I need a place
Firm floors and soft edges
A structure of steel
Draped in pillows and blankets
Warmed by the sun
Shimmering in the dark
With the promise
The one promise
That no one
Has ever made.
I need a place
A safe harbor
Where I can fall apart
No one else’s needs to meet
No demands
Of time or wit or ability
No decisions to make
No bedtimes, screen-times, mealtimes
No downtime
Never any requirements
Of my mind
Of my eyes
Of my voice
Only my flesh
I need a place
A safe harbor
My blanket fort
Your sofa
A mattress
Or futon
Or backseat
It isn’t the location
It’s the mindset
It’s your attitude
It’s a command
Bend over, feel, break, cry… Come, baby girl, again
I need a place
A safe harbor
Where I can beg to be
Broken
Ruined
Freed
Until all that is left
Is the calm eye of the hurricane
The center of the
Storm
That is my life
All that is left
Is me
I need a place
A safe harbor
Where pain isn’t frightening
But comforting
Where the tangled
Unruly web
Of this world
Looks like silly string
Dirt is just fairy dust
Piles of laundry are pillows, or even clouds
The disarray is simply magic
I need a place
A safe harbor
Where the sobs
That escape my chest
Aren’t fruitless cries to an empty shower
Never meaningless
But instead
They are music
A sonnet leading to a symphony
Of laughter and bliss
A concert
For one
I need a place
I need to fall apart
I need to be taken apart
I need that impossible promise
I know that the world is filled with trauma. I am not surprised by it usually, but sometimes, it picks up a baseball bat and wails on you.
There’s been a lot of death in my life recently. Relatives, friends, relationships, …ideas.
My husband says death affects me because I think about it too often. And perhaps I do, I see it everywhere.
But it is everywhere. All around us.
Grandparents are expected to pass, it is not surprising. But others who go from vibrant, amazing people in your life to…. gone? The shock hurts.
A blogger in our community commits suicide.
It picks up that baseball bat.
Another blogger dies tragically at the drunken thoughtlessness of a stranger.
It swings that baseball bat.
Another family member passes far too quickly so that I can no longer count the losses on one hand.
The bat makes contact with my gut and knocks the fucking wind out of me.
A surprise email arrives, talking of valuable connections that have been broken in the name of honesty and fidelity, reminding me of decisions I simply cannot argue with, but that left people holding their bruised hearts and wondering how to fix them.
It smacks me again in the back knocking me to my knees.
An innocent baby dies of a disease that should simply be completely curable in today’s modern medicine.
Blow by blow, that weapon tries to break my resolve and turn me sideways.
That cruel, hard weapon that life wields all too well strikes completely unfairly. It has no regard for your ability to handle it. It affects those who invite it the same as those who shun it. It can beat you to a pulp, and there is literally no defending yourself against it.
It is exhausting. Forgive me for being melodramatic…
I was to have a meeting today with a man who I’ve only spoken with four times. But I know he had three small children, a lovely wife who teaches sixth grade, and a thriving business that I was contemplating hiring for a project at my job.
I got a voice message from him that he wouldn’t be able to make the meeting because his youngest passed away yesterday from pneumonia.
I remember talking to him during our first conversation about his baby. Having a five month old, babies come up in conversation often.
He had bragged that his nine month old was already on his feet, cruising, and was sure to walk any day. I remember the conversation so well.
He sounded like a different man in his message this morning.
It is so unfair. Why should a baby lose his life when so many on this planet don’t even care about theirs?
I haven’t written much non-fiction lately. A real life friend who reads my blog brought it up last week and I contemplated this all weekend. Life is filled with things I could write about.
I’d love to write about internet predators, because the topic came up a few times last week. I’d like to write about Valentine’s Day, because it’s merely days away. I’d like to write about being a mother and how much I struggle with the duality of being maternal yet incredibly sexual at the same time. I’d like to write about being scared of losing friends, simply because our lives are so full and busy. I’d like to write a message to a stranger who is raw and hurting right now, possibly because of me, and I want nothing more in the whole world than to cure her of that hurt.
