My Poly Valentine

A little over a year ago I realised that for the first time in my life I was going to be sending two Valentine’s cards.

Perhaps, I mused, I should write a poem to convey my love to both Perrin and Mat. I could, of course, have written one poem and given it to both of them but that would have seemed like short-changing them and anyway they are very different people. So, two poems were required but I wanted to convey that my love is whole and encompasses them both.
At this point I realised I wanted to write two poems that could be combined into one by changing only punctuation and homophones.

It has taken me this long (yes more than a year) to come up with such a poem and I freely admit that it’s dreadful. I only hope both men will take the effort it required as evidence of my love for them both.

My dearest love, be thou my valentine.
Be my new day, my gentle night,
My morning star you make life shine,
You fill my heart with love so bright.

I pledge my love with this short verse,
And evermore let love be true.
Know valentine and always trust,
These words of mine “I love you two”.

Performance Piece – Canvas

I recently turned my boy into a word cloud and I enjoyed it so much that I wanted to write on him again. This time I wanted it to be in public, where the words I wrote could be seen by people being written and be read afterwards.

We had been invited to attend a party and I had planned to use that opportunity to do just that. There was a beautiful bench in the centre of the room and I arranged my boy over it, fastening his wrists in the cuffs which were so thoughtfully provided. I began by spanking him gently, with my hand and the leather paddle. I moved on to the flogger for a few brief moments and then pulled out my sharpie and began to write.
Mat laughed softly when he realised what I was doing. As I continued to work he became curious to know what I was writing.
“A poem” I told him; continuing to focus on writing the words I had composed earlier in the week, memorised for this moment.
As I wrote I was distantly aware of people’s interest, of their murmured whispers of curiosity. Still I concentrated on my task – there was no way to erase mistakes – until I had finished, then I stood back and let others read my words.

Finally I untied my boy and took him to one side to recite to him what was inscribed on his back. Something both intimate and public.

This was in effect my first ever piece of performance poetry. Mat had been encouraging me to share my poetry more widely for a while but I don’t think this was quite what he had imagined. The positive reaction I got was really touching. I shared my words and my feelings and they felt appreciated and understood.
Best of all, Mat wore my words proudly all evening and I did my best not to smudge them.

The photo was taken in the dark, so here is the poem more clearly.


This is my boy,
my toy and my plaything.
This is my bitch,
mine to tease and torment.
This is my slut,
mine to fuck and to hurt.
This is my whore,
mine to share and to use.
This is my canvas
mine to mark and inscribe
with words that inspire me
with whatever I choose.

A Twist Of Memory

I need to hurt him.
I twist the rope through my fingers and remember…

His body stretched out,
Hands pressed against the wall,
Naked, vulnerable and strong.

Rope looped and twisted,
Strands rough against my palm,
Each arc swinging freely.

Each stroke a caress,
Leaving its criss cross mark,
His shoulders signed with a kiss.

He takes each stroke,
But it’s not enough for him,
It’s not enough for me.

I need him to scream.
To see his body tense
and yet still hold his place.

I need him to take my pain,
To set it free
And cry his love for me.

I need to hurt him…
I twist the rope through my fingers and remember.

Hello Again

Sometimes somebody gives you a poem. Sometimes that poem is set to music.

I’m far away and I can’t sleep so I’m reading twitter. It’s evening for most of my timeline so it’s quite busy. Somebody tweeted that hearing a man’s voice is magical and suddenly I’m wishing I could hear a voice far away. I could phone I guess, but I know how expensive that would be and despite that I would still be unable to put the phone down. So here’s the call I don’t dare make.

Hello again, hello
Just called to say ‘hello’
I couldn’t sleep at all tonight
And I know it’s late
But I couldn’t wait
Hello, my friend, hello
Just called to let you know
I think about you every night
When I’m here alone
And you’re there at home Hello
Maybe it’s been crazy
And maybe I’m to blame
But I put my heart above my head
We’ve been thru it all
And you loved me just the same
And when you’re not there
I just need to hear
Hello, my friend, hello
It’s good to need you so
It’s good to love you like I do
And to feel this way
When I hear you say
Hello, my friend, hello
Just called to let you know
I think about you every night
And I know it’s late
But I couldn’t wait

By Neil Diamond and Alan Lindgren

He Told Me

Because there is nothing wrong with being a slut.

He told me I was a slut and he sounded surprised.
He told me I was a slut, he who knows me so well,
But he sounded surprised.

He who knew how I desired him;
Knew how lust burned in my veins.
He who could have had me then.

With less than a breath he could have had me sucking his cock;
My lips wrapped round it, my throat full.

In a heartbeat he could have been inside my cunt;
Sliding into my dampness and filling me with his length.

In a moment he could have turned me over and taken my ass;
Stretching me with his hardness, hearing me moan.

He could have had me but he resisted.
Chose not to take what I was offering so openly.
But he told me I was a slut.

He was so right.

These Are My Love Letters

Because who writes these things on paper and puts them in the post anymore?

These are my love letters,
These words captured here in electronic stasis,
Syllables pinned helplessly to the page.
These very public declarations of emotion.

These are my love letters,
These dreams spelled out for you to enjoy.
Each twisted fantasy inspiring your lust and imagination.
These stories crafted from desire and longing.

These are my love letters,
These remembrances of passionate moments shared,
Of connections forged through pain and pleasure,
Of fantasies fulfilled in flesh.

These are my love letters,
The impassioned yearnings of my heart,
Seeking to be loved and understood,
Sharing my innermost thoughts with strangers.

These are my love letters.

These are my love letters to you.

When I Am Old And Grey

Once upon a time people used to write letters on pieces of paper. Missives describing their lives to people who were far away. Historians can go through such manuscripts gleaning information as to how we used to live. Certainly people write far fewer letters nowadays, so what will future historians use to research our lifetimes?

One way I suspect will be reading blogs. A vast number of people are writing on a huge range of topics (not just kinky ones) and that information will certainly provide reference material for the future.

Given that huge wealth of reading material, I have every expectation that this blog will one day end up on the cutting room floor. I have no illusions as to the quality of my writing; the purpose of this blog is to give me an outlet for my kinky side and random musings such as this and hopefully to help me to communicate with similar people. Undying prose it is not.

Given that these words will quickly be forgotten what will I leave to mark my presence upon the earth? I truly cannot think of anything significant I have ever done. I have won no prizes, created nothing of value, added nothing to the sum of human knowledge. My name is inscribed in no tablets of stone. While I may undertake any number of things to fill the years remaining to me, I will never be famed for any of them.

Any obituary I have will be short indeed, describing me purely in terms of my relationships: daughter, wife, lover. That is all I am. A very long time ago someone ‘gave’ me this poem. I wonder now just how much they saw me here.

When You Are Old and Grey

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

by W. B. Yeats