Happy Half-Nekkid Thanksgiving

It's a mild day in Austin, overcast, and the air is soft. Here I am in my backyard this morning before I went to meet my folks for breakfast. I suppose I should rake the leaves, but they came in handy as a background, and the cardinals and blue jays and doves seem to like having them there.

click to embiggen


Later today my family will gather for the traditional meal, and then some of us will go to the big game, while others will gather at my house for wine and conversation. Happy Thanksgiving to you, wherever you may be, and may you have much to be grateful for.

I was the glass

This is where I had the dream, in the gray light of a rainy morning.










Can't shake a dream I had last night; or rather, a vignette from one of several intricate dreams that flowed one to the other, connecting all the disparate rivulets of my life into one stream that ran into an unseen, enigmatic ocean.

I dreamed I was dreaming, and had a blood orange, and I halved it, giving one half to West Coast who was lying next to me in bed as I dreamed. He didn't even look at it (how could he ignore that color; that scent?), but stretched out his arm and in one hand crushed the fruit, sending a stream of dark juice onto my belly. The juice was copious, it pooled, it stained the white linen sheets, and he crouched between my legs and drank it in thirsty swallows. I woke from that dream within the dream feeling like an empty vessel, but there was no time to understand, for I was already being swept into another dream.

I woke again (and finally) to rain and the knowledge that a decision had been made for me by a dream.

So sure am I, I even took a picture. I don't want to let myself forget.

Porn breakfast

This morning's breakfast, a berry and brie danish from the Sunset Valley farmer's market.

Sexual healing

I had recently lost my cat Vasily to cancer, I had been recovering too slowly from a monster cold, my work week had been truly disastrous, and I was under the gun to get a large fund-raising event organized. Not a day had gone by for two weeks when I hadn't dissolved into tears at one time or another. I felt haggard. I looked haggard. My skin is normally clear, but stress had created two delightful zits on my face. I had dark circles under my eyes, I was mired in a perpetual bad-hair day, I needed a pedicure -- your basic wreck, is what I was.

So when I got the email from Mr. LQ asking whether I would like to get together for maybe dinner and definitely sex, I had to think about it. I felt unlovely and undesirable -- was this a good idea? Before this summer I would have made my excuses and told myself I needed to wait until I was in the right frame of mind. But things have changed, my dear imaginary readers, and so I did something once unthinkable. I accepted. So I wasn't at the top of my game. Was I going to feel any better if I hid at home? I needed to feel good; I needed to make someone else feel good; I needed to get out of my head. I emailed back and said his plan sounded lovely. The rest fell into place quickly: next day, 6:00 P.M., same hotel.

Mr. LQ and I had met once before a few weeks earlier. It had been brief, intense, enjoyable -- a whirlwind few hours with very little talk and a lot of sex. As I drove toward the hotel and our second assignation, I imagined pulling a Blanche DuBois once I got there. I could drape the lamps with scarves to create flattering light. Maybe use my hands a lot, sort of flutter them around to distract from my various physical imperfections. The idea made me grin. Poor Mr. LQ would have to wonder what kind of freak show he had invited over.

But here's the thing: as soon as I got there, everything was all right. Just like Curtis Mayfield sings it -- "have a good time, 'cause it's all right." I walked into the hotel room, dropped my purse in the chair, and turned around to tell him it was good to see him again. He smiled, kissed me in greeting, then pushed me up against the wall and pinned my arms above my head with one hand while he freed my breasts from the plunging neckline of my dress with the other. Then he bent his head and sucked my nipple into his mouth and ohhhh yes, this was exactly what I needed. Instant and total immersion.

He stopped long enough to pull my dress off and pushed me right back up against the wall, now sucking the other nipple while I sighed and writhed and tried in vain to grind against him. He took my forearms and pulled me toward him. "Here," he said, "here," and pushed me down until I was kneeling in front of him. I took his cock in one hand and licked up the length of it, then around it, then pulled it into my mouth, sucking in earnest. We stayed this way a while until he suddenly withdrew, reaching for the condoms, and pushed me forward upon my hands and knees, where I waited, panting, the synthetic carpet somehow both rough and oily feeling, until he was thrusting into me.

