terms – Ivy

Things changed when I started letting him sleep over. The first time was an accident: we dozed off on my couch together after a long conversation and I woke up with my head on his chest and his arm draped over me. It’s hard to explain why, but it felt strange and different to see him in the morning. I just never had before.

And then he just wound up staying over some nights after he had untied me. We’d go to sleep together and I would find myself curled against him in the morning. It was this strange, hollow phantom relationship that existed exclusively in my bedroom. Which makes it sound like there was nothing there, but the terms of play partners was something I had never had to traverse before.

Except we started violating our own terms. We kissed each other, eventually in front of our friends aided by alcohol on Halloween. We started going out on dates, something he first suggested that I initially balked at. We broke rules constantly about how we could touch each other and for which reasons we could.

And, cheesy as it sounds, feelings started to develop out of ambivalence and confusion. I ate my words about it just being a strict “play partner” arrangement, something he now teases me about having said on here.

If you were to ask friends, they could give you a partial story about two people with some banter that figured it out from sharing a bed. Which is true. Something happened when he started sleeping over.

Fuck Baseball, Part Six

Craftsmate and I determined that I was hung up on the rules of “baseball”. That there was a decided order in which things were done and in which people engaged with each other.

“I can’t help it,” I said, “you ran straight across the field to second base, you probably had to knock over the pitcher.”

“Nah,” he replied, “when I was a kid, I was the catcher. Because I didn’t mind balls flying at my face.”

I laughed. I don’t know why I get hung up on standards prescribed by a society of whose counterculture I seem to belong to in more than one way. I don’t know why I would give in to the obligation to kiss someone when I didn’t want to.

Craftsmate is a play partner. Him playing with my nipples is an expression of a play dynamic and not the progression of a romantic relationship which neither of us have any interest in. Because I’ve never had the BDSM without at least the semblance of a traditional relationship frame, I had a little trouble categorizing Craftsmate and determining what was appropriate.

But I think what’s appropriate is what makes us feel good and what is mutually enjoyed and respectful. And that’s a lot of stuff, but it’s not kissing and it’s not sex, coital or otherwise, which I determined in going over my boundaries with myself.

So fuck baseball. Seriously. I don’t even like the game, so why would I follow its stupid rules? If I want the base to base progression, I’ll do it out of willingness, but not obligation.

keepingitinthefamily:

Daddy, when is it baseball season again?

chipwillis:

libraryvixen:

swing batter

source needed

Jonathan Leder for Jacques magazine I believe.

http://jonathanleder.blogspot.com/?zx=3a5b3e3b0021f44

Has this been an issue for me with partners in the past? Hell to the yeah. Terms are always a weird topic to go over. You feel so vulnerable presenting what you want. You’re not even sure it’s what you want half the time and you keep going over it in your head wondering if you can handle that or if that isn’t nearly enough. Terms of any kind of relationship are that way, I suppose. But when it comes to something of this nature, its “tabooness” and the associated discomfort factor in a lot. The emotional drain. The urges. The constant fluctuation of libido. The interplay of intention (for sexual gratification, for fun, for power, for love). It’s all a lot to handle.

inherkissitastetherevolution:

gpoy.