Touching without asking x-post

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Hey y’all, I want to talk about a subject that is near and dear to my heart. Touching.

I had one of those shitty childhoods. (I even wrote a fucking book about it. Thousands of people have read it and concur: yup a shitty childhood.)

Being touched is complicated for me. I like touch. I need touch a great deal more than average because I was pretty severely neglected as a young child. I was not touched appropriately and it has damaged me. What touch I got was often sexual abuse. Which complicates all kinds of touching in a sexualized setting.

I came into the bdsm community at 18 years old. I found the local munches, local private parties, public scene, and I found myself an experienced top pronto.

When other people talk about their college life experiences I cock my head to one side and listen because I wonder what it would be like to be normal. I do have a college degree, but I lived with my Dominant/Daddy/Owner. For two years of college I was a 24/7 slave.

I just don’t identify with the “college” experience people talk about. When I graduated I knew the names of three of my classmates.

I personally knew the folks who taught bdsm from coast to coast. I’d slept in many of their houses and played with them.

Now that I’m at the ripe old age of 34, almost 35 and I’ve been in the bdsm community for almost 16 of those years…

Touching is weird for me. I have expectations about boundaries. My expectations are different when I’m out in the normal world. Yes, I know that little old ladies in the grocery store touch me without my consent all the fucking time and I can’t explode with anger and tell them it ISN’T FUCKING OK TO TOUCH ME.

I know.

But I found a safe place. I found a place where the rule is don’t touch anyone or anything without explicitly asking for consent. It’s posted all over the damn place. If you didn’t learn that rule in kindergarden (you fucking should have) we will supplement your education until you get it.

Don’t. Touch. People. Without. Asking.

I know you don’t mean anything. I know you think it is no big deal to violate consent this way. But in my PTSD ridden body that went through decades of torture…

Actually it is a big deal. I am only able to relax and enjoy this environment because this rule exists. Because I am allowed to be vulnerable and I will have protection around the soft squishy parts of my heart.

I don’t mean that nothing bad will ever happen. I don’t mean that I really think I’ll never get touched without consent. It means that it is safe me to turn around and snarl IT ISN’T FUCKING OK TO TOUCH ME and I’m not bad. This is the one place in the world where it is safe for me to defend myself like that and not get “What a crazy bitch”.

So if it hurts your feelings that this rule exists in the bdsm community, yeah. Maybe it isn’t for you. Because this rule exists for the safety of a lot of people. The right to touch without asking is not something that makes anyone safer. It makes you happier. I don’t care so much about that.

Despite the harshness of this I love you. Even if I don’t know you very well. I think you have a lot to offer.

But don’t. Fucking. Touch. Me.

Boundaries are important for relationships. Because only in the conversation about where those boundaries exist do you get to define the me and the you in the relationship so that you can have real substantial interactions instead of just projections.

I want to know you and I want you to know me. Part of knowing me is knowing that touch is a complicated beast and there are days I’m in agonizing pain and I don’t want a hug. It’s not personal. It’s fibromyalgia.

But you don’t know unless you ask, do you?

Touching without consent.

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Hey y’all, I want to talk about a subject that is near and dear to my heart. Touching.

I had one of those shitty childhoods. (I even wrote a fucking book about it. Thousands of people have read it and concur: yup a shitty childhood.)

Being touched is complicated for me. I like touch. I need touch a great deal more than average because I was pretty severely neglected as a young child. I was not touched appropriately and it has damaged me. What touch I got was often sexual abuse. Which complicates all kinds of touching in a sexualized setting.

I came into the bdsm community at 18 years old. I found the local munches, local private parties, public scene, and I found myself an experienced top pronto.

When other people talk about their college life experiences I cock my head to one side and listen because I wonder what it would be like to be normal. I do have a college degree, but I lived with my Dominant/Daddy/Owner. For two years of college I was a 24/7 slave.

I just don’t identify with the “college” experience people talk about. When I graduated I knew the names of three of my classmates.

I personally knew the folks who taught bdsm from coast to coast. I’d slept in many of their houses and played with them.

Now that I’m at the ripe old age of 34, almost 35 and I’ve been in the bdsm community for almost 16 of those years…

Touching is weird for me. I have expectations about boundaries. My expectations are different when I’m out in the normal world. Yes, I know that little old ladies in the grocery store touch me without my consent all the fucking time and I can’t explode with anger and tell them it ISN’T FUCKING OK TO TOUCH ME.

I know.

But I found a safe place. I found a place where the rule is don’t touch anyone or anything without explicitly asking for consent. It’s posted all over the damn place. If you didn’t learn that rule in kindergarden (you fucking should have) we will supplement your education until you get it.

Don’t. Touch. People. Without. Asking.

I know you don’t mean anything. I know you think it is no big deal to violate consent this way. But in my PTSD ridden body that went through decades of torture…

Actually it is a big deal. I am only able to relax and enjoy this environmentbecause this rule exists. Because I am allowed to be vulnerable and I will have protection around the soft squishy parts of my heart.

I don’t mean that nothing bad will ever happen. I don’t mean that I really think I’ll never get touched without consent. It means that it is safe me to turn around and snarl IT ISN’T FUCKING OK TO TOUCH ME and I’m not bad. This is the one place in the world where it is safe for me to defend myself like that and not get “What a crazy bitch”.

So if it hurts your feelings that this rule exists in the bdsm community, yeah. Maybe it isn’t for you. Because this rule exists for the safety of a lot of people. The right to touch without asking is not something that makes anyone safer. It makes you happier. I don’t care so much about that.

Despite the harshness of this I love you. Even if I don’t know you very well. I think you have a lot to offer.

But don’t. Fucking. Touch. Me.

Boundaries are important for relationships. Because only in the conversation about where those boundaries exist do you get to define the me and the you in the relationship so that you can have real substantial interactions instead of just projections.

I want to know you and I want you to know me. Part of knowing me is knowing that touch is a complicated beast and there are days I’m in agonizing pain and I don’t want a hug. It’s not personal. It’s fibromyalgia.

But you don’t know unless you ask, do you?

Fracturing

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When I talk about my childhood fracturing my personality I mention the moving because it is a handy way of having numbers that people can wrap their head around. It causes problems too because… it wasn’t just the act of moving. During many/most of those moves I was living with people I didn’t know who didn’t like me very much. I spent my childhood moving through households with different rules… and no one but me explains why rules are different very well. I know how because I learned during my childhood. No one else has ever been able to explain rule variations to me in a way that made sense. But I can explain it. Because I lived it.

It wasn’t just the moving. It was that every few months my mom would take all of my toys and give them away because we had to flee and it didn’t matter what anything meant to me. Many of my moves were 1-3 month stays. I was often by myself with families I didn’t know who were distant friend’s of my mother. I was not an easy child. Everyone made sure to tell me how difficult I was all. the. damn. time. I didn’t settle in and feel like I ever had a home. I usually didn’t know my own phone number. Do you know how many people told me I was stupid because I didn’t know my phone number?

When I talk about my early life fracturing me, I’m including the rampant sexual abuse. I was having intense extended sexual contact with children and adults from toddlerhood. That fucked up my personality.

It was watching my mother and sister fuck a series of men as my own live action instructional videos. Why won’t I have other lovers in the house? Because my mom did that.

I was constantly told I was the baby and I was belittled for my incompetencies, but I didn’t get to live with older more competent people. I was raised an only child. Who in the hell was I supposed to learn from? I was locked alone in houses or apartments or bedrooms or garages. My siblings were either grown or living in other, less abusive environments.

My brothers were not abused like I was. My sister… had it very different. More sexual abuse from our father but not the poverty, not the moving, not the rapes outside the family not the not the not the.

Being “appropriate” is a nightmare of a conscious choice for me that it isn’t for other people because I’m trying to make it up as an adult. I have no modeling at all from childhood to depend on. I didn’t know healthy people. I was never taught how to manage my feelings or the trauma that was happening until I was an adult and it was over and I could figure out how to tell a story about the past. No one sat me down and talked about what to do when you are mad other than “get even”.

When I say that my problems make me different from folks in the Tenderloin, one of the things that absolutely fucking wrecks me is that I was never taken away from my family for gross neglect nor abuse. Everyone from the top down acted like my life was just fucking fine. I couldn’t even get support in therapy for how bad it was because my mom was always there saying I was exaggerating for effect or lying.

Even when other parents would go to the school and say I was abused, no one gave a shit.

When I say that other people aren’t like me it is based on decades of experience trying to bond with people “Oh we are alike!” and having them listen for a little bit and nod with enthusiasm and I keep going and then they eventually shove me away energetically and physically and say with great force, “No. Not like that. We are not alike.”

This all leaves me with pervasive feelings that I am bad and I deserve punishment. I do not deserve to have a safe place to live. That’s for other, deserving people. Good people. I am bad. I smell. I am gross. I am not worth wanting. I am a burden.

