March 2009

lovers-moon(Though the phase of the moon is wrong . . . )

From Twisted Monk:

I need to shed my skin for you.  The beast that lives just beneath my skin needs out, I can feel it growling. Claws itching to be set free as it hungrily paces, back and forth, looking out at you from behind my eyes. It snarls and nips, a base creature driven by the most basic of needs. Hunger, hunger for you. It longs to be set free, to slink across the bed and sink its fangs into your warm, willing flesh. To feed, to consume your body. Muscles ache and fingers twitch as at the prospect of being set free upon your naked body.

That beast, the thought of loosing control of it frightens me, but not you. You welcome my snarls with open arms. The uglier, blind with lust and rage I become, the tighter you pull my thrusting hips to you. You do not fear what I can become, you invite it. Sinking fingernails into my skin you tug and pull, quickening the beast’s release.

Tonight the moon is full and I must howl at it, to bare my fangs and sink them into you while we fuck. Please, dig your fingers into my skin and pull, free me from this skin suit and welcome my dark, animal soul out and into your bed.

I do not want to write.  I shouldn’t have to write.  Even if I did want to write, I wouldn’t want to write here.  Even if I did have anything to say, it wouldn’t be anything about sex.  And if I say anything about sex, or even not about sex, he’s going to read it and it’s going to fuck things up.  Besides which, I have nothing to say, so I should just shut the fuck up.

These are the sort of thoughts swirling around in my head right now.  The writer Annie Lamott calls this type of stuff, which most people have playing in our minds at varying volumes, Radio Station K-FKD.

If you are not careful, station KFKD will play in your head twenty-four hours a day, nonstop, in stereo.  Out of the right speaker in your inner ear will come the endless stream of self-aggrandizement, the recitation of one’s specialness, of how much more open and gifted and brilliant and knowing and misunderstood and humble one is.  Out of the left speaker will be the rap songs of self-loathing, the lists of all the things one doesn’t do well, of all the mistakes one has made today and over an entire lifetime . . .

At the moment, I am feeling seriously kay-fucked.  Part of the time I spend thinking about how vile, fat, and disgusting I am, how old, with crepe-y skin and thinning, whitening hair, how barren, how utterly useless, how profoundly friendless.  The rest of the time I spend prancing about thinking that I rawk, professionally, and that my amazing talents as a writer, thinker, speaker, and ******* [insert my real job title here] are going almost completely unrecognized.

I am up for a promotion.  I have a serious feeling I won’t get it.

As for my relationship, it is in deep freeze.  Some might–actually most people would–view it as over.  I prefer to think of it as hibernating.  Say n’more.

I’m spewing all this because really, there is not much else to spew.  For a few days, I was obsessed with eating Boston Creme Pie Dunkin’ Donuts.  I thought I would write a post entitled “Cream Pie”, and then shock my faithful readers with the realization that I was actually talking about donuts.  But I got hung up on the question of the proper way to illustrate the post, which, as I have mentioned before, is occasionally often always a major undertaking when I contemplate putting something on this blog.  If I don’t have the picture, I won’t post the words.

And so I surfed around for tasteful yet interesting cream pie pictures.  There was this one, almost perfect but for the nasty hint of blood in it.  I even had a bad dream about someone being fucked until she bled.


So I thought perhaps just an ordinary cream pie–the Boston kind–would be fine.


But really, unless you’re feeling like shit about yourself and have a donut-sized version of one of these shoved up under your nose and you’re aiming to consume it within twenty seconds of purchase so that you can add the empty brown-n’-pink D&D bag to the growing pile in the passenger side foot-well of your car–well, frankly, I don’t think this kind of picture has much frisson.

So anyway, I woke up today itching to write.  And I’ve been thinking a lot of chelseagirl, whom I adore.  And about how she wrote her way back to awesomeness, painstakingly, after a breakup.  There’s no way out but through, as Robbie used to say.  So, whether we are broken up or hibernating, whether I am brilliant or utter crap, whether the sun rises tomorrow or not–I want to keep writing.  Because that’s one of the few things more satisfying than a cream pie, of either kind.


My blog was down last week because I didn’t like Robbie’s reaction to something I posted.  I got mad at him for getting upset at me, and I made everything here private.  A couple hours later, I made everything public again–or so I thought.  Apparently, I forgot to press “save” when I republished everything.  For two days I wondered why nobody was visiting me.  *Sniff*

Lately, it’s been hard to write because of the emotional interference from my relationship.  Robbie claims that he’s not upset by what I write, but in fact, we often have fights after I’ve posted about something that happens in our relationship.  On the other hand, we often have fights, so it’s not clear that the correlation is causation.

More than that, I feel that lately, whenever I get the urge to write about something between us, especially something sexual, my overall message or mood is whiny or negative, and I don’t like that.   I don’t want to write about that.  Robbie pointed out to me in a series of major emails about a month and a half back that most of my comments about our sex life are negative.  That upsets me because I don’t FEEL like our sex life is negative; I enjoy it immensely, and frankly, it’s one of the reliably amazing aspects of us.  It doesn’t take much for a discussion about chores to get snippy, but man, we can fuck for hours without anything going majorly wrong. So why DO I complain?

