Knotty Thursday: Three-Braid Harness and The Shy One Sexts!

 

I think this one is so pretty! Definitely one of my favorite rope selfies so far! If I do it again, I might start with an overhand knot and do the first braid a little lower-it got too tight on my neck after a little while. 

I adapted the harness from this Rory's Brainworks tutorial: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i6exY0MxmC8 It's one I'll probably refer to a lot, there are lots of different ways to finish it off, none of which ended up in this tie. I like how the weave-y bit looks kinda like armor, that part was my own fuzzy-headed creation.

Most exciting though! A wonderful first! I sent The Shy One the picture above, plus a face-showing version, and he took us to sextingtown! Where we've never been! I loved having GORGEOUS pictures of his cock, both under undies and free, to keep me company while I fired up the Rabbit. I loved learning about some more things he wants to try! I loved sending him a sleepy-grateful picture of my post-orgasm face snuggling up with my Snorlax squishmallow.  

I'd mentioned wanting to sext during our DTR talk week before last, and I'm so so happy that he remembered and went for it! I remain the luckiest Ma'am in the universe.

Knotty Thursday: Heart Harness and Princess of the Orgy

After! Blurry again sorry, I have no discipline.

The Song Sender is SO much fun to show off for. The pictures I've taken for him show me a different version of myself, prettier, more brazen, more bold. I have no idea how he does that but I've LOVED IT.

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, 

After I sent him the after picture, I asked what should I do now that I was all tied up.

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.

 

Knotty Thursday: Good Girl, So Pretty

 

It's taking me FOREVER to write about my second first date with The Song Sender, but spoiler alert, he is now a very nice dom who knows how to praise! Superswoon! 

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! 

Postscript: The Coach (Imaginary Asses Are SO Easy to Google!)

 

I guess it’s not a good sign that I’ve been feeling nostalgic for a breakup dinner from like eight years ago: I was looking for a hot story to send The Coach and I landed on part two of my Real Date/Car Sex story with Steampunk Guy. Here’s part one: https://kittencalendar.blogspot.com/2013/07/real-datecar-sex-with-steampunk-guy.html It’s not great that I refused to admit to myself that it WAS a breakup date until a couple weeks later, but looking at the story through my current pleasantly-poisoned-by-hookup-culture view, the dinner part of the story felt like a miracle. Steampunk Guy had like nine partners, including a wife, plus a kiddo to take care of, but he still took the time to break things off kindly. I felt, here in Slutty September of 2021, a burst of gladness that Steampunk Guy had, well, broken my heart, but in such a dignifying, humanized way.

The Coach didn’t break things off, he just finished getting vaccinated and still didn’t want to spend time with me in person. He still sexted a few late-nights a week, and I was still having fun with that until I wasn’t. But I can’t fathom, and I really wish someone would explain to me, how sexting could have been fun for him with someone he did not want to be in a room with. Why not just look up some porn or pay a cam girl (and tip her well!) instead of keeping someone he didn’t like on the line for longer than he wanted to?

When I responded to his messages/comments a month ago, I’d put a pin in the prob he and I had encountered long ago, the feeling of him having a fat fetish (rather than simply being attracted to whole hot fat people) or thinking I was just someone to be humiliated. I saw the physical mismatch of us—him twenty-nine and slight except in one particular way (I found out through unsolicited-but-not-entirely unwelcome dick pic, obvs.) (But is there such a thing as dick-catfishing? Probably.) and traditionally fit-looking, me 47, Amazonian and weighing in at 302 pounds. We WOULD have looked a little funny in public together, but someone who liked me as a person wouldn’t have cared.

What started as feeling appreciated, celebrated, overwhelmingly desired a month ago turned into hidden, erased, dirty-in-a-bad-way. Maybe he did feel attracted to me but ashamed about it, or maybe he just wanted me to be a sex-typing-bot whose feelings, bad days, and vulnerabilities he didn’t have to care about. Maybe he wasn’t brave or kind enough to turn me down directly. Maybe he was just a jerk. In fairness to him, I knew that trying to be casual would get me to this emotionally untenable place eventually. I just shouldn’t have let it go on until it hurt this bad.

This past few weeks have been a (not un-fun) scramble to find the things The Coach couldn’t provide in someone else, to distract me from the loneliness while I kept him in the mix. Not! A great! Strategy! As sad as I am to lose (and reblock) The Coach, I’m grateful to be done with that scramble. I’m so impatient with what I really want, it’s so annoyingly specific and (imaginary in this case) snuggle-prohibitive sometimes.

