Back to the Nude Beach, Part Two

Taking all of my clothes off didn’t feel like such a big deal, though it seems like progress that I was unashamed of my tampon string. It felt like an even bigger milestone that I set up my beach umbrella on my own and it didn’t fall down for most of the day. (Of course, when it did fall down, there was a nice man who smelled like The Shy One to help me put it back up!)

Naked on the beach for the first time in about nine years, I didn’t feel the happy abandon, the instant adrenaline-rush pinupness I used to. It took me a little while to settle in enough to enjoy the day, but I never did fully settle in. The water was gorgeous and cool and I felt like a beautiful free mermaid, at least as much as you can when industrial ships and a big city skyline are in view.

Turning to float facing the shore, I saw a guy holding his cell phone up, probably just talking, but maybe filming—I fought the urge to flee. 2022 nude beach might be too different from 2014 nude beach, or maybe the difference is in me.

The first time I walked up the hot hot sand and back to my spot, I felt judged. The men, the boomer white men who are always there, reminded me too much of my Trumpish uncle. In the midst of all this freedom and diversity, they felt predatory and malevolent.

Yes, I’m nine years older and at least 50 pounds heavier, but neither of those things make me feel less hot or more judged on a day-to-day basis. But my perspective has changed, for good and for ill. It has been such a long, long almost-decade.

It’s harder to feel good-humored about the boomer guy who’d made himself tourguide of the surf, (Is it always the same guy or does it just seem that way? BFF-Formerly-Sweetie says it’s probably a different same guy.) “reminding me” that it’s important to splash my boobs before diving in so the cold water won’t be too much of a shock. Dude, there’s SO MUCH internet. You don’t have to do this!

Back at my towel, in the imaginary privacy of the umbrella-shade, I was able to settle into my own skin a little more, to enjoy my own nakedness. I took a selfie for the boys. I got gently turned on, but then it ebbed into a more serene pleasure. I listened to the combining songs of three or four different radios, until Beyonce’s Halo stood out. The song of my Summer of Romance. (Sorry, Running Up That Hill. You’re very nice too!) The song of kindness and pleasure and treasuring everyone, but especially of treasuring myself.

My day at the nude beach was a lot. I couldn’t concentrate for long to read either of my books or just gaze at the sea. This was a beautiful adventure, but a sad one too-after all, so many of the old nude-beach friends are gone from me, for life reasons or politics reasons or both. And this will always be the place where I decided that Sweetie and I needed to get a divorce.

I think I might prefer to be truly invisible on the beach, in my cute auntie-style swimdress, more concerned with the dolphins and the waves than with the humans. It was a moody-sweet drive home, so I put on the moody-sweet playlist I just made for The Song Sender. I grieved for the past and pleasantly longed for the characters of the present. I was glad to get home.

 

 

Where’s All My Body Positivity?!

 

But maybe a little. Because of the patriarchy?

 

I mean, I still have it for other people! I still think every kind of body can be sexy and spankable and lovable. Pagan Boy, at something like 400 pounds, was one of the sexiest humans ever to grace my life.

And most days, I can still look in the mirror or gaze into the Zoom screen and see cuteness. I can still ravish myself wholeheartedly and go to sleep with a cozy smile. Objectively, I still know my body is fuckable and maybe even loveable when the right one comes along.

But throughout this latest crush, depression brain has combined with post-quar lonely horniness to say things to myself that I would never in a million years say (Or think!) to or about a friend:

“I must be delusional to think anyone could be attracted to me at this size/age.”

“Am I officially too fat for all men? Have I crossed the point of no return? And same for my age?”

I could have been intuiting that I would be too fat for Poly Friends’ Partner in particular. “Wow it HAS been a while” he said he saw me at a gig a few weeks ago. I am quite a bit fatter than I was in my thirties (Like 320 vs 250) but I’d still felt gorgeous when I’d left the house that day! I’m a little freaked that maybe the gorgeousness will never translate anymore.

“Why can’t they see me?” Has been the thought-thorn in my side since Quarantine Crush. I always wonder if he didn’t tell me he had a partner because he just didn’t see 45-year-old me as sexual at all! I definitely don’t look like the 26-year old California person he knew when we were first friends!

I know some of this just-be-my-neutered-confidant stuff I get from guys just comes from good old fashioned patriarchal fat-phobia. It’s hard to get people to see a spark of desire when they’re programmed to see…nothing. No one. Or at least not the person I want to be.

Not looking to guys from the past should help, but they should be able to see me.

Should statements.

When I started this blog way back when, I dove into every body adventure I could find. I loved and learned so much, but of course it couldn’t solve the fundamental problem of feeling unwantable and unlovable. I remember, toward the end of the naked years, the horror of being naked in a crowded room and realizing that I could never be naked enough, skilled enough, game enough, easy enough, brave enough, share-y enough to really be seen. It’s an awful feeling to be naked in rooms that couldn’t perceive me as a whole human, and where I couldn’t reach others as whole humans either. Desolate. (I’m talking about literal nakedness but it occurs to me that it’s how I felt in my old poet life sometimes as well.)

And now, this more (mostly) private and reserved summer, life is still just really really hard. I’m remembering how to work full time, which, yay! But also I feel buried and lost and disoriented a lot of the time. I want to both run right at every human I’ve ever known and hide from everyone forever. I want to go to the movies every day but also just stay home with my Animal Crossing and my Friends rewatch. I’m processing grief and estrangement and wondering how to save voting rights. I don’t really know what my life is at the moment, as I sure don’t know if the freedom we have right now is just a respite from tyranny and new variants. Nobody knows.