Pot stinks. Which means that I stink. Which is highly triggering with regards to my experiences around being homeless and abused. I constantly feel like I deserve to be abused because I smell bad and I am gross and that is personally offensive to people. People don’t want to kiss a gross nasty pot smoker. I know.

I had some feelings so I was whining about them to someone. The person told me they would kinda like to rescue me but it was logistically impossible. I told them I wouldn’t let them rescue me anyway.

If I did need to be rescued from something I would rather walk in front of a train than ask for help.

It is more likely to work to solve my problems.

Asking for help just reveals that you are weak and a good target. I’m not that stupid any more.

Only going to see all these damn doctors is a form of trying to get help. Notice how well it usually goes? Usually it is debasing, insulting, and dehumanizing. Someone who has spent less than three hours with me feels very free to tell me that I really shouldn’t have another child because I don’t have the bandwidth. I should go to other professionals so they can tell me no.

It was a really good thing I got to turn around and go see a professional who has known me for years who said I could handle it and it would be wonderful.

When I go see professionals they tell me that my physical problems are because I don’t eat enough Fiber 1 cereal. Actually bitch, my digestion improves when I eat mostly protein and vegetables and fruit and almost entirely skip the cereals. But you are the wise professional and I’m just a dumb bitch. A dumb scary bitch who should be placed under a restraining order because I’m so dangerous.

Oh how I love asking for help.

I’m shocked I’m going to go submit to a high risk ob/gyn. But I have to. Or Noah won’t let me have the baby.

My whole life is about “submit to this authority or suffer”. So my recalcitrance means it is all my fault I suffer. If only I’d submit faster.

When I pull away and hide it is because I am scared. It is because I feel like I am bad. When folks act like yup, that’s where I should be and I should be there alone it feels like they agree that I should feel that way.

And once I lose the top cup off the pile of dishes I’m carrying, soon the whole load will come crashing down.

Dads, adoption, and belonging

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I was just talking to my Dad. The conversation was interesting. I didn’t know my step-mom was adopted. I didn’t know that his current partner was adopted. I didn’t know that his current partner is 38 not 21. Ok, now all of a sudden I object way less.

We talked about the language around adoption we use. Dad has a lot of daughters. He has a biological daughter he raised. He has a series of girlfriends he calls daughters. He has me. I’m the adopted daughter. His girlfriends aren’t adopted in the same way and they don’t stick around in the same way. I’m still here sixteen years later. No one else has made ten years.

Except the bio-kid, of course.

Dad said he has mixed feelings about me being called the adopted daughter because he has so many people in his life who were at-birth-adoptees and “real child” vs “adopted child” is sensitive stuff for them.

I said, “Yeah I hear that. But I was chosen as an adult. It’s different. It matters that you loved me enough to adopt me as an adult. That is worth claiming. That’s a thing.”

I know it makes me different than the other daughters. It makes me different in a way that feels positive. I’m special. He chose me. I’m not someone he’s dating and fucking. I didn’t just happen to come from his body. He met me, got to know me, figured out that dating is not on the table… and he kept me anyway.

And let me tell you, he’s kept me. I’m invited to family stuff. I think only Sarah has invited me to her family like he has. So if I need to get over my hatred of the concept of “chosen family” it is because of these two. Dad treats me like his kid that he can be a little obscene with. But I don’t ever want to fuck him again.

And he keeps me anyway.

Because he adopted me. Because I am special to him. Special enough to keep.

I’m smoking in the side yard listening to Dad talk to the kids in the back yard. He may be reading to them, that’s what the cadence sounds like. He’s really good with them. He’s patient. He’s gentle. He is appropriate and non-sexual.

I know his bio kids. They both assure me that he was always completely appropriate when they were little. When they got older he became more of an asshole about “This is who I am and I have a weird as fuck life.”

But they ignore a lot of it and have good relationships. I admire those relationships. I don’t want a relationship like they have though. I want a different relationship. I want to be the adopted daughter.

Difference doesn’t mean better.

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My psychiatrist told me that she could handle any problem I have/had because she worked in the Tenderloin in San Francisco for years. I think my problems are often not much like those she is going to face in the Tenderloin.

Most people who live in the Tenderloin and seek counseling for drug addiction aren’t there because of fractured personalities from moving so much as a child that they didn’t go through normal personality formation. They may have other developmental problems from moving too much, but I seriously never met a single person who comes close to my moving issues. I’m relatively confident that most people move around within an area and don’t develop the issues I had going from rural desperately poor Oklahoma to Los Gatos, California (rich as fuck) to Compton, California to to to to to.

My instantaneous rejection of things that will not be something I change into is because I’ve been put in so many settings… I know how I adapt.

I have had far more privilege than the average person in the Tenderloin and that’s going to change how we need help. The travel I’ve done. The security I’ve had in the last ten years… these things change the approach a lot.

Other than pot, I don’t consider myself an addict. I don’t bury my problems in cocaine or meth or alcohol. I just do more work or I self harm or I find sex.

Why nonmonogamy? Because I can’t get the intensity of connections I want without it. I need to figure out more about bonding with people. I need more practice figuring out how to love and have boundaries and this is part of that for me. Because I need to learn and this is one of the best vehicles for my education. Because it is so close to my native life experience. It is so primal. It effects so much of my entire nervous system.

Because sex means life. I know I have plenty of sex with Noah. Novelty matters for me.

Because if I wrapped all my tentacles around Noah and said give me attention give me attention give me attention as much as I want attention he’d…not like it as much as he thinks. When I’ve tried it… it was very mixed.

I have a lot of need for intense connection.

If I had a mother I don’t think I would need this. But I don’t. So I need something major to shock my system into believing that yes I do deserve love too. I’m not just bad. This is a life giving act. Even if I’m not making life with the vast majority of my partners, I understand the purpose of sex is to make life. That is why it happens. It feels like creating connection and intimacy and love in the world.

I like it.

If I had a mother I could connect with the way I connect with my kids when I feel insecure I think I would be a different person. But I don’t.

And, being slutty makes me feel cocky and that’s fun. Not much in my life makes me feel cocky. (Hey L–remember when I climbed the tree at the home school park day just because all the moms were flipping out about how dangerous it was? That worked too.)

I don’t feel cocky about my parenting. I strive for humility. Hubris would be fatal. I don’t have it all figured out. I need to live with doubt. I need to live with constant questioning of my motives and my methods.

Why nonmonogamy? Because a fantastically cute boy just emailed me to tell me that he’d like to take it a step further and have sex on Saturday. Oh shit. Excellent. It is tentative. It is maybe. It is we’ll see.

Krissy, Krissy, Krissy what are you doing?

I’m spending time with people. Because I feel like I need it really badly. Because my ability to chase the women in my life is at a very very low ebb. I need to feel loved and I can’t bang on doors to ask for it right now. They are all busy. They mostly have children and jobs or at least just very consuming jobs. It is appropriate. I just… I’m just feeling out of chase. I do that.

Boys… chase.

Why nonmonogamy? Because being slutty makes me feel good in my body better than anything else in the whole world and I spend so much time feeling so bad in my body. Do you want me to live for a long time? I need to feel good in my body sometimes.

I do get it in other ways too. But slutty sex is like a water cannon of joy slamming into me.

I can’t help but feel this is tied in with being “good” in terms of what my biological father taught me. He wanted me to be sex crazed. He’d be proud. I… have feelings about that.

I tell Noah what I do. And Noah doesn’t shame me. So I don’t feel ashamed. I feel confused because it is hard on Noah that this is as good for me as it is. But we put up with other annoying things from one another.

Cause if Sweet Boy is all, “I’d like to take it to the next step” I’m all “Hell fucking yes.” I mean. We’ll see if it happens. Ahem. As the grown up here. I told him we will need to talk in person about limits and absolutely stick to them in scene and we’ll see if sex is really what he wants. If he doesn’t really want it before the scene starts… we aren’t doing it in scene. Because I won’t renegotiate as we go. So lots of talking to go.

Oh I love talking.

Why nonmonogamy? Because I have to learn how to deal with a lot of my deficits. Noah has learned work arounds for many of the ways in which I fail. When I go out into the world and deal with other people… I lose my crutch. I have to grow. Or I will fail.

I was just itching for more suspension. I’ve been wanting to do suspension for a long, long time and no one has seemed interested. So. He asked. That means I get to want it with him. I mean, I know I could go find a generic person to suspend if I advertised. But I’m not really that much of a top and… I don’t know. I’ll top when someone switchy comes to me and asks. And I like my submissive. But he doesn’t like rope.

I want to make someone dance in the air who will appreciate it. It’s been a long time and I think I will get the chance on Sunday. I’m excited. I really want to do this. I don’t know why. To prove to myself that I still can? That I haven’t forgotten the physical techniques? Really I’m being kind of an asshole. I should torture myself with months of floor bondage again first. But I tie knots all the damn time! I’m not out of lashing practice.

Just not with bodies.

(Lashing is when you tie things together.)

I feel cocky when I feel like, “Yup I’m a bad ass who can do this.” But I’m kinda over feeling like, “Well a long time ago I was a bad ass who could do that.”

