Confession

I love the unspoken. But sometimes I wonder if I miss something in my own translation. We have all done it... and it has left me feeling cold and a little like standing in cold water that causes your ankles to ache.

Blame it on my Virgo'ness. Always thinking even when I am not thinking. Always working through every word, every syllable. Calculating the weight of the words you did say, like stones in my palm. Some are heavy and I worry about tossing them aside lightly. Some are light and easy to mistake as skipping stones. How do I know which ones I should keep and hold next to my heart? I always look for the green ones. The ones that shimmer in the sunlight. But now, I wonder.

Am I wrong?

I have felt a little hollow these days. It is the shift in weather and the constant rain. I am already tired of fall and crave spring and it's October. In a life where I am surrounded by voices and perspective, there is really only one that keeps me coming home. And this weekend we were distracted by turkeys and miniature pumpkins and making sure the gravy was not lumpy. And here I am, feeling alone without him.

Sometimes when I feel like this I think its Tennessee calling. But C is off at Disney with his children and there is no possible way he could be sending me those messages. And so... I am just me again. My heart a stone I hold in my palm, deciding if it needs to be skipped out over the calm water.

It's like a room after the party is over. Glasses abandoned wearing their lipstick kisses and fingerprints. The dirty dishes and the pillows thrown all over the floor. Quiet. Still. Maybe there is a slow song on the stereo and your limbs are heavy with sleep. But yet, you can't sleep with the throb of the conversation still lingering in the high corners. And so you sit there with the last of the wine and feel alone. I like how that alone feels. I still am holding some of it all in, the laughter and the warmth.

But now, the glasses have been washed and I am truly alone again.

We could be sad about this... but why. It's not sadness I feel so much as just empty. I am a church after the prayers have been said. Still. Heavy with pockets full of stones that I cannot translate into useful information.

I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.

Come home and pull me in to your body so that the warmth lingers and when I wake, the stones have all washed away.

G.

Something Blue

I have been busy with adventure and the mundane.

So I leave you with Dahlias, not a blue one in sight.

G.

Trespassers Beware

So, for the first time in six years I pulled the blog down. And then I wondered, have I crossed the line?

I have said this before, I write for me. No one else. There is a sense of ritual for me in the words. My coming back here this September is an attempt to reclaim my voice and to quit hiding this insane adventure that I am on. It is part of who I am. And to pretend it does not exist is like trying to deny my true nature.

I am this. Imperfect. Honest. Sexual. Vulnerable.

I had email about the blog that pretty much stated that I was "dark" and maybe needed to rethink if liked our lifestyle. And this is the best part, that only women would read my blog. (Sorry Dale.) He was treating it like porn, skulking through the photos looking for the naked bits. I think that what freaked him out was my honesty. I think my voice is not just my own, but somehow yours too. Why else come back and read it after all these years?

And with that understanding, that I really don't care what one man has to say... I am flicking the switch back off. And here you go.

Me.

My secret garden. Careful with your muddy shoes.

G.

Confessions from the Heart of Darkness

It's raining tonight. Loudly. It's a good night to be curled up with a glass of wine and a loved one.

I have been reading a great deal these days. No, not a novel. Email. Delicious and tempting, it's easy to be seduced by words. I am always the first to fall and the first to fall flat.

"I can corrupt you
in a heart beat
you think you are so special
think you are so sweet"

In a world of words, I am always impressed with the men who know how to sling them like a pro. Poets. Vagabonds. It hardly matters. Words can make a mess of things, as we know. And it's not like I don't know how to create my own traps filled with vowels.

