Back to the Nude Beach, Part One

A few weeks ago, The Shy One texted me on the way to The Nude Beach, and just picturing his cute little butt there convinced me it’s past time to try and go back!

I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be the nudist I once was. Until yesterday, the last time I walked around naked outdoors was my ill-fatedsecond visit to The Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness, but a LOT of things have changed/regenerated since then. I'm not out here looking for a husband, that's for sure!

Even still, I knew that in the course of this 2022 beach trip I might find myself feeling too vulnerable, raw, overexposed. So I planned myself detailed during- and aftercare. I packed glitter sunscreen and spray sunscreen, lots of good snacks, iced coffee, two different beach books. I brought lots of tampons because OF COURSE this day coincided with a rogue perimenopause superperiod.

I even put grapefruit-scented face wipes and cotton candy lip balm in a cooler in the car for before the drive home. I was well-loved and well-cared-for on this riskier-than-usual self-date, that’s for sure.

I got a little lost at first, looping around the state park where they keep The Nude Beach. My GPS was like, no thanks, but I eventually figured it out. The walk from the parking lot to the beach wasn’t as long as I remembered. The sky was perfectly blue and decorated with very fancy clouds.

When I got there and claimed a spot (A little too far from the water, it was CROWDED) there they were, the dear, dear bodies, even more beautiful than I remembered them. Every category of human and every body type. The proud penises and the shy ones. All kinds of cute boobs in various states of tan-line-or-not. Enough adorable butts for Tina Belcher’s whole entire the right number of boys for me is more lifetime.

The tattoos winding across backs and down arms and curling around sweet ankles. The fat hips. The drape and spryness of age. The chaste affection in all kinds of constellations. The boldness and ease—yes please.

Hold Me Upside Down and Shake All the Nonsense Out, Part One

 

Later in the story I text this to The Song Sender and then I'm like OMG I SENT HIM A POEM WHY AM I LIKE THIS?! But he got what I was going for, I think.

After that second first date with The Song Sender went SO well, my perspective shifted. Softened. Scattered like light. Opened up. If my life has THIS much possibility in it, if fate (and, okay, my very goal-driven sluttiness) could offer me The Song Sender after these very long eleven years, and if that could make SO MUCH SENSE, even just for that one night, why couldn’t I find a way to be in touch with The Shy One, too?

So I texted The Shy One on that full-of-submissive-clarity afternoon, to ask if he would accept my apology and try for being friends with benefits. I didn’t think he would write back, he had every right to have blocked me, but he hadn’t. He did text back.

He said we could be back in touch, but he was taking the summer off from dating to reflect on how he wanted to handle his poly life. I didn’t think he had done anything wrong, definitely thought he shouldn’t be depriving himself of snuggles, but I was so touched by the pause he was taking. I have this terrible habit of thinking I have no effect on people, that I’ll fall out of their consciousness as soon as I say goodbye, but his planned summer sacrifice humbled and chastened me.

Convinced of how much I’d meant to The Shy One, I vowed to figure out a way to be in his life, however he would have me. So haltingly and politely, with some good ol’ Downton restraint, we started texting some. We talked on the phone and it made me sad, made me long for him and doubt I could make it as a platonic friend. But I put aside time to feel that sadness, and stayed determined.

We sent pictures of flowers and “happy Friday” and I confided in him when a date didn’t work out. The Shy One and I planned a dinner for mid-July, but before we got to there, The Song Sender cracked me open even more. Though he, generous and sweet Sir that he is, would probably say I did it all myself.

For my (second) second date with The Song Sender, I think he meant for us to have a date-date, but I was lazy and it was hot so I decided to just take him home to play. He helped me put some flowery street art up first—I liked seeing him pull the silk flowers off their plastic stalks. Good muse.

There was gorgeous, wonderful, THOROUGH hotness, which I’ll get to in a different post, but there was also a fight. During aftercare time, a couple of misfired jokes stirred a wild sense of abandonment into my reeling and breathless body and mind. I got rage-quiet and kicked him out. Well, I drove him home.

“At least it was a good sequel,” I said. I am kind of a jerk.

There was a big, hazy supermoon in the sky that seemed like it was a little bit mocking me with its naked romance.

“Thank you for letting me drive you home,” I said, “It would be too sad otherwise.” He caressed my arm softly and I felt so much regret about things being over (re-over) already.

“Hug” he said kindly when we pulled up in front of his girlfriend’s apartment. There was a car waiting right behind us so there wasn’t time to aim the awkward car hug. It was more like we just bonked our heads together.

This story makes me miss him, makes me sad even though we figured it out and he’s still very dearly in the picture. I would have to go to that humble place some more, let down my defenses, and maybe, maybe, MAYBE (please please please) just get (at least some of! A LOT of!) what I wanted all along.

Knotty Thursday: The Adorables (More Couples Please!!!)

 

I think The Adorables want to be just friends, I haven't heard from them since our date-or-whatever on Sunday, but I'm totally in crushtown about them. So much so that I added "I would like to snuggle with some couples please!" to my Feeld profile.

I'd been texting back and forth with Mr. Adorable for a few weeks--thoughtful questions and mini-paragraphs, the text version of writing letters! LOVE IT. I hadn't really been looking for couples, but if you could see these two faces, you'd understand that I kinda HAD to hit on them.

