When Vanilla Sex Hurts

I didn't know what I wanted.

I suppose that was the first problem. Problems always seem to start when we don't really know what we want, what we're looking for, but we get started anyway.

This wasn't one of those cases I've heard and read about where things just spiraled out of control. Nothing went wrong. Nothing bad happened.

At the end of it though, I still felt bad about myself. I couldn't pinpoint what had gone wrong with me because I couldn't figure out what I had wanted in the first place.

To start, it was a bad couple of days. Days when I got to the end of them and wanted to be punished. I wanted Doc to take his belt and use it on me, to make me feel pain in my body so that the pain in my heart might be lessened.

But we're both exhausted and I didn't want to ask so much of him at this point.

So, I hoped that everyday vanilla sex would help - to feel more connected to myself, to Doc, to something other than frustration and impotent rage. By the time evening ended, though, I had fallen asleep on the couch and when we made our way to the bedroom, I wasn't feeling the need for sex as intensely.

Still, Doc initiated sexual touch and I responded. I wondered vaguely what I was doing and why; what did I want in that moment and what expectations did I have for fulfilling that desire?

Mostly, I thought, "I'm not entirely sure that I'm in this." I also thought, "If I tell Doc I'd rather just cuddle against him and sleep, he'll be okay with that, too."

I didn't, and as he entered me, I wasn't sure why I hadn't told him. I just knew that finally the pain was there and it wasn't at all what I wanted. I delighted in finally being joined to him again, but I wasn't wet and it hurt.

It was confusing, this sex that didn't feel good and physically didn't feel okay; pain that wasn't the right kind; but still finding some kind of joy in the act of fucking.

After, I curled up against him, took a deep breath and felt tears begin to prick at the back of my eyes. The last several days have been long and frustrating and emotionally painful and I just wanted to release it all.

Doc's phone rang. The moment was gone.

Fruitful, regardless, as I learned that I want pain before fucking but not during.

Riding the Crop Again

"What would you like?" he asks me as he slips into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

"Hmmmmm.... Everything," I tell him, knowing that everything is both too much to accomplish in one night and not specific enough to narrow down the focus.

"Would you be more specific?" he requests.

"Are you saying you can't read my mind and you'd prefer if I told you explicitly what I want?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying," he tells me as he squeezes toothpaste onto the head of his toothbrush and begins to brush his teeth.

I come up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. I kiss the back of his neck. I reach into to waistband of his boxers and begin to stroke his cock with one hand while I cup his balls with the other.  "I want the riding crop or your belt tonight," I tell him. "Whichever you prefer."

When his toothbrush gives three pulses, I know his two minutes are up. I return to the bedroom and lie face-down on the bed, naked, waiting for him to finish his evening routine.

He enters the bedroom and picks up the riding crop from the top of my nightstand a few moments later. Standing at the foot of the bed, between my feet which are dangling off the end, he begins to caress me with the leather flap and his free hand. The tickling sensation is enticing.

Without warning he strikes me with the crop. I know from the loud crack the leather flap makes as it connects with my skin that this is a good one even before my brain can process the impact. Milliseconds later the sting catches up with the sound and my pussy is instantly dripping on the duvet.

He continues like this for some time, alternating gentle caresses with sharp cracks, stroking my calves, knees, the backs of my thighs.

Every time he touches my with his hands, my body tenses up and I push my ass closer to him, desperate for his fingers to spread open my pussy lips and feel how wet he makes me.

And every time he withdraws his hands without touching my cunt, I whimper with need until my body relaxes into the bed and the joy of feeling the crop hitting my ass again.

My brain goes blissfully numb and I reach the silent space. When he asks how I'm doing, I struggle to answer, because there are no words in my head. Just silence, clean and white and empty.

After several minutes, he asks again, "What would you like?" as I writhe and moan when he touches me with his bare hands, near tears when he strokes the juncture where my inner thighs meet my sex, but never once actually touching my pussy.

I have shift down the length of the bed, pressing my pussy against him, desperate to feel pressure on my outer lips, my clit, aching to feel him penetrate me with his fingers, his cock, fuck I don't care, the handle of the riding crop - anything so long as I get filled and he's the one doing it.

"What would you like?" is a question I can't answer at this point because it requires thoughts and words and desires; in this moment I am nothing but burning fire and need and hunger.

"Touch me," I tell him, because it's all I can get out.

And he does touch me. He caresses my legs, my ass, my back. He reaches around to my sides and I lift my torso off the bed so that he can caress my breasts and play with my nipples.

But it's not enough. I need him in me. Right the fuck now!

"Feel how wet I am," I plead with him. And when he touches my cunt I think I'm going to explode with the desire to have him hammering into me.

I leap forward on the bed, immediately on all fours, my ass in the air, a clear invitation for him to take me.

It's an invitation he accepts with vigor. And as he fucks me from behind, fucking me harder and longer than he ever has before, I pull out my magic wand and hold it to my clit, moaning, gasping, pleading with him to "Just keep fucking me," screaming in ecstasy when my orgasm peaks and sends me tumbling over wave after wave after wave of pleasure.

He finishes shortly after I do. We collapse onto the bed and I curl into his side and sleep peacefully.

I'm a Terrible Girlfriend

Today is the day I realized that I am the worst girlfriend in the world.

Prior to today, I thought I was the most amazing girlfriend ever. When Doc and I started dating, he told me his favorite dessert is lemon bars and his favorite cookie is the snickerdoodle. He also indicated that though he does not eat these or other sweets often, he's a sucker for any kind of cinnamon laden sweet bread.

Shortly thereafter he was on the receiving end a limitless parade of baked goods. So much so that he pleaded with me to bake less often.

Knowing his schedule, I did my best to never pester him during his working hours. When we were first dating, as I was essentially stealing his weekends from him, I chose to leave him to his own devices during the week so he would not have me as a distraction.

Whenever he asked me about my preferences or needs, I answered honestly and respectfully.

There was one small hiccup that I thought was mostly an issue for me. I realized today how wrong I've been.

When Doc and I were first intimate, he was stroking my cunt while I massaged my clit. He kissed my lower belly and inner thighs. "Do you want me to move my hand?" I asked him. He told me no. He continued to kiss around my genitals and penetrate me with his fingers while I masturbated to orgasm.

The next morning, he asked if he could go down on me. I consented. "I thought last night that maybe you wanted to," I said to him.

"I did," he told me.

"I wanted you to," I confessed.

"You should have told me! I would have!" he exclaimed.

"That is the one thing I'll never you for," I told him.

"If you want it, you should ask me for it," he said.

"No," I told him. "It's not that I don't want it or don't want to ask you for, it's that quite literally I can't ask you for that. I can't." And then I cried.

When I was 15, I was repeatedly sexually assaulted by a 22 year old man in my town with whom my parents pressured me to spend time because they thought I wasn't "social enough." In the sixth months this man abused me, on multiple occasions he told me how weird my genitals are, how they aren't shaped like other women and how the proportions are all wrong.

Hormones being hormones when you're 15, it did not matter that I fought and struggled against his physical pursuit, every time he touched my cunt I got wet. He complained about my natural vaginal lubrication, telling me how gross it was that I was "always wet."

I grew to hate my genitals: their appearance, their form, the way they worked.

Once, I tried to confront my body hatred and seek reassurance. I had just finished up my annual pelvic exam and pap smear. I had gotten dressed, the nurse had left the room, and the doctor had returned to finish the rest of my appointment - I was getting a flu shot that day. At the end of the appointment, my doctor asked me if I had any questions.

"Yes. Am I normal...down there?" I asked him.

"Everything looks perfectly healthy," he said. "You'll get the results of the lab work in a couple of weeks, but based on the visual exam, you have nothing to worry about."

"Okay," I said meekly, because I knew it would violate all kinds of ethics to tell my doctor, "Look, you spend 8 hours a day, 5 days a week looking at women's cunts. From a purely aesthetic perspective, is my cunt normal? Does it look like other cunts? Is it pretty enough?" because those are the questions I really wanted answered when I asked my doctor if I was normal, and hearing that everything "looked normal" wasn't enough.

When I had my first consensual sexual experience, the man I chose to give my virginity to told me how much he wanted to go down on me. When we got back to his apartment and got naked, he said he couldn't possibly go down on me, his girlfriend didn't care if he fucked other women, but she wouldn't want him to go down on anyone but here.

Several years later a childhood friend approached me about a casual sexual relationship, telling me how much he loves going down on a woman. When I took him up on the offer and asked if we could discuss boundaries, limits, and needs, he begged off the entire encounter because making the experience emotionally safe for me took the spontaneity out of it for him and it no longer appealed to him.

That was it.

I was done.

At this point, my hatred for my body, specifically my genitals, was so intense that I just resigned myself to the fact that I would not only never experience oral sex, but I decided that I hated my genitals enough that I never wanted to even have sex again. I just didn't want anyone to look at my hideous, abnormally proportioned, all-wrong cunt.

But I met this man and he pursued me and we started to date. And he pushed and pressured and told me how much he loved going down on a woman. So, I got naked and he changed his mind. Later he insisted that I shave my genitals, despite my own personal preferences and health concerns. So, when the next time we got naked and he told me if I shaved, he'd go down on me, I headed to the bathroom with a fresh razor blade and shaving cream.

When I finished, I left the bathroom, my cunt bare, and laid down before him as he asked. Then, he insisted that he'd nicked his lip when he'd shaved earlier in the day and couldn't possibly go down on me because the saltiness of my fluids would be too painful.

