Wednesday, February 27, 2013
I left my sandals on his back porch. I left the sliding glass door open, my wet foot prints across his wooden floor trailing behind me.
I dropped my shirt at the beginning of the hallway, my skirt at the end. I unhooked my bra and let it dangle at my fingertips as I slowly stepped into his bedroom.
Plush cream carpeting nestled in between my toes. I let my bra land at my feet as I stood on the edge of his bed, a tall wooden four post structure, nice and sturdy. I leaned against the carved and lacquered wood waiting for him.
Even in this Summer scorcher, I still felt his heat just behind me. One delicate fingertip started at my shoulder and trailed down my arm, then across my back, until hooking into my panties.
He knelt down, sliding them off as he descended. I stepped out of the fabric, which he held in his hand, playing with the pink silk.
As he stood, I turned to look at him. His eyes were hungry, starving. Pushing me down onto his bed, I knew he would take his nourishment from my body.
I landed on his down comforter, enveloped in the fabric; my sweat glued my skin to cover. My toes barely touched the ground, my hips half on half off the bed.
He was naked, his manhood hard and ready. But instead of taking me right there, he pushed my legs open and buried his face in my cunt.
I gasped, my hands finding their way to his auburn mane. With my panties still in his hand, he lifted my hips up, drinking all of my pussy in. My breath quickened as I bucked my hips, trying to fuck his face. His nails sunk into my skin as his tongue traversed my lips, my clit. His five o'clock shadow tickled my skin. I moaned and giggled, wanting nothing more than for him to never stop.
And then it started, the build up, the rising up to my ecstasy. Like a wave coming into the shore, the warmth grew in my body, gaining strength and breadth, until finally bursting forth, rippling out from my hips to my limbs, sweet warm pleasure surging throughout my body.
I screamed. I gripped his hair and screamed his name and moaned and cursed and loved each sweet moment of it.
When he stood, I sat up and kissed him, tasting myself on his lips. I lapped up myself from his face, letting myself get lost in his embrace, until breathlessly I panted, "Now, it's my turn."
I wrote down two goals for five years from now. I thought about them, let them linger inside me for a while.
And then my Mom got sick. And I visited her every day I could while she was in the hospital.
As I walked through the same doors multiple times, and saw the same people each day, it became clear what I wanted. I don't want to be an EMT. I want to be a doctor.
In a strange twist of fate, during a conversation with one of my mother's other visitors, the woman talked about the son of a friend. He was just turning thirty. He had just finished medical school and was about to start his work in a hospital. As I sat there, listening to this woman chat with my mother, I thought, That could've been me. I could've been a doctor by now.
As I walked through the halls of that hospital, every time I saw someone in a white lab coat, especially in groups, I kept thinking, They could've been my colleagues.
So I made the decision. I'm going for it. I'm going to become a doctor.
I suppose the decision may be both the easiest and hardest part of this process. Now that I've made the decision, named it, said it, breathed life to it, I have to take the first steps, start the journey, the long hard slog to my goal.
Just in doing some basic searching on the interwebs, I know it will be at minimum two years before I can even apply to med school. I have 32 credits of sciences I need to take, not to mention I need double check my English credits still count. I'll need to study for and take the MCATs too. There is just so much to do. It's all very overwhelming.
My life is going to fundamentally change come Fall of this year. I plan to enroll in the local community college for my credits, two lab sciences a semester for the next two years. I would've gone back to my old university, but the cost would've been more than double the price of the community college. Not even a question of what decision I was going to make.
I am scared shitless. Scared I'll not be good enough. Scared that it is too late for me to try. Scared that it will all be for naught. But I have to try. I have to know if I had the goods, if I was meant to be a doctor.
There was one good thing that came out of my conversation with my father yesterday. He casually mentioned that before my sister died she was pursuing a career in medicine. Part of the reason why I didn't go down that road was because of pressure from my mother, whether she realized it or not, to not walk in my father's footsteps, to not pursue medicine because of some odd notion of my place and her place in his life.
I reject my mother's example of humility to others for the sake of I don't know what.
I am smart. Super smart. I am brave, courageous, much more daring than she has ever been. And I am better than a doormat.
I'm going for this, come hell or high water. I'm going to become a doctor, or crash and burn while trying.
Yesterday I spent some quality time with my younger half-brother and my father.
As always, it was awkward.
My father is emotionally closed off, and my brother and I have learned much the same habit. Often during our dinner, eaten at my father's house with my (it feels odd to even write this) step mother as cook, there were long stretches of silence saved only by the television on in the background.
My (this still feels weird to type) step mother finished her meal before we arrived and did not join us for our supper.
During our entire time in my father's home, the three of us didn't talk much, though I had plenty to divulge. My mother's recent stint in the hospital. (She's home now and adjusting to her new life as a diabetic.) My plans for my future. (More on that in the next blog.) I brought up those topics briefly, but never did they hold the attention of my eighty-three year old father for long.
None of this was new. I've come to accept the limited relationship I have with him, and I endeavor each day to be better than his example.
No, the shitty came in the car ride home.
I love my brother. He is my blood. But, I'm afraid, my brother is also a douche. It pains me to write that, but it's true.
We spent the first two thirds of the car ride with him spouting on about how he needs to put himself out there more in order to find a relationship. However, he would then admit that he doesn't really care about finding a relationship, but he feels like he should care. Also, he owns up to being emotionally closed off and not willing to put in real effort into developing anything if it should even occur. In his mind, it should just be easy, no effort at all to have a relationship.
I realize my brother is a twenty-five year old guy with unrealistic expectations when it comes to relationships in general and interactions with women in particular. Thankfully he knew this to be true as well.
I, being the somewhat wiser older sister, have suggested therapy to my brother to deal with his emotional issues. I tried to not get angry when he again brushed my suggestion aside, stating he didn't trust psychologists, how he knew himself better than they ever would, and how he felt he could fix his own problems without help.
When I pointed out that he had had roughly six years of unsuccessful dating experiences, not to mention a family history he is not dealing with, he still insisted he could do it on his own. I accepted his decision and hoped that would be the end of it.
But he kept talking.
He tangented to another thought: he needs to seek out older women. Why? Because they are more aggressive, being that their biological clock is ticking.
