Dirty Thoughts

Last night, the moment you told me to keep track of all my dirty thoughts, I started having dirty thoughts.

I imagined you taking me by the throat over to the bed and feeding me your cock while your guests drink outside.

Imagined you bending me over the couch and fingering me until I come with your hand clasped against my mouth to keep it quiet.

Then at the bottom of the stairs. I told you that one. I wanna fuck in that stairwell.

I had dirty thoughts with your fingers inside me, telling me how you enjoy how I’m always so wet for you.

In the car on the way home, replaying the evening in my mind. Thinking about how badly I was going to want to touch myself when I got home, and then feeling that went cunt of mine clench remembering that I can’t and being turned on by the fact that you can and do command it when you want to.

Stripping down nude last night. Knowing you’d probably gone to bed already and I wouldn’t get the permission I’d requested. Feeling the cool air in my bedroom against my nipples and the wetness on my pussy lips and wanting quite desperately to touch, to pinch, to arouse. And hearing your words in my head, “don’t even think about it…” Turning to my side in the fetal position, thighs firmly shut, imagining you behind me – cock hard and pressed against my ass as I drift to sleep.

Waking up at 4:30AM. I want to touch myself. I think about the doxy. It’s right there. I could grab it, do it. go back to sleep. you’ll never know. But I will. I can’t. I won’t.

I hear your text come in around 6. I see that photo come in. I am wet. I know it before you give me permission to touch. And then i touch. and I rub and rub. I think about your mouth on me. Your fingers in me. Your eyes when you were pressed against the wall looking down at me. The inside of your elbow around my throat, and how it’s been getting tighter. Tighter….You tell me to come for you. I do. I always do.

In the shower I absentmindedly start running my finger around my asshole as the hot water pours over it. I want to go inside. I almost do and then I remember. I can’t. I don’t. When I use the handle to wash out my cunt, I know how much of what I’m rinsing out is the slick wet remainder of every thought of you that crosses my mind.

As I’m selecting what to wear and pick out the elevator dress I’m already having dirty thoughts, remembering that night. The slaps to the face. the spanking. the fingering. The heat. I think of how you own me. How my body responds and reacts to you. I know I’m wet again. I put on some panties.

Driving into work I hear a song on the radio. she’s talking about being “sick of that same old love,” and I imagine the times you’ve had me restrained. Pinned down. Gasping for breath while you take your pleasure from my body. I think how happy I am that we don’t have that “same old love.”

Elevator. I slip my fingers under my panties and up to my lips to taste myself.

At work I’m already thinking of you. I tell you I want you. You send me your face. I bite my lip and save it to my growing collection of your selfies. To flip through later, in the bathroom. I’m wet, typing this – remembering.

I get back from a breakfast meeting. Sit down. Turn on music. The last thing you recommended, cut chemist. I’m dancing in my chair. My coworker walks by my office. I’m typing this up for you and dancing and she smiles. “you’re thinking of him, aren’t you?”

Flashes again from last night. Watching you with that knife, opening up the oysters. Sitting beside you. Everything feeling so natural and happy and good. The slap and kiss in the kitchen. The moments stolen by the bathroom. Smiles everywhere….I’m so happy I could get emotional about it.

most of the staff are in the lunchroom. I take my phone to the bathroom. I sit in the larger stall and open up the gallery folder with your photos. first your face. Then the other one. I stare at the one from this morning. I imagine the firmness and taste of it on my tongue. I imagine it sliding in and out of me. I rub my clit. I clench and rub and tilt my chin up and imagine you leaning down to kiss me. Your fingers replacing mine. Or you watching me do it. I spread my knees wider apart and show you what’s yours. I imagine your face watching me. I come close ……and stop.

I’m looking at the clock. Hour and a half left to go. I’m considering going home early. And hour early gives me two more opportunities to edge myself for you. I imagine where I’ll be when you walk through the door. How many words. How many seconds, before you have me against a wall, or on my knees or on my back.

I want you. So badly. Right now.

Every time I look at the clock I have a dirty thought. Or a loving one. Or both. An hour left now before I can go home.

