I'm thinking back to 2011 when I was bickering in the Target with Sweetie about whether or not The Song Sender deserved a set of Christmas ribbons to tie me up with. He didn't! But I did! Despite the name of this blog, I really haven't done much with ribbon self-ties! How silly of me! I intend to rectify this oversight all month and every December from now on.
Here's the same situation, but with pink light!
Connection and attraction are weird. The two times
that Mr. Adorkable came over, I felt like we were almost supernaturally linked,
not just the way our bodies fit together, but personality-wise as well. We
chatted and laughed like friends and played so beautifully. And then he’d go
back home and hardly ever text—I should have taken that signal and kept it
moving, probably.
Not-texting wasn’t how it started though. The first
weekend that he had my number, back at the end of August, he was attentive,
flirty, infinitely selfie-able. He was my cute text company on my solo birthday
trip, to the point where I missed him when my hotel room turned out to be a
Wifi-hole. I sent him a picture of a sunset mountain, of my outfit matching a
wall of Warhols. Company.
But after our first date, the textiness stopped, and I
don’t know why I didn’t just admit that I HATED that. Anybody can text anybody
every day or so! Still, I was mindful of bandwidth. And he was so lovely and
present and playful in person.
Before our second date, I reached out to ask him if he’d
ghosted, a really bad sign! But he said he hadn’t, and I got more attached. Again,
a song came on at the right time like we were in a movie.
But then, the not-texting again. We made a third date,
but it took some nagging.
(My work life is mostly nagging--it’s my superpower! I
vow to not opt into any more of it in my free time.)
(And I also vow to just recognize the next case of He’s
Just Not That into You when it comes along!)
Anyway, when Mr. Adorkable told me a few hours before
the planned third date that he “wasn’t feeling connected.” I wanted to be like:
Duh. You didn’t even try. But I know things don’t work that way.
My point is, besides BEING TEXTED BACK IS NICE, that I’m
feeling burned out from the goodbye part of dating.
A partial list of goodbye boys since last fall:
The Coach, (didn’t want to be in person, possibly dick-catfishing
me)
The Lovely Guy, (very lovely, it just ran its course)
Superhot hookup guy who looked like Finn from Star
Wars, (Gave me a fake last name)
This Charming Man, (Love, heartbreak, Chappelle fan)
The very-not-a-match-hookup who probably gave me
Christmas Covid,
The Good Boy, (Can’t really complain about that one)
The Shy One, (GLAD I UN-SAID THAT GOODBYE!)
The Southern Charmer, (“Sometimes it’s all just…too
much.”)
The Adorables,
The boy with the Sonic the Hedgehog tattoo, (Also one
that said “Keep it real”)
The high school principal who had First Corinthians
tattooed on his arm, (I thought this was the most romantic thing ever.)
The goth boy who was delightfully dommy in the car, (Also
a terrible texter)
The Song Sender Part Two (Electric Boogaloo),
and Mr. Adorkable.
No wonder I’m so tired. I’m not writing this to
slut-shame myself, far from it! I just want to acknowledge that that’s a LOT of
hope/hotness/goodbye for one year. Some disappeared, some ended in wrenching
conversations, one re-ended in a sweet, healing way, one un-ended.
So it’s time for a little break from strangers, time
for my body and heart to process all the sexiness and wonderfulness and sadness
and shame and loss and phone-checking. This year of adventures was a busy,
beautiful, ravishing gift, but Mr. Adorkable was one goodbye too many for now.
Just for now though.
I am so far behind on my blogging. The last few weeks have been such a flood of cuteness, it’s hard to put into words! So I set a timer, put on the lo-fi mix, and I’m ready to start telling you about Mr. Adorkable.
I met him on Feeld, of course, swiped right because his
big smile and cute glasses reminded me of The Boy Who Sewed Me a Pillow, but dommier.
He mentioned ropes, he’s switchy like me, and he had excellent texting game. He
was my inbox company for a couple days while I was on a solo mini-vacation in
the mountains. He used a lot of exclamation points! Enthusiasm is one of the
dreamiest things in the world.
The cute goth boy from my last hot first date didn’t stick
around, but he did inspire me to stop being such a lazy couch-dater all the
time. Mr. Adorkable chose us a quiet bar on one of the artsier streets near me.
We chose the quar-era outdoor seating even though it was a humid and drizzly night—sultry.
