The spring morning light is so delicious. It lies on my skin like a silk nightdress, warm to the touch and heavy with the day ahead.
Don’t forget to click on the lips to see who else is being sinful this week
We met on a hot day in April by Harrods, you in your suit with laptop and a City grin and me with a charity shop Jaeger dress and my feet sore from London walking. I had a twitter friend with me, and was strangely anxious about you both meeting, what if you didn’t like each other? As it was, who could resist your eyes? Warm, friendly, alive and an unusual hazel colour. They warm the personality denying City uniform and speak always of a lively intelligence and a very special pair of hands.
We said good-bye to my friend and caught the tube to the Tate Modern. A Picasso exhibition had caught our eye and we thought we would go. I got to the down escalator first and you stood behind me and for the first time we connected. I could feel you behind me, your surprising warmth as the blood pulsed around your body, your solidity as you stood there, feet wide, heels braced, and I leaned in. Chin up, head back, my shoulders onto you chest, your hand around my waist. And I breathed so deeply.
You had me, I could feel it.
Right in that moment you were there, as much there as when you hurt me with our eyes locked, as when you fucked me as we looked in the mirror, as much as when I cried out in pain as my world collapsed and I was left with nothing.
Later that evening we chatted with a girl from the USA over drinks in the Globe Theatre and I saw your look as I spoke so expansively and articulately of our us. The same look of desire as when I took the extra strap from your belt. The same sense of wonder that I was yours and the same sense of pride of what we had created.
It is a wonderful thing.
We compartmentalise, create silos, attempt to distract and pull the eye away from the parts we feel ashamed of or dislike.
Here, I place that part centre stage and give it a light covering designed to enhance the lines of my body.
Is it sinful, I ask myself again?
The answer is, it feels taboo so I think it must be!
Don’t forget to click on the lips to see who else is being sinful this week will you?
It’s a D/s thing, something I never thought I would crave or want. I was a 70s feminist, aghast during my first marriage ceremony to hear the exhortation that I “honour and obey” my young, long haired and bearded soon to be husband standing next to me at the church in a newly purchased brown suit from Burtons. I wanted equality and that meant no-one would or could ever own me, so why now do I long to hear the word “mine” spoken in my ear?
I come with a lot of baggage, I defy anyone not to have it at 60, but I own what’s mine as soon as I know I am carrying it. It’s the invisible to me baggage that is the most difficult to unravel. It’s so closely wrapped around me I think it is my own skin, twined like ivy and similarly parasitic, it threatens to choke the life out of me whilst hiding my deciduous nature. In my winters I am bare and raw, so raw I fear I will be frosted to the bone and yet, spring greening always comes again, well, so far it has.
I ebb and I flow, sometimes steely strong in my resolve, other times shaken and unsure of myself, and whilst I know that I have this life in my own hands, I have my own back and I can do it (whatever it is), still this longing to be taken as if I had no will to be anything other than used persists. My desire to be owned is not due to any lack of strength or failing of my psyche. It is simply this. I belong to him as the sea belongs to the moon. Mysteriously, timelessly, irrevocably his.
Feeling myself owned in this way sets me free to fly. It is an apparent contradiction, one I never understood until I understood this part of myself, hidden under the dungarees that proclaimed my independence from male authority and rejected the dress codes of the older generation by appropriating masculine work gear. Not apparent either in my wedding day finery but still there, carried like the worn leather suitcase it was, covered in dust and left on top of a wardrobe in a room I warily visited when feeling in need of something nameless but that was connected to a journey.
I want him to have the final say. I want to be able to say exactly what I think with no fear of him loving me less. I want to be truly honest with at least one person in my life before I die, inspite of that seeming to be the most difficult and dangerous thing to do in the world. I want our equality to be expressed in us both being able to be ourselves, both our best and our worst, and for that to be where we live and die.
I want to kneel before him.
I need to kneel before him.
I need to hear “mine”.
I don’t usually do these roundups as I often don’t have the time or headspace to be that organised about my blogging. Working a full week in a very engaging job takes a lot out of me and my weekends are interspersed with visiting parents, and catching up with adult kids and friends. I need a lot of downtime to manage my new life on my own after being in marriages for most of my adult life. This will change but for now I do what I can and I try not to compete with others or chastise myself too much for falling short.
