You are currently browsing the monthly archive for January 2009.
An outstanding goal from the Christmas holiday was to find a writing course or tutor with a twist of difference. I wasn’t looking for help with idea development, assemblage or having my crimes against grammar and tense made more obvious. I wanted to learn objectivity and how to better stand back from my expression because the more I write, the less I seem to know what works and what needs work.
My enquiries have received the e-mail equivalent of raised eyebrows and offers to exchange money for a sliver of hope that an unbiased eye will evolve from traditional teachings I’ve already undertaken. I’m still window shopping but some messages from Mr Nasath (Nice abs shame about the humility) on the dating site caused me to think the literary universe has generously granted my wish for quality mentoring.
I said thank you to his message of introduction but wouldn’t proceed because of our disparate locations, his lack of availability during my preferred hours because of his marital commitments and I wasn’t up to par with the physical description of the women he was hunting.
He wrote that I shouldn’t run away because he could sense the very frustrated sexuality that emanated from every word I typed.
Who? Me? I did not know that! Even my ‘no’ reeked of barely-contained desire and unfulfilled needs? The universe has sent an everywoman’s Hemingway with striated deltoids to help me understand my covert messages to the world — awesome.
He signed off with a theatrical flourish that I could call him sir. Sorry, whoops, capital S Sir.
I didn’t respond because I had already said my piece (clearly, I thought, and was pissed off about his self-awarded honorific when I had made no mention of automatic — or any — submissiveness in my profile), and he showed every sign of being the optimistic opportunist who’d interpret any communication as a step closer to yes. I stomped on his toes, shut the door and waved him goodbye.
He returned on the pretext of doing me a favour. Apparently receiving no reply was a sign that he merely needed to shower me with more attention — I’m sure his absurdly good looks and attentive flattery have worked many times for him and I was one of those puzzling creatures who was just a bit slow on the uptake. He reminded me that we had the same objective of an ongoing liaison and how silly we would be if we ignored our shared wish. I checked his profile and he hadn’t said that at all: not only is he indestructible in the face of rejection, he’s mastered the game of mirroring his quarry and re-packaging their words to maximise those oh my god, we have so much in common moments that tempt vulnerable prey. I’m vulnerable at times but I’m not a fucking idiot.
Another new message from him found its way to my inbox: I think if I asked for your phone number, you’d think seriously about offering it quickly. The universe over-gifted me with this chap: teacher in literary objectivity and holder of extra-sensory perception.
After a couple of other interactions I haven’t bothered writing about, I was close to making my profile invisible for a while. However, witnessing Mr Sir Nasath in action is better than television.
I finally got off my lazy bottom and compiled a chronology and status report on the people I’ve been involved with. It’s the page up there at the top called ‘The Players’.
I hope the formatting is all right because Word won’t export formats for no logical reason and I’m coding HTML manually. She sucks dick, she hand codes, she’s a renaissance woman with a taped-together computer!
And she only uses exclamation points and refers to herself in the third person when she’s a bit manic and trying to hide something, which means she knows she needs to remove ArmyDude from her life. Perhaps this week.
Some unexpected and distressing news about an immediate family member was received and in the past few days I’ve struggled from helpless crying into wallowing in denial and crawling towards a listless imitation of life while tests are run and experts make diagnoses and the ground we stand on is shaking uncontrollably.
The illusion of having control over life is strongest when the passage is smooth. Sure, setting goals and making decisions can influence life’s direction, but bad tidings can arrive without warning and with enough stealthy force to warp every perception before the moment the information was delivered. What was enjoyable yesterday is suddenly frivolous and pointless; the pursuit of pleasure was enlivening and spirit raising but is now tainted with guilt; and what am I doing masquerading as a modern-day libertine when, just over there, someone might be dying? Who the fuck do I think I am?
Literally a few minutes before life became gravely serious I had made a hotel booking to meet Jekyll the following day. After thoughts finished crashing between hiding in denial and screaming internally in defensive Fuck it! I still have to live! I confirmed the booking and gave myself permission to seek some temporary oblivion.
Our needs were mismatched from the start. He wanted as much as we could squeeze into the handful of hours, in as many different ways and with memory banks filled with impressions to last until next time. My ambitions were fewer: to live a different life for a while, to forget and to see if my sense of entitlement could overrule my sapping guilt and fear.
