Where are the lines drawn?
Where do the rules intersect?
The most basic rule in BDSM is that the Top gets their way. (Ok, so technically the bottom controls the scene and whatever else, but that's the idea of it anyway)
The most basic rule of poly is that no one moves forward without everyone's consent.
So how can you be both poly and D/s?
Especially as a Top?
Ok, this is kind of a trick question. I don't really see a problem with it. Jack and I had some issues in the beginning, because he grew up only knowing monogamy. He was completely squicked the first time I suggested he have sex with someone else without me being directly involved. Now, though? I've been trying to get him laid for months, and he's cooperating rather well for someone who's totally antisocial by nature :)
So here's where I throw my $.02 in.
Consent. Everything we do, both as kinksters and poly folks (those of us who are either, or both) is about consent.
I wouldn't dream of tying someone up and beating them without their consent. That's abuse.
I wouldn't dream of playing sexually with someone without my partner's consent. That's cheating.
Maybe this issue is more clear-cut for those in pure Dom/sub relationships. Or at least, in my fantasy of them- the Dom says, "We are poly," and then they are. The Dominant (in an M/s relationship, at least) has 'implied consent' on behalf of the submissive. Or at least, that's the theory. Most states don't accept that anymore, and nor do most subs.
See, so I know better. I was in a submissive relationship for a while, and it sure as hell didn't work that way. No Dom in their right mind, who actually cares about their sub, makes blanket decisions like that without taking the sub's desires into consideration and soliciting their input. To do so would be an engraved invitation for the end of the relationship, with much strife and drama in the meantime.
But for those of us like Jack and I, who are both mostly Toppy and very vanilla as partners, it's, um, even more complicated.
Because it means I didn't get to decide one day, "Hey, I miss being poly! Hey Jack, we're poly now so I'm going to go play with this person!"
*laughs*
I wish. Seriously.
It took months of negotiations, discussions, and boundary-setting. Hells, we're still not all the way there- Jack is still totally uncomfortable with me doing overtly sexual play with someone he doesn't feel a connection with himself. Don't ask me why, I don't gte it either. But it's his thing, so I respect it even when I don't understand it.
Because we're partners, and that's what that means to me.
He doesn't get my love of horses. But he respects it. We're partners.
I'll be honest- it was hell for both of us. I'm naturally poly, so I honestly don't understand his feelings of fear of rejection, his jealousy, his desire for monogamy. I have no way to relate to them, so when he brought them up, my instinct was to tell him that he was being silly, to 'get over it'. I'm not going to leave him for someone else- with poly I don't have to!- so what's he getting his knickers in a twist over, anyway?
Yeah. Not Bella's most mature response.
And poor Jack, raised with monogamy his entire life, who'd never even *heard* of poly before he met me, suddenly finds himself with this girlfriend who can't have sex with him, but wants the freedom to be sexual with other people. WTF?!
Poor guy. I'm a shitty girlfriend sometimes, seriously.
So we negotiated. And we still negotiate. Every new partner, every new step, we negotiate. On my end, he's got blanket permission provided that it's barriered. As far as I'm concerned, he can fuck who he wants (although I get veto power!), beat who he wants, and even just snuggle with who he wants, because I feel totally secure in the fact that he's still coming home to me.
On his end, we negotiate. He's come a really long way, but this is still uncharted territory for him. I have blanket permission with girls (what *is* it about straight men not finding other women to be a threat? To be somehow *safe*? Misogynistic bastards, all of them!), but with guys? Yeah... negotiations central. I swear, I could talk people out of hostage situations by this point, I think!
But it's worth it.
It's worth it because every day when I wake up next to him, he feels secure in our bed, in our relationship.
It's worth it because every time I come home high from beating the CRAP out of someone else, he smiles to see my excitement because he knows that I'm still coming home to him.
It's worth it because now that I'm strap-on shopping, even though he has no interest whatsoever in them, he looks with me and gives me his thoughts on them, and enjoys my excitement.
Sure, our negotiations about my taking Kat as mine caused some pretty serious fights. Sure, I got pissed and felt like he was choosing to be a pain in the ass about the whole thing. Sure, our negotiations about Terry and Lucivar took hours of one day, and the idea of all of them in my room at DomCon gave me anxiety attacks several times.
But it's worth it, because I know that everyone in my life has a security, a surety, of where they stand with me. They know that I love them. They know what my rules are, and they know why. We may not all like them all the time, but we know them. My lovers know that I won't abandon them, won't just walk away because Jack is upset about something. And Jack knows that no one will ever take him away from me.
Do I bemoan the constant balancing act sometimes? Do I think how much easier all of this would be if I were single sometimes?
Well, duh. I'm human.
But when I wake up in Jack's arms with wisps of the memory of someone else's scent on my skin, and I know that this is a safe place for all of us... well, then, there're no negotiations that aren't worth it.
Maybe I don't get to be MistressGoddessUberDominaFromHell and say, "This is my will, so mote it be!" but you know what? Most of them don't get to either... at least, not those in healthy relationships ;-)
28 November 2008
HNF- with horses.
So I sorta didn't manage an HNT yesterday.
That whole Thanksgiving thing... so here's some real HNF, actually of me.
Ok, so it's more a chance to show off the horses I work with, but whatever.
That whole Thanksgiving thing... so here's some real HNF, actually of me.
Ok, so it's more a chance to show off the horses I work with, but whatever.
27 November 2008
More Anita Blake quotes
"If he'd been a girlfriend I would have asked by now, but guy friends re different. Sometimes you have to sneak up on them... all men are leery of their emotions, spook them and they'll shut down. If you're careful, quiet, not too eager, sometimes you'll learn more. Of course, sometimes you have to club men over the head with some question to get any sense out of them, but they prefer to speak from a quiet place." -6
“Sex is one of the most personal things we do as people. To have someone who says she loves you limit how you express yourself in the bedroom is like a small death. It kills the soul." -11
"It was one of the highs of BDSM, that possibility of disaster and pain. Not the pain you wanted, but that this time your partner could go too far. We had our safe words, and I trusted... (him)... implicitly, or I never would have let him tie me up, but still... part of the game was that you looked into your lover’s eyes and let him see, that you aw the darkness in them. That you saw the potential for... evil, but you trusted that he wouldn’t do it. You trusted him enough to be helpless. It was a lot of trust to have... this odd trust." -22
"I mean...(her)... Idea of love and your idea of love weren't the same. You want to be consumed, not smothered. A fire needs air to burn bright. She took your air away, and the fire died." -43
"...I've always spoken my mind, I’ve always been independent. That is not a trait that draws men to pretty, petite, delicate-looking women. They want to protect and coddle, and do stupid shit like that." -56
"I held him while he wept... he cried in huge racking spasms, but he wasn't loud. His body felt like it was being torn apart with grief but he didn't shout with it. He cried like someone who'd been taught not to attract too much attention to his grief. Too much noise and they'll come and find you, to find out why the tears." -91-92
"If this is your version of careful, then be reckless; it's got to work better." -129
(Blood Noir, Laurell K Hamilton)
“Sex is one of the most personal things we do as people. To have someone who says she loves you limit how you express yourself in the bedroom is like a small death. It kills the soul." -11
"It was one of the highs of BDSM, that possibility of disaster and pain. Not the pain you wanted, but that this time your partner could go too far. We had our safe words, and I trusted... (him)... implicitly, or I never would have let him tie me up, but still... part of the game was that you looked into your lover’s eyes and let him see, that you aw the darkness in them. That you saw the potential for... evil, but you trusted that he wouldn’t do it. You trusted him enough to be helpless. It was a lot of trust to have... this odd trust." -22
"I mean...(her)... Idea of love and your idea of love weren't the same. You want to be consumed, not smothered. A fire needs air to burn bright. She took your air away, and the fire died." -43
"...I've always spoken my mind, I’ve always been independent. That is not a trait that draws men to pretty, petite, delicate-looking women. They want to protect and coddle, and do stupid shit like that." -56
"I held him while he wept... he cried in huge racking spasms, but he wasn't loud. His body felt like it was being torn apart with grief but he didn't shout with it. He cried like someone who'd been taught not to attract too much attention to his grief. Too much noise and they'll come and find you, to find out why the tears." -91-92
"If this is your version of careful, then be reckless; it's got to work better." -129
(Blood Noir, Laurell K Hamilton)
Thanks-giving thoughts
I got a call this morning from Suzanne Sexysadist, an awesome friend and amazing Domme.
It made me realize all over again how blessed I am for the people in my life.
Thank you.
And Happy Thanksgiving, to those who celebrate it.
Although it's not a holiday I'm much into, today I will be at Rev and Chef's, eating the best.food.ever, and hanging out with amazing people who love and respect me for who I am. Broken bits and all.
Next Thanksgiving, or so Lucivar and I chatted about yesterday, I think that I will put on an Orphans Thanksgiving, in the spirit of one of my my livejournal friends.
Lucivar said: "...kinky people are all kind of orphans though. Involved in relationships that their famlies don't understand or know about. We need a kink-family gathering."
