Last week when I ran into Old-Timey Guy and Punk Rock Girl,
going back to the Regular Dungeon seemed like it would be an unmitigated joy,
and I hope it will be.
But I feel really smushy about it. It’s hard to forget that
the last time I was there, way back at the end of February, was my fourth date
with The Man and our best scene. I remember standing at the bar in a skimpy
nightie and pretty patent-leather heels I’d bought for the occasion, telling
him how happy I was to be there.
“You should be happy,” he said “You’re beautiful, you have a
beautiful wife, and now you have… me!”
I loved the idea that I “had” him and the energy between us
felt so good. We’d only kissed once before that, but I loved the way he rubbed
my knee in a proprietary way during the dungeon owner’s “don’t break your toys”
speech. He fumbled with his knots though—at one point during rope class the
owner came over and asked if he’d got the Somerville Bowline down and The Man
was all, “Yep, yep, got it.” but I exchanged a “not so much” look with the
owner—maybe that’s when I should’ve known it wouldn’t work…
I loved kissing The Man, even if he was a little withholding
with the tongue. I loved the way he expertly slapped his handcuffs on me and
shoved my head down when I “tried to get away.” That night he found a loophole
to the “don’t restrict my voice thing” he said “You don’t have to speak until
spoken to.” I can’t really look back and see that as a red flag, even though I
know now that I shouldn’t have trusted him.
But I was so happy to have his attention. During aftercare,
he told me he wanted a relationship, not just a play partner, and I had no
reason not to believe him. I sat at his feet in my fuzzy pink robe and he
stroked my well-pulled hair—I felt SO CLOSE to having my dream. Or, I guess
more accurately, my dream did come true, it just didn’t last.
He was fulfilling a lot of needs that night, not least the
need to have my head held down. The need that frustrates me and pisses me off the
most is the feeling of having everyone see that a man wants me, that I’m wanted
and worthy of his attention. Of course I am! Everyone is! But there’s something
so gratifying in having everyone see me that way, even as they’re quipping “She
got ARRESTED” as my arms are being pulled behind my back.
That need makes me more grateful, more desperate, way
needier than I’d ever want to be. I hate that need but I think it’s probably a
good thing to embrace it, to have compassion for the vulnerability of it.
At any rate, none of that is what this night is about.
Tonight I’ll be there to play with Sweetie, catch up with friends, reunite with
my Hello Kitty nipple tape, with the invincible feeling I have there sometimes.
If I can find a not-so-nice man to beat my ass for a while, then that would be
the icing on the cake.
Last Sunday, I had my favorite metamour day so far. Ms.
Sweetheart was in town for a meetup with one of her online communities and I
was superexcited to spend some time with her. To tell the truth, if we hadn’t
been with a rather vanilla-y crowd, I’d’ve been an eensy bit snuggly toward
her. I like the way she makes me feel looked-after: During dinner, a chocolate
chip from my bread pudding fell on my jeans and she didn’t hesitate to try and
clean it off—to no avail, but still.
When Sweetie came to pick me up, Ms. Sweetheart walked me
over to the car, saying “Do you think I should’ve blown their minds and told
them you’re dating my boyfriend?”
And that’s how I found out that Mr. Sweetheart and I are
dating, and I guess he felt the same. When I told him what she said, he said,
“Oh, I’ll have to thank her, now I know!”
So yay, we’re dating. We have a weekly phone date on
Wednesdays at 8 pm and plans for a visit are starting to come together.
And, (I can’t resist saying) speaking of coming together,
during this week’s call he suggested talking about regular stuff for the first
hour and then getting smutty after that. Sweetie even gave me the house to
myself for the evening so I could speak (etc) without worrying she’d hear more
than she wanted to.
When it came time to talk dirty, I was uncharacteristically
shy—there are a lot of things I’ve written that I have yet to feel comfortable
saying. He was kind enough to do the talking and oh, swoon, what a talker.
I kind of flunked “what are you wearing?” I had cute lacy
pajama shorts on but I had to admit to a ratty and less-than-hot old top. Next
week I’ll take the opportunity to put on an outfit—for a nudist, I’ve been
getting preoccupied about outfits lately. I think that’s partly because I’ve
been working out and I’m starting to feel a little more lingerie-able or
something.
I was surprised by how intimate and sensual it felt—the
sound of his voice made it feel like he was close. I got all warm and soft as
if he were there to run his hands over me. He told a rope-themed story full of
helpful angles and detail, but the part that gave me such a
squirm/twinge/sparkle of lust was when he said something like “I’m getting nice
and hard for you” and then said my name. What was it about hearing my name? I
don’t think I’ve heard it said to me like that before.
“Are you ready to come for me yet?” he asked, saying my name
again.
“Aaaalmost…” I sighed. I couldn’t really scrape together too
many words the whole time, mostly moans and breaths and sighs which I felt
oddly self-conscious about on the phone but nonetheless could not stop making.
