I started writing for this blog thirteen years ago. I was twenty-nine. I’m now forty-two.
That is time enough to evolve as a person.
To become a better writer.
To become a better person.
To become a better wolf.
Only two of those things actually happened.
I started writing here as a means to encourage my creativity. I can write alone, but I cannot write in a vacuum. I need a muse, a spark. An audience, even if it is an audience of one.
That hasn’t changed.
The kink community has certainly progressed since I started this blog. Fetlife is now a staple, now as much a dating site for kink as a community for exploration. Fifty Shades came out, main-streaming rope and floggers. Instagram, twitter, and Fetlife writings have generally replaced blogs as a resource.
In those thirteen years I have bought a motorcycle and gained three tattoos.
I now favor depth over breadth of experience. I still want to take things (people) apart, but I have less patience for doing so with those not sharp enough to understand the subtleties that give it rich flavor.
I am pickier. More patient.
(most of the time)
But there is still the wolf of me.
I live in a townhouse and share a wall with my neighbors; my neighbors and I are friendly, if not particularly social.
Most of the time I am a good neighbor. I’m relatively quiet. I mind my own business. I don’t leave messes. I play the pirate for neighborhood kids before heading out to Renn Faire. I move mis-delivered mail to the right mailbox.
Most of the time I am a good neighbor.
Sometimes the sound of my hand on bare flesh is loud enough to carry through the walls. And if that wasn’t loud enough – the yelps, the moans, the ‘oh fucks’ definitely are.
Sometimes a friend of mine will leave in a disheveled state. Half-dressed, dazed, sleepily satiated or on edge from the tease.
Sometimes I don’t wait for the front door to close before I have them pinned to the wall just inside, my hand buried under their skirts and between their thighs.
Sometimes I have them bent over the wooden railing of my deck outside, spanked and beaten. Or I slide to one knee and slip their leg over my shoulder as I devour them amongst the leaves falling from the trees overhead.
It’s not easy to see onto my deck from the upper floors of my neighbor’s windows.
Not easy. But possible.
Most of the time I am a good neighbor.
Sometimes I’m really not.
In my early twenties I didn’t know what I was doing.
In my early thirties I had something to prove.
Now I know exactly what I am doing.
And I have nothing to prove.
This makes me very, very dangerous.
The main reason Santa is so jolly is because he knows where all the bad girls live.
My favorite words:
Serenity, kerfuffle, soliloquy, pernicious, tomfoolery, dulcet, sobriquet, flibbertigibbet, ineffable and malevolent.
I had to relearn how to lace my fingers through her hair. A grip that was authoritative before painful.
I kept her trapped against the desk. “Do you remember your place?”
Fingers brushed her nipple, caught it, tightening. Her back arched into a gasp.
“It is a yes or no question, NE.”
I leaned in, “Can you feel the heat of my hand?”
“Do you miss how it feels?”
“Where do you belong?”
I roughly pulled her head to the side, my fingers biting into the inside of her thigh.”Yes or no. Where do you belong?”
Her breathing was labored, uneven. A second passed, then two. My fingers tightened in her hair “Where do you belong?”
I smiled against her throat.
Let’s suppose someone has mastered the nuances of human behavior. They’ve spent the better part of four decades watching how people interact, studied their motivations in the face of ambition and desire, learned when instinct outweighs consciousness, examined the patterns that lead to heartbreak and betrayal. Let us say that at first this study was done to learn the art of seduction but later was simply a tool for living a better, happier, life.
Let’s suppose all of this is true.
There remains one other singular fact:
No matter how great their understanding, it is arrogance itself to believe they are not bound by the same motivations, same instincts, and same patterns.
And being arrogant is about as human as it gets.
Everytime I get on my motorcycle, I am putting my life into danger.
Than again, the same can be said for each time I get into my car. Or cross the street. Or swim in the ocean.
It’s a matter of degrees.
But the degrees matter. The feeling of danger when riding my motorcycle is a visceral one.
I take the proper precautions. I wear a leather jacket, full-faced helmet and riding gloves. I drive with a healthy paranoia and am heightened-sensitivity to the world around me.
Yet. It takes a single distracted driver, a slick spot in the road, or a particularly strong gust of wind to make my life…interesting.
And I love it.
The older I get, the easier it is for me to become insulated from the world. Safe and secure in my study, my car, my cube at work, routine becomes a comfortable cell.
That which makes it impossible for me to get my bearings.
I /need/ to be moving to know where I am.
This last year has been interesting: I went hang-gliding at Kitty Hawk, chased crabs by flashlight on the beach, wrote (and acted in) a one-act play, taught a class, destroyed a car, bought a car, rode the Harry Potter ride at MGM (twice), walked with sharks and swam with dolphins in the Bahamas.
I attended the short film festival in DC, caught the Book of Mormon in New York, participated in Santarchy in Pittsburgh (as Hobo-Santa), and watched a woman strip while putting together Mouse Trap (burlesque rocks!).
Not to mention stopping by a sex positive convention, assisting at a naughty freak show by standing on the back of a woman laying face and chest-first in ground glass, taking private harmonica lessons, changing employers, sword-fighting in a parking lot, and hiking by moonlight.
And this Saturday I’ll be hosting my first murder mystery dinner at my house.
So – I’m still here.
Whenever one of us grand kids would ask for something – candy, a yo-yo, legos, a cabbage patch doll – our grandparents would tell us, “Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know.”
Except for that one day that it did.
My grandfather had a beautiful garden beside their house (they also had apple and pear trees and a grape arbor). One day, after church, he took us around the garden.
Was that…a dollar bill amongst the basil? It was! And another by the tomatoes.
I collected a fistful of dollars that day. I ran back to the house to show my grandmother who couldn’t stop smiling.’