Or Maybe it was Really a Dream

For awhile, I dreamed dreams featuring Cole, the cellist.  They followed very closely along the lines laid out by the first imaginary/dream-like encounter, and seemed to occur when I would fall asleep trying to get myself back into what I think of as the fantasy of him.  I am now convinced that the whole first part of the story was really a dream and not some sort of waking construct, although it surely seemed like the latter to me at the time.  As the days have passed, I've begun to believe that the very first appearance of Cole happened when I was actually asleep -- dreaming that I was awake and engaged in an elaborate fantasy.  That's a little convoluted, but I'm not going to put it out of the reach of my brain.

So...  I am thinking that my subsequent Cole dreams have been some kind of "lucid" dreaming, driven by my intent as I drift off to sleep.  A good Jungian analyst would insist that everyone that appears in our dreams is, in fact, US, and so I am finding my ongoing encounters with this itinerant cello player to be illustrative of my own interior state.

Cole and I seemed, for a good while, to be stuck in the same little funky Italian eatery where we went in the first elaborate fantasy.  It is a classic, with red and white checked oilcloth covered tables and flickering candles, and rough wood planked walls and floors.  Somehow, the place overlooks the Ohio River, and he and I spend hours talking and watching the boats go to and fro.  This in spite of the fact that, in my dream/fantasy, the place is somewhere near the school where I teach -- and that is nowhere close to the river.   Wherever the place might be, he and I sit right there, night after night in my dream, and talk and talk and talk.   I dreamed about Cole for a number of days, maybe a couple of weeks -- and then the dreamy cello playing mountain man packed his things in his nice, solid car -- and drove away.

How pitiful is that?

I've often been accused of "living too much in my head," and the fact that I cannot dream a dream in which Cole and I cannot get up from the red and white checkered table, and get it on seems to point directly to my headiness -- because the man seems to me to be eminently fuck-able.

Dossie Easton, author of the well known book on polyamory, "The Ethical Slut," would be able to give me a host of reasons why it would be healthy and good and freeing for me to at least be able to dream a poly "thing" with this guy.  Clearly my brain can conceive of the eroticism of such a connection...  I guess I would fail the slut test.  I liked Cole.  I thought Cole was attractive and sexy and interesting.  But I made no moves to initiate anything with him beyond talking -- and he made no moves on me (but then remember those Jungian types would insist that he is me).

So, what does Cole mean?  What purpose is served by Cole surfacing out of the inner workings of my brain?  Is that whole business only about releasing some of the pent-up sexual tension of these last months?  Is Cole and his lovely cello just an elaborate fabrication of my sex-starved psyche?  Is that funky little eatery my dream version of Disney World vacation?

I really do think that is the reality.  I've created an interesting little playground for my silly brain -- a place to go find a bit of amusement and relaxation from the daily stresses and strains.  I've been to Disney World.  It is a fun place; interesting and full of things to do that are completely different than the day to day realities that most regular folks deal with.  I spent a great week there with my family years ago, and we loved the place.  But, when the week was done?  I was glad to head home to the life that was mine; the life that was real.  I feel the same way about Cole -- it was an interesting diversion, but I am really not interested in the fantasy of a Cole.  I am, perhaps more than ever, invested in and committed to the life that is real.

swan

Family

Here, because I just love this one, is a picture of my son, my grandson, and the three of us.  My dear daughter-in-law is behind the camera...  swan

Almost Home!

I had a wonderful visit with Sue's son's family. We went to Boulder and the Pearl St outdoor mall. Ate at the Buff in Boulder..... a Mexican restaurant in Denver, who's name escapes me...... and The Fort, outside of Denver near Red Rocks.

But the bestest part of all was watching Sue with Zander. She was delighted with each breath, sound, movement, hug, kiss, and giggle. He looks at her and just breaks into huge grins. He is more comfortable with Tom this visit and even gave me a few hugs, kisses and fist-bumps.

My family just called and they are doing a dinner break in Terra Haute Indiana. They are about 180 miles from home and I CANNOT WAIT! Even though I just left them yesterday morning, I miss not being together. The cats have missed them. It will be good to have them home tonight.

T

Oh Wow!

