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The online diary of an ethical pervert.
Meeting with Switching Sides went really rather well last night. It should be noted that I managed to get the wrong end of the stick and he is, in fact, a Dom who is in a LTR with a Domme, which is how I confused myself into thinking he was a submissive. Which he isn't. This is actually nicer, on some levels. I think the handle can stay though, as it has alliterative qualities which are pleasing to me.
That minor fumble on my part aside, we had a great evening and coffee progressed to dinner (standard practice now appears to be to have pudding before savoury food). We chatted about the usual: rope bondage, the wonderfulness of DIY shops, public versus private play and how serious one should take it all. We both sit nicely within the "serious" camp, or at least have the same definition of the word - we like involving, focused play with people who know and care about each other. We don't like one night stands, bratting or those whose concerns are more about playing to the crowd than with the person. We have a date in the diary for next month and a meet up at Antichrist.
Sad but true, CCK will close its doors this week. They will continue to trade online, and hope to re-open somewhere a little bit more welcoming and appreciative of their all-round loveliness. I'll always hail them as the people who brought some of life's finer things together and helped get BDSM out of dark and sticky corners and into comfy sofas. As Alana said last night, not goodbye, but au-revoir.
Bon chance, mes amis.
I'm meeting with Switching Sides tonight for a coffee. He's a submissive who is looking to explore his Dom side, we've chatted a bit online and there is possible potential. As usual, the illustrious, and hopefully long-lived, CCK will be a neutral yet charmingly inspiring meeting point. If there is a conversational lull I like being able to point at an item or piece of artwork and go "well, do you fancy trying that?" I'm not precisely sure how it will go, photographs were favourable, with a rather nice looking torso to boot, but we'll see.
Ethical Hedonist is back in town and Offensive Charmer should return from NYC next week, so, alongside The Photographer that should mean an end to the drought. I've been entertaining myself with interesting thoughts on how to keep them all entertained, which may well result in the purchase of extra pieces of kit. I'd like a crop, for starters but would actually prefer a "proper" riding crop, for familiar weighting and balance.
I've always loved tack. I grew up in the countryside and was reasonably horsey. I enjoyed the patient practice of fitting buckles and the chink of metal against metal, smell of the leather. There's a certain satisfaction to being able to put all of that filed-away knowledge to good use. DIY shops are also a firm favourite of mine - I've a few lengths of chain, but do need to get some lighter ones for attaching to piercings, and snaphooks are marvellous, very unfussy and they have a satisfying noise. I am (naturally) fond of good old fashioned fetish shops, but there is a certain charm in walking along the high street with a set of individually innocent purchases, ready to be assembled into a not so innocent series of activities.
For a variety of too tedious to mention real-life occurrences I haven't played with anyone or had sex for over a week and it is making me tense, to say the least. Recent posts have been backlog clearing, in case anyone is checking dates and times. I also won't have the opportunity to do anything about it for a few days. The prospect does not fill me with joy.
Lack of sex makes my brain go funny, I get moody and anxious. This is a known problem, so I accept that it's happening, although that doesn't help overmuch. In my experience nothing beyond a good fuck is able to alleviate the symptoms; I expect that some heavy play would also work, but those are both difficult to achieve at the moment. Masturbation is taking the edge off and preventing me from actually exploding. Regular sex makes me happy. Lack thereof makes me unhappy. Simple enough, surely? Maybe not.
If it was just an urge to orgasm, then masturbation would satisfy, but this is not the case. I think that part of it is the need for a physical re-negotiation of pair bonding, This is made more obvious by the fact that my anxiety can be sometimes directed at the relationship itself, in an (unhelpful) mental-knock on effect which can be roughly translated as "you haven't had sex with this person in a while, what's wrong?" There is also an endorphin low that chocolate will not satisfy: the need for pure physical exertion and to switch my brain off and just fuck or play, experience pleasure. I'm very tactile and sense orientated and so I miss a lot of the ancillary moments: the taste of salt on skin, the feel of hands on my breasts, kissing. I'm also dreaming of pain, in a not-very-compensatory input from my subconsciousness. I feel literally out-of-touch, a sort of bodily loneliness. The bed is too big.
