It’s been a very trying day, and it’s not over yet. All I want is to be spanked until my ass is tender, and fucked firmly while my hair’s being pulled, and held close while I cry. Is that so much to ask?
It’s Tuesday. Fucking Tuesday. And I’m stuck at work figuring out how many Christmas cards we need to mail and answering emails before people finish work in their local timezones and refilling the printer tray when it makes that sad little noise before anyone else notices it has run out. But my heart’s not here. My head’s not here and my body… my body is definitely not here.
My body is wherever you are. My hands are in your hands and my mouth is drawing you in and my breath is coming in gasps and bursts around you. My thighs and belly are slick with come and sweat. My eyes are locked on yours. My knees are nudging yours apart. My voice is a growl and a whisper and a whimper and a guttural moan. My breasts are quivering and glistening and beginning to flush red. My panties are soaked and fragrant, lying discarded next to us, rubbing up against my shoulder as we move. My hair is a tangled, colourful mess. My lips are parting and my teeth are dragging and my nails are digging in.
I have a confession to make, right off the bat: this isn’t a love letter. It’s a lust letter. A letter I’ve written to you a hundred ways a hundred times or more. A letter I recite to myself when your words crawl out of the screen and in through my mouth. A letter I’ve seen imprinted on my retinas, overlaying your images, offered up like that very first shaky poem I handed him in our high-school stairwell.
This is a letter I’ve thought and never typed, my hands hovering over the keyboard with the fear and anticipation of first touching a lover’s bare flesh. This is a letter about the way I feel when I read the things you leave out for me to find, though not for me alone. It’s a letter about how watching you be so very you—in your beauty and imperfection and fierce, stubborn vulnerability and overwhelming sensuality and loveable, dorky professionalism and private honesty—pushes me to be so very me. To live and love and laugh and cry and fuck and fuck up and care and forgive, especially myself.
This is a letter to you about the way your words climb under my skin and the way they arouse me. When you talk dirty to me I can feel my thighs clench, ever so slightly. My lips part as your words come closer and my tongue runs along the bottom edge of my upper teeth. When you are lonely and sad I want to hold your cheek to the space between my breasts, and stroke your hair, and tell you that not everything will be okay, but some things will. I want to lay you down in a bed with too many pillows and trace my fingers over your skin until you call me filthy names I’ve never even thought of. I want to sit very still and quiet in that late afternoon light while we both pretend we are very interested in our books, waiting to steal longing glances in the moments when I can’t feel your eyes running over me.
I want to dance with you. In that moving-everything-just-when-it-desires-to-be-moved way, and in that breathing-close-by-your-sweaty-neck way, and in that complete-abandonment-of-the-idea-of-the-eyes-of-others way too. I want to lick you. Your calves and your cunt and the curls at the nape of your neck. That is, if you want me to lick you. Or maybe you’d rather that we just tell each other the things we don’t want to tell anybody, and cry and laugh and fall asleep on the floor by the couch. Or maybe we’ll wait until it’s too hot, and sit eating popsicles on the corner, naming every cat that walks into view. I don’t mind.
This is a letter about how I am grateful but never knew how to tell you, because gratitude was wrapped up in other feelings and none of them made sense for a stranger. This is a letter about the way you punctuate, and the way you ponder, and the way you pose. This is a letter about the hot, wet feeling in my groin and the tight, close feeling in my chest, and the way my lip curls and my head nods, Yes.
Katie, this is my confession to you. This is a lust letter. This is long-distance, long-time, lusting and longing and maybe loving too.
I need a new notebook. I miss the filth spreading straight from my mind down through the pen and out on to the page. Typing out my memories and desires is less immediate, less sensual and real, than the movement of pen on paper.
She was sweet and kind and she fucked me hard. She let me cry and scream and checked with me over and over whether I wanted her to stop. She left bruises all over my chest with a look in her eyes that was stern and mischievous, but never cruel. She talked me through her exit in a calm and reassuring voice. When it was over, she held me close, rocked me gently, and stroked my hair.
Sometimes I just want fingers. I want them in my mouth and in my pussy and in my ass. Sometimes I just want to suck them, or hold them between my teeth, or keep my mouth wide open for them as they dip inside. Sometimes I want to feel fingers sliding in and out of me, and past each other. Filling me up or teasing me by barely entering at all. Fingers rolling nipples and fluttering over skin.
