This is the point where I tell you something strange. It gets complicated from now on in, here be dragons, I'm afraid. What you have to bear in mind as you read through this is quite how much history is involved. This is the culmination of a relationship that has been on and off for over twelve years. It spans my first enjoyable sexual encounter to the present day. It's the back story to my sexual evolution, and in a way to my life.
Ten and I are having dinner on our second day in Berlin. I decided that this would be a perfect point to have that usually dreaded "relationship conversation". Except I wasn't dreading it. I was quite looking forward to it, to talking over dinner about how we can make this work and bring in to land the circling love affair we've been having, Turn the odd hotel room fling, text message barrages and letters from cities around the UK into something we could build a life on. For the first time in a while, I'm actually excited.
Usually these conversations are instigated by me and usually they end in break-ups. I feel like I'm forever dragging a reluctant lover into admitting that they really don't want to do more than continue down the tracks of an interminable series of casual fucks. Harsh but true, I find relationships without futures difficult. They can be, theoretically, enjoyable in themselves, but the longer they go on beyond one or two play dates the harder it gets. I start to care, to feel deeply, to want to make them part of my life. Casual lovers stop being casual in a very short space of time. And I have to make a decision to carry on and risk getting hurt, or to stop.
It has been a very long time since Ten and I have been "casual". I make a joke about him being the love of my life, and yet, in a way, he is. I have loved him for longer than anyone else. For all of my adult life, nearly. We have had long gaps of not talking, infrequent moments of contact. But over twelve years, or so. We became a storyline, a romance: a chance meeting that lasted. And lasted. He has always been my most supportive lover, keen to please, lavishing in attention and praise. Like all the things I love, I want to make the most out of them. I'm prepared to work hard at this one, I know it will be difficult, but I want to at least try.
And I thought he did too.
"We love each other, but we're not in love, are we?"
Oh. Sucker punch.
I was in no way ready for that, and it catches me off guard, I hold my breath like I'm waiting for the pebbles bouncing down the cliff to subside in the hopes the avalanche never comes. This wasn't the way this conversation was supposed to go. I wait for him to continue, with the sense of dread rising and all the usual noises come out over commitment, worries about kink and non-monogamy, it's not you it's me. Well, shit. Here we are again, then. Another one biting the dust. But this one was especially bad because I wasn't expecting this at all.
We talk. I tell him that this wasn't the conversation I thought we would have. He stares at me as if I have gone mad, as if there was no way that I could have not known. And yet, how could I? I feel as if I had been promised something only to have it melt away, but for the life of me I cannot remember when he made those promises. I panic, internally. I have a dreadful habit of hoping for more than can possible be achievable, of building castles in the air on the vaguest of potentials. And I've done it again. I've let myself want more, desire more and ultimately need more than I am going to get. I've fallen upon my own sword.
I excuse myself and go to the bathroom. I stare in the mirror. I want to check I look the same because inside I am now completely different. Eyeliner cat eyes and scruffy blonde hair stare back. A light flush about the cheeks from the warmth of the restaurant and the warmth of the alcohol I've drunk. My mouth is a straight line. I am still me, to look at. My chest is an acid-swirling pit. I might cry. I might be sick. I might just stand here and do nothing at all. A combination of resignation, upset, sadness and anger rolls around beneath my rib cage. I have nowhere to put it all. We have two more days together before the flight. I swallow, hard. Physically forcing every single feeling down into a cold, hard little ball. Marbles in my stomach. I walk back upstairs, deliberately slowly, forcing composure. I will not lose face in public. I'd at least like to finish the meal and return to the hotel where I can dissect this in private.
I bring the dinner conversation to a close, keeping it light and leaving aside my objections and my sorrows. I order a strong cocktail and the bill. I pay. We walk back in intermittent silence, it's cold enough to hide emotions under the blanket of night and freezing wind. I don't want to say too much, I don't want to betray myself or the strength of my upset. Because somehow that would feel like losing even more than I already have. The one crutch I'm leaning on is my own outward strength, my dominance over his submission. But I can feel it crumbling as the realisation of what has been said sinks in. D/s relies on a power exchange. One party takes, the other gives. It's a see-saw of sexuality, and is all about balance.
I am unbalanced. Off-kilter and we are out of sync. When we get back to the hotel, I brush aside his noises about sleeping on the floor or getting an early flight the next day. These are pointless sacrifices to an unappeasable god. They will make nothing better, and will only make me feel worse. I don't want him to go away. That's the entire point. I want him to stay. And the realisation of that need, that dependence upon him, and every dominant feeling I might have once had drains out of me like blood from a corpse. I feel small, sad, lonely and frightened. I don't know what to do. I curl up in a little ball on the bed and try not to cry. I remember the feelings I had for The Photographer, the way I wanted so badly for him to want me enough to make some concession in his life toward making me a part, and how this situation is a reflection of that. Another man, another country even, but the same feelings of rejection, of fear and of sorrow.
The switch in my head clicked. And it clicked in a bad way, for all the wrong reasons. The nasty neediness of submission flooded me, the bodily need for erosion, for destruction, to have someone take you over and do whatever they want to your body, to hurt it, to possess it, to match the emotional power that rejection causes. Hurt. Comfort. The things I wanted from him were things he could not provide, he's a submissive and an inexperienced one at that. The kind of violence I needed (desired, wanted?) was the kind he could not provide. Combined with his urge to please me we very quickly got into a difficult place. He became confused and rapidly upset by my physical responses - the "smallness" of it, the placid quiet, the doll-like behaviour.
