the sage tellings of a kinky, poly debutant

A drumming noise inside my head that starts when you’re around.

So miserable and you can see it on my face. Little things, you didn’t do the dishes, tiny things, you couldn’t stop to think, miniscule things, you didn’t consider how I’d feel. They pile up. Dishes in the sink. Oh the little things I allow to plague me.

I see you lying there and want to touch you, feel your warm skin on my slightly damp flesh. Soft hairs in a course weave all over your body, and I would run my fingers through it. Inhibited, you don’t want it? The touch of me to you, restless bones must fling themselves all over the bed and I have my strip of personal space, let me invade yours? Running my hands through the bounce of your chest hair, and it’s trapped between two lungs, this desire to say that I want it—that touch both perfect and simple. You re-manoeuvre, head at the foot and toes at the top. No words for this, I turn over and know that you can’t want me. No hope for the littlest intimacy to start the day with. Be alone.

I get up and dress.

Computer in my bag, remnants of words half started, can’t focus where the clutter piles. Sitting on the foot, next to your head, everything is together and I have cast all of my glances. Up, taking your cue, you dress, and I rise to go. Before I touch it a hand on my baggage, you cast it aside gently, take my head tenderly in your hand, my waist guides me down, your ear to my breast. Collapsed to my body your body to mine. Half finished words that were never started and only ended. Soft hair on a once shaven scalp. The laundered clothing I put away in your closet, the pillows I placed in their cases, the bed I made. I smell and feel my gifts surrounding you as I revel in the one you’re giving me. This is how we say it.

There are a thousand ways to say “I love you”. I can easily lecture on the merits of being secure in your relationships with your loved ones, and being able to accept your loved one’s methods of saying “I love you,” but I know how important it is to just experience the words. I also understand that I am coming from a feminine perspective and that that may be a very different need for me than for say my male partners.

One of the tops I play with—and a genuinely smart gentleman—has a webpage, and on his webpage he has a compilation of notes and clever questions and work sheets for a variety of relationship style types and experiences. One of my favourite worksheets on his page is related to an author named Robert Rubel. Now, I haven’t read Dr Rubel’s book but I’m definitely interested in doing so. After the relationship thinking paradigms example I had demonstrated to me by one of my favourite tops, I am definitely enticed.

You see, I experience different methods of saying “I love you” all the time. All of my partners are very different and in that regard I’ve had to learn how to experience those methods in a positive manner, even though they may be very different from my own methods. An example of what I’m talking about is as follows:

One way of experiencing love and express love is through the senses,

“People tend to process information according to how strongly each of the five senses affects them.

Visual: You consider it important

1. How you look,
2. How your home looks
3. How each of you dress
4. “I love you” is often expressed in how you keep up the house & garden, in your wardrobe, and in the care you take to look appealing

Auditory:  You consider it important

1. To hear the other person say complimentary things and, “I love you”.
2. To air your ideas and have others talk freely
3. To have peace & quiet at times and at other times to have music that fits your mood

Kinaesthetic: You consider it important

1. To touch your partner and have your partner touch you – stroking, massaging, hugging, etc.
2. Every touch is saying, “I love you.”

Gustatory: You consider it important

1. To have flavourful, interesting meals, often taking great pride in your cooking abilities
2. “I love you” is said with the care that’s taken with every meal.

Olfactory: You consider it important

1. That your partner keeps fresh and uses fragrances that enhance them
2. That your home and environment smells nice, thus you often use room fresheners, incense, etc.
3. Taking the effort to have the house smell nice is saying, “I love you.”

When thinking about myself I know that I experience love through touch—touching my love object and wanting to be touched by it, but, I am also very auditory. I tend to give visual, but I do not expect to receive visual in return. Gustatory is also something I am very interested in giving, and something that charms me to no end when I receive. I have one partner who is very Gustatory and Kinesthetic, another who is very kinaesthetic and visual, and yet another who is kinaesthetic and Olfactory.

I think it is important when considering which of these you may or may not be to also consider how you give and how you receive, because as I went through these I asked myself that question and found that while I may give visual I have no expectations or necessarily desire to receive on that level. While I may enjoy smelling nice, I appreciate it much more if my partner has a definable scent.

How we experience “I love you” is in fact crucial, and pairs delightfully with the actual method of how we state “I love you”.

