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The online diary of an ethical pervert.
Every time I go over to see Captain I can be certain of only two things. First, we will do at least one thing that I have never done before, and second, the experience will be intense enough that I will need at least a day to recover. On Friday we were doing doll play. A doll for him.
The first part was to scrub away myself, physically then mentally. I'm naked and on all fours wearing a large padded, leather blindfold that covered both eyes and nose. My first thought is that I'm going to be beaten, "cleansed" through mortification, so I'm a little curious when there is no pain. Instead I feel a squirt of cool lube against my arse as my legs are spread and something plastic is inserted. There's the noise of liquid stirred in a glass and then a heavy, bloating pressure inside me. Enema. I tense automatically, when the plastic tube is removed and I'm instructed to hold tight. the sensation is not painful, but deeply uncomfortable and certainly unpleasant. A strong need to go to the bathroom and a slightly sickly-sloshing feeling. After a minute or so - it felt longer - he grabs me by the hair and I crawl towards the bathroom and am placed on the toilet. He looks at me, I look at him. I wait for permission and am very relieved when I get it. It's a horrible feeling, invasive liquid literally pouring out through juddering, confused muscles. I feel very queasy, unsettled and vulnerable because this is effectively duplicating having diarrhoea so I get the mental side-effect of feeling unwell. I'm not embarrassed per se, but I am starting to suffer from a minor body-shock at the unfamiliar and extremely intimate situation being imposed upon me. He watches for a while then leaves me with the instructions to clean myself up and scrub down in the shower.
I take my time. I feel sick to my stomach, which is cramping and my legs are wobbling as I eventually get in the shower (20ml of glycerol into one pint of water had quite a pronounced effect on my clearly sensitive system). I'm very glad of being able to clean off, I enjoy this part of the process as an extension of what I naturally do when visiting a partner - I always take pains to make sure my skin is soft and smooth and that all of me is ready so it's nice to make double sure. Finally I'm done and dried and can step out of the bathroom and into some fishnet hold ups and very high heels. I can just about walk in the heels, tottering.
He straps me to a chair in a darkened room. I'm facing a single candle burning on the bench in front of me. The track from the night before plays in the background. I can hear his voice against my ear, calm and low and I recognise the hypnotic cadence from play and conversations with Different Drummer I relax and let his voice take me wherever he wants me to go - as much a part of becoming his doll as letting him put my body where he decides. What he wants is a passive, unmoving "dolly". Something that stays where it is put and does not respond or react. But does feel. More than that - is hyper sensitive to every touch. My internal reaction is mixed, first I'm very excited, the idea of an encapsulated state - present, unmoving but still feeling is very hot, but I'm concerned as to whether I can actually do it, given how jumpy I can be. 'm worried I'm going to let him down before we have even started. I try and shake these thought away, aware of self-fulfilling prophecies, so I concentrate on the candle in front of me, my breathing and his voice, attempting to push everything else away.
I get to a light trance state by the time he pulls me up into the doll persona, firm, heavy limbs, fuzziness around the brain and tingling skin, like the moments before sleeping. He puts a heavy latex mask on my head - zipping it closed at the front in an act of "putting me away", he's talking to me more than usual and his words are something to hold on to in the otherwise dark and far away world of my own body. He moves me around a little finally securing me in place with a rope harness around my chest to the ceiling. A hook inserted in my arse gives slightly more stability, but it is an uncomfortable, at times painful presence, especially when I lose my balance and fall against the ropes, circling around on my heels, helpless. Then it really hurts, but there is also a pleasure in swaying like this, collapsed yet strung up. It emphasises my lack of control and volition. The pain is a needed sensation - it reinforces the requirement to stay still and rigid. He waits a while and then pushes me back into a standing position. I become aware of just how wet my cunt is, I can feel liquid dripping down my thighs and when he presses into my back and grabs my breasts it is extremely hard not to lean into him and keen to be fucked.
I'm not sure how long I'm left standing there. Sometimes he leaves me alone, sometimes he touches me, either to slap my face or my bottom or to pinch my nipples. Once or perhaps twice he kisses my shoulders, plays with my cunt and the tenderness surprises me. He keeps talking, telling me I'm pretty, his pretty dolly and the words hold me under as much as the rope or the mask. The invisible line between user and use-object. As I hang there, alternatively used and watched I start to feel a heaviness upon me, it's getting harder to breathe. I'm still not entirely sure what caused this, whether the rope, the mask or just being in that particular headspace, but I feel the world go darker around the edges and fall away, I realise I'm about to faint. It is actually quite a pleasant experience as I truly loose control and am no longer able to even hold myself upright. By which point he has already taken most of my crumpling weight and removing the ropes. I pool gratefully onto the floor, limbs still in doll positions, like a broken toy. Waiting for the next time.
Last night I did my homework. Captain sent me a track - just a few minutes shy of an hour long - alongside instructions for how I should listen to it.
I lay out my ipod on the bed, turn off the light and get undressed. I lie on top of the bed, put in the earphones. They are the bud type which cancel out external noise so suddenly I've shut off a sense. I spread my legs, close my eyes and press play.
The music starts. Ambient electronic trance, it;s layered and moves elegantly through different phases, sometimes lighter, sometimes heavier. Trance is the key word here and almost immediately I'm pulled under by the music. It's a good track with a strong beat and makes me want to dance. I can't dance, but I circle my thumb and forefingers together, unconsciously calling to invisible butterflies, whilst my heart follows the bass line as it deepens. Inside my head, I'm like a clubber reaching up to the ceiling, eyes closed and lost in the rhythm. I'm salivating, and clenching my jaw slightly, another club reaction. But also something else. Anticipation. My cunt is wet and I want sex. My hips arch upwards slightly, dancing or fucking the cold, empty air. Both, perhaps.I am allowed to play with myself ("tease" was the word used) but not to come, so I stop and start, every now and then putting my hands down by my side, like I'm floating on water.
