I missed you

I love you too much.
I see you too little.
And I miss you.

I miss you so much
I could wear a blue suit with a capital M on the front
M for miss
M for much
M for mind
as in I must be out of mine

M for midnight
the hour I lay in wait for you
wait for your voice in my head
walking down the corridors of my mind
pushing buttons
opening doors
making me laugh
making me cry

Oh yes,
M for my love
I miss you
I miss you like the ocean misses the shore as soon as its ebbed away
even knowing it will still be there the waves rush forward to kiss the sand
again and again
saying "I missed you"

I missed you.

(podcast: listen here)

She loves him

She loves him. She knows it as well as she knows that he loves her. He's proved it countless times without his intending to or her asking him to. It has caught them both by surprise, this love, and neither of them seems quite sure what to do.

She had doubted it would ever come to her, this feeling. Oh she's loved others, but never with giddiness and longing, with aching in places she did not know love could make her ache. She understands at last the concept of "lovesickness" which previously has been so foreign to her, understands that this weakness could easily infect a person's will. Her will.

She is a warrior. Something in her perceives this love as a potential danger and stands poised to sever that which might weaken her, destroy her. No one storms her inner keep, yet she stands guard over it. Her lover raids her treasure room and takes that which is freely given, leaving behind both more of himself and taking with him pieces of her heart. She wishes to submit to her feelings, to him, to the golden experience of loving and being loved, and she does--when they are together. It is when they are apart that the doubts rise, and the warrior, carelessly dismissed, resumes her watch over the treasure trove.

When he comes to her, she does not know how to act. Like any woman she considers playing the emotional games, considers baffling him with changes in mood and behavior, considers punishing him for making him love her in any one of the countless tiny ways that women have in their arsenal of punishments. But she does not. They have loved each other long enough and true enough that when he comes to her she stands naked before him and responds from her heart. Anything less would be unworthy of them both.

When he comes to her, any thoughts of artifice fade like mist before the sun. He is her sun, her moon, her stars--and her crown of thorns. She tells him so. Tells him as he slips into her from behind, his thickness opening her, stretching her, making her flesh sting. He savours her wince, the catch of her breath, and the long low moan of pleasure. She knows this by the slowness of his pace, and by the sound he makes, the sound every woman knows in her primal self, for it is the sound a man makes when he is conquering a woman with the subtle violence of penetration. There will be blood, she thinks, and this thought fills her with satisfaction, the satisfaction of a woman anticipating the feeling of being well-used.

He is a musician and she is his instrument. She feels this as her body lengthens and arches, as her leg flows back to hug his upper thighs and his fingers strum her core. Her body vibrates with it, vibrates against his chest and belly, vibrates under the palm of his hand rocking against the peg of her clit. She hears the smile in his voice as he urges her to climax and she does, voluptuously and without restraint, her voice raised in noisy song.

He moves out of her and presses his slickened hardness against another opening. She moans again, her body moving in supplication to his desire. His push through that forbidden portal draws from them both a gasp, and she knows again what it is to love and to submit all that she is to love. She wonders, as he presses hard against her, as he forces himself into her as deep as he can go, if he knows how he devastates her with each thrust, how even the pain of it is turned upon itself to become pleasure, his pleasure, her pleasure, until the violence of his penetration and her opening to it becomes a doorway to spiritual oneness. His fingers slide between her thighs and again she opens them to him. He strums her again, fine-tuning the sexual energy, and then his fingers dive into her, into that awe-inspiring warm wetness, filling her to the point where pleasure meets pain, and she flings herself into him, battering herself against the fingers and the cock that cleave her, wondering if she dare pass through that portal of intimacy, wondering if he will meet her there, on the other side...

