The butt-ends of my days and ways

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous -
Almost, at times, the Fool.
-TS Eliot, Prufrock

I saw a play recently, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead (Stoppard). I'd seen it before, read it even, but it had been many years ago. I found myself amused, still, but also disturbed by the inevitability of their fate. Unintentional fools, led this way and that by unseen hands. I wondered suddenly at the metaphor to all of us. I am always struck by the change in my perception of things as I grow older (my trousers that evening were, in fact, rolled).

My resulting desire to live a little stronger was made easier by my companion for the evening, a man who is adding an unexpected kerthump to my normal pulse. I'm glad of it, though wary. Do I dare, do I dare?

Would I spend forever here and not be satisfied

During my adult life, I've experienced a sleeping orgasm twice. Both instances occurred while in bed with the object of the dream that inspired the arousal.

This is somewhat rare for women, I know. I suppose I'm lucky in that regard. It's never been difficult for me to orgasm. Quickly, repeatedly, strongly. But the sleeping variety...wow.

This most recent one was accompanied by an unusual dream. In it, my lover was no longer a physical presence, but spiritual - with the ability to possess any living creature. I told him of this dream after I recovered, but forgot to mention that the orgasm came when his spirit possessed my body. Which, I suppose, means something far more intriguing than being able to orgasm in my sleep.

Silences

People tend to fill a void. With action, or words. I'm not that way. I don't mind a comfortable, companionable silence. I don't feel the need to fill that space with endless chatter about trivialities. Most of the time. I do have my chatty cathy moments, generally due to overstimulation via caffiene.

Sometimes, though, I observe myself and my silence and wonder if it seems like disassociation or reclusiveness. I suppose that is true to an extent, I can be quite the hermit. I've always understood that my tendency towards solitude is more about enjoying myself rather than not enjoying others. Is that vanity? Or acceptance? Or enlightenment? I'm not sure, but I have been told that I seem cold and distant. I don't intend it, it is just a natural consequence of my quietude (in all definitions of the word).

I am at peace. With who I am, who I have been, who I am becoming. With my weaknesses and faults, with my strengths.

This is a nice place to be.

Speechless

I keep coming here, with the intention of writing something. Anything. I end up staring blankly at the screen for a few moments, then running off to shop online for hammocks.

Of moderate interest...I found two 'stories' from when I was in high school. One was run of the mill Penthouse forum-variety. The other was of a more D/s nature. All along I thought I hadn't discovered this until my mid-to-late twenties, only to find it was in me much earlier.

In me. Snicker.

Physical Labor

I envy those on the show Ax-Men...all chewing tobacco, coarse language, and springing nimbly from log to log while hoisting chainsaws well over their heads. (My Sunday evening lull-to-sleep telly).

I've never been that type. I don't mind being physical, but I certainly don't seek it out. Call me lazy, if you think it fits. But when it's necessary, I can strap on my Nikes and become the formidable Amazon. (Note to self, get a crossbow. Or spear.)

Yesterday was one of those moments.

Today, however, will be the complete opposite. My muscles and bones will be taking a nice comforting break, courtesy of three Netflix movies and an 11 am massage appointment.