So, no leaping, no bravery, no forcing myself to be vulnerable. I know how to be kind to my body: swim in the pool or ocean. Remember to put on sunscreen. Eat peaches. Go out for ice cream. Go sit in the air conditioning with my BFF and see Black Widow. Hug and high-five when it makes sense and hope to kiss a cute guy someday. Paint, write, sleep. I think I know how to love myself.

Let’s Just Reframe This Whole Thing

 Even though I created this blog as a way to connect with what was already beautiful in me, I’ve spent enormous numbers of paragraphs on my flaws, fears, mistakes, and road blocks, often in the name of adapting to things (like my marriage, or parties that didn’t feel right) that a person with self-love would’ve just walked away from.

I’ve treated myself like a problem to be solved, as if, if I picked at things enough, I’d be able to build myself up into something better, something more acceptable. If I treated my students that way, I’d feel like a monster. Treating myself like a project has made me extremely hard on myself, and that’s ended up being hard on my friends.

So how about this: What if, instead of needing to power through and be fixed, I’m an already-awesome human who thrives with the right partners and in the right circumstances, growing organically instead of forcing myself forward? What if, instead of punishing myself for what I haven’t done yet, I celebrate how far I’ve come? It doesn’t mean there’s no room for mistakes or negative emotions, just that I’m already whole, I’m already alright.

It’s tempting to follow up that sentiment with a series of resolutions, but I won’t.

Roadblock #5: Way Too Grateful

There’s a terrible comedy trope about ugly and/or fat girls being adventurous in bed because they’re grateful to be getting anything at all. It’s a horribly sexualized idea and definitely not the reason I’m adventurous, but I do find myself to be guilty of too much gratitude, especially when it comes to men.

Because for most of my life I didn’t think I could attract men at all, there’s part of me that tends to think that a guy partner is doing me a huge favor and suspects he would rather be doing something else. This suspicion rises in proportion to how much I’m attracted to him—the men I want the most are the ones I’m least sure of myself around. I end up feeling self-effacing and desperate, and that makes it very difficult to be a person or make good decisions.

When I’m with a guy I’m superattracted to, something in my brain tells me not to ask for anything, to compromise everything, to do whatever he wants so that he won’t go away. I feel an almost physical strain when I have to assert my own needs—I have to fight hard against the urge to be a complete doormat. I can see how someday that might be channeled and shaped into a healthy submissiveness, but for now, sheesh! How could I really see anything but unbalanced relationships, no matter what they are like in reality?

I’m sure the gratitude partly has to do with having deprived myself of an entire gender for as long as I did—my body is pretty pissed at me and full of understandable urgency. After any breakup, there’s this feeling of what-if-it’s-seventeen-years-until-the-next-guy? Not an awesome bargaining position to say the least!

I’m not sure where I got the deep conviction that I’m undesirable to men. Sweetie has pointed out on many occasions that it’s WILDLY insulting to women-why shouldn’t they be seen as deserving the same aesthetic standards? Why feel like I’m good enough for one gender and not the other? I don’t know.

Empirically, I’m starting to understand that I’m not too ugly or fat for guys. I have flaws and beautiful qualities just like any of the other generous naked souls on the beach. Mr. Shiny Eyes pointed out that the men in my recent life have no shortage of options and yet they chose to spend time with me. I see that and I’m trying to absorb it.

But this is a very powerful block. The past few years have come a long way towards dismantling it, but there’s still a ways to go. I’m trying to do a better job of believing and gathering evidence that I’m desirable. It isn’t their job to make me feel loved and beautiful (Though they certainly help!) it’s mine. I am hoping that the more I treat myself like a worthwhile, lovable creature, the more I’ll believe it.

Beach Party as Benchmark: A+

Every year, a bunch of the regional poly and bi groups get together and have a party at the nude beach. Last year that party was my first day there and it went like this. Although last year’s day was a good, healing experience, being in the middle of so much sadness with Sweetie made me feel isolated from everyone and kept us from really being part of the party.

What with the divorce, it seems like this year the party should be sadder, but it was a pure joy. I drove down by myself (I could’ve carpooled, but the divorce grief can be unpredictable and I wanted to be able to make a quick getaway if need be.) and was so excited to spend the day with a favorite friend, The Lady of the House, who happens to be one of the best pals to have come out of these adventures. There are people there that I had all kinds of connections with: One friend who remembered me fondly as his first rope top, a group of adorables I remembered from a good game of Cards Against Humanity, so many nice people I’ve seen naked bunches of times.

It was the prettiest beach day you’d ever see. The sky was bright, the breeze was gentle, and the sun was hot but not oppressive. I spent the day chatting and flirting in the water or just bobbing around happily by myself, snoozing to the sound of good conversations, and making new friends over a pop culture reference laden game of Taboo. If this is supposed to be the year of connection, Saturday was one of its most successful days.

My marriage (and the attendant anger and shame) was unquestionably isolating me, and the further I get from it, the more I feel myself opening up and getting more warm and confident. It’s so cool to look back and see how far I’ve come. If I can get us safely through this transition, I can see so much flirty, friendly, lovey-dovey goodness on the horizon. That was a comforting thought as Sweetie and I slogged back into apartment-sorting yesterday.

