Sex and poetry and prose

Sometimes,
not often enough,
I post things here.
Sometimes it's poetry.
Sometimes it's prose.
And sometimes
it's poetry
that looks
like prose.

When I write that way, it's not that I want you to think it's a poem. I'm pretty clear - in my own mind anyway - about when what I'm writing is a poem. I don't always know where it's going, what it will end up saying, but I do know when I mean it to be a poem.

Other pieces, though, are - and were always meant to be - prose. But they're more than just the words. The words have different weight, different meaning, depending on how they're said. The line breaks, the alliteration I can't resist, they make you stop. Listen. Turn back and think again.

A recent article in the New York Times on-line discusses the power of poetry to make us stop and listen and think. To consider the words and images in a different way.

In our view, part of what makes language artistic is that we have to explore it actively in order to appreciate it.  We may have to look beneath the surface, and think harder about what images the author has used, who the author purports to be, and even how the language is organized.  These efforts can lead to new insights, new perspectives and new experiences.

As an example, the authors cite a project which took posts from the Craigslist "Missed Connections" category and transformed them into poetry by inserting line and stanza breaks. The words weren't changed, but the line splits triggered phrasing changes, which accented different words and - yes - altered our understanding of what was said in the first place.

The article is called Philosophy and the Poetic Imagination. Do go for the general discussion as well as for the authors' analysis of the following, which, yes, began life on Craigslist. The title of the poem was the subject line of the post.

Drunk Irish Guy to the Girl in the Red Tights on the Subway to Queens

drunk irish guy
to the girl in the red tights
on the subway to queens

i really hope
I did not creep you out…
I was so drunk
and you were so hot…

I wish I could have met you
at a different moment
and a different place.

And the sex I mentioned in my own subject line?
False representation.
A loss leader.
There hasn't been any sex.
Not for a while.
Not for me.
Not for the drunk Irish guy.
Or for my Irish guy.

Poor Daddy.
Poor me.
We just have to wait
and write about poetry
and talk about music
and think about sex.

And each other.

Daddy's slave seeks a housemate

Dear potential housemate,

Thank you for your interest in renting my basement bedroom. As I have asked a lot of questions about you, it is only fair and appropriate that I reveal a little about myself.

I'm a pornographer.
Or perhaps a better word would be eroticist.
But pornographer gets straight to the point.

In any case, I'm somewhat of a lapsed pornographer, as there's always something to keep me from churning out the amount of fiction you would think I could manage. These days, the distraction is this housemate hunt. And construction noise from having the bathroom re-done so I can attract a relatively high standard of housemate. Meaning one who won't claim to recycle, won't pretend he's recycling, and then really smuggle his water and soda bottles into the trash in plastic bags. Meaning one who won't put things through the garbage disposal after I specifically said DON'T put anything down the garbage disposal. Meaning one who won't get all huffy when I explain that yes, there really is a right way to load the dishwasher.

Which is a whole lot different from claiming that there is one right way to have a BDSM relationship.

Speaking of BDSM...

There's this man.
He comes to the house.
I am naked when I let him in.
I am naked when he lets himself out.
And in between I suck his cock.
For an hour.
Maybe more.
He might spank me.
If he thinks it safe.
If he thinks he can do it without loosing the beast.

You really don't want to know about the beast.

But you do need to know about the man.
Because I'll be counting on your being at work when you say you are.
If you come home unexpectedly...
Let's just say it's better if you don't.
You might see and hear things you'd rather not.

Speaking of seeing things... don't ask about any bruises on my neck. Around my throat. He likes to mark me. He likes to squeeze my throat until the world starts to spin. Sometimes he'll bite my lip. Usually the other marks you won't see. Though I don't seem to get many of those any more. Still, you never know.

And you will.
Never know.
But just in case.
And in a spirit of full disclosure.

Because the room you would be renting is part of the dungeon.
And the walls have absorbed their share of screams.

Still interested?

Masturbating on a Saturday night

Those men and their craigslist ads.
They've got this thing about showing their cocks.

Silly men. If they are no more than their cocks, they can be easily replaced by a dildo. Or a vibrator, to give that extra little zap of stimulation. And these dependable substitutes come in such a delicious variety of colors!

Delicious.
Well, maybe not.
A cock can be very delicious.
But a dildo?

You can't really call a dildo delicious.
Even if you coat it in a flavored condom.
I've never sucked a man in a condom.
Flavored or otherwise.

Silly, I suppose, but I've done wilder things.

Like inviting the sadist to my home without first meeting him in some public place and for that meeting or later arranging a silent alarm. I didn't have to. I knew. I knew that I had no choice. That he would come to my house and that would be it. It would be right.

But then, this post isn't about the sadist.

OK.
I lie.
It's always about the sadist.

At the end of his visit on Friday - not confined to an exact half hour now that I am no longer working - he said "You may masturbate. Not necessarily today, but sometime this weekend. And you will, of course, send me a report." "Thank you," I said, from my position on the bed. "Of course I will report. I know that my orgasms belong to you."

The position was the same one I had assumed for the spoon spanking. I posed solidly on forearms and calves, arms wider than shoulders for greater security, legs spread as well for easier access to my pussy. My back was arched as much as I could and then a little more, making my puckered little brown butt hole especially inviting. I suspect that is the ultimate purpose of my learning this position - to withstand being pushed over by the force of his attack on my anus.

Now my pussy is twitching madly.

I think I am indulging in protracted self-foreplay.
Just as sex is more than penetration, masturbation is more than genital stimulation.

Still, I can't imagine why I wandered over to craigslist to browse among the shockingly pathetic ads that men place as they look to get laid. Especially in casual encounters. I mean really, guys. Do they work for you? I suppose so. I suppose there must be some desperate, brainless women who need to have their cunts stuffed and not much more. A good fuck can be just what is needed at times.

But even when it's just for the sex, I still need some intellectual connection for it to be at all satisfactory. I have certainly never replied to a cock standing up and saying "Ooh, look at me! Aren't I the big one. Wanna have some fun tonight?" Though on second thought, if a CL advertiser had enough creativity to present a talking cock, I just might linger a while...

Of course, the problem can go the other way as well. Guys who are quite intriguing or - and here I think of one man in particular - a longstanding friend with whom there has been a longstanding flirtation. But when it comes to his cock, it is neither longstanding nor particularly creative. When we finally got down to it, and the few times we repeated the act thereafter, it just wasn't all that satisfying. So when he came on to me again last year, I turned him down. I did it in a sweet way, and we continue to flirt, and the sexual tension continues to hang there between us. But I turned him down. I would actually be quite happy to kiss and cuddle, to snuggle nakedly - but not to fuck. Too bad. If we really did end up a couple, it would be so convenient, even though he does live up north a few hours.

