Oct. 17th, 2007 02:26 pm
soapwench: (Default)

Just re-writing this whole thing because it rambles and doesn't make sense.

Oh nevermind.  I give up for now.  It just isn't what I want it to be.  The thoughts are still hard to capture and crumbly.  I think they keep changing because of "The Moon is a Harsh Mistress." (society structure)

In any case, I've come upon a situation that I don't know how to approach.  I can make guesses, but there isn't a cultural standard for it.  Henry VIII would have been easier.  I would have fluffed my cleavage and hoped it was in his younger, more vigorous days.

The room is dark

I curtsy

I begin to straighten


The floor is velvet

And my steps unsure

I'm told to kneel

But can't arise again

The hands reach out

I bat them away

I was trying to be all discreet, but I think everyone who reads this knows by now that I'm dating someone who is poly.  So, I'm going to stop dancing around the issue and come right out about it.  

The situation that I have no friggin' clue how to approach is meeting The Senior Wife.  It's not usual to meet someone who knows that you've been intimate with their husband and the meeting isn't an ugly, jealous scene.  It really isn't.  What do you say?  Yes, I do have some thoughts, but the irreverent part of me thinks that I can't really say, "Hello, isn't his cock delicious?"  It just doesn't flow somehow.  But it's going to feel odd as hell to sit there with someone while having wicked, decadent thoughts about a man and it's okay to have them.  Permission is sometimes a scary thing. 

Now that I write about this, I think it's the permission of the situation that is scariest.  The freedom.  The lack of restrictions.  

Okay, so it all turned out fabulously.  Worry for nothing.


soapwench: (Default)

October 2013

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