Sometimes I think I'm sick.
Really.
Not just kinky.
Not just perverted.
But besieged by a merciless neurosis.
You should find someone else, he says periodically. Someone who can take care of you. I wish I could take care of you. I won't be able to take care of you. And he's right. Absolutely right. I do need someone to take care of me. I'm utterly broke, my physical health isn't so hot, my mental health is laden with diagnoses, and my job is worth doing if only for the insurance plan which gives me for free almost all of my pharmacopoeia of unusual size.
I should find someone I'd love in the ordinary sort of way. I love him. I do love him. But it's not the usual romantic sort of love. When I gaze into his eyes - and he insists that we hold each other's eyes, I get swatted if I close my eyes, he demands that constant connection - it's not the usual romantic connection. Not a swoony sort of thing. I don't have that swoony sort of lovey-dove feeling for him. He approaches the world in a strange sort of way, his friendliness comes with a helping of aggression, I wouldn't introduce him to my friends. He wouldn't fit with my gang.
I'd rather be with him.
This intense, possessive, tormented man.
He makes me feel safe.
Weird, no?
Says a whole lot about my upbringing.
It left me desperate for true intimacy.
And for acceptance.
Acceptance for what I actually am.
Encouragement to embrace my own reality.
Embraced for my own reality.
Admiration for my talent and beauty.
No one else ever talked about my being beautiful.
If I were smart, if my head could trump my... it's not even my heart, it's... it's my essence. If my head could trump my own essential truth, I'd be out looking for some rich guy to marry me and tell me I didn't have to work and he'd take me down to permanent sunshine from November through February and bring in someone to keep the house clean and neat because I'm clearly utterly incapable of doing that myself and I wouldn't have to worry about the prescription food for the cats or about spending my old age in a tent in the backyard with those cats while I rent out all 4 bedrooms in the house to pay the vet bills.
I turn 65 in February.
I stayed in my last marriage out of economic insecurity. I'd rather help the fiend embroider his fantasies of whoring me out to his friends than actually prostitute myself to another marriage as an albeit badly needed supplement to Social Security checks.
And no matter what happens in the future, I'll always have extraordinary memories of the hottest sex any almost-65 year old could possibly imagine.
The hottest sex most anyone could imagine, for that matter.
So there.
Take that, practicality.
Showing posts with label dating. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dating. Show all posts
Saturday, November 9, 2013
Sunday, September 23, 2012
He worries about my future
Not every man can support his mistress.
Not every man worries about what will become of her as she ages. Especially as they are both already aging. I may catch some glances now, I admit I look considerably younger than other women my age. But I'm sliding towards 64 and the question of who will feed me is not an idle one.
So it comes up every so often.
At least he's stopped urging me to find someone else.
At least he's stopped trying to fix me up with other men.
But it hasn't stopped worrying him.
It slipped out last night.
Cryptically.
Its passage eased by wine.
A text.
Very late at night.
Offered between snippets of romantic lyrics.
"I'm sorry."
With no hint of an explanation till today.
It upsets me.
It always upsets me when he brings it up.
Maybe because I know he's right in a way.
But there are many forms of poverty.
I stayed with ex-hubby #2 for years for financial security, and it nearly destroyed me. The fiend has worked long and hard to build my self-esteem. I'll be damned if I'll risk destroying that by pursuing a relationship in a search for support in my old age. And how could I build a connection with someone else when every moment I'd be making comparisons to the person I wish I were with?
So we go on.
It is what it is.
Beautiful.
Dangerous.
Tender.
Fierce.
And,
for better or worse,
all I want.
Not every man worries about what will become of her as she ages. Especially as they are both already aging. I may catch some glances now, I admit I look considerably younger than other women my age. But I'm sliding towards 64 and the question of who will feed me is not an idle one.
So it comes up every so often.
At least he's stopped urging me to find someone else.
At least he's stopped trying to fix me up with other men.
But it hasn't stopped worrying him.
It slipped out last night.
Cryptically.
Its passage eased by wine.
A text.
Very late at night.
Offered between snippets of romantic lyrics.
"I'm sorry."
With no hint of an explanation till today.
It upsets me.
It always upsets me when he brings it up.
Maybe because I know he's right in a way.
But there are many forms of poverty.
I stayed with ex-hubby #2 for years for financial security, and it nearly destroyed me. The fiend has worked long and hard to build my self-esteem. I'll be damned if I'll risk destroying that by pursuing a relationship in a search for support in my old age. And how could I build a connection with someone else when every moment I'd be making comparisons to the person I wish I were with?
So we go on.
It is what it is.
Beautiful.
Dangerous.
Tender.
Fierce.
And,
for better or worse,
all I want.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Of lovers and friends i still can recall
I'm back.
I was in New York.
New York City.
Brooklyn, actually.
Up for a big, wild, 2-day music festival.
And to stay with a friend.
A guy.
He likes me.
We've known each other for years, flirted for years, were lovers for a while but not a pair, if you know what I mean. It would have been so convenient if it had worked. Efficient. We're part of the same crowd, albeit a geographically scattered one.
I like him.
We like each other.
We're fond of each other, actually.
And the sexual tension had gotten really high back then.
But the truth is, the sex wasn't all that hot.
Even on a vanilla scale.
And for a relationship...
Well, he can be kind of crotchety.
Maybe more so as he's gotten older.
Which he has.
He's 10 years older than me.
But he's always drawn women to him.
Curious.
And always younger women.
Much younger women.
He wants to start things up again.
Wanted to have sex again, anyway.
I think it was last year.
And I turned him down.
Boy that felt good! To be the one in control. The one with power. Though I was sad in a way. I'd like to be close to him. But, as I said, the sex wasn't that good. And - even more important - it would risk messing up our relationship, which is what happened last time. I was hurt in a way last time, to which he was oblivious, and it took a while for things to become comfortable again. Which they very much are now. I'd love things to be physical without full-scale sex. To be physically affection, which we are to an extent, but maybe more. Snuggling. That would be nice...
