This Meaningful Sex, Part Two

 

Before I wade back into the feelings, I’m writing myself a permission slip to put dating life aside until after New Year’s. (Aside from The Lovely Guy, who’s easy to trust and be myself around!) There are plenty of year-end crafts and projects to lean into, and I’m especially excited because I’ve decided that I don’t have to spend time with my unvaccinated brother! Having excused myself from traveling to family, I’m excited to spend the month in my own life, making room for whatever quietly arrives. I may even get to see a gemstone exhibit with The Boy Who Sewed Me a Pillow, if I’m superlucky!

Anyway, back to the processing at hand. A (mostly in my own head, but still) horny week has given me a little perspective, but I still find it hard to imagine  connecting with anyone as much as I did with This Charming Man. I understand, on some level, that This Charming Man was maybe just really good at sex. But so were Steampunk Guy, Mr. Shiny Eyes, so IS The Lovely Guy. I remember that glimmer-of-love moment when I came with Mr. Sweetheart as Mr. Shiny Eyes held and kissed me. I remember the Mayor of Kittentown’s endlessly welcoming dick.

But this was the first time, with a man, that I felt truly present, safe, and adored. Truly intertwined with him, body and spirit. That feeling could have been solely provided by my ridiculous love-drunk imagination, but I don’t think it was. Not solely.

When I set out on this quest ten years ago (!), this was the thing I was looking for. Not just to be able to step over my decades of barriers and fuck men, but to learn how to fully and unselfconsciously let them in. It was the missing piece I’ve deprived myself of for so long. The longing crashed and burned so many relationships, probably a little bit this one too.

I told him, the last naked night, that no one had ever fucked me so right before. I don’t think that’s grammatically correct, but he said “thank you.” and sighed the most satisfied sigh. I loved the way he held my head up by my hair because he liked to watch me cry out for a while before he let me bury my head in the pillows. (Let us now praise doggie style, now and forever my favorite possible thing.) He would hold me so sweetly and gently after we (“good girl”) came, but his dick stayed hard and I liked just laying there, petting it. Making friends.)

(The time he slept over, in the morning as he was getting dressed, he let his dick stick up through top of his boxers, pointing upwards out the top of his jeans. Such a fucking treasure of an image, that alone makes all these paragraphs worthwhile.)

I don’t really know how to put these pieces together to help me understand how I ended up feeling so deeply, but I guess love doesn’t need an explanation. A few months ago, before I met him, when dating life started to be so exciting and unbalancing again, I told my then-therapist that my goal was to “let the moment live.”

And I did! I put the paragraphs aside for a little while, didn’t ask what the meaning or status was, just let us be. I just let him please me. I let myself have him.  I let down my guard and let us love, and even if he wouldn’t have phrased it that way, I think it was something real and true.

In the context of the five-millionth breakoff of this blog’s life, it’s hard to frame my time with This Charming Man as progress, as a major heart-victory, but it was and is. I wholeheartedly let a man in. I let us adore each other so fully until our time was done. As the heartbreak lifts, little by little, I can feel the truth of him return to my body and soul as the gift that he was. As a strength. As another facet of the love that I am made of.

I don’t want to face the world of men with the hurt and defensiveness I’m feeling now. Yes, I probably should screen better, but I also want to leave room to be open, to push myself, to be surprised. I hope that openness will blossom out of me before too long, but for now there’s the grief that honors this big important thing. For now there are Christmas crafts, and friend-plans, and gentle hope. Putting the swiping aside for a bit, I feel sad and free.

 

 

A Lovely Milestone in Not-Dating

Fueled by Kate Bolick’s Spinster: Making a Life of One’s Own and Rebecca Traister’s All the Single Ladies: Unmarried Women and the Rise of an Independent Nation, I’ve been inspired to embrace this post-divorce bubble of time as a well-earned luxury, not a middle-aged curse. I’ve been proudly embracing the American spinster’s contributions to cultural and civic life, photographing Saturday morning cats without shame, and generally reveling in hearing my own thoughts. This perspective seems to have changed my approach to dating for the (MUCH) better.

Last fall, after J. turned out to be such a disaster, I didn’t really trust myself to date. My ignoring of red flags and self-gaslighting seemed compulsive and difficult to overcome. So many times upon meeting a semi-viable guy, I’d convinced myself that whatever didn’t work about him was something wrong with me. Once I liked a guy, I could so much more easily see his point of view than my own.

But as soon as spring worked its magic, I went back to OKC and found a seemingly datable guy—he was smart, had a house and kids, and was interested enough in politics to hold an elected local seat. He asked me out and we made plans to meet in the neighborhood for a drink, but after a little while, I started to not like his texting style. He didn’t do anything really wrong, but had a way of angrily confiding about bad days that felt over-familiar, as though I were already placed in a helpmeet role that I know I’ll never want.

So guess what! Instead of pushing myself to be more flexible, to take care of him, to ignore my instincts,  I told him I didn’t think we were a match and that was that. Although I’m at an age (and a size!) where women are generally expected to compromise, to respond to the pressures of the dating economy and settle for less than we deserve, I have higher expectations than ever. I have no idea what the future holds for my heart, but I know that I’m happy to be alone until/unless the right person comes along. Gold star for me!