It’s all so exhausting, though.
So I normally choose to just write poetry. Because it is inspired and erotic and delicious. And people will read it and offer simple comments that I can just reply, “Thank You!” So I don’t have to think too much, or feel too strongly, or survive the blast of a follower mocking me for the things I hold most dear.
I’ve registered the domain MelDouleur.com (there’s nothing there yet) because I am seriously considering simply writing, not blogging, from now on. Some people can blog about writing, which I find fascinating but sometimes boring, so I really have no desire to do it myself. My thought process was to create a new site, where I post nothing but my craft, and shut down this blog completely.
But I wonder how much interaction I will miss out on? That was, after all, the purpose of starting this blog so long ago.
When you write about everything, people can relate and will give you their stories. And I thought about this over the weekend. Because I used to be that kind of writer. I wrote it all. Every emotion, every arguement, every sting of regret or burn of frustration… It was my personal journal, lots of non-fiction for the world to see into me and get to know me. Those are my most commented posts.
Then I made friends. Some good, some bad. I wrapped myself in my pseudonym. I escaped life, through my writing. Lots of the interaction left the public eye and moved to personal and private correspondence. But it was still not truly a part of my real life. It was, and is, this place I come to escape.
The blog has evolved into it’s own thing. It’s own world. Separate from my real world.
My husband and I had a date Saturday. We went to dinner, a little shopping and to see the Imitation Game. We’d just had one of those awful, painful and intense conversations the night before… The kind that didn’t lead to any resolution. The kind that leaves you feeling a bit nauseous and drained. The kind that ends with the giant looming question mark above your bed. So the date felt a bit awkward, with us stumbling around each other, trying to reach for short topics that don’t delve too deep.
And at one point. He brought up my blog. He doesn’t read it.
This has been and probably always will be a sensitive matter for me. Because I LONG for him to read it… so that he’ll see me. The me that feels more real than the one that plasters on a smile and skips through real life just working and momming and holding things together. The blog me, this little girl who can talk about being scared without hiding, this sexual creature who can flaunt her desires openly without concern of judgement, this woman… incredible woman who loves herself for all that she is instead of being ashamed of it.
The me who can openly talk about how affected I am by the death of a stranger’s child, and not feel crazy for my intense, inherent empathy.
I want him to know that me. But he is disinterested… until he wants to have a light easy conversation about it which is impossible, considering what we spoke about on Friday.
So, I brushed it away and brought up some surface subject that wouldn’t make me cry.
And he let me hide.
And it’s all so exhausting.
There is freedom and energy in escapism. When I write poetry and fiction, I don’t have to live my life on repeat. I can simply explore through the things that feel good and strong and safe. And I can leave the rest simmering away on the back burner. To be ignored.
But you can’t do that forever, can you.
Eventually it will boil dry, catch fire, requiring exponentially more attention than it would have in the first place.
So, here I am. Processing my real world, or trying to. Even though I can’t open completely anymore, because you all know me… And hiding is the skill that Melissa knows best.
But I long to escape into Mel Douleur’s fiction. Or into Missy’s blanket fort with pillows and crayons and Hello Kitty coloring books. Or into the magic of complete surrender to skilled hands that understand submission. Or into the beauty and serenity of creating magic with words and images. Or into the words you write, where I might find relief in escape, empathy or poetry.
Besides sunning my powder white skin under the Florida sun, what will Mel. do on vacation??
All the things that make me happy.
Swim, write erotica, crochet, write poetry, play with my boys, love, write garbage, chat, search for seashells, write love letters, wear dresses (no, I don’t normally), get sunburned (don’t lecture me), fantasize openly about a different life, write my book (hmm, I’ve missed you, Spencer), sleep and dream about Daddy…
I may even try to read…
And, definitely, I plan to eat lots and lots of fresh produce. Because everything tastes better in Florida.
