Thirteen

I flashed him an awkward metal smile

before leaning in to touch his lips 

and salt his tongue with mine.

I hadn't expected his lips to be cold.

Snowflakes caught in his black curls,

turning him old before his time.

We were losing minutes, hours, days,

standing there in the winter chill.

But that kiss was important enough 

to brave the possibility of frostbite and

my father's anger when I came home late,

pink-cheeked and trembling.

Such a tender age, thirteen, when we open,

like the hungry mouths of baby starlings

in spring, unable to feed ourselves or fly,

but just desperate enough to try.

 

Shifting Limits, Seeking Balance

So when I showed my husband this week's Wicked Wednesday prompt:

...he laughed and said something like, "You put up that sign all the time...and then... you get drunk...."

Somehow, at that point, the "off" becomes a bit blurry and starts to look more like "no". Funny how that happens - a little liquid courage...or better yet, a little liquid freedom.

So, that led me to consider: freedom from what, exactly? Where does my inner censor come from? Because quite honestly, even sober, sometimes a particular thing sounds good - and then at another time, it totally turns my stomach and freaks me out, making me question my own desires.

And then, of course, there are limits that stop being limits through experience. A good example would be anal sex, for me. I can remember, all the way back to college when I had anal sex for the first time. It was awful. Just sad, really. He sort of just shoved (or tried to shove) his dick in there, sans lube (ouch!), and I spent the remainder of the night curled up in the fetal position feeling embarrassed disappointment. I was so traumatized, I didn't even attempt it again until I met my husband, in my late 20s. It still makes me blush to talk about it, but I must admit, I enjoy it, and while it is no longer off limits, talking about it in any sort of depth is still uncomfortable. Why? I have no idea. My inner prude seems to think I'm a total slut sometimes and that having anal sex - and liking it - is proof. Why I'm worried about what my inner prude thinks is beyond me, because my inner slut thinks she's a fucking bore.

What else has been off limits? Non-monogamy comes to mind. But that one goes up and down for me. Sometimes it sounds like a ton of fun. Other times, it just sounds like work and eventual, unavoidable disappointment. In connection, non-monogamous exploits in our town of residence is another "off limits" turned "aw, what the fuck...might as well." Non-monogamous interactions with co-workers? Bosses? Friends? Yah...been there, done all of it...and lived to tell about it...reputations and relationships all happily in-tact.

Pretty much nothing that I would once have deemed "off limits" has come back to bite me in the ass once I've tried it. My emotions about and reactions to some of those events have done me some damage, but the actual events have caused no lasting harm to my life.

In fact, I have to say, with my track record, it's a wonder I say no to anything. Because, aside from so many disappointing male swingers, trying new things has never led me to ruin. And yet...I still dig in my heels and freak out any time my husband wants to try something new.

Nobody puts baby in a corner...but baby sure as hell puts herself there on a regular basis...

Tie me up? Okay. Awesome. No. I changed my mind. Okay. Yes, please.

Wartenberg wheel? Ow. I don't know. Maybe. Tonight it works. No...no! I can't take it! Let's try it again.

Discipline? Spanking? Makes me feel subjugated. Makes me feel impish. Makes me feel like disobeying more. Makes me feel indignant. Makes me feel horny. Spank me please! Fuck, that hurts. No more of that, please. I can't handle it any more.

Violet wand? Fuck no. Fuck no. Fuck no. ??? I don't know...maybe I could consider...maybe...if...

(Am I the only one with these weird bi-polar, shifting limits?)

Pretty much everything that I've tried, at one point in my life...it was off limits. Can't have sex...turned into...Can't have sex until I'm 16 (I self-imposed that rule...like most of my limitations). Can't have sex with someone I don't love...turned into...Can't have sex with someone I don't know. Can't have oral sex...but it's okay with ____________. Can't have unprotected sex...unless you really trust him. Can't have anal sex...became...Won't have anal sex...became...Okay, I'll try again...became...Awesome. Can't have sex with married people...morphed into...Can't have sex with married people who are cheating. Can't have sex with more than one person at a time. Can't have sex with a woman. Can't have sex in public. Can't have group sex. Can't have sex with an audience. Can't be filmed having sex. Can't talk about sex publicly. Can't publish naked photos of myself.

