Sweet Valentine, Part One: The Perfect Coffee Date

 

Every once in a while, there's just a transcendently good date. In this story, there are two! 

I planned our first date for right after yoga, maybe that's why the vibes were so easy and flowy. He sat down beside me and there was instant cozy chemistry. He gazed at me and said "I'm just looking at your face." I put my head on his shoulder. I asked him if I could kiss him on the cheek and he said yes.

Oh friends! The talking was so good. We had so much in common spiritually, both grounded and floaty at the same time. Our separate lives felt like puzzle pieces clicking into place. I wanted to tell him every single thing and he was share-y too, an avalanche of getting-to-know-you. No small talk, just big talk. Home, safety, joy.

He has long, beautiful musician hands, and they were holding mine. We kissed right there in front of the vegan scones. The kiss was at the far edge of chaste, and it was JUST RIGHT. 

"You're in," I said, with the biggest smile. In that moment, he felt absolutely meant for me! And, just for that moment, he was.

He knew I was still tender from Christmastime stuff, and I sort of meant to take this slow. But when I asked, "Should we take it slow and leave it here or should I just take you home?" He chose coming over. I'm so glad he did but I'm also wondering what would have happened if we'd left it there instead of having the most beautiful/sweet/hot morning and early afternoon. 

A Helpful Mini-Adventure With a Lovely King

 

Last week, when I was deep in my angst about neighbor stuff, a very handsome and distinguished gentleman pinged my Feeld. He said he's a dom and would love to try for a rope thing with me! I fought the OCD that was telling me to NEVER LIKE ANYONE AGAIN and said hello. I'm so glad I did.

On the phone, there was instant chemistry, instant brainstorming of scenes. He called me his princess, he called me a Good Girl, and most importantly, he told me he thinks I have more agency than I think I have. Since I frequently feel helpless about compulsions and fate, agency lit a spark in my mind that's been lighting my way these snowy, sleepy days.

From the moment I took TGNS's hand and placed it on my head, my submissive side has been guiding me, and Lovely King felt like an extension of that energy that kindled in me back on Leftovers Night. Like a bright thread I can follow, telling me to bow down and recognize the vastness.

Lovely King and I planned a date, but it was a little further out than I would've liked. I asked him if he would help with my Bowing Down to Love Itself project, and he agreed. Each day after I got in my cozy floor-nest and did my Child's Pose with a hand on the back of my head, after I relaxed in the vastness of love and the stretches in my body, I'd text the Lovely King and tell him I'd submitted to love, tell him how I was feeling. Sent pretty pictures sometimes.

He responded each time with a "good girl" and was very dutiful with the "good mornings," though not with the goodnights. I knew he was only beginning his adventures, and we were only beginning ours, but without much friendly chitchat between praises, the situation started to feel cold.

Friends!! I told him how I was feeling! Without fleeing or panicking! Huzzah! I said I liked more chattiness from a potential dom, and I while I like sharing, I don't like the feeling of being one of many.

He confirmed the one-of-manyness and said he didn't have bandwidth for what I need, but wanted to keep in touch! Which was so nice! But not the right way to go. I am so, SO proud of myself for making this choice! For making choices like a person who believes in love. 

Self-respect is HARD y'all. But practicing submission by bowing down to Love Itself feels like something nobody else should be walking me through. It's a project to do with my own hurt and hopeful heart, with quiet and candles, Girl Scout cookies and nice lotions and all this miraculous snowday free time.

Love has me. It has scooped me up like my own personal Totoro. It's hard to keep that faith, but I can keep the ritual. That's enough for now.

Closure Is a Thing, I Think, Part One

I’ve read so many Dear Prudence columns downplaying the idea of closure, and I totally get that! Talking things through can feel like a cigarette after having been quit for years, a grim sense of starting all over. Or, it can feel like a liberating sensation and a fresh start. I might be leaning optimistic because I had a really good first date Saturday night (We snuggled up on the couch and actually WATCHED A movie! So cute!) but that is an adorable post for another day.

Sometimes, a letter at the end of the year can be a lovely way of letting things go, a last thanks/sorry/good wishes before joining a new year as strangers. That worked for me with Gilmore Guy, with This Charming Man—the letters were probably very self-indulgent but they helped me with the process of letting go.

