Good Second Date to Ghost, Part Two

Since Nearby Guy and I had a nice d/s-ish vibe going, I maybe should have done some negotiating before welcoming him (OMG yay!) into my bed. But sometimes, a soft glow of trust feels like enough—that sweet letting-go when bodies take over safety feels easy. I just love those rare moments when humans know exactly what to do.

As we settled into my (unmade-I wasn’t expecting company!) bed together, our bodies felt so well-matched. I don’t often find anyone who can make me feel delicate and protected, but the way his arms encompassed me gave me all the princess feelings.

His kisses were skilled, assured, and leisurely, emphatic but reigning in my tendency to be a tongue-y teen about it. Sweetly and thoughtfully is a very good way to be kissed.

He held my waist with such ownership, then pushed upwards to very decisively whole-hand my boob through my PJs. He claimed it and me, wholeheartedly, nipple squeezed up into his palm. I know none of this seems like it should be a big deal, but it WAS.

As much as I envy my podded-up friends (And Nearby Guy’s cozy situations) this post-quarantine return to touch was a miracle to take in, too much to process or absorb except in heaves. Feeling the grasp I’d daydreamed and nightdreamed so much for so long made me into a full-body groan/yelp, a writhing sea serpent high on giggles and warmth. I was fully enthralled but I was also wondering if I could possibly be touching him enough, worrying I wasn’t doing it right, wondering how my one human body could possibly earn this much pleasure in this or any lifetime.

“I feel so overwhelmed, “ I pant/sighed, and he slowed to a snuggle while I caught my breath, arms circling my waist again and squeezing my shoulders toward him. When his hand wandered to my ass, I said (of course I said) “You know you want to spank it.”

He startled for a quick moment, maybe taken aback like that escalated quickly but then he grinned and his arm tensed for action. I turned over onto my tummy, ready as ready as READY could be.

“Ohmygoodnessit’ssucharelief” I exhaled sharply, my face half in my pillow, after the first hearty THWACK. Ohhhhh boy. The hard slaps, the thigh-tickles, the playful grabs. The perfect gift of him gently easing down the back of my pajama bottoms and my lacy-but-practical soft purple undies.

He smacked out yelp after yelp, my feet kicking with joy and my hips squirming with anticipation for every impact. He was pressing pain out and magic in at the same time. I curled close to his body like it was a warm cave I lived in now. He held me tight. Lightning bolts of squishy arousal pummeled into the center of me. I wanted everything, forever. I had everything I wanted forever.

Yes, relief, but also a power source flipped on, like when Godzilla’s blue lights glow up over the horizon. I was both kaiju and sea. How can a person do this for someone they hardly know? It seems impossibly generous and highly unlikely that any of this could have happened. It’s hard to believe my own typing hands!

A Conference with Myself, Part Four: Saying Goodbye Lying Down

            After The Professor and The Kind Ma’am left the Cuddle Party, I asked a nice woman I’d met at one of the workshops earlier (She was the one to whom I’d exclaimed “I just got a goooood phone number!” About The Professor.) if she would like to snuggle in behind me. I’ll call her Soulful Lady, because who knows, she may be in future stories.

           

            She spooned up to my back and I held onto Mr. Shiny Eyes from the other side. I missed The Professor but also felt lucky to be so deeply ensconced in the lovey-dovey vibes of the room. I’d talked with Mr. Shiny Eyes about meeting up at The Recurring Character’s room party later on (Just being invited made me feel like I was home.) but I was pretty sure I’d end up happily on my own instead. Everyone was soft, warm, lovely, and I felt full. I untangled myself from the pile and said softly that it was time to go.

            As I hugged Soulful Lady goodbye, she said “Remember, you are not too much. You are exactly enough.”

            “Thank you so, so much,” I gushed. “I’ll really try to remember.”

            Saying goodbye to Mr. Shiny Eyes, I put my cheek against his like a happy kitten, overjoyed to have reunited. After we kissed goodbye, his face was flushed with playful vitality, a sunbeam of a person, a natural resource. We both glowed with belonging and peace.

