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Last Sunday was the new moon on Devil’s Night with the sun and moon both in Scorpio.

Basically the thinnest the veils between worlds have been or will be for a long time.

I spent the day/night in bed.

I am such a bad witch.

The Facebook told me Samhain was the next day too. Mind you I have seen memes that say Halloween is on a Friday the 13^th for the last 3 years running and if you look at it every fucking moon is a SUPER MOON. And oh my god a planet did a thing. They are planets, they move. Something is always going to be in retrograde, transition or trine. Energy is always shifting at lightning speed if you buy into that shit.

I do and I don’t.

Universal energy cannot be measured. It doesn’t end, everything ebbs and flows.

Since I am made of universal energy, I do too.

One of my exes wrote a book in which he proved the existence of God. Basically God is a reality to so many people, he/she/it is technically real. He isn’t wrong.

Same goes with astrology. Enough people believe in it that it’s technically true.

I know a lot of this is us puny humans searching for answers, but in searching we create deities, doctrines and tangible answers, here on earth anyways. The aliens are laughing at us, or maybe they are too involved in petty wars of their own over resources and dogma. Who knows.

I am witchy in my tendencies. I respect the earth, recognize energy and transference. There are days, times and spaces where the universal energy flows a little easier. Full moon giveth and the new one taketh away, or the other way around. I can’t remember.

Samhain is our New Years. I loves me some new year’s eves, my favorite eves of the year. So many to choose from, so much opportunity to start over. Next one coming is the winter solstice, which seems really far away right now. How much you wanna bet there will be a trillion announcements of blood moons eclipsing and whatnot.

I should’ve been saging this house until the smoke detectors went off and then a little more. I should’ve been running barefoot and transmuting energy through the roots of trees. I should have been begging my ancestors for answers, guidance and assistance. Lighting candles for the dead so they know I love them. Contributing something, but I was sad.

So I didn’t.

I took a lorazepam and forced sleep.

In the Gunslinger series by Stephen King there are areas in the world called ‘Thinnies’, portals to other places. I wanted to walk through commune with the dead, but I put on Bram Stoker’s Dracula and forced asleep instead.

Took a pill to drown out the screeching.

I am le tired.

I had a job and a plan. Lost the job now the plan has gone awry.

I am in the conundrum of a situation wherein I am in a relationship but I rarely physically see the person. Interesting flipside to my usual wherein I see them often until I hint at commitment. This is the reverse ghost I guess. Corporeal any time now honey.

I haven’t been this broke in 4 years.

I have to go back to work.

I have to keep plugging away on this book.

I have to accept whatever comes with dignity and grace. My ancestors deserve as much.

Cut to Monday aka Samhain part two.

I wrote for 15 hours straight. I was up at 3am eating a bagel wandering my house with AC/DC stuck in my head, ‘rock and roll is just pollution’ in a maddening loop and in my frenzy I hadn’t eaten all day except a bit of Halloween candy and a lot of coffee. I managed to produce 49.5 pages of good copy. I am officially over the hump.

Woke up the next morning feeling recharged, did some adulting, misunderstanding with mister seems to have cleared in the night.

Every day of the week that followed I felt a little better bit by bit. Culminating in last night wherein I got a visit and laid by said boyfriend.

I am one tiny human speck of dust in an unfathomable universe which may in itself be a speck in a never ending sea of other universes.

All I can say is this. Some days suck, some days don’t. My acceptance for what comes and goes has lightened my little heart substantially. I will never have an extended period in my life where I don’t end up ‘down in it’, but I am spending a rather healthy portion up above it.

This too shall pass is a really good mantra.

And if I miss one astrological phenomenon there is always another right around the corner…

There hasn’t been a full moon like this one in more than six decades.

Sure, we’ve seen supermoons before — this will be the second in a series of three this fall. But the full moon that peaks on Monday, November 14 will be closer to Earth than any other since 1948. The full moon won’t come this close again until 2034.

The scientific term “perigree moon” refers to when the moon is at its closest point to Earth in its orbit. When a perigree moon coincides with the full moon, the extra-large, brightly lit moon is known as a supermoon.

NASA says this month’s supermoon will appear 30 percent brighter and 14 percent larger than a typical full moon.

Source CBS News

I have a boyfriend.

This isn’t news.

Anyone following the blog knows this.

