Wallowing in my submission

I've been writing a lot lately. Just not here. My fingers have been tapping away, committing to what once would have been paper reams of dark scenarios of submission to my sadistic demon muse. Perhaps it is my spring fever - a polite term for the manic spell that my SAD grants me each April. Certainly, I've been horny as hell. Perhaps it is that the beast and I have been feeding each other's perversions with volleys of arousing images. Or perhaps it is that I have been feeling ever closer to my tormentor and his dark side, even though he is being careful to protect me from it when I am in his presence.

He will drop an image into a message, and I will repay him with reply after reply after reply, expanding and embroidering on his own evil thoughts. He pulls me into losing myself in thoughts of tortures that even he wouldn't inflict on me because of not wanting to mar my pale round breasts, of which he is quite fond. He wouldn't do it but I wallow in the scenario.

My body as well as my mind fondles memories of that horrid caning with a strip of cherry wood trim. The caning that left me sobbing. I find myself yearning for that pain. And my nipples... God, my nipples, before he pulled back, the fiend would twist them so badly I'd need help and firm commands to keep from collapsing to the ground. What I wouldn't give for torture like that right this minute!

And then our plans... he still says that one day he will share me with his friends. I do wonder how he will explain me. But still and all, while a year ago the idea horrified me when I read it on other subs' blogs as a real life experience, now I want him to hurry up and arrange it so I can demonstrate my devotion and submit to the degradation that will feed his evil appetites. Always it involves some measure of his spanking me, flogging me, caning me, to get us both into our respective moods and to show his friends how very submissive I am. And then they will rape me, one by one, as he watches and urges them on and encourages them to hurt me.

And he will stand where he can see my eyes and I can see his.
And he will gorge himself on my debasement.
And I will find joy in his arousal.

I don't know where I get this stuff. It festers in me. Part of me wants to disown it. And then I struggle with myself, and look in the mirror and say yes, this is part of who you are. Accept it. Embrace it.

Just as, when the sadist says I am sexy, I look in the mirror and shake my amazing mane of thick, wavy, rich red hair, and say

Yes, my Lord.
You bet I'm sexy.
Damn straight.
I'm sexy.
And I'm horny.
And I'm yours.

The talisman

I do not wear a collar.

There is no chain of paper clips around my ankle.
My only piercings are one in each ear,
done at sixteen in a jewelry store
in Greenwich Village. Afterwards,
we wryly descended to a
demonstration fallout shelter.

The beast hasn't ordered a tattoo,
nor branded me as he has others.
If you looked at me, you'd find
no mark that I am owned, and
possessed of a passion
to suffer and serve.

I need no mark.
I never forget.
But sometimes,
often,
I long for a talisman,
a sign that he found me,
a sign that he took me,
and made me his own.

And now he has granted my wish.
Nothing so standard as collar or chain.
Instead just a spring clip, one that
he bought to fasten his chain
to itself or a bar, as if he could
think that I'd wander or stray.
It lives in my pocket now.
I reach in at odd times and
fondle it like a rabbit's foot
or his cock. It grows hot
from my thigh, hot as desire,
hot as my ass after a beating.
I reach in my pocket and
fondle this sign of freedom
freely relinquished. A smile
swims through my veins.
I am owned.
I am content.

Slowly letting go. Very slowly.

It has been over a month since I last heard from the philosopher. More than 5 weeks since he told me he couldn't take my suffering comments any more. I was so torn, in so much pain, I wanted him and knew by then that it couldn't work and yet just couldn't bring myself to give up so drove him to declare enough already.

And I still write him every week or so.

Wisely, I suppose, he doesn't write back.

I wish he would write back.

I'm trying to truly give up. See how stupidly conflicted I am? I know he can't give me what I want and need. I always knew that, but preferred to believe in the fantasy.

I can't quite let go of the fantasy. It's nearly a year since we last saw each other and I can't quite let go of the fantasy.

Take a look at my profile on this page. Does that sound like it's really over?

