Mar 272017
 

“Aren’t you afraid it will happen all over again?” Mr. Texas asked me as we drove back from a BDSM speed dating event. I thought it would be good for him to get out and talk to other people, perhaps find a play partner or two besides me. “Your husband got into another relationship and then left you.”

I winced, though I hoped it wasn’t obvious in the darkness of the car. “No,” I stated, though that was only slightly true. I was concerned Mr. Texas might leave me, but not because he found someone else. He might leave me because I want an open relationship and he doesn’t, or because we’re incompatible, or because I can’t be who I was when he met me, or because I tell him to get the fuck out of my life.  He may find someone else and leave me because she is more perfect for him than I am; that could happen even if we were monogamous. It could happen, and she’d be lucky to have him.

I could tie him to the bed when I’m gone and release him when I’m at home to keep an eye on him, could have sex all day long every day, could be the most fantastic lover, provide the most stimulating conversations and entertainment, drop weight or gain weight to be his ideal body, dye my hair blonde (his favorite), and still he could leave me.

But it wouldn’t happen because he met someone else more… it would happen because we aren’t that compatible in the long term scheme of things.

…Unless he goes through a midlife crisis, like my ex husband did. He’s also transitioning out of the military, like my ex husband did before he left me.

But still, it wouldn’t happen because he met someone.

So yes, I’m concerned it could happen all over again.
Wicked Wednesday

Mar 172017
 

Trapped like a once beautiful bird in a cage that since wilted. Once I viewed you so shiny, like a toy or jewel worthy of my attention, but your glittery gold has rusted and stained. In a full forest, you’re obscured. Quietude instead demanding for my fingertips to stroke and thrum the golden streaked body.

You were once Spring with sweet blossoms perfumed, once exposed naked in the heat, Fall with the vibrancy of a last desperate attempt at life, and now are barren of gifted illusions and fool’s paradise; fruitless. You leave me cold. Indifferent.

What happened to you?

Passionless.

Surely it wasn’t I, an exception of enchantment passing seasons of beauty? Soft sustenance and opalescence that we procreated?

You don’t thirst for permanence that is almost forgotten, buried deeply, by me, do you?

How sad, tragic, pathetic, worthless is that? How could you hang just to drop from the weight?

You should not be depleted as such. Empty. You seem to have gone down in flames whereas the heat and ashes have absolved me like a phoenix flying the coop. You were a torch, a spark, glowing vibrant with life now ebbed, dull, chilled, monotonous.

Where are you now?

I care not to search; I lost you and there is nothing to lead me back.

Feb 052017
 

Febraury Photofest

Wicked Wednesday

 

 

 

 

“I should just quit the scene now,” I told my friends at a dungeon as we were sitting around socializing. I was on a couch with a couple that I’m quite close to, the man was in the middle and the woman on the other side of him. She was laying across his chest so I could rub her arm, and my legs were draped across his lap so she could rub my legs. We aren’t sexual, just close.

A man had approached and began a conversation towards negotiating a scene with me. I mentioned that I’m a wimp with impact and pain. He had stated that he had seen me scene several times prior to approaching me.

It brought up the topic of scenes and what each of the four of us had experienced – mine far tamer in so many respects.

I mentioned how I see so many bottoms able to be thoroughly beat, displaying marks that I am quite envious of. “But I’m a wimp. I should just quit the scene now,” I halfheartedly joked.

Anyone who has played with me, with the exception of Mr. Texas because he was new to any kink, has heard something similar from me.

I’ve heard from tops pretty equally now on their views of lightweight versus heavy hitter views of bottoms, which leaves me feeling just as insecure that I will be seen as a lesser than bottom. Though I’ve also had two separate tops (The Wanderer, and the man who co-topped me) articulately discuss with me how that isn’t the case, especially from their perspective of the what’s-in-it-for-them. These men discuss how comparative doesn’t even come into play, that they play because of the individual, and stress beautifully that the reactions of the bottom (me) are what do it for them as a top. I’m very reactionary, and they love to play with me because of my reactions. If they are getting a reaction playing softer, then it’s less work for them even, and they are perfectly content.