I think he's right. And not just for us kinksters. There are so many people I love who are separated from their families, estranged from their families, or just plain too far away and too broke to get to them.
So next year, I resolve to have an Orphans Thanksgiving for those of us who are orphans- either permanently or just temporarily from distance or circumstance.
And you know what?
I'm thank-ful not only for the idea, but for the fact that I'm capable of doing it.
It made me realize all over again how blessed I am for the people in my life.
Thank you.
And Happy Thanksgiving, to those who celebrate it.
Although it's not a holiday I'm much into, today I will be at Rev and Chef's, eating the best.food.ever, and hanging out with amazing people who love and respect me for who I am. Broken bits and all.
Next Thanksgiving, or so Lucivar and I chatted about yesterday, I think that I will put on an Orphans Thanksgiving, in the spirit of one of my my livejournal friends.
Lucivar said: "...kinky people are all kind of orphans though. Involved in relationships that their famlies don't understand or know about. We need a kink-family gathering."
I think he's right. And not just for us kinksters. There are so many people I love who are separated from their families, estranged from their families, or just plain too far away and too broke to get to them.
So next year, I resolve to have an Orphans Thanksgiving for those of us who are orphans- either permanently or just temporarily from distance or circumstance.
And you know what?
I'm thank-ful not only for the idea, but for the fact that I'm capable of doing it.
26 November 2008
The Corpsman
Last night I heard from an old friend for the first time in a long while.
I'll call him the Corpsman here.
We went to Navy Boot Camp together- Great Mistakes, ah how dearly I don't miss you!
Less than a year later, I was discharged for medical reasons, but the Corpsman went on to be just that: an FMF Corpsman. Not only did he get me through Boot Camp- every time I thought I wasn't strong enough, couldn't do it, hurt too damned much (I was injured through most of Boot Camp but graduated on time anyway), he was there to tell me that I could- but he went on to be exactly what I wanted to be. A Fleet Marine Force Corpsman.
See, I'll explain.
I grew up around cops, cowboys, bikers, and Marines. But I knew that the Corps itself wasn't for me. I'd just spent most of my young life patching people up, though, so I knew where I did fit in with my Marines: as a corpsman. The Marines don't have medics (or dental or religious personnel) of their own, they rely on Navy Corpsmen. FMF Corpsmen are those who choose to train to an extra level so that they can be attached to Marine units. They train with them, are deployed with them, fight beside them- and save them.
That's what I wanted to do.
And that's what the Corpsman did.
After we graduated, we stayed in touch, stayed close friends. We fell a little in love with each other- the way that people do who survive an intense experience together.
But I got out of the Navy, and moved to Tampa.
We kept chatting sometimes. He was deployed to Iraq, and I wrote him every week, and sent boxes every 2-3 weeks. I kept his unit supplied with $2 dvds :)
Halfway through the deployment, we started flirting. Well, we'd always flirted, but it wasn't serious. It started to be. We started talking about getting together, and whatthat would take. He always encouraged me to follow my dreams, reminding me that he'd never give up his, either. We talked about BDSM, about fantasies, desires. We talked about polyamory and desire.
One day, though, I realized that I wasn't sure how much of our attraction was a combination of my codependence and his "girl back home" ideal, and how much was really us.
So I started backing off. We still talked a lot, but eventually I met Jack and he met another girl.
We stayed in touch a while, then drifted away.
And now he's back.
Still funny, still wickedly intelligent, still bi, still switchy. And I'm still as fascinated with him as I was 5 years ago (this month!) when I saw him last.
He is *so* coming to visit us when we move!
I'll call him the Corpsman here.
We went to Navy Boot Camp together- Great Mistakes, ah how dearly I don't miss you!
Less than a year later, I was discharged for medical reasons, but the Corpsman went on to be just that: an FMF Corpsman. Not only did he get me through Boot Camp- every time I thought I wasn't strong enough, couldn't do it, hurt too damned much (I was injured through most of Boot Camp but graduated on time anyway), he was there to tell me that I could- but he went on to be exactly what I wanted to be. A Fleet Marine Force Corpsman.
See, I'll explain.
I grew up around cops, cowboys, bikers, and Marines. But I knew that the Corps itself wasn't for me. I'd just spent most of my young life patching people up, though, so I knew where I did fit in with my Marines: as a corpsman. The Marines don't have medics (or dental or religious personnel) of their own, they rely on Navy Corpsmen. FMF Corpsmen are those who choose to train to an extra level so that they can be attached to Marine units. They train with them, are deployed with them, fight beside them- and save them.
That's what I wanted to do.
And that's what the Corpsman did.
After we graduated, we stayed in touch, stayed close friends. We fell a little in love with each other- the way that people do who survive an intense experience together.
But I got out of the Navy, and moved to Tampa.
We kept chatting sometimes. He was deployed to Iraq, and I wrote him every week, and sent boxes every 2-3 weeks. I kept his unit supplied with $2 dvds :)
Halfway through the deployment, we started flirting. Well, we'd always flirted, but it wasn't serious. It started to be. We started talking about getting together, and whatthat would take. He always encouraged me to follow my dreams, reminding me that he'd never give up his, either. We talked about BDSM, about fantasies, desires. We talked about polyamory and desire.
One day, though, I realized that I wasn't sure how much of our attraction was a combination of my codependence and his "girl back home" ideal, and how much was really us.
So I started backing off. We still talked a lot, but eventually I met Jack and he met another girl.
We stayed in touch a while, then drifted away.
And now he's back.
Still funny, still wickedly intelligent, still bi, still switchy. And I'm still as fascinated with him as I was 5 years ago (this month!) when I saw him last.
He is *so* coming to visit us when we move!
Love?
"It may a crush, or hero worship [or friendship, or respect mixed with lust, or...], but remember... that it's the strongest emotion he's ever had for a woman. It may not be love, but if you've never felt anything stronger, how do you tell the difference?" -The Harlequin (Laurell K Hamilton, p 250)
Too true, about too many of the men I've known.
Too true, about too many of the men I've known.
I need your help
The girl who wanted to take Sarah, our rescue dog, fell through.
And now Bama Bully Rescue doesn't think they can help us with her heartworm treatments.
It's a light load, so it's so stupid to think that it could kill her just because I'm poor and she doens't have a home yet.
Help me, please?
You don't have to donate much. $1, $10, whatever you can afford.
Just please help me save Sarah's life.
She's getting spayed today, and she deserves a home.
25 November 2008
Sex and food
I cooked yesterday.
Homemade apple butter, chili, lamb chops, and breakfast in the crockpot.
There's something uniquely fulfilling about cooking, to me. It gives me the same pleased, contented feeing as good sex with someone I love.
Strange, no?
But it does.
Cooking- and more importantly, feeding people, just makes me happy. I know that 'happy' is a non-specific word, and good writers aren't supposed to use nonspecific words.
But it's the best word, because it's a nonspecific feeling. Just a general feeling of pleasure, joy, contentment.
Happiness.
The same way I feel curled up against him right after good sex. Pleased, fulfilled, content, and already thinking about the cleaning up I'll have to do ;-)
And the fact that I tend to cook naked assures that Jack loves it when I cook, too.
Homemade apple butter, chili, lamb chops, and breakfast in the crockpot.
There's something uniquely fulfilling about cooking, to me. It gives me the same pleased, contented feeing as good sex with someone I love.
Strange, no?
But it does.
Cooking- and more importantly, feeding people, just makes me happy. I know that 'happy' is a non-specific word, and good writers aren't supposed to use nonspecific words.
But it's the best word, because it's a nonspecific feeling. Just a general feeling of pleasure, joy, contentment.
Happiness.
The same way I feel curled up against him right after good sex. Pleased, fulfilled, content, and already thinking about the cleaning up I'll have to do ;-)
And the fact that I tend to cook naked assures that Jack loves it when I cook, too.
22 November 2008
Corollary
to a conversation with the Hesitant Adventurer, regarding emotions and control, from Laurell K. Hamilton:
"That calm not of gentle meditation and the modern ideal of peace of mind, but of the older ideal, when control was carved from pain and hardship, and painted in scars across your flesh." -Danse Macabre (Laurell K. Hamilton, p. 339)
"That calm not of gentle meditation and the modern ideal of peace of mind, but of the older ideal, when control was carved from pain and hardship, and painted in scars across your flesh." -Danse Macabre (Laurell K. Hamilton, p. 339)
Dreams
Last night, I dreamed.
I dreamed about taking him and bending him over my bed. Tying his ankles wide to the feet, and his hand to the headboard. The ropes are multi-colored, almost pretty against his skin, and he twists his face back to give me an uncertain look.
I love that uncertain look, the one that says that he isn't sure what I plan to do, but he wants to find out.
The one that says he's just a little bit afraid of me.
I dreamed of his body stretched at the foot of my bed, his feet planted on the hardwood floor, legs spread wide and vulnerable cock and balls dangling there.
