Fire Eater

I have been playing match maker with one of my connections and a dear friend. It’s a strange position to be in, linking one lover with another. K was our third and has now become a fixture in our Vanilla world. No one the wiser (or so we think). She has been single on and off since we have known her and recently she lamented that any men left at our age include a large load of baggage or “there is something wrong with them”. Since I have not been out in the relationship dating world, I have no opinion on that. However, one of my paramours is in the same dating situation and a little bell went off in my head and I started adding it all up. K and I are not too off on our common likes. We value the same characteristics in our men. And having intimate knowledge of B, I know my girlfriend will like him too. It’s funny, but I am hardly worried that he will like K. It’s more about if K thinks I am insane for thinking he would be a good fit.

Dangerous ground. I hope it works.

But this is the thing, the chemistry between my lover and I was amazing. Hungry and passionate. What if he becomes part of her life? And here I am, remembering what he tasted like.

What have I gotten myself into?

We ended things mostly because I felt his lack of availability irritating. Moving. Selling a house. Dating.

Their first date is on Sunday and so I have to wait to see how things go and if I make a good cupid. I am on pins and needles.

And you would think that I had learned a lesson, but no. Not this cupid. I am playing match maker with another friend and a prospective “boy” I met from the city. She is single and closer and I think she will enjoy the naughty, beautiful minded man I am sending her way. This is more of a tryst, so I am less nervous about the connection if it fails. It will be what it will be.

Step away from those arrows.

G.

Confession

I am in an unusual position these days. It would seem that I am a curiosity. An anomaly.

Let me explain a few things.

I am just a woman who knows what I want and has been lucky enough to find a partner who gives me the freedom to do that.

It’s a very un-sexy articulation of facts.

No. I am not a “slut”. Your wives and girlfriends have hobbies, crafting and scrap booking, shopping and book club. I like meeting new people. And sometimes I luck out and I like them more with their clothing off. But for me, the thrill is the connection, the excitement of something new and unexplored and how my body and mind react to it. Think of each of my adventures a sociological investigation into my own being.
I am terribly shy on the inside. It’s only with years of self-programming and “faking it until I make it” mentality that I have kept this hidden. I am not trying to be poetic when I say that I tell secrets only in the dark and why this blog is my sanctuary. I love the communion that happens in the darkness.

Have you noticed it? The silk of shadows. The way candlelight renders hiding useless eventually. The way darkness chips away at our reserve, freeing us from the shell that holds us to being “good”. I know you know. I don’t even need to ask these questions. We all have something or somewhere that allows us to strip down and be naked. Vulnerable.

In high school photography class we had a hall that would connect the main classroom to the dark room. It’s in this small space we would load the film canisters and set up negatives for development. There was no red light, instead we did these things with our hands by memory. I had two altering encounters in this space. Suddenly brave, trapped in the warm security of darkness I was kissed. Tentatively. Then bravely. Things that would never have happened in the bright scrutiny of every day. It’s then I learned the power of these secret places, of darkness.

In this place, there is the Outside Me who has to finally surrender to this shadow lover. Much like cliff jumping. Outside Me pinches her nose and dives and in doing so I become my brave self. Where we land is part of the experience. Sometimes it works. Sometimes I surface wondering why. Why?

I don’t know why I am like this. Or why I like it. Or what makes me capable. Only thing I do know is I feel this thing and it makes me feel… alive.

I have said this before, we learn ourselves through others. Each interaction I have I come away with more of myself. And hell, it may make a fantastic novel one day.

And until J says that is enough. Or I am tired of the limitations, I will keep going. Planting my garden in darkness, harvesting the fruit by candlelight.

I know there is some part of you that hears that same song. The silence. How you want to step deeper into it if only to hear yourself more clearly.

G

Confession

There is something comforting in seeing something old and making it new again.

I have this thing about bringing married men into our world. Not for the ethical reasoning you might expect ... I have been there and understand what it can be like to live in a world with limited possibility. I limit it purely due to selfish reasons. I hate the logistical gymnastics of figuring it all out. The hotel rooms. The lost messages and looking over the shoulder.

But there is always an exception to the rule, now isn't there?

And in a world where I only break a few rules, I broke all three. Over forty. Married. Hotel room.

And ask me, would I go back?

Absolutely.

I wish I had written about first meeting him. Before J. Six years. It was shocking realizing that. Six years have passed and although I have made one feeble attempt to contact this other J, nothing came to fruition. And then recently I logged into an account I hardly use and there he was. Something old, new again.

I am a woman and have certain cravings. I am not alone in this and even my craving is a bit pedestrian. But please, cut me some slack. I am a lush for a suit encasing a lovely scented man. There is that rustle of cotton and wool. The silk of a tie. The little buttons. The reveal of chest. The scraping away of the fabric, dropping it off shoulders to hit the floor.

Men who live in suits have habits that other men who do not wear them don't. They hang their jackets up, or fold them in half, collar side up and lay it flat. They pull their tie in a slithering flick off their necks. The must have good finger skills to slip the buttons from their cotton cages.

