Knotty Thursday: Simple Gauntlets and Bowing Down to Love

 

Good morning dears! So for the past few weeks, I've been in a battle with love. I've been doubling down on all the self-care, which is good, but it's gotten so my head feels like a tangle of Twelve Step rules and others' opinions and especially my own impatience. Why can't I be over this heartbreak already? Why can't I just feel gratitude for the good parts of The Guy Next Door adventure, wish him well, and be healed?! 

Because love is big. And ineffable. And important to me, which means OCD wants to rip every memory of it to shreds. I've been trying to feel armored against it so I don't accidentally respond to an eye-twinkle in the driveway, so I can HURRY UP AND ACCEPT THINGS AS THEY ARE, god dammit.

But I don't want to treat love like that! I don't want to treat ME like that anymore. So when a darling potential dom asked me how I could practice submission on my own, like I practice ropes on my own, I decided to start a new ritual:

Every day, at the end of the day, I'm going to get into Child's Pose and bow down to love. Not any one person (or flower, or bird, or color) but the entire concept of love. The universal source that drives me, tends me, and occasionally puts a metaphorical hand on my head.

Rope night was the perfect night to try it. After I put lofi on, put on some rose-scented lotion, and wrapped up my arms, I put a shiny sheet and a few pink Squishmallows (Archie and Laura) on the floor next to the bed, and got down to it.

And it worked! Not the overpowering WHOOSH of submission to a person, but something more cozy and less fraught. Attachment and detachment at the same time. A blessedly quiet mind. I felt faith enter my heart like it was coming home after a long trip. And it was!

Yelling at my heart to hurry up and get better was not working, and it was pretty cruel of me. My aim now is to treat myself like a little kid who has had a big disappointment, but also has a lot of scaffolding and hope. That little time to rest in love made a difference, and I'm excited to let it take the wheel for a while while I rest and heal and probably watch a fair amount of Bluey.

Thank you for being with me on this journey, dear readers. I woke up so grateful.

Hold Me Upside Down and Shake All the Nonsense Out, Part One

 

Later in the story I text this to The Song Sender and then I'm like OMG I SENT HIM A POEM WHY AM I LIKE THIS?! But he got what I was going for, I think.

After that second first date with The Song Sender went SO well, my perspective shifted. Softened. Scattered like light. Opened up. If my life has THIS much possibility in it, if fate (and, okay, my very goal-driven sluttiness) could offer me The Song Sender after these very long eleven years, and if that could make SO MUCH SENSE, even just for that one night, why couldn’t I find a way to be in touch with The Shy One, too?

So I texted The Shy One on that full-of-submissive-clarity afternoon, to ask if he would accept my apology and try for being friends with benefits. I didn’t think he would write back, he had every right to have blocked me, but he hadn’t. He did text back.

He said we could be back in touch, but he was taking the summer off from dating to reflect on how he wanted to handle his poly life. I didn’t think he had done anything wrong, definitely thought he shouldn’t be depriving himself of snuggles, but I was so touched by the pause he was taking. I have this terrible habit of thinking I have no effect on people, that I’ll fall out of their consciousness as soon as I say goodbye, but his planned summer sacrifice humbled and chastened me.

Convinced of how much I’d meant to The Shy One, I vowed to figure out a way to be in his life, however he would have me. So haltingly and politely, with some good ol’ Downton restraint, we started texting some. We talked on the phone and it made me sad, made me long for him and doubt I could make it as a platonic friend. But I put aside time to feel that sadness, and stayed determined.

We sent pictures of flowers and “happy Friday” and I confided in him when a date didn’t work out. The Shy One and I planned a dinner for mid-July, but before we got to there, The Song Sender cracked me open even more. Though he, generous and sweet Sir that he is, would probably say I did it all myself.

For my (second) second date with The Song Sender, I think he meant for us to have a date-date, but I was lazy and it was hot so I decided to just take him home to play. He helped me put some flowery street art up first—I liked seeing him pull the silk flowers off their plastic stalks. Good muse.

There was gorgeous, wonderful, THOROUGH hotness, which I’ll get to in a different post, but there was also a fight. During aftercare time, a couple of misfired jokes stirred a wild sense of abandonment into my reeling and breathless body and mind. I got rage-quiet and kicked him out. Well, I drove him home.

“At least it was a good sequel,” I said. I am kind of a jerk.

There was a big, hazy supermoon in the sky that seemed like it was a little bit mocking me with its naked romance.

“Thank you for letting me drive you home,” I said, “It would be too sad otherwise.” He caressed my arm softly and I felt so much regret about things being over (re-over) already.

“Hug” he said kindly when we pulled up in front of his girlfriend’s apartment. There was a car waiting right behind us so there wasn’t time to aim the awkward car hug. It was more like we just bonked our heads together.

