Tuesday, 25 October 2011
Google ads, wikipedia and the specialised dating websites seem to be pretty clear on the subject: Sugar Daddy relationships are about the money. So why are the people interviewed in the recent BBC article being so coy about it?
Perhaps it's a combination of the famous British reticence to talk about money and the general social condemnation of sex workers? But I think there's more going on here. At it's heart, the "it's not prostitution, really" argument reveals a belief that disparity of power creates a bad relationship. There's an unease around these situations because society tells us that they are unfair, that someone is being exploited. A little like the assumption that all sex workers must be exploited. There are also ethical hang-ups, beliefs that selling sex somehow cheapens it (I personally think that the £313 for "a date" quoted in the article is hardly cheap, especially as there's a suggestion that sex might not be automatically provided. But beyond that, sex is an activity. It's a thing that can be done. It can also be a deep and meaningful connection between people. It can also be both.
Some of the dating websites have a very BDSM vibe to them, as well the might given the explicit power exchange involved. Sugar Daddy (and Sugar Mummy, although those seem sadly rarer) relationships are based on a transaction (often termed an "arrangement") in which the older, wealthy and hence powerful partner gives financial support and offers patronage to the younger, poorer and hence weaker partner. Now, I have had forays into the world of professional dominance so I have no problem with accepting cash for sexual favours. I'm also a pervert with a fondness for D/s relationships that are neatly structured with things given and things taken so these kinds of relationships feel normal to me.
This is where it gets even trickier, because disparity of power is at the heart of many good, caring and loving D/s relationships. D/s makes overt what a lot of us knew all along. Good relationships work because they are a balance of inequalities. One party gives the same amount as the other takes. D/s enshrines that in words and principles, it makes clear things that we do not usually speak about and that can make people very uncomfortable. It's not the fact that one partner supports the other, giving things that one may lack, that creates a "bad" relationship, it's other things. Like lying, non-consensual physical and emotional abuse or being a big, damn hypocrite.
And that is the real crux of the argument. Society does not like these relationships because they reveal us to be hypocrites. We pour scorn upon these relationships yet they are a fundamental truth of how relationships work and we skip over the idea that people can get genuine enjoyment and satisfaction in relationships based on the exchange of money and power. as opposed to say, love and love alone. Don't get me wrong, love is amazing and wonderful and a many splendoured thing.
But so is being able to pay the bills.
Historically we have been more truthful, partnerships between people were partnerships between families, between countries even. Dowries indicated the transaction that was being made. Today, marriage still confers levels of social privilege and financial stability. Yet we talk about "marrying money" as if it's automatically a bad thing - as if someone would genuinely desire to "marry poverty" given the choice. Similarly, we disparage the older man who hooks up with the model (whilst also decrying her as a vapid bimbo). These relationship stereotypes have a kernel of truth that reveals society to be deeply hypocritical in how it views the value of beautiful women and powerful men - and that's without even touching on the heteronormatism and sexism revealed by beautiful women and powerful men.
No-one wants to go back to have all women as chattel (although some of us might like to play with all genders of chattel from time to time) but we must admit that we live in a world of gender inequality and it is childish to assume otherwise or to think worse of those who, honestly and openly, try to make the most of what they have got in the world. You don't like what they are doing? Then give them a world in which their options are better, in which we have other values for women and men. As long as we have a world where men are valued for their money and women for their looks then there will be men who pay to have a beautiful women on their arm.
Friday, 21 October 2011
Over the past two months I've been very conscious of how my life is changing, and the effect that this is having on my kink and how I feel in myself.
“You’ve basically gone cold turkey”. Technophile and I are having a bit of a check-in on how things are going over a beer in a brief moment when neither of us was working or sleeping. Call it a date, if you will, I’m still uncertain about whether meeting people and then not having sex with them can be termed a “date” more on that (sore) point later.
He is, of course, correct. Losing Mr Smith and Mannequin, for reasonable reasons, compounded with the decision to see how things go with Technophile who is new to the scene, unsure about polyamory and generally needs the space and respect to go a bit slower than I might normally means that my sex life is very, very different to how it was a couple of months ago.
