I guess it feels a little weird now.

I had butterflies and little lead balls tossing around in my belly.  The Golfer kept changing his mind about where to meet him.  Country club, no, his house.   Then country club again, no, house!  I called him en route.  “You can’t keep changing your mind!  Where do you want me?”  He clearly wasn’t sober.

We agreed on his house, but when I arrived with my sex toys, bottle of wine, and his pack of American Spirit Yellows only the dog barked back.  I pressed the doorbell button again and heard loud music coming up the street.  Windows down, head banging, white country club baseball cap on, there he was in all his smiling glory.  He waved emphatically at me, his teeth glinting.

He was so happy to see me, he said.  I was so nice, he said.  He held me and cooed into my neck, told me how hot I was.  We went out back to smoke and he laid down in the shade of a tree.  He’d picked out his outfit just for me, had his house cleaned just for me.  I told him I didn’t believe any of it, but he insisted.

We laughed at his drunky drunkenness and I sipped my rosé, nonplussed.

He suggested we take a bath together in his Japanese soaking tub, a deep, circular shaped tub with a little seat in it.  The water was cool-ish and we contorted our bodies so that my knees were under my chin and his legs were wrapped around me.  We were nose to nose as he massaged my breasts and chest and shoulders.

“I really like you,” he said.  I could see the amber shine in his brown eyes.

I looked him squarely back, “I like you, too.”

“We have this… connection,” he continued.  “This chemistry.  It’s special.”

“It is…” I answered noncommittally, but sincerely.  He was drunk, after all, and while lovely to hear, there’s a lot of salt to add to this.

We sat in that tub for what seemed like forever, folded together like twins in utero.  His penis tapped against my vulva from the Jacuzzi bubbles and I laughed.  It was like my own fleshy vibrator.

He spoke about his general loneliness and how much he looked forward to seeing me each visit, how it took him days to recover from our sexual escapades and how much he loved fucking me.

I decided to give him the better spot in the tub and, wrapped in a towel, sat on the edge.  We laughed hysterically as he drunkenly tried to maneuver up onto the seat.  It felt good to feel something other than lust with him.

He asked me to guess how many women he’s slept with since meeting me.  He seemed to think we’d been seeing each other for 4 or 5 months (it’s been since the end of February, so… 3 months, I guess).  I knew the answer must be zero, but I guessed 2.

“Ha!  Not even close!” he said triumphantly.  He made a “zero” with his hand.  I suppose there was some implied significance for him on that.  Of course, I couldn’t say the same.  I’ve been sleeping with Peter and The Vet since I met him.  Combine the 3 men and I’d say I have a pretty great relationship.

Peter is sweet and loving and listens to me with rapt attention.  The Vet texts me on the reg and takes me on dates.  And The Golfer is a blast to be with and fucks me senseless.

The other side of all those coins is that Peter had a girlfriend and is a liar.  The Vet wants a swinging partner and is newly out of some crazy relationship.  And The Golfer ignores me for days on end.

I guess they’re also all the worst relationship.

The Golfer didn’t press me for an answer on my number, but he did want to know how I felt about us, sexually.  “Do you have this with anyone else?  Have you ever??”

I answered him honestly.  “No, I have never.”

And it’s true.

I have never in my life been ridden over such cliffs of sheer rapture.  Each time together seems to top the one before and I never think I’ll actually survive.  I didn’t explain it quite like that to him, but I assured him that I wholeheartedly believed that what we have is special.

The rest of the evening’s timeline is blurry for me.  I’d finished the bottle of rosé on my own in an attempt to level the playing field and was feeling no pain.  We ordered sushi and he promptly passed out.  I tried to wake him up, but without success.  I dozed and woke disoriented.  His phone lit up in his dark bedroom and I looked at the locked preview screen.

Someone said they were 15 minutes away.

Another girl wrote simply, “Heyyyyy.”

Forgetting that we’d ordered delivery I panicked.  What if some girl was on her way over right now??  He’s passed out in bed, I’m all alone!  Shit fuck fuck!

I tried to wake him again, but he was incoherent, so I moved his phone to touch his hip and texted him myself in hopes his phone might reach the lizard part of his drunken brain and wake him up.  It didn’t work.  However, I did get to see how he has me programmed into his phone.

“Extremely Wet Hyacinth.”

Jesus Christ.  Well, that’s better than Old Gross Hyacinth.  I’ll take it.

It was about then that the doorbell rang and it occurred to me it was sushi.  I ate alone at the coffee table and put his half away and padded back into his room.  It’d been at least an hour since he’d fallen asleep and I’d kept myself busy patting his dog and generally trying to sober up.

