Stirring blue waters

The photograph of the two trees in the original photograph sent to Lord Byron was taken in late winter. Their branches were bare and twisted, leafless. The grass around them stood bright green and tall while fog cast a veil over the sunrise palette in the sky.

Seabiscuit had scouted out the location the day before and sent me photos. How different it looked! The grass was dried and yellow, and the intertwining of branches could not be seen as the oak leaves were still nearly covered all branches. I decided I ought to wear blue for a contrast to that landscape, and if I am the Mistress of the Sapphire Seas, then blue seems all the more appropriate. I rarely wear dresses or skirts, but this was a special occasion, so I wore a long-sleeved tunic and a long lacey blue skirt.

I reread emails over and over on the trip there. What does it mean to be a Domme? To have a sub? I told my friends I felt I needed an introductory guide. To my coworker M, on Friday afternoon, I even showed Seabiscuit’s email for advice. M said: “He’s essentially telling you he wants you to order him around, so you can say ‘Eat my fucking pussy!’ and he’ll do it.”

What a foreign thing it seemed to know I would have so much control. I still felt like I needed a handbook. My first venture into the world of BDSM–all the control would be mine.

Well, maybe not all of it. After all, the bus I was to take decided not to turn where it was supposed to, leaving me and 5 others stranded as it never came for us and the next bus was an hour later. Determined not to be left behind with the next one, I hurried in the Saturday heat (wishing I had not worn long sleeves after all) to the Transbay Terminal to catch the bus where it starts (leaving no opportunity to be missed).

When I finally got to my destination, Seabiscuit was running a few minutes late. It was hot–more hot than it had been in San Francisco. It was in the 90s at least, and not a good temperature for long sleeves.We finally spotted each other on opposite sides of the street–him in his red car and me on the corner. He pulled over and got out as I waited for the light to change to let me cross. The sun was in my eyes, so I had to hold my arm up, but I smiled as I peeked at him.

We hugged. “It’s good to see you,” he said, and he opened the door for me. Both of us were nervous and excited. He said he thought we could get me something to eat and drink, rest a little maybe, and then have our photoshoot later near sunset when it was “the golden hour” best for photography.

So we drove to his apartment. He took out some crackers and a plate of three cheeses (a well marbled blue cheese, Humboldt fog, and a hard cheese of some sort) and offered me water or juice. We both drank apple juice while chatting and eating cheese and crackers.

After we finished off the plate, he said, “So what would you like to do now? I can show you around town, or we could go get ice cream, or–we could cuddle.”

I tilted my head to consider my options for a few seconds, and then exclaimed, “Let’s cuddle!” and I grinned.

Confluence

Last Saturday I had planned my adventurous playdate with Seabiscuit. I was to t ake a 3 hour bus up North, and we planned to do our photoshoot of me with two trees.

Leading up to the date, our exchange became very sexually charged and erotic. It felt like two heavenly bodies whose gravitational forces were pulling each other closer and closer together in orbit as we spun around with our own little planetary dance. What he likes, I like. What I want, he wants.

Both of us were scared: what would happen to take the chemistry offline? Absolute failure? Crash and burn? Regret and loss?

I had much to think about on that 3 hour bus ride–besides is the guy sitting in front of me going to go on a killing rampage as he keeps talking to himself.

Don’t fall in love

I wrote Seabiscuit yet another ghazal, titled “Good boyfriends”. I asked the questions I asked here: what it means to be a good boyfriend, and what monogamy means.

He replied, “That gave me a nice warm feeling in my heart. I do feel like we have a strange and wonderful hybrid relationship, both platonic and erotic; virtual and real.”

We are both in the same world questioning things after being unhappy in our previous relationships. So we began our exchange last night, asking about each other’s fantasies and desires.

Later in the exchange, he replied that if we were to take things further in person, we needed ground rules: 

First, you must not fall in love with me. I came into your life on the winds from the Sapphire Sea and will go the same way.

Since when does making it a rule ever make it so? And why is falling in love forbidden? Why is that a terrible thing? How can love of someone you respect and care about be terrible? Even unrequited, it should be flattering but not a thing that tears a relationship apart and sends people away.

