I’ve decided not to force myself to forget or down play what I still feel for you. Because I know I can’t. It would take forever. I will find a way to mend myself but it’ll take a while. A long while.

I thought when it was finally over that I simply move on. Or I was expecting myself to at least feel better or relieved about this. For I really tried. Everyone who has eyes can see that.  You deserved better. I know he treated you far better.

It seems that it’s harder than I thought.  This week 5 different dreams related to you. Five. I’m not joking. I can literally remember every one of them. And every one of them is about you trying to get rid of me. I woke up in tears at 11am, totally unable to believe myself. If only I could fix this.

I hardly have any energy left.

I’m really broken.

I can not hide from your memory or avoid it. In fact I still very much want to see you. Just see you. Nothing else.

I only want you.

I still don’t have any idea what in the hell this is either!!

I came here today to delete it.

I have changed my mind.  4 the moment.

I did notice that almost ALL of the dates on here are wrong.  I stopped talking to this man in early 2007.  February or March.  So, wordpress has seriously fucked something up.  I just felt it VERY necessary to point out the wrong dates listed throughout this entire blog.   Hopefully I will b able to delete the history off of my computer  good enough that he doesn’t come across it.

Yes, my Fella knew about this part of my life, but He certainly didn’t/doesn’t approve of it.

***

For years i had only fantasized about being restrained and blindfolded. i’d always had this thing about having to see what was happening. For once I just wanted to know what it would be like to ‘have’ to feel instead. To be able to experience the anticipation of not knowing what was going to happen next. That was my ultimate fantasy.

So … when He took me to this beautiful cabin with breath taking scenery and proceeded to fulfill that fantasy – it was pure heaven. i suppose now would be a good time to mention – that i never came out and told Him what my fantasy was. He just did everything so perfectly – when He pulled out the blindfold, He seemed quite pleasantly surprised that i wanted what He was presenting to me. (The chance to completely trust and surrender unto Him.)

He made me feel sensations i’d only dreamt of and some i had no idea i wanted (let alone needed or desired). The most amazing feeling of freedom swept over me. i had no choice but to experience – and the experience was out of this world – literally.

***

As it turns out, what’s been bothering me is that after it was over i started to think that something was wrong with me. i got the feeling that i had upset Him – because i went into ‘sub-space’ so easily and (as He tells me) so quickly. Plus – i really couldn’t answer His questions when we talked about it. It was so hard to explain that i had never experienced that before. (i’m pretty sure He thought S/m was something i was already familiar with – and just didn’t want to tell Him.) It was really hard to gather rational thoughts.

We hadn’t been together long enough for my comfort and trust level to have reached that point. So … as this continued to bother me more and more, i tried to figure out just why it was so easy for me to surrender to Him.

I now realize – that for absolutely no logical/intelligent reason – I felt comfortable and safe beyond measure with Him. At that moment I belonged to Him – whether I liked it or not – whether it was logical or not – whether I understood it or not – it didn’t matter. I’d never felt so safe and protected in my life as I did at that very moment of ‘take off’. I knew I didn’t want to be without this Man. This Man that seemed to know me so well that He could fulfill my deepest desire and make my fantasy a reality, and He did it by simply being Himself.

Thank You!  What we had may have ended, but what He taught me will never be forgotten.

i hope this answers some of the questions i couldn’t answer then.

Goodbye bullshit. i don’t need you.

There exists no doubt about her

How can I doubt My feelings

How can I doubt the sense that she has always existed at the edge of My consciousness – waiting for the moment that she reveals herself to Me

How can I doubt her submission and My responsibility to ensure her safety and happiness

No, My doubts concern Me. Am I worthy of accepting her submission?

Can I live to the expectations that she has set?

Will I, Can I ever be all that she needs?

Those are My doubts but I know I want to be with her.

