Seriously

I have a hickey on my nipple.

I have a hickey on my damn nipple.

What the fuck.

On boundaries

Jay has told me repeatedly that he likes to push my limits when he's playing with me. And for the most part, I'm okay with that.

Three weekends ago, he'd brought over his flashlight to use in concert with the metal speculum he'd bought me. We both have a passing fancy for aspects of medical fetishism, and as he said, "I like to check out my pussy once in a while." Silly man, doesn't he know I have professionals to do that?

We wound up not playing at all that weekend - I don't think we even had sex. So he informed me Sunday night that he was bringing the flashlight again the next weekend, and that I and the toys had best be ready.

Being the dutiful sort - sometimes - I prepared the toys as best I could, and Jay came over Friday night.

We wound up not playing until Saturday night, which in retrospect was a bad plan. It was after I'd worked extra late, and was tired, and short on sleep. Oops. I knew he wanted to use the speculum on me though, and I didn't think I was too tired to handle it. It might not be as good as it could be, but it wouldn't be bad, was more or less how my thought went.

And it wasn't bad, not really. Sure, I wasn't overly in to it, but it was nice, you know. I laid back and let the man amuse himself with his flashlight, and with moving the speculum around, etc. and so on, just sort of not really thinking, but aware of the fact that I was staring at the ceiling and kind of rolling my eyes.

Where it all started to go sour was after he'd given me one orgasm, and I was starting to drift off to sleep (oops). I felt him shift the speculum again, and suddenly he is brushing his finger down the very stretched sidewall of my vagina. SO WEIRD. It definitely made me squirm. It was one of those weird "I am so not used to having anything touch me there" kind of feelings, but it was okay - mostly.

Then he shifts it again, and he is examining every inch of the bottom wall of my vagina, like he is trying to actually get through to what is happening in my rectum, and I freak my shit out. What is going on in other parts of my body at this time is so not even close to his business. I flip out, kick his hand out, and then I think he's trying to put it back in, so I kick again. But I'm not wearing my glasses, so instead I completely miss his arm and hit him in the cock. Oops. He's then pissed and takes the speculum out without closing it, and I curl up in a ball, cry, and refuse to let him touch me for a few hours.

It wasn't pushing a limit at that point, it was violating a boundary. I'm not entirely sold on ass play on the best of days, and when I'm tired and letting you play with my pussy to be nice, you definitely don't get to push things like that. Stop trying to see if I have to poop, you bastard, I won't tell you because it's none of your business.

Jay wasn't entirely sure what was going on. I think the not letting him touch me part was the worst of it, for him. But I couldn't let him touch me at that point - he'd just violated me, in a very real, albeit mostly emotional and mental sense, so why the hell would I want him touching me?

It took me a bit to eventually calm down, and I went to sleep. But I was outwardly calm. Inside I was a damn wreck.

The next morning I woke up early, or at least, more than an hour before I had to be at work. Jay woke up when I did, and I could tell by the look on his face that he knew that I wasn't alright. It took me most of that hour to work up to tell him what was wrong, and when I did, I fucking bawled my damn eyes out. At that point, it wasn't just the boundary issue, it was also the feeling that he'd punished me for essentially safewording, which just made the situation worse.

He let me soak his damn chest, and apologized. And just held me there until I felt a little bit better. After getting everything out, I did feel better. I was still shaky, but I wasn't carrying around this awful painful feeling in my chest anymore, and that was pretty rockin'.

I went to work, which irritated me for entirely other reasons, and came home to pizza and sleep, and lo, it was good.

Mixed bag

In the rush of interviewing, working, having Jay over, and writing two papers, I've somewhat neglected an update here. Oops. I am clearly, clearly awesome.

Anyway, YES, I got the job! I am wicked excited to be working normal, 9-5 hours, not weekends, not with kids, in a much less stressful position. I'm not naive enough to think that it won't be stressful at all - I'll be working in an administrative/IT position for a very large company, which is in and of itself a challenge and a switch. But I'm extremely happy. The position is very open-ended, and when the interviewer is telling you about other opportunities that would be available to you in the company, you have to figure that's a good sign. Nowhere to go but up.