After a few snow-and-life-related postponements, they arrived at my door Sunday afternoon, not too long after the Good Boy left. (I really am supergreedy sometimes. Total bi stereotype over here.) They brought red wine and those question cards meant to rescue parties from small talk--big talk all the way. I had THE BEST TIME answering questions with them, until I was like "Okay, one more question, then I'm gonna teach you some ropes."

I really didn't teach them anything--Mrs. Adorable likes to self tie, and I'm in awe of her creation.

I tied up Mr. Adorable. I was nervous and protective--he was so sweet and this was his first time, plus his gorgeous wife was right there being gorgeous--I couldn't get out of self-consciousness even a little bit til they worked together to very gently tie me up.

I was sad and a little lost when they left--I'd been too shy to ask for snuggles or any other kind of aftercare, note to self for future not-sure-what-kinda-connection-this-is play.

Now they're just-friends or ghosts, and I miss them. If I did anything wrong, I hope they'd tell me! I hope we'll cross paths again some day.

Good Second Date to Ghost, Part Four

When it came to Nearby Guy’s lovely dick, I found myself frozen with self-consciousness. When, during my moments of touch-drunk subby sleepiness, he took my hand and placed it there, I was relieved to know exactly what I was supposed to be doing, but sort of at a loss about how I was supposed to be doing it. I’ve had such lovely times with such lovely penises all these long and multifaceted Kitten Calendar years, but I haven’t known any man well enough to get used to his dick’s ways, maybe since my early twenties, maybe never. (Possible exception: The Mayor of Kittentown. Pause for nostalgia…)

Nearby Guy lay on his back, basking like a cat in a sunbeam while I played tentatively with him, then worried my heart out that I was being too tentative. His body responded to me the way his personality did: leisurely, friendly, happy to be there and not in a particular rush. There wasn’t any reason for me to worry other than that he was being SO still and my hand sort of felt like it wasn’t my own.

I was sure that his other partners must know exactly what to do, sure that if I didn’t figure this out her would have no reason to ever come back. There wasn’t any reason to jump to such defeatist conclusions, except that I was tired and insecure and so many things had just happened all at once.

“I’m not a penis expert,” I said apologetically, “So feel free to give me directions.”

He did for a while. In my fantasy version of this situation, I’d have put his dick in his own gorgeous hand and let him show me what pressure and motions turned him on the best, playing with myself and looking him in the eye. This braver version of myself would have ended the evening happily rubbing his cum into my pinch-sore nipples.

What really happened was that a not-hot song came on in the middle of his instructions. I climbed out from between his legs to press skip, (My Spotify, my fault!)  (It was “Never Scared” by Bonecrusher, a fine song in less vulnerable situations!) and then I just lost the rest of my steam. I kissed him and then lay down on his belly, sighing “So much just happened!”

I felt overwhelmed, extra-naked, and small. I needed some aftercare, some sleep, some perspective. I have many compassionate thoughts for myself about this moment and those that followed, but let’s leave me there for now: Feeling stupid and wistful and lustful and satisfied, lost but still tangled in warmth.

Heartbreak With the Mystery Family, But Two Wonderful Valentine-Guys

I deserve someone who wants to be in the same room with me. What a crazy thing to have to declare, but here we are.

After the Mystery Man officially entitled me a “Keeper of His Heart” and a member of his family, I’ll admit I was a little hopeful/vulnerable about wanting some Valentine’s Day attention, but what I got was him disappearing mid-conversation before we’d made our date. Earlier in the week I’d gone right out on a limb and asked them all if I could have some time with him during Valentine’s weekend, and though they all said yes, of course, had to ask three times before I even STARTED to get a time. Soon as I was supposedly officially a part of them, I saw myself slip through the cracks of their schedule, just like with the Steampunks. I have to make myself stop loving overbooked guys.

Lacking information or a goodbye before he disappeared for the weekend, I did maybe more Twitter-reading than I should have and found out they were having a party that night, which I hadn’t been told about and definitely hadn’t been invited to. I physically ACHED to be at that party, dancing and hugging and really seeing them. That yearning opened up the cognitive dissonance that made me take the blinders off and start to realize that their version of me being in their “Family” did not necessarily include me ever being in their presence.

So I was hurting but that hurt was ameliorated by a wonderful surprise—Mr. Shiny Eyes! After I called him Friday evening to touch base after our conference adventures, he decided on a whim to drive over (from, it must be said, the same VERY close city where the Mysteries live) and jump into bed with me for Valentines. I was so touched and turned on by the gesture and I loved the visit, especially our morning. We cuddled in bed talking so long before jumping on each other again, it was so intimate, such a time-luxury compared to the (also fantastic) festival sex we’ve enjoyed before.

There was no way, after a gesture and a morning like that, to pretend that I was okay with someone who claims to love me but doesn’t want to see me. After Mr. Shiny Eyes headed home, though I assumed the Mystery Man was busy with some kind of Valentine’s fun, I tried to ask him about the implications of me not having been invited to the party. I thought the problem might get bigger in my head if I waited until our not-really-set-yet date.

I tried to write it as a letter, but probably should have asked (through the cloud of interrupting-shame) for a real conversation—a real 10 –minute talk could have solved the problem, if the problem could in fact be solved at all.

Instead of reassurance, though, or an invite to some future party, (I mean, COME ON, even the most elusive of casual guys invited me to parties at his house!) I was told that the “online contingency” aren’t usually invited and that I would’ve run the risk of making people uncomfortable. This was followed by a litany of things that were higher priorities to them—that old bottom-of-the-pile feeling. I told him I was hurt by that, that I didn’t like being on the outside looking in, that I needed to know I could do normal things like be near the people who purported to love me.