The second time I met J it was on a dark and wet country road. I wore a slip under a wool coat and heels. Dressing outside I was overcome with lust and crouched in the mud (and cream coat) to take him in my mouth again. Blame it on the suit.

Reconnecting with this man in a suit who plays with other men who have after work drinks (he called them "Money Men" in one of his messages and then laughed at me for using the term) and wear similar uniforms of dark blue, charcoal and black, reminds me how much I miss his breed. They shift around their corporate worlds like sharks. I like that image of them, sharp and quick witted. I am not niave though... I know the majority of them are harassed and tired, no longer hungry for what they first thought it was all about. Anyway, I digress... So reconnecting with this man I was struck with how lovely he was. How he does not offend my prudish ways but yet thrills them at the same time. The perfect balance of naughty and downright sinful. It was easy to say yes. It was easy to break my rules.

And he looks just like I remember him.

And he feels just like I needed him to.

We made a mess. Or rather I did. Like a little puppy too excited for the commotion.

When I first met this J I was looking for something he obviously could not give me. And one night standing in the snow after high geared fucking in a steaming car, there was this easy grace between us. What I did not tell him was I understood then that whatever we did share had the potential to hurt. Married men. Taken. And so I met him one more time to make sure I was right and then we drifted away. Me to other pursuits that were closer and more available. Him to other adventures. The night in the snow stands out still. If I close my eyes, I can see the light now. Hear the car behind us defrosting. See the snow in his hair.

And now I have borrowed him again. And this time it feels safe. We are both in the same situation now. With love at our backs and understanding between the sheets.

It helps that we like one another. The breaks in fucking are filled with words and perspective. And I always love that. It is easy. Easy. And then... there are the moments when he grips the hair at the back of my neck and thrusts into my body. The thrill of that moment reverberating into the days that follow.

And so I will break more rules.

Yes.

Please.


G.

Something Blue

For J.

You are there, (I can't see you
but know you are close
your laughter rings in my ears)
watching out for me.

Why is it
when I want you
you are never

right

here.

All the pretty ones
like you (and what you hide
in your swagger)
and I fight through
the waves to touch
that face that has said
(a hundred
thousand times)
my name.

I am yours.

Yet, let you drift out again
on the sea of flesh
knowing this thread is spun
with hours of confession
and stories of
every day moments.

I want you

right

here.

Kiss this frown
between my brows
and tell me
we have all of it
(tomorrow)

and that you are
not only mine, but
a prince
of whores.

Confession

It is my birthday.

I am one year older. Crushingly. Funny how a number can do that. Make you wonder if really you are beautiful, vital, a part of this world. It is only a number, really. I know this in logical terms. I am what I will myself to be. And so it seems dangerous to feel older, to give in to the temptation.

I have noticed though, that people (men) seem to have a vision of what 39 looks like. The "ridden hard and put away wet" type. In our lifestyle it seems more so. Or is it just me? Seeing the world in the way I want to see it.

Again with the fucking box of my own creation.

I don't feel 39. And yet I am thankful for my perspective. I know myself. I know the wants and ways of my body. I have a voice and I know how to use it. I have followed a few unusual paths and come out with only small scrapes. The deeper cuts give me more character.

So really... it's not so bad.

Well. There was the being stood up on Friday. Oh yes, there was that. But that was not my fault, now was it?

So. Happy Birthday to me. You are someone I want to know.

G.

Something Blue

For C.F.

Ten Years

I turn
seeing (or thinking
I have) too late.

Gone (was it only
a hitch in my breath?)

Your flesh turned to
leaves (something
adrift on the light)

words a clothesline
strung tight between
two trees (shifting
lightly)

figments of what
I(mis)understood it to be

each time
I turn
a new
(found),
impression
of not
(knowing)
now.

G.

Something Blue

And so we set sail.

B.

From across this little space

I feel the sparrow lifting

upward (small and
light

she arcs

silver brown against
flesh)

A slow dance in indigo,

taken under the last fading summer

sky.

Later I seek

the promise of kisses,

in my own (lonely)

dance, it is your name

I trill.

Confession

There is something I have learned over the last year.

I am good at sharing but not my self. No, that is not a typo.

J and I have agreed to open up again and invite others into our world. Before you judge, you should know it's a sign that we trust one another. That love is not possessive. Instead love is patient and ready to move outside the simple definitions you scribble out in the bright light of scrutiny.

Call it an itch. Call it whatever the fuck you want. What matters is how we communicate what we want to one another and the honesty that it takes to stand up and say, "Please, this would make me happy."

I have learned a thing or two, yes. Not about us, but about me. This small box cannot hold me anymore. I want something more and I feel like the time is right to spread my wings and take flight into that deep azure of summer twilight. I am sick of being told it's impossible, that I am too old, that I am too young, that I am too too too.

There are some things I am better at then others. Some things I enjoy more than other things. Like the thrill of being new. Or tasting the forbidden for the first time. Feeling the fleeting thrill of adventure.

Perhaps I will bash around like a junkie after her fix, but who gives a damn. I am escaping the box. I am reaching out and I can feel the wind in my feathers, something far off is calling my limbs to unfurl and get on with it.

I am ready to live.

Come here, I want to touch you.

G.