I dreamed of his chest flat to my comforter, his lovely ass and back exposed to me, and that uncertain look on his face while I opened my toybox to decide what I was going to do to him.
I dreamed of an embarrassment of riches.
I dreamed about taking him and bending him over my bed. Tying his ankles wide to the feet, and his hand to the headboard. The ropes are multi-colored, almost pretty against his skin, and he twists his face back to give me an uncertain look.
I love that uncertain look, the one that says that he isn't sure what I plan to do, but he wants to find out.
The one that says he's just a little bit afraid of me.
I dreamed of his body stretched at the foot of my bed, his feet planted on the hardwood floor, legs spread wide and vulnerable cock and balls dangling there.
I dreamed of his chest flat to my comforter, his lovely ass and back exposed to me, and that uncertain look on his face while I opened my toybox to decide what I was going to do to him.
I dreamed of an embarrassment of riches.
21 November 2008
Bookstore Bottoming
We were sitting on the floor at the bookstore, in the late autumn sunshine, my head in his lap.
I was reading another Anita Blake book (I'm not really that obsessed with them, I just decided to reread the series because it's been a while), and generally just enjoying his company. He petted my hair as I read, and I made small, happy noises.
He leaned down, kissing me gently, and I parted my lips for him.
I've been feeling pretty submissive lately, so this was nice.
He gripped my jaw gently while I opened my mouth for him, and he explored me gently with his tongue, soft and wet against my lips.
I made small, happy sounds for him, writhing a little.
He tightened his grip and my noises got happier.
He smiled. I love that evil look in his eyes. Usually, I see that evil look when we're sharing toys over the helpless body of some hapless masochist, but today, seeing it in his eyes just for me, I shivered.
I know exactly how twisted his mind is.
He caressed me gently, until I writhed a little and couldn't stand it anymore.
"Hurt me, please?" I whispered, before I could lose my nerve.
Almost instantly, his hand tightened around my throat and I closed my eyes, back arching in pleasure.
He released my throat slowly, almost reluctantly and petted me a little while I made more small happy sounds. Then he wrapped his fingers in my hair and dragged my head around a little, sending me instantly under even further.
Goddess, I love that sensation.
He pulled my face up to his and kissed me- gently, the barest brush of lips while his- then dug his nails into my throat.
His teeth into my ear.
I was whimpering softly, trying not to draw attention to myself in the bookstore, but too aroused to care very much.
He took my finger into his mouth, biting down until I gasped.
And then he wrapped me in his arms, and told me that he loves me.
I was reading another Anita Blake book (I'm not really that obsessed with them, I just decided to reread the series because it's been a while), and generally just enjoying his company. He petted my hair as I read, and I made small, happy noises.
He leaned down, kissing me gently, and I parted my lips for him.
I've been feeling pretty submissive lately, so this was nice.
He gripped my jaw gently while I opened my mouth for him, and he explored me gently with his tongue, soft and wet against my lips.
I made small, happy sounds for him, writhing a little.
He tightened his grip and my noises got happier.
He smiled. I love that evil look in his eyes. Usually, I see that evil look when we're sharing toys over the helpless body of some hapless masochist, but today, seeing it in his eyes just for me, I shivered.
I know exactly how twisted his mind is.
He caressed me gently, until I writhed a little and couldn't stand it anymore.
"Hurt me, please?" I whispered, before I could lose my nerve.
Almost instantly, his hand tightened around my throat and I closed my eyes, back arching in pleasure.
He released my throat slowly, almost reluctantly and petted me a little while I made more small happy sounds. Then he wrapped his fingers in my hair and dragged my head around a little, sending me instantly under even further.
Goddess, I love that sensation.
He pulled my face up to his and kissed me- gently, the barest brush of lips while his- then dug his nails into my throat.
His teeth into my ear.
I was whimpering softly, trying not to draw attention to myself in the bookstore, but too aroused to care very much.
He took my finger into his mouth, biting down until I gasped.
And then he wrapped me in his arms, and told me that he loves me.
Morning
I woke up this morning, warm and drowsly content, with arousal still sticky on my thighs.
It's a good morning.
It's a good morning.
20 November 2008
Amusement is
chatting with a good friend on the phone about pets, work, etc while she fucks her boy's ass and he makes yummy, yummy noises.
I have the best friends EVER.
I have the best friends EVER.
HNT- Half-Naked Thursdays
So I want to start doing HNTs, but here's the thing. I suck at taking pics of myself.
So until I get moved up to Atlanta, and someone else can man the camera, I think I'm just going to post other people's half-naked pretties.
So there.
19 November 2008
Campsites
I talked to a very dear friend today, and it made me think about some things (once the homicidal rage and overwhelming need to hold him and make every pain he has ever endured go away, that is).
Dan Savage wrote not long ago about the "Campsite Rule", in which your job when dating someone younger than you is to, like a campsite, leave them better than you found them.
But why is that confined to those younger than us? I say that as someone who almost exclusively dates people older than her- I'm 24. Most people younger than me are idiots, to be blunt. But if, say, Jack and I were to break up (heaven forfend), he would be (I like to think) a better, more well-rounded and relationship-savvy person for it. I know that I would be.
So here's my take on the Campsite Rule:
everyone is your campsite. Everyone you talk to, everyone you have sex with, everyone you hang out with. If you're not improving them, and their life, in some way, then why are you there?
If you haven't made them feel a little more cared about, a little more accepted, understood, challenged, wanted, emboldened, strengthened, heard, wiser from your company, then why are you in theirs?
We're all fragile, folks. We've all got fears and insecurities and issues, and we're all just trying to feel safe, wanted, accepted. Every heart is a fragile thing, so don't forget to handle them with care.
Dan Savage wrote not long ago about the "Campsite Rule", in which your job when dating someone younger than you is to, like a campsite, leave them better than you found them.
But why is that confined to those younger than us? I say that as someone who almost exclusively dates people older than her- I'm 24. Most people younger than me are idiots, to be blunt. But if, say, Jack and I were to break up (heaven forfend), he would be (I like to think) a better, more well-rounded and relationship-savvy person for it. I know that I would be.
So here's my take on the Campsite Rule:
everyone is your campsite. Everyone you talk to, everyone you have sex with, everyone you hang out with. If you're not improving them, and their life, in some way, then why are you there?
If you haven't made them feel a little more cared about, a little more accepted, understood, challenged, wanted, emboldened, strengthened, heard, wiser from your company, then why are you in theirs?
We're all fragile, folks. We've all got fears and insecurities and issues, and we're all just trying to feel safe, wanted, accepted. Every heart is a fragile thing, so don't forget to handle them with care.
Conversation
"I'm still scared of being 'too'."
"Too what?"
"Too anything. Too needy, too scared, too loud, to fucked up. I'm still scared I'll be too, and you'll get tired of it and leave."
*long silence*
"That's your cue to say something comforting, you know."
"I know, I'm trying to think of how to say it."
*long, scared pause*
"We've been together almost three years, and we've been through some... really... rough times. And that tells me that we have what it takes to spend the rest of our lives together. Which is good, because I want to."
*random hysterical bawling/laughing*
(which by the way.... bad idea while the person you're clinging to while you do it is driving)
"Too what?"
"Too anything. Too needy, too scared, too loud, to fucked up. I'm still scared I'll be too, and you'll get tired of it and leave."
*long silence*
"That's your cue to say something comforting, you know."
"I know, I'm trying to think of how to say it."
*long, scared pause*
"We've been together almost three years, and we've been through some... really... rough times. And that tells me that we have what it takes to spend the rest of our lives together. Which is good, because I want to."
*random hysterical bawling/laughing*
(which by the way.... bad idea while the person you're clinging to while you do it is driving)
In the mood to submit
I'm in the mood to submit.
I'm starting to relax again as things calm down, but I'm still a little tense.
So I'm in the mood to submit.
I'm in the mood for your hand in my hair, your voice a harsh whisper against my ear. I'm in the mood to feel that thrill of fear when you touch me, that moment of wondering of whether you'll hurt me or not. That shivering uncertainty of whether your next touch will be a caress or a blow.
I'm in the mood to hear you call me your little whore, to feel your hand wrapped around my throat and squeezing. To feel my breath cut off with a soft gasp, that spurt of panic when I can't breathe. The melting trust as I realize that you control even the flow of air into my lungs.
I'm in the mood to feel myself pressed into your body, your grip tight, painful, on my cunt even as it makes me wet. To feel your lips brush mine with frightening tenderness even as you whisper the things you want to do to me.
I'm in the mood to have you hurt me. To feel you press into the tenderest parts of me until my mouth gapes in a silent scream. To feel my sense of Baumeister's 'self' slip away until I am only a body, only a bundle of nerves and wires for your manipulation.
I'm in the mood to submit to you.
To give you my body to use, my mind to break.
I want you to break me. I want you to hurt me, to use me, to break me.
I'm starting to relax again as things calm down, but I'm still a little tense.
So I'm in the mood to submit.