My next relationship started long distance and when we finally met in person, we headed to a hotel to spend the night together. A couple of hours into our play date, he said to me, "You're still nervous."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You still haven't told me what you want from me tonight," he said.

"I want oral sex," I told him.

Despite his previously insisting that he loves going down on a woman, he begged off. I was in my luteal phase and my cervical mucous was thick and creamy in texture. He couldn't possibly go down on me at this time of the month.

I was not safe with this man. When he asked me if he could fuck me I had a panic attack and sought to get as far away from him as I could - not an easy feat in a hotel room bed when he was above me, his 6'4", 250lb frame covering mine.

Once he'd calmed my fears, I allowed him to handcuff, shackle, spank me, and use an anal plug on me while stroking my cunt and hammering my g-spot with his fingers. But I knew I'd never be able to have sex with him.

I knew I'd probably never have sex again. And I knew that no matter what happened, no matter whom I might happen to meet, no matter what man might enter my life, and no matter where any of my potential future relationships might lead, I knew I would never again ask a man to go down on me, no matter what. I couldn't do it.

And then I met Doc. And he is more than I ever could have hoped for in a boyfriend and he is the single most amazing lover in the history of humankind. And I can't ask him to go down on me.

He wants to go down on me. He loves to go down on me. And he's told me he wants me to be comfortable asking him to meet my needs.

After he went down on me the first time and I explained that while I am happy to allow him to go down on me I will never be able to ask him for it, I decided that just maybe if I tried one more time and it went well, I would be okay. So I asked him if he wanted me to ask for what I wanted.

"Yes," he said to me. "Because you deserve to ask and you deserve to be told 'yes'."

So, I took a deep breath and said, "Will you...?" It was all I could get out.

"Yes, he said, moving down my body and his head between my thighs.

But I couldn't do it again. Every time I'd try, I'd panic. I'd try to ask, but I couldn't get the words out and as tears would threaten to spoil the moment, I'd focus on something else rather than ask Doc for what I wanted.

Finally, one night I screwed up my courage and decided I'd just do it. I would ask. I wanted it and I knew if I asked, he would do it. He kissed my mouth slowly. I pulled away and took a deep breath. Then, I went back to kissing him. I repeated this ate least three times.

I thought, "Maybe if I turn out the lights, if I can't see his face, then if he says no, maybe, in the dark, it won't be so bad." So, despite the fact that we both prefer to fuck with the lights on, I leaned back and turned out the lights.

Doc kissed me again, and again I pulled away. "Are you okay?" he asked me.

"Yes," I said and I kissed him again. Then, I pulled back, determined to ask him.

But I couldn't. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked me.

"Yeah," I said. "I just... Am I safe with you?" I asked.

"Of course!" he said. "Do you not feel safe? What's the matter?"

"No. I do! I do feel safe. I just...I wanted to ask you for something," I mumbled to him.

"What would you like to ask me for? What do you want?" he asked, and the tone in his voice told me he wanted to meet my needs in that moment.

"Would you...I mean...I just... You shaved today..." I said.

"Yes," he told me, sliding down my body and moving his head, once again, between my legs.

And still, in all this time, I've never actually asked Doc to go down on me. I'm always choked by fear and I end up suggesting that he could maybe do something if he wanted because I kind of want something and he shaved that day.

When Doc went out of town this past week, I knew I would miss him, but I had no idea the intensity of my longing for him would be so significant. After he'd been gone several days, I emailed and asked him to go down on me when he got back, and though I knew there were probably a few misspelled words and grammatical mistake, I hit the send button before I lost my nerve.

He told me he would very happily go down on me when he returned, that he would even shower first so as to provide me with a fresh shave. Then, he told me that he would really like for us to work on my feeling more comfortable asking for what I need. He told me that it helps him when I'm clear about my desires and that it makes him happy.

"I can't," I told him. I try and I end up paralyzed with fear, petrified that it will all go wrong and everything will be ruined.

"I like eating pussy, end of story," he wrote back. "I will gladly go down on you, even without you asking," he went on.

But he wants me to ask. And I can't because I'm afraid.

It was on my way to work this morning, an overly long commute with too much time to think, that I realized what a terrible girlfriend I am. Suddenly, I reframed my exchanged with Doc and saw things in a whole new light.

For months, I've thought I was privileging my fear over my own desires and Doc's preferences.

On my drive to work this morning I realized I was wrong. While it's true that I've been privileging my fear over my desires, more significantly, I've been privileging my fears over Doc's sexual needs. And Doc's sexual needs are legitimate needs. I have the ability to meet his needs and absolutely no reason not to. His needs don't violate any of my boundaries. His needs don't demean or belittle me or introduce danger.

Doc has legitimate sexual needs that I've simply refused to meet because I was afraid to be vulnerable with him.

On my drive to work this morning, I realized that I am the most selfish person I know and the worst girlfriend on the planet.

So tomorrow, when Doc gets home, despite the fact that we've already discussed it via email, despite the fact that when he arrives, he's going to shower and shave, despite the fact that I know he will be going down on me, tomorrow, when Doc gets home, I'm going to stretch out in bed beside him; I'm going to kiss him on the mouth; I'm going to look him in the eyes; then, I'm going to say to him, "I'd really like for you to go down on me tonight." And maybe, just maybe, we can start something new and good for both of us.

Why I'll Never Again Shave My Lady-Bits

When the alarm went off at 6:00 this morning, I knew it was time to feed the cats. I also knew that if I hit the snooze button, I could go back to bed for a few minutes after I'd taken care of them.

That's what I did.

I did not, however, go to sleep again.

Instead, I lay in bed and I thought about all of the ways that Doc is better than other 3.5 billion men on the planet.

It started with my vulva and the second thing about Doc that made him attractive to me: he prefers his partners au naturale.

About 9 months before I met Doc, I started dating this man whom I met casually. In the grocery store. We dated for three months before it ended. This was all before I entered the world of kink, but well after my first kinky fantasies and desire blossomed at the tender age of six.

I was adamant with this man that I would not have sex prior to marriage, so if he was expecting sex in the near future, he'd best move on. I realize now that my complete comfort and certainty that not having sex with him would be an easy thing was an indication of just how little I liked him and how little I wanted to be in the relationship.

But, alas, there was much heavy petting.

Shortly after we met, this man was transferred for work and we ended up living three hours apart. Still, we continued to see each other a couple of weekends a months. I would drive down to see him as he worked Tuesday through Saturday and I worked Sunday through Friday. Friday nights through Saturday morning were the only time we had to get to know one another in person.

Frankly, he was mean.

Starting off, he was wonderful. He complimented me, constantly telling me how beautiful and worthy I was, how much he liked me just the way I was, that I was his dream girl. He was cruel, disrespectful, and insulting to everyone else when speaking to or about them. I was waring, wondering when the shiny glow of first attraction would wear off and he'd begin to treat me that way.

The relationship lasted three months, and it should not have gone for that long.

He was the first to indicate an interest in kink, telling me he wanted to spank me. I told him we should have a conversation about it, limits, boundaries, preferences. "But how will I know in the moment if you'll be okay with it?"

"Just ask me," I told him.

"But what if you say 'No' and get mad at me for asking and leave?" he asked.

"If I say 'no' it means I'm not in the mood for it at that moment, but I'd like you to ask again another time, or I might even ask you to do it at a later date. But I am NOT going to get angry that you asked and I'm not going to leave because you asked," I replied.

He refused to ever have a conversation beyond this.

He did, however, hit or otherwise harm me without consent. On more than one occasion.

In the middle of the night, I'd gotten up to get a drink of water. In the kitchen, he grabbed me from behind, turned me around, shoved me into the counter, bruising my lower back. He proceeded to dry hump me while I cried out in pain, pleading with him to stop. He bit my neck so hard he caused deep tissue damage and I couldn't turn my head for a week.

The next morning he told me how sorry he was, he has nightmares, he didn't mean to.

I told him I understand having nightmares but if he pulled that shit again, I was gone.

He never again assaulted me in the middle of the night, but he continued to bite me so hard he'd cause the tendons in my neck and shoulder to swell every time we kissed. "I don't know what's too much" was always his excuse, as though my telling him repeatedly while making out, "Ouch, that hurts, not so hard, stop!" wasn't enough.

On multiple occasions (basically every weekend I'd visit), he'd come up behind me at one point or another while I was in the kitchen, usually washing dishes, and hit me so hard on the ass that I'd slam into the counter. Often times I'd drop whatever I'd been holding. Once he hit me so hard, he knocked my hip out of place. When I complained he told me he was "just joking." His joke cost me 2 hours lost time at work, a trip to the chiropractor, and a $43 dollar co-pay I couldn't afford.

I started only washing dishes when he was at work. But his breaks would change, and often he would come home at a time different than I'd expected, and if I was at the sink with the water running, he'd sneak into the house (I couldn't hear him over the running water), sneak up behind me, and hit me hard enough to pop my hip out of place. Again.

Most lost time at work. More trips to the chiropractor. Another $43 I did not have.

When I was offered a potentially huge, career changing opportunity, I was so excited to tell him about it. It would mean we'd be a little farther away for a short period of time, but much closer in the long haul. He cared little for my success and picked a fight about the fact that I was going to be late, as the interview I'd had lasted 2 1/2 hours when I'd expected it to be only 60-90 minutes. We were going to miss the movie he had wanted to see.

He proceeded to yell at me and ridicule my inability to navigate traffic in an unfamiliar city to get to his apartment faster, despite my telling him that the interstate was basically shut down due to a traffic accident several miles ahead. It took me 40 minutes to drive two miles. There were no exits to take back roads I wouldn't know how to navigate anyway. I was stuck and there was nothing I could do.