I want my identity to be present tense. And I want to see what happens to his face while he dances. Oh goodness I want to see. He has such a beautiful face. He’s so shy at first. Then so expressive.

And my cunt is ripped to shreds. If I’m not healed by Saturday I should say no anyway. Sad face. Feck and Drat and Dagnabbit.

Uhm, it doesn’t hurt as much as yesterday? But it’s still not great. AHHHHHHHH No fair. Ok. Off to a day.

Damn cat

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I couldn’t find my cat for about 20 minutes and she was quiet. She’s never fucking quiet. She’s a geriatric Siamese. Sometimes she talks in her damn sleep. But she was quiet tonight. WTF.

I’m medicating to try and lower my adrenaline to go back to sleep. Five hours isn’t enough for the night.

To “calm down” (ha) I’m thinking about what to wear on Saturday. It is rainbow themed, of course. But I’m not sure I have uhh attractive rainbow clothing. Or not much of it. Hm. I have red and black and white for cute stuff. I’m kinda boring. Red and black with rainbow socks. Do I even have rainbow socks or did they get a huge hole? I think they wore out. They were like 12 years old…

Hm. I have no idea. I have a pink skirt and a blue skirt… but they are both long and matronly. The blue one is part of Jenny’s Ren Faire costume that I wear all the time. Like I have since I started borrowing her clothes when we were teenagers. Thank you for leaving them with me when you went. I really wear the skirts a lot. I even wear the other pieces. I think of you. I feel loved.

I could ruck up the blue skirt, wear a purple tank top, red underwear, I’ll wear the most colorful socks I own at this point, and I have to wear a corset. Just have to. Because. Because if I’m going to get pregnant again I want to use these bastards while I have them.

Choices:

  • (least likely) Victorian high back/high front in a beautiful reddish/goldish brocade.
  • (also slightly unlikely) Sweetheart cut (meaning over my boobs but not a high back) in purple with goldish
  • (maybe) White and black leather waist cincher. The few thick black stripes run vertically and provide nice definition
  • (maybe) black leather waist cincher. It has pretty laces for decorations.

I feel like there is one more but I can’t remember. That is how luxurious my life is. Once upon a time I had a fetish wardrobe to knock your damn socks off. These days… I still have bits. I’ve had professional dominants tell me that I have more fetish clothing than them. I felt a little weird about that.

First corset: I got the high back one (it is custom and comfy) for working Dickens Fair. My second oldest. I saved and saved and saved for this. I wanted it so bad.

Second corset: A friend of a friend flew from the east coast out to San Francisco to see Avenue Q with me and my husband. He stayed with us and as a thank you he bought me a corset. As it turned out, I was about two weeks pregnant with Eldest Child and I didn’t know it.

Third corset: The oldest. I’ve had that since I was with my Owner. I bought it (on massive sale) not long before Noah bought me the most beautiful black leather ball gown. So it came into my life in the transition period as I was leaving my Owner. (I don’t know why I care about this kind of chronology… but I do.)

Fourth: I bought this between pregnancies when I ventured out to Folsom Street Fair by myself. I felt pretty in it and I was happy to feel like I had made it and I could just go buy a corset.

The purple shirt just came from target. The pink skirt I mentioned above I bought on a day trip with Sarah. I had a lot of fun.

This is what I mean when I say that I associate things and people very strongly. I have narratives running through my head all day long about how the things I use are connecting me to the people who love me. They are talismans I use to try and deal with my pervasive belief that I am bad and I am only going to hurt people. See, they love me and they left me with this so I wouldn’t forget them.

I don’t want to forget them and I’m very scared I could. I’m scared I could absolutely get to the point where I just couldn’t remember that people loved me if I didn’t have such a constant influx.

Mental illness is a real problem. The reality I perceive and the reality that is are not always the same and they overlap and confuse each other.

The reality I perceive mostly doesn’t have room for people loving me. So I ignore that and I set deliberate intentions around living in a reality where I’m loved and adored and taken care of and I go out and I interact with people and then I sit back and I weigh and measure the fuck out of every interaction.

I lean on the paranoid side. I’m skittish. I’m always looking for signs I should go. But when I get, “No really, come here” I explode with joy.

MY PERCEPTIONS ARE WRONG, MOTHERFUCKER. THIS BRINGS ME GREAT JOY.

Unlike many of my friends (ha ha ha) I’m well aware I’m not rational. But I’m doing the best I can. I mean… I’m sure my friends are doing the best they can too. But I do it while admitting I’m irrational as fuck.

I don’t think I am the only one who is irrational. But those are my judging pants.

/me steps out of her judging pants

Ok.

Oh! Noah and I were really good tonight. I initiated sex because I wanted sex to help get back to sleep after I woke up. We got started and it just hurt. That happens to me. Sometimes I’m torn and it just burns like a mother fucker and it hurts and hurts and hurts and if I keep it up I will hurt all day.

I told him it hurt.

He pulled out just about right away.

That’s… that’s actually a big deal for us. We don’t stop until he’s done. I cry and grit my teeth and get it over with and tell him to hurry. I endure it.

Tonight I didn’t. *pat self on back*

Learning how and what your volition means is hard. I’m trying. So of course we did lots of other fun things and got him off. He told me it was practice for pregnancy. I said it is practice for the rest of our lives because I need to stop having sex when it hurts. I didn’t try to get off. I just… didn’t care by then.

(Then I couldn’t find the cat. Anyway.)

Of course I know that pieces of the volition conversation are my fault. I know I don’t speak up enough. It’s hard. It’s scary. Even now it doesn’t feel that safe. And that’s hard. I’m not sure that it is Noah’s fault I don’t feel safe enough. I think it is me.

Noah told me that in order to make this work going forward he is going to have to trust me a whole lot harder than he has been. Even though I fucked up big. Cause I did. I hurt him. I was really inconsiderate. I was really hurtful. It has been hard to get me to listen to how he really feels because I have preconceived notions about him not being sensitive. Yeah well, he’s sensitive to some fucking things. Especially when it comes to fucking. Makes sense. Me too.

And I need to trust Noah more. I do as my mother taught me. I do what I want because asking for permission means you might get told no. But Noah is a trustworthy partner and he doesn’t tell me no without a good reason. If I tell him I’m hurting in a bad way he isn’t going to get mad and punish me for that. He is going to acknowledge that we’ve had a really tremendous lot of sex lately and that wears me out.

I am a breakable toy.

It is hard to ask someone to stop. I feel guilty for not putting out. I feel very bad about myself for not delivering on sex when someone wants it. I owe sex.

I keep picturing R glowering at me and saying with great heat and force, “You don’t owe him shit.” I needed to have an inside voice telling me that. Thank you so very very very very much for popping up right when you did and saying it how you did, that venom was beautiful. So fierce.

I’ve been talking to a lot of women about their cunts lately. How do you feel about your cunt? It’s interesting having these chats. It is interesting being the kind of person who can just ask such questions.

I’m an asker.

There is this huge conflict in my life. I have a huge, massive, really powerful Reality Distortion Field. I can convince people to believe what I want them to believe, mostly. I mean–I think this is because I pick a version of reality to back up with facts and figures. I research like fuck and then I say, “Ok this is the reality I want to believe in.”

Noah and I get into heated philosophical conversations where we both feel frustrated. He wants to talk about “how the world is” and I want to talk about what the world needs to be and he just… gets frustrated with me.

Reasonable. Notice the disclaimer of irrationality.

I don’t fucking care how hard it is going to be to change. Let’s get on it, motherfuckers. Hard work is what life is all about. At least this is good work.

This is a huge conflict because I have a massive, pervasive believe that I am a toxic piece of shit who poisons people by existing.

I’m one of those dirty stinky homeless people who offend people just by breathing too near them.

God I don’t know how to get past living in more than one time at at time. That has been my life. It’s not a fantasy or a worry or a projection. It is body memory of the shame and horror of being so disgusting to people.

The next time you want to recoil from a dirty, gross person because they smell bad… imagine it is me.

Love and thank you

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Yesterday I started off being passive aggressive. Then I got direct and everything kinda fell into place like magic. Wow.

I sent an email to folks Noah and I are seeing and said “If you are just a friend banging me this isn’t a hoop you need to jump over. But if you are romantically serious…. everyone I’ve ever dated has met my Dad.”

It’s kind of funny to realize. No really my Dad has met most of my even barely serious partners. Usually he’s supportive and sometimes he tells me DTMFA. (He’s always right.)

Wait. Wait. You mean I really did manage to turn this nasty old pervert into a protective father for me?! Because I did. I’m like a hybrid between his normal “daughters” who are perverted girlfriends who do nasty shit around the dynamic and his bio kids.

It’s weird. It’s a little creepy. It is deeply comfortable, loving, and supportive. This relationship has had the boundaries I needed it to have. Thank you. I love you so much, Dad. I love you with the love of an abandoned little kid who didn’t find a Dad until 18. In the Power Exchange. Yelling, “Hey you. Come here. We need bottoms.” Oh my life.