Sometimes all I want to be is fingers. Wrapping around a cock or sliding oh-so-slowly into a slippery cunt. A thumb holding a tongue down while fingers firmly caress a jaw. Spreading over a scalp into hair, and clenching tight. Circling a puckered asshole while hips squirm and press back against wet fingers, ready to be invited in. Knuckles moving back and forth as they graze hardening nipples. Fingers that are strong and fingers that are licked clean.
I know more than a few people who agree that you do not know how to respect the boundaries of others. Just something to think about.
Thank you for the feedback.
It’s hard to know exactly what to do with a comment like this, especially in the context of this sort of blog. Anonymous comments allow people to say things they might not otherwise say, but it also means I can’t ask for clarification or additional feedback, etc. I know I should take this with a grain of salt, being an anon blog comment and all, but I think that even if not completely accurate it’s based in truth.
So, what to do? I think the answer for me is to be thankful for constructive criticism. We all have things we need to be called out on from time to time, none of us are perfect, and we all have work to do. I certainly have a ton of work to do myself. I came to my singledom/dating/non-monogamous-sex-life fairly recently, in fact quite shortly before I started this blog, and so in some ways I feel like I’m behind the curve, and have a lot of catching up to do.
As I think I hinted at in my previous answer, my understanding and practice of consent is continuing to evolve. Being a shy and socially-anxious person, it was really scary to start dating and looking for sexual partners outside of a relationship context. Personal insecurity, a desire to please/be liked, and a penchant for overcoming/hiding shyness through loudness/assertiveness all were part of the difficulties I had (and to some extent, still have) with navigating sexually-charged interactions with people. I think this is probably something that a lot of people deal with.
I can fully acknowledge that there have been times when I have made people uncomfortable, and not in that nice way. Without knowing any more about the specifics of this comment, I am assuming that a lot of the boundary issues being referred to are things happening in a social context. I’ve missed or ignored subtle cues—such as eye contact, posture, tone of voice, etc.—that were indicators that something I was doing was unwelcome, or that in some way I’d gone or was about to go too far. Knowing how and when to flirt, what comments are appropriate at any given time, being mindful of personal space, and other related issues are things I’ve struggled with. When I’m feeling shy or insecure my defense mechanism has always been to put on a louder/more confident/more assertive facade. This has been problematic for a number of reasons, including potentially pushing people’s boundaries. I can also think of a few specific times when I’ve been very drunk and this has been taken to another level, in terms of missing/ignoring cues and overcompensating for shyness/insecurity by being overbearing.
I don’t think that examining factors contributing to poor behaviour excuses that behaviour in any way. However I do think that trying to understand why and when we do things is key to changing the way we act.
I feel like I have made progress on this front over the past couple of years, though I still certainly have a ways to go. There’s always a lot to work on, but I do feel that I am more self-aware in social situations, and that I am also more willing to feel vulnerable and present with things (rather than shielding myself by putting on a Big Personality). As I become more genuinely self-confident, it is easier to accept criticism, and to worry less about being liked and more about living well.
The comment is general, and I’ve taken it to apply to social situations more so than clearly stated/negotiated boundaries and one-on-one (or for that matter, group) sexual situations, because I feel like that’s where I definitely have acted most problematically, and where I’ve needed to (and will continue to) work. That doesn’t mean that the way I’ve handled my own and others’ boundaries in intimate scenarios has always been exemplary, because it hasn’t. In sexual situations, however, it’s almost always been my own boundaries that I haven’t adequately set/respected. This is something else I’ve been working a lot on, and feel that I handle much differently than I did two years, or even two months, ago.
Something that’s been really useful and challenging for me has been rethinking consent, and the ways I can actively give and obtain it. Creating and maintaining good consent practices is something I’ve been thinking a lot about in the past few months, and reconsidering consent has also had me reconsidering past instances where I realize I (and others) didn’t practice consent as well as I could have.
At this point in time, I feel like I am better with setting and respecting boundaries, both in social and intimate situations, than I really ever have been in the past. I know I’m still making lots of mistakes, but I hope I’m making slightly fewer. I’m a work in progress, and it is work, but I acknowledge that, and am interested in continuing to learn and grow. Even though sometimes it just feels really hard, and I sometimes just think it would be better to stay home for the rest of my life and find a really good vibrator or something. Things that are worth doing are not necessarily easy to do.
