Me <-------------------------------------------> Mr. S.

I still have not heard from Mr. S.

I hate to be the one to break radio silence.

I think he needs to read this.

Porn ( . . . is bad?)

I have long been content with complacency regarding the Porn Debate. I have never considered porn a healthy expression of sexuality (no, it's not a sin; yes, I'm judgemental), but more like the Twinkie of sexuality. Zero nutritional value, but common and relatively harmless. Actually getting upset over it? That was for nuthouses like the Christian Coalition.

At least until I had it thrown in my face.

Now, I'm not the skinniest girl or the prettiest girl, or even the smartest girl. I don't expect men to fall all over themselves for me. Given that I was treated like the troll under the bridge by pretty much everyone until I went away to college, I think I've come a long way in developing any kind of real sexuality, and mapping out what I like, what I don't, what works, and what doesn't.

And one thing that rarely works for me is porn. It took a lot of neurotic suffering (dammit, this WILL turn me on!) before I figured out that 1) porn makes me feel inadequate in both looks and ability and 2) the porn that does work for me is so brutal and degrading that I don't respect myself for liking it. Yes, I like to see other women hurt. I think that says plenty.

All of this is preface to saying Something Happened this morning. I know a man, whom I'll call Headcase, and with whom I have recently started something of a friends-with-benefits type relationship. Except we're not quite friends (the headcase part) and I am still wondering about some of the benefits. Great cock, except he refuses to exploit all its potential. After not having sex last night (see the headcase part) he woke up with morning wood and I wanted to play. So what does Genius do? He gets up out of bed and starts looking at porn on his computer. Okaaayyy.

But I'm a Progressive Girl, right? Porn is Fine With Me, right? I talk to him about what he's looking at -- turns out he wants to show me some clips of girls squirting. Um, okay. (Personally, I think it's kind of gross and I'm glad my body doesn't do it ... but there I go being judgemental again). I noticed that nearly all the clips he was looking through had the odd tic of the girl bringing herself to the brink of orgasm, removing the dildo, and with no stimulation whatsoever continuing to have a full, screaming, body-convulsing orgasm. I commented in an offhanded hey-you-might-want-to-know-this-about-me way that I am not built like that. That my orgasms are facilitated only by continued stimulation, and the train stops dead without it.

And I nearly got my head bitten off for the trouble. Apparently, I am wired "weirdly". Apparently, any woman can "just learn" to squirt and to have these pseudo-spontaneous orgasms.

And while he was excoriating my sexual ability, he left playing a video of what was obviously a sorority girl and a frat boy getting it on in front of his entire frathouse. Nothing new, I'm sure. But the video still made me sad. Even though the girl was obviously mugging for the camera, I don't think she suspected it would go on the internet for the world to see. And I was thinking about this: let's say five years down the road both her boss and the boy's boss see the video. His status will probably be enhanced (sex god, and all); she, on the other hand, might lose her job (the slut!).

Headcase's words and this video, together, really made me think. What is up with this fucked up world that somehow an actress is "better" at being a woman than I am? For all the flak that people in porn take for their job, they are still called "porn actors" for a reason. The sex may be real, but the theatrics are just that. Theatrics. And the sorority girl? I don't even have the words.

And yet maybe getting upset over porn isn't the answer. In a way, it's like the old gun debate. Do guns kill people, or do people kill people? Does porn degrade women or do the people watching porn degrade women? Really, though, does the distinction even matter?!?

On {Marriage}

This Christmas has affected me oddly. Yearning for the family that I used to have is de rigeur, although the loneliness I expected was worse than the loneliness I felt. What I didn't expect, though, is an intense attraction to the notion of being married.

I have known, from an insanely early age like 10 or 11, that I would never get married. It wasn't necessarily low self-esteem . . . I just regarded it as something completely alien. I'll never go to the moon either, you know? As I've aged, that certainty is cemented by compelling financial incentives not to tie myself to another person.

Through this desire, it still feels like an impossibility, but it preys on my brain like a compulsion. It's not based on a relationship, or on love, but on a need to be Chosen. I am green with envy over the people that someone else has picked (right or wrong) as The One. Why not me? Why can't someone love me like that?

Incoherence + Femdom = This Post

Having taken more or less permanently until the end of the year to my bed, I have had an awful lot of time to think about things. My relationships, relationships in general, people and their expectations.

I count myself (mostly) a submissive. I respond to strong, decisive, capable men who know what they want and include me on that list. While I am no shrinking violet, it would take about 1000 years of being desired (because ugliness loneliness compounds at a rate that makes loansharking look like debt forgiveness) before I might feel up to being assertive or Domme-ish about my desires.

Since no such man has stepped forward, I have no choice but to be a strong, decisive, capable woman in my own right. I do many of my own buidling repairs, I move furniture (china cabinets and armoires, people, not carrying a clipboard and saying "put that there"), I run my own business. My work underlings are all men -- there has been no small amount of tension over taking orders from a woman, and one who is younger than them to boot. When I first took this job, I learned quickly that the mediation and inclusion that is most women's method of communicating ("*giggle* well what do *you* think?") would not get results. I have learned to speak confidently and authoritatively in order to get done what I need. I don't expect these men to love me, but I know for a fact they respect me. In the work world, that is all that is required.

Personal relationships, however, are something altogether different. Yes, there are men out there who claim to want a strong-minded woman, but the reality is these men go home with bimbos. Most men don't want a woman who is demonstrably more capable than they are. It is threatening. And frankly, I don't blame them. Being myself a woman, I don't want a man who is more feminine than I am. (Sorry, crossdressers; that's just the way I am.) Were I a man, I wouldn't want a woman more masculine than me. And yet, turning off the "mannish", opinionated, capable qualities work leadership requires is not so easy as flipping a switch.

When I was in high school, my female friends would drive me absolutely batty with the pickup ploy of parking next to the target boy, leaving their car headlights on at lunch so they had a dead battery by the end of the day, and then employing the "*giggle* *bat eyelashes* I'm so helpless!" routine in order to get target boy to jumpstart the car. Invariably said boy barely knew a dipstick from a shift stick and the operation would take an hour or more, all the while girl is plying him with encouragement ("oh I'm so glad someone knows about these complicated things") and posing against the car. *gag* *hack* *walk home* ... But then, maybe that's why I'm your Spinster and they're married (happily or otherwise).

Even so, and quite without intention, my online coterie has developed in the last few months a sizable segment of submissive-minded men. I don't quite understand this, and I don't know what to do with it. I have no problem with the Honey-do flavor of submission in relationships ("Honey, do the dishes" or "Honey, take out the garbage") but I don't want to Domme a relationship. I don't want the responsibility, even if I have the inclinations that (occasionally) may sate someone else's desires. "You want me to whip you? Really? Ok!"

Filler

I keep waiting for something post-worthy to happen, and nothing's going. I am still stuck in a Nexus of Evil, which sent me to fetally to bed for the better part of a week. LawBoy has disappeared due to final exams; Mr. S has for the most part been avoiding me because of the breakdown on his doorstep that preceeded my boudoir retreat.

(On second thought, that may in itself be post-worthy. Once in a while someone calls me "cold-hearted" because I don't seem to cry about the things other women cry about. I learned a long time ago that that *other* women's crying brings out the protective side of men -- *my* crying makes them go away. I thought that Mr. S was an exception to the rule because I have shed tears in front of him ... little did I realize when I turned to him in my agony that it was having emotion that was so repulsive. Since that day I have heard virtually nothing from him.)

I have had a great deal of time to think about my loneliness, its causes, and its solutions. Some people are social butterflies, and so the advice "get out there and meet people" works for them. I'm just not interested in "meeting people" and there is a very finite number of friendships I care to maintain just for the sake of maintaining friendships. Trying to be something I'm very obviously not is literally trying to wear shoes that don't fit -- sometimes you can put them on for a little while, but in the end it can't be maintained. So the lesson here is to do a better job of accepting myself as I am.

Within that, I also need to do a better job of defining who I am. I loathe dating for its interview-like aspects, but I think I can do a better job of explaining myself to others without getting bogged down in capital-M Marketing. Right now I am a badly written novel in need of some editing . . . not to cut pieces out or rewrite scenes, mind you, but to sharpen the focus and increase the craft. The elements that make me "Me" could be a whole lot more interesting if they were a little less of some of column A and some of column B.

Batting Zero

Where do I go wrong?

Self-absorption is an inevitable side-effect of a diaristic blog like this one, but I think it is not a trait that infects my daily life. From my close friends, I am forever getting gruff about putting others' well-being before my own.

And then there are times like last night, when I wonder if I'm experiencing the same world as everybody else.

First, Mr. Crash & Burn came out of the woodwork to rub a little more salt in my wound, and he said part of his disinterest was that I seemed self-absorbed, that my interests were all related to my own life. Huh? Of course, this is from a man who gave a 20 minute monologue (albeit entertaining) about the Grossness of Mushrooms.

Then I had a conversation with LawBoy that really upended my view of things. Now, I am a pathologically shy person in certain ways. I never reach out to touch another person - if there is any contact they have initiated it, and that holds true for each time I see them. The same thing with flirting. Despite this, it just so happens that nearly every time I've gotten together with LawBoy, we've had sex. Therefore I was quite baffled when LawBoy announced that we should only be IM friends from now on because he felt "expected to put out" when we got together. Huh?!?!

