Now overcast days never turned me on . . . but something about the clouds and her mixed . . .
- Prince, Raspberry Beret

Monday evening

The Blue House is full of people.
One of those call-your-friends-over organically grown parties.
Full of stoner boys.

Alone in my room, alone for the first time this weekend.
Glad to be alone again.
Unapologetically catatonic.

Patience, patience, someone out there is patient . . .
older men understand the fullness of time,
can wait for a wine to age, and a girl to come around.

Maddening patience, breaking down my resistance.
Intuition perhaps, that I want to yield?
Just need time to strip off all my armor.
It’s heavy and thick like a mood.
The patient man, he waited, enduring and affectionate,
even in my silence.
He understands the silence is something I cannot control,
the introspection that comes over me like a wave,
triggered by a memory, an object, a cloud.
Systematic patience; borne from a knowledge, experience,
that the desires of women can change in a heartbeat.

May I tell you about Friday? I did not go to work that day.
I had not seen the Connoisseur in almost 2 weeks, except
for dinner or lunch hours.

Therefore we both savored the thought over the waiting;
he thought of Devouring. I thought of being Devoured.

Early Friday morning and I took my time and dressed with care.
Small black t-shirt, dark blue mini in a schoolgirl style,
badass red coat, black fishnets, platform Mary Janes.

When I arrived at his doorstep my heart was racing, but
I wanted to keep my composure.

He was eating an apple, opened the door.
The heat of his gaze followed me inside,
where I set down my things.

His artist’s eye always watching me.
For a few preliminary moments we chat
about getting breakfast.

But I know we should get something out of the way first.
His first kiss on my cheek like a kind uncle.
His hair is wet still from a shower.
But as I sit he bends his head to mine for a soft kiss.
The heat of his mouth betrays what he is leashing.
Hot tongue delving slowly to penetrate me.


Without further prevarication I abandon myself to
the delicious inevitable.

His kisses are insistent and focused and hot.
This is what I want.
Fever.

Without warning he has me stand with my hands against the wall, bent over.
This is something new.
Something I did not expect.
And how I delight in the unexpected.

He yanks down the fishnets and flips up the little skirt.
Exposing me.
Hands caressing my hip, my ass.

Then, the woosh of the belt through the loops.
What is happening to my gentle and fucking Connoisseur?
Then I understand.
I am to be punished for making him wait, for putting him off.

He whispers into my ear, I missed you.
This admission in itself sends me thrilling.

This is what I want.
Discipline, punishment, accountability.
To be missed. To be desired.

The lesson: Retribution
The voice, thick: This is for making me wait.
The instruments of discipline: a weathered leather belt to start.
Later, wrist restraints while I am on my back, on the bed.

It has been so long since I have been punished, been
given a place to atone for the things I have done.
That this was to be given to me by the gentle
hand of the Connoisseur, who is usually so caressing
and tender with me, made my submission all the more . . .
delightful.

Because I trust him. Because no matter how much
I try to remain detached, he floods me with
patience, tenderness, caring, affection, friendship.

His belt is cracking smartly against my thighs, my ass.
The leather belt so totemic of my childhood.
Papa or Mama looming over me.
Me facedown on the bed, or facing the wall, with my
pants and panties pulled down to expose my tender young ass.
Their question: How many? And how many next time?
Asking me to set my own punishment.

Hands flat, up against the wall, bent at the waist to present my ass
to best advantage, the old stubbornness, the fear, the pride of a defiant
eleven year old girl awakes from a dormancy.
Sense memory recalled, from this posture,
from this tension, awaiting
the next blow.

I’m ready to be punished.
I know it will hurt me physically.
I know if I relax at the moment of contact, it won’t hurt as much.

The first blows - the Connoisseur is testing my limits, and his own, perhaps.
Slapping, smarting little licks of leather tongues against my inner thighs, my ass.
I am prepared for more. I can take more.
My ass writhing and wiggling to let this be known.
His hands caress my ass, feeling my slit for wetness.

- Not wet enough. he says.

His hand grabs my ass, smacks it, and the leather tongues come slapping.
across my thighs, my ass, a little harder, and from behind he lifts me by the hips
to expose my vulva for more spanks.

My asscheeks are hot and smarting, my pussy is wet.
I am gasping and tense, ready for more.

Ah but to punish the masochist, just the taste of pain to gain acquiescence,
submission, and when I am wanting more . . .

