Puzzle Guy Cheered Me Up! :)

 

By now, most of my missing-Angel-boy has alchemized into missing the person I thought he was, plus lowkey OCD hum of I'll never find love again that I try to ignore as best I can. But last week during therapy, it was deep. There was a lot to confront. It was one of those sessions where I said to myself mid-sob "This is so good. So productive, thank you."

"Oh my poor heart," I said, calming down a little. I'm really really proud of how kind I could be towards myself in the midst of hurt and grief. I've been working in my Fierce Self-Compassion workbook, and it shows. Growing and changing and whatever, hooray! 

Anyway it felt fatelike when! I picked up my phone and! There was Puzzle Guy, asking if he could come over after work and grab the sneakers he left here last time. I said sure, as long as he grabbed me too! 

I got a little bit of my usual post-therapy nap in before he arrived, and I saw no reason to exit the bed when he got here. We both took off our clothes and he got into bed with me and just...rested. He was so warm and safe and comforting, it felt like I was getting a reward just for existing. Maybe I was!

I wasn't sure if I'd be into sexytimes so soon after all the sobbing, but as we lay there being cozy and catching up, I felt a little flicker through me, and after a bunch more snuggling just came out and said "I'm feeling pretty horny now."

That'll get a guy out of little spoon position and onto my face. His kisses were such a lovely mix of urgent and soft, just as delightfully tongue-forward as could be. When he went for my nipples, I watched his long tongue play and play, knowing I'd picture that hotness for maybe the rest of my personal-time life. He pointed his tongue and wagged it over my tits, slurping me up.

And oh, Puzzle Guy's dick. It's looong and thick and uncut, infinitely play-with-able. His knee had gone out a few days before, so I didn't expect to get fucked. But I was wrong. I bent over the bed and stood on my tiptoes so he could slide in, and it felt so, SO good. I was immediately screaming into my pillows, and it wasn't long before I had to ask for a break. He was overwhelming and I was GRATEFUL.

Come to think of it, this was maybe the first time I EVER asked for a break during penetration, though it was far from the first time I've ever gotten overwhelmed. I was always so afraid the dick was gonna go away and never come back, so I just powered through! No regrets there, but I really try to keep my powering-through to a minimum these days.

After my break, another round, this time on my back with my hips straining upward to meet him.

Friends, I've had so many lovely connections and progresses and joys all year, but it had been WAY too long since I just got thoroughly FUCKED. Oh I needed it.

As he was getting ready to go home, I lay on the silky sheets of my bedside floor-nest, sighing dreamily. I was spent, in a cloud of relief and pleasure. I walked around carrying extra sensuality for a few days after, satisfied and soft.

Puzzle Guy remembered to take his sneakers with him this time, who knows if or when he'll come back. If he does, I'll welcome him with open arms and open legs, oh thank you, thank you, thank you!

Untangling Thursday: Grief and Slutty Joy

 

Next week I hope to be back to my ropes routine, but I really like this picture and what it means! A horny surge of health!

Every once in a while, I get in a real Downton Abbey place, like, if I can be chaste and proper enough, this will work out. Maybe it's a fetish, or maybe it's just a tendency to ignore and deny the forward motion of my heart. To discount desire in favor of some lofty thing somebody else likes. No matter why, it takes me to a place of deep self loathing, of too much. Honestly after the tangle with The Guy Next Door, I thought my unfuckability was etched in stone.

But it turns out, when I'm not Detective Pikachu-ing a messy boy's mercurial intentions, when I'm alone in my bed with the apps and my camera, desire sparkles in so easily! And the apps did not disappoint, as one guy after another invited himself over, today, soon, right now, "Between 3 and 4:30," and the straightforwardness of being embodied and being wanted made me wet and started the healing.

Of course none of them have been over yet, but one's on the calendar: Video Star. Ohboy I don't know how his big fat perfect dick is even real, but I aim to find out if I can. Last night he sent a video of him soaping up in the shower, sudsing his enormousness with just the most cocky (ha) look on his face. Fucking transcendent. 

He has been rewarded with all kinds of Hidden Folder treats, and I've been brazen enough to send videos too! That's how I found out that my pubic hair is going grey! He still said I had a pretty pussy though, and asked for more.

So, I'm sad without The Guy Next Door. I miss him and I hope, through whatever fog he's in, he misses me too. I've promised several friends I wouldn't loop back, not that he's asking me to. I don't want to ignore myself any more times. I don't ever want to pretend I don't feel what I feel, never not ever again.

It might be a long time until love arrives again, who knows. But joy? Desire? Playfulness? Already here again, thank goodness.

A Perfect Friday Night With Dreamy Playlist Angel, Part Two

 Sometimes I worry that I'm just telling the same stories over and over, and maybe I am. How many different times did Monet paint the cathedral at Rouen?! Am I saying I'm the Claude Monet of describing dicks? Kind of.