And so it went . . . and went . . . from the floor to the bed, hands, mouths, cunnilingis, fellatio, finger-fucking, ass-fucking, tit-fucking, and in between bouts of sex there was conversation. He had brought his computer equipped with satellite radio, and classic jazz and swing floated through the room. This time around we had time to get to know each other. We twitted each other about politics. I heard about the evolution of his career. He heard about my grandfather's life as a bandleader. And all the while we talked he was either running his fingernails over my skin (bliss) or fondling me (more bliss), occasionally giving me a lazy spank. Sometimes I caught myself humming or singing to the song on the radio. Sorry, I told him. It's a compulsion. "I don't know what advantage in life I get from knowing the entire Harold Arlen songbook, but I know it."

"It's an advantage," he assured me.

While we had been talking his hand had wandered down to my cunt again, his fingers parting and stroking me. I reached down and pulled his hand to my lips. I took his wet index and middle fingers into my mouth and sucked them slowly; lavishly. His cock twitched hard against my thigh, and suddenly I was seized with the desire to feel it in my mouth. I moved quickly to kneel between his legs and used my breath and my tongue to tease him, taking him all into my mouth at times, other times nibbling about the tip just to hear him moan. Slowly I settled into a pattern, and then all that mattered was the connection between us.

I don't mind giving head at all, but there are times when I'm giving it simply because I know that's what my partner wants at the moment. This wasn't one of those times. I needed to be doing this. I was utterly absorbed. It was my own little work of art. I didn't want to make him come too fast; I didn't want to get it over with -- I wanted to be doing exactly what I was doing. You don't hurry art.

I could tell when I hit a perfect rhythm because he would start to tremble. He held my hair back from my face in his hand like a thick single rein. I breathed through my nose so I could keep my mouth on him without stopping. Now and then his cock would hit the back of my throat and I would gag slightly, feeling my mouth constrict around him. Sometimes I would force the issue and take him so deep I gagged, because I liked the flow of saliva it triggered. With my hands I toyed with his scrotum, his testes, his perineum, soft fingers, the hint of a fingernail, increasing the pressure as he approached climax, laying off, then increasing again.

I don't know how long I did this. At one point my jaw became sore, but I ignored it, and soon I didn't feel it. Finally the intensity of his shaking and thrusting pierced my reverie and I realized he was about to climax. He came with a loud series of groans, and I kept him in my mouth, waiting for each spurt of semen. It was a long, drawn-out climax, and I loved being able to read the intensity of it in his cries. When he was finished, I released him gently and slowly from my mouth, and stayed where I was, my head resting on his thigh.

"Oh baby." He laid there breathing hard, eyes closed. "Oh baby. That was incredible. That was . . . that was . . ." His voice trailed off. I flipped my hair up onto his chest, then dragged it softly down over his stomach and groin, listening to his breath catch when strands caught on his sticky thighs and cock. Then I did it again.

"That feels so good," he muttered.

"I know," I whispered.

Finally we were both completely still. I reluctantly rose to clean myself up and caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. I was smiling, flushed, disheveled -- a million miles away. When I came back out we lolled about still naked, watched Saturday Night Live, happy, spent, and giggling. Then it was time to go home. We dressed, and when I paused at the mirror to smooth my hair, he said, "You look great." I rolled my eyes and laughed. He walked me out to my car, kissed me good night, and we went our separate ways.

In the car, I looked up at the clock and read the time: midnight exactly. Six hours of nothing but pleasure, and I was feeling . . . really good. Really fucking good. When I got close to home I realized that I was famished, so I decided to stop at Kerbey Lane for some gingerbread pancakes. But when the plate was put down in front of me, I took a few bites and then I didn't want any more. So I paid, assured the waiter that nothing had been wrong with the food, and went home, pleasantly jangled and buzzing.

The next morning, while I was getting dressed to go to dim sum brunch, I saw that I had a bruise on my neck, courtesy of a long, hard kiss from Mr. LQ. There were some scratches at the base of my throat -- not from Mr. LQ but from my cat Nora, who forgets herself and loves her human a bit too fiercely at times. And of course, the zits were still there. But I didn't look haggard. I sure didn't feel haggard. I felt just fine.

I haven't cried since.

Mulling

Should I go to Dark Odyssey's Winter Fire Weekend in February? It looks wonderful (I adore Tristan Taormino, and she's one of the organizers), and there's an emphasis on Tantra (an area I would like to know more about). I guess the argument against attending would be that I won't know anyone there. (Might that also be seen as an argument for attending?) Also, I'm scheduled to go to New Haven on the 16th, so I would have to make a few travel rearrangements.

But it looks like so much fun . . .

::longing sigh::

For anyone waiting for some writing on the subject of recent sexual escapades (you know who you are), it's on its way -- but today and tonight are going to be frantic for me (big fund-raising event takes place tonight), and then I will finally get some breathing room. I hope.

