My Insides, Out

She talks. Or not.

noreply@blogger.com (Mariel) — Wed, 04 Feb 2009 02:48:00 +0000

The relative silence continues around these parts. Part of the reason for this is the fact that most of the blogs I read have also gone largely silent. The less time I spend reading other blogs, the less I am inclined to tend to my own. As for the rest of my reasons, I was going to claim that "there isn't really too much going on right now," but that'd be a big fat lie. I've got more going on in my life at the moment and more worth writing about than I have had at any point since I began posting here, so that's no excuse. I do have things to say, but I suppose I ought to admit that I am feeling reluctant to post for a number of reasons.

You see, a lot of things have changed. People I thought I'd lost contact with forever continue to pop up, brand new faces have made their way in, some doors have closed, others have opened and I've learned a lot. My perspective is evolving. Many of the things that have happened over the past six months or so and are continuing to happen are very good things, though, and there's a part of me that is afraid that by writing about them, I will jinx them. Another part of me is purely selfish, and wants to keep my happy secrets to myself. Yet another part is experiencing some shyness and modesty. For all of these reasons and more, I remain mostly quiet. There's a lot of waffling back and forth, too, on how much (if any) I want to share, and I'm trying not to make any hasty decisions. Perhaps some of the rest of you can relate to this? I'll probably do some writing about all these goings-on while they're still fresh in my mind and hang onto them in case I decide I'd like to share sometime in the future, but for now, I can offer very little.

Welcome back, Kotter.

noreply@blogger.com (Mariel) — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 07:57:00 +0000

Those of you who have been reading for a while may have noticed that I've done a little bit of cleanup around these parts. It needed to be done; much of the reason why I all but abandoned this blog is that I decided some of what I'd written was a bunch of useless drivel and I couldn't stand to have it associated with my name any longer. Luckily there wasn't much of that, though, so the bulk of my material is still here for those of you who'd been missing it and those of you who have just tuned in.

I may, if inspired, type up a hefty catch-up post, but I haven't made up my mind about that yet. I regret to report that at least for now, much of the novelty of sharing the intimate details of my life and my history with the blogosphere at large has worn off. I do prefer to keep some mystery about me. Then, there's the fact that most of you are sex bloggers, or have been referred here by sex bloggers, and if you're looking for shamelessly masturbatory material, I'm afraid that right at this moment I'm the very last girl whose life you should be reading about.

What I can do, however, is provide a short summary of the past few months. I'm not quite tired enough to sleep yet, so why not? Again, I find myself looking for a new job. My roommate has, since my last post, moved out - out of state, in fact. I've managed to kick some bad lifestyle habits (a fact of which I'm quite proud), adopt some good ones and I'm feeling physically healthier than I have in quite a while. I dance often. I use Twitter more than I'm proud to admit, I'm a nascent connoisseur of the FetLife forums, the relative drought in my romantic and sexual life continues into its eighth month and CollarMe continues to be more of an alternately amusing and frustrating social experiment than a useful tool despite a couple of seemingly successful first dates (not to mention some awful ones).

Kink has been occupying more than its fair share of space in my mind lately. The drought, I'm sure, has a lot to do with this, but it isn't always sexy thoughts. I find the internet (or internet-only) kink community less and less appealing by the day. It's obviously a very convenient way to talk to new people whom you might not otherwise find, but there really is a limit to how fulfilling it is for me and I find myself craving face-to-face interaction with real people. As such, I intend to finally make my way to a munch after the holiday fervor dies down. I'm hoping this will be a fun step, but I have learned not to hold my breath.

I think it's only logical to assume that the more people you meet, the more people you will meet with whom you have things in common, right? That hasn't been the case for me lately. I continue to meet new people, but very few of them seem to want what I want, so the compatibility percentage gets lower. There are certain preconceived notions (ideals, even?) among the kinkier folks I've met which I cannot identify with. The one which causes me the most trouble is the idea that kinky automatically equals promiscuous (or vice versa). It doesn't, for me, but that seems to be the de facto equation for many others, particularly within my age group. While I think that everybody should feel free to enjoy/fuck/love/play with as many people as they please, I can't help but furrow my brow a bit at the idea of being almost looked down upon for the fact that I don't necessarily want to spread myself that thin.

There's more to that topic, but this was just supposed to be a brief overview and I have made myself sufficiently tired!

Radio Silence

noreply@blogger.com (Mariel) — Mon, 01 Sep 2008 04:40:00 +0000

It appears I'm an absentee blogger. I stand convicted. It's just that I've been a busy girl, but not busy with anything too terribly blogworthy. My best friend and hetero lifemate moved into my house at the beginning of the month. I was very busy preparing for her arrival and now I am very busy enjoying her company. Now, I'm not accustomed to having roommates, and I am fiercely protective of my personal space, belongings and foodstuffs. Despite this, I've really taken to having someone around all the time. I am a slightly less naked person as a result of her presence, and I sing less, as my nudism and vocal stylings are not accustomed to having an audience. That is certainly no small tragedy, but apart from that it has been smooth sailing. She is not from Chicago, and as such I have found myself experiencing my city more fully as a result of showing it off to her. Plus, I've got a built-in sidekick, now. Win, win, win.

I have made the decision to go back to school in the Spring. The thought terrifies me for a number of reasons. The most important of these are A) incurring debt, which I avoid at all costs and B) the possibility of spending all this time and money on college and still not knowing what I want to do when I have my degree; still being at square one but $30k in the hole. You know? I'm going to try as much as I can to pay out of my own pocket for my education, like I did when I started, but I doubt I'll be able to do it all without a loan of some sort. It's a big risk, but I'm hoping that I'm right when I assume I'd regret not getting my degree more than I'll regret getting it. The current plan is to continue majoring in Biology unless something else ignites passion. I just know that if I don't do it soon, I never will.

I will make an effort to blog more often. Now that Jefferson's blog is essentially out of commission, though, I've found my readership is barely there. Avah is now my top referrer, but the numbers are dismal on the whole. With everything that's going on in the intertubes at the moment, though, I guess now is a good time for me to be sparse with my posts. I've been following the situation in a half-assed manner lately, and I've only got a little bit to say about it.

I have a sort of oversimplified, kindergarten-esque way of viewing character debates. Theoretically, I suppose this shouldn't have become a character debate, but then, this is the internet. I think in black and white when it comes to these issues, and I judge people based solely on what my personal experience with them has been and whether or not they seem, to me, to be a "good person." My definition of a "good person" is pretty simple, too. If I believe that someone has good intentions, and does not set out to cause deliberate harm to anyone, they pass in my eyes, regardless of any poor decisions they may or may not have made. Yes, I've heard the adage about what kinds of roads are paved with good intentions, but to me, it is intent that is most important. In my opinion, most people are fuck-ups in their own special way. I know I am. I make more mistakes than any person should be entitled to. Nobody is anywhere near perfect and as such, if my impression of someone is that they are fundamentally good people and deserving of support, I will do what I can. Nobody on either side of the argument (as far as I've read) has done or said anything that struck me as genuine, deliberate cruelty or ill-will. I just see a lot of standard grievance-airing and lashing out, only on a large, public scale and at an inopportune time. A lot of very normal reactions from a lot of very normal, and seemingly nice people. The pacifist in me absolutely cringes at the vitriol, but I sympathize with just about everyone from either side.

I also talk in circles at 1 A.M., apparently. But I suspect you get the idea.

A decidedly un-sexy update

noreply@blogger.com (Mariel) — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 06:47:00 +0000

Again, I feel compelled to apologize for the lack of attention to my blog (and Twitter, for that matter), but I have been very preoccupied lately as real life demands my attention. It’s been a little rough lately. Last week, I left the job that I loved in the heat of a very confusing, very dramatic, wildly inappropriate moment. I do not mean “wildly inappropriate” in a sexual way this time. I’m more upset by this than I ever would have expected to be, and I have been busy talking with some people and figuring out what sort of action to take in the wake of what happened. Despite that very unpleasant experience, I still find myself grieving the loss of that job. I am admittedly no authority on ‘moving on,’ and as such I am having a hard time figuring out what my next career move will be. My sewing skills are still terribly rudimentary so far. I don’t know if I could realistically apply myself to copywriting as much as I’d need to. I have very little interest in pursuing any of the fields in which I have significant experience any further. I hadn’t planned on needing to worry about this so soon, so without any clear direction all I can do is keep my options open and hope a good opportunity knocks again.

In the grand tradition of misfortune, one thing led to another until I ended up with quite a large knot of stress somewhere in my belly. I’m still carrying that around. After explaining the circumstances surrounding my sudden unemployment to my family, a good handful of my nearest and dearest were both appalled at the treatment I received and understanding of my anger (and, frankly, outrage). Several offered comfort and support, but unfortunately my mother was not among this group. My relationship with my mother is complicated, as she is a very complicated woman. I’m not exactly simple, but my mother and I are completely different brands of difficult and she has always been something of a mystery to me. She was upset when I called and told her of my situation, but her first reaction was to ask how I “fucked up.” Already angered and edgy, I chafed at this. Even after I elaborated on the story, including all the nasty details, her suggestion was that I grovel at the feet of the offending party and beg to be rehired. This is not an option as far as I’m concerned, and nobody else has suggested that it should be. Fundamentally, she and I have very different values, and this is a source of constant contention for us. My mother can be an extremely sweet, generous woman, but she clings to a vehement refusal to admit that there is a Hyde to her Jekyll and that yes, even her priorities might be backward from time to time. My decision to share this personal crisis of mine with her led to yet another unprovoked attack, involving words that one person should never say to another, let alone to one’s child. As I typically do in such situations, and as I did in the incident involving my former employer, I remained quiet and let her vent, excusing myself when I felt the exchange was going nowhere. I suppose I ought to be proud of the ability to control my emotions when things get ugly. I’ve worked very hard at that. The only person my temper was ever an issue to begin with was with my mother, but I am saddened by the realization that our relationship hasn’t been improved upon any by my refusal to fight. In the absence of retort, some people will simply fill the air with more attacks and never tire of the one-sided battle. She is one of them.

So, weighed down by career and family stress, I am trying to distract myself in both productive and unproductive ways. I cut off all but an inch or two of my hair, reorganized my closets and recommitted to regular exercise. Eager for pleasant experiences, I'm trying to make arrangements for several mini-vacations. My romantic life is still something of a nonevent, and my libido seems to have packed its bags and headed for cover until the crisis has blown over. That hasn't stopped me from continuing to enjoy CollarMe, though. My experience with it so far has been very interesting and often downright amusing, though not very fruitful. I've also learned some things about my kink. For example: I don't think I will ever be able to submit to someone who can't spell or write/type in complete sentences. Hard limit: poor grammatical skills. I sware im not an unresonabel snob but relly ther is only so much of this kidn of talkin a girl can taek u kno? It isnt sexxxyy.

The people who attract my attention are invariably the ones who put a little extra effort into things. This is true for my dating/sex life in general. I don't demand 110% from every exchange. I don't even expect anybody to match my enthusiasm. That would be very tough to do, as I can be a very eager beaver. All I'm looking for is that "Hey - I give a shit" impression. I am beginning to worry that I still may be asking too much in that arena.

