Thankful for All The Things, and Goodbye Sweetie

It’s such a bittersweet night. Sweetie just gave the first rent check to her new housemate and will move over there this weekend. As soon as she gets back from ordering her new bed, we are going to drown our sorrows in Thanksgiving cookies and Top Chef. By the end of the weekend, I won’t live with my best friend anymore.

But beneath the tears of relief and sadness, my heart is doing its overflowing thing. There’s so much to be grateful for.

1. My soul and my friends. Yesterday, Pretty Slave picked me up right after work so I could hitch a ride to their favorite munch. While PS was getting all dolled up, cute Master and I watched the Beatles Anthology, on the early years part. We intermittently and absentmindedly sang along in harmony, and the griefs of the week slipped away—I felt like I was awesome at life again.

When the camera focused on the screaming Beatles fans, I said, “That’s what my soul looks like!”

“So you’ve gotta, like, tamp that down all the time?”

“Except on Saturdays…”

What I’m getting at is, I am so grateful for all the connections I’ve made this year, and for all of the little ways that my friends help my screeching, hysterical, ecstatic soul find expression.

2. My readers and stars. There are people whose faces I’ve never seen but who provide me with love and comfort every day, friends from across the country who’ve accepted every tricky emotion, and of course the pals, past and present, who are trusting enough to let me write about them and brave enough to read it. I am so, so lucky to have you in my life, and I love you so much, in the purest and most unencumbered way.

3. I am grateful that I have spent the last twelve years loving and being loved. Thank you Sweetie, and I hope we’re still on for Catching Fire.

Song of the Week: Something to Sing About

Usually this time of year I'm bubbling over with gratitude and posting lovey-dovey Flaming Lips songs. There's still time for that, but this morning, it's this:

In Praise of Expectations and Other Human Things

If I’m in a facebook argument, you know something isn’t right. I usually am very careful about avoiding them—Sweetie loves them, but they make me feel stressy and gross. A friend of a friend, a young, adorable queer guy, posted that having expectations had caused every problem his heart had ever had, and he was making the virtuous pledge never to anticipate anything or have hopes about anyone. Reading this status tapped into a deep well of anger I only vaguely knew I had. I wanted to avoid the anger so it wouldn’t tarnish the nice memories, but I’m gonna have to slog back to Steampunk Guy for a few paragraphs. If you’re someone who gets squeamish about the less-attractive emotions, consider yourself warned.

I wish I hadn’t taken down the posts about our falling-out, but it came down to him saying this:

“You seem more excited about me than about trying anal.”

This felt like rejection on such a fundamental level. How LOW was I in his estimation that he thought I didn’t even deserve to have a PREFERENCE about which partner fucked me in the ass for the first time? How deeply inhumane is the expectation that I think only of the act and not of the person doing it. This fucking-a-fetish-instead-of-a-person cruelty is the root of everything ugly that I’ve seen in the alternative sex community, all of the post-consent-world mindset that the Scary Party crowd walks around with, it’s the deepest, starkest sexualization and I will never and should never open my mind to it. In order to be acceptable to him, I had to be literally nothing but a hole, and he had to be just a dick, too. How easy it would be if I saw the world that way, I’d be just the belle of the horror-themed fetish ball.

I didn’t say any of that at the time, just broke off the planning, said I was disappointed, and gave him some (admittedly somewhat tragic) background on why I’d been wanting to make it a nice experience.

He wrote back “Personal drama! Expectations! Shame! Apologies!”

At the time, I felt bad for being all of those things instead of just a simple, fun partner the way I assumed the other girls managed to be. But a month later, those four exclamations make me livid, so let’s take them one by one:

“Personal drama!”

Dude. You were going to be the first person (that I know of) to put his penis in my asshole. It seems reasonable that a person might have some emotions emerge around that, even in a casual situation. If you aren’t up for complicated emotions, you aren’t up for fucking me as a human being. (I know. We already established he wasn’t. It still makes me mad.) Yes, I have personal drama. I’m divorcing my wife of ten years and I was somewhat inconveniently in love with you. You saw those things as flaws, but  I’m relieved to find that I don’t.