This adventure started with a spell at Angel Face’s Solstice party—his spouse handed me a slip of paper and asked what I would like to let go. I clutched my fist and said “NOTHING.” But I wrote The Shy One’s name on there anyway and put it in the fire as instructed.

Shortly after, The Shy One visited in a dream. He was standing outside my classroom (In real life, I do not have a classroom) looking dapper and fatherly in a winter coat. We hugged hello/goodbye and his spirit felt…lighter. It made me so happy to think of him not full of worry or stress, just peaceful. Of course, I looked for him for the rest of the dream, but he was gone.

So, partly because I forever live in a romcom, I sent him a thank you card, right before Christmas. His reply came SO QUICK.

Nice Vulnerability Quotes from the Church Bulletin

I like it when church's theme intersects with my own. :)

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.

Maybe Not A Fetish Ball Kind of Girl, But There Were Highlights (Part Two)

I’ll do a list of highlights and a list of lowlights, fun stuff first:

1. Sweetie looked so cute all dressed up in a tie, suspenders, and a fedora—I definitely want to encourage her to be draggy more often.

2. I loved getting a chance to show off Sweetie’s rope art. It took a while to get me into the corset and harness, but I loved standing near the entranceway in my pretty tiara, sparkly black dress, leggings, and heels, with my arms up, her hands pulling and adjusting the rope this way and that, with my friend Switchpoet and lots of strangers watching nearby. She finished with a heart at the back of the harness, in pink and purple ropes as you’ve seen; I really am the Hello Kitty of rope bottoming.

3. Even though I was mostly a failure at it, it was fun to get to lead Switchpoet around on a leash. He was a really good sport about how ineffectual I was. When we first came up with the idea of me quasi-topping him, it kinda captured my imagination, but I just couldn’t make it convincing. Still, it was fun covering him in glitter and commanding him to go get drinks for me and Sweetie. It’s funny how I can be the bossiest person in everyday life, but I just drop the ball if I try to take a dominant role for fun…

4. Remember the couple I had a good date with, back when I was trying for unicorn practice? Painter and Ro-gan? They came to the ball and we got to catch up. They said they even would’ve set me on fire, had such a thing not been disallowed. They watched me play with Sweetie, which made an awesome thing more awesome. Painter was all dressed up as a doll, with big sproingy hair (She makes spring wigs herself!) and silver eyelashes. They took Ro-gan’s pants at the door because he wasn’t dressed kinky enough, so he had to walk around in just his Star Wars underwear, T-shirt, and Doctor Who scarf. I got to hear a little bit about their adventures at kink camp, but it was really too loud to talk.

4. Speaking of Dr. Who, while I didn’t get to realize my dream of getting tied up in a TARDIS, Sweetie and I did get to make out in one—what a nice place for aftercare! I didn’t mind the little dude in steampunk glasses who kept peering in the windows at us.

5. The kneeling bench we chose had shackles at the bottom of its front legs, so I couldn’t lift my head all the way up while Sweetie was spanking me. If I wanted to tell her something, I had to kind of just wait for her head to come down to me. (Did I mention it was really, really loud in there—couldn’t even hear myself getting spanked!) It made her feel unintentionally rougher than she really is, and that was exciting.

Plus, there was a beautiful suspension going on right next to me, the woman just looked so blissed out and happy as she got ropes tied to her middle, her ankles, her wrists-she looked so well cared for. She had these gorgeous long Amazon legs and pretty pinup heels. I always said I didn’t want to do suspension, but surprise, I do!

As an added bonus, tada!--Painter wants to learn suspension and says I can be her practice bunny. (Yes, I’m having a conversation with myself about calling myself a bunny. I think I’m okay with it…)

6. Added to my list of things to try: fire flogging. The guy doing it got shut down before I could try it, but not before it gave me an I-want-to-go-to-there.

But now for the bad stuff:

1. I hate the aspects of kink life that feel like high school. The girls at the door were mean to me. I was coming from another event so I just walked in in a regular pretty dress, and you should have seen the judgmental stares. They didn’t believe me that Switchpoet was right behind me getting my suitcase of goodies searched. I felt vindicated after I was dressed and roped up and the ticket-taker guy said “Okay, you win.” My rope-enhanced cleavage has that effect on people.

