Knotty Thursdays: Worship Me a Little, Sure!

 

It’s just kind of the best when a cutie reaches out on Feeld and says something like, “You can practice your ropes on me if that would be helpful?”

It was! I was superexcited to work on the back of a harness for once, having worked on just me for a while. And what a sweetie pie he was, deferential and kind, calling me Ma’am in nearly every sentence, once I offered him the option. He was very, very good. He had the floppy hair and wholesomely handsome face of a Disney prince. It’s a thing I said to him: “I’ve never tied up a Disney prince before!

I liked the bright flash of his green eyes, just a momentary glimmer. So pretty.

(I’m maybe a little more chatty than the average Ma’am, and maybe a little too sweet? I don’t know.)

There’s a certain kind of casual date I associate with post-pandemic life, where the boy under my hands just kind of…needs a rest. A relief. A little cloud of peace to live in for a while. Okay, wait, I just explained submission.

After I decorated him (“This is more ropes than I expected…” he said. Guilty as charged.) he asked if I would tie his hands. I don’t usually restrain anybody on the first date, but he asked so nicely! And I liked putting a chain stitch onto those pretty wrists! I liked how he obediently clasped his hands behind his back before I even asked him to. I would’ve gone for tying in the front.

Then he lay down on the bed on his tummy, ready to be petted. “I like being your little pet” he said. He was so good at it!

I didn’t let him be restrained for long! Yes, I was concerned about safety, but really I just wanted his hands on me.

“May I worship your tits, Ma’am?” I mean, it’s only one of my favorite things! He pulled my lacy purple bra down enough to get my nipple into his mouth while he played with the other one. It felt so good that I curled up into a human comma around him and yowl-moaned.

As good as it felt, I wanted no part of me losing control. I told him to turn over for a spanking, and he obliged. I pulled his underpants down just enough and spanked and spanked, leaving cute red circles on both of his sweet, soft cheeks. Then I felt the relief too, like a string of tension inside my body had been loosened, if not untied.

I wanted no part of the bonding chemicals my brain would give me if I let him get me off, so I regretfully told him we wouldn’t fuck. He lay next to me and got himself off, good boy.

When he did that quick-zippering-gotta-go thing after, it didn’t make me sad the way it usually might. (Oh aaaaggggony of The Shy One’s quick zippering the last night we were together. Sometimes my whole heart just wants to write a small opera about that moment. Eventually several paragraphs, at least.) The other night though, I felt like, “Oh, this is great, I can finish my library book that’s due.”

Besides that pleasant good-job-everybody feeling, there was another feeling, oddly pleasant as well: the Not Yet feeling. The deep, kind acceptance that I’m not ready to open my heart again, that it might be a while. The knowledge that while my mind might be antsy to move on to my next loves (Or even, come on! Likes!) my body, heart, and soul still belong to the Shy One(s), I don’t know for how long!

That’s the person I am, and the only person I have to be. No wonder taking my time feels good, it’s love. And loving myself.

What I Want, Part One (The Easy Part)

There’s always a certain amount of futility in these lists, because the next characters who come along could knock me on my ass just as much as any ever have. If you’d told me in June that “summer fling with The Song Sender” would be in the cards, (Literally. The Lover and The Devil! Yikes and yay. Yay and yikes.)  I would have laughed in your face and told you about a dream I had a few years ago, wherein I was explaining to him: “We just call it strangling now.” More about that guy in part two, but for now, the easy things:

1.     I’m solo poly, and not necessarily destined for the kitchen table, at least not right away. I like my space, and I’ve discovered in the past few weeks that I like each combination to have time to grow before stirring my darlings’ darlings into the mix.

 

That doesn’t rule out future deep relationships with metamours or even some magical unicorn miracle, but I want to take my time. Every person is a LOT. I am A LOT. I would like any given combination to have its feet under it before I start to learn the next humans. Because I will LOVE THEM TOO and that will be, you know, a lot.

