Knotty Thursdays: Mr. Adorkable Hits Me with Things, YAY!

 

Is it cheating that I sometimes hand in a nice boy's design as my rope homework? I guess bottoming is rope practice too?

What I should have taken a picture of was Mr. Adorkable's TOY BAG. I'd told him I needed all the spanks after my (mostly self-inflicted) stressful weekend, so he brought everything. Oh MAN I've missed being hit with all the thuddy things. I've missed typing the word thuddy! We were making out and I smelled another nice smell besides us and I was like, "Oh, that's all the things you're gonna hit me with."

I missed the smell of leather, which I've never even really thought about at all!

Before that, though, the ropes. 

I love the way he worked his design around the bra, I felt like it was too pretty to take off. (It flipped right down so nicely when the time came! I should probably get this outfit in all the colors.) My favorite part was the way that little tail at the back tickled--when he was working on that part, I just giggled and squirmed with pure joy. Profound joy! I kinda transcended a little.

It's maybe not advisable to tell someone they feel like a puzzle piece on the second date, huh? But he just does. I like the way we just easily fit together. And I like the way songs come on just at the right moment. This time, a little on the nose, it was "Closer" by Nine Inch Nails. 

Second First Date with the Song Sender, Part Two

I bought this last summer as good luck for my Candyman date with The Coach. It felt like the perfect metaphor for all the lovely changes The Song Sender initiated me into eleven years ago.

We did catch up over dinner, but it pretty quickly shifted to a friendly negotiation. Did it have to be mean? No. Could he praise? Yes—he said he thought I might like it if he patted my head and called me a good girl and I nearly offered him my head across the dinner table. Did he need to do breath play? No. (Breathing! It’s great!) He talked about spanking and hair-pulling and my smile was as big as the sun.

I took his hand across the table and he let me. Those gorgeous, powerful hands could be so gentle out here in the world, I’d never known. He paid the check and I was glad I’d driven instead of taking a train and a bus.

I’d never driven him anywhere. I was still sharing a car with Sweetie-Now-BFF the first time around, and the car was always away on her long commute. I was very pleased to have The Song Sender in my car. I put on my CD of The National’s High Violet, the perfect sexy/gloomy summer album.

About halfway home, just before we got to the most winding part of the drive, I said:

“I kind of want to take your hand and put it into my hair, but I’m, you know, driving.”

He went ahead and put his hand on the back of my neck, tugging at the hair just hand enough to elicit a gasp/sigh. It didn’t distract me at all, quite the opposite—a clean whoosh though my brain making me all the way centered and calm.

“Oh actually I think this makes me an AMAZING driver,” I said, silly with happiness.

Because I hadn’t been sure if it was a date, I hadn’t tidied the apartment or shaved any kinds of hairs, but he didn’t show signs of caring about either. I was standing next to the cluttered dining room table, chattering away and offering fizzy water, when he pulled me into a kiss.

It was decisive and forceful, hungry and sweet. It felt so easy and natural to be bent over the couch, dress pulled up, ready for spanks. His caress-to-spank was tender and sure. I felt right at home.

Knotty Thursday: Heart Update and (Sort of) Hishi Karada

When The Shy One came over for our second date on Monday night (He brought Hershey Kisses and two kinds of wine. We painted watercolors together! What a dear.) I didn’t want to spend too much time on the ropes, gorgeous as we both looked in them. (He did such a good job putting a harness on me for the first time!) With The Shy One, it’s much less about the kink than about the CUDDLING. He’ll hurt me when I ask him to, and he doesn’t mind getting spanked (Oh! Just the cutest butt in the universe! Have I said that before? Are all the butts the cutest butt in the universe? Probably.) but mostly, it’s the CARESSES. He’s a very snuggly sweetheart, and that’s his pet name, Sweetheart—he is decidedly NOT a Boy.

The Shy One kisses, fucks, and communicates with the extremely welcome attention to detail of a happily married man. I want to send his wife a thank-you note for every one of his expert kisses. OH, the KISSES.

Today, I’m a little jangled because it’s sinking in that I *like* him just as he needs to disappear for a month. (Just physically disappear, he’ll still be able to send texts and adorable Bitmojis of the two of us and maybe even call sometimes.) I won’t see him for most-if-not-all of April because of Ramadan. I admire the commitment and tradition so much, but also I cried a little bit about it this morning.

Which is silly. Because this is all good news! I like a good man with a kind heart and a solid foundation—yay!

Back to his visit Monday night. For a tiny little while, after paintings and ropes and sex and me making nervous jokes about our music choices having too many feelings, he pulled my hand up over his heart and fell asleep. I’m not allowed to joke about the feelings-y music anymore because “All I Need Is a Miracle” came on my spring playlist. Because of course it did.

