This week’s Boobday submissions, which may or may not be Hallowe’en themed, are here.
This week’s Boobday submissions, which may or may not be Hallowe’en themed, are here.
I’m finally going to meet Gawan soon, and the date is approaching rapidly.
Rapidly? Well, yes and no. From one angle, the days seem to plod. But from the perspective of my aspirational and overly optimistic to-do list, I almost feel rushed. Ah, who am I kidding? The to-do list is a small part of it but the meeting itself will be momentous, and it is that fact which is playing tricks with the passage of time.
Over the course of months, I’ve been exploring some of the nuance and flavors of anticipation. At the beginning I couldn’t be sure if or when I would get an email from him, and whenever one arrived, a dose of adrenaline shot through me. I probably grinned like a fool. Although I’ve now come to expect a daily email, I still get that adrenaline hit. Every. Time.
After we had gotten to know each other pretty well, he asked if I would like him to make the trek to my city, and perhaps do some of the things we had discussed in more theoretical and/or flirtatious moments. I was floored. In addition to looking forward to his emails, I was now looking forward to the possibility of meeting him. But that form of anticipation was immediately elbowed into the background by the massive preliminary issue of running the idea past Wolf, a task that was delayed by the fact that Wolf and I had been in different countries for a couple of months at the time. This was not something to be discussed by email or Skype.
It was over a month before I gave Gawan my answer: Yes. From that point, my anticipation about the meeting stepped forward into the spotlight but remained as amorphous as our plans.
Slowly those plans began to coalesce: he would come here briefly, then we’d go someplace interesting. Someplace that was warm and required a passport, and maybe a phrasebook. I had the notion that a new bikini wouldn’t go amiss. As the idea began to take shape, anticipation grew.
Finally, a destination. Dates. Tickets were bought. He was definitely coming, and suddenly it was right around the corner. Anticipation, like a limelight-hogging tenor approaching a crescendo, is now upstaging almost everything else.
And I am all a-squee, like unto a schoolgirl 🙂
Before Wolf’s surgery, the doctors pointed out a few landmarks in the healing process.
The first 24 hours was critical. In effect, they go in with science and technique and swap out parts, and then cross their fingers and solemnly wish that the mysterious essence of ‘life’ will work its magic and, for its own ineffable reasons, simply continue. At least the landmark here was clear: they’d take the breathing tube out as soon as he could do without it, which happened a bit earlier than expected.
The next landmark was expected around 3 weeks, but it was rather vague and neither of us can remember exactly what it was supposed to be. Perhaps an absolute minimum amount of time off work? If you had a very sedentary job, you could conceivably go back to work. I suppose. What Wolf does is sedentary, sure, but it requires clever thinking and his brain wasn’t 100% online again yet. Or maybe 3 weeks was the amount of time he could be certain to feel like shit.
As I recall, we were told that after 6 weeks his sternum would be healed, and maybe it was, but Wolf’s research suggests that 6 weeks is a bare minimum. Regardless, his center is holding together well enough that he’s able to drive again. (He’s now able to get himself to his weekly blood test. Um, hooray? His ability to go on his own to pick up Indian food is a lot more fun.)
He has now cleared 7 weeks, and he’ll probably be able to start doing rehab soon to rebuild the muscles that have atrophied — mostly arms and torso, from what I can tell. The scar down his center is still livid.
The doctors’ landmarks are averages meant to help you manage your expectations and identify when there may be a problem. There have also been some personal landmarks, which are more objective and in some ways more significant.
2½ weeks – first blowjob
3 weeks – first PIV sex
1 month – first time he could finger-fuck me
6 weeks – first time he could cuddle me in a spooning position
6½ weeks – we had sex three days in a row
He still feels “not himself”, and it’s going to be a while before he does (or at least gets used to the new normal). But sexual excitement is good, and a rush of endorphins is highly distracting and makes everything seem right with the world (or at least the bedroom), if ever so briefly. And his male sexual pride should be preening in light of his renewed ability to thoroughly get me off.
I had had a significant drought during which my libido responded by cooling dramatically and then, thanks to my hormone cycle, had reheated to a smoulder that lasted for two frustrating days. But my frustration got resolved in a deeply satisfying way. Finally! It wasn’t quite a screaming orgasm — I wasn’t so vocally abandoned as that — but I was yelping, in a good way.
The next day, I woke up feeling satisfied and remained so for, oh, about an hour, but I soon started to get wound up again and continued to feel aroused all day. So that was rather distracting. That night, as he worked me to my climax, the sensation on the way up was particularly delicious, and the noises I made were more of the savoring and appreciative sort: throaty moans and groans, developing into contralto “oh god”s and “oh fuck”s, as my legs began to straighten and my toes to point. (It wasn’t “toe-curling”, but close enough: it seems that I point rather than curl. That’s probably the dancer in me.)
On the third day, what was most notable wasn’t the noises and the sensations, but rather the feeling afterward of being utterly spent and wrung out.
It’ll be a while yet before he’s fully recovered, but he’s definitely on the mend.
This week’s Boobday submissions are here.
I have been aching to be able to write about my new friend for months, but now that I have the opportunity, calling each individual sentence into being is proving to be a laborious process. Some posts seem to write themselves (“… something, something, Burt Ward”); this is not one of them.
When I’d first thought of writing about him, I was struck by an irony: I had created this anonymous blog as a safe place to explore and talk about my sexuality and this topic fit the criteria, but he knew about the blog and so I’d have to consider him as part of my audience. I had a lot of raw thoughts that I just wasn’t ready to share with him in the early days, and so the perfect place to talk about it was also the worst place to talk about it.
But, happily, we (or, at least, I) have moved past that now. I naturally gravitate towards being reticent, which I suppose I knew, though I hadn’t thought much about it until he pointed it out. My parents didn’t model forthright communication, and then romantic experiences reinforced the perceived need to play my cards close to the vest. It’s one thing to spew the curated version of my private, but shareable, thoughts to an anonymous audience of a handful of strangers who might not even bother to read it. It’s quite another when someone who knows and likes me asks very personal questions. It took some bravery on my part to share myself at that level, but now I’d say he knows more about me than almost anyone else does. At this point, there’s not much that I’d want to say here that he doesn’t already know. Which is good.
Of course, I can share bits of myself here, but now that I can talk about him, what shall I say? There is a variety of things that I can’t say (such as what he’s thinking or planning) or won’t say (such as anything that might conceivably identify him or disclose details that he might not want shared). And so I’m keeping a lid on, well, almost everything. Since we remain separated by an awful lot of miles, there aren’t any adventure stories yet either. That doesn’t leave me with a whole lot to write about, other than the (still heavily curated) contents of my own brain.
But here’s something: he has picked a name for himself. He will be called Gawan (pronounced with a “v” in the middle, similar to “Gavin”), which is a variant spelling for Sir Gawain, a knight from Arthurian legend who is both a protector of ladies and a lover.
The fact that the character is generally called “Sir” is fitting: you see, my Gawan is a dom.
Bare skin, simple as that. The muted rose of nipples, echoed very faintly at the fingertips, elbow, and in the shading of curves. One could fairly call the color “blush”, although there’s no hint of embarrassment.
Rounded hip, strong thigh, pliant flesh. A blank canvas, but for what medium? Goosebumps? Beads of sweat? An all-over rosy flush? Or perhaps a lick of heat and color after the snap of a belt?
The light was lovely, and kind. [photo after the cut…]
Photo courtesy of Kilted Wookie
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