Today, folks, I have a confession for you: I’m still nervous about safe-words. Nope, not about using them – I will always tell a partner if I need them to stop. What I’m nervous about is that I sometimes ‘forget’ I have a safe-word, not in a consent-y way, but in a there-is-a-specific-word-that-lets-your-partners-know-you-want-to-stop-sex-now’ way, and a your-partner-has-safe-words-too’ way.
I started writing this post late at night, with my ear phones in and music blaring in an attempt to not overhear the sounds of two people fucking. I wrote it while blinking back tears, refusing to cry as I struggled with lustful jealousy and a desire to be spanked by a specific sadist. I wrote it to process the emotions I was feeling, so this is probably a clusterfuck of a post – sorry folks.
I’m writing this post while wrapped in a blanket and safe in a pillow fort, and really wishing that there was someone who would go out in the rain and get cookies for me. Yesterday was tough, and I’m spending today trying to take care of myself. As a result y’all get a post about my continued adventures into polyamory (ish?) and a bit of a discussion of my depression and my Daddy kink (content note!).
Once again I’m playing the game where I mess around with Molly Moore’s sex blogging memes, because I feel if I don’t write this post now then I might never. The current kink that we’re all dissecting is hands, because hands are ridiculously hot. And I am going to talk about hands, but more precisely why I want to hold your hand.
This post didn’t exactly go where I thought it would, but I decided to be brave and share it anyway. When tweeting while drafting it earlier in the week, I advertised this post as about ‘feminism, relationships, and that god-awful heartbeat of hope that makes me writhe in shame’ but that’s no longer quite true.