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The online diary of an ethical pervert.

Thursday, 31 December 2009

Distance, desires, definitions

The morning after the night before, I'm attempting my usual submissive sidling up to someone in bed in the hopes of some attention. As Kiss Curls commented to me a couple of days ago, sometimes you just want a bit of a fuss, especially first thing in the morning when everything is soft and sleepy. He wasn't having any of it, keeping his distance. There's a cool absence about him I've never had from any other partner - we don't kiss, at all, there's little in the way of physical contact outside of play itself. I find it curious but have yet to work out what is behind it, whether it's just how he is or part of some personal rules of engagement currently opaque to me.

He's quiet when he plays, for the most part, so I don't have any words or moods to go on. Whether he's in a certain headspace of his own or as calm and unaffected as he appears to be is still part of the puzzle.
All I've got to go by, is the activity. Some resistance play, featuring clover clamps and enforced squat positions; feet pressing against my face; me, prostrate, resting my lips on his bare foot; a failure at forced orgasm (mine, of course and nothing new to be learnt there). These are all well-rehearsed actions for him, reeking of practised control, of domination. There's pain too. Some caning and an oversized ball gag, face flat against cold plastic floor, howling against the pain, later announced to be "about a three". I'm not very durable at the moment so am still considering myself a bit of a disappointment on that level. And on others. I don't feel exactly banal, but I'm not entirely sure that I'm exciting him, either, which is a shame. Whether or not I'm of any worth to this sadist is yet to be proved, in my eyes at least.

The most striking activity was an objectification piece he'd mentioned before: I've been a variety of furniture before, never a loo roll holder though. I'm on my knees, in the bathroom. It's dark, but there's a thin line of light coming from the bottom of the door. There's a smell of cleaning products from the bathtub, where rubber is soaking. He's been washing things, going about his routine, ignoring me. He left and turned off the lights a few minutes ago, I'm currently remembering how good his bare legs looked as he was washing the rubber, unsure whether thoughts of good-looking naked men cleaning BDSM equipment is an appropriate mental state for human bathroom accoutrements.
I take the opportunity to review my position, since it's a new one and since he seemed keen to do it. My thighs are strapped to my calves with thick leather bands, arms around my back and to my sides in a similar fashion. There's a posture collar around my neck, which is padlocked to a chain and thence to a pipe in the wall. I've this gag in my mouth, which isn't quite tight enough and is drooping slightly, but does have a pleasingly chewable ring on the inside that I'm nibbling on to amuse myself. Because I'm bored. And lonely. And cold. And losing feeling in my feet. On the plus side, I am not currently being hit with anything, which is nice and I'm grateful for that.

I wonder what sort of emotions other people would be experiencing at this juncture - whether they would find it humiliating, frightening whether they would be nervous. Once again, I realise, that I don't, that I'm not. He either is going to come back and use the toilet or he's not. There's not a lot I can do about it and it's his call, his responsibility. I can't feel embarrassed, though, no matter how hard I try, it's just not embarrassing, perhaps because of my total lack of agency. It is a little silly, though and I feel faintly ridiculous, certain that I look ridiculous, at any rate. I'm grinning as I type this, because whilst I didn't enjoy it precisely, it was quite a surreal activity, and funny. I'm not sure that was the point. As I sit in the darkness, other things occur. After all, I'm not just an object, I am a prisoner, a captive. I'm also being something, of use, to him, which means staying still, being good. When he returns I concentrate on my breathing, keeping it calm, low and regular, timing my blinking with the exhalations in a similar fashion to before. I don't expect he notices, because I don't expect him to be noticing me. That's the point, really. I'm playing with myself a little, I suppose, but that is part of how objectification works for me, to be inside my head.

Eventually he sits down and plays with my hair a little. That works, the bit of human contact after all the abstraction. Without the waiting it would have been nothing. As it is, it has the air of the first sip of water when you are thirsty. I lean into his hand as he rubs the shaved part of my head, there's a small feeling of warm contentment, I lean into that too. The shadows of something I've felt before. I still can't see his face, haven't done so all morning. I hope he's smiling. He thanks me, later, once I've gone. Before I can send a message to thank him. I wonder what we are thanking each other for - what did he get out of that and why did he do it?

Does what we want reflect who we are - can you get a grip on someone by experiencing their kinks? I'm pondering this and potentially eking out meaning where there really isn't any. Still, it wouldn't be the first time. Captain isn't much for chatter, so my usual post-activity debriefs are fairly curt and I'm left to draw my own conclusions about what drove the activity, where to go next, shame because I'm sure there is something interesting going on in his head and as usual I'm drawn to filthy thoughts and their origins. It's new, the way he does things, and like all new things I want to pick it apart and see how it works.

