High-Capacity Player

When I was girl, perhaps of six or so, I would go for walks in the summer rain. Without shoes. I would splash in puddles, the steaming hot concrete melting under my skin thick soles, and luxuriate in the sensation of the water washing over my feet and soaking into the cuffs of my Tough Skins. I was in the street, alone, and alive.

After the rains washed the gutters clean I would wander the allies and sidewalks, running my knuckles along cement walls while I imagined walking and walking and walking until I was far, far away from my childhood. Casting my eyes downward in supplication and submission - which is to say in owning my strength, my instinct for survival - pride and power and perseverance rushed through my veins as I watched my bare feet walk over sharp shards of broken glass and the refuse of humanity without flinching or failing.

And when I read your words my friend, "you're a high-capacity player," that same pride and power and perseverance was reborn in me as the image of my tender toes tripping along the hot summer streets flashed through my mind like the flash floods of my California childhood. Thank you for helping me to remember who I am, and where I come from.

Self-fulfilling prophesy or just bad timing? Either way it hurts like hell.

Truthfully, I knew all along what she would do with me. Break my heart.

What am I gonna do with you?

Her eyes were steel blue and locked onto mine like wrists cuffed to a bedpost; like cool black leather, tanned dark from sweat and spit, scarred and scuffed from a life of hard living, but lined with the softest sweetest fur this side of Texas. We kissed lightly on the lips, briefly, and as we each pulled back she gave me one last firm look and asked, more to herself than to me, “What am I gonna do with you?” A sweet Texas drawl that slowed down time lassoed the “with” and it fell to its knees like a helpless calf. “Mmm mm” she mumbled as she turned and slipped down from the cab of my truck.

It was only a few hours back that we first laid eyes on one another. We had been exchanging email for a few weeks but I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was that there was a certain quality of persistence in her, a determination to grasp life by the horns, that pulled me in her direction.

**********

I was careful when I posted that ad. I wanted someone who matched my intensity, my longing, my desire. I wanted energy that would accompany mine like the eager lead in a waltz. I wanted it all; the sweetness, the hardness, the grip and the caress. And I wanted someone who knew what I was looking for, what I needed.

I want to be your girl.
The one who brings you breakfast in bed on Sunday morning, just the way you like it.
The one who falls asleep with her head on your chest and her arms around you.
The one who grabs your arm when the movie turns scary.
The one who purrs and arches her back when you scratch that one spot.
The one who buys you the right kind of underwear for Christmas.
The one who gives herself to you with absolute trust and abandon.
The one who's softness yields willingly to your hardness.
The one who feels honored and moved when you cry in her presence.
The one whose wrists go limp in your firm grip.
The one who adores your quirks and accepts you as you are.
The one who's heart flutters with pride and joy when you say "that's my girl."

“What is your name? What do you drive? Where do you live?” I looked at
the return address and noted the name. Tex. For a moment I wondered if
Tex was a man or a woman and then I hit delete. A few days later another
message appeared, “What does it take for you to respond?” I felt the 
back off stir in me and replied “Someone who is willing to share something
of themselves before asking me my name and where I live.” 

“Ah, I got your attention. SWEET!” came the reply, and the blinking red
light of warning in my brain changed to green. Go. We chatted back and
forth for a few weeks until a date was set. We would meet at Margaritas
and then go for a stroll in the park.

**********

When Tex walked in the first thing I noticed was that she had on more make up than I, and damn if it didn’t looked better than mine! I felt my mind strain as it tried to comprehend a butch in Ralph Loren and Lancome. But there was something about her confident swagger and the way she smiled at the waitress that reassured me she was indeed the one who had demanded my attention.

We ordered. We chatted. We looked at one another, sizing each other up. The dance of getting acquainted was smooth and easy. Comfortable. Familiar. That is until she interrupted my friendly “date chatter” with “Your eyes are so beautiful.” The “so” sounded like a cowboy calling his dog to his side. As she pinned me down with those piercing blue eyes I could feel my pulse beating and the perspiration gather on my upper lip.

As our lunch went on my heart rate returned to normal, but I remained alert and ready to bolt. It wasn’t that I was scared, or even uncomfortable, but the tension of pursuit vibrated in my body like electricity in the air before a thunderstorm. We ate our lunch and then walked in the park. The familiarity of the bronze Botero sculptures grounded me in place and body. Tex had never seen a Botero, which I found refreshing and appealing; I imagined she could look upon the rotund figures with eyes unjaded by theory and critique, with a freshness and openness that I found lacking in most. We got some waters and sat for a bit in the sun, Tex conversing with strangers and me drinking in her easy way of making them smile like a sip of sweet tea from the south.

She walked me back to my truck and, not knowing how I was going to say good bye just yet I offered to give her a lift back to her car - despite the fact it was just a few blocks away. She gracefully accepted and was gentlemanly enough not to embarrass me for asking.

It was then, as I idled next to the curb in front of her car, that I leaned in and kissed her. A soft, hesitant, I’m not sure if this is a good idea kind of kiss. A polite, I’m a good girl, I’m a sub kind of kiss. A quick, impulsive, I want more of you kind of kiss. Our lips parted and that is when she said it. “What am I gonna do with you?”

I watched her as she slipped down and stepped away from the truck, closing the door behind her. She disappeared but my eyes remained fixed to the spot as my mind wondered what would she do with me.

The Science of Lonliness

I did indeed wait. What else does a girl like me do?

Besides, I knew my anger and hurt was, in large part, coming from inside me. True, he hadn't returned my calls or texts. True, he hadn't reached out to me since the night I arrived. True, it was a shock to discover him sitting on the couch with another lover when I had no idea she would even be at this event. But the pain I was feeling was coming from some place deeper than all that. His actions were just fueling it.

It was an awful weekend. Dark and lonely. The kind that makes you want to disappear. To just check out. After trying, unsuccessfully, to meet new people, or even connect with old ones, I gave up. Perhaps my energy was repelling people in some energetic fashion. It's possible. Maybe every electron in my body was spinning out a negative force pushing away all the happy, positive protons in everyone else. Or maybe it was my bad hair scaring people off. Who knows? All I know is I was lonely and sad and felt like a loser around all the happy people having fun with each other.

On the final day, the day Papi was to come to me, I just couldn't stand to be in my own body anymore. I went for a long walk but when I got back my room was still empty. I forced myself to take a nap and when I woke up I was still alone. I tried calling and texting and still nothing. I was in so much pain I just wanted to be gone. Asleep. Unconscious. Dead. Anything not to have to feel so lonely - so unimportant - another minute.

Will I?

post deleted after sobering up

Just Poppin In to Say Hi

It has been months since I've posted. I just wanted to drop by and say boo; let folks know I'm still alive and kickin. I had to say good bye to my beloved Diva a while back. She was truly my soul mate. I doubt I will ever meet another being like her. I miss her like crazy.

Papi and I are still together in our own special way. He was here a week or so ago and we caught up on snuggling and spankings. I was sick so we didn't get to fuck around much. We did have one wonderful morning of caning and flogging and fucking that will have to last me a while. At the moment our next plans to see each other are a few months away.

My sister Peaches came for a visit last weekend. I miss having her nearby to share stories and questions.

S'bout it for now. Hope y'all are fabulous.

Fuck On!

C.P.

Creepy Sexy

I’ve always been drawn to sexy ugly. You know, the Mick Jagger, Sandra Bernhardt and John Turturro types. I like the ones that snag your eye from across the street. The ones that make you stare even though you know it’s rude. I remember having a crush on a boy in grade school who had a club foot. When he walked his whole body would fall jerkily over to one side like he had tripped and then slowly, with great effort, arch back the other way as he righted himself. He had a twin brother who was really hot (all the girls swooned for him). But I found his brother to be snide and full of conceit. They were both whip smart and sassy and funny as fuck, but I was just a sucker for the one with the swanky stride.

But I think I recently crossed the line into creepy sexy. And that just seems like asking for trouble.

A few weeks ago during yet another excruciating bout of middle of the night loneliness with empty in-boxes, I placed an ad on Craigslist:

Tying the Knot?

I want strings attached. Lengthy lengths of cord tethering me to your heels; thick ropes wrapped round and round our trunks; thin threads of tinsel dangling from our toes and fingers. Like seaweed floating in the sound. Like roots joining trees in a subterranean twine. Like nothing can cut us apart.

Amazingly most replies were still your typical “hi i’m bob you sound nice pic 4 pic” variety. One reply was from a sweet sounding artsy type, let’s call him Red, who sent a picture of himself standing at a campground. The picture was great because you could tell he was handsome and smiling despite the fact he had his hand over his face shielding himself from whoever was taking the picture. I like people who send pictures that tell a story. He and I wrote back and forth a bit, spoke on the phone once or twice, and ended up going out for sushi, after which we mutually acknowledged the lack of sparkiness and that was that. And the rest of the replies I deleted.

Well, all except for one:

like blackberry bushes, spreading, sinking roots, sending up shoots, even as thorns bite ?

Could it be that someone had actually picked up on my subtly suggested penchant for bondage? I knew it was subtle because I had even asked Red if he’d picked up on it. He said he hadn’t, and that despite the fact he had some experience with ropes.