            I hugged the Cuddle Facilitator and thanked her for her help—she is really, really good at her job. On the way to my room, I ran into The Professor and The Kind Ma’am and told them I was in blissed-out solo mode for the night, and they said be sure to let them know if I changed my mind.

            One important thing about the Kind Ma’am: She has ropes. That just makes me feel optimistic about life in general.

            I was getting off the elevator to my room when I heard a “psst” and looked down a floor to see The Professor holding the pink water bottle that I’d left in the Cuddle Party. I motioned for him to toss it up, but he said “Just come down.” in a way that was just Dommy enough for me to do what he said.

            I was SO GLAD that I’d left my bottle, because as soon as I walked back off the elevator onto the first floor, he wrapped me up in his arms and we made out like teenagers, which you may know is my favorite thing in the universe. The chemistry/Energy between us made me dizzy, as if I’d been struck by warm, fuzzy, pink lightning. I think we might’ve been a little more affectionate than some not-with-the-conference passersby may have been expecting, and I loved that—I’m still a showoff at heart.

            I got to my room (still somehow by myself), cranked up the heat, took off everything but my socks, got into the big fluffy white hotel bed, and felt myself in every sense of the word. I loved the Energy, light, and lust sparking through me—very similar to the sensation of having had ropes on, except that I hadn’t. My skin was hot and tingling, my nipples hard—I felt like I’d spent the day being naked and admired in the sun. I ravished myself and slept an angel’s sleep, forgetting to even set an alarm.

            I woke up later than I’d meant to, almost missing a chance at breakfast. The Professor had texted to see what I was doing, so I set out to find him and it was easy. He and The Kind Ma’am were having breakfast with a bunch of friends and there was a spare seat for me. I dreamily ate french toast and bacon, leaned my head against his strong, warm shoulder, and got to know the two of them a little better.

After breakfast, The Professor asked if we could go up to my room for a bit and yesyesyes. When he told The Kind Ma’am “We’re just gonna go say goodbye for a bit.” she smiled big and teased us-- “Yep, just going to say goodbye, alone, in a room, lying down…”

Checkout time was looming, so we set a timer for ten minutes. I’d forgotten the joy of setting a timer for snuggles at The Big Poly Conference, but then I pretty much love setting a timer about anything.

            Those few minutes alone with him, in bed, being held, were the sweetest and best. He put his hand on my heart and it felt like a direct line to the divine. He caressed my breast and it became the moment I refer back to the most during personal time.

When the timer went off, I reluctantly went to turn it off, but he had other ideas. While my phone merrily chimed away, he not-quite roughly pushed me into the wall, took my face in his hands and kissed me deeply. I could feel him hard against me and I wished that we had hours. Days.

            All riled up and goddessy, I regained control and pushed him onto the bed, climbed on top, and pushed myself against him, enjoying his startled pleasure.

Eventually, we did have to heed the silly timer. Saying goodbye took a lot of time, a lot of lap-sitting, a lot of kissing with one sneaker on because it was very hard to finish getting dressed.

As he stood in the doorway almost leaving, he said: “Just know this: you are loved.” It was the perfect thing to say, and it felt both from him and not from him, like love was radiating from the whole building, from the whole universe of interconnected souls, is all. It was something I really needed to hear, a sentiment I want to take good care of.

When I returned to the default world, I found the contrast too great. I resolved to make my everyday life more loving, more gentle, more hospitable to my sparkly heart and hungry spirit. I’m not sure what that looks like yet, but I like the changes I’ve made so far.

The Professor has been in touch every day since. He is just as good in the everyday as he was in the land of magic, and I appreciate him more and more with every text, call, and picture. He feels steadying to me, and I feel hopeful.

#TBT: The Mayor of Kittentown and Being Bi for Realsies

As I've mentioned a few times, I'm in the process of turning the first year of The Kitten Calendar into the first book of a memoir trilogy, and that means I've had to fill in parts that were missing from the story the first time around. As much as I STILL sometimes wish I could simplify everything by being a lesbian, it's important to remember what to took to get in the habit of being true to my penis-loving self.

