A Helpful Mini-Adventure With a Lovely King

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Catsitting Was Service and It Felt Good.

 While I care for myself and keep not knocking on his door, some of the things I felt during my near-romance with The Guy Next Door deserve attention. I feel like the memories don't quite belong to me yet, like I'm still waiting for him to sign off on them by liking me back, which he doesn't. But it was still real.

On Christmas leftovers night, when he was "ready to try snuggling," I took his hand and placed it on top of my head. I expected it to feel comforting, of course, but I didn't expect to fall down a very cozy well of subbiness! I felt the switch flip and he became Him.

In Codependents Anonymous, we are definitely not supposed to let other people be our Higher Power. That's supposed to be benevolent but big and all-encompassing and largely unknowable. This feeling might have been that, but it was also the opposite- play! A role I haven't played in such a long time, and suddenly there I was. Little. Cared for. Humble. Chosen.

So when he asked me to watch Cat Next Door while he was away for New Years, it didn't feel like it sometimes feels now, like he was having his to-him-unfuckable friend watch his place while he was out of town seeing Yoga Camp Hottie. That was what was happening, but it didn't feel bad at all! Most of the week!

I said I'd be honored to watch his place, and I meant it.

The first time I went over, Cat Next Door was relaxing on TGNS's bed. The bed was spare and the bedding white, very yoga camp. I sat on the floor next to the bed to pet the cat and felt woozy with love. I wanted to crawl into bed with the cat and cuddle, but that felt like a creepy thing for a catsitting neighbor to do. He later said it would've been fine, but then, he later said a lot of things.

Every moment, crushing Cat Next Door's meds into his tuna breakfast and supper, washing the plates and spoons, just sitting in TGNS's chair keeping the cat company while read my audiobook and inhaled the scent of man and sandalwood, it all felt like I was honored to serve him. I'm sure that was not his intention at all, but that's what happened.

I looked at my art and Tarot cards front and center on his fridge door, and I felt he's mine and I'm his. When I left the porch light on for myself and locked the door for the night, I felt in my place. Where I belonged.

Submissive or no, I don't do neighbor-favors half-assed, so though he'd told me I didn't have to scoop the litterbox, I sure did! Kneeling in front of it doing objectively the worst chore, I felt peaceful, seen. Even though it was SO STINKY! 

He's an old cat who misses a lot and there was a pink towel in front of the litterbox that got soaked with pee by the end of the week. I took it home and washed it with a heart full of love and hope.

I'd told him I was having subby feelings after our first cuddle, but I don't think he ever really got how badly I wanted to serve him.

I'm telling you this to honor my submissive self- it was so lovely to see her. I hope she'll be around again soon, in much happier and healthier circumstances. It just felt so good.

Knotty Thursdays: Worship Me a Little, Sure!

 

It’s just kind of the best when a cutie reaches out on Feeld and says something like, “You can practice your ropes on me if that would be helpful?”

It was! I was superexcited to work on the back of a harness for once, having worked on just me for a while. And what a sweetie pie he was, deferential and kind, calling me Ma’am in nearly every sentence, once I offered him the option. He was very, very good. He had the floppy hair and wholesomely handsome face of a Disney prince. It’s a thing I said to him: “I’ve never tied up a Disney prince before!

I liked the bright flash of his green eyes, just a momentary glimmer. So pretty.

(I’m maybe a little more chatty than the average Ma’am, and maybe a little too sweet? I don’t know.)

There’s a certain kind of casual date I associate with post-pandemic life, where the boy under my hands just kind of…needs a rest. A relief. A little cloud of peace to live in for a while. Okay, wait, I just explained submission.

After I decorated him (“This is more ropes than I expected…” he said. Guilty as charged.) he asked if I would tie his hands. I don’t usually restrain anybody on the first date, but he asked so nicely! And I liked putting a chain stitch onto those pretty wrists! I liked how he obediently clasped his hands behind his back before I even asked him to. I would’ve gone for tying in the front.