If I ever escape my life…
If I ever disappear…
If I ever win the lotto…
You can look for me here.
Where the beaches are diverse and amazing.
Where the sun sets in the evening against the ocean waves.
Where old people congregate and make a 38 year old feel young.
Where the sun just feels better, brighter, warmer. More intoxicating.
Where the impossible seems more possible.
Where life feels simpler.
Ahh, but isn’t that why we go on vacation? To live our dreams, if only for a week?
You told me to dress up, make myself look different. At first I thought Barbie Doll, but I could never be her. Of course, I am your Baby Doll, so a pretty, baby doll dress was a clear choice.
I sit at the table and wait, in my sweet little dress, with a satin sash and ribbons in my hair. I look very pretty, but not at all like a real baby doll.
My full, round breasts are barely contained by the pale blue fabric above the fuschia sash, and my legs are coated in white silk and capped in pink patent leather stilettos. My hair is barely restrained in twin braids that hang over each shoulder.
I’m already wet with anticipation, my thighs dampening above the lacy tops of my nylons due to my lack of panties.
I check my makeup in a spoon and nervously fidget with the napkin on my plate.
Then I feel the air change. That electricity that flows between us doesn’t need touch, it just snaps through the air like lightening.
I feel my nipples harden and swallow as you step behind me and lean down, gripping the braid over one shoulder so that you can whisper in the opposite ear.
“Hi, baby doll… You look good enough to eat!”
Oh your voice, when you speak with the power and command that bubbles from inside but that you only allow out in small doses… That thick, deep voice that melts over me and makes me want to rub you into my skin…
I could cum, just hearing your voice.
“I love your shoes, little girl. You like playing dress up?”
I turn as you stand and I smile up at you, I can feel color filling my cheeks. You chuckle down at me and extend your hand.
I take it, and rise, before you slowly turn me in order to take me completely in. I know what I look like and am pleased to find your sad eyes dancing with delight.
“My pretty girl…” you growl, pulling me against you, where I feel how much you like my attire, pressed hard and thick against my hip.
Your lips find my neck while your fingers pull at the cap sleeve of the dress to reveal my shoulder. You sink your teeth into that special spot that makes me convulse then back me against the wall behind me.
You step away and sit in the chair I just vacated, leaning back to look at me. “Touch yourself, sweet girl.”
I grin at you, devilishly before performing the masturbatory seduction I’ve imagined dozens of times. For you, my delicious Daddy.
I lift my fingers to my lips, coyly before letting them trail down my throat and collarbone. Dipping them into the strained fabric barely covering my breasts and pulling down slightly to expose one of my thick, pink points.
I pinch and twist it, gasping and closing my eyes, while my other hand snakes it’s way under my dress. I stroke my dripping lips, still hidden from you, beneath my skirt and moan softly, making you groan and rub your hard cock through your jeans.
I drop my other hand from my breast to lift the hem so you can see. You take in a sharp breath at the sight of my pretty fingers kneading my smooth pussy. As I push my fingers through my slit and into my quivering cunt, you groan again, making my knees weak.
“No panties, baby doll?” You whisper, as you kneel in front of me.
I shake my head, tossing my braids slightly as you grab my fingers and guide them into your mouth.
“Mmmmmm,” you rumble, sucking off my silkiness before guiding my hands to hold the hem of my dress at my hips. “Sugar and spice, sweet girl.”
I moan before you even touch me, your presence is like liquid heat. I steel my knees to hold me up and watch you stroke a single finger over my swollen clit, peeking from between my puffy lips.
Your touch nearly makes me explode. I hum when I feel your breath and watch you touch your lips to me. Your tongue presses flat while your finger slips inside. I’m shuddering and clenching immediately until you growl, softly, “If you cum before I give you permission, I’ll send you straight to bed.”
I whimper and force myself to settle, looking down into your pale eyes. My heart races as your tongue returns to my clit, circling softly, and you add another finger inside me. My whole body shakes with my restraint as I hold myself back from the edge of bliss.