We stayed in front of the TV, kissing and petting and chatting and snuggling and sort of also watching Twin Peaks. He said, "I want you to lean this way and tease me while I cuddle you."

His cock reached for me, hard under his soft pants. "Oh, you ARE a good boy," I said, just grazing my arm over his lap, then feeling the contours of him, friendly and hopeful and utterly here to serve. Not mine at all, but also, mine.

I played with the tip of his cock, thick and reaching. I'll never get over the jolt of it, of a dick that likes me. I would like to have him in my hands and mouth right now, or expertly folding me over, or just cuddling under a blanket watching TV and feeling him hard for me, like it's the first time I ever felt that. Every time, it feels like I've never experienced this before. Every time, a surprise.

Despite the ropes that will delightfully happen in the next installment, this wasn't really a Good Boy/Ma'am situation. It felt more equal, a delicious taste of vanilla, a warm friendship all full of kissing. I'm starting to feel so excited for everything that comes next!

Making Out in Front of a Romcom and Other Perfect Things: Part Three

 

It took so much thinking about this night to realize that it's a classic body adventure, like way back at the beginning of this blog! I've never had sex all the way high before! Mostly it just gave me an excuse to be more lovey-dovey, more free, more ridiculously myself. And to have way too much fun listening to my two favorite albums.

Before I take us there though, this story will always be incomplete because I don't know ANYTHING about what it was like to be inside The Southern Charmer's head. He told me a few days afterwards that he felt like he'd moved too fast into sex after his breakup, but I don't have any more insight than that. I really really hope that, even though it was emotionally complicated, he had an equal amount of fun. Otherwise it's just not fair!

"Could we go cuddle upstairs?" I asked breathlessly after so SO many kisses. Finding out what happens to Adam Brody and Kristin Bell would have to wait until another day. I asked if it was okay to put on Frank Ocean's Blonde and SC said of course.

I became a puddle of warmth with him. It was the first time in SO LONG that I'd been allowed to take my time, to savor the before-sex things. As we kissed and cuddled and petted and our feet tickled and our legs intertwined, I thought "Wow, Frank Ocean uses the word "love" a lot. While love might not have been the story of this encounter, it was certainly the right name for this state of being.

I don't think love has to look like star-crossed romance. I think it can also be the exquisite joy of holding onto a friend's meticulously sculpted back, tangled up in his pretty arms. Loving the sensations. Loving him in a right now way, and loving myself for letting go of The Quest long enough to enjoy him, and let him enjoy me.

I was alert enough to skip the track where Frank Ocean's mom tells us not to do drugs. I didn't fully lose myself to the lovey-dovey atmosphere. I knew it was brain chemicals being magical and kind and benevolent and giving me a break for like five fucking seconds. This was my version of becoming human lofi, except hungrier for him.

Frank became a little too much and I switched to another favorite album, Childish Gambino's Atavista, which starts out sounding like the Stranger Things theme song but does eventually get dreamy. "Is this Donald Glover?" scoffed The Southern Charmer, but he let not-favorite-of-his record play, a sacrifice I could never make.

I was so happy when it was time to be naked! I'd never met The Southern Charmer's dick the first time around, wasn't even sure he was a penis-having person, until I was. When he stood up to get a condom from my drawer ("I LOVE my drawer so much!" is a thing I said aloud in front of this very cute human being.) his dick stuck straight forward, pointing out from his black briefs like a dowsing rod.

SC and I kept chatting about music, the eternal question of whether Childish Gambino was a bit or not. There were moments when I found him surprisingly like boyfriend material, like before when he'd told me he was reading How the Word is Passed, or when he told me his workout regimen was because he usually dates bigger girls and he wants to be able to help if there's an emergency. (Maybe this was bullshit or MAYBE some of these fit guys who match with me AREN'T trying to take me on a weight-loss journey?!)

Anyway, back to his dolphin/compass of a dick. He was sitting up while I lay back splayed out for him, warm as a day at the beach.

"What do you want to do?" I asked.

Mr. Long Distance Is a Dear, Part Four

 

I loved laying there talking with him, playing with my nipples, and talking some more. When I asked to see all of him, he very sweetly said he wanted to save that for in person. He said that a few times, but I guess eventually the horniness won out. He angled the camera up from under his dick and oh fuck yeah, it was a profound beauty.

His cock was a fat cone of goodness, angled up and rock hard. I wanted to taste the salty tip of it. I could imagine myself riding it for days and nights, maybe for actual ever. I liked watching him play with himself, the way his thumb squeezed up and down his shaft. His warm face smiled down on me.

I asked if I could get out my trusty big pink rabbit, and of course he agreed. I was watching his face when I came, and he came not too much later. I’d like to have seen the evidence, but I’m definitely glad to have been looking into his sweet face as he got off.

He said goodnight pretty quickly then, but texted with praise, just as we’d agreed upon that afternoon. It’s not as good as snuggling, but it meant a lot to read his kind words, and then read some more in the morning.

