Posts Tagged ‘dildo’

Right Time

September 19, 2015

Wrong block.

Story of my life.

But it’s a funny story and there is no sad ending.

Just a lot of wry amusement on my end.

And a few hickies.

Yah.

I know.

I’m 42.

Or fifteen.

Guess who wore her hair down at work.

I can’t even imagine the conversation that would have been with the five-year old.

“Carmen, WHAT’S THAT ON YOUR NECK?!!”

“Hickies.”

“What are hickies?”

Cue not getting a raise, which I still have to ask for, yeah, just waiting until the very last-minute, like when I have a year on the 22nd on the nose; cue probably not coming back to work.

Nothing says professional like hickies.

But.

I will admit, they did bring a smile to my face a few times and perhaps a giggle or two of dramatic exasperation, but really, hickies, it’s fun to say it.

Better than dildo.

Who likes saying that word?

Not that any of my collection, a small collection, please, get your mind out of the gutter (like I can even tell you that, here I am writing about sex toys, yeesh.) were brought into play last night.

But.

There was playing.

“What did you guys do?”  My friend asked me after tossing my bike in the back of the car.

It is nice to have friends in the neighborhood!

I got a ping saying he was heading into the Mission and did I want a ride, or was my guest still there, wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

It’s like I’m 13 not 42.

“Go?” I asked.

I actually did not understand the question.

“My bed?”

As my friend was saying, “you know, on your date? Where did you go?”

I repeated, “my bed.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, oh.” I laughed.

We didn’t go out at all.

Although my “date” asked me to meet him outside at 9p.m. sharp to look up at the silver sliver of a buttery biscuit of a moon in the sky.

Except.

When I went out, he wasn’t there.

He was on the wrong block.

Oops.

But he figured it out.

And there was a lovely reunion of hugs on the sidewalk in front of my house a few minutes later.

“Listen, I just want to make something really clear,” he said looking at me with mossy green eyes after we had gotten comfortable on our “date.”

Uh oh.

I know this conversation.

I know this song and dance.

And yet here I am again having the conversation.

I like you, but.

I want to spend time with you, but.

I don’t have much time, but.

I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but.

But, but, but.

Sweet heart.

I know.

I knew the minute you told me what your circumstances were.

A pattern of being delicious to men who are not entirely available seems to be resurfacing and I acknowledge it and say, hello, I raise you five bits, because, I’m going to keep trying and I am going to keep having experiences, and one day.

Maybe one day sooner than later.

I will be with someone who wants me and is after me and goes for it despite or because of his circumstances.

“You are not responsible for my feelings,” I told my paramour.

No labels.

There are no labels.

When there’s a handsome naked man in my bed who I’m not dating or in a relationship with, in the conventional sense, since he’s not exactly available in the conventional sense, what do I call said person?

I am speaking lightly, perhaps glibly, but I am also finding my way with my words.

The experience at Burning Man was amazing, intense, awesome, and fun.

There was intimacy on the playa and there was intimacy last night.

There was much looking into the other persons eyes.

“I wasn’t going to say this, but i can’t help myself,” he paused and looked into my eyes as I was lying against him.

“You get more beautiful the more I look at you,” he stroked my hair and kissed me, “it’s like I can see what’s behind your eyes.”

Ah.

Nicest compliment ever.

Now fuck me like a man.

I jest.

Sort of.

Thing is I knew, I know, I am possessed of the knowledge, that yes, the connection is special, but also that it is a complicated situation and I have the very simple part of the equation, my busy is nowhere near as busy as his busy and I’m busy.

“I’m not going to be around much the next six weeks,” he told me last night.

“I’m ok with that,” I said.

I’m not chasing, I am being the ball, you want me, court me, come after me.

I’m busy too.

Graduate school.

Life.

Doing the deal.

Work.

Fuck.

Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow, is my first “day off” in five weeks.

It’s been a busy ass time for me.

The school retreat, working out-of-town in Sonoma for my employers, Burning Man, working, starting school last weekend, working all this week.

I’m busy.

Do I want to be dating someone exclusively?

Yes.

Do I want to be in a romantic relationship?

Yes.

Do I allow myself to play when the time is right, do I let myself have a break from the tedium and stress of work and the grind of school, why the hell not?

“Girl!” A friend of mine said last Monday when I expressed the situation, how I met the guy at Burning Man, that we were going to see each other this week, that I didn’t have expectations, that I don’t have time for expectations.  “This is perfect for you, you don’t have time to pursue a real relationship right now, go have fun, blow off some steam, get it.”

It got got.

Thing is.

I don’t have to figure anything out.

I can just show up as my best self, in my best way, with my honesty written all over my face.

“I have never met anyone like you,” he said with a catch of wonder and awe in his voice, “you’re so transparent, you can’t hide your feelings, they are just all over your face.”

I was a little abashed, but not much, I know this about myself and have accepted it.

And I know this too.

I have an affect.

He has feelings.

He just has nowhere to go with them and I don’t have to wait for him to find a place either.

I am a free agent.

Not that I have anything big planned for this Friday night.

A cup of tea.

A video.

Catching up on my sleep.

There wasn’t much sleep last night.