Yes, my brother said that. Yup, it gets worse.
I pointed out to him that an aggressive woman is so because of her personality, not some imaginary biological clock we all have ticking in our brains. I informed him that I found his statement offensive.
And my brother, my twenty-five year old stoner of a brother, didn't agree. In fact, he protested my argument.
I told him his statement upset me.
And then I pivoted to an incident that happened at my job on Sunday. Everyone had just come back from lunch. One of the guys casually remarked to the group how he had gone to "the titty bar" to have lunch. The food was meh. The drinks were meh. And why would he waste money on a dancer he won't ever have when he already had a girlfriend at home who puts out for him.
There were eight people on that crew. I was one of two women. The other woman was not nearby when this conversation happened. I felt... angry and yuck and what-the-fuck.
When I relayed this incident to my brother, he couldn't understand why I was upset. I explained (yes, I had to explain) to him that the conversation was inappropriate. I was at work. My fellow coworkers should talk about work, not their lunch break at the titty bar.
He still didn't get it. He said if I was upset, I should've said something. Trying not to raise my voice, I insisted that I shouldn't have to say anything at all. My coworker should know that talking about strip clubs was not appropriate for work.
And then my brother made me really and truly angry. He had had some experience working with crews while in college. He spoke about how, when you get a group of techs together, especially ones that know each other, it gets really vulgar. Why should I be shocked or upset when I knew this would happen? It wasn't like I worked in an office or anything.
I was very happy he was about to get out of my car. My brother couldn't understand how misogynistic he comments were, couldn't understand why I was upset, couldn't understand why I wouldn't just accept the conversation from my coworkers as normal.
My brother is swimming in privilege. I wanted to bash his head up against my car window. Instead I rose my voice, saying it wasn't okay. It wasn't okay that my coworker talked about strippers at work or in that way, belittling those women so. It wasn't okay that I should just expect "boys to be boys". And, worst of all, it wasn't okay that he, my brother, was saying this to me.
I love my brother and want nothing but the best for him. But my brother is an asshole. My brother is a misogynist. And I don't know if he will ever change.
Before my brother got out of my car, I explained his comments, his thinking, his shittiness was an example of why there is a NOW, why there are sexual harassment statues, and is part of the reason why I am a feminist.
And yeah, it's also part of the reason why I made an important decision for my life recently.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
The melody of the creek behind the deputy's home filled the forest with liquid music. The water was down a small stony slope. You could see the twist and turns of the stream from the deputy's back porch, and almost cool air occasionally drifted up towards his home as I waited for him to change his clothes.
He reappeared a minute later dressed in sneakers, jeans, and a worn college t-shirt, his alma mater he explained, before leading me down to his favorite spot in town, so he claimed.
My sandals gathered the occasional pebble as I followed him, holding his hand was we descended. When we approached the creek, he sat me on an almost perfect spot, a large rock mostly flat and big enough for two.
"I bet you bring all the girls here."
"You bet I do. It's about the only romantic place in this town."
I slipped off my sandals, shook out the small stones, and set the shoes aside before easing my toes into the cooler than expected water. I let out a small moan at the relief.
The Sun would soon set; a warm glow bathed the early evening sky. I let down my hair, tossing it side-to-side shaking loose my strands and slipping my hair tie on my wrist. Relaxed, finally, from my day, I looked over at the deputy sitting within arm's reach of me.
He had the naughtiest of grins on his face, the sweetness in his eyes from before overshadowed by his almost sinister glee.
"You are thinking about something filthy, aren't you?"
"I've never had much of a poker face. Lost a lot of money in college because of it."
"What are you thinking about?"
"Not thinking, just observing. You never re-buttoned your shirt."
Looking down, I saw his delightful view. Were I not wearing a bra, my nipples would've been exposed when I tossed my hair about. As still, the lace a top my bra, as well as the first inch of the cups, protruded from my shirt.
If I were embarrassed, I may have covered up. But I was hot, and he was hotter, and I suspected I wouldn't be wearing my clothes much longer. I smiled at the sight, and then smiled at him. Both of us were delighted at the small development.
Then, out of nowhere, the deputy stood, reached down, and pulled off his shirt, muscular arms, chest, and abs revealed. He tossed his shirt aside before undoing his pants.
"What are you doing?"
"Getting undressed, obviously." His pants were down by his knees as he pulled off both the fabric and his shoes in two good jerks.
"And why are you getting undressed?"
"I'm going for a swim." He turned around, pulled off his boxers, and tossed them aside as well. He turned his head, huge smile on his face, as he watched me stare at his ass.
"That...That water isn't deep enough to swim in."
"Really? That's your answer?" He walked forward to the center of the creek, the water coming up to his knees, and then sat down in the middle of the small current.
"If I can float, it's swimming."
"Oh, please. You're ass is practically sitting in the stream."
"My ass, eh? Wouldn't you like to know."
I had to give him points for brashness. And the water was cool. And the heat lingered even as the evening drew near. What the hell, I thought.
Still clothed, though my thin shirt and skirt only barely counted, I stepped out into the creek, eventually standing above the very attractive man floating in two feet of water.
"You were just trying to get me naked. Nice try, though."
"No, I wasn't trying to get you naked."
"Really?" I knelt down beside him, getting my face closer to his. "Then what were you trying to do?"
With one great sweep of his arm, he splashed water on me, half wetting my shirt, skirt, and hair. I shrieked before breaking out in an uncontrollable laugh. My hands found his chest, leaning against his firm body, my heaving frame nowhere near its overjoyed end.
Sitting up from his float, his hands gripping my arms, he brought his lips to mine and kissed me in the middle of his creek, quieting my giggles, the sound around us again only of the slow moving water. My hands found his back, tracing the lines of muscle over bone, and then slowly making their way down to his ass. I felt the smile on his lips when I gripped his cheeks.
I broke our embrace, my mouth moving to his ear.
"Okay, lover boy, lets move this to your bed, cause I don't want to fuck on rocks, and you have neighbors."
"Not within five miles, and I do have a condom in my jeans pocket, but no, I don't want gravel embedded in my knees again."
I sat back, a wide smile on my face.
"I was right. How many girls have fallen for your floating trick?"
