Life imitating art.

C’mon, Baby.

“Mm… I love being with you,” he said as he wrapped his arms around my naked body and pulled me closer to his.

“You’re so curvy and soft,” he kissed my hairline and stroked my hair while his other hand slid along my exposed hip and buttock, “and I could just pet you forever and ever.  I don’t want to stop.”  His hand gripped my skin and kneaded it gently.

I cuddled in closer and hitched my knee up higher over his thigh and wound my legs through his.  This didn’t even feel real.

Looking into his big green eyes didn’t seem real.  Watching his broad shoulders square off above me didn’t seem real.  Feeling his rock hard cock deep inside of me didn’t seem real.  Breathing his breath as I came hard like a river pounding down a mountain didn’t seem real.

“I wish I could stay here all night,” he murmured against my temple.

“I wish you could, too.”

He’d arrived with a blast of cold air at his back and scooped me up into his arms and maybe called me Baby.  His lips were cold and the dog tried to steal my thunder.  I poured him a glass of white wine and we talked about our week apart across my kitchen island.

He periodically came around behind me and nibbled my neck and ear as I shared my silly travails.  I periodically walked around to his bar stool and stood between his knees, a perfect fit for a kiss with this ridiculously tall man.

I ran my hands along his lean sides and I melted into him.  Nothing felt more sexy than his wanting to talk to me about my day.  No one is ever interested in my day.  But Peter is.

And so I took his hand and led him into my pink bedroom with the soft afternoon light and lit a candle.  When I turned around he was on his knees, his face squarely at breast height.  We laughed at the hidden bonuses of being such different sizes and I crushed his pretty face between my jugs.  Oh, Peter.

Our afternoons together are not predictable, but I rely on their presence in my life and he predictably listens, laughs, licks, lusts, and empties his balls into me at least twice so I may leak with his jizz as I go about my night.  No aroma is better than a well-fucked woman with rosy cheeks, after all.  Eat your heart out, perfumers. 

We like to compare ourselves to the Joy of Life painting beside my bed while we bask in our sweat and the fluffy remnants of our orgasms.  Sometimes we are the couple on the lower right, that afternoon at one point we were the couple on the middle left, upright and reaching for one another.

No matter what, we’re on the right track for finding joy in life: naked, together, wanton, dancing in a motherfucking field of velvet hedonism with meadow-scented air.

And if we were actually in that painting, then Peter would never have to go home.

 

 

February Photofest
Masturbation Monday

I got an extra belt.

I noticed his belt on my dresser this afternoon, coiled like a snake.  Dark brown, almost black, smooth and well-made.  Its low-key fanciness surprised me.

I pulled it through my fingers and watched its shine bend and flex with my hands and smiled.  It was a nice meaty weight.

I’ll think of him, he who couldn’t be bothered to text me after sex, when I wrap it around the throat of my next sublime and willing lover.  If he ever calls to get it back I’ll tell him the dog ate it.

Eat your heart out, asshole.

February Photofest

This is how you lose me and this is how you get me.

How I like to be approached.

Good sex cannot be underestimated.  Its positive effects, its impact on the spirit, its sparkly-ness.  Good sex is like a good meal: memorable in its fleetingness, but much appreciated, and the last time I had good sex was with Peter, probably the day his boss caught us.  It’s been a long fucking time – no pun intended.

I’m too tired to go into details right now, but I saw him again on Friday.  We hadn’t seen each other since before the holidays and we didn’t get out of the foyer with our clothes on.  Lots of kissing and me on my tip toes and him moaning and smiling into my kisses.

A couple of hours and many shared orgasms later he took a shower while I basked in his sweat and cum clinging to my skin.  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said about having to take a shower.   Of course I didn’t mind – this isn’t about hurting his girlfriend, after all.

When he was over me and buried deep inside I gazed into his green, cat like eyes, so happy to be back there with him.  There’s something to be said about a true affinity for someone: it’s lovely, comfort food.

The next night, after a long, boozy day with some besties, a young man came over.  I barely knew his name, but he was tall, polite, and cute, and we talked for hours before I said something sexy like, “Hey, you wanna bang?  Cuz I do.” (I didn’t really, but it was close).  He nodded and the kisses commenced.

