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The online diary of an ethical pervert.

Sunday, 26 February 2012


I was asked to do a talk to kick off the third Gender and Sexuality meet-up groups organised by a friend of mine, and knee-jerk reaction, looking at the date (Valentines Day or thereabouts) said that I would talk about love. I'm a hopeless romantic, such things are well documented. I still believe in storming the castle and rescuing the (gender ambiguous) princess.

Love, then. I got all the bad song lyrics out of my head first, or actually spent the whole time writing my notes humming Boston's More Than A Feeling. Love is... Love, Actually. Love in the time of Cholera. It's a well-used word and so it was with words that I began. We get "love" in english from the same root as we get "like", from lufu/lief in old and middle english. The meanings are about desire, preference, approval and the idea of preference or to be pleasing. Very different, when you think about it, to the latin (and hence other romance languages) amor from which we get amorous and the passion that conveys. Our love has it's latinate roots in libet which is to please. The english lover is a pleaser, amongst other things, and none the worse for it as we shall see.

Love travels through history becoming romantic love only relatively recently - romantic love itself being a modern invention, with its antecedents in courtly love where the suitor wooed the fair maiden, often wealthy, of noble birth and hence totally unattainable. Love was something out of reach, but also something pure and chaste because it could not be unfulfilled - we all know the desire and yearning for that thing we cannot have, and the way we put that remote, untouchable subject of our desire on a pedestal. And the problems that can give us when they fail to live up to our ridiculous expectations. Another interesting literary use of love is commonly found in Shakespeare, the idea of "making love to" as pouring honeyed words into someone's ear, either in a seductive or persuasive fashion, again, love as being pleasing.

C.S. Lewis wrote a book called The Four Loves where he attempted to categorise the different types of love, and it was the idea of "types of love" I was perhaps more interested in than how he chose to define them. He had affection, friendship, romance and unconditional love - there's a full brief in the wikipedia link, but let's return to the idea of a classification of love. We know that some loves are different to others. I do not love my mother in the same way I love my father, or my friends, or a lover, a submissive or a dominant. Not perhaps because they are those things, but because they are individuals, and so am I and the love I have for them is precisely that: the love between the two of us. Another person will love you differently to the way that I love you. Neither better, nor worse, necessarily. But different.

I was thinking a lot about the idea of "making love", once cutely referred to as "like having sex, but very horizontal". We talked amongst ourselves as to whether any of us had actually, ever made love. Those that spoke up, myself included, could count the instances on one hand. But actually describing what made it "making love" rather than fucking or any other word got us into hazy territory. We talked about sex as absence of the self, the notion of giving up, perhaps in a submissive sense, certainly the utter selflessness of it, the idea of sexually opening up completely and putting all the focus we had - and more - on the person we were making love to.

Finally, I like the idea that love is a verb, it's active: something that you do, you work at it, create it, shape it. It isn't a passive thing hanging around - though we sometimes do find love. Love takes time. It is an ongoing thing, a life pursuit. We discussed the idea of love and longevity: the difference between NRE at the beginning of a romance, and the daily satisfaction of a loving relationship.

Monday, 20 February 2012

Orgy organising

Some drive-by musings on how the quest for suitable boy-flesh for Glamourama's upcoming "private party" (it's an orgy, but I do like alliteration) is going. Between us I estimate we have contacted around fifty or so likely looking chaps - and looking likely is a big part of our process, we're horribly concerned with looks at this stage. In lieu of folk coming with signed, sealed certificates from previous lovers we're getting down to basics and that means "hot or not". I've been amusing and pseudo-horrifying the other two ladies with my own methods for dissecting and categorising the male form, as well as providing spreadsheets and other organisation tables for managing the entire process. Efficiency is sexy.

It's worth mentioning, for the record, that men I like fall into three distinct, non-hierarchical categories. Non-hierarchical as in, though it's a list, I don't generally go for one sort over the other, it depends on my mood. For generalities, excluding personalities, I like a strong profile (read, big nose, hard jaw), I loathe too much body hair (read any) and long hair. Smell and voice is important, I couldn't tell you how though - just that I know them when I smell and hear them and sometimes my sense say "no, no, no." I prefer taller chaps and a well cut suit is a wonderful thing, but so is a pretty frock worn with glitter, clunky boots and FrankNFurter style and suspenders. Men who can be both masculine and feminine when strutting their stuff sit well with my own gender proclivities.

