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Nurse Jones: The List parts 3a and 3b
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
From: [email protected]
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Subject: From Nurse Jones The List Column 3a+3b
The second half of this got through yesterday here is the first:
From Nurse Jones,
After The List, this is the first post I have sent in that needed a
prologue. That's because I have to explain that two people wrote it.
I've been after Jay to do this with me for months, but he won't. Anita
did, just barely. I sometimes forget that it is possible to have an
interest in bondage and no interest in ASB; that's the case with Anita.
I know some of the shining armor brigade were protecting "A". Don't
think I/she didn't appreciate it. The good news is: you don't have to
any more. You can relax. She's cool, she says.
Anyway, we e-mailed this post back and forth, back and forth, adding,
deleting, moving. The events of the evening ended up in roughly their
true chronological order, but it wasn't written in even remotely the
order in which it appears. It's all moved around, inserted here, edited
there, jumbled up. So is my life, now. Midwesterners might not be able
to change, but at least we can rearrange our prejudices now and then.
I don't quite know how to feel about this post. Before the "scene"
you're about to read happened, I was really half afraid the four of us
might end up looking something like your average Saturday night in the
artistic quarter of Gomorrah. I definitely couldn't have handled that.
And now Anita and I have written about it, and I don't know how I should
feel about that either, since I kind of bulldozed her into it. I mean I
liked writing this, (you know what I'm like) but I don't think Anita
approves. Or disapproves. She says she doesn't see the point. I don't
either. I'm pretty sure there isn't one. That's why I wanted to do it.
BTW, that was your prologue. Now, I will post it.
Oops. No I won't. I had to break it into 2 files of about 40k
each. I'll "Subject:" them "The List, Columns 3a and 3b".
For old time's sake.
-*-
From Nurse Jones,
And Anita.
More scribbling from your's truly. And from Anita. Remember "A" from
Harry's Valdosta party? We are in touch by e-mail and we have gotten
together a few times socially. Anyway, we've developed a relationship of
sorts. Not really a sexual one, but a warm one. Warmer than any I've had
with any other woman. Maybe it _is_ sexual, I don't know. I'm still
getting comfortable with it. The point is, I AM getting comfortable with
it. I sent Anita a copy of my post on the Valdosta party just so she
"And you'd better send me a copy of this List I keep hearing about,
or I'll post a request to alt.sex.bondage and get one by myself. And
yes, it is sexual."
That was Anita. Say hi to her. And be nice. And okay, yes, it is sexual.
"Oh. Hi. I forgot this would happen. Is this the way introductions
happen here?"
She lurks. We've sent this post back and
forth through e-mail, each of us adding and editing here and there.
Eventually we will post it. Anita's comments are indented in quotes. I
only know how to "screen capture" my e-mail to my pc. It would have been
helpful if I could have had those little
> attribution
>> marks
> you people get automatically in your posting editors, but I'd have to
put them in manually, and besides, there would be about 10 generations
of them. We're having at least 5 or 6 conversations at once, each
imbedded in the original e-letter. It's more than a little weird, having
several conversations on different topics going at once. Especially if
one of them is a near-flame war and the rest are, well ... affectionate?
And we haven't decided who we're talking to: each other or my ASB Turing
Diary.
If you've been following my neurotic posts, you'll know that Tom (not
his real name) and Anita and Jay and I got together after Christmas.
I've already written about it, and you could read it if Anita will just
stop interrupting. Just kidding. She's supposed to interrupt. This is
going to be a very strange post. Already the train of thought has been
disrupted by the process. But Anita gets equal control over what gets
said, and I'm having fun. So far. I wrote the first e-letter. She added
stuff and returned it. I did the same. So if we seem to jump around or
be repetitive, be patient. There's a post in here somewhere, and it used
to be coherent. I mean, here I am editing on the second page and the end
is twelve pages down in the file and we aren't even finished arguing
with each other yet. I love it.
Now, adding this at the end, I have to admit I edited a little of what
Anita wrote, too. Me, sticking my big quill in. I should put it back in
the goose and leave it there.
Anita is into SM, by the way. I am learning that there is a distinction.
I mean, obviously there is, but I'm so new at this scene that I've never
had anything much to do with anything other than bondage. For her,
bondage is what you do before; it's sort of the way you keep your work
in place rather than an end in itself. At least when she's on the
receiving end; she hasn't been a top very often. We went to the fitness
center together once, and I saw old yellow bruises on her back. She's
thin and intense. I think she lives on caffeine.
Back to version 1.0. Several pages back (above?), I sent her a copy of
the Valdosta post so she ...
... would understand what I meant by posting to ASB and she finally
said, "Okay, it _might_ be fun to write about ourselves, as long as I
can stay reasonably anonymous." So here we are. It took a lot of
persuading to get her to do this, I want you to know.
(See what I mean about continuity? I'll try and edit it into something
readable later...)
Anyway, we have gotten to know each other, and the last time we got
together, we did something. A kind of scene, I guess. Not public or
anything. I'm not ready for public scenery, although Anita can obviously
"That's right. You're not."
handle it. She is much more confident than I am. It was at our house.
Where I am most comfortable. Something sexy happened, but somehow I
don't think of it as sexual. Anita is a sexy person. That's the only
way (well, not the ONLY way) to describe her. She can make sexy things
happen and they seem natural, like people just communicating.
"That's what it is, dummy, communicating."
I mean, I have all these piercings and they make me feel sexy,
"They are sexy."
and you
already know about my pubic hair,
"Also sexy. I've done that myself, more than once."
but Anita doesn't bother with any of
that stuff now. She's kind of gotten beyond that. She sometimes makes me
feel silly, like an amateur. Every time I think about that whipping
scene...
"Which I thought was very well written. Much better than this."
Thanks?
I'm so tempted to "cut to the chase" (as Jay says) here, but the ASB
folks don't know anything about what's been going on between us,
or what Anita is like. We've had dinner a few times, we saw Star Trek 6
(the men insisted) and Bugsy (we insisted -- although I AM a trekkie)
together, and we've become friends. It was easy to (almost) forget that
there was a sexual undertone to our meeting in the first place. But
every time the subject of SM/BD or even sex came up, Anita kind of
derailed the conversation, almost like my midwestern mother would have.
Until a few weeks ago. We had become friends by then. I was going to say
good friends. I have good friends that I can't share this side of my
life with, but I've known them longer than we have Anita and Tom. I
don't know. I guess they were good friends then. They certainly are now.
I don't usually make friends that quickly, I want you to know. And I
certainly wouldn't have tried "flirting" with someone who wasn't a good
friend.
We all got tested for HIV. Negative. For each other. Funny how you can
be so confident you are negative, and then waiting for the result makes
you less sure. I kept thinking "what if." The result was a relief, even
though it was a foregone conclusion. You just can't be indifferent to
it.
I hate AIDS. I mean aside from the obvious reason. Even if you don't
have it and are fairly insulated from it, it's hateful. Sex is one of
the best, most wonderful things human beings do. And a major part of sex
is the excitement and adventure and sponteneity and uncertainty of the
first encounter between two people. AIDS has taken that all away from
us. From all of humanity, really. All away.
STDs. That was one hell of a conversational topic to introduce in polite
company for the first time. I thought I was being so sophisticated and
cool, bringing it up, and I turned tomato red. I was sitting there with
all this elaborately relaxed body language that said I was practically
yawning, and then I felt myself turning bright red. Have you ever seen
anyone do that? Besides Ted Kennedy at the senate judiciary hearings, I
mean. Mr. Tomato Head. Sorry, that's disrespectful; Senator Tomato Head.
Anyway, STD's. I trust them to remain monogamous. This could be stupid of
me, I've never been in these waters before, but I feel safe. Famous last
words. I could say you have to trust someone sometime, but that's just
words. You don't have to trust anyone ever. I just want to, and we've
done all that can be done. Just wanting to trust isn't enough any more.
"We've been monogamous for eight years. I put Tom through grad
school, he's putting me through now. Neither of us will ever find a
better match. Also famous last words, knock on wood. We trust them.
They trust us. We have agreed to tell each other if there is even
the slightest hint that we are no longer monogamous. Right?"
Right. Does that mean we're quadrogamous?
"Let's not joke about this one thing. No kidding."
Sorry, sorry. Jeez.
"Do they really still say that in Indiana? Jeez? Jeez."
-*-
Cut to chase:
When I saw Anita and Tom walking down the walk to our front door, I was
nervous. For a lot of reasons. Even more so when I saw what she was
wearing. It was the first time since the Valdosta party that I had
seen her wear anything but jeans and a sweater. It kind of reminded me
of what was coming. That I would never be ready for. Anita has model's
legs, BTW. Long. She kind of looks mediterranean or something. I just
"Explain, please: BTW."
