Things that are good about London, because I have to remind myself to keep from turning into a ball of misery and self pity. Because apparently that's a bad thing.
1. Him
2. Them
3. Beauty is cheaper, I mean $40 for waxing really seems over the odds.
4. Dim Sum, there must be more Ping Pong on Sundays, with obscene quantities of delicious Char Sui buns and cocktails.
5. Socialist fucking healthcare! Here's to free STD screening where they practically throw condoms at you (including flavoured ones and female ones, about which I hear good things) and don't look at you funny when you tell them what you've really been up to.
6. Public transport; the London Underground may be full of foolish and irritating tourists, but it beats DC hands down on a bad day. It's bright and cheerful, and frequent and fast. The buses aren't too bad either.
7. It's London. And it is (more than anywhere else at least) where I was raised, and therefore has certain home-like qualities.
8. London has a cinema chain which (hopefully still) does an unlimited card, for peanuts, I will be able to see literally unlimited numbers of films, and I am a film junkie, so this does make me happy.
9. I'm running out.
10. London has no rope bomb squad yet, it could be that I will start a trend and become London's first guerrilla bondage type. (Weirder things have happened!)
11. My friends are all in DC and Baltimore (and the surrounding area) and heaven is a place called Ramblewood, and it's going to be on the wrong side of the Atlantic rather than a smooth two hour drive away. I can be thoroughly miserable in my little bedroom missing the place I've come to call home and the community I've come to call family.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Definition
Sometimes a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Sometimes you're not sure about that. Sometimes in order to be able to enjoy smelling the thing, you need to have a name for it. Sometimes 'that sweet smelling red plant' isn't enough.
I find myself in one of those situations now. I have a something with a someone. I don't know what it is, I'm not sure I need to, I maybe helped make things a little messy last time by pushing the thing into a box and making it fit (sort of), but it needs more form than it currently has.
Currently, and let's think in FetLife terms here, because, let's face it, your relationship doesn't count until you've put it on your FetLife page, I think we're between 'It's complicated' and 'Masochist/Sadist to' each other. I think that could work for me. Complicated sounds like a good way to put the slightly amorphous still developing 'something' that we have. But if it's 'complicated' what are the rules? Do we need rules in the first place? Assuming that rules, or at least some kind of piratical 'guidelines' are required, how should we decide them? Who makes the first suggestion? Him because he's the 'Top' or me because I'm the one who'll have to follow whatever protocols we agree upon. Does one call one's complicated person Sir? Or do we revert to first names which no longer seem quite right? If we do stick with Sir and pet, how do we stop ourselves, out of habit, slipping back into the roles we've held for what seems like so long, and thus repeating the pattern?
For now at least, I have a thing with a guy (ok, a couple of things with a couple of people of varying genders, but we're talking about this one right now) and I love him, and he loves me, and we can't (and possibly wouldn't if we could) change that fact. All we can do is try to keep adapting within the blobby, slightly sticky relationship thing, and keep adapting it so that it looks good to both of us, although it will probably still be blobby and amorphous, and slightly sticky. And yes, it's sticky for exactly the reason you're thinking (although it might also be butter-cream icing).
Relationships; who'd have 'em?
I find myself in one of those situations now. I have a something with a someone. I don't know what it is, I'm not sure I need to, I maybe helped make things a little messy last time by pushing the thing into a box and making it fit (sort of), but it needs more form than it currently has.
Currently, and let's think in FetLife terms here, because, let's face it, your relationship doesn't count until you've put it on your FetLife page, I think we're between 'It's complicated' and 'Masochist/Sadist to' each other. I think that could work for me. Complicated sounds like a good way to put the slightly amorphous still developing 'something' that we have. But if it's 'complicated' what are the rules? Do we need rules in the first place? Assuming that rules, or at least some kind of piratical 'guidelines' are required, how should we decide them? Who makes the first suggestion? Him because he's the 'Top' or me because I'm the one who'll have to follow whatever protocols we agree upon. Does one call one's complicated person Sir? Or do we revert to first names which no longer seem quite right? If we do stick with Sir and pet, how do we stop ourselves, out of habit, slipping back into the roles we've held for what seems like so long, and thus repeating the pattern?
