After the fact, the facts.

This is another post that I've been mulling over far longer than I should - I often feel I write better straight after the event, pouring words from my brain whilst things are still fresh, feelings still sharp. Sometimes it's not possible, although I admit to an urge to be forced to type whilst in bondage or being beaten (that might result in some terrible spelling errors). The more I turn something over in my mind the harder it can become to write, I get stuck with the "best way" to put across my meaning or end up trying to be too clever-clever rather than what I'm actually aiming for - authentic, accurate, real.

So here's my quandry - how to write about two sexual encounters, which happened within hours of each other, without being crassly comparative. I don't want to assign scores or in any way put these two acts side-by-side and yet, by virtue of timing, my own headspace and who they involved, they are. I feel guilty even thinking about it. Because these are two people I care about. In different ways, certainly but they are both important to me and both events were important to me. Helped me. And I want to talk about both of them, yet putting them in separate entries seemed a little disingenuous, deliberately partitioning what happened and muddying the order of time. Making everything neater after the fact, although it wasn't neat in the moment, and some of me still feels concerned over such flagrant bed-hopping (does it count if it was the bed that stayed the same and the partners that hopped?) I'm trying to make light, a clear indication of my discomfort level. Which means it's time to rip the plaster off clean - doing that which scares you, that you don't want to do but find the strength to do anyway always works for me.

I fucked The Knight of Wands and The Photographer over the weekend. I did it because I wanted to, in each individual circumstance. The latter was planned, mostly - we were due to meet for dinner, it was likely we'd end up in bed. The former, less planned, but more obvious as the evening went on. Familiar bodies, familiar lovers. There's a safety in those kinds of arms: people who know you and who you can trust, laugh and joke with but also feel confident that they understand your kinks and twists and can deliver.

I craved sex, put simply, it was a need I had and it was sated - touching and being touched. Lying together with someone else in warm, animal comfort, hearing another heartbeat. Not being alone. To the mutual shock of The Knight of Wands and myself I had a short moment of crying whilst we were fucking - an outpouring of emotions like steam from a boiling kettle. Over as soon as it started, but strangely required. The physicality of the whole evening was like popping a pressured balloon - everything wrapped up inside had to come out.

Come the morning and I wanted to talk. Because I can't just fuck and keep my thoughts to myself (the wise person would keep me gagged, I expect, this may also be wishful thinking on my part). I wanted to be sure that he was alright, that we were alright. I still have trouble with "sex as sex", I see strings attached everywhere. To be reassured that the craving I had and the satisfaction of it was a mutually enjoyed activity - and then some, that we were friendly and neither harboured expectations of the other allowed me to breathe a little easier.

I also craved D/s and that was more difficult. A lot of me still thinks of myself as belonging to The Photographer, when I think about my submissive self (a self that has become quieter and more muted these days, thinking things over, I expect). But it's hard to really be his, to feel able to fully submit without worrying about the attending relationship problems. In that, we don't have one so there are no longer any rules - no protocol to follow, no process or way of being and I am reminded of how adrift I feel.

Having sex was problematic because - despite the massive desire - when we actually got to it I found myself to be very scared. We mirrored familiar actions - removal of jewellery, holding my cunt open for me and there was a memory of feeling, of connection, but I was also guarded (I think he was as well) which meant I was half into the situation and half outside of it. Wanting to go deeper but scared to do so in case putting myself into such a vulnerable situation might cause me more hurt and more heartache. I don't think I could stand to have him leave me again so I didn't want to build myself up to the place where I felt his completely. Which meant that I didn't really get what I wanted. I got some of what I needed. The happiness I felt when lying next to him, even though it was dogged by clouds of concern, was still happiness. His skin, his smell, the presence and simple joy of being around him.

Then again, came the morning. And we had to talk. Harder conversations. Because there are expectations in this case. Massive ones. I still want us to be together, but in order for that to happen he has to change his relationship with his other partner. To say "leave her" doesn't really cover the complexity of the situation - whether he sees her or not, fucks her or not, spends time with her or not isn't really the issue. It's about lives and living patterns. It's everything that's already been mentioned and I'm not going to go over it again. We talked about his leaving her, for want of a better phrase and he's thinking about it.

I get anxious just thinking about it. I know that what I want from him scares him, that it seems so big, so life-altering, that I'm the outside bet. Full of serious change and difficulties. I keep wanting to shout "it's ok! We'll sort it together" But I've said that already. Probably three times, if I've said it once: I'm getting talked out. Despite appearances, I'm trying not to think about it, trying to keep my brain distracted by the day-to-day or locked in that warm, safe animal place. But I'm by myself a lot these days and there's just my body which I'm keeping ticking over with masturbation that follows the laws of diminishing returns. Something to do, passes the time. Stops me playing the waiting game I'm already subconsciously playing. I'm also trying not to live in hope, because I don't want them dashed. Trying to exist in the place where we are still broken up and I have to try and carry on regardless. Yet, we tried to do that and we both wanted to see each other so much that when we first met we could barely walk ten yards without stopping to kiss, deep. Again and again.

Which has to count for something, surely?