poeticdesires

Category: BDSM

  • Letting The Lady Walk About For A Bit

    Rope Camp Memories continued…

    After Tai Chi with Gray, I headed back to my cabin to get ready for my first Rope Camp class. I quickly showered and slipped on a pair of tight black boxer shorts, a black tank top, some socks, and my black Vans sneakers. I packed my rope bag, full of my poly nylon, and also checked my Hello Kitty bag, ensuring everything I could possibly need was there. I pulled my hair back.

    Stepping out from my cabin, the first thing I noticed was the weight of my load. My rope bag was heavy, laden with about three hundred feet of poly nylon, as well as my carabeners and brand new Shibari ring. My Hello Kitty bag was not light either; I carried my large notebook, a few smaller notebooks, my large flashlight, my water bottle, and random things that might possibly be needed (pens, condoms, etc.).

    Next, I noticed my posture. My back was straight. My shoulders were square. I held my head up, instead of my usual bob here and there or a slight tilt towards the ground. My chest was high, my carriage authoritative. My eyes always looked ahead. If I caught someone’s gaze as I passed, I did not break it. Otherwise, I kept my sight set on the path ahead, walking past the Dining Hall, over the field to my class.

    Taking notice of all this, it dawned on me that I was sinking into my Domme head space.

    I’ve struggled with being a switch from the moment I realized I had a demanding bitch in me. Most times she comes out as mean but whimsical, playing with people like they are her little toys. Occasionally, she’ll just be plain pissed, wanting to hurt someone for her pleasure. But letting her come out has been a constant struggle.

    Though I know she’s there, I still can’t quite name her. Is she a Mistress? A Madame? A Lady? Does she even want a title?

    Does she wish to wear a tight corset or a tailored business jacket? Tall boots or barefooted with painted toe nails? Naked or wrapped up tight in clothes? Sinister or silent?

    Calling myself a switch is easy; I’m merely acknowledging there is more than one side to my kink. But inhabiting that space where I don’t give a shit and you will cry for me…that is harder than I can convey.

    As the good girl, the Cabin Bitch, the Teacher’s Pet, I often let her languish, relegated to the back of my mind, except for the occasional piqued interest or passing thought.

    She is best nourished when I inhabit my voyuer plane, stalking the Dungeon, curled up on the floor, observing my friends, or a person I admire, as they play. She relishes watching, imagining herself causing the pain. (And while she’s enjoying the show, subby is just as content to watch, placing herself in the path of the mean mean woman or man.)

    But I don’t know how to get there, to sink in all the way, to feel and be her without reservation, without hesistation, without doubt or hyper awareness. Like a new King just given his crown, I don’t know how to rule over this body in front of me, this person who gave up their self to be mine for a short period of time. Of the few times it’s occurred, I mostly just winged it and hoped for the best. I haven’t had any complaints, but…

    Though I am a switch, which I feel through and through, I don’t know shit about how to be a Domme.

  • Whispering to a Stranger

    Rope Camp Memories continued…

    Still high off the glow of fucking, I thanked the Sadist by getting on all fours and kissing his feet. This seemed to please him and keep me in the good graces of the cabin. As I gave the Sadist’s feet attention, Gray caressed my ass, the view perfect from his bed. Even after my treatment of Dov’s feet was complete, Gray continued to lightly brush my cheeks, so I stayed as I was on the floor.

    Soon DarianIlRe walked into our cabin and came over to chat. I informed him he had just missed the show, Gray and I fucking for the whole cabin to see, if they so chose. Sitting back, happy and bubbly, I asked Darian what he was doing right now. He had no immediate plans, so I pounced.

    “You’re going to beat on me.”
    “Hmm, I don’t like your tone.”

    Realizing I had offended him, I quickly reached over and began kissing his feet, my apologies spewing out.

    “I don’t like this bratty side of yours,” remarked Gray. “Is this how you are after you’ve been fucked?”

    Having conveyed my apology, I explained to the two men that my last encounter with Darian had resulted in a missed opportunity. I felt the need, since he was here and available, to strike while the iron was hot, grabbing him for play now, rather than waiting and possibly missing out again. Understanding my previous brusk attitude, Darian consented.

    I bid Gray goodnight and left with Darian, heading over to the Dungeon. We settled on the large wrestling mats. I stripped naked; he warmed up.

    “Just to warn you, I’m in the mood to fuck someone’s shit up.”
    “Okay.”