We left home on Tuesday morning, for an almost impromptu trip to Denver and a late summer visit to Xander and his parents.  This was a trip we were pretty sure we wouldn't be able to make, but Master's shoulder has progressed so well and so easily that the idea of a trip to Denver blossomed in His mind just a few weeks ago.

He and I made the drive, over two long days, in my new little Hyundai Accent -- and it turns out to be a great road trip car.  We've gotten pretty good at driving long distances; carrying our own food, and making sure that we have plenty to drink along the way.  We know, for this trip, where to stay and where to stop for a "real" meal.  We know which rest areas are "nice" and which are less than spectacular.  We do pretty well for the first 1000 miles, and then there are those last 200 when we both seem to hit a wall.  That last bit is a real slog.

T didn't have enough time off to make the drive with us, so she is boarding a plane this afternoon, and we will be fetching her from the airport at about 5 this evening.  She'll spend a couple of days with us here, and then we'll put her back on a plane on Sunday morning -- and begin the drive back east.  That works.

Xander has grown so much.  He is very tall for a two year old.  He exclaims, "Oh Wow!" and "Neat" at each new thing.  He gives the greatest hugs, and sloppy baby kisses.  He runs everywhere -- no more wobbly monkey walking for him!  And his laugh is enchanting!  He chortles with an almost phonetic "ha ha ha ha," and it is simply delightful.  He is much more interactive with Master this visit; apparently deciding that it is "safe" to play with Him.  It is just such fun to see him and talk with him and be close to his growing self. 

When we get back home, I'll have just one day to wash up the laundry and sweep out the dust and get ready to plunge back into the school year.  I am torn -- looking forward to a new start and new, fresh kids to love and teach and laugh with... but reluctant to cut short the healing time of this summer with Master.  These long, slow, warm and humid days have been a balm for us, and it feels like we may be coming into an easier time with each other.  I think that is true and real, and I am sad that we'll lose the time we've been given.  And, yes, I do know that sooner or later, He and I have to learn to live well inside of the lives that we have -- and that includes my teaching work.  Mixed feelings seem to just be the thing that life is built from.

swan

Total Absolute Complete Fantasy

DISCLAIMER -- WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT TO READ IS UTTER FANTASY.  NOTHING THAT YOU WILL READ HERE IS REAL.

Life has been difficult and different here for most of the last year.  Much of what has always constituted the core of our erotic connection has fallen away, or been put on hold.  So, perhaps it is not entirely surprising that my mind has begun to concoct elaborate erotic fantasies.  This was where my brain was last night -- keeping me awake until the wee hours of the morning...

January blows raw here in the Midwest.  The snow swirls in every corner, and muddy slush splashes and then freezes in eerie forms on every surface. 


A few weeks into the new year, my students are deeply engaged in learning and growing with the winter break fading into memory.  The ninety-year-old bricks of the old school building echo the sounds of children from floor to floor as we all wrap ourselves into sweatshirts and warm socks to ward off the winter chill.  On this particular afternoon, we are given the gift of a visit from a traveling musician -- a concert level cellist from far away Montana.  His name is Cole Hammond, and he is as weathered, rugged, and beautiful as the wild western regions that he hails from.  I sit on the floor in the old gym with my students and am transported by the full, golden warmth of the music he shares with us -- Bach, and Handel, and some bit of Celtic enchantment. 

When the last quivering notes fade away; when he has answered dozens and dozens of questions from students young and old; when we are milling around working our way toward the doors and back to class, he materializes beside me -- and I smile my thanks and reach to shake his hand.  He asks my name, and I happily give it.  He sweeps his arm around my gaggle of pre-adolescents, and with a twinkle in his startlingly blue eyes, asks me who they might be.  "These are my kids," I tell him.  A smile spreads across his face, and he replies, "Why, yes Ma'am, I believe they are."  And then, I have to head off to class, to teach, to be who I am in my days.  


Hours later, after the bells have all rung; after things have been put away for the day; after the desks have all been straightened; after all is in readiness for the next day -- I head out to my frozen car in the nearly empty and windswept parking lot.  It is bitter cold, and the car is covered in ice and drifted snow.  Muttering and cursing the rotten weather I dig out my scraper and begin to do battle with the frozen mess.  


