The cub

He is young and reckless. A gambolling curious and sensitive kitten. Also a clumsy puppy who wiggles and wags and runs headlong into the furniture. Despite his outward playfulness, inside he is wounded and fearful, but he can be coaxed out of hiding to roll over and present his soft underbelly over and again. Smart, articulate, and frighteningly perceptive, he bounced into my corner of the internet some three months ago with his devastating vulnerability and got all up in my face.

He is nowhere near me, of course, as is always the way, but he made Plans, capital P Plans, because I refused to go forward without them.

They fell apart, those plans.

He has broken my heart already. Not in a ‘sobbing on the floor’ kind of emotionally-stricken way. In an ‘I can’t with this’ kind of way, with lies that make me suspicious of everything he has ever told me, or tells me, or will ever tell me. Once you discover that there are lies, everything you think you know becomes suspect.

In amongst all the mistrust, though, there is a small piece untouched: I trust his heart. Which sounds ridiculous really, but it is raw and open and damaged and he lays it at my feet like a sacrifice.

“It’s yours,” he says, full of intensity and love.

It is unfair, so unfair, that he should do that. That he should betray my trust and then put me in a position where his vulnerability is mine to do with as I please.

After the anger and the sadness and the realisation that it wasn’t going to happen, after I raged at him, at myself, at the stupidity, I found myself worried for him. For HIS hurt. For HIS pain. I mean What. The. Everloving. Fuck?!!

And I’ve wanted to write about it, but I’ve been stuck with what to write and how to write it.

I don’t know what to do with this, if I’m honest.

We talked in the aftermath of his potential-killing lies, though my instinct was to cut him loose. And if anyone had asked me what I would do if someone lied to me, I’d say “I’d cut him off, WTF sort of question is that?!”

I felt something with him that I haven’t felt in a long long time, I reached for it, I really wanted it. And if I think about how it played out, I get angry all over again that he fucked it up. HE FUCKED IT UP. It makes me so mad.

*sigh*

So now we are in this strange place. I told him that I was done, that it wasn’t happening, that he’d irrevocably broken the potential. He understands.

And still, against my better judgement, I like him, I mean, I really LIKE him. I am tender and protective towards him, have a level of care that colours everything, I want him to be whole, healed, happy. I feel that connection, you know the one… the one I never feel? Yeah, that. And I kind of hate myself for it. How can I have the feels for someone I don’t trust? I didn’t even know it was possible. Last time a potential submissive lied to me, I cut him off so fast his head must have spun. This time… the anger dissipated quickly, disappointment was left behind, the connection not intact, but still there.

Not knowing what to do exactly but unwilling to let him go in the face of his stunning imperfections, I have brought him inside a fragile bubble with me. Inside the bubble the world is light and full of rainbows and pretty colours, unicorns and fairies. Inside the bubble, we talk all day, we have occasional phone calls, we flirt, we joke, we exchange ideas, we talk about anything and everything, I share much with him, we pretend everything is beautiful. We are growing an intimacy built on affection and denial.

Outside of the bubble is an apocalyptic world, dark and toxic, thunder and electric flashes split the sky, the air is clouded with poisonous gas, everything is bleak, stained and broken. Every time I peek out to see if it’s cleared some, I feel it thick with ugliness, and I step back inside and pretend I never looked.

He still holds out a little glimmer of hope. I see it shining sometimes, all optimistic and catching the light. Inside the bubble, I can pretend I see it also in those sweet moments, as long as I don’t set foot outside.

It is unhealthy, it is not the best thing, not for me, and certainly not for him. I will step back out into the dating world again, sooner or later, when I have the energy and the will. And with nowhere to take this, we will eventually be set adrift. I know he won’t deal well with it, he knows it too, and still he reaches for more even though he knows that more will make it worse.

I feel like I should end this before I have to stab us both in the heart. Even as I write that it strikes me again that it’s so very odd that I am the protector here even though I was the one who was betrayed and am, by all definitions, the injured party. I don’t really know how that happened.

He runs at it, though, the heartbreak he knows is coming. Even if I stab him in the heart, he will fall and remain there at my feet, a flash of hurt, a spike of anger, and then he will swear that he is fine, no really, he’s fine. He will take whatever I offer for as long as I offer it and maybe even after that. A grown man can make his own choices, of course, it is patronising to think otherwise. But he is still only a cub, and I feel like I should protect him. I am doing a rubbish job of it.

In the meantime, inside the bubble, I put him to bed every night with petting and sweetness, I call him ‘my lovely’, and he rests easy there, curled up against the curve of my neck, all sleepy-warm and purring. And I wake to his bouncy enthusiasm every morning, and every morning it makes me smile.

I don’t know what I’m doing here. But now you know where I have been.

“And I wanted it, I wanted it bad
But there were so many red flags
Now another one bites the dust
Yeah, let’s be clear, I’ll trust no one”

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e[lust] #88

Welcome to Elust 88

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 #89 Start with the rules, come back December 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Heart stabbing

Redemption: The Sex Goddess Project

Exhibitionish

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

An Open Letter To That Cunnilingus Post

I Found Myself Over His Knee

 

 

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Writing Sex Scenes With Less Cissexism, Pt 1

*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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Heart stabbing

‘Stabbed Heart’ by Hersson Piratoba

I have a theory about how a lot of us deal with relationships that we know aren’t working, or that won’t work, can’t work.