For all the reasons above I am glad that it’s the 2nd of April 2018, and that this month marks the beginning of @TabithaRayne‘s #30DayOrgasmFun. This brilliant idea from the ever brilliant and totally gorgeous Tabitha encourages us to take full advantage of the mental health benefits that incorporating orgasms into our selfcare routine bring. The benefits of orgasm are obvious (happy endorphins, stress release, pleasure) although the prioritising of this in our busy lives can seem self indulgent at times. Having this as a prompt may help to lighten your mood and put you in a good place for May – which hopefully will bring better weather and some much needed warmth back to us, along with renewed energy levels.
Do go and look at the #Eroticon round ups which can be found here. My experience was very good in-spite of how it might sound in this blogpost. I met wonderful people again, had engaging conversations with them and vowed to continue with my presence here. All of which adds up to an eventful weekend of joy and fun, interspersed with my usual soul searching and a restorative nap. I learnt that I must back up my site, move to self hosting, and how to use the very useful pinch to zoom function in Snapseed to get better lines when editing my photos. I also got to see my friend @mistress34F, hang out with May More ,meet @PosyChurchgate and Dutch Veronique who were delightful. There were others that I connected with but that will be for another post, at another time.
Finally today is a Bank Holiday which gives rise to the regular #BankHolidayBumDay fun. Check out the hashtags for a very pleasant way to spend a few minutes (or more) ogling willing participant’s lovely bums.
I won’t promise to do this again, or every month, or anything as as soon as I do that I won’t want to do it, and that way lies tears. Instead I will offer the 2770 souls who follow this blog (inspite of it not appearing in any searches!) the opportunity to connect with some wonderful writers and exhibitionists who make my day every day.
Enjoy April – the rain doesn’t last forever and the flowers are beautiful 🌸🌼🌸
It has taken a couple of weeks to begin to process what the last few weeks have brought and meant. The beginning of a new decade has always brought me up short and because at the end of this one is my seventh decade and that is without a doubt the beginning of old age, this one rumbled loudly for longer before it arrived than other special birthdays. But also because this year I spent my birthday in the company of my Love, on His own ground and with no agenda other than celebration and enjoyment for those days which is both new for Him and me and truly lovely.
I want to start in the middle as is my wont, with the maelstrom of feelings and experiences that overwhelmed me after lunch on the Saturday and I retreated to my hotel room to sleep and to disengage. I was missing it all, even when I was there I was missing it. Not that anyone would notice, I was certainly there but I felt I wasn’t present. I was milling, not sure what I was doing there, unsure of my people, uncertain of what I was bringing, what I offered and what I stood to gain from attending. I had greeted lovely people I had met before, engaged with the excellent seminars and still was lost. It seemed everywhere there were couples and groups and God forgive me for this, other loners like me feeling on the outside and not quite able to connect, like a series of parallel lines never to meet, always heading somewhere else but so close that from a distance they look as though they will converge sometime.
I knew I would regret going to my room, I knew that I would miss fascinating insights, brilliant conversations and wonderful opportunities. I knew that I would then feel less than connected for the evening event which was a bit of a celebration in my own head for my birthday – aren’t we all the centres of our own world in the end – but it was what I needed to do to be there at all, in any capacity.
I had been feeling disconnected before I came. Not managing my twitter account well, not commenting on people’s blog posts and photos in the open engaging way I can when I am at my best. Something was awry and I couldn’t put my finger on it except that it felt familiar and ugly.
Following Madeleine Morris’ brilliant seminar on taboo we spoke about my teenaged enjoyment of pulling out fully soaked tampons with a full bladder to give myself the thrilling sense of engorgement and displacement and how this was a transgressive subject, one I might mine for more writing another time. It was an easy enlivened interaction that it felt good to take part in, the epitome of what I go to Eroticon for.
At this point my critical self stepped in “if you ever bother to write again, who’s really interested? There is no one waiting for your next post other than you. You don’t write erotica, you failed at the first smut marathon fence you could fail at, your allusions are obscure and your writing imperfectly formed, your tone is self pitying, your ideas are passe. You have nothing to say that is either hot or edifying, you’re an out of touch old woman calling herself a girl with a body you should cover up and not show off because you are too lazy to go to the gym. You are an old fool, and there is no fool like an old fool”
I fought this voice all day. She forced me to sit on my own because my company wasn’t welcome. To walk the other way when someone I knew came towards me, to avoid the the sponsors because I wasn’t their target market. To leave seminars early so I could go to the loo on my own and avoid contact at the toilets. To look at my phone and not at the faces around me. To disconnect, to feel alone, and to make sure I was.