(podcast: listen here)

Conversation on feeling Loved (I know)

I snuggled up to him, pressed my face into his shoulder, took a deep breath, and exhaled with a contented sound, my voice vibrating into him.
"You remind me of a cat purring," he said.
"Mmmmm," I responded.
I tightened my arms around him in an embrace that was not quite a hug.
"You know..." he said.
"Mmmm hmmm," I answered, willing his brain to turn off. I love geeks, but sometimes their mouths flap like the turnkey on a toy as their minds unwind.
"...when I'm with you I feel loved." He put emphasis on the word feel.
"Oh?" I lifted my head and looked at him.
"Yes, there is a difference between knowing I am loved and feeling loved."
I grinned at him. I wanted to say Its about time! but instead said: "Go on."
"I know my parents love me, I know my wife loves me, I know my children love me. But with you, its different. I feel it. I feel loved and accepted by you in ways I've never felt before."
"And how does that feel?"
"Good.... Peaceful.... Free..."
I squeezed him again, let my fingers trail over the fine hairs on his hand.
"How do you do that?" he asked.
"Do what?"
"Make me feel it." Again that emphasis on the word feel.
"Its simple, really." I looked him straight in the eyes. He has beautiful eyes. He has beautiful everything, this man, this friend of the heart. "I love you."
"I love you, too," he answered.
We held each other for a long moment.
"Do you feel it?" he asked.
"Sometimes," I answered.
"Only sometimes?" he sounded a bit forlorn.
"I know you love me. And sometimes I feel it," I answered carefully. I felt myself tightening up a bit, worried about where the conversation was going, and how I was going to explain without hurting his feelings.
"You hoard love. You treat it like a commodity, like you are afraid you will run out of it if you aren't careful. "
"Hmmm.... I do?"
"Yes, you do. And until you give love freely, give love like your goal is to give it all away by the end of the day, people aren't going to feel it from you that way."
"I am afraid..." he said.
"I know." I said, simply. And I did know.
"There was this girl..."
"I know."
"I've never told you about her."
"I know. But I still know."
"How?"
"Because everyone is afraid, and everyone has a 'there was this girl or there was this boy' in their past." I squeezed him. "It doesn't matter."
"It doesn't?"
"Well... it only matters because you think it does."
"Sometimes Kay, you are an infuriating woman."
"I told you once that I was one of America's most frustrating women and you didn't believe me." I bit him lightly through his shirt.
"Once upon a time there was this girl," I said, spinning the story,"and you loved her very much. And something happened, and you were very hurt. It was your first real try at love and it hurt so badly you decided that never again would you let anyone in so close, that never again would you let yourself love that way again."
"You know."
"Yes, dear. I know."
"You had a 'there was this guy'?"
"Yes, and a 'there was this girl', too..."
"How did you... you know... how did you learn to love like that again?"
"I accepted that I was afraid, and chose not to let it stop me..." I started to say something else and then stopped.
"And...?" he prompted.
"And... well... I stopped trading in love. I started seeing the beauty in everyone, and loving that about them, loving them without strings. And then I started sending it to them, that love, just putting it out there, the thought-form that they were loved for who they were. I remembered what it was like to be a child and chose to love people like a child does."
"What else?" he shook me a little.
"Love divided multiplies. The more I love the more love I feel. The more love I feel, the more love I have to give, the more love I receive."
"I noticed that about you."
"Noticed what?"
"That you wanted only one thing from me."
I frowned at him. "Oh?"
"Yup. You just wanted me to let you love me."
I got tears in my eyes. I wrapped my arms and legs around him the best I could and I kissed him.
"Thank you for letting me love you," I said.
"Thank you for loving me so much I can feel it."
"My pleasure."
"Speaking of pleasure..." he moved against me a bit. He was tumescent.
I smiled. "Loving and being loved is a big turn on, sweetie. But I'm not here for sex."
He gave me a hard kiss. "You sure?"
I rubbed my mound against his thigh to let him know that I felt the charge, too. "Positive."
"Ok.... I had to try," he sounded half-amused and half-apologetic.
"I know," I said and snuggled back into him, my face pressed into his shoulder. I know.

Midsummer Night's Sensual Romp, pt 2

It was a perfect evening. The sky was a cloudless blue and the temperature was under 75F. Outside on the bamboo-shaded deck, four tables were laden with food -- fruits, vegetables, cheeses, cold-cuts, desserts, fondue -- it was truly a feast. The main room was draped in fabrics from ceiling to floor. Mats and pillows were tossed about -- it looked like a modern harem awaiting use by its female occupants. The intimacy exercises were fun and effective. I particularly enjoyed the one where we fed each other bites of food and did some eye-gazing, connecting in heart and spirit without words. The opening ceremony involved a Puck and a Titania and excepts from A Midsummer Night's Dream, read aloud. The energy in the room was wonderful -- everyone was smiling and relaxed by the exercises and games we played. And then we got down to snuggling or dancing or eating or playing increasingly more risque games as the night wore on and the full moon rose overhead. The snuggling and other physical contact was good, the people were being authentic, and I had a great time.

