OMG I Almost Forgot This Awesome Ass Update!

Waaaaaay back during the Steampunks in 2013, I remember being jealous of Steampunk Girl’s story about her first anal sex. Her guy at the time had been so gentle, so careful, she said. He listened to her and let her go at her own pace, making it about intimacy, not conquest or transaction.

Marooned as I was with Steampunk Guy and my main partner, Divorce Grief, I couldn’t imagine a man ever being that kind, that tender towards me.

I’m kinda glad (Though still irritated!) that my Ass Project with Steampunk Guy got vetoed on account of feelings, because my ass journey with The Shy One was beautiful. I don’t remember exactly when my asshole came into the mix, but I love the memory of him playing there sweetly and lightheartedly, mischievous and amused. Standing over me, next to me, or behind me while I was on my knees.

Whereas Steampunk Guy would have ripped off the Band-aid (Probably a little traumatizingly) with gusto and wrecklessness, the Shy One was in it with me. He tried a few times, after lots and LOTS of other things, to enter my ass, but, though I relaxed my jaw (Like I learned in that one anal sex class I took!) and took deep breaths, I couldn’t convince my inner sphincter to relax. He tried, ring of pain, he stopped, repeat. Deliberate, responsive. A dream come true as he almost always was.

The closest The Shy One and I got to anal sex was during his after-the-big-trip visit. He’d missed me and he wanted all of me—even fucked me even though I was (I almost always was!) on my period. I wanted him to have all of me, and I pushed through the pain as much as I could. He was too big, or I was too deep-down tense, but it was close. He was inside me in a way that was totally new, in a way my body and my curious mind had wanted for SO LONG. Painful as it was, I was woozy with gratitude and wildly, helplessly in love, even more than I’d already been.

So part of the dream came true, hooray! Cue choir of slutty angels! But then, jetlagged and getting sick and also just him, he withdrew afterwards, both went home and became a little less reachable, and I felt abandoned. Abandoned is a big scary dramatic word for a grownup to be using, but there we are. In those needy, vulnerable, most love-dizzy moments, he went away from me. Even if he only withdrew a little, I felt foolish, lost, stupid. I felt like the world was being taken away just as quick as it had been given. Like the sun had stopped shining.

(I do wonder how much of that emotion I owe to my own trauma. I kinda wish he and I had been able to sit down and sort out our traumas like laundry. I wish I could know more about what he was feeling, whether those shifts to not-liking-me after sex were as real as they felt. But in the end, it’s as simple as “this feels bad” I think.)

I think, someday when I restart this part of the project, I’d like to be kinder to myself about it. I’d like to hold out for someone who wants to be with me after. A guy who feels the afterglow with me and wants to bask in it. Somebody patient who can pat my head and soothe the vulnerable feelings. He’ll bring me fizzy water and tell me what the experience was like for him. We’ll talk all night.

Unicorn Stuff, Part Two: New Hearts, Old Grief

 

As I’ve been going through some old unicorn and/or metamour stories (What a very nice assignment I gave myself!) two things became clear: 1. I’ve been a little reluctant to admit the kinds of closeness I wanted because 2. My early adventures are steeped in the confusion and grief of my divorce from BFF-Formerly-Sweetie.

Looking back at the story of The Steampunks (This gold-star breakup that didn’t really take is a good example: https://kittencalendar.blogspot.com/2013/07/a-girl-crush-wall-of-grief-and-gold.html?zx=592a17ae48503cbd ) I had forgotten I was drawn to both of them. I only pursued him, though, partly because I was hankering for dudes after all my time on Lesbian Island trying to fight the bi-ness, but partly because it’s easier for me to learn one person, at least at first.

But I also had this imagined binary in my head, a loyalty-like-thing to BFF-Formerly Sweetie—I felt like an attraction to a woman was extra-betraying her. Since I’d given attraction to men as my main reason for divorce, it didn’t feel fair to still be attracted to women too. Embarrassingly, I still sort of feel this way sometimes, like liking a woman would be the ultimate betrayal of Sweetie. Being a divorced bi lady who mostly likes men is really weird sometimes.

The couples aspect of being bi still feels too big and too out of reach, too outside the boundaries of what I’m allowed. This isn’t because of anything BFF-Formerly-Sweetie said then or now. Playing with a couple, the possibility of belonging to a couple, through any combination of romance and friendship, seems like asking for too much. Even boyfriend-and-beloved-friend-metamour(s) seems too much to hope for, but I hope to learn to let myself own that wish.