My ex husband, after his girlfriend and while we were reconciling, told me while we were at a GRUE together that he missed playing with his ex girlfriend because he wanted to play harder and couldn’t – because I couldn’t handle it. He had watched a scene of two people playing roughly on the floor. He knew this was an insecurity of mine and approached it as almost a reason to not be with me (at least that’s how I felt). He especially liked how he could draw back and backhand her in the face without holding back.

Her kink is not my kink, and that’s okay.

Even wanting him back as much as I did, that was not an activity I was going to engage in. I could go into the whys like just not interested and I can’t bruise on my face due to my career; but it truly is as simple as that is not something that I am even remotely curious about experiencing. I’m not at all close, with the exception of that one horrible weekend, to giving into something just to be/play with someone else.

In conversing with the couple and how hard they play, the top stated that it was nice having different bottoms to get what he wants, because he loves to the play with the individual, but every so often he feels the urge to go hard and it’s nice to have someone who can provide that.

That was not going to be the case with my ex husband, as playing with others was a hard limit during our reconciliation.

Truly, though, I am okay with a multitude of play partners because each individual will bring a new experience and wealth of knowledge or reactions.

So, no, I’m not really going to quit the scene, though I feel anxious when being approached by someone new, and sometimes even playing with a prior partner the insecurities will creep up. But I find that I will always state in advance that I am a wimp and can’t handle much.

I can only hope that the person engaging in play with me gets something out of it as well.

Oct 302016
 

So, this week has been very anal intensive with my writings. The reason is because last week I went over to Mr. Texas’ house (yes, we’re back together) and we had drinks and hot tub time. We had already discussed no sex, because I tore from the prior weekend’s sexfest and needed to heal up for a few days.

“No penetration,” he said, shaking my hand but negotiating for making out.

I didn’t want to make out. Our making out always ended in sex. But I shook hands on our tentative deal. And we made out in amidst the chilly fall air and heat of the water. His finger went to roam around my anus, and when he attempted to insert a bit, I commented that we needed lube.

“So let’s get lube then,” he stated, holding out a hand to help me out of the hot tub.

I should’ve known the bed is not a good place to go when avoiding sex.

In bed, he used a generous amount of lube and fingered me to an anal orgasm – a rarity and one that I was shocked that I experienced. As he nibbled on my neck, he whispered that it was too bad that we decided we didn’t want to try anal sex, because it was the perfect opportunity to try it.

He had a point; I had just orgasmed anally from fingering, I wondered if I could from sex. I felt terrified, but tried to sort out the emotion and felt that maybe it was because the one and only time before that was so horrible.

Shouldn’t I get over that experience?

“Yes, we should, but it requires a lot of lube.”

“We should what?”

“Try it.”

“What is it?” The clarification of consent was crucial to him, it seemed, after my sharing of the last experience.

“Anal sex.”

The problem with a man who just began inserting a finger, and wasn’t educated on it, was he immediately pushed himself in after applying a lot of lube (or at least it felt that way).

I jumped up and away from him, complaining of how badly it hurt.

He apologized profusely, felt terrible about hurting me. He said he was barely in, and I needed to relax.

I laid back down on my stomach and was willing to give it another try.

…And he moved slowly the second go round, telling me to breathe and relax.

…And it hurt, but it may have been from the first attempt.

…And I should have worked up to sex, instead of barely getting any anal stimulation and going from a finger thinking I could do more.

…And I was getting over my anal issue, dammit, so I breathed and willed myself to relax and he stroked in and out until it was just a dull uncomfortable.*

He slid out too far by mistake, and in looking down, saw a mess, so we stopped there.

Not the most successful, but for me, it was an uphill mental battle far more than anything physical.

I don’t know if I’ll try anal sex again, but I’m hoping to no longer feel sick to my stomach terrified of it.

And I cried, goodness how I cried after we were done.

…I didn’t want him to view me as disgusting (he had stated when we first started dating that he viewed anal sex as disgusting) and I was messy. Would he leave me (and was that a remnant feeling that my ex left me with)? What if he didn’t like the experience and I forever hurt his chances of liking it because I was a wimp with how badly it hurt?

…And I cried because I was overcoming the last time; the memory flooded back in great waves and threatened to drown me in the panic.