By The Way.
realized. She has dark skin and wears white a lot. I am pale as a ghost
and I like to wear black. I was standing in the doorway watching her
come up the walk with Tom behind her. She had a plastic raincoat draped
over her shoulders. I'll give you a hint, guys: women don't usually need
to lift up their skirts to step over puddles, especially not skirts that
short. She did, though, and she paused and looked up to see if I had
noticed. It was such a delicate gesture, the way she lifted her hem. She
looked like a gazelle about to take a drink. This is an uncharacteristic
thing for her to do. Usually she's hyper and strongwilled and pushy
about everything. She doesn't usually make delicate, feminine gestures.
Or stop to see if anyone noticed.
"Pushy! Careful or I will describe you for all to see. Even Josan
the Barbarian."
That doesn't matter. I've decided that there are two critical
ingredients to "outing" me: the city where I work and my real last name.
Actually the city alone would do it for determined wannafuckers like
him. My e-description won't do it. There are plenty of people that look
like me.
"No there aren't. But words won't do it, thats true enough. From
what you say about this person that was at the Valdosta party, he
won't be satisfied until he knows your measurements. Can't help you
there, fella. (He's going to read this, right? I wish I could
remember him. Neither of us can.)"
While we ate dinner, or tried to, (I lost my appetite I was so nervous)
we talked about what we would do. The last time we were together, Anita
said it was time to talk, and that we _would_ talk, next time. I had
weeks to think about it. I talked it over with Jay. He was no help. He
just wanted me to do what felt right. He's not interested in Tom or
Anita, except as friends, although Anita gave him a pretty warm kiss
when she left last time, don't think I didn't notice. And I like Tom,
"Just thanking him for sharing. You."
but not that way. So Jay just left it up to me. I just wanted to have
dinner. Not really, but you know how jumpy I get. But we talked about
it. The way it ended up, Anita knew I was the one that was afraid, so
she said we should all leave it up to me. Anita had bottomed at the
Valdosta party, and I felt the ball was in my court to do the same. When
I kissed Anita then, I was dabbling out of my depth, and all of a sudden
there I was, in my own house, at my own dinner table, and it was my
turn.
Time to walk the walk.
Those times always seem to chase me down and make me get involved. And
I, fool that I am, trapped myself by saying, 'do what you like, I just
don't want to be responsible.' And Jay took my hand and said, "You know
I can arrange that," and looked into my face to see how I felt about
that. He meant hypnosis. I looked away and didn't say anything. I went
back to poking at my dessert. Black walnut ice cream with Irish Mist
liqueur. Normally I love it. He explained to them, and the discussion
turned to hypnotizing me. We had discussed hypnosis before, but this
time they discussed me like I wasn't there. Doctors sometimes do that
over a patient's bed, and I think it's very bad manners. But my heart
was pounding when they turned to me and asked what I thought.
"Do what you like. Just don't make me responsible." I was stubborn. I
hadn't taken a single bite of my dessert. I just played with my food
like a sullen little child. Anita wanted to talk more, but Jay and I
both told her it was all right. She always wants to talk. She's from New
Jersey.
Jay took me into the bedroom to talk in private and give me a chance to
back out; develop a headache or something. I told him I'd go through
with it, but I started negotiating frantically, I'm such a wimp. I
haven't done that since we made The List, a year ago now.
Wow. Nearly a year. Time flies.
I wanted Jay to be there the entire time. I wanted him to make sure
nothing happened that he wouldn't normally do. Or that he thought I
wouldn't do. I wanted a way out, a safeword, something. I wanted no
pain. Nothing like when Anita had been whipped at the Valdosta party.
Anita or Jay had to be the top. Not Tom. Sorry, Tom, if you're reading
this, but that whip scared me. It will be a long time before I'm up to
that, if ever. I wanted Jay to go out and tell them that if anything got
out of hand, I would never speak to either of them again. I wanted Anita
to know that I was much more limited than she in what I could handle.
"I doubt that. I've never been hypnotized. Never even thought of
it. It scares me. It was also very erotic. We just find our stopping
points in different places. Although I'm thinking about it now."
And I didn't want to be physically restrained. Hypnosis was okay. But no
amnesia, no sneaky tricks. Jay could make me do almost anything by
making me think I was actually doing something else. He doesn't do
tricks like that. (He says that wouldn't be topping. That would be
like tricking me into doing something he didn't have the strength to
make me do. I don't know what he means by strength here. He's never
physically made me do anything, not really.)
I was overflowing with demands and insecurity. I wanted I wanted I
wanted. Until there was almost nothing left we COULD do.
So Jay suggested something simple:
I would put on something sexy. He would pick it, but I would be covered,
at least at first.
He would hypnotize me. I would _have_ to do whatever Anita said.
I wouldn't be able to communicate. My safeword would be a white ribbon,
scotch-taped around my throat. When I pulled it off, I would be able to
talk, but not until it was off. He's done this before. Blindness, too,
can be induced, according to Erickson, although we've never tried it. We
both prefer a blindfold.
Anyway, when I pulled the ribbon off, Anita would stop the scene if I
said stop; back off if I said back off, whatever.
He would make sure Anita didn't do anything that prevented me from
reaching the ribbon. He would stick to all the conditions I had set.
From my perspective, it was simple, just two commandments: NO
communication, and GOTTA obey Anita until the ribbon's off.
I agreed. He went out and explained it all to Anita and Tom. I took a
hot shower and retired to Makeup Central. That's what Jay calls the
master bathroom. It's become My Room. I don't know why; it has something
to do with hygene, the security blanket of the midwest.
I feel so silly now. Anita was wonderful. It wasn't SM, it wasn't BD, it
was just her being nice. I feel silly for being so distrustful and this
is my formal, written, public apology. I already apologized once.
"I don't accept. You apologize too much as it is."
Do not.
"Do too."
This is fun. (Do not, do not.)
"You're very immature for twenty-eight. Do too."
-*-
I was supposed to come out when I heard the music start. Sounds hokey, I
know, lie playacting. Hypnosis is a little like playacting, sometimes.
Sometimes, it surprises you. Anyway, it was a tape of eastern music.
Ofra Haza, and some slow instrumental stuff, sitar, sarod. After Jay was
through with me, I just sat on the edge of the bed with my pathetic
little ribbon on, waiting for the music. There was incense out there,
too. And only the bedroom speakers were turned on. When I got to the
living room, the music sounded like it was coming from somewhere else,
like out in the bazaar or something.
When I wrote The List, I didn't describe this "harem girl" outfit that I
made. By that time I had told you so much embarrassing stuff about
myself that it sounded pretty tame, so I left it out. But it was a
different story when I came out of the bedroom to confront Anita. I was
feeling pretty naked. You know how the right clothing can make you feel
more naked than none at all, sometimes?
This thing is like that. The top is just a short lacy little vest; I
don't mind that. It is the bottom that is embarrassing. Picture a very
tiny g-string with billowy sheer legs added on, gathered at the ankle.
That's all it is. The trouble is, the front panel is so tiny it barely
covers me. It comes within a half inch of revealing my favorite
anatomical feature, and makes it obvious that I have, at the moment, no
pubic hair. There is just this deep "V" that goes from the corners of my
hip bones almost to ... well, all the way to my ... um ... there.
Anita looked at me like I was desert. Turns out I was. When I came out
of the bedroom I was extremely nervous. My heart was doing it's pittypat
thing again, crawling up my throat. I was ready to pull my ribbon off
right there and stop everything. Eventually, I did pull it, but not
then.
"OK. Time out."
"I'm an art major. One of the movements I've run across in art
history is an erotically inclined group of victorian artists that
are called 'Orientalists'. For the most part, they had never
travelled to the orient, but they specialized in painting idealized
victorian virgins in Turkish and Arabian settings, usually as slave
girls or harem concubines. Gerome, Bouguereau, even Ingres, and a
few others come to mind. The models were chosen to appeal to both
the purient and the protective instincts of the victorian male. They
were heartbreakingly beautiful. If you aren't familiar with the
genre, then you won't know what I'm talking about. Look them up.
That's what Margaret looked like to me when she came out of the
bedroom. Incarnate. I'm not going to give you details, but if you
want to know what kind of impact she has, look up Ingres. He did a
painting titled "The Source." Then imagine how hard he had to look
to find that model. Incarnate, I swear.
"She's definitely not an Arab. She's far too pale for that. It's
not fashionable now, but she has the pale, smooth, perfect skin that
the victorians valued so much."
