Nope... Not Yet.

So… Somebody flirted with me the other day.

It was a guy I’ve kidded around with casually for years - but he’s been upping the ante the last few times I’ve seen him. He’s very nice, considerate, attractive, age-appropriate… 

All in all, I could do worse. So in an attempt to prod myself into moving forward, I took a moment to seriously contemplate developing a crush on him … and almost burst into tears. (Or vomited - it was kind of a toss-up between the two…)

Now, that’s certainly not an unusual reaction when you’re recently de-coupled. While the wounds are still fresh, you never want to think of anyone else touching you… Ever Again. (Or at least, I don’t. YMMV on this.) But even more than giving me that particular sucker punch to the heart, my momentary fantasy also provided a jarring reminder of exactly what I’m facing in life after my first D/s relationship.

I mean, you always think, “oh I’ll never find another guy” (altho’ so far I've managed it) but, man, have I complicated that likelihood by adding “submissive” to my list of “on-offers”!

Because it’s no longer just, “Find a guy you like, hope he likes you…, then hope you like his dick.” (‘Cause, sorry guys!, that’s not as much as a given as you may assume it to be.)

Nor is it even, “Find a guy you like, hope he likes you, hope he likes BDSM…, then hope you like his dick.” - because there are about 86 million different permutations of BDSM to worry about. 

Instead, I’ve ended up in a position more like, “Find a guy you like, hope he likes you, hope he likes BDSM, hope you can trust him, hope he’s someone you can open up to, hope he likes Weenie Girls, hope you can respect him as a Dom, hope the naughty things you each like align, hope he wants to balance BDSM and vanilla, … then … hope you like his dick.”

Now, considering the fact that I generally stall out at, “Find a guy you like”, (much less getting past,“hope he likes you")... I am feeling seriously challenged at the moment.

Plus, truthfully, I’m wondering if I even want to worry about all that anymore, anyhow. Not that I’m swearing off kink, per se… but I’m not sure I know how to find my trust again, so I’m not sure that kink has a place on my wish list, either - altho’ I also can’t imagine a fulfilling relationship without it, so that’s kind of problematic…

And all that trust and opening up stuff?
Way down the road right now. 

Way down. 

Waaaaaay way down…

Oh...! And have I mentioned the dread engendered by doing all this while now pushing 60 and hitting the nadir of my physical attractiveness?

I think I need to just swear off the whole crushing / flirting thing.

(Or at least the crushing — the flirting may be beyond my control…)

On Overcoming the Force of Habit

Some of the things he wants me to do cause me to balk on principal.

Some of the things make me balk from apprehension.

And then there are the things that don’t make me balk, exactly - but that I struggle to accomplish to his satisfaction.

I’m stuck on one of those now.

As of this week, I’m no longer allowed to use the wand on settings that I enjoy… I now have to use the jarring, discordant ones - rhythms that I find distracting rather than arousing… yet I am still expected to come.

Yeah... 

Have you ever tried to change the way you masturbate?

To learn to respond whole-heartedly to a totally different angle/speed/pressure than what your body stubbornly clings to as its road to bliss? (Particularly when even this good road has been known to develop potholes from time to time...) 

Am I the only person who finds this to be a hard stinkin’ thing to do?

I'm giving it the ol' college try, however. After all, I have done this before… once, long ago, when I realized that my years-long habit of lying on my tummy was causing me to have difficulty orgasming when on my back during the good times, which was happening more often now that there were actually other people present...

But I will not lie, it was a long and frustrating process then…

…and I'm not having much better luck this time around.

Usually, his challenges serve to exhilarate me.

     I'm afraid this one just kinda makes me grumpy.

Only From a Dom

would you get a present that requires homework…

I didn't mention the gift he got me, did I?

Partially that's because it hadn't arrived before I left for Christmas… and partially, if I'm honest, because I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it. 

This is definitely a case of, "honey, I got you a present I'm really going to enjoy!"

See, altho' he is more than happy with the robustness of my boobs overall, my nipples are, shall we say, a bit on the delicate side… not to mention somewhat evasive. (Downright slippery little devils?) They're small, don't clip easily, and even when they do, odds are about 50/50 that at some point during the proceedings, they will slip their bonds. 