This post was brought to you by the left paren symbol and the right paren symbol, and by the number 8.

Morning sun

I'm sitting, drowsy, curled up in the corner of my sofa, using my laptop (as I always do these days -- the desktop sits unloved, covered in dust) to update, and thinking about what to write next. This corner of the sofa is bathed in sunlight on winter mornings once the leaves have fallen, as they are now beginning to do. So for now it's a dappled light, rays breaking through occasionally full force when they reach a leafless spot on the mulberry tree as the sun rises. I don't feel quite rested, and I'm putting off going to work. I'd rather sit here and write.

But I can't, and I have places to be after work, too, so the words will have to keep until tonight. My cat Minou has no such constraints on her time, however, so she, lucky thing, will stay on the windowsill above my bed, dreaming in the morning sun.

Oh, how I needed last night

Not to be a tease (maybe just a little, but honestly, it's an unintentional consequence--can I help it if you enjoy it?), but I don't yet know whether I can write publicly about last night. I can say this: after two weeks of doubt, sorrow, and anxiety, it was such a delight to revel in pure pleasure for six hours.

Is there anything better than lolling around naked creating an impressionistic performance piece made of sex, lively conversation, sex, laughter, skin, fingernails, sex, and sensory overload?

No, not chocolate. The first person to say "chocolate" will earn a less-than-gentle love bite from me.

Kama sutra chocolate bar by Barlovento Chocolates

I'm not just saying it for effect

I mean it when I say that books taught me how to live. No one else would (or could) tell me the things that Turgenev, Tolstoy, Austen, et al. told me when I was young and searching; thirsty for all the instruction I could soak up.


"In the street, forty paces from me, at the open window of a little wooden house, stood my father, his back turned to me; he was leaning forward over the window-sill, and in the house, half hidden by a curtain, sat a woman in a dark dress talking to my father; this woman was Zinaïda.

I was petrified. This, I confess, I had never expected. My first impulse was to run away. 'My father will look round,' I thought, and I am lost ...' but a strange feeling--a feeling stronger than curiosity, stronger than jealousy, stronger even than fear--held me there. I began to watch; I strained my ears to listen. It seemed as though my father were insisting on something. Zinaïda would not consent. I seem to see her face now-- mournful, serious, lovely, and with an inexpressible impress of devotion, grief, love, and a sort of despair--I can find no other word for it. She uttered monosyllables, not raising her eyes, simply smiling--submissively, but without yielding. By that smile alone, I should have known my Zinaïda of old days. My father shrugged his shoulders, and straightened his hat on his head, which was always a sign of impatience with him.... Then I caught the words: 'Vous devez vous séparer de cette...' Zinaïda sat up, and stretched out her arm.... Suddenly, before my very eyes, the impossible happened. My father suddenly lifted the whip, with which he had been switching the dust off his coat, and I heard a sharp blow on that arm, bare to the elbow. I could scarcely restrain myself from crying out; while Zinaïda shuddered, looked without a word at my father, and slowly raising her arm to her lips, kissed the streak of red upon it. My father flung away the whip, and running quickly up the steps, dashed into the house.... Zinaïda turned round, and with outstretched arms and downcast head, she too moved away from the window.

My heart sinking with panic, with a sort of awe-struck horror, I rushed back, and running down the lane, almost letting go my hold of Electric, went back to the bank of the river. I could not think clearly of anything. I knew that my cold and reserved father was sometimes seized by fits of fury; and all the same, I could never comprehend what I had just seen.... But I felt at the time that, however long I lived, I could never forget the gesture, the glance, the smile, of Zinaïda; that her image, this image so suddenly presented to me, was imprinted for ever on my memory. I stared vacantly at the river, and never noticed that my tears were streaming. 'She is beaten,' I was thinking,... 'beaten ... beaten....'

'Hullo! what are you doing? Give me the mare!' I heard my father's voice saying behind me.

Mechanically I gave him the bridle. He leaped on to Electric ... the mare, chill with standing, reared on her haunches, and leaped ten feet away ... but my father soon subdued her; he drove the spurs into her sides, and gave her a blow on the neck with his fist.... 'Ah, I've no whip,' he muttered.

I remembered the swish and fall of the whip, heard so short a time before, and shuddered.

'Where did you put it?' I asked my father, after a brief pause.

My father made no answer, and galloped on ahead. I overtook him. I felt that I must see his face.