And he wasn't the only disappointment. I need that magic combined package of physical and intellectual attraction plus the ability to deliver. He doesn't have to be huge. He doesn't even have to be able to sustain a 20-minute fuck. He just has to know how intoxicate me with his kisses, raise and maintain the sexual tension, make my mind disappear into a haze of sensuality and tortured nerve endings, and then leave me feeling beautiful and appreciated and fulfilled, whether or not I actually cum.

Asking too much?
No. There are guys like that out there.
20-minute fuck and all.
[she smiles to herself]

So here I am, browsing the stupidest of the craigslist ads, wondering why, then suddenly remembering that I have a masturbation card to redeem. Could I really be using those cock pictures for inspiration?

Yuck!

So why do I turn to these stupid ads and these ridiculous, graceless pictures?

I think because a part of me - at least in my mind - is drawn to the brutality of a fuck in which the only interest on the man's side is to get his cock into my pussy as fast as he can, and then to use said pussy to satisfy his need. Period. There is cock and there is hole. I am the hole. I am the source of friction he needs to get off. And the rest of me? Something to play with, something to paw at, something to torture or whatever he needs to stimulate his hunger. To make him think of himself as huge, powerful, controlling, whatever the hell it is these guys need to get themselves so hot. Me, I know what my beloved fiend needs and wants, and I am oh so good at giving it to him. Sure, he owns me, he orchestrates everything from our relationship as a whole to our time together to when (or if, ever) I get to cum to my bedtime 5 days a week. But when I am down on my knees before him, his cock in my mouth, I am a Master Chef, and I know just what herbs and spices to add, what incantations to say, how much heat to apply to the pan, and how long to let it simmer to give him a orgasm that sets him growling and moaning and grunting and roaring until he is spent and satisfied.

I suspect this post doesn't hold together.
I read it over and added bits and it seems completely disjointed.
Oh well, who cares.
I'm too tired to fix it.
I think I'll go watch a DVD and fondle myself.
Maybe I'll imagine a camera.
Focused on the bed.
People will be watching.
My legs will be spread
so the view will be clear
and I'll be petting my pussy
and you'll see it grow wetter and redder
and I'll slip my fingers inside
and you'll think about what you'd like to be slipping inside
except some of you will want to hurt me first.
some of you will want to twist my nipples
and bite my neck
and bind me to the bed
so you can spank my pussy with the spoon
or flog it without my rolling away
and you are drinking my screams
and then reaching for the cane
until your cock is ready to burst
and you shove it down my throat
and you drive it into my cunt
and you chain my feet over my head
and stab your cock
deep in my ass hole
and I shriek as you fuck me
and I sob and I cry
and it only makes you harder
and then I start to moan
and I thrust up to meet you
and your balls bounce off my butt
and now we're both grunting
and I'm sobbing and moaning
and your mouth . . .
there are no words for your mouth . . .
and I'm trussed up like a chicken
a chicken being butt fucked
and you slip your fingers between us
and you take pity on my pussy
and you fondle me and fuck me
and I'm writhing in the chains
and moaning and calling your name
and we cum
and we cum
and we cum

Damn, but I'm wet.

Searching for fun on a Saturday night

Oh my, what enticing options craigslist affords!

Here I am, horny and depressed and largely deprived of Masterly messages since sometime Friday afternoon. Silence descended without warning, although he did leave me with clear direction for my weekend activities. I am to devote myself to my health (meaning energetic physical activity), home organization (making my study an inviting place to work), and my newest writing project, which is exciting, ambitious, and utterly daunting. A large project under my legal name, with the added terror of joining a writing group composed of real writers. Published people. Journalists and such. To provided added support and critiques as I go forward on my new project. For better or worse, a friend belongs to it, so I suppose she will keep me from chickening out. On the other hand, that just makes me more unlikely to mention what I have been doing over the last few years to sharpen my skills.

Of course, most important of all, I have the support of the sadist, mixed with perhaps a measure of awe. Which makes me uneasy.

But for now, it is all prep work.

And the aforementioned depression which has nothing to do with his temporary silence. The depression comes from the last phone call I fielded at work Friday afternoon, which was long and distressing and that's all I'm going to say about that.

Because I'd rather talk about sex. The last few days I've been wishing with every drop of honey in my cunt that the sadist would suddenly announce that he was on his way over followed by a parade of cars, each containing a horny, dominant, and somewhat sadistic creature who wanted to hurt me and fuck me. I don't ask much.

Of course, being submissive, with my own desires not officially part of the equation, I don't ask at all.

[she sighs in resignation]

I don't say this often, but I could really use a spanking.
It would clear out the depression.
It wouldn't clear out the horniness.
Although in some way it would.

I don't actually cum per se after suffering my Master's assaults and serving his needs, except the end effect is nearly the same. I am cleansed. I become more centered again. Peaceful. Floating and yet more focused. The desperate need subsides, sinks back in, and feeds my soul and my creativity.

Instead, my pussy is flogging itself, slashing at itself with thin, biting, metal-tipped lashes, leaving a need that I am not allowed to relieve and leading to fantasies of rape and torture. I needed to masturbate last night to help me get to sleep, and again in the middle of the night when the cats woke me up, but with that not an option I touched myself with words instead of my fingers, fucking myself with scenarios of suffering rather than the blue and yellow vibrator that was a gift from the philosopher.

And yet I want more.

So I turned to craigslist.

No, I won't really contact anyone. My tasks are too many to allow myself the time-consuming luxury of amusing myself with the creatures on line who claim to be doms. My Master... I doubt there are many others who could give me what he does.

Still, I riffle through the offerings.

Let's see. Here's one:

I'm looking for a woman who needs a good spanking, someone who enjoys the sting of a paddle, whip, flogger or hand. I'm real and you should be too. Descretion is assured.

Now he does get points for saying "who needs" instead of "that needs", and I am heartily reassured that he is real and not a hologram. I doubt the latter would deliver a spanking with the force I need. But then he blows it with "descretion." You don't have a chance at my ass if you can't be bothered to proofread.

Here's another one:

Have you been having nasty thoughts about boys again? Did you hike up your skirt and let them play with your little pussy? Did you suck on their big, hard cocks?

Tell Daddy all about it while I give you the punishment you deserve.

SWM, 6', 195, safe, sane, ddf, not bad looking. Over 25 only. Put spanking in subject line. Cannot host.

Unfortunately, I've never been into that Daddy-little girl thing. And that "not bad looking" thing makes me doubt he has the kind of domly self-confidence I would need. So scratch that one. Besides, he's 56, which is a little old for me...

