I have an urge to post about a million things, but the fastest thing I can slap up on the internet right now is a picture of me in a karada that Robbie whipped up over Thanksgiving. His rope technique is getting much better; he’s been reading and studying for a long time–before he met me, really. He very much wants to learn more, and he has all the ingredients I imagine would make a good rope top: 1) toppiness; 2) the ability to tie things–he has been using knots for practical purposes since he was a kid; 3) an OCD-type focus on learning things–he’s willing to look at a picture of someone in rope until he figures out what’s going on, whereas I look at it until I get distrac–squirrel!

What he doesn’t have is a rope bunny (at least one that’s close to hand) or a mentor. A few weeks ago, he got to go to a rope workshop, and then he got to come see his preferred bunny. The rope workshop was awesome for him–he learned a lot, got a lot of feedback on his ties, and felt, I think, like he was doing it well enough.  Certainly when he got his paws on me at Thanksgiving, I could tell the difference; he was much more confident and much faster.

Lots of our previous attempts at rope ties have been abortive, because I get so turned on by rope that I hyperventilate and get dizzy within seconds and we have to stop.  (I gather, too, that I’m not supposed to lock my knees?)  This time, he sat me down on a stool for the first part of the tie, and had me in this body harness in under 5 minutes; I was comfortable and happy the whole time, and he was talking to me and checking in.  Because I was talking to him, I didn’t spin off into loopy la-la sub-land . . . at least, not until after he got the rope on and got about 500 pictures of me.  He spent an hour or an hour and a half watching me gradually cream myself before he fucked me.  Such is the hard, hard life of a bunny.


I have written about 2 dozen drafts in my head the last few weeks, and several on paper or pixels.  As soon as I get a few strands of narrative going, the threads of real life take a new turn, my fine twist breaks, and I can’t connect any of the events I’ve been writing about to the present state of my affairs.  It happened again between the time I started this post, a couple days ago, and now, but I already picked out the illustrations for this one, and so this title is staying.

It has been impossible to write about what’s going on between me and Robbie over the last month, because it’s so hard to capture the rapidly-changing present.  One night on our past visit, Robbie and I would have a deep and much-needed, cathartic talk about what was going on with pain in our BDSM relationship, and I’d be mentally taking notes on the realization we’d reached when the talk would tank into sadness and separate sides of the bed.  Another night, I’d be seething for hours at the thought that he was going to leave me wet and frustrated on our last day together, until he came home at midnight from an unavoidable and important errand to make very tender and emotional love to me until the wee hours.  On a school night, even.  I left his house for home deeply in love but deeply pessimistic.

(There is so much to explain, and I have been not saying so much for so so long–here, and to him.  I don’t know where to start, and so if you want to read, bear with me or ask questions about what doesn’t make sense, and if it’s all too confusing or too raw, I apologize.  But I can’t keep all this bottled up and I can’t keep writing about us if I am not more honest and I can’t be dishonest about us anymore.)


Two weeks ago, we tried to figure out when we would get together this summer, and he could not tell me when he had time to see me.  Around that time, I read an article about babies and found myself sobbing.  Ten days ago, I told him that I had stopped being able to see a way for us to make a future together, and that though I loved him, I wanted a husband and a family and I needed to go look for those things before my clock had fully and finally ticked itself out.  (I am close, closer than most.  I am 37-and-a-half.)

Robbie dealt with all that with some equanimity.  I had told him before I even met him that I wanted a family, and we talked more about it the first weekend we met.

But then I actually met someone I wanted to date–a local Dom who asked me to play–and the emotional shit hit the fan.  Or perhaps that’s not fair to Robbie–I think he would have felt the emotional impact anyway.  But that event made it particularly strong.  And somehow in the middle of this we started talking.  A lot.

We’ve been talking every day for an hour or two and spilling our guts.  Many of the times we talked over the past two years–many of which, in fact, were over email–seem like pale echoes of actual meaningful conversations, now that we are having the latter.  We’ve stopped the incessant fighting.  We are crying and telling each other we love the other and talking about really bad and painful stuff–and good stuff too–and we are so, so vulnerable.  And I did not expect any of this.

