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Archive for the ‘relationships’ Category

Would you be surprised to hear that I’m genuinely INSPIRED by some women’s personal stories of swinging and/or just seeing them fucking and sucking? Here are a few on my mind lately:

*Our friend Sabrina’s blog, Swinging in the Suburbs. I’ve mentioned it before, but she’s been posting more frequently lately and has the perfect balance of honest reflection and erotic titillation (hello bad boy cop story!), plus some provocative questions to ponder.

*Janet Mason’s site and blog: Janet Exposed. I’m not sure why I’ve never explored her site before – she’s been around online since 1998. Today I dove in and read a lot of stuff on her site and LOVE what she has to say.

Janet Mason loves big black cock!

Janet loves the way dark skin looks against her white skin.

I think reading her FAQs page is the reason why I got very excited about the fat, long cucumber Delia brought home from the store tonight. Yes, it’s a far cry from the giant black cocks Janet loves, but she got me so tuned into craving the phallus that I couldn’t help it. On top of that it’s good to read personal stories from women our age about the effects of stress on maintaining a sexy web presence for over a decade. I don’t mean that I’m happy other people have challenges, it’s just a relief and comfort to read people being honest about them.

*Angelique XXX (also a swinger): I just posted a guest gallery of her in my members-only area after finding some of her photos from her recent pregnancy.

Angelique XXX in tight white tank top & jeans.

Pregnant Angelique squeezing her swollen breasts.

I’ve always admired her French Canadian brand of beauty and was really happy to see the pregnant stuff after hearing awhile back that she initially hadn’t felt sexy pregnant. Again, it’s not that I celebrate the idea of her doing something that she didn’t enjoy; rather I enjoy thinking about the process she might have gone through to arrive at a place where she DID feel sexy (and of course the resulting porn is just HOT, especially to someone like myself who has always had the hots for her — seeing her transformed and expanded like that is erotic and potent to me).

I know, all of these words are very dorky and old-manlike, but they’re part of the truth. The part of the truth that just wants to share some hot mama porn without overthinking it to death.

It’s interesting how excited I get about these women’s portrayals of their sex lives even though I wouldn’t want to have their experiences myself. Not exactly, anyway. I don’t think I’ll ever want to be “filled up” and “stretched” the way some chicks (like Janet) do (I find deep penetration painful; I come faster and more often fucking guys with small cocks), but I do relate completely to being extremely aroused just by the sight of a really REALLY big cock. I’ll never be someone who specifically seeks out “black cock” to fetishize (but yeah, I might have a tiny little bit of an agenda in wanting to have sex with black WOMEN). I don’t think I’ll ever want to invest the amount of time in arranging to meet and fuck so many people (and be all clean and gorgeous and multi-orgasmic while doing it) but I do want a little bit of what they have one of these days, for both Delia and I.

But mostly for Delia. I am more of the husband-with-the-camera type.

Honestly, I *have* meant to write more about the whole open-relationship/swinging thing and my idea of what kind of openness is desirable/ideal to me (and what kinds are NOT). And discuss the whole subject of having stunt cocks/guest “models” to fuck on camera. And what I liked about having multiple sex partners in the past. And why that’s not a big priority for me right now, but I anticipate will be again. Someday . . .

Do wild roses bloom twice in the summer or is this their last gasp?

Are these the last of the wild roses for this season?

Last year was so different; everything blossomed much earlier this year so I can’t count on memories of last year for shooting certain things.

*****

After my grey-mood of a post last night, Delia and I were talking and realized that during her recovery from surgery we’ve been touch-deprived for over a week. It’s not that we haven’t touched each other at all, but we haven’t gotten our daily doses of cuddling, much less fucking. I mean, there’s really only been one position she can get into in bed and has been in pain most of that time until recently, so that could be contributing to a general condition of malaise. We spent a little time working around it last night, though, and that helped!

In the wake of her breast augmentation surgery, Delia wasn’t supposed to lift anything over three pounds, raise her arms above her head, or really do anything at all for at least a week. But the first thing she did when she got out of the wheelchair and into the taxi cab was grab my heavy backpack and try to lift it into her lap (bumpy cab ride, sore boobs, she wanted a cushion). I was like, “noooooo!! What are you doing?!? You’re supposed to ask me to help you with things like that!!”

