When your teeth sank deep into my skin for the first time last night, it was such sweet release. I remember feeling suddenly and alarmingly soft, like you were pushing yourself all the way into a dark under-layer of me.

This encounter was so unexpected. Just two days ago, my heart was broken by my love, our relationship ended quickly with a cold sleight of harsh words. And just a few weeks ago, you and I were mere acquaintances.

But last night, you took me with the kind of force and passion that I hadn't dared to ask or hope for from my love in too long. In the morning sunshine, I look over the beautiful bruises that dot my neck and thighs and smile. If I lick the roof of my mouth and close my eyes, I can still taste you in my mouth. I catch my breath when I think of how intently our eyes fixed on each other while you twisted your whole hand in and out of me, roughly and with exquisite care. Last night, I needed to be hurt and desired in equal measures.

You told me I wasn't as tough as I had come off in our pre-sex exchanges. It was true. At first, I could barely hold myself up on two legs or even on all fours. I was high with lust, and I couldn't even begin to try to pretend I didn't want every single slap and kiss. By the end of our time together, I felt like the girl who got to have her cake and eat every single fucking delicious bite of it, too.

Today, I spent in much of a confused daze, the weird mix of glee and deep sadness both battling it out for my attention. And as I begin to come down from the post-sex high, I can feel the pain of my lost relationship start to come back to me in fresh waves. It didn't go anywhere last night, but a pause button got pressed, and it was such sweet relief to be taken somewhere else for a few hours. So, I can't help but thank you and whatever luck or fate brought us together last night for giving me something I had no idea I needed so badly.


Deep breaths; here we go.

You know how sometimes they say that love is right in front of you and it finds you when you least expect it? I always thought that a parable for romantic comedies, fiction novels, and fools. But today, I wrote a love letter for the first time in 7 years.

Last weekend, my lover and sweetheart of nearly 2 years said I love you, and something big shifted in me. I had been feeling it too; the slow burn of our sweet and tender passion had grown into something bigger, but I was too scared to name it. But J did, and ever since then, I feel a hard shell cracked open, soft and quivering insides oozing out for all to see.

For many years, I've feared that there was something wrong with me because I had never had love like it seemed that everyone else around me knew. I have said I love you many times, always quickly to new lovers in the roman candle of our passion. I hadn't said it to anyone or heard it said to me in years, and the last person who told me they loved me also brought out the worst in me. A year and a half of her "love" had brought me to a deeply dark place, one where I felt inherently unlovable and like I would never love myself enough to pick someone who would love me well. I hated myself after her, tried to change as many things about who I was and the way I looked after we ended in the hopes of escaping that deeply sad person. I feared that maybe it was me; that I wasn't someone deserving of love or compassion or care, and that she was the best I would ever get.

Over these past 2 years with J, these deep and tender wounds have begun to heal. J cares for me in a way that I don't know that I've ever experienced in a lover. When we're together, I feel cherished and special and beautiful. When J touches me, I relax and feel safe. When we're together, I feel present and my mind is quiet.

My relationship with J doesn't look like what I would have thought love could be. J has a primary parter, and we have seen each other about once every week or two for the last couple of years. For a long time, I felt that J and I were in the murky territory between dating and a Relationship. I don't know that I took us seriously enough, and when J said I love you, everything changed. Maybe I just needed to hear those words, or maybe it's that J said them first when I was too scared to risk it. But in the days since it happened, it's as if my eyes started to creep open after a long, deep sleep.

Tonight, I sobbed while I re-read the letter I wrote to J. I cried for the happiness I didn't think I could have. I cried for the terrifying fear I feel in loving someone, knowing that nothing is promised and that I can be hurt. I cried with thanks to finally realize how much I have and how lucky I am. I cried because I am afraid of that I might want more than what is possible. I cried because I am terrified of my own need. I cried because J isn't scared of it. I cried because someone who knows me also loves me, and I didn't believe that that could happen. I cried because J has given me the gift of learning to love and trust myself.

A few years ago, a close friend of mine was falling in love and I read a quote from her that's stayed with me ever since. Anaïs Nin wrote it, and I remember reading it and yearning to know that feeling.