To bottom it out a little further, I detailed the three different types. Type As are almost aggressively masculine, broad shouldered, muscled or generally "bigger" and an air of the alpha male about them, especially for the submissive ones. I do like topping alphas, oh yes. Type Bs are lean, tall and artistic looking - whether they are actually artists is neither here nor there, it's nice if they do, but the sensation that they might sigh and look pensive every now and then whilst doodling with long elegant fingers is enough. Type Cs are shorter, delicately boned, slim and punky or indie kid looking with floppy hair that falls over part of their faces and pouting bee stung lips which cry to be bruised - I like 'em looking young, rather than being young, though. Cougar Town is a little while off. For now.

The list of men we sent messages out to via OKC contained a good spread of all of them, and the responses that have come back have been generally positive. We've discounted those who are "unavailable" - whether for reasons of coyness or diaryness, we shall never know.
Out of the negative responses, folk have generally been polite, and no-one has become overwhelmed with disgust, which either means the universe is more open-minded than previous thought, or - more likely - the small bit of the universe we have very selectively contacted via OKC is open-minded. A number fell at the hurdle of ""being naked around other men", as well as orgies in general, which was more of a deal breaker than the kink aspect. There was quite a bit of "no but" going on, as in "no but I'd like to have sex with you three." One of them winsomely suggested that they would be happy to attend a group sex party if there were only other women. Which was adorable, but if it's a ladies' night then we need either no men or many men. There is no one true man. Unless he is literally Superman. And even then, I have my doubts.

Those who have accepted have been booked in to meet us for a coffee and a chat. Out of the positives, there has been a little backwards and forwards-ing to outline exactly what might and might not happen, especially for the kink curious. We've currently got seven to "interview", which is much more
so we can check that they do look like that, so they can see we exist and we look the way we say we do and so everyone can be reassured the deal is real. Which it is.

Monday, 13 February 2012

Rope and safe spaces

The cloth goes over her face and there is a low gasp as it is pulled taut. They sit, one in front of the other, tucked neatly together in a pose reminiscent of puppeteer and doll. The bottom's hands flex once, twice, then sit splayed on her thighs. Hedwig puts her face cheek to cheek with the blindfolded bottom, listening in. I know what she is doing, I do it myself, it's like tasting a dish you have prepared to make sure the seasoning and temperature is right. Putting yourself as close to them as possible, feeling their mood through their body. Checking in before you make the next move.

The rope goes around over the eyes and the moans start, they are low and rolling, like a contented cat. Each time the rope winds around, when I can see the tension against the clothed face, the neck, the cheek, the temples. I can hear each pressure point, each different motion through those moans. I smile. The intimacy is palpable. I imagine that each and every one of us who is watching can feel those tiny movements, the way that the rope must be pulling, enclosing the bottom in with a firm grip.

We watch. There are perhaps twenty of us, possibly less. We sit on blue mats which always make me think of school gym sessions. It's quiet in the space, there is the rough yet quiet noise of hemp rope being pulled against itself as behind me other people practice their ties, whispering to their bottoms as they do so. I'm coiling a bundle of rope in my hands whilst I watch, wrapping loop through loop then tying it off into bundles. I like the feel of it, the way it flows in a curious solid / liquid state round my fingers when I move them this way and that. There is a slight masturbatory element to what I am doing, touching rope whilst someone else ties, connecting the sensation in my hands to the way the rope must feel to the person I am watching.

I could watch Hedwig tie forever. And watch her untie, too. The way she takes the same length of time to tie, to play with the tie and then to untie. Like perfect begin, middle and ends of poetry, spaced out with exacting rhythm and cadence. There is a living thing, here. Two people and the rope between them making something else. A rush to untie is like a rush out of the restaurant before the meal in completed, surely better to linger? In the hush that follows, I watch her hold the bottom, a hand over her eyes to let her adjust to the light, and to bring her back slowly from where she has been. We talk about what we have seen, learning from each other and suggesting things that we thought might work. The practical is mixed with the emotional, safety tips mingle with suggestions for aftercare, eventually the bottom comes to enough for us to listen to what she felt, how she experienced it. Then we take a short break and practice our own versions of the face tie.