I’m not sure how long I manage to fight the incredible pleasure pushing me to soar, but at some point I realize you are now standing, facing me, working me with your magic fingers and rumbling, low, from deep in your chest.
I open my eyes to find yours flashing, lips curled in a delicious grin and slick with my juices. “Such a sweet girl, do you want to cum?”
I nod, panting and very close to complete desperation when you lean in until our lips touch. “Cum,” you growl, increasing the intensity of your fingers.
I release my dress and cling to your shoulders, knowing my knees will not hold. You wrap your arm around my waist and kiss me while I come apart and freefall into the waves of orgasm. You wring me out thoroughly until I’m bucking and squirming to break free.
But still, you won’t relent. Your fingers are merciless and your tongue demands to dance with mine, stealing my breath, my will and my strength. You turn us both and release my waist, to slide the china off the end of the table to the floor. I gasp, as it shatters, but you only smile that beastly grin against my mouth before kissing me again.
You guide me onto the table and cover my body with yours, but your fingers continue their play inside me. I’m panting, each time you let me up for air, and grinding against you feverishly, tiptoeing the edge of oblivion yet again.
“Oh, please Sir, may I cum again?” I plead against your mouth and you nod before your tongue darts between my lips, once more. Your hunger ignites the blast within me and I convulse, yet again, muscles firing and liquid desire dripping between my thighs to the surface below. I don’t know if it was ejaculate, of if I’m just that wet, but you don’t quit.
“Please, fuck me Daddy, please!” I beg, in the midst of your kiss. You roll off of me to stand, staring down at me, and I can tell that I’m in trouble by the gleam in your eye.
“How many times have you cum, little girl?” Your voice is so low and gravelly, I almost can’t answer as your fingers continue their torment, teasing and light, at the moment.
“…I …Twice, Sir.” I breathe, panting and writhing against your hand, trying to get just a bit more.
Then you jam your fingers inside of me, spreading my thighs and palming my clit. My eyes roll back in my head until I hear you rumble, “Don’t stop it, just let them go… I want them all, baby.”
Your free hand finds my throat, and I climax again. You suck and bite my nipples and I have another. You hum, and growl and tell me what a good girl I am, and take one more.
You tear orgasms out of me as though it were your purpose in life. I can barely breathe and have no idea what has happened by the time you climb on top of me again, undressed, crushing me with your kiss, then pinching and twisting my nipples.
I open my eyes to see you pulling my legs up and staring down at me. You practically roar as you slide inside of me, and within moments, you are drilling into me like a wild animal. I’m too weak and senseless to brace myself, which you quickly realize and grasp my throat to hold me steady.
The mind blowing combination sends me up over the edge in mere moments, and as you continue fucking me with the might of some crazed beast, I can’t tell where one orgasm stops and another begins. I start gasping, which causes you to release my neck, and instead brace yourself by gripping my tits, tightly against my own chest, which still leaves me breathless, but with more pain.
You let go, and I think I have another orgasm. You wrap yourself around me, bucking your hips into me so hard, I think I just might break open, but I cum again, anyway. Flopping about as if there were no bones inside my limbs.
You pull back and I open my eyes to see you grinning down at me, “My beautiful rag doll…”
Your ownership of me is far more than is needed to send me into a million pieces, one last time. And this one grips you fiercely, milking your own climax free, and sending your seed in long, shaking pulses deep inside me.
When you collapse on top of me, I somehow remain conscious long enough to thank you.
You lean on your elbows over me, pulling the ribbons from my hair and snaking your magical fingers through the waves. “Sweet girl, my precious baby doll…” You kiss me with the tender sweetness that coats that inner wildness of yours, that keeps the beast docile and in check.
I was going to wait longer to tell you all. But I figured if there is anywhere I’d go to seek comfort if things go wrong, it would be here.
I have not been completely here lately, not reading much or really writing much, because I am a 38 year old pregnant woman, and I’ve been pretty sick and tired.