“Expectations!”

I am sick and tired of hearing expectations vilified. We mustn’t hope, envision, or anticipate, lest we create some unnecessary strain on things. But you know what? Those things are only a problem if THE PERSON ALREADY DOESN’T LIKE YOU. It’s not the expectations’ fault; it’s the match’s, or rather, the lack of one.

Moreover, you had expectations too. You expected me to plan around your schedule, not mine, to somehow intuit exactly how much you could offer and not ask for one milliliter more. You expected me to put on a pretty outfit and be absolutely no one to you, to squelch every human emotion so much that I’d be an absolutely absent nothing.

And yes, this was my idea, I’ll admit. Denial is a tenacious thing.

“Shame!”

Is a feeling that many people have, especially when it comes to their assholes. Given the amount that I panicked after our last exchange, I’m guessing my shame runs pretty deep. That doesn’t somehow make me a bad player or a bad partner; it just makes me a person whose body has a lot of stories in it, just like everybody’s.

“Apologies!”

Yes, there were many. I shouldn’t have tried to stay friends with someone who made me so sorry all the time, but I did. Because I’m in a weird place, because I loved you and felt like I should learn you, because I wanted to get laid in the midst of my mess of a life.

I started this post angry but something about answering those exclamations helped. Here’s what I think: For any given encounter, I think we all deserve to value each other as whole beings. I deserve to have wishes and hopes both dashed and realized, because that’s what it is to be a real live girl. I deserve to dream and plan and fantasize, and to let go of anyone who makes me feel like those dreams are way too far away.

Steampunk Girl told me the story of her first time having anal sex, a process that took months because her partner was so loving and thorough and gentle. I loved that story but honestly didn’t picture myself finding someone who’d have that much time for me. Something in me must’ve believed it was possible, though, and I love her for getting that story stuck in my head, for giving me better expectations, for (eventually) making me admit I wanted nothing less. Not more expectations, or fewer, just better ones.

Not Just a Bed, but a Metaphor. A Bed-aphor

It came! And the old bed's out. We're still waiting to hear back from Sweetie's potential roommate, but at least the bedroom has moved to the next step. This is the first piece of furniture I ever bought for just me, and I'm proud that it looks better than the one I've been envisioning ever since we decided to divorce. Hope it's not too long before somebody nice comes along and ties me to it!

How We Won the Party

So many of my adventures lately include leaving-practice, and this was one of them. First Boy (so named because he was the first guy I topped, a few weeks ago at that Halloween party) had invited for me to bottom for him in rope class before the dungeon last Saturday, but it turned out to be a demo-class, not hands-on, and he felt unqualified to tie me up on his own. I’m glad he copped to that, but I had a rejection-reaction that was disproportionate with the situation. I got a sour feeling in my belly that tells me I’m not ready yet for rope class, since it was such a Sweetie thing.

Luckily Cute Master’s birthday party was also going on that night, so I bid First Boy a regretful farewell (I’m sure he found some good adventures…) and set my GPS for the suburbs. Really, I should know the way by now. I was all sproinged up with pent-up energy from the rope demo, but I knew that even if I didn’t find a release I’d still have some good time with pals.

Still, I worried about the vulnerability that rope class had brought out, especially since one of the first people I saw when I walked in was CBATP. He didn’t have the scene-glow that he’d had in my memory of him, but still, pangs. And awkward. When I talked to him later that night, I went with false, slutty bravado which might have been unappealing but at least it kept me from losing out on fun.

Cute Master was organizing a game and asked me if I wanted to play as dom or sub. I picked dom, figuring I’d get to spank out some of the pent-up stuff. He handed me a playing card, and ace, and told me to find the sub with the other ace.

It’s possible that CM rigged the draw, because my partner was none other than… Pretty Slave! We were both delighted at this arrangement.

