Unicorn Stuff, Part Two: New Hearts, Old Grief

 

As I’ve been going through some old unicorn and/or metamour stories (What a very nice assignment I gave myself!) two things became clear: 1. I’ve been a little reluctant to admit the kinds of closeness I wanted because 2. My early adventures are steeped in the confusion and grief of my divorce from BFF-Formerly-Sweetie.

Looking back at the story of The Steampunks (This gold-star breakup that didn’t really take is a good example: https://kittencalendar.blogspot.com/2013/07/a-girl-crush-wall-of-grief-and-gold.html?zx=592a17ae48503cbd ) I had forgotten I was drawn to both of them. I only pursued him, though, partly because I was hankering for dudes after all my time on Lesbian Island trying to fight the bi-ness, but partly because it’s easier for me to learn one person, at least at first.

But I also had this imagined binary in my head, a loyalty-like-thing to BFF-Formerly Sweetie—I felt like an attraction to a woman was extra-betraying her. Since I’d given attraction to men as my main reason for divorce, it didn’t feel fair to still be attracted to women too. Embarrassingly, I still sort of feel this way sometimes, like liking a woman would be the ultimate betrayal of Sweetie. Being a divorced bi lady who mostly likes men is really weird sometimes.

The couples aspect of being bi still feels too big and too out of reach, too outside the boundaries of what I’m allowed. This isn’t because of anything BFF-Formerly-Sweetie said then or now. Playing with a couple, the possibility of belonging to a couple, through any combination of romance and friendship, seems like asking for too much. Even boyfriend-and-beloved-friend-metamour(s) seems too much to hope for, but I hope to learn to let myself own that wish.

In my gratitude for The Steampunks and the perspective that’s come from the last nine years I forgot how painful the breakups from them (There were four different breakups from Steampunk Guy, I just couldn’t stay away. This is part of why I’ve gotten good at staying away now.) were, how much it hurt to be told I couldn’t play with him after I divorced--“We only play with partnered people.” is truly one of the cruelest poly rules I’ve encountered.

I can see why the tears poured out when I was worried about Mrs. Shy One vetoing me, about not truly fitting into The Shy One’s life—those fears were mixed up with divorce grief and shame at wanting so badly to be approved of and the losses and indignities that came from past couples.

But every dater, every human, is walking around with past griefs and indignities. Though I’ve been journaling about past constellations privately, I don’t want to spend too much time focusing on the losses of the past, on the bitternesses that bloom out of couple privilege and my own mistakes and garden-variety thoughtlessness. If I did that, I would truly never make it to the next snuggle.

Instead, if I should encounter another couple I’m wildly drawn to, I’d like to give myself the compassion and space to absorb those emotions, to acknowledge the monumental size and power of that particular want. I’d like to learn to believe that a loving couple or boyfriend-and-metamour(s) romance is something I deserve to hope for. Of course, that doesn’t guarantee that I’ll get it, but if I do, I’ll do my best to welcome it in with kindness and an expansive heart, and most of all, a deep and boundless care for my tender self.

Unicorn Stuff Part One: Less Than/Equal To

 

As I tiptoe back into playing/dating life, I have trouble getting my head around that one day. The day I thought I could have The Shy One for a boyfriend and Mrs. Shy One for at least a friend. I can’t overstate the fulfillment I felt in those 24 hours or so. Included. Appreciated. Was it over so quick because I wanted it so badly, because it scared me to death how badly I wanted it? Did I need to sabotage that happiness because it was too much to hope for?

Probably not. Probably what happened is what happened: Her overstep with the writing brought the truth out about my feelings, made the closet of it all more untenable, or made me see that it just was all along. I didn’t know how to make a boundary around my (broken, I hated to admit) heart, but I did know how to fiercely defend the writing. That part seemed clear—if it’s the writing or the cuties, it's got to be the writing.

But I did feel a DEEP fear around the happiness that was them, and only a fraction of that fear (maybe ¾? 5/8?) could be attributed to the present. I do have a unicorn chip on my shoulder. I “knew” I was going to be treated as less-than, vetoed, cast aside. I’m giving myself the assignment to read all my couple-trouble posts and see what exactly is wrong with me.

Confusingly, with The Shy Ones, my trouble wasn’t really with the hierarchy. I was more than ready to defer to the wife-and-kids of it all. I felt honored to put my desires on hold for Ramadan, to, in my own spiritual-not-religious way, submit to something higher. Even/especially since it wasn’t my something, even if the thing I was submitting to was just what time the sun set each day—that’s a lot. I liked letting myself be small, treating his life and his faith with honor and deference—it was one of the most meaningful relationship months of my storied life.

That lovely feeling of letting myself be small, the relief of bowing to him/them metaphorically if not literally, was possible because I felt equal as a human being. I was equally-but-differently valued, adored, and praised. When he momentarily balked at the idea of getting mail from me, that egalitarian feeling began to crack. When he told me I needed to pretend we were just friends if I posted pictures of him on my public feeds, the possibility of any kind of equal footing shattered.

Does that possibility of equal-not-the-same exist? I tried to make it clear to Mrs. Shy One that I knew the right role to occupy, but that I wanted to be seen as a whole person. I begged her not to see me as a threat (I should’ve been saying all this to him, I’m so sorry.) but I absolutely was a threat.

If I’d been allowed/allowed myself to love as much as I wanted to love him/them and if by some miracle he/they felt that big love back, all of our lives would have had to grow and change. They were years and years away from that kind of expansion, if ever.

In these lonely-then-less-so couple of weeks, I’ve asked myself over and over why I couldn’t fit, why being out of the closet with him was so important, why the deal broke when I really, REALLY didn’t want it to.

“I want my heart to be free.” I said, and I have compassion for myself about that, but what does it even MEAN? What good is a free heart when I’ve lost someone(s) so dear? I guess that’s what I aim to find out.

