Torture

Today is the last day she will allow me to touch myself. M has decided that she wants me in a state of heightened arousal when we meet a week from today. We will continue to tease each other, but I can't touch myself, I can't come.

M says that the past 6 weeks have taught her that she can go this long in such an aroused state without actually physically fucking pussy. She fucks me on the phone almost every night, at least once. And says she has, newly for her, no interest in any other women, because she is finally and wholly in love for the first time in her life, but she aches to fuck me.

Last night, in an effort to share my experience of phone sex with her, I did something I haven't done before with her or any other previous phone sex partners because it just, oddly, never occurred to me. Instead of keeping the phone by my mouth, by my ear, I placed it almost right on top of my own fingers racing hard on my clit. I love the sound of wet, wet fingers on clit, wet fingers in pussy, wet cock sliding in wet pussy... and since I am aurally, as well as visually stimulated, I wanted her to hear how wet I was, what my rhythm is, to hear what she would hear if she was here. I didn't tell her what I was doing with the phone, I just did it. I could hear her loud groan immediately, as she heard how slickly wet I was, how hot for her I was, as I masturbated to her voice, for her. Hearing her unrestrained groans between my legs set me over the edge and I came for her hard on the spot. I highly recommend!

The next seven days will be utter torture.

Readying to Return

Went to the post office to ship things back to New England. This way I escape the worry and aggravation of lost airline luggage, since I am changing planes on the way home more times than I have fingers on my right hand, and I am changing airlines a time or two or three or four. But the price for the flight is unbeatable and I get to spend a day with M.

I had an interesting time at the post office, and I think it must be because I am radiating love, I must be glowing.

The female clerk at the counter went from serious and dour with the previous customers to fun, and engaging, and very sweet to me. I had to wait in line twice, because after I made the first transaction, I didn't want to hold up the long line for my second, and so completed it at an empty counter and returned. Luck would have it, I ended back at the same window with the cutie who was happy to seem me back, and even sweeter the second time.

While I was filling out a form to send a parcel to M (the act in between transaction 1 and 2), a middle-aged (my aged) white guy appeared out of nowhere and decided to check me out and chat me up. I ignored him at first, but he was clearly determined. He began to show off for me by literally trying to rip a telephone book in half. I do notice that sometimes men my age seem to act like very goofy 12 year old boys around me, and often do very silly things just like this to gain my attention. I really can't explain why I seem to bring this out in adult men, but it is better than the sleaziness I sometimes see men direct toward women, and if they have to hit on me, I'd rather they do it this way than the other. Anyway this guy earnestly explained that it was a trick he saw on tv and that he was sure he could do it for me, but then after trying really really very hard for a good 5 minutes, he just couldn't. It was pretty funny.

After my final transaction, as I was leaving with my stack of more soon-to-be-filled empty boxes, a very handsome young African American soldier ahead of me saw me and stopped to let me go out first. When he realized, to his surprise, that the door did not open automatically and I would have to get it, he practically jumped over himself to get to the door to open it and hold it for me as he apologized profusely while balancing an enormous and heavy box on his shoulder, pretending my burden of empty boxes was greater than his. It was very sweet.

I sometimes think of biological men as a completely different and foreign species from me and I don't get them. But I do recognize two traits in these two fellows that I love in butches - that chivalrous instinct to get a door and help a lady even at their own discomfort, and the boyish desire to show off for pretty femmes by performing sometimes silly, large and small feats of daring do. What I find ironic is that because I became a lesbian at age 12, and my point of reference for almost the entirety of my life has been as a lesbian, I personally recognize these types of acts of chivalry and daring do as butch acts, not as biologically male acts.

And Life Continues

Phone sex. Intense phone sex. We had intense phone sex last night and I came hard. After that I, apparently, started babbling about truckers and socks, and I vaguely remember having a dream about M selling white athletic socks out of the cab of her truck but with the disclaimer that sales would only be made to those with valid proof of age ID (over 18 only), and then I passed out.

