pillow talk

My words were wandering, voices inflected, laughter, little more than that as we lay up in the dark room.

He is my friend, one I could tell anything, I imagine. I have. I am telling him my secrets about you, the things that you and I have done together, the things we might have.

We talked about sex parties and old lovers, and rhetoric. The comfort of words, here in the dark, devoid of anything but the warmth that eases them from brain to brain, topic to topic, bouncing and gently swaying sometimes. I thought of you, there, thought of the first star, and the dreams I long pushed down, as if my wishing would make them fade fast instead of bringing them to life. I wish, still.

My face reveals nothing here in the night, I realized, and I could just turn away, quietly. He didn’t have to know, and neither do you.

I realized then what I was trying to say to you, what I told you I wanted.

Not this. Not quite.

I lie in the dark and swap stories with my friend. We could fuck.

We could fuck and still be friends, and lie here in the dark, and it would not mean so much, except that we had fucked and laughed and were still friends.

And still, none of this is what I want with you.

I want context.

I want the dark.

I want the comfort.

I want the quiet and the night, your hand softly brushing mine.

I want to lie with you here, in the dark, and plot and scheme, the words as much the adventure as what we’ll do to invent them. As much as all we did to speak now.

I want to hear what you thought, today, and tomorrow, and what you think about what I thought.

Is it to0 late, for us, for pillow talk?

Were we looking for adventure? to feel alive?

Oh, love, the novelty of the moment is charming.. but it was never the new that thrilled me, you know.

It never was the shimmer on the surface, the fleeting smile that caught my eye.

It was the memory of the shimmer, of your smile back, thousands of nights later, the footsteps we heard, the knock at the door we answered, and invited in, and kept, treasure like the first night, retold, stripped down to this touch so familiar, the breath, so precious, ours.

details

Yesterday, in my current searching, or as some might prefer.. midlife crisis… I went for a sexuality consultation.

I thought that I would spend my time talking about woohoo taboo sex I wanted to try, and all the things I fear expressing, like some desire for anal fisting, or more…

It was not about that. Nope. My erotic is so bland, my friends. And yet, it thrills me beyond belief to think of it.

I had the task of writing down my deepest desires–not sexual, mind you, but emotional. My very skilled sexuality counselor, whose name I want permission to reveal, took me on a journey that I hardly expected when I entered the doors of her Center. I started talking about.. well.. why? Why I was there?

I had come, because sex was always a problem. Wasn’t it? Was it for you? Were you slut shamed? I was. Oh yes, I was, and yet.. and yet, it was not about that.

She told me that the top three desires according to studies are: to be seen, to be craved, and to know that what we are doing is exciting to our partner. Really. Not blow jobs, after all. We desire authenticity and vulnerability. And I do, too.

I thought of this, in the context of all my recent wildness, and what more of that, to me, the intimacy I have found in it. I want my lover, so much. But I want the little things.

Oh god, I want his glasses on my nightstand when I roll over at 6am when the light stream into the bedroom. I want him to roll closer to me in the middle of the night, and grab me close to him, not out of desire, but out of instinct. I want to drink wine with him in the kitchen while I make us dinner. I want him to text me something funny he thought of in the middle of the day. I crave this simplicity so much, it moves me, and yet it seems so faraway and hard to ask for. This is my erotic. Really. This is what I want.

I think of this, sometimes, when I see people who have loved one another for years and years. They grab onto these things, these precious tangible bits of everyday life, as though they are gems. And they are, they truly are.

I want to fuck, but wild sex seems so easy, really. It may not be so obvious to the rest of the world, I guess. It freaks guys out to have a woman start to explore their asshole.. sometimes. But I would do that. I would spread my legs, and fuck a bunch of men mindlessly to turn you on. What turns me on is to watch you brush your teeth.

I wonder why, I do. I wonder why I feel so hot and bothered and horny beyond belief at these small, ordinary things.

