Innies, Outties & Three-Ways

This post probably isn’t anything about what you think it is, considering the title – though things that go in and out and three-ways are delightful topics, and ones I think about often. (I know, you probably thought I was talking about belly buttons, didn’t you?)

But no, this post is about introverts (innies) and extroverts (outties.) And three-ways? Three-way relationships, not sex. (Tho three-way sex is often part of this particular three-way relationship.)

Where to start…  Maybe the beginning?

So. Once upon a time I was sick. And alone, and miserable. I was also probably dropping after a weekend of fun and bondage and play.  And because I was alone, and felt needy, and didn’t get the attention I wanted, I got my feelings hurt. And…I said so. The problem is, my timing sucked. W had his own emotional shit going on, and my shit collided with his shit and…well…shit hit the fan. And went everywhere. I couldn’t know how badly it sucked, I didn’t know that the person on whom I unloaded (W) would have the emotional reaction he did, and worst of all, I wouldn’t realize the impact it would have, or be able to address it, for several days, because of this whole “innie/outtie” thing.

It was a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. Three really bad days, actually.

I don’t like this about myself, this neediness. Let me just stand up and say it: “Hi, my name is Jade, and I’m needy.”  I know, you’re not supposed to say that. Especially if you are an Evolved and Grown-Up Woman. I’m also going to admit something else that “strong” submissive-type women are probably going to look down their strong, independent noses at: I think that being submissive in my relationships heightens this neediness at times.  In particular, being submissive to W heightens my clinginess and neediness for him.  I am not needy in my “outside” world: with my family, workmates, or even, most times, with Ad. But I need W’s attention like a plant needs water; I wilt without it.  And when I am sick or dropping, when I feel most vulnerable, is when I am neediest.

But it is also when my own ability to think clearly is at its lowest, and when I might say things without my usual mindfulness, things that I realize (sometimes not until later) are hurtful. Like a hurt animal, feeling cornered by own careening emotions, I snap and snarl, when what I want and need most is a kind hand. (In my own defense, my “snapping and snarling” was the comment, “I can’t believe you were out here (by my house) and didn’t stop by. That hurts.”)

In this instance, what I said and what he heard were two vastly different things.

To my mind, being able to say that to him, to clearly say, “I am hurt by this,” was an act of bravery. Yes, I am very open in my communications. But I struggle with being open with my needs, when I feel that those needs might not be met. Being open with my neediness with W is a huge step forward for me, and is a mark of the trust I have in him and in our relationship. I have finally come to a place where I don’t think that he will reject me for it, where I am not afraid of rejection. Where I can be needy and know he still loves me.

Except that there’s still that little voice inside my head that is afraid of rejection.  That is absolutely convinced that this very vulnerability, this neediness, will cost me the relationships I value most in my life.  That one day the people I love will walk away because I need too much. Perhaps that is one reason that I crave BDSM play that brings me down to that level of vulnerability and neediness, because in play I am “safe.” I can be vulnerable there.  It is acceptable to be weak.  And afterward he holds me, with no recriminations for my weakness, and I know he still loves me: he shows me that he does, right then, right there. But if we are apart and I feel weak, feel needy, feel vulnerable, I am consumed by a kind of terror that this time he will say, “Enough!” and wash his hands of me.  Because outside of play space we are in the “real world,” and I know he wants (and admires) strong, capable women, not this needy one that I become at times.

But that is where this outtie and innie thing comes in.

I can’t not let him know what I am feeling.  I am not the strong silent type. I am not the type to hide away while I work through my emotions. I am not the type to be a good girl and keep it all inside. I spill it all, I vomit it out, I bleed out all over my sleeve.  That’s how  I process stuff.

(But also…if I am being completely honest with myself, I have to wonder if it (allowing him to see this in me) isn’t a kind of unconscious test. “Will he still love me?” Because somehow there is a part of me that doesn’t feel I deserve to be loved because I am So. Fucking. Needy. So I give him an out. And I say and do the very things that I assume will cause that exact thing to happen: he’ll go away, be disgusted, think I’m too damn difficult, too much effort. Self-fulfilling prophesy, anyone?)