““I love you” is expressed in the gestures or statements used to deliver the message according to one’s own code.  One person’s “I love you” gesture or statement may fail to connect with the other person.”

Money/gifts:  Some people, especially men, feel that paying the rent and bills or buying gifts is a demonstration of “I love you” and that they don’t have to say anything.

Sensory:  “I love you” is said with every touch.

Performing services:  Some people translate the house being kept neatly or the slave serving as a personal assistant as the “I love you” message.

Time and attention:  Some people consider that spending a lot of time with them translates to “I love you.”

Verbal:  Some people respond to being told that they are loved.

I would like to stress again that the theories and information given in block quotes are the intellectual property of Dr Robert Rubel, and I am mainly using them to get a point across.

We can see above how the stimulus is paired with the response and how we organize those things in our mind. “I love you” can be framed in many ways. This has been critical to my ruminations lately as I navigate around the difficult emotional mine field of figuring out what I can be content with as demonstrations of “I love you” from my partners. Of late one of my partners has been using any means possible to tell me that he loves me, so long as it’s not actually those three words. I appreciate these actions and demonstrations beyond what he can imagine since it’s happened before that I’ve had the words without the actions. But, as I go forward I understand more and more how important those words really are to me. I don’t think it’s something to be ashamed of, if we need something and are available emotionally to acknowledge that need then we have accomplished a level of introspection that is very important. All the same, it sometimes feels shameful to want something that another partner is, for a time, emotionally unavailable to give. So how do I deal with that?

Thinking about it, and remembering a time when the words were just words, I prefer the way things are now, so long as one day the progress to a place where what is done can be discussed, and what is discussed can be done.

Think about it, what kind of lover are you?

My sensory self:

My ways of saying “I love you”

What is there to say about Tony? Not a lot. He is perhaps the blandest relationship I’ve ever been a part of, if you can even call it that. Of recent I was asked how I met F, I responded with “In bitter cynicism,” or something to that effect. One could say the same of how I met Tony.

Tony and I had both just come out of relationships that had lasted about two and a half years. We were both shaken, for myself I was in brutal pain over the fact that I had to leave someone I still loved, for him—he was just angry—his ex had been somewhat abusive (what makes women think that they can beat men I’ll never know, they certainly don’t agree with the inverse). So, having met at a party several years previous, we decided to meet when our then-friend Chris said that we had a lot in common in terms of having just broken up with people. I was three months out of it with my first love, and I think he was about a month or more.

So we met and had a great day hanging out together. He showed me all the various arty-farty places in Gas Town, we went through China Town and I dragged him into my favourite place to grab pork buns. Then, we almost shared a kiss in the Sun Yet Sun garden. I must say, I think his and my first date was one of my favourites ever. When we’d had more than enough of walking around all day long I suggested we go back to my house for sandwiches and classic Nintendo.

I am a geek groupie, and being a geek groupie means that I know how to seduce geeks. A geek like Tony cannot resist the siren’s song of Nintendo, and he certainly can’t help but feel a certain level of aw whenever a girl starts to beat him. Add some flirtatious trash talk to your thorough ass kicking of the boy, and before you know it they’re trying to grope your ass in an attempt to distract you from your “game”. It didn’t work but he “convinced” me to kiss him, and before we knew it the clothes were off.

As I look back at it now the sex was unremarkable, but if I recall the me of then, it was definitely something to call my best friend about. I felt more awake. An ache that I had been suppressing felt like it was shaking loose. I could have sex again—with someone else… it was remarkable. Tony and I continued to fuck, and when it came time I found my evil-ex and he found another evil-ex to make many mistakes with.

So, what is there to say about Tony? He and I tried to get together when we were done with the partners who we faded away from each other with, that didn’t really work out. I took him to a New Years thing where I was unhappy, my best friend ran from room to room tormented by her lack of person to kiss at new years, and well… it wasn’t the best of nights. We didn’t get together that night or any night after that. I got cock blocked by his nearly dying step father. Bastard.

So what is there to say about Tony? I think everyone should have a Tony. A person whom they’ve dated, on and off, who they’re not totally attached to but whom they still like, and who they respect and who respects them. I’ve noted a lot of people get into hot and heavy relationships with people straight off the bat and it often leads to hot and heated relationships that often end in smoke and ashes. It’s not pretty.