I'm in the mood for your hand in my hair, your voice a harsh whisper against my ear. I'm in the mood to feel that thrill of fear when you touch me, that moment of wondering of whether you'll hurt me or not. That shivering uncertainty of whether your next touch will be a caress or a blow.
I'm in the mood to hear you call me your little whore, to feel your hand wrapped around my throat and squeezing. To feel my breath cut off with a soft gasp, that spurt of panic when I can't breathe. The melting trust as I realize that you control even the flow of air into my lungs.
I'm in the mood to feel myself pressed into your body, your grip tight, painful, on my cunt even as it makes me wet. To feel your lips brush mine with frightening tenderness even as you whisper the things you want to do to me.
I'm in the mood to have you hurt me. To feel you press into the tenderest parts of me until my mouth gapes in a silent scream. To feel my sense of Baumeister's 'self' slip away until I am only a body, only a bundle of nerves and wires for your manipulation.
I'm in the mood to submit to you.
To give you my body to use, my mind to break.
I want you to break me. I want you to hurt me, to use me, to break me.
18 November 2008
The Universe loves me again!
Lots of ups today... maybe my life is on an upswing again?
I went to see my gyno today, and not only did she offer me a way to (hopefully) stop bleeding, but apparently there's a vulvo-vaginal specialist here in my hometown who can (again with the 'hopefully') give me some answers about treating my vaginismus.
In other words, I might (just might, maybe, don't get your hopes up!) be able to have sex again. Like, real vaginal intercourse.
Please?
I also picked up the Navigator's truck today to borrow for a little bit, and he gave Jack some ideas about fixing his car.
And just to top off the wonderful things today?
I have a functional hot water heater and a bag of Dove Promises.
Fucking right. My life rocks again.
Oh, and tomorrow I'm going horseback riding again.
Maybe this time I'll take my damned camera.
More sex stuff soon, once the stress level goes down. Promise ;-)
I went to see my gyno today, and not only did she offer me a way to (hopefully) stop bleeding, but apparently there's a vulvo-vaginal specialist here in my hometown who can (again with the 'hopefully') give me some answers about treating my vaginismus.
In other words, I might (just might, maybe, don't get your hopes up!) be able to have sex again. Like, real vaginal intercourse.
Please?
I also picked up the Navigator's truck today to borrow for a little bit, and he gave Jack some ideas about fixing his car.
And just to top off the wonderful things today?
I have a functional hot water heater and a bag of Dove Promises.
Fucking right. My life rocks again.
Oh, and tomorrow I'm going horseback riding again.
Maybe this time I'll take my damned camera.
More sex stuff soon, once the stress level goes down. Promise ;-)
17 November 2008
An Early Thanks-giving
I'm not really into Thanksgiving.
I'm not really about celebrating the wanton destruction of an entire race of indigenous people, under the guise of "civilization".
And on a purely personal note, it's never seemed like much of a 'holiday' to me, more of an excuse for a bunch of people who don't like each other, but are bound by ties of DNA and marriage, to sit in a room and snipe at one another.
Maybe your family had warm, loving Thanksgivings in which you ennumerated the things you were thankful for, and the foremost was the comfort of family around you- making Thanksgiving a favorite holiday for you.
I didn't, and it's not.
Of course, you probably haven't had loving, sensual Beltaines spent entwined in your lovers and friends' arms, so who am I to quibble?
Anyway.
Thanksgiving.
I'm not really into it.
But today... today I could be.
My life has been shit on so many levels lately. It's been a week, and I still don't have a functional hot water heater. I've been bleeding for well over two weeks (three now? I started when Terry and Lucivar were here, and haven't stopped since) and have ruined multiple pairs of jeans and panties. I somehow ended up with a codependent rescue dog with a fetish for my coffee table legs and our (borrowed!) airbed controls. I have a paper due tomorrow and no idea if I'm even going to manage to write it. My godson has my car and I have no idea how to get it back without making his life (and mine, therefore) needlessly difficult. My partner's car has a radiator leak, and I'm pretty sure some invisble maniac stabbed an invisible ice pick into my hip. Oh yeah, and this is November, the anniversary month of the deaths of my Mema, my mother, Ranger, and Vainkitten.
Yeah.
Suckage.
But.
And there's always a but. (And in the case of my darling Jack, a very yummy butt)
But this afternoon, as I write this, I am sitting on the veranda of Rev and Chef's house. My laptop is playing some of my favorite songs, and it's warm enough that I'm barefoot, in jeans and a long-sleeved tshirt. Their beautifully landscaped backyard (isn't that such a stereotype?! But true here...) is bathed in long streamers of sunlight, with that warm red-gold color that you only get in autumn when the air is cool and crisp and the sky impossibly cerulean blue.
I'm not into Thanksgiving.
But this year, when I sit down with my chosen family, made up of dearly beloved friends, I will say a small prayer of thanks-giving.
I'm not really about celebrating the wanton destruction of an entire race of indigenous people, under the guise of "civilization".
And on a purely personal note, it's never seemed like much of a 'holiday' to me, more of an excuse for a bunch of people who don't like each other, but are bound by ties of DNA and marriage, to sit in a room and snipe at one another.
Maybe your family had warm, loving Thanksgivings in which you ennumerated the things you were thankful for, and the foremost was the comfort of family around you- making Thanksgiving a favorite holiday for you.
I didn't, and it's not.
Of course, you probably haven't had loving, sensual Beltaines spent entwined in your lovers and friends' arms, so who am I to quibble?
Anyway.
Thanksgiving.
I'm not really into it.
But today... today I could be.
My life has been shit on so many levels lately. It's been a week, and I still don't have a functional hot water heater. I've been bleeding for well over two weeks (three now? I started when Terry and Lucivar were here, and haven't stopped since) and have ruined multiple pairs of jeans and panties. I somehow ended up with a codependent rescue dog with a fetish for my coffee table legs and our (borrowed!) airbed controls. I have a paper due tomorrow and no idea if I'm even going to manage to write it. My godson has my car and I have no idea how to get it back without making his life (and mine, therefore) needlessly difficult. My partner's car has a radiator leak, and I'm pretty sure some invisble maniac stabbed an invisible ice pick into my hip. Oh yeah, and this is November, the anniversary month of the deaths of my Mema, my mother, Ranger, and Vainkitten.
Yeah.
Suckage.
But.
And there's always a but. (And in the case of my darling Jack, a very yummy butt)
But this afternoon, as I write this, I am sitting on the veranda of Rev and Chef's house. My laptop is playing some of my favorite songs, and it's warm enough that I'm barefoot, in jeans and a long-sleeved tshirt. Their beautifully landscaped backyard (isn't that such a stereotype?! But true here...) is bathed in long streamers of sunlight, with that warm red-gold color that you only get in autumn when the air is cool and crisp and the sky impossibly cerulean blue.
I'm not into Thanksgiving.
But this year, when I sit down with my chosen family, made up of dearly beloved friends, I will say a small prayer of thanks-giving.
- For Rev and Chef, who have been such amazing friends to Jack and I- up to and including opening their home to us while our hot water heater is out.
- For Bama Bully Rescue, who promised to help with Sarah's heartworms, and Friends of the Mobile Animal Shelter, who are helping me to get her spayed.
- For my teachers, for being insanely understanding about my insanity this month.
- For being able to help a very dear friend at the same time as myself.
- For the Navigator, who came back into my life this week and has promptly resumed being an awesome friend.
- For Spryte, who just plain rocks, and whose scene with us I have yet to write about.
- For Kat, who's tolerantly and lovingly put up with my distance over the past few weeks as I've struggled against my life and the demons its raised.
- For Lucivar, whose steady presence has been more of a blessing than he realizes.
- For my godson's return to my life, and the incredible young man he's becoming.
- For the girl in my Poli Sci class, who randomly handed me the means to get through the month.
- For Fridays spent horseback riding, laughing into the wind with 800lbs of muscle between my thighs.
- For all of the incredible people, and things, in my life that remind me even at my lowest that I am an incredibly lucky woman.
Thank you. Thank you so incredibly much.
ETA: Navigator, you so incredibly rock. Holy shit. Really? You so incredibly rock. Wow, you're awesome. Yay for having another vehicle, and even one that I can use to get rid of furniture!!!
Another Laurell Hamilton quote
But this one isn't from the books, this one is from her blog. And this one hits home as
deeply as anything I've seen in one of her books:
This ties in painfully well with the episode of "True Blood" that Jack and I watched last night, involving a confrontation between the adult daughter of an alcoholic mother, and the mother in question. Tara, the daughter, points out that she gave up her entire life to care for her mother, and received only abuse in return. Now, when Tara needs help, she again receives only abuse.
It was... painful to watch, and tears welled up in my eyes.
I don't know why my mother hated me. I don't know why she deliberately made choices to hurt me. I don't know why she chose to justify those choices by claiming they were "for my own good," despite knowing better.
I don't know why my mother made the decisions she did.
I'll never know now, because she's been dead for almost two years.