Every sex-related "can't" or "won't" has, over time, turned into a possibility or a reality...even a preference. At this point in my life, I don't think I could honestly say" never" to anything sexual that was consensual. My only worry is the idea of having no limits. For some people, that might sound like a whole lot of fun and completely freeing. But it terrifies me. Where does it end? Where does the experimentation end? When does it go too far? Because it can. It can always go too far. I think I have a whole lot in common with my dog...who needs to have a small, enclosed space to feel safe while she sleeps. That's how I am with my sexploration.

I suppose it's all about finding balance, which can be tricky when you only have to deal with yourself. It can be near impossible when you have to consider the needs and wants of two.

That's where Mr. LL and I are now - figuring out our limits, knowing those limits will shift with time, learning to be open to the changes. Well, I'll be honest...I'm learning to be open to the changes...or at least close my eyes, take his hands, wince, hold my breath, and trust him to lead me.

Now-a-days...the only things off limits in our sex life are sexual stagnation and avoidance of tough conversations about limits.

Magical realism...

Is magic when everything works right?

The house is clean, the kid is behaving, the work is done, and only fun is to be had.

Or is it when the planets align?

I want Him. He wants me. We have time. Alone. Together.

Could it be when I'm feeling sane?

I'm not anxious. I'm not stressed. I'm not pissed off. I'm happy. I'm smiling. I'm relaxed.

If it is, magic doesn't happen around here that often, but when it does, it's awesome.

I suppose that's why it's magic, right? I mean, that's the way most people use the term..."It just happened...like magic."

That kind of magic isn't supposed to happen every day. If it did, it wouldn't be nearly as amazing, and we wouldn't be as in awe of it as we are when it does. It surprises us into noticing things that either don't normally happen or becoming momentarily aware of things that do happen all the time but fly under our radar because we're too busy rushing around in our daily lives.

But there's another side of magic...

mag·ic

ˈmajik/

noun

1. 1.

   the power of apparently influencing the course of events by using mysterious or supernatural forces.

   "do you believe in magic?"

   synonyms:

   sorcery, witchcraft, wizardry, necromancy, enchantment, the supernatural, occultism, the occult, black magic, the black arts,voodoo, hoodoo, mojo, shamanism;

It's not all love potions and card tricks. There are curses and spells. There is darkness. And there are ways to live with intention in order to navigate the ups and downs, the negative energy.

I'm not positive that it works. But if living with intention, burning candles, praying, lighting incense, and generally working to connect with the world around us and our space within it to ensure the best outcome for ourselves and those we love is magic...then I suppose I live a rather magical life.

This week's Wicked Wednesday prompt was:

I thought long and hard about it. And though I suppose I could've written a story or a poem...or written something deep and transcendental, I decided to stick with "reality." Because, despite how boring realism sounds in relation to magic, it doesn't have to be...and probably shouldn't be, if you're doing it right.

re·al·ism

ˈrē(ə)ˌlizəm/

noun

1. 1.

   the attitude or practice of accepting a situation as it is and being prepared to deal with it accordingly.

   "the summit was marked by a new mood of realism"

   synonyms:

   pragmatism, practicality, common sense, levelheadedness "optimism tinged with realism"
2. 2.

   the quality or fact of representing a person, thing, or situation accurately or in a way that is true to life.

   "the earthy realism of Raimu's characters"

   synonyms:

   authenticity, fidelity, verisimilitude, truthfulness, faithfulness "a degree of realism"

I don't always want to accept my situation...and I'm quite often not prepared to deal with it accordingly, but shying away from what "is" to live in a fantasy world won't bring about more magic in life. It'll bring disappointment.

So what does this have to do with my life? Since this blog really is my pool of narcissism, in which I gaze at my own reflection and pontificate.

In every life, there is magic...both ordinary and unexplainable. There are those moments that take my breath away. The moments I will never forget. The day I married my Husband. The day my son was born. The times when both have surprised me with expressions of love that have made my world seem absolutely complete.

None of these things were supernatural. All were real. Simple. So, quite honestly...I have to say that reality can be magic when we accept the fact that we are blessed to have what we have.

Is it magical that I am sitting here, enjoying a glass of wine, wearing a black nightgown, waiting for my amazing Husband to walk through the door so I can hand him a glass, kiss him, and know that my life is complete?

Not really.

It's life. A sort of magical realism, I suppose. Something like One Hundred Years of Solitude. Regardless, I'll take my reality with a healthy does of magic...and my magic with a healthy dose of the blessings I already have.