Which means I’m having problems. I’m a girl with control issues – I love control, which is why the power exchange is so meaningful to me. I like being in control. I like giving up control. With the right people and at the right time it makes life shine so brightly that I get giddy. Right now, things are unclear and therefore rather dim. The whole “take it slow” process for example. It’s against my nature to be patient or to let things “just happen”. In my experience things generally don’t happen unless there’s a will and desire moving them forward, so lack of momentum indicates trouble.
We’re both busy, I tell myself. And this is true. And we both like each other. Which is also true. I’m breathing deep and taking the plunge on this, at least for now, because I like the boy. And I want to give this whole thing a try.
But damn, this is hard.
Hand (and head) in the air: I’m high maintenance on the sex front. And with a new partner who is wanting to take it slow but is also monogamous I am not getting enough. I don’t know how to manage this – in an open situation I would seek other partners, but I can’t. And this means that talking about what I need, which I’m more than happy and comfortable doing, involves directly criticising, or seeming to criticise Technophile’s ability to provide. And no-one likes to have that pressure on them, and I don’t want him to feel pressured because we are meant to be giving him the space to learn the dance steps to see whether he wants to go further.
I need a lot of reasonably complicated – certainly to non-kinksters – sex. And this isn’t just about fucking, although I need that too, it’s about all the vital ancillary components that make good play, good companionship and just good times.
I’m not getting enough. I get up alone and go to sleep alone. Every night. I don’t have cute flirty text messages to smile about or the scent of someone’s flesh and juices under my fingers and in my hair. When I run my tongue around the inside of my mouth the only taste is mine. My skin is pristine, without a mark or a bruise to grace its whiteness and prove me to be alive. I have no memories of moans or screams or rising red marks to make me smirk to myself on my commute. I am not kissed, held or touched enough. There are no promises to keep or rituals of ownership to make sure are obeyed. I care for no-one and no-one cares for me. Collars are unused in their boxes. Floggers gather dust.
The vibrators are running out of batteries and I am getting a bit bored of my own fingers.
There’s more to kink than the BDSM, of course, and I’m not getting enough of that either. Which is a time issue. I used to be able to go out most evenings, as well as the odd lunch or coffee during the working day, spending time with other perverts, going on dates, attending munches or even just having the downtime to blog, tweet or reply to emails and texts. I’ve not got the space to do this and that’s making me feel disconnected and a strange rising sense of half-guilt, half-panic and all loneliness.
The ability to be around other perverts might not be such a bad thing, as at least it keeps temptation away, and hopefully with time there will be integration and a bit more space for my social life. At the moment I feel rather far away from those I like and the things I want. Which is odd as my recent decisions were supposed to move me closer.
I am hoping this is a stop gap rather than how life is now. I'll keep you posted.
Monday, 17 October 2011
Even without adding "bisexual" into the mix, trying to find two men who I was attracted to and who were comfortable being very sexually active in the same room as each other proved to be difficult. There is something curious about the reaction that many men get across their faces when presented with even the idea of touching another man during sex. They look almost afraid. As if flexibility in the bedroom was somehow a bad thing. Wild protestations of being "completely" or "utterly" or "!00%" straight get bandied about which I find deeply irksome, not to mention problematic for my purposes - however would one manage a threesome with two men who could not touch at all, it would be like some dreadful balancing act.
So, I needed men who were comfortable with themselves to not throw a hissy fit at the presence of another masculine body. I set Mr Smith on this difficult task a long time ago, with the result that our relationship had changed by the time we actually found someone. The guest star was an acquaintance of his who I vetted and recruited from Kinky Salon. They actually made a very good pair, both handsome in different ways, both filthy and both very much up for it. We set a date, exchanged limits and ideas via email then booked a hotel room.