His shoulders were broad and his skin soapy and delicious and his mouth was beautiful between my thighs.  I mounted his hips and rode him until he warned me he was going to cum and I told him to just let go and enjoy himself.
He emptied himself into the condom deep inside of me and I rained down around his hips and slipped and slid on his hot, smooth skin.

He dressed in the dark and I wrapped myself in a robe; he winked at me as he rounded the corner down the stairs.  I fell into bed and noticed his belt on the floor.  Whoops.

Peter lamented about us going so long between visits and texted sweet nothings the next day.  Scott, the man with no belt, seemed pleased with himself, but I barely heard from him today.  I still can’t quite figure out why a human would avoid another human whose body they were inside just hours before, but there it is.  He’s done it.

And after contemplating my attachment style these past few days I see no future – even a casual one – with a man who essentially ignored me after his face was buried in my pussy for 30 minutes the night before.  I have no room for that person in my life.

Peter on the other hand… It was like coming home being lost in the deep green pools of his smiling eyes.  Ever attentive and interested in me and my life we talked and came and cuddled and fucked and talked and cuddled some more before he had to head home to his girlfriend.  I’ll never call her “lucky,” because, well, I wouldn’t want to be her, but I hope he’s half as good to her as he is to me because everyone deserves to feel that kind of special.

As for Scott the Belt-less, well… he just doesn’t get it, I guess, and he won’t get me, either.

 

 

February Photofest

I am insecurely attached.

In my Psych 101 class freshman year of college we learned about attachment theory and I see it pop up every couple of months in cultural and psychologically slanted articles about the state of affairs in relationships.  The theory, in its most basic form, is how you attached to your caregivers as a child affects your behavior and feelings in adult relationships.

Originally the researchers were only looking at it in terms of childhood development, but in the late 80’s folks began to see similarities in adult relationship styles.  If you were insecurely attached to your mother, for example, you’d be more likely to display similar characteristics in your romantic relationships.

There are four main types identified in adults:

  • secure
  • anxious-preoccupied
  • dismissive-avoidant
  • fearful-avoidant

The bottom 3 are all categorized as “insecure attachment” and I — lucky me — am a couple of those: fearful-avoidant in general and romantically and dismissive-avoidant with my mother and closest friends (according to this really cool test).

“People who are fearfully avoidant in their relationships are uncomfortable depending on others and serving as an attachment figure. Moreover, they worry that others may not be there emotionally when they are most needed.”  Dismissive-avoidant types “… are also not comfortable opening up to others and depending on or having others depend on them. In addition, they are not concerned with the question of whether the other person truly cares about them.”

This understanding about myself isn’t new, but it is important because it explains my total hyperventilation when men I date don’t show up in the myriad of ways one might not show up: ignoring texts, not following up after sex, being vague about plans, commitment, their feelings, etc.  Dating is a hot bed of psychological torture for the insecurely attached among us.  We can’t handle it and it all amounts to fear of abandonment and the push-pull dilemma of going for it or pretending we don’t care.

It’s exhausting.

Enter D/s into my life.  A place where I get to dictate the rules of engagement to control for my inabilities to trust others and my ambivalence to try and I feel a little calmer about things.  Apparently I am also way more devastated when things go sideways, but for a brief period of time I feel goooood.  And it’s worth the experience in general because I get to feel safe for a change.

Things with the Not liberal Liberal Sub have waned significantly since his visit.  I have stopped texting him because I have nothing to say.  He must be feeling similarly, though he did pop a text my way yesterday wishing me a happy day.

It’s just a matter of time before we alert one another to our feelings for one another.  “It was lovely meeting you.  I had a great time.  I don’t think we should pursue anything romantic or otherwise kinky together.  I’d be down for a glass of wine in London, though, if you’re around.”

So now it’s February and my self-assigned January Man Ban is over with and I’m talking to a sexy 39 yo vanilla guy that I kinda dig with ever-changing facial hair, random hot guys who aren’t really worth my time, and staring down at all my insecure attachment trappings thinking, “I got my eye on you, assholes.”

A couple of years ago I realized the benefits of applying the high standards of my D/s life to my vanilla one.  As a D-type I take less shit, I may even be slightly more securely attached, and after this last experience with a demanding and less-than-self-aware sub I feel even more armed to identify behaviors and character traits I don’t want. Insecure-attachment style or not.