I'm also dealing with my own trains of thought on what to do with the next phase of exploration. I don't want to play-act, so I'm avoiding random encounters. I don't want anything approaching what I had with The Photographer because I'm not ready for that. I know that I've changed, that I do want something more than *just* play, but I won't know what that is beyond picking things up and knowing that they are or are not right for me. So I'm still running with the "what do you want?" question using trial and error. It's not about activity, I know that much, it's more about the person and context for those activities and how they make me feel. I want to have amazing feelings, and to feel amazing. Part of this is hopefully going to include further exploration of my dominant side - meeting up with a likely looking young man over the weekend for a coffee and chat.

Tuesday, 29 December 2009

Maker's marks

From last night. Dealt through the vacuum bed.

I'm always impressed with how quickly and brightly my skin bruises - according to Captain these were very light blows. I'd argue they were a little harder than that, whilst acknowledging that I am not ready to enter into any sort of pain one-upmanship contest.

Not just because I'd lose. But because really, BDSM is not a contest - and even if it were to be a contest, I'd prefer more valuable criteria like was it a good experience? (yes) and who has the prettiest bruises?

Me. I do.

I also have an impossible-to-photograph-by-myself friction burn in the centre of my back. Carpet burn, I think. How retro.

Vacuum

I have a new favourite thing - vacuum beds (no, that's not me in the image, I'm afraid). Sliding in to the cool, slinky folds I'm a little apprehensive; I have had occasional brushes with claustrophobia in the past and am slightly nervous about a possible recurrence, however this is massively overwritten by my excitement at trying out something I have always been attracted to. The immobilisation combined with the complete covering hits a lot of my buttons. The plastic is slippery and soft, it feels wet but isn't. It is actually quite light and very cool to the touch, I'd expected something heavier, more along the lines of wetsuit material. I'm on my back, legs spread, arms a little away from my sides, a surgical mask fits over my mouth and nose. Everything is loose for a few seconds, then I hear the noise of a vacuum start up and the air is pulled out from the bag. The material tightens around me, most conspicuously around my head and face, although there is a noticeably pull around my cunt, and I think I raise up slightly in reaction to it before settling back down to enjoy the sensation. I can't hear very well at all, and there's a knock-on effect of knowing my air supply is coming through a tube, which is in the control of Captain.

I open my eyes into blackness to see what I can see. Nothing. No, not quite. There's a white circle of retina burn in the centre of my vision, like I'm looking at a spot of light far, far away as my body falls backwards. I feel my breathing slow and I'm reminded of hypnotic and trance states, everything is very quiet and I am able to drop very easily into a pleasingly fuzzy state. It's a little like being underwater, very much like a flotation tank, there's a sense of pressure upon me although I know there is no actual weight. I feel weightless. Floating and with a supreme sense of safety, I am hidden, protected and unassailable. Air ebbs back in and the material loosens, the weight vanishes. Immediately I miss it, saddened with regret, then the vacuum starts up again and, blissfully, the black waves close over me once again.

He closes off my air supply. First a brief gasp, then more, longer pauses. Unlike having a hand over my mouth, this feels more like drowning. I make the physical actions of breathing in, but there is no oxygen with which to expand my lungs, instead of the channel of air, there is emptiness, a wall of not-air, invisible and palpable. I am choking on nothing. He releases me from the line, and like a fish I slip from the hook and back into the water. I can feel his fingers running over my body, playing with my clit, my nipple piercings, stroking my face. It feels smooth and a little warm with his heat, but also clinical, removed. I briefly move up to meet his, but both the pull of the deep, inky blackness and my own reservations about connecting with him in this personal and needy way make me stop. I lie back into whatever sensations he wants to deliver, ready and receptive. There is a smell of chemicals in the air, which I later find out is amyl nitrite, at the time I was unsure whether it was real or whether I was imagining it, as I fell even deeper. I'm soon roused from my reverie, by light, then harder blows to the inside and tops of my thighs. They penetrate both my physical relaxation and self-indulgent image of protection. I am not very distressed by this, as such, possibly because I'm relatively deep by this stage and also in part because the pain is a needed contrast. A required punctuation in my experience, reminding me that I am subject to the whims of an outside force, whether pleasurable or painful. A little part of me is annoyed that my calm has been interrupted, but another part is glad that it happened.

The vacuum stops once more, and air returns all around me, the zip is unfastened but I don't move. Warm liquid splashes over me, body temperature. My first thought is water. My second thought turns out to be more accurate - urine. Strangely, or perhaps not, I'm more interested in finding out which it is than worrying about what it might be. There's enough space around my face mask to reach out with my tongue to taste, but I'm still none the wiser until later on when I'm finally out. I had often wondered whether I would find the experience of being urinated on thrilling or humiliating (I'd hoped for both), as it is, it was more of an habitual action, something perfectly normal and acceptable in the circumstances that gave no more impact than the physical - that of being sprayed with warm liquid. Either way, I was wet and the plastic around me became more slippy. When the air is pulled out again, I feel more cocooned, the sensation of being underwater is much stronger - I can hear the bubbles in the liquid which packs around my eyes and ears enhancing my submersion.