I appreciate being called out on things that I need to work on. If whomever wrote this thinks I’ve totally missed the point, I welcome them to email me directly. Likewise, if there’s anyone else reading who knows me, and feels that they have something to add in the way of constructive feedback, or if they feel I’ve had or am having issues with boundaries in specific situations which they want to bring to my attention, they are welcome to contact me. I assume that if you know me well enough to make these sorts of statements, you also know how to get ahold of me in person.
Have you ever cheated on a partner? Have you ever been cheated on (as far as you know)? Has anyone ever cheated on their partner with you?
I’ve never cheated on a partner, and as far as I know, no one has cheated on me.
That doesn’t mean partners of mine have never had sexual interactions/relationships with other people while we were together, because they have. All those interactions, or at least all the ones I know about, were with my consent. There have been a couple instances where a partner was more intimately involved with someone or did certain things with them that crossed boundaries we had agreed on. That hurt, and it was something we worked through, and I suppose that’s the closest to “being cheated on” that I’ve experienced, but because of the particular circumstances I never considered it “cheating.”
I know for certain that one person has cheated on a partner/partners with me, and I suspect 2-3 more have as well. Or at least those others were probably doing something they considered borderline. Depending on the specifics of their situations it may not have been cheating, but without knowing those specifics I got the impression that it was probably something that if not forbidden they were “not supposed to do.”
It is impossible to respect boundaries unless you know what they are. I am clear with partners about my own situation, whatever that may be. I also check in often that the other person is feeling comfortable, that they want to be doing whatever it is we’re doing, and I let them know we can stop any time.
There are lots of different kinds of “complicated situations,” and the details of someone’s life are their business, and not mine. I tell them that they know their own circumstances, and their own relationship rules and personal boundaries. I will happily respect boundaries, and I don’t push people to do anything that makes them uncomfortable. At the same time, I will not be put in a place of being expected to police other people’s relationships, or enforce other peoples rules for them. I’m a good communicator, but I’m no mind reader, and I can ultimately only be responsible for myself and my choices.
This is, of course, something I’ve come to over time. When I first started becoming more sexually active I was less sure of myself, and so I found it more difficult to communicate proactively. I didn’t ask for what I needed or wanted as much, and I didn’t always speak up when something made me a bit uncomfortable or unsure.
Since then I’ve grown bit by bit, and come to realize a number of things. One of those is that I am responsible for myself, and my choices, and my actions, and my involvement with others. Another, closely related, lesson, is that other people are responsible for themselves. Their own choices and feelings and actions. I may have an effect on those things in some way, but I can never control them.
These days I work with the information people (are willing to) provide. I look out for myself first and foremost, and I’m compassionate and respectful. I sometimes do things that other people might disagree with, but I haven’t done anything that makes me uncomfortable in a long time. I feel good about that.
Just wanted to tell you that yours was one of the first Tumblr blogs I found back last spring and you inspired me to start my (well now, our) own. I love your writing.
I’m very flattered. There are a number of blogs I found early on that helped convince me to keep writing, and some of those still give me a good nudge when I find myself in a bit of a slump. I’d never particularly considered that I might have an audience, and so I’ve mostly been writing as an exercise in self expression. It’s always surprising and exciting for me to realize that people may actually be reading, and enjoying, what I write.
So thank you very much!
[note: this was sent in some time ago, but I hadn’t replied yet, because sometimes I’m a very bad girl. As I’m having a TMI Tuesday, you are welcome to send questions or comments, anonymously if you like, and I will respond to them sometime today.]
My body is thick. I have solid wrists and shapely calves. My thighs touch when I stand and rub when I walk and work holes through all my pants. My belly is sometimes bigger and sometimes smaller but never completely disappears. I’ve gone moderately up and down in weight over my adult life, but it doesn’t really bother me very much. I was never the fat kid, but I was always almost the fat kid, and certainly never the skinny one. I’ve been a fat-ish girl with a fantastic ass since I hit double digits.
I have perfect breasts. They aren’t the same as they were when I was 17, and when I entered my mid-twenties, and I realized I had woman-breasts and not girl-breasts any more, I mourned a bit. I was confused and disappointed by the way my flesh sloped down towards my nipples, mostly because things had changed without me realizing, and now they weren’t the same as they used to be. But then I stopped mourning my girl tits, and embraced my woman tits, because I remembered that they were still perfect. I’ve seen some breasts I liked as much as mine, but none I’ve liked better.
