Tag Archives: long-distance

Need To

I’m a lover of lists, and plans. Every week I open my day planner, draw in the outlines of each day’s schedule–the meetings planned long in advance, the deadlines. I add in errands, reminders. Monday, groceries. Wednesday, make spare keys. Friday, play games. As things come up, the sketch of my day is fleshed out, filled in. Have lunch with this friend. Drop into that colleague’s office. Sew the button back on to these pants.

Crossing items off is soothing. Satisfying. Affirming, even: I said I would do this thing (if only to myself), and I did it. I’ve fulfilled my duties, gotten through what I need to do, earned the blank hours of time my day planner doesn’t presume to chart.

The last month has not, in day planner terms, gone well at all. Items pushed to the next day, and the next, then the next week. I send apologies, trim all but the bones from my projects, but still every line of every day is filled. Still so many lines are going uncrossed. I need to write that paper. Need to stop ignoring this blog. Need to do laundry. Need to sew that button back on to these fucking pants, the ones I’m wearing right now that are driving me up the wall.

The need-to list crowds out the rest. The uncharted hours don’t feel earned. Maybe I’ll try to poke at work or catch up on chores. More likely I’ll sit, text, feel too much guilt over being unproductive to allow myself a book or a night out, knowing that not-relaxing is just going to make tomorrow more stressful. Knowing that if I can not-relax, I will.

So I drove twelve hours and change to fuck a friend for a weekend before turning around and driving back home.

I had a psychiatrist once who suggested I manage anxiety with casual sex. Call a friend with benefits, go to a swinger’s club, be safe of course but unwind. It was a good suggestion: sex is an outlet for all that nervous energy. It was a good suggestion but I’m not taking it much lately. Used to be a week without sex felt like an unbearably long time. (All right, it still feels that way.) Lately six weeks or more isn’t unusual. No partners in the state. It’s something I could change: I’m frequently reminded that there are about a million apps for that, but frankly it feels like just adding another stressor to the need-to list: find a partner.

I don’t have time for that. God, especially after indulging in last weekend. I need to write that paper. Need to do laundry. Need to sew that button back on to these pants.

There’s a chance the burden at work will decrease in a few weeks. (Honestly I’ll probably quit if it doesn’t.) Now I’ve moved and unpacked, things at home are starting to calm down. There’s a hope of getting back to days that are filled with lines I can actually cross off.

Until then, it would be nice if I could fill the prescription for casual sex alongside all my other meds.

More Isn’t Enough

Sent e-mail, a long time ago:

What do you think it means, when I say I want to hurt you? Biting, scratching, pulling hair? I want those things (God, I do). But that isn’t what I mean by it. I want to push harder, to slap you, to hit you until you’re bruised and shaking. I want to see how much pain you can take before you stop wanting to get closer. I want to hurt you until you say to stop, and I would stop (of course) and then refuse to touch you at all until you begged to be hurt again.

I don’t want to be gentle. I want to crash into you as hard as I can and see which of us breaks first. You make me feel drawn back like a bow, and it was so hard to let that tension out slowly, to hurt you only a little, to kiss you and pull away again when I feel a feral need to bite and choke, to grab and pull your limbs into strange contortions. I am greedy and unfair. I want to keep you talking. I want your mouth on mine. And of course you can’t do both–no one could–but the point is that I want more, impossibly more. I suspect you’d try to give me more, to try to please me. But more isn’t enough and you can’t please me. I want to taste flesh and fear, to curl my bloody fingers around your liver, scrape my tendons over your bones like a bow across a violin. I want to make you scream and I want to cover your mouth with mine to keep it silent. I want you whimpering and pleading and desperate, if only to get some measure of revenge for the fact that I can’t get you out of my head.

The only thing that possibly mitigates this at all is that it’s unsustainable, that eventually I’d be satiated and calm and want to snuggle and put back the pieces. But all the rest of it? If that doesn’t scare you, at least a little bit, it should. I know it scares me.

