May Day

CW sent flowers. And a poem. He knows my weakness for Qabbani. I've right-justified the poem because that is how the author wrote it in arabic:

The two years
You were my lover
Are the two most important pages
In the book of modern love.
All the pages before and after
Were blank.
These pages
Are the lines of the equator
Passing between your lips and mine
They are the measures of time
That are used
To set the clocks of the world.

The perfect man

I was looking for something in my journal and my word-search pulled this up. CW and I had been dating off and on for just over 4 months at this point and were still a long way from sexual intimacy. In frustration, on the night of June 14, 2005, he asked me this question:

"What do you want in a partner? Do you even know?"

I had two simultaneous reactions to his query, one emotional, one rational. My emotional reaction was Asshat! What, does he think I'm a ninny? My rational self thought That's not an unreasonable question. Most women don't seem to know what they want...

I let my emotional self rant and fume (internally) for about five seconds, during which time I framed my response, beginning with, "Yes, I do. Are you sure you want to know?"

Chris made the mistake of saying something like, "Of course. I wouldn't have asked if I didn't." It was a mistake, because, in my experience, people ask questions all the time that they either aren't interested in knowing the answer to (like "How are you?) or really don't want to know the answer to, but they don't know it yet (like "What do you think of my girlfriend?"). And with my singular lack of internal boundaries with people I care about, I share the truth as I know it.

So I told him, "Ok, you asked for it," and ran down my list:

My partner must be intelligent. If he isn't intelligent enough to turn on my mind, he's not going to get anywhere with my body. He must be secure in himself and satisfied in his work -- I have no patience for insecure men who are intimidated by a smart, sucessful woman, or worse, who want to either destroy those qualities in me, or hope somehow they'll be 'fixed' by being involved with me. He must be able to appreciate music, art, food, drink -- all those sensual, sybaritic, epicurean things that are the simple pleasures in life. He must have a creative outlet. I don't care if it is wood-working, model-building, writing, painting, or singing in the shower -- it can be anything, so long as he has a form of self-expression. He must be demonstrative, emotionally self-aware, and able to discuss his feelings. He must allow me my friendships with men. I cannot abide sexual jealousy, and a man who is threatened by the other men in my life will soon find himself out the door. He must be able to converse. He must be open-minded. He must be honest, both with me and himself. He must be able to laugh at himself. He must not be an obsessive sports fan. He must not be a couch potato. He must not be a workaholic, alcoholic, drug-user, or dead-beat. He absolutely must be a reader, because I am, and I resent being interrupted in my reading by attention-seeking behaviour. He doesn't have to be a sex-god, but he must be open to learning how to please me. He must be STD-free. He is not required to be monogamous, but if he wants to sleep with someone else, I'd like to know about it ahead of time, and if he does he is required to practice safe-sex because I've never had so much as a yeast infection and if I catch something from him I will soon be in prison for castrating a man and force-feeding him his own diseased flesh. He must enjoy solitude, or atleast allow me mine, because I must have me-time. He must not want me to give him children, because I can't. He must take good care of his hands, because I don't like the feel of calluses on my skin. He must have good self-control, because I am a very frustrating woman, and I do not tolerate violence from men. And lastly, he doesn't have to understand me, but he does have to love me enough to let things end gracefully when or if that time comes.

"You've found all that in a partner before?" he asked, quite incredulous.
"Of course," I answered.

Poor CW. He did ask.

What is interesting about this is that, new to the heterosexual world after 4 years with a woman and nearly a year of celibacy after that, I knew exactly what I wanted from a male partner--and these criteria are as valid today as they were 18 months ago.

Flowers from CW

These are the flowers from CW that arrived at work. He used the same florist as KR did last month. Both arrangements are unusual and quite lovely. This one won CW lots of points from the women at work, and me lots of questions about him :)

Just your average blog entry

Last week a nasty cold fell on me like an avalanche, wiping out my voice, and filling my lungs. I left work at noon on Wednesday and it wasn't until Sunday that I could get out of bed without feeling dizzy. So I stayed in bed. A dozen long-stemmed roses in a gorgeous salmon-pink colour arrived to grace my room on Thursday, a bit of beauty to raise my spirits. This afternoon, more flowers, this time at work (a big no-no): an arrangement of orchids and interesting greenery. The card read "Stubborn wench--at work when you should be at home, in bed..." I added the parenthetical "with me" that he left off of the message, probably to save the florist embarrassment.