Then he lay down on the bed on his tummy, ready to be petted. “I like being your little pet” he said. He was so good at it!

I didn’t let him be restrained for long! Yes, I was concerned about safety, but really I just wanted his hands on me.

“May I worship your tits, Ma’am?” I mean, it’s only one of my favorite things! He pulled my lacy purple bra down enough to get my nipple into his mouth while he played with the other one. It felt so good that I curled up into a human comma around him and yowl-moaned.

As good as it felt, I wanted no part of me losing control. I told him to turn over for a spanking, and he obliged. I pulled his underpants down just enough and spanked and spanked, leaving cute red circles on both of his sweet, soft cheeks. Then I felt the relief too, like a string of tension inside my body had been loosened, if not untied.

I wanted no part of the bonding chemicals my brain would give me if I let him get me off, so I regretfully told him we wouldn’t fuck. He lay next to me and got himself off, good boy.

When he did that quick-zippering-gotta-go thing after, it didn’t make me sad the way it usually might. (Oh aaaaggggony of The Shy One’s quick zippering the last night we were together. Sometimes my whole heart just wants to write a small opera about that moment. Eventually several paragraphs, at least.) The other night though, I felt like, “Oh, this is great, I can finish my library book that’s due.”

Besides that pleasant good-job-everybody feeling, there was another feeling, oddly pleasant as well: the Not Yet feeling. The deep, kind acceptance that I’m not ready to open my heart again, that it might be a while. The knowledge that while my mind might be antsy to move on to my next loves (Or even, come on! Likes!) my body, heart, and soul still belong to the Shy One(s), I don’t know for how long!

That’s the person I am, and the only person I have to be. No wonder taking my time feels good, it’s love. And loving myself.

Mr. Adorkable and the Ropes, Part Two

 

He wasn’t in my apartment for long before I had him upstairs. He hadn’t brought his rope kit (I guess that would have seemed like a lot on a first date to anyone who isn’t me!) but I was happy to let him use mine.

I don’t know when the kissing started. Maybe we were always kissing. He picked up the orange rope and twined it around my wrists, making a double column that looked like a pretty bow. He already knew to be careful with my tricky right arm because, bless him, he’d read me.

Next he started winding a harness around my chest, over the bra at first. It felt new and shivery to not being the one doing the tying, to not know what was going to happen next. (Not that I always know what will happen next when I AM tying!) I liked being the canvas and not the artist, or maybe just another kind of artist. As the ropes tightened around me, I felt such soft affection for him, leaned into his warm body and kissed him some more.

He's a little taller than me, with pretty hazel eyes and a perpetual smile. His face and shoulders seem just a little more sculpture-like than one might expect of a regular human. And I don’t know if he’s purposely emulating present-day Wil Wheaton’s look, but it’s working for him anyway. SO CUTE.

After the harness, he went for the thigh. Ahhhhhh…sighhhh. Such a pretty, simple knot with so much possibility and promise. I liked being beneath him as he tied, I felt happy and curious and safe and sooooo wet.

After, with some difficulty, we’d wrangled the bra off from under the ropes, I got to feel one of my VERY favorite feelings in the universe: Naked except the ropes, my arms back, his mouth on my nipple. I looooove the way all my sensitivities brighten, the shiver of safe fear, the helplessness spark through every nerve. I felt his warmth shudder all though me, deep in my bones, electric and alive.

And then, he was kneeling above me, his dick hardening in my mouth, shoved in sideways. It grew and expanded as I got it as far down my throat as I could, gagged and tried again, gagged and tried again. He was big and so beautiful kneeling above me, my head in his hands, his fingers tangled in my hair.

After a while, the vulnerability of this, the whole-body gagging was too much, and I asked for a break.

“Oh, okay, would you like to have sex? He asked so cheerful-politely!

Yes, yes I would. That is an excellent way to take a break!