Also! I just want to come out and say that it’s very important to me that my next partner(s) love the ocean. 

Another Song of the Week (For My Inner Nikki Minaj)

This song's just as true as the sad ones. Just because I loved my ex-wife doesn't mean I can't have optimistic days, or an awesome breakup anthem, or a little fun.

Backtracking to a Very Happy Nude Year’s Eve

When I opened the blog back up, the Mayor of Kittentown requested that I write about this particular night, and since the handwritten version of it has been sitting on my desk all year (and since he’s a loyal reader and the only guy ever to let me leave a toothbrush at his house!) I thought I’d oblige him. It’s such a bright cheery story; it’ll be a break from the nonsense I’ve been writing through…

I’d been looking forward to the party since last July—a space-themed, clothing optional vegetarian potluck and dance party, in the same space where I’d attended my first official cuddle party. The Lady of the House (who has since become one of my favorite friends) was hosting and I knew it was the most auspicious way possible to ring in 2013—and boy was I ever right. Sweetie and I picked up another nudie friend of ours and hit the road. As we drove out of town, one of the local skyscrapers was flashing sparkling rainbow patterns all across it—what could be more optimistic?

I think Sweetie was just as excited at the prospect of wearing her soft pants to a party as I was about wearing nothing/ropes.

When we arrived, the hostess was superbusy and none of the other folks I know were there yet, so I settled into my usual fifteen-minutes-of-awkward-before-I-get-really-gregarious. I stripped down to my shiny red pushup bra and Snoopy Christmas underpants and did my best with small talk. Sweetie had given me a nice push bright pink robe for Christmas, so that was my thing to sit on. For the first while of the party, Sweetie and I did that unfortunate couple thing where we just talked to each other.

Before long, though, it started to feel like home. My friends Sheandhim arrived, the She half dressed in classic-Who scarf and little else, as did another couple that I knew from various poly to-dos.

While I was getting a drink of water in the appetizing/full-of-naked-people kitchen, someone asked me what my hopes were for 2013, and, somewhat embarrassingly, I said “I’m hoping to find true love.” Who says that? But really, think true love is always my goal, and I hope that I keep finding it and finding it and finding it.

The Lady of the House, who by the way was looking gorgeous in her open silk purple robe and green alien antennae, okayed our request to do ropes in the social area as opposed to the play area since Sweetie and I weren’t planning to sex it up too much. I really, really REALLY liked getting ropes on in such a relaxed vanilla environment. Rather than getting a blindfold on and going off into a dream world, I smiled a huge smile and chatted with everyone around us—guys came over and made assessing/approving gestures, people exclaimed over Sweetie’s knots, I granted requests to turn around so that people could get a better look. (You mean give you a better look at my ass? Don’t MIND if I do!) One partygoer I knew, who is always very popular at parties, asked if he could kiss me, and I politely offered him a cheek. (the face kind of cheek, btw.)

While I was getting tied there in the corner of the Lady of the House’s living room, there were naked folks on the couch watching (when they weren’t watching us) Doctor Who with the sound off. It was David Tennant, who I immediately decided was too emotionally available to be my kind of Doctor. “But it’s his dying scene!” said Sweetie. Whatever.

I was all decorated and harnessed up by the time it was time to switch the channel to watching the ball drop. A particularly well-hung friend attached a Christmas ball to his penis ring and prepared for a ball drop of his own. The Lady of the House handed out champagne, and we toasted, and I kissed my wife, hugged my naked friends, and danced my naked, roped-up ass off to “I Just Can’t Get Enough.”

And I marveled at how far this project had gotten me. One of the ladies at the party had been the facilitator at the first clothing-optional thing I went to, a workshop at the Poly Living Conference all the way back in February 2012. I was very effusive in thanking her: “I remember I was just brave enough to take off my sweater. I left on my bra and scarf. But ever since then, I’m a nudist.”

I still remember the revelation of that workshop—the way my hair felt soft against my back, the gratitude I felt toward everyone willing to share their naked bodies with me, the shock and relief of feeling comfortable in my skin.

The transformation from being a girl with her sweater off in a conference room to being the joyous, showoffy celebration that I was on New Years feels like a miracle to me. 2012 was full of triggers and missteps, and there was plenty about it I’d change, but when I first sat down to write this story, I wrote “I cannot believe that this is what my life looks like now. I can’t wait to see what’s next.”

I hope to see myself in that ebullient mood again sometime soon.

Mischief Managed, On to Private Adventures!

So, friends, I accomplished what I set out to do. My year of body adventures was deeply rewarding and transformative. I am so grateful for every experience I've had. Thank you again to all who help me get here.

For the past while, I've been wondering what it would be like to experience my sex life without reporting on it, so I'm going to give that a try. At the end of this week, I'll be setting the blog to private and moving on to the next phase.

So so many thanks. I couldn't have made it through without you. Here's to my inner Bettie Page, and yours!

Thanks, Nice Readers! and a One-Word Resolution

A year ago today, I was broken, hollow eyed, feeling nearly soul-dead. I’d spent a while trying to figure out what magic words to say to win a quasi-Dom’s affection and failing every time. My arm was covered in semi-consensual bruises (still not sure, sorry) and so was my heart. If you’d asked me last New Years where I’d be tonight, I never would’ve guessed “Clothing Optional New Years Party”—I could never have predicted the magic that was this year.

