Sands of Time

d

Why are you unafraid?

A shallow slice aimed at your flesh

exposed in a dare.

Amid my fear and frustration,

helpless and blind

not knowing

the likes of you.

Come, little one

do it.

Cut me now.

I will not hold your hands

or fend off attack.

Feeble at best

I can not,

I will not

slice the life from you.

It is easier

knowing my love,

not enough trust

is all I have to give.

Why do you sit patiently

waiting to accept the blade

with the point turned on me?

Wanting my trust of

not leaving me

an amputee

when I least expect.

Why do you tell me

you have no need of a knife?

Why do you tell me with such intensity

you have all the time in the world

to wait for my surrender?

Why in all these breaths

do you tell me I cannot have you

the way I want you

when you are willing to wait,

understanding

my hesitation?

Steadfast you are

in your knowledge.

Gazing my soul

tying a cord

to your patience

and the means to guide me home,

knowing the knot will not slip.

Why do you want from me?

Why is never the question.

Why never really matters.

Questions behind the questions…

Does the why

question your integrity

imply non acceptance

of who you are

and intent?

You seem sure

on that which you want from me.

That I can.

That I will.

That you will be here when I do.

That I will offer it to you first.

You already know when,

you are the one

I must return

for the sacrificial offering.

This time, unafraid

the risk

of bloodletting,

and cuts in my tender flesh.

You take heavy odds in your favor.

What is the point in waiting

for nothing,

for no return

on the challenge

of your investment.

Just because?

What happens then

without my fear

and a blade without blood?

Now I play on the board you

skilfully lay before me

with pieces of your choosing.

You see I must,

you know I must.

You count on it now,

I must know.

I must….

I should try dying…..

I’ll say it metaphorically but really I mean this a little more literally although but not in a strict  physical sense (so none of you get the wrong idea)

Thank you Robert.  You have sparked a thing for me / in me.

Are you the keeper of the light in this darkness or am I? *grin*

http://walkingtalking.wordpress.com/

p.s. I hope you don’t mind….

Is what trips me.  I want….no, I need engaging most of the time.

Not flat. Not mundane. I wonder why I bother.  Just one more chance. Maybe this time.

Match, Plenty of Fish, Singlesnet, Cupid, Dating something or other site, American Singles, Lifestyle Lounge, Adult Fuck Finders, Personal ads…Yahoo, Literotica and the ever popular but equally sleazy Craigslist.

The words on the page “slip” after a painfully worded response or two designed to catch the eye.  Telling all I need to know.  Engaging is not yours.  It never has been…at least without effort.

I will now don my short black and pink argyle socks, A black lacy padded  bra, VS panties, a dark green top to go with my red hair, button fly 501’s, and clogs with the flowers and leaves burned into the leather that are so “Colorado”,  and engage.

But it won’t be with you. You don’t know how.

him peel back a layer last night

him to coax me out of my head

to feel him

to feel me again

Somewhere in the conversation he asked if my mother meddled in my brothers life. I felt poison and a small flash of anger rise telling him I don’t let her interfere in mine. Yah, I could feel that as it happened An instantaneous and small, hardened edge to my voice. It’s better tho. The venom just doesn’t leak as bad as it once did. That’s good. I don’t need it to survive anymore. He asked how it was relationship wise when I was growing up. About affection between family members. Who I was close to.

I had little trouble talking about what we did. Yanno, stuff. Stuff I learned along the way. Stuff we did together. Stuff they showed me how to do. Make solar prints. His darkroom. The rose garden. Sewing. Needlework. How to finish furniture. There is more. Much more.

But still, I cannot recall anything like the physical affection he and his daughter lavishes between them. I can’t even remember sitting on either one of my parents laps. Or getting hugs from them. I don’t remember any affection between them either.
There must have been all that. Right?

Yah, I had a huge amount of trouble talking about the emotional part of those relationships. I found myself steering away at ever opportunity. Shifting the conversation in small ways. I think he saw that.