Turnabout is fair play, so The Photographer, who had been in that sort of a mood all day got the leather treatment. I've never had the opportunity to toy with a hooded submissive before, and the effect is quite disarming. Features vanish, noises are muffled and so response is condensed into the body. Shudders, jerks, the tension held in muscle. It feels very animalistic, actually, as if grooming a skittish horse, soothing gestures at the ready from the very moment that you know something is going to hurt or shock.
It's odd not being able to touch his face directly, although the feel of the leather is soft and pleasant. I place my hand against his cheek and hold his head to me, reassuring whilst reiterating my ownership of him, in whispers against his ear. I like the sensation of bestowment, of giving both pleasure and pain, whenever I chose, which balances nicely with the total freedom to take whatever I want. It makes me feel like a benevolent despot - in charge but also keenly aware of what I am responsible for. I want him to feel cared for as well as controlled, to be held and hurt.
I can hear his breathing, heavy and slightly raspy. Under the hood he's wearing a blindfold and a ball gag, after lacing the hood at the back (a little tricky, clearly I need more practice) I secured it with a collar. I sit astride him and tease his nipple piercings, watching him squirn and feeling his cock get hard under me, which I wriggle against, enjoying the feel of him. I've already used his mouth to make me come earlier, but that was before breakfast and I'm feeling horny again so slip a condom on and put him on all fours so I can slide underneath him. I put his hands to either side, and pull him into me so that there is as little contact as possible - just his cock inside me, like a dildo made of flesh, and place my hands on his hips to control his movements for my benefit. He's not allowed to orgasm without asking permission. He can't speak to ask. I remind him of this fact and feel him buck a little, enjoying the rush before telling him he can come when he wants. Because I'm feeling nice.
There were three very distinct stages to the Doll Project over the weekend: making the Doll, taking photos and fucking with / as a Doll. The first had an air of dressing-up to it, play-acting and it felt very frivolous and non-serious. I kept throwing suggestions of clothing and make-up at The Photographer, hoping something would stick, the aim being to create the Doll that he wanted. As it turned out he didn't have a specific "look" in mind so I made something that was perhaps more me than him. Porcelain skin (I am pale anyway), kohl rimmed wide eyes, red stained mouth and long black hair. A light, pink see-through negligee and high heeled black patent shoes helped finish it off - clothes that implied a usage rather than actually covering anything. I think that the overall look was "pretty" rather than anything else, which I did like, giving a feel of femininity, accessibility and a certain vulnerability. The Photographer was slightly thrown by how not-me it looked, which is also perfect, an air of the unheimlich.
Once fully dressed (undressed?) I felt different. No longer playful, but a little cold and calm. When he came into the room with the camera, he started to talk to me and I actually couldn't respond, it didn't feel appropriate. Instead, I just sat there, eyes focused on a point directly in front of me, blinking slowly at regular intervals in time with my breathing. One blink for every two breaths, steady and rhythmic, as if powered by a machine. It was quite a meditative experience and I didn't feel my body or physical presence except as a slightly disconnected series of activities: breathing, blinking, the occasional swallow, holding my focus on nothing in particular. Not reacting. Unlike remaining still as a footstool, I had no connection with my own desires or sexuality, but neither was I swimming with sensation as when used as a canvas. I felt barely there at all. The couple of points where he touched me to move me into a better position were interesting: when he pressed on my chin to part my lips into an "O" shape I felt a twinge of excitement in my cunt, as if a connection point was touched.
We took a break to view the images and discuss how he wanted to fuck the Doll: he decided that he didn't want something passive so I suggested an active sex toy, something specifically designed to please him. The other rule was that the toy could not speak or make any noise. When we started I found that my focus had changed once more, now I was concentrating very hard on what he was feeling. He put his arms around me and held me for a while and rather than relax into him or turn to kiss him as I normally would I stayed quite still, only flexing when pressure was exerted. My own sensations were still very much reduced in as far as my own pleasure was concerned. His responses became my responses.