If what I really and truly want is a fulfilling partnership replete with kinky sex and tender love then only I can choose for that.  My attachment style is the gauntlet, my will my armor.  Let’s see how I do.

Cheers.

[Ed. Note: If you’d like to read more about attachment theory, read this.]

 

February Photofest

I’ve made up my mind.

I haven’t heard from him. He gave a shit, beige-colored farewell – if I squint at it really hard.

It has become so easy: this man has not earned me.

Byeeee.
February Photofest

My gut said No.

I am not a good listener

when she says no

Twisting, turning, trying so hard

to be polite ohhhh

I must be mistaken, sure, yes, ok

until the sun rises on tangled hair and

deflated balloons and

whisker rash and

an urge to go home

Then the sun rises again

and she hears it true

No, no thank you

that won’t do

It’s you, it’s you, it’s you

We did not meet today.

 

 

February Photofest

I am not an object.

One of the biggest hurdles in my search for a submissive partner is that I am ultimately a non-person to him.  I am a means to an end to fulfill his fantasy of being dominated.  My personhood is irrelevant; I just need to be willing and able and breathing and he’s good to go.

What I need out of the dynamic isn’t of interest to him, he assumes that what he gets off on I am the natural compliment to it.  He’s into CFNM¹?  Then I must love it, too.  He likes to be choked?  Then I must be looking for every opportunity to grab his throat.  He wants to be powerless?  Then I love making every decision.  He is a kamikaze fly looking for any web he can find.

He feels such freedom from the pressures of performance that it is lost on him that now I am pressured to perform for him.  It’s exhausting and bossy and narrow minded and it turns me right the fuck off.  It makes me pissy and resentful and is typically how most first emails go.

cruelty is kindness Greetings for the day goddess the slave kneels with its head bowed down and looking to serve and suffer for u. Wish u don’t mind in making the slave suffer. It knows nothing comes for free and it is not a freebie and won’t waste ur time goddess. wish to be owned and onctolled [sic] like a tpe [sic] slave online

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

Hi Miss, are you interested in training an online sub from the Netherlands to follow your instructions and complete tasks to amuse you?/p – slave jack/p

good evening from Germany may this tall slave serve you well? with all my respects paul

Everyone wants something from a Domme.  It’s basically novel to approach her as if she were an actual woman, and my profiles are all very specific and have a small task buried in the text to weed out those who’d otherwise ignore my wishes.  I tell everyone exactly how to treat me.  If he doesn’t do it, I don’t respond.  And yet…

I also am very clear on not calling me an honorific, but since these men aren’t here for me they do what they like because, after all, it’s actually all about them.  They love the idea of being submissive and calling a strange, attractive woman Ma’am or Mistress, or Miss.  What do you think happens to me?  Yep: I get turned the fuck off.

My web is set, it’s beautiful and sparkles, but dandelions and leaves keep blowing onto the threads.

Looking back on our dynamic I realize now that The Neighbor was an alpha type who liked to get me to dominate him on occasion. When I bossed him around and tied up his raging erections and took his sight away with a sash, it was always on his terms.  He was ultimately in control of when we got to play that way, not me.  His game, his rules.  I was just a rube along for the ride with her heart on her sleeve.

Today I am not interested in being used like that.  I want my needs as a Domme to be equal to those of my submissive.  If I want him to undress in front of me it will be because I feel like being fucked, but can’t be bothered to undress all the way.  If I want to throttle my hot and heaving lover as I impale myself on him, then that is my prerogative and he will be thrilled to feel my fingers wrap around his neck.  If I know what I’d like to do, then I will share it.  But none of those things should happen unless they come to me naturally and in my own time.

I am not a puppet for his pleasure any more than he is mine.  We are a team, yin and yang, night and day.  We cannot truly shine without the other.

What I am distressed to find again and again are men whose own desires for sexual domination far over shadow their need to be my kind of submissive.

My experience on Friday left me feeling largely invisible.  I know he enjoyed himself – he was in suckling, choking, little bitch heaven – but I never got to my happy femdomme place.  I was being directed every step of the way on how to make him feel submissive.  I was not encouraged — or allowed — to dominate him in my own way.

It’s the difference between instructing someone on how to make your favorite meal and enjoying a delicious meal of their own choosing cooked for you by a talented chef.

