Mr. Sweetheart’s Maybe Pile

You’d think I’d know by now, after two years of getting shocking amounts of well-being from friends-and-family Zooms, that video chats can result in profound warmth! That’s what happened last Thursday night when I caught up with Mr. Sweetheart after nine long years!

I maybe should also stop being surprised at the way people I’ve loved can stay in my body! It was a very chaste catch-up (I would have to go on quite an internal journey to get to using video chat for sexytimes! But I bet I can get there.) It only took a few minutes of talking to him, for my body to remember what it was like to be tangled up with Mr. Sweetheart—I felt the heat all the way down to my spine, a long-forgotten Tantric-ish magic.

We both had breakups in May, his from a more serious, long-term relationship, but we bonded over being heartbreak twinsies. The relationship he was processing had been (maybe at her request?) monogamous, so he was antsy to get out into the poly world again. Definitely know that feeling!

His sluttily-proactive idea was to make a list of twenty people he might be able to snuggle with and just start reaching out. I was tempted to do the same, but with a 20-sided die. (Which I have because I teach math, I don’t suddenly have enough imagination to D&D!)

I tried a list, expanding it to include not just snuggles but apologies-owed and estranged friends. I got to twenty, but only about five of them were even a little bit advisable, so I’ll keep leaving my adventures to Feeld and fate. (And hoping the Cute Guy at the Car Place someday gets his act together.

I guess Mr. Sweetheart felt some of the same past/present warmth, because he asked if we could be in each other’s maybe piles. I said an unequivocal YES. He lives like 6 states away, but we’ve put monthly video chats on the calendar. I could see going to visit him and REALLY MAKING THE MOST of some summer weekend. I’ve already relaxed into his body again, so there’s lots of fun to hope for.

Best of all, he’s going to join me in my knot-learning quest! He’s already an excellent rope top (I VIVIDLY remember a REALLY good handle…) but it hadn’t occurred to him that he could be practicing on himself. I’m so pleased to be a good bad influence. Let the Summer of (Knotty) Romance proceed!

Postscript to the Shy One

My heart has no sense of perspective about kind touch or attention to detail. It’s why I asked-out-then-befriended my massage therapist. It’s why I have had a crush on Cute Guy at the Car Place for SEVEN YEARS, ever since the first time he put my keys back on the key ring for me.

Kind touch and attention to detail are where all the swirly/woozy/glittery emotions about the Shy One came from, what makes him so hard to move past. Warm affection, carefulness, specificity. The first night with him, after the pretty ropes and lovely sex, in the cozy glow of peace and satisfaction, I leaned back onto him and he said “I love your body,” running his hands over my shoulders, my arms, my waist, my hips. Firm, warm touch, easily given—I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s gotten a hundred girlfriends since we broke up in mid-May.

That first night, it was so easy to learn the Heart Link harness because A. He didn’t mind me rewinding a YouTube video a bunch of times trying to figure out the hearts! And B. He was so still! Excited and engaged, not impatient or judgey. Encouraging. Sweet. I don’t think too much about dad energy, but maybe that’s what it was.

The night of all the presents, our third date, after our month of sunsets, was one of the most powerful instances I’ve felt of arousal being intertwined with joy. He had the condom on and was ready to go in, but I told him to stop. Just stay there. Wellbeing fizzed up through me as he paused, hard dick resting on my vulva. I put my arms around him tight, kissed him, and felt the full force of whatever bond that month of mostly-chaste flirting had built.

It was a feeling of wholeness that, somewhat vexingly, still occupies my entire body. Any time I’m quiet and calm, I can feel it in my toes.

To paraphrase Lady Mary (spoiler alert!) when her suitors were closing in and she was still deep in grief over Matthew Crawley, I’m still full of The Shy One. It’s true that The Hipster jangled loose a lot of stuck desire and made me want to start a summer sex rampage like the hot kaiju that I am, but even as I move into this new stage of why-doesn’t-so-and-so-text-me flirtation/vexation, The Shy One is still with me. He’s not just in the limbo of my Feeld inbox, being all “This human has deactivated their account,” he’s in my soul’s inbox, in my whole heart. Both of those places are very crowded, but still.