I just can not bring myself to change it. Every so often I look at it and then back away from changing. I've gotten as close as thinking I'll change it but will enshrine the original one somewhere on that side of the page. Of course, I haven't managed to act on it.

However, I did manage to remove the philosopher from my FetLife profile. It was hard, but not as bad as here. After all, I went over to FetLife late last summer after he broke up with me "for good." He was never part of my presence there, although he did have a mutating place in my profile. And the big thing about FetLife is that it is where my demon muse found me, devised a plan, set a trap, and caught me within one week.

So I removed the philosopher from my profile there. And now it reads:

I am a submissive Jewish bisexual feminist baby boomer with pretenses of being a writer. Did I leave anything out? Oh yeah... cats and red hair. That should cover it.

The man I call my demon muse is a brilliant, creative, and inspiring sadist who values me for my words and works hard to keep me disciplined and writing to my full potential. I am moved and grateful beyond description that he has agreed to take me back into his service after a very unfortunate falling out in December. Our resumed relationship is more satisfying than ever. He no longer scares me; instead I live immersed in a transforming state of submission, and give myself willingly to whatever he has in mind.

The sadist tortures my body and nourishes my soul. His ownership honors me and his attentions educate and enrich me. I am chained to him by my devotion, and need nothing more.

That will do for now.

Meanwhile, there are still relics of the philosopher in the house, including the underwear he deliberately left on his last visit and the pony tail I lopped off the first time I cut his hair. There is a picture on my bookshelf, though no longer on my desk or by my bed. And worst of all, there is the beautiful close-upthat adorns my computer desktop.

I think about getting rid of it. It feels like an amputation. He has been there for so long... but soon a friend will be upgrading my operating system, and that would seem an appropriate time to replace the philosopher with the cats. I'll have support for it, so maybe it won't be too painful.

We wouldn't have worked out. I know that - although I still can't accept it.

And I miss him.
Horribly.
Damn.
I thought I was done crying over him.
I wish we could at least try being friends again.

But it's been 5-1/2 weeks and I haven't heard a word.
And I worry about him.

[she shakes her head as if to clear out the cobwebs that are the remnants of what they had. if they did have anything. it doesn't help. healing takes time. she wishes she had someone of her own.]

Sometimes you just have to ask

Today, I reached out for what I needed.
And tonight, I got it.

I hadn't seen the Irishman for a long time. He scared me a little last time. He was in a very cold place. He is a "kind dom" but last time he was in a very cold sadistic place. He isn't a thorough-going sadist like my demon muse is, but there was nothing warm about his last visit. It was the first time he didn't leave me feeling good. Plus then there was my mother's health scare, and I got very sick, and the end came with the philosopher, all of which left me very depressed while at the same time feeling more and more tied to the sadist.

Life is so complicated.

But I'm much better now, my soul doesn't hurt as much, the cold is gone, and I'm feeling very secure about the fiend. Plus I've been very very horny. Being allowed to masturbate Thursday night - and in fact receiving permission to do it again tonight - just wasn't enough.

So at 1:03 pm I e-mailed the Irishman and told him I was available again.

That's an understatement. I sent him a long, provocative piece that spoke of needing to be spanked - hard - and needing to be fucked. He was pleased. And at 6:10 he wrote asking if I were available tonight.

He was here by 8:30.

He held me, pulling me into him, twining his fingers in my hair.
He pushed me into the wall, grinding into me and smacking my bottom.

"So you have needs..."

"Yes, sir."

He waited.

"I need to be spanked. Hard.
And I need to be fucked.
And I need to serve your needs,
which is the most important thing of all."

"Exactly."

He pushed me into the bedroom.

"Get the vibrator. Now show me how much you need it."

I lay down on the bed, wriggling out of my jeans and pink panties in a series of desperate and ungraceful movements. I held the condom-encased vibrator against my clitoris, enjoying the sensation. I felt my cunt relax, and slipped the beautiful blue machine inside, fucking myself with the philosopher's gift the way he himself was never capable of doing. I fucked myself with the vibrator while the Irishman stood over me, watching, and then letting fall his own jeans and underpants.

