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.

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.