I’m a little bit out

I got together with a friend today for coffee. We don’t see each other that often but when we do, we always chat for hours.

We’re both sensitive and introverted. Having come from families where communication doesn’t really happen, we’re also both naturally very reserved. I’ve shared with her some personal things that I don’t tell everyone, such as difficulties I’ve had with work and family, and the last time we visited (a couple of months ago) I told her about my epiphany.

Last week, I booked my plane ticket to visit Gawan (squee!). Since it’s a big trip to one of her favorite places, it would have felt unnatural not to at least mention it. I wasn’t so bold as to explain the details, but it’s entirely true that I’m going there to visit a friend. She was excited for me, positively jumping in her seat.

I had also been thinking about telling her about the blog for, oh, months now, but chickened out on one or two occasions. I finally decided that today was the day. For one thing, the blog is a major part of my life and censoring it out leaves a big gap in the record. Just about everything else that’s going on in my life is pretty boring, really, and I’ve found myself nattering on about other, less interesting topics just to have something to talk about, which makes those topics seem much more important than they actually are. I tend to bore myself as I’m talking about them. Not good.

I’ve also realized that part of my general sense of loneliness is probably due to the fact that, in effect, I tend to keep myself distant. This isn’t deliberate, I just never learned to connect deeply with friends, for instance by sharing confidences. In order to be seen, I need to show myself.

So I finally spat it out.

I told her I had a blog, that I write about sex and relationships, and some of the things I get up to in bed.

I told her the story about asking my mom’s advice when I was considering starting a website relating to my dance, and how she counselled me not to post nude photos of myself on the internet, and how I have in fact now posted many nude photos of myself on the internet.

“That’s fantastic!” she said, grinning. It seems I chose well: what a relief! (She didn’t ask for the name of the blog and I didn’t offer.)

She then shared some of her thoughts and concerns about her own relationship. As I said, she’s reserved — and we were in a popular coffee shop — so there was no “dishing”, but it felt like our connection was a step closer than it had been before.

One thing we discussed a bit was the five “love languages” (gifts, quality time, words of affirmation, acts of service (devotion), and physical touch (intimacy)*). Touch is very important to her; not so for me, and for a long time it made me actively uncomfortable. She likes to hug her friends but is sensitive enough to be aware that I didn’t care for it and so she held back. I explained that touch is actually becoming more important to me, and hugs are now absolutely fine. So when we parted ways, she felt more confident about offering me a hug. I happily reciprocated, declaring, “The treatment is working!”

So, things are good. I had a good visit with a friend, was able to share something with her that’s important to me, and I think we’ve become a little closer. I’m definitely going to visit Gawan and I have a departure date to look forward to. And I have plans to visit Mr. Pleasant Surprises both on the way out and on the way back.

*Given the fact that touch is the only way of effectively expressing caring to an infant, I think it’s more fundamentally important than the other love languages. I suspect that discomfort with touch is something that would benefit by being addressed.

pleasant surprises

A couple of months ago, an old friend of mine mentioned on Facebook that he’d be coming to town to play a gig and to visit family and friends. It’s been ages since we had a good visit. I had moved away from my hometown for many years, and just before I moved back, he moved to the big city. We made plans to meet.

I got to the restaurant first. When he arrived and I caught his eye, he was radiating smiles. I’m not much of a hugger, but remembering that he’d hugged me the last time we’d seen each other, I stood up to greet him. He enfolded me in his arms, gently twisting side to side, and kissed my cheek over and over, scratching me a bit with his stubble. His warmth was like a sunbeam. And surprising. It hadn’t been like this before.

We sat. He looked the same. Long straight hair the color of honey. Eyes a shade of piercing blue that is hard to look at without staring. I had forgotten those eyes.

He asked me what was going on in my life and I froze for a moment, then stumbled over a preamble: most of the interesting things are things that I don’t really talk about. He half-closed his eyes and shook his head a little to say, Doesn’t matter, you tell me whatever you want to tell me. We smiled, chatted, compared, commiserated, caught up. We talked for two hours and weren’t done yet.

The last ones to leave the restaurant after lunch, we headed out in the sunshine, and he happily flung his arm over my shoulder. I put mine around his waist and we walked together.

“Hey, let’s pop into this restaurant so I can say hi to Badger.”

“You know Badger?”