Goodbye to The Shy Ones

(art's a Rumi quote)
Time for me to take a little rest in the praise ocean.

My desire to love and be loved by them, whether it was the platonic love that I was just beginning to feel for her or someday being able to be loved by both of them, was so powerful as to be unmanageable. It was so big I couldn’t even see it until I’d started to let it go. I knew (Or was afraid I knew, it amounts to the same in the end) that it was too big a want, too feral a need to fit into their lives as they’re constructed. I was so scared of that big desire. It felt like Kaiju want, Godzilla love. If I was a movie, you’d have to pretend the buildings had been evacuated before they got smashed. This is a terrible way to see myself, I’d like to change it.

Maybe Mrs. Shy One felt that fear too, because when I, last Friday, the day after all the texting joy, asked her permission to blog about her, she decided I needed to check with her every time I thought of writing about her. From potential friend and metamour to editor, just like that. For the sake of “healthy boundaries,” for “honesty and transparency.” (LADY. You pretend your girlfriend is just a friend on your socials. Your husband asked me to do the same. Come ON.)

Mrs. Shy One reaching out to grab my writing process was, to me, the exact opposite of healthy boundaries. To put it in Downton speak, she was putting her oar in. It was clear to me that the only boundary she/they cared about was the one around me.

The bottom dropped out from the whole plan then, and I saw the situation for what it was, for what I was. To keep playing with The Shy One, I needed to be controlled. Managed. Shrunk or at least stunted. Even, my now-panicking brain added, snuffed.

The box I’d agreed to, their affable and understandable closet, was not going to stop shrinking around me.

The part that was absolutely NOT her fault is that I felt completely submissive about the two of them. I knew that they probably didn’t mean to try and control me, but I felt helpless, without a voice to negotiate. I did have a voice. The so-big-I-couldn’t-even-see-it desire combined with the submissiveness I couldn’t talk through without crying, made it feel impossible to listen to them or advocate for myself. It shouldn’t have been impossible, I know. My body was telling me that the options were to fall at her feet or flee.

So I fled. More accurately, I blocked both of their numbers so I could stop crying long enough to get through my workday and get at least a little bit of the story into paragraphs.

The next day, seeing where the paragraphs were going and not wanting to break things off via blog post, I asked The Shy One to come over or call. He couldn’t do either, he said, so we broke up by text. I told him the closet feels bad, that I want them to be exactly them and exactly where they are, but that I just didn’t fit.

He was just as kind. He told me I deserve to love without guardrails or artificial limits. That made me feel appreciated for who I am, and not Godzillalike at all.

I know there’ll always be guardrails and limits because humans are involved and nobody needs to be falling off a cliff.

I’m sure I’ll have more to say about him, and I know I’ve got lots of Unicorn Stuff to paragraph out, but for now I’m just sad, grateful and quiet. I don’t think it’s kind or helpful to compare myself to Godzilla, but for now I’m happy to be back in the sea, at rest.

 

Gilmore Guy, Part Two: I Let My Pants Decide

This Lorelai quote isn't QUITE how I feel (the phrase "that couple life" kinda gives me the heebie jeebies) but this DOES become a story about what I really want. Just...not yet.

Gilmore Guy has a Gilmore Lady, a long distance but primary partner. Although I don’t fit the poly mold these days (if I ever have), I wouldn’t have ruled him out for having a partner, though the hierarchy in the word “primary” did raise a flag of hesitation. But the appeal of connecting with Gilmore Lady, whether in friendship or otherwise, was also a factor.

As Gilmore Guy and I walked along in the woods, we talked easily and flirted gently. He told me about the cocktails he’d designed based on Star Trek, (How is Deep Space Nine anyone’s favorite, BTW?!) I told him how much I’m loving my job these days, we talked about how much we both hate fascists, normal 2018 stuff. Things were so easy and fun and he looked so dapper, I was inspired to have him pose for a picture in front of a nice stretch of creek.

When I asked if I could post the picture, there was hesitation, and my heart dropped. Gilmore Lady is looking for a job, he explained, and they couldn’t be as out as I am. They’d agreed not to have other partners on their social media accounts, which just made me sad. I mean it’s kinda like, love me, love my Instagram, even though of course I respect people’s right not to have their pictures shared. Still, I hadn’t asked to tag him or anything, so the closety-ness didn’t sit right.

(I also realize that this is exactly what someone would say if they weren’t in fact IN an open relationship, at least not one the other partner knows about, but I’m doing my best to take him at his word.)

We kept happily walking along making plans for that evening, but I kind of knew it wouldn’t work. To have something intimate in my life I couldn’t document and share felt lonely and sad, felt like an artistic limitation, and I told him so. Maybe that’s not fair, but it just didn’t feel right.

“I’d better not come over tonight,” I said, much to my own chagrin. I told him I don’t feel comfortable in hierarchies, shared a little bit of the solo-poly chip I still have on my shoulder while trying not to sound bitter. I probably sounded bitter.

There were still 30 minutes of hike back to the car, and much of it was in painful silence. We walked in frozen awkwardness as I tried to buoy the conversation, talking even more candidly since it wasn’t going to work out.

I’m sure it was partly just me wanting to take care of his feelings, but there was something about him that still made me curious. As the conversation shifted to kink (always an ice-breaker when confronted with a taciturn man…) I could feel a playful power dynamic between us.

“I have to admit you’d be fun to boss around,” I said. The conversation and my body rallied to make me want to forget his closet-y stuff, made me wonder if taking pictures is really that important. (IT IS) As we (ostensibly about to say goodbye) talked about the things we like and I told him a little about my adventures (this consisted mostly of sighing about ropes) sex came into the conversation like a benevolent pink force that lifted and carried us along. I was happy to let it.

He told me some more of his submissive fantasies and between the woods and dropping him off at home, I had talked myself out of telling him no.