I made a point of not pretending I had a boyfriend for a really long time, even though that is the safer route to take as a woman.
It was part of my not lying thing.

And honestly? I am fucking tired of only having value in relation to a man.

I am in a relationship because I found someone I care about, that is compatible with me. I adore him and feel safe with him. This took time, patience and conversations. Add to that I chose him in the first place.

He told me a story once about seeing a guy hitting a woman outside of a bar, boyfriend walked over, hit the dude and knocked him out. Yes, this.

Because of this/him/how he is I get the privilege of wearing nice dresses when I go out with him.
When he is standing next to me no one bothers me. It’s like some kind of fairy tale magic. Or just a glaring statement of how the world is.

He is my human shield whether I want one or not. And although I am grateful and adore the fuck outta him, I wish it wasn’t like this.

My Instagram continues to be a source of yuck, I am having a Pavlovian cringe response to the dm notification. It’s all dick pics and ‘hey baby’. If I didn’t respond in July or August or September, what made you think October or November would be your lucky months?

I posted an article about dick pics and had one odd response, some strange man said to me “Who are you hanging out with? You need better friends haha.”

Um, this is not my choice. I don’t know these people. I made no contact with them, they saw a thumbnail of me somewhere on social media and decided to send me dick pics and rape threats.

I make myself vulnerable, I get that. I post personal things on my blog and I do it under a pseudonym on purpose. Not because I am ashamed, but because it’s not safe to do otherwise.

I also know it isn’t safe to go out alone, period and yet sometimes I have to.
Social media makes me vulnerable too, so I don’t get to have a Facebook because guys can’t stop being creepy?

I had to shut down the messaging feature on my Facebook page. It was emotionally draining, exhausting, toxic and creepy as fuck.

Didn’t matter if I had 700 strangers following me or my current 104736 people peeking at my posts.

I would get 10 messages a week, 8 from nice people saying ‘thanks’ and ‘good job’ and ‘you helped me’ and then 2 from creepy as fuck dudes saying variations of ‘you should fuck me for paying attention to you.’ Or “I love you”.

No, you don’t. You don’t know me.

I still get this shit, daily. These digs masquerading as compliments “oh I’d take care of you, oh I’d love you for who you are”, etc. I choose not to engage because I know if I take up my sword and kick that hornet’s nest I’ll get stung and within days another one will take his place.

Again, if I didn’t answer in July August September or October what makes you think November is going to change things.

The FBI leaked the name of the 16 year old girl who was the victim of sexual harassment and recipient of Anthony Weiner’s dick pics. The Trump army made his accusers names public as well.

Not only is it not safe to be a woman, it isn’t safe to stick up for yourself.

Case and point…I’m late for work, grabbing a coffee at Tim Horton’s apparently some dude notices me while I am in line he follows me out, chases me across the parking lot screaming at me to talk to him or else and I had to play a game of frogger, dodging cars, crossing at a red light to get away from him.

It was 10 am and I was wearing jeans and a sweater. If it was midnight and I was in a bikini I still should be able to perform the simple act of getting a coffee before work without some dude chasing me down the street.

I had it out with a male friend of mine once. He said “it can’t possibly be that bad, I don’t do that to women and I haven’t seen it happen to any of my girl friends.” I had him walk 15 feet behind me down a Toronto street on a Sunday afternoon. I got cat called 4 times in 10 minutes. I was then approached and he came running up and told the guy to fuck off. Had I done the same, I would have been called a cunt guaranteed.

Lena Dunham is on blast for saying straight white males should go extinct. She’s not wrong.

In a world full of Trump supporters, Brock Turners and ¼ women being sexually assaulted before their 18^th birthday maybe it’s time to smoke the fuckers out. It’s a radical and harsh statement for sure, but how much longer do we have to fight the monsters before we become monsters ourselves?

Yes, some men do this, we’ve tried asking nicely. This has to stop.

My boyfriend has got the most beautiful cock I have ever seen, like seriously. It is the stuff dreams and really good dildos are made of. I want to get one of the cheesy mould-a-dick plaster penis casting kits just so I can keep it forever and play with it when he isn’t around, or when he is, or whenever I feel like taking the dick out of the box.

You know what I don’t want?

A picture of it.

What in god’s name can I possibly do with a photo of it?

I am going to say this really fucking loud for the boys in the back.

WOMEN ARE NOT AROUSED BY PICTURES OF YOUR DICK.

