The Heated Blankets (Love, Shame, and Bleeding All the Time, Part Two)

 

On Wednesday morning, I went in for surgery for my misbehaving hoo-ha. They were going to take pictures inside my uterus, clear out some tissue and send it for biopsy, and put in an IUD to hopefully regulate (Or even stop!) the rogue periods.

Pre-op was deep vulnerability practice. First, they have you take off all your clothes and get in your hospital gown, the classic butt-revealer. Mine was an off-sky-blue with an emotionally neutral geometric pattern that definitely did not stay in my brain. And then, I was chilly, and a nurse who called everyone “love” asked if I would like a heated blanket. Of course I would!

She put one heated blanket underneath my head and another over me. The tenderness, the warmth, and the kindness got me all undone, a pure Miranda July movie moment if there ever was one. The nurse dimmed the light above my head and I stared up at the bright rectangle of the light in front of the dimmed one. Relaxed by the warmth and care I guess, my spirit shifted to my first walk along the river with The Shy One, that moment of innocence and uncertainty, before we’d had the chance to break each other’s hearts twice. “We’re on your time,” he’d said, and I took his hand and turned us toward home.

I guess the heated blankets (I accidentally typed “hearted.”) got through all my layers of grief and hurt and loss-of-face and loss-of-hope and let me inhabit that moment more fully than I’ve inhabited any of our so-beautiful-I-don’t-know-what to-do-with-them memories. Fat drippy tears overflowed and I sniffed discreetly so no one in the pre-op room would worry.

These tears were different from all the other ones I’ve cried this past month-they weren’t the bottomless, howling, laying-on-the-floor grief of the first days post breakup or the let’s-listen-to-the-song-and-get-some-sorrow-out of the calmer next few weeks. These good, tender tears were a glimpse of what was real and good and blessedly, healthfully over.

The wait was long and the blankets cooled. My teary release turned to anxious boredom. I woke up from anesthesia to navigate a once-again bloody crotch, this time maybe productively so. My hands were covered in blood for the millionth time in these messy months, and I was glad I’d caught the nurse’s name so I could call out for a fresh pad. Someday, no more pads. Maybe soon.

As I recovered from surgery, more waves of emotion came in, darker and angrier and harder to write about. Trauma, drugs wearing off, new hormones, ongoing loneliness and hurt made me prickly and harsh for a few days, until the next wave of grace came, but that’s another story.

Perfect Birthday Date with The Shy One, Part Three (A Good Cry)

 

(As I finish up writing about this gorgeous date from three weeks ago, last weekend’s worry and jealousy has come and gone. I did everything wrong and it turned out okay. There was no Perfect Unicorn Lady because they weren’t looking for one. He had a lovely spouse weekend full of sunshine, rest, and friends. I want my brain to remember that, no matter who else joins his constellation. I want to have more faith.)

Back to September second: When we got to my apartment after the Dreamiest Uber Ride Ever, after I put his leftover lobster mac and cheese in the fridge, I took him upstairs to try the new purple ropes. I showed him how to do an overhand knot, then how to redo that overhand knot so it would land in the right place. The whole scene, the whole night, was purple, just shimmering with otherworldly magic and regal beauty. Purple. That’s how I feel about The Shy One.

Sex, of course. Beautiful and THOROUGH and sweet. He drifted off and promised to wake up around 2am to do a whole bunch more. I knew he would make good on that promise.

But after The Shy One fell asleep, I got sad. It felt like my g-spot was connected to my tear ducts, that a physical and emotional floodgate had opened up. My birthday had brought with it more family estrangement, my brother treating me with contempt and control. My brother had called me a hateful bully for trying to stand up to our most insurrectionist relative, and I’d cancelled the family Zoom I’d scheduled for the following night. (In favor of an art installation friends’ night out though, yay!)

I was also crying because it was going to be almost a month before I would see The Shy One again. It felt almost like a long-distance arrangement, even though we live in the same city. It was the feeling I felt so long ago when Perfectly 1993 Guy came to visit from college—acutely aware of how many hours were left.

I got up out of bed to write, but I put the notebook down midpage. The sweetest man in the universe was sleeping in my bed upstairs. If I needed to cry, I could cry to him. So I did. It felt like the biggest step.

He gathered me up and held me while I cried. I felt bad because “I miss my brother” was hardly sexy date talk. But The Shy One listened. He comforted me and I let him. We didn’t talk about the too-far-apart dates, but we’ve started resolving that by now.

At my cousin’s birthday party in 2008, my brother flipped out on me about a social justice comment I made during a family board game. “You ruin every party,” he said. That characterization has stuck in my head and in my heart. In some ways, it’s true: Thanksgiving of 2016 very much deserved to be decimated, even if one of my nephews has never quite forgiven me.