And yet. The truth is, I am trying, honestly, to communicate my needs. I am both fearful of communicating them (and having them rejected, of being seen as weak and needy) and very aware that if I don’t communicate a) there is never a chance of having them met; and b) my head will explode.

Wait, wait…!  I meant to say that b) I need to get it out there, verbally or in writing, because that is how I process. I need to communicate. (Or my head will explode.)

I’m an outtie. I process externally. I need to get it out to make sense of it. Usually, that happens in this space or in writing of some sort, though, rather than in speaking directly of it. Asking for what I need is just too damn scary. (Or so it feels to me.  I am learning to do so – that is part of my own effort to grow emotionally – but it is hard.)

W’s an innie, though. He needs time and space to process, before he can talk about it. And that, at times, causes me emotional trauma and angst, especially last week. It was mostly just a result of bad timing, a sequence of events (both emotional and physical) that combined to create the “Perfect Storm,” and the added stress of that whole innie and outtie thing, but…damn, it was rough.

So we spent three days in hell, and are really just now, with lots of mutual love and support – and talking – recovering emotionally. It’s been a rough patch, but I think…in the end…that we will be better for it. I think we’ve made leaps and bounds in moving towards the middle in our communication styles, and in learning to understand each other’s styles.  I also think this will help us to avoid this sort of issue in the future.

And here’s where the three-way relationship comes into play. Ad made an interesting observation during all this. We have a V, with me being the “hinge.” As such, everything revolves, in some form or other, around me (yeah yeah, it appeals to my outsized need for attention, go figure.) That’s the upside. The downside is that when there is an emotionally weighty issue, I am also involved. If it’s my issue, of course; if it’s my issue with the Guys or theirs with me, of course; but also, if they have anything going on emotionally – this time the parts of W’s issue that weren’t with me, or Ad’s recent struggle with depression, for instance – I also get the brunt of it.

But I don’t have to bear it alone. When Ad was depressed and I was dealing with that, W was there, supporting, explaining, playing devil’s advocate, letting me vent or cry or just talk when I needed to. He was there for Ad, too, without ever having talked about the issue with him, because he constantly supported Ad to me, as well as supporting my own emotional needs. And visa versa in this whole thing with W. Ad was my rock, he held me when I cried myself to sleep, he let me vent and spew all my anxiety and fears, and he constantly supported W’s need for time and space, and encouraged me to be patient.

I talk all the time about the fun sexy aspects of three-way relationships. This episode really made me appreciate a different aspect of being in a three-way relationship, and for that (as sucky as it may have been) I am grateful.

The Boys, Me and Keith Urban

Another post from A Poly Life that rightly deserves its place here. Unfortunately the video that I originally linked to in the post is no longer available, so I’ll have to make do with a pic from that night.

Somehow, I don’t think ya’ll mind/ ;-)

(From January 2010)

I have been productive this weekend.  And kinky. Kinkily productive too. (Is that a word?)  Had an amazingly fun night last night with The Boys.  We got back from dinner at our favorite Mexican place, me a little tequila’d up (ok maybe a lot), enough to bring out Sassy Jade.  I had on boots and jeans, which I promptly stripped out of to show off the new brown lace panties and bra set I had on, then put the boots back on, because they matched. Then I pranced around, showing off, being a flirt and a tease.

I guess my boots inspired some Wild West thoughts, because the guys took me upstairs and soon had me rigged me out like a pony, hobble-chains around my booted ankles, hands chained behind my back and a bit gag in my mouth, to which Ad attached two long, thick, heavy leather reins.   And then they proceeded to try and tame the SassyJade pony. Hah!  This pony will not be broke!  But hell, they sure tried.  They whupped the heck out of me, when they weren’t trying to wrestle me to the floor, or wrestle me on the floor…I was a wild-ass pony, bucking and fighting.  It was crazy.  (And fun.  Did I mention fun?)  I have sore spots all over, from the leather reins Ad used to whip me as well as haul me around as I ran and danced around him, and from body parts that connected with the chains and the floor and various body parts on either guy.

Keith Urban is now officially scene-music.