A Backtrack, A Cliff, and a Buffy Sing-along

After the last post, all full of accomplishment and yoga-y goodwill, I was inspired to send a sorry-I-was-a-jerk note to Scrabble Boy—I’d been thinking of him because our dalliance was an April thing and because our friendship ended, as so many of mine have, with me getting superpissed. Since the divorce, I’ve been working my way through the list of people at whom I’ve misdirected anger.

He accepted my friend request right away, as if he’d been waiting for it, and was equally apologetic and forgiving. We planned to do a call after I got back from Easter. (Hey everybody! I drove up to my sister’s and back without having a breakdown for the first time post-Sweetie! Credit to my cute little red car, I think. And time.) A funny thing happened when I hit the road though—all kinds of daydreams started to unspool about him—holding hands under the flowering trees, throwing him into my pretty princess bed and finally having my way with him, running away to join his life in Ann Arbor. (Cue Get Up Kids song…)

Though I loved the idea of reuniting with my poet self through him and seeing the last three years’ adventures through his eyes, the adventures seemed to pale in comparison with him. He was, at least in those daydreams, still the best one for me, the guy I’d choose out of all of them if I were given a chance. I hadn’t so much gotten over him as put a bookmark in that day we spent together, and as soon as we were on good terms, love started bursting out like so many tree-petals.

Easter was SUCH a good trip. I played Mario Party with the kids and earned almost no mini-stars. I took my niece and nephews to their local comic shop and bought my niece some manga and my nephew a sonic screwdriver. After we finished lovingly perusing the old-school Star Wars figures, we all went out for cocoa. It’s finally sinking in that I can still have my family, even post-Sweetie.

When I got home, I knew I couldn’t really bear to be updated about Scrabble Boy’s life. I’ve come too far to pretend that I want to be just friends with someone I love. (Annoying) gold star for being honest with him about that, and in the process I learned that he’d found someone shortly after his divorce and was happy with her. I sent him a perfect, distant, congratulatory response and that was that, but I was completely devastated by the news. I don’t know why it hurt so badly, but it did. I sometimes feel like everyone just pairs (or whatevers) up so easily and it’s still just a mystery to me.

The more I dismantle the defensiveness and fear that came from The Bad Thing, the more I realize some of that stuff was what’s holding me up, so it’s hard to hold myself together without it. I will probably find more of these pockets of feeling that got stuck because I was ill-equipped to face them at the time—my heart might be a TARDIS ride for a little while.

With that loss added to all the others and my defenses down, I felt like Wyle E. Coyote when he realizes he’s walked off a cliff. The bottom dropped out from under everything and for a few days, I was completely lost. I felt the loss not just of Scrabble Boy, but of my school, of Sweetie, of everyone I’ve lost in the past couple years’ adventures. I was so hyperventilatingly sad that I wondered if I did need a Girl Interrupted interruption, or shock treatment like Rory Gilmore got when she was on Mad Men. I thought I would never find love the way SB did because I would be tangled in this web of grief forever.

The feeling only lasted a couple of days—with yoga, sitcom episodes, and lots of writing, the devastation passed and I was able to get back on track. The main thing I learned from the Scrabble Boy thing is that hermit time is over, that reaching out has got to become the norm again. I’ve enjoyed these months of focusing on taking care of myself, but the loneliness is deep and wide and it’s time to rejoin the world.

So I did. Last night I joined some friends-of-friends for a Buffy sing-along and ice cream birthday party. (Can you believe that was a thing?!) I felt nervous because I’ve almost completely forgotten how to be social, but singing “Walk Through the Fire” with a bunch of cute near-strangers was as transcendent an experience as I’m ever gonna have, and I have been actually set on fire.

So I will. Walk through the fire, I mean. Though it seems impossible sometimes, I’ll keep moving forward until I work someplace safe and love someone(s) kind, until vulnerability and lightness and heart can thrive. Next weekend, everybody, is the Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness, not a moment too soon.

Well Enough to Be Bored Silly!

Now that I'm starting to get used to living on my own, the learning curve on my life has diminished a great deal and I'm starting to have some left over energy. Doing chores that were formerly Sweetie's is getting less fraught with emotion and more routine, and I'm getting used to the fact that I'm a cute-car-having adult who can take care of myself.

The thought of going backward in ANY way makes my body feel seized-up and nauseated, so I know there's no backtracking to drama and hurt. Being pants-on for a while, I'm antsy and unsure of what to do with myself besides work, write, and sleep. As I look for the next healthy inspirations, though, I'm trying to see the boredom as an itch that tells me my insides are healing.

Happy Friday! 65% Less Rotten Inside

Since I'm curious about that nice energy that started moving around in me at the Big Poly Conference, I decided to see what would happen if I chanted daily. And here's my gold star for doing so every day this week!

In addition to doing my om namah shivayas every day before work, I've been belting out early Beatles songs every time I'm in the car. I think I'm making my way back to my joyful self.