He got up on the bed, sitting behind my head, positioning his balls and yummy fat cock over my mouth. I licked at him as I fucked myself, sometimes pulling his testicles into my mouth.

He smacked at my breasts and pulled at the nipples. It hurt. He is always very careful when he hits my breasts, making sure that they are supported. And at one point - perhaps before I lay down on the bed? - he slapped my cheek and then asked if that did anything for me. I suppose he could tell from my expression or sound that it hadn't really. I overcame my submissiveness enough to admit to that fact, and was very proud of myself. He didn't do it again.

He rolled me over and gave me a good hard spanking. Hard and firm. I needed that - I needed even more of that - but it was enough to leave me with a sore butt which I had no interest in treating with frozen peas. I want the pain to continue.

And then... aah... another step towards obliterating the virginity of my little brown asshole. (Yup, mine is brown, not pink, I wonder why?) He had tried on one of his early visits to fuck my butt, but couldn't make it in. There hasn't been much effort made to stretch it out. The purple butt plug the very cautious philosopher gave me is very small, and S- got as far as fucking me with 2 fingers. The sadist will do it eventually. But for now... the Irishman still didn't get his lovely fat cock in there, but he did go in with the vibrator. It was already covered with a condom. He gave it a good coating of K-Y jelly, which he also applied directly to my little hole. I'm not exactly sure what he did, but I think first he just held the tip of the vibrator to the hole, and turned it on. I think then he turned it off and eased it in a small way. No pain yet, and I relaxed and was happy. The pain was soon to come, though, as he pushed in further, and I was worried, but then it was gone. I'm not sure how far in he got, but whatever he was doing was very nice - as opposed to when he fisted me on that night he was in his cold place, which was uncomfortable and which I didn't like at all.

I think he did try to go in with his cock, I'm not sure, but he's fatter than the vibrator, though in a graceful sort of way, not like those fat penises that just have mass and no beauty.

But eventually he came up on the bed and, ordering me to hold the position he had placed me in with my feet on the floor, stomach on the mattress, and my bottom draped over the edge of the bed, he had me give him a leisurely blow job, which he seemed to quite enjoy. In the end, he jerked himself off and spurted up in my face. That was a first for me, and there was something exuberant about it. I was quite happy and very much at peace.

He asked for a towel in that dry, dom-sort of way that is a demand, not a request. I quickly washed off my face and he wiped himself off. Then he had me lie down with my cheek by his cock as he lay across the width of the bed. And he fell asleep. There was a small spell of snoring at one point, and a bit of fast breathing that made me think he was dreaming.

I didn't sleep. Even had he stayed the night I doubt I would have slept. I rarely do the first night. But I relaxed and enjoyed his breathing and felt at peace. I gazed at his neat, slender hands, and at his fat cock which was lovely in repose. I must have been very relaxed indeed, because when we finally got up I found that I had drooled into his public hair.

He slept. I lay there next to the warmth and peace of a sleeping man. And I realized that this was what I had needed most of all. I hadn't expected it, I could never have counted on it, he had never stayed this long before, but oh it was so very lovely.

He awoke maybe 20 minutes later. I continued to lie there, watching him pull on his jeans, looking at his lovely Irish grey hair which does not at all make him look old. He has a sweet face with a crooked smile. He patted my leg. And then he left.

I continued to rest.

I'll go to bed shortly. I'll touch myself and run through my mind some exercises for the sadist relative to serving his pleasure. When I feel I have made sufficient progress I am allowed to cum. And then with my butt sore from the Irishman and my heart unwisely warm from my sadistic owner, I will slide into sleep.

Song of Spring

The earth is singing spring
and I am dripping sex.
I stand here wild and naked,
a goddess of desire,
dancing my yearning,
parading my lust.
My arms reach like branches,
my breasts are alert and
thrust
towards your eyes.
Sinuous, I drink in the
sweetness of April, and flirt
with the life-giving, death-wielding sun.
Come close and touch me.
Come near and press yourselves
close to my heat and my heart.
Probe me with fingers, with
tongues and with cocks.
I'm trembling with sex,
my sap is exploding,
it's spring and it's April
and I am of earth.