My face is stereotypically pretty. I have big blue eyes, with pupils that usually seem abnormally large. Coupled with my public personality people often think I’m high, though I’m never high. I have rosy cheeks, and teeth which every dentist and hygienist have told me are beautiful. However they aren’t perfect, and they don’t reach each other in front; when I bite down only my molars are touching. I’ve never had a cavity. My lips are full and pink. I have a big tongue.
I produce plenty of keratin. I have nails that grow fast and strong and straight, though a couple start to curl at the corner when they get long enough. The hair on my head grows quickly, and I have lots of it. The same friend has been cutting my hair for 7 years, and I give her carte blanche to completely change my hair every 3-5 months. I usually have at least one “natural” colour and at least one “unnatural” colour at any given time.
There are other places on my body which enthusiastically grow hair, though I don’t always share that same enthusiasm. I removed most or all of my pubic hair for a while, but then decided I liked having a little bush up front. The strip down the very middle, which I kept most of the time, is curlier than the rest of my bush. I wish I hadn’t taken the hair off the rest of my mons for so long, because I feel like then maybe it would have stayed curlier. Now it gets straight and silky pretty fast. One of my favourite things about my body is the way my pubic hair looks and feels just after a bath or a shower. So curly and fluffy and bouncy and soft. I usually look at and pet it a little if I have time.
I grow or cut the hair on my legs and in my armpits depending on the season and the company I’m keeping and the clothes I’m wearing and the shows I’m performing and my whims. I didn’t know that there was anything “wrong’ or “bad” about having hair grow on your body until I was going on a rope swing when I was about 11, and another girl loudly commented that I had armpit hair, and that it was disgusting. I honestly didn’t even realize that I had started to grow some hair there at the time, but I felt confused and ashamed and I knew immediately I’d broken a rule that I hadn’t even been aware of until that moment.
In my later teens I started to occasionally get a longer or darker hair growing on my neck. I’d generally just pluck them out when they showed up, but over time it’s gotten to the point where if I just left my body to it’s own devices I would have a little goatee-ish beard that would put many teenage boys to shame. It’s my least favourite part of my whole body.
My size/weight/shape aren’t so much of an issue to me as they used to be, and my pit/leg/pubic hair are something I (mostly) feel comfortable making my own decisions about, but the hair on my chinny chin chin is a source of great insecurity for me. I generally wax it off, but there’s always some hair in some stage of regrowth at any one time, and the waxing sometimes irritates my skin, and leads to tons of blemishes, which I’d always been lucky to never really have to deal with before.
I worry about what potential lovers will think, and what people on the street might think, and what my friends think, and I don’t even know what I personally think. I sometimes tell myself that no one can see, or that no one notices, but I know it’s a lie.
A couple months ago a friend said she was inspired by how comfortable I was with my occasional chin/neck hairs, and that she found it inspiring. And I thought, That’s not how it feels inside, but at the same time it made me think that even if everyone is seeing/noticing, maybe it’s not occurring to them as a negative.
Sometimes changing how I view my body includes realizing that the negative reaction I might feel internally might not be universally shared, which then helps me rethink my appraisal of myself. For example, I always thought my vulva was pretty standard. Or rather, I didn’t even think about that. Until I got to my mid/late-teens and started seeing and hearing about other vulvas, until I heard the vast variety of slang, and which expressions were said with delight and which with disgust, I didn’t realise that my larger inner labia/smaller outer labia were “not ideal.” Or even “gross.” I internalized some of that dislike, but I also had very positive early sexual experiences which helped me let that go, and love and appreciate my vulva as uniquely mine, and not particularly better or worse than any other. Since that time I’ve seen a much wider variety of vulvas, and I no longer feel at all “odd” or “wrong.”
I think an important step in (re)normalizing my body, undoing the harmful lessons about that I and most people absorb, has been the process of thoroughly exploring my body. Familiarizing myself with its curves and crevices, finding new delight by seeing myself through someone else’s eyes, touching and playing and thoroughly enjoying it. Even the things that I like least, the bits that I feel insecure or even ashamed of, are becoming more familiar and less threatening to me over time. My body is mine and mine alone, and I’m growing to love it more each day.