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 hate my neighbor, always have.  She lives below me and listens to the kind of ambient music that is guaranteed to float, blithely, through walls and doors.  The kind with recursive drum and bass beats, plus little pinging electronic noises.

She is sexually active, which I know from listening to her fuck for seven and a half years.  There’s nothing wrong with this–God forbid that I be judgmental.  I don’t even know that she’s promiscuous (not that there’s anything wrong with that).  But she was getting some during the long, thirsty years when I had none, and for that, I cannot forgive her.

I have seen her about a dozen times.  She has that sort of post-sex, mussed-eyeliner, goth-in-need-of-a-shower look.  This is probably because most times I have seen her, she is in fact post-sex.  She and her guy will listen to ambient music for about four or five hours in the evening, or in the morning on weekends, and then loudly fornicate.  Sometimes, they go on to have even louder conversations, and a couple times I’ve gone down there to ask them to hold it down.  Five hours of music, screwing, and talking is my limit.

Today, after being woken at the ungodly hour of half-past-noon to the sounds of their moans, it occurred to me that they have another pattern.  After they fuck, they fight.  This is odd to me.  Robbie and I fight, THEN fuck.  After we fuck, we sleep or get snacks.  Whipping, biting, and slobbering all over each other tends to tire us out.  It takes us a good 8 – 12 hours to get back to our default state of antagonism towards one another.  Can anyone explain fighting after fucking to me?

On the up side, I don’t have long to deal with this issue.  I’ll be moving in a couple weeks, which its own little tale.  I don’t know what will happen to my posts before, during, and after the move, so I don’t have any predictions.  Just giving you a glimpse into harem life here.

Photo found at le Chagrin.

We are going to parties this weekend. Not play parties–cocktail and formal parties. This is exciting. We have never done this. We rarely go out when we are together, and when we do, it’s with a small group of (often kinky) friends. So it’s exciting to venture out into Society (*snorfle snarfle*) with Robbie.

We both like social niceties, especially when we can fuck with them. Robbie in particular likes the idea of mixing elegant manners and perversion–very Story of O, him. For my part, I am an inveterate exhibitionist and can say or do some rather irreverent things, especially when I am mixed with alcohol. I expect it will be some weekend.

One of the best things about the weekend from my point of view is that we will have to dress up. Robbie lives in the country and spends most of his time in (sexy) jeans–and although he likes me in skirts, I persist while down on the farm in wearing really unattractive knit cotton pajama-like things from the Gap, which I can work in.

But today I bought the most gorgeous skirt ever. It’s so long I look 20 feet tall, and it’s so stunning I barely need to wear anything with it.

As it happens, I will be wearing some things with it: heels, underthings, a white t-shirt, and either a necklace or my collar, which I left at Robbie’s house when I left there, the last time, after the fight-to-end-all-fights, which was followed by reconciliation. We are nothing if not predictable.

And he will be wearing a suit. I have never seen him in a suit. When he walked into the place we were staying for our dirty weekend wearing a dress shirt (kind of), I almost fell over, I was so amazed at how he looked. So I am very much looking forward to seeing him in a suit.

And to seeing him again.

Images by Rebecca Beard and erocrush, via a flower a day.

I love Robbie enormously. But everyone, Robbie especially, agrees that I ought to spend time with myself right now.

Hard CandyThis means cleaning house, organizing things, earning money, rediscovering real life friends, and all the other things people with full existences do. It also means “cultivating laziness”, as I persist in believing that the writer Robert Penn Warren once said despite a total lack of evidence that he did. It means silliness and time with my cats and grandiose projects and free rein to my curiosity. It absolutely means downloading Madonna’s Hard Candy.

And it means something deeper. For the last two years I have devoted at least half of every conversation to talk of Robbie. (This might be why I am short on friends, by the way.) He takes up a tremendous amount of my mental space. He is my best friend. But for quite a while it has felt like there’s no one in here, inside me.

June Miller untitledBuried in work and frittering away my spare time, I infrequently noticed my increasing sense of emptiness; when I did, I expressed it as feeling either tired or busy. All the things I might have done for myself when I was down got pushed to the side—not because of D/s or because of distance or because of anything else between us, but because I was letting my relationship with him take up the place where my relationship with myself used to be. I haven’t had true leisure in my life apart from the time we spent together. I was counting on him, funny, exuberant, and adventurous as he can be, to provide relaxation and sunshine as well as many of the other kinds of support we expect partners will cough up for each other.

I suppose this is common enough; I certainly don’t want to make it sound tragic. The tragedy for me will be if my failure to balance my needs and our needs has torpedoed us (though believe me, there were plenty of other missiles in the water).