That third date was the only time he slept over, and in the long process of saying goodbye, he sat on the floor next to the bed to hold me and kiss me while I was still under the covers. That morning was THE WHOLE DREAM, a distillation of why I started this blog in the first place, the CLOSENESS, the ROMANCE, the being adored. There was another time, on our second date, we were all wrapped up in each other, when he looked me in the face (I’m sorry but NO ONE was better at looking at me than he was.) and got still.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

“Nothing. Well, I am thinking something. I like you.”

It’s hard to imagine any new feelings ever coming close to that, though there’s never any need to compare feelings. I know every connection is its own universe, every new match a fresh start, a new mystery.

Two days ago, I wished long-absent Mr. Sweetheart a happy birthday on facebook, the most low-stakes interaction possible, and to my delight, he reached out to say hello! We’re planning a catch-up Zoom! He was excited that I remembered his blog nickname, and I said “Of course I do! Once in the story, always in the story.”

So, dear Shy One, who is probably not reading this, same thing. Once in the story, always in the story. You’ll snuggle and read about history and watch your true crime shows and love and work and hopefully see flowers and think of me every once in a while. I’ll learn to let you go, to forgive myself for not finding a way to fit, but you’ll still always be with me. Your generous touch, your giggle, your expert tongue, your supercute butt; always a little bit mine. And my heart, slutty though it will surely be, will always belong a little to you. I’ll love you. Forever. That’s all.

OMG Mr. Shiny Eyes Called!!!

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

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

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

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

The End of My Adventures? A Sparkly Festival of…Grief.

I was excited yesterday morning to pack up and get ready for the Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness, but I was also grumpy and space-issuey—even the shower curtain brushing up against my legs seemed invasive. I was thinking it might be better to stay home and rest and write, maybe even grade papers. I wanted some time to myself.

But I also knew it was time to start reaching out, and I was curious about whether I’d even be interested in a naked-outside adventure now that the Big Therapy Project had been completed. When I arrived, I immediately felt disincluded—the man at the gate couldn’t find my name on the list, and neither could the lady at registration, at first. Still, I was glad to be there and excited to see my friends.

I found Mr. and Ms. Sweetheart right away. Their tent was in the same place it was in last year, where I’d had all the fun with Mr. Sweetheart and Mr. Shiny Eyes. This time, all the front tent flaps were open and it had the feel of a veranda, a porch full of inflatable beds.

I got naked and fell easily in with them on their bed. I was warm from the gorgeous day and from the adrenaline and had lots of lovely snuggles and sexytimes in front of everyone, but Mr. Sweetheart got impatient with me for wanting to stop and put on sunscreen—he deemed it shady enough. After snuggles they were going to a workshop and he was getting annoyed with me for making them late, and I wasn’t okay with that. I wanted to go enjoy the woods anyway.

I felt post-coital tired and cranky as I set off on my own. I started out naked but kept adding more clothes as I went. My spray-on sunscreen wouldn’t work and everything all of a sudden felt sore. I added a skirt and then a bra, but still sure did like the sun on my skin. I found and walked the labyrinth where I’d had such a meaningful experience last year, then went to explore the pond. It was teeming with tadpoles, a fuck you to anything that would interfere with the flourishing of life. I found this vindicating, since the pond where I used to watch tadpoles as a child has fallen prey to frackers. It felt like the frogs were still winning.

I saw a tiny turtle and got very, very sad that Sweetie wasn’t there to see it with me.

I tried to have some self-adventures in the woods, that had long been a fantasy of mine, but my body felt raw and disconnected, guarded against touch, even my own. I started to realize that no matter how pretty the scenery, no matter how much everyone else was having fun, I didn’t belong here, maybe never would.

On the way back from the pond, who should I see but that harbinger of go-home-already, Steampunk Girl. She was, as always, perfectly at home, being chatted up by a guy who looked exactly like a young Weird Al Yankovic. She was directly in my path and I thought I should go talk to her, say my sorries and get in over with, but everything inside me finished shutting down and I found a way to get past them without being seen.

I found some nice grass to lie down in, looked up at the perfect cartoon clouds and thought about the Steampunks, who were probably here together and fitting in perfectly the way they always do, like I never would. I don’t know why I still feel so much pain about them, but there is. I’m still broken about them no matter how much progress I’ve made otherwise.