But that weekend, I had a trip just a little bit longer than the trip to his place would’ve been, and the reality of our distance sunk in. I took stock of all the spoons I have to gather for any given trip and how much I need to take care of in my own life, and realized that it wouldn’t work.

I spent so much time being lonely during The Shy One, I didn’t want to set myself up for loneliness, for another form of unrequitedness. I wanted to celebrate Mr. Long Distance for the big life he is in, and do the same thing for myself.

This is my home. There are literal millions of men in this city. I had an even-cuter-than-his-picture breakfast date yesterday, a local and sweet and beautiful guy who brought roses. (I hadn’t remembered my favorite brunch place was flower-shop adjacent!) Still, as I type this through, I feel wistful for Mr. Long Distance. And grateful. And a little back-tracky. Matches go by fast, my heart moves slow.

Knotty Thursday: Three-Braid Harness and The Shy One Sexts!

 

I think this one is so pretty! Definitely one of my favorite rope selfies so far! If I do it again, I might start with an overhand knot and do the first braid a little lower-it got too tight on my neck after a little while. 

I adapted the harness from this Rory's Brainworks tutorial: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i6exY0MxmC8 It's one I'll probably refer to a lot, there are lots of different ways to finish it off, none of which ended up in this tie. I like how the weave-y bit looks kinda like armor, that part was my own fuzzy-headed creation.

Most exciting though! A wonderful first! I sent The Shy One the picture above, plus a face-showing version, and he took us to sextingtown! Where we've never been! I loved having GORGEOUS pictures of his cock, both under undies and free, to keep me company while I fired up the Rabbit. I loved learning about some more things he wants to try! I loved sending him a sleepy-grateful picture of my post-orgasm face snuggling up with my Snorlax squishmallow.  

I'd mentioned wanting to sext during our DTR talk week before last, and I'm so so happy that he remembered and went for it! I remain the luckiest Ma'am in the universe.

OMG Mr. Shiny Eyes Called!!!

Hooray! Last night when I was finishing up a self-date (writing a Knotty Thursday draft and starting a painting, tonight's self date will be Emo Arts and Crafts), my phone buzzed and there was Mr. Shiny Eyes, calling while he was driving. We hadn't talked in...5 years? Sooooo exciting to catch up with one of the MVPs of the Kitten Calendar team!

He was excited to hear that I'd been slutting it up pretty well since post-vax (my words) and definitely asked for lots of details. I put away the dishes, folded the clothes, untangled the other night's ropes, and by the time we were done talking we agreed that, whenever he feels safe enough (He's got an immune-compromised partner, so that may be a long time!) he's gonna come visit and find out what kind of a rope top I've grown up into. A certain kind of switchiness has been eluding him, it turns out.

Whether or not any of THAT happens, it felt so grounding to talk to someone I've known for so long. Plus, he said he thinks of me every Valentine's Day.

It's not  a Valentine's Day story, but do stop by The Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness for some hot 2013 nostalgia: https://kittencalendar.blogspot.com/2013/05/the-sparkly-festival-of-awesomeness.html?zx=808afd52856e679

The Good Boy: Part Three (In Which I FAVORABLY Compare His Dick to Famous Works of Art)

Trying to write about him lying supine and not-quite-passive, in a harness and black briefs, obviously hard and temptingly huge, makes me flustered and so close to losing the actual use of words.

As I pulled the rope tightly/gently around his inner thigh, I asked if it felt okay. He smirked and said I better check again, so I did, lightly grazing the valley between his thigh and his dick. A jolt went through me, temporarily deleting my knowledge of knots and everything else, but I righted myself and kept laddering.

I felt powerful and benevolent sitting over him, turned on but super-focused on the ropes at hand. I rhythmically twined over and under his pretty legs, holding the square shape in place, winding on to the next rung. When I neared his left ankle he said, with the teensiest bit of irritation, “Can this be done now?”

So I tied off the rope and climbed on to kiss him. He had so many loose ends, ropes of different colors, strands I’d meant to weave in with the rest. He was a bed of soft vines.

We ended up in a delicious cuddle. As he spooned up sweetly I said “Hmmmmm, it doesn’t really seem like you’ve submitted.” His tenderness was urgent, emphatic. This was not a Helpless Boy.

“Do you think you could spank a person?” I asked, rolling onto my belly. My velvet pants had been discarded a while ago, and I was wearing raspberry-colored lacy soft briefs.

Friends, he CAN spank a person, each impact hitting at the exact right angle, the exact right strength. When he was ready to move on from spanking, he spread himself aaaaalllllll the way over me, arms over my arms, holding me down so kindly. He was grinding his huge, hard dick against my ass crack, hitting all the spots at once. The Good Boy had gone a little animalistic and I could NOT have been happier.

“Okay, I’m gonna need to turn over.” I said.

