The moral is that those nettles, even once Coyote Dick got out of them, made his cock itch like crazy forever after. And that's why men are always sliding up to women, and wanting to rub up against them with that 'I'm so itchy' look in their eyes. You know, that universal cock has been itching ever since the first time it ever ran away. (Estes 370)How did I get myself in such a state? Well, being prone to obsessive thought patterns helps. So does having hedonistic and sexually explicit friends. Most impressively to me, is that my egoistic fire ants came from memory. These are memories that go way back to childhood exploration of my sexual being. In non-sexual ways I have been dredging myself for memories of a more innocent time in order to reclaim my instincts while rebuilding the deck of my intuition. This dragging of memory has revealed some interesting sexuality threads that weave back to my earliest youth. I have always loved acting innocent while knowing the truth. More so, I love acting just-wise-enough to clue the "adults," for whom I played, in to the fact that I was in the know. Their reactions, as they realized I was playing them for fools, delighted the hell out of me then and does so no less now. No surprise to some of my close intimates, I am a born smart ass joker...and a tease.
The older I get the better I realize that my personal perversions are no more a phase than my bisexuality is. I have been reading a blogger intermittently, i.e. when I have time at a computer away from work, who describes her preferences and the actions taken to fulfill those needs so clearly that I feel more compelled (perhaps inspired) to cull my needs into forms comprehensible and plain. I do not mean I want to dull these very exciting desires, but I want to be able to speak the needs clearly without having to give a background history of myself for perspective. Paradoxically, I want to open myself up to sublime vulnerability with a partner without feeling compelled to share the more daily baggage I carry.
I think I will soon take Devyn's advice and set up a FetLife profile. Like a cosmic prank to ruffle my feathers, I get seriously bent on being the little mischief girl. I want fine ringlet piggy-tails and puppy-dog eyes. I want the cooing praise of a firm handed "adult." I want to play dress up, put on lip gloss and be told how smart and pretty I am. In my fetishsex experiments I have braised these pleasures accidentally and it is only recently that the compelling moments have coalesced into a sexual being more attainable.
He assures me, somewhat jokingly, that I will discover there is a plethora of resources to fulfill my desires in Chicago, and that once I'm on FetLife I will realize this and forget about him. I doubt the truth in that, but hope for something that bears mild similarity to his sentiments. I could no more forget my first Daddy than I could my first love. I am hoping to find a situation more accessible though, because pining for situations in the past is about as helpful as a balloon in a sword fight.
Without a clearly defined way to act on these compelling fantasies I get restless and guilt ridden. I can't stop wanting or thinking about wanting what I want and then I feel guilty, like I'm somehow betraying the commitments I've already given myself to.
Last night I knew action had to be taken to prevent me from spiraling into a depressing cycle of yearning, remembering and pining, and guilt. I played dress up for myself while listening to Lola's music collection while burning a sensual bergamot and tobacco flower candle and taking pictures. Then I went out and gossiped, whined, and giggled with Danny over our perversions. If I couldn't have my root-beer float (explicit), then this was just what the doctor ordered.