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

So I did my break-off ritual with The Song Sender: texted a (nice, I hope) goodbye, explained I was only blocking him to mitigate pining. Broke the connection on Instagram, wondered how long it would be til I could go back to my favorite movie theater.

But then I was like, why? I knew that he, like everyone, but moreso, was irreplaceable. I didn’t want to wait another eleven years for fate to intervene. I wondered why I hadn’t even tried talking to him about it, once the fight-or-flight wore off. We’d been so amazing at bad kink way back when, why just skip over TRYING to add better communication to the hotness?

Yes, stop sign street art, I know.

And he said okay. It didn’t take much talking-things-though until I felt secure again, until I asked his permission to reactivate slutty mode. We still need to make a good aftercare plan—there may be a checklist. Maybe next week.

Okay so I've sent the Song Sender TWO poems. He seems fine with it.

This humbling myself, the asking The Song Sender for what I wanted and letting go of my pride and defensiveness enough to give the connection a chance, it felt new. The not-fleeing felt new. We haven’t seen each other in person since things went haywire, but phone things have been lovely. Romantic in their smuttiness. I’m making him a playlist that’s gen-X dreamy as fuck.

So then, the dinner with The Shy One came around last week. I wore a modest not-sure-if-this-is-a-date-or-not dress, apparently a whole genre of clothing I need to have.

The Shy One, meeting me at a restaurant on his side of town, was somehow even more beautiful than before. The humility came easily to me this time, without the bitter edges I’m so used to having. I just wanted to give him whatever he would have of me. I would have sat at his feet if we weren’t in a restaurant and if he were a more PDA kind of guy.

“I’ll do whatever you want me to do,” I said. I’ll figure. it. out.”

He reached his hand across the table and said “Whenever you want me to come over, just call me and I’ll come over. Like I can come over this Friday if you want.”

(Eeeee!)

“Okay, but I still super love you.” I said. “That hasn’t gotten any less. You’ll just have to deal with it.”

So that’s what I’m submitting to: kindness, curiosity, love. I want to submit to the most generous parts of myself and hush the rest. It feels tenuous to try keeping my defenses down, but I also feel deeply helped, like I’m tapped into something much bigger and more reliable than myself. Love. The Universe. Fate. Definitely something kaiju-sized and divine.

 

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.

Knotty Thursday: Teachable Moment With The Song Sender

I have so much to say about The Song Sender, but I'll start here: He is equal parts clarifying and completely destabilizing. A hand on the back of my neck can make me feel more centered and calm than a thousand meditations. And yet, within minutes of bringing him home (I mean, of course I brought him home) I spilled fizzy water on my phone and my Switch at the same time. (Both are fine, don't worry!)

But then, I got the ropes out. And this growly, bitey, throw-me-around dom let me put him in them. I really, REALLY wish I had taken his picture like that, not just because he looked so fucking hot but because it's kind of a trophy. I've spent eleven years being scared of him/wishing he could come over and give me what-for, and here he was, being so still. Ironically patient, maybe, maybe deciding how much he'd let me get away with it.

So then, I stepped out of dizziness and 2011-ness and into what was actually happening. I showed him how to put a harness on me and he sweetly did and undid the knots to get it right. It didn't come off til close to the end of his visit, so he must've done a good job tying the back!

The rest of the story of my second first date with The Song Sender is about the beautiful whoosh of submission visiting my mind for the first time in I don't know how long. But I could only get to that place because I had my whole voice with me, because I was solidly grounded in my own desire. 

Last night felt like a graduation. I'm so, SO proud of the eleven years since I started kink, of going from a scared, desperate girl to...well still pretty scared and desperate sometimes, but with my whole voice to find my way(s) to happiness and pleasure. 