Clouds & sky the color of a Maxfield Parrish Painting

It wasn’t just that she was loopy from the surgery and still slightly sedated; during the time we spent in the hotel since then when I’ve been supposedly “taking care of her”, I’ve finally been able to see how extremely unlikely it is for Delia to ask for help. She just doesn’t do it. After more than eight years together you’d think I’d have noticed this before, and I have to an extent, but it never made the big impression on me it has in the past week.

I don’t know if it’s that she doesn’t think to ask for help, or doesn’t like asking for help, or is just doggedly determined to do everything herself. Or if it’s just ME that she doesn’t like to request help from. That would make sense, given the way that we met and our relationship was structured at the beginning with her as my “houseboy”; I told her what to do and she did it.

Normally I think that was a game that we stopped playing a long time ago, but I think I’m very wrong about that in some ways. It was never a game. Maybe it was a stylized way of expressing needs and personality traits that we’ll always have, that will always be a huge part of the dynamics of our relationship. And it was never about sex as much as it seems to other people or might have seemed to us at the time.

I have tried over the years to DEMAND Delia make demands of me when she needs or wants something or feels I’m not contributing enough in some ways. “Just TELL me if you want me to get off my ass and do something!! You don’t even need to say please — it’s not efficient! I don’t care!! Just tell me what you want me to do!!” It’s pretty stupid to hope for that (both because it is unlikely and because neither of us probably want to operate that way), and this past week is helping me see that.

Again, I don’t know what goes on inside Delia’s head and what the main obstacle(s) is/are to asking for help, but I can more plainly see through this experience that I really don’t like being interrupted to assist people. I don’t like nursing people enough to want to do it except on very rare occasions and in very limited capacities. I like the IDEA of being sweet and kind in that way, but mostly I’m just not.

It’s not that I don’t like physically attending to people or taking care of them — sometimes I love it — but I prefer to do it on my own terms (when *I* want to, not so much every single time someone requires it). I’m a very receptive person to people’s needs and demands and emotions and hurts and vulnerabilities and desires. Except for when I’m not, and then I’M REALLY NOT, and it’s very difficult for me to censor my impatience. I don’t like for people to feel like they’re putting me out, but I just hate being interrupted. My reflexive assholeness during these times continues to be a challenge for me to contain and a mystery to me of how deeply it may or may not effect my relationships with people close to me and their emotional safety around me: with Delia, most importantly.

These past few days I have asked her a million times if there’s anything I can do for her and checked in with her a billion times with how she’s feeling (for fear she won’t express it otherwise and I won’t know whether or not she’s healing awesomely or in total pain; she very very rarely tells me she is in pain, even when she IS). But maybe a lot of my millions of questions are my own anxiety-riddled way of trying to avoid being interrupted when it’s less convenient to me and just expressions of fear that I will not have enough control over the situation (whatever the situation is) if she doesn’t tell me what’s going on. I am not always being totally genuinely helpful or selfless, and I catch myself being irritated a lot. I don’t know how to explain this without sounding like more of an asshole than I am — I’m not irritated with her and I totally understand her needs and WANT her to express more of them, but I’m just really incredibly shitty about controlling my annoyance, no matter how tiny it is (if you know me at all, you know that LOTS of very little things grate on my nerves, things that other people don’t even notice; you should hear how much I freak out about florescent lights, for example, so it’s nothing personal).

The way I am in response to interruptions (even when I appear to be doing nothing but staring vacuously into space) is very much like normal people are in response to somebody sneaking up behind them when they think they’re alone and screaming “BOOOOOOO MOTHERFUCKERHAHAHAHA!” and tickling them really hard under the arms. It’s unreasonable to think a normal person will ever NOT (or ever SHOULD not) respond to that with an elevated heartrate, unsettling verbal protestation of some sort, and even resentment towards the person who startled them with that fright unless they’ve been broken down over weeks or months in a prisoner of war camp or something. Similarly, I’m not sure that it’s reasonable for me to think I (or other people with wiring similar to mine) will ever train myself out of responding with aggravation to intrusive stimuli. I do work on it and try to be aware of it and try to learn from experiences like this one of being in a hotel room with a loved one recovering from surgery for days on end, but I also recognize that sometimes the best thing I can do is acknowledge what is not my strong suit, try to explain my limitations with sincere apologies, and just avoid the hell out of situations that test me for extended periods of time (and thank the powers that be that I have that luxury).