Yes! I really said pregnant. I’m also excited, elated, and thrilled to have one more person on Earth to lavish with my love.
I’ve wanted another baby for five years. Since my son was six months old. When he was two, I nearly had my husband convinced to start trying for a second. He was literally on the cusp of readiness.
Then he lost his very decent paying job, was unemployed for months, then had to accept a position paying less than 2/3rds what he had been making.
I was suddenly the bread winner. And, without realizing it, that moment changed me dramatically.
I see it now. I do not blame my husband for losing his job. The large corporation he worked for closed the office. I do not blame him for taking the job he did. It’s a government position with fantastic benefits and definite room for advancement. I do not blame him for deciding, back then, that we simply could not afford to bring another life into this world. Daycare is VERY expensive, especially for infants, and the materialistic lifestyle we live in is very important to him.
But I resented it. That stupid company for closing his doors and not offering him position closer than 600 miles away.
I resented money. Our inability to spend the way we had become accustomed, and the attitude that goes along with that.
I resent myself. For miscarriages that were not my fault, but would’ve given me the baby I so desperately wanted. It’s hard not to feel guilt when you are responsible for a life that passes.
The world I’d built suddenly wasn’t what I’d dreamed. I felt as though I was living someone else’s life. And I honestly believe it started to eat me alive. I didn’t want more stuff or money. I only wanted ONE thing. …At least, that is what I believed.
At some point, my husband said, “Let’s just see what happens. Stop preventing and just see what fate has to say.” I know that my emotional state had brought this on. But at the time, I wanted another baby badly. And it seemed like it would right the world. It was self destructive. But I blocked every other emotion and simply focused on what it would be like to have a baby, again.
Someone would need me! Someone would want me! Someone would love me!
He or she would have to, because the love of a child is unconditional.
But nothing happened. I bounced around from one idea to the next. I cleared my life of as many chemicals as possible and started eating as clean as possible. I tried herb after supplement. Read article after book. Spoke to herbalist after doctor.
Still, nothing happened. I did not want fertility treatments, and we couldn’t have afforded them anyway.
Last year, I believe I reached rock bottom. I gave up on the idea of a baby and realized that there was so much more wrong than just that missing child. Had I been granted a new baby back then, I would be completely lost today.
When I found my voice, it was within my written words. I’m getting better at using my real voice, too. Giving birth to every creation I’ve made on this and other blogs… Every email that explodes from inside me… Every message, comment, and idea that plucks itself from my mind and lands here have helped me find myself. Heal myself. Be myself. And Love myself.
What I found here, while seeking your attention, approval and appreciation, was actually, finally, what closed the gaps. My love for all of you closed the gaps.
The man I married loves me, without a doubt. I have accepted what he cannot be. He has changed in so many ways, and, now that I’m pregnant, he steps up constantly and I’m reminded of the reasons I ever fell in love with him in the first place. But he cannot be everything I need. Choosing that love by itself is difficult. He doesn’t read my words. He doesn’t understand me completely. He is not interested in the whole me. And that left cracks and crevices in my heart.
I’ve done plenty of damage myself. There were large craters where I dug open those cracks. My efforts to fix things, without knowing how, made things worse. Often.
Early on, I made some connections that were like sand. I thought perhaps they would fill the gaps. But they were too fluid, and I was very frustrated about that. I swept that sand in, I crushed it hard. I realize now, that sand created the perfect bed for what was to come. I love those people who offered what they could, even if it wasn’t quite enough.
In November, I made a connection that was like gravel. This shit is not for the weak. It eroded me. Perhaps in part, because of my own selfishness… My own craziness… I cannot explain it, but you saw it. It revealed the darkness in me like nothing ever had before. It filled the holes and gaps painfully. But perhaps, it was a pain I needed to feel. I loved the pain. It was important for me to find that out.
After that, I made several friendships that are special and meaningful, sealing the fillers into those gaps.
