Poly Conference as Benchmark: Very Good Progress

When I first attended the Big Poly Conference the year before last, it was almost like research as an outsider. I found many different kinds of comfort and acceptance (especially in my first nudist experience) but by the end of the day I was hurting and crying in the cuddle party, being comforted by the facilitator (who is, incidentally, now Showtime famous) and feeling like I should never be near such nice people, like I was just to rotten inside for all this togetherness. I cried my heart out all the way home that night, consoled by Sweetie in that toxic way we had, half-knowing that my relationship was part of where the rottenness was coming from.

Then last year I attended with much more experience and a few more good connections, spent the day mostly catching up with friends and being proud to find out where the big party was being held. That was the night I first really connected with the Sweethearts, Mr. Shiny Eyes, and the Recurring Character. Because Sweetie was staying in the hotel with me (though not attending the conference) I still felt separate from the poly folks and strangely protective of her, like I couldn’t give all the way in to everything that was going on around me.

This year, I shared a room with my favorite snuggle-couple, the Sweethearts, whom I’m still learning, of course, but thoroughly and emphatically enjoyed in both pants-off and pants-on ways. They feel like home to me, a physical and spiritual comfort to be near whether we were mid-scene or not.

As with last year, I spent a good amount of time catching up with the Lady of the House, who decided that wherever we are together talking is actually the nude beach--it’s exactly that sunny, embracing, and free.

I got to devour Mr. Shiny Eyes for lunch and have some emotional breakthroughs with him during postsex cuddles. (I’ll elaborate on all this as the week goes on…)

And yes, I did know where the party was, but I chose instead to curl up in a comforter and enjoy the warmth of my own company.

For all of the happiness, there was grief, too. I miss having someone to whom I could confess everything and be (until the next condemning fight, at least) absolved. And since last year’s party was all about Sweetie’s ropes, I missed the heck out of those too: I love that we were able to create such beautiful rope-magic even as we were falling apart. I miss the home of her even as I rejoice in finding and founding new person-homes.

This was also the weekend in which I finally admitted to myself that I believe in Tantric energy—I’ve experienced it enough times, I might as well. The first time I tried Tantric breath (at that same sobby conference cuddle party) I experienced it as stabby, almost debilitating pain, a grief-cramp that didn’t go away until I cried it out. This time, just after I left the Sacred Sex Puja, I felt such a warm, sunshiny glow move through me, and keep moving. Though I’m still facing some roadblocks and daunting obstacles, on some fundamental level I’ve come unstuck. There’s so much more work to be done, but sometimes I feel my body, mind, and heart giving me time and space to relax into the flow of whatever comes next.

Single Life, Week 7: Life After “Thrift Shop”

It’s too early to know what the song of this year will be, but “Thrift Shop” was my song of last year, the one I woke myself up with on the way to work, sweated to at the gym, and heard in my head when something, yes, fucking awesome was happening.

I wrote last fall about how it’s a good philosophy of life; just being delighted at what you find, letting chance and serendipity show me where I need to go. With that theory in place, I left the year with an armload of experiences, many of which were unequivocally awesome, some that didn’t fit, some that were stained and downright nasty. As unegalitarian as it feels for me to say this, chance threw some things my way that simply weren’t good enough for me, and I took them home anyway.

I like that seeing play as a magical thrift shop helped me to take down a lot of the structures of control that I had in place. Though I still do love planning and anticipating, I think that my calendar fixation was a lot about trying to make things stay the same, trying to keep things safe and cozy for Sweetie so that she wouldn’t yell at me and call me names. I learned how to be more flexible, to adjust my expectations, and even how to not want to claim people immediately upon kissing them. Well, a little shaky on that last one, but still.

I really, really miss it, just powering through and experiencing every single sensation that I could, even when the emotional cost was high, even when I had to fight my own instincts to do it. Last night was my first night skipping the Regular Dungeon in a long time, and though I had a fantastic time, I still felt nostalgic for the nights where I was able to experience thing after thing after thing, to slip seamlessly from bottom to top, from fire to floggers, and feel like a princess superhero while doing so. It occurs to me that very, very little of that experience had to do with the Steampunks, so I probably don’t have to give all of it up just because they don’t like me. I hope to eventually return to some of it after the wounds have healed.

Back to my metaphor: In real life, I don’t shop like “Thrift Shop.” Not even when I’m IN a thrift shop. I tend to mostly browse, enjoying the bright randomness of everything and only picking anything up if it’s really special, like a tulip-glass pitcher or a perfect grandma cardigan. I would certainly never take home anything that needs fixing, especially if I already had a broken keyboard at home.

In regular stores I’m even pickier. In fact, I’m currently refusing to buy work pants until tapered legs go out of style. I don’t have a shape or a budget for careless shopping. I’m a grown-ass woman who knows what she likes and should never have to settle for anything that doesn’t fit or that I don’t completely love. If I’m that picky with spending my money, can I be a little pickier with spending my heart?

