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!

Quiet Kittentown but Last Year, This Happened

No kink to report in kittentown this week--life's been about rest and  lots of really great talking.

This time last year, though, the winner and still champion for best date happened. It still makes me feel really happy to think about.

About the Man About Town

The week before my birthday, I kissed four people, which is maybe too many. The only one of those that you haven’t heard about yet is the Man About Town.

I’m calling him that because he’s got a lot of community stuff going on—his art is in local galleries, he’s in the pagan community, and he’s a leader of the local poly meetup, which is how I got to know him. I’d seen him around for about a year, but one night a few months ago during a poly book club meeting I noticed that he’s my type--big and bearish, warm, fond of easygoing public nudity. So I sent him a friend request on Fet Life and I guess my pictures did the trick. We exchanged emails all summer. He’s looking for a new play partner, so we made plans.

Our first date, during that week-of-kissing-four-people, was a hiking date on my favorite leisurely trail. We talked and talked and talked. Then sometimes we talked ABOUT the talking. I felt really comfortable with him and was as confessional as I would’ve been if I’d had two glasses of wine. I told him SO MUCH STUFF and he told me a lot too. It was like a miracle of yammering, I loved it.

I was trying to remember the name of a butterfly* that was helpfully splaying out its wings for us to study when I felt him move in for the kiss. He was gentle, a little tentative, technically proficient, but I’m not sure what I felt, emotionally. Still, I was impressed, and I couldn’t resist high-fiving him and saying “Good job!”

Then I was like “Wait, is that okay to say? good job?”

“Of course!” he said, “Feedback is always welcome.”

Man About Town is close with Fireguy’s crowd, so I talked to him a lot about that situation, which is good because it means that some disclosures are out of the way. It was a relief to talk about that stuff, I’d been afraid to for a while.

The Man About Town is just that, a man. So far, he makes me feel valued, understood, and oriented. My first date with him was a pretty island in the sea of insecurity that was the end of Mister Hazel Eyes. I got home that day feeling comfy in my own skin, pleased to have the rest of the day alone with a good book, not needy or clingy but self-contained.

He asked me out right away, but I was feeling really overwhelmed about everything else that was going on. I told him I needed a month or so to get back on my feet before any more non-Sweetie dates. Then, a few days later, I asked if I could put him on the calendar for the end of September so I’d have him to look forward to. He had absolutely no problem with planning things three weeks in advance, and that is so dreamy. I’m not sure how I feel about him, but I am so proud to have made plans with a grown ass man. Go me.

*the butterfly was a "red spotted purple"

My Crackpot Heart Wants Kryptonite and Other Dumb Mistakes

I keep trying to write around what’s bugging me this week, but it isn’t working. For the most part, it’s been a good couple of weeks. I had such a great birthday and my first few weeks of student teaching have been stressful and busy but very gratifying.

But when it comes to this project, I am lost. Mister Hazel Eyes's disappearance hit me harder than it should’ve, and I’m feeling kind of slutty/rejected because Mr. Popular hasn’t been in touch either. Neither should be such a big deal, but I just can’t get over the never-seeing-someone-again aspect of dating. Things just go by too fast. Since last year, six guys who really meant something to me have come (well, most of them came, anyway) and gone—I am grateful for the experiences and fun that they all brought me, but it all went by so fast that it’s hard not to feel like I’m extra-rejectable, like I’m a failure, like I’m in for a lot more loss.

It seems that whenever I am heartbroken over a toplike person, I get the insane urge to process it with Bill. I guess the heartbreak neural pathways just have his name on them. When I let myself think about it, I feel so unresolved about him, a deep dark, creepy, suitable-for-David-Lynch sadness that he persists in not being around. So I did something foolish that usually works: I wrote him a love letter. I find that sometimes if I write out all of my lovey dovey feelings, thank someone for his contribution, and apologize for my half of things, people can start to feel less haunty. In this case, more haunty. He said, thanks, he’s glad I’m not mad, but that I ruined a perfectly good exit.

I’ve always wanted to show this blog off to him (to show EVERYTHING off to him, really) so I friended him on the fb. It was fine at first, a little inspiring push—it made me feel brazen and hot just to think that he might see some of my smutty details. But after a few days, it felt just like it did last December, like I wanted so badly to be near him but didn’t know how, like I would do absolutely anything to get his attention. And that’s without much clicking—just the tiny bit of not-really-a-connection from facebook was enough for him to start sucking the life out of me, to open up that awful, starving well of want. I took him off, of course, I said goodbye again, exit-spoiler that I am.

Sometimes I really do worry that I’m broken, that the ten years that I spent trying not to be bi have left me too desperate and urgent to be able to make a real connection with a man. I am deeply ashamed of the attachment that I still feel to Bill after all this time—I feel like I’m breaking some rule of adultness that I just don’t let go of things in any kind of normal way. I should be bouncing back faster from Mister Hazel Eyes as well, but it’s hard to get past the hurt of someone not even wanting to say goodbye. I am a good student in everything but this, and I absolutely HATE to have a failing grade on the record, but I suppose there’s no magical sex-TARDIS that would allow me to go back and somehow make it work out—it just didn’t.