The “online contingency,” fucking OOF.

I didn’t hear from him again and imagined that he had gone back to whatever lovey-dovey permutation of entanglements I was being left out of that day. It was only by chance that and secondhand I found out he’d melted down about what I’d said, and that made it even harder and guiltier to try and communicate.

I did try (on open Twitter, since I felt like I wasn’t being heard on the private channels) but all I got back was an “Are you leaving me?” and no further communication from him. I tried talking to the Lady whose time I’d unwittingly derailed, but it really was moot, since he’d rather break up than face the prospect of having me over.

I really do love him, and it was never just him. I loved the Ladies first and I always wanted to just arrange the whole family in a pile and dive in. More importantly than the sexy stuff, though, I wanted to be their friend, to feel their warmth around me in ordinary, everyday ways. The concept of “online friendship” makes absolutely no sense to me. My love and friendship are physical, even for people I’ve never met, and loving without face-to-face contact is unsafe and ungrounded.

I shouldn’t be in the position of feeling like crazy stalker girl for wanting to included by people who’ve used the word “family” or for wanting to be physically near someone I love. I shouldn’t have to convince anybody that my presence is awesome and should be welcome and encouraged. And (typing this for maybe the millionth time, maybe I’ll learn it) I shouldn’t have to feel like a burden or an interruption every single time I need something. I deserve to be a clear priority, even if my role is smaller than others’.

The ironic thing about this situation is that if somebody else were treating me this way, this family of readers would be the first to get up in arms about it, telling me to get out and that I’m amazing and strong and wonderful and deserve so much better. Without them to tell me that, I’m trying to tell myself.

This “online relationship” business is just complete nonsense, especially from someone who lives two hours away.

Last night, while my nerves were still jangled and my heart was definitely breaking, Mr. Sweetface made it over for our long-awaited play date. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to pay him the proper attention, but it’s amazing what bodies can take care of all on their own. The smell of him, his big pretty eyes, his beautiful naked self across my knee all subby and soft—how lucky am I? When it was his turn to spank me, I cried a little at the end and he gathered me up and told me I was beautiful, told me I’d be okay. The generosity of that easy gesture, the sound of his heartbeat, his strong arms as he wrapped me in the blanket, that’s what I need. That’s what I am.

A few months ago when I was panicking to the Lady of the House about the Steampunks, she said, not unkindly, that I seem to find myself in one crazy story after another, that it might be beneficial to look at the pattern and figure out what attracts me to unavailable people. Since then, I’ve tried to be mindful of only making choices that wouldn’t lead me back to loneliness and panic, so I’m sheepish and sad to have chosen a constellation that, however loveable, has infinitely more barriers up than the Steampunks did. I love them so much and sometimes they’re all I want in this world, but I ignored a million red flags and broke my own very good rules to love them. I don’t know what makes me do this, except that I needed the words “love” and “family” so badly that I would’ve given anything. That’s where I am right now and I’ll keep trying to be careful with it.

All in One Saturday: A Valentine Car, a New Therapy Goal, and an Excellent Date

Most Saturdays I do little more than read and maybe wash the dishes, but last weekend, a lot of moving forward happened.

A few weeks ago I decided that I couldn’t live with the sadness and shame that came over me every time I drove Sweetie’s car, so I started looking for one of my own. Being capable of having my own car doesn’t really fit with my lingering self-image of being broke and just kind of incompetent, but I made myself absorb the realities of a salary and (!) a good credit score. Somewhere along the line, I became able to take care of myself, and honestly I owe some of that to Sweetie’s support.

It only took a couple of Googlings to find the car I wanted, a bright shiny red compact with, sweet merciful wonder, an automatic transmission. I put off driving it until I knew I wanted to buy it, because I knew once I drove it I’d be attached. I was right. I tried to be cool in the dealership until the bargaining was done, but my insides were just bursting with joy. It was a triumph of self-control that I didn’t do the Snoopy dance right there in the dealership. The divorce is over. I’m free.

I had to go back and pick up the blue car from the dealership, (I almost mistyped “healership”) which gave me some nice impromptu catch-up time with my favorite neighbor, Gold Star Winggirl, but felt like a complete nightmare to be behind that wheel again. All of the anger and frustration and fear of the Sweetie relationship is in that car, and if I could reasonably push it off a cliff, I would. Will settle for having dropped it off.

As I think I’ve bragged about before, my lovely therapist makes housecalls and we had an appointment soon after I finished the car-errands. After telling her all of the things that were making me happy and moving me forward, I admitted that I was still concerned about how big my anger gets sometimes, how personal and consuming. She very, very rarely gives advice or directives, but she said that it’s time to confront The Big Thing, the real scary party from high school, that it put bad things in me that aren’t me and it’s time to start making those repairs.

I’m ready. Lord knows I’ve had enough practice confronting it. We’ll start talking about it on Sunday the 16^th at 11:00 AM, on a three day weekend so there’s a margin from the school week. (Hey, that reminds me of something…) She said to give myself as much love and kindness as I can until then, in every single way I can think of—luckily that was my plan anyway.

Even though I know she’s right and that nothing bad is going to happen, when she left I felt like I’d gotten caught, like she’d discovered after all that understanding that I really am a bad person. I’ve felt so many variations on that feeling over the years; I wonder what it’ll be like after it loses its power?