I started by undressing him, carefully. keeping my face impassive and my gaze blank. Once naked, I sat him on the edge of the bed and licked his cock, lightly at first, playing with his thighs and chest with my nails. The goal was for him to receive the maximum amount of pleasure for the minimum possible effort on his part. To be able to lie back, relax and enjoy himself. After a while, I stripped and climbed on top of him to fuck him with a mechanical motion. I kept staring straight ahead, trying not to betray any of the sensations within me which started to build as I fucked him. I tried to keep the pressure and pace constant and firm, exactly like a machine might, only varying when he moved, so that I could better move with him. It was very quiet, punctuated only by his odd moan. Eventually, he put me on my back and fucked me until he came, then handed me the used condom and pushed me to one side. A nice gesture that would have made me smile, if my face were not held so rigid. As a final act, I crawled over to his cock and sucked it clean for a while, before collapsing in a slightly awkward heap, tired out.
He later described it as "having a submissive without all of the effort" which feels as if it was a success from that point of view. The fucking was quite difficult because of how passive I had to remain at all times whilst all the while thinking hard about what would please him most, rather than responding instinctively with moans or reacting to my own pleasure. In that respect it was almost a type of bondage without rope or chain - I was held by a role that I had to enact, that kept my limbs in a certain position not because they were fixed but because it was a better angle to fuck him from. It was also quite tiring, both physically and mentally, because I was quite concerned with making it work, with getting it right. I'd like to try being a totally passive "rag doll" object and also perhaps a more directed one, I also think it could be an interesting role to adopt at a club.
There's a lot that's been written on polyamory, so I'm not going to re-hash all the whys and wherefores, but I have been thinking about it, as well as discussing it with a few people. In the past I have always been monogamous, I've had a number of long term partners and been committed to them and only them. I never "cheated" although I did think about it once or twice (or more in the case of the tail ends of the relationship). I am a Christian, and would like one day to get married in a church with the dress and everything. If that happens, and currently it is not something that I'm actively looking for and maybe even will never occur, I expect to only ever fuck or be fucked by that one person.
That's in the potential future, perhaps. Right now, I'm in a very different place, and also a very different place to where I'd ever expected myself to be. Crucially, however, I'm happy, and having rather a lot of fun, which is my usual yardstick for determining whether or not I'm doing the right thing.
Ethical Hedonist once commented half-jokingly that he worried about polyamory being a way of being half as good to twice as many people. I can see his point. I think that we are socially accustomed to monogamy to the extent that multiple relationships give us category difficulties. Combine that with failures of language and issues with context and we start to get nervous. The Photographer has a main partner, does that make me "lesser"? We need a better, more appropriate set of values, new ways of thinking. I've recently described my situation as a chocolate box relationship - and it's true that I like variety and being able to pick and chose, but that too leads to ranking those flavours that might be preferred.
The removal of preference is probably not an option unless we throw our hands in the air and declare that all shall win and all must have prizes. It is human nature to qualify and sort. Everyone wants to be special, to be important and valued, everyone worries that they are not. Which is where the difficulty comes for me. Whilst I might be closer to (in that I know more about, see more of and fuck more often) some of my partners than others, I still want to see them all, or I'd be monogamous. No-one is being lied to, or fooled and I'm clear in what is and isn't on offer physically and emotionally, but I am still finding it a little tricky.
I wonder if I am stuck in playground rules, thinking about lovers in the way that "best friends" used to have that peculiar emphasis. School room cliques where in order for one to be valued another must be excluded or diminished. I grew out of that, and I can grow out of this too.
Over the weekend, The Photographer and I entertained ourselves by gagging and hooding the other, which gave an interesting opportunity to review both sides of the experience. It wasn't a new sensation for either of us and it is one that we both know we enjoy.
I love the feel of a gag in my mouth, especially in tandem with a hood. To me it is both permission and instruction to be prone and to submit. My senses are blocked and also enhanced, I have to strain a little to hear, I can't anticipate what he might do. For me, the gag completes my submission, making the sensory deprivation of the hood all the stronger for the additional feeling of enclosure and captivity. I can smell the leather, and taste the soft rubber against my tongue. It presses me down, and I revel in it, I inhabit a little space in my mind from which I experience these sensations. I'm on my back, spread and tied with leather straps into a suitable fucking position. He holds me around the shoulders, and I am an object, to be moved and altered however he wants. I can't see him and he cannot see my expression, although he can infer from the pattern of muffled noise a "Yes Sir" or a "Thank you".