(I last saw Badger last year, after years without contact. Somehow I discovered where he was working and dropped by to say hi. Way back when, I had gone out with him for something like three weeks and then broke up with him; I hadn’t had my head on straight before getting into that situation and had always felt a little bit bad about it. At that last meeting I gave Badger my email address so he could reach me to set up a visit. He didn’t contact me, and I took the hint. Eh, I tried.)

So we went in and said hi to Badger, me hanging back at a discreet distance because this had nothing to do with me. My friend gave Badger a hug (which Badger, a little defensively, loudly declared to be a ‘man hug’). No kisses on the cheek though; ah good, I’m still special.

We headed out into the sunny day again and when it was time for me to go, he gave me another big hug, followed by a kiss on the lips. This was also new, and not unpleasant. We promised to keep in touch.

I was busy the next day but sent him a quick text saying how much I had enjoyed the visit and that we’d have to do it again. He reciprocated. Warmly. He declared that I was one of his favorite people. Why didn’t I know this before?

“I love you Zoe! Stay in touch <3”

Umm, what? Yet another a surprise. Well, sort of. I was surprised (but very pleased) to have sensed that warmth clearly the day before, warmer than I remembered him being towards me. Love? I was surprised that he said it, but I don’t doubt at all that he meant it. It felt like love.

I gave it some thought and decided, yes, this is a feeling to which I can in good conscience apply the word “love”, regardless of what exactly he might mean by it.

After he said he loved me, I got a little giddy, and my imagination ran a little wild. Ahem. Then he thanked me again for meeting with him, told me again how much he had enjoyed it, used that word again: “love.”

I mentioned that I expected to be coming through the city at the end of July (en route to visit Gawan, in fact, though I didn’t explain that part) and that I hoped I could visit. He scoffed when I said I’d just be there the one day, so I asked him how long he’d like me to visit; he joked that I should move out there!

Discovering that he values our friendship so deeply has been like finding $500 in my jacket: Wow, this is fantastic! But how could I possibly not have noticed it before?! If this is really what he’s like, then I want him in my life, simple as that. I sure as hell need some good friends.

But the warmth was so above and beyond what I’m used to that I can’t help but wonder precisely how he feels about me.

So, my plan is to explore this friendship without any preconceived notions. Instead, I’ll seek to see what is there rather than looking for what I think should be there. Could be interesting.

how much love is enough?

I wouldn’t know: I’ve never had enough.

I’ve never felt lovable, or even particularly likeable. In reconsidering my past relationships, I concluded that my feeling of needing to be in a relationship at all times was a result of low self-esteem, but it goes beyond that: I have a love deficit.

My parents were (and remain) largely emotionally absent from my life. My dad was more involved in raising me than my mom was, but in a lot of ways he never seemed all that interested in me and has always had difficulty feigning interest in any of my activities. My mom has a strong sense of familial duty, but it’s cool and distant. I can see the roots of my parents’ somewhat chilly demeanor in their childhoods and I accept that they did their best but unfortunately their best still left me wanting. If my own parents didn’t seem to like me all that much (my dad having said that to my face at one point), is it any wonder that I concluded I was fundamentally unlikeable?

When I was a kid, my dad was somewhat more responsive to me than my mom was. I suppose that’s part of the reason why I never really had female friends (I never understood most girls), and by high school I gravitated towards hanging out with guys. Never having seen a warm and loving relationship close-up, I was ill-equipped to judge the quality and success of my own relationships once I started dating.

Given my upbringing, it’s no surprise that I’ve always been reserved. Wolf is too. That’s just one of many things we have in common. Despite both of our tendencies toward insecurity, we’re very securely attached to each other. We make an excellent team and we’ve happily supported each other for years. But in some ways I still feel lonely and disconnected.

I’ve never had a lot of friends, and the friends I’ve had mostly haven’t been terribly close ones. I have one friend from high school; we dated, briefly, and once we got over the fallout from the breakup we re-established our friendship. He lives in the big city now, and while we have great visits when he comes back, he’s very busy and our contact is very limited.

So the feeling of being unlovable persists. Having someone make it unambiguously clear that they value me and want me in their life is very unfamiliar, to the point that if I’d thought about it, I would have concluded that it couldn’t happen. At least, not to me.

Despite Wolf, my life has been a fairly chilly place for a long time, but about a year ago that started to change.