In my gratitude for The Steampunks and the perspective that’s come from the last nine years I forgot how painful the breakups from them (There were four different breakups from Steampunk Guy, I just couldn’t stay away. This is part of why I’ve gotten good at staying away now.) were, how much it hurt to be told I couldn’t play with him after I divorced--“We only play with partnered people.” is truly one of the cruelest poly rules I’ve encountered.

I can see why the tears poured out when I was worried about Mrs. Shy One vetoing me, about not truly fitting into The Shy One’s life—those fears were mixed up with divorce grief and shame at wanting so badly to be approved of and the losses and indignities that came from past couples.

But every dater, every human, is walking around with past griefs and indignities. Though I’ve been journaling about past constellations privately, I don’t want to spend too much time focusing on the losses of the past, on the bitternesses that bloom out of couple privilege and my own mistakes and garden-variety thoughtlessness. If I did that, I would truly never make it to the next snuggle.

Instead, if I should encounter another couple I’m wildly drawn to, I’d like to give myself the compassion and space to absorb those emotions, to acknowledge the monumental size and power of that particular want. I’d like to learn to believe that a loving couple or boyfriend-and-metamour(s) romance is something I deserve to hope for. Of course, that doesn’t guarantee that I’ll get it, but if I do, I’ll do my best to welcome it in with kindness and an expansive heart, and most of all, a deep and boundless care for my tender self.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh Wait, It Wasn’t My Drama

I’m sorry to revisit the same stupid playdate-that-wasn’t over and over again, but it’s still weighing on me and it’s still taking away my fun. This seems to be the month of unpleasant conversations that give me lots of insight—this morning, when I touched base with Steampunk Girl to apologize for not saying hello and tell her that I miss them, I found out the truth about those cancelled plans: It wasn’t my expectations and drama that he was aggravated with, it was drama and expectations that she invented and projected onto me.

It turns out that she was upset that I hadn’t cancelled after she explained that I would need a more loving situation for my first ass-time. In fact, I had cancelled, but then I uncancelled when I realized that we weren’t the same person and didn’t need the same things. I felt perfectly capable of doing the gentle breaking-it-in parts myself (I think we’ve established that I’m awesome at that!) and taking care of the emotional parts on my own too. There are many other valid reasons besides love to play with somebody, and in this case I chose him for competence, chemistry, and release. And also because (I thought) he was my pal. I think I’d have rocked at that playdate, if the planning process hadn’t turned crazymaking.

She was then bothered when I declined to have my first anal time with Cute Master, which she’d deemed a more loving situation. Actually, it probably was, and CM may still get the honor, though it would only be in the most casual and matter-of-fact of ways. But even if CM WAS the better choice, who in the world was SHE to decide that? Whose asshole are we talking about here?

It was also her issues causing the schedule mess—she thought I’d have all this “aftermath” that he would have to deal with, even though I’d already taken responsibility for that part and asked him to just tell me when he was expected home. All that I’d really asked for (besides wanting to make him cupcakes) was a time-margin away from the school week so I’d be more relaxed, a high sex-to-snuggle ratio, and to be treated gently about the scheduling part.

I did romanticize the friendship, but that doesn’t mean I expected more than friendship. Regardless of my feelings, I never asked him for anything that went beyond the bounds of an FWB or play partner. And even if I did, all he had to say was no, there was never any reason to put me down and e-yell at me about it.

All this time I’ve been feeling like I failed to be friends with them, especially with her, but they were the ones who dropped me over one mismatched set of expectations, most of which they’d invented. They were callous, mean, and defensive all along. It if weren’t for something she decided I needed and shouldn’t have, the plans would probably have come and gone, a nice story and a happy step along the way, and I could have kept my muse and friend. But I guess if he let all that happen to me, then it was never really a friendship to lose.

I wish this had been a conversation with him and not a way-after-the-fact whisper-down-the-lane with her and more stupid paragraphs. I wish he would have acknowledged that I deserved better, that I had the right to prefer whichever partner I preferred, that just because her first time meant “loving” and “aftermath” didn’t mean that mine had to. It’s helped to realize that for all of my mess, I’m actually much more self-contained than she is, and certainly less insecure.

Of course any good poly reader could say that all of this would have been avoided through direct communication and a more transparent approach by all parties, but I knew those things weren’t there for them from like the second date and I proceeded anyway. I hope that I can treat myself more humanely in future partnerships—how many times have I said that?