It’s taken too many paragraphs to get to the BEST part of Saturday—the Mystery Man. On Friday, one of the Mystery Ladies had let me know he’d be available all weekend for my attentions, so I asked him if he’d be my reward after I turned in my report card grades. Since I was awesome and did interim reports last month, work didn’t take long at all.

Another of the Ladies sent a few tweets handing him over to me and sending compersion, and then I invited him over to the direct messages to negotiate a little. Since I was fragile the last time from not being able to physically snuggle after, I proposed some Twitter aftercare: after we were done playing, in addition to cute chatting, we would lavish each other with praise, since we’re awesome at that anyway. And it worked! The next day, I felt healthy, horny, and warm, like I’d just been to the nude beach.

It didn’t feel out-of-body this time. For the first 45 minutes, I mostly didn’t touch myself at all, just sat here drawing him a Valentine in my cute bra and lace undies, letting the warmth of his words move through me and put me at ease. It really did feel like sitting in the sun, my hair soft on my back, my shoulders warm, my cheeks flushed.

By the time I started getting handsy with myself, (around when he told me he was pulling me onto his lap and I said we’d have to stay there and make out like teenagers for a while…) everything was turned up and tingly and my pretty lavender lace panties (which would soon end up on the floor) were soaking wet.

I think that I need more practice with blowjob-describing. Though I got no complaints, I did get a little writer’s block about it. But maybe that’s because it was at the end and it was very hard to think or type.

After we came (together, how cuuuute) we did indeed heap on the praise. I have definitely met my match in terms of verbal lovey-doveyness—a few times, I was like, whoa, I definitely can’t top that. I’ve never felt more happy or accepted.

I was sad to say goodnight but glad I was sending him into the arms of his wife, my friend who’d instigated the date in the first place. I’m so grateful to have them in my life, that they’re willing to share their time and hearts and world with me. As I told the Mystery Man while we were celebrating aftercare by listing off the things that make us nerdy, he’s like those little gold cell-fixer things on Doctor Who, changing me with love and helping me regenerate until I’m strong enough again to save planets. I can’t thank you enough, Dear.

Being a Switch Is Awesome Part Three: First Time I Beat Up a Boy

After Old-Timey Guy was finished with me, I stripped off my wings and the rest of my costume and got as naked as I could while having to leave on nipple tape and panties. I just wanted to be comfy. I started to look around for someone to give me more snuggles. The Puncher is a really good cuddler, but for whatever reason he was seeming unapproachable.

Then a new guy walked in a military-ish costume and looked so much like The Man that I had to do a double-take. On second-look, he was much more fresh-faced, but the resemblance was still uncanny. Regardless/because of who he resembled, I thought he was cute so I said hello.

“I’m usually here in heels,” he said, “But tonight, I’m all Domly.”

“You SURE are!” I giggled and asked him what he likes. Just like me, he likes to be restrained and smacked around. After we chatted for a few more minutes, I went ahead and asked, “So, do you want me to beat you up?” Suddenly these things just seem so easy!

He smiled and said sure and I remembered that I DID have something to tie him up with—my pretty satin handcuffs! He happily held his hands out and I tied them on all snug. It was poetic to be putting soft, shiny handcuffs on a guy who looks like The Man, but this guy was such a sweetheart that all I was thinking about was making him happy. Okay, and maybe convincing him to snuggle me later.

(Sidenote: It occurs to me that I’d better be super-extra-careful to take care and honor bottoms’ wishes. I’m entering the world of topping with some not-awesome karma behind me, if one believes in that sort of thing. Better look for chances to heal those old scars—maybe this is one of those chances.)

(Another sidenote: Not superappropriate little note to CBATP—Not to take away from any of the wonderfuls I do play with, but I’m thinking of you in these paragraphs for a couple of reasons, wishing we could be in touch, wishing I could fire up the ol’ sexTARDIS to a time when scenes might be possible with you. )

ANYWAY, so the First Boy. I led him to a kneeling bench and tried awkwardly to get his pants down, but it turned out they were all one piece with the top of his costume. Little spoiler alert, he vowed to make himself more accessible to me the next time. I took off his cap and glasses and placed him on the stand next to us. I petted his sweet blond head and asked if he liked his hair pulled, and yes, he did. He has short hair, but I got a good grip, yanked, and enjoyed his beatific expression.

My spankin’ hand was hurty, everybody, so I wouldn’t have been able to do much, but he pointed out that his costume included a training nightstick. So helpful, except it was a little hard not to hit myself with the handle-end while I was hitting him—that must’ve looked funny. I sank into the rhythm and hit harder and harder, expressing all the rest of the aggression I had left, going actually a little sadistic as I scrolled through all of the feelings.

As I laid into the lower part of his left ass cheek, I noticed him flinch a little more than I meant him to, and he told me I was at a yellow. I felt proud and also horrified—ohno, I’m a little scary! Like, on purpose! (Actually this was the second time of the night I came off scary—the Fireman’s Girl wanted some nice spanks from me but got afraid when she saw how hard I hit TPG. I’m sure I could still do sensual spanks, though. Hope she gives me a chance to try.)

I backed off a little, even switch-hitting a bit, but eventually both arms got tired. I asked if he wanted some snuggles, and hooray! He did. The only snuggle-spot available at this late hour happened to be in the same place where I had lovely, smoochy aftercare with The Man back all those months ago when he still had a nice nickname. As much as I’ve stayed angry with TM, I’ve never forgotten the romance and potential of that first scene.