In the interests of protecting the privacy of the participants, I will not say more.

A Midsummer Night's Sensual Romp, pt 1

I'm no Titania by any means, but tonight I am getting my faerie costume together for the Midsummer Night Sensual Romp. I'm using a filmy thin fabric, the sort that scarves are made of. Two layers of it, pale jade green, with oriental poppies in soft yellows and pinks. I have bindi in amber and green: I'll put them on my face, neckline, cleavage, and perhaps even my bellybutton. I picked up a wire garland with stars woven into it for a crown, and I've got white flowers to add to it, and I even have a wand. In the morning I'll shave and annoint myself with oils so that I am soft and smooth and sweet-smelling. I'll probably drop my sybian off at B's for him and his wife to use in their own private sensual romp, and then I'll be off to the Romp, where I will dive into the sensuality of the LoveTribe. There is nothing quite like the energy that a gathering of this group of people has. There are all sorts of superlatives to use, but it has to be experienced to be appreciated. This will be the first big LT event I've been to since before Tammy died in January. I'm hoping to see all the dear ones I've missed while I've been away from home these past months -- and hopefully get some serious snuggle on.

Geek Fetish (a story start)

OSCON is coming to town next week! Portland will be inundated with visiting geeks. Which reminded me of a story I need to finish....

(This is for the geeks who read naughty stories. I thought they might like to read one where the hero was one of their own.)

"What is it with you and geeks?" Trina asked.

"There's something about them that makes me want to rub my clit against their minds," I answered with a naughty grin.

"Kay! You are so bad," she laughed and shot me a mock-scandalized glance.

I smiled smugly and looked at the business card in my hand. It said, Kristian L Thiessen, Senior Hardware Engineer, Intel Corporation, Hillsboro, Oregon and on the back was his cell phone number, written in the slightly slanted block-print of a southpaw. I felt a tingle on my skin as I remembered the way he held the pen as he scratched his number onto the little rectangle of paper. Parts of me wanted to see what those fingers could do to flesh.

I have a geek fetish. Or perhaps I am a geek-a-holic. Whatever you want to call it, there is no escaping the fact that a man who can talk about eigenfunctions, complexity-chaos theory, or quantum mechanics makes me moist. And this geek--this geek named Kristian--definitely did it for me.

**************

Trina needed to upgrade the RAM on her laptop and we were waiting for the next available Fry's guy to assist us when I spotted him walking toward us. He was tallish, probably 6'2”, and he wore square-rimmed glasses that somehow managed not to conceal his gorgeous blue eyes. His blond hair was receding a little and cut No. 2 short. He was heavy-set, carrying an extra 30 pounds or so, and his broad shoulders had the desk-jockey slope characteristic of most geeks. I was hypnotized by the movement of his belly under his black “resistance is futile less than 1 ohm)” tee-shirt. I found myself wanting to pull his shirt up so I could nibble and blow on his stomach. The nice, thick black belt threaded though the loops of his khakis beckoned to be undone in preparation for my exploratory hands. But for all that, it was the intent expression on his intelligent face that did it. I wanted to straddle that face and rub my pussy all over it, no doubt about it.

Reunion

Available in audio / podcast here.

When I see him, I smile self-consciously and say, "Hi."

I have a 'looking-good moment,' one of those moments in which I am conscious of every perceived imperfection in my appearance and I wonder if he can see them, too. Wonder if he sees the lack of grace in my movements, that slight hitch that I still have in my step, the stiffness in my body from pain I am not supposed to medicate away. I wonder if he will notice that I've finally grown a few grey hairs in the weeks since he saw me last. I wonder if he can see how desperately glad I am to see him. I wonder if he can see the toll the troll under the bridge I've crossed again and again this year has taken. And given.
I wonder if...
if....
if he will still love me even though I've been through another metamorphosis and am so changed. And yet the same.

All this goes through my mind in a heartbeat, perhaps two, and then he opens his arms. I walk into them and lean into him, resting my forehead against his shoulder. His arms encircle me and he gives that giggle-laugh of his, his inner 10 year-old laugh, his chick-laugh. And when he laughs the breath I didn't know I was holding flees my lungs. Tears smart in my eyes as he holds me for a moment that stretches, neither of us in a hurry, both of us basking in the comfort of the others body.