“Is this, like, a sluttiness contest? Because I WILL WIN.”

It wasn’t really a contest, though, we just had to tell the person what to do and if they didn’t do it to our satisfaction, we’d get a goody bag instead.

We were last since we had the ace, so we had lots of time to plan our strategy while we watched the other (very tame and clothed) partnerships do their things—mostly variations on flogging. She sat in my lap while we brainstormed and I felt her up. I wanted us to do EVERYTHING, especially with everyone watching, but I felt a little reticent about asking. Cute Master kept saying things like “Oh, I know you two are gonna be MESSED. UP. You’d almost think I planned this.”

PS and I continued plotting, and she asked “Can I finger you?”

“Of course!”

“Can I make you come? Will you be able to?”

“Um, yeah.”

As our turn approached, CM kept saying, “Oh, man, I can’t wait to read about this on your blog!” Which made me really, really happy.

“(CM) you have to put on “Call Me Maybe!” PS kept saying.

“No, you reeeeeally don’t,” I said, but she wandered off to find it while I stood in front of the crowd in Wonder Woman stance, completely without stage fright.

Once she’d found the song and come back, she kissed me and I put my arms up. She pulled off my bright pink sweater and told me to turn around so that she could unzip my houndstooth pencil skirt. I’d told her to leave on the heels, as they’re my lucky pair. She unhooked my bra and I flung it into the crowd like an old-timey striptease. I took her black dress off and she kneeled down in front of me, emphatically placing her mouth on the front of my panties.

A jolt went through me and I cried out, reached down and petted/pulled her hair. Buckling from the charge of her, I knelt down and we kissed. I squeezed her nipples hard, held her close, and smelled her hair like I always do, except with an audience.

I reached into her black lace panties and found her clit, making her moan and sucking her nipple. At this point, two other girls decided to join in, both friends I’d never played with before. There was a moment where I didn’t know where I fit, but I found my way kissing the one with the long dark hair and the shiny purple dress.

Pretty Slave and I found each other again and she rubbed her hand over the front of my undies while I kissed her some more.

“I have to lie down,” I said.

“Okay, I like it when you lie down.”

“Why am I still wearing these?”

She took my underpants off me (but still not my shoes) and my very favorite moment was when I opened my legs and gave the entire right side of the room (mostly men, some cute ones) a full view of my hoo-ha. It felt like such recognition, a celebration, a big TA-DA! for such a beloved part. The guys made appreciative noises about having chosen their seats well.

They only got more appreciative when Pretty Slave buried her face in there. Oh!

Up top, the other two girls were playing with each other and with my boobs. The one girl, about whom I wasn’t feeling 100% yes, kept hurting them and kept leaning over me in such a way that her blouse made me feel stifled. It took me a couple of tries and some panting diplomacy to back her off, but I did, and she consigned herself to petting my hair.

I stayed in the throes of Pretty Slave’s tongue. She pushed a finger inside me. Another knuckle just grazed my asshole and I got all full of shivers.

“Can we do this for my birthday?” asked a member of the crowd, and soon they were all naming upcoming occasions we could celebrate in this way. I was glad to be so festive and wanted and seen.

When we were done, I sat up and kissed her hoo-ha-tasting mouth, thanked her, and of course got a high-five. She held me in one of the big circle-chairs and we had giggly aftercare, talking about our odd not-relationship and making up silly statuses to have on Fet. We said how much we appreciate each other and we were both so glad to have pulled aces.

And I’m glad I left the dungeon when I did: leaving-practice tends to have the best rewards.

Song of the Week: Last Night I Dreamt that Somebody Loved Me

Hot story tomorrow, but first:

Friday night I was on a date with myself, walking across the middle of the city to a storytelling show (Theme: Excitable! Apt.) when the Smiths shuffled on. I remembered the last time I’d heard this song, the day Icried sex tears (and regular tears) for SG. I’ve never told you this, but that was two days after my last and worst fight with Sweetie, the one where I felt so scared and trapped that I actually jumped out of the car while it was moving. The day I played with SG, there was a big bandage on my foot covering the place where the road had scraped away my skin. My knees were covered with bad bruises that made it hard to kneel down in front of him.

