Reaching for the sun.

I opened my door with an easy swoosh, but my insides were flipping.  What was a 22 yo doing on my doorstep?

We’d met a few days earlier on some app, he’d said all the right things, was bold and cheeky with a bunch of respectful thrown in.  “Would you like a romance with a younger man?” he’d asked me via text.  It didn’t make sense to say Yes to his requests to see me, but then again, What if this miraculously turned into something great??

“I’m open to absolutely anything,” was my answer.  And that’s true.  I don’t know the prescription for happiness.

He stepped inside and set down a tiny Tupperware container with rum and two blood red cans of Coke.  “I don’t know what the open carry laws are here,” he explained when I laughed at his contraband.

We talked for hours.  First outside in my papasans, then on my couch.  He was long and lean, pale with soft, feathery dark brown hair that flopped over one of his blue eyes.  He’s not your average young man.  He’s lived a life of a 30 yo, to be sure.  Wise, hurt, hungry.

Something was wrong with my clock because each time I looked up at it it was two hours later than the last time I looked.  Well past midnight I made my move and put my feet on his lap.  I had had enough wine to warm my veins and he’d tapped into my whiskey.

His warm hands held my feet and ankles and explored my bare calves.  I hadn’t been touched in almost a year – was this real??

I leaned in and twisted a handful of his oversized t-shirt in my hand and pulled his sweet, pretty face to mine.  Our lips touched and I breathed him in, pressed further and felt him melt against me.

I ran my fingers through his silky hair and moaned a little as his warm, wet tongue met mine.  Holy shit, I thought, I’m alive.  I’m real.  I’m seen.

But it didn’t go further.

Despite asking if he could stay the night before he came over, he begged off.  It was 2 am and he was tired, he said.

The morning after I felt light and heady, but drained.  Covid, 22, ugh.  But also: a year.

Sadly, he’s dropped the ball since.  He’s said he wanted to see me twice since that night, but never selected a night.  It’s a week from our date and he’s been quiet for the last 36+ hours.

Since Covid some things have become clear: I don’t make people do what I want.  I wait and see what they do, then I make a decision.  That goes for friends, too.  With this kid it was a sweet, but singular night.  PG.  Not even -13.  I’m not going to make it more than what it was.

Today is the 3rd of October.  I think it was almost exactly a year ago that I met Francois and we had a beautiful, hedonistic week together.  One whole year of not being touched, of not being interested in anyone, of not being thought of by someone.

Covid has been a time of reckoning for me, as it has been for so many others.  As my country crumbles in the most disgusting, abysmal, terrifying way, so too have my self-annihilating ways.  I have no stomach for mistreatment, no patience.  I’m not betraying myself anymore.  It’s scary to have no playbook.

I look back on my life and there’s all but one relationship that has no substance.  The bulk of my life – my sex and love life – has zero substance.  Dating and loving men who don’t love me back, who don’t care about me.  I’ve slept with so many men, triple digits, and how many have loved me?  Maybe two.  How many have cared about me?  Maybe none.

None.

It’s a devastating realization.

I have lived a life.  A big, loud, exciting and robust life.  I have done whatever I wanted whenever I wanted.  I have been fearless and charismatic, eaten up anyone in my path with a hunger that was bigger than me and now, in the quiet of a pandemic, I’m hogtied to isolation for survival.  The quiet is deafening.

I planted no seeds to sow, my fields are fallow and I am alone.  Naturally.

I have felt like writing many times over the last several months, but why and about what?  My personal revolution?  How boring – and selfish.  Would you want to hear about me finding myself sometimes at the bottom of a bottle or at the bottom of a tea kettle?  I can’t even be consistent in my vices – it’s either yoga or booze.  Sometimes a combination.  Ok, usually a combination.

Not only am I 1000x more boring than I was before, but my boringness means I’m focused on myself – not the dipshits I let in my life – and I’m a lot more private about my own shit than I realized.  My traumas that were triggered in September of 2018 with the Kavanaugh hearings have rolled through and over me time and time again ever since.  I can’t unsee my own pain and hurt, and most importantly, now that I am awake, I can’t abuse myself with men anymore, either.

It didn’t happen overnight, obviously, but I was already getting there before the Coronavirus hit us.  I hadn’t had sex since October of 2019 and maybe only had one or two dates in December and January.  I had put out my feelers for men in the London area for Eroticon 2020, but my heart was never really in it.  And now here we are.  October of 2020 and I have kissed exactly one human and hugged approximately 5 all year.  It’s been brutal.

I fear for the safety of my parents and myself and some shitty dick isn’t worth the risk, so I don’t go out.  The 22 yo was a total anomaly and seeing as I’m not interested in convincing anyone to be with me I will be alone for how ever many more months it will be until I have the energy and bravery to be with someone again.

I miss you all.  I miss the way it was.  It feels different now somehow.  New guard and all that, totally normal.  The old trees die and give way to and feed the new growth at its feet.  I used to watch those time-lapse National Geographic videos of a forest that burned down and the green sprouts that would miraculously push up through the dark, rich soil.  Unfurling like little dancers in the beams of sunlight that broke through the treetops.  It was mesmerizing.

And now I am that little green sprout reaching for her sun, but I’m not sure I’m in the same forest.

You reap what you sow.

My energy for dating has been exceptionally low over the last 9 months or so. Mourning, processing, working, mothering. There’s barely been any time for fucking.