"Most just start making out with me on the rock. Incredibly uncomfortable."
I stood up and started back towards his house, grabbing my sandals, and throwing "Race yah" over my shoulder, before scurrying up the small hill, dripping as I moved. He hooted and fumbled his things as he followed me.
I heard the Sheriff's voice before I saw him. A boisterous baritone boomed through the summer heat, seeming to carry through the humidity in the air.
Next came the clack-clack of his boots on the wooden porch as he ascended to his domain. Sure enough, the picture in my mind was complete when he entered, a cowboy hat atop his head.
He had indeed brought a friend, a gentleman with only one arm who carried a chicken in his only hand. He wore overalls with no shirt, dirty worn boots, but no hat himself. He looked to be the Sheriff's age, and the two talked taking no notice of me as I sat in my seat patiently.
Just as the deputy had foretold, the two men walked into the break room, shutting the door behind them, but their conversation still loud enough for me to hear.
As the farmer told the harrowing tale of his grandson trying to capture the chicken in his hand, a game apparently the two men had played when they were young, I waited. And waited. They laughed and howled, and I waited some more.
When finally their conversation had ended, the Sheriff opened the break room door, slapped his friend on the back, and assured the farmer he'd be by for dinner Sunday evening, and would be sure his wife baked the farmer's favorite pie for the occasion.
As the farmer exited, the Sheriff finally took notice of the pretty lady sitting in the chair by his desk. He sauntered, yes sauntered, to his chair, sat down, and put up his feet.
"Good afternoon, Miss."
"Good afternoon, Sheriff."
"What brings you to our quaint little town this balmy afternoon?"
"A rather unfortunate circumstance, Sir."
"Yes, Sir. A month ago, on a beautiful July night, taking in your fresh Bell County air with the top down on my car, I unfortunately made the mistake of not paying enough attention to my odometer."
"Ah, yes. Seems to be a problem among your generation."
"Unfortunately, Sir. For that I do greatly apologize."
"Where were you heading that evening?"
"Up north. I was on vacation, visiting a few college friends who live up and down the coast. That evening I was heading to see my friend Erica. She lives about a hundred miles from here, near the state line. I'd left my friend Jackie that afternoon in hopes that I'd make it to Erica's not too late."
"I suppose my traffic stop ended that goal?"
"Oh no, Sir. I was to her place before midnight, which was all I wanted. There was no inconvenience at all. If anything, I'm glad you brought my error to my attention."
"Miss Caroline. What do you do?"
"It's kind of boring, Sir. I work in a museum in DC."
"Well, my oh my, you are a far way from home."
"What do you do at the museum?"
"A few things. Cataloging artifacts. Answering researchers questions or steering them to the person who can. My favorite part, though, are the tours. Once in a while I get to guide school groups around the museum. The looks on the kids' faces are amazing."
"Well, now, that sounds like a lot of fun. How long was your schooling to do that?"
"A long time, Sir."
"And, I suppose, you had no fun during."
"Not much, Sir. My friends Jacki and Erica were my roommates. Everyone made fun of us because you never saw us doing anything except studying, either by ourselves or together."
"How's your social life now?"
"More of the same. Jackie and Erica both went back home and started jobs and families, but I've been locked away in my museum. I love it, though. I always have so much work to do, so many new things to learn and pass on to others."
"Well, we can't have a scientist like you stuck in this town one moment longer than necessary. Here, let me find that original fine."
The Sheriff opened a drawer and rifled through a few files.
"Ah ha," he exclaimed, pulling the fine out with flourish, fanning it like one used to with Polaroid pictures.
Reaching into another drawer, he pulled out a stamp and ink pad. First rocking the stamp on the pad, then dabbing it on the same surface, he slammed the stamp onto the fine with authority. Putting away the stamp and ink pad, he wrote something on the fine.
"Okay, Miss. Do you have your check book?"
"It's just a fifty dollar fine for going a little over the speed limit plus the processing fee. How's that?"
"Oh, thank you, Sir. Thank you so much."
"My deputy will handle the rest. You have a good day. I am off to spend time with the Misses."
"Thank you again, Sir. And you have a wonderful evening."
His boots clack-clacked as he walked out of the office, the screen door slamming behind him.
"Good job," said the deputy as he left his desk and walked towards my seat.
"Thanks for the advice." I stood up, check in hand, happy my ordeal was over.
"No sweat." He approached and stood close, too close to me for just a helpful public servant. I smiled, despite myself.
"The same joke, twice in row? Hmm, you need some practice." He reached out and took my payment, extending a finger to trace along the back side of my hand.
"You want to teach me?"
Was the heat in my body from the day's temperature or having this man so near it? Either way, I didn't care.
"Indeed. I think you have much to learn. Is there somewhere we could go?"
"I know just where to take you."
I was surprised my phone's GPS found the small building, one of only a half dozen on their Main St, a packed dirty path with probably more trees than people than inhabited this middle-of-nowhere town.
I parked out front, and stepped into the sticky heat of the August afternoon.
My 3pm summons to the Bell County Sheriff's office was tucked into my purse. One speeding ticket one month previous during a warm July evening brought me back to this state, even though I lived hundreds of miles away. I didn't want any points on my record or to pay the ridiculous fine the Sheriff gave me that evening, so here I was.
My shirt and skirt stuck to my skin from the immediate layer of sweat my body produced as soon as I exited my car. How anyone worked, let alone lived, in this heat was beyond me.
Stepping up onto the wooden porch of the Sheriff's office had more of a home feel than an official legal building. It even looked like a home, with its big windows, mailbox screwed to the outside wall right next to the door, and a porch swing on the far side of the stoop. I guess things were just different in Bell County.
The front door was wide open, a screen door shielding the inside. The most notable feature was the abundance of fans. Stepping back, I saw there were no air conditioning units in the aforementioned windows. I resigned myself to swimming in the thick heat and sticky sweat for the rest of my afternoon.
Pushing the screen door open, I walked inside. Just to my left sat a small table with a book opened and a small plaque next to it. "Please sign in." was etched in cursive calligraphy, the golden metal forming the words tarnished with age. I penned my name and the time, 2:50pm.
