Because When It’s Right, It’s Pretty Fucking Perfect

I’m sitting on my housemate’s bed, on Fetlife, on SA, meeting potential clients and gossiping. I could be some sort of perverted teenager.

You know when they tell you that it’s only after the fact that you realise that the little things were actually the big things? They mean moments like this. I’m wrecked tired and would love to sleep…. but I love spending time with her, more.

I mean, I would never admit that to her face. She calls me a useless cow, and I call her a rotten bitch. Then we laugh. Then she falls asleep, her head drops, and she hits her face on the laptop screen. Or maybe she falls asleep and I suddenly grab her foot to let her know I’m off to bed.

We make tea for each other. We go through our war wounds and histories together. She gives me parenting advice, and I’m going to start an investment portfolio for her.

It’s the healthiest adult relationship I’ve ever had. If we were lesbians, it would be perfect. Instead, we’ll eat ice cream in each other’s beds, and raise my kids together, for however long it lasts.

For however long it lasts, it’s a series of moments for which I am so very thankful.

You Will Never Hate Me As Much As I Hate Me Right Now

***TRIGGER WARNING, if that helps.***

It’s always sex with new people that just fucks me up, the most.

I always say that when I left my marriage, it was like waking up from a nightmare, and in a lot of ways, that’s really true. There were things and events that happened to me that I just kinda of…. ignored. They *happened,* but if I didn’t think too much about it, I was generally fine. If I stopped too long and thought too hard, I would just start to get angry, and I told myself that that was a useless emotion, and that my ex was HARD at work on his emotional and psychological issues, and it WOULD get better. When I stopped lying to myself about that, I had to start owning up to myself about a whole host of other, awful shit. If you ever meet someone who has been in an emotionally abusive relationship (I assume this rule will hold true for those who are physically abused, too, but I don’t know), they’ll tell you that they hate their ex partner(s). What they may not say, though, is just how much they’ve ever hated themselves.

HOW could I have stayed, as he made me feel unattractive, foolish, useless, a burden? WHY did I do that? I’m smart and I’ve got a seriously bad ass vanilla career. If I play my cards right, I could go pretty damn far, even at this later stage. But I stayed with someone who stepped over me as I gasped in the throws of an asthma attack on my kitchen floor, because fuck him, but WTF ME?????

Special K and I are poly, though. He’s the sweetest, kindest, most caring man I have ever met, with a soft, squishy little heart. And he loves me. And I feel like dirt, because I’ve hurt him so badly.

See, it’s always sex with new people that fucks me up the most. And we’ve met new people. A couple, really. Individually, they’re great, and Special K and I each get on well with either of the members. We also enjoy them as a couple. It’s actually kinda perfect. But as it happens, the female partner, “Sonata,” was free on Monday night, and I was feeling particularly horny…… as you do, when you’ve had awful sex for ten years and then all of a sudden have basically one orgasm after the other (hurray!!!).

K: You know…. we could invite Sonata over…? Maybe enjoy some “together” time?

Me: OMG FIND MY PHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE!

*commence text flirting and inviting her sexy ass over to K’s place.*

If you’re in kink, then you know the first thing you do, really, is negotiate. It’s like wearing a condom, but for your state of mind; it’s protection to help make sure everyone has a safe, and healthy experience. But, much like a condom, some people can find that it ruins the mood. Who wants to discuss that time your ex husband held you down and ignored your safe word as you yelled it out, repeatedly, and fucked you against your will? There’s a mood killer. And when you’ve been with another partner for a while, you forget. You forget that you NEED to have these conversations, because HE already knows your triggers…..

…………………….but she doesn’t.

And sometimes, something happens, and you get triggered, and it’s nobody’s fault but your own that, now, the thought of anyone putting a hand on you, any physical contact at all, makes you feel ill. And you have to explain that to the most wonderful man in your life. You get to sit there and tell him that when he and Sonata joked about how you don’t submit, how they’re both switches, that it’s actually deeply painful that you CAN’T trust anyone enough to submit. That you actively repress a full half of your nature, because the thought of being tied down again turns you into a panicked mess.

And you’ve no one to blame but yourself. Because it was you who stayed in the marriage, and you who can’t afford therapy right now. It was you who got triggered and has to work through this mess, and in reality, they did nothing wrong at all. But it’s them you can’t touch, or hold, and tell them that they’re not bad or wrong. You get to sit in your glass case. All alone. And hope that they’ll still be there when you get released from your mental “time out.”

The 2am Panic Attack

It’s late, and I SHOULD be happily passed out asleep in my bed. Alone. My ex took our oldest and Special K is at his place, so I have the bed all to myself. I should be luxuriating in being able to spread out!

But for some reason, I can’t. Fuck.

Last night, K and I went out on a “double poly (play) date.” It was mostly just to see how things went, which was well! K and this other Domme had played previously, and I encouraged him to spend more time with her. Her (sub) partner and I joined them, and it turned into a lovely evening, which progressed into a fun little play session back at their place. Where her sub and I kissed.

And it was fine.