On the night itself we met up for dinner and discussed a little bit more before going to the hotel. I took great satisfaction from positioning myself between the pair of them and must have been grinning like a bastard at anyone who cared to glance in their direction. Smug does not begin to cover it.
The night was to be about sex rather than play, so although I packed a bag of kit we only used a small array of toys. What we did use - in hindsight was probably not such a good idea - was a fair amount of cocaine which I like but didn't really need. As a drug it had become a bit of a mainstay in the play that Mr Smith and I did, and there was certainly something deeply decadent about racking up several lines on a glass mirror then sitting around in our underwear, and ended up (as can happen) being more focused on just chatting and taking the drug than the sex. I think in part it was strange because there was no fixed dynamic and anything which revolves more around "just" sex rather than play, S&M or D/s makes me unsure how to proceed. In the end I just stood up and announced that it was time to have sex - which seemed to work.
We made our way to the bed, leading them by the hand and started to mess around. I kissed one whilst the other licked my clit, one held my arms, whilst the other twisted his fingers inside my cunt. There was something both extremely powerful but also distracting about being the centre of attention. It's actually very difficult to remember precisely what happened at what point because everything started to flow together. It was a game of moving bodies as I was gradually wrapped around their fingers... and tongues. I let myself be tended, and attended to, smirking as one of them reminded me that this night was "for me". So I lay back and let them work their magic.
We worked our way through a variety of positions, getting more warmed up, more open with each other and I became more confident with the balance and bodies of each of the two men. Just like with any new partner or new dynamic it took a while to appreciate the new smells and physicalities. This did mean, as it always does for me, that orgasm was difficult. Masturbation, with encouragement from those enjoying the show, was the order of the day when I became to turned on and wound up to continue with anything other than a drive to orgasm
There was a lot more give and take than would have been "normal" for a scene, but at no point did I feel like I wanted to do much in the way of play. What I wanted - and what I got - was a lot of fucking, the kind of deep down hard fucking that makes parts of your brain switch off. I remember growling with animal pleasure at one point, as the glass anal plug was slipped inside me then I was fucked - hard - doggy style, wriggling against the pressure.
Double penetration was high on my list of priorities so after a suitable break for both of the boys and a healthy dose of oral sex (it's important to give as good as you get). I got Mr Smith to lie on his back, fucking him whilst I felt other arms around my waist, a hand holding on to my shoulder and a mouth hot against my neck and he slid inside my arse. The sensation was intense, lots of pressure against my muscles and all kinds of waves of pleasure riding up from between my tired legs. We fucked for a long while until everyone was orgasm-ed out before collapsing asleep, myself between the pair of them, warm, safe and very well satisfied.
Looking forward to doing it again.
Tuesday, 4 October 2011
Even the words have an effect. Whether it's a wry smile, a tingle that rises from cunt up to mouth and lips or a shudder and a poked out tongue to indicate disgust. We distinguish it from all other kinds of talk by raking it through the mud. This is filth. The kind of speech that Jarvis Cocker uses when he breathes and moans his way through This is Hardcore (or mostly any other Pulp song, to be honest).
Some people love it, others can't stand it. For some, it will always be the "oh baby, yeah baby" of dreadful porn. For others, the mere idea of speaking or listening to someone speak whilst they are playing is a complete anathema. I know that I find talking difficult when I'm concentrating on an intense scene - either topping or bottoming, and that generally it distracts me from being fully in the moment. As a submissive / bottom the ball gag is a marvellous toy because it gives me permission to be silent. As a top I use hoods and sometimes earplugs to block off the fact that I am quiet, which I know can be unnerving for some. And yet, I love being talked to, it gives me a sense of connection to the other person, an insight into what they are thinking, how they are feeling. Similarly, if I know someone really likes dirty talk, I enjoy delivering it.
There should be training for it, as a specific subset of public speaking. It's a kink skill, akin almost to hypnotism and sensory deprivation in its ability to transport the mind (and thence the body) into deep, transfixing places. Getting it right is hard. Getting it wrong is really, really easy. The words we like to hear are personal. Dirty talk is an artform. It's creative, subjective, specific and the difference between "good" and "bad" can be the merest sliver of a phoneme, a change in pace and pause, the tone of voice. And all of that is without even mentioning the actual content.
