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.

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.