Were I a better person, I might take from this that shyness is a waste of time. Were I feeling Zen, I might accept that rejection is just how things are. But I am neither of these things, so I simmer in my shame and humiliation in not being someone these men want.

Crash and Burn

So I went out on a date Friday night. Yay for The Spinster, right? Not so much. I thought this was a Nice Guy, and from our chats online he seemed to have an intelligent head on his shoulders. He matched my self-employment and unconventional life -- I hoped there'd be a better chance of connection than with some of the cookie-cutter people out there.

The weather having turned absolutely frigid this week here, I opted to skip girliness and dress for warmth. Perhaps that was a mistake, but I am not a big fan of frostbite. We went to dinner at a restaurant halfway between our cities, and convenient to neither of us. I found his conversation charming, although a bit heavy on the interview style. On the way to our cars after dinner, he gave me one of the more lukewarm hugs I've ever had. You know the "dead fish" style of handshake? This was the hug version.

Still, it was something of a surprise when he IM'd me today saying it was nice to have dinner, but he wasn't interested in pursing anything due to a lack of chemistry. Hmph.

. . .

This one gets it:

http://mendron.com/~djaevle/?p=513

Thanksgiving: The Prequel

If there is a single person in your life with no obvious plans for the holiday, inviting them to join you is a kindness. Waiting until only two days ahead of time and including the barbed comment that there will be X number of other people there is not.

Such behavior is at best gauche, and at worst deeply insulting. Why? Because by waiting until the last minute, you've indicated that they are not a priority to you. By announcing that they are the last to be invited, you have confirmed that they are an afterthought.

Mrs. S, I've got a bird for you and it ain't turkey!

An Odd Hobby For A Spinster . . .

I am amused that just when I have finally come to terms with my Spinsterhood, I find myself having sex more regularly than I ever have before.

Last night I saw LawBoy again. Woohoo! He is such a fantastic lover that I can't believe he's not completely taken. I feel so lucky right now to have not one but two men who can make my body sing.

The best part was when LawBoy stumbled all on his own onto my thing for choking. Let's examine all the ways this is awesome:
1) The sensation of strong male hands around my throat. Ooooh! I certainly don't feel numb without it, but with it . . . Wow. ZoomSuperSonicTechnicolor!
2) I didn't have to ask. It was really, really nice to have my needs met without that pesky communication stuff.
3) He was more than ok with it. An open mind is a beautiful thing.

Sex with LawBoy has always been memorable -- I am a little embarassed at the number of firsts I've had with him. First time standing up? Check. First time not in a bed? Check. First time messing around while driving? Check. First time while on my period? Check. First multiple orgasm? Check.

Who knows what firsts there are yet to come? I can hardly wait!

Old Friends

It's a funny thing, seeing old friends from your past that you didn't even know you missed.

I am a pretty prolific dreamer. But I've never had any of the so-called archetypal dreams -- my dreams don't include leaving the house without pants, or showing up for a test unprepared, or flying, or falling. Never.

I do, however, occasionally repeat a dream I've had years before. Not a reinterpretation, but an exact repeat. Just like a TV episode doesn't change from viewing to viewing, these dreams also don't change. Last night I had another repeat.

I very rarely have sex dreams. Like, once or twice a year at most. I know, I know. It's a sad thing when the Spinster can't even get laid in her dreams. But I do have a number of "connection" dreams, where I'm with someone and finally Everything Is Ok. This was one of those.

After being plagued with anxiety dreams nearly every night for the last, oh, six months it was a great relief to feel (however briefly) that Everything Can Be Ok.

Pretty Tied Up

Last night I got the unexpected pleasure of seeing Mr. S for the first time in what feels like forever. I had been thinking earlier this week that even though we have had the intimacy of sex, lately it seems we have a less intimate friendship than we did before we ever had sex. So it was good to hear from him and good to be with him.

After some fantastic necking and nipple play on the couch, I found myself pantsless with Mr. S's face buried between my thighs. That itself was a rather pleasant surprise because it's not something he's done since our first week's sexual extravaganza. (Yes, yes, I know. Good feminists are supposed to dump guys who don't go down on them practically daily. Or something. I have enough of my own issues about receiving oral sex that I am in no position to expect anything of anybody. Leastwise someone who pleasures me so well in other ways.) He gave head, and it was good great, and I had a way-too-easy orgasm.

Later, after some proper fucking and a good cuddle, he brought out his bag. It was somewhat less terrifying just sitting there and not being laid out on the table like some underworld surgeon's tools. He told me that it was his pleasure to see me in a rope corset and I assented, as I already have a near-fetish for corsets in general. Getting to the rope, though, Oh Boy. The rope just happened to be at the bottom of the bag (yeah, right) and Mr. S took the opportunity to swat me with each of his various floggers and other implements as he removed them. The bottom line (get it? har har) at this point is that I still prefer his hand.

The rope thing was fun, but not especially sexual. It also didn't look nearly as horrendous as I thought it would. This, from a girl who shies away from bikini-style panties because thin lines across her skin aren't attractive. I don't know if it was a function of the rope's thickness or the tension (or lack thereof) with which Mr. S created this corset, but I actually rather liked the effect. I think if Mr. S and I continued with ropes, for me it would be mostly to a) be naked around him and 2) to indulge his pleasures.

My last surprise of the evening is that he didn't jump up and run off home to sleep. He has stayed the night before, but usually circumstances call him home. Sleeping next to Mr. S might just be my idea of heaven -- he doesn't snore, he stays still, and he loves to spoon.

Just sleeping together is definitely one thing I wish we could do more often.

Diet Coke Break

After Number One wrought his havoc, there was The Lech. And then there was the Construction Worker.

My acquaintance with the Construction Worker began in a Diet Coke-esque way, approximately two months after I started grad school. The Powers That Be decided it would be a good idea to rehab the university's library from the bottom up, plunging it into construction for two years. These same Powers decided it would be a good idea for Construction Worker (henceforth CW) to be some sort of dock manager, in charge of the morning deliveries. A fortuitous choice, that bit, because it allowed me to see him nearly every morning on my way to class.

And see him I did. Oh. My. God. Beautiful eyes, handsome face, all muscle. The obligatory tight t-shirt. It is his fault I will forever carry a fetish for construction-worker-orange. Oh, how it set off his curly sand colored hair.

It wasn't long before I noticed he would stop his work to watch me pass. Why, I will never know. Certainly no man ever noticed me before, and none has since. But he did. Feeling his eyes on me was like sunshine warming your back on a spring day.

It was perfect luck that in the spring semester I landed a plum research position that involved spending many hours in the bowels of the library. You should have seen the look on CW's face the first time I bumped into him on the service elevator. Just priceless, that moment.

I am entirely convinced, even to this day, that my attraction to him would have been nothing more than a passing fancy if he hadn't gone out of his way to get my attention. There was the conspicuously stopping what he was doing in the mornings on the loading dock, the stopping me in the hallways to chat. As we got to be friends (or at least acquaintances), there was his complete recall of any detail I had mentioned about myself.

Eventually I even worked up the courage to ask him out to dinner. He said he would "love to" (direct quote!) but he didn't want to set a date right that moment. Nothing ever came of it, of course. And so the Head Games began.

For a while I felt bad, "Maybe," I thought to myself, "I'm guilty of some kind of sexual harassment. Maybe he's just being nice because he can't get away." But with almost clock-like precision, every time that thought crossed my mind he would do something that completely disproved the notion. I avoided him a bit after the rejected invitation, but CW took it upon himself to ferret out my workstation in the library. After that he would come and say hello almost every day. You don't do that if you're uncomfortable with someone, right? Right!?!?

As the semester came to an end, I couldn't bear the thought of not seeing him over the summer. I agreed to a few hours a week for research, and augmented my time in the library by studying one of the my program's required foreign languages. And still he would come and seek me out. Sometimes over lunch I would sit in the summer sun and read a book; on more than one occasion I caught him staring out the window in my direction.

With the beginning of school again, I decided (for a variety of reasons) that studying in the library instead of at home was best for me. I picked a spot near the construction break-room and set my routine. Except for class hours and work, that was where I could be found from 8 AM to 5 PM. And found I was. CW continued to go out of his way to talk to me nearly every day. (And what agony it was on the days he did not.) Always eager to see me, often flirtatious to a degree that would have been wildly unacceptable had I not been amenable. Once he even got yelled at by his boss for spending too much time with me.

After several weeks of this, I again screwed up my courage and asked him out. Again, he would "love to". But he was busy, and didn't know what his plans were, and he would get back to me. He avoided me for the rest of the week. On Monday, he was all repentance for not getting ahold of me, and we should "definitely" get together "sometime". Riiiiiight.

But I was addicted to his mega-watt smile, to his strong, calloused hands, to the tool-belted jingle of his walk. I could not bring myself to tell him where he could stuff his excuses.

And so things continued. Still with the flirty, now bordering on the touchy-feely. I might be sitting there with my books piled around, puzzling out the aorist tense within a subjunctive clause of some philosophical or legal treatise, and CW would sneak up behind me and give me a bear hug. Or tug my braid. Or swat my thigh. Once he even gave me a kiss on the cheek. These are not things you do to someone you don't like, right? Right?!?!?