Hallelujah.

noreply@blogger.com (Mariel) — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 22:09:00 +0000

There is nothing terribly exciting in my personal life to report, as I have been very busy with work and such lately, so I apologize about that. I warned you that this wasn't going to be too terribly exciting. I would, however, like to share the story of something that turned me on today.

Those of you who know me know what a huge documentary geek I am. Those of you who don't know me - well, now you know. I watch documentaries daily. I've seen loads of them, and I've loved most of them. I'll watch a documentary about just about anything. One of my recent favorite types has been the "religious documentary" category. This began when I first saw Jesus Camp, a provocative look inside an evangelical summer camp for children. The trailer sort of speaks for itself, but keep in mind that the actual content is a little more militant. I don't understand where and when the line got blurred, in Christianity, between "love thy neighbor" and "religious warfare." I'm not a Christian, but I can certainly identify with any group whose core values embrace goodness, generosity, tolerance and peace. The message behind some of this zeal, though, scares me a little bit. One has to hope that these kids get a little lazier as they get older.

Continuing with the Pentecostal theme, today I watched a film called Hell House, which is about a "haunted house" presented each year by Trinity Christian Church outside of Dallas, TX. This "haunted house" is intended to scare "the lost" back onto the path of righteousness. I'm sorry, but these folks are really fucking batshit overboard, and some of them seem downright dumb to boot. At least most of the Jesus Camp folks seem intelligent. Basically, Trinity builds this whole walk-through composed of a few different rooms or "scenes," and then casts actors to perform them. I gather that the scenes have changed a bit from year to year, but one example is a teenager committing suicide because she had sex with her father and then aborted the resulting baby. Because, you know, performing incestuous acts with your father and then needing to have an abortion is one of the leading temptations today's youth is faced with, apparently. It's right up there next to the alcohol and party scenes. Or how about the scene where a teenager is sucked into the occult and damned for eternity because he or she read Harry Potter? Then you've got the guy whose pet project is the "rave room," to teach kids about the dangers of raves. He says, and I quote, "What you see at these parties is literally dozens of bodies being carried out... okay, maybe not dozens, maybe I'm exaggerating, but 8 or 10 bodies being carried out at the end of the night at the more dangerous ones." What? Have any of you ever been to a rave like that? In this "rave room," he plays the DJ. He sure seems excited about it, too. I'll bet we could've found him trying his hand and wrecking many a train at the decks at real parties 5 or 6 years ago. Then, for the "occult room," they had to paint posterboards with things like "666," and they tried for a pentagram and ended up with a Star of David. Oh, and the construction folks had a little tiff over the color of the paint used for these things, because apparently "a warlock" had come through a year or two beforehand and told them not to use white paint. "There would never be any white at any sort of occult gathering." What kind of "warlock" exactly? A level 43 Undead warlock, affliction spec, with a succubus named "Helriel" at his side? I digress. The production crew discussed how role-playing games lead to eternal damnation, but they couldn't figure out how to write "Magic: The Gathering" so they just called it "the magic cards." Seriously? Seriously? This might be scarier than Jesus Camp if I thought these folks had the wherewithal to actually facilitate any kind of change in the world at large. Mind you, it's not the Pentecostal movement that bothers me in and of itself. It's the idea that someone who doesn't know the difference between a pentagram and a Star of David is the leader of any congregation at all.

The whole movie was mostly a lot of this nonsense until the very end when you finally get to see the walk-through from start to finish. At the end of it, you end up in "hell" with all the characters who made the wrong decision just prior to their death. Now, this is the interesting part. This, I think, is where the fundamental difference of opinion happens between me and these folks. You see, their version of hell is quite interesting. The brief glimpse into it offered in the film included smoke machines, red lightbulbs, some people tied up (some tied to hooks in the ceiling), some people writhing on the floor, and one attractive young man (the devil?) wearing a very tight leather/fishnet ensemble with a spiked collar and some very well-applied makeup. Okay, okay, I know this is supposed to scare people, but, uh. . . I'm not really scared of that. This feeling that I have about that "devil" guy surrounded by people in ropes, it's not too different from the feeling I got watching Dee Snider's Strangeland. It's. . . well, it's not fright, that's for sure. It's a little warm, and kind of tingly, actually. . . Excuse me for a few minutes while I go, you know, fill myself with the spirit.

Try, Try Again

noreply@blogger.com (Mariel) — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 22:06:00 +0000

It's Wednesday. I'm not supposed to be at work today, as Wednesdays are typically my days off, but here I am. On my computer screen, there are several open windows. The first one is Notepad - a menacingly long and ever-growing list of work issues that need to be attended to. The second window is Netflix - I've been attempting all day to finally watch The Hours but am coming up short in the attention-span department. The third window is my Playlist, providing a soundtrack for the day, where I can be serenaded by the likes of Freddie Mercury and Maynard James Keenan to my heart's content. I am finding it increasingly difficult to open and deal with that first window.

I'm distracted.

I'm distracted by a lot of things. I'm sexually frustrated, but that's not really anything new. I'm experiencing a love-life slump at the moment that's annoying but not catastrophic. I've got personal projects that aren't progressing according to plan. I'm having trouble keeping up with my friends, due mostly to scheduling issues. I've got some pretty big career concerns. I'm a little stressed about each of those things and others, and it's just adding up to a palpable dysphoria. Mostly, though, I'm distracted by my plans for the weekend.

On Saturday morning, I will supposedly be meeting with someone whom I haven't seen in over four years. I've mentioned her before - my former best friend who has, in the years since we had a falling-out, been battling a substance-abuse problem. I'm nervous and eager to see her again, and I can feel myself getting my hopes up. Ideally, I'd like for us to be close again, to rhyme again the way that we did years ago. I want to find that intimacy with a friend once more, because golly, I've really missed it. I thought I was doing okay without it for quite some time, but the moment I got the idea in my head that it might be possible to recapture it, it was like dangling a steak in front of a ravenous dog. I'm hungry for that companionship. I've got plenty friends that I care deeply about, sure, but for one reason or another I've never quite managed to have the same bond with anyone that I had with my erstwhile BFF. However, as much as I'd like for us to settle right back into our old rhythms, I'm trying to be realistic. She's a beautiful, amazing girl, but the last time I saw her, she did not seem so healthy. And 4 years of further damage have passed between then and now. I must expect to find her much changed.

I don't have many photos of the two of us together. That's us in our party gear, what seems like a lifetime ago. I'm on the right, freshly 14, all bad skin and Swiss Miss braids. Laughing is permitted. Hopefully we will have the opportunity to take better photos in the future.

My mother-hen instinct is already kicking in, and I don't even want to control it. I'm not the most well-adjusted girl in the world, I haven't known too many addicts or recovering addicts in my life and I can't be a hero, but if I can somehow manage to be a positive influence or to help her get back on her feet in even some small way, it would mean the world to me. I'm hoping for the best, but I should also be bracing for the worst. She's only been clean for two months. The chances of yet another relapse are high. The chances of us having a meaningful reconnection and then experiencing further drama as a result of this problem might also be high. The chances of me worrying about her well-being for quite some time yet? Astronomical. I know what I'm signing up for. But I have to try.

Pet

noreply@blogger.com (Mariel) — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 09:46:00 +0000

I've got a lot on my mind today.

Yesterday, I explored another blog - Unspeakable Axe. I read the whole thing, start to finish, and I really enjoyed it. Axe is just so frank, and I can't help but be drawn to people who don't sugar-coat things. Sometimes things don't go very well, and you don't always get what you want out of encounters and relationships, and Axe tells us all about that with a dry wit and subtle humor. I particularly enjoyed the bit about folding fitted sheets. I mean, who can't relate to that? Plus, I'm told he's handsome. Though that doesn't have much to do with the quality of his writing, it certainly can't hurt.

Anyway, in Axe's archives, I came across this news story from the UK. It was an article about the discrimination of a transit company against a young goth couple, Dani Graves and Tasha Maltby. Apparently, a bus driver would not allow the couple to ride the bus. Why? Because Tasha is Dani's collared pet, and he had her on a leash. The relatively short article includes a photo of the couple, doing what they do. I recommend you take a peek at it.

Now, this stimulates me for all sorts of different reasons. First of all, the fashion geek in me is absolutely drooling over their clothes. Just look at his coat! His rings! Her dress! That hardware! Plus, it's no big secret that I'm a sucker for the goth types in general. In fact, Mr. Fingernails from my morning bus looks a bit like this fellow, albeit not so well-dressed. Also, that girl is just cute as a button, and her figure is dead sexy. However, that's not what was most striking about this. What got me, of course, is the leash.

Now, I've been well aware for a very long time that there are plenty of people who do this in relative privacy. I don't, however, normally see it in broad daylight. I'd like to, though. Perhaps I ought to move to the UK.

When I was young - 14 years old, in fact - I spent a lot of time hanging around in a trendy neighborhood near the intersection of Clark and Belmont in the city. This area was home to all sorts of interesting little stores - lots of piercing/tattoo studios, head shops, Taboo Tabou for those who want overpriced softcore kink paraphernalia. Then, of course, there's the Alley, an staple of the Chicago alternative scene, especially in the 90s. All sorts of pierced up, Mohawk-sporting, self-proclaimed "freaks" milled about this neighborhood at all hours of the day and night, and of course, that was where I wanted to be. I was the Clark & Belmont equivalent of a mallrat, essentially. I felt like a little badass at the time.

It was at that age that I began to collect my accessories. I learned very quickly that I was pleased by the feel of leather or metal against my skin, and I spent quite a lot of money collecting little things that excited me in a tactile way. For me, that was chokers and bracelets/cuffs. I can't tell you how many spiked and/or studded leather chokers and bracelets I had, and still have. I wore choke chains made for dogs, too. I'd sit in front of the TV or wherever when I was alone, absentmindedly tugging at them to increase the pressure on my neck, reminding myself that they were there. I began to feel excited by almost anything with hardware attached, particularly clothes or boots with chains or buckles involved. That same year, I purchased what was, at the time, the crowning jewel of my small collection - a black leather choker with the word "submissive" spelled out in shiny steel letters. I'd been eyeing it for quite a while, and when Alex failed to pick up on my hints, I decided to simply buy it for myself. I still have it and I still love it, although I seldom find myself wearing it since I am not often trying to give off the impression of being owned.

One day, when shopping for boots at the Doc Martens store, I was browsing their selection of the patches and pin-back buttons I so loved to cover my jackets and bags with, and I came across a button that caught my attention. It read, in tiny red letters, "I want to be your dog."

I bought it. I stuck it in my pocket. I was a fairly savvy 14 year old, and was well-versed in kinky porn by that time, but was not ready to handle the possible consequences of displaying my new badge proudly. I knew what it meant, but wasn't ready to think about whether or not I identified with it. The fact that I bought it and kept it in my pocket probably should have been a hint.