Yesterday, a car plowed into my side mirror and smashed it off on my way to work. I wasn’t hurt but I was heartbroken—I love my car so much, and the mirror metaphor was a little too on-the-nose. Sweetie-Now-BFF immediately sprung into action ordering a replacement mirror and rearranging her schedule to get me to work until it was fixed. And while that was happening, I was worrying that I would seem too needy when (okay IF) The Coach texted after ten. I know it’s not superfair to compare a TWO DECADES LONG friendship/love/friendship with a recent not-quite-a-fling, but BFF’s kindness and concern reminded me of what I’d like to have eventually with a guy. The Coach was not going to get me there.

So at quarter to ten, I said texted him the things I was feeling. He was was an entitled, bratty jackass about it. So ends my foolhardy foray into hookuptown. I can’t promise it’ll be the last, but I promise to keep trying to embrace wanting what I want. But first, wallowing.

 

Staycation Sext Fling Part Two: I Need an Ass Photographer

Part of my staycation festivities was a visit to the record store for car CDs—I’m trying to be more album-y lately. So that’s how I ended up listening to Nirvana’s Nevermind three times, smiling big and screaming along, on my short roadtrip to see some out-of-town art. No BFF to judge me for playing “Drain You” like a bazillion times, just me, a dramatic sky, and Kurt Cobain’s fucking perfect caterwauling and boss-of-me guitar.

So, through the combined influences of Kurt’s rasp and The Coach’s pre-trip forwardness, all the doors of my body and spirit were flung open by the time I got to my hotel, changed into my coziest PJs, settled amongst the many pillows, and lay down for a nap. Of course I couldn’t nap and of course I couldn’t wait and see if The Coach would send his eager-grin-emoji version of a “You up?” later. It sure didn’t matter that I hadn’t packed lube. I was soaked. I’d been soaked for days.

Even by myself, I could feel him all the way in me. I could feel his eagerness to please. I could feel myself holding him down. I could predict some sunny future where he’d get a little too rough with my nipples. The Coach has never been inside me, but also now he’s in there anyway, permanently, with the rest of them.

Maybe I started to feel the tender feeling creep in that night when he did text and got me into a helpless bliss and then (Pause to look up fuckboy in the dictionary. Not really but kind of.) fell asleep without saying goodnight. (The hotel bedding was REALLY soft.) Maybe in a just-got-off-hard-twice-and-about-to-see-some-amazing-art haze of happiness, the daydream machine whirred to life.

Or it could have been a couple nights later when a teensy bit of regular conversation preceded another nice smutfest. Or when he texted “Wide awake baby!” when it was taking a long time to get an ass-angle I liked enough to send him. (He put on The Dark Knight while he was waiting. For some reason I’m glad it was the Heath Ledger Joker and not the Jared Leto one. Not sure why that matters!)

I’m not sure how warm feelings happen with someone who texts “Oh can I cum on your tits too?” (Obvs yes! Hooray!) (Point of grammar though--I think it should be “cum” for the noun and “come” for the verb, but at least autocorrect didn’t wreck his “your” game!)

But yep, warm feelings. Smutty as all those gorgeous sentences were, it did feel like a sticky, slippery, phone-getting-all-messy kind of intimacy. A weird Miranda July kind of intimacy, but still. It took a lot of trust to keep writing and writing and writing to him, letting him know my fantasies without physics or even much friendship to ground my body, heart, or mind. Just naked, momentarily-uncomplicated desire. The ungroundedness would eventually make this playpalship unsustainable, but I’m glad for a little while it got to be exactly what it was.

Staycation Sext Fling Part One: The Big Dick Talk

 

Staycation Sext Fling Part One: The Big Dick Talk

When The Coach walked me to the car after the movie, the conversation got smutty real fast, though we were still at least three feet apart. For not-the-first time, he mentioned having a big dick and said he’d be happy to (presumably after his second vaccine shot) “stretch me out” any time. Which felt…ew? But also, yay?

The big dick talk was equal parts appealing and sweetly sad. Appealing because, as has been well-documented here, I do have that preference, even though it still feels like kind of an unfair preference to have. (S/O to Steampunk Guy, remember how much I fucking LOST MY MIND about him, another one who introduced himself big dick first? What a fucking WORK OF ART/piece of work he was, probably still is.)