Sorry the paragraphs keep getting swept out of the First Boy moment—that certainly wasn’t the case that night. Apparently I’m into one guy doing aftercare on behalf of a whole bunch of people—can that be a fetish? Not according to FetLife, but nonetheless, it was incredible! Even though I was ostensibly supposed to be taking care of him, I got all wrapped up in his arms and felt sweet and beautiful, sinking into the woozy sensation of trust and safety. It’s a miracle that it’s so easy to fall into coziness with a stranger. One of the things I love best about single life is slipping in and out of intimacy without possession or obligation—just letting myself rest with another human animal and then letting it go.

Not letting go too much, though. He let me know that he plans to be around more often and that he hoped we’d play again. I sure do have some ideas for him.

Mini-Update and a Helpful/Hot Poly Weekly Episode

This week-before-last Poly Weekly episode ,while not really an advice-y one, really helped me to think about post-scene endorphins and how they were influencing the way I perceive partners during postscene days. (And sometimes weeks!) Once I started noticing the chemical changes, it helped me to simmer back down to having perspective about certain cuties a little bit faster.

Which is an awesome gold star for me because I know that getting upset about crushes often keeps me from getting to know the people I'm most drawn to. It would be a fantastic pattern to break. Huzzah!

Kissed, Punched, and a Little Sadistic, Part Four: Got in Trouble for Running

When it was Winggirl One’s turn to get spanked by Cute Master, I got all excited and offered to help hold her down—I’ve always wanted to do that! He thought it was a pretty good idea and I like being helpful.

So WO knelt down in the same spot I’d just been in. Pretty Slave held down her left shoulder and I held down her right. She relaxed into his strikes at first, but then started to buck and fight. I loved the tension of her body pushing against me. Forcing her back into position, I felt a real mean streak come out, all the way up from my belly. I didn’t really hurt her, but I was sure riled up to hold her down and I loved that PS and I were working on this together, as a team. I’ve always aspired to be a good team player.

When he offered to beat her up front, though, I had to tag out. I just don’t want to be a part of boob-hurting. I wandered off to where Old-Timey Guy and co were situated and caught the eye of The (soon to be) Puncher. His face lit up with an enormous grin and he said “Oh, I know that look. You’d better run.”

How to have complete and utter joy, if you’re me: be in bra, underpants and heels running as carefully as I could through the party (didn’t want to mess up anybody’s scene or get a stray single-tail in the eye) with a boy in pursuit. What a perfect moment, even after the Dungeon Owner called out “No running!” and I had to only pretend to run. “Run slow!” a member of the crowd called out helpfully, and that’s what I did.

There’s a bar in the corner of the party that they don’t use, and I’ve spent many a happy moment bent over against it. That’s where I chose for our scene. I realized I was still in my bra and had to go get situated—I ended up bonding with some new friends in the bathroom over my Hello Kitty tape, it never fails.

The Puncher was responsible and considerate (part of the reason I trust him is because he’s been guided by Old-Timey Guy) asking what not to do. Most of my limits didn’t seem like things that would come up, but I rattled them off anyway. They just don’t feel the way they used to, the limits. Should write about that sometime.

Aside from his youth, The Puncher is exactly my type--tall, big, and scruffy-smiley, and his big hands did not disappoint. They stung against my end-of-the-night tender behind. I grabbed hold of the bar and held steady, screaming my head off as I’m wont to do.

“Do you mind a little punching?”

“Go for it!!”

And that felt even better than the spanks. Deep, emphatic thuds I could feel all the way through my pelvis. I felt my hoo-ha swell up and get wetter and everything started to seem really out of control down there. I’ve never felt anything quite like it—aroused in like six directions at once and throbbing/pushing back in rhythm with his hits. It hurt so bad and felt so wild but I just kept white-knuckling the bar, braced myself and pushed my ass out for more.

He came close behind me and leaned up to my ear to check in. (Is there any better feeling? Well yes, but Dom-leaning-in-to-ask-how-I’m-doing is definitely close to the top of the (LOOOONG) list.) I was out of breath and flustered, sweaty and a little scared, but I said keep going, and he did for a while. It was one of the few scenes I’ve stopped because I’ve actually had enough. He said I hung in there longer than most.

We hugged a good long time standing up, but I knew I should ask for more snuggly aftercare. (I should’ve asked beforehand, bad girl, but I don’t always want it or need it.) I felt shy about asking because I didn’t know what his agreements were—aftercare just seems so much more personal than all the other parts.

But he was so sweet, and he said it was up to me, not him if we had aftercare, and we went to find a quiet spot. I was still flushed and panting and so was he. It was such a nice purely animal-comfort feeling wrapped up in his arms. His heart was racing so fast and I liked the vulnerability of that. Snuggling with The Puncher didn’t have the same emotional resonance as the CBATP cuddles from the week before, but I loved just feeling like happy animals with him.

He apologized for sweating all over me but I explained about Lesbian Island, how I’d been deprived of men so long that dude smell is always such a very very good thing. The Puncher’s Girl came over and I thanked her for lending him to me—she was so excited that we’d played.

***Note: I am a terrible feminist when it comes to handing out pseudonyms. I keep naming girls after the names I’ve given their boyfriends, when of course they have their own identities and could be named a million other things. But there are getting to be a lot of characters and it’s helpful to keep track of who belongs to whom. Also, I keep referring to women as girls, but that’s just because I like to.***

We all sat around and chatted for a bit before I realized that I was satisfied to the point where I kinda needed clothes back on. (“Boring!” said The Puncher’s Girl, who herself was back in her pretty, flowy dress.)