Still, it’s really depressing to know that people I love have good cause to be nervous about what kind of peevish reactions they may get when they approach me. It’s not like I jump and backhand every living creature that gets within two feet of me — it’s more subtle than that, but still — over time it probably impacts them in unpleasant ways I wish it wouldn’t. I guess I can console myself that other people (even “normal” people) are way worse than I am about this and don’t even acknowledge it as a problem.

*****

Once I expel my initial big melodramatic sigh at being asked for help, I do enjoy helping sometimes (this is another problem I have: I take a really really long time to do things other people quickly rush through — this drives my little sister and my mom crazy, how I will take forever to chop up a vegetable or read a bedtime story to my nephew when apparently I’m supposed to know that you’re supposed to just make simple shit up to turn pages that have more words on them than three year olds can process but those are more reasons I hate helping people sometimes; they won’t let me do it my way or they get mad at how long it takes me or the questions I ask to perform the requested task). This also drives Delia crazy, I think, but she is better at censoring her irritation than my mom and sister are and is more sensitive to me getting really defensive about it.

Sometimes — actually, a LOT of times — I actually enjoy “helping” so much after I get over the pain of switching gears that I’m extremely averse to rushing through it. I don’t know how to do certain things without care or savoring their details. I want to do that thing to the exclusion of everything else, to be totally immersed in it.

You know how Delia’s hair is naturally super curly? She has to put a whole shitload of oils and cremes and conditioners in it to keep it from being a big frizzy monster bush. While she’s recovering, she can’t have her arms up and hands in her hair to do that, so she has sweetly asked me to dry her hair and apply these products.

So I try to choke down my .75 second annoyance with the poor timing of it all, what with me having finally gotten my fingernail properly placed to lift a scab off my scalp or tweet something I think is really pithy, and go into the bathroom where she’s sitting on the toilet. I try to sop up the moisture from her hair gently so I don’t damage her hair or break her neck, but I must be doing it wrong because Delia rearranges the towel to prompt me to go at it a different way. Then I start really getting into slicking my hands with oil and distributing it as evenly as possible through her hair, coating every frizzing spot. Then she has me put in her leave-in conditioner and comb both that and the oil through. She informs me that I can’t possibly apply TOO MUCH of this, but I still prefer to portion out gobs of it in individual handfuls instead of just dumping it on all at once. Then she has me put a clear no-frizz curl-keeper serum and I scrunch it through and shape it and fluff it even though she tells me I don’t need to do that; it will get big all on its own, but I still want to feel her cool, damp hair in my hands and move it around on her head.

I love her so much while I’m doing this and feel so tenderly and totally in love with taking care of her this way and protecting her hair (even though she’s chuckling to herself over how fucking long it’s taking me and how insistent I am that she just let me do it my way I never get to do this when she tries to explain I don’t need to be so careful about it and the way I’m doing it isn’t going to make a difference). And for a stupid STUPID heartbreaking moment I love it so much that I wish we had a child, a little kid with hair to comb and a head to pat and stroke and lavish love on and look up at us while we braid her hair or whatever.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m thinking, wanting a little person with constant need when I’m so easily aggravated, but then I think of all the daddies who are like, “don’t disturb me while I’m in my den/watching the game/working on my hobby car!” And I know everybody loses patience sometimes. And I know that my nephews don’t think I am mean or impatient or unapproachable. But they also don’t recognize that they’ve never gotten to stay over without their mom for more than one night because THAT WOULD BE TOO LONG FOR ME TO ENDURE. Anyway, I can’t even brain my OWN hair and have never wanted to learn to braid anybody else’s. If we had kids I’d probably shave their heads to make things easier.

So I guess thank the stars or whatever that we didn’t get pregnant.