To the right of the entrance was an old wooden desk, large, lacquered, heavy, the one thing that had probably stayed constant with this office since its inception. Behind said monument on the wall was a yellowed map of the county, complete with the main interstate cutting through just inside the west border. I could pinpoint almost to the foot where I was pulled over.
In front of the desk were two chairs, also wooden but with a leather seat cushion and back. I sat in one and began waiting.
I hadn't seen his desk when I walked in. Beside the sign-in table was a partition which had obstructed my view. He sat in the corner, desk shielded from the window and anyone who walked in, but at a perfect view to see anyone who ventured inside.
He gave me a smile, his teeth white and straight, his eyes kind.
"I guess Jethro has his afternoon entertainment then."
"Jethro, that's the Sheriff's first name. You should probably call him Sheriff Douglass, though. He likes it when people refer to him by his title. Let me guess, traffic stop on the interstate?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
"Yeah, that's the Sheriff's deal."
The gentleman stood up from his desk and walked towards me.
"Deputy Johnson," he said, placing his hand over his heart. "May I offer you some coffee?"
"In this heat?"
"Jethro doesn't like to drink water, but the coffee is cool. Tastes horrible, but it's better than nothing."
As drops of sweat tickled my skin trailing down my back, I could see his point.
"Then I guess I'll take it."
He walked into another room, what looked like the break room, and returned with a cup that was indeed cool to the touch. The coffee tasted awful, but it was a small respite from the heat. I gave him a smile with my, "Thank you."
"No sweat," he replied.
We both huffed at his pun. He stepped away, as if walking back to his desk, but then stopped, turned, and stood next to me again.
"Let me give you some advice. Jethro pulls over people and gives them tickets because he, like most people in this town, are bored. We have very little to fill up our days.
"He'll come in here shortly. He's always exactly on time. Maybe he'll bring a friend. They'll talk for a while, probably in the break room with the refrigerator open for some cool air. Then his friend will leave.
"And Jethro will come back out, sit at his desk, probably put up his feet, and start talking to you. Be polite. Sweet. Sirs and thank yous. Yes Sheriffs. No Sheriffs. My apologies, Sir. He'll keep you anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour, depending on the conversation. If he likes you, and you want him to like you, the ticket, fine and points both, will go away and you can be on with your day."
In my shock, all I could manage was a "Um...Thank you."
The deputy knelt down, resting an arm on my chair, bringing his face close to mine. "Open your blouse a little, just another button. Can't hurt."
He gave a quick glance down, and then returned my gaze, an even wider smile on his face, before rising and returning to his desk.
With his body gone, I could still smell faint wisps of his scent: sawdust and sweat.
Normally, one could've been offended by the deputy's offhand comment. One could've protested, or called him a misogynist. One could have.
But there was something about him, something in his kind manner and easy grin, his velvety voice and the fact that he gave me advice at all, that made me like him.
No, more than like him. I wanted him.
And, frankly, he was right. Almost as much as I wanted to speak to the deputy without his clothes on, I also wanted to be out of this town as soon as possible, preferably not owing $300 or saddled with a point on my license. If showing a hint of cleavage would do that, I wasn't going to pass it up.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
And by "thing", I mean "podcast".
And by "did this", I mean "started a".
For those of you most loyal of blog readers, you may remember some time ago that I started a podcast and only created two entries. THIS IS NOT THAT!
However, having gone through the process of starting another podcast, there remains the option of me re-starting my previous effort, which I feel may well be a great new venture for me. But I digress...
There have been a few times in the course of my blog entries where I have cited Graydancer's Love Life Practice blog. I love reading his work and find it to be a comfort in my life. So much so that, in fact, I began recording myself reading his blog entries aloud back in August.
It just so happened that one time I recorded a blog reading while he was in the room. And then came the idea: "You should start a podcast." And I did my usual brush off of anything incredibly great and new that will totally be awesome for me but require some work and change in my life... until finally caving in this January to the simple fact that Gray was right as per usual. (Don't tell him I said that.)
Thus, Poetic Reads Gray was born. I launched it this past Friday on Gray's birthday, a quasi-gift to a more-than-just-a friend. I hope you will take the time to listen to his words as interpreted through my voice, and maybe even venture over to his blog to join the conversation or look at his nifty photos and links (even if there is no porn).
And thus my incremental takeover of the interwebs continues. Now I have an active blog, an active podcast, an inactive blog, an inactive podcast, a blog a use as a placeholder/organization tool, and my Twitter/Fet/FourSq/Tumblr feeds.
Yup, the internets are taking over. Run while you still can, or be like me an join the mass infection.
It wasn't a big lie. In fact, it was a tiny one I'm sure everyone has told some time, if not quite often, over the course of their lives. A friend, who happened to spot me standing, looking about at the gathered folks at the event, mimed "You okay?" to me. I gave a head nod. Yes, I was okay.
Except, really, I wasn't. I didn't want to admit this to my friend or to myself, but I wasn't.
Everyday I actively forget I will die. I actively forget the people in my life will die.
Someday, my friends will be dead. Someday, my family will be dead. At that moment, only a few hours til the end of my event, I was trying to not remember that one day my mother will be dead.
My Mom is sick.
I got the call Friday afternoon, after I'd checked into the hotel, put away all my clothes, lined up my shoes, and rested naked on my bed contemplating my weekend. I was taking a shower when my Mom initially phoned. I called her back, towel around my middle, thinking this would be just a check in.
And then I learned she was in the hospital. She had been suffering chest pains and shortness of breath. They admitted her, but didn't know yet what the problem was.
Thank whatever creator there is my mother was on the phone talking with me because when I heard chest pain and shortness of breath my mind jumped to heart attack and other no-good-very-bad thoughts.
And I was in DC. And my car was not. And my Winter Fire had just started.
I told her where I was ("at an event in DC"), and she told me it was okay. She told me to stay. She had had visitors, family and friends by to see her. She told me not to worry, something that was of course impossible.
I asked her to text me that night before she went to sleep, and every night til I could see her. She did. I talked to her the next day, and she texted me again that evening.
My Mom's diagnosis is a blood clot, which had originated in her leg, but had traveled to her lungs. She's now on blood thinners, and may well be on them for the rest of her life. She has a history of a clot in her past, caused by birth control and a sedentary job as well as lifestyle. But they do not know why she got this clot.