The Mental Process of Concocting a Fantasy

Characters: Me and My Brain

[The room is dark. I am lying naked and alone in my bed, lube and a vibrator close at hand. The curtain flutters a bit - the window open to the night air.]

My brain: So what's your pleasure today? Cowboy? Biker? Athlete? Businessman? What kind of fantasy man am I going to need to conjure up?

Me: (contemplatively) I guess I'd choose biker. But not your stereotypical leather-vest-wearing, long-haired, gold-toothed, Harley rider.

Brain: What kind, then?

Me: The sport bike type. Faster, younger, dangerous, Vin Diesel-y, and a bit out of control.

Brain: Oh. Okay. Next question...now that we've got the guy, what's under the helmet? Short hair, no hair, long hair (I think you already said no to that), mohawk, spikes...?

Me: Clean cut. Nothing showy. No facial hair...well, maybe a 5 o'clock shadow...that's pretty sexy. Bald is good, too...as long as there's facial hair...goatee, mustache...

Brain: Got it. Eyes?

Me: Blue...green...hazel...grey...don't really care...surprise me...

Brain: Alright...how 'bout this guy?

Me: Perfect!

Brain: Done! Now the scenario: day or night? urban or rural? crowd or no? inside or outside?

Me: Hmmm...I guess night, big city...but outside of it...looking down on all the lights...on a hill top? And I'm not really into crowds.

Brain: (Sighs with disappointment.) I know. (mumbles) Damn...I had a good one with a crowd... (speaks back up) but I can save it for another fantasy. Last few elements: romantic, sultry, frightening, frenzied, raw...what emotion are we going for here?

Hormones: a cash cow

Check out who else is being Wicked.

I find it ridiculously amusing that "Hormones" is the topic of this week's Wicked Wednesday prompt, considering the trouble I've had with this particular issue for the past 7-8 years (mental helath and libido).

Hormones, or the possibility of unstable hormones, have pretty much affected everything having to do with my physical, mental, and emotional health. I've gained 30 lbs. (okay...some of that is just my laziness and my love of good beer), my energy levels are all over the place...my moods...my libido. And it's all supposedly (or probably...or possibly) tied to hormones, according to my doctors.

Late last year, I went to a naturopath (because I wanted a "natural" way to deal with my symptoms). I began using natural progesterone cream, to see if that would help. It didn't, really. So my doctor added bio-identical estrogen cream. Then testosterone cream. I've had all my levels checked, and oddly they all show as fine.

So is it all in my head? Maybe I'm not a hormonal wreck, but a mental one instead? That's a great thought, isn't it? I'm not hormonal, just crazy.

And you know...I'd take crazy if it came with horny, because that would work out for my marriage. Instead, it comes with depression, which makes me lethargic and lazy and fat...and does nothing for my marriage but cause stress...and I need more of that like I need a hole in the head. Or, it comes with manic episodes which won't let me sleep and make me irritable, agitated, and forgetful. Good times. Anxiety is the spice of life.

Hormones have ultimately just not been my friend. And hormone-related complications are hard to diagnose. Because perimenopause can cause all of my current symptoms, and because all of my symptoms can be hard to diagnose and attribute to a cause, it's hard to counteract them all.

Basically, what it comes down to is, if I don't want to be on a hundred medications, I just need to eat healthy, exercise daily, practice yoga and mindfulness, get acupuncture, drink less, develop a sleep routine, and keep seeing a shrink. Sounds easy, I know. And for some people, it might be. I wish I were one of those people.

I could probably do without all the meds, honestly, but now that I am on them, all my docs are reticent to take me off of them. Western medicine does love its prescriptions. I've managed to get the dosages down. As for the hormone supplements, those are complicated. While using them may be beneficial, especially if you really are low in one or more of them, using them also presents a host of fun side effects: weight gain, oily skin/hair, acne, hair growth (in odd places), aggression and irritability (yay...cause I need more of that), fatigue...and on and on. Seriously, it's a case of the side effects being worse than the disease. (A decent book on hormones and their functions is The Hormone Cure. It was suggested by my naturopath, because he refused to prescribe anything until I was educated on the issues...smart guy.)

I feel sort of like I started getting old at 30...because my body has seriously railed against me from childbirth on. Aren't we supposed to be friends, or something like that? Isn't my body supposed to be my temple? Because really, it feels like a war-zone...me against it, and it usually has the upper hand.