"I'm (perhaps)
Not "perhaps." "Definitely."
"Shut. Up. Don't even think about interrupting this paragraph again,
no matter how many times we send this ridiculous missive back and
forth."
more relaxed about my sexual orientation than
Margaret is, but if I were to fall for a woman, she would be the
one. She is gentle, and she would never want to hurt anyone
emotionally, but she can't help hurting. Knowing her is enough to
hurt you. She could break your heart. She could break my heart. I
would give her the chance to, if she would open herself up to me.
But she's more open in her God Damned Fucking posts to you people
than she is to me. Why do you think I'm writing this for a million
people to read, anyway? Hint: it's not to communicate with
leatherpeople. I can do that anytime. I can understand why she gets
'wannafucks' (charming words you people invent) from men she has
never met, if her writing is as captivating as she is. I've only
read a few of her posts, so I don't know. Maybe she isn't movie-star
beautiful. Eye of the beholder and all that. But those of you that
have seen her, you know what I'm talking about. Now, when I see her,
the first thing I have to think is: 'Neets, she's not yours and you
can't have her.' No, wrong. That's the second thing I think about.
The first is that I have to have her. Have to. Those two thoughts
keep coming back at you, and together they can break your heart.
"Got to have her.
"Can't.
"So if she thinks I looked at her like she wa dessert, she has no
idea. No fucking idea. And she doesn't want to know."
"So here's my description of her. She's heartbreakingly beautiful.
Not stereotypic like a movie star, but worse. The first thing you
think of when you see her isn't that she's beautiful, the way you
might think of a movie star. Her looks go straight to the guts, and
your aesthetic sense just has to catch up later and remind you she's
also beautiful. What you think first is that you HAVE to have her.
Then you have to remind yourself that you can't. The rotten thing is
it's worth feeling that bad to be around her. She tells you people
she's not beautiful, just "OK looking". I grant she doesn't
photograph well. She's merely pretty in her photos, like a pretty
little doll. But in person she'll break your heart. Trust me."
Anita, will you explain what all this is about? Look, maybe this isn't
"And she's not as tough as she thinks she is."
such a good idea.
"And fuck off. This was your idea. No, I won't explain."
We'll talk. (We did. All is
"not"
well.)
Story line shot to hell. Sorry. Let's leave it at this: It gives me warm
fuzzies to know that I'm beautiful to Anita.
"Warm fuzzies. Dear God. She has no idea."
She is to me, too.
"Watch this, Margaret: this is me accepting a compliment gracefully...
... learn anything?"
I know
why she's saying this stuff. You'll know too if you read The List, or
when you read the rest of this post. If we ever get to it. Just have to
jump back in:
And Jay and Tom were standing thee gaping at me too. Well, Tom was.
Jay, well, he doesn't reveal much of himself. Funny, he doesn't hide
anything either. It's all there, accessable, if you ask for it. But he
is quiet and doesn't reveal himself unasked the way I sometimes do. I
know it makes him kind of a shadowy figure in the background of my
posts. But then, anonymity is even more important to him than it is to
me.
I'm telling you, there's a lot to be said for anonymity. Right then, I
wanted to hide. Anita was the one running the show, though. She told me
what to do, where to go, how to stand, everything. I really couldn't
talk, and I was almost glad. I would have felt obliged to say something
about how I looked. Make an excuse or a joke or something. As it was, I
just stood there like an idiot, trying to look casual and still cover
myself with one hand. I was waiting for someone to do or say something.
They were just gaping.
I noticed one thing: Anita had spent almost the whole evening barefoot.
She took her heels off almost the moment she walked in the door. But
when I came out into the living room, she had put them back on.
Something about the evening had turned formal. I noticed that, for some
reason, and it intimidated me a little.
Finally, Anita broke the ice and told me, in the gentlest possible way,
not to cover myself with my hands, so I uncovered myself. I had to. I
just had to. I'm sure I could have rebelled if I had really really
wanted to. I could have talked if I had tried hard enough, too, even
with the ribbon.
She walked up to me and took off the big black wig I was wearing. I
thought black hair made me look more arabian, but she thought it looked
ridiculous on me and said so.
I felt really exposed. Technically, none of us were naked, but I felt
that way. It's just that Jay was the only one that had ever seen my lack
of pubic hair, and now these two others were seeing me, and the worst
part was yet to come.
"Maybe that's what reminded me of Bouguereau and Gerome. If you look
at their old exhibition catalogues, you won't see a single pubic
hair. Or suntan. Margaret looked like a frightened little girl. She
wouldn't look at me, or at anyone. I had to actually tell her to
look me in the eyes. She did, but it was because I made her. Her
eyes went all watery, and I thought she was going to cry, but she
didn't."
After she took away the wig, she stood looking into my face for what
seemed like the longest time. All I could think of was how I had stood
the same way over a month before, looking at her that way while she was
being whipped. But this time I was afraid of what she would do rather
than what I would do. She isn't the type to take revenge, and it was
unfair of me to even think such a thought, but I did, briefly. Sorry.
"It crossed my mind at one point that I was entitled to a little
revenge, but I banished the thought the second I saw her. I firmly
believe she could be as cruel as hell to men if it were her nature,
and I think they would roll over and forgive her willingly and never
think about revenge. She's just too vulnerable looking, too easy to
hurt. She looked nervous and uncertain; a delicate little bird that
had landed someplace she didn't belong, and I had the feeling that
if I even moved she would fly away."
"Hey, I didn't write that last part about the bird."
I know, but you should have. Do you have to tell everybody? That's how I
felt, anyway, so I put it in for you.
In the end I could tell she was trying to tell what I was thinking, what
I was feeling. I don't know why I was scared; she was perfectly nice to
me. She said she wanted to kiss me, and she asked if that was all right.
That was when I felt tears in my eyes. I didn't respond. I couldn't. The
rules were strict. I couldn't communicate at all. Words, nods, gestures,
charades, all right out. Besides, I didn't _know_ if it was all right
for her to kiss me. That is a big question. If I _knew_ if it was all
right, I wouldn't have been ... well ... you know, for the last month,
so squirreley. I just kept looking her in the eyes because she had told
me to. I don't think she was aware that what Jay had done to me was
responsible for my inability to look away. I'm not sure if she took my
staring as a come-on or not.
"I didn't think of it. I knew Jay had told her to do as I asked, but
I didn't realize she would take it so literally. I didn't think it
was a come-on though. I thought she was too frightened to answer me.
She was breathing very quickly and I knew she was in distress. I
really wanted to make this as easy for her as possible."
She put her hand on my cheek and left it there; I thought she was going
to kiss me, but she just kept looking at me; she didn't move.
I was barefoot, and she was wearing heels, which made her a head taller
than I, but she kicked off her shoes and suddenly her face was much
closer to mine. I kept expecting her to kiss me, but she still didn't. I
didn't know if she was teasing me or trying to decide what to do, or
what. Finally she slid her hand from my cheek down my shoulder to my
arm; I shivered, that touch was so like a caress. She took my hand and
pulled me gently out into the living room. She told me to stand in front
of the fireplace.
Anita wants me to describe the living room to "set the scene." I
described it in The List already, but here goes. It's the first non-
appartment I've lived in since I left home; one of those pseudo-spanish
houses built during the 1930's. Stucco and arches, tile and oak floors,
high ceilings. Sticky windows painted shut. Michael the Brilliant
Architect knows what it's like. Even if it doesn't ring his chimes. It's
not a particularly big house, I guess, but the living room seems like a
cavern because of the high ceilings and the way sound echos off the
tiles. It has furniture, but it still seems empty, especially at night.
The only way to make it seem cosy is to cluster the furniture around the
fireplace. That's the very best thing in the whole house, the fireplace.
It's huge and gothic looking. The mantle is above my eye level and there
are columns on each side, holding it up. There is a kind of brick arch
over where the fire goes, and the andirons are crudely made iron and
come up to mid-thigh.
That night, the lights were off; the room was lit only by the fire and
two candles sitting on either end of the mantle. Together, the candles,
the hollow feeling of the room, and the incense, they created a kind of
churchlike atmosphere, except that there was this gothic fireplace
instead of an altar. And our overstuffed sofa with an extravagant number
of cushions on it.
So there I was, standing in front of the fireplace. I knew that outfit
would be transparent with the light behind me.
"Jay likes dramatic lighting as much as Harry does. With the light
behind her, that diaphanous harem/slave-girl costume made her look
very very vulnerable. I could tell from the way she was standing
that she felt naked. I envied her. It's been a while since I have
felt that way. If I can borrow a phrase from Margaret, my heart was
pounding, too, but for her sake."