But I’m thinking that it was a first date and I wasn’t planning on being intimate — it just happened — and maybe it’d be better for me in a different setting and maybe he’ll be different and we’ll be different and and and…

Hy:
I have a little fantasy that you come over before you leave and I can really experiment with our chemistry in the comfort of my own bedroom with all the things I love
Him:
When would that happen
I could come to your office for a lunch exam² tomorrow
What would you do to me in your bedroom?
Hy:
In my fantasy? Kinda late on Monday, like 10 or something. I have a brutally long day and in that fantasy is my need for releasing on someone. But it’s a fantasy. This isn’t some backhanded way of me asking you. I’m not actually sure I’d have it in me…
I am so slammed tomorrow. If we met midday, which I would enjoy regardless of what we do, I’d want you to fuck me and make me cum. You’d have a job to do. I wouldn’t overtly top you other than having you come to take care of me lol
Him:
I think I understand you
I might be able to do that
Hy:
I have a break at 3
Him:
Could maybe do 3pm
I have a fantasy of you making me get undressed in front of you while you are clothed
Also having you grab me by the throat, push me against the wall, grabbing me by the balls with your other hand and asking who they belong to wouldn’t suck either ;)
Hy:
lol
Duly noted
Him:
If I can’t tell you who can I tell?
Hy:
This is true
I’ll catalog it 😉

I toyed with several responses before I landed on “This is true; I’ll catalog it /winkyface.”  The first thing that came to mind was irritation, then distaste, and finally resentment.  I had just told him what I wanted to happen.  I’m glad I went with vague acceptance with a smiley face instead.  I prefer to remain apart and not vulnerable.

I had high hopes for the two of us and feeling invisible wasn’t one of them.  I am forever waiting for the right one to fly into my pretty little web.  I guess I’ll just admire the garden a while longer.

 

I am not an object.

 

¹: Clothed Female Naked Male

²: By “exam” he means a fantasy of his to be examined by his Domme to see if he passes muster.  This is not an interest of mine.

 

February Photofest

I fucked two guys on Christmas night: A holiday tradition

I sort of mentioned it, but I had my SEVENTH blogging anniversary on December 17th.  It was 8 days later that I decided to post about an incredible Christmas night from the year before, the first time Troy and I met Jack.  It was the launch of a beautiful friendship between the three of us.  Troy eventually got married and embarked on starting a family; his iPhone iMessages are now green texts whenever I reach out to say Hi.  He’s moved on.  Jack is still in my life in a sweet orbit and occasionally we collide.  We rarely see each other but when we do it’s beyond lovely.  He has a new wife. This was originally published 12/25/11 and when I read it today I barely recognize that woman.  My writing has improved exponentially as has my life changed.  I hope you’re all having a lovely holiday season with your loved ones!  I love you all!!  xx Hy

::

Tonight is my one-year anniversary of becoming a libertine and creating a left-of-center, non-vanilla lifestyle. For real.

Prior to a year ago, I was a newly single woman embarking on a non-monogamous dating path. That much I knew. But I didn’t know how far I swung out of the mainstream until a surprise package landed in my lap late December 25th, 2010. That’s when I knew I was forever changed.

Troy was a man I’d men in early November and our sex was electric. I made him cum 4 times our first time and he’s the one who opened my body to wonders I didn’t know existed. He was a demanding, gentle, talented lover, but out of bed he was cruel, punitive, and dismissive. Our sexual affair lasted as long as I could stand until he betrayed me with a friend. I mourn the loss of his cock and skill, but celebrate the freedom from the bullshit.

One of the many things that Troy and I bonded over was our shared fantasy regarding a third man. He wanted to suck a huge cock and I wanted to watch men suck each other.

So we embarked on a hunt via AFF to find a third. Man after man didn’t pass muster. Troy would routinely meet them first to make sure they weren’t creepy, then I’d meet them, but no one clicked. We were becoming discouraged.

Then, it all came together. Like the twinkle in Santa’s eye. It wasn’t planned, it was a happy accident. Suddenly I had two men before me, a fire in my hearth, and cocks all over inside me.

Here’s the story as I documented it one year ago today:

The other night I was suddenly and unexpectedly childless. I invited Troy over for companionship since a trip he had planned for fell through (a wild jaunt in the mountains with an Amazonian Russian doll, no less).

