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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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He stayed where he was in suspended animation, remaining poised above me, and looking down into my eyes.

I turned to suppress a small sob, but he wasn’t having that.

“No, look at me, Tabby. I need to see your eyes, and I need you to see mine.”

Ever the obedient submissive kitten, I did as I was told, even in the knowledge that the look in his sparkling baby-blues would be too much and I would likely dissolve.

Very quietly, he waited until my sobs had subsided, and then bent down gently and kissed me on the nose.

“I love you. I love all of you. I love fucking you. Your cunt, your ass, your mouth, your boobs…. your mind. I love every bit of you. What we have is ours. It’s special. Nothing that goes on anywhere else can ever touch what we have.”

I felt a tear wend its way down the bridge of my nose, and then fall sideways onto the pillow.

He continued.

“Look into my eyes. No, don’t turn away, look into them. What do you see?”

A trifle sheepishly I looked into his eyes again. It’s often said that the eyes are the windows to the soul, but I’ve never been very good at interpreting a “look”. As a trained actor, I’m far more adept at deciphering the strange convulsive ability of the facial muscles than the somewhat nebulous quality of pupil, iris and retina.

However, this time, to my astonishment, I saw love. In his eyes. Almost tangibly radiating out of them — I could see it, feel it, sense it.

“Well? What do you see?”

An all-purpose sniffle, a deep breath and then, very quietly:

“Love.”

“Yes. Know that this is true. That this has been true for… how long is it now? Since we met and fell in love? Know it. Internalize it. Believe in it. You are not a dalliance, you are not tertiary, you are my sub, my Pink Tabby, you are someone I care for deeply, respect enormously and love very, very much. Nothing else has any effect on that. Nothing, ever.”

Through my tears, I felt the sincerity of his words resonate somewhere deep inside me. Trite though it may sound, I felt a peace spreading through me, emanating outwards from where I imagine my soul to live, nestled somewhere snugly behind my heart and ribcage.

He finally lowered himself onto the mattress next to me, and gathered me close to him, stroking my hair until my tears subsided, planting tiny delicate kisses wherever he could find skin that wasn’t obscured by my tangled mane of pulled and disarrayed hair.

As tight as he held me, I held on to him even tighter, wanting to absorb his inner peace and calm into me, wanting to meld with him, wanting the moment to be endless. He held me tighter, winding his fingers through my tangles and pulling my head back, eliciting the requisite squeal of pleasure-pain that it always does, and causing a potential pool to collect down south.

We kissed, a kiss of intensity and love and pain and pleasure and longing and lust and meaning and feeling and deep, deep desire. And then, even more intensely than we had kissed, we fucked. Fucked hard, fucked long, fucked each other until we sweated, panted and cried out in ecstatic joy. A fuck, in other words, to write home about.

And a vanilla one at that.

Post-orgasmically, I roused myself from our tangled stupor to laughingly note this to him.

“We just had vanilla sex! That’s hilarious!”

He cackled in his most evil, rotten, flower-wielding feline manner.

“Not exactly vanilla, dear. There was kink.”

“If you say so, darling.”

“There was, definitely. And as you well know, once you kink you can never go bink.”

“Well, I’d hate to go bink at any rate.”

“Zigackly.”

There you have it, people. Once you kink, you can never go bink. In case that was your dread fear in life. 😎

(I love you, evil, rotten cat. <3)

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