What I've found over the years, too, is that issues having to do with hormones and mental and emotional health (even physical health, actually), have provided the opportunity for a booming business in books, programs, supplements, and medications. And there are sooooo many "answers," it's hard to know which to try, if any. I've read my share of books, spent hundreds on supplements and medications, and have found myself choosing the more natural paths, because...hell, they do less damage even if they help less...and mostly I see them helping more.

My biggest issue for the natural methods of mental, emotional, and physical healing is the time it takes. And actually...the money, as well. Yoga is expensive because it's trendy now...and because those little yoga studios have to make a living, right? The time, though is trying to fit in yoga, along with regular work outs. If I were doing what I am supposed to do, I'd be working out/doing yoga 1-2 hours per day...add showering and such to that...twice...and now I'm at 2-3 hours. But, I work full time. So now I've used around 11 hours working and working out. And I have a child and family. And...well...I HATE working out!

As far as I can tell, however, exercise and diet are the keys. The two things many of us really don't want to accept. Why can't there be a magic pill? Instead of all that hard work and time? It'd be one thing if I liked exercise...and believe me, I've tried all kinds - I'm just not a "physical" person. I'd rather sit on a couch and read a book.

Speaking of that...I'm off to run from zombies (see, they were sneaky and sucked me in with STORY). One of the ONLY...besides yoga...physical exercises I like to do. And later...I'm off to see my shrink to discuss my "thought distortions."

You know, I'm starting to come to the realization that the Western World wants us all to be mental, emotional, and physical wrecks so it can capitalize on our suffering and keep us feeling "broken" so we'll keep seeking ways to fix ourselves by adding to the gross national product. And blaming hormones is perfect...because it's so hard to pinpoint the cause...and so easy to spend time and money on a "treatment."

Here's a complimentary set of blog posts of you're interested: an on-going review of Sex Again: Recharging Your Libido (covers issues regarding hormones but really pushes to counteract them with natural methods).

Oui

It's what her t-shirt said that caught his eye: Oui. It was an answer. And he had a number of questions he hoped would elicit that response from her.

He followed her in, waited for her and her friend to find a stool, and then sidled up next to her at the bar. She glanced sideways at him, unconsciously looking him up and down. He looked back at her..."Damn hot today, eh? Couldn't wait to just come in and get a cold beer to cool down."

"Yah." She said little, but her eyes showed interest, and she smiled. Oui number one.

She looked back at her friend who was ordering for them. Two margaritas and two shots of rather expensive tequila, which the bartender poured and scooted toward them. The two girls took hold of the shot glasses, giggled, and counted to three before bringing the glasses to their lips and tipping their heads back.

"Celebrating?" he asked.

"Yah, I got a new job today." Oui number two.

"Oh," he smiled, his impressively straight, white teeth framed perfectly by his curved lips.

"Let me buy you another shot? To congratulate you?"

She giggled a bit and looked back at her friend, who also giggled and gave her the look. The one girls give each other when they want to encourage their friends to do things...the raised eyebrows, the smile, the nearly imperceptible nod.

"Okay..." Oui number three.

She blushed, her pink cheeks round and high beneath her sparkling green eyes. The bartender put the second round of shots, this time three, in front of them. They all took hold of the glasses, clinked them together in a toast, and quickly drained them, simultaneously slamming the glasses back on to the bar.

"So what's your name?" he asked.

"Amber."

"Well, nice to meet you, Amber. I'm Greg. And I'm going to head on over to that table back there. The one by the pool tables. I'm going to order a pitcher of beer, and if you ladies would like to join me, you'll know where to find me." He nodded toward her and smiled again, a slight dimple in his cheek. He was tan in a way that showed he either worked outside or spent a lot of time out in the sun. He was also muscular, and his t-shirt was tight enough that it followed his shape all the way to his waist. It was hard not to notice Amber's shy but obvious gaze downward along his torso before she looked back up at his blue eyes as said, "Okay, maybe we will." Not quite a Oui. But close.

He grabbed his pitcher of beer and three glasses and headed to the back of the bar. He could feel her eyes on him as he walked away and smiled to himself.

He put the pitcher down on a table, poured himself a glass, and chose a cue stick from the wall. He heard her voice behind him, "You going to play by yourself there, hot shot?"

He turned toward her, "It wasn't my first choice, but I figured I could make do...mess around a bit, wait for someone to turn up. You know how to play?"