In the darkness, I mused on whether I was actually concerned about being covered in piss. I decided that I wasn't, and that was a bit of a shame.
Perhaps it was the fact that there was no outside context, I was fairly relaxed by that point and couldn't see what was happening so was reasonably unaware. Additionally, given that I'm not squeamish about the act itself - the main reason I'd never done it before was simply that I'd never done it before, rather than any reticence. Finally, I think that this is another area where the D/s and interpersonal elements play a strong point with respect to impact. As with anything psychological, which humiliation certainly is, I think that there needs to be an outstanding sympathetic connection to fuck around with - real feelings, in short. Which we don't really have much beyond general mutual interest, which is very enjoyable, but not very deep. My major focus is on his enjoyment and my own physical experiences so it was more of a positive than anything else: it was nice to be convenient, to be used. He did it to me, therefore he must have wanted to, and it was an interesting feeling, there was not much more to it. I'd like to think that there could be more impact, in different circumstances, and certainly with another context. Something to file for later, perhaps.

Build up, break down

My arms are tied behind my back, I can hold my elbows in my hands, wrap my fingers around myself. The rope is tied to a suspension hook high up, I can lean into it, testing the strength of the bonds and, by inference, the strength of my body. Being tied up makes me feel strong: regardless of whether I can or cannot loose myself, I feel as if I could. I can imagine my muscles flexing and snapping these cords. The fact that I couldn't is irrelevant, it's the place my mind goes. I feel very powerful. I am tied up because I am a strong, potentially dangerous thing. There's a sense of the animal about it. I don't speak but I do feel a little growly, not in an angry way - it's more playful than that. If I were a cat my tail would be twitching, waiting to see what happens next. Although on the outside it may seem as if I am the captive, inside I am the one toying with the situation, grinning and biding my time. I am poised, elegant and perfect. I am also beautiful, displayed like this, arranged and put in place. There is a strong sense in which the attentiveness of the Dom becomes an investment of some sort of power, of time, of effort in the submissive, rather than the more traditional removal. I can feel it now, each touch and each tie. A certain energy. And I'm lapping up the attention and loving it.

After an hour or two, I'm back in the same corner of the room, but everything has changed. I'm on my hands and knees, cold, wet and shaking. A thick, padded collar around my neck, my head locked in place inside the iron circle at the front of the puppy cage. I'm outside the cage and I feel exposed, vulnerable. If I were inside there would be safety, I would be the strong thing held tight and Captain would be on the outside, limited in what he could do, how he could interact. Now I am the limited one. There are no ropes to hold me, just the heavy cage, keeping me down and in place. I can't see him, he's somewhere behind me - all I can see are the drops of liquid on my arms, resting uncomfortably on the rubber floor on the interior of the cage. I feel a wave of cold rush over me and I shivver hard. It's a full body shake, from top to toe. I try and hold myself still, legs spread in what has become an accepted position, arse raised.

He hits me. I don't really remember where and I don't really remember how it felt beyond the fact that it hurt. I think I howled. The pain showed me to be exposed, removing any last vestiges of strength that I might have had earlier. The only thing that remained to me was my capacity to withstand this, to endure, internalize and go with the pain. To take it from my soaking, trembling skin and hold the warmth within me. I've done it before, let it take me away and use it as a badge of how good, how well-behaved and submissive I could be. Not now. The pain was pain was pain. I was trapped and being hurt. He was silent and far away. I was alone with the pain which I just couldn't endure. I let go. I kicked, bucked and lashed out with my arms to catch the flail before it could land again. Then I broke down and cried. Not because of the pain, but because I had failed to take the pain, because I had been weak and unable to bear it, because I had tried to fight back as opposed to staying still. Because I had done something wrong. I was frustrated and unhappy with myself, with what little I had managed to do, with the pathetic quantity and quality of my performance.

Thinking back to that moment, talking to him about it later in bed, that had been a key point for me - the use of the word "performance" emphasising that much of what I had done thus far was exactly that, a show for his benefit, me trying to show off, flash my colours in a superficial rite of nothing significant. Doing it with mirrors. That moment was different. That was me, dragged kicking and screaming from my safe place of comfortable aptitude into something too hard. Something I couldn't do. A genuine break rather than a self inflicted push.

Sunday, 27 December 2009

Mixed messages

Just returned from the Christmas kinky hiatus and attempting to stack my diary for the next week. Like meals, it's very important not only to have regular and balanced BDSM activities, but also to know when the next one is coming along. Currently there are irons in the fire but nothing actually materialising, which is making me a little fed up. I'm having a slightly concerning communication issue with Captain in which he doesn't respond to any of my messages trying to set a next date, though still sends me the odd note to me apropos of nothing. I'm hoping it's just a technology issue or crossed wires rather than some curious and dull game I'm unaware of playing. Of course, the sensible thing to do would be to talk to him about it but in true Catch22 style that rather does require a two way conversation. Perhaps he's recently picked up some male version of The Rules. It's hard to decide what to do, obviously I've enjoyed the two sessions we've had thus far and would like to continue but equally I don't feel much like playing silly buggers and hoop jumping in order to get there. Those sort of games are for serious relationships and generally one agrees the parameters in advance.

