end of a beautiful friendship

Oh, readers, I been absent for so long, I know. Not because I didn’t want to write, but because the source of my inspiration here was gone.

In the last month, our relationship has unraveled completely. After some degree of ranting, and ultimately, reacting to my point-blank question about whether he was seeing someone else, my lover threw out a few accusations to me, none true, nor do I even think he believed what he said to me. Projection, a good friend suggested. But no matter. He picked a fight, and I chose not to fight back. He is gone. I did not stop him.

In reality, I knew it was over almost two years ago, the day before my birthday, an intense day when I told him I loved him. All was flying high with us, I thought, but at the point of my dewy-eyed expression of long-time love, he could muster only that he had known for a long time how I felt. The days that followed were no celebration, but filled with his worry and dismay at my decision to confess feelings that I had hoped were mutual.

I told him then, a few weeks later, with coaxing from a sex therapist, how much I wanted the everyday small pleasures of life with him. He reacted with an anger I never before believed possible in him. His anger changed my love for him, made me sad, despondent, unsure of all we had experienced together. And  I could no longer write about him. Hence my long silence here.

Our relationship could go nowhere from there but down, and down down down it went. He stuck around, and so did I–foolishly. But he went from expressing admiration for what I had accomplished to pitying me for having had to rise from a very difficult place. In truth, I realized that he thought–perhaps always HAD thought–of me as a lesser person.

True enough that he helped me, many times quite generously. I would have helped him, too–could have. I was thankful, yes, and still am. For a long time, I took these gestures as words that he could not say, but evermore he spoke of me as a person he was trying to rescue, as though he could see nothing else in me but a breaking down house and a burden. He disappeared for stretches, but was angry when I didn’t ask him for help. And yet, he guarded his own needs so carefully… was sure never to put himself in the place of ever letting me help him. That hurt perhaps the worst. And yet, there was pain to come: I learned over the last few months outright about this, and that in fact, Lady Dragonfly was a creature much submerged that my lover had never been honest, that he has had many other lovers while he was with me. Oh, no, I care so little about flirtations, sex, but he lied and let me keep loving him. He took my trust, the best of me, and I ache to have that back. He knew of my dreams. Where I thought he was ignoring me, he was cataloging my desires, denying me. Left me to wonder why he could acknowledge her publicly but not me. But not tell me. Oh, oh, it is all so painful. And yet I think back… how delightful my submersion was, when I blindly believed in him…

In truth, I knew my lover had misgivings about loving me right from the start, no matter what his actual feelings might have been. In all that time, I assumed much, but the slap of reality made me doubt. He was not in a rather privately agreed-upon open marriage, but in an elaborate infidelity… I was unaware of it for a long time–only realized recently that the whole game was incredibly well played. But I should have trusted my gut instinct–never in my life had I stuck with someone who was unable to express his own love for me. And I was sick from it all, not myself once I stopped making up these stories. Oh I cherish what I thought I had, and the creative energy I enjoyed in making Lady Dragonfly, and my dreams.

In all of this, though, I realize that I had lost so much of myself long ago, a marriage that could not stand the tragedies of life, the things that may bring stronger couples closer… In our humanity, we sometimes know ourselves so well only in the difficult moments; we define our own strengths and beliefs more than ever in crisis. We also discover the power of love, and those whom we love, and who love us. The real tragedy, then, is often in the dissolution of our beliefs about our relationships, and the trust we have in them. It is usually no one’s fault in particular, but perhaps a difference in vision, faith… and how to cope with situations that some may never encounter in a lifetime.

and before… My marriage was obviously some attempt to recover my own long desire for my father to stop hurting me. After so many wonderful, openly affectionate boyfriends, why else would I have chosen the one man who drew me in, but could never dive into our love without jealousy and control? Damaged he was,  too, and I imagine we were both trying to repair our childhood pain, but I digress.

The lover you met here had shared life experiences with me that we recognized before we ever met. We had faced tragedies, with a parent, with a child. I thought that our common understanding united us in love, as well. Now I think we saw this all differently; I believe he sought a mere respite, an escape–and not a joining of souls.

As for me, I thought I had left the sorrow of my marriage behind, but I realize now that I had not recovered completely when I met my lover. I believed in my lover, but I had not yet uncovered my formerly unwavering self-confidence and ability to walk away when it was clear that he was not available to love me. In the process of letting go of my very appealing lover now, I have remembered at last how to hold onto who I am. I have felt calmer and more sure of myself now than I have in over twenty years.

I have a new creative project now. Eroticism will always matter to me, but my new work has a greater emphasis on truth and expansion of love and loving. Thank you all for all your love and attention here, and please drop me a line if you want to know where to find my creative energy next. I will leave the Lady Dragonfly blog here for now, if you care to read, and dream as I did. I truly did love my lover, completely and without reservation. I love also what he inspired in me.

trickle

I was thinking back to that day in the museum.

I was thinking back to sitting in the museum cafe with you. You ordered something with polenta. I was drinking gewürztraminer, but I don’t remember at all what I ate, or if I ate.

All I remember was my cunt pulsing wildly after you fucked me in the men’s room.

It was glorious, you know. I remember sitting in the restaurant, with jeans and no panties, the seams sticking to my wetness. I remember that sudden warm rush as I shifted, and your come gushed from my pussy, soaking my jeans.

It made me hot with want for you then, love. You know? I wanted you then, wanted to take you back home and fuck you wildly all afternoon.

