I don’t normally post what comes into my inbox, but this stunningly lovely email arrived in my email yesterday and it made me so very happy I wanted to share it.
If I ever wonder why I write, this is more than enough to remind me.
(posted with permission)
Subject: A long overdue thank you
I’ve been meaning to send this message for a long time and finally got around to it tonight. I apologize in advance for the…I guess you could say…sappy tone of the message, but that’s just how it turned out.
You’re amazing. You’re beautiful on the inside and out and I’m sure you’re told that every day. You’re intelligent and funny and seem like such a kind soul, but on top of all that you have me the best gift anyone has given me. You gave me a normal life.
When I read your book it made me feel normal… Like I wasn’t alone or a freak. I’ve reread your book more times than I can count, not just because I find it unimaginably hot, but because every time I read it I feel even more reassured that I’m not weird.
I never thought it would get better than that, but then you actually talked to me and now I have a group of people that I can talk to and just be myself. I don’t have to hide what I like or who I am like I do at school or even at home. I never thought I would be able to just be myself around people without being judged or criticized.
There is no way I can ever thank you enough for what you have done, but I will always try. I know things don’t last forever and I have no misconceived hope that I may ever get to live out my fantasies when I’m older, but that doesn’t matter to me…. What does matter is what is happening now and that is because of you.
I want you to know you have changed my life in ways nobody else has and for that I am forever thankful and in your debt.
Holy fucking happies!! I cannot draw enough smiley faces for this :)))))).
Polite enough email exchange with a 28yo who claims to be serious about wanting a long term D/s relationship. He lives in New York. No, Seattle. He’s 6′. No, 5’10. Whatever.
We’re done here.
Miss Pearl is a friend of mine and you are obviously an emotionally unhinged liar.
Don’t contact me again.
Want an explanation? All righty then.
Edited to add: Here’s a follow up from Miss Pearl including the charming missive that was addressed to her but that our mutual friend cc’d me in on so that I wouldn’t feel left out. I got my own as well. So special…
As you know, I recently went to Fiji for a couple of weeks.
I’m not one for lying on the beach (which is, I think, the primary image that comes to mind when one says ‘Fiji’), but I did quite a bit of kayaking, snorkelling, rafting, swimming, walking, reading, eating, drinking and playing games (I think my scrabble-fu is getting better: not at all due to my belligerent arguing that “that is SO a word!!”).
Here are some of my holiday snaps (be thankful you aren’t here, I’d be making you look through the lot and make you listen to dull holiday stories!).
About twelve months ago, I said this:
… my orgasms are being weird with me. By [that], I mean that I am able to come, but it feels like an anti-climax. It’s more like my body goes into spasm and is done rather than all those wonderful waves of pleasure and goodness.
I can’t remember now how long that lasted: my body came back from that oddness without me really doing anything. I’m in that place again this past week. I have no idea why, but jesus fuck it’s frustrating.
A couple of things that might contribute: I usually masturbate daily, but I didn’t really masturbate at all when I was on holidays (people around 24/7). It shouldn’t make any difference, I mean it was only two weeks, so it seems ridiculous that it could have any impact (really body, you’re pouting after a couple of weeks of no orgasms?!). I’ve also been sick for coming up on three weeks now (yes, I had it THE WHOLE TIME I was on holidays… typical!). I’m hitting the tail end of it now, but maybe it’s making my body rebel.
Or maybe my body is just changing.
Related to the idea of my body changing, I know my sexual response IS changing. When bambi was here last year, two things were new:
- I’m normally a ‘come once and I’m done’ type: my sexual energy gets depleted and I lose interest. I don’t hit another peak after that. For that reason, if I want to come, I usually leave it right until the end. With bambi, it wasn’t like that. Part of it was obviously the amazingness and connection that he brought to our play and sex, but I also think part of it had to be coming from some change in me. I could keep the energy going so I didn’t lose interest once I’d come, and I COULD come more than once.
- Even though he hadn’t had time to really learn my body all that well, he could make me come more easily than I could. That has never been the case that I can recall. At best, it was even. But once when I had him tied up and helpless and I was trying for a second orgasm, *I had to untie him so he could do it* because he was better at it than I was. That was a kind of astounding revelation for me.
Either way, this body glitch is frustrating and I have a niggling fear that it’s going to stick (which would be fucking terrible!). I’m trying to be gentle with myself and coax my body back into normalcy. I figure if I get all antsy and angry, I will have a rebellion on my hands.