After a few minutes I start to pay more attention to my body. I'm cold, the room has no heating at night: being on my back makes even me more exposed, especially with my legs the way they are. I can feel myself losing heat. I hate the cold, it is extremely unpleasant and I'm finding this very difficult. My feet and fingers are already cold, most of my skin is cool. The only heat is coming from my cunt, where the sensation of numb, abstracted fingertips on my clit makes it feel hotter than it is. In my disengaged state I imagine that I am lying on the ground with snow falling all over me. I imagine that icy particles are touching my eyelashes and I can feel the cold of each flake as it lands. I start to freeze. I know that as the snow carries on falling eventually I will start to feel warm again, smothered by their weight.
Although it is dark, occasionally shadows and light will pass under my eyelids, as if someone is moving in the room with me disturbing the neon from outside. I do not open my eyes. I know that I am alone. I focus on the blackness in front of me and let my mind wander. My thoughts flow in two contrasting directions, in tandem with the contrast between my cold body and warm insides.
The first part of me is thinking about my task and how I am doing. I'm trying to work out how much time has passed, how much longer I have to be here, numb and tormenting myself with masturbation. My legs start to shiver, the cold has moved from being unpleasant to painful, all the more so because I'm not sure how far I've come, how much more there is left. I'm losing time. Deliberately in a way - refusing to count or to keep track. I want to be in a place that is absent from reality, so I need to let go of time. I know that I can't stop the music and just go to sleep, I have to be there for the full length of the track. I make a rule for myself - if I stop or do anything that I shouldn't do, I have to start again. I know there's a limit to how long I can be here, motionless and cold, so that helps me to keep going. The other part that pushes me forward is my own growing excitement both in what I am experiencing and where this might ultimately lead. From a naked girl, eyes closed, frozen fingers light on her clit in the darkness to what? It's a prologue and I like narrative.
My other half, the half that is not feeling the cold but instead coiled up in the music isn't thinking but feeling. I'm trapped in my own head, high above my shivering body. I go through waves of emotions. Expressions flicker over my face for no-one to see. There's no-one but myself to experience what I am going through, no-one to feel pleasure or concern at my reactions. I'm a game of me. At one point deliriously happy, the endorphins mixing with the fuzzy high of where the track is taking me, flowing with it like water. Then, I suddenly feel scared, a weight upon my chest like the beginnings of anxiety, a nervous tension, matched by the tension in my thighs clenched against the temperature and the actions of my own fingers. I am held in place and feel almost claustrophobic with it. Then it goes and I am soft once again. Another point, I start to feel sad and lonely, a gnawing emptiness in the pit of my stomach accompanied by a terrible sensation of loss, remembering that I am alone, remembering what I have lost and how there is no longer anyone to comfort me or to love me. I almost start to cry. Then the music changes and I change with it.
Alongside all of this - the cold, the emotions, the drive to complete my task - my desire races. It is constant in presence but not behaviour, sometimes gentle, tingly and exciting, other times hard and desperately needy. At one stage I mouth at the air, biting my lip, seeking kisses that are not there. Muscles in my cunt twitching for a penetration that isn't going to happen. I know I can't orgasm (the fact that I'm on my back reinforces this) but that's not really what I want right now - I want another body, specifically his, I get little flashes of how his skin smells, how his cock feels when he's fucking me. But there's nothing there.
I had a relaxing time at After Pandora last night. I was taken with the feel of the event - the organisers knew everyone and were doing a very good job of actually hosting, taking the time to introduce people to other people, mingling and helping the night mix. It struck me as somewhere between a gentle mid-week shindig and a munch. Plenty of people had made the effort to dress up, and whilst there were a few pairs of jeans in evidence everyone was certainly smart rather than scruffy (although a couple were charmingly dishevelled, which I'm reliably informed counts as fashionable). I went along with Kiss Curls and her beau, after a lovely getting-to-know-him dinner and despite all the efforts of our kind hosts we found ourselves a little nervous.
Partly it was because we didn't know many people, which I'm slowly starting to become more used to as I broaden my range of events and activities, but also there was a mix of very kinky, new-to-kink people and arty people which meant that I wasn't quite sure how to start. Additionally, I always find just going up and saying "hi" a bit strange at first. Once I've done it a couple of times (and had a fortifying gin or two) it becomes much easier. I wouldn't say I was shy, more that the process of being social requires a bit of a push.
And so pushed, it was on to conversations. I managed to actually get some time in with people I'd only tweeted to, which was nice, and also chatted to a self confessed "dabbler" alongside others new to the scene. What was especially nice about these conversations was that those I spoke to had a very definite idea of what they wanted and were using the event to get more involved. I'm always appreciative of directness, but more than that, these people were clearly not tourists, mostly private players wanting to become more public and this provided an attractive avenue for them to talk to other kinky people in a non-club forum. Now, obviously a munch can present similar opportunities, but unlike a munch this was very definitely an event that had other, non-kinky aspects such as live music and a more party feel, which made it both open and accessible. Added to that. the fact that we were all invited made the event private and cosy and therefore possibly a little less daunting than the "just turn up!" nature of a munch.
