Magic number

It's been on my list of desireables for years, to have a boy-girl-boy threesome. The logistics involved in this were surprisingly difficult because of the balance that needed to be achieved. An ideal situation would have been a pair of bisexual boys who also wanted to fuck each other, but that still remains out of my grip, for now.

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.

Talk dirty

Dirty talk.

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.

The fuck

It's been a while since I've had sex, I'll admit. And it's certainly been a longer while since I've been fucked (as a slight aside, but to complete the set, it's been years since I've made love, but that's a blogpost for another day). Dominants are not fucked, they fuck. Either cowgirl style on top or rocking a strap-on, I've become used to being the one in control of the motion, the depth and the hip action.

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.

Erotics and the perverted mind

Last night, together with a large number of The Tribe I headed over to Proud Cabaret for dinner and a show. I love the look and idea of this place: we all enjoyed ourselves getting ready into shimmying dresses, black tie and lots of corsetry. In the words of Ringmaster, we looked as if we were about to deliver the con of the century. Buoyed up on a wave of such group energy, I slunk along the streetlamp city streets, hearing my patent black heels clack on the pavement, swinging my hips and feeling good to be out after such a long break, it seemed.

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.

A moment of spontaneity

Friday night was not my finest moment. I was weighted down with a combination of illness, late and long working hours plus the knowledge that dinner with Mr Smith was precisely and only that: a meal and company.

Dinner with someone with whom you have effectively broken up with is never a pleasant situation, but in the curious way of BDSM and multiple relationships we still have a friendship and still have some dates in the diary for kinky activities. However, the heart of our connection is gone and that made me more mad, sad and annoying to be around than I might have otherwise thought. The knowledge that he was going home to his wife, that I was going home to myself made me feel lonely. Added to this, in one of those twists of fate I seem to trip over quite often, my decision to stop the D/s connection has actually made things better with his wife and his ability to see other casual lovers. Now, I have no interest in being either a casual lover nor his wife so there was little point in getting all dog in the manger over things but it certainly made me feel as if the universe was playing tricks.

So, feeling heavy hearted and in need of some diverting I checked OKCupid and replied to a few messages. Arriving home, it became clear that one of my responses was from someone quite close by. We arranged to meet the next day. If nothing else, it would give me something to do that wasn't connected with anything that had gone before, which was what I needed then and there.

I had no expectations. I had made no plans. I had nothing in my bag beyond my keys and purse. He arrived and we chatted, slowly, strangely, I warmed to him. His smell was right, his physicality had the right sort of shape for me to sit just so, arrange myself near him in a way that was pleasing and extremely comfortable and comforting to my animal hindbrain. We stayed for a drink. Then another. Then another. We talked about all the usual nerd dating things. Then we began talking kink, and things got even more interesting.

"I want to take you home, but I don't want to have sex with you."

I raise an eyebrow at a sentence I've never heard before. He's adamant, however. And his assertiveness is striking - an unseen thread of steel through this soft-lipped boy with the high cheekbones and giggly laugh. It flashes for a moment, in the way that desire does, rippling and turning the evening from a nice dinner that would see me home alone but well-flirted with into something else.

We went back to his house and lay on his sofa, kissing for hours like teenagers whilst watching True Blood and commenting on what we were watching. It felt intimate and familiar, yet I couldn't remember the last time I'd had such an easy ride, to be able to just hang about without feeling the need to do anything much. The knowledge that I wasn't going to embark on three or four hours of heavy play was both a relief and a source of slightly comedic consternation - after all, if we weren't here for sex, what were we here for?

To get to know me better.

I don't know what made him decide to say that, then and there. Something in what I said about my life, my partners, the scene has set him down that particular thought path. Or perhaps something in him, a desire clearly stated, to wait, to hold something back, to take time. The natural response of a pervert is to push - to tease out from people things they see they find difficult. So in that moment he stopped being just a boy from the internet and became a pervert.

We went to bed, and my theory was confirmed - he's a switch as well. After a pleasing amount of appreciative noises over my naked body we started to fool around a little and talked a lot. About sexual encounters past and hoped for, fantasies and desires, lovers long gone and recent heartbreaks. All the while he stroked me, running fingers and kisses up and down whichever piece of skin came to nearest contact with him. All throughout, he kept gently reminding me that we were not going to have sex - made all the more deliciously frustrating by the discovery that he had a large cock. Equally, his own obvious frustrations made me interested in the background to this self-denial. Eventually I announced my intention to orgasm, and he watched, still stroking my skin, pouring filth in my ear with a low whisper that made me gasp, shatteringly to a climax. He held me close. We fell asleep.

In the morning, he brought me tea in bed and we played around more - showing each other our particular tweaks and sensitivities. He took me by the hand and led me to the shower, I washed his hair and he pressed his fingers inside my cunt. We dried each other off and I got dressed and left with his phone number.

I am still wrapped up in that hazy cloud of sexuality made all the better by not concerning myself with what happens next. Yes, I would like to see him again. But also yes, I would like to take things slowly and without the need to assert myself in any particular role or power exchange with regards to him, or indeed anyone for rather a while.

