hotel (1)

Hotel room.

It’s evening, most of a bottle of wine drunk between us, all our clothes stripped off except for your socks – overlooked in our hungry fumbling – and the lace bralette that’s pushed up over my tits. I’m sitting on your lap, toes just brushing the carpet, barely enough to balance, and I’ve got one hand down between my legs.

‘Keep touching yourself,’ you say, not so much commanding as impulsive, like you can’t help it, like you really want to see it, and I do: let my fingertips slip in circles playing round my clit. I’m swollen and wet with my own slick and lube, too, from the toys we started with earlier; wet enough now that I’m slipping a little on your thighs. You tighten your forearm that’s braced across my hips and to hitch me a little closer against your chest. Your other hand is up playing with one of my nipples, rolling it between your fingers just hard enough that my body gives a little quiver with every tug.

“I’m gonna – oh fuck – I want you,” I say, not very coherent, grinding over your lap. I can feel your breath on the back of my neck and the weight of your cock jerking against the inside of my thigh and –

“please,’ I say, frantic, ‘fuck me, let me, please,’ and you tighten your forearm, graze your teeth over my shoulder. I try to wriggle down, to grind against you harder, take you inside, and you pinch my nipple in the web of two of your fingers, a duller, deeper pinch than fingertips would be.

‘After,’ you say, ‘wanna see you,’ and you move your hand down from my breast and pull one of my legs wider apart so you can see my fingers slipping and rubbing, see the tendons jumping in my inner thigh, see my pussy pink and glistening. Your cock isn’t twitching now, anymore, is pressed hard and straining between my legs, just beside my cunt. I can see it there, see the bright sheen of precum over its head, see –

that does it: I arch back against you, legs pulling up involuntary, scream choked short because fuck, hotel, thin walls. I sit awhile on your lap while the aftershocks settle, tracing my fingers over your cock. It judders up against my open palm.

‘Now?’ I say, breathless, and you answer with a noise low in your throat and take me to bed.

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hotel (1)

string

I’ve been doing some cross-stitch so I’ve had some yarn lying around, and when I first was trying to think of a photo idea I looked at it and thought “hmm maybe I’ll sort of… tie it around the base of each breast, really tight, to get a super cool bondage look”.
Alas, dear reader, this Did Not Work to the most profound imaginable extent (I suspect due to the size of my tits and also due to the, uh, rules of physics). So! This is what I ended up with in the end, haha.
I don’t mind it, though; there’s something sort of nicely symbolic (if a bit obvious) about physically framing parts of yourself, stringing lines around [body part X ]; it goes beyond passive acceptance (‘yeah my [X] is ok’) to ‘this is something a bit worth marking out’.
Anyway that’s my pseudo-philosophising for this week, lol — it’s just my tits with some string round them, really!
Check out the smooch at the bottom of the post for more Sinful Sunday posts! x
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Sinful Sunday

 

string

When she masturbates she likes to open her legs, sometimes lying down, sometimes sitting up against one end of the couch with a knee pressed up against its back; she likes to imagine she’s being watched, that someone’s sitting at the other end of the couch and watching her, that their skin’s gone flushed from it, from watching the hitch of her hips up into her fingers, the shiny slick of her pussy, the way her cunt gapes hungry and the curve of her open thighs.

She imagines them telling her things, not urgent, not even commanding, just – things: ‘keep ’em open, easy, honey, open up,’ when her legs start to shake and stiffen, and she takes a deep shuddering breath and lets them fall back apart, lets the coiling ache inside her lengthen, diffuse through her body, go deeper.

Sometimes when she gets close, when she shoves all the fingers of her free hand into her cunt and curls up over herself, muscles locking up, she bites at the skin of her knees and arms and imagines being watched, imagines that voice saying ‘baby god you’re so hot I just wanna taste you so bad’ and she comes, sometimes, like that — mostly silent, just one low cry and the wracking aftershocks as she flutters around her own fingers.