I’m missing this, these days. I was missing it then, too, with the particular frustrating delight of having someone to send an e-mail like this to, but not within reach. I’m craving violence, prowling like a predator in a cage. There is nothing to hunt, here. Nothing but lizards and little birds that aren’t any kind of game. The truth is with no one in sight I lose focus. I miss the wanting as much as the violence, the feedback that leaves me needing more and more on top of more until exhaustion hits and I’m still not sated.

In Time, With Trust

“I’m not saying I expect to just jump into something like that. But in time, with trust.”

But I don’t trust. I won’t trust, don’t even want to.

“I’m going to be trustworthy. What you do with that is up to you.”

You say that. You might think you mean it, even, but I can hear what you really mean. Do the right thing, the kind thing, the reasonable thing. Trust me. I’m worth it. I’ve earned it. Trust me.

I don’t. I don’t want to.

He will stand in the cold. They all do, for a little while. “Trust me,” and they’ll watch for me to open the door. “Trust me,” and they don’t understand why I haven’t yet, how I can laugh with them and flirt with them, fuck them and be fond of them but never let them in. “Trust me,” and it’s colder now, the cold that makes lips and voices and resolve crack. “Trust me,” and their blood is in the words, an offering, a plea, an accusation. “Trust me,” but I can’t. I will come outside, offer my body to keep them warm but it’s not enough. It’s not the cold, not really. They just want to see inside. To see if it’s all that they’ve imagined. “Trust me,” and I know I won’t because it does not break my heart to hear it. “Trust me,” and when I tell you the last time and the first time nearly ruined me, do you understand how sick it makes me that you expect me to just believe that you would be different?

“Trust me.” I don’t know why they want it, or what they expect to see. If they’re just curious. If because I am good–very good–at showing them how to sort and store their feelings, they think I should offer them a closet or a chest of drawers. If they just hear “I don’t trust easily” as a challenge, a way to prove they are special. I don’t know what they see but what I see is the aftermath. I see the day I am left to clean the junk of them from all my drawers, the repairs that will take years because they will have been careless.

I don’t trust easily. Asking, demanding, wheedling will not make it easier. All I see is testing doors, then. All I want to do is check the locks.

You have my permission not to love me. I am a cathedral of deadbolts, and I would rather burn myself down than change any of the locks. – Rachel McKibbens

Full Sentences

We’ve been flirting most of the evening. It’s a distraction, one he’s far too busy for, but he lets it go on. He’s tentative, eager, overly polite. He flirts like a rabbit coming for treats, one soft paw at a time. Are you here to see me? are those what I think they are? am I being too presumptuous? I keep goading, amused that he’s stuck at work. It has to be frustrating. He stays cheerful: “at least I’ll be able to relieve some tension when I get home.”

I tell him not to. It seems too textbook Domme, makes me self conscious. Still, if I was going to wait, so could he. But then–“Can I call you when I get home and discuss this?” He has me smiling, and he rarely calls. I say yes. I wonder if I’ll let him convince me.

He calls before he gets home. It’s late enough to call it early, had either of us slept. He’s had a long day, sounds cheerful in spite of it. He makes me laugh more than once. I try to keep my voice low, mindful of Spouse sleeping in the next room. It doesn’t take him long to get home. There’s a moment of fumbling and “um”s before he says “So, let’s talk turkey.”

“Talk turkey.” I’m trying to keep the laughter out of my voice. He gets flustered so easily, I don’t want to scare him off of talking.

“Well, I was hoping–I really want to relieve some of this tension tonight.” I still don’t know how he can still be so bashful, after knowing me so many years.

“Why should I let you?”

“I–uh–really want to? I mean, if you say wait, I’ll wait.”

“Well, convince me. You said you could beg. Try it.”