But it wasn’t over yet.  After I managed to free myself and they gave the pony a rest break, they rigged me up so that I couldn’t move in the middle of the room with rope and chain (huh, think I wore them out, that they didn’t want to have to chase me around anymore?) They then proceeded to cane me, both at once, in time to the music. I wish I could figure out which playlist I had my iPod on so I could remove the damn six-and-a-half-minute song right in the middle. “Isn’t that fucking song over yet?” I think was the last totally coherent thought I had before I sort of fuzzed out, sensory overload, and just floated, hanging in the rope and chain.  Next thing I knew, I was on the hardwood floor, W on one side, Ad on the other, holding me as I came back to earth, no recollection of having gotten there.  Fucking heaven.

Between last night, the day and night I spent with W  Thurs/Fri and the…was it Monday?…scene I had with W, I am flying high.

And now I am sitting here eating leftover Mexican food and basking in the tired, sore, fuzzy glory of my life.  Can it get any better than this?

***********

Ok so I lied…I just spent an hour on YouTube watching and listening to my man. (I only meant to find the one from the original post!) This isn’t it…but this is the song that makes me think of my guys.

Acceptance

I was browsing through some old posts over on a A Poly Life and ran across this one. I don’t know if I ever linked to it from here, but even if I did, I think it deserves a place of its own here, since it involves BDSM dynamics (at least to a degree.)  If you’ve already read it there, I apologize.

It also comes up because of some painful things that happened between W and I this past couple of days. I reacted recently in ways that I am deeply ashamed of. I said some harsh, thoughtless words and hurt him, and even though I was reacting out of my own sense of insecurity and hurt, that does not excuse my behavior, especially when what he needs is the care and nurturing of a loving, supportive partner, not temper-tantrums and recriminations.

I won’t excuse myself.  In fact, “I hate myself,” I said.  And I meant it.

“I love you,” he wrote back. “Please love yourself too.”

That shook me. Deeply, to the core, to tears.  He forgave me; he loves me.

I am trying to forgive myself.  To love myself anyway. After all, if he can still love me, in spite of what a rotten cunt I can be, shouldn’t I at least try to live up to that?

I am so imperfect in so many ways…but I am trying.  To change what I can, to accept the things I cannot, to love myself in spite of those imperfections.  The acceptance I talk about in the following piece is much more lighthearted, but it is part and parcel of the whole.

*****************************************************************

(From May 2011)

I had some interesting insights and discoveries into myself this past weekend. Nothing too deep or earth-shattering, but…interesting.  W and I were discussing relationship dynamics. Specifically, 24/7 M/s or O/p relationships, as opposed to our own dynamic. I am sexually submissive to W, and that bleeds over, because of my personal mental/emotional makeup, into other areas of our relationship, and I do consider the relationship of the Owner/property category–he owns and controls my sex life. This dynamic is much deeper and more internalized for me than him, I think, again because of my particular emotional makeup, but he totally gets it. He said something very perceptive the other day. “I think if I’d been the kind of Top that wanted to control your life more, you would have responded to that and become more of a submissive in everyday life as well.” He’s exactly correct, I think–and in an interesting dichotomy, I think it is precisely because I am a submissive at heart that, rather than seeking out another relationship that would satisfy that need in me, instead I molded myself and my own desires to my Dominant’s. It is a testament both to my own self-awareness and to W’s relationship skills that we were able to recognize that I do need some balance between the two extremes, and he was able (and willing) to explore that dynamic on at least some levels more with me, in order to assure that those needs are met as well.

But I digress a bit. To continue on with my original point…

The reason that W and I aren’t in a more “traditional” M/s style relationship boils down, essentially, to one simple fact: neither of us wants to work that hard. We do this because it brings us pleasure, it makes us hot and it leads to some crazy hot sex.

Now, I understand that for many people, it is in the act of self-sacrifice, it is in doing something difficult, and doing it well, that they derive pleasure. For many people, it is the hard work that makes a thing worthwhile. I get that and respect that–immensely.

But that’s just not me. Furthermore, that trait informs not only my BDSM-relationship style, but also many, many other areas of my life, if not all of them. It wasn’t until W and I were talking about it that I put it all together tho, and made the connection.