Romantic. Private for talking about what we might like to do to each other.
The waitress, who wore glitter around her eyes, said
our drinks looked good together. I had a strawberry mojito, he had something I
don’t remember. I thought we looked good together, I already felt like a
match before we took the first sip.
Again with the cute glasses, except this time they
were a bright blue that matched my dress. He was quippy and energetic and silly
and so easy to banter with. Oh! Good banter will get me every time. He matched
my complete lack of chill, my delight, note for note.
OF COURSE I was going to invite him home with me.
After my adventures with The Song Sender, I’d been hankering to get dominated, but
in a more playful and kinder way. Mr. Adorkable seemed more than amenable. Plus,
he admitted to being kinda goth, so I had just the playlist.
Before we get to snuggletown, though, the other thing
that really endeared him to me was his relationship structure! He is out to his
family and friends, and he and his wife try to avoid hierarchy as much as
possible. His other partner seemed to be part of his life in deep and everyday
ways. He even showed me a picture of the other partner hanging out with him and
son! Superswoon at the cozy possibilities—my poly heart grew butterfly wings
and fluttered up into the sky.
4. I want submission.
Near the beginning of the summer (Before it was even
Kate Bush Summer!) I was on a mini-road-trip to The Fancy Garden with Rainbow
Pal. I haven’t gotten to write about them yet, but they’ve been central to
helping me dream up the creative sluttiness of the past couple of months. We’re
both tenderhearted artists and I believe we might be platonic soulmates—they’re
right up there with Angel Face when it comes to transformative friendships.
Anyway, as I was driving us home, they were telling me
about a dom they used to have, and WHOOSH I remembered.
The hush of letting someone take over control. The
precious, adorable feeling of being small, so small I’m almost nothing. And yet,
seen in a slutty, delightedly filthy way that really
happens to me so rarely. As anyone who reads me knows, I’ve been playfully
spanked, had my hair pulled, been called a “good girl” during rough blow job
practice, but none of it was THAT FEELING. Surrender. Pushing myself to bend
and please. And that clearheaded feeling the next day, the one I didn’t realize
I’d been missing.
And the DAY AFTER that conversation with Rainbow Pal,
I ran into The Song Sender at the movies. So many aspects of subbing that I LOVED
him for in 2011 came back again, and so many new games and desires sprouted up
in my filthy heart. I assigned myself homework. I told him lovely, rough-to-sweet,
elaborate slutty stories, fiction and not, in person and over text. I lost my
mind and sent him poems about mystical submission to god. Aaaaaaaallllllllll
the pictures I sent him, naked and not.
It’s confusing to have felt so seen by someone who
will also never actually see me at all. To have been so fulfilled by someone
who both feared and actively got off on disappointing me.
Somehow, in all of that, I got a taste of what a loving
dom might feel like. I don’t know if it will be in the context of a romantic
relationship (I hope so!) or if it will be its own thing. I’ll never find anyone
to replace The Song Sender, yay and sob, but I hope to find a kinder, deeper,
more sustainable version of that beautiful, BEAUTIFUL feeling.
5. I WANT ROMANCE and synchronicity.
The night I had dinner with The Shy One and we decided
to be some kind of a thing again, it was like eleven million degrees out. But
he’s not a PDA guy, so I had to put him in my car to kiss him. We kissed like
it has been two years instead of two months. He smelled so him,
and we were both dressed up so nice for dinner, and we were SWEATING. But it
was so hard to let him get out of the car.
People get so tripped up by the word romance. I
think it freaks a lot of people out because they think it’s about wedding
dresses, and babies, and all the other Relationship Escalator things. Those
things ARE a kind of romance, but they’re not what I mean.
Back to that road trip with the submission conversation,
Rainbow Pal and I talked a lot about the Romance of Life, and that’s what I
mean that I want. Beauty, sensuality, pleasure, awe, those things are all around
us, whether we are partnered or not. When The Song Sender wasn’t passing the
Turing Test or when somebody I wanted to date turns out to have been a hookup,
I still always have flowers, the ocean, the intricacies of clouds.
There’s always a song that comes along and gives the
exact right message. There’s always the advice I give myself in dreams. There’s
always the Tarot deck to unstick my imagination when it’s getting stagnant.
I love the romantic moments I share with partners,
like when The Shy One texts me flowers, but I’m also SO GRATEFUL that this list
item is one I can keep giving myself.