This story makes me miss him, makes me sad even though we figured it out and he’s still very dearly in the picture. I would have to go to that humble place some more, let down my defenses, and maybe, maybe, MAYBE (please please please) just get (at least some of! A LOT of!) what I wanted all along.

Second First Date with The Song Sender, Part Three

I’ve already written about the ropes part (https://kittencalendar.blogspot.com/2022/06/knotty-thursday-teachable-moment-with.html?zx=9c690ff8ebd71852) so let’s talk about the being held down. The consensual violence of him, with its new give and take. His hands ventured to my throat where they weren’t supposed to be and I swatted him away and cursed and dug in my nails. The smell of him. The softness of his fuzzy chest whenever he relented a moment and just snuggled me close.

In the years since the first time around with The Song Sender, I’ve been dominated of course, spanked and restrained and so many different (I almost typed every, but no) flavors of rope and shackles and fire and hurt, but none had this special something. His dominance brings a sweet, reverent feeling, the soft release of being wholly and willingly overtaken.

“No one else can dominate like you.” I sighed. “They all say they’re doms but they come over here and they’re just mine.”

“Ah. That’s because you’re a bossy little bitch, aren’t you?” He wrapped me up in a hug as he said it. I wriggled and cackled with joy.

I laughed when the Downton Abbey theme came on my summer playlist, but The Song Sender did not laugh. He put his heavy arm around my shoulder and held me down, pushing open my legs to manhandle my clit. He pressed so hard that it hurt but it was also a perfect dream. I yowled and sighed and he made me/let me come exactly in time with the last notes of the song. Silly and perfect. Just-friends romantic. A new kind of home.

(Talking about Downton in this context makes me feel both slightly disloyal to the Shy One and like I want to tell him all about it. We’re in the bittersweet process of building a platonic friendship, but that’s a whole different post.)

When it was time to drive him home, I remembered a cup of coffee (It was pretty late.) but forgot my whole phone. I’d have to find my way back without GPS, but I was fairly sure I could figure it out.

I petted his hand as I drove, and he made happy animal sighing sounds. We listened to Nirvana’s Nevermind so I wouldn’t get sleepy.

I found my way home easily. When I woke up in the morning, I was sad and a little bruised, but was more sure of everything than I’d been in a while. I felt like a person who knows how to run her life.

Whatever happens with The Song Sender, and who knows, I want to keep a place in my calendar for submission, for basking in the beachy softness of knowing I’m not in charge for a little while. That feeling has been such a stranger to me, and I’m happy to welcome it back.

So There’s This Charming Man, Part Two

 

The day after our first date/first kisses/spontaneous rope-ordering, he texted to tell me he was out for coffee and looking for books on Shibari. (!!!) “My new hobby” is how he put it. I tried not to get toooooo excited—after all, The Lovely Guy had made noises about learning to make a mojito for me and a bottle of white rum is sitting lonely in my cabinet waiting for me to learn mojitos for myself. Guys get excited and they say stuff. It’s cute!

The night before my second date with This Charming Man, I was trying to learn a tie I could NOT FOR THE LIFE OF ME remember the name of, but which had been a fave during the adventure days. And then! BFF to the rescue! And/or she and I need maybe a little more with the boundaries! Either way, she taught me the tie (using the banister, not any of my own columns) and I felt like everyone involved, past and present, must be amazing at life. BFF even looked up the name: chainstitching.

This Charming Man arrived at may apartment for brunch looking out-of-my-league stylish and SO PRETTY that I wasn’t even sure if I could touch him. (Spoiler alert, I COULD.) It felt really right and natural to have him standing tall-ly next to me in my teensy kitchen, chopping up sausage for the omelets. I really messed up the first one and tried to keep it for myself, but he gallantly took the way-less-cute omelet.

After eggs and cinnamon rolls, I set about teaching him chainstitching on his gorgeous long arms. It’s so easy and cozy and I almost immediately (for the first time in YEARS) fell into a rope haze. Deliberate, patient, and still while both tying and being tied, he seemed right there in that pretty haze with me.

There’s this thing. It can happen even with the most tentative rope time. A cinch or a tighten just ***switch*** turns every anxiety off, every defense mechanism. As he worked and reworked the steps of the tie, as he unraveled his work and started again, his hands felt so kind. Being handled with such care and attention made my whole self sunny with happiness.

Work was in like three hours, plenty of time, but I couldn’t imagine in a million years that I might ever emerge from this glittery soft head-cloud. I couldn’t imagine how we might, as he put it two more dates later, unfurl from each other. I was the most still and present I’ve been in months, years, maybe ever.

Dating in the Upside-Down: A Like-Story (Part Two)

This isn’t one of those stories where I ignore a red flag and then everything goes awry—everything went PERFECTLY.

For our second date, I asked if he wanted to come over and watch a few episodes of Stranger Things, Season 2. The perfect, spooky, romantic, music-y date, I was proud of myself for thinking of it. I stocked the freezer with toaster waffles and he volunteered to bring wine. Again with the giddy.