It came about because we were trying to draw an analogy from vanilla life to WIITWD and the different dynamics. What we came up with is the comparison between an athlete that runs marathons and one that does 5k’s. Or, to personalize it, someone like me, that runs ~3 miles, max, and has no desire to run further, because after that, it gets hard, and I just don’t want to work that hard. I run because it is a pleasure, a joy, but once it starts hurting and getting to be a chore, once it becomes work–forget it. That’s why it is so hard to get myself to restart running consistently, because that first mile of every run sucks. I hate every minute of it. But if I can just get past that to the other side, the pure pleasure of feeling my body move, of feeling it do what it’s meant to do, of feeling, for that tiny amount of time, “athletic,” well, then it is no longer work. Or if it is, the cost/benefit ratio tilts heavily in favor of benefit, and I am willing to pay the cost.

But honestly, it takes a lot to tip the scales in that analysis, and to be blunt, most things that are hard or difficult or make me miserable in the doing of them just don’t have that big a benefit to warrant me doing them.

It’s easy to see how not living an M/s relationship 24/7 fits into that. Being a slave is hard, and more about sacrificing one’s own wants to another than engaging in it for one’s pleasure. But it wasn’t until I turned the idea over in my head that I recognized how many other places in my life this has had an impact.

For instance, school. I love to take classes. If I could afford it, I’d probably take a class every semester. But as deep as my love of learning goes, and as many college credits as I have, I’ve NEVER completed a degree. Not because I can’t, nor even because I don’t want to, but because, frankly, it’s a lot of work! There are classes I have to take that I just don’t want to. And frankly, sometimes even classes I enjoy get to be a drag after 3 months, so I stop going. But given the appropriate cost/benefit ratio, and yes…I’ll do it. For instance, that fucking math class. The benefit–a feeling of accomplishment in the face of adversity, the knowledge that W and Ad would be proud of me, and the knowledge that I would be setting a good example for my kids–became a huge benefit, enough, finally, to force me past my fear of failure, past my desire to take the easy way, and on to finally finishing the class.

That feeling of accomplishment–of forcing myself to do something I am afraid of–is actually quite a strong motivator on the “benefit” side of things, btw. It made me take a job as a waitress when I was so shy I could barely walk into a room alone. It made me hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, knowing that at the bottom was a scary-ass suspension bridge over the Colorado River that I’d have to walk over. It made me take a bus with 50 other women I didn’t know to Washington DC for the march for freedom of choice, and to stand up on that same bus and tell the story of the abortion I had chosen to have, something I had never told anyone else. It’s what made me start running in the first place, what made me climb the rock wall and to the top of the High Temple on our cruise. It led me to offer to take on countless jobs, including the one I am in now, without knowing I actually had the skills to cut it. It’s what drives me to explore the intersection between pain and pleasure, and why I seek out some of the more extreme corners of that kind of play at times.

On the other hand, the desire for pleasure, for experiencing joy, led me to choosing to end my marriage of 15 years. It led me to conquer my fear of being rejected and made me reach out to a stranger–W–on Fetlife. It’s led me to cut toxic people from my life and to choose to take my children on trips rather than to buy a new car. It’s allowed me to accept that maybe I won’t finish that novel (just too hard to do) but to accept the joy I find in writing here and on PoJ and in writing short stories.

On the other hand, this very trait has cost me at times as well. There is no amount of benefit that will ever make me a good wife, housekeeper or cook. I’m a loving partner and a great girlfriend, but domesticity just doesn’t do it for me.

I will probably never be able to afford to retire, because I spend money too freely on transient pleasures.

I will probably never really accomplish anything of true, lasting value or worth. That novel? Ain’t gonna happen. The half-marathon I want to do? Nope. Get a degree and get an important job? Not so much. I probably won’t become a world-famous blogger or be asked to speak at events or change the world in any large, lasting way.

But…

I’m okay with all this. I am okay with the bad and the good.

I can accept these things about myself. I can live with–and love–me. Just as I am.

I Suck. (And not in the good way. Tho okay, I do that too.)

I was whining the other day about  not being invited to a friend’s birthday celebration. It wasn’t a very loud whine, more a whimper of self-pity, but nonetheless, it was something that, if only momentarily, made me feel sad.

