Naked surprise

He picked me up at the airport when I returned from California, and there was some welcome-back sexing. Which I enjoyed. The rest of the week, though, was too busy for any real quality (aka naked) time. So we made a date for Sunday afternoon, Labor Day weekend.

I’d gotten gussied up for him — one of my new pretty skirts and the fishnet thigh-highs. And the new high-heeled shoes I’d just gotten from Zappos. He came up the stairs with a bouquet of flowers. I love it when he brings me flowers. And when he greets me with a deep, passionate kiss. And while I was putting them in water, he crawled into the kitchen, naked, and began to kiss my feet.

I was surprised, but in that happy way. I felt like a bad top — now that he’s naked and at my feet, what do I do with him? I’ve been a bit of a pillow queen lately. But I did, after all, know what to do.

It involved fingernails, and a thorough polish of my new shoes. And his leash. And some wrestling. And an orgasm or two.

Forget everything I said before

So a while back I wrote this really pretentious essay all about how Our Society Doesn’t Really Know About All the Different Kinds of Love. And I made this case for how I’m all enlightened because I think love doesn’t mean ownership. And how since I don’t want to own or be owned by anybody that I should be able to fuck and/or beat whomever I please.

Forget I ever said that.

The essay was bad to begin with. I should just scrap it and start again, except that this is the Intarwebs and it’s already out there. Plus, I have a perverse desire to parade my mistakes out for all of you to see.

It’s not exactly a mistake. It’s just that I change.

About a month or so after we started seeing each other Bran and I started having these difficult conversations about Where The Relationship Was Going. At some point in the conversation, he’d invariably bust out with “I think you and I just have different long-term goals.”

I’d been so vocal about being this big proud liberated kinky bi poly slut. But inside of me is still that little girl who grew up on the Prince Charming stories. And what’s hard to describe to him, or to anyone, is how I am basically of two minds about the whole thing.

The biggest reason I’m uneasy about traditional marriage and kids and the Donna-Reed-type setup is that I don’t trust it’ll ever work out the way it’s supposed to. It’s not really because I want to dedicate my life to the pursuit of the corner office. It’s not because I’m averse to a long-term, monogamous relationship. It’s because deep inside me is a belief that that sort of life happens to other people. I wouldn’t mind seeing that belief proved wrong.

But only if I still get to get laid.

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.

No vacancy

It was just what I wanted: white walls, blue floaty curtains, bumpy white bedspread. And private. The cabins were small and close-set around a wide horseshoe of grass, but they’d been designed in such a way that you never had to worry about catching a glimpse through your neighbor’s window.

Which was good. Because the first thing I like to do whenever I check into a hotel room is to take all my clothes off and lay on the bed.

We’d decided to take our chances on finding a decent place to stay without a reservation. In late July on a sunny Saturday, that’s a real adventcha. And the farther up the Cape we went, the more likely it seemed that we would be sleeping in the car. “Nooooo vacanceeeeee,” we chanted to each other, again and again after every hopeful stop. But the driving and the blue sky and the beech pines and the glimpses of the sea — even the ebb and the flow of the Cape summer traffic — that was all part of the journey.

And sure enough, on a quiet stretch of Route 6A in Truro, we happened across a little cluster of cottages, set off from the road, newly built, decently priced. I’d been trying to convince Bran all summer to let me pay for a weekend away — he’s been job hunting since he finished his graduate degree in May, but I’m flush and it’s not nearly as much fun to spend a weekend at the shore by yourself. That weekend I finally managed it, and I have to tell you, there’s really nothing like pulling out the ol’ wallet so you can be the Vacation Daddy.

He opened and closed the cabinets in the tiny kitchen. I opened the windows, flicked the curtains closed, threw off my top, and sprawled across the bed. Blue fabric floated in the breeze, against the bare white walls, and there was the smell of the sea nearby. All I really wanted from the weekend.

“I thought you wanted to go to the beach before it got dark,” he said.

“I do. But we’ve been driving all day. I just want to lay down for a little bit.”

How did we get from me lazing on the bed half-dressed to him pushing his cock up against the fold of my ass cheeks? The usual way, I suppose. I’m sure there were kisses, lovely Bran kisses, and I probably nipped his earlobes, maybe ran my nails down his back to hear him gasp. But what I remember is my hands on the floor by the side of the bed, pushing up to keep my torso steady as he pulled my panties down and began to tongue my ass.

I know he made me beg him to fuck me up the ass, and I did, and I asked him, “am I a dirty anal slut?” He pushed himself up on one knee for a better angle, and he said, “Yes, you are a very good little anal slut,” and then he asked me if he could go deeper and I said yes, yes, please, and he was fucking me and it wasn’t long before he was coming inside of me, and I felt him jerk, and tremble, and shudder against my back.