As I lie there, I can feel the saliva run lazily down the side of my cheek. I had always thought that this sensation might be an embarrassing or humiliating one, but it is not. There is a strange sensation of relief and release, an acceptance and understanding that there is nothing that I can do about this. I am not in control. I cannot lift my hand to wipe it away, nor could I touch my face even if I had mobility. The hood cuts me off from myself at the same time as it connects me and the effect on my body is very powerful: I am very turned on, sensitive to the touch and my cunt is wet. There is literally nothing else in the world I want right now than for him to fuck me.
I've recently been thinking about porn, and how little I enjoy or am even casually aroused by straight vanilla porn. I look at the screen and all I can see is plasticised orange flesh jiggling, a heavy cock moving rhythmically against an almost rubberised body. Blank eyes, closed against the boredom. I hate the falseness of it, the total lack of excitement, or even in a lot of cases, sexual enjoyment. Also the generally poor production values make the aesthete in me shudder.
There is a theory that's been doing the rounds for a while that women are interested in more literary porn, and men more visual porn. Of course there are any number of things wrong with this statement. We can start with the inherent sexist assumption that men have no brains and are entirely monkey-see, monkey-do or that women have very little sexual interest except when involving beautiful description of a rolling valley against which bodices can be ripped. There is the knock-on argument that because both of these products are assumed to be targeted at the different sexes then the channels of sale and methods of consumption do indeed enforce those behaviours. Men's magazines have big tits on the front, women's magazines have confessional stories of "guilty sex secrets".
But I like visual stimulus: kind souls sent me clips of attractive young men kissing and I'm extremely fond of Michael Manning. A lot of women I know like photographic porn. I like photographic porn. So perhaps it's not the medium itself, but the message. This would seem a reasonable enough assumption. After all, I don't enjoy vanilla sex, why would representations of it interest me? Most of the BDSM porn I've seen (and I accept that perhaps more research is required) leaves me with the same sensation as vanilla. It's porn, it looks like and sounds like porn: the women have the same pumped up breasts and curious tans. They seem very removed from me, so I find it hard to empathise with them, to put myself in their place and imagine what they are feeling. Perhaps it is different for a Dom(me), they can enjoy the voyeuristic aspect of somone being tied and hurt for their pleasure, but the submissive in me does not get much out of it at all.
I'm curled up on some cushions at The Photographer's feet, wearing a kimono and in leather collar and cuffs (both ankles and wrists). We're having dinner and watching a film. I've cooked and served him a meal, passing him his glass of wine when he needs it, topping up when required and leaning back to have my hair and neck played with.
He paused the film for a while to have his cock sucked for a few minutes before it was time for dessert. I think we're both very content, in general and at this particular moment. Happy, certainly and very much at ease with each other. Used to the other's body and generally enjoying the company. We've been chatting a little about how we're doing, in a mild self-congratulatory way: our compatibility did take me by surprise, and we've both grown more confident in our play, our pleasure and the relationship itself. Which has become a relationship.
I've been playing with my pudding in an absent minded-way, as I often do, wiping the remains of the raspberries, yoghurt and baklava from my plate with my fingers and licking them. In a very relaxed but firm movement he takes the plate from me and presses my face against it, gently, I don't resist and bow my head.
I feel a shiver of excitement run up my spine as my nose makes contact with the china and I lick the remnants of the food from the plate. The action seems so right, so much in place and welcome. The touches of D/s in something otherwise so daily. After a few moments he lets go and I continue for a while until the traces of honeyed fruit are sadly gone. I turn around to look at him and he's smiling, I grin back, then look quizzical:
"I think there's yoghurt on my nose"
I've always had a wonderful sense of timing.
Working through those post-scene blues, not really sure where they've come from. Interesting to note that the last time I was very down it felt different, lonesome. I don't feel especially lonely, just sad. Reading up on the changes in the body during sex, after orgasm and also the wash of hormones evoked by a power exchange or similar stressful situation.Yes, I suppose it could be put down to biology, but whilst I like to contextualise and think things through I believe that there is a danger in rationalising the emotional. Smashing a square peg into a round hole and then wondering why it doesn't quite fit.