'Were you bored waiting for me?' he muttered through his teeth.

'A little. Where did you drop your whip?' I asked again.

My father glanced quickly at me. 'I didn't drop it,' he replied; 'I threw it away.' He sank into thought, and dropped his head ... and then, for the first, and almost for the last time, I saw how much tenderness and pity his stern features were capable of expressing.

He galloped on again, and this time I could not overtake him; I got home a quarter-of-an-hour after him.

'That's love,' I said to myself again, as I sat at night before my writing-table, on which books and papers had begun to make their appearance; 'that's passion!... To think of not revolting, of bearing a blow from any one whatever ... even the dearest hand! But it seems one can, if one loves.... While I ... I imagined ...'

I had grown much older during the last month; and my love, with all its transports and sufferings, struck me myself as something small and childish and pitiful beside this other unimagined something, which I could hardly fully grasp, and which frightened me like an unknown, beautiful, but menacing face, which one strives in vain to make out clearly in the half-darkness...."

Bootless cries

Whew. It was one of those days, y'all. Every step I took felt misplaced; every word I uttered felt mistaken. It started this morning at work, when the last of four days of rancorous, unproductive meetings confirmed my every fear regarding the political morass that has engulfed public education in this state. It continued through a few hours of fund-raising for the nonprofit I sit on the board of directors for. It's not the most popular cause in the world, I fear. We're not helping babies or homeless kittens or sweet old people or retired racehorses. How much fun is fund-raising for a controversial cause in this financial climate? Oh . . . about as much fun as an icepick through the kneecap.

So by tonight, I was on shaky ground. All it took was some intense conversation on a difficult subject, a couple of stiff drinks, and a few kind words from a sweet friend to start the waterworks. Ugh. I said my goodbyes to the group and headed home. On the way I remembered to stop at Ruby's and pick up some ribs for Jeff, so I did make one person happy today. Hooray.

Blargh.

All right. Tomorrow. All better. Deal?

My last Sugasm

I've decided not to participate in Sugasm anymore. I think it's a cool concept, and Radical Vixen is to be lauded for keeping it going, but it doesn't work for me. I've noticed that very few of the people who are voting bother to read my submissions. No, that doesn't translate to "I'm miffed because they don't vote for me!" I mean they don't even form an opinion of my writing because they never read it in the first place. How do I know? Because StatCounter shows me which page people land on. If the participants were following the permalink to my Sugasm submission, that's the page that would be showing the traffic. So, for example, since there were 47 submissions to (and therefore 47 voters on) Sugasm #152, I would expect 46 people to land on "Marked: An Open Letter" (my submitted post) when they followed the link mailed out to all the voters. Guess how many visitors to my blog entered via that specific link between the day the Sugasm voting list was emailed out and the day the Sugasm results were posted? Eight. Yep, eight out of 46. And while there is certainly a boost in traffic to my blog once the participants post the Sugasm results, that's not what it's about for me. That's never been what it's about. I wanted to be read by and hear from other writers, not just garner a bunch of random hits from disinterested surfers who flee as soon as it becomes evident that there aren't any pictures of naked people on my site. The value for me in participating in Sugasm was the opportunity to interact with and receive feedback from other writers and readers, and, with any luck, to improve my understanding of sexuality in the context of life -- my life in particular. Maybe that was an unrealistic expectation. Meanwhile, I diligently read every submission and voted for the ones I thought were best regardless of who wrote them or how far down on the lengthy list they were. That may have been a naive approach.

I realize that there are many bloggers who hope to generate some sort of income or use their blog as a springboard to a book deal or something along those lines. It makes sense that the driving force behind their blogs would be self-marketing and that their goals would revolve around generating as much exposure as they could. I am not one of that camp, however. I believe it is ultimately restricting to write under those conditions -- to write under any condition. And that is why you will never see an ad or a "tip jar" or a vibrator review or a wish list or anything but my own naked words on this blog. Believe me, I harbor no delusions about supporting myself as a sex blogger. Nor am I looking to score free sex toys or win any popularity contests. I reveal what I reveal because part of me wants to be known -- in exchange for nothing save knowledge of myself and of others, if I'm fortunate enough to hear from them. I do this to do it.

I want honest feedback, not publicity. I can get that without the benefit of traffic I receive solely by virtue of being on a list of random links to sexual material. If I wanted to belong to some sort of community (and I'm not sure that I do), it would be the whole wide world of writers, not the narrow community of sex bloggers. In fact, as I've mentioned before, it feels somewhat forced and unnatural to me to write JUST about sex. My sexual experiences don't exist in a vacuum.