I really hope that I’m not broken. I hope that neither my half-closet years nor my mistakes this year have cause irreparable damage. I don’t know what the darkness is that I keep wanting to go back to, but I know that it’s closer to addiction than it is to love, and I know that it is the opposite of joy.

I’d rather follow joy. There’s a lot of good stuff on the horizon, and I thought it might be helpful to articulate this sticky tar pit stuff before it seeps back down into my subconscious. I need some courage, friends, I need to follow the part of myself that knows what it’s doing, my inner Bettie Page, not the glassy-eyed December-girl who’s still worrying how to please someone who has been gone for a very long time.

Yay, I Got to Top Sweetie!

I was really inspired by some of what I saw at the party Saturday night, and also by the fact that I accidentally learned how to do some handcuffs when I was at rope class with Mister Hazel Eyes. Sunday morning after breakfast, when we were lying around with coffee and library books, I got an image in my head and said:

“Take off your clothes and I’ll be back in a minute. I have to go make something.”

What I made was this:

I think I see an Etsy store in the making. Sweetie likes soft touch, so I made it more as a tickler, but it turns out it works very well as a flogger, too.

I left it in the other room while I was blindfolding her so she’d have to guess at what she was feeling. Once she was all nice and blindfolded, I told her to put her hands over her head and did this:

It’s not tied off quite right, but hey, I did handcuffs, go me! *proud*

She looked beautiful laying there in my pink blindfold, handcuffed wrists up to her chest, boobs flushed and excited. She still had her socks on—we often do.

I went and got my DIY ribbon flogger and started to drag it lightly over her. She didn’t like it on her feet, but everywhere else, she oohed and sighed. She said she couldn’t figure out what it was, even though, you know, ribbons seem kind of obvious.

She always likes a little sting to the nipples, at least in biting-sucking-pinching ways, so I gave her right nipple a little thwack. I liked it, and she groaned. A little growly aggression rose up in me and it felt good. I flogged her nipples gently and then harder, alternating with dragging the ribbons softly over her neck, arms, thighs. Standing over her all powerful like that, I started to smell like sex, and I lifted up her handcuffed hands and said

“Feel that.”

She scrabbled around desperately trying to get her fingers inside me, but I pushed her arms back down onto the pillow.

I told her to turn over and smacked her with the ribbons some more. It felt good to hit her like that. I found a good spot at the center of her freckled upper back and just struck there lovingly for a while, making sure she knew who was in charge. I reached down for her breasts and she grabbed over her shoulders for mine. My pussy was slippery and throbby against her back and I was moving against her. I would have come right then if I hadn’t pushed her hands away and made her turn back over.

I kissed her neck and bit hard on her nipples, over and over. I pulled the back of her hair gently but firmly so that she couldn’t move. She said “I want…” but got distracted and trailed off. A few minutes later I asked:

“What were you trying to say that you wanted?”

“I want you to..haha…”

“What.”

*giggle* “I want you to put your fingers in me really hard.”

“And what is that called?”

She hesitated.

“Say it. I’m not going to do it unless you say it.”

“I kind of want you to, well, fuck me.”

So I happily obliged. Later I got to bend over and find out what the ribbons felt like smacking my ass. The rest of the day was full of ropes, library books, snuggles, and triumph. I love bottoming and all, but I guess I can admit to being just a liiiiitle bit of a switch.

Die Antwoord Ex Machina and Other Spanky Queer Fun

I finally got in a whole bunch of quality time with Sweetie last weekend, yay! Saturday night was a complicated adventure I ended up being really proud of. It started with an awesome gig—I was reading poems and smut at a benefit for my friend’s top surgery. In the dressing room, a six-and-a-half foot radical faerie let me borrow from her amazing glitter palette to outline my eyes and draw a cute pink heart on my check. The host surprised me with birthday cake and everybody sang—I really think it’s been one of the best birthdays ever.

Sweetie and I had a play party date afterwards. I was apologetic about having to leave early to go get my ass beat, but they were very understanding. I told my radical faerie friend I’d like to just follow her around, and she thought that was just fine.

Sweetie and I ran into some trickiness on the way to the party, though—she’d stayed in the room while I read about my scene with MisterHazel Eyes, and she was a little shell shocked. She’s not a voyeur, and hearing it just made her feel competitive and grumpy. I was frustrated that I had to stop and feel guilty after I’d just had such a good experience. Plus, we were going to the venue where I first played publicly with Fireguy, so there was a worry that I might run into him. And I was still missing MHE a whole bunch—it’s only been a few weeks.

In the end, though, we were able to comfort each other and our need to play together trumped our respective worries. I think there’s no reason she should have to read the posts that aren’t about her, especially since I’ve got so many nice voyeurs like yourselves to help fill my showoffy needs. Thanks thanks thanks! XOXOXOXO.