Maybe I just need someone to experiment with. It’s been waaayyy too long.
I have been wanting to send my ex boy a copy of my book. After all, it is mostly about him, he was key in encouraging me to put my writing out into the world: It exists in no small part because of and for him.
It is a selfish thing, though, this desire. It is probably kinder of me to leave him alone. But I am often not kind. My wanting to share it is about… well, in truth, I’m not even really sure what it’s about.
“This, sweetheart, is for you” or “Thank you” or “It’s us, baby” or “You made this possible” or any number of things that I can’t quite nail down, but which involve knocking on a door that is firmly closed. I am not wanting to reopen it, I am wanting to drop it on his doorstep and flee. I don’t even want to hide around the corner to watch him pick it up, puzzled and confused. I will be far away by then.
We aren’t in touch any more and I don’t know how receiving such a thing will hit him. It has been a long while, but I imagine that he won’t receive it easily, that opening such a package from me, being reminded of all of these intimacies we shared, knowing that I thought to send it to him, reading a little note from me, much less reading the content would not be a gentle sweetness for him.
Part of that is pure ego, of course. It could be that he smiles quietly, thinks ‘Good for you’, slots the book into his bookshelf, and then goes about his day. But I don’t believe that. He won’t. I know he won’t. He will twist and pace and his stomach will knot and he will feel… disturbed, disquiet, turmoil, the uncomfortable pull on old wounds.
It would be kinder, probably, not to send it. The book has been out 6 months. I haven’t done it yet. But I can’t seem to let go of the desire to do so.
He had a work function one evening.
Academia: he and his fellows were meant to be grabbing new creative talent and sizing them up for their faculty. He had shyly asked me if I wanted to go. I didn’t, of course. He knew that well enough, but he asked me anyway.
“Of course!” I said.
He beamed at me. It wasn’t just that I would provide moral support: I knew that he wanted to show me off and I love that, truly.
And I was happy to be asked. It would be the first ‘public couple’ thing we had really done with his friends and colleagues.
It was an affair that I imagine would be typical of many university functions. Cheap wine and cheap snacks on a side table while everyone awkwardly mills about making chit chat in a cold stark room that was perhaps used for lectures or workshops or who knows what.
I put on my social face: smiled and made small talk when introduced to his colleagues, some of whom were people I knew he respected and admired. It was important to him that they like me, even though he would never have dreamt of saying so.
One of his mentors squinted up at me when we were introduced. “Come down from there!” she demanded.
I’m normally not keen on cliché jokes about my height, but I had worn heels, stood at 6’3, and she was a tiny thing who feigned her comical outrage so well that I genuinely laughed also. I almost felt his sigh of relief.
I spoke to new prospective and nervous students about ‘our’ faculty as if I had a clue. They were sweet and probably thought I was part of the welcoming team. They were at a social gathering in a room with some of their creative heroes (‘heroes’ was not too strong a term), and I was very aware that a couple looked at my boy that way, terrified to approach him because he was, well, him.
A while into the event, I was drained, exhausted, and I wandered off to a quiet spot to look out the window and pretend I was doing something other than just trying to cycle up some more resources for another round of smiling chattery.
A fine looking young man with an Italian accent came over to interrupt my private little reverie. A prospective student. We chatted. I think he may have been the first person there who asked me how I fit into ‘all this’, and I confessed that I didn’t really. He confessed that he felt he didn’t deserve to be there, that this was the only school that had sent him an offer. I bolstered him up a little. It was a sweet little exchange.
My boy wandered over as we were talking. I glanced at him as he approached and smirked when we locked eyes. I knew exactly what he was doing: He was checking out what was going on in this cosy little spot, making his presence felt, staking his claim. And he knew that I knew. He was friendly, welcoming, encouraging to the young man who was talking to me. But I could tell he was all spiky underneath, growly and snarling.
Later he said to me petulantly that the boy was odd looking and didn’t seem very bright, then gave me a defiant look that said ‘argue with me: go on…’
I laughed at his transparency. “I know, right?” I said.
He scowled at me, trying to tell if I was mocking him because his statement was so obviously untrue. I beamed at him and his little jealousy, his shoving at the ghosted feeling, it filled me with an overwhelming tenderness, a desire to claim, reassure, to show my ownership.
I really do adore a little jealousy and possessiveness.