Poly Conference as Benchmark: Very Good Progress

When I first attended the Big Poly Conference the year before last, it was almost like research as an outsider. I found many different kinds of comfort and acceptance (especially in my first nudist experience) but by the end of the day I was hurting and crying in the cuddle party, being comforted by the facilitator (who is, incidentally, now Showtime famous) and feeling like I should never be near such nice people, like I was just to rotten inside for all this togetherness. I cried my heart out all the way home that night, consoled by Sweetie in that toxic way we had, half-knowing that my relationship was part of where the rottenness was coming from.

Then last year I attended with much more experience and a few more good connections, spent the day mostly catching up with friends and being proud to find out where the big party was being held. That was the night I first really connected with the Sweethearts, Mr. Shiny Eyes, and the Recurring Character. Because Sweetie was staying in the hotel with me (though not attending the conference) I still felt separate from the poly folks and strangely protective of her, like I couldn’t give all the way in to everything that was going on around me.

This year, I shared a room with my favorite snuggle-couple, the Sweethearts, whom I’m still learning, of course, but thoroughly and emphatically enjoyed in both pants-off and pants-on ways. They feel like home to me, a physical and spiritual comfort to be near whether we were mid-scene or not.

As with last year, I spent a good amount of time catching up with the Lady of the House, who decided that wherever we are together talking is actually the nude beach--it’s exactly that sunny, embracing, and free.

I got to devour Mr. Shiny Eyes for lunch and have some emotional breakthroughs with him during postsex cuddles. (I’ll elaborate on all this as the week goes on…)

And yes, I did know where the party was, but I chose instead to curl up in a comforter and enjoy the warmth of my own company.

For all of the happiness, there was grief, too. I miss having someone to whom I could confess everything and be (until the next condemning fight, at least) absolved. And since last year’s party was all about Sweetie’s ropes, I missed the heck out of those too: I love that we were able to create such beautiful rope-magic even as we were falling apart. I miss the home of her even as I rejoice in finding and founding new person-homes.

This was also the weekend in which I finally admitted to myself that I believe in Tantric energy—I’ve experienced it enough times, I might as well. The first time I tried Tantric breath (at that same sobby conference cuddle party) I experienced it as stabby, almost debilitating pain, a grief-cramp that didn’t go away until I cried it out. This time, just after I left the Sacred Sex Puja, I felt such a warm, sunshiny glow move through me, and keep moving. Though I’m still facing some roadblocks and daunting obstacles, on some fundamental level I’ve come unstuck. There’s so much more work to be done, but sometimes I feel my body, mind, and heart giving me time and space to relax into the flow of whatever comes next.

Single Life, Week 7: Life After “Thrift Shop”

It’s too early to know what the song of this year will be, but “Thrift Shop” was my song of last year, the one I woke myself up with on the way to work, sweated to at the gym, and heard in my head when something, yes, fucking awesome was happening.

I wrote last fall about how it’s a good philosophy of life; just being delighted at what you find, letting chance and serendipity show me where I need to go. With that theory in place, I left the year with an armload of experiences, many of which were unequivocally awesome, some that didn’t fit, some that were stained and downright nasty. As unegalitarian as it feels for me to say this, chance threw some things my way that simply weren’t good enough for me, and I took them home anyway.

I like that seeing play as a magical thrift shop helped me to take down a lot of the structures of control that I had in place. Though I still do love planning and anticipating, I think that my calendar fixation was a lot about trying to make things stay the same, trying to keep things safe and cozy for Sweetie so that she wouldn’t yell at me and call me names. I learned how to be more flexible, to adjust my expectations, and even how to not want to claim people immediately upon kissing them. Well, a little shaky on that last one, but still.

I really, really miss it, just powering through and experiencing every single sensation that I could, even when the emotional cost was high, even when I had to fight my own instincts to do it. Last night was my first night skipping the Regular Dungeon in a long time, and though I had a fantastic time, I still felt nostalgic for the nights where I was able to experience thing after thing after thing, to slip seamlessly from bottom to top, from fire to floggers, and feel like a princess superhero while doing so. It occurs to me that very, very little of that experience had to do with the Steampunks, so I probably don’t have to give all of it up just because they don’t like me. I hope to eventually return to some of it after the wounds have healed.

Back to my metaphor: In real life, I don’t shop like “Thrift Shop.” Not even when I’m IN a thrift shop. I tend to mostly browse, enjoying the bright randomness of everything and only picking anything up if it’s really special, like a tulip-glass pitcher or a perfect grandma cardigan. I would certainly never take home anything that needs fixing, especially if I already had a broken keyboard at home.

In regular stores I’m even pickier. In fact, I’m currently refusing to buy work pants until tapered legs go out of style. I don’t have a shape or a budget for careless shopping. I’m a grown-ass woman who knows what she likes and should never have to settle for anything that doesn’t fit or that I don’t completely love. If I’m that picky with spending my money, can I be a little pickier with spending my heart?

When my therapist got unavailable because her supervisor wanted to Girl Interrupted me, I refused to even look for another one. I couldn’t stand the strangers’ input that came from the 10-minute screening process. So I waited seven months for my real therapist to get her own practice, and now she even makes house calls. There’s a lesson there about waiting for something that works, rather than trying to fit with things that don’t.

My point, and I do have one, is that I hope to find a balance between the natural excitement and momentum in my heart and the discernment that will allow me to get what I want and deserve. That way I can have chance and magic but also, you know, sanity.

