Have to Celebrate Small Victories, I Guess

I must be getting stronger--this heartbreak time I didn't email (or even Google!) Bill! Go me?

Song of the Week: Love Lockdown

Okay, not exactly love, but all paragraphs aside, I just miiiiiiss him. Also, his handcuffs.

My Dinner With Jealousy

Even though it’s a moot point after he turned out to be such a jerk, the dinner where I met The Man’s wife still haunts me, like a test I didn’t pass. Sweetie called it self-sabotage then, and I’m still not 100% sure that it wasn’t.

The Man and The Wife asked us to dinner after my first (very happy) scene with him, and I was delighted. Here was a guy on the up-and-up, inviting me into his life. We exchanged our spouses’ phone numbers and it really felt like we were all on the way to a real something.

But as the time neared, I felt dread and sadness. As we got ready for the dinner, I chose a dress, blew out my hair, put on lipstick, all the while saying to Sweetie “I don’t want to do this.” We let them know we were on our way and he did his nice manly thing of telling us where the parking was good near the restaurant they’d chosen.

Now, I knew The Wife wasn’t easygoing, just from the way that he’d characterized her—nearly every time he picked me up for something, they were in the middle of a phone-snit of some kind. So that could have been a reason I was feeling dread. There was also the fact that she did have veto power, so if I failed to impress her, that would be it for me and him. I was thisclose to my dreams coming true, as long as I didn’t fuck up this dinner. In retrospect, there was no way that I could have fucked it up—all I had to do was be myself. Which is, I guess, what happened.

When Sweetie and I got to the restaurant, only The Man was waiting for us. “(The Wife) is off pouting somewhere, I’ll go get her.” he said and inside I was like Whaaaaaaat? How do I deal with this? I went to the restroom and breathed and fixed my face and hoped for the best. When I came out, they were all seated at the table together waiting for me. I wanted to ask her what the pouting had been about—that really threw me off.

When I saw them together, my dread got so, so much worse. He looked at her and smiled, put her arm around her, rubbed her leg the way he’d lovingly rubbed mine the week before. Here’s where I feel like I failed every poly test, because instead of enjoying the love he clearly felt for her, I felt stabbed in the stomach. I couldn’t feel my connection to him and everything in me said RUN. I made a very good try at disappearing into the wall, and when it turned out someone had run to the store for wine, I literally jumped at the chance.

Nothing like this had ever happened to me mid-relationship! I’ve only ever felt jealousy like that when I knew something was already over. I’ve adored many a partner’s spouse and happily played with wives upstairs. Before we got to the day of this dinner, I’d been so excited about having The Wife as a new friend. I was so, so disappointed in my feelings at that moment.

But in a nice, simple world without judgment and guilt, I’d say, I just didn’t like her. I didn’t like THEM. They were nasty to each other, George-and-Marthaing their way through dinner. She said that she doesn’t play with women because she respects them too much, she can only look down on men that way. (Um, huh?) He complained about her asshole ex and his huge schlong. (I do believe that is the first time I’ve ever typed that word.)

Conversationally, The Wife was like a pitbull, especially on the topic of the horror-themed play party she was planning. I said I thought that really wouldn’t be for me, but she really, REALLY wanted to convince me, to the point where I yes, almost started to cry.

When everyone was all “WHAT’S WRONG?” I admitted to being really nervous that she wouldn’t like me, and said that I really couldn’t figure out how to be. (It’s worth noting that I was a bottom sitting at a table trying to figure out how to please three tops. At the time Sweetie joked that she would just have to be in charge of me next time.) The Man reached across the table and held my hand, but I still couldn’t feel anything of the connection we’d had before. Sweetie tried to soothe me too, but I knew it was over, I knew I’d been this close to my dream and wrecked it.

Toward the end of the dinner, I asked if I could take a little walk with The Man, just to touch base, and it was a whole awkward mess convincing The Wife not to come along. (Sweetie, of course, was ready to give us the five minutes of space that I felt like we needed.)

We did go for a little walk. He said he knew that the jealousy just meant I liked him, and I thanked him for being one of the few guys I’d been with who were okay with emotion. That’s when he made the first of a series of weird references to stalking: “Well, as long as you don’t show up at my work, or (The Wife’s) work.” (WTF? How did it go from nervous-at-dinner to stalkertime? I never so much as overtexted the dude.)