He grabs me by the ponytails to pull my head around,
pushing my head down to suck his cock.
And I am not in control.
He does not flinch or let up when I gag a little,
or the tears start a little in the corners of my eye.

Later he says to me: Beware the fury of a patient man.

Later, that is, after. After I have been securely bound by the wrists
and am chewing on the leather of his belt to stifle my noise.

******

Dopamine Junkie is a moody girl.

What I seek still, forever, is the cosmic union,
the intermingling of spirit and energy on the grid.
Stronger than sexual obsession,
longer lasting than an ephemeral cum.

I become still, quiet, pensive because my mind is heavy with thoughts.
Also in the dynamic, I become quiet to draw the energy from the Other.
I lower my voice, my eyes, my head in submission to gauge the intensity
of the man who believes he can hang.

Waiting for a telepathic phone call with my back arched and breath held, eyes closed.
The voice on the other line, clear and static free:

- I know what you want.

In response I want to manifest all that is female sexuality –
gentleness, lioness, alluring, seductive, yielding, intoxicating and Strong.
At 24 I believed myself at the height of my sexual powers.
I was heartbroken (by Hugo).
Emotionally unavailable.
Tight.
Ripe.
Hot.
but Cold inside.
Eyes like reflecting mirrors, a trick to make you
believe that there was something there.
Awaiting lovers in my home, receiving callers and suitors.
Smooth, perfumed and ready.
I was aware of my effect, but had no clue
how to use the power for good instead of evil.

A few long years later and here I am again, a new creature this time.
Wanting to be good, wanting to give,
wanting to be given, wanting to please and be pleased.

I feel I am watching in a detached fashion, as intimacy between strangers
cultivates. I am one of the strangers.

So easy at first to give in to that sexual desire between men and women.
After the fucking and the sucking; free to hold on to each other, as if
the physical familiarity was as good as comfort.
But no talk of comfort, hope, future and esp. not the L-word, allowed.
Verboten.
Interdit.

Because comfort is easy, isn’t it?
We search for the familiar within the new relationships.
Seeking to achieve in a fast food kind of way
something ‘comfortable’.
The same kind of ‘comfortable’ I had with Hugo.
Comfort because there is no talk of feelings.

But at least there is no pretense of substance between lovers.
Companionship. Fucking. Cuddle, and if you’re lucky – Friendship.
All sugary and light and airy and as unfulfilling as an angel food cake.

And the new twist, a trick I play on myself, achieving this tenderness.

But you see the anhedonia is out, the very word, the concept lodging itself
in my synapse, preventing me from getting my cum.

And so I need something deeper, an extra twist, to get off.
Something tangible, a little frightening, thrilling.

Pain, a sensation I can’t sidestep or squirm my way out of.
For months, the pain, the fear of pain, that pain in my heart has been
so sublimated I have felt only a dull, numb ache. Comfortably numb.

This dulling of my senses has affected me sexually also, I think.
Leaving me with a longing to be bound, stripped down, and
punished until I start to cum true.

I’ve become too practiced in my pretense, even in sex.
The cum is not even the goal anymore.
Only the use of my body.
Being the drug.
Being rolled up
and smoked.
Only for the scent that overtakes me for those brief moments
where I am transported to the ether world.

I can barely even cry.
My control is so tight, the shields and guards
and armaments so massive and effective,
I can’t even gain access to my inner self anymore.
She’s retreated I suppose and doesn’t want to be found.
I can’t say I blame her.

Oh but it is she that I miss, the one who falls in love,
whose heart overflows
with tenderness, generosity, sensitivity.
That girl – the one who loves.
She sleeps again, leaving me here alone to keep time moving along,
to create a new world for her to wake up to.

******
Evaluation of time spent with the Pyromaniac this weekend.
1) He beat me at Scrabble.
2) What does it take to unlock his sweetness?
3) Is he a friend, a lover, or a student? Do I want him as all 3?
4) Just what the hell does he think of me anyway?
Like I'm some kind of brainless dick-whipped fuck bitch?
Wrong girl.
5) I'm mad because he struck at one of my most
volatile touchpoints. I'm hoping the anger will dissipate by morning.
6) I think we have fun times in san francisco hanging out together.
it would be kind of lame if we couldn't anymore.

*******
I enjoyed a fullness of time that I haven't in a while, this weekend.
Oh xyxyxyxyxyxyxy. . . .time for bed, alone.