One of the things we got to talking about was relationship styles and the boundaries between vanilla and kink. Someone expressed the opinion that having vanilla sex meant they appreciated kinky sex more, which I found interesting (I also disagreed, but it was in the spirit of healthy debate). I certainly understand the way in which variety is the spice of life, but the past few years have made me realise that vanilla sex (and by inference, a vanilla relationship) doesn't work for me. We talked through how it was perfectly possible to have an interaction that, from the outside, looked vanilla but is actually D/s and that the real barometer of a kinky relationship lay not in the things that were done or the equipment that was used, but in the connection between the people involved.
This hit the nail on the head in terms of what I am looking for and why it is so hard to find. Connections don't just spring out of nowhere, you can't pick them up in a pub and certainly don't get them with casual sex or one-night-stands. Particularly when one is submissive, strong-minded and very clear on what one wants. That thought has made for a slightly lonely-making morning as I realised that which I want, the thing that really gets me off is not an easy win. Not that I have a problem working for what I want, merely that sometimes when I wake up forlorn, cold and with too much room in the bed it would be nice to have that right now.
And a hug.
After having a lot of fun dressed up as a doll for Crimson (and receiving a number of exciting memos on the subject) I'm going to try and revitalise the doll project again this year. It had fallen by the wayside during my relationship with The Photographer, possibly because of the level of artifice involved in what was a very real relationship. I've had a number of interesting doll conversations over the past few days which have prompted some thinking, mostly on how the doll operates as part of a submissive identity and the ways in which a doll persona can be played. In particular, I've been focusing on the doll as exactly that - a human sized doll, rather than other, more straightforwardly objectified alternatives.
I get very turned on by the process of becoming a doll, which is as important as being a doll. Dolls are very much defined by their passivity, by what is done to them. the first step is putting on the costume, then adopting methods of acting and reacting and finally being placed in certain positions and situations in order to test those reactions and the responses of my partners. Participation is key - the doll is very limited without an audience, dolls need someone to play with them, to dress them up and put them away again afterwards. I'm particularly looking forward to finding someone for whom I can create a doll that exactly matches their desires - this links in with my need to please, but there's also something very exciting about making oneself into the perfect gift. Being viewed is important so photography will be a big part of the project this year, as will public performance and public outings to clubs and similar as a doll.
The doll is a way of being and behaving that I can adopt in order to pursue certain sorts of sexual gratification. It hits a lot of my buttons. It's also a lot of fun. The doll is a role, a mask. Critically, it has its roots in dress-up and forced-feminisation, not in age-play. My doll is not a little girl or childlike, there may be similarities with certain dolls - my most recent outing was very much a Victoriana style girl doll - but what you see isn't always what you get with dolls. The look is also about fabrication, about non-reality, essentially about not being "me" and losing all those controlling elements and self-authoring facets of my own personality to become a kind of tabula rasa. One of my favourite comments on a recent doll was "oh look, you could rape it and not feel any guilt!" The instant assumption of an "it" rather than a "she" was quite revealing because that doll was almost aggressively feminised (lots of make-up, rouged cheeks, rosy lips) yet instinctively made object perhaps because of these layers of pretence. The real woman was hidden. The doll remained. Similarly, because of this removal of the real woman, the doll becomes something that can go further, have more done to it, than a real person. Ideally a doll would stay where put, withstand a lot of damage and utter no complaint.
That will be a serious personal challenge, especially where pain is concerned, and I'm still thinking about how I'm going to overcome that. Part of me is attracted by the strength of mind and body required to keep still and quiet whilst undergoing stress, another part is very interested in ways of actually staying calm throughout and being able to experience as a doll, rather than pretend to experience. A current thought is to use painkillers or tranquillisers, the main contenders being hypnotic (diaz types) such as Valium or Rohypnol or which is interesting because I haven't used much chemical support in my play with the exception of Ecstasy and more recently, Poppers. Obviously this will require further thought and discussion, particularly on safety and possible reactions, though I am fortunate enough to count chemists amongst my close friends. Additionally, I am interested in how I might not overcome the passivity-problem, and if there is enjoyment and catharsis to be got from having the doll-form destroyed and the real woman revealed, a little like a strip tease, but one in which I am forced to stop playing with dolls, to acknowledge my own weakness and suffering and to become myself once again.
The devil in is the detail and sometimes it's the small things that draw you to a person. When what they do coincides with what you needed, just then and there in a pocket of space. A private moment.
In the night. At some point in the darkness. I don't know what the time is. I'm in that neither sleeping nor awake place that I go to when put to bed in bondage. I drift in a private ocean. My wrists are cuffed and padlocked together, ditto my ankles. A chain runs from the metal bedstead through the collar on my neck (also locked), through my wrists and to my ankles. It pulls me into a foetal position. I'm tired so I don't feel the discomfort so much, although it is there, restricting my natural sleep movements and reminding me at every moment that I am held here. I am also held by the Captain, an arm around my waist, or resting on my hip. A reminder of who holds me here. When he fucks me he reminds me of why I am here. He fucks me with some force, no preamble, straight as an arrow, hard and deep. I love the first moment of being fucked. Especially like this, casual as you might pick up a book and flick through the pages. Something taken because it is present. There is joy as well as pleasure in that first penetration - a waking up both literal and figurative in the move from being an idle object to something of use, from being absent to being taken.
There are no words. We do not speak. If he had to ask then something would have failed. I can't imagine speaking, as if by fucking me he closes down the parts of me that interrogate or question. Everything is answered by his actions and by my response. I am not precisely still, I move a little to accommodate him, arch slightly here or there, still getting used to how he fucks, where he takes his pleasure and how best to enhance it.