When we feel connected to someone, not even ‘in love’ (though love makes it worse), just… connected somehow, we hang on even when we know we shouldn’t.

Maybe it’s a long term relationship that is well past it’s expiration date. Maybe it’s the flare of a hopeless crush. Maybe it’s the joy of desire. Maybe it’s the reflection of someone else’s adoration. Maybe it’s the promise of ‘could be’. Maybe it’s the shadow of loneliness. Maybe it’s the comfort of the familiar. Maybe it’s fear.

Wherever it comes from, this desire to hang on, the result is the same: We are very reluctant to let it go even if we know we should.

And there is that moment where we know that we should end it, we know that’s the best, smart, sensible thing to do. One hundred percent. But still we don’t do it. Or we can’t.

At first it’s because there is still good in it: joy, intimacy, understanding, laughter, affection, sex, some or all of those things. Even if the foundation is shaky and it’s going to topple any minute. Those things are worth hanging on for, the good outweighs the bad, the sad, the painful. And that’s fair enough.

But then the balance starts to tip, and the good no longer outweighs the bad. It often happens in slow motion, might see-saw for a bit, but eventually it will tip. And still we hang on, full of hope and wishful thinking, even as the badness tips the scales over so far that we can barely keep a grip on them.

My theory is this:

We will not end it until we stab ourselves fully and irrevocably in the heart with a huge fuck-off knife.

Because in our daily lives, we will take the hits over and over to stay in the relationship. We will stab ourselves and the other person with various implements, lick our wounds, paper over the cracks, and carry on.

We do this to ourselves.

We stab ourselves with needles in the beginning, often they don’t even go into the heart at first. Fine and sharp. Small and constant and painful. Over and over again. They will get to the heart eventually, of course they will, the needles will get longer, thicker, more targetted. Pinpricks at first,turning into punctures, getting deeper each time. Then we will graduate to boning knives, thin and razor sharp, you hardly feel them go in, really.

Our brains are all ‘FFS, what is WRONG with you?!’ and our hearts go ‘But but…I’m okay, really I am!’

And we know it would be kinder and more loving to ourselves, to them, to just… move out of reach of that pain that is cycling up. But we don’t. We can’t. Because REASONS, and sometimes we can dodge and weave and avoid the pain for quite a while, pretend we don’t even feel it.

Until that one time where instead of a thin slash, we make a huge gaping wound.

The time when we’re holding a large broad serrated knife with a sharpened steel blade, and we take it and we shove it straight into our heart with all the force we can muster, slicing through skin, splintering bone, into the pumping muscle mass that continues to beat around the blade, gore and tissue matter leaking into our chest cavity, blood spurting out like some horror movie.

And it’s only THEN, with that terrifying self-inflicted wound, when we are on the floor bleeding out, that we can finally bring ourselves to splutter out the words ‘Okay I’m done here’ and mean it.

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“No man will ever have this…”

When I was a lesbian, one of the things that turned me on, wildly and stupidly, was the thought that ‘no man will ever have this…’

When we tangled up together, all long limbs and smooth skin, when I traced her amazing breasts, when she thrust her cunt into my mouth, when she reached to kiss me, when she showed off her perfect body, when she writhed with pleasure, when she made that ‘ohhh’ sound of arousal, when she moaned, when she fucked herself on me, when she tensed all of her muscles and came for me.

Particularly when my mouth tasted her cunt, when she reacted to my tongue, when she arched up for more, when her nipples hardened under my touch, when she made helpless inarticulate sounds for me.

All of that.

“No man will ever have this.”

I don’t know why it turned me on, that thought, but it did. By god, it did. Somehow the knowledge that some imaginary man would never have what was mine was ridiculously hot. An unhealthy thought perhaps, but my goodness, so hot.

I was right.

No man ever did.

I am somehow stupidly happy about that.

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e[lust] #87

Welcome to Elust 87

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 #88 Start with the rules, come back November 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

On Secret Identities

Dividing lines…

Ember and Ash

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Bdsm: Our pleasures are our obligations

Southpaw

 

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Change your Cookbook: a monogamuggle’s guide to cookin’ with poly folk

*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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“I can beat you”

I take him by surprise, from sweetness to sprung energy, I grab him by the throat and shove him backwards, fast, sudden. He almost loses his balance, his eyes widen, he thuds into the wall just as he starts to flail.

I wonder if he will fight me. I want to see it. I watch the flash of defiance, maybe even anger: The injustice, the patronising cuntery of it.

“You know I can beat you,” he whispers, even as I hold him by the throat against the wall.

I take a millisecond to parse the sentence. Beat or BEAT. Doesn’t matter. He is telling the truth either way.

I tilt my head at him. I don’t say it. I don’t need to. But it’s there. The dare. The sneer.

“Go on then, boy. DO IT!”

He blinks at me, I feel him swallow under my hand. He doesn’t move.

I smirk at him, relax my grip a little and he reaches for me, instinct. I let him move a few inches towards me before I shove his head back again, the thump against the wall resonates up my arm. Solid, satisfying, sexy.

“Did you say something?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No, Ma’am.”

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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!

Continue Reading

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