But I confess, we’re still paying for sperm storage. JUST IN CASE.

*****

I remember my sister barging in asking what in the world was taking so long???? last time she was over with her kids and I was in charge of pre-bedtime with my oldest nephew, Mr. Squishypants. I’m like, we’re listening to music! and talking about the tree-guys! and just sitting here watching the candle flame!

She was like, JESUS, Trixie — hurry up! And I whined for her to just let me do it my way! I’m the aunt! I never get to have this special time with him!

She just sighed and was like, “okayokayOKAY!” And it took me awhile to remember that she was waiting for bedtime with me, her sister, too and for both her kids to be asleep so she could relax and I was using up all of our time together because I don’t know how to fucking balance things or rush through what I love even if it’s to get to something else I love just as much.

I mean, just don’t get me started if you need to have something done in a big fucking hurry. And that is why I have such a hard time starting anything at all. Because I know it will take me a long-ass time and I won’t want anyone to interrupt me while I’m doing it.

Last night Delia knew exactly when the big fat moon was due to rise so we took our first beach walk alone together without having to feel guilty about not bringing the dog. We looked at ghostly white clematis and sniffed lilacs in the darker-than-dayness and stopped to stand in the sand to watch the entire moonrise from start to full exposure until it clouded over.

*****

When my ex and I split up the first “important” purchase I made for my tiny studio apartment was a new comforter. One that was expensive and heavy and lofty and luxe. It’s still one of my most valued possessions, probably in the top ten right along with my cheap drugstore bottom-of-the-line Parker fountain pen and my dancing bananas ashtray.

For almost eight years that comforter has lived in our guest room, unused 99% of the time while Delia and I have slept under lesser blankets. WHY????

I think at first it was partly because she thought it was too heavy, but it may also have been that I wanted to keep something so precious mine-all-mine, and in order to do so I didn’t allow it to be enjoyed. Because maybe it would get spilled-on or the dog would make it furry or because it was a treasure I procured when I moved back into myself and wanted to keep it preserved as a symbol of solitude. It makes no sense to me now.

This week we moved the good comforter into our bedroom. Where it belongs, on top of both of us, a big blanket of bliss.

Nico was fifteen years old and people STILL frequently asked if she was a puppy — so pretty and smaller than people expect Siberian Huskies to be (even though she was normal-size for a female husky). But if they watched her walking from the hind end they’d understand she was an old girl. She started to look like an elderly woman hobbling doggedly with a walker, dragging her hind legs stiffly forward one at a time after reaching forward to brace herself with her two front legs.

Eat as Many Treats as You Want!!

There *was* a choice of whether or not now was the right time to put her to sleep. I’m aware that there are people who would’ve put her down a lot sooner and others who would have let this stretch out forever with doggy diapers and thousands of dollars in vet bills. I’m aware that we might have made this decision for ourselves as much as for her and that I’ve been able to absolve myself of any guilt because she was really Delia’s dog and her decision to make based on twice as many years with her and a lot more love. I’m also aware that Delia gave her a good life and that she’s a HUSKY, and she couldn’t do her husky things anymore – there hadn’t been ululations for a year or more and her sickle tail was permanently drooped into brush-mode. She was confused (at times heartbreakingly comically so, like when she would stand at the hinge of the door waiting to be let out of the bedroom when the door was already open INCHES away from where she’d fixed her gaze – it WAS funny, though sad) and her mobility profoundly decreased. She’d been losing her balance (or her legs just gave out) while she pooped and would often fall over then finish pooping while lying on her side.

Anyway, there was a lot of stuff and seeing blood in her gelatinous-with-mucous diarrhea Saturday night was the clarifying symptom that it was TIME even though it hadn’t been that many days since she ran through the house as much as she could, yipping both in pain and excitement, not able to NOT force herself to go as fast as possible even after wiping out twice trying to navigate the corner between one hallway and another. If it were any other kind of dog you’d think I was describing a very fit and healthy animal, but huskies are just that awesomely driven to RUN and defy every limitation imposed on them.

So we decided to make her last two days full of good things, like her last walk in the woods. It was very very slow and the smallest hills were like giant mountains to her. She even looked at one incline so wearily that she turned around, like “just take me back to the car because I’m DONE”.