One friend, in particular, who helped me recover from bearing the weight of that gravel, and who taught me how to be a real friend, has become like a brother to me. He’s helped me recognize my worth. I love him and know that he will be a part of my life forever.
Another friend helped me realize that I am NOT weak. I was focused on my powerlessness, and he helped me see that, if someone has power over me, it is because I give it to them. I value him, his advice and experience. He’s helped me recognize my strength and see that I should stand up and fight for myself. I love him for caring that day, it was a correction I truly needed.
Many others offer me approval and appreciation, constantly. My sisters and a longtime girlfriend have also fed into this last bit of filling. Together, these people created the glue, the tar, to bind those gaps and holes with the other fillers. They helped me recognize my usefulness. I love them all, so much.
Then, there is a connection that blossomed effortlessly and wonderfully. He has made me feel precious and magical. It started with us writing together. Sharing words with someone is amazing and powerful. Sharing ideas with someone who values all that you say, do and are, is incredible. He reads me. He understands me. He is interested. I love Him for it. And that love has coated my heart, hiding the scars from all those gaps and craters. Making me into a shiny, new, silly, little girl.
I am filled to the brim with love and sweetness and the beauty of this absolutely incredible world I live in. I’m mystified by whatever destiny has brought all this happiness to me. I am thrilled to have found this peace in my present, that has made me feel so precious and loved.
And then? Surprise! My husband and I are going to have another baby.
Wow. Now? Really? *sigh* Ok…
We live in a beautiful house that I’ve made into a gorgeous, comfortable home. We have room, that will not be an issue.
We laugh and play, our little family has lots of fun. My boys are all about their toys and games and stuff. But that means there is plenty already, so perhaps they won’t miss not getting much more.
I lovingly make their breakfasts and lunches, and my husband makes delightful dinners because I get home from work well after them. Already, my inability to function in the evenings (due to exhaustion) has been met by my husband’s kindness.
Our little boy lights up our days like fireworks, and we do our best to enjoy peaceful nights. I love that boy so much, so so so much. I already feel that same, intense love building for the little grape in my belly.
My husband and I make love, as often as I can interest him. Our sex life has become far more exciting and satisfying. I’m scared that the sex will go away with the arrival of a baby. I know we’ll both be tired. This is an area that is high priority for me.I accept the man he is and no longer try to change him.I love him. I know that he wants me, he simply lacks my drive.
Honestly, now, when I’m dismissed, for the screen of his laptop or The Walking Dead, I no longer feel hurt and broken. I’m no longer devastated. I instead reach for my words, friends, connections. I revel in the satisfaction of the little world I have created. Maybe that will continue to be enough.
The girl I have become is far more accepting, and far less needy. I’m a sweet girl, dancing through fantasies, learning to love myself so that those cracks and crevices never open back up again. A little girl whose great big world seems less and less scary with each passing day. A lovely girl who is wanted, desired, lusted, but also protected and cared for.
No one knows what the future holds. I couldn’t begin to guess. It terrifies me somedays. But I can do this. We can do this.
In the present? I am overflowing with love. And that absolutely cannot be a bad thing.
Babies are expensive but bring so much to the world. Babies are a lot of work but giving my son a sibling is an extraordinary gift. Babies deprive you of sleep but love is a drug that will get me through that.
Love will get you through so many things. The heart does not deceive.
Love can make you whole.
My love is big. Very, very big. And I feel it’s magic every minute of every day.
So, I’m going to have a baby, in about seven months. I’ll be living a completely different life then. But today, I love the life I have. Even with all it’s flaws and inconsistencies, it is an amazing life.
I hope I can keep up with that future life. I hope I don’t lose too much of this life. I hope the Spirit keeps showing me what to do with all that love. Maybe it will even reach you, and make your day better, too!!
Love truly is magical, after all. It gave me a baby when I least expected it. It found me when I thought I was lost. It layers around me dampening and comforting me from the fear the future holds.
pushing our limits 