Closing up shop. Heading home now. The butterflies have started, knowing i’ll soon be in your arms, on my knees, on your dick. Your lips. Your face. You. Your hands on my body. Taking. Wanting. I know I’m wet. I may test that theory in the car.

I’m home. Had a snack. Need to get started with my routine, but first…..i’m sitting on the couch downstairs, my panties are pushed aside. That doxy is just upstairs. two hours until you get home. Two hours. Four near-orgasms. I’m going to be a puddle when you get here.

After the “cleansing” I got in the shower. You texted just as I was getting in. It was time for the next round of edging. I lifted my leg up on the tile ledge and bent over. I used the shower head and my fingers together to get so close to the edge and then back away.

Now I’m laying in bed wrapped in a towel. Thinking I should just go unlock the door and wait for you up here, naked in bed. Having you walk in just as I’m getting near climax on the next round…

I Dream of Poly

I had a strange dream last night. Well, I had more than one dream, but the one I had as I was waking up this morning….it was strange.

It was the first time I’d encountered Tony in a dream since his death that wasn’t laced with fear, angst, anger, or disappointment.

I was at an awards show, like the Golden Globes or something, because they were handing out awards for TV and film. I was sitting in the audience with my current partner. I knew Tony had been nominated, and he was there somewhere.

(This is also the first dream I’ve had with Tony still being alive and my not knowing he’d passed away).

I saw someone I knew and went over to say hello during a break in the production. She’s a Fetlifer. I sat with her for a bit while another Fetlifer was on stage making a speech.

Then they announced the nominees for Best Television Writing. This was Tony’s category. I went back to sit with my partner. Tony was wandering around somewhere. He was up against strong competition, but when the winner was announced, it was him!

I was so proud and happy! I guess the awards were running late because they weren’t giving them out on stage anymore. They were having all the winners in the TV category receive their trophies and take photos in the back of the auditorium so the show could continue.. I spotted Tony in the crowd, turned toward my partner and said “I’m gonna go congratulate my husband,” and he smiled and said “Of course!” and kissed me.

I went to find Tony. There were a lot of people congratulating him, but when he spotted me he….

This is where the dream gets weird.

He was happy.

He hugged me and held me and he was excited and proud and it was all the things Tony hadn’t been in YEARS. In the dream I remember I was so happy to see him this way.

They wanted to take photos of the winners and I offered to step aside. I hadn’t done any of the writing. “No, you’re getting in the picture with me,” he said. “I may have done all the writing, but you did everything else I was responsible for. You were there for me, you took care of me, and you put up with me while I was solely focused on this script. You’re as much a part of it as I am.”

I couldn’t believe it. It was like all the negativity, depression, and selfishness had drained away leaving behind the man I’d originally fallen in love with. The man I thought I’d been marrying. I thought this, in the dream, as I felt his large frame drape his arm around me and I smiled for the cameras.

The flashbulbs were still going off as I stirred from this dream, feeling loved and appreciated by my now dead husband.

And understanding, maybe for the first time, what it’s like to love more than one person at the same time.

Confession Time

Coulrophilia is a sexual attraction to clowns. People who have coulrophilia, known as coulrophiles, may find themselves spending a lot of time thinking about clowns or having erotic fantasies about clowns. They might also seek out clowns as sexual partners or prefer to dress as clowns themselves during sexual encounters.

–from kinkly.com

I have a confession to make.  Ever since Halloween, when my partner dressed up as a scary clown and we had a very intense scene involving rope, a hog tie, a dildo, and a really hard cock behind a really thin, colorful jumpsuit, I’ve had a thing for clowns.

Well, not just any clown, but him as a clown.

Since Halloween, he’s brought ol’ bozo by my place a couple times. The first time it was an unannounced surprise. It was hot as fuck.

The second time was last night. This time, it was planned.  He’d had me perform a “clown summoning” ritual all week long. This entailed my paying tribute to the clown by having orgasms in public places.  Not like, in front of people.  Just in private, like in the work bathroom or in the elevator.

For tasks like theses, it’s very convenient that I am highly orgasmic. But, I digress.