Also, is that rule a warning for me or for himself?

I have been writing another Brit (no nickname yet) about me and Seabiscuit. He has made some astute observations in the little information I have provided. He said it seemed both of us seemed to be holding back, but he couldn’t tell why. As I waited for Seabiscuit’s reply to my latest email, I wrote my unnamed British fellow that I suspect both of us are scared to lose this special, precious thing, whatever it is.

So a few minutes later, it seemed Seabiscuit and I were truly channeling each other. I received Seabiscuit’s email with the rule of not falling in love, and at the end of his email:

PS: Another fear I have with taking our erotic connection to IRL is that it would affect our e-connection. I like it. I sound like such a scaredy-cat with all this. But there it is.

So I find myself asking once more, is the warning to not fall in love for himself or for me? Or to us both?

Extending the Olive Branch

As my new Irish friend, Mr. Prufrock, described, I am sure Lord Byron was “morto” (Irish slang for “mortified”) upon realizing his error and grievious injury to Seabiscuit’s honor by calling him “Seabag”.

Though he did not apologize, Lord Byron seemed to extend the olive branch that way, though the circumstances were saddening.

Lord Byron explained he has not been well and not himself. He has slept little as he tries to comfort loved ones who are with great grief: his mother slips into depression, a friend who has lost the love of her life, and another friend whose 28 year old daughter is dying of incurable brain cancer. In an effort to cheer him, I sent a lovely photo Seabiscuit took of two trees and a poem I wrote about the photograph.

Lord Byron responded:
The photo is beautiful and the poem you attached quite the best you have sent me. I should also like to have seen a full length photo taken by Seabiscuit of you standing under the trees too…perhaps next time!

Thus, this strange adventure of two men  and this lady connected through Craigslist continues to become more intertwined even though they only know each other’s pseudonyms (though I suppose Lord Byron now knows what Seabiscuit looks like when surrounded by naked ladies.) We shall build our bridges across the pond together, and this tale shall be continued yet further. 

Seabiscuit had previously expressed an interest in experimenting with portraiture photography of women he has met through Craigslist as a new challenge to his usual type of photography (birds and landscapes), so I seized this as an opportunity for us both.
At my urging, Seabiscuit has agreed to this request. We plan to have a photoshoot next Saturday–me sandwiched between the same two trees up north, perhaps frolicking among the autumn leaves. Who knows. But I bet it will be fun, and I am excited.

Seabiscuits and Seabags: A Duel Over One Man’s Honor

I can be a bit mischievous. Quite, actually.

A few weeks ago, Seabiscuit, the master of selfies, sent a photo of himself with “naked ladies” and I wrote to Lord Byron about it with great amusement, careful to craft my words in such a way as to potentially cause a misunderstanding yet simple enough to protest innocence should that happen. I wrote:

Sadly no bird watching with Seabiscuit yet. He’s a bit too busy with all his naked ladies. He took a nice selfie with a bunch of them and sent it to me. Of course, now I see his face anytime I see them, and they seem to be just about everywhere here. Not sure if they are as common on your side of the pond, except maybe on Page 3…

Lord Byron responded with the following:

I do hope this finds you in the pink. Your friend Mr ‘Seabag’—if I may speak frankly—puzzles me. I cannot decide whether the tasteless vulgar behaviour you describe in sending you such photos is indicative of blind insensitivity, simple crassness or outright stupidity. Quite a problem! And then another presents itself—why would anyone such as your good self want to engage with such an ignorant prick? How puzzling is human behaviour!

I burst out laughing upon reading his email. Seabag! If only I could have a recording of him reading it in his posh voice–oh, how delightful that would be! I am unmercifully wicked.

In return, I wrote Lord Byron:

Oh dear! You have misunderstood the play on words. Naked ladies is (at least here) the common name of this flower:  https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amaryllis — don’t worry, no actual nude photographs here! Seabiscuit is the same who sent a photo of his “cock”, which was actually a photograph of a rooster. You are too funny in renaming him “Seabag”! That made me laugh.