I wasn’t (consciously) breaking up with Robbie or dating other people in order to “get him back”; I expected Robbie to let me go without much difficulty because I thought he had already let me go.  And he believed, it turned out, that I had been going for some time, perhaps believed that I didn’t really want to try.

I don’t really know what else to say.  I just am still here and still in love with Robbie.  And I am reeling in good and bad ways from having spent a day playing with someone else.  And all of a sudden it seems that Robbie was right that life is not a dress rehearsal and that he and I are really very necessary to each other and we best stop making a hash of things because we just can’t afford that.  And also, because we don’t have to.

And maybe I can write some of the other two-dozen posts if I let out this rollercoasterish one, and if it all doesn’t have to make sense.  Because it’s not all adding up now but it’s closer to that than it has been in a long, long time, and mostly I don’t feel miserable when I think of Robbie anymore, I just feel full of love and happiness and that is pretty darn nice.

Cool drawings, including a few dominatrixes, by Swedish illustrator Klas Fahlen.  Check out his cute animation, from which I stole the tiny ones (click to make them grow).  Also: more Swedes where he came from, on the same site.

And with that, we were done.

It had been years in the making; almost three, to be closer to exact.

Three days of near-silence after Valentine’s weekend.  No panic, I thought.  He’s always quiet and depressed after a weekend together, while you’re energized.  He needs his space.  Try to give it to him.

This morning I had a dream: he had left me.  I was alone, in his town, trying to find a doctor, a taxi, a telephone, a place to sleep for the night, and I could not reach him.  He would not help.  My family, my mother’s large, extended family, loving and funny and bittersweet and enduring, stepped in, did the necessary.  And when he arrived at last and walked with me for awhile, they made room for us, and when he left again so soon after he’d come, they surrounded me with love.  It was a very real, very vivid dream.

Around noon I got an email from him: “Perhaps we could have a meaningful conversation early this evening?”

The conversation was short.  He said to me what I’d said to him two weeks before–that we wanted different things, that we were wasting each other’s time.  Except when I say it to him, he listens, and is compassionate, and saves us, again and again.  And when he says it to me I am so desperately hurt I just say, “Fine, go, forget it”–or I start to pick at him, and to argue.  So I asked, tonight, “Do you want me to try to change your mind?” and he said, “I don’t know, I want you to say whatever you want to say.”  I suppose I should have asked for permission to try to change his mind.

At some point–and that point would be now, or else I wouldn’t be blogging about it–I think we have to say goodbye.  We have given each other so much joy and we have made each other so, so, so very unhappy.

Once, when he was down, I played a Leonard Cohen song for him.  It didn’t occur to me what a bad idea it was to play that kind of song for him until I saw the tears rolling heavily down his cheeks.  I like melancholy; it might be one of the biggest differences between us.  And I loved the sad and beautiful strains of the song I played for him.  But he–he was listening to the lyrics, and the lyrics were about a woman leaving.  Say goodbye, they said, and I could see on his face all the times loves of his had said farewell, and I could see, in his tears, the anticipation of when I might do the same.

I guess we are there.

Alexandra Leaving

based on the poem The God Abandons Antony, by Constantine P. Cafavy

Suddenly the night has grown colder.
Some deity preparing to depart.
Alexandra hoisted on his shoulder,
they slip between the sentries of your heart.

Upheld by the simplicities of pleasure,
they gain the light, they formlessly entwine;
and radiant beyond your widest measure
they fall among the voices and the wine.

lt’s not a trick, your senses all deceiving,
a fitful dream the morning will exhaust—
Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving,
Then say goodbye to Alexandra lost.

Even though she sleeps upon your satin.
Even though she wakes you with a kiss.
Do not say the moment was imagined,
Do not stoop to strategies like this.