So I gave notice at my current job, and my last day there will be November 14th. Honestly, there's a lot of mixed feelings I have about that. Yes, it's an excellent job, and I've certainly gotten a lot out of it - as well as contributed a lot. But I'm burnt out. I looked back over my personal journal for the past year or so, and since January, I've been regularly posted "Oh my god, I hate my job". That's a bad sign, and I'm glad I'm correcting the situation sooner rather than later.

Still, I will miss it - if only because I can wear more or less whatever I want while I'm working. I know right now I'm excited about high heels, but I know I'll miss my jeans, hardcore.

I also worry about the kids. So many of these kids have lived their lives with the people that say they care about them leaving, and here I go, leaving. I realize that this isn't exactly like I'm completely abandoning them, but still. I don't look forward to having to tell them I'm leaving. I get the impression that tears will be shed, and ugh, I hate crying.

I'm not looking forward to telling the staff I'm leaving, either. If I'm guessing right, there will be lots of mixed reactions - anger, frustration, sadness, among others. I'm pretty sure one of my supervisees will freak out; when she and I had talked two weeks ago, I hadn't even interviewed for anything else, so I told her that I didn't have any definite plans. Suddenly, it's all crystallized, and I'm leaving much sooner than I lead her to believe that I would. It probably won't be pretty.

Still... I'm happy to be leaving. I'm excited about the new opportunities I'll have, and I'm excited to be back in a position where I don't have to be responsible for anyone but myself, as well as a position that draws upon more of my career and educational background.

These next two and a half weeks are going to be supremely interesting.

Panic!

I'm getting ready for my second interview about this job I desperately want, and it reminded me of the post I made. I don't have the time to fully flesh this out, but I wanted to get something down (oh god, I'm placeholding on my blog. This is sad.)

I am very. dominant. in my non-bedroom life. All of my friends assume that I wear the pants in my relationship with Jay. I'm a supervisor in my current position. I frequently get asked to take charge of things. I handle the bills in my apartment. My friends defer to me on a number of matters. I am in charge, people, and that is just the way I like it.

Except in bed. I want nothing to do with being in charge in bed.

So essentially, Jay and I switch, every single day.

On that note, time to put on my high heels. Mmmm, I heart high heels. I just bought this fabulous pair of red suede ones... MUST GET DRESSED oh god I am going to interview.

Put on some make-up

Had my first interview today, and it went smashingly, actually. I realized how much I miss power-dressing. You know - tailored skirts, smart blouses, shoes to die for. I miss it. I miss the heady feeling of being totally capable and in control. I miss what it projects.

I went in one Monday evening to work power-dressed. I'd been at my volunteer placement, and it requires business-wear; no blue denim is allowed. I opted to not change for work. I was wearing a burgundy blouse, gray trousers, and black heels. I looked good.

Every single kid commented on how good I looked. And I got so much less flack that evening - much less than I've been getting lately. And it was the clothes. They projected confidence and power for me, and because I knew that's what the clothes were saying, it was a lot easier to match my behavior to it. And that was a damned good night at work; probably one of the best I've had in months.

So it was nice today, to wear a trim skirt, trendy little sweater, and cute heels, and look fabulous and professional and tailored and put together - even if I changed into jeans and a t-shirt at work again.

I can't wait to be back into heels on a regular basis.

Squee, motherfuckers

I spent some quality time on Tuesday updating my resume. I hate resumes. I hate them more when I have to rewrite them. But I think I came up with what is my best resume yet, so I duly sent it off to a few places I'd seen potential openings at.

Earlier in the week, I'd emailed Elizabeth, because I thought I saw her job posted on a job board and was confused and amused. She replied that it was not hers, but it was for a position in the same town I currently work in.

She called back two days later stating that the salary was much higher than she thought it would be, and that while they were in their final rounds of candidates, she was relatively sure that one of them would not take it, and so an opening would arise. Her instructions were "I will call you, and you will give me your resume".

She called.

So tomorrow I send her my resume. Monday, I have an interview. It is for a job with better hours, much better pay, the same commute, and comparable benefits.

I have no idea what to wear! Oh god I need to go shopping.

Sign in to the Blogger in Beta

Seriously people, what the fuck. "The Blogger"? Reminds me of "THE Ohio State University". Seriously.