Mr. Texas pulled me into a shower where he held me for a long time before washing us up, before holding me again, before pulling us out and drying us off. He pulled me into bed and held me until I was strong enough to hold my composure.

He thanked me for allowing us both to experience anal sex for the first time together.

And I was grateful he put that spin on it (even knowing the experience I was overcoming), because he was right, it was the first time.

Because I felt like I wanted to experience anal sex, and that made all the difference.

 

*It may have felt good had not the first slide-in hurt so badly; a fact that I am pondering a lot.

Jun 052016
 

*Maybe this needs a trigger warning? It certainly triggers me. This is NOT the consensual non consent scene; this was something I told him I was NOT doing the morning of. 

“Anal?” asked mid orgasm with a thumb in my ass, already in that high orgasm head space.

Still, I answered, “no.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Just the tip?”

“No.”

“Just try it.”

“No.”

“I’ll stop if you say.”

“No, thank you.”

“It’ll be slow and easy. You’re ready. Besides which, when will you ever do this again?”

“I don’t know. Never.”

“So…?”

“Maybe.”

He grabbed a condom , set it to the side, proceeded to have sex with me. After an orgasm, he put on the condom but it was just to continue having sex with me. Another orgasm.

He positioned me to the side, curled my legs up, positioned his tip at my back hole, and with a lot of lube slowly eased in.

“No, stop, it hurts.” I dug my nails into his chest.

“Shh, relax, it’s fine. I’ll stop here,” he grabbed my hair and yanked hard, diverting the pain to my scalp and eased in a bit more. Both hurt. He grabbed a vibrator and pushed it in my vagina, leaving less space in side of me but some pleasure. And pain. He eased in a bit more. “Relax,” he said in a soothing voice at my ear, his hand going around my throat, his fingertips pressing in.

“No,” I protested before the world faded. When I came to consciousness, he was completely inside of me, going a bit faster and harder. The vibrator didn’t override the large object moving painfully inside of me. After awhile, he pulls out, takes off the condom, then has PIV sex, coming immediately.

*

I cried, great heaving sobs, and he held me. “I’m proud of you, you did good,” he whispered in my ear.

I curled into his chest, seeking comfort from one who hurt me. I trusted him even though he pushed for anal sex and was about to leave me. I trusted him even though he told me that the weekend had to be a secret because he was now monogamous with his girlfriend and I – his wife – was now the other woman.

“I knew this would be hard for you.” He murmured into my tears.

Then why would he do it and leave? I consented but it was from a pathetic desperation to keep him that consented to something I was uncomfortable with and had zero desire to do.

I felt violated but I violated myself. I felt disgusting –  not the in the act but in the desperation. I trusted a man who would walk away. I allowed something uniquely special to a man who didn’t value my worth.

I cried so hard I slept and when I woke up, I cried again.

He had been inside of me in every way possible and would be gone in hours.

Jun 052016
 

2My husband wrapped the rope around my legs, practiced a few times to make sure the tension was good and not too tight. He fingered me to a few orgasms, those rough pummeling fingertips knowing exactly how to curl and almost making me squirt.

He used the wartenburg wheel around the exposed skin between the ropes as he positioned himself between my thighs, and then he slowly cut one sliver with Ka-bar knife closest to the knee on the left side, and as my sound began to change to concern and distress, he entered me. He slowly cut another sliver along the middle of the same thigh, slid deeper, cut another sliver of exposed skin on my thigh closest to my hip, all on the left side. He placed the knife down, smacked on the cuts, pulled them apart a bit with a hand that seemed to engulf my stinging thigh as his cock moved in and out of me.

He moved his fingers, further parting the skin to reveal the cut deeper, watched closely, and then moved to the other side.

My right thigh was cut between the ropes, in a space above the knee, then another even deeper, even slower. He positioned me to the side and roughly fucked me, brought me to an orgasm, whispering “one more” as he rotated me again onto my back and slowly sliced through my skin even deeper than before, parting the cut with his two hands. It felt as though his hands were tearing the cut further apart.

He gripped my bloody thighs tightly as he fucked me, the bloody palms occasionally touching and smearing red on other parts of me.