And I know: it makes me feel safe to watch your tedium; it sets me free.

 

 

up in the air so blue

I have begun to swing.

It has been actually about two months now, but it has been difficult to wrap my head around the many changes that happen so quickly in this world. It is only now that I am beginning to make some sense of it all.

It all started from stress–the sort of stress that makes a person shut down blogs and the like.

My lover had the notion that the way to alleviate my stress was to fuck my brains out. It is not a strategy that I opposed, so we set to doing that quite well. I believe we both have the imagination and the equipment and the attraction necessary to fuck our mutual brains into something that undoubtedly leaves a mushroom cloud in its wake. My, my. My lover is hot.

Both of us of kinky minds, though, the discussion soon turned to fantasy.

My fantasies include things like public sex, sex in museums (ahem), in gardens, on hiking trails. That, and marathon sessions of deep, penetrating, emotional sex. It is hardly taboo, that, but it feeds my soul. I want to go deep soul-blasting tantra; he wants to go out onto the big exchange, go public. I can barely sleep at the thought of it. Yes.

I want that, too.

It all started around exhibition. We quickly placed an ad on craigslist advertising some sort of mw4mw encounter, which I thought would involve same-room sex.

How things escalated from there!

From that, we ended up in a club of sorts, a rather intriguing sort of bed and breakfast turned sex swinger venue, complete with a nice nautical theme and warming trays of mostaccioli.

We ended up in a bed with several other couples, first fucking amongst ourselves, but soon swapping wildly and completely overwhelmed. Consensual? Yes, it was! But I was so entrenched in it, in a middle of a bed, hot, intrigued, the woman next to me moaning and squirting… I crawled from the bed at a certain point, and sat in a rocking chair (there honestly was one!) for long enough to collect my thoughts and my panties and run away.

It was fun, I thought, in retrospect. Dancing provocatively. talking freely. It was what I had always dreamed of, in a certain way. What was missing, though, was a connection to the people we had just fucked. We processed for a day, a week. And we continued.

The adventures included a number of responses to our ads, as well as joining a website devoted to swingers. We met several couples, and in the midst of it, I found some sort of liberation.

I also found my inner core. My intense love for my partner, which had existed for years unacknowledged, soared and became brave. I told him, and immediately felt vulnerable beyond any vulnerability I had allowed myself in years.

I was then jealous, jealous with my lover’s hypnotic attraction to the shenanigans of a woman who entered our universe, pulling so hard as to disrupt my momentary bliss of intimacy. I feared losing him, or myself, resented her games and her power plays, possible only from someone who swings with a safety net, supported by her husband there to catch her. I wanted her ability to capture his thoughts. I wanted her uninhibited passion. I wanted so much that I can never have, not now, not in my situation. My lover became secretive with her, turned away from me. I wished I could be her, for a moment, until I wanted myself back again. I could never be her, no, not my goal to tear people apart. But.. I wonder.. is this what happens with the multitude of lovers? Do our senses become so dull from constant fucking and whatever else that we seek ever more sensation, no matter the consequences? I never want to be so numb. I never want to be so callous.

And yet..

I want so much more. This power, I do want, the power to move, the power to grow. I love talking, love the interactions of people, and bodies, and feelings. I love a couple we did meet, so smart, so sweet, so beautiful. I love the love, and devotion I see in the couples who come into this dance with some question, some desire for more, for more touch, for more emotion.

The vast majority of the couples we have met in this game have been long married. They love one another without question, and have ventured into a world in search of excitement. They are together. My world is a bit different, entering with a lover, and not a mate. I want to curl up in his arms at the end of the night and bask in the experience, but it is a rare occurrence. I crave this, as I have said so many times–I may exist just fine, but I do want it, long for it.

The everyday is my fantasy, so difficult it seems for me, in my life, to find what others yearn to escape. I don’t know exactly how to explain this.. but I think I was made to love this way, in simple ways, and then complex. Maybe we all are.

