Hope Springs Eternal

I don't know what it was about yesterday but some of my terror and anxiety melted away. I mistakenly thought, "Good feeling for the first day of spring." Only a month behind the vernal equinox am I. Last week I'd had a nice conversation with She-Who-Visits as we both commuted to our jobs - she on her idyllic blue water isle and me, drop topped in the Magic City. I talked to her about actually looking forward to moving back in with my wife because each morning and meal with her has become precious. "I'm so glad you are getting to do this," she said with sympathy and real enthusiasm. Me too I said, me too.

And then yesterday morning I had this giddy optimism that I'll figure this all out. Things will be okay. I have great friends who I'll stay in touch with and have been talking to, hanging out with, or connecting with on-line. I'm a dramatically changed person in the past two years. Though I'll miss my black and white poster of Julie Newmar when I leave the man-cave in June I realize I don't need to announce my kink with home decor anymore. I just am. And I'm much more open about most everything with my wife. Though I won't date for the time being, it doesn't mean I have to stop having dinner, lunch, coffee, or drinks with my domme friends and subbie guy buddies. And who knows what outlet I'll figure for my kink. It's a work in progress and I'm creating it as I go.

I'd been talking to kinky friends about kink relationships and the problems we all face in forging them. Yesterday I just had this overwhelming feeling of hope and optimism that we're all in this together. Is it one big campfire sing along? I think not. But we're all out there working it and we have each other to help us along the way. And for that I am just eternally grateful.

Anyway, for musical diversion I've hung on to this Pat Benatar clip as it's kind of like a ruined orgasm - the most deliciously wicked of tease and denial "punishment".

True Heart Service

If you'd seen us you'd think we were on vacation; a happy family reunion in a hot springs mountain retreat. But death cloaked the blue skies and sunshine like an indecorous winding sheet. Her parents in their 90's; her brother a cancer survivor; a manical bike touring, hard pedeling uncle wheeling headlong through a defiant bucket list; and my wife with her terminal diagnosis. And me...

I help her onto the toilet in the unisex handicapped bathrooms that dot an airport like havens for the afflicted. I adjust her underwear and pull up her jeans. I grovel on the floor to make sure she slides into her shoes comfortably. I latch her seat belt. I always allow an hour more to get ready as we have to move slowly.

I think about sexualizing all this but I can't. The whole process makes me horny though. I crave humiliation, orgasm control, cuckolding, and being lovingly laughed at as her rejected loser while She-Who-Visits fucks another younger more virile man before my lust filled eyes.

It's all in my mind as I cut up her steak at dinner and dice her salad so as she raises the fork with her shaking hand less romaine falls to the plate as a frustrating reminder that this is only going to get worse. Some say she is lucky to have me.

But it is I who am lucky to have her. Ironically blessed to render true heart service in pure and unerring love.

Except for the fantasy dream sequence part where she denies me orgasm until I learn to comb her hair properly.

Restart - Cutting Out A Graceless Heart

It has been such a process, this decision. Two years ago I was looking for an apartment in Manhattan, cut adrift. I faced a separation that my gut knew was right and I searched to find a home and a haven. The little slice of the West Village I burrowed into is precious to me. Though many would mutter that at his age he should have so much more, I know it is a tribute to my resourcefulness that I have supported my separated wife, myself, my office, and my business.

But now I have more decisions. I love being single and trying to find Mistress Right. But my wife is slowing - withering away - and needs my help. At first I dug my hamfisted heels into the ground. I won't move back, I won't. I'm happy where I am.

But when I see her struggle to even pull up her feather light, elastic-like, jeans and I rush to her aid - I know there is one choice. So come June I'll pack up my bachelor pad and put everything, including my never-been-used-on-me Twisted Monk hemp rope and Victor Tella baby single tail, into storage and move back in to take care of her.

Until another life I shall cut out a graceless heart and trust that time will provide a restart.

Do You Have The Time To Listen To Me Whine?

I feel particularly disconnected from my kink. Granted I'm busy: caring for ill, separated-yet-undivorced wife; running a business in two cities; dealing with trying financial realities; recognizing I'm not ready to meet Mistress Right. But for the first time in a long time I feel cut off and sort of lost. Even fantasy eludes me. Why can't I just sexualize all this stress? I used to do that all the time and it made difficult times so much more fun.

I went out on two semi-kinky dates the other week and wasn't even inspired to write about them. Desire suppressed infects my creative juice to write about exploits, such that they were. Maybe it's just coming to terms with the idea that if I like her well enough to play, then it's a "relationship". That connection will vie for the time I have to spend with my terminally ill wife. While I feel no need to tell her I'm still going on dates, I'd feel compelled to tell her if I found someone I really liked.

And that would really devastate my wife, even if I were clear that she came first. I've already ended or cut short more than one promising connection over just not knowing how to deal with the knot.

It's ironic that I feel more protective of my marriage in separation than I did when we lived together. Funny what a terminal diagnosis does.

It's pretty clear I'm going to have to move back in with her. Even getting dressed is an exhausting event for her. I dread it, but it is the right thing to do.

With all this going on, no wonder I'm feeling less than libidinous. Perhaps I should expand my on-line dating profile. I'm an attractive, athletic, man; anxious, lacking in libido, and virtually unavailable. No wonder I'm feeling disconnected. Who wouldn't?