Kitten Versus Ropes: Part Three

 

We had a very important development around here last week! I had to crate the kitten during a work meeting, and she didn't even peep! She just curled up all nice with her crate-specific alien catnip toy. I rewarded her with gross wet food after, so happiness all around. One more step towards getting to practice my ropes more often, huzzah! 

(A few weeks ago, I went over to the Water Ceremony at my neighborhood Unitarian church. The theme of the day was "Love is a River" and the pastor encouraged us to take down dams where we could and let the river do its thing. Maybe this is that.)

Anyway, back to mid-August and Reluctant Kisser. He was very un-reluctant otherwise! When he told me to turn over, I worried aloud about my newly-arthritic knee (I'm currently and always a symphony of bodily entropy),but he said that's okay, just lie flat.

"Ooh! I love being flat!" I lay on my belly and happily smushed my face into the pillow. This position always reminds me of Steampunk Guy, but whereas he was feral and rough, Reluctant Kisser was kind, deliberate, thorough.

His long dick went in far, even with all the padding. Though I felt a little abstracted from the proceedings, I reveled in scream-moaning into the pillow, yelping joyfully when he got brazen enough to land a few hard spanks. I loved it when he said:

"You're gonna make me come..."

and I huff-sighed "Yes, come on, come on, I need it, I need it."

The glow didn't last long afterward, he said he had a late-night shift, which felt like an excuse to me. He asked how often I'd like to see him, which was nice, and we talked a little bit more about herpes versus kissing. (Not quite as chummy as Godzilla versus Kong!) (That wasn't part of the convo.)

I have NEVER been so surprised when someone texted me the next day! But as we kept chatting on and off, I could feel him disengage. Or maybe it was me that was disengaging. I think I'll sometimes project a fear or a not-wanting-to onto somebody else because I still,
after all these years and ALL these paragraphs, feel obligated to accept any and all attention that comes my way, whether someone is right for me or not. Sometimes I allow myself the not-wanting-to by projecting it onto the guy. Or maybe we both just didn't want to.

After a week or so, I texted kindly that I didn't think we were the right match. It's hard to keep the faith when I'm drowning in a sea of app-people who are beautiful but not the right ones.

My quest for a hot love story with someone other than myself feels futile almost all the time. But there's always a new glimmer, and as long as people keep being cute, there's hope that I'll eventually figure it out.

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 Good Boy, Part Two

 

How in the world did I end up this lucky, to have a pretty, shirtless man all well-behaved next to my bed, waiting patiently to be made into (even more of) a work of art? The first time I got close, to wind the rope around his lovely back, he felt radiant, vital, and entirely mine.

My brain didn’t float off into rope land right away but instead got a sharper focus. Quietly, step by step, I wound the ribcage harness around his beautiful chest, lark’s heading on to the middle when I needed to add more length. Whenever I looked into his face or kissed him, my inner world flipped upside down for a moment, but I came back into clarity as I reached and wound and knotted and structured, checking in to see if anything felt pinched, if everything was still circulating.

He was so good and so still, passive but not quite submitting, I could feel him ready to pounce, too. (It’s gonna be a while!) It wasn’t just power I was feeling (Oh boy I WAS feeling power though) but also a deep tenderness. This was my first real time trying out rope topness, and I wanted The Good Boy to feel as cozy and cared for as Fireguy and Steampunk Guy and all those other rope darlings had made me feel.

(Flash to lying restrained and prone on Fireguy’s basement floor, to feeling beautifully on display and chosen by Steampunk Guy at the Regular Dungeon.)

Wrapping someone sweet in a complicated and unending hug felt benevolent, queenly, and so, SO hot.

And! The Virgo version of hotness: it felt like a culmination of a good, long, leisurely semester of learning. As I laddered the thinner ropes onto his gorgeous long arms and figured out how to knot on new structures and colors, I didn’t think about all those (sometimes lonely, mostly blissful) Thursdays of learning, but now I want to stop in awe of all the times I untangled, overcame hopelessness, fear, or apathy, and just learned one little new thing. Here was a very sweet canvas letting me be new kind of artist. A very sweet canvas I really needed to fuck quite soon!