Ho hum.

*drums fingertips*

Wednesday, 23 December 2009

Absent friends

"You don't really do anything, you just stay there and I do all the hard work." A joke, but perhaps one that some tops might secretly believe. But there's more to staying there than just doing it.

Captain is running ropes around me, moving me this way and that. My hands rest loosely on my shoulders, fingers splayed, arms bent double and knotted into place. I let myself go not quite limp, but limber. It's a balancing game of joints and muscle - to be soft enough to be manipulated easily, hard enough to hold oneself in a convenient place. For him, that is, not me. I'm the one who is meant to be convenient. My legs are spread and I'm stood up, leaning a little against him whilst at the same time trying not to intrude on what he is doing. The other balancing game is happening in my head as I try to think about nothing. There's a concentration that I don't want to break, both his and mine. I'm pushing mine into my skin, busying myself with being a thing. It's hard because on one hand I don't want to think about what is happening to me on any level, more than that, I don't want to actively mentally participate in it, just to be abstract and physical. On the other, there is a certain amount of effort required to give myself the first push.

Because we are still new to each other and relatively personally unconnected so the D/s is only really inferred at this stage. It's still mostly in my head - I don't know what he likes or dislikes and there are no protocols or agreements to follow. I'm out on a limb slightly. My instincts are still there, of course, but they are general rather than focused on him. I go where I'm put, I move, wait and want. I suck greedily at skin when it's near my mouth because that's what I physically desire. But I need something more than just my desire. I need his. Which I still don't really have a feel for, hence the self-inflicted push. I'm in an interim stage. Becoming null. I'm a body. A puppet. I experience. I don't look at him, eyes flickering down, I see him in patches: a shard of shoulder, a flash of skin. I feel him, pressing against my back, an arm around my throat. My head is consciously raised to maintain the posture and correct line of my back and neck. But I don't look. Eye contact is intimate and would be a human (and humane) reaction, a connection during which we would both see each other and the spell would be broken.

For some, this would be an appalling reaction. A deliberate pulling back and moving away from the other person in the space. A rejection of what they are doing. When in fact, the opposite is true. What I'm doing is making myself into a canvas, a space to be taken over and colonised. There are theories of submission, one being that it is a "gift" that is given up, another that the real power lies in the submissive, who controls what can and can't be done by what they are prepared to give up. Those things can be true, but that's not where I am now.
I'm not handing anything over, not in that mechanical, mercenary way. I've let go. What happens next is not up to me. I don't want it to be. I refuse to control or to place a limit on what I will and won't do because I refuse anything that feels like agency. I'm playing another game of not being there. He's playing it too, covering my face when he fucks me, erasing any possibility of personality. I wonder if he is more present because of my absence, if he can move into the physical and theoretical space I have created. My abdication of power creates power for him which he uses to get what he wants. And that is how I am taken. I abandon myself, become nothing and allow myself to be rebuilt.

Talking to Kiss Curls about this, as she described a particularly intense session in which her hands were cupped like a porcelain doll - fingers fused together, thumbs on a curling semi-circle. Each time we do it, each time we erase ourselves and let someone else remake us, we get a little bit closer to the desires of the other, which are wrapped up and reflected in our own desires. We learn a little bit more, by doing and being done to. Become a little bit more perfect, a little bit better, a little bit more like that thing we want to be. That thing you always want to take.

Tuesday, 22 December 2009

Liebe ist fur alle da

I have a new Christmas present requirement. It contains everything that a woman could want, and all in a beautiful and attractive display case.

The deluxe edition of Rammstein's new album Liebe ist fur alle da which features dildos cast from each member of the band, cuffs and lube. I could make some sort of "stocking filler" related pun, but I'm not going to. I shall merely wonder which one belongs to that fine, strapping, germanic specimen, Mr Lindemann.I do like a man whose shoulders have different post codes. Especially one with that voice.

Excuse me whilst I go and have a little lie down.