I keep wanting to make excuses for her, convince myself somehow that her behavior was "okay", was somehow noble (if misguided). I want to make it my fault, not hers. My father's fault, not hers. Her parents' fault, not hers. But there is no excusing the maliciousness of the things she said, the things she did. There is no way to make her flaws my fault.
As LKH said, that is a child's thought.
And I am not a child anymore.
deeply as anything I've seen in one of her books:
"I am thinking of absent friends, and those people you lose in your life, some through death, and some through them just walking away. There is a reason I’m back in therapy, because the thought that went through my head is one I’ve had before. Why? Why wasn’t I enough? Good enough, pretty enough, whatever enough. But it’s a child’s thought, to believe if you were good enough, or better behaved, or better at something, that they would have stayed, or loved you better, or hell, even loved you at all. It doesn’t work like that. It really isn’t your loss, but theirs."
This ties in painfully well with the episode of "True Blood" that Jack and I watched last night, involving a confrontation between the adult daughter of an alcoholic mother, and the mother in question. Tara, the daughter, points out that she gave up her entire life to care for her mother, and received only abuse in return. Now, when Tara needs help, she again receives only abuse.
It was... painful to watch, and tears welled up in my eyes.
I don't know why my mother hated me. I don't know why she deliberately made choices to hurt me. I don't know why she chose to justify those choices by claiming they were "for my own good," despite knowing better.
I don't know why my mother made the decisions she did.
I'll never know now, because she's been dead for almost two years.
I keep wanting to make excuses for her, convince myself somehow that her behavior was "okay", was somehow noble (if misguided). I want to make it my fault, not hers. My father's fault, not hers. Her parents' fault, not hers. But there is no excusing the maliciousness of the things she said, the things she did. There is no way to make her flaws my fault.
As LKH said, that is a child's thought.
And I am not a child anymore.
15 November 2008
Found Erotica
"I grabbed his ponytail, grabbed it and wound it around my hand, tight, tight enough that he gasped...
I pressed my body along his back, tucked him tight against me, so that his ass pushed against my stomach and my breasts pushed into his back. I kept my hold on his hair, and used it like a handle to keep him from moving, pulling harder if he shifted his weight, until he hung suspended, afraid to move, eager not to. I had to go on tiptoe to get the angle I wanted for the smooth expanse of his neck. I put my free hand around his upper chest, holding us tight together. I used his hair to stretch his neck to one side, to give me as much of that smooth, delicate flesh as possible. His breathing had already changed, already sped in anticipation.
I licked his neck, a quick flick of tongue, and he gasped for me. I licked harder, and he shuddered. I kissed his neck, and he made a small noise, not of protest but of eagerness. I opened my mouth wide, and let my breath touch hot upon his skin, and then I bit him. No more foreplay, no more games. I bit him.
He struggled against me, he couldn't help it, and I used his hair and my arm around his body, and the the press of my body against his back, to hold him in place. I felt his skin under my teeth, the meat of him in my mouth, and underneath was that frantic beating pulse. I could taste his life underneath his skin, taste it, and know that it was mine, mine if I wanted it. Mine because part of him wanted to give it up to me.
The sensation of that much meat in my mouth was almost overwhelming, and I fought not to bite down and take away all that flesh. I fought not to take everything that he offered in that moment. I bit down, held him down as he struggled, held him as his wrists jerked on the chains, as his body began to spasm, and still I sank my teeth into his flesh. The first sweet taste of blood like salt and metal and something so much sweeter filled my mouth, and I felt him convulse against me, heard him cry out."
-Incubus Dreams (Laurell K. Hamilton, p 403-404)
I pressed my body along his back, tucked him tight against me, so that his ass pushed against my stomach and my breasts pushed into his back. I kept my hold on his hair, and used it like a handle to keep him from moving, pulling harder if he shifted his weight, until he hung suspended, afraid to move, eager not to. I had to go on tiptoe to get the angle I wanted for the smooth expanse of his neck. I put my free hand around his upper chest, holding us tight together. I used his hair to stretch his neck to one side, to give me as much of that smooth, delicate flesh as possible. His breathing had already changed, already sped in anticipation.
I licked his neck, a quick flick of tongue, and he gasped for me. I licked harder, and he shuddered. I kissed his neck, and he made a small noise, not of protest but of eagerness. I opened my mouth wide, and let my breath touch hot upon his skin, and then I bit him. No more foreplay, no more games. I bit him.
He struggled against me, he couldn't help it, and I used his hair and my arm around his body, and the the press of my body against his back, to hold him in place. I felt his skin under my teeth, the meat of him in my mouth, and underneath was that frantic beating pulse. I could taste his life underneath his skin, taste it, and know that it was mine, mine if I wanted it. Mine because part of him wanted to give it up to me.
The sensation of that much meat in my mouth was almost overwhelming, and I fought not to bite down and take away all that flesh. I fought not to take everything that he offered in that moment. I bit down, held him down as he struggled, held him as his wrists jerked on the chains, as his body began to spasm, and still I sank my teeth into his flesh. The first sweet taste of blood like salt and metal and something so much sweeter filled my mouth, and I felt him convulse against me, heard him cry out."
-Incubus Dreams (Laurell K. Hamilton, p 403-404)
Dreams
I dreamed last night about fucking him. About bending him over and fucking his ass.
I dreamed about the way it will feel to slide into him- slowly, slowly mind. I want him to feel every.single.inch.
I dreamed about the way he moans and writhes against me, the way he whimpers and presses back, asking for more.
I dreamed about fucking him, and I woke up wet.
I dreamed about the way it will feel to slide into him- slowly, slowly mind. I want him to feel every.single.inch.
I dreamed about the way he moans and writhes against me, the way he whimpers and presses back, asking for more.
I dreamed about fucking him, and I woke up wet.
14 November 2008
13 November 2008
Wow.
I just got handed a check for $100, for no reason other than that I commented that I was broke and worried about it.
I tried to refuse it- I do have resources, after all- but was told that the giver had been there, too, and wanted to do it.
I feel so incredibly conflicted, and so incredibly grateful for this reminder of Universal, and human, kindness.
Wow.
I tried to refuse it- I do have resources, after all- but was told that the giver had been there, too, and wanted to do it.
I feel so incredibly conflicted, and so incredibly grateful for this reminder of Universal, and human, kindness.
Wow.
12 November 2008
Please?
I've reached the tipping point. I'm there and past, actually.
Just for a little while, I need someone to lean on. Someone stronger than me. Someone who doesn't neded me. Someone I can trust to take care of me. Just for a little while. It won't be for long, I promise. I promise I won't be a burden for very long, just let me rest against you for a little while. Let me hide, and be safe. Just for a little while. It won't be for long, I promise.
Please?
Just for a little while, I need someone to lean on. Someone stronger than me. Someone who doesn't neded me. Someone I can trust to take care of me. Just for a little while. It won't be for long, I promise. I promise I won't be a burden for very long, just let me rest against you for a little while. Let me hide, and be safe. Just for a little while. It won't be for long, I promise.
Please?
Tipping Point
I'm feeling pretty overwhelmed today, and just trying to keep my head above water.
I'm surprisingly calm about this, though. I think I may have just hit that tipping point where everything becomes distant and just doesn't feel like a big deal.
That usually presages a big breakdown for me, but hopefully I can hold out long enough to take care of my responsibilities.
I finally was able to articulate this morning the nagging sense of discontent I've been feeling. I'm not discontent or angry with my responsibilities; in fact, I cherish them because they let me know that I'm needed, wanted. Sure, it's a little twisted, but I never pretended not to be. What makes me feel so discontent and vaguely resentful toward the world is that I feel like I'm not getting enough support. That's my own fault, I freely admit. The person I lean on for support has been totally willing (despite his own massive burden of stress), but I haven't been feeling able to take him up on it.
I'm not sure why. Maybe a fear that if I stop being the strong one for even a few minutes, then I won't start up again? I should know better by now. A fear of adding to his burden? Maybe.
Whatever it is, I don't know.
But I do know that Kinky Boots should be coming in our NetFlix today, and that curling up with Jack and watching it tonight sounds like the absolute best thing ever.
Until then, someone wrap your arms around me and make me feel safe?
I'm surprisingly calm about this, though. I think I may have just hit that tipping point where everything becomes distant and just doesn't feel like a big deal.
That usually presages a big breakdown for me, but hopefully I can hold out long enough to take care of my responsibilities.
I finally was able to articulate this morning the nagging sense of discontent I've been feeling. I'm not discontent or angry with my responsibilities; in fact, I cherish them because they let me know that I'm needed, wanted. Sure, it's a little twisted, but I never pretended not to be. What makes me feel so discontent and vaguely resentful toward the world is that I feel like I'm not getting enough support. That's my own fault, I freely admit. The person I lean on for support has been totally willing (despite his own massive burden of stress), but I haven't been feeling able to take him up on it.
I'm not sure why. Maybe a fear that if I stop being the strong one for even a few minutes, then I won't start up again? I should know better by now. A fear of adding to his burden? Maybe.
Whatever it is, I don't know.