Nothing I said mattered. "I have to get back to work," he told me. "Just make sure you move to get your ass here fast when you're off the freeway."

At his next break he called me and continued to yell at me while I drove as fast as I could to get there in time. I got pulled over and ended up with a speeding ticket. The cop was nice enough to knock the speed down from 25 mph over the limit to 6-10. It was still $114 I couldn't afford given the gas prices and 400 miles I was driving every other weekend just to see my boyfriend.

When I finally got to his place, he berated me for getting pulled over and then said, "That's what you get for taking the back roads. This wouldn't have happened if you'd just stayed on the interstate."

"There was an accident. Traffic wasn't moving. You told me to get here as soon as possible and take the back roads around the accident," I reminded him.

"Well how was I supposed to know there was an accident?" he asked.

"I told you that traffic was at a stand still when you first called. I told you it was because of an accident the second time you called."

"Well, I just thought that traffic was going really slow and you couldn't figure out how to navigate it. I didn't realize you meant it wasn't moving at all and that there had been an accident," he said.

'Ummmmm, that's what a stand still is,' I thought. 'Traffic isn't moving at all.' I didn't say anything because I wanted to avoid another fight.

This was Valentine's weekend and the first time he insisted that I shave my lady-bits. He'd asked before, telling me that whatever I preferred was fine. This time, however, he told me how a woman who shaved was "just cleaner" and it proved she "cared about herself."

I wanted to start by telling him that if evolution gave us pubic hair, it was there for a reason. I had already explained that my skin is sensitive and prone to ingrown hairs and folliculitis. I wanted to tell him about the studies that indicate that genital shaving leads to micro-tears, an entry point for bacteria, and the possibility of staph infections. I wanted to tell him that women who shave their genitals have higher rates of bacterial vaginosis.

I said nothing, because more than anything, I wanted to avoid another fight or being hit again unexpectedly or being bitten so hard I couldn't turn my head.

Instead, I pulled out shaving cream and a razor and shaved my labia, because it was what he wanted. And because he promised that if I did shave, he'd go down on me, and no man had ever gone down on me before.

Shaving my lady-bits seemed a small price to pay to avoid another fight, to avoid another trip to the chiropractor, and to finally figure out what all my girlfriends raved about.

Incidentally, after spending 20 minutes doing shower yoga to make sure every last hair was dispensed with, he begged off the cunniligus because he'd cut his lip shaving that morning and was afraid the saltiness of my fluids would be hurt.

Three weeks later, when I called him for moral support after a bad day, he dismissed my feelings with a sneering remark. When I told him that I expect a certain level of emotional intimacy in a romantic relationship and his options were to either engage in the relationship in a mutually caring and supportive fashion or not date me, he chose the second option. Thank God.

But by that point, habit had become ingrained - shaving 3 days a week because it's what expected of women.

I hated doing it, but I did it. After all, if there's anything worse than shaving your labia, it's the discomfort, abrasions, and itching that comes with the early stages of hair regrowth.

So, when I met Doc and I asked him if it was true that he preferred his partners be unshaven and he confirmed it was true, I knew I would never shave again for anyone. Because whether or not Doc and I are together for the long haul, there are men who prefer women with pubic hair.

What's more, if the men out there who prefer women shaved do not respect a woman's right to bodily autonomy and will insult the choices those women make about their own bodies, then those are men I would not want to be with anyway.

It also helps, certainly, that Doc, on occasion, tells me how pretty my pussy is now that my hair has fully regrown.

Because, you know, he's better than the other 3.5 billion men on planet earth. And when he gets home on Wednesday, I fully intend to make sure he knows how much I appreciate him.

Porn and the At-Home-Alone Pastor

I watched porn this week for what amounts to basically the first time.

I mean, I'd seen porn before - around the house, stashed in other peoples' closets, and in a class I took in undergrad (Sexual Violence, Pornography and the Law). But, this week, as Doc is out of town and I've been home alone (I moved in with him, sort of, after Thanksgiving; for real just before Christmas), I was really horny. As I've heard from multiple people, including Doc, that the visual stimulation of porn can help in one's masturbatory pursuits, I decided to give it a try.

So, I loaded up the Late Night section of HBO GO and was sorely disappointed at what passes for porn on HBO's on demand service. It was terrible. The plots were ridiculous, the sex was terrible and every female in the two movies (we're talking six porn models total) had belly button piercings. What is it with female porn stars and belly button rings?

I detailed my disappointment to Doc and he shared with me where he keeps his DVDs and even recommended one. My curiosity piqued, I pulled it out and sat down to watch on Saturday morning.

There was no plot, it was just a group of porn stars taken to a resort for a weekend and allowed to couple up and fuck in a totally organic nature. It was exceptionally well done. There was only one belly button ring (out of five models). The movie included the director explaining how she conceived of the project and what drover her to make the movie.

The models were interviewed about their personal and public sexual experiences. In the first scene, the female model talked about her history as a "loser" in high school and her desire to fuck the particular male model as a way to fulfill her high school jock fantasy. It was like a really amazing documentary on a social experiment that contained a lot of fucking.

I was fascinated by the interviews, couplings and follow-ups. The sex was mostly boring. Sure, it got me hot and wet, but after about 3 minutes, of fucking, I more or less thought, "So, I'm not unusual in the things I say and the noises I make when Doc and I fuck. Cool! And oh, my God, that model has the prettiest genitals I've ever seen.... God, I wish I had a vulva that pretty."

I decided porn probably isn't for me. It's not something I feel particularly drawn to. It was interesting, but again, I enjoyed the interviews more than the sex. I guess sex is like spectator sports - I'd rather be playing than watching.

And, you know, given the fact that I've long struggled with a high degree of hatred for my genitals, and the fact that I'm pretty sure Doc would recoil in horror if I ever mentioned the idea of having my genitals custom sculpted by a plastic surgeon, watching other girls with prettier vulvae get fucked, probably isn't going to help my self-esteem.

But, I would like to watch porn with Doc, if he's interested, because I think that would be hot. And while I wait for Doc to return, I fantasize about when he will return and fuck me hard. I fantasize about all of the ways I'd like for him to fuck when I masturbate. I spend a lot of time at home naked.

And when Doc does return, I'll likely pull out the hand mirror and look at my own genitals while Doc fucks me. That is, of course, after he pulls out the riding crop he got me for Christmas and gives me a good cropping.

So Good to Me

Doc asked me the night before Thanksgiving if I wanted to engage in any of my kinks.

He had promised sex in a church the next night, so I was sitting pretty and wanting for nothing.

Don't get me wrong - I love it when we do kinky stuff together; but I'm so exquisitely satisfied with the sex without kink that just the anticipation of spicing things up is enough to satisfy.

The day after Thanksgiving, however, Doc pulled out a cane and suggested we use it, because ... well, fuck yes!

I got naked and lay on the bed face down. Doc caned me; alternating between striking and stroking me with the cane. And it made me wet. It made me so wet.

On more than one occasion, I lifted my hips and shifted closer to Doc, trying to silently encourage more, silently begging him to touch me with his hands, to finger fuck me until I came.

And he did touch me. He stroked my pussy. He probed my cunt.

It wasn't long before I couldn't take it anymore. I rolled onto my back, moved in front of him, positioned myself until Doc was between my thighs and pleaded with Doc to fuck me.

And he did fuck me. And I finally worked up the courage to pull out a mirror so I could watch his cock in my pussy as he fucked. It was the hottest thing I've ever seen.

Oh, yes. Doc is very good to me.

Thanksgiving Adventures

I grew up in beautiful church. Domed ceiling, stained glass windows, full pipe organ. Rich red carpet and oak pews.

It is a place of beauty.

The church came into existence before the town in which it resides. The founder moved there in the late 1800s and decided to start a church, a draw to settlement. In a town with five churches, it is the oldest and most ornate.

This is where my family held our Thanksgiving day meal yesterday.

We have grown too large in numbers for any one member of the family to host the meal at a private home. Twenty of us, in total. No one has the space for so many bodies.

So, I suggested we have the meal in the basement of this church where I grew up, where I first met God, where I fell in love with Jesus - the large, southern, rose window depicting Christ at Gethsemane being a particular draw for me, where I was baptised and confirmed (the only one in our family to choose to confirm baptismal vows made on our behalf in infancy), and where I would often sneak out of Sunday school and hide behind the horseshoe-shaped island in the kitchen as I preferred to listen to the adult talk about important things rather than make shoe-box Garden of Edens.

This is the church where my grandfather grew up, where my grandparents were married, where my father was baptized, confirmed, raised in the faith, where my parents were married.

This is the first church I ever preached in. My maiden sermon as I sought and obtained official confirmation of my call to ministry.

So it was that yesterday, when Doc and I arrived and after we set out the few dishes we had contributed to the meal (the turkey, cheese, and a dessert), I gave him a tour of this church that I love.

My parents arrived and we began to warm the side dishes. My siblings arrived with their respective partners, children, and friends. Everything was finished warming, the kids were playing, small talk ensued. It was the best and most relaxed holiday meal I think my family has ever shared.

When it came time to clean up, my mother washed a few dishes, I took care to send the leftovers home with those who most needed them, cars were packed and most everyone drove off into the night.

There was a bit overlap with the group that has a standing Thursday night reservation in the church basement, but my father is familiar with them and I know a couple of the members in that group from other places in life.