Tony and I didn’t get into a lot of arguments, and any time we did (twice in recollection) it wasn’t really about us it was about our baggage. Our first argument being about the fact that he couldn’t wake up in time to come over for the booty call we’d arranged. I was furious because the shit he pulled was similar to what my ex had done with me. I realised that my fury was 90% my baggage and only 10% that I wasn’t getting laid that day. The other was in our nearly together phase, where we didn’t get together but were talking a lot, that argument was over my perception of him not taking better care of his health. That argument remained unresolved.

The point of the matter is that neither of these arguments were earth shattering. I didn’t think my relationship with Tony was going to come to an end, I didn’t post angst ridden poetry to multiple boards, the world was fine. Sure, in the first argument I got pretty lathered, but I knew that was more me than Tony and dealt with it accordingly.

Dating is not dirty, and neither are friends with benefits arrangements. Having Tony around for a small spell felt healthy and good, and it was an excellent replacement for a “rebound relationship.” We fucked like monkeys. We chatted and went out a few times for snacks and lunches, and it was bland, boring, unemotional, and in fact, exceedingly healthy. Tony has messaged or texted me a few times since we last fucked or talked about fucking, and I’ve texted him. We haven’t hooked up again. I remember the sex we had fondly, and even have a few humorous stories from it. But for now, let this post be an advocate for the bland. Sometimes white bread is good.

It’s become a cliché to ask someone “and how do you feel about that?” but at the same time, polyamorous individuals probably ask their partners this question several times a month. It’s an important question to ask, don’t get me wrong, but at the same time, we should be asking ourselves— how many of our conversations with our partners are about feelings and how our relationships work, and how many conversations do we spend actually talking?

I’m discussing communicationese. I’ve found that in our culture of emotional sensitivity there’s a lot more meta-talk and a lot less talkative action. How much time do you spend talking about your relationships, and how much time to you spend actually participating in it? Is your talking constantly interrupted by communication?

Think about it, how often have you heard poly people saying “I really feel that we got some good communication in during our talk,” the mere construction of such a statement is demonstrable of a distinct difference in the two actions. I love the Oxford English Dictionary, it gives me fluttery feelings in my stomach, and it defines communication as “Interpersonal contact, social interaction, association, intercourse” (as well as “Sexual intercourse. Chiefly [in later use only] with preceding specifying adjective, as carnal communication, etc.” Which amused me to no ends). But I feel that communication has taken on a new definition, and one that even the people at Urban Dictionary haven’t quite struck on yet.

“How does that make you feel,” I statements, ‘non-combative’ technique, the list of ‘communication’ techniques go on and on! These skills are essential to getting what you want in the world, they help the social cogs along like lube helps silicone in a dry vag, but as with all things, there are drawbacks to the use of communicationese. Some people just don’t know when to stop! This article (book marks) and this article(book marks) discuss the personalities and communication techniques of people in a corporate office situation. I highly suggest you read them and try to identify where you lie on the spectrum, but more to the point, read the second article that discusses the difference between baby talk, power talk, and posture talk. When reading this I started to tangle out some of my irritants when it comes to “communication”.

I’ve found the for many poly people “communication” becomes a form of posture talk, trying to one up one another—shaking the bone till it cracks and they can get at the marrow. Many of the poly people I know “communicate” until one partner or the other relents and they can get what they’d like. This is polyamoroury’s version of “posture talk” and it has its down sides: nothing is actually solved, all partners come out feeling as if they’ve solved something for the benefit of their selves, and more often than not such talk lends the sensation—to both partners—that they are trapped in drama. This is niet gud.

Other scenarios go as follows: Person A is going out with persons X, Y, Z. Each partner is a different and unique relationship and with those different and unique relationships come the challenge of establishing boundaries and dynamic. Think of how long it takes to establish trust, and all the other sundry emotional and mental bits and pieces of a relationship with a person.  Love may not have an economy, but time sure as hell does! So think about this scenario, if A goes out with X, Y, and Z simultaneously A is looking at a lot of different discussions about boundaries and trust, how things are shaped and why. A is looking at being a full time dater. If every time A does something fun and naughty with one of their partners, they have to have an indepth ‘feelings’ discussion about it, if every time A mildly screws up they have to have a fifteen minute interlude about why that hurt X (or Y or Z’s) feelings, A is pretty much going to spend all their time with their head against a desk.

