There was a moment where he changed.
A sudden metamorphosis as if I had flicked a switch.
From passive acceptance to aggressive greed.
I felt small changes in his body before I realised what was coming.
Muscles that had been relaxed tensed below me, small movements at first, he pulled at his bindings, quietly straining at the ropes that held his wrists firm, some slight shifting of position. A testing to see if I would stop him.
And when I didn’t, he moved.
His body arched up off the bed towards me, seeking contact. His ankles were untied by then, he took advantage, used his legs to force his body up to crash into me. All muscle and hardness trying to wrap me up and pull me against him. I moved with him, just out of his reach, staying raised above him, letting his body hang off me when his legs found purchase around me.
He writhed and thrashed under me, wild and hot and desperately reaching for more of me, pulling hard at the cuffs that attached him to the bed frame, the strength of him breathtaking. My mouth clashed with his, his neck craning for more of that too when I pulled away.
When I dropped my body onto him, my legs gripping his quad, my hip against his cock, my cunt hot against his thigh, then he would breath again, letting the contact between us be enough, his body releasing some tension, his hips pulsing against me, silently willing me to stay flush and hard up against him, skin against skin. Small sounds between us, warm shared breath, some softness in the kissing, fingers tightly entwined in connection, a strength of grip that belied the scene of gentle sweetness.
When I lifted my body up again, I could see the flash of frustration play across his face, replaced quickly by that same set of his jaw, the gentleness in his face morphing into an expression of grim determination. He readied himself for more.
My god. So hot.
One of the reasons I balk at saying ‘I love you’ is because when it’s not true any more, it’s as if I lied. There is some sappy ‘love is forever’ behind that thought. Even though I’m not sappy.
I’m reading the writings of a woman who was in love with a man who said he loved her. Then he broke up with her. The details are complicated and not relevant to my thoughts: what resonates for me is her overwhelming hurt and confusion over how he could love her, and then not.
“You said you loved me last week, how can you not love me now?”
The words “I love you” carry a heft and a gravitas that few others can match.
In the pain over the fact that whatever he feels for her isn’t going to keep them together, she is questioning what was real and what wasn’t because she can’t conceive of the idea that he was in love with her and suddenly now he’s not. If she can’t believe that’s true, then the only other possibility is that he never felt it, that the times he said it were a lie.
I’m honestly not sure which is worse: to believe that love can just disappear quickly and without apparent reason, or to believe that all the times you heard it were a lie.
But I understand the hurt and anguish in it if you are one who weighs those words carefully and with some trepidation and who then trusts in them as a golden truth.
Maybe the truth is that a genuine and sincere ‘I love you’ can only exist for a moment and in that moment, it’s the truest thing that ever existed or will ever exist, full of all the depth and meaning that a heart can conceive of, pure and clear and powerful.
And then the moment passes and it slips away.
And then you strive for the next moment that feels just like that one and you are inspired to say it again.
And in the best most holy of cases, those moments are strung together like Christmas lights and they all turn on in unison and stretch across what looks like forever.
But then maybe one day you strive for the next moment and it never arrives. And if you say ‘I love you’ then, you are playing a historical audio reel for yourself and for them, casting back into the archives to dig it up and dust it off and it falls out of your mouth pretending to be fresh and new instead of ashy and long dead.
Love can slip away. It often does. I know that.
And sometimes you can look back and say ‘I thought it was love, but it wasn’t’ which is a terrible trick of the heart, both for you and for them.
I foolishly think I should say ‘I love you’ only if I can guarantee it as if it’s some ironclad agreement that I am signing in triplicate with my own blood. I know it’s ridiculous. I know that. But I can’t bear the idea that I gave that to someone and then later took it back as if I’m some untrustworthy liar sneaking in and stealing back the most precious thing I’ve ever given them.
“Oh that old thing. Sorry, that was a mistake. Ha ha.”
Do I feel love? I do, of course. And if my partner doesn’t feel all of the weight I throw behind the intensity of emotion I aim at him, he is long dead and I am involved with a corpse. But I won’t say it unless I feel like we have ‘forever’ in our grasp. Perhaps unrealistic, but still true enough.
If I say it, I’m not taking it back.
When he offered me a glass of the wine I had asked him to buy, I noticed two glasses on the table.
“None for you though,” I said.