This party was crowded—there wasn’t a lot of furniture to go around, which means we got to see some amazing floor play. The scene next to us, wherein the guy was holding his girl down and showing her crotch to the room, alternately slapping her face and furiously rubbing her clit over her hot pink underwear--I found them very inspiring. Same goes for the woman with the amazing ponytail who was wrapped in a glittery pink blanket and getting flogged with silver tinsel strands for a nice take on aftercare. You could see why I’d need a blindfold to concentrate on what was happening to me…

Sweetie found a nice well-lit spot along the wall and spread out a shiny scarf for me to stand on. I took off my heels and Sweetie pulled of my low-cut pink nightie. I’d asked at the door “Could you elucidate the nipple policy?” and they said they have to be covered so I had on my Hello Kitty tape. (Most of the other girls were not following the nipple policy, by the way. So much to see!) I was wearing my lacy pink lucky underwear and I worried for a second about being too fat, but then ropes started happening and I felt better.

She started with these pretty pink handcuffs:

She tried to pull my arms behind my head and secure them there with a rope around my waist, but that only lasted for a second—I couldn’t figure out where to put my head. I was getting distracted so she put on my nice soft blindfold. I am really starting to fall in love with being blindfolded, even though it was a limit just a few months ago.

By the time she got me into a good harness, a St. Andrew’s cross had opened up. She tied the handcuffs to the top and tied my ankles to the bottom of the cross so that I had to stand with my legs apart—she was excited that she’s finally mastered the Somerville bowline, but I couldn’t quite high-five her. The green ropes she used on my ankles glowed in the blacklight. Once I was settled in, she started on the spanks. I was kind of exhausted already, so I didn’t think it would take long. She used her hands and our little pink kooshlike flogger. When she pulled my hair, I realized why I’m not loud with her during scenes the way I am in the bedroom: she makes my insides go silent. As she pulled at the back of my hair, just a little more painfully than I expected, there was no noise or words that could’ve expressed the relief that I felt.

The best part of the play party came when this song came on:

 I was standing around in my harness, winding up the restraint ropes to put them away. I Fink U Freeky came on and I danced around a little—I lost self-consciousness in a new way and just danced there in my undies and ropes, filling up with giggly well-being.

I stuck my ass out and she thwacked it in time to the music. She was sitting in a tall chair and I bent all the way into downward dog with my (wet, obviously) crotch on her knee and she played my ass like a drum. I laughed and laughed—I don’t think I’ve ever felt more myself.

I wore my ropes all through aftercare, and I didn’t want to take them off after that either, so I wore them home under my dress.

The Lessons of Mister Hazel Eyes

I’m still really sad that Mister Hazel Eyes disappeared, but I guess I know that in some ways, it’s probably for the best. I’m taking a month away from (non-Sweetie) body adventures partly because I need to make space for heartbreak, and partly because my student teaching semester begins next week. I feel like I’ve listed some of these things before, but here’s what I learned from him:

1. I have abandonment issues. I hope to outgrow them someday, mostly by noticing that people often do stick around, but in the meantime, I think the best I can do is avoid men who trigger said issues as much as I can, and talk it over when the feelings come up. I can’t trace the abandonment fear to anything besides the fact that I took men away from myself for so long. My body’s sometimes like “Is it gonna be ten days or ten years?” I’ll do my best to comfort it.
2. I need to slow down and allow for the other partner’s pace. I’m not sure if I sabotaged us or if we were simply a bad match, but I wish I would’ve given him a little more time to catch up to me, emotionally. I get attached fast and I need to be okay with that, but I also need to give people more time and space to feel what they end up feeling.
3. Poly guys only. I think that this is an okay preference to have. I want metamours, not rivals, and it’s hard not to feel competitive with someone who will likely be my replacement. There’s nothing inherently wrong with being a stopgap, but I don’t want to do it again.
4. If facebook is telling me things before he is, it won’t work. It will, in fact, make me feel like a crazy person and also like I am twelve.
5. Asking for what I need is wonderful and good, but basic respect needs to go without saying. If someone is too careless or incompatible, asking for what I need can feel like harpytown, population me. It feels awful, and it’s cruel to the person who’s getting harped on, too. On a related note: no more guys with too South Parky of a sense of humor.
6. It’s okay to prefer good communication. I felt superneedy for wanting him to make plans proactively, to respond to texts within a day or so, but really, that’s just the bare minimum.
7. Snuggle me, snuggle my complications. He made me feel bad for who I am, for coming with a full calendar, with other partners, with a list of knots and a suitcase of rope. I felt like a burden because of all my facets, even though I love those things about myself.
8. Jealousy is not going to kill me. It just sometimes’ll feel like it might. It’s another thing I have to practice. At least I didn’t run away this time.
9. I want something long term, so I will do my best to choose guys who are more likely to be long term, who feel secure, adult, and good at planning.
10. That being said, as you might have noticed from the recurring theme of nineties music, there’s a teenage aspect of me who is turned on by a certain kind of guy: filthy/affectionate, boyish, detached. I would like to find a way to entertain that aspect of myself in a more sustainable way. I never thought of myself as an ageplay girl, but I think I might like to play 17 sometimes. I’ll put that on the list of things to try after my kitten break.

