Pathos, Eros, and Aramis

 [This will be posted as a Silken On Sex podcast episode in the near future]

The weather is California cliche: the sun is bright, the sky is a cloudless blue. The scent of California bay and eucalyptus waft by on a sea breeze. Children splash in the pool. Laughter bounces around the courtyard.

From my chair on the balcony I try to extend my senses, to feel something -- anything -- but what I’m feeling now.

Pathos.

I am doing my best to be present with my body, to understand how this pathos feels, not just emotionally, but physically.

Right now, it feels under-oxygenated. My breath is shorter, faster. It no longer fills my center. My muscles are tight. Twitchy. Restless. My shoulders ride higher, up near my ears.  I feel it in my gut, too, the tightness. An ache has settled in my chest, my eyes. It is a long list.

This is what anxiety and anguish feels like in the flesh.

In my head, it feels like being small and afraid in the face of uncertainty. Trapped. Cut-off. Cornered. I feel like I must act, must do something, anything. But what?

And so I remind myself to breathe.

Life is uncertain, and no amount of resistance to that fact is going to change Reality. Reality is mutable, transient, turbulent. Unpredictable. And yet, it is what it is.

Accept, my mind says. But my body betrays emotional resistance.

I figured that my sisters and I would grow old together, the three of us. The Three Musketeers. I thought we’d be hard-of-hearing old ladies sitting on the back porch swing, laughing until we had to pee, talking about the good old days with Grandmother, the rides down the hill in our little red wagon, and riding horses on the mesa in Colorado. I thought we’d go on vacations, bicycle rides for three, and scold grandchildren.  Then one sister died in 2008 after a long illness, and I revised that dream to just the two of us. But today, the likelihood of my baby sister surviving to my age is slim, never mind to old age. And I feel. A lot of things.

I know we all die. And I know it isn’t anything to be afraid of. I got that, really got it, when I was holding my grandfather’s hand as he exhaled the last bits of himself two years ago.  I understand the beauty of the life-cycle, the transitory nature of it, the glory of a life well-lived. You could say that I am at peace with Death.

But to die young, ah. To lose someone in the prime of life. To watch them hunch in on themselves with pain. The pain of living. Of breathing. Of being. I can handle it. Watching someone die from cancer isn’t a new experience for me. But I’m not enjoying it. It is very stressful on everyone. Especially my sister.

Underneath it all, I’m sad for me. And for her kids. And for our parents — who will have to deal with out-living another of their children.

Life is. And quite often these days, life is Pathos.

Eros and Aramis.

Citrus, cinnamon, and sandalwood: the scent of his Aramis cologne envelops me as Gabriel’s arms do. I rest my forehead against his shoulder and breathe him into me. He always seems to know when I’m in that place, that overwhelmed, anxious and impatient place. He hugs me hard, his arms forming a tight band that pops my back. A welcome release.

“You’re cold,” he murmurs against my ear. “How can you be cold? It’s over 80 degrees out here.”

“I’ve forgotten warmth,” I mutter back, dispirited and exhausted. And cold. I’ve been sleeping with the electric blanket on. In Summer.

He steps backward, holding me at arm's length. He starts to say something, but his eyes are riveted on my breasts. My nipples. Bra-less and cold, my nipples were already hard, but his nearness, the scent of him, have added additional length.

His hand reaches toward my right breast, thumb grazing the nipple. His touch sparks through me, little electric arrows racing along my nerve-endings, dissipating the fog of despair wrapped around me like a comforter. I feel!

Another brush of his thumb and I gasp and sway, my eyes closing. So good. So sweet. Pleasure is so life-affirming.

He steps nearer, his hand never leaving my breast. I can feel the warmth radiating from him. I tilt my face up to his, eyes closed, like a flower following the sun. My mouth trembles with a sad smile and tears well up under my eyelids.

“Make love to me,” I ask him, implore him. “Make me feel alive.”

He steps around me. Pulls the hair away from my neck and brushes my skin with his shadow.  A sharp, hissing intake of my breath. I feel that! Mmmmm… yes!

His arms encircle me, one around my shoulders, the other, my midriff. He draws me backwards, off the balcony, and guides me down onto the persian carpet. With feather-light kisses and touches he opens my blouse, exposing my breasts.

More tears at his gentleness. I need this.

When his mouth closes over my erect nipple, my entire body vibrates with erotic energy. My pathos subsides beneath a tide of Aramis-scented eros as I surrender to a new feeling: I’m alive!

So gloriously fucking alive!

*  *  *

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Haunting Dream

I was in a house. It felt like my house, though it was mostly empty, and I was waiting.

I heard sounds and went downstairs and my lover was there, with some workmen.

He looked very surprised to see me and pulled me aside, into another room.

He said, "What are you doing here?"

I stood there, with every bit of love I felt filling me, shining out of me.

"Waiting for you," I answered.

He looked surprised, looked like he didn't know what to say next.

"I have just one question for you," I said to him. "Did you try to contact me even once in the past two months?"

His eyes fell away from mine. "No," he said. "I've been very busy with work, very distracted."

It felt like a literal blow to my chest. There was a "whomp" feeling there, like the feeling I get when I'm at a fireworks display and they launch the canisters into the air.

Something fell out of me, fell from chest height and shattered like a pane of heavy glass, showering our feet with shards of light.

I woke up crying. Shivering. My chest aching. Still partly in my dream-state, I watched myself push past him, heard myself say, "You broke my heart. I never want to see you again."

I lay in bed for a few minutes, disoriented and soaked with dread.

"It was just a dream," I told myself, but I couldn't shake it, couldn't shake that pressure in my chest, that horrible heart-broken feeling. Tears fell, and shivers rocked me.

I got up from my bed and went to his, crawling up to him, saying "I had a bad dream."

And he pulled the covers back and said, "Put your head on my heart," and I did, my hands gluing themselves to him.

His heart beating in my ear, I shuddered against him, and tears fell on his chest.