The sadist was not happy last year when he found out I'd turned down an overture.
That I'd turned down... I guess I should give the guy a blog name. "Ralph" should do.
Anyway, the sadist is convinced I was created to give men sexual pleasure, and was duly pissed last year that I had turned down both Ralph and S---. So I did resume fucking S--- when he was here last year, and that was a good thing to do, but am being stubborn about Ralph because I care for him and don't want to fuck things up through fucking.
Still, it was nice to see him, and (in the house with plus-or-minus 10 other people depending on the night) we were comfortable and affectionate.
It was a good weekend.
There was one odd moment, seeing at the festival another old friend, male, who was widowed exactly 1 year ago. He asked if my significant other was into dancing. I thought of the sadist, about whom no one knows and to whom I would never think of applying the term "significant other." Then I realized the friend was referring back to the philosopher, who did come with me to the festival one January, a little less than a year after we met on line. It would have been nice to have seen him while I was up in New York. And then, after the festival was over but before I came home, I got a message from him asking if I'd gone. And later, saying he wished he'd known sooner, we cold have met for lunch. I hadn't told him... I felt shy about it... not wanting to put him on the spot, not wanting to be turned down if he didn't want to see me. I'm sorry now for feeling shy. I like him. I truly enjoyed his company. I was very happy for the time we spent together. Even leaving out the D/s, which perhaps I felt more strongly and more consistently than he did. I was happy being with him, and happy to learn what it was like to be friends with someone I loved. To spend time really together.
It would be nice to go back up to New York just to visit people.
The philosopher would be on the list.
The list of friends.
Whether or not lovers.
Friends are precious, and should not be lightly tossed aside.
Especially redheaded Irishmen.
I was in New York.
New York City.
Brooklyn, actually.
Up for a big, wild, 2-day music festival.
And to stay with a friend.
A guy.
He likes me.
We've known each other for years, flirted for years, were lovers for a while but not a pair, if you know what I mean. It would have been so convenient if it had worked. Efficient. We're part of the same crowd, albeit a geographically scattered one.
I like him.
We like each other.
We're fond of each other, actually.
And the sexual tension had gotten really high back then.
But the truth is, the sex wasn't all that hot.
Even on a vanilla scale.
And for a relationship...
Well, he can be kind of crotchety.
Maybe more so as he's gotten older.
Which he has.
He's 10 years older than me.
But he's always drawn women to him.
Curious.
And always younger women.
Much younger women.
He wants to start things up again.
Wanted to have sex again, anyway.
I think it was last year.
And I turned him down.
Boy that felt good! To be the one in control. The one with power. Though I was sad in a way. I'd like to be close to him. But, as I said, the sex wasn't that good. And - even more important - it would risk messing up our relationship, which is what happened last time. I was hurt in a way last time, to which he was oblivious, and it took a while for things to become comfortable again. Which they very much are now. I'd love things to be physical without full-scale sex. To be physically affection, which we are to an extent, but maybe more. Snuggling. That would be nice...
The sadist was not happy last year when he found out I'd turned down an overture.
That I'd turned down... I guess I should give the guy a blog name. "Ralph" should do.
Anyway, the sadist is convinced I was created to give men sexual pleasure, and was duly pissed last year that I had turned down both Ralph and S---. So I did resume fucking S--- when he was here last year, and that was a good thing to do, but am being stubborn about Ralph because I care for him and don't want to fuck things up through fucking.
Still, it was nice to see him, and (in the house with plus-or-minus 10 other people depending on the night) we were comfortable and affectionate.
It was a good weekend.
There was one odd moment, seeing at the festival another old friend, male, who was widowed exactly 1 year ago. He asked if my significant other was into dancing. I thought of the sadist, about whom no one knows and to whom I would never think of applying the term "significant other." Then I realized the friend was referring back to the philosopher, who did come with me to the festival one January, a little less than a year after we met on line. It would have been nice to have seen him while I was up in New York. And then, after the festival was over but before I came home, I got a message from him asking if I'd gone. And later, saying he wished he'd known sooner, we cold have met for lunch. I hadn't told him... I felt shy about it... not wanting to put him on the spot, not wanting to be turned down if he didn't want to see me. I'm sorry now for feeling shy. I like him. I truly enjoyed his company. I was very happy for the time we spent together. Even leaving out the D/s, which perhaps I felt more strongly and more consistently than he did. I was happy being with him, and happy to learn what it was like to be friends with someone I loved. To spend time really together.
It would be nice to go back up to New York just to visit people.
The philosopher would be on the list.
The list of friends.
Whether or not lovers.
Friends are precious, and should not be lightly tossed aside.
Especially redheaded Irishmen.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Daddy the Pimp
The man is incorrigible.
Although maybe that's not an appropriate word to use for such an innately dominant sadist. You don't try to correct a sadist. Still, I do sometimes wonder whether he has thought everything through.
He can't help telling other men about me.
I know that he strongly believes that my destiny is to provide sexual pleasure. Largely to men, it seems, although he knows my desires are fluid and he himself is omnivorous. I also know that he is extremely aroused by both his fantasies and the reality of watching me serve and being used by other men. So I am never surprised - and mainly amused - by reports of the latest man to whom he has marketed me.
But every so often he gets the urge to play matchmaker.
He can't help himself.
He knows -
or runs into -
a man who might want to date me.
A man who won't, who can't, be told about our relationship.
A man who might want to date me.
Not just fuck me.
And certainly not cane me.
Or at least not as far as Daddy knows.
These men do not get to see any of the pictures or video clips that Daddy carries with him on his phone. These men aren't told that Daddy owns me.
And the sadist doesn't stop to think what might happen if I did start dating any of these guys. How do I phrase my involvement with other people, even without mentioning him by name? How do I deal with my not being ready to give him up for a more standard relationship? How would he deal with my falling in love with someone he couldn't keep from giving me to?
