~ Sunday afternoon at The Floating World ~
I first noticed him during a class. He sat a few rows behind me.
I happened to turn around and glance towards him. I first saw his boots. And then, slowly, up trailed my eyes, taking in the head-to-toe leather. Finally I saw the soft smile on his stern face, his gaze not on me.
I made myself turn towards the front. I knew it, as soon as I saw him.
Shit, another one. He was a leatherman.
When class ended, I walked out into the hallway, avoiding the incredible urge to go say hi to him.
It was the last day, and I was about to go to my last class.
I passed Lynk in the hall, and doubled checked where Sadistic Massage would be held. He pointed me towards a nearby room. I sat down my things and wandered about the convention center during the break as the classes turned over.
I stopped by the bootblacking station, checking in with D3 and rabbit to see how they were fairing. Few pairs of boots had graced their seats that day.
Wandering back towards my class, there he was. He stood, showing off his cricket bat to a man I did not know.
Meh, I thought. Why the fuck not?
I slowly approached him and lightly touched his shoulder. He turned, looked at me, and smiled.
"Hi. I just wanted to say your cricket bat looks awesome. I have a friend who uses one for play, and it's a lot of fun."
"Why thank you."
"I'm poetic."
He introduced himself. I smiled wide.
"Nice to meet you."
"You say your friend uses a cricket bat?"
"Yes. In fact for my birthday, during my birthday spankings, I got hit with his cricket bat. And a pool stick. And a hockey stick."
"Really?"
"I like pain. May I look at your bat?"
"Sure."
He showed it off to me.
"Yours looks rougher than his."
"Ah, his is finished."
"Finished?"
"Laquered."
"Yes. And stingy as a hell. Well, I have to go. Class."
"Which one are you attending?"
"Sadistic Massage with Lynk. It's happening right over there."
"Sadistic Massage? I may see you in there."
"That would be nice. Well, it was nice meeting you."
I smiled, turned, and walked away.
Fuck me; another one.
I am such a sucker for a man in leather.
~ Sunday night at The Floating World ~
I saw him walking through the Dungeon dragging his kit behind him. I popped up from the floor, leaving my things behind, and walked towards him.
He looked left, outstretched his arm, and extended his index finger towards me.
"Well, I guess I'm getting needles then."
Amethyst followed close behind Lynk as we all assembled in the medical play area.
I disrobed and hopped onto the massage table they'd covered with chux for our scene. As I looked up at them, Amethyst warned me, "Him Sadist."
"Please be nice," I begged.
"I'll be nice," he answered.
His first needle in, I screeched.
"You said you would be nice."
"That's about as nice as I can be."
Amethyst explained needles in the thigh hurt more.
One in towards the left, one in towards the right, both buried, and cherry topped with a half inch needle stuck straight in at the center of the two. The configuration was matched on both my thigh.
On my chest, Amethyst practiced layering needles for the first time. Hint for all you needle tops: a great way to mindfuck a needle bottom is to mention how something you are about to do to them is your first attempt at it. I know that was not Amethyst's intention, but it worked quite well.
Each breast received a button, three layered needles, the tips buried.
It was not long before I was floaty.
Amethyst tapped on my buttons. Lynk took great joy in flicking the cherries. I high-pitched-low-volume screamed. And each time they stopped, and I took a breath, the endorphins washed over me.
The meter of my voice slowed. Sentences elongated in time to deliver, while also shortening in number of words.
Lynk often flicked at my cherries, my high pitch calls piercing my ears. Amethyst redded for me on those, ceasing his evil fun.
To spice things up, Lynk practiced some of the sadistic massage he taught in a class session earlier that day.
Choosing the meaty sides of my thighs, he pressed in and ran his fingers down the length. I guttural screamed and wailed from the pain. I cried, tears welling up. I never told him to stop.
A little worried, in my slow half speak I assured him my crying was good. Sobbing was a good sign. He assured me he had no intention of stopping his manipulations unless I told him too.
Switching spots, Amethyst tapped my thigh pricks while Lynk sunk his finger tips into my chest, working the muscles above my needles, an area sore from previous play. (Punching my chest is a pretty popular activity.)
Later, our scene over, Lynk hugged me hard, pressing into my chest, my ow-ing groans inciting his glee. To reiterate Amethyst concise description, "Him sadist."
As we finished up, a trickle of blood tickled my ribs. Since we'd played with the needles more in this session that in my first with Amethyst, I bled quite a bit.
With a mirror, I saw my pretty buttons. When I sat up, I saw my boxed cherries. In all, twelve needles were stuck in me, twice the amount of my first scene with Amethyst.
I still like being a pretty pincushion.
~ Friday night at The Floating World ~
"I don't know which I like better: sucking your tongue or sucking your cock." - D3
"Good thing you don't have to choose." - me
"Good answer." - D3
I felt powerful. I was in control. Not only was I the Top, I was the Domme. It was... amazing.
I was nervous, very nervous. I bought the strap-on thinking maybe. Maybe I'll get to use this. Maybe he'll want to suck my cock. Maybe.
It was flimsy, purple (not my color), but I wasn't willing to risk a large amount of money on a maybe.
I bought a new dildo for it, choosing one that if I didn't grow the balls, if I never brought it up, I would still like having the new dick in my repertoire of sex toys.
And then we ending up on the futon.
I'd already suspended him. He wore only his boxers and his boots. My dress (cotton with a black top connected to a gray skirt) and boots remained on.
As he had floated in the air, I'd gotten my face down to his level. I'd asked him how he felt. He was flying high.