Now this one I need to share complete with the subject line because it is just so deliciously pathetic:

wanna get wild an kinky?? - m4w - 45

any wild lady who like to get laid like to be oraly satisfied to give and receive emailme and lets talk about it be safe and discret noBS NSA I can host or hotel or your place weathever makes more confortable and meet in a safe public place over a drink or coffe and talk about it

OK. I'm a literary snob.
Not even literary.
Not even a snob.
Well, ok. A snob.
But a realist.
I know what snares me.
What stimulates me.
What makes me totally incapable of resisting.
And I don't care how big a fucking cock you have,
if you can't fuck me with your brain
you'll just put me to sleep.

Of course, there is this one (new ones are popping up every second, it seems. Lots of needs on a Saturday night.)

Bondage - m4w - 45 (Washington, DC)

---

I'm a safe, sensible, attractive professional white male, 5'10, 175 lbs, brown hair, brown eyes, very fit, single (never married.) I'm looking for a discreet submissive woman for regular, intense S&M sessions. I'm very verbal and passionate.

Inexperienced is welcome. I'm not looking for a one-night stand and please don't spam with your web cam solicitations.

Now if I were actually looking for something ongoing I might try this one, but as frustrated as I may be tonight I know I already have what I want. Besides, I find I like them a bit heavier. I want to be physically dominated. Crushed. Have no doubt as to who is in charge of whom.

And anyway, I'm not actually going to contact anyone. I just want distraction.

Anybody want to send a comment that will make me flood my panties? Now that doesn't make me sound much like a poet, does it... Just one horny "older lady."

Like hell.

One horny redhead
wet as hell
wanting to be spanked and fucked
wanting to be teased
wanting to be amused.

I'm tired of doing all the work.
Write me an ad.
Post it here.
Make me want to submit to you.
Let your fantasies go.
Male or female.

(My Master says some day he'll bring a woman to use me. Maybe I would have been more successful as a lesbian if I'd met up with the right dominant woman.)

Amuse me.
Seduce me.
At least in our heads.

And for God's sake
PROOFREAD!

A glorious fuck

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Yes, I'm OK

Well, more or less. I didn't realize I'd been absent for so long! But every few months I have to take this nasty progesterone for a week and a half, which makes me tired and dull-witted and depressed.

Plus, I've been playing on craigslist. I've been feeling very lonely on weekends, when I don't have as much contact with my Master, and when I don't have a sweetheart with whom to spend time. Being on nasty drugs just makes it worse. So I write these odd ads. Sometimes they are deliberately obscure, just to be obnoxious, because I am angry.

I am angry at the stupid and lazy men who answer my ads.
I am angry that I'm alone.
I'm angry
and I cry.
Because I'm on these stupid drugs I cry

I'm angry and I cry because they aren't John.

In fact, even John isn't John by now... this fantasy of a man, memories of only the best parts... what I want is the impossible. What I want is a perfect combination of the philosopher and the sadist. Which of course is not likely to happen.

Smart and sweet and sadistic and sexy.
Confident and dominant and available.

But I keep trying.
And I am endlessly disappointed.

Still, I never give up trying...

Self-control

Triumph!

I did it again. Or, rather, I didn't do it. I managed to get through yet another Sunday without fruitlessly, annoyingly e-mailing the philosopher.

The last time I broke down and reached out was... let me look... well, April 23 was the last kitten-gets-emotional message. And then on April 28th I sent a tiny note about Arlen Specter joining the Democrats. A very cautious, very short, largely matter-of-fact message.

No response.

Who knows? Maybe he's deleting them without reading. Or classified them as spam so he doesn't even have to see them. In any case, I've managed to avoid e-mailing while emotional since then.

Somehow, I will learn to let go.

The end of this month, it will have been a year since I last saw him. It's already 2 months since I last heard from him.

It's time I had someone of my own.
I hit craigslist again.
We'll see...

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.

A Time to Remember

Two years.

i am your kitten.
i was your slave.
i was your selkie.

but that's how it came out, didn't it?
a fateful form of he loves me, he loves me not,
sacrificing flowers to prognostication.
i hoped for kitten, and even selkie
but i didn't cheat.
slave scared me.
i didn't know then how darkness draws me.
i didn't know then that i would take anything.
butterflies, eggplant, and oatmeal box cameras
flowers and crosswords and patio haircuts
spankings and canings and sobbing and cumming
catnip and movies and sleeping in your arms.

i am your kitten.
i am your slave.
i am your selkie.

it's been two years.
and we creep our way forward
wary of avalanches
one day at a time.

The big reveal

One by one, they are coming out of the closet.

One by one, they are making confession.

One by one, they unbutton their shirts and reveal the big scarlet A,
rampant across their chests in a radiant rash.

One by one, they admit they are married.

Not all of them. The ones who give their full names seem to be ok. They lack the sense of danger that keeps women from responding with their own names to an ad on craigslist that could be from who knows what pervert. (Well, ok... I suppose I shouldn't be casting aspersions on perverts when I'm in love with one myself.)

The men who just give their first names... the men who uses aliases... they live on the cheating side of town.

There have been a few open marriages other than the guy I went out with on Saturday. One guy's wife is in the Middle East for the State Department, and has permission to see other people while she's gone. Another man's wife is disabled, and has given him leave to get his needs met in a don't-ask-don't-tell arrangement. A third has leave to see girls to deal with his kinky urges.

And before you sound dubious, yes - I do believe them. There's something about the way they tell their stories... yes, sure, I could be wrong. But they make sense.

And then there's the editor.
Except I should really call him something else.
The Irishman.
Not directly from Ireland.
Irish like the philosopher.
Older, though, with a beautiful head of grey hair.
Uses words like the philosopher does.
Even his voice is like the philosopher's.
So of course, he's married.
And perhaps going through a midlife crisis.

We were going to have lunch today, after flirting wildly on e-mail all yesterday. He knows what to say. He knows how to say it. He uses the little trigger words... he called me baby girl. No one has ever called me baby girl. Who knew it would make me curl up inside... I was ready to agree to anything.

Almost.

He e-mailed last night, wild with desire, begging for my address. And then he phoned. The family was asleep and he could have been here in 20 minutes. I imagined old ballads, a ladder at my window: Let me come in, the soldier cried. Cold blow and the rainy night... I was exhausted and I was tempted and I was laughing and I was tempted...

And I said no way. I learned my lesson with the photographer. No way I'm having anyone over without first having met him in a public place. And really, he was so funny, he was so desperate, he's so attractive, he's the kind of man I can't resist...

We were still supposed to meet for lunch today, although there was always the chance he wouldn't have time. And he e-mailed this morning that in fact a lot of things had come up, and he hadn't gotten a whole lot done yesterday (gee, I wonder why...) and I haven't heard anything since then. I suspect he's maybe embarrassed at losing his head last night.

And I wonder if that means I won't hear from him again.

Which I would really regret.

Because the way he made me feel
the way he wrote
it's been a long time since I've felt that way,
since I've had e-mails like that.