Sex tourist

December in Berlin is cold. The kind of cold that gets into your bones and only substantial quantities of alcohol will draw it out (gluhwein comes with amaretto shots, I learned) I was feeling a little low, partly because of the temperature which meant I mostly wanted to hibernate, but also because I was by myself in a strange city where I didn't really know the language. Being a tourist will always make you feel like an outsider, so I was looking forward to visiting Gargoyle and being more at home. The club itself was smaller than I'd expected, perhaps because I'd thought dance club rather than private members club. It was also a little quiet, there had been an expectation of around 30-40 people but the weather and the closeness to the holidays had reduced the figure to around 15 or so. It was, however, very cosy and welcoming - a bar area with comfy chairs for sitting and chatting, the obligatory smoking room (everyone smokes in Berlin) which came complete with puppy cage and neck holder, presumably for fitting an ash tray device, if you wanted. There was a back room with a beautiful custom made wooden frame of multiple use and a downstairs dungeon area. Small, but perfectly formed and a neat combination of safe, comfortable social space with playrooms. There were also lockers for getting changed and the cover charge included the opportunity to borrow all those bits of kit that we Londoners cart around in rucksacks.

All in all, it was a very well-thought out space for the scene - I remember thinking that having one of these in London, especially given that it was very easy to get to, would be a remarkable addition and alteration to how we play and interact. Here, the focus was on friendly interactions - the party I was attending was called Gemeinschaftserziehung which translates as "co-education" (everyone was very kind to speak English to me when and if they could, and for a portion of the night I had a semi-naked young man at my feet to translate the difficult bits). The hostess went around encouraging people to talk to each other, finding out what each person liked and wanted to do and introducing them to like-minded folk. The idea of the evening was that everyone would learn from each other, both in terms of play style and experiences - I put the previously mentioned young man on the rack after he looked at it with fear and excitement. There was a wonderful moment part way through when he got very panicky and I was able to calm him down with some breathing exercises which was a very satisfying sensation in terms of practicing that particular form of benevolent control I enjoy.

Mostly, however, I watched and talked to people. As best as I could. Sometimes with hand gestures. I suppose that part of me was looking for specific differences, a hat that I could put on "the german scene" but with only a small number of people, in one club, with my limited language use, I was just repeatedly struck with how similar everything was. Unlike the vanilla bars I'd been in on the other nights, striking up a conversation was much easier and the entire place felt more sociable. Perhaps it was simply that we had more in common, or that at any rate a common subject matter was obvious and talking about it practically a necessity.

Thursday, 17 December 2009

Berlin

Have arrived in Berlin. Been here for about 8 hours and have yet to experience any of the crazy renegade sexuality that was promised / implied.

Although there are a lot of Christmas Markets. Going to attempt a private party at a play club tomorrow, assuming that I can navigate the U Bahn.

More info when internet is less prohibitively priced...

Wednesday, 16 December 2009

Conversation points

Dinner and ice-cream date with Offensive Charmer last night which inspired a number of thoughts, some of which are still brewing. We talked about everything, as usual. All things kinky, at any rate. Politics and religion were far from the dinner table because it was already full of sex. We discussed the difference between the London and New York scene, he bursting my bubble on any big apple fantasies by stating that London has far more clubs, munches and general open-mindedness about the whole thing. We talked over BDSM mythologies - those fantasies we used to hold, and in some cases still do, about what is and isn't possible in the cold, hard world of actual people. We talked about our recent, "failed" relationship and it was interesting to do so in a more clinically-brained what have you learnt? scenario. Food for thought. I'm just beginning to be able to think about my relationship with The Photographer in anything approaching a calm, neutral manner, so attempting this was very interesting. I know that I can't be in a relationship where I am treated as anything less than the "main partner", I'm doubtful that any form of polyamory would ever really work for me, though I can imagine a scenario in which I was monogamous but open to the odd play partner here and there.

I'm still thinking about it, but it was interesting how many things instantly came to mind. I know that I find a D/s relationship more exciting than a vanilla one, certainly a sex-life that is BDSM-focused is now a must. I know I want a relationship in which there is that sort of connection in tandem with an emotional attachment. I'm not sure I could have a "purely" D/s relationship or master/slave relationship for any length of time without wanting to develop it into something broader. I enjoyed the casual-but-omnipresent style that our relationship evolved into, one in which I was always his, and we both knew that, but in which the D/s was always there, but not always externalised or demonstrated - I never wore a collar, for example. In some ways, I might have liked more protocol than we had, some formalisation, certainly there was repeated talk of an agreed symbol of our partnership - tattoos and piercings for example, but they never materialised and that's just as well given what happened. Perhaps quite telling in the way that they were discussed many times but never truly offered. Finally, I know I want something that lasts, that gives me security and love for the rest of my life. I also know that I'm not ready to begin looking for anything like that at the moment. But that I am more than happy to wait.

Offensive Charmer always brings out the pocket socio-psychologist in me and we ended up revisiting the lists of what we wanted, prompting me to revisit the original list of Things I Want To Do, constructed at some point many, many months ago and updated still a while ago. Interestingly, most of the original wants have been checked off. So perhaps there is time to construct a new one?

