I think I’ve posted a poem exactly, almost, like this one. I still love this woman. Her situation hasn’t changed but I foolishly hold out hope that she will make a choice that changes it. I think that is stupid of me. But I don’t want to lose her. Being beside her is often enough. That’s so rare. But I know I need more. But I will hold on to us as long as I can.
spilled from lips
I long to kiss
I’ve made my choice
I wait for you to make yours
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I had a dream last night. I was living in London but not real London. It was the dreamscape I refer to as the City. It’s based on a amalgam of cities I’ve spent time in. DC, New York, Seattle and Phoenix. But the whole time we were calling it London and making comments about Britain. There was a subplot of looking for/running from something. That is general anxiety. But the over notes were me as observor of these friends of mine living their lives and having fun. I’m on the periphery. Offering advice and comments, jokes. And we all occasionally have sex. Singly or in groups. It’s all very companionable. It’s like these are the people. That goes on for half the dream. I then notice someone who I know in my actual life is on the periphery as well. And this is odd because it’s not any of my current people I’m courting. We aren’t dating, aren’t seeing each other, it’s something more than friendship, and I am looking to have it be more, what else do I call it but courting? Anyway, it’s this woman Jessica whom I have always been attracted to and who has always been interesting. It’s odd because I haven’t seen or even interacted with her in years. We all as a group go to the Bookstore. Which in my mind is a good place filled with great memories and also books, so Sqee. She’s on my left side and we are looking through the books and I invite her to an opera. I like opera, never actually been to one but my dream self doesn’t seem to have that problem. I ask and she says, wonder of wonders, yes. Now to put this in context we met years ago when she was seeing someone else. It was never the right time for us. If there even could have been an us. And here she is in my dream, we are planning a date together, which is my preference. I like collaboration not dictation. Her elbow is touching mine. A prolonged contact. Deliberate. We pick an opera and I wake up. Weird.
I am not just a fantasy
I’m flesh and blood and flaws
I’m missteps and mistakes
The things that make me unreal
All hard fought for
At the expense of other things
Don’t make of me perfection
It will never last
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Since I use the word moment often
There are those that hold the opinion that raw animalistic rut is the ideal. To lose yourself so thouroughly in your own pleasure, that brutal pain becomes a pleasure of its own. Pel doesn’t see the sense in this. It’s a different approach than I am used to. To Pel, to be without control, to lose your self so thoroughly, is anathema. Or perhaps it is that this animalism is an excuse. A reason to feel like it wasn’t my self begging. That I was yielding to the force of my partner and that I was making pleasure from necessity.
I’ve begged Pel to take me this way, pleaded with Sara to give me this relief and been refused each time. With Pel, sex is a dance. Building piece by piece, order by order, until I’m quivering and quaking. Lost in pleasure as unrelenting as any pain.
I watch Tara write her morning journal. She sits, nude before her knee high writing desk, concentrating only on the words. The sound of the pencil across the page, soft scritching. This is a part of her standing rules. She is to wake and rise before I do. She must write in her journal each morning for no less than thirty minutes.
When we first started this it was filled with things that she believed I wanted to hear. Over effusive praise and nothing of her self. It took her months before she wrote a honest opinion. I never punished for the former. I just accepted the journal without passing judgment. The dam finally broke and she wrote how sad she was that I gave all my attention to Sara and never spent time with her. This wasn’t entirely true. I made sure that Tara received one orgasm per day, but she was right. In our household, that is almost neglect.
That was what I was waiting for. I need to know what she needs. What she wants. I refuse to guess and she has been less than forthcoming otherwise. I think she is doing that thing where she expects me to read her mind, like I seem to do with Sara.
After more than 13 years of being together, I should bloody well know what she needs and wants. Plus we sit down weekly and review our desires and wishes. To make sure that we are on the same page and to work towards goals. You have to put in the work if you want the reward.
When Tara finally wrote something honest, I and Sara rewarded her. We dedicated ourselves to her desire, her pleasure for the day. I try very hard not to use pain and neglect as punishment. I could have punished her for not being honest but positive reinforcement works better. Punishment is for deliberate disobedience. Positive to reinforce the good behavior, no or negligible attention for incorrect behavior and negative reinforcement for deliberate rule breaking.
Of course, Sara knows this. She will often demand a punishment when she knows she has gone off course. It is cathartic for her and for me. It resets us both back to zero.
Tara has yet to learn that lesson. And perhaps she doesn’t work that way. I know she is used to a good deal more brutality than I dish out. If it were just pain or just humiliation I would work with her. But, there is a good deal of trauma to work with. I won’t, I refuse to be, a source of fear and uncertainty.
Pel is watching Tara write in her journal. Such careful deliberation in that man. He thinks he’s being so subtle. Pshh. What Tara wants is a thorough rough fuck. Which she won’t get from Pel. Pel is too in control for that. Something I enjoy, I need. He controls me. *shudder* Utterly.
She needs to just ask for what she wants. Pel won’t do it but he won’t deny her either. I know Pel is working on something special for her today. He’s been calling around to some of the other people in our world. Perhaps today we’ll have surprise guests. He’s always planning something. He says that to do something well you must do it thoroughly. Only with a person like that is a single orgasm, a single joy, considered a punishment.
I don’t know if it is his desire to control or something else but he says “Do things for three reasons. If you have one reason then you can think of three. And if you have 3 reasons then make sure each is serviced when achieving your goal.” I touch the small of his back and he starts, so engrossed in watching Tara. He turns over, facing me. He captures my hand and lifts it to his mouth. His soft lips press a kiss into the palm of my hand, tightening something deep within me. “Good morning, my morrigan,” he rasps out, his voice deep from sleep.
If I have fucked up in some way, I want to know how. I can’t correct something if I don’t know it happened. I can be oddly oblivious.
I’ll give you my song, a poem
Sung in minor keys, whiskey stained
A tenor damaged, broken baritone
A past that creeps in, triumphantly hopeful
Fae dances in moonlight, broken masks
Screaming pain to the crowd, shattered pieces
Music in the night blooming flower, beautiful despite
The strands of hopes ending, strength subsided