Yes, it’s been a while. I moved in with the Boyfriend, things got busy (see previous post), he got a new job, I didn’t, then I did, and I’ve been trying to pick up more work so I can pay the bills. Sex fell off the radar. It happened on occasion (usually the weekends when he could get enough sleep and actually relax), but nothing as amazing as we’d had in the beginning. I got disappointed and frustrated, had a PTSD-induced meltdown, then recovered and we moved on to better days.

I’d pretty much forgotten about this blog until two people mentioned it. First was an ex-boyfriend to whom I’d sent a link (probably ill-advised, but at the time I thought… never mind. I have no idea what I was thinking). He told me it was somewhat uncomfortable to read, and I totally understand that now. There are times I just want to share everything that’s in my head with everyone around me, but it’s generally considered a bad idea.

The second person to mention it was the Boyfriend himself. After a night of particularly exciting and fun romps between the bedsheets, we stood in the kitchen, me sashaying around in a bathrobe, preparing breakfast while he prepared a pot of tea and got ready for work. The look on his face was one of happy contentment and a little bit of something like, I don’t know, glee? We talked about my work, how much writing I needed to get done that day, and he pointedly asked if I was going to be posting the previous night’s escapades to “that blog you’ll never let me read?”

I didn’t have an answer for him, but I sort of figured I might post something, and here I am. Details? No. Not really. No handcuffs were involved, although he did pin my wrists at one point. No D/s occurred, and I was on top for most of it. I joked that he should count himself lucky to have found a girlfriend with an oral fixation, and he chuckled. “That’ll be my next facebook post right there,” he said, and I smacked his shoulder.

Most nights I fall asleep with his arms around me, or mine around him. It still turns me on when he hints at dominating me in any way, but most days he just wants me to find my footing and be independent. He finds strong, smart women sexy, so I find it one hell of a compliment that he’s with me, especially on those days (like today) when I don’t have enough work to pay my bills and I end up apologizing for being such a lousy girlfriend. He just shakes his head and holds me close when I do that.

It’s funny how this started out as a blog about my foray into escorting, only to evolve into a blog about a relationship. I didn’t mean for that to happen, nor did I expect it. I’m certainly happy about it, though.



I haven’t posted in a while, mostly due to not knowing what to say.

A few weeks ago we were woken late at night by a call from a member of the Boyfriend’s family notifying us that his daughter had been raped at a party.

Quite honestly, the list of women (and men) I know who have been raped or molested is staggeringly long. That doesn’t make it any easier when you hear that it’s happened again, especially to someone you might barely know, but whom your loved one loves dearly.

The compressed anger I felt from my own past experiences (the ex-husband was an abusive bastard), including my daughter’s molestation when she was in grade school, resulted in me just shaking for the next 24 hours. I watched the Boyfriend’s daughter being surrounded by friends, family and more adults than I’d thought possible jumping in to support her, help her and hound the police to do something.

Part of me was comforted by that. Part of me was crushed. Who was there for me when I lived in fear of my own husband for eight years? My mother, for one, but other than telling me that the spare bedroom in her house would always be available to me whenever I was ready to leave the bastard, there really wasn’t much else in the way of support. I put on a stubbornly brave face and told everyone I was FINE, leave me alone. So they did.

When my daughter’s rape was reported, most of the adults involved–friends of the perpetrator–denied it could have happened. They called my daughter a liar, backed themselves up with age and authority, told me they’d known him for so many years and didn’t believe he was capable of such a thing.

Denial. Suppression. Willful blindness. Arrogance. Delusion.

Driving the Boyfriend’s daughter back from a therapy session recently, she confided that she was tired of talking about what happened. She didn’t want to keep bringing it up, just wanted it to go away.

How often does rape go unreported for the same reason? Just make it go away. The boys involved and their friends have tormented her, posting on twitter and facebook, spreading rumors. Maybe they’re scared, maybe they’re just that badass that they don’t care, I don’t know.

What I do know is this has been a devastating situation for the Boyfriend. My own father never knew what I went through. If he had known, I would have been mortified and deeply ashamed (as if I wasn’t already, just very good at hiding it behind a veneer of aloofness and superiority). I watch the Boyfriend go through grief, anger, frustration, and other emotions while I hide behind my all-too familiar aloofness. I’m fine. Just stop asking what’s bothering me. 

