I’d rather have the terror, thanks

I’m angry, I’m hurt, I’m sad, and none of this is a surprise. Which is some comfort. Because I knew. And knowing means my instincts are good, solid, reliable. Knowing cushions the fall, makes the landing softer.

“I don’t trust him,” I said, right there in black and white.

I was right.

But I still kept a little piece of hope alive, because dammit, there was something there that I haven’t felt in a long long time. And I wanted it. Even though I knew, really, that it was an illusion.

Sometimes those imaginings have a power all of their own, they are warm and beautiful, and when you put them to bed each night and give them a soft kiss on the forehead, they are so very sweet. Full of promise and potential. And so you are reluctant to do the work you need to do to shatter them.

I did the work. The pieces are on the ground.

And this is not the draft that I had ready to publish. Not even close.

But it is what it is.

 
___

*Before you get too worried about me, let me say that when I was looking for a song for this post, I laughed my head off at this clip. Henry Rollins knows what’s what. He’s a god. And I’m okay, truly.

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Terror-struck

It is impossibly seductive to feel seen and be wanted.

I don’t mean in a nice calm and measured way, over coffee, perhaps a pastry with a light sprinkle of icing sugar on top, civilised conversation, a polite nodding.

I mean in that scary-intense way that crashes over you in waves. That way that feels ridiculous and frightening and tempts you to drown in it.

It’s right on the border of ‘WTF?!’ Perhaps even a little over that line, creating some ripples of instability where the shimmer of heat makes everything hazy.

There is an inevitability to it, it’s a black hole that has it’s own gravitational pull, and I’m digging my heels in and still feeling my feet lose purchase on the solid ground as I slip into it anyway. It’s frightening, fascinating, frightening.

It’s illogical, difficult, impossible. I’m me: I won’t fall into it without a fight. And he fights. He’s brave, fearless, even when he’s afraid. He fights for me.

I’ve missed it so much. I hate it. I love it. I don’t trust it. I don’t trust him.

I’m a little terrified.

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Washing up

He was standing at the sink, washing up.

I swear I didn’t touch a dish the entire time he was here. Lovely.

I watched him for a moment or two. He was wearing longish shorts and a t-shirt, his body moving slightly as he scrubbed.

I stepped in behind him, pressing gently against his back. My face resting against his shoulder blade. His height always a kind of quiet thrill for me.

I slipped a hand under his t-shirt. I could almost feel his smile as I touched him. I felt the small movements of his body against me, perhaps a little slower now.

I slid my hand up his tight abdomen, slight ridges undulating under my fingers, until I came to his pecs. Solid, well defined, flexing slightly as he moved.

The rise to his pecs was razor sharp, incongruous to the surrounding flesh. His muscled chest unyielding under my fingers, hard, solid, fascinating to the touch. I drifted fingertips over his nipples, brushing them. I knew they were sensitive, but I had also learnt that they only became so with his arousal. A slight pinch made him twitch.

I leaned into him and felt his body making practical movements over the sink, twisting slightly to grab the next item, rhythmically shifting as he washed. My hand travelled his warm skin under his t-shirt.

Someone asked whether receiving non-sexual service can be a turn on. Hell yes it can.

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e[lust] #86

Welcome to Elust 86

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #86 Start with the rules, come back October 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

On Self-Objectification

Female Orgasms – Addressing Women’s Sexuality

Migraine – A Sexual Spiritual Explanation

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Can You Train a Sub to Orgasm on Command?

Rupert Campbell-Black and me…

 

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Yes I’m a Sexblogger and No I don’t care about your dick

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

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How far away is ‘too far’?

For me, distance is a practical problem: A logistical and financial hurdle for a relationship, not a show stopper.

The must-have for it to grow, though, is communication that works extraordinarily well from afar. And by that I don’t mean ‘being able to string articulate sentences together’, I mean ‘being able to reach out in a way that fires me up, that punches my heart with its power’. And vice versa. That’s a big call, of course. It’s like the remote version of chemistry, impossible to quantify, but I know it when I feel it.