Slut — 1: a slovenly woman : SLATTERN 2a: a lewd woman; esp : PROSTITUTE b: a saucy girl : MINX

Ah, “slut.” A compact little word, forceful even in the way it sounds, starting out with a hissing sibilant and pushing off of the tongue through the L and U, and then that nastily crisp T. “Slut.” Say it a few times out loud. Roll it around in your mouth. “Sssslut.” “Sss…lllut.” Say it again. Notice that it’s difficult — almost impossible, in fact — to pronounce it neutrally. It’s got a sneer built into it, that word. It’s not as twangy and unthreatening as “tramp.” It’s not as easy to yell as “whore.” “Whore” is built for screaming rage and dishes flying through the air, with a nice gusty H at the front and a big old roaring R bringing up the rear. Not “slut,” though. “Slut” is muttered. “Slut” is whispered. “Whore” comes in like a punch, but “slut” tingles, like a slap. “Slut” hides behind the teeth. “Slut” is for when your back is turned.

“Slut” is for when you don’t act like a lady. “Slut” is for when you sit with your legs apart. “Slut” is for when you wear it short, tight, without a bra, cut up high and down low and around the side, because, see, “slut” is also for when you have the nerve to enjoy your body in front of women who hate their own bodies. Don’t strut. Don’t dance with soul, or lick your lips. Don’t look too good; don’t think you look too good. Digging your own self is slutty. Making your own good time is slutty. Who do you think you are, anyway? Knees together, slut.

“Slut” is for when you forget to hate and fear boys. “Slut” is for when you talk to them, flirt with them, hang out with them and watch kung fu movies, pretend they don’t suck at guitar, sit on their laps, cut their hair. “Slut” is for when you don’t remember that you can’t have a male friend unless he’s your brother or gay, because your male friends want to fuck you, and you can’t handle that. “Slut” is liking sports and belches and messy apartments — or, rather, “liking” those things, because you couldn’t really like those things. You just pretend to like them so that you can get attention from men, because you have no personality of your own, and even if you did, men only want you for your action anyway. That’s pathetic. Get a life, slut.

“Slut” is for when, in spite of everything you’ve learned from Cosmo and your sorority sisters, you just love men, for when you want to look at them and talk about them and burrow your nose into their necks and lick them from head to toe and hop right on them when they walk in the door like that scene from Raising Arizona where Holly Hunter clings to Nicolas Cage like a wood tick. Ugh. That’s so undignified. That’s so unfeminine. “Slut” is for walking down the street and talking to a friend on your cell phone and watching a cute boy walk past in the opposite direction and looking at him and looking away and looking back and then turning around in mid-sentence to keep looking. “Slut” is for thinking of stubble burn and biting your lip. “Slut” is for remembering the way your first true love used to pin you up against his car door and flushing clear up to the roots of your hair. “Slut” is for big hands and deep voices. “Slut” is for on top of you and under you and behind you, in the closet, on the floor, under the piano. “Slut” is for liking it. “Slut” is for wanting it. “Slut” is for going after it. Men hunt, women gather; men chase, women wait. Look it up, slut.

“Slut” is for kissing boys with tongue. “Slut” is for kissing lots of different boys with tongue. “Slut” is for craving kissing lots of different boys with tongue. That’s not right, you know. It says so in the Bible, and in social hygiene films. “Slut” is for loving sex. “Slut” is for needing sex. “Slut” is for thinking sex isn’t shameful. Sex is for married people, for diamond owners, for nice girls in twin sets whose mothers hid the Erica Jong, for people totally and completely, like, in total and complete love, and it takes place behind closed doors, with the lights out. Sex isn’t fun. Sex isn’t casual. Sex is a deadly serious, disgusting, dirty, degrading business. Just lie there. Don’t move around. Don’t use your fingernails or moan or anything; that’s slutty. Don’t get on top. Don’t go down. Going down is really slutty, especially if you like it as much as he does. Ew. That’s so gross. Only a slut would like that. That’s so sickening. I bet you masturbate, too. Ew, I can’t even think about that. That’s so foul — touching yourself down there like that? That’s — well, it’s dirty and sticky and gross, dude! Nobody does that. Well, boys do, but that’s different.