And then we drove to Race Point beach to watch the sunset and then had dinner in P-town, and came back and sat on the front deck and looked at the stars. And in the morning I woke him… which is another story.

Orange juice, chicken soup, hot kinky sex

There’s been some hot, kinky sex happening, I swear there has. There was that weekend when we drove up the Cape on a whim and we ended up making such a mess I stripped the bed and left a huge tip for the poor maid. (I wish I could have left a note saying “it’s not pee!” but I don’t think that would have really helped.) There was the time I rode him and rode him while I was “ritually unclean,” as Leviticus would put it, and when we got up it looked like I’d sacrificed a goat in his lap.

There were some other times. Less bondage since my bedframe became irreparably bent and had to be tossed. But still plenty of pushing down and ordering around. Well, maybe a bit less. Maybe the ol’ Omnivore has gone soft and squishy and just the slightest bit femme — or lazy at the very least.

But today, the third day I’ve been laid up with a summer cold, he brought me chicken soup and orange juice, and ate a sandwich and drove me to where I’d left my car parked two days ago, and right before I swung my legs out of the front seat, he stroked the underside of my chin with the tip of his finger.

That was hot.

Undisciplined

I am the most undisciplined discipliner ever. I let Bran come all the time, even when I tell him he can’t.

I told him he couldn’t come until Saturday, but then we went and drove down to the shore to meet his parents on Friday. <begin long digression>I was totally on my best behaviour — I even brought a hostess gift! But at one point at the dinner table, I know I was thinking about having his cock in my mouth.

On the way back, we got into an argument about violence and gender. I don’t feel like getting into it. We made up, though. And later that evening, I got to do what I’d been thinking about during dinner with his parents. It’s strange — the more into a guy I am, the more I actually love him, the more I love sucking his cock. I love cunnilungus because it feels good, and as the mattress on my sheets will attest, I love to come myself, but it’s pretty much impossible to keep my lips from off his cock once it’s hard and ready.

I like to pinch the air out of the little reservoir tip while he’s rolling the condom on, and then to take the latex-covered result in my mouth. To hear him gasp and feel him tremble. And then to pull him down on top of me, to feel him hard against me, poised between my legs.

On Friday night, I took his cock and instead of guiding it inside lay it between my lips so that the head was pushed against my clit. It felt amazing as his hips moved back and forth, and then he tipped his pelvis just so…. and slid into me, smooth, delicious, sweet. Home.

“It’s like diving into the ocean,” he said.

When he fucks me, it’s like flying. I become incredibly light. I want it to go on forever. If I were more cruel, I’d insist that he keep fucking me, that he hold back until he passes the point of being able to orgasm. Once he pushes past it, he’ll stay hard for hours. That’s fun for a while, but </end long digression>I like to see him come. And I just can’t stand that look on his face when he’s inside me, so close, so earnest, holding back, on the brink, so… in pain.

So I hurry up my own orgasms instead of letting him suffer and taking my time. It’s a terrible tendency of mine to stampede toward the climax. Perhaps it’s instinct or something. Perhaps it’s greed. Perhaps it’s just a sign I need to slow down.

I’ve been so restless, irritated, and discontent of late. It’s not fair to Bran, who is so incredibly eager to please.

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.

Identity politics: moral high ground or happiness?

I’ve been reading S/He, by Minnie Bruce Pratt, and also a new blog called Sugarbutch. This post in particular, where she backpedals on an earlier statement on not trusting femmes, really hit home with me.

Reading both these things makes me nostalgic. It’s taken me a long time to figure out who I am. In my early 20s, I tried on a lot of labels. Some of them stuck, sunk into the borg of my sense of self. But my identity changes. It’s fluid. It’s the curse and the… specialness, I suppose… of being a bisexual woman. In this society, it’s hard not to be a self-hating bisexual. Even after all those years of activism, still at the kernel of me is a voice whispering traitor, traitor, traitor.

Because the thing about identity politics is that they’re useless for me. In S/He, Minnie Bruce Pratt talks about a femme being a case of mistaken identity. People think that femmes are straight. Butch dykes claim to love us, but that love is conditional–at least in my experience. Am I still a femme if I sleep with men? Or am I something else? Something so slippery and undefinable that I belong in no camp at all?

Yes, yes, bisexual. That is what I am, ultimately. But even that changes. It slides, the same way my appetites slide. I’m neither fish nor fowl, a member of no tribe, but condemned, like Cain, to wander the earth forever, with no set home.