And when he phoned
although I knew it had to be him
- I knew it had to be him -
the voice
the timbre
the gentleness
the...
it sounded like
the only voice
I really
wanted
to hear.

The kitten and the carpenter

I had another date. This is becoming great fun. I have this great feeling of power, which is an odd thing for a submissive to have. It's only temporary, but it is highly amusing - and an amusing high.

So I had dinner with a carpenter. Last night we talked on the phone for a delightful hour and a half. I was happy and comfortable and relaxed and we talked about other things before we approached the topic of D/s and sex. He is sweet and funny and does work for theatres, and vaguely knows some people I know from my end of the music world and I just felt that here was someone I could spend time with. I also had fits of shyness when we got onto more intimate topics, which he seemed to find very endearing.

And then it was more of the same at dinner, except there was more talk of sex and spanking than last night, and I talked too much except it seemed to amuse him, as if he were taking mental notes. He's very tall, 6'4". not a typically handsome guy, but not bad looking. Just a man. Only a little younger than I am. And he lingered in the car before coming in, listening to the same story on NPR that had me all excited, about a new theatre project beginning in Brooklyn, Shakespeare and Chekhov, British and American actors, The Old Vic and Sam Mendes. Talk about things that can make me cum...

It was a lovely, comfortable, happy dinner... except for when he made me shy. And I told him I wouldn't have sex with him tonight. I'm trying to be more self-disciplined about handing over my body. But he stroked my hand for a while at the table, and kissed me at the car, and both boded well for a very satisfying time when/if things go further.

But you never get everything. And he's not really into the whole D/s dynamic as I enjoy it. Those darker, more controlling aspects... But it would still be better than a totally vanilla relationship. So we'll see.

And who says I can't date a couple of guys? I'm going to be 60 in a few weeks. It's time to explore. That's what they invented condoms for. I suspect this will be my last wild spell. But my rule will be no sex on the first date. Especially on a school night.... But I suspect when it does happen, the carpenter will be a most satisfactory - and satisfying - lover. And he has big solid carpenter's hands for spanking. And a collection of assorted nipple clamps. Ouch!

But when I said there were certain words that immediately pull me down into subspace, and he asked what, and I got very shy and then finally said, for example. "good girl"... he looked blank. He just doesn't know that part of it, doesn't deal with that part of it. And I crave it. So we'll see. He seems the best so far among the non-married ones. Oh yes. Slowly, one by one, they are coming out as married. Which aside from anything else nixes the idea of having someone to hang out with. Although there is this man who is a founding partner of a group of fine restaurants...

I'm turning 60.

Time to gather rosebuds.

No, I haven't been murdered in my sleep

Here you all are leaving such nice comments and I'm being so silent.

Actually, it's only here that I am silent. There are all these craigslist doms paying me a lot of attention and I'm reveling in it. It's great to feel wanted.

I'm working at getting them to want more than just to spank me. I think I intrigue them. Isn't that cute? And they see my picture and think I'm 40...

I suppose I could try out a different one every night, but maybe I should let the bruises heal a little between them. Perhaps the philosopher would like to be hidden in the next room, looking through a 2-way mirror, judging their technique, judging my response, listening to my screams, seeing the little puddle of arousal grow to a lake beneath me.

Would he become aroused himself?
Would he be jealous?
Would he touch himself?
Would he seethe at seeing those men touch me?
Would he burst into the room?
Would he grab the cane?
Would he drive them all from the house?
Would he yell into the street?
Would he declare "She's MINE!"?

Maybe not...

He'll content himself with written reports
and I'll never know how they make him feel.

Kitten has a Date - Part 1

Please forgive the silence. I just haven't felt driven to write.

I've been feeling very peaceful.
Centered.
Happy.
Ever since the philosopher called last Friday.
Peaceful and centered and happy and not driven to write.

However, I did write a new ad for craigslist.
It's as if I can handle seeing other people better now that I feel more secure.

So I wrote a clever little ad which I won't reprint here, but which anyone who knows me as oatmeal girl would recognize in an instant. I advertised for a smart guy with extra points for being a dom.

Another reason for not posting more this week is that I've been fielding responses. And tonight I have a date. Movie followed by dinner.

He seems like a nice guy. Fairly close to my age, college teacher, world traveler, leftist - lefter than me.

Half Jewish, half Irish Catholic.

And married. In an open marriage. A committed marriage to a woman who is often out of the country.

Perfect.

Well almost. No sign of any interest in BDSM. But even if we just occasionally hang out and go to a movie or whatever, it will be very nice.

We'll see. I promise to report. And meanwhile, I have the satisfaction of being a very good girl and obeying the philosopher's instructions not to cut myself off. Because now I don't feel like he's trying to send me away. I feel as if he's looking after me.

Happy kitten.

Report: the photographer

Writing is good for me. It helps me digest my life and see what turns up in the toilet bowl at the end.

Yuck. That was a nasty metaphor.

To be a submissive placing a want ad is almost a contradiction in terms. The choice of who shall live and who shall die. Playing the role of human resources director for the department of amorous activities. Delivering pink slips while still suffering from fits of grief and self-doubt over one's own rejection.

As a submissive, it is very hard to say "No."

So.
The photographer.
It started out amusingly enough.
Erotic rhymed couplets that recalled old bawdy ballads.
The second one hinted of a dom,
a perception later confirmed when he answered this ad:

Another sort of relationship

Could a Dom be a boyfriend?
Could we join my friends for dinner
without their fretting for my safety?
Could I introduce him to my neighbors
without their listening for my screams?
Could he come to spend the night
without scaring my poor cats?
Could he pass for rich vanilla
an intensely rich vanilla
but later
but always
at home
he would give me needed structure
he would teach me how to please him
he would smile and call me "good girl"
he would value my submission
he would discipline with spanking
he would strike a healthy balance
between dominance and loving
he would make me his forever.

This is probably a pipe dream
I don't know if *I* could do it.

But could you?

Rather mushy and very self-indulgent. He replied briefly and sternly, with some suspicion that it was from me.

He sent a photo. Not all that good-looking a man, but it added to my suspicions that I had a dom on my hands - or should I say that I potentially had a dom's hand on my ass. So we kept writing, while all along I wrote to a few others as well. The connection felt good, and we were both feeling rather impatient.

So we decided the hell with it, we didn't want to wait for Saturday night.

He was here as promised at 8 PM. But he didn't look quite the same.

I had already figured out, even just from the head shot, that he was short. Except that after all these years of wanting guys only a few inches taller than me, now that I'm in touch with my submissiveness I crave taller and larger men. Men who by their mere presence will have me feeling small, overpowered, both cared for and vulnerable. So although I had somehow figured out that he was short, I was disappointed nevertheless.

Plus, there was an atmosphere to the photo that was missing in real life. That sense of no nonsense allowed, that hint of something just beneath a threat.