I was in a dreamy, sleepy state and held the phone to my ear
with my shoulder while I rubbed my nipples and clit.
“Come for me.” (Is there a better sentence in the universe?)
and I did come, a new kind of orgasm swelled up and crested like an obedient
(but still naughty) wave. I heard him come on the other end of the line too,
and we were together and happy. We panted our way back to regular talk until it
was time to say goodnight, at which time I texted him 1. The doodle I’d made
during the regular part of the conversation and 2. A picture of the wet crotch
of my PJ bottoms.
Even writing this a couple of days later, I still feel like
we should high-five. Instead, here's a star:
So my second date with Steampunk Guy was very much like the
first, except in the daytime, for the decadent housewifeness of it all. I got
all dressed up and made sure that my little black-and-white striped dress was
short enough so that he could see my lacy, hot-pink underpants when I walked up
the steps in front of them. Putting on the outfit is a bigbig part of the fun,
even if it stays on for like two minutes.
I just love kissing him, being in his arms, the way his
whole body curls up urgently against mine, the instant gratification of him.
I did make a playlist, not necessarily just for him, but
it’s called “Something Like Makeout Music,” made mostly by dropping in whole
albums that wouldn’t disrupt the process too much. He says LCD Soundsystem
makes him feel like he’s in a Nineties movie about the Eighties.
This time he brought ropes, and it was so good to have them
on again. He was competent and careful, honoring my no-intentional-boob-hurting
limit (I’m happy to report that he makes a really good effort to respond to
feedback, even feedback he can’t do anything about, as you’ll see toward the
end of the story.) and just generally having perfect hands about it. I liked to
stop and wrap my arms around him and kiss him while he wound and wove the
ropes. The smell of him was a little bitter, as if he hadn’t showered that
morning or had been doing sweaty work—you know I get drunk on that smell.
On the couch, he was hard on my hair and my ass-cheeks, but
was gentle about being the first person to put a finger in my asshole. I
couldn’t quite lose self-consciousness about it, but I was glad to have him in
there. He had me cradled in one arm and the other gloved hand probing slowly—I
felt so calm and cared-for, ready to just settle in and behave myself.
Until he smacked me in the hoo-ha and I had to laugh and
smack him back for being so porny.
“What’s porny about that?”
“Seriously, it’s what they do right before spitting on their
hands…”
I really, really like giving him a hard time. I like how
impossible and incorrigible and silly he is. The sex is pretty perfect, but the
banter’s what’s getting me attached.
The perfect sex moments…him grabbing the back of the ropes
while I was kneeling in front of him so he could go into me harder. When I
asked for a little break and he gave it by fucking me slowly and sweetly, my
brain spritzed itself with all kinds of bonding chemicals. I warmed to him, melted to him. I let him
in and it felt so perfect. And I told him it felt perfect even though I knew it
would only make him more incorrigible.
That melty moment was a reprieve from the feeling I’ve
always had, the certainty I’ve always
had that men are hopelessly separate from me, unattainable and ungraspable. He
was there, we were us, there was wholeness. Straight women must get used to
this feeling, but after all those penis-free years, I’m still waking up to it,
feeling fragile and young and fighty about needing men the way I do.
He turned me over so that I was on my belly and covered me
completely. His soft, fuzzy legs held my legs down, his arms over my arms. He
held my head so I couldn’t move and I felt a rush of relief. Absolute joy.
Helpless and safe, what I’d been waiting for all along.
“This. Is. My. Favorite.” I sighed, my head smushed into the
couch cushion.
“Why’s it your favorite?”
“Because you’re all over me.”
He turned into a growling animal and fucked me harder. The
Smiths were singing “Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me” and though I
knew this wasn’t that, the music and the pressure and relief pushed the
experience to something transcendent and I did what he wanted me to do, which
was cry. Real, deep tears this time and he came. It was lovely in a way I can’t
get my head around.
So what can I do about having such deep pressing needs met
in such a casual situation? What I did was enjoy him for a couple more hours,
put an apron on over my ropes and make him a sandwich, argue about whether I
was a hipster or not based on the fact that I think Arcade Fire is makeout
music. (My argument is that I like things too sincerely to be a hipster, he
says I sincerely like hipsterish things. Says Steampunk Guy.)
We finished the conversation we’d started about the Scary
Party in a way that made me feel satisfied and safe. He said I really should
write down this line about how The Man probably got hit on more than I did
during that mess of a thread, probably girls writing to The Man and saying “I’d shut the fuck up for you.” I’m happy to
know that Steampunk Guy doesn’t seem interested in me shutting the fuck up.
Although, best of luck to him if he did!
Anyway, my point is that we had lots of fun. He kept asking
how he could help keep me from feeling sad when he leaves and I honestly had no
idea. He just isn’t a wrap-you-in-a-blanket-and-say-sweet-nothings kind of guy,
and really I’ve learned how much nothing sweet nothings can mean. And really
felt fine until he started to get dressed.