About a month after my purchase, Alex and I made plans to go to a concert at the Metro with some mutual friends. I honestly don't even remember how the heavy chain dog leash got there. I don't know if it was mine, or one of our friends', or why we had it, but the point is that it ended up in my hands as we sat at a Taco Bell prior to the show. At the time, I was wearing a chain-link choker. Somewhat tentatively, in the middle of my meal, I snapped the end of the leash onto the ring on my choker, and handed the handle to Alex. He giggled a little bit, awkwardly, but he held it. I wore it for the rest of the night, and nobody talked about it. We got some strange looks from passers-by, but on the whole, the presence of the leash was not acknowledged too much by any of us. Our friends, either out of awkwardness or acceptance, didn't mention it either. We carried on with our evening in a perfectly natural way, enjoying the concert. Inside, though, I was floating. I remember how completely exhilarated my adolescent mind and body felt at that tiny little act, though I didn't really grasp the significance. I wasn't even sexually active yet.

Much to my dismay, we never took it any further than that, and I never wore a leash again, though I did pin that button to my coat after that night.

There's no real point to this post, except perhaps to once again examine myself in text instead of in practice, and to publicly add another thing to the list of things I feel compelled to explore in my lifetime. It's becoming a long list.

Can you keep a secret?

noreply@blogger.com (Mariel) — Sun, 22 Jun 2008 21:18:00 +0000

The last time I found out a former flame of mine was getting hitched, I wrote a post commemorating the pseudo-relationship I had with him. This time, for Ricky, I will do the same thing. Perhaps this will become a tradition.

Nearly 7 years ago, I was eating dessert one spring night with my sister at a popular chain restaurant – the sort of casual-dining place with red and white checkered tablecloths and old movie posters up on the walls. As I dug into my piece of chocolate cake, I remarked to my sister that the people working at this restaurant seemed pretty happy. It looked like a fun place to work. She said, “Why don’t you just apply then? I dare you.” I hardly gave this any thought. I acted on impulse. I already had a steady but depressing full-time job at an animal hospital, but I was eager for a change. As we paid our bill, I asked our server for a job application. I filled it out, and the manager-on-duty met with me 5 minutes later. We chatted briefly. I could tell he liked me. He told me to return the next day at 11:00 A.M. to speak with the general manager. I arrived early for my interview, and the G.M., Kevin, was a sweetheart. He gave me a part-time hostess job on the spot. That night, I had most of my hair cut off (in what would later become a new-job tradition for me), and I arrived for work the next day with a fresh pixie-cut and a smile on my face.

It wasn’t a difficult job to get the hang of, and the restaurant was staffed with a bunch of other young people for me to make friends with. I got along reasonably well with everybody, and I enjoyed getting to chat with the patrons. It didn’t pay well at all, but it was a lot of fun. Kevin was a laid-back hippie type, with his Grateful Dead t-shirts and jolly laughter. I found my groove very quickly. Every day when I’d arrive for my shift, I’d check the seating chart at the host stand. There would be a list of that day’s servers, and then there was a little dry-erase picture showing which tables belonged to which server. One day, about a week and a half after I started working there, I noticed a name on the chart that I hadn’t seen before – Ricky. I’d heard a little bit about him, mostly from the other girls at the restaurant. It seemed he had a bit of a reputation. I wondered if he was attractive. I was in the middle of one of my off-periods with my on-again, off-again boyfriend Alex, and I was in the mood to flirt.

Later that afternoon, during a slow period, I stood at the host stand, leaning against the wall, listening to Wilco on the satellite radio and zoning out. All of a sudden, in a loud, booming voice, I heard, “What’s up, cool cats?!” I turned around. A tall, tan fellow with sandy brown hair and a white t-shirt had come through the back door. I watched quietly as he greeted everybody around the bar and stopped to talk with Kevin. A girl, Ella, approached him with a hug. He had a big, broad smile. Fake, I thought. Loud and fake. This was supposed to be impressive? I turned around and went back to my work.

Twenty minutes or so passed by, and I was chatting with Paul and another server, Bradley, when the sandy-haired fellow approached the host stand. Paul and Bradley walked away, and Ricky stood right in front of me, staring. His eyes were some of the bluest I’ve ever seen, and they looked very gentle. His skin was flawless, his hairline receding slightly. I was not immediately captivated by his looks. He put his hands – large, rough – on the edge of the stand. I noticed he wore puka shell bracelets. Great, I thought. He thinks he’s a surfer, with his California tan and his seashells so far from any ocean. He did not smile – just stared. I broke the silence.

“You must be Ricky.”

“I might be. And who are you? I haven’t seen you here before.”

He had a remarkable voice; the sort of voice I was accustomed to hearing from newscasters or radio personalities. He had a small gap between his front teeth, too. I tried my best to look confident and uninterested.

“I just started last week. I’m Mariel.”

“Well it’s lovely to meet you, Mariel.”

He offered his hand, and I took it. He gave a firm handshake; not the limp kind I’m used to getting from men, as though my hands might break. I returned it with gusto. He came around to stand next to me, looking over my shoulder at the seating chart. He smelled delicious, like sweat and Ralph Lauren. His breath was minty.

“I have work to do, but I’ll come back. Will you wait for me?”

I tried to suppress a smile. I failed. “Maybe.”

As he walked away, he winked at me. He actually winked! “God,” I thought, “how arrogant. How smarmy. I am not susceptible to that kind of cheap shit.”

But I was wrong.

Over the next few weeks, I learned more about my new tan friend as we spent more and more time schmoozing at the host stand. He was older, and had recently moved to Chicago from sunny Florida with his girlfriend of five years, Dee. Turned out he really had done some surfing in his old hometown, and he wore the shells to remind him of home. He seemed wistful when he’d talk of “back home,” like he hadn’t really settled into Midwestern life yet. Ricky had a lot of dreams. He wanted to be a stand-up comic, he wanted to be a lawyer, he wanted to open a restaurant of his own, he wanted to go into broadcasting. He thought any or all of these things might be easy to do in a big city like Chicago, so he’d come up here to “find himself.” I quickly found myself interested in the stories he’d tell me in that confident, deep voice of his. I watched the way he interacted with our customers and co-workers, almost like he was flirting with everybody he met. Almost invariably, people responded to it. He seemed to attract women effortlessly. Several of our female co-workers (and a few of the males) clamored for his attention, and a handful of women from local businesses would stop into the bar during their lunch breaks just to let him serve up hamburgers and flirtatious platitudes. From the moment I met him and decided he was arrogant and not worthwhile, I was determined not to “fall for” that routine. Now, though, my resolve was beginning to fail me. I liked this cocky guy. Shit.

Our conversations slowly became more intimate. We talked about his relationship, my ex, our goals in life. We found ourselves arriving a few minutes earlier, and a few minutes earlier still, to chat before shifts. We talked extensively about movies and music, and he told me about his favorite band, Counting Crows. I had remembered that band from the early 90s when “Mr. Jones” was a big hit, but didn’t know anything more about them until Ricky wrote down the names of some songs for me to download. I listened and loved them, and they quickly made up the soundtrack to this blossoming friendship. Somewhere around this time, I quit my animal hospital job and began waiting tables full time, and Ricky was promoted. He was now officially my boss. That didn’t bother either of us too much at the time, since we were “just friends.” But he began to work longer days, and I found myself picking up extra shifts in order to spend time with him. Ricky wrote me notes on the backs of napkins, quoting some of our mutual favorite songs, giving me little reasons to smile to myself throughout the day. Gradually, that overbearing, arrogant charm I had witnessed in the beginning began to fade away. He spoke more quietly, became more humble, and began to trust me with little bits of personal information here and there. He was more melancholy than I originally took him for, it seemed. He began to hug me whenever we greeted one another, and we had fun, too. We danced, we sang. Somewhere along the line we began to have wrestling matches in the restaurant after closing, and he taught me how to do his favorite bar trick – spinning a drink tray on the tips of his fingers, throwing it up in the air and catching it. It took me a while to pick up that skill, but soon I was almost as good as he was. Before long, Ricky was giving me rides home from work, and people started noticing. Girls from the restaurant grew jealous. One in particular, Ella, was especially offended. She asked me to join her outside one day for a cigarette. I didn’t smoke, but I followed her out anyway.

“He’s not going to fuck you. And even if he does, you’ll regret it.”

“What?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Ricky. He’s just a slut. He just fucks around with everybody to stroke his ego. He doesn’t like you. Besides, you’re jailbait, and, I mean, if anybody told someone what was going on, he would get in trouble. You don’t want that.”

Ella was over 30. She was not a catty teenager, and this sort of immature, threatening talk sounded silly coming from the mouth of an adult woman. I drew my own conclusions, of course – that Ella and Ricky had at least slept together at one point, and she’d gotten hurt.

“There’s no reason to be rude. Nothing’s happening.”

“Whatever, I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

I could tell from the tone of her voice that was not the truth.

“Thanks, but this is none of your business one way or the other.”

I walked inside, stressed. I didn’t tell Ricky about that little discussion. Ella did have a point. I was jailbait. Ricky was well aware of that fact, too. More than once, phrases like “if only you were a few years older” would work their way into our conversations. I had, and still have, little patience for that sort of talk. My age was not something I could change, and it was glaringly obvious that we were becoming attracted to one another despite the gap. We had plenty in common, and whether we planned it or not, we were developing a relationship. His girlfriend was another obstacle, of course. Apparently, they’d been having problems for quite some time, and were more like roommates than lovers, but neither was prepared financially to strike out on their own, so they were both minding their own business in the meantime. Of course, I took all of this with a grain of salt, but I figured it was not my business to judge one way or the other and focused only on what was going on between the two of us. There was also the work issue, as my normally very relaxed general manager began to catch wind of what was going on between Ricky and I. I became very honest with Ricky. I told him that I was developing feelings for him, and that while I understood the (very good) reasons for his hesitancy to pursue me, I wasn’t going to wait around in limbo forever. Neither of us were sure how to proceed, what was the right thing to do, and we began to grow frustrated. We began to squabble a bit over nothing important. One slow evening after such a tiff, Ricky approached me at the host stand. He walked fast, and had an angry look on his face. He was obviously upset. When he spoke, his voice was low and hushed.

“What are we doing, Mariel?”

“You’re asking me? You’re the one who can’t make up your mind.”

“We’re just friends, right? We have to be. It’s completely platonic.”

“Oh, is it now? Well, that’s fine. No big deal.”

“Fuck you.”

He walked away. I was angry, hurt. What did he want? He knew how I felt, but yes, it was risky. I wasn’t about to offer him false reassurance or try to force him to do anything he didn’t want to do.

The following day’s lunch shift was busy. I had several tables full of annoying patrons to deal with, and I was making peanuts in tips. The previous night’s argument had left me feeling sour, and the day wasn’t going well. When I stepped into the kitchen and heard Ricky call me into the office, I was irritated. Everybody in the kitchen had heard him call me, and he sounded angry. Presumably, he was going to give me a hard time about something, call me out on some mistake, take out his frustration on me professionally. I set down the pitcher I was holding and walked over to the office. He stood up, looking angry, and told me to close the door. My stomach dropped a little. I wondered if he was going to fire me in order to remove me as a distraction. That would be humiliating. I closed the door behind me, and he approached. The office was stiflingly hot. He whispered, “Can you keep a secret?” I nodded.