I’m grieving the loss of innocence my daughter and I suffered through, and the lack of support we had to get on with our lives. I am slightly jealous that the Boyfriend’s daughter has an army of people behind her, smothering her with love and support, and that my daughter and I didn’t. I am selfishly crushed at how this has affected my relationship with the Boyfriend, at how distant we’ve become recently, just as we’d moved in closer. Sex? What’s that? Something that happens once in a while, if we’re lucky. He’s too tired, I’m sick, someone else needs one of us to be somewhere else for hours on end, etc. The stress is overwhelming. I feel like I’m supposed to be supportive and help him through this, but there are too many conflicting emotional gremlins nipping at my heels to keep me on the selfless path.

I want to feel loved, protected, safe. And I do, but for all the times I haven’t been safe and had to stand up for myself. Because of those times, I am always on the defensive. Trust is a huge issue. I’ve never allowed another lover to be physically dominant with me in the ways I’ve allowed the Boyfriend to. I trust him fully, but do I trust myself? The honest answer is no, so I pull away, retreating to anywhere but where he is.

There has got to be a way out of this.


In the past five months, my life has taken quite a turn. Met a man, fell in love, moved in together, merged our lives in all the messy ways couples do.

He’s given me a garden. A bare patch of dirt that we weeded together and have been busy filling in with herbs and flowers. On weekends he takes me to nurseries and buys plants with me, then we come home and get our hands dirty. Digging in, putting down roots.

On Sunday I found a soft silk halter top I’d forgotten about after my move last year, and wore it out on our most recent garden outing. The sun felt good on my bare back, and I felt liberated and free in the open air. Common sense told me to put on sunscreen, but I seldom listen to common sense. The result was a mild sunburn, but nothing so bad that I worried about it too much. Monday night after we’d had dinner and late night showers to wash off the dirt and sweat, he tackled me on the bed and bit into my shoulder. I gasped at the sensation, and relaxed into the pain. He bit more, harder, all around my back and shoulders, eliciting more gasps, sighs and shudders as I found myself happy to be at his mercy.

My first official night as a resident of his house, we both fell into bed exhausted after midnight. I assumed he’d be too tired for much more than snoring, but he surprised me by flipping me on my back and getting down to business for the next half hour. We spent several days adjusting to being around each other more often, and sex slowed down again. Sometimes the rhythm works for us both, and a break is good. Other times I find myself moody and withdrawn, wondering what it’s going to take to rekindle his interest. He’s learning to let me work through things on my own until I’m ready to talk to him about what’s bothering me, and he listens. “I can’t read you mind,” he reminds me, “so if you’re upset, you need to let me know what I can do about it.”

While washing dishes together yesterday, I dug down into what was bothering me, and broke my silence of many hours to let him know that I needed more sex, please. My body is tuned to a higher sex drive than most women, it would seem, and without it I can get seriously irritable and unpleasant to be around. I also mentioned missing some of the rougher aspects of our early sex life. The tender stuff is wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but the pain, rough handling and domination that we’d be dabbling with before was more enjoyable than I’d ever imagined or experienced with other partners. He leaned over the sink and looked at me, still withdrawn, as I stared at the pan I was drying. “Okay,” he said. “See? That wasn’t so hard. Just talk to me.” He wiped his hands on a towel, took the pan out of my hands, put it on the counter and took my hands in his, then kissed them. A few hours later we lay in bed, tumbled and bitten, but very happy.

Communication is a wonderful thing. So is being honest with myself so I can be honest with him. The deep stuff can be disconcerting to look at, but it’s necessary to dig through it to see the other side.



Things are progressing swiftly on the moving-in front. Boyfriend has been clearing out his house, selling off old items he doesn’t need, throwing other items away. I’ve been doing much of the same at my place, trimming my possessions down to a more manageable pile. There are boxes of crap I’ve carried through multiple moves now, just begging to be gone through and disposed of. It’s rather cathartic to let go of so many things. Considering how many times I’ve moved over the years, you’d think I’d winnowed my belongings down to a decent amount, but no. I’m still lugging around more than I could possibly ever need, and then some.

