More Gratitude Ponderings

Since it’s still November, I think I’m allowed to keep gushing about how filled with gratitude I am, for my life and the people that make it so wonderful, tho I promise this is going to be a lot shorter than the Great Kinky Novel on gratitude that I wrote earlier.

Molly (of Molly’s Daily Kiss) wrote in her comment that there was a lot to ponder in that post. I have to agree, as the one that wrote and revised and deliberated and wrote and wrote and wrote on it, I was doing LOTS o’ ponderin’, before I ever set fingers to keyboard, during the Writing Marathon, and afterwards.

I need to talk a little about risk here. Emotional risk. Placing oneself in a vulnerable position. As I have mentioned before, I enjoy the feeling of emotional vulnerability, of being on the emotional bottom in a situation, where fear of losing (love, respect, face) heightens the intensity of the situation. I believe that my reactions to most humiliation/embarrassment scenes come from this place and the heat I find in those scenarios is engendered precisely because of this. Mostly this is played out in safety, in the context of a scene. I discussed it here in some detail, and (re-reading it) I can really see the truth to what I have written there. But to go even further, I can see that even in the context of real life, knowing that I am emotionally vulnerable, and that my own emotional stability is at stake, can be – dare I say it – a turn-on. But because it is REAL life, and not a play scene, it’s an edge that isn’t always nice to play on at times, or play with. It’s a place where the stakes are very high, and the risks of emotional damage very large.  Even using the word “play” in that context isn’t exactly right, because it isn’t play.

Guh. I feel like I am not explaining myself well. Sigh.

Okay, I’ll just plow on, because the point of what I want to say is out there, and in here <pointing to my heart> and maybe getting to it will clarify my non-point above.

So. W has always insisted that I write whatever I want or need to here. At first I know he just wanted me to have a space where I felt safe in not censoring myself, where I could piss and moan and vent and cry and throw a tantrum…or romanticize and rhapsodize and gush and blush and plant flowers and play with unicorns if I wanted to. Later though, he recognized the value in my blog as more than just me playing with words and making us both (and hopefully you all) hot. He recognized how good it is for us to be able to communicate this way and he encouraged me even more to feel safe here in communicating with him.

He has never, in all the time that we have been together, made me regret writing anything here. Even the uncomfortable things, the things that sting, the painful things. And yet…every time I hit “post” on something that I know may not be easy to read, I am fearful. Fearful of causing pain, and fearful of being rejected because of what I have said. “Be a good girl, be quiet, don’t rock the boat.” And every time, he comes back with strength and compassion, empathy and understanding. He has also called me on being out in left field and reined me in when it was called for, but never in a way that made me feel threatened or afraid emotionally. Time after time he has proven to me that when he says, “Do not censor yourself,” he really, truly means it.

The thing is, I may be afraid in the moment, but the reality is that I have never felt safer in being myself and expressing myself than I have felt with him.  And so, even in that, he allows me to explore that edge – of vulnerability, of fear – in a safe space.  Yesterday only proved it all the more.

I am so very, very grateful that he is exactly who he is.

An Unexpected Gift

 (This was written on Thanksgiving, but because the Missy and I are in the backwoods of Missouri for the weekend, internet connectivity has been sketchy, so it’s taken me til now to upload it.)

I am grateful today. Grateful for the unexpected gift of a beating.

I know, that sounds odd (or maybe not, if you’ve been reading my blog for any length of time.) But it’s true.  And I know, it’s Thanksgiving, there is no gift-giving on Thanksgiving. But this gift has me filled with such gratitude that I have to share it here with you, and I believe it fulfills the “what am I thankful for” requirement, though this isn’t something I could share around the dinner table with my bio family. But you all? Why yes, yes I can. And I should (after all, you haven’t heard from me for real in days.) And so I will.

I went over to W’s Wednesday feeling unsure about a lot of things. I left his house later that day feeling re-centered, full of hope and joy and a certainty that everything would be okay. And I know, the fact that he played with me, tied me up and whipped me and said nasty things to me and fucked me, shouldn’t be the content of a “Thanksgiving” post, right? But the other kind, the more conventional kind, where I tell you all about the amazing weekend I spent with my daughter, and the joy and gratitude I feel for my family and loved ones, that will come in a later post.  But now, right this minute, this is what I want to tell you about.

Have you ever heard the saying, “If you say it often enough, it becomes truth?” Most times it’s used when child-rearing. Tell a child often enough he is a worthless piece of shit, and eventually he believes he is worthless. It works when we do it to ourselves, as well. Eventually we internalize the tapes that we play in our heads: “I’m unattractive,” “I’m unlovable,” “I don’t deserve it.”

(As an aside, there is a fantastic book, one of the first feel-good self-help books that came out in the 1960’s, called Psycho-Cybernetics, that addresses this exact phenomena. I found a dog-eared copy in a pile of my father’s books when I was going through his things many years after he died, and though I don’t read the genre for the most part, I found reading this book to be a life-changing event. So if any of what I said rings true to you, go and read it. Seriously.)

Moving on.

There is a thing that W always says used to say but doesn’t so often anymore, that he said from perhaps Day One of our relationship, and that is that becoming familiar with each other, becoming lovers, becoming friends, becoming comfortable with each other, is a kink-killer. Oh, maybe he didn’t say it quite that way. I think what he actually said is that once you know each other well, once you have established a relationship, the edge is gone. And for him, for kink to be really hot, there has to be that edge, of the unknown, of uncertainty. Maybe even, for certain types of play, of fear. Once that’s gone, once you know each other, the edge is gone. That doesn’t mean that the kink won’t be good, but, well, it won’t have the sharpness – the edge – that it once did.

I have spent the last 3 years of our 4-year long relationship trying to prove him wrong. And, I think, succeeding for the most part, showing him the error of that thinking, as I think he has come to see that the deeper you know someone, the deeper you can go, and there, too is an edge to play on. The edge of the abyss: deep and dark beyond imagining (and a far more powerful place, in my opinion.)

And so, in many ways, that tape has been quieted. Not silenced; I hear it raise its querulous voice occasionally still, especially when I see the sharp desire in his face to play with someone new, someone unknown, and I know that he is hearing its siren call, playing that tape in his head again. And…I have learned to accept that. I have learned that, as long as he acknowledges that it is not the only edge to play on (and thus lost to us forever), I can acknowledge that for him, it is an edge that he wants and needs to occasionally explore.

But that is not the only tape that he plays in regards to relationships, and how they work (or don’t.) The other one he says is, “Familiarity breeds vanilla.” In other words, after having been with someone long enough, the kink dies, or at least dwindles. Kind of like long-term marriage kills sex, right? Newlyweds start out fucking like bunnies twice a day, then eventually it dwindles to twice a week, then twice a month, and finally, twice a year. (I just read this line to my daughter. “The solution to that is obvious: don’t get married,” she said. In my head I replied, “Or get kinky.” But I digress.)

Personally I refuse to believe it. Or at least subscribe to it. (And have said so many, many times to W, loudly, vociferously, and at times, petulantly.)