When he arrived, (SO big and tall, dressed nicely all in black, looking like he was just custom-made for me…) I mentioned that I’d found our local radio station’s Halloween special “Too Bauhaus-y” and he said there’s no such thing. He showed me his Halloween Spotify playlist and it was indeed very Bauhaus-y, and also full of The Cure, and The Smiths, as well as a little Marilyn Manson I could mock him for: PERFECT. So perfect as to seem fictional. Maybe I was just really, REALLY happy to have a guy on my couch.

Even though it was a Netflix date, I’d worn my favorite red lace dress, and as soon as he sat down next to me, I started to suspect that the dress was coming off before too long. He had a warm, open energy, and draped his arm invitingly over the back of the couch. I think it took me about one episode to snuggle in, and when I did, it felt like it such a natural, easy fit. His hands (I’d spent all week thinking about them, tempted to text and ask if he liked spanking people) were big, soft, and warm, gently but insistently affectionate. As he stroked my arms, my hands, my hair, it became harder to concentrate on the Hawkins goings-on, though nothing could distract me from the terribleness of Bob’s taste in music (Team Bob 4life though) and the awesomeness of the rest of the soundtrack.

I finally turned my head and kissed him (is there anything better than that moment?) during episode three—it was easy, delicate, soft. I pulled away after a little bit (“Wait I really want to see what’s on that video tape!”) and made intermittent attempts to stay focused on the plot points, but after a while, it was time to switch to music, my mix called “Dreamy music” which has an inexplicable and not-super-helpful amount of Radiohead on it, definitely time to edit.

I knelt next to him on the couch and wrapped myself around him, pulled into a soft quilt of man-smell and comforting warmth. His hands went to my boobs in my favorite insistent-but reverent teenage-feeling-up way, and I growl-groaned, relieved and hungry, safe and ecstatic, just like that. He moved to the floor and spread me out over the couch like I was prey, but in the very good way.

“I’m in a place…” I said, and I was. I hadn’t been to a submissive place in my heart or head in a long time, certainly not since my ill-fated date with Mr. Makeout Music, and I was very happy to be back there.

I was wearing thick black tights, but when he ran his hand over my crotch I could feel the wetness soaking all the way through. I didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or thrilled, but I’d been this way since I met him, and it felt like very, VERY good news.

Next: I DO have a bed…

A Conference with Myself, Part Three: Hugging Heartbreak, Embracing Joy

“Even if you feel overcome with nihilistic thoughts, your body is still alive with an optimism of its own.  Join the thoughts of your body.” –Yoko Ono

            When I first started adventuring way back when, I decided to use cuddle parties as a benchmark for how far I’ve come in inhabiting my body and letting go of grief. The first one, way back in 2012, I spent crying over my struggling marriage and unexpressed bisexuality. The second one, I spent mostly on my own despite the puddle of people, enjoying all of the lovey vibes in a very surprising new self-contained way. This time, I dove all the way in, tapped into my body’s optimism as Yoko suggests, and was blessedly immersed in the easy, soft connections with and among my fellow lovey-dovey souls.

            Still, sadness did need to have its moment. As I lay curled up and relaxed in the afterglow of The Kind Ma’am’s sweet/hurty attention, the loss I’d been trying to deny for months crept in and I just ached for Mr. Makeout Music, for all of the November grief. Since one of my New Year’s resolutions is to ask for help when I need it, I asked the Cuddle Facilitator to disentangle herself from a beautiful-looking embrace so we could talk for a minute. (I’m not a monster, it’s part of her role. But I still feel bad for interrupting snuggles!)

            I told her the story, the story my friends and I are all sick of, and she had an idea: “Let’s try this. I’m going to hold you, and you’re going to just feel it all. Feel it as deeply as you can, and then we’ll see if you’re ready to go back to playing.”

            So she put her arms around me, and as she held me, her heart against mine felt like MM’s heart, from those twice-a-day hugs that I missed so much. The connection I still felt to him was keen and wrenching and real, and I loved it so much. (I still do, though thankfully it feels much less claustrophobic/painful now.)

            I almost cried, but didn’t. I thanked her mistily and went back to the party, joining a cuddle pile with a few nice strangers who’d seemed fun during consent practice.

            I was blissed out and petting the hip of a nice woman from Colorado when (Hooray!) The Professor appeared above me and asked if he could join us. I was spooned in behind the nice woman, and he spooned in behind me, a friendly wall of warmth. I asked if he would pull my hair (or he asked me, I don’t remember) and he was such the perfect balance of gentle and forceful that I whooshed down into subspace, for the first real time in years. The weightless, beatific feeling of being relieved from control, turns out I’d missed it so much. I feel like I’m using the word “blessed” too many times in this story, but it keeps being necessary.