That said, I reallyreally hate being on a break from the pursuit of sexytimes. My emotions are grateful to have the time to rest, but my body is like what. the. fuck?

But remembering what pants-on activities I enjoy is rewarding and comforting. On Thursday night, I sat in the meeting room of a neighborhood historic building (we have a lot of them) and drew while I listened to my friends sing and play the most lovely and gently moving music. I was flooded with a sense of (mostly) platonic wellbeing that nonetheless made me have to go home and ravish myself.

Last night, Gold Star Winggirl (So named because she sends me gold stars whenever I’m awesome at being on my break) came with me to a Bhakti dance, and by the end when we were Om Shanti Shanti-ing, I felt so good and loved that I could have Om Shanti-Shanti-ed for about 10 more hours. The best part was getting lots of time to catch up with GSW and root for her adventures too.

Transcendent and fulfilled as I was though, I still would have liked to have driven over to the Regular Dungeon and handed out some what-for. Funny how that’s the thing I miss most.

But guys! Guess what. Granted, it’s only happening on Twitter (hence the loophole) but for a few weeks, I’ve been spending attention on a guy who actually gives it back. Who is actually nice to me! Who checks on me if I’m sad and whose girlfriends and wives and metamours all seem to be delighted by our exchanges. I’ve never even seen any of their faces and at the moment I’m not ready too, but I do feel a genuine connection and I think this is excellent practice for letting myself be treated kindly when it comes time for IRL flirtations. A gold star for me, and one for the Mystery Man and his family. (I’m quite sure they’ll be good at sharing a star.)

Likewise, the Recurring Character is being internet-adorable, telling me semi-daily which of my (G-rated) body parts he is rooting for. So a gold star to him, too.

Okay, so I’m somewhat terrible at taking a break, but I am still making a lot of progress: Friday I told Sweetie we can no longer do groceries together, and yesterday I told her that this is my last week of sharing the car with her. Next weekend I am going to try and find a car of my own. I’m getting better at letting Sweetie-things go, and that’s progress.

PS. As I leave on pop song behind, I just want to take a moment to celebrate and thank the part of my soul that will always sound like this:

Naked New Years as Benchmark: So Many Gold Stars

As I alluded to last week, the Sweethearts came down for the Lady of the House’s annual New Years party, and to my delight they offered to stop by my apartment on the way. I was so excited to make them soup and catch up—hard as it is to believe, we hadn’t seen each other since the Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness, when he was part of my first threesome and she brushed my hair after.

When we started getting ready, there was a spark of energy in the air, and not just because we were enthusiastically comparing shiny butt plugs. At my encouragement, she came in to keep me company while I was getting dressed and we agreed that my Snoopy Christmas underpants were much more festive than my lucky polka dot ones. I found my shiny red bra, packed my red satin heels in my trusty suitcase, and chose a pretty outfit that would certainly not be on for very long.

I was shy around Mr. Sweetheart at first (Well, my version of shy…) but his body felt warm and welcoming. While they were sitting together on the couch getting the directions situated, I made some room for myself and kissed him, still the same softness, still the same lovely, steady connection. Then I got up the courage to lean across him and kiss her. She was a fit, just as I always suspected she would be. It is a wonder we ever made it to the party, but we did, in spite of my somewhat haphazard driving. (Note to self: become a better driver before the next time I drive someplace with a butt plug in.)

Shortly after we got there (While we still had clothes on, even!) the friend whom I’ve just named The Recurring Character arrived. He tends to be present at many of my formative experiences: He was the first person I (sort of) cuddled at my first cuddle party, he was in the clothing optional workshop where I first (sort of) stripped down, he was even there the first time I went to the nude beach. Last February, with Sweetie’s help, I was his first rope top. Like many of my guy friends, he’s a belle-of-the-ball type with lots of partners. Maybe I gravitate towards characters like that because they’re the most approachable, or maybe because I kinda want to be like them. Maybe both.

The Lady of the House’s parties always have a designated play space, adjacent to the rest of the party but not visible. That’s where the Sweethearts and I headed before too long. Last year, even though I was having a lovely rope scene with Sweetie, sex at a party seemed like a distant dream. Not even one year distant, it turns out. (Pause to high five Pretty Slave and Cute Master, who got to be that first. Jeez 2013, you were awesome sometimes.)

The aim was to have my first anal sex before midnight, but it was not meant to be. The universe seems determined to have me wait on that one, I don’t know why, but I’ve decided to settle in and be patient about it. Well, as patient as possible, anyway.

Anyway, playing with Mr. and Ms. Sweetheart was perfect. Especially considering that I’d been fantasizing about it for half a year! I always thought she looked like some badass Nordic goddess, all pale skin and smooth, heroic curves, an ass like a Romantic-era odalisque. (Yay I just used my Art History degree everybody!) Mr. Sweetheart is still such a wonderful combination of gentle and mean, though in this case, more gentle. The kindest spanks I’ve even known, kindest finger in my asshole.