"Yes. My dad taught me when I was a kid." Oui number three.

"Where's your friend?"

"She's back at the bar with some of our co-workers."

"And you thought I looked lonely?"

"Well, yes, a little." Oui number four.

"And you felt sorry enough for me that you decided to come on a back a share this pitcher of beer with me?"

She blushed, but confidently answered, "Yah, I didn't want you to look silly playing pool alone. A guy like you...I'm sure you've got an image to uphold." Oui number five.

"Oh..." he leaned back a bit, eyes opened wider, brows up, questioning, "...and what image might that be?"

She stammered a bit. He'd flustered her with the question.

"I'm not trying to assume anything about you..um..but it looks like you..uh...care about how you look...so maybe you care how...um...others think you look..." She had that deer-in-the-headlights expression.

"Right now...I just care about how you think I look."

She smiled, blushed, and looked away as she stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, causing her chest to jut out toward him, her breasts stretching the fabric of the t-shirt in an irresistable way.

"So, Amber...what do you think? Do I look alright?"

She looked back at him, breathed deeply, and replied, "Why the hell would I be over here right now if I didn't like what I saw?"

"So you like what you see?"

"Sure, yah...that's pretty much what I said, genius." Oui number six.

"Well, then, Amber, that makes two of us. Two hot geniuses who know how to play pool, just hanging around not playing pool and not drinking beer. So shall we remedy that?"

"Yes, Greg...we shall." Oui number 7. She headed to the wall and grabbed down a cue stick of her own.

"Pour me a beer, Greg...I'm gonna kick your ass." She smiled at him and looked at him rather seductively through her lashes while she chalked her cue. He watched her hand move around the tip and felt a slight twitch in his groin. Good god he'd love to see those pretty hands doing a similar dance on his own stick.

"Wanna chalk mine up, too...you're awfully good at that." He grinned.

"All in good time, mister. All in good time. What's the game, Greg? Standard 8-ball?"

"Sure...you wanna rack the balls?"

"Yep...I do, indeed, want to rack the balls, Greg. But can we play a few games of pool first?" Oui number 8.

Just a short, flirty story...nothing too sexy today. I'll be off on vacation for the next few days and, because I guess I sort of suck...I have not written and scheduled posts. So, I'll be off the grid until Saturday. That means no EFF this week...unless I post it late again on Saturday instead of Friday. Regardless, I wanted to at least get my Wicked Wednesday post completed before I turned off my computer for good (I'm sure it could use a rest, too.)

Check out who else is being wicked...click this LINK!

Naked: A softening perspective

I look at myself in the mirror. Naked. From a distance, there's an hourglass shape. Upon closer inspection, however, there are all the faults I'm learning to process. The older I get, the more of them I see. But also, the easier they are to accept. My perspective softens with age. And I become more forgiving.

I stopped looking at magazines years ago. But it doesn't mean I don't inadvertently compare myself to other women. Constantly. And it shines a huge spotlight on my insecurities. My rather ample behind, my softening midsection, my less than perky breasts.

But, when I'm alone, I can usually look past all of that. And I'm getting better at accepting that Daddy finds all of it attractive. All of it. Which sort of blows my mind. I'm also getting better at dressing for the body that I have rather than the body I wish I had.

Acceptance is half the battle right?

So as I stand naked before the mirror, in the full glow of the bathroom lights, I place a hand beneath each breast to lift them. I let them drop and marvel at how changeable they are. When it's cold, the nipples pucker and darken to a shade of brown. But they melt in the heat, becoming weighted by the humidity. They grow dark hairs that I constantly pluck out, because I hate them, But the areolas, on a warm day, are a lovely shade of blush  on a background of pale white skin.

Sexually disabled? disordered? dysfunctional?

dis-1

• Word Origin

1.

a Latin prefix meaning “apart,” “asunder,” “away,” “utterly,” or having a privative, negative, or reversing force (see de-, un-2.); used freely,especially with these latter senses, as an English formative:

disability; disaffirm; disbar; disbelief; discontent; dishearten; dislike;disown.

(source: Dictionary.com)

*****

dis

informal

verb

1. 1.

   speak disrespectfully to or criticize.

   "I don't like her dissing my friends"

noun

1. 1.

   disrespectful talk.