For now at least, I have a thing with a guy (ok, a couple of things with a couple of people of varying genders, but we're talking about this one right now) and I love him, and he loves me, and we can't (and possibly wouldn't if we could) change that fact. All we can do is try to keep adapting within the blobby, slightly sticky relationship thing, and keep adapting it so that it looks good to both of us, although it will probably still be blobby and amorphous, and slightly sticky. And yes, it's sticky for exactly the reason you're thinking (although it might also be butter-cream icing).
Relationships; who'd have 'em?
Saturday, June 2, 2012
There is no switch to flick
Sometimes I wish there were a switch to flick on love. Sometimes I'm glad there isn't.
Sometimes I cry that I can't stop loving someone, and sometimes I'm just glad that they still love me.
Sometimes it hurts, and sometimes it makes me stronger.
Sometimes I cry that I can't stop loving someone, and sometimes I'm just glad that they still love me.
Sometimes it hurts, and sometimes it makes me stronger.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
I dare to dream sometimes
I dreamed. And I felt selfish for it. Not for dreaming, but for the things I dreamed of.
I dreamed that I lived in a nice flat in the city with my lover, wood flooring, scattered rugs, a cat, a nice big kitchen/living area, huge shower, and two bedrooms, the rest isn't really important, the rest is just what fills up the space around the aforementioned important things.
Anyway, I lived there with my lover, his wife was out of the picture, because, let's face it, how could anybody look at my lover and not want to jump his bones? Unless they were a straight man or a gay woman. But she's neither as far as I know, all I know is that she doesn't love him like I love him. I've never met her, we've never talked a lot about her, I may be misjudging her horribly and I'll go to hell for it. I don't care. I love him.
And as well as having my lover, I had my Sir, not living there, just staying when he came into the city. Coming over for dinner after a hard day at work, having the kind of wonderful intelligent dinner conversation I love so much, then, after dinner, after dessert and a cup of tea, bidding my lover good night, and taking me to the other bedroom to use me. To tie me up and beat me and make me beg for more and more until both of us were satiated, satisfied, and ready to fall asleep, my head resting on his chest, his arm around me, keeping me warm and safe and happy.
On nights when Sir wasn't around I'd spend my time sometimes cooking but mostly jumping my lover's bones. Fucking him until neither of us could go on, until we collapsed on the bed, soaked in sweat and cum, and slept, warm in each other's arms, spooning, warm and safe and happy. He'd have another lover too, or maybe more than one, a pretty girl or two (or more) who would come over and play with him, or both of us sometimes.
I dreamed it. And I want so much for it to be true. I feel selfish for wanting it. For wanting my dream house of love, with those closest to my heart, those I care for more than anything else in the world.
Everybody can dream.
I dreamed that I lived in a nice flat in the city with my lover, wood flooring, scattered rugs, a cat, a nice big kitchen/living area, huge shower, and two bedrooms, the rest isn't really important, the rest is just what fills up the space around the aforementioned important things.
Anyway, I lived there with my lover, his wife was out of the picture, because, let's face it, how could anybody look at my lover and not want to jump his bones? Unless they were a straight man or a gay woman. But she's neither as far as I know, all I know is that she doesn't love him like I love him. I've never met her, we've never talked a lot about her, I may be misjudging her horribly and I'll go to hell for it. I don't care. I love him.
And as well as having my lover, I had my Sir, not living there, just staying when he came into the city. Coming over for dinner after a hard day at work, having the kind of wonderful intelligent dinner conversation I love so much, then, after dinner, after dessert and a cup of tea, bidding my lover good night, and taking me to the other bedroom to use me. To tie me up and beat me and make me beg for more and more until both of us were satiated, satisfied, and ready to fall asleep, my head resting on his chest, his arm around me, keeping me warm and safe and happy.
On nights when Sir wasn't around I'd spend my time sometimes cooking but mostly jumping my lover's bones. Fucking him until neither of us could go on, until we collapsed on the bed, soaked in sweat and cum, and slept, warm in each other's arms, spooning, warm and safe and happy. He'd have another lover too, or maybe more than one, a pretty girl or two (or more) who would come over and play with him, or both of us sometimes.