Enough navel gazing! Here is the latest Sugasm, and the last you will be seeing here. Of course I'll continue to read Sugasm, and I encourage anyone who enjoys erotic writing to do the same -- I've encountered a number of talented writers via Sugasm that I'm happy to read regularly. Some of them are good enough (in my opinion) to have earned a place on my list of links over yonder.

Sugasm 152: The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #153? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks

Sugarbutch Star: Maze - The Girl in the Red Dress
"She’s the kind of girl who brings out the worst in me."

treat or … fuck
"He looked like I had just given him a car for Christmas and he gently took my hand and led me upstairs."

A Life Exposed and Amplified
"We were breaking the rules and being dirty."

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
I told him I loved him. He gave me a pen.

More Sugasm

Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Sleep writing

János Vaszary, c. 1930

Aha. Just woke up from restless dreams with a sore throat and mouth (shredded the roof with movie popcorn earlier), and decided to get out of bed long enough to pound some orange juice and play typey typey with my laptop. Just to keep the sense memory of writing active, I suppose. . . .

Still somewhat off-balance between the lingering effects of the Black Death and the emotional sledgehammers lobbed my way last night by Rachel Getting Married (which I would like to see again, so if you can deal with the fact that I might turn into a puddle of tears roughly two-thirds of the way through the movie, sure, I'll go with you), so I haven't written anything save a few Tumblr updates. I'm also trying to finish The Last Shot and I've already started Revolutionary Road -- both startling in their excellence and clarity if having nothing else in common. So I'm chewing on a lot. How about you? What has got your brain occupied lately?

Bluebird of happiness

I finally got the people at Twitter to fix my account, but the only way I could do it was to obliterate my old account and start from scratch. So if I used to follow you on Twitter and don't anymore, that's why. I'll try to find my old contacts and add everyone back to the list, but feel free in the meantime to add me. There's a link over yonder in the sidebar. -->>

That said, I'm a singularly unrewarding, intermittent, and kind of boring Twitterer, so I certainly won't take offense if you choose not to follow me.

Q and A

I've been asked a number of questions via email and instant messenger and idle conversation, and several keep popping up. So in case anyone else out there is wondering, here are some of the answers. And if reading about me bores you, click on <<-- this picture instead.


Q: You live with your ex-boyfriend? Is he okay with what you do? Does he know about your blog?

A: Yes, I live with him (and have since 2002), and he's a great friend to me, and he's okay with what I do. He knows about this blog but prefers not to read it. He is dating someone else, and I'm glad he's got someone. While he prefers a slightly more traditional style of life, he's both supportive of and happy for me.

Q: Do the people you write about know that you write about them?

A: Yes, and several of them have actually commented here. Which, I might add, I think is seriously cool of them.

Q: Why do you tell them?

A: I made the decision fairly early on that I would get permission to publish anything of an intimate nature about anyone else. I have several reasons for doing so. I want to try to write as objectively as possible about my experiences -- I think that's the only way to learn from what I'm doing. If the people I'm writing about can call me on any inaccuracies or missed subtleties or differences in perception, that keeps me honest. And somehow it seems only fair that they have some say over how they are portrayed to the world, even if their identities are protected. Know wha'm sayin'?

Q: Yeah, but if you know they're reading what you write, doesn't that restrain what you write?

A: I try not to let it. I realize that I lack the perspective (not to mention the credibility) to claim that it doesn't affect what I write in the least. All I can say is that I try my best to write what actually happened as though no one is reading. That's one reason my writing is about what's inside my head so much -- a lot of times, it's the only thing I know for sure really happened.

Q: Has anyone said you can't publish what you write about them?

A: Not yet. I'm very grateful for that.

I do have some new experiences to write about, but I have been stricken with the plague. Once the buboes shrink and the bleeding from the eyes slows down, I'll update.

Beautiful night

Supporters of President-elect Barack Obama react to his victory
at the Indiana Democratic Party election night event in Indianapolis,
Tuesday, Nov. 4, 2008. (AP Photo/AJ Mast)

What a strange and somehow appropriate night to start yoga again. When I left for class, things were looking good. By the time I got home, it was all over but the shoutin'.

It feels so good to be proud of my country after such a long time. I'll feel a hell of a lot better if Proposition 8 is defeated in California, though. Fingers crossed.

Daaaaamn, Precinct 332!