All those intense experiences make it easy to forget this
was just a second date. I’ve never had this reaction to any other date—in fact,
I hung up the phone with Mr. Sweetheart the night before feeling close to him
even though he is six hours away. Being clingy at the end of a date just isn’t
me—I’m usually just ready to go back to my book or whatever.
The sad feeling really doesn’t have much to do with actual
him, so I don’t know what’s triggering it, unless it’s purely just my inability
to be casual. I do feel overwhelmed by the number of commitments he has, but
that’s who he is, it’s who I like.
“I had a really good time and I’d like to do it again, but
this is all it is.”
And I LIKE what it is. I just don’t know if I’m built for
it.
Tears or no tears I went on my Fet page and listed him as
someone I’m “considering.” Even that vagueness feels vulnerable, but while I
was laying there thinking things through after he left, I watched this TED Talk about how vulnerability is the key to connectedness. Who knows. He says we’re
fortnightly, so I’ve got at least that long to figure it out.Or figure out that there's nothing to figure out.
It’s funny to have a whole body part that I’m really just
getting to know. Toward the beginning of this project, around last spring or
so, I started pushing the boundaries of what I did with myself and discovered
(among other things) that I have an asshole that would really like some
attention.
Aside from encouraging Sweetie to put knots there when she’s
harnessing me up, I’ve never really shared that part of my body with anyone but
myself. There have been times when I’ve used the above Little Pink Thing during
sex with Sweetie, but I was always really shy about it, putting it in myself
and not really inviting her to participate, asswise. (Except to smack it, of
course.)
Even with partners I felt less shy around (I feel like I can
be dirtier with guys for some reason) I’ve always reflexively steered errant
fingers and other things away from there, and now I am resolving to steer
things toward it.
Last Saturday, Sweetie and I only had a few hours before we
had to get up and clean for the in-laws’ impending visit. (That we were
thinking of having sex at all shows that I’ve come a long way when it comes to
compartmentalizing and getting on with things—it used to be that a family visit
would shut me down for WEEKS) I put on a little nightgown and some lacy undies
and Sweetie stripped down to nothing. I got the Little Pink Thing ready with a
condom (Just to be safe since I don’t know what kind of plastic it is), got on
all fours and put it in. I’m not usually one for buzzy things, but this one
feels like a massage from the inside and a sense of calm descended over me. I
put my arms around Sweetie and kissed the heck out of her.
The earth-shattering thing happened midsex when I asked her
to push on the Pink Thing for me.
“Like this?” She reached around and moved it in and out
gently.
“Ohmygodyes. Yesyesyes. Ohmygoodness.”
I could NOT get over it. Just the way that little bit of
pressure from her fingertips on the toy turned a mild little ass-massage into
fireworks and turned me into a very happy animal. I felt so inspired and
grateful and close to her. I feel silly for waiting so long to invite her to be
part of my ass-love, but I just thought she was too…pristine or something.
Dumb. Should stop putting artificial limits where there are none.
So with that auspicious beginning, I decided I’d like to
spend this summer having many things done to my asshole by others. Three out of
four partners seem willing to lend a hand. Wish me luck! Hooray!
Ten years ago, in a rose garden in Upstate New York (before
gay marriage was legal there) in a ceremony officiated by a poet, Sweetie and I
said our vows in front of our family (even the most conservative members
attended) and friends. It was a perfect day, exactly the way we’d envisioned
it.
To celebrate her general state of wonderfulness, here are
ten things I love about Sweetie:
1. She is beautiful. She has the most baby-deer sincere
eyes, softsoft shoulders, spectacular bosoms and highly smoochable lips. My
body fits perfectly with hers and the smell of her is the deepest of animal
comforts.
2. She is smarter than anybody. She has absolutely no
patience for nonsense except for (thank goodness!) mine.
3. She is my best friend. Sometimes, especially if we have a
nice, leisurely Saturday afternoon ahead of us, we’ll lay down to have sex but
seeing her face will make me just start yammering. She opens me all up, and
though sometimes I know I have just a few more words than she’d prefer, she’s
always, always there to talk with. I’m so very grateful.
4. I love the way she gets really worried if she sees a
groundhog or some goslings about to cross the road. She’s protective of everything, especially me—once before we
were even dating, it started to rain and she was worried that I’d left without
a coat, so she went to my house to get me one.
5. I’m happy doing nothing with her. One of the best weeks
recently was the week when the new Arrested Development season came out and we
spent all kinds of time binge-watching episodes. Oh, Sweetie and me and our
love affair with the couch. And the bed. And the garden. And the porch.
6. She’s so unbelievably generous! All week this week, even
though she has her own full-time job, she’s been coming into school with me
early every day to help pack up my classroom. She always takes care of me so
well and I know I could never even BEGIN to make it up to her.