A version of sleepwalking runs in my family. It's like sleeptalking. It is sleeptalking. My mother does it all the time. We appear to be awake in bed, our eyes are open, and we can sit up, but we are dead asleep. You can carry on a conversation with me, ask me questions and the like, and I will, I am told, answer you but the answers may be a bit peculiar. G finds this both a way to amuse herself and thinks it's some kind of a lie-detector. It is not a particularly accurate indicator, as I suspect that I (like my sleeptalking mother) am truthful to the reality of my dreams. I sometimes wake up in the middle of talking because I hear a voice and it doesn't make any sense and then I realize it's my voice.

I have found that I am unable to lie or lie through omission with M. I can barely keep a good secret from her. I sent her a card recently (well, several cards and flowers) and I called her up to tell her what the card looked like and what I wrote. She just laughed and said I should save my money and just call her with descriptions of the cards and what I would have written. But real cards are better and I can enclose pics of my life in New England.

She likes the pictures of my house and land. It's a small place by my town's standards, less than 15 acres, mostly woods. An acre or two of lawn. A few outbuildings, including a very small barn. And a very tiny house with a large three season porch and a bank of windows. Perfect for two. I hope that I will be able to keep it in the upcoming divorce, it's the first house I have ever purchased and owned, I got the mortgage when I was making a lot of money, before I decided to give it up to try to make a living as a freelance writer. Freelancing is much spottier financially, and I have temp-ed, as well, but I am happier than when I worked 6+ days a week from 8am until 10 or 11 most evenings. There was a two to three year period when I never saw my home by sunlight except for the very early morning before I left for work and my hour commute or occasionally if I skipped out at 8:30pm and got home to see it in the fading 9:30pm sunset during the long days of summer. Sundays I was usually asleep trying to catch up on rest before the next week's grind, or I was up fretting about negotiations or some other horribly tangled problem or potentially litigious issue.

M likes the ruralness of my home. The fact that the stars are sharp and brilliant at night because there are few competing lights. And the evenings are quiet but for the sounds of coyote or owls or a baying dog or two. Or perhaps the simple clip clopping of a horse and rider out for full moon amble. You can hear the wind as it sweeps softly through my little valley of woods and fields. It is possible to enjoy the silence.

I like to go out to see meteor showers because they can be breathtaking if the weather conditions are right. The last meteor shower I got up for was in the middle of the night. I bundled up in a bright yellow hooded down parka and went out at 2am to view. The best view, it turned out, was from the middle of the asphalt road that runs in front of the house. The best way to view it was by lying down in in the middle of the road and looking up at the heavens. G was asleep because she thinks my meteor shower viewing is rather silly, and the dogs and cat watched me curiously and anxiously from the porch windows. It was spectacular! I watched for a while and then, apparently, dozed off because I woke up and looked at my watch and it was an hour later! One dog and the cat remained at the porch windows (the other two must have bored and gone to bed) and I thought I had better move or I would frighten my neighbor in a few hours (he leaves for work at 5 am) if he came upon this bright yellow down blob asleep in the road. Luckily for the sleeping me, there is no other traffic on the road at that hour and little traffic during daylight. M says she will get up with me to view the meteors, and to make sure I don't fall asleep on town roads again.

M and I will see each other in a week or so. Her sister now insists on meeting me for even a short 10 minutes because M is so in love and is talking about moving to New England to be with me, and so her sister wants to check me out. I am fine with that, I understand and respect that those who love M want to be sure that I can love her well. But M says "I'm not sure when we'll come up for air, because I'm going to be fucking her for most of the few hours we have together" but sister is undeterred. Family is like that. Now I just have to be sure I pack an appropriate outfit in which to meet her sister, because I am only good naked for some things.

And life continues!

Crossing Over

We talk about cock.

M has been cleaning out her closets, and finds her old harness. But it is brittle and breaks, so we must shop for new. A new harness just for me. She wants to be ready for my visit in two weeks. We will have 26 hours together, and we have a lot to do. One is make a pizza together (she can make pizza! and I like the thought of making something together and feeding and eating off of each other) and the other is to talk, and to make love and fuck fuck fuck.