Within a heartbeat, I was slammed roughly up against the wall. His hands ran through my hair and his tongue pushed its way into my mouth with a force and passion that literally took my breath away. Months and months of pent-up energy released themselves through his fingertips and his mouth and his hard cock pressing through his khakis. My hands teased his dress shirt out of his pants, finding the small beads of sweat on his back, his smooth chest, his belly and below, learning his anatomy as my tongue danced and my mind raced. He reached below my shirt and expertly released me from my bra, brushing my already achingly hard nipples with his fingertips. I closed my eyes and sighed over and over again as he pressed his body against mine and I attempted to grind my pussy against his leg. Though I am normally shy when naked, at that moment I had no capacity for self-consciousness. I felt lustful, primal, and I was acting on instinct. All I wanted was my naked flesh up against his, to feel him inside of me, and I was so wet, I was sure he’d feel it through my clothes. He licked and bit at my neck as he blindly explored my body with his hands, pressing here, pinching there, and we communicated our passion in sighs and monosyllables. I was absolutely in heaven, tracing the outline of his cock through his pants, willing the barrier gone. I wanted us to devour one another, right then and there. Instead, though, he pulled away.

“You have to get back out there, or this is going to look suspicious.”

He was right. We put ourselves back together and I straightened my hair and tried to will away the flush from my cheeks as I opened the door and went back into the kitchen, exhilarated. I had only been gone a matter of minutes, but it felt like a lifetime. People glanced at me suspiciously, and I tried my best to look as though I’d just been reprimanded instead of aroused. I did a pretty good job at that charade, apparently. When people asked what had happened, and I told them I’d rather not discuss it, I got comforting responses like “Yeah, I figured, Ricky looked pretty pissed off. But don’t take it personally, and hey, at least you didn’t get fired." I visited his office frequently in the following weeks to be “reprimanded.”

We only expanded our repertoire slightly over the next few months. Rides home to my house frequently included detours to local forest preserves so that he could kiss me hard and finger me harder in the backseat of his Honda. It felt sneaky and cheap, but we made the best of it. On nights that he was scheduled to close the restaurant, I’d stay late, sometimes until the wee hours of the morning. It usually began the same way – after everybody else left, I’d creep into the office as he worked, scratching his back gently, breathing lightly on his neck, whispering in his ear. He’d complain about being unable to concentrate on his work, and I’d apologize by undoing his belt and stroking his dick. Sometimes, I’d sneak into the dark, frigid cold of the walk-in freezer and call him from there, waiting on my knees for him to come feed me his cock so that I could keep it warm with my mouth. I never waited long. His cock was magnificent, too. Its proportions seemed built just for me and I had little trouble swallowing him whole as he pulled my hair and I watched his eyes roll toward the ceiling. He’d fuck my face roughly until he came in shudders and gasps, with my one had grasping his smooth-shaven balls and the other digging into the flesh of his ass. I enjoyed his taste, and I told him so as I swallowed everything he had to give me, smiling up at him from the floor.

He never reciprocated, but that didn’t matter to me at the time. I thoroughly enjoyed being able to please him. All the reciprocation in the world would not have equaled the pride I felt in being able to service him and offer him pleasure. I would have happily stayed on my knees forever if he’d wanted it.

At the end of these late nights, we often sat outside in the dark to talk. He sang to me in his beautiful voice and fashioned a bouquet of roses out of sheets of wax paper. I giggled and clapped and told him he was appreciated. He kissed me tenderly, and that was enough for both of us.

Time passed, and things remained good. Our arrangement wasn’t getting anybody into trouble, and we were both reasonably satisfied. Then, we received bad news – Ricky was being transferred temporarily to a different restaurant, several hours away. He claimed he would need to stay at a hotel to avoid the commute, but I suspected things were going downhill at home with Dee as well. I didn’t ask. It was a good career move for him, so he could not refuse, and we learned he would only need to be away for 3 months. “I can be patient,” I told him, and he kissed me on the cheeks as he told me he’d keep in touch with me regularly. The following week, he left. I did not hear from him for several weeks. When I asked Kevin if he’d heard from Ricky, Kevin told me, “Well, I think he should be the one to talk to you about that.” How can somebody say something cryptic like that and not follow it up with any information, especially knowing that Ricky and I were close and that I’d be worried? I had no way to contact him, though, so I waited. When he finally did get in touch, I was relieved, but only momentarily, for the conversation quickly turned to his having gone AWOL. I learned that Ricky’s depression had gotten the better of him and he’d found himself in the hospital after a particularly bad night. I was distraught and worried sick, and I convinced him to let me visit. The next night, I drove out to his hotel, and we spent the whole time naked in bed, holding and cuddling one another, whispering softly in the dark. We got high and talked frankly. He had left Dee, and as such, had left his home and his dog and most of his belongings behind. It had not ended well, so there was little chance of recovering most of it. Ricky told me that he felt he needed to move back to Florida for his own well-being. There were a few tears, but mostly kisses. I was heartsick. The next morning, I woke early and got dressed, and we embraced, kissing softly at the door as I left for home. That would be the last kiss we’d have. He never fucked me.

Over the following weeks, as Ricky prepared to move back to Florida, we distanced ourselves from one another. Though he came back from the other restaurant, the contact became less and less frequent. I no longer made an effort to sync our work schedules, reasoning that there was no point in trying to hang on to someone who was leaving. I was angry at him for taking off at the very moment that he and I actually had a shot at pursuing something together, but I was not about to beg him to stay. Furthermore, if he felt he could not be happy here, I didn’t want him to stay in a situation that might cause him to be dangerous to himself. So I withdrew and kept my hurt to myself. Sensing this, he didn’t press me for attention. On his last day of work, he once again called me into the office. When I sat down next to him, he looked at me, pained, and said, “Do you want to come with me? Would you? Please?” I blinked and bit my lip. “No, you know I can’t do that.” He sighed and looked down at the desk, rubbing his neck. “I had to try.”

Later that afternoon, he said his goodbyes to everyone. I was the last in line. He gave me a big hug and whispered in my ear, “Be good.” I didn’t respond, for fear of crying in front of everybody.

Ricky went back to Florida, and he and I didn’t speak for 6 years. Last week, I found him online. He’s a restaurant manager again, back in his element, and he is hoping to finally go to law school. He got a new dog, a nice house, and found himself a very beautiful woman, and they’ve been traveling the world together for years. Now, they’re engaged. He seems genuinely happy. Good for him.

Reunions

noreply@blogger.com (Mariel) — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 19:41:00 +0000

Reunions, both real and imaginary, seem to be this week's theme.

Much to my surprise, I reconnected with a girl who was, once upon a time, my very best friend. To date, I have never again had quite such a close friendship with anyone else. Part of that, I believe, has to do with the trust issues resulting from the circumstances under which our friendship dissolved - there was, in the grand tradition of young girlfriends, a catastrophic betrayal of epic proportions - and the other part has to do with the fact that there's just nobody else quite like her. The years since we last spoke have found me sifting nostalgically on many an occasion through old photos and notes scribbled lovingly on patterned paper with doodles and inside jokes in the margins. With each perusal of these artifacts, the bad memories faded and my resolve to cut that person out of my life has softened a bit. After a message that left me tearing up in the middle of the bath accessories aisle at Target, it is with no small amount of both elation and worry that I once again offer my friendship, support and love to an addict.

Also in contact with me this week was Ricky, my ex-boss, whom you may remember from a recent post containing the summary of my sexual history. The very same Ricky of the walk-in freezer. I was very pleased to hear that Ricky is doing very well in his new life far South of here, where the weather is sticky and the girls are quite tan. I also learned that he is taking one of these sunbathing beauties as his new wife! Photos and congratulations were exchanged, of course. This makes Ricky the second of my former flings to either get engaged or hitched in the space of two weeks. For whatever reason, I'm feeling sort of awkward about that, but I am nonetheless very happy for them both.

In other news, Pride Fest approaches! Next weekend, Chicago kids. Regrettably, I sat last year's festivities out. This year, though, I fully intend to make up for my absence.

Here's a photo for you:

That's me in the 2006 Pride parade. That year, dressing up like a dog and marching in the parade was a work requirement, and though it seemed to be about 120 degrees in that costume and I was parched the whole way, I was more than eager to participate. I'm glad I did, too. I've been to a fair number of Pride celebrations in my young life, but never have I enjoyed one quite as much as I did that summer. I don't relish the stifling feeling of baking in a faux fur oven, mind you, but something about that goofy costume gave throngs of very attractive, sweaty people license to hug, kiss, dry hump, grab, pet and otherwise rub up against me, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't totally enjoy it. This time around, I'll be without my furry paws, and probably considerably less popular for that fact, but no less pleased to be there.

Finally, news of break-ups travels fast, and I am finding my attention in high demand among former flames who have learned of mine. This is flattering, but reminding myself that exes are exes for a reason, I politely decline most of the invitations. However, one clever man recently pitched me the following line in a bid to persuade me to agree to a sleepover: "He keeps telling me, 'I want to release my dark passenger noooowwwww.' I keep telling him, 'No, you've got to wait until Mariel gets here.' So come on, Mariel - don't you want to see his dark passenger?"

Well, what girl could resist such an overture?

HNT

noreply@blogger.com (Mariel) — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 05:01:00 +0000

This popping of my HNT cherry is made possible by Remix Vintage Shoes of Hollywood, California.

More social networking.

noreply@blogger.com (Mariel) — Sat, 14 Jun 2008 20:47:00 +0000

I joined FetLife today. I like the general idea of it, for sure. Also appealing was the idea of having, you know, more than the same 2 or 3 far-away friends on each website (though I thoroughly enjoy the 2 or 3 of you). However, a quick browse through the "kinksters" local to Chicago left me feeling a bit less than optimistic about it opening any new doors for me. Despite this, I am giving it a shot.

Recommendation

noreply@blogger.com (Mariel) — Fri, 13 Jun 2008 19:58:00 +0000

I'm feeling just a little bit adrift today. Distracted, listless, somewhat pensive. This feeling is probably exacerbated (if not caused) by the fact that I barely got any sleep last night. Every twenty minutes or so, I'd jolt awake in a panic, thinking that I'd missed my alarm and was oversleeping. Needless to say, I'm completely exhausted today.

This morning, I decided to start reading a new blog. It belongs to a girl who calls herself Eden, and I found it through Jefferson's blog. Her name has certainly popped up in his writing more than a handful of times since I've been reading, and the situations he describes between the two of them have frequently turned me on. The stories about their interactions are the ones, maybe more than any others, that cause me to think "Yes, that sounds about right. I think I could enjoy that." I have no idea why I didn't bother to look at her blog to get her side of the story before today. My mistake.

She writes rather candidly about some pretty weighty topics, and I appreciate that kind of openness even if I can't always relate to the subject matter. At certain points in her ongoing story, the similarities between what's in my head and what's on her page are quite obvious (at least to me). There are some fundamental differences too, not the least of which is the fact that she has actually done some of these things whereas I have only fantasized about them. I'm also fairly certain that I wouldn't get off on having somebody rub their feet in my face, but far be it from me to discount something I haven't tried! I digress. Her blog can be found at The Garden.