So I feel guilty about having had less-than-ebullient emotions in the middle of such a magical night, but I’m so, SO glad I confided in The Shy One. I’m glad I let him see the vulnerability that had bubbled to the surface. I’m grateful that he made me feel safe enough to cry.

Plus, when the promised 2am hotness came around, I felt even more warmth, love and trust with him. A perfect, perfect night indeed.

Seventh Date Tears, Part Two

I miss him so badly all the time. I still, nine days later, can’t believe such a pretty date could go so, so wrong. By the time we were just starting our walk through the fancy gardens, he was correcting everything I said, taking up for anyone and anything I had a problem with—my disinformationy unvaccinated brother, Thanksgiving, Ronald Reagan, he took their side.

As we hugged and tried to reconnect in a quiet little vined alcove, he started in about how “Democrat” and “Republican” are just labels that divide us, how people like me on the left are just as responsible for the “discord.”

“You have to put “Moderate” on your dating profiles, I could have just swiped left!” I said in defeat and exasperation. I’m really, really glad, even in the midst of this annoying story, that I didn’t swipe left.

There was a moment, before I turned back up the path to go home. The alleé of pines and fall trees was decorated for Christmas, and even in the bright noon light, a cascade of blue lights lit up over the oranges, reds, and browns of the trees. He held my hand there, tried to keep me still. He tried to briefly to hold me by the wrists, but I was already fleeing.

(“Why don’t you just MARRY the moment?” I asked toward the end of the day. “I would love to, but it’s already past.” I guess that was the last time he made me laugh.)

I started missing him as soon as I turned away from those daytime Christmas lights. We talked/fought all the way back to the city. On our (dear, dear) third date, we’d watched Gremlins 2, and now we were breaking all of our own Gremlin rules. Instead of “don’t feed them after midnight” it was more like, don’t talk about Dave Chappelle, vaccine-deniers, Russian disinformation campaigns. I felt the kind of crazy I felt before I estranged from my mom, the kind of scary detachment that comes from living in separated realities. The gaslight feeling.

I took him home with me anyway, I wasn’t ready to let him go, I’m still not, even though I guess I have. We’d missed our garden lunch so we had peanut butter and honey sandwiches. We sat close on the couch and my queenly fat cat crawled into his lap. The three of us sat there, beautifully captured in time.

I was still kissing This Charming Man, but I wasn’t reaching him. I asked him to come up to bed and hold me, and he did, off-to-the-side and chaste. As soon as we were there, more tears came, so many tears came, brokenhearted tears, all-the-topics tears. Grief and loss and shame and fear and loneliness and love.

He did this thing that I can’t quite get my head around, that I love so much and maybe shouldn’t. I was apologizing for crying, trying to stuff my face into the pillows. I kept saying “This SO isn’t cute.” But he restrained my hands away from my face, stayed above me, and just kind of witnessed the tears. It was (maybe creepy, I don’t really care) an act of love.

“I’m still here,” he kept saying, but he wasn’t, not really, or I wasn’t. We were both trying hard for it not to be over, but the day was broken, it just was.

 

Seventh Date Tears, Part One

 

As I picked up coffee and scones for our mini-road-trip date, I yammered through the pickup window to the barista about how nervous I was. (I had also been panicky for a day or so about unrelated things, I maybe should have scaled back or postponed this big-step date!) This Charming Man is already gone and I’d only just learned how he takes his coffee. I am absolutely devastated and having the HARDEST time not just calling him up and saying “PLEASE.” Please what, I don’t know. Just please.

When I picked him up, we happily kissed hello but it was a little like having one feral cat in the passenger seat and another in the driver’s seat. He had the energy of one of those Garfield toys they used to suction-cup to car windows in the Eighties, just absolutely ready to escape. I wish I would have paused and asked him why he was so jangled. He second-guessed my driving (he doesn’t drive) and kept listing off accidents he had seen around home. I gave him the AMAZING lemon poppyseed scones I’d brought because! Special occasion! And he said “I thought we were going to eat.” Right or wrong, my jangled brain registered that as food-shaming. Whatever it was, I would have liked it to be a “thank you.”