It was about this time that on one rare day when I had left the library early to run errands, we passed each other driving on the road. This one afternoon my phone was off because of a low battery. This one day of all days CW chooses to call. He didn't leave a message. He never called again.

I will always wonder what that conversation might have been. Would he have asked me out? Would he have just chatted? Would he have hung up if I'd answered?

There was no mention of the call the next time we saw each other. I didn't have the guts to bring it up, and after seeing him a few times it would have been too awkward. We were still as friendly as always, though. I never did ask him out again. I finally got it into my thick skull that whatever his reasons were (the frontrunners among my friends were that he was gay, or married, or that I really was completely misreading him), my continuing to ask wasn't going to change anything.

Soon classes finished. I passed my certification exams. I stopped having a reason to come to the library. I missed CW terribly, but with the bittersweetness of knowing there would never be anything. Once, over the summer, I came stalking him but got distracted browsing the stacks. I sat right there in the aisle reading a book, and I was about halfway through it when he interrupted me. I got a rib-cracking bear hug, and a kiss on the cheek. He made me promise not to disappear on him again. He was probably sincere in that moment, but I know if he had wanted me in his life he would have called.

I think we saw each other briefly once or twice after that, joking and flirting as always. Eventually I got a Real Job, and stalking the library was out of the question. Not long after that, the library project was completed. I haven't seen or heard from CW since. Sometimes I wonder what he thought of me, or whether he still thinks of me from time to time. Somewhere, I have a photograph I took of him from one of the buildings overlooking his worksite. It was a pathetic, stalkerish thing to do, but I am glad that I did it. With his face sharp in my mind I can't forget I don't deserve head games. And, of course, I like to look on that curly sand colored hair and mega-watt smile.

I first laid eyes on CW six years ago this month. It has been a long journey, these six years. Although I am long since over him, I have not had a crush on anyone in all this time. I wonder sometimes if I ever will again.

Filed Under: Irony, Dying of

My blog log shows that two successive individuals, from IPs across the world from each other, recently reached this little corner of the net via the fairly quotidian searches "why do girls suck cock" and "how do girls feel about sucking cock". Both landed on my cock sucking page.

What makes this noteworthy is that Yours Truly is apparently the third and fourth Google result (respectively) for these searches. Yikes. I even manage to beat out this fantastic resource on cocksucking.

Google is obviously confused if it ranks me above legitimate sex bloggers.

What Happens Next?

Mr. S and I got the chance to go out to dinner tonight. With his classes and Mrs. S keeping him on lockdown we haven't gotten a chance to talk much lately. Even our IMs are distracted and harried. It was very nice to get a chance to sit and talk.

Well, mostly.

Mr. S is a perverse creature. Mostly this is an endearing trait, such as the unholy amount of joy he seems to get out of telling people he has both a wife and a girlfriend. It is less endearing when he follows up each report to me of this by saying "But you're not really my girlfriend. That is just shorthand." *sigh*

Every time he points out how this thing we have is not a romance, all I hear is "you're unlovable". I know he doesn't intend to be cruel, but nonetheless there's a certain cruelty to his conscientiousness not mislead me. Sometimes I do wonder if there is, too, a perverse enjoyment of it as well.

I miss the unqualified affection he used to give. The little gestures and expressions that so glowed with their own sincerity that it was a touch of magic to receive them. I miss my friend.

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Weekend

If you haven't been able to tell, I do tend to enjoy my miseries. Yes, it's perverse. This life I lead has onion-like layers of irony, and despite my enjoyment of it my unhappiness tends not to stick around very long at a time. It's rather like Life enjoys suckerpunching me at random times and then going about its business like nothing happened.

Reversal: A character so far gone from the action that I thought the actor had gone home has wandered back into my life. Some two years ago (was it really that recently?) I struck up a friendship with a law student at the local university. I'm using the word "friendship" here very loosely, because he only looks me up when he wants a booty call. Normally I wouldn't give such a cad the time of day, but he's a smarty-pants and he gives me great orgasms. And that's exactly what he did, too, on Saturday. Did until I was so raw I had to beg him to stop. I like that!

I think, also, that I had my first multiple-orgasm. When I have control of the When and How of it, I have no interest in multiples. I still enjoy sex during/after/whenever, but there'll be no more orgasms for a good while. And, too, so often it happens that my partner isn't even interested in my orgasm in the first place. (Mr. S one time was so ready not to play anymore that he stopped right in the *middle* of an orgasm. Argh! That is the ultimate torture -- no satisfaction and no ability to do anything about it. But I digress). In this instance, LawBoy had me pinned face-down on the stairs and his fingers deep inside me and he didn't stop. Not when I came the first time, not after, and not when I came the second time. Glorious fireworks :)

Perqs and quirks: I was hanging out with Mr. S the other day and he reported with barely suppressed glee that he got to shock someone in conversation by referring to Mrs. S and me as "his wife and his girlfriend". Now, I am well aware that in this context "girlfriend" lacks romantic meaning and is more a shorthand for "person that I have sex with and my wife knows about it", but I'm pretty sure that is the first time ever that anybody has ever referred to me as a girlfriend. Kind of sad, that, don't you think?

Tonight's music: My Chemical Romance - Teenagers

Take another little piece of my heart . . .

This summer/fall/year is killing me. As each day passes I can feel a little bit of myself fall away and die.

It is not a painless process.

I don't know how to stop it.

Life has turned into a Merlin-esque rewind. At the tender age of 14, I was already in my prime -- brash, intelligent, fearless. Having lived that entire lifetime over again, I am now lazy, sullen, hemmed in by my own insecurities. Every day I shrink a little bit more.

Today another part of me died.

Penetration (Dworkin's Ghost)

So I've had this question for a while and no one's ever had a good answer.

What is it with men and the desire to penetrate?

I really don't get the wiring that says satisfaction = penetration. There's the obvious examples of vaginal and anal sex. But even something has innocuous as kissing is basically just another form of penetration.

I think what I don't get even more is why men don't seem to be bothered by it. Why it doesn't strike them as completely bizarre that their pleasure is depends on being inside another person's body. I certainly don't have this desire to be inside someone else. I don't think any woman does. So why do men?

Small Blessings

It's the little things that count, right?

The other day Mr. S mentioned that he'd like to get together on a more regular basis. Like weekly, he said. Sadly, it's not often that I hear someone wants to spend time with me. I was quite touched by his comment.

Of course, the real world forces of work and Mrs. S will, I'm sure, conspire against us.

Supposedly it's the sentiment that matters. *sigh*

Insults and Offenses

For its anniversary ErosBlog recycled this gem.

Amen.

To Sleep, Perchance To . . . .

It is 3 AM and I find myself looking for every excuse not to go to bed because . . . I don't want to face crawling in alone.

I am, of course, just as alone downstairs. But when the lights go out, I am so much more vulnerable. All the little hurts and jealousies come out to play -- sometimes it feels like I'll suffocate from the infinite vacuum of loneliness. In the darkness I lay there wondering when, or even if, I'll ever have a family again. Or when/if I might ever have a steady relationship. Sometimes all I can do is flail blindly at the hope that someday I'll be a part of the human race. Hope is a uniquely human disease. That's a good sign then that I have some, right? I ache for all the little affirmations and support that everyone else seems to take for granted.

And then it all comes crashing down as I remember why my life is so empty -- that the root of all my troubles is merely myself. I am apparently incapable of developing any relationship deeper than the bestial dependency of my household pets. Were I capable, then my life would be otherwise. QED.

Since the darkness has invaded the light, I might as well invade the darkness. Goodnight.

The Unsexy Sex Post

So - weakened by a spectacularly crappy week/month/year/life - I went out with Mr. S last night. I wish he did not have such a strong effect on me. I wish I could resist his charms. He does not ooze Smooth Player, but Genuine Goodness. It is refreshing and healing and I am completely defenseless against it.

After a good steak dinner (am I the only one who finds red meat an aphrodisiac?), and some even better pseudo-platonic cuddling, we had ourselves a nice little romp in bed. It's funny how the female body works (or doesn't). Sometimes the times when I really, really want sex are when it's most difficult to orgasm. And then there's times like last night, when I was in a dreadful mood and full of stress, and it was easier than it's been in a long time.

I feel an odd mix of sadness and gratitude that Mr. S is the first man who's bothered to learn what pleases me. Not just the kink, but the wheres and hows that make general contact pleasant.

The Cryptic Snark

Real Life Shittiness leaves me wondering how I came to be some kind of Nexus of Evil for the world.

I seem to be dealing with more Truly Evil people right now than most others find in a lifetime. And I'm not talking "gee, he's an ass" kind of badness. I mean a brand of evil that makes this bitch look like a saint.

I think maybe Hell isn't meant to be a punishment but a comfort to the rest of us that yes, bad people do eventually get their comeuppance.

The Vacuum Returns

I am glad for this vacation I've had. Getting out of the Midwest always clears my mind, and it was glorious to be out where I couldn't see a trace of human presense anywhere. Not a road, not a telephone pole or cell tower, not even a jet trail in the sky. But then coming back to my responsibilities was as crushing as Atlas picking up the globe again.