I dreamed it. And I want so much for it to be true. I feel selfish for wanting it. For wanting my dream house of love, with those closest to my heart, those I care for more than anything else in the world.
Everybody can dream.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
The point
The blood flowed steadily, hot, dark, shining in the dim orange light of the street lamp. Her eyelids flickered and she moaned, his leather gloved hand around her throat made more sound hard, the bare fingertips dug into her pale neck, bruising, hurting her, but she didn't ask him to stop, her eyes rolled back, and she gasped, eyes suddenly wide as the knife found its way to her clit, "mm, mm, please" the words were barely above a whisper, but he heard, he knew what she wanted.
Ten.
She moaned into him, her knees trembling, he pushed the knife just a little harder into her clit and she stood on her tiptoes, imploring him with her eyes.
Nine.
He whispered filth into her ear and she whimpered. "Please, please Sir." She didn't finish the sentence, unable to find the words, her breath came short as the knife dug into her tender flesh.
Eight.
He released her neck, grabbed her hair and threw her to the floor. Pushing her face down onto the rough road, pinning her with his fist tangled in her hair, he spat in her face.
Seven.
He forced her legs apart, shoved the toe of his boot into her soaking crotch, she cried out, tears coming to her eyes. The sound of a zipper reached her ears, and then he was inside her.
Six.
He forced himself into her soaking cunt, moaned. "Oh yeah. You like that you little cunt? Or you like it a little harder?" He wrenched her head back, arching her back, pulling her up, close to him, holding the knife against her throat so hard she was afraid to breathe.
Five.
He pulled his dick, slick with her juices out of her pussy and she gasped as she felt him pushing against her tight ass, whimpering in pain as he pushed himself into her, making a noise of satisfaction.
Four.
"God you're such a tight little slut!" A drop of blood ran down her neck, her chest, her cleavage. He fucked her harder, till she was afraid he'd tear her in half and cut her throat.
Three.
"Are you gonna cum? Are you going to cum while I break you little bitch?" "Please!" Tears ran down her cheeks, barely able to breathe, aching and battered and bruised and bleeding.
Two.
He threw her onto his back, folded her in half, slammed into her ass again and leaned down to sink his teeth into her throat, clamping down over the bloody line on her neck, drinking long and deep.
One.
A growl tore from his throat, animal, harsh, wild. "Cum! Cum for me slut!" Tell me who owns you and cum for me!" "You!" She screamed into the night "Oh God Sir!" Her screams were cut short as he clamped his mouth down over hers, her body shook, her muscles clenched around him and he growled again, jerking against her, filling her with his cum.
They fell together arms wrapping around each other, a tangle of limbs, searching lips, tears and cum and blood and sweat. The shredded remains of her dress and stockings were scattered on the ground around them, she felt the graze on her face stinging in the cold air, the blood sticking and clotting around her cuts. She ached everywhere, deliciously.
Ten.
She moaned into him, her knees trembling, he pushed the knife just a little harder into her clit and she stood on her tiptoes, imploring him with her eyes.
Nine.
He whispered filth into her ear and she whimpered. "Please, please Sir." She didn't finish the sentence, unable to find the words, her breath came short as the knife dug into her tender flesh.
Eight.
He released her neck, grabbed her hair and threw her to the floor. Pushing her face down onto the rough road, pinning her with his fist tangled in her hair, he spat in her face.
Seven.
He forced her legs apart, shoved the toe of his boot into her soaking crotch, she cried out, tears coming to her eyes. The sound of a zipper reached her ears, and then he was inside her.
Six.
He forced himself into her soaking cunt, moaned. "Oh yeah. You like that you little cunt? Or you like it a little harder?" He wrenched her head back, arching her back, pulling her up, close to him, holding the knife against her throat so hard she was afraid to breathe.
Five.
He pulled his dick, slick with her juices out of her pussy and she gasped as she felt him pushing against her tight ass, whimpering in pain as he pushed himself into her, making a noise of satisfaction.
Four.