I named him The Mayor of Kittentown because he was the first man I had PIV sex with in seventeen years, (oh, whoops, spoiler alert!) and also because he mentioned on our first date that he’d been named Mayor of White Castle by Four Square. I was attracted to his profile because he mentioned Mystery Science Theatre 3000, had long, silky-looking dark blonde hair, was taller than me, and had a son—I have such a thing for dads. I told him that I had fond \memories of snuggling up with my goth, indoorsy Nineties boyfriend and watching “Manos” The Hands of Fate. I didn’t hear back right away. (Meaning not within a week or so—this was before everybody had the app on their phone and the process sped up.)

It was almost my default emotion in those days to be frustrated. I was in a meeting of my (Unitarian) church group processing irritation at a party-kissing-related near miss when MKT finally texted. He asked if we could get together sometime and a warm feeling wrapped my shoulders like an afghan made of sex-hope.

I was working in the library at the time and my boss noticed that I was ready for a date. She said she’d noticed a glow ever since I started going after guys, like I was coming into myself. I wore more makeup than I usually do (red lipstick=confidence) a red top that showed off my cleavage a little, my cute red girl-about-town raincoat and fake-Chucks sneakers because I had to take the bus.

Ah, riding the 23 bus to dates—45 minutes of feeling pretty and hopeful and texting my various two-person support groups for courage. The night I went to meet MKT it was a miserable, gusty October night—bitter and rainy. I felt awful for the Occupiers as I walked past their encampment and hoped they were bundled up warm in their tents. I made a mental note to mention them to him as a way of gauging whether he was an asshole or not—if he was mean about them, he would be out.

We were meeting at the science museum to watch “Eight Legged Freaks” MST3K style. When I saw him across the cosplay-dotted lobby, he looked snuggly but shy. I was delighted to see that he really was taller than me—I’m 5’ 10” so that’s hard to find! He felt nice to sit next to while we waited for the movie to start. He was a tech-guy early adopter who brought an iPad on a date so we scrolled through his photos, which I deemed sufficiently soulful: leaves, water, an inexplicable pile of decaying stuffed animals by the river.

He didn’t even make fun of me when, after I visited the restroom, the belt of my raincoat was hanging down and had clearly dipped itself in the toilet—a rom-com moment if there ever was one.

We walked through downtown to a diner after, my lifelong favorite way to eat. When we passed Occupy, he told me had a Lego display on his desk (a few blocks away in the tallest building in the city) of Star Wars characters carrying signs like “These are not the spending cuts we’re looking for,” “Occupy Tatooine” and “Tax the Hutts.” Of all the things I’d imagined potential dates saying about Occupy, this was not one of them.

With both of us being all of the awkward, conversation over French silk pie was stilted, but there was this: Both of us has worked at Great Adventure in the summer of 1993. Because I was slackersome and didn’t try for one of the better jobs, I was on the cleanup crew, sweeping up trash and cigarette butts and charming male workers into cleaning up roller coaster barf. He worked on the Demon Drop, which is exactly what it sounds like. You go up really high and it drops you, and you scream with delight. The thing is, though, I’d had a crush on the operator of that ride—I’ve always had a thing for the glasses/ponytail combo, but especially in my grungetastic teen years.

With that little coincidence, he seemed like a good prospect, until, almost to the bus stop, he mentioned that he frequented the nearby nude beach. I saw absolutely nothing wrong withit, but I said “Oh, I’d be way too shy for that!”

“Oh, I have body issues too.”

“Um, why would you assume I have body issues?”

One of the major psychological and actual barriers to me dating men has always been my size.  I’m 5’ 10” and a size 20, so as one former boyfriend remarked, there is nothing little about me. In the context of my own little world I can feel powerful and goddesslike, but it’s hard to avoid feeling fat in the eyes of men—part of me assumed that a man could NEVER find me attractive, so I looked for evidence of that, and almost always found it. Until I didn’t.

In follow-up emails I mentioned his statement and he was horrified to know that’s how I took it, telling me he did in fact find me nice to look at. He was by far the most promising candidate yet, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt and invited myself over to his house to watch MST3K.