Knotty Thursday: His and Hers Hishi Karada

 

The day before yesterday, I was a hopelessly tangled knot of nerves. I had a doctor’s appointment Tuesday afternoon for the rogue periods I’ve had since mid-January. (Seriously like FOUR days of not bleeding. The RN calmed me down and prescribed something, mostly convinced me I’m not dying.) That morning, I’d had a messy text-exchange with The Good Boy, too—Valentine’s weekend dropped an anvil on his heart and mine got a little smushed in the process.

I thought for like a nanosecond about postponing my first date with The Southern Charmer and going to bed early or picking a fight with TGB, but there TSC was at my door with good wine, ready to learn the ropes. He had a new lip piercing and I had (cue Neverending Story theme song) the neverending period, so we’d agreed in advance that it would be a gentle night. And it (mostly!) was.

He got here at nine and all of a sudden it was ten and we’d been talking away for an hour. We had a gotta-get-up-early alarm set so I figured I’d better get him upstairs!

He had a deft touch with the ropes, patient and ready to learn. As I was getting us situated (Can ropes have mise en place?) I showed him how to make a square knot with the light pink ropes and put those aside for him to use on me.

Ohhhhhhhhh the magenta ropes that I got myself for Valentine’s Day. I think they must have magical powers. I’m surer with them, more easily careful, they just feel more mine than any other belongings do, and they seem to just exist a little extra, the way the Hope Diamond does.

Enough rhapsodizing about the ropes, time to rhapsodize about The Southern Charmer. He’s an easy and genial canvas, happy to stop every so often and ask how a knot is made. We eased into warm, gentle hugs and soft kisses as I wound the ropes. How did I EVER get this lucky?!

His careful attention while I was decorating him meant he easily got the steps to return the favor. I promptly evaporated into a cloud of queen-of-the-world bottomy joy.

Maybe there was still a TINY bit of the day’s stress left in my body as we cuddled and kissed into rope aftercare, but then I invited myself into his lap to get spanked. OH friends! Every little confetti-fragment of worry gusted out onto the pillows with each powerful strike, each hurt/pleasure gasp. The Southern Charmer is SO strong.

His dick (Pants still on, we were being so chaste!) was hard and exactly right underneath my wiggly, fake-struggling middle, yes, beautiful, but I need to say more about his arms. JESUS FUCK, those arms. He held me down so forcefully, pulled my hair so tender-and-rough-at-once, shoving and twisting and grasping out all my defenses.

I wound up dizzied, spaced, sprawled down the bed like a painting, holding a half-glass of wine I kept forgetting to drink.

I sent him on his way after one snooze of the bedtime alarm, vowing to absolutely TEAR HIM APART next time. Welcome, Southern Charmer, definitely don’t be a stranger.

The Good Boy: Part Three (In Which I FAVORABLY Compare His Dick to Famous Works of Art)

Trying to write about him lying supine and not-quite-passive, in a harness and black briefs, obviously hard and temptingly huge, makes me flustered and so close to losing the actual use of words.

As I pulled the rope tightly/gently around his inner thigh, I asked if it felt okay. He smirked and said I better check again, so I did, lightly grazing the valley between his thigh and his dick. A jolt went through me, temporarily deleting my knowledge of knots and everything else, but I righted myself and kept laddering.

I felt powerful and benevolent sitting over him, turned on but super-focused on the ropes at hand. I rhythmically twined over and under his pretty legs, holding the square shape in place, winding on to the next rung. When I neared his left ankle he said, with the teensiest bit of irritation, “Can this be done now?”

So I tied off the rope and climbed on to kiss him. He had so many loose ends, ropes of different colors, strands I’d meant to weave in with the rest. He was a bed of soft vines.

We ended up in a delicious cuddle. As he spooned up sweetly I said “Hmmmmm, it doesn’t really seem like you’ve submitted.” His tenderness was urgent, emphatic. This was not a Helpless Boy.

“Do you think you could spank a person?” I asked, rolling onto my belly. My velvet pants had been discarded a while ago, and I was wearing raspberry-colored lacy soft briefs.

Friends, he CAN spank a person, each impact hitting at the exact right angle, the exact right strength. When he was ready to move on from spanking, he spread himself aaaaalllllll the way over me, arms over my arms, holding me down so kindly. He was grinding his huge, hard dick against my ass crack, hitting all the spots at once. The Good Boy had gone a little animalistic and I could NOT have been happier.

“Okay, I’m gonna need to turn over.” I said.

So. I’m a size queen, we kind of know that already. Recently I was even brazen enough to add that preference to my profile, even though it seems unfair to all the other dicks. The Good Boy’s dick IS unfair to all the other ones. Thick, long, and curving upwards, it is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen in my entire art history major LIFE. Starry Night? Please. Duchamp’s Large Glass—so pretty and thought provoking and also on the themes of energy and inspiration, but no. Yoko Ono’s Yes Painting? Okay, maybe that one compares.

Anyway, BEAUTIFUL. And about to be entirely mine.