She has decided to throw out her old cock, it was used with an old ex of hers whom I have renamed "anal girl", and M doesn't want to fuck me with it. She wants a new cock just for me.

She wants us to go shopping together, but we don't want to waste any precious time to go out to shop, so we go online while we are on the phone to shop for a new cock and harness for her. I am pretty familiar with the site and we get to toys for lesbians. I tell her I prefer realistic cocks, that purple dolphins with swirling noses are not my first choice. But that I want her to feel she owns her cock, so she needs to feel comfortable with what we look at, that it is she who chooses. If she chooses big, she has to make me open enough to take her, that I must be open enough to take her. So, we pick the harness first.

She selects a handsome leather harness in blue&black. She is intrigued by how turned on I am by harnesses, by how wet I get just by seeing it on the virtual mannequin's body, by imagining it on hers. I love how the straps fit, how the O ring is positioned, how when I see a harness on a woman, it signals desire or capacity, it is a pronouncement of power (even without a cock), and I get wet knowing that a harness means I can get fucked. She likes my hunger.

We then look at compatible cocks. I like one with balls but she wants more depth. She decides that she will pick the one that I can throat and that she can fuck my pussy deep. The one with balls will be our next purchase. She knows I want to feel her balls slapping against me while she fucks me, but that will come later.

She picks her cock and her harness and they will arrive by Tuesday. Enough time for her to wear them and get used to them. I have asked if she would jerk off with it before I come. I hope she will jerk off while I am on the phone with her sometime, I love hearing the sound of stroking wet on cock and I want to hear her voice.

We talk about how much I love cock, how I love to watch cock sliding in and out of my pussy in my favorite face-to-face lap sitting position, to watch her face as she fucks me, to feel consumed by desire and to surrender to her, to her will, to her power.

Earlier in our relationship, after we have talked about fucking, we wander into a conversation about how I am her woman, and I say, uncertain of her response, "I want you to be my man." She pauses for a second, a little surprised, and then says evenly "I am your man. You are my woman and I am your man." My heart jumps. I have so longed for this, someone willing to cross over into that genderfucking territory with me. but I can see that this is new for her to vocalize, new words for her to speak. So we tread slowly.

Today, I say to her, "Do you remember when I asked you to be my man?" She says, "Yes, I remember. I hadn't been able to name that part of me that always felt like a man trapped in a woman's body." I say, "This is why your cock is important to me. That it is yours, I want you to feel the sensation of the back of your cock pulsing against your clit, and feel the sensation of what happens in your brain shooting down directly to your clit..." I tell her that part of my failure with G and with my other longterm partner was that I was unable to understand the difference between lesbians wearing dildos fucking me, and what I crave. I tell her "I want you to fuck me as a man does a woman." I say "I want you to fuck me, making your clit and your cock one. Your cock becomes an extension of your clit, and your clit becomes your cock."

She has been reading Holden's posts (packingvocals.blogspot.com) about being defined by others at a young age, sharing Holden's confusion about the conflict between what you feel and who you are supposed to be, the shame it brings, and how that constricting process of gender tyranny retards the ability to find who you really are, until mid-life. M decides she may, like Holden, find a name for the man inside of her to clearly demarcate his gender identity from her female biology. She adds "I really hope you will be able to control him once you bring him to life." He is clearly very very powerful.

We talk about a friend who is a butch top who wears a cock. It is not clear whether she genderfucks as well, and we discuss how what we feel about ourselves, about each other, about how our dynamic remains still an outlier in relationships between women. Then she has a slight moment where she worries that I might want only cock. I say "I am a lesbian for a reason, I love tits, fingers, hands, clit and pussy. I like to eat pussy, I want to eat your pussy. I want the best in one person, I want your living cock and I want your living clit. And to my great thrill and amazement, you have both." She grins and says "wooooooooooo hoooooooooo!"