In terms of our relationship, because our relationship is both kink and vanilla, a little less kink isn’t necessarily a relationship-killer.  Even if we aren’t as kinky as often as we once were, we still have vanilla, and we actually like vanilla with each other an awful lot. We like each other, we still have hot sex (though admittedly less often) and when we do play, it’s still intense and as hot and ferocious as ever. But…as he has said, it’s easy to fall into vanilla when you see someone all the time, because you know that there is all the time in the world to play. There’s always tomorrow, or next week. There is not the aegis to do something that you have when you only see someone once a month for a weekend, the imperative to playplayplay! because that’s all you’ll get for a month or more. So you fall into routine and habit (an enjoyable routine and habit, but still…) and the kink becomes something you do every other time you see each other, and then every third time, and then maybe once every couple of weeks. Or the scenes you do become shorter, and where once you might have walked in the door and found yourself in some kind of play scenario all weekend long, going from one thing to another with vanilla time interspersed between scenes, the scene becomes a two-hour event interspersed between everything else vanilla you do that weekend. Or where once he made you wear heels and shackles to bed, or attached a chain to your ankle while you worked at the computer, the shackles now hang on the wall as decoration, your heels are only put on to scene, and the chain, well, who even knows where that is anymore?

And eventually you are proving the adage to be true. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

And that is the sad part. I don’t believe it’s a truth, but because he says it so often, because he listens to the tape in his head, sometimes he makes it true.

We have addressed this, and are working together on ways to combat it. Things that make us both feel connected to our kink and each other, such as setting up some low-key protocols for when I come over to his house. They fulfill my need to know that the kink is still there, while not placing a burden on W to do anything except enjoy the fruits of my submission. ;-) Since these are things that he doesn’t actively have to do (well except for one, small part that I don’t think he minds), and since they are things that have grown naturally out of our four years of knowing each other, and lastly since they aren’t hard and fast “rules” (a concept that always squicks W out somewhat) it has worked pretty well.

But…I do still miss playing more often, and in the ways that we used to. I can’t help it, he is my Dominant, my Owner, my Kinky Partner, the one that makes my kink-o-meter run and my juices flow. It is through kink, when we are in that space deeply together, that I feel our connection the strongest, and in a way that no one else has ever made me feel, not even the Ex.

Also, I’m a ball of kinky energy; I like to play. So, yes, this “we have all the time in the world to do things, we can just enjoy each other’s company,” is terrific, but I need my kink. And frankly, our proximity to each other (living in the same town), or the fact that we see each other every week, should NOT mean that we allow ourselves to settle into 90% vanilla. I just don’t think familiarity has to mean that.

This is how I see it. In a vanilla marriage, yes you could let your sexual interactions become routine. You could let it be a chore. That’s easy to do, and you hear about that all the time (hell, I lived it, before kink, with the Ex.) But it doesn’t have to be that way. Successful couples make the effort to keep things fresh, to stoke the other’s interest and their own in each other. It can, and is done.

Kink couples are no different. And we have such a wider range to play with, to explore with, to experience with each other. Unless we just aren’t feeling it anymore (and that happens to) why wouldn’t you want to play with each other as often as possible? I’m not talking about elaborate, four-hour long or weekend-long scenes. I’m talking about little bits of play here and there, or small scenes, or even just the “bend over I’m going to fuck you in the ass, cunt,” kind of scenes. (Though yeah, the four-hour long going-from-one-thing-to-another type are amazing and sorely missed as well.)  But, as I said, there are ways to combat that. With some effort, with some desire. As we have started to do with the aforementioned protocols-that-aren’t-really-protocols.

What? You want to know what those things are? Okay, I’ll spill:

  1. He chooses a pair of heels and places them at the door for me to change in to as soon I come in.
  2. Before I leave his house for home, I am to grind beans for a pot of coffee and leave his coffee pot ready to go. (I was so fuzzed when I left yesterday I forgot!) :-(
  3. I am to make him hard each morning that we wake together, if he doesn’t already wake that way.

As I said, these are not hard and fast rules, and I don’t get punished if I don’t do them (although I might wish to be, LOL) but they have become part of our routine, and a part that I cherish, not just because of the way it makes me feel to do them, or even because I know that these are not arbitrary rules he just made up to appease me, but because by implementing them, he acknowledged and validated my need for them, and found a way to feed that need while pleasing himself.

This truly is what relationship is about, and this is what makes our relationship so fucking good.

But it’s insidious, that little saying. It worms its way into a person’s brain, into our belief-system, and soon even I start to wonder. And worry. Are we really at that point, the point of such familiarity that kink is no longer interesting?  Or is it (my worse fear, the one that my own “I’m not good enough,” tapes hit on) is it me he isn’t interested in anymore? Maybe I just don’t turn him on anymore, at least in that fearsome, hot, aggressively kinky way that I love?  And that is where I have been lately, wondering and worrying if he just doesn’t feel…the passion…in what we do anymore. But as he is always telling me, I have an overly dramatic sense of things. I read, “He doesn’t want me anymore!” into an innocuous event that meant nothing. Again, my own negative tapes playing. And maybe that’s all that’s going on. Me reading shit into things that don’t mean…shit.

Travel presents a particular challenge for me. For some reason, when we mix vanilla and kink, and when we travel in particular, the kink part of his brain shuts down – whereas it throws mine into overdrive. This is how my head works when I am thinking about traveling:

  • Yay! Road trip! That means Kinky Car Games! I envision playing a game in which I am told to flash truckers (juvenile, I know) or we stop to take bondage pictures, or I am made to use Baldy, with the game being that I have to start or stop every time we pass a truck or come to a certain number sign. You get the drift.
  • Yay! Hotel! That means Kinky Hotel Play! In the bed, in the bath, on the floor, in the window, wherever!! The last time I mentioned this, W said, “It’s just another hotel room. There’s nothing ‘special’ about it.” To me, anywhere that is not home is special. And the added spice of trying to do something nasty in a hotel room and not get heard, well that makes it all the more ‘special’. It has nothing to do with the actual space.
  • Yay! Event! Kinky Event Play! Play before, during and after! Being displayed, being used, being played with off and on, whether we are doing it on the sly at dinner somewhere vanilla or he makes me wear or do something that only we know about, or blatantly at the actual event…I look at an event as an opportunity for full-on, 24/7 kink and/or sex slave play and/or slutty-girl time. And lastly…
  • Yay! A new city/country/place to explore! Places to pervert with clandestine kinky play, or guerrilla rope bondage, or just being made to be aware that even there, in the vanilla world, I am still his slut, still his sex toy, and could possibly be made to do nasty things. Even there.

I don’t expect that these things will be happening 24/7 while we travel, and in fact, W and I both agree that it would get tiring to be doing it all the time, but honestly, for me, sometimes just being told to “keep my legs apart during dinner,” or to wear my chain and lock when we go out that day is enough. It’s the symbolism. It is that he knows about it, that he wants me to do it, that he wants me reminded of our dynamic. For me, if we aren’t actually playing, the symbols are often enough. At least to tide me over. ;-)

I love love LOVE travel with W. We are so very much alike in how we travel, the things we enjoy doing and seeing, and we both enjoy exposing the other to new experiences, places and ideas. We truly delight in each other so much as traveling companions. But that is all on the vanilla plane. As I mentioned above, for me travel is an excuse to mix in the kink, and really instigates and intensifies kink for me. And I very much want and expect it…or I have in the past, until I realized how much W disconnects the two. I have slowly come to realize that kink (and consequently sex) is the farthest thing from his mind when he travels. Even to a kink event. It is not until he gets into “kink space” that he throws himself into that frame of mind. And yes, this has been an issue for me every time we have traveled, although I have tried to circumvent it by making up the travel games, or giving hints, or asking outright for play, which works to a degree.

And by trying to tamp down my expectations.

So then we went on this cruise.