Quarantine Crush Part Seven

Just a few weeks of poems and songs. Writing with QC was amazing, a reunion with him and with California and with myself. I’d given up poetry for all kids of good and bad reasons, and it felt so good for my brain to start working in those patterns again. The joy of taking a heap of disparate images apart and putting them back together again into something that makes, if not sense, then its own version of sense.

With the poetry and the songs and the chitchat and the Zoom came the LONGING, powerful enough to make me sob, and the grief. The pain of leaving my friends twenty years ago felt fresh  and as I waited for the next text or poem, the missing him, the missing ALL of them but especially him, almost physically hurt. Okay, it did, a little bit, physically hurt.

I wanted us never to have been apart, or to catch up all at once, or for us to keep writing together forever (not just til quarantine ended and we went back to our lives) or to toss all of the metaphors out the window and just say stuff. Like Carly Rae, I wanted to cut to the feeling. I guess that’s what I’m doing now.

I thought, in those dreamy, jangled, waiting-for-the-phone-to-buzz nights (better than thinking about death tolls or presidential gaslighting or maternal gaslighting or the fact that I’m going to gave to canvass for Joe Biden or that there’s always a new how-many-fingers to know…) about dancing with QC at my wedding way back when. It was the only few minutes of my life I can honestly think of as getting “swept off my feet,” a surprise jolt of happiness as clear as any of the best naked adventures. QC was the only man every to truly LEAD me on the dance floor or anyplace, for that matter. The giddy delight of letting his arms guide me. Feeling like…whoa. I mean, WHOA and laughing in glittery delight. (Yep just gonna say delight too many times.)

Truly a moment that made me realize, both in 2003 and in 2020, what I’d missed in not at least having tried to claim him. Most of my Sliding-Doorsiness has worn off by now, but ohboy. I know (partly) missed out on someone so special and super, super hot. All of the Doms and Masters and Tops in this blog so far (Still so much thanks guys!) had a tenuous, theatrical command, just playacting compared to that dance. I wonder if I’ll ever feel led like that again, if I’ll ever let anyone. I hope so.

(The writing side of this being led, the part where my brain tried to make me think I needed his permission to write poems, that part wasn’t so fun. But that’s on me.)

The longing, the time-slip, the time-travel wishes were all too much after a while, but it felt too gorgeously life-affirming to give up. Mixed in with the dreaminess was the covid fear making everything so much more fraught—if he wasn’t writing back, did that mean he was dead? There wasn’t really any way for me to know, and I was sure no one would think to tell me. I wished I could ask for all of his emergency contacts, and all of THEIR emergency contacts, and so on. It wasn’t making the normal serotonin-drop of crushes any easier to navigate.

Sometimes I thought I knew what was going on for a second. Some of the songs that he sent were so explicitly romantic that I would hold out my phone to no one or to the cats and ask “Are you HEARING this?” Where is a slumber party when you need it?

Then, he wrote a very good poem wherein he was in a lot of danger, past and present, and I felt heart-wrenched and helpless toward those dangers. For some reason, that meant it was time to ask if he meant the songs. I told him I DID mean the songs, then tried to sleep while I waited to hear back.

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…

Birthday Spanks and Unicorn Snuggles Part One: I Almost Let a Conversation Wreck My Fun

I was excited and nervous getting ready for Cute Master and Pretty Slave’s party yesterday. I left church a little early, came home and shaved (Jeez I should do that more often, it was a thicket!) put on lacy black and white polka-dot underpants and new fancy pushup bra. Over that I wore a short flowered skirt and a white tank top with the black bra showing through and the lacy straps exposed. I wore comfy shoes for driving but packed up my black and white heels in my suitcase, along with pajamas and a comfy bra in case I needed it for aftercare and/or decided to stay over.

I knew I wanted to play with the hosts, but I wasn’t sure how much. I know I haven’t fallen in love with everyone I’ve had PIV sex with (Only two out of all these recent adventures, I’m realizing…) but I know the risk is there and I didn’t want to end up wrecking/postponing any more friendships. Although they’re very affectionate, I know there aren’t lovey-dovey possibilities—they’re more on the swinger side of things than poly—so I hoped there were ways I could enjoy them without setting off the chemicals that make romantic fantasies happen. Spoiler alert! There were.

