Dom hunt

Keep working away on that wishlist, Harlot. Do a little more each day. I write an email:

"Hi Oliver, 

Confession: I didn't message you completely out of the blue last week. Your name came up recently in conversation with a good mutual friend. She reminisced fondly about you one night over dinner. I had expressing a hankering for kinky new friends and she told me that you were something of a master-beater and a sound person to boot. 

So, without any knowledge of your current situation, and with no more previous than a few long-ago messages on a social network for perverts, I'm going to risk an award for social gaucheness to ask whether you would care to meet for a drink to, well, sniff each other out a bit?

Do let me know.

Harlot"

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All I want

"Female curmudgeon, 40-ish, prone to outbursts of weeping and self-righteousness; a so-called professional who is often at home; kinky; misanthropic; pet friendly, seeks lovely home with good views, green outside space; flatmates who are grown up but not dull, alternative but not freaks, sociable but know the importance of space and see home as a haven but not a hermitage."

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I count my blessings and Virgil has his space

Someone decorates the street outside the flat last night. Having space seems to be working for Virgil. In the morning he sends me a picture of it:

"This greeted me upon my exit :)"

I rejoice but don't answer immediately because I am busy writing. Half an hour later, another text:

"Miss you!"

Smiling, I reply:

"Finally! :)"

Then, because I don't want to appear too craven:

"That was a joke"

Soon after comes:

"Did you see the image I sent?"

So I text:

"Yes I did. I think it raises the tone in our road immeasurably x"

My spark is returning. This morning I found myself whistling and my appetite is coming back. I think I'll go and get my bike today; I want to be riding again. It feels really weird* that what was my home for more than two years in the blink of an eye no longer feels comfortable but I am lucky: I am staying with my brother in an airy, comfortable house. Friendly people live in it and it's right near my neighborhood. There is a garden and a park across the street.

Soon I am going to find a place that feels right for me, not Virgil's flat but one I choose myself. It will have windows I can see out from and green space outside. Good things will happen. This is not a disaster: it's an opportunity for change, growth and things to get better, I tell myself. I mean it a bit more each day.

*Ok, actually it's sad. I feel sad that I can't go home. If I'm honest, I feel a bit resentful about it too. I mean, Virgil's work vs. my home? I hope he appreciates this. Actually I know he does appreciate it. Why am I writing this? Move on, Harlot. Love and support are whatever they need to be and Virgil has given me plenty in our time together.
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The ur-fear

A crow more persistent and more offensive than any alarm clock wakes me. I give up on sleep and lie curled up and entertaining fearful thoughts. They're fantasies, nothing that has actually happened. I imagine Virgil saying, 'I am really grateful for the space you have given me these last few weeks. I know I said I would try again but now that I've had time to think, I've changed my mind - sorry, but I don't want to be persuaded.' I think, stop making things up, Harlot. Just be a girl in a bed on an early summer morning.

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The hardest gift to give

I see Virgil today. We spend several hours working together on a project to help out a friend. It is a prior commitment neither of us feel comfortable about breaking so we turn up and get on with the job. We meet on the train there. I sob behind my sunglasses and tell him about the weeks' emotions and revelations. I know it's hard for him to see me like this but I just have to. All this stuff feels so important and urgent: I need to share it with him in all its exoriating excruciatingness, both positive and oh so painful. I'm not going to say 'bad' because change is good. That's the way I have to see this. How is it possible to feel so hopeful and determined and so bad at the same time?

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I stop crying

An email from Virgil with his nose to the grindstone at work. It's brief but to the point:

Thanks for your message.
So what happens next? I am willing to give it a try if we live separately, as I said before.
But what does this mean for the immediate future?

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Sunny morning, still crying

It's a glorious May morning. I wake up in my brother's bed. I feel like a prawn, curled in a foetal position, raw and pink and teary with weeping. I think, 'Harlot, remember that on some level you have chosen this.' Then I think: 'All change is for the best,' and that brings on another burst of tears.

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The irony

My blog is being linked to from Tristan Taormino's Opening Up website. It's an excerpt from a post I wrote a few weeks ago for Awesome Women of Twitter, when I thought I had a tentative handle on my open relationship and my issues. I must admit, I feel pretty foolish. Check my wise words... I might have to rename this blog 'How not to negotiate an open relationship'.
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A difficult conversation

We met in a pub beer garden yesterday evening, the weather being nice for a change. The sun was an orange disc in an almost colourless sky. Virgil had a burger. I drank apple juice. We tried to ignore the people on nearby tables listening in.

Virgil looked tired and pissed off. He looked at me warily and without affection. He said, 'What do you want to talk about?' 'Did you read my email?' I asked. 'That's what I needed to say to you.' 'I thought it was very... poetic,' he said. 'But I didn't think much of it was to do with me.'


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Self-recrimination and what to do thoughts

I fell, gloriously, happily, into this relationship. Virgil was my saviour. My heart was opening as never before. I knew something was changing and growing in me. I was also in my last year of college and, frankly, that wasn't good. So much for a career change: I didn't feel sure or enthusiastic about my new professional direction - at all. A part of me thought: 'Well even if you have just spent years training to be something you're no good at, at least you have this lovely, amazing new relationship. At least one part of your life is really picking up.'

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Just so you know

It's not easy to write a blog this week, but I've been talking alot with friends and I had an amazing therapy session yesterday. Afterward I went back to my friend Geri's house, where I am staying for a few days, and wrote this. I'm not going to edit it really. You might as well read what's on my tiny mind.