Why don’t I get invited to play in any of their reindeer games?

Of course the thing I have to admit is that there’s a very good reason:  I’m not a very good friend.

Oh, I’m a very good acquaintance.  And, if you ever ever need anything, real help in any way, I’m there. No questions asked.  I will do anything for my friends. Seriously.

And when we meet each other out, we have a great time together! I’m a lot of fun, generous and loving and giving.

But I’m not a day-to-day kind of friend. I don’t call, text, email all the time. Or even very often. I very seldom make lunch or dinner or any other kind of dates. I don’t go shopping with my girlfriends, or do girls’ night out, or get my nails done with them…or whatever else it is girlfriends do.  “Hang out.”

Sometimes, I miss that. When I don’t have anything to do, and I think, “Hey, if I had someone I could just call up…”

But I don’t.  And I’ve pretty much accepted that I don’t.

The reality? I’m pretty self-involved.  Involved with my guys, my kids, my writing, my job, my life.  And sometimes…just with myself.

Sometimes…too much with myself.

See, I can be okay with the fact that the price I pay for my hyper-involvement in my own world is that I don’t get to “play in any of their reindeer games.” We all make choices about what’s the best use of limited resources, and I accept the consequences of my choices, even if I feel bad as a result sometimes.

But what I really hate is when my self-involvement impacts those around me in negative ways.

In an amusing “for instance” there’s this:

I usually remember Ad’s birthday. Like, before the actual day. In fact, I have planned a cruise and two different getaways for us during his bday time in the past…

Okay, okay, I confess that it just so happened that I planned the trips and then realized they fell on his birthday. But they still count! (Right?)

Sigh.  Maybe not. In the end, he’s had a great time, and I usually remember the actual day when we’re there, though…  That has to count for something, right?

Gah. I really DO suck.

Anyway. This year there is no trip. And so…I almost forgot about his birthday entirely (yes that’s how bad I suck.) I remembered because my office closes on Veteran’s Day (his birthday.) That’s how I remember his birthday.  (See? I really do suck!)  This year I am getting him a Kindle. And I had actually planned on it a long time ago!  But I would not have remembered if not for this convo at my office:

Boss Lady: …and the office is closed Friday…

Me: Closed Friday? Why?

Her & Coworker: Because it’s Veteran’s Day!

Me: Oh, cool!  A day off.

(Pause)

Me: OMG–wait! Veteran’s Day is Friday??!?

Them: Yesss….

Me: That means it’s Ad’s birthday!  OhmygodIhavetobuyhimapresent!!!!

Boss Lady and Coworker just shake their heads.  Yep, they know me.  Boss Lady makes me order the Kindle right there in front of her to be sure I did it, and get the two-day shipping. (They, um, take care of me, right?)

So yeah, I ordered it, and I got the two day shipping.  And he’s gonna have a Kindle! So yay!

But see? I really do suck as a girlfriend.

Other times it’s not so amusing.

This time that W spends at his mother’s house in Florida isn’t easy on him. And sometimes, I get so involved in my own drama of missing him and missing play and missing sex and just being bored out of my fucking mind, that I forget that he’s suffering too, for real, in ways that have nothing to do with play and sex and kink and silliness.

And I regret that.

I wish my Boss Lady would remind me of that every once in awhile.

Pieces of Jade & A Poly Life – A Match Made in Heaven?

I’m exhausted, dispirited, disillusioned and disheartened. (Any more dis-s? Give me a minute…I could probably think of a few.  On second thought, that just makes me discouraged. Sigh.)

Normally I wouldn’t post this here. This is my place for sex, right? Where I get raunchy and nasty and dirty and kinky.

True.

But I am looking at changing up the format a bit, so that posts I would normally post over on A Poly Life would now be posted here–or rather, at my new domain. I haven’t quite made the changeover, nor have I set my mind on actually doing that–marrying the two “halves” of my blogging life, the hot sex part here, and the relationship family part there. Do people that come here want to read about my kids, the shit I angst over, my job and what I read and do (outside of kink), what I think about open relationships, etc. etc?  Is it even appropriate to talk about those things in this space?

