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Juno Henry and I go way back. She was the one who inspired me to write, and not only that. She inspired me to spread my wings and become the elegant slut I am today. It appears that her ex-lover, far from inspiring her to write as once he did, has become abusive and puerile. I am reposting her tribute to him, and her final goodbye, here on Elegant Smut. Because sometimes, you need more than one voice to silence the bullshit.

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Mr Henry has sadly suffered a hissy fit of epic proportions, which has led to his ultimate demise.

Once he was a studly and virile lover. Sadly, over the years his prowess waned considerably, and he has been reduced to whining and wailing dramatically in lieu of any real sexual interaction. His famously short cock, albeit rich in girth, lusts vainly after strapping young Korean lads, who wouldn’t touch the crusty old gaijin with a barge pole, and so much more so not their own.

His fetish for being cuckolded was what brought about his final downfall. Unable to accept that the woman who he repeatedly claimed to love over the course of 12 years, to whom he said over and over “It’s you. It’s always been you. It will always be you.” was free of him, and no longer wanted anything to do with him, he self-imploded.

The final straw came when she told him of her life and her stable of studly, sexy, virile lovers who have never even looked at a little blue pill, and her ongoing divorce. To her, as to most normal humans, this was called “news”, or “what’s going on in my life, man who I haven’t seen since 2006”. To him, this was an invitation to self-harm, throw a temper tantrum, and finally, completely, and utterly, lose his shit.

Upon the presentation via Facebook and email, of certain lewd and inappropriate suggestions on his part, and their subsequent rejection in their entirety, Mr Henry lost the plot. Expunging himself of much hoarded bile and ill-feeling, he wrote a pissy little note to this author, speaking of how he had also expunged himself of her and anything to do with her — and how this had delighted him.

And then he ceased to be.

He was, as the Pythons would have it, an ex-Parrot. Or similar. Although as metaphors go, parrot is quite appropriate for Mr Henry. When he spoke, whether on paper or out loud, much squawking did ensue. As he got older, so his writing got grayer, like the hair on his arms, back and shoulders. His notions became more staid and repetitive. His syntax grew stodgy and stale. His charm waned considerably, and his bright spark all but vanished. His delightful eloquence gave way to turgid loquacity, and his originality transmogrified into plagiarism and dullness.

In short, what was once love gave way to vitriol and ill-wishes. Misbehavior attractive in a rambunctious, tousle-headed child became loathsome and vile in an overgrown, immature malcontent. Was he always this way? Not according to my perception, certainly not then. But now — no question.

So goodbye, stranger who was once my adored love. Goodbye, farewell, good riddance, don’t let the swing door hit you on your wrinkling, saggy ass as you flounce away.

Rest in peace.

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Kiss

Stubble grazes skin, soft lips clustered

Background fades into itself, time stops

Held tight, strong, unyielding touch

Safe, secure, never to stop

Nothing else matters. Nothing exists

Save you. Save me. Save us.

Time freezes, alone together

In the moment.

Kiss.

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Excess baggage: removed

This year, I have managed to rid myself of two people from my life.

I did so semi-intentionally — it’s all a part of the growing-up process (one does tend to wonder when said process will end, since I am already in my forties) to be able to accurately ascertain that someone is just plain bad for you.

I’ve never been one to burn bridges. To whit, my entire range of years in puberty were spent trying desperately to fit in with a crowd, with the vast majority of whom I had little to nothing in common. The more I was rejected, the more I pushed for acceptance. I freely admit that this is likely a tale with which many can identify — the years of puberty being the hormone-strewn classic nightmare that they are for so many. I did have some good friends in the crowd, but precious few, and I am in touch today with only a smattering of them.

But I’m “FB friends” with many of the original crowd. Why? Dunno. They friended me, mostly, likely to swell their friend lists. These are mostly those who didn’t dislike me, but with whom i was never particularly close, a fact borne out by the photos i see of old gang reunions to which I am never invited.

I don’t need them on my list to prove I had friends in the past — god knows, once i grew up and accepted that my lifestyle would be very different from these people and I therefore should waste no more time in futile pursuit of their grudging and patronizing acceptance, I began to blossom and thrive. I accepted their friendship s because in a way, I felt affectionately towards them. My own judgment, or lack thereof, aside, it was nice to say hi, and see how they are and where and what and all that fun stuff. I’m very happy with my life, therefore looking back nostalgically is largely a fun pastime.

The two people of whom I initially spoke were nothing to do with my former years as a freshfaced and eager youthful idealist.

One is a former Dom. The other is a former love of my life.