We were going to eat. When he asked me out for Friday-day, I’d gotten up the courage to invite him to have lunch with me at my favorite fancy garden, about an hour away. I wanted to hold hands with him, kiss against trees, and try not to take too many pictures so I could pay good attention to him. This garden is my happy place, and I’ve only ever taken one other date there. (https://kittencalendar.blogspot.com/2015/09/in-which-i-realize-how-lucky-i-am-to.html?zx=fec1588cfc2887d4)

This Charming Man, with maybe the exception of this particular day, is PRESENT AS FUCK. It’s what made sex with him, most things with him, so dazzling, so seemingly almost loving, right from the start. Somewhere in ouroff-kilter start-of-the-trip conversation, he said a thing he’d said before, that hadn’t sounded so alarming before I’d fallen for him. In order to give his full attention to The Moment, he doesn’t think of people when they are not there. (“Have you heard of mindfulness?” was the start of this conversation.) I said it didn’t seem like he wasn’t thinking of me because of what an attentive texter her was, but he insisted. And I started to cry. And he second-guessed my driving some more.

I know my heart tends to go too fast, but I thought I was doing better this time!

I kind of wish I’d turned the car around at this point, just gotten us home from this already somehow painful day, but I didn’t want to let him go. I tried to tell him what was the matter, that I’d been going about my own life daydreaming about him. Part of me was with him when he was working or running his D&D games or just doing whatever, but he claimed not to think of me at all. Or, in fairness, anyone else when they weren’t around.

I don’t know why, after a brief break to cry in a Kohls’ parking lot, I still kept driving toward the flowers.

Not Fitting In at the Regular Dungeon, Not Getting Over Them

I wasn’t ready to see Steampunk Guy. I walked into the party happy and excited but when I saw him across the room and we kind of shrugged hello, the wind went out of my sails. I tried to do my best and be a part of things anyway. Old-Timey Guy asked me to play, which made me really happy since I usually ask him. I asked The Puncher’s Girl (Actually they broke up, so she gets a new nickname if I end up going back.) if she would like a spanking and she got very happy about that.

I was okay for a while, feeling confident in my Christmas Snoopy underpants and red satin heels even though he was right nearby. I thought about saying hello but I knew if I got too close, I’d feel the pull and I’d be even further from over him. Plus I’m probably still too angry to form words. Luckily there was a paddle and a lovely, squirmy ass on which to express some of the anger—she was more than okay with this, and I thought could make it a good night.

Then Steampunk Girl got there and my heart twisted up into even more untenable knots and I asked TPG if we could please be somewhere that’s else.

We went to a far corner of the room and snuggled, held tight and had co-aftercare. I let the tears come, but even they were hollow and disconnected, no real soul behind them. I felt like every part of me was cut off, like I was ugly and unworthy to be part of things and would never connect to people again. I felt like a failure, for not staying friends, for not getting over them, for not figuring out how to be what he wanted.

I felt like a creep and a freak for the fact that they have this effect on me. All he was supposed to be was a casual partner WAY BACK WHEN and I was supposed to treat her as a friend. But what came from seeing them was the distilled essence of the fear that I will always be alone, that I’ll never be worth as much as she is, that the universe forgot to make people for me, that I am too ugly and worthless to be loved or even remembered by a man. I wish I could’ve made all that go away and acted like a normal person, but I couldn’t.

TPG said “You shouldn’t have to be any more vulnerable than this, let me go get your clothes.” She helped me to get dressed and then she took my hand and led me out of the room, all bundled up and as fast as we could go.

I was too vulnerable last time I tried the dungeon, too. Maybe it can’t be my happy place anymore. I am scared to death that I will never be happy and sexy and brave again, that this person, cut off and scared and getting fixated on people who were not supposed to be a big deal, is all I’ll ever be.

Why It’s Awesome That I Cried at the Munch

It’s not my favorite kind of adventure to write about of course--I would much rather be describing underpants. But I do think it feels like a good step.

Saturday was one of those days where everything kind of caught up with me—the breakups, the divorce, another summer almost gone without having found my Beach Guy. I got sick of the guys who hit on me on the nude beach always not being the dream guy, sick of this summer in general and at the same time wanting to go back to the beginning of summer and somehow do things right. Stepping out of the forward flow of time is never a good plan, but I guess it’s understandable.

When I got home from the beach already feeling a little blue, I found the two letters informing us that, per our request, the city had dissolved my life partner status with Sweetie. In this time when everyone’s working so hard and making so much progress for marriage rights, I’m officially leaving Lesbian Island on a husband hunt. Nobody ever failed worse at gay marriage than I did.

My mood dropped all the way, but I couldn’t stay home and wallow. I got on the bus and wallowed there instead. I sent texts to Angel Face and the Lady of the House asking for support and strength, and they were both very kind. I walked the blocks from the bus to the bar feeling the prettiness of the cool night but being lost in my own failures and despair.

