OMG Mr. Shiny Eyes Called!!!

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

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

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

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

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 Conference with Myself, Part Three: Hugging Heartbreak, Embracing Joy

“Even if you feel overcome with nihilistic thoughts, your body is still alive with an optimism of its own.  Join the thoughts of your body.” –Yoko Ono

            When I first started adventuring way back when, I decided to use cuddle parties as a benchmark for how far I’ve come in inhabiting my body and letting go of grief. The first one, way back in 2012, I spent crying over my struggling marriage and unexpressed bisexuality. The second one, I spent mostly on my own despite the puddle of people, enjoying all of the lovey vibes in a very surprising new self-contained way. This time, I dove all the way in, tapped into my body’s optimism as Yoko suggests, and was blessedly immersed in the easy, soft connections with and among my fellow lovey-dovey souls.

            Still, sadness did need to have its moment. As I lay curled up and relaxed in the afterglow of The Kind Ma’am’s sweet/hurty attention, the loss I’d been trying to deny for months crept in and I just ached for Mr. Makeout Music, for all of the November grief. Since one of my New Year’s resolutions is to ask for help when I need it, I asked the Cuddle Facilitator to disentangle herself from a beautiful-looking embrace so we could talk for a minute. (I’m not a monster, it’s part of her role. But I still feel bad for interrupting snuggles!)

            I told her the story, the story my friends and I are all sick of, and she had an idea: “Let’s try this. I’m going to hold you, and you’re going to just feel it all. Feel it as deeply as you can, and then we’ll see if you’re ready to go back to playing.”

            So she put her arms around me, and as she held me, her heart against mine felt like MM’s heart, from those twice-a-day hugs that I missed so much. The connection I still felt to him was keen and wrenching and real, and I loved it so much. (I still do, though thankfully it feels much less claustrophobic/painful now.)

            I almost cried, but didn’t. I thanked her mistily and went back to the party, joining a cuddle pile with a few nice strangers who’d seemed fun during consent practice.

            I was blissed out and petting the hip of a nice woman from Colorado when (Hooray!) The Professor appeared above me and asked if he could join us. I was spooned in behind the nice woman, and he spooned in behind me, a friendly wall of warmth. I asked if he would pull my hair (or he asked me, I don’t remember) and he was such the perfect balance of gentle and forceful that I whooshed down into subspace, for the first real time in years. The weightless, beatific feeling of being relieved from control, turns out I’d missed it so much. I feel like I’m using the word “blessed” too many times in this story, but it keeps being necessary.

            I asked if I could turn over to face him, and the resulting embrace was one of the most comforting places I’ve ever been. I’m trying superhard not to get carried away here, of course he’s maybe just really good at hugging, but the way he fit with me had a teensy bit of destiny to it.

            At cuddle parties, you’re supposed to look for specific permission every step of the way, and for every request he made, I gave an emphatic “Yes!” especially the “May I kiss you?’ part—the Professor is really, really good at kissing. Just like with the hair pulling, soft and urgent, emphatic and sweet. There’s nothing like being really just thoroughly kissed.

            “Will you put your leg between mine?” He asked and oh yes, I just wanted to find a cuddle party loophole and just give him permission to do every. Single. Thing.

            “May I put my hand of your chest?” He asked, and that meant heart, not boob, and yesyes, it’s time to go ahead and believe in Energy, because this guy has ALL OF IT.

While I was lying there in The Professor’s arms, Mr. Shiny Eyes crawled over and asked for a kiss and I was happy to give it. The three of us chatted until it was time for The Professor to go have a late supper with The Kind Ma’am. I kissed him goodbye and settled into a new cuddle configuration with Mr. Shiny Eyes and the interesting strangers.

Next: More cuddles, more kisses, and saying goodbye lying down.

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.

Heartbreak With the Mystery Family, But Two Wonderful Valentine-Guys

I deserve someone who wants to be in the same room with me. What a crazy thing to have to declare, but here we are.

After the Mystery Man officially entitled me a “Keeper of His Heart” and a member of his family, I’ll admit I was a little hopeful/vulnerable about wanting some Valentine’s Day attention, but what I got was him disappearing mid-conversation before we’d made our date. Earlier in the week I’d gone right out on a limb and asked them all if I could have some time with him during Valentine’s weekend, and though they all said yes, of course, had to ask three times before I even STARTED to get a time. Soon as I was supposedly officially a part of them, I saw myself slip through the cracks of their schedule, just like with the Steampunks. I have to make myself stop loving overbooked guys.

Lacking information or a goodbye before he disappeared for the weekend, I did maybe more Twitter-reading than I should have and found out they were having a party that night, which I hadn’t been told about and definitely hadn’t been invited to. I physically ACHED to be at that party, dancing and hugging and really seeing them. That yearning opened up the cognitive dissonance that made me take the blinders off and start to realize that their version of me being in their “Family” did not necessarily include me ever being in their presence.

So I was hurting but that hurt was ameliorated by a wonderful surprise—Mr. Shiny Eyes! After I called him Friday evening to touch base after our conference adventures, he decided on a whim to drive over (from, it must be said, the same VERY close city where the Mysteries live) and jump into bed with me for Valentines. I was so touched and turned on by the gesture and I loved the visit, especially our morning. We cuddled in bed talking so long before jumping on each other again, it was so intimate, such a time-luxury compared to the (also fantastic) festival sex we’ve enjoyed before.

There was no way, after a gesture and a morning like that, to pretend that I was okay with someone who claims to love me but doesn’t want to see me. After Mr. Shiny Eyes headed home, though I assumed the Mystery Man was busy with some kind of Valentine’s fun, I tried to ask him about the implications of me not having been invited to the party. I thought the problem might get bigger in my head if I waited until our not-really-set-yet date.

I tried to write it as a letter, but probably should have asked (through the cloud of interrupting-shame) for a real conversation—a real 10 –minute talk could have solved the problem, if the problem could in fact be solved at all.

Instead of reassurance, though, or an invite to some future party, (I mean, COME ON, even the most elusive of casual guys invited me to parties at his house!) I was told that the “online contingency” aren’t usually invited and that I would’ve run the risk of making people uncomfortable. This was followed by a litany of things that were higher priorities to them—that old bottom-of-the-pile feeling. I told him I was hurt by that, that I didn’t like being on the outside looking in, that I needed to know I could do normal things like be near the people who purported to love me.