I started to sob and a couple of strangers came over to talk to me, but I couldn’t articulate it to strangers, I needed a real friend.

I spotted the Recurring Character and his wife sitting in lawn chairs and watching a nice couple fuck in the next tent over. I asked if I could just sit by them, but they got closed and guarded and he said “We’re having an alone moment right now.”

I think that was the moment that I clocked out of polyamory, or whatever community this was. The way they used boundaries as an excuse to ignore the real need of a hurting human being, this has been the essence of heartbreak after heartbreak for these past few years. It certainly wasn’t friendship. Like a child, I sobbed away across the field, in front of everyone, maybe even in front of Steampunks.

I eventually found the Sweethearts leaving their workshop, hugged them and told them what happened with Steampunk Girl. I lay down on the bed for a few minutes and when I closed my eyes, they were gone again. There was nothing and no one here for me, not even myself since I felt so disconnected.

I tried to get a cup of coffee in hopes that that would make me feel better, but even THAT felt exclusive—you had to be a member of the Coffee Club. Never has the universe been so unsubtle at telling me to get the heck out of someplace.

I headed home sad and wondering what hobbies would replace unicorning and nudity, if I’d ever find a place to belong. (Where does one go to meet monogamous available people, anyway?) I stopped at Gold Star Wing Girl’s house on the way home, and talking to her confirmed what I already sort of knew: My adventures of the past few years helped me to separate from Sweetie and successfully tackle the Big Therapy Project, and now that that’s done, they just don’t have the same meaning. Being a naked peripheral character feels bad because it’s already in the past and going backwards always hurts.

I hung onto the Sweethearts the longest probably because they’re the nicest, but it’s time to cop to the thing I said out loud to Sweetie in the ocean last summer—I didn’t say I wanted an FWB or a play partner or a couple. I said I wanted a husband. And because, unlikely as he is for giving such an insight, Steampunk Guy was the one who helped me realize it, maybe they’ll always be there to show me when I’m off track.

It’s lonely not belonging, but I can only refocus on ways to keep belonging with myself and hope the rest works out somehow.

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.

Naked New Years as Benchmark: So Many Gold Stars

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Awesome at Life in '014: Thanks, Mr. and Ms. Sweetheart! Plus Another Song

My family always says that whatever you're doing at midnight on New Years is what you'll be doing for the whole year. I got up from a hot and heartfelt threesome (briefly a foursome) to watch the ball drop, then danced around naked with my friends. I'll try to say some coherent things about it later, but for now, I'm optimistic and tired. And so grateful to the Lady of the House for deciding to throw her annual party.

The best part is that after all of the revelry and snuggles, all I wanted was myself and my beloved bed. I'm so proud to be on my own, of how far I came last year, and I think I can get to where I need to go. This is the song that was playing as I gathered up my stuff to go:

Year End Heart Inventory 2013: Melancholy and Gratitude

Before I settle in to paint and plan and make my goals for the new year, I’m giving a little time to melancholy. My heart hurts for everything that’s gone past. Even though most of the people in these stories are still around, I miss discovering them, feeling all the hope and imagination I had when we first met. Though I wouldn’t change many things, I still grieve for lost possibilities.

I named 2013 my Year of Connection, and at times that felt like a terrible joke, a colossal failure—indeed, there’s still a fortress of bitterness inside me toward The Man and the Scary Party, and relatedly my inability to resist Steampunk Guy made a nice thing turn into a gaping, unresolved loss that it just shouldn’t have been. I wonder sometimes, if I’d said no after the third or fourth text, in which he said “friendship isn’t required” for sex, if I’d just has the faith to admit to myself he’d never be what I wanted, would we have ended up friends, or would we at least be able to share a dungeon  with him? We’ll never know. Curiosity and lust pulled me toward him and I can never regret where it took me, to some of the most amazing scenes, to emotions I may never have experienced otherwise—he pushed me out of my comfy not-enough existence, whether he liked me at all or not, which I suspect he kind of did. I think he tried to fit just like I did. I think he’s gone because he didn’t like hurting me.