6. And to that end, I want to keep dating myself.
It was one of my 10 goals for 2022, and it has opened my world up maybe more than
any other goal ever. I would love to keep giving myself the beautiful moments I
deserve. Each time, I know a little deeper that I deserve them.
There’s always a certain amount of futility in these
lists, because the next characters who come along could knock me on my ass just
as much as any ever have. If you’d told me in June that “summer fling with The
Song Sender” would be in the cards, (Literally. The Lover and The Devil! Yikes
and yay. Yay and yikes.) I would have
laughed in your face and told you about a dream I had a few years ago, wherein
I was explaining to him: “We just call it strangling now.” More about that guy in
part two, but for now, the easy things:
1. I’m
solo poly, and not necessarily destined for the kitchen table,
at least not right away. I like my space, and I’ve discovered in the past few
weeks that I like each combination to have time to grow before stirring my
darlings’ darlings into the mix.
That doesn’t rule out future deep
relationships with metamours or even some magical unicorn miracle, but I want
to take my time. Every person is a LOT. I am A LOT. I would like
any given combination to have its feet under it before I start to learn the
next humans. Because I will LOVE THEM TOO and that will be, you know, a lot.
2. I
definitely do want polyamory. I would love to stop
trying to wedge myself into monogamy every few years out of—self-protection? Weird
poly/bi phobia left over from my divorcing years? There have been such LOVELY
combinations of humans, such bursts or yes-this-is-exactly-it happiness that I
would love to see some more.
The Shy One, The Song Sender, and a
hookup whose name I barely remember but who made for a fucking GLORIOUS week.
This Charming Man, The Lovely Guy, and that other hookup who gave me the wrong name.
The Good Boy, The Southern Charmer, and The Adorables. Ideally, most of those
would have lasted a lot longer, and I know that humans are NOT art supplies,
but I felt like an artist working in the medium of slut, and I would
lovelovelove for that to happen again.
3. I
don’t necessarily want The Relationship Escalator, but I want feelings.
Lovey-dovey feelings, friendly feelings, and d/s feelings. Nobody has
to love as easily or as quickly or as thoroughly as I do, but I want them to
not feel/seem like a trapped animal when the warmth and affection come into
play. Talking about relationships the other night, The Shy One said “I just go
in kamikaze, and if it doesn’t work, I just try again.” BFF-Formerly-Sweetie has
always called my same strategy “jumping in with both feet.” I don’t always, but
when I do, I would love to hang around long enough to let them see if they can
catch up.
To accomplish that, I would like to
not get so mad at myself for the feelings. I would like to give myself space to
feel them and be a little less quick to flee.
And yes, I would like some of them,
eventually, to adore me. To love me wildly, emphatically, and forever. Please.
 |
| Pink is for subbing, green is for domming. A looooot of pink on that romance bar! From Enough to Make You Blush: Exploring Erotic Humiliation by Princess Kali |
“It just feels empty without the rest of the fantasy.” I said to The Song Sender, before we even got out of bed.
I felt stuck on whatever had shifted him from liking me to
feeling obligated, from sweetness creeping in to not even trying to put the
phone down when we were hanging out post-sex. (Yes, I did play Animal Crossing
for 20 mins, but that was an anti-anxiety strategy. Maybe his constant checking
was too.)
This was maybe the most talking I’ve ever done with
him, just kept yammering while we put our clothes on, while I got some ice
coffee to keep me up for the longish drive to his girlfriend’s house. (Dear
Universe, I’ll take guys I don’t have to drive around next, please! I guess that’s
up to me.)
Speaking of the girlfriend, I didn’t ask him the thing
I’ve always wanted to ask, in 2011 and in 2022—why do other women get to be
people to him, and I don’t? What is it about me? If he’s been with this woman
for five years, he can’t have been distant and cruel and thoughtless the whole
time, can he? So why is this kind of opportunist assholism reserved just for
me? It probably isn’t.
(It’s not a great habit to wonder what secret to worth
other women have that I can’t fathom, but it’s a very old habit, and he
triggers it the worst. On good days, which is most days, I can be all neutral
and just-a-bad-match about it, but inferiority to the other ladies is, I guess,
a sore spot I can’t always help poking at.)
I kept yammering as he meekly navigated the way. I
will very much miss his not-backseat-driving! Seriously one of the hottest
things about him.