In addition, I shared the exchange with Seabiscuit. A few days later, when Seabiscuit and I met in person to go bird watching, he still seemed a little hurt by Lord Byron’s calling him ‘Seabag’; he asked me to send the selfie to Lord Byron so that he would realize his grave error in attacking Seabiscuit’s honor. That request delighted me, and I was only too happy to oblige.

I emailed Lord Byron and attached the Seabiscuit’s selfie with naked ladies with the following:

Seabiscuit also personally requested that I pass along his photo with his naked ladies to show that you have gravely offended him and stained his honor in renicknaming him “Seabag”. (I told him about your confusion in the matter with the paragraph I wrote to you.)

I believe his exact quote was, “Hey, no need to be mean. Why can’t we all just enjoy the Mistress of the Sapphire Seas?”

Then I waited for Lord Byron’s response.

What does monogamy mean to you?

I ask myself that question.

I don’t know if I have an answer. Stability perhaps. I am sure some will same commitment–but only in one sense: sexuality. Is commitment in other ways more important?

I found myself falling heavily for DJMF, but is it just a raging-teenage hormones type of relationship? Could it be anything more? I so very much would like it to be, but it is hard to tell if he likes me as much as I like him. And there’s the whole long distance issue, which is not insignificant. The practical one and the romantic are always at war with each other.

With Seabiscuit, I don’t know how to describe it. Is there a word in English to describe this? I don’t think there is. I keep thinking about it, but words fail me.

He says that he probably would not be a good boyfriend for me. Why is that? Is it just monogamy? But do I care about that? And what is a good boyfriend anyway? Why the label? Technically, my last boyfriends were not good either.

Sure, there is an age difference: 32 and 55. But that does not bother me. I like him. We have had fun together in person when we went bird watching. He inspires me. He excites me. We have had meaningful conversations on hard topics. If I were to die today, I would want him at my funeral tomorrow. I feel close to him, and it’s different from other relationships and friendships that I have had. There is silliness and great maturity, honesty and great kindness.

But we both know you want and deserve a boyfriend.  Maybe DJMF or maybe someone else, probably not me.”

Why not?

You are that Kind

Well past 200 emails now, my relationship with Seabiscuit has taken quite an unexpected turn.

It is a special relationship, unlike any I’ve ever had before. We are friends and yet there is this graceful dance between us, an artful, erotic tension ever present. He has a girlfriend, and my heart is captured by another man, DJ MF, across the sea, but still that attraction lingers.

He is kind. Even when his emails are disappointing (confirmation of the girlfriend, for example), there is kindness in it. He is quite thoughtful. I’ve been given an open invitation to pursue him should I ever want. Otherwise, he will treat me with respect and as a friend in person and allow our erotic tension to play out by email.

His desire for me was a bit intense, only fully felt and revealed recently in one particular email this weekend. “But we both know you want and deserve a boyfriend,” he also wrote. And that is true. He has been very clear in not being good at the monogamy side of things–not that it bothers me as much as it might have once before.

I look back at my poetry–so much he has inspired. He is a muse! He said his mother once wrote a poem about cutting his hair. I have no doubt that he inspired her as a child, too.

I almost feel as though this is the deepest friendship I have ever had–and from Craigslist! Who knew. And still he continues to inspire me, and that artist and muse relationship continues to kindle the tension between us.

To go from who I was 6 months ago and to what a person I have become!

In a few months, I almost feel as if a phoenix risen from some ashes. I am me, and yet it as if I have been hidden in a cocoon for far too long, and here I am now: The Mistress of the Sapphire Seas.

 

Njála – part three: Setting the Bridge on Fire

So, you ask, where did it all go wrong?

We swapped photos, which probably would have been fine except, I mentioned how some men stop responding to my emails shortly after I send a photo. (The photo I usually send is only of my face, and I attributed the end of communication as a statement on race–people assumed I must be white and don’t fit the profile of who they expected was writing to them.)

However, Njal assumed I sent them the same photos I sent him, even though I was clear in my email that it is not usually the photos I send.

Read more

Njála – part two: An Abogado’s Avocados

When I initially wrote part one of Njála, things were getting quite steamy with Njal.