The latest guy?
Daddy met him through his business.
The guy lives within sight of my house.
Jewish.
(Not really a plus - I have this thing for the Irish.)
My age. (But 60 is too old for me.)
Divorced. (Inevitable.)
Government employee. (Around here? Also inevitable.)
Well educated. (But how does he feel about Shakespeare?)
Of course, my own feelings about it are irrelevant.
I'll do whatever the fiend wants.
Until it comes down to hurting someone else.
Unless the guy pisses me off.
Unless the guy tries to smother me.
Unless the guy bores me.
At which point I will extricate myself.
Of course, who knows if it will comes to anything. I've been hearing about all sorts of men and only one has ever actually gotten his hands on my body. I'm starting to think that a lot of these sales pitches - and his telling me about them - have been as much for their current entertainment value as for whatever may come of them.
He loves to plan.
So now he is concocting a plan for me to meet this man whose house I can see from mine but who, being on the next street, I have never met.
A man who really wants to meet me.
A man who says he knows what 60 looks like.
I admit that, like Daddy, I can't wait to see the look on this man's face when he realizes that no, he doesn't really know what 60 looks like.
Not to mention 62.
Which I'll be in a week and a half.
We'll see...
Although maybe that's not an appropriate word to use for such an innately dominant sadist. You don't try to correct a sadist. Still, I do sometimes wonder whether he has thought everything through.
He can't help telling other men about me.
I know that he strongly believes that my destiny is to provide sexual pleasure. Largely to men, it seems, although he knows my desires are fluid and he himself is omnivorous. I also know that he is extremely aroused by both his fantasies and the reality of watching me serve and being used by other men. So I am never surprised - and mainly amused - by reports of the latest man to whom he has marketed me.
But every so often he gets the urge to play matchmaker.
He can't help himself.
He knows -
or runs into -
a man who might want to date me.
A man who won't, who can't, be told about our relationship.
A man who might want to date me.
Not just fuck me.
And certainly not cane me.
Or at least not as far as Daddy knows.
These men do not get to see any of the pictures or video clips that Daddy carries with him on his phone. These men aren't told that Daddy owns me.
And the sadist doesn't stop to think what might happen if I did start dating any of these guys. How do I phrase my involvement with other people, even without mentioning him by name? How do I deal with my not being ready to give him up for a more standard relationship? How would he deal with my falling in love with someone he couldn't keep from giving me to?
The latest guy?
Daddy met him through his business.
The guy lives within sight of my house.
Jewish.
(Not really a plus - I have this thing for the Irish.)
My age. (But 60 is too old for me.)
Divorced. (Inevitable.)
Government employee. (Around here? Also inevitable.)
Well educated. (But how does he feel about Shakespeare?)
Of course, my own feelings about it are irrelevant.
I'll do whatever the fiend wants.
Until it comes down to hurting someone else.
Unless the guy pisses me off.
Unless the guy tries to smother me.
Unless the guy bores me.
At which point I will extricate myself.
Of course, who knows if it will comes to anything. I've been hearing about all sorts of men and only one has ever actually gotten his hands on my body. I'm starting to think that a lot of these sales pitches - and his telling me about them - have been as much for their current entertainment value as for whatever may come of them.
He loves to plan.
So now he is concocting a plan for me to meet this man whose house I can see from mine but who, being on the next street, I have never met.
A man who really wants to meet me.
A man who says he knows what 60 looks like.
I admit that, like Daddy, I can't wait to see the look on this man's face when he realizes that no, he doesn't really know what 60 looks like.
Not to mention 62.
Which I'll be in a week and a half.
We'll see...
Saturday, October 30, 2010
A promise? Or a threat?
"At this moment, I want to brutalize you."
He dreamed about me last night.
The first time he's done that.
Or at least, the first time that he now remembers.
It was a very explicit dream. I doesn't seem appropriate to reveal the details, but I will tell you that he was fucking me.
And my pussy was tight.
Very.
Tight.
Almost blocking him.
Almost.
The sadist is not easily stopped.
It was a curious thing, really. He had been speaking about dreaming the night before. But he was not the expected dreamer. He has set me up with someone he knows. A musician. A guitarist. One of Daddy's complicated scenarios that will actually be enacted before we qualify for Medicare. Whether it will play out exactly as he wants, I can't say. But I will meet the man, who has been given some sort of sales pitch for me. Without being shown pictures of me crawling naked across the floor.
Or any photos at all.
The man is supposedly very eager to meet me, as is the bartender at the place where the man performs. The sadist anticipates some sort of playful rivalry for me. The idea of which amuses me enormously. I mean, look. The sadist may be (correct that - obviously is) really taken with me, for reasons of his own. But I am not the sort of woman who was normally thought of as unbearably sexy. Some men have thought me cute. But normally, no one gushed over my looks. My hair, yes. But my general appearance? It just didn't happen.
I fear the sadist was very effusive in his praise. But he also told them the truth on one important point - he said I'm around 60. He also said I have red hair, and I know that for some guys that's a real turn-on. But still. Think of it. They are all excited about meeting (and, they hope, fucking) a woman in her early 60s.
Amazing.
Anyway, last night Daddy declared "Tonight he will dream of you." In fact, he expected that I, salivating at the thought of our meeting, would simultaneously dream of the musician.
Actually, I wasn't in a very sexy mood. I have a cold, and Marko is still in the hospital, purring but refusing to eat and still fighting an infection. My general reaction was "Boys will have their fun." So I didn't dream of the musician. No telling whether he dreamed of me.
The sadist, however, did.
Dream of me.
Something approaching a rape dream.
A dream that haunted him all day.
Until he wrote:
"At this moment, I want to brutalize you."
And ordered me to get better.
Fast.
He dreamed about me last night.
The first time he's done that.
Or at least, the first time that he now remembers.
