Long post (1690 words). Trigger warning: mental health, mourning.
Image: my bed, my artwork, my rope.
Whatever was burning through my system yesterday evening seems to have departed. The indigo sheets (yes Virginia, I am that obsessive) are cool now beneath my skin, my naked limbs are at ease, sprawled diagonally across the bed. No books, no toys, no cat. No more text messages. I have a reprieve, no urgent scramble to drive across town to care for my grandchild. And mercifully the incipient weakness, the frustration, sadness and self loathing, the viral-like physical symptoms have burned away in the night.
The night itself was a prolonged, unpleasant refrain: ‘covers on, covers off’. My ennui punctuated by huffy complaints from the cat who insisted on contributing her body warmth to mine, while my back and legs felt close to spontaneous combustion from contact with the latex mattress. Trips to the bathroom, trips to the kitchen for water and medicine. My stomach bloated and roiling from the cheap food I’d heated and eaten. The soothing background murmur of my favorite music abruptly joining the line of irritants at 3.17 am…
Idly I raise one leg, my fingers plucking at the hair of my pudenda. A faint scent of peppermint teases my nostrils. I’ve begun to use peppermint oil – just a tiny amount – with the lube – on my clitoris when I masturbate. The sensation is intense, just as you assured me it would be. Thankfully last night did not involve another round of futile teary masturbation (although there was a moment when I fantasized about the two of us locked in combat on the well-made bed that beckons me every time I pass by to go to your bathroom).
Thinking of this, I press firmly to the right of my now quiescent node, feeling a jolt of sensation where my fingers dig down hard to the bone beneath. Grasping a handful of labia I tug, squeeze and push down again enjoying the firmness, the ownership, the possibility of more. Desist or continue? It’s not even a conscious thought, for once there is no urgency here.
My thoughts drift instead to the weekend just past.
The nervous anticipation of being led, blindfolded, by a stranger, across the cavernous warehouse space. The moment when the music enlivened my hips, replacing my timidity with playfulness, trust and mutual interaction. Being bent firmly over the leather stool, ropes encircling my arms.
A stranger’s fingers in my mouth, an eruption of sour across my tongue. I suck the lemony wedge slowly, savoring tartness, pressing down my tongue, squeezing out the juice. A dribble of saliva runs down my chin and I laugh inwardly – perhaps after all, some day, in the right circumstances, a gag would be alright. Earplugs slowly screwed into my ears, sound becoming muffled. Ropes tightening around my arms, tugging the back of my neck. The delicious impact of… more ropes? in a bundle? across my still clothed buttocks.
Momentarily I wish I was naked, could feel a sterner impact, could photograph my submission for #SinfulSunday…
Back into the sensation. Nodding my head. Moving my buttocks in a playful dance. Continue, continue… Curiosity, as my sleeves are slowly pushed back, teasing sensations across my palms, pegs between my fingers, the sparkling electrical sensation of wax on my wrists and arms.
The slither of rope uncoiling across my back, down my legs, the oddness of released limbs, light, awareness of place, the listening stranger and his questions.
My writers mind slithers away from remembrances of my turn topping, best described as ‘inexperienced’. I count myself fortunate to have worked with a patient and well practiced partner. But reflecting back on the scene I learned a lot. I now have a small mental list of ways to effectively torment another in a future scene. The list will, I’m sure, continue to grow over time…
Abruptly, realising that I have become chilly, I roll off the bed, throw on some clothes. Pad, barefoot onto the cold of the kitchen tiles, loving the temperature beneath my feet. Ice, ice on my wrists. Ice on his back… Make tea. Head into the lounge area where my four legged companions wait. As does my computer…
I check my Twitter account, see what @Posy Churchgate and Quiller @ETCostello1 have written in response to my tweets last night. (Thanks people!). It’s been odd being away from the intensity of the writing, commenting and photographic rounds, but it was necessary. Blogging was not only swallowing up my hours, it wasn’t letting me deal with important day to day matters, like my finances, my family obligations, my mental health and my living situation.