After a short while he stops, I shudder as he pulls out, with that moment of loss that comes from realising that the connection is cut and we are done. But it isn't. Not quite. He reaches up to my face and slaps me. Just once. Once is enough. I literally see stars - a bright halo of sparkles around my vision. It takes me breath away because of how unexpected it is, but because of how personal this action feels to me - familiar and different, both in delivery and in my response. A totally new reaction to something I've always thought of as so intimate. For the first time ever, I don't cry. Unlike previous situations, I don't feel punished and I don't get angry. I feel normal, relaxed even. after the initial, shock. As if it was a totally natural thing to do. I actually feel a little satisfied and even happy. I smile.
Falling back into a light sleep. Smiling at the warmth on my cheek.
A cheer goes up as my knickers are ripped off. Little girl white-as-snow pants. They fall to the floor, passed my knees, red with falling over and smeared with blood, one frilly sock has slid down my calf towards the patent black dolly shoes. My legs are trembling, I'm tired, sore, breathing heavily and slipping around as Ringmaster pulls me towards him. I have no traction in these heels and can only brace against the rope around my arms and chest, aiming a decent kick in his direction as I crash to the ground once more. Another cheer. Outside, I'm furious, humiliated, crying with frustration. Inside, I'm grinning.
We're performing at Crimson and it's going well, there's a fantastic buzz coming from the crowd - needless to say we're playing up to it, encouraging the cheers, groans and even veering into pantomime/farce elements with "awwww" inspiring acts of tears and "shall-I-shan't-I" evil villain faces as he pulls me ever closer to the cattle-prod. There is contact. I scream. The crowd laughs.
I'm full of a heady mix of feelings. Caught in the interplay between the real and the staged. We'd run through the stages of what we were going to do when, but only in brief. Testing levels on the violet wand, on the cattle-prod, cutting slits into clothing for ease of ripping. It's different under the lights. Now, in front of everyone, we're going further and harder than where we'd started, and we're both loving it. Playing at being real. Really playing. Sometimes we are real, sometimes we play. The two are merging into each other. From the very beginning, when a punch to the gut let me spit the fake blood all over the floor, blood I was then dragged face down through, blood that caused someone in the audience to run forwards and shout at us to stop.
I am both taking part and playing a part. The blood might have been fake and we might not be actually trying to kill each other but some of the violence is real, the rope is real, the struggle is real and the electricity is very real. I'm experiencing several different things at once, and it is a huge rush. There's a note of victimhood, I'm shaky and hurt from violet wand shocks and the various bumps and bruises from being dragged around the stage. I am tired, the pants might be emphasised but they are certainly there. There's even a note of embarassment, the dollification outfit plus public stripping (which caused shrieks of excitement) makes me feel exposed. I'm partly getting into role, and partly already there - the tears are pulled from somewhere within me, as I watch myself being watched from my vantage point on the floor, a boot resting on my face. I'm also high on adrenaline from struggling against him, as well as getting a massive boost from the thrill of exposure, the exhibitionist's rush and the pleasure of giving enjoyment to all of those around us.
Eventually, naked and spent. We take a bow. Grinning like idiots.
You take your kink where you can find it, and sometimes it can be found in the most unexpected situations. I was doing interviews all this week and found myself watching the candidates, become not precisely turned on, but certainly piqued by erotic curiosity. They were nervous. And nervousness looks like excitement which feels a lot like sex. They were in a safe but scary place. A place where they were on the back foot - a little powerless - yet with opportunity to perform, to prove themselves. They knew roughly what was going to happen, but no details, and they were not exactly sure how they would react. I knew that place.
I watched them. Watching their bodies display themselves. Hands fluttered, pulling hair away from the face, fingers twitched, lips were licked. A sheen on the cheekbones, forehead and nose. Voices were occasionally halting, eyes looked down. One even said, breaking her otherwise ice-cool demeanour: "I'm sorry, I'm just a bit nervous." I think I may have curled a little smile that hopefully came across as pleasant and reassuring. Rather than mildly predatory. One had the most beautiful blushes. They appeared slowly on the neck and collarbones, blooming like a pattern of flowers that darkened from mild pink to a glowing red. They looked like burns or scalds that had appeared simply because of the situation we had put her in, that she had chosen to do. The blood rushed to the skin to advertise the adrenaline that must have been pumping around her system.
And there I sat. Calm, confident and in control. There was no overt feeling of power or dominance on my part - if anything there was the odd pang of empathy for what they must be going through, a desire to placate or reassure. But I also wanted to keep watching. More than that, to participate, to help them get through whatever was causing them distress, to the other side of relief. To facilitate the discomfort. Similar to the boy on the rack I wanted to soothe a stranger whilst causing anxiety to them, to pull out all those private responses we keep locked away and expose them.
At the Peer Rope workshop on Sunday, marvelling at how relaxed and friendly the whole event is. We're in a big room and some kind soul has brought in extra heating for those of us who are prone to getting naked (those of you who know me will be surprised to learn I was actually the second person to get my kit off, rather than the first). There are gym mats on the floor providing some cushioning for those who want to do ground level work, and three steel frames with suspension points. Everyone is dressed very casually and the skill level varies from below beginner (me) all the way up, there's no formal process - you ask someone for help and they generally give it, assuming they aren't busy. I enjoyed watching the different styles of tying, how each set of partners (or groups in some cases) interacted, what sort of games they were playing with each other. Rope stories.