It all sounds very dramatic, and it was. In common parlance it was pretty fucked up. BDSM can be fucked up, especially when the connection is intense and intimate. I was shocked by the strength of my own reaction, horrified even, and quite angry at myself. But I couldn't help it any more than I could have held the waves of the sea back from the shore. I didn't want to feel this way. I didn't want to react the way that I did. I wanted to be cool and unruffled and strip him naked and use him until I was done then fall asleep. To take what was left on offer to the fullest of my ability and to ignore the things I couldn't have. But you can't help the way you feel. You really can't.
In the end, it was his confusion and upset that brought me back from whatever mental hole I'd fallen into. There he was, that doe-eyed long limbed boy with nimble fingers and face full of concern. Not knowing what to say or to do to make me feel better. Something inside me receded back from where it came, in the depths of my mind. I took his hand and gave him his instructions to please and serve me.
I took not quite what I wanted, but I took what was there. And there was a satisfaction in it. In the barren nature of the use. He had no other purpose to me other than to lick my cunt until I came, to hold me until I fell asleep. Within the fantasy that brewed as his tongue lapped at my clit, I worked to erase him. To remove the person who might have spent his life with me, who warranted an emotional space in my heart, and into a tool and a slave. There was an element of talking myself through it, like building walls around the weaknesses I had just exposed, cementing up again the bits of me that wanted love, protection and someone to care for me. To do that to myself, I had to distance myself, to rise above the world of need and desire and become the cool dominant once more. Perhaps there were parts that were faked. Cobbled together, not quite all there. However, by the time I was tired enough to sleep I felt a little like myself once more. But harder.
Every tale has to have an ending. When the holiday draws to a close we needs must return to our normal lives, for whatever definition of normal we feel like using. I realised long ago that the relationship with Ten was different to any other relationship I'd had. The distance, the length of time we have known each other. However, ever the optimist, I had thought that our difficulties were merely logistics. Every relationship has challenges, and each one is different. Formalities of space and time which could be overcome with the will and desire to do so. And therein lies the problem, simple when written down, it's the same problem I've had before and the same problem that other people have had from me.
I don't want you like you want me.
Hard to swallow, those marbles. Slippery glass choking hazards and tightly crushed hopes. Yet swallow them we must for they are also seeds. And even as they sit in my belly, rattling against my sides and reminding me of the things I have loved and lost. I know that the damn things will grow again. Like pearls forming from irritant grains of sand within an oyster. Time will smooth them over until they look shiny, new and precious. I will find someone else, I will, without reason, want them more than they want me. And I will once again be crushed by my own failed expectations.
Until one day, hopefully, I won't.
Read all about it
Friday, 3 February 2012
Thursday, 26 January 2012
Berlin Story Part Two
Waking up with a generous (and well-trained) lover is one of life's gifts. To be able to turn over and wrap arms around a warm, compliant body that leans keenly into your touch, breath syncing in with yours. To feel them stir, aroused, wanting. Ready and willing. But waiting to be told when it is time, to wait upon your desire, not their own.
Those moments of waiting are like savouring a meal cooked especially for you, to be able to smell and absorb each scent before tasting. The pleasure of them waiting for you. The pleasure of being able to take your time. The anticipation can make you salivate, but it also makes you appreciate what is on offer, like delaying an orgasm by slowing down in order to come stronger and harder at the final finish.
I wake and turn over. How long Ten was waiting and watching me I don't know. The fact that he was waiting is enough. I stroke his shaved head, enjoying the fine stubble and the feel of his skull beneath, the fragility and nakedness of it, the aura of servility. Slave. Submissive. Toy. Boy. Words that float through my sleep-warm brain. I apply a touch of force, just a touch, and he moves to lick, then suck my fingers. He closes his eyes and moves his head up and down. I smirk at his "blow job face" and wonder what he would look like performing those services on a boy, for me. I hook a finger against the inside of his cheek, catching him like a fish and moving his face to where I want it.
Down.
Lower.
He kisses attentively over my breasts and then down between my legs. He's been a good boy and shaved his face fresh this morning so the touch of bare skin to perfect bare skin is cool, slippery and delicious. Nothing to rub or bar the way to pleasure. This was one of the first things I taught him, months ago, in some other hotel room: how to give head to me. I know what I like. And I know what he likes, and that's giving me pleasure. It's about gentle, slow movements of the mouth and tongue, like languorous kisses, only becoming firmer and a little faster - but never hard, never fast - closer to the end, when I hold my breath, my legs and bottom clenches and my spine arches up and towards his mouth.
It takes me a long time to come from oral sex, but it's always worth it. The orgasms are stronger, longer, wetter and spasm through my body for minutes afterwards as wave upon wave upon wave shudders over me. I loose coherence and any sort of language as the world becomes a warm, blank wash of explosive pleasure. Like an expansion outwards from the space into which I fall. No, not fall, dive. The act of orgasm is almost - not quite, there's still an element of chance that makes it all the sweeter - a conscious decision. At some point I become ready and then it happens if I give myself a push.
Everything stops.
And then starts again.
But slower than before, as I gently come back to myself, then to my body, then to the bed and with him in it.
I turn to him and smile.
"Go and turn the shower on, I need you to wash me. Then we can head down to breakfast."
All mornings should begin like this.