It’s science.

I am a touch taste smell kinda girl. Other than the occasional sex scene in a move or well done bit of black and white erotic photography visuals don’t really do it for me. And that weird fascination I have with hentai lithographs, but we are just gonna leave that alone for now.

Yes, we all know men are visually stimulated…hence the booming porn industry, both film and print.

Don’t get me wrong, I will happily watch porn as long as it means I will happily be getting laid before, during and or after.

I think that is what it comes down to. Or I hope that’s it. Men like getting nudes from their girls so in a twisted attempt to please us or tease us, they send us what they want, thinking it’s what we want.

We don’t.

What I hope it isn’t, but it feels like it is, is an act of violence. ‘Here’s my dick whether you want it or not.” That seems rapey to me…because it is.

I was on a date once, said dude had offered to send me a dick pic the day before the date. I politely declined and he politely accepted and said he understood. So I went out with him (I swear I am handing out gold stars for basic decency) and then he had the fucking balls to send me the pic from the bathroom during dinner right after he asked “Do you want dessert?”
Because I said “Yes please!” ???

I wanted a brownie, I did not ask for a side of dick.

He ended up being pretty rapey too.

I have been on the receiving end of approximately 100 dick pics. It got out of hand during the 3 weeks I spent on Tinder and my Instagram was linked to my account. I even got a video, at least his bathroom was clean, I guess.

Out of the 100, one was sent with my express written consent, taken at a lovely angle and I wanted/liked it.

I posted that somewhere that 1/100 was acceptable and some man friend of a friend commented saying ‘you know the only thing these guys are going to read is that you liked one, prepare for the flood.’

Herein lies the problem.

I feel like women as a whole have made it abundantly clear that this is not working for us, and men keep ‘em coming, looking for any little crack in the armor to slip a little dick pic into.

I try to write about things with a sense of humor, but honestly, this shit is not funny. I haven’t said hi to you, we didn’t even match on Tinder and now you, a stranger are contributing to the PTSD that now gets triggered by the sound of my DM notification.

I seriously get taken aback and feel a little sick from this shit. It’s like opening a bag of chips and finding a severed toe. Which by the way is what half these pictures look like. You don’t have to be a professional photographer anymore to figure out lighting, angles, filters.

21 days minus 16 pics equals 84. 84 dick pics in 21 days? No that can’t be right. Ah yes, never mind, I shut my account down and they just kept coming. Which makes it really unacceptable, like I really didn’t ask for this. My pending messages looked like the lost fuckboi nation and none of them were wearing pants.

Wait, it’s always unacceptable whether I am on a dating site or not. To me there is no difference between a guy flashing his cock on a subway car (which happened to me) and this. It triggers the same fight, flight or freeze response. Just because I exist on social media doesn’t mean my door is open to harassment. That’s the same as saying I deserve to get cat called walking down the street because I left my house.

This article was triggered by a woman friend of mine, an incredibly gorgeous alt model with a pretty prolific social media presence posting publicly pics of a dick sending her dick pics. She hadn’t even said hi to him and there he was, in her inbox, smiling at the mirror, dick out. She lost it, and called him out and outed him really. “You wanna be an exhibitionist? Fine, here ya go. Welcome to my wall.”

Which reminded me of this http://www.vice.com/en_ca/read/this-woman-turned-her-collection-of-unsolicited-dick-pics-into-an-art-show

There are websites dedicated to rating and displaying unwanted dick pics with hilarious commentary.

But it’s not funny anymore, if it ever was.

I propose a very basic rule of thumb (which is also what some of them look like) unless she asks you to see your dick, just keep it in your pants and out of her inbox.

Me: and there’s the title “Gift of the Magi(c pussy)

Him: Perfect

Me: Sometimes I have to say things to you to make sure they make sense

Him: Of course, and this makes perfect sense.

Me: oh

my

god

This song just came on.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uhG-vLZrb-g

“I’m watching you two from the closet, wishing to be the friction in your jeans”

Him: Wow…That. Is. priceless.

Me: blog post coming up

…with special musical guests, Fallout Boy

…

I wrote half of this in a friend’s inbox. Just spit balling. Saying things aloud to see how they taste.

Less bitter than I thought.

Downloaded some new music, as I was typing, shuffle kicked in the old and voila. Full circle in under 11 minutes.