How does A keep themselves from falling into communicationese? Why, they learn how to talk again. Instead of having a full on discussion about how you almost slammed someone’s hands into the car door, and gosh you’re sorry and I guess this has everything to do with how you’re a careless person and why didn’t you put your laundry away when I asked you? Are you okay now? Do you need something? Has my callous behaviour shaken your trust in me? Step away… say you’re sorry, gosh you’re a dork, and move on.

Talking is essentially, and simple really. It is the act of moving one’s mouth in a manner that emits intelligible noises. But really, talking requires getting to know someone, chatting, gabbing, and just plain rubbernecking with some of your favourite chums. There’s nothing wrong with discussing the difference between British Columbia’s pizza standard and that of Alberta or Quebec. Not everything has to be a conversation that strengthens and “fuels” your relationship, in fact sometimes it’s when you’re not trying that you get the best results. Learning about a person in a non-structured manner is incredibly valuable.

A major stress proponent of poly seems to be, to me, the drama. You see people in ‘poly families’ running around like subbies being chased with whips—except a lot less giggling—and I wonder, do you really need to have that in-depth feelings conversation, or would letting it drop and discussing your amusing work anecdote from this afternoon do your relationship more good?

Sometimes communication is absolutely necessary, and sometimes it’s better to just shut up and talk.

Once upon a time in a land far far away (about 18 hours by direct flight) a very confused, bewildered, and befuddled redhead decided it was time to seek professional help. She searched high and low, looking for a sage of great knowledge, and when she came upon the middle (about one block across from her drive way, student services in England rock my socks) she came upon a haven most ideal. Upon putting her name into the ledger our heroine was slotted into an appointment most expediently.

I call my time away in England the in-between space. I knew that when I came home there’d be almost no relationship that existed as it had before I left. At this time my parents had the possibility of eviction breathing down their necks, my boyfriend was doubling as my ‘business partner’ (in a less than reputable business) and a vast pile of shit was being shovelled onto my shoulders. The choices I made, and were making, were becoming bigger than me. I needed help, but not much.

So, my question upon meeting with a councillor was this: do you think that when I return home I should seek therapy? Of course, the first answer was “well, what do you think?” Which is exactly what I would tell anyone else, and after a nicely brief discussion about how I understood that this nose-studded woman could not make my choices for me, it was important that she listened to my situation, and perhaps after talking with her I’d have my own answer.

So we talked. We talked about my parents, we talked about my boyfriend, and we talked about my friendships. It was a very good talk; I booked myself for a second. My councillor was of course stunned (as every councillor I’ve ever visited has been) at how well I’m able to see and deal with my own issues and situations. But, what she was able to point out was this: I tend to exert myself because of what I think I need to do for other people, and very rarely—at that point in time—for what I felt I needed to be doing for myself. I wasn’t taking enough alone time. In England I had all the alone time I needed. I could disappear for a day and be alone.

Polyamoury, in being what it is, and with me being in the dynamic that I’m in, demands, in some instances, more energy and time than some monogamous relationships (I love parenthesis today… and qualifications). I realised the other day, as I sat around at my lovely just-over-minimum-wage-paying shift in security, that I was incredibly happy and relieved. Eight hours on my own sitting around reading a book I was greatly enjoying, listening to music and occasionally chatting with the inhabitants of the object I was watching. I left that shift both relieved and practically effervescent. Oh what a wonderful world it suddenly was after this shift!

“Oh no” I realised, “I’m doing it again”.

Something that many of the books on polyamoury either glance over or fail to point out is the necessity for strict personal boundaries. I am not discussing boundaries that we set up in person to person interactions, but to very actively keep in mind what we need in order to remain individual and self-asserted people. I firmly believe that my partners and those I choose to associate with make me a stronger person, but when surrounded by so many so often it is impossible to leave out the fact that my person often becomes wrapped up in their persons. And, while their strengths can help me with my own strengths, their failings can feed my failings.