It took a little bit of juggling, but we found a Friday evening that worked. I had another datelike thing that afternoon, a walk through the local state park with a nice librarian I’d met through friends. It was the perfect picture of a fall day, like an advertisement for being alive. We took the less-trodden trails and found Narnian bridges and falling down stone fences. There’s a fancy inn in the park and we had apple crisp and spiked cider. I didn’t feel a spark with the librarian but it put me just in the right frame of mind for my MKT date.

What scared me the most was driving there. Though Sweetie was agreeable and encouraging about it, I had this idea that I might crash her car on the way and thus become the official worst person ever. She was a terrible backseat driver so it was always hard to find confidence, but I think the driving fear was just a way of feeling anxiety over being disloyal. Even when you’re bi and sorely in need of a penis, it’s very hard to transition to playing outside the marriage.

His newly-trendy neighborhood was very parked up, but I found a spot (pretty far away, it turns out) that I could go frontways into—parallel parking has never been my favorite thing.

From outside, his rowhouse (which he owned!) looked impressively adult—two well--kept arbor vitae framed the door and the window had a lovely beveled glass design—not so different from what I imagine my Grandmom had in the olden-days version of this city.

When he came to the door, I handed him the cupcake-taker (he’d requested lemon) and surveyed my surroundings. Toy-collecting divorced guy can go in many directions, but for him it was a somewhat tasteful one. There were toys on the mantle—a Peewee Herman doll, Gypsy from MST3K. There were Legos that looked decidedly untoylike, as they’d been built into tiny but intricate architectural structures, including (and this was a major selling point in his favor) Fallingwater (which, as I Google it for capitalization check, I notice comes in a kit.) All of his dishes seemed to be plastic, which I thought was endearingly single dadlike.

He had a beige two-people-can-recline couch, how could we not recline. He selected Red Zone Cuba for our MST3K and we settled in to our marooned astronaut (I think the Joel episodes are the only real ones) and his wisecracking robot pals.

He was easier to warm up to when we were alone than when we were out in public, and I easily snuggled into his lap. Somehow, we two must awkward of people took off our glasses and went from snuggling to making out.

In all of the years (seventeen, all told) that I’d been almost exclusively with women, what I missed most was the decadent teenage sensation of dry-humping, the feeling of straddling someone and finding something there. When I gathered the courage to climb into his lap, that rush came back to me with a surge of joy. He was big and hard beneath me, but what felt even better than that was the vitality of him—his whole body was shot through with pure life, and he smelled like aliveness, too, sweet and clean and strong.

Though our pants stayed on that night, we surged into each other like a waterfall. He took off my shirt and ran his hands over my shiny red bra, pet then gently over my back and through my hair. I wanted his hands in me, wanted more, and there was this completely new feeling of being of being utterly in charge and utterly at home.

But I wasn’t at home, and I never stopped being conscious of the digital clock next to the TV screen. I’d told Sweetie I’d be home around 11, and I counted the hours left in my head the way you do when you can’t sleep. When it was close to time to go, I had a few sips of soda so I would be alert for the drive home.

He grumbled about how far away I’d parked in a way that made me question his chivalry a little, but he walked me there nonetheless. We kissed goodbye and I drove home in a dizzy haze, changed.

After that, MKT and I fell into a routine. With my school stuff and his family obligations, we found time for each other every couple of weeks. I’d park far away, we’d watch part of a bad movie, catch up in kind of a cursory way, and then make out. The night we watched my favorite one, “Manos” Hands of Fate, found me splayed on the couch with his hands inside my favorite pink lacy underpants. The moon was big that night and when it was time for me to go, we couldn’t stop making out at the car, just like that couple at the beginning of the movie.

Ravenous though we both were, he was patient. He knew I hadn’t had PIV sex (or what most of the world simply calls “sex”) since a little after my twenty-first birthday in 1995. It that I’d been abstaining or anything,  I’d just been single for most of my twenties and then met Sweetie, been perfectly satisfied for a few years, then spent a handful of years being dissatisfied but not doing too much about it. I liked the idea of the kind and gentle MKT being my first-in-a-long-time.