I read something the other day.
Atticus wrote it, something about ‘he let her go because he thought she could do better, never occurred to him to just be better.’

I’ll find it.

But damn.

Struck a chord, then another and soon there was a rather intricate guitar solo happening.

Sounded like Fallout Boy, “Sugar (We’re Goin’ down Swinging)”

Am I more than you bargained for? Yet I been dying to tell you anything you wanna hear cos that’s just who I am this week…

Me: I have a funny theory later if’n you wanna hear it

Him: Well of course. About?

Me: ______

Him: Haven’t heard that name in a while.

Me: Haven’t thought it in a while, but he came up the other day. The dominant/submissive conversation turned to the queen bee and who is really the slave, which led to books I want to write and this pain in the ass thing I got going now.
I had to explain his fetish out loud, and as I was doing it I was recalling conversations I had with him wherein he said he knew some women liked being fucked hard and long and he couldn’t do that.
I think he thinks he is sexually inadequate, but is drawn to these highly sexual women. I always knew where the sending the girl out and having her return thing comes from, it is constant reassurance of abandonment issues. But I am wondering if he even really wanted what he said he wanted. I think it was a Jedi mind trick that even he believed himself, and when confronted with the reality of it, he choked.

Him: That actually makes sense. Would explain some of the hostility/anger also.

Me: and that long-distance short-term relationship he had ages ago

Him: And why he’d be drawn to that dynamic

Me: I think his performance is either (what’s the right word here)…lacking…disabled, or he thinks it is.

Him: Or it’s a smoke screen because he is inadequate. But then again that would explain the anger and pushing away. Honestly that makes perfect sense.

…

Once upon a midlife dreary, I agreed to an open relationship mid-marriage, with a different guy, because I felt inadequate and thought it was the natural order of things.

We never got to the point where he strayed because I went back to my husband.

And I carried that feeling of inadequacy till now.

I told my Sunshine that I had said to my new one “Please don’t fuck my friends or pass me around to yours. If you ever feel like you want to wander tell me and we’ll go to a sex club and find a girl to suck your dick, but she stays at the club…does that work?”

She got upset at/for me.

“Stop selling yourself short, you are enough.”

Funny enough, that’s what he said.

He also said “You are Mine.”

I have tried all the options, all the subtle nuances and the not so subtle ones of monogamy and polyamory. I have tried sex clubs, fetish bars and those three words, with the actions that coincide are all I really ever wanted.

Anything else was old baggage and me making deals with god trying to be loved and selling myself short.

…

Back to our regularly scheduled previous conversation

Him (speaking as the other him): I can’t fuck you so I want you to do it then tell me because I enjoy it. But secretly loathe it and myself…so if I do long distance I’m safe. But then you said I’ll come to you and reality hit home.
Basically he got scared when confronted with the reality of it so his anger may actually be more at himself than you.

Me; Yep. I had an inkling ages ago started putting it in the book. All great romance novels have that Gift of the Magi component where one sacrifices something thinking they are doing it for the good of the other and they both end up fucked at the end, until they work it out.

His favorite bit of porn I ever wrote him was about him fucking me with a dildo

He loved it the most. Probably because it was feasible.

But it’s all extrapolation at this point

Other theories include multiple personality disorder and a few of the people in his head really hate my guts :p

Him; I mean this could be true too. But idk…this theory taste like truth

Me: Don’t it just? Little does he know I have the magic pussy that cures all. It’s my Gift of the Magi. Or just a gift.

…

Oh don’t mind me I’m watching you two from the closet

Wishing to be the friction in your jeans

Isn’t it messed up how I’m just dying to be him

I’m just a notch in your bedpost

But you’re just a line in a song

Or an entire novel, whatev’s. I can’t sing anyways.

If this is the truth or something like it, I am truly sorry. Sorry that he couldn’t feel loved as is.

I know exactly how that feels.

The supposed utopia I was writing about in the book is actually a dystopia of epic proportions brought on by misleading conversations and lack of communication.

Once again, something that makes a great romance novel, but a bad romance.

I know very well what it feels like to be not important.

Difficult not to feel a little bit disappointed and passed over. ~ A Perfect Circle

Do you know how to draw a perfect circle? Most people don’t.
The trick is you have to hold your hand and the pen steady and move the paper instead.

Then you will see it isn’t the spoon that bends, it is only yourself. ~ The Matrix

I have bent to the breaking point. To my credit even when I snap I still manage.