As for the dungeon, TPG was so sweet and posted pictures of her bruises just as if I were a real Dom. Hopefully Old-Timey Guy will forgive me for running out, I’m sure he had a million other fun things to do. I may not go back for a while but when I do, I hope that I can find the brave person I used to be there, or at least find myself able to cry soulful tears.

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.

In Praise of Expectations and Other Human Things

If I’m in a facebook argument, you know something isn’t right. I usually am very careful about avoiding them—Sweetie loves them, but they make me feel stressy and gross. A friend of a friend, a young, adorable queer guy, posted that having expectations had caused every problem his heart had ever had, and he was making the virtuous pledge never to anticipate anything or have hopes about anyone. Reading this status tapped into a deep well of anger I only vaguely knew I had. I wanted to avoid the anger so it wouldn’t tarnish the nice memories, but I’m gonna have to slog back to Steampunk Guy for a few paragraphs. If you’re someone who gets squeamish about the less-attractive emotions, consider yourself warned.

I wish I hadn’t taken down the posts about our falling-out, but it came down to him saying this:

“You seem more excited about me than about trying anal.”

This felt like rejection on such a fundamental level. How LOW was I in his estimation that he thought I didn’t even deserve to have a PREFERENCE about which partner fucked me in the ass for the first time? How deeply inhumane is the expectation that I think only of the act and not of the person doing it. This fucking-a-fetish-instead-of-a-person cruelty is the root of everything ugly that I’ve seen in the alternative sex community, all of the post-consent-world mindset that the Scary Party crowd walks around with, it’s the deepest, starkest sexualization and I will never and should never open my mind to it. In order to be acceptable to him, I had to be literally nothing but a hole, and he had to be just a dick, too. How easy it would be if I saw the world that way, I’d be just the belle of the horror-themed fetish ball.

I didn’t say any of that at the time, just broke off the planning, said I was disappointed, and gave him some (admittedly somewhat tragic) background on why I’d been wanting to make it a nice experience.

He wrote back “Personal drama! Expectations! Shame! Apologies!”

At the time, I felt bad for being all of those things instead of just a simple, fun partner the way I assumed the other girls managed to be. But a month later, those four exclamations make me livid, so let’s take them one by one:

“Personal drama!”

Dude. You were going to be the first person (that I know of) to put his penis in my asshole. It seems reasonable that a person might have some emotions emerge around that, even in a casual situation. If you aren’t up for complicated emotions, you aren’t up for fucking me as a human being. (I know. We already established he wasn’t. It still makes me mad.) Yes, I have personal drama. I’m divorcing my wife of ten years and I was somewhat inconveniently in love with you. You saw those things as flaws, but  I’m relieved to find that I don’t.

“Expectations!”

I am sick and tired of hearing expectations vilified. We mustn’t hope, envision, or anticipate, lest we create some unnecessary strain on things. But you know what? Those things are only a problem if THE PERSON ALREADY DOESN’T LIKE YOU. It’s not the expectations’ fault; it’s the match’s, or rather, the lack of one.

Moreover, you had expectations too. You expected me to plan around your schedule, not mine, to somehow intuit exactly how much you could offer and not ask for one milliliter more. You expected me to put on a pretty outfit and be absolutely no one to you, to squelch every human emotion so much that I’d be an absolutely absent nothing.

And yes, this was my idea, I’ll admit. Denial is a tenacious thing.

“Shame!”

Is a feeling that many people have, especially when it comes to their assholes. Given the amount that I panicked after our last exchange, I’m guessing my shame runs pretty deep. That doesn’t somehow make me a bad player or a bad partner; it just makes me a person whose body has a lot of stories in it, just like everybody’s.

“Apologies!”

Yes, there were many. I shouldn’t have tried to stay friends with someone who made me so sorry all the time, but I did. Because I’m in a weird place, because I loved you and felt like I should learn you, because I wanted to get laid in the midst of my mess of a life.

I started this post angry but something about answering those exclamations helped. Here’s what I think: For any given encounter, I think we all deserve to value each other as whole beings. I deserve to have wishes and hopes both dashed and realized, because that’s what it is to be a real live girl. I deserve to dream and plan and fantasize, and to let go of anyone who makes me feel like those dreams are way too far away.

Steampunk Girl told me the story of her first time having anal sex, a process that took months because her partner was so loving and thorough and gentle. I loved that story but honestly didn’t picture myself finding someone who’d have that much time for me. Something in me must’ve believed it was possible, though, and I love her for getting that story stuck in my head, for giving me better expectations, for (eventually) making me admit I wanted nothing less. Not more expectations, or fewer, just better ones.