So. I’m a size queen, we kind of know that already. Recently I was even brazen enough to add that preference to my profile, even though it seems unfair to all the other dicks. The Good Boy’s dick IS unfair to all the other ones. Thick, long, and curving upwards, it is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen in my entire art history major LIFE. Starry Night? Please. Duchamp’s Large Glass—so pretty and thought provoking and also on the themes of energy and inspiration, but no. Yoko Ono’s Yes Painting? Okay, maybe that one compares.

Anyway, BEAUTIFUL. And about to be entirely mine.

Staycation Sext Fling Part One: The Big Dick Talk

 

Staycation Sext Fling Part One: The Big Dick Talk

When The Coach walked me to the car after the movie, the conversation got smutty real fast, though we were still at least three feet apart. For not-the-first time, he mentioned having a big dick and said he’d be happy to (presumably after his second vaccine shot) “stretch me out” any time. Which felt…ew? But also, yay?

The big dick talk was equal parts appealing and sweetly sad. Appealing because, as has been well-documented here, I do have that preference, even though it still feels like kind of an unfair preference to have. (S/O to Steampunk Guy, remember how much I fucking LOST MY MIND about him, another one who introduced himself big dick first? What a fucking WORK OF ART/piece of work he was, probably still is.)

But the big dick talk is a little endearingly sad too because, dude. It’s okay. Just relax and be a person. If I want to fuck you, I’ll be fucking your whole self, there’s no need to hustle for it that way. (But also, I liked the hustle, and I missed it a bunch when it left.)

Anyway, The Coach texted to make sure I got home okay, and that was the last datelike thing that happened.

Oh sexting. I love it/hate it the way I love/hate the rote “good mornings” of early dating (None of those from The Coach, just, like, “I want to be inside you” at 6 am before I’ve even made coffee, which was jarring but not unpleasantly so.) I love/hate sexting the way I love/hate the little red text numbers, which (as The Coach, a young millennial, probably wouldn’t remember) used to be the red answering machine numbers.

Anyway, this time around with The Coach, I pretty much just LOVED sexting. It was a rush to be so graphically, smuttily desired, so all at once. He had come (ha) a long way too—where his 2016 (or was it 2017?) texting style got too porny and harsh, this time he was present, more specific, more just with me, or at least it felt that way. Respectfully filthy, like he’d learned his lesson. Like he’d heard me all those years ago. He called me a filthy princess and I called him, toward the end, a good, good prince.

I liked the way our stories switched the power back and forth between us so easily, holding him down by the wrists one moment and being completely possessed the next. He even, in one sexty story, got gentle towards my asshole when I told him I’d never done that part before. (Typing that sentence reminds me that that was my dream so long ago, the Kind and Patient Ass Guy that I couldn’t quite feel like I deserved. Kinda glad both Steampunk Guy and Cute Master dropped the ball on that one, because I would very much still like that character to come along.) (For a few quick days, I hoped The Coach might be that character.)

Sexting felt like a good way to deal with my whole post-quarantine overwhelemed-by-touch thing. I could let the desire spark though me, be ravished both together with The Coach and at my own pace. When it got to be too much, (the sensation I mean, what we were saying was never too much) I could let go of myself literally and physically, be still and feel my whole body full or warmth and light and peace. Plus, I can neither type left-handed nor ever truly let go of punctuation.

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Dating in the Upside-Down: A Like Story (Part One)

A lot has happened since I posted last. I’ve all but wrapped up my post-election trauma therapy, paring down the sessions from weekly to monthly, experimenting with how it feels to not spend QUITE so much time thinking about trauma.

Part of me hoped that I would be different once I finished this phase of exposure therapy for PTSD. I’d heard other survivors talk about feeling more open, more accepting, more affectionate, less quick to anger. I guess I’ve changed a little, but there are some boundaries I just can’t bring myself to cross—my yesses are sometimes stronger and easier but my nos are too. It’s disappointing not to just be open like a lovey-dovey post-traumatic flower, it feels a little lonely, but given the world we are currently trying to inhabit, I’m as open as I can be.

I went back to OK Cupid-ing a little while ago when I realized I was getting a crush on my massage therapist, whom I would never, ever hit on. I started swiping and chatting again, and I’ve honed my screening question to perfect bluntness: “Bernie or Hillary?”

To my heartbreak, I have NEVER gotten the chance to flirt with a guy who voted for Hillary in the primary (Seriously, if you know any, kindly send them my way. I will reward their loyalty with SO much generous sluttiness! And cake!) but I liked The Socialist’s answer. It gave me the immediate sense that he was solid and trustworthy, confident, and somehow, I even gleaned from his answer that he probably had a pretty excellent penis. (Spoiler alert: He does!) I don’t know how I could tell all of that from a tiny paragraph about politics, but I could, go me.

Plus, I liked his sense of humor, and he was a close-to-my-age goth guy who was EXCELLENT at the ultimate aphrodisiac: talking about Nineties music. I asked him out for wine and cake at my go-to first date spot, and I delighted in the chance to put a face on for somebody cute for the first time since the spring.