7. Strawberry waffles in bed every Saturday. Romantic trips
to the Whole Foods for sushi and salted caramels. Broccoli soup in the
wintertime. Getting like six fortune cookies with every Chinese food order.
Morimoto for fancy ramen on really auspicious or really trying occasions.
Beachside sundaes. Making dinner for her and sometimes for her and other
sweeties too.
8. She listens to me cry when boys are mean to me and hardly
ever gets frustrated with me for letting them. She roots for the dudes who make
me happy (the whole cast of characters at the moment) but when times are tough
she says the lesbians will always be willing to renew my membership. (She says
she has an in with the committee…)
9. She joins me in so many adventures and happily sends me
off on the ones that don’t interest her. She’s so good at knots that it makes
it hard for the boys to measure up. (Yes that is a challenge, guys. Go
practice!) She stands supportively by when nice men are helpful enough to hit
me with stuff, and then is happy to hit me with more stuff. (Mostly her lovely
hands.) She brings out the growly top in me but also can make me feel sosoothingly docile. She lets me draw elaborate doodles on her back because she
likes the tickle of it.
10. She gets superpissed when I don’t love myself as much as
she loves me. She is better at love than anybody I’ve ever known-she isn’t
perfect but she never, ever lets me down. She never stops letting me know that
I am the most important thing in the world to her. I would love to be as good
at love as she is.
Okay so readers know I really never left kink,but I haven't played in the local scene since all that nonsense with The Man back in March. Last night at a reading, I was overjoyed to run into my old pals Old-Timey guy and Punk Rock Girl. We picked up exactly where we left off, which is him making me feel all giggly and her alternately egging him on/ adorably shushing us.
They agreed to be listed as protecting me when I rebuild my Fet account and assured me that there's no reason in this world why I shouldn't go to the next party at the Regular Dungeon, which is week after next!
In the course of writing this, I’ve realized that I’ve had
an awful lot of first-date sex for someone who keeps saying she’s not casual. I
guess the two things aren’t mutually exclusive, but it’s time to acknowledge
that some of the things I want fall outside of my lovely-dovey dreams. Some of
my favorite adventures have been off to the side of romance and some have been
nowhere near it. I’m pretty much in crushtown about Steampunk Guy, but not in
the same way that I am for my more romance-oriented partners. Maybe I just want
to climb all over him a whole bunch more.
Anyway, back to the couch. As we snuggled, I told him that I
was really enjoying the enormous amount of Chi thrumming through him—he thought
“You have a huge life force.” was hilarious and worthy of a Fet status, but to
his credit he did not stop and update. Anyway, the man has a lot of oomph, and
I think it’s contagious.While we were cuddling and chatting, I felt this
amazing warmth come over me; heat, well-being, life just simmered through me—he
must’ve felt something like it too, because on went the condom.
He took me by the hair and pushed my head toward his dick,
pressing and thrusting--I believe one would call this getting fucked in the
face. I pushed him down my throat as far as I could, taking as much gagging as
I could stand. I squeezed, licked, sucked. It turns out that the taste of a
regular comdom’s okay, but I did miss the taste of the thing itself—it’s a
little harder to know what to do with a blow job without the taste to make me
all ravenous for it. But I was ravenous for it in other ways.
He put me on my hands and knees and pushed in from behind,
hitting new spots inside me and bringing forth more yowling. I got pushed down
over the edge of the couch so that my face was almost on the floor. I tried to
stifle the screams with a couch cushion.
Then he turned me over, put my legs over his shoulders, and
went in so deep that it hurt again, but I decided to take the pain—I really
didn’t want him to ever stop. His expression was angry/gleeful, especially when
my screams turned into something like sobs—no tears came but it was close
enough to crying to put him over the edge. (I know I got mad at Bill way back
when for getting turned on by tears. I’m not sure why this is different.) Again, he came and just kept fucking me until
I absolutely couldn’t take it anymore.
During afterglow/aftercare The National started to seem too
moody to I put the songs back on shuffle. I was going to skip “You Get What You
Give” (given to me by a dear friend whose road mixes have no rhyme or reason
except that they are in alphabetical order) based on its general not-hotness,
but he liked it so much that I left it on. He went on so ebulliently about the
movie-montage moments in life that I have no choice but to love the song now.
If we were a thing, it’d be our song.
Some of the things he said made me think that night was a
one-off, and ever since Mr. Popular I’ve assumed that overbooked guys might see
it as a one night thing. I guess since he texted the next day to see if I’m
interested in his partner as well there’s a possibility that more things might
happen.
We kissed some more, had pie, and then all of a sudden he
was ready to go. He did have a pretty long drive back but I felt a little sad
about how quickly he had his shoes on. If there’s a next time, I think I’ll ask
for praise and more snuggles. I felt a lonely ache between the time he left and
the time Sweetie got home.