But the big dick talk is a little endearingly sad too because, dude. It’s okay. Just relax and be a person. If I want to fuck you, I’ll be fucking your whole self, there’s no need to hustle for it that way. (But also, I liked the hustle, and I missed it a bunch when it left.)

Anyway, The Coach texted to make sure I got home okay, and that was the last datelike thing that happened.

Oh sexting. I love it/hate it the way I love/hate the rote “good mornings” of early dating (None of those from The Coach, just, like, “I want to be inside you” at 6 am before I’ve even made coffee, which was jarring but not unpleasantly so.) I love/hate sexting the way I love/hate the little red text numbers, which (as The Coach, a young millennial, probably wouldn’t remember) used to be the red answering machine numbers.

Anyway, this time around with The Coach, I pretty much just LOVED sexting. It was a rush to be so graphically, smuttily desired, so all at once. He had come (ha) a long way too—where his 2016 (or was it 2017?) texting style got too porny and harsh, this time he was present, more specific, more just with me, or at least it felt that way. Respectfully filthy, like he’d learned his lesson. Like he’d heard me all those years ago. He called me a filthy princess and I called him, toward the end, a good, good prince.

I liked the way our stories switched the power back and forth between us so easily, holding him down by the wrists one moment and being completely possessed the next. He even, in one sexty story, got gentle towards my asshole when I told him I’d never done that part before. (Typing that sentence reminds me that that was my dream so long ago, the Kind and Patient Ass Guy that I couldn’t quite feel like I deserved. Kinda glad both Steampunk Guy and Cute Master dropped the ball on that one, because I would very much still like that character to come along.) (For a few quick days, I hoped The Coach might be that character.)

Sexting felt like a good way to deal with my whole post-quarantine overwhelemed-by-touch thing. I could let the desire spark though me, be ravished both together with The Coach and at my own pace. When it got to be too much, (the sensation I mean, what we were saying was never too much) I could let go of myself literally and physically, be still and feel my whole body full or warmth and light and peace. Plus, I can neither type left-handed nor ever truly let go of punctuation.

 

 

 

 

 

OMG First Horror Movie Date, Part One

I’m not being falsely modest when I say I didn’t understand what The Coach was seeing when he first asked me out at my college bookstore job in 2016. I was in a real post-adventures schlubby phase. I probably had on my heather-purple college logo shirt with loose AND ill-fitting jeans and (still my faves admittedly) the Payless version of black lowtop Converse. It was first thing in the morning so my long hair was probably damp in its lazy bun. This was (only a little bit) before Mr. Makeout Music came into the picture and made me want to doll things up again.

But here he was, getting sports-guy snacks before work or class or whatever. Slight-but-strong, a little less than my height, skin the color and smoothness of caramel, fluttery innocent dark eyes. In retrospect, the way he hit on me was delightfully old-fashioned and direct: He wrote his number on the back of a receipt and JUST CAME OUT AND SAID (something like) “I think you’re really attractive and I’d like to take you out. Give me a call sometime.”

Honestly it was tempting to think he was trolling me, but he really did seem sincere! I was working with BFF at the time and, well after The Coach had left, I was all “I think ______ _______ asked me out?” (He’s a full-name guy. Love it.) I couldn’t imagine us having anything in common.

Next time he came in, he looked a little shy-but-still-swaggery and said “ You didn’t call!”

I was a little snappish about it—I had this idea that nobody should be hitting on someone when they’re stuck behind a counter, but seriously, 2016 me, I was a middle-aged assistant manager, not a kid! It’s not like there was a power imbalance, unless you count the part where he was 24. (As was Mr. Makeout Music! Should I stop automatically swiping left on the under-30 set? Maybe not.)

A few months later, I apologized for being kind of a B and asked him out, but he’d gotten a girlfriend by then, so I happily/flirtily wished them well.

After he and the girlfriend broke up and after I was COMPLETELY DECIMATED by Mr. Makeout Music/the 2016 election, the thing with The Coach came around again. We’d planned to get together causally, but got derailed by some mismatched sexting—I got triggered by the way he talked about my body, too porny and harsh. The ways he talked about my fatness felt fetishizing, so I blocked him. We were still friendly in person, so we meandered back into each other’s feeds. And then I blocked him some more.