On Saturday I went along to Hitchin Bitches, a peer rope class specifically for female riggers, there's more about the specifics of this community on the link, so go and have a little look and read. I'll wait. Back? Marvellous.

So there's a few things that are worth noting here, the first is that small, peer learning groups are brilliant, if you can create a safe space, which Hitchin Bitches certainly does. The value of these sessions, to me, are immense. Unlike bigger rope events, and unlike rope events which I help to manage, I am able to relax and practice. My usual role is either to make sure the event is running well, or to keep an eye on the crowd for any potential issues. Not having to do that makes a big difference. Being in a predominantly female space also makes a difference, partly it's because there are less of us (sadly, female riggers are still outnumbered by male ones) and that makes it more comfortable and friendly, but also it means the assumption of male top / female bottom doesn't apply. Taking aside any sort of misogynist nonsense - which there unfortunately still is on the scene, much along the lines of "women aren't funny" - the face value of much of the regular scene is still outwardly about this dichotomy, so places where this isn't happening are wonderful.

What also interested me was what wasn't happening. It was a small event and there was no "showboating", no-one got dramatically suspended, no-one was lining up to tie or be tied by such and such a person, no-one was wearing sexy clothing (it was a little cold). No-one was drinking, except water or Ribena. No-one was taking themselves seriously - we made a lot of jokes about femdom and about BDSM in general. We were not making a political statement.
There were several men present who had happily offered their services as rope bunnies, and all to the good because tying up men is different to tying up women, not least in the chest harness area. I had a very good time practicing a series of ties on both men and women, enjoying the different feel of their bodies and their responses to me and to the rope. I felt pleasingly unselfconscious.

We were a group of women practising tying up other people.
Nothing more. Yet there was something extremely refreshing, and rare, to be in a space where your identity is normalised, predominant and in the majority. Unlike big female orientated events like Pedestal, where femdom is very much "on show" and sexuality is a display activity - for both men and women - this was very relaxed, I just turned up. I didn't have to wear anything specific or try and project any sort of persona. The play that did happen was all rope orientated. What was happening was playful, funny and friendly. We were messing about with rope, being serious about rope and learning about rope - all at the same time.

Oh, and the face tie? Hot.

Thursday, 9 February 2012

Party favours

I think that I have finally found the correct use for OKCupid, and no, it's not purely for the lols, although there are many and they would be funnier if they weren't so painfully true. It is a shopping site to get men for sex parties.

Let me wind back a little, my extraordinarily beguiling friend, Glamourama, she of the infamous hen party and I were having dinner a couple of nights ago and discussing an upcoming private sex and play party at hers. There was a good and varied list of ladies and a short to the point of being absent list of men. I'm happy with women-only play parties, but to be frank, we needed more cock. And a very specific kind of cock as well. The sort that plays well with others, isn't scared of (and is possibly quite interested in) playing with other men, the kind that participates rather than expects voyeuristic girl on girl for their viewing pleasure, the sort that is kink-friendly, if not actually kinky.

It's harder than you might think, if you will pardon the pun. Finding the right people for group sex is difficult. Parties are all about balance and getting the mix correct, and that means often you rely on who you know, because, well, you know them. The trouble is, we all know a lot of men, but we don't know a lot of men who fit that bill, who are available and who will work with the people already invited.

As I've commented on before, there are a lot of men who find public play, public nudity and group fucking quite difficult. There are also very, very few single men around on the scene who are open for public sexual experimentation to that extent. The twin problems are "public" and "open". I know many men who are interested in orgies provided they don't have to touch, look at or preferably be in the same room as another naked man. Which is a curious type of orgy, from my point of view. Then there's the whole "naked in public" thing, even though it is a private party, it is a party. There are a lot of men who are looking for that special (submissive) someone to have private bedroom antics and possibly even one of those relationship things. But this isn't going to be a space for that.

Finally, there is something rather liberating about inviting men who you have never met before. It gives me that opportunity to play with stranger sex, to concentrate on the physical rather than the emotional or intellectual parts of relationship management - because we will have no relationship. This isn't to say that I will deliberately hurt their feelings (I may hurt other things) but that something new, with no strings and no stress is exactly what I need right now.

