Date Night...Why Am I Not Thrilled?

I know that solo-date night is supposed to be about celebrating my solitude, enjoying my own company, and learning to rely less on others for fulfillment.  But fuck.  Sometimes it’s ridiculously hard to celebrate when I’m craving The Boss like a morphine junkie…when I’m missing human contact *so* much.

I used to be really good at this part.  My former marriage used to be something I needed to escape from time to time to time to as much as humanly possible.  Our home was a prison made of bars I’d equally helped craft.  I told myself it was the happily-ever-something or other than every girl dreams of, but it was just an avoidance of the reality of who I was, and who he was. 

When I was there, in that, I loved going out by myself.  I could enjoy a museum or book store for hours without a hint of longing or missing of anyone.  I have never been one to balk at asking for a table for one.  I love food and talking with ones’ mouth full isn’t very polite, but I do it anyway, so dining alone is ok.  It gives me a chance to practice my manners. 

I’m not usually lonely during the times when I’m alone…or, at least, that used to be the case.  But sometimes, lately, the feel of my own skin becomes desolate and I desperately want to feel someone else’s skin, and hear someone else’s voice.  I could find someone to spend the time with, I’m sure.  I have an OKCupid profile and everything!  *much groaning and head-shaking*

I could find someone to stroke away the sound of my own voice clanging around inside my head.  But I decided something a few months back, as I was sweeping up the wreckage from another hopeship dashed on the  rocks of “oh fuck, this is real life,” when the winds of change took some interesting and frustrating turns.  I decided at that point, licking my wounds and taking stock of my own careless steering of said vessel, that my focus belonged in one of two places.  I’ve dedicated my energies to The Boss.  Taking care of him, not as a mother to a child, but as a servant to a Master.  And I have devoted myself, once again, to taking care of that “other” person in my life – That red-headed step-child of my energies and best intentions.  And there simply wasn’t room for anyone else to get much priority at that time. 

Yeah I know.  As clichéd and played-out as it sounds, I decided to revisit this self-care stuff.  With much enthusiasm and simultaneous fear and chagrin, self-date night was reborn…apparently. 

Yippee

It started out successfully enough.  I made a promise to myself that going to the movies was going to be a priority for me this year.  I’d only been twice in the last year and I really enjoy film.  So I could spend my solo-date nights seeing the movies that I wanted to see, anyone else’s opinion be damned.  And then I’d enjoy a nice dinner to myself, take a book, or my journal, or laptop, and celebrate my relationship with myself.  This celebration often ended with a lazy but satisfying session with various insertables, electrical devices, and porn.   I like to fuck on my dates.  That applies to solo-date night, without question.

Everything was going really well!  Except…well…I haven’t had solo date night in over a month.  Those feisty winds of change blew again, and through various circumstances both fortunate and un-, I was blessed and positively spoiled with night after night of *actual* date nights!  You know…with a *real date!*  I got to spend several weeks with The Boss, spoiling the ever-luvin’ crap outta him, at my house!  A girl couldn’t be happier.  Fuck.  I enjoyed it.

But I knew at the outset of the visit that it would end, and I had a pretty good suspicion that the transition back to solo-time would be difficult once he went home again.  Apparently commuting over 6 hours round trip daily for work just wasn’t a plan he liked.  (I know, sometimes he is completely unreasonable in his expectations, but I supposed I’ll go ahead and love the fuck out of him anyway…*giggle*). 

Long-distance dating is hard, ya’ll.  And I welcomed a reprieve from the distance in a way not dissimilar to the way a drowning man welcomes air into his lungs.  Only I hadn’t been drowning in my lonely.  But you’d think I had been, the way I pulled him into my chest and filled my lungs and drank him up once more and again…over and over. 

My gods, it was indescribable.  In quiet moments of enjoying my bliss, however, I came to realize a few facts hidden in the deep dark woods of this temporary fairytale situation.  I was grateful beyond words for the time I was given.  And I knew that I would be very sad to see him go, once that time came.  And I knew that someday (please Gods someday…) I’d be more than happy, waiting with bells on and shit, to give us a real shot at some version of permanence and cohabitation and domesticity…

But not now.  Not yet.  Not as I am in this moment.  Four weeks in  and the long slender tentacles of co-dependent need and craving had set in and I knew there is more work yet to be done on this here mess of a soul.  Work that can only be done in the semi-peaceful, agonizing silence of solitude. 

I am not yet good at this…but I will be. 

*I am a woman when you kiss me, a child when you leave…*

I’m pretty sure those are the words to a terrible horrible no good very bad love song.  But they fit, today.  *head-drop*

So if I am a woman when he kisses me and a child when he leaves….then I am positively 15 years old again when he doesn’t text me for 14 hours straight!  But I wish to be a woman at *all* times.  I wish to make him proud in *all* circumstances.  I wish to make *me* proud in all circumstances.

Those winds blew again, and he is back at home now.  Our long-distance love affair has resumed, albeit with frequent fills of the gas tank and many miles put on cars over the weekends…

And as the fates tend to manage, flawlessly, we are both exactly where we are supposed to be.