I surprised him with my childless status to which he immediately jumped and texted Jack, a 20-something computer-systems-IT-type dude; European in stature and British in intonation, to come to my house instead of his for an initial meet and greet.

Troy was agitated and nervous as we waited so I pushed him down on my couch and sucked and stroked his cock for a few minutes with expertise, then climbed on top and drenched his hips with my pussy juices as he pile drove into me and came like a rockstar.

Finally Jack arrived. Tall, pale, polite, floppy-haired and bespectacled. The perfectly innocuous third to our fantasy.

I sat on the couch next to Troy. Jack sat in a chair. We chatted. Then someone suggested Jack sit next to me, essentially sandwiching me between them. The men began discussing auto-oral stimulation and I mentioned I loved to sit and hold my breast in my hand like this. Then I asked if Jack would like to hold it. Then I told Troy to hold the other one.

I sat there in stillness. The universe swirled around me as two large, warm male hands each cupped a heavy breast tenderly, eagerly.

“What do you want us to do next, sweet Hyacinth?” Jack asked.

“Kiss my neck,” I firmly replied.

And they did. Two pairs of soft lips on balanced sides of my neck, nibbling away. Their hands kneading and strong on my tits still.

With locks of soft hair brushing one side of my neck and the fine stubble of a shaved head on the other I tell them, “Now unbuckle your pants.” They do and I reach into each of their laps and hold giant, rigid cocks. Jack is 8″+, Troy is close to 8″

All salacious hell breaks loose and the next 3 and a half hours or so are a fucking blur. Literally.

If memory serves me, Jack flipped me on my back, hefted my knees high and peeled off my panties. He fell onto my pussy with gusto while Troy kissed me deeply. It hurt for a few strokes and I had to say, “Flatten your tongue, Jack, flatten it,” to which he did immediately. This went on for a few minutes before things switched gears.

I sucked Jack first. Troy wanted me to lead the way, to break the ice, and I was more than willing. I kneeled before him and spread his legs wide, gripped the base and licked from balls to stern. Jack is thick and my hand was filled with his heat. He was shaved clean, which I don’t ordinarily like, but with the contrast of Troy’s trimming I found it intriguing, titillating, lovely. I deep-throated him like Troy had taught me a couple of days prior but I was sorely lacking so he took over.

I watched in awe as this powerful, 6’6″, broad-shouldered, and athletic man gently took hold of another man’s 8″ cock and tenderly put it in his mouth and. bore. down. Like he was born to it. Someone was probably touching me somewhere — I have no clue — I was spiraling up and up as my fantasy manifested before my eyes.

Things switched again. Jack started fingering me, someone was kissing me, someone was licking my pussy and I was squirting. And squirting. And squirting.

My brain began to shut down and be replaced by my glorious cunt, my nerves, my sensations.

Minutes, hours, an eternity? later I found myself fucking Jack – something neither Troy nor I thought I’d do. He pounded into me. Maybe Troy was there licking my clit? I don’t know.

Maybe we were in my room, maybe the living room. God, I have no fucking clue, even now. I only know that at some point my vibe entered the equation and I was prone over my ottoman in only a bathrobe and two long, naked men at my head and rear.

Jack was under me with three fingers curled deep inside, the vibe held tight to my clit. Troy was at my face, kissing me, whispering how beautiful I was, this was, and his fingers trailed lightly along my back and face as I whimpered and shuttered and cried and came and came and came and poured juices all over Jack’s face beneath me.

They talked about me like I wasn’t there; marveling at my body and its responses to them. I loved hearing every word. They compared their sensations at “bottoming out” with me, how amazing it was; how eager I was; how incredible I felt and how good I tasted.

And I came some more.

Then I sucked Jack with Troy burying himself deep inside of me, essentially controlling Jack’s blowjob with his thrusts. As Troy so aptly pointed out later, I was, literally, a FUCKING COCKSUCKER.

Later, I lay on my back in my bed with Troy to my left and Jack over me and deep inside of me, the vibe at my clit. Jack had never fucked with a Hitachi before and he kept up a steady stream of comments, “Oh my God. She’s clenching. I can feel her. It feels so good. Oh, Hyacinth…”

And then as he came he pulled out, stripped off the condom and Troy sucked him dry, then was suddenly looming over my face, blocking out the light, and snowballing Jack’s yummy, tangy cum into my eager mouth.