“Can I wear pajamas when I come over?” (Remember when this option was my requisite for going almost ANYWHERE?)

“Of course, wear whatever you want. Wear nothing!”

A few stoplights later, I harrumphed “Do I have to SHAVE anything? I mean, not that I would.”

“No, I actually prefer hair, though it’s none of my business.”

Gold star.

(Side note: I also stopped shaving my legs a couple of years ago and I hope to never go back. Hope there are guys out there who think fuzzy legs are cute, ‘cause that’s what I’ve got.)

By the time I dropped him off (I had some afternoon work to do, we agreed to meet up later) I was wet and glittery with anticipation. I wondered how I would concentrate all afternoon, with Gilmores, mojitos, and HIM to look forward to. I was glad I’d let my pants decide—I’ve gotta do that once in a while.

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.

Kinky Karaoke Part Two: Silly Nineties Music and a Dream Come True

Every since my first munch when Fireguy put the idea into my head, I’ve wanted to be tied to another girl, so when I found out that Mr. and Mrs. Sweetface had a rope scene in the works, I didn’t hold back a single little ounce of my eagerness to join them. (Hard to believe I recently spent a couple of days crying about being called pushy…it seems to serve me okay.) They were getting ready to play in the tiny living room on the red plush recliners and when he came to invite me over, I said “Yesyesyesyes ohyes!” and had my bra off before I crossed the room. (Surprised it had stayed on as long as it did!)

I couldn’t believe my luck. She’s so cute and bubbly and has a goofy sense of humor just like I do and I! Was going! To be! Tied to her! She left on her shiny dark-silver bra and panties, and I was down to my peach and purple polka dot undies. While he started her harness, she scrolled through the radio stations on the TV, landing on “Hits of the Nineties” And by “Hits of the Nineties,” they did not mean dignified alt-hits like “Cut Your Hair,” or “Cannonball,” we’re talking full on “Oops, I Did It Again.”  I don’t know why, but this made things more awesome.

I loved dancing around and singing with her while occasionally being admonished to be still by our top and watching the comings and goings of the party guests. Cacophony kept coming up from the karaoke-ing basement, lending to the overall atmosphere of joy and mirth.

Once he finished weaving her into her shiny purple harness, it was my turn. The ropes he used on me were peacock blue. I was soready. My nipples were alert in that ultrasensitive way they only get for ropes, sending tingles all through me ever time the rope or his hand even lightly brushed against them. I didn’t get all surrender-y the way that I sometimes do for ropes, but sometimes he’d tug at them in just such a way that peace would radiate through me from that spot, and aah, sigh, a reunion, oh ropes, I always miss you.

Much was made of the fact that I like to have an ass-knot in addition to the clit knot, thank you very much!

I wasn’t subby-dreamy-drowsy, I was exultant, and when he looped another length of rope underneath both of our crotches and started tying us together, I got intoxicated by the smell of her—there are never adequate adjectives to describe the smell of a girl’s hair, and besides that sweetness there was sweat, and alcohol, and some girly soap, the smells of happy aliveness. I put my arms around her and we danced around like slumber party girls, to the tune of “Roller Coaster of Love,” which I don’t think I ever properly appreciated before.

We sat together on one of the two big red recliners, the two of us girls in Mr. Sweetface’s lap. I was the boldest and most handsy character in that chair. As we settled into cuddling and petting, many hands were many places, but my fingers went right for her panties, found her clit beneath them, toyed with it alternately with hand and rope. She moaned and rocked, and I worked my way inside her bra, first with my hand and then my face, licking and nuzzling, finding what I was looking for. I reached around and unhooked her bra, and even though I couldn’t get it all the way off, I made her just as naked as I possibly could. It was a good long time until I finally kissed her on the mouth, soft and perfect, and then kissed him too. They kissed alike, searching and cautious, friendly and sensual. She told me later that I’d been her first girl kiss, and I was honored. I should stop going around assuming everybody’s always kissing everybody, I guess.

She grabbed the ropes at my hips so that the crotch rope, with its lovely knots, did just what it was meant to, which was turn me into a moany writhey animal-thing. They both looked a little taken aback.

“Ohyeah, I’m really loud.” I explained, super-unnecessarily, and I didn’t get any quieter when they went for my boobs, a mouth on each one, my favorite, favorite thing. Well, one of the favorites.

Next: Spanks, more songs, and goodbyes.

A Strange and Lovely Day, Part Four: A Slutty Level-Up

Correction: I’ve been informed that the paddle with the Greek letters on it actually belongs to PS, so I guess I’ve fucked a sorority girl, not a frat boy. Doesn’t seem as transgressive, somehow.

And some metablogging: I woke up in a really dreadful mood this morning because of a bad day (actually a bad 10 minutes) at work yesterday, but when I sat down before work to write this in my notebook, my mood lifted exponentially. This means that:

a. I’ll have to keep being really slutty if I’m ever gonna be awesome at the other parts of my life.

b. Life would really suck without the stars of this story, so thanks pals. You are sunshines from heaven. Dirty little sunshines.

There was one guy at the party whom I’d known for a while but who, for some reason, was giving me a go-put-my-clothes-on vibe that night. So I got into my cute PJs and played strip poker without really playing—it was the most I’ve ever learned about poker, and it wasn’t much. PS and CM’s other girl was there, and I wasn’t sure what that meant, etiquette-wise. I went with my default setting, which was to step aside, and went upstairs to lie down in their bed. I listened as the game got less and less about poker (not that it ever really was) and became more like a game of truth or dare. And I ended up being the stakes:

“If I lose,” I heard Cute Master say “Then I have to go upstairs and fuck (me).”

Sure enough, he did lose, and up the stairs he came.

“Wait, are you sure this is okay with (PS)?”