I can’t let the haywire things take away from the fact that it really WAS a Year of Connection. None of the connections except The Man really feel quite lost, and there were so many relationships that blossomed and grew all year, in spite of my up-and-down-ness, there are people who keep getting closer.

Though things didn’t work out romantically with Mr. Sweetheart, he has remained a loyal friend. I can still plan to call him, gather up my markers and draw as we catch up on our lives. He’s even one of the people I can call if I’m a tearful mess. (Dear Everything, Please let me spend much less time this year as a tearful mess!) I’ll see the Sweethearts in a few nights at New Years Eve, and there may even be some shenanigans, but even if there aren’t, it’s comforting knowing that spontaneous sexytimes at a festival can lead to real and lasting bonds. Which is good, because I aspire to many more festival sexytimes.

Speaking of the Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness, Mr. Shiny Eyes stayed a good friend too. He is always willing to share his life with me, to listen and lend me strength.

Cute Master and Pretty Slave have given me so, so much. They gave me the truest expression of bisexuality that I’ve experienced so far. That assured me that I do have a place in this world, that what I want and prefer really matters. She convinced me to treat myself like I’m worth something, and I often do. They both have given me so much joy and happiness, such an unexpected warm, safe place to be naked and sing Beatles songs. I’m so grateful for that, and as friends I love them very, very much, and I don’t think that will ever change.

Did you ever wonder what happened to the Huge Handed Fireman? I only saw him once after our Labor Day encounter: He was at a munch, scrolling through pictures in his phone, laughing to a friend. When I asked to see what they were laughing about, he showed me a picture of an obese patient he’d rescued sprawled and naked on a gurney, almost certainly unaware that he was being photographed. HHF may have been trying to reform the Scary Party, but it seems he’s one of their blackhearted ilk. I think I’ll try to stop being surprised when sadists are mean.

The other September crush fared much better. Cutest Boy sent me a heartfelt Christmas note, letting me know he still reads me and offering support and encouragement. We struck up a conversation and though he is still beyond off-limits, (Please let 2014 be a year without unmanageably jealous girlfriends!) it was good to feel that the friendship is still there and know that the whatever-it-was back in the fall actually meant something. I still have warm feelings for him and I hope they find a way to be happy, that he finds a way to be who he is.

Speaking of the warm feelings, I haven’t heard from Mr. Sweetface since we exchanged Merry Christmases, but I hope I do before too long. He feels genuine and makes me happy and it felt really nice of Mrs. Sweetface to share him with me last weekend. Whatever else happens, that Christmassy playdate will always be a favorite.

And then, of course, there’s Sweetie. I miss her very much. We spent Christmas day together and it was such a mix of comforting and sad. We watched a movie about a couples’ brunch that coincided with the end of the world, that seemed about right.  Some days, I feel so glad to be free and be her friend, and other days I feel completely devastated that she’s not here to bring a cup of coffee to. I think that New Years may be a challenge because last year it was so much about her and our ropes. Before we finally gave up, we had some wonderful times, and those are what sticks with me now that the fighting is over.

Last week I was out at the local erotic reading with Winggirl One and a gentleman came up to us to say he liked the story I’d read, the one about my date night with Pretty Slave and Cute Master. In the ensuing conversation, it emerged that she and I had both played with CM, and that we’d spanked each other etc. The gentleman said “Wow, I have to get out more.”

That made me realize just how lucky I am to be in this particular story. I’ve gotten to do things that many people only read about, only do in their fantasies. It’s been a year of the most beautiful, sexy, strange connections and I get to keep every single memory, in my heart and in my hoo-ha. So I’m ending the year with sadness, yes, but also with gratitude—for everyone who shared him- or herself with me, who gave me pleasure and friendship and support, I love you. I love you no matter where you are now, no matter what happened. Thank you for touching me, for helping me grow, for turning me on, for being in this magic year with me. Thank you for being in my life. I wish you every single wonderful thing.

Happy Move-In Day, Ms. and Mr. Sweetheart!

Two of my favorite pals are making their lives more merged today. Just wanted to send them all the blessings and love!

Important Heart Updates!

1. Sweetie and I are divorcing. It's sad and hard but the prevailing emotions for me are relief and hope. We called our families and they were very kind and understanding.