I finished myself off with the vibe, Troy’s hand on my throat, Jack quietly waiting at my feet. My mind fragmented. Then Troy says hoarsely, “Hyacinth, I need you to suck me like only you can.” And I did. And he came brilliantly in my mouth, warm and delicious, like heated vanilla.

There were times during the night when I could hear them wondering aloud whether or not they’d “broken me” as I lay trembling and gasping in a literal puddle of my own making.

I always said, “NO. Just give me a minute. Don’t stop.” And they didn’t. They kept going and going, playing off of what each other was doing to me, juxtaposing their strokes, their styles.

The strongest two snapshots I have in my mind from that night are 1) of my face pressed into the ottoman with unimaginable sensation skyrocketing out of my pussy through every vein of my body and Troy’s breath mingling with mine as tears slipped over my cheeks from the sheer magnitude of it all, and 2) of me on my back in my bed, Jack silhouetted to the right, Troy on the left. They’d asked me what I wanted them to do as I held the vibe desperately to my clit, and I’d whispered, “Touch each other,” and they simply did. Just them on their knees, I think they might have touched their chests or maybe just a hand, I don’t know, but it was enough for me to explode in orgasm through every cell of my body.

This event is important for a couple of reasons.

First, my self-esteem seems securely anchored not in the fact that men want me, but that I am, indeed special. Other women are not like me. I have something to offer that few do. Gone are the days of me feeling lacking because I don’t cum easily with men — lo, I’ve only clitoraly orgasmed with four lovers ever and two of them I loved (my only two loves, actually, one by accident and Troy was the 4th).

Men should feel lucky to come across a woman like me who loves sex, loves men, is open-minded, kind, intelligent, fun, and really fucking sweet in her pursuits to be the best lover possilble.

Secondly, I feel like I’ve been given the most precious gift ever: attention. I never, in a million years, expected Jack and Troy to focus all their attention on me. Never. It was the most brilliant gift I’ve ever received. I hope I accepted it with whatever grace and humility I could possibly muster at the time.

After so many years with no attention even remotely charged with sexual energy and then to be the sudden and unexpected recipient of loads of it healed wounds I didn’t know could be healed.

Lastly, It was the beginning of the rest of my sexual life. It opened me to experiences, people, and possibilities I never knew could exist. It was my final puzzle piece. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the launching point for a titillating, salacious year of sex. A brilliantly difficult, but passionate year.

Best Christmas present ever.

I’m fucked up.

My own stupidity and resistance to growth astounds me sometimes.  I see the fork in the road, which side is the right thing to do, and yet I still choose the other.

Very basically it goes something like this: This guy really pisses me off.  I should have nothing to do with him.  But wow, he’s hot and I’m horny and it can’t be that bad, right??  Except it is always that bad.  ALWAYS.

Thursday night was no different and I’m going to share something with you that I find nothing less than utterly humiliating.  It’s embarrassing that as a 43-year-old woman I continue to engage in this behavior.  I know better and yet… here I am.

And then the other side is I can’t flagellate myself too much because that’s giving in to some darker need of mine that may be the ultimate aim of my subconscious to begin with.  I’m stuck in this odd purgatory of regret, remorse, and redemption.

Remember Sassypants?  The so-called sub I was chatting with was a disaster on our first date.  I even told Ann, my therapist, and various other friends leading up to our second date that I knew it was a bad idea, but that I was horny and – say it with me – how bad could it be??

Well, the answer is pretty fucking bad.

I’ll give you the Cliff Notes’s version: he doesn’t believe white privilege exists, argued with me about a tenant of my beliefs, said he was trying to “open my mind,” and that Asian and Indian men here in the States were the most privileged members of our society.  I told him to leave twice, but he remained, and only laughed me off.  I don’t think he knew I was serious and me being me I just drank the pain away and let him stay.

We ended up in a tangled, drunken mess on my couch and I angry-fucked him while roaring orgasms ripped through me.  I cried and moaned my rage in puddles all over my bed.

Much later he thought I wanted to fuck some more so he managed to stuff it inside of me, but began smacking my thighs with his dick to get hard.  I instantly felt small and invisible and remembered every lover who didn’t see me in that move.  My distaste of him afforded me no insight beyond my own.