Anita must have intended to make me more comfortable by taking off her
dress. She just turned her back on me and pulled it over her head and
threw it in the sofa. It seemed like such a spontaneous thing for her to
do, and I know it wasn't intended to make me feel nervous, but it did.
Suddenly, she was wearing nothing but a pair of white thong panties.
They had jockeyjockeyjockey around the waistband. She has beautiful
legs. She doesn't need heels, the bitch. She makes me look like a
midget.
She came close to the fireplace and stood in front of me, in my shadow. I
was standing on the raised hearth, so I could look her almost straight
in the eyes. She put one hand on each of my shoulders and stood there
looking at my face. That doesn't sound very romantic, I know: "looking
at my face." I should say something like "looking soulfully into my
eyes," But she didn't look into my eyes. She looked over my face, at
every little aspect, as though she was searching it. She looked
everywhere BUT my eyes. She spent a lot of time looking at my lips.
I felt as though she was steadying me, taking aim, maybe, or holding me
still to keep me from escaping. Or something. Only then did she look at
my eyes. Her left hand slid up to my cheek, and her right slipped down
until it rested on my breast. I don't know why that surprised me,
because I had thought about it beforehand, and decided I could handle
it. It was just so sudden. My breath caught and I stopped breathing for
a moment. I kept my eyes on hers. After a moment I noticed that I was
holding my breath, and I started breathing again, too rapidly. I do that
unconsciously under stress, breathing in short, shallow breaths. It
makes me dizzy, sometimes.
I thought of that old cliche about heaving bosoms. At first, her hand
felt awkward there, not like Jay's. His hands are at home everywhere on
my body, but Anita just held her hand against me, and it didn't move
with me the way Jay's would have; I could feel myself pressing against
her each time I breathed. Jay would have cupped his hand under my
breast, shaped his hand to my contours. Anita's touch became lighter,
though, until her fingers were barely grazing my nipple through the
sheer fabric. She just got in tune with me in a different way. She kind
of traced the line of my breast with her fingernail, ever so lightly.
Normally, by this time, my nipples would have been ragingly erect. Jay
does that to me so easily. I was still frightened, though, and not
thinking sexually.
"You were shaking."
I'm so selfconscious about my breasts that my mind
wasn't on sex, for once. I like Anita a lot. I just wasn't responding
like a lover. I didn't love her. I still don't, at least not that way. I
swear.
"I wish the lady were protesting too much. She's not, I'm afraid."
I'm slow about these things. It's better, though, in the end, I think.
The front of that little vest is held by a ribbon laced through both
sides. She pulled the bow and slipped the ribbon out with agonizing
slowness. That, for some reason, brought it home to me that she is an
experienced and sensitive lover, even having no experience with women.
It was just the way she pulled the ribbon out. She wasn't eager, in fact
she was much slower than she needed to be. And she looked into my eyes
as she pulled it out. That was very sexy. I could tell she had control
of herself. That was when I began to connect with her, I think. I
couldn't relax, though. I knew what was coming. The same thing that
always happens. You know, too, if you read The List.
"I don't believe you really thought you were going to gloss over
this. Alt.sex.bondage people, whoever you are, out there, we nearly
came to blows over this via e-mail.
Flame fest. That's what it is called, a Flame Fest. We don't come to
blows on the Net. Well. Yes we do, actually, some of us, but ... um ...
shut up, Margaret. (Slaps self.)
She wanted to leave out the most
important part of the whole evening. We added and deleted pages and
pages of recriminations right here, all about Margaret's nipples. It
is the silliest thing I have ever heard of. In the end she broke
down and we talked on the phone about it, and things are OK between
us, but she has a genuine neurosis about this. Which I am dragging
out into the open, right here."
Oh no! Not that! Anything but that! Not Nipple Therapy!
"And she'll try and trivialize it by being cute."
"Women don't talk a lot about breasts. I guess we're not as
interested in them as men are. At least I'm not. But when that
little vest fell to the floor, I was blown away, but not for the
reason you would think. Don't get me wrong: Margaret has the kind of
breasts I have always wanted, if only because I'm pretty small, But
that wasn't what blew me away. It was her piercings. I didn't know
about them. She had never mentioned them. The rings are almost
completely hidden inside her. There was just a tiny crescent of gold
protruding where her nipples should have been. I was very distracted
for a moment. I've seen more than a few piercings. Tom and I have
had several each, all but one closed over now. But I have never
seen anything quite like this. I didn't know what I was looking at
at first."
I want you to know I hate this. I have inverted nipples. I told about
them when I wrote the list. I don't see why we have to go over this
again, but it's not worth arguing about. I'll "tell all." Again.
[...]
"That's not the impression you gave that night. You thought it was
important enough to get upset about then. And you have been arguing
about it for the last week and a half."
She asked me if she could touch them. I had been dreading this
moment ever since we invited them over. I've spent a lifetime being
ashamed of having inverted nipples, and Jay is the ONLY person that I
ever believed when he said he liked them. He really thinks they are an
asset rather than a flaw. At first, Anita was just curious. She said
(somewhere above) that she didn't know what she was looking at. It's a
minor birth defect. That's what you were looking at. That's all. And I
got them pierced. It's no big deal.
"Then why were you nearly crying about it. Yes, I was curious. I was
also entranced. They are part of what makes Margaret special. They
are special. Near miraculous. 'Defect' my ass. I asked if I could
touch them because you were not behaving normally. I knew you
wouldn't answer me and I wanted you to know what I was going to do."
[...]
"She was looking down, as though she were ashamed, and then I heard
this huge sob/sniff and realized she was very unhappy. I tried to
get a look at her face to see
Like at a sideshow.
[...]
"Oh come on, give me a little credit. Look, Margaret, you are the
one that wanted to write about that night and put yourself on
display for this news net. This is one of the most important parts,
and you want to leave it out. We've already made a hash of your
precious continuity. I'll tell it as I saw it. You patch it together
later. Feel free to contribute. You obviously need to discuss it a
whole bunch more than you have."
I was tense. I didn't know how she would react to me, but I think she
could see how I felt. I didn't answer her. I couldn't. Besides, I was
nearly crying. I didn't want to look at her. She had to remind me; I had
forgotten I was breaking the "rules." You know when you really want to
cry and you don't? The back of your throat hurts. Aches. That's what I
felt like.
"Thats not all. She had her fists clenched at her sides and she was
as stiff as a board. She's got a problem here, if you ask me."
She put her hand under my chin and lifted my face up and when
"Margaret looked as mad as a hornet. I honestly thought she was
getting ready to spit on me. And she had tears running down her
face."
Well I didn't mean to look like that. You're the only person since Jay,
and he's the only one since I started nursing school. I belted the last
guy.
she saw my
face tears started in her eyes, too. I'm tougher than she about this,
because I've lived with them for 28 years. But I feel a combination of
resentment and anger when people draw attention to them. Mine were tears
of here-we-go-again frustration.
"That's exactly what I saw there. A lifetime of unnecessary wasted
stupid pig headed stubborn resentment. Now it makes more sense."
Hers were tears of pity.
"I did not feel pity. Just sadness at the monumental
misunderstanding she lives with. This is so stupid! She is ashamed
of a gift! It makes me so angry. I'll tell you the reason I started
crying, and it had nothing repeat NOTHING ZERO to do with YOUR
problems. I was crying for myself, if you must know, and it was
because your God Damn lower lip started quivering and you weren't
ever going to belong to me. I had no idea what was going on in your
little head. I STILL can't believe you are ashamed of your very best
feature. And I will tell your precious alt.sex.bondage people
another thing. If you haven't seen Margaret trying not to cry, you
have missed something. I mean really missed something. If you
haven't seen her chin quiver and then tried not to kiss her. God. I
don't know if I'd be better off if I had never met her or not. It's
just not fair that there's only one of her."
I think when Anita saw the frustration on my face she was taken aback. I
could see she was. I almost spoke then. I opened my mouth to say it was
okay, and nothing came out.
"But your chin quivered. Oh God. You don't have a clue, Margaret."
And then she goes and hugs me. She just
slipped her hands behind me and pressed our bodies together, her breasts
against mine. I was standing there, enduring this sympathetic hug (I
HATE sympathy about this) and she whispered in my ear and suddenly it
was okay. Something about what she said, the way she said it, made me
believe her and I decided she was going to be just like Jay. I decided
to open the door and let her inside.
"I told her she had the most incredibly foxy tits I have ever seen
in my whole life. She does. I'll tell you something, Margaret, you
have a big ego. You thought I was concerned about you and your
little twin problems. If it had occurred to me what was bothering
you I would have been amazed, not sympathetic. I wanted to feel your
body against mine. I wanted to kiss you, and I told you that, and
MEANT it, because it's true. NOT to make you feel better."