It also doesn’t help that out of every 50 guys I match with, 35 of them keep asking me how my day is/was, 5 completely ignore me and another 9 send me an unsolicited dick pic or expect me to invite them to my house so I can spread my legs for them.

If you were doing the math, that means only about 1 men out of 50 behave relaxed and non-threatening, show intelligence and interest, and maintain a line of contact that is both intriguing and comfortable. And are fucking hot, of course. Mama has standards, y’all.

And to be perfectly honest I’d say that number is probably closer to 0 – .5 per 50, but there’s no such thing as “half a man,” so we’ll just have to go with the whole guy for every 100.

It sounds exhausting, but really it’s not! Though there’s a lot of initial up front work planting seeds in the row, within hours I can see what’s going to grow. The little shoots that will turn into eggplants show themselves almost immediately.

BAM! Mother fucking eggplant.

The guys who like to make sure your day is going well every morning, noon, and night reveal themselves next. They grow paltry little leaves and have a fallow, weak color to them. like a houseplant starved for sunlight.

Gotta just let those die on the vine.

Obviously the men who never connect never break the soil’s surface and I forget they were even there.

And when that one little glorious seedling pushes through the dirt and uncoils steady and bright towards the sun, oh that is the best feeling.

It’s a little miracle watching it unfold and grow tall, sprout leaves and strengthen. It excites me to see how it just seems to know what to do with little help from me, yet it flourishes with a little water and all that delicious sun.

Holy shit! This one’s palatable!

These are the special seedling men, like Francois, who make all the work seem worthwhile. I’m not trying to feed a village, after all, just me. One little woman, one little soul, one little hungry body and they’re easy, beautiful, warm, and bright. Perfect examples of the intangible “chemistry” we all seek.

And, my friends, my latest planting has some promise: I have found a new seedling worth waiting for.

February Photofest

Cats keep it real.

Kitty don’t care.

Still not caring.

Nothing more humbling than a four legged alien who’s plotting to kill you.

Or a 27-year-old man who thinks he knows what’s up.

Picture this: A Bumble match with a very tall, lanky muscular fella whose profile says that he’s there because the girls on Grindr are too hairy matching with me, a mid-40’s woman who says she’s not interested in men with “outdated views on sex, women, and the world in general.”

He asks me what that means, so I decide to throw caution to the wind and really dig in, throw the whole damn book at him.

The misconceptions that sex is all about erections, women who fuck on first dates aren’t worthy of more, and how it’s a man’s job to perform for the pleasure of all.

He’s diggin’ it, parrying beautifully.  I’m intrigued, excited. I tell him all my philosophies and he’s right there with me. And then…

“So… I feel like now is the time that I ask to see you naked,” accompanied by a couple of kissy faced emojis.

I balk, say that this is why I don’t go there with men because it can be confusing and I ask him how I gave him the impression I would send such images before meeting him.

He calls me rude, condescending, and pretentious.

I am laughing in my kitchen, phone in one hand, coffee in the other.  The boy’s feathers are ruffled, but I don’t want to let it go.  I press my case, point out his defensiveness isn’t beneficial to our discussion.  He apologizes and I explain my point of view.  He apologizes again.  I still want to fuck him, but now he says he’s too scared.

He wants to bang, but now he’s afraid because he’s intimidated even through the ether and what if – God forbid – we get together and he can’t get hard.

It’s like he never heard me.  I don’t care about a man’s hardon, but I care about him caring that I’m in the room.  He doesn’t get it, can’t get it, won’t get it.

I might still see what happens over a drink.  Let him see my short, curvy stature, a deep line of cleavage and my piercing glare; maybe take his hand and let it rest on my thigh.  See what happens.

Or maybe I’ll let him watch this ride coast right on by.

February Photofest

See what’s in my Inbox.

First, I would like to like to say that this post is dedicated to Ferns in honor of her Day of Birth.  She is my friend, my Fairy Domme-mother, and an inspiration to us all on how to have and hold boundaries, be open and communicative, and be damn funny.

Second, I would like to more formally introduce someone who’s been in my life for nearly a year, but has gotten little to no blog air time, an Irishman I met on a D/s site.  Originally we were going to meet while I was in London in March this year, but I called it off just days before because it didn’t feel right: he’d be on borrowed time so as not to hurt a vanilla woman he was seeing and I didn’t want to be #2.  He understood and our friendship remained and blossomed.

We grew closer as he opened up about his challenges dating in little bitty Ireland as a kinky man.  His real life relationships are all vanilla and traditional and he spends an enormous amount of energy avoiding babies and marriage.  He has no interest in either.

He tenderly focuses on one woman at a time, but is very much an “in the moment” only kind of guy.  I sympathize with his plight and share any warning signs I might see in a new lady of his.  And he counsels me on The Golfer and Peter.

“They’re assholes, Hy, and I don’t know why they’re treating you this way.  I would never treat a woman like that.”

“That’s how American men do ‘casual’.”

“Well that’s bullshit… though I do think The Golfer secretly has feelings for you and he’s just pushing you away because he’s afraid of his own feelings.”  He’s irksomely optimistic about me and my love life.  It’s kinda cute.

He’s also sweetly empathetic when my endeavors with other subs fall through, but one of my all time favorite things that we do – that I do to him – is sharing the contents of my inbox with him.

He roars with laughter and guffaws with appall at what men send in hopes of “catching” a woman and so I thought that maybe I would share some of them with you.  And because Ferns.