I'm not sure what it is about him that make me review in this fashion, perhaps it's his own yen for order. We also talked briefly about "us", in the sense of whether we could possibly be compatible. I suspect that he is more inclined towards micro-management and that his patrician style will not necessarily fit with mine, he has suggested that I visit New York so he can test the hypothesis by fucking me. I rarely find fault with this kind of directness, there's a lot to be said for coming straight to the point. Whether we can actually get the time to do this is another matter.

Sunday, 13 December 2009

I am what I am

In an email conversation with Green Man, I've been sending strangely timely text messages by all accounts (nice to know that my radar is not completely off-kilter) and he asked me an interesting question about whether I did consider myself a switch, given that the situations in which I appear to be having the most fun are those when I am submitting.

The short and pat answer is "yes" but he certainly got a better response than that. There's a number of reasons and I thought it worth going through, it's the end of the year and I'm always easily led into a spate of introspection. To kick things off, I don't like labels. They serve a purpose and that purpose is usually served within five minutes of introducing oneself. My thoughts on labels are similar to my thoughts on stereotypes - I can accept that I might appear to be certain things, but that's usually because of where I am and how I'm doing. Usually. Sometimes it's all true. So far, so muddy, that's the difficulty with talking labels. What I can talk about is activities, experiences and feelings (physical, emotional, that crazy-wonderful place that is both, neither and in between).

I do BDSM because I enjoy it, simply put. Really, really enjoy it. I like all sorts of things about it. I like being part of a niche community that does things differently to others. I like being engaged in something that inspires passion and massive responses. I'm fascinated by human responses, others and my own. I like to observe reactions, feel skin go taut. I love kit, the smell of leather, the jingle of buckles and sex that is more than sex. I like it when my heart races. I like it when other people's hearts race and when they collapse into a silly, giggling, grinning heap. I like doing that to people and I like it when people do it to me. It's not just the net result though - it's about how we got there and who I'm doing it with. Certainly my main serious partners have been mostly dominant, which means that I've done mostly submissive things. Different strokes...

The physical stuff is easier to describe and although I currently stipulate (on various websites across the internet) a few activities I don't enjoy, I can imagine that with the right person, in the right context they could be amazing. They just haven't been right for me yet. Or I haven't done it and am worried about not knowing how. So I can't tell you about my BDSM orientation by just telling you what I have enjoyed doing. Just that I've enjoyed doing it. I might not in the future. It depends on what's in my head. And there's a lot going on (I know it doesn't often seem that way). Right now, for example, I am seeking out some beautiful young men who might be interested in becoming pets for my own personal amusement - this has resulted in some epic dreams about cunnilingus training that I'm hoping to turn into reality. I have also had dreams about being beaten til I couldn't move then strapped down and fucked.

Before I start to isolate everyone by sounding very undecided and fickle (which certain parties have already defined as being the core of "a switch") I do know that the real desires of my heart lies in the psychological context for those activities. Because it's not about what I'm doing. Really, it's about me. I like to feel important and valued, that comes across in how I play - when I'm on top I don't want to have to fight someone for control, I want them to come to me and beg me to take it from them. To offer themselves up for me. When I'm submitting, it's about being "good", either because I just am, or because I've done something difficult and challenging. Either way, I want to make someone happy because they are with me.

The key is in who that someone is, what they want and what pleases them. It's that which drives the way I feel which in turn drives what I enjoy doing. It's in the D/s, in the power play - in whatever real connection I have with my partner, whether that be love, fondness or a deep, chemical need to fuck them right then and there. Without that connection, things become a little less interesting to me, it's casual sex and messing around and I'd rather spend my time doing something with a bit more "me".

Saturday, 12 December 2009

Vanilla sex or vanilla serious?

A couple of weeks ago I considered internet dating, in the vanilla sense. Spurred by curiosity, and a conversation with a friend of mine who had had some success, I clicked over guardian soulmates and decided to have a look at how the other half live their dating lives.

The quick search is by gender, age and location. Fair enough as a start, I suppose. First, and fairly obviously, there are a loads of them. Tons, in fact. I'm stunned. With plenty of (quite good looking, actually) photos all smiling back at me in various normal surroundings. No-one seems camera shy or laying claim to having some sort of very secret / high powered career that prevents them from putting their image on the internet.

Each profile then has several tabs of text on who they are and what they want with many, many check box "interests" that seem, frankly, irrelevant - party behaviour, fashion choices, body art, sports, animals.... It seems that I can search for a man who likes pinstripes, football and penguins, should I want such a thing.


Yet, something is really rather obviously missing. Oh yes, that's it. How do they like to fuck and what's their kink? I can't tell. There's no section for that. There's no section at all for any sort of sexual desire (although I can search for both boys and girls) which seems strange given that I would consider that more important than whether or not a person has daydreams (yes, that is a question on the profile). I wonder why there's no mention of it, casually wondering whether there's some sort of code in operation - one person has put "assertive" does that mean dominant? Probably not. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Or in this case, sometimes an absence of sexuality is an absence of sexuality, which seems bizarre on a dating site. Surely sexual compatibility is important to everyone?