Things Go Haywire But Still a Good Scene, Part Five

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things Go Haywire But Still a Good Scene, Part Four

There was a kneeling bench free and I wanted to be tied down to it. We stood around trying to figure out how to tie a rope so that it would go through my ass crack and also tie me to the loops at the bottom of the bench. Mister Hazel Eyes flagged down the DM/rope teacher, who, with a few deft loops and ties, ran the rope around my waist and through my crotch, leaving tails to tie me to the bench with. Fantastic. Except I should’ve taken my shorts off first—of course I was wearing adorable purple undies.

I knelt down and Mister Hazel Eyes tied me to the bench. The ropes made a handle so that he could pull the crotch rope back and forth, rubbing up against my clit and ass. I’ve never been vocal in a public scene before, but MHE knows how to get gorgeous moans out of me as he’d tug, spank, tug, spank. I buried my face in my blanket, on top of the  bench cushion, which smelled unpleasantly of cigarettes. He pulled and pushed and whacked all kinds of lovely oohs and aaaaahs and oofs and sighs.

A crowd gathered nearby, whether by choice or by coincidence, so I leaned up as much as I could and asked him to get my blindfold. It’s a soft, cottony light pink scarf, and before he tied it on, he ran it up and down my back, sweet and gentle. He bent his head down to kiss me and then knotted the scarf through my hair, an interesting touch.

Now, between good, hard spanks, (This was the most pain I’ve taken since Bill, although I’m sure it seems very mild to most of my fellow bottoms.) his fingers worked between my legs, over the underwear so that it was (I think) still within the party’s rules, but it was the dirtiest I’ve ever (recreationally) felt. It was AWESOME. It was PERFECT. I was being such a very, very bad girl. A hard thwack and then his fingers insistent on my clit, a stab of shame, of getting away with something terrible, the exhilarating humiliation I’d been dying for. They could all see his hands between my legs. I wasn’t sure if we’d get in trouble, but I sure wasn’t going to stop him.

“You know how much I want to fuck you, make love to you? How much I adore you?”

Make love to me? I don’t think I’ve ever had that said to me as an adult. I have a knee-jerk ironic reaction to it, but it’s really so naïve and sweet. Jeez I’m gonna miss him if he’s gone.

“You’re so beautiful; I don’t think you know how much you turn me on, how much I want you. You are so fucking hot and everybody’s looking at you. You put on a good show.”

He stood in front of the bench and pulled me up into his arms to kiss me. I was still topless so his body felt protective. We were perfectly in sync and I felt happily famous with everybody watching, a moment of true connection. I was filled up with him, humming and jittering with desire and affection. I loved feeling so attended to and cared for.

I made a little hint of a struggle, a false play at getting away. He pushed my head down onto the kneeler, grabbed my hair and held my head still. I let out a long, low groan; this was exactly what I wanted. He held my arm behind my back, pulled my hair, kissed my cheek.

“Yeah, you like that? Are you gonna be good?”

“Mmmmm hmmmmm…”

He unraveled my blindfold from my hair and used it to tie my wrists back. I checked my thumbs to make sure that my nerves were okay. He spanked some more, harder and harder, with more and more insistent fingers between my legs, the fabric making me hurt and raw. He stood against me so that I could feel how hard his cock was. He held out my wine so that I could drink it without my hands. I did feel adored. I felt his undivided attention without trouble or worry. I felt like he was mine and mine forever in that moment. Nothing can ever change what was happening, even if we never see each other again, I belonged to him and we were a perfect work of art, no matter what happens next.

Next: I think I figured out what this story is about.

Mr. Popular Gets Lucky, Part Two

There’s a lot to celebrate about my visit to Mr. Popular’s house on Monday. 

His home is beautiful. I guess four incomes (his, his wife’s, his ex-wife’s and his ex-wife’s husband’s) can buy a lot of house. It’s perfectly decorated and meticulously cared for, to the last detail. They are surrounded by a lush, beautiful garden. You’ve got to be impressed by a man who grows his own pears. He picked one for me and it was very juicy. The juice ran all down my arm.

When we walked into the house, his pregnant ex-wife was chopping up eggplant for dinner with her husband and us. Un-oh, eggplants, this caused me some anxiety—I’m a picky eater and dinners in people’s homes can be a little fraught. I vowed to myself that I would be a big girl and eat whatever was put in front of me.

Mr. Popular and I sat on his bed singing approximately one million Beatles songs—it was ridiculously fun. I was a little self-conscious that the rest of the family could hear my caterwauling, but mostly I just sang with my whole body and heart. We hadn’t even kissed yet so it was exciting and adorable when he’s put his hand on my knee or his head on my shoulder. Like any good date, there was a fair amount of high-fiving. He was singing the harmony, but when the melody was too low for me, we’d switch and he’d sing my part. We made a good team. He put waaaaaay too much feeling into “Fixing a Hole” and I laughed until tears came down my face. We both got a possessive, cathartic thrill out of belting out “Run For Your Life,” probably the least poly song ever:

We got called down to dinner and there was plenty for my picky self to eat. I felt shy around the rest of the family, but he says I did okay. They went on a Whole Foods run after dinner and left us to do the dishes. I’d rather wash than dry, so this marks the first time I’ve washed a guys dishes before I’d even kissed him. We had a nice time bickering about his terrible taste in music (He only learned about the Beatles from Rock Band, can you imagine?!) and gently brushing up against each other.