What’s important to know about all of these emails is that in my profile I very clearly state to 1) not call me by an honorific, 2) not ask me for anything, and 3) tell me their favorite color.  If all of those things are adhered to and they meet my other specifications such as being local and fit I will reply.  Otherwise, they get zilch.  Clearly, the Irishman was a location exception for me and I have no regrets.

I gave all of these guys a huge benefit of the doubt and assumed that any personal info included was true and accurate, so I’ve edited their notes to obscure any identifying facts.  I’m not sure I needed to do that seeing as some of what they wrote is completely fucking ludicrous, but you know: better safe than sorry.

Without further ado, I give you:

Subs Attempting to Attract a Domme and Failing Miserably and Instead Highlighting Their Ridiculous Sense of Male Entitlement and Privilege and Basically Making a Complete Ass of Themselves:

Mistress i am 24 years old sub. I like feminization and anal play very much. You can keep me in chastity or make me have ruined orgasms. I used wear panties all day for my last mistress. You can do a lot with me, But because of many fakes here i would like to know you a bit more, Have some connection so that both of us are comfortable with each other. If you like we can talk a bit. i have and i am fine with you not opening cam

This guy was from the Middle East, which is definitely local.  Plus, he’s obviously read my profile.  I’m so glad he wrote to me.

Hi Miss.

Hi, Another Dude Who Doesn’t Read.

Goddess
Impressed with you profile, thought to reach out.
I have been a closet sub for long and have recently ventured out to seek a Goddess jus like You who I can worship, serve, adore and devote myself, i have read a lot about serving a true Lady and believe have enough knowledge to be a good sub, am willing to learn what you like, dislike, wishes and serve You accordingly.

I like to be a devoted service sub and will focus on pleasing You by various means like providing relaxing massage when you arrive home, foot worship, foot rubs followed by foot bath n tongue massage, serving as shower boy, etc. I am very humble, obedient and respectful all times, its not about satisfying my needs but its always about focusing on Your pleasure Goddess.

Would you like to chat Goddess?

Not humble.  Not obedient.  Not even remotely appealing.

you have a great build maam.

do you like sounding maam?

It’s like talking to a walrus.

Good evening Goddess

Another walrus.

good afternoon Miss you do smoke cigarettes?

Walruses everywhere!

Hello, Maam.
Would i know Your Goddess Ass more closer? I’m just a slave.
Your David

My “Goddess Ass” will stay right here, thank you.

I am interested in meeting you to see how we like each othe.r I am very healthy man living in your city. I have been single for a while, and I want an ongoing, perhaps permanent, relationship. I am an educated and creative man I work seasonally, and I am off for a while now I am working on developing some websites, and look forward to this new career. Spiritual awakening is at the center of my life. I am mostly in the western esoteric tradition, and I may be studying to become a woo woo practitioner.  I practice yoga and cultivate health and happiness. I have been told I am well hung, and I am sexually potent I am very open minded to new sexual experiences.
Will you meet me?

This lovely form letter was accompanied by a photo of a what could be a serial killer in sandals and bright purple pants.  Send halp.

26, 8 inch.

I kinda appreciate this guy in Germany’s brevity.

Greetings Maam,
You have a nice profile and I wanted to introduce myself to you.
I am a very obedient, mature, educated and financially secure sub I travel a lot and been in the lifestyle for many years.
I live in Denver but distance is not an issue for me I am looking for something real, serious and not looking to waste your time.
I hope that you will find it worth replying back to me.
Have wonderful day.

You. Are. Not. Obedient!

Dear gorgeous Miss Hyacinth,

This subhuman slave applicant is looking for an extremely cruel and sadistic goddess to belong to completely and would like to be allowed no right, no limits or safewords at all. So far it seems to be too extreme for every mistress this creature spoke to

May this subhuman piece of shit ask if you would be open for a very special consensual blackmailing agreement, your Highness, in case you should accept this creature as your property?

This pathetic toilet does have very extreme material that will send it to prison for a long time. It would beg you for the only consent being that you will someday use the material and send this piece of shit to prison, when you are done with it, drained and destroyed it completely and there is nothing useful left for you.

You could even make sure prison would not be an easy way out for this pathetic piece of shit by eg tattooing it with things like shit in here on the upper lip, kick to flush above the cock, cumdisposal on ass or forhead, even torture me all over its body, before using the bm material to send it to prison.

Of course this scum will write all that down and sign it, and record a video stating this as well, to hand over along with the bm material when it arrives, beautiful Miss Hyacinth

This subhuman creature would like to experience hell on earth, a true nightmare with no waking up, a life without any hope or joy, an existence in constant pain, despair, misery, abuse and way more suffering and torture than this pathetic subhuman piece of shit could have ever dreamed of, hoped for or even feared gorgeous Miss Hyacinth.

Yet another brilliant example of entitlement.  I am no where in this laboriously created prose because it’s a form letter.  Pretty sure this dude just replaced whatever other woman’s name was there with “Hyacinth.”  Also, this fella might need a hug.  Jesus fucking Christ.

Miss Hyacinth you are holding great for your age.

Croatian men sure know how to flatter a gal.

[Ed. Note: Are we tired of reading these yet???  I’m not sure I’m ready to quit just yet…]

Hello, how are you doing?

Doms are so funny.