It was a very explicit dream. I doesn't seem appropriate to reveal the details, but I will tell you that he was fucking me.
And my pussy was tight.
Very.
Tight.
Almost blocking him.
Almost.
The sadist is not easily stopped.
It was a curious thing, really. He had been speaking about dreaming the night before. But he was not the expected dreamer. He has set me up with someone he knows. A musician. A guitarist. One of Daddy's complicated scenarios that will actually be enacted before we qualify for Medicare. Whether it will play out exactly as he wants, I can't say. But I will meet the man, who has been given some sort of sales pitch for me. Without being shown pictures of me crawling naked across the floor.
Or any photos at all.
The man is supposedly very eager to meet me, as is the bartender at the place where the man performs. The sadist anticipates some sort of playful rivalry for me. The idea of which amuses me enormously. I mean, look. The sadist may be (correct that - obviously is) really taken with me, for reasons of his own. But I am not the sort of woman who was normally thought of as unbearably sexy. Some men have thought me cute. But normally, no one gushed over my looks. My hair, yes. But my general appearance? It just didn't happen.
I fear the sadist was very effusive in his praise. But he also told them the truth on one important point - he said I'm around 60. He also said I have red hair, and I know that for some guys that's a real turn-on. But still. Think of it. They are all excited about meeting (and, they hope, fucking) a woman in her early 60s.
Amazing.
Anyway, last night Daddy declared "Tonight he will dream of you." In fact, he expected that I, salivating at the thought of our meeting, would simultaneously dream of the musician.
Actually, I wasn't in a very sexy mood. I have a cold, and Marko is still in the hospital, purring but refusing to eat and still fighting an infection. My general reaction was "Boys will have their fun." So I didn't dream of the musician. No telling whether he dreamed of me.
The sadist, however, did.
Dream of me.
Something approaching a rape dream.
A dream that haunted him all day.
Until he wrote:
"At this moment, I want to brutalize you."
And ordered me to get better.
Fast.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Breakthrough
The Irishman was here last night, for the first time in a couple of months. I was glad. I needed the physical contact. He didn't stay very long, but even that little bit was welcome.
He contacted me earlier in the evening. I said I was open to a visit and would be home, but was tired. I pulled off all my clothes and went to bed very early. It felt good crawling naked into the bed, surrounded by cats. I dozed off feeling the sadist's arms gathering me to him.
At around 10:30 pm there was a noise from my cell phone. I assumed it was a text message from the Irishman. Instead it was 6 words from the sadist that made me feel warm all over. I replied, got up and e-mailed him in more detail, and saw a message from the Irishman with an ETA. Then I crawled back into bed, again feeling all warm and cuddly.
At that point, I would have been just as happy if the Irishman had not been on his way. I hugged those 6 words to myself and felt thoroughly owned. I marvel at the emotions that wash over me. It is a sense that is very distinct from feeling loved. I have no expectations of being loved by my Master, although I do think he is "fond" of me and he certainly treasures me. But I feel more secure as his pet than I have ever felt in any supposed love relationship. More safe, even, although I am quite aware that he wants some very scary things from me. It puzzles me, but I am happy, so while I strive to understand, I do not question. I just hug myself and say "Thank you, my Master" and tell him that I love him while expecting nothing of the sort in return.
Around 11, the Irishman turned up, with his crooked smile and cold, focused gaze that washes over his eyes as he is transformed before me into a dom.
He has had a goal. To get his generous-sized cock into my tight little asshole. And this time he finally made it in. There was a bit of pain at first, and then it was fine. Afterwards, though, I'm not sure what happened. Perhaps, now that he was finally in, he wilted a bit. I'm not sure. but he withdrew. I could hear him behind me, as I was bent over the bed, lubing up his cock and pulling on it, but he came on my lower back before he could make it back in.
But he did get an erection. I know he gets erections. I've sucked him off, I've brought him off in my hand. And he has fucked my cunt good and hard from behind, though not for super long before he came.
The thing is, I'm starting to get paranoid.
Is it me?
Ex-hubby #1 definitely had trouble with premature ejaculation. #2 did better, but not all that well - though with him I suspect he wasn't concerned about lasting long enough to give me pleasure. S-- used to be great, but the last time couldn't fuck me at all. That problem started a few years ago, leading to lack of contact for 2 years (long story) and improvement the next time we were together, but then it went back downhill. And the philosopher... [sigh]
Could it be my fault? My Master would probably say it's because I'm so hot and sexy. Logic would say what do I expect from older guys? but they were young when I was married, and the philosopher isn't even 40 yet.
Should I hang up a sign saying "If you can't keep it up, it's not your fault"?
In any case, the Irishman was sweet about it, and said he'll just have to practice with me more. My ass has decided it really likes being fucked, so I do hope he comes back soon and tries again.
He ordered me to stay in position bent over the bed and patted me affectionately on the butt before leaving the house. I rose feeling happy yet matter-of-fact, took a shower to wash his cum off my back, and returned to my bed, again falling asleep with memories of being scooped up in my Master's arms as I sat on his lap.
I feel oddly detached about my sessions with the Irishman. We don't exchange much in the way of e-mails, which is a pity, as he is a smart man with a good command of the language. He knows I care about words, and yesterday said perhaps he was stingy with them as one of his ways of dominating me, as he knows I like them. His miserliness also serves to keep a distance between us, because I think we would both enjoy a more extensive correspondence. And that, I think, is one of the techniques he uses to handle these extra-marital dalliances by which he satisfies his dominant and sadistic appetites.
In any case, it works. I don't feel him to be a threat to my relationship with my Master - meaning, it doesn't confuse me. I do keep wishing I could have a boyfriend, and again and again I realize I'm not ready to compromise my devotion to the sadist in order to give someone else primacy.