Good Second Date to Ghost, Part Two

Since Nearby Guy and I had a nice d/s-ish vibe going, I maybe should have done some negotiating before welcoming him (OMG yay!) into my bed. But sometimes, a soft glow of trust feels like enough—that sweet letting-go when bodies take over safety feels easy. I just love those rare moments when humans know exactly what to do.

As we settled into my (unmade-I wasn’t expecting company!) bed together, our bodies felt so well-matched. I don’t often find anyone who can make me feel delicate and protected, but the way his arms encompassed me gave me all the princess feelings.

His kisses were skilled, assured, and leisurely, emphatic but reigning in my tendency to be a tongue-y teen about it. Sweetly and thoughtfully is a very good way to be kissed.

He held my waist with such ownership, then pushed upwards to very decisively whole-hand my boob through my PJs. He claimed it and me, wholeheartedly, nipple squeezed up into his palm. I know none of this seems like it should be a big deal, but it WAS.

As much as I envy my podded-up friends (And Nearby Guy’s cozy situations) this post-quarantine return to touch was a miracle to take in, too much to process or absorb except in heaves. Feeling the grasp I’d daydreamed and nightdreamed so much for so long made me into a full-body groan/yelp, a writhing sea serpent high on giggles and warmth. I was fully enthralled but I was also wondering if I could possibly be touching him enough, worrying I wasn’t doing it right, wondering how my one human body could possibly earn this much pleasure in this or any lifetime.

“I feel so overwhelmed, “ I pant/sighed, and he slowed to a snuggle while I caught my breath, arms circling my waist again and squeezing my shoulders toward him. When his hand wandered to my ass, I said (of course I said) “You know you want to spank it.”

He startled for a quick moment, maybe taken aback like that escalated quickly but then he grinned and his arm tensed for action. I turned over onto my tummy, ready as ready as READY could be.

“Ohmygoodnessit’ssucharelief” I exhaled sharply, my face half in my pillow, after the first hearty THWACK. Ohhhhh boy. The hard slaps, the thigh-tickles, the playful grabs. The perfect gift of him gently easing down the back of my pajama bottoms and my lacy-but-practical soft purple undies.

He smacked out yelp after yelp, my feet kicking with joy and my hips squirming with anticipation for every impact. He was pressing pain out and magic in at the same time. I curled close to his body like it was a warm cave I lived in now. He held me tight. Lightning bolts of squishy arousal pummeled into the center of me. I wanted everything, forever. I had everything I wanted forever.

Yes, relief, but also a power source flipped on, like when Godzilla’s blue lights glow up over the horizon. I was both kaiju and sea. How can a person do this for someone they hardly know? It seems impossibly generous and highly unlikely that any of this could have happened. It’s hard to believe my own typing hands!

Oh, Comedy Guy. (Part Three)

He just looked so beautiful sitting there on my couch. His eyes were radiant with sadness, sincerity, mischief. He wrapped me up in his arms, and when we kissed, it was easy and soft. I turned off Bob’s Burgers and put on my Dreamy Music mix, which has far, FAR too much Radiohead—must remember to fix that!

I had been literally soaking wet for him for days, my body just gushing affection before we ever met in person. That, in addition to the pretty new pink underpants, was why it wasn’t too long before I sprawled myself across his lap.

“Okay, let’s see what you can do!”

It had been SUCH a while and they were good spanks, firm and kind, assured in a way I didn’t expect—I was surprised and delighted. I love, love, LOVED the feeling of him pulling up the back of my dress, smoothing my undies just so before striking. “You have an amazing ass,” he said and I fully, fully believed him. With his left arm, he held me down in a wholehearted way that brought immediate and near-existential relief.

But then, after just a few minutes, something in my brain shifted and I felt darkness descend, felt myself freeze up with fear. I climbed off, asked for a break, gave myself plenty of space, turned off the Dreamy Music and put Hulu back on.

In addition to warmth and hope and general horniness, Comedy Guy gave me a heartache I couldn’t quite place. It came and went throughout the evening and would eventually become an insurmountable force. But first, I wanted to try and surmount it.

Snuggles in the Time of Kavanaugh: Part Three

Once I had tied Gilmore Guy up, my self-consciousness about giving blow jobs faded a little. I started to remember the rhythm and taste, to settle back into those sensations. I felt like I could trust him to tell me if I was doing it wrong. He tentatively and gradually worked out how to be forceful with his untied hand, pulling my hair and pushing me to take him in deeper—gagging is a nice expression of affection sometimes.

(It’s hard not to think about porn when I’m doing this, though. I hardly ever indulge anymore, but the images of wide, overly-made-up, tear-streaked eyes are burned on my brain. I wish I could go back in time and rescue during-blowjob-eye-contact from its awful fate.)

Next, I decided I needed to be spanked, so I lay across his naked lap and untied his wrist. Oh. Yes. He’s such a natural at this: the smack, the giggle, the squirm, the relief.