If you’ve been reading this blog, you’ve changed me. You’ve helped me to root around inside myself and start finding the confidence I need to find. My goal was to learn to love myself and though I am not quite there, I am certainly much closer. Looking back at that last Bill day, I feel like I’ve risen above it. I feel nothing but affection, hope, and gratitude to that fuckwad for helping to send me down this path.

But you, the reader, deserve much more gratitude. By giving me a safe place to be my slutty self, you’ve made that self more authentic and beautiful. By making room for heartbreak and mess and fun, you’ve helped me to make more room in myself. This year has been like one of those dreams where you keep discovering new rooms in familiar houses. I know this is just the beginning; there are many more doors to open.

If you’d told me a year ago that Sweetie would be ready to ATTEND a clothing optional party (albeit planning to keep her soft pants on!) and would, if fact, be studying her Two Knotty Boys (talk about people who contributed a lot!!) to find suitably festive knots, I wouldn’t have even known how to picture it. She has been such an adventurer this year—I cannot believe the deep courage of her love, her willingness to push and work and grow for me. I only hope I can learn to offer her the same.

This was the year of the body, and it gave me so, so much, but I see where I want the next part of the story to go. I have a one-word New Year’s Resolution: Connect. This year was about experiences, and I love them all (even the upsetting ones) so much, but I want 2013 to be about relationships—to Sweetie, to dates, to friends and dungeon mates, to fellow writers and kinksters and sex geeks. I look forward to following the opportunities to connect where they take me. Happy New Year, loves. Thank you for your strength and heart.

As I finished typing, this is the song that came on. Fitting.

A Whole Bunch of Firsts, Part Three: I Heart the Knife

Hung up in those ropes, I felt relaxed in a special, extra consent-y way. Technically, I know I am supposed to negotiate things before the scene starts, but I think I was still capable of looking in my heart and knowing I was a yes.

“I could be really mean…” said HempRopes

“Well, not TOO mean, but…how mean?”

“I could get out the knife…”

Knives have been in my maybe pile for a while, and I felt safe enough to try it, so I said sure. I knew that Sweetie would furrow her brow in concern and confusion, but I also knew that she would support me. I gave the knife the go-ahead.

There was the old-fashioned swish of an opening switchblade near my ear. I was still blindfolded so I didn’t know where it would touch me first, or whether or not it would hurt. I felt a light stinging move up my leg, toward my knee. It didn’t hurt much, somewhere between a sting and a tickle. I liked it, of course—what’s not to like?

When I said I’d play with HR, I knew from classes that he was really good with the ropes, but I’m not sure I would have guessed that I’d be quite so turned on by him. But when the knife grazed the top of my breasts, I couldn’t stifle a sigh-moan.

The ropes felt tight on my chest so he lifted me up and held me by the back of my harness. It was a flashback to babyhood, warm and rocked and cared for.

“Where did the knife go?”

The thigh-ropes were holding my legs up and apart, the perfect position for him to graze the knife around my ass, my thighs, and up the middle of the wet crotch of my pajamas-oh. That’s the moment I keep going back to, you know, during personal time. The knife grazing my clit through soft fabric. The pleasure of an almost-stranger doing such very-personal things.

He held my head and pulled the back of the knife gently across my neck—it reminded me of Bill and his tries at breath play, which is an admittedly odd thing to get wistful about. I wondered if I should stop and tell him about being protective of my throat, but it felt fine.

When I first wrote this installment down in my notebook last week, it felt like it might be the end of the Kitten Calendar story. That Saturday night, I felt like I’d come into my own. I felt empowered by the fact that I could go out and get what I needed, that getting what my body is asking for doesn’t necessarily need to be about romance—there was a deep fulfillment to playing with Old-Timey Guy and HempRopes, despite the fact that I don’t know what bands they like or even—gasp!—who they are going to vote for. I trusted them with my whole self, my whole body, and they thoroughly came through. That really means a lot to me. I spent a little time feeling like a triumphant Casual Girl, but that didn’t last long—that’s another story, though.

It only took a few minutes for HR to take me down. A friend I’ll call Bubbly Sub had been not-so-patiently waiting and watching for her turn for at least fifteen minutes—I don’t think I’ve ever been watched quite so closely.

“Can you stand on your own?” HR asked, and I found that I could. He helped pull me up and then took me over to the wall to take a picture of my pretty harness. Couples who were playing around us stopped to smile and watch me get my picture taken. We hugged goodbye and he said he would play with me anytime I wanted. I hugged Bubbly Sub, who was already stripped down to her undies and tape) goodbye, and after a few minutes of clearing my head, drove home.

I am really proud of how strong I was that night, how much I got to experience just because I put myself out there. I’ll keep posting adventures, of course, but at least for that night, I felt like the quest was complete, like I’d gotten myself where I needed to go.