He wanted to discuss, probe, be overtaken by lust when hearing me say what I wanted to do with him. I was surly and didn’t want to talk. He tried to pinch my PMT-sensitive nipples to invoke giddy reactions and I wasn’t in the mood to play the lusty nymph. He wanted the full acrobatic display with all orifices stretched to their limits and I needed a firm, uncomplicated fuck.
I got my legs-in-the-air, head-smacking-into-the-bedboard fucking but a voice crept into my head among the ruckus, saying that the least likely time I’ll find abandon is when I’m seeking it. Oblivion only comes when it’s not coaxed or craved or needed.
What does the fucking voice know? I challenged. I’ll throw more bait and surely it’ll erase the distracted mental jumble. I teased the voice with Jekyll’s hand in my cunt, fucking me with his fist and with a good-sized dildo partially inserted in my anus – further and harder than we’ve gone before. I experienced everything from the objective perspective of an observer and stagnated in the nowhere land between sensory overload and orgasm. I added a vibe to my clit and became only more conscious that I couldn’t clear my mental slate enough to find some desired moments of sweet, sparkling nothingness.
He fucked my lubed and prepared arse with what would normally be an overawing pounding and my body took the lot. There was one moment I warned of looming sensory overload: he upped the tempo and perversely my body relished the harsher treatment and is making me pay for it today.
He came again, we showered and returned to our respective realities. I don’t know how I feel, apart from some general awareness of bruises and muscular aches, which isn’t answering the question I just asked myself. Still empty inside, I suppose, and fucking didn’t fill the void temporarily.
When is someone’s name added to the tally of sexual partners and etched on the memory’s list of lovers (or experiences, for the especially frenetic who don’t remember names)? What defines the acts that bestow the qualifier of I have had sex with that person?
My line in the sand for heterosexual contact has been vaginal penetration. Simple. Gropings, mutual masturbation, half-furtive beginnings that screamed promise but petered to abandoned intent are memories – and sometimes lessons – but not etch-worthy. I’ve never had anal sex in isolation so my cunt-defined decree stood steady and unchallenged.
Until Mr Chilled tore up my rules.
We talked for a good hour until I returned from a toilet break and asked him coyly to lead me somewhere darker and more horizontal.
Before we left the fluorescent glare of his kitchen, we kissed until my body warmed to the temperature of the inflaming heat of stubble rash around my lips. We went back for more because, well, just because.
In his bedroom I touched and brushed his increasingly bared skin to adapt to the sinewy leanness of his frame. I can’t remember embracing someone so firm yet seemingly delicate.
His cock was a revelation, both its size being larger than his body’s proportions intimated and the metal ring glinting from its head (a Prince Albert piercing, I think). He didn’t mind that I experimented with a number of lip and tongue variations until I felt comfortable with the feel of steel sliding in my mouth.
He guided me backwards on the brushed cotton bedcover, removed my pants and underwear with almost painful leisure and explored studiously. He held one nipple between his thumb and forefinger and did the same with my clit while his tongue darted like a languid hummingbird. I fought the urge to pull him on top of me and relaxed into the mind spell of his slow sex.
We kissed again and I curled into a foetal shape when he slipped a vibrator between my legs. I pulled myself closer to his kneeling form and sucked his cock with my wet lips as he held my hair. A finger explored my wetness and I craved, almost said out loud, my desire to have him inside me but I withheld the words so I could experience where we’d travel organically.
I slipped into a hyper-relaxed void of not knowing where his touches were beginning or ending and he applied a little more pressure to a sweet spot that delivered an orgasm wrapped in the stars. He held my hand until my faculties returned.
I asked him to position himself on all fours for me and I admired the taut arcs of musculature from his waist to his shoulders. He murmured words of approval when my tongue probed and he backed into my hand almost needily when I slid two fingers inside. I didn’t know his desires or limits and I’m glad I took a chance to explore and be rewarded with his pleasure.
A small vibrator took the place of my fingers and I brushed his balls and perineum with my freed hand. He masturbated and said an urgent yes, please, when asked if he’d like the vibe’s setting increased. I held the toy in his contracting anus as he came and thinnish fluid filled his cupped hand.