“Am I even a part of this???  I asked.  “That doesn’t feel good,” I probably slurred.

He snapped.

He swore at me and ran out of the room.  Confused I grabbed a robe and stumbled out into my livingroom where he was angrily snatching up his clothes and his giant box of beer.  He flung open the front door as words were said, angry ones.  It slammed shut with a blast of cold air and then all was quiet.

I’d text him later to say how awful that whole experience was for me. Brief and to the point.  No name calling, just sharing my feelings.  Even later I’d block him on both Fet and the phone, but he’d find a work around and text me from another number to insult me, my age, my communication skills, and basically laugh the whole night off as a colossal joke.

What it boils down to is that I was enraged at myself for allowing this idiot on my couch and feeling ultimately powerless to remove him.  “What is the point of you saying these things to me?!” I asked.  “Are you trying to prove to yourself that you can trick a feminist into fucking some right-wing nut job?  Because none of what you’re saying is making me feel safe or close to you.”

He laughed and assured me I was just misunderstanding him, he was actually a great guy!  Ask his friends!

Blame the booze, blame my deep, dark hard wiring to not believe my own intuition, blame whatever, but I let him stay and it all completely imploded.  I lost myself utterly to my own upset and void of self.  It’s taken me the entire weekend to piece myself back together, tenderly and with much forgiveness.  I’m not wure all the parts are put back properly, to be honest.

The older I get the more tender to the world I become and the learning curve to remember this is steep.  So steep.  I’m never sure when to cut bait, though I am completely aware of the right time.

I’m still insisting on Dating Like It’s 1995 to ok results.  I’m talking to 3 men, all “subs” and I get lots of long emails which I’m loving.  One is one I might need to cut, the other is My Irishman and he is brilliant still and I have these incredible purple-hued pictures of his big, thick cock bound in a new boot lace just for me, and the third is a local 31 yo who’s way out of my league, but who is easy-going and eager and so, who knows?

There are no vanilla prospects and I am finding myself less and less interested in starting there.

Anyway, in case you thought you were ever supposed to have it all figured out by a certain age I’m here to prove to you that there’s no guarantee that will happen.  You may be just as giant an asshole as you were at 23.

I have no stability in my life and it shows.  I don’t do this kind of reckless, stupid shit when I have a steady force in my life.  Even when I had Peter this didn’t happen.  I need an anchor and I’ve yet to discover how to be my own.

I exhaust myself sometimes with my wild, silly decisions and wonder if I’ll ever outgrow them.  God, I sure hope I do, though…

I didn’t mean to write this.

I’ve written at least half of another post about Peter.  His impishness, his deliciousness, his joyous energy.  I started it yesterday morning and pecked away at it throughout my day even as he and I reconnected after a weekend of typical silence.

For weeks now, like clock work, we have come together.  Once, occasionally twice a week, but always.  Our texts are brief, but flirty.  Reassuring.  Sometimes we talk about life and the world before I wedge myself between his knees and kiss his sweet face.  Sometimes we don’t make it out of my entryway before we head to my bed.

My orgasms skitter through me like leaves in the breeze, his face wears a beautiful mask of pleasure while he buries himself inside of me.  He tells me how amazing my body is, my breasts, how good my pussy feels.  His sweat beads and drips down on me like a leaky faucet and I brush away his apologies.

“Get me dirty, baby,” I say. “Get me fucking dirty.

I wanted to tell you all how the last time we were together he was busted by his boss thanks to GPS.  He drives a company truck and he’d left his phone in it when he came up to see me.  Two hours later he stood up to remove his socks and come at me for a third time when he suddenly something caught his eye out the open window and he dropped low.

“That’s my boss!” he mouthed, panicked.

He got dressed so fast he left his underpants behind along with a load inside of me.  I wore his underwear the rest of the day and throughout the night.  I loved the reminder of him.

The reminder of our closeness, the trust, the thrill, the fun, the kindness and connection.  I’m a filthy slutty whore, but I am also so sweet it makes my teeth ache.  I want to belong to someone.

And that’s why I couldn’t finish that post.

No matter how kind Peter is – no matter how open, sweet, thoughtful, patient, passionate, kinky, soft, and surprising – he does not belong to me.  I am still alone.  I am still choosing the unavailable man.