Once the kitchen was otherwise cleared and the group had taken their seats in the fellowship hall, Doc and I carefully and very quietly snuck up the back stairwell, through the office, to the of the sanctuary, up another flight of stairs, into the balcony where there is a couch.

Stripping off my shoes, skirt, leggings and panties, I sat at the very edge of the couch as Doc removed his belt, pants and boxers. I took him into my mouth and enjoyed the feel and taste of him. Then, he leaned me back, knelt between my legs and fucked me in the church. And it was good.

We kept things short and because I'm incapable of having a silent or even quiet orgasm, and with the group meeting two stories below us, I simply marvelled in the way Doc feels inside of me.

It was a long-held fantasy brought to life, and I experienced a level of happiness that has never before been attained so close to any family function.

Perhaps come Christmas, we'll be able to find a few more quiet hours in the church, when it's empty and silent, and I'll finally be able to convince Doc to tie me to the altar before taking me. If I'm a very, very, very good girl and ask nicely.

And if that particular fantasy never comes to be, I'll be satisfied to relive this one in my memory for years to come.

It's a Good Thing!

When I  was five years old, I ran my first science experiment. There was a little boy, a kindergarten classmate of mine, who always came to school with sleepy seeds caught in his eyelashes.

I could never understand this. How could he not get up and rub the sleepy seeds from his eyes when he awoke each morning? Wasn't that what everyone did? How could he not? Just the feel of sleepy seeds caught in my lashes and the corners of my eyes was enough to drive me crazy.

One day, I determined to see what this was all about. So, I got up and did not wipe the sleepy seeds from my eyes. This took a lot of effort on my part. But I had to know.

It took four days, but eventually I found out. After four days, the sleepy seeds had migrated from the inner corners of my eyes farther and farther and farther out on  my lashes. Until I woke up on that fateful fourth day and could not open my eyes.

The sleepy seeds had glued my eyelids shut. It took a blind walk to the bathroom, feeling my way along the wall, and a washcloth wetted with hot water and held to my eyelids to soften the sleepy seeds and wipe my eyes clear before I could see again.

I've wiped sleepy seeds from eyes every day since. Some twenty-eight years worth of sleepy seeds removed, washed away, cleared from the corners of my eyes each day.

After sex, Doc always jumps out of bed and gets cleaned up. It was a conflation of his habit and my science experiment at the age of five that ran rampant through my brain this week while Doc and I were having sex.

And I started to giggle. Now I had been having a terrible couple of days - sparked by a sign of a pink ribbon with Mickey Mouse ears on the side of a hospital as I drove down to Doc's Friday night.

This reminded me of a time during seminary when I had a misunderstanding with a friend. She had made a remark that confused me and the more I sought clarificaiton, the angrier she became with what she saw as my intentional obtuseness.

This memory led to a downward spiral of thought - remembering all of the times people have assumed I was affecting stupidity or confusion to derail conversation or frustrate them. People assume that because I'm brilliant, I must always get everything and thus no question could possibly be genuine.

This deeply and very negatively feeds my perfectionism. This spiral continued until I found myself washing Doc's whites on Saturday afternoon because I had overflowed my tampon and left a spot of blood the size of a grain quinoa on his bathroom rug. All I could think was, "Doc is going to break up with me if he finds out!"

Also, it's just good manners. No matter how small the stain is, if you get menstrual blood on someone's bath mat, you should throw it in the wash. With bleach.

At dinner, Doc asked about my downward spiral. I told him about everything. Except the bath mat.

After dinner, while we watched a bit of tv, I had a couple of mixed drinks - orange juice and chocolate vodka.

When we headed to bed, I thought about Doc cleaning up after sex each time. It made sense this weekend, but I was curious about every other time. And somehow, I connected this to sleepy seeds.

I began to giggle.

Doc stopped. "What?" he asked.

"No, it's okay," I tried to tell him as I giggled more. "I just.... It's a good thing," I gasped, trying to compose myself. I burst into giggles again. "I'm thinking about your penis!"

Suddenly, the absurdity of this hit me. I'm pretty sure no man on earth is going to hear their partner say, "I'm thinking about your penis" while giggling maniacally and think it's a good thing. I began to laugh harder.

"It's a good thing," I tried to say. "I just wondered," I gasped for breath, "if you didn't clean up right after sex," laughter overcame me again, "would your urethra be glued shut!?" I lost it. I couldn't stop laughing. It was just all too absurd.

Doc lost it, too.

My giggles had killed the mood. "I'm glad you're laughing again," Doc told me, "but it's just not sexy."

And I imagine his words are universally true. There's probably not much in life less sexy mid-coitus than a partner laughing hysterically while saying, "It's a good thing! I'm thinking about your penis!"

Witches' Hats and Candy Dishes

Friday, being Halloween, Doc and I had a rousing evening planned, watching a bit of TV and handing out candy to the trick-or-treaters. Doc pulled out his wizard's hat and I bought a purple and black witch's hat and we had a wonderful time.

The first group of kids started showing up mid-dinner. Doc and I alternated between answering the door. When the fifth group of children arrived, they asked, "How many can we have?" I told them, "Take what you'd like," anticipating that good manners would dictate restraint. Three children quickly emptied the candy dish of what had moments before been nearly four bags of fun-sized candy bars. Well, okay then.

We refilled the dish and when the next group asked how many they could have, I told them they could have one or two of each kind. I wanted to tell them, "Please demonstrate a culturally appropriate level of restraint in your choices, acknowledging that more children are certain to arrive," but I was sure they'd just stare blankly at me.

Two a piece it became.

And it was a LOT of fun.

I thought I was going to get a completely free pass this year and I was stoked!

You see, I was assaulted on Halloween by a stranger some years ago. This does not factor into my daily lived experience. I get a little jumpy during the month of October, and while I've been a bit anxious this month, recognizing early on what was happening has largely short-circuited my PTSD response. This is awesome.

I thought I was going to get a completely free pass this year.

Still, I brought my oldest stuffed animal with me - a stuffed raccoon I've had since I was six.

I thought I would get a free pass this year.

And then the last group of trick-or-treaters arrived. They were older boys, on the verge of manhood. The could have been in high school or even early college. And they were aggressive.

They opened the storm door to its widest point, they leaned into my personal space. As I leaned back slightly, they leaned into the foyer, their chests entering our home as they leaned past and around me. "What did you have for dinner?" one asked.

I panicked. I was terrified. I knew that I could call for Doc and he'd come immediately. But I didn't know if my level of anxiety was related to this being Halloween, or the really creepy mask one of the boys/men was wearing, or if there was a legitimate threat as they leaned into my personal space and our sanctuary.

"We had spaghetti for dinner," I responded, trying to keep it light.

"Do you have any left?" the one to my left asked, leaning farther in and bouncy on the balls of his feet.

"Sorry, no," I laughed nervously, just wanting them to leave. "Happy Halloween." I started to pull back and close the front door." But they wouldn't leave. They just stayed half-way in the house, half-way out, leaning their torsos over the threshold. They reached out and everything in me screamed to just drop the candy dish and run to Doc.

They grabbed more candy and once their hands were free of the entry door, I closed it tight and headed back to the living room, not even bothering to check that they were gone.

I curled up against Doc and rested in the safety of his embrace while we watched TV. When the show we'd been watching ended, I turned off the outside lights, closed the shades over the sidelight and locked the front door. It was late enough that we did not expect more trick-or-treaters.

Doc and I retired for the evening. Teeth brushed, I lay in bed naked awaiting him.

When he came to bed, he kissed me, touched me, stroked my legs, breasts, genitals. He stroked my hair. I smiled. I smiled the whole we embraced and kissed and touched. I smiled because I felt connected and safe and good. I smiled because I really believed I'd gotten a free pass this year.

Doc entered me and I smiled and kissed him and touched him.

Doc touched my hair at the nape of my neck.

"Please! Don't! Stop! Not that. Please, don't pull my hair," I begged as panic came swift and intense.

I would not get a free pass this year.

Doc stopped immediately. He took his hand from my hair. "Are you okay?" he asked, concern deep in his voice.

"Yes," I said. "You can continue. Just...please...please do not pull my hair."

Doc continued and did not touch my hair again.

"Is it okay if I turn you over?" he asked.

"Ummm.....let me think about it," I said, still feeling unsure of myself. I was so afraid if I couldn't see him I wouldn't be able to stay connected to the fact that I was with him. I said his name over and over and over and over in my mind. "I'm with Doc. This is Doc. I'm safe with Doc," I told myself. When I had calmed myself enough to feel present in the moment again, I told Doc he was more than welcome to turn me over, so long as he didn't touch my hair.

"It's okay," he said. "We can stay like this."

"No, really," I told him, wanting to make sure his needs were met and knowing I could be okay now. "We can change positions."

"It's okay," he said again. "I'm happy to stay like this."

And it was wonderful.

Then, Doc said, "You can get your witch's hat and wear it if it'll help."

I laughed. I laughed and I laughed and I had a hard time not giggling. "Just you saying that made everything perfect," I told him.

"I'm serious," he said. "You can get it if you want!" And he was serious. It would not have bothered him a bit.

But I love being beneath him, his body moving over mine, his arms around, my legs around his waist, stroking his shoulders, back, and buttocks while he fucks. My witch's hat was in the other room, and I did not want to stop for a moment, let alone move from beneath him and leave our bed to retrieve it.

Next weekend, though, I'm definitely wearing the hat.

A Very Long Day

The Musician is with me wherever I go.

This is not a problem. I do not wish to run or hide from his presence. At times, however, acknowledging him and explaining the role he plays in my life can be taxing.