 

2.     I definitely do want polyamory. I would love to stop trying to wedge myself into monogamy every few years out of—self-protection? Weird poly/bi phobia left over from my divorcing years? There have been such LOVELY combinations of humans, such bursts or yes-this-is-exactly-it happiness that I would love to see some more.

 

The Shy One, The Song Sender, and a hookup whose name I barely remember but who made for a fucking GLORIOUS week. This Charming Man, The Lovely Guy, and that other hookup who gave me the wrong name. The Good Boy, The Southern Charmer, and The Adorables. Ideally, most of those would have lasted a lot longer, and I know that humans are NOT art supplies, but I felt like an artist working in the medium of slut, and I would lovelovelove for that to happen again.

 

3.     I don’t necessarily want The Relationship Escalator, but I want feelings. Lovey-dovey feelings, friendly feelings, and d/s feelings. Nobody has to love as easily or as quickly or as thoroughly as I do, but I want them to not feel/seem like a trapped animal when the warmth and affection come into play. Talking about relationships the other night, The Shy One said “I just go in kamikaze, and if it doesn’t work, I just try again.” BFF-Formerly-Sweetie has always called my same strategy “jumping in with both feet.” I don’t always, but when I do, I would love to hang around long enough to let them see if they can catch up.

 

To accomplish that, I would like to not get so mad at myself for the feelings. I would like to give myself space to feel them and be a little less quick to flee.

 

And yes, I would like some of them, eventually, to adore me. To love me wildly, emphatically, and forever. Please.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He’s Not a Pet, He’s a Bird Who Flew in by Mistake: Part One

 

"He’s not a pet, he’s a bird who flew in by mistake." That’s what I told myself in a dream last Saturday morning. In the dream I was talking about an actual bird, sort of a muted, pastel painted bunting, but I knew right away who dream-me was talking about. In a span of a few days, The Song Sender had gone from an actual-date-offering, text-attentive Sir to barely passing the Turing Test.

There was truly some beautifulness between the aftercare panic-and-flee of our second date, the un-break-off that I initiated, and the true end on Wednesday night, when I probably should have been practicing my knots instead. I’m equal parts irritated to be spilling more paragraphs on him and ecstatic to have so much to say.

I’m even sort of comforted knowing there are a few people out there (Looking at you, Steampunk Guy!) who truly cause me to take leave of my senses. Not in a cute, aw I’m crazy about you sense, but the actual departure of my mind. This time, thankfully, I guess my mind hadn’t gone TOO far away.

I was surprised at how amenable he was to making an aftercare plan. He even signed the paper during our dinner in a nearly-completely-empty pho place. But, he was even harder than usual to talk to, and he said there would be a little more negotiating to do when we got to my car.

He told me that he didn’t have space in his life for something as intense as I wanted, that we could only be really casual, if at all. The reason for the robo-boy texting was at least partly because a lady who’s subbier, easier, and less available (just cheating on her fiancée rather than expecting anything relationshippy or, you know, ethically non-monogamous) had popped back into his life.

I mean, as has been THOROUGHLY documented here, The Song Sender is actually pretty awful, he really is, but I thought, why not? Why not get dominated once a month or so and free myself from endlessly worrying about the tone of his texts, endlessly worrying that he was forgetting me. It seemed fine.

So I took him home and it was..fine. The hair pulling and the “pretty little slut” and worrying about bruises but not too much. He kept “forgetting” that my right arm has been broken and dislocated and can’t deal with quite as much manhandling as the rest of me. That fucker was definitely going to dislocate my wrist someday if we’d kept on.

In between finishing himself off and getting up to pee, he asked me if the song Goodbye Horses was on the makeout mix I’d made us. I listened to a few notes while he was in the loo and deemed it perfect, until he was like “It’s time for a movie moment, I have to show you this clip from Silence of the Lambs.

“UH, maybe AFTER aftercare?”

Sadistic or just stupid? Maybe both. I stayed this-is-fine cool and did my aftercare steps, and they simmered me right down. And then there was the clip, in all its lotion-in-basket, rotten, viciously transphobic horror.