The “online contingency,” fucking OOF.

I didn’t hear from him again and imagined that he had gone back to whatever lovey-dovey permutation of entanglements I was being left out of that day. It was only by chance that and secondhand I found out he’d melted down about what I’d said, and that made it even harder and guiltier to try and communicate.

I did try (on open Twitter, since I felt like I wasn’t being heard on the private channels) but all I got back was an “Are you leaving me?” and no further communication from him. I tried talking to the Lady whose time I’d unwittingly derailed, but it really was moot, since he’d rather break up than face the prospect of having me over.

I really do love him, and it was never just him. I loved the Ladies first and I always wanted to just arrange the whole family in a pile and dive in. More importantly than the sexy stuff, though, I wanted to be their friend, to feel their warmth around me in ordinary, everyday ways. The concept of “online friendship” makes absolutely no sense to me. My love and friendship are physical, even for people I’ve never met, and loving without face-to-face contact is unsafe and ungrounded.

I shouldn’t be in the position of feeling like crazy stalker girl for wanting to included by people who’ve used the word “family” or for wanting to be physically near someone I love. I shouldn’t have to convince anybody that my presence is awesome and should be welcome and encouraged. And (typing this for maybe the millionth time, maybe I’ll learn it) I shouldn’t have to feel like a burden or an interruption every single time I need something. I deserve to be a clear priority, even if my role is smaller than others’.

The ironic thing about this situation is that if somebody else were treating me this way, this family of readers would be the first to get up in arms about it, telling me to get out and that I’m amazing and strong and wonderful and deserve so much better. Without them to tell me that, I’m trying to tell myself.

This “online relationship” business is just complete nonsense, especially from someone who lives two hours away.

Last night, while my nerves were still jangled and my heart was definitely breaking, Mr. Sweetface made it over for our long-awaited play date. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to pay him the proper attention, but it’s amazing what bodies can take care of all on their own. The smell of him, his big pretty eyes, his beautiful naked self across my knee all subby and soft—how lucky am I? When it was his turn to spank me, I cried a little at the end and he gathered me up and told me I was beautiful, told me I’d be okay. The generosity of that easy gesture, the sound of his heartbeat, his strong arms as he wrapped me in the blanket, that’s what I need. That’s what I am.

A few months ago when I was panicking to the Lady of the House about the Steampunks, she said, not unkindly, that I seem to find myself in one crazy story after another, that it might be beneficial to look at the pattern and figure out what attracts me to unavailable people. Since then, I’ve tried to be mindful of only making choices that wouldn’t lead me back to loneliness and panic, so I’m sheepish and sad to have chosen a constellation that, however loveable, has infinitely more barriers up than the Steampunks did. I love them so much and sometimes they’re all I want in this world, but I ignored a million red flags and broke my own very good rules to love them. I don’t know what makes me do this, except that I needed the words “love” and “family” so badly that I would’ve given anything. That’s where I am right now and I’ll keep trying to be careful with it.

The Sacred Sex Puja: In Which I Admit to Myself that Tantric Energy Is a Thing

At the end of the conference day Saturday, I was exhausted and overwhelmed. Usually I do maybe one thing on Saturdays, and I’d done about 50. I fell into bed after a very brief visit to happy hour, with an alarm set to get up and go downstairs to the Sacred Sex Puja. I didn’t really know what that was, but I figured it counted as a church checkmark, and unlike last year, it wasn’t listed as being “for couples and groups only.” (That still makes me a mad to type.)

One of the hosts was a dreamy guy I knew from the Lady of the House’s circles, one of the people I’m always surprised to see with clothes on, but we all had them. The conference room was draped in pretty silky fabrics and there was a little altar built to some nebulously-defined goddess. About twenty of us stood in a circle, taking instructions on how to rock our pelvises and breathe. My pelvis was tired from lunch with Mr. Shiny Eyes, and I felt grumpy about the extra work of special breaths, but right away I felt something uncatch beneath my right shoulder blade, felt something warm stirring.

“Did anybody experience some sensations during those breaths?” asked the host.

“Um, I felt like, some little sunbeams?”

He chuckled and asked the circle if anybody else had felt a sunbeam. (The Lady of the House later declared “Sunbeam” to be my nickname. I always was kind of a hippie chick at heart, even as I try to keep it semi-ironic…)

As the class leaders took us through the breaths (In through your nose, all the way down to your hoo-ha, flex the muscle there, keep your tongue on the roof of your mouth, stop sucking your gut and let the air in, it was a lot of things.) I got space-issues from the noises people started making and I couldn’t stop yawning, so I figured I’d stop fighting my body and just go to bed. As I look back, though everyone seemed perfectly nice, I didn’t want to share my energy with them, even with close friends. Suddenly I wanted to take care of my energy and be choosy about who I shared it with.

At the time, though, I thought I was just being grumpy and going to bed. Ms. Sweetheart was kind of blazing into the room when I got there, tired from a drunk-laden dinner and craving introvert time, so I relished the chance to just be silent together, in two beds but enjoying her near me.

I lay down and realized that in fact, the puja had worked some magic on me. I felt warmth play around in my body like my own personal sunlight. I was so cozy and happy to be with myself, like I’d had a glass of self-love and got drunk on it. It was a feeling I’d always wished for, that I knew I needed. I was full of joy to have wrapped myself in a comforter and given myself the gift of rest even though there were a million very friendly things I could’ve been doing. My body and soul felt celebrated, like the very best afterglow.

There was sadness, too. Once I let myself stop moving, the truth came out that I was missing Sweetie very badly, that I felt adrift here without her to talk about the sad things with. Everywhere people were using the word “communicate” a million times, but there were some things I couldn’t talk to anybody about. I missed the way her words would soothe me when I was being a mess and tried (IN MY HEAD ONLY) to use kind words to soothe myself. But I felt so lonely without her. I love belonging to the world, but I miss belonging to a person in that way where the bed is a sacred place and all the chores are for someone you love. I miss my family very badly, the family I was with her.

Even as I was feeling those things, I rejoiced in being so warm and self-contained. I did go up and try the party, but I almost immediately felt impatient with it—I didn’t even have the urge to take off my clothes, I wanted to keep all my stuff to myself. I spent the past few years getting more and more naked, pushing outward because I had to in order to survive, in order to reach escape velocity, but now that I don’t need the push of adrenaline to stay sane, my priorities are changing.