"You broke my heart," I said to him, and my voice sounded like a child's, plaintive, and faintly accusing.

The arm around my shoulder tightened. I told him the details of the dream.

"Do you hear that?" He asked. "That sound in my chest? Lub-dub. Lub-dub?"

I nodded my head. His heart beat strongly in my ear.

"I love you double," he said. "Love-doub, Love-doub."

My smile surprised me. I wanted to groan over the bad play on words, but couldn't. He hugged me close, and slowly the pain seeped out of me. The last time I woke up crying was from a dream about my sister.

I got up from his bed. He needed to get going, I knew. He had to be at a meeting in 15 minutes.

A few minutes later I was standing at the bank of windows in the living room, looking out at the rain, when he slipped his arms around me. The feelings from the dream still draped me like a pall, but they were far less crushing than just a quarter-hour earlier.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

I folded my arms over his, hugging him back.

"Much," I answered.

"Good," he said.

With one last squeeze, he turned away in search of an umbrella, his mind already distracted with his work.


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Accepting Responsibility: In Defence of My Beloved

In publicly airing my conversation-with-myself regarding My Beloved, I've gotten interesting feedback from people, and there is a specific kind of feedback I'm going to address here.

Some people perceive the agony I experienced when he cut me off and they say (or think) something along the lines of "Wow, what a jerk, he hurt you very deeply. How can you have anything to do with him now?"

For the record, we both did things that caused each other pain, but it was never intentional. The one time I did lash out at him, and said deliberately hurtful things to him, he went to his then-girlfriend-eventual-spouse for help and their conversation resulted in her saying something like "She's nuts, you broke up well over a year ago, you need to protect yourself and put some serious distance between you." Whether her motivation for those words had to do with wanting David to herself, or (I hope) motivated out of genuine concern based upon a lack of context, I'll never know. David didn't tell her that the behavior I exhibited that day was Very Unusual for me. He did not take the time to ask himself questions as to why I might have said those things, because he was still reeling from the painful impact of my words. And we all know how good I am with words, so imagine just how effective I could be if I wanted to be hurtful.

If he had been in a more rational place, or if he'd gotten different advice, things might have been different. And if I hadn't reacted as I had, things might have been different. There are things I didn't tell him that were very important. He knew about my Grandmother's death, but not my mother's, or Carol's, or Gerald's. He didn't know about the abuse from S. He didn't know why I'd so completely freaked out on him over his half-assed procrastinated fulfillment of a promise -- he only knew that I had. And here is where accepting responsibility for my own pain comes into play.

Yes, D was my soul mate, and him cutting me off was incredibly painful. But I turned that pain on myself. I didn't have the tools to handle so much loss or grieve such losses, and his disappearance from my life resonated with a time and place when 9-year-old me was dropped off at the Grandparent's by Mommy and didn't see her again for 8 years. So, emotionally, with regards our situation, I was 30 going on 10. I made my mother's abandonment mean there was something wrong with me, that I was not worthy of being loved. And I essentially did the same thing with D. I chose to see what he did, not as an act of self-defense, but as both abandonment and fundamental rejection. At a time when I really needed my soul mate, he'd walked away from me, shut the door, and barred it, ignoring my infrequent knocks. It didn't matter that I hadn't told him Very Important Things he needed to know that might have tempered his reaction. Like a mother, a soul mate is supposed to be there for you and love you always, no matter what, right? Uh, yeah. Right.

We hurt each other. And we accept responsibility for that. And the harm we did to ourselves in the aftermath -- we each accept responsibility for what we did to ourselves, too, rather than blame the other. It is important to make that distinction. He's not responsible for my suffering. My suffering was entirely subjective--it was the consequence of my mental and emotional responses to my experiences of pain and loss. Eventually,  I found the way to alleviate my suffering, to transform it, to turn it into something transformational and transcendent rather than a perpetual cycle of tragedy and drama.

I obliterated him from my life story because I didn't have the tools to process the pain, and when I did go into therapy, my relationship with him didn't come up for processing. So in trying to find a way to relate with him in the context of my life today, I'm processing the past as fairly and efficiently as possible.

It is important for us to be complete with regards to the past, so it does not cloud today and tomorrow. If you've got any ex's in your life that you've loaded a lot of emotional baggage onto like a scapegoat, I'd encourage you to examine the role you played in your own suffering, process it, accept responsibility, make any necessary apologies, and then get on with your life. Real as it may seem at times, the past pales in comparison to the immediacy of the present.

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Feeling fortunate

There are certain qualities I like in my men. Sitting in the same space with My Beloved and My Lover, it was quite obvious. Physically they are very different. M is dark of eyes and hair, while D is fair. M is slender and smooth-skinned. D is nearly 6" taller and hairy. But they both have those hands. The hands of an artist or a surgeon: graceful, long-fingered, expressive. They are both introverts, though D makes the effort to be outgoing. Low-key and yet intense. They are both deliberate speakers. Thoughtful, they choose their words carefully. They are both highly intelligent, and comfortable with it -- geeks in the sense of being techno-fetishists. They have the systematizing, mathematical, analytical minds. Delightful senses of humor, with a penchant for puns and other word-play. They have a British influence to their upbringing and their tastes in food. Neither cares much for alcohol or vegetables. They are playful, love to learn and travel, enjoy being touched to the point that they purr, and are very aural. They know how to Be Present in the moment. They have alpha male qualities but don't flaunt them. And they are keenly sensitive. I won't go into the sensitivities because they are not mine to share, but like me they experience the world very keenly, to the point of debility at times. The other men with whom I've been intimate over the years have many, if not all, of these same qualities.

I enjoyed that the two of them seemed comfortable with each other. For most people it would seem counter-intuitive -- a recipe for disaster -- putting the man who was, for all intents and purposes, my common-law ex-husband in the same room with my current lover, a man who expressed an interest in me while D and I were still together a decade ago. But they are kindred spirits, the kind of people who know each other upon first meeting on a level far deeper than the ass-sniffing and territory-marking behavior one expects of most men in that situation.