A Strange and Lovely Day Part Two: Some Literal Fireworks

Steampunk Guy texted that I should wear a butt plug to the class, but I confessed that I still didn’t have a wearable one. I forgot to mention that it wasn’t a hands-on class, but I don’t think he would’ve cared. The class was at a toy shop, I did start to think that if I found the right one, it might be fun to wear it to the party.

I learned a lot in ass-class. My favorite fun fact was that it’s easier to relax your ass if you relax your jaw. That’s a handy one since I know I need more day-today relaxation if this project is going to turn out as well as I want it to.

I think I’m proud that, when the teacher asked if she could skip one section of her lesson, I was the lady who piped up and said “I would like to hear about enemas.”

Take that, shame! I want to make everything nice.

All in all, I was really glad I’d signed up—it helped me to feel much more oriented and also gave me an excuse to buy some more pillows.

Lots of people stayed after to ask more questions, but I went downstairs to shop. “Do you have a butt plug I can walk around with?” is another thing I’m proud to have said, especially when I consider that two years ago when I started this project, I had a pretty strong fear of sex toys.

I ended up going with a little metal one because I’d heard women recommend them so often and because it looked just like a piece of jewelry. A text came through from SG suggesting that I get a glass one and warning me that the ones in the case are superexpensive, and I gleefully texted back:

“My ass deserves the ones in the case! :D”

It was a little expensive, but the very least I could do for a body part that I spent nearly four decades ignoring—it deserves everything. SG is kind of the-ones-in-the-case himself, come to think of it.

Since my life is odd, I got picked up from this happy errand by my ex-wife, who’d brought me supper. She listened as I chattered excitedly on about the class and the toy. Getting to spend that quality time with her made a fantastic day even better, even if I did feel guilty for not having driven myself. I guess I’ll have to soon enough.

I stopped home to change and texted Pretty Slave to ask if there was any reason not to wear my new toy to the party. She said she didn’t think so, so in it went, chilly for a second but not in a bad way.

As has been documented here, my driving is not necessarily awesome enough to support an altered state, but I did just fine. The hum of the car and the gentle pressure of the Little Metal Thing gave me warm spots all over my body—my knees, my shoulder blades, my blushing face. It was an all-over mood lifter, kinda like one little hit of really good pot.

In front of me on the highway, there was a fireworks display going on in a nearby town. Each burst made me feel lucky and loved by the universe. Just as I got to their exit, the grand finale came, bright and insistent. (I’m still talking about literal fireworks.) I wondered if the folks at the party were gathered outside watching (probably not) but it kinda felt like the fireworks were just for me.

Next: I go ahead and tell them to find a sex loophole.

A Veto and a Happy Accident, Part Five: He’s Sweet and She’s the Boss of Me

You know what I’m really coming to appreciate during all of these paragraphs? For all his aloofness and the other things that made us not work out, SG is a really good guy who gives me just what I want whenever he can. I’m grateful and I want to be awesome for him. Though he never complained about having to know me as the broken mess I was over the summer, I was so glad he got to see me the way I am now, no longer weak and desperate for him but confident and happy, enjoying him and myself and my friends. Since he’s kind of my sluttiness-muse, I liked him watching me spank my Winggirl, hit on a cute couple, and otherwise move through the place with ease. This is how I’ve always wanted to be.

While the crowd gathered round to bid in the live auction, SG started putting a harness on me, similar to the one he did back in June, a pretty woven design at the center of my chest, four ropes as straps over my shoulders. We were situated just behind where the auction was taking place, and while I know the crowd was looking at the items up for bidding and not at me, I got such a nice bonus center-of-attention feeling from them all facing in my direction.

When the bidding started on my own painting, I hid my head against his shoulder until I was relieved that it had gone above the minimum bid. My pals and I had been referring to it as a picture of my soul, and one doesn’t want one’s soul to go for cheap. I was glad to go back to being manhandled, having successfully contributed to the evening’s cause. As he ran his fingers over the supporting ropes to make sure they were in the right place, I felt a little pulse of electricity in his fingertips.

Once the harness was done, he pulled me into his lap to watch the auction. I sat with his arms around me, petting his hands and wiggling my ass against his (jeezImissitabunch) big hard cock. It was just like my dream, the feeling of contentment and release, and yes, closure. Summer is over. Whatever this is, it’s not that, and there’s no reason in this world not to enjoy each other, as long as I can see it for what it really is.