Reader I struggled, I struggled with no one knowing or seeing it and that is no one’s fault. The fact is I was/am struggling with my place in a kinky world at the age of 60 and still fighting some of the demons that have dogged me since my teens regarding my ability to focus, to create and to birth something other than children, precious as they are, but something else, born of me in congress with the world. Each time I heard people talk of scheduling posts, having lists of blogs they wanted to write, keeping records of what they had done, having a plan, monetising, charging their worth, I wanted to celebrate them and their drive (and do now) but at the time it felt like a mirror reflecting my shallow existence here and that seemed that I was endlessly splashing in the shallows instead of deep diving into the depths.
This voice is familiar. She is the voice of overwhelm and fear. She tries to keep me safe by cutting me down to size when she fears I am stepping out too far into the world and since in her world there is no one else to catch me she does her best to stop me from gong there. Turning sixty, in-spite of how lovely a day it had been, had triggered her with the accuracy of a digital alarm clock, and she was alarmed.
My recollections of Eroticon are hazy, I have notes from the first morning but not after that. I surfed it, I surfed it untidily, lacking grace and poise and I certainly didn’t stand up on the board, but I got to the end feeling better about myself than I did in the middle.
I shared my room with the lovely May More who is a delight and a good friend. I chatted with many, connected with few and I am truly sorry about that but I had to plough my own furrow as always and that involved dealing with my own demon, my own way. Eroticon – not just Eroticon actually – conferences – can be a heady mix of emotions and it isn’t just those who identify as introverts who can struggle at times.
There are many positives from this period which, having got this out of the way I feel able to write about. I will tell you of a lovely lunch on Camden High Street where we pretended to be in Italy and drank Pinot Grigio, ate seafood linguine and had an Amaretto with our coffee as we sat in the sun. I will tell you about a trip to the Doctor Martin shop for the finest pair of oxblood brogues you can buy and how we laughed at the limited edition brass that he had had in his kitchen that was being sold by the pound in the market. I will tell you about our trip to Charleston, our dinner in the tapas bar where I spoke Italian instead of Spanish to the waiter because I haven’t been out to the country in the sun for years. I will tell you of kitchen dancing to Bob Marley, and finding the dog’s toy at the bottom of the bed, left for me as a gift, and of Prosecco in the hot tub under a cold, bright, dark night with my ankle held as we grinned and grinned.
I will tell you more because in the end that is all I can do and because it seems I can meet people more easily in my writing and my twitter account than I can in person – perhaps that is the truth of what I experienced at Eroticon this year. The power of the connections I have online are tricky for me to translate into a group and I manage them better in a one to one setting than at an event. So if I missed you there and you would like to meet or chat please let me know. Coffee or a gin and tonic is always a good thing.
Or maybe it really was the destabilising effect of moving from one decade to another and having negotiated that and perched again to have my ruffled feathers soothed I will put my bracelet on my wrist and prepare to fly again?
When we started there was a container for us. A silo. Separate from our unshared lives it held us in that place and allowed me to give 100% in that time and place.
It enabled me to manage the intense emotions generated from our connection, to harness the energy created there and to use it for my own growth and to manage its impact on my life.
That container ebbed and flowed with us as we went about our separate lives. Then one day, in a field in Gloucestershire, it exploded. It couldn’t hold us any longer. We had got too big for it and we flowed remorselessly into hitherto secure parts of our separate lives
For a while I thought it was only me that had lost the silo and that was because I had poor boundaries or wishful thinking or was just deluded. Others thought so too. They thought that I would find the edges were still there for him, that I was a thing but not the thing I thought I was.
As I learned I could trust it, because I could trust my own instinctive knowledge, its energy and power was there again for me to harness. And that is what has fuelled my growth, my refusal to accept that my best years are behind me, my exploration of life that you read documented here.
Us/we, is at the heart of what I do. The dark of the sky is my watchnight, the glow of my phone is my prayer, and endeavour to make him proud in difficult moments and remember always that life is for living and opportunities are for leaping at.
And I miss him. I miss us and it is no weakness to do admit or do so. In fact it is our strength 💋❤💋
Don’t forget to click on the lips to see who else is being sinful this week.
Eroticon always means a goody bag of joy. This year’s was no disappointment and included these pastis.
Since this is my birthday week I thought I should share the joy with you.
And also since it is my birthday week you get a bonus shot 💋
Don’t forget to click on the lips to see who else is being sinful this week
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Stories of Love, Romance and everything in between. This Blog is rated R for 18+ years old only. All content on this site is original and written by CimmerianSentiment. All materials are protected by copyright laws. Copyright©2017-2018 All rights reserved CimmerianSentiment
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