As I lay between them like a loved-up princess, the Recurring Character asked if he could join, and after a quick soul-search I said yes and was plunged into the middle of the three of them. He kissed me while the Sweethearts played with my breasts, while Ms. Sweetheart ran her fingers over the front of my more-and-more-wet underpants. Everyone wondered how I could possibly still be wearing underpants and worked together to get them off of me. They were kind enough to let me leave my socks on, though, as all the best people are. With them everywhere on me, I felt helpless and goddesslike all at once, floating/submerged/drowning in an ocean of ecstatic sensations, the most perfectly myself I can imagine, all white light and joy.

At midnight, we all got up and toasted, danced with the Lady of the House, kissed and ate cookies and drank wine and caught up with friends. There was no one I wanted to text at midnight, though I did text a few at 2 AM. I was fully present and immersed in things, that was the real difference between this year and last year.

After the midnight revels, Mr. Sweetheart put a rope harness on me and fucked me so perfectly that I had to put my hand over my own mouth to stifle the screams. This was the first night I had PIV sex in front of other people; there was something comforting about hearing my friends’ conversations nearby while I was in the throes of him. Heartwarming. Connected. Shortly thereafter, I put Ms. Sweetheart over my knee and spanked her while Mr. Sweetheart sat and petted us both. I was proud to turn this powerful woman into a sweet, sleepy angel.

I’d planned to stay over and snuggle with them, but this was a rare night where I’d had enough.  Enough closeness, enough kisses, enough snuggles. I wanted to be in my own bed and I hadn’t drunk much at all so I had a soda, found my clothes, and said my prolonged and grateful goodbyes. It was an astonishing feeling to be so filled up by others and yet still self-contained.

When I met the Sweethearts last New Years, I couldn’t have predicted what we would become. I still can’t. The same goes for when I made friends with The Lady of the House by cuddle/wrestling her the June before last, or the first time I laid eyes on Cute Master and Pretty Slave or any of the other characters. We never know what magic we’re making or where connections are leading, but I’m more convinced than ever that there’s a current underneath it all, taking us where we need to go. The Sweethearts seem to have fucked me full of faith.

A Strange and Lovely Day, Part Four: A Slutty Level-Up

Correction: I’ve been informed that the paddle with the Greek letters on it actually belongs to PS, so I guess I’ve fucked a sorority girl, not a frat boy. Doesn’t seem as transgressive, somehow.

And some metablogging: I woke up in a really dreadful mood this morning because of a bad day (actually a bad 10 minutes) at work yesterday, but when I sat down before work to write this in my notebook, my mood lifted exponentially. This means that:

a. I’ll have to keep being really slutty if I’m ever gonna be awesome at the other parts of my life.

b. Life would really suck without the stars of this story, so thanks pals. You are sunshines from heaven. Dirty little sunshines.

There was one guy at the party whom I’d known for a while but who, for some reason, was giving me a go-put-my-clothes-on vibe that night. So I got into my cute PJs and played strip poker without really playing—it was the most I’ve ever learned about poker, and it wasn’t much. PS and CM’s other girl was there, and I wasn’t sure what that meant, etiquette-wise. I went with my default setting, which was to step aside, and went upstairs to lie down in their bed. I listened as the game got less and less about poker (not that it ever really was) and became more like a game of truth or dare. And I ended up being the stakes:

“If I lose,” I heard Cute Master say “Then I have to go upstairs and fuck (me).”

Sure enough, he did lose, and up the stairs he came.

“Wait, are you sure this is okay with (PS)?”

He responded by standing over me, pulling out his dick, and pulling my head toward it. I happily gagged myself, worrying a little bit if I was doing it badly since I was tipsy and at a weird angle. It felt so the-good-kind-of-humiliating with everybody downstairs listening and felt extra-naughty with PS not in the room. He climbed on top of me, grabbed my hair, kissed me hard, and then turned around and went back downstairs.

Soon, their game completely devolved into sexytimes, and I really, really liked hearing them all down there, even with the guy who had been giving me the creeps in the mix. I thought about sitting on the stairs and watching but I was all cozy so I just listened and got handsy with myself. Apparently this is just a thing I do sometimes on the weekends, fuck myself in their bed.

Just as I was starting to get ready to come, they came up to join me.

“Did you come up to go to sleep?”

“Um, no. Turn over.”

“He’s not gonna fuck you in the ass,” she said helpfully, since he’d been threatening to do so all night while they were making fun of me for waiting for SG.

I was glad to be flat on my belly for them. I remembered from class that a pillow would have made a helpful angle, but I was too comfy to suggest it. Though it’s my favorite position it didn’t quite work for whatever reason, so he turned me over, pushed my legs all the way up, and shoved inside. I pulled his head toward me and kissed him, kissed her, hollered my head off in my showoffy way. A girl could get used to this! Maybe I am.

When it was her turn to be fucked, his fingers played gently around my asshole (I’d put away the pretty butt plug when I put my pajamas on) and I turned over to give him better access. I wanted his fingers deeper, but he was deferential to toward the area despite his swaggersome claims that he’d be better for it than SG. I suppose before long I’ll be able to compare, though I wouldn’t.

PS got worried anyway that I was upset that he’d touched me there, and kept checking in. I was fine and sleepy. PS went downstairs to attend to the one remaining awake party guest, and that’s how I ended up falling asleep with a guy for the first time in almost two years. It was fun. His hand rested on my hip and he pulled my ass in close. Every once in a while he’d get half-awake and bury himself in the back of my hair, kiss my neck, squeeze my boobs. I didn’t know if he was even aware that I wasn’t PS and I really didn’t care. I fell asleep that way, aroused and pleased and enjoying the smell of him.