“You can hold me down while you do that if you want…”

“Okay. Umm..how do I do that?”

(OH MY GOODNESS WHAT A GOOD QUESTION-SQUEE!)

“Just put your hand near the top of my back and press down.” I took his hand, put it into the right place, and let him take back over. He did as he was asked.

Oof. Aaah. What a relief to feel the submissive switch flip, to feel all of the tension leave my body and my soul, to be held and mastered and cared for.

But not too long after that delightfulness, the tension came back, and not just the good kind. P.I.V. sex wasn’t coming together, and I could see him getting nervous and frustrated about that. I think maybe he’d bought too-small condoms or maybe just the mood wasn’t right for that part. This was a problem for me ONLY inasmuch as it was clearly making him feel bad. As a queer kinky person, I see intercourse as one WONDERFUL medium in a vast palette, but it scares me how much meaning (and maybe even self-worth!) some guys attach to hardness.

I feel very hesitant to talk about this because I can only imagine how vulnerable this aspect of things is (I can hear Charlotte York going on and on about “We don’t want to upset the penis!” as I type. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sXsNgkZCUs8 ) but I think it’s important to think about how objectifying this focus on performance is for both of us. I wouldn’t blame any individual man for this fixation—as with so many sex-troubles, I think it comes from the deep, rotten heart of heteronormativity.

For a while, the worry didn’t overtake the pleasure. We played, we snuggled. We layed around looking like a painting with our fancy wine glasses. He called me “Titianesque” and I was impressed with the art history reference.

But eventually, it wasn’t okay, and I’m going to give myself time to breathe before I write about that part. I’m okay, he did nothing wrong, but that fixation needs to go.

Gilmore Guy Part Four: Your Arms Make Me Wish I Was Still a Poet

I'm not saying this night was about love, oh wait, maybe I am. Not about couple-love, that still feels a million miles away, but the love of bodies, of luck, of my neighborhood, of the rhythm of Amy Sherman-Palladino's writing. It was a night about the love of LIFE, and I'm so glad I indulged in it. Gold stars all around.

            As we kissed on Gilmore Guy’s couch, the magic of desire took me over like a fluffy pink cloud. The comfort and pleasure of him was making me feel woozily submissive. (In my favorite book-I-didn’t-finish-because-it’s-too-triggering, The Body Keeps the Score, I learned that the impulse that makes us freeze when we’re scared is the same as the one that holds us still so we can bond with someone. This is my favorite romantic-but-horrifying brain fact!)

           

            Rather than totally succumb to the blissful frozenness, I remembered that he’d said he’d like to try a little submissiveness himself. I took a deep breath, grabbed him by the shoulders, and shoved him away from me, back against the couch. I straddled him (aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh like a horny homecoming) and immediately felt a Wonder Woman jolt of confidence. He tried to put his arms around me, but I pressed them back, held his wrists as tightly as I reasonably could with someone I JUST met.

            “How does that feel?” I gently growled into his ear.

            “Good.” He gasped, “It feels good.”

I reached to the nape of his neck and pulled his hair. I was worried it might be too much, and it was.

            “Don’t pull my hair,” he said a little reticently, and I let go.

            “Okay, thanks for telling me. Do you feel okay?”

            “I’m okay. Just…don’t pull my hair.”

            “Okay. Meanwhile, you are freeeee to pull mine!” I said, placing his hand in the right spot.

            Oh my GOODNESS I needed my hair pulled! It’s always such a relief. I arched my back, squirmed in his lap, and moaned, semi-realizing that I was giving the revelers downstairs on the sidewalk and earful. I hoped nobody I worked for was down there. Downside to geographic desirability, I guess. Totes worth it.

            He helpfully noted that the futon perpendicular to the couch was easy to fold out, and I was all “Yes please!”

            I was in such a happy haze (I feel like I should assure you that I only had half a drink, this haze was pure hormones) that I don’t really remember how my pajamas and sort-of-pretty underthings got strewn about the floor and coffee table. He took a moment to catch up with me in the nakedness department. Is there anything happier than meeting a new penis? This was a GOOD one, big and ready and delicious-looking.

            But no time for that yet, because his eager talented face was already between my thighs. I came easily and repeatedly, in giggling jolts until I pushed him away by the forehead.

            When it was my turn, though, I felt stunned with self-consciousness. It had been almost a year since I’d had a dick in my mouth (Season Two of Stranger Things with The Socialist—ah, fall.) and I suddenly felt like I’d written exactly NO paragraphs about blow jobs. It felt too big to manage, I was paranoid about teeth, I couldn’t get my head at the right angle

            No matter about my precarious blow-jobbing, he pulled me into a kiss, and our bodies wrapped back up into a snuggle. He ran his hand over my ass and I said “You know you want to smack it!” So he did, hooray!

