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I’m in love with your potential

Sometimes it is a statement that you hear randomly throughout the day. Sometimes, it is an original thought. Today, it was a song lyric. Driving to a wedding that I was very happy about but still sad and maybe even a little bitter at my own situation, I had the radio low. Through the traffic noise, the chatter of others in the car, and my own thoughts come one lyric from a song on the radio.

“I am in love with your potential”

Time stops and I am suddenly aware of only the song on the radio. I zero in on the screen that displays the title of the song and the artist. Danielle Bradbery, “I am in Love with your Potential”. I researched later and do not know if she wrote it. I want to give credit where it is due, but she was the recording artist.

“But honestly now, I’m beginning to understand
That I’m not in love with you, I’m in love with your potential”.

It is interesting to me that songs always seem to bring understanding whether I am looking for it or not. This lyric hit home in many ways. The loss of my friend, lover and Dom was devastating on all those levels each of which had multiple layers and meanings. Many times after a break up of any kind, we tend to rationalize everything in one way or the other. Sometimes, we take the blame. Sometimes we place the blame elsewhere. This could possibly be a coping strategy, or we are just trying to make sense of something that happened.

The reason my friend, lover, Dom dropped me, (Literally in a text with no opportunity to discuss) was, in fact, my fault. I made a mistake. I owned it but that wasn’t enough for him. The time I spent trying to figure out how he could just walk away was useless. I would never know the real reason. We all talk about “closure”. I knew I wanted some kind of closure, but in reality, I knew I wanted him back. The closure was in fact, he didn’t want to have anything to do with me.

We all cope in our own ways. I went through the usual grief cycle. My own version of it anyway. I went through all the things I didn’t like about our situation and relationship. I went through all the ways I would be better off without him. I went through all the ways that I could now move on with my life. I tried to avoid the things that I missed. His memory was/is everywhere in my home, my work, my life. I powered through to some form of recovery. For two months I struggled daily to forget the bad and remember the good. There was always this question in my mind of what I could have done better, differently. What were the things I did wrong? How could I have been a better friend, lover, sub?

With one lyric on the radio in the middle of chatter and noise and my own thoughts about how my life could be different, there was a light bulb moment. I was and still am in love with his potential. I saw it every day for seven years. I told him about it. I shared my thoughts and at times I tried to help him reach what he wanted to be. Potential. That is what I was in love with. As always, varying levels of what that might be. Yes, I was in love with the man he was and is. I was also capable of seeing so much more for him. Knowing the differences, or maybe just the beginning thoughts that there is a difference has given me much more to think about.

Perhaps I had my own version in my mind of what “we” should look like. As friends, lovers, and our D/s relationship. Perhaps we didn’t have the same vision of what that should or could be, even though we did talk about it. There wasn’t much talk about the details, just the big picture. We just couldn’t get there while he was trying to work out other issues in his life.

Going forward I challenge myself to think about the difference of being attracted to the person, or who we want that person to be. How much time will we give to figuring it out? What will the conversations look like? When does it make sense to talk about the conversations? Is there a danger in expecting someone to meet their potential? Is it actually their potential or what you believe their potential is or should look like? Do they want to reach a higher potential? Are you trying to hard to make them better and change them? Are we so concerned about their potential we are ignoring our own?

With this breakup, I have felt that my BDSM experiences were over. I am still trying to figure that out. I do not want it to be. I feel it is a huge part of me. Time will tell. Trust, finding someone new, letting go of what I had with him, and giving that part of myself to someone else is scary. How much of what I enjoyed was just because it was him. Time will tell.

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Community, Cliques and Making Friends

via Community, Cliques and Making Friends.  

This is an amazing read.  Much if how I felt when I started blogging was that I wasn’t worthy of association with these authors that push the limits and write about consensual, kinky,  sex in ways I thought I could only imagine.