But I do know that Kinky Boots should be coming in our NetFlix today, and that curling up with Jack and watching it tonight sounds like the absolute best thing ever.
Until then, someone wrap your arms around me and make me feel safe?
11 November 2008
Tonight
I want to be made love to tonight.
Not fucked. Not hurt. Not fucking. Not hurting.
Not tonight.
Tonight, I want arms around me, touching me tenderly. I want lips gentle against my skin.
I want to be made love to tonight.
Usually, my idea of sex, whether on top or bottom, is pretty rough. If it doesn't hurt, it's not much fun.
But not tonight.
Tonight I want to feel your fingertips skim along my sides, down the ticklish skin of my abdomen. I want your hand, large and warm and flat against my belly. I want your finger gentle on my breasts, cupping them and savoring the heft and weight of them. I want the tips of your fingers brushing across my nipples until I gasp and sigh and arch into you.
I want your lips against my neck, gentle, so gentle, and your breath warm against my skin. I want to moan and sigh, and press the heat of my body closer to you. I want your lips hungry against mine, your lips pressing into mine- not taking my mouth but asking for it. It's that asking that I will give to, will open my soft lips and give you the heat of my mouth even as my legs and sex part for you as well.
I want to kiss you as your hands run up my thighs while I open them to you. I want to feel your fingertips running along my pussy lips, and hear you inhale my warmth and scent. I want to feel your finger press into me until I whimper and moan. I want you to finger me until I writhe and reach for you and pull you into me.
I want to feel your cock stretching me slowly as you press into me. I want to moan and move around it until I adjust again to the size of you, and then I want to feel you thrust into me.I want you to make love to me- not fuck me, not hurt me. Not tonight. I want you to make love to me slowly, tenderly, until my body clenches around you and shudder and whimper and cum.
Not fucked. Not hurt. Not fucking. Not hurting.
Not tonight.
Tonight, I want arms around me, touching me tenderly. I want lips gentle against my skin.
I want to be made love to tonight.
Usually, my idea of sex, whether on top or bottom, is pretty rough. If it doesn't hurt, it's not much fun.
But not tonight.
Tonight I want to feel your fingertips skim along my sides, down the ticklish skin of my abdomen. I want your hand, large and warm and flat against my belly. I want your finger gentle on my breasts, cupping them and savoring the heft and weight of them. I want the tips of your fingers brushing across my nipples until I gasp and sigh and arch into you.
I want your lips against my neck, gentle, so gentle, and your breath warm against my skin. I want to moan and sigh, and press the heat of my body closer to you. I want your lips hungry against mine, your lips pressing into mine- not taking my mouth but asking for it. It's that asking that I will give to, will open my soft lips and give you the heat of my mouth even as my legs and sex part for you as well.
I want to kiss you as your hands run up my thighs while I open them to you. I want to feel your fingertips running along my pussy lips, and hear you inhale my warmth and scent. I want to feel your finger press into me until I whimper and moan. I want you to finger me until I writhe and reach for you and pull you into me.
I want to feel your cock stretching me slowly as you press into me. I want to moan and move around it until I adjust again to the size of you, and then I want to feel you thrust into me.I want you to make love to me- not fuck me, not hurt me. Not tonight. I want you to make love to me slowly, tenderly, until my body clenches around you and shudder and whimper and cum.
Things that don't suck
Having an ex text me and tell me that he had an awesome dream/fantasy about me, then describe it and tell me he was going to go and masturbate :)
Realizations
Some part of me still believes in happily ever after.
The little girl in the back of my head, the one who remembers watching "Sleeping Beauty" over 500 times in one year.
And no, I'm not exaggerating.
She believes in Prince Charming, and forever.
The rest of me knows that Prince Charming is really a drunk frat boy, and forever is a myth.
But there is still a part of me that believes the myth, believes the sugar-coated cyanide lie, and still lookf for it.
Every new relationship, I go through a period where some part of me thinks that maybe this will be my fairy-tale ending. Maybe this time will be happily ever after. It never is. It never will be.
Even if it could be, I'm not cut out to be a pretty domestic princess in a fairy-tale castle.
But some part of me wants to be, and it's a fresh wound, every time that I realize it won't happen.
The little girl in the back of my head, the one who remembers watching "Sleeping Beauty" over 500 times in one year.
And no, I'm not exaggerating.
She believes in Prince Charming, and forever.
The rest of me knows that Prince Charming is really a drunk frat boy, and forever is a myth.
But there is still a part of me that believes the myth, believes the sugar-coated cyanide lie, and still lookf for it.
Every new relationship, I go through a period where some part of me thinks that maybe this will be my fairy-tale ending. Maybe this time will be happily ever after. It never is. It never will be.
Even if it could be, I'm not cut out to be a pretty domestic princess in a fairy-tale castle.
But some part of me wants to be, and it's a fresh wound, every time that I realize it won't happen.
My life is made of awesome.
Note: this is not me whining or asking for sympathy- in fact, I'm moody enough that I'll probably get pissed if you offer it- it's just an explanation of why I'm being quiet.
This isn't the place for my personal drama, and I've tried to keep it to a minimum here.
But I'm going to be very quiet for a while, and I think an explanation is reasonable.
There's... a lot going on.
A whole lot.
Aside from school speeding up in preparation for exams next month, we still have Sarah the pit bull puppy, November is my depressed/vulnerable/insane month every year (every major death I've had has been in November, excluding Nana who was Winter Solstice), and then, just to make my life even more interesting...
my godfather was in a motorcycle accident. His left leg, just below the knee, was amputated. He's doing fine, his usual cantankerous self, but it means that my life just got way more interesting. His ex-wife is a raving drunk who can't drive, or, well, *function* in any kind of stressful situation, which means that his son, my godson, is my responsibility.
Fortunately, my godson has more sense than both of his parents put together. He's 17, and pretty much raised himself.
But it means that since he doesn't have a car (or his license, only a permit), I have to take him to get his license, handle the lawyer and police reports from the accident, ensure that he gets not only to school (on the way-far-away side of town), but to the aviation college (on the other way-far-away side of town) every day, eats, and that their bills get paid.
Oh yeah, and write two papers for my *own* classes.
And just to prove that my life is made of awesome?
Saturday while hanging out with Lucivar I had a random physical *and* emotional breakdown, and then:
my hot water heater went out this morning, so I haven't had a shower.
Fucking awesome.
Hoorah!
Happy Veteran's Day, folks.
This isn't the place for my personal drama, and I've tried to keep it to a minimum here.
But I'm going to be very quiet for a while, and I think an explanation is reasonable.
There's... a lot going on.
A whole lot.
Aside from school speeding up in preparation for exams next month, we still have Sarah the pit bull puppy, November is my depressed/vulnerable/insane month every year (every major death I've had has been in November, excluding Nana who was Winter Solstice), and then, just to make my life even more interesting...
my godfather was in a motorcycle accident. His left leg, just below the knee, was amputated. He's doing fine, his usual cantankerous self, but it means that my life just got way more interesting. His ex-wife is a raving drunk who can't drive, or, well, *function* in any kind of stressful situation, which means that his son, my godson, is my responsibility.
Fortunately, my godson has more sense than both of his parents put together. He's 17, and pretty much raised himself.
But it means that since he doesn't have a car (or his license, only a permit), I have to take him to get his license, handle the lawyer and police reports from the accident, ensure that he gets not only to school (on the way-far-away side of town), but to the aviation college (on the other way-far-away side of town) every day, eats, and that their bills get paid.
Oh yeah, and write two papers for my *own* classes.
And just to prove that my life is made of awesome?
Saturday while hanging out with Lucivar I had a random physical *and* emotional breakdown, and then:
my hot water heater went out this morning, so I haven't had a shower.
Fucking awesome.
Hoorah!
Happy Veteran's Day, folks.
09 November 2008
Bottoming to Lucivar
I don't really like pain, I told him.
I'm not a masochist, and it's hard for me to relax into submitting because I have to fight myself to 'behave'. It makes it hard to submit because I have to keep that level of control over myself and therefore can't give it to you.
He nodded. I'm used to subbing, he told me, and I learned my Topping style from her. And she likes to hurt me.
I know, I said. It's just harder for me.
Well, I'll try, he said, and then he tightened his hand in my hair.
I whimpered and slipped under immediately. I don't know why I slip under so easily with him. I am extremely picky about who I sub to, but he's had my buttons since that first Saturday morning in his bed.
I trust him.
I don't know exactly why, but I trust him more than I have nearly ever trusted someone so quickly.
He smiled when he saw the immediate slackness of my features, the way my body went pliant in his grip.
He just moved my head around for a few moments by my hair, emphasizing his ability to do so, emphasizing the control over me. I don't know how other people would respond to this, but I'm a horse trainer.
One of the central tenets of horse training is that where the horse's head goes, their body goes. Get their head pointed in the right direction, and you'll have the horse moving there eventually. So that simple action- dragging my head around by my short hair- has a profound effect on my state of mind.
I tumbled down the rabbit hole, and every muscle in my body went limp as I hung in his grip.