Sex has been elusive for a while. We’re both so busy, then he caught a cold, and there always seem to be kids around. Strangely, I don’t mind. I joke about it, telling him how much I want to get my hands on him, while quietly and patiently waiting things out. I figure if we’re going to be sleeping in the same bed night after night for the foreseeable future, I can be a good girl for now and keep my hands in my pockets.




New Guy–let’s just call him what he is–The Boyfriend and I have been discussing moving in together for a while now. To put “for a while now” in perspective, we’d probably been dating less than a month in March when he casually said “when you move in” at some point during a conversation. Once the subject had been brought up, there was no going back. The seed of the thought germinated into something bigger and kept growing. The only thing stopping me from moving in at the time was the lack of available space in his house. He has five bedrooms, but of those four were in use by his child and his housemates, and one was being used for storage. I’d need two, one for each of my children, a boy and a girl.

Then in April, one housemate gave notice that he was moving out. On my first visit to the house in May, my boyfriend showed me the now vacant room. I looked around, but said nothing. I wasn’t sure if he was inviting me to take it or not. Seems silly, but we didn’t talk about it much. And therein lies a problem.

Things were a little wonky for a while, as I felt like he was holding the room for me, but heard him joke about renting it out to just about any friend I mentioned who was looking for a place. We had our first “fight” about that. What it really amounted to was him saying “I’ve got a room you could rent” to a visiting friend and me going off to sulk quietly. I didn’t speak to him much for the rest of the evening and much of the next morning, but after sorting things out in my  head, I came to the conclusion that I needed to let him know how I felt about what he had said.

OMG. Communication in a relationship. What a concept. (insert eyeroll)

So we talked. I told him how I felt. He listened. He said “is that all you’re upset about?” and I said yes, it was. “Okay then,” he sighed. “Looks like we should talk about it. Do you want to move into my  house?”

“Yes,” I replied, still feeling somewhat meek and silly about the whole sulky thing.

“Good, because I want you there. I don’t know if we’re moving too fast, too slow, or just right, but I want you living in my house.”

Talking on the phone a few days later, I asked him how much his monthly mortgage payment was, already knowing it was less than my current rent. He told me the amount, and I did a mental calculation… it was exactly the amount of cash I had saved up over the past few months, sitting in an envelope stashed in my dresser.

Last Friday I slipped the envelope into my weekend bag and headed off to his house for the evening. Upstairs in his room that night after dinner, I pulled out a present: a sweatshirt he’d been searching for, a hard to find one from his favorite sports team. I’d been digging around stores for a month to find one after he took me to an opening night baseball game and made me a fan, too. “Where did you find it?” he said, beaming. “I have my sources,” was all I’d say.

He sat on the bed with the sweatshirt on his lap, happy as a clam. I dug a little deeper into my bag, withdrew the cash-stuffed envelope and tossed it onto the bed next to him. “What’s this?” he asked, picking it up and opening it.

“My security deposit,” I said, and looked him straight in the eye.

There was barely a pause before he stared right back and smiled. “When do you want to move in?”


Lately I’ve been having dreams about ex boyfriends and other awkward relationship situations. This morning I dreamt I had two lovers and had to choose one, but didn’t want to, so kept both. One was injured and had to go to the emergency room, and the other took him, leaving me alone to panic because I didn’t have a cell phone number for either one, and no way to contact them. I woke feeling awful, and found it difficult to look New Guy in the eye when he rolled towards me in the pre-dawn dark and blinked at me sleepily.

We were both raised Catholic, and although I’ve long since left the church, he teases me that something of the faith still remains in my system. It’s true, despite shifting all that guilt in therapy, I still feel as though I’ve been cheating on my lover when I dream of someone else.

I had the pleasure of welcoming in the First of May with him early after midnight, and felt the pangs of loss as he drove away this morning to help his mother for the next few days. Thinking of May Day and of Beltane, I was glad that we had at least a little time together before he went away, especially after not being together much over the past week. This page caught my eye this morning:

Beltane is the Sex Sabbat just as Samhain, held six months hence, is the Death Sabbat. All other Beltane (also called May Eve or Walpurgis Night) customs are minor compared with those that explicitly celebrate human sex and fertility. Up to the Protestant Reformation in the 16th Century, marriage vows were conveniently forgotten at Beltane in many rural European villages. Newly formed ‘couples’ went into the plowed fields at night to lie down together and copulate in order to ensure the fertility of the coming year’s crops. The Catholic Church could not stamp out this ancient pagan tradition. It took the dour Protestants who suppressed May Eve celebrations in England by passing and enforcing laws against public gatherings around Maypoles with their accompanying dances and fertility rites.