I am currently alone.  On a Thursday night.  My craft beer and pub-sirloin are half gone and my table is quiet.  There is live music in the loft above me.  I’ve sat with my discomfort tonight, pulled myself through the painful bits.  I haven’t texted him all day, because I *needed* to text him.  I *needed* to have contact and get some sort of reassurance that he hasn’t forgotten me, four days after leaving.  So I didn’t text him.  I am waiting until that need settles the fuck down and simply becomes a *want.*  It’s an exercise in control. 

This will all be fine. I will become the rational, fully functional, enlightened and peaceful fucking person I am meant to be.  I can feel it in my bones…

In the meantime, I’ll go ahead and admit that I just *squeed!!*  like a 15 year old (very much out loud and not at all in my head) when my phone lit up with a message and I saw his name. 

One day at a time? J

But I wasn’t even touching the stove…I was just looking at it…

Sometimes it amazes and shames me how quickly progress towards being the self-confident person I want to be can be stalled or derailed.  This writing is not an attempt to garner compliments or reassurances from my friends.  I know who loves me and who thinks I’m fabulous and I adore you right back.  No, this writing is about sharing a bit of myself and renewed awareness. 

Recently I was having a conversation with one of my exes.  I won’t say which one, but sometimes I wonder why I still talk to him.  So do some of my friends.  In fact, until today, I hid the fact that we still talked from even my best friend.  I’ve outwardly lied about it, in fact.  If you’re hiding something, chances are it’s a bad decision…but I digress.

So, the ex and I were talking about open relationships and poly-models and various issues surrounding non-monogamy, when he said…with perfect tactlessness and abrasion:

*”I only tried to fuck people that were prettier than you.  If I fucked someone uglier, that would be pretty bad”*

Let that sink in for a moment.  Yea.  In the moment he said it, I gave him that “are you fucking kidding me” look and told him it was a hurtful and fucked up thing to say.  He quickly back pedaled and attempted to explain what he meant.  I guess I understand what he was *attempting* to say, but…

You know sometimes in films, the cinematographer will use the technique of opening with a wide, expansive shot of the sky, or space, and then suddenly and quickly the frame will zoom more and more narrow until it’s focused on a single person or building, children playing…or a train-wreck?

I brushed off his words, initially, but in the days following my point of view shifted from this lofty, expansive acceptance (often celebration) of this body of mine I’ve come to love (newfound appreciation for my breasts, large and saggy, much too saggy for a woman who has not and will not bear children; my fleshy parts, thick and curvy, I’d run my hands across them and feel my own softness and warmth, the love that I exude from my skin; my kinky hair; my “fat-girl” pussy…things only recently seen to me as beautiful or valuable…)

My perspective shifted from this wide open space of acceptance and celebration of my physical presence on this earth…to a narrowed in close-up over every flaw and each patch of cellulite.  My stomach had become a welcoming warm pillow to rest your head, and was again reduced to that thing that “gets in the way” when he’d try to tie me, or fuck me…My kinky hair was again too kinky.  He had preferred it straight, unnatural.  My breasts, “could be fixed, with surgery, someday, ya’know.” 

This ex, when we were together, had gotten in my head, planted seeds of fucked up ideas…and watered a few that were already there.  I’ve been working tirelessly to weed them out.  But some roots grow deep, as any gardener of souls or tubers will tell you.  I’m tugging at this deep root and it’s pulling up the good soil with it.  I must stop this erosion of good soil.

I was reminded why he’s my ex, and why my best friend always sounded a little pissed when I did let it slip that we had talked.  I recently learned about emotional masochism and how to use it in play.  The problem is, *this* scene was poorly negotiated and I’m growing weary of it.  Time to call red. 

Daddy Takes Me, or Miss Lucy Learns to Love the Belt

Something had felt off for a few days.  We’d both dropped hard after the large event and the storms, both scary and beautiful, that we had weathered.  We had played hard, together and with others.  Now we were coming back down to earth.  We found ourselves strongly grounded in the vanilla day to day. I think that was our problem.  I asked for something more from him.  I wanted to be taken aggressively.  I asked for fists in my hair, hand around my throat, rough “take me any way you want me” play. 

The evening began calmly.  We’d planned dinner but he wanted to play a bit.  Practice flogging, work on technique.  I also think there was a bit of punishment in there, a lesson to learn about playing on the train tracks again.  I’m always struggling with this one.  We worked together, both of us building on strike after strike.  

I give him a smile and encourage him to give me more.  He does and it’s fulfilling, the air knocked out of me, the delicious leather pulling across my skin.  I don’t go all the way down but it’s a lovely preview of his developing skills. 

After, I wrapped myself in a blanket and lay on the floor.  My back was warm and just a bit tender. I smiled, and he lay down next to me and touched me.  All I had on were white panties, and my blanket. 