And while I can't help but admire their Houdini-like skillz, that trait can be irksome, to say the least. So he's hoping to make them a bit more, um… "sturdy." (This, by the way, explains much about his persistence on the whole piercing issue. I thought he was pushing for a look, but no…, he just wants a good handle!)

So "we" get to work on enhancement...

Initially, when he revealed his plan and told me what I was getting, I had to stifle a groan. I had this awful vision of some elaborate hucow device arriving on my doorstep and I really wan't too happy about the idea. (just say no)

Once again, however, She of Little Faith was proved wrong. (Note to self: you really need to start trusting this man a bit more…) Because what arrived was effective yet subtle… essentially the tiniest of basters. You put a little ring around the end, suction the flesh up, roll the ring down, then remove the tube. 

    Bam. Done.

No fuss, no muss, no milking machines.

In fact, it's really just a booster for getting an elastic band onto a recalcitrant nipple.

    Which I am to do for 15 minutes a day, every single day.

(Without fail… and periodically with pictures.)

But that's okay. 

It's not objectification, it's just tit torture - with a goal.

And that I can handle. 

Sort of…

Eventually…

I hope.

If I don't fall victim to the laws of physics first. 

See, I can quite happily get those little suckers on there… but removing the tube means breaking the suction… and did I also include skittish in my list of nippular adjectives? The suction breaks, the flesh snaps into retreat, and the plastic parts make a break for it. On my first attempt, in fact, the ring flew so far that I actually thought it was lost for good. It was several hours before I finally unearthed that puppy, cowering beneath the discarded tissues in a wastebasket several feet from where I'd lain…

*sigh*

This could be a very looooong couple of months…

(I have a bad feeling I may be getting my first "F" ever, here…)

Mal de Mattress

Every now and again, we'll be going along just fine when, whammo!, my body decides to play Whiny Child In The Backseat, fussing and squirming and telling you to pull over, it's gotta throw up. 

It happened the other night, in fact -- not for the first time, and probably not for the last.

The problem is the position. BG (and, if tumblr is to be believed, every other man in the universe) loves, loves, LOVES to have me on my back, head hanging over the mattress, while he fucks my mouth. He gets dominance, he gets depth, he gets visual, he gets unimpeded groping and slapping access… Did I mention, loves it?

And strictly from the blow-job-giving perspective, I love it, too. The angle's good, my teeth aren't so obstructionist, there's not so much pharyngeal objection on my part… 

Really just a lot less to worry about. 

So, everyone's happy, right?

Well, no. 

Because I'm "blessed" with the world's touchiest vestibular system.

I get motion-sickness at the drop of a hat . Hell, even just seeing "To Fly" in an IMAX theater laid me out for an entire afternoon. (I had to retire to a bench and sip gingerale while my family went on and enjoyed the rest of the museum.)  So, the act of hanging my head backwards over a mattress is basically an invitation to nausea… and then some.

After a few minutes, my stomach lurches, my head aches, my neck screams, my ears start ringing from the pressure, and just to put a cherry on top, anxiety gathers until I'm verging on a panic attack. (Plus, ever since the concussion gifted me with vertigo, you can also toss in a good 50/50 chance that my eyeballs will start bobbling.) Unchecked, these reactions combine to induce the kind of deep, roiling, grey misery that lingers for hours… and I hate it.

But because he loves that position so much, I'm generally willing to give it a whirl - for a little while, anyhow. We have a few minutes of happy slurping and satisfied growls, then I go, "Oh, God, no more" and he hauls me back up to level. (Often with a regretful sigh, but he's a man of honor.)  A couple of minutes spent laying flat (with a cock in my mouth, of course) and I'm usually good to go. 

If I misjudge my timing however (as I did the other night,) it's a different story. Because at those times, no matter how hard I fight the nausea, I usually can't get on top of it. So I'm distracted and we can get out of sync. Which makes the misery more than just physical, because now I'm struggling to stay with him AND beating myself up for being a crap sub.

Fine art neglect, nausea, scene disruption, and sub fail….

Motion sickness has got a lot to answer for in my life.

It's All A Matter of Perspective

This pretty much describes how I've felt the past week - 

     and how I anticipate feeling for all foreseeable upcoming weeks, as well.