The point is that for the moment, instead of focusing on Robbie, I’m mostly trying to date myself.

June Miller Pink Dress

* * *

June Miller BliznietaMyself and I have only been dating for a week, so any predictions I might make about myself would be totally out of line and probably disrespectful to me, as well. On the other hand, I’ve dated me before—we are one of those on-again, off-again couples that end up together in the end, no matter how rough the ride may be. I mean, I went for years in college and after graduation not really being very close to me. I’m sure the fact that I didn’t treat me right didn’t help, but the larger problem was that I wasn’t sure how much I cared for me. Looking back I see I loved me all along, though neither I nor myself saw that at the time.

Of course, many relationships later, I realize it takes more than caring and closeness to make a good couple. It takes commitment, for one thing. I haven’t really been there for myself lately, and vice versa. And then there’s compatibility. There are lots of times where I honestly can’t stand what myself is doing. Myself can be a real bitch, and me says I can be uptight.

June Miller Roxanne

But this week, I’m diggin’ me. Mind you, I haven’t had sex with myself yet. Oh, yeah, I’ve done it with me—tons of times. I’ve had a rocking, rolicking sex life June Miller Sukubuswith myself. And I could get busy with me–sure I could. But I just don’t have the urge, and me hasn’t been sending out any feelers either. I’m guessing its awkwardness, nerves, shyness– plus the fact that myself and I haven’t been back together long. Maybe this weekend we’ll feel like getting it on. I bought some stuff for cocktails just in case, and I think I’m going to give me a nice, long, steamy shower tomorrow night—that should spice things up for me, I think.

Until then, I and me have just been hanging out. I’ve made myself lots of meals, which me really appreciates—I can neglect feeding myself well, and me understandably resents that I’m not willing to put in that effort for myself. I’ve taken myself on walks, made efforts to dress up for me—those little things that really count. I even bought a few books for myself today; me seemed pretty touched by it, although me thinks me might return them because me knows I can get them cheaper on Amazon.

The one thing I stress about is how Robbie will deal with things between me and I. Like I said, I want me in my life and I want him, but me doesn’t feel that way. Myself is kinda possessive, I have to say. Sometimes, listening to me, I think that I could happily spend the rest of my life just with myself. Most of the time, though, I see clearly that I need all kinds of relationships besides my relationship with myself to feel fulfilled. Me gets pissed off then and says I’ve been reading the Ethical Slut too much—me really doesn’t have a lot of time for poly. The important thing for myself and I though is that we’re talking. Communication, communication, communication. I feel good about where I and me are going these days.

Miss Fly

Irresistible portraits by June Miller, via fluffy Lychees. More irresistibility at her blog.

I got a new MP3 player yesterday. This particular MP3 player comes in all sorts of luscious colors–red, lime green, pink, royal blue–nice, clear colors, not tacky.

I opened the box, expecting a fire-engine-red gadget, and saw a shiny, jet-black model.

WTF? By now there are enough black electronics at the bottom of my purse to make fishing the right thing out a major challenge. And, you know, it’s just not . . . fun.

But then I remembered. EVERYTHING IS BLACK. He has decreed that all our sex toys and all our equipment is to be black if at all possible.

New Toy

(From JT’s Stockroom, of course.)

We have black cuffs. Black dongs–many. (It helps that at EdenFantasy, you can search for dildos by color.) Black butt plugs, black gags, and of course, black crops and hitty-things. If it isn’t black already, he literally paints it black. Sometimes I worry about what’s in the paint.

I have a black waist-cincher and black gloves, and two pairs of black boots (as does he–or perhaps he has three). We wear black when we go out; truth be told we look like New Yorkers rather than kinksters, but it works.

So I suppose I instinctively chose black when I ordered my newest toy. Perhaps I should buy a toy for him, too?

There is one toy he wants in fire-engine red instead of black, I know.

Red Posture Collar

Red medical-style patent leather corset lace-up posture collar from restrictionwear.  Mmm . . .

Despite the fact that he and I are still each sifting, picking up pieces of ourselves and putting them back together, I have decided that if (?) I am going to be writing about him regularly, I should give him a pseudonym. “My Dom,” “my lover” and “my boyfriend” are all inadequate; I don’t call him “Master”; and until he tells me what he wants be called, it seems easier to name him than to rely on pronouns.