Those moments of waiting are like savouring a meal cooked especially for you, to be able to smell and absorb each scent before tasting. The pleasure of them waiting for you. The pleasure of being able to take your time. The anticipation can make you salivate, but it also makes you appreciate what is on offer, like delaying an orgasm by slowing down in order to come stronger and harder at the final finish.
I wake and turn over. How long Ten was waiting and watching me I don't know. The fact that he was waiting is enough. I stroke his shaved head, enjoying the fine stubble and the feel of his skull beneath, the fragility and nakedness of it, the aura of servility. Slave. Submissive. Toy. Boy. Words that float through my sleep-warm brain. I apply a touch of force, just a touch, and he moves to lick, then suck my fingers. He closes his eyes and moves his head up and down. I smirk at his "blow job face" and wonder what he would look like performing those services on a boy, for me. I hook a finger against the inside of his cheek, catching him like a fish and moving his face to where I want it.
Down.
Lower.
He kisses attentively over my breasts and then down between my legs. He's been a good boy and shaved his face fresh this morning so the touch of bare skin to perfect bare skin is cool, slippery and delicious. Nothing to rub or bar the way to pleasure. This was one of the first things I taught him, months ago, in some other hotel room: how to give head to me. I know what I like. And I know what he likes, and that's giving me pleasure. It's about gentle, slow movements of the mouth and tongue, like languorous kisses, only becoming firmer and a little faster - but never hard, never fast - closer to the end, when I hold my breath, my legs and bottom clenches and my spine arches up and towards his mouth.
It takes me a long time to come from oral sex, but it's always worth it. The orgasms are stronger, longer, wetter and spasm through my body for minutes afterwards as wave upon wave upon wave shudders over me. I loose coherence and any sort of language as the world becomes a warm, blank wash of explosive pleasure. Like an expansion outwards from the space into which I fall. No, not fall, dive. The act of orgasm is almost - not quite, there's still an element of chance that makes it all the sweeter - a conscious decision. At some point I become ready and then it happens if I give myself a push.
Everything stops.
And then starts again.
But slower than before, as I gently come back to myself, then to my body, then to the bed and with him in it.
I turn to him and smile.
"Go and turn the shower on, I need you to wash me. Then we can head down to breakfast."
All mornings should begin like this.
Monday, 23 January 2012
Berlin story. Part One
I've been looking forward to Berlin for a while, after the kink and companionship that Ten and I had over Christmas, when he came to spend time with my family. I like the city and it's always had a kinky connection for me, so being able to spend it with him was going to be a BDSM filled romantic weekend.
We met in a coffee shop under the Fernsehturm, finding no spare seat he knelt without question on the hard floor, smiling up at me with his big puppy eyes and kissing my hand, telling me that I am beautiful, that I was missed and how much he is looking forward to spending a weekend serving me. I smile wide and my heart rises up, warm. Kink can often make you feel as if you are living in your own secret world, that other people don't know about. The knowing glances, the inflection in the things you say, the way you hold hands and deliberately clutch fingers too tight. He winces, his eyes sparkle and he grins.
We walked out into the eastern side of the city, neon lights cutting through the cold night. I felt happier than I had in a while, and a little light headed, full of all the things I planned to do to him. We talk, catch up and
I take him back to the hotel and he goes to shower and shave. He knows I like him better smooth. I strip down and lie back on the bed, reading a book and waiting for him. There is a small bag of kit on a nearby chair. I'm deliberately keeping each item a secret until I need it. I run a finger experimentally over my clit and inside my cunt, knowing that I'm wet already but enjoying the thought of satisfaction of what is to come.
He comes through from the shower, absent mindedly applying lotion to his cock and balls where its been stripped of hair. He catches me watching and laughs, a short, slight burst of not exactly embarrassment. I beckon him over and apply some menthol paste to the tip of his exposed cock, watching his face bloom into surprise. I pull him down onto the bed and lie back as he covers my skin with kisses. His mouth and tongue are soft and wet, each kiss a small act of submission. Every now and then his eyes flicker up from under long black lashes to check whether I still approve. He moves his mouth down over my stomach before settling between my thighs to lap at my clit. I can feel the delicate strokes, exactly as I have taught him and I murmur "good boy" whilst lightly stroking is cheek. I lie back and let him bring me to a shuddering orgasm.
When I'm done, I reach over to kiss him, tasting myself on his lips, before pushing him down onto his front and blindfolding him. With his eyes gone, his sensitivity is heightened, but confused. He relies heavily on his sight to process sensation, he's a voyeur and I suspect that viewing acts is important to his ability to feel them, in a strange way. I enjoy putting him into challenging spaces, taking away his usual certainties.
I take my time - we have a whole weekend ahead of us, after all - and begin by slowly pushing lubed plastic thai beads one by one inside him. A hand in the centre of his back, alternating firm pressure and flickering scratches. I watch his mouth for reactions, the parted lips which groan lightly every time I press another bead inside him. Eventually, he is full enough, for now. I focus on his back, twisting and pulling at his flesh as he hisses and whimpers. But each time a smile returns back to his face. I smooth down the skin over each bruise or cut as it flushes pink, then red. I like to layer sensation over sensation, balancing the pressure inside him, with the sharp pain of my nails, with the spreading warmth of the menthol on his cock. Encouraging him to breathe I pull out the beads one by one then begin the press a wide glass plug against him, his back twinges as he arches away from me.
"I can't do it, it's too much."