My Crackpot Heart Wants Kryptonite and Other Dumb Mistakes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Naughty Birthday Wishlist for the Coming Year

1. I wish for a lot more time with Sweetie, both vanilla and otherwise. We haven’t been connecting as much as we’d like lately, and I’d like to have my pretty pink ropes rubbing up against my stuff very soon. Holding her, petting her, and reading library books with her would be good too.
2. I wish (for like the millionth time) for my gentleman rope top. I want to spend a lot of time in a collar, being his. I want to be over his knee, in ropes, struggling or forgetting to struggle, feeling loved and breathless and anchored and warm, and then later, pretty sore. And then I want him to make me mixtapes and tell me I’m adorable and come hang out with Sweetie. Of course, this might be a job for more than one guy, oh darn.
3. I wish to continue the love affair I have been having with my ass. Earlier this year I discovered just how much I like to put things in there when I’m alone, and now I would like others to please put stuff in there as well. “Start with a finger and work your way up, Sir” would be a wonderful thing to say to somebody someday.
4. I wish for no more tanlines next summer, and I nice naked man to go to the beach with, who can throw me around and kiss me in the waves.
5. I wish to go to Floating World with my friend Angelface and see what kinds of hijinx we can get into.
6. I wish for lots and lots and lots of PIV sex. Somehow it tends to get neglected. I need to be held down and fucked silly, I need my head banged up against the headboard, car window, whatever. I want to be so loud that I wake up all of the neighbors and metamours. Also I would like to have a dick in my mouth a lot more often.
7. I wish for more teenage-style making out at concerts and more spankings in parking garages.
8. I wish for many different scenes with many different combinations of people. I’ve been remiss in my unicorn practice, but I’m sure there are a lot of lovely wives who could hold me down while their husbands do god-knows-what to me.
9. I wish to continue falling in love with my body, discovering all the miracles it has to surprise me with.
10. I wish to be set on fire some more, literally and figuratively.

Ohno Jealousy at the Beach

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Naked in the Rain and Beatific

“What else can I do for you,” the sky said,

and added, “now that I have taken off all

my clothes?” (Hafiz)

Our second trip to the clothing-optional beach started out kind of rocky—there was a chilly wind that kept trying to turn our books’ pages for us, Sweetie felt like the current was too strong for her and I kept trying to convince her to come in with me. We had a strangely love-affirming moment when she noticed a scrap of toilet paper on my bare bum and had to cover me up with a towel to get it off.  We kept laughing and saying “oh, intimacy,” which is what we say when we are having to do something a little gross for each other. That’s love.

(Just as an aside, I remember David Sedaris writing about seeing TP on someone’s butt at a nudist colony. He wrote about vulnerability and so on, I think, said something like “This is the essence of nudism.” and that strikes me now as obnoxious—really, THAT’S the defining moment? Not the standing around triumphantly or embracing our sweeties or getting swept together in the waves? Only I would be bobbing around in the ocean having an imaginary argument with David Sedaris.)

Anyway, Sweetie has weak, hurty legs, and wanted nothing more than to be left on shore. Once I figured out that I didn’t have to drag her into the rough surf with me, that I was free to fight and float and be pummeled by the waves to my heart’s content (oh, ocean, my original top…) we both relaxed and started to have fun. This can be a metaphor for our entire relationship—we are happiest during the times when we’re both free to be ourselves, whether we’re snuggled up watching back-episodes of Design Star or separate but happily connected. When I relax and let her be herself, sometimes I get exactly what I want, and so does she. Until then, it had been a cloudy day, but the sun was happy to punctuate my epiphany by peeking through the clouds momentarily—it was beautiful. The green water I was floating in was lit up and shimmering, the patch of blue sky contrasting with the swath of dark grey sky on the horizon—raindrops started to fall on the water, and somewhat inexplicably, I got out.

We decided to take our stuff up to the car, have lunch there, and see if the weather cleared. As we started to pack up our towels and books and picnic stuff, I settled into the feeling of rain on my bare skin. I kept getting distracted from what I was doing to face the sky, hold my arms out a little, and smile up into the rain. I love being naked in the rain, and if we hadn’t been averse to our nice picnic rolls getting all soggy, I would have happily stood there all day.

I decided not to put on my dress until we got close to the “attention—nude sunbathers” sign. I saw other people making the same decision as well, carrying their clothes until the last possible moment. I don’t know what I looked like carrying a heavy load of beach stuff with my boobs and hoo-ha all on display, but I know I felt great. Sweet, perfect, laughing joy bubbled up. I asked if we could put the stuff down and stood there in the rain smiling some more---my body loves me at times like this, and I am in total NRE with it, too. I couldn’t stop laughing and smiling and feeling ridiculous and silly and beautiful and free. Sweetie’s face lit up too, though her clothed experience must have felt a bit soggier. She loves seeing me so happy. Later she told me I looked beatific and that’s exactly how I felt.

The weather cleared up after our car-picnic, and I got to swim hard for the rest of the day while Sweetie napped and shell-gazed. I even was brave enough to chat with people—the current seemed to want us to be sociable, swooshing us all into a clump—it was fun to have folks to play with me. I came home EXPLODING with sexy, vital energy, my muscles hot and skin flushed, ready to ravish myself, Sweetie, and anybody else who might get in the way. I’m so full of…something, and very grateful to be alive.

Your Friday Happy: Who Are Your Sexual Archetypes?

The other day I was listening to this Sex Nerd Sandra episode thinking about who's in my inner cast of characters, besides Joan Holloway and Sally Draper. (Can one of them be Sex Nerd Sandra?)