And odd as it is I am glad, too, that I spent a week without talking to Mr. S. As I've said before, he is a dear friend. I do truly enjoy his company. But he and his wife are walking the BDSM path to a degree that I cannot fathom or follow, and for my own selfish reasons I am hurt at their choice to pursue that path.

In part I am merely baffled. Why would you take up a hobby that you can't talk about with most people? It seems as pretentious to me as running around announcing that you're in the CIA -- if you really were CIA, that is the last thing you would tell people. Moreover, what is the constructiveness of such a clandestine hobby? How do you account for your time?

Junior: Dad, what did you and Mom do for fun before I was born?
Mr. S: Well, son, I liked to whip her with a riding crop and tell her what a naughty pony she was, and when I got bored with that I'd set her on fire or electricute her.
Junior: [mental breakdown]

Even if (obviously? hopefully?) no such conversation is in the offing, it just seems awfully duplicitous even to yourself to build your life around something hidden.

For my own hurts, I know it is unreasonable, but there is a jealousy, a forlorn-ness, for which there so no salve. While Mr. S is gabbling on about whatever kink he's just engaged in, I wonder to myself, If I can't do [sex act] , why would anyone bother with me? Why should I even bother *trying* to waste someone's time with a relationship, when I know full well ahead of time that what little I offer won't be enough?

They say the zodiac Leo loves competition. While I am the stereotypical Leo in all other ways, I abhor competition. I am drawn to it, but I hate it and avoid it whenever possible - mostly because it has always been a losing proposition for me. BDSM, vanilla sex, and relationships all feel like competition I can't win.

If only the grocery store stocked spare men between the tampons and the condoms.

Freeeeeeeeeeeeddddoooooommmmm!

Um, yeah. I highly doubt this is what William Wallace was referring to, but . . .

The Spinster is going on vacation! No computer, and therefore no posts for a week or so.

Flakes and Aches

So, Mr. Marine is on my ignore list.

I was this --> <-- close to changing my flight to go see him when he announced that oh-btw he will be out of town the only days I could be in town. I don't know what his deal is, or what he gets out of this now-we're-friends, now-we're-not game he plays. But I'm done. I wash my hands of his asshattery.

About the time I wrote my last post, I was talking with Mr. S about the situation. He advised me not to go out there due to previous asshattery. But then he comes out with this gem: "I'm advising against it because I think it's a bad idea. Don't think that I'm jealous or anything, you can shag whoever you want. I don't care about that."

Ouch.

I certainly wasn't expecting this married man to be suddenly overcome with fits of possessiveness, but in my book light jealousy is an expression of caring. For him to say what he said was disappointing on so many levels. Even in the most casual relationship, I think it's inevitable that you care who your partner is with . . . ultimately it's like you'll be with them too. For him to say it didn't matter to him . . . it's like I am less than casual to him. Ow.

And all the more Ow because what we have isn't exactly casual. I think he treats it more lightly than it is for my "benefit" but I know for sure that Mrs. S is viewing our thing as true polyamory and not just hooking up. So what's with the not caring?

The healthiest thing for me would be to find my own local relationship. But I haven't the foggiest idea how to go about making that happen. I wouldn't even know where to find eligible men in my area, let alone how to attract one of them. *sigh*

Back From The Dead

I got an IM from Mr. Marine before the weekend. It wasn't quite the only one that I've had from him since my last post about him; relative to his previous zero effort he's made a great improvement in communicating regularly, even if it is no more than once every week or two.

In this IM of his, he brought up the notion of my coming to visit him. It just so happens that I am flying out west to see another friend in a few weeks -- I am seriously considering rearranging my travel plans to see him. In his favor is the fact I have yet another friend geographically between him and the first friend that I would like to see and had been feeling somewhat guilty about not including in this trip.

Since he has a record of being flaketastic, I told him if he still wanted after the weekend for me to visit, I would see about making it happen. Well, today I heard from him and he still wants it. I think I will go ahead and see him, but not because I'm desperate to see him. It is a fine excuse to extend my vacation away from the Midwest :)

The Road To Hell . . .

. . . is paved with good intentions.

I'm sorry I haven't posted lately. I haven't had much time for introspection because work has been crazy. I am trying to finish two huge projects before I take my yearly vacation next month. Gaaaah!

Today I was talking with one of the gentlemen I work with, a flamboyantly gay man in his late 50s with a heart of gold. Apparently there is some concern in our little work community over the fact that I don't date. My initial reaction, as yours should be, is that my relationship status is nobody's business. However, these people do genuinely care about my well-being. So Mr. Gay thought he would help my plight by trying to set me up with -- get this -- his handyman.

While I have nothing but the utmost respect for those who do manual labor, I really don't think there is much basis for me to choose one as a life partner. The philosopher-carpenter is a Hollywood creation; in reality the vast majority of these men do not have a life of the mind.

Thus my response to this overture was politely tepid. I hate with a passion the concept (and reality) of dating. It is by its very nature a job interview. What can I bring to the company, what can I offer the relationship. I don't bring anything. I am not interviewing with your company because I care about your bottom line, I am here because I need a job. I am not dating because I care about fulfilling your fantasies or being your dream girl, I am here for the cuddles and the sex and the occasional good conversation.

On one hand, I wish men were not so selfish in their wishlists. (You know, the whole 20 yr old supermodel there to fulfill every fantasy with no expectation of reciprocation thing). On the other hand, I wonder what I do offer, were I ever to be in a room with a man who happens to be the unicorn of both single and under 50. I happen to think I look alright, but the very obvious lack of male attention proves that unfounded. Despite my pretensions of an intellectual mind, there are gaping holes in my knowledge. My conversation does not contain witty repartee or entertaining anecdotes. My hobby-ish interests are diverse, arcane, and solitary. I wonder then, where a man might make a connection.

And yet, I like me just as I am. Why must life give me the option of being who I am or being what a man wants?

Choking . . .

It is a funny thing for someone to hold your life in their hands.

I do not count myself a submissive, and I have no desire to give up control. Having it taken anyway is a sexy thing, but it is not a craving for me. So when Mr. S has his hands around my throat and colors start to fade . . . for my vanilla self it wasn't quite ecstacy, nor satisfaction. There was a sense of peace, odd only for the fact I should be fighting for my life.

The orgasm that resulted from that sex was itself an odd mix of satisfaction but not satiation. It was very, very comforting to hand my care over to another person, but in the end all I wanted was more. (Perhaps not of the choking, but definitely of that feeling).

By that evening I had a freckling of bruises across my cheeks, which indicates to me that we went a bit far. My concern, which I later raised with Mr. S, is that if my blood pressure is high enough to burse capillaries then I am getting too close to aneurysm territory for my comfort. He was infuriatingly nonchalant about it until I made him look it up.

That nonchalance also struck a deeper worry in me. I know that he would never push me past a safe word, but his inclination not to take me seriously 'just because" made me wonder just how much of my interest he's looking after.

Everyone has an agenda, and like E said in a comment there's no doubting Mr. S has one too.

Pretty Eyes

FTN asked an interesting question: "Do you prefer compliments on your kindness, sense of humor, and how you interact with people, over someone telling you that you've got pretty eyes, beautiful legs, or a sweet ass?"

Being starved for attention as I am, any kind of compliment would be dearly appreciated. Although being the fool that I also am I would probably turn into a blubbering mess if a man ever did give me a compliment related to my body. The question brought to mind a moment with Mr. S in which I very nearly did break down, but for all the wrong reasons.

My body has never generated compliments. Despite a well-endowed chest, a pillowy rear just begging for a good smack, wide hips, long legs, and even a decently attractive face, my physical form might as well not exist for all the notice that it gets. The one exception is my eyes. I am forever hearing about my "pretty eyes". Yes, I know that sounds ungrateful. But that is the phrase, every time. These eyes of mine are apparently never captivating, sultry, intelligent, or deep windows into the soul. They are just pretty. That compliment is such a copout, such obvious searching for something -- anything -- nice to say that I have nothing left but derision for it.

Some days ago, I was happily slurping away at Mr. S's cock when he felt the need to bring out this particular chestnut. As soon as it said those words, those hated words, his cock turned to ash in my mouth and my heart broke just a little. It occurred to me in that moment with the full force of Truth that if this man, my friend, my healer, my lover, this man who obviously somehow thinks me attractive, if he cannot find physical beauty . . . then no one else ever will either.

I will never have the words I so long to hear.

Hmmm . . .

I have been mulling over a post about this past weekend with Mr. S. Most of our time was pretty tame, except for one choking episode. When the dust settles a bit, I may actually write that post. Before then, however, I have to work out how I feel about it, and how I feel about his reaction to some of my concerns afterwards.

In the meantime, your Spinster would like (brace yourselves, people) to have some gentle, sensual sex with includes copious amounts of time spent on building her own orgasm. Send your resumes, Gentlemen. All applications will be considered.

Satisfaction

Mrs. S absented herself again this weekend, this time for a legitimate business trip. She chose, for whatever reason, to include her mother since the destination was some kind fo resort. So while she was hanging out with Mom, I was boinking her husband. Woo :)

After a nonstarter attempt at vanilla sex on Friday night, we gave up and went out to see a movie. All I will say is that it was obvious in more than one scene that the makers of The Last Legion had seen Lord Of The Rings.