So I left the party as it was just starting, found Mr. Shiny Eyes who was all involved a big discussion about the meaning of love down in the hotel restaurant, kissed him on the forehead and gave him some very happy/fuzzy belated aftercare. He offered to meet me in the room later, but I was delighted to find myself wanting to be alone some more.

It’s just incredible: in a hotel full of friends, lovers, and all manner of adventure, the person I wanted to be with! Was! Me! I can’t overstate how much of an accomplishment that felt like. I’ve arrived at a new place of awesomeness, and someday soon I might not even be a project at all.

A (Naked and Sexed-Up) Rare Occasion Wherein I Enjoy Getting Advice

Almost as soon as I got to the Big Poly Conference, this conversation happened:

Mr. Shiny Eyes: “What are you doing at lunch?”

Me: “You?”

After a night and morning of snuggles with the Sweethearts, I couldn’t believe my luck was still this lavish. I felt like Wonder Woman for asking him and had an inner fireworks display when he said yes.

As I say every time I have it, I never get enough PIV sex, and even though a timer was set so he wouldn’t miss the next workshop, this was fantastic enough to hold me for a WHILE. (Okay, ‘til the next morning. But still.)  He has such a very very nice penis and he knows all the best ways to bend a girl around. It was so easy and bright and unselfconscious and special-occasiony. This was sex that made me feel like life wants to give me absolutely everything.

After we were spent, as the timer was snooze-alarming, we had a conversation that ended up being a bigbig breakthrough.

I mentioned an unspecified conference attender with whom I’d recently broken off a flirtation because he triggered some yucky feelings, which of course is a reasonable and necessary thing to do, but Mr. Shiny Eyes, having some insight into what it’s like to be told by me that he’d not a match, had this to say:

“You get really upset when you feel like someone might be seeing you out of a sense of obligation rather than desire. People jump to “not a match” sometimes when they could just share their emotions about the thing that triggered them.”

This was partly what I’d done in this recent situation, but I couldn’t quite get past the stomachache with the person, probably because it reminded me of the Steampunks among other things.

He continued: “And I notice that you tend to come from a place of self-deprecation, like whatever the person is doing is confirming the fear that they couldn’t possibly have wanted you in the first place.”

Uh, okay dude, thanks for workshopping my emotions while I’m still naked and tingling, but dangit if he didn’t have a point.

I ended up doing a lot of thinking on this trip about why I tend to break up with (and then unbreak up with) people I like, and he definitely had his finger on part of it. When somebody likes me, there’s still a big part of me that feels like it must be a trick, and I’m always kinda waiting for that trick to reveal itself. But the fact that so many of these breakups didn’t take is proof that the liking is genuine.

I have to stop and appreciate the characters who stuck with me as snuggle friends even as I went through such an ugly and harrowing year, even after they had to deal with rejections and (sometimes) overreactions. Sometimes someone isn’t a match (like when they use the “R” word while sexting and it’s not “ravish”) or isn’t a match right now, but it’s very good advice to slow down time, breathe and reflect when an alarm gets tripped, not just automatically run.

Almost immediately upon returning home, I had an opportunity to try this, and I like the results so far. So high five, Mr. Shiny Eyes, and thanks for being such an excellent 

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.

Gold Star for Mr. Shiny Eyes—and Me!

Last Wednesday, something really horrible happened to one of my students. It happened outside school, but it was very upsetting and shook me all the way down to my bone marrow. She’s okay now, but it’s hard knowing that it happened to anyone, let alone to a student I love.

When Sweetie and I got back from trying to visit her in the hospital Wednesday evening, we were sitting on the porch discussing whether or not I should call into work the next day to process. Just as that conversation was winding down to a yes, my phone rang, and it was Mr. Shiny Eyes, asking what I was doing the next day—he’d found himself an opportunity to drive in from out of town and visit.

Glad to hear joy in my voice, Sweetie said of course a visit was fine with her.

For most of last Thursday, I couldn’t move. I felt broken and guilty and devastated for all that I have that my students don’t have—a safe home, a loving group of friends and family, the ability to change my circumstances. I called Sweetie and apologized for needing to schedule some couch time, an apology she found ridiculous. I felt weepy and not-good-enough, hardly a way to go into a second date with someone I’m excited about.

Cleaning the apartment to get ready for him and making dinner for both Mr. Shiny Eyes and Sweetie (yay!) lifted my spirits a little but I felt really fragile and off when he arrived. Just like Sweetie had the night before, Mr. Shiny Eyes listened and listened as I kept on looping back to sad subjects.

After Sweetie had left us alone for snuggle time, I apologized profusely and repeatedly for being such a bad date when he’d come all this way, but he seemed shocked and dismayed with every sorry.

“I came here because I like you, the real you, and this is the real you right now. I didn’t just come here to have sex. But I’m still pretty sure we’ll have sex.

And we did. In fact, he asked if it would be okay to just forget all the kinks and “make gentle love” to me and it’s a little sad how seldom I’ve had that with guys. (But okay, I get other good stuff.) I relaxed into him and it was sweet and hot and satisfying.

Plus, once the lovemaking was accomplished, he was nice enough to end the night with a pretty thorough flogging that buoyed up my spirits even more.

And yet, I didn’t stop apologizing. There’s an annoying almost geishalike part of me that wants to be nothing but cheerful and pleasant and uncomplicated for men. I try to keep a cheery guard up lest they should think I’m difficult or high-maintenance or (that dirtiest of dirty words) needy. I have no problem sharing vulnerability with friends or with Sweetie, but when it comes to men I’m attracted to, there’s this irritating compulsion to behave. It’s insulting to them and stifling to me.

I’m grateful that life kicked my ass enough that I had no choice but to show Mr. Shiny Eyes my sometimes-a-wreck of a self. (I’m also grateful to anyone who reads the full wreck of it here, for that matter!) No choice even, than to at one point put my clothes on and just cry for a bit. He took such nice care of me, and even though second date tears aren’t my favorite thing, I’m so glad for the depth and difficulty that I shared during my second evening with Mr. Shiny Eyes. It’s a step towards learning to actually trust men, and it made my hoo-ha happy too.