He responded by standing over me, pulling out his dick, and pulling my head toward it. I happily gagged myself, worrying a little bit if I was doing it badly since I was tipsy and at a weird angle. It felt so the-good-kind-of-humiliating with everybody downstairs listening and felt extra-naughty with PS not in the room. He climbed on top of me, grabbed my hair, kissed me hard, and then turned around and went back downstairs.

Soon, their game completely devolved into sexytimes, and I really, really liked hearing them all down there, even with the guy who had been giving me the creeps in the mix. I thought about sitting on the stairs and watching but I was all cozy so I just listened and got handsy with myself. Apparently this is just a thing I do sometimes on the weekends, fuck myself in their bed.

Just as I was starting to get ready to come, they came up to join me.

“Did you come up to go to sleep?”

“Um, no. Turn over.”

“He’s not gonna fuck you in the ass,” she said helpfully, since he’d been threatening to do so all night while they were making fun of me for waiting for SG.

I was glad to be flat on my belly for them. I remembered from class that a pillow would have made a helpful angle, but I was too comfy to suggest it. Though it’s my favorite position it didn’t quite work for whatever reason, so he turned me over, pushed my legs all the way up, and shoved inside. I pulled his head toward me and kissed him, kissed her, hollered my head off in my showoffy way. A girl could get used to this! Maybe I am.

When it was her turn to be fucked, his fingers played gently around my asshole (I’d put away the pretty butt plug when I put my pajamas on) and I turned over to give him better access. I wanted his fingers deeper, but he was deferential to toward the area despite his swaggersome claims that he’d be better for it than SG. I suppose before long I’ll be able to compare, though I wouldn’t.

PS got worried anyway that I was upset that he’d touched me there, and kept checking in. I was fine and sleepy. PS went downstairs to attend to the one remaining awake party guest, and that’s how I ended up falling asleep with a guy for the first time in almost two years. It was fun. His hand rested on my hip and he pulled my ass in close. Every once in a while he’d get half-awake and bury himself in the back of my hair, kiss my neck, squeeze my boobs. I didn’t know if he was even aware that I wasn’t PS and I really didn’t care. I fell asleep that way, aroused and pleased and enjoying the smell of him.

Around 7 AM, he woke me up, urgent and rubbing myself against me, pulling my hair, feeling for my clit. When he got to the (bigger) boobs, I think he realized I wasn’t PS, and he got up and went to find her.

This is a very proud moment, a fantastic benchmark of a new level of sluttiness. It seems like I should’ve been upset or insulted somehow, but all I was was turned on again. I listened to him in the guest room, waking her up, creaking the bed, bringing out first happy murmurs and then her wonderful, musical moans, and soon my own little personal-time moans joined in. They came in and caught me, and I didn’t even feel the slightest bit sheepish.

He lay back on the bed and she went down on him wholeheartedly. He took my hand and put it on the back of her head, and I grabbed her hair and moved her up and down forcefully like the guys do. It. Was. Awesome.

“When she’s done doing that, could you please fuck me? Since I asked so nicely?”

“(PS), get a condom.”

She rolled one onto him and he held me down and fucked me, hard and deep this time. He reminded me of the sleeping guests and she put her hand over my mouth. When she wasn’t doing that, I shoved my face into a pillow.

“I want to hear it, I don’t care,” she said and he admonished her but I heaved out some lusty wails before shoving my face back into the pillow. Oh, penises. You’ve really got to get in there more often. You’re just the best.

He ran out of steam before I did, but I still fell asleep happily, on the outside this time, snuggled up to Pretty Slave.

I was the last one to leave in the morning. PS made me coffee and I sat on the couch between them watching Ted—it’s a testament to how much I like them that I’d watch anything Seth MacFarlane made. It was funny but gave me the creeps when I thought about it later.

The rest of the day was melancholy. Sundays are mostly workdays for me and loneliness often sets in in the evening. It’s wonderful to be a single slutty girl almost every other time of the week, but I get the blues thinking of everyone else having snuggly family time while I’m printing out lesson plans and being divorced-girl.

BUT!

1. I got pretty drunk without getting mournful!

and

2. I now can say that I know how to get myself laid when I need it.

I felt a little bit ashamed as I worked through the hangover, but writing about it now, I feel nothing but proud. No-strings sex (Well, okay. Very few strings sex.) get ready for me, because here I come.

A Strange and Lovely Day, Part Three: Whatever You Like

All week long last week, I’d been having a conversation with myself. It went like this:

1. I really want to get laid.

2. But I can’t have anything serious with Cute Master and Pretty Slave.

3. But I’m not looking for anything serious anyway.

4. So maybe we can fuck even though I wrote them a breakup letter.

I kept wanting to text them and find me a loophole, but I hadn’t. When I walked in, though, and saw Pretty Slave in what was only a little bit of a cat costume—fishnet bodysuit, long black skirt, cat ears—I asked her before she’d even finished making me an apple pie shot.

“(Cute Master) told me you’d say that as soon as you saw me. He said we have to resist!”

I changed into my angel costume again, this time with naked boobs. I left my undies on because I felt a little self-conscious about the butt plug, pretty as it was. As soon as Cute Master saw me, his eyes lit up in an amused/hungry way and I knew there was a chance that I’d get what I wanted.

It was a small party and it started, as these things often do, with a Beatles sing-along. Pretty Slave came over and sat with me on a chair (they have these circular chairs that are almost as big as loveseats) and snuggled with me—there’s really nothing I could do to resist her.  During “Eight Days a Week,” she smacked my ass in time to the clapping parts. Draped over the back of the chair in my angel wings, holding a glass of wine and getting spanked, I felt like a painting from one of my Art History textbooks, but naughty. Angels gone wild.

Sidenote: It was at this moment that I noticed a paddle hanging on the wall—not the regular fun kind, but the kind with Greek letters on it—I realized, everybody, that I’d fucked a frat boy, and I liked it. (The lesser-known Katy Perry song…) Pause to feel the judgment of the younger, more punk-rock me, and move on.