I went back over to where I’d left my suitcase and got dressed. Pretty Slave very helpfully took my tape off for me. It was time to start saying goodbyes, and in the process I found out that Old-Timey Guy and Punk Rock Girl have a party coming (at this house that I got chained to one time) and once I got myself invited I jumped up and down with little-girl glee. Old-Timey Guy always brings that out in me.

I squeezed Cute Master and Pretty Slave into a three-person hug and thanked them for everything.

“Keep inviting me to stuff, ‘cause I’m only gonna get sluttier!”

“We’d like you even if you weren’t.” said Cute Master.

Aw.

The next day I realized I maybe had pushed myself a little too far. I felt a little like I’d smoked a cigarette, even though I haven’t in ten years, and a little paranoid that I’d messed up somehow, even though there was absolutely no evidence. I think partly I’m nervous about how well things have been going, that it somehow won’t be true, but I’m going to do my best to just keep letting awesome things happen, after a teensy little break to process and let all of those fantastic bruises heal.

Kissed, Punched, and a Little Sadistic, Part Three: Yes, I’m a Cuddle Slut

Pretty Slave was now the one kneeling next to me on the (regular) bench. Her skirt was pulled all the way up and her black lace panties were glorious. She really has the most amazing ass, you should see it. Cute Master spanked her and I loved the sound of her voice as she cried out.

Between me, Pretty Slave, and Winggirl One, the turned-on smell was incredible. It was a cloud of girl, and it made me feel so close to my friends.

You might remember that I spanked a young lady at the Regular Dungeon night before this one, and afterwards she led me over to show me how big her boyfriend’s hands are? Said boyfriend (to be gleefully named The Puncher in the next post…) came over to chat and I asked if he might have time to flog me later. He said he didn’t have any tools with him, but we agreed that he probably didn’t need them, with hands like those. (The poor guys on this blog, so often reduced to a pair of hands…) As we kept chatting, his age came up and I realized I was hitting on a 20-year-old. And then I realized I didn’t care. His girlfriend was finishing up a scene and looking like she might need some attention, so I told him I’d come and find him later.

Cute Master told me it was my turn to kneel down in front of him, so I happily did. My face was smushed against the wall and he made me stick out my ass as much as I could. He was slower with me this time, more deliberate. He ran his hands over me affectionately between smacks and I realized he does have nice soft hands. I reminded him about the hair-pulling and he did it, pushing and pulling ecstatic adrenaline out of me.

My favorite part was the after time—I snuggled up to Pretty Slave, Cute Master put his arm around both of us, and we snuggled like a family of kittens. Sometimes a hand would feel me up and I’d be unsure of whose it was—that was the best feeling. They loosened up the top of her corset and with an “Is this okay?’ I reached in and played with her lovely soft bosoms, wanting to put them in my mouth but unsure if that was crossing a party rule line.

It was so comforting and peaceful laying there in their arms, a little oasis in the middle of a crazy world.

I like them, everybody. I really value them as friends and play-partners. Spending the evening at the dungeon with them made me feel connected and cared for in a new way. It made me feel more aligned with myself and made all of my friendships seem easier and deeper somehow. Maybe it was just the (as yet) rare feeling of getting to fully express being bi, to really start actively loving my orientation. Sheesh, it’s about time.

“You really are a cuddle slut,” she said.

“No! I wouldn’t cuddle with just anybody!”

“But you’d do this all night, wouldn’t you?”

I shrugged and nodded and went back to nuzzling and smooching her.

Life is tricky for me lately, ecstatic at times but also tiring and messy. I’m so grateful to my friends for being such a nice place to rest.

Next: I hold a girl down, run away, and get bent over the bar.

Birthday Spanks and Unicorn Snuggles, Part Three: Aftercare and the Beatles Sing Along

After Cute Master was done beating on me to SexyBack, I decided it was time for hugs. I found a nice fuzzy blanket and asked the Cutest Boy at the Party if he would do the job. He was happy to, sat down on the couch and opened up his arms. I was still naked and I felt completely safe wrapped up with a near-stranger. Because life is awesome.

I curled up in his arms, put my head on his shoulder, and breathed him in.

“I’m just gonna stay here and sniff you,” I said.

“I don’t mind that at all.”

He ran his hands over my back and shoulders, gently through my hair. (Oops, I forgot to get it pulled! Oh well, maybe next time.) I wouldn’t have minded if he’d gotten more handsy, but this was really sweet. People kept joking about what a giver he was for being on aftercare duty with a naked girl.

He has a lovely soothing voice and whispered in my ear “You did such a good job.”

I said “Mmmmmm” and snuggled up closer to him, feeling the always-long-anticipated bliss that comes from praise.

“You’re a good girl, you know. A very good girl.”

“I just feel really lucky…”

“Well, you deserve for good things to happen to you. You’re a good person.”

Awwww. I held him long past the time when the subby feelings had gone away, but eventually it was time for him to rejoin the party. I sat on the sofa with the blanket some more, until Huge Handed Fireman, who was sitting on the couch with his gorgeous submissive draped all over him, yanked the blanket off me, all “What’s with the blanket?”

During a conversation about the enormity of his hand-size, I suggested he see if he could fit an entire one of my boobs in his hand. He could. He tweaked my nipple and informed passersby that I liked it. One stranger who’d been a particularly avid watcher of the spankings came over and asked if he could try. It was a delightfully creepy feeling holding my shoulders back and letting him touch, letting him look at me so leeringly. (After I’d made a big speech about how they’re NOT FOR HURTING, of course.

