Self-Love Revisited

It's been just over two weeks since we broke up. I've alternated between being wildly ebullient and ugly crying uncontrollably. I've thought about ending myself several times during those low points, knowing that I never want to go through pain like this ever again. I even called you with the intention of taking it all back, asking you to forgive me with promises that I would drop the whole thing -- no more talk about Doms, open relationships, or even sex at all if you would take me back. Yet, when you actually picked up my call, your tone and one-word answers changed my mind.

Eight years. Eights years of me listening to your advice, to letting you lay down the law, set all the rules, all my punishments. There were good times -- fuck, there were amazing times -- and I thank you for each one of those. However, there was also a lot of miscommunications, assumption, passive aggressiveness, belittling, and yelling. You're not the only one to blame, though.

I shaved off, punched down, bent and broke pieces off myself to fit into the hole you built for me. I let you hide me away from the world, cloistered and warm, cocooned in the memory of your embraces and praise. I was a coward, afraid to ask for what I wanted, tell you what I felt, or communicate my disagreements in an effective way. Something for me to work on, for sure.

"If that's what you want." You used to say that whenever you disagreed with what I was about to do, always in that tone -- that warning yet dismissive tone -- that told me you'd be upset if I did. When you were upset, you'd bring it back up to push me further down, keeping me from peeking my head out of my hole and growing a spine. You were my governing body and mind, but my heart and soul were political prisoners. They were the subversives whispering civil disobedience in my ear that you tried to quelch, burning their books of intuition and strength, chaining them up with kindness and caresses when no one else would, only to stomp them into submission with fist like taunts, barbed words, and isolating silence.

No more. There has been a coup d'etat in this house. Your regime has been taken down and removed. I am running things now. This is now the Autonomous Matriarchy of Me, Myself and I. We are piecing together our parliament and sewing together our new standard. Our flag now has many colors we wish to try out: black as lava rock sometimes sharp enough to bruise, blister or gently break, robin's egg please for myself and someone(s) new, the dark lapis lazuli is tentative but curious, the fuchsia and gray are must haves, tied together and swelling with pride; the white, pink and gold sound like a lot of fun, the hunter green sounds like a home, cozy and warm, and sometimes our flag might even dare to be a whimsical orange.

I do not know how this story ends, but I know how it begins: I need to heal from the last eight years and, more importantly, I need to step on to the path of finding the sex life I crave. I can still hear him in my head. He would be yelling, "Don't overshare!" To that I say, I'd rather overshare and have people look away in secondhand embarrassment than turn away from myself and hide who I am anymore. I don't want to feel like a dirty little secret anymore.

So, here's me oversharing... All in all, despite my eight-year relationship, I've basically been celibate for eighteen years. All the lack of sex and none of the religion, if that's even a benefit. This nun is tired of that habit and is ready to experience the world of the living, of hedonism, and desires fulfilled. I'm pretty sure I'm bisexual even though I've only ever slept with men. I most definitely am kinky, but am still finding my sea-legs, uncertain which direction to plot my course. My curiosity already has me researching impact and sensation toys, as well as butt plugs. I'm already looking for a professional Dom to play with, but am uncertain how to vet them. The last thing I want is to go looking for fulfillment to wind up on the news or worse. Also, I absolutely want to follow this path, to seek out all the excitement, passion, and love I've been missing out on.

Instead of FOMO I have FONGF (fear of not getting fucked). I know some men think navigating the dating world is easier for women but it's really not, not for some/most of us. I am awkward sometimes; sometimes social cues are so high over me they're ready to set up orbit around the earth. I don't always know the right words to say in the moment. In the past, I'd sometimes think someone might be interested, but they were just being friendly or flirting because that's the way they connected with people, so now I always just assume that no one's interested. When men flirt with me it's like they're speaking another language of which I only know a handful of words. I'm like a hungry feral cat -- I see they have some sustenance I want but I just stare at them, waiting for them to leave so I can take what I can, then run and hide. I think maybe it's going to take a special man or men or men and women to be able to appreciate all the quirks, silliness, shyness, stillness, and the sexual metamorphosis within me.

I'm not sure I ever want to be in a relationship ever again -- at least not a monogamous one. Maybe I could be semi-monogamous with a couple, but even that I'm not sure about. I never would have thought that, given it even a chance eight years ago. I'm still loyal to a fault, I do not cheat. I'd rather be honest and leave than hurt someone like that, but I want the sovereignty of choice now. In only a few weeks I've decided that I like my independence, I like sitting with decisions, figuring out what I really truly want, and then doing it. So, then, what's my next move? I took it this morning.

I woke to the chilly winter air seeping into my bedroom due to some unseen leak in my windows. Instead of immediately re-burrowing under my blankets, I laid there enjoying the caress of the air on my shoulders and breasts. I remembered it was Saturday and smiled. No need to rush out of bed. A second thought grazed my brain, I could masturbate. It was said as a question in my head, but is that ever really a question? Don't we just sometimes make it seem like a "possibility" when we all know we're going to do it the second the thought comes up? I'm still trying to recover for what passed as sexual education when I grew up and, because of it, have to resist the urge to say masturbate in hushed tones, even when it's in my own damned head.

I reached into my bedside table drawer and pulled out the Womanizer. I bought it about two months ago and it's quickly become one of my favorite toys. (Personally, I think it should be called the Finisher because it's easily the most satisfying toy I've ever played with. Once it's done with me, I'm floating away). Next, I turned on my current favorite video, lubed up my toy, turned it on and put it in place.

Within moments I was already cumming, way quicker and smaller than expected. However, rather than be simultaneously satisfied and disappointed, I had an idea. Why not keep going? Why not try climaxing on each setting, then hitting the plus button and trying to beat the next level? Each new setting made me start slightly and then grin a lot, followed by hips moving, wetness flowing, and then, "achievement unlocked", followed by "starting next level."

It was all very relaxing. Each orgasm had been pleasant and more sigh worthy than the last. I wasn't even certain how many levels were possible but I was looking forward to trying each and every one. However, then I went a little wild. I went to the next level, didn't feel much of a difference from the last, so, blasted my way up several levels.

"Oh FUCK!" I yelled. Yep, pretty sure the neighbors woke up from that.

I didn't stop. How could I? It felt amazing. I was laying there, not moving, just enjoying the sensation of having my clit sucked hard. I decided to make an additional challenge out of it. I wasn't going to allow myself to move an inch, I was going to make myself lay there and take it. I was doing well with my personal goals until I felt the familiar build of tension within me. I was going to cum and it was going to be bigger than the previous ones.

My hips moved, I was sweating, breathing heavy, my pussy was impossibly wet, and the tension kept growing. It pulled back like a wave receding from the shore, back, back, back, and further back still. Then, I swear the universe stopped for a split second and everything went black -- just for a millisecond, followed by a tsunami sized orgasm slamming into my whole body. It might have been one of the most intense of my life thus far, if not the most. It was definitely within the top five. As I continued pulsing and the Womanizer sucking, I realized I was trembling, shivering from the bliss of cumming. I may have blacked out briefly again. It felt like I missed a black second or two of reality, then was inhaling and seeing my sunlight bedroom abruptly.

As the final vibrations in my body subsided, I turned my toy all the way down then off. I set it to the side briefly while I caught my breath and promptly floated into a dream. I opened my eyes back up several hours later. I remembered the fun I just had and made a decision. No matter who I choose to play with and/or have sex with, if they can't make me feel that good or at least make a serious attempt to help get me there, then I need to keep looking. And, yes, that IS what I want.