2. Maybe it was because the music made communication impossible, but there was something empty about the (crowded) ballroom. From the fashion show (With the cheesy announcer saying “If you think they’re hot, let them know...”) To the silvery alien girls in the same tutus and silver bustiers, to the fact that I couldn’t hear myself or my fellow players, I just felt disconnected from myself, from Sweetie, from the room. The spiritual aspect of things was missing. It really helps me to appreciate the intimacy and authenticity I’ve felt before at smaller parties.

But heck, I got to dress up, get spanked, and make out in a TARDIS, so I’d call it a win, even if it wasn’t the most edifying one.

Sweetie and the Transcendent Thigh-Ropes!

Sweetie and I have embraced the pretty pink ropes and made them part of our regular sex routine. (No, the phrase “regular sex routine” doesn’t bother me; it just means we’ve so far avoided my biggest three-word fear: “lesbian bed death.”) I’m always delighted to stand in front of her, trying to distract her while she cooks up various arrangements of ropes. Lately, she’s taken to doing this naked, so all the better.

I had a dream Saturday night that she was concentrating the ropes on my thighs, so that’s what I asked her to do. Yesterday, after we went swimming and ate lunch in front of some Buffy episodes (I think Willow’s coming out episode makes her extra hot…) we got showered up and ready for ropes. She put the now-usual halter on me, with rope firmly on either side of my nipples for easy-fun pinching. Then she wove the ropes around each of my thighs, making a little decorative handle in front of each.

My thighs aren’t a part that I usually think about or concentrate on, except maybe during half-assed yoga, so they were soooo happy to have some attention. As I fell dreamily into bed and into Sweetie’s arms, I went a little more subby than I usually do with her. At home, usually the ropes make me fiery, switchy, animalistic, but this time, I was floating in a cloud. I became a cloud. 

As she played with me on top, rubbing and pinching my nipples between the ropes I while I pinched hers, (This is always the point at which I remember, jeez, we have to get this lady some nipple clamps. I’ll take recommendations!)  I pulled the thigh-handles back and forth, up and out. It made me wish that the phrase “opening up like a flower” weren’t corny and overused. The tug of the ropes on my inner thigh felt warm, vital, life-affirming. It gave me a deep sense of well-being, a pleasant yoga-like sensation. It also pulled me open wider. It’s hot as heck here so the fan was blowing on us, blowing onto my wetter and wetter and more and more yielding openings. It was a new kind of bliss.

And then she took hold of the handles, pulled me up towards her, up and down, up and down, a little bit like a swinging feeling, and then a total calm washed over and into me. It was like I was a parachute that had just opened and was floating down through the air gently, or I was a very happy jellyfish buoyed by a warm and loving sea. I was dissolved into happiness, closer to oneness with the universe than church or most other things have ever gotten me. (Note to self: keep not going to church. But that’s another post.)

Afterwards, when we were both relaxing with our books (beach book for me, Star Wars for her) and bowls of cereal, we talked about how cool it is that you can have this same body your whole life and still it keeps offering up surprises. I never would have guessed that my thighs could give me more than they already had. The best thing about this journey so far is the ways that my body has given me new gifts (If I’m ever brave enough, see the upcoming post entitled “Jeez, I Really Love My Butt.”) and has given Sweetie and me new ways to be close to each other. The word that keeps popping into my head is “miracle.”

Love Letter to Ropes

A few weeks ago, at the Philadelphia Trans Health Conference, the first person I recognized when I walked in was Lee Harrington. It was a delight to meet him and to learn that he uses the word “squee” as both an adjective and a verb. That’s a nice friend for a kitten. I was starstruck, but I found the presence of mind to ask him just the right question: “What spiritual advice do you have for a beginning rope bottom?” He said, “Spend some time thinking about why you want rope.”

So, true to form, I’ve been journaling about it for a couple of weeks, but last weekend Sweetie and I got a chance to work on some, uh, more hands-on research. By the time Sweetie put the ropes on me Saturday afternoon (after a good long spate of snoozing and novel-reading, of course) I’d been feeling separate from her for a couple of weeks. I’d been missing my connection to her and doubting my ability to connect to others—worry and doubt that made me feel frustrated and disjointed from my body and hers. As soon as she started winding the ropes around me, though, it brought me into the present and into my body. I let my guard down and the wall of fear we’d had between us came down too. Like the Tantric dancing I’ve been experimenting with, the ropes helped me to free my body from the tyranny and noise of my head, and I gave myself a break from doubt and worry. I let myself off the hook.