My precinct has already had a 65% turnout just for early voting thus far. And there was a line at the polling place this morning. Way to represent, 78704!

Yet another reason I will never live anywhere in Texas again but Travis County.

Marked: an open letter

In which I try to explain last night to those who would be uncomfortable with the direction I am traveling; in other words, just about everyone I know. No, I won't tell my friends outside the scene (save a few trusted ones) or, god forbid, anyone in my family. But if I did, this is what I would say to them. (A warning: the pictures, taken this morning, are behind links for a reason. Don't click if you're uneasy with this subject in general. Really -- don't.)

It's the marks that frighten people. If it weren't for the marks, I don't think y'all would have a problem with what I did last night. Truly now, were I to take you aside and say, "I finally got to experience it, and guess what? It felt so good. Meditative. Cleansing. It was like inhaling a paradox! He used a crop and a cane and floggers, and oh, I don't know, have you ever had a deep tissue massage where it hurt and felt good at the same time? It was like that, and afterward I felt like I'd been on vacation," what would you think?

You might think, Yeah, I get that, I guess. You might shrug one shoulder and smile crookedly and say, Hey, I'm glad it worked for you, but still not my thing, man. A rare few of you might hug me and say, That's wonderful! I'm so happy for you!

But what if I were to show you this and this? Would you recoil? Would you be frightened for me? But . . . why? Those are just marks. Nothing has changed. The first paragraph still holds true, but now there are some welts and bruises to show for it, that's all. I wasn't struck any harder than I was the first time I told you, nor did I suffer. Far from it.

Let me back up. Last night I went to the Voyagers party, arriving a bit late, sometime around 10. I had to park a quarter of a mile away, so I knew it was going to be crowded, and it was, but not intolerably so. I didn't see many people I knew at first glance, but soon familiar faces began to emerge in the crowd. Most people were in costume, the mood was decidedly festive, and I worried for a moment that I had made a mistake. I had considered not going at all because my sorrow over Vasily is still so raw, and I'm prone to bursting into sudden tears, but then I had decided what the hell. If I cry, people will just have to deal with it. Hiding for days and not talking at all about what is happening in my life is how I've dealt with grief my entire life. Things are changing, yes?

I was happy to see De'Juan show up. He's appeared in these pages before; I just didn't know who I was writing about at the time. In the weeks since then, I've had fun hanging out with him and various others; singing corny songs from Monty Python's Flying Circus and Hee Haw over groans of protest from said others; having blessedly intelligent conversation. Does it hurt that he's fantastically hot and possessed of a serene, unassuming confidence? No. No, it does not. By the way, he looked mmmmarvelous last night in a dark shirt, tight leather pants, a bit of "blood" smeared on his lips, his hair pulled back, and a heavy chain draped like a bandolier across his chest.

At one point we were standing next to each other, leaning against a wall in a room with a bed upon which one woman straddled two bound men, while standing beside us in the corner another man and a woman were finishing up a scene with, from the sound of it, a decidedly happy ending for her. In the midst of this decadence, De'Juan and I were whispering. He asked me whether I planned to play that night. I whispered back that I still hadn't worked up the nerve to approach someone and ask them. He asked whether I would like to play with him. I'm surprised the others present weren't annoyed when my eyes lit up the entire room. That is to say, I whispered, "Yes, I would love that!"

He started to say he was playing with A. later that night, and at that moment the couple in the corner finished up and lo and behold, one of them was A.! He laughed at that, and suddenly I was at the front of the line, since A. would need some recovery time. He suggested that my first time be private so I could talk and ask as many questions as I liked and we could adjust and go at a different pace if need be. I agreed -- though, as it turned out, I doubt I said more than six words during the whole scene. I meant to talk and be proactive and inquisitive, honest. It's usually impossible to stop me. I'm Hermione effing Granger in even the most unlikely situation, always piping up and interjecting and asking what's that and how come and why not, but . . . well, no, not this time.

The private room opened up and in we went, and he closed the door with a "Sorry!" to the people standing in the hall, and once that door closed I was whoosh, sucked into that heightened reality where something is happening, it's really happening, don't think -- act. The heels of my boots clicked loudly against the tile floor. De'Juan turned to me with a smile, and over the blood rushing in my ears I heard myself ask, "What should I do?"

"Undress," he responded kindly, and I, like the shy person in strip poker, started to fumble at the patent leather arm cuffs I wore, they being the least revealing thing I could possibly remove, asking, "Everything?"