The candor of her writing has set me to thinking about my own experiences with some heavier issues. As a matter of fact, I wrote a lengthy story about a couple of incidents and how they pertain to my sexual development, but have decided not to post it at this time. While I've got no qualms about sharing, it has a decidedly buzz-kill feel to it, and I'm really going to try to avoid being a downer just because I'm having an off day. I may post it later, when I'm feeling a little brighter and am able to put a slightly more positive spin on it. In the meantime, enjoy the new link.

My Mark

noreply@blogger.com (Mariel) — Mon, 09 Jun 2008 19:01:00 +0000

Today, I'd like to talk about things that might have been. I'd like to tell you about someone pretty unique to me. His name is Mark.

We first met when I was a teenager. It was the 1990s, the height of the rave scene, and I was a hard-partying kid. My weekends were spent heaped in "cuddle puddles" - giant masses of sweaty young bodies draped over one another in all manner of entwinement - on the dirty floors of giant empty warehouses, as the rhythmic thump-thump of Chicago's finest house music assaulted my eardrums.

Back then, I went by "Scooter" to some, "Kitty" to others, and "Bunny" to only one. My outfits were flowy and colorful, my hair was in pigtails, and there was always a flurry of glitter around me. My backpack was full of toys - Hoberman spheres, blinking lights, glowsticks, Blow-Pops, vibrators, acrylic massagers, Vick's VapoRub, surgical masks. I did not do the drugs, but I made it my personal mission to ensure that those who did them had the time of their lives, safely. My backpack and my hands were very popular party favors.

In between bouts of dancing, I'd park myself in a corner and soon I'd have a small line forming as I ran my fingertips over a seemingly endless stream of glistening skin, brought to the very peak of heightened sensitivity by my attentions and the chemicals coursing through the veins beneath. I played with hair. I nuzzled necks. I whispered my name in ears that likely never heard it, and certainly never remembered. I supplied cold bottled water where needed, and breathed tingly menthol air into the eyes and mouths of my compatriots.

I played mother hen, making sure everybody was safe and hydrated. I grinned as girls and boys I didn't know rubbed up against me, flashing me their starry eyes. I facilitated kisses and more between willing, handsome boys and my on-again, off-again boyfriend, whose normally undercover bisexuality was so easily teased to the surface by a tiny white pill and my gentle reminders that yes, baby, it is turning me on so much to watch you with him. Eyes rolled back in heads. Hearts beat hard, keeping time with the bassline. In the mornings, we gathered along the lakefront in groups of hundreds, sometimes thousands, to quietly play drums and watch the sun rise. We breathed deeply and held one another close, talking nonsense about peace, love, unity and acceptance. For a warm, cuddly girl like me, this space was paradise, and I got to visit it regularly for a few shining years.

In the daytime, I went back to being the angsty, withdrawn girl my family knew me as. My lipstick was black, my mood was sullen, and my temper was short. I didn't like myself very much, and didn't have many friends. I had a very hard time relating to other people. I was very private, preferring to spend most of my time hiding behind the anonymity of my computer, chatting with strangers who didn't know me and didn't know my story; strangers who couldn't judge. I have always made a better first impression in text. I am nowhere near eloquent in person, most of the time.

Thus, it was on the internet that I met Mark, over a round-table discussion of dance music. He lived nearby, albeit on the "bad side" of town, and attended many of the same parties. I recalled having seen him around - he was an incredible dancer, but I couldn't remember what he looked like. We chatted for a couple of weeks, and then agreed to meet. He would come to my house to pick me up. I dressed in my typical head-to-toe black, covered from wrists to ankles, careful not to show much skin, as I was not fond of my body. I went to the porch and waited. And waited. When I glanced at my watch and realized he was 45 minutes late, I turned back into the house, feeling dejected. I stepped into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I splashed some water on my face and took a hard look in the mirror, sharply criticizing every flaw, the way I have always done when upset. He had seen a photo of me - did he decide I wasn't attractive enough? Had he found something better to do this evening? I felt hurt.

Just then, I heard a knock at the bathroom door. It was my mother. Testily, I responded. She said, "Mariel, he's here." Shit! I dried my face, checked my makeup, and opened the bathroom door. My mother was grinning ear to ear. "He's so handsome, Mariel!" she whispered. My heart fluttered. If my mother thought he was handsome, well, that was something. I walked to the front door, as she lingered in the kitchen to give me space. I opened the door. Standing in front of me was the physical embodiment of almost every teenage girl's dreamboat fantasy.

He was tall and slender but not lanky. His skin was flawless. His longish dark hair hung in front of his brown eyes in that messy, accidental way that only teenage boys can pull off. His lips were compact but his smile was wide, and he lit up at the sight of me. I'd never gotten that reaction before. I stepped out, tentatively, and went to shake his hand, only to be scooped up into an earnest hug that literally swept me off my feet. I was not a tiny girl, mind you, but he was very strong. His arms held me steady, and he made it look effortless. "It's so good to meet you, finally! I'm Mark." He set me down, and kissed my cheek. We held hands as we walked.

That night, we went to the lake. Walking through the trendy neighborhoods, women from several different age groups eyed my date and obviously approved. We talked and talked, the conversation never flagging. On the grass lining the rocky waterfront, we cuddled. He held me in his lap and stroked my arms, telling me that I was pretty. I turned around to get a better look at him, unabashedly memorizing his face and enjoying his gaze. We watched the boats light up in the summer night, floating on the inky water. It was a beautiful, innocent first date.

A week or so later, we visited a park in the rain. I love rain, and he knew it. I
climbed on the playground, revisiting my youth, chatting away about nothing in particular. At one point, he became silent and tapped me on the shoulder. Instinctively, I spun around, only to be met by his embrace. He was upon me in a moment, his strong tongue parting my lips, discovering my own. I met his kisses with enthusiasm, and we pressed our rain-soaked bodies together. We kissed for hours, as young people will do. I was delighted.

Such dates continued for several months as we got to know one another. My Mark was smart, funny and outgoing, having learned to carve a niche for himself as the middle child in a very large family. He had an easy charm about him, and was friendly almost to a fault. There were obstacles, though, as there always are. The largest of these was the fact that my Mark fancied himself a strict Pentecostal and vegetarian. Now, I was raised a good Catholic girl, but by the age of 12 I had already done my research and branded myself an agnostic. I hold firm on my refusal to hold firm to this day. In his mind, this made me a heathen, worthy of a fiery afterlife. I had no desire to debate religion. Even now, I will not engage in that.

I commended him for not pressuring me to change, but he did spend quite a lot of time
enumerating for me the ways in which Jesus was his one, true love, and how he needed to settle down with a woman who would join in his fervor for the lord. He also found my meat-eating ways disgusting, and this I was much less offended by. To this day, I feel guilty about being an omnivore. I have tried, and subsequently failed, several times to become a vegetarian. I don't know how to cook and don't own a stove, so my experiments never go well. I was willing to concede that yes, my support of the meat industry made me at least passively cruel, and that in the future, I might consider changing.

In a very short amount of time, though, these differences in lifestyle weighed heavy upon his conscience, especially when we spoke of all things sensual. I have always loved to talk about sex, even before I was doing it. I was always honest about my sexual desires, and I would tell him about my eagerness to experiment. Occasionally, I invited my best friend, Katie, to kiss and grope with the two of us. It got even worse as my roving hands got bolder and bolder during our extended lip locks. He was forbidden by his faith to have "sexual relations" prior to his marriage to his ideal God-fearing wife, and he was beginning to think I was a floozy for all my boldness. I was frustrated. He was frustrated. Over time, we drifted apart and stopped speaking.

Years passed. I grew up. The bubble burst on the party scene. I had other relationships, had sex, got a real job, learned to be social, continued to eat meat and never returned to my Christian roots. One day in 2004, I decided to check on good ol' Mark. I sent an e-mail to the address he had given me years before, not allowing myself to hope for much. To my surprise, I got a response that very night.

I could practically see his broad smile in his excited response. He seemed so happy to hear from me. He said we had much to discuss. We agreed to meet.

Again, before our second first date, I found myself deep in scrutiny in front of my bathroom mirror. I had put on weight. My hair was short. Would he like it? Would he still find me pretty, despite the fact that I was chubby and older? Would he still be as attractive as he had been years ago?

He came and picked me up again. He hugged me tightly again. He was still handsome. Older, more rugged. I was still girlishly blushing. We found each other easy company, talking as we drove. He was a plumber, and had the rough hands of a laborer. He was still very attached to his religion and an active (now vegan) member of PETA, but he said he had learned to be more accepting of others. He never forgot my kisses, he said. He still had the flowery, teenage love notes I'd written, he said. I was still pretty, he said.

Naturally, there was a catch to this.

My Mark had found himself a girlfriend. A stunningly beautiful girl named Jenny.

Anyway, Mark told me all about his relationship. He did not seem very happy. I felt awkward. Why was he telling me this? Why was it my business? Where was this leading? We continued to see one another, gradually spending more time together. Most of the time, we were at his house, watching movies together in his bedroom. Soon, we were wrestling on his bed, having pillow fights. Once or twice, we even cuddled. I picked up a belt one day, turning it over in my hands, making a joke about how my ardent vegan owned a leather item. He explained to me that it was fake and 100% cruelty-free, but that it held pants up and left marks on backsides just the same. My eyes lit up and my cheeks went pink. He noticed. My Mark had relaxed about sex, it seemed.

He worked similar comments into our conversations from that point on, trying to make them seem nonchalant. Most of the time, I'm sad to say, I took the bait and flirted, and then chastised myself for it later. I wanted to experience him in the ways that had been denied to me years earlier, but I was not about to contribute to him cheating on his girlfriend. I had been there before, and felt none too proud of myself. He was not ready to end his relationship. We were at an impasse.

One night in late July, as I was leaving his house, my Mark once again swept me off my feet as we stood under a streetlamp, his arms wrapped around me like he never intended to let go. That was the last time I saw him. I recognized what was happening, and needed to stop it before we had regrets. I was falling for him, and that would only lead to heartache for both of us. I ended things neatly, and we stopped talking all together.

Years passed again.

A couple of weeks ago, I looked him up once more. My Mark is married.

Addendum

noreply@blogger.com (Mariel) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 23:14:00 +0000

It seems I share some common interests (even beyond a similar name) with another blogger from the East coast, Mariella. Apparently, she also prefers her smut well-structured, her favorite bloggers blonde, and can appreciate my, well, appreciation for a good 30-eyelet boot. Her seemingly limitless vocabulary puts yours truly to shame, too, and I recommend that any of you who might be reading my page without having had access to hers (an unlikely few, to be sure) check it out for yourselves. The girl can write.

Organizational skills

noreply@blogger.com (Mariel) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 20:16:00 +0000

It is very, very hot in Chicago. And very humid. Therefore, I can be found comfortably holed up in the refrigerated sanctuary of my home office, sipping an iced tea and munching some pretzels as I type, far far away from temperatures that would make me melt (in a bad way).