Now generally I refuse to respond to people who don’t put much effort into their replies. But Mr. Thorns here had managed to do what no others had – match me. His reply was as cryptic as my post, and yet it put it all out there really. It was luscious and suggestive, and still mysterious. And, furthermore, it tapped into a thing I have for blackberry bushes. Tapped right into the very heart of the thing.

So I wrote him back. And, since it was anonymous and therefore whatthehell, I put it all out there. My kink that is. And my desires. Passion. Companionship. Paternity.

So he writes back, and I write back, and so on. Him not really telling me much, but pressing me for more. He tells me his procreation days are over. He tells me he’s a dom. Actually, he tells me he prefers sensualist, but he’s "been called master, dom, owner, yada yada yada. . ." It’s the yada yada yada that gets me.

Each time he writes I have this strong attraction/repulsion thing going on. The fact that he tells me so little about himself (and never shares a picture) and uses words so sparsely makes me suspect. I need extreme honesty and forthrightness. I can’t tell if he is just a man of few words or actually hiding things. And I tell him as much. At the same time the few words he does use hook me like a fish. Words like theology, wrists, honored, whips, fingertips, faith, desire, relentless, wanting giving taking.

Even now recalling his words puts me on that edge again. It was like each time he wrote I had these clashing compulsions to both tear away fast and to turn myself over without a struggle.

I was unusually cautious. Not giving out too much information. My location. My phone number. But I did share my first name. And I also shared a picture. Basically, with those two pieces of information, anyone who really wanted to find me could. It wouldn’t be hard. So I felt vulnerable and exposed. And yet still curious.

I was cutting blackberry vines again, a long green pliable tendril with thorns not quite hard yet made me think of your wrists and ankles

Of course it didnt take long to imagine that long vine pressing into your breasts, ................................ pressing between your thighs

So coffee is suggested and then I catch myself before saying yes and request a phone conversation first. I just needed to verify something. Anything. His phone number. His voice. His cadence in conversation. Something. I just needed more information. A sign he was safe.

So I pick up the phone and dialed.

He answered and without missing a beat he says “When we meet I want you to be wearing a skirt with nothing under it. Even if we don’t touch I want to know your body is as open as your mind.”

Gulp.

I had to admit that was a great line. And yet, it totally squicked me. I mean I’m a sub, but I’m not a plaything. A person has to know me and respect me and care for me, to be trustworthy and safe and loving, before they get to tell me what to do. So I backed off. I said I would probably wear jeans and a t-shirt. But there’s that damn curiosity so I don’t hang up. We talk for a bit. And I note he has a slight slur to his words. A stroke? Is he drunk? I don’t know. But I notice it. And the space between the words. And I notice he doesn’t tell me much more about himself, and yet he wants to know about me. Where I walk my dog. Where I grew up. It just doesn’t feel right, you know? The balance.

The thing about me is I will give and give and give. I will. And I will give happily. But, as I get older, and indeed wiser, I realize that those who take and take and take will just keeping taking. They will never give me what I really need. And now that I actually know what I need, well, I don’t think I can settle for less one more time.

So, I thanked him for his time and I hung up. But not before he reiterated “when we meet I want you to be wearing a skirt and nothing underneath. I want to know your body is as open as your mind.”

Fuck if that isn’t the hottest thing to say to a girl like me.

On Why I'm Agnostic

Theism is a deep-seated conviction that there's some hand to hold: if we just do the right things, someone will appreciate us and take care of us. It means thinking there's always going to be a babysitter available when we need one. We all are inclined to abdicate our responsibilities and delegate our authority to something outside ourselves. Nontheism is relaxing with the ambiguity and uncertainty of the present moment without reaching for anything to protect ourselves.

from "When Things Fall Apart" by Pema Chodron


I guess this is just what being human is all about. You long for that hand to hold while secretly suspecting that ultimately there is none and all that is left is to submit to what is. I know it sounds sort of new agey and woo woo, but for me being a sub touches on that mystical experience. When I'm naked and exposed and at the mercy of my lover I can't help but to think that it is in the act of giving myself over to the unknown that I am part of something bigger than me, something that will care for me and make sure my needs are met even when I don't know what they are.

A Year in the Life

It was a year ago April that I started this blog. Odd, it seems such a long time ago. Usually, these days, time goes by so quickly; like I spin slower and slower with each passing year so everything else around me appears to whiz by that much faster. But I feel as though this blog and I have been going at it for ages.

I started this blog in an effort to get to know myself better; as an outlet to explore my desires, my needs. And I've found, when it comes right down to it, what I want is this: to love and to be loved. That's pretty much it. Sure, I want honesty and passion and adventure. Challenges and edginess and intensity. Companionship. Sex. Sensations and sweetness and silliness. But the thing under it all is love.

The thing is, I have most everything I want except the companionship part. That's what has been missing. When Papi is with me I feel so grounded; like this is what has been missing. It isn't even the sex. It's more the joy of having someone to share things with. Share my food. My thoughts. My body. My joy. My pain. My life. That's what I long for. That's what I need.

Is that so bad? I feel guilty for wanting companionship so intensely. The message I grew up with is that I should be enough. I should never need anyone besides myself. And for all these years I pretended that was true. I was like a rock. Even in my relationships I never allowed myself to need anyone or anything. To need affection. To need respect. To need to be loved. That's why I like being a sub so much - it is a safe place for me to get what I need and not feel guilty for it. Even now, with this confession, I feel like if I were more mature, more advanced, more enlightened, I wouldn't need anything except myself.

Anyway. It is hard to be 40 and just figuring this out. I think most people go about it the other way around. They just jump into the whole love/relationship thing when they are young and then as they get older realize the need to individuate and be more independent. Hence, lots of the people I meet now are interested in NOT being in a relationship just when I'm interested in the opposite. It sucks being a late bloomer.

On Stress and Sleeping Alone

When stress rolls in I get this craving, this urge, this need, to be bound tightly and teased and tortured.

The feelings start to creep in late in the afternoon, like the fog gradually inching forward from the bay, and you look around and suddenly it seems the entire city has been engulfed in a matter of mere moments. It's a foggy grey that turns cold and dark once the sun has set and I'm alone, in my house, by myself. The worst is when I climb into bed, lights out, laying there with my eyes closed but unable to sleep. Thinking about you. Missing you.

I imagine you at the foot of my bed. You start with something soft and wide, perhaps it is a very long Ace bandage. You wrap it around my ankles, tight, and up over my calves. My muscles tighten, then relax. Still. Then, to move things along, you graduate to something bigger for my bigger parts. Maybe a long swath of raw silk. You bind my thighs, my groin, my hips and, arms at my sides, you continue up my torso to my breasts and shoulders. You tuck the silk inside itself down along the length of my neck, and roll me over onto my stomach. A soft bandana is tied across my mouth, gag style. It smells clean, freshly washed, and wicks the saliva out of my mouth leaving my tongue dry and cottony.

That's the beginning. I imagine you humming and speaking to me in low, slow, languid tones throughout. I'm mostly quiet. Perhaps a moan here and there. But mostly quiet, tranced like, present. Unknowing, and trusting.

The middle is something heavy. I'm not sure what. Maybe heavy ropes bound around the encasing. Maybe six wool blankets piled on top of me. Maybe the weight of you, laying across me. Something heavy pressing me into my core, grounding me, grinding me, holding me, containing me.

And then the pressure somehow builds. Is it torque? Have you suspended me? Pulled one rope taught or twisted something, say my feet, just enough to cause the dull ache building in my muscles? There are hands at my throat, thumbs digging into my clavicle, lips pressing against my mouth. Energy restrained, like friction and fusion and fast fucking, but not yet released. Impending implosion. I'm screaming, and it sounds like a gravelly whisper through the gag. And I'm crying, but the tears are instantly absorbed by the mattress my cheek is pressed into. And inside I'm writhing and bucking, but outside it looks like a gentle rocking. Because of your hold on me. I'm tied to this earth. I'm weighted down. You are my anchor. My gravity. My tether.

Suddenly there is release. Was it electricity? Vibration? Frottage? Friction? Frisson? But we're spent and limp and wet. You start where you started, at my ankles, and work the blade inside the fold. You cut upwards along my middle, where the scissor slips into the seam easiest, where the pressure valve was hidden all along, and slowly unzip me. With each torn tooth the air rushes in like a gasp and a sigh and I expand again. Not like a balloon. Or a vacuum packed sweater. Or a stressed out woman trying to fall asleep alone in the dark. Like a moth in the moonlight. Like a butterfly. I fall out and unfold and feel reborn.

On Being Special

I've been thinking about putting this blog to rest. I seem to have lost the drive that spurred me on. The past few months I come here, draft a few words, but rarely post. I'm not sure if has served its purpose and I'm ready to move on or if something has dried up. I don't feel stuck as much as just empty. Not depressed empty. Just empty. The bowl is empty. You know? I'm not ready to quit just yet though. I keep thinking my enthusiasm just might get renewed once again. We'll see.

A few weeks back I hit a rough spot with Papi. He went on a date, two dates with the same woman actually, the last time he visited. It wasn't so much the jealousy that got to me . Jealousy I can deal with. Like a bitchy neighbor I just smile and nod and say have a pleasant evening Ms. Jealousy. But when I learned that Lilo, a perfectly sweet and wonderful woman, wanted to continue seeing my Papi as his new submissive I was thrown for a loop. It isn't that Papi and I have an exclusive thing. I'm under no illusions there. Nor did we have any kind of agreement he wouldn't have any other lovers in my town, or other lovers in general who were submissive. But something about the combination of Lilo being in my city and being a sub, well . . . I just felt deflated and washed up. What can I say? It was as though my specialness was gone. Here was a woman who was offering what had heretofore been my special offering and she was all shiny and bright and new.