Our relationship was somewhere on the friends with benefits spectrum, but I adored his penis. After three years of research and much, um, reflection I’m ready to pronounce it the best one. It’s difficult to believe that someone who’s walking around with something that amazing could be so meek and unassuming—kind of seems like a miracle! He was magnificent: long, thick, cheerily pink and perpetually hard. He apologized that his antidepressants made it difficult for him to climax, but that meant so many hours of good, hard enthusiasm.

The night I planned to go all the way with him (such an old timey term, I know) I was meeting him to see the new Muppet Movie—the one with Amy Adams and my imaginary boyfriend Jason Segel. Because I’d be taking the big step of staying over, I left the car for Sweetie and took the bus all the way across town. It was early December but not too cold so I could wear my red coat again, but with a teal beret and mittens. They were the kind the kind with flap and the the button on the back so that they were both mittens and gloves.

I was excited to see both MKT and the Muppets, but I felt a little bit off. There was someone else on my mind, someone you’ll meet in the next chapter, someone more Domlike, the appraising look he would give me if he saw me dolled up. I liked MKT and he liked me back in a way that (because I am the worst) Made me just a little less turned on by him. He was nudist at heart, wouldn’t care about the lipstick or the pretty shoes I walked 9 blocks from the bus stop in.

MKT did, in fact care about the lipstick. He had a little girls-are-icky moment of worry that is would get on him as we kissed hello. The other guy had no such compunction—our relationship was pretty much based on his ability to demolish lipstick.

Nonetheless, MKT was the perfect person to watch the Muppets with (re-watch, actually—I’d seen it with my family on Thanksgiving) and as we bussed over to his neighborhood, he wove his hands into my mitten/gloved ones. Because of his deadly shyness, there was always something excruciating about being in public with him, but he was fundamentally sweet and I was fundamentally ready for him.

He was radiant with health and life. Even though it was time for his Lego Christmas village to be up and running, he still shined with beach light—every bright smile I would learn to smile naked on a beach was in there and I still can’t think of a more welcome guest, a more welcome friend.

I’d been ravenous for a penis inside me for many years, but I’d also wondered if it was a forbidden fruit situation—did I only want it because I couldn’t have it? Would I get a man inside me and discover I was a true blue lesbian after all? I half hoped for that, it sure would have uncomplicated things.

But as he slipped the condom on and pushed inside me, I felt a great heave of relief and happiness. Joy came out of my lungs in great gasping wails. I loved it so much. I paused my caterwauling long enough to ask if the neighbors would mind, and he said he didn’t care.

We didn’t get to snuggle in the morning, because he had a Lego convention to get to. To catch the train on time, we had to be out of the house by 8:45. I had a having-a-hard time feeling of being claustrophobic in my own skin, but also the sanguine feeling of having an inner suntan. Every memory of him feels a little beachy, even if we never made it to the beach together. There’s rosy cheeks and sand in my hair when I think of him.

We were a little early for the train, so we stopped at Dunkin Donut to get breakfast. As I ate I prattled a way about poly and sex and Sweetie and he started to look worriedly around like he didn’t want anyone to overhear.

“Are you…ashamed of me?” Vexingly, tears came and I lost all semblance of friend-with-benefits-playing-it cool-ness, if I’d had any to begin with.

“What? No! I’m just not used to people talking about this stuff.”

I sniffled and felt myself sink inward, away from him. I spread cream cheese on my bagel and stared down at the table while he reached for my hand.

“I’m not ashamed.”

“Because if you are…” I set my jaw and tried to be brave, but I was sad to be so close to a dealbreaker, sad about everything, ashamed myself. I’d trusted him, it has felt so good, but what if he was someone who couldn’t like me for what I was? I mean, I already knew we weren’t long term, because of the whole he’s-not-poly thing, but I also knew that I wanted something darker, deeper, more permanent. I wanted to be spanked and dominated and owned, but most of all, I wanted the crazy, cracked romance I already felt for another character.

MKT walked me to the train and made sure I was really okay—my warmed-up body felt opposite to my heavy heart, and what I wanted most was to go home and get into bed with Sweetie. It was a long trip from his side of the city to the bus that would take me back home. I felt wistful for all three of the people on my mind and cheered myself by texting updates to my friends. This morning was both an accomplishment and an ending, both a triumph and a betrayal, but I covered the complication with bravado.