There are changes underway where I work - changes that impact me enormously; changes that I absolutely hate. For the convenience of others, my job has been turned into something I do not want to do, something I am not qualified to do, something that does not utilize the skills I have to offer. 

Performance expectations, of course, have not changed. 

I'm pretty unhappy about the whole situation, yet I'm stuck with the fact that I'm an adult.

And I live in the real world. 

I am, after all, gainfully employed, which is nothing to sneeze at in today's economy.

The hours suck, I hate my commute, and the pay is only barely sufficient for my needs...

But the people are nice enough, I like my boss, and up until now, I was able to do something I was good at and enjoyed. 

And no one ever promised me a rose garden, right?

So-

I'm trying really, really hard to maintain a positive outlook about this.

     I'm trying to see it as a challenge.

     I'm trying to remain cognizant of the many blessing I do have.

     I'm trying to live my dad's motto. ("Illegitimi Non Carborundum")

     I'm trying to keep a lid on the whining.

     I'm trying to remind myself that it's just work, not my whole life.

     I'm trying to update my resume.

     I'm trying not to run screaming into the night…

Wish me luck.

My 5-Second 7-Minute Workout

I've been contemplating this app for quite a while. 

I've read a number of reviews for it and they all say it's surprisingly effective, altho' ideally you should perform several reps of the program, not just one for 7 minutes. But, really, I'm not trying to become über buff or even to lose weight, I just want to ramp up my fitness level. And since I'm starting at "non-existant", I figure 7 minutes should start me off nicely.

(I mean, at 30 seconds per exercise, even Weenie Girl should be able to finish one rep, right?)

So I finally got time, energy, and commitment together enough to try it yesterday.

I ran the preview to get familiar with the exercises, took a deep breath, and hit "play"

            Aaaaaand - GO!

Three moves into the warm up and I'm hunched over into pseudo-fetal position, cussing and whining, with my arms wrapped protectively around my chest.

            Nope.

The girls most decidedly do NOT like jumping jacks.

            At all.

So my 7-Minute plan has been officially shelved until I can dig up an industrial-strength sports bra and some full-body compression wraps. 

       (And maybe an anti-grav suit…) 

            (duct tape…?)

In the meanwhile, it's gonna be me and Jennifer Kries.

       Moving gently toward fitness...

            In pain-free comfort.

(Have I mentioned lately how irksome I find my bosom?)

May be...

April is finally over.

      слава богу!*

To all who stuck it out with me, thank you.

But I'm taking a break now.

     (that made my brain hurt...)

*Thank God

One Gauntlet Down...

Are you good at trying to become better at something you know you don't do very well?

I'm not - never have been.

I'm not sure where it comes from. 

But wherever... boy, does my inner brat NOT like being pushed to improve!

(Surely my standards of adequacy should be sufficient for anyone!)

It's one of the biggest challenges of my personality, because that kind of pressure makes all the traits I struggle with -- impatience, arrogance, immaturity, petulance, temper -- fall into a ditch together where, rather than cooperate to get the heck out, they just snort and turn their backs on each other.

While the ditch fills with water…

In my defense, I try.

I don't like this facet of my personality, so I really do attempt (when cornered) to rise above myself, to be gracious and good humored, and to genuinely expend energy working toward improvement. Those efforts generally only cover the surface, however. Inside, I'm usually still having a temper tantrum, thrashing and snarling out every colorful phrase I know. (And I know a lot of phrases!)

So, right or wrong, it's not an issue I like to force too often.

Well, BG threw down a gauntlet the other night.

In actuality, the terms were so win-win for us both that it hardly seemed worth making it a challenge. But he did… because it addresses something he'd like to see me do better. 

(do you sense where this is going?)

Then he quirked an eyebrow and asked, "Do you accept?"

Now, I have said in the past that I love a challenge. 

I believe I've also claimed to see my submission as being active, not passive.

Apparently I am a big fat liar.

Because that challenge, touching as it did on a point of weakness, went right up my nose, under my skin -- and BAM! 

There I was, tossed right back into the ditch.

Oh, and… embarrassment decided to hop in as well, just to further churn up the mud. 

It was touch and go for a moment whether I'd scream, bite something, or just run away.

