Power, Praise, and Trauma, A Love Story

 

I think I’m doing a pretty good job with the whole moving on thing. Most days, I forget it’s Ramadan til sunset reminds me. Sometimes I get excited about a new Feeld guy and see a glimmer of possibility, a sparkle of a bright future with a nice untaken man. But anger at myself is the strongest thing holding me back—I hate how desperate I was to please The Shy One, especially towards the end. And, because I’m broken, I hate myself for not figuring out how to please him.

He himself isn’t trauma to me, but there it was: fight, flight, freeze, or fawn.

And I wasn’t alone in that. Once in a fairly low-stakes argument, he said “I don’t want any more conflict. I already lived through a civil war.”

After he got back from his big trip, in a higher-stakes argument, he let slip there was a trauma coming back to him, and that he didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t press.

That’s all the speculating I can do about his traumas, or what I imagined to be his traumas. I wanted them to be my business, but they weren’t and aren’t.

One thing I can’t quite get mad at myself for: I chose that ill-fated sequel. It was submission that sent me back to him. At that dinner last July, I offered to do anything, to be anything for him. I wanted to sit at his feet. Inspired by the new ways that The Song Sender’s scenes cracked me open and let the light out, I went in with a sense of surrender—to The Shy One, to the divine, to fate.

I felt giddily empowered that hot night in July, so adventurous that I even tried calamari. Submitting though I was, I think what made him feel safe trying again was my confidence. He really missed that confidence when it was gone. By the end, when he was shutting down post-trip, I asked “What am I for?”

I asked a mentor the same thing in my last days of classroom teaching: “I feel like I’m nothing, like I’ve got nothing to offer.”

The day after the breakup, I was laying on my living room floor crying “Come back, please come back,” I was a little bit talking to the heavens, a little bit to him, and a lot to myself.

It would be wrong and mean and kink-phobic to blame praise for what we both went through, but. He was so, SO HURT whenever I had a complaint. And I was utterly mystified about how I could be “good” for him.

The first time post-breakup that I had to file my Friday paperwork without asking him for praise after, it seemed impossible. Of course, it wasn’t.

I think the loss of his praise (or even just the times the praise felt rote) felt so scary to me because those many “Good Girl” texts had more power than I realized. Because deep down, just in part of myself, I knew I could never really be good.

Trauma wrote that message on my body and mind a long time ago, and one of the things he was doing, one of the many, many things he was doing for my heart and soul and mind was helping me rewrite it. I think the best partnerships do that without trying. It’s alchemy. It’s just life shining through all the closets and mess and fear. And it’s a permanent, if incomplete, transformation.

So I wonder if I’ll ever want to call someone a “Good Boy” again (probably) or if I’ll want to be anyone’s “Good Girl.” (Also probably.)

I wonder too if, given the way the trauma lives in my bones and steer me so persistently to self-sabotage, if the connection I had with him was the closest I could get to a man. Once, I let it slip that I thought he might be my last chance.

He probably wasn’t, but no matter what comes next I’ll do everything I can to love the broken parts of me, even on the days when it’s hardest.

 

 

 

Ma’am Stuff Part Two

Quote from Rumi

Friends, last night I dipped my toe into some nice warm Ma’am waters again. No one I’m ready to talk about yet, but it both moved me on from AND stirred me up about The Good Boy. This new possible one has a very different vibe from TGB, and I was wholly present with him, but everywhere I went today, I saw guys who reminded me of The Good Boy. Like a bunch of sexy, bright-eyed ghosts. And of course I’m convinced I will never see the new one again, even though he has indicated otherwise. Grieflust. Melancholy joy. Ravenous wistfulness. Newness and time loop. The urge to cling and the urge to leave a me-shaped hole in the wall as I flee.

Anyway, back to those first Ma’am texts with The Good Boy. He typed something like:

“Ma’am, I’m getting hard thinking about being all wrapped up tightly in your ropes.”

He texted so generously and sweetly. Everything he said read like innocent, available happiness, and it opened me up like flowers.