Anyway. I guess we've sort of worked it out now. But I must say I still feel all old and tattered. Maybe that's a good thing. Like a favorite pair of tattered old sweat pants that you always come back to. But right now I feel like the thing that's gonna get shoved in the back of the closet and ignored until one day he stops to ask himself where did those comfy old sweatpants go?

HNT #11: Spring Thaw

I don't come here much these days. I'm not sure why. I feel things shifting, like tight little buds straining toward the hard crust of frozen earth. All around me people are blossoming and I hold myself back for fear of what?

My rutabaga boy left these little purple petals on my spine. It brings tears to my eyes to think of it just now. Not because they hurt. But because the tenderness and sweetness and love with which each kiss was given feels like the hyacinth blooming in my back yard.

Spring. Doesn't it make you wanna cry happy tears too?

Snuggle Me

On our last night together Papi asked me what I wanted to do and all I could think of was snuggle in his arms. It was his longest visit to date and we had yet to use a single toy. That expensive flogger hung unappealingly on my wall. A basket full of spoons, clothes pins and rope sat quietly in the corner of my bedroom. A plug of unpeeled ginger root sat on the kitchen counter ready for the compost bin. Papi had even lugged all his cocks and a special pink (pink!) vibrating butt plug all the way here just for my benefit. And all I could think of was snuggle. I want to snuggle. Could there be something wrong with me?

HNT # 10

I know it's Friday, but does this still count? Happy Half Nekkid Friday!

HNT #9: Word Picture

I wanted to post an HNT picture last Thursday, but I never got the chance to take it cuz Papi was here. Ironically, had I had the opportunity you would have seen a picture of my pale gringa hands with my newly painted nails, pink and girly, resting on top of Papi's chocolate brown manly manos. He says his hands are girly. I suppose because they are not much larger than mine and his skin is smooth and soft. But I find them very masculine and strong and guapo. I love looking at the way our different skins complement each other. I think his rich chocolatey shade brings out the pink tones in my flesh (and not just when he smacks my ass either). I wish I could show you with a picture. But I guess words will have to do once again.

HNT # 8: Ass Slapping Good Time

This is not my butt, but I wish it were. Since I'm usually on the other end of this view let me ask you: do our asses really look like this when you are done with us?

Love Bugs of the Undesirable Kind

Turns out Tea Boy's std test came back positive for HSV 2. Which wasn't a big surprise. He warned me he suspected it would. It was still a hard thing to take in. I felt sad and cheated and irrationally pissed off. But the good part of it is that it has forced me to better educate myself and take my health more seriously. I've learned so much already. Here I thought I was being so safe, but really I was more focused on HIV. I had no idea you could contract HSV even if you were using a condom, and I was only vaguely aware that you could contract it when the infected partner was asymptomatic. And I didn't have a clue that having herpes when you are pregnant can be quite serious, particularly if you have an outbreak during labor (in which case you get an automatic c section).

But Tea Boy has been great. We've been talking a lot and being very careful not to do anything risky until I've made a clear decision about what level of risk I'm willing to accept. If I weren't wanting to get pregnant it would be less of a question since HSV isn't that big a deal save for the social stigma you have to deal with in the dating scene. But it sounds like the majority of the population is already infected anyway - they just don't realize it and probably wouldn't bother to get tested to find out for the sake of their potential partners. God, people are such idiots. I was saddened to learn that Tea Boy had had unprotected sex even after being (knowingly) exposed to HSV. I guess he wasn't really thinking. But it makes me sad that even the ones who are thinking (like myself) sometimes don't think enough (like myself).

Anyhow, do any of you have any experience with this? I would especially love to hear about experiences being pregnant with HSV or just about dealing with dating and HSV. Or if you've struggled with the decision about what level of risk you were willing to accept when having sex with an infected partner.

And, for those of you who don't know, here's a few important facts to know:

You can get herpes even if you are using a condom. You can get herpes even if your partner has NEVER had a symptom (like Tea Boy). HSV 1 and 2 can present either orally or genitally (ie, cold sores either place means it could be either HSV 1 or 2). You can spread HSV 1 and 2 both orally and genitally (ie, you can spread either kind of herpes through oral sex). Lecture portion of this post over.

Oh, by the way, Tea Boy and I are going to the coast this weekend. The beach, a rustic cabin, a fire place, and Tea Boy - what else could a girl ask for? And then Papi is coming next week and I get him for almost a whole week. I feel like the luckiest girl in the world right now!

Oh, and furthermore, Diva is coming to the coast with us. Yea for the incredible indestructible mutt!

Once Upon a Time...

Something about my tea boy leaves me without words. Like I can't tell you the story just quite yet because I don't know how it ends. Which is ironic, since he and I are all words. He tells me he fell in love with my words first (since our first meeting was a prolonged back and forth through email and then IM) and then with the physical me when we met face to face. But I've forbid him to use the L word, for now, so he hedges around it and makes up all kinds of ways to tell me he loves me just the same. Puppy love. Infatuation. Rutabaga.

And, since we aren't in love, we certainly aren't a couple just yet. Nor are we partners, or boyfriend and girlfriend, or even dating. I've committed to "getting to know each other." We're getting to know each other. But that's about as far as I can go.

And, by way of getting to know each other, we decided we need a certain amount of face time to offset the virtual time. So we spent last weekend together. And you know what? It was really nice. Not crazy bacchanalian fuck fest nice. Just really rutabaga nice. I woke up Saturday morning all the way scrunched over on my side of the bed, almost falling off, with him all hot and sleepy and snugged up against me. I had to butt shove him back to his side so I wouldn't fall out of bed, but not before I made note that he's the first person in a long while to reach for me even in his sleep.

It turns out he fucks not unlike me: sort of bitey and thrashy and switchy. He knows what to do with me when I go all limp and subby, and yet without so much as a word we can switch places; me pinning him beneath my weight, grabbing his balls and biting into the thin skin above his collar bone while his eyes roll back in his head and a beatific smile spreads across his face. He instinctively grabs my wrist when I rest my hand in his, and yet he follows my lead when I grip his hair and guide his mouth to my breast. And when all is said and done we fall asleep in a puddle of sweat and a knot of limbs where it is hard to say exactly where one of us begins and the other ends.

And speaking of knots, he's gonna be one fine roper one of these days. I don't know if he is just so darn eager to please me or if he truly is a natural (I think maybe a little of both) but he picked up that 30 feet of nylon and started tying and wrapping and looping like he knew instinctively what to do with it. He was like a brainy kid with a Rubik Cube, turning and tightening and twisting until the thing magically fell into place. As we watched a video (Alfred Hitchcock's Rope, appropriately enough) he absent mindedly fiddled with the lengths of cord until I looked down and found my feet bound together in these funky stirrup kinda things. Then he stood up, smiled at me devilishly and went out on the porch to have a cigarette leaving me to hop about the house dragging 28 feet of rope behind me or figure out how to get the things undone myself so I could go out and join him for a smoke.

And if that wasn't enough I knew we would get along just fine when he emailed me this after our first night together:

"The little ache when I walk is a pleasant reminder in a twisted way, though. As were a couple of bruises I found when showering."

The funny thing was that I had found bruises in exactly the same spots on myself that very morning and wrote him an almost identical email.

So, as I said, I have no idea how the story will end. But with any luck there will be lots of chapters and a happy ending one way or another.

Just Checking In

For those of you who are curious about Pussy here are a few updates:

Diva is still alive and hopping. That Metacam stuff seems to be doing the trick for now. Her appetite is good, she walks on all three legs, and her spirits are still high (if a little drowsy at times). I still don't know if we're talking days, weeks, or months, but I guess I never did before either (I just thought I did). There's a lesson here somewhere. But I'm too busy snuggling my dog right now to think about it.

Tea Boy did indeed come over and stay the night with me. We had sex and it was fun. Maybe even more fun than I expected it to be. I had told him up front that I'm a kinky sub with some switch potential in the right situations. And even though he isn't kinky per se he seemed fairly familiar with the terminology and concepts. He explained that it's a geek thing somehow, which I had never known. But now that I think about it there are a lot of gamer types on bondage.com.

At this point I should say I'm still trying to figure out what I feel comfortable saying here about this tea boy. I'm still struggling with that. My thoughts are all muttled. I want to respect his privacy. I don't want to say anything that would hurt him in any way should he ever read my blog. And I don't want jeopardize Papi's anonymity either. And since tea boy knows of Papi if he were to read my blog he would probably be able to put two and two together. At the same time I love having this place where I can share my life and my discoveries about myself and the world. Where I can write freely and get feedback from others about my thoughts, my experiences and my words. Plus, well, I just miss you all. I miss the support, the flirting, the insight, the affirmation and acceptance that I get here and I'm not ready to give that up.

HNT #7: Butterfly Kisses

I felt silly despite the fact that no one could see me. Even Papi was hundreds of miles away. But I still jumped at his voice growling "work it out" into my ear when I complained that putting the clothespin directly onto my nipple would hurt too much. So I did as I was told until I looked like a funny kind of porcupine with pink and blue plastic clothespins for quills. I made a mental note that the next time I was in China Town I would think twice before buying the cheaper bag of clothespins.