He's gasping for air, disorientated and slightly panicked. I take of the blindfold and roll him over so I can hold him until he calms down. His breathing subsides a little and between kisses I check that his is feeling better. His lack of sight along with his own inexperience meant that any new sensation leaves him feeling unprepared and more likely to scare. Eventually he comes back to himself and as I stroke him, his cock hardens against my stomach.
It's time to fuck him. I slide a condom onto his stiff cock and roll him onto his back. I put him inside me and ride him, slowly at first, checking his responses, he grips my hips and thrusts against me. I know he wants to come badly. I want to take a little time. Fucking is always better post orgasm, the tissue around and inside my cunt is more sensitive. His cock feels smooth inside me, the lube on the condom and my own wetness. I hold his arms down and watch as he stares up at me, his mouth moves and he starts to moan "fuck" over and over again, seemingly without realising. He comes hard, I can feel the orgasm push up and out from his body.
When he's done I lie on his chest and stroke him as we both cool into our sweat and onto the white, once-pristine sheets of the hotel room. He is unable to speak for some time, and his legs shake so I cover us both with a duvet and wait until he has returned to himself. He looks at me with an almost sheepish expression.
"This is going to sound silly," he gives a small laugh, "but when you hurt me, you make me feel special."
Because he is, to me.
We met in a coffee shop under the Fernsehturm, finding no spare seat he knelt without question on the hard floor, smiling up at me with his big puppy eyes and kissing my hand, telling me that I am beautiful, that I was missed and how much he is looking forward to spending a weekend serving me. I smile wide and my heart rises up, warm. Kink can often make you feel as if you are living in your own secret world, that other people don't know about. The knowing glances, the inflection in the things you say, the way you hold hands and deliberately clutch fingers too tight. He winces, his eyes sparkle and he grins.
We walked out into the eastern side of the city, neon lights cutting through the cold night. I felt happier than I had in a while, and a little light headed, full of all the things I planned to do to him. We talk, catch up and
I take him back to the hotel and he goes to shower and shave. He knows I like him better smooth. I strip down and lie back on the bed, reading a book and waiting for him. There is a small bag of kit on a nearby chair. I'm deliberately keeping each item a secret until I need it. I run a finger experimentally over my clit and inside my cunt, knowing that I'm wet already but enjoying the thought of satisfaction of what is to come.
He comes through from the shower, absent mindedly applying lotion to his cock and balls where its been stripped of hair. He catches me watching and laughs, a short, slight burst of not exactly embarrassment. I beckon him over and apply some menthol paste to the tip of his exposed cock, watching his face bloom into surprise. I pull him down onto the bed and lie back as he covers my skin with kisses. His mouth and tongue are soft and wet, each kiss a small act of submission. Every now and then his eyes flicker up from under long black lashes to check whether I still approve. He moves his mouth down over my stomach before settling between my thighs to lap at my clit. I can feel the delicate strokes, exactly as I have taught him and I murmur "good boy" whilst lightly stroking is cheek. I lie back and let him bring me to a shuddering orgasm.
When I'm done, I reach over to kiss him, tasting myself on his lips, before pushing him down onto his front and blindfolding him. With his eyes gone, his sensitivity is heightened, but confused. He relies heavily on his sight to process sensation, he's a voyeur and I suspect that viewing acts is important to his ability to feel them, in a strange way. I enjoy putting him into challenging spaces, taking away his usual certainties.
I take my time - we have a whole weekend ahead of us, after all - and begin by slowly pushing lubed plastic thai beads one by one inside him. A hand in the centre of his back, alternating firm pressure and flickering scratches. I watch his mouth for reactions, the parted lips which groan lightly every time I press another bead inside him. Eventually, he is full enough, for now. I focus on his back, twisting and pulling at his flesh as he hisses and whimpers. But each time a smile returns back to his face. I smooth down the skin over each bruise or cut as it flushes pink, then red. I like to layer sensation over sensation, balancing the pressure inside him, with the sharp pain of my nails, with the spreading warmth of the menthol on his cock. Encouraging him to breathe I pull out the beads one by one then begin the press a wide glass plug against him, his back twinges as he arches away from me.
"I can't do it, it's too much."
He's gasping for air, disorientated and slightly panicked. I take of the blindfold and roll him over so I can hold him until he calms down. His breathing subsides a little and between kisses I check that his is feeling better. His lack of sight along with his own inexperience meant that any new sensation leaves him feeling unprepared and more likely to scare. Eventually he comes back to himself and as I stroke him, his cock hardens against my stomach.
It's time to fuck him. I slide a condom onto his stiff cock and roll him onto his back. I put him inside me and ride him, slowly at first, checking his responses, he grips my hips and thrusts against me. I know he wants to come badly. I want to take a little time. Fucking is always better post orgasm, the tissue around and inside my cunt is more sensitive. His cock feels smooth inside me, the lube on the condom and my own wetness. I hold his arms down and watch as he stares up at me, his mouth moves and he starts to moan "fuck" over and over again, seemingly without realising. He comes hard, I can feel the orgasm push up and out from his body.
When he's done I lie on his chest and stroke him as we both cool into our sweat and onto the white, once-pristine sheets of the hotel room. He is unable to speak for some time, and his legs shake so I cover us both with a duvet and wait until he has returned to himself. He looks at me with an almost sheepish expression.
"This is going to sound silly," he gives a small laugh, "but when you hurt me, you make me feel special."
Because he is, to me.