   "the airwaves bristle with the sexual dis of shock jocks"

(Source: Google Dictionary)

*****

dis

Referring to the city of Dis, from Dante's levels of hell. The city of Dis is the level of hell to which all non-believers, who have not otherwise sinned greatly, will go. The city is surrounded by a field containing countless numbers of burning coffins, in which the heretics lie, screaming. Limbs from non-believers are scattered around the plains, and the city itself is surrounded by thick iron walls.

(source: Urban Dictionary)

*****

Indeed, having any type of sexual "dys" function or "dis" order or "dis" ability can feel like being "dissed" (is that even how you spell it?) by your own body, and taking a solo vacation in the city of Dis. You fall outside of society's norms. You don't fit. You are given a label. Not an excuse, mind you. No one gets one of those...unless, of course, you are disabled in other, more acceptable ways. You know, the kind you can't do anything about...like maybe mental retardation (yes...I know there are more politically correct ways to say that now...more positive, inclusive ways - like "mentally challenged"), or you no longer have the use of your limbs ("differently-abled"), or you are dumb (not stupid..."mute!"). For those with sexual "issues," we face labels like "impotent," "hormonal," "frigid," "cold," "broken," "abnormal." Sex research has come a long way since Freud and  Kinsey...but because sex comes in so many forms and variations, is born of so many influences and motivations, and leads to so many experiences, emotions...so much confusion and misinterpretation, it still eludes much of the human race, including the doctors. 

We know the biological function of sex. Put peg A in slot B and voila!: baby. 

If no baby...well...peg A or slot B is broken. Impotent? A man is no longer a "man" by much of society's standards when slapped with this label. Barren? What did she do for God to smite her so? Whore. Now she'll be a spinster. Maybe an old maid. Or just a disappointment to herself and the man that is now stuck with this poor, sad woman. Or he'll divorce her and find a nice lady who can bare him many sons. Or they'll adopt beautiful Ethiopian children and she'll smother them with affection to bury her guilt and insecurity.

Yah, we're more progressive than that. Aren't we? Or are we? I'm not so sure. I hear the jokes. The comments said in "jest." 

Even worse than a man or a woman who has a medically proven reason for their label is a man or woman whose sexual "dysfunction" or "disorder" or "disability" is hormonal or, worse yet, mental or emotional. 

Now, not only is the poor sap or unfortunate dame "broken," he or she is also likely sporting an ailment that is "all in his or her head." 

Bring on The Yellow Wallpaper.

They used to call it hysteria...covered pretty much all the bases when doctors couldn't figure out what was wrong with a woman.

Then, they decided you just needed the sea air, and sent you to the coast for the summer.

And now, since it's a booming business, they send you to specialists, counselors, therapists, and give you medications for all sort of things (because they really don't know the cause). 

We've really made little actual progress in the world of sexual dysfunction. Oh sure...there's Viagra...and there are hundreds of supplements that claim to "boost your libido," thousands of self-help books, and mental health professionals have made careers out of our suffering. Honestly, I'm sure the majority of them mean well. Not the drug companies, mind you...but the professionals and the doctors. 

It's hard, though. For them...and for US...to make heads or tails of it. It's hard not to look at ourselves as broken. It's hard to trust the Ups when you constantly fear the Downs. 

It's hard not to feel "apart," "asunder," "away," or "utterly" lost.

Luckily, I'm on an Up right now. But, I never know what is waiting for me around the next corner. I live daily with the fear that, at any moment, for no reason that anyone I know can provide, I may just stop wanting sex. 

Depressed. Bi-polar. Crazy. 

Doctors, psychiatrists, psychologists. Wellbutrin. Lithium. Estrogen. Progesterone. Testosterone. Tests. Tests. Labs. Tests. $$$$.

Yoga. Mindfulness. Concentrate. Relax. If you weren't so stressed. So OCD. So ADD. So high-strung. So type-A. Such a control freak.

Counseling. Mindfulness training. Just focus! Relax. De-stress. Go on a vacation. Figure out your "attachment issues." Questions about my childhood. What am I hiding? What am I afraid of? Dig deeper. Find the answer. It's in there somewhere!!!! 

Apparently, if I could just look far enough inside myself, I could cure my own dis-ease.

They make it sound so easy.

Ultimately, the message is that something is wrong with us. Somehow, we aren't "right," which makes us, necessarily, "wrong." We must be "fixed." Because we are "broken." 

It's a frustrating place to be. 