M is in the midst of a life-changing project and his mind churns problem-sets in the background most of the time, something I accept for now because I understand the potential pay-offs, even as I miss the attentiveness, the focus, to which I have become accustomed these past few years. D seemed to understand what that M's distance wasn't disinterest. He gets where M is -- we've had other friends make it big in Silicon Valley and we both know the effort it takes to bootstrap a company to the point of attaining those life-changing rewards.

M is secure in who he is and how I feel about him, and so he does not worry about D the way most men would. He is not concerned about the time I spend with D -- there are no worries about loss or relationship-changing developments, and when he misses me, he lets me know when he wants time with me -- just as I do with him. Which reminds me, once again, about how much I love the way we communicate.

I'm a lucky woman. And I've got great taste in men :)



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Reclaiming the stories of the past

When My Beloved and I stopped speaking, it was because the woman who would later become his wife urged him to cut off communication.  We'd broken up over a year previously, and it didn't make sense to her that we were still so connected, still prone to ache over our separation and the strained conversations. And so he stopped. Just stopped. Stopped taking my calls and answering my emails. There was no explanation, no "Goodbye" communication. He just willed me out of his life, and ceased being a part of mine. Poof! Four miles away from me, and working for the same company, but he was gone. And knowing him as I did, and fearing further and more painful rejection, I did everything I could to respect his obvious desire to eliminate me from his life.  And here it where it gets interesting.

When we split up, he cut me out of his life, physically, but still carried me around in his pocket, as he says. He tells me that he mentioned me to others as a formative force in his life, etc. Though I was no longer physically a part of his life, I nevertheless remained a part of his life story.

But I dropped him from mine. I was aware of him physically, of where he lived and where he worked, and every time I crossed the street he lived on (almost daily) I wished him well. But I stopped speaking of him. Stopped thinking of him in personal terms. I told no stories of him. Carried nothing of him within me. His withdrawal was so sudden and so complete that there was nothing left behind--the memories of our seven years together were swept back from the shore of my life, carried off by the tide of emotion to waters that run very, very deep. The hordes of friends I made in Portland post-2000 never heard his name. They heard of MAR, who came before him, and SEK, who came after, and of my Dutchman and CAW, and MR in SF and even KR in Seattle. But never Him. Two close friends of mine have both told me how odd they think that is, that this man, My Beloved, has been missing from my personal narrative so completely that they'd no idea he'd even existed.

And when they each communicated this to me, I was reminded of something that Elie Wiesel once wrote in Gates of the Forest, something along the lines of "When a friend denies you it is worse than death; it is as if you never existed for him, or him for you." His denial of me seemed so complete to me, that it was as if he didn't exist, and neither did I -- In fact I re-created myself in the following years, even to the point of using different names: The one he knew me by was reserved for professional me, and I chose a new one for playful me, for the me I wanted to be.

In thinking about it, in thinking about him and me, I recognize that I wiped a very important person and several years from my life story, and it is time to write him back in. It is time to graft that branch back onto the trunk. The question is how? The difference in our ages (5+ years) means that I was more often the one imparting knowledge and lessons. I was the one who handed over books to read and confronted him with new experiences, who noticed his hubris and challenged his opinions. What did I learn from My Beloved? What did I take away from our relationship? I thought learned from him that I was lovable, that I was worthy of being loved--but the magnitude of his rejection obliterated that. I was left instead with a powerful need to apologize for being me. An apology he didn't have ears to hear. As I pick now over the jumble dotting the shore of my consciousness since he swept back into my life, I'm struggling to find a common thread, trying to find a way to string these random, disparate bits of memories and emotions into stories. Stories of us.

And I think I've found a way. He mentioned, after reading some of my erotic stories, that he thought some of them were about him/us. Nope. Not a single story. We lived together for 7 years, had sex every day, sometimes two and three times a day, and with all that material to work with, I never delved into those experiences, never drew from them. And I think... I think it is time to change that. It is time to open up to those memories and write some stories, naughty stories, about two people in their early twenties, exploring their sexuality with the exuberance that is born of love and adventure and acceptance.

Yes. I've some stories I can tell, and in the telling, return My Beloved to his rightful place in the story of my life -- and his.



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And so it begins anew

Conversations with My Beloved. Hours spent on the phone. Understandings achieved. Retrospective awareness of the necessity of separation and the unnecessary pain we perpetuated out of our grief. The ending of our relationship was as real a loss as the death of a loved one. We'd spent 7 years together and who we were was lost as well so there was a struggle to form independent identities. And my weirdnesses, some of which were caused by 4 deaths within 18 months of our break-up, and some of which was a matter of him becoming conscious of things that had always been so but unquestioned while we were together. Like mind-reading and emotional connections over distances. My calling and leaving weird messages like "I have a feeling that something intense is going on with you -- are you ok?" When he was indeed going through something intense. The scientist in him could not find a rational explanation as to "why" and he was spooked by the implications. Relief that each is doing well, thriving, in fact. Wanting to meet up soon to exchange hugs.  So much delight. I look forward to getting to know each other again, after nearly a decade.

I used to feel like an outsider in the world and in my own life because I experienced the world so differently from so many people. I saw things people didn't see, smelled things people couldn't smell, sensed things people thought I shouldn't feel. It is the curse of having a sensory array that has a broader spectrum than most people -- like someone whose eyes can discern a broader spectrum of wave-lengths and sees colors that do not exist for others. Like hearing the earth singing at dawn. The one-eyed man in the land of the blind, I nearly stoned myself to death, wishing I was deaf and blind and dumb.