When my therapist got unavailable because her supervisor wanted to Girl Interrupted me, I refused to even look for another one. I couldn’t stand the strangers’ input that came from the 10-minute screening process. So I waited seven months for my real therapist to get her own practice, and now she even makes house calls. There’s a lesson there about waiting for something that works, rather than trying to fit with things that don’t.

My point, and I do have one, is that I hope to find a balance between the natural excitement and momentum in my heart and the discernment that will allow me to get what I want and deserve. That way I can have chance and magic but also, you know, sanity.

That said, I reallyreally hate being on a break from the pursuit of sexytimes. My emotions are grateful to have the time to rest, but my body is like what. the. fuck?

But remembering what pants-on activities I enjoy is rewarding and comforting. On Thursday night, I sat in the meeting room of a neighborhood historic building (we have a lot of them) and drew while I listened to my friends sing and play the most lovely and gently moving music. I was flooded with a sense of (mostly) platonic wellbeing that nonetheless made me have to go home and ravish myself.

Last night, Gold Star Winggirl (So named because she sends me gold stars whenever I’m awesome at being on my break) came with me to a Bhakti dance, and by the end when we were Om Shanti Shanti-ing, I felt so good and loved that I could have Om Shanti-Shanti-ed for about 10 more hours. The best part was getting lots of time to catch up with GSW and root for her adventures too.

Transcendent and fulfilled as I was though, I still would have liked to have driven over to the Regular Dungeon and handed out some what-for. Funny how that’s the thing I miss most.

But guys! Guess what. Granted, it’s only happening on Twitter (hence the loophole) but for a few weeks, I’ve been spending attention on a guy who actually gives it back. Who is actually nice to me! Who checks on me if I’m sad and whose girlfriends and wives and metamours all seem to be delighted by our exchanges. I’ve never even seen any of their faces and at the moment I’m not ready too, but I do feel a genuine connection and I think this is excellent practice for letting myself be treated kindly when it comes time for IRL flirtations. A gold star for me, and one for the Mystery Man and his family. (I’m quite sure they’ll be good at sharing a star.)

Likewise, the Recurring Character is being internet-adorable, telling me semi-daily which of my (G-rated) body parts he is rooting for. So a gold star to him, too.

Okay, so I’m somewhat terrible at taking a break, but I am still making a lot of progress: Friday I told Sweetie we can no longer do groceries together, and yesterday I told her that this is my last week of sharing the car with her. Next weekend I am going to try and find a car of my own. I’m getting better at letting Sweetie-things go, and that’s progress.

PS. As I leave on pop song behind, I just want to take a moment to celebrate and thank the part of my soul that will always sound like this:

Naked New Years as Benchmark: So Many Gold Stars

As I alluded to last week, the Sweethearts came down for the Lady of the House’s annual New Years party, and to my delight they offered to stop by my apartment on the way. I was so excited to make them soup and catch up—hard as it is to believe, we hadn’t seen each other since the Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness, when he was part of my first threesome and she brushed my hair after.

When we started getting ready, there was a spark of energy in the air, and not just because we were enthusiastically comparing shiny butt plugs. At my encouragement, she came in to keep me company while I was getting dressed and we agreed that my Snoopy Christmas underpants were much more festive than my lucky polka dot ones. I found my shiny red bra, packed my red satin heels in my trusty suitcase, and chose a pretty outfit that would certainly not be on for very long.

I was shy around Mr. Sweetheart at first (Well, my version of shy…) but his body felt warm and welcoming. While they were sitting together on the couch getting the directions situated, I made some room for myself and kissed him, still the same softness, still the same lovely, steady connection. Then I got up the courage to lean across him and kiss her. She was a fit, just as I always suspected she would be. It is a wonder we ever made it to the party, but we did, in spite of my somewhat haphazard driving. (Note to self: become a better driver before the next time I drive someplace with a butt plug in.)

Shortly after we got there (While we still had clothes on, even!) the friend whom I’ve just named The Recurring Character arrived. He tends to be present at many of my formative experiences: He was the first person I (sort of) cuddled at my first cuddle party, he was in the clothing optional workshop where I first (sort of) stripped down, he was even there the first time I went to the nude beach. Last February, with Sweetie’s help, I was his first rope top. Like many of my guy friends, he’s a belle-of-the-ball type with lots of partners. Maybe I gravitate towards characters like that because they’re the most approachable, or maybe because I kinda want to be like them. Maybe both.

The Lady of the House’s parties always have a designated play space, adjacent to the rest of the party but not visible. That’s where the Sweethearts and I headed before too long. Last year, even though I was having a lovely rope scene with Sweetie, sex at a party seemed like a distant dream. Not even one year distant, it turns out. (Pause to high five Pretty Slave and Cute Master, who got to be that first. Jeez 2013, you were awesome sometimes.)

The aim was to have my first anal sex before midnight, but it was not meant to be. The universe seems determined to have me wait on that one, I don’t know why, but I’ve decided to settle in and be patient about it. Well, as patient as possible, anyway.