            The intercourse part just…sigh…fit. It was as natural and as easy as the kissing. In concert with his strength, I found my own lovely rhythm, pausing to realize how transcendent this moment was—a near-stranger and me, making something lovely together. A glow as lovely and golden as the fall sun.

            There was this little dip between his shoulder blades that I could have spent weeks caressing. His body was glowing perfection to me, and so, in that happy haze, was my own.

            “Your arms make me wish I was still a poet,” I said. He’s yoga-strong, like a huggable sculpture.

            “Well, you could always put pen to paper…” he said.

            It’s helpful to have permission to wax poetic about the deep, glittery waves of release and joy I felt as we cuddled, then fucked, then cuddled some more. He spent a long lovely time with my left nipple that I will use (and have used many times already) during personal time. When I come from the inside, there’s rarely any big finale, just waves and waves and waves til we both get tired. I yelped and giggled. “Welcome!” I wanted to say. “THANK you!” I probably did say.

            Afterwards, until we eventually put back on the Gilmore Girls, we lay listening to a mix of silence and street noise, breathing and heartbeats. He put his hand on my heart, I lay my head on his chest. There’s just as much romance in short-lived flings as in more serious stuff, I think. Maybe that’s why I keep revisiting the casual—these brief sparkles of connection are no small thing. They’re important to me, and they give me hope.

            There was talk of sleeping over, but I wanted to go home. Not just because they have a no-other-partners-in-the-bed rule. (Though it did bring to mind a piece of Cunning Minx’s advice from years ago that still chimes like an old friend in my head: “You got all these rules? You don’t get me.”) (Also, in fairness, Sweetie and I had that rule as well. I was soooooooo happy when I got my own bed.) It was more that I wanted to go home and be with myself, to honor and process what had just happened.

            He put on his shoes to walk me out (It was around then that we finally exchanged last names. I wonder how/if he ever spelled my last name in his phone) and I thought he was walking me chivalrously to my car.  Instead, he gave me a quick peck at the door, looking around exactly like somebody who’d done something wrong. While I later wondered if he was being secretive or ashamed of me, I also do enough thinking about weaponized white womanhood to wonder if he just felt unsafe being seen with me at night.

            Whatever the reason, his furtiveness didn’t register until later. I went home well-fucked and starving, ate some night cereal, and slept the best I had in a long time. There are more Gilmore Guy paragraphs to come, and I’m so glad I gave us a chance.

The Return of Mr. Sweetface, Part Two: Yay Ropes!

            As he pulled rope after rope out of his bag (peacock blue, purple, and pink, not too different from the collection I used to have) and laying them out on the bed, I stood feeling pleasantly uncomfortable, my bare arms chilly but happy.

            He wound the ropes around me building a harness, not in the sure, insistent way that Sweetie used to but at his own, gentle, soft pace. I loved the silky feeling of the ropes grazing my shoulder, the queenly gesture of holding my hair aside. When he put his arms around me from the front, I eased into a hug, enjoying the warmth of his familiar but new-again body both as a comfort and as a stranger.

            He tied some well-placed knots and pulled the rope taught under my crotch—oh crotch-rope, how I have missed you! The knots hit the right places and it felt silly and festive to wriggle around entertaining my clit and ass while he worked and reworked the knots at the top of the harness, twining and untwining, pushing my boobs forward and grazing my nipples under the padded bra.

            After he finished, I felt lovely and powerful. I sat down on the bed and told him to take off my shoes. He placed them very neatly on the floor at the foot of the bed. I pulled him to me and undid his belt and with what I hoped seemed like surety, I took down his pants.

            I got into bed and propped a mountain of pillows behind me. I told Mr. Sweetface to lie down across my lap, his sporty grey briefs still on. For the first time in years, I spanked. I tried first with my right hand, but my wrist is not quite right from my car accident last year. So now is my chance to learn to spank left-handed! I felt self-conscious about the rhythm and how hard I was hitting, but soon he started to groan and wriggle. I loved feeling his friendly dick start to harden against my thighs as I held his head down with my right hand and spanked with my left.

            I gently took off his underpants, enjoying the sight of his sweet, tender little round moon of an ass. I took in the slender smoothness of him, the beauty of the man over which I now had complete control. I put my right hand firmly between his shoulder blades and pressed down, looped my left arm around his ass to pin him. I held him there like I’d just struck the last emphatic note on the sweetest, softest piano. I let the pleasure and power between us hum and vibrate, and then I spanked some more. 

Yay, Still Spankable!

It's fantastic to know I'm (sometimes) past the part where I'm scared of sex and ready to both whale on somebody and get whaled on. I'm not supersure in the long term about the FWB-ness of my relationship with Mr. Sweetface (I'm kinda in a place where I want to graduate to romance. And, um, my own stuff.) but I am grateful for the kind, tingly way he ushered me back into the world of sexytimes last night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The “online contingency,” fucking OOF.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Single Life, Week Three: A Good No, a Wreath, and a Special Occasion

Last week I was feeling like I had to build myself a new world, so lost that I wasn’t sure where I fit in in the universe. It is amazing what a good no and a good yes can do!