I messed up the back after a while, sort of spacing out winding and winding and winding. I like seeing now how simply it started out, especially how the ropes draped around the small of his beautiful back—don’t know if I’ve even been turned on by a waist before, besides my own!

Turned on as I was, I was determined to cover all of him, so I instructed him to take off his pants, leave underwear on for now, and lay down on the bed.

 

This Meaningful Sex, Part Two

 

Before I wade back into the feelings, I’m writing myself a permission slip to put dating life aside until after New Year’s. (Aside from The Lovely Guy, who’s easy to trust and be myself around!) There are plenty of year-end crafts and projects to lean into, and I’m especially excited because I’ve decided that I don’t have to spend time with my unvaccinated brother! Having excused myself from traveling to family, I’m excited to spend the month in my own life, making room for whatever quietly arrives. I may even get to see a gemstone exhibit with The Boy Who Sewed Me a Pillow, if I’m superlucky!

Anyway, back to the processing at hand. A (mostly in my own head, but still) horny week has given me a little perspective, but I still find it hard to imagine  connecting with anyone as much as I did with This Charming Man. I understand, on some level, that This Charming Man was maybe just really good at sex. But so were Steampunk Guy, Mr. Shiny Eyes, so IS The Lovely Guy. I remember that glimmer-of-love moment when I came with Mr. Sweetheart as Mr. Shiny Eyes held and kissed me. I remember the Mayor of Kittentown’s endlessly welcoming dick.

But this was the first time, with a man, that I felt truly present, safe, and adored. Truly intertwined with him, body and spirit. That feeling could have been solely provided by my ridiculous love-drunk imagination, but I don’t think it was. Not solely.

When I set out on this quest ten years ago (!), this was the thing I was looking for. Not just to be able to step over my decades of barriers and fuck men, but to learn how to fully and unselfconsciously let them in. It was the missing piece I’ve deprived myself of for so long. The longing crashed and burned so many relationships, probably a little bit this one too.

I told him, the last naked night, that no one had ever fucked me so right before. I don’t think that’s grammatically correct, but he said “thank you.” and sighed the most satisfied sigh. I loved the way he held my head up by my hair because he liked to watch me cry out for a while before he let me bury my head in the pillows. (Let us now praise doggie style, now and forever my favorite possible thing.) He would hold me so sweetly and gently after we (“good girl”) came, but his dick stayed hard and I liked just laying there, petting it. Making friends.)

(The time he slept over, in the morning as he was getting dressed, he let his dick stick up through top of his boxers, pointing upwards out the top of his jeans. Such a fucking treasure of an image, that alone makes all these paragraphs worthwhile.)

I don’t really know how to put these pieces together to help me understand how I ended up feeling so deeply, but I guess love doesn’t need an explanation. A few months ago, before I met him, when dating life started to be so exciting and unbalancing again, I told my then-therapist that my goal was to “let the moment live.”

And I did! I put the paragraphs aside for a little while, didn’t ask what the meaning or status was, just let us be. I just let him please me. I let myself have him.  I let down my guard and let us love, and even if he wouldn’t have phrased it that way, I think it was something real and true.

In the context of the five-millionth breakoff of this blog’s life, it’s hard to frame my time with This Charming Man as progress, as a major heart-victory, but it was and is. I wholeheartedly let a man in. I let us adore each other so fully until our time was done. As the heartbreak lifts, little by little, I can feel the truth of him return to my body and soul as the gift that he was. As a strength. As another facet of the love that I am made of.

I don’t want to face the world of men with the hurt and defensiveness I’m feeling now. Yes, I probably should screen better, but I also want to leave room to be open, to push myself, to be surprised. I hope that openness will blossom out of me before too long, but for now there’s the grief that honors this big important thing. For now there are Christmas crafts, and friend-plans, and gentle hope. Putting the swiping aside for a bit, I feel sad and free.

 

 

Staycation Sext Fling Part One: The Big Dick Talk

 

Staycation Sext Fling Part One: The Big Dick Talk

When The Coach walked me to the car after the movie, the conversation got smutty real fast, though we were still at least three feet apart. For not-the-first time, he mentioned having a big dick and said he’d be happy to (presumably after his second vaccine shot) “stretch me out” any time. Which felt…ew? But also, yay?