The sex I will tell you about, Dear Reader, just about killed me. Literally. And it was fantastic.

It started after some lazy cuddling in bed. We were spooning, and his hands began to wander.
His right arm was my pillow, and he bent his elbow to put me into a chokehold. His other hand went between my legs. He pulled me on top of him, my back to his stomach and started to choke me harder and harder as his fingers dug into my pussy. It was ecstacy.


I know that breath play can be a serious thing. If things go wrong, it can cause aneurisms and brain damage. Today my face has freckles from a little bit of bruising, so I know I need to talk to Mr. S about limits. Even though I enjoyed what he did all the way, I don't know that I want to subject my body to that kind of stress.

Girl Watching

john recently pointed out a post from Craigslist, which he was kind enough to save for posterity.

Go read it.

Back now? Ok.

As a card-carrying Modern Feminist my inital reaction reading that post was a fervent "Amen, Sister!" She, and any other woman, should have the right to go about her day without being a sexualized if she chooses.

By the end, though, jealousy overcame my support. Not once have I ever had an experience like any of those. Not once has a man treated me sexually just because of how I look. The hard truth of the matter is that being given no sexuality is just as dehumanizing as being treated only as a sex object. There are indeed moments when I am grateful for my position on the spectrum.

And then there's all the other moments of my life, in which I am very, very, not grateful.

Suspicion

I awoke this morning with my spidey-sense tingling with the notion that Mrs. S is going to cut off my access to Mr. S in the near future. (End of September at the latest).

This would, of course, have nothing to do with the fact that she and I went shopping last night and I just happened to pick up some new frilly things I intend to wear for Mr. S. *snicker*

In talking with her, it really has become apparent that the only thing we still have in common is Mr. S. That makes me sad for what it is gone, but no longer guilty that it might somehow have been my fault.

*whap* post-scripted

One thing I have held back from mentioning in my posts is my deep insecurity over Mr. Smoochy. Looking at his bag of tricks the other night really brought it home to me how little experience I have. And how little I fit into his world. This man, who is used to all manner of kink and perversion, volunteers to spend his free time with me. Why?

The one thing that I am secure about is our friendship. Clothes on, I know that he enjoys my company as I enjoy his. Clothes off, I wonder. I know our sex isn't bad for him, not by any means. If it were, he wouldn't have been coming back for more. But why does he come to me instead of the girl who wants to be set on fire? Or the one who (reportedly) can come from her neck being held like a kitten's? Or the one who likes to be paddled until her skin bleeds?

I have no sex tricks up my sleeve. I have no talent for other peoples' orgasms. I can barely manage my own, and often fail at that. I am not the world's best blowjob, or tightest pussy, or kinkiest painslut. What makes what I have to offer better than that? That which he has had before, that which he can still have.

*whap*

Last night I had an amazing session with Mr. Smoochy. There were some scary, hurtful parts to be sure (but not the parts that you think), but there were also lustful parts, and there were some loving parts.

Mrs. Smoochy absented herself from town rather unexpectedly, leaving Mr. Smoochy without plans and me therefore rescued from an evening of obsessively checking my favorite blogs for updates and perhaps writing here some pathetic missive on loneliness.

He brought down some movies, and we snuggled on the couch. I found in unbearably cute that in the moments he was bored with the movie he would start to fondle me. When the action picked up again, he would stop.

When the movie was over, and after some playful necking, he said he wanted to show me the things in his play bag. This has been kind of a touchy issue for me in the past. As I've mentioned before, I've known for sometime that both he and his wife are into BDSM. I suppose it was to protect myself, but I've viewed their interest as more tourism than anything else. I was somewhat distressed last night to have my nose rubbed in the fact I was wrong.

Some of what he pulled out was fairly mainstream: there were the requisite floggers and restraints, a leather hand for spanking, a good bit of rope. I was a little nonplussed that he had not one (or two) Wartenburg wheels, but six. In their own leather carrying case. But I was most upset when he pulled out a violet wand and started talking about electro-fire-knife play. It really shouldn't surprise me that a geek like him would be most attracted to the techno-chemical parts of his perversion, but it does. He is such a cautious person, it bothers me to think that he's convinced himself that things couldn't go disasterously wrong. (And before you go posting that all kink is ok and lots of people do this, let me remind you that lots of people jump off of bridges too. That doesn't make it ok.) I was a little upset also that he dismissed my concerns as if I were a mouth-breather, but eventually we more-or-less agreed to disagree about this and he put his toys away.

I know I've said it before, but I will say it again. Mr. Smoochy has the most amazing hands. As he laid out his toys, he stood across the table from me and because of the peculiar geometry of the ceiling light, the width of the table, and my own height, all I could see were his hands. I could not see his face. Or even most of his body. It was just his hands, these marvelously large, strong, capable hands and his voice. Mr. Smoochy caught me mesmerized; I didn't dare tell him it was the hands and not the toys. He has enough power over me as it is.

I won't bore you with the more vanilla details of our encounter. I will tell you, though, that Mr. Smoochy used his leather belt on me. And I loved it.

He first used it as a choker, tight around my throat as he pushed his cock into my mouth. Later he took it off and used it as a whip. I do not count myself a true submissive (or a pain slut, as I am the world's biggest wuss), and I don't generally indulge in spanking fantasies. But kneeling before this Greek god of a man, his cock in my mouth (yum!), looking up over the expanse of his sexy-furry torso, and seeing the gleam in his eye as he was about to come down on me with his belt . . . that was hotness.

While he was striking me, the thought ambled through my head that I would like sometime to be the one doing the striking. But not to Mr. Smoochy. I am glad that he does not have a submissive bone in his body . . . I don't think would adore him as much as I do. I think, though, that I would like to give back to the world some of my aggression.

For all the wrong reasons.

Sucking Cock

Today over lunch I gave Mr. Smoochy a blowjob. Just because it pleased me to do so.

It is a funny thing, having a penis in your mouth. Velvety soft, sometimes like jello, sometimes like a rock, masculine muskiness, the fur border. Filling, thrusting, squirting.

I have learned to enjoy cock in my mouth, but this was not always so. Early in my sexual miseducation I acquired a distaste for blowjobs, and a change of opinion was long in the coming.*

Always overthinking things as I am wont to do, I sometimes get myself quite hung up on the sexual politics and power dynamics of cock sucking. Down on my knees, in front of a man, I sometimes feel a moment of panic. What am I doing here? There is no dignity in this. Even though I do it willingly, gladly even, I still struggle with the submission of the act. The only time I can truly claim the power of it for myself is when a man is bound before me. Then it is *my* deed.

Sucking cock is an art, and really there ought to be classes that teach it. I remember as early as 7th grade the sex ed teachers having us girls practice how to put condoms on cucumbers and bananas (with, of course, the inevitable hilarity). Why is there not included with that even the most basic blowjob primer? (Let me apologize here to Number One and the other unfortunate gentlemen who underwent my ministrations before I was in possession of a clue). Why do girls have to learn technique from porn or from guys whose only experience is porn?

I wish, I wish, I wish that mainstream porn was not saturated with the notion of females as cum receptacles. Especially the mouth. I think that to take a man into your mouth and lick him, suck him, caress him with your tongue, this is a fundamentally loving thing to do. Even in the most base and primal of encounters. Even when the man is a stranger. This essential nurturing is what makes blowjobs so fundamentally feminine, and that is fine. But it makes me very sad to see that goodness perverted into something degrading.

I enjoy, for a variety of reasons, sucking off Mr. Smoochy more than any other man I've been with. He responds in gratifying ways to my touch. He tastes good. He is perfectly sized for me -- not so long that I gag, not so thick that my jaw muscles cramp. Fills my mouth, fills my pussy.

Tomorrow, I might just suck his cock again.

* All puns intended, of course.

To Spinst or Not To Spinst, That Is The Question . . .

Because of the developments outlined in yesterday's post I have considered hanging up my title of Invisible Spinster. It is, afterall, difficult to make the case that I am either invisible or a spinster if there is a ready man in my life to have sex with.

That is, I was considering it until today. See, occasionally part of my job involves going to peoples' houses and negotiating until there is a deal. (Yes, that's purposely vague). When my father was alive, he and I were in business together and my Marla Hooch imitation actually helped him close the deal. (That was a racket in and of itself, and worthy of it's own post another time). On my own, though, I am forever battling the fact that people, especially men, don't want to deal with women who don't look Hollywood beautiful. Today was one of those days. I went to this farmer's house out in the boonies and whomever he thought was going to show up when he called my store, by the look on his face I obviously wasn't it. It was plain to me that no matter what I did, he would never close the deal with me. Two hours and a lotta gas wasted. *sigh*

I don't understand this attitude. Not one bit. I am not the Avon Lady, come to sell you beauty yet failing at it myself. I am not selling a lifestyle. Hell, I am not even in sales. What I do gives people money. My business should not depend one whit upon how I look . . . and yet, deals are affected time and again. Some of it, I think, is my relative youth -- most of the people I deal with are Baby Boomer and older. But a lot of it, the majority, is this Cloak of Invisibility with the 3+ Ugliness embroidery. Because if you're not beautiful, you must be ugly.

Or something.

Whoosh . . .

That breeze you're feeling? That's a flock of pigs winging past.

