Posts filed under ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’

Things I’m not going to talk about

Bran asked me the other day if I was satisfied with our sex life.

Well, duh!

Let’s see ::counts on fingers::

Actually, I don’t really feel like listing the clinical evidence that proves the sexy quotient of our relationship is above, say, 164. S.Q. — like IQ, only sexier.

I don’t feel like exposing myself to the Intarwebs anymore. I don’t feel like sharing the intimate, deep moments when Bran is moving inside of me and I’ve got my hands on his back and we’re barely apart and he rises up to get a better angle, or maybe so he can move more quickly, but I pull him back down even though it’s probably causing him pain, and I know, because I’ve been on top, of him, and of girls, and I know the hard work involved in fucking,

in making love

in making another person come.

Yeah, I don’t feel like talking about that stuff.

Nor do I feel like talking about the great miracle of a successful threesome — our experience with Strap-on Jo was so good that we agreed to go out and find a playmate. As if finding one compatible sex-and-love-and-romance-and-hanging-out-and-reading-comix-with partner wasn’t difficult enough! Just try finding three people who not only like hanging out, but are also attracted to one another. So yeah, that was fun. But, as my sponsor points out, group sex is tiring.

“We have a new girlfriend,” he said, the evening after our playdate.

“Yes,” I said. I can’t even begin to tell you — let alone him — how fucking thrilled I am to have a third for bridge, in a situation where everyone seems to be on the same page.

“That’s kind of weird,” he said.

I suppose it it, to him. To me, it’s just like finally daring to believe that I might be able to get what I want.

Which is a strong, happy, committed relationship with someone. And some fun on the side. With everyone involved.

We haven’t seen her in a couple of weeks. Apparently, she’s a big Bruins fan. She invited us over to watch the playoffs with her last night, but mid-week is hard for me regardless, and my Wednesday meeting doesn’t get out until 8pm.

But Bran asked if I were satisfied because, in my last entry, I said “back to my boring vanilla life.” I was going to use the word “corporate,” but I chose the word “vanilla” instead, because this is a sex blog. And if you knew I worked in a corporate environment, you might be able to track me down, point at me, and shout whore!

Because nobody at my job knows that I’m even slightly alternative in my “lifestyle choices”. ::rolls eyes::

April 23, 2009 at 6:02 pm Leave a comment

Absence makes the mind grow dirty

Stupid Bran has some stupid work stupidity that is keeping him from his primary purpose in life, which is to please me.

You would have been so proud of me on Saturday. After dinner I marched myself right off to my car instead of trying to distract him from his work. It was kind of endearing, actually, the way that he couldn’t bring himself to say “you have to leave now.” Instead, he said the other thing that will send anyone with an ounce of social skills out the door: “you can stay as long as you like.”

I’ve been enjoying some solitude. And some quality time with friends, the sunshine, the October colors, and a farmstand or two. My old roommate from Cambridge and I get together once every few weeks and I entertain her with outrageous stories. We both had a big long belly laugh at the offhand comment I made about Ace having an amazingly high tolerance for pain — sometimes I forget there is a whole world of people out there for whom pain is not part of courtship.

Silly people.

Recent coochie conditions have also contributed to a drop in the GOP (Gross Orgasm Product). But the antibiotics have begun to work and I woke this morning thinking about Bran. Specifically, Bran’s body. I began to treat it as a mindfulness exercise; a quiz to gauge the effectiveness of all my hours of study. The surprisingly soft feel of his short-cropped hair, indeterminate color between brown and grey. The crinkle of his eyes. The ski-jump of his nose. The scratch of his cheeks. Slightly irritated gasp he makes when I lick the smooth side of his neck. Moans that happen sometimes when I penetrate his ear with my tongue. Freckles on the shoulders.

The lovely shoulders I could spend hours looking at, touching. Perfect curves of the muscles, the way they bunch and relax. I could sink my teeth into them. Sometimes I do.

Particular scent of his underarms, light dusting of hair. Bran scent, better than anything to be had within a bottle. Simian arms, slightly longer than mine, perfect for climbing trees, walls, ladders. Perfect for twisting my right wrist behind my back and pressing my body to his own. Perfect for binding to the top of the bed.

This is where the fantasy kicks in. What I want to do to him.

I want to do to him.