“Slut” is for sex outside a committed relationship. Sex outside a committed relationship is a cry for help. It means you have no self-respect, obviously. You’re, like, a total nympho, man. I can’t believe you would even do that. God. Don’t talk about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t miss it. Don’t daydream about doing it with Josh Hartnett in a waterfall. I mean — yuck. That’s totally slutty. Are you, like, desperate or something? Why else would you just have sex with a guy? That’s so wrong. You’re so wrong. You’re such a slut.

“Slut” is for fucking on the first date, giving head instead of your number, not caring if he calls, caring if he calls but fucking another guy to pass the time. You do that stuff, well, clearly you’re a slut. What’s even worse? You, like, enjoy it. It’s so show-offy, too. Like, “look at me, I think I’m a guy,” like Samantha on Sex & The City, like, get over yourself, hon. And, I mean, Samantha brings home at least one new guy every week, but she’s, like, obviously so miserable and empty inside because she never settles down. Don’t you want to get married? How do you ever expect to get married if you keep slutting around? You have to save yourself. I mean, no man’s going to want you if you’ve slept with, like, a million other guys before him. You’re used. You’re dirty. He’ll fuck you, but he’ll never bring you home to his mother, because you didn’t stay pure and go to bed only with guys you loved. And you can’t have more experience than your husband; that’s just not done. What if he gets insecure about it? You’ll scare him off. You don’t want that, do you?

And you’ve probably got diseases. I bet you don’t even use protection. Remember? How you have no self-respect? And don’t use condoms and birth control, because you just want guys to like you, so you just fuck them? That’s so sad. I feel really sorry for you. Yeah, you say you enjoy it, but it’s just a compulsion, and it’s pitiful, really.

Just stay away from my man, okay? Don’t even talk to him. Women have to look out for each other, because men would never look out for us, because we don’t deserve their respect and fidelity. We women have to stick together. If he steps out on me with you, that’s not his fuck-up. It’s yours. I mean, you’re the slut here. You obviously came onto him all barracuda-style and lured him into bed, so I blame you completely. So just don’t even go over there to talk to him. He’d never treat me right, and if I left you two alone, something would happen.

God, I can’t even look at you. You just prance around acting all carefree like you don’t care what happens, like it doesn’t matter, like you have the right to sleep with whomever you want or something — you make me ill! I hate you! Fuck you, slut!

If you found yourself nodding along in sincere agreement with any of what’s written above, you have a serious, serious problem and need to report to your nearest therapist for a course of self-esteem rehabilitation and double-standard deprogramming. The rest of you may continue to wear your sluttishness with pride. Here endeth the lesson.

You know, your mother doesn’t know everything.
Please slut responsibly.

Evenings, back to back, of sucking on lips and necks and chests and fingertips, interspersed with feeding and drinking and walking and holding hands and hugging. Oh, but the kissing and licking and touching — his touch was marvelous! his hands alone brought me so much pleasure, the type of pleasure that stays with you, that I find impossible really. rocking my body against the grasp of His palm, scratching away at my insides, driving me, moving me, making me feel like I could seriously cum at any moment, whenever He wanted, again and again. I want to see Him again, if only to feel Him. He romanced me across multiple planes, and damn the sensuality of it all was overwhelming. His eyes. His beautiful eyes would watch me. He would give me pleasure, I would be floating somewhere outside of my consciousness and with the twitch of an eyelid, I could see He was watching me take that pleasure He was giving. His fingers were inside me and without blinking, His eyes set on my face, watching me in ecstasy.

on our sides, facing one another, his fingers driving me to a frenzy, for hours we were slow, kissing, licking at an unbearably light pace, the torture was delicious. he eased into me, gentle and kind. for hours we lay there, taking turns pleasing one another, tapping into a magnificent geyser of eroticism and passion. how long I could gaze into His eyes… we would go hungry. hunger for sensory excitement, hunger for touch, hunger for the soft padding of each other’s lips, hunger for drink, hunger for food, desire in such a raw form as hunger.

We unraveled one another, and I don’t really want to be put back together any time soon. this is indulgence, and relishing every moment after.