The Dom is an oddity in and of himself. He claims to be in recovery from a particularly unpleasant behavioral disorder, and for this reason is always truthful and very open about his behaviour and limitations as a result of the affliction. I told the Big Bad Cat about him from the beginning. I knew the Dom way before the BBC and I met and fell in love. The Dom pursued me for a year before we finally met in the flesh, we had a number of sessions, and in between them he made it very clear that I was expected to be his 24*7, and obey his whims regardless of non-proximity. This was OK, or at least, it was OK then, because I was just beginning to experience BDSM, and believed that “this was the one twue way to be a sub”.

One twue way my sizeable ass.

The Dom and I broke up when i realized that I was not happy with the arrangement. While I was doing everything that he requested of me, he was withholding communication from me, and leaving me feeling isolated and abandoned. When I broached this subject, he told me that he was no longer happy with our arrangement for various reasons not connected to me. We ended ostensibly friends, although over the following year, as I learned more and more about the lifestyle, I realized how things had been wrongly handled (to put it mildly) from the beginning. Over time, I communicated to him how I felt, and eventually we worked things out and became, for want of a better term, friends.

After a while, the subject came up of sexual arousal — specifically, ours — redux. It had never ceased to exist, we’d always been very sexually attracted to one another. However, in the course of trying to make it work, appointment after appointment ended up being cancelled. Basically, life got in the way — and he took this as a personal insult. And with his reaction of petulant, pram-toy-expulsion tantrum, so expired my feelings for him.

The former love of my life was the one who made the choice to depart from my life — but things had gotten to the stage where I couldn’t continue to be in his life without him understanding how difficult he made it to be around him.

He’d suffered a personal tragedy that we should none of us ever know about — the tragic loss of a child. It had profoundly depressed him, although it didn’t change who he was all that significantly. He was always a self-destructive, conflicted and manipulative man with wild mood swings and an innate sense of “pity me”. It took me a long time to realise how he was playing me, years and years in fact — but eventually, the penny dropped. I wrote to him, when I realised that I had to do something, and I asked him to face up to what he was doing to me. It was a long, carefully thought-out and constructed letter, that set out facts: what I could no longer handle in terms of his behaviour towards me, and how he made me feel. We are all of us responsible for 100% of our 50% of the equation, and I hoped he’d understand that.

He didn’t. He did not reply, and has dropped me from his mental list of friends — evidenced by his actions on various social networking sites.

And I’m OK with that. It’s such a relief to close a door that opens onto a yawning chasm of self-doubt and potential hurt. And unusually — since I am not a bridge-burner by nature — I feel stronger and happier.

Yes, it’s difficult to lose people in life, but it’s even more difficult to know when they need to remain lost. I cherish the people I keep in my life, even more so when I acknowledge that I keep them there intentionally. Some people will never be lost to me, and I will always be here for them. These two — they’re history.

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Thank you for making me feel so relaxed and welcome. Thank you for liking so many of the same things that I do, and concurring on so many others. Thank you for the tea with milk, and for then rendering said tea irelevant as my mouth was busy elsewhere.

Thank you for stroking my skin, and playing with my hair. Thank you for being so much fun to be with.  Thank you for being a wonderful kisser. I could kiss you for hours, days even. I might end up looking something like Mick Jagger, but it’d be worth it.

Thank you for taking me from zero to tsunami in under 10 seconds — a feat hitherto only ever achieved (speedwise) by my glass friend. Thank you for taking me from behind; it’s my favourite position (see above “liking the same things as I do”).

Thank you for hugging me and holding me close. Thank you for making me laugh, and then laughing at my attempts at humour. Thank you for being so damn sexy. Thank you for making me feel so natural and happy.

Thank you for letting me pleasure you. Thank you for getting hard for me. Thank you for telling me to suck your balls — I’d have sucked them anyway, but I really enjoy being given, and following, (certain) orders in the bedroom (from specific people).

Thank you for the one for the road. It did indeed last the whole way home, the rest of the day, all of last night and is still going — not so much in terms of orgasmic buzz but in terms of glowing from the inside out. Were I to walk past a Geiger counter, I’d be surprised if it didn’t light up and dance all over the surface on which it stood.

Thank you for everything — and in particular, for thanking me. I can’t think of a higher compliment. As you said to me, it was wonderful having you, and I couldn’t agree more.

