Travel


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I’m leaving in a few hours for a 46-hour visit with my sister in the Rockies.  My father insists that I’ll be breathless the whole time.  (I think that’d be sort of endearing.)  I can’t wait.

The location of this photo is not exactly where we’ll be.  I can’t give away any more information about our secret bunker than I already have.

Robbie is highly jealous.  Like my sister, he’s fit, outdoorsy, and athletic.  I’m adventuresome-ish, but only if one of them is there to watch out for me.

Not much point to this post, except to gloat, preen, and brag.  I’m walking on air–or soon will be!

I’m really getting dizzy from how fast things are happening.  

Last Friday, Robbie sent me Roses.  I unintentionally capitalized that–probably because no one has ever given me roses except my best friend, who did it one Valentine’s day because I kept complaining that no one had ever given me flowers.  Even my other boyfriends stuck to carnations and things.  I was blown away.

Friday afternoon, we decided to spend the next few days together.  Robbie rearranged his whole schedule (it was a lot to arrange) so we could have four night and three days of talking, fucking, and touristing.  We had an amazing time.  It was the seventh time he visited me in three and a half years.  He’s managing two trips a year pretty steadily. 😉

Wednesday Robbie left and Thursday (as in, yesterday) I moved.  I’m still stunned by the move.  I don’t even have time to think about it because I have social events out the wazoo in my new home, and unpacking, and things like that.

And then next week Robbie’s coming to see me again.  (So that’s his last visit for the year used up.)

I should write about something kinky.  Oh yeah–he nearly had me suck him off in a museum.

I did blow him in the hotel parking lot, but we’re expert at parking lot blowjobs, so while it was thrilling, it wasn’t new.  

We did about 15 new things, which I hope to have time to describe.  Someday.

Oh, and the local Dom?  I’m still in touch with him, but R. and I decided not to play with other folks for the near term, until we got a few things straightened out.  We usually jump into bed with other people when we think things are going well for us, which immediately causes things to go not well for us, and then we rinse and repeat.  We’re trying to do things a bit more cautiously this time.  

Okay, well, um.  Yeah.  That’s the news.  I gotta go attempt to shower without a shower curtain.  Wish me luck.

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I’m getting used to this posting-more-often thing.  And so even though I don’t have much time to write what I want to write, I’m posting.

I talked to R. last night after a week of exchanging serious emails with him.  I needed the conversation; I’d been having so many sad, grieving dreams about us that I hadn’t been able to sleep through the night on Wednesday and Thursday.  He calmed me down enough so that I can just be for awhile, just do my thing, and let him do his.  That’s good.

As for my thing, I’m heading out tonight to hang out with a woman R. and I met last Thanksgiving.  She’s smart and kinky and kind, so I’m looking forward to that.  And to the chance to see a new place.  Hell, I’m even looking forward to the DRIVE.

I’m not looking forward to getting lost, though.  When I went to have dinner with the women the other night, I got thoroughly lost, and finally resorted to calling my family to get them to google directions for me.  This happens virtually every time I drive somewhere, and it’s only getting worse with time.  My mother’s entire family wanders through the world in a daze of lost-ness, while my dad’s side is more oriented.  On this occasion, my sister, who has a grid in her head, managed to give me perfect directions, complete with landmarks, by looking at a map on the computer in her office, 2,000 miles away from where I was.  I would have hated her if she hadn’t been so nice and I hadn’t been so very fucked.  So today I’m getting a map–if I don’t flake out and forget.

That’s about it.  I’m feeling lucky to be alive, and happy, which is about all anyone can ask for.

And I’m feeling glad that I found this photo gallery–The Night Day, with photos by Keffer, via ponyXpress.

Edit: I just realized that might be a hookah pipe next to the woman in the picture.  I was thinking it was a whip.  Shows where my mind flows . . .

For our purposes, let’s pretend it’s a whip, okay??  Thanks.

I have been absent, and I am exhaustedly back.

I just moved, yesterday, from a place I had lived since 2001.  I kept track of when I moved into that apartment by recalling Sept. 11  It didn’t happen on moving day, but it happened not long after, and the happiness I lived in my cozy one-bedroom always seemed a strange juxtaposition to–or perhaps a wilful retreat from–the lack of sense in the world around me after we became a nation at war.