The icing on the shitty cake came Sunday night. My Mom is also now a diabetic.
For almost the entirety of my weekend, I pushed my emotions aside. I created a box, shoved all the feelings into that box, and scooted it to the edge of my periphery. Each time I thought the feelings might jump out in front, friends were there to distract me. I had amazing scenes and awesome friends time with so many people at the event. But my friends didn't realize they were doing this for me.
Even as I am working with Doc, it is still so hard for me to talk about my emotions. I have this idea that revealing my not-fun feelings places undue burden on those I care about. I have to be the rock, the one others lean on for comfort and care, to the detriment of my own emotional health.
When I learned my mother was now diabetic (in her before bed text message Sunday night), I made my way back to my room, hoping it would be empty. It was not. My event roommate was there.
I could not hold the box at bay anymore. I cried. My roommate rubbed my back and comforted me.
I ended up going back downstairs, not knowing how I would spend my last few hours of my event. I walked around. I watched pinches of scenes here and there. And then my friend mimed their question.
And, almost as soon as I answered it, I realized I was lying. I took my ass to bed, knowing that I needed to take care of me. I didn't need to suck every last once out of my kinky time. I needed to cuddle up with my stuffed turtle and sleep.
Today's therapy session was obviously centered around this new development and my emotional wall to the world. While waiting for the session to start, I came to the realization that I needed to at least tell my roommates what was going on. Doc concurred, saying it would be good for me as both an exercise and an emotional release.
After therapy I saw my mother. She looked like she always does, minus her makeup. Aside from the IV in her arm, you wouldn't know anything was wrong. I stayed with her for about four hours. We talked, first about what the doctors had told her, and then about nothing important, as you do when someone is in the hospital.
I walked away this evening feeling less scared. But all during my kinky fun, just outside my periphery, I was terrified. That she would die. That I wouldn't be there. That I was a horrible person for staying. That I was making a mistake. That I needed to rush to be at her side. That I was a horrible daughter. None of which is true.
When I arrived home tonight, the house was empty. I flipped through NetFlix, trying to find something funny, my self-prescribed medicine whenever life brings me down. As my roommates filtered in for the evening, I told them each about my mother's current state. Everyone was comforting, and the world did not end.
I have to keep reminding myself of Doc's lessons. I am baby stepping my way to being a more emotionally open and secure person. Each time I've let people in has been a good experience, even though I predicted it would not be so. Baby steps.
Photo courtesy of Beck and Her Kinks
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Monday, February 11, 2013
Sunlight shone through the large window in my room, breaking my night's rest with the brightness of the morning.
Even before the light annoyed my eyes open, I felt his body next to mine, his arm still across my middle, his hand still lightly holding onto my cunt, my head still nuzzled in the crook of his arm, and his heat still a comfort against my skin.
He'd slept over again. This was becoming a habit, or, dare I think it, a relationship. Still though, I liked having him around night, and day.
As I became aware of my body, I also felt the warmth in my loins, a side effect of him being here. His cock was semi hard, its flesh lightly grazing against the back of my thigh just under my ass.
He was still sleeping, his even breaths occasionally tickling my ear. I debated for but a moment before deciding how I would wake him.
I slowly reached my hand behind me, over his arm, inching my way towards his cock. My fingers lightly grazed at first, the most delicate of touches. His body responded, each touch I gave bringing more life to his loins.
And then I felt his fingers move. And his teeth bit my ear. And I realized his slumber had ended as well.
"Good morning," he whispered, before probing my pussy with his digits. My hips instinctively tipped up towards his hand with each of his movements.
"Good morning," I whispered back, gripping harder onto his now engorged cock.
Sloth like in our movements, he brought his body on top of mine as I moved under him, each of us never letting go of the other's sex until he slipped into me.
His strokes were smooth, deep, and measured. He thrust in, and then held himself there, letting me feel full of him, all of him. My hands gripped his ass. My legs locked behind his back. My cunt wanted nothing more than to always have his cock inside it.
He pulled out slowly, controlled, leaving just a slice of his tip inside me before again filling my pussy to the brim with his manhood. I could hardly take his torture, could hardly do anything except moan and bite his neck as his stroked my insides.
Gripping my ass much like I held onto his, he pivoted our bodies up to sitting on the bed. Gravity pushed him still further into me. Even as I buried my face in the crook of his neck, our hips rocked together, a slow movement that progressed us still closer and closer...
Until finally I came. My inner muscles gripped onto his cock as my teeth sunk deeper into his flesh. And as the warmth rolled throughout my body, he held me tight, and slipped himself out of me, spewing his warmth in between us. Hot sticky cum smeared on our bellies as we held each other.
Our breathing labored, I rose my head to his and kissed him. As our embrace ended, he remarked, "I'm hungry."
His hand pushed my body back down onto the bed. He began licking up his essence from my stomach, tickling my skin.
"I'm hungry too," I whined as he played with his tongue across my flesh. He reached his hand down to his stomach, skimmed us his cum, and brought my breakfast to my mouth.
As I ate, he said, "Now this is the way to start our day."
So many people. So many things happening. Equipment like I'd never seen before. Outfits, costumes, shoes, and boots that looked so glamorous yet so terrifying. Naked people flitting about. Fucking any and everywhere in whatever manner you could imagine.
And the things they used. The screams and wails coming from people's lips. I hadn't understood what I was getting myself into when I signed up for this event.
Was this really who I was? Was this really what I wanted?
I sat in my corner, a quiet little church mouse in the dungeon. I sat and watched, invisible to the fray. No one took notice of me. There were so many other spectacles to behold. I was safe there in my corner.
And then he came for me.
I noticed his approach from across the crowded room. His eyes were dark, a mixture of comforting and menacing. I felt like he could see through me, through my clothes into my flesh, through my head into my mind, from a hundred feet away.
With his each step closer towards me, my heart rate increased. I wanted to look away, wanted him to not see me, wanted to be invisible again. But he kept the contact, and kept moving towards me, til he finally stopped, standing legs astride and head tilted down to my upturned eyes.
With his body between myself and the dungeon, I felt shielded, closed off from the tumult that I feared. He reached down a hand, and I took it, standing up, my body now even closer to his.