The big dick talk was equal parts appealing and sweetly sad. Appealing because, as has been well-documented here, I do have that preference, even though it still feels like kind of an unfair preference to have. (S/O to Steampunk Guy, remember how much I fucking LOST MY MIND about him, another one who introduced himself big dick first? What a fucking WORK OF ART/piece of work he was, probably still is.)

But the big dick talk is a little endearingly sad too because, dude. It’s okay. Just relax and be a person. If I want to fuck you, I’ll be fucking your whole self, there’s no need to hustle for it that way. (But also, I liked the hustle, and I missed it a bunch when it left.)

Anyway, The Coach texted to make sure I got home okay, and that was the last datelike thing that happened.

Oh sexting. I love it/hate it the way I love/hate the rote “good mornings” of early dating (None of those from The Coach, just, like, “I want to be inside you” at 6 am before I’ve even made coffee, which was jarring but not unpleasantly so.) I love/hate sexting the way I love/hate the little red text numbers, which (as The Coach, a young millennial, probably wouldn’t remember) used to be the red answering machine numbers.

Anyway, this time around with The Coach, I pretty much just LOVED sexting. It was a rush to be so graphically, smuttily desired, so all at once. He had come (ha) a long way too—where his 2016 (or was it 2017?) texting style got too porny and harsh, this time he was present, more specific, more just with me, or at least it felt that way. Respectfully filthy, like he’d learned his lesson. Like he’d heard me all those years ago. He called me a filthy princess and I called him, toward the end, a good, good prince.

I liked the way our stories switched the power back and forth between us so easily, holding him down by the wrists one moment and being completely possessed the next. He even, in one sexty story, got gentle towards my asshole when I told him I’d never done that part before. (Typing that sentence reminds me that that was my dream so long ago, the Kind and Patient Ass Guy that I couldn’t quite feel like I deserved. Kinda glad both Steampunk Guy and Cute Master dropped the ball on that one, because I would very much still like that character to come along.) (For a few quick days, I hoped The Coach might be that character.)

Sexting felt like a good way to deal with my whole post-quarantine overwhelemed-by-touch thing. I could let the desire spark though me, be ravished both together with The Coach and at my own pace. When it got to be too much, (the sensation I mean, what we were saying was never too much) I could let go of myself literally and physically, be still and feel my whole body full or warmth and light and peace. Plus, I can neither type left-handed nor ever truly let go of punctuation.

 

 

 

 

 

In Which I Realize I Am Really Lucky to Have Had My Adventure Years, Part Three

That week, while my creative coaching client was collaging through her blocks, I made this. Both a staircase and a trapped butterfly, seems about right.

It should be said, friends, that my almost-year-and-a-half dry spell was a literal dry spell as well—I’ve always been the squishiest, but there was a while when I was so dry that I thought I might be starting menopause. I could just have stocked up on lube, but the idea of always having to was something I wasn’t ready to face, so I got by on spit and determination. From the moment I met J, the dry spell was over. I came home with soaked underpants every time, wetter than in all my adventures. It felt like a reunion, like a second chance at being alive, to be coursing with so much life, to be opening up like a flower. That’s why, no matter how it ended up, I’m glad I let my hoo-ha make the decisions for a while—that part of me (literally and figuratively) has been neglected for so long, I’m glad I didn’t begrudge myself a perilous treat.

When I met him, I was in a delicate but thriving state. It was the first time in my adult life that I could say I was truly happy to be single. I was teaching poetry in my pretty apartment, spending lots of time with my friends and at church, and starting to have faith about where I was going. However, back in February I had to resign from the school district due to acute stress disorder, and I’m still pretty jumpy and prone to panics about once a month. The fact that J. was triggering space issues seemed like it was partly due to my own recent and distant past, but typing the story to you makes it seem less likely that that was so. I am still brokeny, but I think I was scared of him because he was (unintentionally, I’m almost sure) scary—sometimes it’s not that deep.

Anyway, the day after our beautiful but ill-ended flower date, he sent a text apologizing and citing grief. I conceded that not everyone can be besties with their exes the way I (somewhat unhealthily) am with Sweetie. (Currently she and I work at the same three-employee store, she’s my boss, and we spend about an hour each morning processing my feelings about various things. All this with a person I once jumped out of a car to get away from. I know.) I told him to give me some time,  that I’d have to do some soul-searching, so we went to radio silence and a love poem proceeded to pour out of me in a way that hadn’t happened in a long time. I felt jangled but fired up. I made art all day that day.