Those are some of the things that I am mulling over, as I angst over being a mom and how challenging my wonderful, brilliant and totally boneheaded last child is. As I worry about Ad and the depression that has him by the balls and heart and mind so tight it is strangling him–and our relationship. As I ponder my own–and my loved ones’–mortality.  And my own fears, fear of growing old, of being undesirable, fear of change, fear of my own inadequacies and of failing…

But how can I fear failing? I’ve done it often enough.  I never ever feel that I’ve done enough.

Or that there’s enough time to make up for the failures, to make them right, to do the things I want to do and be the person I wanted to be.

I had a rough afternoon/night. Feeling overwhelmed at work–and inadequate to the job. Not following thru on any of the goals I have set for myself. Unable to make a fucking decision about anything. Hitting a budgeting bump of my own (albeit a mall one, but money issues carry their own special kind of baggage/headtrips for me)  and one of Ad’s.  Dealing with Ad. Dealing with an acquaintance’s sudden death. Dealing with parent/teacher conferences and that challenging child, with being an only parent in a way I never have been before. Dealing with…changes in my lifestyle brought on by health issues.

See? Do you really wanna read that shit here?

You just want to get your dick hard or your cunt wet, right?

Right?

No, honestly…I’m asking.  I’m not gonna hold either answer against you (it’s a blind poll-heh.)  But seriously–I’m just…honestly curious. Would it be jarring to read about the baby afghan I am crocheting right before I post a picture of me tied and gagged and getting fucked?

Would that change how you saw me?  Would that change your enjoyment of this space?

In Praise of “Normal Life”

Sometimes in my online readings, by coincidence or fate, I’ll read two very different pieces of writing that will spark thoughts on the same topic, though perhaps (as in this instance) from different perspectives.  A post by Kaya on the nature of her relationship and another on Fearless Press, Living a “Normal” Life, did just that the other day.

I so get where the author at Fearless Press is coming from when he talks about living and writing about his own poly life and relationships. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I haven’t updated APL in awhile. Not because I don’t have anything to write about, I have many topics in my Drafts folder that I’d like to noodle on regarding love and relationships and poly and family…but sometimes, well, the reality is that sometimes my life is just…”normal.” I just don’t feel like I have anything specific to share about it.  Aside from having some fantastically kinky sexplay to write about, our life together–Ad, me and W–is just…our life together. There’s my time with Ad, my time with the kids, my time with W and the time we all spend together.  Even my time with W isn’t all kink and sex. (What?! Oh no!)  Seriously, though, sometimes we just…hang out on his balcony. Talk about life and kids and books and diet and exercise and nothing. Sometimes (~gasp!~) I’m not even in heels, slutwear, make-up or some kind of bondage.  Sometimes we take walks to the park or the river or a restaurant. We’re just…us. Sometimes we even have sex like normal people, you know, in bed, in missionary position. (Okay he is usually pinning me down, but still.) Sometimes we go to bed…and don’t have sex at all. And sometimes–he’s tender. And sweet.  He holds my hand when we walk. He looks at me with something closer to love in his face than lust.

We all spend time together, as a three, making dinner or going out to eat, and we all spend time together with my kids as well.  We talk about college and growing up and boys and life with my daughter; about school and acting and video games and books and his friends with my son.  We play board games and eat ice cream.  W stays over and we spend the day puttering around the house with the kids watching TV and reading and on the computer.

For instance, over 4th of July weekend, W came over Saturday afternoon.  Ad and I made dinner while W hung out and talked about religion with the kids, then we had margaritas and all of us played a board game. Ad went to bed early and W and I stayed up with my daughter, watching something on TV and talking until he and I were ready for bed. When we got to bed…we cuddled up and went to sleep. I know–a naked woman, two men, and no wild sex! How wild is that? But that’s the point.  It was…comfortable. Settled. The next day we all hung out together until we went to a local fireworks display.  I rode the rides with my kids while Ad and W sat on the blanket, and then we watched the fireworks together, just like any “normal” family.  I can’t describe how peaceful and happy I was, laying on a blanket under the stars with the kids, Ad and W all around me, my head on Ad’s shoulder, my hip against W’s and our hands intertwined, as we watched the fireworks. Utter perfection.