Nico's Last Walk in the Woods

During and after making the decision I’ve felt a variety of emotions: excitement looking forward to freedom and possibilities, relief, uncertainty, guilt, confusion, sadness, loss, worry . . .

Our beautiful companion's fur, walking slowly

Two women came to our house to do it after Nico had two days of walks and lots of her favorite soft peanut-butter treats and lots of love and attention lavished on her. The vet and her assistant were loving and gentle and pleasant and thoughtful and smooth and patient and respectful.

Small and short-lived.

The hardest part was the hour before they got here when we were waiting. Everything was ready, Nico was totally worn out, and there was nothing to do except know that she was about to be gone and didn’t even know what was coming (I think Delia felt more confident that Nico did actually know and was fully prepared and welcoming – either way is actually pretty sweet).  I wouldn’t trade that hour of waiting for rushing around or not experiencing that weird duality of tranquility on the outside and guts churning on the inside, though.

Waiting for the vet to come

During the process I felt a fast cycling of emotions of calm, euphoria, gratitude and resignation sort of like when I was in a car crash and had a few seconds to emotionally prepare myself to die and then was elated when I survived. But with this there were also overwhelmingly intense guts-in-the-throat needing to bawl emotions like when I was with my dad during his death.

How beautiful and floppy and light her dead body looked wrapped in a blanket with her gorgeous face exposed and then her front legs tumbling out. The looseness and complete lack of worry. The weird exciting sense of potential like you could reanimate her, so fresh and ready with all of the soreness and stiffness she’d been suffering from magically erased. She really did look like new life (and none of these pictures are communicating the reality of any of this, or at least my perceptions and experiences of these days). She was so so so beautiful.

No more breath, no more heartbeat.

*****

Helping Nico die and being present for it helped me with my dad’s death, to process it more and remember it and grieve more freely and more fast. It’s been eight years, but I really didn’t know a lot about how to be with his death and my feelings about it so it’s been a very long and protracted experience. Watching Nico die — feeling her die, touching her dying and dead — I feel spiritually more at ease than I did when confronted with my dad’s final moments. Maybe my idea of peace is wider and simpler than I must have wished for back then. Maybe my expectations for myself are lower than they were then. I don’t know, but I’m glad for it.

I am an imperfect witness, not a bumbling guide stuck with the horrible responsibility of having taken someone I loved on a journey to a brick wall on a dead end. Maybe I’m getting to be okay with nothing being perfect and not being in control and just appreciating the long moments I’ve had to absorb the profoundly ordinary in all of its individual rarity and treasure it and bask in my blessings. My dad is one of a few people I’ve had telepathic experiences with (even if they were probably more accurately described as intuitive communication or whatever) so maybe I thought I failed by not knowing what he was trying to tell me at the end or that I failed by crying and possibly making him sad or worried during his last minutes of life. There’s a lot less pressure with a dog and it was more okay with me that we were all together but alone at the same time.

The Incredible Machine

Like with my dad it took a number of minutes for her to stop all the way. “She’s not breathing anymore but she still has a very faint heartbeat”. For like four minutes. When we were kids Daddy bought us lots of National Geographic books. One of my favorites that may have impacted my worldview more than any other was “The Incredible Machine” about how humans are all electrical and mechanical and stuff. I never absorbed facts and information the way my sister could (it’s amazing how we had the same books at home and the body of knowledge her brain constructed out of them is so vastly different — and more vast in general — than mine) so what I retained from it is just a philosophy that I might not find in it if I were to read it today, but that might have been the first book I ever read to give me a celebratory nontheistic way of looking at life that was deliciously SPACE AGE eighties-style, like 3-2-1 Contact and synthesizers and stuff.

While Nico was dying it started raining and we were glad it waited until then, not starting until after her last three walks and other quiet time outside. That night the smell of the evergreens after the rain was magnified to supernatural proportions and for a minute I enjoyed imagining that Nico bestowed an enriched sense of smell on us as a parting gift.

Then I stopped wasting brain juice on that and just focused on vacuuming up as much scent as I could with each inhalation, tasting wet green dogless walks in the future moonlight, just me and my girlfriend.