Thus, a plan was formed. I have drafted up a little invitation message, and together with another lady who will also be present we are going to seek out men who fit our bill and interview them. I am prepared for noises of outrage or upset at such an action, but it seems to make perfect sense to me. I have never, ever played or fucked someone without meeting them for a coffee to see whether we clicked, I'm just broadening the project somewhat as well as giving it a rather pleasing dose of efficiency.

Drafting the message was interesting, and I ended up with something like this:

I'm running a kink-friendly sex party on Saturday 10 March for a selection of lovely ladies in SW London.

We are looking for atttractive, open minded and sexually flexible men to join us

You must be:

Confident in group sex situations,

Polite and well mannered (of course you are, naturally)

Kink friendly - there will be bondage and some S&M at the party

Liberal in your attitudes

Comfortable touching, fucking and being naked and sexual around other men - threesomes and moresomes will be happening. You don't have to be bisexual but you must be cool in the presence of cock. We will be happy if want help experimenting...

So if a message like that hits your inbox, you know what is going on.

Monday, 6 February 2012

Poly Means Many: Explain yourself

Poly Means Many: There are many aspects of polyamory. Each month six bloggers - Amanda Jones, An Open Book, One Sub's Mission, Polyamorous Parenting, Post Modern Sleaze, and Rarely Wears Lipstick - will write about their views on one of them. This month: explaining poly to other people.

I'm currently single, which means I'm going on a lot of dates - I think I worked out that last year I'd gone on over fifty, resulting in only two second dates. This is a tribute to my own particular specific tastes as much as anything else, more on that later, but what it does mean is that I'm developing a very good line in a particular sort of sales patter, specifically on how I want my relationships to be. Generally speaking I don't mind, and even quite enjoy the whole "explaining myself" thing. Especially on a first date. After all, it's really important to be able to tell a prospective lover what it is you want - if you can't articulate, how can you both work out whether you might, well, work out?

Currently I'm going with: "Hi, I'm electronic doll, I'm bisexual, kinky and non-monogamous" followed by a big grin. Reactions vary, if I'm honest.
Some people have needed further elaboration, which is fair enough. And it's mostly around what people think I mean when I say those words.

There's a lot that I don't mean.

I don't mean "I will fuck anything" because frankly, nothing could be further from the truth. For all that I write a detailed kinky sex blog, I haven't actually had a lot of sexual partners (it's around twenty, or so, if you are interested). I don't do one-night stands and I don't fuck around a huge amount. I have very exacting standards for what I find "sexy". I'm a specialist, you see. I only find a few people sexually attractive and I like really, really specific types of sex, which means it takes a lot of time for me to find the right person - or people.

Kinky sex is also more disposed towards things that don't look like sex but we perverts enjoy them just as much, if not more - flogging, bondage and so on. It's all "sex" to me. And I want all of it. But only the good stuff, and I would rather not have sex than have any old sex, which means less sexual partners. On a really practical point, I also have a very high sex drive, so when I find someone, I tend to fuck them a lot. Which makes them tired. Which makes it very useful, and pleasurable, for me to have other people to have sex with. Sex is like any other activity. You wouldn't only ever go to the cinema with one person, or go for a meal with only one person, or go to the same supermarket, so why would you only ever fuck one person?

This is the point in the conversation where I generally take a deep breath, and check whether my date is still awake, looking at me with horror, or drooling with their tongue on the floor. No-one has actually run away yet, but I suspect that's because of car crash fascination or "what will she say next?" rather than anything else. So, assuming they are still interested in what I am saying, I try and summarise: I think it's very unlikely I will want to only have sex with one person for the rest of my life.

This often leads us on to the second incorrect assumption which is that "non-monogamy" means "I can't commit and can't settle down". I'm actually really looking forward to falling in love and building a life with the love of my life. Now, here's the rub. That might be one person, it might be several. Together, one after the other, or all separate. I can't predict the future or what's around the corner and I don't want to be closed to those opportunities, either. But when they come along I want to be able to grab them with both hands and love them with all my heart. In my mind's eye, I imagine that I will have one main partner, and either as a pair or separately we will have lovers who come and go through our lives. I am not stating that this is exactly how it must be and nothing will sway me, merely that this is the kind of future I can see myself being happy in, so it's the example I use to explain myself.