So my ass was fucked, if briefly, and this morning it looked as if it had been excavated a bit. There is a bruise on my left breast from where the Irishman spanked it. He's into that, it seems, but is careful to support it underneath with his other hand. It didn't hurt as much as when the sadist flogged it, but I could see clear, red marks from his fingers after he left. I don't suppose the sadist would be all that happy with the bruise, as he is quite devoted to my breasts, but it will clear.
And so, I went back to sleep, feeling fine, wishing I'd been fucked more, and feeling my Master's arms around me.
The oddest part of it all was the next morning. I awoke from a dream about the philosopher. I've been thinking about him, worrying about him, debating about contacting his brother on Facebook to say I'm concerned about him and love him and hope he's OK. And there I was this morning, after having been spanked and butt fucked by the Irishman (he has a very firm, hard spank, for which my bottom is very grateful), after having received a lovely 6-word text message from the sadist and falling asleep feeling his arms around me, I awoke from a dream about the philosopher and knew I still love him.
Sometimes my life seems very very complicated.
He contacted me earlier in the evening. I said I was open to a visit and would be home, but was tired. I pulled off all my clothes and went to bed very early. It felt good crawling naked into the bed, surrounded by cats. I dozed off feeling the sadist's arms gathering me to him.
At around 10:30 pm there was a noise from my cell phone. I assumed it was a text message from the Irishman. Instead it was 6 words from the sadist that made me feel warm all over. I replied, got up and e-mailed him in more detail, and saw a message from the Irishman with an ETA. Then I crawled back into bed, again feeling all warm and cuddly.
At that point, I would have been just as happy if the Irishman had not been on his way. I hugged those 6 words to myself and felt thoroughly owned. I marvel at the emotions that wash over me. It is a sense that is very distinct from feeling loved. I have no expectations of being loved by my Master, although I do think he is "fond" of me and he certainly treasures me. But I feel more secure as his pet than I have ever felt in any supposed love relationship. More safe, even, although I am quite aware that he wants some very scary things from me. It puzzles me, but I am happy, so while I strive to understand, I do not question. I just hug myself and say "Thank you, my Master" and tell him that I love him while expecting nothing of the sort in return.
Around 11, the Irishman turned up, with his crooked smile and cold, focused gaze that washes over his eyes as he is transformed before me into a dom.
He has had a goal. To get his generous-sized cock into my tight little asshole. And this time he finally made it in. There was a bit of pain at first, and then it was fine. Afterwards, though, I'm not sure what happened. Perhaps, now that he was finally in, he wilted a bit. I'm not sure. but he withdrew. I could hear him behind me, as I was bent over the bed, lubing up his cock and pulling on it, but he came on my lower back before he could make it back in.
But he did get an erection. I know he gets erections. I've sucked him off, I've brought him off in my hand. And he has fucked my cunt good and hard from behind, though not for super long before he came.
The thing is, I'm starting to get paranoid.
Is it me?
Ex-hubby #1 definitely had trouble with premature ejaculation. #2 did better, but not all that well - though with him I suspect he wasn't concerned about lasting long enough to give me pleasure. S-- used to be great, but the last time couldn't fuck me at all. That problem started a few years ago, leading to lack of contact for 2 years (long story) and improvement the next time we were together, but then it went back downhill. And the philosopher... [sigh]
Could it be my fault? My Master would probably say it's because I'm so hot and sexy. Logic would say what do I expect from older guys? but they were young when I was married, and the philosopher isn't even 40 yet.
Should I hang up a sign saying "If you can't keep it up, it's not your fault"?
In any case, the Irishman was sweet about it, and said he'll just have to practice with me more. My ass has decided it really likes being fucked, so I do hope he comes back soon and tries again.
He ordered me to stay in position bent over the bed and patted me affectionately on the butt before leaving the house. I rose feeling happy yet matter-of-fact, took a shower to wash his cum off my back, and returned to my bed, again falling asleep with memories of being scooped up in my Master's arms as I sat on his lap.
I feel oddly detached about my sessions with the Irishman. We don't exchange much in the way of e-mails, which is a pity, as he is a smart man with a good command of the language. He knows I care about words, and yesterday said perhaps he was stingy with them as one of his ways of dominating me, as he knows I like them. His miserliness also serves to keep a distance between us, because I think we would both enjoy a more extensive correspondence. And that, I think, is one of the techniques he uses to handle these extra-marital dalliances by which he satisfies his dominant and sadistic appetites.
In any case, it works. I don't feel him to be a threat to my relationship with my Master - meaning, it doesn't confuse me. I do keep wishing I could have a boyfriend, and again and again I realize I'm not ready to compromise my devotion to the sadist in order to give someone else primacy.
So my ass was fucked, if briefly, and this morning it looked as if it had been excavated a bit. There is a bruise on my left breast from where the Irishman spanked it. He's into that, it seems, but is careful to support it underneath with his other hand. It didn't hurt as much as when the sadist flogged it, but I could see clear, red marks from his fingers after he left. I don't suppose the sadist would be all that happy with the bruise, as he is quite devoted to my breasts, but it will clear.
And so, I went back to sleep, feeling fine, wishing I'd been fucked more, and feeling my Master's arms around me.
The oddest part of it all was the next morning. I awoke from a dream about the philosopher. I've been thinking about him, worrying about him, debating about contacting his brother on Facebook to say I'm concerned about him and love him and hope he's OK. And there I was this morning, after having been spanked and butt fucked by the Irishman (he has a very firm, hard spank, for which my bottom is very grateful), after having received a lovely 6-word text message from the sadist and falling asleep feeling his arms around me, I awoke from a dream about the philosopher and knew I still love him.
Sometimes my life seems very very complicated.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
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...
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...
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
It's Official! I'm a Sexy Blogger!
I did already know that. I didn't need an award to convince me. For one thing, the sadist says I'm sexy, and if I don't accept that I'm in big trouble.
But I do accept it.
I believe it.
I feel it.
Especially lately.
I suppose because it's Spring.
I've been flirting.
A lot.
I can't help it.
My blood is boiling, engorging.