But when he nudged me and prompted, "Well??", I realized the ditch may have met it's match. Because much though I dreaded agitating the inner troll, disappointing BG was even less attractive a prospect…

"I'll try, sir. But I will probably need some help."

"That's fine..."

******

I can't claim I aced it.

I won't say I wasn't squirming inside.

But with his help, I squeaked out a "pass" --

which in this instance, felt like a rather large "win" ...

I think I'll take it.

The Spirit is Willing...

So, I got a little distracted the other day, reading that nilla's Master said she couldn't cut her hair because it had just reached the point where he could wrap a fistful of hair fully around his hand.

That is *such* a hot-sounding thing, isn't it?

To have him wrap his fist in your hair and just pull you to wherever and whatever he wants…

(pauses for dreamy sigh)

The reality for me is far different, I'm afraid.

Not only is my hair completely unsuited to wrap 'n' pulling, I'm still working off the remnants of skittishness from a long-ago Very Bad Date. Much tho' I love the fantasy of head grabbing, the reality can still set off some pretty strong reactions.

But BG knows this and has been patiently working to gentle me to his hand.

And we've been doing pretty well, if I do say so myself.

Or so I thought…

But the other night was the big test -- and I'm not sure I scored much higher than a C+ … bell curved.

The introductory portion of the event unfolded splendidly.

I was bound, upended, and in the midst of a very thorough reaming.

Life was oh-so-good.

And then... my hair was grabbed and pulled.

Firmly, slowly, inexorably, nerve-wrackingly pulled.

Every slut's dream - with just a touch of nightmare overlay.

I wanted to melt.

A small piece of me actually did.

But a much bigger piece just plain froze.

I worked hard to relax into it but I could only manage that in pulses.

So I'd relax, tighten, relax, tighten, relax … (you get the idea.)

In my defense, I didn't totally freak.

Nor did he feel it necessary to let me go until we were quite done, thank you very much.

But I didn't fool anyone, either.

"Man, you really wanted your head back, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir", I mumbled into the rumpled sofa cushions.

Danged weak flesh...

Our Love is (apparently) Like a Paddle Boat

So, I've got a real challenge coming at me.
Mind you, it's not much of a humdinger in and of itself. In fact, you'll all probably go, "heh?" when you read what I'm struggling with. But struggling I am, because, well...

OK. This week, I'm supposed to eat dinner before he gets here -- then I will be spending his dinner time under the table.

Sounds wonderfully submissive and hot, doesn't it?
The sort of stuff we dream about, actually -- even me, so clearly it isn't a question of limits or fear. Yet I'm having to work harder than you might expect to embrace this eventuality with any sort of grace.

Partially because the whole "bitch under the table" thing borders on objectification, which, as I think you all know by now, I have issues with. So my desire to submit is struggling madly against my gross distaste for the careless dehumanization that is such a common trope of domination here in Blogland. This, in turn, means that I have to keep reminding myself that he's not one of those seemingly-MCP doms, he's the marvelously thoughtful, balanced dominant I've chosen to give myself over to. Which I honestly feel -- but still, that dehumanizing thing is one of my trigger points, so this is a bit of a challenge.

Further complicating my graceful acceptance is the fact that I'm concerned we'll disturb our new balance. For three years, our relationship focused solely on the D/s side and left the personal side unattended. There were obstacles and frustrations and reasons for this that I understood and accepted but still, it was a relationship out of whack. So, while the kink side may have been moving ahead, with the personal side so firmly anchored, all we did was chug in circles, like a boat that's paddled on only one side.

Lately, however, we've been working at breaking the cycle, relaxing our fears, and balancing the two sides of the relationship a bit better. One of the ways we've done this is through sitting down to dinners together. We chat and laugh and learn some of the vast amount of information we still don't know about each other, then go scene our brains out. :-)

And it works. The momentum created by improvements on one side feeds further improvement on the other, and back and forth, until slowly our little boat has begun to chug ahead in a (reasonably) straight line. But that balance is still new and fragile and I'm not sure I completely trust it yet. So cramming me under the table and saying, "Put a cock in it!" while he dines in hedonistic comfort in the unseen up-above, kind of erodes the feelings of mutuality that previous dinners have helped establish. Which in turn makes me worry that this could be the first step down a slippery slope to our previous ways... And yada, yada, yada.