He pulled the blanket away and left me exposed, rubbed softly on my nipples, my belly, before his hands trailed down to pull my panties to the side, just the way I like.  His mouth was on me fast, hungry, lapping up the wetness that had gathered there as he beat me.

I writhed under him, his tongue exploring me quickly, then with teasing slowness.  I arched my back and he slid his hands under my ass, gripping my hips to keep me in place.  He licked and sucked at my pussy and I inched closer and closer to orgasm.

He ran a finger along my slit, down to my asshole.  My body bucked towards his hand, begging him silently to stop there for a moment.

“Oh?” he asked.  “Does my babygirl want her ass played with?”

“Yes, PLEASE Daddy” I begged.  He laughed at my eagerness and slowly teased my little hole.  I pushed my ass towards him, hoping he’d understand.  He may have, but he made me beg for everything he gave me. 

“Tell Daddy what you want.”

“Put your finger in my ass.” I didn’t mean for it to come out as a whine, but I needed it so badly!

“Ask nicely, now,” he scolded.

“Please Daddy!? Please put your finger in my asshole…”  That laugh, again…and then the release as he finally slid a thick finger into my ass.  My pussy, already wet, began to gush with the new taboo breached.  Daddies shouldn’t do such things to their babygirls!

Daddy was finally playing with my ass and it felt so good.  I moved my hips, using his finger to fuck myself as he laid still.  He let me play with my clit and I came quickly and very hard.  I curled up my body and rolled away from him, shaking with each aftershock.  He pulled up close to me, careful not to touch me, his lips ever so close to my ear, and whispered

“Good girl.”

My body exploded with a new round of tremors and I came again, as was often the case with a well-timed post orgasm “good girl.” 

Daddy sat down in his big leather chair across the room.  When my body stopped shaking I sat up and looked at him.  My hair was tangled from rolling about on the carpet.  He smiled at me and gestured for me to come to him and sit at his feet.  I crawled over on my hands and knees, panties hanging around my thighs.  He helped me pull them back up, and he placed me between his legs, kneeling.  I closed my eyes as he stroked my hair.

I smiled, content at his feet, and happy to finally be feeling peace here rather than the fear and anxiety.  I knew I was safe and loved.

Eyes still closed, I was surprised to feel the cool leather of his belt as it wrapped around my neck.  He cinched it tight and my eyes opened, mouth a quiet grin.  I was leashed. 

He pulled it tighter and tighter, a game! And I leaned into it, feeling it push into my throat.  I could still breathe, but felt the lightheadedness begin.  Enough for a buzz.   My pussy ached and shivered.  He opened his pants and took out his cock.  Gave me the look that required no words.  I began running my tongue over the smooth skin of his sack, silently satisfied with the noises this always inspired from him.  After sucking gently on each ball, I took his cock in my mouth, slowly at first, feeling it grow stiffer in my mouth.  He pulled at the leash and forced himself deep into my throat.  I choked and he laughed a bit at my discomfort.

He enjoyed this, and released his grip a bit.  He saw the smile on my face and stood, began walking toward to the bedroom.  He maintained control of the lead and I followed, crawling along behind him.

I was ordered “down” on to the bed and I needed no further instruction.  I knelt on the edge of the bed, face down into the covers, ass in the air.  He entered me quickly from behind and it hurt.  I cried out and he drove in harder.  Pulled the belt back, my head lurched back with it, and I faced the ceiling.  My back was arched severely.  He fucked me harder, and I cried out, “Daddy, it hurts!”

He answered, “Sometimes it’s supposed to.”

The belt was tight around my throat and I leaned into it, relishing the tingling all over my body.  He thrust faster and harder and I felt my arms grow weak.  I knew it was close.  I breathed deeply and let go of control, allowed him and his leather belt to fuck me into unconsciousness.  Everything went fuzzy, and when I could focus again, I was laying on my stomach, his cock still inside me, belt a bit looser around my neck.  My pussy hurt.  He came with a growl and I curled up in a ball and shook with another orgasm.  More words in my ear…more shivering.  He allowed me a moment to recover, and then stated that he was hungry.

I had dinner planned and nearly prepared, it just needed to cook.  He decided the belt would remain around my throat, and I fixed his meal for him, leash dangling between my breasts, tapping my thighs as I moved about my kitchen. 

I served him his food, on my knees, nude, holding his plate for him.  I watched him enjoy every bite, my own plate waiting for me until he was finished and allowed me to eat.  I waited, patiently and happily, for his permission.

“You’ve changed so much.”

I began to remove my clothes and he came up to me, pulling them off my body more quickly than I could.  I let him, watched him, unafraid.  No nervousness this time.

7 months and 4 days had passed since my first public scene with FM.  Really, that long since my first public scene with anyone other than my partner.  It was at my first big event.  I’d met him and felt something…Kindness?  Acceptance? I’m not sure, but I was brand new and I asked him to play.  It was an incredible experience that both terrified and exhilarated me.  I learned so much in that one scene about pain, about communication, about my body, and my tears. 7 months 4 days since he’d touched me…

I was thankful for his hands on my skin once more.  It had been so long since I felt his fingertips brush against my sides, tummy, and breasts. 

