D/s 101

Dear Butch,

Maybe someone didn’t explain the rules.  Which, is unfortunate for you on so many levels.

When one enters into a D/s (Dominate/submissive, and not the capitalization of one title and not another is no mistake), negotions need to be made.  The Dominsate doesn’t get to just make a set of rules, then bark orders to the submissive, and expect for all their wishes become instant reality.

Fuck.That.Shit.

I am a submissive in the kink community.  Not a shock is you have been reading my blog regularly.  I like to a play on the bratty bottom/submissive side of the pool, teasing the Dominates with flashes of cleavage and a dirty mouth elegantly painted in bright red matte lipstick.  I have been kinky as far back as I can remember, although I haven’t always been with partners who shared my same love for all thinks naughty.  If I were to have to rank my kink experience on a scale from 1-10, 1 being vanilla as a cupcake and 10 as kinky as a old school phone cord, I would give myself an 8.715.

I agreed to meet you for a second time.  Our first meeting left me bored and confused and sad for my future all at once.  You had asked me out and I had said yes.  Which was probably my first mistake, I am so far from being ready to date or even fuck again, still recovering from the deep wounds of my recent breakup.  However, you were nice enough and I liked the restaurant you picked.  The first meeting was a disaster, a hot fucking mess.  But apparently you thought it went great because you continued to text and call me, and since you seemed sweet enough I agreed to go out for a second time and start negotiating a possible fling.

So when you, a self-proclaimed Dominate, approach and inquire about having a D/s summer fling with me and start off by barking orders and making demands before we even leave the restaurant on our second “date” (using that term very loosely) you shouldn’t have been shocked when I walked away.  Literally.  And it wasn’t just backing and demanding, you went right into insulting me and my character.  I may be a submissive, but I am still a human with feelings and rights, you fucking asshole.  When I asked to meet to chat about interests, limits, and arrangements; I didn’t expect to be on the receiving end of threats and intimidation.

Dominates lead with a cool confidence.  An air of complete control and admiration for their submissive.  You are a tool who likes to boss ladies around.  I don’t regret walking out and immediatly deleting you from my life.  I enjoy being bossed and tossed around in the bedroom, but I do expect to walk into that situation with a Dominate that respects my limitations and understands wheat is on and off the menu.  I really enjoy dirty talk while fucking, but you started before we even got undressed.  You hit me with words uglier and harder then any toy or impalement I have ever used during play.  The bruises you left were emotional and left me so furious.

I may be lonely, but I am not desperate.

Love,

Femme

Dead Inside

Dear Butch,

I have never been a fan of the typical popular holidays: Christmas overwhelming, Thanksgiving is too commercial; and although I enjoy Saint Patrick’s Day, I have never really been able to get into the American version of the holiday.

For me, fireworks make a great holiday.  New Years Eve and the week between Pride and the Fourth of July.  These are my favorite times to gather, celebrate, and over-indulge.

I come from a big fireworks family.  I was probably 5 or 6 when I had my first sparkler in my hand and 8-9 when I held a Roman candle for the first time.  Each celebration; birth, death, graduation, marriage, divorce, deployment, homecomings, etc. are celebrated in my family with explosions of color and noise.  I am addicted to the boom that starts in the air, shakes the ground, and then makes my heart go fucking crazy.  Fireworks are like shocks to my heart, pulsating with the purest form of joy.

 

This past New Year’s Eve I was with friends and T-Rex.  We celebrated with silly hats and a small amount of wine.  It was the perfect gathering after a very stressful holiday season.  I kissed my man outside in the fresh winter air, with the smallest snowflakes falling.  It was picturesque and romantic, and there were fireworks.  I am not sure if it was the passion and dedication for T-Rex or the fireworks that made my heart beat faster.  All I knew that I was so in love with T-rex and that he was so in love with me, that we were walking fireworks.

And then Pride came this year, the kick off to my favorite holiday week of the year.  I dragged myself to go out and dance and drink with friends.  All I wanted to do was stay in my bed and shut out the world.  But, I didn’t.  I knew that getting out and getting stupid was the best solution.  I knew that al the vodka, tequila, and gin in the world wouldn’t help heal my heart, but maybe I would just get drunk enough to make the hurt pass out long enough to allow me to feel more numb and less broken.