However, over the next few days the lonely ache gave ways to
such a wonderful feeling of confidence and centeredness—my favorite side-effect
of submission. There’s something good there. I don’t know what the heck to do
with it, if anything, but it’s good.
Last Wednesday, something really horrible happened to one of
my students. It happened outside school, but it was very upsetting and shook me
all the way down to my bone marrow. She’s okay now, but it’s hard knowing that
it happened to anyone, let alone to a student I love.
When Sweetie and I got back from trying to visit her in the
hospital Wednesday evening, we were sitting on the porch discussing whether or
not I should call into work the next day to process. Just as that conversation
was winding down to a yes, my phone rang, and it was Mr. Shiny Eyes, asking
what I was doing the next day—he’d found himself an opportunity to drive in
from out of town and visit.
Glad to hear joy in my voice, Sweetie said of course a visit
was fine with her.
For most of last Thursday, I couldn’t move. I felt broken
and guilty and devastated for all that I have that my students don’t have—a
safe home, a loving group of friends and family, the ability to change my
circumstances. I called Sweetie and apologized for needing to schedule some couch
time, an apology she found ridiculous. I felt weepy and not-good-enough, hardly
a way to go into a second date with someone I’m excited about.
Cleaning the apartment to get ready for him and making
dinner for both Mr. Shiny Eyes and Sweetie (yay!) lifted my spirits a little
but I felt really fragile and off when he arrived. Just like Sweetie had the
night before, Mr. Shiny Eyes listened and listened as I kept on looping back to
sad subjects.
After Sweetie had left us alone for snuggle time, I
apologized profusely and repeatedly for being such a bad date when he’d come
all this way, but he seemed shocked and dismayed with every sorry.
“I came here because I like you, the real you, and this is
the real you right now. I didn’t just come here to have sex. But I’m still
pretty sure we’ll have sex.
And we did. In fact, he asked if it would be okay to just
forget all the kinks and “make gentle love” to me and it’s a little sad how
seldom I’ve had that with guys. (But okay, I get other good stuff.) I relaxed
into him and it was sweet and hot and satisfying.
Plus, once the lovemaking was accomplished, he was nice
enough to end the night with a pretty thorough flogging that buoyed up my
spirits even more.
And yet, I didn’t stop apologizing. There’s an annoying
almost geishalike part of me that wants to be nothing but cheerful and pleasant
and uncomplicated for men. I try to keep a cheery guard up lest they should
think I’m difficult or high-maintenance or (that dirtiest of dirty words)
needy. I have no problem sharing vulnerability with friends or with Sweetie,
but when it comes to men I’m attracted to, there’s this irritating compulsion
to behave. It’s insulting to them and stifling to me.
I’m grateful that life kicked my ass enough that I had no
choice but to show Mr. Shiny Eyes my sometimes-a-wreck of a self. (I’m also
grateful to anyone who reads the full wreck of it here, for that matter!) No
choice even, than to at one point put my clothes on and just cry for a bit. He
took such nice care of me, and even though second date tears aren’t my favorite
thing, I’m so glad for the depth and difficulty that I shared during my second
evening with Mr. Shiny Eyes. It’s a step towards learning to actually trust men,
and it made my hoo-ha happy too.
I wouldn’t have called it subspace at the time, but the way
the order of things has slipped out of my brain suggests some kind of altered
state. So, Steampunk Guy, if I’ve messed up the timeline, feel free to punish
me.
“Whatever happened to this date being clothing optional?’ he
asked and I hopped up and got naked. In the time it took me to cue up the new
National album, (Pure moody summer makeout music, see above.) he was not just
naked but ready to go, complete with condom and safety gloves. (We’d already
done the when-were-you-tested conversation, after which we high-fived.)You
wouldn’t think someone could look beautiful wearing green plastic gloves, but
you’d be wrong.
Last year when Sweetie and I got our new couch, we optimistically
chose a fold-down one. Steampunk Guy’s the first guy I’ve folded it down for. (Because
my life is awesome, Mr. Shiny Eyes became the second one last night.) After I’d
figured out how to work the mechanism and got the bed all situated, he had me
lay down on my stomach. I felt all cozy and happy, like I was at the beach.
He went from spanking (He’d mentioned that his tools were in
the car, but I didn’t think he’d need them, and I was right.) to probing—pulling
me open, pressing me apart. I’m starting to get a little fetish for the feeling
of gloved fingers in me. (See the previous post’s hand-rhapsodizing.)
He left my legs together and lay on top of me, entering
not-all-the way but from such a lovely angle. I’d never been in that position
before. I let out a moan/sigh and said “Aaaaaahhhh,
nowonderyouhavelikeninegirlfriends…oh, oh, oooohhhhh..” (and so on) He felt so
perfect—I’d been needing it so badly and now I was getting all filled up.