We sang, we danced, we snuggled some more. Cute Master was standoffish at first, but then he got all cuddly again. He was sitting next to me while we were both leaned up against the bottom of one of the chairs, smushing me in a nice warm proprietary way when he said:

“(Pretty Slave), I’m gonna kiss her. Is that okay? Apparently she’s been dying for me to kiss her.”

She approved, and then he kissed me hard, pressing me back into the chair. He kisses just the way I like, emphatically like a teenager, but commanding like a man. OH beard-burn, I’ve missed you.

In front of the other party guests (At least one of whom seemed a little freaked out, sorry to her!) he took my nipple in his mouth and Pretty Slave took the other, and I collapsed in ecstasy under them, exhaling an OH! of pleasure, rapturous.

Then I pushed PS onto her back and kissed her, running my hand over the front of her shirt and finding her clit, rubbing it first a little too hard and then finding the right pressure, then stopping to whisper to her that they’d better check on their guests.

Once she’d gotten everybody situated, she lay back down on the floor with me and cuddled. The mix that was playing was hers, and pop songs kept coming on. One of the best parts of the night was lying on the floor with her and giggling/rapping my way through T.I.’s “Whatever You Like,” which was fitting, and (unsurprisingly) one of my favorite songs.

Next: I fuck myself in their bed, then them, then myself, then them again.

Slept (Not That Much) in the Middle, Part Four: Sneaky Personal Time, More Him, and S'mores for Breakfast

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Slept (Not That Much) in the Middle, Part Three: Oh, THANK YOU!

I was delighted to be in their bed, but I didn’t know quite where to start. He was in the middle and I feel more sure of myself with her. I lay there in a sleepy haze while they started to kiss and cuddle. I was unsure of a way in, but not unpleasantly so. Somehow I’d gotten the idea that he and I weren’t supposed to be kissing, but I nuzzled up against him and wrapped my legs around, my hand reaching out for PS’s hair.

Soon she and I were kneeling above him, kissing. I latched onto her perfect pink boob with my mouth and didn’t stop sucking it for a long time. His hands were on both of us but I think he was mostly just enjoying the show. I reached between her legs and found her clit, the first non-Sweetie one I’d touched since the late Nineties. I still had her nipple in my mouth like my life depended on it. I lost myself in her, pushed my fingers inside and felt a little bad for not having trimmed my nails. Still the worst lesbian ever!

Pretty Slave was much more responsive than Sweetie, no layers of repression to fight through. She was moaning and crying out as I pushed and pulled inside her. CM’s hands wandered inside my pink lace panties, just grazing my asshole lightly, giving me the occasional spank. He was different than he was in the dungeon, so sweet and careful. It was touching. I think part of the reason I like swaggery guys so much is that it’s so special when their vulnerabilities show.

At this point it should be said that I’d been thinking I couldn’t have sex because I was right on the cusp of that time of the month, just starting. Frustratingly, I’d kinda signed up for everything-but-intercourse (Which sometimes feels like it could be the title of the story of my life.) again.

So that’s why he said, as he was climbing onto her, “C’mon, let’s make (my name) really jealous.”

Jealous isn’t quite the right word. I already knew I liked helping them fuck, kissing and petting her through it, his hand down the front of my panties, her crying out. After they were done and we were all back to kissing and cuddling together, I could not contain myself anymore.

“You know,” I said, “The that-time-of-the-monthness is really VERY minimal…”

“I’llgetyouatowell.” He said, but I didn’t really think I needed one. My body was giving me a little break and for that I am grateful.

It’s really weird in retrospect that he and I didn’t kiss that night—I found out the next day that while I thought he wasn’t kissing me, he thought I wasn’t kissing him. Kind of an adorable misunderstanding, I think. Everything worked just fine without it, but I hope I do get to make out with him before too long.

Anyway, so it was PS’s turn to hold me and I was as ready as ready can be when he slid into me. I hollered out in joy and relief but then worried for a sec and asked “How loud can I be?”

“You be just as loud as you WANT.” she said and so I was. He felt so good, and it had been all the way since July and Jesus Christ I needed his dick in me. It was a gift, a reprieve, a revelation. I felt so grateful to her for sharing him with me.

“Oh, THANK YOU!” I cried out and they both laughed at me and I laughed too, but I couldn’t help it, couldn’t help feeling grateful for all of the everything. He thrust harder and my moans started to sound like sobs.

“Oh, that is so fucking hot,” she said. Every sensation was ratcheted up as high as it could possibly go. He put his hand around my throat and I pushed it away but got inspired. I found PS’s hand and put it over my mouth. She pressed down and I got even more riled up. After a little bit, he pushed her hand away and said “I got this.” and there was another fantasy fulfilled, his big strong hand over my mouth, his thrusts getting more urgent and I just felt flattened, melted by how good it felt. Carefully, deliberately, he grabbed the back of my hair and held me down, fucked me hard until we were both in a frenzy, until I came and came (and felt those nice squirty sensations, though it didn’t happen for real) and he came too.

I lay flutterhearted and tingly between them, patted him on the shoulder and said “Thanks, pal.”

He laughed and said “That’s all you can say after all that?”

I guess it was kind of a funny thing to say.

Next: Sneaky personal time and more him.

Birthday Spanks and Unicorn Snuggles Part Four: An Inconvenient Epiphany

 I like to leave a party while I’m still having fun, so after the Beatles sing-along and one more piece of cake, I started saying my goodbyes. Cute Master and Pretty Slave were disappointed--they’d assumed I was staying over because I had my PJs on and probably also because I’d been hitting on them off and on for about a month.

“Just let us molest you for five minutes,” he said, and that seemed reasonable, so I let them lead me into their bedroom and I climbed into their big satiny bed.

