Aug 152017
 

Kink of the Week’s prompt sparked my interest on names and titles. Actually, that’s like saying I read the prompts and just this one caught my eye – truth is I rarely even know what the prompt is. But I discovered this one, and it’s awesome and thought provoking.

I tackled titles in 30 Days on Kink where I tried to define my kinky self. Then, on the way to a GRUE, Mr. Texas and I were discussing how we define (well, a lot of things), and names and titles are handy for that, though no one model always fits. I stated that I’m going through a kink midlife crisis – I no longer know to define my kinky self, nor necessarily how to define my relationship with others.

In the 30 Day writing prompt: I defined myself as wife – I am no longer, nor do I have any desire to take on that role.

ADD Brat: yeah, I’m really not that either. I don’t brat often with Mr. Texas – it began as more of trying to show that his role of top would be respected and now is just a nature role with us. I also don’t brat with The Wanderer.

Rope bottom: this has led to the most crisis type feeling with my kink identity as that used to be a primary role I would tell people and now it just doesn’t feel true. I’m sure that rope is still my most responsive kink, but I no longer actively look for it nor do I initiate any rope play. Therefore, can I even really claim this role?

Lightweight bottom: still am this, but I’ve learned I can take far more than I thought possible.

Primal: still am this, though it’s rare I’ll engage, and not with the same intensity (mostly because I’m not physically cool enough).

Switch: I’ve taken on this role far more than I would’ve thought possible.

Submissive: I’ve taken this role far less than I used to.

New to me roles:

Top: A role I find myself enjoying more and more.

Mistress: I’ve been called this in the past on a rare occasion, likewise with the present. It makes me feel slightly like a fraud – I simply don’t feel cool enough for this title, nor does it seem to fit anything I am seeking.

Impact bottom: Surprisingly, I like impact far more than I could’ve thought possible, given my wimpy nature.

Girlfriend: I use this term with vanillas.

Speaking of vanillas…

A few weeks ago Mr. Texas asked what I refer to him as. I asked him in what context.He mentioned that I introduced him as my partner at a rope event. I told him to vanillas, he’s my boyfriend (a term I rarely use), my guy (most frequent), my spouse, or my husband (it’s easier, I found). (No, we’re not legally married.) To kinky people, I refer to him most often as my partner. To people really seeking what type of partner, I would use the term primary, though nesting would work. We’re committed, as much as our relationship defines, and living together and raising little folks. I haven’t quite put a title on it, nor do I feel the urge to (though I know it’s peace of mind to give some sort of shape to dynamics).

The Wanderer and I also recently had a discussion on roles and titles. He has a few he uses for me, though to be honest none of them stick in my head where I could even state them now. I wouldn’t even know how to define our relationship – and I expressed the vague sort of titles I would use for him, though admitted that none felt accurate.

I really dislike titles and roles, though again I know people use whatever vocabulary they have at hand to try to describe just how important a person is to them, and what they consider themselves to be. I am not picking my titles, I’m okay with people defining how they will, and I’m trying to give the same respect when asked how I would describe them (though I’m not assigning titles or roles even in my head either).

The problem…

At the GRUE, there were great conversations on defining what the term relationship even meant to an individual, and what sort of poly they were (if they were poly). Defining things, people, ourselves seem to matter, regardless of how much I dislike doing so – it does increase effective communication with others, something I dearly want.

And the hard limits:

I have a serious dislike of the term “girl” in reference to myself, it just takes me out of my head space in unpleasant ways. Likewise, daddy or mommy (or other parental names) wouldn’t work for me either. I am indifferent on names like slut, I’m learning – it simply does nothing for me.

Aug 152017
 

1. Is a weird “sex face/orgasm face” a total deal-breaker?

No, I normally keep my eyes shut, but I don’t think it would be anyhow. I don’t wish to see my own orgasm face – I believe I probably look pretty ridiculous and frankly don’t give a damn to be corrected or aware of what I look like.

2. Do you enjoy having your balls played with (or playing with balls)?

I do enjoy playing with them, it’s a toy I don’t have; however I don’t think I focus too much attention on them.

3. Have you ever hooked-up with somebody based on their proximity to your smartphone location (Tinder, GRINDR, etc)?

Yes, this was how I met Mr Texas; I believe his first message to me was as impressive as “you live close”. Clearly the hook up worked well.

4. You have some free-time in the workday–blow job or intercourse? (BJ can be giving or receiving).

Either; it depends on what would make my hair more of a mess – because in this scenario it sounds like I have to go back to work.