"You can keep on the accessories," he said, and I asked his help in unzipping my corseted blouse (I was wearing the S&M Snow White outfit again). I shed my blouse, my skirt, my underwear, and that left the thigh-high fishnets, the patent leather boots, the arm cuffs, and my grandmother's red beads. Fearful that the beads might get caught on something, I took them off and laid them on the bench. De'Juan asked me to kneel on the pad at the foot of the bench and, bent over, to lie upon the bench. I did, slightly propping my head on my crossed arms. All I could see was the tangle of my hair, the leather of the bench, and my necklace twisted like rosary beads in my fingers. I extricated my fingers and pushed the beads slightly away but still within reach. I didn't want to accidentally break the string.

De'Juan knelt so that he was at face level with me and asked if there were any medical issues or concerns he needed to know about. No, I told him. He explained that he would build up slowly, keeping an eye on me to gauge my pain threshold, and confirmed that I knew to say "yellow" when I reached the edge of what I could take and "red" to say "stop now." I nodded and we exchanged a smile, and then I laid my head down and took a deep breath. And he began.

He did something very reassuring -- during nearly the entire scene, he kept one hand on my body, moving it as he moved, giving me a sense of where he was at any given moment. It reminded me of the way I keep my hand on a horse's flank and rump as I move about it so that it always knows where I am. Another thing I appreciated was that with each new instrument he would run it down my back, allowing me to get a sense of what he was about to strike me with. I didn't know what was being used, but afterward I asked him to show me and tell me the names, which he very kindly did. I don't know whether I can remember the whole order, but here's a sense of it, anyway:

There was a light flogger that felt soft and tickly at first, then began to sting faintly as he increased the delivery rate and force of each blow. My skin started to warm, and it was almost relaxing. I felt my breathing deepen and slow, and despite my determination to focus on the sensations and experience rather than analyze, my mind very quickly leapt into abstraction. The flogger was followed by a crop, then a cane, first tapping, then thumping, finally stinging enough to elicit a heave of breath or sigh from me. Now and then it felt right to turn my head or rock my body slightly from side to side as the intensity increased. It was rhythmic, and even when my muscles tensed in anticipation of a blow or when my body jerked in response to a particularly sharp blow, my mind was calm. It reminded me of the calm I feel when I'm traveling once I board the airplane. I'm there, and whatever is going to happen is going to happen. I am along for the ride. At the same time, I felt safe, because I knew I always had the power to make it stop if I needed to. I think that knowledge is what made it possible not to need to stop -- tu comprends? Smiles would come unbidden to me at moments -- euphoria cycled across the landscape of my brain now and then, criss-crossing through my thoughts like a ribbon. Some of those thoughts were light; others were dark. I caught myself struggling to capture the sensation of Vasily expiring in my arms and let my mind rest on that briefly, then retreated. I thought briefly of Rick; but my mind didn't want to stay there, and I let it go where it wanted. There was certainly an element of sexual arousal for my part. I felt myself grow wet, but it seemed an organic side effect rather than a lust, if that makes sense. At times I wondered what thoughts were going through De'Juan's mind. There were even times -- prepare yourselves -- when I didn't think at all. Hallelujah, right? I'm grinning right now just typing those words.

The Josephine-knot paddle and the kangaroo flogger were lovely in completely different ways. The paddle had a delicious weight to it, and it felt wonderful on my back. Eventually it felt completely different, especially on the sides of my ass (where I currently sport some interesting marks). And the kangaroo flogger was just intense. At one point he used two floggers at once ("mad conductor indeed," he commented with a smirk when he was showing me the floggers later), and my breathing sped up, I arched my back, and my hands went cold and tingly. I came close to pleading yellow, but instead I drew a sobbing breath and felt my whole body quiver, and he stopped, running his hands gently over my skin while the fractured pieces of me fell back together inside. He came to the side of the bench and knelt to speak to me, moving my hair gently away from my face. "Are you all right?" he asked. I lifted my head and felt a smile burst across my face. "Oh yes," I said, beaming. He was smiling, too. "Want to keep going?" he asked. "Oh sure," I think I said -- I know whatever I said was slightly goofy and vague.

He started again with a flogger in each hand, and I stretched my arms forward with a sigh, sinking into the sensation, stretching all the way out, and then I slightly amazed myself by arching upward to meet the blows. But it was a short-lived embrace of the moment, as the floggers whirled faster and faster against my skin, and the burning became intense, and I felt myself toss my head, my body beginning to protest. He stopped and stroked my skin again, and came to speak to me once more. I propped myself up on my elbows, dreamy and smiling. Thank you, I said, several times, if I recall correctly. Thank you. He sat on the bench and we embraced, not talking much, just (at least in my case) savoring the endorphin rush and snuggling.