Apparently Mrs. Smoochy has had a brain transplant and I am now officially on The List.

I am not sure what to make of this turn of events. She made a rather public announcement of this in her LiveJournal, in a "not-naming-names" sort of way even though anyone who knows her will know who's who. Mr. Smoochy and I are both rather intrigued by this post, as it outlines reasoning somewhat different from what she has said to either of us. Still, I am pleased at her change of heart.

Everything from here on out is completely new territory for me. This is the first time I have ever been pursued. It is the first time a friendship has morphed into a sexual relationship, and also the first time a sexual relationship has included friendship. With the (possible) exception of Number One, none of my bedmates have even pretended to be my friend. This is the first time I have knowingly shared a man with another woman, and certainly the first time I've been with a married man.

This will be interesting.

Our Precious

Cold be heart and hand and bone,
Cold be travellers far from home.
They do not see what lies ahead,
When sun has failed and moon is dead.

I have another confession for you . . . I have naughty thoughts about Gollum.

Yes, he is an ugly little worm. Part of the attraction is, I know, some of that big-eyes-small-head thing that makes most baby critters cute. However, I think Gollum the person is deeply misunderstood and really quite a charming character.

He is intelligent, clever, loyal . . . a broken soul waiting to be healed. He is childlike in his naivete of the world, and childish in his emotional displays. I actually envy his ability to feel his emotions 100% -- be it joy, pain, hunger or anger, Gollum feels it with no filter. I can only aspire to such completeness of feeling.

He is also a repulsive head to be pulled to my breast, grabbing hands to paw my body. I think, in a way, he is Everyman. Appealing, and yet not. There for you, and yet not. Desired and yet reviled.

And I think he would fuck like a horny little jackrabbit.

Truth

Bitchy says,

"Frustrated male desire ought to have the threat of violence mixed in there if it is real."

So true.

Boys can be so stooopid!

Mr. Marine IM'd me out of the blue yesterday morning. I have no idea why. We've had one txt conversation and one IM conversation since he left in June. So he wanted to talk and was really quite charming about it . . . despite acting as though our last conversation had actually been recent.

Eventually this false buddy-buddy tone got on my nerves ... I called him on it, saying real friends don't disappear for a month, and ... he blew up at me. Mr. I'm-A-Nice-Guy-I-Never-Lose-My-Temper had himself a tantrum over how clingy I've been (wtf?), and after a good bit of ranting finished with: "and what effort have you put into this? I'm the one who cleared my schedule to see you, I'm the one who flew out there. Where have you flown?"

*sigh* In a way, Doofus has a point. He did put forth a significant amount of effort and resources ($$) to come see me. On the other hand, Doofus is a doofus and also AWOL from my life for the last month. I think I have a legitimate point in that true friendship is not formed on five minutes a month.

So after all this Mr. Marine logged off in a huff. I have no idea whether or not I'll hear from him, or when it might be. And you know what? For once that's ok with me. I am vaguely annoyed that he got sex from me out of this deal, but I really don't need or want him in my life.

"Boys can be so stooopid!" -- Mrs. Smoochy

Happy Birthday To Me! (Director's Cut)

Or: "When The Cat's Away, The Mice Will Play"

My other, happy to-be-me, bestest-birthday-present ever was . . . Mr. Smoochy.

Yes, that's right. Birthday sex for the Spinster.

Dear Reader, you might be wondering now just how such a thing came to be, given that Mrs. Smoochy has pasted her own photo into the dictionary right next to psycho hose beast. Well, see, it just so happens that she has been gone all week to a pagan fuckfest in the boonies and left poor Mr. Smoochy all by his lonesome. She must have been having a Very Good Time, because she made a phone call home on Sunday or Monday and basically released him for the week to play with whomever he wished, apparently including those of us not in The List. (For the record, I am not altogether convinced that Mrs. Smoochy's permissions were meant to include myself. Right or wrong, however, Mr. Smoochy interpreted their conversation that way, and that is good enough for me.)

Immediately after this miracle conversation, Mr. Smoochy called me up and we discussed the whole situation in depth. He struggled endearingly with assuming Full Speed Ahead and remembering that I too have some say in the matter. It was one of those all-night, intimate, naked-in-our-own-beds phone calls that make friendships with the opposite sex so satisfying.

Mr. Smoochy came over late Wednesday afternoon. We hung out while dinner cooked (roast lamb, steamed asparagus, and french bread). I usually dislike cooking intensely; it is a lot of work for little reward. However, I do so love to cook for Mr. Smoochy -- I find a very primal satisfaction in watching him eat food that I have prepared. For dessert, he had made a Black Forest Torte that was out of this world.

After dinner we put in a movie and snuggled on the couch, although truth be told, we paid very little attention to the movie. It wasn't long before he began to nibble my ears, and with my first moan there was no turning back. On the couch in the dark, his expert touch primed my body thoroughly. His tongue caressed the back of my neck while one of his big, strong hands held my throat; his other hand roamed my body until it found its way down to my wet pussy. Starting lightly, he teased and tortured my clit (his other hand choking off my moans) until I came in his arms.

After a short cuddle, we adjurned to my bedroom for reasons of space and comfort. Once there I was happy to fill my mouth with his cock. I have not always been the most enthusiastic fellationist . . . but this man, this cock, I couldn't get enough. I loved feeling him get hard against my tongue. I loved looking up at him, straight in the eye with my mouth filled with him. And I sucked him greedily until he filled my mouth with cum. My god, did it taste good. I could have that man in my mouth forever.

He floated down from his orgasm, then went to work again on my pussy. Flicking, tickling, rubbing, fucking -- his hands were magic. I reached for his cock and stroked him as he stroked me. Occasionally he would pause and swat my ass. Sadist that he is, my yelps would make him harder. Eventually he reached for a condom and put it on. First we fucked doggy-style, but when he wasn't getting the reaction he wanted from me he asked if I would be on top. We switched positions, and Oh My God.

I don't always enjoy being on top, but this time was spectacular. I have often had trouble providing a pace that can get a guy off -- it was completely gratifying that I was able to get Mr. Smoochy off this way. It also just so happens that we came at the same time, which was a first for me in any position with any partner.

Sex with Mr. Smoochy was completely different from sex I've had with anyone else. For one thing, I have never been friends with any of my previous partners. Because we've had over a year of sexual communication there was none of the blind fumbling and bad assumptions that some men bring to bed. He mostly already knew my body, that that made things so much better. And trusting him as much as I do, I was able to relax and enjoy myself more than I have with anyone else.

I would definitely have sex with this man again. I think (hope) that he would return to my bed, if given the chance. Mrs. Smoochy returns home tomorrow; I have no idea what that will bring. He may opt not to tell her outright what he's been up to. He may tell her, and she may be ok with it. Or she might not. He and I both agreed to approach this as a one-time-only deal.

But I sincerely hope that it is not.

Happy Birthday To Me!

Yesterday was my birthday.

This auspicious day has historically be spent in bed, mostly dozing, and emphatically denying that another year of my life has been wasted.

This year was different. This year I got two of the best birthday presents ever!

My beloved Firebird has been irritable and distant for months -- it's been spending more and more time in my mechanic's garage and I think it's been having a torrid affair with the 1960-something Olds 442 they keep on the lot. So I took it to a dealership and traded it in for a truck. A big, growling Dodge Ram. Happy Birthday to me :)

My other birthday present was, if possible, even better. But you'll just have to wait until I write up a proper post before you find out :)

I love this post from bad influence girl:

On Droughts and Fog

I abhor the flash-flood nature of my (love)life.

Dotty has disappeared into the ether. I haven't heard from him since right around the 4th when he suggested we go out.

GH and I managed to go out, but I haven't had so much as an IM from him in the last week.

I decided earlier this week to take the initiative and invite Jackson out. It should be no surprise to you that he completely blew me off with a litany of why he wouldn't have time to get together. This person was coming to town, he had to meet with that person, he had his son one night, he was going somewhere the other night ... yadda yadda. I don't begrudge anyone a busy life, but I firmly believe that people make time for the things they want. As he didn't even bother to suggest when he could meet, it is apparent that Jackson is not all that interested. I will ask again in a few days just in case he had a flaky moment, but my money's on the answer being the same.

I sent an IM to Mr. Marine last Monday, after not hearing from him since the day I dropped him off at the airport. He waited until I was offline again to respond, and he gave me a load of ultra-lame hooey about how he'd been sick since he'd returned home, and had been going to bed every night right after work. WTF? No one is that sick for an entire month. I am officially writing him off.

What is so very wrong with me that no one is interested? If I had a clue, I would fix the problem.

Love/Hate

As you may have noticed, I follow a number of kinky and alternasex blogs, particularly those about femdom. I myself have no real desire to dominate, although I will admit to the occasional sadistic indulgence. Mostly I follow these writers because I enjoy their incisiveness and wicked wit.

One of my favorites for a good while now has been Bitchy Jones. She has made quite a splash in the sexverse for her vocal complaints about the current state of femdom, and rightly so as there is much to complain about. I am very much onboard with her for posts like this and this, although she did rather lose me with her series "Piss, Blood, Rape, Death". But that's not actually what I want to write about.