I call him Floggerman to my friends, or FM for short, when I write.  Or sometimes I just use his name, if I’m in close company.  FM and I lost touch for awhile after our first scene, and I assumed that was just the way of things.  My relationship with Red had continued evolving and took me places I never expected.  Some of it was beautiful, some of it terrifying.  All of it challenging. 

I met FM’s eyes, held my breath, and smiled.

My body, through play and experimentation, learned to receive pain, consider and evaluate it, and release it back into the universe.  I learned how to experience pleasure.  To believe I deserved it.  To revel in it, and then also release that back to where it came from.  This too shall pass…

His hands came down hard on my breasts: slaps, backhands, punches, in quick succession.  I screamed, surprised.  I remember smiling.  I might have laughed.  “How I’ve missed you!”  I don’t remember who said this part…

I learned to appreciate what is in front of me with full awareness that it may well eventually be gone and something else will present itself.  Physical pain and pleasure is no different than the emotional stuff. 

He turned me around and pushed me against the large wooden star.  One of the prettiest pieces of dungeon furniture I’ve ever seen.  My skin felt delicious against the cool wooden beams and I leaned my head into the hardness of it. 

He pulled my hair back, my face forced upward, and he dragged the falls of the first flogger against my cheeks and lips.  The yummy leather caressed me, and yes…I opened my mouth, sticking out my tongue just a bit, and tasted his tools as they hit all of my senses at once. 

I learned that disappointment stings, and betrayal thuds. 

The beating began then.  It wasn’t unlike other floggings in many ways.  There was rise and fall, a fantastic warm-up that lasted just long enough.  I sassed him and was my beautiful bratty self until he reminded me who was in charge of the scene.  Oh how I like being reminded!

I learned to laugh at myself and my situation.  Laugh at the “life or death” panic that sets in over things which are neither life nor death, and are always temporary.

I was reduced to tears, exalted by tears, many times in this scene.  He told me later he enjoyed being a puppet master, making me cry when he wanted, then stepping in, wrapping his arms around me, quieting my sobs and reminding me how to breathe, calming me…

Only so he could start all over again.  I handed him my puppet strings and let him dance me across myself.  Let him guide and control and overpower. I would revive my spirit and come back at him with teeth and snarl and he would quickly remind me of my place. 

I learned to love the bruises and to touch carefully the tender memories that still bring tears.  I learned to stand tall and round my shoulders and present a solid surface on which to be hit.  I learned to do this in love, too, only presenting my tender parts after they’ve demonstrated true aim on the fleshy bits.    I learned that sometimes too much really is too much and no one else gets to decide when that is.  Today might be a high pain, risky play, heavy play kind of day.  Tomorrow I may need rabbit’s fur and a cuddle pile.  And that’s okay.

Leaning in at one moment, he declared, “I win” and I knew he was right. 

A moment later, he leaned in to tell me “that was a fucking cheesy line” and we laughed at the truth of both statements.  This was our dance: Sass and tears, breath and laughter, over and over until my flesh burned, my eyes burned.

I remember hitting the ground at one point and he came to me, checked, then allowed me to claw and climb my way slowly back up the star, back to my feet. 

I learned that my safety is a big fucking deal and I can safe-word an entire relationship if I need to.

“You have changed so much.”

Those words again brought new tears and I relived the past 7 months.  I played through all of my perceived sins and mistakes regarding this relationship I’d lost.  Was I too insecure? Was I too needy? And with each thud of leather across my body I answered those questions.  I did the best I knew how to do, and now I know better.  Then, I was young and new.  I’d relied on a child to guide me and we’d both gotten very lost. 

I ran through the images in my head, over and over with each hit of leather: Smaller, prettier girls covered in his rope, his body melted into the bodies of a hundred others.  Me, sitting alone in a corner of a dungeon, knowing no one, watching him with everyone but me.  On my knees, his feet beneath my lips.  The service I gave.  The fear and drowning love.  The lies.  The promises broken, repaired, broken again like a shattered vase pieced back together over and over.  We’d run out of glue and had lost most of the pieces.  The water escaped. The flowers died. 

I learned that good scenes, like good love affairs, have rise and fall; crescendo and decrescendo. 

The image of a friend’s face questioning my sanity and my fear that I’d lost it.  The monster that appeared with no warning…

I learned I am beautiful, whether standing tall and proud, make-up perfect, hair flowing…or curled in a ball, sobbing, begging, aching.

Each hit of the flogger into my body beat these images, thoughts, questions to my surface until I let them go in a wail of agony.  I screamed and sobbed and lost my balance, drunk and unstable in this place I craved.  I rested my tired, broken body against the wood.  FM stepped in again, more than once, and wrapped me up in him, continued to remind me how to breathe.  I was reminded of my ability to control this pain, to control my reactions.  FM guided me through this process, the physical and emotional.  I’d regain composure, nod, and he’d let go.  And we’d do this some more. 