When I finally got home and got in bed with Sweetie, she tried to embrace me but I felt her body stiffen and then sigh into sadness. With tears in her voice she said “You smell…different.”

In the rush to get MKT off to the convention, I hadn’t showered. The smell I wanted to keep with me and mull over was hurting the person I loved most. I said I was sorry.

“Nono, I don’t want to make you feel dirty, like you HAVE to shower, it’s just…”

The wind went out of my sails and I felt so trapped and frustrated. It had felt so good. the shirt he’d lent me, a bit of tech conference swag that said “Heck yeah!” on the front was expressing how part of me felt, how all of me wanted to feel. Here in my own bed, I was so far away from the joyous shouts of the night before. I was a tangle of warring sensations as I lay there and dozed with Sweetie.

Overtaking it all was the unassailable physical well-being that went all the way to my core—if it had had a voice, it would have sounded like this: “I’m bi! I’m bi! I’m bi! I’m really DOING this, can you believe it?”

My limbs were soft and warm and my belly felt full, full in a way I’d craved for so long—it wasn’t that I’d been empty without him, but I was empty without that part of me finding expression.

Then there was the guilt—as much as I wanted to love what I was, to find a way to fully inhabit myself and really bi up a storm, it was heartbreaking to know that I’d hurt her, that this was one in a series of so many disloyalties. I’d already hurt her so much by not being gay, and I would hurt her so much more (and only sometimes in a fun way.) It would be years before our relationship would be at peace, and even then only after monumental changes.

And then there was the loss. I loved my life with Sweetie so much, it was so full of snuggles and birdwatching and Sundays in bed, and I knew what I’d done, what I’d admitted I WAS would change our relationship forever.

The Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness, Part Two: A Shaman and a Kiss

So, learning to listen to myself is not just about knowing when to say the right “nos.” It’s about recognizing my ability to sometimes know exactly what floaty, sunny sticky fantasticness to put on the calendar. Go me. High-fiving myself.

When Sweetie dropped me off at the festival, I was a little late for the 10 am soul retrieval ceremony. I got there as the shaman lady was starting to call all the spirits to join us—the four directions, the animal spirits, the fairies, etc. She was dresses in white and sang a little like Nico.

I joined the group silently and sat in the sun getting oriented. There were five other people there, mostly ladies. The sky was ridiculously bright blue and there were all kinds of birds goofing around in the new-leafed trees.

I’m agnostic about all things spiritual (or I pretend to be…) but rituals just tend to work for me. Every week at church (Unitarian) I line up to put a stone in water, commemorating the week’s most important joy or sorrow. I write affirmations and gratitude lists. Once, I went on a shamanic journey and met my spirit animal, a black panther named Sheila. (She instructed me to “just love,” in case you’re wondering.) As much as I try to sometimes distance myself from the magic parts of faith, I also kind of believe in it.

As I watched the shaman lady shake her rattle over each person, banishing bad spirits and calling for their souls to return, the prettiest thing was watching the tears at the corner of the woman’s closed eyes sparkle in the sun. Between retrievals, she chatted with the crowd, saying a lot I couldn’t follow about wolves and fairies—pagan in-jokes, I guess. It made me want to be really careful not to get an ironic expression on my face. I also tried to find ways to spray sunscreen without disrupting the proceedings.

When it was my turn, I lay down on the sleeping bag and declined the shaman’s offer to shield my face from the bright sun with a blanket. She whispered “Are you struggling with depression?” Close enough, so yes. “I just want you to know, Freya is coming.” (Sweetie and I had a lot of fun Googling pictures of Freya the next day. Goddess of love, fertility, and war who rides a chariot driven by two cats, btw.) 

As she shook the rattle over me, I felt my lower back open up the way it sometimes does during yoga.

The lady seemed like she was, in fact, taking something out of me. At one point, she roared and shook, growling and fighting. I felt bad for having something that yucky inside of me. She sang to my maybe-wandering soul: “Return, return to yourself, return. Return, be at home, be at peace.”