At these times, I usually know to end my day after any such conversations.

Except yesterday when I didn't.

My best friend was in town and wanted to meet Doc. So, the three of us had dinner Thursday night. Friday morning, I met up with her for breakfast. After which, I had coffee with the pastor of the church I've been attending and which I have been serving in the capacities in which I am able.

This pastor wanted to know as much of my story as I was comfortable sharing. His interest had been piqued when I extended my tearful apology and turned down the offer to read the morning scripture one Sunday a few weeks back. "The latter half of Mark 5 is the one scripture I cannot read," I told him.

So, this pastor and I spent a couple of hours in a loud coffee shop talking about the life and direction of the church, talking about my story and how it intersects with Mark 5, talking about my interests and how I can get more involved with the community in the future as time permits.

Then, I had lunch with my best friend before she began her 4 hour drive home. I had a relatively terrible lunch with her in an extremely loud restaurant that left my body feeling gross. I am convinced that something I ate had been cross-contaminated. Blech.

After lunch I headed to one grocery store because they had a decent price on whole, boneless, New York strip and I wanted one. I returned to Doc's, got the steak put away, started a crossword puzzle and put on a kettle for tea, hoping to settle my stomach.

Then, Doc and I headed out to a couple of other grocery stores for things that cannot be found elsewhere. The first store was loud and crowded. The second more so. I also needed to mail a package to Ichthy and buy a book of stamps.

While we made our way through the store, I took hold of Doc's shirt tail. He asked if I was okay, and I explained that while I was fine, I was feeling a bit anxious and would likely be a bit more physically engaged while we shopped, if he was okay with that. He indicated he was.

At the check-out, I looked at the Customer Service desk and groaned with resignation and increased anxiety at the length of the line. Doc suggested I head that way and he would take care of getting the groceries so that we could make our escape as quickly as possible.

I stood in line, occasionally checking on Doc's progress. When it was my turn at Customer Service, I told the woman what I needed. She weighed the package and grabbed a book of stamps. While she attended to that, I looked back at the check-out. Doc was nowhere to be seen.

I began to panic, searching frantically for him. It is not that I was afraid Doc had left and forgotten me. It was that I was afraid I would be swallowed whole by the anxiety I was feeling, and Doc was the one solid thing I could look to and touch and know that I was still on stable ground.

With a deep sigh of relief, I saw him standing to the side of the Customer Service counter patiently waiting for me. I paid for my stamps and we left.

Once back at Doc's house, we put away the groceries we would not be using that night and I began dinner: mushroom risotto with crispy bacon. God help me, it was a miracle.

As we sat down to dinner, I stopped. Everything seemed to hit me at once. I was exhausted. Worn out. Done for the day. I wanted to skip dinner, curl up in bed and cry into my pillow.

Doc asked if I was okay.

This seems like a relatively easy question. It seems pretty straightforward. It seems like the kind of question that has a pretty simple answer: either a person is okay or they are not.

The question and its answer are infinitely more difficult than a simple yes or no.

I had had a long day. I was exhausted. I had talked about The Musician and been incredibly vulnerable with a new person in my life.

I had had a long day. I was exhausted. My mind was full of thoughts and I was feeling a lot of things, many of which I could not get a clear idea of and which I could not understand because I had had a long day and I was exhausted.

But apart from all of that, I was fine. There was nothing wrong. I was experiencing feelings and having thoughts.

I do not value feelings as much as most people I know. Feelings give us neither truth nor knowledge. They are fickle and insignificant most of the time. Feelings come at the behest of our thoughts and are unreliable as anything other than signposts.

I knew that all of things I was feeling and could not put words to were largely a result of thoughts I was thinking and could not clearly organize because I had had a long day and I was exhausted.

I knew as well that many of things I was feeling were amplified by exhaustion and anxiety and were a result of distorted thoughts I could not immediately correct because I had had a long day and I was exhausted.

And because I knew all of this and because I knew that in reality, outside of my unclear and disorganized thoughts which were feeding mysterious and hard to classify feelings, I was perfectly safe and content and quite happy, I spoke the truest words I could find in response to Doc's question: I'm fine.

And then I asked him why he had queried.

"You're very quiet and you have an incredibly pensive look on your face."

Doc scored extra points for his use of the word pensive.

But the anxiety only increased now that I was doing nothing and though the risotto was delicious and though hot, creamy, delicious, homemade and blissfully gluten-free food made my stomach feel better, I had a hard time getting through dinner because I was having an incredibly difficult time just swallowing.

After dinner, Doc and I sat down to watch a bit of television. Because of some technical difficulties, we popped in season 2 of Buffy. About 8 minutes in, I asked if he could pause for a bit. My anxiety had simply continued to build in intensity and I was beginning to feel as though I had shards of glass embedded in my knuckles.

I asked if it was okay to take a shower. Sometimes running water helps. I sat on the shower floor, knees drawn to my chest, arms crossed on my knees, head on my forearms and cried and cried and cried while the water saturated my hair and ran down my back. When I could not cry anymore, I sat another moment, waiting for the shaking in my core to subside.

I got out of the shower, toweled off, threw on a several-sizes-too-large t-shirt and returned to Doc's side. After making sure I was feeling better, Doc turned Buffy back on and we finished the episode.

Technical problems now resolved, after Buffy, we watched John Oliver. In the midst of the episode I asked Doc if we could fuck when it over. He said yes.

So, after John Oliver, we headed to bed. I brushed my teeth. I flossed. I crawled naked into my side of the bed and waited while Doc brushed and flossed as well.

When Doc returned, we kissed. He touched me. But I was closed tight.

Doc kissed me and touched me and I couldn't accept it. I had nothing to offer in return. I did not want him to stop. I did not want to have sex with Doc. I wanted Doc to do sex to me. This was, quite evidently, not going to be satisfactory to Doc.

I could have said, "No." I could have asked him to stop at any point. Doc would have. He would not have been angry. He would not have even been disappointed. I would have cried and cried and cried. And Doc would have held me and cradled me and cared for me in that moment.

"Are you sure you're okay," Doc asked.

"Yes," I told him. Because really, I was. "Why do you ask?"

"You're reticent," he answered.

"You're really scoring big vocab points tonight," I told him.

"Because I'm using trisyllabic words?" he asked.

"Yes." And I kissed him and tried to invite him into my space. But my space was small and closed.

I tried but I could not get to the place or the moment where Doc existed. I tried to focus on the ways Doc touched me, caressed me, stroked me, kissed me. It was exactly what I wanted, it was exactly what I needed, and it was too far a distance between my brain and my skin - a chasm that could not be crossed.

I asked Doc if he wanted to fuck me and he said yes, but that he was would wait. I didn't want him to wait and invited him into my body.

He turned me over and took me from behind.

And I was in the wrong place. I began to cry.

Doc stopped. "Are you okay?" he asked again.

"I'm fine. It's okay," I said, my voice hitching.

"What's wrong?" Doc asked.

"Nothing," I told him. How could I explain?

Doc has read my vanilla blog. When we first started dating, I told a friend of mine how it was we met and how the relationship was going. I explained about how respectful Doc had been in regards to what he'd learned when read my vanilla blog.

My friend responded:

I pray this will continue in absolutely the right direction and that the H[oly] S[pirit] will keep your heart protected and your mind absolutely clear. I only say that because crazy cautious New Yorker-me has seen a few too many lovely people deceived by the person of their dreams, or so they thought. And this guy will know exactly which buttons to press with you because he has read everything.

How could I explain that as he fucked me last night all I could think was how wrong my friend had been? Because the fact is the only reason to press button and take advantage is because you have something to gain. And I? I have nothing to offer.

I expected Doc to slice me open and carve away the rind of inner self and to find Casu Marzu beneath. I have nothing left which is desirable or worthy. I expected Doc to cut me open and recoil in horror at what lay within.

Doc, however, said, "I want to keep fucking you. God, I want to keep fucking you, but only if you're in the right head space."

I tried, desperately, to keep my voice level and even as I asked Doc to keep fucking me.

He stopped, turned me over so that I was, once again, on my back. Doc looked at me and entered me and touched me and kissed me. He did not cut me open. He did not tear me apart at the seams as I had sought to do to myself earlier in my attempts to make space for him in the place of me that had retreated and shut down and closed off entirely.

Doc, instead, shone warmth and light into the terrified and hurting places. He reached out softly and gently. He invited me to come forth. He brought light and warmth and passion; in doing so, Doc unfurled the layers of protection and allowed me breathe into a new space of welcome and safety.

Feelings give us neither truth nor knowledge. I do not care how people feel about me. I care how they treat me.

Doc treats me with care, kindness, and compassion.

And when he fucks me, he makes certain it is not something he is doing to me, but something he is doing with me.

And we do it so well.

Canes and a Rubber Hose

This past week has been rife with anxiety.

Work was stressful. Home was stressful. Life was stressful.

I had an ultrasound Monday morning to see if there is any reason for the post-coital pain I experience when Doc fucks me hard in the missionary position. Late Tuesday I got the results: everything is normal. I'm perfectly healthy. Nothing to worry about and no reason for a follow-up unless the issue is persistent.

The issue is persistent. The only way to keep the issue from recurring is to explore all of the other positions in which Doc and I can fuck. Fun, to be sure. Still, it is frustrating not to have any clear reason for the pain and no way to address it other than avoid the stimulus.

The rest of the week proceeded without incident. Still, I was incredibly anxious when I left work on Friday and headed for Doc's.