***If you're a close friend of ours and this is how you're finding out, I'm sorry. Give me a call if you want.***

2. Mr. Sweetheart (with the help of Ms. Sweetheart's insistence that he talk to me) said he was sorry until I listened. He's one of the few people to make it past one of my breakup letters! We talked for a long time and our official status is now "Friends Who Will See What Happens."

3. I have a date tonight with Steampunk Guy and that makes me happy. I'm grateful to him for being such a treat. And for getting me out of the house! Yay.

Roadblock #3: I’ve Been Half-Divorced in my Head for a While

Friends, I’ve left out a really important part of the story. I haven’t told you how much hurt there is between me and Sweetie. Every loving thing I’ve said about her is true and sincere, but there is a very deep sadness between us that’s getting harder and harder to push aside.

Every so often, we trigger something in each other that is very hard to live with. We only have bad fights a few times a year, but the things we’ve said to each other are a very heavy load to keep carrying. Any couple that’s been together for twelve years might have deep angers and resentments, but in this case I don’t understand how we can get to the point of liking ourselves, individually or together. For a long time she attacked my sexuality whenever we were fighting, so even though she’s almost always supportive now it is hard to accept myself as bisexual. I have a very, very deep wish to be gay for her, to make all of the complications and dissatisfactions (well not ALL of them, I suppose) go away.

Saturday, we thought we got it figured out. We were bickering on the nude beach of all places, exchanging barbs about how I always want her to go in the ocean and she doesn’t want to. It, um, wasn’t really about the ocean. I told her I couldn’t deal with the idea of swimming alone for the rest of my life, couldn’t deal with paddling around by myself with all those happy couples. I didn’t want to hit on them, I wanted to be them.

She pointed out, incorrectly but insightfully, that the wave-frolicking pairs I was envying were all boy/girl combinations. I’m sure this is partly because I was hurting over Mr. Sweetheart, but I know that’s not all.

“I haven’t been your primary partner for a long time.” she said, again wrong but not wrong. What I feel for her is closer to best-friendship than romance to the point where I dearly wish we could skip right past divorce to being pals. But she would have to not be madly in love with me for us to do that.

Having been back and forth about divorce bunches of times, we decided we were finally going to rip the Band-aid off as soon as we got home and start the divorce process. I got up and walked into the ocean, suddenly and completely fine with swimming on my own. It was cold and it took me a while to settle in, pick my feet up, float and even smile. I felt relief. I could finally stop trying to squeeze into this thing that no longer fit me. My long hard quest to somehow what she wants was over. I could stop running and finally turn to face myself.

Of course she swam out to meet me. I started to cry. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“For what?”

I started to cry harder and sobbed out “I want a husband.”

There in the water, cool and naked and facing the person who knows me best in the world, it seemed so clear. It seemed like such a simple truth.

It’s impossible to overstate the amount of shame that my failure to be gay and monogamous has brought me over the years. I felt, I still feel, like I let her down so much. I’ve been given a partner who is almost perfect, almost every single thing a person could need, why couldn’t I just TAKE it? Why couldn’t I just be satisfied?

I’m not sure if I can every really love myself within the context of this relationship. It is certainly very hard to accept being bi, let alone the taboo and crazy-feeling wish for a male primary. Every time some dude wrecks our evening in whatever careless way, I overflow with sorries, for taking away her time and happiness, for the fact that I could never manage to just settle down and let myself be loved.

Day to day, she’s understanding and giving, the most supportive a poly girl could hope for, but in the fights the truth always comes out. Like I started to say, for years she’d attack my sexuality during every fight, calling me a slut or a whore and telling me that I’m disgusting for wanting men. She talked so disdainfully and I gave as good as I got. These days she doesn’t tell me to go suck a dick like she used to, but she does go from zero to you’re-a-stupid-selfish-bitch-and-you-never-shut-up-about-boys every so often. I wish there were some in-between there.

She doesn’t say those things because she really hates men or bisexuals or anything like that. She does it because I do get self-involved, yammering and fussing through every crush, and it makes her feel insignificant. I am not loving her the way she deserves to be loved, and I am not loving myself, either.