5. How long after having sex with a new partner do you have to wait before falling asleep?

Depends: if sex includes some pain elements or a hell of a lot of orgasms it would be faster than just sex. 

Bonus: What’s the dirtiest or sexiest text message you’ve ever received?

I’m quite sure it was from my ex-husband, and I’m not going to revisit the memory nor the messages I have to check what it would have been.
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How to play TMI Tuesday: Copy the above TMI Tuesday questions to your webspace (i.e., a blog). Answer the questions there, then leave a comment below, on this blog post, so we’ll all know where to read your responses. Please don’t forget to link to tmituesdayblog from your website!
Happy TMI Tuesday!

Jul 262017
 

“It sounds like white noise everywhere, which is like silence but not empty.” Author Mark Haddon describes this in an excellent book, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime. 

That’s what rain is to me on so many levels; it’s sensations without being intrusive. I’ve written that every time it rains I have all the windows open and am most often sitting the doorway to the outside, watching it, listening to it, smelling and connecting as much as I can. Rain is sensed, smelled in the distance, felt in the oppressive weight in the air. It covers all my senses, makes my skin damp. I love how I can feel just a drop or two, and then a downpour can completely cover me. I love a gentle rain that I can play in, or rain that engulfs and takes every inch of my body; in either type or somewhere in the middle you can find me often outside barefoot and appreciating the sensations that rain creates.

I haven’t necessarily rushed home with a lover and slowly peeled off each layer of dripping clothes, licking up the droplets that remain on their skin, but I like that fantasy.

I love how the water can seep between us in ways nothing else can, in between lips, tasting the liquid between sliding tongues.

Rain can shift perspective on everything, blur, clean, refresh the world around me.

Jul 152017
 

My favorite type of fingering is hard/rough, fast, and deep; I love thrusting type motions far more than anything else for orgasms so if one or two fingers are inside of me, filling me, and I can feel the remainder of the fingers and hand slamming against my lips, it’s heavenly. Fingering is something that I didn’t care much for until recent years, when I discovered I liked it exactly that way. I also learned that I can squirt, cover an entire wrist and leave a pool of my desire dripping onto the sheets, if there’s enough pressure applied and fingers curl just the right way inside of me (so far fingering and one time with a vibrator are the only ways that have made me squirt).

Recently I’ve had some amazing experiences with fingers…

…I was teased for a length of time, and then it felt as if his whole fist was inside of me (it wasn’t, I was reassured, just a couple of fingers), painful, and my body wasn’t quite ready and stretched to accommodate but the act of forcing inside of me, the tightness of my body gripped around the intrusion created its own pleasure, and soon I coated his fingers and relaxed more against the pressure. He moved so agonizing slowly, intentionally based on his smile and ignoring of my begging. Finger tips circled the entrance, pressed in, gradually sunk in deeper and deeper where the length filled to almost painful, unhurriedly slid along my walls, out. I squeezed against the length, willed my body to orgasm despite the maddening pace, but he deliberately kept a  measure  I couldn’t. Finally, the pain as his teeth sunk into the sensitive nub of a nipple created such tension that I gratefully climaxed around his fingers.

…A few times I’ve had a new experience of one finger anally inserted and the others crammed into my cunt. It is unbelievable to me  how much I really appreciate the feeling of being filled with fingers, of stimulation in both places so very close together that I don’t often experience. A few times I’ve wondered if I like it so much because it is a rare treat, or if I would like it each and every time I get to experience it; I used to have sex with a finger in my anus more regularly and I liked it every time, so perhaps it is not the novelty of the stimulation.

Fingering seems to be in many of my posts as it’s such an easy way for me to orgasm to…

Half laying on my side and stomach, I woke up when fingers roughly pushed their way into my body, pounded in and out to where the hand and remaining fingers felt like a fist against my lips.

I was already wet, as it seems I always am. I clenched around the fingers and dream and reality splintered with the rough and quick orgasm.”Feeling Forced

Waking up to a fingering is such a fetish I have, but I’ve learned that I appreciate the many different ways of anticipating fingers inside of me as well.