I’m not driving up to my sister’s for Christmas. It seems like I should be able to do it, but the idea gives me a stomachache. What I need most in the world is rest, and it seems like this winter break I am going to get it. Luckily, since modern times are sometimes awesome, it only took one post on the family facebook page and I was free. Christmas Eve and Day might be sad without my niece and nephews, it may bring out the divorce grief, but if it does, I’ll be safe at home where no one will be impatient with my emotions. I may be gleeful or somber, jolly or sobbing, but no matter what I will be warm and at home.

I’m glad to have acknowledged that things are different this year and made taking care of myself the highest priority, even if it means a lonely couple of days. Plus, I’ve never been to my own church for Christmas, so I’m looking forward to that. Making the choice to stay home felt amazing, and I’m proud that whatever else has happened, I’ve made myself a happy place to live.

In the process of tweet-bragging about my choice, I somehow accidentally dialed Mr. Sweetface, the rope-top friend who tied me to his wife a few weeks back. I texted to apologize for the misdial and somehow that led to him asking me for a playdate on Saturday. I gave him a resounding yes, bought some lacy new underpants, and was delighted to have visions of spanky snuggles dancing in my head as the last week of school before Christmas eked loudly by.

The next nice thing that happened was that my mom’s yearly wreath arrived. I opened it on the porch, not wanting it in my apartment, and was about to put it on the curb for someone else to find when I had a change of heart. It was all pearly white, with ribbons that said “hope” “joy” “love” and “peace.” It was too nice of a wreath and too nice of a gesture. I called and apologized for our fight, and she apologized too.

I think it’s time to change what I expect from my mom, to accept her genuine attempts at being loving, even as I distance myself from confiding in her. She’ll never be the trustable comfort I’ve always wished she’d be, she’ll never approve of my shenanigans, and it’s time to just let that be okay.

Sweetie, who happened to be over dropping off the car for the weekend (We’re sharing the car while I save up for my own. It’s not too bad.) helped me hang up the wreath and then went home.

Saturday I cleaned the house as much as I could and managed, for the first time since Sweetie moved out, to do the laundry and groceries by myself. For some reason, I’d been having a mental block about it—don’t know why I express grief through chore-aversion, but I’m glad I’m getting past it.

Mr. Sweetface was the first guy I’ve had over since the apartment became just mine, and the first (spoiler alert) man I’ve had in my bed since the year 2000. He was such a good choice. Though we both got good and spanked, it was mostly about warmth and snuggles, getting to know each other and feeling sleepily festive. He’s the one who helped me string Christmas lights over my headboard.

The thing about that playdate was, it was so easy. He is a spa day of a Dom and a sweet boy of a bottom, (So glad god made switches!) an emotionally generous talker who had me completely at ease. I remarked on my lack of anxiety or fear but started to think I should make that less remarkable, to stop being surprised by kindness and just keep letting it come to me.

There are moments sometimes when things are just working, when can feel the current that runs beneath things, when I feel life taking me forward without struggle or worry. Could be the endorphins or the chocolate I ate while spanking him, but I think it might be Christmas spirit—a new kind of Christmas, especially for me.

Not Fitting In at the Regular Dungeon, Not Getting Over Them

I wasn’t ready to see Steampunk Guy. I walked into the party happy and excited but when I saw him across the room and we kind of shrugged hello, the wind went out of my sails. I tried to do my best and be a part of things anyway. Old-Timey Guy asked me to play, which made me really happy since I usually ask him. I asked The Puncher’s Girl (Actually they broke up, so she gets a new nickname if I end up going back.) if she would like a spanking and she got very happy about that.

I was okay for a while, feeling confident in my Christmas Snoopy underpants and red satin heels even though he was right nearby. I thought about saying hello but I knew if I got too close, I’d feel the pull and I’d be even further from over him. Plus I’m probably still too angry to form words. Luckily there was a paddle and a lovely, squirmy ass on which to express some of the anger—she was more than okay with this, and I thought could make it a good night.

Then Steampunk Girl got there and my heart twisted up into even more untenable knots and I asked TPG if we could please be somewhere that’s else.

We went to a far corner of the room and snuggled, held tight and had co-aftercare. I let the tears come, but even they were hollow and disconnected, no real soul behind them. I felt like every part of me was cut off, like I was ugly and unworthy to be part of things and would never connect to people again. I felt like a failure, for not staying friends, for not getting over them, for not figuring out how to be what he wanted.