“Um. If you let me, I won’t again fora few days if you want. Or–”

I cut him off. “You’re negotiating. I thought you were going to beg.”

He pauses, long enough that I worry that was the wrong thing to say. “I’m sorry. I’m still in work mode.” He clears his throat. I suspect it’s all bravado. He says he can beg but it’s a rare skill, takes a vulnerability he doesn’t typically show. “Please,” he says. It’s clipped. He starts to say something more, stops, tries again.

I’m the queen of uncomfortable silences. I can ride them straight to shore and I know they’ll break underneath me. They almost always do. But I’m impatient, don’t want to wait long enough for amusement to become annoyance. “I’ll make you a deal.”

“A deal! Okay.” Too relieved. Still in work mode, I suppose.

“You can come–”

“Thank you–”

“But stay on the phone, and don’t stop talking.”

“Okay, I can do that. Should–I mean–can I start now?”

I still find it hilarious that he’s this shy, as if naming anything sexual could possibly offend.

“What should I talk about?”

I swear I’m going to laugh and he’s going to die of embarrassment. “Surely something comes to mind.”

He says something about a video game. (It’s been two years; I don’t remember which one.) “No.” At least I don’t sound ready to laugh this time.

“Um. Okay. Different topic. Um.” He pauses. I count silently to three.

“If you stop talking I might change my mind.”

“Oh! Did you hear about this movie–”

“No.”

“That’s not a good topic either, huh?”

“Is that really what you’re thinking about right now?”

“You didn’t say I had to tell you what I’m thinking.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Well, like we talked about before. You holding me down, kissing me, hurting me, but this time you’d let me come–I can’t fantasize about not having an orgasm while I have one.” He falls silent. He’s breathing a little harder. I count to three again.

“Keep talking.” I try to put a warning in my voice, am not sure it carries through. I lean back, run my fingers over my own skin. “Be specific.”

“You–um. I’d want to kiss you hard, the way you like it. Then you’d climb on top of me.”

If it were just words, I’d be losing interest. But his ragged breathing and the hint of a whimper and knowing how far outside his comfort zone this is have me toying with the edge of my panties. “Keep talking.”

He makes a strangled sound. I smile, listening to him breathe too heavily. “You–you climb on top of me and start riding me. You pull my hair. And when I don’t move fast–er–hard enough for you, you lean down and lick and bite my ears and–” His breathing is too raw and ragged to speak for a moment “–when you do that I thrust harder. You don’t–” He moans. I’m beyond distracted, dying for his mouth on mine, since words are nowhere near enough. “You tell me you’re not done with me yet.”

Pause. Count. one, two, three. He’s making sounds, beginnings of words too shy to fully form.

“Full sentences.”

“Uh, it’s a little hard to–right. So you’re getting loud and trying to keep from screaming [aside: I’m rarely that considerate]. I still feel very submissive to you [is that part of his fantasy, or something he’s telling me now?]. And–can I–after you come a couple of times–I’d like to fantasize that I can make you if that’s okay–”

“Keep talking.”

“After that–” he’s gasping between words “–you decide I’m allowed to orgasm and–uh–say–” he whimpers.

“That’s my good boy,” I say, at the same time he says “call me a good boy?” in such a pleading tone. His breath catches, for a moment I think he’s dropped the phone. “You say that, and it’s like you flipped a switch and I could. Thank you for letting me–” So much shyness, still. I suppose he’s not sure what’s meant to happen next.

“Feel better?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You should get some sleep now.”

We say good-nights and hang up. I stay awake, frustrated but still smiling, wishing there were less distance, less inhibition between us.

 

Sent e-mail, September 2012

Came across this cleaning up old e-mails. I’m not an aural person. Words move me, but not so much voices, sounds. Reading this brought back the ensuing phone call more vividly than I’d have expected, every shy hesitation and the static and carpet too rough under my legs.

You may have a problem.