Probably I shouldn’t have been playing with anyone, should have been, I don’t know, on the run? In the hospital? In some sort of women’s facility? But I’m glad I was crazy enough to try to keep going on with my life the way I wanted it, not the way it actually was.

I’m glad that time isn’t just defined by the scars. Instead, I got a momentary  visit the life I really wanted, covered with that warm and vital man, every corner of my body touched and ravished, animal life coursing through me. Of course, I knew it was only a simulacrum, a shadow, a glimmer, but it was enough to yank that desire up from me and get me to the right place, which, lonely as it is, is here.

“Real arms around me,” Morrissey sang, and that plus whatever part of my soul woke up that day was enough to make me walk away from twelve years of compromise, love, and deep shame. Both visceral and not-real, it was enough to push me towards whatever real love is or is not waiting for me on the other side of all this.

I’m so far way from “real arms around me” in the romantic sense, so far from the thing I gave up everything awful and good for. There’s a scar on my foot and too many bad stories that tell me what happens when I compromise my feelings, when I fight my fear or my grief or my love, so I’m teaching myself to surrender to all of it, just as much as real life will let me.

As painful as it is to recall that scene and that glimmer knowing he’s maybe not even a friend, I’m grateful all the way to my bones that he gave me something other than a scar to go on, that that moment pulled me up from denial and made it impossible not to say aloud what I really wanted.

I hope real love is waiting on the other side of this detached and achy interval, but I really can’t begin to thank the world for the miracles I’ve managed to experience so far. Adventures, you’ve saved me, or better yet, you made me save myself.

Kinky Karaoke Part Three: More Dancing Around in Ropes

After the chair snuggles, he untied us from each other and we went downstairs to sing and cuddle everybody some more. Dancing around in my ropes and singing with The Lady of the House reminded me of her awesome Nude Years party—I hope she has one this year!

Pretty Slave was singing some hard rock hits and being extremely hot, so I had to climb all over her a little bit. CM and PS seemed a little reserved with me that night, so I was as unslutty as a naked lady who’s kissing somebody can manage.

Before too long, I ended up back upstairs with the Sweetfaces, each of us girls bent over a red reclining chair. Probably the worst 90s hit of all, “I Saw the Sign” came on and now I sort of have to like it a little because it’ll remind me of her, naked and bent over, shaking her hair and singing it out. “No one’s gonna drag you up, to get into the light where you belong.”—It’s weird where one finds poetry.

Mr. Sweetface got out his flogger and I got happy. He went back and forth between us, hitting us sparingly and specifically, each move aimed and considered. I felt waves of joy and relief with each smack, wiggled myself to giddiness.

And he had these special gloves. They had teensy little spiky things on them, kind of like those special gloves they use to brush horses. He ran his gloved hand over my hips, my waist, my boobs, giving me shivers.

When he was done, he pulled my face up into a kiss, sweet and deliberate, soft. Then we all went back down to the party for more songs and goodbyes.

The weekend before last, triggered and heartsick, I lost faith, and I’ve lost count of how many times that’s happened, to the point where losing faith is kind of meaningless. Amidst all of those tears over SG, I realized that for every player with whom things are hard, there are, like, tens of players with whom it’s easy, where things just fit and flow and I don’t have to try at all. There have been so many nights of feeling perfect in my skin and not compelled to change anything about my thoughts or feelings. It’s the sensation of play that’s actually just that, play. Baby animals play in order to learn how to thrive in the wild, and that’s exactly my plan, play and thrive. 