It was a fantastic way to spend an afternoon. I got to be tied up a lot, and even learnt something. Captain took some time to show myself and Paris a few variations on a hog-tie. He'd spent the earlier part of the afternoon putting me into an upright web construction (later termed the "use every bit of rope at your disposal" tie), legs bound together, weight resting around my hips so I could "sit" reasonably comfortably, my arms extended and bound together as a handy rest for a pint glass. I like being both attractive and functional. Hedwig noted how grounded being tied up makes you, and I have to agree. I felt calm and relaxed, limber. Even after I'd been released, divested of my hemp charms. The sensation was akin to having just had a massage or waking up from a nap - refreshed, a little self-absorbed and happy. It wasn't a giddy feeling, or particularly within subspace (that happened whilst I was tied up and he decided to spank me) just a gentle feeling of being in the right place at the right time.
"Do you want to fly?" Captain to me. I grin. Of course I do. He places me squarely in the centre of one of the rigs and starts to tie. Unusually for me, I chat to him whilst he's doing it. Normally I'd be in full "play" mode, passive and quiet, but because of the space I find myself interacting, talking to him about what he is doing, where the weight is going to fall. I get rope down the side of my legs, secured across the limb, a little like calipers. My arms are tied behind me and a chest harness wraps my breasts. As more rope goes on I get little quieter, sentences become words become noises. I stop responding to my surroundings and start responding to the rope and to him. Especially once I'm up in the air. My legs are up behind me, curling over somewhat, most of my weight is pushed forward, resting on the rope under my chest, which restricts my breathing. To support me more, I get another set of rope under my hips and become balanced. Pitched in mid air. I grin, I can feel the pull and press of myself held in place. At which point Hedwig announces that there is a handy vibrator just next to us. Captain grins and straps it against my cunt, pressing it hard against me. I part moan and part giggle, in delight at the sensation and the situation, especially as he leans close and pinches my nipple piercings. I can feel him rub against me, smell his skin and I get a very strong urge to be fucked by him right now. Needless to say there is nothing I can do about this except continue to hang there and make noises.
Flying.
In trying to get exactly what I want in a BDSM partner I run the risk of hurting people's feelings. I also run the risk of hurting my own. Of course, the only way of never getting hurt is to never connect with anyone ever, and these connections are important to me. But they have to be the right ones, under the right, shared assumptions and carried out in the right way. Two meetings this weekend underline how I'm trying to do this. Mostly be talking, of course. But hopefully it's honest talking.
A date on Friday which I was really looking forward to - we seemed to be a match on paper and we had a very nice evening. Good company, laughter and several things on common. The difficulty was that he is not what I was looking for, so on Sunday I had to write an email explaining this, and trying not to sound like a twat. After all, I can only be honest. Yes, I had enjoyed myself, but as he himself noted in an initial email - it was unsure whether we would actually be sexually compatible. And that's the main target for me. I'm not looking for a life partner. I'm not looking for a boyfriend. The ability to enjoy someone else's company is, in many ways, secondary to matching BDSM desires and attitudes. First and foremost I want an active, attractive kinky partner whose perversions and how they explore those perversions matches my own. Serious companionship is an added bonus, and can come later (obviously assuming that they are SSC, not an idiot and at least let me have a cup of tea before I go home to type it up).
There is another thing, of course. Call it the "click", call it animal attraction, call it lust-at-first-sight, call it chemistry. But it's real and you can't force it nor logically decide whether or not it will be there. It either is or it isn't. No matter how much of a match you might be on paper, until you actually meet someone you cannot sense that intangible pull. Everyone knows that pull. If you could bottle it, you'd make a fortune. It's the invisible line that smacks you right in the desire that moment someone comes into range and, through some action, word or even scent, they just have it right.
In conversation with Captain on Sunday, we had almost the same conversation in reverse. He was worried I was looking for the boyfriend experience, from him. I'm not sure how or why, possibly my keen-ness to book in play dates had come over as a desire for something else entirely. Additionally, we'd had seriously crossed wires the previous weekend where I got very annoyed with him over what I took to be a rejection of my advances, on the back of a (false) assumption we were going home together, then didn't. Leaving me to fend for myself and without the fucking I had hoped for - something that obviously kicks me directly in the pride and the libido. He hadn't assumed we were going back together, and so hadn't formulated a decision in advance on what to do. We talked that over, then discussed where we were both coming from, and what we might want from each other. We're in the fortunate position that how we play is a good match and he is very experienced which allows me to relax and not worry about his methodology. I can worry about other things, like how much it is going to hurt. Our difficulty lies partly in the way we organise our kinky lives (I plan, he freestyles) and the fact that because he is currently my only BDSM partner I want more time from him than he either has or is willing to give. I'm pretty confident that we're going to continue to see each other, but the sparsity of his availability is a little depressing, because I enjoy playing with him and would like to see where we could go and especially with the D/s element, which only time will tell.
There is something very sadly wrong with the world. In Manchester, five men have been acquitted of gang-rape because the victim had fantasies about group sex. Let me just clarify that - they have not been "found innocent" because it has been proven through facts and evidence, they were there, they did the deed. The victim must have enjoyed it because she had fantasised about group sex, therefore it could not have been rape.
This cuts deep to a lot of problems at the heart of attitudes towards sex, towards consent and towards sexual desire. There is a tacit understanding in this case, that if someone fantasises about a certain sort of sexual practice then therefore they must want it, want it from just anyone, and have no say in where, how and when. There is also the issue that almost always occurs with regards to women who enjoy sex, especially sex outside-of-the-ordinary. That the sex is the important thing, not the context. That because this sex-act looked a little bit like something she had described (but never experienced outside her own head) then she must have wanted it exactly like that. In short - she was asking for it.