My First Sexting

I may have mentioned this once of twice, but I’m enjoying Mr. Sweetheart so much. Last Tuesday when I was walking home from work, he texted to ask how I feel about sexting. I told him that it was on my goal list for June. (I do monthly goals with check-boxes. Some of the goals are all virtuous and gym-related, and some are…not.)

So he sent a picture of his lovely junk (First time I’d received such a text—he’s so many firsts!) and I was so happy to see it. I wrote back “For me? What shall I do with it?” but since I’m the sex-blogger he insisted that I be the one to tell most of the story.  (“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be the dominant one?” “I’m instructing you to amuse me with your creativity.”)

Clearly he is a full-service muse.

I got home and started dinner as I started to spin the story. I think I did a pretty good job. I was making tortellini. As I put the water on to boil, I told him about some fictitious Hello Kitty underpants already complete with a wet spot. As I grated the cheese, I tried to convince him to tell me what to do, but he insisted that I tell him what he was telling me to do. As the water started to boil, he sent me an evil grin, and I texted back a bratty eye roll and let that sit while I ate supper. He was excellent dinner company.

After I was done eating, I sent him a picture of my nicely-made bed and got in. Just like he did in the story I was telling him, I pulled up my shirt and down my bra. My nipples were sticking straight up, ready and bright, bright pink. After a few tries, I got a good picture of them and sent it over. I played with my boobs while I waited for the next text to come.

He sent back a try at dirty talk and I rewrote it so it was nastier.

I was conscious of trying not to borrow from scenes I’d already had and written—it was fun to try fiction, to write a fantasy just for him.

It occurred to me that it would be awkward for Sweetie to come home in the middle of this so I called to get her ETA and give her a heads-up. Also I accidentally dialed Mr. Shiny Eyes in the process. #togetherness

Sweetie was a half hour away and I was soaking wet. My fingers slipped around inside my plain flowered undies and inside myself—I was ready for him. There was plenty of time for me to come but I kept losing track of time—texting, playing, texting, playing. It’s kind of magical that I could be that turned on by him even though he’s such a long way away.

Sweetie came in before I was finished but was unfazed—she just closed the bedroom door and went to make herself supper. Mr. Sweetheart asked me where I wanted his cum.

“Well, I tried to swallow for you but you pushed me away and it went all over…”

He texted: “As your reward, I lean in, lick your cum covered tits, then offer you a creamy kiss. :) <3 <3 xoxo”

It was a good reward. I was unsure of the etiquette for ending such an exchange, other than to let him know that I’d come. I told him that next time we’ll have to think of a way to metaphorically snuggle afterwards. I’m excited to write him some more stories.

Midyear Heart Inventory

Fresh from a Sweetie spanking, (First thing in the morning! Before she even had her coffee! That’s love.) I think it’s time to take a look at my adventures’ progress so far this year:

1. My New Year’s Resolution was to connect, and for a while there, it felt like I was screwing it up like crazy. But when I look at the year with perspective, it has been a year of connections: I’ve had amazing big dates with Sweetie and a million little porch dates, too. We’ve had fantastic trips and family visits. I’ve been able to forge deeper connections with my favorite friends, through long walks and long phone conversations. I’ve had good, deep, loving scenes and some that totally revolutionized my idea of myself. And my job (where I would never let a first-grader start a sentence with “and.”) on a good or even a not-horrible day, is nothing BUT connection.

I’ve been sending favorite old posts to Mr. Sweetheart and rereading them makes me feel rich with experience, even though things sometimes do go spectacularly awry.

2. That being said, I am JUMPING OUT OF MY SKIN. I want everything. I want ALL of the penises in me. I want very nice bad men to do very nice bad things to me. The weather’s driven me back into my shorty pajamas and is fanning the hoo-ha flames. Unfortunately at the moment I don’t have a lot of ideas about what to do with all of this urgency. I love jumping on Sweetie, of course, and I will, but this is a man-craving, and I can feel it in my teeth. And hair. And ass. Please, universe, you’ve been so kind, send me some ideas. And some strapping men with nice, fat fingers.

3. But I like the way that things have settled in with Mr. Sweetheart. After the festival,  he’s kept in touch nearly every day. He’s the first guy-who’s-interested to text me heart emoticons. (My BFF Angelface sends them all the time, but that’s different.) Mr. Sweetheart lives a ways away but we agree that we should be able to see each other about four times a year. (How hot is he with the planning-ahead? *swooooon*) He calls about once a week, promptly every time. (again, hot) We talk for a long time and I doodle drawings that for whatever reason keep ending up looking like vaginas. As we talk, this lovely warm energy descends over my shoulders and I feel oriented and safe. He’s good. He’s romantic. He says he likes the idea of us having all of this time to talk and get to know each other before we do more stuff, but of course I’d love to just take the sexTARDIS over and give him a smooch. They’ve got to build me one of those.

4. Mr. Shiny Eyes is going through a lot in his life right now and also lives far-ish, so I really don’t know when I might see him, but it seems like there are more fun times to come with him as well. I hope so.

5. The other guy (He’ll be Steampunk Guy if we have any adventures. The blog needs one of those, don’t you think?) that I like is local, and let us now toast the fact that all of the guys I currently like have cars. (And excellent penises, though in this case it’s only hearsay.) I met him at Poly Speed Dating a few weeks ago. The algorithm hadn’t paired us up but I liked him instantly so I bypassed the checkmarks and just gave him my number. He’s an excellent flirt and a fantastic texter, but he seems kinda overbooked. One-of-six might not be special enough for me, even in an FWB situation, but I really enjoy him, so we’ll see.

6. And then there’s this grief. I’m still a bit broken over what happened with The Man. We were supposed to be friends, after all, and I had such a deep affection for him. There were so many hopes tied up in that first good scene (I should really get around to writing about it.) that the loss still feels like a big one. The grief still makes me run away from guys, but luckily my heart and pants keep me running toward them.

7. I don’t know if I mentioned this, but my publisher dropped the Kitten Calendar book early this year. Something about the press being over-committed, it was really sad when I found out. A “no” from a beloved editor is a particularly hurty one. Looking back over the posts, I still thing there might be a book there, so maybe I’ll make it my summer project anyway. Or else I’ll just work on not having tanlines.

Well, dears, the strawberry waffles are ready and it’s time to crawl back into bed with Sweetie. Happy adventuring to you. May the second half of the year be equally fruitful.

Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness Part Eight: Ending With a Sky Full of Stars

So, yes, it’s taken eight posts to describe a few hours. I hate to finish typing it because I’ll be lonely for them, it’s been like writing them all a nice long letter every day or so, but I guess it is time for new adventures. Plus, I’m pretty sure there’ll be other ways to stay in touch.

After Mr. Sweetheart and I were done, Mr. Shiny Eyes was rarin’ to go again. He said he usually needed more rest in between times, so this must have been extra special. I was of course ready for more as well. Mr. Sweetheart left to go I-don’t-know-where.

Mr. Shiny Eyes put me on my side and folded me so that my knees were on my chest and pushed himself blessedly inside me. “You’re okay if it doesn’t take long this time?” he asked but I was feeling such a thrill again that I panted “Just..a…couple more minutes…”

Far from being tired out, I was primed for this and the way that his dick moved inside me felt like a fucking miracle. I shouted and shrieked louder than I had all day. We came and came together, and it felt like a gold-star accomplishment.

Mr. Sweetheart came back from wherever he’d been and we all cuddled for a few minutes before we realized we were starving. It was starting to get chilly, too. I got up and (stupid clothes!) put on fresh underwear, bra, pajamas, and sneakers. (Anything you can wear that outfit to is my kind of event!)

By the time we were dressed, a few of their friends had joined us in the tent. The woman who’d been running the shop at the front said that everything had sounded great, and the guys gently mocked me for being excited about that compliment. Hey, I’m a showoff!

While he started up some snuggles with another lady, I kissed Mr. Shiny Eyes goodbye and told him that I didn’t ever want to stop kissing him.

“Well. is that a problem?”

I smiled big and said, “No, I guess not.”

“Though occasionally you’ll have to stop so that I can kiss someone else…” and with that, he pulled down the other lady on top of him and I left the tent. Mr. Sweetheart said to be sure to come back up after dinner. He thanked me for the afternoon and I said “Hey! Thanks for liking me that way!”

I was really conscious of wanting to give them space (or else I just needed a little space) and I was superaverse to appearing clingy, even though I had the urge to get them to both lie down and fall asleep with me. Maybe next time.

Shaky legs and trying-not-to-be-clingy notwithstanding, I had such a lovely time in the dining hall with Sheandhim. (Most of my dinner consisted of chocolate chip cookies, because if I’m already being this decadent, why not?) I got to learn more about their relationship and family and there was a lot of leaning my head on her shoulder, a lot of hugging. We promised to plan a double date soon and hey! I should really put that on the calendar.

It was dark by the time supper ended and I made my way back up the hill to Mr. Sweetheart and friends. They were sitting in a circle of lawn chairs still eating their dinner. Ms. Sweetheart was sitting next to him and offered me her chair, but I preferred to sit at their feet. She patted my hair, which was a wonderful bed head rat’s nest, and said “Ugh, these boys don’t know what to do with hair. Let me fix this.”

She was going to fix it with her fingers but I dug a brush out of my backpack and she as-gently-as-possible got the tangles out. The last time I’d had my hair brushed was during that terrible quasi-aftercare with The Man, and this was the complete opposite of that feeling, the perfect healing for it. Accidentally, another auspicious ritual. A soul-retrieval for my hair.

During the whole mess with The Man and The Wife, I’d started to worry that I didn’t have what it takes for poly. He’d convinced me that I was this weird possessive thing that I’m really not. Being accepted and cared for by Ms. Sweetheart brought me right back to who I really am—a humming engine of compersion ready for a million more snuggles and a whole universe worth of love. She probably didn’t know she could accomplish all that with a hairbrush.

When my hair was all smooth, I shifted over to sitting at Mr. Sweetheart’s feet. He ran his fingers gently up my neck and through my hair as he and his friends talked and I occasionally chimed in. The stars came out and I realized how much I’d missed them. New resolution: see more stars.

When it came time to go up to the parking field to meet Sweetie, Mr. Sweetheart walked me. We stopped and kissed under those stars and I just COULD NOT believe how lucky I was. Am. (I wanted to say goodbye to Mr. Shiny Eyes, but couldn’t imagine where I might find him.)

Sweetie was already waiting in our little blue car. I kissed Mr. Sweetheart goodbye and got happily, exhaustedly into the car. I was so glad to see her as I yammered all about my day and we wound down country roads to our hotel.

The Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness, Part Seven: All the Nice Getting Held Down

(I doodled this while I was on the phone with Mr. Sweetheart. Not sure why all of my doodles end up vagina-shaped…)

***This is the very first correction I’ve ever posted (no, he didn’t ask me to) and maybe the best correction ever: Says Mr. Sweetheart: “I have never once, in all my life, worn underwear under my kilt.” Noted! Sosorry.***

And now back to the tent: I was pleased and flattered by their pillow talk. Mr. Shiny Eyes told me that I feel really good to him and that my insides have nice contractions. He said we should spend more time together and I was happily surprised to hear him say that. They went back and forth a little bit about who lives further away, and by how much, and I reminded them that I’m off all summer. So who knows!

Then we played my favorite favorite FAVORITE (even more favorite than Apples to Apples) game: “What if I tried to get away?’ I tried to wiggle out from between them and they descended on me, holding my whole body down with theirs. Sometimes every limb was pinned! Sometimes in these kinds of situations I try to resist, but the struggling is really part of the fun. In this case, it wasn’t so much wrestling as it was futile attempts to fight a blanket of strength.

There’s such a relief that comes from being held down lovingly, a transcendence to it, like I’m kicking all of my fears’ asses and ironically like I can take a break from the day-to-day struggle of being alive. The relief and joy came from my trust in them and the aliveness and safety of it-of knowing that I won’t just float up off the earth.

(Sweetie has a similar explanation for why I like ropes so much—I don’t have to hold myself together for that little while, so I can just relax.)

(My sense of my own existence has always been a little fragile, if that makes any sense at all.)

It was almost time for Mr. Sweetheart to fuck me, but the game continued. He placed himself between my legs and held my arms down by the wrist. He is wiry-strong like an animal. I told him not to leave bruises that my students would notice and he loosened up his grip a little but pressed down with his arms all the more so there was still no way that I could’ve gotten away. (Unless, of course, I wanted to.)

As I pulled and strained, his heart beat fast against my stomach. That stopped time a little, the perfect closeness of it.