Kinda looks like the Catholic church missed out on the two of us, too. We’d spent much of the previous day weeding his garden and looking for new plants, so that counts as plowing the fields, as far as I’m concerned. In fact, shortly after I’d arrived yesterday to help with the weeding, he lured me into the house and upstairs… then brought out the handcuffs. Hinged ones, not the type with a chain between the bracelets.

Once the cuffs were on, I found myself quite compliant, really wanting him to dominate. He is a self-described dork (which I find very appealing) who has a lot of respect for women, so he doesn’t come across as the sort of man who gets off by humiliating anyone. In fact, it’s a fuzzy line for both of us, and we’re still figuring out where the borders actually are. Instead of humiliation, he seems to be drawn more to control, whereas I seem to like pain. He pointed this out as I lay on my back, still cuffed, by suggesting we try some nipple clamps. “Really?” I raised my eyebrows. “What makes you think I’d like that?” I asked, actually wondering if they might be too painful for me. “Well,” he said, lying on his side, head propped up on one hand while with his other hand took one of my nipples and stretched it out, “you seem to like this quite a lot.” I sighed contentedly. “Oh yeah, that’s right, I do.”

After a few seconds of hard twisting and tweaking, he rolled onto his back and pulled me up to straddle him. Even when I’m on top, he’s still in control. His hands guide my rhythm and pull me close or push me away. Close in, his mouth on mine, we breathe into each other. I can scream or whisper then, and he drinks it all in. Pushed away, he looks into my eyes and we share that dazed, orgasmic look that lovers have when all the gears are meshing in the right ways. We have so much eye contact during sex that there are times when when simply sitting across a table from each other, a gaze can bring back a hint of that intimacy in an unguarded moment.

I’ll miss him while he’s away. There are physical pangs we both feel at the same time when we can’t spend time together, a yearning to indulge in sensory connection. When we’re together, we’re most often within reach of each other, if not actually touching. Right now, all I can do is write about it. He did tell me to, after all. “Now you can tell your readers we used the handcuffs,” he chuckled as he put them away yesterday. “You can ask for them anytime,” he said as he hung them on a hook in his closet, “but I won’t always say ‘yes’.”

Oh, go on and tease me, why don’t you. I can take it.


If it’s not one thing, it’s another.

A few visits ago, New Guy had me pinned down on my bed, running his fingers down my ribcage, telling me that next time I visited him, we’d be using the handcuffs. Real ones, not those cutesy fur-lined ones that look so comfy you could wear them everyday. I asked if I might wear something on my wrists under the cuffs, to avoid leaving marks? He said yes, I may.

Very much looking forward to this, I was a bit let down on my arrival to be told his teenage daughter would be home that night, so no cuffs. We kept our playtime as quiet as possible (which for me is a stretch) and all was well. Next visit to my place found us dealing with my two kids plus others visiting, and then my period arrived. Not a fan of sex during my off-time, I did consent to some blood sport, but it was just as messy as I remembered it to be, and New Guy had to be content with blow jobs for the rest of the weekend. Let it be noted that he did not complain.

Between work, school, kids and other distractions that come up, we’ve had to push a few play ideas to the side for a while. The intimately tender sex we share during the times of enforced quiet is enjoyable, but we both long for the more energetic, meaty side of things. Finding and exploring our mutual and primarily untapped interest in BDSM has increased our desire for more, but life gets in the way, at least for now.

As devorcees of a certain age with teenagers nearly ready to leave the nest, neither of us has a ticking biological clock or the need for more babies. We long to be empty nesters, happy to welcome kids and (eventually) grandkids back for visits, but able to be creative, noisy, messy, and just plain enjoy our sexual playtime when and how we want to in our own home.

Now I’m looking forward to a week without him, as he tends to finals for school and will be caring for his aging mother in another city. I could be upset about it, but instead find myself looking forward to emailing him every day and coming up with more ideas we can work on when he gets back. Sometimes the tease is what makes the release that much better. I don’t know if he sees it quite that way, but I know I’ll be enjoying it.

He’s so much fun when he’s demanding.