However, in the days when I was not contributing, the compulsion to take part, while muted, did not vanish entirely. As I sat in the Govt payments office waiting to see if my money would be reinstated I responded via my iphone to a post on blogging by MrsFever. Written in Feve’s evocative, playful writing style, it touched a nerve and said a lot of the things I was feeling. Feve talks about how supportive sex bloggers are of each other, and I know that this is true. If it weren’t for this support, for the creative excitement and challenges, and the introductions to kink I’ve had through interacting with you all, this twelve months since Mum passed would have been so much harder to bear.
In the short time I’ve been away I’ve realised how much the meme’s I participate in regularly have given me structure – a safety net to explore and extend aspects of myself. Initially this exploration was vicarious, but recently I joined Fetlife, have begun to go to local events, meet people. Consciously do things I haven’t tried before.
This is important as I’ve wondered if there was any reason to continue living in the last little while. Not because I’m in acute pain, but rather because it sometimes seems pretty pointless. So I’ve done what I swore I wouldn’t do and gone back on my anti-depressants. It’s early days and last night’s events suggest I’m not back on any sort of level yet, but I am working through some quite confrontational issues.
I’ve come to realise that I am an impatient person sometimes, I push too hard for what I desire, and while my intensity may have been attractive when I was younger, I do wonder if it simply reeks of desperation at my age. And while the sexual exploration and kink thing is now a major part of it, so too is the need to be important – to someone who is important to me. At the end, I was the centre of Mum’s world. I spent a lot of time thinking of things to please her, to make her feel like her time on this earth mattered. And I succeeded some of the time.
On Wednesday it is the sixth anniversary of my brother’s passing and with it reminders of my failure to ensure he felt his life mattered at the end. The fact that I cannot bear to get rid of boxes and boxes of his writing, photo’s and art doesn’t make up for my inability to pay him the attention he deserved and indirectly begged for in his last few months. Too busy working – trying to keep my failing household and relationship afloat, too busy playing endless games on the computer to keep myself occupied and in denial. A life of quiet, relentless, sterile desperation.
Blogging became the most recent offshoot of my quiet relentless desperation last year. Same computer, different preoccupation. At first it was the stats, then it became the need to work through my past history to try to understand my previous life choices and discover whether there truly was a kinky heart in there. Then it was the desire to achieve recognition from my blogging peers, then to say or share something worthwhile. To reach out and leave a helpful or supportive comment. To leave, even a small mark on my new world. So I posted and commented, then posted and commented more, and more. Meanwhile the pace of the meme’s I contributed to picked up, and I began to fall behind in my responses, and to concentrate on what I was not doing – always a warning for me.
At one point in these last couple of weeks I wondered if I would return to my blog, there was a temptation to drift away but that has been resolved for the present. Not the least because I saw Rebel’s #WickedWednesday prompt and it did indeed prompt me to write. And in writing this post I have decided I want to continue – but not as intensely as before. Exactly how I will do this is still open to deliberation, but I won’t be posting as often, and when I do I’ll be commenting on other people’s posts. But I’m not going to overextend myself again.
Part of this is because of the reasons I’ve outlined above and part of it is because I do need to prepare myself for my forthcoming trip to the UK. Because bloggers and blogging are at the heart of my decision to take this trip. Despite a longstanding interest in cultural, artistic and family history I would not have gained the impetus to venture so far from home, if it wasn’t for the prospect of catching up with some of the people I’ve become friendly with through blogging. I am often shy, anxious and socially awkward in unfamiliar situations, however confident I might seem in these posts, so knowing that a handful of you are prepared to go out of the way of your busy schedules to spend some time with me would be and is amazing.
I hope to get a chance to attend an event, or engage in some photography with some of you, but I’m also appreciative of an opportunity to just meet, have tea/coffee and a face to face chat and a laugh with someone who is, on some level at least, a ‘familiar stranger”.
and, so, it continues…
And so does #Wicked Wednesday. To see who else is baring their all, click on the link below…