If only

“I’m not a king, no, not a hero, not a fool,
I’m not perfect, I’m flesh and bones,
And I’m exactly what you need.”

If only our wants were aligned with our needs. If only you loved yourself enough to insist on getting your needs met. If only …

Ah, well.


Relapse is a cruel bitch

TFW your whole face hurts from a day spent crying … when the word crying seems too soft and gentle to encompass the body-wracking sobs and heaving hiccup-y coughs, the type of ugly cry where you literally can’t breathe because your nasal passages have all swollen shut, your lungs robbed of air as it gets swallowed into the vacuum of the cavernous abyss where your heart used to reside … your eyes feel like they’ve spent quality time with their new friend sandpaper, your eyelids are puffy and yet that somehow makes them harder to close … that frontal headache that you can’t determine the source of – seeing as there are so many options … when you feel like you *should* desperately want a drink and just can’t fucking be bothered cuz you’re too exhausted to do anything desperately …

Anywho – that feeling was my day today.


I haven’t felt this broken in quite some time. I thought the gaping rift left by your death had knitted together sufficiently that it couldn’t be blown back open … but I was wrong. Boy howdy, was I ever.

I dreamt about you this week. You and I were existing in a future context. We were waking up together, limbs heavy and intertwined, the intoxication of you pervading my senses – and she was yelling. At us – at you mostly, let’s be honest – and I think she may even have slapped you as she kicked you out of my bed (and our room), the better to focus her yelling on me once you’d gone, no doubt.

She would’ve been right … she generally is, especially about my self destructive desires.

Regardless, it took me a few moments of chuckling to myself at our shenanigans for it to hit me. This future moment will never be. We won’t wake up together in Vegas, ever. We certainly won’t have an Elvis wedding neither of us was quite drunk enough to justify (and yet both of us agreed to). My ring looked good on your finger, cheap and fake and rushed as it prolly was. Would we have regretted it? Would we have hurried to get it annulled or shrugged and moved on; the silly slip of paper not making much difference in the grand scheme(s) of our lives?

I haven’t been without the bone-deep knowledge of your death simmering on the back burner of my soul for fucking AGES. I hate you a lot right now. How the fuck could you do this to me? Why the fuck does this still feel so raw?


In other news, he still isn’t speaking to me. Can’t even stand to be in the same room. It’s pathetic and childish and cowardly … and it hurts every time. Every. Single. Time. *sigh* Someday this too shall pass.

She’s feeling calmer and getting some catharsis. I should be happy for her and – mostly – I am. I’m glad to have her in my life and that she hasn’t jumped on the bandwagon of writing me off. That said, I’d be lying if I didn’t acknowledge my jealousy. She has always been more important, someone precious with a relationship worth safeguarding and repairing.

I wonder what is happening with him. I’m guessing he still refuses to acknowledge his heavy handed part in this. It’s absurd how rabidly he insisted that his actions were to protect them from me and my wicked ways, my nefarious intentions, my evil conspiracy to ruin whatever it is he so carefully guards. I would never have been in a position to know the deep dark secrets (that really aren’t, let’s face it) without him. In his frenzy to block and later destroy me, he flailed so wildly that he left me painted a la Pollack in knowledge I neither needed nor wanted. I’m still finding fucking dots and streaks in odd places. He’s such an empty human and so transparently hypocritical that the mind boggles. Maybe it helps him feel like a deity or channel his divinity? (That’s for you PLP.)

And how is she these days? The “closeness” forged through shared experience turned out to be a bigger sham than the so-called sacrifices. Wouldn’t you know those lambs have become fat fuzzy sheep out to pasture. With friends like these …

Shes gonna be furious about this. The easter egg shells sure make pretty mosaics when they get smunched though.


That moustache. Oh. My. GOD.

Those pants… and the gloves you twisted between your hands before letting me stroke them. The softness of the leather contrasting with the stiffness. Finding out that you do your own leather care … and the twinkle in your eyes as you shook my hand, hinting at the potential meetings to come.

Is there anything better than a solid flirt? Solid and tangible and full of enticing sensations.

Your compliment on my earrings and descriptions of your pair with the iridescent insect wings… set my heart a-thumping.

Good ole Shakespeare said journeys end in lovers meeting, so here’s me hoping I’ll find a travel opportunity 😏


“Oh. You’re THAT Jeni.”


Yup. I am indeed, even though I strongly suspect that whatever you’ve heard to turn me into “THAT Jeni” in your mental catalogue doesn’t remotely approach the whole picture and it certainly isn’t likely to be an accurate portrait of me as a person.

It is what it is though. There’s a part of me that wishes forlornly for a time when I’ll no longer be in danger of being “THAT Jeni” but it’s a small part. Our history is part of who we are and this particular bit of history has had so much influence on who I am now that I can no longer imagine myself without it.

Which sucks. I can no longer remember the pre-trauma Jeni. I suppose I should be specific and say the pre-this-trauma Jeni. Ugh.