I was saved by my inner mystic, who defied my inner scientist to prove that the evidence of my own experiences were false. I met extraordinary people. Went into therapy. Studied agnostic Buddhism and quantum physics and human sexuality and psychology and philosophy. Meditated. Broadened my experiences of Polyamory. Learned to trust my intuitions, my perceptions, my sensitivities. Discovered the SENG site. Completed the Landmark Curriculum for Living.  Found soul-satisfying intimacy through Love Tribe and the sacred through tantra and ecstatic dance. Made peace with my fears, my past, the voice in my head, death, uncertainty, and suffering.  Most of all, suffering. And fell in-love :) Yes, that was the best part of my transformation -- falling in love with someone who is amazing in his own way as I am in mine.

And into this stumbles my ex. My beloved. It seems he arrived here, at my blog, via a chain of coincidences that seem almost contrived. As if there is something at work in his life, guiding him here. He mentions to me things that have happened recently and asks if they aren't weird and is confounded to hear that it is part of my daily life, my reality, and that it is my understanding that it is part of everyone's -- it's just they aren't open to it so they don't notice it.

I understand why he has been drawn back into my life. It seems he is ready to accept the pain of opening to his own considerable gifts, a transformational experience I am deeply familiar with. I am reminded of something Anais Nin once said,  “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” The question I have for myself is "why have I drawn him into my life?" And the answer probably lies with my inner child, who felt abandoned by her mother and her soul-mate. I was inconsolable for years, and while I developed the tools and skills to heal myself,  my understanding is still incomplete. There are stories to be heard, blindspots to be revealed, and possibilities to be created. I feel certain of it.
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Bated breath

When my partner and I returned from our month in Japan, it was to a new economic reality. His company's line of credit had been yanked and so they'd closed their doors, and my profession, which conventional wisdom considers recession-proof, had considerably fewer openings and those positions available would have required commutes that impacted my quality of life. So, I decided to focus on writing and recording erotica as a business, as a way to make a living doing what I love. At the same time, my partner started a business with colleagues from his former job. Starting a business is like buying a house and having a baby -- at the same time. Starting two businesses is like renovating a home while you are living in it with newborn twins.

So for the past seven months we've both been working from home in a 1,000 sq foot San Francisco townhouse. My preference is for my home to be a place of tranquility -- uncluttered, functional-yet-aesthetically pleasing, and serene. What I've got is a living room and dining room that have been taken over by computers, wires, boxes, papers -- you name it.  To make things more interesting, our neighbors are undergoing renovations, so from 8:30 am to 5:00 pm we get to deal with the sounds of saws and hammering and loud music. Couple that with the fact that SFO has more and more airline traffic and somehow our place is directly in the path of flights taking off between midnight and 3am, and I'm getting edgy. Noise during the day, noise at night, clutter-noise inside.

A solution has presented itself in the form of his start-up company and their decision to locate their offices half-way between San Francisco and Palo Alto to accommodate the commute times for the team. He hates commutes longer than 15 minutes, so we'll be moving. I suppose it is just as well we didn't buy that condo on Geary Street :)

So now I've got to start looking for a place to move into at the end of January. I've started packing and I've got boxes piled up in my bedroom. I've got a friend visiting from overseas during Thanksgiving Weekend. And upcoming launch of new sites and new audio for those sites. I'm helping my partner build computers and keep things organized. And then there is the issue of My Beloved.

After our initial contact, which was very intense and painful for us both, he's pulled back like a turtle. Contact is now emails with apologies and stated intentions, but no commitment as to when this will materialize. I've tried to keep up my end of things, being open and communicative, hoping that his emails will contain something of substance. A week later, I'm tired of holding my breath. So I'm letting it go. It makes no sense to keep so much of my time and energy freed-up so that I will be available on the off-chance he finds the emotional wherewithall to complete the process he instigated. It hurts, and I've been willing to work through the old wounds and the pain because I thought our connection was worth salvaging. And perhaps it is. But he is also a man who cut me off like a limb because he didn't have the courage to work through his own pain. It has been a decade, and gods know I've grown and changed a lot in that time, but it is looking more and more likely that he has not. And I don't have time to play the mind-games. I've got a life to live, a business to build, a home to find, and a man to love.

When he's ready, I'm sure My Beloved will contact me again. And if he never is, that is sad for him but ok with me. I'm not going to be held hostage by a decade-old emotional tie. I'm not going to wait with bated breath for My Beloved to come. And my inner child, well, I'll find a way to explain it to her. Somehow.


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Communication

To say that my lover and I communicate well is an understatement. It is very freeing to know that there is nothing that I cannot bring into the forum for discussion between us. Better to admit we are not mind-readers and instead reach out to each other with eyes and hands and mouths, straining to bridge the gap between Self and Other, to know, and to be known. Sometimes it is very intense, especially the struggle to find words to express the complexity and ambivalence of past relationships.

I accept that my current state of being could best be characterized as "dazed" and he does too. He worries a bit, but he knows that when I have them, I will reach out to him with words. In the meantime, I reach out to him with my heart, and his eyes meet mine and he is there, smiling gently at me, his arms slipping around me, his scent enveloping me. I rest my cheek on his shoulder and brush his neck with my lips.

"Still no word," he said. It was not a question.

The last email from My Beloved that had any real content was on the 12th. Since then, two "emails from the open road", one short and apologetic, one short and about... coffee. I've mailed him in the interim, expressing a willingness to work on carrying our heart-connection forward in our lives if he is willing to be open and vulnerable with me, as I am with him. No real word back, nothing substantive. The analytical side of me recognizes that he is probably still processing and taking care with his responses, but the feeling side of me wishes, if that were the case, that he would at least say as much.

Too restless to do sitting meditation, I did walking instead, along the stretch of Ocean Beach. The sun was warm, the wind cold, and the sand was a bit of both, and damp, underfoot. I focussed on the physical dynamics of walking, enjoying the animal-body I inhabit, appreciating it for all it does without need for conscious oversight. I allowed myself to feel my body, to feed my awareness of it, to notice the places where tension had accumulated, and to explore the emotions the little knots held as I caused them to relax. My body is the bridge between my inner and outer worlds, and my mind the road, sometimes smooth, sometimes bumpy.

