I had saved all the corks from all the champagne bottles we had shared. All of them. During the past years they had accumulated with changing intensity in a crystal bowl on my kitchen table. During the years I moved and the bowl followed.. Along with it’s contents it’s memories, of conquests and deep talks, of casualty and depth, of opulence and decadence and utterly simple lust. Now time had arrived to move yet again.
One of the last things I packed yesterday was the crystal bowl. I wrapped it carefully, in silk paper and tissue and newspapers, deep in thought, contemplating my move and my destiny. And that of my small collection of memories. The champagne corks I filled into a plastic bag and placed it on the window sill.
This morning, together with the bright summer morning sun, the little bag greeted me, on this the morrow of my move. Getting ready, greeting the movers and finally turning the key for the very last time, I smiled, having - without a doubt in my mind - left the little plastic bag behind, sitting on the sill to greet the new owner.
I have been inactive lately. Actually “lately” is an understatement: For the past six months I have truly neglected my tumblrs.
However I have the very best of reasons: IRL Action. I finally met Him. Actually it happened last autumn, but it took a few meets and a getaway before we both realized it.
One spanking let to another and coming August 1st we are moving in together. Yup, we are doing the full monty: We bough a flat together and are merging our vanilla and our kinky worlds in what we have named a 24/7-light relationship.
"Light" because there are no cages, chains or branding irons around, just a clear definition of roles and responsibilities - and loads of D/s-BDSM sex :-)
I am happy!
I will be back here, full strength, eventually. Most likely during the darker winter months. Until them I will be here on/off when you least expect it :-)
“She was wedded to the sensuality of language, not the grammar that might kill or distill it. She loved words—she loved them the way she loved milk and fruit in the summer, dishes of blueberries with cream poured over them. Making devil’s food cake from a mix, or the sharp happy scent of fresh ground coffee. The pleasure of washing her hair with Halo shampoo, with its piney-clean winterberry heart. The soothing, synthetic scent of fresh magazines. Chunks of sunlight like fresh cold pieces of butter. Ginger ale was ‘tawny.’ A silky taupe sundress was ‘apple-scented.’ Her clean little bathroom smelled like warm skin, fluoride, and chromium. Her attachment to language was earthy, physical, and immediate. Pretty words you could eat.”—Elizabeth Winder, ”Pain, Parties, Work: Sylvia Plath in New York, Summer 1953”