He smelled of leather and musk. It was intoxicating, and I actually closed my eyes as I took in his scent.
The touch of his hand to my face shot my lids back open.
"Beautiful," he said, before caressing my lips with his own.
Again I closed my eyes, letting myself fall into him, kissing him, parting my lips and allowing our tongues to dance. I raised my hands to caress his face, his cheeks, his chin.
With a jolt, he gripped my biceps and pulled my lips from his.
"What do you want," he ask, fire in his eyes.
I was flabbergasted. I didn't know why I was even here, why I'd made the leap, bought the ticket, and walked into the dungeon that evening. I didn't know why he had found me, why we were kissing. How could I possibly know the answer to his question?
"What do you want?" He yelled now, demanding words leave my lips. Yet still, I didn't know what to say.
"What. Do you. Want?" He brought my face as close as he could to his, our noses almost touching, my eyes almost going cross. And then the words came.
"You. Yours. I want to be yours." I didn't know why I said it, but I knew it to be true.
That was why I was here. I didn't want to scream or cry or be hit. But what I did want, what I truly desired, they would all understand and accept. I wanted to be owned, to be someone's property.
A sexy yet scary smile crept across his face.
I did as I was told, again finding my spot on the floor. He parted his leather kilt, and I saw his cock was quite hard. Looking up at him, he was looking down on me. And the fire that was in his eyes found a home my cunt now as I burned to service him in whatever way he wished.
My hands parted his leather and my mouth found his cock.
I at first played with the tip and licked up and down the shaft before taking all of him into my mouth. One of his hands found the back of my head and gripped my hair. As my lips rode up and down his cock, his push on the back of my head encouraged my movements.
My right hand found his balls and began to massage, but then his free hand gripped my wrist and brought my arm to behind my back. He then grabbed my left wrist and placed my left arm with my right. My hands gripped my wrists. My mouth was to do all the work.
Soon he merely held my head as he thrust into my mouth, his strokes growing faster. Faster. Harder. Deeper. Until he pulled himself from my mouth and came, spewing his cum into my hair. He mashed his essence into my locks, cleaning his hands with my strands.
For the first time that night, he knelt down and whispered into my ear.
"Now you will smell like my sex for the rest of the night."
He stood, looking down on me again. He gave me this smile, this knowing grin, before walking away back across the dungeon and disappearing into the crowd.
I hoped beyond hope that somehow during this weekend, among the classes and events and play, I would find him again.
And I did, the next night, in the dungeon.
"How good is your control?" I asked him.
I was sleepy, having just woken up from his good morning text. His early job meant he'd been awake for several hours already.
I was used to this nudge from my slumber. Even though I was only half awake, I still liked texting him in the morning, still liked this bit of connection to start my day.
"What do you mean?"
But because I was texting him, as we often do throughout our day, I was horny. Just the thought of him, of all the things we'd done, of all the times we'd fucked, brought a fire to my abdomen like no other lover had.
"How good is your control when you cum? Say, if I wanted you to fuck me hard, pounding my pussy the way you and I both love, but then pull out and fuck my face just as you are about to cum, could you do that?"
I knew what he'd say before the answer appeared on my phone.
"Yes. I could do that."
Always so confident, so sure. It was just one of the reasons why I was in no rush to let him go.
"Could you do it... even without a condom?"
Again, I knew his response.
"Yes, I could do that. But are you ready for that?"
I thought about the feel of his cock as I slid my slickness across his member. I thought about the tease of him not entering me, just trailing his manhood across my lips, and tapping my clit every so often. I thought about the delicious tickle of his dick so close to entering me.
I thought about the first time we fucked, how right it felt to have him inside me. How he pulled my hair and bit my neck. How he devoured my pussy first, brought his messy face to my lips for an impassioned kiss, then went right back to enjoying me.
I thought about the time in the park, dark and cold, sneaking just off the gravel path where no one would see us. Dropping to my knees and pulling out his cock, his hand in my hair as I enjoyed sucking and stroking his member with my tongue.
I thought about the old church in Puerto Rico on our vacation a few months ago. Sneaking into the confessional. Him dropping to his knees and lifting the hem of my dress. How sweat suck to my skin like tar. How I covered my mouth with both my hands trying so hard to not scream my ecstasy.
"Yeah, I think we're ready for anything."
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
But then, life working as it does, I began speaking with a rigger friend. As we chatted, it occurred to me, Hey, maybe we could play.
I asked politely and they accepted.
It would not be a D/s scene, as they were submissive, but they could service top. This was fine with me; I just wanted to be in rope.
I stripped down to my underwear, stretched, took down my hair, took off my necklace, and we began.
They started with a TK, making it quite tight to accomplish their intended goal. They secured the chest harness to the rig above, cinching me up a bit. Next they added hair bondage, playing with my mass of curls. Then they included my favorite part of their tie: a blind fold graced my face. After the gift of darkness, they attached a cuff to my right ankle and lifted my leg.
As they worked, we chatted at times. They asked me how I felt, checked my hands often, but also worked with an efficiancy that I admired. I fell into my rope space, wanting to show them affection and appreciation for their time, nuzzling my head or brushing a finger against them.
With my one leg lifted, they stepped away for but a moment. And then I felt the kick. They smacked my left leg with their foot, testing to see if I would fall. They tried to buckle my leg a few times. I giggled, their kicks not very malicious, and held strong.
Then more rope graced my body, wrapping around my left thigh and rising my leg into the air. I rested my weight into my chest tie, felt my body move, felt how I could adjust pressure here and there in the ropes with my being lifted into the air.
I'd never been rigged in that way before. It was somewhat challeging, but mostly fun and different. I loved the feel of the constriction across my chest, the pull of the rope in my hair, the way my body swayed in this position in the air.
Freeing the rope attached to my hair from their ring, they wrapped the rope around my mouth, creating a gag. They gave me a little spin, first wrapping it on, and then unwrapping the rope from my mouth.
It was then time to come down. As per my request, they left the blindfold on as they lowered me to the ground. With almost all the rope off of me, we sat under the rig for about ten minutes, cuddling and chatting, my eyes still shadowed.