When I saw him, I was even more convinced that he might be a match—big enough to make Amazonian me feel little, so I knew he could probably throw me around. (Further spoiler alert—he could!) He was smiley and self-effacing in a charming way and so, so funny. What really sealed in the liking was finding out that we had both been at the same Dead Milkmen show in 1994-I’m an absolute sucker for that kind of meant-to-be-ness.

And then (there’s always an “and then”) The Socialist mentioned that he listens to Howard Stern all day every day at work. When I expressed shock and dismay, he defended himself a little:

“But Howard Stern supported Hillary Clinton!”

“He also helped create the atmosphere of misogyny that defeated her!”

Knowing that The Socialist was a fan of one of the grossest decades-long perpetrators of lady-objectifying, one of the deepest architects of rape culture, should have been enough to make me leave, but after he conceded that I was probably right, I stayed, and knowing we probably weren’t right for each other gave me a chance to let my guard down even more. I confessed that I’ve had a pants-wall since primaries, that I was worried I would always be at war with men. AND HE WAS THERE FOR ALL OF IT. What I liked so much about him was his ability to remain unfazed, to argue without getting defensive or fragile. He’s A MAN.

In spite of my doubt, I left there giddy. It could have been the wine (I don’t drink enough lately to take it for granted) but I think it was the laughter. He asked me out again right away, and I said yes.

Next: What kind of wine goes with toaster waffles?

The Return of Mr. Sweetface, Part Three: I Really Like Being a Ma’am

            At that Cuddle Party last month, we were going around the room saying our preferred pronouns and I joked (Maybe a little too jokey for a cis-lady talking about pronouns, come to think of it.) that my preferred pronoun was “Ma’am.” Ever since then, it has been.

            Back to Mr. Sweetface: After the spanks, I cuddled him close and held him for a while. It felt wonderful to have him back in my bed. He looks angular and strong, but the spanks had transformed him into an irresistible sweet softness.

            He got a second wind and asked if I might be willing to try nipple torture on him. I had to ask what he meant by that, since I’d only ever experienced fighting it off. It was simple and pleasant enough though: Squeeze and pinch his little nipples, bite them but not too hard. His moaning and writhing turned me on so much that I guided his hand to my own nipples and helped him start squeezing and playing gently, over the bra at first. It took a little while to get my bra off with a harness on, but somehow we managed it—go us!

            He gently played with my nipples while I squeezed and twisted his. I felt him start to get hard so I guided his hand there, guided him to start rubbing. He looked so dear that way, so vulnerable.

            “May I go faster?” he asked and as I assented, I was turned on enough to put my hand down my own pants, of course soaking wet. His mouth was on my nipple, sucking and playing until…

            “Ma’am, I’m right on the edge…” he moan-whimpered.

            “Go ahead and come,” I whispered, and I came soon after.

            I handed him a washcloth from my bedside table and went to get him a glass of water, feeling the weight and pleasure of my caretaking responsibilities. We fell asleep like happy puppies for a while, then he had to get home.

            The next day, I felt a clarity, a forward motion in my being that I hadn’t felt in such a long time. I liked being his Ma’am, and he had been such a very Good Boy.

The Return of Mr. Sweetface, Part Two: Yay Ropes!

            As he pulled rope after rope out of his bag (peacock blue, purple, and pink, not too different from the collection I used to have) and laying them out on the bed, I stood feeling pleasantly uncomfortable, my bare arms chilly but happy.

            He wound the ropes around me building a harness, not in the sure, insistent way that Sweetie used to but at his own, gentle, soft pace. I loved the silky feeling of the ropes grazing my shoulder, the queenly gesture of holding my hair aside. When he put his arms around me from the front, I eased into a hug, enjoying the warmth of his familiar but new-again body both as a comfort and as a stranger.

            He tied some well-placed knots and pulled the rope taught under my crotch—oh crotch-rope, how I have missed you! The knots hit the right places and it felt silly and festive to wriggle around entertaining my clit and ass while he worked and reworked the knots at the top of the harness, twining and untwining, pushing my boobs forward and grazing my nipples under the padded bra.

            After he finished, I felt lovely and powerful. I sat down on the bed and told him to take off my shoes. He placed them very neatly on the floor at the foot of the bed. I pulled him to me and undid his belt and with what I hoped seemed like surety, I took down his pants.

            I got into bed and propped a mountain of pillows behind me. I told Mr. Sweetface to lie down across my lap, his sporty grey briefs still on. For the first time in years, I spanked. I tried first with my right hand, but my wrist is not quite right from my car accident last year. So now is my chance to learn to spank left-handed! I felt self-conscious about the rhythm and how hard I was hitting, but soon he started to groan and wriggle. I loved feeling his friendly dick start to harden against my thighs as I held his head down with my right hand and spanked with my left.

            I gently took off his underpants, enjoying the sight of his sweet, tender little round moon of an ass. I took in the slender smoothness of him, the beauty of the man over which I now had complete control. I put my right hand firmly between his shoulder blades and pressed down, looped my left arm around his ass to pin him. I held him there like I’d just struck the last emphatic note on the sweetest, softest piano. I let the pleasure and power between us hum and vibrate, and then I spanked some more. 