For the first few hours of the party I wasn’t sure if I’d end up feeling like playing at all. There was more of a laid back barbecue with friends feeling to it, delightful in its own way. There were a few pervy touches here and there, like Mardi Gras beads which yes, I did earn in the traditional way, adding to my I’m An Awesome Slut Checklist.

A conversation kept starting nearby that I was already in without joining it. A big, tall, dreamy Dom guy (He definitely earns a nickname in the next installment—please welcome the Huge-Handed Fireman.) was having online trouble with the leadership of the Scary Party, specifically with the same woman who’d “resolved” my issue by informing the internet that I was crazy. HHF kept talking about improvements that he thought should be made with security and the DMs because of incidents that had happened there.

By the third time I heard the conversation come around, I stopped resisting the temptation to join in. I went over to thank him and confess the role I’d played. Most of the people standing around agreed with HHF and seemed sympathetic, but there’s always one. Fucking. Mean. Girl.

I think every kind of community has versions of this Ratfaced Bitch Girl. She’s rotten all the way through, dead-to-malevolent behind the eyes, and graduated right from high school hallway bullying to running down outsiders as an adult.

She got her hackles up and started to lay into me about my method of reporting the incident with The Man, getting EVERY SINGLE FACT WRONG and saying there’s still no way to know the truth. I wish I’d been a reality show contestant with a drink to throw in her fucking face.

Since the HHF was talking about starting his own dungeon, I suggested that it would be helpful to have submissives as part of the leadership. Ratface Bitch Girl said that was a contradiction in terms, with in the same crazymaking rock-stupid voice that The Man used to tell me that “higher level” Doms are allowed to bypass consent.

I didn’t say this, but what the fuck does she think I’m doing in my daily life, sitting around waiting for some fucking Sir to tell me how to run my classroom? The assumption that submissives can’t lead just seems like an extension of good old fashioned sexism. If you’re saying that someone is incapable of leading, you’re on some level taking their agency away, and if you’re performing sexual acts on someone you’ve taken agency away from, that’s coercion at the very least. It’s the crux of the whole problem.

Ratface Bitch Girl added that besides, most of the Scary Party leadership are switches, so of course they could sympathize.she said it in the worst condescending snotrag voice.

Rage boiled up all the way from my belly and I expressed in with frosty controlled force:

“No. They. Couldn’t. And I HOPE it never happens to you.”

(Of course it WOULDN’T happen to her because she seems to be part of the Scary Party’s in-crowd and therefore would probably be deemed a person by them.)

Another girl, wonderfully ignorant and self-assured as only a 21-year-old can be, said she’d never had a bad experience there because she is “not a dumbass.”

“I’m not a dumbass. I was handcuffed. And if all the victims are dismissed as dumbasses, how is anything ever going to change?”

She backpedaled after that but I knew I was past-due to leave the conversation. I’d only had a couple of drinks and one hit of some really good weed, more than an hour ago so I figured I’d be okay to drive before too long. I went into the nice cool house and found a quiet spot and a blanket, pissed off that I was panicking and unable to believe that I was probably going to cry at another party. It felt like the goddamned Man was never going to stop taking away my fun.

Scary Party, if you were a person I would punch you in your ugly, rapey face. The inhumanity and stupidity of every gaslighting host and victim-blaming poster from March and April came rushing back. I was so angry at them, and at every adorable Scary Party regular I’ve met who’s said “Oh, that was you?” when it felt like what they meant was “Oh, that was a person?” Because how could you watch anybody go through that and still want to be part of the event unless on some level you didn’t think of her as a fellow human? When I’m in that panicky state, it feels like otherwise kind and wonderful people cosign my violation every time they pay their 10$ at the door, and I am sick to fucking death of being hurt and confused about it. I spent the summer trying to be forgiving, but you know what, I’m not. Fuck them. Fuck the Scary Party forever.