How did I feel about all of this? Nervous about cutting, and anxious. But he knew a pace that I could handle to go from one to the next activity. Still, the minute the knife was brought to skin to cut, I became oddly detached. It stung, it hurt, I winced, I wanted to cry to stop – but I did nothing. I allowed one carving after another against my porcelain skin bound tight in his rope. I only felt pleasure once he began cutting as he roughly fucked me on my side, but the knife was down for that.

I looked at the marks and hoped they weren’t permanent – after all, he had already left me.

He used the knife that was symbolic to us both of our beginnings into kink – it was the one I used on our second date where I straddled him in the car and put it against his throat. It was the one that had caressed and scratched at our fevered flesh through our years of sex.

It was the one that he had sharpened for another, for the woman he left me for, the first woman he cut intentionally, the steel smeared with her blood first on our knife, my bloody seconds.

When we were done, I commented how the rope was bloodied. “I know, I should’ve taken it off of you,” he said in a casual manner.

“Don’t forget separate the bloody rope. I’m definitely fluid bonded to it,” I asserted as he grabbed for it.

He placed it all in a bag, mixing it with his other rope. “I don’t even know which rope is which. I’m just going to stick this in a closet and forget about it for six months. Besides, I have others,” nonchalantly.

I knew him, I knew his lazy nature, and that the rope would be touching her – now she would get bloodied seconds, and possibly other women. There was no way he would hang that much rope for six months – no way he would get out his other rope he hoped to sell and condition and do up the ends to use it. No, that rope would touch others.

What was my responsibility to her? Did I warn her? But he told me that I wasn’t to say a word to her, that I was the other woman in this until he decided if he wanted to continue our marriage, and I wanted our marriage, I wanted him, and she may not believe me anyhow. Why would she trust his wife over him?

“Besides which,” he continued with the same careless tone,”it’s your blood. I know where you’ve been. It’s not some stranger’s.”

He wanted me to wait, hidden away and waiting to be used, like that rope that soaked in my blood without a tell-tale sign unless closely inspected, while he had a woman he claimed wouldn’t know or think any better.

She would possibly be wrapped around that rope, around a horrible deceit.

…and I felt so guilty I was a part of it.

*Written three weeks after he left me for his girlfriend. 

**This was written months ago. I still bear the scars of the knife, you can see it when I wear shorts, skirts, or a bathing suit. It reminds me of my desperation, of how pathetic I was, how I was the other woman. I cannot view these scars positively and they are so prominent so I can’t ignore them either. 

May 302016
 

Wicked Wednesday The topic for Wicked Wednesday is Opportunity, and I really try to put myself out there and get what I want – after all, the worst that can happen is I am told no. If I say nothing, then I gain nothing. Here is what happened this last week at a rope event. 

 

At a rope event

where I am beginning to recognize people,

I am tied twice…

The first time

a group of people were standing around

all riggers that I didn’t know,

and I sat in the background,

just listening,

and one says:

“I have no one to tie tonight”.

I pulled my hair into a ponytail

and stated, “well, I came here to get tied.

Interested?”

“Well, yes, let’s do this,”

he states matter of factly

and we discussed

history and limits.

By the time he was untying

we could both tell

he discovered what I liked

as his arm went around my neck

and his breath in my ear

as the rope gripped tighter and tighter.

The second man

I knew from events past,

and as I said hello,

he said:

“I see you put your clothes back on.

Does that mean you’re leaving?”

I smiled

and replied:

“I don’t have to.

I can get naked again.”

His friend chimed in

that that was quite an offer,

and away we went

to a quiet corner.

Where he asked about limits

and what he had observed about me.

He questioned

a hood –

an unknown factor for me,

so I consented to try it

and it covered my head

to under my chin,

which he still added a blindfold on top of,

creating pure darkness.

A first for me,

and one that I was comfortable with.

And the rope wrapped round, and his beard scratched my skin, and his fingers scratched and pinched along sensitive zones as he manipulated me into complicated positions that my body cried to be released from but my mind welcomed as a friend.

His connection,

his hands,

were about me,

and not the rope

and when we were done

he asked when he would see me next.

Sadly, it would not be for awhile,

but I hope to have both men

touch me with their rope,

their hands,

their control,

their creativity,

and make me theirs,

however briefly.