“All these queer kids going around liking this song ironically, or unironically,” he said, “Not realizing this is where it’s from.”

Honestly, fuck you FOREVER. I still stayed cool. I had on my slutty-brave armor and it would NOT be disrupted by this fool. We lay there semi-snuggling and looking at each other’s Feeld profiles. It was kinda fun.

Knotty Thursday: The Hipster and This Pretty Weave Thing

I'm sorry to post another blurry one, but if you saw the face you'd see why I was a little flustered.

OMG Monday night was my first post-Shy-One couch date. I was worried that the heartache would take over, but it didn't. I'm not trying to fish for compliments, but how am I getting these beautiful, beautiful men to come over? If you'd asked me, during the early zeroes, deep in my all-things-indie-rock days, to describe the perfect man, I might have described a bearish version of The Hipster. I can't even. 

His playlist was SO GOOD, almost nothing that took me out of the moment, except to ask how he, at 31, knew about The Cardigans.

He was kind of an antsy rope bottom, excited to get to everything that came after the ropes, which is fair. I really like the woven thing at his heart, I just wish I'd finished the harness off a little neater.

The Hipster made it clear that he's Not For Dating, to the point where I felt like I needed to check if he'd cuddle after sex. (He did, but I felt like he had an internal timer set.) But he was such a lovely treat and I hope we get to play some more, even if it's just for the soundtrack.

 

Knotty Thursday: Lark's Head Double-Column Restraint

 Hooray hooray! I've never made knot-practice time a self-date before, but this morning I did. I even felt little wisps of the brain-quiet. I combined this new friend with some not-much-to-look-at (well.) chest harnessing and my supefave the thigh girth hitch. Nothing else is like all that tension/release/gentle struggle, even on my own.

And! I may have found a new casual guy (Way too soon to try for feelings, not while I'm still sometimes struggling to not call This Charming Man!) who is amenable to being decorated--we shall see! 

A Bad Date, A Good Hookup, and a Helpful Google, Part Two

 

I fucking LOVE THIS.

That night back in September when I texted The Coach right after Casual Guy left, The Coach was helpfully explaining hookups to me. “It’s only about what you want,” he said, meaning I guess that’s true for both parties. I can’t tell if that idea is heartless and lonely or if it’s just liberating. On this particular Sunday afternoon, it was the latter.

Hookup Guy and I had our first (couch, wine) date a week ago tonight, and it really did seem like a date-date. We talked for a good while about our lives and work. He (said he) is a special ed teacher in an alternative school, so of course that melted my teacher-heart. He (said he) was recently divorced, just back in March of this year.

As with the Sunday Morning guy, Hookup Guy’s recently divorcedness made me feel tenderness toward him, made me want to provide all the comfort and empathy and warmth. He was so gentle-voiced and deliberate that talking to him gave me kind of a contact high—I don’t smoke weed but he does, this guy’s vibe was like the best of it.

Because I am me, we fucked that first night—warmly and sweetly but also roughly, with some hints that he might be a little too much with the boundary-crossing, or at least that he’d gotten some minor-but-easily-breezed-past bad ideas from porn. He felt so vulnerable and fragile to me that I originally named him Mr. Kindheart in my head. I felt a little guilty for not being as loopy about him as I was/am for the seemingly-at-the-time-more-withholding Lovely Guy.

But it was clear pretty quick that this would be actual-casual if it was anything. His texts were short and infrequent, all logistics. He asked to come over a few nights after that, and I asked too, but there hadn’t been time. I was happy to see his “Hey” in my texts when I got home from my yucky date and nice hike.

Hookup Guy said he was getting ready to drop off his son at a birthday party, and he was thinking he might “come over and fill me up.” after that. (This script is so close to The Coach’s game that I’m again convinced there might be an at-least-semi-alarming how-to-seduce-middle-aged-ladies Reddit thread out there. I mean, there probably is.)

I was already in bed for a nap, so I said sure, why not? I was instantly soaking wet at the idea of Hookup Guy interrupting my nap. I snoozed a little and woke up when the text chimed that he was on his way.