I can’t get the way you say please–all breathless and half out of control–out of my head. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve heard in a long time. I don’t care that you hate to wait, or that knowing you want something makes me want to be the one to give it to you. I want to deny you something, anything, everything, just so you have to call, to beg. And if you don’t sound earnest enough, or if it doesn’t make my breath skip the way I want it to, I’ll just have to say no again. And if just thinking about this gets me as hot as it does, I can only imagine how it would feel to do it.

Like I said, you may have a problem.

Ripcord

It’s late. I’m alone in a hotel room in a city I’ve never been to before.

It’s late, but I can’t sleep. I’m alone, states away from anyone I could call at this hour. I’m texting  a partner back home, flirting and sending pictures back and forth, both getting more frustrated but not getting off. He’s teasing me for being insatiable. It’s a fair taunt, but not one I plan to let slide.


I’m sure I can find a way to entertain myself for a few nights alone.

Oh?

Yes, I came prepared. [I send a snapshot of a sheet of clothespins leaning against my thigh.]

And you plan to entertain yourself how, exactly?

That’s up to you.

[He tells me where to attach them. I send a photo when it’s done.]

Like this?

Looks about right…needs more clips though.

Yeah, well. TSA might have looked askance at that. Fuck, pulling these off is going to hurt.

Isn’t that the idea? Is it worse to wait or pull as soon as possible?

Waiting. Gives things a chance to get used to the pinching, then it’s worse when it stops.

That’s what I thought. So let things acclimate then change the climate.

Of course you’d say that. Just what am I meant to do while I’m waiting?

Be patient. [He starts talking about other things, making plans for after I get home.]

Just so you know, breathing makes the clothespins on my ribs shift. Ow.

Aww. Guess it’s just as well I didn’t have you line the whole ribcage, then. I considered a couple of other patterns.

Well, maybe I can try something else after you let me pull these ones off.

Oh, you expect me to let you pull them off.

Fuck.

You bastard.

Yes, that I am. Shouldn’t you be a little nicer if you want me to tell you to pull?

I wish you could be here for this.

Not just because I wish someone else would pull this damn ripcord for me.

Oh? To pull the line or to fuck you mercilessly afterwards?

Or to help keep me quiet when they do come off.

So maybe you should try to convince me.

[Hell. I never beg. I hate begging. If one or two renditions of “please” doesn’t get a result, I settle into a prideful state of “fine, I didn’t need that anyway”]

How would it go if I were there?

How would you want it to?

I don’t know how you’d pull. Jerk the whole string at at once, maybe,  or steadily increase pressure to release one clothespin at a time.

Which is worse?

Whichever is worse? I don’t know which one is worse, they’re both damn near unbearable.

I suspect you’d draw it out. Waiting for that rush of pain to hit is its own special torture, and you do love to torture me.

As if you don’t… I can’t tell if this is about pain or sex right now.

Is there a difference? It hurts. And yes, I’m desperate to come.  My clit is throbbing against that horrible clothespin. What the hell was I thinking, putting one there?

That it would please me. So what is it you want?

I wish you were here. I need to come but not half as badly as I need to taste your cock. I want to make you moan and grab me by the hair. I want to do whatever it is you want me to do.

I want you to keep talking. What do you want?

I want to see your face, what this does to you. I want to fly home right fucking now; to hell with this conference I want you to hurt me.

I need to come. Please. God, I need to come ten minutes ago. My legs are shaking. It hurts. It fucking hurts and I can’t touch myself with all these clothespins in the way.

I’m afraid to pull the cord, afraid I’ll make too much noise. Fuck, it’s going to hurt.

Fast or slow, which is worse? It’s a trick question. Waiting is worse.

Please. I need to come. I need these clothespins off of me so I can shove my fingers in my cunt and imagine they’re yours. Just…please.

Pull.


I’d never begged before. Talking, flirting, demanding others say these things for me, sure, but this was new and a little frightening.

New can be a good thing, right?