Posts tagged non monogomy
V is for "Ouch!" Rope Journaling 5-3

It’s been a while since I've played with anyone new. It's also been an equally long time since I've gotten a chance to seriously bottom. So I did a big scary thing and posted an ad in the play dates thread for Kinkfest asking for what I wanted.

Admitting to needing a chance to play and not be in control was terrifying. It didn’t help that most of the people who responded were older men.  And looking at their messages I realized I was zero percent interested in them. Old men used to be my jam! Guess being treated well by the youngin’ Mr Right changed my mind. Turns out feminist, socially aware folks of my generation are a lot more rewarding.

So that left me with just one fella in my age range that wrote a great “this is me and this is the trouble we could get into” message. Problem was he didn't have a picture. Never a good sign. But everything he said was hot and interesting so I took a chance and told him how to find me in the dungeon the first night.

It was half way into the evening already and this mystery man hadn't said hello, all my regular play partner friends were busy getting into trouble already. So I wondered if I should call it a night and go home to play with the sure thing that was waiting for me in bed. Just as I was turning to walk towards my bag and coat the universe tapped me on the shoulder.

I turned around to a younger hyperactive version of Robert Downey Jr. “Hi I'm V. I hope you're Emily because I don't usually talk to strangers.” I instantly knew I would play with V if he was up for it because damn I have a weak spot (and a wet spot in my pants) for RDJ. See, the first dirty old man I slept with on the regular who became my regular fuck buddy all through college looked like RDJ and I'd never quite gotten over him. Guess I wasn't as over old men as I thought.

So after declaring our hypothetical interest in a scene, V and I did a dance of flirtation heavy on sarcasm and geeky puns, you know, just the way I like. Kinkfest is the one time of year I will do pick up play (doing a scene with a near stranger with very little negotiation) because it's a huge event. I trust people to not be stupid enough to try to cross limits in a room of hundreds of witnesses and if something goes wrong there's hundreds of people to help. So I was ready to jump in. V however needed more foreplay.

We sat and chatted about being Midwesterners trying to figure out the strange social graces of the west coast and the differences between the kink scenes in the various places we've lived. (No matter where one goes, Portland has the reputation of being the consent violation capital of the sad and yet so well warranted. There's a reason I don't often play with new partners.) And since we were stationary our friends kept finding us to say hello. And each time we got interrupted it took V a minute to remember we were thinking about playing. So by 11 I was ready to leave him and go try to play with a friend since it seemed like V was never going to happen. And again as soon as I decided I was done waiting for V, he decided he was ready.

Finally! What's a girl gotta go to get tied up around Portland these days?

We settled for a square of super sexy wrestling mats on the super safe concrete floor. (The ambiance of the dungeon this year left a bit to be desired.) He spread out his ropes, I took off only my dress because he didn't want the girl cooties of naked flesh near his body (hey I’d waited this long for the thing to happen I wasn’t going to bail now and I didn’t need my bits touched anyway.) And we began our dance of give and take.

He circled rope around my chest, let the rope go slack and then pulled it tight suddenly to knock me off balance and into him. He pushed me away and finished the rope harness in a similar fashion, always keeping me on edge. We were standing, neither of my arms were bound and he kept looking at me expectantly. We had negotiated and talked about possibilities for over an hour I had kinda forgotten what he had decided on us doing at this point. Did he want me to fight him and be switchy? We'd flirted with rope wrestling as a possibility, was he waiting for me to put a rope on him?

Just as I was about to ask he approached me putting the bone of his knees into the backs of my mine to sweep me to the floor where he added more rope. That answered that question.


As he added more ropes to the tangle of seemingly nonsensical lines on my body he would periodically tug on them or poke me with an elbow or knee to elicit a grunt. “Oh does that hurt? Should I stop? Anything else you have to say for yourself?”

It was about then I realized this is probably what it's like to get topped by me. I sighed at the universe's sense of humor and resigned myself to being tormented by the male alternative reality version of me.  Complete with a rope mess, awkwardly applied pain and sarcastic sadistic comments. I made a mental note to learn some new topping methodology. Who was I kidding...I was having a blast even if his techniques were oddly familiar.  After all I liked all the things I do to people, that's why I do them. I just so seldom get them done to me I forgot what such a thing was like.

It was delightful to lay back and “enjoy” being tormented. V was terrible! In the best possible way of course. I was groaning and threatening to bite him and yelling everything except the “fuck you” he so desired. Not even when he played with my feet did I give in and say every Top’s favorite ego stroking phrase.

We even managed a rope kerfuffle with grace. Instead of panicking when a limb was totally unresponsive V untied it was quickly as possible (no easy task when I was covered with his entire bag of rope) and talked me through sensation returning. We laughed and continued his plan to hurt me until I was loopy. It worked, by the time all the rope was off me I was weaving around while trying to sit up while also unable to figure out my sweater. He coiled his rope while looking at me worried. “Don't worry I promise not to fall over and break my head. It's just been a reeallly long time since I've gotten to bottom to a meanie. This is all good, promise.”

“I figured but thanks for letting me know.  And don’t worry I had fun too, I just have resting overly concerned face.”

After I'd cobbled together a bit of brain power we hugged farewell and I took the train home to cuddle a sleepy Mr Right who was snuggled up in bed waiting for me, sleeping like a puppy.  Curling up around my love, I was well reminded of everything I like and don’t about playing with new people. I guess I should do it more often!

Absence Makes a Heart...