Today was marginally less sucky than I expected it to be. One of my appointments this morning was to go to the local Planned Parenthood and get myself some pap smeared and pills, and lo and behold! No pap smearage for me. That always makes my day, but not because it's unenjoyable. Oh no, not at all. It's quite the opposite really, and the fact that I'm having a good time is just not something that I want to be obvious enough to have to discuss it with my doctor. I'm probably thinking the same thoughts as someone who hates them - "La la la, that is NOT a speculum in there, la la la, I don't have anyone looking at my naughty bits" etc. and so on - but for completely different reasons.

So far, I've been relatively successful. But still, not in the space to really test that right now.

And, they gave me pills, so that means no more condoms, which means a much happier me (Jay too, but I'm allowed to be selfish today, because... well because I said so). Stupidly, last time I broke up with him, I stopped the pill, because right, I was done dating him for good. Right. No, not right at all, I am clearly an ass. But I did, however, abstain for over a year, which I am perversely proud of.

More sucky was the fact that I do have to have my wisdom teeth out, and that there's only one day a week the oral surgeon is in the office, and it's on the first of the two days I have class. Fucking bastard; his office hours should revolve around me, dammit. But, it is a handy excuse for a week off of work, so I will be doing that as well.

Jay has known for as long as I have that my two wisdom teeth need to come out, and without my even asking informed me that he will in fact be driving me around that day. Sometimes, I really hate when he reminds me just how wonderful he is.

Again on the sucky list, I hate my paper. I normally hate papers and exams after I turn them in, but they usually turn out okay. I'm hoping that the pattern holds true, because this is a bit more severe than usual. I have a lot more specific complaints about it, and while writing it, I never really felt it come together. Too bad it's 20% of my fucking grade. Good thing I still have another 75% in papers coming up to help improve it. My professor loved my first one, which naturally, was ungraded, so hopefully she'll like this one too.

On the positive side again though, I clearly have a new best friend in class, and he's gay and devious and snarky and hilarious, and we spend all of our social policy class being pissy, because it sucks it hardcore. Love it.

One more positive - I have a rewritten resume, and applications in to like, four or five jobs already. I need to tweak it a bit more for the other potential job area I might go for, but still, much better than it was. Hopefully one of them will pan out soon, because really, my current job cannot be over soon enough.

Jay is coming over on Friday; too bad I'll be exhausted from work. Still, might ask for a good beating anyway. Amazing how having the outlet of not being in charge makes me feel better about life.

Ugh

Reasons I do not want to get up this morning:

1. Getting up will eventually involve leaving the house and my bed, neither of which I am really interested in.
2. I have a four-page paper due at 5:00 that I have not even started.
3. I hate my job and it makes me want to die.
4. See #3.
5. I don't want the oral surgeon to tell me that I need to get my wisdom teeth extracted.
6. No matter how much sleep I "catch up on", I'm still tired.
7. See #4.
8. I have no idea where I'm going to park for my appointment at 10.
9. I still don't have a new job.
10. I really, really hate my current job, and cannot leave it fast enough.

Steam and sex

We go through cycles, Jay and I. We oscillate between 'kinky' and 'less-kinky'. Even when we're not doing anything else kinky, and we just want some calm, warm-fuzzy sex, he's usually pulling my hair or something.

It was during one of our kinkier weekends that we first had sex in the shower. Well, the first time in years, really. I think we'd done it once or twice when we were living together in one of our relationship's previous incarnations, but that was at least two or three years ago. It hadn't worked too well, as I recall, those last times.

I'd spent the weekend in a collar, naked, for the most part, but it was a Saturday afternoon and I wanted a shower. I'm one of those people that has to shower every day or I feel strange. I crave being enveloped in water and steam, locked away in my own little world. Nothing else exists but the pounding of the spray on my head and the water sluicing down my body. It's stress relief, grounding, rejuvenation.

Sometimes I like to bring Jay in there with me, and I was in the mood for that. I worked up the nerve, somehow, to drop the hint that we did in fact have a pair of waterproof, neoprene cuffs, and wasn't that interesting? I was so nervous as I said it that I kind of wanted to puke, and I'm quite proud that I didn't.

Jay responded by taking off the leather, not-shower-proof collar, putting on the cuffs in question, and more or less dragging me into the shower.

