Well that's nice

Somehow it always seems like there's so many things that are higher on the priority list or in the way of sex and sex-time around here.

For example! I have turned down sex because I really, really needed to go grocery shopping.  Yes right that very minute.

I mean, yeah, we needed food, but it's not like it couldn't have been rescheduled until the next day.  We weren't going to starve overnight.

The hell of it is, it always seems like such a good idea at the time, to put off sex.  Like, yeah, let me just do this one thing and then I'll come back and we'll pick up where we left off.  I need to get some responsible adult on.

We never.  EVER.  pick up where we left off.

How can we?  We're not in the same space and place anymore.  I've gone off and distracted myself and Jay and done something else and there's no getting it back.

I fear that if I give in to sex whenever I want it, I will never, ever get anything under the "responsible adult" category done, such as grocery shopping, laundry, or cleaning.  And one thing I've learned about myself over the years is that I need to get a minimum level of responsible adult stuff done in order to feel like a functional, healthy human being.  (I am fully aware that this is my hang-up, and don't expect it to be anyone else's).  Like, if there's not enough food in the house, I freak. out..  I have noticed a distinct correlation between my mental state and the amount of clutter in the house, or dishes, etc.

To be honest, this is really just scratching the surface of why my sex life has been, well, fairly non-existent lately. There was the emergency house re-wiring that took two weeks and tore everything up (including our playroom, and I haven't had the spoons to go up there and clean yet), there's the fact that my job has me burnt the hell out and therefore I could probably go to a psychiatrist and walk out with a Major Depression diagnosis (if not anything else - but again, my hang-ups about getting diagnosed are my own), the fact that we've just been busy.  There was not a single night last week where we were home for dinner.  Not a single one in seven days.  For my introverted ass, that is a LOT.  And it cuts down on sex times!  There's the fact that ever since my last period, any sort of breast bondage or torture is extremely, exquisitely painful for me, and not in the good way.

The obvious answer is "well then reprioritize", and I'm not sure I want to.  I mean, I want to, but, effort, you know?  And a lot of what we've been doing I like that we're doing.  And overcoming inertia is very, very difficult (physics ftw!)

Just... yeah.

Using words like grownups

It's sometimes surprising to me how much the cliche of "communication" in a relationship really is true, and really is  helpful.

Case in point:  Wednesday night, Jay and I were up until 4 in the morning (FOUR IN THE MORNING.  ON A WORK NIGHT) communicating.  On various levels.

It started out with a discussion of what we'd done recently that we'd liked, what hadn't worked so well, and so on.  Then it moved on to things we thought we'd like to do more of, things we liked but found scary, things we fantasized about, things we're pretty sure we'd like to do but maybe are better left as fantasies, etc.  Basically updating our kink checklists, without the formality of a written checklist, and checking in on where our relationship is.

It was pretty fucking hot.  I am continually reminded that I am extremely lucky to be married to a man with whom I am a matched fucking set.  And I do mean fucking in both senses it could be taken there.  Our kinks don't exactly overlap, but if there were a venn diagram of our kinks it would look pretty similar to this one:


see more Funny Graphs

(oh graphjam, I <3 u)

So again, pretty lucky.  We compliment each other fairly well.  But even with that, I like having these discussions.  One, kinks change and evolve as people change and evolve.  Two, even after ten years, there is still no way that I know everything about Jay, and vice versa.  There is always more to explore.  Three, it's a hell of a lot easier to please each other when we are clear on what the other wants.  Four, even if it's something the other isn't necessarily interested in, it's good to know that, and I find that for me, bringing it up in this context is a good way to get me thinking about it and possibly engaging in it.

Then after being up until 3 talking about kink and sex and kinky sex, naturally we were both just a bit turned on and had to engage in some.  I wound up on my knees at the side of the bed giving Jay a blowjob, with his hands in my hair, whereupon he gave me a choice.  I could finish the blowjob until he came, and we could go to sleep, or I could get back in bed, masturbate until I came, and at such time as I did come, he would then fuck me.  I tend to get extremely sensitive after orgasm (as in, don't even fucking touch me), so this was not the pure treat it sounded like.

I opted for door number two anyway.

It was a lot loud, and a lot intense - both for the circumstances as well as for the actual act - and we both passed the hell out shortly afterwards.  Work on Thursday bit, but whatever.

This whole communication thing really has done nothing but improve our relationship.  And not just in the form of better, more frequent, or more intense sex, which are all true.  It's given us a lot of intagibles as well.  We trust each other.  A lot.  We know each other well.  And honestly, having had the discussion, I'm a lot less stressed, and just generally feel closer to him.  Not that I didn't feel close before, but, you know.

So yeah, cliche, maybe, but damn are we fans of this whole "communication" thing.

On maturity

I wasn't kidding when I said that 2009 was the year of men in my life. There's a lot to unpack with that, so I'm going to try to not blow the entire load in one entry because that would be silly (blogging hang-ups: I haz them), but I do want to talk about it.

First and foremost, Jay and I got married early this year. That didn't really change our relationship (except legally), I don't think. We've been together for most of the past 10 years (ten years! TEN YEARS, dear god, ten years). We've lived together, lived apart, shared bills, slept in the same bed practically since we met each other, been to each other's family gatherings and holidays and weddings and funerals, and been a linked pair in most of our family's and friends' minds for a long time now.

People keep asking me how it feels to be married, as if it were some life-altering totally radical change in our relationship. I don't have an answer for them, because it did not radically alter our relationship. We giggle that we're married, and are ridiculous entertained by referring to each other as "husband" and "wife". Yes, we're twelve, what of it? But the fundamentals of our relationship have not changed. I refer to him as my partner for a number of reasons, but first and foremost because that's what he is. We've both worked hard - damned hard - to have a relationship of equals, and just because cultural baggage says we're not, doesn't mean I want that.

What it has changed, however, is our relationship to other people.

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.

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.