As I sat watching the clock and wondering how long I should give myself before driving, people came and visited my self-aftercare spot. One lady about my age said she’d been through something similar—I wonder how much of the dismissiveness does have to do with being over 35.

Cute Master and Pretty Slave come in and showered me with hugs and sympathy. Snuggled up between them was when the tears started to come, but I was crying and laughing at the same time—indignant as I was about the mean girls, I saw the absurdity of crying at parties two weekends in a row.

Cute Master left Pretty Slave and me in an embrace. She petted my hair and spoke softly, telling me that it was okay, that it was rare.

During this exchange, Cutest Boy at the Party (lady-liking bear!!!) noticed what was happening and asked if I was okay. I felt so silly for having a panic even before the play had started. After Pretty Slave went off to tend to her guests, CBATP came in again to check on me. I said I was fine but would certainly take a hug. He had that amazing sweaty-dude smell and I told him so. We talked about all kinds of things, museums and music and munches.  Just from sitting down next to him and yammering, I started to simmer down and opened back up to the evening’s possibilities. It seems to happen that way—whenever I think I’ll never get past the hurt and fear, god sends a cute boy as an incentive to power through. And it always, always works.

Next: My quest to get spanked by everyone.

A Whole Bunch of Firsts, Part Three: I Heart the Knife

Hung up in those ropes, I felt relaxed in a special, extra consent-y way. Technically, I know I am supposed to negotiate things before the scene starts, but I think I was still capable of looking in my heart and knowing I was a yes.

“I could be really mean…” said HempRopes

“Well, not TOO mean, but…how mean?”

“I could get out the knife…”

Knives have been in my maybe pile for a while, and I felt safe enough to try it, so I said sure. I knew that Sweetie would furrow her brow in concern and confusion, but I also knew that she would support me. I gave the knife the go-ahead.

There was the old-fashioned swish of an opening switchblade near my ear. I was still blindfolded so I didn’t know where it would touch me first, or whether or not it would hurt. I felt a light stinging move up my leg, toward my knee. It didn’t hurt much, somewhere between a sting and a tickle. I liked it, of course—what’s not to like?

When I said I’d play with HR, I knew from classes that he was really good with the ropes, but I’m not sure I would have guessed that I’d be quite so turned on by him. But when the knife grazed the top of my breasts, I couldn’t stifle a sigh-moan.

The ropes felt tight on my chest so he lifted me up and held me by the back of my harness. It was a flashback to babyhood, warm and rocked and cared for.

“Where did the knife go?”

The thigh-ropes were holding my legs up and apart, the perfect position for him to graze the knife around my ass, my thighs, and up the middle of the wet crotch of my pajamas-oh. That’s the moment I keep going back to, you know, during personal time. The knife grazing my clit through soft fabric. The pleasure of an almost-stranger doing such very-personal things.

He held my head and pulled the back of the knife gently across my neck—it reminded me of Bill and his tries at breath play, which is an admittedly odd thing to get wistful about. I wondered if I should stop and tell him about being protective of my throat, but it felt fine.

When I first wrote this installment down in my notebook last week, it felt like it might be the end of the Kitten Calendar story. That Saturday night, I felt like I’d come into my own. I felt empowered by the fact that I could go out and get what I needed, that getting what my body is asking for doesn’t necessarily need to be about romance—there was a deep fulfillment to playing with Old-Timey Guy and HempRopes, despite the fact that I don’t know what bands they like or even—gasp!—who they are going to vote for. I trusted them with my whole self, my whole body, and they thoroughly came through. That really means a lot to me. I spent a little time feeling like a triumphant Casual Girl, but that didn’t last long—that’s another story, though.