Inside the cells that produce sperm and eggs, chromosomes become paired. While they are pressed together, the chromosomes may break, and each may swap a portion of its genetic material for the matching portion from its mate. This form of recombination is called crossing-over. When the chromosomes glue themselves back together and separate, each has picked up new genetic material from the other. The constellation of physical characteristics it determines is now different than before crossing-over.
National Center for Human Genome Research, NIH

The Snail's Shell

I am upset. I am surprisingly jealous. I never get jealous, my lack of jealousy has been an issue in almost all of my relationships, I am never jealous, that's a fact. But I am, with you. It is uncomfortable and feels crazy. It is an uncharted experience and feels childish, ridiculous, irrational, and overwhelming. You are surprised and a little angry that I could ever doubt that you love me and only me. I can feel your irritation in your sparse words. You can read my unwritten distance. Though we have frugally agreed not to speak on the phone until the rate is free (because we talk for hours) the phone rings. It is you. You don't want this to fester, you don't want me to believe that you could do anything, intentionally, that would cause me harm. We talk, and I think I am done, and we hang up so you can sleep and call me in the morning before you go to work. But it eats at me. And I hate it.

You are to call me at about 3:30 am your time (10:30 pm my time), because you have an early pick up two hours north. I am in a funk, and I decide to skip my usual 5 mile walk in the evening. I rarely skip my walk. But I do, and I work out instead at home, and chat with Mom's evening caregiver about girl things and watch a Japanese historical drama with subtitles on tv with Mom & her caregiver. Of course the drama is very typical for Japanese shows of the type and a critical part of the drama is unspoken. For anything to make sense, you have to already well understand the culture to understand the unsaid subtext. It is frustrating and confusing to watch. I do not understand the culture well enough, and Mom cannot explain it. So I give up and decide to go to bed early, to get an hour or two of sleep before M calls.

I check my email and suddenly up you pop. You are happy and cheery and up at 1:45 am (8:45 pm my time) and raring to talk to me. I had considered sending you a chat to skip for the night for the first time in all of our time, but when I see you pop up, all such thoughts begin to fade. I ask if you want to go back to sleep and call me later, but you are up and happy and say "only if you prefer". I don't prefer. And now I am even more confused by my feelings.

You are full of energy and thrilled to be awake and overjoyed to hear my voice. It is hard to sustain distance when you are like this. But you notice the reserve in my voice, immediately. You are confused by what you think has been settled the night before. I am unable to contain my fear and I do what I have always done when I am upset, I withdraw and become quiet and very very polite. For this, I am used to being left alone or angrily reproached. But not you, you won't let me disappear, and you won't be angry. You say, evenly, "Is this what I should expect in the future? When you are upset you withdraw, you snail?" I say "Yes" quietly, "I guess so," waiting for the shoe to drop. "Ah," you say "but you are still here, one little tiny antenna peeking out, still checking, still seeing what's up in the outside world. Still willing to be connected from deep inside your snail's shell." I laugh. "Yes", I say, as I exhale and push out from my shell, "I guess so."

Sometimes, in what feels like a miracle of instantaneous translation, someone can listen past to the unspoken, can read right through, can reach deep within, and make it safe to be connected. Sometimes, it is possible to remember to trust and love, even from far within an old and familiar snail's shell.

President Obama

We have a new President. We are on the precipice of a new era. I am proud of my country, of my fellow Americans, we did this, we made this happen. We have gotten us this far.

We face serious and grave challenges ahead, our nation is imperiled by economic threats, environmental dangers, by those who would trade our civil rights for a false security, by two wars, by a griping fear of what lies ahead.

But I believe that each of us can be 'the ones we have been waiting for.' The hard work ahead is ours, it is up to us. We can remake this nation. We have the opportunity to create a more just and equitable nation. If we choose. What do you choose?

At this fateful juncture, this can be the worst time or the best time for our nation. It's up to us. Let's make America great once more. Let us finally realize the great and enduring dream that is the promise of America.


*And on a very personal note, my frail 93 year old mother and I have been closely following Barack Obama since he was rumored to be running over two years ago. He is from our home state of Hawai'i. He is a local boy, and a Punahou alum, as am I. Mom was afraid she wouldn't live long enough to see this day, and she has. She has.