I’m not entirely sure, but I think it has to do with topping from the bottom, an urge to tell him, “Ur doing it wrong!”  (He’s been saying for months that this is what’s going on, but do I listen?  No, because he r doing it wrong.)  It’s not even that he’s doing it wrong in a way that is bad and needs to get fixed right then.  It’s more like, “If you always did it this way, it would suck, so just FYI, this could improve your technique”.  But it comes out sounding like a “hissy fit” (his phrase).

I’m pretty sure that I’m being a negative sub, rather than him being a jerky dom.  Why’m I sure?  Well, the weekend after he sent those emails, I had a 30-second opportunity to top him.  I got so upset by what I perceived as his “criticism” of my flogging technique (he was “whining” because I hit him in the ear, the big baby) that I threw away the flogger and stomped out of the room, crying.  There was a little more to it than that, but mostly, I was pissed that he wasn’t letting me just beat him like I wanted to.

It was a good lesson for me.  If he threw down the metaphorical flogger every time I whined?  We would have no sex.  Ever. The more I top, the more I get how hard it is to be a top.  Sheesh.  It’s enough to make a switchy girl roll over and moan, “Beat me, Daddy, I’m yours”!

I have been toying with the idea of sleeping with someone I am mildly acquainted with from this-yer-Internet-thingy. I have been toying with it, with him, and with my libido. I don’t feel particularly embarrassed about this; I figure he is man enough to handle it. Besides, he reads my blog—I’m assuming he’s aware of what a nut-case I am, and has adjusted his expectations accordingly.


The thing is: I don’t like sex that much. This might be an odd thing for a sex blogger to write. I don’t think of myself as a “very sexual person”, as so many sex bloggers do. (I think of myself as an inveterate pervert, which is different.) I don’t crave sex—not in the abstract. It’s only been within the last five years that I look at a person I’m talking to and think about what it might be like to fuck them. I never look at strangers and think that I want to sleep with them (okay, almost never). Vanilla sex is not a treat for me unless I have huge sexual chemistry with someone, and that is rare. The mere rubbing of pinkish swollen bits doesn’t get me off.

There was a thread recently on the ever-ire-provoking Fetlife that asked the age at which folks had “figured it out”—figured out the distinction between love and sex. I wanted to answer, “What distinction? I’ve never figured it out.” Having sex with someone, in the absence of deep affection, is heartbreaking to me in ways I can’t express. It always feels like a terrible loss to me, a loss of a piece of myself and of an incredibly special moment. (“Moment” is an insufficient word. I want to use a word like flower or orchid or symphony or something, but those would sound cheesy. Nevertheless, the spiritual, universe-shattering dimension of sex, the sacredness of sex, seems to me spoiled by inopportune timing.) It’s true that I’ve slept with people that I wasn’t in love with, and on two or three occasions, I even felt that strong emotional tug linking the two (or three or four) of us. But mostly, sex—and I mean intercourse—does not work for me without the love. (This might be one reason I find it easier to sleep with women I’ve just met—they’re not trying to shove a piece of their flesh into my most sensitive spots. Yeah, I know—leave fisting out of it, okay?)

Robbie gets this about me, finally. After months and months of arguing about “others” (aka group sex), he gets that I’m not about to step up for the gangbang anytime soon. I would love to, in theory. I really want that, and double-penetration, oh, and all kinds of other vile and humiliating things—in my fantasy world. But when the cock hits the pussy, I get tight and weepy and I wanna go home, now.


Robbie said to me a visit or two ago, “I understand that you need love to get open and juicy.” It wasn’t until he said the words that I finally admitted it to myself. This is one of the very good reasons to have him in my life—he understands me better at times than I understand myself. I need love.

He’s not that way. He needs attraction and mild admiration, affection. How I cope with his more frankly sexual self is a topic for another day.

But today, it’s enough for me to admit to myself, and out loud, that I’m just not that motivated to meet a new partner and get laid. I don’t think of it as a fun prospect. Actually, I think of it with terrible trepidation (although with no little arousal)—I think of it as frightening. Even if I feel affection and warmth and attraction to the person (as I do, in this case, to my prospective partner), I need the shelter of love, of its compassion and acceptance and commitment that love brings.

That, or wide unbridled animal lust. One of the two.

* * * * *

I’m really curious to hear what other people think. I was walking down the street today and wondering: is the prospect of having sex, for other folks, like the prospect of going out for dinner, to me? Do they think, cool, great, fun, this is an awesome chance to relax, kick back, have a good time, treat myself and feel good? The notion is just astonishing to me. Do people really fuck that recreationally? I’m in awe of that capacity. It seems like a wonderful thing to be able to do.

Tell me, oh internet denizens—is “casual” sex easy or hard, fun or scary?


Photos by Cornelie Tollens, via fluffy Lychees.

I’ve been blog-surfing, crankily and fitfully, the last couple of days.  My favorite writers are posting nothing–not even junk.  I’d be grateful for a crumb of gossip, a modicum of smut, a dram of sadism.

I finally decided to get back at them in the most adult way possible–by posting something myself.  Of course, despite the time I have to click and re-click on 20 blogs before breakfast, I have “no time” to write here.  So I have nothing clever to say in this post, or, perhaps more accurately, I have many clever things, but still not enough time to say them.

I did have time, though, on this occasion, to find a picture.  Many, actually.


Sexy, slutty stuff by Warwick Saint, thanks to Unscathed Corpse.

I might even post something else before the night is over.  Who knows?!  The winds of change are blowing. Oh yes.