    Gripping a chunk of my hair, Darian forced me to my knees. Crotching down, his knees held my head as he bent over and began with the front of my thighs. He slapped and punched at my flesh savagely.

    Standing, he began kicking and punching the sides of my thighs, as well as my ass. Each time I twisted or moved for a moment’s respite, he targeted the back of my thighs. Pulling me all the way to the ground, he placed his foot on the top of my thighs, shifted some of his body weigth for pressure, and twisted my skin. I screamed out in agony with his slightest movement.

    Finished with this manipulation, he decided to simply stand on me, his full weight on a small patch of my leg. The pain was excruciating.

    Sitting down, he lifted my straight legs, punching and harshly slapping the backs of my thighs. Flipping me over, now face down, Darian kicked me again, once more targeting the back of my thighs. The entire ordeal was similar to our play to Fusion: long, intense, and unrelenting.

    It wasn’t long into our scene that I began to cry, sobs and snot pouring out of me. And, like before, the thoughts I held in my subconscience came roaring to the surface, though these were different than before.

    “Daddy, where are you?”
    “Daddy, come find me.”
    “Daddy, love me.”

    I whispered, cried, sobbed my pleas to him, over and over, in hopes that somehow, someway he would hear me.

    During aftercare, Darian asked what I had been mumbling. I told him my thoughts, and then explained how it was only recently that I accepted my want and need for a Daddy. I had had the desire for a while but didn’t want to admit it to myself. My crying, when Darian beat on me, was my loneliness and pain from the absense of this person, who I have not yet met, in my life. I also talked about my constant struggle for patience, trying to just wait for my Daddy to come to me.

    Randomly, also during aftercare, I told Darian about my prophetic dreams, and how one had come true at Rope Camp. Once Gray and I had arrived back at the cabin from dinner, earlier that evening, I asked him to show me ways to hang my Shibari ring. Sitting on the edge of the bed next to his, I realized, as it was happening, that I had seen this all before, down to me having to call out Gray’s name three times before he responded.

    Darian, ever full of Woo, asked if I had tried to cultivate this gift. I explained how haphazard it was, seemingly inconsistent, utterly random. He believed, since it was a gift none-the-less, that I should find a way to develop it. If there was a way, I told him, I would try to find it.

    Tears and snot cleaned off the mat, we grab our things and left, the last persons in the Dungeon that night before it closed.

  • Peanut Butter Cup

    Rope Camp Memories continued…

    He sat on the edge of his bed, spooning ice cream out of a just opened pint, savoring each bite slowly. I looked on wantonly.

    “Would you like some?”
    “Yes, please.”
    “Not in those clothes.”

    Obediently, I stripped. He instructed me to grab his towel and I knelt on it in front of him, my hands tucked behind my back. Staring at his treat, my lips watered. He ate one more bite before offering me my first.

    Delicately scrapping the cold dessert from the carton, he waved the spoon just off the edge of my lips. Slowly he glided the ice cream into my mouth and my tongue lapped it up gratefully. Tipping the spoon upward as he removed it, my lips pressed together to capture every last drop.

    After taking another taste for himself, he again brought the spoon to my wanting mouth. I instinctively moved forward for my bite, but he moved away, teasing me. I slightly snipped at my treat before settling back on my knees. He again glided the ice cream over my lips and I again enjoyed the sweet rich morsel.

    For his next bite, he decided he wanted to eat it another way. Scooping up another spoonful, he spread the ice cream onto my breast and licked it off sensuously. It was all I could do to not buckle under the sheer intensity of this moment. Skipping my next turn, he spread the dessert over my other breast and again enjoyed his treat.

    As he ate, I could feel a few melted drops slide down the center of my cleavage. Instinctively, I brought a hand forward to catch the liquid before it made a mess.

    “Put your hands behind your back!”  He smacked my breasts and nipples hard, reprimanding me.

    “If the ice cream falls, it’s because I want it to.” I bit back an apology, knowing he did not want to hear it. Seeing I was upset, he again fed me another bite.

    “You’re a slut; why are your legs closed?”

    I opened my legs wide on his towel. He reached down and began fingering my already wet pussy. I moaned and writhed against his hand, but he commanded me to not cum. The sensations ripping through my body were so intense, I had no choice but to start begging.

    “Please, please let me cum. God, please let me cum.”

    And when he finally said yes, I ground my hips hard against his fingers, fucking his hand and screaming out his name. 