Good girl.

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Unforgivables

"There are some things we don't have to forgive," she said.

My heart paused and gasped.
My heart lifted. I felt as if
granted a reprieve from
a sisyphean task that I
never could complete.

It was a writer's workshop
cum therapy group. Grief
and healing and psalms.
And with one sentence,
she forgave me for the
forgiveness that I
cannot
give.

"Oh." I said.
"Like Hitler," I said.
"We're not expected
to forgive Hitler."
"Exactly," she said.
Not that the crimes of
ex-hubby #2 compare to
the Holocaust.
But the point
was clear. I'm in
the clear. I can
stop
beating myself up.
I'll leave that job
to the sadist.
He'll enjoy it.

Starving for savagery

I feel fishhooks clawing at my pussy.
I feel flames leaving scars on my brain.
My submission is hoarse from screaming,
begging the beast to feed upon my flesh.
The scent of sex surrounds me.
Any minute, my door will yield
and a press of adolescent boys
will burst into the room, drawn like
toms to mount a cat in heat.
I am in heat.
A hormone storm for sure, seeded by
absence and internet silence, abetted
by the fiend’s own trap. A few lines,
a small vision, no more.
A sugar cube laced with acid of words,
sending my submissive mind on
such a trip that by today
the wild volcano of my lust was
spewing spurts of poems like
a man
cursed
to cum himself to death.
A dangerous game.
One doesn’t flirt lightly
with carnivorous beasts.
I offered him my throat,
sprinkling the path to my
blood-sheeted bed
with metaphors that guarantee
to waken and incite.
Works every time.
Says so on the package.
And so I try to wait,
and will my hands to
leave to its distress my
screaming, greedy cunt.
He'll be here soon enough.
Tomorrow or the next day
I will pay for tossing poems
at the maw of such a sadist
when he flogs my tender pallor,
when he twists my wounded nipples,
when he scratches his initial
somewhere new upon my body,
when he finds new ways to torture
till I prove how much I love him
as I let him tear me open
and I keep back from him nothing.
I am the beast's.
I yearn to be torn to shreds.

Home and reconnected

I was in New York.
My laptop was with a friend.
I went for a family event.
My laptop was in for upgrading.
I came back refreshed.
The laptop is waiting for parts.
We might as well wait together.

I'm surprised at how good I feel. Before I left, I kept thinking I don't want to go, I'm tired, I want to be home with the cats. But I took the bus and the weather was fine, I was staying on the Upper West Side (VERY nice, for those not familiar with what I call The Old Country), and everything else went well. I even spent a couple of pleasant hours with one of the men who answered the Scaramouche ad that I posted to the NY craigslist. The ad that no one was supposed to answer. I'm not at all attracted to him - after all, he's interested in me, how could I possibly be attracted to him? - but it was indeed a very pleasant couple of hours sitting on the sidewalk on Amsterdam Avenue sharing a quesadilla and talking about this and that. It felt very normal.

And how could I not feel good after an actually very lovely family party where I could see the Statue of Liberty from my seat at the table.

Maybe I need to do this more often. A weekend away. Normal activities. No computer access.

And constant thoughts of ...

No. Not of the philosopher. Even though there had been all these fantasies once of visiting him in New York and roaming the city together.

Of course he wasn't absent from my mind. How could he be? But I didn't obsess quite the way I expected to. Maybe the silent treatment is working. I haven't heard from him since he pulled the plug for good, despite all my attempts at reestablishing contact. Maybe he thinks I'll eventually forget him.

I won't forget him. But maybe it will be easier to let go.

And my thoughts while I was gone?

Ah, but you know that.

Perhaps the philosopher was right

He worried about my job.
He worried about the stress.
I'd cry over the phone calls,
over their stress,
over their need,
over their grief and their loss.
And he'd think it was too much.
He wanted to protect me.
This man who liked to cane me
wanted to shield me from pain.