I miss my Grandpa. His melodic voice. Calming. He never raised his voice, yanno. Never. He had a bad temper. He almost killed a man once. So he never ever let his temper use him. Ahhh….His lap. His hugs. And gardening with him. My first real memory. He taught me to garden. About plants. About species and cultivars. He jingled the change in his pocket all the time. It was “his” sound when he walked. I cried a bit. Damn I miss that man. Always. Will. Miss *My* Grandpa.

He mentioned he has a memory gap during middle school. It’s bits and pieces. I realized when he said that, I do as well. From middle school to almost all of high school. From about 11-16. It’s not continuous. Not fluid. Broken.

My blank spot is really no surprise either. We block the unpleasant. The perceived traumas of the time. What we don’t want to, or don’t know how to deal with.

Years of physical abuse at the hands of my mother. Insidious. Escalating to a point of no return for her. She played her fear of Not Good Enough that she built on me. She built it especially for her use. Not mine. My “Not Good Enough” was / is a by product her perception of herself. Her inadequacies. She used fear…my fear of telling him. She insinuated he knew everything….what a horrible child I was and that she had to beat me senseless to behave. All in an attempt to hide what she was doing. So I wouldn’t talk about it to anyone. So I would accept what she was doing as her right. As right. Aside from being constantly “grounded”, I really don’t believe he….who is my father with a blood type that makes him not *like* me, mine but not mine……knew anything at all.

After all….Who *would* condone it if they knew?

I know now why it’s so easy to stay in my head too. It’s where I lived for much of that time. In books. I lived in books and in my head. It’s easy for me to go there. Easy to not be open or vulnerable. I can’t figure tho….what would happen if I didn’t? Have I ever not done this? Remain closed?

I lived in my flute and french horn during middle school. It was all designed as my protection. From screaming. From killing her. From killing myself.

It scared me to feel. Still does on some level. It’s my block in so many ways…

It touched a huge scar for me. Made it kinda sore. Not anyone’s fault. It’s just there. Still raised and red and still sore. So much so, I got out of bed after tossing some. Sat on the couch in the dark and thought about it all. Wanted to write it then and there. I didn’t tho. I thought about how I go to great lengths to hide the scar. Don’t know when I tumbled back into bed next to him needing warmth and safety. It wasn’t entirely safe with those ghosts.

But that’s ok. Massage the scar it will fade. Become less red. Less raised. Less sore.

Don’t. stop. talking.

The bold type is what I take away as I write this. Right now.
The rest is superfluous…a process of fleshing fat from meat and meat from the bone….

Somewhere in the conversation, he asked if my mother meddled in my brother’s life. I felt poison and a small flash of anger rise telling him I don’t let her interfere in mine. Yah, I could feel that as it happened An instantaneous and small, hardened edge to my voice. It’s better tho. The venom just doesn’t leak as bad as it once did. That’s good. I don’t need it to survive anymore. He asked how it was relationship-wise when I was growing up. About affection between family members. Who I was close to.

I had little trouble talking about what we did. Yanno, stuff. Stuff I learned along the way. Stuff we did together. Stuff they showed me how to do. Make solar prints. His darkroom. The rose garden. Sewing. Needlework. How to finish furniture. There is more. Much more.

But still, I cannot recall anything like the physical affection he and his daughter lavishes between them. I can’t even remember sitting on either one of my parent’s laps. Or getting hugs from them. I don’t remember any affection between them either.
There must have been all that. Right?

Yah, I had a huge amount of trouble talking about the emotional part of those relationships. I found myself steering away at every opportunity. Shifting the conversation in small ways. I think he saw that.