You can see where this is heading, can’t you?  I am already in an anxious frame of mind, worrying about where we are as a kink couple, and then to top it off, we go and do something that is bound to kick all my anxieties into high gear, because I am (being me) naturally going to have all those expectations, and he is (being him) going to do this compartmentalization thing: “this is not kink,” and…it’s going to exacerbate the anxiety I am already feeling. I probably should have said something, but I didn’t want to make him feel pressured, I wanted him to just be him, and I wanted to try and manage my own expectations (in other words lower them by a WHOLE lot.) I even considered asking him not to bring kink toys, but then we had been pretty vocal about the dungeon space on the ship, and Ad was getting into the idea, and…well, fuck. As I said, for me, travel IS kinky.

And, additionally, there was the obvious point that the whole point of this cruise was to be sexual and kinky with a whole lot of other open, sexual, kinky people.  So of course W would feel it, right?

I was so excited. The opportunity to be slutty and kinky and sexual with my Guys in public, in front of everyone, every day – I couldn’t wait! I imagined that W would have me wear things on my rings (I even made some pretty beaded danglies on the way down) and tell me what a nasty, sexy slut I was, and make me behave in just-this-side of inappropriate ways on board. I imagined sex and being tied up every morning in our cabin, and later in the dungeon, and maybe even in the bars on the ship. I imagined playing every night and every afternoon, either in the dungeon or in the sex rooms.

As you have probably guessed, the reality was quite a bit more…tame…than that. We went to the dungeon a total of twice, and the sex rooms twice, with three of those times at my behest. Ad woke up ready for sex every morning, but W…well…it seemed like he had kind of shut down. He was his usual vanilla self, but his sexy/kink self? Didn’t seem to be there. And when it was, it only seemed to be triggered by the possibility of play with others. I was glad to give him that experience, but the knowledge that he just wasn’t interested in doing those things with just me? Kinda made me feel…well, all that stuff from before all that more acutely.

His words, “Familiarity breeds vanilla,” rang loudly in my head on the cruise.

This paints a worse picture than I wish to convey. In all ways except kink, this was an amazing trip.  We had a great time, had some wonderful adventures, and even popped a couple sexual cherries (we three had sex in the playrooms and W and I actually had a “swinging” scene in the playrooms.) The places we went, the relaxation and pleasure in each others company…it was heavenly.  If we had been a regular old vanilla couple or triad, it would have been absolutely perfect.  But honestly, I left the ship wondering even more than before where W’s and my kink relationship was headed. Wondering if he really was bored with me, if he had become so familiar with me that he was no longer interested in kink with me. If he had internalized that tape in his head to the point that it couldn’t be changed.

I will admit to my own fault in all this. When W didn’t seem interested in me sexually or in a kink way, I turned that off too. I made excuses not to want to do things, so that he wouldn’t feel pressured, and so that I wouldn’t be disappointed and feel rejected. And by the end of the cruise, I had decided (and even mentioned to Ad) that on our next vacation, even if it is on a lifestyle cruise, I would ask W not to bring his kink toys. Then I wouldn’t fight so hard for something that he obviously didn’t want. I wouldn’t have expectations then, and be disappointed.

That was what I thought about that last evening on the ship, and as we drove home. What if that was the case? Could I give up wanting those things as much as I did? Could I live with 90% vanilla, if that is what he wanted? I could go on a vacation and live without kink during it (I think) but to give in to a relationship that was mostly vanilla, or in which I was the driving force, the instigator, of our kink…could I do that? I knew that I could make it happen that way – be the instigator – if I could accept that role. He would do it, play with me, if I asked. Gladly. And well. And enjoy it.

But that isn’t what our relationship is predicated on. I even put it in my profile: “I show up, and he does things to me.” That’s the relationship I wanted, and missed.

The damn thing is that even when I am the one saying, “Let’s do this,” it is still good. I still want it. But it’s not enough.  And it’s not why I started things with him. I can get that with Ad, or any other number of play partners. I can bottom to anyone. What I want and need is someone that wants and needs to do those things to me.  And it felt on the ship as if…perhaps that was lost. Whether he had internalized his own tapes, or really just didn’t feel it toward me anymore, I no longer felt that I “show up and he does things to me.”

Once I asked him, “If I didn’t want to be kinky anymore, would you be satisfied with our relationship?”

He had answered truthfully. “No, I want a kink partner.” But now I was asking myself that very question. Could I be happy with someone that I had to ask to play with me every time? That I didn’t feel wanted me with the same intensity that I wanted him?

This has nothing to do with love. I have absolutely no doubt that he loves me as deeply as I love him. But as entwined in a love relationship as our kink is, it is still its own element, and important in its own right. Pull that out – and more specifically, pull out the essential element of our kink, coercion play – and could I be satisfied?

So Wednesday after the cruise came. I had spent all day Tuesday pondering this, and wondering if I should say anything to W. Wondering how to address it, or if I should. Was I just being a selfish, greedy bitch, always wanting more? Was W right, that this was just the price we had to pay for being “too familiar?” Words he had said earlier on the ship when I had brought it up came to mind though: “We have to fight against it,” he said. They gave me hope that perhaps it was just circumstances (his inexplicable inability to mix kink and vanilla) and allowing himself to believe his own rhetoric. Maybe we could fight it. But I was tired. Tired of wanting and not getting, tired of having expectations and having them unmet. So when I went to his house Wednesday I had decided two things:

  1. I was NOT going to bring it up. W knows how I feel, and to bring it up again would only make him unhappy; and
  2. I was not going to have expectations.

What this meant was that I wasn’t going to treat going over to work with him like a potential play date. I got ready to go to his house, and I didn’t do the things I normally do, in anticipation of even the possibility of play (shave my cooch, wear something sexy or at least wear a thong, put on make-up, do my hair.)

No expectations. Not even my heels at the door.

Until I saw them there. I don’t think the sound of my heart jumping in my chest when I saw them was audible, but it sounded deafening in my own ears. My mouth went dry and for a moment, tears actually obscured my vision. I know, ridiculously emotional reaction, but one that I couldn’t help. I walked quickly into the other room to hide my reaction. Then I returned, put on my heels, and we had our work day. It was a lovely day, and every time I moved I felt my heels on my feet, and every time I walked I felt them, and my heart soared and I felt light as air.

Still, when he said something about me needing a sound thrashing before I left, I didn’t let myself get my hopes up. He’d said that before and nothing came of it, and I didn’t want to want it so bad that I asked for it. If it happened, it had to come from him. It wouldn’t work any other way.

The afternoon wore on, and finally I was done with work, and he mentioned turning the heaters on upstairs. He mentioned play again, and though I smiled, I schooled myself not to react too much. While the heaters kicked on, we sat downstairs and talked and I fed us ice cream. Until he said, “Hand me some rope.”

Just that casually.

My heart did a stutter-step and I swallowed as I reached for his bag. I want him so very very badly that it is like this for me, painful, when he decides he wants me too. But I played it cool, and dug out rope. I don’t know if he saw my hands shaking when I handed it to him. And soon it didn’t matter, because he was doing something that made any shaking impossible: tying my hands around his hard cock.

It started as silly play, with us both laughing and joking about what he was doing. Then suddenly it wasn’t silly.  Suddenly an amusement turned into something more for him, and I could feel the change, in the air, in him, in myself. My pussy clenched, and I could feel the wetness between my legs.  We spent the next hour with him forcing my mouth down on his cock and forcing me to pump him with the hands that he had tied excruciatingly tight around his cock. I ended up with rope around my ankles and waist and neck. I ended up exhausted, with a sore jaw and fantasies that he put in my mind of being made to do this to other men. I heard his words, and felt how hard he was, and realized I had instigated none of this, it was all him.  And then he untied me, and told me to turn around and get on my hands and knees so he could fuck me from behind. First in my cunt, then in my ass. “Make it come,” he said, over and over, as I struggled to use hands that he had rendered useless. “Do it, you little whore,” he commanded, whipping me across the back and shoulders. And I did, whimpering in pain and ecstasy. Then he got out Baldy and made me do it again, and again, all the time telling me to “Come! Do it, slut,” until his words and the words in my fantasy (being made to masturbate in front of a roomful of people) were one and the same. I was shaking, and sore, and exhausted, by the time he let me up off my hands and knees.