My long-distance friendship with Gawan turned into a close friendship and then love, and Gawan’s love is the warm kind. His off-hand observation that I was “very reticent” got me thinking. I never decided to wall up my heart to keep it safe; I wasn’t deliberately closed so I thought I was open. But what if I was wrong about that? What if that reticence was keeping people away?

Opening my heart to Gawan was challenging. I had to learn to trust my judgment of him, and then allow myself to trust him. I had probably learned from my parents from infancy that people probably won’t meet my needs so it’s better not to ask and be as independent as possible. Despite the fact that most of my later experience tended to confirm that belief and told me that I would probably be rebuffed, I practised allowing myself to be vulnerable and express my needs and wants to him in the hope that he would respond kindly. And he did, every time without fail.

Wolf has filled many of the holes in my heart, and Gawan has filled others, but more remain.

But then just a few days ago, I had a pleasant surprise. I’m still not quite sure what to make of it.

F4TF: it’s how you use it

Simple question this week:

How much does penis size matter?

The beginning of this answer starts in an odd place, but bear with me.

Everyone is familiar with bust–waist–hips and these are the horizontal measurements that tend to be most often mentioned in relation to clothing. A couple of years ago, I ran across a style blog that had a post about vertical proportions. There is also a set of ideal vertical proportions, and the post explained the landmarks to use and how to figure this all out. Being an analytical sort, I cheerfully measured myself up and found to my surprise that overall my proportions looked fairly balanced, but there were a couple of odd details, including the fact that the distance from my bellybutton to the thigh/hip crease was remarkably short. Who knew?

That means that my pelvis is proportionately very short. Add to that the fact that I’m 5’2″ (157 cm), and, well, you see where I’m going with this, don’t you? Getting back to the topic, I suspect that I just don’t have the room to accommodate a great deal of length.

I suppose most of the guys I’ve had sex with were of average size. There was one guy whose noticeable smallness pleased me well enough at the time because it meant that, despite my relative lack of arousal, I wasn’t uncomfortable. (This was a shitty week-long “relationship” with someone who in the light of day turned out to be a jerk. The fact that he didn’t actively hurt me is about as good as it got.)

But the only penis I’ve known in a very long time is Wolf’s, and he’s above average in length and girth. Both dimensions used to be challenging, in fact. I definitely need to be aroused and even then he bottoms out easily.

(Somewhere in his research he ran across a paper about a medieval wooden, um, cock-washer (for lack of a better term) that appeared to be used as a spacer when the sword was too long for the sheath. He hasn’t been able to locate the paper again, to my utter dismay.)

Anyway, I’m not a size queen and I find myself confronted with an embarrassment of riches. If I was building the perfect man from scratch, I’d probably choose an average penis, but small has potential too. In other words, it doesn’t much matter.

trust 2: the other shoe drops

When I started reading about BDSM, I kept running across the advice that both partners need to be able to trust each other and, in particular, the sub needs to be able to trust the dom. No problem, I thought. Whatever we might get up to, at least I’ve got the trust angle totally covered. Hadn’t I just become aware of how trustworthy he was and how deeply I trusted him? Sorted.

We continued to have sex and then started experimenting a bit with BDSM, and the backsliding I’d feared never materialized. Over the years I had gotten so used to being the source of bedroom difficulties that I was a little surprised to finally discover that Wolf had some issues of his own, but they’d never come up before because we’d never been in a position to test his limits. So, yes, we ran into a few glitches, but trust was never a problem, at least.

Fast forward to my vacation with Gawan, whom I felt I knew better than any of my friends and most of my family members. It was novel, an adventure. I was confident that he wouldn’t pressure me to do anything I didn’t want to, although I was less confident that I wouldn’t pressure myself.

Then we finally — finally! — met up and travelled to our little slice of sunshine, thousands of miles from whomsoever might think badly of it… and all my hard-won sexual open-mindedness seemed to vanish in a puff of diesel exhaust.

I was nervous, on my guard. The things we did together (well, other than the spanking and flogging) were things that I’d first done with boyfriends way back in high school, a fact that left me feeling simultaneously vaguely comforted and slightly unsettled. OK, so I’m no libertine, but the extent to which my prudishness was resurrected took me by surprise.