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Mistake

I took a step too far yesterday and was asked to leave my relationship. My temper will be the death of me. I think it has been the death of my relationship. My friends Aaron and Ruby are looking after me. I can't do much more than cry and sit on their sofa and try to think of things to say to Virgil to persuade him to take me back. I don't think he will, though, and I have to leave him alone for a bit to give him some space. He has so much work to do this week it's not fair on him.
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The city is too small

Dissatisfied as ever with my 'work' situation, I have been rather half-heartedly looking for jobs. Not many part-time situations in my so-called specialism come up. I don't know why it should be harder to find half a job than a whole job but there it is. Lists of vacancies appear my inbox regularly but there's nothing I want to (or realistically could) apply for, until last week. Then two arrive on the same day and my ears prick up.

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Virgil is sad

Virgil is sad. For the first time in a long time it occurs to me that he might actually be feeling sadder than I do. He has too much work but it's the wrong kind of work. He is harried by his employers who have him to a punishing schedule. No play is making him dull. Sarah... well, who knows about Sarah. Virgil looks miserable and dark under the eyes. He is often unshaven and his hair, which he is growing, hangs greasily around his face.

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Angry all the time again

I wonder about the situation with Virgil and Sarah. Are they planning a date, just being friends or biding their time? I catch a glimpse of some emails between them on Virgil's computer. The question of why glances at Virgil's inbox are both inadvertent and searching is one I cannot answer. Certainly I could just not look. Instead I tell him off for letting me see his stuff. 'Why do you do it?' he asks, reasonably. 'I can't help it.' I say.

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Sweet Valley High meets the Story of Oh My!

I like reading porn and erotic fiction and - guess what? - I've just read the first two books of the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy. Why? Because I'd heard about their success is why. I was curious and thought they'd be worth a try. Reader: I will not be reading the third. It's a damn shame that once a thing gets talked up enough many more people will try it even though it is shit. While it's generally agreed that you cannot polish a turd, you could certainly sell one if enough people wrote about it. Here's why I think Fifty Shades of Grey is indifferent, boring writing, a waste of your time and money and - worse still - propagates some very bad ideas indeed.

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I admit to disappointment

It's been a bit quiet on my blog this past five days. I know why. There has been something I haven't wanted to share. It's this: I had another date with Alan. I went over to his flat for dinner. It was a nice dinner. He made lasagne and I brought wine. Afterward we went to his bedroom. We lay on his bed and chatted. After a while we stopped chatting and started kissing. Some time after that we had sex. For me it was unremarkable and lacked passion or edge. It was nice but it wasn't exciting. It felt a bit like being a teenager again, when you're getting off with someone just for the sake of it, just because you can. I don't feel as though I have a proper erotic connection with Alan yet. I think I slept with him too quickly before I'd had time to look forward to it or decide whether I wanted to.

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Sex homework: Scene 2

Encouraged by the success of the first of our sex homeworks, I jettison the timid sex-ed scenario and get writing. The new scene is more ambitious and kinkier. To my delight it is the one Virgil chooses.

I am blindfolded and wait for you in the living room. You don’t talk to me at all when you come in and throughout the scene you only address me curtly to tell me what to do and what not to do. I’d like you to be really strict and exacting about what positions I assume and how I hold them or move. Tell me exactly what I have to do and how to do it. You undress me roughly and handcuff my hands behind my back. Kneeling over the sofa with my face in the pillow, spank or beat me with an implement of your choice. Put a butt plug or the smaller black dildo inside me and move it around. Tease my clit with your fingers and/or a vibrator. Hurt me some more if you like. Tease me and withhold my orgasm, making me beg to be allowed to come. It is up to you whether you fuck me with your cock or a dildo. 

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Other people's rules

The date with Alan goes well. So far so good! He seems intelligent, a good spirit, happy and easygoing. If I had met him in a vanilla context I don't think I would have guessed at his sexual nonconformism. I wonder how many other people slip beneath my radar. Alan fields a volley of semi-serious questions from me. I learned this bad habit from Virgil who has a talent for making people feel quizzed and laughed at simultaneously. He answers well and asks a few of his own. I am overtaken by an urge to confess and admit to peccadilloes one really shouldn't give up on a first date (such as having an awful temper and the shoddiest thing in my internet dating history). We have an awkward kiss at the end of it (I nearly fall over my bike) but the chemistry is there.

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Sex homework: Scene 1

We did the first of our homework scenes last night. I picked it. It was one of Virgil's two scenarios and it went like this:

'I would like to recreate something similar to what you did with me in our early days of going out. That is: to bath you in a warm bath, washing you all over until you are scrubbed nice and clean, then drying you off, brushing your hair and leading you into the bedroom. I lay you down on the bed, in the warm, and stroke you gently with brushes and with my fingers, massaging you until you are aroused. Then I play with your cunt using my hands and fingers, biting your ears and kissing your neck. I take my clothes off and play with your cunt, now good and wet, and when you are ready I make love to you.' 

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Sex homework II

Finally I manage to complete the first part of the sex homework: two fantasies for Virgil to choose between. I feel unaccountably shy about it but I've posted them anyway. Read them. See: I am neither big nor clever and (in case you had been wondering) yes I am indeed a pervert. If I'm honest, I'd prefer the second (the first sounds as though it came out of a sex therapy book). The kinkier one is riskier but more exciting. D/s has been too complicated between us for a long time. Maybe this is a safe way to dip our toes in the water again.

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Debrief

I know that Virgil has been to see Sarah. Despite efforts to the contrary, I am unable to to put this thought out of my head for much of the evening. As the hours go past the potential for what might have occurred increases uncomfortably. When I finally get home Virgil is asleep but there is water in the bath and on the bathroom floor. Oh you absolute fucker, Virgil, I mutter. You absolute bastard. You promised me that if you had sex with someone you would come home clean, not have a bath here. Now the very first time that gets tested, right after our break, you can't stick to the agreement.

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