After dishes and quite the grueling Abbey Road medley, it was time to snuggle. I got under the covers and right into his arms. He kissed me and made little yummy noises that took some getting used to. He is skinnier than my usual type and definitely bottomy, so he felt a little fragile, but warm, safe, deft. He ran his hands over my breasts and I sighed and cooed. Things were going fast so I said “Okay, just so you know, we’re not going past third base.”

This lead to a lengthy, silly discussion of what the bases are. I think I’m the only adult who still refers to the base system. It’s not like I think there’s only four things to do, I just keep adding more bases. Knowing where this blog is, for example, is 29^th base.

Anyway, he felt so sweet and comforting, and was kind and matter-of-fact about my “I had HPV six months ago” revelation, that I quickly revised my third-base-only assertion.

He felt sooooo good inside me. I may or may not have alienated the rest of the household with my vociferousness. I had to hold back my yelps because the ex-wife is not a fan of overhearing—it was really hard to hold back, I reeeeeaaaaaly missed this kind of sex; I really wanted to loudly celebrate. (A little nostalgia here for the Mayor of Kittentown, who lives in a rowhouse but never minded how much carrying on the neighbors might overhear--thanks for that, pal.) It may be a little fast for me to be all the way underneath someone on the second date, but the connection between us felt real. I’m not sure how deep it was, but it was genuine. I felt him gasp and surrender and come inside me (in the condom, of course). I told him that was the first time that’s happened since the Nineties, so thanks.

We chatted for a good long while after that—Mr. Popular is very easy to talk to. His soft orange kitty joined us on the bed, oh, the joy of getting to know new cats. I may have gone on a little too much about Mister Hazel Eyes, but he didn’t seem to mind—he’s in favor of me cutting MHE some slack and letting more things happen. Who knows.

We fell asleep in cozy friendship, my arm around him and petting the cat.

There’s a lot to be said for being let into someone’s life, even if it’s just for an evening. I appreciate his sweetness and generosity and warmth so much. His calendar is very full but I hope he fits me in, even if it’s just as a sometimes treat.

Things Go Haywire But Still a Good Scene, Part Three

As I sit down to write this, I’m in a state of worry—will I ever know how to see a relationship with a man through any lens other than abandonment? Why does my brain equate “I like him.” with “He is going to go away and never come back.” and also “I am not good enough.” Mister Hazel Eyes might have been a doofus on our date, but that doesn’t change the fears that I have to learn my way out of. Are my abandonment issues and distrust things I can overcome, or will they keep me from ever realizing a true and lasting connection with a man? I guess all I can do to find out is go forward.

After rope class, we sat off to the side on the padded benches where people usually congregate and talk. Sweetie spanked me in the same place just a few months ago, in our first public scene. There were a few couples over there, but MHE and I were in our own little bubble of conversation. He felt so good there next to me but I still felt uneasy. I told him I was having trouble believing that he didn’t actually belong to someone else. I know that sounds weird coming from someone who is married and dating, but I just kept suspecting that he was being unscrupulous, especially after he said not to leave bite marks—he said he was worried his mom might see them, he said. I said that sounded like bullshit, and he pointed to Nice Girl as well—“Well she should know about me because I AM A PERSON.” I said and he said he’d told her about me. I didn’t believe that either. “You seem really…married. Are you worried that Betty Draper will see?”

We wrestled away the tension of it—I pushed and pulled against his arms, and he said “You can start trying any time.” He was delightfully strong. I shoved him against the wall and kissed him and he held me and I struggled—perfect. We got up to look at some of the other scenes going on—some neat suspension work—and he took that opportunity to wrestle me up against the bar and bite my ass. There’s a glee that comes up in me when a guy’s trying to hold me down, a thrill of recognition, a fruition. In those moments, I am so excited and grateful to be alive.

Then it was—hooray!—time to go over his knee. This was what I’d been waiting for, there’s nothing so comforting as being sprawled across his lap, elbows on the bench, cute shoes in the air like a pinup. His hands wove into my hair and pulled—that’s where the real magic started. He pulled up my pajama bottoms so that my butt cheeks were exposed. I was conscious of the couples nearby, and I liked knowing they could see my ass, see me being so vulnerable to him.

“You’re such a fucking good girl, do you know that? I fucking adore you.”

After a few more spankings and affirmations of my adorableness, he pulled me up to his face and kissed me. I asked if he wanted to take my top off and held up my arms. After he pulled my shirt off sweetly, I leaned back so that he could take a look at me, Hello Kitty nipple tape and all. He looked happy. He buried his head in my chest and I held him there, right where I’d been wanting him.