I kept my spirits up by reminding myself that a week full of fireworks was ahead of me.  Starting at Pride and ending with the Fourth.  But this year, I felt nothing.  Night after night of displays, and nothing.  I watched with awe, but my heart sat heavy in my chest.  For the first time ever there was no joy.

Maybe I am already dead inside.

Love,

Femme

Wandering Lost

Dear Butch,

I am beyond broken.

Almost two months later and still I have no idea how to move forward from this immense sadness I feel.  It is almost like there is a balloon inside of my body and each day someone blows air into it, each day I feel like I have lost room to breath.  I have considered ending the blog.  Almost three years isn’t a bad run in the cyber world.  But, I can’t seem to pull the trigger and put my readers out of their misery.

I have lost my wit and sass, buried under packed boxes and tear stained tissues.  Also missing is my drive.  By nature I am a true Type-A, over-achiever, sexual bunny with new batteries who loves caffeine and my well-worn planner.  Gone is my energy and desires.  I keep expecting to move my feet one in front of the other, to start to feel like myself again.  But I have failed to even cross the starting line in the healing journey.

So I ask you all, my sweet and supportive virtual friends to be patient with me.  I have read your emails and messages, your kindness and grace has been a blessing.  The rest of the June/Seven Steps of Grieving posts are written, I just am having a hard time exposing all of those raw emotions and stories to the world.  I am trying to hard to protect T-Rex and what we had.  I am still so fucking in love with him, even in the aftermath.  Is my desire to protect overthrowing my ability to heal, very possible.

I am at driving at full speed towards a dead-end road, I just hope I can turn myself around before I crash.

Love,

Femme

Femme, Denial

Dear Butch,

I shook my head at you from across the table, trying to remove your words out of my ears and my memory. I had just reached the denial stage roughly two weeks before T-Rex ended the relationship. Before I even knew about the seven stages of grieving a relationship and my upcoming plummet into them.

Over drinks, you had told me the secret you could no longer keep inside of you. You told me the one fact about my relationship with T-Rex that I was refusing to face. You and I both knew that this was not news to me.  That sick, deep, stabbing feeling in my stomach had alerted me before our meeting.

For months I denied and justified. Even though the signs were like the sunlight peeking through lace curtains, growing brighter and bolder with time. Until the end when I was blinded with what I was refusing to face for months, when the words came out of his mouth. I had chalked up worry in my brain and nerves in my stomach as my own insecurities. I would find pieces of the truth in the house, pushed into drawers and under piles of paper, hoping not to be found. I didn’t have to go seeking them at first, they found me. The more that I discovered without intention, the more I closed my eyes and covered my ears. This was not going to happen, not to us.

I coated nausea and uncertainties with hope. That is all I could hold on to, hope and trust.  I couldn’t and wouldn’t accept the truth. If I ignored it, it would just go away. I started to tell myself I was losing my mind until I started to believe it. I used logic to remove my doubt, but the feeling remained.  I just kept telling myself this wasn’t real, I just kept shaking my head and moving forward.

Lesson learned, always trust your gut.

Love,

Femme

Femme, Shock

Dear Butch,

I sat across from him, dumbfounded on how we got to this point.  My mind raced over our history; memories came to me in four picture strips from photo booths and familiar song lyrics that we danced to late at night.  Like a microfilm scrolling between the good and the bad and the somewhere in between.

How the hell did we end up here?

Sitting at the table that we shared countless late night taco dinners, the table he had taught me how to use a sewing machine, the table that I used to write blog posts as he looked across at me with a proud smile.  Here, at this table, is where it would all end.  His words were clear, but I couldn’t connect the letters with the meaning behind them.  Like falling into ice cold water, I panicked.  Feeling dizzy and sick trying to put the puzzle together that after two years together we were to be no more.

I knew that we had been shaky.  That the air between us had gradually become heavy with an unexplainable tension, but I never thought that we wouldn’t be able to make it through.  We had been through hell and back together, managing to fit almost every major life stressor in the two years we had shared together.  What we faced right now was a piece a cake, just new job jitters and exhaustion.

He and I were unstoppable.  A force to be reckoned with.  Together, we were a warhorse.

Or least so I thought up until a few moments ago.  Until he said the words that I never thought I would hear from him.  I shook my head, thinking that somehow I hadn’t heard him correctly.  But, his words were crystal clear and his eyes filled with so much sadness that I cried harder knowing how his heart was breaking as he was breaking my heart.