In the beginning, I was clueless, I just knew I wanted to write.   I also wanted to blog and tweet and do all of those things.  Newbies have wonderful mentors and role models.  We should reach out and learn and share and laugh and giggle and even share a year or two.  I was, at first, (and still am a little bit) afraid of looking like a stalker.  So many beautiful stories and ideas.  And twitter feels like I moved into a new neighborhood and everyone brought me cake and coffee!  I find myself wishing we all lived closer so we could drink coffee together!  I too was in need of friends.  These people, men, and women helped me through a very unexpected breakup with words of support and love.  And the barely knew me.
Being new to anything is hard.  I agree it must go both ways.  I remember giggly g when one was supporting another and trying to get people to like her page so she could get 700 or 7000 likes on her blog! (I can’t remember the actual number bit she was 7 likes away). I giggled because on that day my blog reached 50 likes!  I celebrated quietly with a coffee and thought it would be silly to show my pride in it.  But I was wrong.

Thank you for this post.   Much needed. I hope we all listen.  I can honestly say I have never felt more supported by a community I had just entered. So thank you to everyone!

 

 

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What Matters Most

September, 2018

This month has been one of the hardest ever.  In my journey to the new me and also the real me, I have had a mentor, friend, and guide.  He was also my Dom, my Sir, my Daddy.  Started with Sir, and then as I grew and progressed I understood and accepted the title Daddy as I had lost my original objections to this term.   He became that to me and more.  He was also my best friend and as we progressed in our friendship, we progressed in other ways as well.  It was a glorious journey.  It had ups and downs as most do.  We never fought and even our disagreements were handled with calm and respectful conversation.  He offered me the opportunity to open myself up to who I really wanted to be.  True, I wanted to be that with him, but the truth remained that I had many things that were repressed.   He not only gave me the tools to explore those things, but he was there with me all the way.  I trusted him with so much of myself.  More than I had with anyone.  More than I doubt I will ever trust with anyone else.

Our everything ended in a text.  I said the wrong thing to the wrong person and he cut me off completely.  He was no longer my mentor, my Dom, my part time lover, and most sadly of all, no longer my friend.  I felt sad and responsible.  I was devastated.  It is almost two months to the day (August 6, 6:34 pm) and I still feel the sadness and deep heaviness that lays on me like a concrete blanket.  Some days are better than others, but not a day passes where he doesn’t run through my mind.  His face, his voice, his smell, his laugh, his presence.  It is always with me.  I use to carelessly tell him that know one would ever love him the way I did.  His girlfriends love him, but they don’t know all of him the way I do.  They don’t know his darkest side.  The lies he told, the truths he hid.  I didn’t know all of them either but I knew most of them.  I am not arrogant enough to believe he trusted me with everything but he trusted me with a lot.   I am now left with that knowledge.  I am left with the memories of what he shared and the trust we had together, but his touch, his voice, his presence is gone.

We still need to communicate occasionally because we work at the same place and with the same people.  It is short, professional, polite.  I haven’t heard his voice in two months.  His words that ended everything are on a text stream on my phone.  I can’t bare to delete them.

Life goes on.  This wasn’t life ending.  It was, however, the end of a chapter.  Trying to move on without him is difficult.  All the little things I couldn’t wait to tell him still happen, but I can’t tell him.  All the things I want to share, the news we use to watch together and discuss, the songs that I knew he could cover still continue.  Life doesn’t stop.  He is everywhere in my house.  The pictures he helped hang, his clothes in my closet, the soap and bath wash and cologne he likes are still in their place.  Maybe some day I will take them down.  Maybe some day they will be replaced with another mans clothes, another mans smell and another mans voice.  Right now I am not sure about that.

Dating sucks.  Dating apps suck worse.  I try to seem interested but it seems forced and unfair to anyone interested in spending time to get to know me.  It isn’t just the dating and the companionship.  It is the kink and BDSM.  The future is unknown.  Everyone’s future is unknown.  The hard part is knowing that my BDSM future is unknown.  Admittedly, he was easy.  He was seasoned.  He was knowledgeable.  He was a natural teacher.  More than that he was a trusted friend, and that was the most important part.  I trusted him with my heart, my body, and my soul.  Losing that trust the way I did will make it even harder to trust again.

I miss him.  I will always miss him.

Aside from trying to recover from this loss, I am still dealing with the loss of my second father, supporting my Mom and welcoming my daughter and her girlfriend into my home and adjusting to living with them.   (Which I wouldn’t change for the world and I know they are adjusting too).

This past weekend I took a short trip to the beach with a friend.  I had not been to the beach in four years for relaxation.  I have always considered the beach my happy place.  My therapy.  It became instantly clear that this was more true than I knew.   I stepped on the sand and the tears flowed with the tide in front of me.  Years of struggle with my daughters addiction, and all that life through at me while going through that with her poured from my eyes like the dam had busted.  The tears I had held back for years, and for the past two months were uncontrollable.  It was a release of sorts, but not the kind that I expected.

