{I met Terry through another blog. Instantly it was as if I had reconnected with a part of me that I’d never known to be missing. More than once we’ve both commented on it. Please enjoy this wonderfully moving and brutally honest piece that’s showcased below. Oh, and don’t forget to visit her blog and comment as well as leave some comments here.}

Need

Sometimes in life it seems there just are no words to express what you’re feeling. I am discovering that the older I get, the more I need.

I don’t mean clothes. I have enough clothes in various sizes to clothe a small nation.

I don’t mean food. Even though adult offspring have been heard to declare that there is nothing to eat, the pantry & refrigerator are full to overflowing (so why do we need to go to the store tomorrow?).

I don’t mean shelter. We have a lovely home, your average 3 bedroom, 2-story bungalow on your average cul-de-sac, with 2 cars in the 2-car garage.

Like the blog name implies, I need a little more passion. I’m tired of the mundane. I’m tired of the everyday sameness. The stuff that can make some people feel safe and secure makes me itch. And I know that if I ever expect anything to change, it’s up to me.

Up to a point.

Like in the Serenity Prayer, I’m working on changing the things I can. And one of those things I can change is letting My Love know what I need, because like it or not, I’ve come to realize that I cannot do anything and everything by myself.

Oh sure, there are times when fast-food type service is just fine, then there are other times when even drive thru service or self-serve will suffice. Then there are the times when what you need is full serve.

Something that will leave you with a feeling of immense satisfaction, totally and completely fulfilled, and those times require another like minded individual that understands your wants and needs, and is able to take the ball and run with it, all the way down the field, make the touchdown & the extra point, if you understand all the stupid mixed metaphors I’ve resorted to using.

A few months back, I came to the somewhat surprising conclusion, that I’m a sexual submissive. The reason it was surprising is, I’m 51 years old! Why on earth didn’t I realize this years ago? Well, actually, I think a part of me did (plus – it wasn’t until after my hysterectomy that I discovered that sex didn’t hurt. Not only did it not hurt, it was fantastic!), but like lots of women with 2 young children, a husband, 2 dogs and a full time job, I put everyone else’s wants and needs first, especially when it came to sex.

Isn’t that what a submissive does? Yes, of course. But what if I want, no, not just want, what if I need something more, to feel complete? Does that make me less of a submissive? I’m sure there are some people that believe a true submissive should never speak up, never voice her own desires, because her only desire should be to do whatever pleasures her Master. For those that feel that way and have been lucky enough to have found each other, I say more power to ya. I just know that would not work for me.

I’m still discovering and exploring this submissiveness, and how far into the D/s and BDSM world I want to travel. I sprang all this onto my unsuspecting travel companion, My Love, about 9 months ago. I did not expect smooth sailing, and indeed the journey has had its rough spots.

I do not want him to do anything he’s uncomfortable with. I’ve just asked him to explore his feelings, see if there are any Alpha or Dominant urges that he has squelched, that he would like to set free.

I imagine this is not easy for him. He is a recovering alcoholic. There were a couple of incidents during his drinking days where domestic abuse sprouted its ugly head. The police and the court system were never involved. No bones were ever broken. I’ve explained to him in several letters, that I don’t believe wanting to be bound and overpowered at my request, in anyway resembles domestic abuse. One is born of fear, insecurity, even rage, and involves an unwilling and non-consensual individual. The other is not only consensual, but desired by the second party and does not involve abuse. It involves trust to the “nth” degree.

Seems to me that to try to understand and do what one can to provide what it is that another person needs, is not just unselfish, but an enormous act of love. If some think that’s twisted, well then fine. I’m not out to change the way the world thinks. I’m just trying to learn how to survive in my own teeny, tiny, little speck of it.

I have felt his restraints on my wrists and ankles only 3 to 4 times in the last 9 months since I first took that huge leap of faith and told him of my darkest desires. But during those times the depths of my emotions were almost unbelievable. I never would have thought that an orgasm could be so extremely intense. Or a scream last so long. As a sexual submissive, I believe I’m the one being selfish here, asking for my wants and needs to be explored and fulfilled. But once they have been, I beg to return the pleasure tenfold.

It’s been slow, and yes, emotionally painful sometimes. But growth always is. Growth of any sort is preferable to stagnation. And like it or not, I cannot expedite his acceptance of this new side of me, because it encompasses both of us, not just me. And as if to thwart my hopes, his libido is not as “hyper” as mine.