And oh, the importance of content! Just as scenes have been broken by a badly placed crop blow, suddenly shocking one from the lulling build of rising pain, so too can the wrong word or sound. Equally, the right words and sounds can transport you. The spoken word can make for us all kinds of worlds. Fantasies - especially those that are truly unobtainable or impossible - are spun like threads into a rich tapestry of language-images which cloaks you utterly.
Technophile is a talker, which took me by surprise. I realise I keep using that word when describing him, and how much I'm loving/hating the unfamiliar territory of it all. He started slow, with a (slightly Jarvis-esque now I think about it, which makes so much sense) whisper in my ear. The teasing quality of "do you want it? Do you want to be fucked?" Little "ohs" and moans between the words told me that he wasn't just doing this for effect, it turned him on to say those things. The more he spoke, the more turned on he got, he was using the words to build his own arousal and, like mutual masturbation we took it in turns to urge each other on with our ideas.
The speech act was also a sex act. Fucked by language. Language affirms us as sexual beings - the way I described the feeling of his cock inside me, the way he poured praise over how my body felt in his arms. Certain words produce certain kinds of thrill, they have a history and context and their appearance in the bedroom makes or breaks encounters.
We kinksters use words in lots of ways, and many of our words have been chosen for deliberate reasons, such as forms of address such as Sir or Mistress, please and thank-you. Yes. No. Red. Safeword. These words have power. They are words of power, given and taken in certain ways and at certain times. Forbidden to some and absolutely required by others. Use them with the wrong person at your peril. There are only a few people on this earth who are allowed to call me Fox, for example. And those who do know that using that word is a shorthand reference to an agreement (also enshrined in words), a relationship between us, that I will call upon.
Here's another word. Slut. Watch your own reaction and take notes. I know I did.
"Slut. Hot, kinky slut."
Technophile says it with delight as we fuck. Not the spitting or hissing of a humiliation scene, but an almost reverential, not quite believing it, lip-biting (I love it when they bite their lip) utterance. I've always had a strange relationship with the word, only recently acknowledging it as a positive label, something along the lines of "queer" - a word once used in scorn and hate which has been turned around defiantly. It is definitely the kind of word that would go off like a grenade if it came out of the wrong mouth at the wrong time. Fighting talk. But the way he said it, the context and the tone of his voice made it something else. A thing to aspire to, almost, a wanted, desired and even slightly dangerous, mythical thing.
Which is what the best dirty talk does to us all.
Sunday, 2 October 2011
Over dinner with Technophilia, the new and unexpected boy on my horizons. We're discussing the plans for the rest of the night. Initially, we weren't going to meet up at all, which rather put me out, but fortunately the universe realigned itself and we managed to get together. I was reasonably determined to have sex with him, but equally slightly concerned about pushing things too far, too fast and "putting him off" for want of a better word. I told him as much, as we drank porn star martinis (the perverts cocktail of choice) and he pointed out - somewhat coyly, I felt - that he was here and hadn't run away yet.
Once again, in all our interactions, I got the strong impression of playfulness from him, the switch in him I guess, there was a balance still to be struck between us. Things could go either way, he pushes my own switch and I feel equally excited by the idea of pressing his face into the pillow as I do feeling his hand do the same to me. For the moment, however, he is more comfortable on top - it plays better into his experience and frankly, I have an amount of top fatigue right now. The idea of not taking charge is appealing. The idea of having some filthy sex as opposed to building a detailed scene is very appealing. We made a deal over our steak and red wine: he takes me home and he gets to do what he wants with me.