Still, there was something.
Something that pulled out my submission.
I wasn't faking that.
I can't.
So I submitted.
It wasn't deep, heavy submission like with the fiend.
but it was submission nevertheless.
And that felt good.

He drank me in.
The sight of me.
The scent of me.
Not a single touch
taken for granted.
These men
they look at me
they tell me I'm beautiful.
I don't protest as much any more.
Maybe I really am like a wine
that is boring when young
but matures into richness.
I can't deny enjoying the admiration.

So I submitted.
"Sir" slid from my tongue.
My ass, my throat, my wrists
the smacks, the hands,
the police-issue handcuffs.
Nothing extreme, not a
moment of fear, but a bit
more than play. Not just play.

Still, it definitely meant more to him than to me. We were both needy, I don't deny that. It felt good to be with a man, it felt good to be touched, he did that well... but the personality connection didn't feel quite right after all. He doesn't feel like someone I would introduce to my friends. And his loss far outweighs mine.

His beloved wife of 27 years died in his arms 6 weeks ago. Cancer. And I'm the gift she sent him to fill his needs.

That's too heavy a burden for me to bear. Especially when to me he is an applicant on an audition. Not even temp-to-hire because there is no chance he'll get the permanent job.

I suspect, which should surprise no one, that I am not really ready to hire anyone at all.

On top of it all, I still didn't get fucked.

OK, it wasn't that big a surprise.
It's only been 6 weeks.
His mind was ready
but his cock was not.
Still, this is getting boring.

[bursts into tears]

No, I'm not crying over not getting fucked. I was getting ready to write "I would trade getting fucked for..." and was searching for the right words when there they were again. Those damn tears.

I'm just making it hard on him. Not the photographer. You know who I mean. He reads here and I'm crying, I write him and say I'm crying, I try not to write him, I vow not to write him, and then I can't help myself. There's this vacuum.

I'm asking too much of him. Just like the photographer is asking too much of me. He would be with me every night if he could. He would have spent the night. He would have come back tonight. I said OK to tomorrow night because we already had the date set, and he's out buying a paddle. He wonders if the local mall stocks cat-o-nine tails. I doubt it. It's Virginia, after all.... he is so empty, he would imprint on anyone who would have him. Last night, he asked in a small catechism "and who owns you?" And I pushed away my submission and my fear of hurting someone's feelings, and I looked him straight in his eyes and said "you know I can't say that."

He wants something I can't give. And I want something that the philosopher can't give. For whatever reason, for whatever amalgam of reasons, he can't. And you can't force someone to feel something, to want something, to offer something, that just isn't there.

I haven't heard from him since Christmas Eve. It surprised me, when I looked back at the record of our correspondence. Somehow it felt longer than that. I know he reads here. But he hasn't written. He could be sick. He could be depressed. He could be busy. He could be sick of dealing with me. I can't blame him. If I tell a guy it can't be what he wants, I expect him to go away quietly and leave me alone.

I'm trying. I'm hoping magic will happen again. I'm hoping someone will turn up who can excite me, who can love me, who can spank me, who can be here in 20 minutes, and who can help me to let go.

Who can help me to forget.

I need to learn to give up on lost causes.

I need an agent.
An agent to set up my dates.
An agent to send out the rejection letters.

Any volunteers?

Blowing away the old year

This has nothing to do with goats, or the abuse thereof. The wind is blowing wildly out there. If we were having snow, it would be a blizzard. But nothing is coming down but tree branches, and I'm saying silent prayers to Boreas that my house can hold its own against the furious gusts.

But in fact, it feels as if this is all an enthusiastic sweeping away of the old year, if not the whole 8 years of the Bush administration. Good-bye tears, good-bye grief, good-bye emptiness... damn, I feel like singing an Everly Brothers song. Except in reverse.

The sun has been out. I deleted my ads from craigslist (I'll tell you soon about the second one). I will be telling almost all my suitors to go away, except for three, and I am meeting the photographer Saturday night. He's the one who peppered me with bawdy rhymed couplets. As I suspected from the second set, he is a dom. And so much more. He has an incredible depth of interests and (most important) is a cat lover. He's looking for something serious.

The other two are quite romantic, and under other circumstances I would be delighted at the prospect of dating them. Which I will, at least for a bit. But if things work out with the photographer Saturday, the other two might not last long. I would feel too dishonest.

He sent me this message a couple of hours ago, while I was taking a late afternoon nap, having been up till all hours writing him the night before:

I'm writing your rule book. I expect you to learn them and obey them, or face what's in the Correction and Punishment Appendix without complaint.

If this had been from anyone else, I would have said who the hell do you think you are already writing rules for me? Instead, I sighed, with such joy and an overwhelming feeling of security, that I know that I'm right to go for a BDSM relationship if I possibly can.

The grief isn't gone. But he has his own, much deeper than mine, for a beloved wife dead of cancer after a very long marriage. We won't fault each other for lingering love.

Time to feed the kitties.
Time for a small bite to eat.
Time to change my clothes and swaddle myself in scarves and sweaters and jacket and gloves and head out to our yearly New Year's Eve party. Last year (she struggles to hold back tears) the philosopher was with me and I was still subdued from a cold. This year, there is hope for the future of the world and the country and my life. Maybe.

At least the prospects look better.

Hugs and kisses and warm wishes and grateful thanks to you all. I hope the coming year brings you joy and love and peace of heart.

o.g.

Blowing goat

I'm on a year-end shopping spree. I wander from store to store, checking out the merchandise. I take my items to the dressing room, stand before the mirror, and see how they look on me. I remove my clothes, press the new items against my nakedness, and see how they feel. How they make me feel.

Do they distract me?
Do they make me laugh?
Do they make me stop crying?

They say don't buy something new unless you can discard something old. I'm really not ready to discard something old. But I do seem to have lost something. And my heart is empty.

I wonder if I can rent to own, wear some of my choices for a few weeks, see if they grow on me.

You can't do that with clothes.
You can do that with men.

They are certainly ready to try me on.

I went back to the well. I went back to craigslist. After all, it worked last time. I used the same ad as last time. Except I put in a few more obvious references to BDSM. At least I thought they were more obvious...

It's odd... last time the 3 best responses were all from doms. They were beautiful, they had this tension, they drew me in... a few were from guys trying to date me, none very interesting, and then there were a number of fairly crassly sexual content that weren't well written at all. I really wanted nothing more than a correspondence, and I ended up with... well you know how it ends.

This time there are all these guys looking for relationships. Which is fine with me. That is ultimately what I am after. But NO ONE has written anything that compares to what I received last time from either dominick or harry or my red-haired philosopher. Though one guy sent me a string of bawdy rhymed couplets that could have been written centuries ago. He wants to take me out for coffee. Going straight for the sex is also an option, but I told him I'd stick with the coffee for now.