I consider whether it's just Guardian readers who are uninterested in sex and wander over to mysinglefriend.com which comes up with pretty much the same sort of thing, except with less check boxes and some text from their "friends". Again, factors like whether someone drinks or smokes seem important, whether someone likes doggy style or open air action does not. These sites are clearly aimed squarely at those seeking Mr or Mrs Right and I am frankly alarmed that people are prepared to meet up with someone who might be a complete turn-off sexually speaking. In a final blast of experimentation I veer towards the terribly named but much promoted benaughty.com in the hopes of finding vanilla folk who aren't afeared of sex-talk. It has a heart logo with some little devil horns. Already I feel uninspired.

Unlike other sites, I have to sign up and create a profile first, rather than just entering "bloke" "around my age" and "somewhere near me" into a search box. I am wondering whether there needs to be some sort of members-only exclusivity before people will begin to talk about their sexual desires. It does seem that as the sexual content increases, the photos on profiles decrease - a lot more profiles without pictures. People do seem to be a bit shy about connecting their image with having sex. I start to fill out a profile, bits of it are in code - I can select whether I want "saucy chat", "casual encounters" or even "discreet relationships" which I infer mean cyber sex, one night stands and cheating on my spouse. Great. So there is sex out there in vanilla-land. It is just a bit, well, grubby and underhand. Not in a good way. I have a look around. It's definitely aimed at getting someone, and getting them fast, no matter who they are as long as they want to have sex - lots of chat room options and I could also send mass-messages to anyone who fit my requirements, if my requirements were as simple as "male" and "postcode". The profile pages are a bit more specific - though nothing like as in depth as a BDSM site. Sexual likes and dislikes hover around oral sex (apparently this is optional), and little bit about positions and sexual orientations. There is a kinkier aspect - a reference to "being master or mistress" another to "when it hurts a little" and a final one to "golden showers" which surprises me as I had this pegged as a vanilla pick-up site and whilst a little light bondage and roleplay seems an acceptable vanilla activity I wouldn't have automatically assumed that watersports was. Live and learn. After accumulating about twenty messages in five minutes without bothering to upload a profile (women appear to be in the minority on this site) I click off, feeling a little dirty - again, not in a good way.

So that's the lie of the vanilla land, it seems. Sites dedicated to finding your one and only, with no mention of sex and sites dedicated to finding sex without any consideration for much else. Sex separate from seriousness. How strange.

Friday, 11 December 2009

Trans-atlantic conversations

Two coffee/dinner/misc dates lined up for next week, both from people who have flown in from across the waves. Not expressly to see me, I hasten to add, but I'm happy enough to be on their lists of London kinksters to meet up with. Offensive Charmer who I long thought lost to the lure of New York and I are going to try and squeeze in a dinner around our terribly hectic schedules and one half (or maybe both halves, if I'm lucky) of a couple that The Photographer and I were in touch with and it's nice to still be in contact.

They are both smart men who have very particular and interesting views on kink - thus far I haven't actually played with either of them and given the way that diaries are going that isn't looking likely for the foreseeable future. So, we talk. Whether by email, the rare face-to-face meetings or through reading and commenting on something the other has written out there on the internet, our connections are based in the majority on words not actions. I love talking about kink, especially with folk who are keen to get deep into it and both of them are. Looking forward to two evenings spent picking apart the whys and wherefores, plunging our greedy philosophic fingers into pots of desire and then licking them clean.

Thursday, 10 December 2009

Kid in a candy store

"Do you have any thoughts, fantasties?"

The obvious answer is, yes. Lots. I immediately get very excited, then almost as immediately become completely stuck. I have the opposite of writer's block. Writer's overload.
It's not as if Captain is limited by kit, for example, or by will-to-power. Consequently, I want to do everything. Twice. Especially the things that scare me, or things I've never done before, or never even heard of. This particularly holds true with pain, which is a personal fascination of mine. It scares me, for a start. Not just because it hurts, but because the fear of being hurt is such a strong survival instinct and going through that barrier is extremely powerful. It's also a complicated psychological sensation: I know I've rarely had the same mental or physical response twice; that I've loved and hated it in equal measure (sometimes at the same time) so giving any sort of straight answer is nigh on impossible.

So that's the descriptive difficulty. There's another issue at play, which is about D/s power dynamics and how they operate in the negotiation phase, which I guess is where we are at, early days and all that. Open ended questions like that, without context leave my submissive brain feeling confused. The usual response would be "whatever you want" but that sounds as if I'm turning the question round and refusing an answer. It's not quite like that - I don't know what he wants so I can't offer that up which leaves me feeling stalled. Because of the way I like to submit, I want to feel as if someone else is in control, but I know a remit is required, at least in the beginning. I'm not embarrassed to ask for what I want and am aware that mind-reading is not yet common currency. So I find myself giving a list of red/amber/green activities, which are in themselves a little tricky because they are naturally based on things I've done before, with other people in other circumstances so I'm never precisely sure if it will apply in the future.