And so, we dance. I’m always up for a little more passion. I try to tempt and tease My Love, urge him into some spontaneous sexual banter. He reins me in as if I were a flirtatious filly, soothing me, calming me. But the things he whispers into my ear when he wants to excite me, set me free, send me soaring, my god, is it any wonder why I love and adore this man with all that I am?

Yes indeed. I certainly am discovering that the older I get, the more I need.

Succinctly put, I need Him.

terry –

a little more passion

http://alittlemore.wordpress.com/

(A warm and heartfelt thanks to Nina for this perfect kick off to Kindred Spirits. Please, comment and let her know what you think. Also, visit her at her home to read more of her work.}
Welcome to the Vulvacracy — An essay by nina aoki

She sits quietly under the cover of darkness. The room is illuminated with the strange glow emanating from the computer screen; colors which dance across walls filled with family pictures or some awful wall hanging she picked up on sale the last time she was in the local department store. Maybe she lights a candle; maybe she sips a cup of tea or hot cocoa, maybe her favorite cat brushes up against her leg demanding some attention. This is her time now and she guards this time, this space, this place, with private and sacred rituals and with the ferocity of a mother lion protecting her newborn cubs. Her children and her husband have all been put to bed, her daily chores are done save for that never ending pile of laundry she constantly fights a losing battle against, and she becomes someone else, she becomes the woman she was meant to be, wants to be, wishes she could be… she’s a sex blogger.

Women by the tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands by now, are sex bloggers, and we’ve all come out into cyberspace desperately searching for something, for someone, anyone; to listen, to understand, to share with, because no one in our real world understands the things which trample through our consciousness unabated every single day, those erotic thoughts, those secret desires, those things we could never, would never, tell another soul, and it’s only because of the faceless anonymity provided by the internet which sets this sexual creature free; a femme fatale, a diva, a slut, a geisha?

It doesn’t matter what we calls ourselves; our name and identity online are like the makeup we put on in the morning before we leave for work, or for those special occasions when our husband wants to take us out to dinner on a Saturday night, and then wants to fuck us as soon as we get home. Those transformations become commonplace for us; the illusions of beauty and identity, yet we all do them, we all succumb to the rules of society which defines what beautiful is supposed to look like – but out here none of that matters, out here our beauty is expressed in other ways, with our words.

Most women who keep such sex blogs, these sacred erotic journals, are not writers by profession, but we don’t need to be either. It’s the profound connection we feel to the words which rules out here, and the standard for good or bad isn’t measured much past basic literacy and a few fundamentals of good spelling and grammar. What passes for good in cyberspace is limited only by one’s erotic imagination and our ability to convince others to make the emotional investment in what we’ve got to say.

Sexuality plays a role too, with highly defined circles forming around various kinks or interests, and then it grows outwards from there. The submissives usually all get along very well with each other, the Doms argue about which one of them is a “real Dom” and which ones are just poseurs, the wannabe sluts compare notes on cocksucking and anal sex, and the meek and timid who are just blossoming sexually often fall victim to some married loser who tells her everything she want to hear in an ill-fated IM relationship and things predictably go downhill from there. There’s also a hierarchy which develops in the world of sex blogging, and it seems to be based on how long someone has been doing it, or who’s linking who, or which bloggers are perceived as the popular or powerful ones. We like to kid ourselves that there’s some sort of community out here, but reality is more like a loose association of various kink factions who grudgingly acknowledge each other’s presence, and it can and does sometimes seem like a great big competitive cyber high school, but aside from all that, the commonality in all of this is that the vast majority of sex bloggers are indeed women.

I’ve often wondered why such great numbers of women have turned to the internet to express our sexuality in these ways, and perhaps it’s because we’ve never truly come to terms with who we are as women, or better said, perhaps many of us have never given ourselves permission to express and indulge our sexuality in the flesh; cyberspace after all is far safer and there are few consequences to face for admitting that you’ve always wanted to be with another woman, or be fucked by two or more guys at once, or be chained to a bed and have a tennis racket shoved up your ass. There just isn’t. People accept these things and say, “Hey, that’s fine with me!” And we’re far more tolerant of each other’s sexual choices out here too, even though if we found out that our next door neighbor in our semi-exclusive gated community was actually a high priced call girl we’d be the first ones bitching to the local television reporter and police about how we always knew that there was something wrong with her, and for God sakes! What about the children?!!