Today I'd like to talk a little bit about a couple of things that please me. First and foremost, it should be obvious, given my recommended reading material thus far, that I thoroughly enjoy those folks who can wrap their lips (or fingers, as the case may be) around a complete sentence. This is almost certainly more important to me than their undoubted ability to wrap their lips around other things, even when it comes to smut. I always enjoy someone who can turn a good phrase, and in my opinion, it's a good sign when a person takes the time to pay attention to their grammar, spelling and punctuation. It shows effort.

Also high up on my list are organizational skills. Those who know me best know that in my personal life, I'm pretty scatter-brained. I'm Mariel the perpetually tardy, Mariel the distracted. Mariel whose house is seldom completely clean, Mariel who is always losing her keys. I do strive very hard to make sure not to let down those closest to me when it comes to keeping appointments and remembering important dates and such. I do a pretty good job of it, too, but when it comes to my own daily life, things can get messy as I forget to fill up my gas tank or misplace my remote control in my sock drawer.

In my professional life, though, I'm a whole different story. I arrive for work fully half an hour early, if not more, most days. When I tell a client I will call them back, it usually only takes minutes. My store is always immaculate, and my supplies are always neatly organized and easily accessible. Appointments are documented and kept. Every item I'm working on is carefully catalogued in detail, both in my computer and on paper, as a precaution. Therefore, when somebody calls me to check on the status of some work, it takes me mere seconds to find the answer they're looking for, and I only need to look in one place.

Prior to my arrival, my store was not always such a tight ship. There is no better place to look for evidence of this than at my boss's other branch, a location I only visit on weekends. The store is a mess, cluttered from floor to ceiling with 20 years of accumulated junk. When work comes in, it is not recorded anywhere. The item is simply heaped onto the appropriate pile to wait its turn. Imagine how fun it is for me when a customer from that location calls me up on a weekend, asking me to check on the status of their item. The only way to do that for them is to physically sift through the piles of work, trying to find the right piece. Ridiculous, right? The conversation goes something like this: "Hi, I'm so-and-so, and I'd like to check on the status of my item." They proceed to describe their item. I say, "Oh, okay. Well, give me a little while, and I will look for it." They ask, "Well, don't you have it on a computer somewhere or something?" "No, I'm sorry, we don't." <crickets>

When I first started my job, I asked my boss how they keep track of things over there. His answer? "I don't know. We just do." When I volunteered to start keeping a detailed record of new work as it came in, my idea was rejected. "We've been doing it like this for 25 years, and it works. We just kind of know where things are. Do things how you want at your store." Fine. I won't rock the boat. You know what else I won't do, though? I won't spend all day searching for things for your clients anymore. If you guys just know off the top of your head where to find any given thing at any given time, then by all means, be my guest. Therefore, every Monday, my boss opens his shop to see a short, neatly hand-written list of items that his customers would like to check on. He does not complain to me about it. I guess we have an understanding.

On a more physical note, I'd like to sing my offbeat praises of hands and arms. Not just any hands and arms, but some - mostly those belonging to men. Don't get me wrong, girls have lovely, delicate paws, but I can't say I've ever experienced raw lust just from looking at them. Certain men, however, have just what it takes. I really, really enjoy touching and being touched in many different ways, and it is not a big stretch for me to imagine a pair of arms and hands that I like doing some serious feeling around.

I've found inspiration recently in the forelimbs of a fellow morning commuter. He's young, tall and lean, and is obviously trying his best to look more intimidating than he is. He's got long black hair, shinier and healthier than I've seen on most women. His eyes are large and brown, with long lashes and a sad, soulful expression that all but ruins the hardcore image he's obviously trying to pull off. He is up to his eyeballs in piercings, which I certainly appreciate, and even comes complete with a predictable pair of shit-kicking boots. Excellent.

I imagine that if we caught a glimpse of his forearms, we'd see numerous tattoos, maybe some scars, but what peeks out from beyond his cuffs is what catches my attention. My, my - what have we here? Studded leather bracelets and the palest of pale hands, large and masculine, with strong fingers tipped in meticulously painted black fingernails. I couldn't have dreamed it better myself.

I'm not exactly sure where it came from, but I've got quite a thing for rockstar hands. Show me your black nails, guitar-calloused fingertips and dark leather bracelets and I'll show you a puddle on my seat. Something about dark colors on pale flesh really does it for me, and this kid's got the works. A popular blogger who shall remain nameless recently dared me, upon hearing of this fancy of mine, to tell the boy what I think of his mitts. Crippling shyness has prevented me from doing so thus far, but if it happens, I'll be sure to keep everybody posted if I score some numbers while praising his digits.

There was going to be more to this, but barbecue calls and, well, a girl's got to have priorities.

Scentillating.

noreply@blogger.com (Mariel) — Sat, 31 May 2008 19:34:00 +0000

About a month ago, my boss informed me that the janitor at my workplace would not be coming in to do his usual cleaning routine. Ever eager to be of help and to make a good impression, I volunteered to take over for him, and I cleaned up the shop. I think I did a pretty good job, and my boss was appreciative. Industrious Mariel is industrious, after all. What I didn't count on at the time, though, was that I'd still be doing all the cleaning a month later. I'm not complaining, exactly, as I actually sort of enjoy cleaning, but I still can't help but laugh at myself a bit for how I put myself in this situation. I should've known better.

In any case, the situation has resulted in me being alone in the store on Saturdays, and as cleaning doesn't take up the whole day and customers are few and far between on the weekends, I find myself with a lot of time to think, daydream, and hang around on Twitter, my friends' websites, and graphjam.com. While doing this today, I thought about my own foray into blogging. For no other reason than having been mentioned briefly in Jefferson's blog, I've suddenly found myself with an audience, and at a loss for what to say. I reasoned that if I tried to join the cool kids and turn this into a sex blog, it'd go defunct in the blink of an eye, for my sex life is every bit as lackluster as Jefferson's is sensational. No, I'd have to think of other things to talk about. Strike while the iron is hot, so they say. I did come up with something, so pull up a chair, pop open your beverage of choice (I'll take a martini, thanks), and join me as I feed you my past in non-sequential snippets.

Have you ever found yourself somewhere, smelling something that suddenly reminds you of something from your past? Something long, long forgotten? Of course you have. I think that's a pretty universal experience. You don't need me to tell you what they say about the sense of smell and memory. I had a moment like this today, as I walked into the bathroom at work.

No, no. Not THAT kind of smell.

The smell of the disinfectant in the bathroom here reminds me sharply of the smell of the bathroom at the preschool/kindergarten/day camp I attended as a kid. It was a large bathroom with absolutely tiny toilets, painted an institutional green color, and the walls were plastered with decals of Sesame Street characters. On the front of the door was hung a placard that read "Potty Room," surrounded with words that were supposed to be appealing to young potty-goers. "Happy!" "Fun!" "Super!" A great many memories of the school as a whole came flooding back to me as I thought about the happy, fun, super Potty Room. The school as I knew it is closed now, having been taken over by a different montessori organization, and that's probably a good thing, for when I attended, it marched to the beat of an altogether unusual drummer. Actually, that's a serious understatement.

It was run primarily by Miss Betty, a large, sweaty, tyrannical older woman with short-cropped hair and glasses. She reminded me of the Queen of Hearts from Alice in Wonderland, or the Trunchbull from Matilda. No joke. Boisterous and butch as can be, she was the kind of woman whose very presence struck fear into the hearts of the children in her care, and whom I'd probably still be intimidated by if I saw her again as an adult. Helping run the show was Miss Jackie, who was as soft-spoken and sweet as Miss Betty was obnoxious. The school was divided into two large rooms - one for the preschool kids and "tiny tots" (those kids under the age of 4), and one for the kindergarten children.

I started there as a Tiny Tot, with a woman named Miss Sheri as my teacher. I only remember one detail about Miss Sheri - her long, brightly colored fingernails. She put those nails to good use, too. You see, ever since I was a little kid, I have had trouble falling asleep. To soothe me, my mother and grandmother used to scratch my back lightly before bed. 2-hour mid-day naps at this school were mandatory, and I would cry and holler as loudly as I could to avoid having to go to sleep on my uncomfortable little cot. Taking pity on me, Miss Sheri would use her fingernails to work the same magic on my back, and most of the time, it worked. I would shut up, dry my face, and fall asleep. Keep in mind, folks, that these were the days before rampant reports of child abuse at daycare centers, and my teachers were not expected to take a hands-off approach (Au contraire, in fact. These were the days when you still got a sharp smack to the face for telling your parents or teachers to go fuck themselves, as I, for whatever reason, was wont to do).

The back-scratching was much appreciated my by 3-year-old self, and it continued on and off throughout preschool and kindergarten. It never struck me as "weird" that they were doing me that service. As a child, I was admittedly bratty and bossy, and used to getting what I wanted, so it didn't surprise me at all that I had several adult attendants doing their best to make me comfortable when I demanded it. Things didn't start to get awkward until I had graduated kindergarten and started going back during the summers for day camp.

Somewhere along the line, I became Miss Betty's pet pupil. I was a very outgoing child, always looking to be the center of attention, and addicted to praise. When we put on class plays or productions, I always asked for (and always got) the lead role. In my schoolwork, I was successful (I attribute this to the fact that I was read to so much as a child, and spoken to like an adult. Thanks, fam.), but my boastful and pedantic ways led me to be somewhat unpopular among my classmates, save for a few close buddies. Thus, I learned to get my kicks from being the teacher's pet. It suited me.

Being Miss Betty's favorite did not work out to my advantage, though. When I was 6, she had a nasty accident at home that caused her to fall down a flight of stairs, breaking both arms and one of her cheekbones. She was only away from school for about a week, and when she returned, she was black and blue and covered in casts, and needed help with almost everything.

This fell to me, for who-knows-what reason.

Soon, I found myself cutting up her lunch into manageable pieces, fetching various objects, and holding the telephone while she made calls. Once in a while, she'd get an itch, and itches need to be scratched. Naturally, I did not enjoy any of this, but I did it, out of that same desire to be helpful that continues to bite me in the ass to this day. She healed eventually, but I continued to be her "helper" in many ways. One thing led to another, and before you know it, I was scratching her back for money, a back-rub prostitute at the ripe old age of 7 or 8.

Not kidding.

I'm happy to report that the story doesn't get any creepier from here. I never felt violated or anything, and in fact, that arrangement didn't continue for very long, but looking back on the situation with adult eyes, I'm able to say, "yep, that was definitely strange." I didn't think to tell my family about it until years after the fact. We laugh about it now. There were definitely many things I fully enjoyed about my experiences at that place, too. Like how I ended up making friends with some of the cooler, older kids, and 'earning' what looked to my young mind like a small fortune on poker winnings, collected while those children not favored by the teacher were forced to nap.

There were, however, a few things that I did voice objections about at the time.

Like Pea Shooting Day. Or Barrel Rolling Day.