Waiting for Hookup Guy in bed, naked, with the window closed in case I was (because I was definitely going to be) loud, with the door unlocked for him, was one of the sexiest feelings I’ve ever felt. I was wired and sleepy at the same time. At no point in his visit would I get out of bed even a little.

“Hope that’s you!” I said when I heard the door open. I was so, SO happy to see him come up the stairs.

Hookup Guy is BEAUTIFUL. He looks like a combination of John Boyega and Jordan Peele, and he’s even close to my age. He’s tough and kind of softly military-built, with a couple of fraternity brands that fucking make my head spin to think about.

I took his shirt off and he did the rest. I just lay there all cozy in my freshly-laundered sheets and girly comforter watching him strip down. His dick was hard as a monument under his black boxer briefs, and soon those were gone too.

It was good, good, GOOD sex, urgent and matter-of-fact and joyful in a way I’m only starting to get used to. He did, in fact, fill me up.

I wanted him to come back again at his/my convenience, so I asked for his last name so it didn’t have to be “Hinge” in my contacts.

And then, when he was gone, I googled him. Nothing drastic, I promise. But I’ll tell you what I figured out another day.

 

Actual Casual Sex Part Three: The Kinda Emo Part

I’ve been thinking a lot about what the word “romantic” actually means to me and in this particular case I think it means being all fizzy and lonesome from no-cuddling-but-very- competent stranger sex and getting a hankering to tell my hot unavailable friend all about it. I wanted to tell The Coach about the hookup in detail to get him off, but I also just wanted to confide and get his perspective. Plus, there’s a story between us, however mismatched, and I wanted some grounding.

I sent the text to The Coach at 11:11. (Didn’t time it that way on purpose.) I even checked this time if I was interrupting some other lady’s evening, and he said I wasn’t.

He was slutty/sweet/curious, instructive and encouraging. I opted not to get explicit, but I liked telling him this new adventure. After I was pretty sure he’d fallen asleep, I confessed that if I was gonna casual anyway, I wished I’d casualed more with him.

When I woke up the next day, I saw that The Coach had texted at 4:33 AM and offered, you know, some more casualing.

I asked about friends with benefits, and that was fine with him. I don’t know what that means, really, or if it’ll result in any more adventures with The Coach, but I like that door being left open, even as it also makes me want to jump out of my skin. If nothing else, it would be really nice to have somebody besides my ex-wife to talk about my sex-life with! (I don’t give her much info, but I’m pretty sure it’s more detail than she’d like!)

As for Casual Guy, I’m grateful. I liked his instructions, his sweet voice, his unequivocal fucking. I needed it so much.

With all this adventure in the past month or so, of course there are also triggers to care for. The line between arousal and anxiety has always been shifty for me. I would like to spend some time being extra kind to myself, give myself space to think and feel and crush and process. (And get back to learning my knots!) And then I would like MORE PLEASE, UNIVERSE, if you don’t mind.

 

 

 

Actual Casual Sex Part Two: A Lot to Think About

“Do you have a condom?” I asked as we started to aim for upstairs.

“No, do you have any? I mean, you said you hadn’t been fucked in a long time so I didn’t think we’d need one.”

“I mean yeah but I’m not crazy!”

(Seriously people, it’s basically legal to bounty-hunt abortion seekers in Texas these days, is there anything LESS HOT than trying to shirk safer sex? There might be one thing less hot, stay tuned.)

He admitted he *might* have a condom in the car so I smacked his ass and sent him out the door to go get it. I felt impatient and not exactly hopeful.

But yay! He had one and we went upstairs.

“Okay I want you to kneel down.” He wasn’t so much dominating as he was gently instructional.

It was nice to have a dick in my mouth again after aaaaaalllll this time. I really missed the taste (Didn’t make him have the condom on for this part, probably I should have.) and the fullness in my throat.

“Deeper now,” he said, guiding my head with his hand. The tip of his dick hit that part of my throat that makes me feel a little squirty and a little scared. I gagged in a way that I didn’t mind but that definitely shifted me away from my own room and into porn-mind.