I found an article by Sudhir Kakar, who has some noteworthy ideas on sex and spirituality which seemed to well express some of the sensations I've experienced in BDSM. He talks about good sex as being transcendent of being capable of taking you out of the here and now and giving more than orgasm. I normally dislike linking any form of religious sentiment to physical satisfaction - it feels like over-glorification at best and slightly blasphemous at worst.
However there is value in the idea because there are aspects of kink that I particularly enjoy and get the most out of that go beyond the physical and are not rational. Those peculiar head-spaces where one can be both lost and found, blissfully contradictory. I certainly don't mean to imply that all forms of fucking must necessarily strive to become "spiritual" most things are what they are and none the worse for it. But some experiences are more powerful than others and they do provide something a little deeper than just a pleasurable skin-to-skin or even brain-to-brain connection.
So, in the absence of that, afterwards, perhaps one can justifiably feel a little sorrow.
I met with American Dom in London for coffee and later drinks last night, we put a date in the diary for either rope bondage or a service oriented dinner and entertained each other with news of our exploits. We also discussed how our relationship would change in light of The Photographer's offer, which he seemed content with, and suggested that perhaps I might like to meet his brothers in an attempt to prove to them that people involved with BDSM are real people too. In most respects.
With any luck, I should be working on some Doll photographs this weekend. I've been experimenting with ways of getting make-up to give that porcelain effect and will probably use a wig (I have a long, black wavy haired one which should suit) to add to the overall fake-realism look. There isn't anything particularly on club wise that either of us took a shine to, so we will be making our own fun. Initially it seemed as if we might have a date with Lovely Couple, but diary issues seem to be in the way, sadly.
This is something of a leitmotif for my existence at the moment. Dinner with Mr F (as a fellow internet pervert) has now been pushed to September, I believe we started to make tentative plans at some point in July. I failed to touch base with Plastic Artist, which is now two scuppered dates in as many weeks, due to work commitments. Fortunately not everything is at sixes and sevens. I've met a number of new folk including Twosome a bi switch couple who The Photographer and I very much enjoyed meeting for drinks last week. We all seemed to get on very well and bonded over grammar-nazism and a shared hatred of small children in pubs. Finally, I have been chatting to The Blond, an interesting sounding Dom who I will hopefully get around to actually seeing in the flesh. At some point. Dates and times permitting.
I've never had much contact with swingers before so was not particularly sure what to expect when The Photographer and I visited The F Club. The evening itself had a masked theme so started well with me amusing myself with dress up. Once done, the pair of us looked rather spiffing: him in vintage dress suit with tails and me in corset and costume jewellery. On arrival I was pleasantly surprised by the organisation and decor, lockers for all that unnecessary clothing that one has to travel in and a lovely gentleman who showed us around.
The dungeon was fairly spacious with a good amount of fetish furniture. The overall focus very much on things to fuck on or in, with the added bonus that you could also torture someone on them. There was a sad lack of rope or chain to tie people to the kit, but we had come prepared. It became clear that this was very much a swingers rather than a fetish night. There were lots of straight couples in frocks and suits, vanilla porn (never did anything for me, as a teenager before discovering BDSM I merely thought I wasn't interested in sex, how things change) showing in the cinema room. A fair number of folk skipped quickly past the dungeon or came in and gawked.
Gawking, of course, is not a problem for exhibitionists like myself, and The Photographer sensibly blindfolded me to stop any form of playing to the crowd, which was his job. However both the vanilla presence and the over-loud disco tunes made it difficult for either of us to really get into it and after a while we contented ourselves with watching pretty much the only other BDSM couple around play. We introduced ourselves then played and later fucked as a foursome. Possibly a case of safety in numbers, although I think that both of the boys very much enjoyed the increased attention and head-turning that they got from tying two girls together and making them moan. Apparently, there was a lot of batting away of over-excited observers that had to be done, which almost certainly wouldn't have happened in a more fetish setting - different rules of engagement, I suppose.
Interestingly, the most painful activity was also the most prosaic. I still have some sore to the touch, bright red half moon crescents on my sternum from The Photographer's nail pressing into that thin-skinned close to the bone part of me. It got to the point where he only had to touch that spot lightly and I would shy away violently or start to pre-emptively scream.