In her book, What We Don’t Talk About When We Talk About Fat, Aubrey Gordon has a chapter about different forms of objectification of fat people that really shifted my perspective. Why, she asks (I’m paraphrasing) does it have to be something shameful when somebody is attracted to fat? Why do we consider it a bad fetish? I mean, he did need to learn a LITTLE bit of manners, but I wondered why I was so triggered by this particular (sporty, fit) person finding my big ass hot? (NOTE: Aubrey Gordon is way better at talking about this than I am. You really should read the book!)

Anyway, last year sometime, I sent a friend request from The Coach into the ignore pile, but he must’ve still been following. When I posted about loving the new Shang-Chi movie (Speaking of deliciiiiiiiiious men) The Coach commented/messaged three different ways to try and talk to me about the movie. And of course, I’m superslutty for talking about movies!

 

Fell in Like with The Drummer, Part Two: Kirk Cameron's Saving Christmas

 

 

It was the second weekend of December 2020. I had just pulled off my yearly Christmas gathering via Zoom so the place was decorated and full of beautiful cookies. I was really, really, REALLY excited to text through a bad movie with The Drummer, if a little concerned that I’d gone too far in the BAD direction. Maybe, I thought, not everyone would be entertained by the combination of Tiger Beat heartthrob and mocking Christianity. He’d been doing such a lovely job for a couple of weeks, praising (eee!) my photos of Christmas crafts and keeping me up to date on how cute his dog was being.

 

It was lovely not to feel the press towards sexting that so often comes with online dating. Once, when he said there should be a combination of all the holidays with an orgy post-vaccine, I briefly strayed into tinsel-bondage talk (Pretty image but really terrible idea I’ll bet!) but mostly there was this old-fashioned getting-to-know-each other that I really enjoyed.

 

I knew he deserved better than Saving Christmas but it seemed like good movies were a thing for in-person times.

 

When it was almost time to press play, I put on a pretty sweater and some red lipstick and took a selfie in front of Lenny Spruce, my Christmas tree. (Because of Mrs. Maisel, they’re always named that, but this year it was especially exciting to get an actual spruce!) He (The Drummer, not Lenny Spruce) pronounced the selfie adorable and it was time to start the movie.

 

In the past few weeks, it’s dawned on me that in the MST3K family of products, it’s extremely rare to see not-a-white-man doing the riffing. (S/o to Baron Vaughn the best Tom Servo though!) Sure Felicia Day is sometimes there being awesome and Gypsy got in a rare word or two, but the actual riffing part was something I never considered I might like to do. I may not be funny or clever, I might make too many Midsommar references, but mocking bad movies is the best quarantine hobby I’ve found so far.

 

The Drummer’s sense of humor matched very nicely with mine—a combination of present-day compassion and Gen X irritation. Every once in a while as the quips popped up in the Bumble yellow bubbles I had to just stop and say “OMG I AM SO HAPPY RIGHT NOW” before going back to ironytown. Cute artist drummer guy mocking a terrible movie with me while I drank wine and ate Christmas cookies?! Has ANYTHING ever been better? Perfect. Just such a silly respite and joy.

Even better, he ended the conversation by:

1.      Asking me to pick the next movie.

2.      Mentioning that Left Behind is a trilogy

And

3.      A kiss emoji.

 

I gave him my number and we joked that this could either lead to a Growing Pains podcast or a cult, or both. OH The Drummer, you are such a gift and a treat.

A Veto and a Happy Accident, Part One: A Dream and the Part that Sucked

So before I slog through the cry-my-heart-out-about-the-Cutest-Boy-at-the Party part of yesterday, I have to backtrack to about a month ago, to a dream about a different guy. One morning I had a dream that Steampunk Guy and I were at the same event, gathered around watching something happen. Unsure of how to approach him, I decided to simply crawl into his lap. He told be he was glad that I’d stopped keeping things at arm’s length. After that, things were (in the dream) resolved and I wasn’t abstaining from him anymore. I woke up with such a warm feeling of well-being.

Later that day, in real life, I was goofing around in my facebook inbox and found, in that silly “other messages” folder, a message from him from when we first met. I friended him and that’s (somewhat paradoxically) how I started to feel like we were actual friends. It’s easier to have perspective about someone when he’s busy pressing “like” like all the other human beings.

Anyway, so that’s some foreshadowing for the awesome part of the story (During which, I swear, I meet and play with a girl who has “Awesome” tattooed on her wrist.) but first I need to plow through some nonsense I was foolish enough to put myself through.