And to celebrate the archetype who's clearly in charge this week:

Huzzah! A Good Date

Sometimes, I’ll hit on someone on OK Cupid just because they remind me of my ex-boyfriend-from-the-techno-years/current pal Pagan Boy. This was one of those. The other thing that made me attracted to him was that in response to the “Did you have a goth phase?” question, he said “It’s wasn’t a phase.” I got a feeling in my belly that he’d be fun to hug, just from his emails, and boy was I right. He looked sweet and game in his picture, with big soulful hazel eyes and fluffy eyelashes. How could I resist?

Getting ready for our date, I debated with myself about whether a spiked collar was first-date appropriate. I went for it, just to have the excuse to wear it. Also I can proudly say I was leading with my boobs—there they were right in front of me…He found me a bar that serves mojitos, which isn’t always easy because not every bar stocks fresh mint. It was a good mojito, it felt like a reward for a whole bunch of things. We fell into Moonlighting-level banter right away, is there anything more fun? Sometimes I turn into this really brassy, candid version of myself and just yammer a whole bunch about my various adventures—he looked happier and happier as we went along. He looked into my eyes a lot while we talked—boy are those pretty eyes.

We decided to take a walk to the river, joking as we went about the really intense snuggling and hand-holding we both enjoy from time to time. I revealed my quest for my inner Bettie Page, and he told me he has a tattoo of her on his leg—I’m sure that isn’t uncommon among guys who also have Black Flag tattoos, but I like the coincidence and I’ll consider it a good sign. I could feel my inner Bettie while I was next to this guy, that’s for sure.

He kissed me by the water, as little waves lapped up around the bottom of the walkway, in full view of the swan boats and tourists. He pulled my hair a little, because I’d told him I like that, and I’m sure later I can convince him to pull it harder.

We talked on and on and on about sex, I’m sure we might get to other topics some other time. If this were considered an assessment, I think I’ve made a lot of progress since Bill said to me “You keep telling me what you don’t like, tell me what you do like!” When I feel comfortable with someone, I just keep talking, and we went over likes and dislikes in great detail. I feel confident that he’s up to the challenge of LOTS of bare-handed spanking, and he assures me it wouldn’t have occurred to him to make me ask permission before I come. I even told him about the love affair I’ve been having with my ass, though I didn’t go into detail. (Oh, yeah, I should write that soon, too.)

He reminds me of the good parts of Bill; he’s strong, soft in places, swaggery, about the same height as me, with reaaaaaaaaly nice arms and good hands. But unlike Bill, he’s got his own house (I liked the way he said it, “My house.”) a cute car, a good job, a basement full of records from when he was a DJ in the Nineties.

There was a kiss in the parking garage elevator that made me want to press the Emergency Stop button like they would in the movies. In the car, he said I was evil for making him so turned on and I said “No, I’m a good girl.” And he said “You’re a very good girl.” and put his hand on the top and kissed me some more. Swoontown.

When he dropped me off, he said “Tell (Sweetie) good things about me. Tell her I was respectful and not gropey.” When I got inside, Sweetie (Whose pre-date advice to me was “Don’t flee.”) was on the couch, glowing with love and support. We watched an episode of Queer as Folk and went to bed. I love her even more when my face is all stingy from beard-burn.

This morning I have that what-if-he-forgets-to-make-more-plans-with me feeling. I’m happy and daydreamy, even if I should be studying.

Unsurprisingly, I Love the Clothing-Optional Beach, Part Three

We did get to bob around in the water with the poly meetup group, though they eventually got pulled away by the current. I don’t always know quite what to say, but I was glad to float and smile with them. I asked The Lady of the House if the beach is always this queer-friendly, and she explained that we were currently in the gay section, (the other side was the family section) so yeah. I oohed and aaaaaaaahed about getting to hug Sweetie in the water. did I really wait all this time to feel this way? What’s the MATTER with me?

The whole day was such a joy, and my worries about nipple-sunburn never materialized, staved off by lots of spray. (Big big thanks to the reader pal who suggested spray-on sunscreen how can I ever thank you?)

When we weren’t swimming, I lay on the blanket delighting in being exposed or sat up and people watched. It was similar to my first BDSM event because it gave me a chance to revel in the abundant variations of the human body. Sometimes we can get trapped in a simple schema of what a body should look like, a cookie-cutter frame built from TV and dumb fashion magazines, but the real diversity of bodies is so wonderful to behold. Every single person there, clothed or not, looked flushed, sun-kissed, relaxed. I am so grateful that people were generous enough to share their bodies with my happy eyeballs.

And then, of course, there’s being seen. After a while it dawned on me that I was surrounded by penises, that there were hundreds of men there, gay, straight, bi, poly, pan, omni, everything, and they could all look at me if they wanted to. YAY!  The point of this beach isn’t to get turned on, I don’t think (Guys, can you tell me how you avoid it? If I had a thingie it would have been sticking straight up for seven hours. I would have had to consult a physician.) but I got turned on. I struck a pose and when I noticed a guy looking, I’d meet his gaze and soak it up. I can’t believe I felt so free and safe. What a gift.

Of course I had to have some personal time in the car on the way home.

The next day, I cried a lot. I cried happy tears over how beautiful and generous everyone was, I cried sad tears for how long we’d waited to try it, for the sensations we’d missed until then. I cried lucky tears for feeling so accepted, and I cried wistful heartbroken tears for not getting to share the place with the Mayor of Kittentown. Sweetie held and patted me and told me I’m good. She assured me that we could go back soon and of course we’ve got it on the calendar.