The fancier downstairs part of the venue is usually closed to the scantily clad on dungeon nights, but tonight it was open—there was a silent auction and also some charity spankings and such. SG wanted to go down there and, feeling a little bit vulnerable to rejection all roped up, I asked if I could come too. I held his hand walking through the crowd and felt so proud to show him off.

Friends, I really had myself convinced over the summer that he wouldn’t want to be seen with me. He thinks that’s silly and so do I, but at the time I just thought that since he and Steampunk Girl are so hot, and presumably all of his other ladyfriends are equally sexy, that I just couldn’t measure up. Again, the more I want something, the more I assume I’m unqualified for it. It’s kind of cool how, despite giving little-to-no praise, SG has helped me to dismantle so many unhelpful assumptions about myself. His actions just kind of make me confront my not-unhotness. Anyway, walking through the dungeon holding his hand meant a lot, but I also think maybe it should not be such a big deal.

Winggirl One wanted me to watch her get spanked, so we situated ourselves at the corner of the bar where we could see the whole room. The rope top girl and her boy were a few stools down, still all dreamy-faced and content. I went over to flirt some more and she looped the boy’s wrist-ropes through the top of my harness and I said “Now you’re The Boss of Me.” and then they were named. Naming him “The Boss of Me’s Boy” makes me feel slightly less sexist about all the “so-and-so’s girl” type names I’ve come up with.

Maybe my favorite moment of the night was when Steampunk Guy made sure I went over there and asked them if they were okay being written about, so I wouldn’t have to leave anything out of the story. It was him being a friend, kind of a Dom, a partner-in-crime and (maybe best of all, I’ll admit) a reader all at once. Almost better than snuggles.

Shortly after that conversation (or maybe it was before) The Boss of Me came up behind me, started rubbing my bum and moving my panties up. I leaned all the way over the bar and put my head on SG and he held it, petting my hair while he watched the crowd and The Boss spanked. The combination of the two of them was a bi-girl fruition, and I got sleepy with joy. I may have even heard a line of praise from him (“Yeah, she is hot, isn’t she?”) but he just as easily could have been talking about someone else.

I sure felt hot, no matter who he was talking about. Like SG’s spanks, The Boss’s were more sensual than hurty. I was destined to end the evening feeling more loved-up than dominated. Except.

She yanked me up by the back of my harness and with one quick, fluid motion pulled me around to Steampunk Guy’s front, pushing me hard into his lap and against him. I gasped at her force, panted and he held tight, panting too and losing his cool beneath me for a tiny second, an out-of-breath crack in his armor that I just fell right into. He held me roughly and she spanked harder until they both declared me finished and she pulled me up and kissed me a little more. I thanked her, clinging to her arms and feeling dizzy.

Next: A thing that can happen sometimes.

Okay, So, Really Heartbroken Over Steampunk Guy

Last night I sat on the stoop outside the laundromat watching the cars go by and trying to write this post in my notebook. I started it two or three different ways but kept getting stuck, mostly because I wanted to be saying it to him and not the internet. So I tried to consolidate all of the emotions into a flirty text:

“Not getting over you very fast. Would rather be under you! ;)”

To which he wrote back:

“The fastest over a guy is to get under another one! ;)”

He was just being cute and encouraging, but that text just opened up a floodgates and let me go ahead and be heartbroken. It struck my frustration so perfectly: I don’t want some stranger, some random other guy, I want him.

When we were first breaking it off, I had faith that I would find someone who is actually what I’m looking for—available, open, willing to offer up the occasional “Good girl.” He believed in that guy for me and I appreciate that so much.

I was so proud of how well we broke up that I never let myself have the heartbreak. I think part of me was still trying to mitigate my emotions, to try and be cute for them so they wouldn’t go away, but they’re already gone, at least for the time being, so I have to figure out again how to stop censoring the feelings.

It may be less fighty, but it’s just like any other breakup. I’m hurt and sad and I wish that I could have found some way to make him see me, make him love me, make him actually clear the time out for me every other week. I have that awful feeling of not being good enough, even though that has nothing to do with it at all. I have that childish feeling of wishing I could be like the girls he loves, wishing I had whatever quality they have that made him go ahead and love them. It’s the thing that I’m still afraid I’m missing, the magical ability to be loved by men.