I miss my Grandpa. His melodic voice. Calming. He never raised his voice. Never. He had a bad temper. He almost killed a man once. So he never ever let his temper use him. Ahhh….His lap. His hugs. And gardening with him. My first real memory. He taught me to garden. Taught me about plants. About species and cultivars. How to save seed form year to year. He jingled the change in his pocket all the time. It was “his” sound when he walked. I cried a bit. Damn, I miss that man. Always. Will. Miss *My* Grandpa.

He mentioned he has a memory gap during middle school. It’s bits and pieces. I realized when he said that, I do as well. From middle school to almost all of high school. From about 11-16. It’s not continuous. Not fluid. Broken.

My blank spot is really no surprise either. We block the unpleasant. The perceived traumas of the time. What we don’t want to, or don’t know how to deal with.

Years of physical abuse at the hands of my mother. Insidious. Escalating to a point of no return for her. She played her fear of Not Good Enough that she built on me. She built it especially for her use. Not mine. My “Not Good Enough” was / is a by product her perception of herself. Her inadequacies. She used fear…my fear of telling him. She insinuated he knew everything….what a horrible child I was and that she had to beat me senseless to behave. All in an attempt to hide what she was doing. So I wouldn’t talk about it to anyone. So I would accept what she was doing as her right. As right. Aside from being constantly “grounded”, I really don’t believe he….who is my father with a blood type that makes him not *like* me, mine but not mine……knew anything at all.

After all….Who *would* condone it if they knew?

I know now why it’s so easy to stay in my head too. It’s where I lived for much of that time. In books. I lived in books and in my head. It’s easy for me to go there. Easy to not be open or vulnerable. I can’t figure tho….what would happen if I didn’t? Have I ever not done this? Remain closed?

I lived in my flute and french horn during middle school. It was all designed as my protection. From screaming. From killing her. From killing myself.

It scared me to feel. Still does on some level. It’s my block in so many ways…

It touched a huge scar for me. Made it kinda sore. Not anyone’s fault. It’s just there. Still raised and red and still sore. So much so, I got out of bed after tossing some. Sat on the couch in the dark and thought about it all. Wanted to write it then and there. I didn’t tho. I thought about how I go to great lengths to hide the scar. Don’t know when I tumbled back into bed next to him needing warmth and safety. It wasn’t entirely safe with those ghosts.

But that’s ok. Massage the scar it will fade. Become less red. Less raised. Less sore.

Don’t. stop. talking.

The bold type is what I take away as I write this. Right now.
The rest is superfluous…a process of fleshing fat from meat and meat from the bone….

I met him about a mile down the road for a glass of wine.
Actually a glass of Peach Mead from my favorite winery here on the west slope of Colorado. All well and good but there wasn’t enough brain food there to continue the conversation.

I find it interesting that the chat we’ve been having the past few days was pretty stimulating. But in person it fell flat for me.
I don’t care about the reasons why. It just didn’t work.

Here is the realization I had when I got back to the house and Muse was questioning me about what happened. Oh, he was a bit concerned, btw. I told him an hour and it was longer than that so he was thinking about calling to give me an out when I walked in the house. *grin* I need to remember to take my cell with me. For some reason I didn’t. Probably because I was less than a mile down the road.

Anywhoo, somewhere in the conversation as we were putting my car back together, I told him that I’m not looking for nice or good or ok. I’m looking for outstanding. Because I am. And I want nothing less. I felt so much more interesting and dynamic than my date. Blah…..It’s can’t be that way for me. No intrigue.

I need to do this for the right reason. But of course. That goes without saying. Or does it? As women we know we can snap our fingers and get all the attention we want, when we want it. All we have to do is show a bit of skin and give a provocative glance. But do I really want it? Well, that depends. My neediness overwhelms me sometimes.

I need to do this, not to get “attention” and not to get out of his hair for the evening and give him some space. Yah, I told him that.

Muse pointed out since I don’t feel the need to get laid, *giggles* I can concentrate on “just dating” for the pleasure of it. I can do this without my hormones running the show as in so many times before. Exploring to a greater degree what i like and don’t like. Without attachment to sexual outcome or any other outcome.