Tuesday, 17 January 2012
Label talk
I went to an extremely pleasant discussion group last night, which in addition to being in a pub that served Thai food and had a draught beer on tap named "Unicorn" was the first time in a long while that I have been able to sit down in a group and talk over sex and sexuality without feeling as if I was justifying myself, explaining or teaching, selling something (including myself) or creating a pre-amble to something else entirely - usually kinky sex. We just talked. About things that were interesting to us.
It was a particularly well mixed group of various genders and backgrounds - sexual and non-sexual - which made the topic all the more pertinent: labels, their uses and mis-uses. Although sadly, no-one felt in the mood to don serious spectacles and a pencil skirt to pose provocatively and take secretarial minutes (next time, perhaps?) I've been doing a little musing of my own which will meander you through the conversation.
I'm going to go through some of the labels and some of the phrases as they came up.
Queer This was pretty much the first label that hit the table. And it caused a mixed reaction. Some folk hated using it because they felt it had a negative connotation, partly the historic connotations, but also the sense that it was a bit of a "non-word" the catch all term for someone who was not straight. There was a feeling that the word was political in nature, and that it included the sense of rebelling or challenging or criticising the "normal" culture.
Vanilla We talked about how this is sometimes used as a pejorative word amongst the BDSM community, and as a word for "white, middle class and straight" in certain circles. We touched upon vanilla sex and the varieties of vanilla sex - just as there are varieties of kinky sex - but didn't really explore the idea of vanilla identity (as opposed to kink identities), which might make a nice topic for another time.
Bisexual there was a neat little statistic raised that only 0.5% (or 0.05%, something minuscule) of the population considered themselves "bisexual" which meant that the people around the table were a vast over-representation, or that something is going wrong with the ONS. We talked about sexual orientation as a scale, rather than fixed options, and how people change over time, or depending on the people they are with. The idea of hetero lexibility, or just flexibility came up,
Cisgender and transgender We talked about this curious use of chemistry terms and how the labels came about in order to avoid words like "non-transgender" or (shudder) "normal gender". A quick jump to wikipedia led us onto the fascinating, and new to me, concept of cissexual.
Pervert another word with "bad" connotations, but it's also a word that many kink people at the table chose to describe themselves, perhaps because of those connotations - there is a tendency amongst the BDSM community to enjoy shock value and to "play the villain"
In general we thought that labels did have their uses, to a point. I use them as a "starter for ten" to help kick off conversations about myself and my kink - often during dates. Other people thought they were handy in advertising events and clubs, to show what may happen and the sort of crowd that might be along. We diverted into an interest sideline about equality and diversity monitoring, training and LGBTQ (with discussion on the addition or subtraction of the T and the Q and why this might have been done) groups in large corporations and organisations, which is probably a conversation for another time. Similarly, we got onto a discussion of privilege and the difficulties of managing the phrase "you can't possibly understand X, Y or Z because you are A, B or C" both in terms of accepting that in many cases it is true, regardless of how much you want to understand or empathise, and how upsetting it can be when people make decisions for you and about you based on their perceptions of who they think you are.
We talked about labels that had been put upon us, and the upset that the prejudices of others - intentional and otherwise - had caused. Many of us referred to our childhoods and teenage years, labels seemed to keep cropping up when we were "growing up" and perhaps we have adjusted ourselves around them, left them behind or used them as stepping stones to get where we are today. We found the positives in labels - the way they can help you find out about things, especially with the magic of the Internet, that you might not have known about before, the sense of inclusion in being able to put a name to that thing you like, and the feeling of comfort that other people might like it to.
Grab me on Twitter if you'd like to come along to the next one, and I shall see you there!
It was a particularly well mixed group of various genders and backgrounds - sexual and non-sexual - which made the topic all the more pertinent: labels, their uses and mis-uses. Although sadly, no-one felt in the mood to don serious spectacles and a pencil skirt to pose provocatively and take secretarial minutes (next time, perhaps?) I've been doing a little musing of my own which will meander you through the conversation.
I'm going to go through some of the labels and some of the phrases as they came up.
Queer This was pretty much the first label that hit the table. And it caused a mixed reaction. Some folk hated using it because they felt it had a negative connotation, partly the historic connotations, but also the sense that it was a bit of a "non-word" the catch all term for someone who was not straight. There was a feeling that the word was political in nature, and that it included the sense of rebelling or challenging or criticising the "normal" culture.
Vanilla We talked about how this is sometimes used as a pejorative word amongst the BDSM community, and as a word for "white, middle class and straight" in certain circles. We touched upon vanilla sex and the varieties of vanilla sex - just as there are varieties of kinky sex - but didn't really explore the idea of vanilla identity (as opposed to kink identities), which might make a nice topic for another time.
Bisexual there was a neat little statistic raised that only 0.5% (or 0.05%, something minuscule) of the population considered themselves "bisexual" which meant that the people around the table were a vast over-representation, or that something is going wrong with the ONS. We talked about sexual orientation as a scale, rather than fixed options, and how people change over time, or depending on the people they are with. The idea of hetero lexibility, or just flexibility came up,
Cisgender and transgender We talked about this curious use of chemistry terms and how the labels came about in order to avoid words like "non-transgender" or (shudder) "normal gender". A quick jump to wikipedia led us onto the fascinating, and new to me, concept of cissexual.