In relationship with April, with Angie, and with Kristen, I often referred to myself as a lesbian, or a dyke. It was easier than the constant qualifying — lesbian-identified bisexual, woman who has been in love with men and fucked a lot of men but is now in love with a woman, in a committed, monogamous relationship with a woman. Who, while looking gender-typical, is in many ways not because she likes to be on top and in control in the bedroom. But also wants someone to flip her.

At times, I’ve lived the good, virtuous lesbian lifestyle. At other times, I’ve lived the life of a kinky bi poly slut. At times I’ve loved men deeply, faithfully. These things shift. I’d like to live in a world where people don’t make assumptions about my sexuality, about the potentiality of it, by whom I’m sleeping with. I know this post-modern sexuality is all the rage these days. All the kids are going pomosexual, or so I hear. But I’m not a product of those days. Identity politics are still important to me. Useless perhaps in describing my sexuality, but still important.

But not so important that I don’t know a good thing when I see it. Angie, for all that she gave me lesbian cred, was a terrible partner. She constantly shamed me about my sexuality, took advantage of my own shame around it. Worse yet, she was controlling, manipulative, and emotionally abusive. She withheld all sorts of nurture from me and neglected to perform the most basic of courtesies. Not only did she never validate my emotions, but she never held the door for me, or even thanked me when I held it for her.

These patterns present themselves again and again, regardless of my lovers’ gender. On this blog, I mostly talk about the things I do with Bran in the bedroom. But it’s the things that happen outside of the bedroom that have made me love him. He possesses the rare ability to listen to me, to validate my feelings, and to express his own in a responsible, respectful way. He shows up. I’m terrified, of course. I can’t believe it’s happening, and I can’t help but wonder if my own perceptions are blinded by love and hormones. But my inner voice — the good one, the one who knows things, not the one who calls me a traitor — tells me that he’s a rare gift and that I should hold onto him. I think I’d rather be happy with him than unhappy with anyone else.

Three things: servants, travel, transformation

So there were a few things I’ve been meaning to write about. I’ve just been a bit despondent lately, since no one has given me any feedback recently. I LURVE it when people comment in response to posts. Perhaps people aren’t responding because I moderate posts, or perhaps they’re just too shy. Regardless, feedback — connection — is one of the things that keeps me writing.

Maybe I just need to get over that.

Three things happened recently, and I don’t know which to tell you about first. I also want to tell you in the most scintillating prose EVAR, prose that will bring tears to your eyes or blood flow to your lower regions. But, of course, when I think about the results of what I say instead of just saying it, I get stuck with brain crack.

So, in chronological order:

1. Met my newest houseboy Tuesday last. I started a post about this, but it veered off in its own direction. In short, he has the makings of a great servant and pain slut. He’s not in the least attractive to me, which simplifies things a great deal.
2. Went to NYC this weekend and met Axe in person. In many ways, he was what I expected, and in many ways he was totally different. I love NYC, to visit about once or twice a year. Get my fix of beaux-arts architecture, true diversity, the streets of the Village, and the neighborhoods of Brooklyn. Then I came home to my own city, which looks so much more tiny and deserted by comparison.
3. I am falling in love with Bran. “Your readers are going to be so bored!” he said, as he put his clothes on last night (what happened before he put his clothes on deserves its very own post). “What, all five of them?” I replied. I don’t care. Love does that. It makes you not care. It’s terrifying. And I’m past caring. Love is more terrifying than anything I know. But as you ease into it, it takes away the terror. I still remember all the pain of falling out of love — it makes me tremble to think about it. But when the heart falls it falls. Love is worse than the harshest Dom. It rips you apart and puts you back together all different. And it makes you want to be ripped apart. It turns that agony into pleasure. It makes you want the agony, crave it. It rips you open, turns you around, transforms you completely. It’s been long enough since the last time I fell in love, long enough for my heart to mend and forget that awful sundering, at least forget the actual sensation of that pain. I’ll be turned inside out. I’ll surrender, again and again, to whatever the Universe, and love, will do to me.

More

“I’m curious about which part of this you’re going to write about on your blog,” said Bran the other night as he was putting on his clothes.

It’s true that writing always involves selective description. Any art form, really, involves selective description. The photograph never looks as glorious as the sunset. The drawing never quite captures the sparkle of the glass itself. The painting never captures the exact line of the leaf, or curve of the land. Or curve of the hip.

And there’s no way I could capture the lovely, juicy, reassuring quality of that night. Wednesday night, yes, Wednesday, because on Tuesday, our regular night, I was still hip-deep in work. Which I won’t talk about here because, frankly, once the suit comes off, who cares?

And if I tried to capture everything we did, I think I’d just end up boring you. Who wants a laundry list of places we went or positions we tried? And who wants more lists anyway? That little trick is getting old and just seems to encourage bad, lazy writing.

