. I felt back to being an adorable unicorn again. I’d been worried that my project wasn’t getting anywhere, but this feels like a breakthrough. ***

Another Song of the Week: Something Beautiful

For the looming presences still looming a little:

Song of the Week: Beautiful

Can't wait to murder this song at queer karoke tonight. It's goin' out to all the bottoms. 

Sweetie’s Knack for Ropes Part Three: Our Pretty Pink Scene

(I just found out from FetLife posts that notorious local predator was at the party that night. I seriously hope it wasn’t the guy I flirted with—we know I have iffy taste sometimes…)

There was a little while when they couldn’t find the ropes I’d ordered, and let me tell you, I felt like a real fetishist at that moment. The proprietress was kind enough to lend me her kit for the class, but my brain kept saying pink! I daydreamed it pink! It has to be pink to go with the pink pajamas and my lucky undies. I guess an artistic vision is an artistic vision. The pink ropes were found and I was overjoyed.

I went to change into my pajamas. Sweetie and I got beers and milled around getting up the courage. We struck up a conversation with a top I’d been flirting with during the class, and I offered to be a supporting character for him, should he need one on another night. Then he went off to flog a lady who was not his sub while his sub explored her options—adorable.

I’d spent all week picturing the scene as me standing in the middle of things while she undressed me and wrapped me up. We took a spot in the middle of the floor, near to, but out of reach of, both the cute gut’s and the switchy couple’s floggers. I put my hands up and Sweetie took off my pajama top. I left my glasses on so that I could watch everybody else. This was a keep-your-nipples-covered party so I had to leave on my black bra. A few of the women in the room had X-es of black tape on their nipples, but I don’t think that’d work for me. They’re so big that the tape might just pop right off.

The music was unfortunate, loud and distracting, Eighties hits that gave me little pangs of Bill, I don’t know why. Sweetie took her time wrapping the rope around me, had to stop and start and readjust. She told me afterwards that she’d been self-conscious. She made a loose halter on top, wove some ropes around my waist (I really like that) and cuffed my wrists together in front of me. I wanted to be spanks but all of the kneeler thingies were taken, so we pulled up an ordinary stacking chair and I knelt down on it.

At first, she had me so that my ass was facing away from the room, but I had her turn it around. I wanted them to see. I had on my favorite undies, the ones I’d worn for Bill and Fireguy and the Mayor of Kittentown and lots of times for Sweetie. I love the feeling of having my undies arranged just so for a spanking, the fabric being pulled gently this way and that. I loved the fact that everyone could see her paying attention to me.

Now, spanking isn’t Sweetie’s favorite thing. She only started trying it a few months ago and saw how happy and calm it makes me. She’s got a natural talent for it, not too gentle, not too hurty. Spank, pet, spank, pet, stinging then rubbing away the stinging. I was subdued, in spite of the Eighties music, but the chair was hurting my neck so we moved to one of the sets of padded benches off to the side.

I lay on my belly and she tied my hands behind my back. I gave her my glasses but I wish I hadn’t—she told me later that the couple on the next bench over had a knife involved. I’d’ve liked to have seen that, but she would not have.

I felt us fall into the roles of top and bottom in a way that we hadn’t before. I liked trusting her that way, seeing her as a commanding presence. But remember when I said I wondered what the doms were whispering to the subs? In this case, it’s “What do I do next?”

When she pulled my hair and spanked, I almost really did cry. My heart was really grieving over Bill that day (I don’t know why, after all these months, he’s such a looming figure. Maybe because what happened with him is much easier to fathom than what happened with Fireguy.) and I guess the hair-pulling brought it out. I didn’t stop her, just felt her gentleness and the heartbreak and felt empty and sad and lost but also loved and protected.  It’s beautiful how she took on this world for me, how much she’s pushed her boundaries just to share his with me. I love her so much for it.

After that, she tied me to a chair and kissed me. I love the feeling of being kissed in front of everyone, and it was a strange sensation to do this sort of playacting kiss with someone that I know so well, someone I’ve kissed so many times before. She felt like a new person, we both did.