I learned to ride the waves.  I learned to feel what I feel and not hide it if I don’t want to.  If learned to communicate and assert, submit and be beautiful in it. 

I rode this wave with FM, this thing we created in this space, he and I.  I surrendered myself to what he gave me and in return I told him my story.

He read my body, my sobs, my laughter.  He learned how I had grown, the fires I’d walked through.  He sang my story back to me a thousand times that night and I somehow managed to walk away at the end. 

The scene ended as it did the first time.  When my body had enough and my soul had paid its penance, I simply fell to the floor.  And he was there. 

“You’ve changed so much since the last time.” 

Love, you have no idea.  But then again…I guess you do. 

FM has become one of my closest friends since that first scene now nearly a year ago.  He is one of my safe places…where I go when I need honesty and compassion, wisdom, or a good laugh.

Thank you, FM, for this.  For your love and friendship. And for all that is to come. 

Happy Kinky Birthday!

As of last week, it has come and gone:  My kinky birthday.  I’ve officially considered myself part of the “lifestyle” for one year.  It’s been a year since I actually discovered BDSM was a “thing” real people *really* did.  A year since discovering there were people I could talk to and ask questions of and learn from.  And play with!

My first “scene” was over Thanksgiving weekend last year.  Man, was I dumb.  It was with an “internet Dom” I’d met on some website…not Fetlife.  Because honestly I just didn’t know any better.  I was naïve, uneducated, and overly eager.  I didn’t know what safe words were, how to negotiate limits, how to set up safety calls, or any of that other stuff you’re supposed to know before leaping into the pool.  I just jumped! Needless to say, the first scene I had went horribly wrong.  He was just as stupid as I was, and was decent enough to realize that my screaming and crying were *not* of the hot variety, and stopped before things went even more poorly.  I didn’t know how to communicate what I needed other than panic.  I had no language.  But, as I said, he was a decent guy, and I was *VERY* lucky.

My “Dom” was apparently moved by the exchange and left the “lifestyle” (or whatever he was doing) to find Jesus.  He disappeared and I didn’t hear from him until about 6 months later.  I politely and oh so sweetly suggested he fuck off.  Actually, I just said “Thanks, but no thanks,” and went about my merry way.

While he found Jesus…temporarily (slimy fucker, that Jesus, always getting lost, people having to “find him” over and over again.  He needs one of those toddler leashes, methinks…)

Anywho…I was moved as well.  While that first play date was a train-wreck by all accounts, the exchange that led up to it had wet my appétit and I wanted more.  That scene was not enough to stifle my curiosity, or my outright stubbornness.  Smart chick that I am, I did my research this time.  A college friend, who was infinitely kinky, suggested Fetlife.  At first I was overwhelmed, but quickly learned my way around.  I read a lot of message boards, did my homework on limits, safe words, safety measures as a bottom, etc.  Once I’d done a bit of research…enough to not feel like a total idiot…I started messaging a few interesting people.  And a few interested people messaged me. 

Initially I was going to talk about each of the truly special relationships I’ve had since entering the lifestyle, but I realized those people likely know how they influenced me.  Instead, I’m going to share a list of things I’ve learned in my first year.  The lessons that stand out to me and might mean something to someone reading this.  Some are poignant and dreadfully important life lessons.  Some are funny, special moments that make me smile months later. Some are borrowed from people who’ve come *before me*, and others are borrowed from people who’ve cum *on me*.  In a few instances, I’ll give credit if I can recall a specific moment and person that drove that point home.