As much of a revelation as it was to be there with Sweetie, I really want to find the right guy to go with, too. Well, I don’t want to find a new one, I want to go with MKT, but since that’s not possible, I put up a personal on the beach’s FetLife group under the heading of “Seeking a Nice Naked Guy.” Lo and behold, plenty of dudes would be glad to go with me. Their naked selves are more intimidating on the screen than they are in person (Maybe it’s the screen’s proximity to my face?) but once I take a few days to get over being overwhelmed by their responses, I look forward to making some new friends.

Rejection is Not an Assessment or a Humiliation…Right?

As a poet, I should be better-prepared to be rejected. Over the years, I have received hundreds of rejection slips for hundreds of poems, manuscripts, etc, and only very rarely did I feel that they had any bearing on the quality of my work. If only I could have that same confidence about myself!

Though it’s been mostly a very happy week over here, I’ve been laying awake with very jealous, hurty feelings about the Mayor of Kittentown. It’s isn’t so much that he belongs to her now; it’s that he officially no longer belongs to me. I’m bothered by the difference between being able to belong to multiple people and only belonging to one—instead of just having a different heart, I worry that I might have a deficient one. I think childlike thoughts like “How could he just throw me away?” in spite of the fact that I broke up with him about two and a half times. I knew we weren’t going to fall in love, I always encouraged him to keep looking (which looks, in retrospect, like its own kind of cruelty…) but the loss of our physical friendship is hitting me hard, it’s breaking my heart, making me feel a little bit dismantled.

Rejection bogs me down. For whatever reason, his rejection seems to negate everything good that he made me believe about myself: that I could trust a man, that I could have a happy bisexual life, that I’m can be beautiful and sexy to men. Somehow it feels like he took those things away just by not wanting me anymore, that I need him (and Bill, and Fireguy) just to have those hot feeling back, but I understand intellectually that that’s just not true.

These men so far, things have gone so wrong with them that I feel as if I have failed a series of entrance exams, that I failed to qualify for their gender. Losing each of them has been so exquisitely painful that it’s hard to feel connected to the good things that have happened, to all the real progress that I’ve made.

I tend to mistake rejection for facts: Bill said he couldn’t have a serious relationship with a poly woman, so I felt unlovable. Fireguy didn’t like being written about, so I thought the project itself made me unlovable. MKT’s simpler (?) idea of love makes me feel like I’m too hopelessly, messily complicated for men.

And I AM complicated, but that doesn’t mean that there won’t be a guy who’ll love me for it—I believe those are called, uh,  polyamorous guys—who’ll be willing to share his life with me. Two of the men in the previous paragraph identified as monogamous, and the other was a heartbroken mess, so I don’t think I can make any generalizations about them, other than 1. Duh, date poly guys and 2. Don’t be a rebound redhead.

I would love to have back all of the good physical lessons I got from them, to not have the hot self-discoveries cancelled out by the fact that they’re gone. Not too long ago, in a Poly Weekly episode about minimizing scene drama, either Minx or her guest said something like “Just because someone disagrees with you doesn’t make you less awesome.” I would LIKE to think that just because someone doesn’t want to fuck me and/or fall in love with me doesn’t make me any less lovable and/or hot.” No one can turn back time and take away those experiences—no one can take any of it away.

Of course this goes back to the heart of this project—learning to approve of myself so that I don’t have to wear myself down trying to gain approval from others, except in fun ways, of course. I started this quest for my inner Bettie Page because I wanted her confidence, the way the looks boldly into the camera, the way she returns the gaze. She is not going to shrink timidly into nothingness when the lens turns away from her, and neither am I.

Dear Divine Whatever,

Please help me to collect and feel whatever good they’ve all given me so far, to take it in as fuel to bravely move forward, believing in every glance and touch and step, having faith in whatever radiates out of me at my proudest, most joyful moments.

(To which I can imagine the Divine Whatever saying: “Good girl. So pretty.”)

Unsurprisingly, I Love the Clothing-Optional Beach, Part Two

As we set off down the path to the beach, “hugging the dunes,” as the directions had instructed us, I noticed kids heading down to their beach with their families. I was weirded out for a second.

“Wait, what, there’s kids? At the nude beach?”

Sweetie, bless her heart, said “So?”

“So…they’ll never learn to be ashamed of their bodies? They won’t end up having to learn to love themselves at 37? I hate them.”

We laughed and that was the end of being weirded out.

I found Sweetie a perfect peach-colored shell as soon as our feet hit the sand. The dunes were roped off to protect piping plover nests as well as a few other endangered species. As we got to the end of the path, We saw a sign that said “Attention: Beyond this point you may encounter nude sunbathers.” We looked around for the spot where the poly meetup was happening, but no one had set up yet. Plus we were in wifie mode, so we made our own space down closer to the water.

It had rained on the way in, we weren’t sure if the clouds would lift, but as we settled into our blanket, the sun started to peek through and the air warmed up. As we were slathering on sunscreen, I felt momentarily hesitant to take my top off, but then I figured it made no sense having to sunscreen twice. I wiggled out of my pink flowery bathing suit top and there I was. Unfortunately, it was that time of the month and I didn’t feel right about showing off a string-tail, so my bottoms would have to stay on this time. (Except, because I wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation, in the water…)

Sweetie is not a showoff like me, but she likes showing me off. She seemed very happy to be looking up at naked sunny me and spraying SPF 70 on my nipples every so often. As we sat reading our books, I saw some members of the poly contingency stroll past us to the water. They were beautiful, but I wasn’t ready to say hi just yet. This was a day that I felt every inch of my half-introversion. I watched them walk into the water and get such big smiles on their faces. As with all lovey-dovey people who are comfortable with themselves, I admired them and wasn’t sure I could aspire to belong with them. A guy I’d snuggled with at my first snuggle party was there, as was the Lady of the House from the Cuddle Party back in June. Later, I’d get up the courage to go over and say hello, but just seeing them was a joy for now.