This was the same munch where I met Fireguy last year, and I knew that several nice friends were going. When I walked in it was lively and crowded and I was greeted with hugs, but I was sad and scared and I didn’t know what to do or where to sit. I felt lost. Luckily a girl I know from poly circles was there and she guided me to a seat and asked what was wrong.

I told her about all the heartbreaks and frustrations and she said “You sit there. I’m going to get you a drink.”

While I waited for her to come back I chitchatted and resisted the urge to run—I’d told myself I should stay for at least one drink no matter what my mood was.

She brought back a Long Island iced tea that was so strong I was afraid to drink it—I’ve really been keeping alcohol to a minimum lately. But I kept drinking it.

I started telling my friend about all of the things I was sad about, all the things I missed. Another friend’s husband came over to give me a hug, and as he held me I just broke down. I just let myself cry and nobody thought it was weird at all. In fact, they gathered around me. Friends and acquaintances, even some girls who I thought didn’t like me. Napkins were brought for nose-blowing. One girl told me “Well, your boobs are amazing, so I know it’s his loss.” and I laughed and things started to be okay.

Things went back to pleasant chatting. I finished the drink and the nice friend who’d bought it gave me a ride back to the bus stop.

I was still sad. I sniffled my way through church the next day (Totally okay since this month’s theme is vulnerability) but by coffee hour I was chatting with friends and signing up for a new spiritual development group. I came home inspired and found some nice friend requests in my Fet inbox. And! An invite to a party at Cute Master and Pretty Slave’s house! Just exactly the right thing. Woohoo for maybe some smutty adventures.

The fact that I could break down in the middle of a get-together and people took it with such matter-of-fact caring, that’s an amazing thing to me. I worry so much about being isolated by grief, about not being out adventuring enough, but it seems like I really am doing something right. It makes me deeply happy that I was so accepted and looked-after, and it will make the next sexy adventures around those folks all the more meaningful.

Steampunk Guy and Two Kinds of Sex-Tears

So my second date with Steampunk Guy was very much like the first, except in the daytime, for the decadent housewifeness of it all. I got all dressed up and made sure that my little black-and-white striped dress was short enough so that he could see my lacy, hot-pink underpants when I walked up the steps in front of them. Putting on the outfit is a bigbig part of the fun, even if it stays on for like two minutes.

I just love kissing him, being in his arms, the way his whole body curls up urgently against mine, the instant gratification of him.

I did make a playlist, not necessarily just for him, but it’s called “Something Like Makeout Music,” made mostly by dropping in whole albums that wouldn’t disrupt the process too much. He says LCD Soundsystem makes him feel like he’s in a Nineties movie about the Eighties.

This time he brought ropes, and it was so good to have them on again. He was competent and careful, honoring my no-intentional-boob-hurting limit (I’m happy to report that he makes a really good effort to respond to feedback, even feedback he can’t do anything about, as you’ll see toward the end of the story.) and just generally having perfect hands about it. I liked to stop and wrap my arms around him and kiss him while he wound and wove the ropes. The smell of him was a little bitter, as if he hadn’t showered that morning or had been doing sweaty work—you know I get drunk on that smell.

On the couch, he was hard on my hair and my ass-cheeks, but was gentle about being the first person to put a finger in my asshole. I couldn’t quite lose self-consciousness about it, but I was glad to have him in there. He had me cradled in one arm and the other gloved hand probing slowly—I felt so calm and cared-for, ready to just settle in and behave myself.

Until he smacked me in the hoo-ha and I had to laugh and smack him back for being so porny.

“What’s porny about that?”

“Seriously, it’s what they do right before spitting on their hands…”

I really, really like giving him a hard time. I like how impossible and incorrigible and silly he is. The sex is pretty perfect, but the banter’s what’s getting me attached.

The perfect sex moments…him grabbing the back of the ropes while I was kneeling in front of him so he could go into me harder. When I asked for a little break and he gave it by fucking me slowly and sweetly, my brain spritzed itself with all kinds of bonding chemicals. I warmed to him, melted to him. I let him in and it felt so perfect. And I told him it felt perfect even though I knew it would only make him more incorrigible.

That melty moment was a reprieve from the feeling I’ve always had, the certainty I’ve always had that men are hopelessly separate from me, unattainable and ungraspable. He was there, we were us, there was wholeness. Straight women must get used to this feeling, but after all those penis-free years, I’m still waking up to it, feeling fragile and young and fighty about needing men the way I do.

He turned me over so that I was on my belly and covered me completely. His soft, fuzzy legs held my legs down, his arms over my arms. He held my head so I couldn’t move and I felt a rush of relief. Absolute joy. Helpless and safe, what I’d been waiting for all along.