But he wasn’t done yet. Without a word he yanked me up and tied me between the posts in his downstairs front room, my legs shaking from my orgasms earlier and my thoughts fuzzy. And he flogged me ferociously until I could barely stand. Until I was shaking like a leaf and begging him to stop.

It was an incredible, blissful, wonderful afternoon. And all weekend, I have been holding my knees open, my ankles crossed, while I write. And thinking about him, and our afternoon, and smiling.

So what was this gift that I mentioned in the beginning? It’s simple. It was the gift of hope, and of him showing me he still wants to do those things to me, and that maybe we don’t have to accept that “familiarity=vanilla.” He’s right, it could mean that. But it doesn’t have to. And I don’t think he wants it to any more than I do.

No wonder I forgot to make his damn coffee, right?

30 Days of Kink – Day 22: Healthy Relationships

Day 22: What do you think is important in keeping a BDSM relationship healthy? How does it differ from a vanilla relationship?

I struggled with this one a bit, because I really am of two minds here. On the one hand, I want to say, “BDSM relationships are special, and different, therefore they need certain things in particular to keep them viable.”  But the reality is, all relationships need honesty, communication, compassion, trust, respect, passion, compatible values and goals…these are all things that I feel every relationship needs to stay healthy and viable, regardless of your orientation.

It’s possible that there are certain traits or qualities that a person has to have to be able to have a healthy BDSM relationship though.  As W and were discussing only last night, people in BDSM relationships, or planning to experiment with BDSM, also need to have a healthy dose of common sense, be self-confident and have a (generally) positive self-image – or at least a willingness to be honest with themselves about their strengths and weaknesses. I know that there are plenty of people with only some none of these traits who are playing at or living in a BDSM relationship, but I would contend that not having these qualities is a BIG obstacle to finding and maintaining a healthy relationship, specifically because the relationship itself is so (deliberately and consensually) unequal by definition.  To not have that inner strength places you at a disadvantage from the outset, and places you in the position of having to overcome obstacles right from the start, in a relationship that already has complexities of dynamics that other relationships may not.  So those are things that I could argue are things that are particular to maintaining healthy BDSM relationships.

But truly, if we look at any of the things that I listed, aren’t they all necessary to healthy interpersonal relationships? I do think that without them, eventually a BDSM relationship will fail, and those “trainwrecks” that we so often see, those people that we see having failed, disastrous relationship after failed, disastrous relationship probably are missing one or more of them, and possibly not even realizing that the source – and the power to change it – is within themselves. Conversely, I think that it is far easier to maintain a non-BDSM relationship without one or more of these qualities, because the potential for having a “surface” relationship that doesn’t delve very deeply into the parties involved is greater. NOT a given, by any means, and this is not particular to only vanilla relationships, just that it seems to me that, given any length of time, eventually a BDSM relationship takes its participants pretty deep, and in a vanilla one, it can be easier to maintain a shallower level of communication, to hide one’s true feelings or to survive with less communication. So to go in without those qualities in a BDSM relationship is a sure recipe for disaster, whereas in a vanilla one, you might*be able to maintain it, and possibly even happily so.

Sometimes, Words Fail

Sometimes, words fail. Sometimes, it is simply an act, or a look, or a feeling, that defines a moment.

The other night it was all of those things.

We’d had a failure of another sort the night before and both of us had ended the evening feeling a bit…tender maybe. Not at each other, but for each other, which is almost more painful in some ways. I had found a picture of a particular tie on the net that I really wanted to try. Now, I am not always realistic about my own physical capabilities. I get a little overly enthusiastic, my eyes get bigger (or more limber) than my actual body parts, I get excited…and maybe a little unrealistic. “I can do that! C’mon, let’s just do it!”

I have learned many times that sometimes, my body will JUST NOT DO the shit I see on the net. Sometimes it is age, sometimes I am just not built in a way that makes it possible, sometimes we realize that there are probably other, unseen factors that enable a model to do things that no one could actually do in the real world. (Sometimes it’s a model and not “real world.”) W is experienced enough to see those things right away, and even when that isn’t the case, he is always careful to…temper my enthusiasm with the realities of how stressful the position is likely to be. But regardless of my own flights of fancy and lack of understanding of physics, body mechanics and my own frailties, I never worry that it is W that does not have the skill or experience to do a tie. I know that he is amazingly skilled, and if he doesn’t know how to do something specific, or doesn’t feel he can do a thing safely, he will either a) say so, or b) figure out how to do it.  In all the years we’ve been doing this, we’ve only had – maybe – one or two failed attempts at ties.

It’s important to realize that we do this for fun, and in scene play.  It’s not a performance, and we don’t have “practice sessions.” I make this distinction because we have a number of of acquaintances that do do this as part of their “repertoire,” as part of something more like performance art, or as a job. They spend hours practicing a certain tie or a routine so that by the time they do it at a play party or in public, it is seamless and flowing.  It’s choreographed, in other words, like a dance number or a theatrical production.  This isn’t a bad thing, it’s just different than how W approaches rope, and by extension, how I do, and how he evaluates what I want to do in rope, when I do come up with stuff.  He uses rope as a tool to hold someone or torture someone.  It’s about subjugation, and control, and sometimes (although he hates this word) sadism. Only secondarily is it about achieving a certain look, though occasionally we play that way, too.

On the other hand, he knows I do enjoy the occasional spectacle, the “pretty rope,” or trying to emulate a certain position or tie. I also like to make pretty rope pictures at times, or I have an image in my head that I want him to create, and I’ll ask him to do so.


And this:

are good examples of that.

And, of course, he too likes to have evocative images for Bondage Demons, though his definition of  what is “evocative” is usually an extreme predicament or position and/or subjugation-type play, not the typical “sexy rope” images that most riggers/photographers and models do. They are images of actual play, of scenes, not choreographed or posed shots.

The few times we have had a bondage “fail” have been when I have had an image in my head, or have a picture of something and have asked him to recreate it. It’s not usually his failure, but, as I mentioned, my own dis-understanding of body mechanics, or of how stressful a thing is likely to be, or of overestimating my own physical capabilities. However, on the occasion that I am talking about, I was fairly certain that this would not be an issue. It looked to be a fairly easy position, and not even one that I particularly liked – it was what could be done with the person in it that appealed to me.  I have been wanting a certain kind of play at our local play party. I have never seen anyone do it there before, and I thought it would be fun to do in front of a crowd. It’s not particularly edgy, just intense and different, and certainly not our style of play-party play. And this position would lend itself very well to it, besides being a somewhat unusual suspension tie.

Another note: I am not a huge fan of suspensions. Frankly, most of them, to watch or be in, bore the fuck outta me. So I get put up in the air and twirled around. ~shrug~ They are performance art, and as I mentioned before, that’s not why I get tied up, not why I want to be tied up, not why W wants to tie girls up. There ARE exceptions to this (just as there are “riggers” who actually play) and those exceptions I enjoy: when the chemistry is palpable between the two players, when the suspension is for something other than a performance, when I can feel the heat and energy between them.  But…those are (unfortunately) less frequent than I (personally) would like.  And yes, I know that this is not the way those that enjoy these kinds of suspensions feel about them, I understand what they do get out of them, that’s just not my experience with them. I’m thrilled to see/know people that really, really dig them, get off on them and enjoy them. To each their own and the world would be a boring place if were all alike, right?