In Which I Realize I Am Really Lucky to Have Had My Adventure Years: Part Four

Back during my divorce summer, when I swam away from Sweetie and came to the realization that what I really wanted was a husband, what I wanted more than anything was a man to play with me in the waves. Wherein Sweetie was grumpy at the prospect of fighting the surf, I wanted someone strong and vital who would change into the water the way I did. I had a vision of being picked up and carried and kissed in the water. This night came so close to that picture that no wonder I ended up diving into him.

When we got back from dinner, it was dark and a huge orange moon was rising over the pretty/samey houses on view from his back yard. He’d told me many times that I didn’t need a bathing suit, but I’m still in my privacy phase. I wore my pretty blue one printed with hydrangeas. I am at my heaviest right now so I felt a lot of worry that he wouldn’t be attracted to me anymore when he saw my thighs.  We sat at the edge of the pool with our feet in the water on the little swim-out seat.

He said, “I think you’re scared of what’s gonna happen after this.”

“After the pool?”

“I’m scared too. I’m out of practice.”

“Me too, high five!” I may be more shy in some ways, but at least I’m still a high-fiver. “What I’m really scared of are the bonding chemicals that are gonna come afterwards. Because science.”

He didn’t seem to object to the bonding chemicals. Honestly, every step of the way, I was sure that he liked me. I still kind of am, though that doesn’t explain how things turned out. When I stepped into the pool, I put my foot down weird, so that the edge of the seat smashed me between my toes. My middle toe hurt so badly that I wondered if it was broken. Nonetheless, I jumped the rest of the way into the deep end, a little conscious of the nondainty splash I probably made.

After a few minutes of watching me swim (I loveloveloved when he watched me swim. I love the satisfied way he admired me—it’s been a long time since I’ve been looked at like that.) he jumped in too and it was like something I’d already lived, like I was fitting into one of my life’s puzzle pieces. The water was cold and it was a breezy evening, but the shivers came from somewhere down deeper. He held me and kissed me gently until I said “I’m torn between being really turned on and really cold, do you want to go in?”

I borrowed his shower to rinse off the chlorine and he lent me his scratchy grey robe. I wished I had nice warm pajamas to change into, but instead, I had nice warm him.

It hurts to remember how right our bodies felt (one of my poets wrote in a poem once that bodies are the easiest ways to fit), how well he kissed me, the softness of his skin, the scratchiness of his beard, the strength of his arms. More than anything, I loved remembering how sometimes sex just runs itself, how at first we knew what to do with each other like it was destiny, and in its own way, it was. I’ve never been more ready to have someone inside me, never this sure that what I was doing was real. I felt free to look in his face, in his eyes, and saw only kindness there. The barriers I’ve almost always felt to connecting with men were not there. It felt solid and sweet.

There were hardness issues at first, which he explained by saying that he had trouble with condoms, that he wasn’t used to them. It seemed bonkers to be talking about not-condoms at this (or any) stage of things and I felt a little surge of impatience. I was kind of like “Well, welcome to my world” but sympathized/rationalized that maybe he was just missing married sex. It tugged at my heart strings but at the same time I was (in my head) like dude, just grow up.

The hardness issues worked themselves out in good time, he lost all tentativeness and hard and long and perfect—that feeling that’s so delicious that I can’t even deal with how much I want it, how much I miss it. He pulled my hair and pinned me down and went deeper and I looked up at him and saw someone who was mine, not somebody else’s boyfriend whom I’d have to turn in at the end of the night like in the poly days. In that teensy spate of time, he belonged to me, there was nothing and no one else, and the inside of me was (just for right then) sated and quiet.

This happened a few more times until we ran out of condoms, at which point he mentioned again that what he really liked going without. He said that, although he didn’t like blow jobs (You guys! Was I really willing to give up blow jobs for someone? Yes, I was.) (Also, did he really not like them or just want a bargaining chip? Gross line of thought.) he might “Let me try it,” but I said no thanks, there were plenty of things he was enthusiastic about for me to do. (This turned out to be perfectly not the case in the end, but we’re still several posts away.) Because he kept perseverating about the no-condom thing after I’d said no a couple of times, I told him I was scared of him again. I asked him about his fantasy of being sleep-ravished, he wouldn’t do that to me, would he? “Not if you don’t want me to,” he said,

“Because then I wouldn’t be able to say yes…” I honestly wasn’t sure he saw the problem.

I slept badly. He snored and my body was so far beyond awake. Although he’d brought me an ice pack for my toe, it was throbbing. If it had been up to me, we’d have stayed up fucking and snuggling and chatting all night. I tossed and turned and apologized for tossing and turning. I got him to turn off the radio and all of the devices that beeped at random intervals.