Nonetheless, he said that what was between us was still real, that it wasn’t just scene chemistry, and I wanted to believe him. He kissed me goodnight and everything, but I couldn’t shake the idea that it was over. I stayed up all night feeling really, really lost, but Sweetie convinced me that it was okay, that I should keep giving him a chance.

A couple of days later, we had a date at my house—I couldn’t wait to put on my cute cupcake apron and make him dinner. He was an hour late, but I wasn’t upset about that because the busses around here can be glacial sometimes. But as he sat at the table texting with The Wife for about 20 minutes, eating the dinner I’d cooked for him, I started to feel hurt and I said so.

“Well, do you just want me to leave? Because I won’t be talked to this way.” (Doms always say they’ll keep that kind of nonsense to scenes, but I’ve noticed it tends to creep in.)

Of course I didn’t want him to leave; I just thought it was something we could talk about.

“I’m helping her with something. I would do the same for you as long as I wasn’t with (The Wife) or friends.”

I failed to see the hierarchy in that statement and we went to the couch to snuggle. About an hour in, his wife texted to say this “I’m bored, tell me what you’re doing.” By then I was too happily riled up to mind the boundary-breaking, so I was like sure, tell her! He sent her a picture of our happy faces with the caption “Naked stuff.”

By the end of the night, I’d let him downplay my concerns about ignoring me during dinner with “Oh, I know you’re bratty sometimes.” Ugh. The things I’ll apparently put up with when someone smells good!

So I wonder still if the jealousy at the dinner was my intuition telling me it just wouldn’t work, that he only really did have eyes for her, or at least that he and I were not on the same page. I still don’t know. It felt like once he knew I was jealous once, I never had a chance to carve out any space for myself—any objection to her constant presence was characterized as possessiveness. The last day, he made a reference to Fatal Attraction! Why bring me into your marriage if you were so afraid I’d destroy it, if you were so afraid of ME?

I honestly don’t know what comes next. Probably a lot of time and paragraphs, maybe some casual scenes and a lot of healing rope time with Sweetie. For all that he let me down, I do miss him so much, and I’m sad about losing the chance to know her too—I still keep thinking that if I’d just been stronger, more openhearted…

When he blamed my “emotional problems” for the trouble between us, I knew it was bullshit, just a story he was telling himself for when the venue owners called, but I still want to be a better, stronger me the next time a chance for connection comes along.

Backtracking to a Very Happy Nude Year’s Eve

When I opened the blog back up, the Mayor of Kittentown requested that I write about this particular night, and since the handwritten version of it has been sitting on my desk all year (and since he’s a loyal reader and the only guy ever to let me leave a toothbrush at his house!) I thought I’d oblige him. It’s such a bright cheery story; it’ll be a break from the nonsense I’ve been writing through…

I’d been looking forward to the party since last July—a space-themed, clothing optional vegetarian potluck and dance party, in the same space where I’d attended my first official cuddle party. The Lady of the House (who has since become one of my favorite friends) was hosting and I knew it was the most auspicious way possible to ring in 2013—and boy was I ever right. Sweetie and I picked up another nudie friend of ours and hit the road. As we drove out of town, one of the local skyscrapers was flashing sparkling rainbow patterns all across it—what could be more optimistic?

I think Sweetie was just as excited at the prospect of wearing her soft pants to a party as I was about wearing nothing/ropes.

When we arrived, the hostess was superbusy and none of the other folks I know were there yet, so I settled into my usual fifteen-minutes-of-awkward-before-I-get-really-gregarious. I stripped down to my shiny red pushup bra and Snoopy Christmas underpants and did my best with small talk. Sweetie had given me a nice push bright pink robe for Christmas, so that was my thing to sit on. For the first while of the party, Sweetie and I did that unfortunate couple thing where we just talked to each other.

Before long, though, it started to feel like home. My friends Sheandhim arrived, the She half dressed in classic-Who scarf and little else, as did another couple that I knew from various poly to-dos.

While I was getting a drink of water in the appetizing/full-of-naked-people kitchen, someone asked me what my hopes were for 2013, and, somewhat embarrassingly, I said “I’m hoping to find true love.” Who says that? But really, think true love is always my goal, and I hope that I keep finding it and finding it and finding it.