The irony of meditation is that struggling with the chatter of my mind puts the clarity and simplicity I seek farther and father out of reach.  Best to accept the chatter, to notice it without judging it, or myself. My ego-self struggles, sometimes even flails about, but my spiritual self is balanced, calm, content. To touch it, I have only to cease identifying with the ego-self and its chatter.

What will be, will be. I released the anxiety and anguish into the wind for the second time in the same day, zipped up my coat, and drove home with the top down, drove home to my lover, who met me at the door with sympathetic eyes and a warm hug. The best communication of all :)

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If I'm Dominant, my lover must be submissive, right?

Being out as Dominant, both online and in person, can be quite interesting. I've gotten lots of questions and comments over the years. More recently, as I've gotten more comfortable both with being 'out' and with exercising my personal power, I've had people asking me questions about my relationships, and more specifically, about my primary partner. Most assume he is submissive. It makes sense, right? The complement to Dominant is submissive. Not in our case. In fact, we have a rather vanilla relationship with infrequent BDSM play. But the power exchange is still there, oh yes! Allow me to explain.

For the purposes of writing this, I will call my lover Gabriel, after the angel whose strength is God. I've known him for more than a decade, and we've been intimate for over five years. And for most of those years I thought he was a beta male like many of the men out there: not alpha but a contender for it if circumstances required; content to play a supportive role rather than endure conflict; caring, thoughtful, insightful, and occasionally moody, ie, more in-touch with his feminine side. And yet, in the past year or so I've seen another side of him, one that I'd only caught glimpses of, one that has become more pronounced as our relationship has developed in intensity. Gabriel is naturally dominant. He's always been very competent, very confident, and he has a subtle charisma -- in fact, I'd say the key word to describe him is subtle. When he wishes to he takes control of situations, not by force, but in a most subtle fashion -- he speaks and acts in ways that inspire others' confidence in him, and they trust him to make decisions or to do what he says can be done. He understands behavior modification and what works best for positive outcomes and he uses praise and reward in ways that are entirely genuine and incredibly effective -- he inspires great loyalty in others. And while there is no doubt that he is a sensitive man who does not believe in male or female superiority, he does not bow to the idea of equality between the sexes. Instead, he strives for parity. He sees the sexes as complementary. He understands the yin and yang, the roll and tumble of the masculine and feminine and how they can work together to form a whole that is mutually-beneficial.

I used to think the Gabriel was shy because he tends to withdraw when he's in groups, and while that may indeed be part of it, I think a lot of it has to do with the demands of dealing with non-alphas. He tends to observe groups in order to grasp the dynamics, and then decide if he wants to bother to participate. He is a kind man who abhores stupidity, and so he often prefers to withdraw from a group rather than make others feel stupid. And yet for all that he doesn't give up a single inch of his dominance. He is a man of formidable intellect and great assurance, a Dominant who doesn't need to be domineering, and, like me, doesn't want to be troubled with needy submissives.

Subs require a lot of care and feeding. Subs are attention-seeking. They need approval. They want guidance. They want someone to tell them what to do and when to stop doing it. They want the comfort of knowing their place in the world. They want someone to provide structure and context for their personal reality, because Reality is so full of uncertainty and chaos. They want someone to tell them what the rules are and what the rewards and punishments will be. They want someone to take control of their pleasure and pain, because those are the two ways to control people and they crave the feeling of being controlled and being out of control at the same time. They love games, especially ones of the mind-fuck sort. They need to be cherished, appreciated, doted upon. And they need to contribute. They need to feel that they are making a contribution to their Dominants, if only by doing things that are meant to make life easier for the Dominant. They need to feel like they belong, and they'll do whatever it takes to make their Dominant happy. And while I do enjoy submissives -- they are a constant source of amusement and amazement -- they are a lot of work. Instead of being a source of energy for exchange, they can often be energy-sinks, draining their Dominants.

If humans are pack-like or herd-like animals, then Gabriel and I are the alpha male and alpha female and while we wrestle around playfully, we neither of us attacks the other. We respect each other too much, and recognize that making the other one feel less or wrong or injured is ultimately self-defeating: it lessens the whole, the entirety, of what *we* are. We both struggle for Dominance in some areas and acquiesce to each other in other areas. We play and the exchange of energy is a delight. There is no drain, just the charge of an alternating current.

And all this has been established by communication, by holding our ground when it comes to our self-expression and well-being, by being Dominants without being domineering. Games are not played. We call each other on it. As often happens with people, we expect certain responses when we are in discussions and often we are reacting to what we expect rather than what is really going on -- and Gabriel and I call each other on that when we see it happening.

As much as I love the sexual charge of having someone bound and helpless and begging for more, I love the feeling of just being with someone who gets me in ways a sub will never get, someone with the same sense of fun, someone bright enough to get my jokes, and strong enough to not let me trample on him. And every once in a while he gets the upper hand, and he uses it, and when he does I know that thrill that a sub feels when a Dom has zeroed in and the energy between them crackles like a violet wand on bare skin.

"That's because you're just a teensy bit smarter than me," I said to him after he'd teased me for not knowing some bit of TV trivia.
"Stick with me and I'll make you smart," he said with a big grin on his face.
"Oh?" I said, and slipped my arms around his neck. I leaned in for a kiss.
"Yes." His hand fell hard against my ass, catching me by surprise and making me gasp.
He grinned his devilish grin and said, "I like to make you smart."
I laughed, hard. I'd set myself up for that one.

Simplicity

Simplicity is so complicated.
How difficult to shed the shackles
of modern life, the drives, the assumptions,
the things that cling, us to them,
them to us.

Simplicity is.
The simplicity of my nipples, hard and long,
when he is near,
or when he is not,
when it is the scent of him on his clothes,
or the sound of his voice, so rich and thrilling,
emerging from the box held at my ear.

Then I know I simply am simply me
simply made with simple needs
and fuck the big complex brain
with its constant soliloquy.