I sometimes wonder if I wouldn’t actually do better at partnering with the buffer of distance between us. Intense weeks of crazy-hot togetherness, and then time in between to build that anticipation again. It sounds completely doable, but I’ve been there and I know that it will make me feel desolate over time. Alone and lonely and sad.

Still, the idea of no real demands on my social energy in a day to day sense makes my inner-introvert sigh with happy relief. Though I’ve almost forgotten that when I connect with someone, really connect, they no longer drain me. In fact, they replenish and fill me up and I can’t get enough of them.

Either way, the trade-off with distance is the complete lack of physical contact between visits. Not just play and sex (though there is that), but all the things that build intimacy. Him kneeling at my feet, leisurely kissing on the couch, an evening flirting over fine food, glancing touches in passing, going out and sharing experiences, lingering looks that speak of love in the midst of the mundane. All of that and more.

I’ve tried to start something over distance a number of times now, and only one ever worked out. Until it didn’t. That one, though, was pure intense and ridiculous joy: it made all the other tries worthwhile. Totally 100% worth it.

So how far away is ‘too far’?

For me there’s no such thing as ‘too far’ if we connect in a way that works and there’s an actionable plan to resolve the distance over time. Perhaps I’m a hopeless romantic after all. A cynical and jaded hopeless romantic.

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Rigid cock rings: PSA

I don’t know anything about rigid cock rings except that they look sexy and they scare me silly.

I somehow can’t get past this horrible visual of someone being unable to get it off an engorged cock and having a terrible paniced trip to the emergency room (DON’T SEARCH FOR THAT, I WARNED YOU!).

I know it’s silly really, and someone tweeted a most excellent article which linked to a useful little video that made me feel a lot less scared of them.

So for other scaredy cats, here you go:

Quick Reference Guide to Rigid Cockrings by the fabulous Lorax of Sex.

The article points to this great clip of men with their pants down playing with their junk on the Mr S Leather website.

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The other day…

The other day, I wrote about you, quiet words just for me. My journal is heavy with the weight of thousands upon thousands of quiet words. And loud words. And sweet ones. Angry ones. Violent ones. Broken ones.

I couldn’t remember your name.

It was a shock. A physical shock. I felt it in the pit of my stomach. A kind of panic.

I was still for a few moments, probing around the inside of my head. Trying to find it.

I realised that I had gone past the sweet gentle memory I had aimed to keep of you, and you had disappeared far far back in that dusty drawer in that dark room that I hadn’t visited for so long.

A ghost, transparent, not even real any more.

I am in touch with my ex loves, but not you, not you. It was too painful, too harsh, too much, and you slipped away. A good decision, yours, really. I am bad at the void.

I remembered your name at last, with some relief. I could have looked it up, of course, but that wasn’t the point.

My memories are always snapshots, feelings, moments, and I write partly because I know they will slip away. I can’t be trusted with truth or with history.

But now those that were yours are like tattered prayer flags, stripped of colour, unravelling in the elements, barely recognisable as the bright fluttery defiant beauties they once were. Touched and handled and worn out and slowly disappearing even as they still hang in the breeze.

A little melancholy lives there still, soft and accusatory: THAT I will probably keep until the last.

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Emotion-building

I think sometimes that I am not built for emotions.

I either feel nothing, or I feel too much.

Mostly it’s nothing. That’s the truth.

I have joked before that I’m ‘dead inside’. I don’t know why I would make that joke. It’s not even remotely funny.

But then I can also be overwhelmed by emotional input. And honestly, it’s mostly people throwing their emotions at me: Fear, desire, heartache, insecurity, loathing, lust, anger, hurt, confusion… and usually it’s fine. I appreciate that they trust me enough to share those things with me. It’s a privilege and I honour that. I am strong, I can take it, and sometimes I can help. I want to help.

But when it gets to be too much it can suck the life right out of me.

So then I am empty inside AND overwhelmed, both at the same time.

Emotionally wrung out without any emotions of my own.

So today, I’m in that space. Exhausted and empty.

It will pass, of course. I know this, and I know that writing about it gives it more weight than it deserves.