I’m a nasty pervert too.

And much to my surprise the only person who isn’t coming to dinner is someone whose other partner is having surgery. Great reason. That’s so much more important. Take care of her.

This is surprising to me. I didn’t expect to kinda turn to so many people and say, “Are you serious?” and just get a resounding “Yup.” I thought half the group would show up. I absolutely counted on my submissive saying yes. Beyond that I wasn’t sure. Oh how pleasant. I feel positively giddy.

And Sweet Boy emailed me to say he is going to try to go to the Citadel on the 25th because he won’t get another chance to see me any time soon.

I feel… overwhelmed with wonderful, beautiful love.

And I should introduce someone else. Because he’s come over three times now. I’m going to call him Quiet One. Because in my crowd he’s distinctive. I can’t say much about him because I haven’t asked permission. He isn’t interested in group dating and I told him flat out I won’t be dating him solo. I don’t have time. My dates are spoken for. But he’s coming to dinner and over for walks and working on projects. So I dinno. He exists in an interesting vanilla friendship with enormous tension land. I clearly don’t have free time. But he comes over on his own! He suggests it cause he is nearby!

None of my other folks do that. They all live too far away and getting here is arduous and takes specific arranging. So spontaneous just doesn’t happen. How much of relationships are proximity?

Really anyone who will invite themselves to a work party is someone I’m ok knowing. I just am.

What does seriously dating mean anyway? I think for me it won’t need to happen more than four times a year. It’s going to be more about intensity and connection that frequency. Lots of people I see often… I’m not that serious about.

In March I told Noah not to worry about me dating these people because it’s not like I’d still be seeing any of them at the end of the year because they will all lose interest in me.

Uhm, meeting Dad in June because they are kinda serious about still dating me later…

There are a lot of stories I tell myself. I believe them. Noah thinks of them as lies, which seems reasonable. I don’t believe people will want me around for very long. I don’t think people can tolerate my company very long. I think people get sick of me and need huge long breaks from being physically near me in order to intellectually keep knowing me.

These are stories I tell myself.

But then why in the fuck did Sarah come back?

Because she loves me. Because she finds some value in my companionship and company.

Oh.

I was being kind of an asshole last night. I told Noah that it was kinda his fault Deity is turning out so serious. I wanted Deity to be in kind of the same spot Muse was in. I attempted to sorta script that. Noah looked at me. He indicated strongly that he did not think it would have worked out the way it did with Muse. He thinks Deity just would have spurred conversations earlier. Not with how good he is.

I even blushed in acknowledgment of how ridiculous I was. Yeah. God damn he is hot. It wouldn’t have been like Muse. Muse didn’t want me and that’s cool. He has a type. Deity is not like Muse. I don’t know if he has a type as much, but I definitely uhh fall closer to his interests.

So yeah. I tell these lies.

You’re right. If I had sucked Deity’s cock four years ago… he would still be in the top 5 and welcome back any time he asks.

Yeah. You’re right Noah.

Why do I want to perceive these things wrong? Maybe I want to believe I have more loyalty to Noah than I have? Is this about loyalty or disloyalty?

I grew up in a family where I was told over and over “You are for me or against me. Period.” You never ever act against the interests of someone if you are on their side. You burn everything down if they tell you to even if you are shooting yourself in the foot. You just do it.

Nuance has come hard and slow and in inches for me. Like, Jenny didn’t post on Twitter for a few days cause she wasn’t feeling well and I freak all the way out.

Nuance is hard.

I expect rejection everywhere, from every source unless people are chasing hard. Then I feel safe. For a few minutes at least.

I expect rejection everywhere from everyone. Which is quite ridiculous at this stage. I get rejected sometimes by some people and all the time by other people. You know what? That strikes me as healthy. No one is universally loved. I am far more loved than I have any right to be.

Here is something that other people offer that Noah doesn’t: making out. Noah doesn’t make out. Noah kisses then fucks. I’m sure he could be taught but it would take energy and we work on so many things that we have frankly never prioritized the making out.

But other people make out with me. Other people think that is all they can get and that the boundary beyond kissing is made out of stone. So there is the opposite of pressure to go further. There is this fantastic relaxing into this is what we are doing.

Oh I love kissing. Oxytocin. Oxytocin. Oxytocin. I love it so much I typed it three times instead of using cut’n’paste like normal. That important.

I feel like if I could make out for a solid hour every day I wouldn’t need so much mood elevating drugs. But it isn’t the same as sex. Sex is different. It does involve oxytocin, sure, but it’s also a lot more strain on my physical system.

Right this minute I’m torn (ha ha) because I sorta want to go back and initiate sex but I hurt. My cunt is so raw still. I need to heal. This is the problem. If I’m not up for sex I physically avoid him and we don’t do the oxytocin exchanges because he feels frustrated by them. I don’t want to initiate sex. I want to snuggle and rub and kiss. But that won’t happen. So either I do nothing or I do everything. This is what I mean by volition problems, Noah. I don’t know how to negotiate this with you. From our first fucking date you’ve treated limits like they are to be pushed on.

Sometimes I just want to snuggle and make out. I don’t always want friction on my delicate parts. I think that was probably always true and I’m just figuring out to say it? Although I feel like this may be one I’ve bitched about before. I’ll check with my shrink.

That’s the advantage to other people. They have no entitlement to my pussy. They think they don’t get to have it unless I say so. When I kiss them they act like they get access to my mouth. Maybe running hands up and down the back or arms. They don’t get more aggressive. It can stay at that level as long as I want it to. That’s allowed to be the whole point.

Oxytocin in my friend.

I’ve never dated someone who would make out. I always date people who say, “You’re kissing me. That means it is sex now.”

Dating while married has, in many ways, the safety of dating from ones parents home… if ones parents give a shit about you. If the people you are dating believe that anyone in the world cares about what happens to you.

It’s different.

The birds are so loud in my yard now. Loud sounds like a derogatory way to describe them but I don’t mean it that way. My yard is becoming home and they talk here. I like it.

I think I’m ready to try to sleep again. I’m tired.

It’s settled.

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Friend-who-plays-with-Noah-but-who-is-mostly-my-friend now has a name. She’s Beautiful. I’ve talked around her a lot. She’s been in my life since before I was pregnant with Eldest Child. But sex complicates things and talking about people is hard.

Now I’ll be able to refer to her slightly more directly.

Busy busy

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I woke up at 3:30 this morning and started painting. I did it by candle light because the breaker in the kitchen is turned off. I need to finish the ceiling today so we can turn the light on and put the fridge back.

I painted behind the fridge first. Both to get it done and so I could practice some techniques. God damn I’ve improved. I’m way the hell better at painting than I used to be. It’s a shame that tree will be covered. It’s gorgeous.

I finished the first layer of ceiling color and stopped at 6:30 for a break. My shoulders ache. This is going to be slooooooooooooooow because I have a lot of work on vines and leaves I want to do. Not to mention that Eldest Child wants me to go back over everything with glitter. We’ll see.

This project is going to take many days. I look forward to it. I want to finish the ceiling today. I want the light back on.

Which means I need to figure out where the trees are coming from on the walls so I can plan animals, and plants around them. Argh. IF ONLY THIS WEREN’T FUN.

With every passing year I like my painting more. The moss is downright eery and pretty.

Combine this with how much yard work I’ve gotten done this year… 2016 is a beautiful year of growth. And houseguests.

I bought the plane tickets for my friend and her kids yesterday. They are coming out for most of July. Originally I had kinda expected them to drive… with all the health problems involved that was a stupid and unsafe thought. I’m so happy she was brave enough to ask for plane tickets. I know it is hard to ask people to spend money on you. It’s hard to feel worthy. But I’m bugging her about coming to visit and there’s no way she can pay. So I bought tickets. I get them for 18 days. Sounds wonderful to me.

I’m just sad the house is in chaos. But oh well. Life is what it is.

Oh crap. I need to clean up the spare room for Dad today. Whoops. That’s kinda important cause he arrives tonight.

It will be fun. Maybe he’ll sit in a chair and talk to me while I paint. I will enjoy that.

Oh crumbs. It is the end of the school year. We need to go through boxes of saved materials for the year and cull for the portfolio. That can wait till I’m done with painting.

Side note: I feel good about life when I can look down and see paint splotches on my hand.

Other random thought: my Dad has met all of my Serious Relationships in the past 12 years. It sorta makes me think I ought to invite folks over for supper this week to meet him. I’d invite you-who-plays-with-Noah too. Cause I’m like that. Tuesday or Friday would work. What do y’all think? I’m only sorta kidding. Not really. I’d do it.

When I say “I’d do it” I really mean “How serious do you consider yourself to be?” Because no really, my Dad has met every even slightly serious relationship I’ve had as an adult since I met him. And he lives in Washington. So. How serious do you consider yourself to be in my life? This might be something worthy of direct conversations instead of passive aggression but whatever.