Apart

We circle in this constant state of mistrust and blame. Accusing words, the bitterness of silence, and sometimes, horribly, barely concealed contempt mark each phone call, each exchange. We fight about the mundane and the serious. What is surprising is to expect something different in the course of our conversations, to expect them to be different, more civil, less strained, though they have followed exactly the same course for the last 12 years. There is little joy or love left in any of our exchanges, just unrelenting stress. We define the ultimate clash in communication style and in basic values.

I read once that most happy couples have built up a reservoir of good will to keep them through tough times or conflict; that is not us, we seem to have horded missteps, misunderstandings, slights, raised voices, sharp words, insults, and deliberate wounds. We have horded these things to successfully slice away the flesh of whatever few glad moments we find we have left together.

G, we can openly and truthfully face the disappointing reality of our long dissolving relationship, the terrible reality that we each learned precisely how to irreparably damage a dream with our own hands, by failing to nurture it, by expecting each other to be different that who we are. Or we can do this with a blind and furious litany of on-going disappointments, betrayals, scars, broken promises, and blistering rage at a future which will never be. You can start to tote up your lists and I, mine. But you should know that the weight of my list is too much for me to bear, I can't keep adding to it. I can't hang onto disappointment and betrayal and rejection and loss anymore. This is no longer a blueprint for a reasonable life, a fulfilling life, a life I choose.

Your volatile temper has always dominated our relationship. And if you so decide, you can hate me or seek to hurt me to even the score, and there's nothing much I can do to stop you. But what I do know is this: You and I are two good people who somehow turned bitterness, emptiness, disappointment and loss into 12 years together, and we seemed to have forgotten that sometimes two people, however perfect or flawed or hopeful, are not better (for ourselves or each other) together than we you and I are, apart.

She Makes Me Laugh

She makes me laugh. We tease each other and pretend to compete for who loves whom more, until we get to the "I love you a bagillion +1 x infinity" and I weakly concede to her superior superlatives and she is triumphant and says "Yippee! I win!"

We are silly and giddy and thrilled to be happy with each other. To be happy knowing how unlikely we are, unlikely because we are separated by geography, unlikely because we have had such different lives, unlikely in so many ways, until those radically different paths led us to the same place, that one unlikely chance meeting and the start of all of this.

I have forgotten how much fun it is to laugh with your lover. How remarkable it is to hear so much in a laugh, to be able to differentiate the laughs of a single person, to hear thrill and joy in another person's voice. And to be able to find it again in my own.

We are planning to meet in a month. Before I go home to New England. I will stop and see her on one of the many legs of my truncated flight. We are planning to meet, to have her take me to her home, to talk, to laugh, to kiss, to share, to make love, to fuck. To consummate our promise to each other to honor this unexpected and unlikely and miraculous love.

January 7, 1980

My father died almost 30 years ago today. I was 21 and in college. He was the universe to me. And then it vanished.

I had spoken to my father on that Friday evening. He was at home in Hawai'i and I was living in Chicago. He was aged, ill, and blind, and I worried about him constantly. He was old, I was young, I figured this is what the healthy and the young do, we worry about the sick, the infirm, the elderly.

I called on that Friday to see how he was, and then he said something curious, something that surprised me. He said "Well, you know, your grandmother isn't getting any younger, and I worry about her every day." At that moment, I realized that while I had worried about him for the better part of 21 years, he had spent even longer worrying about his mother. He was someone's child, just like me. And in that instant, I released all my worries for the first time in years. This was the gift of knowledge, perspective, and empathy. A gift he gave me. That worries never start or stop a thing, they are just worries. And that he and I, we are strands of the same thread. Two children, of two different parents, but the same.

On Monday, I went to work. It was a cold January day in Chicago, on the lakefront. The winds skidded and blew gathering dust and trash in lazy verticals. All day long I felt something, but I didn't know what. Suddenly the work day was over, and I walked from the Art Institute to Michigan Ave to catch a northbound bus. The lazy verticals of the morning had turned into small isolated fits of fury, tiny cyclones here and there.