This is turning into a post about writing instead of a post about what Bran and I did on Wednesday. And who wants to read that?

I know you’d rather hear about him disappearing while I was busy shoving a pill down my cat’s unwilling little throat. “I don’t want to see this,” he said. And left the room. My flat isn’t THAT big, so there were only a few other places he could have been. Once kitty’s dignity had been shredded, I went in search of him.

And found him in my messy bedroom (I did mention the hip-deep-in-work thing, and if you’re not a new viewer you’ll know I’m currently houseboyless), taking off the last of his clothes. Bran likes to get naked quickly. I like him naked, of course, but I do enjoy taking his clothes off myself. I love that tattoo in the center of his back. You’d never think of him as a tattoo kind of person, but there are lots of things you’d never think he’d be into or do. And does.

Like letting me hurt him.

As we spend more time together, as this evolves from a playmate sort of thing into something else, I find myself getting caught in the old gender role/relationship trap. Of wanting to give away my power. It’s partly gender-based, but I’ve done the same thing with women. Wednesday night, I was selfish. I had to force myself to be selfish. He was there, on all fours, on the bed (which is about one rambunctious fuck away from complete structural failure), and I was… what was I doing? There were my sharp little nails involved. I used my belt. And my hands. And I was careful, careful not to go too hard, at first or even after, because I know for him it’s not about the pain itself, it’s about doing something that he knows turns me on.

It’s so difficult to admit it, but yes, it turns me on.

“Do you like it when I hurt you?” I asked, after the fact, long after.

“Not as much as you like it,” he replied.

And there it is right there. So I can’t take pleasure in it the same way as I did with Ace, or would with a true pain slut — slut in the sense of someone who derives sexual pleasure from the noun or verb preceding. Slut. A word I’ve been meaning to write about. A word that needs to be reclaimed, like “bitch” or “dyke” or “cunt.” A powerful word, a word describing women’s power in particular, women’s power that has come to be shamed and labeled dangerous. Just imagine what would happen if every woman in the world owned her sluttiness? Society as we know it would end!

The word “sadist,” that’s a word I can’t say needs reclaiming. God, how can you ever want to take pride in hurting someone else? How can I say that I enjoy hurting other people? It’s more complicated than that, and it’s not. Yes, consensuality, yes, yes. But oh, the pain. The lovely pain and his reaction to it.

And I know myself the power and the pleasure and the all-mixed-up of bottoming, of taking pain for someone else. There was that time I actually came when he spanked me. Not just titillation but full-on orgasm. The kind you can’t mistake because there’s a mess and the sheets are soaked and my bedroom has that close, animal smell to it for days afterward. I took smacks harder than I ever might have. Sure, I used the safewords at first, asked him to slow down in a way that still allowed him to be in control, but then I took the hard smacks, took them for him. Took them for myself. To prove I was strong.

And male suffering, yes, it’s strong. Sexy. Beautiful. Bran is tough, has endurance and strength. When we wrestle, I know he’s careful with me, could probably always beat me — has more formal training — but I’m strong too, very strong, and happy to have found someone as strong as me. Someone who can put up a fight, can win.

And still gets on his back because I tell him to. Because I put the command in my voice. Still tells me when I ask him why I should suck his cock, knowing he’s straining for the feel of my mouth on him, “because it’s yours.”

Mine and not mine.

Another night, after I’d scratched him with my nails and bit him and maybe smacked him around a bit, I was on my back with him inside me, one of my favorite places to be, and he asked me (again), “You like hurting me?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” I said.

“Oh. You’re confused?” he said, and pinned my wrists to the bed and fucked me.

Yes. I’m often confused about that part of my sexuality. And about switching. Switching is confusing. But why should I be ashamed about being confused? Con-fused. Things that used to be separate, now put together.

I wasn’t confused on Wednesday night. Then, Bran was mine. Mine to order around. Mine to collar. Mine to send back down to my crotch for more cunnilingus, because I wasn’t done, because I wanted more. I’m often afraid to show him just how much more I want. But on Wednesday I let him see how powerful my orgasms can be — I know it’s not the first time he’s seen it, but the the old fear still comes back. I was afraid of Kristen’s orgasms sometimes, overwhelmed by them, and by Pura’s too. I still remember Kristen saying to me “I want more,” and wondering whether I’d ever be able to fill that hole of want. Why shouldn’t he be afraid of mine? The way I clamped around him and rode his hands and writhed and moaned and screamed. Who wouldn’t be afraid of that? Overwhelmed by it?

Who wouldn’t be afraid of anything as deep and powerful and neverending as sex?

There’s always more to want, more to try.

More.