I’m not going to try to make much sense this morning.  I don’t have much time to, and I’m simply too tired.  I spent all weekend packing, carrying, and taping, and I ache all over.   Work is busier (though more fulfilling) than it has been in years, and I just moved from an apartment where I lived on my own for the better part of a decade to a enormous historic house in the suburbs filled with life.  I’ve moved in with friends (hi Greenwoman!  Yep, me too!) because these are hard times and because I have had enough of trying to be a tub on my own bottom.  (Besides, at this point I have come to enjoy the idea of sharing my bottom, too.)

I am now living amongst a rather improbable collection of adults, children, animals, and vehicles of transport–one car per adult, plus baby carriers, cat carriers, strollers, doll strollers, sleds, toy carts, toy trains, toy trucks, and several (miniature) Star Wars gunships.  Meanwhile, Robbie is buried in snow and financial paperwork, a cloud of white entirely tiring on its own.  We call each other at 1opm and murmur quietly, partly to keep from waking babies at my new abode, and partly because we are too tired to do much more than murmur.

My libido has attempted to make an appearance since New Year’s, but really, it barely even gets an A for effort.  I don’t blame it; there is far too much going on. We still haven’t entirely given up the dream of a home of our own, though; picture-perfect and ideal, but with a pervert-black picket fence instead of the white one.  That’s our kind of domestic felicity.

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Black picket fence by Alice Mayer.

I have been percolating a bunch of my usual serious, navel-gazing posts. But I am a bit too busy to get them down on pixels, because I’m getting ready for a rare visit from Robbie. He’s coming tomorrow. He’s staying five days and five delicious nights. And we have all kinds of very perverted activities planned, some of them with some new friends.

So that is cause to be happy and thankful indeed, and Robbie in particular is over the moon. In part because he has decided to be optimistic about us, and in part because he loves it when we play with other people. He likey that.

He is showering me with email and attention, which is the best kind of positive feedback a girl could want. And I just woke up to a hilarious cartoon of a fifties kinda guy staring at a bound woman’s ass. He had captioned it “Come on, Tuesday!” I couldn’t help but laugh and I thought I would share some of his infectious enthusiasm, as well as a peek at a nice ass.

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I think we’re a little excited.

From Kelly Hsiao’s cute collection of pin-ups.

I got to Robbie’s Friday night after an unutterably long drive. (Note to self: don’t leave the city at rush hour on a holiday weekend. I arrived at 2:10am after 10 hours of solid driving; 7 is the norm.) I was sure we were both too tired to fuck and in the car on the way up I even toyed with the idea of safewording if he insisted. I didn’t think he would.

Obviously, I was wrong. After being apart for awhile his need for me is so intense it’s like an aura around him. I can taste it and smell it on him–and he swears he can taste it and smell it on me. He must be right, because no matter how “not in the mood” I am from the driving, on seeing him I am mostly instantly interested.

Lately, our play together has been so amazing that I don’t even remember it. I’d love to write about it, but I’m not sure what to say about three hours of fucking and 22 orgasms (two for him, something like 20 for me). I can’t really distill a particular narrative out of it. All I can collect are moments: me sitting, bare-assed, in front of him on a plastic chair with my legs spread wide. Me totally losing control as he hand-fucked me and squirting all over the concrete patio beneath me. Him smoking, drinking whisky, and toying with my cunt, saying, “This is so interesting, I want to spend more time here talking and playing–but you need to get fucked and I need to get blown.” Him telling me all kinds of raunchy fantasies, whispering in my ears . . .

At one point he whispered one of his favorite phrases: “You are sooooo fucked.” I used to think all this meant was that I was in trouble for something. Then I thought it meant a lot of pain. Now I understand that the trouble is a game, the pain is pleasure, and the “so fucked” is literal. He wants me fucked “every which way and loose,” as he says. He delights in taking me over every edge, getting me to be greedy, watching me take his fucking in all kinds of ways.

I remember him, in the bathroom, brushing my hair gently, as though entranced, before grabbing me by the throat and making me look at myself in the mirror. Him kissing me all over; hand-fucking me again; attaching clothespins to my nipples and labia; kindly letting me choke myself on his cock, repeatedly. Him lying on top of me in bed, and behind me, and in back of me.

And I remember coming again and again, wild with the pleasure that comes when every nerve seems to be firing orgasms. And I was so totally, utterly, and profoundly fucked.

Belatedly: Found the source of this photo . . . it’s on bunny cat’s flickr stream; photo, it seems, by Martin R. Class.

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.

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