At first, nothing really happened. I washed my hair, he washed his, we soaped each other up, so on and so forth, and suddenly I am backed up against the wall, hands cuffed together and over my head, and his hands are everywhere - pinching and twisting my nipples, slapping my breasts, smacking my thighs apart so that he could get at my pussy, teasing me mercilessly. There's nowhere I can go, nothing I can do to get away from it. I'm lost - my mind has shut off, my eyes have closed, and I am nothing but sensation. My arms are still above my head, I have no choice, I am not in control.

I beg, wordlessly, for his cock; words have long abandoned me. He gives me two fingers instead. They slip inside His pussy easily, stroking, filling, making me buck my hips and ask for more. He takes his fingers out, and puts his hand on my throat, making me open my eyes and look at him, and as I stare at him through sex-hazed eyes, he slowly, slowly, slides his cock inside of me, making me wait, making me writhe, making me beg all the more.

He fucks me like that - up against the wall, hands cuffed together, as he holds my hips to keep me upright, as my knees are failing. In some distant part of my brain I hear his breathing change, getting heavier, harder. The only other thing I am aware of is this perfect moment of being one, together, and as he pushes me over the edge into orgasm, my mind shatters, and I am left shaking, trembling, held in his arms, unsure of what has just happened, but secure in the knowledge that he won't let me fall.

He smooths my hair back from my face, murmuring reassurances in my ear, waiting for me to come back down to earth and regain some power over my legs. When I can stand again, he turns off the shower, wraps me in a towel, and dries me off and puts me to bed, and I fall asleep, curled up and held in his arms, and wearing the collar once more, because I am His.

(not a) Pain Slut

So after Jay and I had talked about me not wanting him to live with me again, I promptly offered for him to come over last night and have dinner with me, and possibly stay over. You know, no strings attached, but hey, just because I told you 'no' doesn't mean I don't want to see you. That sort of thing.

Of course he accepted. He's not that dumb.

We managed to find a new restaurant and actually go and eat dinner, which is a first. I love the idea of finding new places to go and things to do, and then usually freak out at the last minute and want to stay home in a ball of cranky. But it was good. I ate ribs. And we talked through dinner, which we never do, and it was a rather novel sort of experience.

When we got home, Jay was laying on the bed in a bit of a steak-induced food coma, and I was puttering around, cleaning up small bits and bobs. My room is a hot mess, but I figure if I can at least get a few small things put away, that makes it a little bit better. Maybe.

I was cleaning off my nightstand, and came across a couple of clothespins I had taken out a while back, on one of the few occasions that I had masturbated. Naturally, being a snot, I couldn't help but make the comment "Oh, how did these clothespins get here?"

Jay more or less immediately woke up, and started questioning me on just why they were out, which turned me into a giggly wreck. It's like, I want him to know what I'm doing, but I don't want to actually tell him. He should just read my mind and know this shit, you know?

He eventually got out of me that I'd used them on my nipples, told me that was extremely arousing for him, and I thought the matter was over, since he was starting to fall asleep. Except, oh wait, no, and suddenly my clothes are off and Jay is digging around in the drawers. He comes out with the collar that we have matching cuffs to, puts it on, and then puts just the wrist cuffs on. He links the cuffs together and puts my hands over my head in that way that says that just because he didn't secure them there, doesn't mean I get to move them. I am waiting with baited breath to see what else he comes up with.

I am not entirely sure what he is doing until he starts pinching my nipples, which means that clothespins or other clamps are surely in my future. Now, I have somewhat sensitive nipples, and I am wholeheartedly not a pain-slut, so Jay usually puts the clamps somewhat behind my nipples, so that they're not the only thing clamped. No such mercy this time, the pins go directly on the nipples, and mother of GOD IT HURTS. I am doing deep-breathing exercises to deal with this pain, okay? Being a bit of a sadist, Jay is enjoying every minute, and decides to up the fun by adding a pair of clothespins to my labia, and hey, what's one more clothespin between friends? He puts it on my clit. I hate him.

He is toying with my g-spot in a way that raises goosebumps on my flesh, and I am desperately, desperately trying not to have an orgasm, because when I do, my tits will move, and it will hurt. Lots. At this point, I am probably about as happy as I can be without being happy at all, for whatever sense that makes.