My apologies to any recipients to whom it hasn't been welcome.
And it's not like I'm not allowed. I say I belong to the sadist. He says he owns my mind and my body. And he does. But he doesn't. When I asked if I might serve the Irishman on occasion, the sadist said the permission wasn't his to give. And then he gave it. He thought it would help keep things between us from progressing too fast.
Ha! It was too late. But still. He gives me a lot. It's immeasurable what he gives me. But there's something else I want, which he will never be to me. In fact, although he says I'm in love with him, which freed me to admit to us both - to accept - that I'm in love with him... well, there are different ways of being in love with someone. And despite all the things I enjoy about him, about his MIND, he doesn't feel like someone I'd want for a boyfriend.
And I'd like to have a boyfriend.
A dominant boyfriend.
Someone who would accept me and encourage me as who I am - creative and sexy and submissive and wicked and sweet and loving. The whole thing.
I answered an ad on craigslist the other day. I cruise through there at times, just in case there's anyone intelligent on there who admits to being at least 40. So I answered an ad the other day, because he made reference to being intellectual and included pictures of a pile of books and a loaded bookshelf and a cat. For the hell of it I answered, as he sounded pleasant, comfortable, not sparkling, and definitely not likely to be dominant or likely to be comfortable with my needs in that respect.
I want a boyfriend.
Or a girlfriend, though I clearly don't know
how to flirt with or date girls.
I want someone in my life.
And I want to be my full self.
And (to get back to the topic) part of who I am is
a sexy, submissive blogger.
I am very sexy and I'm very submissive.
So there.
Plus, I was tagged as such by milla, who also goes by Velvet, not to mention what she uses in the outside world. There must be many submissive sex bloggers wandering around with identity problems. Anyway, whoever she is, you can go here to read what she said about her own sexiness. She's a musician, by the way, which means you bet she's sexy.
The timing of the award was perfect, as it came when my demon muse was pushing me to accept that I am sexy, along with beautiful, talented, creative... So milla said I'm sexy and I thought damn right I'm sexy, and I know why. I immediately wrote to the sadist as follows:
So I've been tagged by one of my blogger friends for one of these silly things they pass around. It's the Sexy Blogger Award. You have to say 5 sexy things about yourself. But I think this is a good one for me to do. It will help me further internalize feeling good about myself as a sexy creature.As your sexy creature.In fact, I'd thought of asking you if you would mind making the list. But I quickly realized that I knew what you would say. At least I think I have it right. The first one is mine - I'm not sure that you obsess about it the way I do - it's what makes me feel sexy. But the rest?
- my hair
- my tits
- my pale, round belly
- my voice
- my words
Then there will be a paragraph about each one. Those should be easy, though if you have anything to contribute about any of them, especially about my belly and my voice, your words would be most welcome.Your words, my Lord, are always welcome.
Oh, I was such a clever little submissive thing. I figured I knew exactly what he'd say. Because I know exactly what to say to him when I want to excite him, arouse him, whether it's to incite the beast (a dangerous undertaking) or call forth those other needs. I know what stirs him about me.
Shows how much I know. His response to the message I sent him?
[I'm supposed to tag 5 more people but haven't thought of whom yet and if I wait around for that I'll never get this posted. So I'll get back to you on that. Better than nothing...]
- My hair - My growing-ever-longer red hair. Perfect for me to toss. Perfect for him to wrap his fingers around, curling the strands close to my scalp, and then pulling my head wherever he wants it. Close to his fangs. There's a bit of the wherewolf in my Lord, a bit of the vampire, and he has a serious taste for the flesh of my throat. And the hair... well, the hair makes me feel sexy. And then I am.
- My tits - They all love my tits. The breasts as a whole, yes, they're rather sweet, but especially my amazing nipples. Remember, I've told you all about my nipples, but in case you missed class that day... they protrude. They always protrude. They show through my shirts, even when I'm wearing a bra, because I'd have to wear a padded bra to cover them up and really, give me a break, women have nipples, I refuse to have mine airbrushed out of existence. Of course, the sadist never sees me clothed. There is nothing to keep him from my nipples, nothing to protect my nipples from him. He twists them, hard, cruelly, demanding that I keep my eyes locked to his, so that he can see everything, we can exchange everything, he sees my pain, he devours my vulnerability, and our intimacy at that moment is like a flowing river, is like an electric current, and it fills the room.
- My pale, round belly - This may be a personal obsession of the sadist's. He likes me against dark colors to accentuate the pallor. And really, I'm not all that pale. I'm a redhead, yes of course, so I am pale to a point, but even if I had been better about staying out of the sun all those years back I still wouldn't be one of those redheads with alabaster skin. For one thing, there are all those freckles. But he has this thing about my pale round belly. My pale round ass, too, but especially the belly. It's the vulnerability of it. That I know. There was something he used to do to it... he stopped, when I said it scared me. As I've said before, for someone who says he doesn't have limits, who says I can have a safe word if I want but that doesn't mean he'll stop if I use it... He is very good to me. He protects me. He protects what we have. But yes... vulnerability... he is a predator, and my pale, round belly draws him.
- My voice - I have many voices. Not deliberately, except when I was on the radio, I knew that was my radio voice. I have the tapes from over 20 years ago, the tapes of the folk show I had for a year. I think I would pitch it lower now. My office mate says my voice goes up when I answer calls, which is one reason people act as if I'm 20. Sometimes, occasionally, I deliberately tell them I'm 60, whether to command respect or to create a connection. But with the sadist... I don't know what happened... I was always in awe of him... perhaps it makes me breathless... a bit frightened... from the first time we spoke on the phone, and that first phone message I left when he commanded me to sing for him... I sang a Yiddish lullaby. He said it slayed him. Speaking to him, to the sadist, to my Lord as he now lets me call him... my voice goes breathy. He feeds on it. I suspect again it reflects my vulnerability, which is one of his 3 major food groups. (The others? I'm not sure. I'm making this up. But maybe pain and obedience.)