It wasn't that I had forgotten the feeling of the connection between rigger and bottom. In fact, it wasn't til we were on the floor that I realized indeed how much I had missed the connection.
Our time wasn't D/s, though that is something I love. There wasn't impact or sexual play, though I adored that type of interaction. With my friend, that was not what our time was about. It was me and another relating through this medium, getting to know each other in this way, an introduction of how we could be in this moment.
Yes, I want a Dom. Yes, I want a Daddy. No, this friend cannot be that.
But, for me, for that evening, for that time spent connected with my friend, what we had in those moments was enough.
"Well, yes. I invested a lot of emotional energy their way, so now that I've accepted that the fantasy in my head won't happen, I can invest most of that emotional energy elsewhere. And maybe that'll lead to other things, other connections. But, I mean, really... you can find an upside to amputation." - me
I'm not in the best mood right now.
I had a good therapy session today in that what Doc and I talked about was important and big and a good guide post of where I need to go next. But it also sucked because I accepted a fact that, for quite a while, I didn't want to and have been doing my best to avoid.
A fantasy of a life I wanted to have got shot down in the kindest way possible.
Accepting reality, accepting that a dream I had will not be, is not an easy thing to do or an easy place to live. Yet that is one of the points of me going to Doc in the first place: growing emotionally as a person, being strong enough to face my life instead of creating some story that I live in instead of the cold hard real.
Doc thought my snarky comment was actually poignant. He likened how I was feeling to amputation, cutting out a part of myself in order to heal.
So now, with VD (my not-so-affectionate nickname for Valentine's Day) approaching, I'm having all these other craptastic emotions along with the new stew I brewed today.
Thinking back on my VD history, I have no positive memories that aren't marred in some way.
There was my Ex, who didn't believe in giving gifts and never would acknowledge me as his girlfriend or that we were in a relationship. One VD I wrote him little notes and planted them in his cigarettes and his pocket. He liked them, and said thank you, but that was it. We went along as we were after that; nothing really changed til I left, but that's how it was always going to be with him.
There was the one time in First Grade (when everything seems to start) when I wrote a VD card for a boy I liked named Noel. The girl sitting beside me saw the card, and then yelled my intention to the entire class like it was some huge horrible thing. I was trying to be sweet and she ruined it. No wonder I have trouble expressing my emotions, little cunt.
And now, with more of my VD's spent unpartnered rather than coupled, I have new knowledge crapping all over my mind.
I suspect things with OKC boy may not work out. From our interactions over the phone, it seems like we want different things. We're getting together on Friday, and I've already resigned myself to the fact that we may have a less than pleasant conversation (though this will probably happen after sex during hang out time).
Doc pointed out that this was good; in dealing with OKC boy I am solidifying what I want and need from a relationship. As in most things in life, it is a learning experience.
Also, as in most things in life, it is annoying and frustrating and kind of headache-making.
The one solace to my VD this year lies in a simple fact: during that day I will be distracted from morning til night.
VD falls on the Thursday before Winter Fire, and I am again on staff. This year, though, I am on the non-dungeon setup crew. No more music craziness. No crying fits in the bathroom. No stress induced anger. I will setup, have my event, break down, and go home.
I will make new memories, have new experiences to draw on, to remember, to cherish. I've already got eight playdates in the works (nine if you count my hope for a self suspension). There is an opportunity for me to read some of my erotica, catch up with far away friends, and spend time with ones close to home but who I do no see enough.
I love that, on this VD, I can really just say fuck it to all the shit that normally pisses me off. I will be a happy little kinkster helping other kinky folk have amazing sexy times. I can view no better way to spend my VD than doing that.
Friday, February 1, 2013
But me seeing the show is not the point of this entry.
The point is how my friend, who did see the show, reacted to my section in it. They were proud of me, of how I held myself in the interview section, of how poised and eloquent I was in answering some tough questions surrounding kink, race, and feminism.
Not only did they greatly enjoy the time I was featured in the documentary, others who I also respect gave me praise via Twitter. The night the show aired, even though I was getting pretty sick, I still felt pretty awesome.
But here comes the rub.
In my friend's email, they praised me, but they also chided me. In their opinion, my current life was the equivalent of a person driving a Lamborghini to the grocery store and back, fearful that they'd get into an accident if they really took their vehicle out for a ride.
My friend feels I am not pushing myself to do better, be better, in my chosen profession. They rightly pointed out my level of intelligence far exceeds the needs of my current field.
I am, often, the most intelligent person in my group of work colleagues. I didn't really take note of it before, didn't really care unless someone was being ridiculously ignorant because, for me, all that mattered was getting the job done quickly and efficiently and going the fuck home.
But there have been times when it has stuck out like a sore thumb, needling me in the back of my mind. Why am I doing this? Why am I here? Yes, I do this for the money, but I could be, shouldn't I be, doing something else? Something more challenging? Something more profound?
Ever since my friend challenged me to think beyond my current circumstance, to envision a more challenging life, a harder life, but a more fulfilling life, I haven't been able to keep my mind from tumbling.
The problem I'm currently faced with, the issue that really keeps my brain working, is the what. What should I do? What do I want to do? What can I become? What do I want to become? What?
Some ideas that have floated in my whirlpool of neurons seem so daunting.
I could become a doctor. Like my father. But not like my father. I'd want to be an abortionist. I'd want to help women, to do the hardest thing possible because it seems very few others are willing.
But that's ten to fifteen years of my life. And that's a highly uncertain future. And so much money and time.
And what if it isn't what would make me happy? What if doesn't give me a fulfilling life? What if it is just a dream from a feminist who sees the horrors of misogyny and religious views being thrust down women's throats, and it is the hope of stopping the outrageous rather than the life I actually want that captures my possibility? What if it is just a strong woman's fantasy and not an actual reality I want to come true?
There is the baby step towards medicine: becoming an EMT. Schooling, but less than a full medical degree (and internship and residency). And I would be helping people. But again, is this a career that I want for my life or a half measure to make me feel like I am making a difference without investing all-in?
Then there is the love I have had since childhood: writing. Being a professional, working, paid author of books. Erotica, yes. But thrillers. And horror. And fantasy. Taking all the stories bandying about in my head, putting them to print, and having the world revel in my imaginings. There are plays and screenplays. Poetry and short stories. And, of course, this blog.