  • Midori Wants Ice Cream

    Today’s blog is another fun Rope Camp memory I wish to impart.

    After the opening night’s Meet & Greet, which originally was to be smores around the campfire, but was moved into Dungeon because of the rain, members of NYR Cabin congregated towards the front entrance, ready to take on an important mission: Midori, an amazing woman and rope goddess we all love and admire, wanted ice cream. As Gray, Murphy, and Dov brainstormed about transportation, I quietly said, “I have a car.” With the addition of NYR Cabin Meat’s vehicle, our formiddable caravan was set.

    In a quirky moment in the parking lot, people debated who would go in which car.
    “Gray. Murphy. Dov. Sasha. My car!”
    “So that’s what your Dom voice sounds like.” Actually, Gray, it was my lead voice. I saw a problem and took control of the situation to get us to a solution. That’s why they pay me the big bucks.

    Traveling through the wet warm night, we soon made our way to 7-11. Along with partaking in ice cream, there was a collective desire for Slurpees. To everyone’s amazment, I admitted to never having had one before. This needed to be remedied.

    The commemorative cups at the time featured a hot profile picture of Daniel Craig, therefore I had to buy one. Only thing is, the cup was the Super Big Gulp, the largest possible Slurpee I could have purchased.

    Big Bro, being kind of heart and empty of stomach, offered to kill said drink with me. Stepping up to the Slurpee machine, I chose the Coco-Cola flavor and filled my cup up to the top, including its dommed lid. Paying for all our drinks and ice cream, we quickly huddled up for a group photo before heading back to camp.

    The inspiration for our Slurpee purchases came from Midori, who thought of a fun way to prank the attendees at Rope Camp. We were going to “Slurpee” their scenes: encircling their space and staring at their work, everyone sipping on their drinks while queitly commenting. It was to be like Glee, but without the mess. Unfortunately there were few people in the Dungeon when we came back, leaving us only the pleasure of Slurpee-ing a scene with Scott Smith, who found our presence amusing.

    After our fun, we all gathered in Cabin 2, and toasted to NYR with sake, a fitting start to an amazing Rope Camp.

  • Distance

    Of all the impediments to kinky fun times, there is no other motherfucker like distance. The nature of our subculture, with its multiple get togethers at various locations both in the states and around the world, lends to connections formed with people who, regrettably, do not live near you. And no matter how much you care for someone, geography doesn’t give a shit.

    I just helped put one friend on a bus that will take him four hours away. Another is hopping on a plane tomorrow and traveling across the pond for a few weeks. A third is already there.

    The intensity of the affection we all share heightens the connections we make. BDSM, at least in my life, is not for the casual dabbler. It is a part of who I am. And to find others with the same sentiment and love for this life is a gift I have no intent on returning.

    But as much as I love it, it hurts. I want nothing more than to have all my friends near me, a stone’s throw from my front door, or mere foot steps from my bedroom. But life does not wrap up so easily in a pretty red bow. You fall for people far away and you deal.

    Every minute, every moment counts more for us. A kiss here, a scene there, for me at least, is greater than the average “date” I’ve had in vanilla settings. All of my kink seems imbued with a greater, denser energy. Every smile, every hug is precious, perhaps because we all know at any moment it could be gone.

    I don’t fear jail or prosecution. I fear twists of fate, life deciding to throw a carpet bomb on our happy little existance. I fear the drunk driver, the psycho ex, the hurtful parent. In short, I am not Superman and cannot protect the people I love from the unknown dangers that lie ahead.

    Therefore, every second I am with you, I am with you, present, soaking in all of you that I can, knowing we will soon part once more. Our return to one another will be sweet with the fulfilled longing, but the patience of waiting is a bitter brew swallowed daily, tempered by texts, tweets, and telephone chats.

    We all love; we all deal, even if it is a bitch.

  • Bootblacking

    I realize I recently wrote a post centered on my love for boots. However, I had the intense pleasure of servicing two pair of boots (I know, I am a lucky girl) for a person I deeply care about tonight. And, in doing so, I now have the urge to profess my love for the craft, play, scene, skills, and sensations that comprise the art of bootblacking.

    I bought a simple kit from IMBB 2011 at Dark Odyssey Summer Camp, when I took his class on bootblacking. At camp, my Big Bro’s Doc Martens had the honor of cristening my kit. Tonight, I had two pair of standard issue US Army boots in my hands.