But still: Send champagne, I’m sure that will help.

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Eight and a half hours

Eight and a half hours later, he left.

A much longer date than expected.

Late in the afternoon, we fortified ourselves with crackers, vegetable sticks, and dips I had prepared for snacks, and slices of chocolate mud cake and strawberries that he brought. When it got late though, way past dinner time, I had no real food to offer him. I lamely offered to cook some eggs. We had more chocolate cake instead. And champagne. Though that was mostly for me.

We had agreed on certain personal services for our date:

  • Forced winking* (not negotiable)
  • Kissing
  • Food/wine service
  • Hand/foot massage
  • Nail polish

I had put many many more ‘maybe-possibles’ on a list for him to approve. Or not. He said ‘yes’ to all of them, with the caveat of ‘no bite marks on the neck’, which seemed prudent.

It was a beautiful afternoon when he arrived: sunny and warm. A greeting kiss. I wore heels, he was quite a bit shorter than me: cute.

I had him open a bottle of champagne, we each had a glass.

I asked him if he would be okay to kneel out on the deck for me. It faces the road and the park, but it’s high, unobtrusive. He looked out, nodded.

“I’d be fine with it, Ma’am,” he said.

So we started there on the deck, with him kneeling by my chair, coconut oil and a hand massage.

Ferns nails

We talked all afternoon as he provided these personal services, moving inside when it got cool, stripping him down to his boxer briefs once out of public view. He took direction well, did a wonderful job on my nails. Not perfect, but skilled. It was easy between us: sweet, slow, a natural D/s energy. He was open and engaging. It didn’t hurt that he’s really pretty: fit and lean with pecs that form a solid handful. A pleasure to have half-naked at my feet.

I’m not sure how long it all took, but my newly painted nails were well and truly dry by the time my foot massage was finished. I felt luxuriously pampered.

When I decided I wanted to try some light play, he compliantly followed me into the bedroom. A shove and he fell backwards onto the bed, I straddled him. Kissing.

Him bound to the bed then, kissing-date style, blindfold. But something was ‘off’. I tried a few different approaches to reach him but he had closed down, was largely unresponsive. It felt like throwing energy into a void. I slowed it down and verbalised the thought ‘dead body’, a thought that didn’t deserve to leave the inside of my head, but it did, strangely and without context.

We regrouped, talked some more. Had more cake. Some petting, gentle reconnection, him at my feet again. He left not that long afterwards. Eight and a half hours after he got there.

We’ve been in touch quite a bit since. He is genuinely lovely and open and was frank with me about how he was feeling.

We agreed that the D/s service worked, was sweet, and was worth doing again. The play, though, revealed a fundamental incompatibility. The bottom line is that my play style is too affectionate for him, plus he had a fear that my affection meant I was nudging into ‘more than casual’ territory. The latter was easy to dismiss but the former is immutable.

My play style depends on many factors, but intensity of the type I have written about in the past requires intimacy and lust and overwhelming desire, and that doesn’t just ‘happen’ with virtual strangers. My play with strangers is light and fun and affectionate, and it builds with time and trust until they are no longer strangers, and then it’s not so light and perhaps not so ‘fun’.

That place where I want him so much that I’m going to tear off his skin, crack open his rib cage, and punch him right in the heart, over and over until he’s dead** does not come easily or quickly to me.

His experience to date has been with Dommes who were more scary-sadistic uber-Domme straight out of the gate, and that is obviously a completely different flavour of play.

We are keeping in touch with fun and friendly texts, and if I feel like another service date, I am privileged that he is happy to oblige.

So we will see.

___

*’Forced winking’ was the outcome of our texting where he was abusing the winky face for no good reason. He struggled to stop it when I asked him to. So I made him wink at me with every sentence he uttered for ten minutes to illustrate how dumb it is. It was hilarious.

** Not literally…

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e[lust] #85

Welcome to Elust 85

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #86 Start with the rules, come back September 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Use
Hot
The Case of the Purloined Panties

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

The Inspection Zone
Date with prey

 

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Voyeur

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Continue Reading

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