He put a finger in my mouth, and I sucked on it, running my tongue down the side, my lips sliding all the down the length of it, before he pulled it back and moved the finger between my labia, my own kisses allowing his finger to slide inside before it curled deliciously against my g-spot. He moved unhurriedly, rubbing it against my spot, uncurling, slowly easing the teasing digit out, softly circling my entrance, bringing out my cream, dipping back in, back out, spreading my dampness between my lips and up to my clitoris, circling and flicking the nub, again advancing between my folds…oh my…

We had been going all day; my sore body was still so very sensitive as well. “Finger fuck me hard,” I groaned, arching my back, my hips bucking against his slow and torturous finger. He complied, his finger dancing in and down to a rhythm by now he knew I liked. My thighs trembled, tightened, thrusting my hips up to meet his finger, to fuck it even harder….Tightening, tensing, clenching, trying to grip just the one finger, feeling it press, feeling my core absorbing the touch and fanning the sensation outwards, I moaned into my orgasm.” – Finger 

Apr 122017
 

“Play hard to get, remain silent, scared, and dramatically emotional,” Joy repeated to herself, closing the big red book of Fairy Tales upon her perch of the toadstool. She nodded to herself for extra measure, felt the breeze stir the fringes of her tutu skirt, rubbed her toes together for comfort, and laid the book beside her. She arched into the sunlight, welcomed the warming rays upon her bare arms and face, and closed her eyes, trying to remember the rest of what she’d learned about non humans trying to get humans to love them.

She’d like Beast’s methods best, but he was a male. She looked down at her breasts and giggled, nope…she just didn’t possess enough fur to carry it off and take the woman like he did. Besides, she had her sights set on a man. Of course, maybe men liked that sort, but her extensive research did not indicate that. She had read what men really liked.

He was long, but then again they all looked a bit long when one was tiny. He had the most beautiful garden, and seemed kind. She loved how what he was focused on reflected so beautifully on the lenses of his glasses. She hoped to be reflected there one day, with his luscious lips smiling at her in love.

She stood up, squared her shoulders, stretched her wings and let those embrace the breeze and sun before flitted to the nearby ground. She squinted her eyes and held her breath after casting, realized that wasn’t the most flattering, and forced herself to relax as all the fairies seemed to. Eloquence, grace, she repeated. A few seconds went by: a deep breath and her eyes opened to the grass so far below her she could barely distinguish the toadstool. She worried for the briefest of moments if she made herself too long, but worrying just wasn’t in her nature, so she shrugged and off she headed towards the man’s yard.

Not that Joy headed far, she simply stepped a few times, in awe of heavy she seemed against the earth, her feet slightly sinking in damp dirt, and reached for over the short gate to his gorgeous garden. A quick twist of the lock, a slight push of the creaky contraption, and she entered the path, immediately being surrounded by the lovely fragrance of roses and flowers. This was by far her favorite season, made her think of sex amid all the perfumed sweetness.

This year she was going to attempt a different type of sex, her family always did mention just how her curiosity got the better of her. It was such fun discovering new things. As she walked past the blooms, before she was already visible in the garden, she could already envision once he saw her he would stand up and gaze at her beauty. She would pretend to just notice him and turn back towards the bushes and climbing vines as if to seek shelter, but he would take her hand and guide into the sunshine in the center of his yard. She would smile coyly, a move she had been practicing, and would shyly kneel before him.

Men, she read, loved blow jobs, a sex called oral, and so he would be surprised when she kneeled in front of him but wouldn’t stop her. She would reach for his pants and pull out his penis. According to her reasearch, this was where individual preference mattered, so she would purse her lips and start blowing softly before she increased the intensity to hard blowing. She liked the breeze upon her wings, so she supposed a human male’s penis might appreciate the air she created across. Sucking she couldn’t imagine would create the same air stream, but supposedly that was important too, so she would suck in great lungful of air and would look up with him with eyes that looked like puppies and he would smile his appreciation at her gift, falling in love with her.

The tricky part was, according to the fairy tales, they would be married immediately but she didn’t want that part, only the falling in love and sex part; so she would have to run away once he proposed. But she would blow him a kiss behind her shoulder and wink to let him know there were no hard feelings, and try not to giggle (as was her nature) until she was once again in her natural form. (The tales also shared she would die a painful death if she didn’t succeed, but of course she would, she always did.)

Joy couldn’t wait to see the look on his face as she gave him what all men wanted so much they fell in love. She quickened her steps.
Wicked Wednesday

*Wicked Wednesday is on nature this week. Click to see what inspires others.

Mar 212017
 

I love storms. Every time it rains I have all the windows open and am most often sitting the doorway to the outside, watching it, listening to it, smelling and connecting as much as I can. I am surprised I haven’t lost my love of storms.

My tempest.

From solitude to engulfed in booms – the varying patterns of this shift are frightful at times.

There’s no place to go in a thunderstorm to escape it; I can push myself further out into the storm or take very little comfort in the return a house that offers no solace. It is not silent and it cannot be drowned out yelling for it to stop.

A thunderstorm is loud, powerful, demands attention, to be heard.

