Confession

Who is to say that the man you looked over in the grocery store and then decided was not “your type” was indeed the key to something you had forgotten or thought lost?

I learned some time ago that surprising things often come in unexpected packages. Yet what has been unfolding for the past few weeks has caught me completely off guard. I am utterly without words to press this down on paper. So forgive me. I am going to butcher this… when it deserves such prettiness.

I am on the cusp of some new moon rising inside of me. Fragile as a robin’s egg and as determined as snow drops in spring.

Remember the you before this you? The one who was self-aware and listened to her heart? The one who understood the creative soul she sheltered and was gentle with that responsibility. Oh yes, there were still all those drunk ramblings and bumping into doors. But she was something to behold.

I had thought her gone. Yes, there is the blog where I get to tune in to that inner heart. But it is not always there and lately and the voices are hushed in whisper. I am more and more the corporate me. The me that everyone sees. I had forgotten what it was like to be looked at and seen. To be heard.

It’s powerful. So truly powerful.

Right from the first words he flung from his fingers, digital font reaching out to snare me softly, introspection. Not his. But mine. A parlour room trick he plays with the light and my ego. And I am completely transfixed.

I am merely a frozen lake that he scrapes back the snow and peers into. There, in the thick liquid of sleep, I am suspended. And he reads the secrets of my body as easily as you do the font in front of you. Or so he would have me think. There may be parts I keep at murky depths but without being able to touch them it is like they sing up at him, begging to be shared in the light.

It’s been troubling. For both J and I. Me in my bright morning blinking and he in his “not quite sure, but know something is off” way. What does not change, what cannot change, is my love of J. It is hard to hold my own in all of this. To maintain my balance. As I bite down on the fist in my mouth, I realize it is my own.

So, my unexpected package. A soft mouthed boy from rural Ontario, all angles and hard lines against my lush curves and city shoes. I don’t know how I had not noticed his blue eyes. So blue. They pin me down and force me to tell the truth. And perhaps that is why, bodies joined, I cannot open my eyes.

There is something coming. I don’t know what. And so I am here keeping my balance.

G

Something Borrowed

Lay Lady Lay - Bob Dylan 1969


Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed
Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed
Whatever colors you have in your mind
I'll show them to you and you'll see them shine

Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed
Stay, lady, stay, stay with your man awhile
Until the break of day, let me see you make him smile
His clothes are dirty but his hands are clean
And you're the best thing that he's ever seen

Stay, lady, stay, stay with your man awhile
Why wait any longer for the world to begin
You can have your cake and eat it too
Why wait any longer for the one you love
When he's standing in front of you

Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed
Stay, lady, stay, stay while the night is still ahead
I long to see you in the morning light
I long to reach for you in the night
Stay, lady, stay, stay while the night is still ahead

Something Blue

Sanctuary


Found in the dark,
wild and half starved
for truth

it is not so much sex
as the cleansing
of the succubus to reveal
the hard syllables
of loneliness.

(How long
since anyone has seen?)

I feel myself
reach for
that place within
(tall grass
dusk sky),
improbable.
Undeniable.

And when (silent)
you join my body
calling my name
(a mere breath)
there are no more
words for meaning.

Other Windows

Pipe Dreams - Travis

I read every word
And I still dont understand a thing
What had you heard?
What had you heard
Was it love, was it take another walk in the dark?
You'll never learn

I'd pray to God if there was heaven
But heaven seems so very far from here
And it all boils down to the same old thing
Just a yin and a yang or a couple of pipe dreams
And it all boils down to the same old pain
Whether you win or lose isnt gonna change a single thing

Something Borrowed

I carry your heart with me - e.e. cummings

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

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.