It makes me so sad to write that.  I’m embarrassed.  I know better, right??  Or maybe I don’t.  It’s so much easier to get fucked than it is to get loved.  I can get fucked any hour I want, but love is so much more elusive and painful to obtain.

If I take stock of my life and am truly honest, I am sad.  And tired.

I can’t rely on my family – they’re hit or miss – and my local friends are best when it’s convenient for them.  I have pulled away from everyone in my life and over the past few months I have pulled away from the blog.  Or maybe it’s been years.

I don’t have anything new to say.  It’s the same shit, different day.  I’m still a lonely fool.  Nothing new here, guys.

At the start of the year I was in London with my people and I felt so loved and special and appreciated. Safe.  I spent a couple of magical days with Jean Claude, but he fell apart and disappeared.  Easy to fuck, hard to love.

Then there was Elliot and I fell hard for him.  I walked around in this blissful pink fog that whispered to me, “He’s safe..”  He said all the right things and it seemed like he was going to love me right up until the moment he couldn’t.  Or wouldn’t.  I don’t know.

Peter swept in at about that time and has been kissing my booboos ever since.

There have been so many other men peppered throughout.  Walker who drove himself right through me, The Doctor, The Aussie.  Smart, interesting men who loved to fuck me, but loving me was never even an option.  They weren’t soul-less.  Loving me was just never an option.

I think a lot about how isolated I am.  After a long day sometimes I cry on my way home because I know my house is empty.  Tonight I tearfully put on my pajamas and daydreamed about having a man who loved me who’d take one look at me wearily climbing the stairs and say, “Come here, Hy.”

He’d take me into his arms, rip my shirt off and stuff his face with my breasts, push me against a wall, dip his fingers into me and let me cry as he fit the rest of himself inside of me.  He wouldn’t be afraid of my tears; he’d understand his gift and my broken appreciation of his offering, my need for release, escape and love.

Peter has talked about a weekend together in January when his girlfriend leaves town to visit a friend.  Another stolen moment, not mine, just borrowed and molded into something that resembles mine.  Hours on hours of us just being together.  I cannot even imagine it.  When was the last time that happened?  Jean Claude, I suppose, but that was an extraordinary situation and wracked with its own issues.

There’s a British man I met on AFF who wants to undress me and explore my body.  We haven’t even met yet.  How can he know he wants to do that?  Of course he’s not looking for anything serious.  I’m not serious.  I’m the epitome of fuck me and leave me.

There’s another potential sub who wants to meet me in his own nervous way.  Things appeared promising until he went dark. As usual, I am a novelty attached to his own uncertainty.  Another dead end.

I am going to deactivate what profiles I can.  My heart hurts and the more I talk to men who want my body the more alone I feel.  I want a man to want all of me.  A man I’m attracted to, not some less than appealing schmuck with a pipe dream.  That hurts, too: to be wanted by those I don’t want.  Reminds me of how stupid it all is.

I meant to write a post about how satisfied I am with my quiet little life.  With Peter’s weekly visits and my career.  With my every-other-week dinners-for-two with my little one and occasional emails or texts with potential lovers.  With my busy and involved life of friends and family and my pursuit of better health.  But that is what I want you to know about me.

The truth is I long.

I long for better relationships and deeper connections.  I long to be seen, understood, appreciated.  If only there were one person on this planet who thought of me beyond their penis or what’s convenient for them.  My sister, my mother, my friends and lovers.  Am I even real to them?  Have I convinced them all I don’t need anything more from them?

Maybe I have.  Maybe in my pursuit to survive on almost nothing from others I have misled everyone into believing it’s all I need when what I really need is my very own Peter all to myself.  Someone to wipe away my tears and tear my body apart with his.  To hold me while I crumple and applaud the loudest when I take big, bold strides.

I also need a best friend who will forgo her own schedule to be there for me.  A mother who is consistent, a sister who doesn’t judge.

And I’m sad because I know I am going to lose my Peter some day.  It’s inevitable.  He and I can only go so far.  We don’t talk about the landing.  We’re just locked together mid-air.  Will I nail it?  Or will my knees buckle?

The only person in my life who makes me feel special, wanted, and sane isn’t even mine.  He’s someone else’s.  How fucking stupid am I??

Time to clean up my mascara now.  I’ve cried a river writing this.  It’s hard admitting you’re a lonely clown.

My sweet Peter with Faisal.