Back to the hayloft
Ok . . . so I want to say some more about that magical touch in the hay barn (last entry). The power is not in the fantasy. The power is in the attention. You can have the most wonderful, sensual, phenomenal touch, but if your mind is on the laundry list, well, what’s the point?
Or, you can have the most fabulous touch, and if you have not given yourself full permission to enjoy it, and I mean reeeally enjoy it, well, you may not have lost the point, but you could do a lot better.
Permission? Yes – how much do you allow yourself to feel? How much pleasure can you stand? How much do you take until you shrink back, or turn the volumn down? And why that much? What sets that line, that edge?
Fear? For me, there’s a point I can sometimes get to, where it feels like if I felt any more, I’d fall off a cliff that is just too, well, I’d free-fall. (Maybe I need to try one of those parachute jumps to get over it?) So yes, a sort of fear of the unknown, a fear of dissolution, disappearance. This is not for the run of the mill orgasm, but for an intensified, high-energy type of arousal. (as opposed to a gentle, deep surrender type of arousal). Now that I think of it, I suspect that the intensity has more to do with the rush of oxygen and adrenaline than it does the sexual arousal. Hmm … will have to experiement with that.
Or, we might fear tenderness just as strongly as intensity. I tend to love this part, but I do notice that some people can do the most apparently outrageous acts, but not be able to look me in the eye or accept any tender affection.
Why would we fear that? I think it’s because when we receive tender attention and affection, it brings up to the surface any sense of unworthiness, or other ‘bad things’, we feel about ourselves. (and it seems we all have at least some of it). I do know that on occasion, if I am feeling sad or discouraged, and managing to hold it together for some purpose, if I do happen to receive a little tenderness, I can’t hold it together any longer and the tears will flow. Having the other person’s genuine acceptance will open my heart just that little bit extra, and the feelings swell over the edge. So if I take that to more of an extreme, it’s understandable to me that one could fear affection, and the pleasure it can bring.
Tension? Certain kinds of tension can increase arousal, and are fun to play with. Topic for another day. But tense-ness, being tense, can really detract from deep pleasure. The more I relax, the deeper the pleasure. The more I relax, the more I can let the stimulus, the touch, deep inside my skin and my heart.
And that is the point.
Let’s see, what was the question here? Oh yeah, what sets the edge on how much pleasure we allow ourselves?
Safety is another one. When I feel safe, that is emotionaly safe, with my partner, then I relax more, let myself receive more, let it in deeper, become more vulnerable. That’s a huge factor. Safety and trust are relative, of course. I have to have some minumum of safety or I won’t play at all. What I mean is that the more solid the trust in my partner’s respect of my choices and acceptance of my experience, the deeper I can go into my own vulnerability.
Back to permission.
One of the ways I started paying with fantasy, years ago, was that my husband at that time was a great storyteller. We’d start with just speaking a few things while we were playing, and we just got to trust it more and build it more elaborately. I discovered that the story could increase the fun kinds of tension – will he, won’t he – and – give me a certain freedom to express my lust or my seductiveness or my power (all things I had not so much expressed in those days). I discovered that as housewife Celeste I may be pretty vanilla, but as the Queen of Sheba who has brought in a hunk-y young captive of war and had him tied up to the pillar – now she was a different story!
And I’ll have to tell ya, by the way, that was a good one!
And the story could also increase the permission to just feel how good it felt to be touched. I didn’t have to be the proper girl. I could be the concubine, or the slut, or, as in the hay barn, the empowered young woman who chose her first lover when she was good and ready.
So in the hay barn fantasy, she, that young woman, trusted herself, trusted her choice, was ready and had given herself full permission to feel it all.
And that’s why she did.
The magic was not in the fantasy. The fantasy is just what I used to help me relax and get my attention where I wanted it. The magic was in the attention. My own attention.
Blessings, ya’ll.