I say all this because the tie I wanted to try IS a suspension, but it is one that has a very, very specific use (in my mind.) Or I wanted it to, at least.

This is, again, the conundrum I live with. (But which I – and W – are learning to navigate better and better.) I wanted a certain kind of play. I have hinted at it several times, and even out and out asked for it, but it hasn’t happened. Not because he doesn’t want to do it (if that was the case he would say so, and I would respect that) but because there are so many, many fun, awful, nasty, fucked-up delightful things to do…and/or (and this is the real issue) he doesn’t like to plan things. He doesn’t like to plan out in advance (except in very broad, loose terms, possibly) about what he is going to do when we go to a play party. He enjoys letting the synergy of mood and venue and energy and our own dynamic dictate where he wants to go when we play, and because of that, and because this kind of play is so very…different…for him, he never even considers it when he is in the moment. It really is something that – because it’s unusual for him to do – he would need to think about and decide to do beforehand. So…I realized if I really wanted it, I would have to ASK for it. Specifically. And make him PLAN for it, and, in the case of this tie, because it was an unusual one for us, practice it before we went.  Not, as I said, our usual M.O.

So that’s what I did.  He agreed, and that’s what we did the other night.

Suspensions, even ones that are relatively less stressful, as this one appeared to be, are not easy, no matter how easy they look when you see an experienced Top putting a girl up, no matter how relaxed and blissed out she seems to be. They are edgeplay and even the least stressful tie can be dangerous. This particular one didn’t look difficult, but we wanted to give it a try to be sure that we could do it before we did it at a party.  There were certain engineering/mechanical details that needed to be worked out, and also we wanted to be sure that it was a tie that I could maintain for long enough for the scene I envisioned in it.

For various reasons it ended up being trickier than we anticipated, and ultimately, we were not able to get it worked out. We were both pretty disappointed, but for very different reasons.  W was unhappy with himself because he couldn’t make the tie work, and I was unhappy with myself for asking him for something that caused him to feel inadequate or frustrated.

Everyone has an off night sometimes. Play long enough, and you’ll have a scene that doesn’t work out, that you just can’t “get there” in. We have (blessedly) had few of those, mostly because we are both pretty adaptable and empathic with each other. When we realize it isn’t working for whatever reason, we are able to either change it up so it does work, or find something else entirely to do. In the instance the other night, that wasn’t the case – but there is a very simple reason why: we weren’t playing.  It wasn’t spontaneous.  We had a goal. We were practicing.

And that turned out to be the key, when we did get it right.  Which we did, the very next night.

But prior to that, I had to go through the whole mind-fuck that I put myself through. “I shouldn’t have asked for something. I have made him feel bad. I should keep my mouth shut. He’s the Top. It’s not my place to dictate what I want.”

Stupid, stupid girl.

Of course that wasn’t the way it was, and that is certainly not what he wants in a play partner.  We have been together long enough that I should know that. But that is where my head was at when I left, and I was more than happy to drop the idea entirely – in fact I wanted to, and thought that we had.

Until W suggested that I come over so we could give it a go the next night.

I admit, I was hesitant.  One of the things I love about my Mean Guy is his self-confidence, but how that is manifested is in a way that you may not understand or appreciate. He is humble. I know that doesn’t sound like it goes with “self-confidence,” but it does. He knows he’s capable, he knows he’s skilled, he knows he’s good. He doesn’t have to crow about it, or show off, or puff out his chest.  And he can admit to having failings, because he knows they do not define him. Intellectually I knew that he would bounce back from his frustration, but emotionally I was having a hard time dealing with having been the cause of that frustration – and I didn’t want to go there again. So…I agreed to try again, but reluctantly. Reluctantly to the point of, once having arrived at his house, I made an excuse to leave right away, rather than try it again.

He wouldn’t let me.  “Five minutes,” he said. “That’s all I need.”

I looked at him. This was not the same man as the night before. This was my Mean Guy, my Top – my Dominant. There was a confidence about him – and an authority about him – that wouldn’t let me refuse.

It took longer than five minutes to actually do the tie – but far less than that for me to realize, when we got upstairs and he got the rope out, that I was playing with an entirely different man than I had been playing with the night before. In fact it took about thirty seconds, the time it took for him to grab my arms, pull them back and cinch the rope around them.

I wonder if he heard the sound of me dropping like a stone into rope space.

FUCK that man is good.

I can still see that look on his face, in his eyes, still feel a shiver at the memory of his hands on my body, on the rope. Feel the surge of adrenaline and heat and satisfaction and pure pleasure that we were both getting in having, somehow, inexplicably, arrived there, in that space, with everything going just so. There were no words needed, and even now words fail me as I try to describe the absolute perfection of those moments. But that’s okay. Sometimes we don’t need words.

Death by Orgasm

“So what are you thinking about for the weekend schedule?” he asked in an email.


This is what my perfect weekend would look like:

  • I come in and my collar is locked around my neck. I’m told to put high heels and slutwear on, and then allowed to work on the computer while he finishes his dinner.
  • After dinner he makes me do my yoga poses for him, naked, by candlelight, on his newly finished, beautifully glowing wood floor. After which he ties me into an “assisted” yoga pose that is NOT an assistance at all. But it’s by candlelight, so how bad can it be?
  • Then he flogs and singletails me until I fall (melt?) literally into a puddle on the floor. I wind up in bed with my collar still on and the ropes on my wrists, and sleep the sleep of the dead (or deeply subspaced) all night.
  • I wake to him holding me by the ropes on my wrists as he fucks me. I have a vague memory of him taking the collar off in the night but am absurdly pleased that he left the ropes on, and as I come awake I realize that I have been smelling the hemp all night, and taking pleasure and comfort in it even in my sleep.
  • We walk to the newly-opened coffee/waffle/ice cream shop  down the street and have lattes and waffles and bask in the pleasure of being able to spend two whole days/nights together.
  • On the walk back we decide to do a Rope on the Run “Y” shot, go back to the house to get our stuff and then head back out. The weather is perfect, for a walk and the set-up and shot is perfect. Neither one of us is ready to go back inside when we’re done though, so we walk home by way of a little hole-in-the-wall bar that none-the-less has a tiny, delightful patio with a huge oak tree in it, get a couple beers, and have a sit in the warm shade.
  • That night we have been invited to a party, but decide to stay on our own. Neither one of us wants to dilute the weekend with other people.
  • W decides I need to experience the GirlBox, and it turns into a game that neither of us expected, and both thoroughly enjoy. I discover the surprising desire to find a girl to put in the Girlbox myself and this idea becomes an on-again off-again topic of conversation over the weekend.
  • We go out to a favorite Mexican restaurant for dinner – the long way around, and with me in my metal bra – and come home to give each other long, sensual massages before crawling blissfully into bed.
  • We have vanilla(!) sex in the AM. And love it!
  • After a shared bubble bath and coffee, we spend the late morning/afternoon working companionably on our own projects – me surfing for a place for the Missy’s and my upcoming retreat in November, him updating Bondage Demons.
  • He takes me into the basement and proceeds to tie me into a predicament involving the wooden pony, a lot of rope, two evil spiky balls, clothespins and a spreader bar. After Phase 1 of this, he asks, “Are you done?” “No!” I say. He is amused. “And you say I’m the messed up one,” he replies.
  • He proceeds to make me done.
  • We take a dinner-and-Jade-recuperation break, after which he says, “Okay, what kind of scene would you like?” “One with lots of orgasms!” I say (famous last words.) Back down into the basement we go, where he proceeds to fuck me with a water heater.
  • And a Hitachi.
  • Until I think I might die by orgasm. It turns out that the predicament bondage didn’t do me in, orgasms did.
  • I come home to Ad and relay the weekend’s events. At the end he says, “So W finally discovered that Baldy can be a torture device, huh?” “Yeah,” I say, “I think my cunt is broke.”
  • He shows me that it’s not.