He wasn’t going to navigate my life, but I asked him
to:
“Tell me what to do. I don’t want to let you go again.”
“You don’t have to let me go, just…”
“Well I have to let go of SOMETHING.”
What I was thinking was: Twice. Twice is how many
times he gets to break my heart. No more.”
For such a toxic combination of people, it was a
really sweet breakup. Re-break-up? Just a break-off since it was new? But also
not? I pulled over twice during the drive, once to cry and say: “I tried so
hard. Then and now. I just couldn’t get it right.”
“It’s not your fault.” He said, “None of this is your
fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know.”
(I should say, there were other, bigger, heavier
things going on in his life besides the easier-sexting-girl. Or, he was doing a
scam an I just wasn’t doing the offer-to-help-with-money part of the script. I
do listen to too many scam podcasts.)
The second time I pulled over, it was to say a proper
goodbye—I didn’t want to rush it with traffic coming up behind me on his girlfriend’s
narrow street. I wanted a real moment, and he was kind enough to comply.
I gave him as big of a hug as the car would allow. His
body still felt warm from afterglow and affection. He still had that smell I can’t
resist.
“Well, sweets, I think I have to get over you again.”
We kissed. He held my hand. He held my hand over his
heart and kissed it, which was either a dear sweet gesture or a thing a
psychopath had learned from movies. Probably the former?
I got to do that thing where I told him he’ll always
be in my heart, to warn him that it’s crowded in there.
When we got to his girlfriend’s, the seatbelt chime
went off well before I stopped the car.
“You can’t wait to get away from me,” I laughed. This
bird had flown.
The best case scenario after I hit on him at the
movies would have been kismet, romance, and gothy playlists forever, but a lovely
goodbye is something.
When I got home, before I got out of the car, I did
the ritual: Delete the text thread. Block the number. Delete the contact. Block
on Instagram. I was sad, but it was a beautiful sad. In that kind and very talky
goodbye, he’d let me love him just a little. He let us out of the cage of our gorgeous
violent fantasies and jangled, impatient minds, and he let us do part humanely.
Not the miracle I wanted, but a miracle nonetheless.
"He’s not a pet, he’s a bird who flew in by mistake." That’s what I told myself in a dream last Saturday
morning. In the dream I was talking about an actual bird, sort of a muted,
pastel painted bunting, but I knew right away who dream-me was talking about.
In a span of a few days, The Song Sender had gone from an actual-date-offering,
text-attentive Sir to barely passing the Turing Test.
There was truly some beautifulness between the aftercare
panic-and-flee of our second date, the un-break-off that I initiated, and the
true end on Wednesday night, when I probably should have been practicing my
knots instead. I’m equal parts irritated to be spilling more paragraphs on him
and ecstatic to have so much to say.
I’m even sort of comforted knowing there are a few
people out there (Looking at you, Steampunk Guy!) who truly cause me to take
leave of my senses. Not in a cute, aw I’m crazy about you sense, but the actual
departure of my mind. This time, thankfully, I guess my mind hadn’t gone TOO
far away.
I was surprised at how amenable he was to making an
aftercare plan. He even signed the paper during our dinner in a
nearly-completely-empty pho place. But, he was even harder than usual to talk
to, and he said there would be a little more negotiating to do when we got to
my car.
He told me that he didn’t have space in his life for
something as intense as I wanted, that we could only be really casual, if at all.
The reason for the robo-boy texting was at least partly because a lady who’s
subbier, easier, and less available (just cheating on her fiancée rather than
expecting anything relationshippy or, you know, ethically non-monogamous) had
popped back into his life.
I mean, as has been THOROUGHLY documented here, The
Song Sender is actually pretty awful, he really is, but I thought, why not? Why
not get dominated once a month or so and free myself from endlessly worrying
about the tone of his texts, endlessly worrying that he was forgetting me. It
seemed fine.
So I took him home and it was..fine. The hair pulling
and the “pretty little slut” and worrying about bruises but not too much. He
kept “forgetting” that my right arm has been broken and dislocated and can’t deal
with quite as much manhandling as the rest of me. That fucker was definitely
going to dislocate my wrist someday if we’d kept on.
In between finishing himself off and getting up to
pee, he asked me if the song Goodbye Horses was on the makeout mix I’d
made us. I listened to a few notes while he was in the loo and deemed it
perfect, until he was like “It’s time for a movie moment, I have to show you
this clip from Silence of the Lambs.