I am tired of managing.

I am done allowing other people making me feel like I am worthless.
Worth less than the next girl or the one that came before, worth less than work, friends, the opinions of others, anything and everyone under the sun that isn’t me.

What is it about me that makes me so easy to leave alone?

That’s the million dollar question ain’t it?

Thai Fighters kitchen. I was floating around in a red dress. Asking after his roommate, touching, talking, setting out dinner.  He said he blew off box seats at a Lumineers concert to have Indian food and sex with me instead.

I remember being taken aback. Not sure if I heard him right.

Although I always managed to keep him compartmentalized as what he really was my heart soared a little in that moment. God that felt good.

I never saw him after that.

That didn’t feel good at all.

I was sitting, sipping coffee alone this morning thinking about what to write and I’m having a hard time remembering any other actions.

A lot of words.

So many beautiful words, thoughts, ideas, plans even.
5 guys in 4 years have said they’d go to Wonderland with me and ride rollercoasters.
Only Drogo came through, on my birthday no less.
I ought to thank him for that, but I haven’t seen him since either.

So many words.

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

But no action.

Tomorrow came and went.

You can water a flower all you want but if it never feels the warmth of the sun it’s going to wither.

I take these little lumps of coal I am handed and hold them so close I turn them to diamonds in my mind.
I think I’m handing out gold stars for basic human kindness.

I don’t know any better.

Giant cooked me a steak dinner with all the trimmings.
The Hulk and Young Un both made the pilgrimage to Milton to see me.
I rewarded them with dinners, sex and then breakfast.

Giant used to insist on picking me up and dropping me off. Football too.

Lumberjack bailed on his friends once to hang out with me, late last July.
Stayed up and out well past his bedtime just to hang out with me twice after that.
I remember really liking how that felt, to be chosen.

I haven’t seen him in 5 weeks.
And as I change my sheets for the 5^th time, my nails done did for the third, the green dress I wanted him to see me in still hanging in my closet with the tags on, new hair that he hasn’t seen. I admit fully, I am losing hope over here.

Sundays are the hardest. Somehow time gets marked harder when I remake the bed he hasn’t been in.

(I got soul but I’m not a soldier)*

When did I get this idea that it was okay to live on scraps.
That martyrdom was an attractive quality.
That I deserve only an iota of what I bring to the table?
That I am meant only to serve and never eat.

I think I know. Childhood. It was easier just to stay quiet and out of the way, but sometimes I couldn’t help it. I have been handed guilt about this, about needing attention and affection. So my safe place is to just pretend I don’t need anything at all. But I really do. And I have no idea how to ask for it.

Something about the squeaky wheel getting the grease. I’d rather atrophy, than make demands.

Sunshine and I were having wine on the porch, on the last warm night of October summer and I said out loud that I have never had a good relationship. I really haven’t.

I think I stayed married so long because the first 100 days were full of him taking and interest in me. Bending time, bending rules, taking time, making time, making me feel like a priority.
Until I wasn’t, but damn that was an addictive feeling and really the only time in memory that that has happened more than one missed concert.

“You don’t get what you deserve, you get what you negotiate.”

I can’t give ultimatums. It isn’t in my nature. Besides I have tried before and it ended in disappointment. I don’t want a power struggle, I want effort and a relationship.

As in all things I realize I am the common denominator. There is something lacking in me or about me that dictates and allows this behavior to continue time and time again.

I know I build others up because I know what it is like to be torn down.
I know I stay because I know what it feels like to be left.

It’s my turn now.

I am done praying to gods that have selective hearing and getting almost there.

I am tired of catches and 22’s.

What good does it do me to find someone I adore, who accepts me exactly as I am but that I never see.

He only exists in my phone. And I need him in my bed.

I have never had a good relationship before, something that gets built from a solid foundation.
I don’t know if I am being unreasonable or even risking killing something before it has a chance to come up out of the ground.

I have two options.

If you can’t hold on, hold on*

Be important on my own.

Or both.

*The Killers
All these things that I’ve done

https://www.facebook.com/535561503197871/photos/a.535566276530727.1073741828.535561503197871/1299147280172619/?type=3&theater

“I’m eating it.” Matt Albie

I have been watching Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip again.
So good for my heart, but it’s so bad for my sleep.
I’m perpetually falling into the trap of just one more episode.