I generally get a very instant gut reaction from a kiss. Anything from “OMFG GET THE FUCK OFF OF ME,” to my first kiss with Special K, where my brain exploded and little flaming candies came shooting out of my skull. This kiss with the sub was nice, which is a perfectly good starting point. But what it highlighted to me, more than anything, was how fucking over the moon in love I am with Special K. I don’t mean, “we love each other and may consider picking out china patterns,” I mean “sometimes kissing him feels just as important as breathing, and I feel like maybe parts of his soul mirror mine.”

It’s intense. And it’s fucking terrifying.

FUCK. I’m not even a citizen of this country! What do I do when I eventually move back? I can’t just take him with me; he’s not a puppy. What am I going to do in 5 years? In 10 years??

A smarter and better person would say, “live in the moment! Just enjoy it,” but I’ve come to accept that that’s just not who I am. And it’s worked in my favour; having backup plans for my backup plans are what made me able to leave my ex almost immediately upon deciding to get out. I’m a PLANNER. How do I make plans around this??

What if he hurts me?

I was able to leave my ex because I had, to a large degree, lost any love for the man. My sympathies for my ex-husband were more out of habit than anything else. But the connection I have with K is intense. If it ended now, what would I do? The bar is so high for anyone else in the future. The kiss with the sub was at once both relatively uneventful, and also illuminated a piece of my world.

My head is swirling, and my thoughts are spinning like dozens of tiny tops in my mind. He carries a piece of my heart with him, and every day that piece grows. What will I do when it’s over, someday? Because it has to be, right? What the hell am I doing falling so in love with someone, when I can’t guarantee them, or myself, a real future?

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I Burn Chocolate

My housemate is a trained chef. I am SUPER good at making cereal. Anyway, over the weekend, she was off to the north to play and frolic and generally be away from me and the kids because fuck it, she needs a break. My son M was bored, and I am hardly the Martha Stewart of, like, anything. I’m more of a Warren Buffet kinda gal, if we’re being honest.

M: Mommy?

Me: My dude?

M: Can we make chococrispies like I make with auntie?

Me: ……………………………………………..

When faced with attempts at domesticity (if that wasn’t a word before, it is now), I tend to freeze up like a deer in headlights. But fuck it; I’ll give it a swing!

Me: YES!

This was a recipe EVEN I should be able to handle. Fuck it! I’m a mom! I have a pinterest page! I’ve seen recipes online! I HAVE SO GOT THIS!

I got a bag of rice crispies, and pulled out some chocolate from the press. How hard can it be, amiright?! I threw the chocolate into a bowl.

“We want it melted, right?” I say to M, who, at 4 years old, is pretty much the brains behind this whole operation. “Yeah, ok, half a chocolate bar in the microwave for……1 minute!”

1 minute is, surprisingly, a long time. Also, chocolate, when it burns in your microwave because you’re an idiot and not minding it, makes this horrible black, crunchy beast of a thing that STINKS up your kitchen. When I opened the microwave, and I’m not even exaggerating here, a PLUME of white smoke erupted into the kitchen. Naturally, I shut the door to the microwave as quickly as I could.

“What’s that, mommy??”

“Uhhhh…. bit of smoke, buddy. It’s mommy, cooking.”

“It looks like a DRAGON is in there!”

*Nervous laugh* “Ha! Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeah! Isn’t it fun? Mama’s just gonna open the patio doors, mkay?”

The chococrispies had an EXTRA step of picking out the black crunchy bits, but we DID get to mix in the rice crispies, and I must say, I’m not a bad chef!!

So long as the recipe is, like, two steps… and I’m “cooking” in a well-ventilated area.

The Hierarchy of Slutdom

I don’t know anyone who goes to their first career conversation as a young teenager, and responds to the question of “what do you want to be when you grow up,” with “A BITCH WITH A WHIP!”

But here we are.

Most people seem to gravitate toward sex work for a variety of reasons or through a variety of circumstances, but at the end of the day, we’re all pretty much doing the same thing: providing an emotional experience for a client.

So, imagine my surprise when I first joined Tumblr, and found a whole sea of young women who were full service sex workers (FSSW), just doing their things. Good for them! I never would have even considered that as an option for me when I was younger, but these girls are putting themselves through school, working the cards they’ve been dealt, but above all, they seek their own independence and never want to have to rely on someone else. Not just men, but ANYONE. When I first found these women, I felt proud of who they were and what they were achieving. Trading on their looks? Sure… but models do the same thing. Using men for their money? Ok…. but the male clients were using them for the experience of being with young women. This wasn’t anything NEW, they were just making sure that they got paid for it. To me, it’s a road fraught with emotional landmines, but if they could handle it: MAZAL TOV!

I generally wasn’t surprised to see the “feminists” rail against them and how they were “allowing” themselves to be degraded. What I WAS surprised to see, were other sex workers (I shudder to say “other Dommes,” but it so often was the truth), who said, “well, I may be a sex worker, but I’m not a WHORE.”