Someone posted a meme today that when faced with any obstacle, one can choose growth or one can choose safety — as though those are the only two options or as though the choice is always in the hands of the person facing the obstacle. I’m all for taking accountability for my choices but what is someone who has had their autonomy and their agency stolen from them supposed to do with that lil pearl of wisdom? Be grateful for the growth opportunity? Fuck that.

Fuck also the people who have all along been more concerned with mitigating the impact my presence might have on the perpetrators’ ability to continue blithely sailing through life than on the grievous harm those perpetrators caused — and not just to me, as it seems a vain hope that injury to “just” one person would be sufficient cause for people to re-examine these assholes and their place in our community.

For the record – I’m not remotely interested in hearing from ANYONE what good guys these perpetrators are in their other dealings. I will never be friends with them. Stop trying to make that happen.

Hot, Wet, and Deep

I played with someone new last week and the first time was hot AF. There was some incredible respect shown for our defined boundaries and that was the sexiest thing that has happened to me in awhile. I came twice during our first scene and would gladly have kept going, and kept cumming, if my partner’s hand hadn’t gone numb from the phenomenal open hand sensation play we were engaging in. Since I was at a party with many friends to ensure my safety and since my partner was so clearly intent on finding the best scene we could create within the parameters we established together, I went deep. Deliriously deep. Had a hard time walking to the car deep. Giggled for hours at just about everything deep. My body was still zinging with pleasure two days later when he checked in deep.

The second time we played, we both had a better sense of what we were getting into and I was wet before he ordered me to take my panties off. I was wet as soon as we started negotiating. The glee in my partner’s face when I told him I’d brought toys and the fun we had going through my bag. The saucy way he revealed the belt he’d worn since he didn’t have “real toys” to bring. More sexy boundary respect. I went into headspace almost immediately. I came three times. We broke two of the toys. We laughed a LOT. I called him an asshole and meant it in the best possible way. He’s discovering just how fantastic it is to be in touch with his inner sadist. I flipped him off and he hurt me harder. He said afterward how awesome it was that I was obviously instantly ready with anticipation cuz he could smell me as soon as he stood over me. Hotness achievement UNLOCKED.

It was so enjoyable that we played again about an hour later. I was high for days. I get wet thinking about it and the spank bank is filling up nicely with ideas. The feel of him as he rubbed his face and chest all over my back to switch up the sensations. The smell of him as we cuddled afterward. The pure, raw, primal energy that we created. I want to meet his beast. Mine is already trying to claw her way out to say hello.

I almost bit him while nuzzling into his chest but we hadn’t talked about it, consent is a thing, and my integrity wouldn’t let me do it. It was so instinctual that my mouth was open before I caught myself – but I DID catch myself because I wanted to honour the play and the boundaries we’d set up together. That moment led to a conversation about a mutual love of biting and it’s even fucking sexier that we have so much more to explore the next time we play together.

Even better – the joy I found in the catharsis was so empowering and it has helped me set up three play dates with people I’ve been flirting with for AGES. People with excellent boundaries. People with gorgeous integrity. People who truly respect autonomy. Perhaps most importantly, people who honour play as PLAY.

This will be my first Folsom weekend and I’m going to ROCK the FUCK out of it. Huzzah!



God, I want some of that. So so so much do I want it. Maybe that’s the answer I’ve been looking for.

I can’t say I’m surprised… I can’t even say I’m disappointed – as that would imply there were expectations to the contrary – but it still fucking sucks.

I’m still reeling from the shock of it – even though we spoke hours ago. Am I really that naive? Is it really obvious to everyone else? I thought for sure you were in my corner and tonight you seemed shocked that I was getting ready for another round. I’m like the guy in that Cake song –

As they speed through the finish, the flags go down
The fans get up and they get out of town
The arena is empty except for one man
Still driving and striving as fast as he can

Am I so focused on how it SHOULD be that I’ve completely lost touch with how it is?

Also – what the fuck is with this double standard shit? Best case scenario you and I received different information because what I was told was a way to save face and feed me a line I’d accept. What the fuck is wrong with our society that such a thing is deemed so commonplace that it made sense to spoon feed it to me? It rang false when I heard it and it’s aggravating as fuck to have that sour note confirmed as the bullshit it appeared to be.

I’m still trying to unclench my gut from the punch you delivered this morning. I want so so so much to pick apart your words for the layers of meaning. Ok, that’s not true. I’ve done it already – there is no “wanting” about it. I did it about two seconds after I absorbed the words. There is a very clear and obvious possibility in those words … but so the fuck what? It doesn’t even matter if I’m wrong or right about it.

This is so unfair. Sure, life isn’t fair – blah blah blah – but THIS … this goes beyond the general chaos that humans try to impose meaning on. The pain of it is overwhelming sometimes but I suppose that doesn’t matter either.

Ignore it all you like. Ignore ME all you like. Pretending I’m not there won’t make me go away. It won’t make me any less of a presence. I see you. More and more, I see YOU.

ALL of you.

I love you. I’m holding out my hand to you. Pretending you can’t see it there doesn’t make it any less real.