I received these words recently:

"I love tension. Two people who are carrying on a conversation, but neither giving the conversation their total attention. Instead, there is a sexual tension. Both are imagining the other naked and close. What their body would feel like against theirs. I also love that tension as I stare into her eyes, my cock pressed firmly against her, waiting for her to allow me in. I sometimes wait for her, sometimes not. That first slide in... Heaven. So warm, so wet, so electric. "

What I find completely interesting is the male perspective of possession. He asked me if I understood. Of course I do. Recently I experienced this rush, but it is not always so. Sometimes I exploit my lover's needs so we hop over this part quickly. Perhaps he will not notice my lack of true desire, masked by the urgency with which I push him. Sometimes I am just not "feeling it". I think escorts have a difficult job. How do they fake this part? There are products on the market that will engorge the clitoris and fake arousal (I have recommended it to married friends whose husbands pad after them like randy goats and tell them to "fake it until the make it") but I like to think that a lover would know. There is a certain pantomime in pleasure. We give and take. Push one another. Your pleasure equals my pleasure.

But then there are times where it cannot be denied. I want you with a primal calling that is so deep in my flesh it almost aches. Where nothing can be denied. I want you. I will do anything, if only you would let me have that slow arc into what I desire most. Possession.

Don't rush it. Please. You can feel me waiting. Wanton and desirous. Feel my body's pulse as it calls out for that one fleeting moment. God. It's intense. And it takes all I can do to lay my hands still. Slow. Slow. Feel that moment when I am not only myself, but part of you. Slip into the wet of my hunger, feel the clench. The desirous need turns to want and you delve deeper into my resolve until buried, you fill me. And that first stroke, Jesus it is all compelling. I am dumb with lust. And as you bend your head to capture my mouth, I am paralyzed and can hardly find my lips. It is in this moment I, surrender. I am flesh and liquid need. Not easily slaked.

And then, you do it again.

I think of these things at the most inopportune moments. I remember the sensation when at the grocery store, reaching for a carton of eggs. My sex throbs in response, like somewhere a string is being pulled. Silly slut that it is, my sex is easy.

It's my mind that takes some charming. And to have both, the desire and the mind... to find a place where I can unhitch and be free. To let myself feel the pleasure of another without worrying about the how’s and ways of my body and what you may be seeing; or to let my mind focus on what I am feeling without guilt of not giving enough. There is always the vixen in me that feels the need to play the whore. She ruins my pleasure with her incessant need to please. And it's only rarely that I can bind and gag her long enough to let go. I hate this thing about me.

That I am
always
on.

And so I like the men with words. They tend to use them in bed too. And sometimes it is a song to which I can set my compass and drift. Starless sky. Flat calm water. Silken.

And so the man who wrote me those words has a little potential. If he can articulate himself well to describe my most favourite part, I am sure he can find the words to describe others. But then again, who knows. This might be a time when I let the vixen take over and be what she is.

It brings up a point for me though, the seductive nature of Domination and submission. How there is still that mewing inside of me that loves it when my lover takes over. Exploits my weaknesses. J and I have never had that sort of dynamic so in some ways it is more alluring to me now than ever. There is tension. And reward. And I think the man who wrote the words above is well versed in the D/s dance. I wonder how many women want this, crave it and yet are to afraid to ask. A Dom once said that I (being the typical Type A personality) was an excellent candidate to be submissive. That my pedestrian cravings where not so much that, but a sign of my desire to let go of who I was and be free. Freedom in submission. Interesting concept. I was dubious. And years later when I had my own experiences I finally understood what he meant. With lack of say in what is happening at that moment, I was able to surrender to that moment. To what I was feeling. And then the jury in my head was silent. And all I cared about was the beautiful need of my body calling my lover. It made for an amazing connection.

And so I seek corruption.

But will this be the time?

We shall see.

G.

Loose Limbs

Sunday morning.

I feel a little dazed, hung over on lack of sleep and too much sensation. Good sensation, don’t get me wrong.

Last night J and I had our own little adventure with like-minded friends. Blame it on the Chocolate Martinis.

This morning I woke to some maddening neighbour with a small excavator “beeping” through their yard. So much for beauty sleep.

And so here I am. My favourite day of the week. Awake and satisfied. And ready for what the day brings.

Is this how a cat feels?

G.