Around 7 AM, he woke me up, urgent and rubbing myself against me, pulling my hair, feeling for my clit. When he got to the (bigger) boobs, I think he realized I wasn’t PS, and he got up and went to find her.

This is a very proud moment, a fantastic benchmark of a new level of sluttiness. It seems like I should’ve been upset or insulted somehow, but all I was was turned on again. I listened to him in the guest room, waking her up, creaking the bed, bringing out first happy murmurs and then her wonderful, musical moans, and soon my own little personal-time moans joined in. They came in and caught me, and I didn’t even feel the slightest bit sheepish.

He lay back on the bed and she went down on him wholeheartedly. He took my hand and put it on the back of her head, and I grabbed her hair and moved her up and down forcefully like the guys do. It. Was. Awesome.

“When she’s done doing that, could you please fuck me? Since I asked so nicely?”

“(PS), get a condom.”

She rolled one onto him and he held me down and fucked me, hard and deep this time. He reminded me of the sleeping guests and she put her hand over my mouth. When she wasn’t doing that, I shoved my face into a pillow.

“I want to hear it, I don’t care,” she said and he admonished her but I heaved out some lusty wails before shoving my face back into the pillow. Oh, penises. You’ve really got to get in there more often. You’re just the best.

He ran out of steam before I did, but I still fell asleep happily, on the outside this time, snuggled up to Pretty Slave.

I was the last one to leave in the morning. PS made me coffee and I sat on the couch between them watching Ted—it’s a testament to how much I like them that I’d watch anything Seth MacFarlane made. It was funny but gave me the creeps when I thought about it later.

The rest of the day was melancholy. Sundays are mostly workdays for me and loneliness often sets in in the evening. It’s wonderful to be a single slutty girl almost every other time of the week, but I get the blues thinking of everyone else having snuggly family time while I’m printing out lesson plans and being divorced-girl.

BUT!

1. I got pretty drunk without getting mournful!

and

2. I now can say that I know how to get myself laid when I need it.

I felt a little bit ashamed as I worked through the hangover, but writing about it now, I feel nothing but proud. No-strings sex (Well, okay. Very few strings sex.) get ready for me, because here I come.

Proud of a Good Break-Off

Some of my poly pals tend to give me a hard time about breaking things off maybe too often so I just wanted to say that Cute Master and Pretty Slave wrote very sweet notes back saying they still want to hang out with me as friends.

Pretty Slave told me to "Never forget what I deserve" and I'm going to try to honor that.

Cute Master agreed with me that if I was getting emotionally involved that it was probably for the best--so guess what? Go me! And go them.

And I hope I can still convince them to top me out in the world sometimes. Will miss the snuggles, though.

Screening News: Don't Worry and Keep Kissing

Gold star to me for being such an excellent sex-friend that I spent part of my vacation day getting my hoo-ha up to date. Some tests you have to wait for of course but my good news is that HPV hasn't come back still (it's been almost two years) so it's probably time to stop fussing about that.

I also had a concern that I'd been exposed to HSV 1 (that's the mouth kind) indirectly. (Describing how felt superbraggy!) The nurse practitioner told me not to worry about it, to go ahead and kiss all I want unless I see symptoms. I kind of knew that was the case, but I needed a medical professional to say it to me before proceeding.

Going to celebrate by kicking Sweetie out for the afternoon and having a bunch of personal time--it's been a little while since I really went to town on myself.

Yay I'm a Happy Poly Moment!

Yay I get to share a Poly Weekly episode with the lovely Sabrina Morgan. I wrote this happy poly moment letter when I was full of dungeon endorphins, but that doesn't make it any less true. In fact, I think I'm even more of a rolling snowball of slutty awesomeness now. And! I'm glad some of those excellent penises ended up being wholehearted yesses!

The feedback letter in this episode might sound familiar too--oh, last April. Oh, The Man and The Wife. So glad you're far behind me and so is all that bitterness.

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!

Ex-Whatever as Benchmark: A+ for Improved Standards and Good Instincts

I was pissed before I even got into Mister Hazel Eyes’s car. He got lost on the way over and when I called to see if I could help, he yammered for like 20 minutes without telling me his cross-streets or asking a single thing about me. I think this is a thing that I do when I’m nervous, too, though, especially if it’s somebody I really like. Nonetheless, I went from heels to flats before he got here.

I remember him picking me up for that last date last August and seeming put-upon, like his life was way too hard and I was making it harder by being his date. All of the anger I felt about him ditching me last year came out, I had no idea I was still mad!

As we drove and talked, he told me I’d been right about him having a secret-someone at home when we were dating—he says she was his ex-wife then and that they are still living together now. I’d always wondered if I’d been being paranoid thinking he had a secret-lady, but I guess I really was reading the clues right—go me!

He’s still living with his (he says she’s his ex, anyway) wife after all this time!? If that doesn’t remind me to get my still-too-dependent-on-Sweetie ass in gear, I don’t know what will!