The weekend was spent watching my friend handle her parents’ health issues and trying to make sure they were ok.  That, and my break down that was needed, has left me feeling more exhausted than before I left.   Through exhaustion I find some relief.  I’m sad.  I will always be sad at the loss of my father and the loss of my Sir and friend.  I have also realized that through the four years of hell with my daughters addiction, the loss of my farm and marriage, I am still standing.

Somethings show us darkness.  Somethings show us light.  Somethings make us stronger.  In the end it is our perspective that either saves us or lets us drown.   The ocean will always show me that most things will come and go.  They will give and take.  In the end, it is what we decide to keep and cherish, let go of and file in a place where we can keep the lesson but lose the pain is what matters most.

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Open or Not?

Last week, she learned the guy she was talking to has a girlfriend.  They aren’t serious so it is OK.   She was honest with him, and requested the same.  Refreshingly, he was honest as well.  She said she wasn’t seeing anyone else and had stopped all the silly dating apps because they were getting along so well.  He also said he wasn’t on any apps.  She said she wasn’t seeing anyone else.  Silence.  After a silence that seemed eternal he said he was seeing someone else, but they practice safe sex.

She thought before she responded.  She asked.  She couldn’t be mad that he was honest.  She could be happy to hear he was being safe although they hadn’t had sex and there were no immediate plans to consummate anything.  They had just been talking and flirting through text.  Now this information.  Does it change things?  Maybe, a little.

She faked a meeting and said she would text him later.  She sat at her cubicle and wondered what she was feeling.  She knew what she was feeling.  “Here we go again.”

She was 15 when she had her first boyfriend.  Robert.  He was on the football team.  She was a cheerleader.   They were cute together.  Problem was, he left his girlfriend to be with her.  That didn’t work so well.   She went on a family vacation and while she was gone he reunited with his ex.  It was heartbreaking at the time.  It had been the best three months of her life.  Then he was gone and she was the joke at the high school.  Here she is now, 38 years later and realizing that all her boyfriends, lovers, husband and wife, without fail, all had significant others that were still in the picture.  Was it her?  Did she seek out people that were already entangled?  If so, why?  Maybe in the past.  She didn’t know he had someone else so this time wasn’t her fault.  She knew every time she got involved that they had a recent ex, or yes, they were still involved.  She was the other woman, the good friend to help them through the break-up, etc.  Was she ready to do that again?  Or was she ready to break the cycle once and for all?

She decided to text him back.  She would face this and be honest.  The text read like this,

‘So what is the situation with the other women you are seeing?  I have to be honest.  I am tired of being the dirty little secret.  I don’t expect monogamy in the beginning but eventually I will, or I will want to be involved with what you are doing with others.  It can all be negotiated but I need to know the real situation.  Thank you for being honest that there is someone else.  I just need to know what the situation truly is so I can move forward fully aware of the situation.’

She pressed send.  Feeling proud and somewhat empowered.  She liked this guy.  She didn’t want to walk away but the time had come for her to be better to herself.  She wasn’t against open relationships, as long as they were truly open.   If he walked away then that was fine.  She waited for the response.  When she got it, it was way more than she expected and now her decision was bigger than she thought.

 

To be continued…

 

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Mature women like sex too!

I struggle with a title “mature”.  I don’t feel old, so calling myself old doesn’t feel right.  Calling myself mature reminds me of how people explain women that are older so basically the same thing.  It sucks really.  I am in my early 50’s.  They say that 50 is the new 40 but to be honest, I don’t feel 40 either.  That still seems older than I feel.  Most days anyway.

Most of my friends are in their 30’s.  This wasn’t really by design, just how it ended up.  I have changed careers (multiple times, always the late bloomer in decisions of what I want to be when I grow up) and most of the people that I work with tend to be in their 30’s.  What I have also noticed is that those older, or my age, I struggle with because there tends to be a lot of talk about what ails them.  I remember one dinner party sitting in the living room with friends and everyone talking about their bad knees, body aches and menopause.  Yes, we spent an entire evening discussing these things.  It was grueling.