The Lady of the House, who by the way was looking gorgeous in her open silk purple robe and green alien antennae, okayed our request to do ropes in the social area as opposed to the play area since Sweetie and I weren’t planning to sex it up too much. I really, really REALLY liked getting ropes on in such a relaxed vanilla environment. Rather than getting a blindfold on and going off into a dream world, I smiled a huge smile and chatted with everyone around us—guys came over and made assessing/approving gestures, people exclaimed over Sweetie’s knots, I granted requests to turn around so that people could get a better look. (You mean give you a better look at my ass? Don’t MIND if I do!) One partygoer I knew, who is always very popular at parties, asked if he could kiss me, and I politely offered him a cheek. (the face kind of cheek, btw.)

While I was getting tied there in the corner of the Lady of the House’s living room, there were naked folks on the couch watching (when they weren’t watching us) Doctor Who with the sound off. It was David Tennant, who I immediately decided was too emotionally available to be my kind of Doctor. “But it’s his dying scene!” said Sweetie. Whatever.

I was all decorated and harnessed up by the time it was time to switch the channel to watching the ball drop. A particularly well-hung friend attached a Christmas ball to his penis ring and prepared for a ball drop of his own. The Lady of the House handed out champagne, and we toasted, and I kissed my wife, hugged my naked friends, and danced my naked, roped-up ass off to “I Just Can’t Get Enough.”

And I marveled at how far this project had gotten me. One of the ladies at the party had been the facilitator at the first clothing-optional thing I went to, a workshop at the Poly Living Conference all the way back in February 2012. I was very effusive in thanking her: “I remember I was just brave enough to take off my sweater. I left on my bra and scarf. But ever since then, I’m a nudist.”

I still remember the revelation of that workshop—the way my hair felt soft against my back, the gratitude I felt toward everyone willing to share their naked bodies with me, the shock and relief of feeling comfortable in my skin.

The transformation from being a girl with her sweater off in a conference room to being the joyous, showoffy celebration that I was on New Years feels like a miracle to me. 2012 was full of triggers and missteps, and there was plenty about it I’d change, but when I first sat down to write this story, I wrote “I cannot believe that this is what my life looks like now. I can’t wait to see what’s next.”

I hope to see myself in that ebullient mood again sometime soon.

Worries, Wishes, and Resolutions, Post-Heartbreak

Sweetie says it’s not always the same story, but the last year is really looking like a pattern to me—girl meets dom, dom breaks limits, girl panics and feels unplaywithable. It takes so much to rebuild myself after each breach of trust, and it’s very hard to live with the fact that these kinds of things are happening all the time, that he’s out there ready to dehumanize the next girl.

I don’t want to be using words like “dehumanizing.” I want to have fun. I want to be the brave naked girl with a well-spanked behind and ropes in various shades of Hello Kitty, but that girl seems really far away. So I’ll start with the worries:

--I am worried that there isn’t a dominant guy in the world who doesn’t secretly want me to just shut the fuck up. No matter how clear I’ve made it that messing with my voice is a hard limit, I always seem to end up with a hand across my throat, literally or metaphorically.

--I’m worried that I’ll never be able to tell the difference between red flags and just fears. Since I’m a fairly anxious person anyway, I tend to dismiss intuitions and deal-breakers until it’s too late. In the case of the last guy, so much of my psyche was like a horror movie audience hollering DON’T GO IN THERE but somehow I always end up in there. It would save me a lot of trouble if, as Sweetie suggests, my intuition could please speak in complete sentences.

--I’m worried that I’m just someone who can’t gain respect for some reason. I worry about this a lot in my classroom, as well, on the days when the first graders won’t simmer down long enough for me to finish a sentence.

--I worry that submission is just something that I try to exchange for love, but I don’t think so. After a good, connected scene, I feel clearheaded and centered, closer to my better self. It’s only when I play without connection that things go off the rails.

Now for the wishes:

--I wish for a man who’ll be happy to belong to me, no matter who else he belongs to, no matter who else is at the table. I would love to sit there and know that he loves me, even as he gazes lovingly at his wife. I want to feel cared for and secure enough to enjoy the love between him and his other partner(s). I don’t mean belonging to each other in a M/s sense, only in the Breakfast at Tiffany’s buy-some-furniture-and-give-the-cat-a-name sense. This is the hardest thing to believe in.