It’s a bonus that Dad already knows my submissive and Cupid. He’d like Daddy and Deity just find. I need a nickname for you Ms. You, the one I talk to so much in DMs on Twitter. You come up in conversation in our house at least four times a week… so you are totally in need of a blog name. Who do you want to be?

Sarah is just Sarah because she happened long before nicknames for me. And Jenny. And fuck Noah’s privacy. He gave it up with the marriage contract.

Really, if anyone in our sexin-web wanted to come, please do. We obviously want you.

Ahem.

Sometimes I stop and wonder why do I feel alone? I’m not alone anymore. Not emotionally, physically, energetically… not even spiritually. I may not be Dagora, I may not have my ancestors following me around like a flock of crows waiting to hear from me. I may not be a Christian who believes that Jesus will carry me when I falter.

But I have you. That’s enough.

Then why do I still have this keening alone alone alone feeling? Why am I so scared of myself? We are born alone and we die alone and I’m afraid afraid afraid of when I will make myself die. Please, not too soon. Don’t do it until I am completely out of good days.

Why am I so afraid of being alone? Because I’m not very nice to me. Alone means hitting, cutting, burning myself. It means the meanest words I know said over and over and over. Because I believe I deserve that.

But when I am not alone I know that it is not ok with Person X that I do that to myself. They love me and need me to at least pretend I love myself too.

I am so afraid of being alone.

I feel so lucky that I found people who want to be nice to me. I feel so lucky that I found people who, when I explain how I am being hurt by something, work to change problematic behaviors.

It isn’t that this behavior is wrong for all people. It is that it hurts me and I need you to notice that you are interacting with me.

I am not just like everyone else. I fall far outside the standard deviations in almost every metric. I have to be learned.

The trouble is that I do not believe I am worthy of such effort, time, and commitment.

My friends show up for the amount of time, with the amount of effort and commitment they have to give. Thank you. I appreciate your generosity. You don’t owe me the time of day let alone what you actually give me. Thank you.

I know I sound ungrateful. I’m not. I‘m grateful. I‘m grateful. I‘m grateful. I‘m grateful. I‘m grateful. I‘m grateful. 

Please don’t be mad at me for not being grateful enough. I’m trying.

On Wednesday I am leaving the kids home with Grandpa and daddy and I get to go help my friends for a change. Including driving (ugggggggg) I’ll probably take about six hours to go help them with a project that just exploded in their life.

I feel honored to be asked. They don’t ask for help much. They instead offer a lot of help. I am so grateful to not just be sponging off of them. Instead I have something to offer. This feels so good.

It hurts me when I ask people if I can help them with a project and they refuse. It feels like they do not trust me. It feels like I am not worthy. The quality of my work is too poor. I do not deserve to have that time with them.

I am sorry that I insulted you by offering you substandard, inadequate help. I will not trouble you further.

And that globalizes. It becomes hard to ask for other things. I am not good at asking for help. I am good at offering help. I kinda need people to let me help them so that I can get to a place where I am able to accept help in return when someone sorta bossily pushes it on me.

Oh I love bossy people. Love love love.

The satisfaction of people believing that my help is worth something…. that is huge. Whether it is a wood working project, organizing, writing, parenting, bdsm, whatever.

When people act like I hold wisdom and experience that is useful… I feel like my life has value. I should not die. See… I have things left to give. I am still a useful tool.

I need to be useful.

This isn’t a “healthy” part of my makeup but it’s there.

Ok, I’ve been writing for about 40 minutes. 1400ish words. Should I stop now and save spoons for painting? Yes I should. Future me needs these arms. I typed slow so I wouldn’t hurt myself too much. I was careful.

I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art. I love making art.

Ok. Now I’m ready to stop resting.

Medicated late

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I was reminded why I use pot. We went for a walk. After the breakfast I made and served to Noah in bed because the kids wanted me to. I didn’t have time to smoke.

I was a Negative Nancy. Whine. Bitch. Moan. Complain. Nothing is good enough. I’m never satisfied.

We talked about birthday stuff. For the past three years I’ve just… not been home on my birthday. That way I don’t get mad at Noah for doing nothing. I don’t like getting mad at Noah. I’d rather avoid him on days when I think I’m going to be mad pretty much no matter what he does.

I need to let it go and try again. I’ve really punished Noah long enough.But there were several years in a row of not so much as a card or a flower or a cupcake. Just, “Oh. Happy Birthday.” And that was back before he cooked for me like he does. I bet he’d get more elaborate in his meals now.

I need to try again and not be pissy and not hold on to bitterness. He made some mistakes and he bloody well knows it. I think he’d prefer that I not have a fourth birthday in a row of avoiding him.

  1. Disneyland with the kids 2. Camping by myself (this was great) 3. Road trip–we were with Mitty in Georgia.

It does matter that it is the day of my actual birthday. Doing something on a different day isn’t the same. It isn’t that I need a huge party or anything.

I’m nice to people. Sometimes I stop and recognize that I am nice. And part of my sharp edge is my sadness about the ways in which I have not gotten that back.

The older I get the more I see that it isn’t that folks were that mean to me. Not Noah, not my mom. But I often don’t know how to feel love from them and that is functionally mean in my brain.

And of course I’m crying because today is Father’s Day. I have a lot of Dad’s and Daddy’s that are… I guess nice to me. Noah commented that Dad is proof that I can give someone second chance after second chance after second chance if they really show up for me over the long-run. Dad and I have had some issues. I keep coming back and so does he because of a lot of investment of energy and work and love. I’m not sure what he would have to do to run out of chances. Hurt my children. Beyond that… I’ll figure out how to forgive him because he has loved me when other people really didn’t show much sign of that. He showed up and took care of me when I needed it. He is taking it seriously to be in my children’s lives. He is appropriate with them. There are no grooming behaviors.

But none of these people were part of my life as a child. These are all people with whom I am trying to re-parent/fix damage. So. Much. Damage.

I think I am so fucking pissed at Noah’s parents for not wanting to go because it feels like they could have been my shot at having a family and they are opting out because they don’t give a shit. Because I won’t let them set all the terms. So fuck me.

Come to Texas. Kiss their ass. Or get…what she feels like shipping sometimes as she cleans out her god damn attic.

It’s not about the money they have never had jobs in their lives because they are rich.

So. It’s a choice. It’s a fuck you choice. And I wonder how much I sorta love that and hate that and hold it against Noah and give him brownie points for it at the same time.

Shit.

I am in my feels.

I feel kind of ashamed of myself that I only get motivated to really pursue my friends when I feel some specific “ok” signal is given and interest in sex is the strongest and easiest. It doesn’t have to. Obviously I maintain platonic relationships. But the… length of time in between when I can ask for a visit is long. I feel like I’m imposing and offering little.

I feel like like I have so very little to offer anyone.

Not productive enough

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I didn’t get enough done today. I still need to sand and do one more scrub down. Shit. Instead my day was very full of other things.

I finished packing Jenny’s birthday box. So I’m not a complete loser.

I also had a long chat with some friends about the implications and difficulties of living with ptsd. It’s a roller coaster, yup.

Later I spent time talking to other friends I don’t see much. That was nice. I spent time in hot water. So much yay. I got acupuncture and scheduled more for two weeks out. My back isn’t happy, but it’s better.

I’ve had good reason to think about how lucky I am that Noah likes me so much. I don’t understand what I did to deserve someone being this nice to me, but I’ll take it. He allows me to fuck up. He allows me to make mistakes without ridiculing me or ranting about my failures (mostly). He only rants about my nonmonogamy fuck ups. He kinda glides right past everything else.

Thank you–mostly.

I was asked how life was going. I said “9’s and 1’s. No. That’s not true. 9’s and 3’s.” It’s only so low because the remodel stuff is sucking. As is realizing how limiting it is that I can’t handle having sex in places my kids go and I really can’t deal with Noah doing it either.

The 3’s really aren’t even that bad. Shut up, wench. You have a life of joy.

It was a good day. I got to watch Noah do his thing. It’s awesome to do. I feel lucky when I get to be part of it. He entertains me and I feel proud of him. He wasn’t actually this cool when I met him. I’ve been good for him and noticing that is good for me. Ha. Cocky much? Yup. Noah does that for me.

I’m thinking hard about finding the right words about dating stuff.

I want to talk about why I want it and why it is important without hurting Noah. And that takes dancing on the tip of the eyelash of a hummingbird. Fuck this “men aren’t emotional” bullshit.

We all want to be special.

What does being special mean anyway? Does being special mean that you cling to one person and that is all you have or need or want?

I uhh don’t think I’ll ever run out of want for other people. Whether that long-term turns into serious partnerships with a few people or if the people come and go is… yet to be seen.

My submissive has been hanging out an awfully long time. We will keep working on what that means.

Really I want to deepen and broaden a lot of my friendships. That’s what I’m doing. I pulled taut on the strings of my web and these are the people who said, “Jesus. Stop the fucking yanking. I’m here.”