I had maybe two hours of sleep and was awakened at six AM by an alert-in-every-way J. listing off the things we could do about being out of condoms. “We can not have any more sex today, we can go without, or we can go to the drugstore and get more condoms. Are you coming with me?”

All I wanted was to be asleep and I had this creepy obligated feeling-- he was treating his morning wood like a contract I’d already signed, possibly in my sleep. And I was PISSED that he mentioned going without again. I was beyond trying for patience and snapped “Not unless you want BABIES,” knowing he didn’t. Now I can’t help but wonder—did he not know how this thing works? How could he be married with kids and still seem like he skipped seventh grade health class?

“Just because I said it doesn’t mean it’s a real option. I honestly don’t think not having more sex is an option either.”

I jumped out of bed, found his robe, and ran down the steps. “Help me find my glasses, I need to get out of here now.”

“Wait, what? So you’re not going to my U.U. fellowship with me?” (Oh for Christ’s sake, just fucking call it church!)

“I’m not going anywhere with someone who says I have no fucking choice.”

I was too tired and upset to drive home so I lay down on his couch in the scratchy robe and cried. His golden-eyed black cat came over to see me, rubbed his ears against my hand. J. didn’t even bring me a blanket until I sniveled for one. He went out to get me some coffee and I simmered down.

When he got back, we talked and somehow made it back to cuddle mode. I had to give him credit for staying calm and weathering the triggers—I still couldn’t be sure if it was him or my baggage causing them, probably a combination of both. We went and got condoms, a picnic breakfast, and a toothbrush for me so I could make myself more comfy. We fucked through the morning and then dragged ourselves out of bed to go jump in the pool. It was a sunny, dazed feeling of fear, judgment, and bliss.

I wanted to accept him, to embrace him without fear, to honor his (sometimes) generosity and the eagerness of his gorgeous penis, but I couldn’t stop finding reasons to be afraid.

Next time: My heart opens and I let him in.

Slept (Not That Much) in the Middle, Part Four: Sneaky Personal Time, More Him, and S'mores for Breakfast

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Birthday Spanks and Unicorn Snuggles Part Two: Welcome Me Back to Subspace!

Earlier in the party (admittedly right around the time I got a little bit high) I’d told Cute Master I was going to try and get 39 birthday spanks from each person at the party—one of my better ideas I have to say, right up there with that hair-pulling contest back in May. Somehow chatting with the Cutest Boy at the Party evolved into him helping me recruit the first spankers.

I started out bent over the arm of one of the two leather couches while spectators sat on the other one and on the other side of the room, egging the spankers on and, at first, counting to 39.

Spanker: “How many was that?”

Onlooker: 28?

Me: “Two!”

I made that joke a lot of times.

The young lady who’d made the “dumbasses” comment earlier volunteered and I can’t really explain why I let her except that it felt okay to do so. Physical trust is a strange thing sometimes, but by I know by now how to listen to my body about people. I’m glad I did because it was over her knee that I felt a sort of inner dimmer switch. A calm came over me and a happy haze descended. Aaaahhhhhh.

At this point, my skirt was pulled up and my underpants pulled down. I still had my shirt and bra on and my hair was draped all over. I sighed into the arm of the couch, feeling like a sleepy movie star and said “I’m getting all well-behaved.”

“Are you?” She sounded surprised and proceeded to take her hurty turn.

When the young lady was finished, it was the Huge Handed Fireman’s turn, and I was thrilled when he asked if I wanted to go over his knee. Ohmygoodness those hands—they’re strong but soft and sort of magically cool to the touch. He didn’t hurt as much as the other spankers did; it was more like he struck a good note. He was just right at holding me down, too—he has such a long reach, I felt like a deftly handled piano. The Cutest Boy at the Party came over and sat at my feet, took off my shoes, held my legs down, and tickled the back of my knees. I wiggled and shrieked and HHF held me down harder.

I have to stop and high five myself for being held down by two of the most desirable characters at the party. Go me!

When HHF was done spanking, he ran his hands soothingly over my back. I took off my shirt to make it easier for him and to add to the nice humiliation I was feeling. I told him I was leaving my bra on for the time being and he used that as an excuse to cop a feel. Ohthosehands. I want them all over me some more.

I didn’t want him to go away and he blessedly didn’t. He acted as a human spanking bench, holding me down for the other takers. I would have stayed in his big warm lap all night if I could’ve. Sometimes he held my head down and I couldn’t see who was doing the hitting—I’d just notice a pair of shoes and try to remember whose they were later on.

Cute Master came in with a nasty crop, stingy as fuck and I screamed my head off. The screaming is so much of the fun, though I suppose I could’ve asked one of these nice big hands over my mouth. I tried to reach back and grab the crop away but I didn’t say red.

“Oh, I see now, so you’re a pain freak,” said HHF, and though I’ve always argued that I’m not, this time I sighed and said “Um, yeah. I can tell by how calm I feel in the days after.”

One thing I loved about being spanked by so many people was that submissives joined in too—one of the best sets of spanks came from the lady I’d bonded with on the couch during my blanket time. When I texted her a “Good job!” the next day, she could not have been prouder.