Pervert another word with "bad" connotations, but it's also a word that many kink people at the table chose to describe themselves, perhaps because of those connotations - there is a tendency amongst the BDSM community to enjoy shock value and to "play the villain"
In general we thought that labels did have their uses, to a point. I use them as a "starter for ten" to help kick off conversations about myself and my kink - often during dates. Other people thought they were handy in advertising events and clubs, to show what may happen and the sort of crowd that might be along. We diverted into an interest sideline about equality and diversity monitoring, training and LGBTQ (with discussion on the addition or subtraction of the T and the Q and why this might have been done) groups in large corporations and organisations, which is probably a conversation for another time. Similarly, we got onto a discussion of privilege and the difficulties of managing the phrase "you can't possibly understand X, Y or Z because you are A, B or C" both in terms of accepting that in many cases it is true, regardless of how much you want to understand or empathise, and how upsetting it can be when people make decisions for you and about you based on their perceptions of who they think you are.
We talked about labels that had been put upon us, and the upset that the prejudices of others - intentional and otherwise - had caused. Many of us referred to our childhoods and teenage years, labels seemed to keep cropping up when we were "growing up" and perhaps we have adjusted ourselves around them, left them behind or used them as stepping stones to get where we are today. We found the positives in labels - the way they can help you find out about things, especially with the magic of the Internet, that you might not have known about before, the sense of inclusion in being able to put a name to that thing you like, and the feeling of comfort that other people might like it to.
Grab me on Twitter if you'd like to come along to the next one, and I shall see you there!
Thursday, 12 January 2012
Enhanced responses
One of my requirements (and I am a woman of many requirements) from my play partners is that I receive email feedback following on from sessions. This has a number of effects, first and foremost, it's good for me as a dominant and as a person, to know how they felt. I can guess, certainly, and usually I find out the highlights or low points at the time but there's something about giving someone quiet processing time. This allows thoughts to swirl around, connect with other thoughts and memories and create a narrative of what went on in their heads, reminding them of their connection to me and, when I receive it, it reminds me, with pleasure, usually, of what we did and how it felt.
I am an avid reader of these messages, just as I am an avid listener when people speak to me of their desires. I like knowing what makes people tick, even more when I intend to keep count. I've been getting several messages from Ten of late and parsing the similarities and differences between why I did a certain thing, the intention that I had in doing so and the effect it actually had - both in the moment and later.
I laid him face down on the bed, I had limited kit with me so no bondage. Instead I tied a silk scarf over his eyes and went to fetch a few items from my bag: a couple of anal vibrators, lube. I started with pleasure, inserting a lubed finger into his arse, playing with the muscles, feeling the tightness of it. He was tense, to a point, but a few whispered commands to breathe started to relax him. I used the smaller of the vibrators at first, to tease the outlying nerve endings, before lubing up the larger, a multi-beaded affair which coiled around on itself to hook neatly under the perineum, sealing itself in. I pressed it inside him in one smooth movement, listening out for the expected muffled sounds of protest followed by a groan of satisfaction. I was not disappointed. I let him absorb the experience for a while, to float away into the pleasure of it.
Then, pain. Maintaining contact with him was important, the comforting sensation of my presence, in my mind he became something akin to an animal, likely to shy or to buck at anything which frightened him. I straddled his back, letting him feel my weight, the muscles of my legs against his sides offering enough restriction to keep him still. I started slow, light touches of deft fingers against the exposed flesh of his naked back, a palette to my gently increasing impact. Pinches became scratches became the rubbing of knuckles against ribs - a surprisingly painful experience.
He has a wonderful ability to elegantly capture his feelings, and, assuming he is being honest, the extent to which I was able to affect him. From my point of view, the play that we did was physically "light" yet clearly the rapport we share and the D/s connection, together with his relative inexperience, creates a much, much greater reaction than I might have expected. He describes the fear in being blindfolded, the confusion at loss of his usual position of authority and control. A natural voyeur, sight would be the way he would try and experience and explain unusual or new sensations, removing that is a control mechanism certainly, it weakens his ability to perceive the world and puts him more under my tender mercies. It also controls how he is receiving pain or pleasure, forcing him to feel rather than to understand. I wanted him to be driven by the sensations and by the knowledge that it was me doing it, instead of being able to witness his own position.
There is enormous satisfaction in reading these missives, the most evocative of which I read and re-read with a smile playing on my lips. They are love letters written after the fact, full of mirrored reflections, the inverse and converse of what I did, what I felt. They draw out the pleasure, allowing the scene itself to have second and third existences in our minds, on our fingertips as the pads touch the keyboard. I love words. A well turned phrase or sentence is perfect in and of itself, when it describes something intimate that I have done then it transcends and dances like poetry, making the time between meetings if not bearable, then certainly full of wonderful memories.
I am an avid reader of these messages, just as I am an avid listener when people speak to me of their desires. I like knowing what makes people tick, even more when I intend to keep count. I've been getting several messages from Ten of late and parsing the similarities and differences between why I did a certain thing, the intention that I had in doing so and the effect it actually had - both in the moment and later.
I laid him face down on the bed, I had limited kit with me so no bondage. Instead I tied a silk scarf over his eyes and went to fetch a few items from my bag: a couple of anal vibrators, lube. I started with pleasure, inserting a lubed finger into his arse, playing with the muscles, feeling the tightness of it. He was tense, to a point, but a few whispered commands to breathe started to relax him. I used the smaller of the vibrators at first, to tease the outlying nerve endings, before lubing up the larger, a multi-beaded affair which coiled around on itself to hook neatly under the perineum, sealing itself in. I pressed it inside him in one smooth movement, listening out for the expected muffled sounds of protest followed by a groan of satisfaction. I was not disappointed. I let him absorb the experience for a while, to float away into the pleasure of it.