There were so many variables on that trip, some directly relevant and some merely coincidental, that it took quite a while for me to finally parse my feelings about it all. It didn’t seem to be about lack of chemistry, or fretfulness about non-monogamy. But whatever it was, I felt torn, and my head and my heart were clearly in disagreement about something. Eventually, it occurred to me that the vague anxiety I’d felt around Gawan seemed really familiar: it was, in fact, a lot like how I’d felt with Wolf before the epiphany.

Hear that? Yeah, that’s the sound of the other shoe dropping. Ugh.

Wasn’t I done with that particular variety of angst? What the hell was that epiphany about anyway, if not this? I was sure I hadn’t been mistaken about the source of my sexual shame, but what else was there?

I retraced my steps and recalled that pre-epiphany realization about trust. Perhaps it was more important than I’d thought at the time. So here’s a theory: What if the epiphany hasn’t actually dislodged my maladaptive script about sex and it’s still actually in place? What if I fundamentally feel just as vulnerable about sex as I always have? What if it was my profound trust in Wolf that allowed me to create an exception just for him? If Wolf was the only person I was sexual with, I wouldn’t be able to distinguish between an exception for him and “100% fixed”.

From my own experiences, I know I feel comfortable establishing a relationship and having the sex happen later. Living vicariously through the writing of other sex bloggers (non-fiction works so much better for me than does fiction for this purpose) has given me the opportunity to get a sense of how I’d react to activities outside of my range of experience. But even when the accounts are full of glowing post-coital bliss, I’m certain that I’m turned off by one-night stands, sex with a complete stranger, BDSM play with someone I hardly know, swinging, or leading with sex while hoping for a relationship. I’m ambivalent about the idea of friends with benefits. All of this is consistent with my theory about my sense of vulnerability and the role of trust, so I feel like I’m on the right track.

If I’m right, it would mean I couldn’t fuck someone without having first established a deep trust, and that I’d have to go through this trust exercise with any boyfriend.

Such as Gawan. We’ve spent less than two weeks together in person, so my trust in him is based mostly on about a year’s worth of words, typed or spoken, which is a good foundation but it’s also primarily an intellectual experience. Trust doesn’t seem that efficacious when it’s just in my head — I need to feel it in my gut.

So now the question is why do I need so much trust? Why do I feel so profoundly vulnerable? In other words, what am I afraid of?

trust 1: groundwork

It’s pretty much impossible for me to identify a single moment that represents “the beginning” of my new, healthy sexuality. My epiphany — when I realized that I had inherited my mother’s sexual shame — marks the moment when I took full ownership of my own sexuality, but that was only the last step in a long and complicated process.

A couple of months before the epiphany, I’d had an important realization that turned out to be highly significant, even though at the time it didn’t seem especially earth-shattering, and in some ways it struck me (afterwards, of course) as blindingly obvious.

After Wolf and I had been together for about two years and sex had already become infrequent, I continued to get more and more tense about physical displays of affection. I had a set of incorrect beliefs that amounted to a twisted and unhealthy logic. Touch was a continuum, from non-sexual at one end to sexual at the other. If I consented to Wolf touching me in a non-sexual way, that seemed to automatically include (or dispense with the need for) consent to be touched in the most intimate way I had ever agreed to be touched by him in the past, i.e. sex. In other words, if hug then sex, if that’s what he wanted. That conclusion is patently ridiculous, but through a combination of family history and dating experiences, that’s what I subconsciously believed and it scared the shit out of me. This flawed logic led me to conclude that the only way to effectively control or avoid sexual contact was to control or avoid all physical contact. So Wolf agreed he wouldn’t initiate hugs or anything else and would leave that to me.

By instituting this rule, I felt a certain amount of relief because it meant that I didn’t have to be on my guard against unwanted contact. But of course I wasn’t much inclined to initiate. After some time, I mellowed on the hug issue, but still felt uncomfortable with most forms of physical affection.

Years passed.

While Wolf was in the UK not so long ago, I had lots of time and space to think. There was no one around who I could possibly need to protect myself from, so after about two years my guard eventually came down. I didn’t consciously let it down, because I didn’t know how. It simply atrophied from disuse.