    DeepEnd, my roommate and friend, came to Summer Camp on a whim. Things had not been great at the house these past few months, and SkinnyBitch & I felt he could use a break, so much so that I paid his way with my credit card. (It’s not like he can shake me; I know where he lives.)

    While at camp, we reconnected our friendship, both in general and in our play. At the Cigar, Boots, and Chocolate event, I ate ash out of his hand for the first time. He also took great pleasure in blowing smoke into my hair. The chilly soon autumn air helped the cloud stay longer and appear more easily.

    Tonight, by a twist of fate I am still amazed was possible, I made it home for Kinky Trivial Pursuit. The party was KTP in name only. With more people than usual, the house was a buzz with activity and an overwhelmingly positive energy I had not felt before. And, even though my birthday party had been amazing, this get together far exceeded its kinky glow.

    DeepEnd, being the awesome friend that he is, pulled out three pairs of boots from his storage for me to practice on earlier in the week. I, of course, explained bootblacking required a foot inside of the boot. He obliged my request tonight.

    Along with the leather work, DeepEnd also smoked a cigar SkinnyBitch brought back, just for us, from her trip to Minnesota to visit Princess A. She had actually purchased three, but we relinquished two of them so others could join in tonight’s cigar fun.

    Setting up at a ledge built into our Sunroom, I splayed the necessary items from my kit and awaited my friend. He, eventually, sat in the chair in front of me, cigar already lit.

    I began my work slowly, massaging the leather and his feet through the material. I already knew he had oil tan boots, so I focused on feeling any particular rough patches that may have needed special attention. I washed each boot twice, using my hands to massage in the saddle soap and again kneaded the flesh beneath. After cleaning both, I allowed my hand massaging to translate into caresses from my cheeks, and then kisses and licks. My face loved the feel of his leather against my skin.

    Whenever he chose, DeepEnd grabbed my hair, pulled me up, and blew smoke into my strands. The feeling of being near him, mixed with the slight tickling of his warm breath, thrilled me.

    The second pair I worked on, a needed reprise and acceleration of our first encounter, had the soles of his boots firmly in my flesh. I sat in front of him, naked, as I had been all night, his weight pressing into me as I worked. He joked with our friends, “Oh, my life is so hard, a beautiful woman naked at my feet working on my boots.”

    When I massaged his boots this time, I remembered the sweet spot he’d mentioned in my previous work and focused my attention there. He could not hold in how much my hands pleased him. He smiled and smoked, enjoying the night of blissful kinky fun.

    At one point, he had SkinnyBitch lie facedown on the floor, with her back supporting one of his boots. As she laid, she brushed her hand against my foot. Later, when I was on all fours worshipping his leather, she looked over at me and smiled. In a brief conversation in our kitchen, she remarked on a spank bank worthy moment . During my first cleaning of DeepEnd’s boots, she saw: I was worshipping one boot, the other pressed into Lil Sis; DeepEnd pulled up my hair, blew smoke into my strands, pushed me back down, and pressed a little harder on Lil Sis, inciting a yelp.

    Bootblacking, for me, is a combination of fetish and connection. I worked on three different individual’s boots. Big Bro was fun and helpful, though it included a tense moment I chose to ignore. BlackBeard felt more like service, exercising a skill rather than enjoying the moments. I only felt a connection with him after I finished my work and, as a thank you, kissed me. But with DeepEnd, I didn’t want to stop kissing and caressing his boots. I eventually made myself, but I could’ve stayed there, my face on his leather, his fingernails scratching my back, for hours. I would’ve been happy to have his sole resting on my thigh as I rotated back and forth greasing his ill treated boots til the Sun came up.

    Connection in any scene is key. Between the cigars, boots, and positive energy of the night, I felt that connection with DeepEnd, and swam in the ocean of positivity.

    Yeah, bootblacking is for me.

  • The Slave Of Many Masters

    It feels kind of shitty to even be writing this; I’m about expound on a problem I know people would love to have. But it’s my fucking blog, so hmph. And yes, I am pouting.

    Often, too often, I feel torn between the many people in my life. My family and high school friends live an hour drive away. My niece, my best friend’s daughter, is growing up so quickly, getting bigger every time I see her, saying more and turning into a tiny human. And though we have a connection, I often feel like I’m missing out on her life, not being there for the formative moments of this developing person I love.