Then he leaned up and got the condom on. While he was doing that, Mr. Shiny Eyes played with my clit, and my ridiculous moans started up again. Sex with Mr. Sweetheart was slow and warm. At one point he said “Well, this is lovely.” and that it exactly what it was. I looked up into his face and felt safe and known, in exactly the right place.

Mr. Shiny Eyes looked, petted, and complimented. He’d found himself a flavored condom and I gave it a try. I was so happy to have his dick in my mouth, but not so happy with the artificial vanilla flavor. He rearranged himself so that I could reach to squeeze with my hand instead.

Here’s my (entirely unsurprising) confession: While Mr. Sweetheart was inside me, the warmth spread all the way up to my heart and I got feelings for him. It’s just that fast sometimes and just that simple. I knew it might be a what-happens-at-the-festival-stays-at-the-festival situation. I was and am ready to let the experience stand on its own. But part seven, friends, is where I get attached, where I started to hope that more would happen. And since we’ve been in touch almost every day since, maybe it already has.

The Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness, Part 6: Hot Sex, Hot Hand-Holding

As I’ve been writing my way through this story, I’m conscious of being the least experienced person in the tent, at least when it comes to this kind of sex, and trying to keep things in perspective. I’m thinking about oxytocin and other bonding chemicals and how they might be the source of these lovely deep feelings of connection. When I write about it, I’m agnostic about energies and such, but in the moment, none of those thoughts or doubts were relevant at all. I was, for those few hours, a true believer in magic, men, myself, and everything else, like a horny mystic on ecstasy.

So back to where I was, snuggled between two radiantly warm guys, one-in-each-hand, hands in my hair, on my back, everywhere. Legs intertwined. Kissing, kissing, kissing. I was enveloped in the smell of them—one smelled fresh, the other, more dark and musky. Both smells made me ravenous for them.

We paused for a moment to go over our testing situations, of course. The guys geeked out for a while about STI science facts, and then it was back to the snuggles.

Mr. Shiny Eyes put on a condom and a glove. He slid his hand in and I was as wet as I’ve ever been. His fingers jolted my inside awake and alert and every nerve ending lit up like Christmas. I wanted so badly for him to fuck me. There was a little fuss about positions (remember, we’re on an air mattress, and one that could use some inflating at that) and he ended up deciding to lay back and have me climb on.

“But I’m a bottom…” I complained only a tiny bit.

“Okay, then I’m making you be on top.”

Friends, it had been since last August. I’ve had plenty of adventures, as you know, but for whatever reason it’s been much easier to get a guy to spank me, flog me, tie me up, set me on fire, drag a knife over my (pajamaed) clit, etc—for some reason this part of things has been elusive.

I was so, so happy to have Mr. Shiny Eyes inside me. All of him is so smooth and assured—his arms, his kisses, his penis. As soon as I straddled him and pushed him in, waves of delight sparked up inside me and I started making ridiculous sounds. As the Mayor of Kittentown’s neighbors would attest, I can never contain my joy when a man is inside me. I am super, super loud, and since I’m a showoff, I was glad to feel like the whole festival could hear me.

Since up until this point, I’d only Googled two-(or ten, or a hundred) guys-one-girl, and so even though everybody knows life isn’t like porn I feel compelled to talk about the contrast. In videos, the men always talk around the girl, either egging on the other men or talking about practical things like which way to bend her. Sometimes they might as well be moving a couch, for all the interaction they have with the lady. Of course, that objectification is fun to watch, but would never be fun to do.

This was the complete opposite of that in every way. Even as I was being bent into ways I didn’t know I could bend, (thank goodness for yoga) I felt like they were both so there for me, like they were being so generous, that we were all working as a team to get what we needed.

As Mr. Shiny Eyes fucked me, Mr. Sweetheart was kindly there to help, kissing me, pulling my hair, giving my ass the occasional helpful smack. But my favorite, the part of the day that I revisit the most, is when I reached out and he just took my hand. That hand-holding was so tender that it might have been a friendship oath. That support is a magic thing to walk through my days with.

But back to Mr. Shiny Eyes. After I first met him, back at that conference, I asked around and folks told me his dance card is really full—and no wonder! He moved in me like an expert. I kept saying/panting “Oh, you’re so perfect, no wonder you’re so popular.” He kept going until I exploded into fireworks, and we all piled up again for snuggles.

Next time: Pillow talk and being held down a lot.

The Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness, Part Five: I May Have Been Born for This

“I’m starting to wonder if I should rethink my workshop plans,” said Mr. Shiny Eyes. “Should I?”

“Um, yes.”

I called Sweetie and asked her to pick me up a little later than we’d planned. She’d gotten us a hotel room nearby and I was excited to end the day snuggling her, but for now I really wanted to see what would happen. (As I write this, it happens to be a week where I haven’t seen her enough and I miss her, so this paragraph gives me a little wistful feeling…)

We decided to go back to Mr. Sweetheart’s tent. There was some talk of him putting ropes on me (Yay!) but Mr. Shiny Eyes negotiated for my arms to be free. “There are some things I want to do where she’ll need to have her arms free.”

At the point, it occurred to me that things were probably going all the way to PIV sex, (Sex festival! I know! Keep forgetting!) which is an everyday thing to most people and which I sorely needed. It’s still such a big deal to me because I haven’t had that much experience with it in the past decade, so I had to stop and check in with myself to see if it would be okay. And hooray! It was!

So there I was, walking up a grassy hill on the most gorgeous sunny day, past all kinds of smiling pagan folk in various states of undress, with a cute guy on either side of me. Not sure why such a moment would bring out more imperiousness, but I said:

“Wait, why am I walking with two dudes and still carrying this heavy backpack?”

True to his pseudonym, Mr. Sweetheart took the bag.

Then I said “Now what would happen if I tried to run away?” and took off up the hill. What happened was, they chased me and spanked me as I ran, and we all laughed, and then they had to tell me I was running in the wrong direction and steer me towards the cabin and tents.

Mr. Shiny Eyes went off to wash his stuff, since he’d already had sex once that afternoon. So thoughtful.

Mr. Sweetheart and I went into someone’s communal cabin to use the restroom. Too-turned-on-to-pee is a good feeling, but is also annoying when there’s a whole bunch of stuff I’m in a hurry to start doing/having done to me. After I washed my hands I saw that there were no paper towels so I wiped them on the back of his shirt—that got me in some very nice trouble and I got pushed up against the sink. Jeez I wish I could feel his (your) hands in my hair right now.