“UH, maybe AFTER aftercare?”
Sadistic or just stupid? Maybe both. I stayed
this-is-fine cool and did my aftercare steps, and they simmered me right down.
And then there was the clip, in all its lotion-in-basket, rotten, viciously transphobic
horror.
“All these queer kids going around liking this song
ironically, or unironically,” he said, “Not realizing this is where it’s from.”
Honestly, fuck you FOREVER. I still stayed cool. I had
on my slutty-brave armor and it would NOT be disrupted by this fool. We lay
there semi-snuggling and looking at each other’s Feeld profiles. It was kinda
fun.
 |
| This, but make it poly. Luke tells Lorelai she'll get the whole package, and she does. |
Twice is enough times for The Song Sender to break my heart. I can't regret any of it, but it's time to give myself some space for the hurt and sadness.
I'm long past due for a "what I want" kind of post, but for now I'm tired and bitter and I have to get ready for a long work day.
So I did my break-off ritual with The Song Sender:
texted a (nice, I hope) goodbye, explained I was only blocking him to mitigate
pining. Broke the connection on Instagram, wondered how long it would be til I
could go back to my favorite movie theater.
But then I was like, why? I knew that he, like
everyone, but moreso, was irreplaceable. I didn’t want to wait another eleven
years for fate to intervene. I wondered why I hadn’t even tried talking to him
about it, once the fight-or-flight wore off. We’d been so amazing at bad kink way
back when, why just skip over TRYING to add better communication to the
hotness?
Yes, stop sign street art, I know.
And he said okay. It didn’t take much talking-things-though
until I felt secure again, until I asked his permission to reactivate slutty
mode. We still need to make a good aftercare plan—there may be a checklist.
Maybe next week.
Okay so I've sent the Song Sender TWO poems. He seems fine with it.
This humbling myself, the asking The Song Sender for
what I wanted and letting go of my pride and defensiveness enough to give the
connection a chance, it felt new. The not-fleeing felt new. We haven’t seen
each other in person since things went haywire, but phone things have been
lovely. Romantic in their smuttiness. I’m making him a playlist that’s gen-X
dreamy as fuck.
So then, the dinner with The Shy One came around last
week. I wore a modest not-sure-if-this-is-a-date-or-not dress, apparently a
whole genre of clothing I need to have.
The Shy One, meeting me at a restaurant on his side of
town, was somehow even more beautiful than before. The humility came easily to
me this time, without the bitter edges I’m so used to having. I just wanted to
give him whatever he would have of me. I would have sat at his feet if we weren’t
in a restaurant and if he were a more PDA kind of guy.
“I’ll do whatever you want me to do,” I said. I’ll
figure. it. out.”
He reached his hand across the table and said “Whenever
you want me to come over, just call me and I’ll come over. Like I can come over
this Friday if you want.”
(Eeeee!)
“Okay, but I still super love you.” I said. “That hasn’t
gotten any less. You’ll just have to deal with it.”
So that’s what I’m submitting to: kindness, curiosity,
love. I want to submit to the most generous parts of myself and hush the rest.
It feels tenuous to try keeping my defenses down, but I also feel deeply helped,
like I’m tapped into something much bigger and more reliable than myself. Love.
The Universe. Fate. Definitely something kaiju-sized and divine.
 |
| Later in the story I text this to The Song Sender and then I'm like OMG I SENT HIM A POEM WHY AM I LIKE THIS?! But he got what I was going for, I think. |
So I texted The Shy One on that full-of-submissive-clarity
afternoon, to ask if he would accept my apology and try for being friends with
benefits. I didn’t think he would write back, he had every right to have
blocked me, but he hadn’t. He did text back.
He said we could be back in touch, but he was taking the
summer off from dating to reflect on how he wanted to handle his poly life. I
didn’t think he had done anything wrong, definitely thought he shouldn’t be depriving
himself of snuggles, but I was so touched by the pause he was taking. I have
this terrible habit of thinking I have no effect on people, that I’ll fall out
of their consciousness as soon as I say goodbye, but his planned summer
sacrifice humbled and chastened me.
Convinced of how much I’d meant to The Shy One, I
vowed to figure out a way to be in his life, however he would have me. So
haltingly and politely, with some good ol’ Downton restraint, we started texting
some. We talked on the phone and it made me sad, made me long for him and doubt
I could make it as a platonic friend. But I put aside time to feel that
sadness, and stayed determined.