Perhaps cyberspace gives us the freedom to express and indulge that sexuality in a safe way, and there are certainly real and measurable benefits to taking this all into the digital world rather than the bar in the next town over to look for some young stud to give us an orgasmic tune up of sorts, (which does happen and does get blogged about!) , and there’s also a real and profound sharing of ideas and knowledge among the women who do this; either by reviewing sex toys, or digging into our own experience and offering some tips for the uninitiated on how to exactly go about getting fucked in the ass. More importantly, this medium sometimes plays the role of psychoanalyst while we work through our problems and issues, discuss a liaison we’ve had, seek advice from others who understand what we’re going through, and we develop support systems which help us come to terms with the things in our lives which we simply cannot resolve on our own.

Even though Americans like to perceive ourselves as hip and liberated when it comes to sex, the truth is sadly something else, and that notion could quite easily be said anywhere else in the civilized world too, because female sexuality is often seen by men and sometimes other women, as something not to be discussed, expressed, talked about, written about, let alone thought about or acted on. Our sexuality is a second class commodity and ownership of that sexuality is usually defined by a wedding ring or some other social or religious mores which we’ve been beaten over the head with from the moment we popped out of our own mother’s sacred flower and the panic set in when everyone realized that the newborn bundle of joy didn’t have a prick. Sadly, this is a reality of life for us, and because of technology we’ve found a way to redefine the game and change the rules, and we now blog about everything we can’t say or do in the real world, or the things which we do that no one in our real lives knows about, and maybe on some levels we’re better because of it. We’ve taken the first step towards embracing and claiming our own sexuality.

There are drawbacks though. Sex blogging can be a seductive proposition and many women often become addicted to the attention and sexual energy which encircles them. It becomes like a drug and the user always needs more and more to feed their habit. In so many ways we’ve all become the dealers of this digital junk, and we enable the addiction in hundreds of little ways we’d never even imagined; either with a word, or compliment, or even giving someone a little attention, all of it makes this world of sexual women turn ’round and ’round, and I’ve come to believe that it’s necessary; women helping women in a koffee-klatsch which spans the globe. What fun would any of this be if we weren’t generating some kind of sexual energy or deriving some form of pleasure from the experience? None at all!

Each of us has our own reasons for doing this, and continuing to do this, and that’s okay too. What’s important is that we celebrate our femininity and raise awareness about female sexuality and kick down the doors of perception about who and what we’re supposed to be. It may be a man’s world out there… but in here? It’s a woman’s world baby! May the vulvacracy rule!

When I was a child I fell in love with Anne of Green Gables. It was a beautiful relationship. I felt her angst and her joy, as a woman child in love with a boy child and as an aspiring writer when she won a writing contest for flour. All I’d ever won was a poetry contest where I wrote about the Gulf War, but I swore I was in love with Brian Brake the way she was in love with Gilbert Blythe.

I don’t remember exactly when I heard it, but it was the first time I heard her refer to Diana Barry as her bosom friend, her kindred spirit. Even then I wished for a friendship such as that. They would spar verbally and irritate one another, they would get into tons of trouble and at the end of the day they were still friends.

Now I’m almost thirty and I know what kindred spirits really are. I know true friends when I see them, bosom friends when I am inspired by them. For far too long I have kept silent instead of celebrating their presence in my life, but those days are over. Please, welcome them and the words into your life as I have.

I cried as she left. At the age of twelve I was screaming like a two year old as my mother and my sister pulled out of the driveway. Another night that I’d have to spend with my father all alone. She was angry at me for acting like a child and she told me as much as she got into the car.

He acted pissed off in front of her. As soon as the car was out of sight he led me into the house. He didn’t have to tell me that it would be one of those nights. I knew it by the way he talked to me, by the way he was acting.

“I thought we’d go get something for dinner, maybe Chinese. Then we can go and get those tapes you’ve been asking for. Who are the singers again?”

The sound of his voice made me ill. Almost as ill as the knowledge that I was being bought. At the age of twelve I was being turned into my fathers personal whore. I’d been beat down, broken. I nodded and went into my bedroom knowing that the worst was yet to come.

We had Chinese food like he promised. On the way to the restaurant he made me sit next to him and he kept his hand on my leg. I hated when he drove the company truck home. I couldn’t help but wonder how many times he’d returned it to STS with evidence of his perversions left on the seat. I wore my denim jacket and my pants were pegged. He made me take my hair out of its ponytail holder because he said it made me look like a child. God forbid I look like a child when he was contemplating raping me, right?