Mr. Shiny eyes returned all fresh and clean and we all made out for a while on the railing of the cabin porch. I felt like a prize when people saw us. Then it was time to go in the tent.

The tent that Ms. and Mr. Sweetheart were sharing with some others was a store that sold..dresses, maybe? and had a big sleeping quarters in the back. There were three big air mattresses all nicely made up and lots of clothes and gear all around. They led me to the mattress on the far right of the tent and I lay down first—it was exactly the kind of happy that I get sunbathing at the nude beach, only sexier.

Is it possible to undress soulfully? I watched Mr. Sweetheart strip off his shirt, his kilt, his undies. He looked so vulnerable and sincere.

I know I talked about whatever-the-straight-version-of-bears-is as being my type, but these two aren’t that, and they’ve kind of given me a taste for fit-and-strong.

They lay down beside me, Mr. Sweetheart on the left and Mr. Shiny Eyes on the right. We held each other, kissed, and then they did something I’ve fantasized about my whole life—each of them took a nipple in his mouth, sucked and played. Complete, deep warmth flooded through me, and I felt cared-for and at peace in a way that I’ve never felt before. My moans of pleasure were insufficient to express the bliss I was feeling, so I guess that’s why God made blog posts.

The Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness, Part Four: The Hair-Pulling Contest

Friends, in my everyday life, when I’m not running off to sexy festivals and writing about it, I’m a teacher in my very first year. As any teacher will tell you, the first year is kind of a nightmare. Yes, there are many happy and fulfilling moments, but also bucketloads of trial and error that comes down mostly on the “error” side, mistakes that make my soul hurt, and mountains of self-doubt and shame.

I’m telling you this so you’ll understand what the sheer rightness of this story is doing for me. I may be stumbling and sniffling determinedly through my professional life, but the way I got myself exactly what I needed that day in the woods gives me hope that I will someday float myself through it into confidence and grace. Plus, it gives me something nice to daydream about when I should be grading papers.

So back to the kissing. I’m not sure how Mr. Sweetheart and I got from that sweet cake flower kiss to him yanking the bejeezus out of my hair, but I’m thinking I probably instigated it. Sincere and soulful as he is, Mr. Sweetheart has a delicious mean streak when it comes to happy pain. As we kept on kissing, he reached his hand up into the back of my hair and pulled insistently, making me feel helpless/giddy/elated. The adrenaline pushed up through me, I groaned and laughed.

Snarling a little, he dragged me across the pavilion and the “She” half of Sheandhim got adorably concerned: “Why are you dragging my friend around?”

By way of answering, he angled my face so that she could see my expression. “And...she loves it. Okay.”

So on top of the fact that I was lucky enough to have this happen to me, I also won the friend lottery by having her check on me.

And ohboy, I DID love it.

It should be said that as I write this I’m not sure of the order of things—the timeline slips away a little as happens in regards to magical days. But I do know that while we were milling around sampling obscure liquors, I had maybe the best idea I’ve ever had. I told my two kissing-pals that they should have a hair-pulling contest, and they obliged. Ms. Sweetheart held my glasses for me and Mr. Sweetheart went first--was very unsweetheartlike. He pulled my hair down so hard that I was forced to my knees. I loved making a spectacle of us, doing something so nicely violent in such safe, lovey-dovey surroundings. I think I have him an eight.

When Mr. Shiny Eyes had his turn, it was more like dancing. Holding the hair at the nape of my neck, he steered my body this way and that, eventually into a precipitous dip. It was a very princessy feeling.

“Well, (Mr. Shiny Eyes) has finesse, but (Mr. Sweetheart) is not afraid to really hurt me. They went back and forth, getting stronger and snarlier. I forget which one of them I called “Sir” first, but they sure both deserved the title. They realized after a while that I wasn’t giving them tens because then the game would be over, but eventually it was and things got much more makey-outy. Mr. Shiny Eyes helped me try a delicious elderberry something by drinking it first and kissing it into my mouth. It was dreamy and soft and tasted like all the spring goodness. He kept kissing me and kissing me until I asked for some spanks.

He told me to lean against a post on the side of the pavilion, so I did. It had some nails in it so I had to be careful. The spanking soon went back to kissing, and as he held me there against the railing, his hands started to wander, as did mine. He played with my nipples, which felt like they’d been waiting for him all along. Likewise my hand had been waiting for his fantastically hard cock.

I noticed Mr. Sweetheart hovering off to the side, so I said “What are you doing over there?” He came close so that I could put my arm around him and I said “Can I?’ and when I got the okay (More like the “Can you what?” but still…) I ran my hands over the front of his kilt while still playing with Mr. Shiny Eyes and kissing the heck out of both of them.

And one-in-each-hand is of course so very very much better in real life than it is in search terms, dears. I felt like a millionaire. Like a goddess. Like a millionaire goddess with the wettest hoo-ha in the entire known universe.

Next: It’s possible I was born for this.

The Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness Part Three: Two Kisses, One Cake Flower

After the nature walk, I was feeling oddly standoffish—I was sitting on the side of the hill overlooking the afternoon ritual. Some folk nearby promised some “Ritual Science Theater 3000” and that’s kinda where I was at: ironic, detached. I’d had a lot of fun but I wasn’t sure what else I could get out of the day. Plus, I was sad that all of the guys had sarongs on. I was not seeing anywhere near a nude beach number of penises, and that made me grumpy.

But! After the ritual, which took place in sort of a picnic-pavilion thing, they had a feast where you weren’t allowed to feed anything to yourself—foodstuffs could only be put in your mouth by others. This seemed like enough of an icebreaker to get me over my wallflowerness. And then! I saw Mr. and Ms. Sweetheart! (Not married, but I’ve paired their nicknames for the sake of simplicity and also because they happen to both be sweethearts. Also it should be mentioned that she looks like a beautiful kickass goddess. Freya maybe.) I hadn’t even known they’d be there!

Mr. Sweetheart and I had been in touch a little bit since the hotel party. He even tried to matchmake me with the cute ex-fireman guy, but that didn’t go anywhere. Recently, Mr. Sweetheart had started following my blog, so he was really really on my good side. Any guy who can read those heartbreak-laden posts I’ve been writing lately and still want to hang out with me—that is a man.

