Undo. Undone.

The other night, I climbed under the covers and sent this text:

"Starting to feel sleepy. I always miss you most when I go to bed. When I wish you were here with me, your arms wrapped tightly around me."

And then there was only one thing in the world I wanted. To somehow intercept those three sentences before they reached Him.

Because every night He undresses and crawls into bed with a woman He loves. And He probably pulls her close to Him and his warmth, sighing without even realizing it. And surely He nuzzles her and gently kisses her right shoulder, telling her how good she feels. Because she does.

I reached over and drew my little cat to me, and we both pretended we didn't feel my tears dampen her fur.

Penetration of Protection

[You may want to begin by reading RIP.]

He knew they were there. My sensuality. My sexuality. Though I had banished them from my bed, expelled them from my existence. They remained. In remission. Waiting.

So when He appeared, with his divining rod that dipped and dithered, He didn't so much expose my wetness, as induce it. The stir, the dampness, the juices, the tingle, the throb, the trickle, the want, the need, the craze.

What I had tried so hard to kill. I couldn't deny. Damn the fuck. My body forsook me. Or maybe it was my salvation. Maybe he was my savior. 

He sandblasted through the overgrowth, the cement around my center. He pumped himself inside, slowly, making me bleed each time for the first months that we were together. A self-imposed virgin, I had sealed myself and grown shut.

He stained my sheets. He made me pure.

Sinful Sunday: Table Manners

He and I spend so much time working up an appetite.

We might as well eat AND fuck on the kitchen table.
Streamline things a bit.

Sinful Sunday: simply delicious

1973

I was 10 years old and some things happened that grown-ups said were important.

Roe versus Wade gave women the right to choose, but I wasn't sure what. The Watergate committee hearings droned on every night on television, so I couldn't watch my shows. And the first POWs were released from Vietnam, which meant some of the girls in my class could take off the MIA bracelets they wore.

But for me, 1973 was the year I learned that, while everyone else had four food groups, I only had two. The foods I should eat and the foods I shouldn't.

It was the year I first heard the word "calories".

It was the year my mother warned of "the chubby store", a place I would have to shop if I didn't lose weight.

It was the year it was explained to me that my sister could have dessert because she had a "metabolism" and I didn't.

It was the year I figured out things went much better if I sucked in my stomach when my mother was near.

It was the year I started pinching myself, trying to twist flesh off like pieces of modeling clay.

It was the year my mother began watching me eat, asking, "Are you really hungry?" and then pursing her lips if I said, "Yes".

It was the year food became more important to me than it ever had. I wanted it. I hated it.

It was the year my body became my shame, a year that lasted well over three decades.

Enough is Enough

It's always better. Which always makes it worse.

Each time we are together, He feels even more like home. And that's why it's so much harder when we part. He, however, is able to walk away with a smile. While I am often left in tears.

I've told Him it makes me I feel as if I'm not enough and He has, I suppose understandably, attributed that to insecurity. But that's not what it is.*

I KNOW I am enough. I am plenty. For me. And, I must believe, someone else. Someone whom I could and would love. It's not just that I want to be another's one and only. I deserve it. And I don't think there is anything unsure or insecure in that.

So. What I need to be able to accept is that He can't be that person right now. Instead, I must be my one and only. I must remain true to me. And for the time being, I will love Him when I can, the best way I can, while trying to allow Him the same.

We'll see where that takes me. Where it takes Him. Where it takes us.

*It's not that I believe I'm not enough. It's that I feel I'm not enough for Him. But we've discussed it and I think I finally get that it really isn't about me. And on some level I already knew that. I've even said it. Months and months ago. It isn't a choice between her and me. The choices He must make are about himself and from those all else will folllow. My head knows this, even if my heart continues to forget it.

Gangsta DDD

Last night I went to a basketball game with my sister and nephews, age 15 and 10. On the way home in the minivan, we overheard this conversation between the boys:

Younger nephew: Auntie DDD is the cool, sexy aunt.

Older Nephew: She's kinda like Nancy Botwin on Weeds.

Younger nephew: You mean cause she's killed someone and had a drug dealer boyfriend?

Older nephew: Awesome.

Me and my sister: WHAT?!!!

They patiently reminded me I was in a car that struck a drunken pedestrian who later died, which is ALMOST like killing someone. And I dated a guy who took drugs, which means he bought them from a drug dealer, which is ALMOST like having a drug dealer for a boyfriend.

Not quite the legacy I had in mind.

My New Lover

How many of you have sat down with pen and paper -- pencil and paper if you've got commitment issues -- and dissected a lover* into two columns. Pro and Con. Like and Dislike. The category names may vary, but the idea is the same.

This morning it hit me like a divorce settlement that I'm done trying to figure out why I should or shouldn't be with someone else. Especially when that someone isn't sure He wants to be with me. Truly be with me.

So. New outlook. New list. MY list. All the reasons I want to be with me. Why I love me. Why I can't imagine being anyone else. And for simplicity's -- and ego's -- sake, I'm only going to focus on my positive attributes.

For the first time in my life, I will celebrate MY cylinder of singularity, MY line of likability, MY trail of endearing traits.

Because, as I texted my bestest friend in the whole wide world yesterday, "I need to concentrate on me. The rest. Whatever it is. Will fall in place."

And I believe that.

*Or a relationship.