“I want you to spit on it.” Yeah no. I ignored that request and I humbly ask that everybody look at porn just maybe slightly less.

Realizing I wasn’t going to be spitting on anything, he shifted to helping me do the best possible job, which I really appreciated. Love any time spent getting better at penises, learning about angles and rhythms and…

“Okay now I want to see how tight that pussy is. Take your pants off and get to the edge of the bed.”

Ahhhhhhhhhh he felt sooooo good. We fit together so nicely and he was both confident and competent enough that I didn’t have to worry about a single thing in the entire world for a few minutes.

“Move back onto the bed, I want to fuck you right.” And ohyes, he did. I hung onto the bars of the headboard and made all the noise and felt. Just. Relief. Welcome, hooray, thank you.

He started talking about how he was going to take the condom off and come inside me though, so I said “Wait, what?!” and wriggled out from under him until he convinced me it was fine, it was on, he was just talking shit.

(Again! So gross! Be a good citizen of sex!)

A lot of his talk was so much fun though:

“You deserve this. You said you haven’t been fucked since 2018? Tell me about 2018.”

“It was…this guy...from down the street…and we liked to watch…Gilmore Girls…afterward we…argued about the…midterm elections…”

And:

“You like this, don’t you? You watch a lot of porn, don’t you.”

“No just a little…Hentai… once in a while…I don’t…really need it…I have a good imagination…”

And:

“I love all this hair you have on your pussy. Don’t shave, do you understand me?”

(Okay points for that but I probably would shave for The Coach if he asked me nicely.)

And:

“This pussy is mine now, right?”

“Um, no. It’s actually mine.”

But then there was this moment that I can’t quite get my head around. Now, I don’t mind being objectified as a white woman, that seems totally fair, a little bit satisfying and corrective. And I should not be in the business of yucking anybody’s yum or getting protective of a grown man while he is CLEARLY having a good time.

But:

“You like that. You like that n****r dick don’t you? It’s okay, you can say it.”

After I winced and looked away, he dialed it back to “You like that big, black dick, don’t you.”

“We don’t need to make it about race.”

(Okay. I am attracted to black guys (and also, white guys are fucking terrifying) but I also spend maybe too much time worrying that they’ll think I’m fetishizing them, that I’m Allison Williams from Get Out. I should think a whole bunch about this later but first let’s finish the scene.)

After that jarring/heartbreaking moment, we got back on track.

“Okay are you ready? Can I fuck you harder now?”

“Oh yes PLEASE.”

It felt so good to wrap my arms around his big sexy strong arms, his muscular shoulders, to kiss him one more time and feel him let go inside me.

And then he was dressed so fast. He made noises about owing me cuddling another time, but I knew I wasn’t going to take him up on it. I put my pants back on the come down and lock him out.

In a warm, fuzzy, kinda-shocked-at-myself daze, there was exactly one person I wanted to talk to about this. Not super-advisable, but my guard was all the way down so I texted The Coach.

 

Actual Casual Sex, Part One

After my week of phone adventures with The Coach, I guess I decided to play a little more like he plays. (Or I guess, the way he looks like he plays, I really don’t know his life!) I switched my very sensible 37-57 settings on Bumble to a more playful 26-57. I stopped automatically swiping left on anybody who looks like he goes to the gym a lot. I realized (!!!!!) that dating apps could just be for looking at cute people instead of steadfastly looking for The Right One. I slutted up my opening lines by a little bit, which means a lot of kissy-talk and emojis that involve hearts because! If they’re scared of hearts they could just not say hi back!

Note to self: They are NOT afraid of emoji-hearts. What have I even been doing with my life?

It is a whole. New. WORLD in my inbox now. Which was good because Friday night I was antsy, and I was (for basically no reason, it turns out) trying not to text The Coach, and I was trying to just read my library book but it was in my phone where all those guys were.

There were a few dating-y guys in the mix, but when Casual Guy was like “What are you doing right now?” I didn’t tell him about the library book I was trying to read or about looking for a Real Relationship. I didn’t even ask if he was allergic to cats (no) and if he was vaccinated (yes) until he was already on the way.