Clearly there is a lot more exploring to be done. Excellent.

Monday, 7 December 2009

Ex Machina

The hood goes on first. Rubber, relatively thin, but full of the smell of it. I haven't played much with rubber before however I'm a quick learner and the attraction is pretty clear: it's not tight, but it is soft, slippery and close, rubbing against my skin, alien and cool. There's something fitted against my face, covering my mouth and nose, hard plastic it feels like (I later find out it's an anaesthesia mask) and I think my breathing is restricted. I'm not sure. As with everything in a hood it's a little far away, a little disconnected. My body is there but my brain is trying to be inside and outside at the same time. Inside because everything feels sharper and stronger, inhabiting myself, circling around and around in time with my breathing. Outside because there is a picture in my mind of what I must look like. Naked body, rubber hood: a not human thing. He said he was going to make me into a fucktoy. I want it because I want it. I want it because he wants it. The latter is important and informs the former. I have desire, sure when he ties me to the cross and investigates my cunt there's evidence enough of that to draw comment. I want to give myself up to someone who wants to take it. Fucktoy is perfect. Behind the blind hood, I close my eyes and let go.

Earlier.

Date on Friday night.
A classic date: dinner, drinks then BDSM. A first date, even, if collapsing into bed together (but not doing much more than wrapping limbs against limbs and falling asleep) doesn't count. I'm choosing to say it doesn't, but will admit that this week has moved fast. But if the alternative is to say "no" when you mean "yes, please" I'll accept fast any day of the week. I first met Captain at the London munch and we chatted, briefly. Then again at the U35 drinks where there were further chats - and further drinks hence the unforeseen but basically chaste stopover at his house. So, Thursday morning, filtering a cup of tea around a storming hangover and arranging a date for Friday. Because it's nice to do things properly, even if that means stopping what you are currently doing and starting again.

I'd sent over an email of likes and dislikes, hard to write because I didn't know him very well. I knew he was an experienced dominant and I knew he had plenty of kit and wasn't afraid to use it. Both facts were big positives, I could be safe without having to be in control. For the first time in a while I was actively excited, physically and mentally, about play. And a little nervous, because this was new territory, no acknowledged rules or previous methods of engagement. Restart button. That probably added to the excitement all told.

Later.

I'm strapped face down to a Y shaped bench. My arms are folded together in the small of my back, my legs are spread and bent back - calves strapped to thighs. He's wrapping me in plastic. I can hear the peel and coil of the wrap, the slight tackiness of it as it folds around my limbs. I'm still hooded, breathing through a tube and sometimes the air stops, rubber inflating and deflating uselessly, enough to bring me part way to a panic. Then released. After a short while, I'm done. Bagged and tagged. There's only a couple of inches on show, arse and cunt. I'm two holes in nothingness. Squirming a little underneath, to see how it feels. It feels good, tight enough to be held all over and nowhere to go. There's the chill drizzle of lube over the exposed flesh, making me slick. I am made of concentrated anticipation. There's something hard, large and seemingly spherical, pressing against my cunt. I tense as I hear mechanical buzzing and my thoughts race at memories of over-powerful magic wands. I become a little scared. The shape presses inside me, pushing slowly in and out, uncaringly pushing through taut, worried flesh. It's hard and it hurts enough to mean something. It throbs with weight. And there's something else, pushed close against my clit. I recognise the hitachi and barely have time to utter a pre-emptive yelp before it roars into life and my body explodes with sensation. It's too much. I know it's too much after two or three miliseconds. It's too much but it isn't stopping and I can't move. I can moan though, which I do, as if the pressure against my cunt and inside me is trying to come out of my mouth. It doesn't help. I have never felt force like it and it is force, brute force, commanding deep responses. It's not exactly pain, it's not exactly pleasure, it pitches between the two, in waves equally unyielding and incessant. I cannot relax into it and I cannot get away from it. Sometimes I'm sucked down by it, other times I can edge myself away a little but then the pitch changes and it's too strong again. I tense, almost as if I'm about to orgasm, but the pressure is too much and I can't. Something has to give. So I started to cry with the helpless frustration of it all. All this time when I thought I was tied up to be the object and instead I am a whimpering scrap of flesh plastered to a bench in thrall to the real machines.

When eventually, everything has stopped, there's a hand on my head, through the wrap, through the hood. A gentle kiss and a word of congratulations. I did well, I'm still in a daze as the plastic, bindings and buckles come off. I'm wet and my cunt is incredibly swollen. Legs wobbling under me with uncertain footing. But grinning. Definitely grinning. Curled up on the floor, in a blanket, leaning my head against his knee, dreamily contemplating a new definition of totally fucked.