And that would be my perfect weekend. You know, if I could have scripted it.  Too bad I didn’t see W’s email until I got home and checked my email.

Of Sex with Strangers, Triggers & Doing the Right Thing

There’s something to be said for playing with partners that know you, know your body and your triggers, know how to push you in just the right way and what buttons to push; that know how to please you (even when that pleasing involves some not-so-pleasing things.)

A lot of somethings, in fact.

And as I have noted before, in discussing the pleasure W takes in playing with new partners, in exploring the unknown and walking the edge of uncertainty that that kind of play engenders, I much prefer the depth and connection I find in playing with someone I know well and that knows me well.

That said…there is also something to be said for sex with strangers. With going back to the hotel room of a man I only met that night, with being fucked in a completely unfamiliar way by a man that knows nothing of me and my desires (except, perhaps, what he’s been able to glean from my Fetlife profile and the bit of conversation we’ve shared as we flirted over glasses of draft beer.) I’m not going to lie, it was hot, that first “get to know you” date (that turned into an all-night fuckfest) with the Wedding Guy.

Unfortunately the rest of what was supposed to have been a three-day event didn’t pan out quite as well.

I can’t recall if I mentioned the set-up for all this, so I’ll lay it out. Skip and forgive if this is a repeat.

I met Wedding Guy online via an ad that he had placed looking for someone to attend a wedding here in the Lou with him. He is from out-of-town, doesn’t know anyone but the groom here, and wanted someone to hang with, to show up and look cute with, possibly to play with. I raised my (virtual) hand, we perved each other’s profiles on Fet, emailed back and forth, and soon a plan was hatched.

The wedding was a two-day affair, with activities planned for guests both Friday and Saturday nights, as well as Saturday day. He was scheduled to arrive Thursday night before it all began.

The plan:

Part 1: Meet each other for drinks Thursday night to get to know each other a bit, see what kind of chemistry there was, if any.

Part 2: Go to the Friday night festivities together (I had to work Friday day.)

Part 3: Attend Saturday daytime activities and then the wedding and reception Saturday night.

Part 1 went off swimmingly. Although I hadn’t planned to stay over with him that night, the combination of me discovering I had a headlight out on my car at the last minute and him being pretty cute compelled me to confess to him, at the end of the evening, that I had my overnight bag with me. You know, “just in case.” He seemed to be on board with that (well, he had actually brought up me going back to his hotel room first, so of course he was good with it) and we had a rollicking good time the rest of that night. I didn’t get much sleep, but when the options are 1) get my beauty sleep or 2) have ferocious, aggressive sex, well, there’s no competition. His primary kink is rough sex and yes, there was something about the danger of being manhandled and roughed-up by a stranger that excited me.

And scared me, just a little.

I have often talked about needing my lovers to always have complete control over themselves when we are engaged in any kind of D/s play. I need to know that, even if they push themselves to the edge, I am always completely safe.  I have chosen playpartners carefully for this reason – and left ones that didn’t meet that criteria. With Wedding Guy I had no idea where he would fall in that continuum, and that was part of the thrill.

It turned out he walked that line quite well. I felt sufficiently “roughed-up” without ever feeling real fear that he would damage me. Hurt me, yes, because we both liked that (and he slapped me a few times hard enough to make my ears ring and bring tears to my eyes) but I never felt in actual danger. It was exactly what I had been looking for in such an encounter.

It helped that he was also solicitous and caring, and a damn good kisser –  when he wasn’t fucking the shit out of me. ;-)

So Friday morning came and I left feeling a good buzz from the night before – and more than a bit sore between my legs and in other places. When I got off work, I visited with W for a while at his house, recapping the evening before’s activities, and making sure that he was still comfortable with everything while I got ready to go to Part 2. I was looking forward to it, but was also a bit nervous to be meeting some friends of his that had come in for the wedding, as well as all the wedding guests.

At first all went well. His friends were interesting and pleasant to me (they knew that we had met via the internet just for this wedding, but I think were inclined to give me the benefit of the doubt when I turned out to be fairly normal.) We had drinks on the terrace of a wonderful rooftop bar and chatted in a desultory fashion for a time, he was sweet and charming and funny, and I was beginning to relax and enjoy myself. Finally we headed over to that evening’s activity, which was being held at a local bar.

The first part of the evening was enjoyable. Even without knowing any of the guests, I enjoyed their stories and people-watching is always a good time.  It was only when we started back to the hotel that I realized we had a problem. Specifically, I hadn’t realized how drunk he had gotten at the party. I don’t think he did either, but as we left the bar for the 10 block walk back to the hotel, he staggered against me, knocking me into the side of the building, and I had to grab hold of him to keep him standing up.  I realized he was beyond just buzzed and well into unable-to-stand-or-walk-on-his-own obliteration.  I should have called a taxi right then, but it didn’t occur to me, and so I walked him, as best I could, back to the hotel.

It was a horrific walk.  Downtown St. Louis can be a scary place at night for a single woman. For a single woman trying to hold up a staggering, obviously very inebriated, man, twice her size, it was even more so. At one point we walked by three men who were throwing trash at someone in a car. When the person stopped the car, they ran around it, pounding on the windows and shouting. I have no idea what was going on, but as we approached on the other side of the street, they all stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at us. I don’t know what they might have done, because at that moment another couple turned the corner ahead of us and I took the excuse to engage them by asking if they knew the time. They glanced askance at my companion, but told me the time, and by the time we continued on, the men had moved away.

After what seemed an eternity, we arrived back at the hotel. With one of the porter’s assistance when my date staggered against the wall and I couldn’t seem to right him, we got into the elevator and up to his room. There I undressed him and put him to bed, where he promptly passed out.

And as I stood there looking down at him, I realized how little I knew of him. Perhaps this was typical behavior. Maybe tomorrow would be more of the same.  Or perhaps the “amiable” drunk that he appeared to be now would fall away in the middle of the night, and he would awaken with that red gleam in his eye that I knew so well from my (first) ex.  My date liked rough sex, who’s to say that wouldn’t translate to being truly abusive with enough alcohol in him?  And even if he wasn’t abusive, he was obviously not in control of himself. He’d grabbed, choked and slapped me the night before, but never had I felt a lack on control on his part.  Never had I felt unsafe.  That would not be the case if he woke in the middle of the night and wanted sex.  I couldn’t feel safe with him being so drunk.

I had no way of knowing if any of these things would happen – because I just didn’t know him well enough.  And I made the decision right then, even if my fears were not warranted, not to stick around and find out – the hard way – that they were.  I got my things and left, and then called W to come and get me. My headlamp was still out and I had had a couple beers myself, and frankly I was a little shaken by the way things had turned out. The frightening walk back, the worry and concern about him, and, of course, my own issues.

People get drunk at wedding parties all the time. It’s almost expected. But…I was pretty disappointed that he had not had more respect for me, a stranger and his date and a woman that he had brought to a party where I knew no one, than to let himself get that drunk, even if it was unintentional.  And…I’ve had my share of drunk men. I’ve had my share of out-of-control men. And I have put myself in those situations and stayed in those situations because I didn’t want to “make waves,” to “make a scene,” and most of all didn’t want to disappoint anyone – even when that anyone was the person I should have been getting away from. I was not going to put myself in that position again.