"God you're such a tight little slut!" A drop of blood ran down her neck, her chest, her cleavage. He fucked her harder, till she was afraid he'd tear her in half and cut her throat.
Three.
"Are you gonna cum? Are you going to cum while I break you little bitch?" "Please!" Tears ran down her cheeks, barely able to breathe, aching and battered and bruised and bleeding.
Two.
He threw her onto his back, folded her in half, slammed into her ass again and leaned down to sink his teeth into her throat, clamping down over the bloody line on her neck, drinking long and deep.
One.
A growl tore from his throat, animal, harsh, wild. "Cum! Cum for me slut!" Tell me who owns you and cum for me!" "You!" She screamed into the night "Oh God Sir!" Her screams were cut short as he clamped his mouth down over hers, her body shook, her muscles clenched around him and he growled again, jerking against her, filling her with his cum.
They fell together arms wrapping around each other, a tangle of limbs, searching lips, tears and cum and blood and sweat. The shredded remains of her dress and stockings were scattered on the ground around them, she felt the graze on her face stinging in the cold air, the blood sticking and clotting around her cuts. She ached everywhere, deliciously.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
On Love and Convenience
I saw a quote once, it said "Love that is not madness is not love."
Love doesn't come along when you've decided that it would be convenient. It doesn't fit into anybody's schedule, it doesn't play by anybody's rules. It rarely happens in the way we think it will. Some people fall in love with one person, and forsake all others. Some people love the world, some people fall in love with just a few people, they weren't necessarily looking for this. They just happened to be busy loving one person when another came along and took their heart, and suddenly, they found that they had two hearts, or three. One for each person they loved. You don't give someone a quarter of your love, you give them your whole heart, which sticks its finger up at maths.
Sometimes I wish that the people I love were more convenient. One of them was once, he was not only nearby, he was also deliciously kinky, fabulous in bed, a geek, a foodie, ginger, tall... And married, so I didn't have to worry that our relationship would get all heavy and deep and meaningful and people would start wanting 'more.' Then, rather inconveniently actually, I found that I was lost, it was too late, I loved him. It took me a while to come to terms with that, a while to realise that love doesn't have to be the end of the world. It can be the beginning. Inconvenience was moving to the other side of the Atlantic. Inconvenience is being so far away from him that I have spent nights wishing that I could teleport someone to my bed just by my need for them.
I fell in love again on this side of the Atlantic. He didn't have to tie me up to catch me, but don't tell him, he might stop tying me up, and I never want that to happen, ever. I love him and I'm so far away, a six hour journey's worth it though, to see him smile, to be in his arms. Convenience? Where? I think I've made a habit of inconvenience in the people I love. Maybe one day I'll fall in love with a boy (or girl) next door. But not today.
Inconvenience does at least have its positives. You can't take something for granted if it's inconvenient, if it's hard sometimes, if it demands that you care for it. You have to want it, sometimes you have to fight for it, sometimes you have to defend it, and it reminds you every time you see it that it's worth every tear and every step of the journey you took. If something was too convenient, too easy, wouldn't you take it for granted? Wouldn't you go looking for something which would challenge you a little? Be a bit more exciting? I think I for one will be happy for married high school sweet hearts, and people next door. I will take my inconvenient, wonderful people, and I will love them will all of my hearts.
Love is inconvenient. But, contrary to what I once thought; it's worth it. A thousand times over.
Love doesn't come along when you've decided that it would be convenient. It doesn't fit into anybody's schedule, it doesn't play by anybody's rules. It rarely happens in the way we think it will. Some people fall in love with one person, and forsake all others. Some people love the world, some people fall in love with just a few people, they weren't necessarily looking for this. They just happened to be busy loving one person when another came along and took their heart, and suddenly, they found that they had two hearts, or three. One for each person they loved. You don't give someone a quarter of your love, you give them your whole heart, which sticks its finger up at maths.