            I asked if I could turn over to face him, and the resulting embrace was one of the most comforting places I’ve ever been. I’m trying superhard not to get carried away here, of course he’s maybe just really good at hugging, but the way he fit with me had a teensy bit of destiny to it.

            At cuddle parties, you’re supposed to look for specific permission every step of the way, and for every request he made, I gave an emphatic “Yes!” especially the “May I kiss you?’ part—the Professor is really, really good at kissing. Just like with the hair pulling, soft and urgent, emphatic and sweet. There’s nothing like being really just thoroughly kissed.

            “Will you put your leg between mine?” He asked and oh yes, I just wanted to find a cuddle party loophole and just give him permission to do every. Single. Thing.

            “May I put my hand of your chest?” He asked, and that meant heart, not boob, and yesyes, it’s time to go ahead and believe in Energy, because this guy has ALL OF IT.

While I was lying there in The Professor’s arms, Mr. Shiny Eyes crawled over and asked for a kiss and I was happy to give it. The three of us chatted until it was time for The Professor to go have a late supper with The Kind Ma’am. I kissed him goodbye and settled into a new cuddle configuration with Mr. Shiny Eyes and the interesting strangers.

Next: More cuddles, more kisses, and saying goodbye lying down.

Mini-Update and a Helpful/Hot Poly Weekly Episode

This week-before-last Poly Weekly episode ,while not really an advice-y one, really helped me to think about post-scene endorphins and how they were influencing the way I perceive partners during postscene days. (And sometimes weeks!) Once I started noticing the chemical changes, it helped me to simmer back down to having perspective about certain cuties a little bit faster.

Which is an awesome gold star for me because I know that getting upset about crushes often keeps me from getting to know the people I'm most drawn to. It would be a fantastic pattern to break. Huzzah!

Birthday Spanks and Unicorn Snuggles Part Two: Welcome Me Back to Subspace!

Earlier in the party (admittedly right around the time I got a little bit high) I’d told Cute Master I was going to try and get 39 birthday spanks from each person at the party—one of my better ideas I have to say, right up there with that hair-pulling contest back in May. Somehow chatting with the Cutest Boy at the Party evolved into him helping me recruit the first spankers.

I started out bent over the arm of one of the two leather couches while spectators sat on the other one and on the other side of the room, egging the spankers on and, at first, counting to 39.

Spanker: “How many was that?”

Onlooker: 28?

Me: “Two!”

I made that joke a lot of times.

The young lady who’d made the “dumbasses” comment earlier volunteered and I can’t really explain why I let her except that it felt okay to do so. Physical trust is a strange thing sometimes, but by I know by now how to listen to my body about people. I’m glad I did because it was over her knee that I felt a sort of inner dimmer switch. A calm came over me and a happy haze descended. Aaaahhhhhh.

At this point, my skirt was pulled up and my underpants pulled down. I still had my shirt and bra on and my hair was draped all over. I sighed into the arm of the couch, feeling like a sleepy movie star and said “I’m getting all well-behaved.”

“Are you?” She sounded surprised and proceeded to take her hurty turn.

When the young lady was finished, it was the Huge Handed Fireman’s turn, and I was thrilled when he asked if I wanted to go over his knee. Ohmygoodness those hands—they’re strong but soft and sort of magically cool to the touch. He didn’t hurt as much as the other spankers did; it was more like he struck a good note. He was just right at holding me down, too—he has such a long reach, I felt like a deftly handled piano. The Cutest Boy at the Party came over and sat at my feet, took off my shoes, held my legs down, and tickled the back of my knees. I wiggled and shrieked and HHF held me down harder.

I have to stop and high five myself for being held down by two of the most desirable characters at the party. Go me!

When HHF was done spanking, he ran his hands soothingly over my back. I took off my shirt to make it easier for him and to add to the nice humiliation I was feeling. I told him I was leaving my bra on for the time being and he used that as an excuse to cop a feel. Ohthosehands. I want them all over me some more.

I didn’t want him to go away and he blessedly didn’t. He acted as a human spanking bench, holding me down for the other takers. I would have stayed in his big warm lap all night if I could’ve. Sometimes he held my head down and I couldn’t see who was doing the hitting—I’d just notice a pair of shoes and try to remember whose they were later on.

Cute Master came in with a nasty crop, stingy as fuck and I screamed my head off. The screaming is so much of the fun, though I suppose I could’ve asked one of these nice big hands over my mouth. I tried to reach back and grab the crop away but I didn’t say red.

“Oh, I see now, so you’re a pain freak,” said HHF, and though I’ve always argued that I’m not, this time I sighed and said “Um, yeah. I can tell by how calm I feel in the days after.”

One thing I loved about being spanked by so many people was that submissives joined in too—one of the best sets of spanks came from the lady I’d bonded with on the couch during my blanket time. When I texted her a “Good job!” the next day, she could not have been prouder.