Once my guard came down, I got thinking about this history of ours and I calculated how long it had been since I had imposed the no-touch restriction. It had been ages, the better part of two decades, for fuck’s sake. And in the spring two years ago, in that quiet moment while I was leaning on the kitchen counter and just thinking, it finally bubbled up into my awareness that Wolf had faithfully followed the rule I’d laid down for all that time. Was he trustworthy? Yes, obviously! I couldn’t imagine what else he could possibly do to prove it any further. He had gone so far above and beyond. Did I in fact trust him? Yes. Unreservedly.

Because of other difficult things that were going on in my life, I had been reading and learning about boundaries, a concept that was entirely new to me. In some areas my boundaries were too porous, but this was an example of one that was too rigid. Like a person who is too focused on dodging other pedestrians on the sidewalk, or simply on her own feet, I’d failed to notice this 20-foot tall emotional wall made of grey cinder blocks and topped with barbed wire. Huh. Time for some demolition work.

I first imposed that rigid boundary to keep me feeling safe, then maintained it for years out of habit. It had become obsolete without my noticing it; it had served me for a while but I didn’t need it anymore and it had become a hindrance rather than a help. I didn’t have to police Wolf. Rather than maintaining that wall, I could just draw a line on the ground and leave it to him to respect it.

Wolf had been demonstrating his trustworthiness for ages; I had developed a certain amount of trust in him, but not as much as he had earned. After becoming aware of both the trustworthiness and the trust, I allowed myself to relax into my trust of him, to allow myself to be vulnerable because I was perfectly safe with him.

Until very recently, I had thought that this realization about trust was a precondition for my epiphany about sexual shame, but now I think that trust and sexual shame are separate issues and not connected in a linear fashion. Instead, I see them as parallel strands that are equally important. If I’d worked out the sexual shame issue first, perhaps trust would have been the epiphany. Either way, I figured it out.

My new knowledge and attitude was in one sense hard-won: sexuality had been a troublesome issue essentially all my life up to that point.

In another sense though, it couldn’t have been easier. I’d been doing reading and work on personal growth, spurred by some incidents that were entirely unrelated to any of this. I started with interpersonal relationships and “know thyself” type reading, and then, because I decided to follow where my curiosity led, I ended up reading about sex and relationships too. When I finally stumbled over my grand solution, it felt like an unlooked for gift, like a duffel bag filled with stacks of unmarked bills in a garbage can in the park.

Maybe it seemed too easy and thus necessarily superficial. For a while I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And then, after I’d forgotten about it, it did.

Anne Katherine, Boundaries: Where You End and I Begin (New York, Simon & Schuster, 1993).

Jan Black & Greg Enns, Better Boundaries: Owning and Treasuring Your Life (Oakland, CA: New Harbinger Publications, 1997).


F4TF: communication

This week, the F4TF team asks:

Are you comfortable discussing sex with your partner? Do you have the confidence to ask for what you like/want?

I can now, but it wasn’t always so.

For me, good communication is a hard-won skill. I don’t remember ever seeing my parents (before they split) discussing difficult issues, though I did witness the occasional blow-up. As for me, if I did something wrong, my mom’s disapproval was silently icy, while my dad would bite his tongue until he couldn’t anymore, then shout at me.

Since I started having relationships, there have been many times when I wanted to say something (for instance, about a difficulty I was having with the relationship) but suffered a sudden, paralyzing attack of muteness.

Talking about sex involved a foundation of general muteness topped with a thick layer of sexual shame. The inherent reticence remained a problem, but before I could even try to speak I had to know what I wanted, which meant I had to be aware of and acknowledge my wants. So I first had to allow myself to have wants. The net effect was that I didn’t have much, if anything, to say.

Things have improved a great deal for me, but it’s not always easy. My communication style still leans towards delicacy rather than bluntness. Wolf and I started really discussing things while he was still out of the country, so everything was mediated by the distance of Skype, or email, or curated Tumblr images. I’ve gotten over my reticence with him and I experience only occasional mild embarrassment, which is typically paired with a slight hesitation to speak. But do I still get a bit hung up at the stage of actually knowing what I want and allowing myself to want. That’s something I’m working on. Once I know what I want, I don’t find it overly difficult to ask for it.

Gawan and I have more to discuss, and this is the first time I’ve gone through the early phases of a relationship without being stuck on mute. In his frankness, he sets a good example for me. And given how we met, talking about sex was definitely going to be on the table! Things are complicated by the fact that this is long-distance, and we’re also discussing BDSM. If I’m unable to articulate an answer while we’re talking on Skype – whether from shyness or just not knowing – I’ll take some time afterwards to have a bit of a think and then write an email. I always find writing easier than saying it out loud.

