August 2008


You may notice some one or two things that look slightly amiss here. I’m updating my blogroll, sloooowly, and adding some other stuff–or I mean to, anyway.

Do not be alarmed. After all, if this had been an actual emergency, the Attention Signal you just heard would have been followed by official information, news, or instructions.

“Mouse on Fire Alarm,” by Adam Stennett, via Sex in Art.

I have no idea why I’m posting this, except that I’m sick of feeling like I have to write a book in order to make a post on my own blog, and also, I like this picture. So there.

Thank you, Strange Eros!

PS This color is named “Salmon”.

In the comments to my “Straight Flush” post, merlin17 asked: “I’m wondering whether, over time, you have become more comfortable navigating that ocean of Robbie’s lust.”

I think that overall this is the case. I’m posting something I wrote in my journal over a year ago, and then sent to Robbie at a time when he especially was having doubts about what I wanted sexually, whether I really wanted to submit. Submitting to him, when things are just between the two of us, felt a bit like learning to float, as I wrote:

I had the most striking image for submission the other day. At the beginning of things I was so worried that I was out of control. I was very worried that I’d get pushed into doing things I didn’t want to do–that this whole idea of consent was a slippery notion–that his desires were becoming mine and I couldn’t tell what I wanted anymore–that I was becoming “indoctrinated”; “brainwashed”–worst of all, that somehow all my female-positive beliefs were being subverted by misogynist fantasies.

I still worry sometimes about the last thing, and it will always, I think, be complicated for me. But when I look back at the route we’ve travelled, I see Robbie respecting my “no”, spoken or not, again and again. Sometimes he pushed a little bit to make sure I was clear on what I wanted. In a few areas, at the beginning, he pushed a lot. He also seems to think my submission–well–He also seems to think my submission is something he can engineer or elicit. It’s possible he can. I still prefer Midori’s description. His role is really to entice and seduce me into doing things he wants me to do–and I hope to do the same with him (that’s the truth.) Whether I top him or beg him to top me, it’s the same thing (not totally)–but I want to seduce and etice and lure and allure him. Tempt him. And I feel he wants to do the same thing.

I fear submission less and less. During each given occasion there are things that go wrong–but that’s just like when you accidentally kick the other person while having sex, or the timing of your simultaneous orgasm is slightly off, or something. Nothing is perfect–no work of art, date, sexual encounter. If perfect, it would be boring. Sometimes the pleasure comes from the unplanned, the imperfection. That’s why the postmortems about what went wrong and what went right seem off to me. We know if we had a great night, and on those nights we should celebrate. We know if we had a bummer of a night–and on those nights it’s best to be gentle, perhaps try to figure out what we need to, or not if it’s obvious. There might be more to communicate; we’ll see; we’ll learn more. I certainly hope so. Robbie is getting both gentler and bolder in his domination–maybe he’s always been that way. And I’m trusting it more.

I’ve thought about it lately as learning to swim. Remember how one of the very first things you learn is how to float? And at first, you float with someone’s hands supporting you, and that’s a challenge?

And then suddenly, they take their hands away–and if you’re scared you flail and gulp water and feel you’re going to drown and you start over. But when the moment finally comes when you are relaxed enough, they take away their hands, and you are . . . floating . . . free . . . weightless . . . gazing up at the sky. And it so profound, amazing, and wondrous. You feel in your element–that most ancient element, the water we came from. That is sub-space. It can only happen if you trust enough to let go. And you should only let go with someone you know will stay by you, watch you, catch you if or when your nerves and fears kick in again and you begin to flail in the water, having forgotten that free-floating feeling. But in those few moments together, submission IS a gift–a wonderful gift a Dom gives to a sub. And like teaching someone to swim, it feels in some ways like a lesson. (Perhaps that explains the praise that goes with it.) There are so many things going on in the interaction, but that letting go is essential and awesome.