Once everyone in the room had had a turn, the Cutest Boy at the Party went through the house to see if there were any more takers. These guys really know how to make a birthday bottom feel special. I thought it was probably time to be all the way naked. HHF reached in my bra and started pulling my boobs out, but I asked him to unhook my bra for me. Can bra hooking and unhooking be a fetish? I just love that part so much.

Cute Master came back in and made me get up from my nice spot on the sofa. He pulled an ottoman into the middle of the room and then directed me to kneel over it, arch my back, and stick my ass out in such a way that everything was exposed—all the way submissive. Fully clothed, he draped himself all the way over my body and rubbed his cock against my ass. Pretty Slave had told me he was huge, and she was not wrong. Someone apologized for the fact that all this was happening to the tune of “SexyBack,” but I couldn’t have been happier with the song choice.

Speaking of Pretty Slave, she came and sat in a chair in front of me, stroked my hair, held my hands, and made soothing noises. I let out a gasp and a groan and lay all the way flat, getting exactly what I wanted, the humiliation of everyone watching, the heat and smell of him, the loveliness of her. He started hitting my hard on my now-tender behind, to the point where I was now scream/crying but still not telling him to stop. He was ruthless, growling and snarling and whaling on me until he stepped on my foot wrong and it sort of broke the mood.

It sort of boggles my mind how this all felt perfectly safe. I felt a deep assurance in my ability to say no, I guess, and a basic trust of the hosts, but it still feels like an enormous leap of faith to offer my ass to that many people, many of them strangers. Putting my faith in my instincts and in the basic good of the crowd seems a little crazy, but it worked.

Next: The Cutest Boy at the Party Gets Aftercare Duty (Because He’s a Giver!)

First Date With Steampunk Guy, Part Three: I Didn’t Think I Was Feeling that Subby, But…

I wouldn’t have called it subspace at the time, but the way the order of things has slipped out of my brain suggests some kind of altered state. So, Steampunk Guy, if I’ve messed up the timeline, feel free to punish me.

“Whatever happened to this date being clothing optional?’ he asked and I hopped up and got naked. In the time it took me to cue up the new National album, (Pure moody summer makeout music, see above.) he was not just naked but ready to go, complete with condom and safety gloves. (We’d already done the when-were-you-tested conversation, after which we high-fived.)You wouldn’t think someone could look beautiful wearing green plastic gloves, but you’d be wrong.

Last year when Sweetie and I got our new couch, we optimistically chose a fold-down one. Steampunk Guy’s the first guy I’ve folded it down for. (Because my life is awesome, Mr. Shiny Eyes became the second one last night.) After I’d figured out how to work the mechanism and got the bed all situated, he had me lay down on my stomach. I felt all cozy and happy, like I was at the beach.

He went from spanking (He’d mentioned that his tools were in the car, but I didn’t think he’d need them, and I was right.) to probing—pulling me open, pressing me apart. I’m starting to get a little fetish for the feeling of gloved fingers in me. (See the previous post’s hand-rhapsodizing.)

He left my legs together and lay on top of me, entering not-all-the way but from such a lovely angle. I’d never been in that position before. I let out a moan/sigh and said “Aaaaaahhhh, nowonderyouhavelikeninegirlfriends…oh, oh, oooohhhhh..” (and so on) He felt so perfect—I’d been needing it so badly and now I was getting all filled up.

He turned me over and fucked me so hard that it hurt. I screamed and cried and took it for as long as I could, just kissing him and yowling and carrying on. (It’s possible that the neighbors might hate me.) This is being thoroughly fucked, stripped all the way down to my primal animal whatever. I wailed, I balled up my fists. It felt like I was lighting up and tearing apart, like I was everything and nothing but light and warmth and pain, and he doesn’t stop when he comes, just keeps pushing in and in until I’m breathless and “Oh, wait, okay, I have to stop, sorry…”

As we moved from fucking to snuggling, I was somewhere between ecstasy and trauma, panting and dizzy. “I’ve never felt anything quite like that before.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Eyeroll then, eyeroll now.

My scalp was warm from my hair being pulled so much. My cheeks were blushy with exertion and beard burn. My ass was lightly bruised and my pussy was throbbingly, gushingly wet, trying to figure out what hurricane just hit it. He held me and his fuzzy chest hair felt all nice and soft against my chest.

We got to know each other a little. It turns out he’s military, just got back not long ago. Why do I keep feeling drawn to guys who fought in wars I’ve protested? (Well, I have protested every war since I was in ninth grade.) It could be some urge to connect and humanize the Other. Or it could just be that I like guys who are really strong and tend to be on time. I don’t know, and I never know what to say when someone tells me he’s been in a war, other than “I’m glad you didn’t die.” which is actually what I said.

We talked some more about our respective kinks. He says he’s good with ropes, so I hope I might get to test out his knotsmanship sometime, should we make it to the magical land of the second date.

He looked so happy, and I was too. It was snuggling with a pal. A very smiley pal who keeps laughing to himself for whatever reason.

