My Ass Is Counting on It 

Exploding out of the closet with M’s mom has prompted so many talks the past couple days with M and I.

When it first happened, I felt terrible to have put us in this position. It was careless. While we are not completely close-lipped about matters of a sexual nature, we’d not have discussed sexual things to that degree. We are fairly private people in that area, when it comes to family and the general public.

So, our immediate, knee jerk reaction was to be embarrassed and shocked. We’d never intended to shove that much kinky in anyone’s face without feeling as if the other person was a willing participant of the receiving. That’s not fair.

But now, after the initial shock has died down, our thoughts have evolved. M’s mom is a wonderful woman; she loves and respects us and knows we would not do anything harmful to the other, nor are we absent-minded, irresponsible people. As my friend Robin pointed out, M’s mom would not have sent the message if she wasn’t being slightly playful about it.

Knowing her, there’s a good chance she’ll bring it up in person, playfully. Here’s the thing…M was trying to protect me when he came up with that awesome reply about the paper being from a bachelorette party. He was trying to help me, to save me from being embarrassed.

But, if she brings it up, I don’t think I can have a poker face while telling a lie. I don’t really have it in me anymore. And, we are not ashamed. It is what it is and we are who we are. We are happy. Nothing else should matter. We had not intended to share such explicit information, but shit happens!

So we’ll roll with whatever happens, while being authentic. No need to get explicit again in my/our responses to her, but, just like my friend Rita said, there’s no need to disguise who we are from her either.

We have a better understanding of how we each feel about engaging with our loved ones should any such similar situation arise, whether it’s sexual in nature or regarding the way we live in general. Also, we discussed how to be more responsible with information that is explicit or possibly exposing to those with which we don’t wish to share.

My ass is counting on it.

Exploding Out

M and I recently went on a long weekend trip to a cabin in the middle of nowhere. He decided to borrow his mom’s car for the ride, a very comfy luxury vehicle compared to our practical utility truck. Loading up the trunk with our suitcases and big duffle of toys, he also secretly snuck the canes to the car. Then, we did one last sweep of our room and went to say our goodbyes.

In order for us to be able to go, my mom was kind enough to come to stay at our house and take care of our girls. She was going to be sleeping in our room, so during my last minute de-kinky sweep of the room, I noticed one of the slips of paper from my bowl of fantasies (M draws one once a week for us to do together) sitting on the nightstand and quickly put it in my pocket. Crisis averted, right?

You see where this is heading, don’t you??

Last night, M’s mom sent him a text. It was a photo of that slip of paper, which must have fallen out of my pocket or been left in the console of her car. Under the photo it read, “Please tell me this did not occur in my car.”

The slip of paper described an unusual sexual position combined with a rope tie, 100 cane whacks, teasing and edging, fucking, a blow job/cumming on me for M and total orgasm denial for me. In detail.

Nothing like outing yourself by exploding from the closet.

Cue instant mortification. Blood leaving my face. Uncontrollable, embarrassed laughing. ‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.’ Hands on my cheeks trying to remember to breathe and a sinking, clenching feeling in my belly.

And M, laughing his ass off.

He replied, telling her it was a slip of paper from a game I played at a bachelorette party, that I’m really embarrassed, and that he’s laughing his ass off.

To which she replied, “Ha ha.”

That’s it.

So, maybe she bought it, maybe she didn’t. Either way, it is what it is. What else can we do but laugh? She knows without a doubt that M and I are happy, so whatever comes of it I’m sure will be fine. I hope.

My ass, on the other hand, will not.