Once everyone in the room had had a turn, the Cutest Boy at the Party went through the house to see if there were any more takers. These guys really know how to make a birthday bottom feel special. I thought it was probably time to be all the way naked. HHF reached in my bra and started pulling my boobs out, but I asked him to unhook my bra for me. Can bra hooking and unhooking be a fetish? I just love that part so much.

Cute Master came back in and made me get up from my nice spot on the sofa. He pulled an ottoman into the middle of the room and then directed me to kneel over it, arch my back, and stick my ass out in such a way that everything was exposed—all the way submissive. Fully clothed, he draped himself all the way over my body and rubbed his cock against my ass. Pretty Slave had told me he was huge, and she was not wrong. Someone apologized for the fact that all this was happening to the tune of “SexyBack,” but I couldn’t have been happier with the song choice.

Speaking of Pretty Slave, she came and sat in a chair in front of me, stroked my hair, held my hands, and made soothing noises. I let out a gasp and a groan and lay all the way flat, getting exactly what I wanted, the humiliation of everyone watching, the heat and smell of him, the loveliness of her. He started hitting my hard on my now-tender behind, to the point where I was now scream/crying but still not telling him to stop. He was ruthless, growling and snarling and whaling on me until he stepped on my foot wrong and it sort of broke the mood.

It sort of boggles my mind how this all felt perfectly safe. I felt a deep assurance in my ability to say no, I guess, and a basic trust of the hosts, but it still feels like an enormous leap of faith to offer my ass to that many people, many of them strangers. Putting my faith in my instincts and in the basic good of the crowd seems a little crazy, but it worked.

Next: The Cutest Boy at the Party Gets Aftercare Duty (Because He’s a Giver!)

Thank You Note to the Beach

It occurred to me yesterday that I really would have lost my marbles this summer if it hadn't been for the nude beach. I'm so grateful there's someplace I can go to feel 100 % okay with myself AND be loved/shoved around by the ocean AND be surrounded by all manner of penises. (HOORAY!)

It's been so great spending time getting to know The Lady of the House there too--that friendship is one of the things making me feel like I just might be on the right track.

A Whole Bunch of Firsts Part Two: Suspension!!

After my flogging fun with Old-Timey Guy, I put my PJs back on and found a spot to stand and watch everybody play. I hovered near a rope-acquaintance of mine, who happens to share a name with the most vexing character on this blog, so I’ll just refer to him as HempRopes. I’d watched him before in rope class and admired his style, and earlier last Saturday night he’d offered to tie me up if he got time.

HempRopes was spotting a young man who was doing self-suspension. People who do ropes on themselves are my heroes; I’d really like to learn that for myself someday.

I was hoping I might be next after HR’s spotting task, and I was!

He gave me the option of clothes or not clothes, guess which I chose? I left my little pajama shorts on but of course opted for toplessness.

HR is kind of my type, stocky and vaguely nerdish. He had very warm hands as he basket-wove the ropes around my thighs. My favorite part of getting the harness on was when he said “Put your arms around my neck” and picked me up by the thigh ropes to make sure they were adjusted properly—I squealed.

I kept getting distracted watching Old-Timey Guy and Punk Rock Girl playing, so I asked for a blindfold. I was surprised to want one after the fainting time. He had a nice leather one that he bucked on loosely and I started to feel all soft and safe.

For weeks and weeks, my brain has been in a state of constant chatter; lesson plans, homework, discipline problems, all of the cerebral, not-sexy stuff that’s really important but can take me out of my body too much. As HR worked the ropes onto me, as his warm hands wove hemp gently around my chest, I heard something strange and wonderful in my brain: silence. Ahhhhhhh, relief.

He was apologetic whenever he had to adjust the ropes between my legs, but I told him he didn’t have to be quite so polite. When he was finished putting the harness on me, he put me in a chair and got to work doing the rigging on the suspension frame. It took quite a while. People strolled by oohing and ahhing about his work, and I felt like I wasn’t there, in a good way. Once the rigging was done on the frame, he came back over to the frame and tied on some comfy ankle supports—it felt like a one-column tie. then he picked up the ankle supports and led me over to the suspension frame.

In order to get situated on the frame, he had to tie me at my heart first—I liked the feeling of that first support rope pulling up from my heart, it stretched me out in a new way. When he was getting my back supported, I had to lean back a couple of times to get the rope into position. Then it was time to lean back all the way and I was suspended, just a few feet off the floor. It felt wonderful, like a cradle. He tied giving me a head-support, but that felt too choky, so my head just hung down, not-unpleasantly.

He rocked me. I felt warm and contained and cared-for. I’d heard other bottoms talk about feeling like they’re in a safe little bubble and I felt what they meant. The bulge in his pants was now friendly against my shoulder every time he rocked me back. I liked the way that it felt sexy but undemanding—kind of matter-of-fact.

Next time: I heart the knife.