As we drove home from the beach, stopping for sundaes and listening to Wait Wait, Don’t Tell Me as usual, the enormity of losing each other kept hitting us and what to do next became a lot less clear. Whether I stay with her or not, a husband seems like an impossible dream-where does one get one of those? How does that happen?

The best thing about this, though, is that I’ve allowed myself to stop denying it, to stop wishing and trying and struggling to be the wife I planned to be ten years ago, to be what’s expected of me, to be what she really wants. I grieve for the nice lesbian wife I didn’t turn out to be, but I’m also glad to be (almost) free of her. (Free of the imaginary me, that is.)

Since Saturday, we’ve been intermittently fine and sobby. We fall asleep separately but she still crawls in with me every night, we still hit the snooze a million times and hold each other in the cool morning air. I wish we could hit the snooze on this decision forever.

Ohno, Mr. Sweetheart. A Breakup, I Think

Last Wednesday afternoon was an especially good one. Sweetie had played hookie from work and we went to our special library over by the city pool. We got out about a million books and then, feeling rich and satisfied, went over to the pool for a swim. I usually go by myself to the pool so I was extra-excited to be there with her. There’s been tension between us for the past few weeks and I was happy to feel it wash away in the sun and water—my heart felt truly free.

Part of the reason for this sense of well-being was that Wednesday night is my scheduled phone date with Mr. Sweetheart. Sweetie had already planned to take herself out and about so that we could have privacy and I had a cute nightgown picked out just in case I got asked what I was wearing. Plus! My visit to Mr. Sweetheart’s place was less than a week and a half away—I couldn’t wait for us to plan it!

Except. A post showed up in my facebook feed that said Mr. and Ms. Sweetheart were on a plane on the way across the country to visit friends. I’d known that they had a trip coming up but had no idea that it fell smack in the middle of our date night.

I felt hurt, disoriented, and left out, as if he didn’t really consider me a factor in his plans. I would have been happy to reschedule our call or even postpone it until after the trip if I’d been asked, but I wasn’t. I calmly left a voice mail saying as much, and he texted back when they landed. He was sorry for “not putting two and two together” and said he’d call but it wouldn’t be “full service.” It seemed pathetic to wait around for a call that he’d forgotten about, so I went out with Sweetie to pick out some new sheets and made some optimistic lingerie purchases while I was at it.

He told me to let him know when I was back from running errands, and when I did he called. He was very matter-of-fact about what was going on, saying he’d be better about the calendar but also just sort of breezing past the hurt. Knowing he was sitting next to Ms. Sweetheart made me feel like I had to reign in my emotions, too. He told me happily about the friends they were staying with and the poly meetup they were headed for. I felt ugly and stupid for having to be a complaint in the middle of his festivities, and would have given anything to be someplace other than sitting rejected in my pajamas as they joyously began their stay. I hated the role I was put in.

Businesslike, he asked me what my driving-to-his-house plans were for the following weekend. I felt startled by this since what just happened had not been resolved yet. It seemed crazy to drive that far for somebody who’d forget a date with me, but I pressed on figuring it’d be resolved by then.

Midsentence their friends arrived and that was that. With a businesslike “Okay, I’ll follow that up with you later,” he started ending the call and I was like “Are you kidding me? You’re hanging up on a conversation about how you…”I hatehate HATED being in this harpylike position so I hit “end call” without really thinking, and when I called back, he didn’t pick up.

What upset me the most was that instead of just enjoying Sweetie and my library books, I was now typing sad texts, turning off the phone, and crying my eyes out. It’s a leap that I take complete responsibility for, but I felt not just rejected by the Sweethearts but by the poly community as a whole—being cut off midconversation in the midst of their revelry made me feel like I’d tried to crash a party where I was unwelcome. What started out as a simple miscommunication had turned into what felt like a public humiliation, and (I have to say it!) not the good kind.

Still, I fully expected it to get worked out, that I would turn my phone back on and find some genuine effort to fix it, but there was none. (He’s gotta do SOMETHING,” Sweetie kept saying, as if we live in a movie and he could tool over and hold a boombox over his head.)

I wrote a gracious (if somewhat disingenuous) breakup text this morning because I didn’t know what else to do. I can’t be with someone who treats me like nothing as soon as his friends are around—I already went through it with The Man and once was too much.