He did call me that morning, and I was quite touched. I’m a sucker for posh British accents, and he has one. We talked, and things were cleared up. I was very happy he called.

He wrote me soon after our phone call: “Your voice is beautiful, you have a deep, sexy laugh, and I can’t wait to see you.”

I responded, “And your voice is lovely. I am so glad you called, and I am in much brighter spirits now than I was this morning. Thank you. I look forward to seeing you too.”

To which he replied (and again, I felt especially touched):

“F-

You should email or text me whenever you feel down. I’ll call you as soon as I can.

Love, N”
Our correspondence continued while I was on my way to my aunt’s house where they were celebrating her 86th birthday. It got more erotic and steamy with each email. Even while I was trying to mash avocados for the family gathering, we were still furiously emailing and flirting with each other.
F: I think of you as I mash these rock hard avocados. I wish I had yours–I am sure they would be ripe.
N: Full and ripe, especially when I’ve had no release for days.
NWhat would you do with this abogado’s avocados?
That last line made me laugh. It still does.
And so that erotic exchange continued for some intense 24 hours… I’ve never felt such an erotic intensity before. Passion or reckless ardor–I know not what best describes it. It was the stuff that makes people do crazy things–leave spouses and kids, abandon jobs and all responsibilities. It was wild. And frightening. Both of us felt it and talked about feeling it.
But before I could write this second part, that fire had long burned out. The bridge between us wasn’t just set on fire: he soaked it in gasoline, lined it with TNT, and took a flamethrower to it.

Growing Apart

I know, I know. I’ve been neglecting this thing. Too much work and overtime these days. I hate when my work-life balance is too heavily weighted on the work side. I feel exhausted. I need time to unwind for me. Last Friday, I worked for 12 hours in the office and 8 hours on Sunday. My head felt like mush. I felt unable to do much, writing-wise, and lucky to be able to string a subject and verb together.

The last two weeks have been hard. It’s not just work. It’s still living with the ex.

We are strangers sharing the same apartment. As much as I had hoped we’d still be friends, the number of times where I feel that cannot be continues to increase. We don’t know important things about each other. Our lives are separate. We lead different lives. We don’t know what’s important to the other. Conversations feel forced.

He has no idea of my adventures online through Craigslist. I have no idea what he does after work. He goes out to classes, and if I ask, he’ll tell me. Raspberry Pi, 3D printing, etc. Sometimes he’d be gone for 6-7 hours at a time.

I realize it’s a good thing. It’s good he’s being productive. I’m hopeful it means that he’s overcoming his depression. Good for him.

But then it gets complicated.

He gave me short notice (less than two weeks) that his friend, W, was coming to visit and would stay with us for a week.

W is blind. There was a time, long before we were dating, where they had some sort of a relationship. I didn’t know much about it, but I did distinctly remember asking him about her when the two of us were friends, and I asked if he’d ever consider moving to Japan and living with her. He said yes.

I had always tried to inquire about their relationship, even when we were dating, but he kept pretty quiet and didn’t want to talk about it.

So I soon realize that all his efforts, his classes, his long hours away and, when present in the apartment, are all in effort for making 3D maps for her. It’s a noble cause, but it hurt. It hurt like hell. It hurt because all I could think was how I never saw him spend a fraction of so much time and effort pouring himself into something for me in all 6 years of our relationship. Damn.

This evening, they come back to the apartment together. He had gone to take her around in the south bay with another friend she was staying with for some time, and stayed down there for a few nights. We go out to dinner.

As W fiddles with her wallet and cash, Jacob makes a joke about how she can give him all her 1000 bills (yen).

“Oh, you can hold on to them for when you visit me in Japan,” she says and hands them to him.

He takes them and puts them into his wallet very matter-of-factly.

“When are you going to Japan?” I ask. It’s the first I heard of it.

“We just talked about it,” he says, avoiding the question.

One of the other complains I had about the relationship was never getting to travel. We could never travel anywhere together. I wanted to travel, but he got too much anxiety. We could never do anything together.

I didn’t think it could still hurt. I’m hurt. It hurts.