I felt like a creep and a freak for the fact that they have this effect on me. All he was supposed to be was a casual partner WAY BACK WHEN and I was supposed to treat her as a friend. But what came from seeing them was the distilled essence of the fear that I will always be alone, that I’ll never be worth as much as she is, that the universe forgot to make people for me, that I am too ugly and worthless to be loved or even remembered by a man. I wish I could’ve made all that go away and acted like a normal person, but I couldn’t.

TPG said “You shouldn’t have to be any more vulnerable than this, let me go get your clothes.” She helped me to get dressed and then she took my hand and led me out of the room, all bundled up and as fast as we could go.

I was too vulnerable last time I tried the dungeon, too. Maybe it can’t be my happy place anymore. I am scared to death that I will never be happy and sexy and brave again, that this person, cut off and scared and getting fixated on people who were not supposed to be a big deal, is all I’ll ever be.

Kinky Karaoke Part One: The Triumph of Light Over Darkness

“Going out to sing means you have to adopt a staunch pro-believin’ stance. But it also means you have to suspend your rational doubts. “Don’t Stop Believin’” isn’t about actually believing in anything, just as nobody in “Livin’ on a Prayer” prays for anything in particular. The belief is in belief itself; the prayer is just for more prayers.”

–Rob Sheffield, Turn Around Bright Eyes: The Rituals of Love and Karaoke

“Before you came into my life, I missed you so bad.”—Carly Rae Jepsen

Saturday was my church’s Diwali celebration (Unitarians feel entitled to any holiday we choose, that’s one of the things I like about us.) and I’d originally planned to go in early to help with the feast, but my day had been so fantastically indulgent and dawdly that I was nowhere near ready to leave at the appointed time. Sweetie and I heated up some frozen samosas and naan and had our own little Diwali feast at home, while watching Top Chef.

My suitcase was packed for Kinky Karaoke, so I hoped that the service wouldn’t be too long. When I got out of the car at church, most people were already inside and I was alone in the woodsy church parking lot with the brightest moon you’d ever see, peeking through clouds that were fluffily arranged in rows across the sky like the stuffing of a comforter. The path to the church was lined with star lanterns, and the walk in ended up to be the most transcendent part of the service.

Usually our Diwali is a joyful affair, with lots of singing and dancing and making art out of flower petals, but this year, the pastor began the service with an admonition that children should not be allowed to run around in the aisles, and it continued in that tone. In place of any religious experience, there was a lecture, complete with PowerPoint. One of the great joys of adulthood is that if you’re sitting in your church pew stifling yawns, you’re allowed to just get up and leave.

I was happy to venture back out into the clear, starry night. I got in the car and set the GPS for the out-of-the-way corner of the city where the Karaoke King and Queen live, turned up my Training Montage mix, and belted out every song along the way.

Pretty Slave has a wonderfully geeky bumper sticker on her car that reads:

And whenever I see it, I get all bubbly-over with joy. I was also excited that I’d see The Lady of the House, who was my main inspiration for showing up that night.  I walked in to many hugs and felt so excited that I’d recovered so quickly from last weekend’s triggers enough to come.

I’m so grateful that I am me, and that these are my friends. I don’t know what they were doing over at the Scary Party, but I’m pretty sure nobody was sitting in anybody’s lap dueting “Piano Man” at full force (high five, Cute Master!) or singing Cee-Lo in their underpants. (I didn’t arrive with much bitterness in my heart, but “Fuck You” really is the very best karaoke song ever.)

Pretty Slave told me I’m prettier than ribbons and Cute Master was sweet and sympathetic about the heart-hurts of last week. I was touched at his recalling that this house was where we met over the summer. “I fingered you right over there,” he said “It’s too bad they moved the couch!”

And then! Some people I didn’t know I’d been wanting to see! Remember the munch I cried at toward the end of the summer? Okay, doesn’t really narrow it down, but the night that I was soothed by the nice ladies goofing around and bringing Long Island iced teas, Mrs. Sweetface was one of the ladies doing the soothing. (Not to be confused with Ms. Sweetheart. The naming part’s not as easy as it looks.) We’d joked about me becoming Mr. Sweetface’s cuddle partner, since she’s not so into that part. I’d yet to meet him and I couldn’t believe she remembered that, but it was the first thing she said: “Your cuddle buddy’s upstairs.”

When she introduced him, he said “Oh, that was you?”

“Yep! If we’re gonna cuddle, we’d better start practicing!” I said, pulling this complete stranger into a hug. It was a hug with a little spark of energy, with potential. Clearly it was time to employ my “Talk to the cute couple until they’re doing stuff to me” strategy, which I devised the last time I was here.

But first, lots and lots of songs. Pretty Slave and I did our song, “Call Me Maybe,” of course, and then the young woman that CS and PM are dating (I don’t think she’d mind being named “Their Girl”) joined us for Nikki Minaj’s “Starships,” which is totally my top Training Montage hit. The Lady of the House seduced our hearts with some Steely Dan, and then teamed up with me on my song of the year, “I Just Can’t Get Enough.” This is how I was born to be, stripped down to my basic ridiculous histrionics and enjoying the fuck out of my friends.