I had pins on both nipples and surrounding my areolas. Then a few on the outsides of my tummy just above my pubic bone. And finally two on either side of my vulva and one at the top of my clit on the edge of my Venus Mound. That last one pinched like anything and I howled and cried but he wouldn't let me take it off. He told me to focus on breathing deep. I did so and after what seemed like a very long time I got to the place where the pain was acceptable, even welcome.

Then he told me I could touch myself. Honestly, I really didn't want to. But I knew he wouldn't let me take them off until I had cum for him. So I tried to reach my clit but each time I did my arm would bump some goddamned clip and I would flinch away. I asked him if it would be alright if I used Wanda figuring at least with her I could avoid bumping clips. Thankfully he let me and it wasn't long before I came for him quite loudly.

After all was said and done I was allowed to take the pins off one by one. Oddly enough the ones that hurt the least going on hurt the most coming off. The ones on my nipples left these tiny little dents that looked like someone put butterfly bandaids on my tits.

Cautious

This thing with tea boy is unlike anything I've experienced. And I don't know why I call him tea boy. He doesn't drink tea. I do. He drinks beer or diet coke or coffee. But I haven't wanted to say much about him or give him a "real" blog name because, well, I'm just being cautious. But this is a good cautious.

As you have probably figured out I'm not known for being a tease. I have no problem sleeping with someone on the first or second date. If I like them. But I've been consciously holding out with this guy. Getting to know him. Trying to decide if he's the person I think he is. Or, more accurately, if I like who he really is and not just who I think he is. And so far I have to say I do. He's sweet and thoughtful and gentle and smart and geeky. And he's silly and considerate and tells me repeatedly just exactly how fond he is of me. And that he wants me.

So I invited him to come to my house and have me. Tomorrow. And even though I'm crazy horny I must say I'm mostly just really looking forward to falling asleep in his arms. And waking up next to him.

A Minute at a Time

Thanks all for your sweet comments and support. They have really meant a lot to me during this difficult time. Diva dog is still by my side (quite literally at the moment). Things were looking grim there but right now we have a brief respite from the storm. Friday evening we drove along the beach. She lifted her head a bit from the back seat and sniffed the salty the air. Just the night before she had stood up to see the beach. And a mere week before she had jumped from front seat to back repeatedly while emitting her characteristic high pitched aren't-you-gonna-stop-the-car-NOW shriek.

I told her (yes, of course I talk to my dog) that if she could show me she was able to enjoy the beach I would know she wanted to stay around, but if she couldn't even frolic just a tad I would know she was ready to leave this place. I lifted her out of the back seat, not an entirely easy feat since she is not the smallest of dogs, and set her down on the grass. She toppled over. I helped her stand up again and then she skipped on two legs over to a shrub and tried to pee. She's only got three legs to begin with and now she was lifting her rear leg off the ground to avoid putting any weight on her cancerated hip. I had to support her hind quarters in order to keep her from falling into her urine. But we managed and then she skipped along quite fast (I had to jog to keep up with her) to a new spot where we repeated the ritual for a poo. You can bet the people jogging by thought I had one pitiful canine. I brought out a padded fleece and we sat in the grass for a bit watching the waves and shivering in the cold. She was exhausted and seemed defeated and I knew I would have to say good bye very soon.

But not at soon as I thought. Because that night I gave her a new pain medication, one that was supposed to help with any inflammation and therefore might help her walk. A tiny bit of my heart held out for the magic drug but I was still on the phone making the arrangements with the vets in the morning. But I'll be damned if that drug didn't work a small miracle. By morning she was walking on three legs again, albeit somewhat gingerly. Her eyes lit up again and lost their sunken, hopeless haze. She even frisked about the back seat as we drove down to the beach for a test drive before calling the vet to cancel our last visit.

So, as I said, she's by my side and we are taking it one day at a time. Actually, more like an hour at a time, a minute at a time. I trust she will let me know when she is ready to go and I will rub her belly one last time and kiss her sweet dog lips and say goodbye. But I'm cherishing every single second we have together until that moment arrives.

HNT #6

For the past eleven years only one being has been by my side loving me unconditionally, always forgiving my shortcomings, and adoring me whole heartedly. My dog.

The past few months she slowed down a bit. But this morning she fell out of bed. Then all day long she kept falling and tripping and moaning, looking at her backside questioningly, like she sometimes does when she farts and then tries to figure out what invisible thing just ran past her butt. By the time the emergency vet saw her she had collapsed on the floor. Her head in my lap she looked up at me with her big, brown, loving eyes imploring me to help her. It turns out the cancer we thought we had "gotten" has come back. And this time there isn't anything we can do. Except wait for the inevitable. And love each other desperately every minute we have left.

Happy Valentine's Day Lovies!

So tea boy went and got an HIV/AIDS test today. Is that not the sweetest Valentine's Day present ever? Still no nookie though. I've been holding fast to that three date rule. But tonight is our fourth. So who knows...

Email Whore

It isn't right that I should go for so long without getting fucked. It just isn't right.

I'm still taking things slow with this tea boy. I dunno. His words on the screen make me adore him, but then face to face he's still just a stranger. Silly me. Maybe I'm just an email whore.

Rules were meant to be broken, right?

Just dropping in to say. I'm off to go have dinner with tea boy. I'm wearing my favorite thong undies even though I've told him I'm sticking to my no sex until the third date rule.

By the way, I finally succumbed and ordered myself some Monk rope. I couldn't resist this month's special color: dirty pink! It came today and I'm sooo crossing my fingers that I get to find out just how fabulous it is very soon! Ooh, I even stopped at the library and got myself some books on knot tying. Best to be prepared you know!

HNT #6

This one's kind of cheating since I took it last week and it is rather similar to the one I posted last week. But I'm just so very sleepy I really must get some sleep. I have a second date tomorrow night with the tea boy and I don't want to loose my umph you know?!

Puppy Love*

OK. This tea guy rapidly turned into a full blown crush on both sides. The internet just works that way for those of us who are wooed by words and ideas. We've only met in person once for a scant two hours and it wasn't any crazy love at first site kinda thing for me. But you know, those love at first site things never worked out so well so why continue to believe they're a good thing? So I'm saying let's just take this slow - my god that is a challenge for me - and see where this takes us. If we play our cards right at the very least we'll each make a new friend.

So the deal on the kinky is he says he's never really had nary a kinky thought. Mm. Yeah. I didn't buy it either. Then he says he'll try anything once. Which I believe were my famous last words. So then I ask him if he were to try something kinky what would it be and he says he might be interested in taking a class at [insert name of local sex club which he obviously was aware of here] on working with hemp rope. At this point in the conversation my eyes turn into those big googly spiral eyes in the cartoon when the girl is struck by love. But we're on the phone and thankfully he can't see my goofy grin. So I just calmly say "nice" in a very nonchalant way and we move on. He proceeds to tell me he's up for giving ropes a try - he'll tie me up or I can tie him - and I make a mental note to self to work on tutoring that inner switch a bit more.

The interesting thing is that I have to confess a pattern I've now seen as a pattern and not just a random collection of coincidentally similar occurrences. The more someone likes me the more stand offish I get. This guy likes me. He has told me so. Quite honestly and openly. And each time he does so I feel my feet inch backwards towards the exit ready to bolt. Actually, it is more my brain. I start thinking disparaging thoughts that I'm sure are meant to protect myself from getting hurt but really serve to just, well, almost ensure it.

Oh, by the way. I told him about Papi last night. So today we get to see how that one goes over. Ooh, and on the Papi note, I have a visit coming up and I am very much looking forward to it! Perhaps he'll grant me the birthday spanking I requested.

* Yes, the tea guy actually used the phrase puppy love. It's quite apt.

Nice to meet you. By the way, I'm kinky.

So, I mentioned that I had tea with one of the few worthwhile responses to my ad, right? We've been having a lovely email exchange. The kind that is fun and exciting and sweet, that makes you a little giddy when you see something in your in box... and makes you anxious when you don't. Last night I told him that I wanted to have a baby - soon - and that went fine. Then this morning I told him that I'm kinky and now I haven't heard a peep. It's probably just nothing. He probably works when he's at work (unlike me). But I hate the suspense.

It's so hard to know when to tell people these things. If I put it in the actual ad I get all these creepy responses. Or guys who think just because they're doms that's enough. But then when I don't specify in the ad the stress of knowing when and how to tell them is just so, er, stressful. Oh well. I guess we'll just wait and see.

Are u fat?

I've had insomnia lately. And often when I have insomnia I end up writing a personal ad on Craigslist just so I can get some email. I'm not one of those mean teases though who never writes back though. I do write back if there is a nugget of appeal in the response. Anyway, here's what my last one said:

HWP? Who gives a flying f*ck?! - 40

I may be HWP. I may not. But the guy for me doesn't really give a rat's ass.

What he does care about is that I'm creative and adventurous in all things; laid back and easy to talk to; would rather read a book than watch crap on the boob tube (unless I'm watching it snuggled up in the arms of someone who enjoys said crap); enjoy food, both the cooking of it and the sharing of it; am passionate and loyal, once I trust you; enjoy being in my body; I'm not afraid to make the first move, but will appreciate it if you do, even I don't follow your lead; I follow my own moral compass; find beauty in all things, all people, and all bodies.

