Mogul didn’t respond to a message one night, which didn’t set off alarm bells as he was busy moving house. He called at ungodly o’clock and I assumed he’d hit the bottle again, which didn’t set off alarm bells because he’s done that before. I responded with a text message the next day and didn’t hear back after several days. Oh.

I sent a final message asking for clarification that he wanted me to stop contact, but I didn’t hear back, again. Perhaps one day I’ll find humour in his timing that he disappeared just as I had lowered my guard and let him in further.

I’ll be back once I’ve finished licking my wounds.

Giveth, taketh, forfucksaketh

Mr OMG left some of our text messages sitting about in his phone.

His on-the-way-out-but-not-quite-ex found and read a selection.

He called to let me know he was going to ground and provide warning in case I started receiving calls from her.

I said, “Oh, no, [insert cooing noises of sympathy here] that must be difficult to deal with. Take the time you need to sort out your home life [insert the clunking sound of my insincerity and self pity hitting the floor right about here].”

That was two weeks ago.

I don’t answer calls from blocked or unidentifiable numbers anyway. Then again, if she rings I’m in the mindset to run the trash’n’treasure analogy past her that one woman’s trash is my treasure and just throw him out for me, please. I’ll do the recycling thing and send him back, same day, guaranteed.

I activated a blunt and gritty new profile the other day and have 150 messages — most respondents haven’t read the text and almost live in another timezone requiring travel in the fucking Tardis; a handful are insanely young lads who are seeing how far they get before they run off and pounce on the next shiny thing. I got rid of the one referring to me as an ‘older woman’ by asking if I could daub ‘little fucktoy’ in red lipstick on his chest and take photos.

There were a couple of local men and one sent messages saying my getting in touch was the best thing ever. Ever! He disappeared elsewhere over the weekend before we could set up a meeting. I’m catching up with the other one tonight: we have discussed my relationship situation on the phone and he sounds curious but cautious which has never been a good sign. His unavailability several weeknights in a row is giving me a funny feeling of doubt but I don’t know what it’s really saying. We will see.

I’m feeling lonely standing in a middle ground wanting something between a relationship and casual sex. I have all the permission and motivation I could ever wish for but meeting people and trying to second-guess their motivations is a king-sized pain in the arse — I didn’t date this much when I was single and the warped joke is lost on my souring good nature. I wish I gained more satisfaction from anonymous sex and had no qualms about the dumping afterwards; perhaps I should indulge more frequently to purge frustration and develop a thicker skin. I was thinking of giving up and returning to my old life but nothing is gained without effort and I don’t want to bow out with potential regrets of not having persisted.

A lesson in e-housekeeping

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.

Fight or hide when worlds collide

Something happened that was out of my control and my professional life is about to become very fucked up and difficult to manage. I am oscillating maniacally between searing rage and fear after a sleepless night of the nightmare stages of denial, panic and paranoia.

In an act of small-minded, black-hearted vindictiveness, someone briefly from The Drummer’s past who is in my work world has accused him of sexual harassment and inappropriate behaviour. He is not there so it’s impossible for him to defend himself and fill in the other side of the story. (The links between people and places will just need to be glossed over with it being a fairly small town in size and mentality – not everyone knows everyone but everyone at least knows of everyone.)

She doesn’t know me by name or sight, but the people she complained to are part of my peer group and more senior management. She held court with several of them, spewing snake-tongued stories of vileness and bitterness — and they listened. I was ignorant until I took a call from a kindly soul who overheard in a hallway, and I bunkered myself down in my office until hometime, finding it difficult to breathe while a steel trap of horror closed in around me.

I need to go back there Monday with plans in place to, let’s see: find something to tell my staff to pre-empt whatever they end up being told through the rumour mill (it’s inevitable), find a way of dealing with the people who were told things directly because I see them regularly, and harness my urges to hunt down this woman and destroy her with a sustained and relentless form of revenge. I can’t wait for karma to take care of this one as she has done something personal and unforgivable and irreparable and worse than I am able to detail here.

Another prickly concern I don’t know how to handle is, now she’s spoken, the word will be out I’m not monogamous. All respect is given to people who are open about their relationship status, but I’m not. I am careful to the point of blandness during my salaried hours* because people have spare time on their hands to talk about others — I buy a lot more personal freedom by fitting into their straight view of the world than trying to fight it. I’m also not the type to put on a brave face while others look at me sympathetically or disgustedly so impulse control and management of paranoia cannot come quickly enough when my emotions settle.

I have managed to centre the rage in a hot, spherical bundle inside my body, waiting to be directed and hurled silently and anonymously where it will have the most satisfying impact from the sidelines when they don’t see it coming (I’d be a Buddhist if the faith would have me, but the concept of forgiveness is far, far too much right now). The only upside I can think of is that the timing is as good as it could be because Christmas holidays are around the corner. I know it’s not life or death and things will settle when the next new and shiny piece of gossip hits the streets, but I can’t find a way of seeing through the next couple of weeks with reputation or sanity intact. I want to punish and hurt people for damaging The Drummer’s name and fucking with me.