The Cave


Narrowed entrance, beckoning

Facing ages of indelible fear, she follows

Descending, deeper still

On bended, reverent, trepidus knees

With white-knuckled fingers and gripping, dirty palms

Lead by his hand, they proceed

Air changing, from fresh and crisp

To cool and threatening, stale and hollowed

Dampness pulling at her warm flesh

Airless air, stifled lungs

Thum-dum, thum-dum, resounding in her chest

Blackness, closing in

Yet, deeper, onward they go

In trust, she follows

Around pointed pitfalls and sinking stumbling blocks

Guided by his light

And the friction-made, sturdy smoothness

Etched with souls and memories

Under their fingertips

Exhilarated in their adventure, in the conquer

His whispered words in her ear command

Shedding fabric and inhibition

Penetrating and primal

Their echoes joining a thousand immortal voices

Sharing a spirited narrative

Breathless, they emerge

A piece of them left behind



Leaning back, I close my eyes

The crisp coolness of the fresh country air,

And the bright warmth of the morning sun

Upon my face

The comfort of my favorite hand-painted owl mug

Gripped in one hand,

The strength of your hand encompassing the other,

Aromatic steam rising

Peace and stillness,


Yet undoubtedly not alone,



In our togetherness,

With nature,

In spirit and in soul

How could this feeling

Ever get old?

I can’t imagine it ever would

With you

It’s Real

Last night, as we nestled together against the crumpled sheets, looking into my eyes, M said to me (about our sex life):

“Do you know what my favorite part is? It’s real. It’s not obligatory. It’s never going through the motions. There’s so much emotion. It’s always different, always connected. I love it.”

Me too.


Our newest addition, purchased at the Amish furniture store. A leather fly swatter. The transaction went like this:

M: Sets it on the counter to pay.

Older lady who’d just paid before him in line: Is that a leather fly swat? Can I see that? *slaps self on the leg* I bet that would smart.

M: I don’t know, you’ll have to ask my wife later.

Old lady: Giggles.

Amish lady cashier: Laughs profusely.

M: Smiles and walks out….

It does smart, by the way.😉

Now I Know

Today, I’ve been married to this man I love with my whole heart for 17 years. 22 years ago, I asked him to our homecoming dance; we’d already known one another for 3 years. 25 years is a long time to know a person. It’s the longest any man has ever played a steady role in my life.

When we met, I had no idea what happy looked like. I didn’t really know what it felt like, not in a relationship. Hell, not even individually, really. I had an idea about how it might feel, but I had no idea how to attain that. But, I had hope. I always had hope.

It wasn’t love at first sight, but there was something about him that shook me from the start. He gripped me – he saw me like no one else had. There was something between us that left me off-balance and scared, honestly scared. From the moment we began dating, I was afraid I’d lose him. Part of that was my own insecurities and trust issues, worry that I’d push him away, that I wasn’t worthy, or that he’d think I was too much or too broken and walk away. But the thing that left me most scared was that I knew he was trustworthy. I wanted to truly trust him, and that scared the shit out of me.

And here I sit, 22 years later, happy and content. Happier than I’ve ever been in my entire life. There are things I’m working on as an individual, but I’m happy, because I can. I’m at a place where I’m accepting of my whole person, or I’m trying to be. I can, because of this amazing man sitting next to me reading ESPN. I trust him with all that I am. Curled up under this blanket in front of a fire, leaning into him, I’m happy, with him. We’re happy. Content. Wildly and passionately in love. Free. Safe.

Now I know what it looks like. Now I know how it feels.

And it feels amazing.

Full Circle

When I ventured into the world of online blogging, I was seeking something. I wasn’t even sure what it was that I was seeking. Having begun a personal journey of accepting and acknowledging things about myself, becoming more open and vulnerable with M, as well as beginning to fully embrace my sexuality, I was bursting with enthusiasm and needed an outlet. Connection of some kind. Celebration, understanding, and further exploration.

When I was looking for pictures one day, I stumbled upon Tumblr. Thousands of pics and gifs scrolled by, some of which were very beautiful and intriguing, but I was most intrigued by the community of open people. People who also embraced sexuality, people who spoke openly and shared of themselves. The openness was inspiring. And scary. I’d never connected with anyone via the internet. Hell, Facebook was the only social media I’d  ever even attempted, and I had no friends really. No close ones.