One thing though, I abhor lazy writers. Sure, it's just a silly Craigslist personal. But please, use your Webster's and your Strunk and White if in doubt. I don't mind a little e. e. cummings like creativity but I won't respond to "are u fat?" or "pic 4 pic" and the like.

Of course I got lots of replies. Anyone can post an ad under women seeking men and just say "hello" and get oodles of replies. Here are some of the ones that made me wince and hit delete:

"Hi my name is jerry and i realy would like to meet you. wana go for a cup of coffie or something........jerry"

"Are u fat?"

"What man would want to be with a fat cunt like you?"

"Male 52 6 foot, 225 would love to meet you. Professional and unhappily married."

And I wonder why I'm depressed about the whole dating scene?!

There were a few thoughtful replies though. And I had tea with one of them today!

HNT #5: Two Buttons

Word of the Day

I've missed you all, but I haven't had anything to say. So rather than come here and blather on I stayed away. But today, on a hunch, I looked up Webster's word of the day and once again it was like someone was reading my palm.

abulia • \ay-BOO-lee-uh\ • noun : abnormal lack of ability to act or to make decisions

I must have a prodigious quantity of mind," Mark Twain once wrote. "It takes me as much as a week, sometimes, to make it up." The indecision Twain laments is fairly common; only when inability to make decisions reaches an abnormal level does it have an uncommon name: "abulia." The English term we use today comes from a New Latin word that combines the prefix "a-," meaning "without," with the Greek word "boulē," meaning "will." "Abulia" can refer to the kind of generalized indecision that makes it impossible to choose what flavor ice cream you want, though it was created to name a severe medical disorder that can render a person nearly inert.

At times I'm somewhere between the slack-jawed lady staring at all of Baskin Robbins 31 flavors (I swear it looks like more!) and "nearly inert." I just never knew there was a name for it except indecisive.

HNT #4

Took myself out for a pedicure the other day. Don'tcha know I just had to go with Holy Pink Pagoda. Visions of the Boy Wonder kneeling at Batman's feet, brushing on a top coat of paint, when the nail polish bottle inexplicably spills over and he exclaims... that's right: Holy Pink Pagoda, Batman!

Please bare with me.

I'll be back soon no doubt. It's just this mother fucking rock. It is so damn... heavy.

40

Today I turned 40. That was the best gift of all.

HNT #3

The puss and the monk

went out to play

on a big pink nipple one day.

They thought it such a lovely stunt,

they asked another puss and monk.

Sisypus

Well, you know that moon watcher thing I put down there? I did it more for my own benefit; so I would have a heads up as my lunartic time was approaching. I thought I had evaded her this month. I was just saying to Papi the other night that hey, I snuck under the lunar radar this month. Well. No such luck. Last night it hit like a two ton boulder dropping blap right in my path again. Unlike Sisyphus I never get the damn thing to move an inch so I don't even get the satisfaction of making it to the top and the pleasurable agony of being mowed down by it. Nah. It just sits there and shove as I might I can't get the fucker to budge. And the fucker is my mood. It gets dark and despondent and nihilistic and downright nasty. Not good nasty. Bad nasty. Like soggy grey rainy nasty. Like no sunshine for months nasty. Like your car won't start and your bank account is hurting and you stubbed your toe and it's bleeding nasty. Like why bother trying any more and why am I alone and where is my tribe nasty. Like the mortgage broker got pregnant even though you started inseminating before she did and your dream house is turning out to be a nightmare and you're turning 40 and you still don't know what you want to do with your life nasty. Did I say soggy grey rainy nasty? And, like the rain, I know it will blow over. But, for now, I'm just sitting here staring at this mother fucking rock.

Charon and the PusSybil

In the day's last rays you could just make out the hull of the boat slicing through the wet mist and the captain's profile, just a dark shadow really, steering the craft toward the shore. The PusSybil stepped out to the end of the dock so as to indicate another passenger awaited. It had been a long day of ferry rides - back and forth, back and forth - and Charon was in no mood for another whining, sadsack soul. "Oh please, don't make me go Mr. Ferryman! Pul-eeeease! I promise to repent. Never again shall I..." And here Charon had heard it all. To steal. To kill. To watch TV. To buy Nike. To fornicate. The list was endless. But one thing was certain, regardless of their sin, their passage to hell was all but paid for - and as soon as the PusSybil handed Charon the coin their journey began.

Charon lifted his oar to stable the boat against the pier and, seeing the PusSybil alone, he sliced the oar through the air and demanded "Where is you fare? I see no one!"

"It is I, Charon. I would like to take a ride with you."

"Don't tempt me woman! It has been a long day and I am in no mood for your shenanigans. You know as well as I that only the sinfully dead shall pass over to hell."

"Ah, my friend, why just today you ferried over a nurse who had the compassion to assist a man in interminable pain, a homeless lad who stole a pair of Nike's to pay his mother's rent, and young woman who stabbed the man raping her. If the very image of so much goodness moves you not at all, well, here is your damn bough." She tossed an olive branch, shimmering and golden in the light of the setting sun, at his feet.

"Alright. Have it your way. Climb in," Charon grumbled as the PusSybil lowered herself into his craft. He arched his oar high up into the air and swung it back around, pushing them off of the pier and into the churning currents of the river.

They sailed along for a bit without speaking. The PusSybil sat herself down on the seat in the bow and leaned over the edge studying her reflection in the murky depths. Her grey hair and wrinkled hands betrayed her years, but she thought she looked pretty good considering everything (and here the last ray of light vanished below the horizon as if Apollo himself was reminding her of the price she paid for her purity).

The PusSybil let her fingers trail along in the black waters. In the darkness the sound of Charon's oar slicing through the waves sounded menacing. With each stroke the water warmed degree by degree until soon the waters were boiling and the PusSybil pulled her hand out. She lifted the back of her palm to her face and inspected the red blush on her otherwise pale skin and smiled serenely.

Charon arched an eyebrow and announced, "We are very near the shore now. You must take care not to fall into the river as you climb out or your ass will be toast."

He then pushed his oar into the sand and hoisted the boat as far as it would go onto the shore. With surprising agility for such an old man he jumped from ship to shore with one leap. He reached for the PusSybil and gripped his hand around the fleshy part of her arm. Her skin felt cool and silky. As she leapt toward the shore she stumbled and landed thigh high in the river. "Ouch" she squealed, and then giggled.

Charon raised another eyebrow and roughly yanked her toward him.

"You stay in that water a minute longer and you'll be a puddle of..."

"Oh, hush, a little boiling water never hurt anyone," retorted the PusSybil.

"Well, here we are. What's your pleasure?" Charon asked.

"I was thinking it might be interesting to check things out a bit. I hear level two is the place to be on a Friday night."

This time he raised both eyebrows. She was one curious PusSybil indeed.

---------- to be continued ----------

Anybody wanna tell me how the stroy ends? It seems the next page was torn out of my version and I can't find my Cliff Notes.

Sicko HNT

I've spent the last 36 hours in bed. And not in the fun way. Seems I just can't stay up any longer than is required to get another cough drop. Or look at my site meter. I feel so accomplished that I even managed this HNT.

Fragment Pussy?

Slightly over a thousand visitors in four days. Interesting. And here I thought I was just baring my soul to the void (and the fabulous few of you who stay long enough to say hello). I guess it only stands to reason since my title includes the word "pussy" and that seems to be a very common word to search by. Probably explains why most seem to land on my site and then quickly click away (since they are more likely to be greeted by words then beaver shots - although they may get those on occasion now too thanks to Citarre). The most amusing part of this tracking stuff is seeing how people stumble upon you through searches whacked out. Here's a recent example of phrases that linked to me (bad spelling/grammar not mine!):

smallest pussy
ouch papi it hurts
I sat on my grandpa's hard cock
autistic lover
sploosh
eat pussy cp
dykes hardwood dowel
ragged out pussy
pussy rope pull
ways to praise your pussy shirt
fragment pussy
what does a pussy supposed to look like
what to loop a pocket pussy with
strong cunt

And my personal favorite:

webster's definition of tofu

Pouty Brat's Cumuppance

Well, Charon kinda beat me to the punch line there. Oh, I'm so witty! But I have to tell you the long, drawn out version of the end of the story just because, well, that's what I do.

Let's see. Where were we? Oh yeah, Papi had just ordered me down on the bed and there I was with my naked ass up in the air and my face smashed into the mattress of my own accord. I had just gotten out of the bath and the chilly air in my bedroom smarted my flushed skin like a whispered hint of what was to come.

Papi started teasing me by slinking the tails of the flogger over my ass. Their soft, icey kiss made my skin shiver. I swayed from side to side a bit and made a yummy groan. Papi let the tails tickle along my hips and down my thighs. Then up between my legs, slowly, taunting me and making me squirm. He lifted the flogger off my skin and let it come down with a soft swish and tapping, testing the handle and the weight. He began swinging it in what sounded to my ears like infinity loops so it smacked first one cheek and the the other. Gradually he increased the tempo, the intensity, the game until he was really beating me quite hard. What I recall is this: it fuckin hurt!