And yes, I see the pattern here; I see the futility I keep setting up for myself, choosing someone who doesn’t have enough attention and then being hurt that he didn’t have enough attention. Crazy, I know, and I’ll try not to do it again. Though of course I wouldn’t have wanted to miss out on this time.

I’m still hurt that what ended up being so meaningful to me—all of those deep, transformative experiences were just sex to him, just something it was easy to scroll past once it was over. And I’m so angry with myself that I have so little experience that everything is still such a goddamned big deal.

I hate my stupid heart for taking away so much fun stuff, past and present. There’s so much shiny and good about the Steampunks that I just won’t be able to enjoy for a while and I feel left out. I feel like another way towards community and connection is cut off, and that makes me feel like I am not doing what I am supposed to be doing. I wanted it to be simple and fun. I wanted to go to their parties and be excited about all the possibilities there. The last thing I want to lose is more parties.

I’ve tried for years to accept the fact that I fall for people so easily but it just seems to cost so much. I didn’t want to love him, I wanted to accept and enjoy what he had to give and keep looking for the one who’s right for loving. Why does that make so much sense on paper but not translate to real life? It irks me to no end.

I know I’m not going to get significantly less lovey-dovey any time soon. I need somebody that I can just go ahead and be bonkers about. It’s just torturing myself to try and fight the current of it. But if I can only have sex with people I can fall for, that feels so constricting. It feels like there’s going to be too much waiting around—maybe waiting around forever. There’s so much about bodies that I’ve just discovered, I don’t want to back away from them now.

Part of the reason I’m having trouble getting over him is that I can’t quite see the way forward—I can’t imagine finding the right guy and being adored when I don’t even know where I’ll work or live. I want to go back to the beginning of the summer when I had a job I loved, three snuggle pals, and a wife with whom things might work out. Or I want to go back to the immediate relief of the divorce decision, that floating, sunshiny powerful feeling that came just before I realized how much work and grief were ahead of me.

I still just really don’t understand why I had to give him up. So much of him (Ha. So very much of him.) was making me happy. I miss the spark of joy whenever I got a text from him, I miss the emphatic kisses, I miss just saying hi and taking off our clothes. It was only a few times. It shouldn’t be such a big deal. But it is.

I so badly miss the person I was at the beginning of the summer, or sometimes was, anyway. I feel a million miles away from the sparkly confidence it took to date him, from the simple faith of just going ahead and giving him my number.

I’m still sad and hurt that he wouldn’t go to the beach with me and didn’t play with me in public. On bad days I still wonder whether he was embarrassed by my age or body, but even if he was, it would just mean that he wasn’t the right person. It wouldn’t mean that there’s anything wrong with me.

One thing I know for sure is that these feelings won’t be solved by plowing ahead to the next partners. As not-romantic as it was supposed to be, the thing with Steampunk Guy was special and specific and I don’t want to move on from it by doing something that means less. With some possible special-occasion exceptions, I want to be really dating the next guy who puts his stuff in me, and I want to like him at least as much as I like Steampunk Guy. It’s such a vexing thing to decide, but I don’t think I can do the less-romantic kinds of sex until I have some basic needs met.

I have to give him credit for raising my standards in a lot of ways. He set the bar pretty high for how attracted I want to be to somebody, for how important chemistry is. In the past I’ve sometimes been able to talk myself into someone because he has nice qualities, but I’m a very sexed-up girl and I want someone I’m superhot for, and who’s just as hot for me. And I feel comfortable saying now that a nice, big, friendly dick is a star priority too. That particular part of him is especially difficult for all of my parts to let go of. Oh, it was a good one. If I were still a poet I would write it poems.

Being mad at myself for loving him doesn’t seem like a helpful emotion. It would be better to just accept it and let myself feel it until it changes into whatever friendly thing is next. Hating my heart is not going to get me where I need to go, that’s for sure. Better just to say thanks and let it do whatever it needs to do, impatient as that might make me.

So thanks, pal. I know you like changing lives and you did. You showed me what I should expect in a man and that it’s safe to trust someone enough to let down my guard. You pulled down a whole set of limits that I was using to keep the world at arm’s length. You showed me what I really want sex to be. And what’s wrong with falling for a really excellent penis? Nothing.

During that text exchange, it felt much better when I stopped trying to be cute about it and just went ahead and told him how I feel, making it clear that I didn’t expect him to do anything about it but still wanting him to know. So many guys would’ve just not written back, but he of course was magnanimous and kind. Knowing he’s rooting for me to find what I’m looking for helps so much even though it hurts too. Even if I love another guy I can’t have, at least this time it’s somebody who was worth it.