Stumbling upon the writings of several truly gifted and wise women, I was enthralled – oh, God, how I could relate! I found women who struck such a chord with me and it was such an amazing feeling. At a point in my marriage and with my own personal journey, when I felt so free, yet so unsure, even the connection of reading about other’s journeys made me feel not so alone, not so unsure. In fact, it felt wonderful to find a place where I felt I belonged, and it felt as if that connection to others was helping to light my/our way. Not that I wanted to follow in footsteps, just that reading the words of others made me think, long and hard, to look inward and to further encourage conversations with M. And that process was invaluable. So much so that I also opened a blog on WordPress, where I also fell in love with the community. I read every day and related and reflected, almost obsessively so.

I also wrote, a lot. Writing for me was a diary, a way to sort and express all the overwhelming feelings that jumbled around in my head and my heart as I put one foot in front of the other. The amount of sorting and understanding and evolving I needed to do left me feeling as if I was busting at the seams. The process of writing helped me to express myself with M, it sparked more and more writing, and the connections and comments and conversations with others about the topics helped that process to continue. I felt validated, even not so crazy amidst the rapid-feeling changes, and certainly less alone in my process. I began to feel understood in ways I never had, just as I began to better understand myself.

As I searched and read and commented, I met a handful of amazing women with whom I’ve become very goods friends. The best of friends, to me at least, virtual or not. Women with whom I can truly be myself, women I realize I’ve waited my whole life to find.

Somewhere along the way, as I began to know myself, writing for my blogs began to evolve, to change in purpose and feel. I began to question my motives, to feel as though I might be writing some things in order to seek approval, to fit in, or to feed my ego to an extent. I mean, don’t we all? Blogging is a form of emotional masturbation, no matter how you slice it. It then began to feel as if it was an obligation or responsibility, as if I’d lose my place in the community if I didn’t produce something frequently…..but also I began to miss the pats on the back or encouraging words when I went for too long without producing. I felt as if I was disappointing someone…..whether it be the followers or myself. I felt as if I was failing at meeting some set of expectations I’d set for myself, unrealistic and unhealthy ones. Maybe even that if I didn’t write, I wasn’t properly sorting and evolving. I knew, without a doubt, it was time to reevaluate why I was blogging. I knew it would evolve, and it had.

For some time, I’ve felt a discontent, trying to figure out if I should stay, and if so, why? For what purpose?

As I’ve sought the answers to those questions, I’ve realized that my sorting and sharing in the blog world isn’t important to me for the same reasons as it was at the start. I’m not so unsure anymore. I have a confidence and security in my relationship that keeps me grounded and I’m finding that I really prefer to share my thoughts with M (a process which only brings us closer and deeper as one) and I don’t always feel the the need to stop and write it down, to miss out on opportunities to enjoy the now with my family. I enjoy speaking to my friends, too.

At this point, I just don’t need to write so often in order to sort – I think and talk and sort that way, and if I feel like writing and have the time, I do. I trust myself more now. I trust M. I don’t need the blog to feel validated any longer. While I still have moments and times when I feel like a basket case, I’m confident I’ll get through it, every time. That we will. I trust. And while I do sometimes feel lonely in the absence of my friends whom I love so much, I no longer feel alone.

What began a couple years ago as a virtual diary in which to utilize to know more about myself, has taken many twists and turns, but it’s come full circle. At this point in my life, in this virtual world, I seek to to continually grow and further understand myself, and to celebrate this life, my sexuality, and this amazing relationship I have with M. I enjoy sharing that with others and reading about others who seek similar things. I still very much enjoy reading the words of others – I read to feel a kindred spirit, to admire another’s way of thinking, to challenge my capacity to be human and to learn, or to feel awe in another’s capacity to love and to live. But I don’t write to seek approval or to fulfill any sense of obligation or responsibility. I don’t read to fit in or to feel as if my path or my choices in this life are the right ones. I do it because it feels good and that’s a good enough reason for me.

Writing for this blog has become a lovely, welcome addition in my life. A healthy one. Reading has become something that touches my heart and warms my soul. And for these things  I’m very grateful.

So, I’ll be around. It will likely continue to be less frequent and more sporadic, but I’m here.