They send me pictures, these men. They are very visual, men are, and don't understand that sometimes it's better to spring the trap with words before letting me see how ordinary they look. On the other hand, there's this one guy.... black, 38, tall... I did tell him how old I am, he doesn't care, and the picture... I didn't want to embarrass him, I didn't want to embarrass myself, so I didn't tell him that I was drooling over it... meanwhile the couplet writer is an artist and photographer and around my age and I have suspicions that he could be a bit dominant in bed...

So OK, fine, sure, I'm amusing myself, I'm distracting myself. And then, this one guy who has been sending me poetry (uh-oh, here it comes) made references to "Some snippet from a past philosopher or poet", and "images of a broken heart", and I burst into tears.

It is all an illusion.

And yeah, you're right, Elspeth, it blows goat. But it's been 5 months now, 5 months since he broke up with me, and I see no reason to believe that one day he will finish the dissertation and say "There, kitten. I'm done. Let's pack up the cats and move to somewhere pretty and sunny. The cats will somehow get along, and so will we. So will we."

I'm trying my best to give up hope.
But this is the Age of Obama.
There is always Hope.

In the end, of course,
I'm not the only one shopping.
I placed my ad, end of season
markdowns, merchandise returned,
repriced for rapid clearance,
slightly irregular,
ragged round the edges,
you'll hardly see the
tear stains as long as you
never
say a word
about philosophers
or broken hearts.

Scaramouche

Speak to me of spanking began life as a craigslist post. When in desperation, kitten turns to craigslist. The philosopher had tried to break up with me yet again. In truth, he HAD broken up with me. I merely forestalled the end by offering a summer of silence to give him the peace and freedom from distraction that he felt he needed to get back to work on his dissertation.

I was distraught. I was panicked. I was desolated and angry and frustrated. So I thought I'd fish for someone to amuse me while I waited for the scant chance that we'd put it all back together on Labor Day. And if the unthinkable happened, maybe I'd have someone in the wings waiting to comfort and spank me.

The responses were the usual mix. There are always those who don't read the instructions, who think that all they have to do is call me names, or sound tough, or sound pathetic, or crook their index finger, and I'll come trotting over for a spanking and a fucking. There were those who sounded interesting enough to merit a reply, and a couple of those earned correspondences that ran maybe a couple of weeks or so. Motorcycle Man's response stood out. He seemed to get what it was all about, and he did get to spank and fuck me.

And then there was Scaramouche.
His writing made me stop in my tracks.

How does one talk about it?

How does one describe the thrill of pleasure as the cane whips through the air, a few practice swings before the cruel work begins?

How does one explain the sensation, not anger, but certainly not kindness, that flashes through one's head as flesh is struck and marked?

How does one relate the deep satisfaction felt as tears are dried and sobs are comforted, and the cruelty ends and the kindness begins. . .

One doesn't.

One merely acts.
--
Scaramouche

Not just a good reply.
An amazing reply.
Writing that cut like the cane
and soothed like a hand stroking my head.
An insight into a sadist's soul.

I wrote back so fast I didn't have time to think. To listen. To know...

I wrote:

ah...

perfect.

the whistle of the cane through the air
the tension before the burning pain
the gasp, the scream, the moan
swollen tissues, humiliation,
seeping passion in response to cruelty.

i felt it all.
all but the pain
and without the stripes as
a souvenir of joy.

thank you.
you brought it all back.

(and Scaramouche yet, wielding a cane instead of a sword. very cute indeed. back in college when i was a theatre major, i acted in a costume drama, wearing a dress with a tight bodice, breasts pushed in and up, nearly flowing over the top. it felt amazing. a corset would be lovely, i think...)

my eyes were starting to open, but my vision was still fogged.
and then it started to nag at me.
a hint of recognition.
a fear of what i might have done.
until finally, 28 hours later, i wrote to Scaramouche again:

odd... reading over what you wrote... it reminds me of the man i've lost... might have lost... probably lost... he would have appreciated the name and the e-mail address, i think... and the scene you describe seems so familiar... it makes me sad.

it's a weird game i'm playing, writing to other people because i can't write to the only one i really want. practicing in case i really do have to move on. testing the waters, trying to console myself that at least i can get people to write back to me.

an odd sort of comfort. and it just keeps bringing me back to what i had. and somehow, you wrote as if you had been there with us.

I never heard from Scaramouche again.

Until last night when, in the course of a 48-minute phone call, the philosopher admitted that yes, he was Scaramouche. And he had recognized my style as well.

We just couldn't say goodbye.

It's not really like the old song. He didn't come back and kiss me. But I do have faith in the friendship. I feel as if we are again curled up on the couch with crossword puzzles and tea, in deep perfect companionship. We created something beautiful, and I have full faith that it will last.

And I really should have known from the second sentence.
Because there is no one like him.

Lunch with a Dom: Everything HURTS!!

I had lunch with a sadist today, and came back to the office in wretched pain and hardly able to breathe.

No, it's not what you're thinking. He didn't lay a hand on me. I am still owned, and I swore monogamy to the philosopher over a year ago. He didn't lay a hand on me except to put a bandage on my nose. And even then, he seemed to be doing his best not to touch me. Very strange, actually...

My little semi-poem Speak to me of spanking started life as an ad on craigslist, a few days after the philosopher tried to break up with me and I impulsively offered him 2 months of silence instead. I was grieving and angry and feeling totally unmoored. I was used to a steady diet of attention and control, as well as confidence in what we had and what we were to each other, despite the distance and long gaps between meetings. I felt safe and small and protected and happy. And now I was adrift with no land in sight and some real doubts as to whether such a thing as land even existed.

So I returned to craigslist. I needed to show how smart and clever and submissive I am. I needed doms and sadists to write back and talk to me like doms and sadists. I needed the stimulation, I needed people to remind me that I am a submissive. Thus "Talk to me about spanking" (the original subject line) was born.

Of course, I received a bunch of responses, many of whom hadn't read the directions. I've ended up corresponding with 3 of them. Two clearly have hopes, despite what I keep telling them, though one of those two is in fact very understanding of my situation and is being quite supportive. I've been learning things from all three of them, and the supportive one in fact feels like someone I would like to stay in touch with, much as I do with Dominick. (If the philosopher is reading this, I hope he understands that there is no danger here; this man is a friend and is helping me get through this difficult period. He seems to believe that my master will reclaim his kitten come September 1st.)

The third man was also an interesting correspondent, though due to his home situation I often received just a line or 2 here and there. He wanted to meet sometime and I said sure. It's partly my overall curiosity and partly an urgency to make some connection with people, face to face, from whom I don't have to hide this part of myself.

Over the course of a busy morning, we decided it could be lunch today. I suggested a place near the office and kept fielding phone calls until suddenly, less than an hour before we were to meet, I remembered that the cafe is closed on Mondays. That's what I get for multi-tasking! I sent an e-mail, but of course I was too late, so at 1:25 left the building to walk over to the cafe and suggest somewhere else.