- My words - the first shall be the last. Because it was by my words that he knew me, it was my words that snared him and then he snared me. It is for my words that he wants me more than anything else. Sex and screams he can get anywhere, and there are lots of great nipples in the world. But my words... and thus he makes me feel very special.
Shows how much I know. His response to the message I sent him?
Wrong. First, there is your intellect. Everything else is a distant second. Your vulnerability, your poetic talent, your breath, your sensitivity, your courage, then maybe the anatomy.And that is why I'm in love with him.
[I'm supposed to tag 5 more people but haven't thought of whom yet and if I wait around for that I'll never get this posted. So I'll get back to you on that. Better than nothing...]
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Why?
As I started on my way home from Shabbos services tonight, an odd impression came to me... this feeling that along with the other reasons for my current activities - pleasure, exploration, a basic need to submit, and who knows what else - there is a sense of doing it out of vengeance. But against whom? And why?
I feel as if I've passed my brief relatively promiscuous phase, born out of grief and anger at the loss of first the philosopher and then my demon muse. And certainly, promiscuous is an exaggerated term. Because really, what did it amount to? A couple of non-sexual dates, an educational 24 hours with Motorcycle Man following an enjoyable dinner a few nights previously, and a regretted few hours - the only real mistake - with the photographer.
What I have now is actually pretty stable.
Two men.
Two very different arrangements.
Two unique understandings.
But still, I detect in myself a soupçon of fierceness about it all.
As if I'm saying. There! See? Ha!
See what?
That someone wants me?
That someone desires me?
That two someones desire me?
That one of them wants my mind even more than my body?
That two intelligent, creative, good-looking and/or charismatic
and very compellingly sexy younger men
will take certain risks in order to have me?
It's not as if they can't find other women to satisfy their perversions.
OK, the Irishman is probably more easily satisfied
whereas for my sadist I am a project.
But I can at least pretend to myself
that there is something in me that they want.
As opposed to ex-hubby #2, who preferred reading bulletins from non-profits when he came to bed to even noticing that I was there and would roll over and go to sleep if we ever found ourselves in a motel and then dare to complain in the few sessions of couples therapy he thought we were worth that I never took the initiative sexually. I would cuddle up to him and he would roll over. How much rejection can one girl take?
How much rejection can one girl take?
So my sadistic demon muse develops me to serve his particular needs.
And the Irishman and I have
an arrangement
as to availability and procedure.
And I like both of them
and they each excite me
and they each make me happy.
Up to a point.
The little bits of them I have
make me happy
as far as they go.
Not perfect.
But it's something.
It's something to look forward to.
It's physical contact
limited though it may be
with someone other than Marko
who is sleeping and snoring on my left foot as I write.
The philosopher says I shouldn't cut myself off. So I'm not. OK, I'm not actually dating... but I am exploring my submission, in different ways and more physically than we were able to do together. It's probably good to take the opportunity now, after a largely sexless and loveless marriage, before I become too old and decrepit for this sort of carrying on.
"Will you still need me,
will you still beat me,
when I'm 64?"
OK, yes, I know, I'm carrying on with a couple of unavailable men. There is that. Is that a form of vengeance, too? I don't know... I used to worry about sisterhood, and just got hurt in the process. I feel a measure of anger, as if now, this era that I have set aside, this time is for me. I'm tired of rolling over and worrying about everyone else. And if I do roll over, and offer my butt for beating or my asshole for fucking, it's because I want to.
Then why do I sound as if I'm over-justifying?
And why do I feel as if this is all I'm ever going to get?
And why do I want to cry...
I feel as if I've passed my brief relatively promiscuous phase, born out of grief and anger at the loss of first the philosopher and then my demon muse. And certainly, promiscuous is an exaggerated term. Because really, what did it amount to? A couple of non-sexual dates, an educational 24 hours with Motorcycle Man following an enjoyable dinner a few nights previously, and a regretted few hours - the only real mistake - with the photographer.
What I have now is actually pretty stable.
Two men.
Two very different arrangements.
Two unique understandings.
But still, I detect in myself a soupçon of fierceness about it all.
As if I'm saying. There! See? Ha!
See what?
That someone wants me?
That someone desires me?
That two someones desire me?
That one of them wants my mind even more than my body?
That two intelligent, creative, good-looking and/or charismatic
and very compellingly sexy younger men
will take certain risks in order to have me?
It's not as if they can't find other women to satisfy their perversions.
OK, the Irishman is probably more easily satisfied
whereas for my sadist I am a project.
But I can at least pretend to myself
that there is something in me that they want.
As opposed to ex-hubby #2, who preferred reading bulletins from non-profits when he came to bed to even noticing that I was there and would roll over and go to sleep if we ever found ourselves in a motel and then dare to complain in the few sessions of couples therapy he thought we were worth that I never took the initiative sexually. I would cuddle up to him and he would roll over. How much rejection can one girl take?
How much rejection can one girl take?
So my sadistic demon muse develops me to serve his particular needs.
And the Irishman and I have
an arrangement
as to availability and procedure.
And I like both of them
and they each excite me
and they each make me happy.
Up to a point.
The little bits of them I have
make me happy
as far as they go.
Not perfect.
But it's something.
It's something to look forward to.
It's physical contact
limited though it may be
with someone other than Marko
who is sleeping and snoring on my left foot as I write.
The philosopher says I shouldn't cut myself off. So I'm not. OK, I'm not actually dating... but I am exploring my submission, in different ways and more physically than we were able to do together. It's probably good to take the opportunity now, after a largely sexless and loveless marriage, before I become too old and decrepit for this sort of carrying on.
"Will you still need me,
will you still beat me,
when I'm 64?"