So here’s what I realized as we drove along and everything he said was making me more and more aggravated, every story showing him to be petty, immature, and needlessly harsh—I felt the same way then. I didn’t like him, plain and simple. There was no reason to have tortured either one of us about it. Back then it felt like every guy was a rare chance, my only way towards happiness because if I didn’t learn to like this one, if I didn’t somehow adapt myself to whatever mess he was, then I would never be flexible enough to find love.

I know I was doing that that trying-to-make-myself-like-someone-who-doesn’t-fit thing with The Man, too, and to a lesser degree with some others, but hopefully that nasty habit is behind me now. Part of the reason I thought that way was because that’s just how I saw my marriage—I thought that if I didn’t force myself to love Sweetie for the rest of my life, then I was failing at love and would never be mature or responsible enough to have real relationships. It’s one of the ways I was convincing myself to stay with her and I am so, so thankful that I don’t have to feel that way anymore, that hopefully now I have a chance to find loves that actually work.

Mister Hazel Eyes pulled the car over so we could be face to face (A relief, his driving gives me the jitters.) and I started to cry.

“You treated me like shit, like I was an imposition, and I didn’t deserve that. I was afraid to say anything because I thought you’d leave. I didn’t really have any self esteem back then.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I treated you badly. I disappeared because I knew I wasn’t good enough for you.”

Which sounds like a really bullshit thing to say, but in this case it really rang true. It’s never really seemed fair to me, seemed undemocratic somehow, to say that someone’s not good enough, but if you look at the guys I’ve liked lately, there’s absolutely no comparison at all. I wonder if I’ll say the same thing about these guys in a year—I hope not ‘cause I heart having them as pals.

“You just left me like I wasn’t there, like I wasn’t anything. I just wanted to say goodbye! I thought it was because of something wrong with me all this time, but it wasn’t.” I was still crying lightly into my wasted makeup.

“I’m sorry. You’re a beautiful, intelligent woman and you didn’t deserve to be treated that way. I can never really make it up to you. You can totally punch me in the arm if you want to.”

I laughed and said “Can I smack you right across the face?”

“I respectfully ask that you don’t.”

He told me some more off-putting things about his life, all the proof I needed that I’m now officially in the post-schlub phase of my existence.

“I’d like to go home now, please.”

We hadn’t been driving that long, but the way home seemed to take forever, full of tentative wrong turns. To lighten the mood I did punch him on the arm, and it made me laugh. He said I could beat him up some more when we got out of the car, and I’d been kind of spoiling for a fight all day, but this isn’t that kind of story. Without the respect and joy that I feel for my playpals, it would have just been sad.

On my street, he pulled onto the same spot where we’d car-cuddled after our last scene.

“Sure you don’t want to hit me?”

“No, there’s no reason to hit you. It just wasn’t a match and I can’t believe I made such a big deal out of it. I should’ve been able to just scroll past. Let’s have a high-five for closure.”

It was a very sad high-five, and he is a very sad guy. Where my present pals wake me up and make me feel more vital, he dulled my senses and made all the good things seem far away. That’s what looking to the past does, and even though I’m up-in-the-air with my living situation and still kinda aching ‘cause I can’t smooch CBATP, I love the present so much, and I want to just stop and revel in how far I’ve come.

Because Sometimes My Life is Like a Romantic Comedy...

So yesterday a pal of who I met over the summer (at this party) (I complimented his naked bum and he told me I'm pre-approved to spank it.) added me on the facebook and after we'd chatted for a little bit about our respective switchy shenanigans, he revealed the real reason for writing. I kind of have to paste it in verbatim, but still it's really hard to believe:

Boy I'm Pre-Approved to Spank:  "Your name came up in conversation with a coworker of mine."

"My coworker was telling me about someone in the scene whom he really cared for, but fucked things up with (his words) because he wasn't ready.

I jokingly said I probably knew her and asked her name, and when he said (my name) I was pleasantly surprised to discover I knew just whom he meant.

so, if you have any interest, (Mister Hazel Eyes) is nervously hoping to get back in touch with you."

Me: "!!! He was a favorite! Really?!"

Boy I'm Pre-Approved to Spank: "She is an awesome person and I need to get ahold of her"

"I fucked things up with a little. I wasn't ready. now I am"

"i miss her. i need to apologize"

"She is a sweet darling girl"

etc."

Me: "Tell him to ask me out! I fucked up too and I always wondered what became of him! I can't believe it! (My phone number)

Crazy!"

Isn't that what everyone in the world hopes their exes are saying about them?!

So now I'm going out with Mister Hazel Eyes Friday night. It'll be fantastic to have closure about whatever made him disappear around this time last year.

He started to text a little dirty in the process of making the plans, but I was all, "You haven't earned the right to talk about underpants yet. Just because I'm a slut doesn't mean I'm not a PRINCESS."

Talking to him makes me want to give myself a gold star for how far I've come since last year--imagine! Me with self-esteem!

Really Irksome Gold Star

Oh everybody, I haz a sad. Today the Cutest Boy at the Party told me some stuff going on his relationship that showed me they’re not ready to welcome another person, maybe not even a playpal, definitely not a me. So I told him I’m backing away until things are more situated.