I can't imagine a better first time. I was with someone I trusted, he gave me a range of sensations and refrained from pushing me too hard, and afterward he was kind and patient. Just perfect. I hesitate to call what I experienced kneeling against that bench "pain." It was a type of physical impact, requested by me and expertly administered by someone who knew what he was doing. Pain to me is the way I felt a few days ago holding Vasily in my arms while the vet administered the shot. That was pain -- it was searing, relentless, out of my hands, and because those feelings are unbearable the mind eventually goes numb. Loss is pain. Grief is pain. Regret, anxiety, remorse -- all of those are painful, far more painful than a measured and thoughtful thwack of a cane.

I didn't know what to do with the sexual energy the experience unleashed in me. I've never taken Ecstasy, but I think it must feel a bit like I felt after I had dressed and emerged from the room. I wanted to kiss everyone. I wanted to give everyone blow jobs and massages. I wanted to fuck everyone. That feeling faded relatively quickly (right around the time my butt started to feel sore sore sore). Someday I'd like to experience a scene that culminated in that type of release, but not for a while yet. For now I would rather hold onto it and use it as fuel. And there is a lot yet to wrap my mind around.

The rest of the night, I would duck into the bathroom whenever it was empty, lift my skirt, and take a look at the welts and bruises, growing impressively more colorful with each passing minute. My ass smarted, but I wasn't in pain. Just a bit sore. (I believe I have established for once and for all that I bruise easily. I look like I was mauled, but I really wasn't.) And it turned out to be a stroke of luck that De'Juan scened with me first, because afterward I got to watch him do much of the same and more with A. They used a cross rather than a bench, and she was standing (and obviously they were public). I stretched comfortably across the bed and watched him use the tools he had showed me earlier. I was still a bit floaty, and I drifted in and out of focus. I remember at one point, early on, he did something and she reacted and he got the biggest smile on his face, and that in turn made me smile, and I wondered if he had smiled that way while he worked me over. (I hoped so.) As he worked, A.'s skin began to glow. I think (although it's hard to say) that she was taking a significantly harder beating than I had, and now and then she would cry out and grip the cross or sag from her wrists (which were bound above her head). When he finished and began to free her, I quietly left the room. I know now just how valuable that time afterward is, and she deserved that time alone. (What I don't know is how important that time is to the dominant partner in a scene. Is it just as valuable; just as necessary to soothe the swollen braid of nerves and revel in the chemical high? I imagine it depends on the individual.)

Now and then I would pass De'Juan in the hall or see him across the room and a big grin would break out on my face. He would grin back. I felt enormously grateful to him, and when I finally took my leave, hugged his neck and kissed his cheek and whispered "thank you" one more time. He thanked me! I didn't feel as though I had done anything to be thanked for . . . but I am going to make cupcakes later this week and take him one on Thursday. Will that make us even? ::wee smile::

I was wide awake by the time I got home. Jeff was at his computer, and I, still a bit giddy, announced, "Guess what I did tonight!" I believe his response to my brief tale was an exaggeratedly (in)sincere, "That's greaaaat. Good for youuuu." Imagine the first words of each sentence in a higher register, the other words in a falling tone of resignation. Heh. He did not want to hear about it.

Good thing the clocks went back, because I didn't go to bed until after 4. Then I lay in bed awake -- and on my stomach! -- for a while, drifting in thought. I think that's when I had a little bit of a recoil effect, which I had dreaded somewhat, because what goes up must come down, and coming down for me can be a scary proposition. But it wasn't that bad, and it was short-lived -- no bad dreams. I shed a few tears for Vasily, wished for a moment that I had someone to snuggle up to; someone there to know that I was asleep. And then, just like that, I was asleep.

This morning I felt quite cheerful and energetic. I woke up early and charged my camera (yeah, yeah, I'm turning into quite the little picture taker, I know), started some laundry, went outside and sat in the warm sun with my black-and-white dog and my black-and-white cat (I didn't set out to make them match, but it amuses me that they do), and rubbed my dog's belly with my foot while I thought some about Vasily and what I would like to do with his ashes. My ass is already a little less sore -- I barely notice the soreness unless I sit down without thinking, and even then it's more like a nudge, a reminder of what happened last night.

And if it weren't for the marks, you would never know it had happened at all, any of it -- unless I told you.