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Suzanne Portnoy recently acquired a Kindle and rather fell in love with the format. She’s asked a few of her favorite sex bloggers to contribute to a new erotic magazine she edits, available on only by subscription on Kindle. I’m among the contributors, who include some really fine smutmongers. Here are the details:

SexBlogyssey is a Kindle-only compilation of the best erotic blogging, bringing together smart, smutty writing from both sides of the Atlantic. Our contributors write about real experiences and their real lives, with a little fantasy/fiction thrown into the mix. We regularly publish new material, drawing on both new writing and the archives of our contributing bloggers.

SexBlogyssey was created by Suzanne Portnoy, author of a popular but now-retired blog describing her double life as a middle-aged single mother and entertainment publicist with a lively swinging lifestyle on the side. Other contributors include Jefferson, Bad Influence Girl, Joanne Cake, Todger Talk, Kitty Stryker, Mon Mouth, Elegant Slut, among others.

You can purchase a subscription here.

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Leaving the big bad cat after a rendezvous of particularly spine-tingling intensity, I view the world with different eyes.

Prior to stepping out of the magical world, in which no one exists but us two, I make myself ready with humdrum yet essential preparations, since walking the streets naked and glowing is not really an option.

Oh shhh. You know it isn’t.

I look in the mirror, and stifle a squeal of horror at the birds nest my carefully coiffeured thatch has become over the space of a few passionate hours. Working my much-practiced magic, using weapons of mass destruction, I manage to subdue and restrain the frightwig on my head until I once again resemble the ordinary, working mother so beloved of my vanilla acquaintances.

I turn to the Big Bad Cat, and ask him whether I still have sex hair.

He laughs.

“No, you don’t have sex hair, my darling, but you do have sex eyes.”

And it’s true. I know that to remove the sappy, happy, sated and blissed-out grin plastered across my face, it will take time and much concentration on matter of extreme mundanity. I’m floating above the earth, although my feet make contact with the metal, concrete or gravel that they encounter, but I’m still a passenger on the Sub-Space Express, and there’s not a lot I can do to change that.

Not that I would want to, as I’m sure you can imagine.

But from the inside — and I believe I have mentioned how the events that go on around me, and involving me, are all taken down and noted by the little man in my head, the quintessential documentor who is a constant passenger on my shoulder — the world from inside looking out is a very different place when I look out through sex eyes. I half-expect people to stop me in the street, ask me for tips on having their eyes glow tawny gold as mine feel as though they do, or tell me how blissed out I look.

 No one ever does, of course. Which is fine.  I’m quite happy to radiate the love and peaceful tranquility that I feel, with no specific payback.

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The NEMRF is a huge catalyst in my day-to-day humdrum existence.

Yes, I have a day-to-day humdrum existence, doesn’t everyone?

Every so often, someone plugs me in and I light up like a Christmas tree. I sparkle — sometimes, I even go as far as to expound a shiny little rain shower. Usually it’s the Big Bad Cat. It’s hard to spend even a minute with him without my glowing from the inside like a Jack O’Lantern.

But other than that, I’m just me.

I do not complain, please do not misunderstand me. Once, years ago, there was no enlightenment. I floated from day to day, week, to week, month to month, year to year. I was not myself, I had lost the essence of me. I was buried and smothered under a sea of mundanity.

And then I rediscovered life.

I found myself through a process of awakening that began over five years ago, that was catalyzed by my falling in love. I have been in love several times since then, and am still in love in certain of these cases. The true love of my life, prior to meeting the Evil Rotten Cat, who is a deeper and no less true love and Cat-of-my Heart, was and remains my love.

This is what they call polyamory, folks. Living and breathing. Loving more than one person.

I speak now of the love I mentioned, the one who came before the Cat. We are barely in touch for a number of reasons, mostly involving his own personal hell, which has effectively straitjacketed him to the extent that we communicate rarely and sporadically. On paper, that is, or rather on screen. We still have a degree of telepathy that is frighteningly effective. He will think of me, and I of him, and then we will find out letters crossing in mid-stream. He traveled to this region last year, not actually to this country, but over the border.

He wrote to me:

“When I stood on the eastern shore of the lake and gazed toward your country last year, I called your name.  Didn’t you hear me?”

I checked my diary. I’d written of him on the day he mentions. He’d been in my head the way he usually is in my heart.

He is older than I, by 17 years. He has experienced life to the full, in both the positive and, unfortunately, most negative sense. He owned my heart as he was the first to fully expose it, to tease it, to provoke it to love harder, deeper, fuller than ever before. He encouraged me and my creativity, he dragged me with him on eternal flights of fancy, he opened my eyes to real erotica and all that lay beyond.

He wrote to me:

“I miss you more than you can possibly comprehend.”

Really? He’d be surprised at how much I can.

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