Who we are as individuals needs to be firmly established. Yes, for monogamous relationships, but very, very firmly in poly for certain. What do I need to be a happy and stable person, what do I need from myself, and to get things done in my career and to accomplish my future goals?  Co-dependency has its ups, the ability to lean on individuals when we need support is something that some people just don’t learn, and it’s a skill that should be picked up for the further mental well-being of all, but co-dependency that disables an individual to the point that they are not focussing on their own goals, their individual hobbies and interests is crippling. I firmly believe that that level of co-dependency is something to be avoided at all costs.

So what does my own tale of continued realisation mean in the spectrum of co-dependency? It means that I need to buckle down and remember that for all I feel I need to spend time with my partners, I also need to stop farting around and remember that I am me, and no matter how circular a statement that may be, I still have the obligation to myself to accomplish the things I desire, to not lose sight of that, and to give myself the necessities of a good head space. If that means several hours a week alone, so be it.

How not to be disabling co-dependent; a primer; chapter the first.

He grabs my hips and thrusts into me, already hard. We had been talking about it for nearly a year, playing it over and over on the internet. Daddy’s girl, daddy’s princess, daddy’s whore being forced face down on the bed with her ass cheeks spread. A punishment fuck in the ass, just the kind of thing a bad girl needs.

My history with anal sex has been unfortunate and sordid—though not in the fun way. A year before my Daddy took me by the hips and called me his bad princess whore another man had me by the hair, face down and helpless.

I’d walked into the hotel with my designer spiked leather boots, fur trim with a faux-gold buckle on the top. My clothes were sexy and reasonable, the perfect thing with which to greet him. I was uncertain about this date, knowing full well that I was going against all my rules.

On the first date:

1) No hotels.

2) No hard sex..

3) and drinks and conversation must precede any naughty shenanigans.

But two weeks out of a relationship with the perfect-guy-gone-bad and my head space craved crazy. It’s not excuse for stupidity, but it’s how it went down.

I found myself at the Hotel Vancouver, convinced of the financial prowess of my upcoming date, and hoping that I wasn’t going to end up with another dead-beat. We met in front of the hotel spa area after a chase around the hotel amenities. He gave me the room key and told me I was to go up ahead of him, make myself ready, and start the fantasy. Me, waiting on my knees ready and willing with mouth open, corset laced, boots buffed, and tits out: I was supposed to be the desireable sexual servant.

We’d negotiated ahead of time, but by the end of it I was bent over a bed with a condom-less cock in my ass, pulled up and forced to accept his soiled cock in my mouth. I tried desperately to tap out but he wouldn’t listen. His ass was on my face smothering me: I was helpless, awash in the “not supposed to” of it all, in the trip of having my boundaries flagrantly discarded, in the pain of knowing that everything had gone wrong. I ran to the bathroom afterward to scrape the shit off my tongue. He was lounging on the bed as if nothing had happened, and perhaps he thought nothing had. I looked at him as he purred, contented with his orgasm. “I need my inhaler,” I lied, needing to get away. He allowed this. “I’m sorry.” I told him, “I have to leave, sorry to have inconvenienced you.”

He told me to lose his number, I asked him to do the same.

Almost a year after that and I was still receiving messages about how I gave great head, would I be interested in hooking up?

I couldn’t let go of the violations of my boundaries, nor of the shutting down, acceptance, and complacent terror that I permitted in myself. I went home and brushed my teeth till they squeaked, not wanting the haunting smell of shit to still be on my breath. My shower was long and hot, and from far away I could hear myself thinking about how I had fucked up. I could hear myself musing on the commonalities between me and a rape case. Was this rape?

Without answering that question I moved on. I found solace in friends who aided me in my reassertion of self and body, and I got past it. But, I had not reclaimed my ass.

And I would not do so until someone else claimed it for me.

Daddy grabbed me by the hips and called me his princess-whore, grinding his cock into my precious ass—into his princess’ ass. “You’ve been bad Susie, you’ve been very bad and now daddy’s going to stick his cock in your ass. It’s a good thing you were well behaved and sucked his cock or you wouldn’t be getting lube.” I tense my body and immediately relax, aware that he’d never do that to me—my bossy self not needing to jump in and assert myself. Daddy’s not that man. My daddy’s an entirely different form of bad bad man.

“Please daddy, please let me put my buzz buzz under me?” My voice has become small and pleading. I have regressed into this space, and I feel safe in it. My body quivered with the feel of him behind me.