• Trust your gut.  If it’s saying, “You are in so much trouble…” you probably are.  Act accordingly.
• Get references.  Reputation isn’t *everything*but it can be informative.
• It’s really only kinky the first time.
• Most collars are made of Velcro, apparently.  Nothing wrong with taking your time.  Forging takes time.  I’ve yet to wear a *real* collar, but know when I finally do it will be created from love, negotiation, a firm foundation, trust, compassion, dedication, and commitment.  And I’m mostly quite content to take our time getting there.
• I’m pretty sure “rainbow” players are a myth…but if they are real, I have some questions… (@EruditeHayseed)
• There are apparently a fuck-ton of True Doms running around.  And I’ve never met ANY of them…my fetmail told me so. 
• My personal discomfort is a FUCKING GOOD ENOUGH REASON to say NO.  And I don’t owe anyone any explanations. (Thank you @SarcasmaGRuntle…)
• Subbies are NOT pokemon…but for some reason many Toppy types are trying to “collect them all.”  I am *not* a collector’s item, or shiny toy to sit on your shelf.  I’m a person and I’ll be treated as such, thankyouverymuch. 
• You can find intense and powerful love in the strangest places.  Like MasterDoug’s kitchen.  Or a Golden Coral.  Or on stage.  Or a Starbucks. Thank you for all the love, lessons, experiences, growth, change, perspective, obstacles, teaching moments, pain, pleasure, and life @Monk, @EruditeHayseed, @DarkMedic, and @RedThunder.
• Women are complex and beautiful and *can be trusted*.  It took three very special women to show me this.  Thank you @UtopianDreamer, @Certari, and @Symetrie. I love you all.
• The length of a relationship and the powerfulness of a relationship aren’t always correlational.
• Trust the people who have seen a few things.  If they are concerned, you should be too. (Thank you, @Barak)
• Leather tastes like porn.  Mmmmm. Yummy delicious porn.
• If your hand isn’t around my throat, is that still considered fucking?
• Submission isn’t a contest.  But if it is, @Tesla wins.
• Polyamory isn’t a contest.  But it it is, @BondageNexus wins.
• BDSM is for grown-ups.  If you can’t act like one, get out of the pool. (Thank you, @SherynB)
• Communication skills courses should be a prerequisite for your first negotiation.
• Bruises are gorgeous.  Better than diamonds (Thank you @theBiz for my first real and beautiful bruises.  That scene paved the way for a delicious relationship with pain, and a deep and powerful friendship.  I love you dearly.) 
• Vanillas can be really hard to convert.  Know when to walk away.
• Someone’s behavior towards you has nothing to do with you. (Thank you @Bendyogagirl).
• Never put rope around your neck, unless it’s hot. 
• The sprinkler valve is not a hard point. (Thank you @AIS)
• Be VERY specific when asking to borrow @BratSheba’s shoes.  VERY specific… Otherwise, you’ll end up with a heel print in your ass-cheek.
• You can only move at the pace you can move at.  Be patient with yourself.
• If someone intentionally violates your boundaries once, they will likely do it again.
• D/s or M/s or Poly or whatever can look like WHATEVER I and my partners want it to look like.  There are no universal “rules.”  Give yourself permission to be flexible.
• Poly Math is really hard! But sometimes you meet a tutor who helps you figure a few things out…or compassionately listens while you bitch about unbalanced equations.  Thank you @MollyV)
• Google calendars can save your life.
• Grieving takes as long as it takes.  Be kind to yourself (@Monk…only one of SO many lessons you’ve taught me.  And I am eager for each new lesson we will tackle together)
• Support FET!  Gagging people is fucking awesome (@ all you people that post WAAAAAY too much about stuff I find boring as shit.)
• Everyone else here is *just* as fucked up as you are.  And there is great beauty and community in that universal fucked-upedness (Learned @ GRUE).
• Driving 15 hours one way for a GRUE?  Totally worth it. (Thank you @Graydancer, @Symetrie, @RoughInamorato, @IBurnREd, @SmartAlix)
• Driving 15 hours one way to have that special someone beat the living fuck out of you because no one else can do it quite the same and using GRUE as a convenient excuse for the trip?  Also totally worth it. (@theBiz….what can I say?  Again, thank you.)
• It’s kind of okay when people hate what I write.  At least they are thinking.  (@thank you to all the writers I know and all the people who have encouraged me to keep writing).
• Who you were in a previous lifetime only dictates who you are now *if you let it.*
• Who you were in a previous life has little meaning to me.  Who the person is standing in front of me means everything.
• Some people will read this list and think parts are about them.  They aren’t.
• One of my absolute favorite people in the community is someone who pisses me off on a semi-regular basis…because he is honest and direct with me when I need it most (which tends to be when I want to hear it least…).  And I love him dearly and thank him profusely for it.  (Thank you @FunkayBlackHat)
• I worry too much about what I can “take” in a scene, pain-wise.  I’ve erroneously based my worth as a bottom on my ability to handle certain levels of pain.  I forgot about the experience, about my experience.  There are two people working very hard to teach me differently.  I love you both deeply. (Thank you @Monk and @theBiz). 
• Despite all wishing otherwise, I am human.  I am a perfectly beautiful disaster of a human. 
• I deserve all the pleasure I can stand.  And then another orgasm just for good measure.
• Shame is a waste of energy.
• Some people will read this list and think parts are about them.  They are.
• I believe most people tend to do the best they know how with the tools they have in front of them.  I believe this fact is no excuse for people who refuse to venture to the hardware store and get new tools when their old ones are obviously not working.
• People are messy.  If you interact with people, you’re likely to get some of that mess on you. (@FunkayBlackHat) 
• People treat you the way you allow them to treat you. (Thank you @Barak)
• Needles…..mmmmm.  Needles.  Yes.  That is all.
• Wrestling mats are awesome.  But so are concrete floors. 
• A fistful of my hair is the quickest way to get my attention and put me in “my subbie place.”  I like “my subbie place.” 
• *For me*, the difference between submission and slavery is akin to the difference between attending mass and joining the monastery.    

So yeah…there it is. A large compilation of what I’ve learned in my first year in the scene.  I’ve left out a ton, and probably not thanked everyone I need to.  But it’s a start. 

What did *you* learn your first year that you want to share?