And so what was supposed to be a three-day extravaganza of fun turned into one fun night and one not-so-fun night. W was wonderful, as always, being his calm, logical and supportive self, never making me feel that my fears or actions were unwarranted or that I had disappointed him, and, as he said, we got a “bonus weekend” in the bargain.

The next day I texted Wedding Guy and told him why I had left and that I thought it best to just call it quits. To his credit he was very apologetic, took full responsibility for having fucked up, and asked if I wouldn’t reconsider attending the wedding with him. He even offered not to have anything to drink. But the night before had completely soured me on the idea, and I knew that I wouldn’t make a very good companion. Nor did I want to be the reason he “couldn’t drink” and have a good time.

Admittedly, the majority of the issues were my own. Though I didn’t like the feeling of being left high and dry and having to take care of someone I barely knew, he was an amiable drunk, and I think his intoxication – or at least the level of intoxication – was unintentional.  Regardless of that, though, it is me that has had to face the demon in another drunk man’s eyes, and when I walked away from that situation I earned the right to make the choice to never place myself in that situation again.  Friday night I exercised that choice, and though I felt bad about bailing out of the actual wedding, I didn’t feel bad about my choice.  It was  the right one for me, even if it was a hard thing to do and disappointed my would-be wedding date.

And hey, one-and-a-half good times and a night of some rocking sex is better than none, right?

Basement Girl

“You’re a basement girl,” he says, as he takes me by the hand and leads me down the rickety wooden stairs. “This is where you belong.”

He ties me to a post by my wrists in the back of the basement. There are wooden slats back here, and boards, and a bucketful of old rope. There are cob webs and tools and it is dirty and dusty and silent, all sounds muffled, down here.

He had told me to put on my basement shoes and an old shirt of his. This instruction always strikes a tremor of anxiety in me – anxiety and excitement, for though I deny enjoying the things he does to me in the basement, though sometimes those things are the nastiest things he does to me, I love them, and I wait in both anticipation and dread for them to happen again.

“I’m not going to piss on you,” he says, catching the look in my eyes. Then amends it. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t piss on me.  But he gropes me, and mauls me, and shoves his fingers into my pussy, pulling and spread my labia and rings before shoving his short, thick fingers deep into me. I gasp, and grind against his hand.

He grinds his erection against my hip and puts his mouth near my ear.

“Tomorrow night,” he says, his voice low, almost inaudible even in this heavy silence, the silence of the earth that covers us, that surrounds us, embracing and holding and separating us from the rest of the world, “when you are out with him, and he is thinking that you are this gorgeous, classy woman, you’ll know the truth. You’ll think about being down here, and know this is where you belong.”

He is sending me on a date Thursday night, with a man that wants to wine and dine me, and sees me as the Jade that I am when I am not with W. When I am not in his basement, when I am not on my knees on his floor, when I am not this craven, open hole that needs to be filled, or the girl begging to be whipped, or the girl that dreams of being shoved down on that dirty basement floor and fucked, and slapped, and beaten, then pissed on and forced to an orgasm in his piss and filth.

But this other Jade is as much W’s as the Basement Girl, and W knows this as well. He knows that he has made her, too, and that when she leaves him to go on this date, this other Jade is just as owned as that one. Two halves of the same girl: the one the outside world sees, and the Basement Girl.

In which the Missy does her part to spread poly goodness to the vanilla masses. Or at least her Stepmom’s friends.

The Missy and I had dinner last night after she and I went to get her industrial piercing. Which, btw, looks awesome. And during which the subject of my own piercings never came up (I took her to Courtney at Cheap Trx, who did all mine.) Anyway, while eating yummy tapas, we talked about her upcoming 21st bday plans.

It’s a year from now, but her father and stepmom have already made plans to take her to Beale Street in Memphis. And she has decided that she wants me, Ad & W to come.

“It’s my birthday, and I want you all there,” she said.

At dinner the other night with the Stepmom, as well as two of Stepmom’s friends that are also Missy’s friends, the Missy told her that she had invited us, and we’re probably coming. Stepmom nodded absently, then said, “Wait. Is she bringing them both?”

“If they both want to come,” daughter said.

Both friends were instantly, avidly curious. “What? What “them”? What are you talking about?”

At this point in the Missy’s story, she says she hadn’t realized that they didn’t know. “It’s so…normal to me,” she told me. “I don’t even think about it being different anymore. So when they asked I just answered ‘Moms two boyfriends’. And OMG did the questions start flying then.”

So she explained to them what poly is, and how it works for us, and why.

She’s pretty fucking awesome.

Oh, and when the Stepmom said, “Well, this could be interesting,” in reference to the birthday party, the Missy just said, “I don’t know why. It’s Momma and me who are the crazy ones. The Guys just supervise.”


Oh, and also, when the Stepmom was a little touchy about it all, the daughter said, “This is my 21st birthday. It’s a pretty important one, and I want ALL my family there to celebrate: you, dad, mom, and her partners. You’ve got a year to get used to the idea.” Love that girl!

This post was brought to you by the power of my Android phone app, btw. Who needs a laptop?!? (Me. Whimper.)

Oh, and one last data point for the Mad Scientist regarding Anal August today: apparently buttplugs and tampons are not compatible. At least for my body.

Post-Twisted Tryst: I’m Back!

We’re back from Tryst!  I’ve sat here at my laptop several times since we got back Sunday night, meaning to update ya’ll on our trip, but I’ve been fuzzy since we got back, and sooo unable to concentrate, so I’ve kept myself to making lists: what I did, what I felt, where we went, what happened then, what I’m  going to do or might do or need to do, because though we just got back from Tryst, Fusion is right around the corner.

But not “right around the corner” enough. Seriously. I wish we were leaving tomorrow.

Ok, maybe not tomorrow – I’m tired and am actually looking forward to relaxing this weekend, but damn I wish it was the weekend. I need a vacation after Tryst. ;-)

But I did want to post a brief wrap-up/update, just so you don’t think the Guys violated Tryst’s “no dead” rule.

It was actually much more relaxing than I thought it would be. I anticipated intensity, but I probably should have known that it would be light-hearted rather than dark and intense – Ad was with us, after all.  Which isn’t a criticism, it is just the way we tend to interact when Ad is part of the dynamic: it is part of his personal kink energy, and as this event was very much about his comfort level and trying to be sure that he enjoyed his first camp experience as much as possible (we want to make this a “three” tradition), there really wasn’t any question but that it would be light-hearted and fun.

Which it was.  Even the saline infusion wasn’t horrific.  In fact it wasn’t unpleasant at all – I rather enjoyed the sensation, and after it was done my pussy was just…swollen. Not especially tender or even over-sensitive.

It looked outrageous though.

My camp “kidnapping” was mostly fun and games as well.  The one scene that got a little intense was the one I thought was going to be a nice relaxing wax scene, but ended up being the one that I bawled my head off in (go figure.)  Anyway, as W said, lots of times the scene default in public play is humor. It’s true – there seems to be laughter in a majority of public scenes.  Ad doesn’t play on the edges of intensity, discomfort or emotions, either, even in private play, so it is natural that our public play would be more light-hearted.  He always has a chuckle to defuse anything, and prefers his kink that way.  So W and I adapt, and it is usually a nice break.  I do think next time though I am going to ask for at least one one-on-one scene with W.  I crave our particular type of interaction, and feel a little disappointed when I don’t get it. Of course anticipating that it’ll be just he and I for six days/nights when we go to Fusion helped alleviate that, but still, by the end of Tryst I was needing some one-on-one time.