I'm not trained for this.
I'm not a therapist,
They know where to put it,
they learn how to let it go.
I think I store it up -
all the grief from all the calls,
all the anger, stress, and loss.
It sits there in my bowels,
undigested sorrow, needing
only one more crisis
to send it boiling up my throat and
spilling out in tears and need.

Perhaps it is too much for me.
Perhaps it makes me need too much,
perhaps I live too close to crying,
perhaps I give all that I've got
and need support he couldn't give
to give me the strength
to do it again.

We needed too much.
He needed my silence.
I needed his words.
And now we're left with nothing.
And I'm not there for him
and he's not there for me.
And there will be no us.

I wish there were an us.

The way it used to be

He spends holidays with the family. Usually a mile or so away at his parents' house, though sometimes at the house of a sibling. He has a lot of them. Occasionally he ventures all the way into the next state to visit the one brother who bought a house that far away. But never alone. He gets a ride with some of the others.

He can't drive.

We used to talk about it beforehand. I'd tell him to think of his kitten hiding under the table. I'd be curled up at his feet, until the urge to be naughty became too much for me. Then he'd feel my hand sneaking into his lap... I wanted him to think of me as he had dinner with his parents and the gang of siblings. I wanted him to get an erection, and then feel the blush staining his pale, Irish face, until it almost matched his red Irish hair.

I envied him his close family. I kept thinking that one day I'd get to meet them. They fascinated me, all so different, all so close. I have pictures of his cute and funny red-headed niece, who is his goddaughter.

Some of his family is on Facebook. I resist the temptation to send a message to the brother to whom he's closest, the brother who had invited us to have dinner with him and his wife. I resist the temptation to write and introduce myself, to say I'm worried about John, I'm worried he may be depressed, is he doing ok, is he making progress on the dissertation, please don't/do let him know I asked after him...

I'm trying hard to let go. I have to let go. I couldn't take the silence, especially when I know, I know, I've known all along somehow deep inside that it was all a fantasy.

And yet the pain keeps coming back. I'm going up to New York next week and I wish I could tell him I'll be in New York next week and how about meeting my bus and going somewhere for tea just to talk. Just so I can see him again.

It wouldn't happen.
I drove him crazy.
He has no room for me.
He has no room for anyone.
He has a goal.
He has to finish.
And besides.
He doesn't have relationships.
Except for the family.

He spends holidays with his family. And he used to sneak off during the family dinners to check his e-mail. If anyone commented, he'd say he was expecting something from a student. I'd send him provocative messages, and he'd write back, and then slip back into the family gathering.

I wonder if he thought of me today.

Probably not.

But I thought of him.
I still do
think of him
every
single
day.

Do they sell Super Glue for broken hearts?

I suppose I should be frightened

I am learning more about what burns inside my demon muse. He tries to spare me, but sometimes I stumble upon information... He hadn't told me about the activity he refers to below. Our schedules last week were too complicated to accommodate the meeting we both wanted. His needs were too pressing. He couldn't wait.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Probably worked to your advantage, since I have been trying to think of a word for the session and can only come up with savage. To share a little more of the insight you seemed to enjoy last time, I will say that afterwards, I was almost nauseated, and not in the existential/Sartre way, but actually physically sick, sort of. Fun, huh?

I suppose I should be frightened.
I suppose I should be buying
iron bars for all my windows,
bars to keep the werewolf
and his fangs from breaking in
and tearing strips of bloody flesh
and anguished screams from my white throat.
At least the house is brick,
cinder block and brick so that
the wolf can’t blow it down.

He is a fearsome beast.
I never would deny
that hungers such as haunt his
days and dreams are not the sort
that any cautious pantheist
would want to tempt with
sexiness unconscious and with
innocent allure.
And yet he draws me back.
I just cannot resist the –
no, I don’t know what it is but
better judgment never had a chance
and so I always wear his chain,
as real as if he’d soldered
a steel collar round my neck.