Unicorn Practice Is Easy, Part Three: Spanks, Snuggles, a Little Melancholy

I’ve noticed that the amount I need to negotiate and be oriented in a scene is proportional to how serious my feelings are for the top involved. In the right party situations, I feel perfectly safe throwing caution to the wind and bending over for near-strangers-I guess that’s because I’m starting to have faith in my friends and in my yesses and nos.

At some point in the party, of course I managed to do something punishable, possibly related to trying to get my underpants back, and Cute Master commanded me to kneel on a chair and stick my ass out. Don’tmindifIdo! He’s a good, hard spanker—I wiggled and laughed and squealed and even let somebody (I’m not even sure who) tickle my feet. I love how things are so easy sometimes, how once in a while life just throws things in my lap. I’d like to let that be the case more often.

Speaking of which, he made me laugh harder than I’ve laughed in a long time when he next decided to express his flirtation through the medium of ironic lap dance. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to laugh so hard…

Anyway, I hated to leave when it was time to go. I pulled my underpants out from where he’s stashed them—in between the string s of Pretty Slave’s corset. Knowing where else they’d been, I didn’t put them on, but pulled on my leggings, had someone hook my bra, and put on my dress. Cute Master and Pretty Slave were snuggled up on a couch when I went to say goodbye.

“No, come here first,” he said. “I want to see if you’re wet.”

And I totally was gonna say no, except that Die Antwoord’s “Baby’s On Fire” came on and I really can’t resist having hijinx to that song. It feels like (*high five*) one of the sluttiest things I’ve ever done, but I went ahead and straddled him, let him find out that of course I was wet. He rubbed my clit and I felt a sense of calm come over me, kind of like when you’re little and you’re half-asleep and being carried up the stairs. I relaxed into him and held on.

He pulled his hand out and put it in Pretty Slave’s mouth, and she happily sucked, looking at me in a hungry/sweet way.

It’s time to stop pretending I don’t like some pretty porny stuff. That’s the part I’ve thought of the most during personal time since then.

I reached over and petted her, running my hand down her neck, playing with her hair, holding her lovely hand. She ran her hand very gently over chest, finding my nipple and giving me a perfect shiver. Her face was so close to mine and her expression was blissful.

And then the song ended. I hugged them both and gave her a teensy bit of a goodbye kiss. Cute Master grumbled about blue balls but! The beach!

Any party I leave with my underpants in my hand is a good one and I drove home super turned on and excited to get handsy with myself, and I was proud and happy to have made new friends, but there was a melancholy to it, too. I passed the diner where I first met the Steampunks and wondered how things would’ve turned out if I’d been more ready for them, more confident and self-aware. I think things happened exactly the way they were supposed to, but I still miss them a lot and feel hurty for the experiences I may have missed out on. I can’t quite let go of the fantasy of them, of snuggling into their bed. I wanted them to be my first a lot of things.

But! I’m glad I still feel like high-fiving Steampunk Guy whenever I’m being awesomely slutty, and they’re both keeping in touch. And I’m starting to see how I can keep myself entertained until I’m healed and ready to resume the quest for love--that is a very, very good thing.

A Girl-Crush, A Wall of Grief, and Gold Star Breakup

This’ll be a long post, but I appreciate the way the three things fit together so here goes.

Way back in May when I met Steampunk Guy and Steampunk Girl, I hit on them both but I kind of backpedaled, so there was confusion all around and awkwardness between me and her. When he asked me about it the day after our first couch-date, I gave my standard not-usually-attracted-to-non-Sweetie-girls-but-I-wouldn’t-rule-it-out answer.

But when (a little over a week ago) the day finally came for our first metamour coffee, I thought back to my intentions that first night and realized that my first thought on seeing them was “I want these two to do stuff to me.”

We were meeting right after I’d just had a job interview, so I was feeling all competent and happy. I changed into my favorite blue dress in a café bathroom and felt glowy as I drove out to the suburbs. She’s chosen a coffee shop on a little Christmas village of a street near where they live. When I saw her, there was just no question as to whether I’d been hitting on them both. She’sjustsopretty. She’d come right from work and was wearing a vintage white wrap dress with cap sleeves and pearls. She had on pretty white sandals with wedge heels. I imagine we looked like an adorable pair of ladies.