(Let me just stop and give credit to The Coach, because he could have said he was fully vaccinated too and been done with me like two weeks ago.) (I mean, kind of a low bar, but being a good citizen of both Covid and sex is superhot.)

I didn’t believe that Casual Guy would come, or that he would like me (well) or that he would look the way he looked in his picture. He did show up and he WAs beautiful. He was dark-skinned, dressed dapperly, and had pretty that’s-how-they-get-you eyes. A softly West Indies accent. A round tummy but/and jacked arms. (I believe that is the first time I’ve described someone using the word “jacked” on this blog and it sort of makes me feel one hundred years old, but it IS the right word.)

I poured us some wine. My supersweet lesson-planning Pink Moscato was the only one I had cold but it didn’t matter because nobody drank any wine.

OH MY GOODNESS I DID NOT EVEN STOP TO PUT MUSIC ON! Scream emoji!

He had told me to put on something sexy for him and I, because I am lazy and it was all-the-way after ten already, decided that meant cute PJs, a lacy purple bra, and no underpants. No things were shaved or even trimmed. He could not have given less of a fuck.

I thought it was really sweet that he didn’t want to move my cat from her spot on the couch. I scooted the cat over and sat as close to Casual Guy as I could without touching. I thought there would be…banter? Time to drink wine and settle in a little bit?

Instead he was like, oh, you’re shy? Let me help you. He took my hand and put it on his knee. He gently put one hand on the back of my neck and pulled me into a kiss as the other hand went right up my pajama-top, roughly (but not too roughly) pulling my nipple up and out. OHboy, the lace and nipple and his rough hand gathering me up with expert pressure, that’ll stick with me. I’ll picture and feel it for so many alone-times to come. He put my nipple in his mouth and sucked sweetly. I groaned and lay back, disrupting the cat.

“I mean, I do have a bed…”

Unicorn Practice Is Easy Part Two: My Lucky Underwear Down His Pants

 

I wish I could give you identifying characteristics of the party from last Friday night, because it was a doozie. It hit the spot in a wide variety of ways. A pretty friend of mine even let me take off her dress—I didn’t even know I wanted to DO that! But that’s not what this story’s about.

I’m taking a break from romance until my home situation is ironed out, but that doesn’t mean I can’t keep having adventures. It’s impossible to turn off the flirt anyway. I went to the party with very little agenda other than to catch up with friends, but of course one always hopes that spanks might happen. I wore my short black and white dress that Steampunk Guy inspired me to buy a few months back, with leggings and a shiny red bra that matched my red satin heels. I couldn’t stay long because I had to drive to the beach in the morning, but I accomplished a lot of fun in two drinks’ worth of time.

Let’s call them Cute Master and Pretty Slave. I noticed them as soon as they came in the door. She’s a tall dark-haired knockout and he has that confident, cheery glow that well-sexed men tend to have—very appealing. Once they were settled into the party, I struck up a conversation with him and then she came and sat at his feet. She was wearing a fitted lacy black dress and a collar. I asked them all about their adventures and liked hearing about them fucking in all kinds of nice show-offy situations.

I asked them what advice they might have for a new unicorn.

“The unicorn can do no wrong. You’re what everyone’s looking for.”

When he said that, I had the sensation of sitting in a throne like a princess, the world at my feet. Knowing the realities of secondary-ness in general, I suspected that that might not be the whole story, and a friend standing behind me confirmed it:

“They don’t know what they’re looking for. And they don’t know what to do when they get it.”

Huh.

(I just want to stop and note that wanting to practice playing as a supporting character doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten that I want my own guy. Just I’m not ready for him yet and I still want to have fun. Plus! People are hot and I am alive.)

Cute Master is a goofball and an instigator. You know I love making friends with good bad influences. When I expressed (uncharacteristic!) hesitation about being the first one naked, he insisted that Pretty Slave take her dress off as encouragement. She stripped down to her corset (Oh such lovely little boobs peeking out the top. Picturing them I wish I’d gotten a little more handsy.) and panties, and I stripped down to nothing. Cute Master stuffed my underwear down the front of his pants, a cheeseball move that I found hilarious.