--I’m trying to figure out a non-hurtful way to say I wish for a guy with a regular-sized penis that works most of the time. But it’s not really about the size or hardness; it’s more about having the depth of character to handle mishaps and insecurity with aplomb. In my somewhat limited experience, there seems to be a connection between frustrations in that department and misogynist tendencies.

--Speaking of depth of character, I wish for a man who is as good and careful with knots as my wife is. Learning ropes takes discipline, practice, and patience, all things that I need to be looking for in a partner.

--I wish to be able to make mistakes, talk things through, ask for compromise. It keeps getting to a point where I’m afraid to ask questions, and by then it is certainly too late.

--I am not a unicorn, and I do not want to date or bottom to his wife, girlfriend, friend, other sub, or anybody else, unless I expressly say so. I wish for a man who can have healthy boundaries between relationships and who can even (Do I dare wish for this in modern times?) PUT THE FUCKING PHONE AWAY on date nights. (Except for check-ins and emergencies, of course.) It’s not that I don’t want to know his people; I just would like a chance to know him first.

--I wish for a man who can see me broken and sobbing, who can see me at my ugliest and still think I’m beautiful. I know this is a possible thing because my wife has been doing it since 2001.

And the resolutions:

--I will not ignore red flags. If something in me says “RUN!” I will run as if Matt Smith himself were telling me to.

--I will not do things I don’t like. Even if other people seem to like them. This seems obvious but I need to tell it to myself.

--I will not date men whose other partners have “Veto power.” I will gladly meet folks but I won’t be vetted. I want to be treated like a potential friend, not a potential employee.

--I will not date anyone who makes me feel secondary or tertiary. I have room in my heart for a real second partner, and I want a man who does as well. This doesn’t mean I would need equal time, but if I see him once a week, I want the time to mean something.

--I have friends with whom I will happily play casually, but when I am on a date and someone asks me what I am looking for, I will not give some wishy-washy answer about “Oh, well, I’m open to however things turn out…” I will say “I’m looking for someone at whose house I could eventually leave a toothbrush.” and if he seems toothbrush-averse, I’ll move on.

The Waiting and the Breakup Thing

I really didn’t want to let him go. I am tired of being in the pattern of girl meets dom, dom breaks limits, dom disappears. I thought there must be a better way to end the story, some way to let him earn back my trust. I spent the couple of days after the bad scene concentrating on being 100% there for my students and trying to get in touch with my inner strength.

Because The Man and Sadist Girl were members of the venue’s security staff, I wrote to the venue owners to tell them what happened. Because of some stupid loyalty or hope, I left The Man’s name out of it. I gave his name later on, but I seriously doubt that there will be any consequences. I’m one voice against members of a close-knit group, and I’m sure it’ll be easy for them to convince their boss that I’m crazy or whatever. Power imbalances like this are what make me wonder if kink is ever really safe.

When it came time to get in touch with him, I was still very unsure, but I thought it would be good to plan a walk either way—we could either reconnect or debrief and part kindly. It seemed like a healthy way to try and break my pattern of disappearing doms.

He didn’t text back when I texted after school, so I started to figure out that it was really over. I called around 5:30 and got back an unfriendly text that said he would call when he got back from the gym. He made me wait for that call for a long while, but I got the kids’ behavior reports done while I was waiting—that seemed oddly fitting. I kept reading out relevant quotes to Sweetie: “Please pay attention and follow directions,” etc. Does not play well with others.

The call was quick:

“(The Wife) says I have to talk to you so I’m talking to you. I don’t think that you are healthy for me to be around. You are too fragile, even when I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“What are you TALKING ABOUT? I didn’t do anything wrong. I realized that I needed help and I told you! And you didn’t listen. It is not fragile to respond to something traumatic by being traumatized.”

“You weren’t traumatized and this isn’t about Saturday, which, I already apologized. You have emotional issues about me. You’re so nervous that it makes me fearful. When you met (The Wife) you were so upset that you could barely speak, even though there was no reason to be nervous.”

“I was nervous when I met her because I LIKED you.” (And, I didn’t say, because she started out the night by pouting and refusing to come to the table. And she had veto power. And she tried really hard to convince me that I would like a horror-themed play party. And because they were Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolfe-ing each other all throughout dinner. It was nerve-wracking, is all.)