A cold front hit the Pacific Northwest at the same time. It was interesting to look at little drifts of sun-sheltered snow on vivid green grass. Such a contrast. The culms of the black bamboo seem so dark right now, the leaves sparser and less vivid. The holly trees are full of berries this year. Big red berries that show up so well against the spiky, waxy leaves. I really need to get out and take some photos. I've been wanting to for days, but I dared not go out in below-freezing weather, not with my lungs so full of crap. Perhaps this week.

I finished a naughty story yesterday, the seeds of which started months ago but which I just didn't have time to do right. I wanted to do a D/s story, but I wanted to get the nuances right, the psychology, the dialogue, the scenario. I'm fairly pleased with it, though I know some people think I will have ended it prematurely. I just don't feel it necessary to spell out what any reader knows is going to happen. That is the thing about erotica. You know the ending before you even start reading :) I doubt I'll record this one, there is too much male dialogue.

Plans for next month are shaping up. An upcoming seminar in San Fransisco just before my birthday prompted me to take some extra vacation time to spend with loved ones in the area. It should be a very full 10 days. Hopefully the weather will be conducive to photography. I may even bring my tripod.

The intensity level seems to be ratcheting up in some of my relationships. I don't know if it is a function of my stress-level or my customary availability during this period in my work. But I am being asked on several fronts when I'm going find a less demanding job, when I'm going to settle down, narrow down the list of people I'm dating, etc. I've got some great people in my life, people I enjoy so much and enjoy dating casually, no intimacy pressure or awkwardness, a fair number of whom are 'poly' people. And then the two most intense, rewarding, and frustrating relationships are with men who are monogamous, love me, 'wouldn't ask me to be exclusive' and yet aren't happy. I've offered to end the relationships. I've offered to eliminate physical intimacy and focus on what is important: relating. But that is not what they want. No, they want me available and all to themselves. And I'm floored. They are both good-looking, personable, financially-stable professionals that just about any single woman between the ages of 25 and 40 would gladly date. So why do they want me? Or why don't I want to pick one and settle down? Oddly enough, this is not good for my ego. And its definitely not good for my peace of mind.

There is so much love in me. I think learning metta meditation, learning to project that love out into the world, has helped to diminish some of that compelling intensity I bring to my deeper relationships. But not enough, I think, for one person to bear the force of it, of what they both seem to covet for themselves--my uniqueness. I am of the mind, however, to give one of them what he thinks he wants. And see how quickly he changes his mind. I don't think either of them is capable of valuing what being in a monogamous relationship with me really means. All of my intensity, my libido, my intellect, my spontaneity, my intuition, my emotions--everything I've honed in the past 2 years I've been single gathered up and devoted to one person, focused on one person? Heh. They would be intimidated.

They both deny it, but they would. I don't know why, but even when I try to be open and warm, I intimidate some people. Daily, prolonged exposure to me seems to make my partners feel insecure or overwhelmed or whatever. I am whole unto myself, self-contained and self-reliant. I don't need any one person. And men need to be needed. They need to feel they have a purpose in a woman's life, a reason to be: protector, friend, lover, provider. But no one person can be all things to another. Its a fallacy that monogamists the world-over have bought into and try to brainwash and socialize others into believing--that you're not whole until you find your other half. And two men I love think that their individual self-interest is jeopardized by the presence of other loved-ones in my life. They don't realize that it is not the others they have to worry about competing with for me. Its me.

Word-choice nuances

What is the difference between childlike and childish, between impulsive and spontaneous, between sensual and sexual, nevermind sensual and sensuous? What is the difference between acceptance and passivity, between aggressive and assertive, between creative and inventive, between religious and spiritual, intelligent and intellectual?

And then there is love. In English we have just one word to use. Sure, we can add modifiers such as maternal, filial, erotic, romantic, and platonic to describe who we love or what love or how we love them -- but love is such a deep and yet broad-spectrum emotional state, how can we possibly find the words to describe how we feel, and if so, how can we be sure that the words we use mean to others what they mean to us?