We took a break to go get drinks, and he went a little bit back to douchetown—he told me red wine’s for pussies, even said it in a lispy voice, which I promptly called out as homophobic, with a “HMPH! Straight guys, I swear.”

“Okay,” he said, “Okay.” Kinda like he was choking back an argument.

I liked the feeling of walking to the bar near-naked with him—I felt like a whore to him, like something he’d just purchased. It was a dark, sad feeling, connecting me to all of the ways that women have been owned in both good and terrible ways. I felt empowered, anonymous, and chosen. It was a strange kinship with the ladies of the world, a darkly feminine moment, and I feel a little ashamed of it.

Next: Tied to a kneeler with very helpful ropes.

Things Go Haywire But Still a Good Scene, Part Two

I really want to skip this section and get right to the hotness, but it refuses not to be written. Sigh.

So I really didn’t know where this date was going, but just in case, I’d told Sweetie I didn’t want to be home until morning, and she was all settled in about it. I wasn’t having a good feeling about my chances, though. Whether that was a self-fulfilling prophecy or not, on the way to get dinner he told me it couldn’t be a late night because he had to help his mom with some stuff at 11 am the next day. When I type that sentence, it really doesn’t make sense at all.

I was not-getting-the-hint girl, and I said, “That’s still plenty of time to take me home in the morning.”

He got quiet for a few blocks and then he started to talk about how embarrassed he was about his apartment being a mess.

Okay, tell me if I was being paranoid. Have I just watched too many episodes of Mad Men or what? I just got a really bad feeling there was a lady at home who didn’t know about me, and I couldn’t stop myself from asking. He insisted that his apartment was really a mess, but it just didn’t ring true. Granted, he could be just going at a different pace than I was and didn’t expect to bring me home yet, but I really don’t buy it.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t want to be there with me, and I couldn’t stop myself from probably ensuring he’d want to be with me even less. I felt like a mean teacher trying to show someone how to be on a date. When he texted and checked his phone all through dinner, I actually told him to put it away, and the emotion I felt was exactly like a bad day in the classroom, but without the reassuring knowledge that I could re-assess and try again tomorrow.

We did get our scene negotiating done though. I really like (and will probably miss) our safeword: albatross. I love it for the Monty Python of it all, and for the fact that it’s the thing that keeps the boat afloat, isn’t it? But also a haunting burden. (I just spent a few minutes studying the “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” but it was inconclusive.)

When we got to the party though, more texting. Even after I’d lent him a collar to put on me and we had a nice moment about that. He explained “I’m texting (Nice Girl) to tell her I’ll be unavailable for a while.”

This was exactly what I had been missing from him—those little transitional texts that only take a second or two but make me feel oriented and cared for. I would very much like to say that I took a deep sensible breath and calmly talked about how that is something that would be helpful for me as well.

Instead: “You never do that for me. You just disappear in the middle of the conversation, forget to answer questions, I have to ask you two or three times where and when to meet you. What is it about her that gets her treated like a girlfriend? Maybe I should ask her. Maybe she should teach me.”

I had my own conclusions as to what the difference was—the fact that I’m not single. I was not being treated with as much respect as she was because it’s hard for single guys to see poly women as girlfriendy characters.

I explained a bit more about poly, about how I was looking for a real relationship and could belong to more than one person at once. He said that he hadn’t really understood that, and agreed that I didn’t deserve to be discounted that way. He said he was really going to try to be a better communicator, and we headed upstairs to rope class.

Even after all of the trouble and fuss, I was still really excited to be there with him. I changed into my outfit for the evening: short, soft, adorable light green pajamas with little flowers all over them, Hello Kitty nipple tape, lucky underwear and purple wedge heels. I had some hope in presenting myself to him that way, but I think he was distracted by the self-consciousness of rope class.

Sweetie says she really feels for him during this part—she says rope class can be a lot of pressure, getting the knots right and keeping your date happy is a lot to think about at once. It really makes me think about how much work I am to be with. I have a lot to offer, but still.

Unlike Sweetie, who is comfortable with the fumbling aspect of learning new rope stuff (“Practice makes pervert,” the class leader is fond of saying.) Mister Hazel Eyes clearly felt frustrated and embarrassed when it took him a few times to get a knot or when the ropes clung to a bit of velcro on his shorts. The lady who was acting as demo bunny came over to help, and I liked the times when they were both working on me.

He had to do some of the knots so many times that some of them started to become clear in my head and I started to learn them. Look! I made my own cat’s paw! I get a badge or something. He was having a really hard time and unfortunately this meant he kept apologizing for being “retarded.” I know! Am I a bad person for messing around with somebody who uses that word that way? A bad teacher? I sure didn’t have any desire to correct another thing, so I ignored it. But he said it a LOT. Ugh. As I write this, I’m feeling a little less like a harpy and a little more like it’s just a bad match.

Next: Somehow a bad match becomes a beautiful scene.

Things Go Haywire But a Good Scene Anyway, Part One

After I ran into the Mayor of Kittentown on the beach the weekend before last, I got seriously concerned about dating someone who is not poly. I’m not usually a jealous person, but when monogamous ladies become involved, an icky side of me comes out and I don’t know how to stop it. I haven’t quite regained confidence since that day at the beach, and I’m kind of turning things into a train wreck.