For Grandpa, or Miss Lucy Crashes the Funeral

*The preacher at my grandfather’s funeral was one of those “rent-a-day” preachers.  My family doesn’t have church ties on that side, so we didn’t have one of our own to give the service.  He was a nice guy.  Spent a long time talking to my aunt the day before, trying to get an idea of who my grandfather was.  He asked people to come forward to tell stories about my grandpa, because we keep loved ones alive through our stories.  I didn’t get up at first.  I think my mind went a little blank.  Which story should I tell?  I had no idea, so I sat quiet.  My brother told a funny story, as did a family friend, and my great-aunt.  I was about to rise…I had some thoughts to shared, but the preacher cut it off then and continued in his sermon.  He read from the bible, quoted Jesus and various apostles.  He tried to somehow connect these bible verses to my grandfather’s life, and it just wasn’t working.  Honestly, it was annoying me more than anything.  My grandfather was not an openly religious man, and the idea of a very religious service was hilarious to me.  He’d have never gone for it.  So I waited, patiently.  I nearly talked myself out of speaking.  I didn’t want to be rude, and he’d closed the floor.  But the longer I sat there, the more I became aware that if I didn’t say these things now, I wouldn’t get another chance.  My grandfather wouldn’t have another funeral, and there wouldn’t be another eulogy.  So I waited for the preacher to take a breath.  Man, could he talk.  Then, when he paused, in between thoughts, I stood up and said, “I have something to say.”  This is, best as I can, a recreation of what I said.*

I’ve been told that I’m not always great at timing.  When the pastor asked for stories a bit ago, I went blank.  And the longer I sat there, the more I realized I had things to say.  I appreciate the pastor’s words and the time he took putting together this service.  But I never knew my grandfather to be a religious man.  Actually, I never even knew he believed in God until a few years ago when I just asked him, “Hey.  Do you believe in God?”  It was during that conversation that I learned that my grandfather did have faith, and considered himself a Christian.  I think my brother Gabe was there for this conversation, too.  I learned that my grandfather once had the bible memorized, and he told me the shortest verse, “Jesus saves,” as well as the longest verse…which I don’t remember anymore. 

I’m not sure how my grandfather felt about the bible, but I know this.  Standing up here during the visitation I overheard a man talking about him.  I think they worked together.  He said “Bill was a genius.”  And he’s right.  My grandfather was brilliant.  He also remembered that my grandpa was practical, and I think he’d like his legacy to be shared in practical words, rather than the lofty ideas from the bible.  So I want to share with you what I learned from my grandfather.

I was the first grandchild, by about 9 years.  And I was lucky.  I got my grandfather at the  best time for being a grandkid.  Before he got sick.  I think he wanted a boy, because he taught me how to fish.  He taught me how to shoot, and I still love guns to this day.  He taught me how to play chess, and how not to lose.  As brilliant a businessman as he was, he never taught me to manage money, and I wish I had asked him! 

He taught me that hard work is necessary and if you have work to be done you need to put on your big girl and boy panties and do it.  Take care of what needs to be taken care of now, and later you can enjoy peace. 

He taught me that sometimes life gives you some tough battles.  He was by no means perfect and if you knew him you know he had battles.  He drank heavily and smoked for a number of years.  But grandpa tended to do what he knew how until he learned a better way.  Then he changed.  When the doctors told him, “You really should stop drinking,” he did. No questions asked.  He did the same thing with smoking after his cancer diagnosis.  He just stopped.  He had more strength and willpower than any man I knew. 

I learned that when you face tough obstacles, and you feel fear, you need to stop your bitching and keep moving forward.  And he’d have told you to stop your bitching.  He was wise and practical, and when I face big problems, I sometimes ask myself, “What would grandpa do?”  Honestly, I’d find one of those bracelets much more helpful than “what would Jesus do?” 

I learned that meals are the best way to share time and laughter with those you love.  I learned to take friends and family out to eat, and to pay for their food, because you sure as hell can’t take that money with you.  Spend a little more on people, give a little more.  Bring someone joy in ways they might not be able to bring themselves.  Because you can’t go back and change it, and you can’t take it with you.  Be generous of heart, soul, and wallet.  I used to love watching Grandpa and Uncle Don argue over who was going to pay the ticket at family dinners out.  They both understood that money is of this world and there’s no sense in being stingy. 

I learned that you take care of family, you visit often and you don’t wait for “tomorrow.”  Because it isn’t promised. 

I learned to form opinions carefully, and with much gathering of facts.  I learned that having strong opinions based in fact is a good thing.  But I also learned to keep them to myself unless asked.  I learned to speak deliberately and thoughtfully, because sometimes people actually listen. 

I am grateful to have loved this man.  Grateful to have been able to share time with him, learn from him, and give him all the love I was able.  I was grateful to have him.  And I am grateful now, that he is finally resting after a long and stubborn battle.  He decided it was time to go home.  I love him deeply, and I am grateful for him.  

Definite Drop

I should probably be working...you know, on the stuff that pays my bills and allows my frequent and ferocious kink indulgences.  But I can't seem to get focused.  This isn't a rare problem.  When it comes to writing up psych evals I'm less than wet about the subject.  And I don't feel well.  Woke up Monday morning with no voice, and this progressed into a fever by Tuesday, and all around ick by this morning.  Fever's gone, just all congested and dancing in the mud puddle of fall allergies as we speak.