We chatted until not long before my usual get-out-of-bed time and when I was alert enough to drive home safely. We kissed goodbye a few times at his front door, somewhat longer and with deeper tongue play with each contact until I had to battle the temptation to push him back inside.
Not a sliver of fucking in the (my) traditional sense but hours of sublime erotic exploration that left us replete and smiling whenever our eyes met. I have left him a message to the effect that I can’t wait to feel him enter me. Regardless if we meet again, this was etched-in-the-mind sex, oh yes.
My computer crashed the other day. A blue screen of death appeared without warning, I hit the ‘off’ button in fright and re-booted with a heart full of hope but my trusty laptop never got past a black screen with green vertical pinstripes.
My first thought was Oh, no, I can’t deal with calling tech support in a far-flung country when I can’t even elucidate the nature of the problem, let alone garner the patience to troubleshoot. I’ll pack it up and take it to the local repair shop tomorrow.
My second thought was Oh shit, I have just finished some quarterly accounts and hope like hell ‘safe’ mode works because, of course, the crash occurred immediately after saving and immediately before plugging in the back-up drive. I’ll be furious beyond respite if I have to re-create my somewhat pluck-a-number-out-of-my-arse accounting methods.
My third thought was Holy fucking hell, what porn, smut and other incriminating data on my hard drive needs to be relocated before I take it to the shop? It’s not a large town and I know the workers there by association. I don’t think they need to know me as well as they might if they start sniffing around.
I spent the next few minutes on my knees begging the computer to allow ‘safe’ mode to start. After some heart-stopping moments of white text scrolling wildly up a dark screen, the basic and clunky safe interface appeared. I owe someone one of my remaining nine lives for allowing me temporary access to my spreadsheet and secrets.
While I’m zealous about respecting the privacy of anyone I’m involved with and take precautions to protect information that comes from or involves someone else, I’m in a fortunate situation that 99 per cent of the time it doesn’t matter what’s not blocked, not hidden and not history erased after every log-in. ArmyDude showed me his electronic footstep erasing procedure once and the additional intricacies to remove everything made me reflect on my good fortune that I need to be careful but certainly don’t need to hold my breath if my partner wants to use my computer.
The other one per cent of the time (as in this week), I panic, and thank my lucky stars I’m anally retentive about being organised and not being much of a porn fiend.
On one drive partition I found a short clip of double-handed anal fisting. I wouldn’t classify that as porn, but rather a documentary because I stare goggle-eyed that the human body can take and (in this subject’s case) enjoy such a frenetic pounding by a man with two very large hands. Moved to portable drive.
I also found a video of a man bent over, fucking himself with an extremely large dildo and replacing the dildo with his own hand. Now that’s flexibility and I’m classifying it as a documentary as well. Moved.
The woman shooting green apples out of her backside? Sent a few weeks ago by M1 in an attempt to shock me. Deleted.
And that was it for the videos (I keep a few clips on a DVD because of my obsession with a clutter-free computer and The Drummer has gigabytes of everything from titty fucking to bi boy gang bangs if I ever feel the need to indulge – now, if *his* computer broke this would be a different story).
My hidden section of the C: drive for personal ephemera was more worry inducing. A casual hunter of information wouldn’t bother delving so many layers of blandly-named folders to find the interesting stuff, but someone with IT nous could probably dig up gold with a simple .jpg search in hidden files and folders.
Some things I had forgotten about:
A wish-list of sexual adventures I typed about 18 months ago (I had forgotten about the wax play and the fisting/anal penetration combo!). Re-read, noted and moved.
A copy of a long BDSM story exchange with M1. I doubt there’s anything of literary value but I was loathe to discard 100-odd pages of mental exploring. Moved.
A folder of photos commissioned by M1 when we were playing dom/sub. My genitals with vibrators in each orifice, nipple clamps attached to my labia and clit, knives, forks and spoons (handles inside, thank you) when he was issuing kitchen-related sets of penetrative demands, and some interesting rope work when he ordered me to masturbate after having tied myself up. Delete, delete, delete and empty the recycle bin to make sure they never see the light of day.
Photos archived from my mobile phone that are little signposts of the past 12 months of my life: Jekyll’s hand where I thought it would never go, the reddest backside in town when Jekyll and Hyde tandem-slapped my arse, a dentally-perfect bite mark on my shoulder, masturbation shots and videos sent by Jekyll and ArmyDude, some nude shots of MB that I keep for remembrance’s sake. Moved with a smile.