She took charge, which was helpful since I’d wondered how a submissive and a bottom would fare. She bought me a perfect iced latte and even though it was eight million degrees out, I was glad to stroll down the street with her.

I felt like I bonded with her immediately. We talked and talked and talked. She made me feel superwelcome in their life, even suggesting adding me to one of their Google calendars. (Swoon, I know. I just couldn’t picture him actually doing that.) Even though he’d made it clear that I was just borrowing him from her, she made me feel like we were actually sharing, smoothing over the things about him that don’t always make sense, finding lots of things in common about what else we’re looking for. We’re both really strong women who like to stay that way until it’s time to submit, and out in the world that presents us both the same vexations sometimes. I told her I’d love to be her wing girl when it’s time for dom-hunting.

And here’s where it gets really swoony: She was amenable to the three of us doing snuggly things. That just made my heart giggle. I felt my inner unicorn wanting to come out and romp around, and why shouldn’t it? Without the weird half-monogamy I’d been arbitrarily giving Sweetie, a whole new set of possibilities opened up, and I was giddy with the release.

After I hugged her goodbye and texted him a high five, I drove back into the city inspired as all getout. My smutty imagination and my friend-making heart were all fizzy with hopes and dreams and scenes.

But. She’d reiterated their semi-rule about not dating people who are midbreakup, and I did feel that hanging over me. That was a particularly optimistic day in divorcetown, but what if they decided it was too big of a risk? And trying to make my divorce seem adorable all the time seemed like a recipe for disaster. I couldn’t stand the idea of them joining the overlarge pile of friendships wrecked by my mismanaged love life—I want that to happen exactly no more times.

Then Sweetie and I took our trip up to my mom’s and my sister’s. We didn’t acknowledge it at first, but it would be our last trip together for a long while. It was kind of okay. We played with my niece and nephews, chatted with the family, set off bittersweet fireworks. I felt numb-to-anxious most of the time, and when I hugged my baby nephew, my recently-admitted family urge twisted up an ache in my belly.

But it was alright until it was almost time to leave. I was doing one of my favorite things in the world, playing Mario Kart with the kids (I play as Peach, obviously.) when I started to get a really bad headache. I went out to the porch to get away from the game, and while I was out there I checked my phone, and it was dead. I get really attached to things, even gadgets, and I hadn’t backed up my numbers or my favorite texts, so the broken phone just went ahead and opened up the grief floodgates.

I didn’t quite escape crying in front of the kids, but we got out of there and once we were driving away, the sobs came hard and fast and ugly. I realized that my family would never be the same, and I felt like such a bad person and a failure for breaking up the marriage.

With pauses for friend and job search stuff, the sobs came hard from Sunday to Wednesday. I felt like I was gonna die.

In retrospect it seems crazy that in that state I was trying to make plans with Steampunk Guy, but we did have a whole bunch to talk about. I kinda felt like he was already gone, but you know I’m generally open to goodbye sex. But because of where I am on his list of priorities, his plan-making style takes a lot of self-confidence to deal with. I’d generally find out the day before if he could fit me in, and that worked fine for the little spate when I was working 60-hour weeks and having four partners, but it wasn’t working now. In the process of trying to convince him to include me more, I realized I was negotiating for a thing that had already passed.

If I really had seen him as a treat, it would have worked, but once I realized I liked Steampunk Girl too, I wanted real relationships with both of them. I knew he didn’t have room for that, and I was in no state to navigate it anyway.

I’d hoped to have the conversation in person, but it was weighing on me so I wrote him a bye-for-now love letter. He wrote back kindly and understandingly. Being a reader and a listener, he’d noticed the difference between what I want and what he has to offer. Although I was feeling sad about having to let go of him/them for now, reading his replies made me feel like I’d unlost him, like the warmth of the connection between us was still real. I hope it comes around again, lord knows I’d still love to climb all over the two of them, maybe someday when I’m all happy and settled in. But for now I’m really proud that I put the friendships first and did what I needed to do to take care of myself. There’s a lot of power in admitting what I want and I’m glad that they both helped me see it so clearly.

“We are being awesome at this breakup.” I typed, “Two gold stars.”

“Two gold stars and a pony sticker. High five :)”

I told him he could go ahead and make that a sparkly unicorn sticker and that’s the story of my first breakup that ever ended in a high five. Compared to that mess of a breakup with The Man, this feels like a miracle, it feels like I’ve come so far. Thanks for getting me here, pals. I'm sad we're not snuggling, but I’ll be so happy to see you around town.