As soon as I realized I had these concerns, I was sure to schedule some extra talking time with Mister Hazel Eyes before our play party date last Saturday. Before that happened, though, facebook happened. I wasn’t even clicking on him, I swear! Just, a picture of him popped up in my newsfeed, looking all cozy with a pretty, earthy girl at some kind of formal event, maybe a wedding. I clicked on his page to check for a status change, and there was another pretty girl all over his wall. We hadn’t gotten to the point of exchanging dance card info yet, so I texted him to ask.  It turns out he is seeing a Nice Girl, and she was neither of the ladies pictured.

I told him that I was scared and that we’d talk, but I spent the rest of Friday intermittently crying. I know it isn’t a competition, but I just couldn’t figure out how to compete with this woman. I feel like because I’m not available all the time, I’ll just never be good enough. I feel so guilty sometimes because I don’t have my whole self to offer, even though (other than timewise) I do have my whole self to offer. I can love lots of people 100% but sometimes guys just don’t understand that.

By Saturday, I felt a little better. I just wanted to make sure that we got some stuff ironed out. I needed to tell him that I had some feelings for him, we needed to go over our dance cards together, and we had to somehow meet in the middle about communication—he is not a good texter/planner, and that’s actually the thing that seems insurmountable. I don’t need someone to be in touch ever minute, I just like little conversational touches that let me know what the plans are and when I might hear back. It’s hard to explain without feeling superneedy, but most people just text in my preferred way naturally.

All that, plus negotiating a scene—maybe a lot of pressure for two folks who are brand-new together.

Mister Hazel Eyes had a flat tire on the way over to get me and complained that it had been “More than he wanted to spend to go out tonight” so he seemed a little begrudging about dinner. I had sympathy about car trouble, but I felt a little hurt and not-date-like at the mention of money—it made me feel a little like a burden, which was a hard feeling to shake.

Anyway, I told him about my facebook fuss and how I’d unsubscribed—it’s a lot easier to ask someone what’s going on than to extrapolate from incomplete online info. He went over who the various girls are, and I hated feeling like he had to explain himself to me. Does he? I don’t know.

I told him about Mr. Popular and the other guy in my maybe pile, and he said he’d try not to be jealous—I said I feel fine about jealousy, except when it makes people go away. He told me about Nice Girl, who is brand new. I couldn’t stop myself from asking:

“So when (Nice Girl) wants to go steady, what happens to me?”

“I don’t know, how do these things usually work?”

“Well, in my happy magical dreamland, she knows about me, and we share, and everything works out great. What usually happens is that the monogamous girl wins and I go away.”

I told him how much our concert date meant, and that I was having real feelings for him. He said it meant a lot to him too, just being there with me. I said I was scared and then said one of the worst poly no-no things I’ve ever said:

“(Nice Girl) is probably easygoing, I’m sure she doesn’t need this much care.”

I am really not a fan of myself in a lot of this story. Please know that I know what I was doing wrong.

We lapsed into a worried silence and Badfinger’s “No Matter What” came on, which made me laugh because it was so ironic and sad. I turned it up anyway and made him pull over in a parking lot overlooking the river and kiss me until the song was over. It sure didn’t feel like a no matter what. It felt like the beginning of another long goodbye.

Next: Somehow we make it to rope class.

Song of the Week: I Fink U Freaky

It just got back from a road trip, much of which was spend driving around listening to this song and thinking scandalous thoughts about Mister Hazel Eyes. Jeez I just want to climb all over him.

Ohno Jealousy at the Beach

There are so many things I love about this new life I’m creating, but I’m kinda feeling nostalgic for the days when exes probably wouldn’t see me naked again. Yesterday I ran into my ex-FWB, the Mayor of Kittentown, at the nude beach. I just flat-out ran out of knowing what to do. I saw him bobbing around in the waves and was just going to avoid him since I was having a fragile day, but he came over, wearing nothing but sea-salt and a pained expression. I’m sure mine was equally pained.

I gave him a lean-way-over-so-our-hips-don’t touch hug, it was all I could think of to do, and he kind of acted like I was hitting on him. He was all “Well, (Monogamous Girl) is here, so…”

And I said “Okay, we’re going this way now.” and dragged Sweetie off down the beach. We were only a little way down when I just started to cry. I stood there with my feet in the waves, naked in the cloudy sun but feeling as far away as I’ve ever felt from my inner Bettie Page, crying so hard that I worried I was ruining the beach for everyone. Sweetie felt so good and soft, holding me and trying not to cry herself.

And then the jealousy rolled in, angry, ugly, rip-her-face-off jealousy, which made no sense, because what had she ever done to me? She’s just a better match! But I seriously wanted to pee on their picnic blanket. I wanted to tell her that he’d told me they had no spark together. Of course I didn’t do those things, just left them alone. I know that you all know this, but this jealousy stuff is AWFUL, how does anybody every get through it?