I like playing into other people's fantasies - whether it's as a top or a bottom - and his first request is a strip tease which lets me warm us both up. I finish straddling him, pushing him down on his back. I enjoy feeling his hands run over me, the appreciative noises and the little gasps and sighs as I smooth my fingers around his shoulders, back and slowly, very slowly kiss my way down his stomach towards the top of his jeans. I undo his belt buckle and start to play with his cock which is just as satisfying as I remember, then apply my mouth and tongue to the shaft and head. Immediately, I am conflicted. If there's one thing that screams "submission" in my mind, it's blowjobs. They neatly encapsulate almost all of my challenges with the idea of female submission, with my feelings of vulnerability around my own past acts of submission. My submissive self is a self not often seen these days and it's a part of me that is most easily hurt. I am not certain I want to submit to him. Bottom, yes. Fuck, absolutely. Allow myself to be taken, dear lord yes. But submission is a big thing, a huge exchange of trust and a reminder of many things - both good and bad. We're not at that stage.
But we are at the fucking stage, kinky fucking, certainly and with trappings of D/s - there are "thank you's" (from both sides, he's an appreciative recipient) along with question and response. The thing I realise is that I do want to suck his cock and I know he wants me to do it, which makes me want to do it more. But I'm also wary. not just for the things outlined above. Even when I was back in the land of the vanillas, blowjobs were never been a routine part of sex for me, my partners weren't that into them. Now my standing response is that I have people to do that for me. The truth is that giving head has underlying problems for me: physically I find it quite difficult, which is made more so when deep throating is involved and the recipient is quite so well endowed. Additionally, I worry about whether it's good enough - The Photographer was always quite vocally critical of my oral skills, citing previous partners expertise in the area. Though frankly, the more I think about that, the more I think that it was another of his psychological games, akin to the "I don't love you game" designed to make me feel bad and weak in order to control me.
So I have all these thoughts buzzing around my brain as my mouth makes contact with his cock and he thrusts, hand on my head and moans in squirming pleasure. That works. Just then, the sense of giving pleasure, the desire and drive to do so - akin to the desire to give pain. To hear him make those noises, to feel him get harder inside my mouth, the quickening of breath, the whisperings of desire. I grin. And continue.
Later, he flips me over and forces his mouth against my cunt. His tongue laps quickly, before my hand against his head slows him down to that gentle rolling boil that I find so pleasingly satisfying. I get wet, although frankly, I was pretty wet to start off with. I also know I'm not going to orgasm - we're too new, too uncertain in our nascent kinky exchanges for me to be able to accept orgasm easily yet. He doesn't stop though, and for the first time I understand the dominant factor in giving head (although many people have explained it to me, including Majeste and her wonderfully imperious demands to taste what is hers). This time, I really get it, mostly because I'm getting it. The build of pleasure becomes almost-pain as my body clenches and unclenches and doesn't quite get there. Again. And again. And again. Eventually, I wriggle away from under him.
Finally, after what is realistically a week of waiting. We fuck. Doggy style. Heavy and hard. There's a physical equivalent of a roar coming from somewhere deep in my cunt when he penetrates me - it's a wave of exertion, of pleasure and just the right amount of plain, brute force. He has a skilled confidence that takes me by surprise - although by now I'm not sure why I'm surprised. He fucks like he behaves in everything else: there's a superficial presentation of soft, slightlly cutesy coyness as he bites his lip, then a glint of something nasty as the thread of gleeful filth unspools in his mind and he takes charge. Not bullying or cajoling, but taking and taking pleasure in taking.
And I give. I let the sensations roll over me as we fuck, which translate easily into noises I'm only partly aware of making. I know that I moan. I'm almost certain I screamed a little (I certainly did in the morning when we fucked again because we ended up muffled and collapsed in pillows after he pointed out he had thin walls and neighbours). We don't so much fall asleep as part pass out, limbs wrapped around limbs. Resurfacing in the morning to start again. We lie around in bed, swapping notes and rummaging in his box of toys and as I see the anal vibes, the dildos and ball gag I wonder how he could have ever thought of himself as vanilla?