I came here by expected roads
by way of responsible decisions
(no, wait)
I travelled on expected roads
but not to here
this wasn’t where the roads were meant to go

I mean, things are ok here, there are
things that I like and people I love but
I’m ok but I’m sad but I’m fine but I’m not
myself
whoever that is
I’m just sort of
here
by default
I don’t want to live by default

Some days, anger
at mislabelled roads and well-intentioned faces, at fences put up in good faith that broke all my bravest parts
Sometimes anger
(but put that away)

the world’s wrought more in ambiguity than I’d been told
but already I’m so much older than I thought questions would last

It’s not that I thought I’d get prince charming
maybe I did
maybe I hoped
and a happy ever after
but I thought, god, I thought that I could
make my own 
that one of these days I’d happen upon it
my own happy ever after
built of all my responsible decisions
and I’d be happy

fuck that
rip down well-intentioned fences
kick out the underplinth of should
i’ve spent enough of life in fear paid out in pennies

navel-gazing

This post isn’t smutty, or sexy. Heads up.

I tweeted yesterday about my ongoing struggle deciding whether or not to come out to my mom as poly/non-monogamous. I appreciated the thoughtful feedback and support I got there, but thinking about the whole thing made me want to try and process it in a fuller way. Maybe there are some of you who are in similar places, or have been. Maybe some of you have – not answers, but reflections from your own engagement with disentangling this stuff. If nothing else, writing this post might help me to think about it in a more deliberate way, detached a bit from the sort of urgent emotionality it’s usually attached to.

Here’s who I’m out to (apart from my partners and metamours): 3 friends back in Canada; 1 here in London; 1 in Berlin; 2 of my sisters. (And all of you, and the internet generally, I suppose, anonymously!) My friend circle here in London essentially is my polycule – I have some acquaintances and ex-colleagues whom I see occasionally, but no friendships close enough to ever make me feel the tension of being closeted; and most of those acquaintances are people that, if it came to it, if the topic came up, I wouldn’t mind telling. They’re largely liberal, open-minded, similar in general sensibilities to me, the sort of people I’d guess would just go ‘oh! ok’ and if anything be …intrigued, but not unsettled.

Where I feel the tension the most, as I tweeted yesterday, is around my mom, and (less directly) my extended family back in Canada. One of the tricky things about the distance is that it’s relatively easy, pragmatically speaking, to just never have it come up; unless I mention polyamory, or having other partners, there’s nothing to push it awkwardly to the fore. My mom isn’t part of my daily life. She doesn’t come to my house, or know the rhythms of my weekly life; she isn’t here to wonder where I go twice a week or to notice when I go on a weekend away with a partner. She doesn’t know that lots of nights my son only has one parent at home because the other is sleeping somewhere else.

And in a way that makes it very easy.

But – I struggle a lot with what I owe her, what I owe myself, to what extent authenticity trumps other considerations. What it always comes down to is this, murmured in a very quiet voice I only let myself look at sideways, cause it’s too difficult, too messy: do I want my mom to die without ever knowing this about me? without ever having that conversation with her, or giving her the chance to accept this part of me? On a certain level, is my decision not to tell her unfair because it denies her the chance to respond herself and not just in my projected imaginings? I don’t know, I don’t know. What I do know is that, so long as I don’t tell her, the extent to which she can actually share in my life becomes more and more censored, truncated. Some days I think, is the daughter she talks to even a real person or just a paper-doll two-dimensional cutout, pieced together from the parts of me I think won’t cause waves, won’t upset her, won’t provoke a difficult conversation.

I’ve always been a people-pleaser, the peacemaker, the sibling that tried to make everyone get along, the kid that behaved, that got mad because the homeschool curriculum didn’t give enough tests I could try to measure myself against. Tell me I’m doing good. I’ve changed in a lot of ways, shifted almost all the goalposts, but that instinct is still there. That’s one of the puzzle pieces.

Here’s the other one. Some of you know that I was raised crazy religious, and you can take that ‘crazy’ in both its qualitative and quantitative senses. My mom has mellowed somewhat since the days of head-coverings and demon-exorcisms and young-earth Creationism and “no movies no music no books written after 1950”, but she’s still very conservative.  She’d be a fan of the Mike Pence rule. She thinks homosexuality is wrong. She doesn’t like movies with sex scenes.

I don’t think she’d reject me. Not a chance. She’s a people pleaser too (where do you think I got it?), and she loves me. I know she’d still love me. But she’d – here’s the thing – I don’t know that she could be happy for me. I don’t know that the knowledge could be anything but a burden to her, another reason for her to worry about my soul. And I don’t want her, or anyone, to think of my relationships as A Problem. I want to tell people who will see how happy I am and be happy with me, who can be glad I have partners in my life who love and support and respect me, who can recognise how much fuller they make my life.

But then – I’m back again at whether the crux of this decision about me, or her, about my desires for authenticity or about protecting her narrow worldview or – what?