In communication needs and wants, my exploration of the dark and hidden corners of myself is as big a part of the process as being able to give voice to what I find.

KOTW: needle play? no way!

When it comes to kink, they say you should never say “never”, and I get that. After all, the only constant in life is change, and I’ve got first-hand knowledge of that: my own sexuality changed radically less than two years ago, and I couldn’t be more pleased about it. I’m still just starting out in my explorations and there are things I’d like to try that, until fairly recently, could have fairly been called hard limits.

Needle play is most assuredly not one of those things I’d like to try. It is and will remain a hard limit. I’ve always disliked needles. No shock there, and I’m in good company. But a collection of experiences leads me to believe that for me at least it goes well beyond simple dislike.

When I was 19, after wearing a fake nose ring for months, I took the plunge and decided to get it properly pierced. I felt kind of spacey afterwards but put that down to the fact that I hadn’t eaten much that day.

Two years later, I got my bellybutton pierced. The clamp went on – hard! – and it hurt a lot. “How bad could the piercing be then?” I rationalized. Very bad, as it turns out. It hurt like hell, worse than the clamp, but mostly what I remember was the distinct sensation of nausea. I didn’t throw up, but I’d come quite close.

A friend of mine had gotten her nose pierced, and after losing the ring or otherwise having it out for too long, she got it re-pierced twice, for a total of three times. Ugh! I vowed that if any piercing grew over for any reason, that would be that, and I’d content myself with not being pierced. And I wasn’t getting any new ones either.

A number of years later I was at a small, alternative bar that had live music. My belly dance group was performing with the opening act, a local death metal band. Despite being tired after dancing, I stuck around to see the headliner (a theatrical sort of punk group), and freak show performances interspersed among the songs: I’d never been to a freak show and was curious.

I was far from the stage and couldn’t really make out what was going on, but this particular routine involved two people and seemed fiddly. It took me a moment but I worked it out: one woman was sticking needles into another. Not threading through, in and then out, so the needle would lie flat, but rather straight in like a pincushion. Lots of needles. Bristling.

The unusual circumstances controlled for so many variables that it was effectively an experiment. I found my reaction to the scene interesting, mostly because of what it wasn’t, and what I wasn’t experiencing. It wasn’t about pain or even discomfort because I wasn’t feeling anything. It wasn’t about empathy for the pain or distress of the person getting stuck because it was voluntary and she didn’t seem distressed or in pain. It wasn’t about blood because there wasn’t any. It wasn’t a medical procedure. It wasn’t about how it looked because I couldn’t see details. The sole element was needles.

And yet despite all of the things the experience wasn’t, my vision started to cloud and go dark, and the sound seemed to be coming from a great distance. I was standing and began to feel unsteady on my feet. I had to look away; at first I kept looking vaguely in the direction of the stage and just unfocused my eyes because I didn’t want to be seen to be having difficulty, but then I turned away completely and focused on my companion. It took a while to pull myself together and I left the bar as soon as I could. It took me a while to realize that I had almost fainted, something that’s never happened before or since.

Since then, I’ve had to have IVs twice. The first one was unsuccessful because I got nauseous and couldn’t handle it anymore; they gave up and fortunately I didn’t need it after all. The second (when I had my wisdom teeth removed) worked, but only after I had nitrous oxide and was off my head: they had wanted to insert it before the nitrous kicked in, and I flat-out refused.

Looking back, I can recall only one needle that didn’t bother me. I had gone to emergency because of a mysterious, excruciating pain in my abdomen, and was finally feeling the effects of some blessed Tylenol 3. Between the pain and the medication I was exhausted. Someone came to draw blood, and though I looked away when the needle was inserted, I watched calmly while the blood filled the vial. But again, I was high.

I have needle phobia. It’s not a classic phobia resulting from a bad experience in my childhood, which could be overcome with therapy. What I have is a vasovagal reaction (hence the pronounced dizziness), which is entirely out of my control. It’s not about being weak or overly sensitive. It’s just a physiological fact. I’m not aware of any treatment that can overcome a vasocagal reaction, and so for me, needle play will always be “no way”.