He didn’t bat an eye, poured me a glass, put the bottle away.
I sipped the cold wine while I checked him out. I had him stand in the middle of his living room, I walked around him gently touching, seeing how he felt. He’s six foot tall. I’m taller in heels. I like that quite a bit. I took my time. I eventually had his clothes off, and I relaxed back on the couch.
He wore black boxer briefs, as I’d requested. They were tight, beautifully fitted, some fabric that was smooth to the touch. I had him turn for me when he revealed them so I could see his arse in them, then I had him back that arse up to where I was sitting on the couch.
The pert round butt that I had already seen in jeans did not disappoint. I ran hands over it, gently swatting at it, then just grabbing handfuls of flesh to see how it felt. Noteworthy.
His thighs were steel-hard, like someone who does some job that works them day in and day out. He doesn’t, but there they were. Not defined, but pure muscle, no softness in them whatsoever. I do love that.
And then there was kissing. Him bound to the bed.
Some three and a half hours of touching, stroking, teasing, kissing.
I knelt on him at one point, my knees on his chest, my feet against his hard cock, my toes insinuated into the creases where his crotch meets his legs, the full weight of me pushing him into the mattress. I looked down at his unseeing eyes like some flesh-and-blood gargoyle that surveys everything under them. Claws and teeth ready, but mostly sheathed this time. It felt as if I should have had wide leathery wings to unfurl behind me as I perched there.
Towards the end, the kisses had gentled to sweetness. His face soft, the face I had seen a glimpse of when I kissed him across the table on our first date. He blinked up at me, the kind of blinking one might do a in a sudden bright light, as if dazzled, slightly confused. It made him look incredibly vulnerable and of course I love that.
“What are you doing? That blinky thing?”
He smiled. “What?”
“Did you practice that in a mirror? Like a baby animal, the blinky thing.”
“Does it work?”
“Yes, yes it works…”
I leaned down to kiss him again.
I know it is both ridiculous and frivolous, but its the truth nevertheless.
I miss that feeling of slipping my foot into them, perhaps having to do a little wiggle to get them on. Looking at that arch that gets emphasised by the elevation of the heel. Carefully fixing the placement of straps and doing up a tiny clasp against my ankle. That moment when I stand up to my full height, stretching to a generous 6’3 and suddenly feeling like some Amazon queen. I enjoy the exaggerated length it gives my legs, like they go on forever. And when I walk in them, I get that particular gait, that long-legged, hip-swinging swagger, so different from the carelessness of my stride when I am closer to the ground. I feel like some thoroughbred stallion (always a stallion), some powerful beast that is stalking amongst humans.
I miss all of it.
A few years ago, my lifestyle changed and with regard to shoes it meant two things:
- I was no longer passing by fabulous shoe shops daily so I no longer have those many (many!) opportunities to meander in and try on amazing shoes and (inevitably) buy just one more pair that I really don’t need
- I was no longer constantly going to places where wearing fabulous-amazing shoes was appropriate
Now with the second, I can hear you all saying ‘who CARES what’s appropriate?!’ but of course if I’m wearing gorgeous sky high heels, I have to wear an outfit that looks great with sky high heels, and before you know it, I look like a slightly deranged person wandering around my small town supermarket dressed as if I think I’m in Sex and the City. And it’s probably no surprise to anyone that that doesn’t make me feel how I want to feel when I’m swanning about in wonderful heels.
To my disappointment, I can’t even wear them at home just to get some goodness out of them because my glossy floor tiles are dangerously slippery and I can barely stay upright in smooth-soled beauties with teeny stiletto heels. I vaguely worry that I will slowly lose the ability to walk in them given I wear them so rarely these days.
So inevitably now, when I go somewhere where fabulous heels are even in the remotest realms of possibility, I’m plucking some out of my shoe tower and slipping them on.
And when I pass by places that sell beautiful shoes, I’m in there like a shot to try them on, but I rarely buy them because I know they will just sit in my ivory shoe tower like some sad, neglected throw-aways.
*sigh* I miss them.
** SPOILERS! **
I’ve just watched Season 1 of The Fall.
It amuses me greatly that Jamie Dornan is essentially playing the next chapter of Christian Grey as a stalkery creep, only in this iteration he actually kills the women he stalks.
But that’s not why I’m mentioning it.