Tall and broadly built daddy is an excellent match for my own frame which is far from being physically little. As a five-nine, fairly muscular red head I often spend more time being intimidating than I do being intimidated. Daddy rose up behind me, pushed my face into the bed, and helped me understand in that moment that he was going to do exactly what I wanted him to whether I was willing to admit that or not.

“Please daddy please be careful, it’s tight – it’s too tight!”

“No, it’s not, but I’ll go slow anyways.”

I breathe deeply and daddy puts himself inside of me and rides me. I can feel myself begin to panic but he talks to me “Aren’t you a good princess” he says soothingly and the panic slowly abates.

“Daddy please, my buzz buzz?”

“All right, you’ve been good” I can hear the gasping in his voice as I lift myself up enough to get the Hitachi between my legs and turn it on. Suddenly, all the sensations come together, and I know that Daddy can feel it too, as the new power in his hips begins to grind my body into the bed, his legs between mine and only a small arch lifting me up as he drills me, and with each push into my ass he pushes the Hitachi into my clit more forcefully. I come hard with him riding my ass and he spasms in joy when I’m done.

“Good girl” he tells me, petting my hair. I nuzzle into his chest and breathe deeply, letting it go and my new associations to replace the old.

For all who read this and enjoy a little time on fetlife, go sit on santa’s lap on felife and enter to win 1/3 of your choices from 218 giveaway items.  Some great stuff in there.

“You look fantastic” he says, sitting down next to me, innocently enough for someone who obviously wants to fuck me, or at least wants to grope my thigh.

“Thanks” I respond in the flattered though non-promising tone I’ve been working on. Unfortunately most men are tone deaf.

“Where you going?” He asks, the train lurching around us, the both of us with a perfect view of the never ending tunnel that leads through down town. Neither of us is looking out the window though, we’re assessing one another, him the beautiful girl he’s desperately trying to hit on, me the older gentleman with a slightly multched nose, but an overall pleasent demeanor.

“Out for a date.” I respond, truthfully and almost apologetically, I hate not being able to reward good behaviour.

“Oh,” he continues to talk to me though. Polite and respectful this gentleman holds a very complimentary, sweet and innocent conversation with me about his future plans to get out of the insurance raquette. I’m interested and earnest, and then it’s nearly my stop.

“Look” he says, “this is my card, I’m out of class at eight, if your date doesn’t work out give me a call, I’d hate for you to have wasted,” he gestures up and down my body indicating my English peacoat and stilleto furlined boots combo, I do look damned good, “all that.” I nod, flushed and pleased with the compliment, take the card and find my way through the sky train station.

I think about that incident and with what comes I almost regret that I didn’t call this guy. Back ups never hurt.

SK was possibly the best matched partner I ever had when it came to sex. He was older, a total geek, very dominant in demeanor, had a vague exhibitionist streak, enjoyed makeing little girls cry, and knew just how to degrade me to make me tingle between the legs. Sk had it going on when it came to sex, which was why it was a rather crushing blow when the truth came out.

I stood outside the apartment of SK in the February of 09 dressed to kill and waited. I waited obiediantly because I was to buzz him at five thirteen in the evening and no sooner nor later. I was perfectly on time, he was impressed with me. We had incredible sex that I’m sure I’ll write about later… what’s prevelent is these three things. The first was when I entered the door and saw a wine bottle in the sink, a chop stick sticking from it with the cork wedged down instead of up, “I had a bit of an issue last night with the red wine”  he said, waving it off, and muttering something about the crazy things that bachelors are liable to do. I looked at that bottle for a long time.

Later, as I was on my knees in front of his easy chair, with his hips pumping his gorgeous cock into my mouth my eyes rolled over to look at the to-go mug laying sideways on the ground, what was once coffee had seeped into the carpet and fuzz that had nothing to do with cat hair nor lint. Sprawled on the carpet, my mouth feeling used, and his cock well spent I pointed this out to him and he once again made joculare comments about how he hadn’t even noticed.

But most indicative, and he’d pulled this before, was the continual hesitance, the “maybe we shouldn’t” that would occure before each date. “Maybe we should cancel, I’m feeling ill” after weeks up build up. He’d done this before we’d actually gotten together. We’d been interested in one another in the January but shit hit the fan with his mother and we had to break our date and figure out another time. I had more cancelled dates with SK than dates that actually went through. It had me feeling broken up more than once.