Travel days, especially between countries, lean toward being epic. I’d had a poor sleep, an early morning, a bus ride to the airport almost as long as the flight that followed, a couple more (short) bus rides, capped off with another flight for me — but not my luggage.

By the time I got home I had been awake for almost 24 hours, broken up by a little bit of fitful dozing on the first bus ride and the last flight. Yet surprisingly, when I got home I had a bit of a second wind.

That was it; I was having a bath. A soak and scrub couldn’t wait until morning. Once the water ceased to be scalding, Wolf came into the bathroom and settled himself on the floor beside the tub. He lifted my arm, slid the slick bar of soap along it, rubbing bubbles into my skin. He slowly, gently washed and stroked my limbs and front. No words were necessary. I turned over, my belly pressed against the bottom of the tub, so he could wash my back. He stroked my ass and cunt then had me stand facing and leaning against the wall while he explored and touched and licked a little. When he was done, he left me to finish my bath and I could feel the wetness that wasn’t water. I thoroughly shaved and scrubbed and got sparkling clean. My trip felt completely behind me.

Wolf was reading in bed, waiting for me. After I towelled off, I cuddled with him, straddling his legs with my head near his hip and my legs folded under me, like a frog. After a few minutes, he got me to turn around so I was still straddling, but with my forehead resting on the bed near his ankles. He admired my ass, then began to stroke me and put his finger inside me. He used some lube because I wasn’t particularly wet, but my vagina was still irritated from (I assume) the tropical heat and it immediately started to sting. I had to jump up to wash it off. I wasn’t aroused and I felt rushed. It threw off my mood.

When I returned, we cuddled again, spooning. Wolf began to pinch my nipples, which he knows can get a good reaction but the pattern was predictable and it was starting to irritate me. The novel sensations I had recently experienced with Gawan were fresh in my mind, and that gave me some knowledge that I could share. Oh, but how awkward would that be? My only other options were to make him stop or to endure it and sacrifice my mood. To what end? I chose pleasure.

I asked Wolf if he would experiment some, try different levels of intensity, try rolling my nipples slowly between his fingers, pulling, twisting, try sucking on them and not gently. He said he would try. I was still a little irritable and yet within moments he had me groaning and writhing and wet. Oh yes. That was good.

I suppose he was concentrating on his task, and although he gave me a couple of kisses, it didn’t satisfy my desire to make out.

“Kiss me,” I breathed.

In a low voice, he responded, “Don’t tell me what to do…”

“Yes, sir.”

He asked me what I would like to do next, and he would consider my request. “I think I’d like you to finger-fuck me while I use the vibe.” And so it went. The Hitachi was still in my luggage, which hadn’t made it onto the flight back and so was in airport limbo somewhere; the only option was try the rechargeable vibe (which had been neither used nor charged for a couple of weeks) and hope that it had a bit of charge left in it.

He slid his fingers into me and began to work my g-spot in just the right way. I let him drive me into an intense state of need before switching on the vibe. It worked, hurrah! After just a few moments, my hips were already moving involuntarily. I moaned, I gasped, I cried out and keened as the orgasm took me and shook me. My keening turned into tearful and howling sobs as I crested. I was utterly spent, with tears pooling in my ears.

I’m home.

F4TF: risky business

badge F4TF

The questions:

Where is the riskiest/most adventurous place that you have had sex? Did you get caught?

The student paper at my alma mater once ran a lengthy quiz to determine how “corrupt” you were. I don’t think I was alone in using it for inspiration for future hijinks.

One item on the list was having had sex in a church. Now, I’ve never been a churchgoer, so when would I even be in a church?

But an opportunity of sorts arose when I went to a social event that was being held in a church basement. It was mostly just a big open space, but at one end was a fair-sized storage closet. Toward the end of the evening when folks were busy packing up and doing some last-minute visiting, we nipped in, fucked, and nipped out again. There was no way that I was going to get off under those circumstances, though “quick, furtive, and almost public” has its charms.

I expected to encounter some raised eyebrows on our exit, but with all the to-ing and fro-ing and chattering in the hall, I don’t think anyone had noticed anything unusual. Even if they had noticed, they would have no doubt concluded that nothing unusual could have happened because I was involved. I was the good girl, you see.

And even though we were in the basement and not the church proper, I still gave myself a point on the quiz.