Being between them was a rush of unmitigated joy, him pressing himself into my back, her in front, both with their hands all over me. It was a transcendent moment of giving myself over.

He lay back and asked us both to blow him, but I couldn’t—we hadn’t done the when-were-we-all-last tested talk and besides I was worried about the emotional attachments that tend to happen to me, especially when confronted with large friendly penises.

“I can’t, I’ll get attached,” I said, and they both seemed befuddled.

“It’s okay to have a crush, we both like you…” But I just couldn’t. So she blew him and I watched. He rubbed my clit through my pajama bottoms. I was soaking wet from the however many hours of attention I’d just had and I liked the idea of walking out through the party with a wet spot afterwards.

“Come on, let me fuck you (my name)” He snarled.

Ohboy I really liked hearing my name that way but I knew I couldn’t and also I didn’t want to.

“No. Feelings!” I said. “I don’t want to fuck anyone I can’t belong to.”

Crap. I hadn’t actually put that preference into words before, but given my various FWB aches, it makes sense.

“Well, then, you’re just gonna have to watch me fuck her.”

“Hooray!”

I like helping. I put my arms around Pretty Slave and kissed her, played with her nipples, held her tight while he spread her legs and pushed in. She had such pretty little cries at first, building up to throatier groans.

He shoved his hand down my pants and pushed his fingers in hard, in the same rhythm he was fucking her. We yowled together and I enjoyed imagining the party guests listening downstairs.

As he started to get close to coming, he said, “Kiss her, kiss her hard, let me see tongues, come on.” And I did, in the exaggerated showoffy way that he wanted. That’s the one part I really didn’t like, despite her loveliness. The whole kissing-a-girl-to-turn-on-a-guy thing is just, no. (Does this disqualify me from unicorn fun? Jeez I hope not) I may have flashed my boobs for beads earlier that day, but I’m just not a Girl Gone Wild at heart.

I did love the feeling of contributing, holding her tight and helping her through it—that was absolutely beautiful. When they’d finished, he got dressed quick and went back to the party, citing a dislike of snuggling. (Which, oops, is one of my minimum play partner expectations, come to think of it.)

Pretty Slave and I snuggled and talked. I told her I was surprised about the not wanting to fuck and explained about my summer adventures and not wanting my heart to get me left out of parties. She was so sweet and understanding and still very strongly in favor of me fucking her boyfriend, which is really nice.

I think I may not be ready for unicorning or even for ladies post-Sweetie, but I’m so glad I followed them into that bedroom and got to enjoy the warmth and energy of them. As I said my goodbyes again (this time with awesome bed head) and left for real, I was proud of the night everyone had helped me make, so grateful to my new friends for being so game and helping me make my birthday fantasies into realities. Being vulnerable to the whole crowd was a huge win, and so was being true to what I wanted and (most of) what I didn’t want.

Dear Sunday night, thank you and thank you and thank you. It’s all the way Thursday now and the effects still haven’t worn off. What an amazing gift.

Unicorn Practice Is Easy, Part Three: Spanks, Snuggles, a Little Melancholy

I’ve noticed that the amount I need to negotiate and be oriented in a scene is proportional to how serious my feelings are for the top involved. In the right party situations, I feel perfectly safe throwing caution to the wind and bending over for near-strangers-I guess that’s because I’m starting to have faith in my friends and in my yesses and nos.

At some point in the party, of course I managed to do something punishable, possibly related to trying to get my underpants back, and Cute Master commanded me to kneel on a chair and stick my ass out. Don’tmindifIdo! He’s a good, hard spanker—I wiggled and laughed and squealed and even let somebody (I’m not even sure who) tickle my feet. I love how things are so easy sometimes, how once in a while life just throws things in my lap. I’d like to let that be the case more often.

Speaking of which, he made me laugh harder than I’ve laughed in a long time when he next decided to express his flirtation through the medium of ironic lap dance. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to laugh so hard…

Anyway, I hated to leave when it was time to go. I pulled my underpants out from where he’s stashed them—in between the string s of Pretty Slave’s corset. Knowing where else they’d been, I didn’t put them on, but pulled on my leggings, had someone hook my bra, and put on my dress. Cute Master and Pretty Slave were snuggled up on a couch when I went to say goodbye.

“No, come here first,” he said. “I want to see if you’re wet.”

And I totally was gonna say no, except that Die Antwoord’s “Baby’s On Fire” came on and I really can’t resist having hijinx to that song. It feels like (*high five*) one of the sluttiest things I’ve ever done, but I went ahead and straddled him, let him find out that of course I was wet. He rubbed my clit and I felt a sense of calm come over me, kind of like when you’re little and you’re half-asleep and being carried up the stairs. I relaxed into him and held on.

He pulled his hand out and put it in Pretty Slave’s mouth, and she happily sucked, looking at me in a hungry/sweet way.

It’s time to stop pretending I don’t like some pretty porny stuff. That’s the part I’ve thought of the most during personal time since then.

I reached over and petted her, running my hand down her neck, playing with her hair, holding her lovely hand. She ran her hand very gently over chest, finding my nipple and giving me a perfect shiver. Her face was so close to mine and her expression was blissful.

And then the song ended. I hugged them both and gave her a teensy bit of a goodbye kiss. Cute Master grumbled about blue balls but! The beach!

Any party I leave with my underpants in my hand is a good one and I drove home super turned on and excited to get handsy with myself, and I was proud and happy to have made new friends, but there was a melancholy to it, too. I passed the diner where I first met the Steampunks and wondered how things would’ve turned out if I’d been more ready for them, more confident and self-aware. I think things happened exactly the way they were supposed to, but I still miss them a lot and feel hurty for the experiences I may have missed out on. I can’t quite let go of the fantasy of them, of snuggling into their bed. I wanted them to be my first a lot of things.