I spotted him out front of the little building, and started explaining and apologizing for the situation and my spaciness - which meant that I was looking at him rather than down at the ground. I usually look down at the ground when I walk, because I'm such a klutzy kitten and can get tripped up on a perfectly flat surface. Both my master and my friends have to keep me from walking into cars when we cross the street.

So I wasn't looking at the ground as I walked towards him (let's call him Bob) through the empty parking space. I wasn't looking down and didn't realize that there was one of those raised concrete thingies that keep a car from pulling too far into the parking space and onto the sidewalk.

It attacked me. I fell straight forward. My face smashed into the sidewalk, as did everything else. And I could barely breathe.

I tried to say I was ok. But I wasn't. I couldn't get my breath back. I wonder if that's what it feels like to have a heart attack. It was probably from having fallen smack onto my lungs, and who knows what it did to my ribs.

Bob is not a warm person. But he was certainly worried. It didn't help that there was blood all over my nose. And I couldn't really talk. I couldn't tell him I was ok.

I had some packets of those moist towelette things in my fanny pack, and used one to clean the blood off my nose and my left palm. Bob offered me the ice in the remnants of his iced something-or-other, which I wrapped in the towelette and put on my nose, telling him about the big bag of frozen peas we keep on hand for my post-caning butt. A passer-by brought me a pile of paper towels, and eventually Bob went across to the Safeway to buy band-aids. I had to ask him to put it on my nose for me, which he did competently except for blocking both nostrils a bit. What a sadist!

And then we walked over to get lunch a couple of short blocks away.

It was a curious lunch. I was in pain and mostly thirsty (especially as I increased the lithium yesterday). And he seemed very tight, contained, stiff, dry, which was odd for me as I'm used to a lot of warmth from the people I know - including from the philosopher. Plus I am very open and warm if also open to sarcasm - hey, I'm a New Yorker, what do you want! - and am a bit of an exhibitionist. But it was interesting to be sitting there talking to someone who had been involved with BDSM for decades. There's none in his marriage now, and no sex at all, but until they had kids there was, and they even had a live-in pet for a year and a half. I'd love to be able to pry more out of him about THAT.

He said one thing which was just the sort of thing I'm always seeking from Doms. He was talking abut being a sadist, and how knowing that he wants to inflict pain makes him uncomfortable - much the same thing that Dominick has said. And then he said "It's as if all the poison is sucked out by the submissive."

Everything seemed to come together at that point. This took the symbiosis of BDSM one step further, one step beyond the Dom doing what he needs/wants to do and giving the sub what she needs/wants (apologies to those of you with other allocations of gender in this equation). It takes it to that point of catharsis, answering my repeated question of "How does it make you feel?" I do get pleasure from some of the pain I'm subjected to, and certainly am very aroused by all of it. I head down into subspace, and NOTHING compares with that. And when I come out of it all... slowly surfacing, not able to speak, I am cleansed. I am cleansed and I am cared for and I feel fresh and young and safe. And now someone on the other end of the pain is also saying it is cleansing - and in a deeper way than just coming home from a bad day at work and taking it out on her ass.

I'm curious to hear comments on this.

As for me... when I got back to the office I called my family doctor, since my whole torso hurts like hell and I'm still not breathing easily. She said no need for an x-ray - if I broke any ribs they can't do anything about it anyway. And I don't think I broke any ribs... it's more like I smashed in my lungs... and everything else... and my knees hurt and the palm of my hand and my nose is swollen and black and blue and it's a good thing I don't have any hot dates coming up.

I don't want any hot dates. I want my master. I want my lover. I want my best friend. The most awful, the hardest thing about it all was that I came back to the office and everything hurt and I'd been very very scared, worse than by the cane, and I couldn't call him. I couldn't even e-mail him. He's my BOYFRIEND, dammit! Well he had been... and all i wanted was to fire off an e-mail and tell him what had happened and that everything hurts and he would have written back "don't cry, kitten..." and asked if i had done this and this and that to take care of it and promised to call me that night.

And instead, I went to the ladies room and sat on the toilet and cried.

A Bed to Fill

I’m trolling for a new housemate. I cast my ads into the waters of craigslist and hope for the best. After all, that’s where I found the philosopher.

Or should I say, where he found me.

Lucky catch.

Just like with that other ad, people don’t read the instructions. Guys especially. Guys don’t read instructions. The instructions say to tell me about yourself when you reply. I don’t think this qualifies:

Hello,
I saw your ad at craigslist and I can meet the standards you're looking for on a roommate I'm looking for a room to rent in the silver spring area.
so if you are interested in showing me the place please e-mail me back with the address and a tel # where I can reach you.

This message was my absolute favorite so far:

im fred im 26 and work m-f
i work full time and all i can afford is 600 monthly.....

i could understand if u did not want me bring strange females home everynight

but if it was the same one everynight is this something u can deal with we need to clear this
up now......

besides that i recently quit smoking so im glad that u dont either....

and i hope obama wins to better our economy,lower gas and many more reasons

its just u in the house

I didn’t dignify either of these messages with an answer.

I’ve noticed that most guys who post housing-wanted ads don’t specify that they are men. They are used to being the default. Women always say they are women.

Jewish feminist bisexual submissive baby boomer seeks intelligent, considerate, open-minded housemate to share home with me and 2 cats and the occasional cane-wielding philosopher. Must understand the theory of loading a dishwasher. Bonus points if you know how to fix things and don’t mind getting up on ladders. Double bonus points if you will promise to leave the premises whenever the aforementioned philosopher comes to visit.

So I spent the unacceptably hot weekend scurrying around the house on two sprained ankles, cleaning and de-cluttering and vacuuming and laundering in a vain attempt to look respectable in time for this afternoon’s candidate.

He sounded promising. A real cat-lover and an NPR fan. We shared the names of our favorite panelists on Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me. And of course he supports Barack Obama. That’s a must.

He looked agreeably non-attractive when he turned up at the door. I’d rather have a female housemate, but it is mostly men who respond so I’m no longer ruling them out, in which case it is better for all concerned if nothing stirs when I meet them. He looked a little dorky, and came over as polite and somewhat sad. Marko emerged almost immediately, sniffed him out, rubbed against his legs, and stayed around. A good sign.

We sat and talked in the living room, the carpet no longer grey with cat hair. We traded stories of family and depression, cats and antidepressants. We talked about Tucson. We talked about the fact that he would probably be around for only a few months. I asked what other things he had been looking at. He said there had been a number of places, but he had a skeleton in his closet that made it really difficult. And he had to tell me about it.

“I’m on probation”

[my heart sank]

“for inappropriately touching my nephew.”