I love you so much.

I love the way Cupid’s eyes twinkle.

I love Deity’s smile.

I love the way my submissive melts into me.

I love the way my Daddy calls me Princess and strokes my cheek.

I love that Noah is trying to allow me to have this even though it is so completely not fair.

These are people I’m used to seeing 1-5 times/year over the past few years. It is… kinda weird to figure out how to integrate them more deeply again. I want to. I want to figure out how to get past my fear of asking.

A friend pointed out that I hadn’t invited her and her partner to the cruise we are going on in August. That wasn’t because I don’t want you to go. That was because asking people for something I want very badly hurts. The more people I ask to spend this kind of money and this kind of time… the more people are going to tell me no because they have to. It’s not a cheap experience. I know that.

I didn’t think more people would want to come. I feel shocked we came up with 9 guests.

I didn’t think anyone else would want to go. I already had to deal with most of the people I did ask telling me no. They mostly have good reasons. (Not Noah’s parents. I think I focus on bitching about them because I have feelings about everyone who said no… but his parents are the only ones with shitty reasons so I feel a hair more justified in being whiny and they don’t give a shit what I feel and it doesn’t impact them whereas if I whine about my friends… See. My superego is developed.)

I have cried at all three confirmations that my friends are going. This is a huge deal to me. One of my friends said, “I would never forgive myself for having the chance to be there and choosing not to go.”

That….

That’s going to be a big deal. Forever. Someone thinks of me as family. More than one person thinks they really need to be there with us.

Oh wow.

People give what they have to spare and that has to be enough. Sometimes it even is. 69 days to go for a few more minutes. I don’t especially plan to post pictures or mail them out. I’m looking forward to this feeling private. If you come to our house, sure you can see. But I’m not doing this for the internet. I’m doing it for me.

One day of my life I am going to feel like it is ok for me to dress up pretty and be surrounded by people who love me. I’m not going to spend the day beating my head on concrete or sneaking off to cry or isolating myself. All of these things are tactics I have employed during various attempts to pretend it was ok to be the center of attention.

Maybe it is easier that it is only nine people. That won’t feel like an audience. They barely outnumber our family. And most of them are so short. If we stack them up, surely we only get like six guests.

And given that Jenny has gone radio silence and there are now travel advisory stuff saying maybe she should cancel this trip… I’m getting worried that we are actually down to six. Which will be sad but understandable. It’s going to be the most god damn understandable reason in the world to not be able to go. I will be 100% in support of whatever decision is reached.

And then I’ll cry. And that’s ok too. It isn’t the end of the world if I cry. I’ll stop being a petty baby at some point.

Ok, I’ll be sad and disappointed. Jenny was the first to say yes. The one I kinda counted on in my heart. But I really really understand the Zika stuff. We will have to wait 6+ months after getting back and I’ll probably want to get tested before we try to get pregnant.

It’s a stressful decision.

I am more concerned about the health of the babies than I am about playing dress up with Jenny. It would be fun. Maybe it isn’t meant to be.

That happens.

Life. It plugs along. It is happy. It is sad. It is life.

I am about medicated enough for bed. Goodnight internet. It is 68 days now. Sleep time.

Good grief.

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I am going to say that I can’t schedule a July date till the 19th. I’m not available till the 22nd. I’m only available for a group date and maybe a solo date if next weekend strikes out. But this way, if I exercise self control, hopefully no cancellations.

Let us pray.

Tact

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I wrote a long post last night. It is sitting in drafts. I think my level of tact in it was extra special magically low so it can stay in drafts.

Hoo boy. Volition. Want. Identity.

How much am I just not ok being pegged (ha ha) as a vanilla heterosexual suburban house wife?

I want to be a possession. I want to possess. I want to do things of my own fucking volition and that changes from day to day and based on other peoples boundaries.

Recently a nice fella was hitting on me. I explained that at this stage of my life I really only have possible space for nice people who are interested in group sex. My solo date slots are full. It’s going to take a long time before this feels settled and like my life, but the folks I’m seeing… I’m hopefully going to get to juggle them for a while.

I want more kisses. And if I have to be careful and get them slowly because that helps Noah feel more secure, I can live with that.

I think my Owner broke something completely that was cracked really badly when I met him. I can’t ever be the One. I can’t be special enough to be someone’s everything. I can’t be small enough to be one person’s thing. I need to touch too many people. I need to love too many people.

Sometimes I feel like my attachment stuff is broken in very odd ways. I can walk away from anyone–no matter how much I love them. But I can’t walk away from everyone even if I don’t love them very much. Those drips and drabs of love are important. They… they flow into the cracks of my self esteem.

I feel like Noah gives me 97% of everything I need. And it’s going to take a few hundred thousand people to fill the last 3%. Because I have to be careful and not expect anything from anyone else. I have to just accept what they feel like offering. It has to be enough. That’s why it takes so many of them.

I don’t want to leave Noah. In order to fill the other 97% without him… I can’t. I just can’t. I literally can’t. It has never happened. I need him.

Yeah, I’ll accept boundaries in order to keep you. I would be a self hating fool if I said no.

Yesterday one of the generous folks who came over to help was talking about love and matching. How much like the people we love do we need to be? Careers? Hobbies? Interests? Passions?

Do I really have to play video games?

No. I don’t.

Noah and I are talking a lot about the terrible, terrifying possibility of him dating some day. We are past “fair” and getting to “want”. That’s nice. Nice nice nice nice nice. What does dating mean to each of us? What do we get out of the rest of our lives? What kinds of energy do we have to give versus what kinds of energy do we need to get? What can we ask for? What is reasonable to demand in an ongoing way?

Oh hard talks.

I said I thought this would take at least 200 hours to negotiate. I may have underestimated. But we persevere so an end will appear someday.

“We could table this conversation till after next kid. That’s what we did last time.”

“Oh look where that got us. We have to work out nonmonogamy.”

“Shit.”

Said without attribution because we trade places in that exchange.

I’ve been reading about indigenous tribes where hetero/homo sexual behaviors are more based on age than about specific lifelong preference. That’s fascinating to me given my inability to initiate with women lately. I just… fail.

I can taunt guys until they grab me and toss me against a wall/bed to have their wicked way with me. I taunt girls and we sit there looking at each other kinda panting.

Sigh.

LESBIAN FORKING SHEEP.

Hilarious.

What do I want? More love. More support. More hands make light work. Yesterday was so joyful for me. Co-working is one of the most bonding things I do. I love when people exchange work with me. Oh! I get to go help T&t on Wednesday! They have to do a bunch of moving stuff around for prep for an emergency home repair and I get to help. This is awesome because T is the dude who helped me finish my garage. I’m excited I finally get a chance to help him. *happy dance*

I will wear a corset under my clothes for back support.

My week is full of wonderful love and work. That’s how I like my life. I think the only thing that would make my week better in my opinion is if more lovers came over to help work and there was a lovely pile of people afterwards. But that won’t be happening. Sigh.

I really wanted my new damn shower to be ready because I had to hot very dirty women yesterday. I wanted to help them clean off.

FUCK YOU REMODELING COMPANY. YOU ARE NEGATIVELY IMPACTING MY LIFE NOW. WTF.

Ahem.

lol

(They were very dirty because I accidentally dumped a bag of dirt on their heads. Whoops. I’m telling you, my friends are patient with me.)

But we got almost my whole to-do list done and I will finish it today. It was an ambitious list. Even with four workers. That’s kinda how I schedule myself. An ambitious to do list for four people…. for myself. Thank goodness people show up and save me from myself.

Shiny change of topic.

Why no sex in places the kids go other than my house. Why in the fuck is my house ok? Because my house is mine and no one’s memories get to take away my memories here. That’s why it is an exception.

But I don’t go to Daddy’s house very often. A majority of my memories there are with my kids. I don’t want that warring in my head when I’m there with my kids. I want to just be in my kid memories. I have a lot of strong visual plus body memories. It matters to me.

If my house didn’t have so many memories of all kinds good and bad it might be different. My house is my universal setting. Anything good or bad can happen here. What does safe space mean? Fuck if I know.

I really don’t.

Ok time to run off. I’m going to do the bits of shopping I need to do for Jenny’s birthday box then go to Krav then come home, shower, then run off to acupuncture. When we get home we drag a refrigerator and I start sanding walls. After that folks come over to talk mental health.

It’s just another day in paradise.

Luckily this day ends with me soaking in hot water with Noah and my Daddy and whoever else my Daddy has invited over. Thus me thinking about “No sex at Daddy’s.” Because my kids go there. Even though it might be convenient and/or hot.

I don’t want to make that muddy. I want my kids to have safe space from my sluttery.

I’m not going to have them grow up and hear a horrifying list of places where they have played where I’ve fucked a bunch of people.

Come on.

 

Forward, ho

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I’m moving forward. The remodel stuff is creaking along the lines of “I’m about to fire your ass” and I have support. Today two grown ups are coming over and they will help with yard work and painting tasks.