I wrote several blog posts (in a blog active long before these strumpet archives were a twinkle in their mommy’s eye) about how I knew something was going on. How maybe it was a secret wife, or something worse, something wasn’t right, something was going on… there was something wrong. And I was right.

Remember in my first decepticock’s post writing about P? How I knew right away that it was a bad idea but did it anyways… note what’s happening here? Yeah. Oh, I knew there was something wrong with SK, I knew it was something big and something that was going to tear me up. But I stayed because of his cock. Yup, I was mesmerized by a cock, a beautiful luscious cock, and everything attached that could get me sloppy wet with a single thought. Not the best move ever, but aside from cancelling a few dates and messing around on fetlife there didn’t appear to be anything wrong with SK, in fact, he seemed like the perfect guy for me. Kinky as a cheap garden hose, willing to skrew around with other men, liked cats and musicals, wasn’t gay, was a total geek, he made (makes) good money, hot as hell to me… where could a girl go wrong. His was the perfect cock, and yet I knew there was something wrong, I knew there was something just not right about SK and I couldn’t put my finger on it. He was wonderfully nice and complimentary, a total daddy, and yet…

“I can’t be with you, I’m an alcoholic sexoholic and I’m going through relapse,” Well fuck.

Wonderful sex, great conversations and then that… I knew there was something going on. I am Cassandra, but I am also the villagers. I tell the truth and then tell myself that I am wrong. Oh SK, how I wish you’d been the genuine article, hell one day you might just be, but until that day you are firmly one of my decepticocks–perfect lookingon the outside, bad for me in every way. Isn’t that just the way with candy?

I was pretty crushed by SK, but not because of what he did, because of what I decided we should be. I was in a bad head space after that because it turned out that SK’s dick had a twisty mustache, and those always get lodged in my throat… wait, what?

Anyways, decepticock #2 SK, a great guy all round and if he heals we’ll see about appealing his catagorization, but for now, yup, total decepticock.

Hope you’re getting well hun.

I like to pretend that I’m an open minded woman who, once in a good solid relationship can occassionally let the tropes of romance and the meaning of “sexy” pass. My lovers and I are in the habit of walking in and out of the washroom while one or the other is urinating, chatting while the most hidden of human actions takes place. I like to pretend that I don’t have the same list of typical hangups that just about everybody else has. But there are some that I still maintain, at least with my boys and girls who I haven’t discussed it with, or with whom I am mainly a sexual liason.

Over the weekend I’d promised a friend that I’d spend the evening with him and sleep over. I’d fucked up on the night that I was supposed to spend and ended up the night after, but this meant that I was not prepared to spend the night at a boy’s house, I wasn’t prepared.

Oh, I was dressed sexy, having worked selling corsets at a sex convention that same evening I was laced and bound in a fashion that had my girlfriend saying “a waist is a terrible thing to mind!” My breasts up to my chin I was looking pretty damned good. I had my friend stop by my place before we went out for dinner at the twenty four hour pho place and so that I could pick up the necessities of life: phone charger, pads as I was mestruating, make up, tale coat for the next day of sales, and inhailor. Yeah, I was set to go.

Dinner done, me well oggled, we get home and down to some fantastic foreplay that has me tossed down to the bed as I shimmy out of a very well tied corset. My ass is smacked lightly and I’m positively begging for a shower before we get to the nitty gritty. “I have my period and I’ve been working all day, pleeeaaase let me shower,” I beg.

“Uhg, I suppose,” says my impatient friend with a long suffering groan as he starts to undo my pants, eagre and ready to try and convince me to dely such actions.

“Oh, don’t do that,” I say blushing, composed on the outside, but internally that flick of my jeans fly sends screaming sirens going off in my head. I am not prepared for that! No, he can’t see, he can’t know what lies beneath my denim covering.

You see, when I plan sex with a boy I very carefully select my underwear, I even have panties that will do in a pinch should I suddenly be getting unexpected sex. On this day I’d planned on working all day, tightly constricted in a corset, without much hope of frequent washroom breaks so I wore my period panties, not thinking that my friend would be available. Now, I can’t be the only woman to own such a creature. My period panties are perhaps the most grody objects in the world, and it says something about my trust in R’s acceptance of me as a biological creature that I don’t shudder to think of what he must think when he sees them going through the wash.

