…sometimes almost magic…

Life has gotten slightly crazy in the last two weeks.  Most recently, Kitn was fired from her job.  Fortunately, she has a tidy sum in her savings account, so she doesn’t have to panic about money.  But still.  She was unfairly fired, and had just had her one-year review at that job.  And the savings is supposed to be for her very expensive surgery that she wants to get as soon as possible.

I’m also looking for a new job, again, because mine has become completely ridiculous (whereas before it was just moderately ridiculous?).  Some backstabbing liar told my supervisor that I was literally throwing things at people, and he actually believed that shit and sent me home because my “fucking attitude sucks” and he’s tired of people complaining about me.  Funny how the people I work closely with were just as stunned as I was to hear that.  Now he’s stripped me of all supervisory duties and doesn’t even want me to do the inventory without him looking over my shoulder.  I am officially Trained Monkey #2.  But that’s all I’m going to say about that.

We’re thinking about moving.  Well, really, I’m thinking about moving, and Kitn’s along for the ride.  Moving somewhere new has been on my mind a lot lately, even before all this most recent stuff.  It feels kinda like this job shit is just a big fucking flag in my face saying “Do it!  Now is the time!”  But that’s a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy, or actually some other pithy phrase I can’t think of at the moment.

Back from the festival, and really feeling the fact that the sun was up before I went to bed.

It was a hell of a thing, as these events always seem to be for me.  Extreme ups and downs, luckily not in that order.

I sobbed in the wet grass Friday night, fallen to my knees with my body curled around the pain in my heart.  Over.. nothing really.

Screamed in pleasure over and over this morning and still felt that there wasn’t enough voice in my body to give justice to the feeling.  The memory of Xel’s shouts and moans mingled with mine is such a sweet thing.

I love that he makes noise during sex.  So many boys don’t.  Xel moans and shouts and growls and sometimes giggles, and says sexy things that make my cunt clench.  And I say things too, things that make me blush to recall.  He asks me, “What do you want?”  He demands, “Tell me what you want.”  And I’m only just realizing today that he’s asking me to say those blush-inducing things, he wants the dirty words in my mind to come spilling out of my mouth with as much abandon as the ragged screams.  I can’t believe I’m just now understanding that those things turn him on as much as they do me.  And I know there’s so much beautiful filthiness we can share and I love him for drawing that out of me.

And I think about all of this, and in spite of my throat being sore from screams of pleasure and knowing that my bits probably need some time to recover from the pounding… I want him again, now and unendingly.  I want to continue our exploration of each other, re-experience the pleasure, find all the different and wonderful variations on it all.  I want to do all the things we haven’t got to yet and re-do all the fabulous things we have.  I want us to say nasty, delicious, raunchy things to each other, things that will only ever pass our lips in the throes of passion.  I want to be face to face with him, watch his eyes and his expressions while he’s inside me.  Today was pleasure, but I also want the connection and intimacy – we had the passionate fucking, now we need the sweet slow lovemaking.  I always feel like I never quite get enough of him.  His body and his cock, his mouth and his words and his patient soul and demanding hands.  And I want to give it back to him, the pleasure and fulfillment and caring and passion.

Wow.  I didn’t actually mean to write all that, was just going to give a brief rundown of the event, but I guess I’m a little bowled over.

I’ll have to write more later, there’s so much to remember and record, like the Lia the lovely dyke and the private show last night and fires and the couch in the cuddle tent and community and connectedness and all the thoughts about that…  but right now I really, really need to get a glass of water and some deep sleep.

He was dedicated to pleasing me, made very sure that I felt satisfied and got everything I wanted.  He went into the whole experience with my satisfaction as his goal, and he was amazing about it, the perfect lover.  I can’t even recall how many times I orgasmed, my body spasming around his cock, eliciting surprised exclamations in my ear.  I love making him say, “Wow… wow.  Wow!” with that tone of voice that says he’s totally transported in ways he wasn’t expecting.  He was happy to use his hands on me in the middle of things, and insisted more than once that he didn’t want to come until I was thoroughly satisfied.  He wanted to come inside me, which just makes my heart go pitter-pat.  And oh, it was perfect, amazing, fantastic.  He brought me to orgasm with his hands, and then came back and fucked me from behind, and oh when he slid into me that time it was almost orgasmic from the first thrust, like my body had been primed just for that. 

Guh.  So.. yeah. Um.  Amazing. 

I think I need to go find the lube and a place to lay down….

I doubt that poly relationships have any higher failure rate than monogamous relationships.  At what point can you claim “success” anyway?  My parents were married for 25 years before they divorced.

I’ve been with my girlfriend for two and a half years, and we’ve been poly for a year and a half of that.  I have another, long distance, partner and a local play partner in addition to that.  As of right now, I’d say I feel like the situation is pretty successful. Everyone seems mostly happy with the way things are going.  I don’t think that all of my current relationships are necessarily going to last forever, but I also don’t think relationships need to be undying in order to be “successful.”