OK, yes, I know, I'm carrying on with a couple of unavailable men. There is that. Is that a form of vengeance, too? I don't know... I used to worry about sisterhood, and just got hurt in the process. I feel a measure of anger, as if now, this era that I have set aside, this time is for me. I'm tired of rolling over and worrying about everyone else. And if I do roll over, and offer my butt for beating or my asshole for fucking, it's because I want to.
Then why do I sound as if I'm over-justifying?
And why do I feel as if this is all I'm ever going to get?
And why do I want to cry...
Thursday, January 15, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Kitten has a Date - postscript
Yes, sir. I did have a good time. It felt good to get out.
I promise, sir. I promised I wouldn’t cut myself off and I won’t.
See? I’ve placed a new ad. For a companion cum dom. I even mention you in the ad. I’d rather be honest.
I’ll take resumes. I’ll make them audition. Dinner talk, choice of movies, can they make a good cup of tea, can they get me to bed on time, can they spank me hard enough but not too hard when I deserve it and sometimes just because they want to?
I’ll take notes.
I’ll write a report.
With photos.
You choose.
I’ll be good.
I’ll go out.
I’ll have fun.
You won’t have to worry about me pining.
You won’t have to worry about me being lonely.
But it won’t erase what is between us.
And you did promise to stop trying to chase me away.
I promise, sir. I promised I wouldn’t cut myself off and I won’t.
See? I’ve placed a new ad. For a companion cum dom. I even mention you in the ad. I’d rather be honest.
I’ll take resumes. I’ll make them audition. Dinner talk, choice of movies, can they make a good cup of tea, can they get me to bed on time, can they spank me hard enough but not too hard when I deserve it and sometimes just because they want to?
I’ll take notes.
I’ll write a report.
With photos.
You choose.
I’ll be good.
I’ll go out.
I’ll have fun.
You won’t have to worry about me pining.
You won’t have to worry about me being lonely.
But it won’t erase what is between us.
And you did promise to stop trying to chase me away.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Kitten has a Date - Part 2
Summary: had a good time, liked the movie, didn't have sex with him, hope we go out again.
It felt SO good to go out for dinner and a movie! I don't often do this. I don't go out. I miss the company. It's true. Thank you to my very sweet philosopher for taking such good care of me and pushing me to see other people.
I felt no urge to have sex with this guy. There's something too... I don't know... too nervous about him. Too tense somehow, for all he describes himself as this free-living radical. And physically he doesn't attract me. Too old, maybe. I had told the philosopher he was in his mid-40s, but.. well, you know, I've been hearing from so many guys, I can't keep them straight. An ad HE posted said he was 53. but in fact he's 57. Definitely too old...
I had never admitted to my own age. At dinner (after the movie) he asked me to own up. Now that he had seen me I could tell him that I'm a month shy of (damn, I hate writing this) 60. He was very impressed, as everyone is, and shook my hand in admiration.
By the way, the big day is February 9th. I'll need a lot of reassurance. I know it won't make me more than one more day older. I'll still be me. But the number confuses me. So yes, mark the date. I'm not too proud to beg. Especially with the white [ahem...] highlights that are showing up above my ears.
Back to the date. So I'm not attracted to him, and he's too radical for me. And, of course, he's a little weird, but then everyone I have anything to do with is weird. On the other hand, he's smart and interesting and married - so I can be open about the philosopher and, since it's an open marriage and his wife is currently in Spain, there's no sneaking around.
We saw Slumdog Millionaire, which we both thought was very good, but it does have a lot of violence. It felt great to see a movie on a big screen in an actual theatre! And it felt great to get out of the house.
I don't know what else to say. I felt very happy. I've been feeling happy since last weekend. I tried to explain to this guy about the eternal light inside me that is my connection to the philosopher. Everything about our relationship sounds rather odd, it's hard to explain it, hard to create a sensible summary. And of course I didn't mention D/s. But I was out having a good time and being happy, feeling taken care of, and knowing that I could come home and honestly report all that.
That's it.
Nothing more to tell.
Sorry it's not more dramatic.
Even my life can lack drama at times.
What a relief!
It felt SO good to go out for dinner and a movie! I don't often do this. I don't go out. I miss the company. It's true. Thank you to my very sweet philosopher for taking such good care of me and pushing me to see other people.
I felt no urge to have sex with this guy. There's something too... I don't know... too nervous about him. Too tense somehow, for all he describes himself as this free-living radical. And physically he doesn't attract me. Too old, maybe. I had told the philosopher he was in his mid-40s, but.. well, you know, I've been hearing from so many guys, I can't keep them straight. An ad HE posted said he was 53. but in fact he's 57. Definitely too old...
I had never admitted to my own age. At dinner (after the movie) he asked me to own up. Now that he had seen me I could tell him that I'm a month shy of (damn, I hate writing this) 60. He was very impressed, as everyone is, and shook my hand in admiration.
By the way, the big day is February 9th. I'll need a lot of reassurance. I know it won't make me more than one more day older. I'll still be me. But the number confuses me. So yes, mark the date. I'm not too proud to beg. Especially with the white [ahem...] highlights that are showing up above my ears.
Back to the date. So I'm not attracted to him, and he's too radical for me. And, of course, he's a little weird, but then everyone I have anything to do with is weird. On the other hand, he's smart and interesting and married - so I can be open about the philosopher and, since it's an open marriage and his wife is currently in Spain, there's no sneaking around.
We saw Slumdog Millionaire, which we both thought was very good, but it does have a lot of violence. It felt great to see a movie on a big screen in an actual theatre! And it felt great to get out of the house.
I don't know what else to say. I felt very happy. I've been feeling happy since last weekend. I tried to explain to this guy about the eternal light inside me that is my connection to the philosopher. Everything about our relationship sounds rather odd, it's hard to explain it, hard to create a sensible summary. And of course I didn't mention D/s. But I was out having a good time and being happy, feeling taken care of, and knowing that I could come home and honestly report all that.
That's it.
Nothing more to tell.
Sorry it's not more dramatic.
Even my life can lack drama at times.
What a relief!
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.
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.
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