I love panties, I love wearing them, I love the mood they can set, and I love the look  I get when a boy discovers what’s between him and my naughty bits. I love panties, which explains why I own over fourty pairs of them, probably close to something like fifty pairs now, fourty or so in regular and servicable condition for sexy times, of course, half of that selection is everyday panties, but that’s beyond the point. I have over fourty pairs of sex worthy panties, half of which are lace silk or satin, and I’m stuck in a sexy situation, the first time this particular lover has ever seen me rocking a corset, in the ugliest, gnarliest panties I’ve ever owned.

These panties have been bled all over. They’ve caught me on days when I’m starting early, they’ve caught me on days when I drag late, they’ve caught me on days when my bleeding pattern totally ignors the pad (cloth goddess moon pads made of flannel that are fabulous and beyond amazing) and runs up my crack to creat a splatter pattern on the bum. Once plain white cotton, these panties have had any number of layers of bloody tie dying added to them. They are without a doubt, strictly no sex, period panties.

As I said, you’d think I’d be beyond tropes, that this man who I’ve been fooling around with for nearly a year, being an adult, would understand that I am biologically female and get the concept of my unpreparedness, that didn’t stop my horrified “Stop!” as he seductively undid my pants “I’m wearing really ugly panties!” I confess in panic.

“Ugly panties?” He says, stopping, and sensing my distress.

“Yes, no man was meant to ever see these panties. Let me go change and shower or something.”

“Uh ok.”

Having brought panties for the next day I quicky shimmied myself into them in the bathroom, the door cracked slightly open. Suddenly I see something to my left and it is he. “You were spying!” I shriek in mock dismay, perhaps starting to unwind about the situation.

“If I was spying you wouldn’t have seen me” he crows from the bedroom where he’s returned.

“You peeping tom!”

“They were red, I know they were red.”

I look down at the cow pattern on red that is my flannel pad and shrug, for some reason him seeing my not so ugly pad bothers me less than the panties. “No, not really.” We play this game for a while, and he cranes his head as I leave the bathroom to investigate further the mystery of my ugly panties. “White too!” he says, now starting to become as little boyish as any grown man can manage.

I start to unwind, looking sexy in my red with black lace boy shorts. “Not really, but whatever.”

I eventually shower, and have great sex, then fall asleep on my friend, but woke up the next day amused and curious about the little things that will get up going. At least we know I’m the kind of girl who’s prepared to get hit by a bus… what a relief.

As a panty post script…

The other night I found a pair of panties, not mine, in my laundry pile. I told M hers got mixed with mine and she said she’d thought they were mine as she’d never seen them before. We aproached T, the other female in the house, who did not belong to them… we aproached both males, and neither had seen that particular pair before either. We considered all our various platonic female guests and concluded that they were unlikely to belong to any of them… it appears we have purloined someone’s panties, by accident…

Conversation I had today:

“You and R need to start refusing me orgasms again!”

“*Bur?* What?”

“I really wish that people would go back to playing orgasm denial games with me. I really enjoy them and that’s something that’s kind of stopped… you know, having someone say yes, when, denying and denying until you’re ready.”

“Uh…”

“I mean, D used to, but he’s kind of stopped lately–sensativity issues.”

“Ok, but–”

“I was talking to the Floridan about this today, and he kind of helped by playing the ‘you can’t go pee until I’m ready to go offline’ game with me. And then he went offline and I continued it with R, but he was making dinner and didn’t know about the game, and I really had to pee, so I was getting annoyed with him. So I went pee anyways and…”

“Stop.” M looks up at me, pretty eyes dancing, knowing exactly what I’m about to say, “notice how you keep saying ‘didn’t know,’ you haven’t told us that you want this, you freaking goof ball!”

“I know” she pipes “but I had a different speech concocted, and then this one came out and… well… now you know.”

“You so suck.” I tell her, laughing while perched on the end of the couch, holding my head in my hands. “You way suck.”

“So orgasm denial?”

“Yeah yeah, just next time, bloody well say something.”

“He.”