Incidentally, I got a chance to talk with Their Girl and found out that she’d left that party a few weeks ago because she got jealous—of me! It was strange to be on the other side of that equation! I told her she should have joined in and we made plans to conspire against Pretty Slave and Cute Master at the earliest opportunity.

A couple of times during the evening, the Karaoke Queen took a break from her hostessing duties to bend over and get some spanks, and just like that, another sweet little bottom for me. Even though they were just playful party spanks, she got all melty in my arms afterwards and I loved the power of getting to make my friend so woozy-happy. Plus, the Lady of the House was watching and looked impressed—I like that.

Next: Eeeee! Yesyesyes I got tied to another girl!

Being a Switch Is Awesome Part Three: First Time I Beat Up a Boy

After Old-Timey Guy was finished with me, I stripped off my wings and the rest of my costume and got as naked as I could while having to leave on nipple tape and panties. I just wanted to be comfy. I started to look around for someone to give me more snuggles. The Puncher is a really good cuddler, but for whatever reason he was seeming unapproachable.

Then a new guy walked in a military-ish costume and looked so much like The Man that I had to do a double-take. On second-look, he was much more fresh-faced, but the resemblance was still uncanny. Regardless/because of who he resembled, I thought he was cute so I said hello.

“I’m usually here in heels,” he said, “But tonight, I’m all Domly.”

“You SURE are!” I giggled and asked him what he likes. Just like me, he likes to be restrained and smacked around. After we chatted for a few more minutes, I went ahead and asked, “So, do you want me to beat you up?” Suddenly these things just seem so easy!

He smiled and said sure and I remembered that I DID have something to tie him up with—my pretty satin handcuffs! He happily held his hands out and I tied them on all snug. It was poetic to be putting soft, shiny handcuffs on a guy who looks like The Man, but this guy was such a sweetheart that all I was thinking about was making him happy. Okay, and maybe convincing him to snuggle me later.

(Sidenote: It occurs to me that I’d better be super-extra-careful to take care and honor bottoms’ wishes. I’m entering the world of topping with some not-awesome karma behind me, if one believes in that sort of thing. Better look for chances to heal those old scars—maybe this is one of those chances.)

(Another sidenote: Not superappropriate little note to CBATP—Not to take away from any of the wonderfuls I do play with, but I’m thinking of you in these paragraphs for a couple of reasons, wishing we could be in touch, wishing I could fire up the ol’ sexTARDIS to a time when scenes might be possible with you. )

ANYWAY, so the First Boy. I led him to a kneeling bench and tried awkwardly to get his pants down, but it turned out they were all one piece with the top of his costume. Little spoiler alert, he vowed to make himself more accessible to me the next time. I took off his cap and glasses and placed him on the stand next to us. I petted his sweet blond head and asked if he liked his hair pulled, and yes, he did. He has short hair, but I got a good grip, yanked, and enjoyed his beatific expression.

My spankin’ hand was hurty, everybody, so I wouldn’t have been able to do much, but he pointed out that his costume included a training nightstick. So helpful, except it was a little hard not to hit myself with the handle-end while I was hitting him—that must’ve looked funny. I sank into the rhythm and hit harder and harder, expressing all the rest of the aggression I had left, going actually a little sadistic as I scrolled through all of the feelings.

As I laid into the lower part of his left ass cheek, I noticed him flinch a little more than I meant him to, and he told me I was at a yellow. I felt proud and also horrified—ohno, I’m a little scary! Like, on purpose! (Actually this was the second time of the night I came off scary—the Fireman’s Girl wanted some nice spanks from me but got afraid when she saw how hard I hit TPG. I’m sure I could still do sensual spanks, though. Hope she gives me a chance to try.)

I backed off a little, even switch-hitting a bit, but eventually both arms got tired. I asked if he wanted some snuggles, and hooray! He did. The only snuggle-spot available at this late hour happened to be in the same place where I had lovely, smoochy aftercare with The Man back all those months ago when he still had a nice nickname. As much as I’ve stayed angry with TM, I’ve never forgotten the romance and potential of that first scene.

Sorry the paragraphs keep getting swept out of the First Boy moment—that certainly wasn’t the case that night. Apparently I’m into one guy doing aftercare on behalf of a whole bunch of people—can that be a fetish? Not according to FetLife, but nonetheless, it was incredible! Even though I was ostensibly supposed to be taking care of him, I got all wrapped up in his arms and felt sweet and beautiful, sinking into the woozy sensation of trust and safety. It’s a miracle that it’s so easy to fall into coziness with a stranger. One of the things I love best about single life is slipping in and out of intimacy without possession or obligation—just letting myself rest with another human animal and then letting it go.

Not letting go too much, though. He let me know that he plans to be around more often and that he hoped we’d play again. I sure do have some ideas for him.