Suddenly, a big, leather-gloved hand covers mine, and a low, quiet voice says, "Here, Ma'am, let me do that."  I look up into his smiling eyes and leathered face, and he is so spectacular that I am struck dumb.  Like a silly, star-struck girl, I hand him the scraper and wave helplessly at the still icy car.  His low chuckle rumbles from deep in his chest, and I can feel myself blush.

It doesn't take long and the car is all cleared off and ready to go.  I thank him for his help, and prepare to leave, when that big hand comes to rest, light as falling snow, on my shoulder.  He turns me around, and asks me, "Wouldn't you join me for a bit of dinner?"  I think, for just a minute, that I need to call home, explain what is happening, get permission, but then (and I am not lying) my fantasy addled brain speaks up -- "No, dummy!  You don't have to call anyone.  This is your fantasy -- just go!"  


And that is how, at three or four this morning, I was lying there, wide awake, all hot and bothered, while in my head, I was sitting across the table at the funky little Italian place, sharing interesting appetizers and amazing conversation with my imaginary cellist from Montana. 

I don't know what to make of all of that.  I didn't consciously invite Cole Hammond into my head, but I'm not unhappy to have "met" (invented?) him.  Will he come back again?  If he does, what do I do about him?  I'm so confused...

swan

A Little Bit of Sex Talk

In December of 2005, I had a total hysterectomy.  It resolved a number of difficult and potentially dangerous "female" problems, but it also created an enormous loss of sexual functioning.  I whined about it here for a very long time -- some would probably have said that the whining was nearly endless...

The state of medical knowledge is such that, while the doctors and surgeons were very capable of performing the surgery that rendered me sexually inert, they had nothing much to offer to remedy that situation.  I tried a wide variety of lotions, potions, exercises -- and even a course of psychotherapy.  It was all fruitless.  My libido remained intact, but my amputated parts and pieces were just as gone.

I lived, for a couple of years (or maybe more), with a towering anger that overshadowed just about everything.  Until, finally, even I wore myself out on that rocky shore.

I've learned, in the aftermath of all of that, to find the secret and hidden paths to my own pleasure again.  I can and do achieve sexual release these days, and it is different than it was, but good in its own right.  There is a mystical and magical glow around that, and I understand why it is that no one could show me the way.  It is a very subtle and delicate thing -- like chasing butterflies in a dense fog.  I am always surprised and delighted when I "catch" one of those glorious "butterflies."  Coming suddenly upon it, out of the shrouded mists is, indeed, a wonderment.

And there is, I am learning, a benefit to having made that journey that I never would have guessed.

Catching butterflies is a matter of intense focus, deep attentiveness, quiet calm, and unwavering persistence.  Years of hunting butterflies have shifted my love making.  I am become a seeker of joyfulness, and it turns out that, for us both, those skills are turning out to be a treasure.

Now.  Most often.  I come to the sex act with knowledge that I did not have all those years ago.  Back then, it was enough to be hot and juicy and open and willing.  No more.  Now, I know that I need to bring my whole self into being with Him.  I know that I need to allow the sensations to flow through me and through Him.  I understand that I must quiet all the chatter and silence all the worrying.  It is about the sensations and the connections.  Nothing more and nothing less:

His breathing -- and mine
Firmness against yielding
Velvet softness and power throbbing into the darkness
Veins and ridges and folds and hollows
Pulses and quivers and shivers and electric thrills up and down the spine
Eyes that meet and slide away and meet again
Warm touches stroking places only we know
Groans and sighs and startled gasps of surprise
Scents and smells and salty sweetness

I have learned to follow the signs and discern the trail that leads to my own pleasure, and going there for myself, I bring Him along with me.  It is a "trick" that I've learned, largely out of my own desperation, and without really knowing what I was about in the doing.

And so it was that He and I collapsed in giggles the other day when, in the moment of His orgasm, I made a sudden shift of muscles and position that sent Him soaring.  When He asked what had made me do "that," I had no answer except to tell Him that "the penis was giving directions."  And it was.  Directions that I have come to understand and follow in a dance that has brought us back around again.

swan