It turns out that Mum didn’t know, and after a conversation about life and love, she’s of the opinion that it simply doesn’t matter. Matt and Claire were fifteen years ago, why is it bothering him so much if she dates one of his friends now?
For the simple reason that, I explain, Matt is trying to move on with his life. Sans Claire.
“I don’t care who she dates now” he tells me, “as long as it’s not my friend.”
So you see? It’s a boundary for Matt, even fifteen years later, and one that has been secretly crossed against his wishes. It’s ‘cake and eat it’ stuff by Lewis, and Lewis got caught with his hand in the cookie jar (not a euphemism). It’s not that Matt is possessive or jealous, at least not of Claire, he simply wants to move on from her and now feels like he can’t. He fell head over hills in love with her, he tells me, and she turfed him out the same week as he lost his job. I was under the impression that it was the same day however, so I misspoke there. My bad.
It is a little hard to hear a normally-monogamous man profess his once-romantic love for another woman, I admit. I also know that that love has long gone now.
“She ain’t all that anymore” he tells me. I suppose unrequited love would do that to you.
“Maybe Lewis thought you were happy with Helen now and so it wasn’t a problem” Andy tells Matt. It’s possible, but then if he knew he should have spoken to Matt, why didn’t he?
“Even just a text, or a phone call” Matt says again. That’s the real pain for him. It’s now who he’s dating, it’s how he was told.
By nightfall we settled down to some Sex Actually With Alice Lavine. I enjoy these shows, but then I suppose I enjoy them because they give me something to think about, to write about, to be educated on. I just wish it wasn’t all on bloody Channel 4.
“People fuck”, that’s long been my attitude, sex and fetishes aren’t inherently funny. Sex and fetishism can be funny sometimes, sure, and I’ve definitely landed myself in the deep shit for giggling when I shouldn’t have quite a few times. I wasn’t laughing at sex or BDSM or the people who do them though, I was giggling at, I don’t know, how the rhythmic tapping of a caning made me think of some sort of industrial machine. Of course, if you’re in a relationship with a humoured sadist, then that sadist will gladly make said ‘machine’ work a little bit harder. You love to hate them, and you hate to love ’em.
But you do, really. Deep, deep down inside.
My point is, sex and BDSM isn’t something to be oggled at and laughed at. Why oh why then, whenever Channel 4 talk about fetishism and BDSM, do they need to ensure that they feature someone in a leather hood or a human puppy? It just wouldn’t be Channel 4 without it.
Last night we stepped into the world of VR sex, which, you know, I found interesting. I woudn’t say as it’s for me (women are indeed more mentally stimulated than visually) but it was interesting anyway. Online roleplay is something that I’ve long enjoyed, and it goes from Skyrim-style action and adventure roleplay right up to written scenes and scenarios that would make Christian Grey blush. Again though, it’s interesting to see how others go about it.
Alone in bed though, that was when things really took hold.
By now I don’t know that I see my Saturday night solo sessions as a treat, so much as a right. I know that I finally have the bed all to myself on a Saturday night and, you know, it would be rude not to. There’s no rule against masturbation for me but there is a way for me to be – completely naked, smooth, legs wide.
I want to roll my eyes. Sir has conditioned me by now and I simply can’t come without it.
Naturally I break out the mini massage wand, I need something that isn’t me tonight.
Good morning Mr W, and thankyou for last night 😉
I’m slightly too proud of myself.
By now things are getting back on track between Bill and I, and as I lie in bed this morning I thought about that too. I bucked a few weeks ago and instead of pushing harder he simply gave me my space, he understood and he let me build trust again. Like a wild and timid animal he didn’t scare me any more, he let me get curious because he knew that I would.
And I did. Damn it.
This morning Sir and I talk toys, and one of the ones that comes up from Sir, rather ambiguously, is ‘hooks’. Of course I’m confused and concerned by that. Hooks?! Skin hooks? Fishing hooks? I am way out of my depth!
He meant anal and nose hooks.
I did have to corrupt my Google search history for them and though I’m not wholly against the idea of nose hooks, I am confused as to why. Maybe it’s just a differences thing, I’ve long been more focused on feeling things in my BDSM play than I have been on the asthetics of things. I care a lot more for the cold, hard feel of steel in the most forbidden places than I care for how it looks. What, I had to wonder, would there be to feel in that situation?
It’s horses for courses, of course.
I also can’t unthink the link between hooks, fishing and recent events. When you catch a big fish, you wait until the fish is confidently hooked and then you strike and let the fish ‘run’ for a while. You flip the bell arm off (the bit that winds the line onto the reel) and you let the fish swim in it’s moment of panic until it tires and stops swimming, then you flip the bell arm back on and you wind it in slowly. Strike too soon and you risk scaring the fish away.
So, basically, this time I was the fish. Beautiful.
I’m also quite sure that Sir would have no objections to eating me, though I’d appreciate it if he didn’t whack me on the head with a priest before doing so. Thanks muchly.
I discovered Miley Cyrus’s “Can’t Be Tamed” a few days ago too, courtesy of Google, and it became quite humourous for me. It was kind of a private push back, a secret act of rebellion. Even captured, I can’t be tamed. My Sirs both know that I’m feisty.
“What was that song?” Matt asks me, Google had played it again in shuffle mode while I was outside with the dog. I check back and see the title.
“Ah, a song?” I offer.
“A musical song, I’m sure it was very good”. Please let me have this one?
Of course, suggesting to a sadist that you can’t be tamed is akin to throwing down the gauntlet, it’s like a red flag to a bull. If you tell a sadist that you can’t be tamed, a sadist will show you that you most certainly can. Well, it’s been fun.
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