“That wasn’t the only thing.”

“Explain please. I just don’t understand.”

“I don’t HAVE to explain. I can just hang up this phone and never speak to you again.”

(tiny voice) “Oh. Okay.”

I couldn’t understand why he was suddenly so mad, what in the world had changed since Sunday. I started writing this post as a “Well, AM I too nervous?” kind of thing but that is just pointless. Even if I had fucked up the dinner we could have talked it through. He was trying to turn it around on me for whatever reason, but it makes no sense. None of it makes any sense.

It’s always tempting to look around in a story and see what I could have done better, see what lessons I can learn so that it can all go better next time, but this is not the time for that. The plain and simple fact is that he fucked me over and then tried to gaslight me about it. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault.

I’m not fragile. I have “emotional issues” but who doesn’t—it’s called being alive. I tried to talk and process and do what you’re supposed to do, but none of it worked, because it was over, even sooner than I thought it was. I miss him so badly and I don’t know when I’ll be ready to date again. The fear and sadness gets less every day, and I’m ding my best to take care of myself and move on.

Scene Failure and the Scary Party, Part Three: A Long Night and a Sweet Morning

This was the first time I saw the inside of their apartment, a cute homey place except for the racks and racks of horror movies everywhere. (Seriously, who wants to sleep next to more than one installment of Human Centipede?) I loved his cats instantly—he rivals the Mayor of Kittentown in terms of breakup pet-regret.

We tried to talk but we were both exhausted and not really getting anywhere. I said I was embarrassed about arguing loudly with Sadist Girl and he was all “Yeah, well, you’ll just have to mend some fences.”

“What? Mend some fences? After what she did?” I just couldn’t believe it. There was less hope of renewing trust with him with every word out of his mouth. I couldn’t believe that that’s what he was gleaning from the situation—a need for me to preserve some imagined friendship with someone who’d helped him completely screw me over. I just didn’t get why he was so desperate for me to connect completely and immediately with the women in his life, but, spoiler alert, that’s what he ended up calling the deal breaker.

Mending fences? Really? I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t mad at her when I was clearly so hurt. The more I type this story, the more I think maybe they planned it without me, that it was his idea all along.

Talking wasn’t working, so we went to bed. He and his wife have an agreement that others can sleep in their bed, they just can’t have sexytimes there. Even though I couldn’t feel safe with him, I still felt something like affection lying there in his arms, with the cats hovering around us, nuzzling and sweet. I really, really wanted this to be real, not just a hollow shell of a snuggle.

He fell asleep immediately, the blissful sleep of the not-panicking, and I lay there feeling trapped and sad and horny and broken. I woke him up a few times to try and get him to help me calm down. His face trying to stay awake was really sweet, but the conclusion was always the same. She was his friend, and of course he loved his venue, and there was nothing that could be done about it. I felt like he was choosing brutality over everything I’d had to offer, over the very, very much I’d already given. It didn’t make sense to me then, and it doesn’t make sense to me now.

Around 6 A.M, something piped up in my brain that told me I had to get myself home. I told him I was leaving and he offered little protest. He just said goodbye. I don’t think I could stand to know that he valued me so little, I felt like I had to stay and change his mind. I went back to bed and finally drifted off.

When he woke up (He kept mentioning a thousand times that he had to go and pick up his wife at a horror convention. He had, in fact, asked ME to go and pick her up, because he is man-with-no-boundaries. I’d declined.) Anyway, when we woke up, I told him to hold down my heart to keep it from breaking—he has these big, beautiful meaty hands, just like I always go for. I can’t believe I never got to write about those hands having happier times. Maybe I’ll come back to it. He held my heart down so hard that it pressed my neck and felt like choking-as I pushed his hand down, he felt exactly like Bill.

And yet the warmth from him still felt like love or like some kind of connection. I forget sometimes, I forget over and over that some things are just about sex, just animal attraction that I tend to give more meaning than it deserves. I just forget.

“Let’s go to the couch and make out,” I said. “It might be our last chance.”

I climbed on top of him and ground myself against him, that teenage dry-humping thing I always miss when there are no guys around. (Although, teenagers probably don't really do that anymore, now that I think about it.) No way in this world was I going to let him inside me, but I loved feeling his (admittedly insubstantial) stuff against mine. We kissed and kissed and he played with my nipples just as much as he possibly could.