Someone tries to take meaning
where it is ungiven
for simplicity's sake
Words are never enough,
they construct problem sets yet rarely solve them
But a different he solved the riddle of me, he thinks,
the slut wasting her talents for the titillation of others

And for simplicity's sake his assumption stands
It means more about him than than it does to me
though I cannot deny the sting
(When did his opinion come to matter to me?)
Let it all go and hope complexity does not have static cling.
Nothing is as simple as it seems.
Not even simplicity.

A week into the new year

I am sipping coffee from a french press, a strong, dark roast whose beans, when ground, scented two rooms. When brewed, the smell wafted up the stairs. I could smell it while I was showering. I showered late, partly out of laziness, and partly out of reluctance to wash away the reminders of last night's lovemaking. The morning light is filtering through the ornately-carved teak screen in the living room. The day is clear and bright, deceptively so. It is cold outside.

Things are slowly coming together as I unpack my old life and fit it into my new one like pieces to a jigsaw puzzle. His stuff and mine, commingling in this townhouse like our fluids in my body. Artwork hung, furniture moved around, oriental carpets laid like lines in the sand, and so far, no conflict, and very little criticism.

"This is a big change for you," he said yesterday. "How are you doing? Are you happy here?"

It is for his capacity to ask questions like these that I love him. I know him to be caring and playful, in addition to the intensity for which he is well-known. His forceful personality and self-confidence are intimidating to some, but not to me. They are simply aspects of who he is. After dating for 3 years, I know him well enough that he finds it scary. Yet I rarely put the depth of my understanding into words. A wise woman knows how greatly men treasure the mysteries of the feminine -- and allows men the illusion of their own mysteries. It is one thing to penetrate another's mysteries. It is another to reveal them.

It is now a week into the New Year, and I can honestly say that I have begun the year as I would like it to continue. It has been full and rich already.

Surprise! Its December.

(Tammy and her niece, Nov 2003)

December has come, to my surprise. It has crept up on me. For the past 10 years December has always been a hectic month, a headlong dash into what we in the fiscal/accounting field simply call "Year End". But not this one. Last month I quit my job and my life to move nearer to family and love. I am no longer tied to the grueling schedule, but neither am I tied to the certainty of a salary. It is an interesting adjustment to make.

The past couple of weeks have been a pleasant interlude, and opportunity to rest after the hectic pace of November. I've been waking up when I want to, which is usually between 8 and 9 am. I see my housemate off for work between 10 and 11. I go work out. I come back and work on my writing and recording and websites. For the first time since Tammy's illness became life-threatening, I've had both the time and the creative energy to think about how to put my work out there to touch more lives and perhaps earn a bit from it. I unpack a bit. I read some. I ride my sybian and leave naughty voicemail messages. And when my lover is free, I ride him. It is lovely, having sex almost daily. And it is interesting how our relationship has changed.

Next week I will be at my Grandfather's. It gives everyone in Tulsa a bit of a break, and my grandfather is asking to see me. Then the following two weeks I'll be with family back in California. It will be the first time I've spent Christmas with my family in over 10 years. And it will be the first Christmas without Tammy. I'm grateful that my other two sisters who had grim cancer diagnoses are still with us, and grateful, too, that Grandfather will live to see the New Year. But I am sad, nonetheless. Tammy loved Christmas.

The monogamist and the polyamorist speak

"How was your vacation?" a woman friend asked.
I closed my eyes and sighed voluptuously. "Wonderful. Mr X was amazing."
My friend gasped. "But what about Mr M?"
I frowned a little, confused by her question. "Mr M and I are still an item."
She looked like her brain hurt. "Both??"
"You know I'm poly..." I told her.
"Yes, but I don't get it. I thought you loved Mr M."
"I do. Very much."
"Then why someone else?"
"I love Mr X, too. And Ms Y, and Mr Z."
"I'm so confused," she almost-wailed.
I took her hand. "I love you. We've shared the same bed. Snuggled up, touched, shared comfort and tears. Most people would think we were lovers, that our friendship crosses certain 'boundaries', right?"
"Yes, but..."
"But its not like that, right? Or, but they don't understand. Or, but its natural. Or, but we love each other like sisters. Being poly isn't about sex. I'm not a swinger. I love. Sometimes that love expresses itself sexually. Most of the time it doesn't. "
"But you've got someone in your life who loves you so much, Kay, and you love him."
"Yes."
"So why don't you settle down with him? Why other people?"
"One person cannot be all things to another--not for extended periods of time. Besides, why keep all my love just to ourselves? I mean, by your logic, if I can't still be loving with Mr X and Mr Z because of my relationship with Mr M, then I shouldn't be loving with you, or Ms Y, either."
"That's different. We're not sexually involved."
"It doesn't matter. It feels good--being with you feels good. And it seems like the dominant culture thinks that if you are in a relationship with someone and you enjoy feeling good with someone else, you're being bad."
She looked thoughtful. "That is a bit of a stretch, Kay."
"Oh really?" I leaned forward. "What if you were a man. Or I was. Would feeling good with me --you know-- massaging, hugging, laughing, talking, sleeping together -- would feeling good with me be something your Mr M would have problems with?"
"Well, of course."
"Why of course?"
"Why?"
"Yes, why? Why does a change in gender change the acceptability of us being loving with each other?"
"Because it could lead to sex."
"Sweetie, I'm bi. I like women and men. So by your logic, you and I shouldn't snuggle and we certainly shouldn't sleep in the same bed together."
"Oh Kay, don't be silly. Its not like that between us."
"No, it isn't. You know that, and I know that, but people outside our relationship don't. They draw their own conclusions, right or wrong."
"So what does that have to do with Mr M and Mr X?"
"Only Mr M and I really know what our relationship is. The same with me and Mr X, and me and you. I love, sweetie. I don't have sex with everyone I love. But I love everyone I have sex with. And whether or not I'm having sex with someone is of far less importance than loving them and being the best possible person I can be in that relationship."
"It makes sense when you apply it in terms of you, but I don't see how it works out in the real world."
"I think it probably works as well as or better than monogamy. Time will tell which works better, serial monogamy, or polyamory."
She nodded, looked thoughtful for a moment. A sly, somewhat furtive expression lighted her face and she leaned forward. In a whisper, she asked, "So who is better in bed, Mr M or Mr X?"
"I've no idea," I answered.
"You've lost me again," she said.
"I know. Lets leave it that way."