“This. Is. My. Favorite.” I sighed, my head smushed into the couch cushion.

“Why’s it your favorite?”

“Because you’re all over me.”

He turned into a growling animal and fucked me harder. The Smiths were singing “Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me” and though I knew this wasn’t that, the music and the pressure and relief pushed the experience to something transcendent and I did what he wanted me to do, which was cry. Real, deep tears this time and he came. It was lovely in a way I can’t get my head around.

So what can I do about having such deep pressing needs met in such a casual situation? What I did was enjoy him for a couple more hours, put an apron on over my ropes and make him a sandwich, argue about whether I was a hipster or not based on the fact that I think Arcade Fire is makeout music. (My argument is that I like things too sincerely to be a hipster, he says I sincerely like hipsterish things. Says Steampunk Guy.)

We finished the conversation we’d started about the Scary Party in a way that made me feel satisfied and safe. He said I really should write down this line about how The Man probably got hit on more than I did during that mess of a thread, probably girls writing to The Man and saying  “I’d shut the fuck up for you.” I’m happy to know that Steampunk Guy doesn’t seem interested in me shutting the fuck up. Although, best of luck to him if he did!

Anyway, my point is that we had lots of fun. He kept asking how he could help keep me from feeling sad when he leaves and I honestly had no idea. He just isn’t a wrap-you-in-a-blanket-and-say-sweet-nothings kind of guy, and really I’ve learned how much nothing sweet nothings can mean. And really felt fine until he started to get dressed.

All those intense experiences make it easy to forget this was just a second date. I’ve never had this reaction to any other date—in fact, I hung up the phone with Mr. Sweetheart the night before feeling close to him even though he is six hours away. Being clingy at the end of a date just isn’t me—I’m usually just ready to go back to my book or whatever.

The sad feeling really doesn’t have much to do with actual him, so I don’t know what’s triggering it, unless it’s purely just my inability to be casual. I do feel overwhelmed by the number of commitments he has, but that’s who he is, it’s who I like.

“I had a really good time and I’d like to do it again, but this is all it is.”

And I LIKE what it is. I just don’t know if I’m built for it.

Tears or no tears I went on my Fet page and listed him as someone I’m “considering.” Even that vagueness feels vulnerable, but while I was laying there thinking things through after he left, I watched this TED Talk about how vulnerability is the key to connectedness. Who knows. He says we’re fortnightly, so I’ve got at least that long to figure it out.Or figure out that there's nothing to figure out.

Gold Star for Mr. Shiny Eyes—and Me!

Last Wednesday, something really horrible happened to one of my students. It happened outside school, but it was very upsetting and shook me all the way down to my bone marrow. She’s okay now, but it’s hard knowing that it happened to anyone, let alone to a student I love.

When Sweetie and I got back from trying to visit her in the hospital Wednesday evening, we were sitting on the porch discussing whether or not I should call into work the next day to process. Just as that conversation was winding down to a yes, my phone rang, and it was Mr. Shiny Eyes, asking what I was doing the next day—he’d found himself an opportunity to drive in from out of town and visit.

Glad to hear joy in my voice, Sweetie said of course a visit was fine with her.

For most of last Thursday, I couldn’t move. I felt broken and guilty and devastated for all that I have that my students don’t have—a safe home, a loving group of friends and family, the ability to change my circumstances. I called Sweetie and apologized for needing to schedule some couch time, an apology she found ridiculous. I felt weepy and not-good-enough, hardly a way to go into a second date with someone I’m excited about.

Cleaning the apartment to get ready for him and making dinner for both Mr. Shiny Eyes and Sweetie (yay!) lifted my spirits a little but I felt really fragile and off when he arrived. Just like Sweetie had the night before, Mr. Shiny Eyes listened and listened as I kept on looping back to sad subjects.

After Sweetie had left us alone for snuggle time, I apologized profusely and repeatedly for being such a bad date when he’d come all this way, but he seemed shocked and dismayed with every sorry.

“I came here because I like you, the real you, and this is the real you right now. I didn’t just come here to have sex. But I’m still pretty sure we’ll have sex.

And we did. In fact, he asked if it would be okay to just forget all the kinks and “make gentle love” to me and it’s a little sad how seldom I’ve had that with guys. (But okay, I get other good stuff.) I relaxed into him and it was sweet and hot and satisfying.

Plus, once the lovemaking was accomplished, he was nice enough to end the night with a pretty thorough flogging that buoyed up my spirits even more.