The night before, he and I had attended a rope event. He was …he is sadistic. I was tied in some form of pretzel shape, complete with predicamental neck rope (shut up, it’s a word now) and with thin, scratchy coconut rope futomomo  as the icing on the hurty rope cake.

I was squirming in delicious agony. I couldn’t see what he’d done, so I asked him: “Is it pretty?”

He nodded, and then looked lovingly into my eyes. He melts me when he says and does things like this.  I’m there, mostly naked, bound and vulnerable, and he stares into my eyes and says, “but I keep getting distracted by your face.”

(d’awwwwwwww!)

After he untied me and I was rubbing at the rope marks on my legs, I looked up at him. I knew the clown was coming out the following night.  “Is the clown going to hurt me tomorrow?” I asked.

His expression grew wide-eyed and innocent.  “I don’t know,” he responded. “You’ll have to ask him.”

And so began the little game where he’s Peter Parker to the clown’s Spiderman.  He knows how to summon him. But he’s totally not him.

As he walked me to my car, I asked him “Will I see you tomorrow?  After the clown?”

“Yeah, I may come by after he’s done.” he smiled.

When he arrived last night, I was up in my room, preparing.  See, the clown summoning ritual summoned more than just the clown.  Apparently, it also brought on my period, a few days early.

Ah well.  So I lay some towels on the bed, and some baby wipes and a trash can by the nightstand and waited for his instructions to come via text.

I’m not going to go into the details. It was HOT. It always is with him.  I mean, the clown.

Afterwards, we went to separate bathrooms to clean up.  I mean, I’m not usually one for gore, but the insane clown thing combined with day-one of period thing was kind of …you know, on the nose in a poetic sense.

When I came back down after a quick shower, he was there, wearing his street clothes and looking handsome and gorgeous with his regular, beautiful face. I kissed him hello.

“Listen, I may as well tell you now,” I started.  “I’ve decided to just embrace it. I’m going poly.”  I paused only for a second. “I’m totally fucking the clown.”

I smiled.  He raised his eyebrows. “Is that going to be a problem? Do you want to talk about it?”

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.  “Well, fine then,” he responded. “Go ahead and fuck the clown.  Do what you want.”

I love this man.

Zombie Porn

When the zombie apocalypse started, I was firmly on the side of the humans. That is, I was. Until I was infected. After that, I started to see just how persecuted the zombie population had become in the mainstream media.

I fought my urges, like many of us did. Those of us with a conscience in life didn’t lose it completely in undeath. But we had to survive. And, of course – there are bad people in the world, so there are bad zombies, too.

They just give us all a bad name. You know, with the death and maiming and stuff.

Those of us who resisted the urge to kill for our food would source it from special little bodegas where they harvested brain matter from hospitals and hospices. From people who died of natural causes. There were plenty of them. It’s not like we had to eat brains EVERY day. One brain could last a sensible zombie almost a week with proper storage and preparation.

Some late-night talk show host called us “vegetarians,” and the name stuck. I thought it was kind of stupid. We were still eating meat. It was just repackaged, pre-dead meat.

What, that grosses you out? It did at first for me, too, but then I realized that was stupid.It’s not like I would have known the difference between that and the brains off a fresh kill. In life, I’d never actually killed my own chicken. I bought them at the supermarket already defeathered and not looking anything like an actual chicken.

It’s kind of like that.

Still, I can’t lie and say brains are yummy. They’re kind of….ick. I just need them to survive, so I dealt with the moral side effects. And it wasn’t like they were in plentiful supply. Having to rely on the brains of the recently deceased that weren’t tied up in police investigations was becoming an expensive habit.

It was one of those days when I was really on edge that I discovered the alternative. See, I’d had a rough day at work. My boss was pissing me off so much I had to walk out before I cracked her skull open with the paper slicer and ate her for lunch.

As I was walking off the rage, some douchebag construction worker catcalled at me on his lunch break.

I felt a flash of white-hot anger as I turned and snarled, “Listen up, dick-for-brains….,” I started.

But then I took pause. He was attractive, in that muscle-toned, tan-skinned way. But also, he sported a shiny, clean-shaven head. My zombie stomach growled. It’d been months since I’d been turned, and well, this guy was setting off more than one type of craving.