*The moments with ArmyDude are in my control and my responsibility and I’ll go down in flames for them (and him) if the need ever arises. My issue here is loss of control over my identity and perceptions of my image.

Patience is not a goddamn virtue

Just when the anti-depressant residues are leaching out of my system and I want to road-test my new ‘old’ self that orgasms, it feels like I couldn’t score a fuck in a brothel with a fistful of fifties. “I’m here!” I feel like shouting to the world, “You, person with a dick, come and get me.”

The Drummer apologised recently for his current lack of interest in sex. I’m more amazed than annoyed as he’s the man who can get himself off up to five times a day and I used to worry about not keeping up with him. I helped masturbate him to orgasm yesterday and everything still works, but self-tinkering with prescription medication seems to be messing with his sex drive. I fixed myself up later in the day with some lube and the buzzing gift from heaven I bought on my last shopping trip.

Mother Nature threw a spanner in the sexual works a couple of days ago. I don’t like penetration when I’m bleeding, smelly (my sense of smell amplifies at that stage of my cycle and I dislike the merest whiff of my purging), cramping and double checking that tampons are out and towels are down if sex is on the menu. Too much fucking about but that doesn’t stop my mind spinning like a kinky porn DVD of everything I’d like to be doing.

With a bout of warmer weather shining on the southern hemisphere, Jekyll and I explored a park yesterday to determine its suitability to play out some outdoor fantasies. On first glance it was everything we hoped for: isolated car parks, bushland, sturdy outdoor furniture and undercover picnic benches. I want him to sit at a bench as I kneel on the ground and suck his cock while he controls and manoeuvres me with the lead attached to my collar. I also want to be on all-fours atop a picnic bench as he stands on the seat and takes me from behind. If that doesn’t wear us out, I also envision him bracing himself against a tree as I remove his jeans and tongue his arse until he’s so lust-crazed we collect scratches attacking each other on the ground. I wonder if Hyde is into the great outdoors. He’ll get an invitation, too.

On a more detailed recce the park’s features became everything the fun police have stuck their noses into: every stick of furniture is in open spaces under a light aircraft flight path and the scrub is too sparce (I trotted off to pee in the densest bush I could find and Jekyll wolf-whistled when my pants came off – an unconventional but effective way of testing visibility).

We traipsed around until sunset and returned to his car. I sucked him off as he reclined in the driver’s seat before we went our separate ways. He set me a challenge of masturbating but not climaxing for two days and I may have already broken his rules once or twice. I hope for a darn good spanking as punishment next time we meet.

Tensions are rising with ArmyDude. He has returned to his former workplace and we have been flirting incorrigibly with text messages and guardedly in code using e-mail. I keep thinking about his arms in short-sleeved shirts: forearms muscular and sinewy from years of weight training but tapering to refined wrists in contrast, as if he could snap me like a twig or seduce me with a velvet touch at will. Right now I’d like a lot of both. We were thinking about meeting this weekend but his plans changed at the last minute; I’m somewhat relieved as I might eat the poor man alive and scare him off. And I want to feel him inside me discovering, feeling, pushing, pulling, pleasuring, until we’re both sweaty and hurting. And not worry about tampons and towels.

Frustration doesn’t become me.


Balance has been restored to the universe temporarily, though in my usual diet-soft-drink-in-one-hand-and-chocolate-cake-in-the-other way of overcompensation.

The Drummer and I passed in the hall between the kitchen and loungeroom and our eyes locked.

He said I could suck his dick.

I said I could if he said please.

He said please.

I like it when he’s assertive.

The next few minutes blurred but I remember telling him to get on all fours. I parted his bottom cheeks and buried my head in the cleft, aiming my tongue at his anus. I realised two design issues in quick succession: he is larger in all areas than Jekyll, including the depth of his gluteal muscles; and my nose is proportionately longer than my tongue, making access to his hole a challenge.

The Drummer rolled on his back to try a different angle. I managed to lick, probe and flick without wedging my nose too far where it wasn’t intended and heard a few “That’s fucking fantastic” murmurs in appreciation. Give me a new skill and I’m dangerous — I’m afraid Jekyll and Hyde have spoiled me forever and I’ll never have sex with anyone who’s not into anal play. I have a tongue and I’m not afraid of over-using it.

“But wait, there’s more,” I said as I jumped off the bed to the toy drawer. I found the vibrating butt plug and lube and fucked his anus as he masturbated. He usually comes quickly when masturbating but the arse play and side-effect of medication held him in an almost-meditative trance between wanting to come and not wanting it to end.

He finally hit saturation point and flipped me on my back – in his mind I could see I was a porn vixen in scanty lingerie begging for a money shot, while in the real world I fell back in my flannel pyjamas and knitted socks, my hand covering my eyes as I realised the only place he could come was on my face. He laughed when he snapped out of his orgasmic reverie and saw the mess he made of my pyjama top, neck, face and hand. I laughed in tune through my sticky hand and waited for his legs to recover enough strength to fetch tissues and tidy some of his handiwork.

He promised to wash my pyjamas.