Hair of the dog

When I told Mr. D last week that we'd be off to Vegas for an extended weekend and I couldn't see him on Monday, he said, "Tuesday, then?" Right away, I answered, "Can we do it Wednesday instead?"

I've been down this road many times; I know how I am after one of these spanko gatherings. I needed Tuesday for decompression. It was a day slated for sleep, for blogging while my memories were still fresh, for basking in the afterglow, for reading an endless stream of posts and comments on FetLife, for downloading and organizing photos. It was a day for hovering in that nether region between the blissful escape of the weekend and reality.

By Tuesday night, reality was settling back in. I picked up my held mail at the post office; all bills. In my spacey state, I locked myself out of my apartment, and my manager snapped at me when I went to ask him for the spare key. I knew it wasn't personal -- his wife is ill in the hospital and he's stressed -- but it still hurt, since he's usually so nice to me. John called and confessed that, though he'd kept it from me so I wouldn't worry, he had been terribly fatigued all weekend and was on his way to the doctor for blood work. (Don't worry, any fellow party-goers; it's nothing contagious. He's infection-prone and everything affects his bad heart, which in turn exhausts him.) The weekend comments and reminiscing on FetLife were dying down, and being replaced with talk of the upcoming BBW. So... by Wednesday morning, I was in full drop mode.

Wednesday was when I knew I'd need Mr. D. And I did.

We didn't play for quite a while after he arrived; just sat on my couch and talked. He'd read all my blogs, so he had questions and I filled him in on details. When I spoke of the closeness I'd experienced over the weekend and how I wished everyone weren't so far away, my voice broke, and he pulled me into his arms. "I'm here," he said.

He said we didn't have to play if I wasn't up for it. Even though I wasn't marked, I was still quite sore, and I had a teeny little scab just below my right cheek when my recurring weak spot had opened up a bit on Friday night. So I knew I wouldn't be up for a thorough session, but I did want a hand spanking from him very much, and told him so.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "Whatever you need. Today, it's all about you."

Despite my blues, I smiled. "Silly man," I replied, "it's always about me."

The spanking was exactly what I needed, just enough, connecting me back to the good feelings and recharging my batteries. After he left, I worked out for nearly two hours after taking a week off. I showered, felt the hot water stinging my bottom like hundreds of little needles, and I grinned blissfully.

This weekend will be low-key, and will seem even more so after last weekend's festivities. But that's OK. I am a bit melancholy, but not depressed. I will be with John and we'll take care of each other. And Mr. D, who is going skiing for a long weekend, will be back to see me next Tuesday. "Be here, now," I must remember. Now is good.

Have a great weekend, y'all.