"At my insistence, Margaret's whining digression into self pity
has been moved to the end as an appendix. That was a compromise. It
should have been deleted. With any luck it will be."
This:
[...]
is how we indicate deletions, Anita. IMNVHO is something else you could
learn to use. Certainly if I can learn to use MOTSS.
"You lost me."
;-)
[...]
[...]
But all that shame came back when Anita saw them. And then it all
went away again when she hugged me. I don't remember exactly what she
said, but it doesn't matter, because I could tell she meant it. She
sounded as though my nipples had pushed a button in her the same way
they do in Jay. I believed her.
"Well, at least we got past your fucking nipples."
Maybe being unable to speak wasn't such a good idea. We had two totally
different perceptions of the same event.
"It was the perfect idea. I want Jay to top me sometime. Jay and
you. Hypnosis is extremely sexy."
[Subject: From Nurse Jones The List Column 3b]
Here is the second half of my adventures with Anita...
Sorry about the mailer screwup. it was my fault.
Asyway, I stood there stiff and unforgiving and crying and tolerating
Anita's hug, and after she whispered to me I kind of let my hand creep
up her back, and I sort of hugged her too.
"That wasn't a hug."
Was too. It was a midwestern hug.
Besides, you left out something important. It wasn't important to you,
but that's because your antennas were all aimed at me. Remember when we
were both standing there hugging and crying like a couple of idiots?
Remember what Jay said? "On the mantle." Remember that right behind me
on the mantle was a box of Kleenex? Hint, hint? Wink wink, nudge nudge?
"So two people blowing their noses make interesting reading to
bondage freaks? Do we have to cover EVERYTHING to do with bodily
fluids?"
Jeez, Anita, sometimes I wonder about you. Do you think we keep kleenex
on the mantle all the time? Think about that. He hypnotized me. He knew
I wouldn't be talking. He lit the fire and the candles and turned off
the other lights. He put the kleenex on the mantle. These are not
unconnected things.
They mean he knew we would be standing in front of the fireplace crying.
Think about that. It's significant.
This is something I live with every day, so I am used to looking for the
signs. Take my word for it, he also knew what I would be crying about.
Maybe even what you would be crying about. Part of what made me do this
whole "scene" was the knowledge that Jay is in touch with me. Much more
intimately intouch than you realize. He had cleared a path for me and
was watching over me. He knew I would know, too. And he wanted me to
know, or he wouldn't have put the kleenex in such an obvious place. I
don't even have to ask him this. When you think that through, think
about why he didn't put the kleenex on the end table by the couch. He
would have led us to the couch if he had wanted to.
"But kleenex? Such a little thing."
Go back and read that last paragraph. Please. Twice. I'm not kidding.
It's not such a little thing. It's another sense. Just like sight. A
flower is a little thing, but it reminds you that you can see and smell,
and that is not little. That box of kleenex was like a flower beside the
path, reminding me. That box of kleenex was as important to me as the
meal we ate or that silly costume I wore. You see, you gloss over
important stuff too.
"You two do this all the time?"
Yeah. All the time, every day. The day before yesterday (Saturday) after
breakfast I was in the mood for hot chocolate and a cosy read on the
sofa by the fireplace. I didn't tell him that, but I went to the
bookshelf to get a book I had been saving for months and there was this
freshly cut camellia stuck in it, stem between the pages. I mean,
that book had been there for months, unread. There was still dew on the
flower. And then in he comes with an armload of firewood. I didn't say
anything. I got him back later, though.
It's kind of like dancing. Kayvan calls it nonverbal acuity, I think.
Huxley called it payin attention. Read his book "Island."
You do this, too. I noticed how you communicated with Tom when you were
being whipped. I saw some of your private flowers.
"No. That was planned. Talked about beforehand. Not like this. You
make me feel clumsy."
This from the woman with switchblade legs? Folks, when she unfolds those
legs, she makes a gazelle look clumsy.
"Don't trivialize this. You're serious about what you do being
another sense."
Yes.
"Like I said, I want you and Jay to top me."
[...]
-*-
And that, patient readers, is (I promise) the abrupt ending of our
longest digression. Let's get back to the story at hand. Once again,
your editor/coauthor has to apologize for the continuity. We were
standing on the hearth blowing our noses; (p)ages ago Anita wrote:
"I was trying to think of what to do next. I wanted to throw her
down right there on the hearth rug and make love. There's a poem
that applies. I have it somewhere. I'll stick it in here if I find
it. I finally decided to just go ahead and kiss her. She kissed me
at the Valdosta party, and now that I know her better, I realize
that was a big step for her to take. It took a lot of courage. I
needed courage for a different reason. I didn't want to lose her. I
didn't want to scare her away. She is worth being careful for."
*Blush* Now _that's_ nice.
"She does blush, you know. It's delightful. That's why she won't
send me a copy of this List posting. It embarrasses her. And I
swear, I'm going to get one from alt.sex.bondage. I'm not kidding."
"I also found that poem. It's a short one. I hope 6 lines isn't so
much that 2 million eyes will glaze over when they read this on
alt.sex.bondage:
It's already autumn and I've suffered other months
without learning anything
except that I lost you
for too much love, like a hungry man
overturning the bowl
with his trembling hands.
Elio Pagliarani
That's what I mean about kissing her and not wanting to scare her
off."
Okay, another time out. This time it's me, Nurse Jones. So pay
attention. (Taps sharply on monitor with fingernail.) Listening? Good. I
promise we'll be friends forever if you'll stop with the star-crossed
lover routine. At LEAST friends. And fellow poetry lovers. Jay never
reads poetry. See there? You're not left out. You have a headstart in
one area already.
And yes, the ASB crowd can handle 6 lines at a time. We're even
polysyllabic. Well, you have to be to know all that anatomical
terminology. Anyway, here's one back at you, appropos of something:
Postage Stamp
If you should ever have to
part from someone dear, tear
yourself away, be sure
the tear is where
the perforations are. Please,
please do not ever
recklessly sever, sheer
yourself from someone other
so that their stamp is torn
and you have part of their
living, bleeding
flesh at your side worn.
Wm. Hart-Smith
I promise I won't ever sever myself from you if you promise to let us
grow together at MY pace, which is clearly slower than yours. I will not
be guilt-tripped into a relationship. End of time out.
"ok"
Now we're REALLY back to the story. Here's my version of being kissed by
Anita. I hope she'll write her version.
We separated and stood there blowing our noses and Anita started
laughing a little, the way you do after you cry for a stupid reason and
are embarrassed about it. I smiled, too, and we would have been laughing
together, but I tried to say something, and nothing came out. I had
forgotten again. I think I must have looked surprised,
"You did. You looked like you had swallowed a bug."
and I put my hand
to the base of my throat and Anita realized she was the only one
laughing and stopped. Suddenly there I was again, with three people
looking at me. I looked down and realized that I was holding a handfull
of soggy kleenex in front of myself and pulled my hand away. And then I
realized that I had looked away from her eyes and I looked back at her
face.
I don't know how to tell you about that feeling, when I try to resist a
hypnotically induced compulsion. First of all I really want to do what
I'm supposed to do. At the same time, if I resist it, I feel like I'm a
little kid in school again, out in the hall without a hall pass and the
bell has rung. I feel like something TERRIBLE (I don't know what) will
happen to me in the principal's office if I am caught. I feel like I'm
outside the law, violating a very important social taboo; the hallway is
empty except for me, and the only thing I want is to be back inside the
classroom where it is safe. Even so, I know, just as I knew as a kid,
that they wouldn't REALLY do anything terrible to me in the principal's
office. Still....
It's a weird feeling, when I think back on it from a later perspective.
It's not weird at the time, though; it's a very immediate and pressing
sensation of emergency that I HAVE to deal with.
Anita just put her hands on my arms and said, "I'm going to kiss you
now." She was holding me the way a french general would if he were going
to kiss a soldier's cheeks after presenting him with the croix de
guerre. I was standing on the edge of the hearth and was almost Anita's
equal in height. She moved closer and I could feel the warmth of her
body near mine. But I looked up, keeping my eyes on hers, still
following the rules. It's funny the way the mind works: as long as she
looked at me, I had to look at her. If she hugged me, or looked away, or
turned around so I couldn't see her eyes, it wasn't my fault, but I had
to look if she was looking at me. I felt like a specimen. A bug
transfixed on a pin. I couldn't make myself look away. I could feel Jay
and Tom, sitting off to the sides, watching me, but I couldn't look to
see them.