So I told him every time he got off thinking about me, he should let me know so I could send some praise. I told him it was the best way to be a Very Good Boy for me until we had time to meet.

The combination of flirting and coaching was an absolute delight and revelation—not sure I’ve ever felt more like myself. His texts were nicely chaste somehow, despite often being jerkoff reports. He felt MINE so fast, bravely, nakedly, openly so. Just so sweet and mine.

AND. A thing that’s rare for me in dating and actually in ALL things—I knew exactly what to do! I didn’t feel the performative pressure that so often makes up early dating chats, I knew that whatever praise I gave him would be okay, would be gratefully accepted instead of seen as overwhelming or overbearing. There’s such a RELIEF in knowing that it’s okay to give. There was power, yes, but also a new kind of love. By lavishing him with praise, giving him my whole self in a new, unfiltered way, I was also better able to love myself.

And once we met, once I started to know him (And OH BOY fuck him) as both his own person and as my own work of art, I also got to love him in a very Marie Kondo kind of way—the joy and attachment I feel towards my most precious objects. My Valentine car, my vintage 1970s tulip glasses, my weighted blanket, my magenta ropes. Mine to maintain, to gentle-as-a-verb, to make sure he didn’t break. He was in my care, and he was mine.

Of course, while we were in this beautiful mist of submission and care, he was also his own person, of course he was. He seemed happy, cozy, and present, but I couldn’t see inside his head to know if there was fear or revulsion or impatience (there was definitely impatience) or (way less intense than mine) real affection. I want to be able to know. This is why the end of an attraction always feels like a trick—there’s no way to really know it was real, nothing I can hold in my hand as proof.

Animal Crossing and Chill Part Three

All night we just played. On top of his perfect switchy playfulness, The Lovely Guy is also steadfastly thorough and determined to give me what I’ve asked for. He held me down in so many different ways! His dick was like a friend all in itself, friendly and open, letting me be gentle or curious or ravenous at my own pace. And! This should not be a rare and precious thing, but The Lovely Guy knows how to use lube! *angel choir sings* I wailed into the night, just rattling the windows with joy and relief.

The last time we fucked that night (I asked him what time it was but he wouldn’t tell me…) it was from behind. I looked over my shoulder and saw just the truest smile on his face. He pushed in hard and I absolutely fucking LOST MY MIND, stuffing my face in the pillows in a (maybe inadequate) effort not to alarm the neighbors.

OHmygoodness the way he held my waist like I absolutely belonged to him. So perfectly powerful and hard and just-rough-enough and

“If you can scream, you can talk.” He was so gruff and commanding that I not only melted into a puddle, I evaporated into a fine mist.

“Tell me why you want me to come inside you.”

I can’t really remember what I said but it must’ve been something like “Pleeeeeeeease. I need it. Come on, come for me.”

“Good girl,” he growled and pressed harder, as far in as he possibly could and then stayed, stayed, stayed there.

I lost my knees and fell flat, panting/sighing/apologizing for falling over/thanking him profusely.

“I lost you…” he said sleepily as we rearranged into a more cuddly shape.

“I’m sorry I lost my knees, I just haven’t been fucked properly in…possibly ever.”

The Lovely Guy is just THE BEST cuddler, he wraps up all around me. He apologized that he might snore and I said “It’s okay, I snore too. We can be just like Bob and Linda Belcher.”

(Way to compare us to a married couple on a first date, Ribbons! This is maybe why I scare ‘em away?)

It’s not always easy for me to fall asleep with a non-cat someone in my bed, but with The Lovely Guy, I did. He was warm all around me and I was so zonked out on all the snuggly brain chemicals that it seems like I could have been glowing.

When he left the next morning, I immediately started missing him, because I am ridiculous and he is lovely. That was a couple weeks ago, and we had another Switch date not too long after. He’s still in the mix but I’m trying to have just the teensiest bit of chill, trying to just keep it moving. My dance card is pretty full, but he’s the only one getting the power of the “good girl” phrase. I hope he’ll come over and use it before too long.