(When I second-drafted the poem with my friends in poetry class, I noticed that it accidentally implied that I wanted to have babies, including feeling the vibration of his Apple watch as “Another little heartbeat.” and, seeing the children in the flower garden wearing glow bracelets, responding with “I want one” meaning but not really meaning the glow bracelets. I hid it pretty well before I posted it, but still, I was like, nicely done, subconscious! Got it.)

Anyway, maybe latent baby-wishes were what inspired me to give him a chance, or his prowess at planning dates, or the cuteness of his texting style. (It was the first time I’ve dated with emoji involved, and I can’t overstate the adorableness of a good morning sunflower rainbow kissy face…) Maybe (probably) it was just plain lust and curiosity. That Sunday, I took a beach trip by myself, to clear my head and make the right decision, and I knew (I always know things best in the ocean, even if it is with a bathing suit on these days.) that if I let him go, I would always wonder if there could have been something real between us. Also I have to admit there was the stupid “What if this is my last chance?” feeling that comes from being socialized to think of myself as ancient at almost-forty-one.

When he asked me a couple days before the date what I was in the mood for, I very brazenly and honestly said red meat. He sent me a couple of menus for fancy places I could dress up for, with very grown-up prices, and I thought, “Is this what regular dating women get all the time? I should start expecting more from life.” That was the central lesson of him, and I hope I can see it through.

The day before our third date, I had an enormous panic attack. The first week of classes is pretty much the only busy time our college bookstore job is stressful, just because of all the extroversion and sometimes-getting-trapped-behind-the-register it requires. The one rude kid on our super-adorable campus found me and I found myself with a pounding headache, unable to work or get myself home. A kind coworker brought me to the campus infirmary, where the nice nurse asked me why I had neither a therapist nor meds. Reasonable question. I got some good rest before the date, but I carried a residue of fear under my pretty black polka-dot dress. (Hello again, red satin heels!)

As I followed my GPS to the suburbs, everything started to look familiar, especially when I turned onto J’s block. Remember way back whenSteampunk Guy pulled over on a quiet suburban street for car sex? THIS RANDOM OKC GUY’S HOUSE WAS THE HOUSE WE PULLED OVER IN FRONT OF. J was one of the nice people I was trying not to wake with my sex yowls three summers ago. I didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad one, but I’ve never been more sure that my love life is a labyrinth. So where had I returned to?

I can’t overstate my delight at being properly dated, to be out in the world being shown off in a fancy outfit, being treated like someone who’s someone instead of a dance card afterthought. I ate rare filet mignon and felt like an animal, like a sexy lion, like a woman who’s thoroughly alive. He ordered a good pinot with the inauspicious name “Writer’s Block” but I seem to be overflowing with paragraphs nonetheless.

The conversation turned again to his writing, which was a tricky subject. He’d told me before that he wrote erotic novels, and I (somewhat hypocritically) was scared to read them—I had a feeling we wouldn’t be able to go on if I read his stories, and probably I was right. He confirmed that “Well, let’s just say it’s not all consensual.” I didn’t ask him who in the stories was not consenting to what, only told him I was now A. Scared and B. Too tipsy to flee.

“But sometimes someone just needs a little…push…”

Okay, so this blog wouldn’t exist if that weren’t a little bit true, but I didn’t like hearing it from him. “That’s not up to you. It’s not up to you to decide what someone else needs.”

He rightly pointed out that he’d written it, not done it, but still, I felt so let down and sad. “I just want there to be one guy, one guy, who wants a real person next to him in bed.” Yes, there have been plenty, but I was having tunnel vision, heavy with the burden of trying to keep myself not-raped. In the do-over version, this is where I have the waitress split the check, wait around a bit to sober up, and grouse about it to my friends at brunch the next day. But as he paid the bill, the conversation simmered back to happy somehow and I admitted that what I wanted most in the world was just to tear. Him. Apart. I was getting in that pool, and no stupid thing he said was going to stop me.

Next time: Big moon, hot sex, more stupid things.

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.