Sometimes I wish that the people I love were more convenient. One of them was once, he was not only nearby, he was also deliciously kinky, fabulous in bed, a geek, a foodie, ginger, tall... And married, so I didn't have to worry that our relationship would get all heavy and deep and meaningful and people would start wanting 'more.' Then, rather inconveniently actually, I found that I was lost, it was too late, I loved him. It took me a while to come to terms with that, a while to realise that love doesn't have to be the end of the world. It can be the beginning. Inconvenience was moving to the other side of the Atlantic. Inconvenience is being so far away from him that I have spent nights wishing that I could teleport someone to my bed just by my need for them.
I fell in love again on this side of the Atlantic. He didn't have to tie me up to catch me, but don't tell him, he might stop tying me up, and I never want that to happen, ever. I love him and I'm so far away, a six hour journey's worth it though, to see him smile, to be in his arms. Convenience? Where? I think I've made a habit of inconvenience in the people I love. Maybe one day I'll fall in love with a boy (or girl) next door. But not today.
Inconvenience does at least have its positives. You can't take something for granted if it's inconvenient, if it's hard sometimes, if it demands that you care for it. You have to want it, sometimes you have to fight for it, sometimes you have to defend it, and it reminds you every time you see it that it's worth every tear and every step of the journey you took. If something was too convenient, too easy, wouldn't you take it for granted? Wouldn't you go looking for something which would challenge you a little? Be a bit more exciting? I think I for one will be happy for married high school sweet hearts, and people next door. I will take my inconvenient, wonderful people, and I will love them will all of my hearts.
Love is inconvenient. But, contrary to what I once thought; it's worth it. A thousand times over.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Life is like...
Not a box of chocolates, who thought up that nonsense? You know which one you're going to get if you look at the leaflet!
No. Life is like riding a bicycle. Funny metaphor for someone who can't ride one, but there it is. You ride along with the wind in your hair, and you're happy and free and it's a bit of work going up hills, and then you go down them and you feel like you're flying. Until you wobble, until you feel like you're going to fall. And suddenly you remember the road beneath your wheels. The road you've forgotten about, and you know that if you fall, then that road which helps you to fly now, that road will tear your skin, will rip it away, just like peeling an orange, it will try to catch you, try to hold you, and your face will be dragged along it as the road bites it, rips it, tears it...
And then you're afraid. You know that you're okay, but suddenly you have to concentrate, you have to think, you think too much and you hold onto the handlebars too tight and you can't make your legs pedal right, and you wobble, and you can't get straight again, and you're weaving like a drunken man, and you can't straighten up, and you know that all you have to do is not be scared, but you're so scared that you can't stop, you can't ride straight and now you can't think straight, and you're so afraid of the road that you've forgotten, it's still holding you up.
All you have to do is trust yourself, but you're so afraid of falling that you can't. You can't trust the road, or yourself, and you know that somewhere there is someone who loves you, someone who can wrap you up in their arms and keep you safe, and make all the fear go away. But you can't get to them, because you're too scared, you're so scared of falling that you can't make yourself safe.
You're so scared that you can't see the most important thing.
No. Life is like riding a bicycle. Funny metaphor for someone who can't ride one, but there it is. You ride along with the wind in your hair, and you're happy and free and it's a bit of work going up hills, and then you go down them and you feel like you're flying. Until you wobble, until you feel like you're going to fall. And suddenly you remember the road beneath your wheels. The road you've forgotten about, and you know that if you fall, then that road which helps you to fly now, that road will tear your skin, will rip it away, just like peeling an orange, it will try to catch you, try to hold you, and your face will be dragged along it as the road bites it, rips it, tears it...
And then you're afraid. You know that you're okay, but suddenly you have to concentrate, you have to think, you think too much and you hold onto the handlebars too tight and you can't make your legs pedal right, and you wobble, and you can't get straight again, and you're weaving like a drunken man, and you can't straighten up, and you know that all you have to do is not be scared, but you're so scared that you can't stop, you can't ride straight and now you can't think straight, and you're so afraid of the road that you've forgotten, it's still holding you up.
All you have to do is trust yourself, but you're so afraid of falling that you can't. You can't trust the road, or yourself, and you know that somewhere there is someone who loves you, someone who can wrap you up in their arms and keep you safe, and make all the fear go away. But you can't get to them, because you're too scared, you're so scared of falling that you can't make yourself safe.
You're so scared that you can't see the most important thing.
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