Given my own sexual activities and desires this puts me in a somewhat worrying position, should, god forbid, anything like that occur to me. After all, I have fantasies about group sex, rape, mutilation and even death - I have a very exciting masturbation torture fantasy in which I submit to all sorts of painful activities but always keep my secret and take it to the grave, being shot behind the sheds and bleeding out into the thick snow - that doesn't mean I actually want to be shot. I don't actually want to be raped. I don't actually want to be mutilated.
So, just for the record, in case of any confusion and to be absolutely clear. I have rape fantasies. I don't want to be raped. Please try and spot the difference, it's very important.
So, here I am, in the murky world of dating. Why is it murky? Because people seem to have a curious dislike of showing their faces. Which is odd because faces are key to important decisions such as whether I find someone attractive, so I tend to require them in advance. I don't do blind dates, I like to know who I'm meeting. There's another reason going on, of course, and that is to do with personal honesty and lifestyle attitudes towards BDSM.
I have a note on my dating site profiles stipulating that anyone who contacts me must have a photo (they also must have been able to write a reasonable summary of who they are and what they want). My own profiles have plenty of photos, in which I am easily recognisable, so I'm not asking for anything I'm not prepared to do myself. It's part courtesy, part advertising the goods and also part political. I am not shy about my involvement in BDSM and being open includes people being able to see my face. I also view keeping "secret identities" as a code for being either embarrassed, or worse, cheating on an unsuspecting partner. I'm not interested in dating people who are those things, not through a moral objection (although I consider the latter to be rude and unfair on all parties), but because we won't get on - we already disagree on some basic issues.
The main reason I have received from those camera-shy individuals is that their career is somehow imperilled. I generally reject that flimsy argument on the grounds that if their boss or potential boss has managed to find them on a kinky website then there are more questions due to the boss than the other way around. And if any form of "coming out" is such a threat to their career, then perhaps they might want to rethink either that career or whether they can happily participate in the scene. Of course, those are decisions for an individual, and not for me, but equally, those decisions don't apply to me and I don't have to consider them relevant. I'm happy for people to live their lives however they want, however, I too have my own yardstick. And I'm sticking to it.
The other argument of course, never voiced, is that they consider themselves ugly and unattractive. Whether this is true or not is a bit of a moot point, beauty being in the eye of the beholder and all that, how it comes across is that they are somehow, by withholding these images, attempting to "trick" me into a meeting at which point... Well, what? How is such a charade going to be continued in person, and what else might be being concealed from me? I have no idea why such behaviour is necessary, it seems a bit disingenuous, and just a little time-wasting. Everyone has their rules and specifications about what they are looking for in a partner, so why make life difficult? There's no point me hunting down someone who has a yen for long hair, massive breasts and Tory party leanings. I have none of those things and would rather meet with someone who was attracted to me for how I do look.
I'm in an annoying position at the moment in which an otherwise eloquent and interesting person has contacted me. The profile didn't have a photo, but they did kindly supply some links to images of themselves on another kinky site. Which was all fine and good. They later contacted me saying the link was wrong, asking for an email address to supply photos. I don't usually agree to this, because I expect more upfront behaviour than that, but we'd been chatting for a bit and had already agreed a date, based on those original, now suspect, images. So I sent him an email address. We're due to meet on Friday and the images have still not been sent despite reminders, which have been ignored. All of this is a little suspicious and I'm currently not inclined to meet and have told them so. We'll see what happens.
If nothing is forthcoming, I might have Friday evening free, if anyone has any suggestions?
Had a very cost fireside chat with Seldom Seen Kid last night. We discussed mutual friends, realised that we must have circulated around each other, both on the internet and in the real world without actually connecting, for some time now. I always find that actually meeting and spending "proper" time with someone in person after adhoc online chats or conversations across crowded clubs has an element of revelation to it. Assumptions are pared back, facial expressions and physical presences reveal us to be actual people rather than clever internet personas. We become who we are, not just what we say. Of course, one conversation hardly gets to the core of really knowing someone, but that first contact marks the turning point from cypher to psyche, the first step from acquaintance to friend. No matter how many words have been exchanged over electronic medium, eventually, to make the next step, we feel compelled to meet.
Generally speaking, if we want to say something important, to emphasise a connection or to exchange words of meaning, we do it in person. We do it by speech. Derrida notes such phonocentrism has strong historic and intellectual precedents, when commenting that philosophers prioritise voice as the privileged medium of meaning - something we still continue to do. When adverts remind us that it's good to talk, they refer to the live practice. When someone says "we need to talk" we know it's serious. Things said in text, things said in person. We value the latter more, even if the content is the same. Because it is live, perhaps, because someone is actually present it feels more real, more genuine. We feel we understand a person more, are more intimate with them because they are in front of us - accessible to touch, to immediate interaction, but also because the voice comes from inside them, as if they are bringing something secret from inside them out into the world, to us.
So what impact might this that have on how we view kink interactions - like all other relationships, we use face-to-face meetings and real, live conversations when we want to express our seriousness, our honesty and to have "proper" discussions. I will always try and move as quickly as possible from an online scenario to a meet-up with new people, because my desired interactions are physical - I don't have cyber sex, for example. However others do, and their relationships are mediated through text, which can sometimes be viewed as less powerful and less meaningful than a "real" i.e. physical session.