Oh how I long to be able to write like that, on demand. In a writer’s room, for a TV show.

I had that offered to me once but balls were dropped and not in a good growing up kinda way, more like the side of a ball pit giving way and a cascade of plastic spheres once contained and fun just became a big ole mess.

Getting paid to write, now that would be something.

Mind you, too many weeks like this and I would totally get fired.

My muse has gone rogue white girl and we cannot even right now.

My writing is not at a high point. Seriously it’s like awkward, verbal masturbation at this point.
I am trying to work through some shit, bear with me.
My muse might just be napping, or on hiatus for like 3 weeks now.
I think I need to get laid, bad.

Basically I am sucking, and not in a fun way.

I wrote a thing called “My Definition of Submission.” Wherein I admitted to peeing myself, twice, and of course it went somewhat viral. The killer here? Not the puddles on the floor…It’s not even that good. I am not up to my usually skills, feels hacky and pieced together. 999 words of ‘meh’. But it’s the subject matter I suppose.

Every bit of writing advice ever given by a successful writer has contained the idea that even if you suck, keep writing. At no point do I recall them saying ‘even if its shit hit publish and put it on the internet’.

One of my favorite poems of all time was written by a drunk man in love. He hates it, I love it.

Art is subjective. My article about submissiveness is not art, it’s a mess. But, this mess is mine.

I wanted to write about how I, as a strong independent woman, can rationalize and enjoy submitting sexually to a man and still call myself a feminist. About the quality of man this requires, the strength and caring he has shown. About how the battle of the sexes is ridiculous and attempt to wake the world up by stating somehow eloquently that all people regardless of gender identification have the capacity to find a partner that symbiotically fits with them, body mind and soul and anything less is selling yourself short.

I’ve always been this way. I identify as a strong submissive woman. Okay, I haven’t always been strong, but I have made a decision to give myself over to men time and time again. No regrets. Sometimes it works sometimes it doesn’t. But throughout all of it, I have remained myself and waited for a good partner.

And he’s at work for the 40^th day in a row.

Self-deprecation and sex, that’s where the hits are. I talk about kindness and redefining love and global philosophies of togetherness and to date my biggest seller? “Fucking Scorpios, a handbook for the criminally insane.” Followed closely by “Sunday Sex Selfies.” And now this. My Definition of Submission, 1000 hits in 16 hours. I’m just gonna let it ride.

Sex sells.

And I am having none of it.

I made an educated decision to be with a man who works 16 hour days every day. I think we are closing in on week 5 with no physical contact. We talk every day, a lot about sex lately, and I admit, I am starving. I’m not myself when I am hungry. I know this.

The things we have talked about, and the way he treats me is liberating. I wouldn’t trade it for the things I have had. I have waited longer for less, I truly have. Put my body on lockdown for someone just to have it disregarded, discarded and forgotten.

I don’t want to go back ‘out there’ and try dating again. I believe he is worth waiting for.

It’s been 4 years filled with fun, then heartbreak and disappointment.

I have this scared little part of me that thinks this relationship I am in is a sham, a game, a joke. Him seeing how long I will wait, how far I will open up and having a good chuckle with his friends about it.

And I don’t care.

Because what if it isn’t?

Just like I don’t care about the handful of bad articles I have written. I know they suck. They are just practice, something to keep me going, keep me working through things. And oddly racking up the hits to my website.

Just like I don’t care about the bad relationships I have been in that are the root cause of this paranoia I have. same same. Just practice, just helping me work through shit. To me this life is about exploring, learning, and having some good stories to tell at the end of the day. Even if they don’t come out quite right.

I prayed to the gods to have a relationship I didn’t have to write about, and I got my wish. With that tricksy “okay god, good joke” twist to it.

That being said, I have to write about something, nothing, anything.

I have no idea where this is going, not this article nor this relationship, nor the book I am writing.

But I have made it up to this point in my life not knowing what was coming next, wondering how I survived the things that came before and at this point I can truly say, I am happy where I am.

I’ve tried making plans and decisions and declarations and sometimes/often they go awry.

I wasn’t expecting any of this, but I’ll take it gladly and ask for some more.

“I’m not really a planner, I’m more of a fly by the seat of my pants kinda gal.” Pretty Woman

Worked out for her in the end.

.

“Sarah I don’t understand why you would subject yourself to that. Having men hurt you that way. I just can’t wrap my head around it.”