Next Time: Waves of warmth, sex-tears, then pie.

Dungeon Love and a Happy Anniversary

This place where you are right now, God circled

on a map for you.

Wherever your eyes and arms and heart can move

against the earth and sky, the Beloved has bowed

there,

the Beloved has bowed there knowing you were

coming.

-Hafiz

This week was the 11-year anniversary of Sweetie and me getting together, of the night she told me, okay, she’d give it a try, and that I would be her first partner of any kind—it’s a lot of responsibility, and I took it, and I am so glad. She and I have had rocky times this past year, and in some ways our relationship is still in limbo, but we have a lot to celebrate, too.

Last Saturday was the holiday party at our regular dungeon—just the phrase “our regular dungeon” just fills me with pride. We missed the dinner part of the festivities because some dear friends were having a going-away potluck, but we got there early enough that the crew was still setting up the furniture.

Everyone looked so pretty and festive—lots of fancy red dresses, formal kilts, shiny studded gauntlets. There were cute little glowy candle lamps everywhere, and a Christmas tree. When we arrived, Old-Timey Guy was shrink wrapping a girl in a red and white plastic corset.

HempRopes was there with his beautiful wife, and meeting her made me wish that I hadn’t sworn off him—she’s strong, vivacious, and smiley, just the kind of lady I wouldn’t mind being tied to—oh well, maybe someday.

I think my decision to swear off casual play was a good one, though. Instead of resenting HempRopes for having a long line of ladies, I felt happy love for the good time that they were all about to have.

Old-Timey guy asked if I would like another star mark from him and looked taken aback when I said “I’ll think about it.” He’s still calling me his “little girl” but I felt distinctly like a woman, and I’m excited that I’m reserving my right to play as one.

Sweetie and I set up our scene in a triangle with the people we love to play next to: Old-Timey Guy and Punk Rock Girl were on the St. Andrew’s cross to our right, and Hot Switch Couple were getting their bag of tricks ready the next kneeling bench over. We all hugged and smiled about the prospect of being near each other.

It was one of the happiest nights of my life. Sweetie made me feel like a rope-covered princess. She ties me to a kneeling bench and figured out how to spank nice and firmly without hurting. I don’t always go all the way to a subby place with her, but this time I did—I felt like I was getting spanked inside a glowy pink cloud of well-being. As I was spacing out to the comfy rhythms, I noticed that Punk Rock Girl was getting flogged to the exact same beat—it was such a lovely feeling of oneness.

I knelt there giggling with joy, mostly naked in from of my friends, just like I love to be. I am so proud of the life that Sweetie and I have created in the last year, the way we have made a space for ourselves in the world where we can be in love and hot and safe and in front of everybody. Even though I’m often distracted by what’s missing from my life, I have to admit that this new life is like a miracle.

My Ass Is Smitten With Mister Hazel Eyes, Part 3: Die Antwoord and Romance

Aside from and annoying quasi-hip-hop preamble that inexplicably featured the six-letter f-word, Die Antwoord kicked my ass. I was sitting next to Mister Hazel Eyes, his arm protectively around me, feeling the strangest and most interesting aftercare sensation—it was like I was bottoming to the music. It reminded me of when I’d go to raves in the 90s, generally sober except for the occasional acid trip, I was almost always satisfied to get high on dancing, and this night reminded me of the fluffy, sparkly feeling I’d get during the fourth or fifth hour of dancing, when the music was part of my body and all I had to do was give in to it and keep going. It felt like surrender, and it was delicious then and now.

Between sets, I sat in MHE’s lap and made out with him obnoxiously. Why yes, we ARE in our LATE thirties, but it was so much fun to be all over each other like horny teenagers. When I went to get up from his lap, he said

“Did I tell you you could get up?”

My eyes got wide and I laughed my head off, so glad to stay put.

“What’s so funny?” He said it a little poutishly, but his pretty eyes were shining and not threatening in the least.

“I’m just happy. This is me being happy.”

Okay, so, as I said before, Jane’s Addiction was my favorite band as a teenager and they have a very special place in my heart, the lullaby songs especially: Classic Girl and Jane Says. I like the rollicking songs too, but the pretty songs have always made me feel so understood and loved.

He seemed to understand this. When they started to play Jane Says, he stopped being all grabby-sexy and just held me sort of…tenderly. I thought of all the different ways I’d heard this song, all of the different contexts, all of the many versions of myself, and I decided that this is the best version. I’m proud of how far I’ve come. When Perry Farrell sang “Jane says she ain’t never been in love, she don’t know what it is, she only knows if someone wants her.” (Which felt true in my teenage years but hasn’t been true for such a long time. Talk about an assessment.) he pulled me into a kiss that was sweet and emphatic, and I felt myself really give in to it, to him, to the romance of the moment, to whatever I might be with him. I grabbed the back of his neck and just pulled him as close as I could. The decades of want and need since the song came out felt, at least for that moment, fulfilled.