This does cause confusion, no matter how clear I try to be. And I do understand the confusion. There's a lot to take in, if the universe has hitherto consisted of monogamous, heterosexual, vanilla pairings. "Exotic" relationships are often the stuff of film and fantasy: crazy sex fuelled hedonism of the rock and roll variety which is not a very realistic example of how people might live their lives. Throw in the kink and the bisexuality and people can sometimes think I will only ever be satisfied with an high-octane orgy on the hour, every hour. I do my best not to come across as some kind of sexual revolutionary, but as someone who wants a normal, but different, life. I don't always succeed. It can be difficult to explain "non-monogamy" as normal. Because for many people, it just isn't.
Communicating an entire world over a cup of coffee on a first date can be a bit of a challenge.

There's also a lot of responsibility in being the first person who explains all of this. Because then you become, in part, responsible for how this person perceives this new universe of relationship possibilities. Over time, I've learnt to become very specific with the words I use, partly because I love words dearly and like to make sure they are put in the right places, and partly because I appreciate that what I'm saying is new to lots of people and I don't want to give them the impression that I'm speaking for every person who has ever had a "non-traditional" relationship. I can only ever talk about what I want, what I've enjoyed, what has worked for me.

So, for example, I don't describe myself as "polyamorous". I use "non-monogamous" specifically because I enjoy having more than one ongoing, sexual partner (when the opportunity presents itself), but I've never yet had an extended relationship with more than one person for anything more than a few months. In other words, I've never been in love with more than one person at a time, so I don't feel I can really call myself "polyamorous". I've loved several people at once, certainly and I've been fucking several people at once, and been dominant or submissive to more than one person. So I'm absolutely non-monogamous. These days I use the phrase "lovers", because it's a nice romantic word and I'm a romantic at heart. It's an easy word to get your brain around, and I think it sounds positive, caring and sexy in a genuine way, rather than "partners" which can sound as if you are in business together. I never, ever use "fuck buddies", because I don't like relationships that are "friends with benefits", I want relationships, sex and romance.

Following these, often lengthy, often with diagrams, explanations, reactions have varied. I've had people who are happy to have "found" other people who think the same way they do, relieved that they aren't the only ones, I've had surprise from people who genuinely didn't know this was a real thing outside of films and books, I've had friends think I was doing it to be cool or to be different. I've had people worry I'd get hurt. I've had people be angry or upset with me for still not wanting to sleep with them despite obviously being a slut. I've had people who got what I was saying but didn't think it was for them. My favourite was from a friend who merely said "gosh, that's quite, um, bohemian of you."

To finish, I'll give you two concrete examples of "explaining myself."
My most recent two encounters, with Ten and Technophile, have resulted in break ups or whatever you have when you break up before you've really started dating. In this case, it wasn't about the sex, or the kinky sex, or the group sex. It was about how the relationship might function. So, the important bit, really.

Neither of them felt as if they would be able to "cope" with what they considered such non-traditional set ups. They were simply outside of their comfort zone. The idea of having a threesome, especially with another girl, was exciting. But the idea of my having a girlfriend, who might come and stay regularly, was strange. Still exciting, but I could tell they weren't sure whether I was being serious (I was) and if I was, how on earth it might work. The idea of my having another boyfriend was mind-blowing and triggered all kinds of negative responses. In the end, both of them decided that I wasn't the one for them, in part because of how I wanted to live my life. Neither of them were willing to give it a go so I can't comment on whether I am extremely good at explaining and it is entirely the opposite of what they wanted out of life, or I'm a bit rubbish at explaining and they would like it if they tried it. Mind you, I do keep telling straight boys that this is also true of sucking cock for my viewing pleasure, and they don't seem keen on that either.

Perhaps it's the way I say it, or the way I leer when I'm saying it?

Fundamentally, however you explain yourself, the reality of living relationships is always a little different to the writing on the box. I know from my own experience that some multiple-relationship set ups have worked better for me than others. Frankly, some monogamous relationships have worked better for me than others. The main factor that has divided the good from the bad has been about the content of the relationship, not the set-up in and of itself. It's been about the people. The expectations we've had of each other, our ability to deliver those and the way we have communicated our hopes and dreams. Not how many of us there were, or how we were living at the time.

But those are all topics for another month.

Friday, 3 February 2012

Berlin Story Part Three

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.

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?"

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.