He said “Tell me the things you want to tell me. Get the anger out.”

“Well, you are just gonna have to get it together. I have 23 first graders and I don’t need one more. In fact, I don’t need a whole venue full of first graders who can’t keep their hands to themselves. Be my hero and clean up your fucking mess. Rise to the fucking occasion.”

“What else?”

“No matter who else you belong to, no matter who else you LOVE, when we are together, you are MINE. These lips are mine, these ears are mine, this dick is mine. MINE.”

“Okay.”

After I said that I felt a lot of the tension drain away. The feeling of wanting to claim him was deep and scary—I’m still very scared of it, but I am also glad I acknowledged it.

“Unless (the wife) is there.”

Ugh. Goddammit that wasn’t what I was talking about. But also, I totally can belong to somebody else if my wife is there. I think we’ve reached the actual problem, or one of them.

We kept kissing for as long as we could, and I made myself come with him on top of me.

Then we talked, and in a way it felt like the first real talking we’d done. He told me all about his family and his background, and how he’d joined the military because they called the day his mom died. I was uncomfortable with the whole ex-military aspect of him, but that was such a sad and broken fact, it endeared him to me, and when he asked me if I wanted to see photo albums, I was so touched and said maybe next time. This is what made it seem worthwhile, what made me want to give him every possible chance.

We agreed that we would talk a whole lot, do lots of vanilla things for a long while before we ever set foot back in a dungeon again. We made plans for a long walk the following weekend, assuming I decided to continue things. We were gonna give things a few days to simmer down and then talk.

Then he told me to bring a toothbrush next time, but to make sure not to leave it at their place. I need someone who wants me to leave a toothbrush. Yet another time when I should have just broken it off right then.

But all morning he’d told me that he was going to get better for me, stronger and more courageous, that he was going to be the man I deserved, and that, as an added bonus, he’d work out until he could lift me over his head. He said that I deserved everything I’d been asking for.

“And you tell that girl what my REAL NAME IS.”

I was supposed to meet Sweetie downtown for the flower show—it was our big date. I parked pretty far away and walked toward where she got off the bus, feeling disoriented and young, the way I’d felt when I first lived here in 1994—lost, unformed. We never made it to the flower show because I couldn’t stop crying, and that is what I regret the very most.

Scene Failure and the Scary Party Part Two: Aftercare?

I was so angry and hurt and sad that I couldn’t speak. I got out the blanket (purple velvet with a white fleecy inside, I bought it just for our scenes) and climbed into his lap. It’s scary and stupid that I was relying on the same person who’d just fucked me over to help bring me back to life—this system is a mess unless you really play with the right person.

He brushed my hair and said nice things that sounded hollow. He said that he wanted me to be an important person in his life, that he’d find a cute pet name/honorific for me like he has for his wife (To him, she’s The Girl. Which is kind of telling...)

“If you wanted me to be someone important in your life, then why did you treat me like I wasn’t? Why did you act just like I wasn’t even there at all?”

“I want you to know my friends. I guess you should take some time with (Sadist Girl) outside of scenes.”

“You expect me to be friends with someone who just did that to me? I would punch her in the face if I could. And she should at least learn what my fucking NAME IS.”

“But you don’t understand. She plays at a whole different level that you and I do.” He said this with an annoying admiration in his voice.

“You mean a level without negotiation or consent?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

The thing I am tired of finding out is that guys SAY that they want to know what I want, that they want me to voice my concerns and needs. They SAY they believe in talking things through and having a real relationship, but what I keep finding at the core of them (Not ALL of them, to be sure) is a fantasy of no limits, for a sex doll who just shuts the fuck up and does what she’s told and never stops a scene or pipes up with a worry.

Sadist Girl popped back in throughout aftercare. The Man was making an effort to be attentive to me, but she kept asking things like “Where should I take a pussy-eating break? The bathroom?”

“Yeah, whatever,” he said, taking her security armband for safekeeping. Not to be a stick-in-the-mud (Though that seems to be my role in this story.) but at a no-sex party, the answer should have been “Nowhere.” He is truly not awesome with boundaries.

