My Lictor has cancelled, hysterically because he’s snowed in. In a voice thick with disappointment, he left three despondent voicemail messages within a 10 minute period by the end of which I was laughing. I’m sure that wasn’t his intention but his desperate apologies carried me from disheartened through cheery to my current state of almost casual indifference.
It’s a strange feeling, sexually speaking, to have keyed yourself up for an intense encounter and to then sense it softly collapse without resolution. There’s an ambivalence about simply dry storing the emotions, most especially when my body is so, so ready for the experience. I could arrange an alternative encounter but I don’t switch wires so easily; the sport fuck slutstyle is not for me.
So what to do?
I recognise this curious feeling from my brief forays into online relationships and let’s face it, my relationship with my Lictor is to all intents and purposes just that right now. Cool as I am about the cancelation, I’m finding the whole ’stop/start’ nature of this tenuous coupling problematic. This is that bloody awful place where fantasy meets reality, where infinite sexual possibilities promise so much but somehow, somewhere in the manifestation of, a rhythm misses the beat and desire sags heavily, worn down by disappointment.
A couple of weeks ago my friend and I visited our local Ann Summers (non Uk readers - think trinketised sexuality lite boutique of sorts, good for hen nights and joke presents), essentially because there is a real cutie working there, you just know there’s nothing actually worth buying. Anyway, the blonde beauty that has so charmed us sidles up to my companion and asks in a voice closer to cultivated cheek than sincerity if ‘there is anything I can do for you?’ He pauses, flashes his eyes at me and thinks better of vocalising his first thought. Thank God, I’m too cold to get kicked out of another shop. Hot on the heels of his unspoken perversity, comes an actual and genuine question:
“Why am I sexually attracted to woman whose personalities I can’t stand but want to be with gentle ladies who fail to inspire my cock?”
The blonde giggles, flicks her curls: “What kind of girls inspire your …er… inspire you?”
“Bitches. Specifically cruel bitches.”
She laughs again, hard enough for her locks to bounce into her eyes. Brushing them back, I notice she’s blushing but her reply betrays no hint of embarrassment.
“Oh, now I know exactly what you mean. I believe it’s a common problem.”
Is it I wonder?
Are many of us deeply, passionately aroused to the point of high fever by sexual personality traits that leave us cold in the real world?
Is this the inherent appeal of topping and bottoming over full on D/s?
I have this mismatch of desire. In my mind, the 24/7 is a recurring scenario but I actually doubt I would last for one minute. There are many reasons why this is so ranging from the pure control I exert over my fantasies down to the hopelessly romantic and naive belief that I haven’t met the right man. Please, if ever there was a more absurd get out clause for shafting your life, that is one of them.
I’ve reached a point where it’s crystal clear to me that I don’t want to be the sub wife I have long experienced in fantasy. Perhaps I’m more of a switch than I’ve ever realised, pitched somewhere between slutling and little bitch. Not quite fully fledged in both, more successfully navigating the middle ground. It’s a rather disturbing realisation, primarily because my sexual wiring is without doubt submissive. My inner slut is submissive, yet once out of the safe delight of pure imagination, the real world is less than engaging.
Perhaps it’s less that I’ve not met the right man but have not had enough of the right experiences. The jury is out on this folks. My sexuality is most definitely in evolution, naturally defering to the love I already have in my life. Feelings and needs do change, most especially when we are in open dialogue with ourselves and with others. I know not everybody cares for erotic introspection but to do otherwise smacks of self betrayal. The best way to share a blissful encounter with someone else is to communicate explicitly about pleasure, to negotiate our boundaries so as to maintain mutual well being. We must extend that same care and courtesy to ourselves and face full on the changes such good practice brings. Lust is a profound change of consciousness, and one we can cultivate like good gardeners and it’s an organic metaphor well deserved. We’re all familar with the secret garden, that forbidden, wild, rambling place of freedom and sexual discovery but over time we come to know it so well the mystery is diffused. Hence digging deeper in our emotional dirt, through the smutlands and back to our sexual playgrounds to party with good friends.
Today I miss my partner in grime but don’t feel restricted in my avenues of pleasure. Masturbation is a wonderful thing and a place untainted by personality. But I do wonder about that lonely hotel room, vacant and silent when it could have been boiling in an atmosphere of passion. Is there a place for lonely hotel rooms? Could it be the same dimension that broken dates (such as mine), self consuming Haloscan comments (how much does that piss you off?) and unspoken sexual fantasies go? A repository of what could have been?
But in the trade and transition of all that could and should and maybe, I take heart because I have another passion that has been sorely neglected of late. Reading. I can’t remember the last time I curled into my furs and read for indulgent hour upon hour. Tonight I will and it’s a world of words, of fantasy and imagination that bolsters the unhappy tone of the ‘could have been’ repository. Good fiction creates a cocoon which reminds me that not every impulse need be made real. Some stories are better left unsaid and unlived.