I picked up a mostly laughable magazine in the break room at work yesterday and read this fat-hating blather.  Which was not laughable.  It enraged me, as a matter of fact. Which, yeah, is a bit of an overreaction to an end-page blurb in the most atrociously stereotypical gay rag I’ve ever seen. But it set me off because so very many people think like that.  And because society/media/culture tells us we should think like this.  “Fat people are hideously ugly, unsexual, repellant, barely-human creatures.  Get it?  Fat people are ugly and you are not allowed to be attracted to them!  If you are attracted to them, you’re even more of a freak than they are and you shall be ridiculed and shamed until you subsume yourself into the One True Way.  Assmilate!”  Sounds like I’m overreacting, I know.  But at the core, it is precisely the message we’re all being fed.

I used to chat with a particular guy who loved fat women.  To him, we were the height of beauty and desirability.  But he dated skinny girls.  Because his friends and some family members made fun of him when he even hinted at his true attractions.  And he’s not the only one like that I’ve talked to.  I would bet a lot of money that there are a lot of guys like that in this country.  Even MJ, who has a textbook fetish for fat women and weight gain, used to pretend that her interests lay in mainstream beauties.  I know that she even made disparaging comments with her male friends about her ex-girlfriend’s size, when they were still dating.

That kind of shit breaks my heart and pisses me off at the same time.  Pusillanimous fools!  I want to scream at them.  I want to shake them and slap them and tell them exactly how damaging those kind of actions are to the very people they won’t let themselves love.  As well as to themselves.  Not to mention that letting other people dictate something as personal and intimate as your love- and sex-life is just stupid and a recipe for misery.

But I begin to digress.  Here’s the offensive excerpt from that ridiculous editorial (emphases mine):

Jack Sprat would eat no fat; his wife would eat no lean.

     Remember that little gem from childhood? I don’t recall the entire poem, or the message it was trying to conjure, if there indeed was one. Those ditties generally told a story with a moral attached and often contained lines that have been forever etched into the cultural psyche of more than one generation.
     I don’t even know who wrote it.
     But somehow that phrase sits in the back of my cavernous cerebrum and makes its way to the front every time I see a fat woman with a skinny guy. My internal curiosity machine kicks in and I wonder certain things that are usually considered off-limits, such as “how” and “why”?
     I realize our touchy-feely society has put the kibosh on any frank discussion of reality, which might be a classic example of the impulse behind The Emperor’s New Clothes. We’re not supposed to notice—much less mention—the obvious. If anything, our current mores demand we deny it. But sometimes you just plain can’t.
     If you accept the proposition that men are lustful, visually-motivated pigs that wish to spread their pollen to every dainty flower in the garden, you must ask: “He’s not really screwing her, is he?”
     That question becomes even more pertinent when both parties are fat. What about the logistics? How does a schwanz that’s hiding under a barrel make its way into a coochie that’s buried between mounds of cottage cheese? Do they have to hire professional movers? A heavy equipment operator?
     And what’s going through their minds as this is happening, assuming it can?
     Please don’t try to tell me these people are in the throes of deep sexual passion, so enamored that they simply must tear off one another’s clothes and bang until the cows come home, to use a disgustingly appropriate metaphor. And if they’re not, why are they together?
     Call me a shallow, superficial queen if you must, but I have a feeling most of these couples have little sex. They’re in it for companionship, or perhaps more likely, emotional and financial support. As a friend put it, they’re like two brooms (or perhaps two Bissells) leaning up against one another. If one falls, so goes the other.
     This may sound bitterly cynical, but it illustrates a deeper message. Or should I say, a wider perspective. 
        […blah blah blah, somehow segueing into a brief diatribe on why gays shouldn’t want legal marriage rights..  “If  you get married, you may as well be one of those horrid, sexless fat people!”  ..to paraphrase slightly.]
  

That kind of shit is why a part of me is fiercely proud to sport high-school-esque hickeys, why I make a point to be affectionate to my lovers in public.  Why I talk unapologetically about sex and display my decolletage with head held high. 

Because raging to myself and getting all knotted up inside about pop culture’s all too pervasive negativity towards fat people will never do any good.  Because living well is the best revenge, as they say.  I like the hickeys and the public affection, because they feel good of course, but also because a militant part of me needs to shove it in the world’s face that fat people are attractive, and sexual, and I am living proof, and I refuse to believe shit notions that try to proclaim otherwise.  And I won’t let anyone else get away with it either.  Open your eyes, sheep of the world.

We are fucking beautiful.  We are fucking!  And we are beautiful.  Maybe not to you individually, and that’s fine.  But do not expect the rest of the world to share those narrow ideals.  Allow for the possibility that the chubby girl in front of you in the checkout line is a sensual, lust-inspiring goddess to someone.  Probably many, if they let themselves see it.