I seek warmth amid the warning winds: want to be touched and possessed, feel the gliding against my body; with lightning as a companion I light up. My body and my mind crave that delight of visual and utterance.

Where otherwise there may be soft silence, I feel awake and ignited with the booming thunder, blind except for the brief flashes of lightning.

The thunder rolls and sometimes a small shake in the ground can even be perceived in the ground. I can look up and see nothing. Rain is sensed, smelled in the distance, felt in the oppressive weight in the air. It covers all my senses, makes my skin damp. It signals a downpour, body feels just a drop or two and then suddenly water pours from the sky.  I can feel myself getting soaked, the lightning exposing far more than the tips of the trees swaying violently, little hidden amid storm. The rain pounds down to the earth, becomes a very deep awareness that fills every sense, the thunder creates a shudder and a groan. My heartbeat will pound to the eruption. The crepuscular does not confuse me, it is a language heard and felt through every nerve, rendered violent but mesmerized with dark erotic fantasies. I am left humble by how it provokes a physical reaction, perceived darkness that demands attention far more than shadowed whispers. I will feel goose bumps along my skin, and my own body tremors slightly. Still, the thundered rolls, but it becomes a background noise so far away, more of a relaxing soothing background sound.

I like things that take, that demand, that awaken, that can be felt everywhere; I like the signal of what’s to come, the roar of it as its there, and the echo that it leaves behind.

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.

Mar 072017
 

date_tmi

1. Which of these are you most often guilty of in a relationship:
a. jealousy
b. not apologizing
c. not keeping your word
d. guilt trips

2. Which of the following behaviors would annoy you most in a partner.
a. fishing for compliments by verbalizing self-doubt
b. passive-aggressive behavior
c. usually forgets important dates i.e., birthday, anniversary
d. making you feel guilty when spending time with friends

3. Consider you are looking for a mate, rank these traits in order of importance, with 1 being most important, and 7 being least important.
4___ Kindness
1___ Honesty
6___ Ambitious
3___ Confidence
2___ Reliable
7___ Assertive
5___ Sense of Humor

4. Score! You exchanged numbers with a hottie. Now you: (pick one)
a. Wait for a week, see if that person calls you first.
b. Call the next day if not sooner.
c. Call and text incessantly. Let them know they’ve made an impression.
d. You’d never call. What if you get rejected?

5. How did you handle your last relationship break up?
a. You’ve never been in a relationship before. The timing’s never been right.
b. You went out and got drunk every night, until you forgot everything.
c. You went out on a massive amount of date, even with people you knew you had no interest, making sure to date a new face every night.
d. You felt bad and cried, but bounced back in a couple of days.

Bonus: Would you take a holiday all by yourself, at the ‘spur of the moment’? Why or Why not? Where would you go?

I’m very much a spur of the moment kinda gal, and yes I would take a vacation all by myself. I might meet some very cool people, or I could just get some writing done (something I’ve done very little of recently). 

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How to play TMI Tuesday: Copy the above TMI Tuesday questions to your webspace (i.e., a blog). Answer the questions there, then leave a comment below, on this blog post, so we’ll all know where to read your responses. Please don’t forget to link to tmituesdayblog from your website!

Happy TMI Tuesday!

Feb 192017
 

Febraury Photofest

Wicked WednesdaySometimes when I think that a mark blemishes my looks or skin, I need to remind myself that the marks that fill me are stamps that shaped who I am. I am by no means covered in them, most scars are barely visible or tiny.

Ankle scar: knife fighting. Once upon a time I had little man syndrome (little dog preferable?). I wanted to be tough. I learned how to throw knives at a very young age, but I didn’t stop there. Why not try to fight someone with them in close quarters? What was I thinking? Luckily for me, only my ankle and tiny little scar on my wrist show the evidence of this stupidity.

Thigh scars:  I’ve talked quite a bit about the idiotic time I let my ex husband cut me within weeks of leaving me, and how they are now undeniably scars. Hopefully they’ll fade, if nothing else to the barely detectable and far more numerous slivers created from sword fighting. I graduated from knife fighting into a more civilized sparring. I loved this, and taught for three years. A boyfriend taught me, and renaissance competitions furthered my love and skill. This wasn’t fencing, and we very often didn’t wear armor of any kind. And yes, a few of us went to the hospital for that poor decision, but it never altered my love for it, nor did I want to be encumbered by material that wouldn’t allow me to move the way I needed to. My sword of choice was a saber in close combat as the sword was cut down and balanced to be short (though I could fight against a sword of any size). My advantage: being one of the few females at these events, and wearing a tiny tank top, I’d bow to my opponent, and as they gazed at my breasts, I’d go in for their neck (never to slice, but to win). Thankfully, my thighs were only ever scratched, the sword wounds were never ragged, and the faint scars have gradually diminished to practically nothing.