I wanted to get to his place and I wanted to fuck.

And everything seemed to be going wrong.

I got stuck at work and left 10 minutes late. Due to road constructions and people who don't know how to drive, I got stuck at the intersection when leaving work and sat behind two cars at a stop sign for 10 minutes. Half-way to Doc's, I pulled off the freeway to buy gas. Half of the lot was torn up and under construction; half the pumps were out of order; the other half of the pumps were occupied.

I drove off without gas and stopped at the next station a mile down the road. I was more than willing to pay $0.02 more per gallon for the convenience of immediate availability.

All gassed up, I headed back onto the highway and hit traffic about 12 miles from Doc's. The speed limit is 70 mph. Cars in the right lane were traveling approximately 57 mph. Cars in the left lane were, for unfathomable reason, traveling at 60 mph. My frustration was high.

The final interchange before reaching Doc's house was a holy cluster fuck of everyone and their mother and a few semis merging onto and off of the freeway. I had to remind myself repeatedly that I was nearly at Doc's and I'd be there soon enough.

When I did arrive at Doc's, he opened the door, greeted me, asked if I needed help. I got everything into the house and put away the few groceries I'd brought with me for some baking and cooking this weekend.

Then, Doc kissed and I kissed him in return. "How hungry are you?" I asked him.

"Not that hungry," he responded and I started dragging him to the bedroom.

"I'll need to take care some things," Doc said, gesturing to dinner which was currently cooking on the stove.

"Oh," I said, slightly deflated. "I suppose we can wait until after dinner," I remarked, not wanting to make too much work for Doc.

After salad and spaghetti with meat sauce, Doc and I headed to the bedroom and fucked.

Doc started slowly teasing me, touching me, stroking me, caressing me. "Please," I begged him.

"Not yet," he said.

I was okay with this. Honestly, I was. But Doc would touch me one place and I knew if he continued for another couple of minutes, I would cum. Then, he would move and caress me somewhere else, building my sexual frustration and I wanted to just beg him to finally, please, just fuck me already; but Doc moved between my legs and began licking, caressing, and sucking on my clit, and I thought I might die as I writhed and moaned with pleasure. I was quite happy to forgo having his cock in me for a little bit if it meant more of this.

Finally, Doc began to fuck me and I came and I came and I came. I wrapped my legs around his waist and clung desperately to him while he continued to fuck me. Absolute perfection.

Afterward, Doc and I watched John Oliver and an episode of Buffy and we started watching Blacklist, which was amazing.

We headed to bed and Doc fucked me again.

Saturday morning, I got up a little after 5:30 and fed the cats. I climbed back into bed, but wasn't having much luck getting back to sleep, so I got up and read for a bit.

I also remembered that I had purchased some dry erase markers for my office desk and left three most boring markers at work and took the three most fun colors to Doc's. The markers have magnets on their caps, so I placed them on Doc's fridge.

Eventually, I went back to bed and slept a bit more. When Doc and I woke up, we fucked again.

When we left bed some time later Doc noticed the markers, he remarked that he'd have to get a tiny whiteboard. "I was thinking I could use them to leave you notes on your bathroom mirror. Things like, 'Would you like try using your belt on me tonight?' But then, I wasn't sure if you'd find that charming or be irritated that you had one more thing to clean in the bathroom."

"We could try that," Doc said. "I noticed you have a couple of other things in the bedroom as well." This is true. Two homemade canes and a rubber hose.

We had  breakfast and Doc got a few necessary things done while I read a bit. We had lunch and then after a bit, I made us tea in travel mugs and we headed out to a local orchard to pick pumpkins and what apples we could find.

When we returned to the house, we got the groceries put away and fucked again. This time, Doc started by inserting my beaded anal plug in my ass and then he began beating my ass, hips and thighs with the rubber hose. Eventually he decided the noise it made was too silly and switched to the canes. All of this was wonderful.

What strikes me is that I enjoy this; it is sexual; but I don't derive distinctly sexual pleasure from the beating. At the same time, the beating definitely gets me wet. Every single time. Unlike when the Professor beat me and I enjoyed it but didn't get wet at all.

Doc did this things where he'd alternate striking and stroking me with a cane. With every stroke and blow I got wetter and wetter. Though I knew that eventually Doc would want to fuck me, I had not expected it as quickly as it happened. Doc was in me and fucking me from behind and it was good. It was so good.

Eventually my legs started to cramp slightly and as I shifted position to relieve the cramp, Doc suggested we move to the bed, which I was more than happy to do. Doc continued to fuck me and then moved me to the missionary position, fucking me while I played with my clit.

Doc stopped. I was confused. "Are you stopping?" I asked, lost and unsure of myself. "No, I'm just giving you more room to touch yourself," he said, shifting us to the end of the bed. He reached for the toy box again, and pulled out a vibrator.

He continued to fuck me, with the butt plug in place, while he used the vibrator on my clit. I came again. Hard. When he was done, he cleaned himself up and washed the vibrator before putting it away. I left the butt plug in place and pulled on my blue jeans.

Doc made dinner and we watched the last episode of season one of Buffy before watching a second episode of The Blacklist.

We were both exhausted and slept through the night. Around 5:30 I woke up and headed to the bathroom, planning to feed the cats when I was done. Doc got to them before me. As he prepared their wet food, I filled their dry food dishes. Doc and I headed back to bed.

At 8:30, I asked Doc if he wanted me to start coffee (Yes, thank you) and Hollandaise sauce.

Doc poached the eggs while I toasted bread and fried ham. Oh, eggs Benedict.

My Hollandaise still needs work. It's too thick and too lemony. Next week I'm going to take it off the heat before adding the  butter and see if that helps in the process. I'm also going to use half a lemon and leave the rest for some other application.

After breakfast, while we were still seated at the table, Doc sighed. It wasn't a "happy, contented, well-fed" sigh (he'd already sighed like that a few times during breakfast) and it wasn't a "frustrated with this blasted machine" sigh (which he'd sighed the day before while upgrading his OS) and it wasn't a "I have so much to do to get ready for the coming week" sigh (which he's sighed in previous weekends). "You're having thoughts," I remarked.

"I was just thinking we should get these breakfast dishes cleaned up and we have enough time to fuck before you have to shower and head to church," Doc said.

I've never moved so fast in all my life, as I moved back from the table, grabbed the plates and forks and bounded into the kitchen.

"Were you thinking 'rinsed and in the disherwasher' cleaned up or 'on the counter waiting to be washed' cleaned up?" I asked.

"Rinsed and in the dishwasher," Doc said. I was a bit miffed because sex was on the menu!

We got the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, I used the bathroom and brushed my teeth. Making love with Doc this morning was beyond satisfying. I felt things I haven't felt before when we've made love or fucked in the past.

I can't describe it, but the way he moved in me and when he came.... Shivers and happy sighs just remembering it.

Then, I showered and headed to church where I read scriptures and chatted about what the adult study group might read next.

After church Doc and I carved our pumpkins into Jack-o-Lanterns, I roasted the pumpkin seeds that Doc had carefully cleaned, and he made lunch. After lunch, we watched a third episode of The Blacklist. Then, I headed home for the week.

Thursday can't come soon enough.

Trusting Those Closest

There are things in life that frighten me.

There are things inside of myself that frighten me.

I am intimately aware of my brokenness and my rougher edges.

Because I am so aware of my faults and failings and because I want to be better than I currently am, I work tirelessly to deal with my stuff. I still have stuff.

The stuff I carry inside of myself doesn’t frighten me. Rather, it is the way I judge my stuff that does. Unacceptable is how I often feel about anger, bitterness, jealousy, resentment. Unacceptable is how I often feel about my tendency to withdraw or lash out when I am frightened or hurting.

I find other ways to sort through things and once I have everything clarified and polished, I bring it to the light in an effort to share myself with those I love.

Sometimes, sorting through things requires another voice.

This might be the biggest struggle and most damaging habit I have. Before I present my thoughts to the person who has the most right to know them, I often share them with someone else. I choose someone who can challenge me and ask good questions, questions that make me think about things in a new light or which clarify some of the fuzzy bits that are floating in the background. Sometimes, talking to an uninvolved party doesn’t even touch on the core of the issue that’s hidden behind the fog of feelings that are big and scary and unclear. But in talking about some of the feelings, I sort through them and the light of truth shines through – and this I will eventually share with the person who needs to know.

Before I met Doc, there was Ichthy. And before I met Ichthy, there was Mustache.

Mustache promised I could have what I wanted, told me explicitly he would give it to me, and then insisted I ask for it. Though it was the biggest relationship risk I could have taken with him, I did ask. And he turned me away instantly.

I could not tell Mustache either the truth that this was an enormous risk nor could I tell him why it was such an enormous risk.

Then, Ichthy called. I told him. I told him about Mustache and how Mustache had handled that situation; I told him what a huge risk it was and exactly why it had been a huge risk. It was scary and hard and painful to tell my biggest, deepest, scariest secret to anyone. Ichthy was great about it, even seeking more information and though it made me cry he tried to make something good of a very bad situation.

When I met Doc, even before we had decided to commit to a mutually monogamous relationship, I was able to share with him this secret that had become a bit smaller, less deep, and slightly less scary. I was able to tell him the whole of it, from the very beginning through all of the experiences that layered and layered and layered worse and more terrible facets of body loathing underneath and on top of my already fragile attempts at body acceptance and self-love.

I was also able to this secret to my best friend in all the world and share with her the reality of the resentments and jealousies I have felt over the years when the topic came up – because she didn’t know she was touching on some seriously broken areas or that doing so reminded me of awful experiences no one should ever have to endure.