Once I’d had enough with the stranger and pushed him away gently, HHF grabbed one more time, applying a kind of pressure I’d never felt before. A pulse of desire went through me, but he went back to fondling his girl, who has particularly amazing boobs and a pinup body to go with them. I enjoyed that show for a while and then decided to put on my PJs (with people will watching it was like kind of a reverse strip tease.) and wander around the house. What I found was, would you believe it, a Beatles sing-along.

There’s a guy on the scene who I often just think of as Creepy Guy because he tends to wander into scenes, declare them a Kodak moment, then take a picture with an imaginary camera. That just seems kind of goofily hapless now that he’s taken my “Hide Your Love Away” request. One less creep in the world is a good thing.

“Eight Days a Week” was my favorite and I belted it out with the whole force of my soul. As we sang, I sat down behind Pretty Slave, braided her hair and petted her shoulders. CBATP wandered in and ran his hand up the back of my neck, stoked the underneath of my hair until I was all tingly and he totally could have been the boss of me.

Next: Unicorn Shenanigans and the Inconvenient Epiphany*

*Would be a good name for a band.

Worries and Wonders for Casual Times

Friends, it will surprise exactly no one that it’s taking me some time to get over Steampunk Guy. I didn’t really realize that until I was on a hike last night with my BFF Angel Face having all kids of mentionitis about it. All those transformative experiences in such a short time make it still really difficult to have any perspective about him, even if it means I risk losing my awesome breakup award.

With that in mind, I want to spend exactly no more time trying to make myself be casual about someone I’m actually bonkers about. When the time comes that I’m a little more past my divorce and safely settled into my own place, I look forward to finding a guy I can just go ahead and fall for, and he might even fall in return.

In the meantime, I’ve been mulling over how I can keep playing without getting my heart tangled up in anybody until I’m ready. I know there are no magic rules that can keep me from going to crushtown—after all, I fell for Bill just by exchanging song links, and I got all those daddy feelings for Fireguy just from one approving look during a casual public scene.

I do have one non-lovey-dovey ongoing thing: Old-Timey Guy and I have played off and on for more than a year now and I’ve never even had a little twinge of wishing things were different. He is certainly affectionate, but I’ve never kissed him, he’s never put anything inside me, we’ve never been alone, and he’s never given me aftercare. I’ve never needed aftercare because I’ve never been to subspace with him. (Haven’t been to subspace with anybody since The Man. It might be a while on that one.) Maybe it comes down to those things, or maybe it’s not what we do or don’t do, but just that the feelings are genuinely just friendship feelings.

So I don’t know. The idea of going however long without kissing or fucking is unappealing to me, but so is the idea of trying to rein my feelings in while I do those things. I did just break up with everybody I wanted to fuck or kiss, so I suppose I maybe do need space from it.

While divorce-grief has me fragile, I did make some rules that I like:

1. No more than two drinks ever.

2. Leave when it feels even a little bit icky.

3. Aftercare, if needed, will be self-provided.

My sense of self-preservation is stronger than it’s ever been, so I feel confident in my yesses and nos, but I also know that my heart runs away with me sometimes. I’m not sure what the solution is.

Steampunk Guy and Two Kinds of Sex-Tears

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.

First Date With Steampunk Guy, Part Four: His Huge Life Force

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.

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.

Things Go Haywire But Still a Good Scene, Part Five

Finishing up this story, I think I understand what it’s about. This was the first time I really had to confront my own jealousy in any way other than running away. It scared me to death and I acted in so many ways that I’d go back and change if I could. I felt an emptiness, a desperation for him that I am so ashamed of.

I don’t know how to manage jealousy and my fear of abandonment, but I know that I will have to learn. I know that I feel those things a lot less with some partners than with others, but sticking to mensch-y poly guys is not going to protect me from my insecurities forever. I feel like I need to be so much stronger and I am just not growing fast enough.

Right now I’m kind of overwhelmed with grief at messing it up with MHE. I don’t feel very hopeful that I’ll be able to find a guy who strikes the right notes the way he sometimes did. And this hurts so badly that I’m not sure if I should look.

What happened after the gorgeous scene was, he fell asleep. I know that seems sweet, it IS sweet, but I felt like he didn’t want to be with me. I sat down on the floor with my head in his lap, hoping to feel some kind of closeness, but the music was getting worse and worse and I really wanted to be someplace private.

We packed up our stuff and went out to the car. The rain was drizzling down as we sat there and cuddled a bit, him whispering to me that I was beautiful, it should have felt romantic, but I just wanted him to take me home and put me in bed, to fall asleep in his arms and know that he cared for me. I just couldn’t feel it. We felt so exposed, so placeless. I hoped that if I turned him on a little more, he’d change his mind about not taking me home, but groping in the parking lot outside the play party seemed unethical so I made us stop. He stared driving me home.

I did. Not. Want. To. Go. Home. I wanted to him to want to be close to me, I felt like he was just trying to get rid of me. Granted, I wasn’t really in a position to take him home either.

I was bitchy in the car on the way home. I tried to explain about what aftercare meant to me, but it sounded stupid and hollow. I knew it wasn’t about BDSM. It was a simple craving to be close to someone I’d gotten attached to, to prove to myself that he wasn’t lying about who was at home, to prove to myself that I could be anything to a man besides a toy. I honestly don’t know if I can. Maybe it’s just not me. Maybe I am, as I feared at the beginning of this project, simply not lovable to men.