Time seemed to thicken. Every sound, suddenly muted. Everything in slow motion. I got on my bus and looked through the front windscreen and noticed the sky. For the first time all day, I noticed the sky. It was a surreal blue. A calm and other worldly hue. And quiet, the world was quiet.

And I knew he had died.

Bedtime Story 1

She likes the way I come for her. She listens to my breathing, soft at first, as she begins to tell me how much she loves me, how much she wants me, how much she wants to fuck me. Her voice soft and soothing at first. She knows how to turn me on. Slowly it builds.

She likes to hear my breathing change, it's how she knows my body responds the way she intends. She tells me she will strip the sheets off of my naked body while I sleep, and surprise me the way I like, grabbing my ankles and pulling me almost off the bed, spreading my legs as she pulls me, so my pussy ends up, wet and open at her hips.

She tells me she is wearing her cock. It bounces as she moves, hard and jutting. She strokes it while she looks down at me. She reaches between my legs to feel my wet soaking her fingers, to put my wet all over her cock which she continues to stroke. She likes the sound of my wet on her cock, sliding slick under her grip.

With one hand she strokes her cock and watches me, with her other hand, she spreads my lips and begins to stroke my clit, in soft lazy circles. She can hear my body lift and twist, my breathing begin to shallow and harden, and the start of my wordless moans. She suddenly bends my knees and rolls my body up so she can easily begin to slide the head of her cock just inside my pussy, a tease. Each stroke infinitesimally deeper. But barely. She listens for my breathing, faster now, hungry. She listens for me to cry out, urgent, pleading, "Oh god, please baby, please, please fuck me".

This is for Butch Boo, who wanted an update on my relationship with M. M and I are now fully in the grip of the phone sex stage.

She Wants to Hear My Voice

This distance strains us. Intimate words appearing in fits and spurts, as crossing lines of dialogue, are not enough. She is afraid that I am a phantom. Though she has my picture, she wants more.

We have agreed not to meet in person or talk on the phone until I have returned home (where we will, instead, be only hundreds versus thousands of miles apart), until I have broken completely with G. We want to be sure that I am making my decisions based on my own desire to leave an unfulfilling relationship, not my lust or desire simply to be with M; to make decisions about G based on G, not on my feelings for M. This seemed to have made sense a week ago for both M and me, but seems less realistic now.

This is all quite a strain on M, and I feel I place a terrible burden on her. She fights her own jealousy that while she makes love to me this way, in a month or two when I return home, G will enjoy the fruit of M's labors by unexpectedly fucking me in person, just to even some score or make me stay.

But it is clearer to me, each day, that M and I are able to share with each other a kind of openness, respect, strength and fragility, trust and care that I haven't shared with anyone else, ever. And I find her hard to refuse. Because I trust she will not ask me to do more than I can, more than I want, more than is safe for me.

She wants to hear my voice.

Her voice is higher than mine, a little giddy, very nervous. She is breathing quickly, her voice is tight and breaks in nervous laughter. She has been like a school boy waiting to call at the agreed upon hour. Practicing what she will say when the phone is answered. I spend 15 minutes picking up the receiver and checking and rechecking to make sure there is a dial tone (there always is) until I realize if she calls the line will be busy. Then I wait and watch two clocks that seem to count the universe at different speeds.

Her voice is serious and formal as she asks if she may speak to me. I answer lightly, breathlessly, "It's me." I am giddy, nervous, my breathing is shallow, I fear losing my ability to speak. We share our obvious nervousness and our joy and we laugh. And then we become ourselves. We find in each others' voices another dimension, another connection to who we are together. We sort through a misunderstanding from the day before in two minutes, she tells me how beautiful and sexy my voice is, I tell her how glad I am to hear her, and then I whisper in her ear "I love you." Whisper, whisper, because the human voice can whisper, can say softly, what these printed words cannot. I can hear her catch on her own heartbeat, and tenderly, softly, sweetly, she whispers "I love you, too."