Because of this, Ichthy has become my go-to for processing anything BDSM related before I approach Doc.

Last week, I wrote about penal substitutionary atonement. This is a conversation I had with Ichthy before I spoke to Doc. It helped me to clarify several things, which was good. Ichthy asked if I’d spoken with Doc about it and when I told him I hadn’t, he strongly encouraged me to do so. I had been planning to, but something in Ichthy’s tone made me think I had perhaps erred in my decision to process with him before bringing it to Doc.

This week, I’ve been thinking about that a lot. Ichthy has said some things recently that led me to believe I may have misinterpreted his level of interest in me when our friendship first started.

A month or so ago, a friend told me that one of our former co-workers had the biggest crush on me when he worked with us, but never pursued it because he knew I was way out of his league.

I recently went out to dinner with a different co-worker I occasionally socialize with who informed me that I am not even remotely average; I am, he said, completely atypical and this is a good thing. This is a really good thing. The way he said it led me to believe that if I were not with Doc, he would be interested in pursuing me romantically.

All of this is confusing because men have never pursued me. At all. Ever. In my entire life. This does not particularly bother me because there are very few men who pique my interest and I’d rather not have to navigate the muddy waters of rejecting men I know when I’m intimately familiar with the danger of rejecting the street harassment of strangers.

Confusion regarding men aside, the real issue, as I see it, is the way I choose to engage with people. I want to tell myself that I am motivated to give Doc the best, so I work through uncertainties of my own ideas and feelings with someone else before I present him the polished work. This is unfair to him. It’s also untrue.

I do want to Doc to have the best of everything in life. He deserves the best. Doc is the single most amazing man I know. Doc is open and honest; trusting and completely trustworthy. Doc is more willing to risk than anyone I’ve ever met and he really, truly, deeply believes that it’s okay to fail; it’s not okay to give up. When Doc encourages me to pursue my dreams in spite of my fears, he does so with an air of support that assures me success or failure, he’ll be there; his opinion of me isn’t predicated upon my success or perfection.

Here’s the thing – I’ve completely bought into my relationship with Doc. I’m all in. I’m committed to, excited about, and fully engaged (head and heart) in this relationship. And that is a terrifying thing.

I’ve come to realize that the reason I only share fully formed polished product with Doc isn’t because I think he deserves the best (though I do), but rather because I’m afraid that Doc will be as frustrated and confused by my initial attempts at understanding as I am. I am afraid that Doc will not want to invest as much energy in understanding me and my thoughts and feel as I want to invest in understanding myself and in understanding him.

Doc has done nothing to elicit this fear.

Ichthy has done nothing to engender this trust.

Except…. I am in an intimate, mutually monogamous, committed relationship with Doc and Ichthy is a friend. It's all about me.

I have invested rather a great deal of my heart in my relationship with Doc. I have invested much in my relationship with Ichthy, but not in the same way and certainly not to the same degree.

If all of my frustrating, unclear, confusing feelings and thoughts rooted in the unresolved stuff of my past freaks out Ichthy and he decides he doesn’t want to be friends anymore, it will hurt, certainly; but I will have lost a friend and a friend who probably wasn’t all that much of a friend in the first place if my darker secrets and sharper edges can frighten so easily.

If all of my frustrating, unclear, confusing feelings and thoughts rooted in the unresolved stuff of my past freaks out Doc and he decides he doesn’t want to be in a relationship with me anymore, it will hurt; I will have lost a friend, companion, lover. The stakes are much, much higher. The risk is much, much bigger. The potential loss is much, much scarier.

But the reality is, as things currently stand, I am robbing Doc of an opportunity to know me in ways that he, more than anyone else, has a right to know me. That is unfair to him. I am denying him an intimacy I want to give him while offering that intimacy to someone else. I am not okay with that.

So from this point forward, while I will still be friends with Ichthy and we will still talk about our lives and our jobs and our beliefs and our theologies and our struggles and our joys, I may not share the real deep me-ness with him in the same way; and I certainly will not share it with him first.

Doc will be the first to get the me-ness, the mess, the confusion, the feelings that I cannot yet identify or understand. Doc will be the first to hear about the stuff inside of me that scares me. Doc will be the first to hear my insecurities and my worries that what scares me might also scare him – and scare him away.

Doc will be the first and probably at times the only one who gets to see those parts of me that aren’t polished and pretty and perfect; but they are the parts that are real and important and lovely in their own way, if for no other reason than that I would choose to share them with him in an act of sacred trust – believing that Doc is the single most amazing man I know, believing that Doc is open and honest, trusting and completely trustworthy.

It is time to translate those beliefs into actions and begin actively, rather than passively, trusting Doc because I want to continue building and deepening intimacy with Doc. Doing so means being real and open and honest and trusting with all of the me-ness that is me, including the unpolished, unpretty, darker, scarier, sharper parts.

Letting Doc see and know all of me is an act of love and trust. And no matter what happens, it will be worth it.

When Soteriology and BDSM Collide

The problem with the soteriology of penal substitutionary atonement is that it glorifies punishment. Punishment is not just glorified, it become necessary. Because punishment is both necessary and right, when one does bad thing, one must be punished and this punishment is both right and therefore good.

The inverse must also be true. If something bad or unfair happens, it must be a punishment and if one is being punished, it must be for a reason.

This is a soteriology I reject with my whole mind; but it is the soteriology of my childhood, adolescence and early adulthood. After two years in seminary, I was kicked out of a small group at the church I was attending because I questioned this understanding of Christ's death on the cross and it's devaluation of the human person.

Specifically, the church I was attending was offering a course, "Christ-Life Solutions," to its congregants. I had several issues the course material, beginning with the poor grammar in the workbooks which made the readings damn near impossible to get through.

My issues extended beyond that, however, to the theology of the material itself. The overarching theme of the course was that we, as sinful human beings, are filthy, awful, irredeemable creatures without value or worth, completely unlovable as we are. We are deserving of nothing but God's righteous anger and punishment. But Jesus, who was perfect and sinless and deserving of nothing but God's love, was crucified to satisfy God's wrath against our ultimately sinful nature, and if we only accept Jesus and his sacrifice, then God will look on us, wearing the cloak of Jesus's blood, and finally we will find "His" favor and be spared the punishment we so rightly deserve.

Pardon my language, but this is FUCKED! The final week before I was kicked out of the small group the reading was one in which the author compared humans to a cooler.

Specifically, he wrote that he had once gone on a business trip. At the end of the trip, he had been gifted with rather a large quantity of high quality steaks. He loaded the steaks into a cooler full of ice, in the trunk of his car, and headed home.

He parked his car in the garage, unloaded his luggage from the backseat, and went about his weekend, in the southern United States, in the middle of August. Monday morning as he readied himself for work, he remembered the cooler of meat in the trunk of his car.

Opening the trunk, the stench of rotten meat hit him. He pulled out the cooler, carried it to the edge of his lawn opened it. The steaks had completely liquefied and there was a soup of rotten liquefied meat and maggots in the cooler. He dumped the content and cleaned and sanitized the cooler, and left it int he sun, hoping it would be deodorized over the course of the day. Returning home from work that nigh, the stench still stained the walls of the cooler. It was a total loss.

THIS, the author declared, is what humans, in their sinful state, are like to God. We reek of the stench of death and rot and it is so embedded in our nature NOTHING can ever make us clean. Except Jesus, if only we accept his sacrifice on the cross.

In the middle of the small group discussion that week as people talked about how meaningful this anecdote was to them, I seethed with anger. What kind of loving God would want people to value themselves so little? Wen it was my turn to speak, I said, "I'm sorry! But I'm calling bullshit on ALL of this! The Bible declares that God created humankind and saw that it was very good. I refuse to believe that anything can so change or alter the work of God as to make it completely other than what God declared it to be. If God called us good, and sin can make us so other than what God declared, how can God be the omnipotent deity we claim? If we really can, by an act of disobedience, utterly corrupt what God has called not just 'good' but 'very good,' how all-powerful can such a God be?"

I was asked to leave the group and not return.

I have actively rejected this soteriology. I have replaced it with a vastly different, more holistic and ultimately loving soteriology which I might fill out at some point. However, the remnants of my early Christian education remain. And, like a bad habit, kicked and replaced with a new, healthier habit, in times of stress, it is the default to which I return on an emotional level, even though intellectually I reject it completely.

Last week, I wrote about the panic I experienced when Doc sighed. It goes back to a terrible time in my life when the Singer died, and despite the unfairness of that loss and the unbearable pain, my early exposure to penal substitutionary atonement popped up and I felt that his death was punishment for some terrible sin I had committed and if only I could figure it out and repent, maybe, just maybe things could be made right.

So, even though I reject all of this, Doc's sigh, having brought it all back for a moment, and still aching from the loss, I knew deep down in the pit of my stomach where horrendously fucked up theologies that damage people still reside, I knew I am still deserving of punishment.

And so I was tempted to ask Doc to beat me. With his belt. I did not want it in a fun, sexy, exciting way. I did not want it in a way that would press me in ways that go beyond my comfort zone in a BDSM context. I wanted a brutality that was abusive and punishing and which would, ultimately, destroy my belief that I have anything good or valuable within me and which would confirm absolutely the fears first instilled in me by penal substitutionary atonement - that I am, in my essence, unworthy, without value, unlovable, and ultimately deserving only of abusive punishment and even death as payment for the sin of even existing.

Some part of me simply wanted to be destroyed to rectify the impossible to rectify sin of being.