Please, I breathed.
Please what? I closed my eyes, I didn't know how to answer. I never do when I'm asked that. I don't know what it is that I'm begging for. Maybe, simply, more.
I think he understood, because when I opened my eyes again his had softened, just a little. Breathe in, he told me. I obeyed, and then his hand was over my mouth, blocking my nose. I felt a brief spurt of panic, as I do every time, then closed my eyes and relaxed into his hand. Relaxed into the knowledge that I would breathe when he let me, and something tight inside of me let go at that realization. Just as I started to need to breathe, as the first tightness settled into my chest, he took his hand away. But before I could suck in the air that my body craved, his fingers moved to my pinch my nose and his palm was replaced by his lips. When I opened my mouth to him, he breathed into me and I sucked him, and the air and life he represented greedily. I breathed him in, and his kiss gave me life.
Suddenly, the heaviness in my chest intensified painfully and I stared at him with wide eyes that I could feel filling with tears.
I saw through the kaleidescope effect of my tears as his face softened to something like tenderness.
He kissed my forehead, Let it out, baby. I started to shake my head, to protest, say, No, I don't do this in front of people! I can't cry... but the tenderness shining in his eyes was more than I could say no to, and the tears spilled over my cheeks in two hot trails.
I cried against him, sobbed and whimpered. This time, I was aware that my sobs were silent, even my one long scream was without noise. I knew why I was silent this time, knew that I didn't want to disturb anyone else, knew that on some level I was still afraid to be too noisy, too messy, too whatever for fear that he would push me away.
But he didn't. His hands were gentle around me while I cried, until eventually I looked up at him, my eyes red and puffy from the tears still drying on my cheeks, my skin mottled red from the sobs, and told him, I have no idea where that came from. But thank you, I told him.
I didn't know any way to express to him how incredibly much that meant to me.
How hard it is for me to trust someone enough to cry in front of them.
How deeply it makes me love him that he allowed me that safe space.
How incredibly grateful that I felt in that moment.
Maybe he did understand, because he kissed the top of my head. You're welcome, baby.
I'm not a masochist, and it's hard for me to relax into submitting because I have to fight myself to 'behave'. It makes it hard to submit because I have to keep that level of control over myself and therefore can't give it to you.
He nodded. I'm used to subbing, he told me, and I learned my Topping style from her. And she likes to hurt me.
I know, I said. It's just harder for me.
Well, I'll try, he said, and then he tightened his hand in my hair.
I whimpered and slipped under immediately. I don't know why I slip under so easily with him. I am extremely picky about who I sub to, but he's had my buttons since that first Saturday morning in his bed.
I trust him.
I don't know exactly why, but I trust him more than I have nearly ever trusted someone so quickly.
He smiled when he saw the immediate slackness of my features, the way my body went pliant in his grip.
He just moved my head around for a few moments by my hair, emphasizing his ability to do so, emphasizing the control over me. I don't know how other people would respond to this, but I'm a horse trainer.
One of the central tenets of horse training is that where the horse's head goes, their body goes. Get their head pointed in the right direction, and you'll have the horse moving there eventually. So that simple action- dragging my head around by my short hair- has a profound effect on my state of mind.
I tumbled down the rabbit hole, and every muscle in my body went limp as I hung in his grip.
Please, I breathed.
Please what? I closed my eyes, I didn't know how to answer. I never do when I'm asked that. I don't know what it is that I'm begging for. Maybe, simply, more.
I think he understood, because when I opened my eyes again his had softened, just a little. Breathe in, he told me. I obeyed, and then his hand was over my mouth, blocking my nose. I felt a brief spurt of panic, as I do every time, then closed my eyes and relaxed into his hand. Relaxed into the knowledge that I would breathe when he let me, and something tight inside of me let go at that realization. Just as I started to need to breathe, as the first tightness settled into my chest, he took his hand away. But before I could suck in the air that my body craved, his fingers moved to my pinch my nose and his palm was replaced by his lips. When I opened my mouth to him, he breathed into me and I sucked him, and the air and life he represented greedily. I breathed him in, and his kiss gave me life.
Suddenly, the heaviness in my chest intensified painfully and I stared at him with wide eyes that I could feel filling with tears.
I saw through the kaleidescope effect of my tears as his face softened to something like tenderness.
He kissed my forehead, Let it out, baby. I started to shake my head, to protest, say, No, I don't do this in front of people! I can't cry... but the tenderness shining in his eyes was more than I could say no to, and the tears spilled over my cheeks in two hot trails.
I cried against him, sobbed and whimpered. This time, I was aware that my sobs were silent, even my one long scream was without noise. I knew why I was silent this time, knew that I didn't want to disturb anyone else, knew that on some level I was still afraid to be too noisy, too messy, too whatever for fear that he would push me away.
But he didn't. His hands were gentle around me while I cried, until eventually I looked up at him, my eyes red and puffy from the tears still drying on my cheeks, my skin mottled red from the sobs, and told him, I have no idea where that came from. But thank you, I told him.
I didn't know any way to express to him how incredibly much that meant to me.
How hard it is for me to trust someone enough to cry in front of them.
How deeply it makes me love him that he allowed me that safe space.
How incredibly grateful that I felt in that moment.
Maybe he did understand, because he kissed the top of my head. You're welcome, baby.
No such thing
Nothing lasts forever
Not you not me not her
Nothing lasts forever
So don't drip promises from your eyes
Don't vibrate your sincerity at me
You mean it
You'd never lie
But nothing lasts forever
and everybody dies.
Don't offer me the safety of your arms
When your arms will go away
Don't swear you'll always love me
When always is a dream of a lie
There's no such thing as forever
There's no such thing as forever
There's no such thing as forever for me.
Not you not me not her
Nothing lasts forever
So don't drip promises from your eyes
Don't vibrate your sincerity at me
You mean it
You'd never lie
But nothing lasts forever
and everybody dies.
Don't offer me the safety of your arms
When your arms will go away
Don't swear you'll always love me
When always is a dream of a lie
There's no such thing as forever
There's no such thing as forever
There's no such thing as forever for me.
07 November 2008
Sensitive
I feel incredibly sensitive this morning. I know that phrase is usually used in a negative light, as in being sensitive to every little word as an insult, every small slight as an abandonment, but that's not exactly how I mean it this morning.
I feel sensitive, as though every ray of light touching my skin is a small caress.
I feel sensitive, as though I can clearly feel every fiber of the shirt I'm wearing.
I feel sensitive, as though were it not cloudy, the sunlight might hurt my eyes.
I feel sensitive, as though every expression of being loved and wanted means a little more than usual.
I feel sensitive, as though every brush of skin against mine could make my heart grip painfully with the intensity of love and gratitude that I feel for all of the people in my life.
I feel sensitive, as though every ray of light touching my skin is a small caress.
I feel sensitive, as though I can clearly feel every fiber of the shirt I'm wearing.
I feel sensitive, as though were it not cloudy, the sunlight might hurt my eyes.
I feel sensitive, as though every expression of being loved and wanted means a little more than usual.
I feel sensitive, as though every brush of skin against mine could make my heart grip painfully with the intensity of love and gratitude that I feel for all of the people in my life.
06 November 2008
What is it with me and strays?!
So Tuesday, on Election Day, at the polling place, Jack and I found a stray pit bull puppy.
So we took her home, and named her Sarah ;-)
Then, yesterday, while going out horseback riding with a friend from elementary school (the price of living in one's hometown is running into people you ave known since kindergarten), we found another pit bull puppy tied to a tree in the middle of the woods. She was 3/4 starved, but desperately friendly when I approached her on foot.
I couldn't take her home, not after having just spent $75 on Sarah's vet bills, with a potential $475 pending.
So we called the Sheriff's office, and he sent a deputy to pick her up. I just hope that the county doesn't automatically euthanize pit bulls the way that the city does.
But I didn't have the courage to ask.
What is it with me and strays? Why am I unable to pass them by? It really makes me wonder what is it about them that strikes such a chord in me- because they do. I can't pass a stray cat or dog anywhere without wanting to stop and take them home, give them better lives.
Why do strays strike a chord in me?
I think that I think of myself as one. As a child, I was shuttled off from one family member to the next because my parents didn't have the ability or desire to care for me. I was dumped off on family members, like a puppy on the road when it became too much trouble to care for.
And on some level, I am still a stray puppy just looking for a place to feel safe.
Is it any wonder that I cannot resist the need to take home other strays, and offer them safety?
So we took her home, and named her Sarah ;-)
Then, yesterday, while going out horseback riding with a friend from elementary school (the price of living in one's hometown is running into people you ave known since kindergarten), we found another pit bull puppy tied to a tree in the middle of the woods. She was 3/4 starved, but desperately friendly when I approached her on foot.
I couldn't take her home, not after having just spent $75 on Sarah's vet bills, with a potential $475 pending.
So we called the Sheriff's office, and he sent a deputy to pick her up. I just hope that the county doesn't automatically euthanize pit bulls the way that the city does.