*****

Delia and I have been living together for almost eight years (the first time she told me she loved me was the day my dad died). It’s a significant chunk of time as far as human measurements go but also . . . brief. Losing Nico is another transition for our relationship and maybe I have the feeling like I will contribute more as a partner now. Nico was rooted in so many years of history and two other serious relationships for Delia so she was never really “my” dog; I don’t mean that in a bitter or unloving or detached way . . . it was my way of copping out of taking care of her fully so that I didn’t clean up as much poop or let her in and out as often or get her food ready. I’m excited that we’re entering another stage together and that it’s happening now.

Pair of Trillium

I can’t complain . . . I really can’t complain or regret this loss or wish for any of it to be different. I can’t say that I wish we didn’t have to go through this or that she could have lived forever. Of all the ways of dying and lives and chunks of years of experiences out there to be had, I’d say this death and these years and our lives have been blessed, relatively comfortable with relatively little pain, and filled with pleasure. Am I still bursting into tears? Yeah, but I can’t complain.

I totally have spring fever. We can go anywhere! Do anything! The light in our house looks different. The pretending-to-be-a-grownup feeling is back when I go into my office. Maybe just because everything is intensified after so many intense days? I don’t know, but this is the first time in all these years we can leave the doors wide open and not be afraid that Nico will run away. It’s not that a husky doesn’t love her people, SHE’S JUST PROGRAMMED TO RUN AWAY FROM YOU!!

*****

Check out Delia’s post with more pictures of Nico and background. Contrasting pics of her in her younger days really shows how much she changed physically over the years, plus it’s really interesting to read/see more about Delia!

*****

Note: I feel EXTREMELY fortunate we had a way to pay for her to be ushered out so gently with at-home euthanasia; not everybody is so lucky. Humanely ending an animal’s life is really expensive for most people and doing it yourself is something most people aren’t equipped for (and legally/socially is a prime example of some really interesting double-standards, misunderstandings and class differences in our country). Anyhoo, if you love your pet and can afford to do it this way when the time comes, I’d recommend it as being well worth the extra money (if you can swing it) to have that special time at home and is worth finding out in advance what vets (or other people?) can help you with this when the time comes. I also feel extremely fortunate that my dad died in hospice which is much more like dying at home than like dying in a  hospital, but better than dying at home maybe. I loved it, and think it’s hugely important to be able to spend time with your dead loved one for hours, if you’re lucky enough to have that option and the kind of death you get to see coming.

Happy Valentine’s Day to everyone who is into that sort of thing: we’re doing shows today/tonight and tomorrow, so if you’re a member go here and check out our schedule.

Delia and I met a little over eight years ago. Her presence on this blog started out when she was still presenting as a guy. I called her by a number of names then: twat, then houseboy, and eventually Tucker. I’m wondering right now in my head if I can divide the time we’ve been together into four years with Tucker and four years with Delia, but I can’t actually remember how many years it’s been since she officially decided to transition (I think it will be four years in May) and that doesn’t make sense anyway. The way I’ve written this is bad shorthand for something more complex but also more fluid and less dichotomized than that (obviously she is not two people, she is one person and/or we all are multiples).

Maybe that’s why I’ve never been good at remember anniversaries and dates and how-many-years kinds of things, because they create these artificial boundaries. On the other hand, it does feel natural to collect the years and try to package your memories of them with labels. While I might call those first four years the Tucker years, I personally wouldn’t call them “the boy years” of our time together. She has never been a dude even though she presented that way in public. Funny: a lot of our members and fans don’t even realize that Tucker/TrixiesHouseboy and Delia are the same person. Maybe they think they’re fraternal twins and I got to fuck both of them? I don’t think so, but it’s a hot concept for a fantasy.

I don’t think we’re exchanging presents this year or doing anything romantic with each other (we’re doing romantic things on cam instead) but I remember the Valentine present she gave me back in 2002, that first year together. She gave me a metronome and it was the most romantic thing ever! Except I just looked it up in my archives and that was actually a birthday present, so see . . . I’m totally incapable of committing things like that to memory.