We sent pictures of flowers and “happy Friday” and I
confided in him when a date didn’t work out. The Shy One and I planned a dinner
for mid-July, but before we got to there, The Song Sender cracked me open even
more. Though he, generous and sweet Sir that he is, would probably say I did it
all myself.
For my (second) second date with The Song Sender, I
think he meant for us to have a date-date, but I was lazy and it was hot so I
decided to just take him home to play. He helped me put some flowery street art
up first—I liked seeing him pull the silk flowers off their plastic stalks.
Good muse.
There was gorgeous, wonderful, THOROUGH hotness, which
I’ll get to in a different post, but there was also a fight. During aftercare
time, a couple of misfired jokes stirred a wild sense of abandonment into my
reeling and breathless body and mind. I got rage-quiet and kicked him out.
Well, I drove him home.
“At least it was a good sequel,” I said. I am kind of
a jerk.
There was a big, hazy supermoon in the sky that seemed
like it was a little bit mocking me with its naked romance.
“Thank you for letting me drive you home,” I said, “It
would be too sad otherwise.” He caressed my arm softly and I felt so much
regret about things being over (re-over) already.
“Hug” he said kindly when we pulled up in front of his
girlfriend’s apartment. There was a car waiting right behind us so there wasn’t
time to aim the awkward car hug. It was more like we just bonked our heads
together.
This story makes me miss him, makes me sad even though
we figured it out and he’s still very dearly in the picture. I would have to go
to that humble place some more, let down my defenses, and maybe, maybe, MAYBE
(please please please) just get (at least some of! A LOT of!) what I wanted all
along.
I have lots of stories and updates, but they will have to wait, because The Song Sender says I have to hurry up and text him some fantasies. And! He says I can call him Sir while doing so! :D
 |
| After! Blurry again sorry, I have no discipline. |
Monday night, I was supposed to have a date with The Chef but he rescheduled, so all of that energy had to go somewhere! I decided to get ahead on the week's ropework, and asked The Song Sender if he was available for praise. He was running the projector for the local weird movie club, but he could manage both.
I love the before picture I sent him so, SO much. His version has my face, 
He typed back, "You should cum for me. And tell me what you were thinking about when you did."
I don't always hang on to text threads, but friends, I might have to keep the transcript on this one. Oh it was BEAUTIFUL. I'll keep most of it for myself, but there was this:
"I tell them you are a good little slut. and that you are mine.
And because you are such a good girl you get to pick two to play with you.
...
While I hold you down and tell you how pretty and good you are."
And THEN:
"I can be meaner with you later. (kiss emoji)
You get to be the princess of the orgy."
There are still some kinks (ha) to iron out, but so far The Song Sender is an absolute treasure. I am the luckiest slut/princess/whore/good girl in the universe.
Here's how to do the corset--I'll have to learn the Alpine Loop another time.
But even more excitingly! I had a supercute date the other night, and here's where it went:
I’ve already written about the ropes part (https://kittencalendar.blogspot.com/2022/06/knotty-thursday-teachable-moment-with.html?zx=9c690ff8ebd71852) so let’s talk about the being held down. The consensual violence of him, with its new give and take. His hands ventured to my throat where they weren’t supposed to be and I swatted him away and cursed and dug in my nails. The smell of him. The softness of his fuzzy chest whenever he relented a moment and just snuggled me close.
In the years since the first time around with The Song
Sender, I’ve been dominated of course, spanked and restrained and so many
different (I almost typed every, but no) flavors of rope and shackles and fire
and hurt, but none had this special something. His dominance brings a sweet,
reverent feeling, the soft release of being wholly and willingly overtaken.
“No one else can dominate like you.” I sighed. “They
all say they’re doms but they come over here and they’re just mine.”
“Ah. That’s because you’re a bossy little bitch, aren’t
you?” He wrapped me up in a hug as he said it. I wriggled and cackled with joy.
I laughed when the Downton Abbey theme came on
my summer playlist, but The Song Sender did not laugh. He put his heavy arm
around my shoulder and held me down, pushing open my legs to manhandle my clit.
He pressed so hard that it hurt but it was also a perfect dream. I yowled and
sighed and he made me/let me come exactly in time with the last notes of the
song. Silly and perfect. Just-friends romantic. A new kind of home.