And then I thought: “Uh-oh. This is meaningful. I’m experiencing cathexis during this meaningful thing. I’m letting him in.” Recognizing that was scary, but I think that kind of metacognition (or meta-emotion?) is a good sign. In the past, I’ve formed attachments and not recognized them, reacting in a fight-or-flight way instead. So this is progress. Scary progress, but still.

I love the way that we played with each other during the rest of the concert. He held me in front of him and gave me bites gently down my neck and back. His hands meandered on the borders of inappropriate, but in kind of a sweet way. We sat down and I ran my hands over his thighs, grazing things I really wanted to grab.

After the show I climbed into his lap in the driver’s seat, cradled in his arms. I took out my pigtails so that he could get a good grip on the back of my hair. He gave me a few spanks but he didn’t have good leverage. We kissed and kissed and kissed and he said things like “I love your eyes.” (Afraid of that particular word, I said, I like yours too.”) and (!):

“You are so fucking beautiful.” I felt fucking beautiful, let me tell you.

I wanted him to kiss me all night but he wanted to get me back to Sweetie at a reasonable hour. As he drove me home, I plugged in my iPod (Who’s acting like they own the place now?) and played I Would for You the only lullaby favorite they hadn’t played. Then I played a whole bunch of dreamy covers.  I just can’t say how much I didn’t want that night to be over.

As we were saying goodbye, he got adorably/worryingly wistful: “Tell (Sweetie) she’s a lucky lady.”

I’m pretty lucky too. If I can just surrender to NRE like I surrendered to Die Antwoord, I think I’ll be fine.

Yay Updates! Mr. Popular, Mr. Hazel Eyes, and Sweetie With a Blindfold

It’s been a little while since I’ve been able to post. Sweetie and I moved into a new apartment last week, and while it is shaping up to be quite a little love nest, moving has been sucking the life out of my writing life.

So! Three main updates:

1. My first date with Mr. Popular! I named him that because we first started corresponding last summer when his dance card was all filled, and at the moment he lives with his two kids, wife, his ex-wife, and his ex-wife’s new partner, as well as having another girlfriend who doesn’t live with them. I’m thinking that if we work out, he’d make a nice once-a-month treat, and I’m excited about meeting the rest of the constellation some day too.

Mr. Popular is a tall, beardy, adorable engineer. He asked me out for Indian food, which means yay, he read my profile! We sat there talking for like three hours, about his family, my adventures, his love of Rock Band, and poly in general. He was all full of energy and it was easy to get excited about him. (In fact, when I excused myself to go to the restroom, I was so excited that it was hard to pee, so I think that’s a good sign.)

He likes to seduce girls by inviting them over to play Beatles Rock Band—he says it’s easy to get cozy after singing all those romantic songs together. So that’s exactly the plan for our second date, which isn’t for a few weeks. He gave me the choice of family-style Rock Band or a more datey plan, and I chose the just-the-two-of-us version because I want to get to know him a little better before I meet everyone else.

What really turns me on about Mr. Popular is that he has to be proactive about scheduling—it oddly seems easier to make plans with him than with less-busy pals. I feel like all of the stuff he’s got going on makes him more respectful of the stuff I’ve got going on—and that is HOT.

2. On the other hand, my second date with Mr. Hazel Eyes was romantically serendipitous. I was just getting out of a placement test on Friday when he texted to tell me that he needed a hug. I happened to be in the neighborhood where he works, so I was happy to deliver one. It was pouring down rain so I had to go on a quest for an umbrella—the only one I could find was a mini Hello Kitty one, darn.

I was dressed for a placement test, not a date, and my back was soaked from the rain, but he didn’t seem to mind. We met at the local indoor farmer’s market and had burgers in the little diner there. Over lunch we talked about some of the things I’ve been worrying about, my post-Bill anxieties, which he was able to mostly put to rest. I kept stroking his arm and he kept looking me like grrr. I told him his Kitten Calendar nickname but didn’t tell him where he can find it.

After lunch the rain had stopped, so we took a little walk before he had to go back to work. He whispered progressively filthier things in my ears and stopped periodically to press me up against buildings. I’m starting to get used to the fact that I can turn guys on, but he really was making such a big deal about it. I liked him hard and pressed up against me, mauling each other like teenagers in the middle of the bright day seemed extra lewd. He grabbed my ass at the bus stop and I think I’d have to call it the good kind of humiliating.

He has really good top energy and I think I might be able to teach him how to be my dom, but I’m still just not sure about him. We’ve got a dinner date for Wednesday night so we’ll see.

3. This weekend Sweetie and I went to our favorite rope-themed play party again. I’ve been really hankering for a spanking so I was really excited to be there. Two really significant things happened!