I love her. In some ways, in spite of everything, we’re close. She fucked me up in ways she didn’t mean to, but I’ve always known she supported and loved me. Part of me badly wants her to know what my life is actually like, about the people and experiences that are important to me. Part of me doesn’t want her to die without ever knowing.

I just really don’t know.

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navel-gazing

ships passing

She finds him in the kitchen, not on purpose, he’s just there when she comes down the hall at 3.14 am for a drink of water. The last of the party’s stragglers are still out in the back, smoking, maybe, laughter muted through the walls. She stands in the kitchen doorway and the furnace kicks in and it’s snowing outside, slow flakes drifting past the kitchen window. He’s standing in front of the sink, hands on the edge of the counter, leaning into his arms a little, looking out at the front yard and the snow. His hair is mussed, bedhead-fuzzy, and he’s only wearing his briefs.

She’s wearing a pair of ugly old panties that say ‘hot bananas!!’ on them and a tank top that got shuffled to pajama duty when she spilled wine on it last summer. She stands in the doorway and looks at him, tall and almost naked and broader than he’s been since she’s known him, and her toes curl against the cold linoleum.

She must have made a noise, because he turns his head and sees her.

‘Hey,’ he says, and does that thing where he almost smiles, a twitch at one corner of his mouth.

‘I’m just,’ she says, walking across the floor, glad of the darkness, ‘water, I’m just, I’m. Thirsty.’

He moves away from the sink a little, just a little, still close enough that her shoulder brushes against his arm. She picks up a glass and doesn’t move and her eyes track over the rim of the sink, up his forearm, his waistband, the heavy jerk of his dick under his briefs. There’s a line of dark fuzz just at the top of his thighs. Unshaven, then, and for no explicable reason her nipples harden. She puts the mug down, feels a little like she’s floating.

‘Hey,’ he says, and she looks up and then, so quick she hardly knows it, his mouth is on her and her ass is up on the counter and her legs are wrapped around his waist. It’s like, she’s had, it’s like a dream, she’s had this dream before, but this time his fingers in her panties are solid and warm and his breath is a little sleep-funky and he’s real, real scruff against her lips and his cock pressed up hard between them. She lets a hand drag down his chest and feels the tip of him, wet and slippery, leaking over the elastic of his shorts.

‘Quick,’ she says, before it’s over, before the smokers stumble in, before some ghost of the past, her past, his, comes between them, ’yes,’ and his tongue does something wet and vital in her mouth.

He lifts her, hesitates, moves towards the table, and she takes one second, two, to look at his face, the thirsty curves of the way his mouth hangs a little open, the judder on the underside of his jaw when he takes a breath, the way one eye crinkles a little, almost a wink. She twists in his arms, gets the ball of one foot on the chair and a knee on the table, grips its edge with both hands. He’s as hungry as she is, is palming his cock up between her thighs almost before her knees are planted. She feels his knuckles twisting, two fingers inside her, three, maybe, and then the full-length shudder of his body against the backs of her thighs. Then he’s pushing inside her and she makes a noise, guttural-sharp, and his hand clamps over her mouth, hard.

‘No,’ he says, soft, and keeps his hand there as he grinds a little into her, settles himself, and pulls out agonisingly slow. His other hand finds her waist, strokes down over one hip. He puts one foot up onto the seat of the chair and starts to fuck into her – easy, rocking thrusts that leave her trembling, trying to get her breath. She puts her head down and his hand pulls against her lips and he slips two fingers inside her mouth, lets them flutter against her tongue. She can taste herself on his fingertips.

‘Touch yourself,’ he says, still soft, more pleading than command, and she takes a deep shuddery breath and puts a hand between her legs, lets two fingers play in little circles around her clit. His breath is getting threadier, harsher, and his thrusts a little uneven. He leans down over her back and lets his mouth graze warm over her spine, and that does it – she spasms around him, knees shaking, moaning against his palm, and he makes a noise she thinks about for a long time after and stutters against her, seizes, locks his knees as he comes inside her.

She cleans up with a paper towel and then sits for a minute on his lap, his arms wrapped around her and his head bowed into the back of her neck. Outside it’s stopped snowing. She has a drink of water, still trembling, and then there’s the stirring of someone at the other end of the house. A door creaks. One long look between them and then she’s back down the hall, in her room, paper towel still balled in one fist.

She stands there in the dark for a long, long time.

 

ships passing