These moments are my museum, you know, these collected works of fucking you. Of loving you.

I wonder how the critics would see these works over time. Would they scoff at the sheer indecency of it now, proclaim it genius later? That is the way, the stereotypical response of misunderstanding.

Or would they find it forever nostalgic drivel? Love is such a common sentiment, after all.

But it inspired me then.

I think of all the moments I never would have enjoyed with you, if I had seen them without the lenses I wore, the ones that cast a pink happiness on everything we were.

You had the best of me, when I loved you.

No. That’s not really true.

You had the best of me when I thought you were the one in love.

once in a while

Waiting, wistful–no, wishful, willful, unwilling, willing perhaps in the window seat, I peek out at the shadows on the street, half expecting your innocent prance past the parked cars across, up the path.

I found your note tucked into the letter box, your invitation, I was here, meet me once more, tomorrow, noon. I am here.

I am here, black sheer stockings rolled up my shaved legs early in the day, garters catching the lace beneath the short skirt, someone saw, blushed, said nothing, carried on, then whispered, he’ll think of me.

Think of me, I know you would be with me, if… If days were longer, if we had the time, space, cherished moments, life itself, some other life. Days grow shorter in autumn, clearer, these blue moons so unusual, still another three years’ wait, I hear, so rare, so lovely, you could.

We could, you know. We could race up the stairs once again, and you could catch me, throw me to the bed and kiss me, yes. You could lay your head in my lap and close your eyes, drift off, then stretch high to lie beside me, hold me close, too close, so close. You could let me love you while you fuck me I fuck you you love me.

Or maybe you do, or did, or wanted to, or could have, or could never say, or never did, or did, or will, or perhaps it was simply fear, or desire, deferred.

To greet you here, love, noon, today, tomorrow, skin so sweet, so six a.m., so Saturday, so sleep, now, love, sleep.

wind

The windows rattle with each gust, wind restless, wind will not let me rest. I lie sleepless with the creaking shutters, the screen door that has not caught downstairs. Too lazy to leave my bed, I lie awake still listening, fearful, until I think the door might tear right off its hinges.

The stairs are warm, to my surprise, as I creep out, stairs so familiar, so welcoming, welcoming as the front door, the screen door now that I lock shut, if only for this night. Night now softer in the glow of a street light, wind ferocious, but it is my match, yes, my match now that I can see it clearly.

From the window below, the stars grow, bright in the sky cleared by the force, the cold bracing, embracing me as I unhitch the door, let it swing open, my hair blowing as I walk down to the path, the cold slap across my face, the searing heat beneath skin, your kiss, your violent lust.

disrobing

You always leave your clothes in the bathroom when you visit me.

You wander naked into my bedroom where I wait for you, fully clothed, because I love the way you undress me slowly, unbuttoning button by button, unhooking hook by hook, lifting fabric and shifting things and leaving things on, then ripping them off in a moment of urgent passion as you realize that they really are in the way of your intentions.

The first time I wore stockings with a garter belt, you ran your hand up my leg and I felt your cock stiffen as you reached the bump of the garter through my skirt then lifted the skirt and looked at it, the black stocking against my white leg, and your hand examining the hooks that held the stocking on. That day I left it on, pantiless I was all day at work anticipating you here in my bed here leaned against the wall half sitting, full of evident lust. I left on the garter belt and the stockings and straddled you as you ran your hands up and down the smooth nylon and fucked me harder as you felt the black lace at the top, folded down my red brassiere and sucked my nipples as I leaned over for you to reach them.

But no, last time you took those things off, your hand playing with the suspenders playing to figure out how they worked. You unfastened them, round the side, in back, and rolled the stockings down my leg as I pulled the garter belt off and unhooked my bra. You pulled the bra off and cupped my breasts in your hand and squeezed my nipples hard so that I gasped as you urged me quickly onto your upright cock.

I want you to come into my bedroom now. I want you to lay me down and unbutton my sweater slowly until you open the sweater and kiss my collarbone gently, gently not gently unzipping my skirt and pulling it off, pushing my legs apart–the panties are already gone–and your head is between my legs, your tongue circling my clit before I can even breathe, much less protest.

But I would not protest. I might whimper and thrash a bit, but protest no, even if I say no, because you know the difference between this no and that no, and you know when to stop, when to go, when to fuck me soft and when to fuck me hard, no holds barred, no bars and no restrictions on the roughness that takes you over as you become excited, as I become excited and want you to, want you to slap me harder until I cry out, harder until I want you to push me harder until you turn me back over and push your cock deep into me, harder. It astounds me how you can do this now and only excite me more. It astounds me how you can let my fingernails dig into your skin, pinch your nipples too hard, let me suck your cock and push my fingers into you, my toys into you as you cry out and fuck me again all plugged from behind and insistent and shaking and coming soon inside of me, shattering me, making my cunt bear down hard gripping you, squeezing every last drop as I climax too.

Oh disrobe me fuck me use me lie inside my cunt your cock drained soft softer kiss.

introduction

Ah. I knew it would not take much to get your attention, especially when I am dressed like this. I begin here, to document my quest for love, truth, and satisfaction in this world.

And you, do you always look so lost, so confused? Sit down. Relax, and let me tell you a story.

The first one is about you.

I know you. I have watched you from across the way,  in evenings when your shade was not pulled, when you walked back and forth across the window, talking, going about your daily routine. I saw you glance outside once in awhile, looking out for some piece of yourself beyond those walls that contained you.

Perhaps you were looking for me.