I want to write about her latest post. I am all kinds of disappointed that she took the beauty-is-worth-and-power paradigm, which is the central dysfunction between the sexes, and co-opted it for her own whining. Bitchy is right that beauty-desire is a passive thing and not at all powerful itself. But if her flavor of dominance is that she takes what she wants instead of submission being a gift to her, then why not seize her own sexuality? Why must it be so affected by what other people thinking/doing/wearing?

I think it is unfair of Bitchy to condemn those who fantasize about beautiful people. When I imagine (or engage in) submission, it is not to the ugliest man I can find. It is to a handsome man with a big cock. Does that disenfranchise the ugly men with little dicks? Probably. But it's my fucking fantasy. So why does Bitchy take it so fucking personally that submissive men fantasize about a beautiful Domme? It sounds like sour apples.

Moreover, Bitchy's agitation is all the more baffling to me because she does not seem to be lacking for sex partners. In addition to other men, she can indulge herself to her heart's twisted content with Pan. Some of us don't have a single playmate. Some of us are not allowed any sexuality at all.

Talk about the ultimate disenfranchisement.

More Than Meets The Eye

So, I saw Transformers tonight with GH (who flakily showed up at the last second). What an awesome summertime movie! Despite its obligatory two-dimensional characterizations, it was a LOT of fun.

Now, you might expect someone like the Spinster to prefer Jane Austen adaptations and the ilk. Jackson even called us conservative the other day *sniff*. But never fear! There is more to the Spinster than meets the eye. Heh. The Spinster's ingredients for the perfect movie: 1) hot lead actors, 2) car chases, 3) explosions.

I think we have come, Dear Readers, to a moment of confession. My favorite character was not Captain Lennox (played by purty Josh Duhamel), or funny Sam (played by future superstar Shia LaBeouf). Nor was it the endearing Bumblebee or brave Optimus Prime.


It was Ironside. See, I have this thing for trucks. Big trucks. Especially big, black trucks. I don't recall ever *not* feeling this way about trucks . . . it's practically a fetish. So everytime Ironside came on the screen in truck form, pervert that I am, I got a little wetter.

Jackson has a big, black, diesel Silverado. I should call him >:)

Of Course

*grumble*

Of course this week has not even remotely lived up to expectations.

Jackson claims to have developed a headcold and can't see me for at least a week. A perfectly reasonable excuse, you might say. Except I've heard this one before from guys and on at least two occasions it was proven bullshit.

Today is Thursday (duh), but I still haven't heard from Dotty about finalizing our plans for tomorrow. My money's on not hearing from him until the middle of next week, and then he'll be all "Where were you? I thought we were going to get together last Friday." This, too, is a game I've seen before. I could contact him, yes, but I've gone and boneheadedly lost his phone number and I've already tried to get him by IM.

GH is being a flake. After going out of his way to make a date, he has changed the time twice and asked if he could bring his bandmates along. All while maintaining that his interest is more than platonic. WTF?

One of Us

http://www.salon.com/mwt/col/tenn/2007/01/23/excellence_fatigue/index.html

This woman is one of us. Maybe she's as pretty as she claims, maybe she's not. But for whatever reason, men are not pursuing her.

When It Rains, It Pours

After a dry spell consisting of, oh, let's say MY WHOLE LIFE, things are suddenly interesting. Yes, your very own Invisible Spinster has managed to get three dates with three different guys.

Last night was the first one, and it went swimmingly. He is intelligent, charming, funny, successful in his profession, and definitely someone I would like to get to know better. I will call him . . . Jackson.

Number two is a character I've chatted with online for a while now. He is educated, witty, and what we have isn't chemistry, it's passion. I can tell already that sex with him would be an intense experience, whether it's the melding of two souls or flat out fucking. Talking with him can be intoxicating, but when we disagree . . . oh boy, watch out! The sparks sure fly. In theory we are set for Friday night. He thinks it's some sort of omen, us meeting for the first time on Friday the 13th. For this reason I will call him Dotty.

Behind door number three is a PhD candidate. I am currently the least interested in him because I just don't think we have the chemistry. Although intelligent, we don't have a whole lot in common. Heaven only knows what he sees in me; I don't sense that he's genuinely interested, only that I'm caught up in some sort of cynical play-the-odds game on his part. I agreed to go out with him because I need the practice. I will nickname him Guitar Hero, GH for short, because (drumroll please) . . . he plays the guitar.

All three of these gentlemen I found online, which seems to me a mixed blessing. I am pleased that someone is showing an interest in me, but I am disappointed that I remain invisible in my daily life. Nevertheless, I am working to concentrate on the positive as much as possible. I will keep you posted!

[EDIT: Just after publishing this post, Jackson sent a txt message saying what a good time he had last night and that we will have to get together again soon. Woohoo!]

Trans-Siberian Vibrations

Classical music was the original rock n' roll -- some of it was never meant to be played at a reasonable volume:

Christmas Eve Sarajevo

1812 Overture

Non Nobis Domine (from Henry V soundtrack)

Beethoven's 9th Symphony, 4th Movement

Hall of the Mountain King

Wizards in Winter

Paranoia

I collect articles about the Otherworld. The Other world of the CIA, of spies and back room deals.

Black sites:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/11/01/AR2005110101644.html

Ted Rall, Afghanistan
http://www.citypaper.net/pipeline/

Undercurrents

Sorry folks for the off-topic post today. Instead, we'll be talking world politics. Not the goofy camera-ready crap on Capitol Hill, but the real deal.

I came across this article (reg req) in the New York Times recently and it sent shivers up my spine. For those of you too lazy to follow the link, it is a lengthy article about Russia's forced nationalization of the world's largest nickel producer. This is scary when you put it context. Putin's goverment pushed Yukos Oil out of business a few years ago and has since forced the sale of any number of "strategic assets" to the goverment and its friends. Moreover, these assets are on a foreign buying spree.

I am a capitalist through and through (Ayn Rand, anyone?), but events like these unsettle me on an even deeper level. This growing list of foreign-owned strategic assets and commodity companies is a fatal cancer for America's economy. It is also, and perhaps more worryingly, the weakening of the foundation of our political power on the world stage. I happen to think President Bush has done some irreparable damage to our economy and reputation, but I also think this pales in comparison to the threat that we are up against with the balance of "commodity power" lurching as it is, away from American shores.

Gas and oil are the commodities everyone worries about, but there is also outsourced food production as more of our land is lost to urban sprawl, raw metals and materials, even technical know-how. The brouhaha over the Dubai Ports World contract is part of this. In its own way, the use of private military companies (mercenaries) by the U.S. military is part of this.

How are we to remain independent if we do not control our essential commodities?

The scariest part of all is that there is absolutely nothing that you and I can do about it. Shopping at the "right" store and buying the "right" goods can't fix it. Electing the "right" politician(s) can't fix it. Invading the "right" country can't fix it.

The Eat Me Beat Me Lady

There is nothing quite so effective at making one feel completely inadequate as reading sex bloggers. Tales of sexual conquests and fuckfests. Orgasm smorgasbords and skillful lovers.

I want my share.

Dear Universe, bring me the man who will fuck me senseless. A man who eats pussy the way *I* want it, not the way he saw in some porn flick. In no particular order I want to be fucked, hit, eaten, beaten, tied up, tied down, choked, teased, given sweet release, and then fucked some more.

I am not horny. I am indignant that the universe has denied me.

Sometimes . . .

Sometimes the frustration is just too much . . .

Broken

The other day I stumbled upon this blog and it made me very sad for myself. Occasionally that happens, when I come across somebody whose beauty of the soul is so much deeper and purer than mine could ever be.

Sexeteria had a post a good while back that was tangentially about bloggers and their sex lives. I read that and it, too, made me sad for myself because I don't have a sex life. Well, technically I have one, as I seem to manage to get laid once a year (sometimes even twice!). But if my sex life had a visual representation, it would be the despondent, blue-filtered, gothic of a Whistler painting. It certainly would not be the glorious uber-Technicolor of real life.

Where are the orgasms and the man who actually lusts over me? The man who doesn't stop precisely because I'm actually enjoying his ministrations. The man who treats me like a woman, instead of a body.

I think and I think and I think about all these things. I think about the great sex I've never had, and the all-too-mediocre sex I have had. I think of other people having healthy relationships, and the poison relationships that I know are out there, of the ups and the downs and all the things that make up life. Round and round in my head, I think about these things. And I think about myself and the complete absence of all those things, and all I can come up with is that I must be broken. Broken and nonfunctional, not to have experienced so much of what it's like to be human.

To make it through the day with all of its petty insults, I tell myself that I am better off with things how they are now. I will probably never know the bliss of having my affections reciprocated, but I will also never have the torture rack of not knowing where I stand. Sometimes, when I feel I actually could put forth the effort to change things, I don't even know where to begin. How do I explain my past so that it's not actively repulsive to a normally functioning person?

I have of late considered putting a request out on Craigslist, but that path could easily go so very, very, wrong. I do not need the off-hand rejection based on a photo. I do not need another sexual encounter that is little more than a man masturbating using my body instead of his hand. I do not need the rejection and humiliation of fucking a man and then being told it did nothing for him. I do not need to be as close to someone as two people can physically get and still feel completely alone.

And yet, what else can I do?