When our scene was done, she wrapped me up in my blanket. Aftercare feels kind of silly with someone I’ve loved so long, spent so many many hours on the couch with. I liked hugging her but felt like I’d just as soon be home in bed. We wouldn’t stay too much longer, but first, she put fresh socks on my feet and wove the rope around my ankles. I laid down my head on my cute suitcase and relaxed. Then we decided to go home. The cute flogger guy expressed some disappointment that we were leaving, but I told him I’d be back on my own sometime.

So much of BDSM has been about learning to trust men, so I missed that leap-of-faith aspect of it when I was playing with Sweetie. But it was such a gift to get to see just how deeply I do trust her, and how very much she loves me.

Next: The Ropes at Home: Smut About My Wife, Hooray!

Goodbye (Again), Mayor of Kittentown

“She wasn’t just cleaning out her locker, she was cleaning out her life.” (Kevin Arnold on The Wonder Years as Winnie Cooper got ready to leave town.)

This week, I broke things off with the Mayor of Kittentown. For the third time. I’ve never been quite able to figure out what doesn’t work between us, only that something doesn’t. I’ve known almost the whole time that he wasn’t a romantic match, and maybe I’m just not an FWB kind of girl.

Remember last week when I was feeling fretful about guys only liking me for my boobs? Here’s part of why: I was texting with MKT, just catching up because we hadn’t seen each other in a while. When I asked how things were going with the other woman he’s dating, he said she wasn’t really exciting him too much and

“Besides, she needs bigger boobs. ;)”

I sent him back an “Eeeeeeew” for talking about a woman’s body that way, it really got under my skin. Yes, I’ve heard and enjoyed guys saying much filthier things, but in dirty-talk context and therefore consensual—how would she feel if she knew he was saying that about her? He isn’t poly so I can’t expect him to know he shouldn’t compare us, but the fact that that’s the first way he could think of to say he liked me better, not my heart, my face, my general enthusiasm for B-movies and pancakes, just my boobs, of course.

The trouble with being new to sex with guys is that I don’t always notice when I don’t like something until it is kind of way too late to do anything about it. Like I’ve said before, I like for my boobs to get lots of attention, but the way he fixated on them was kind of childish. “Boobies!” He would say often, even on days where I was feeling objecty from other jackasses. And the fact that I was feeling objecty from other jackasses always made me want to give MKT a pass.

Is worrying about being an object old-fashioned or prude? It certainly does seem to be getting in the way of my fun.

He said insensitive things in other ways, too. On out first date he said something demeaning about a homeless person, he made jokes about them regularly. I think that’s a mainstream thing to do, but I thought it showed a lack of empathy—a lot of my dealbreakers just seem like guidelines for being a decent human being, but I still feel obligated to compromise them sometimes. I am a perfectionist and I don’t want to be, but I guess limits are limits. Close to the end of our relationship, he told me he’d once tweeted that the woman being loud on the bus behind him “Should choke on a bucket of cocks.” That’s hard for a girl like me to get past, even though, again, comments like that are part of everyday culture. I’m sure plenty of decent guys say things like that every day nowadays, it sucks.

Anyway, those seemed like small things compared to the fact that he was being so sweet to me almost always. I wanted to like him because he liked me. He has the prettiest green eyes and (when it isn’t leering) an angelic smile. He called me beautiful and held me when I was sad. Sex was always fun between us, even if we both wanted to be on the bottom. He’d usually take the top and make me a very loud, happy girl. His neighbors probably got woken up more than once.

But I can’t quite get away from the idea that being together when we aren’t/won’t be in love is a kind of using each other. It feels objectifying to both of us. I wish that I didn’t feel that way—I am very, very frustrated that sex is such a big deal to me, it’s really gunking up my experiments. Maybe it isn’t a matter of rejecting the whole idea of FWBs, maybe just this particular situation didn’t work?

All in all, I’m grateful to him. He was such a good first-in-a-long-time—I appreciate that so much. It’s hard to let him go and scary to have an almost-empty dance card, guywise. Aside from my date with the Gentleman this weekend, I’m turning my attention back to my friends for a while. I’d love to be a little more healed before the next guy comes along.

I wish the Mayor of Kittentown all the luck. I think the lessons here are: treat people like whole people as much as I can. Get better at saying (kindly and directly) what bothers me. Get better at listening to my body and heart, and don’t cling to things that don’t work. Those are good lessons.

I’ll miss him, his cats, his episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000. Thank you, pal.