And yet, I didn’t stop apologizing. There’s an annoying almost geishalike part of me that wants to be nothing but cheerful and pleasant and uncomplicated for men. I try to keep a cheery guard up lest they should think I’m difficult or high-maintenance or (that dirtiest of dirty words) needy. I have no problem sharing vulnerability with friends or with Sweetie, but when it comes to men I’m attracted to, there’s this irritating compulsion to behave. It’s insulting to them and stifling to me.

I’m grateful that life kicked my ass enough that I had no choice but to show Mr. Shiny Eyes my sometimes-a-wreck of a self. (I’m also grateful to anyone who reads the full wreck of it here, for that matter!) No choice even, than to at one point put my clothes on and just cry for a bit. He took such nice care of me, and even though second date tears aren’t my favorite thing, I’m so glad for the depth and difficulty that I shared during my second evening with Mr. Shiny Eyes. It’s a step towards learning to actually trust men, and it made my hoo-ha happy too.

Ohno, I Fainted in the Dungeon

It’s possible that I have been pushing myself too hard. Student teaching is taking up almost every second of my life and it is rewarding but stressful.

I really needed to think about other things, so I was really looking forward to last Saturday, which for the most part turned out to be one of my favorite kink-themed days yet. Our regular dungeon was hosting a poly-and-kink day of workshops, and I went without Sweetie so I’d be more likely to talk to people—it worked! I got to sit and talk with people I usually only get to watch and be watched by. It gave me a wonderful sense of community, and I even made the acquaintance of another fire dom—I would have gotten to be set on fire, too, if it hadn’t been for some bad judgment on Sweetie’s and my part.

The DM had just built the above piece of furniture. It was meant for tickle play, but I spent a fair amount of the day daydreaming about ways to be tied to it.

As has become usual, I was the first one to strip down when the play party was even close to starting. Suspension frames were still being assembled when Sweetie started roping me up, as I danced a little bit to some (oddly appropriate) Chumbawamba: I get knocked down and (spoiler alert) I do, in fact, get up again.

I was feeling extra lovey-dovey with Sweetie and she put my harness on—I hadn’t seen her much during the week and I was full of endorphins from all of the poly chattering I’d done throughout the day. We stopped to kiss more often than we usually do, and I encouraged her to be a little more handsy—as long as she was careful with my Hello Kitty tape. I think it’s the sexiest she and I have ever been out in public.

Then it was time to climb onto the contraption. She strapped my arms onto the Y-shaped cross thing first, and then wound ropes around my waist and thighs to tie me to the back. She kept having to push my glasses up to keep them from falling off. She pulled the thigh ropes rhythmically, the way I like, and I moaned and sighed and nuzzled her. I felt so turned on.

She put the blindfold on me and tied my feet together, making sort of a spreader bar with ropes. She started to spank me right after that, but I told her my foot felt funny. I told her it was time to get down, but I was realizing it too late—I was starting to really freak out because I realized how much time it would take to get me free. I felt trapped, terrified—it’s a feeling that occasionally has to come out, but I would prefer it in less woozy doses.

“Get the blindfold off. All the way off.” I was getting really upset and I felt myself slip out of consciousness as a wave of nausea came over me—I really didn’t want to be the girl who throws up on the dungeon floor, and I didn’t. I became dimly aware that people were helping Sweetie unwind the ropes—it was the guy who spanked me with a star-cane a few months ago and his punk rock girlfriend—gentle voices and people working purposefully at the knots, telling me it was okay,

“You can get out now,” said Sweetie, but I was still tied to the frame.

“Nonono I can’t, I can’t get out yet.”

Finally I was able to climb/fall out of the contraption and into/onto the punk rock girl. I wanted to lay right down on the floor but I was still heaving like I was going to throw up, so Sweetie rushed me to the loo. I am not a heavy drinker, so this is the first time I’ve ever found myself sobbing into a bar toilet. I couldn’t throw up, but I couldn’t stand up without feeling sick. So I just stayed there and cried. More nice, soothing voices, kind people bringing a wet towel for my burning forehead, the Punk Rock Girl making sure we knew there was a spot clear to lay down.

There was something oddly normal about laying on a bench in the dungeon, crying my eyes out. I was covered in a scarf and shivering until I could find the strength to put my clothes on. A kind soul brought over a clean tablecloth to wrap me up in. I was too freaked out for Sweetie to even touch me, but the tears? They seemed okay. I felt like myself. So much myself that I cried because I worried that I wouldn’t be well enough to make lesson plans for my guided reading groups on Monday.

I feel fine as I’m writing this, even if I still feel stupid for kneeling in a constricted position for as long as I did. I might have to be a little vanilla for a few weeks ‘til the scare wears off, but I’m okay. Part of the goal of my adventures is to build a community, to make myself safer by making connections, and my stupid faint let me know that I am reaching that goal. Sweetie and I are not alone. There are nice people in special outfits who will help us when we need it. That is a big comfort.