I’d posted the article about Gang Bangs.

She interpreted ‘gang rape’.

Two vastly different things.

In her head I was being tied up, raped, hurt and humiliated in an abandoned warehouse somewhere by awful violent men.

We settled on the term orgy. Although to me, orgy reminds me of Caligula, women and men everywhere. Then she understood.

I just wanted me and a small handful of men. Safe play in a safe space. Consensual, sensual etc.

Still might. But that fantasy has taken a back seat to others.

I read, write, explore and fantasize a lot.

I consider myself to be a very sexually open person, because I am.

Lately, due to my present circumstances the terms dominant and submissive have been thrown around a lot.

Cue my girl…”I could never be a submissive.”

But I have read her writing, I know the type of men she gravitates to, I know how strong a man would have to be to elicit even the slightest sexual response from her.

“You keep using that word, but I don’t think it means what you think it means.” Princess Bride

I think once again, it comes back to interpretation.

I say dominant/submissive and she sees 50 Shades of whips, chains, ball gags, hobbling shoes and degradation.

If you type those words into your search browser that is pretty much what comes up.

I am figuring out what it means to me.

Many years ago I went to those clubs with my boyfriend at the time. I was exploring my sexuality and honestly? None of it really appealed to me. So much pomp and show, not enough skin and sex.

I went to Montréal with him and we answered the age old question ‘how many goths does it take to assemble a bed with a slave cubby underneath it?’ 4 the answer is 4.

Also answered a few other questions I had while gazing transfixed through a two way mirror watching 3 people play and fuck on the other side. I like to watch, I would like to get so lost with another person that I didn’t notice I was being watched like they did.

In that same bar with the mirror there were themed rooms. An old schoolhouse space where someone could get tied to a desk. Every piece of furniture and every wall was rigged for someone to get tied up or tied down.

I realized that I don’t want all the bells, whistles and equipment. I like my sex raw, passionate and on the rough side.
Playing dress up doesn’t work for me, it’s premeditated. Role-playing is too contrived. I just want to be naked.

On the fence about being tied up, but I want to be held down.

I don’t need a collar as a symbol of loyalty, just look at my face, follow my gaze, that is who my body belongs to.

There it is.

I want to belong to someone.

I want to feel safe, and let go.

I have had bad men and good men.

Twice I have been fingered with such vigor that I thought I was going to squirt and instead I ended up peeing on the floor.
Hilarious in retrospect.
The first time I was so humiliated it was 5 years before my body let me ejaculate again.
The second time I was fireman carried out of my mess in gently placed in the shower while he mopped the kitchen floor.

This is the difference, ‘a good dom can make his sub feel 10 feet tall or tiny and small depending’. Good goddamn is this the truth.

It’s about feeling strong and safe with another person and absolutely relinquishing control. No consequences, not even if you piddle on the floor.

I think my submissive nature coupled with my inner 50’s housewife and my desire to belong to someone has left me vulnerable to the wrong types of men. Especially when guiding this psyche of mine is a mantra of ‘stand by your man’ as well as ‘go team’ and ‘I got this’.

I’ve been financially and emotionally abused while being sexually shunned and neglected.
Shamed to the point where I couldn’t open my mouth and ask for the simplest of things.

I still am a submissive. I’m in control and on guard all day every day and when it comes to a man in my life I want strength.
I want to feel small, cared for and I want to be used. I want to turn my brain off, get lost, have everything go quiet and relinquish control.

It’s the symbiosis of finding a masculine man to compliment my feminine self.

I have written before here about how I love the dynamic between the sexes, especially when it comes to sex. I am girly as fuck. I want to be overpowered, held down, played with, explored, pulled apart and held together.

I want to be marked. I am the girl who loves to remember. The idea of being sore, bruised, bitten and having that written on my skin for days after appeals to me. Tangible marks to show me yes, that happened. Yes, I yielded and he owns me because I want him to.

I posted that I was going to read 50 Shades of Grey in an attempt to cure my writer’s block.

Cue the rousing chorus of NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

My writer friends were not having it.

“Read the Sleeping Beauty Trilogy.”

I did, 22 years ago. The first book was neat, but the next two were redundant in only the way Anne Rice can be. It did open my eyes a little, to sex beyond Penthouse Forum. The idea that there can be pleasure derived from pain. The existence of dominance and submission.