Changes in circumstances

This month has seen a few changes in my life and lifestyle, and whilst I have been the instigator of most of them, they aren't exactly making me happy.

I started a new job which is exciting but involves very long hours resulting in little time during the week to go on dates, attend munches and by the time the weekend arrives I am rather tired. I'm hoping that this will settle down once I get to grips with everything, but for the moment, I am very much work rather than play - this has it's own attendant problems. I feel disconnected from the scene, especially given my prior levels of involvement and I miss people who I used to see more often. I'm in a more "formal" environment which means that the day-to-day perversity levels are lower and I am certainly in the deeper waters of the vanilla subculture - though that itself might give some useful and interesting insights.

Following on from my reduced social time, in some respects, is the change in my relationships. My partners colour a lot of what I do kinkwise, so I imagine it will come as no surprise that the lack of content on the blog has been driven by, well, a lack of content. I am, it appears, single, once more.

Mannequin, Fenrir and I had a good (though sad and somewhat wistful from my point of view) conversation a few weeks ago in which she was going to be exclusively his. I know that this is something she really wanted, and from what I hear on the kinky grapevine, she's well cared for and enjoying herself. I miss her, although at the same time there is a certain sense of relief - throughout our relationship there was a strain caused by the disconnect between what she wanted and what I was capable of delivering. Ultimately, she wanted a cis-male partner and all the strap-ons in the world will not change this fact. Writing that sentence felt strange, as if there was something to blame for one person's particular preference, which of course, there is not. And honestly, I like male bodies too, and enjoy having them around.

The strangeness is all in myself. It's not a fault of either of us, just the simple fact that having started down the road of D/s with her it has come to an end. All the feelings of ownership, control and self-worth deriving from that power exchange have stopped because of being unable to be the right kind of dominant person, and I wouldn't want to be that person, because that would mean not being me. It is a curious feeling. Wanting something is never reason or justification enough for it to be able to happen. Some things just don't work out. And that's life.

Which brings me on to Mr Smith. There have been various points in our relationship where it felt that the D/s was creating a difficult push/pull for him with respect to how we worked compared to his marriage and other lovers. D/s is a very different place to either of these things. We were not casual Friday night affairs, and neither was I ever going to be the most important woman in the world to him (that would be his wife). Those two poles were markers of where our relationship sits - somewhere in the middle, slightly uneasily.

On the one hand, he craves submissive satisfaction, the control and order that comes with a set of protocol, the firm guiding hand and the patient caring tones of one who owns. He would come to me and be placed outside of the world for an evening, be allowed to let go and bottom out and be put through his paces.

All of those things I was able to make time to deliver, but he was struggling in fulfilling his side of the deal. The things that I needed - the level of service I required from him once he was away from me. Now, these are important to me for a number of reasons - first they make it into a genuine relationship. We have contact outside of our play-dates, talk about our lives, share notes and thoughts, meet for coffee, lunches and similar. They are the surrounding elements that make me feel like a partner, rather than a pro domme. As I reminded him in the heat of an angry exchange - I have no problem with delivering a session in an allotted time and having no call upon him outside of that. But I require paying.

I want D/s relationships. This means that, as a dominant, there are things that the submissive must do for me. Not just kneeling and giving head, or doing all the kinky sex stuff that they want to do anyway. Things that are just for me. Day to day things that are embedded in their life and make me part of their world, just as they become part of mine. Now, this will; never be done "right" straight away - there's always going to be give and take. The training process involves an element of "getting better" and I had no expectations of instant perfection and enjoyed the correcting procedure. It was when things started to be forgotten, or half done, or rules were only part remembered that I began to get worried. Rather than supporting him, the training process became an additional stress - a thing that "didn't get done" and then was an extra weight in his busy and stressful life. And in my busy and stressful life. It was made worse, in many respects, by the fact that we are friends, so in tandem with this I was meeting him to try and help him resolve issues in his marriage - the stress of which, and the sexual absences within it I felt was contributing to his overall unhappiness and reliance on me.

This had the difficult effect of making me feel like part prostitute, part marriage counsellor. Again, all roles I can fulfill, but I'd like to be paid for them, really. What I wasn't getting were the things I needed, and constantly demanding them was making me feel angry towards him. In the end, we have decided to remove the D/s element from our relationship. I place no requirements or protocol on him, we see each other if and when we can and we do what we feel like when we do see each other. We fuck a lot, and it's good sex - but it's not particularly kinky and therefore for me, it is not deeply connected. And I miss that. I miss the intensity and the desire for intensity. I no longer look at him and think "mine" - though I do think "my friend" or "the boy I'm fucking"

I'm pleased with how amicable and straight-forward most of these parting conversations were - admittedly the situation with Mannequin and Fenrir was easier because it felt much more like a D/s handover, whereas with Mr Smith the lack of communication between his wife and myself means I have concerns over whether he is being adequately cared for outwith my patronage. I am also very conscious of theses absences in my life and the loneliness that this has created in me.