This is the sex worker version of “I’m not like the other girls.” It’s a funny form of misogyny that was so ingrained in me, that it literally took reading a post with that comment, and the subsequent responses, before I realised how FUCKING INSANE that is. At least you’re not a WHORE? First of all, if you’re offering ANY sort of sex work for money, you give up the right to act precious about your little corner of the universe, in my opinion. You may not be full service and that’s your choice, but that doesn’t make you BETTER. In fact, literally nothing makes you a better person than anyone else, other than just being a better person. Not being a dick. Not kicking puppies. Helping people. Giving charity. THOSE MAKE YOU A BETTER PERSON, not who you will and will not fuck.

The other thing that I found truly fascinating was how many people talk about “selling your body.” There was an excellent post by a FSSW who said something like, “I sell my time, my perfume on my skin, my charming company, my vivacious laugh, but my body remains my own. Don’t get it twisted.” How strange we are as a culture, that vilifies women for selling experiences, instead of thanking them. And how much weirder that in this small corner of the universe full of women who provide these erotic experiences, that there seems to be this intense self-hatred of crossing the line between sex work, and actual SEX.

I hate to say, I may be a sex worker, but at least I’m not a hypocrite.

Neurotic

Since leaving my ex, G, my oldest son has had a really tough time with the change. He turns 4 this year, and he’s only now coming out of major tantrums. Like, throw his body against me, tantrums. The, I-have-to-hold-him-or-else-he-might-hurt-himself tantrums. And the thing is, with older kids, people seem to assume your child is a  spoiled brat who just wants attention. Maybe he is. Maybe I’m completely fucking up this motherhood gig. It’s kinda 50/50 at this point in the game.

This morning, M saw his little brother use a baby bottle that M used to use. That was it. Enough to set him off. He hasn’t had a tantrum like this in a long time. It had been so bad in the past, in fact, that I put him into play therapy in hopes of SOME relief. We were up to 2-3 major tantrums per week, and it was leaving me physically and emotionally exhausted. Pour on top of that a full time job, another child, and my ex and his outstanding ability to maintain a near constant state of prickishness, and you have me, just wanting things to settle down.

So, the little Jewish boy went into therapy. And for a while, it seemed to maybe help a bit. Eventually, we stopped going for financial reasons, and M seemed TOTALLY fine. He’s been doing great. But sometimes we have mornings like today, where everything should be great and perfect… and it’s a meltdown over nothing at all, which results in me wondering what I’m doing wrong. Sometimes, it feels like: there’s every other mom, who can pull together gorgeous garden parties for birthdays, and then there’s me, who… I’m lucky if I can get my hair brushed on the weekends.

On the bright side, I had chocolate ice cream tonight. So….. YAY healthy coping mechanisms(?)!

Rubber and Rice and All Things Nice

If you had asked me four years ago if I was into rubber, I probably would have said something like, “Eh… it’s ok, I guess?” And to be fair, I’m still on the fence about whether I have an inherent rubber fetish, or whether I now associate it with sex and violence. My first REAL intro to rubber was with Special K. For him, it’s a proper fetish, whereas for me, it’s really about reducing someone to little more than an object to be passed around and used (with consent). Rubber helps accomplish this quite nicely.

And so it was that last Friday night, after at least two weeks of not being able to get a night together, for one reason or another, that I found one tall, broody, and handsome man, naked in my bedroom and ready to serve at my command. What’s a girl to do, right?

Well…. ok, obviously you start by putting that rubber hood over his head so there’s only one small hold for breathing, and then you tie his wrists to his ankles, because it’s funny. Then, if you really want to complete the look, you’ll go ahead and put that hook in (he got me a HOOK! I love this man…) and tie it to the collar he has on. Then, much with a stew or whatever (I really don’t cook, so work with me here), you let him simmer. Just leave him there, and come back to check on him now and again. It’s the waiting and anticipation that drives him absolutely nuts. Have some sushi. Maybe a glass of wine. That’s what always makes me laugh about BDSM in the movies; most of what I do, at lot of the time, revolves around NOT doing anything. Ok, yes, there’s the sexy-fun-times, but really, there’s not much I can do to him that he isn’t already doing to himself in his own head.

So, by the time I flip him onto his back and sit on his face, he’s SUPER ready to play! I have to say, and I don’t always feel like a lot of other Dommes feel the same way, but a man thrashing around under you is probably one of the sexiest things I have ever seen. Like, in my life. Knowing that Special K will push himself to his absolute limits for me, all the while being aware that I would never really place him in any significant danger, it hugely arousing. On a scale of dark chocolate and oysters to champagne being poured over nipples, I would say it’s definitely in the “nipple zone” (it’s taking all my willpower NOT to make a ‘Danger Zone’ joke, so you’re welcome).

Like some perverted Pavlov’s dog, I now associate the smell of rubber and latex, with the thought of dehumanising Special K, and abusing his very sweet little body. Pulling on his nipples while I ride his face, or pressing his head into a pillow while I slip slowly and wetly inside of him with my strap on. If you’ve ever pegged a man who loves it, who LOVES his sexuality, not just sex, in a way that makes you want to explore every aspect with him, then you know the sounds he can make when he’s finally living his desires.

And I love him so much, that I didn’t even blink an eye when he called out for “Ed” when he came…. 😉