You see, this day camp that I went to during the summers was a pretty awesome one, as day camps go. While other kids at other camps spent their days making crafts out of Popsicle sticks and taking the occasional group trip to the zoo, every day was a field trip for us Owls. Each day, Miss Betty would pack the 20 or so camp kids into her giant van and drive us to a different educational but exciting destination. We hit the zoo. We went fishing. We went to a corn processing mill. We went to a war memorial, where we climbed on real tanks and cannons, obliviously searing our bare legs on the hot, sun-baked metal. We went to the lake each Friday, where Miss Betty bought us ice cream and I was able to conquer my childhood fear of floating seaweed. We had our own annual roller derby, Olympic games and bowling tournaments (I usually won these). My personal favorites were the trips to forest preserves, where Miss Betty and the junior counselors would organize nature walks and a scavenger hunt, complete with real monetary prizes. Every day was a new adventure, and us kids loved it.

However, there were a couple of days that required me to fake sick and play hooky: Pea Shooting Day, and Barrel Rolling Day. Let's start with Pea Shooting Day, shall we? Once a year, the camp took a trip to a certain local forest preserve for pint-sized war games. Upon arrival and unloading, each child was armed with the following: one red plastic cup full of small black-eyed peas, one extra-wide drinking straw and, if they were lucky, their wits. The instructions were simple: place a pea in one end of your straw, find a target, aim, and shoot. Then, a whistle was blown and the children were set loose to turn on one another in the forest.

Now, I was a halfway decent shot, but this experience was hellish for me for several reasons: A) the weather was invariably 100 degrees and humid on these days, and the last thing I wanted to be doing was running around in the sun, dodging minuscule projectiles. B) Those peas fucking HURT. I'm a pacifist, and have always been. Why would I want to send a little food-bullet, covered invariably in spit, hurtling toward my friends' bare arms/legs/faces? C) I have a mother-hen type personality. It is just part of my nature to fret and mother over the people around me, if I care about them. My little 9 year old mind was positively reeling with the possibility of people catching a pea to the eye and needing to go to the hospital. I was convinced calamity was waiting around every corner.

Sometimes, I tried to hide until it was over. This did not go over so well. Inevitably, those kids found crouching behind some dead tree were found, summarily called out on their cowardice, and given two options: save face and re-enter the game, or be seen as a sissy in the eyes of their peers.

So, really, there was only one option, and at the end of the day, I always went home covered in tiny pea-sized welts.

Nearly as bad as Pea Shooting Day was Barrel Rolling Day. This special occasion involved us kids being trucked out to a certain park, the most distinguishing characteristic of which was its very steep, grassy hill, the bottom of which was butted up against a fenced-in baseball diamond. This park was, of course, a prime spot for sledding in the winter, and Miss Betty found another use for it too: sticking children in open-ended plastic garbage cans and sending them on their merry way down this hill. The game, I guess, was to try to stay in the barrel until the end - when you would smash jarringly against the fence behind home plate and stumble dizzily out, looking for all the world like a drunken, disoriented fool.

Bowing out of this rousing experience was, like pea shooting, not an option, if you wanted to be well-respected. You only had to make one choice: go alone, or go with a buddy. Alone was better, as the presence of another person in your barrel almost ensured that you'd receive an inadvertent kick to the head. So you'd climb into your barrel, wincing at the tiny static shocks you'd receive from your clothes and hair rubbing up against all the plastic. You were positioned at the top of the hill, and sent down. Sometimes, you didn't make it the whole way. If you couldn't keep yourself in the barrel, kids laughed and cheered you on as your arms or legs smacked the ground outside of it on each turn. Sometimes you hit a rock and went airborne for a second. That was the good stuff.

Or so I'm told. After one or two of those outings, I learned to stay the fuck home.

After 5 years of having my mettle tested by these ridiculous sports, I finally began spending my summer vacations reading, watching TV, and hanging out with friends like a normal child. As I got older, the friends of mine that also attended the same school would joke with me about how crazy it was, but I think we were all secretly proud that our childhood stories were just a little bit more unusual than most, and feeling that we'd made it through some bizarre rite of passage together.

But how do these things apply to my life now? Well, I'll tell you. For starters, my talents as a back-scratcher are considerable, and luckily, my appetite for the practice was not killed by my strange and somewhat unpleasant beginnings. It takes me a little while to like somebody enough to want to touch them, but once I get there, any moment spent with idle hands that could be spent causing that person to feel pleasure is a moment wasted, and my hands do not tire easily. If there is any one ability I am proud of, that's it. I also attribute some of my modest skill as a marksman to my pea-shooting days, and I think that despite my reluctance to participate at the time, it did contribute to my eventual enjoyment of combat games. So if you need a back-rub at the end of a long day, can't fall asleep or you want to go paint-balling, I'm your girl.

The odds and the end.

noreply@blogger.com (Mariel) — Fri, 30 May 2008 04:41:00 +0000

Tonight, yours truly finds herself dusting her shoulders off after the fallout from the second failed relationship in a year.

Maybe that was a little over-dramatic. We found ourselves trying to hang onto something that just wasn't in the cards, and it did end tonight, but there wasn't much fallout at all. Part of what attracts me to my partners in the first place is that they're mature, reasonable adults, and this man in particular is as well-adjusted as they come. The truth may have been served up raw and cold, but we got past that course with a quickness and washed it down with our signature blend of sarcasm and resignation. I can't say I feel fantastic right at this very moment, but I couldn't have asked for things to go more smoothly, and things are looking brighter already.

New friends and fine footwear

noreply@blogger.com (Mariel) — Mon, 26 May 2008 21:36:00 +0000

The Back-story:

A couple of years ago, I was browsing MySpace and came across a man whose page caught my attention. His blurbs were witty; his photos appealing. I introduced myself in my usual long-winded fashion, and we hit it off pretty well from the get-go. We sent messages back and forth for months before we finally met. I was nervous about meeting him, as I usually am with new people, but it turned out my fears were unfounded. He had a charming, energetic way about him that made me feel more alive just by virtue of being in the same room. We became fast friends.

Later, we became more than that for a brief moment and endured some major speed bumps before reversing into the friend-only zone where we find ourselves comfortably parked to this day. Sometime in between, this man introduced to me the music of an artist named Regina Spektor. I gave it a listen, and loved it immediately. Her voice was unique, her lyrics quirky, her music soulful and moving. There was one song in particular that I listened to several times, a slower song with a heartsick vibe called "Samson." Given my romantic ennui at the time, it suited my mood perfectly. One night, I decided to look up the lyrics. Keying a certain series of words into Google directed me to the usual bullshit lyrics lists, but one of the links on the results page stood out. I clicked.

My click led me to a blog by a woman who called herself Madeline, and the blog chronicled a weekend of exchanges between her and a man called Jefferson. I stayed up for hours reading it. I hadn't been an avid blog reader up until that point, and for the most part, I'm still not, but something about this woman's writing style and the passionate description of the chemistry between her and her lover kept me engrossed almost all night. I finished the entire blog, and I was hooked.

The following day, I spent some time reading Madeline's other, main blog, and Jefferson's as well. I learned more about both. They each had other lovers, and both seemed to be well-respected within the kink/poly community I found myself exploring through their writing. Given my appetite for smut, this all sounded very promising. Kinky people who also happen to be good writers, talking in lascivious detail about their awesome sex lives? Sign me up. After a short time of reading through archived posts by both, I found myself mostly focusing on Jefferson's blog - the accounts of "a parent and pervert in New York City." A sex blogger, to be sure, and a good one, but more than that also. Insightful, sophisticated, articulate, mysterious, erotic, and full of witty repartee, his talents as a weaver of words impressed me from the start, and continue to impress me to this day. He tells stories of his many romances, sexual escapades, friends and family, and never fails to entertain. If you check out his blog for yourself, you won't need me to describe it to you in detail. I'm not even sure that I could do a good job of it if I tried.

Time passed by, and I would check his blog occasionally. Once every few weeks or so, I'd log on, check in, and catch up on whatever stories I'd missed, becoming familiar with the various characters in his cast. Many times, when he mentions another public blogger in his posts, he will include a link to their blog as well. This is how I found Avah. Only a little younger than me, she was one of Jefferson's regular lovers. She looked adorable. Her blog read more like a blog, rather than a book, and I suppose I identified with the honest emotion of it. I enjoyed getting her perspective on Jefferson's life, and reading about her experiences outside of that as well. It seemed we had things in common. I bookmarked her site also, and commented occasionally.

I lurked around, keeping track of both blogs whenever I had the time, for months. I found myself developing the same sort of fascination with them and their writing that I'm sure most of their readers do. With Jefferson especially, it was almost like having a crush on an author, except with most authors, you at least get a press photo in black and white on your book jacket. All I had to go on with this man was a photo featuring his teeth, bared in a mischievous grin, and a few of his fingers. Nonetheless, I was intrigued.

During this time, I was driving to the suburbs a lot to visit my sister. Along the way, I would pass a pub with a large sign that read "Jefferson Pump." It was a stretch, but the grade-schooler in me can always be counted upon to imbue just about anything with sexual innuendo, and I would smirk and be reminded of the blog when I'd pass. I thought about taking a photo of the sign. Then, inspired by his other readers' submissions, I thought of finding a way to take a photo of myself near the sign. Perhaps an erotic photo of myself near the sign? I got imaginative. Unfortunately, this never came to fruition as last year, the sign was removed and the pub re-named. Plus, let's face it - I'm no exhibitionist (at least not yet).

Despite that setback, I decided not to just lurk anymore. Unaware of the protocol (if there was any) for introducing oneself to Jefferson, I wrote him a message. I'm sure I introduced myself (again, probably in my usual long-winded fashion), told him some basics, asked some questions, and mentioned my disappointment over the situation with the pub sign. I only half-expected a response, busy man that he was, but I got one fairly quickly. His message was gracious, he answered my questions, and he added in a joke of his own about the aforementioned pub sign. I'm fairly sure I responded once more, and received one more response in kind, later down the road. Not entirely certain of where I was hoping it would go, and not wanting to waste his time, I chose not to continue to correspond further, and went back to lurking as a reader only. I'd introduced myself, told him I enjoyed his writing, and made my relatively unremarkable first impression. That was plenty.

The Story:

Fast-forward to last week. Finding myself in something of a rut in my life and wanting to meet new people and experience new things, I once again focused on Jefferson's blog, reasoning that he was something of an authority on new people and new experiences. Motivated by my rut and my insatiable curiosity, I sent him a message late one night. Having spent a lot of time recently musing on attraction between people, I asked him a question about it. He responded early the next morning. I read the message as soon as I woke up and checked my messages, still lying on my bed in the dark before work. Yes, he remembered me, and what put such a question in my head? The last line stuck out the most, though. "I'll be in Chicago next week."

My mouth went dry.

I stared at the screen for a moment. I glanced around the dark room as if I was worried about being watched. He was coming here? What was I supposed to do with that information? Somewhere in the back of my mind, I supposed I had always had some vague plan that someday, when I was feeling adventurous and curiosity got the better of me, I might follow that well-worn path to his door to see if we hit it off. Someday when I was more savvy, more impressive. Maybe for a carnal rendezvous and maybe not, but at least to meet the man whose life I'd been attempting to follow for a couple of years. I found myself unprepared, though, for him to be in such close proximity, for surely he was suggesting we meet. Right? Or maybe not. Maybe I was being presumptuous. I asked what he was doing in the windy city, and did my best to play it cool, in case I'd misunderstood.