"So, when you knock on my bedroom door, I expect you to be naked, kneeling and offering me a gin and tonic."
It's Friday and a series of flirtatious text messages plus a trip to the fetish shop neatly located around the corner from work for handy lunch break perusing have given me ideas. The Photographer and I have reasonably similar attitudes to D/s so I can usually lay odds-on that if I'd like it, he'd like it. The same does not hold true for cock rings, lacking the equipment I couldn't really comment, but given that I'm going to be the top, I thought that some self-gratification might be in order and I do enjoy both the aesthetic and the control they offer. I bought a fairly simple set - two rings attached with a short leather strap.
I watch him crawl on all fours and make him sit between my legs. I lube up his cock a little and make him put them on himself. Partly this is so that I can watch, partly because I like the idea of getting him to constrain himself in such a way, and partly (admittedly) that I'm not precisely sure the best way of doing it, and I still have an element of nervousness around getting it right when I'm topping him. I'm getting more confident the more I do it, and also enjoying it more each time. This was no exception, there was a pleasing strain against the metal and some nice little moans when I tapped and flicked his bound cock.
I tied him up with rope and moved him onto his back so I could play with his very, very sensitive nipples, making a mental note to invest in longer lengths of rope and also perhaps a riding crop or similar. I crossed my legs over his chest, resting one of my heels under his balls and making the odd pressing motion. I sipped gin and tonic and listened to the noises he was making, and generally felt very pleased with myself. Later on, he was blindfolded and I let him lick my clit, then, after removing the rings, I fucked him. I played with myself whilst doing so, enjoying using his cock as a sex aid. I kept talking to him about what I was doing and why, which got a wonderful response and seemed to push him a little further under until he asked to orgasm and, after a suitable pause, I consented. Magnanimously.
An idle thought made me tie his ankle to the bed so I could keep him for the morning. A less idle thought decided that really I should also put the rings back on, and then cuff his hands to his collar, then fasten his ankles together. Satisfied, I kissed his forehead goodnight, rolled over and went to sleep, to find some lovely, needy noises when I woke the next morning.
For a while, I have been considering more piercings, especially given the resounding success of the nipple rings. They have healed exceptionally well, given me no problems and basically look and feel amazing. I'm recommending them heartily to everyone. The Photographer has been discussing getting a Prince Albert done, and I have promised to go along and hold his hand whilst this happens. I am certainly looking forward to the fun that can be had with that in tandem with his nipple piercings.
Alongside this, a conversation has developed concerning chastity play and the possibility that he and I may become a little more serious. These two facts are connected by me getting labial rings, which I have always thought looked very pretty. By all accounts they hurt quite a lot and have a fairly long healing time, but once in place I think they will be magnificent. More so than the nipple piercings, they are purely sexual, they lack the attendant punk connotations of some other piercings and speak directly of slavery, control and use.
It's something of a commitment, on several levels, and we are still in the discussion phase. I'm excited and a little nervous, given the obvious knock-on effect this will have on current and potential future partners, as well as the hitherto uncharted territory of placing my sexuality in someone else's hands. I've realised that we're more than just sexually compatible (and oh, we are that), but more generally so - we work well together.
The offer is there, then. It is very clear, and very attractive in both clarity and desire. It will change our relationship, certainly, and our relationship with others, although precisely how I'm not yet sure. I'm still surprised by how much it affects me, how much even thinking about it turns me on, a little ripple working its way up my body whenever I call it to mind: "I want your cunt, just for me, whenever I want it and for no-one else."
Perhaps I have been lucky, and that luck has lead me to become a little greedy. The Photographer is a bisexual switch. This gives us both a lot of flexibility in play, and also in idle (and not so idle) fantasies. It has made me extremely curious as to what could be done with another bi switch male, and so locating such a person has become a small obsession of mine. Or perhaps rather ours, as I think it's safe to say that we are both quite keen on this.
There appears to be a certain hesitancy amongst men to play with other men, excluding the gay contingent obviously, yet performing girl-on-girl is considered as much a part of the female submissive's arsenal as collar wearing and kneeling. I've had a few reasons bandied about as to why this should be so, starting with the knee-jerk "but I'm straight". I find it interesting that BDSM could produce heteronormativity to such an extent. After all, it's just a body: it can give and receive pleasure. How is oral sex from a man different to a woman, surely it might be better given that they have more direct appreciation for how that feels?