In general, living my life, I am active.  I go to the gym, I love to kayak, SUP, hike, swim.  There are women my age and older that can run circles around me.  My Mom is 80 and walks 6 miles a day, does yoga every week and goes to the gym three times a week.  She doesn’t count, she is a freak of nature.  I am thankful for the good genes tho.  There will always be varying levels of activity and ability.  It truly is a state of mind.  Age is just a number.  I firmly believe that.

Much is the same with sex.  With my previous Dom who was 35 (29 when we started spending time together).  I felt younger than my age and sexier than I had my entire life.  He brought me into this kinky life and opened up thoughts and desires that I had no idea existed.  We had many discussions about our age difference.  Most of them stemmed from me being self conscious about my age and whether I was worthy of his time and attention.  How my body was changing and what part of that was attributed to age.  Also, shock that he, a very handsome man at the age of 35 would want anything to do with me.  I knew he had other interest in younger women so I was often puzzled at why he wanted to spend time with me.  The older woman.  There were even other people who said to my face they knew he and I were just friends because he would never be interested in me because of my age.  People suck but it did leave a lasting mark on my self esteem.  To his credit, he always admired my body.  He preferred me naked as opposed to in lingerie that he knew I didn’t feel good in.  He like my curves.  He liked my imperfections.  He never expected perfect.  He never made me feel like I needed to be perfect.  He told me I was perfect for him.  He wouldn’t have been with me if he wasn’t pleased with me.  He only guided me to change on the things I made clear I wasn’t happy with.

It is easy at a more advanced age (see… there is just no good way to classify it) to take what we can get.  This could mean any person that pays attention to us.  Any friend that will spend time with us whether it is a healthy relationship or not.  Yes, anyone that offers the kink we want, the dominance we want, the experiences we want, regardless if it is healthy and safe.  I’ve been approached by a few “Doms” that have read my blog, can see I am newly single and that I am sad and struggling.  Offering to save me, show me what a real Dom is like, make me forget him by whipping me until I know longer remember his soft touch.  Let me clear.  Sad and struggling does not equal desperate!   I hope all women, regardless their age, are able to recognize this.  If not immediately, eventually.

I am working hard to remind myself that age is a number.  How we feel is what is important.  In any aspect.  Activity, health, the company we keep, the work we do, and yes, even kink.  Do not discount us because we are not in our 30’s and our bodies are different.  Our bodies have been around longer.  We have a right to brag about the wrinkles and laugh lines, the grey hairs, the slightly sagging neck and arm skin, the scars from child birth.  These are badges of honor that we should all celebrate.  It is a choice to try and improve or change them.  I do!  I don’t think there is wrinkle cream I haven’t tried.  My gym workouts focus on the flapping arm skin and this stomach that just won’t go away.  (Younger mothers say it is there baby pouch.  My kid is 23.  My pouch is from pizza, soda and cans of icing I eat with a spoon like ice cream).  It is a choice to focus on these things.  It is choice not to.

We are not desperate.  We do not have to accept whatever comes our way.  We will and can find what we need.  We have the knowledge and maturity to wait for what is right.   I admit when my Dom first left me I was sure I would never find that kind of love again.  I may not.  That is also my choice.  My choice to allow someone to get close enough again.  It is all about choices.  We have them.  Just like any other person of any age, gender, preference, orientation, desire.

Mature women.  Older women.  Advanced aged women…

We all like sex too!

 

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New Look

Much like I constantly redecorate the rooms in my house and clean like crazy when I have a lot of stuff going on and running through my mind, I decided to clean up the blog… which resulted in changing everything.

I’ve thought a lot about the name on this blog.  I created it with Sir in mind.  To write about he and I in a safe space because I had no one else to talk to.  He knew about it but I don’t know if he ever checked in to see what was happening.   He never mentioned it if he did which has always been disappointing.

He gave me the name Toy.  ToyforSir is in a few places, tumblr, our personal number, etc.  I love the name Toy.  We talked about it together and picked it together.  Maybe the only reason I like it is because it came from him.  I don’t know.  But I like it.  I thought about changing the name of the blog because it is a constant reminder of him.  I still haven’t decided if I will do that yet.  I played with it tonight and just had Toy (which is what he called me) as the header.  The word, the name, seemed lonely.  Lonely like I am.  A strong name, a surviving name but still lonely.  Like me.   So I added Toy for Sir back and left it there.  I will leave it there for now.  It is an important part of my journey and I’m not ready to step off the path it put me on and leave it behind.  Not yet.