As someone long prepared for this to happen,
Go firmly to the window. Drink it in.
Exquisite music, Alexandra laughing.
Your first commitments tangible again.

You who had the honor of her evening,
And by that honor had your own restored—
Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving.
Alexandra leaving with her lord.

As someone long prepared for the occasion;
In full command of every plan you wrecked—
Do not choose a coward’s explanation
that hides behind the cause and the effect,

You who were bewildered by a meaning,
whose code was broken, crucifix uncrossed—
Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving.
Then say goodbye to Alexandra lost.

Hydra, Greece
September 1999

I’m going to Robbie’s for Valentine’s Day weekend, which he has been planning with care.  We’ve had lots of good talks lately, including ones about what to do together to make our time special and fun.  (We have both officially agreed that debating the ins and outs of our relationship is not fun.)

We talked about going out for dinner, which we almost never do unless we are with friends, family, or fellow perverts.  (And since most of our friends are fellow perverts . . . )  I suppose I should have lept at the chance to have some romantic quality time with my man, out and about on Valentine’s Day.  But Robbie has high standards for food–he prefers fine dining, and prefers it to be almost-free–and so it can be a challenge to find a place with ambience and value.  While I was waiting for him to finish sussing out the local options, it occurred to me that I really don’t like fine dining.  That is, I adore good food and I like being waited on.  But really, when I go out, I mostly want the chance to see and be seen, to feel like I’m sensing the pulse of a city, drawing near to the sexuality and daring that surge up in groups of people and flow through busy evenings.

I want to be out on the town.  I want to be my exhibitionist self and I want to flaunt what we have.

And since, after all, we can do that at a bar just as well as a restaurant, and since we are quite, quite poor, and saving our money in the ever-more-realistic hope that someday not that far away we will be together, we are going to a pub for Valentine’s Day.

Robbie said he very much thinks I need to get out in public, and I agree.


From Darker Sights and Sounds.

Unsurprisingly, I miss Robbie most just after seeing him . . . that, I suppose, and after not having seen him for quite awhile.

But when I leave his house and drive home, I find myself launched on a days-long jag of feeling achey, uncomfortable, out-of-sorts. I think he feels it too, because we act bizarre towards each other. We fumble for the rhythm of nightly phone calls and friendly chats that we share for most of the 3-or-4 weeks between visits. And when I fall asleep at night, I feel the ghost of his arms around me; and when I wake up in the morning, I imagine I am in his bed.

I have no plans tonight, and I can think of little to do except perhaps to curl up with a glass of wine and some reading. He tells me it’s a waste of energy and emotion to wish that things were different than they are, and I know he’s right. But right after I see him, just after I am home, I sometimes give myself permission to indulge in those silly, wasteful wishes, and I think about what I would do if he were here, instead of there.

This photo and similar at the appropriately-named Just blowjobs. Via Bend Me Over.

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.

The next however many posts won’t make sense without some basic information. To review the summer to date: Robbie and I decided on freakishly short notice that I would move to his house for the summer. After a bizarre start, we spent three weeks together in a state of alternating bliss and misery. We agreed I’d go home to my mother’s house, which I did. I stayed there two weeks and we negotiated a week together, to be extended if things were going well. I think we both hoped the second time around, things would stick, and stick firmly, until the end of the summer.

We lasted three days before the big, blow-up, I’m-packing-my-stuff-yeah-you-better-pack-your-stuff fight.

So I rented an apartment near my usual haunts, and I am licking my wounds, and Robbie is licking his. Actually I am not so much nursing sore places as I am just paying attention to me again.

Or, as we were singing together while goofily dancing down the aisles of the grocery store together on the second day of this last trip:

And there’s a rose in a fisted glove,*
And the eagle flies with the dove,
And if you can’t be with the one you love, honey,
Love the one you’re with.

I can’t be with Robbie right now, and the only one else around is me. And right now, that’s just fine with me.

* I really always thought this was “a road in the distant sun”. Knock me over with a cane, had no idea about the kinky rose and glove thing going on . . .

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