But I didn't have the courage to ask.
What is it with me and strays? Why am I unable to pass them by? It really makes me wonder what is it about them that strikes such a chord in me- because they do. I can't pass a stray cat or dog anywhere without wanting to stop and take them home, give them better lives.
Why do strays strike a chord in me?
I think that I think of myself as one. As a child, I was shuttled off from one family member to the next because my parents didn't have the ability or desire to care for me. I was dumped off on family members, like a puppy on the road when it became too much trouble to care for.
And on some level, I am still a stray puppy just looking for a place to feel safe.
Is it any wonder that I cannot resist the need to take home other strays, and offer them safety?
05 November 2008
04 November 2008
Sucking Jack's cock
It was time to go to a friend's house and watch the election results. Jack had been napping all afternoon, so I went to wake him up.
The bedroom was dark and cool, with our rainstorm cd surging softly in the background. I flipped on the light just as he threw the covers back and he was exposed to me.
Jack sleeps naked.
He was sprawled on his back, nude. His skin bright against our sage green sheets, legs spread wide, one arm thrown over his eyes and his cock half-hard and dark against the curling nest of his trimmed cockhair.
He is so beautiful.
I couldn't resist, and after almost three years, I didn't bother trying.
I crawled onto the bed, full dressed to his nudity, and took him into my mouth.
It was almost abrupt, there was no foreplay, no kissing, no playing. Just the taste of his cock between my lips. Jack gasped, I think he just expected me to rub against it like I usually do, but I took his cock all the way into my warm, wet mouth.
He made a small noise, and I stroked my tongue across the head of him. I drew back and ran my teeth along the length of his cock, then pressed forward, swallowing him, until my lips kissed his cockhair. He moaned, and I drew back, swirling my tongue around the head of him and looking up to let him see the raw hunger in my eyes. I wanted this. Wanted the taste of him, the feel of him.
I didn't walk into this relationship a virgin. Not by a long shot. And I love cocks. I love the shapes of them, the flavors of them, the textures of them. When combined with my oral fixation... well, I love oral sex. I love sucking cock, and I love sucking Jack's cock more than any other.
I settled into that rhythm that he loves, fast and deep, the same rhythm he loves to use when he's fucking me. My fingers dug into his thighs and he made little sounds in his throat with every stroke of my mouth. Finally, when he was ready to cum, he took my hair in his hands, gripping tightly and fucking my mouth. Yes, I know it's more submissive than I usually like to go, but I love this moment. I love the grip of his hands in my hair (short though it is now!) and the thrust of his hips beneath me. I love the soft, desperate sounds he makes and the way his hips pump into my mouth until I feel him twitch and cum in me and I'm swallowing and making small sounds of pleasure myself.
We only slowly come down... my mouth still moving slowly over him, gently now where he's so post-orgasmically sensitive, my hands tender against his thighs.
Finally, I drew away, kissed his cock lightly, playfully now, and told him to get dressed, it was time to go...
The bedroom was dark and cool, with our rainstorm cd surging softly in the background. I flipped on the light just as he threw the covers back and he was exposed to me.
Jack sleeps naked.
He was sprawled on his back, nude. His skin bright against our sage green sheets, legs spread wide, one arm thrown over his eyes and his cock half-hard and dark against the curling nest of his trimmed cockhair.
He is so beautiful.
I couldn't resist, and after almost three years, I didn't bother trying.
I crawled onto the bed, full dressed to his nudity, and took him into my mouth.
It was almost abrupt, there was no foreplay, no kissing, no playing. Just the taste of his cock between my lips. Jack gasped, I think he just expected me to rub against it like I usually do, but I took his cock all the way into my warm, wet mouth.
He made a small noise, and I stroked my tongue across the head of him. I drew back and ran my teeth along the length of his cock, then pressed forward, swallowing him, until my lips kissed his cockhair. He moaned, and I drew back, swirling my tongue around the head of him and looking up to let him see the raw hunger in my eyes. I wanted this. Wanted the taste of him, the feel of him.
I didn't walk into this relationship a virgin. Not by a long shot. And I love cocks. I love the shapes of them, the flavors of them, the textures of them. When combined with my oral fixation... well, I love oral sex. I love sucking cock, and I love sucking Jack's cock more than any other.
I settled into that rhythm that he loves, fast and deep, the same rhythm he loves to use when he's fucking me. My fingers dug into his thighs and he made little sounds in his throat with every stroke of my mouth. Finally, when he was ready to cum, he took my hair in his hands, gripping tightly and fucking my mouth. Yes, I know it's more submissive than I usually like to go, but I love this moment. I love the grip of his hands in my hair (short though it is now!) and the thrust of his hips beneath me. I love the soft, desperate sounds he makes and the way his hips pump into my mouth until I feel him twitch and cum in me and I'm swallowing and making small sounds of pleasure myself.
We only slowly come down... my mouth still moving slowly over him, gently now where he's so post-orgasmically sensitive, my hands tender against his thighs.
Finally, I drew away, kissed his cock lightly, playfully now, and told him to get dressed, it was time to go...
Election Day Vignettes
Jack and I live in a predominantly black neighborhood in a poor section of town. In other words, we're surrounded by disenfranchised voters. We have never seen much excitement on this side of town about elections- these folks are more concerned about whether they can make WIC cover their groceries this month than who's in the White House, and if their car will make it to work one more day than whether two women can get married.
But this morning, when we went to go and vote before class, there was a line at our polling place that wrapped around the building. We had an hour before class, but there's no way we would have made it in in time. We have never been so happy to see a ridiculously long line.
The amazing Susie Bright, whose book The Sexual State of the Union, got me started writing and thinking about sex as more than just something my hormones wanted me to have, posted on her blog today that we should call her and tell her our election stories.
So I did. We chatted for a little while, actually, and I told her about her book starting my journey of sexual exploration, as well as what it's like to be a blue dot in a very, very red state.
I also told her about meeting Sarah.
Jack and I went to vote this afternoon, once it had died down a bit, and that's where we saw Sarah.
Sarah was in the parking lot, dirty and half-starved. We called to her and fed her some Nutter Butters from my backpack, then went in to vote. We agreed before even going in that we were going to end up taking her home. She was obviously someone's baby at some point- docked tail, either spayed or kept carefully away from males (virgin)- but had equally obviously been ont he streets for a little while- skinny and skittish as hell. And no, we can't take her to the pound- they euthanize bulldogs here, rather than adopt them out.
So we went in to vote, and got followed in by a little bulldog.
Whom we took home.
So our new pit bull mix, whome we found at the polling place on election day, we're calling Sarah... I'll have to take a picture of her in lipstick ;-)
So... um... would anyone like a dog?
Oh and guess what?! This is my 100th post to this blog! Woohooo!
But this morning, when we went to go and vote before class, there was a line at our polling place that wrapped around the building. We had an hour before class, but there's no way we would have made it in in time. We have never been so happy to see a ridiculously long line.
The amazing Susie Bright, whose book The Sexual State of the Union, got me started writing and thinking about sex as more than just something my hormones wanted me to have, posted on her blog today that we should call her and tell her our election stories.
So I did. We chatted for a little while, actually, and I told her about her book starting my journey of sexual exploration, as well as what it's like to be a blue dot in a very, very red state.
I also told her about meeting Sarah.
Jack and I went to vote this afternoon, once it had died down a bit, and that's where we saw Sarah.
Sarah was in the parking lot, dirty and half-starved. We called to her and fed her some Nutter Butters from my backpack, then went in to vote. We agreed before even going in that we were going to end up taking her home. She was obviously someone's baby at some point- docked tail, either spayed or kept carefully away from males (virgin)- but had equally obviously been ont he streets for a little while- skinny and skittish as hell. And no, we can't take her to the pound- they euthanize bulldogs here, rather than adopt them out.
So we went in to vote, and got followed in by a little bulldog.
Whom we took home.
So our new pit bull mix, whome we found at the polling place on election day, we're calling Sarah... I'll have to take a picture of her in lipstick ;-)
So... um... would anyone like a dog?
Oh and guess what?! This is my 100th post to this blog! Woohooo!
03 November 2008
02 November 2008
Thoughts from Tampa
My favorite Unitarian Universalist hymn:
A firemist and a planet, a crystal and a cell,
a starfish and a saurian, and caves where ancients dwelt;
the sense of law and beauty, a face turned from the sod –
some call it evolution and others call it God.
Like tides on crescent sea-beach, when moon’s so new and thin,
into our hearts high yearnings come welling, surging in,
come from the mystic ocean whose rim no foot has trod –
some people call it longing, and others call it God.
A firemist and a planet, a crystal and a cell,
a starfish and a saurian, and caves where ancients dwelt;
the sense of law and beauty, a face turned from the sod –
some call it evolution and others call it God.
Like tides on crescent sea-beach, when moon’s so new and thin,
into our hearts high yearnings come welling, surging in,
come from the mystic ocean whose rim no foot has trod –
some people call it longing, and others call it God.
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