"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."

Today, I cried with release because I can finally begin to let go of all the dark beliefs I've held about myself for all these years, and because I can now begin the terrifying and exhilarating process of learning to love both J and myself.



What do you call a weekend where you have great hangouts with friends, a fantastic first date, and marathon sex with a friend who you also hook up with?


These last several months have been rocky in the romance department, what with me once and for all ending things with Married Man after his pathetic attempts to try and lure me back in the last weeks before his wife gave birth, and slogging through the great difficulty trying to negotiate major scheduling incompatibilities with my long term sweetie, whose new job's work hours are basically opposite of mine. I've also been battling some low self esteem and depression due to work and activism stress overload compounded with repeated and extended foot injuries, which have resulted in chronic pain and also made it really hard to be as active as I want to be. I think I'm almost physically ready to be active again, so now, I just need to find the time to make it happen.

But lovelies, things are looking up. Way up.


On Saturday evening, I had a first date with Foodie Dreamboat, a handsome transgentleman who I met online and hit it off with immediately in person. We share both a love of food and senses of humor, so the content of the discussions and the banter was an A+. Without a doubt, my favorite kind of flirtatious foreplay is that in which two people of matching wits and sensibilities go toe to toe in a witty verbal sparring match, and I found myself trying to hide the full extent of my delight at our effortless, laughter-filled conversations. So, Foodie Dreamboat and I chit chatted nonstop for hours before he realized that he had stayed out much later than intended because of an early work day the next day. We ended the date with an awkward, failed attempt at a goodnight kiss, followed by much bemused laughter at our incredibly awkward attempt, followed by an actual goodnight kiss that we both seemed to find rather agreeable. We both stated a desire to see each other again.

I try not to put too much hope into these things when they're so nascent, but at the very least, it's quite lovely to be reminded that sparks and chemistry are out there in the world, awaiting discovery.


The last post I wrote here (in January, oops!) was about an old-lover-turned-friend-turned-lover-again who I'll call Handsome Boy Modeling School (for obvious reasons). Him and I have continued our torrid affair, which pinnacled last night in sex that we dubbed Olympic. I felt nearly out of my mind with the intensity of the fucking and ejaculated for the first time in over 2 years. Shortly after that, he had something like 20 orgasms during a 2 hour marathon blowjob. We both collapsed in a heap of blissed out sex fiendery afterward, stunned by what magic had just happened. You know, it's that thing where you randomly (or not), have this kind of incredible, transcendent sex with someone and you're both like, "Woah, how did that just happen?" Yep. That's what we were like.

And all of that was following some spectacular sex I had with the long term sweetie last weekend, too, where both the physical part and the closeness I felt during after were so special. 

Clearly, I am in a romantic upswing, for which I am feeling quite grateful.



I've been gone. My bad.

Life has kind of sucked the last few months, but based on the last week and a half of evidence, I'm thinking that 2012 is going to be a whole lot better.

I had to pop back in to report that I just had some incredibly hot, really tender, super dirty, brain-rattling sex. This was with a former lover, who then became a friend, and who just now became a lover again.

Given that the last time we had had sex was over half a decade ago, I had almost forgotten how intense he was. Both of us are pretty damn perverted, and sometimes his hot buttons rub up against mine in a challenging, did-you-really-just-go-there/I'm-perturbed-but-also-turned-on sort of way.

I had forgotten how switchy he was, and it was like, one minute he's telling me that I'm a good girl and slapping my face, and the next minute, we're doing a quasi-Mommy/boy scene where I stroke his hair and back and tell him how good he is while while he buries his face in my tits and rubs himself.

One of the more notable facts about last night was the length and intensity with which I sucked him off. He came somewhere between 20 and 30 times, my lips wrapped around him as he shuddered into my mouth over and over again. Waking up, we began to touch and caress and kiss each other until I found my mouth on his cock again at 7 in the morning.

And lord, did he fuck me RIGHT. He has incredible stamina and energy, and he fucked me with his hands and cock for what felt like hours. He especially loved it when I squeezed myself tightly around his fist.