Sadist Girl stopped back in later (Presumably after the pussy-eating) to stand over us and say “Isn’t that adorable. Isn’t that just fucking adorable.”

I guess I should say at this point that I didn’t get the idea that he was attracted to her or anything. She’s trans (I think that’s why he thought we’d like each other, because all queer people are automatically friends somehow) and he seems a little bit overly straight for anyone creatively-gendered. I couldn’t figure out the weird energy between them. It was like he was in her thrall—he acted like a toadie and it’s hard to respect a toadie.

All of this confusion and bad energy was heavy on my heart as we kept kissing and talking and trying to get back to something good. I knew it was over, full of the same dread that I’d had that last day on the couch with Bill, but I didn’t want to give up. I wanted to just blame Sadist Girl or the venue, but was hard to deny that he’d made things the way they were.

I called Sweetie as we were getting ready to leave, trying to figure out what to do. It must have taken enormous strength for her not just to insist that I come home. I feel terrible that she had to experience a call like that.

“Come home with me,” he said as I finished my phone call. And we kissed and pushed and shoved and struggled against each other in the room with the good music.

“See, if you’re angry with me, I want you to be angry. It’s better than when you are all helpless and can barely stand. Then I just don’t know what to say.”

I did like shoving him around but if HELPLESS is a turnoff then a. Why a submissive? and b. Don’t be a douchebag and wreck a scene with some meaningless nonsense that has nothing to do with anything! Is what I wish I’d said.

Sadist Girl came by and he lead her sweetly away by the elbow. The conversation started with “I fucked up,” but I didn’t hear the rest. She came back to pack up her gear and said goodbye without apologizing, so I decided to talk to her about it too.

“I don’t think that I was in a position to really consent. You can’t just change a scene in the middle like that.”

In an authoritative voice she said “Actually, you can. You really need to work on your…”

And I have no idea what she was going to tell me I needed to work on because by the end of the sentence I was snapping at her semi-coherently. I could not believe that this stranger was telling me when I could and could not consent.

“If I were you,” she snarled “I wouldn’t come back to MY place.”

The Man hustled me out the door. I felt so ashamed, behaving like a Real Housewife of BDSM, sniping at another girl at a party and causing a (ha) scene.

Dignity wasn’t happening that night. I yelled at him on the way to the car, all about consent and respect and triggers, balling up my fists and jumping up and down in my pretty red satin heels. 

“GOD DAMMIT.” I snarled “What was I not doing? Why can’t I ever just fucking be enough for somebody.”

I was so lost and frustrated and livid with him for fucking up the worthwhile thing I thought we had.

I have to give him credit for getting in the car with me when I was in that state.

Sometimes my city driving is a little iffy, but on this drive, I had the motherfucking eye of the tiger. I turned up the music, seethed, and drove.

Scene Failure and the Scary Party, Part One

I really wish I’d been telling this story while it was still happy-it would’ve been so much more fun to write. I liked him so much that I was even calling him Emotionally Available Guy in my fb updates. Our first scene together was so close to being my dream come true that it was hard to be myself afterwards—I felt like he could finally be the guy to give me what I needed. Except.

Remember the episode of Doctor Who where the little boy keeps everything he’s afraid of locked in a cabinet in his room? That’s what one of the local play parties has felt like to me for a while—there are no boundaries anywhere, anyone feels free to waltz into any scene they see fit, so I’ve left there on more than one occasion feeling exploited and trampled. On the other hand, it’s also the place where I had my amazing first public scene with Fireguy, so it can’t be all bad.

The Man (as in the Man who brings one down) is the head of security at this venue. I was thinking that being with him would make me safe, rather than realizing that he is part of what makes it so chaotic. I was excited when he invited me, thinking it could help me to heal my creepy feelings about the place. Still, I hemmed and hawed about going, especially when he sprung it on me that his wife (who I didn’t know very well yet) would be going too. She didn’t end up going, and after much coaxing and reassurance, I decided to go, even though I worried that it might be the end for us. I really wanted to spend time with him and I wondered if the badness of the Bad Party was all in my head.

When I first got there, there was already an emergency—a woman had been getting her boobs whipped and she started to bleed, needing stitches. She was all woozy and no one could find the first aid kit. We ran into her in the aftercare room later, asked if she was okay, and for some reason her “I’m happy!” rang hollow, like, really, do we have to put ourselves through this?