A Conference with Myself, Part Two: Mr. Shiny Eyes! Cuddle Practice! Hair Pulling!

Before I float back into all the awesomeness, I should backtrack a little bit to say that Mr. Shiny Eyes was one of the guy pals I reached out to after my New Years resolution to remember how to have guy friends. In the thick of divorce grief a couple of years ago, I’d broken things off with him for no good reason, and I was superworried that I’d hurt him—and I had. I’m sad to say that I haven’t always been fully conscious of the fact that I can affect men’s feelings, and I was glad I asked him about it. We had a really nice call a few weeks before the conference, so it only took us a few minutes of being in the same building to get in kiss/cuddle/flirt mode that day. A day where I kiss three worthy men is a good one.

Also, I can’t overstate how much of a difference my extra introvert time made. It had been such a long time since I’d felt like I was on a magical adventure with my cute, slutty self—this was a reunion within a reunion.

Anyway, back to being excited/nervous/fluttery to meet up with The Professor at the Cuddle Party. I got into my PJs and nice warm socks and brought pillows and blankets downstairs to the party room. I was one of the first to arrive, so I made a little nest within the bigger nest of pillows and blankets and I stretched and breathed. The Cuddle Facilitator stamped my hand with a red heart that meant I could come and go as needed.

When The Professor showed up with The Kind Ma’am, I felt surprisingly shy for someone who’d spent the day raising my hand emphatically like a smutty Hermione in the workshops and smooching old and new pals. It was both like a first date and not a like first date at all. If all first dates involved wearing soft pants, (and like an hour of consent practice) the world would truly be a magical place.

Once The Professor was in his plaid flannel pajama pants, he sat down between me and The Kind Ma’am, his arms around both of us. They talked and I snuggled up against his shoulder, feeling the warmth that radiated from him all over. And who should sit down next to me on the other side but Mr. Shiny Eyes! Without much preamble, we started making out gleefully, and I got to feel the glow of being between two beautiful men, of being in a chain, no, a net of soft, snuggly vibes and comfy touch. The perfect mix of kissing and friendship, safety and adventure.

For technical stuff about Cuddle Parties this is a good post:  but basically the first loooooong time of the party was consent practice, practicing asking specifically for what we wanted and saying and getting nos and yesses. (Not doing the things yet, just the asking and answering.) We even had to say no to things that we really, really wanted and yes to things we hated—that way you can really feel what a no or a yes feels like in the body, the Cuddle Facilitator said, and I think it was true. I LOVE consent practice and often wish the world were more Cuddle Party-esque.

When the cuddles finally started in earnest, The Professor was occupied in a sort of two-person-seeming snuggle so I sat down on one of the chairs at the side of the room, breathed and waited to see what would happen next. I felt hesitant, but warm and hopeful. I was so pleased when The Kind Ma’am sat down next to me and asked “Can I put my arm around you?” Yes! I felt protected and friended, taken under her wing. I wondered aloud if she might be willing to pull my hair and guess what! She said yes!

Having been spinstering it for a couple of years, I hadn’t been too sure where I stood with my kinks, though I suspected they were still there. With her, it was as if no time had passed since my last adventures, like I always have been and always will be getting my hair pulled, forever and ever, amen. When she grabbed the hair near the nape of my neck, I let out a fairly un-Cuddle-Party-like groan/purr/wail. I tried really hard (and fairly unsuccessfully) not to disrupt the proceedings with my caterwauling, but no one seemed to mind.

I wound up sitting at her feet, feeling little and adored and silly. She arranged my hair into pigtails, played, pulled, and (after I asked very nicely) called me “Good girl.” Swoon. The Kind Ma’am was perfect and careful and sweet, but I got a little overwhelmed from the burgeoning energy of the room and the new/old/hurty/lovely sensations, so I thanked her and said I needed a little time. I curled up on my own for a bit, letting the relief and happiness and complicated homecoming emotions swirl around me and within me.

Next: Cuddling heartbreak a little, cuddling joy A LOT.