The data on my computer is now cleaner than fresh show (or as clean as I’m content to live with – too bad if I left some muddy footprints somewhere) and the limping laptop can be taken to the doctor’s.
I’m still looking over my shoulder about what I might have forgotten, but this is a time I’m appreciative that I don’t need to conceal every trace of my other adult life. My inner naïve idealist wishes that everyone could fuck with impunity, but my hardened realist ponders how much track-covering hard work a secret life is for others because contents of a computer only touch the outer skin of illicit embraces.
I met a man. A sane man. A not-married man. An available on weekends man. More than an hour’s drive away but a tolerable trip man. Someone pinch me.
His online profile has several torso photos and I have to stop peeking because he’ll check his page views and think I’m a fucking pervey stalker.
He has nicely mussed hair and is lithe and snake-hipped like an indie musician. He has elegant hands with muscular forearms (a rather strong turn-on for mysterious primal reasons I can’t comprehend) and a relaxed and easy smile.
My only niggle is that we haven’t spoken yet beyond the building blocks of what we’re seeking: we’ve struck common ground with wanting regular, ongoing physical meetings with some interaction between, and agreed we’d like to see each other beyond our first, innocent meeting. All very civilised and a nice ice breaker but with his languid, go-with-the-flow style, I haven’t got a confident read on his sexual mapping. Best I send him some questions while I lie back and ponder.
[Ongoing postscript: His responses regarding desires and things not completed on his sexual wishlist were also easy-going and general and I've been thinking please don't let me drive all this and make it feel like work. I'm the (paid to be) boss at work, I'm the (reluctant but have to be) boss at home most of the time and the best I can do with my other life is be the occasional leader, co-conspirator or enthusiastic follower. I'll see what happens over the next few days.]
The male anatomy is most conveniently designed for daytime sexual activity in cars. If I want some attention administered stealthily while we’re in a train station car park, the most I’ll get is a few discreet fingers and the deepest I’ll get depends on the tightness of the pants I’ve chosen to wear. Note to self: try a skirt without hosiery next time and stop lamenting. And design a prototype car with one-way windows for proper privacy.
Jekyll? Easy. Unzip, gently manoeuvre cock from underpants, nestle into his groin and feast while he keeps half an eye out for passersby. I almost gagged on his cock when someone approached: instead of tapping my head in warning and covering his genitals with his shirt, he shoved my head further down his cock and held me there. (I still don’t know if there really was someone or if he was messing about with my gag reflex – I suspect the latter.)
Tongue kissing him afterwards was a lot of fun. I enjoy corrupting his neutral breath with the musky scent of his cock and the fresh, seawatery-tang of his ejaculate.
I was left a little undertouched and overexcited, and he’s promised next time he’ll return the favour. I’ll carry a blanket in the car to conceal him and I’ll pack my new vibrator. It makes me squirt – just the thing to exact a little revenge when my hand is locking his head down.
Mr In A Hurry pinged me when I was idling about the dating web site. I replied that he was too far away and too married and I was too battle-weary to play second fiddle again, and thanked him for the kind words. A nanosecond later he responded that his optimism would steamroll all challenges and to give him a shot – what’s to lose?
What, indeed?
Or, indeed, what was I thinking when I said okay?
I sent him my mobile phone number and, within seconds, he had sent a message declaring my resemblance to all things goddess. He sent a photo proving the smiling yet determined face on the profile shot was his fine and cheerful self. He sent a goodnight text message, bidding me sweet dreams and luscious thoughts.
He nearly sent me fucking mad.
He ramped up his early Valentine’s campaign first thing in the morning, wishing me the most pleasant of days. He sent a confession that he’d been thinking about me *all* night. He sent a message asking when he could call. He sent an acknowledgement and declared how much he was looking forward to hearing the dulcet tones of my voice.
On the appointed hour at the appointed minute and the appointed second of the clock, my phone rang. I answered in my best syrupy purr. The line disconnected and the caller never rang back. Later I logged on to the site and he had blocked me.
Thank fuck.
ArmyDude. Enough said.
I had just arrived home from the world’s longest and most frustrating family lunch and was thinking about some recovery time spent in masturbation and an afternoon nap. Instead I received a message that he had some solo time and would like to see me. I wanted to talk to him and we met at an out-of-the way sports field used by only a few dog walkers during the week.