Actually, that was one of the more interesting things that came up during the weekend. I am used to spending 2 or 3 days per week alone with each of the Guys. About 2 or 3 times a month we end up spending an overnight together, all three of us, but my interactions with them are mostly separate.  At Tryst, we were together 24/7 for 4 days – 5 if you count Wednesday night. The lovely thing about our dynamic (and about the two of them) is that being a three is as natural and easy-going as being a two. There really is no awkwardness for any of us, no crabbiness or desire on either of their parts to have me alone, no hurt feelings about not being the sole focus of my attention. I was the only one that expressed a desire for one-on-one time with each of them – and I made sure to engineer at least a half hour during the weekend when I spent time first with one, then the other, connecting with them individually and making sure they were each happy and having their needs met. They seemed to be – at least I heard no complaints.  Next time, tho, I will ask specifically for an hour or two on my own with each one, scening with W and probably just decompressing with Ad, who probably won’t be interested in scening without W there.

All in all, the weekend was a wild success. We relaxed, we played, we were silly and serious and companionable; there was bondage and whips and a saline-infused pussy; there was dancing and drinking and Onyx-ing; there was sex and talk and laughter and friendships and a whole lot of joy. And while I am not terribly “woo-woo,” there was a feeling of camaraderie and community that I love at Tryst.

I do want to write specifically about several of the scenes we did, but since we did so much over the four days & nights of Tryst, I’ve decided to break up my event posts into each day.  I think what I’ll do is post them over the days that we will be at Fusion, actually.  So, you know, ya’ll won’t miss me while I’m gone. ;-)

Meanwhile, I’ve got a few other posts (in fact the last of the 6×6 Picture Request write-ups is one of them) that I’ll try to put together over the next few days.  So keep your eyes peeled for more from Jade.

Cuz I’m BACK!

Sunday with the Missy

This past Sunday I got to spend nearly the whole day with my daughter. She and the Boychild made me breakfast in bed and then–

Oh wait. I didn’t actually wake up in my bed. Ad and I got home around 9:30 am after having stayed over at W’s the night before, after some 4-way play with a female friend. The same female friend from my last update, actually.  That’s how settled I’d got with the whole thing – I set up another play date, this time with her, W, Ad and me. And it went well. There’s more to that whole story, but…I’m just not in a place where I feel like going into it all right now.  It’s all good, in the end, as W and I have been having some deep discussions, and I have been (or at least feel like I have been) growing and stretching and learning.

But sometimes, in the middle of all that growing and stretching and learning, it kind of sucks.

It sucks to realize how bad I suck at times. How damaging my reactions and emotions and feelings can be to others around me, and how, no matter how much I feel like I am controlling them (at least better than in my past) it’s never good enough.  It seems like I always end up hurting others.

Guh. I didn’t mean to go into all that.  I think I am just feeling low right now. The end result is a lot more positive than all that, honest.  And I will discuss at some future time…just maybe not now.

Anyway, what I really wanted to talk about was talking with the Missy about all this. Because I did.  Not with complete details, but…enough to generate some good discussion.

Here’s the thing. I have talked about multiple relationships in general, and my own in particular, with my kids a lot. I’ve talked to them about the choices I’ve made, and why I made them, and they have seen how our relationship works.  They know W and we’ve all spent time together, he stays over at the house and they know that Ad and I stay over at his place too. They see that it works, that it is a healthy, viable relationship choice.

I’m very proud of that.

What they have perhaps not seen is what happens when we have difficulties, and how that is handled – and that having an issue does not mean it all goes to hell; but rather that it can make relationship stronger.

This is more difficult in many respects than showing how wonderful and easy it all is. It means being open and exposing one’s vulnerabilities, weaknesses and failings.  I would not do so with younger children, at least not to the extent that I did with the Miss, but at 20 years of age, and as a young person navigating her own adult relationship choices, I made the decision to do so.

There’s also the small detail of the fact that she has based much of her opinion about relationships, and if they will last, on the fact that her father and I split up.

This is painful for me to write about. I know that my decisions about my relationship structure, and my marriage to her father, is directly responsible for her belief that “nothing lasts forever.” Not that “sometimes things don’t last,” but that they won’t. Period. It hurts my heart to see her so negative about the possibility of falling in love “forever.”

On the one hand, of course, she is mostly right. Most love relationships/marriage don’t last a lifetime.  And the fact that she is a pragmatist about love and relationships is probably a good thing. I have no fear that she will stick in a love-less or unhappy relationship just because you’re “supposed to” stick it out. On the other hand, that she believes love can’t last is just as potentially damaging, in my opinion.  And it makes my heart hurt that it is me that has caused her to believe this.

Would I have rather stayed in my marriage, making both her father and I unhappy, just so that she could see that love can last? Well, no, because that too would have been a lie. But…I want her to see that even in good relationships people struggle at times and have difficulties – and they work them out, they work through them.

I also don’t want her to think that choosing multiple relationships means I’ve somehow taken the easy way out, because then when the going gets tough with one of them, you can just dump that one – after all you still have the other, right? I want her to see how we all work together to resolve the issues, as a team, each one of us assisting where and when we can, to make the whole stronger.

And lastly, I want her to know that it is possible to make choices to change. I’m not perfect by a long shot, but the things that I know hurt me or my others – if I have the capability – I will change. It ain’t easy, but it can, and is, happening.

So, throughout the day, while she and I made some beaded jewelry, we talked about what’s been going on in my relationship. I told her that W and were going through some things, and that a lot of what we were going through was because I have insecurity issues around him “dating” others. (She doesn’t know about BDSM and so “play dates” are just dates.)

“But isn’t that what this whole multiple relationship/poly/open relationship stuff is about, Mom?”

Yeah. It is.  But just because I (or anyone) believes in it, wants this relationship structure, doesn’t mean that fears and insecurities just magically disappear.  It’s how we deal with those insecurities and fears, and whether we conquer them, or let them conquer us, that counts.

“So why do it then? If it’s hard, if it hurts, why do it?”

I could only answer for myself: because, for me, it is the right thing to do.  I need to conquer this, because these fears are rooted in my own insecurities, not in the relationship itself, and certainly not in my Guys. I will not let these insecurities rule me.

Also: I love my Guys. And loving someone does not mean controlling them. I want them to be happy and fulfilled. I want to give them everything that I can to facilitate that.  I want them to be free to choose for themselves how to find that happiness.

“Does Ad – or W – get upset when you bring home problems with the other?”

It is hard on either of them to see me hurting, whether it is something I have brought on myself, or if it is because of relationship struggles. And in some multiple relationships, partners ask not to be made a witness to the struggles of their partner’s other relationships. But the way it works for us is that each of them helps when I have an issue with the other. We all shore each other up, both by facilitating communication (Ad was saying the other day that at times it feels like interpreting) and by simply being supportive and holding safe space for each of us to vent if needed, to cry if needed; to simply be.  Interestingly enough, both have communicated a sense of satisfaction in being able to provide this assistance to the other.  “It makes me feel good,” Ad said.

I don’t always feel like the best mother.  I forget important stuff, I let them eat sweet cereal (for breakfast AND dinner), I allow them free rein to talk about any subject they want, I don’t have much stick-to-it-ive-ness when it comes to punishments.  But Sunday – coincidentally Mother’s Day – I felt like I was doing something right.

All in all, it was a fine way to spend Mother’s Day.