But! I’m glad I still feel like high-fiving Steampunk Guy whenever I’m being awesomely slutty, and they’re both keeping in touch. And I’m starting to see how I can keep myself entertained until I’m healed and ready to resume the quest for love--that is a very, very good thing.

Unicorn Practice Is Easy Part Two: My Lucky Underwear Down His Pants

 

I wish I could give you identifying characteristics of the party from last Friday night, because it was a doozie. It hit the spot in a wide variety of ways. A pretty friend of mine even let me take off her dress—I didn’t even know I wanted to DO that! But that’s not what this story’s about.

I’m taking a break from romance until my home situation is ironed out, but that doesn’t mean I can’t keep having adventures. It’s impossible to turn off the flirt anyway. I went to the party with very little agenda other than to catch up with friends, but of course one always hopes that spanks might happen. I wore my short black and white dress that Steampunk Guy inspired me to buy a few months back, with leggings and a shiny red bra that matched my red satin heels. I couldn’t stay long because I had to drive to the beach in the morning, but I accomplished a lot of fun in two drinks’ worth of time.

Let’s call them Cute Master and Pretty Slave. I noticed them as soon as they came in the door. She’s a tall dark-haired knockout and he has that confident, cheery glow that well-sexed men tend to have—very appealing. Once they were settled into the party, I struck up a conversation with him and then she came and sat at his feet. She was wearing a fitted lacy black dress and a collar. I asked them all about their adventures and liked hearing about them fucking in all kinds of nice show-offy situations.

I asked them what advice they might have for a new unicorn.

“The unicorn can do no wrong. You’re what everyone’s looking for.”

When he said that, I had the sensation of sitting in a throne like a princess, the world at my feet. Knowing the realities of secondary-ness in general, I suspected that that might not be the whole story, and a friend standing behind me confirmed it:

“They don’t know what they’re looking for. And they don’t know what to do when they get it.”

Huh.

(I just want to stop and note that wanting to practice playing as a supporting character doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten that I want my own guy. Just I’m not ready for him yet and I still want to have fun. Plus! People are hot and I am alive.)

Cute Master is a goofball and an instigator. You know I love making friends with good bad influences. When I expressed (uncharacteristic!) hesitation about being the first one naked, he insisted that Pretty Slave take her dress off as encouragement. She stripped down to her corset (Oh such lovely little boobs peeking out the top. Picturing them I wish I’d gotten a little more handsy.) and panties, and I stripped down to nothing. Cute Master stuffed my underwear down the front of his pants, a cheeseball move that I found hilarious.

“Suck her nipple,” he said to Pretty Slave. I was sitting in a chair and she was on the floor. She looked up at me kinda wide-eyed and asked if she could, and I nodded, nervous-but-emphatically. It was the first time I’d been touched that way by a woman who isn’t Sweetie since the year 2000. Her mouth on me felt strange and new and I felt tentative at first but gave in to it, burying my head in her nice-smelling hair as she licked and sucked, gently running my hands over her back. He took the other nipple and sucked too hard (They’re my favorite part of me but sosensitive!) until I had to smack him in the back of the head and the spell was momentarily broken.

Unicorn Practice is Easy Part One: Note to Self

Hooray, the nice couple from Friday night gave me the go-ahead to write about them, but first here's some information I wish I'd had a few months ago:

How to Hit on a Couple:

1. Pick the cutest couple in the place.
2. Ask them if they have any advice for a new unicorn.
3. Flirt with them until they're doing stuff to me.

A Girl-Crush, A Wall of Grief, and Gold Star Breakup

This’ll be a long post, but I appreciate the way the three things fit together so here goes.

Way back in May when I met Steampunk Guy and Steampunk Girl, I hit on them both but I kind of backpedaled, so there was confusion all around and awkwardness between me and her. When he asked me about it the day after our first couch-date, I gave my standard not-usually-attracted-to-non-Sweetie-girls-but-I-wouldn’t-rule-it-out answer.

But when (a little over a week ago) the day finally came for our first metamour coffee, I thought back to my intentions that first night and realized that my first thought on seeing them was “I want these two to do stuff to me.”

We were meeting right after I’d just had a job interview, so I was feeling all competent and happy. I changed into my favorite blue dress in a café bathroom and felt glowy as I drove out to the suburbs. She’s chosen a coffee shop on a little Christmas village of a street near where they live. When I saw her, there was just no question as to whether I’d been hitting on them both. She’sjustsopretty. She’d come right from work and was wearing a vintage white wrap dress with cap sleeves and pearls. She had on pretty white sandals with wedge heels. I imagine we looked like an adorable pair of ladies.

She took charge, which was helpful since I’d wondered how a submissive and a bottom would fare. She bought me a perfect iced latte and even though it was eight million degrees out, I was glad to stroll down the street with her.

I felt like I bonded with her immediately. We talked and talked and talked. She made me feel superwelcome in their life, even suggesting adding me to one of their Google calendars. (Swoon, I know. I just couldn’t picture him actually doing that.) Even though he’d made it clear that I was just borrowing him from her, she made me feel like we were actually sharing, smoothing over the things about him that don’t always make sense, finding lots of things in common about what else we’re looking for. We’re both really strong women who like to stay that way until it’s time to submit, and out in the world that presents us both the same vexations sometimes. I told her I’d love to be her wing girl when it’s time for dom-hunting.

And here’s where it gets really swoony: She was amenable to the three of us doing snuggly things. That just made my heart giggle. I felt my inner unicorn wanting to come out and romp around, and why shouldn’t it? Without the weird half-monogamy I’d been arbitrarily giving Sweetie, a whole new set of possibilities opened up, and I was giddy with the release.

After I hugged her goodbye and texted him a high five, I drove back into the city inspired as all getout. My smutty imagination and my friend-making heart were all fizzy with hopes and dreams and scenes.