I easily roused him this time.  “Sushi came,” I said.  “Yours is in the fridge.”  He grabbed me and pulled me in for a kiss and we rolled around.  I reached for his cock, but it was only half hard.  I kissed his neck and he sucked on my nipples.  He was apologizing about his hardon and I was telling him to shut up about the time I stuffed it inside of me.

He was hard now and I moved clumsily on top of him.  The roller coaster drop was tamer this time; I wasn’t screaming and holding on for dear life.  I was cumming, but more quietly.  We stopped after a few minutes and he apologized some more.  I could see him struggling to be present, the booze continued to tug at his consciousness.

We moved to the living room and he ate and we watched the finale.  I barely paid attention, it sucked so bad, and he was asleep with his head on my lap anyway.  When it was over he took my hand and led me to his room where we fell asleep spooning.

I can’t say that what I experienced for the next handful of hours was sleep.  He snored, a drunken buzz saw.  I didn’t bother to wake him, but my pussy was wet and ached.  I pushed my ass into the cradle of his hips hoping that when he awoke in the morning we could finish what we started.

I got up and peed, I drank some water, he kept snoring, I pushed my ass into his belly again.  Finally, a little before 6 am he stopped snoring and slept peacefully and I, too, sunk into slumber.

At 6:13 I felt him sit upright in bed and fling off the covers.  He started the shower.  “Hey, you,” I said sleepily.

“I’m already 30 minutes behind,” he said.

Well, shit.

Without a word he got in the shower.  I took it as my cue to leave and gathered up my clothes and things.  Fully dressed I opened the shower door and he leaned out to kiss me.  Once, twice, three times on the lips.

“I’m so sorry for being so lame last night,” he said.  Also once, twice, and three times.

“Don’t be.  I had a great time.”  I fondled his warm, wet penis and sac.  “I want to see you this weekend.  I’m out of town next.”

“I might have a golf tournament,” he answered.

“Well, we’ll figure it out.  I want to see you.”

He kissed me again, on the corner of my mouth.

I grabbed two cigarettes and left.

On the way home, dawn just barely over the hilltops, I wondered why I’d had such a good time.  The man was hammered when I showed up, remained drunk, passed out, wasn’t able to fuck me due to his inebriation, and was non-committal about seeing me the following weekend.

But he’d also been sweet.  So sweet.

And complimentary and funny and fun and easy to be with.  I wasn’t inhibited – who was he to judge me? the guy was plastered on our date – and that chemistry he spoke of was palpable.  Half the time I can’t even remember what we talk about, but there’s a constant stream of chatter between us.  It’s easy.

When I got home, still high from it all, I texted him a photo of me on my balcony, legs up on a chair with my coffee mug on the patio table.

“You weren’t lame at all in case you’re still thinking that.  I had a great time – hope you did too!”

I sent it knowing I wouldn’t hear back from him.  The night had been intense, intoxicated or otherwise; I was still processing it and I hadn’t been a drunken fool like he had.  I would give him space, me too, and then text him today, Wednesday to check in about the weekend.

I sent a pic and decided to be direct.

Good morminggggg.  I want to cum see you this weekend.  Are you working Monday?  I’m out of town next weekend

I wasn’t expecting to hear back for another two days, but not long after I got this:

I’m not working [on the Monday holiday] but have a golf tournament

True to form: exact, factual.  That’s him.  I decided to stick with my directness.

Is any day this weekend good to hang out for you? I’m flexible so…

He didn’t respond to my pic, he didn’t offer a solution, he hasn’t replied to my last text as of this moment.  My Irishman sits on my shoulder and whispers sweet, positive nothings in my ear.  He’s a big fan of The Golfer and thinks that he and I will ride off into some delusional sunset together.  We routinely make bets that end with his scrotum decorated with a fanning of clothes pins because I won (or lost).

He thinks that TG will call or text me in a timely fashion.  I say he won’t.  Currently I won the Monday morning bet that I wouldn’t hear from for at least two days.  MI said that of course he’d call me because of everything he’d confessed to me the night before.  I think we just like playing our glass half-full and -empty roles at this point.  TG isn’t relationship material, lets be honest.

And here’s where I repeat that:  he isn’t relationship material.  Not like this, anyway.

Not drunken, non-communicative, golf-obsessed, and neglectful.  He doesn’t fit into my New Universe.

Then why keep going?  Because I genuinely enjoy spending time with him.  It’s easy.  I have 90-95% of my energy going towards mothering, my career, my home, my friends.  Five-to ten per cent gets siphoned off to worry about whether or not I’ll hear back from him.  If that.