(Talking about Downton in this context makes me
feel both slightly disloyal to the Shy One and like I want to tell him all
about it. We’re in the bittersweet process of building a platonic friendship,
but that’s a whole different post.)
When it was time to drive him home, I remembered a cup
of coffee (It was pretty late.) but forgot my whole phone. I’d have to find my
way back without GPS, but I was fairly sure I could figure it out.
I petted his hand as I drove, and he made happy animal
sighing sounds. We listened to Nirvana’s Nevermind so I wouldn’t get
sleepy.
I found my way home easily. When I woke up in the
morning, I was sad and a little bruised, but was more sure of everything than I’d
been in a while. I felt like a person who knows how to run her life.
Whatever happens with The Song Sender, and who knows,
I want to keep a place in my calendar for submission, for basking in the beachy
softness of knowing I’m not in charge for a little while. That feeling has been
such a stranger to me, and I’m happy to welcome it back.
 |
| I bought this last summer as good luck for my Candyman date with The Coach. It felt like the perfect metaphor for all the lovely changes The Song Sender initiated me into eleven years ago. |
We did catch up over dinner, but it pretty quickly
shifted to a friendly negotiation. Did it have to be mean? No. Could he praise?
Yes—he said he thought I might like it if he patted my head and called me a
good girl and I nearly offered him my head across the dinner table. Did he need
to do breath play? No. (Breathing! It’s great!) He talked about spanking and
hair-pulling and my smile was as big as the sun.
I took his hand across the table and he let me. Those gorgeous,
powerful hands could be so gentle out here in the world, I’d never known. He
paid the check and I was glad I’d driven instead of taking a train and a bus.
I’d never driven him anywhere. I was still sharing a
car with Sweetie-Now-BFF the first time around, and the car was always away on
her long commute. I was very pleased to have The Song Sender in my car. I put
on my CD of The National’s High Violet, the perfect sexy/gloomy summer
album.
About halfway home, just before we got to the most
winding part of the drive, I said:
“I kind of want to take your hand and put it into my
hair, but I’m, you know, driving.”
He went ahead and put his hand on the back of my neck,
tugging at the hair just hand enough to elicit a gasp/sigh. It didn’t distract
me at all, quite the opposite—a clean whoosh though my brain making me all the
way centered and calm.
“Oh actually I think this makes me an AMAZING driver,”
I said, silly with happiness.
Because I hadn’t been sure if it was a date, I hadn’t
tidied the apartment or shaved any kinds of hairs, but he didn’t show signs of
caring about either. I was standing next to the cluttered dining room table,
chattering away and offering fizzy water, when he pulled me into a kiss.
It was decisive and forceful, hungry and sweet. It
felt so easy and natural to be bent over the couch, dress pulled up, ready for
spanks. His caress-to-spank was tender and sure. I felt right at home.
And he's lovely text company, sexting and otherwise. Last night, rope practice was extra fun because I was showing off for him. I chose this mermaid tie because I'm practicing to bind his arms with it, but he insists that's not going to happen.
Gold star to him for making my hot rope time hotter, what a good sweet boy. And gold star to me, he's right about the pretty!
I know we already skipped ahead to the ropes because Thursdays
exist, but it’s time to backtrack a little. When The Song Sender texted me the Sunday
morning before our Wednesday plans to iron out the details, I swooned. There’s
seriously nothing hotter than not having to chase someone down for logistics.
Plus, I thought it might mean he and his girlfriend were working on their
calendars, and that made me feel all warm and fuzzy, like welcome to polytown, TSS.
But really it was mostly about the logistics. I like
being all Virgo-y. I have calendar reminders set for every friend, for checking
on my niece who is going through her first breakup, for futile reminders that I
should vacuum a little each week. I like structure and predictability in ways
that run counter to how sex, love, and romance like to operate, though oddly
compatible with my BDSM mind. NOT compatible with some of the young millennial treats
who’ve come and gone this past year.
So yes, oh my goodness, plans. And a guy my own age! By
the time I was driving downtown to meet him, some of the dizzy unsureness had
simmered down, but neither of us was sure if it was a date or not. In the
neighborhood where we were meeting up, someone had stickered the stop signs to
say “stop giving up” and I took that as all kinds of different advice.
He looked tidy and gentlemanly when I saw him there
waiting, wearing a nicely-chosen blue plaid shirt. His grizzled mutton chops (Which,
along with his bear-size and insistent blue eyes, make him look like if you
looked up “dom” in the dictionary) were freshly trimmed—he’d already sent me a
post-haircut selfie.