Those stingy rubber tails bit into my skin like a switch. But the weighty thump of leather immediately following each stinging bite was like a caress that entreated me to forgive the stroke and pusuaded me to welcome another. My mind kept trying to figure out if I was enjoying myself while it scrambled to recover from each stroke, but Papi increased the pace until I had to give in and accept it without the comfort of the answer to that question. Acceptance wasn't really the word. More like resignation.

It's kind of a blur really (maybe Papi has a better recollection of what transpired that morning). I remember hearing my cries echo off my bedroom walls in an unnerving kind of way; I remember scrambling to the edge of my bed trying to crawl away and then backing up until my ass was up against Papi's body, pressing into him in a posture of a bottom in supplication - an appeal for forgiveness for not being able to take it with more composure; I remember his cool lips kissing my hot branded ass; I remember feeling very, very wet; I remember giggling inexplicably; I remember begging him to fuck me, please, fuck me.

He brushed his hand across my cosita from behind me and it felt like... I don't know... like the electricity of your very first kiss. Like velvet. Like the scent of wild roses. My insides quivered and waves of energy shot through me. He continued to caress me with his hand, his fingers, until I couldn't take it anymore. "Please Papi," I said, "please put your fingers inside me." He obliged (I think I may have groaned an oh god yes thank you sir groan right then) and started to finger fuck me rapidly. "Shhh, shhh, shhh. Slow, Papi, slowly please!" I gasped. And again he obliged. But still it was too much and I was crawling across the bed and he was scrambling after me trying to keep up and not slip out. I think he had his hand on my ass - whether he was stabilizing me or himself I don't know - and he was saying "geez, all this from one finger!" That must be the problem, I thought and I asked him to put another finger inside of me.

Now, normally one or two fingers is enough to slightly irritate me and make me slap your hand away. But somehow this morning it was like each finger had morphed into one of those fucking rubber tails and was biting the inside of my cunt. I felt like crying and screaming and wailing. Not because it hurt but because I so wanted to be fucked and I couldn't understand why my body was betraying me.

"It hurts papi. It hurts," I cried and he pulled his fingers out and wrapped his arms around me. "I don't know why. I don't understand," I said and he kissed me softly. "It's ok," he said. "It's ok. It's just not the right time." And he held me and rocked me and kissed me while I wept. Papi thought perhaps the flogging caused my body to react that way. But I suspect that my cunt sabotaged the fuck since she knew that Papi had to leave momentarilly if he was to make his flight. My cunt and my heart must be in cahoots; neither one will really let you in if they suspect you will leave me.

I needed to have him inside me one way or another so I reached for his cock and surprisingly he let me. I didn't think he would, but he did. He gasped that gasp he does when I first touch him that I love so much. I stroked him slowly at first. It didn't take long for his cock to harden under my touch. I love that. Somehow we moved about and then he was on his tummy. I pressed my face between his strong thighs and started to suck him into my mouth. I licked and sucked and rubbed until he came strong and hard, squeezing my face between his thighs like a vice so hard I couldn't escape.

Then we raced like the devil to the airport. But it was too late. He missed his flight. Too bad the next one wasn't sold out!

Salty or Sweet?

This is just such a lovely shot I had to share it with you. It makes me think of ripe fruit and sea life. It makes me wonder if she tastes salty or sweet. If you like it you should check out Citarre's The Genital Arts site for other lovely lady landscapes (and a few sweet cock shots as well, which are always appreciated).

TwiddlyBits Where are You?

Does anyone know where TwiddlyBits and DanglyBits went? Did I miss something in the blogosphere? It seems their link expired and I miss them terribly.

Site Meter

It is no secret I am a slow learner. I finally installed a site meter this morning. From the time it took me to install it and then go check it out I'd already had peekers from the US, Denmark and Spain. All this time I've been blogging I knew that anyone anywhere could have a looksee but I really didn't believe many were since I generally get relatively few comments (as compared to other blogs I read). I love the feeling of being "watched" by all you anonymous eyes all over the globe. Makes me feel so small and huge at the same time.

HNT

Way, way back - or what seems like way, way back anyway - when I first started this blog, I was encouraged by our dearly departed Unfurling to post pictures of myself. The thought alone made me faint. Sure, there is the pesky little issue of anonymity - which I've said before is more for the protection of my partners than myself - but as long as I'm being honest with you all I might as well confess that the real underlying issue is that I just don't feel like anyone would find my body sexy or beautiful.

I've always been a big girl. Ever since I can remember my boobs were more droopy than perky (they're on a slow migration to my arm pits as a girlfriend in college once described them). And my tummy is lopsided and droopy too. I'm covered in stretch marks and I don't even have big tits or a plump ass to make up for my lack of curves. I've always struggled to love my plump droopy self. My smart brain gets it - that there are no "good" bodies or "bad" bodies - but my dumb brain doesn't. On the surface of it I come off as confident and comfortable in my body. But it doesn't take much digging and poking to see there's a lot more to the story just under the surface.

This past year has been an interesting one in that I've both gained a lot of self confidence in myself as a sexual being and I've also lost some as well. It has been wonderful to find that there are lots of people out there who enjoy having sex with me. But it has been heart breaking as well to realize that it is indeed still true that the majority of folks would never consider a fat chick beautiful. Sure, they might fuck me. Sure, they might like fucking me. They might even like me. But chances are they don't like fucking me, or like me, because they think I'm hot.

Now, before you go and correct me, before you reprimand me for my self doubt, consider this: I have had exactly two lovers tell me that I am beautiful. Papi and Chico. And we all know that Chico was lying like a rug. So that leaves Papi. Now, I know that other lovers have loved me. And even enjoyed having sex with me. And perhaps found me attractive. But the fact that I'm turning 40 in less than a month and I've only heard "you're beautiful" from one qualified lover, well, that says a lot. It is kind of hard to tell yourself you're beautiful, and to believe it, when you're (almost) the only one saying it. The irony is that I find chubby chicks to be really hot. Just not myself.

This stuff goes way back. To play grounds and buss stops and best friend's backyards. Back to the boy I lost my virginity to. My highschool sweetheart. He was skinny as a stick and grungy and sort of funny looking but I adored him and thought he was incredibly sexy. After we made love for the first time, my first time, he turned to me and said "don't you think it's special that I love you even though I don't find you attractive?" Uh, yeah?

Anyhow, a few weeks ago I was thinking about all those bloggers out there who post on HNT and wishing for the life of me that I could find one plain, middle aged, chubby chick joining in the fun. Fuck but I would love to see a plain, middle aged, chubby chick HNT webring! I considered posting a picture of myself, but then I thought better of it. I figured those of you who read my blog might get more into the stories when you can imagine me to be in the body of your liking. But you know, the whole point of this blog is to be able to share my struggles as well as my joys... and there are times when the things that bring me joy are the very things I struggle with. Like my body.

Then tonight, peeking around at new blogs through linking to links on the sites of those of you who have left comments here, I came across Dave's pictures of Am in her maid outfit and I thought "finally, a body I can relate to!" And when I read Dave's comments on Am's comments the disconnect resonated deeply. When Papi looked into my eyes and told me I was beautiful the first time we made love I thought surely he was lying even though he had absolutely no reason to. I had already given myself to him without a struggle, as he likes to point out, so what was there to gain? But it is so deeply ingrained in me, this feeling of ugliness and unworthiness, that I couldn't imagine that he could simply be speaking his truth.

Occasionally I have moments when I feel sexy or beautiful or even just acceptable. But they are few and far apart. I would like some day to have a whole hour of feeling beautiful. Then maybe a whole day. A whole week. A month. A year. But for now I would settle for a few minutes every Thursday.

Confessions of a Pouty Brat

It was almost noon and I was feeling like a pouty brat. I knew I had to take Papi to the airport in an hour or so but I wasn't ready to say goodbye yet. Silly really, since I had already scored an extra day with him due to some nasty weather necessitating a flight postponement. I felt like a greedy, selfish child. But I just wanted more. I'm that way. Chocolate. Wine. Sex. You give me a little and instead of being satisfied with one square, one glass or one fuck I'll eat the entire bar, drink the whole damn bottle and suck you until I make you miss your plane.

The night before I had fallen asleep in his arms already wanting wanting wanting. His head was resting against my breast, cradled in the arc of my arm, and he had been rolling my nipple between his fingers like an absent minded writer chewing on the end of his pencil until he inadvertently nips off the eraser. His finger tips gradually ratcheted down their grip until he was squeezing so hard I could feel it in my clit. Literally. I wanted him inside me so badly then, and I told him so. "Later," he said. "Later." Then he fell fast asleep as I laid there in his arms waiting waiting waiting for sleep to douse my desire with her darkness.

When the alarm began squawking at 6:30 the brat in me let it buzz a bit longer than usual longing for him to bolt upright and ravish me for hours. Instead he slept like a rock all morning. The brat tried snuggling up to him and pressing her icy toes between his calves... nothing. She tried scratching his back hard like he likes with her stubby nails... nothing. She turned on the reading light and loudly flipped each page as she finished it... he just pulled the covers over his head. Finally she resorted to the sure fire trick of rocking the bed and moaning while she masturbated next to him. She even got out Wanda, who, as you know, has seen better days and is quite the loud lucy of vibrators. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Right about then I went from bratty to pouty. Surely a girl had the right to feel sorry for herself when her papi wouldn't even wake up to fuck her before leaving her for days, weeks, months? Although, in the interest of fairness, I should say that he has certain health issues that render him unconscious in the blink of an eye like that guy who slept under the tree for years and years. Plus, something about the four pieces of toast and plum jam I had given him the night before acted like some weird psychotropic drug that put him in a thick fog for the remainder of the evening.