I took a step toward this mysogynistic fuck and studied him. He was wearing a very tight charcoal grey tshirt and faded black jeans. The hardhat was on the bench next to him. I licked my lips as I stared as his skull.

There was a motel next door. It didn’t take much to convince him to spring for a room. I think I said something like, “Get us a room.”

I won’t bore you with the details. I was raging. I wasn’t sure if I was going to kill him and eat his brains of fuck him and then kill him and eat his brains.

Stepping into that motel room though, the dude started dropping his jeans immediately. His cock was standing up in greeting and my stomach growled again.

Or maybe I did.

He started to say something. It was idiotic, like “I knew you was hot for me,” or some shit like that. So I shoved him back onto the bed and told him to shut up.

“Don’t say another word or you’ll fuckin’ regret it.” I was thinking I’d bash his skull in with the yellowed plastic phone on the nightstand. I think he thought I was into something kinky, though, ’cause his cock twitched and he answered, “Yes, Mistress.”

This dude was seriously an idiot.

I wanted to fuck him, but I swear it was like his skull kept calling out to me. “Smash me! Smash me!”

Finally, I grabbed the hardhat off the table by the door and dropped it onto his head. “Keep that on.”

It was like a condom for zombie sex.

Once that head was covered, I was able to refocus on my sexual appetite and get to work on his other one.

I really did used to love sucking cock in my life-life. I was careful not to use my teeth, obviously. I didn’t want to turn him. I just wanted to fuck him.

But something happened.

It was premature ejaculation. I know, I know. It happens.

I was disappointed at first, I mean – I wanted him to fuck me. But then something else happened. That, hunger. That need that had been driving me since Zombie Day One – it felt oddly satisfied.

“Huh.” I thought.

“Can I have your number?” he asked.

“Fuck off,” I responded and left the room.

But that’s how it started. The Zombie Vegan movement. Turns out, we can survive on the jizz of men with dicks for brains, which is a non-zero population of men.

I did try, after that, with a guy I really liked. A smart, responsible, shit-together kind of guy. The sex was incredible. But it didn’t satisfy the hunger the same way the dolt-dick does.

It’s a shame, really.

I don’t wonder

Originally written on New Year’s Day, this post led to my writing of “When love is like a Netflix subscription,” after my partner explained that it was not a portion of his love that I was receiving, but his time. I’ve chosen to post this now in response to a comment from a reader who wanted to know how I know that I’m loved without “proof.”


 

I just saw someone comment on his lover’s post about their new-found love. “And you wonder why I love you?”

And I answered the question as though you’d asked it.

No.

I don’t wonder. I know why.

That’s why I’m overcome with emotions since last night. Why I couldn’t hold it together when you were releasing me from the rope.

Why the words “I’m yours” come out stronger every time.

I know why you love me. It’s because you know me.

And that’s where the downfall always is, isn’t it? The pride? My pride? In knowing that I am worth your love. In knowing that I am capable of accepting and returning that love.

In knowing that you’re worth my love.

I won’t talk of the past. Of how they handled it. Of the reasons why it’s always fallen in the past.

You’re not them. You’re not the past. You are my present.

And as of right now, we’re both working on keeping it that way.

You said last night that I have you.

That I’m yours, and I have you.

My rational brain kicks in – the one that tries to find words that are more precise, and it tells me that I share you.

More precisely, it reminds me that I share you. Even typing that makes me chuckle. That’s part of my fear – the fear that brought me to tears – of losing you.

But my emotional brain kicks back in and I also feel that the piece of you I have is whole. That this…love….this relationship that is between you and me and nobody else – that is not shared.

And I ask myself if I can remain satisfied with 100% of a piece of you?

It frightens me to say that I can as much as it frightens me to think that I can’t.

You are my present, and in this present you are my love. Today is an arbitrary day that humanity has chosen to symbolize new beginnings. The dawn of a new year. One day out of billions that this rock has been in orbit around that star.

And on this one in a billion moment when an arbitrary product of billions of years of evolution picked to be the start of just one of another billion years to come…

You chose to be with me.

And you wonder why I love you?

