In my little stretch of the Blogosphere, there is not an endless series of passionate encounters that affirms my sexuality and the sexuality of my wife, J.  As much as I like fantasy, I try to be honest about what goes on with me.  If you want bull caca, there is always Donald Trump, just to name one.

I am in the process of phasing in a Mio FUSE, one of those heart rate monitor/activity tracker devices that is tied into your Smartphone. I wore it yesterday for my walk and was generally pleased. The pedometer is accurate. It recorded my distance walked at 4.07 miles.  That confirms the distance I recorded for course length with my auto’s odometer. i say “phasing in” because I am a real curmudgeon when it comes to new technology or, Hell, even old technology. I must confess that I have yet to figure out (or even bother to use) that Kitchen Aid monster mixer thingy.  I feel like I ought to be drummed out of the Cook’s Army for that shortcoming. The way I see it though, it’s just one more thing to clean.

Generally pleased with its first use, I resolved last night to learn more, but I didn’t go back to the tutorials. I was caught up in a lesbian romance novel, At Her Feet  by Rebekah Weatherspoon.  It was a well-paced read, with characters I would like to meet and have as friends. It explored a BDSM dynamic called Mommy/little girl.  It isn’t exactly age play, but there is a Dominant partner and a submissive partner in the couple.

I am intrigued by relationship itself.  I look at what I don’t share about myself with J and wonder about her private self that she doesn’t share with me.   I don’t discuss my love of the erotic,  of the mystery of sexual love.  I conceal my interest and curiosity, perpetuating my sense of shame.  Needless to say, the concealing doesn’t elicit trust. and the cycle continues.