He teases me

I like the way he teases me.

Correction. I love the way he teases me.

How is it that he's gotten into my mind, learned where the buttons are, the buttons I used to keep well-hidden but now seem to be revealed to him? Sapiosexual I am, and he knows this, knows to start with my mind.

He starts with little puns. Clever little puns that his clever big brain comes up with on the fly. The first one always catches me by surprise. Makes me laugh. Me. He hits my laughter button regularly. I know people who have made it their mission to make me laugh and he does it with a single pun.

More delightful puns and then comes the sly innuendos. He has a way with words, this talent at finding the twist necessary to alter something innocent into something sexual. Early on he is so deft that I am uncertain as to whether or not the sexual connotation is intentional, but as time goes by my reactions egg him on.

Eventually, he will ask questions that focus my mind upon areas of my body, heightening my awareness of my arousal. He'll slide in a comment about something I'd said or done during love-making that makes me blush. And then the brushes. His arm will brush my nipples with accidental deliberation. His hips will brush up against my ass. He'll whisper something in my ear and his whiskers will brush my neck or shoulder, making my shiver or gasp.

And finally, when I am wet and scented with my own arousal, vibrating with need, he makes me wait. Dinner. A movie. A trip to the store. Always a delay, but an enjoyable one. He'll give me knowing looks. He'll comment on my squirming. Teasing me.

When we get home, he takes me. Bent over the couch. On my hands and knees by the door. Pressed up against a wall. It doesn't matter to me. What matters is that empty place that needs filling, that aches to be filled, and the hardness sliding into me, into the warm and welcoming wetness.

And then its my turn to tease him, to squeeze my muscles around him, to squirm and wriggle and moan and sigh. And when he is on the edge I beg him not to come, even as I grind myself against him, even as I try to wedge him farther into me. I look into him and he looks into me. We watch each other's eyes. And when the moment of ultimate superfeeling arrives, we ride that wave together, crying out, clinging to each other like castaways clinging to a life-raft.

Yes, he teases me so well.

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.

Phone call.

His was the last number I called from the airport.

"I'm here."

"Where is 'here'?"

"I'm walking up the ramp from my plane."

"Oh good! You're close."

"I am?"

"Yes, I'm at the marina, just put the boat back in the water."

"I thought you were keeping it in dry-dock til next year."

"Meet me here?"

"I'm tired, Kurt."

"I know, but I want to see you, see how you are doing."

"I'm tired, its after 10. How about I see you tomorrow morning?"

"Good idea. You can sleep here on the boat and I'll see you when we wake up."

"You're so bad..." I chuckled tiredly.

"I'll hold you, and the boat can rock you to sleep. I know you like that."

"I do..."

I stopped by the escalator. I was so tired that I swayed under the weight of my briefbag.

Kurt gave me directions from the airport to the marina, the rich timbre of his voice flowing through me. Potent, it was like a caress down my spine. I felt his large hands scoop my ass and pull me close to him.

"See you in what--half an hour?"

I was too tired to argue, and his boathouse was much closer than my place.

"Sooner than that. I left my luggage in San Francisco."

"You're going back?" Kurt sounded cautious. He accepted my relationships with the other men in my life, but he was concerned about the one in San Francisco.

"Yes. My sister..." My throat tightened and tears welled up.

"Ah. Poor Kay. Come here and let me pamper you."

"Deal."

Dreaming of my friend CD

I slept with my clothes on, on the top of my bed, for the first time in over a year. I did this because conversation after a reiki session with a friend ended up going so late I told him I didn't want him driving home in his exhausted state. So we stretched out on my tempurpedic bed, and within a few minutes I drifted off to sleep.

I slept fairly well, but not as soundly as normal, and awakened after seven hours of sleep to a beautiful blue sky. When I awakened, I was smiling, because I dreamed, and in my dream, CD called me.

I miss him. Does he miss me, I wonder? I accept the choice he made, just as I have come to accept my sister's choice. Both have cut me out of their lives: She, out of displeasure at my trying to save her life, he, out of fear of losing his life. The life he'd built with his wife and partner. I loved him as a friend, as a mentor, as an extraordinary man. The love and acceptance I gave him opened things in him, and his wife noticed. He took up his music again, finished his novel, stopped biting his nails. He found a sensual outlet in a sexless marriage, and in his acceptance of his masculine desires, in reclaiming his sexual power, he became the lean, handsome, charming man of 20 years previous.

She asked if he was having an affair, and he answered, honestly, that he was not. But emotionally, he was unfaithful. He was unfaithful because he felt there was something wrong in loving two women at the same time. I encouraged him to tell his wife about our friendship, and he'd said that he would, but he did not. The tension within him was unbearable. I knew that if he did not act consciously, that his subconscious would bring things to a head. He was afraid. I tried to coach him about his inaction, but his fear overwhelmed him.

And one day he did something stupid, something unrelated to me, that brought it all to a head. And in the aftermath of the explosion, he bowed to his wife's demands. He allowed himself to be castrated again. He emailed to tell me that his relationship with me was hurting his wife and that he would not be able to remain in contact with me. And so there has been silence.

Elie Weisel wrote in his book, Gates of the Forest, that when a friend denies you, it is worse than death. He was so right.

I dreamed of CD, that we talked, and I awakened with a feeling of happiness and aliveness. The happiness faded a bit, but my vitality, as ever, remains. Just as the silence remains. I love him still. I always will. And I accept that. I accept that just as I accept his choice to deny me. One day, perhaps, even I'll find a way to be happy about it.