I am completely exhausted about student teaching and about the other changes I have been going through. I think that Saturday’s shutdown was my body’s way of asking me to please find it some rest. I’ll really try to—it’s the least I can do.

Not Sweetie’s Favorite Thing: Ropes and Tears

So many posts lately have tears in them. I’m hoping I get to the other end of the tears soon, to some more good things.

Last Sunday at home, we wanted to play with the ropes some more, so I could have a picture and Sweetie could practice her knots. I got home from church and was ready, if a little sleepy still from the night before. I stripped down and stood in the middle of our bedroom, hands-to-elbows behind my back, but a few minutes into her harness work, I said “I’m having some not-hot thoughts…”

In fact, they were fairly hot, just also sad. She stopped working for a second, gave me the rope to hold behind me and asked what was wrong.

“It’s just reminding me of Fireguy. The moment when he took off the ropes and I was free and playful. I loved that so much and I never got to write about it.”

In fact, I think I did write about it, but I never really got to honor him, that friendship, those genuine moments I liked so much, the way that I wanted to because I was so angry and scared. I had to cut off the connection to make his betrayal less painful, but just like with Bill, Fireguy’s jackassery didn’t make my affection for him (or maybe even his affection for me) any less real.

I started to cry and Sweetie said “What do I do? Do I take it off you?”

“No, leave it on.” She put her arms around me as tight as the ropes were and I cried, feeling pink and naked and beautiful and loved and sad and real, still holding the rope behind me. Her shirt grazed my nipples, still standing alert from my flushed skin. After a few minutes of me standing there pinkly sobbing, she got some tissues and dried my eyes, but I drew the line at letting her blow my nose.

The moment I was crying about was this: back in Fireguy’s basement, I’d been laying with him on a futon on the floor, laying back on my tied arms, blindfolded. He said, “Come on, I turn over, I need your arms.” I was about to be spanked for something, and I felt so adored—it was moment of pure play and friendship. My shoulders ached and he said he wouldn’t make me lay on my arms next time, but I said I didn’t mind the hurt. We were like puppies, we were like kids, we were like friends. It was a moment of my guy-dreams coming true and I was crying because I’d lost it. Crying for all of the fleeting moments of connection that get buried under avalanches of fear and anger and shame. For the ways I can’t connect and all the miracle ways that I do. For the times that I just. Stop. fighting. They’re beautiful, and those were beautiful tears.

Sweetie took off the ropes and I cried some more. She stakes such good care of me at times like this. Sure, I would rather have had sex that afternoon, but letting my heart bubble over was almost just as good.

Sweetie’s Knack for Ropes Part Three: Our Pretty Pink Scene

(I just found out from FetLife posts that notorious local predator was at the party that night. I seriously hope it wasn’t the guy I flirted with—we know I have iffy taste sometimes…)

There was a little while when they couldn’t find the ropes I’d ordered, and let me tell you, I felt like a real fetishist at that moment. The proprietress was kind enough to lend me her kit for the class, but my brain kept saying pink! I daydreamed it pink! It has to be pink to go with the pink pajamas and my lucky undies. I guess an artistic vision is an artistic vision. The pink ropes were found and I was overjoyed.

I went to change into my pajamas. Sweetie and I got beers and milled around getting up the courage. We struck up a conversation with a top I’d been flirting with during the class, and I offered to be a supporting character for him, should he need one on another night. Then he went off to flog a lady who was not his sub while his sub explored her options—adorable.

I’d spent all week picturing the scene as me standing in the middle of things while she undressed me and wrapped me up. We took a spot in the middle of the floor, near to, but out of reach of, both the cute gut’s and the switchy couple’s floggers. I put my hands up and Sweetie took off my pajama top. I left my glasses on so that I could watch everybody else. This was a keep-your-nipples-covered party so I had to leave on my black bra. A few of the women in the room had X-es of black tape on their nipples, but I don’t think that’d work for me. They’re so big that the tape might just pop right off.

The music was unfortunate, loud and distracting, Eighties hits that gave me little pangs of Bill, I don’t know why. Sweetie took her time wrapping the rope around me, had to stop and start and readjust. She told me afterwards that she’d been self-conscious. She made a loose halter on top, wove some ropes around my waist (I really like that) and cuffed my wrists together in front of me. I wanted to be spanks but all of the kneeler thingies were taken, so we pulled up an ordinary stacking chair and I knelt down on it.