I like the new look.  I painted the picture that is now my profile picture.  It hangs over my bed and also is a constant reminder of him.  But it is also a constant reminder of who I am.  Who I became with his help and guidance, and yes, his permission.   I am slowly realizing that while he was a part of the changes in me, I did the work.  I’m proud of the work I’ve done.  I took his suggestions and request seriously and made every effort to be the best me, the best Toy I could be.   I made mistakes but they were never intention means of hurting him, or anyone else.

So ToyforSir will be around for a little longer.  The painting is still over my bed, but also on this blog so I can share it and be openly proud of it.  Certainly not because it is an amazing work of art.  Solely because I painted it from the heart, for him and for me.

I am a lot of things and I have a lot of changes in my future… but I think I might always be Toy.

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Pen and paper

I was at work today and had all these cool, sexy thoughts going through my brain.  Lately, I have had very little thoughts that were anything other depressing and sad.  I stopped writing because I was starting to annoy myself with the sadness.  But today was different.  They weren’t thoughts of my past experiences with Sir, digging up feelings of loss and heart ache.  They were stories about other people and places and things that were happy and fun and exciting and sexy.

I decided to grab the moment and reached for the computer.  Clicked on my blog and poised my fingers over the keys… of my work laptop!  Yep, my fulltime paying job that probably wouldn’t appreciate how I was about to use their Wi-Fi.  However, I am no quitter.  I reached in my overstuffed work back pack and pulled out my trusty mini note book.  I’m not a fan of writing on a smaller laptop but it will do for now.  Or not.  The damn thing isn’t charged.

Of course, all the thoughts would come when I am unable to capture them and take advantage of my brain giving me a break and a gift of free-flowing thoughts that weren’t depressing and sad.  Damn it!

Now, I am from an older generation.  I can tell you I remember working in investment banking and having the computer tower, monitor and mouse installed at my desk.  We were given free access to “practice” using the mouse for a month to get used to it before they required that be our only means of writing our descriptive memorandums.  I also can remember taking a typing class in high school.  I was the fasted in my class, a claim to fame that I am still proud of.  I’m pretty good at typing with my thumbs too, but I enjoy flying across a keyboard with all ten digits.

If I go a little farther back in my childhood I remember writing letters, notes, lists, and even Christmas cards with pen and paper.  I remember cursive writing.  I remember having a handwriting style.  I’m left handed and I remember how hard I worked to write like a “right hander”.

I had to search around for a pad of paper.  I found a fairly new one and went back to my desk.   The pad was yellow with lined paper, 8.5 x 11.  Some of the pages were wrinkled and the corners were curled up. I found a pen that I liked.  It flowed easily over the paper.  It didn’t skip or smudge.  It wasn’t high quality, but it was smooth.  It was the third one I tried.

Armed with Pen and paper I turned off my monitor and tuned out the rest of the office.  My thoughts filled the page, then two pages, then three.  I lost track of time, track of where I was, track of even who I was.  I wrote fast, sloppy, neat.  My slants went left then right proving how long it has been since I focused on hiding my left handed tell.  My thoughts were jumbled.  I didn’t stop to read what I had written.  I didn’t stop to edit what I had written.  I simply wrote.  Five pages, six pages, seven.  One story become two and three stories.  Some were outlines some were actual intros to stories I wanted to finish later.  It was a dump of my brain.  There were sad, happy, sexy, lonely, exciting, erotic thoughts.  I knew it wasn’t making sense and I didn’t care.  I let it go.

It felt good.  It made me nostalgic for past rituals taken over by the times we live in now.  In several of my “worlds” being older isn’t a cool thing.  It is always about the latest and greatest and the newest and highest tech out there.  But today, sitting at a desk, my shoulders curled over a yellow lined pad of paper with a drug store pen felt like home.  The musty smell of the paper mixed with the smell of real ink reminded me of the time when I realized I enjoyed writing.  Coincidently, I sit here now at my laptop, propped up on a stand, laying on my bed, smiling at the irony of this post.

I don’t miss a lot from my past or even my childhood.  I do miss pen and paper.

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