We’re sticking to decorative for now, no restraint, but she did get the courage to pull tighter, and I loved it. I could feel the ropes squeezing my tensions away, especially when she wound them around my waist—I love the feeling of having my waist pulled in, I suppose it might be nice to try a corset sometime.

The overwhelming emotion was relief—standing naked before her as she wove me a harness that pulled me tighter and tighter; I felt a loved, safe, like a place had finally been made for me in the world. Anchored, grounded.  I think I’ve compared ropes to Temple Grandin’s hugging machine before—that’s a little bit what it’s like—secure and loved, but in a different, more autonomous way then when you are being squeezed by actual arms. But lots of squeezing-with-actual-arms happened too.

When I wondered aloud “Why does this make me feel so good?” Sweetie said, “You don’t have to hold yourself together, so you can yourself go.” That’s close. It’s transcendence, but instead of pulling me heavenward, it pushes me deeper into myself, into my deep, awesome (in the traditional sense of the word) animal nature. She said the yowls and wails I let out as soon as she touched me made me sound like she was killing me, but those loud yelps are the pleasure and glee of giving in to my body and hers. I think maybe those things come more naturally to other people, maybe I just need that extra push/smush to let it out.

The volume of every sensation was turned way, way up, especially on my nipples, ass, and mouth. She touched me or pulled the crotch rope this way and that, and I wailed, and I kissed her and sucked her wrist, which is the thing I do when I’m most turned on by her. I don’t know why her wrist—maybe because it’s where her pulse is?

But it isn’t just about the nice bottomy sensations of laying there being touched and yowling and beautiful, there’s also this big, growly toppish side that comes out of me when I’m bound-but-not-restrained. I want to ravish her, and I do. This time, I was so aggressive that I thought I might hurt her, but I didn’t. Her body, though prone to any number of health concerns, is not the fragile paper flower I normally see it as. Her body is resilient, violent, full and wound up with power, the power between us, the abandon. When you’ve been married a long time, you can’t always fuck with abandon, but I’d like to heartily thank the pretty pink ropes for shutting off my fussy little concerns, for removing my sense of remove. When we can put the everyday aside and just be together, I think it’s a miracle. I think we are a miracle.

Maybe this seems obvious, but as I was floating around the house afterwards getting us water and making us lunch, it sunk in: I have a fetish, and there’s no reason to hold back from using it. Whatever reasons I want ropes, my body is made for them and I love them the way I love writing, or walking, or music, or Mad Men. I want to celebrate them, take full advantage, embrace the ropes as my own. This is a love letter to them, I guess, and to Sweetie, and to my own good-sport body finding the things it was made for.

Hafiz Is My Book Boyfriend

Sweetie won a gift certificate to our local independent bookstore the other day, and when I went over to order her some books about typography and some about food, I found this! I think it'll be the perfect companion for a year of body adventures. The March 21 poem ends with these two stanzas:

"There is nothing you have ever done that is

not innocent and will in any way be judged as 

wrong by anyone of true wisdom,

but such knowledge you will not be able to

accept until your and an angel's ways are

more similar. It just works like that."

But my favorite Hafiz poem is much hotter:

TIRED OF SPEAKING SWEETLY

Love wants to reach out and manhandle us,
Break all our teacup talk of God.

If you had the courage and
Could give the Beloved His choice, some nights,
He would just drag you around the room
By your hair,
Ripping from your grip all those toys in the world
That bring you no joy.

Love sometimes gets tired of speaking sweetly
And wants to rip to shreds
All your erroneous notions of truth

That make you fight within yourself, dear one,
And with others,

Causing the world to weep
On too many fine days.

God wants to manhandle us,
Lock us inside of a tiny room with Himself
And practice His dropkick.

The Beloved sometimes wants
To do us a great favor:

Hold us upside down
And shake all the nonsense out.

But when we hear
He is in such a “playful drunken mood”
Most everyone I know
Quickly packs their bags and hightails it
Out of town.

~ Hafiz ~