My Oh My

I love when He uses little endearments. "Sweetest" melts me. "Sexy" dampens me. But "My" simply undoes me.

Mmmm. The way He wields a possessive adjective. Taking ownership of me, mouthing the word. His tongue still, but poised for what follows. It licks me, flicks me, expelling his Dom Commandments. And my bush does burn. 

I am his. Literally. Figuratively. And grammatically.

NOTE: For related post, see OUR.

Chasteland

I have been aware of the fact for quite some time, but He mentioned it the other day. There is actually very little sex in my sex blog.
I think it's more of a sexy blog. And that's really just because of the photos.

As time goes on, I write more about what comes up in my thoughts and less about what goes down between my legs. It makes sense,
I suppose. He and I see each other once a month instead of a couple times a week. So there isn't a whole lot of sex in my life right now. Mr. Micromoan is such a sorry make-do.

Although He and I have never been further apart, I've never felt closer to Him. I'm not sure I believe "distance makes the heart grow fonder". But I am certain it makes the heart realize just how fond it is of the one distance parts.

Technical Difficulties: The Sequel

Fuck. I HATE this shit. Thanks go out to Dumb Domme for letting me know there were changes made to Blogger Comments, oh, EXACTLY when I started experiencing issues. Every time I click on comments, my screen locks up.

I can comment on other blogs. Other people can comment on my blog. I just can't comment on my OWN blog. A similar bloggular irritation erupted before and I just had to wait it out. Kind of like sex with my ex-husband...

NOTE: I can read your comments on my phone, so please keep sharing them. Hearing from you is always a treat. Thank you!

Technical Difficulties

It appears Blogger doesn't want my voice to be heard.
Every time I hit the comment button,
my screen locks up.
Call it Literary Laryngitis

Wanton Wednesday: Concrete Blonde

Another from the archives:

Touching myself and thinking of Him.

Excite yourself at Wanton Wednesday.

Fashion Faux Pas

Wearing White after Labor Day.

Question for my Elders

Ye of greater wisdom and experience...

At what age can you FINALLY drink Kool-Aid and not moustache yourself?

Or is that one of those questions that, if you care enough to ask, you're too old to be swilling the powdered "soft drink mix"?

For further and future consideration: How is it that
my palate has a taste for both
tofu AND phenylketonurics?

Sinful Sunday: Swinger

I might not swing, but my necklace does.

Unchain your desire at Sinful Sunday.

Stripped to Stripes

Another one from the foto files --
I do love those candy cane stockings.

And what I wouldn't do for a certain someone to give me a licking...

Well Isn't That Nice

Yesterday someone from Niceville, Florida
(swear. to. god. that's the name of the city)
visited Dick Dyke Dick and viewed 1 page
for 00:00 minutes.
Which just made me chuckle.

On the other side of the world,
a naughty reader in Brussels
eyed 35 pages and frittered away 21:14 minutes.

I love a Belgian who doesn't waffle
when it comes to devouring a sex blog.

That's What He Said

I've been seeing Him for over a year-and-a-half. And you've been reading about Him for almost as long, even though it took me quite awhile to admit there was a "Him". That He wasn't an ex or a fantasy but a true and current He.  

I don't remember exactly how it came up. But recently we were talking and He agreed to write a post or two here. 

So I'm wondering, loyal readers, what you wonder about. What questions would you like Him to answer? What would you like Him to write about? I'm curious.

I'm not promising anything, mind you. He is, after all, his own master. And mine.

Wanton Wednesday: Harley My Ass

Came across this photo and can't figure out why I never posted it.

Ride on over to Wanton Wednesday.

Woo Who

The other night I was on the phone with a friend and somehow the subject of wooing me came up. He asked what it would take for a guy to win me over. The truth is, I have no idea.

He -- my dear Dom -- had me, well, not quite at "Hello." But it didn't take much more than that. I was inexplicably (and inextricably) drawn to Him the first time we met and crazy about Him by second. He didn't need to SAY anything or DO anything. He only had to be himself. 

I've told Him from the beginning. I was captivated by his essence.
I felt I knew the core of Him and that the rest was just details. Fascinating, inspiring, touching, breath-taking details, mind you. But nevertheless, simply bits of flotsam in my feelings for Him. In the tide of love.

Tom (Allen) Foolery

I admit it. Sometimes I can be terribly self-absorbed. As in, I'm so busy writing about me that I don't have time to read what other people are writing about me.

So imagine my delight when I happened upon this paragraph in a post on bloggers by Tom Allen (The Edge of Vanilla):

"I have a thing for older women, so rounding out this installment is DDD (short for Dick Dyke Dick), whose name reflects her transition from het to lesbian and to het. DDD is a woman of a certain age who writes with abandon, and blatantly shows off her ridiculously well-maintained body several times a week." http://vanillaedge.wordpress.com/2011/11/30/lovin-our-bloggers-2/

Mr. Allen, with your permission, I would like to add you to my blog roll. Despite the fact that orgasm denial is NOT my thing -- I was pretty much denied orgasms for seven years by my premature ejaculating dickhead of a husband.

But you are obviously a man with good taste. And if you aren't "on the list", I will forget to read you. Which would be unfortunate, as I'm quite sure you'll write about me again;-)

PS: And just so we are clear, I will not be denied.

Sinful Sunday: Erection

Blow Job:
2012 is DEFINITELY happy to see me.

Make some noise for Sinful Sunday.