Hello. Sub looking to meet. I would like to write you a quick note to introduce myself, hoping that you might reply back. Well a bit more about myself: Physically I am 6 foot 1, 185 lbs, athletic build, clean cut look, other characteristics are that I am college educated, undergrad in engineering with an MBA from BYU. I am also outgoing like to travel and communicative currently live and work in PNW. I am 45 years old but nobody thinks I look my age. Will answer any questions that you may have of me, Hope to hear back soon, bye for now Bob

Thanks, Bob, for telling me things I could see in your profile next to height, weight, and location.  Also, thank you for telling me a bunch of meaningless bullshit then telling me that if I want to know more I have to do all the legwork.  Sounds great.  Talk to you soon! xx Hy

May I please still ask if you kiik or s k y p e with subs at times in hopes of making your acquaintance and being of use to you as you see fit? I apologize to not be in a position to fully respond to all your questions as I’m driving.

Friends don’t let friends drive and sub.  Also, I didn’t ask him anything, though this is the second time he’s asking me for my KIK and Skype.

[Ed. Note: Apologies in advance, but I’m too worn out from exposing myself to all of this to correct punctuation on the next email.  You’ll still get the gist.]

Good Day to you my Lady,

You will doubtless get scores of messages each week from idiotic jerk off merchants but I am seeking to return to my natural state of being
I saw your profile and read it I believe that I may be of some practical use to you in the near future That will depend upon the establishment of mature and fruitful dialogue and the building of trust between us I will not suit every womans needs but may well suit yours It is nothing strange or weird but it is not conventional either So if you are actually engaged in securing the services of one such as myself to own as legitimate freehold consensual property I may well suit you
Until 8 years ago I was a Bonded Manservant to a Dominant Lady who was a Professional Career Lady in a high profile role She was of Lesbian sexual orientation and had been a clandestine practitioner of the alternative lifestyle
She had a number of women friends who were professional women of all sexual orientations who like here had certain interests outside of their professions that back then would have been catastrophic for their careers
She wanted to acquire a male who would be as legally close to a traditional slave as possible in the modern world so that her manservant did the bulk of the work and she could relax in her home and not bother with the tedious domestic aspects of life She consulted with Attorney friends and it was suggested she adopt a number of voluntary power exchange enactments to achieve her ambition These ranged from Adult Guardianship Order, Adult Adoption Agreement, Durable Power of Attorney, Voluntary Worker Agreements with Employment rights waivers and more besides
When aged 23 she and several of her friends interviewed me after I had answered her Advert in a then contact magazine Several further interviews took place I had to sign a number of documents and also agree on tape and on video to serve her for an indeterminate period of time and to forgo any and all contact with family and friends I had no friends and no close family so that posed no problem for me
Her house was large and had private walled gardens and was in a leafy suburb with few other houses nearby and had plenty of security and the residents paid for a private security company to have two employees patrol the area 24 hours a day
Initially I worked 8 hours each day in the home and attended college to learn culinary skills, and Stewarding skills and took a few do it yourself courses Then I worked variable hours from 12 to 16 daily I had no days off and no vacation leave and this was by agreement I also had to con towards my own board and lodging and utility bill share I was orphaned as a baby and left a legacy in my parents will and a firm of accountants and another firm of lawyers oversee the legacy and I am paid a set sum each month which increases periodically with inflation
My Employer who was in effect my Owner in lifestyle protocols was 70 when she acquired me and the age gap was significant but she had wanted a young, fit and healthy male Bonded Servant, effectively a consensual slave I had for many long years sort to become and remain a real slave and so the opportunity was gred by me when presented to me Yes it was unorthodox but it was sensible and practical and served her needs and my own She also had a female maid companion who oversaw my daily servile labors I was not permitted to speak unless spoken to and had to remain in the background I had to bow my head in respect when a lady friend of hers past by as I engaged in my work and had to kneel down in front of her when summoned to her My accommodation was small and Spartan I was not allowed to use the Telephone, Write letters, use the Computer, Watch Television, listen to the Radio are read any Newspapers I cooked meals, vacuum cleaned the floors, scrubbed and polished kitchen and bathroom, aired and made the beds and changed linen, washed and ironed cloths, worked in the Garden and more besides I was also subject to physical chastisement as and when she are any of her friends required it and that was not in the least pleasant and often painful but tolerable I was also frequently kept in another required state
She died suddenly at her practice 8 years ago after I had been in her service ownership for 12 years and she was 82 at the time I was automatically released as none of her friends either wanted to or were in a position to acquire me
I have now been searching in vain for 8 years to become owned again and am now 43 years of age
I still live in hope of becoming and remaining a Bonded Manservant again My future lady owner can be of any occupation and social class,any race and color, physical disability, sexual orientation, married, single,divorced,with are without children, as the only requirement being that they have a genuine want and need to own a bonded manservant as their voluntary servile property I relocated to serve and be owned by her and can certainly do so again after travelling to a series of face to face meetings at my own expense I no longer have a profile because nowadays if you wish to change a single word and do so the profile either takes months to be reviewed and approved are is not approved at all I am of muscular build, 6 feet 3 inches tall, with a large but flaccid masculine endowment

TL;DR: I’m full of utter shit, read some historical romances and thought I’d emulate a really bad one.

Would you like spanking my pathetic manhood with a wooden ruler, spatula or other item until it cums from the pain?

Not today Mr. Guy From the South.  Maybe tomorrow.  HMU.

Greetings Miss

I’m a submissive male seeking to serve a genuinely dominant lady which is why I messaged you.

I seek to serve you in anyway you choose, without reservations Im humble, obedient, sincere and dedicated. Please consider my request. Waiting humbly for your response.