Aside from the collared human platters who ringed the pavilion covered in fruit, I was the only one at the feast completely naked. I worried that it might be bad etiquette, but no one seemed to mind. Mr. and Ms. Sweetheart wrapped me up in a big hug and said they’d keep me from being a wallflower, and I was so grateful for that. With them there, I felt a nice homey healing feeling, like I could really open up and join the party.

My friends Sheandhim arrived, looking flushed and sleepy from whatever Tantric magic they’d been getting up to. We all took turns feeding each other apples slices, strawberries, and other yummy things.

And hooray! Mr. Shiny Eyes was there, chatting with a pretty lady on the ersatz dance floor. I interrupted their conversation to ask if he remembered me and tell him I DEFINITELY remembered his rope-pulling skills. It didn’t take us long to get to a kiss and ohboy was he good at it. Some kisses are just like a key finding the right lock, and this was one of those. “Hmmm, maybe we should spend some time together,” I think he said, and I was inclined to agree.

He went back to his pretty lady and I went back to my friends. After I ended up with an entire mocha mini-cupcake in my mouth at once, one of the dolled-up hostesses kindly explained that I could touch the food after it’d been fed to me, so as to take smaller bites. Predictable but enjoyable things were said about my mouth’s capacity.

Sheandhim looked into licking honey off of one of the human platters, but I’ve never gotten that licking-sticky-stuff-off-of-people thing.  However, I spotted a fancy white cake on one of the (nonhuman) side tables. I thought it was a birthday cake but it occurs to me that it might have been some magic couple’s (or triad’s or whatever’s) wedding cake. It had one flower left on it, a big white blossom that I absolutely had to have, but he fed me the cake part first. (I know, life is hard sometimes, isn’t it?) “Ahem,” I said, “That cake flower isn’t going to feed itself to me…”

I was sheepish for being such a brat, but he seemed impressed. “Not only have you been working on you no, you’re getting really good at making your desires clear.”

He fed me the flower and it was delicious—crunchy, vanilla, crystalline. And then he held me and we kissed. It was sweet and not just because of the cake flower. It was an old-friends kiss, even though we haven’t known each other for long. The kiss of an ally.

He held me tight and pressed himself forward, the front of his kilt all happy to see me—I lovelovelove that feeling.

(Sidenote: The whole kilt-as-pagan-boy-uniform thing? AWESOME. I mean, if they HAVE to wear something on the bottom.)

I feel a little nervous about the romance I’m maybe writing into these kisses, but I really like being in a world where kissing is this easy, where people are just so generous with themselves.

Next time: The hair-pulling contest: Best. Idea. Ever.

The Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness, Part One: First, Some Backtracking

Before I get to the hot magic that happened yesterday, it’s necessary to go back to a party in a conference hotel room (earlier this year, back during the time when I wasn’t blogging) to properly introduce some characters.

Sweetie and I do a thing sometimes where we’ll get a room at a conference she isn’t interested in. That way, she gets a mini-vacation and she’s right there to come home to after I’m done social-butterflying. This particular time, she was nice enough to turn around when she was almost there to go back home and get the ropes. Because, as you know, she’s the best.

While the year before I’d been shy and barely sure I belonged, this year I spent most of the conference with a favorite co-adventurer, the Lady of the House (of Nude Year’s Eve and Cuddle Party fame) and found out which room the yearly clothing optional party was in.

When Sweetie and I got to the party, the ladies whose room it was were still setting up. People were still doing subdued, beginning-of-the-night chitchat when I stripped down and asked Sweetie to get started with the ropes. I LOVE getting ropes on in mostly-vanilla rooms, but this time it was especially wonderful because once she got the ropes on me, she started talking me through putting them on other people. It gave me a surge of bratty power even more than I normally get. I gave the hostess a nice harness and put a lovely lavender rope corset on the Lady of the House. People oohed and ahhed, probably because my friend is stunning. I put a dragonfly sleeve on the belle-of-the-ball guy with the fullest dance card, and his wife proceeded to torment his restrained self with ice cubes.

My pal Mr. Sweetheart (okay, he didn’t have that nickname until yesterday) was there giving the hostess a sound flogging. I had to wait a while for my turn, but after he’d rested his arm and while the party was still quiet enough that I could be center of attention, he told me in no uncertain terms to bend myself over the posh hotel chair in the middle of the room. It was the best feeling getting flogged while all the nice poly people chatted and looked on. One lady pointed out how my fists balled up when things got harsh. He pummeled my back, my ass, even my boobs, which I don’t usually like getting hurt. The future Mr. Sweetheart was worn out before I was, but I rejoined the party with a sunburny glow and a deep sense of relief. The next ass was in the air for him before he even got a chance to rest.

Jeez, I love a friendly flogging. I’d really like more of those in my day-to-day life.

People kept pouring into the hotel room, and sexytimes started happening in the bedroom. It was my first party where actual sex-acts were taking place, and I liked it, but Sweetie started getting claustrophobic. She also got annoyed that I’d put my special pink ropes on the dragonfly sleeve guy, so I bravely interrupted him mid-blowjob to get them back. He was glad to regain the use of his hands.

Assuring me that she was okay, Sweetie helped me unwind the ropes from the ladies and left me at the party while she went downstairs to lie down. I was all nakedly flirty with a former fireman who’d gotten my attention when he lifted my friend over his head. (This is a recurring theme, I notice…)  All drunk with rope-power and also wine, I told him that by next year, he’d better be ready to pick me up. “Start working on it,” I said, pointing at him imperiously.

Soon enough, the party got to be too crowded for me. I put my pjs on over my ropes and headed for the door.

The trouble was, the room was so crowded that I got stuck behind a lengthy multiperson hug and in front of a nice man with very shiny eyes. Mr. Shiny Eyes didn’t seem to mind that I was wedged against him. He gave me a hug which deftly turned into him grabbing the sides of my harness under my clothes. “”May I?” he asked and “Ohyes” I said. There, all smushed in the crowd, he pulled the roes toward him, back and forth, up and down. As he yanked up hard so that the crotch rope knots hit all the right targets, I let out a squeal, caught fireman guy watching, and felt very successful at being alive. I turned my head to avoid kissing Mr. Shiny Eyes, a mistake I don’t intend to repeat.

The actual festival story makes me a little nervous to write, but I am soooo going to enjoy spending some more quality paragraph time with some of these folks. Stay tuned!