Thinking about what I wrote yesterday, about setting myself up to be unsatisfied (which is what that whole post was originally supposed to be about..) - I want sexual attention, I want my partner to play with me and touch me and make me come.  But I often feel guilty when they do. 

Yesterday I complained about disinterested touching, but part of it isn’t necessarily their lack of desire, it’s my fear of there being a lack that taints the touching and makes me feel icky  and uncomfortable and unsatisfied.  And I’m not sure where that insecurity comes from, other than body issues perhaps, or the remnants of old self-esteem issues in general. 

So I guess what I need is reassurance of desire along with the touching and attention.  Heh, I guess I’m not as low-maintenance as I like to think.

 

touch-a touch-a touch me?

The last scene with Derek has had me navel-gazing about a lot of things.  One thing in particular that I’ve been pondering is my feelings about touching. 

 A guy I used to work with told me once that I don’t let people relate to me.  And he was right.  I’m often uncomfortable letting people get close to me, emotionally and physically.  When I work at my cashiering job, I avoid touching people’s hands when we exchange money, and generallly don’t look them in the eye.  I’ve actually gone whole days without once meeting another person’s gaze.  It’s a very isolated feeling. 

Somewhere along the way I put up some very thick walls.  I wrote a poem several years ago, about protection becoming a prison.  Very apt.

So I keep myself aloof, though I don’t think it’s at all obvious to most people.  But at the same time I crave touch, and I long for connection.  I think physical affection is almost as much of a need for me as food or water, and I think a total lack of it is one of the reasons I was very depressed during high school and college.

Maybe it’s because I want it that I shy away from being touched.  Maybe I want it too much, maybe I like it too much.  And I don’t want people to know that.  It’s a weakness, a neediness that I conceal behind a facade of coldness.

And of course there’s all the old insecurities about my body.  But I don’t really think that’s as a big a factor as it could be.

All that being said, that almost-last part of the scene on Saturday, with Derek and his hands and the dildo, was wonderful.   Very little awkwardness, and it just felt good.  I think it helped a lot that he assured me in an earlier IM conversation that he really wanted to do that for me.  And we’ve been playing together for a while now, there’s a higher level of comfort and intimacy that is starting to develop, at least for me.  (Derek, if you’re reading, I’d love to hear your thoughts on that.  And don’t forget that I’m a comment whore. :D)

I actually had an “aha!” moment the time we played before that, where I realized that even after 9 months or so of playing together, I almost never touched Derek with anything but my hands or an implement.  I was maintaining a distance, barely even brushing against him or putting my body or face close to his.  The one exception was a scene where I pinned him to the wall with my body while I whispered evil things and bit his shoulder.  And that was one of the hottest scenes with him.  So I made it a point this last time to stop being distant, to let myself get close, to let myself enjoy that contact.  It made such a difference.  And it made me hot.  Good stuff.

 

Physical.

I scratched him. I violated one of the first limits he ever gave me, and I only have a vague recollection of it. I also bit him so hard that he’s still bruised three days later. And I beat his cock too viciously.

I feel like an asshole. Granted, I only have the vaguest, orgasm-hazed memory of digging my fingers into his back while he pounded me into sweet oblivion with a dildo. But I know better than to break his skin. And I knew how much the other stuff would hurt and that he wouldn’t like it.  But the scratching - that makes me a bad dom.  That makes me less trustworthy.  And that breaks my heart, because violating his trust and hurting him that way is the last thing I ever wanted to do.  And everything else is pointless if he doesn’t feel completely safe giving himself to me. 

…But I have a confession to make:  in my heart of hearts, I like that I scratched him. I don’t like that I did something I had promised I wouldn’t. That part, I hate. But there’s a possessive, primal something in me that loves the idea of clawing, ripping, making a boy bleed. It’s a form of penetration, I think. And the evil, rape-fantasy-having part of me liked the nonconsensuality, the power, his helplessness, the violation inherent in doing something he specifically said not to…

And the biting. And seeing the toothmarks on him. That - that was hot. That was exciting. Satisfying and frustrating at the same time, sensual and sexual and animalistic and physical. The whole encounter was more physical for me than anything I’ve done in a very long time. Physical in the sense of really being engaged, physically present, touching him with more than just my hands, getting closer than I’ve allowed myself to before. And it felt good. It felt so good, and fulfilling. Not to mention the fucking. Which is what I was talking about in the other post, being just what I wanted. But I’ll have to leave the details for later, if at all, as it’s far past time to turn off the computer for the night..

 

Friday night

I got over the desire to maim eventually, and the boy did come over. With ice cream and iced tea, no less. And a dog bowl.

It was a delightful Friday night, after all.

I really am getting much better at this stuff. It only felt awkward for about a minute in the beginning, when I was trying to figure out how to begin, and a minute in the middle when I was trying to make the transition from service to play.

To start off, I had him strip and I took his clothes in exchange for a collar, which I locked onto his neck. It’s just a play collar, no special symbolism or anything, but it was the first time I’ve ever used a lock with it. Seeing that little padlock on the back of his neck and knowing the key was in my pocket, it gave me a little thrill that I hadn’t really expected. It almost felt like he was mine in a very real way, though I’m not exactly sure how I feel about that.

We played that he was my slave last night. My property, my personal servant. I had him sweep the floors and fetch things for me, bring me a drink and wash the dishes, among other things.

Reading that back, it sounds very silly, but it was great. I have long had fantasies of having a houseboy to clean for me, mostly because I hate doing housework. But sitting on the couch, sipping my drink and reading a novel while a devoted boy did menial chores in the background.. it was delicious, and not just for the free cleaning. I almost want to say that it made me feel powerful, but that’s not the right word and a little strong. Perhaps it would be better to say that it emphasized the power dynamic in a very obvious way. I felt on top, I felt in charge, I felt like a queen on her throne. Well, maybe not quite all that, but you get the idea.

It’s the fact that he was doing something he doesn’t like, but he was happy to do it because it was for me, because he wants to serve me, because he really is submissive to me.

The typical bdsm activities, the flogging, bondage, cbt etc, can feel like I’m performing a service. Don’t get me wrong, I very much enjoy those things, and I’m very happy that he gets off on the bondage and all ’cause otherwise he wouldn’t keep coming back would he? ..but there’s still that overtone, even if it’s just in my mind, that he’s only there to get his rocks off, and I’m just there to do it for him. As Bitchy might say, where is my orgasm in that?

Of course, there’s no orgasm in it for me to have him doing menial chores, but it’s a thing where it’s mostly just about me getting what *I* want, without having to actively pander to anyone else’s desires. Which feels good.

 

Derek is really a very nice guy. I talked to him about my hesitance to play again, and he was very cool about it. We talked for a while, and he was very understanding, very encouraging. Good stuff.

I wanted to write more about it, and about things I’ve read on other blogs, but fuck, I’m too tired from that last entry, which I may or may not keep on here. It’s all getting a little close to the bone.