He’s still waiting, obvs.

[Ed. Note: Ok, I’m tiring…]

hi Miss my name is sam. i am a divorced male, very successful, yet i struggled for much of my life with awkward feelings when around powerful Women. it took alot, but i finally learned my place as a male. i have been reading alot about female domination, and i know it is becoming the norm for todays males, even though many males dont realize it. when i was young i was raised by a very strict mom and she instilled fear and respect for Women in me. She made sure i was always kept in place while at the same time she tended to boost my sister’s ego.  She restricted me but gave her freedoms i never knew i tried rebelling as i grew up, i tried to act like an alpha male around Women, and even into my marriage, but that didnt work out so well for me. i am now divorced because i didnt focus on putting Her needs first but since then i spent time reflecting on what i am, i read, learned, interacted, and i finally fully accept my place as a male, which is rightly at the feet of my Superiors and in servitude

Or… she might have divorced you because you. don’t. listen.

Hello Miss, how are you doing? Please don’t hesitate to humiliate and punish me for my tiny cock

Sure thing, Bossypants.  Please hold.

Hello.  do you accept online pay piggie slaves?

I’m pretty sure I’m leaving money on the table…  Will research later.

Hello Mistress, im a 27 year old virgin slut with an uncut cock. I want to be kept by you and trained to be a good whore, i want more than the anal pleasure i give myself. Keep me Mistress

Is it feasible to achieve virginal slut-hood??

Ok, I’m finally done now.  I’m exhausted.

No wait!  Let me leave you with just one more from Adult Friend Finder:

I want to fall asleep between your pussy walls with my tongue licking up and down both of your warm and wet holes, then while gently sucking on your click (pearl tongue) like a pacifier, go night, night. “Imagine That”

I’d rather not.  Fucking A, man.  Anyone else’s retinas burning??

Ok.  Now I’m done!

Happy birthday, Ferns!!!

 

I’m not interested.

Fuck ’em.

This past week was a great big, fat downer in my World o’ Mens.  I summed it up in my last Instagram post:

Let me tell you about the last week of my life in relation to men. On Monday The Golfer ignored my text about our previous night (blog post; link in profile). On Wednesday he told me he’d “let me know” about getting together this weekend. Meanwhile, The Vet and I made and confirmed plans for Sunday afternoon – day drinking, bike riding, pool, dinner, and banging – and we texted a little every day. Peter asked to see me Friday, but I had my kid. Saturday I texted TG a sexy pic and said to “Win golf!” He ignored the pic and said he was losing. He never did get back to me about seeing each other. I deleted our thread, but he’s programmed in my phone. Then at 10 am Sunday The Vet texted to say he’d had dinner with his exgf the night before – and while they didn’t talk about reuniting – he realized he couldn’t even handle something casual so he same-day cancelled on me. I told him to hit me up when the timing was right for him, then deleted the thread without ever programming in his number. I actually don’t give a shit about a jerk who can’t handle himself. I’ll never hear from him again. I texted Peter hoping he could pinch hit, but he never replied. I figured he was dead, but he texted yesterday, Monday, to say he’d been camping. I invited him over, but he was busy, so he suggested he could come over tonight. I gladly accepted his offer. This morning he texted me how excited he was to see me and then at 4, two hours before we were to get together, he texts that he’s “in a mood” and needs to reschedule. I told him it’ll be a couple of weeks and I’ll let him know, but the truth is I won’t. I deleted his thread, too. If he texts me, great, but I’m not chasing anyone down. So then I reopened all my dating apps and got to swiping only to run into my ex, TN, and two old lovers. Time for a new batch, I suppose; hopefully with men who respect me, my time, and my little broken heart. ?

So I’m currently just gonna chill and not reach out to anyone.  It just doesn’t seem right.

And I was wrong about The Vet; he texted me yesterday.  An image of the back of his cat’s head looking out over the river from his balcony with the caption “Chillin’ with my villain.”  I responded with “Dragon kitty!” and he lol’d.  That was it.  Not sure what the fuck he wanted [from me].

I ended up grabbing a drink with another fella named Peter (Peter 2.0) the night Peter late-cancelled, but I didn’t feel a thing other than total wonderment that he asked me so many questions about my life; deep, meaningful questions.  He lost me when he said people have described him as Eeyore… this Tigger doesn’t have time for a project like that.

I suspect Peter thinks I’m pissed so he’s avoiding me.

And The Golfer… I don’t even know what to say about that dude.  I haven’t heard boo from him.  I’m just trying to get to California with my kid despite cancelled flights and thunderstorms.  I don’t have time for any of this bullshit.

Oh!  And I almost forgot!  Remember “Early Afternoon Lunch” guy??    He was this guy back in February that I chatted with a bunch for about two weeks. I gave him my Saturday night on a custody weekend (those are extra precious to me) and then that morning he texted simply, “Early afternoon lunch.”  Uh….

I didn’t appreciate the downgrade to a fucking brunch so I asked for clarification.  I never heard from him again… until yesterday when I noticed he’d liked me on OKC so I swiped right, too, to see what the fuck he wanted.  The chat went like this:

Him: Hey Hyacinth

Me: Hey Early Afternoon Lunch Guy

H: How you been?

M: Good, you?