We kissed. He was in my ropes. His lips were against mine. I expected no more for my night.
But then we were on the futon.
And he was free of my ropes. And we were kissing. And I looked into his eyes, so close to mine that I could see my reflection.
And I said, "I can see my reflection in your eyes."
And he said, "You know what I can see in your eyes? You wearing your strap-on and me sucking it."
And that was it.
I grabbed the harness, put it on, tightened it as best I could, and attached the dildo. I pulled out a condom and handed it to him. He slid it down my cock.
My ass on a chuck, he closed his lips around my cock and began sucking. He gagged. Oh, he gagged. His eyes were locked on me. Lines of saliva dripped from his lips.
I bridged my hips up, fucking his face. I called him my cock slut. I said he loved the feel of my cock in his throat.
There was a hunger, a need in his eyes. My hand on the back of his head, I pushed lightly. That was my mouth and I wanted to fuck it right.
Bucking my hips. Stroking his head. I got my first strap-on blow job.
I saw my Ex at The Floating World.
I looked about one hundred feet across the playspace, near its entrance, and there he was. I instantly recognized the brown skin, bald head, and stocky build.
I immediately turned around.
For good measure, I looked again. Yup, it was him. I turned back around.
I followed a friend outside and stood with them as they smoked. I took deep breaths and tried to forget I had just seen my Ex, who I believe didn't see me.
Two states away, yet he was there.
Two states away and this was the first time I'd seen him at an event. I suppose I should feel lucky. It took two years and two states for it to finally happen.
Though, really, it didn't happen. He never saw me.
After chatting with my friend outside, he departed and I went back into the play area. I found a person I'd offered some rope time to, and we went over some basic ties. I taught her the gunslinger harness and two basic chest ties. I showed her how I could suspend myself (though I never do) by simply sitting into a gunslinger. (I find it too uncomfortable.)
I talked about more basic rope info: types of rope, lengths, diameter. I encouraged her to take more classes and practice practice practice. She left happy.
When I packed up my rope, I found Big Bro and watched him tie for a spell. I saw my Ex pass by while I stood near a vertical support beam. He was walking about fifty feet away, heading for the door, I assumed after having played. I never saw him again.
So no, it hasn't actually happened. He hasn't seen me. Event me. PoeticDesires me.
In my new clothes, with hair curly, wearing my boots.
He hasn't seen me tie, or get tied. He hasn't seen me give cigar service. He hasn't seen me bootblack. Hasn't seen me get pummeled, with the tears and sobs and snot.
He hasn't seen who I've become since I left him.
I don't know if he knows how I've changed, how much I've changed, since I made the hard decision to not hang on to him, to not hang on to what was us.
As I drove home yesterday, and thought about my event, I regretted not going up to him, not talking to him, not at least saying hi. I regretted that I felt the need to avoid him, to not engage, to not try to be if not friends than friendly.
I didn't get to talk to Doc about this today, but I have the distinct feeling he would say something like, "Why would you try to be someone you're not?"
In the moment, I needed to not talk to him. In the moment, I felt it best to not go there.
So I didn't go there.
Boys are stupid.
Boys. Are. Stupid.
But if I keep giving boys second and third and twenty-sixth chances, I think that makes me stupid too.
It doesn't take much to placate me. The occasional call or text. A conversation. An acknowledgement that both you and I are still alive. Really, not much.
Honesty, respect, simple consideration. Really, not much at all.
And yet I find myself in a situation with a boy where I want to rip my hair out.
If I text you and say I'm free in the middle of the week, and you say cool I'll text you and we'll hang out when I'm free, and then you never do, no phone call, no message, and my free days go by, with me doing other shit because I have come to expect you to cancel (Did you catch that? I expected him to flake even as I asked to spend time with him.), and an entire week goes by, and I don't hear from you, so I call you, and no pickup, in my mind one of two things has happened.
1- Are you fucking dead?
2- You just don't give a shit. Because even if the shit hit the fan, even if your life blew up, even if work or personal affairs exploded in your lap, one short fucking text would be enough. One text to explain why you flaked on me, again. Or one text to say you needed to flake on me again. One text. I didn't even get a fucking text.
This past weekend at The Floating World, I attended an amazing sermon delivered by Laura Antoniou. Laura Antoniou, by the way, is fucking awesome.
I call it a sermon because that was the disclaimer at the beginning. This was not a discussion, nor a lecture. This was preaching and it was a message we all needed to hear.
Though many things resonated with me, one in particular hit me today on my way back from TFW when I realized he had not contacted me in a week. When I realized he didn't call or text. When I realized it would be fun to see him but I didn't expect it to happen, so much so that I planned aftercare absent him knowing he wouldn't pick up his phone when I called. I didn't bother leaving a message.
Laura spoke about how we have to take responsibility for the people in our lives, take responsibility for the relationships we've been in, examine why these people were in our lives, and what that says about us.
So it got me thinking. Through my work with Doc, we've established my skewed vision of love, with my parents as my models. We've identified distance, both physically and emotionally. We've talked about the doormat nature of my Mother and how I have the tendency to both loathe her actions yet emulate them in different but somehow similar ways.
And so I think of my current situation. I think of being dangled by a hook. I think of being ignored, strung along. I think of all the times I've spent with him. And I wonder, is it worth it? Is it worth it to even try? Why do I try? Why do I give a bazillion chances? Has he earned any of them?
And I push back the tears because I know I'm better than that. I deserve more. I am worthy of more.
I didn't text. I called only once.
I think this is it. I think I'm done with stupid.