One of my partners was in a mood last night.  I didn't feel well, and text is a horrible medium for expressing oneself.  My sarcasm and brief answers were misinterpreted and this sort of became the catalyst for, or contribution to, a fun slide into negative thought patterns and catastrophizing assumptions.  Today, it occurred to me...could this be drop?  Is this what his drop looks like?  We had a similar incident last week around the same time...

So I asked him.  This hadn't occurred to him.  Hmmm.

Earlier today I was emailing back and forth with a former partner and current friend and he wrote something I had to read 3 or 4 times before I realized he wasn't insulting me.  Yesterday, I had a conversation with a friend that was similar.  I found myself taking things personally that weren't at all meant to be.  So all this got me thinking.

I'm pretty self-aware, and when I am not I make damn sure to become enlightened on the subject as soon as possible.  In the above instances, I was quickly able to identify, "I'm dropping.  I should take a step back." I'm dropping currently.  I have had weekend after weekend of play and travel and all around awesomeness.  This weekend was particularly meaningful both in play and emotional growth.

This all has led me to the urge to write about what my drop looks like.  Maybe someone else's is similar?

First, I tend to have an immune system crash if my play has been particularly strenuous or drawn out.  This may be a sore throat up to a fever or respiratory infection of some kind.  We play in very public places with lots of other people with all their own germs.  It's normal to assume one will get sick eventually.  I do what I can regarding preventative measures.  I drink a bit of C-Boost juice daily, take vitamin packs, and eat healthy balanced meals (usually...though I've been addicted to milkshakes lately, and moolattes from DQ.  Holy fuck are they good!).  I try to get 6-7 hours sleep a night, and I'm physically active.  But folks, you play in enough dungeons, you're gonna get the crud at some point.  My last big immune system crash came following a 30 hour car ride to and from Minnesota.  All new regional crud my body had never experienced!

Second, I tend to get fairly insecure, emotionally.  I begin questioning my desirability as a bottom, my skills as a bottom.  I wonder if my partners played with me because they wanted to or because they felt some obligation to.  I worry about how fat I looked in rope, or if they will notice that my recent milkshake/moolatte addiction has added a couple of pounds.  I worry if jeans were too tight, or my pussy not tight enough.  I worry about whether the partner I'm only just beginning to experiment with calling Master will suddenly change his mind.  I wonder if Daddy will decide I'm too bratty a babygirl.  I worry, and I question. And I get sad and self-effacing.  And usually about 20 minutes into this thinking, I kindly and compassionately say to myself,
"You are dropping.  Your brain chemicals are playing tricks on you. Take it with a grain of salt."

Third, I get this really strange need for companionship paired directly with a desire to not be touched.  My body wants space to heal and breath, while my emotional state wants someone close by for reassurance.  THIS one can be tricky to navigate.  The first time I told Daddy, "I want you here, like in my apartment.  But can you sit over there in that chair and I'll come to you if I need touch?" was a really odd conversation.  He was very understanding, though, and sat happily reading while I worked at my desk.

The key to navigating drop, for me, is to first REMEMBER that drop happens.  I have to acknowledge it as a possible explanation for what I call "going crazypants."  I think about what my drop usually looks like, and if symptoms seem to fit, I will generally let it be.  I then begin engaging in what FM taught me months ago.  He learned a trick in therapy years ago that are three simple words to realigning thought patterns, for many.

"First thought wrong"  

What this means is pretty much what it sounds like.  When I'm in a highly charged emotional state, I remember "First thought wrong."  It's a cue to dismiss my first (and sometimes second and third) assumptions about any interaction.  When I am emotionally charged, my first thought generally is one that supports a negative thinking pattern and only serves to perpetuate the pissy mood.  When I remember to dismiss the first thought, it removes the gunk of my negative thought patterns and clears the way for more rational and evidenced based thoughts and feelings to pour through.

Then, I evaluate what I need.  Sometimes I need reassurance, so I'll ask for it.  "Tell me that you want me at your feet."  "Tell me that you really do love playing with me."  Sometimes I need physical affection, like a foot rub, or a kiss on the forehead.  Sometimes I need to be put in "my place" and I'll ask for a tiny bite of the cake I OD'd on over the weekend, meaning I want hands in my hair, or around my throat, directing me to my knees at their feet.  Sometimes I need to lick boots.  (Yup, I'm one of those girls.)  Sometimes I need my alone time.  And this one is harder to ask for than a lot of things.  I tend to get afraid that my need for alone time will be received as rejection.  But I have to ask for it anyway, because I know me well enough to know what it healthy.

They key for me, is knowing what I'm feeling.  Evaluating the source of this feeling, and then doing a needs assessment.  Once I know what I need, set about the task of either procuring it for myself, or asking for help from those that I trust.

But that's just my drop.  What does yours look like?

~Lucy