H: I’m off today
M: Ah. Good for you. So what’s up? Do you remember me? We met on The League, texted for a couple of weeks, set a date for a Saturday night then that morning you switched it up to a “late breakfast” then never texted me again when I tried to clarify what was going on.
H: I apologize about that. I wasn’t quite ready to get back into dating, and I should’ve told you
M: Yeah, you should’ve. It was super inconsiderate of you, particularly since all you had to do was tell me how you were feeling. I’d have still been bent out of shape about the late cancellation, but it’d have been better than ghosting on me like that. I lost a whole night of *something* because of that since I couldn’t scrounge up anything to do on such short notice. Not to mention being treated like that didn’t feel all that great.
H: I understand and you’re right. I’m sorry I was so inconsiderate
M: Thank you

H: No problem

Should I leave you alone?
M: Lemme think on it
H: That’s fair. Lemmeno
M: Sure. I need to know – from you – why I should let you back in
H: I’ve been working on myself the last few months. Trying to get to a better place mentally and financially. I feel I’m getting there…not fully realized yet, but I’m doing the work and going in the right direction
M: Do you want to get to know me? Will you not pull that shit on me again?
H: Yes. On both accounts
M: I gotta say I’m a little underwhelmed by your answers! I mean, I was at least hoping for something about how awesome I am and how you regretted fucking shit up before because of said awesomeness ??‍♀️
Well, I’m sorry but I was with my son yesterday afternoon and wasn’t able to expand appropriately
Just another way of saying, “I’m sorry you’re such a bitch for being unimpressed with my lukewarm and apathetic responses, but I was with my son and how dare you expect more of me even though you had absolutely no way of knowing I was with a child under 5 all day to the extent that I couldn’t possibly give you the attention you deserve and which you so graciously gave me the opportunity to give.. twice.”
I wanted to write back, “I’m sorry you’re such an idiot Man Baby.”  But I didn’t; I have nothing to say.
I’m so fucking done with men who leave me to do all the emotional lifting.  Fucking done.  Where are the adults who say “I’m sorry I can’t do what I promised, but how about [this alternative that lets you know I think you’re important and worthy of respect]”?  Or, “God, Hy, I’m so sorry for being a twat.  You really didn’t deserve that and I’d really love the chance to start over with you.”  Or, “Hy, I’m really sorry for not getting back to you; I won’t do that again.”
The thing is, these men are adults and I’m just not that important to them or their lives are a mess or they’re stunted or they’re whatever, and that’s the real message.  They don’t seem willing or able to communicate that to me with anything other than neglect. 
So, ok.  I hear y’all.  I’m not the woman for you, but mostly, you’re not the man for me.
[Ed. Note: Peter is lumped in here mostly due to proximity to all the douche-baggery I’ve experienced this week.  He’s a different bean on the scale and I hope we can get back on track soon.  I genuinely care about him.  But I meant what I said: he’ll have to reach out to me.  I can only make everyone else’s life so easy before I just call myself a doormat with a pussy.]

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Early afternoon lunch.

Hold me.  I need a fucking hug.

He texted me every day for two weeks.  Parried and played with words, flirted and flitted about my little phone screen.

I told him I could be free either Friday or Saturday nights, but it all depended on Pey and my parents and which night they wanted to spend together.  He said he preferred Saturday and then it all worked out.  Saturday it was.

No, he didn’t need help picking something to do because he was brand new to town.  He’d be happy to figure something out.  Yes, he’d follow me to the table to check out my sexy rear end because he prefers meaty women like me.  Of course he’s certain I look cute every day.  Wow, he thinks I’m really pretty!  Morning darlin, he said practically every morning.  What are you wearing today?  And we’d joke at how filthy such an innocent question sounded.

And then on the bright, cold morning of our date I read the following text:

Early afternoon lunch

No punctuation.  No context.  No more anything.

I responded with question marks and confusion and lots of space so he could play with the rope.  By late afternoon I couldn’t help but send one last text to at least acknowledge the event that was occurring:

I get the feeling we’re not having our date tonight since I haven’t heard from you since that 8 am text about an early afternoon lunch…

*More silence*

All the words, all the darlin’s, all the flirty, flitty, parrying, and playing amounted to one big fat fucking black hole of my energy and hope.  And a last minute appeal to a girlfriend so that my rare Saturday night would not go to waste.

Thanks a lot, Mr. Forgettable.  May you get a nasty rash and wake up 30 minutes too early for the rest of your selfish and impolite life.  Now excuse me while I go deal with my quiet, impotent rage over the betrayal of a simple social contract: do what you say you will and if you cannot then you say so.

Have a nibble on that for your bitch time slot early afternoon lunch, why don’t you?

 

February Photofest

Floating along in 2019.

Holla.

It appears I’ve abandoned my Dating Like It’s 1995 project.  I know because I’m back on Bumble and I’ve jumped into a pile of dicks — I mean dudes — again.  It kinda feels good.  Too good.  Like I’m not all here, just tethered by a string dancing in the gale.

Time to carefully back away again and get back to 1995.  I liked it there a lot.  It was quiet and real and rooted through the ground beneath my palms.

February Photofest

It was like walking by a perfumed woman.

One minute it was there: real, wonderful, delicious in its lingering scent. Like a garden around the corner in full bloom.

And then, as if swept away on a breeze, it was long past me and the space between us convinced him he was wrong: it was nothing to pursue or look forward to with me.

He had decided he would cancel our date tonight and any further engagements.

The Magical Sub was not so magical after all.

And I was right.

I choked on tears in the car when I got the first warning text at 12:30 expressing his reservations. I was headed to the grocery store to buy supplies. I sat in the parking lot instead and replied, calmly and warmly. Four hours later he finally confirmed he’d had a change of heart.