When he finally did stir he giggled and mumbled something about "Johnny Carson was driving with no windows."

"Oh yeah," I said. "Then what happened?"

"What are you talking about?" he said, squinting and trying to get his eyelids to unzip the sleep that was sealing them shut.

"You said Johnny Carson was driving with no windows."

"You're nuts. I don't know what you are talking about," he insisted.

Clearly he was still under the influence of the plum jam and toast.

Papi's not a morning person - noooooooo sir eeeeeee! - and all of my machinations to get him aroused were just serving to irritate him and make him crankier. So I threw in the towel, or picked it up rather, and went to run a hot bath to warm my toes and get my blood flowing the way I do most mornings. Alone. Just as I lowered my pouty self into the gardenia scented suds Papi appeared in the doorway and said sternly "get out."

"But I just got in," I pleaded.

"Get. Out." he said and disappeared.

I was a little befuddled and confused - but giddy inside. Like when the teacher calls you to the front of the class on the last day of school and you're nervous thinking you'll be humiliated in front of your friends for failing the quiz... but inside you know that you're really about to get a big gold star because you're teacher's pet. I stepped out of the tub, dripping wet, and hurriedly wrapped the towel around me without drying off.

When I got to the bedroom Papi was standing there in my jersey bathrobe and pink bedroom slippers, flogger in hand. How could you not love a man like that? I breathed a sigh of relief before realizing my reprieve was going to be short lived. We had already played with the flogger once before and I found its stingy rubber tails quite hard to bare. But the soft thuddy leather ones had enticed me enough to beseech him to use it on me again. I was hoping to get to that place where nothing else matters that Red described so well.

"Assume the position" he said like some kinky track referee. I tossed the towel aside and threw myself down on the mattress, face first and arse up in the air.

(to be continued...)

Spanking Ripples

Papi found a series of pictures by some guy who figured out how to rig up his camera so the sound of impact triggers it to snap a picture. They are really quite marvelous.

Spanko Bouquet

Pez and I took a mini vacation the other day and while I was strolling around the Chinese markets I found not one but two stores that carried thin ratan switches about 30 inches long with a little loop of cord on one end for hanging it on the wall. The store I bought this one at - for under a dollar no less! - had it in a vase with the fly swatters. You would have to be one fast handed mutha fucka to get a fly with this puppy. What in God's name could this be meant for other than caning? When I asked Dex she suggested it was for "poking." Poking or spanking. That's all we could come up with. How about you?

In other news, Papi arrives tonight and I made him this pretty spanko bouquet. Martha Stewart look out!

Curious Pussy's Good Things

OK. I confess. When I'm really randy, which, as you know, is just about always, I can't go shopping without drooling over the oddest things. I recently bought a house (did I tell you all that?) and I've worn a rut between my door and the hardware store. Every time I go out for nails or caulk or whatever I inevitably wind up in front of the rope section or the chains and locks or the wooden dowels just standing there dazed and wet and scheming. Not long ago I went out for drywall putty and I came home with this brush. I have absolutely no idea what it is for... or supposed to be for anyway. But it sure feels nice on the inside of my forearm.

Worse than the hardware store is the cooking store. Ooh, those spoons and spatulas and gigantic chopsticks just send me. Even better is walking around the utensil isle of a market that specializes in goodies I'm not familiar with. Tonight I went out to buy some pac choy and tofu and I came home with this:


It's my new favorite thing. It says "ART" on the handle. And ooh, if only you could feel how yummy it is. The handle fits perfectly in my hand and the paddle part is solid and cushy at the same time. It's some kind of hard thing like plastic on the inside padded by fabric and elastic on the outside. The colors are the sexiest part of all if you ask me.



There were some directions on the packaging that just added to the mystery of the thing. Maybe I'm just a sicko, but I think the graphics are sexy and alluring in the same way that tampon and condom directions always intrigue me and make me want to see the next page of illustrations.

Webwashing

Whoaaaaaaaaaa! Maybe this was here all along but I just now noticed the "flag" button on the upper righthand side of the Blogger navigation bar. Has this always been here people? Or is Blogger jumping on Alberto Gonzales' webwashing attack? My lord! Where is the justice? Where is the morality? When you can sell weapons and drugs on the internet but you can't write about sex between two (or three or more) consenting adults!

Spankos

I saw this painting, again, last year and was rather shocked that I had never realized before that Max Ernxt was a spanko. I did a little research and indeed it turns out he was quite the kinster for his time. Anyway. It got me thinking about the role spanking plays in my psyche.

I was peeking around some sex blogs this morning and somewhere, god help me I can't remember where, I saw a post about the need for a good stress relief spanking. It spoke to the impetus for my craving so succinctly. I wish I could find it again... I would link it here for you.

I've always doubted my credibility as a full fledged spanko since the idea (or act) of spanking doesn't really get me off sexually. I read about people who cum just from spanking alone and I'm so envious. I wish! No, for me spanking is just like good foreplay. But mostly I just experience it as a form of grounding. Not being one for meditation or guided visualization or any of that other new age woo woo stuff, spanking is my preferred mode for centering myself.

When I'm tense or anxious or despondent I have this primal urge that is experienced in a very physical way - like the need to scratch an itch or stretch a sore muscle or yawn - to be backside up and have my ass soundly whacked. I feel the need deep within my flesh, somewhere about the outside of my upper thigh. If you were to take your hand and cup my ass, then just let your hand drop a bit and slide out, that is where I feel it. In the muscles there. It feels like an aching tooth, a sore muscle, a bruise, that just needs the applied pressure of an outside source to provide relief.

Something about the sound and the sensation and the complete surrender allows me to release everything that is balled up tight inside and causing me discomfort. Some days I just wish I could come home and say "hey lover, I had such a crummy day and I'm so tense and anxious and wound up" and then s/he would say "c'mere baby and bend over my knee and let me spank that sweet ass of yours."

Anyway, I always thought I was alone in this. I figured most spankos liked spanking cuz it got them off. Until I read that blog posting today.

The Last Time

I woke to the feeling of Papi's whiskers bristling against the thin skin on my neck and his hoarsely whispered words, "wake up, sweet Pussy." I snuggled closer to his touch, like a cat waking from a nap as her master chucks behind her ears. "Now, wake up Mr. D cunt!" My breath caught and my eyes snapped open at his command. I reached over and laid my hand on Mr. D, the tips of my fingers tracing the cord of scar tissue that cinches his chest up taught and firm. He stirred and mumbled "huh, what?"

Papi had his arms around me now and his top leg hooked in the crook of my knee effectively prying my legs apart. He was rhythmically grinding his hips into my ass. The heat of his breath on my neck sent shivers across my cool skin. I purred and arched my back into him, feeling my muscles pull and stretch and limber loose as they warmed up. Suddenly I gasped and exhaled as he tightened his arms around my breasts and throat, binding us together tighter than any ropes ever could.

Involuntarilly I gripped down on Mr. D's upper arm. His body was hard now. He was awake. Listening. Waiting for his cue.

"I think you better fuck this Pussy, Mr. D," Papi said.

"You think so, do you? Well, I better see about that." He rolled over and wedged a hand between my thighs. He fingered me quickly, just long enough to feel how wet I was. "Mmm hmm, yeah, that's it, that's a good girl," he cooed to me in his monotone voice. Then he said to Papi, without looking at him, "hold the bitch down." He hoisted my calve onto his shoulder and pressed himself into me.

I had always loved how Mr. D kept his cock on after fucking. I remembered how, after the first time we fucked, we sat and chatted in my brightly lit kitchen while he nonchalantly played with himself. You know, the way guys just sorta knock their dicks about when they're soft and in the way? The only difference being that his dick was always 10 inches long and hard and ready to fuck again... even if he wasn't.

But tonight he was. Albeit, unbeknownst to each of us, it would be our last time.

He fucked me good and hard while Papi held me tight and whispered sweet and nasty things into my ear. And even though it was Mr. D who was deep inside me and Mr. D who's eyes were locked onto mine; Mr. D who was rocking my body with the force of his own and Mr. D who had pried my legs apart as far as they could go, his right hand gripping my ankle high above his head and his left knee restraining my other thigh; somehow it was really Papi who was fucking me. It was Papi's pulse who was beating in time with my own. Papi's breath pacing mine. Papi's kisses comforting me and letting me know I was loved. Papi's arms I drifted back to sleep in afterward.

In the early, early morning Mr. D and I took the elevator downstairs together in silence leaving Papi sound asleep in the hotel. We walked across the deserted lobby, Mr. D two steps in front of me. We stepped out into the chilly morning air. I motioned to my car parked half way down the block to our left and said "I'm just over there." He said "ok, see ya" and turned to the right.

Licketty Split

In a few days my friend Pez is coming to visit for a spell. You may recall she's the one who brought me La Cuchara. These days La Cuchara lives in the nightstand next to my bed. I figure most of my friends wouldn't really think to ask why I have a wooden spoon in my bedroom. The ones who would get it wouldn't bother to ask and the ones who wouldn't get it wouldn't bother either. But Pez, she might bother. And I don't know that I'm ready for that conversation with her. So I've been wondering if I should put La Cuchara away for her visit.