He turned me over and fucked me so hard that it hurt. I
screamed and cried and took it for as long as I could, just kissing him and
yowling and carrying on. (It’s possible that the neighbors might hate me.) This
is being thoroughly fucked, stripped all the way down to my primal animal
whatever. I wailed, I balled up my fists. It felt like I was lighting up and
tearing apart, like I was everything and nothing but light and warmth and pain,
and he doesn’t stop when he comes, just keeps pushing in and in until I’m
breathless and “Oh, wait, okay, I have to stop, sorry…”
As we moved from fucking to snuggling, I was somewhere
between ecstasy and trauma, panting and dizzy. “I’ve never felt anything quite
like that before.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
Eyeroll then, eyeroll now.
My scalp was warm from my hair being pulled so much. My cheeks were blushy with exertion and beard
burn. My ass
was lightly bruised and my pussy was throbbingly, gushingly wet, trying to
figure out what hurricane just hit it. He held me and his fuzzy chest hair felt
all nice and soft against my chest.
We got to know each other a little. It turns out he’s military,
just got back not long ago. Why do I keep feeling drawn to guys who fought in
wars I’ve protested? (Well, I have protested every war since I was in ninth
grade.) It could be some urge to connect and humanize the Other. Or it could
just be that I like guys who are really strong and tend to be on time. I don’t
know, and I never know what to say when someone tells me he’s been in a war, other
than “I’m glad you didn’t die.” which is actually what I said.
We talked some more about our respective kinks. He says he’s
good with ropes, so I hope I might get to test out his knotsmanship sometime,
should we make it to the magical land of the second date.
He looked so happy, and I was too. It was snuggling with a
pal. A very smiley pal who keeps laughing to himself for whatever reason.
“Music or back episodes of Arrested Development?” I asked when we got upstairs, and he chose
music.
I sat down near him on the couch and we sat apart for just a
moment. He smiled big. He is almost always smiling big, or laughing for some
sometimes-indiscernible reason. Charming. Adorable. I smiled back and giggled
nervously and he put his arm out for me to snuggle under.
He just radiated
warmth. I’m sure I did too. From my perspective, the energy between us was
instant and joyful. How awesome is it that someone completely new can just be
such a fit sometimes. I heard his
heartbeat and felt his beard against my neck. It’s possible that he kissed the
top of my head or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. I know he was squeezing
my boobs, hard enough to hurt until I told him those aren’t for hurting. (Even
after that I still ended up with bruises—should negotiate for unscathed bosoms
next time.)
I got up for some reason (Probably to hit skip on the music.
He suggested rightly that I might want to make a playlist, but I haven’t been
able to really work iTunes since about two updates ago…) and when I came back
to the couch, I told him to scooch himself over towards the middle.
“Okaaaay…” he said and then I showed him why—of COURSE so
that I could drape myself across his lap for a spanking.
And now it is time to stop and rhapsodize about Steampunk
Guy’s hands. Ohman I am smitten with them. They’re big and muscled, with thick,
long fingers that don’t always know their own strength. I would go through a
whole lot to get to those hands again, to see what other places I can convince
him to put them. I miss him already, but he has, like, eight other partners and
who knows when/if I’ll see him again.
Anyway, back to me across his lap, girly shoes in the air.
At first, he pulled up the back of my dress and left my undies and leggings on.
His hand landed on my left ass check with such a perfect and resounding THWACK.
Ohboy I missed typing the word THWACK.
He pushed his hand up into my hair and pulled, then pushed
my head back towards him so I could reach for a kiss. Please recognize that it
is a compliment when I say that he kisses like a teenager—as if some girl had
never come along and told him to tone it down with the tongue. Feel free to not
tone it down, pal. I liked him in my mouth. I liked his beard soft against my
check.
And oh, I get it, I like him. This post is coming out
dreamier than I expected.
His spanks alternated between thuddy (another word I’m glad
to be back to typing) and stingy, and when I started to wiggle and writhe too
much, he tone it down for a sec, let me pause for a sip of my excellent
Manhattan, then go harder. He pulled down my leggings but left my underwear
(purple with a little white ruffle) pulled down around the bottom of my ass. I
wanted his fingers in there, in everywhere.
He pulled me up by the hair to straddle him, and I could
feel him hard beneath his jeans. He and his partner has already told me about
the excellence of his penis, (Steampunk Guy is braggy and wouldn’t mind me
saying so.) and it was living up to the hype. I pushed my wet self against him
as he pulled my hair, kissed me emphatically, and ravished my boobs.
I lay back across his lap, facing the ceiling in a
breathless haze. He unbuttoned the top of my dress gently and deliberately and
pulled each boob out of its bra cup. He sucked my nipples too hard and I had to
tell him again, “Those aren’t for hurting. Hurt other things.”