[damn]

I tried to be generous. And sympathetic. He was clearly in pain, and mortified, and very very sorry. I wished I could help him out, and first thought well gee, pedophilia, at least the philosopher wouldn’t have to worry about there being any danger to ME.

But I knew it wouldn’t do. There was that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and that was the real reason I would have to say no. There were all sorts of rational reasons that one by one oozed around my mind. I knew if I was considering it, I’d have to run it by the philosopher. He’s a Catholic, albeit lapsed. He’s VERY unhappy with the way the church handled the cases of pedophiliac priests. I doubt he’d be thrilled with having a pedophile living with his pet.

The guy said he was open to talking about it, and I groaned inside and thought no, I listen to people’s problems at work on and off throughout the day, the last thing I need is to come home to a guy who has to supplement his one-on-one therapy sessions and group therapy sessions by sharing his angst with me.

And then I realized I had no choice. Even if I wanted to give him a break, I had no choice. How could I look my wonderful neighbors in the eye if I let a pedophile move in next door to them and their 5-year old son.

He was ever so nice and understanding when I explained. I said I had enjoyed chatting with him, which was true. I shook his hand and saw him out.

It’s an interesting way to meet people, this housemate search. A little bit like match.com, except there you’re not looking to immediately move in with the people you meet. And there I was definitely only looking for women. Plus of course it reminds me of that ad that brought the philosopher into my life. Except there I wasn’t planning on face-to-face (or even phone call) meetings with anyone at all.

After he left I took a shower. Not because he made me feel dirty but because I was all sweaty from the whirlwind of cleaning. I took off my clothes and stood under the spray and washed my hair and started to cry.

I already have someone I enjoy having around the house.
Someone I enjoy talking with.
Someone who cleans up kitty vomit like it’s
the most natural thing in the world.
Someone who inspires embarrassing urges to scrub the floor.
I already have someone.

I don’t want anyone else.

EPILOGUE: I wrote the above as a Word document, which I often do since I have to be naked to actually post here. Then I finished the laundry, put the clean sheets on the bed along with a light blanket, and folded them back to make the bed look welcoming.

It took a minute or two before I realized that I had turned back the sheets on both sides of the bed…

My First Dom

i will call him dominick.

which is not his real name. i don't know his real name. it's not his e-mail name, either. he asked me not to use that, which is a pity, because i couldn't make up anything i like as much. it has a grace, an implication of superiority finished off with an arabesque that gives the whole a touch of wry self-deprecating humor.

dominick responded to my craigslist ad perhaps an hour after the philosopher did. and his response froze me in my seat and seared my conflicted erotic soul.

i was very shy and, frankly, embarrassed about my fantasies of bondage and spankings and whippings. i couldn't bring myself to weave them into my ad in any blatant fashion. the best i could manage was a reference to "pushing our fantasies to their edge" and hoped this nearly invisible signal would lure the demons i sought.

when i asked later, each of the sadists denied noticing anything to make them think i was open to their fantasies of pain and dominance. but somehow, of the four best writers, three were admitted devotees of bdsm to some extent, and the fourth revelled in maintaining a stunning level of control of erotic encounters.

dominick was the last of the three doms to respond, but the first to mention ropes and pain. the philosopher's screen name and e-mail address referred to cruelty and The Story of O, but his words, while arousing and poetic, contained no hint of what simmered beneath.

i wish i could share dominick's words with you, but here, too, he asked me to hold back. there is the possibility that he might start his own blog, and he wants to reserve first right of refusal for himself. i do hope he starts one. there are relatively few doms with blogs, and fewer still with dominick's spare writing style and introspective clarity.

control screams from his words, in his message entitled merely "Words." he was miserly with his words. precise. i suspect that his bondage style is the same, using no more rope than is needed to get the job done, but with each wrapping around wrist and ankle lying in perfect proximity to its neighbor, each knot precisely placed for security, stimulation, and aesthetic effect.

dominick was the inspiration for my obsession with the possible existence of a dominant aura. if i met this man, if i didn't already know his tastes, would i feel his nature encircling my throat and my cunt? would i detect an aura of command in his voice as we volleyed meaningless phrases? if he placed his hand in the small of my back to lightly steer me through a door, would i welcome it as a sign of possession?

i have not met dominick in person, and by now we know too much about each other for a blind taste test to be feasible. i did meet dom #2, whose response popped up just minutes before dominick's. dom #2, whom i will call harry, became obsessed with fucking my ass, the virginity of which obsessed me, too. he wrote well, we corresponded for a while, and i finally agreed to meet him for lunch in a public place. i was already falling in love with the philosopher, but curiosity got the better of me. i knew i had no intention of ceding my ass, or any other body part, to anyone but the man who now owns me. still, the lunchtime rendez-vous seemed a good way to pursue my research.

the lunch was not a great success. i was nervous from harry's aggressive e-mail pursuit of me. dominick's detachment and meager correspondence were much more enticing than harry's oft-stated desire to claim me with shibari and buggery. physically, he did not attract me. i had expected this from his photo and age (about 5 years older), but one look confirmed it.

what ultimately killed the search for signs of obvious dominance and invalidated any results i might have gleaned was that harry, sensing my trepidations, decided to deliberately repress any gestures of dominance he might otherwise have displayed. unfortunately, this also served to distance his physical manifestation from his epistolary personality. we haven't met since, though i do still receive occasional testimony to my continuing existence as a source of erotic wishful thinking.

i always wondered why dominick never showed any interest in meeting, unlike most of the men who wrote me. i sometimes picked up an unidentifiable impression of distance, but decided that must mean he lived in one of the northern virginia suburbs of dc. to a resident of the maryland suburbs, that was as good as living in the antipodes, due both to misperceived physical distance and to virginia's general antipathy to gay rights and other liberal causes. dominick's use of "whilst" hinted at a british background of some flavor, and it turned out he was indeed originally from the antipodes. only recently did i discover that, like the philosopher, he was cruising craigslist that night from another city when he stumbled on my message in an online bottle.

our conversation continued in fits and starts. replies from him were rare but always welcome. they challenged me, they excited me, and they educated me. he bombarded me with questions. my answers clarified my desires and, i suspect, stimulated his own. it was dominick who inspired in me the specific desire to be spanked with a belt, which occupied my fantasies until the philosopher finally splashed his own belt across my buttocks, to the delight of us both.

i do have permission to share the rest of our correspondence, along with a story he wrote for me, which i will do over time after confirming his assent to each piece. we still write each other, as friends of a sort, i suppose. i update him on the progress of my relationship with the philosopher, and his replies and questions and interpretations of my experiences feed my unquenchable desire to understand. he does read this blog, and i hope he is pleased with my representation of our mutual dealings. if he feels moved to comment publicly i will be delighted, but have no expectations of that. one does not have expectations of such a man.

he is, after all, a dom.