Ugly People

http://blog.newsweek.com/blogs/labnotes/archive/2007/06/27/why-doesn-t-evolution-get-rid-of-ugly-people.aspx

Captain Jack Sparrow's Philosophical Gems

The only rules that really matter are these: what a man can do and what a man can't do.

We must fight, to run away!

Why fight when you can negotiate?

If you were waiting for the opportune moment, that was it.

It's the honest ones you need to watch out for, because you never know when they're going to do something incredibly... stupid.

Rum is good.

They done what's right by them. Can't expect more than that.

Not all treasure is silver and gold, mate.

Drink up, me hearties, yo ho!

Close your eyes and pretend it's all a bad dream. That's how I get by.

Now... bring me that horizon.

Complications arose, ensued, were overcome.

Why is the rum gone?

Do you have the courage and fortitude to follow orders and stay true in the face of danger and almost certain death?

If we don't have the key, we can't open whatever we dont' have that it unlocks. So what purpose would be served in finding whatever need be unlocked, which we don't have, without first having found the key what unlocks it?

If you choose to lock your heart away you'll lose her for certain.

Cruel is a matter of perspective.

My first and only love is the sea.

The world's still the same - there's just less in it.

Savvy?

Take what you can, give nothing back.

Mr. Smoochy Part II

The remainder of my friendship with Mr. Smoochy has turned into something more prosaic.

Last fall Mrs. Smoochy and I had gone jogging near daily in the park until she abruptly quit, ostensibly due to the weather. Now, I love jogging. It's good exercise and it keeps me from slipping into clinical depression. This winter was total hell, what with not jogging and it being my first Christmas without my father. In the spring, I was desperate to start again and invited Mrs. Smoochy to come. She told me on no uncertain terms that she hated jogging and wasn't going to do it any more. So, I turned to Mr. Smoochy and he agreed to go.

At this point Mrs. Smoochy, a normally pleasant and easy-going woman, turned into a psycho hose beast on steroids. First we tried jogging in the morning before work -- no, that wouldn't do for her because mornings were her time to snuggle with her husband. Then we tried a few days jogging after work -- but, alas, that apparently cut into her quality time with her husband. We settled on jogging in the morning right after she had gone to work. She wasn't happy about it, but she couldn't immediately think of any way to object. However, object she did. Over a month long period I got reports from Mr. Smoochy about how she was increasingly moody and nasty to him, culminating in her apparently making a series of statements to him about how she couldn't trust him anymore, how she didn't know when he was telling the truth, how she felt he and I were too intimate of friends, and how she felt left out of her own marriage.

This, over jogging in a public park.

After a long angst-filled conversation, Mr. Smoochy and I decided that even though she was basically asking for his balls on a platter he would give up jogging with me in order to preserve his marriage.

As his friend, I completely support his decision. It's ridiculous to put another woman before your wife. On my own behalf, though, I am deeply angry. I am angry at Mrs. Smoochy for resenting my fleeting pleasure. I am angry that she would put her unfounded insecurities before the needs of her friend. I am angry that she would dare meddle with any of my friendships. And, irrational as it may be, there is also part of me that is hurt I wasn't picked.

I have barely spoken to either of them this month. I have precious little desire to maintain a friendship with Mrs. Smoochy, but giving her a piece of my mind is pretty much the permanent end of any hope of seeing Mr. Smoochy. And of course he himself has me so bollocksed up inside that I can't figure out what the hell I want.

Despite all this he is a dear friend and I miss him terribly. Yet any contact at all is simply another reminder of the friendship we can no longer have. What to do?

For now I shall stay my course and avoid contact until forced to do otherwise. But I will always keep in my heart his special touch, the touch that has moved me like no other.

Pirated Youth

I came home today and turned on the TV to keep my parrot company. What do you know was on, but Pirates of Penzance with Kevin Kline?

Whatever my other plans, they were immediately forgotten. I was three years old when this film was released, and it was literally the only VHS my parents ever bought. Having watched it easily a thousand times before the age of five it left an indelible mark upon my all-too-impressionable psyche.

Oh, where to begin? There is the obvious weakness for all things piratical. Pirate boots? Check. Billowy poet's shirts? Check. Men in tights? Check. Captain's coats? Check. There is also my weakness for groups of men singing together. Jodies? Yep. Gilbert & Sullivan choruses? Yep. Red Army Choir? Yep. Soccer chants? Yep.

But that is not all. No, no, no. Kevin Kline's Pirate King affected little me in ways that probably weren't legal. Remember what I said about Commander Riker? Um, yeah. That pales in comparison. Take any heart? Take mine! It is purely his fault that I have prediliction for sweater-chested men with intelligence and a taste for absurdity. And poofy guy-hair. To this day, the archetypal manly-man in my historically based masturbatory fantasies is the Pirate King.

There is the Pirate King kidnapper version, and I the fair maiden. Nevermind that I get seasick when faced with any body of water larger than a bathtub. There is the Pirate King and his woman equal, vanquishing foes together. There is the Pirate King and the bounty hunter who hunts him ruthlessly. (Perhaps I should write these out and make myself a career as a romance writer). And there is, naughty of naughties, the Pirate King and his female orphan ward. Stop! I think I see where we are getting confused. When you say "orphan", do you mean a person who has lost his parents, or "often" frequently? I am an orphan frequently. Yes, yes, I am.

Tellingly, I never identified with simpering Mabel but rather even at that young age with Louise Gold's brassy Edith. I think she may have been my first positive female role model. She was not pretty -- and she knew it -- but that didn't leave her so desperate that she'd take anyone's crap. Funny how I grew up to be just like her.

Now where's my Pirate King?

Come, friends, who plough the sea!
Truce to navigation
Take another station
Let's vary pirac-y
With a little burglar-y!

Mr. Smoochy Part II - Private

I tell myself that Mr. Smoochy loves his wife, that we would be fundamentally mismatched despite our friendship, that it wouldn't last. I can honestly say that I am not in love with Mr. Smoochy.

I am in love with his touch.

His kisses, his hands, his knowing touch. These are the reasons women crave men.

I have never known a touch like his. I may never know another.

__

The remainder of my friendship with Mr. Smoochy has turned into something more prosaic.

Mr. Smoochy Part I

I am not yet very good at this blogging thing. My voice here still resonates with Dear Diary when it should communicate a certain urbane angst at the state of my personal relations. Please bear with me, Gentle Reader, as I find myself in these pages.

Tonight I have some ranting to do over Mr. Smoochy.

Mr. Smoochy is a dear friend of mine, my confidante, my healer, a white knight who came riding out of the fog to rescue me after my father died. He lost his mother some years ago and was able to lead me, a Virgil to my Dante, through the mists of my grief. Our friendship goes well beyond the bonds of loss, although as between any two people sometimes there are chasms of separation as deep as the universe. As it happens this journey we started, he and I, began in the months leading up to his wedding to Mrs. Smoochy.

My relationship with her has been a fraught one, and although so far covering over half my life, it has been neither constant nor enjoyable. She, and with her, He, came whooshing into my life with the news of my father's death in order to Be There for me. Mrs. Smoochy fell down on that job so completely that it's not even funny. To this day she expects my gratitude for the hours she "didn't have to give" me.

Here are a few random glimpses into the personalities of Mr. and Mrs. Smoochy: they are into BDSM fairly heavily (he the D, she the s), she is an exhibitionist but hasn't fully actualized it, they have an open marriage (mostly so she can cat around), she is overweight and sometimes insecure, he is a tall and handsome ex-Marine, she prefers her friends both gregarious and effortless.

When Mr. Smoochy and I started our friendship, Mrs. Smoochy was happy as most women are that her friend and her husband-to-be got along well. At an inappropriately early juncture, however, she announced that the priviledges of their open relationship did not (and would not) include me. Fine. Both Mr. Smoochy and I were a little puzzled at this, but accepted it with grace. Since we were both online at work, we spent many hours chatting about this and that, much probably falling under the NSFW label. When Mrs. Smoochy went off to East Coast City to cat with another man, and again when she had a bona-fide business trip, or when she went hither and thither, Mr. Smoochy would come and spend movie-cuddle time with me on the couch. Those were some of the best hours of my life, just talking with him in the dark with his strong arms around me. For those all-too-brief moments the world was lifted from my shoulders.

One of Mr. Smoochy's favorite topics is sex. My initial laconism on the topic amused and goaded him further. Sometimes he would plumb the depths of my spinsterhood: Have you done This? Have you done That? Other times he would rush at me with hypotheticals: How would it feel if I touched you Here? Or There?

It wasn't long before he began to discover my weaknesses. My skin, so often untouched, is more sensitive than you can imagine. My neck, particularly below the ear, when plied with kisses and caresses can bring me to orgasm. My flirtation with breath play. My lust for the man strong enough to manhandle my indelicate self.

Mr. Smoochy found and exploited them all, sitting in the dark on the couch. Yet we held true to The Rules decreed in embarassing detail by Mrs. Smoochy. We did not kiss, he did not touch me anywhere he hadn't already in front of his wife, I did not touch him, and although I could not say No I did not say Yes.

Gentle Reader, I have lied to you. We did kiss. On two separate nights, drunk only on our own lust. We did know better. These kisses, they were electric, sizzling kisses.

Exactly the soul-scorching kisses Mrs. Smoochy feared we would have.