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

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

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

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

“I don’t mind that at all.”

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

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

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

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

“I just feel really lucky…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next: Unicorn Shenanigans and the Inconvenient Epiphany*

*Would be a good name for a band.

Song of the Week: One More Summer Song

Okay, it's weird for Mike Seaver's dad's son to be tryna be dreamy, but I'm headed into a two-party weekend and you know I'm a total slut for songs of the summer. Plus, gotta get my "Good girl" from someplace!

First Single-Girl Dungeon Night, Part Three: A Vibrator Fit For Judy Jetson

It might seem strange to readers that I didn’t mind that people kind of milled in and out of this scene. I guess it comes down to being with a Master that I trust, in a place where I feel like my well-being matters. Also, it’s very easy to feel at ease with Punk Rock Girl checking in on me, looking me in the eye and making sure I approved of each new development. I’m reassured by her care because I know exactly how tough she is.

Old-Timey Guy was fumbling around in his stuff and plugging something in.

Punk Rock Girl said “Uh-oh, I know what’s coming…”

What was coming was the most enormous vibrator I’ve ever seen. It was the width of a fist, like 15 inches long, and looked like it was from the 1960s version of the space age. The business end was in the shape of the top of an enormous egg, and shiny blue. It’s hard to believe that a girl who was once afraid of a bag of dildos would be okay with this, but I was.

I was still cocooned in plastic wrap, and Punk Rock Girl set to work cutting a hole in the front so they could put the contraption where it goes.

“It’s gonna make you look like you have a penis…” she warned.

“I’m totally fine with that.” Obviously.

I’m not a girl who gets superexcited about devices, but I had fun with this one. I liked the humiliation of being made to hold the cord between my teeth while Old-Timey Guy hit me with his heart-shaped crop. (It still hurts like fuck even through the plastic, but there was a sad lack of bruising.) He leaned over my shoulder and pushed the device in so that I purred and smiled.

“Oh, I didn’t hear you say you like it, I’ll have to take it away…”

“NOOOO!”

After that, Punk Rock Girl took hold of the device and ran it all over me—my neck, my ears, my face, my belly. It was tickly and nice. Then she got a really mischievous look on her face and ran it over my nipples—I shrieked and laughed and it felt amazing.

She put it back in my crotch and got out of the way while Old-Timey Guy flogged the part of my back that was exposed from the plastic. I leaned forward and relaxed into complete bliss.

“Yespleasemoremoremore!” I said, being careful not to turn around. He flogged me for a little bit longer and then (OMG cute) he planted a little kiss at the base of my neck, right in the hollow of my collarbone. Tenderness I loved and which made me nervous, but not nervous enough to stop him.

He came around to the front and held me, moving against the vibrator to press it into my clit. Since all the breakups I’ve just been taking these little rests in men’s affection, little teensy moments of letting go. When he put his hand on my head and said “Good girl.” it was one of those rests. I’d been waiting to hear those words for months, from any number of guys—I heard it and it hit home.

The feeling of being cut out of the plastic was so blessedly freeing (even if I did somehow end up with a hole in my underpants) that I am tempted to indulge in a marriage/cocoon metaphor.

I sat my sweaty ass down to rest. Other Ribbons offered me a massage, and I gratefully took her up on it. It wasn’t a Naughty Thing, but it was certainly welcome and lovely. She worked hard on my shoulders, rubbing out the tension from the restraint and from life in general.

It depends on how you count, I guess, but in spite of V and V’s Hot Girlfriend’s enthusiastic encouragement, I never did make it to my third naughty thing. HempRopes apologized for running out of time, and I felt superproud about having waited with such grace. (The weirdest things are feeling like accomplishments lately, I know.) It helps that I was so busy being thoroughly entertained and also that I was kinda lukewarm about playing with him anyway.

“That’s the problem with having high standards—I tend to like the really popular guys.”

Huh. I guess that’s true. It’ll be a comfort until I find the guy I want to have and claim as my own. Meanwhile, I kicked that party’s ass, and I think that speaks of good things to come.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next: Die Antwoord, then romance.