Sweetie and I got into the water a little ways down the beach from them. The waves were little more than swells, but the current pulled strongly to the (I think) north. The water was cool and smoothly, clearly green. As we eased our way in, a friendly man came to encourage us: “You’ve just got to take the plunge, just dive in, after that you’ll feel fabulous.”

He was so nice but as he stood there encouraging us, I was inching away. I knew that my nipples would get really hard from the chilly water and I wasn’t quite ready for a stranger to see that up close, first thing in the morning. He was in his fifties, bald, with a big cheery grin, and his penis was cute and shrunken from the water, bigger than an outie belly button, but just as pink and charming. Oh penises, how I’ve missed you, my new friends.

Once the man swam off, I propelled myself into Sweetie’s arms. This feeling was a complete revelation, something I didn’t know I was longing for. Ever since I was a kid, I’d watch couples in the surf and hope that I could someday find a love to hold me in the waves. It was such a gift, to hold her and be held in the water and not worry that we might be disturbing someone, that we might be disturbed by some homophobic comment. It was deeply gratifying.

I slipped away from her (not too far, though the current pulled me) and pulled off my bathing suit bottoms. The cool water moving up between the lips of my vagina was difficult to describe to her—she couldn’t understand how it was any different from being in the water with a bathing suit on. It was a cool, fresh, opening up, like the other day with the thigh ropes but more refreshing. As the water filled up that little space, I felt delighted and loved, elemental, at home. I picked up my feet, put my arms out, and floated on the swells, eyes closed, boobs and hoo-ha to the sky. I felt reborn, perfect, like every real worry was just a silly memory. I felt the way that I was born to be.

Next: Happy to be around so many penises.

Momentum Con Part One: The Winner for Best Epiphany

(The photo above isn’t something that happened at Momentum. It’s a picture from my FetLife profile, taken during my photo play session with Fireguy. I’ll get to why it’s relevant in a sec.)

Momentum Con was exactly the right thing to go to. It really helped me to understand how I can contribute to the overall project of sex-positive feminism. Getting to meet some of my sexpert idols filled me with courage and, yes, momentum.

I liked my first foray into live tweeting: you can see what I said at @kittencalendar and what everybody said at #mcon .

I’ll say more about the larger themes of the conference later in the week, and I’ll post a reference list, too, but the experiences that are most relevant to this project were both very personal. They both happened yesterday as the conference was starting to wind down.

The first was: I skipped the fist set of sessions to take advantage of the big, fluffy hotel bed with Sweetie. As we were getting started she said “Remember, we’re in a hotel, so….”

And I said “So?”

We had a fantastic time and I was just as loud as can be. (If we’d been in the host hotel, it would have been even more fun.) While we were spooning afterwards, Sweetie said (all mocking-affectionate)

“You’re just a show-off.”

And what else could I do but tweet about it to the con’s live feed?

The second thing was this: One of the things I was most excited to go to was Cunning Minx (Polyweekly.com) giving her talk on “How Not to Be a Douche on FetLife” I’d heard parts of it already on the podcast (and, in fact used it in building my FetLife profile) but I love etiquette talk of all kinds and I was excited and starstruck to meet Minx.

When she asked for volunteers to share on the big screen and use as examples, my hand shot up. She’d mentioned being a smiley sub, and I wanted to show her that we had that in common. It felt so, so good for my profile, and especially my picture gallery, to be up there in front of all those nice polyamorists. It was a moment of pure joy and recognition, especially when someone in the crowd piped up “Great ass!” Thanks. It also makes me superproud that Minx pronounced my profile “adorable.”

She thanked me for volunteering, and people kept being really sweet and saying I was brave, but honestly I’ve never felt so indulged in my life. That burst of joy from being a show-off was such a big epiphany.

I was thinking about those two experiences on the way to therapy this morning, and I realized that wanting to show off is a big part of my earliest sexual experimentation. When I first started getting boobs (around 12) I was completely obsessed with them. (That sure hasn’t changed!) I couldn’t get enough of touching them. When my family was away from the house, I would stand in the upstairs window, pull up my shirt, and just play with them for hours.  We lived in the middle of nowhere and it was extremely unlikely that anyone ever would’ve seen me.

Once or twice, I even wrapped up in a sheet, went outside, dropped the sheet and walked around naked in the middle of the day.  Apparently I was close to my inner Bettie Page before I even knew who that was!

My childhood was not a sex-positive one by any definition. Our house was full of anger, shame, criticism, fear, and abuse. The fact that young me was able to find enough inner safety to want to be exposed, to take so much pleasure in it, seems like a miracle to me. I am very proud of that person and so encouraged by the way pleasure can overcome such adversity sometimes.

The power of pleasure was one of the overarching themes of the conference. It’s a wonderful blessing to feel it so deeply within my own body. Thanks.