No matter what, money or not, I will write. But if I could somehow parlay that passion to an actual vehicle for my existence, that would be the best gift I have ever given myself.
Also, though, having experienced the work of putting myself out there, allowing my views and opinions on heady subjects about our community to be broadcast on television, there is this other thought quietly murmuring too.
What if I became another leader in our community? What if I put in the effort to create presentations and gave them at events? What if I wrote more of my opinions and thoughts on this blog? What if I opened myself up to be another leader, another personality, an avenue for people to find and learn about kink? What if I committed more of myself to this part of my life I adore and wish for others to find?
And the last thought, the scariest thought of all, is the one I've held back since... forever.
I love to act. Love to act. But I always thought opening myself up, baring my soul on stage or screen, would be the scariest thing I could do. And the most thrilling. And challenging. And exciting. And, quite possibly, were I to pursue this avenue as my work, as my life, the hardest thing I've ever done. It's the one idea that brings tears to my eyes, the one thought that makes me tremble. And I have no idea where to start.
So now, however many words later, I'm still not sure what I will do with my life. I don't know how much longer I will be in my business, though it feels like my days as a tech are numbered.
I do know I will still write, paycheck or not.
I know I have to do some research on my options, for medical school or EMT training (maybe), and remind myself that research does not equal commitment, and I can always change my mind. And I really need to ask myself why this thought even comes to mind. Is it what I want, a dream for my future, or a fantasy of a world we do not live in?
And I need to keep talking, to my friends, to those in my community, and realize that every kinky person is a representative, known or not, for the kink world, whether they help people find their first event or just ease the nervous temperament of a newbie they happen to meet.
And maybe, just maybe, scary is good. Maybe I should go for the thing that scares me most. Maybe that is the answer.
Beyond these words, I guess both you and I, dear reader, will just have to wait and see.
But, since you're here, dear friends, do you have any suggestions?
"That apparently people value my thoughts and opinions more than I do." - me
"Drop the apparently."
In regards to the PS, we're going to get a little snooty here.
I've worked shows before, especially lighting. There's some good people there. There's some smart people there. But they are not, on the whole, a terribly challenging group intellectually. There is the occasional individual - such as yourself - who is the exception. But I'm pretty sure that in any group you're around at work, you're the most intelligent person there.
That's a comfortable place to be. You don't have to worry about being pushed out of your comfort zone, you don't have to worry about not being the smartest.
You also don't learn much in that environment. You know how to learn to play chess, right? You don't play people who are worse than you and always win. You play people who are better than you and lose and lose and lose until eventually you don't lose quite so much.
But you still lose, and you grow, because people are smarter than you.
I've noticed, at events, you seek out the bright stars. The philosophers, the people who seem to have something to say. You find them and you have a great time with them and usually you do it in some of the most beautiful service and submissive ways I've ever seen. I think you think you're lucky to be able to hang with them.
I think you're wrong. I think it's the other way around.
I watched those people in that room as you were on TV. People who were veteran kinksters, who dealt with the public on a regular basis, whose investment in kink was their whole lives and tens if not hundreds of thousands of dollars.
When you spoke, there were quiet nods. There were murmurs of approval and admiration, and more than one "She is good," as you answered with grace, eloquence, and intelligence some of the hardest questions that a kinkster could be asked.
They weren't just saying "Wow, she did that well." They were saying "Wow, she did that better than I could have." I know you're going to try and snicker a defense mechanism and assume I'm delusional or being complimentary or something about that. S'fine, we all have our barriers and our Broken Mirrors. I know what I saw, though. You don't belong in the entourage or at the side of some person or cause. You are a leader, a visionary, someone who knows and thinks and has the god-given ability to express it. You have this amazing machine inside your head capable of doing so much.
And you choose to do lighting. You tell me: am I wrong? Does that actually challenge you? Are you using that lambourghini you were gifted with to drive to the store and back every day, because that way you won't have an accident?
Maybe I'm way off base with this. Maybe I'm totally wrong and you are growing mentally and spiritually with the work you do, and using your talents to make the world a better place. If so, I apologize for my arrogance.
But it looks to me like you're treading water because it's easier than swimming. And that's both sad and maddening, because it's a beautiful ocean and there are others in it, drowning, who need your brains.
Here endeth the lesson. Gotta catch a plane.
Have a nice day! :)
Two different people in my life made the exact same point at almost the exact same time.
In my latest session with Doc, we talked about a few things, but the one topic that has stuck with me most was the above quote.
There was a moment, during our session, when I just stopped. The very next line of that exchange was me saying to myself, "People value me more than I do." I let that statement sit in my brain, let myself sit with that realization, living with this new truth for a moment.
Again, my immediate reaction to any compliment, to almost any praise, kicked in. Oh, they're just being nice. Oh, yes I did well, but they could have done just as well or better. Oh, they're sweet for saying that.
Doc asked why I thought that, why my immediate brushing away of their compliments happened. It was obvious, after the work we've done, that it goes back to my issues with my father. Not having him as a constant figure in my life growing up gave me self worth issues, namely believing I was not worthy of his love or affection, therefore not worthy of others love and affection, therefore any affection sent my way was never wholly true.
Sometimes it sucks, knowing the root of a problem and yet the issue still lingering.
When I said that line to myself, I stopped and just thought about all the subtext in that truth. I was close to tears, but I held them back. Doc questioned me, what I was thinking in that moment, and I admitted to wanting to cry. He then called me on the wanting, asking me why I didn't just cry. More excuses came; more work to do.
And then, very shortly after my session with Doc, I got that email from a friend. I didn't post the entire message to be cocky or pretentious, but instead, just like they wrote, it's hard for me to believe.
The message was completely unprompted and a great shock to me. In fact, I find myself reading it about once a day (if not more) because it is still hard for me to believe this person I respect so much would say those things about me.
We all have stories we tell ourselves about our lives. But whether you are living through a comedy, tragedy, drama, thriller-action-awesomeness, it's still just a story. The way others perceive you, though. That is who you are to the world, which can often be opposite of who you believe you are in your head.
I'm still trying to wrap my head around this notion, of the respect of so many people I admire, and what to do with this new information. More on that to come...