We arrived at the same time but, during the few moments I tried to send a text message to The Drummer to say I was out, ArmyDude’s lips were on mine and his hand had wrangled beneath the drawstring of my track pants. I’d like to say I blocked his hand and told him about my need for sanity, but sensibility was thrown to the wind. I submitted to instant wetness, instant all is forgottenness, instant wanting to fuck himness.
In the confined cabin of my car he managed to slide my pants far enough to lap on the mess he’d caused between my legs. My fingers shook too much to finish the message coherently; I begged for a few seconds to complete the task and he pulled me out of the car we kissed until my legs had trouble supporting me.
We stepped through a fence into adjoining scrubland and he led the way along a narrow path. I don’t remember how but at one moment I was conscious of my pants at my ankles, legs bent and hands criss-crossed on my knees in the crash position on the airline safety cards. He had what felt like three fingers plunging crudely inside me as his tongue performed delicate dances on my anus. My stance would have looked ridiculous had anyone been passing and caught sight, but his intentional combination of roughness and finesse made me forget that sexual contact often defies the laws of elegant choreography.
Our options for re-bonding fully were limited as neither of us had brought condoms (see, I was there to talk). He stood as I sucked his cock. We swapped. An insect or five bit the expanse of my bare bottom. I yearned to have him inside me. He laid me back on some undergrowth and fingered me as I masturbated. He brought himself to orgasm and ejaculated on my pelvic area. We learned that neither of us had tissues and leaves did not make effective cleaning cloths. My pants were lined with forest litter.
We had a long talk afterwards. He said he has been planning to bring my dark dream to reality this year and has only 360 days to make it happen. I shamefacedly had to ask which dark dream – I was thinking of the one where I watch him kneel before and suck off another man – and he said my all-time dark dream that we had discussed. Oh, that one. My pupils grew into saucers and my mouth formed a big, undisguisable O. I can’t describe here as the finer details are obviously, patently me all over, but it involves uniforms and several men and rough play.
The scenario would focus more on my enjoyment and debasement than his desires and I’m tickled pink he’s been thinking about it. Experience and reality says finding compatible partners and refining some of the logistics might take the rest of the year (and he would be the least available, ironically enough, but I’d want him to be the orchestrator and an active participant). Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps!
I hope to one day accept that he’s my bête noire and frustration will always temper the elation. I feel good about things (at the moment).
I have a cast iron bladder that never releases a drop until I send the message. I’ve pissed while hiding in gardens after drunken parties, been drop-perfect in tiny specimen jars for mid-stream urine tests, sprayed over people while perched on the edges of bathtubs and could probably write messages in the snow with my control and aim.
Wrong.
We were in the shower and tried to decide the etiquette of who would piss on whom first. Ladies before gentleman? Flip a coin? He or she who draws weapons first gets first shot? He ended up going first as my body rejected every one of my brain’s messages to send a jet of warm liquid across his thighs. Must have been some kind of urinary performance anxiety.
Thankfully he was ready for release and squirted copious amounts of body-warmth liquid across my front, with plenty in reserve to flow down my back and legs when I turned and leaned into the contrast of the cool white tiles.
He spread the joy around while I thought of positions to despoil his freshly-showered body. He knelt under me as I stood with one foot on the raised edge of the shower stall with the toes of my other foot gripping the tiles at tap level – not elegant but I doubt anything involved with flinging bodily waste around ever is.
Finally, the seal opened and I returned the favour with a stream that rippled from his shoulder blades down his back. He twisted to allow the spurts to cover his chest and splashed about in our combined liquids. Urine play doesn’t seem to turn me on sexually but I gain pleasure from the visual aspects and find a perverse kind of fun in getting grotty. There’s also a nice time warp game in play that one turn of the tap can erase all evidence of the scenario in seconds but the act remains firmly in my memory banks – everything is washed down the drain but I know only seconds ago I was in the same place smelling, seeing, feeling, probably giggling.
Later, I was still a bit out of sorts with new-person nerves and struggling to find my groove, but he found and did glorious things with my G-spot that left me like an incoherent turtle curled on the linen – and these past few months I’ve been beating my clit into submission. Silly me.
Of course there was a shower between.