Kinky Karaoke Part Two: Silly Nineties Music and a Dream Come True

Every since my first munch when Fireguy put the idea into my head, I’ve wanted to be tied to another girl, so when I found out that Mr. and Mrs. Sweetface had a rope scene in the works, I didn’t hold back a single little ounce of my eagerness to join them. (Hard to believe I recently spent a couple of days crying about being called pushy…it seems to serve me okay.) They were getting ready to play in the tiny living room on the red plush recliners and when he came to invite me over, I said “Yesyesyesyes ohyes!” and had my bra off before I crossed the room. (Surprised it had stayed on as long as it did!)

I couldn’t believe my luck. She’s so cute and bubbly and has a goofy sense of humor just like I do and I! Was going! To be! Tied to her! She left on her shiny dark-silver bra and panties, and I was down to my peach and purple polka dot undies. While he started her harness, she scrolled through the radio stations on the TV, landing on “Hits of the Nineties” And by “Hits of the Nineties,” they did not mean dignified alt-hits like “Cut Your Hair,” or “Cannonball,” we’re talking full on “Oops, I Did It Again.”  I don’t know why, but this made things more awesome.

I loved dancing around and singing with her while occasionally being admonished to be still by our top and watching the comings and goings of the party guests. Cacophony kept coming up from the karaoke-ing basement, lending to the overall atmosphere of joy and mirth.

Once he finished weaving her into her shiny purple harness, it was my turn. The ropes he used on me were peacock blue. I was soready. My nipples were alert in that ultrasensitive way they only get for ropes, sending tingles all through me ever time the rope or his hand even lightly brushed against them. I didn’t get all surrender-y the way that I sometimes do for ropes, but sometimes he’d tug at them in just such a way that peace would radiate through me from that spot, and aah, sigh, a reunion, oh ropes, I always miss you.

Much was made of the fact that I like to have an ass-knot in addition to the clit knot, thank you very much!

I wasn’t subby-dreamy-drowsy, I was exultant, and when he looped another length of rope underneath both of our crotches and started tying us together, I got intoxicated by the smell of her—there are never adequate adjectives to describe the smell of a girl’s hair, and besides that sweetness there was sweat, and alcohol, and some girly soap, the smells of happy aliveness. I put my arms around her and we danced around like slumber party girls, to the tune of “Roller Coaster of Love,” which I don’t think I ever properly appreciated before.

We sat together on one of the two big red recliners, the two of us girls in Mr. Sweetface’s lap. I was the boldest and most handsy character in that chair. As we settled into cuddling and petting, many hands were many places, but my fingers went right for her panties, found her clit beneath them, toyed with it alternately with hand and rope. She moaned and rocked, and I worked my way inside her bra, first with my hand and then my face, licking and nuzzling, finding what I was looking for. I reached around and unhooked her bra, and even though I couldn’t get it all the way off, I made her just as naked as I possibly could. It was a good long time until I finally kissed her on the mouth, soft and perfect, and then kissed him too. They kissed alike, searching and cautious, friendly and sensual. She told me later that I’d been her first girl kiss, and I was honored. I should stop going around assuming everybody’s always kissing everybody, I guess.

She grabbed the ropes at my hips so that the crotch rope, with its lovely knots, did just what it was meant to, which was turn me into a moany writhey animal-thing. They both looked a little taken aback.

“Ohyeah, I’m really loud.” I explained, super-unnecessarily, and I didn’t get any quieter when they went for my boobs, a mouth on each one, my favorite, favorite thing. Well, one of the favorites.

Next: Spanks, more songs, and goodbyes.

Kinky Karaoke Part One: The Triumph of Light Over Darkness

“Going out to sing means you have to adopt a staunch pro-believin’ stance. But it also means you have to suspend your rational doubts. “Don’t Stop Believin’” isn’t about actually believing in anything, just as nobody in “Livin’ on a Prayer” prays for anything in particular. The belief is in belief itself; the prayer is just for more prayers.”

