Revisiting the basics, cos I am doing a metric fuckton of processing right now.
Monogamy doesn’t prevent you from falling for someone else, or stop your partner from falling for someone else.
We’re in situations where we meet new people all the time. Monogamy may mean those situations aren’t acted upon, but it certainly doesn’t switch off the feelings they cause.
Meeting someone new often has nothing to do with the state of the current relationship.
Rather than deliberately looking to fall in love because things are bad at home, the universe throws amazing people into our lives when we least expect them. People in relationships don’t choose when to fall in love anymore than single people do.
If I were monogamous and my partner met someone else he chose to pursue, his options would be pretty bleak.
Do the ‘honourable’ thing and leave me, so he could explore the new relationship without lying or cheating – breaking up our family.
Do the commonplace thing and explore the new relationship in secret – in which case I could be going insane wondering where he was until 3.30am every other night and who he was spending so much time texting.
Makes me wonder how we got to a point where having an affair in more socially acceptable than having two partners with everyone’s informed consent?
Subspace – the place a bottom’s head goes to when a top pushes their buttons, or rather their limits, in the right way. I suspect it feels different for each person each time, like an acid trip or a live song. Some people fall down a bottomless rabbit hole, others report out-of-body experiences or hyper-real hallucinations.
My trips into subspace take the form of a meditative absence. I simply stop thinking, stop being, beyond the sensations I’m experiencing. It takes a while afterwards to come back to Earth, to reconnect with myself as the woman in the scene.
The headspace, coupled with all the gorgeous neurotransmitters that flood the brain in response to pain, is incredibly cathartic and energizing. Trite I know, but leaving the world for a while is a wonderful way to appreciate living upon it.
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Full disclosure: I had an out-of-body experience once, when someone fisted me while I was high on a cocktail of recreational drugs. I rose straight up from the bed along a matrixey Tron-like tunnel, and at the top there was the huge disembodied head of an old Chinese guy, smiling beatifically at me. I think the moral of this story is, for safety and sanity, stick to vanilla sex when you’re high.
I want to write more, and the only way to do that is to start typing. I’ve been reading old posts, rediscovering happy memories and half-way decent writing. It’s nice to have this archive to look back on, and I think so far I’ve painted a fair picture of the good and bad bits.
I’d like to carry on with the documentation, but the impetus has gone. I used to have ideas queuing up in my head, waiting for me to give them words. Now I have to trawl my brain for suitable topics. There are two things that have probably contributed to this change.
One is facebook. When I write stuff now it goes up there and I don’t tend to cross-post (maybe I should?). But I wonder whether sticking to a forum that includes captive family members (many of them minors) means I pull my punches and put edgier topics aside. Maybe, but at quite a subconscious level if so, because it’s not even like there are dark and stormy things I mean to write about but don’t find the time to address.
Hence the other reason; I think my life is just pretty boring these days. Our poly relationship functions smoothly, I’m not scared of getting married, or moving to a new country. I’m not depressed, and I’m no longer terrified of being a mother. I just am. I do lots of things that make me happy without challenging me – yoga, work, bike rides with Isaac. None of it warrants much examination.
That said, I think motherhood had wrought some changes, and I’m struggling to put my finger on how and why. Maybe there’s some meat there. Why did it take 32 years and a son to call myself a feminist? How can I have so much money compared to most of the world and still sometimes feel poor? The emergence of my social conscious probably does warrant examination, but even that doesn’t feel like it would be interesting to write about.
Maybe I should stick to porn.
I wrote this three years ago with a recipient in mind. This is the first time I’ve read it since and I was a bit shocked by how graphic and unapologetic the description is, but I still like the piece.
Needless to say, there is content of an adult nature behind the cut.