In general most of my friends don't know about my subby, masochistic leanings. And honestly, I think most of them would be quit surprised. I've heard this is true of many a sub. And for those of you who are reading who are subs I would be interested to know if this is indeed true for you as well. For me it isn't a question of shame as much as not wanting to deal with their misinformed judgments. I think many of my friends would see my subbiness as anti-feminist. Of course, to my thinking, there is no contradiction. I find that being true to my subby ways makes me feel more empowered as a woman, not less.

The day I drop Pez off at the airport is also the day I pick Papi up. So, if I do remove La Cuchara for a spell, you can bet she'll be back where she belongs licketty split.

Saturday Night

Well, it is Saturday night and I have managed to end up back at home feeling kinda mopey. But actually somewhat appreciating that at the moment.

After a series of unfortunate events I ended up being an hour late to the art opening tonight. I had no way to reach this guy I was meeting to let him know I would be delayed so I was somewhat surprised to find him still there when I got there. He, of course, thought I was just another internet no show, which of course made me feel awful. Apparently he had consoled himself by partaking of the free wine because he was quite drunk. We munched on cheese and crackers for a bit and then I politely said I was ready to go. Standing in front of his car he invited me over to his place for more wine and I declined without a moments hesitation. It was nice to be asked even though I hadn't the slightest desire to accept his offer. Don't get me wrong, he seemed a nice enough guy, and he looked like a cross between David Bowie and Lyle Lovett, which was not entirely unappealing. But between being drunk and being a punner I had absolutely no desire to torture myself any longer.

So, here I sit, home alone on a Saturday night, somewhat mopey that I can't seem to find a sweetie to be with, and equally pleased to be home by myself instead of out with the wrong person.

Mr. Yucky

Mr. Yummy is now Mr. Yucky. Petooyee! Blechy! Ick! I spit him out and wash my mouth out with soap!

This is getting rediculous people. I seem to go from bad to worse. Am I just at the dregs of the barrel at my age or what?!

I don't even have the energy to go into it dear reader. Like many a preadolescent child this time of year, I want to believe that "he" exists, but apparently believing with your heart and believing with your head are not always compatible.

Two Strangers on the Horizon

So, looks like I'll finally be meeting Mr. Yummy - the guy I met on Craigslist a few months ago. The one who wants to be a father. We've been emailing and talking a bit on the phone and generally feeling each other out. We agree that the other one drives us each a bit nuts. But still there is something there. And it just so happens I will be in his city and state toward the end of January for a week so we have a date set for coffee. Most likely nothing will come of it (I have very low expectations these days). But, who knows? I believe I will be there right about the time I'll be ovulating. You never know, you know?

In the mean time, I'm still waffling back and forth between giving up on dating altogether and giving it all another chance. I made a date to go to an art opening on Saturday with this guy who emailed me from a personals site I have a profile on. Usually I get the most lackluster emails from that site. But this guy seemed like he had a brain at least. We chatted a bit on the phone yesterday. Nothing really stood out except that he likes to makes puns. I'm not much of a punner myself and I get on punner's nerves because I don't laugh at their, uh, jokes. Anyway. At least I won't be sitting home all mopey this Saturday night.

Just curious...

Hmm. No one commented on my "Cunt" post or the "Be Mine" one. Are the longer posts just too tedious to read? Or is there something about them that turn people off? Just curious.

That Lunar Lady

It never ceases to amaze me how the moon exerts control over my emotions and libido. I swear I looked at the moon last night and she looked less than half full. I was confused because I was weepy and horny, always a sure sign of a full moon. Then tonight I look up and sure enough it looks like she is just one hair's breadth away from full. That lunar lady does it to me every time and I'll never understand how. I suppose since the moon controls our tides, and our bodies are made up of mostly water, it stands to reason she controls my tides as well.

When Mr. D and I were, uh, friendly I would leave my back door unlocked on full moon nights. He would sneak around the back of the building by the light of the moon and come in after I had gone to bed. I would wake up to the sound of him shushing the dog and tip toeing into my bedroom. He would say something about how I should be careful leaving my back door open like that because some strange man could come in and have his way with me just before he would have his way with me.

Word of the Day

Webster's on-line word of the day is:

chatoyant • \shuh-TOY-unt\ • adjective : having a changeable luster or color with an undulating narrow band of white light

As in: Her clit glistened like a chatoyant jewel waiting to be purloined like pirate's booty.

Those frenchies sure come up with some good words. Mais oui! Non?

Cunt

I felt as though I had been hit, hard, in the face. Not an open handed girly smack that smarts like "bitch!" No. More like a full on manly punch that pushes you off your feet and sends you reeling backward wondering what-the-fuck-just-happened-to-me? Had he really just called me a cunt? Did he really say that? How could he possibly think that was gonna turn me on?

I could take all the grabbing and hair pulling and pinching, all the shoving and choking and biting he dished out without so much as batting an eyelash. But that one word knocked me out cold like a fist. It made me feel beaten down and degraded. If words could leave bruises I woulda looked like Jake La Motta's wife right then.

As a child the only time I heard that word was when my mother was irate. Livid. It was reserved for moments of utter contempt. The boss who fired her was a cunt. The landlord that evicted us was a cunt. The friend that lied to her was a cunt. I knew, without being told, it meant the person was beyond redemption. They were no longer welcome in our lives. And only women were cunts. Men were just jerks. Or assholes. Or bastards. And that was pretty much to be expected. And readily forgiven. But a woman who was a cunt was a traitor to all. She was worthless and debased. She was to be ostracized. Alienated. Banished.

Unwittingly, unwillingly, I had inherited my mother's vernacular, just as she had surely been handed the torch from her mother, and so on and so on. Vernacular, from the Latin vernaculus, from verna, a slave born in the master's house. And the truth of the matter is that women have a long history (doesn't that word just say it all?) of being the slaves of men, sexual and otherwise, since forever and that legacy is built into the very fabric of our beings. Our language. Our thoughts. Our desires. What made that word sting so much was the subtext; that my entire being, my intellect, my soul, my body, could be reduced to one word: cunt. And not even my cunt. His cunt.

And here was my lover, this man who is so sweet and gentlemanly, who had been so careful to establish clear boundaries and respectful limits before any salacious words were spoken or bare flesh revealed, who surely knew firsthand what it was to be reduced to a cunt himself, even he found some satisfaction, some thrill, some power in using the one word that rendered me powerless. Or so it seemed to me at that moment.

But, as it is with all things that hurt at first, there was a lesson to be learned. An opportunity for transcending the pain, for personal transformation.

cunt (noun)
1 the female pudenda; also : coitus with a woman
2 usually disparaging and obscene

Now, intellectually speaking, I know that there is nothing inherently evil or "obscene" about my cunt or about sex. God gave me both, right? And it seems to me that God meant for me to celebrate his/her gifts, not to snicker and sneer at them like I'm the victim of some unfortunate white elephant gift exchange. That's what my head says anyway. But, if I am to be truthful, there are voices that say yes indeed, my cunt is icky and smelly and shameful, and my desires are something I should be ashamed of. But I know in my heart that I should tell those voices to shut the fuck up. They are the same voices that tell me I'm too fat to be sexy, or too stupid to be president, or too weak to kick your ass. And we know whose voices tell that story, right? His story.

Rather than buy the "disparaging and obscene" definition of cunt any longer from here on out I'm gonna opt for the new improved unabridged Curious Pussy definition:

cunt (noun)
1 the female pudenda - a sexy, splendid and sacred part of the female anatomy that is gifted with the power to give joy and pleasure to the owner and the person(s) with whom she chooses to share her cunt
2 an expression of praise and reverence of the sensual and sexual powers of the cunt, often uttered during moments of passion inspired by the cunt; as in "yeah, that's so nice you cunt, you're gonna make your daddy cum for you."
3 one who possesses the powers of the cunt

So now, whenever someone calls me a cunt, I'll take it as the compliment it was meant to be.

By the way, if you haven't done it already, you really should read "Cunt" by Inga Muscio. It's a beautiful thing.

Speechless

Are you caught up on the latest witch hunt brought to us by the Bush (mis)administration? Oy vey!

Thud or Sting

The thing about being a sub and, yes, I admit it, a bit of a masochist, is that most of your toys don't work so well without a little help. I mean heck, have you ever tried spanking your own damn self? The thwack really loses something at your own hand.

Papi is coming to visit for New Year's and he suggested, well, ordered me actually, to get a couple new toys. So I dutifully went shopping with my pal Magda. She browsed the vibrators while I found the flogger section and pulled out three versions of the particular flogger he requested. I was a bit nervous about the rubber bits - seems like they might bite more than I've bargained for - so I opted for the one with medium tails for more of the thud then the sting. Plus, honestly, those things are pricey and the smaller one was cheaper. I didn't go for the very smallest though. That just seemed, well, for ninnies. I may regret thinking that come Jan. 1st though, eh? I also bought this little rubber thingy that seemed like some hokey tupperware sex toy thing. But Papi insists it is better for more sensitive areas like nipples and whatnot.

Magda left empty handed and I left almost $90 poorer and really cranky, once again, about going home to an empty house.