Then, pain. Maintaining contact with him was important, the comforting sensation of my presence, in my mind he became something akin to an animal, likely to shy or to buck at anything which frightened him. I straddled his back, letting him feel my weight, the muscles of my legs against his sides offering enough restriction to keep him still. I started slow, light touches of deft fingers against the exposed flesh of his naked back, a palette to my gently increasing impact. Pinches became scratches became the rubbing of knuckles against ribs - a surprisingly painful experience.
He has a wonderful ability to elegantly capture his feelings, and, assuming he is being honest, the extent to which I was able to affect him. From my point of view, the play that we did was physically "light" yet clearly the rapport we share and the D/s connection, together with his relative inexperience, creates a much, much greater reaction than I might have expected. He describes the fear in being blindfolded, the confusion at loss of his usual position of authority and control. A natural voyeur, sight would be the way he would try and experience and explain unusual or new sensations, removing that is a control mechanism certainly, it weakens his ability to perceive the world and puts him more under my tender mercies. It also controls how he is receiving pain or pleasure, forcing him to feel rather than to understand. I wanted him to be driven by the sensations and by the knowledge that it was me doing it, instead of being able to witness his own position.
There is enormous satisfaction in reading these missives, the most evocative of which I read and re-read with a smile playing on my lips. They are love letters written after the fact, full of mirrored reflections, the inverse and converse of what I did, what I felt. They draw out the pleasure, allowing the scene itself to have second and third existences in our minds, on our fingertips as the pads touch the keyboard. I love words. A well turned phrase or sentence is perfect in and of itself, when it describes something intimate that I have done then it transcends and dances like poetry, making the time between meetings if not bearable, then certainly full of wonderful memories.
Thursday, 5 January 2012
The law is an ass
Ah, the Obscenity Trial.
I am clearly in the mood for a little social commentary, laid up as I am on the chaise longue with naught but a very large pile of Hotel Chocolat Christmas goodies and box sets of quasi-lesbian tomboy anime to amuse me (poor me, however shall I cope?)
Having been brought up to relative speed at last evening's munch and read through the very thoughtful points raised by Obscenity Lawyer here, I don't want to add to the legal wranglings, it's not my forte. So, instead I offer up a little commentary on what is being discussed in the public sphere and my own thoughts. This will doubtless contain a scattering of scatological references to anal fisting because at heart I find the whole thing funny in a dreadful peep through your fingertips mortification sort of way.
First up, some historical and linguistic warm ups - it's very important to prepare the subject, and ensure they are primed for expansion. "Obscene", from the Latin obscenus or Greek ob skene. The Latin comes with a host of crunchy references including ill-omened, genitalia and lewd person, I am especially taken with the idea of bad luck or bad fortune, given the facts surrounding the case itself and the potential worries over repercussions amongst the BDSM community that a conviction would hold. Greek references take us to the world of staged performances whereby depictions of extreme emotion were considered unseemly and therefore done off-stage (hence ob skene). There's a lovely article here on the pleasures of staged violence. The idea of the obscene being that which is unseen or unknown first hand lends another interesting slant to everything going on in the courtroom. The audience of judiciary and jurors are not kinky, to them, this is another country, and consequently they are having an entire lexicon of BDSM explained to them. That's a lot to take in, as it were.
Moving forward slowly, and with carefully lubed up fingers, the word "obscenity" has its first uses in the middle of the C16, where it loses some of that nuance and becomes properly filthy. A word to mean foul or loathsome or, interestingly, profane as in "religious obscenities", something sacrilegious, this coming from a world where morality was the rule of God. These days, the term is more likely to be found in the realms of the legal, supposedly secular field, though the backdrop of unholy terminology remains, especially regarding ideas of "corruption". The challenge is with language, which is why I wanted to start with words. Words make law. This is particularly true for perverts in the wake of the so-called "Extreme Pornography" laws (Criminal Justice and Immigration Act 2008) which also created problems of definitions around the word "extreme". But to get back to "obscene" the full definition on wikipedia here, instantly gets us bang up to date, as well as bang up to our knuckles, into the quandary of morals, social mores, taboos and what is generally considered normal.
Together, these two points neatly illustrates the entire problem. It's a problem of perspective. I, for example, consider anal fisting to be normal, I have first hand (I'm sorry, I just can't help making the puns) knowledge of the practice, am aware of the risks, the pleasures and the practice. It does not scare me, I enjoy doing it. I have seen the greatest orgasm ever generated through anal penetration by a strap on bigger than my arm.
Now, normal is not the same thing as everyday or easy. That orgasm took time and was certainly special. But many difficult, special things are thought of as normal. Boxing is normal, and that takes a lot of training with risk of injury. But people seem fine with men getting fists to the face. Fisting takes time and patience. It is a very intimate activity for all those involved, and very involving it is too. It is something to be be savoured and enjoyed, like a splendid meal or a fabulous bottle of champagne (Marilyn Monroe's enema liquid of choice, if rumour is to be believed and Captain indicates it certainly works).
Most of the people around the Obscenity Trial, barring the defence and their witnesses, appear not to consider this normal. Or indeed have much of an inkling of the wider world of sex or kinky sex. Which to me indicates a difficulty in the idea of being tried by ones peers. Those who do not know, or who have not seen will not understand, not wholly, not completely. This is me trying my very best to not be condescending or misjudge the intelligence or capacity of those who have not experienced or witnessed these things but more and more I am realising what little people know or understand of BDSM. We exist, off-stage, ill-omened and filthy, as stereotyped monsters and will continue to do so for some time yet, it seems.