I still struggle with why he feels the way he does about me and I fight hard against any body-shaming my mean and shriveled inner voice wants to cast my way, but I am learning to accept whatever comes my way for however long it feels almost-effortless.

My Irishman said this to me in his beautiful lilt: “So you know he likes you now, and every day after that you have with him is just a bonus.”  How very “in the moment” of him, but things now feel weird between TG and I.

He shared a lot of stuff that felt really great to hear and I just don’t know where to stick that. In my cap, I suppose, but he’ll inevitably return to the planet Hyacinth and beg me to cumm [sic] all over him again and things won’t be weird anymore.

For now he’s left me hanging with one more text:

I have golf planned all over the place.  I’ll let ya know

Except The Vet has asked me out, ready to see me any night of the weekend I am free. When I find out from my mother which night they want Peyton I’ll let him know.

And since I am languishing in TG’s communication purgatory I’m not committed to his inattention and am ostensibly free; I’m a busy woman! Unless TG gets back to me first and it matches with my night off in which case that’s where I’ll be.

It will be a race to see who fits into my busy schedule first – The Vet or The Golfer – not whose schedule I can fit into.

A woman is pulling her pj pants down with one breast exposed under a shirt
Ignore this.

Friday, January 25th, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

 

My blog ate a post!  I did the last leg of the Smut Relay last Friday and DomSigns and I looked for it everywhere, but to no avail.  I’ve actually been writing, just not for public consumption, apparently!

I’ve also been beyond exhausted this week. Work is kicking my ass and I’m recovering from my weekend in the Pacific Northwest with my framily.  Happy, sad, a couple of subs… That’s right: a couple of subs.  My Irishman has some company, a man my age from my hometown of San Francisco who may move here soon and who will be in London nearly the exact same dates as me!  Seriously.  WTF??

He’ll be here next Friday first, though, and we’ll have our first date.  If things go well, we may meet up while in England.  A coupla Yanks touring the “motherland” lol.  I’ll keep you posted!  [Insert hands up emoji here]

In any case, I’m around, just discombobulated as usual.  Big surprise, I know.

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

 

My tits:

All the smooshy pink.

NOT my tits:

 


Friday, January 18th, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

I say it every Friday, but I really mean it this one: holyfuckwhathappenedtotheweek.

I haven’t caught my breath for a second and tomorrow Pey and I leave town visit framily in the Pacific Northwest for the long weekend here in the States.  I’m just beside myself and behind on sooo many important things (wifey, I implore you: don’t divorce me!). But I’m also happy and still and busy and feeling all sorts of things I don’t have the time to get into right now.

But I’m still chatting with My Irishman and a new possibly local man has popped up (wha-?), as well, and I’m feeling my usual hopefulness mixed in with my general loneliness and sadness.  In other words: same ol’, same ol’.

It’s just me solo this week.  I snapped the pic from this very spot where I’m typing this and I love that you can see my nipples so clearly.  Rolls and all.

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

 

My tits:

You should see the rolls under the shirt.

 

 


Friday, January 11th, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

I wrote my submission for the Eroticon anthology on the 2nd and though no one has seen it, it felt like I wrote – I mean, I did it’s just that y’all didn’t get to see it. And if isn’t accepted I’ll post it here and have a bit of a freebie post.

My week has been childless and quiet.  No dates – I’m on a Man Cleanse for January which I’ll write about more another day – and I’m mostly on a booze cleanse too (only socially, not alone — although I did drink wine at home tonight on my own and enjoyed every second of it.  In other words, I’ve been spending a lot of time just being with myself and laying really low.

Full disclosure: I am chatting a little with some fellas here an there – My Irishman and a couple of old friends – but any time I meet a new man online and he asks me out I say, “Sorry, I’m not free until February.”

My phone is quiet, my mind is quiet, my vag is very very quiet.  Good times, y’all.

I chose this pic this week because despite being at my heaviest ever and without any lover in my life I still feel beautiful and sex.  It wasn’t always like that.  I used to feel lost in a black void when I wasn’t getting fucked.  I feel like I’ve rounded some kind of self-esteem corner.  It’s rather nice.

xx

Hy

 

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

 

My tits:

A good pose and lighting can’t be underestimated.

 

NOT my tits:

Miss B’s lovely warm and pink first sharing.
I have become a larger woman as I have aged, yet would not want the smaller breasts I had when younger.  My boyfriend enjoys buying me very sexy bras and my wearing them under a very sheer blouse/top when we go out.  He wants the world to see my breasts and I am unashamed and proud to do so.  Breasts are a beautiful body part to be celebrated.

::

I love the black and white and the shadows of SMN’s pic.

Hello winter sweaters and underboob.

::

 

 

 

 


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…

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.