    My job rocks…and my job sucks. Since I work freelance, I, to a certain degree, choose my own schedule. This allows for huge amounts of freedom when it comes to taking off for big kink events or anything planned out ahead of time. But, and this is a big but, it leaves no flexibility for the spontaneous fun that occurs in any other normal person’s life. My roommates planned a party tonight on a whim just a few days ago, far too short of a notice for me to take off work. By the grace of fate, I am able to attend (once I finish this post), but otherwise I would be working til 1am.

    And now that I’m at home, people streaming in for the revelry, I am again torn. I sit on the floor of my bedroom typing, listening to the heaving breathing of two of my friends sleeping. I want nothing more than to curl up and join them. (And, seeing as we all went to bed at 6am, but I woke up at 8:15am for work, I should do just that.) But my mind is racing, remembering that I did not write yesterday, and that I need to write today. And I can hear all the people downstairs laughing and drinking, getting ready to play Kinky Trivial Pursuit. I want to join in on their fun, but what of my cuddle time with the two in my bed, two people who soon will travel away for a few weeks. Should I not cherish these quiet moments with them while I can.

    It feels selfish to write this post. Oh, I have so many friends, I just can’t hang out with all of them. But it’s more than that, and I know it. I love so many people, to let any of them down is heartbreaking. Everyday it feels like I am missing important parts of their lives, while also having less of a life than I could because I cannot be with all of them. If I were three people, maybe I would come close to fulfilling all the obligations I’ve taken on (work, family and kink). But I am one, fractured inside by my want to please everyone, so that it feels like I please no one, especially myself.

  • NYR Cabin Bitch

    The first night of Rope Camp, Thursday night, is full of stories I wish to tell; the first I’ll recount is how I earned my NYR Cabin nickname.

    To start, an explanation.  Murphy Blue and Graydancer, two of my friends who I knew would be at Rope Camp, ended up in Cabin 1/2.  Murphy, along with Dov & Remy, is from New York.  Since the cabin was full of New Yorkers, and friends of New Yorkers, it was dubbed the New York Riggers, or NYR Cabin. 

    Now, to my name.  Everyone in NYR Cabin got a nickname.  Mine was imparted, as I mentioned above, Thursday night.

    After dinner, Graydancer & I strolled around camp, making stops at the vendor areas.  I purchased my Shibari ring and he bought a secret weapon for his rigger vs rigger competition.  Our spoils in tow, we soon made our way back home and settled onto the porch of Cabin 1/2, cigar and Gentleman Jack at the ready for after dinner lounging. 

    At first, I sat in a chair next to Gray, leaning my elbows onto my knees and generally situating my body as close to him as I could.  He offered me whiskey, which I sipped slowly, and we sat quietly, taking in the calm air.

    Even though I was near him, the moment just didn’t seem right.  Members of the cabin slowly made their way back, including Darian, Murphy, and Sasha.  We chatted and laughed, having a generally good time.  I was happy to be around my adopted cabinmates, but something was missing.  I just didn’t…fit. 

    Shyly, I asked Gray to be at his knee; his reply, “Not in those clothes.”  I stripped down, neatly placing my garments aside in a small pile, and curled up against his calf, placing my head against his knee. 

    Gray then decided he wanted a table.  I got on all fours in front of him.  He placed his glass of whiskey on my back.  Murphy, seeing the cabin had a new piece of furniture, placed his whip on the new table.  Sasha reclined her feet. 

    At this moment, in his infinite wisdom, Big Bro came up with my nickname, the NYR Cabin Bitch.  Throughout camp, I was called Cabin Bitch more than I was called Poetic or Kristen, combined.  I coiled rope, demo bottomed, fetched sodas, provided rides, and was a general go-to for all things needed and desired. 

    I loved my cabin and will remain their Cabin Bitch 4 Life (another story to be told soon).

  • Boots

    There is just something about them that piques my kink-dar in a way no other article of clothing has.  Then again, boots can only loosely be described as “clothing.”  Indeed, they are much more.

    My first pair (that I remember) came when I was a freshman in high school.  My mother randomly bought them from Target without my consultation.  This was a risky gamble on her part; for as long as I can remember, I’ve been quite picky about my style.  But, when I tried them on, I felt something shift.  Walking around in those mid-calf department store pleathers, I somehow felt larger, stronger, powerful.  I wore those boots til I out grew them, the sole worn away, my feet starting to ache with each use.  It was around the end of my senior year.

