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.

 

ripe morning

My clit is like a ripe grape this morning, juicy fruit, pop, not a cherry, but the stuff of swollen dreams, slumbered screams scattered through the bedsheets.

I lie in bed, warm, spread my legs my pussy drenched I don’t remember. It must have been about you.

A pinch to my nipple sends shock waves through my belly, straight to my cunt, my core being. The first. Kindling. I want to be your come-slut.

In scene two, you have grabbed my feet and pulled me to the end of the bed, where you kneel and devour my pussy, fingers roughly responding to my greedy lust. Fuck my ass. Yes, just like that. exactly like that. precisely. like. that.

I knew you’d hold me down, make me open, keep me there, raw, ready, make me swell, squirm, surrender.

“You want to be used, my little naughty?”

Oh I do, a steady succession of cock, assorted shape, assorted size, assorted whimpers, moans, muffled cries, at last, it is loud, I know, and you are holding my hand here on earth..

Use me last, love, you, lust lucky me as you watch what you have created.

I wish you were here. You are here.

rope

My lover and I have been experimenting with our adventures, expanding the limits of what we even thought we were capable of doing together.

This is what has led me to thoughts of gang bangs, and various other entanglements that have challenged me in various ways. It is intensely emotional, with the potential to blow the mind…

Nothing has captivated me more, though, than the ruby red rope he brought to my house a few weeks ago. It is gorgeous, particularly against creamy, white skin. I always had fantasies of being tied up. Cords still are attached from years ago when he tied me to the bed. But this was something different.

I thought it was all about the restraint, the dynamic of powerlessness within the scenario. I thought it was about submission, and trust. And it is. Oh yes, it is. I love this, love letting myself enter into that pure space–but this is only the second half.

Last week, the day before my birthday, my lover set to tying me up. He cut the rope into lengths, then started wrapping it around me. Too tight? too loose? How does it feel? It felt glorious…the vulnerability, inescapable. Submission, permission, admission, this sublime gift.

But there is something more that I never thought to consider. The intricate knots, the maneuvering.. it all takes time–and attention. It is perhaps this that I crave more than anything else. I bask in the glow, but it takes time, effort, patience. His, and mine. Tying me up, being tied up, it all is a careful exercise, foreplay, a meditation…

speed limit

It was posted there, on the  left side of my brain, the speed limit.

I have been playing life way too safe.

My first car was a 72 Chevelle, three on the tree manual. The guy who sold it to me took me to a parking lot and took a few turns around the parking lot to show me how to let up the clutch, smoothly, so I didn’t kill the engine. Then he left me there. “Drive it back,” he said. “If you like it, we’ll talk money.”

I liked it.

Girls don’t drive muscle cars. I got that concept quickly enough when I brought it home. But I loved the thrill of speed, the exhilarating rumble of a revved-up engine, ready for green. Go. Go, I got my tickets, not many, didn’t get caught so often or talked my way out of most things, no excuses, just temporary insanity of sorts, drunk, not on late night beer, but on the temptation of a clear road, clear night, a car poised next to me at the light, his accelerator pushed to the floor, my feet dancing that balance between the clutch, green, down first up, down second up, down, third up quickly, and yes, yes, I raced him, raced far past the 30 mph, not to the 80 spray-painted over it, but fast, so fast, until he passed me, or I passed him, sometimes, or one of us killed the engine losing it all in those careless early shifts. But more often we raced close, not sure winning was so much the point as being there, and free, and laughing as we soared out alone past the flat fields .

i have been playing life way too safe.

I forgot the thrill of the limits, living at the limits, or better, somewhere beyond them.  Not on automatic. Letting off the clutch. Shifting into high.

 

vfw

My friend Jenny drove that night, your buddy up front with her, pawing at her, her pawing him away, and us whooping loudly in the back of her little Honda Civic, headed out beyond the city lights, through fields of soybeans and Farm Bureau reports, radio waves through the dark, dark sky.

You craved authenticity, you said, wanted to be with your people. Your people, my ass, Guggenheim fellow, you not common folk, not like the cheap beer and mariachi accordions and war stories that seep out of these sorts of places, rented out for an evening like so many rooms I have shared with you, peeling wallpaper authentic enough, I am sure.

No one knew us there, true, and I danced with the short dark man who asked me, until you returned from the bar and saw me there with him, in the middle of a sparsely populated dance floor, that little man with the slicked back hair, pressed pants, aftershave, the one who insisted te quiero over and over and over, ay Corona, I have a boyfriend. This man worked in the fields when he first came here, now works at the plant and I don’t know this sort of Spanish. These are not your people, love, no, these people roasting pigs in the parking lot and dancing polka-style. You don’t even know. They hate people like you, people who remind them that they are just getting by. They are like my people back in the city, the car factory workers, the construction union men like my daddy. I never wanted that, you know.

I wanted you, the scholar, wanted to run away with you. But you want this? you do not, you can always go back home, safe and sound. You want my ass in your hands while you pull me close and possess me in the moonlight, pull my hips into yours while we dance here, even here, everywhere, through cornfields and discotheques and grocery stores and stairwells. I try to run, but melt when I feel your cock pressed up against my ass when you finally catch me, in my short skirt, in my bikini panties, panties round my ankles while you bend me over, spread me open, make me a true believer. You, your bourgeois upbringing fucking my blue collar cunt. This is new  for you, this authenticity, authentic makes me want to scream if it means you want me the way I am.

Stillness, you sigh. My heart slows at last. And now what? Now. What?

It’s funny I say I loved you then. Funny I think back to that night when you told me that there was no one in the world you loved more than me, the best part of me, right? I wanted your mind, your promise, your hand in mine. You wanted me down, dirty, Johnny Cash late night whiskey checked shirt grit.

I was your exotic. I thought you wanted the me I dreamed I could be.

I hate my bitterness sometimes, hate to think back and realize that you never cared really about what I cared about, or that I did not know how to care for you. You showed me my place, put me back where I belonged, not where I wanted to go. Thrilling, perverse, brilliant, but it was never love. Liberation? Oh, if only to be liberated from that life. No, not even that. We both craved something deeper, but we would only destroy one another if we got it. Love is all I ever wanted. Love will set you free, they said. They probably were right.

It was all so long ago, though, those foreign wars so faraway, and yet my stories stare me down, reflected in a beer glass late at night. Oh, but no one wants to hear about unrequited love anymore, not even me. Best to forget. Best to move on. Best not to think of what might have been, of what never was.