Then she said, "And you are going to kiss me. Because I said so." My
hand went up to my my ripcord-ribbon, ready. I almost bailed out. I was
scared. I felt ... I don't know ... scared isn't right. She was making
me responsible, and I didn't want to be. She hesitated, waiting to see
what I would do. I didn't do anything.
She said, "Close your eyes," and I did. I felt her move closer. We were
touching, our thighs, breasts, ever so lightly. She took a deep breath,
and I could feel her shaking as she exhaled.
"You were breathing like a little steam engine yourself."
She shifted a little and
lifted my chin so that I faced up at her, eyes still closed. I could
feel her breath on my face. She smelled rich and heavy and sweet, of
Irish Mist liqueur and walnut ice cream. Dessert.
I let go of the ribbon, But my hand hovered near it, indecisive.
Her hand left my chin, and slipped to the nape of my neck; I felt it
stiffen there as though she was going to pull me to her, but she didn't.
"You don't miss much, do you."
Instead, her hand just slid down my back, caressing me. Still, she
didn't pull me to her. I wondered if she was giving me time to decide,
if she would wait, how long she would wait, when she would decide. But
she didn't decide, she just waited and once again it was up to me. It
always seems like it's up to me. I wasn't supposed to be the top.
It sounds so simple to just say that I made my decision and dropped my
hand away from the ribbon, but it was so hard to decide. Almost like
overcoming a hypnotically induced compulsion.
When I think about moments like that, times when I've made decisions
like that, I feel a kinship with peopl who have committed suicide. That
last moment on the edge, before the decision becomes irrevocable. It has
such clarity:
Just before I rang the doorbell at the Valdosta party....
Just before I kissed Anita at that same party....
The first night I tried bondage with Jay, just before I put my wrists
down on the arms of the chair for him to tape them....
I honestly don't know how long I stood there with my eyes shut,
wavering, before I let my hand drop away from the ribbon. You lose
track at these times. Eventually, I just let go and my hand dropped.
But she caught it in hers and lifted it back up and kissed my palm.
Good thing it wasn't the hand with the wadded up kleenex.
"Oh, cute. Cute. Do you always have to spoil everything? Up to here
I was willing to grant that you can write. But you did that on
purpose. Furthermore, I was NOT waiting for you to make up your
mind. I was just watching your face. Do you know what you look like
with your eyes closed? With tears in your eyelashes and your eyelids
pink and puffy from crying? And your lips. Swollen, vulnerable, and
bruised looking."
"When you were standing there with your eyes shut, were you even
aware that you parted your lips while I was watching you, waiting to
kiss you? Half of me wanted to wipe your nose and mother you, and
the other half wanted to throw you on the sofa. I know you're 28
years old, but you made me feel like a child molester. I would say
you are a heartbreaker, but you'll think I'm a star-crossed lover
again. I wish you bothered to write about the outside as well as you
do the inside."
The Kiss. I can't give you details, because my eyes were shut. I can
just tell you what I felt; I felt myself being slowly, gradually
enfolded in Anita's warmth. When I first felt her lips against mine, it
was just the lightest butterfly touch; they hovered over mine for the
space of several breaths. One of her hands slid down to the small of my
back and pressed me against her. She grazed the corner of my mouth and I
turned blindly to meet her; she touched the other corner, still
hovering, then nibbled on my lower lip.
Finally, she was there, kissing me. I brought my hand back up, halfway
to my safety ribbon and hesitated. I just stood there being kissed
with my hand kind of wavering limply near my shoulder. Being kissed was
very distracting. I decided to let it go on just a bit longer and put my
hand tentatively behind her to return the embrace. Just a little. Our
bodies gradually melded together and I just let myself kind of fall into
the experience. It just happened. Neither of us really did it. I just
ended up returning the kiss, and it was a real, proper kiss. The way I
do with Jay. With everything. It wasn't experimental this time. Amelia
(netwonderfulperson) Smith says a kiss can be sexual without being
genital. This was everything. Both. I got deeper and deeper into it.
When I kiss someone, I mean a proper kiss, I caress everything with
everything. One leg slid along her thigh. One of my hands crept between
our bodies and cupped her breast. I've never done that with a woman
other than myself.
Funny, but there was a moment when I hesitated before touching her
breast. I mean, it was an overtly sexual thing to do, and you know how I
get sometimes, and after all, Anita IS a woman, and face it Margaret,
this was a homosexual experience, so I guess I was entitled to hesitate.
But then, right in the middle of that kiss, I actually felt angry and
impatient at myself for hesitating.
If I could have taken that indecision and thrown it on the hearth and
kicked it into the fireplace, that's what I would have done. Except I
was kind of preoccupied. Anyway, I threw myself into the kiss.
The first time I kissed Anita, at the Valdosta party, I was acutely
aware that she was a woman. In fact, if I was thinking of anything at
all, that was it. I couldn't even concentrate on the kiss, I was so
aware of the fact that I, Margaret, me, a woman for most of my adult
life, was kissing another woman. That thought was too new, too
different, and too scary to NOT be first in my mind.
The second time we kissed, it was somehow absolutely vital that she be a
woman. It wasn't that it suddenly didn't matter any more, or that I had
overcome my fear and uncertainty. It DID matter, I WAS afraid and
uncertain, and it was very very hard to make that decision. And I truly
have absolutely no idea whatsoever why I chose the word "vital" for the
first sentence in this paragraph, but it is exactly the right word.
Perhaps if I had been committing suicide, it would have been vital that
the gun be loaded.
I was very aware that she was a woman, and at that moment, it was
absolutely essential that she not be anything else. I wanted her to be a
woman. I mean, not just any woman, it mattered that she was,
specifically, Anita, too. But I didn't want to pretend she was a man to
make it easier for me. I don't know why I feel/felt that. Someone help
me here. I'm new at this.
-*-
It wasn't my fault that the kiss stopped. She was the one that pulled
back. It was a sudden thing, she just pulled back and held me away,
gripping me by my upper arms.
"Oh no, you don't." That's what she said: "Oh no, you don't." Then she
said "Oh, shit," and she was hugging me again and she whispered she was
sorry in my ear.
I don't know what all that meant. My eyes stayed shut. She'll have to
explain that in the space I have thoughtfully provided below. Hint hint.
"Remember, you are the first woman I have kissed, too. You got
inside me, there. For once, you were the one going too fast. I can't
explain. You don't normally give a lot of yourself. Then when you
suddenly gave so much I thought you were teasing me. I was
suspicious. I thought you were going to make me vulnerable and then
hurt me. Then, when I saw you standing there with your eyes shut,
waiting, holding onto my forearms and looking like I had punched you
in the stomach, I knew I was wrong and I hugged you."
(I felt torn away, like a postage stamp. I'm surprised there wasn't a
Looney Tunes champagne cork popping noise when our lips parted.)
Anyway, she spent a lot of time just holding herself against me,
stroking, hugging, and ptting little kisses all over my face. She
pushed my hair back, kissed my ear, and generally made a fuss over me
like a brooding mother hen. It was nice. I like a lot of attention. And
then I wanted to look at Jay and make sure he was all right, but
something popped into my mind out of the blue at exactly that moment. It
was Jay telling me it is okay, he wants me to forget all about him for a
while. As if I could do that. But I knew what he meant; I knew it was
okay to not worry about him. Jay had left a little something for me to
find later, when he knew I would need it.
Anita's kisses moved down my neck and shoulder, and then I felt her
slide to her knees. She left me up there with my eyes shut, swaying. I
steadied myself by stretching one arm out along the mantle behind me. It
is a high mantle, at eye level.
"You should describe the fireplace and the room. For mood."
I did, in The List, but you're right; I'll go back to the beginning and
do that. Now YOU shaddap.
She took the wad of kleenex from my other
hand and kissed the palm. Her hands slid up my thighs to the elastic
waistband of my concubine costume, and I leaned back and stretched my
other arm along the mantle. I intentionally wanted to keep my hands away
from my ribbon, forcing myself to push that limit a little more. Even
so, and even after a lovely intimate kiss like that, I am ashamed to
admit that when I felt her breath on my almost-naked mons, I pressed
my legs together, one knee in front of the other, like a silly virgin.
She left the harem pants in place and slid her hands around to my bum;
she hugged me, her cheek against my stomach, her breath and hair
tickling.
She kissed me below my navel, just barely above my limit, and waited.
Then she kissed me again, lower. Just an inch. Or two.
"You stopped breathing then."
I know. Be quiet.
Then again, higher, off to one side. She tested the waistband again. I
felt suspended, detatched; I relaxed minutely. She slid her fingers
under the elastic and pulled slowly downward. I clamped my legs together
again, just for a moment; she waited. Then I parted them again, just a
fraction, but voluntarily.