It only took a few minutes for HR to take me down. A friend I’ll call Bubbly Sub had been not-so-patiently waiting and watching for her turn for at least fifteen minutes—I don’t think I’ve ever been watched quite so closely.

“Can you stand on your own?” HR asked, and I found that I could. He helped pull me up and then took me over to the wall to take a picture of my pretty harness. Couples who were playing around us stopped to smile and watch me get my picture taken. We hugged goodbye and he said he would play with me anytime I wanted. I hugged Bubbly Sub, who was already stripped down to her undies and tape) goodbye, and after a few minutes of clearing my head, drove home.

I am really proud of how strong I was that night, how much I got to experience just because I put myself out there. I’ll keep posting adventures, of course, but at least for that night, I felt like the quest was complete, like I’d gotten myself where I needed to go.

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!

New Heart Goal: Less Calendar Fuss

Resolved: I am going to welcome opportunities to be more flexible with my time.

I loooove to schedule things, both from the necessity of, like everyone else, having a million things going on, and as a way of staving off insecurity, especially when I really like someone. It’s as if I think that writing someone’s name on the calendar means they’ll automatically like me and stick around.

Last week, after Mr. Hazel Eyes texted on Friday to see if we could hang out Saturday, (Um, alas? Sweetie and I already had awesome beach plans.) I started to examine the anxiety that I have about spontaneity. It seems that in the course of my life, all kinds of sexist, sex-negative, pop-psychology nonsense snuck its way into my brain. There’s a cultural norm against being too available if you’re a lady—I did get worried that he was into more of a booty call thing than a..something else, but he was kind enough to reassure me that it wasn’t. (He earned major cuddle-points for that.) (Also, booty call? Thank goodness I did not use that actual term when asking him.) (And! Points to me for asking!)

Back in my early twenties I read The Rules more out of curiosity than for actual advice, but somehow that “make him really ask you out or he won’t want you” thing really stuck. Ten years later I learned that “If he’s not asking you out, he’s just not that into you.” I’m not sure why asking-out only counts if there’s advance notice, but one thing’s for sure: I’ve got to stay away from those dating-advice books. Even if I’m just reading them ironically, they seem to have power.

Bill and I had a real tug of war about the calendar. He kept asking me “Why do you always have to know what’s going to happen?” and I never had a good answer. My now-self is like, “Um, because I have a life?!” He made such a point of dragging his feet about day-choosing, and it was just one of the things he did that made me feel like he didn’t care. He’s a pretty bad example, and probably the source of some of the anxiety. Everyone else I’ve dated and/or played with has been great with planning, so I have no reason to feel self-conscious about preferring it.

I remember hearing somewhere that submissives like to be very oriented, and that is certainly the case with me. I like to be able to picture the time in front of me, to have some idea of what it looks like. It makes things seem more manageable, less hectic. Plus, over the course of this Poly 101 kind of year, the importance of calendars has been emphasized by absolutely every advice-giver, to the point where it’s maybe a little over emphasized in my head. Trying to be a good student as always, I guess.

MHE’s spontaneity triggered an embarrassing fear. For whatever reason, part of me believes that if I let men into my life, it will somehow become unmanageable, that I’ll suddenly be less smart, capable, organized because there’s a dude around. New relationship energy does make me a little scattered and distractible (just ask the midterm I’m glacially writing…) and it makes me feel like I’m going wildly out of control.

It’s time to let go of that control a little. though I am comfortable with preferring to plan, I really need to make room for spontaneity. After all, it’s the dream to have somebody to just be with, without having to plan anything, so, yeah, a little playing it by ear seems like just the thing.

MHE had minor surgery this week and I’m in the middle of packing up the apartment and eventually writing a midterm and going on some tour dates, so I’m not sure when I’ll see him again. I don’t feel too anxious—I think the liking-each-other thing will keep if it’s meant to. Meanwhile, I’m having fun making (and flexibly changing) plans with other nice guys, too. But jeez, I really do want to snuggle him

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.