A few weeks ago, I gave myself this gold star for breaking things off with the Cutest Boy at the Party because his relationship wasn’t in a place where he could have playpals. It was exactly the right choice and if I’d had enough faith and willpower I would’ve stuck to it, except that I missed him too much after I’d stopped him from texting.

Once my feelings for him simmered down (I thought) from five-alarm crush to potential someday play partner, I got us back into the habit of texting, and we both got us back into the habit of flirting. We joked about taking the sexTARDIS to a time when we could play. One day he let me know he’d be alone for the evening and I instigated a pretty wonderful sexting session. The boy is a very gifted writer, and though he’s never touched any of my pink parts, he makes me wetter than anyone else does. (He was also a loyal reader, which means he knows which buttons to push.) It was so much fun that, when I got to the gym afterwards, I made the receptionist lady high-five me.

I knew I wanted more than texting though, real life rather than the sexTARDIS. (Of which, I’m proud to say, I was unquestionably the driver.) But we kept texting all day every day, and he got me through a 12-hour workday by talking about being my slutty Companion and suggesting I hit on the parents at Back to School night. One evening he just called for no reason, and though that felt like it might be progress toward real life, I also suspected he was sneaking the call.

Yesterday, I was enjoying my day off and reveling in the newest Chuck Klosterman book, feeling decadent with free time on my one day off this week. It was the first time I’d been alone and not-moving all week and it felt AMAZING. Three texts came from CBATP, unusual for a Saturday. (By the way, Dear Couples: All-weekend radio silence is for the birds. Best, Single Poly Girl) He said she was still jealous and still didn’t want to play with anyone else, and didn’t want him to either. I offered again to stop flirting, and he said yes, that would be best.

There were absolutely no high-fives in this breakup-type-thing, friends. (There needs to be a name for breakups of things that are not things yet.) He was doing the exact right thing and he said he still hoped to be play partners some day, he just didn’t want to lead me on or hurt me. Too late, pal.

I called him crying like a complete fool.

“I guess I just want to say goodbye.”

“No! No goodbye!”

He said he still wanted to be friends but I knew there was no way I could keep in touch with him without keeping the fantasies going for myself. He just turns me on so completely, and apparently turns my heart on too. Goddamn these boyfriend material guys who are not for me.

Anyway, I pointed out in kind of a not-nice way that we aren’t friends, that we were something else, and it was a real and good something else. I told him that I hated that one person got to decide for the three of us whether that potential got followed. His answer was vexing, predictable, and stabby: “Because I love her.”

Of course he loves her! Why the fuck should that preclude him liking me?! Why is this a reason to throw away a perfectly nice girl with everything to offer? My poly brain will never fully understand it.

Poly-tease couples are becoming my one of my very least favorite things. It happened earlier this year, too, during the time the blog was off. A nice Swinger couple got me all in a tizzy for them and then they decided they weren’t ready even to just go to stuff with me. I was superpissed then and I felt bad for getting mad. I know I should be all “Thank you for taking care of yourself.” whenever there’s a no, but I can’t always pull it off.  Seriously, couples who are just thinking about opening up: Get your shit together before you get my fantasy-engines going. Grrrowr.

I pointed out that at no point in the past two weeks had he acted like someone who was unavailable, but that is not quite true. He said he’s been trying to make it okay on his end but it just wasn’t working. Oddly his girl offered me snuggles around the same time on Fet, so I don’t think he actually TOLD her who he was being a no-go with. I think I may have been vetoed without even having been named in the conversation. Or maybe I wasn’t vetoed at all and he was just using her as an excuse.

We didn’t hang up the phone on good terms. I was pissed at him for dumping me and for messing with my party swagger for the evening. I said jealous things I’m really not proud of. After we got off the phone, I cried so hard that I thought I’d implode.

It was only a few weeks and we never even kissed in real life (And I think only once in a text…) but that combination of that really intense and beautiful aftercare and the all-day-every-weekday conversations got me invested in a way that left me surprised and devastated.

But in the end, I’m glad I let myself get giddy for him. I’m glad I drove us through all those conversations and imaginary adventures, even though it wasn’t strictly the right thing to do. Usually when a thing gets broken off, I delete all the texts first thing, watch the little yellow progress bar count through them as they go, but I’m putting that off for a little while. He was special, and I’m sad he was gone.

Next: I put on pretty underpants and head for Old Timey Guy’s.