So now I'm home, digesting what has happened, partly sated, certainly wanting more, and very curious about where we might take this. For the moment, we are dancing and the music has not stopped. Equally, we have yet to really decide if we will continue. I'd like to, and said so plainly. We both agreed we were in similar places emotionally. Both of us are interested in where the next relationship will be and wanting it on some level, but both unsure whether we are ready for it, whether those things which hurt us in the past have properly healed enough to dive in once more.
Thoughts for another day. Right now, I'm enjoying that pleasing tiredness in my thighs and working out when we can next arrange another date.
Saturday, 1 October 2011
On arrival, the Kit Kat Klub inspired stylings with plenty of candles and dark nooks (too dark as it turned out, to see what one was eating) were beautifully evocative and set the scene for what felt like a really good night out. The blonde compere sang beautifully, and whilst she lacked the devilish qualities of Alan Cumming, she had a good voice and a sense of showmanship. Sadly, she was pretty much the only one.
I am picky about my performance, I perform myself and I've seen quite a lot of cabaret and burlesque shows, so I like to think I have a reasonably well developed aesthetic but nothing here did anything for me, with the exception of the one male performer who gamely attempted to stand his own amidst a crowd of plastic barbie dolls. On a practical level, this was the most rushed set of performances I have ever seen. I am frankly surprised that the fan dancer didn't go up in flames given the speed she was twirling her feathers. There is nothing erotic about watching women, with fixed, painted monster grimaces fail to remove corsets in time, leaving themselves unco-ordinatedly undressed besides a pillar. The problem here is that part of the essence of the erotic is in giving people time to uncurl their imaginations. Like a well planned scene, you need to tease and tantalise - these things take time. The performance works because you hook the audience and reel them in slowly, letting them undress you in their minds before you have removed a single bit of clothing. Here, nothing was given any time to develop. From a pure performance point of view, the pacing was dreadful and mechanical. It felt like a production line of bras and pants strewn to the four corners of the room whilst the long suffering stage manager raced around collecting feather boas and piles of tulle. I'm not even going to discuss the "comedy" Russian ballerina. I left soon afterwards.
Then there was the pervert problem. As Ringmaster said, "it's for vanillas". And it was. The rest of the audience, including a large group of young men, seemed to be lapping it up. But for me, there was no sexuality present on stage that resonated with the things I find sexual. Take an obvious point first, I don't think that women taking off their corsets in front of people is particularly sexually arousing in and of itself. I'm probably a bit inured to it, frankly. The sight of a naked breast does not make me quiver or make me feel edgy or titillated. I've seen a lot of it. I've been a lot of it.
To go further, I'm a pervert. The naked human body does not automatically mean "sex" to me in the same way that a gas mask does. I find tears, humiliated blushes, screams of pain and drops of blood as hot as others might find stockings and suspenders. Don't get me wrong, I understand the appeal of stockings and suspenders and use them if I need to deliver that kind of look, but I also understand the appeal of army boots pressed against a naked back.
Now, I know that I was never going to get that kind of show from this kind of place. But I was hoping for a whisper of something sexual. Even just a hint that the performers were enjoying themselves would have been nice, or some indication that they were doing more than dancing whilst taking their clothes off. It takes more than a quick strip to make me wet, baby: you have to make me want you, to be you or to do awful, dreadful things to you.
You have to be erotic.
Eroticism is a story you are telling, a dirty little secret you are sharing with the audience. In many ways it's an intellectual pursuit, it's about the mind. It's often less about how you look or how many items of clothing you remove. Rather it's about how you do it and how you interact with the audience whilst you are doing it. You need to build a connection and play with the way you are being watched, controlling not just what you are doing but how people respond. You need to perform.
BDSM is similar in that it's a lot about context, the sexuality is about a shared agreement between the participants. Things are not quite what they seem, and the uncertainty, the things we don't know or can't see give us a thrill. We are enraptured by what is mysterious and crave to know more, see more, touch more. In a few week's time I'm going to be stage managing a show at the RVT with a group of burlesque performers who are mostly kinky and I'll be interested to see how they perform - I suspect that it will be quite different.