Today, I'm positively exhausted and barely keeping it together in order to perform at my day job. I don't know if this return-to-lovers status is something that we'll maintain, or if we'll go back to being just friends, but either way, I have these ridiculously hot memories that'll last me well into the future.


On a much much happier note, my dating life has begun to thrive.

Married Man and I have seen each other once more, and we have an upcoming third date (an overnight!) planned. In some ways, he baffles me. Never have I experienced a cis man so tender, romantic, and attentive. Granted, my experience in this department is relatively small, but even hearing stories from the trenches of my friends' dating lives leads me to believe this one is an anomaly.

My theory is that his being married and ultimately unavailable means that he is able to be quite straightforward with his interest and affections. Since our romantic encounters will never be more than what they are, what does he have to lose by telling me exactly how much he enjoys me?

I have also begun preliminary conversations with a brand new lust interest. We'll call him Mr. Dapper, because he is. MD and I found each other through a dating site, and were both surprised and delighted to see that we share quite a few interests, sexual and non. We are both writers, and have been enjoying seducing each other with words over email in the lead up to a date that will happen soon.

I am not going to say too much more for fear of hoping for too much before we find out whether or not Good On Paper translates into a more tactile connection, but I am optimistic. And fucking horny as shit.

It's so funny

How quickly a rejected man's lust can turn to rage.

"picky fat bitch. u gotta be kiddin me."

A response to my non-response to his less-than-appealing pictures accompanied by "love what i read" and an invitation to meet him for drinks and sex later this week.

I am on the receiving end of this kind of entitled rage with regularity. A fat girl like me, their reasoning seems to indicate, should be flattered that they could even entertain the idea of pity fucking me. Or, what I think is really going on - they are embarrassed of their big girl desires and their fragile egos can't handle being rejected by girls who they think no one else would want anyway.

An ignored catcall leads to an order to smile. A refusal to give my number to a strange man on the street is suddenly an indication that I am a nasty bitch. A scowl at his leer leads to a litany of insults and accusations. A non-response to a proposition suddenly renders my formerly sexy fat body ugly. Funny how it can all turn on a dime.

Unrequited lust and frustrated rage; two sides on the same coin of misogyny.


These days, one of the only thing that soothes me is cooking an elaborate feast, even if only for one.

Going to the market, I look for what's fresh and what's on sale. I look at the counters and shelves and the piles of fruit and meats and vegetables, dreaming up iterations and variations of beautiful meals past. I gauge how much time I have, how much money I'm willing to spend. I thank This Modern Age as I look up recipes in the aisle of the store, trying not to block the bustle of others in search of their next meal.

When I return, I set my groceries on the counter, put away what will be used later and lay out the raw ingredients for what I hope will be a delicious meal. I mentally calculate how much time it will take to make each dish and proceed accordingly. I wash; I chop; I peel; I season; I saute; I roast; I toast; I grill. While my food is cooking, I tidy up and wash the dirty dishes I've made, just like my mother always taught me. I set the table for one, I pour my drink, I lay out my fork and knife. During the last two minutes of cooking time, I am frenzied with the details, trying to time it all so that everything will be warm and delicious all at the same time.

I serve my portion, and set aside the rest for tomorrow's lunch. With fanfare, I carry my plate to the table, admiring the smells and the way the food looks on the plate; the rich browns, the bright greens, the golden oranges. I cut into the first bite and smile to myself, thinking about all the friends and lovers with whom I would love to share this meal. Instead, I tell them about it over email or through pictures. Sometimes, they come over and I cook for them or we cook together.

Tonight, I have a beautiful pot of short ribs braising in the oven. As they approach their second hour of cooking, a pan of butternut squash sits next to them, roasting with sage. I've just finished trimming the green beans, which will get sauteed with garlic and olive oil once the meat and the squash are near done.  A dear friend is on her way. I look forward to her oohs and ahhs, the groans of delight and satisfaction that I know she'll make when she eats what I've made. I've spent half my day preparing for and cooking this meal, and every short minute that we eat will be worth all the time, the money, and the dishpan hands I've acquired to put this plate on the table.