*****

Speaking of Valentine presents, if you find yourself wanting one for yourself or wanting to give one tonight, I updated my wishlist(s) and put a few “sexy” things on my top twenty (I have a lot of inexpensive things listed on my top twenty wishlist and other categorized wishlists: shoes, music, books, sexy clothes, etc.).

If you have a cock or want to gift someone with a cock, get a fleshlight (if I had a cock? I’d have a drawer full of them; instead I just masturbate watching amateur vids of guys using them). The also have vibrating fleshlights now.

For those of us with clits, get an accuvibe; I don’t have one yet, but I’d love a cordless version of my beloved hitachi magic wand.

So yeah . . . wishing everyone plenty of Valentine SELF love (and the other kinds, too)! Perhaps I’ll see you in my webcam show tonight or tomorrow or in our spycam chatroom.

How long can I feel this super groovy? I hope a looooong time! The memory/deja vu/hopeful-excited-magic feelings I mentioned last week are still here and I feel GREAT. So great that I’m almost worried that I’m losing my marbles and trying to figure out what to attribute these good feelings to.

Is it the B vitamins? The D’s? The pressure being lifted from IRS after being forced to resign myself to accepting and even embracing whatever bad things might happen? Our deliciously mild winter (that could fuck up the winter olympics in Vancouver if the Pacific Northwest doesn’t get more snow)? Getting rid of DirecTV and reading more and enjoying each other more? Our new sound therapy machine with the delta wave inducing sounds (I usually dream so much that I don’t get deep dreamless sleep: a symptom of low serotonin levels/depression)? Is it that I’ve lost some weight? Is it going to twelve-step meetings? Is it just that I’m reading more and I FUCKING LOVE TO READ?!?

I don’t know, but IT IS GOOD! So I’m going to try to enjoy it and not worry that there’s something wrong with me. Goes to show how unhealthy I’ve been for so long that when I feel terrific for more than three hours I think maybe the sky is falling.

*****

I picked up my new weighted hula hoop today for more high jinks on the spycams! I also have a bollycardio dvd that we rented which I’ve only gone through once and am looking forward to doing more of. It’s jolly/silly camwatching goodness.

Speaking of camwatching goodness, we enjoyed some fucking yesterday and I hope our voyeurs did, too.

*****

On Friday and Saturday we had a great visit with my sister, brother-in-law and nephews which contributed to my heightened sense of awareness and positivity. Hanging around a three year old and an easily-delighted baby with a huge grin and dimples is like bathing in a clarifying happiness. Music sounds better, everything looks newer and more interesting and mysterious, and I have an excuse to read books aloud that were read to ME when I was little.

And hey, on top of that there is all of this boundless LOVE. On top of just loving those little guys to pieces, the amount of unconditional love I get from them is totally amazing. I’m forced to love myself more just being around them, in part because they do not see flaws but also because I want to always model un-self-conscious confidence to them; they make me love  myself more.

Maybe that’s what’s going on with me lately . . . better brain chemistry. Getting better sleep. Getting rid of the television — maybe having more oxytocin like from being around my nephews and my sister, but also from cuddling Delia and really being TOGETHER in bed instead of just staring at the tube all of the time. Maybe I’m just being flooded with a lot of girl juice: the loving, bonding chemicals, not necessarily the sexy ones.

Cuddling never used to help me fall asleep — it was more something I liked to do for a few minutes BEFORE unsticking bodies and going to sleep on my own side of the bed. Bizarrely enough, I’m actually finally starting to understand how great if feels to fall asleep nestled up to Delia. If I get in her armpit with her arm around me and my nose on her upper tit, I now get an instant jolt of SOMETHING I’ve never had with anybody else. Seriously, it’s some kind of a drug injection that I do think has something to do with oxytocin. Whatever it is, it’s BLISS. Tranquilizing and emotionally/sensually stimulating all at the same time.

It’s still sort of weird and foreign to me so I mostly continue my years-entrenched habit of nestling into my own don’t-touch-me space to sleep, but I think I’m going to try to get more of that business more often. I might need to work on my initiation technique though which consists of awkwardly trying to lift her arm up and demanding she “let me in”.