By now my nipples have been tortured for a good fifteen or twenty minutes. This shit hurts. I probably cannot repeat that enough. I am also incapable of coming up with a good metaphor for the pain, so you'll have to take that. Anyway. He takes the clothespoins off my labia, and that's fine, not really too much pain there, nothing I can't handle. Then I see him going for the tits. Now, I wanted them off, I really did. But I didn't really want them off, because I knew that it was going to be horrible. He waits just long enough that he knows that I know it's coming, but not nearly long enough for me to psych myself up for it, and off they come and oh my god my world is black and focused entirely on the fucking pain that is radiating from my nipples and dear god it is never going to stop and jesus fuck i am about to cry.

Apparently at this point, I had an extremely sad face on. I wonder why that was?

He says that he is very pleased that I did not scream, and that I did not actually cry, although he could tell that I was close. He cuddled me for a bit, reassuring me, all of that sort of thing, because I needed it. For someone who I have frequently labelled as blind when it comes to non-verbal cues, he certainly does just fine reading them when we're playing together.

He did a few more things to me, and after the fun was done, snuggled up with me on the bed. My nipples were decidedly unhappy, so that limited a few of my snuggling options. The point of the matter is, we discussed, and he informed me that oh yes, this was entirely not about me and what I wanted, and definitely all about what he wanted to do to me. He knows I don't like pain, he knows where my limits are, and he wanted to push them. He likes doing that. He told me how I was a good girl for doing so well, and right there, as he is telling me that I don't get to choose what I have done to me, as he is holding me tight and caressing me, I feel the most loved, most cherished, and safest I have felt probably ever.

Everything about you

You know, I don't know how I feel about this whole "honesty" thing.

"I wouldn't mind moving back in with you," he says, as we are cuddled in bed, more or less meaning "I would like to move in with you as soon as is possible".

I freeze; he notices. My upbringing is telling me "Divert! Divert! Divert!" I really shouldn't tell him what I'm thinking. That'll scare him away. It's easier to lie and say something else, or change the subject entirely. I am two hairsbreadths away from completely losing. my. shit.

"I don't know how I feel about that," I reply.

The crux of the problem is this: living together severely smacks of "Relationship!", and I am so not even close to ready with that. I like things as they are right now with Jay - few expectations, needs getting met, open communication, and private space for myself during the week. However, I do miss him during the week, and wouldn't mind more time with him.

To give myself more time to organize these thoughts in a manner that is not offensive, I ask him why.

"Sex." He's only half-joking.

"Seriously though. I like spending time with you. I like being with you. I like falling asleep next to you at night and waking up with you in the morning. I like when you cook for me, I like when we talk, and I really do love the sex. And it would avoid instances of you texting me things like 'WHY AREN'T YOU FUCKING ME RIGHT NOW' in the future."

(N.B., I did in fact text him that at some point last week. I believe I was at work. It was a bad situation. I wished I weren't at work, and that wherever I was, so was he.)

"Yeah, I get that. But I don't know if I'm ready to live together again. It seems like every time we do that, it ends up bad."

He looks at me curiously, and I amend.

"Maybe it's not so much the living together, as the whole 'relationship' thing. Because living together definitely says 'relationship', with a capital 'R'. That's scary, in a bad way."

I can't look at him as I say this; my face is half-buried in his chest, my body curled up tight. He strokes my hair and waits.

"It just seems like every time we're in a Relationship, I wind up angry and hating you, for whatever reason. And right now I like you. A lot. And consistently - like, even when we argued the other week, I still liked you. I don't remember the last time that's happened." In other words, I used to listen to "I Hate Everything About You" by Three Days Grace a whole fuckton.

"Okay. I love you," he says.

I hate when he does that. Okay, no I don't, but goddammit, being honest is scary. Then again, it would be a lot worse if he didn't always take it well. And return the favor. Goddammit. It's nice to be heard, and get my needs met, and all of those other things, but it sure puts my heart rate into the stratosphere to do it. And the best (or worst) part of it is, the bastard knows that it does, every single time. And he's okay with that. And he's patient enough to wait.

Ugh, maybe I do hate him.