I was asked by CW today how I felt about someone.
I said, " I love him."
He asked, "Could you be more specific?"
I said, "He's one of my dearest friends, the friend of my soul."
He said, "But he's your lover, too..."
I made a face at him. "Yes, sometimes, but that is not the focus of our relationship."
He said, "I know you say men and women can be friends, but then you break the rules by having sex with your friends. Isn't that confusing?"
I looked at him and smiled. "Sometimes."
"C'mon Kay, talk to me."
"What do you want to know that won't violate his privacy?"
"How can you be friends and lovers?"
"Look, its not romantic. There is none of that new relationship energy, none of that passionate 'oooh baby I want you' stuff. I love him. He loves me. Sometimes... sometimes being sexual is a natural extension of the intimacy and affection between us, a natural progression of sharing ourselves."
He thought about it. "If it is so natural, why doesn't it happen more often between friends?"
"That is a good question. I will answer it with a question: how often do you think friends want to make love to each other, but refrain?"
"I think quite a few. More than people would willingly admit... I know there are a few times I've been really curious."
"Ok. So..there is curiousity, and there is desire. And then there is trust and love and sharing. I've got friends that I would never have sex with--mainly because I'd worry one or both of us getting 'romantically' confused.... It happened to me a couple of times, and... well... I like to think I've learned enough from those experiences that I do not need to repeat them again."
"How do you decide then?"
"Decide?"
"Which friends to sleep with and which ones not to..."

I swear, the groan I let out came all the way from my hara. Why is it that so much boils down to sex? I don't get it. I will never get it. Sex itself is an act we are programmed to desire to repeat as often as possible, partly for reproductive purposes, and partly for pleasure. It alleviates a need, like any other, like eating alleviates hunger and pissing alleviates a full bladder. And yet, sex, with love, can be so much more. It is a gateway to the spiritual, I find, and that is what gives it significance beyond reproductive and pleasure drives.

"Its more a matter of spontaneity. If, in the moment, it feels right, and there are no reservations, I act on it," I tried to tell him.
He looked surprised. "You're not the impulsive type."
"Ah, but there is a difference between spontaneity and impulse. Impulses are internally motivated, often subconsciously. Impulsive is going shopping when one does not have the need or the funds. Spontaneity is responding naturally and appropriately to the present moment."

And so we went round and round about nuances and verbage and his insistence that I need to remember that though I may choose my words to express exactly what I mean, that those hearing me are catching the words through their own emotional filters, adding their own nuances. Since I've been told the same by others, I suppose I should give this point more thought. It doesn't help my efforts to communicate if other's are not understanding what I mean.

Can you see the flower's singing?

No? It is clearing its crimson throat, preparing to raise its head to the sun and sing the nectar forth...

One of my primary goals when I entered therapy two years ago was conquering my attention-aversion. I've come a long way. I no longer cringe when my boss or colleague praises me in front of others. I am learning how to accept compliments with fewer attempts at deflection or self-deprecation. That feeling of needing to hide is diminishing in intensity. I've been putting myself out there--dating, writing, recording--and accepting the attention and feedback with as much grace as I can muster. Some days are better than others.

Recently I identified one of the triggers for my attention-aversion: the words "special", "talented" and "gifted". Most people associate "special" with good feelings. They like feeling special. Not so, me. When someone tells me I'm special, I feel suddenly wary. I find myself wondering, subconsciously, what they want.

I was at the local pub on Monday night, eating my favorite burger and sipping a beautiful microbrew porter. A commercial came on, and the voice-over actor said "What makes you special?" My reaction was immediate and vehement. My internal critic said "Nothing! I don't want to be special!" It shocked me. But I did not have time to examine it as I was in a social situation, so I marked it for contemplation at another time. I mentioned it to CD, and he reiterated that I was special, that I had such a gift for self-expression. I think he thought he was reassuring me, but his words made me choose to shy away from exploring it further. A few days later, in a chat, someone asked "When are you going to do another story? You have such talent!" Something in me cringed. I wanted to ignore his comment, but remembered to acknowledge it with a "thank you" instead.