Anyway, playing with Mr. and Ms. Sweetheart was perfect. Especially considering that I’d been fantasizing about it for half a year! I always thought she looked like some badass Nordic goddess, all pale skin and smooth, heroic curves, an ass like a Romantic-era odalisque. (Yay I just used my Art History degree everybody!) Mr. Sweetheart is still such a wonderful combination of gentle and mean, though in this case, more gentle. The kindest spanks I’ve even known, kindest finger in my asshole.

As I lay between them like a loved-up princess, the Recurring Character asked if he could join, and after a quick soul-search I said yes and was plunged into the middle of the three of them. He kissed me while the Sweethearts played with my breasts, while Ms. Sweetheart ran her fingers over the front of my more-and-more-wet underpants. Everyone wondered how I could possibly still be wearing underpants and worked together to get them off of me. They were kind enough to let me leave my socks on, though, as all the best people are. With them everywhere on me, I felt helpless and goddesslike all at once, floating/submerged/drowning in an ocean of ecstatic sensations, the most perfectly myself I can imagine, all white light and joy.

At midnight, we all got up and toasted, danced with the Lady of the House, kissed and ate cookies and drank wine and caught up with friends. There was no one I wanted to text at midnight, though I did text a few at 2 AM. I was fully present and immersed in things, that was the real difference between this year and last year.

After the midnight revels, Mr. Sweetheart put a rope harness on me and fucked me so perfectly that I had to put my hand over my own mouth to stifle the screams. This was the first night I had PIV sex in front of other people; there was something comforting about hearing my friends’ conversations nearby while I was in the throes of him. Heartwarming. Connected. Shortly thereafter, I put Ms. Sweetheart over my knee and spanked her while Mr. Sweetheart sat and petted us both. I was proud to turn this powerful woman into a sweet, sleepy angel.

I’d planned to stay over and snuggle with them, but this was a rare night where I’d had enough.  Enough closeness, enough kisses, enough snuggles. I wanted to be in my own bed and I hadn’t drunk much at all so I had a soda, found my clothes, and said my prolonged and grateful goodbyes. It was an astonishing feeling to be so filled up by others and yet still self-contained.

When I met the Sweethearts last New Years, I couldn’t have predicted what we would become. I still can’t. The same goes for when I made friends with The Lady of the House by cuddle/wrestling her the June before last, or the first time I laid eyes on Cute Master and Pretty Slave or any of the other characters. We never know what magic we’re making or where connections are leading, but I’m more convinced than ever that there’s a current underneath it all, taking us where we need to go. The Sweethearts seem to have fucked me full of faith.

Awesome at Life in '014: Thanks, Mr. and Ms. Sweetheart! Plus Another Song

My family always says that whatever you're doing at midnight on New Years is what you'll be doing for the whole year. I got up from a hot and heartfelt threesome (briefly a foursome) to watch the ball drop, then danced around naked with my friends. I'll try to say some coherent things about it later, but for now, I'm optimistic and tired. And so grateful to the Lady of the House for deciding to throw her annual party.

The best part is that after all of the revelry and snuggles, all I wanted was myself and my beloved bed. I'm so proud to be on my own, of how far I came last year, and I think I can get to where I need to go. This is the song that was playing as I gathered up my stuff to go:

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.

Thank You Note to the Beach

It occurred to me yesterday that I really would have lost my marbles this summer if it hadn't been for the nude beach. I'm so grateful there's someplace I can go to feel 100 % okay with myself AND be loved/shoved around by the ocean AND be surrounded by all manner of penises. (HOORAY!)

It's been so great spending time getting to know The Lady of the House there too--that friendship is one of the things making me feel like I just might be on the right track.

Beach Party as Benchmark: A+

Every year, a bunch of the regional poly and bi groups get together and have a party at the nude beach. Last year that party was my first day there and it went like this. Although last year’s day was a good, healing experience, being in the middle of so much sadness with Sweetie made me feel isolated from everyone and kept us from really being part of the party.

What with the divorce, it seems like this year the party should be sadder, but it was a pure joy. I drove down by myself (I could’ve carpooled, but the divorce grief can be unpredictable and I wanted to be able to make a quick getaway if need be.) and was so excited to spend the day with a favorite friend, The Lady of the House, who happens to be one of the best pals to have come out of these adventures. There are people there that I had all kinds of connections with: One friend who remembered me fondly as his first rope top, a group of adorables I remembered from a good game of Cards Against Humanity, so many nice people I’ve seen naked bunches of times.

It was the prettiest beach day you’d ever see. The sky was bright, the breeze was gentle, and the sun was hot but not oppressive. I spent the day chatting and flirting in the water or just bobbing around happily by myself, snoozing to the sound of good conversations, and making new friends over a pop culture reference laden game of Taboo. If this is supposed to be the year of connection, Saturday was one of its most successful days.

My marriage (and the attendant anger and shame) was unquestionably isolating me, and the further I get from it, the more I feel myself opening up and getting more warm and confident. It’s so cool to look back and see how far I’ve come. If I can get us safely through this transition, I can see so much flirty, friendly, lovey-dovey goodness on the horizon. That was a comforting thought as Sweetie and I slogged back into apartment-sorting yesterday.

Also! I just want to come out and say that it’s very important to me that my next partner(s) love the ocean.