We hugged hello and he let out an affable growl. There
was a feeling of being pawed-at even though I wasn’t, and that felt VERY
pleasant. I was a LITTLE more sure it was a date.
But then, I got the ropes out. And this growly, bitey, throw-me-around dom let me put him in them. I really, REALLY wish I had taken his picture like that, not just because he looked so fucking hot but because it's kind of a trophy. I've spent eleven years being scared of him/wishing he could come over and give me what-for, and here he was, being so still. Ironically patient, maybe, maybe deciding how much he'd let me get away with it.
So then, I stepped out of dizziness and 2011-ness and into what was actually happening. I showed him how to put a harness on me and he sweetly did and undid the knots to get it right. It didn't come off til close to the end of his visit, so he must've done a good job tying the back!
The rest of the story of my second first date with The Song Sender is about the beautiful whoosh of submission visiting my mind for the first time in I don't know how long. But I could only get to that place because I had my whole voice with me, because I was solidly grounded in my own desire.
Last night felt like a graduation. I'm so, SO proud of the eleven years since I started kink, of going from a scared, desperate girl to...well still pretty scared and desperate sometimes, but with my whole voice to find my way(s) to happiness and pleasure.
Last Saturday when I was planning my self-date night to go see Downton Abbey: A New Era, I knew there were plenty of movie theaters with parking lots, with big cozy seats, with pretty good mojitos. But I wanted to go to The Artsy Theater, my favorite.
It was the one where I sobbed a whole lifetime at the
end of Boyhood not long after one of my cats passed away. The one where
I saw Her and decided I should break up with the boyfriend who existed
only on Twitter, then put off doing that for a while longer. It was where I
took comfort in the absurd romance of The French Dispatch while I was
getting over The Good Boy.
(It was also where I was subjected to a Woody Allen trailer
while awaiting The French Dispatch—why does such a thing even still
exist? What the heck, Artsy Theater?!)
But! They keep the Junior Mints in the freezer there,
and they have so many flavors of hot chocolate, which I never try, because let’s
be honest I need coffee to stay up past 9:30, especially in the dark.
So I guess the main swoon in this story is for the
theater itself, but when I walked in a little early for my 9:20 movie there was
The Song Sender, looking exactly as he had in 2011 when he said goodbye.
“I’ve seen you on every dating app!” I blurted out,
because if I’m going to live in a romcom I’m going to bring the awkward.
I had though. The last time I’d seen him, on Feeld, he
was even in my “likes you” folder, with his girlfriend right there in the
profile with him. The Song Sender, who’d dumped me ostensibly about monogamy,
had been brought to the poly team, maybe by this nice lady I should’ve snooped
more about before I sent him to the left. I thought he would probably be too
rough for me these days, but the update and the “like” gave me a nonzero amount
of joy.
Anyway, back to the movies, I went over and sat down
next to him, and my body didn’t think he seemed too rough at all. I felt cozy
and oriented, both like no time had passed and like forever had. I caught a
little whiff of the smell of him and it gave me a sense of surety and happiness.
I sure wasn’t woozy or helpless the way I’d been back in my 2011-and-headed-towards-divorce
apartment with him.
It took me a few minutes of being fairly inappropriate
before he told me he was at work and therefore couldn’t tell me every detail of
his adventures like I’d asked. I still showed him my hidden photos folder with
some of my rope creations, and he unsurprisingly liked them.
As I was going into the movie, he snapped a selfie of
the two of us because his girlfriend wanted to know who this girl was who was showing
him pictures. I gave him my number, which felt both like a crazy thing to do
and the most natural thing in the world. Whether as a friend or as a…whatever,
he was missing from me and now he isn’t.
The movie was perfect, of course, and so was the rest
of my date with myself. I walked a dreamy few blocks through the historic
district to my favorite bus route, which I love even more than I love The Artsy
Theater. When I walked from my bus stop to home, the moon was almost full and
big in the sky. The flowering trees were giving off their late-night smells. I
saw my first lightning bug of the season.
That walk from the bus stop made me sure that whatever
happens with any character, past, present, or future, it’s within my power to
make this a Summer of Romance for myself. So in the name of the Dowager
Countess and the first firefly of the season, that’s exactly what I resolve to
do.