So why? Why enter a world that seems fraught with danger and disappointment?

I have asked myself this on numerous occasions. My partner is unbelievably attractive. I find him so, and yet I know now that it is not merely subjective: he is hot. He knows it now, more than ever. And me?

I am hot, perhaps, but smoldering. Not on fire. Or at least, I think this is true. The subtlety that may appeal in other situations goes largely unnoticed in a swinger’s club on a Saturday night–or I never notice if anyone notices. I still like to dance. And flirt. And God help us all if I have to fend off too many men I don’t like… It won’t be pretty.

But who knows? Maybe, as my lover flirts with the many women who will gravitate to his deep sexy voice and swagger, I will dance to Nelly for a little while, and then discuss Foucault in a darkened corner, examining the dynamics of power inherent in the wearing of high heels (and what is a high heel? says Barthes, perhaps, what does it mean?), or perhaps indulging my interest in 18th century epistolary novels, and polemics of de Sade in a Jean-Jacques world, and why we are here in the first place, thinking of more.

This talk, of course, would be just posturing, avoidance, protection. It would be some attempt to find solace in my mind, which feels sound and safe–some ground where I feel I have the upper hand. Power, once again.

What makes more sense, really, is mindless flirting, the ideal, then, the passion, the intense wish for freedom, and the wish that my lover would sweep in, at last, to pull me in at the end.

 

everyday

I wish for this, for the mundane, for the everyday.

It seems elusive for the outlaws in this world, love, the misfits like me. Like you.

I want love. I want to make you dinner.

Flannel shirt unbuttoned low, scruff beard brushing my face as you pull me close. This is the stuff that others have, that I want. This is the stuff I dream about.

Your muddy shoes lie askew in my entry hall, just like you, your fevered touch, your breath hurried on the first step, the step up to my bed, your cock already in my mouth, here. I can never deny you. I want you, too, want too much, want to please, know I please you now, then, tomorrow.

But it is not this, never this, never the trickling down my deepest throat, no not my fingers dug deep into your throbbing holes. Not my climax, the satisfaction of my frantic moans in the night, your tongue on my clit, your cock pumping me white, to limp, still wanting.

I want you, want your skin, the shirt you wore while working, your warm hands in my hair, late in the night, sleepy night.

I want you to want me.

No.

I want you to need me, to wait at my door in the night, late night, night of desperation. Knob Creek sending you to me against your better judgment. I want you to want me in your drunken unconscious moments. I want to be there, then, because I know you know better.

I know you want me, then, know that your mind wanders, that if you had the time, you would run away with me.

thoughts on life, and on groundhogs and their predictions

The new year came in with a series of deaths.

Death of a short-lived love, which might have bloomed, which never could.

Death of a friend, who long ago assembled a series of my writings and inserted them into something he called a web log, a blog–not this one, but the introduction to a new way of creating, for me. He saw a lot, lived a lot, and I loved to hear his stories, and his gentle urges for me to write, write more. His only request for this gift was that I should urge someone younger, when I am older. His generosity inspires me still.

Death, last of all, of my mother. I cannot say enough to do justice to her inspiration. She had many dreams in her life–grand ones!–and taught me the importance of living well, in so many ways, of loving well. She taught me, too, to dream.

I think of these dear moments, as snow falls gently here on a Sunday morning, snow that cannot decide if it might not rather be rain on this not-so-cold day, day that despite big storms and exertions of winter, may–as the groundhog promised– consider the possibility of spring not so long from now, days that repeat in all the splendor that this life brings us.

new

Friends,

I have been a naughty blogger in recent months, my attention swayed from the here and now to the there and should be. I am back.

Resolutions (quite obvious, I am sure):

Love more. Seek adventure (more). Kick through the snow and dried leaves, and see what lies beneath.

Unbutton a coat. Just one button. Then another. Mmm. Come right in. I have missed you.

Happy New Year.