Of course I didn’t say all that in the car. Despite this storyline, I am actually not crazy. I said just enough to feel like I’d totally fucked up, like I’d been a horrible bitch. When he pulled up outside my house I said, “Really? This is the choice that you’re making?”

And he just looked so tired, so defeated, it just broke my heart. Why am I always so hard on people? Why did I have to keep harping on him? I started out trying to just ask for what I need, but I sniped myself out of the chance of ever getting what I need, even SOME of what I need. No, he’s not perfect, but neither am I. Why couldn’t I just have given us space to get used to each other?  I apologized for fucking things up. We held each other in the car and kissed, took a little nap right there. My heart just ached for him, he was so tired.

Next time, he promised, he’d be ready for me. He’d do a better job of taking care of me. (Though clearly I’m the one who needs to do a better job at that.)

“I always do this.” He said, “I always hurt the ones I love.” As usual, I got the sense that that “love” was not about me.

The next day, we exchanged kind texts with a whiff of the breaking-it-off-note about them. I’ve been hoping all week that they weren’t breakup texts, but I offered him a lunch visit and he hasn’t responded. It’s settling in that he probably really is gone. In a few days, I’ll say goodbye, block his facebook page, and cry my heart out.

Maybe it WAS a bad match. I really don’t act that way with everyone. Maybe he really was being dishonest and I just picked up on something with my actual intuition. But I just can’t shake the anger at myself, the sense that I should have given him more leeway, should have just let him like me the way he did, not the way that I thought he should. What could we have been if I’d just given us more space, could’ve shaken my distrust, if I could have just grown the fuck up and been able to handle things better?

Most of the things I regret with past partners involves being too hard on them, not giving them the space to be imperfect. Sweetie says it’s okay sometimes if someone just isn’t enough, that I deserved for him to meet me halfway, and I know she’s right. But right now I just feel like a failure. I wish I could have a chance to start over and give things time to work out, to not feel so scared and urgent and graspy. I’ve really lost faith in myself for now, and it’s going to take me some time to recover. See you in a few weeks, Kitten Calendar. Wish me healing and strength and luck.

My Ass Is Smitten With Mister Hazel Eyes, Part Two: Car-Spanked

When we got to the venue, it was a standard parking-lot-in-a-field situation, with tailgaters here and there. As soon as we were situated, I turned over, my head between the back seat and the door, my ass faced towards my pal in the driver’s seat. There were people fairly nearby, but I didn’t think they’d notice, except for maybe the guy who chose MHE’s car to pee next to—hate it when I look at someone at just the wrong time.

Anyway, I settled in and Mister Hazel Eyes alternated between spanking me and grabbing/massaging the underside of my ass-cheeks, almost between my legs, his fingers roving close to all kinds of supersensitized nerve-endings. I really wished it wasn’t a pad-plus-tampon sort of day so that his fingers could’ve gotten all up in everywhere, but he didn’t even have to, because with every impact and every smush, moans came out of me, big, voluptuous moans of joy and relief.

“Am I being a good, sweet girl?” I asked.

“That depends, what does a good, sweet girl do? I want to hear you tell me.”

I wanted to do a good job for him and tell him all kinds of pretty, wordy, slutty things, but my mind was a feathery, pillowy fog.

“I can’t find words. I just feel like a sleepy angel. Do I look like a sleepy angel?”

I turned around to kiss him and he said, “Well, you look like something.”

I turned back over to present myself to him again. Neither the spanks nor the squeezes were rough or harsh, just decisive, insistent, true. He spooned up against me and breathed on my neck, biting gently.

“Are you okay?” He asked “You’re kind of out of breath.”

It’s true. I think I would’ve come if we’d have kept going. I was gasping and overwhelmed, ecstatic. It occurred to me that I’d need a little aftercare before I could even think about getting up the hill to the show, so I had him stop spanking and start cuddling. “Just a little hug,” I said, and he held me for a few minutes, still breathless and stunned. Sleepy angel indeed.

Next: Die Antwoord, then romance.

Letter to The Song Sender

Last week, I thought about going back and talking to The Song Sender about what happened between us. I was/am feeling stuck and I thought maybe his point of view would jostle something loose. This morning, my stuckness/curiosity got the best of me and I emailed him my number. As soon as I did that, all the bad feelings came rushing back, I remembered what it really felt like to be with him. So I reblocked everything and sent him this letter:

"But sending you my phone number made me remember how it really felt back then. It brought back all of the fear and anxiety and worry and desperation and shame. Being with you opened up such a chasm of greif, not all of it from you, but still.

Whether you literally wanted me to be a doll or not, wanting to do all that big meaningful stuff (it was big and meaningful to me) without any pesky emotions was treating me like an object. I deserved better. I gave you so much trust, all those first times, all that love.

 

I wanted to know if you did it on purpose or maybe it was just a bad match, but it doesn't matter. I wanted to know why you didn't want to go out in the world with me, but the fact is, you didn't. I wanted to know why you didn't treat me like a friend, but it doesn't matter now, it just sucked, it was a horrible way to treat somebody.

 

I'm pissed off at the damage you did. I'm doing my best to repair it.

 

Forward is a good way to go."

I'm giving myself a gold star for finally talking back to him, even though it was so long after the fact. I hope it makes a difference. Hope it makes me feel free again sometime soon.

What I'm looking for seems really, really far away, but I do know that backwards isn't the direction it's in.