Happy birthday to Miss G!! Happy birthday to me…

My birthday was in December; gifts of love and leather are, of course, accepted. Anyway, at the time, I was busy being miserable over the death of my marriage, moving out into a new apartment, trying to manage the entire situation for my young son, and being eleventy billion months pregnant, so partying like a rock star was not exactly at the top of my list. Regardless, going out to clubs and whatnot has never really been my scene; I prefer intimate conversations or dinner parties, really. But Special K had lined up another sub with whom I play, and had wanted to throw an evening for me of kinky fuckery and debauchery.

These are a few of my favorite things…..

Wasn’t in the right place then, but I’m certainly getting there, so I was happy to entertain some kinky texts and hints at what he and Little Cam Girl want to do. It’s all for altruistic reasons, of course, as everyone knows that a good orgasm will send you into labour. Of course, that’s the theory, and they mean to find out. I think that’s adorable…

€40 says they’re both naked and gagged on my bed before we get an hour into my birthday play party. Place your bets!!

The flip side of all of this, being my Dom up north. He’s wonderful and sweet and caring and has offered to be my birth partner… and I think he’s falling in love with me. He came to visit. He puts my son on his shoulders and plays with him. My son begs to see him, like he does with his father… but he’s not his father, my Dom. And it aches me. It rips my heart into happy pieces to see a great male role model, someone I care for… but, I also know that it can’t last. There will be a final piggyback ride. There will be a last game of chase…Because, this isn’t my home. I can eat the foods and learn the verbiage, but eventually, I’ll go back to my home across the ocean. And it’s a body too wide for him to join me for forever. Too high to climb over, too deep to go under, and I don’t think there’s any real way of going across. There will be a final game of chase, I think to myself, and it splinters my heart. How many relationships will I have to destroy? How many tears will be because of decisions I have to make? Are they the right ones? Are they fair? This isn’t my “forever” home, if I ever had one. If I ever will.

But until then, let’s all enjoy the impending kinky fuckery, shall we, kids???



IKEA is my new fetish

When you break up with someone, the best thing to do, in my delightful opinion, is to get the hell away from them as quickly as you can. Run. RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN. Of course, when you have kids together, you can only go so far, and unless they post a threat to your kid, they’re gonna be around. A lot. Which serves to remind you of exactly WHY you left in the first place. It’s a weird bit of distance that allows you some perspective, but still close enough to give you excellent examples of exactly what a fucking dipshit you married. Well done.

So, I found an apartment, signed the lease, and found a roommate, all in a shockingly small amount of time. As though the universe was looking on, saying, “You came to your senses! Great! Now, let’s get moving on this, shall we?” Why yes, universe, we shall.

My ex took my to IKEA, not because he was any form of altruistic, but because he likes to shop. He flounced around IKEA like we were planning for some sort of holiday, happily throwing things into the trolley, while I looked at the entire ordeal as something to grit your teeth and get through, like bad sex. It wavers painful. It was horrible. It was the death throws of our marriage, and I both knew it was necessary, and hated him or how much he was enjoying it all. Fuck him.

But, as much as it all sucked, there’s something so weirdly cathartic about getting your haul back to your new place, and setting up your life. It’s clean and fresh, and so entirely yours. You pull out the instructions and the dozens of absurd pieces with weird names, like “kvark,” and “stollim,” and you just… start. There’s no use crying over the fact that everything is in pieces, you just look around, see what you have, and start pulling things together. You have a sketchy image of what it should all look like when you’re done, sure, but how will you leave your mark? There are missteps, and you pull things apart and jimmy them back together… and then you finally step back, and it’s done. You have your dresser. And it’s big and black and something your ex would HATE, and that’s half the reason why you got it.

And I love it all the more for being something he would never, ever want.

Happy new year, my little kinksters. May it be full of fresh starts, new experiences, and weird Swedish furniture you can’t pronounce!