It feels ok and it doesn’t feel threatening. As a matter of fact it has reduced some of the threat for a lot of things for me. One of them being Muse’s dating and my fear of being shoved aside, shoved out of his bed, shoved out of his life.

We had another talk about disclosure last night too. We’ve gone back and forth about it. What we tell others. I’ve been mulling this as I usually tell we sleep together pretty quickly. He only tells he has a female roommate.

We both feel that for the most part, he won’t be taken seriously by women if they know more than just a roommate. Men on the other hand….most say it’s OK because it fulfills a slut fantasy. They automatically get some too and they don’t have to do much in their eyes to get it. It lowers the bar. I am not going to stand for lowering the bar.

We agree and have decided it is simply none of anyone’s business what we do in our home or with each other as far as physical and emotional intimacy goes. There are other things too. It’s no one’s business that I will be doing his finances. It’s no one’s business that we do most of our processing with each other. Meaning…we have a lot of “secrets” about others that are kept between *us*.

Perhaps that’s not the “right” way to go about it. Perhaps it is living a lie. But neither of us feel the need to change the situation for something we don’t know about….

I’m pretty happy with that all around. And it’s best for all. Yanno, we each have our own sphere of autonomy. And then we have a couples type sphere of autonomy as well. One based on an intimate and deep friendship. One we sometimes take for granted and overlook. I know after last night that our sphere wants some nurturing. Not because of sex but because of the friggin’ mind blowing, mind fucking, eye contact thing we do. Orgasm without touching. It felt like we both lowered the shield again. As it was. As it should be. It hasn’t happened in a while.

There is plenty of room for intersection in his sphere outside ours and there is plenty of room for intersection in my sphere outside ours. But there is no room for intersection of others inside our sphere. That is clear to me now. And I don’t see it changing. That’s good. It’s really been a major tap root in my insecurities and neediness right now. I feel that tap root shriveling…..

Soooooo……I’m not sure whether I am more amused or disturbed right now.

Decided last night we should answer some couples ads on Craigslist with the hopes of getting laid that night or perhaps sometime this week. I want a 4some in my repertoire and I think he needs some strange pussy. Besides, we were dirty talking fantasies while fucking yesterday, and well…..we each have our share that we share. That’s a good thing and I’m pretty happy he is taking this opportunity to look around for the both of us. *happy grin*

Sooooo….we sent off plenty answers with a pretty provocative picture of me. But none of him. That’s ok, it’s generally about the woman anyway.

We got a nice response back from one couple. Like us, neither are married to each other. So they understand the complicated bit. The e-mail goes on to describe them and their likes/dislikes. Sweet! Sounds promising.

Sooooo….he sent two pictures along with the e-mail.
He is his BOSS. BOSS. And coincidentally one of the bosses in my office when I worked there. He was just never my supervisor. Now we know he’s fucked his lover in his office after hours, ducks out under the pretense of working meetings have lunchtime encounters, has a smaller than average cock but a great tongue, he is more submissive and bi, she is more dominant and bi curious, and of course any of the DP/DVP scenarios we suggested won’t bother him, either.

OH MY FUCKING…fill in the rest with your brand of appropriate shock, horror or silly laughter.

I told my youngest son. He laughed himself silly.

No I didn’t answer the e-mail.

I’m leaning towards amused.
Highly Amused.

How on earth do I turn them down without blowing it? Oh sorry, we know you both so this might be a problem. Hahahahahahha. Well there is something to be said about putting head pix out there. Or not because now I wonder…well….his choice.
Had we met on just headless pix? OMG! OMG! Talk about awkward.

Gives new meaning to potential sexual harassment issues in the workplace doesn’t it?
*roars with laughter*?

Moral of this classic kink gone bad story………

Be careful what you ask for you just might get it.
Bwahahahhahahahaa