He holds me in a way I have not been held in what feels like a long time, holds me with all of him, with his heart. I pull back and look up into his eyes and I see the metta beaming from him, shining on me like a spotlight, and I know...
I know....
I know that he loves me, right now, in this moment, loves me like every person on earth wants to be loved every moment of their lives, and I am content to bask in the feeling of being loved so fully--just for being me.

Apologies

So I had a conversation with a client of mine this morning. He called me to tell me that a fix I'd done for him wasn't fully complete, which shocked me, because I knew I'd done exactly what he'd requested. It turned out I'd heard him literally and thus misunderstood what he meant. I'm usually better at listening and clarifying.

I apologized to him, and he responded gruffly with "Don't ever apologize, its a sign of weakness."
Without thinking about it, I responded, "No, John, an apology is a gift."
"A gift?" he sounded incredulous.
"Yes. A genuine, heartfelt apology is my gift to you, and if you accept it, it is your gift to me."
He was silent and for a moment there I was concerned that I had crossed a line with him, but I also felt good about what I said. I'd been true to myself and spoken from the heart. John can be very stern and demanding, so much so that he normally refused to deal with anyone else in my department, and his refusal had created some difficulty for him and my office while I was out on medical leave.
Finally, he stammered, "You're right, Kay. I didn't mean to imply that you are weak. And thank you."
I smiled. Somehow I'd managed to avert disaster, and he'd actually thanked me for, well, for correcting him or for the gift of my apology, or maybe even both.

The person who had transferred him to me had been standing anxiously at my desk. When I hung up, she asked "How did you do that?"
"Do what?"
"He was being a real prick 10 minutes ago."
"I just told him that I was sorry."
"Well, so did I. I even offered to help resolve the problem."
I thought about it for a moment.
"Yes, but I really meant it, and he got that."
"Got what?"
"Got the gift."
She just shook her head a little. "Unbelievable. I could never get away with saying some of the things you say."
"Or..." I pondered... "Or..." I spoke in an exaggeratedly breathy tone, "it could be that I just give really good phone."
I gave her a wicked grin and she laughed.
"That, too."

Open letter to a former lover

We ended our romantic relationship 15 years ago, but we stay in touch. He has been married for a dozen years now, has children, a high-pressure high-paying NYC job, inherited a butt-load of old Massachusetts family wealth--and is miserable. He emailed saying his problems must seem like nothing compared to my own. I responded with:

"If your shoes pinch or you have no shoes at all, your feet still hurt, don't they?" Suffering is suffering, and if I had my way, it would be eliminated from the spirit of every person on the planet. Imagine what we could accomplish as a species if we were not carrying around so much pain!?

Am I too impossibly positive? I am one of those people who can lose a sister, have another going through terminal illness, and nearly die herself, and still lay in a hospital bed and laugh at the absurdity of Life. The nurses and docs who took care of me just marveled at the positive energy that I put out, day after day, for 15 days of pain and needles and drugs.

I had a lot of time to think, laying in that bed, because I refused to numb my mind with TV. And laying there, I was reminded that I have no control over Life. I have no control over how I feel about what Life comes at me with. I only have control over what I think about it and how I act/respond to it. Thoughts and attitudes are causal forces in life. We create our lives, the circumstances of our lives. Have you heard of the quotation "As a man thinketh, so he is?" A few years ago, I finally got what it meant ;)

I know what it is to be happy, every day, to be happy more than I am not happy. I know what it is to be powerful in living my life, to be free and at peace, and to feel fully self-expressed, rather than bottled-up and repressed. I am responsible for my own happiness, and for the circumstances of my life, and when I made that realization, and put that realization to work for myself, my life transformed immediately. I choose happiness and freedom every day, every conscious moment. I choose health and fitness and vitality every conscious moment. I make these choices with varying degrees of success, but I am not discouraged, and I do not give up. I simply remind myself: Choose it. Be it. Do it. And then you will have it.

Life is beautiful, love. Its achingly, terribly, terrifyingly beautiful. It is short, transient, uncertain -- and that makes the beauty of it even more poignant. I hope you find what you need to be happy, even if we do not have the conversation on it that I hope to have some day. I'd love for you to know what it is to feel the way I feel every day -- but you have to choose it for yourself.