My first date with Steampunk Guy was last Wednesday. Aside
from a tough day at work, I’d been in such a good mood looking forward to him,
especially after he’d told me he would bring pie and Manhattans. (Drinks on a
school night, naughty!) He was coming over for dinner and, ostensibly, a
couch-movie. I’m not sure why I didn’t just say I was inviting him over for
sex, since that’s what I meant. I guess we could have conceivably watched a
movie.
He was right on time, and just as cute as I remembered him.
Tall and beardy, with such a warm, friendly expression that he would fit in in
a Rankin and Bass Christmas special. After my dinner debacle with The Man, I’d
been worried that cooking for him was a silly choice, but this is a guy who can
keep his phone in his pants.
We had a nice time talking while he mixed drinks and I made
dinner. I have somewhat of a Mad Men fetish, so I love cooking for guys, and he
suggested that that meant that heels would go better than slippers with the
apron and cute button-up dress I’d chosen. I promptly went to change into some
coral-colored polka-dot wedge-heeled slingbacks, and he was right, much more
gendery.
“So you don’t have a Fet account anymore, does that mean you
don’t play publicly?” He asked.
I hate that fucking story so much. He’d already mentioned
that he is a regular at the Scary Party so I tried to be as diplomatic as
possible. I really had to take my time and choose words carefully because I
could feel the dread and other ugly emotions start to tumble out—not a good
look for a first date. I got through telling him without actual tears coming
out.
“I think I remember that.”
“Yep, that was me.”
We took our plates and cocktails out to the pretty bistro
table in my apartment house’s side-yard. I was a gorgeous and just-warm-enough
evening, but an icky silence came over us.
I said “So are you scared of me?”
He said he wasn’t. There’s nobody in the scene powerful
enough to keep someone out. Your friends will always be there to support you.
At the time, I took that as encouragement—I’d been wondering
aloud if I should wade back out into the local scene or if I’d be treated as
a whistleblowing pariah. He thought that
was nonsense just like Sweetie does, and saw no reason why I shouldn’t return
to my beloved Regular Dungeon. I talked a little about the support I’d received
at the time, even from strangers, told him that that support meant a lot to me,
that it was part of what I like about kink in general.
But some mornings I wake up feeling too close to the Scary
Party again, unsure if it’s really sensible to play with one of its regulars.
The fact that he was aware of what the security staff had done and still
supporting the place, can I live with that, even with a very casual playpal? If
doms’ friends will always protect them no matter what, how is any submissive
safe? That same irksome question again. I feel guilty that I’m processing it
here rather than directly, but again, dark topic for a first date. Or maybe a
necessary one when things are about to get spanky, I don’t know.
I don’t like the idea that The Man’s mess-up could cost me
fun with other guys, and I hate the way that the dom dating pool shrinks of you
rule out that party’s regulars—it’s very popular.
Back to the date, the conversation went on to cheerier
things and I enjoyed talking to him so much. I love it when I’m so excited
about someone that I kind of turn into a muppet. As Steampunk Guy and I chatted
and ate, my downstairs neighbor and his little son came out to play in the yard
and all of us were completely adorable-the platonic ideal of a summer evening.
The rest of this story is (I promise) very hot. He has the
most AMAZING hands and his other extremities get gold stars as well. I’ll write
my way through it and see where I get.
I may have mentioned this once of twice, but I’m enjoying
Mr. Sweetheart so much. Last Tuesday when I was walking home from work, he
texted to ask how I feel about sexting. I told him that it was on my goal list
for June. (I do monthly goals with check-boxes. Some of the goals are all
virtuous and gym-related, and some are…not.)
So he sent a picture of his lovely junk (First time I’d
received such a text—he’s so many firsts!) and I was so happy to see it. I
wrote back “For me? What shall I do with it?” but since I’m the sex-blogger he
insisted that I be the one to tell most of the story. (“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be the dominant
one?” “I’m instructing you to amuse me with your creativity.”)
Clearly he is a full-service muse.
I got home and started dinner as I started to spin the
story. I think I did a pretty good job. I was making tortellini. As I put the
water on to boil, I told him about some fictitious Hello Kitty underpants
already complete with a wet spot. As I grated the cheese, I tried to convince
him to tell me what to do, but he insisted that I tell him what he was telling
me to do. As the water started to boil, he sent me an evil grin, and I texted
back a bratty eye roll and let that sit while I ate supper. He was excellent
dinner company.
After I was done eating, I sent him a picture of my
nicely-made bed and got in. Just like he did in the story I was telling him, I
pulled up my shirt and down my bra. My nipples were sticking straight up, ready
and bright, bright pink. After a few tries, I got a good picture of them and
sent it over. I played with my boobs while I waited for the next text to come.
He sent back a try at dirty talk and I rewrote it so it was
nastier.
I was conscious of trying not to borrow from scenes I’d already
had and written—it was fun to try fiction, to write a fantasy just for him.
It occurred to me that it would be awkward for Sweetie to
come home in the middle of this so I called to get her ETA and give her a
heads-up. Also I accidentally dialed Mr. Shiny Eyes in the process.