But I do write a lot in my kinky life. Both here (where I write up and preserve the actions and voices), in emails and in IM conversations. I will often underscore a post-play-chat by sending an email afterwards, even if it's just to say thank-you, but I like to do the chat itself in person, as soon as possible. Text is not a mere the support function of voice, in this instance, it underscores and emphasises it, neither is a replacement for the other: text is also a necessary support to voice, voice or text on their own is not enough. I cannot always talk to someone face to face - it isn't always practical, or even desirable. Other forms of communication allow me to engage with people in different, equally valuable, ways, flirty text messages, long emails to read and re-read in quieter moments. I love having language I can save and keep, rather than simply the memory of what someone said, their tone and manner fading over time.
I had the pleasure of watching and participating in a number of wonderful suspension rope demonstrations at the Ab Fab Cabaret on Saturday. There's a dialogue (or monologue in the case of the fantastic self-suspension demo) that occurs in rope play. The movement of both the rigger and model, both in terms of their reactions to each other as well as the way they relate to the rope itself tell a story - especially when performed to an audience. I'm adding a disclaimer that these are just my interpretations of the pieces, but what I found fascinating was that they were performance pieces, that could be interpreted.
Esinem ties fast. Very fast. Deft knots and wraps are quickly pulled into position as he dances his way around his model, literally - in a shimmy boogie eerily reminiscent of a scene in Reservoir Dogs (the white shirt and black tie combination adds to this) he doesn't watch where the rope flies as, expecting people to get out of his way. Meanwhile, his model and partner hangs dreamily in the air, arching her legs this way and that as if dancing. As she does so, he folds the rope around her new position, holding her in place here and there. Where she went, he followed with the rope, securing her in place. Their story is a D/s one - a romance, but not one you'd see in a conventional script. Sadly.
The self-suspension by Boykitten was impressive - a real display of physical prowess which had a disturbing strength to it. I'd spoken to the performer briefly earlier, who mentioned that they often bruised themselves in practice with vicious strokes. The idea of force inflicted upon the self in order to accomplish the deed was something that really stuck with me when watching: rope was hauled around angrily, knots tied with grit and almost a level of spite. The suspension seemed to be a battle, almost, the body willed upwards against gravity towards the desire for weightlessness. Once suspended there was a kind of release, a free movement exploring the space that the rope had creating, arching this way and that, testing the bonds, holding each beautiful pose for a few seconds before powering into the next with the assurance and grace of a gymnast. I could have watched that forever, I was rapt. It was a story of conquest, of personal determination and will-to-power. I was a little in love.
Finally, I was tied for the first time by a friend of mine from The Collective, who hauled me around, whirled me in circles on the heels of my shoes whilst I posed, winked and fluttered my eyelashes at the audience. We played up to the crowd and it was a fantastic feeling, not just because I am an exhibitionist, but through the way he was tying me - tight fitting hemp rope with intricate bonds - that allowed me to play in the spaces he created, interacting and teasing him as he tied so that we had a backwards-forwards conversation in rope. Banter without speaking. He would pull me back and I would follow through, moving my weight around to pivot on the rope, making him alter what he was doing. We laughed a lot, it felt like two people enjoying a game together: a real experience of play in which we entertained ourselves as much as those who were watching.
Over the past few months I have received a number of comments, from those who know me well and those who know me less well, suggesting that I might over-intellectualise or over-think things. Naturally, this prompted me to think it over.
The two phrases seem allied but are actually different. One refers to my tendency to put things in a theoretical context - whether it is sociological, scientific, philosophical or otherwise. I discuss my actions and activities, but not in isolation. Mostly, I do this because I think it is interesting - I like that there is more to what I do than just insert tab A into slot B and pull tight. Also, I do it because in part, BDSM is an intellectual activity. I don't mean this in the sense that it should be studied in University (although that would be nice), but that a lot of it happens in the mind, so thinking about what I am thinking, why I am thinking it and what is driving that helps me understand what I'm doing. It is a learning process, for me, as well as something I do because I enjoy it. Learning about my reactions, their contexts, is learning about myself, which I consider always worthwhile.
The other is about how much and how often I think. The actual time spent on mulling things over. Which is a lot. My brain does not often turn off (part of this is why I enjoy objectification and other similar submissive activities so much - they allow me to not think, which is sometimes a welcome break). That said, I hate being told that I'm "over-thinking" because to me, that is a challenge to my own freedom and ability to think at all, to be who I am and to express my views in the way I want. I've since calmed down and realised that isn't the context, especially after discussions with others who were shocked that I had even thought such a thing in the first place. Probably me demonstrating my prejudices - that a comment about on my thinking is an "attack" on me as a person, the connection between how I think and my own sense of self being very closely allied: I think therefore I am.
Actually, a lot of the background behind the comments comes from concerns about me, so they come from a good place. People think that I am needlessly worrying myself with unnecessary things. I'm using italics because I think these are the key words, it's about what I should and shouldn't be bothering about. Emphasis on the root word "need" in both those terms, focusing on which bits of my thought processes are required. Which prompts the question: required for what? The answer is, in this instance, for my own happiness. Many of the thoughts I have had have been about self-doubt, self-worth and general unhappiness over The Photographer. So, no, these thoughts do not make me happy, and I would agree that if I could switch off my thoughts I would probably be happier. But I can't. And doing so would make me less me, less able to deal with my own problems in my own way. Which involves thinking. Bottoming things out, coming to conclusions and being able to draw lines under them and say "this happened because of that", again, understanding of myself and my situations are key to enhancing my life, even if the process itself is hard.