I'm working through it. Certainly the world is a calmer place, I'm not upset per se, and I've removed a lot of anxieties by having these conversations and changing these relationships. But I've also removed a lot of good stuff (admittedly, potential good stuff that wasn't working). And that makes my life much emptier. I'm trying to work out what I need to fill it.

Where have all the single men gone?

Last night saw another of my (now almost famous) failed attempts to have an orgy in a sex club. I strongly suspect that this is pretty much the equivalent of being unable to arrange a piss up in a brewery. I put it down to two main factors - the first is about my feelings in sex clubs as opposed to play clubs, the second about attaining my personal sexual and aesthetic preference.

Take the sex club / play club distinction, fortunately this club (Kinky Salon London) is one of the better clubs that blur the lines between the two, so I feel comfortable exploring my "kink" for transactional vanilla sex here. I do struggle with "stranger sex" - I am dreadfully fascinated and turned on by it: it's something I keep coming to clubs like this to try and try again. I enjoy the liberation in the idea and the simplicity in bodies, fucking. To be able to let go, bottom out, tune everything else down to white noise and just experience the sensation of other people giving pleasure to me.

The venue is lovingly decorated and everyone has fun outfits and there are smiles all round. There's dungeon kit: experimentation and playfulness is encouraged and I certainly entertained myself by tying a friend of mine down onto a rocking horse rack. However, there was no denying that the majority of activity was fucking, and without the regimen offered by D/s protocol I can find myself somewhat at a loss in what to do, and more importantly, who to do it with. Given that, I'd rather set my stall on having a lot of "just sex" - perhaps scuppering myself with expectations. In retrospect I should have kept to my natural environment and packed a bunch of toys then loitered by the rack all night doing awful things to kinksters I knew.

I'm a female top and I find it relatively easy to secure female partners at an event like this. Quite aside from the fact that there are a few women at the club that I know (some of whom I first met at the ladies only hen night, and I've become friends with since) there are far more available, interested and openly "up for it" women than men. Case in point: I strap-on within a few minutes of the playroom opening and ask who wants to be fucked. A smiling woman shouts "me!" and I help her onto the bed, fucking her whilst her female partner licked her clit. The gasps and writhing was gratifying and I enjoyed creating those sensations, the transitory pleasure of it and the act of give and take.

I started to look around for another encounter, leading Mr Smith by the hand as we walked the room. My desire was for another man for a mFm threesome. As I looked around, I saw a lot of male/female couples and a lot of women but very, very few single men, fewer still that I was interested in. The most attractive men there (and being honest, I am exceptionally picky) were with their equally attractive female partners and became quickly "busy" either with another woman or another couple. And even had they not been already engaged - and quite a few seemed to have arrangements already in place -I am uncertain what the etiquette is for approaching a couple with the intent to only fuck one of them, but suspect it's probably rude.

This lack of men is proving to be an ongoing issue for myself and Mr Smith. We initially thought that one had been located - even briefed prior to arrival, but then he arrived with a girl in tow and whilst he seemed keen in general he left early to go to another party. I'm choosing not to take this personally. So eventually, after some pleasant chats with friends we left. And I'm left with a rather worrying thought.

With the notable exception of a small number of my friends: where are all the cute, kinky single men?

Talking to Mr Smith (a classic example of my woe; attractive and we're good match, however he is married and I have no intention of fucking with that) and looking around at munches, clubs and events and you would be forgiven for thinking that the scene was entirely populated by attractive young women in fetching outfits. Perhaps it is because they are the most noticeable, but I suspect that it is, in fact, that they are more comfortable making themselves noticed - whereas single men do not. Here are some of my more general thoughts on why. Another, more worrying thought was around how the scene, and indeed how society itself, reacts to the single man: note that I'm now moving on to more broader areas and not talking about that club night superficially which actually does a damn good job of standing head and shoulders above the behaviours and attitudes of many sex clubs.

There's been a lot of conversations about the different treatment and expectations towards men and women in sex clubs and the fetish scene. There are higher prices for single men in many clubs, some clubs do not let men in until later on and there is a real wariness even amongst the nicest of young men around being "that guy". In tandem to these practical and social exclusions there is also a lack of perceived opportunity. The play balance in clubs is strongly towards girl-on-girl, girl-on-boy or girl-boy-girl sex. That's a lot of girls and not a lot of boys. I know no woman who would not play with or touch another woman and I'm not prepared to call women more "naturally" bisexual because that is a ghastly bag of assumptions. What women are, is socialised to be more bisexual - women fucking each other is is accepted to the point of expected, especially for male pleasure. Bisexual men are made invisible, or in the cases of a few ghastly swinging clubs, actively discouraged. Shame on them.

What do these two things have in common with a notable lack of available men in the scene? Well, for a start, women are occupied with each other or with known partners. I imagine that many new men will come to an event, hang around on the sidelines and then leave - unable to make a connection because of this sense of exclusion. Secondly, the various other barriers to attendance mean that many men may never make it into the scene at all until they secure a girlfriends or partner who can then act as a safety net against any potential accusations of being that guy. Add to this the difficulty that many men feel around presenting themselves as sexual anyway and I'm starting to wonder perhaps all of these potential kinky chaps are at home, fantasising about it but unable to come out and play.