Other ideas in the mix include the fact that women are "naturally" more disposed to touch each other. Which sounds like cultural conditioning at best and a big bag of tosh at worst. We are going to run into a lot of trouble if we start to cling to what is "natural" and what is not, starting with PVC and moving onwards. The societal influence is one that is perhaps worth thinking about however; that men appear to be made to feel uncomfortable and even embarrassed by considering other men as sexual beings or viewing them in a sexual way, unless they are actually gay. Which is a little sad, when you think about it, though all of that tension must go somewhere and probably accounts for interest in aggressive sports. It would perhaps be nice to channel that energy into a more productive (productive for me, anyhow) context.
I can understand the angle "I tried it a few times and didn't like it", but to not try at all seems a little feeble. Generally speaking, I'm in favour of anything that adds variety to my life, and it's not as if I'm proposing anything that I'd be unwilling to do myself. We're in a fortunate position of all being adults who understand that fucking someone, or even simply playing with them, does not indicate a lifelong committment or a need to go out and pick curtains together. Mix it up a little, gentlemen, you might like it.
Drinks with Master Sculptor tonight has been cancelled, sadly. Another reminder that everyone has real lives which can sometimes get in the way of alternative ones. I almost used the word "imaginary" there which was perhaps just a natural linguistic pairing to the word real, but it did get me thinking.
I often use the word "real" when I'm describing my day-to-day life, work, going to the shops, meeting my vanilla friends in the pub. These things are no more or less real than my BDSM life, and in certain contexts the two overlap - I regularly meet The Photographer and Ethical Hedonist for a drink or dinner and whilst we will flirt and chat about kink we will be more playful than actually at play. Not that I have anything against being taken to a dark cinema with handcuffs hidden under jackets, just that that would be a very different activity for me. They are both, however, very real.
There is a certain underlying imagined element to fetish and submission, a lot of what turns me on is based on thoughts in my mind which emphasise and bounce off the physical aspects. Connected, but not the same. I like typing through sexual fantasies on IM, or via text, and in these contexts I am able to be hurt more, abused more, restrained and made to submit more because of the lack of reality. Conversely, I also enjoy physical play that allows my mind to switch off, some of the best experiences I have had have come from feeling totally immersed in sensation, whether it is pleasure or pain, to the point where I can't imagine beyond where I am, and even stringing together a coherent sentence in response to a simple "how does it feel?" is impossible.
Real can also be taken as a referent for "meaningful" or "valuable", another reason why I worry about it's use to define one aspect of my life from the other. I don't think that either type of activity or group of people is inherently better than the other, they fulfill different parts of my existence, and I need them both. Not simply as a contrast either, although certainly having a dirty little secret can add spice to a long train journey, whilst friends outside of the scene can give you an alternate perspective. Instead, the two are part of my life as a whole, I like and need them both.
The Photographer is fucking me, I'm lying very still, on my back with my legs folded up and spread. I'm not tied, collared or restricted in any way beyond the fact that his presence expects my compliance. I imagine myself to be a toy, doll or object of some description. The very lack of chains or cuffs increases the fantasy: why tie up a table or manacle a machine? In past discussions he's tried to get me out of the habit of thinking about being fucked, and more about being used, and this also contributes to the overall sensation of not being totally present, of being a body with sensations, without control. I like it. It's been a while since I last had sex, I'm wet and I've been anticipating this for the past few days. I am luxuriating in the moment, wishing it to extend out for as long as possible.
It's late, the room is very dark and we are both totally silent. The only noises are our breathing and the occasional moan. This carries a certain intensity that I'm enjoying very much. We've been fucking for a while and I'm being carried away with the rhythm: in the absence of all other stimulus his cock is very much the centre of my attention. I move against him, matching his thrusts to increase his satisfaction, which of course increases mine, a steady pressure in my cunt suddenly builds to something quite different and unexpected. My leg muscles spasm and the feeling of him within me switches rapidly between being pleasurable and painful and back again: orgasmic sensations. I've hardly ever felt this during sex, and so am somewhat surprised. As it turns out I don't climax, but I get the distinct impression that it just got an awful lot easier.