Yard work tasks:

  1. transplant the blue agaves
  2. transplant YC’s plant
  3. fill the palettes with dirt and transplant the strawberries
  4. finish moving the remaining dirt into more planters for YC’s “own bed for growing things”. Sorry it has to be divided up.
  5. Some weed pulling and moving of yuck to the green waste bin
  6. Filling all the bird feeders
  7. Trim the roses and distribute the thorns so I get fewer cats. Fucking neighbor cats
  8. Water both yards

Painting tasks:

  1. Remove cupboards & hardware
  2. Scrub walls with intensive cleanser
  3. Sand walls
  4. Rescrub with cleanser

Doesn’t that sound like a full enough damn day?

Regular chores:

  1. Laundry (must strip bed) working on this
  2. Load dishwasher
  3. Hand wash sink of dishes
  4. Clear counters and finish finding “during painting” homes for everything

Contact peeps chores:

  1. Where am I sleeping on the 25th? Must look at options on a map. Thank you generous, kind friends. Decision made. Beginning of the parade route.
  2. Write a letter. To whom is yet to be decided but I should do it. Wrote 2
  3. Look at Jenny’s birthday box, see what has to be added and make the shopping list. I should fucking mail it this weekend. I’m already in the next month. I know she forgives me, but I’m feeling like an asshole.
  4. Schedule acupuncture
  5. Schedule pampering w/Sarah

To be fair! The kitchen prep is only from my waist up today. Because I’m painting in stages for reasons of not exhausting myself.

Noah told the kids yesterday that surely we were about out of room for plants. The kids both argued. He argued back. I said, “I expect we’ll have 40-80 more plants before I’m done.” Noah said, “Whoa.”

Well, after the house is painted I’m ringing the fucker with plants. There are going to be a lot of indoor plants once we are done painting this time.

I’m going to spend the next year of my life trying to learn how to take proper care of my garden. This is going to take a fuck-ton of time.

I’m looking forward to it.

Volition, fucking, and not fucking

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My shrink pointed out that for many years I’ve talked about how it doesn’t matter what I want I “have” to have sex ‘x’ times per month. She is very heartened to hear that I’m moving past feeling like that is appropriate.

My dates recently are… not always what I’d expect for sex. I don’t have sex all the times I expect me to. I’m trying to change the model where I am standing near an available person and I push for sex no matter how I feel. If I’m having ambiguous feelings, I’m sitting close to them and seeing what happens. Am I trying to have closer to normal high school dating?

Mostly, no sex.

That’s interesting. This must be closer to what it is like for other people. Maybe?

I’m also really happy that I’ve been able to articulate that lumping kissing in with sex bothers me. For the last few years I have been unable to even kiss my friends hello/goodbye. Ok, kisses on the cheek probably “would have been ok” but I’m a stickler and slippery slopes, etc. I didn’t kiss.

I want to kiss. Kissing feels like bonding with friends. I don’t have to go all the way. Oxytocin, baby. I need a lot of it. If someone doesn’t want to kiss me first and start the oxytocin loop… I feel severely inhibited. I feel like I will be forcing.

Even when it is so obvious this hot girl wants me to kiss her and she’s leaning in inches from my face.

If you don’t kiss me I don’t have permission. I’m not doing so hot at being the one to initiate.

I did with Cupid and I felt wracked with guilt. I felt like I pushed him past several boundaries and that makes me scummy.  I was so happy when he chose to kiss me last weekend. I assumed he just wouldn’t. I was wearing lipstick and that makes me less interesting from his point of view. Thank you.

I know I have the invitation to initiate with some folks. You don’t know how hard that is sometimes.

I know Deity likes me fine. I know that when we get together he’s ok with me being frisky. If I move towards him and he creates space I have to struggle to not freak out. It is a conscious effort.

I’m not rational about this shit.

With Daddy I have the most in-person-comfort with him liking me just fine without sex compared to the rest of my friends-who-are-fucking-me-right-now. I’ve spent a lot of hours over many years around him and the sex part is brand new. I think that if he hadn’t grabbed me by the back of the neck and dragged me to bed… I could have stalled out on that interest forever. Even though I do feel comfortable initiating mild kisses.

I’m so weird.

Goodness I’m looking forward to a group date with Daddy. He’s… hawt. And (mumble things that I don’t have the right to talk about in public) so I’m extra excited about getting Noah and Daddy at the same time! Holy tomato! This… this will have to wait until I’m riding the waves of masochism high. Because they are going to hurt me. I’m looking forward to it, but not yet. I’m still feeling like blood loss and med adjustment and funk.

I love you all so much for your patience.

That’s one of the most obnoxious, most consistent pieces of dealing with me. You’ll need a lot of patience.

Today is easy. All I have planned today is a nursery run, (small one), more work towards the painting of the kitchen. Today I take down all the hardware and cabinets and start sanding the shit out of the walls. This’ll be messy. I’m excited. You have no idea. I’ve been looking at this kitchen and internally wailing “But it looks terrible” for years. Must fix.

So, stop using spoons, wench.

Enmeshment

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We are getting somewhere. But then again I keep thinking that only to have the house of cards come crashing down. Where are we getting?

More limits. Maybe just more understanding of how to dance around the limits that already exist? That’s probably closer.

Noah can handle a certain amount of me being slutty. I can have a date or two a month. I can fuck my friends. I can kiss my friends. But I’m pushing my luck getting so close to having a boyfriend. Noah is not open to me having a second live in partner. Ok. That’s fair enough.

If we want/need to figure out coparenting with more people it has to be more in the form and function of our Bonus Family. We don’t fuck them or play with them. We coparent. It keeps the lines less muddy.

Would I say I love K or B (the Bonus Parents) less than I love Daddy? Whoo boy. I don’t think so. I love them differently. I don’t love Daddy more because he hits me and fucks me deliciously.

(I’m afraid I am going to spend years trying to live down the phrase “deprivation vacation”. I wasn’t serious. You are all fabulous lovers or I wouldn’t come back. You notice how I come back? That means you aren’t deprivation. It’s just… variation. Sometimes I lack tact, ok? If I’m still fucking you… it’s not bad. Truly.)

But I stand unashamedly behind the notion that y’all ain’t better at fucking me than Noah. Practice helps.

It isn’t a competition. Tell that to all the folks who die alone with no sex or love.

But people aren’t disposable. People aren’t available just for the bits of themselves that are convenient.

This is why it is easy to be encouraging of my extra people finding other partners, sex, love, and intimacy. You deserve so much more than I can give you. You are wonderful. I’m glad you are here. I feel, pretty much all the time, like people deserve better than I can give them. Deity, Cupid, my submissive, Noah, my kids, Daddy, my friends…

I am inadequate.

All I can promise is that I am giving every speck I have to give. Divvying out my energy and time is hard.

Noah says: one or two dates a month. If I have sex or play with a friend it is a date. Every time I hang out with my sex-having friends it isn’t a date because sometimes it isn’t. Kissing doesn’t make it a date. I’m allowed to kiss my friends.

(That was one of the hardest boundaries for me to keep during monogamy. I like kissing.)

I remember parties in college, before I found the bdsm community and learned more rigid boundaries… I would go from lap to lap kissing on folks. Boys, girls, folks who I couldn’t guess and I didn’t ask. That was how I wanted to interact. I wasn’t good about asking permission and I’m sure I crossed boundaries.

I didn’t feel comfortable existing there without that.

A nice man came over to my house and kissed me recently. He’s not open even a little bit to group sex so we won’t see much of one another after that, but it was nice anyway.

I don’t want someone’s extra time. I just want the kiss.

I want to kiss you and give us both that little chemical jolt and say, “Have a lovely day.”

My shrink spent so much time telling me she is proud of how Noah and I are talking that she didn’t get around to finger wagging about how into Deity I am. Danger Will Robinson. But the boundaries are becoming clearer.

He’s my friend. Good golly do I like having sex with him. And kissing him. And hearing about his life. I wish many lovely things for him. I’m going to push like mad towards him having a primary. Because I can’t have him. Even if part of me wants him. I can have just a little part of him. Just a little bit left over.

Because that’s all I have left over too. Noah wants the rest and I want to give it to him. Because that is how I will keep him and I really need to keep Noah. Letting go of this would be letting go of thinking I deserve to be this important to someone. Because I will never again in this life find someone who thinks I am as important as Noah does. Deity won’t view me that way. No one else I’m dating will.

No one else I’ve ever met, not my parents, ever thought I was important the way Noah does.

Yes, I pick that. I pick Noah.

But I still want to suck Cupid’s cock. And I’m really looking forward to pegging my submissive while Noah fucks his mouth.

I want these things. I just have to get my schedule of childcare to match up with the mood swings.

I want to get better about not doing these things on days when I’m not up for it. I want to feel more ok about canceling and not feeling upset.

I want to feel like it is ok to be where I am right now.

Because so many of the things I do are ok if and only if I’m ok doing them right now and they are completely not ok at other times. Complicated.