It’s better that I know.
Better not to see or hear or feel
the worst that he can do,
but better, too, that I can get these
tiny peeks inside his darkened cave
so that I know a little more of
man and beast I loyally serve.
And in the end,
while I might crave surrender
to his fiery intensity, and
greedy lust and passion as he
crashes through defenses that
had never been expected to
protect from such as he;
while I might even yearn
to show that I would take
the pain that he knows well
can never fully sate
the fiend when at his worst;
there may be times like this,
when he might think I’d flee the scene,
and yet this silly poet,
who really should know better,
has just this foolish wish –
to hold his head in her bare lap
until the sickness ebbs away,
while singing Yiddish lullabies
in that unguarded breathy voice
that makes him tightly grip the chain
and never set me free.

Meanwhile, I grow my nails.


[Posted with volunteered permission.
The last line is a private reference.]

Vermont

What more is there to say?

Except
perhaps
Iowa.

Equality is coming to America.
Go forth and love.

Pain

loss
hurts.
need
hurts.
i thought
i'd found it.
i thought
we had it.
wishful thinking.

i wanted it so badly,
i built it from my need.

i had a rough day.
i was sweet and kind
and there
for a man who called.
a man in pain.
much worse pain than i'm in.
and i cried when we hung up
and sorted out my grief
and wished i had a lover
as in someone who loved me
whose job it was
to care for me
and i'd be there
to care for him.

not a chance.

still.
it could be worse.
i am treasured
and i am owned
and i
am being trained
to serve
his needs.
and in his cage
i'll find some peace.

at least i'll know where and who i am.

Coming up empty

There have been so many things rolling around my head this weekend.
Images.
Thoughts.
Grief.
Tears.

A short, intense conversation with the sadist yesterday following --

no.
i don't feel like writing about it.
even though it was lovely.
even though he ordered me to masturbate.
even though he allowed me to cum
even though i floated through the rest of the day feeling
very owned
and very small
and very happy
and very chained.

perhaps you have noticed that i've been writing pretty regularly lately after a somewhat dry spell. he hasn't been making him write for him much. my training has focused on more practical aspects oriented towards my physical service for him. but today i was given a writing assignment, which oftentimes siphons off my creative juices.

besides, i've been feeling weepy today. weepy and sad and grieving on a beautiful spring day that i would have loved to have shared with the philosopher. even without being together, we could have shared it, with e-mails, with a phone call.

i have to give up.
but it takes time.

i broke down today.
i e-mailed him.
i sent him a link to a great article in today's Sunday New York Times about how a blogger is getting married to one of her regular commenters. See? It pays to leave comments!

Speaking of which, I noticed today a new reader from Louisiana, who spent a lot of time here. I'm dying to know who you are, so do please say hello, either publicly here or with a private e-mail (the link is on the profile page).

anyway, i e-mailed the philosopher and i haven't heard back and maybe that will finally cure me of e-mailing him. of course, he might have been off-line all day, and sometimes he doesn't check e-mail over the weekend. but i need to just let go.

just
let
go.

except you all know that it isn't that easy...

ah well.

this post seems pointless, except to say that i'm here and still struggling, except for when i'm focused on my demon muse, and then i'm floaty and happy.

hmm... if you were a logician, what would you conclude?

He was here

This morning.
He showed up in my stats.
What was he doing up so early in the morning, anyway?!

It doesn't matter.
It's irrelevant.

If you had read the lunacy in my last post, would you want to have anything to do with me?

It's my broken heart.
I'll learn to deal with it.

And now scientists are saying that
the heart muscles do regenerate after all.
Very very slowly,
especially at my age.
But still.
A hope for a cure.
Someday...

Struggling

The sadist loves that word.
Struggling.
He loves to know that I'm struggling.
Struggling with a poem.
Struggling for air.
Struggling against the pain.
Struggling against my love.

Struggling against my love when it's love for him. He takes a sadist's pleasure and a narcissist's satisfaction from my love for him. It's another chain with which to bind me. Food for his confidence.

But that hasn't been the problem this week. My demon muse has been bound by chains of his own, the chains of his life, and hasn't had much time for me. There were few protective reminders that I am his, that I have work to do, exercises to practice to prepare me to serve his carnal desires. He allowed me to write for him once - over the weekend I think, I can't really remember, my mind has been working so badly.