May 262016
 

Maybe because I grew up reading romance novels, far before I understood the sex scenes, I thought grand gestures were the ultimate sign of love. You know, the risk life and limb to prove your love…and there was always a need to fight to stay with the person in some shape or form.

It didn’t help much that teenage angst is perfect for building the foundation of this concept. When I was fifteen, a guy walked what was a thirty minute drive at night to stand below my window and walk back home in the middle of the night – he told me it was just to prove what he was willing to do just to be near me.

I thought it was a declaration of love, and I probably fell even more in that puppy love with him than I was already.

Now, I would consider that idiotic.

As a young adult, I had a guy I just started dating cancel a date because he promised his friend and roommate that they would play video games (which they did five nights a week anyhow) and he forgot he double booked his night. Because he played so much and it was clearly the priority in his life, and we just had started dating, I questioned how much I wanted to date him and what the future looked like with us.

He responded by canceling both things and spending the night out on the street, in front of my house, in his car. He didn’t tell me he was going to do this – he felt if he did it he wasn’t choosing one over the other, but subtly but staying in front of my house he was showing that I mattered.

It was enough to sway me to continue dating him, but I didn’t understand why he decided to sleep in his car versus coming inside and sleeping in my bed. Still…grand gesture…I guessed?

The grand gestures from guys and my expectations of such have calmed to more realistic signs of “hey, I want to be with you,”. Even after break ups, I often engaged in a circling and drawing together like magnets once or twice until it was clear it was over.

Still, this morning as I was driving, almost four months after my husband told me he no longer wanted to be with me, I thought of part of what bothered me most still was that as I was driving away with meager possessions and family, rather than showing any sign whatsoever of changing his mind, wanting me, loving me, or fighting for me…

…he called me up and thanked me for leaving him.

That still slides a knife up in my gut and tears its way up to my heart.

 

And other than empty words that mindfuck me, and cheating on his girlfriend a few times to have sex with me, he has made zero gestures or actions to show me he cares about me, he has only shown me he is glad I am gone.

May 232016
 

500205968I sat through an orientation, the majority of it being what the kink community is. The group of people that I shyly sat amongst talked about just discovering Fetlife, the things that they learned already, how it was all so much…whether it was overwhelming or fun they wavered back and forth on too.

I didn’t say anything. I realized that while orientations were for everyone, this one was filled with people brand new to the lifestyle. Which there was nothing wrong with, I was just a bit taken aback by it.

The people in charge of the orientation were humorous in their advice and words of wisdom. They talked to the audience as if we knew absolutely nothing – which was fair considering the majority of the people admitted as much.

I sat silently. I didn’t want to nod sagely and appear arrogant or a know-it-all, nor could I even pull off the open-eyed wonderment of my peers in the room. I wasn’t an expert – at anything, didn’t know the facility at all. But I sure as hell don’t consider myself new to the lifestyle either.

Yet, I was new to this dungeon, and assumed to new to the lifestyle.

My brain kept drifting to all my friends in my old state, all the kinky adventures. It drifted to attending all new functions of the past next to the sexy and strong comfort of my husband – a couple with all the privileges that come with it.

After the orientation, I made conversations with people – both the new people and the people who walked in for the upcoming party who seemed to know everyone else, where I felt again in that awkward “hey, I really know what I’m talking about with a few select things with really only my husband who is no longer my husband, but I can’t personally do them because I was a bottom”.

Last night hit home how strong my kink explorations were tied into my husband. Sure, I’ve played with many other people with and since him, but they were all from that group that I met with the comfort of him beside me.

I felt a bit intimidated, and homesick – for both my marriage and the benefits that it brought, and for my friends where I was known to be capable and friendly.

It’s nice knowing people and having their support. I knew of no one here.

I disengaged myself from the lobby and the conversations so that I could see how the dungeon functioned during an event. Despite my intention to sit in a dark corner and just watch the play party scenes unfold to get a feel for the place and people, a single female sitting alone earned me a bit of conversation. I had two older men approach me, one after another, both a tad assertive about pushing for play – one wanted me to take various implements to him despite my assurance that I had very little knowledge or expertise in it, the other wanted to take heavy implements to me in a way that I would not like at all. I indicated to both that I just wanted to watch, that I wasn’t interested in the impact play that they were offering, and they both, on each separate occasion, said they would come back later for me.