    My current boots, the first pair I ever bought, have been dubbed the “go hard or go home” boots.  Supple black leather, tracing all the way up my calf, stopping just below my knee, are handmade by Son of Sandler.  Pewter rose hooks, fluer de lis leather accents with each flower, and red laces I bought especially for the boots, playfully display my favorite color, the intermix of black and red.  Even at $500, they are worth every penny.

    I love my boots.  It took me less than a day to fetishize them, feeling the faint touch of the memory of the leather tight against my skin, the next morning dreaming of being in them again.  I’ve worn my boots while playing, the rose buckles catching on fallen ropes.  I’ve traced my hands over their smooth surface, massaging and caressing every inch of this second skin.  And, at DO Summer Camp, I had the pleasure of getting them bootblacked by International Mr. Bootblack 2011.  I moaned under his manipulations, bent to the will of his hands, and his tongue, on my boots. 

    Beyond just my glorious pair, I love boots in general, but I especially adore them when they are worn by people for which I carry affection.  I had the luck of attempting my first bootblacking on my Big Bro’s pair at camp.  Guided by a classmate (I took the bootblacking class with IMBB 2011), I gently cleaned and caressed his leather.  He was encouraging and kind, with the usual Dom-ly twist.

    Deliciously, part of my scene with Graydancer, during my first full night at camp, involved licking, kissing, and caressing the pair he wore as he beat me to tears.  I mentioned to him earlier how I enjoyed boots; I felt I needed to because the subject had never come up.  He obliged my wanting, making me quickly clean them early into our scene using just paper towels and my saliva.  Later, when he had me hogtied, he stood mere inches away from my face.  I wriggled my body, wanting nothing more than to have my lips on his leather.  He let me kiss and caress them again before he began his beatings anew.  Part of my aftercare (stage 1, there were 3) was nuzzling up to his boot while he untangled his ropes.  I felt safe there, cared for, cherished at his heel.

    Why this one object can have such a hold over me is both obvious and perplexing.  Yes, leather and boots are sexy, but why?  Is it the confidence it helps people exude?  The strong black leather’s barrier between the wearer and the admirer as something that is a challenge to be broken down?  Or maybe it’s the simple fact of it’s ubiquitous appearance in fashion, both kink and vanilla? 

    I have no answer.  I just know, for whatever reason, I am hooked and have no plans to let them go.

  • Solo vs. Unpartnered

    The last class I took at DOSC ’11 was Poly Sluttery, a discussion group about being both poly and a slut.  As a person who identifies as both, I knew I needed to attend this presentation. 

    Towards the beginning, the presenter, Strap-on Jo, asked us all to go around the room, identifying what label we used, and to talk about any issues we were having in our poly lives.  And, when it was my turn, I almost broke down crying. 

    It is hard for me to talk about my emotions, and being in a class that centered around emotions was challenging.  I allowed myself to share, identifying as Unpartnered Poly, rather than Solo Poly.  This distinction was important to me, and I suspect it is at the crux of my difficulties currently.

    I am one step beyond reluctant to identify as Solo Poly.  Those who are Solo Poly view themselves as their primary partner.  Their needs and wants are paramount; all other partners and relationships are secondary.  I am just not like that.

    I identify as Unpartnered Poly because I always put others first.  To me, identifying as Solo is a complete 180 degree shift from myself.  I take care of people, look after people, attend to their emotional needs and desires.  Yes, my feelings count too, but it is like pulling teeth for me express my deep down thoughts and emotions.

    I let people in, but still keep a part of myself at arm’s length.  I am constantly afraid of the people in my life realizing how much I care for them and then rejecting me because I love too much, as if that could ever be a real issue.  But, to my warped little brain, it is.  By loving so many so deeply, I am always afraid they will push me away.

    I rarely ask for what I need and want out of my relationships (read: friendships; I have no “partners”) because I am no one’s primary.  I have a shit-ton (yes, that is a technical term) of friends, and an extensive family network of people that I would literally die for.  But, ask me to express what I want from any of them and I am at a loss.  Beyond just allowing me to be a part of their lives, it is hard for me to ask for anything more, because to demand more is to open myself up to for denial, disappointment, and rejection.

    To be Solo Poly to me is to be in and of oneself, with everyone else as flavoring.  To be Unpartnered is to love many and patiently wait for the one(s) who will be my mates.

    Strap-on Jo tried to convey that it is okay for me to ask people where I stand in their lives, to demand more than just an appearance. As the constant friend, I know I have that with all of them.  But, being unpartnered, I cannot share my deep and abiding love with any of them.