I think there's an element of us becoming more attuned to each other, which is nice and compliments developments in our relationship. The Photographer is convinced that it's because I had to wait for over a week between fucks and that sort of deprivation might be "good" for me. There's a certain allure in his following offer, and we'll discuss it at length, I'm sure, but there is also a part of me that thinks more practice might also be a viable option.
Being English carries a burden of politeness, a desire to do not so much the right thing in any given circumstance, but the correct and proper thing. Which, on Saturday, left me wondering what was the precise required gift when going to stay at The Photographer's partner's house and being introduced to her for the first time? Meet the parents for the polyamorous generation.
Fortunately, anxiety over the gift itself managed to submerge any worries on the day about the actual encounter and by all accounts it went very well. Thank fuck. Much better than I had anticipated, and she was very easy going and friendly. I had expected to be quite tense and was, a little, through the week, but all was allayed. Although other minor quandaries did appear during the course of the weekend including who should sit next to whom, in the car, at lunch and in the cinema, most of which seemed to be resolved by being relaxes and not fussing. A good maxim, I suppose.
There is a ongoing tendency, and I know that I am extremely prone to this, to grade, rate and evaluate. I expect that it stems from language development - we learn to speak through classifying X as Not-Y, and thus learn the "value" of X. In this context, however, it doesn't seem like an especially good idea. I want to know where I stand with my partners, I don't, however want to be in a marriage of unequals with their partners: phrases like "main partner" leave me a little cold as this clearly imply that others are "lesser". I'm not going down that road, and by avoiding such labels I can avoid some of my worries about something that seems (hopefully) able to progress to the medium and perhaps long term, to be a little deeper than two people who enjoy fucking each other.
There are all sorts of issues, some which might be termed (unkindly) vanilla hangups, others which are obvious factors of how I was brought up: my mother asks me if I have a boyfriend, I reply "no". I don't go on to elaborate. I'm not going to recite sections from The Ethical Slut, or any form of manifesto for modern living, there are some types of conversations that I'm just not prepared to have just yet.
As The Photographer rightly points out I have gotten past my first flush of excitement at being back on the scene (several years and a new city make for a very extended break), and have started to try and formulate a more long term plan for what I actually want, beyond great play with great people, which whilst a lovely notion is mortifyingly vague. I can be quite goal orientated, which is good, but at the same time I don't want to miss out on anything potentially interesting by being too rigid.
That said, there are a certain number of characteristics and qualities that I will continue to demand in any new partners:
- Attractiveness So, I'm probably being superficial, and vain, and possibly downright unfair. But if I'm not drawn to someone, I'm probably not going to want to play with them in any ongoing capacity
- Brains My current partners are smart. I am smart. I like smart people, they are fun to be around, give good play and give good feedback on play
- Responsibility These are people who I am going to (with any luck) be naked in front of, be tied up and hurt by, and a variety of other things. So I want grown-ups: people I can rely on, trust and feel safe with.
- Honesty I will ask intimate questions and I'll want proper answers. I don't want anyone who feels coy or embarrassed about issues of bodies, emotions or thoughts.
I'm trying to mentally pick my way through various offers from various quarters and have actually started to be somewhat ruthless in adhering to my needs and requirements, which means that there will be an increasing quantity of "thanks but no thanks" responses. I don't want to talk myself out of being polite or just plain civil, and oftentimes I'm keen to chat even if not play, Understated Fetishist and I, despite going separate ways, still ping across "how is it going?" notes, which I like reading.
Aside from doing more of the activities I currently enjoy, there are a number of things I'm specifically looking into:
- A cute (of course), bi male switch to play with alongside another sub
- A weekend away in a dungeon or playroom space
- Rope bondage from the other side, I can tie someone up, certainly, but would very much like to be better at doing it
- Needles, cutting and play piercing. These are currently on my "amber" list as something I am tentatively interested in but nervous about
- Pony play. I suspect that despite someone informing me that "ponies are especially common in the UK" this is still something of a rarity. Still, it never hurts to ask. Depending on what you're asking for.
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