Not much to write home about, though, right?

Kaya’s post sparked similar thoughts, but not so much about my poly life; more about my kinky life with W. I get where she is coming from in her relationship dynamic. What she gets out of it, how deep her enslavement goes, her commitment to the structure of their relationship.  Even when she is railing against it or struggling with it, I know (or get the feeling) that this is her true “place” and that she loves it. Even when it doesn’t sound like she does.

But when I read her post, where she talks about his “conditioning” of her, another part of me goes–no! Seriously? Can you truly be content with never feeling a tender hand on you? With never having the flip side to the objectifying, disconnected sex?  I know I couldn’t.  I need the tenderness.  The loving touch. I need to be “W’s girl” again after he’s done doing what he’s done to me.  And I need him to be my lover and partner again. Not that brutal, dispassionate, uncaring person that he has to turn himself into in order to do all those things to me.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love love love being what he turns me into, a “Collection of Holes.” But I live to be “his girl.” To come back to him and find the man I love waiting for me there on the other side.  I need to feel “normal” again with him, to take the kink out of our interactions for the time it takes to find that normal space again.

You know, so he can make it all wrong and twisted and dark and subversive again. Maybe I am teasing when I write that–or maybe not. Maybe it is the very fact that we can be in this normal space that allows me to go to that other place.  That makes me trust him to take me there.

When I originally read her post, that was the part that I missed–and misunderstood. After I re-read it, I realized I had missed something vitally important in what she said. It’s in this one, almost-throwaway line: “…until he’s put the tools in place to compensate for it.” I only saw the feeling of failure she had because she couldn’t internalize being an object, with no needs of her own, content with being used dispassionately and with no regard to her own needs.   I read this: “…maybe it’s something he’s done for so long, and does so often, that I was starting to internalize and believe how useless/unattractive/objectified it makes me feel…” and my brain kind of turned off, because those are not the things I feel when W objectifies me, uses me as a fuckhole or loans me out to be used as such.  Quite the opposite.  But would I feel that way if it was all he did?  If I never got the flipside?  I think so, and so when I read it, I missed what came after.  I missed that all-important concept of eventual compensation.  And I realized that although our dynamics are very, very different, in some ways we are very similar.

She is able to endure that because she knows that eventually she will be “compensated” for it.  Perhaps not in the way that I am, and that would probably not be the right kind of compensation for her anyway–we all have our own, individual, needs. But she knows that eventually, her needs, for “touch, voice, attention,” for humanity, if you will, will be met. Because she trusts him. And that’s what makes it work. That’s what allows her to feel, not resentment as he orders her back under the desk to be used as his masturbatory tool, but relief, and a sense of coming home.

Of normalcy, whatever that looks like.

The same feeling that I get as I curl into W’s arms after an intensely brutal or degrading scene, or when I crawl into bed naked with my two guys and we simply cuddle and sleep, or when we lay out on a lawn with my kids watching fireworks.

e[lust] #11

e[lust] #11 is here, and I’m proud to say that “Sometimes Poly IS Hard” from A Poly Life is in the Top 3!
HNT courtesy of Neptune Blue

Welcome to e[lust] – Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #12? Start with the rules, check out the schedule in the site’s sidebar and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

Sometimes poly IS hardThe difficulties one faces in managing healthy interpersonal relationships, and the skills one employs in overcoming those difficulties, are the same whether you are monogamous or poly or something in between.

Artist and Model – I’m drawing her furiously along with everyone else in the class. I know her name is Janice because a long time ago we’d been acquaintances, then lovers for a night, and then I didn’t see or hear from her again.

His Boots – He’s my fix. I’m his addiction. Maybe we’re just each other’s junkies? I can never tell when i’m close enough to breathe him in I cease to care about anything else.

~ e[lust] Editress ~

I need a new highway….

~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

Nerds are NOT this season’s must-have accessory – Being a nerd doesn’t mean you grew up unpopular and tormented, that you have a high-paying job, that you like Star Trek, that you’re socially awkward, that you never exercise, that you run Linux on your computer, that you’re highly educated, that you have low self esteem, or that you have trouble getting dates.