The worst part was how UGLY I felt. I even had that high school feeling of “Better not let them see me eating, it’ll just remind them how fat I am.” I took deep breaths and asked my body for help coming back into myself, and I eventually did, mostly.

I DON’T KNOW IF I CAN DO THIS. I don’t know if I can keep letting guys into my life, knowing how quickly and easily they can just be gone. Mister Hazel Eyes isn’t poly (yet) and it’s hard not to imagine him ending up in the arms of some more available sweetheart some day soon. The dumped-for monogamy thing just kills me, just seems insurmountable.

I wondered all day on the beach if I should break it off with Mister Hazel Eyes because the pain of MKT is so acute. Sweetie, wise person that she is, says it doesn’t make sense to break it off with someone I like just because he might break up with me someday. I know she’s right. I know that there are all kinds of combinations of people who stay together in all sorts of circumstances. There’s no reason not to keep giving him a chance. I have to somehow find the other side of my abandonment fears and stop putting them where they don’t belong. Somehow.

But I really don’t know if I am cut out for this. I’m scared and I don’t know what to do. The Mayor of Kittentown sent apologetic texts all last evening; he says he hopes we can all be friends someday. Maybe next summer, who knows?

Sweetie couldn’t have been more supportive, of course, but right now it feels like everybody’s disappearing, and I just have to let it feel like that for a while.

My Ass Is Smitten With Mister Hazel Eyes, Part 3: Die Antwoord and Romance

Aside from and annoying quasi-hip-hop preamble that inexplicably featured the six-letter f-word, Die Antwoord kicked my ass. I was sitting next to Mister Hazel Eyes, his arm protectively around me, feeling the strangest and most interesting aftercare sensation—it was like I was bottoming to the music. It reminded me of when I’d go to raves in the 90s, generally sober except for the occasional acid trip, I was almost always satisfied to get high on dancing, and this night reminded me of the fluffy, sparkly feeling I’d get during the fourth or fifth hour of dancing, when the music was part of my body and all I had to do was give in to it and keep going. It felt like surrender, and it was delicious then and now.

Between sets, I sat in MHE’s lap and made out with him obnoxiously. Why yes, we ARE in our LATE thirties, but it was so much fun to be all over each other like horny teenagers. When I went to get up from his lap, he said

“Did I tell you you could get up?”

My eyes got wide and I laughed my head off, so glad to stay put.

“What’s so funny?” He said it a little poutishly, but his pretty eyes were shining and not threatening in the least.

“I’m just happy. This is me being happy.”

Okay, so, as I said before, Jane’s Addiction was my favorite band as a teenager and they have a very special place in my heart, the lullaby songs especially: Classic Girl and Jane Says. I like the rollicking songs too, but the pretty songs have always made me feel so understood and loved.

He seemed to understand this. When they started to play Jane Says, he stopped being all grabby-sexy and just held me sort of…tenderly. I thought of all the different ways I’d heard this song, all of the different contexts, all of the many versions of myself, and I decided that this is the best version. I’m proud of how far I’ve come. When Perry Farrell sang “Jane says she ain’t never been in love, she don’t know what it is, she only knows if someone wants her.” (Which felt true in my teenage years but hasn’t been true for such a long time. Talk about an assessment.) he pulled me into a kiss that was sweet and emphatic, and I felt myself really give in to it, to him, to the romance of the moment, to whatever I might be with him. I grabbed the back of his neck and just pulled him as close as I could. The decades of want and need since the song came out felt, at least for that moment, fulfilled.

And then I thought: “Uh-oh. This is meaningful. I’m experiencing cathexis during this meaningful thing. I’m letting him in.” Recognizing that was scary, but I think that kind of metacognition (or meta-emotion?) is a good sign. In the past, I’ve formed attachments and not recognized them, reacting in a fight-or-flight way instead. So this is progress. Scary progress, but still.

I love the way that we played with each other during the rest of the concert. He held me in front of him and gave me bites gently down my neck and back. His hands meandered on the borders of inappropriate, but in kind of a sweet way. We sat down and I ran my hands over his thighs, grazing things I really wanted to grab.

After the show I climbed into his lap in the driver’s seat, cradled in his arms. I took out my pigtails so that he could get a good grip on the back of my hair. He gave me a few spanks but he didn’t have good leverage. We kissed and kissed and kissed and he said things like “I love your eyes.” (Afraid of that particular word, I said, I like yours too.”) and (!):

“You are so fucking beautiful.” I felt fucking beautiful, let me tell you.

I wanted him to kiss me all night but he wanted to get me back to Sweetie at a reasonable hour. As he drove me home, I plugged in my iPod (Who’s acting like they own the place now?) and played I Would for You the only lullaby favorite they hadn’t played. Then I played a whole bunch of dreamy covers.  I just can’t say how much I didn’t want that night to be over.

As we were saying goodbye, he got adorably/worryingly wistful: “Tell (Sweetie) she’s a lucky lady.”

I’m pretty lucky too. If I can just surrender to NRE like I surrendered to Die Antwoord, I think I’ll be fine.