The sexual is spiritual

It had been 6 weeks since I'd felt him moving inside me, and as always, that first time it was difficult to fit him in. Even kneeling astride, juicy with longing, my weight pressing down, I struggled to fit him in. A few inches and I wanted to start moving, to rock on his cock, but he likes to savor the feeling of being fully engulfed. So I worked myself down on him, feeling him stretching me open, feeling the upward glide of his heat. I stopped and moaned. "Almost," he said, and turned himself into a bow, his body arching, pressing the arrowhead of his cock deeper. I gasped, winced a little, my body stiffening. I love the place we were approaching, but getting there is not without discomfort. "Almost," he said again, and we pressed against each other and I tilted my hips a fraction and then, ah then, I felt like swooning. "There!" he said, and smiled up at me, and his eyes glowed. "You can feel that?" I asked him, as I ground myself against him, as I ground that spot inside me against the head of his cock. "How can you tell?" I wondered in awe. How could he tell that where he was, right there, gave me so much pleasure that my nipples tightened and my entire being felt like it was balancing on the point of orgasm. "It fits like lock and key," he answered. I smiled, knowing the analogy to be an apt one. We stayed that way for a full minute, at least, and I worked my muscles around him, and he purred with pleasure, and then I started moving, posting on him, up and down, the thickness of him charging through me, forcing me open again and again. I came, hit an orgasmic plateau, and rocked with a series of orgasms that hit in waves, one after another. My body tingled, I felt light-headed, the way I would after a fit of sneezes, and I rode him still, sliding the key home in its lock, over and over again, until my throat was raw from my cries and I was swaying atop him, all equilibrium gone. I slid off him and sprawled on the bed, my chest heaving, my thighs trembling. "Water, please," I whispered, and he got up and brought me a glass of blessedly cool water and helped me hold it to my mouth. He put the glass aside and got back into bed. "Mmmm... thank you," I purred and moved to snuggle up to him. "I'm not finished yet," he said, and fit himself between my thighs. I said hello to the gibbous moon on my way to the stars. Our heavenly bodies moved together, slowly at first as he gave me time to adjust to the different angle of penetration, then faster and harder, until his sweat fell on me like divine rain. Little sounds and changes in breath, harbingers of male orgasm, alerted me, and I worked my muscles around him, clenching and releasing, worshipping the divine spark in him, intent on maximizing his pleasure. We kissed as he climaxed, and it tasted of salt, and he pulsed inside me, and moaned incoherently, his sounds a benediction, his seed a sacred gift. Love was the afterglow, spreading through me even as he continued to gasp and twitch on me and in me. Tears pricked my eyes. I was reminded that beyond the urgency of orgasm, sex grants access to the sacred. Love is sacrosanct in all its forms of expression, and the sexual, in particular, can be deeply spiritual.

Death, peace, and beauty

So.... my mother died six years ago, just before the September 11th attack. I was struggling with grief and guilt and travel arrangements when the towers fell, and the national decent into an orgy of televised mourning and sabre-rattling derailed both my grieving process and my attempts to get to Hawaii to deal with my mother's remains. It was 10 days from her death before I successfully reached Hilo. It was 4 years from her death before I successfully grieved her.

Today I mark her death with surprising equanimity, considering all the 9/11 and Osama bin Ladin / al Qaeda media coverage. I've made my peace with myself, with her, with the past that came between us. I carry within me now a whole new sense of self-acceptance as a result of that peace-making: the roles of the unfit mother and the ungrateful daughter were not true to who we were, but they were real to us in the context in which we experienced each other. It is a powerful thing, being able to make such distinctions.

In laying her ghost to rest, I finally grew up.

I am applying the lessons learned the past two years toward dealing with my sister's situation. She will live to see her 38th birthday next month. Most likely, anyway. I am finding it difficult to live powerfully in the face of her suffering, but where I can, I am choosing not to focus on the helplessness which this situation is engendering in me. I am an adult now, truly adult in my emotions and thought processes and actions. I accept--no, I choose--What Is. And having chosen What Is, I am at peace with it. I am at peace with it, and that peace creates an opening to create a future in which I remember my sister as a vital woman who lived a full life, instead of one in which I continually mourn her as someone who died much too soon.

My relationships with others, my sense of connectedness, is the measure by which the beauty of life is understood. And the beauty of death.

He is sleeping

He is sleeping. I can hear his breathing change when he stirs in his bed. If I close my eyes I can see his dark lashes against his pale skin, his heavy shadow, the smoothness of his face, the faint smile on his mouth. He needs twice as much sleep as I do, so I slid out of bed and moved to where I am now, sitting in the sunlight. I wanted to wake him with my mouth and hands, bring that wonderful expression to his face, call forth that pleased purr from him. But I did that yesterday, and he looked a bit tired most of the day, so I've resolved to let him wake himself up. It is difficult, though, because as the sun warms me, his scent is rising from my skin. Our combined scents are rising from my skin, tantalizing me. I want him again. Yesterday he made me keep going. He wanted me completely satisfied, he said. I rode him until my muscles were trembling, until I bled from the wild, heedless slamming of my body down onto him. And then, when I was wrung out, laying face down, he used another entrance, and urged me through two more orgasms before he emptied into me. He let me nap and then we went to dinner. The scent of 'us' was very strong. I could feel the salt of my sweat and his tightening my skin. I ate my sushi and cold soba noodles with unsteady hands. I squirmed a bit in my seat. I kept dropping things. And he smiled. He smiled that self-satisfied smile that a man gets when he knows he has pushed a woman beyond her normal limits, used her well. When we got into bed he asked if I wanted anything else and I answered "snuggle." I put my arm around his chest and tangled my legs with his and slept deeply for my usual five and a half hours. But now I am awake and my body sings with tension and I want to taste the sleep on his skin and breathe in his scent and work my mouth slowly down his body. I want to paint love on his skin with my fingertips, watch it sink into him, see him glow, see the urgency tighten his body, until he reaches for me. Just a little while longer. I can wait. Really....