 

Stretch marks: kids. Really the plight of most stretch marks for many women. I evaded them completely with my eldest daughter, my son decided to take my hips and made them even wider, my ass to become art of skin scribbles, small but visible ones on my breasts from his consistent nursing, and one deep mark going up my stomach (which thankfully can be hidden by jeans and just barely peeking out of a bikini bottom). Yeah, he created havoc, but even if the first child did, I would still have them; they are the greatest joy and worth leaving a lasting impression upon my skin – it simply echoes how they imprinted on my heart.

 

Ring finger: saving sister. Now, details are fuzzy on who is at fault, but one of my sisters got stuck on top of the monkey bars in our backyard. Being the eldest, and quick thinking intellect that I was, I searched for some way to save her. A wooden table was stashed in the corner, and I dragged it over to the jungle gym, putting it directly under the monkey bars and coached my sister down. Proud of my accomplishment in saving her life, I went to tell our parents. I reached for the back door and screamed when I saw nothing but blood pouring down my hand. Details after that are fuzzy, until a nurse bandaged me up. I had split the skin from tip to bottom of the inside of my finger somehow on the wood. Still have the scar that reminds me that I am a life saver to a sister.

 

Then there’s the less permanent marks…

Bruises days after The Wanderer took a belt to my bottom

Marks on my ass and thighs: a recent love of mine with spanking. I will now have red hand marks on my ass from time to time, and occasionally he will break the skin. Or a cane’s stripes will raise up in angry red and feel so soothed from a caress. Less common but far more of a long term reminder I can feel is the crop or a belt – I hate the sting, the way the stiff material lashes out at my skin, but the pain creates an instant head space that focuses me on the present, that makes my body attune to everything that touches it from that point forward, that makes pleasure all the more heightened afterwards. The most lasting impression I’ve experiences so far still comes from fists, however, as after so many orgasms I adore the thud against my bottom and thighs, the impact sinking deep into muscles that for days after remind me of our time together every time I sit, lay down, sometimes even walk.

Finger bruises bring back memories of sexier times: I tend to get them from sex. Perhaps his fingers grip my body to maneuver it, to yank, push, or pull to where he wants me next- so hot when he takes control. Perhaps he is clutching at my thighs as they are spread and holding me down as his tongue delves between my lips, or his cock slides deep into my body; perhaps he is pounding into me so hard he is fastening me to the mattress so that we don’t end up on the floor. Perhaps he is slowly teasing me and I am squirming and arching and trying to end the pleasurable torture.

Rope marks: if anyone has been reading the blog for any amount of time, are a certain love of mine. I love to trace my fingers along the paths that rope can leave, feel the deep tracks from spun threads where I was bound.

Feb 122017
 

Happy Valentine's DaySo I looked up on my own blog “Valentine” to see how I’ve reflected on this over the years. It’s been a mix: happy with photo prompts (pictured here) but my writing shows how I overall view the holiday. In one piece of fiction, I write about how the character breaks up with their partners the day before – which is something I used to do in my youth. In another piece of fiction I wrote about how a character was done being second when they should have been first – sadly something that echoed why I didn’t write anything related to Valentine’s Day last year.

Last year, my husband turned me (and family) away hours before we were to be reunited after months of choosing separation to help with transitions and failed attempts at polyamory. I just recently tweeted about how I haven’t felt the same since, and it’s very true. But even when we were married, I didn’t see him much for Valentine’s Day – the all-too demanding price of being a military spouse.

This year, I was given an idea by a coworker of how to celebrate Valentine’s Day. Mr. Texas would rather have the romantic couple’s night, but he’s on board and supporting me as he does best.

My table is set and beautiful and Texas is going to make a nice dinner. We are raising some teenagers, and two of them are special needs and may not have a relationship for some time. I don’t want anyone to feel alone when there are people around who do love them – and I would not have survived last year if I didn’t have the support of friends and family. So, we embracing Valentine’s Day message of love but directing it at people who matter most – family and those that support you best. I even invited some single relatives.

I’ve already warned the kids that we are going to go around the table and say nice things about each other so they better be prepared (a challenge for one or two, it seems). It’s a day to show appreciation, a day to sit down with each other (though family dinners are rather important to me) and express the positives.Wicked Wednesday
Febraury Photofest