He said that he might be okay for a play partner situation before too long, but I had to admit that my heart was leaning toward something deeper with him. For whatever reason, I don’t really care that much about BDSM when it comes to him, I mostly just want to make out and roll around like happy kittens.

That might see like too much to know after a good cuddle and a week of good texts, but in my defense, they were really good texts, with a lot of “good girl” and “I’m proud of you” and such (Okay maybe it’s a little bit of a BDSM feeling…) plus the still-way-too-surprising feeling of being treated like a person he actually wants to know. I really have to get a little more used to that.

Also, it wasn’t just a snuggle. He was giving me aftercare on behalf of, like, ten people in a scene that was cathartic and transformative on so many levels. Of course it’s a little hard to have perspective about him, of course I got feelings. I probably need a little time just to fully realize what happened to me, just to let it sink in, take it to heart.

I miss him already and I HATE doing the stupid right thing, but I can’t put that much energy into somebody who is, for the most part, unavailable. I can’t invest so much imagination in another guy I can’t have. I want the “good girls” to be for real and the cuddles to be sincere and the other partners to be ready to welcome me with open arms.

I told him to give me a few weeks to try and find perspective and I hope I will. I’ve added him to the growing category of Hope it Comes Back Around and I feel proud, but lonely.

And The Winner for Best Making Me Type With Slippery Hands Is...

Ohmygoodness friends! The Cutest Boy at the Party is decidedly also the most excellent boy in my phone. Not only does he send me lots of friendly and attentive regular texts, but he also sometimes says things that make me go from zero to gushing in like two seconds. Also he's reading me, and you know that's the best way to get on my good side.

Not that he always wants to be on my good side--he's a switch and his bottomy aspects bring out some deliciously growly feelings in me--I've spent lots of quality fantasy time plotting against him. When I see that boy he'd better watch. Out.

Anyway, be proud of yourself, honey. It's been a long week and the company and text-slutty afternoons made it amazing. Such a good boy.

Self Adventure: I Heart My New Toy!!

On Saturday when I went to drop off the ropes, our meeting place happened to be right by my favorite sex toy shop. I’d just gotten my job back and my birthday’s coming, so I decided it was the perfect day to buy my first butt plug.

I get a gold star because I did such a good job of asking the salesgirl questions about which materials and lubes were the best. She steered me towards silicone and of course I chose the lavender one. I looked at the little size, I looked at the big size, and with hope (and honesty) in my heart I chose the big one. It sure doesn’t fit in there but I imagine I’ll grow into it.

Once I had what I needed, I couldn’t wait to get home. My bus took forever to show up and I was tingly and smushy for the whole ride.

Sometimes I like to get fancy for myself so when I got home I put on a purple lace top and lay down on the bed. I lubed my new toy and placed it under my ass, eased it in and felt a rush of urgency and joy. I pushed down on it as hard as I could, rocking back and forth onto it and rubbing my nipples through the lace. I did that for a long time, happy moans and wiggly butt.

When I got around to touching my pussy, it was wetter and more swollen than I’d ever made it on my own before. The harder ass-thrusts brought about eensy little squirty feelings up front—I definitely am capable. I told myself not to be embarrassed to just go ahead and let it happen when it’s time. I may have actually said it aloud.

I was so excited that I was giving all of this amazingness to myself—it was an enthusiasm that felt a lot like new love.  I got out the original Big Purple Thing, turned it on, ran in over my nipples and showed it inside, the two toys ratcheting up the sensation exponentially. At that moment I had a realization that I’m embarrassed it took me so long to get to—I turned off the Big Purple Thing and put it in my mouth. I licked it, sucked it, shoved it down my throat. I turned it back on and ran it over the part of my cheek that always wants to get slapped. I ran in over my pussy and then sucked it some more.

My entire body was thrumming and thrilled. I sat up and pushed harder into the too-big butt plug, fucking it hard and feeling my pussy open further and further, wetter and wetter. I alternated sucking off the Big Purple Thing with  putting my hand over my mouth until I was in a frenzy, then I pushed the Big Purple Thing up my hoo-ha and fucked myself hard until I came. (Not in the fancy new way yet, but still.) I couldn’t believe I’d done all that for myself! I was so proud.

Whenever my ass comes into play, though, I get a little fear-hangover from it, a little triggering. It usually lasts for about half a day. I sometimes wonder if maybe when the bad thing happened in high school they might’ve done things to my ass while I was passed out, but I think it’s more likely that it’s just garden-variety shame. There are so many layers of it that still need peeling away.

I took the rest of the night to myself, wrapped up in a pretty sheet and watched sitcoms. I am so excited for my next self-date, and the next. And the next!

Yay My Own Bank Account!

For the new job, I wanted my own place to direct deposit. So I marched over to the bank and made my own checking and savings accounts. I got giddy talking to the bank lady about it. It'll be a while 'til we can shut down the joint account, but this feels like a step!

Huzzaaaaaaah For Employment!

Ohthankgoodness I am headed back to work next week. I got hired at one of my dream schools and I am so excited. It's an assistant position so I'll have to get a second job too, but the place is so neat and peaceful that I knew it was the right thing to try. This'll give me a place to learn, teach, heal and grow as Sweetie and I make our transitions.