The pants slipped to my ankles. I was hanging onto the mantle for dear
life. The only thing I could think of was that there were three people
watching me. Two for the first time. She hugged me again, and I was
pathetically grateful that she covered my front with her hair.
But it didn't last. I felt her warmth leave me and her hands slide back
up my body to my breasts. This time my nipples were erect, and only
partly from excitement and embarrassment.
"Open your eyes."
She was standing in front of me.
"You can cover yourself if you want."
I wanted. I bent for the puddle of gossamer at my feet.
"Not with that. Your hands." I was grateful even for that. I stood there
"I have to insert this. She didn't just cover herself. She tried to
cover her breasts with one hand and arm, and her crotch with the
other. She was adorable. Demure is the word that works here. There's
another victorian painting called 'September Morn' of a pubescent
girl standing ankle deep at the edge of a misty lake. She is
crouching against the cold and covering herself in exactly the same
way. She graced more calendars, postcards, and prints than any other
painting in history with the possible exception of La Gioconda. You
still see the prints in antique shops. If you want a little piece of
your precious Nurse Jones, buy one next time you see it, and think
of us that night."
wondering what would happen next, right on the very edge of pulling the
ribbon off, when she said, "Light some more incense." It had burned out.
I was grateful for the distraction, and went over to the little table at
the end of the sofa and scrabbled at the matchbox. They were looking at
me, watching, I know, as I hunched there over the incense, trying to
hide myself. I didn't want to turn around to look at them, because then
they would know I knew, know I felt naked. As I think back on it, it was
very sexy, but at the time, it was a nightmare. I felt I was the only
one naked in a room full of people. All I could do was try and keep my
back to them. Pretend to be cool. True, Anita didn't have very much on,
but it was still something. And she seemed so at ease. I was wearing a
ribbon, period.
Body jewelery doesn't count. It just makes nakedness worse, when naked
is what you're feeling.
Anita had turned all businesslike. She's pretty experienced with
"scenes" even if this is the first time she's been intimate with a
woman. Maybe it's easier for her to treat it as a "scene" rather than an
encounter with a member of the same sex. Anyway, she cut the evening in
half right there. It was as though she said "End Scene One. Set the
stage for Scene Two."
She gave everyone something to do. She told Tom to put another log on
the fire and then move his chair to the other end of the sofa beside
Jay's. She came and knelt by me while I fumbled with the incense. It was
one of those long, thin, sticks of incense and wouldn't hold still for
the match. She took it from me and held it steady, but the match had
burned close to my fingers and I had to light another. I was trying to
concentrate on one thing at a time, but it was all too much for me; my
shoulders slumped and I was ready to give up on the incense, the
evening, everything. She put her arm around me and reminded me that I
still had my ribbon. She told me I was doin' great, kid. She said a lot
of stuff. She also said that she was going to ask more of me. I didn't
look at her; I gave her hand a squeeze where it rested on my shoulder.
What the hell; it didn't hurt yet.
"Go and sit at the end of the sofa with your back to them," she said.
The sofa is one of those huge old overstuffed ones that really needs
recovering. We've been intending to do that, but in the meantime we just
cover the tatty upholstery with an artfully arranged bedspread and two
embroidered silk granny shawls with long fringes. And about twenty
mismatched pillows of various sizes and colors. And a knitted afghan
comforter.
I nestled into the pillows. Practically burrowed, in fact, hiding.
Anita sat at the end of the sofa and crossed her switchblade legs. She
just sat there, considering me for a while. I had pillows clutched
against me. She reached out and squeezed one of my feet. This whole
thing just seemed to be getting more and more out of hand. I was losing
control and ... um ...
(Oh my.)
Just as I was sitting here, asking myself how _did_ I actually feel,
I realized the next two words have to be:
...loving it.
I was sitting on a toboggan-couch and sliding feet-first down the
slippery far slope of Roo's bell-shaped curve. What a ride. It was
horrible in the most wonderful way.
There are two kinds of kids. Those that jump into cold water all at once
and those that inch in. I was a jumper. Those that just have to go on the
biggest highest longest fastest loop-the-loop roller coaster in the
world no matter how they scream and squeal during the ordeal. And there
are those that don't. I went.
And there I was sitting on the couch, looking down the length of my own
legs at Anita. My own personal roller coaster had clanked and yanked its
way through the evening, and there I was cresting the top of the Giant
Hill and catching my first glimpse of the enormous slope beyond.
Looking down my own legs at Anita.
Ohboy.
Remember how noisy and slow and jerky the roller coaster was on the way
up the Giant Hill? And then it crested the top and detatched itself from
the drive mechanism? It seemed to hesitate at the top, to almost stop,
and then, when the ride became very slow, very smooth and deceptively
quiet, you thought: "This isn't so bad."
She massaged my foot. Such an innocent thing. "This isn't so bad," I
thought.
I felt myself beginning to slide forward, uncontrollably, and knew it.
I like foot rubs. I spend a lot of time on my feet during the day, and a
foot rub gets me every time. I melt.
I thought: I'll think about it later. I have my ribbon. I gave myself
over to it, closed my eyes, and leaned back into the heap of pillows,
hand on ribbon.
I was comfortable. Anita had fixed things so that Tom and Jay were
behind me. I couldn't see them. They couldn't see the embarrassing parts
of me. I was almost ... content. Certainly relaxed. Foot rubs do that
to me. Turn me to jelly. I gave myself up to it.
It's funny. Footrubs and backrubs are such cliches. They are always
there, the first time. If the phrase, "Do You Come Here Often," is the
password for Stage One, then footrubs and backrubs are the cliches that
mark Stage Two. Jay and I are past stage two, and when he gives me a
footrub, it is theraputic rather than sexual. Usually. Anita has hard,
strong hands. She is into throwing pottery, so I guess she would. She
turned me into jelly, anyway. There's something comforting about a
cliche.
She didn't stay with my feet, though. I felt her hands between my
knees, gently separating them. Pillows slipped away, fell to the
floor, and one leg slid off the sofa. I was so relaxed, it felt like a
tremendous effort to bend my other knee; she slid toward me, between my
legs. She was so gentle and tentative. I couldn't help thinking: "This
is It. With a Woman. Right Now." And then, "Thank God it's Anita." And
then, for one panicked second, "Jesus. I'm not ready for this yet
Stoppitstoppitstoppit ..." Then I settled back to: "Wait, just for a
minute, slow down, give me a chance...." And I was still coming back
from a totally relaxed state. It was an effort to even move my hand to
my ribbon. I felt like I was surfacing back into reality after having
been underwater for a month.
As I moved my hand, the motion turned into an overpowering urge to
stretch. Coming back from the near-coma of a footrub will do that to me.
And, to tell the truth, I wanted to interfere. Slow down. Ignore the
fact that she had separated my legs. Deflect things. I stretched, arms
over my head, legs straight and flexed, toes pointed, legs on either
side of her, back arched.
"You were magnificent, stretching. Your thigh muscles surprised me.
I'm used to thinking of you as soft. I imagine you are mucho
stronger than you look."
While I was stretching, I felt her lean toward
me between my legs and slide her hands up my thighs, my flanks,
caressing. I felt the warmth of her breasts on my stomach, and her hair
tickling, sweeping my body. I wish I had hair like that. Feeling a
woman's breasts on your stomach is a very intimate, special thing, I am
pleased to report. Ahem. To the remaining fraction of a percent of ASB
readers that don't know that already. Well *I* never thought about it.
With her fingernail, she traced a delicate line down my torso, past my
navel, down, slower and slower, until she came to that little crease
between thigh and mons. You know where I mean. That is such a sensitive
place. The kind of tickle that makes your breath catch.
"You are so smooth. So, so smooth. Your skin there is like white
rose petals."
She kissed me again, just above. Just barely above. I put my hand on the
ribbon. I kept doing that, I know. It made me feel safe. Like hanging
onto the safety bar on the roller coaster.
"It made me slow down."
I know that, too.
She kissed me again, left ... right ... pausing, teasing. She kept
looking up at me to gauge my reaction. Her hair kept tickling. The other
two, behind, couldn't see that my eyes were almost closed, but still
watching her.
In the end, she swept her hair around to one side of her neck and looked
at me. Just looked. I knew she wasn't going to tease any more.
No more talk. Time to walk.