Year End Heart Inventory 2013: Melancholy and Gratitude

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Song of the Week: Last Night I Dreamt that Somebody Loved Me

Hot story tomorrow, but first:

Friday night I was on a date with myself, walking across the middle of the city to a storytelling show (Theme: Excitable! Apt.) when the Smiths shuffled on. I remembered the last time I’d heard this song, the day Icried sex tears (and regular tears) for SG. I’ve never told you this, but that was two days after my last and worst fight with Sweetie, the one where I felt so scared and trapped that I actually jumped out of the car while it was moving. The day I played with SG, there was a big bandage on my foot covering the place where the road had scraped away my skin. My knees were covered with bad bruises that made it hard to kneel down in front of him.

Probably I shouldn’t have been playing with anyone, should have been, I don’t know, on the run? In the hospital? In some sort of women’s facility? But I’m glad I was crazy enough to try to keep going on with my life the way I wanted it, not the way it actually was.

I’m glad that time isn’t just defined by the scars. Instead, I got a momentary  visit the life I really wanted, covered with that warm and vital man, every corner of my body touched and ravished, animal life coursing through me. Of course, I knew it was only a simulacrum, a shadow, a glimmer, but it was enough to yank that desire up from me and get me to the right place, which, lonely as it is, is here.

“Real arms around me,” Morrissey sang, and that plus whatever part of my soul woke up that day was enough to make me walk away from twelve years of compromise, love, and deep shame. Both visceral and not-real, it was enough to push me towards whatever real love is or is not waiting for me on the other side of all this.

I’m so far way from “real arms around me” in the romantic sense, so far from the thing I gave up everything awful and good for. There’s a scar on my foot and too many bad stories that tell me what happens when I compromise my feelings, when I fight my fear or my grief or my love, so I’m teaching myself to surrender to all of it, just as much as real life will let me.

As painful as it is to recall that scene and that glimmer knowing he’s maybe not even a friend, I’m grateful all the way to my bones that he gave me something other than a scar to go on, that that moment pulled me up from denial and made it impossible not to say aloud what I really wanted.

I hope real love is waiting on the other side of this detached and achy interval, but I really can’t begin to thank the world for the miracles I’ve managed to experience so far. Adventures, you’ve saved me, or better yet, you made me save myself.

Reunited With My Ass (And Yes, It Totes Feels So Good)

My blog breaks never last as long as I think they’re going to, pals. There are always more adventures to celebrate and I can’t wait to share them with you.

I took down the posts about it, but SG and I are on the outs again, and I think in the long run, that’s the more loving thing. Even though they never asked me to, I really, really, REALLY wanted to be a good girl for the Steampunks, and that was making it hard for me to care for myself and go forward the way I need to, and it was hurting them, too. I hope they’re forgiving me over there.

My ass is sad about SG—after all, he was its first non-me friend, and I thought that that phase of the project might have to be shelved for a little while, but yesterday while I was getting some journaling done, I felt the tingle return, that naughty spark of well-being that means it’s time for some personal time.

I decided to make a morning of it and got all cleaned up—I can’t believe I ever felt embarrassed or afraid about enemas, they’re so easy and pleasant, a loving little thing to do for myself, a slightly more intimate version of painting my nails or getting a haircut. For some reason, they make me feel cozy and cared for.

I kind of associated the Little Metal Thing with SG, but the pleasantness of having it in there trumped any regrets. Every part of me, body and soul, woke up. I felt warm, special, and safe.

The other day, I was listening to this Poly Weekly episode in which Marcia Baczynski reminds us that we don’t have to push ourselves into risky things, especially into types of play that are triggersome. She was talking more about opening up relationships than about sex itself, but I think it applies. She encouraged listeners to find smaller, slower, less goal-driven ways to experiment, things that don’t stress us out, so that we can give ourselves the space to feel the emotions that come up, so that we can have more compassion for ourselves.

I say all of that to say this: I had such a lovely moment with myself yesterday. After I took out the Little Metal Thing and started playing with the Too Big Butt Plug (excellent for wriggling around on, you may remember) I felt my heart speed up a little bit, in a scared way. I backed off from the little bit of hurt that was happening, took a few moments, and breathed with my hand on my heart until it calmed down. This is what it feels like to adventure in a way that is kind to myself (and others!) and I am so, so proud.