My lover goes to another country for two weeks.  Not that long.  Easy peasy.  The time will fly. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that, right?  His last words to me are “I’ll miss you.”  He leaves me with a vase of flowers to remember him by.  I’m so secure in our mutual feels for one another that it’s all silly puppy love pouts of longing and not worry about the distance, neither physical nor emotional, that has me bummed.

Except: absence makes the heart grow fonder…

He texts me about his days, his adventures and I live vicariously through him. One day the phrase “and I had company” appears in his run down of the day.  And I feel a weird flutter in my chest as I read it a couple of times to parse that out.  And the queasy feeling grows, not because he’s likely slept with another woman—he’s free to do whatever he likes within the bounds of safety and honesty—but because none of this is ideal.  There are conversations we should have had before he left, and silly us, we were too busy saying good bye to have those talks. 

So logical me smiles and teasingly congratulates him, eager to hear more about her later, ideally when we’re in the same room so I can touch him, see him smile when he describes their time.  Because I do want to know more and I want him to do all the things (and people) that make him happy.  But emotional me can’t figure out why this hurts. I frantically leave the brunch place I’ve taken myself to while texting him good morning and lay in bed feeling deflated.

Then it hits me. I hear his voice in my head, “She was just keeping me company, stop over reacting, Emily.” Not Mr. Right’s voice.  It’s Mutton, the shit box narcissist abuser whose manipulation and mind games were as plentiful as the amount of women he kept around to make me feel insecure during our two years together. That was years ago and yet…

And I feel like a shit for not being able to say more, say the right thing to Mr. Right just then.  My feels are not his fault.  Dear, PTSD brain, you suck.  Unfuck you Mutton and the abuse that keeps on abusing even though you’re long gone from my life.  It was the euphemism, too familiar, too often used against me, and not the information conveyed that hurt.

Logical me treats herself to an orgasm because Mutton never gets to ruin my day ever again.  Seriously, unfuck that guy.  I turn on porn and fuck myself for a good long while, delaying the inevitable, getting myself just to the edge and stopping to go plainfly slow while watching the man and woman on the screen.  In my head the couple becomes Mr. Right and his mystery hook up.  And it becomes more difficult to wait. 

Holding myself on the edge is excruciating as I fuck myself with the vibrator, not allowing myself the stimulation to my clit that would put me over the edge.  The couple on the screen kiss, looking at one another that way only people who are really enjoying fucking do.  Eyes and mouths wide and bodies absolutely on the same page of pleasure.  Looking almost as if they’re shocked to find themselves in this situation.  Their connection is palpable and erotic as hell.

I wonder if Mr. Right looked at his mystery lady that way.  It’s a look I’ve seen on his face many times.  And I hope so, I hope his hotel room was full of pleasure.  I fantasize about watching them from a chair in the corner of that room, touching myself as my lover fucks another woman.  Would their entangling look anything like ours?  Does he touch her the way he touches me?  What’s specific to our repertoire?

It’s not enough that I’m a dirty old woman fucking this sweet young thing?  Now I’m imagining his trysts?   Knowing this fantasy is weird makes the moment that much better.  So of course this is the moment I move the vibrator to my clit and let go.

And the climax is so cathartic that I cry while coming down from that high. Sweaty and sticky between the legs, face covered in tears, I laugh at myself.  I never stop being surprised at the human heart.  That limerence*, lust, and sadness can occur in the same moment.  That both people can do everything right and one person can trip over the strangest trigger.  That a bruised heart can lead to such debauchery.

Emotional me feels raw the next day until she grows the ovaries to text Mr. Right the “right” way to let me know next time he sleeps with someone else.  100% industrial strength honesty with no euphemism please and thank you.  And that is that.  I have a communication-is-sexy boner the rest of the day.

And the heart grows fonder still…

So I have to throw my hands up and roll my eyes epically at the universe to hear that as soon as Mr. Right gets home, he’s sick.  Instead of having a sweet, sexy reunion we’re both miserable, our bodies playing cruel tricks on us both.  Fortunately he’s well enough a day later to snuggle up and hide from the world. 

We aren’t able to follow our lust anywhere deeper than to spooning but we talk and that’s world’s more intimate.  I hear about the mystery woman and my heart swells to see him shy and pleased, sharing the perfect amount of details.  And in hearing him talk about her I learn more about him, what he likes and what he is like.  What delights him and what drew him to her.  I’ve never adored him as much as when I hear him speak kindly of another woman and their time together.  Because he doesn’t hide anything or compare us. No one is better or more than, we’re just both ladies who happened to cross paths with this same man.  And isn’t that beautiful and strange?

And I tell him of my own minor hook up while he was away.  The rope fun I had when my regular rope bottom was away.  Everything is sweet and silly and out in the open.  We tease one another and giggle at ourselves, it’s not the cathartic sex I’d prefer to be having after having such a vulnerable conversation, but when is life ever perfect?

Instead he lets me hold him through a long night of fever sleep, my arm wrapped around him, hand on his heart, feeling him close.  And I don’t even feel sad about our lack of sexual intimacy just then. Instead I’m consumed with sweetness. For once I actually believe what’s happening in front of me, none of it is manipulation, or denial to keep me on my toes, sad and stressed.  It’s just life.  And we’ll get to the dirty stuff soon enough.  For now the tenderness is plenty satisfying and real.

When I finally get around to tying him up…  Oh boy.



*used here to describe that delightful mushy lovey dovey near obsession that happens early in a romance before the commitment and bonding stage begins