After dinner we went to Kmart. Back then there wasn’t a Walmart. It was Jamesway or Kmart and both were terrible. He allowed me to pick out two cassettes and then gave me permission to get another one. I refused. Two tapes and not a tape more. Anything else would make the instance last longer and I wanted no part of it. It pissed him off and I knew that I’d pay for that too.

On the return trip home he listened to his classic rock station and rubbed Skoal. The kind in the green can. When he did that he’d spit into an old soda bottle and keep it between his legs. The smell was disgusting but not as disgusting as the way it tasted when he stuck his tongue down my throat. I only vomited once when he did it because of the beating I got after. I knew by the way he sang along to the radio that he was going to do more than finger me or put his mouth on my vagina. I just knew it.

When we got home he told me to go get in the tub and he’d be in to bathe me. I protested but he wouldn’t have it. It was always bad when he decided to bathe me. He’d wash my hair first then he’d grab the soap. Even though he never used a wash cloth he’d claim to be getting me clean. His hands would soap my budding breasts then when his prick was hard he’d stand up.

“Stand up. Stand up and let me wash you.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a command. So I would do as I was told. I would stand up and turn away from him. He’d pull my legs apart and start to soap me. He would start with my buttocks then stick a finger in my anus, claiming that it was the only way to get really clean. He’d rinse his hands then soap up again, this time sticking his fingers in my vagina. One, two, then three. Only when I started to fight against the pain and burning, the combination of his huge fingers and the soap, would he stop and allow me to sit down.

“Dry off then come into the living room.”

Normally he did things to me in his bed. It confused me that he wanted me naked in the living room. As I dried off I heard him close the drapes and turn on the television. I took too long because he pounded on the door that I had locked behind him. I knew I had no choice but to go.

When I walked out he had laid the sofa cushions on the floor. All three of them. He motioned me to him but I couldn’t move.

“Get over here. Now.”

I moved in slow motion. Never did I look at him when he was touching me. I kept my head down and focused on my toes. It made it easier to go numb.

“Raise your arms. That’s it. Like that.”

His hands brushed my breasts as he pulled my mothers teddy over my head. I swam in it The ugly red contraption hung off my shoulders and the unsnapped crotch almost touched the ground. I wanted to throw up.

“That doesn’t look good on your mother either. Let’s try the other one.”

He took the red one off. From beside him he grabbed a pale blue nightgown. I’d seen my mother wear it when she thought my sister and I were asleep. I’d heard the noises coming from their room a while later. He adjusted the straps and moved the hem of the gown away from my feet.

“Oh God. You look so sexy. So much sexier than your mother when she wears it. I knew you would. Now, go lay down on the pillows.”

I wiped the tears from my cheeks but did as I was told. I heard him move to the television then power on the vcr. The room was filled with the same sounds I heard from their bedroom only it wasn’t them. It was a woman and a man, both naked, on the floor of a living room.

“Watch what they’re doing. See how much she likes it? That’s what we’re going to do. It’s just us tonight. We can do it all we want. Your mother doesn’t like this stuff but I knew you would.”

He laid down beside me and put his hands under the gown. I feel him begin to put his fingers in me and I know what he’s doing. He’s checking to see if I’m wet enough to penetrate me. I’m not. I’m trembling and it angers him.

“I’ll make you wet. Don’t you worry. I know how to do it.”

He’s at the bottom of the lined up couch cushions and he pries my legs apart. I kick and I scream, telling him how much I hate him. I tell him that I’ll tell, that my mom will see that her gown is soiled but it doesn’t stop him. His fingers part my labia and his tongue probes me. I pull his hair and hit him in the head with my knees but he’s stronger than I am. As he pries my knees apart I feel a terrible burning in my thighs and I scream.

“Shut up. I know it’s just an act. I know you want it. It feels good. Your mother can’t get enough of it, when I eat her pussy.”

I go numb. Completely and totally numb. From somewhere above my body I watch what’s happening. I see him doing the things he’s always done. His mouth, then his fingers, and finally his penis. This is another time that he forgets to use their contraceptive foam, the foam my mother uses to keep from getting pregnant.

It was weeks later that they call my father from the hospital. Miscarriage number two and they’re convinced that he’s a saint. He’s told them how he prays for me to stop being promiscuous with my boyfriend. I lay there, disbelieving. The doctor hands him the papers and recommends birth control pills then gives us permission to leave.

We get in the same company truck and head home. I wondered what he would tell my mother. How he’d explain it to her. I should have known he’d already thought of the answers.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell your mother about this. Nobody ever has to know.”