I’m mentioning it for the very brief liaison Gillian Anderson’s character, Stella Gibson, has with a young detective. It’s really short, but you’ll see why I loved it.
Further to your ‘yes!’ to a kissing date, I’m going to give you some detail so you know what to expect.
It’s a date for the sole purpose of kissing. Just that. No food, no drinks, no chit chat, no hanging out, no going anywhere.
- Kissing, stroking, petting (and some other naturally related things that flow from it… see below): yes.
- Chit chat, fucking, orgasms: no.
I’d play it by ear, but I want to be a little careful with you. The following list of things are in the realms of possibility (it’s not a ‘will do’ list, it’s a ‘maybe-possibly-might-go-there’ list where I try and cover off anything that might take my fancy with you): Let me know if any of these are a ‘no’ or if you have concerns. This gives you an idea of the (possible) scope and gives me an idea of the boundaries.
- Kissing (duh) (if any body parts are off limits, let me know)
- Shirt off
- Pants off (underwear stays on)
- Nudity (yours, of course :))
- Bondage (light: wrist/ankle cuffs, tied to a bed)
- Light biting (doesn’t hurt much, just so you feel it)
- Heavy biting (harder, probably hurts (I’m good at judging ‘how much’ before it’s ‘too much’ unless you are completely non-responsive, then we’re both screwed on the ‘judgement’ bit :))
- All over body touching (i.e. tell me if any parts of your body are off limits)
- All over body licking (as above)*
- Either of the above reversed (i.e. making you touch/lick me)*
*I want to be perfectly clear here that some kind of full-on oral sex is NOT what I’m implying with this. If my mouth HAPPENS to end up somewhere in that region of your body then some glancing contact might be expected. Similarly if I HAPPEN to hover some body part near your mouth, then the same applies. Not to be confused with a focus on it)
- Bruises on areas normally covered by clothes (incidental, might be caused by biting)
- Bruises elsewhere (neck is probably the biggest risk area: some people bruise like delicate flowers there so if it’s a problem, I will be super careful)
- Hand over mouth (gentle, not restricting breathing)
- Hand around throat (gentle, not choking)
- Fingers in your mouth
- Gagging (fingers down throat)
- Hair pulling (not sure you have enough hair for this :))
- Face slapping
- Body slapping
Phew… I think that covers all the maybe-possibly-might-go-theres *smile*.
You can wear whatever you like, but I’d like you in black boxer briefs underneath (e.g. like these).
As to when: I’m flexible, but I’m eyeing off next Saturday afternoon if you’re free. I’m happy to come to you, but you would have to be comfortable inviting me into your home and into your bedroom. If that’s too much too soon, you can come to me.
Let me know what you think, ask any questions, raise any concerns etc.
I have organised a second date, a kissing date with the lovely boy I recently met.
I tweeted this yesterday while I was thinking about it:
Head full of kissing date possibilities. Anticipation might be one of my favourite things
— Ferns (@Ferns__) November 16, 2015
Text: “Head full of kissing date possibilities. Anticipation might be one of my favourite things”
I got a great question about it via my Ask Me page:
How do you experience anticipation?
I love that question because it’s so hard to answer.
Anticipation is delicious because all of the possibilities are still in play, and they are almost endless.
For me, anticipation is an open door at the end of a long corridor, and as I move towards it, I can see ever-changing light and colour and impressions and movement on the other side. All of it bright and appealing and nebulous.
I move towards it slowly because I don’t want those possibilities to be narrowed down and that’s inevitable as you get closer and what’s on the other side starts to solidify. I want to keep all the possibilities on the table for as long as I can because sometimes the potential for something can be much more powerful than the actual thing. It’s boundless and fascinating and not yet tested for veracity.
And the openness of it fires up my imagination and fills my head because there are so many thoughts that swim around in there, each clamouring for attention, like a rich kaleidoscope of moments and feelings and actions and outcomes and interplays.
And at the same time as I am reluctant to let go of the possibilities, I also want to bolt towards that door as fast as I can because I really can’t wait to see what’s on the other side. The thrill of discovering it is something else again.
I kind of love that I have to give up one thing to have the other. And it will always be that way.
And while there is something immensely seductive about all of the possibilities being on the table, I know that any one of them will be worth stepping through that door for.
So that’s how I experience anticipation.