For my body adventures, no more struggle. Struggle isn’t the same as work, which of course I love. It’s fighting the tide, trying to make myself do things because I feel like I should, trying to make myself fit when I don’t, and it’s been the source of all the worst things. As I let go of the things that make me miserable and let myself be carried forward, I feel so much more in touch with my better self, more able to just sit back and let the tide of awesome wash over me.

A Strange and Lovely Day, Part One: State of My Ass

In the month or so since I chose Steampunk Guy to be my first ass-guy, I’ve been gradually getting myself ready. He doesn’t have very much time, so I’m doing the gentle parts on my own. This appeals to my sense of independence but also makes me feel (like the Steampunks almost always make me feel) like he’s rooting for me and there are many treats to look forward to.

So, every Saturday afternoon, Sweetie makes herself scarce and I climb into bed naked with a library book until the stress of the week leaves my body enough and I settle all the way back into my own skin. Once my mind starts to wander, I put the book away, feel the warms sheets on me and let myself daydream—about whatever I’m hoping will happen at the night’s party, about past adventures, about the end goal of being covered and filled up by him, crying grateful tears.

Then I’ll start to feel myself up for a while, pulling the blankets down for the feeling of showing off my breasts, loving them wholeheartedly just as I’ve done since they first began to grow. If only all the parts had been so consistently and emphatically celebrated.

Then I’ll let my fingers wander to my ass. For a while I was shy and only touched it with toys, but I’m getting less so. There’s still the psychological barrier of the ick factor—probably more handwashing than the average self-adventure. Should get around to ordering some pretty pink gloves. Also there are some other steps I need to learn, but mostly I just want to teach myself away from the shame.

Anyway, I don’t appreciate that the stress of my Friday is directly expressed inside my asshole. The harder my week has been, the trickier it is to enter, and the more pain there is once inside. I try to massage it away, but still. I must be getting my life slightly more in order though, because on this particular Saturday, everything was open and easy.

Once I’m all soft and ready, it’s time for toys. As you may know, the only butt plug I had up until then is far too big for its intended purpose (I learned that this is a common mistake. And, I think, an optimistic one.) but excellent for wiggling around on. By now, my hoo-ha was opened up and emphatically wet, like a library book that’s been left out in a rainstorm. Every fold was swollen, alert, and perfectly slick.

I usually have the Big Purple Thing out, for sucking or for using in front, but this time, I tried an experiment: I lubed it up and crouched down onto it. Whereas the butt plug, which is about the same width, kept refusing to go all the way in, the BPT went all the way in on the second try, easy and natural as if I’d been doing it my whole life. (I’m realizing it’s not the best tool for this purpose, since it doesn’t have a base, so I guess it’s back to the toy store I go.)

Nonetheless, vibrating and filled up with the BPT, I felt washed with a sense of perspective and realized that absolutely NONE of this, really, is a very big deal. I can do it just like anybody.

I went as long as I could without touching my clit—I didn’t want all of the sensations to culminate just yet. I lay back and thrust against the BPT, squeezing my nipples and moaning my head off.

As soon as I got off and washed up, I texted Steampunk Guy (still on the other side of the country) a high five and told him I’d be ready for him when he gets home. He asked some follow up questions and told me I probably wasn’t ready just yet, gave me some more tasks which I happily agreed to. It was one of my favorite conversations with him. I chose him partly for his roughness, for the catharsis, but these texts felt gentle, insightful and humane, like we really are in this particular project together. Some of my pals make fun of me for waiting for him, but it turns out I knew what I was doing. We may not have known each other long, but we’ve been through a lot of paragraphs:

“It helps not to push yourself too hard or try to prove something.”

Who, me? It surprised me that my I-have-to-catch-up-to-the-other-girls urgency was gone and had been replaced, at least in that afterglow moment, with something like faith.

I had a snack and read some more, daydreamed and texted, almost forgot that it was time to get ready to go to Intro to Anal class and then to Cute Master and Pretty Slave’s clothing optional party. I was running so late that I’d missed the window for taking the bus and parking is from the devil, so I had to ask Sweetie for a ride. My life is just a little strange right now.

Next: A pretty new toy and some literal fireworks.

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.

A Veto and a Happy Accident Part Four: Ropes and Girls!