–Rob Sheffield, Turn Around Bright Eyes: The Rituals of Love and Karaoke

“Before you came into my life, I missed you so bad.”—Carly Rae Jepsen

Saturday was my church’s Diwali celebration (Unitarians feel entitled to any holiday we choose, that’s one of the things I like about us.) and I’d originally planned to go in early to help with the feast, but my day had been so fantastically indulgent and dawdly that I was nowhere near ready to leave at the appointed time. Sweetie and I heated up some frozen samosas and naan and had our own little Diwali feast at home, while watching Top Chef.

My suitcase was packed for Kinky Karaoke, so I hoped that the service wouldn’t be too long. When I got out of the car at church, most people were already inside and I was alone in the woodsy church parking lot with the brightest moon you’d ever see, peeking through clouds that were fluffily arranged in rows across the sky like the stuffing of a comforter. The path to the church was lined with star lanterns, and the walk in ended up to be the most transcendent part of the service.

Usually our Diwali is a joyful affair, with lots of singing and dancing and making art out of flower petals, but this year, the pastor began the service with an admonition that children should not be allowed to run around in the aisles, and it continued in that tone. In place of any religious experience, there was a lecture, complete with PowerPoint. One of the great joys of adulthood is that if you’re sitting in your church pew stifling yawns, you’re allowed to just get up and leave.

I was happy to venture back out into the clear, starry night. I got in the car and set the GPS for the out-of-the-way corner of the city where the Karaoke King and Queen live, turned up my Training Montage mix, and belted out every song along the way.

Pretty Slave has a wonderfully geeky bumper sticker on her car that reads:

And whenever I see it, I get all bubbly-over with joy. I was also excited that I’d see The Lady of the House, who was my main inspiration for showing up that night.  I walked in to many hugs and felt so excited that I’d recovered so quickly from last weekend’s triggers enough to come.

I’m so grateful that I am me, and that these are my friends. I don’t know what they were doing over at the Scary Party, but I’m pretty sure nobody was sitting in anybody’s lap dueting “Piano Man” at full force (high five, Cute Master!) or singing Cee-Lo in their underpants. (I didn’t arrive with much bitterness in my heart, but “Fuck You” really is the very best karaoke song ever.)

Pretty Slave told me I’m prettier than ribbons and Cute Master was sweet and sympathetic about the heart-hurts of last week. I was touched at his recalling that this house was where we met over the summer. “I fingered you right over there,” he said “It’s too bad they moved the couch!”

And then! Some people I didn’t know I’d been wanting to see! Remember the munch I cried at toward the end of the summer? Okay, doesn’t really narrow it down, but the night that I was soothed by the nice ladies goofing around and bringing Long Island iced teas, Mrs. Sweetface was one of the ladies doing the soothing. (Not to be confused with Ms. Sweetheart. The naming part’s not as easy as it looks.) We’d joked about me becoming Mr. Sweetface’s cuddle partner, since she’s not so into that part. I’d yet to meet him and I couldn’t believe she remembered that, but it was the first thing she said: “Your cuddle buddy’s upstairs.”

When she introduced him, he said “Oh, that was you?”

“Yep! If we’re gonna cuddle, we’d better start practicing!” I said, pulling this complete stranger into a hug. It was a hug with a little spark of energy, with potential. Clearly it was time to employ my “Talk to the cute couple until they’re doing stuff to me” strategy, which I devised the last time I was here.

But first, lots and lots of songs. Pretty Slave and I did our song, “Call Me Maybe,” of course, and then the young woman that CS and PM are dating (I don’t think she’d mind being named “Their Girl”) joined us for Nikki Minaj’s “Starships,” which is totally my top Training Montage hit. The Lady of the House seduced our hearts with some Steely Dan, and then teamed up with me on my song of the year, “I Just Can’t Get Enough.” This is how I was born to be, stripped down to my basic ridiculous histrionics and enjoying the fuck out of my friends.

Incidentally, I got a chance to talk with Their Girl and found out that she’d left that party a few weeks ago because she got jealous—of me! It was strange to be on the other side of that equation! I told her she should have joined in and we made plans to conspire against Pretty Slave and Cute Master at the earliest opportunity.