At first, she had me so that my ass was facing away from the room, but I had her turn it around. I wanted them to see. I had on my favorite undies, the ones I’d worn for Bill and Fireguy and the Mayor of Kittentown and lots of times for Sweetie. I love the feeling of having my undies arranged just so for a spanking, the fabric being pulled gently this way and that. I loved the fact that everyone could see her paying attention to me.

Now, spanking isn’t Sweetie’s favorite thing. She only started trying it a few months ago and saw how happy and calm it makes me. She’s got a natural talent for it, not too gentle, not too hurty. Spank, pet, spank, pet, stinging then rubbing away the stinging. I was subdued, in spite of the Eighties music, but the chair was hurting my neck so we moved to one of the sets of padded benches off to the side.

I lay on my belly and she tied my hands behind my back. I gave her my glasses but I wish I hadn’t—she told me later that the couple on the next bench over had a knife involved. I’d’ve liked to have seen that, but she would not have.

I felt us fall into the roles of top and bottom in a way that we hadn’t before. I liked trusting her that way, seeing her as a commanding presence. But remember when I said I wondered what the doms were whispering to the subs? In this case, it’s “What do I do next?”

When she pulled my hair and spanked, I almost really did cry. My heart was really grieving over Bill that day (I don’t know why, after all these months, he’s such a looming figure. Maybe because what happened with him is much easier to fathom than what happened with Fireguy.) and I guess the hair-pulling brought it out. I didn’t stop her, just felt her gentleness and the heartbreak and felt empty and sad and lost but also loved and protected.  It’s beautiful how she took on this world for me, how much she’s pushed her boundaries just to share his with me. I love her so much for it.

After that, she tied me to a chair and kissed me. I love the feeling of being kissed in front of everyone, and it was a strange sensation to do this sort of playacting kiss with someone that I know so well, someone I’ve kissed so many times before. She felt like a new person, we both did.

When our scene was done, she wrapped me up in my blanket. Aftercare feels kind of silly with someone I’ve loved so long, spent so many many hours on the couch with. I liked hugging her but felt like I’d just as soon be home in bed. We wouldn’t stay too much longer, but first, she put fresh socks on my feet and wove the rope around my ankles. I laid down my head on my cute suitcase and relaxed. Then we decided to go home. The cute flogger guy expressed some disappointment that we were leaving, but I told him I’d be back on my own sometime.

So much of BDSM has been about learning to trust men, so I missed that leap-of-faith aspect of it when I was playing with Sweetie. But it was such a gift to get to see just how deeply I do trust her, and how very much she loves me.

Next: The Ropes at Home: Smut About My Wife, Hooray!

Some Tears and a Really Good Night

I just finished up a couple of days of crying. I mean, not the whole couple days, I did do other things. Monday, I was in the middle of making plans to go visit Fireguy again—definitely should have been cause for celebration, but something about the email exchange just made me start to cry. I couldn’t stop. I kept telling Sweetie “I don’t know what’s wrong! What’s the matter with me?” I sobbed so much that Sweetie started to sob in sympathy.

I thought the right thing to do was to stop making plans with him, but that doesn’t seem right either. I guess I just have more feelings about him than I am supposed to. Unsurprisingly! This is just who I am—sometimes easygoing and expansive, but when I really like someone, I panic. I was trying to keep the emotions about, say for instance, the fire kiss, in perspective, but some of the things that happened between us filled such a deep need that it is hard to be as casual as I am supposed to be. It makes me wonder how I’ll make it in the world of kink. Things feel like a mess in the Fireguy department, and I don’t know what to do.

Sometimes I worry that this project is taking me too far afield from my overall quest, which is just to feel genuinely loved by a man. On the other hand, I feel much more comfortable looking for love half-naked in a BDSM party than in a bar hoping to get hit on. But at the same time, with fetishy guys, how can I be sure that I am being seen as a person, not just as a collection of fetishes?

Last night was such a bright spot, though, and made me feel like I’m still on the right track. The Mayor of Kittentown came over last night to play Scrabble with Sweetie and me—it was the first time he’d been over since we got together five months ago. It felt so great to sit between them. They have the same tendency to second-guess my word choices, it’s adorable. Having him over made me feel closer to him, like I didn’t have to keep him at arms’ length as much. Which is kind of bittersweet, considering that a very cute girl is messaging him on OK Cupid, and whenever he gets a girlfriend he will probably have to let me go.

Nonetheless, though I still feel lost about this project, staying over at MOKT’s after his visit last night made me feel more grounded in what I really care about—connection, friendship, progress, and getting wholeheartedly and unabashedly fucked by someone I like and trust. Thanks for making me feel so good, pal, and good luck with the girl.