First—somebody else spanked me while Sweetie was nearby and she didn’t mind! Huzzah! There was this sort of Renn-Fair-ish  guy whose flogging techniques I’ve admired for a while and he looked like he wanted to try out a new toy—a cane tipped with a ceramic star—and without stopping to think, I blurted out an offer. I asked Sweetie if it was okay and she said yes!

We were sitting on cushy benches in sort of a square with a whole bunch of people. It was lingerie night, so had on a pretty, sheer nightgown with hardly any coverage on the boob area (but tape on the nipples, sadly) and a frilly ruffle at the bottom, with matching periwinkle blue lace undies. I climbed up on my knees on the bench, hoisted up my nightie, and stuck out my ass. The star thing hurt like a son of a bitch but the guy had such a funny spankside manner that I was laughing my head off. I asked Sweetie how it felt to see that and she said she just really liked to hear my laugh. High-five to us.

Then it was time for me and Sweetie to play. I decided I wanted my arms tied to posts and lots of ropes on my upper body and thighs. Off came the nightie and I stood there almost naked in front of everyone. It felt much more exposed than being all the way naked at the beach. I had my contacts in so I kept catching people’s eye while they watched us, which felt hot but unnerving. There’d been a munch right before the party, so I think people just felt too chatty to play.

“Too many looky-loos!” I kept saying. Finally I asked Sweetie to put a blindfold on me and it felt GREAT. I lost self-consciousness and slipped right into subspace after that. I’d been scared of blindfolds after Fireguy, and I’m delighted to have them back on the yes pile. So much to celebrate!

Please, Sir, Part Three: My First Collar and Some Fire

There were two reasons I didn’t do more talking with Fireguy prior to the scene. I wanted to be accommodating and I was afraid that if I asked for too much I would end up being rejected, (lame, I know, and totally my fault.) but more importantly, I was all heated up and curious, just rarin’ to go. All in all, I’m glad that things happened the way they did—I’m learning that the limits you run into, the boundaries you cross, are never the ones you expect, and here come some doozies.

He had me stand under the heating vent while he set up the fire supplies. I was wearing a nice soft fluffy sweater and jeans. My hair was all shiny and curled at the bottom like an old-fashioned movie star.

“Are you comfortable getting undressed?”

It’s easy to get naked in front of Fireguy, even though it was still a little chilly in the basement. He reminded me to take off my socks—I tend to leave them on. I left on my undies for the time being.

“Would you like to wear my collar tonight? You’d belong to me while you have it on.”

“Yes.” He tried to say something else but I interrupted with “Yesyesyes.”

“Well, you can think about it if you want to…”

“Some of these decisions have been premade!”

I’ve never been collared by anybody, even for an evening. I’d fantasized a lot about Bill putting a collar on me, but I think he might have considered that part of “serious relationship” territory. Also he was a little closety, so I intuitively steered away from actual BDSM trappings-never even so much as wore a cuff when he was over. Mostly that worked for me, but I sure did want to know how it felt to have that ritual of belonging to a man, even for a few hours.

Fireguy lead me to the center of the room and told me to get into submissive position number one, which I’d learned the last time I was there. I sat on my feet, legs spread apart, palms up, back straight.

“Good.” he said. “Good.”

I held up my hair so that he could put the collar around my neck. It was about an inch and a half wide, black leather with a ring in the front. He said that if this ended up happening more often, maybe I could have my own collar, in my favorite color. (Which is blue.)

I knelt there as he petted my hair, kissed the top of my head, and generally made approving yummy noises. He bit along my neck and shoulders and reached down to my boobs, playing happily and roughly, emitting adorable growls all the while.

Then he told me to get up and lie down on the table, face down. He asked if I’d take my underwear off for fire safety, but I wasn’t ready yet. He said if I wanted to wear underwear during fire, I should wear cotton ones, they’re less flammable. I ended up taking them off anyway for fire spanks. I’d pretty much do anything for fire spanks. Once my undies were off, he considered my ass and growled again over its spankability. I giggled and said I’m glad I have proof!

It’s hard to explain fire spanks, since I don’t exactly know what goes on back there. Some of it is just—he covers his hand with alcohol, lights it, then snuffs the flame, so that his spanky hands are all nice and warm. But there was also something more burny happening, too, a fire wand held close, maybe. I let it hurt a little more each time before I flinched.

Since we hadn’t negotiated at all, he told me “This time  is pretty much gonna be, if you say stop, I stop.”

Which led to a lot of me saying “I said ow, I didn’t say stop!” which I also say a lot to Sweetie and MKT.

My favorite part of the fire portion of the scene didn’t have anything to do with the flames. I was still lying on my stomach with my face down. He was rubbing his warm hands on my back and then he just took his hand and held it on the back of my head, gently but firmly, and held my head down. He just stood there like that, breathing deeply. It was magic, one of the best feelings in the world.

After that is when I started to settle in and sort lose the sequence of events: sub-space.

Next: I Burn Pretty.