What we are told we should be by society:

What we are often facing...as a society:

What we should be experiencing:

And...since I'll be experiencing none of these for the night (Daddy's still off in a warmer clime...enjoying the wind in his hair and the sun on his helmet's visor...)...I'll head off to bed, peaceful, for the time being, in the knowledge that, for now, I wish he were here so I could fuck him. Or...so he could fuck me. Or...well...whatever way it would happen - we'd be fucking right now. 

So, there.

(Pouty face.)

He doesn't have to make me

Last night, he asked me to wash my face, take my clothes off, get in the bed, and present. But when I came out of the bathroom, he was lying in the bed, listening to a message on his phone (I thought he was talking to someone). So I lay beside him, sort of slipped into the covers, figuring I'd present when he was ready.

Problem.

I should have done what I was told to do. Regardless.

When He finished listening to his message, He asked me why I hadn't complied. I stammered an inadequate excuse but let it die on my tongue. I knew I was in the wrong.

Because, if we are going to make this work...He shouldn't have to make me. I should just do it.

He told me to "avert my gaze" as He opened the "toy drawer," telling me He was getting out my "favorite" spoon - the one I hate so much (the threat of a spanking, of course). I braced myself, expecting it. But it didn't come. He told me he wasn't going to punish me...because we haven't really worked that part of our contract out yet. He asked me if I felt like I was being treated like a child (a sticking point for me), but the funny thing is, I didn't.

It might sound trite, but this time feels different. We've been down this road several times, and it's never completely worked. Something's always been off. Not quite right. And while we still have quite a bit of work to do, I find myself feeling excited to begin. There is a noticeable absence of resistance. A feeling of calm. I find myself (my selfish, childish self) thinking more about Him than me...more about what He wants and what would make Him happy. This isn't just about me, after all. It's about us and what we both need from each other. And He doesn't have to make me His...I already am. It's just been a rocky road admitting it, completely.

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who else is 

being wicked

Thorns

One rose. On her pillow.

It was an invitation.

It's velvety red seeping into the white cotton.

He'd left the thorns.

She touched the tip of one, pressing her flesh into it until it punctured the skin.

Slowly.

As she closed her eyes, she saw him rising above her, his biceps taut, his jaw set, his brow strong.

She felt the blood before she saw it.

Lips parting, sigh of release escaping, she licked her lips and then inserted her finger into her mouth, sucking at the metallic, salty flavor or herself.

She looked down at the rose.

Beside it, a single dot of crimson that would fade to black by the time he came home.

She decided to leave it.

A sort of RSVP to his request.

Yes, my love.

I will bleed for you.

Wicked Wednesday

Things that go "mmmmm" in the dark

We live on a dark road, about a mile off the highway, nestled between cedars and maples. Our sky does not look the same as the sky above a large city. It's much darker, and shines with dense pockets of twinkling stars so numerous it looks as if a salt shaker has been upended.

When the clouds roll in, and the moon does its monthly disappearing act, it becomes so dark, you can't see your own hand in front of your face. And if you are paying attention to the crunch of the leaves beneath your feet, you might not even notice someone coming up behind you.

Maybe a pair of warm hands and the comfortable smell of recognition.

With one sense fully at the mercy of nature, the rest will be left to experience those hands with more intensity. The sense of touch...fingers tracing curves, entering crevices, exploring places in a way made more surprising by the inability to see them.

Smells...the wood stove smoke lingering in the still, cold air, kept low and closed in by the clouds, making the atmosphere seem heavier, the pressure of winter bearing down and making your bodies feel weighted and slow. The day's cologne and perfume will have withered beneath more natural scents, muskier and mouthwatering.

You might feel the heat of breath on your neck, a hot tongue licking at your nape, and the cool air immediately stealing the warmth. That will likely be intoxicating. The quick contrast. The shift in temperature.

That tongue will take away the salt of your skin, taste buds swelling with the sting, causing the mouth to water. It will come back for more, only this time, it will invade your mouth, filling it, pressing itself between your teeth, sucking.

The hands might make their way between your legs, probing, searching...and eventually finding your sweetest spot, already wet and ready...hot.

If you could see, in the darkness, you would notice the steam rising from the hand as it is pulled from the band of your loose evening clothes. The steam caused by your heat as it meets the bitter reality of night.

Best to go in...out of the cold...out of the dark...and into the warmth of the house. The subtle glow of the lamplight will be a cozy invitation to snuggle up on the couch and finish what has already been started.