The sadist isn't the only demon in my life.
There are others... thoughts... emotions...
trolls, hiding beneath the bridges of
my brain and my heart, waiting
to leap out at me. Waiting
to startle me. Waiting to
make me lose my balance.

I lost my balance this week
and I almost drowned.

Maybe it was the changing of the seasons, causing the earth to shift on its axis, leading me to lose my footing. Certainly the cats were acting strangely, fighting fiercely, growling and hissing and then maintaining an aura of wariness when they joined each other on what I foolishly once thought was a chair I had bought for myself.

Perhaps it was a manic spell. Except that I was too depressed for that, with a fragile balloon of sadness and tears nesting just beneath my throat.

Maybe it was just my broken heart.
Nothing more than that.
A broken heart demanding attention.

I wanted so badly to write him. I wanted to write him and say that I missed him desperately (bad idea) and that I hoped he was doing well (maybe ok) and now my glasses are fogging up and it's becoming hard to see the screen and there were things I wanted to share with him, such as the outcome of the work of the committee I was on and the clever April Fool's spoof that Gmail posted yesterday.

I struggled.
I struggled against temptation.
I struggled against temptation
with few words from my owner
to reel me back to sanity.

In the end, I couldn't resist. But I didn't completely fall. I knew that if I wrote him he wouldn't answer but would himself be thrown off kilter and I do/did/who-knows love him and want to give him peace.

So I went back to craigslist.
To craigslist in his city.
In his part of his city.
And I left a note in a hollow tree.
I stuck a note in a bottle
and threw it out to sea.

I wrote a very short post, w4m, with a name in the subject line that he would know was for him. And a short quote from a book, with a number, an age, altered to make it refer to him.

He didn't respond.
He probably hasn't seen it.

Later, I realized that if I really want him to see I should put it in Rants & Raves, which I know he reads. But I put it in w4m. Just in case...

He didn't respond. But a small handful of other men did. It was clearly much too esoteric to land a big haul, even in a city that size.

Some of the answers I ignored. A few were from men who seemed nice and/or intelligent and/or interesting, so I was honest and explained that the post was a message for one man, that I was suffering from a broken heart, and that I lived outside our nation's capital. I had an interesting conversation with one man, eventually discovering that we have a common interest, at which point I referred him to FetLife. It's amazing and sad how many married people are silently nursing their secret needs.

Another man turned out to live just a couple of hours south of here. He is smart, a writer, intriguing, having grown up abroad, and somewhat secretive. Of course, it turns out he's married but living apart from his wife. And eventually the talk was all of sex (no, he's not kinky) and then he was wanting to make plans for the weekend, and then he was acting like a child who couldn't accept the idea that this weekend was to be MY weekend, I had earned it over the last month of meetings and interviews for my committee, and no, it wouldn't be enough for me to have Saturday and then he would come up and spend the rest of the weekend in bed. "Now, Mommy! I want it NOW!!" Men are such babies...

So I wrote to men during the day yesterday as I fought the grief and longing and struggled with love and loss of concentration, which makes me think it was largely hormones, because I was dropping things and bumping into things and struggling with a headache, and finally when I came back to work after lunch home with the cats I drove the car head on into one of the supporting posts in the underground parking garage.

Not on purpose.
And not very fast.
But you know what cars are like these days.

It's not too bad. I was going very slowly. I didn't report it to insurance because I have a big deductible and then they raise your rates anyway until, it seems, you've covered everything they paid for the repairs. I'll take it over to my mechanic to check for internal injuries but mainly I'll just live with it.

Still.
I'm pissed with myself.

I drive into things every so often.
I lose focus.
And I don't have stereoscopic vision.
I need a chauffeur.
The kind Memphis Minnie was after.
One who won't drive anyone around town but me.

I lose focus.
I mess up.
But at least I didn't write the philosopher.

Not yet.

And now the cats are friends again. They're both in the chair, curled up together in the chair, Ketzel having given Marko a loving and very focused bath with her kitty tongue.

They always do eventually make up.