“You got the rest of those ropes in your bag?”

“Um, yeah.”

“So maybe you could put them on me?”

“Maaaaaybe, since that’s your thing…”

“One of my things, yes.”

After some more smooching and spanking, I went to put tape on and we met up in the opposite corner of the room, the same corner where all of the Cute Master shenanigans too place last time.

It’s hard to put into words the feeling of unrealness that followed me throughout the night—I’d wanted to be here with him over the summer, wanted it so badly that I’d always been terrified to ask. The difficulty of asking for something is often proportional to how much I want it—a silly and counterproductive habit I’m trying to break. So Saturday night, although I was an entirely present animal, I felt like I was walking through a fantasy as well—a fine feeling for a pretty series of scenes.

I hadn’t even thought about having ropes on since Sweetie, it seemed like one of those deep things that might make me get attached. But all I felt as he sat there unwinding and sorting his shiny cream-colored ropes was glad anticipation—there’s a reason it’s called play. I think I’m done with ruling out things based solely on the idea that they might get me attached—it can’t be predicted and I think I can trust myself to decide from moment to moment.

After I made a comically awkward attempt to go over his knee, (One thing the Regular Dungeon really needs is couches.) he instructed me to kneel at his feet. I put my arms around him and he spanked. I don’t remember any pain, though there must’ve been some. He pushed my face down close to his crotch and held it there, gently forceful. (Which reminds me, pal, I’m pretty sure blow jobs aren’t what makes me fall in love…) While I was still kneeling between his legs, he started a rope corset. I loved the smell of him and the softness of his hands grazing my waist and back. Instead of going into a ropey trance like sometimes happened with Sweetie and others, I got more awake and more brazen.

He had me stand so he could work the ropes better, and in the process of standing I accidentally backed into another rope scene that was happening on the bench perpendicular to us—and look who it was! The rope top girl with her cute boy and pink rope who’d so inspired me last time. I apologized for backing into her and she said it was enjoyable. I told her how much I’d liked watching them last time and informed her that we should be friends forever.

It’s occurring to me that I should stop giving SG a hard time about being incorrigible—I am certainly getting there!

I kept chatting them up while Steampunk Guy focused all the way on the corset. The rope top girl complemented my boobs and I told her she could touch them absolutely any time. She got up and, one hand still tethering her boy by his blue-rope-handcuffed wrists, copped a feel. I think that’s the first time she kissed me, too, easy as if she’d been doing it for years, as if she was just naturally entitled. It just turns me on so much when people act entitled to me.

At another point during his corset-making, I decided that SG and I should catch up on some high-fives, since we’d missed so many over the past two months. The rope top girl joined in, showing me a tattoo on her wrist that simply said “Awesome.” If that’s not a sign that my life is on the right track, I don’t know what is.

As he was putting the finishing touches on the corset, I spotted Winggirl One across the room and remembered that she was supposed to be first, and I know how stinky it is to have to wait, so I asked SG if we could pause the ropes for me to go and give her the what-for I’d promised. He agreed but kept winding and weaving the rope, and when I started to wander off he yanked me to him by the rope at the center of my middle, and I bubbled over with glee, jumping up and down like the ridiculous girl that I am.

My idea was for him to help me beat her up, but for whatever reason it didn’t work out that way. She was at the corner of the bar, not really looking like she was waiting for anything. I grabbed her by the hair and led her over to the corner. Part of what she’d asked me to do was convince her to get as naked as I was, but she needed no convincing, stripping down to her sheer black panties and pretty pink and black embroidered bra. She was bolder than last time and chose a kneeling bench close to the center of the room.

I had a lot of aggression to let out, and she let me. She helped me to figure out how to give her the thuddy spanks she wanted, coached me when I got to stingy. We had to pause for a moment so that the auction items could be announced (It was starting in a few minutes. I had donated a painting and the idea of watching it get auctioned felt much more vulnerable than any of this…) but when I started up again I just lost self-consciousness and whaled on her until she stopped me. I gave her a kiss and a hug, asked if she was okay and she was, except she had to remind me that she doesn’t love wedgies the way that I do. Ohno, sorry lady!

I ran back over to Steampunk Guy, worn out but warmed up from the spanking, ready and excited for more ropes.

Next: Just like in the dream.