Of course, I know this is unfair, on many levels.

For one thing, it's just one evening, out of many fine ones we've had recently. I didn't complain when we spent an evening in mostly vanilla fashion, did I? Nor did he. So, hello...? A little faith here? Reciprocity, even?

Nor do I want to get looped back into another circle, no matter what the direction. He's absolutely right to keep tweaking and pushing and growing us -- and progress can't always go in a straight line. Because that would be too much like driving through central Florida for the rest of your life. (Just Say No.)

Nor, finally, does progress have to unfold in strictly "First A, then B" stages. It doesn't matter which side pushes first, as long as they're both paddling. And that, we're doing, so...

Hey... I seem to have talked myself into a more positive frame of mind, here! Hot diggety!

     thanks, guys. :-)

I Completely Miss the Boat - Yet Again

I don't even know where I'm going with this but it's something that has been really bugging me so I'm just going to throw it out there and then go hide under that rock I stole from lil...
(Oh, and warning -- some degree of grossness ahead.)

BG sent me a link to a very long, very hot video. After watching it, I asked him what his favorite part was. "Where she's giving a blow job and she doesn't swallow any of her saliva, so it becomes a ropey mess all over her mouth and face."

Strange, that part made me quite uncomfortable and longing for a washcloth...  (seriously, this woman was drool from hairline to boobs)

So I shared BG's opinion with SP -- who had also seen the video.

"Oh, yeah. That was hot!"
"The spit all over over her face?"
"Yeah, it's great!"
"Yuck! Uncomfortable and there's probably snot all mixed in, too."
"Well, du'uh! yeah..."
"What if he kisses me and takes in snot...?!?"
"We're big boys, we know what we're doing."
"Spit and snot -- this is attractive to you?? ... Really?"
"It's all about complete obedience to what I demand. There is your edge and that's what it looks like there."

crap.

I remember once reading a post by a Dom (Tristan, maybe? I miss Tristan...) that discussed how a sub's beauty lay not in her physical looks but in her total submission. My brain can see the point. But even if I can see it, I'm not sure I can bring myself believe it, at least not in this instance.
Not even so much because of the gross factor or that I'm afraid I'll completely skeeb him out.
It's that stupid vanity thing again. (Move over, gg...)

I know my focus is to please him.
I know that my opinion is completely irrelevant to his wishes.
I know I'm supposed to not care.

But it's really, really hard, as a woman with not a lot of delusions about her looks, to consider willingly obscuring what smidgeon of pretty you might possess by burying it under a blanket of smeared nasal discharge. Sorry, it just IS.
I want to be pleasing and pretty. (ish)

Snot as an indicator of full submission... Who knew??
:trudges dejectedly away:

*sigh*

I have been given a writing assignment.
Remember me telling you that SP says I need to "write from the cunt"?
Well, apparently, not enough of my cunt is showing -- and he is quite determined to correct this. He wants me to push the pointy-headed intellectual aside and let the emotion pack the punch.

He's not wrong (*dammit*) nor is he picking on me (altho' it sure feels like it)  -- and what's really sweet about it is that he's pushing me for me. He wants to see my "talents soar". (His words, not mine!)

However, we're walking a fine line.
First, because I am dismayingly pointy-headed -- so that's going to be a tough push. But more importantly, my cunt (both literal and metaphorical) is private -- not intended for public consumption. Sure, sometimes I throw open the door but for the most part, total disclosure is only for special guests. (Is there such a thing as a finicky slut?)

So, yeah, I create a distance. I don't lie in how I present myself but I do muffle the impact with words. In part, because I don't want to put anyone off with unwanted familiarity. (It's a Golden Rule thing.)
But even more to the point (and this, I think, is what he's trying to address) is that I'm just plain scared. I'm not very good at emotions so I don't trust myself to represent them well -- I'm afraid I seem puerile.

Baby bird likes it in her safe little nest.
Professor bird is determined she'll fly - even if he has to push her.

And I know he's right. His points are all valid.
So, I will accept the assignment and all accompanying dictates. (No to certain word constructions, No to precision, Yes to emotion, Yes to humor, and [my personal favorite] Be Myself -- while staying strictly within all of his designated constraints.)

I will write.
But I am really pretty uncomfortable about it...

(wish me luck?)