Not to get even for that time I lay with my knees bent up onto the couch, because getting even implies revenge — and revenge is not something to seek for an enjoyable experience. But reciprocity is important. Keeping the balance of power is important. Equitable distribution and contribution of resources is important. I love laying back and being a pillow queen. And I also love the other thing. I want both/and the vanilla and the chocolate. And strawberry and pralines n’ cream as well.

So this is what I think about at 6:00 am, with both cats crying their early-morning duet of hunger:

He is naked. I am wearing my long black skirt, a turtleneck, brown tights and my brown high boots. I take the belt from my bathrobe and loop it over the hook on the back of my bedroom door, dangle it down the other side of the door. Close the door and make him hold the belt. I don’t tie him in. This is an exercise not in bondage but in discipline. In training. And following orders.

“Don’t let go of the tie,” I say.

With the door shut and his back to it, with his hands grasping the strip of terry cloth, his arms fold above his head. He is naked. Half-erect. It’s a bit chilly for him, but not for me because I am fully clothed. His nipples are two hard points. Because of the cold or because of something else.

He closes his eyes. He doesn’t like to see my face when I hurt him. Why does he think I am going to hurt him?

Maybe because my riding crop, my little red whip with the feathers on the end, and a length of sailing line are lined up on the bookcase behind me.

“Open your eyes,” I say. I am standing right in front of him, my face inches from his. With the lift of my boots, I’m about half an inch taller than he is.

“No,” he says, but in that gasping way, the way he’s been saying it more and more often, which I don’t take seriously.

“Open your eyes,” I repeat. I take his face between my hands. His eyes are bright blue, worried. I kiss him on the lips.

“What do you want?” I ask him.

He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to tell me. Bran is so much better at communicating without words than me. I know what he wants — or part of it, anyway. I am just tormenting him. Pushing him to the edge of his comfort zone. When he opens his mouth I push my tongue inside it, fuck him with my tongue for a moment. He begins to undulate — this is one of the things I love about Bran, his intense physical response to me. When we are sexual, he moves like a woman, if a woman had a man’s body.

“Hold still,” I say, and place my hands on his hips, which have begun to buck.

I slip a blindfold over his eyes. He doesn’t like it. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “I won’t hurt you.” Much.

I run my fingernails down the outside of his arms and the sides of his torso — gently, to create sensation, not to scratch. His reaction is instantaneous. He’s terribly ticklish.

“Ah-” I say. “Hold still.” In the same voice he uses on me. Daddy voice.

The fantasy dissolves right around here, into some biting, some teasing, as I try to drive him past his discipline. Ultimately I wouldn’t mind him throwing me to the bed and fucking my brains out. But it’s all just sex in the head. It doesn’t even really touch my body. I get up and feed the cats.

October 13, 2008 at 2:53 pm Leave a comment

IM makes the heart grow fonder

Bran got some bad news right before I left for California. It’s my first get-out-of-town vacation in years, so I was of course excited to go. But I hated to leave him. We’ve talked every day. He seems to have cheered up a bit. It’s frustrating because there’s absolutely nothing I can do to make the situation better for him. Except show up, I suppose.

This morning. I talked to him via IM.

Bran: oh so you are auntie today?
Omnivore: heh
  yes, but you can still give me a kiss with tongue ;-)
  I put Tracey to bed last night and the night before
Bran: imagines you in victorian nanny outfit
Omnivore: eeeeeeeeeeee!
	have you been a good boy?
Bran: more or less
  ;)
Omnivore: hehehe

At least he’s feeling happy enough for some witty banter.

August 20, 2008 at 7:22 pm Leave a comment

Why we say goodbye

“It has nothing to do with you,” he said. “It’s not about your curvaceous ass. Or your nifty breasts.”

I smiled. “You think my breasts are nifty?”

“Or your kissable lips.” And he kissed me.

We live on opposite sides of town. Ironically, he lives in a neighborhood heavily populated by lesbians. I told myself I’d never date a woman who lives over there because getting there from Camberville is such a pain. So I ended up dating a man who lives there.

I’d said I would drive him home last night, but I was really wiped from an extra-long day. I didn’t cook dinner either. So he took the T home. For an hour and a half.

I am a bad, bad girlfriend for not driving him home so he could wake up in his own bed and start his day off right.

But at least I have nifty breasts.

June 26, 2008 at 5:18 pm Leave a comment


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