“Read Lolita.”

Again. Kinda missing the point. I’m not looking for literature.
I read Lolita, when I was 16. A year after I lived through it, and I found the language beautiful, but the descriptions…sorely lacking.
(See Hot for Teacher)
I wasn’t kidnapped, I was simply sexually educated by someone much older than I.

I didn’t want to read 50 Shades for educational purposes, nor for inspiration.

I am realizing that at 42 years old my last couple decades of sex, while being fairly prolific (except when it wasn’t) lacked trust and exploration.
But we will get to that.

I wanted to read it because I have writer’s block with the smut I’m writing.

Once upon a strip club, many years ago I was too scared to go on stage. And the final thing that launched me from yearning to doing was a girl who danced so incredibly badly to music that I loved. Matthew Good Band to be specific.

Now in the years since, I have realized that their particular time signature is actually really hard to dance to, so I don’t. But watching her flop around on the stage like a dying fish but with less grace made me realize ‘I can’t possibly be that bad’ and it gave me the guts to climb the stairs, grab the pole and try.

And I did, and it was good, amen. Except that time I tried to dance to Matt Good. Dave Matthews I can do. Trial and error.

So there is that then.

Now.

I’ve mentioned before, that I’m having a hard time getting through this because of the exit of my muse.

The book is based on his kinks, which I found intriguing at the time. Still do to a degree. If I was single, it is something I would consider.

But I’m not. Nor do I want to be.

My muse wanted to pass me around to other men. The way he presented it was in a way that I understood. And as the girl who had been denied sex in 2 relationships that spanned 10 years, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I could have all the sex and a boyfriend at the same time.
I had been in an open relationship before that never made it past the beginning stages and I had always been curious. When I met my muse he told me what he wanted it was explained to me in a way that made sense to me, both physically and emotionally. He picked me up where the other left off.

Like I said, if I was single, sure, maybe I’d try to push the limits of my own wantonness in that way.
I get that it is possible to love someone, set them free and find solace, comfort and joy in them returning to you over and over. I can rationalize this.
But having that kind of relationship dangled in front of me like a carrot…I don’t really like carrots.

I want someone who pushes the boundaries of my wantonness within the security of a monogamous relationship.

Having read the Sleeping Beauty Trilogy and done a lot of looking, reading, exploring on my own as of late…I know I want to be owned, I derive pleasure from physical pain. Sex sore is about the best feeling there is. I am submissive. I like feeling small, safe and then used. Then safe again.

Muse appealed to me because he is overtly masculine, dominant, sexual, liberated. Our trust was established when I told him stories about my past and he enjoyed them. I hadn’t had that before. To me it felt like being accepted for everything that I am, which he did, but there was that catch.

I used the opportunity to explore things I had done, what worked for me, what didn’t and what I theoretically wanted to try.

Then he went away.

And I was left with yet another pearl in a long string of partners who I never got a chance to trust enough to open up with sexually.
He woke me up to a lot of things, but didn’t stick around. I had to put myself back together and apply my own sutures.

You have to keep breaking your heart until it opens ~ Rumi

I sat down to write a thank you letter to my exes. But along with being one giant coffin, that is what this blog is. One long meandering “Thanks for the lessons guys on what I want and what I don’t want”.

I wish them all well wherever they are.

I am good where I am.

The one I am with now said “Never too much” and “You are mine”.

He also said, “tell me what you want”.

I had my heart busted and hopes dashed so often, no matter how hard I tried to behave, I really just said fuck it, opened my mouth and let everything come flying out. Figuring it was actually better to be left or loved for who I really am rather than twist myself into knots, bend to the breaking point trying to be what they wanted.

I had to get to the point where I was more scared of losing myself in another person than losing someone who couldn’t accept all of me.

I owe everyone who left me a huge thank you.

In my inquisitive way I have gone sailing upon the vast oceans of the internet and educating myself on various shades of grey of being a submissive. I find things, see things, read things and decide for myself, yes this, not that and I present what I like to him and he just says yes.

With this new one, I don’t feel the need to clear my browser history or to hide anything at all.

Except maybe the Hentai. I can’t quite explain that one.

Turns me on to look at but I can’t see myself playing with an octopus. That sex swing/yoga trapeze however. That looks like fun.

Tied up and twisted the way I like to be, for you, for me, come crash into me baby. Dave Matthews Band