But I didn’t WANT to break up. I wanted him to show that he cared, to somehow assure me that I wouldn’t slip through the cracks again. I wanted to hear from him so badly today that I thought I’d explode, but there was nothing, and I spent most of the day crying and feeling like a failure.

The thing is, everybody, this is the second time I’ve been forgotten in the last couple of weeks. When Steampunk Guy and I were making plans for our most recent shenanigans, he sort of drifted off mid-planning, for days. I had to remind him to finish making a date with me. That hurt less because it’s less of a relationshippy situation.

But still, I’m having a hard time not freaking out about being forgettable. The calendar is my sun, moon, and stars and I would never forget ANYBODY, friend, lover, event or otherwise once they’re on there. Why can’t I find this in another person? Why do I consistently choose partners who don’t/can’t see me as part of their lives? Is there anything else out there for me besides having a hot but tiny role?

Mr. Sweetheart, if you get around to reading this, I hated being the negative part in what seemed like such a fun night. I absolutely fucking detest the idea of not having you in my life and I so wish that things had gone differently. But somewhere in me I need to find the belief that I deserve to not be forgotten.

Happy About Ms. and Mr. Sweetheart

Last Sunday, I had my favorite metamour day so far. Ms. Sweetheart was in town for a meetup with one of her online communities and I was superexcited to spend some time with her. To tell the truth, if we hadn’t been with a rather vanilla-y crowd, I’d’ve been an eensy bit snuggly toward her. I like the way she makes me feel looked-after: During dinner, a chocolate chip from my bread pudding fell on my jeans and she didn’t hesitate to try and clean it off—to no avail, but still.

When Sweetie came to pick me up, Ms. Sweetheart walked me over to the car, saying “Do you think I should’ve blown their minds and told them you’re dating my boyfriend?”

And that’s how I found out that Mr. Sweetheart and I are dating, and I guess he felt the same. When I told him what she said, he said, “Oh, I’ll have to thank her, now I know!”

So yay, we’re dating. We have a weekly phone date on Wednesdays at 8 pm and plans for a visit are starting to come together.

And, (I can’t resist saying) speaking of coming together, during this week’s call he suggested talking about regular stuff for the first hour and then getting smutty after that. Sweetie even gave me the house to myself for the evening so I could speak (etc) without worrying she’d hear more than she wanted to.

When it came time to talk dirty, I was uncharacteristically shy—there are a lot of things I’ve written that I have yet to feel comfortable saying. He was kind enough to do the talking and oh, swoon, what a talker.

I kind of flunked “what are you wearing?” I had cute lacy pajama shorts on but I had to admit to a ratty and less-than-hot old top. Next week I’ll take the opportunity to put on an outfit—for a nudist, I’ve been getting preoccupied about outfits lately. I think that’s partly because I’ve been working out and I’m starting to feel a little more lingerie-able or something.

I was surprised by how intimate and sensual it felt—the sound of his voice made it feel like he was close. I got all warm and soft as if he were there to run his hands over me. He told a rope-themed story full of helpful angles and detail, but the part that gave me such a squirm/twinge/sparkle of lust was when he said something like “I’m getting nice and hard for you” and then said my name. What was it about hearing my name? I don’t think I’ve heard it said to me like that before.

“Are you ready to come for me yet?” he asked, saying my name again.

“Aaaalmost…” I sighed. I couldn’t really scrape together too many words the whole time, mostly moans and breaths and sighs which I felt oddly self-conscious about on the phone but nonetheless could not stop making.

I was in a dreamy, sleepy state and held the phone to my ear with my shoulder while I rubbed my nipples and clit.

“Come for me.” (Is there a better sentence in the universe?) and I did come, a new kind of orgasm swelled up and crested like an obedient (but still naughty) wave. I heard him come on the other end of the line too, and we were together and happy. We panted our way back to regular talk until it was time to say goodnight, at which time I texted him 1. The doodle I’d made during the regular part of the conversation and 2. A picture of the wet crotch of my PJ bottoms.

Even writing this a couple of days later, I still feel like we should high-five. Instead, here's a star:

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.