My love, I hope the answer to that question is “no.”

Love Letter

There is a way you look at me. I sometimes wonder if this ship we’re sailing is daringly keeled toward such exciting raw currents of passion without temperance from the calming drift of a gentle night to balance our journey.

It’s true.  We don’t talk very much.  Yes, we text. And, it’s not that we don’t talk at all – there are discussions about pasts and presents and families and careers. But it is sometimes alarming to realize that I know you best from our silent exchanges.  I know you through instinct. Through touch and scent and taste and feel. Though it may not be with words, we communicate mountains when our eyes meet for long, soulful, deep conversations.

The way you look at me renders me speechless without taking away my words, but by shining the light on just how inadequate they really are.

Continuing Education: A Delicate Rant

Yesterday, Ferrett tweeted “#wip I think the worst thing a person can do to someone is to overlook how they’ve changed.”

#wip “I think the worst thing a person can do to someone is to overlook how they’ve changed.”

— Ferrett Steinmetz (@ferretthimself) February 16, 2016

It was a timely message because I’d been affected by recently learning that there is someone out there making assumptions about my character without really knowing me. Worse, this person (and I don’t know who it is, nor do I want to know) hinted at having some sort of credibility because they read some of my blogs once and maybe talked to me a few times so, they knew me.

Now, I’m the first to tell you that what inconsequential people think about me is inconsequential to me. But they were talking to someone I do care about, and trying to imply something negative about me that I don’t believe is true.

Anymore.

Also, (because I’m hormonal right now and things that normally don’t piss me off are pissing me off), I had a damned good reason for being that way in the past.

I don’t want to get into details here, so I’m gonna go with a metaphor.

Let us suppose that I got into a car accident two years ago and injured my leg. Because of this injury, I limp for a long time. Anyone who met me could visibly see the limp as I did not try to mask it. In fact, ’cause it’s me – I regularly blogged about my experience in the accident and my struggles with the pain in my leg.

But I go to physical therapy. I work on strengthening the muscles in my leg, and though once in a while I might get a bit of sciatica, I manage quite well at walking without limping after two years.

And then a good friend of mine asks me to join their team for a 5K charity run. I’m not a huge fan of sports and running, but it’s for a good cause and I decide it’s worth my time and energy to train for this event. I’m committed to this challenge and I’m training every day without complaint.

Another teammate is discussing my participation with a friend of theirs (who isn’t running in the 5K at all, by the way). My teammate is asked, “Wait. Phi? I know Phi. Doesn’t she limp like a motherfucker and hate exercise?”

Now, was it the “worst” thing a person could do? To negate nearly a year of self-work to overcome my totally-reasonable limp? To actively attempt to devalue or cause my friend and teammate to question my participation on their team? To suggest that because mystery person met me a few times and saw me walking funny six months ago that they know me?

Maybe not the worst thing. But it’s a rude thing and a bothersome thing. I spent most of the day yesterday trying to remember that someone’s misrepresented opinions about me are not my problem.

And I’ll get back there. I’m almost there, actually. But I won’t pretend that I didn’t spend a solid couple hours of my day yesterday feeling very put-off by it.

I’m reminded of the concept of “continuing education.” A doctor can go to medical school and become Board Certified, and an insurance agent can get their license to practice insurance sales; but, in order to maintain their good standing in their field they are required to participate in a minimum number of hours of continuing education, or they lose the right to practice under the guise of being “licensed” or “certified.”

Someone who was my friend two years ago or six months ago that has not had any meaningful conversation with me in the last three months doesn’t get to claim that they “know” me anymore. At least, not in the sense of being able to make a qualified judgment on my character, my motivations, or my qualifications to run in a 5K (that’s still a metaphor). A lot has changed in that time.

So, I mean, I don’t know. Do I have to lay down a disclaimer here? I wasn’t feeling great yesterday. My mood was sour and I’m mostly over that, and today I’m also feeling a little bit on edge emotionally (probably because of imminent bleeding).

But three weeks from now, if you go around telling someone that I’m a sourpuss moody bitch and you know this because you read this blog, I’m gonna fucking cut you.

Got it?