Thursday night, talking with B, "special" came up and tears flooded my eyes--I felt suddenly, inexplicably sad. Trigger. And something about B's receptivity made it possible for me experience the trigger and trace it back. In that moment, eye-level with my psyche, I found it. She used to tell me I was special. Often. And like most children who fall prey to sexual predators, I blamed myself. I knew that it was something about me that made her want me. That something "special". And from that time forward, that word has been tainted, and any attentions ascribed to my being special or different or talented or gifted prompted instant withdrawal, an entering into "turtle mode".

Saturday morning I had conversation with B about what happened Thursday, abuut my understanding that I'm ready to process my aversion to "special", to lay it to rest and reclaim the word. And so I resolved to do so. But it was not enough. More was to come.

I rose this morning from dream-awareness, from that alpha state, cognisant of an internal dialogue-loop running in my mind "You've been renting space in your soul to a sexual predator for 26 years. Stop this."

Late this morning I spoke to CW. He's in Colorado Springs again. We talked for a while.
I commented to him that I'd noticed a change in him the past couple of weeks with regards to how he and I interact.
He asked what I meant.
I told him he appeared less bothered by my insistence on my independence, on my need to continue exploring and growing outside our relationship. He said he'd read some articles on gifted adults and it made it easier for him to understand and deal with me.
My knee-jerk response was "I'm not gifted."
He laughed. Loudly. "You most certainly are."
Remembering my conversation with B, remembering my intention to reclaim "special" and its related words, I stopped myself from arguing or withdrawing, and listened to him.
He said, "I stumbled across an article titled 'Can you hear the flowers sing?' and it made me think of you. I remembered you stopping us in the middle of the forest and saying 'Smell that? Can you smell the fungal mats growing?'"
I grinned, remembering his bafflement.
He said, "I have a better understanding of the challenges you face, not only with resolving your past, but in the present. I remind myself that you're not being intentionally perverse--that you are pushing at the boundaries that stifle you."
It was my turn to ask what he meant.
He said, "Social boundries, sensual boundaries, metaphysical boundaries. You are one of the most aware people I know. It makes you very sensitive to things most people don't sense. Including me."
Part of me was relieved that he seemed to have come to a place of acceptance. Part of me was wary. And then he said something that triggered me. Again.
He said, "Deny it all you want to, Kay. It won't change the fact that you are special--no--that you are exceptionally gifted."
Tears. Fuck. I cried and blabbered to him about my conversations with B, and the connotations that "special" carried for me. I wished very strongly that he was there to hold me. I wanted to press my face against his chest and breathe him into me. But he was in Colorado. So I forced myself to calm down and have a coherent conversation.

Later, he IM'd me a link to the article he'd mentioned, challenged me to read it and disagree that what it said applied to me.

And so I read it. The title resonated very strongly with me. The line in the article "no one else hears the flowers singing" resonated even more strongly. God, I know what that feels like, to experience the world differently than most. Sometimes it makes me despair, when I am excited by something I see/hear/taste/smell/feel and the ones I am with give me this dumb look and I try so hard to help them sense what I am feeling but they cannot. I think sometimes that is why I enjoy photography so much. Because sometimes I can get others to see not only what I am seeing, but how I am seeing it.

Anyway. Given some more time, I think I'll be laying another demon to rest, perhaps even embrace some more of the abandoned gifts that my shadow has been holding in safe-keeping for me.