As I was signing my waiver, The Man introduced me to Sadist Girl, a member of his security staff, who referred to me annoyingly as “Ribbons,” part of my Fet handle, instead of my real name, which I’d given her. “She knows you from FetLife,” he explained, “and she knows why you’re here.” Cue the foreboding I’m-in-trouble music.

At this point (actually at many points before this night) the horror movie audience would be yelling at the screen: “Get out of the house! Run DOWN the stairs, not up!” But I trusted him and you know what? He smelled really, really good. It’s amazing the lengths I’ll go to for a good man smell, let me tell you. I wanted to please him so that he’d notice me, so he’d really make me someone important in his life, so I’d know that he would stick around.

He led me into a harshly lit red room where people were kind of crowded in, but there was a free spanking bench. I didn’t really care for it because it wasn’t very showoffy/safe and it was away from the really good DJ that usually makes the place bearable. The beginning of the scene wasn’t like the first one or the nice time that we’d had in my living room earlier in the week. He didn’t stop and look into my eyes or ask me what I wanted. He didn’t brush my hair with the brush he’d requested the previous time. He didn’t stop and connect with me at all—it was like I was a chore he had to get through before he could get back to the real fun of working security. I should have stopped the scene or at least moved to another room.

He was complaining about the people talking around us, so I asked if he wanted to move and he said no. He told me to keep my mouth shut even though I’d told him several times that it was a hard limit. I don’t know why, but I kept my mouth shut—I am ashamed of how desperate I was and how much I compromised. I wish I could get in the Sex Tardis and save myself, but it is always too late.

It was an okay scene, if uninspired. Flogging, handcuffs, hairpulling. I had on my shorty pajamas that I always wear and my shirt was pulled up, exposing my nipples. “You’re my sweet girl,” he kept saying, “My good, sweet girl.” I melted. I was so happy in that moment—I’d dreamed of being his and he was saying that I was.

Right about then I heard him talking to Sadist Girl and handing her his soft leather paddle. I don’t know why I said it as okay. It certainly hadn’t been negotiated beforehand or even mentioned as a possibility. I would have said no if I’d been asked outside subspace. I don’t know why I did any of this. He held me tight from the front as she hit me all stingy, not the thuddy the way I like. She slapped around the edges of places so that it was hurtier, the sides of my thighs, the back of my knees. I don’t remember her hitting me in the crotch but it was bleeding after. I liked being tight in The Man’s arms, sobbing and screaming, and I liked feeling like I was giving him what he wanted. Sadist Girl tried hitting me on the bottom of my feet and at least I remembered the word “red” for that. She kept calling me “Ribbons” and it was making me mad. “Why do you say you’re not a masochist, RIBBONS?” “Huh, RIBBONS?

I started to really really not like it so I whispered to him that I wanted to be with just him now. She stopped hitting me but wouldn’t leave. They stood around talking as if I wasn’t there. She was listing off the people she had grudges against, talking about how they’d have to ban them.

I started to feel exposed and violated. I tried to work my shirt down over my breasts even though I was still cuffed. I told him again to get rid of her. He looked annoyed and she looked pissed off but finally went away. I told him to get me out of the handcuffs and I got dressed. I should have left as soon as I could drive, but I didn’t. Even though he’d broken our agreements and ignored my safety, I still wanted to be with him.

Last Letter

So I reopened the blog so that I could tell this story. I'll start by posting my last letter to him. I am sad and brokenhearted and cannot believe that another story is ending this way.

I don't regret trying to give you another chance, even if you thought otherwise. Though you can't see it, I thought there was genuine value in what we shared.

Nor do I regret showing vulnerability, nervousness, and other genuine emotions. I am not fragile. I just wanted to let you know how I was feeling.

I deserve all of the things I asked you for: to be treated with kindness and respect, to be focused on and cared for, to be treated like a partner and a friend, not as an afterthought and a toy.

It is not playing on a "higher level" to be callous and heartless and expect silent subservience to whatever skank you throw my way. It is abuse. I could not understand how you got from the loving scene at ---------to what you did to me the other night, and what you did to me tonight.

Expecting someone not to have emotions in the face of genuine trauma (or genuine excitement, for that matter!) is predatory and bullying.

Also, you should probably take "abandonment" off your "don'ts" list.