When I sent Robbie the bit from my journal, I added:

I know it is hard and confusing for you and for me at times but that’s what we signed on for in order to be ourselves. I’m not saying what you’re feeling is no big deal. I believe you when you say it’s confusing. I just feel we don’t have to figure out the exact line in advance–we can guess about where it is and it emerges between us. It would be like trying to script a conversation in advance. There’s only so much you can do . . . ;o)

I’m steering as true to what I kno wit to be and I trust you enough to believe you’re doing the same.

With much love and verbiage,

Yours

sera

More photos from Autumn Sonnichsen, this time from her “Swimming Lessons” gallery.

I’m heading to Robbie’s today for the billionth eight-hour trip. I’m nervous; I always am before I go–distracted with practicalities and worries. Preoccupied with work or errands not done.

That lasts for the first two hours. The next three or four hours are boring. And then I get within striking distance of him and I can feel it . . . and my own fantasies start scrolling and I push the pedal down harder and I imagine that first kiss, better even, usually, than our very first kiss, which was the best of my life.

(Though last time I saw him, he dispensed with the kiss right off the bat, and had me crawl across the floor to him and suck his cock while he nonchalantly filed his nails, the better to finger me later. Little avalanches of nail-dust sifted onto my nose as I applied myself to the task. I do love objectification.)

Photograph from Autumn Sonnichsen‘s “Compasses” series.

Did I mention that the fun thing about playing with Robbie is that he always wins?

He wins: he never fails to surprise or titillate me. And he is never dull.

After reading my Gotcha post (at least, I assume he read it), he went on to demonstrate that he did, indeed, get me. Totally. He knows how to get my attention; he knows how to keep it.

I wrote about the poker game the woman-warrior and the dragon were playing: “A finely matched pair, don’t you think? (Or perhaps just a straight flush . . . )”

So he sent me a picture of a straight flush. (Also: two pair, and four of a kind.) I kept countering with other things–a full house, for instance–forgetting that the straight flush is of course the highest poker hand. Another win for him, or, as he put it:

After that first volley of a sexy email, we started sending increasingly obscene emails to one another. (This is normal for us: that’s what you do if you’re long-distance, right?) And we kept raising the stakes of the kink we were discussing, with him sending me more intense and edgier images and scenarios, and me “earning” further emails by describing how I want him to defile me; begging for it. (He so loves that.)

This kind of e-fucking-frenzy strikes us often when we are apart; we will raise and raise each other, visually and verbally, until, all of a sudden, the stakes get too high for me. I beg for more and more . . . until finally, at the point where he would just do me already, if we were together, his own fantasies spilled over in prose and pictures. But I always hear them as demands. And then I get wobbly, feeling again that I am drowning in the ocean that is the wide compass of Robbie’s sexual interests, far broader than mine.

When I am with him, it is far easier to trust, to see that we’re floating, not drowning. And so, we are going to be together next week, to ease our ache for each other, and because. Because I need to float away, and he is the one who sets me sailing.

Dreamy image by Ewa Brzozowska, via a fuck a day.

Jiggity-jig?

I am back in my own home after two and a half months of wandering. Wow.

It’s somewhat less exciting than I thought it would be. And definitely hotter (as in: temperature in August) than I remembered. My cats are thinner, though, and they smell better; that’s got to be good. And I feel . . . solid. Grounded.

The catsitters who were living here over the summer left me some things to help ease my transition back into My Regular Life. Basmati rice; power bars; a lot of booze–all the essentials.

Oh, and one more essential, oddly located on the floor, next to the extension cords for the computer . . .

A giant, black, gleaming rubber butt plug.

(Not unlike this beauty, from Eden Fantasy.)

I wonder if they were trying to tell me something??

It seems I cannot find a place to settle for this summer.  I’m sure there’s a lesson in all of this . . . something about adaptability to changing circumstances.  Or something.

In any case, I’m alive, just internet- and sex-deprived.  For now, anyway.  I plan to find a solution to at least one of those quite soon.  

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