I am clearly in the mood for a little social commentary, laid up as I am on the chaise longue with naught but a very large pile of Hotel Chocolat Christmas goodies and box sets of quasi-lesbian tomboy anime to amuse me (poor me, however shall I cope?)
Having been brought up to relative speed at last evening's munch and read through the very thoughtful points raised by Obscenity Lawyer here, I don't want to add to the legal wranglings, it's not my forte. So, instead I offer up a little commentary on what is being discussed in the public sphere and my own thoughts. This will doubtless contain a scattering of scatological references to anal fisting because at heart I find the whole thing funny in a dreadful peep through your fingertips mortification sort of way.
First up, some historical and linguistic warm ups - it's very important to prepare the subject, and ensure they are primed for expansion. "Obscene", from the Latin obscenus or Greek ob skene. The Latin comes with a host of crunchy references including ill-omened, genitalia and lewd person, I am especially taken with the idea of bad luck or bad fortune, given the facts surrounding the case itself and the potential worries over repercussions amongst the BDSM community that a conviction would hold. Greek references take us to the world of staged performances whereby depictions of extreme emotion were considered unseemly and therefore done off-stage (hence ob skene). There's a lovely article here on the pleasures of staged violence. The idea of the obscene being that which is unseen or unknown first hand lends another interesting slant to everything going on in the courtroom. The audience of judiciary and jurors are not kinky, to them, this is another country, and consequently they are having an entire lexicon of BDSM explained to them. That's a lot to take in, as it were.
Moving forward slowly, and with carefully lubed up fingers, the word "obscenity" has its first uses in the middle of the C16, where it loses some of that nuance and becomes properly filthy. A word to mean foul or loathsome or, interestingly, profane as in "religious obscenities", something sacrilegious, this coming from a world where morality was the rule of God. These days, the term is more likely to be found in the realms of the legal, supposedly secular field, though the backdrop of unholy terminology remains, especially regarding ideas of "corruption". The challenge is with language, which is why I wanted to start with words. Words make law. This is particularly true for perverts in the wake of the so-called "Extreme Pornography" laws (Criminal Justice and Immigration Act 2008) which also created problems of definitions around the word "extreme". But to get back to "obscene" the full definition on wikipedia here, instantly gets us bang up to date, as well as bang up to our knuckles, into the quandary of morals, social mores, taboos and what is generally considered normal.
Together, these two points neatly illustrates the entire problem. It's a problem of perspective. I, for example, consider anal fisting to be normal, I have first hand (I'm sorry, I just can't help making the puns) knowledge of the practice, am aware of the risks, the pleasures and the practice. It does not scare me, I enjoy doing it. I have seen the greatest orgasm ever generated through anal penetration by a strap on bigger than my arm.
Now, normal is not the same thing as everyday or easy. That orgasm took time and was certainly special. But many difficult, special things are thought of as normal. Boxing is normal, and that takes a lot of training with risk of injury. But people seem fine with men getting fists to the face. Fisting takes time and patience. It is a very intimate activity for all those involved, and very involving it is too. It is something to be be savoured and enjoyed, like a splendid meal or a fabulous bottle of champagne (Marilyn Monroe's enema liquid of choice, if rumour is to be believed and Captain indicates it certainly works).
Most of the people around the Obscenity Trial, barring the defence and their witnesses, appear not to consider this normal. Or indeed have much of an inkling of the wider world of sex or kinky sex. Which to me indicates a difficulty in the idea of being tried by ones peers. Those who do not know, or who have not seen will not understand, not wholly, not completely. This is me trying my very best to not be condescending or misjudge the intelligence or capacity of those who have not experienced or witnessed these things but more and more I am realising what little people know or understand of BDSM. We exist, off-stage, ill-omened and filthy, as stereotyped monsters and will continue to do so for some time yet, it seems.
Monday, 2 January 2012
Apocalypse list
With the New Year and potential end of the world scenarios looming it's always a good time to review where I am with all things kink. I've been tracking back over previous lists of desire, and smiling to myself to realise that I've done everything on one of my first lists and it's subsequent updates. My original requirements are somewhat different to where I am now, though not just in the most obvious way - that those were submissive wants and needs. Actually the desires remain, I still enjoy a lot of those things. I'm still looking for new experiences, and to learn about myself, my feelings along the way, however it's (mostly) from a dominant perspective: there are still types physical, bottoming BDSM I enjoy, but that's very much from the position of "do this to me because I like it".
With those things in mind, in the year ahead I'm looking forward to doing some more of the things I have recently enjoyed, and learning a few new tricks
With those things in mind, in the year ahead I'm looking forward to doing some more of the things I have recently enjoyed, and learning a few new tricks
- Genderfuck play, especially games of masculinity and my teenage boy persona.
- Fireplay, I've love wax play and flicking matches at people so...
- Single tail whips - something I've never experienced on the receiving end either, so that means I'll need to lie back and take it at some point soon.
- Bloodplay
- mFm threesomes
- Hunting - one for the warmer weather but the idea of chase and capture is very appealing.
- Needles. Some people like massages, I like getting stuck with pins
- D/s training - to find someone, potentially Ten, though I'm not counting chickens, to train up to be properly "mine"
- Hard labour - I do like heavy stocks, irons and watching muscles sweat. I could even pretend to sip a diet coke whilst overseeing the pointless rocks breaking.
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