When she was done singing, she whispered in my ear: “I don’t know who disappointed you, but it will be better now.” I almost laughed—even a shaman could see my Greenberg-ness.

Once I was finished with my part of the ritual, I felt like it was okay to strip down. Nobody was nude-beach naked, but one other lady was topless and that was enough to make me feel like it wouldn’t mess up ritual etiquette. After the ritual finished, I made some friends by spraying them with my SPF 70 and asking them to do the same to me. Everyone seemed nice.

The shaman lady told me that all of the growling had been because of a bear spirit who is apparently guarding over me. Which is funny because I’ve often remarked to Sweetie that we need a Helpful Polar Bear to live with us and top us so we could take a break from taking care of ourselves. This was a grizzly bear spirit, but still.

Chatting to some of the circle afterwards about the bear spirit and my penchant for bearlike dudes, one lady suggested that I meet her friend. Either she or fate sent him over to chat with me at lunch. I was shivering in the camp dining hall topless, as pants were required in there. For some reason, this nice huggable guy sat down and I just started yammering away—I love/hate when this happens, when I meet someone comfy and all of a sudden I’m telling them every little thing.

Everybody, I was totally not thinking about the fact that this was a sex festival too, that if you’re talking to someone nice, you might suddenly be kissing him. That’s exactly what happened when he found me after lunch, nude and sunning myself on my monkey blanket, waiting for it to be time to go on the nature walk. We talked some more first, me continuing to spill out secrets. When I got up to go, he asked if he could give me a hug. As often happens to me, he was clothed and I was naked. His hands were warm on my back, his beard soft on the curve of my neck. He held me tight in that giving-good-energy way. He kissed my neck and I said “Oh. Huh.” Then he kissed me pleasantly on the mouth.

It reminded me of the mosh pits of my teenage years, how one minute you’re smushing along with everyone to the music and the next, you’re making out with a stranger. It’s kind of the way I think life should be all the time.

I headed up the hill for the nature walk lead by my favorite magic-y rope guy. The stranger headed up the hill for a nap, a nap that I now realize I probably could have joined. I wouldn’t have missed the hike though. It was lovely and chatty and sweet, and I kept seeing the prettiest white swallowtail butterfly. Everyone kept saying it was following me.

Next time: “That cake flower isn’t going to feed itself to me…”

Naughty Birthday Wishlist for the Coming Year

1. I wish for a lot more time with Sweetie, both vanilla and otherwise. We haven’t been connecting as much as we’d like lately, and I’d like to have my pretty pink ropes rubbing up against my stuff very soon. Holding her, petting her, and reading library books with her would be good too.
2. I wish (for like the millionth time) for my gentleman rope top. I want to spend a lot of time in a collar, being his. I want to be over his knee, in ropes, struggling or forgetting to struggle, feeling loved and breathless and anchored and warm, and then later, pretty sore. And then I want him to make me mixtapes and tell me I’m adorable and come hang out with Sweetie. Of course, this might be a job for more than one guy, oh darn.
3. I wish to continue the love affair I have been having with my ass. Earlier this year I discovered just how much I like to put things in there when I’m alone, and now I would like others to please put stuff in there as well. “Start with a finger and work your way up, Sir” would be a wonderful thing to say to somebody someday.
4. I wish for no more tanlines next summer, and I nice naked man to go to the beach with, who can throw me around and kiss me in the waves.
5. I wish to go to Floating World with my friend Angelface and see what kinds of hijinx we can get into.
6. I wish for lots and lots and lots of PIV sex. Somehow it tends to get neglected. I need to be held down and fucked silly, I need my head banged up against the headboard, car window, whatever. I want to be so loud that I wake up all of the neighbors and metamours. Also I would like to have a dick in my mouth a lot more often.
7. I wish for more teenage-style making out at concerts and more spankings in parking garages.
8. I wish for many different scenes with many different combinations of people. I’ve been remiss in my unicorn practice, but I’m sure there are a lot of lovely wives who could hold me down while their husbands do god-knows-what to me.
9. I wish to continue falling in love with my body, discovering all the miracles it has to surprise me with.
10. I wish to be set on fire some more, literally and figuratively.