If you want to try packing your brand-spanking-new cock, and you’re as dumdum as me, check out this very useful article. The Cliffs-notes version: loosen the goddamn straps.
I don’t need Cliffs notes for what to do when the straps are tight. We’re figuring that out just fine.
Nutmeg is the best flavoring for a cream cake. Being cooked for is the sweetest thing ever.
Not all sex turns out great, not even in an incandescent springtime of sex. And really, it’s okay, in fact it’s necessary, to be able to step back from sex-not-gone-quite-right and hold one another in love and safety and laughter. And it was informative to realize that voice, the one I thought I’d silenced, is still in my head, ready and waiting to tear me down. But I listened to it for just a moment, and then let it fade out.
I’m working through a lot, trying to understand where I come from and what it meant to me to be raised the way I was. It’s hard and painful and I don’t have anything coherent to say about it here, yet. (I could do a series, though, on High School Play Trauma. Like the one where I was actually allowed to act the smartass boyish character I was. Except for the scene of almost ritual humiliation where I was painted in the nude, a body suit really, by an older male character who then kissed me. Oh, it’s too pathetic really. Ending High School Drama Trauma now.) The part that really has me worried is facing everyone when I do go home month. I need to reset a lot of boundaries. I’m hoping against hope that we find a place to live for July 1.