No matter, really.

I’d driven straight home and crawled under my covers in my workout clothes and cried off and on into my pink velvet pillow shams for the rest of the afternoon.

The house was a mess and there was no food. I’d gone to no trouble. Fuck him. Fuck it.

I didn’t respond to his last text apologizing and saying he felt like an asshole. Well, yeah. You should. Not going to argue with you; I’m going to walk away with my head held high, tyvm.

Prior to this afternoon he’d excitedly asked me about my rope skills and sent drooling emojis about seeing me again. There were lots of warm smiles and exclamations from him.

I guess the bright cold winter air sobered him up.

I can’t quite understand why I even keep trying, to be honest. Such a waste of my everything.

FUCK OFF. xx

My last Sinful Sunday of the year. Click below for everyone else!

Sinful Sunday

This ain’t gonna be easy.

I’m at Ground Zero for my new life project, Dating Like It’s 1995, and already I am feeling the burn.

I recently met a hot, sassy fella on Fetlife.  He’s 15 years my junior and just moved from another state.  Like, on Friday.  He’s never subbed before, but I am attracted to his energy and his cheeky sense of humor and confidence, so we agreed to meet up Friday for drinks.

I hadn’t heard from him since I wrote my post this morning until about 15 minutes ago, so that’s about 4 hours of life in 1995.  If I thought staying on track was going to be hard on my end, articulating my desires to others may prove even more difficult.

Exhibit A:

Hy:
And I gotta be honest. It’s kind of a bummer that I have no emails to look forward to on FL now that we’re texting lol

Him:
[…]
Lol whys that?

Hy:
I hate texting… but I’m using it like IM right now, so it’s bearable

Him:
You enjoyed looking at my dick everytime I txt u?

Hy:
Because emails mean you have given or are getting 100% of someone’s attention. With true texting (not IMing) you get only a fraction. People are at stop lights, between meetings, on the toilet, etc lol

Ha No

I hardly noticed it once we started talking

Him:
Lol needy much?

I must just be all.over you huh

Hahaha

Hy:
OMG

Hardly

Him:
Oh youll.love my loving don’t you worry

I gtg tho my phone is dying and I need it fpr my car registration

Hy:
And no, please don’t be all over me. I just prefer communicating with someone with all of my attention and getting all of someone else’s. No distractions. Like in 1995 (were you born yet? lol). Full convos, etc.

K – have fun

What have I gotten myself into???  Maybe it’ll just be easier to live on a mountain top with my Hitachi and an occasional foray to a Navy port city.

Finding a D/s dance partner is one long and lonely night.

I have always known why I want to dominate.

It’s not because it’s taboo or transgressive, or even because I’m in charge.  It’s because in that bubble of time where a man bends his knee to me I can finally let go.

I want to dominate so I may trust.

A year ago I met Nate.  I never really named him other than tagging the name in the footnotes of my writings.  He felt like a shadow to me, sand through my fingers.  I didn’t want to name something I knew would be temporary.

He found me on CollarSpace.  Approached me like a normal man, but respectful.  Not simpering or demanding, an all too common combination in the male sub choice of communique.  Simpmanding.  Demanpering?

We met on an October night at a local wine bar and drank two bottles of wine.  His long legs capped with cowboy boots crossed at the ankles stretched out past our table.  We laughed and talked under the stars for hours until hunger drove us out to find a diner.

He walked me to my car and I let him snake his fingers inside my panties.  He was usually dominant he said.  He kissed me hard, almost painfully, and brought me to climax.  I came down my leg and my juices pooled in my shoes.

At the diner we talked some more and stuffed our faces.  His black leather jacket crinkled and he periodically had to flick his jaw-length blond hair out of his eyes.  “We’ll have to make sure you have a hair tie,” I said mischievously.

We said our goodbyes in the parking lot under a street lamp and tried to hide our lascivious petting from the occasional other diner coming and going.  He dropped to his knees and buried his face in the apex of my thighs.  At 3 am we were virtually alone.

He was an intense A-type workaholic with his own one-man business.  His passion and focus was entirely on his career, but he could no longer ignore this burning need to be dominated.  He wanted the freedom of no control.

He was never very good at just casual sex he said and wanted to make a real connection with someone, not just a one-time thing, which was perfect for me.  When we met I was still licking my wounds after a crushing D/s disappointment and I was refocused on going slowly.

We hung out ol’ vanilla style a few times, established expectations in communication and made out.  He tasted of weed and tobacco and I liked to eye his long hair with disdain.  “You don’t like my long hair, do you?” he’d ask smiling.

“Nope.  Not at all,” I laughed.

Over the next 4 months we played with our deeper drives.  The first night I took control I didn’t change out of my work attire, a black pencil skirt and cream colored silky button down with its own black tie tied loosely into a bow right where the last button held at my cleavage.  His eyes bugged when I opened the door.  The black sash would end up around his neck while his hands and feet were bound.

For weeks he’d come over and I would have a different sash, ribbon, or tie.  A length of pink satin wrapped gently, yet firmly around his ball sac and the base of his shaft, my sash tied through his smile, and the little black velvet ribbon I used to use on The Neighbor bowed about his beautiful, pale neck.

I used my “BDSM Starter Kit” on him and experimented with the flogger, the ball gag and the blindfold.  And while bound and blind I liked to slip a plug a boy had once left behind – a boy whose name I don’t even recall – light pink and slender, angled like a soft little diamond deep into his clenched hole while I milked his cock and he cried out begging to cum.