See also: Pleasurists #71 for all your sex toy review needs.

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Kink & Fetish

31 orgasms, and that is just the foreplay
BDSM — Am I Abused?
Being Watched
Being a disappointment makes me feel like shit
Games I play with girls
“I want to be your whore”
Money in M/s
Scrabble the Jade Way
Sexualising ‘Sir’
Somehow

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Another Menage a Trois of Power
Confronting the bigots
porn, like sex work, defies easy generalisations
Thoughts on Owning my Butch Cock (Part 1)

Erotic Writing

A Dirty Girl with Needs
Blood Tint ~ Part 7
Dream on Part 2
His Birthday ~ Her Surprise!!
His Need part two
Hot and Wet
I Kissed a Girl…Deuxième Partie
It’s the simple things
It has been awhile…
Microfantasy Monday, week 72: the edge
Office Politics
Over the Weekend
sssgirls rock
Something Sexy. Confession #354
The Second Date
This photo…
The Haircut
Under 500: The Hungarian
Winner Takes All?
Wicked Wednesday: High Art

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

A Femme Crip Rant
Controlling Emotions
Consequences
Come on
Do You Suffer from Opportunistic Boyfriend Syndrome?
Eating Her Out
Essure to take off the Pressure
Hair
Letting Go
Life of a Sex Toy Addict
Naming the boy, Blue Balls
Transtastic: On Being Into Queer Women

Other Bits & Pieces

I’ve got a couple of new posts over on A Poly Life:

Bits & Pieces: on kids, my delayed snow delivery, girl-dates & other minutia of daily life here in Jade-land;

Being Open: a snapshot of my work life, and my musings about being “open” (or not) at work;

Firebug: courtesy of Thanksgiving weekend, a “hot” photo and something you may not have known about me.

As always, they all open in new windows so you won’t lose your place here.

Birthday Pretzel

New post over on APL: I love you. And you, and you, and you…

I started that post over here originally, wanting to share the sexy fun I had Thursday as first W, then A, turned me into a pretzel.  But then I ended up thinking too much and it ended up being a post about whether monogamy is realistic rather than the sexy post I had originally planned…

But I couldn’t leave you all with only the “head thoughts” post, now could I?  THAT original post goes something like this:

Early morning at W’s. A rough two days for me in various ways, so though I was at the Mean Guy’s house, he wasn’t especially mean, and we had two days of mostly vanilla time.  Except for sleeping in shackles. Oh, and except for the shelf, too.  Hehe. But that’s for another post. Anyway.

Thursday morning comes, and I awaken thinking about the fact that I have spent two days at W’s with no rope on me. I look over my head at the ropes on his wall, imagining them wrapped around my wrists, as they have been so many times before…

nakedrope

And before I know it, W is on top of me and my wrists are tied. “Did I say that in my outside voice?” I think. But no, we’re just “In Sync.” And then suddenly he is pushing my ankles up too, and my ankles are tied to my wrists, up there by my face, and I am a pretzel, and he has access to all of me, and he is fucking me…and his mouth is on me, and I can’t move…

He gets up and goes to his dresser.  I hear him rummaging around, tho I can’t see what he’s doing, or what he brings back to use on me.  In fact, I don’t know what he is using until later, when I look down beside the bed and see the fat wooden dildo laying there on the floor.  All I know is the feeling as he pushes it inside of me, the feeling of being split open, of being stretched wide, of being so damned full, of it pressing up into me, hitting that favorite spot inside, the feel of his hand grinding it into me and his mouth, hot hot hot on me, and me with my legs tied up and my body folded in on itself, me unable to move, just a hole, a slash waiting there for his mouth and hands and cock.

And then later that night, after work and birthday dinner, I am home with Ad and we crawl into bed, our bellies full of a fine food and our veins and our heads full of wine, and he kisses me deeply, as if to drink the wine from my mouth as he pushes his cock into my tender flesh.  I gasp and open to him, I am wet and deep and he is thrusting inside me and then suddenly he draws my legs up and pulls them over his shoulders and he presses down onto me, into me, heavy, compressing me, my ankles crossed behind his neck, my knees up in my face and once again, I am pretzel girl.

A birthday pretzel.