#togetherness
Sweetie was a half hour away and I was soaking wet. My
fingers slipped around inside my plain flowered undies and inside myself—I was
ready for him. There was plenty of time for me to come but I kept losing track
of time—texting, playing, texting, playing. It’s kind of magical that I could
be that turned on by him even though he’s such a long way away.
Sweetie came in before I was finished but was unfazed—she
just closed the bedroom door and went to make herself supper. Mr. Sweetheart
asked me where I wanted his cum.
“Well, I tried to swallow for you but you pushed me away and
it went all over…”
He texted: “As your reward, I lean in, lick your cum covered
tits, then offer you a creamy kiss. :) <3 <3 xoxo”
It was a good reward. I was unsure of the etiquette for
ending such an exchange, other than to let him know that I’d come. I told him
that next time we’ll have to think of a way to metaphorically snuggle
afterwards. I’m excited to write him some more stories.
Fresh from a Sweetie spanking, (First thing in the morning!
Before she even had her coffee! That’s love.) I think it’s time to take a look
at my adventures’ progress so far this year:
1. My New Year’s Resolution was to connect, and for a while
there, it felt like I was screwing it up like crazy. But when I look at the
year with perspective, it has been a year of connections: I’ve had amazing big
dates with Sweetie and a million little porch dates, too. We’ve had fantastic
trips and family visits. I’ve been able to forge deeper connections with my
favorite friends, through long walks and long phone conversations. I’ve had
good, deep, loving scenes and some that totally revolutionized my idea of
myself. And my job (where I would never let a first-grader start a sentence
with “and.”) on a good or even a not-horrible day, is nothing BUT connection.
I’ve been sending favorite old posts to Mr. Sweetheart and
rereading them makes me feel rich with experience, even though things sometimes
do go spectacularly awry.
2. That being said, I am JUMPING OUT OF MY SKIN. I want
everything. I want ALL of the penises in me. I want very nice bad men to do
very nice bad things to me. The weather’s driven me back into my shorty pajamas
and is fanning the hoo-ha flames. Unfortunately at the moment I don’t have a
lot of ideas about what to do with all of this urgency. I love jumping on
Sweetie, of course, and I will, but this is a man-craving, and I can feel it in
my teeth. And hair. And ass. Please, universe, you’ve been so kind, send me
some ideas. And some strapping men with nice, fat fingers.
3. But I like the way that things have settled in with Mr.
Sweetheart. After the festival, he’s
kept in touch nearly every day. He’s the first guy-who’s-interested to text me
heart emoticons. (My BFF Angelface sends them all the time, but that’s
different.) Mr. Sweetheart lives a ways away but we agree that we should be
able to see each other about four times a year. (How hot is he with the
planning-ahead? *swooooon*) He calls about once a week, promptly every time. (again, hot) We talk for a long time and I
doodle drawings that for whatever reason keep ending up looking like vaginas.
As we talk, this lovely warm energy descends over my shoulders and I feel
oriented and safe. He’s good. He’s romantic. He says he likes the idea of us
having all of this time to talk and get to know each other before we do more
stuff, but of course I’d love to just take the sexTARDIS over and give him a
smooch. They’ve got to build me one of those.
4. Mr. Shiny Eyes is going through a lot in his life right
now and also lives far-ish, so I really don’t know when I might see him, but it
seems like there are more fun times to come with him as well. I hope so.
5. The other guy (He’ll be Steampunk Guy if we have any
adventures. The blog needs one of those, don’t you think?) that I like is
local, and let us now toast the fact that all of the guys I currently like have
cars. (And excellent penises, though in this case it’s only hearsay.) I met him
at Poly Speed Dating a few weeks ago. The algorithm hadn’t paired us up but I
liked him instantly so I bypassed the checkmarks and just gave him my number.
He’s an excellent flirt and a fantastic texter, but he seems kinda overbooked.
One-of-six might not be special enough for me, even in an FWB situation, but I
really enjoy him, so we’ll see.
6. And then there’s this grief. I’m still a bit broken over
what happened with The Man. We were supposed to be friends, after all, and I
had such a deep affection for him. There were so many hopes tied up in that
first good scene (I should really get around to writing about it.) that the
loss still feels like a big one. The grief still makes me run away from guys,
but luckily my heart and pants keep me running toward them.
7. I don’t know if I mentioned this, but my publisher
dropped the Kitten Calendar book early this year. Something about the press
being over-committed, it was really sad when I found out. A “no” from a beloved
editor is a particularly hurty one. Looking back over the posts, I still thing
there might be a book there, so maybe I’ll make it my summer project anyway. Or
else I’ll just work on not having tanlines.
Well, dears, the strawberry waffles are ready and it’s time
to crawl back into bed with Sweetie. Happy adventuring to you. May the second
half of the year be equally fruitful.