Speaking of pronouns, I would like to interrupt myself to add that I hate the D/s naming conventions. It is silly to write things like “Hi A/all! W/we hope Y/you are coming to O/our party tonight–remember, it is B Y/y O/o B!! :D”

But the thing is . . . I have started to think of my lover as Him. And in a different way than my other obsessions, crushes, or boyfriends have been “him”. I am not changing his capitalization–that would require too much effort. But he can at least have a name.

* * *

I am not at all sure he will like it–he doesn’t like diminutives. (What Dom does?!) He likes full, proper names. Robert is one of my favorite names for many reasons, so that’s partly why Robbie is good, despite the nickname. There are so many good Roberts: Kennedy, De Niro, Browning, Redford. According to Wikipedia I should include Robert Downey Jr., whose name has always seemed to me a single word, and Bob Dylan, who, indeed, also seems to me to have a single word (dylan) for a name.

Geez, the more I write, the more I like the name Robert.

It’s a family name in my family, which I don’t think gives much about my identity away; according to the Social Security Administration, Robert was the 17th most popular name in the United States in 1992. (I picked this statistic because it was the easiest one to find, by the way. I hate statistics. The other day I was driving along and I heard a comedian say, “The number of women whose boyfriends hate peanut butter, according to a statistic I made up for the purpose of this joke . . .” Fexactly.)

And it’s Robbie Robbertson’s name, kind of.

For anyone who doesn’t know, Robbie Robertson was in The Band. (“The Weight, “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” “Up on Cripple Creeck” . . . y’know?)

Here is Robbie in 1976 at the Band’s final concert, which Martin Scorsese made into the move The Last Waltz.


My lover does not look this girlish, although I admit I have never seen a picture of him from the 70s and I have certainly never seen a picture of him in a blue velvet almost-but-not-quite-smoking-jacket and pink silky scarf.

On the other hand, my lover very definitely does like Joni Mitchell and Neil young, who were also at the Last Waltz:

Joni and Neil

But when it comes to liking Joni and Neil–who doesn’t?

So that doesn’t make my lover all that connected to Robbie.

There are one or two other things that conceivably do. But mostly, lately, what I have been thinking of is Robertson’s song “Broken Arrow”, off his first solo CD, entitled Robbie Robertson. (Hey, it’s the easiest way to solve the naming thing, yeah?)

I know that song was ruined, ruined I tell you, by Rod Stewart. (Okay, actually, I secretly liked Rod Stewart’s version well enough, and the over-the-top gooshy romantic late-80s-early-90s video that went with it.)

But I love the song itself, melody and lyrics like a gust of wind:

Who else is gonna bring you a broken arrow
Who else is gonna bring you a bottle of rain
There he goes, moving across the water
There he goes turning my whole world around

Do you feel what I feel
Can we make it so that’s part of the deal
I gotta hold you in these arms of steel
Lay your heart on the line . . . this time

I wanna breathe when you breathe
When you whisper like that hot summer breeze
Count the beads of sweat that cover me
Didn’t you show me a sign, this time

Who else is gonna bring you a broken arrow
Who else is gonna bring you a bottle of rain
There he goes, moving across the water
There he goes turning my whole world around, around

Do you feel what I feel
Do you feel what I feel
Ah can you see what I see
Can you cut behind the mystery
I will meet you by the witness tree
Leave the whole world behind

I want to come when you call
I’ll get to you if I have to crawl
They can’t hold me with these iron walls
We got mountains to climb

Who else is gonna bring you a broken arrow
Who else is gonna bring you a bottle of rain
There he goes, moving across the water
There he goes turning my whole world around
Turning my whole world around
Turning my whole world around
Turning my whole world around

There’s something mysterious about the song. In some ways, it seems like it should be a duet–it would make more sense as a love song if a woman sang the second two lines of the refrain, at least (and perhaps a couple of the stanzas.  I particularly think the stanzas about the beads of sweat, coming, and crawling would suit me just fine.)

Sexual innuendo aside, I like the song because of its mysticism. There is in the summit of the heart and in the most intense of experiences something that connects us, some passion and some bond. It’s there, and lots of us feel it, but it’s so hard to get our hands on, so hard to connect about it, so hard to talk about. “Do you feel what I feel?” “Do you see what I see?” I look at my lover much of the time, and the longer we know each other, the more I see what he sees, because I have gotten used to seeing the world through his eyes. I feel what he feels, because I feel for him.

* * *

When we were talking about found things this week, we were also talking about arrowheads . . . my lover said he’d never found one. He is the kind of man who would give me the first arrowhead he’d ever found.

He wouldn’t just do it for me, he’d do it for anyone he really loves. That’s part of the deal for him. He is not perfect–nobody is–but those he loves he love completely, with all of who he is. That’s a lot to offer another person.