But. She’d reiterated their semi-rule about not dating people who are midbreakup, and I did feel that hanging over me. That was a particularly optimistic day in divorcetown, but what if they decided it was too big of a risk? And trying to make my divorce seem adorable all the time seemed like a recipe for disaster. I couldn’t stand the idea of them joining the overlarge pile of friendships wrecked by my mismanaged love life—I want that to happen exactly no more times.

Then Sweetie and I took our trip up to my mom’s and my sister’s. We didn’t acknowledge it at first, but it would be our last trip together for a long while. It was kind of okay. We played with my niece and nephews, chatted with the family, set off bittersweet fireworks. I felt numb-to-anxious most of the time, and when I hugged my baby nephew, my recently-admitted family urge twisted up an ache in my belly.

But it was alright until it was almost time to leave. I was doing one of my favorite things in the world, playing Mario Kart with the kids (I play as Peach, obviously.) when I started to get a really bad headache. I went out to the porch to get away from the game, and while I was out there I checked my phone, and it was dead. I get really attached to things, even gadgets, and I hadn’t backed up my numbers or my favorite texts, so the broken phone just went ahead and opened up the grief floodgates.

I didn’t quite escape crying in front of the kids, but we got out of there and once we were driving away, the sobs came hard and fast and ugly. I realized that my family would never be the same, and I felt like such a bad person and a failure for breaking up the marriage.

With pauses for friend and job search stuff, the sobs came hard from Sunday to Wednesday. I felt like I was gonna die.

In retrospect it seems crazy that in that state I was trying to make plans with Steampunk Guy, but we did have a whole bunch to talk about. I kinda felt like he was already gone, but you know I’m generally open to goodbye sex. But because of where I am on his list of priorities, his plan-making style takes a lot of self-confidence to deal with. I’d generally find out the day before if he could fit me in, and that worked fine for the little spate when I was working 60-hour weeks and having four partners, but it wasn’t working now. In the process of trying to convince him to include me more, I realized I was negotiating for a thing that had already passed.

If I really had seen him as a treat, it would have worked, but once I realized I liked Steampunk Girl too, I wanted real relationships with both of them. I knew he didn’t have room for that, and I was in no state to navigate it anyway.

I’d hoped to have the conversation in person, but it was weighing on me so I wrote him a bye-for-now love letter. He wrote back kindly and understandingly. Being a reader and a listener, he’d noticed the difference between what I want and what he has to offer. Although I was feeling sad about having to let go of him/them for now, reading his replies made me feel like I’d unlost him, like the warmth of the connection between us was still real. I hope it comes around again, lord knows I’d still love to climb all over the two of them, maybe someday when I’m all happy and settled in. But for now I’m really proud that I put the friendships first and did what I needed to do to take care of myself. There’s a lot of power in admitting what I want and I’m glad that they both helped me see it so clearly.

“We are being awesome at this breakup.” I typed, “Two gold stars.”

“Two gold stars and a pony sticker. High five :)”

I told him he could go ahead and make that a sparkly unicorn sticker and that’s the story of my first breakup that ever ended in a high five. Compared to that mess of a breakup with The Man, this feels like a miracle, it feels like I’ve come so far. Thanks for getting me here, pals. I'm sad we're not snuggling, but I’ll be so happy to see you around town.

Intermediate Rope Class With Sweetie

Since I got the tricky discussion group part of Saturday night out of the way, I can write about the fun parts. We weren’t sure which rope class section to go to, but Party Mistress had seen pictures of Sweetie’s rope work and thought we were ready to move up to the intermediate class. Spousal high-five!

The class was run by an adorable middle aged D/S couple. (If kink has taught me anything, it’s how to be awesome at being middle aged. I need to know!) I’m especially grateful to the slave/wife, because she offered to swap her Hello Kitty nipple tape for the purple plaid that I’d brought.

I stayed clothed, though, for the first part of the class. When the teacher asked me if I could put my arms behind my back, hands to elbows, I was so glad to. the teacher was impressed by how easily I did it—I love finding out that things I didn’t know were skills are skills!

I’d only been in a restraint harness once before, and that’s with Fireguy. When we learned how to find the radial nerve to avoid causing hand damage, I said “Oh! That’s why my thumb was twitching that time!” It’s scary to realize how much can go wrong with just a little carelessness—I know that’s so much pressure on tops, too.

The teacher said that Sweetie learns faster than most people do—his wife thanked her for learning so quickly so that she didn’t have to stand there demo-ing forever. Once or twice, the teacher put his arm around me to show Sweetie how to situate the rope. I smelled him and I was like ooooh, yeah, men. Thank goodness I didn’t say that out loud! Even though it was just being done in a demo mode, it felt good to have them both working on me at once. That isn’t something Sweetie would do in a scene, but I hope she will someday. I have a lot of dreams.

Despite the fact that the teacher kept reminding sweetie to pull tighter, we ran out of rope before she finished the entire harness, but she got enough done for me to feel the effect-tension, restraint, beautiful knots and a princess feeling. I wanted to strip down and let her practice more. I went into the bathroom to put tape in my nipples, the first time I’d tried such a thing. It felt much better going on than it did coming off, that’s for sure. I loved the way it looked, the way went with my blushy cheeks and flushed chest. I think I’m obsessed with pink because it’s the color of vitality in me, assurance that my blood’s flowing. Also, cute.

When I got back out on the floor I pulled down my dress and took off my bra, sort of bearing my breasts for all to see. Everyone was very busy with their own rope lessons, so I felt normal and not as noticed as I like to be. As Sweetie wound the ropes around me again, the teacher encouraged her to touch more. She was still a little stiff and self-conscious, but she did take her time to run her hands under and over my boobs, shoulders, hair. At times like this, I feel like we are a miracle of a nine-year marriage. After class, we took ourselves next door to Rita’s for some ice cream.

Next: another pretty pink scene.