A couple of times during the evening, the Karaoke Queen took a break from her hostessing duties to bend over and get some spanks, and just like that, another sweet little bottom for me. Even though they were just playful party spanks, she got all melty in my arms afterwards and I loved the power of getting to make my friend so woozy-happy. Plus, the Lady of the House was watching and looked impressed—I like that.

Next: Eeeee! Yesyesyes I got tied to another girl!

Let’s Just Reframe This Whole Thing

 Even though I created this blog as a way to connect with what was already beautiful in me, I’ve spent enormous numbers of paragraphs on my flaws, fears, mistakes, and road blocks, often in the name of adapting to things (like my marriage, or parties that didn’t feel right) that a person with self-love would’ve just walked away from.

I’ve treated myself like a problem to be solved, as if, if I picked at things enough, I’d be able to build myself up into something better, something more acceptable. If I treated my students that way, I’d feel like a monster. Treating myself like a project has made me extremely hard on myself, and that’s ended up being hard on my friends.

So how about this: What if, instead of needing to power through and be fixed, I’m an already-awesome human who thrives with the right partners and in the right circumstances, growing organically instead of forcing myself forward? What if, instead of punishing myself for what I haven’t done yet, I celebrate how far I’ve come? It doesn’t mean there’s no room for mistakes or negative emotions, just that I’m already whole, I’m already alright.

It’s tempting to follow up that sentiment with a series of resolutions, but I won’t.

Reunited With My Ass (And Yes, It Totes Feels So Good)

My blog breaks never last as long as I think they’re going to, pals. There are always more adventures to celebrate and I can’t wait to share them with you.

I took down the posts about it, but SG and I are on the outs again, and I think in the long run, that’s the more loving thing. Even though they never asked me to, I really, really, REALLY wanted to be a good girl for the Steampunks, and that was making it hard for me to care for myself and go forward the way I need to, and it was hurting them, too. I hope they’re forgiving me over there.

My ass is sad about SG—after all, he was its first non-me friend, and I thought that that phase of the project might have to be shelved for a little while, but yesterday while I was getting some journaling done, I felt the tingle return, that naughty spark of well-being that means it’s time for some personal time.

I decided to make a morning of it and got all cleaned up—I can’t believe I ever felt embarrassed or afraid about enemas, they’re so easy and pleasant, a loving little thing to do for myself, a slightly more intimate version of painting my nails or getting a haircut. For some reason, they make me feel cozy and cared for.

I kind of associated the Little Metal Thing with SG, but the pleasantness of having it in there trumped any regrets. Every part of me, body and soul, woke up. I felt warm, special, and safe.

The other day, I was listening to this Poly Weekly episode in which Marcia Baczynski reminds us that we don’t have to push ourselves into risky things, especially into types of play that are triggersome. She was talking more about opening up relationships than about sex itself, but I think it applies. She encouraged listeners to find smaller, slower, less goal-driven ways to experiment, things that don’t stress us out, so that we can give ourselves the space to feel the emotions that come up, so that we can have more compassion for ourselves.

I say all of that to say this: I had such a lovely moment with myself yesterday. After I took out the Little Metal Thing and started playing with the Too Big Butt Plug (excellent for wriggling around on, you may remember) I felt my heart speed up a little bit, in a scared way. I backed off from the little bit of hurt that was happening, took a few moments, and breathed with my hand on my heart until it calmed down. This is what it feels like to adventure in a way that is kind to myself (and others!) and I am so, so proud.

For my body adventures, no more struggle. Struggle isn’t the same as work, which of course I love. It’s fighting the tide, trying to make myself do things because I feel like I should, trying to make myself fit when I don’t, and it’s been the source of all the worst things. As I let go of the things that make me miserable and let myself be carried forward, I feel so much more in touch with my better self, more able to just sit back and let the tide of awesome wash over me.