I was strangely calm. Especially for me. It was like I was seeing it all
happen to someone else. Up to this moment, I half felt that if I kept my
eyes half shut I could half pretend it was happening to someone else;
that if I couldn't see what was happening, I didn't know about it; that
I wasn't directly responsible or involved. But that all changed in that
moment. I became intensely aware. I opened my eyes and looked directly
at her. It wasn't a conscious decision to be honest with myself, it was
more like that feeling you get when you step outside into the sun after
an afternoon rain and the air is suddenly clear and fresh. The world
just makes you stop ignoring it and pay attention.
The tip of my index finger was hooked under the ribbon, and she was
watching me. Waiting, I realized. I slipped it back out. It was just a
tiny motion. One fingertip. A fourth of an inch. Out from under the
ribbon. That was what she was waiting for.
She smiled the faintest smile and looked down. I could feel her breath
on me. I could feel her fingers on either side, gentle, tentative,
opening me ever so slightly.
"White and pink rose petals. I discovered your other piercing, too."
Finally, I felt her tongue. She traveled
"Tasted."
the length of my labia with
the lightest, most delicate touch of the tip of her tongue, then looked
up at me.
"Your mouth opened slightly, and you took one of those long,
shuddery breaths. You taste of salt air. A day at the beach."
It felt like a slow motion electric shock. And she did it
again. This time I gasped and shifted my hips. More pillows fell to the
floor. I guess I'm a bit of a heavy breather, sometimes.
It was very nice. This is something that Jay had to learn. I taught him.
He does it very very well. Anita just knew. Of course, she's a woman, so
she would. First time, even.
"I just did what I knew I would have liked. I pretended I was you."
As she played with me, I kept my hand at my throat, near the ribbon, but
with my other hand, I reached for her. I tangled my fingers in her hair,
stroked her, brushed her hair back, just wanting to touch her. What she
was doing to me was very distracting, and for a moment I shifted both
hands to hold her head. My hand went back to my throat again, but it was
hard to keep it there. I kept wavering between one and the other. I
wanted to cling to my safety and clutch at her head at the same time. If
it had been Jay, I wouldn't have been so indecisive. I could have
concentrated mroe on what was happening to me.
One of the advantages of not being able to make a sound is that (if you
are a midwesterner) you can do all the theatrical moaning and whimpering
you want and nobody can hear what you are doing. So, oddly enough, I
felt more free to "let go" than I otherwise would have. And I did.
Quietly. I liked being able to do that.
"The expressions on your face were wonderfut though."
You weren't supposed to be watching.
I was luxuriating, stretching back into the pillows, stroking her flank
with the instep of one foot, rubbing my calf against her shoulder, and
generally telling her that she was getting through to mi; somewhere in
there I decided there was nothing wrong with this, nothing at all.
Common sense and sensory greed overcame my autohomophobia. And the
desire to finally admit to myself that I wanted to overcome it. I had
left my hand on the ribbon, though, and when the slow spreading warmth
finally turned and grabbed me and twisted, I pulled the ribbon.
I don't have complete control at times like this (who does). My hand was
on the ribbon, and I was in such a state I pulled it. I should have
taken my hand away before that, but I forgot. I knew even as I was
pulling it what was happening; it was just an accident, just a momentary
loss of control. An involuntary twitch, and I pulled it loose. She
didn't notice, at first. Preoccupied, I guess.
The thing was, I had been making these secret noises all along, trying
to moan and not doing it. Just kind of whispering -- not even that,
really. With the ribbon off, though, I'm afraid a rather loud "Aaaah!"
escaped before I caught myself, and Anita looked up and saw that I had
pulled the ribbon away. She stopped and looked at me.
I grabbed her head with both hands and held her to me. Then I pulled my
hands away as though her head was red-hot. As though it was evil to want
her there. Stupid, but I didn't want to be responsible. I clenched my
fists; I put my hands back; I took them away. More pillows fell, I
grabbed upholstery, clutched more pillows, tried to keep my hands away
from her head. And I kept on making these little "Ah!" noises. I kind
of lost it, there, I guess.
I had wanted to shout "Don't stop!" and now that the ribbon was off I
felt obligated to say what I wanted, somehow. I mean she would be
wondering why I didn't say something. Wondering why I pulled it off. I
couldn't think what to do, though, and I just kept making these
desperate frustrated little "ah!" noises and feeling frantic that she
had stopped. Thank god she didn't stay stopped.
Anita reached under my thighs and hooked her hands on the corners of my
pelvis to hold me down. She was trying to hold me still, but she stayed
with me. I was trying, too, to hold still. I didn't stop, either.
It's not easy for me to have an orgasm this way, even with Jay. It is
hard work, for me, somehow. It's a slower, more diffuse kind of feeling.
It creeps up on me more slowly. What I mean is, it's not like I was
jumping around, or hard to keep up with; I actually moved my hips very
very slowly (Anita says gracefully) but unstoppably. I'm strong, that
way. I CAN say that there was a moment there, just a moment, that it
really didn't matter any more that Anita was a woman.
Of course, at those moments it doesn't matter what planet you are on,
either.
I dunno about myself. I just don't know.
I could tell you a bunch of stuff about stopping caring what the others
in the room thought, about arching backs and panting and shuddering and
more heaving bosoms and crying out (rather loudly, actually) at the
thrilling conclusion, but you can fill that part in for yourselves.
Connect the dots, as it were ...
... I do remember I smiled rather broadly, there at the end. I had
taken the whole thing so seriously, up to that point, but that all fell
away at the end, and I just smiled. Not AT anyone, I just smiled.
It was kind of nice being out there on the far end of Roo's bell-shaped
curve. I wasn't exactly in a rush to get back to the middle bit, anyway.
-*-
Afterward, Anita scootched up beside me on the sofa and pressed her body
against my side. One of the candles had burned out, the other was
flickering and about to die, and the fire was down to coals again; her
warmth felt good. She held her knee across my stomach, hugging me with
her leg, the same way I do with Jay sometimes, after. I kind of dozed,
with her breath in my ear, and I remember hearing Jay and Tom get up and
leave the room. I knew Jay would set Tom up in the spare bedroom.
Sinks ran, toilets flushed, lights went out, and the house was silent.
Jay came back with a quilt and tucked us in and kissed us both on the
cheek.
I dozed a little more, but a sofa isn't comfortable sleeping even for
one. Anita pushed the covers down to my waist and propped herself up on
one elbow to look down at me. I was looking up inside the curtain of her
hair and there was just enough light from the fireplace that I could see
her face. She toyed gently with one of my nipples and whispered
something very very nice to me that I'm going to leave out because she's
put up with a lot from Nurse Jones, letting me drag her through ASB and
all. And not everything has to be said.
I watched her watching the fire for a moment, and her expression told me
she was thinking, not dreaming. She opened her mouth to speak, but I
stopped her with my finger against her lips.
Somehow, I still had my ribbon clutched in the other hand. I brought it
up from under the covers and waited, meeting her eyes, not looking away,
just like before. After a moment, she gathered her hair and pulled it
back for me and I put the ribbon around her neck.
I left my hand on the nape of her neck and we looked at each other for
ages.
"Well ... okay ..." I whispered.
Her eyes went a little teary. So did mine, I guess. I pulle her face
down close to mine and I kissed her goodnight a few times.
-*-
Okay. That's it. We slept in our own beds, by the way. She said. In the
same tone of voice people use when they say, "Some of my best friends
are ...."
The next morning was Sunday. Breakfast was nice. Peaceful and quiet.
Things are a lot more settled now. I think this is going to work itself
out. Slowly. We can talk more easily now. Or I can; she never had a
problem. Being from New Jersey and all.
It's funny how midwesterners are. It helped me to do this writing with
Anita. I find it's easier for me to write about things that bother me
than to talk about them. I don't think Anita feels the same way. Jay and
I first broached the subject of bondage by letter, too, way back before
we did the stuff you read about in The List.
This is one of the few posts I have intentionally left things out of. I
have to care about Anita's feelings, now. There's no point in trying to
hide from you the fact that I do care, and that I won't be as open with you
as I was about myself, before, when I didn't have to worry about anyone
else. I'm worrying for four, now.
We still haven't really talked much about it. We've just written this.
It's funny, but I STILL don't think of that evening as sexual. Not deep
down. Sexy, sensual, even genital. And there is a kind of love between
us, I guess. All that is there. But sexual? This is silly. How could it
NOT be sexual? But I don't feel it was. I'm overanalyzing myself. My
personal distinctions between sexual, sensual, genital and sexy, these
are all too subtle for me to tell you what I think, especially since I
don't even know what I think, yet. And if I did know, I'd have to revise
it tomorrow.
One thing is certain: my relationship with Jay is undamaged. That was
the most important thing.
He says he will love me always...
Nurse Jones,
... Lord,
he knows
a lot of
ways.... :-)
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