"I'll be in Chicago next week, too. What a coincidence!" I wrote. My comedic skill is the stuff of legend, obviously.

As evidenced by his response, I hadn't misunderstood. He was in Chicago for Shibaricon, the Japanese rope bondage convention, he liked the idea of us meeting, and the ball was apparently in my court as far as what the nature of our meeting would be. I'm pretty sure my heart raced all day, for a lot of reasons, not the least of which was my boyfriend. We might be on somewhat unstable ground, and things may or may not dissolve on their own, but I care very deeply about him and wasn't about to end my relationship with, "oh, hey, by the way, you know that guy whose sex blog I read online all the time? Well, he came to town, and I fucked him, and it's over," for that certainly would be the end of my relationship, and rightfully so. That's not my style, nor was I ready for that step. I told Jefferson that the meeting, if there was to be one, would have to be platonic in nature, although I was very happy at the idea of it. He agreed, and said he was unsure of his schedule.

It's definitely an unusual situation for me where I feel as though it is expected that I become intimate with somebody right off the bat, and despite his experiences, I don't believe he really expects that sort of thing from anyone under normal circumstances. He seems, as far as I can tell, perfectly willing to move at whatever pace is mutually agreed upon, and he does seem to have plenty of friends with whom he does not have sex. Still, I couldn't help but feel as though I was disappointing him somehow by nixing the idea the way that I had, and I wondered if he would really go through with a meeting or not, since I wasn't offering anything. No, I didn't just wonder. I worried. I feel foolish for underestimating him like that, in retrospect.

A couple of days later, while reading through Avah's posts, I discovered that she too would be attending Shibaricon in Chicago. I sent her a message informing her that I would not be far away, and that I'd like to meet her if she thought that was a good idea. She wrote back, asking if I'd like to meet with her and Jefferson for dinner. I told her that I had already proposed a meeting with Jefferson, and that yes, dinner with the two of them together sounded great. Over the course of the next few days, she and I made plans and I grew the same kind of nervousness that I always do when it comes to meeting new people. Nonetheless, I was excited.

Sunday rolled around. It was a busy, hectic day. I'd spent the morning in Indiana, and on the drive back, I received a text message from Avah asking if I would mind swinging by their hotel to pick them up. I told her that was no problem, and that I'd meet them in the lobby. I was late, of course. I took a shower and got dressed in a hurry, fumbled my keys, and rushed out the door. I pulled into the parking lot about 10 minutes late, and got out of my car. Immediately, I regretted my clothing choice as my skirt blew up around my waist. I clutched it as best I could and made my way over to the hotel entrance. I entered through a side door, and walked on to the main lobby area. I was expecting them to be together, and I didn't notice any couples that could possibly have been them. I had a reasonable idea of what Avah looked like, but I was mostly in the dark about Jefferson's appearance, so I wasn't entirely sure what I should be looking for. I made eye contact with a few people who were seated in the chairs in the lobby, and propped myself up against a column to check my phone. My palms were sweaty. No messages. Were they running late? Were they not going to show? A man in a green shirt, seated in a chair facing in my direction, was studying me. I glanced at him a few times, not really registering his features from that distance. He didn't react. I suspected it might have been Jefferson, but I wasn't sure and was feeling a bit too tense to start introducing myself to total strangers in hopes that I'd find the right one.

After a minute or two of alternating glances around the room, at my phone, and at the man in the chair, I decided to step outside and call Avah. The lace hooks on the combat boots I was wearing had other ideas, though. They were stuck together, and I only very narrowly avoided taking a mid-lobby fall on my face. It was, of course, very sexy. I trip and fall more often than the average person, and it would have been par for the course for me to experience something like that at that moment. I escaped with only a minor stumble, though, dignity mostly intact, marched outside, and hoped that green-shirt man, since he had presumably witnessed that near-disaster, was not Jefferson.

I don't have such luck.

After a beat, he followed me out. When he got close, I smiled, and he smiled, and I forgot about my clumsiness. It wasn't the same mischievous grin I'd become familiar with, but I recognized his teeth. That sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? "I recognized his teeth." I did, though. I've been looking at his mouth at the top of his page for years, and I pay attention to teeth anyway. He pointed to his name tag. I said hello, and he gave me a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. It's not very often that people greet you with a kiss on the cheek these days, and I really enjoyed that. He looked more or less the way I had envisioned him - handsome and unassuming. He is not necessarily a physically imposing man, but he has a palpable quiet authority about him that I found captivating right away. He told me that Avah was not quite ready yet, and that we ought to walk to my car, come back, and pick her up. We began walking, but only made it a few paces before he checked his phone and saw that she was coming down to the lobby. We turned back, went inside, and sat down.

I chatted somewhat nervously with him for a few minutes, fidgeting with my fingernails. He spoke calmly and evenly, and his body language and casual, charming way of speaking began to put me at ease right away. After a few minutes, we stood up to greet Avah. She was beautiful. Taller than I expected, elegant, and curvy in all the right ways. Her eyes and smile were bright, and she was obviously giddy. "I got a corset!" she beamed, and showed it to him before turning to say hello. We walked to my car as she told us about her new prize, and when we got there I apologized for the size of my car. It was small, and Jefferson ended up in the back seat. Naturally, I nearly made a wrong turn during the very short trip to the restaurant, but luckily Jefferson had a better sense of direction than I do and we made it there without incident.

The restaurant did not seem to be aware of our reservation, but it wasn't crowded and they seated us quickly. I sipped a dirty martini and nibbled sporadically at my spinach enchiladas as I asked questions and listened raptly to stories. The dynamic between the two of them was alternately tender and amusing, and I found it was just as entertaining to listen to their back-and-forth as it was to talk with them myself. Both of their eyes occasionally wandered around the room, people-watching, but Jefferson in particular seemed quite comfortable making eye contact with me and holding it for a beat or two. I have some trouble with eye contact, and I'm sure it was obvious to him. It's something I really want to get over, and I felt self-conscious about it.

We remained at the restaurant until we were the last patrons in that dining area, and then got up and scooted out somewhat abruptly. My legs were asleep from having sat cross-legged for so long. I drove them back to the hotel, and when we parked, Avah made a comment about wanting to wear her corset. I replied with something like "it is a beautiful corset," which elicited a response from Jefferson somewhere along the lines of, "would you like to come up and see her in her beautiful corset?" Why yes, yes I would. I agreed, and we went inside, talking about bands while we waited for the elevator, or rather, talking about how I knew nothing about the bands they were talking about. It was decided that I needed to hear these bands. I agreed. Yes, let me hear the bands. The last thing on my mind at that moment was the music.

Their room was sort of an odd triangular shape, but well appointed. I used the oddly triangular shaped bathroom, checked my makeup in the mirror, took a deep breath, and went out to take a seat. Jefferson poured himself a bourbon, and offered me one. I declined, thinking to myself that I had just had a martini and that they'd not want me to linger around their room very long, and I didn't want to be more buzzed than I should be for the drive home. I watched intently as Jefferson laced Avah into her new corset, a black damask number with small, vaguely Asian flowers. Classy. Avah remarked that they had done things a little bit backwards; now that she was corseted, she wouldn't be able to lace Jefferson's boots. The very same boots I had seen in a photo on his site not long beforehand. He looked at me and said something to the effect of, "well, luckily I brought a spare boot-tyer!" I grinned.

Finally, Avah was completely laced up, and we all admired her figure. She and Jefferson admired it with their hands, and I admired it with my eyes. She put on some music for me to listen to, which Jefferson clearly enjoyed and I must admit was very catchy, and we watched and giggled as she worked her way somewhat comically into the rest of her very flattering outfit. I felt significantly more comfortable in their room than I had in the restaurant, oddly enough, and the conversation flowed pretty well. I witnessed on several occasions the same mischievous grin I'd come to expect from Jefferson. We talked about the use of honorifics, "sir" and the like. Jefferson and I have somewhat different opinions on the topic, and Avah seems to be somewhere in-between, but it made for good chat. Avah needed her corset adjusted at one point, and I stood in front to check to make sure it was even and placed well, and that her breasts looked good. They did. Despite my having little to no experience with women in a sexual sense, it was not, of course, the first time I'd ever seen another girl's breasts in person. It was, however, the first time I didn't feel like I shouldn't be looking at them.

Eventually, Jefferson looked to me and instructed me to fetch his boots from the closet. I did. Knee-high, black, steel-toed. Impressive. I admired them a little bit, and instinctively got on my knees at his feet to put them on. I was very focused on my task. It took me a good few minutes to lace up both, and I apologized for taking so long, since I didn't have much experience lacing boots from that angle. He replied with, "No problem. I'm enjoying the view." I looked up at him and saw him looking down, straight-faced, sipping his bourbon. It occurred to me that he probably had a bird's-eye view down my already low-cut shirt at that angle, and I guess I'll never know if the view he was referring to was that, his lover stretched out on the bed in a tantalizing corset ensemble, or something else entirely, but in any case, I didn't ask and I didn't make any effort to adjust my shirt. I finished, checked on his comfort, and then returned to my seat. He joked that I was free to call him "sir" now if I wanted to. I giggled nervously, and he definitely caught that. We were only joking around, but had the situation been different, I would have wanted to.

In the few minutes or so that I spent attending to Jefferson's boots, something occurred to me. I think I've made it clear, at this point, that I tend to be nervous around new people. Despite that, though, it felt perfectly natural to me that I was kneeling on the floor in a relative stranger's hotel room, lacing up his boots. When he reported that I'd done a good job, I felt a sense, however small, of accomplishment. And arousal. I feel more than a little ridiculous admitting that part. It's probably just due to my extreme sexual frustration, and perhaps also to my being turned on by people in boots, but my mind had assigned an erotic element to that task and I had enjoyed it, and it was the first time all evening that I hadn't felt at all nervous. I marveled at the fact that all it had taken to elicit that sort of response was to put on his shoes. My imagination turned over the possibilities while I engaged once again in conversation.

After that, we hung around the room for a short while longer, yawning. By this time, it was getting late, and their dungeon would only be open for a couple more hours. They decided to head downstairs. We walked back to the lobby together, and said our goodbyes there. I thanked them, hugged them both, received another kiss on the cheek from Jefferson, and told them that I'd like to visit them sometime in New York. Jefferson said something to the effect of, "we'd like that," to which I replied, "you'll regret saying that, because I really will do it." He said, "no, I don't think we would regret it." I smiled, and walked out.

To be continued?

Think of it as a mission statement.

noreply@blogger.com (Mariel) — Mon, 26 May 2008 21:21:00 +0000

Whether or not this new blog endeavor will amount to anything remains to be seen. As my profile says, I'm looking for inspiration. I'm looking to have experiences that might teach me more about myself and all of the people I meet, and I'm looking to share those experiences with all who care to read about them. I have several blogs, though, and have had several more in the past, and I typically become frustrated with my inability to express what I'm thinking in a way that satisfies me and quit writing, so this may turn out to be the only post I ever share here. With a little bit of good fortune, though, maybe I'll reach some goals and there will be much more to write about in the days to come.