Please, Sir, Part Five: Pretty Blue Ropes and Nice Fat Fingers

Next it was time for the ropes and I realized I’d better go pee first. Fireguy cupped his hands suggestively in response to this request and I laughed and said “Too advanced!” I looked around for something to wrap up in to go upstairs and saw nothing.

“Just go up,” he said, “If you run into (Wonder Woman) maybe she’ll return the favor and flash you.”

And then, while applying some hand sanitizer himself he said: “Definitely don’t forget to wash up after.” (Really? Really Sir? I’m submissive, I’m not five.)

I still had a little worry about not being good enough for WW to see, but up the stairs I went, naked except his collar. I could hear her in the living room on the phone. I went into the bathroom and checked myself out in the mirror—I couldn’t believe this woman was me. Everything was flushed and pink, my hair was all bedhead-fluffy and my two little rhinestone barrettes were all askew. My body looked so much more like a pinup than I could have ever imagined. It took a while to pee because I was so turned on.

When I got back down stairs, he positioned me in the middle of the room and said to close my eyes and if I didn’t keep them closed, he would have to get the blindfold. Nothing he ever said came out barking or scary, more like amused/nurturing. That’s part of what made me feel so adorable (aside from little flashes of feeling diseased) when I played with him. It filled such a deep need.

“You’re doing a very good job of seducing me.” He said, and I snuggled into him. He smelled so good, just pure, fresh guy smell. Perfect.

He wrapped the rope around and around me, letting it graze my nipples, framing my boobs, pulling it tight around my shoulders. I found myself looking at him and he caught me with my eyes open. He laughed about me not having done what I was told and I laughed and said “Good, luck to you, Sir.”

He laughed and hugged me and said, “Is this the little brat I’ve been reading about? Maybe you are a little brat.”

We hugged and kissed and laughed and then I had to have the blindfold on.

He pulled my hand behind my back and gently but firmly secured them there. It was the first time a man had really restrained me. I wish I could have seen myself, I felt so beautiful. I felt like art.

There was a futon mattress set up on the floor like a cozy nest, with a light blue comforter and pillows. He guided me over to it and told me to lie down. He propped my head up on the pillows so that I could sit up a little.

“Kiss.” I found his face.

Then (I think then) he tied the ropes around my ankles-just looped them around two or three more times and left rope hanging, like a handle for each foot. He climbed on top of me and held those handles. His stomach grazed me, I was splayed open and gushing wet.

“You’re getting me wet. How come you’re doing that?”

“Um, because I’m having fun?”

So much fun. I felt like a princess, blindfolded and tied up in his basement, with his weight on me. It was a dream come true.

“You little brat—wait, should I be calling you a brat? Is that a bad memory?”

“Well, you could make it a good memory…”

“Nah. How about if you’re my good girl?”

Driving there that night, I’d almost stopped to take a picture of the sky. The sun was low and bright, clear yellow and peaking out behind these wonderful, fluffy, monumental clouds. Shafts of light were busting though the clouds like a revelation. That’s how it felt to be called his good girl.

He climbed off and lay to the side of me. Before he parted my lips to get to my clit, he asked if it was okay.

“Uh-huh.”

“God, you’re so wet. It’s so hot.”

“Well, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Well, you said take it slow.”

“No, I mean I’ve been waiting for you for two months.”

“Two months!”

That’s how long it had been (almost) since I first came down here, all the back-and-forth, should-I-or-shouldn’t-I, all the fantasies that came from that innocent  little spanking that seemed a million miles away now. (Also, remember me fighting Bill of from second base on our first date? That seems a long way away now, too.)

Anyway, I finally got what I’d fantasized about so much, his perfect fingers pushing into me. It felt so good, so much. I let out a screaming moan and wondered again how much Wonder Woman could hear. I was on my side, writhing, my arms pinned back, screaming into the mattress.

“Good girl. You’re such a fucking good girl.”

Next time: OMG I really like his penis.