I wasn’t ready for this, I would never be ready for this.  Especially not at this table.

Love,

Femme

Happy…Bed

Dear Butch,

(Literally putting my “Happy” theme month to bed…)

One of the smallest and greatest joys is going bed with a partner.

After a long and hard day at the office, in the classroom, or doing house work the light at the end of the tunnel is a pillow top mattress with clean crisp sheets and soft pillows.  Peeling back the sheets and blankets is like finding a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.  As you sit, finding instant relief in the comfort of the mattress, you pull the rest of your body up and on the bed while trying to let go of the toxicities of the day.  You turn and find a weary but smiling face next to you, the face that you will never stop loving.  Not only are you physically comforted, but also emotionally.

Whether you talk about your day, read silently, or fuck until the point of exhaustion; you are in your safe space.  The bed is like a grown up treehouse or a blanket fort, a place where many walk past but few can enter.  A sacred space that holds secrets, tears, and laughter.  The bed, your shared bed, is the one place in the house that only the two of you (and a third or more if that is what you both choose) should enter.

Sweet dreams and wake up simply being loved.

Love,

Femme

Happy…Brunch

Dear Butch,

There is something so wonderful about brunch with friends.

Promises of fresh coffee and refreshing mimosas call you from your drunken slumber.  Gathering together on a Sunday morning to retell the adventures of the evneing before and hash out plans on how you are going to survive the upcoming week.  Everything seems so clear over bacon and breakfast potatoes, the light at the end of the tunnel seems closer with a fork in my hand.

Whether it be a party of two between old friends or a the whole fucking lesbian mafia squeezed together in the back corner of a patio, this is when my heart feels happy and safe.  It is where I have gone to celebrate my victories and mourned my defeats.  Where I am comfortable sharing, over sharing, or sitting in silence.  This is my green zone from the world.  It isn’t about the food or the people watching, it is about feeling at home.

For everyone who has ever joined me for lunch after a great night of sex or a horrible evening of heartbreak, thank you.

Love,

Femme

Happy…Toys

Dear Butch,

There is nothing like an early night in, snuggled into the covers, laptop fired up with your favorite porn pulled up, and a brand new sex toy in hand.

I recently got to enjoy this exquisite experience.  Like driving a new car or opening a new can of coffee, there is just something wonderful about brand new.  Knowing what to expect from experience, but the thrill of the unknown joy floating in the air.  Only good can come from this moment and it is so thrilling that you wait just one second more to fully soak in the fabulous anticipation.

And then, it happens.  The texture, the sound (or lack of), the pure ecstasy.  For me, it was a new vibe.  Playing with the settings in action opposed to in the store on the sample model gave me goose bumps.  I melted in and lost myself in orgasmic bliss.  It has been a long time since I have curled my toes like that during solo play, and curl I did until I got foot cramps.

Treat yourself t a new vibrator, dildo, anal plug, nipple clamps, lube, or other thrilling masturbatory tool.  Your naughty bits and toes will thank you.

Love,

Femme

Happy…Dresses

Dear Butch,

I had an epic interal battle with myself this weekend.  Over dresses.

I am pretty sure I have enough dresses to last me a month, easy.  I have dresses in my closest that I probably haven’t even worn.  I have an addiction to making myself as presentable as possible, with hopes to camouflage my flaws and enhance my assets.

I started to casually look for a dress for a particular event in early fall.  I am officiating my first wedding and am looking for the perfect dress.  Black or purple, fancy but not over the top.  I am part of the wedding ceremony, but not part of the wedding party.  There is no handbook for this.  I know I have a few months, but I have had to rush shop for a special event before and it always turns out horrible.  With a general idea in mind, I start looking online.  Fancy lace dresses turn into causal maxi dresses turn in to dresses that are suitable for work but can be dressed down for weekends.

Like a binge televevions watcher, I can’t seem to help myself.  One click turns into another, I am putting dresses into online carts, trying to figure out which I should buy first.  Long forgotten is the officiating dress.  In this moment of controlled chaos and shopping, I am happy.  Imagining all the events, parties, and meetings I can attend while feeling fabulous in a dress that fits me like it was made for me.

There is nothing like dreaming in fabrics.

Love,

Femme