“Suck her nipple,” he said to Pretty Slave. I was sitting in a chair and she was on the floor. She looked up at me kinda wide-eyed and asked if she could, and I nodded, nervous-but-emphatically. It was the first time I’d been touched that way by a woman who isn’t Sweetie since the year 2000. Her mouth on me felt strange and new and I felt tentative at first but gave in to it, burying my head in her nice-smelling hair as she licked and sucked, gently running my hands over her back. He took the other nipple and sucked too hard (They’re my favorite part of me but sosensitive!) until I had to smack him in the back of the head and the spell was momentarily broken.

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.

A Whole Bunch of Firsts, Part Three: I Heart the Knife

Hung up in those ropes, I felt relaxed in a special, extra consent-y way. Technically, I know I am supposed to negotiate things before the scene starts, but I think I was still capable of looking in my heart and knowing I was a yes.

“I could be really mean…” said HempRopes

“Well, not TOO mean, but…how mean?”

“I could get out the knife…”

Knives have been in my maybe pile for a while, and I felt safe enough to try it, so I said sure. I knew that Sweetie would furrow her brow in concern and confusion, but I also knew that she would support me. I gave the knife the go-ahead.

There was the old-fashioned swish of an opening switchblade near my ear. I was still blindfolded so I didn’t know where it would touch me first, or whether or not it would hurt. I felt a light stinging move up my leg, toward my knee. It didn’t hurt much, somewhere between a sting and a tickle. I liked it, of course—what’s not to like?

When I said I’d play with HR, I knew from classes that he was really good with the ropes, but I’m not sure I would have guessed that I’d be quite so turned on by him. But when the knife grazed the top of my breasts, I couldn’t stifle a sigh-moan.

The ropes felt tight on my chest so he lifted me up and held me by the back of my harness. It was a flashback to babyhood, warm and rocked and cared for.

“Where did the knife go?”

The thigh-ropes were holding my legs up and apart, the perfect position for him to graze the knife around my ass, my thighs, and up the middle of the wet crotch of my pajamas-oh. That’s the moment I keep going back to, you know, during personal time. The knife grazing my clit through soft fabric. The pleasure of an almost-stranger doing such very-personal things.

He held my head and pulled the back of the knife gently across my neck—it reminded me of Bill and his tries at breath play, which is an admittedly odd thing to get wistful about. I wondered if I should stop and tell him about being protective of my throat, but it felt fine.

When I first wrote this installment down in my notebook last week, it felt like it might be the end of the Kitten Calendar story. That Saturday night, I felt like I’d come into my own. I felt empowered by the fact that I could go out and get what I needed, that getting what my body is asking for doesn’t necessarily need to be about romance—there was a deep fulfillment to playing with Old-Timey Guy and HempRopes, despite the fact that I don’t know what bands they like or even—gasp!—who they are going to vote for. I trusted them with my whole self, my whole body, and they thoroughly came through. That really means a lot to me. I spent a little time feeling like a triumphant Casual Girl, but that didn’t last long—that’s another story, though.

It only took a few minutes for HR to take me down. A friend I’ll call Bubbly Sub had been not-so-patiently waiting and watching for her turn for at least fifteen minutes—I don’t think I’ve ever been watched quite so closely.

“Can you stand on your own?” HR asked, and I found that I could. He helped pull me up and then took me over to the wall to take a picture of my pretty harness. Couples who were playing around us stopped to smile and watch me get my picture taken. We hugged goodbye and he said he would play with me anytime I wanted. I hugged Bubbly Sub, who was already stripped down to her undies and tape) goodbye, and after a few minutes of clearing my head, drove home.

I am really proud of how strong I was that night, how much I got to experience just because I put myself out there. I’ll keep posting adventures, of course, but at least for that night, I felt like the quest was complete, like I’d gotten myself where I needed to go.