This is one problem with penal substitutionary atonement. There are others, including the othering of in-group/out-group, the saved and unsaved, the one-size-fits-all theology that narrowly defines God's love as only for the few because they believe the "right" things.

It is rooted, I believe, in the mistaken understanding of sin as disobedience to God's expectation of perfect obedience to any number of mysterious demands.

Recently, I've been reading Marcus Borg's The Heart of Christianity. I agree with much of what Borg writes concerning the central tenets, the heart, of the Christian faith. I agree with Borg's treatment of the Christ event in the person of Jesus. I agree with Borg's discussion of the reasons for Jesus's crucifixion.

However, I believe Borg's treatment of sin is lacking in one profound way. Borg offers a number of common and historical understandings of sin, including: disobedience, breaking the rules, being bad, hubris, estrangement, unfaithfulness, or idolatry. In all of these, "forgiveness" become the response to sin.¹

Borg, however, offers biblically based alternatives to our single understanding(s) of sin and instead calls out: blindness, bondage, exile, closed hearts, hunger and thirst, lost-ness. The resolution/response to these is: sight, liberation, return, open hearts, food and drink, found-ness.²

What Borg fails to mention, however, is the actual meaning of the word "sin." Sin is an archery term that literally means "to miss the mark." As such, the correlate response to sin would be "correction." This understanding of "sin" as an all-encompassing term addresses all biblical notions. Blindness is corrected by sight. Bondage is corrected by liberation. Exile is corrected by home-coming. Closed hearts are corrected by opening. Hunger and thirst are corrected by food and drink. Being lost is corrected by being found.

Salvation, then, Borg writes, "In its broadest sense... means becoming whole and healed. The language of 'wholeness' suggests movement beyond fragmentation, and the language of 'healing' suggests being healed of the wounds of existence."³

Or, in preserving the term "sin" and radicalizing our understanding of what that means, the appropriate way to correlate sin and salvation - missing the mark and correction - is clearly seen. Salvation in a context of healing and wholeness is the correction of what went wrong, why we "missed the mark" in the first place. This entire process, then, can be understood as the work of reconciliation - the restoration of all things to their rightful state, the work God is doing in partnership with us, through the person of Jesus as experienced in the Christ event in which God is reconciling the whole of creation to God-self. And the WHOLE of creation does not leave room to exclude some based on their rejection of a narrowly defined orthodoxy.

I reject any theology based on in-group/out-group, exclusivity, or narrowly defined and often vague but no less stringently enforced rules.

This weekend, I explained the soteriology of penal substitutionary atonement to Doc. "That's fucked up," Doc said. Yes. Yes, it is!

I brought this up in the context of sharing my thoughts with Doc concerning the previous weekend. I explained that I was not asking him to beat me brutally, nor do I ever imagine doing so, no do I imagine he'd ever be comfortable with such a thing. "Mostly because if I did, I think the effect would be to validate that theology I've worked so hard to reject and replace," I explained. I like when Doc spanks me; I like the idea of him beating me with a belt or a rubber hose (thank you vanilla friends for thinking of me!).

I enjoy the idea of Doc hurting me, so long as he does not harm me. And anything that validates punishment or penal substitutionary atonement can only do harm. I am grateful that I can recognize that truth and that Doc, having little church experience and no training, can declare with even greater certitude than I, that penal substitutionary atone is FUCKED up. God bless that sexy, sexy man.

*****
1. Marcus Borg, The Heart of Christianity (New York: HarperCollins, 2004), 166.
2. Ibid., 168.
3. Ibid., 175.

Enough

I really hate the month of October.

There are things I love about fall - the colors, the flavors, the experience of the season (we all have our rites and rituals and pumpkin spice anything is a marker of fall and it typically arrives in October). There are things I dislike about fall - the ever shortening days, the colder and longer nights, the potential for sleet and snow, the tendency toward gray skies and drizzle.

It isn't the seasonal changes which October brings with it, though, that makes me hate the month.

It's the anxiety. Anxiety I'm usually not cognizant of until all hell breaks loose and I've just snapped at someone I love and they look at me as though I'm a total stranger to them. And in those times, I am a stranger to them. In those times, I feel estranged from myself. That's what anxiety does to me - it disconnects me from myself and from all of those around me.

The anxiety began earlier this year than it has before. Or perhaps I became aware of its presence much sooner. I wrote on my vanilla blog this past week about some anxiety I had been experiencing in my relationship with Doc, and how I had come to process and deal with it. All well and good.

Until I saw him Friday night and we fucked.

I arrived a bit later than usual due to some minor car concerns and a need to shuffle vehicles to make repairs happen.

When I did arrive, Doc was finishing up dinner - steak, medium rare, with chimichurri and broccoli. This man must adore me to feed me broccoli so often. *sigh* It's heavenly, really.

We were half-way through dinner when I asked, "What would you like to do after dinner?"

Doc gave me a look - perhaps quizzical, perhaps confused. "I'm just asking a question," I told him. No hidden agenda. Traditionally, we do a bit of clean up in the kitchen before watching a little tv. We nearly always get distracted and retire to bed before whatever show we're watching is over.

At this point, though, I've already had trouble keeping my hands off of Doc.

"We could fuck," he says.

"I like that plan."

And we did. God, did we ever. He fucked me and fucked me and fucked me. As I came, he came and it was exquisite.

After, we watched John Oliver and an episode of Buffy.

It was during the episode of Buffy that it happened. I was snuggled into Doc's chest as we watched. All seemed to be going well.

And then, Doc sighed.

Immediately, I was gripped with a panic so deep I could barely draw breath. A tear leaked from the corner of my eye. "I can't.... I can't.... I can't...." was all I could think, not entirely sure what I couldn't, just that I couldn't. I wanted to run away. I wanted to tell Doc, "I'm so sorry, but I can't," before fleeing from his presence.

This is ridiculous. And I knew, in that moment, that whatever it was in Doc's sigh to which I was responding was not as scary or as dangerous or as worthy of the fight or flight response as my body seemed to have going.

Was this because of the simultaneous orgasm we had shared not more than an hour prior? It was one fucking amazing orgasm and the intensity of the experience was profound, but to lose all words and thoughts and return to the base instinct of survival which so often means fleeing is not a reasonable response.

But Doc sighed.

That's what they told me when the Singer died. They heard him exhale, as though sighing, and it was over. The medical explanation was something to the effect of all muscles losing tension at the point of death, thus a final expulsion of air from the lungs as the diaphragm relaxes. The Singer died before the final "sigh."

My head resting on Doc's chest, I could feel the rise and fall as he breathed, the tempo of his breaths double-time compared to my own.

Doc is alive. But someday, he won't be, and that reality frightens me.

I do not love Doc in the ways that I loved the Singer. But I love them both and while the idea that - because sometimes things don't work out - my relationship with Doc might one day end makes me sad, the notion that Doc might die overwhelms me with fear.

Which is ridiculous. Doc is young, hale and hearty; he is a healthy eater and he exercises. He also seems to manage any stress well.

After Buffy had ended, we went to bed. Saturday brought morning sex, a day of baking (I volunteered to make the communion loaf - gluten free - for my church), a birthday party. I made chicken tarragon and oven roasted squash for dinner. We ate key lime custard and vanilla ice cream for dessert. We watched two episodes Buffy and headed to bed where we had sex again.

While I cooked, I would occasionally sit with Doc when things didn't require immediate attention. A couple of times, as Doc kissed me, he gripped my hair (pulled back into a ponytail) quite firmly. It made me so wet I soaked through my panties and it made the crotch of my shorts wet.

This time, Doc initiated anal sex in response to a request I'd made earlier in the week. It was absolutely heavenly, especially when I used a vibrator turned on high vaginally and rubbed my clit. It was so intense and so good I begged Doc to go down on me. He happily complied, but having used his hand to apply lube for anal sex, he took a moment to wash up before going down on me.

He jumped in the shower and began washing off. I couldn't keep my hands off of him for that long, so I joined him in the shower, asking him for the bar soap, working up a lather between my hands before washing his cock. I've never understood the appeal of shower porn. Visually, the appeal isn't there for me. Having stroked Doc's cock with sudsy hands in a shower, I have a much fuller appreciation for shower porn, as the tactile sensation of giving a soapy hand-job is fantastic.

After rinsing off, Doc spent a good deal of time going down on me and then he fucked me. Hard. And he spanked me while he did it.

Snuggling after, I told Doc how much I enjoyed smelling myself on his hands. Then I kissed him. "I love tasting myself on you," I told him.

"I don't understand men who wouldn't do that," Doc said.

"Me either," I sighed. "I taste awesome!"

Sunday morning brought more sex, coffee and breakfast after which we snuggled on the couch until I had to whip cream and Doc had to attend to a bit of work.

I'm left-ear dominant and snuggling, my left side turned in toward Doc, I rested my head on his chest. My left ear was resting on the lapel of his robe. I could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in and out. I could hear the beat of his heart. It wasn't enough.

I pushed the collar of Doc's robe aside and rested my ear on his t-shirt. I could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in and out. I could hear the beat of his heart more distinctly. It was not enough.

I reached into Doc's robe, pulling at the hem of his shirt. I shoved it up to his armpits and rested my left ear on his chest, directly against the skin, right over his heart. I could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in and out. I could hear the beat of his heart - his strong, steady heart. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub. I could picture the ventricles and atria of his heart drawing blood in and pushing it out to the rest of his body. I could feel the strength of this fierce and good-hearted man. I was comforted.

It was enough.