Nate was tall and lean and he loved to do domestic service for me.  I’d sip wine while I watched him put away the dishes wearing my black lace panties with cherries on them, his pink meat stuffed inside the lace basket.

My room lit with candles offered us the safe space to seek that which we wanted so badly.  His trust in me was an aphrodisiac, his complete submission a harrowing, yet utterly titillating experience.  Every touch, every sound, every kiss and lick I gave was for a purpose: submit to me.

I liked to ride his face until I came with him bucking beneath me for air.  He’d look drunk when I’d slide down his body to suck his cock and sound near-to-tears when I finally gave him permission to fill my mouth with his seed.

Afterwards we liked to sit on my balcony so he could smoke and we could come back to earth and our bodies.  It was during one of these post-coital, aftercare moments that I realized my true drive to dominate.  I wanted to trust him.  I wanted to trust him so badly. 

My relationship with Nate, while brief, was also the first time I said, “No, don’t treat me that way,” when he was vague or slippery about plans.  We talked on the phone semi-regularly to touch base and recalibrate.  He was eager, willing, and listened to me.  I felt heard.

The very last time we were together things felt a little off.  He was distracted and I was struggling to enter my dominant space.  I checked in with him, corrected things and we forged on.

I wore my harness replete with a slender black dildo the length of my middle finger and after cumming twice myself via his face and cock I unbuckled his ankles and put them on my shoulders.  His eyes, uncovered so he could watch, glistened in the candlelight.

I felt an incredible sense of power kneeling over him with my little mini hardon.  He was so open to me, waiting, trusting.  I dribbled lube all over his crack and hole, pushed inside and shuffled closer to the backs of his thighs, and began to thrust as I played with his chubby dick.

The movement to penetrate was harder than I’d imagined.  A foreign curling of my hips and a strength in my thighs I didn’t have.  The more I pumped and fondled the more he strained against me.  I was on the verge of being thrown completely off the bed by his pleasure.  I shook with the effort to  take in the power of his submission, I was about to be on the floor!

“Nate,” I said tapping the rock hard thigh against my chest.  “You have to stop pushing on me.  You’re about to fling me right off.”  We’d have laughed if we weren’t both drowning in power and submission.

He relaxed and I pushed into him further and continued to squeeze and jerk on his cock.  It all felt a bit like patting my head and rubbing my belly, but I was determined to see it all to the end.

He came mightily and I braced myself against his muscles.  He shook and cried and and the air vibrated around us.

I slowly pulled out and grabbed a towel to wipe his bottom.  He was embarrassed there may be a mess.  I told him not to worry and tucked the towel beneath him and unwrapped the harness from my hips.

We lay together, dazed, incredulous that any of it had happened.  As per our little routine we got up, put on robes and went outside.  I could barely move and felt like I had fallen flat on my face from a four story window.  My legs shook with the effort of walking and I would end up hobbling for days.

He puffed on his weed and I sipped on wine under the moon on my balcony.  He left sooner than I was ready, though it was probably an hour.  I’d needed more time to come back into myself.  He seemed eager to run out and I could almost see him waiting the appropriate amount of time until he could.

We’d talk about it – the pegging and the disconnect – and he agreed with everything and validated my feelings.  We would never attempt that level of D/s again unless he was fully submitting.  I felt good about the chat, so did he.  And I’m glad because it was the last one we’d have while engaged with one another in the dynamic.

He called not long after to give me the update that his career taking off and he’d have no time for us.  I wished him well and accepted my fate.  We texted off and on over the months and even had a nice chat.  He was dating a vanilla girl and No, she didn’t know about his predilections.

Since Nate I’ve met one young man, though we had no chemistry; talked with one on the phone who was basically so unintelligible I wondered how he got through life; and have emailed with a dozen more.  My requirements are specific and my need a lazy one so it’s not much of a combination to move the needle towards a match.

Dozens of men a month send me disgusting notes about being my personal toilet or sitting on their faces to the point they pass out.  Demanding that they be dominated because they want it, calling me Goddess and Mistress and all sorts of honorifics as if they’ve earned it.  It’s as exhausting and ridiculous as regular dating, just with a kinky and sometimes disgusting twist.  It’s not all a complete loss, though.

Recently I found a man who ticked all the boxes, though the ink on his divorce wasn’t yet dry and he couldn’t seem to find the time for me.  I told him my interest had waned, but to reach out if things changed on his end.

And – more excitingly – I’ve found an Irishman who is an astoundingly good match – aside from the distance, that is.

He’s everything I could hope for and our emails are long and interesting.  Perhaps I will meet him while I’m in the UK in March.  I’d been seriously considering popping over to Dublin even before he and I began chatting, so maybe this is a good opportunity for me.  Or just another chance to meet someone I can’t have long term.  I seem to be really good at that.

This dance of D/s is so prolonged, so intricate.  There are steps to follow, dips to learn, twirls to master.  My pickiness is born out of slap-in-the-face after slap-in-the-face as I’ve learned the moves of the kinky world.  Some men can’t handle submitting and lash out by disappearing.  I have to be cautious and hold the bar high above my head – oh so high.  It is delicate and fragile, this power exchange, yet empowering and exciting. I can’t fuck around.

I am so clear on what I want and what is acceptable and I never wonder if I’ve made the right choice, but I do miss dancing with someone… and barely being able to walk for days.