Heh.

But there were hickies.

Ah.

Hahahaha.

Things That Are Taboo

May 21, 2015

Wanting to have sex with your ex boyfriend.

Or maybe, you know, just um, cuddle.

Yeah.

That.

My motives are shit right now and I know it and so I won’t be seeing my ex boyfriend any time soon.

It’s just in the air, the fog, the mist, the shiny, slippery streets–it’s so foggy out there that when I left the Sunset Youth Services a few moments ago I thought at first that it was raining.

But no.

Fog.

It’s lovely though and put me in the mood for snuggling.

I choose to snuggle with myself this evening.

Being in communication with my ex has been interesting and I have done some more work around me and how I respond and feelings and all that and why, gosh, it just turns out that I am human.

“You obviously had a strong bond,” he said to me over tea at the Church Street Cafe, “girl, you too were electric, there was chemistry there.”

“And that doesn’t necessarily go away, connection is connection, it’s when the instinct gets blown out of whack, that’s the problem.”

Yup.

So.

No calling up the ex, not inviting him over for a late night cup of tea.

If I were to see him it would best be in daylight across a table in a busy cafe.

No touching.

Ahem.

God.

I miss being touched.

I met someone tonight who I have seen around a little and we recognized one another from a different part of town.

He shook my hand and I just stood there.

Human contact.

Such a small thing and yet, so necessary.

I think about the failure to thrive orphanage video I watched in psychology class years and years and years ago, about the babies that had everything they needed, food, nutrition, a bed to sleep in, clothes, but no love.

And what happens?

They die.

I mean.

That’s serious.

I’m not there.

And I love myself enough to know that I won’t let myself get there.

But I can still get caught up in the what to wear thing and the being attractive thing and I was going to head out this evening after work and go straight to my place and do the deal in my pajamas after coming home from a long day at work and taking a smashing hot shower, but I got it in my head I would bump into the ex and boy, I better look cute.

Thanks brain.

Now I need to wash off the makeup.

But.

In reality, it helped, I like looking cute and you never know who you might run into, who might take your hand and squeeze it tight.

Of course.

I don’t remember his name, but the kind eyes were bright and the hand was strong and the arm covered in tattoos.

I like all of these things.

I like that he said he was in the neighborhood too, 48th and Kirkham.

I like that my brain also wondered, is he gay?

‘Cause I can pick ’em like that.

I like that he said, my class is done, I’ll be back here on Wednesday nights again.

Good.

So.

Something, someone to look forward to.

That’s been the other thing.

With the exception of someone from absolute left field who as it turns out, though attracted to me, though someone who has had a crush on me (!) reached out to me, he’s not available and I haven’t had anyone that I have been crushing on.

I haven’t had any zing.

Anything or anyone that makes me get all a quiver and excited.

I miss that feeling too.

That nice shiver of anticipation.

And kissing.

Oh.

I miss kissing.

I need to be kissed.

For reals.

It’s been four and a half months since the breakup.

There’s been no kissing, no sex, no snuggling, no cuddling, no nothing.

My bicycle seat’s been getting all the action.

And I look, good damn it.

In fact, I look better than when I was with my ex.

I dropped about five pounds and tightened up a bit, all the extra bicycle riding, went down a dress size, got my hair shaped up, and colored a fabulous pink, and I haven’t gotten any play.

Granted.

I could have.

That whole trying Tinder for a day was enough to let me know there are plenty of guys out there who have no interested in whether or not I can read a sentence in a book or carry a conversation, as long as I can bend over and lift my skirt.

Please.

You have to try a little harder.

I ride by Good Vibrations every day on my way back to my house, the one on Valencia at 17th, and I keep finding myself wondering if it’s just time for a new vibrator.

Sigh.

Nothing wrong with a new sex toy.

Let’s be adults here folks.

But my dildo can’t kiss the back of my neck while I play the soundtrack to Amelie and listen to the whisper of the fog horns off the coast herald the misty night swathing the neighborhood.

I wonder then if it’s time to climb back into the dating websites or if I just hold steady for a while yet.

See what happens when I’m not looking, just keep going about my day and my life and someone will notice, step forward, and say, yes, let me kiss you in the door way, press you against the orange painted gate of your house and run my hands though your wild pink hair.

I will here Yann Tiernan in my head and sigh and melt into the air and the fog will swirl my heart away out over the ocean.

I don’t want sex.

That’s the real taboo thing.

I can talk sex all day long, and I do want sex, don’t let my words mislead.

But I want the courtship first, the date, I want to pick up a book and hold his head in my lap and read to him and I want to be wrapped, tucked tight, really, in the crook of a man’s arm and held, guided, led through the mists out to the beach, where the love smashes itself on the sand and the electric blue jellyfish flay themselves on the sand, melting into the tide line like mermaid tears.

That’s what is taboo.

Wanting love.

To be loved.

To want romance.

That is the real deal breaker.

I wait for it.

The carousel will stop turning and I will grab the brass ring and sail around the perimeter of the square, while accordions play and the sun sprays on my face a calliope of desire and love.

Until then.

Another cup of tea.

A few more words on this page.

I open my heart to give and receive love.

I shall start with me.


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