I know I could’ve asked a dungeon monitor for assistance, but even though I felt slightly pressured, I didn’t feel in danger or creeped out by these men, and I truly try to handle my own issues.

After about five minutes of quiet, another man slowly approached me, almost hesitant. He seemed shy, or just reserved, so I smiled and nodded – I understand what it is to be shy, though many people don’t see the inner turmoil when I struggle with it.

He asked if he could sit next to me – already a big improvement from the other two men, and I assured him he could.

“I saw you at the class,” he began barely above a whisper, eye contact sparse.

I asked him if he enjoyed the class and what I enjoyed about it. We discussed how long we had been in the scene, and what were some things we enjoyed. The conversation lasted awhile only because it was so stinted in long pauses. He seemed to mull over things before questioning and sometimes even answering. He had a slow, articulate, unhurried manner that made me feel easy in his company and reminded me a bit of Mimir – communication seemed important to him.

“Would you be interested in playing?” he softly asked after some time.

He mentioned he was a switch, but I didn’t want to top someone – that’s a rare mood for me and one that really comes about with only my husband or very close friends, so I queried: “what would you want to do to me?” There, crystal clear I wouldn’t be doing anything.

“Electricity?”

“Pads or wand?”

“Wand. And sensations play?”

“Okay.”

“What’re your limits?”

“I have zero idea beyond nothing of a sexual nature because I’ve only done it once and with someone I was intimate with, though breasts may be touched. I don’t think I’d like my stomach or ribs zapped. What else were you planning so I can get an idea of the play you do?”

And we began to negotiate for a scene, despite my intention of only watching people play.

He seemed alright to play with because he knew most of the members (who in just listening to discussions he had experience), didn’t seem pushy, asked the right questions, seemed humble rather than egotistical, and was interested in a play at a level that I felt I was at.

I also felt some connection to him – otherwise I don’t quite care how awesome all the factors are, I need to play with the person first – not the experience and skills they bring to the table.

And, if I were honest, I really needed a scene, it had been so long and my mind and body were craving it.

*Here is the scene that we did, one that was certainly a first for me. 

May 192016
 
photo credit: Heroine via photopin (license)

photo credit: Heroine via photopin (license)

Shadows fall across my bedroom, taunt with lost potential and memories. This used to be my happy sanctuary, now it’s silent and dead. I feel as if a part of me died, though my brain is anything but restful.

My dreams don’t remember that he’s gone, my limbs stretch and reach for something no longer possible. I walk by and disturb his clothing, cologne, shaving materials and he is suddenly so there, being breathed in and exorcised by great gaping wounds in my heart that bleed through eyes that are never dry.

Why does this separation hurt so badly and is so hard to live afterwards? Is it because I actually trusted wholeheartedly in a future together, left myself vulnerable in my honesty and love? Is it because I was truly happy, truly allowed (or what I thought was) to be me, accepted? Because I mistakenly trusted that we would communicate everything and work through issues as they were needed? I feel naive and an overpowering need for the punishment that lurks in believing that I deserved happiness and love.

I don’t know why this feels like it’s killing me slowly; but I know I can’t survive in this bed that was once filled with heat that now leaves me cold.

I tried to replace the memories with a new reality, my longing with dark desire. My limbs reached out to tangle themselves around someone else instead of emptiness, to lose my memories however briefly.

The contrast of the men from him was a brief respite as much as it broke my heart. They didn’t know me intimately, didn’t touch me with love, didn’t fill me so completely. They couldn’t take me on the same trusting journey of pain and pleasure, couldn’t bring me to the same heights.

I worried about things like infections, performances, how I appeared, instead of getting lost in the moment with them, to enjoy the journey and the warm afterglow of two lovers appreciating each other’s bodies.

They stole into my bed in the middle of the night when I was most susceptible to the shadows and disillusioned dreams, and they vanished just as quickly, a band aid that just covers over the heartbreak, that hides the hurt unsuccessfully.

*Written during slutfest week, when I went back to our home to pack up what I could after it was certain that he wanted a divorce.