Honoring what lies between us

Sprawled in his bed, spent, the burgundy sheets pulled up over one thigh, draping my hips. The other leg thrown wide, toes flexing occasionally as orgasmic aftershocks jolt me. I feel a bit like a boat bumping against its moorings. Him sitting up against the headboard, drinking water, the blond hair on his chest glistening dark gold with sweat. My head resting on his thigh, inhaling deeply of the scent of 'us' that rises from his groin. Such an amazing scent. I smile, basking in that scent. Start to doze off and start awake. It is late. I move to slide away. Its a half-hour drive home. Large hands cup my breasts, long-fingered and deft, o so deft as he tweaks one of my nipples. "Stay", he says, softly. No intonation, nothing for me to object to. I shift onto my side, my body forming an 'L', toes brushing the headboard. I look up into his face, wanting to gauge his reaction. "Mmmm.... but I want to sleep in my own bed." He sighs. Leans forward. Rests his forearms on his knees. "Would it help if I got a tempurpedic?" he asks, not for the first time. "I like your bed," I tell him. Its very comfortable. A luxury pillow-top, like the ones at my favorite hotel chain. I reach out, stroke his calf, trail my fingers along the crease between it and his forearm. He takes my hand, kisses it. His nostrils flare a little and I know he can smell my juices, mild as the scent is. He is remarkably attuned to my pheromones. "You don't want to stay with me because you are afraid." He looks into my eyes, his expression expectant. "Absolutely," I agree. This surprises him, because I usually stubbornly refuse to admit fear. "You are so afraid of committment," he ventures. I think on that for a moment. In the past, I've not been afraid of commitment. In my previous relationships I readily admitted my feelings and took that dive. But right now... "I'm not afraid of commitment. I just don't want a serious relationship right now, for good reasons. Yes, some of it is fear. I have this aversion to depending on people that I still need to work on. I'm afraid I've not done enough work to break past habits. I'm afraid I'll make the same old mistakes again." I push myself up, leaning on one palm so we are eye-level. My other hand slips up his shoulder, squeezes. Tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck. I hold his gaze with mine. "And part of it is that I'm really enjoying being single and seeing lots of people and having fun. And staying here, with you, implies a commitment that could later be used as a wedge between me and the life I so enjoy leading." My heart fills with love for him. I project it outward even as I lean forward to kiss him, brushing my lips against his. "Stay anyway," he whispers, "No commitment implied. I miss the feel of you snuggled up against me.". A hard kiss. His fingers cup my head, slipping through my hair, still damp from exertion. He breaks the kiss. Leans his forehead against mine. "Besides... I love what you do with the morning wood." Ah! Devious man! I grin and relent. I stay over so rarely... We settle into the rumpled bed, my head pillowed on his arm. His body spoons against mine, chest pressing into my back. His slightly tumescent cock nestles just under my ass, at the top of my thighs. I wiggle my bottom against it in a silent promise. Just wait 'til morning, I think. "I want to see how you blog this," he says, giving his consent. Smiling, I press my lips to his bicep and then dive into sleep. [click here for audio]

bumming at the beach

[click here for audio]

Sun's rays slanting eastward, kissing my skin, its warmth chasing away the wind's icy touch. Wood-smoke on the air, beach fire, scent of scorched meat--a family roasting weenies. Man and his kite, dipping, twirling, flirting with the breeze. Children with spades, real spades, heaping sand into piles for castles. Sweet buzz of sauvignon blanc on a mostly empty stomach. Sand between my toes, warm against my heels, grounding me. Dungeoness crab and shrimp louie. Sourdough fresh from the breadmaker. More wine. Dipping sweet dark cherries into chocolate fondue. Oralgasmic dessert--the best nature and man can offer. The warmth of a thigh pressed against mine, cool lips on my neck. Feelings of well-being. Warm Fuzzies. Companionship. Voices, lulling, ebbing and flowing like the tide. Conversation...

What are you doing? Silence. My name. Looking up from the moleskine journal, pen halted. R's voice, R's face, weathered and freckled, hair wild--from her helmet, of course. She rode the Harley here with J. Three pairs of eyes, expectant. What are you writing? A dismissive, self-conscious shrug. Recording the moment. A dirty habit, writing. I'm not supposed to do it in public. I'm sorry. Moving to put the journal away, opening jacket pocket. Read it, says J, his voice firm. I am his guest. Complying, I read: Sun's rays slanting eastward, kssing my skin... Their eyes on me, thoughtful, listening expressions. Voice trailing off on "conversation"... Wow, how do you notice that? Does J even know I write? How do you not notice? I ask. C chuckles. He knows me so well. How do you not notice the moment? How do others do it? I'm lost in sensations, sensate me, like a child--see the birdie? Quick! Kiss me, taste the wine and chocolate on my lips, smell the cherries on my breath, breathe me in, save me from self-conscious awareness. Let me just be. Here. Now. With you, in this moment.