From: [email protected]
Subject: From Nurse Jones The List Column 3a
Date: 2 Feb 92 20:32:42 GMT
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, like 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 was 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 there 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."
SORRY. GOTTA BREAK IT INTO 2 FILES FOR THIS STUPID MAILER. LOOK FOR
SUBJECT: Nurse Jones, The List, Column 3b
**************************************************
Subject: jones.47
From: [email protected]
Subject: From Nurse Jones, The List, Column 3b
Date: 1 Feb 92 01:18:07 GMT
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 in touch 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 paying 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 people 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 putting 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 pulled 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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