Staying with Noah and treating him how I believe he deserves to be treated is important to me. It is hard that there are parts of me that want to disrespect him because of demographic data he can’t help. But I’m working on that. I can’t treat him like a symbol of the problem.

I need to treat him like my husband. That doesn’t mean I cover for him if he fucks up. Oh hell no. When the girl he raped came to me asking for support I was on her fucking side and I would have been as far as necessary. I know who I am and what I stand for. But outside of that, outside of him fucking up like whoa…

Noah has earned my loyalty. He’s earned forgiveness and tolerance. Because he has given it when I didn’t deserve it.

Breakfast is on the table.

Sad, scared, but hopeful?

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My shrink smiled at me and said, “I know you don’t want to hear this… but these conversations with Noah, though painful, are positive. You two are working through deeper levels of trust than you have been able to access in ten years. Yeah. That’s going to hurt.”

Fuck her.

I’m kidding.

Noah and my shrink have opposite assumptions about how nonmonogamy will go plus a pregnancy. He says, “You will still want all your boys.” She says, “Oh good! So it’s going to be at least a year and a half of you just not wanting anyone else that’ll be convenient.”

I tried having sex with my submissive during my last pregnancy. It… didn’t really go that well. He smelled wrong. (Which is not his fault or any actual criticism of him.) It’s a chemical/pheromone thing. He was the only person I tried to have sex with and it didn’t work. I suspect another pregnancy would be similar. I had the most intense, “I’m only supposed to have sex with my baby daddy” feeling.

There’s a part of me that wishes I felt slutty while pregnant but I haven’t so far in four pregnancies. I have my doubts about that happening this time.

My 2. 4 pregnancies when you add up the weeks? Eek.

My shrink was thrilled when I told her that Noah changed his mind about a third baby when I started saying the word “c-section”. “See! Isn’t he the best man ever! He wouldn’t consider it when you were doing it in a way that made it unlikely you will survive and once it is obvious you are committed to staying with him…. Awwwww.”

I never stopped wanting a baby. I would talk about why it was a bad idea. I would talk about the benefits of not having a baby. I never stopped wanting this child.

My shrink says she is very interested in seeing how the next few years go for me. She’s excited I’m trying so hard to find volition in my sex. That’s global.

I think that’s why things are feeling awkward in a lot of my sex-situations right now. Where is my volition?

I don’t want to lead and I don’t want to do anything I don’t want to do. That’s a bitch.

My shrink says she can understand why Noah is feeling insecure if I’m going out and having better sex. I said, “That’s just it! The sex isn’t better! It’s like a deprivation vacation!”

Uhm, no offense, folks.

Noah knows me inside and out. Noah knows when to fuck faster and when to go slower. He knows when it is time to start playing with my ass. He knows which shift of my shoulders means, “Please pinch my nipple.” He knows how to be mean and how to touch me so gently I feel like I am made of spun glass.

It isn’t that other people fuck me better. They don’t. It is that experiencing variety lets me come home and go, “Oh Goldilocks Penis of my dreams, come here.”

I say he has the Goldilocks Penis because it is the perfect size and shape. Plus I love me some foreskin. Why perfect size and shape? It’s a fit thing. He doesn’t hurt in general. There are only a few days a month and a few positions where my cervix drops enough that sex hurts. With anyone bigger than him… it hurts. I have a low slung cervix. I can deal with that pain mostly… but it’s there. It is something to process with other people.

AND WHAT IS UP WITH THESE DUDES WITH HUGE COCKS LINING UP FOR ME?!

I mean, I love you just how you are. Ahem.

I partially have so much sex with Noah because eventually I run into friction problems. Eventually.

That’s perfect sex.

I can fuck Noah for 4-6 hours in a day and I’m just barely sore the next day. An hour of fucking Deity and I feel it for a few days. Like owwwwwwwww.

Thank Goodness no one in the current roster is as big as my Owner. Never. Ever. Again.

My internal organs have been beaten about enough. Seriously.

I’m thinking about what you wrote about enmeshment, Noah. I really am.

I’m talking about other cocks. But I’m thinking about you. Like I do. Where is this going? You really don’t want me to have serious relationships. You really want me to only focus on you. And sometimes have sex with my friends.

I can’t argue with any of the points you make. You are right. I don’t want you to stop. I like having you as a supplicant. If in order to have you I must have massive limits around everyone else…

I need you like I need air. R wants to punch me in the face for saying I wouldn’t be where I am without you. But I still think it is true. Outside of you, Noah, no one has ever wanted very much of me.

No one in my life right now actually wants very much of me. They want what they want. That very narrow slice. Just that piece. Then they will go back to their life. They will go back to their families.

And I have you. You have given me my first family. My only family. For me to pick anything other than you would be the most self hating decision I have ever made.

You look at Deity and see someone who could replace you. I see someone who is not broken enough to put up with my shit. I see someone who would expect me to change to fit the dynamics of their life. You changed everything for me.

I do not see any replacements for you anywhere on this planet.

I looked.

But I do still want to have sex with my friends. And the occasional stranger.

I don’t know how this is going to work. I don’t want to run the group sex we have and that means you kinda have to run the fuck and that means we can only have sex with people who are more or less ok with the idea that you suggest a lot of stuff during sex. That narrows who we have sex with a lot.

Thank you for your flexibility with suggestions and for your hotness Oh Deity.

Even though your dick is too big it is a wonderful sometimes treat.

How are we going to do this without hurting you or me, Noah? I don’t want to hurt you more. Hearing you talk this morning just about broke my heart. I should not have so much power over anyone. I’m not sure this Krissy-religion is smart if I can hurt you that badly. Oh honey.

But I get it. Ok, so we feel about the same way when it comes to the idea of the other seriously dating.

It feels like all of a sudden we are just marking time until death. Like nothing is important. Like we don’t matter except as a tool of support. God that feeling sucks.

Time to be a parent.

Waves of feelings

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I’m happy. So much is going well. I’m sad. How can there be such monsters in the world?

I have been sexually involved with people of all genders throughout my lifetime. I can’t imagine being targeted for that. No one has ever cared.

I live such an incredible life of privilege.

Yesterday I was reminded that some people think that segregation is dandy. They think their right to not want to be near people who aren’t like them is fine.

People like you. That is how I will think of these individuals. “People like you”. I have no more generosity in my soul. People who who think that their right to never smell a homeless person is more important than a homeless person’s right to eat.

I…

I’m not thinking kind thoughts. I’m thinking you are a bad apple and one bad apple can spoil a barrel.

Public school parents tell me that their children aren’t being taught to be more tolerant. They are being taught to fake it better.

My heart weeps.

I will hide in the false reality of my house. A reality where people matter. Where no one is disposable. A house where if the local homeless people walk by they aren’t told to move along they are fed and given something useful. Because I am not better than you I just happen to have more luck at this turn of the wheel. If it makes you feel better I’ve been on the shitty side of things too.

My life has not always been this magical.

I am waiting until I get my new medical insurance information. I need to schedule: a) a sleep study b) talk to a Dr about an appetite stimulant other than pot because at this point I’m still using it as much as I do because without it I can’t eat a normal amount of food and I get sick and c) a high risk OB appt to talk about my screwy periods over the last year and to talk about the possibility of a third pregnancy.

Before we pay for surgery for Noah, let’s find out if a high risk OB says “Sure we can get you through a birth. May involve a scar on your belly–but you’ll get through.” I will say, “Yes. Fine. Sign me up.”

Pam when you tell me that you are freaked out because of the medical concerns… I’m walking into this with the attitude that if a c-section seems smart, cut me open. I don’t want to risk another hemorrhage.

And that’s Ms “I must have my home water birth.”

I did it. I saw what that got me. Next option.

I believe that my different attitude about the birth is going to make a big difference. I’m going out looking for interventions. “Hey, what’s up, hello! Keep me from dying, yo.”

My second birth I was ok with dying at home as long as I didn’t have to transfer. In retrospect that was an asshole attitude to have for Noah’s sake.

But people are where they are. At this point I’m eight years into being a parent and this has been by far the best section of my life. I don’t want out. I want more of this. I want all of this I can get until my heart literally stops and I can’t have more.

Which is complicated with the suicidality, let me tell you.

I feel horrified by the loss of the queer poc in Orlando. No more. No more. No more mass killings. Why are we so focused on keeping the right of gun ownership and not focused on the fucking right to stay alive.

I hide in my bubble. Where people are ok. Even in the intolerant motherfuckers are ok here. They visit and spew their bullshit. It isn’t that my bubble protects me from knowing about the foul sludge in the world. I just… don’t have to live in it.

Mostly I fear that I’m doing everything wrong. I’m scared I’m a terrible person with no possible redeeming value.

Then I meet other people and feel like really maybe I’m an awesome human being. I’m overflowing with the milk of human compassion. I’m generous. I’m thoughtful. And then there are these other people. And they are loved. If they deserve to be loved, shit I should be almost worshipped.

Let’s get real here.