Which leads on to the other explanation that has been offered as to why I should think a little less: that my thinking is perhaps getting in the way of my doing - that I should just get on and enjoy life. I can't really ascribe to that position, partly because my intellectual process has driven a lot of my activities and my enjoyment. I'm also loathe to subscribe to the dichotomy of thought/action, personally, I'll have both, in spades. I want all aspects of my life to be full and meaningful, what I do, what I think, how I feel.
I know that there are those who are put off by my intellectualising, but that's just the way things are - I probably have any number of other, irritating, personal habits and behaviours which might bother other people but like my good bits (I do have some) they are what make me an individual and worth knowing above the crowd. I'm naturally inclined towards thinking - I turn things over and over in my mind, sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. Yes, it probably makes difficult or upsetting situations more difficult and more upsetting than for someone who was able to "turn off" or someone for whom probing deeper into the whys and wherefores wasn't part of their make-up. Yet it also makes good experiences great because it's a component of my BDSM exploration and being able to revisit and challenge what I have done, express it through my writing and my self-critique has enhanced rather than detracted from my experiments.
I don't know what to make of this really. Except to giggle a bit. Some scientists are claiming that after a lot of fumbling around, they can't find the G-spot. Cue amusing XKCD cartoon.
Now, obviously I'm just adding to the vast piles of puns and snide remarks on the subject, which isn't very sporting or grown-up of me. So, I'll add some support. I don't think I have a G-spot. I've never had anyone who was able to "find it" (as if it were some lost city of gold or something) with or without implements. And I'm fairly certain I've tried a wide range of activities that might lead one to discover such a thing. Yes, there are certain positions and certain occasions during fucking that have been more pleasurable than others but I just took that to be natural variation of space, time and my cunt.
What the results seem to show, is not that it doesn't exist, merely that this particular study didn't find anything conclusive. So the games still on, then?
There is a debate occurring on the internet. That isn't news. Neither is the subject matter of the debate. It concerns women, their bodies and objectification of same. The objectification of women and their presentation as naked subjects for consumption by the male gaze has been going on for hundreds of years. It's been given various names over time such as "art", "porn", "comics", "lap dancing" and many more besides. Traditionally it's worked like this: women were represented (or presented) by men for men, whether as artists' models, employees or made up imaginary women that only ever existed in the progenitors head. Women had very little input in the process or the output, so the theory goes, they were just there.
Now, things are a little different. Alongside all the rest, we now also have women making representations of women for the consumption of others, including (but not exclusively) women. Take Katie West, who I'm using as an example because her recent post is the subject of debate on Penny Red's blog. In a nutshell (although please read the links as I'm paraphrasing for brevity) someone wrote a nasty note to Katie West complaining about the submission inherent in her work and stating that, because of this, she was not a positive role model for young women. Penny Red, whilst acknowledging the bile in the note and saying some interesting points, admits to sympathising with this position - because she believes that such representations of self-objectification contribute towards the unpleasant societal attitude that makes a woman's body more important than the woman herself.
Which it might well do, but that is a societal prejudice that needs to be dealt with by society at large, not by castigating individual female artists who want to portray their own bodies in their own way. The problem is not just about women and their bodies. It's about women and how they are seen as representing themselves. When a man does something it is not considered as representative of his gender. He's just a person doing something. When a woman does something she is a flagship of womanhood, held up for all to see as an example of how all women act. And that's the real problem - the real tension that underlies these arguments - that each woman in the public sphere is somehow held accountable not just to herself, her own wants and desires, but to every woman. How ridiculous is that and how outlandishly old fashioned? And yet this is what is happening in the mind of whoever wrote that original note. The idea that one woman's decision to produce so-called "objectified" images of herself on the internet reflects upon all women, upon all women's bodies.
Obviously, women should not be defined by just their bodies. Equally, neither should women be told what they can and can't do with them, even if it upsets other women, even if it upsets other feminists. Take me, for example. I enjoy sexual objectification, it gets me off, it makes me hot. I love images of it, especially ones that include me. I write publicly about it. The reason I did it was because I wanted to and because I enjoyed it. I'm interested in what it says about me, what it says about those who interact with me and what people think about why I did it. And I'm a feminist.
If I can't dance, I don't want to be part of your revolution.
I've been waiting a while to use that title. Almost as long as I've been waiting to get my hands on one of these. And it's mine. All mine *cue maniacal laughter*
It's a beautifully restored 1940s french violet wand, which I bought from Nick and Morphia after playing around with a number of sets, or to be more honest, having sets played around me. I stopped by a friend's house on the way, mostly just to electrocute the people there. Everyone was very appreciative, possibly a BDSM version of showing off a new household gadget?
Anyway, I look forward to zapping many, many other people in the future. Including myself. Which is mostly what I'll be doing if I end up being snowed in tomorrow.
Met up with Mr and Mrs Magpie at a rather lovely coffee place here. We had a good catch up, pushing all the usual and unusual around the table - religion, politics, sex, and made an agreement to actually go out and do something together once their globe-trotting antics have calmed down a little. What that something might consist of is yet to be discussed but a general excitement over rubber masks was mooted, together with suggestions of "creepy mutterings". I'm certainly game.
I'd never been to that bar before - which rather ruins my bi-credentials - but I shall endeavour to make up for it, especially given the high proportion of cute girls with shaven heads. I have a thing about that. And also about places that are openly friendly to varied sexualities, so will be keen to support them in the future. Oh, the hardship, to endure good looking women whilst sipping decent wine. My life is hard. That said, ever since CCK stopped having a physical location I have had difficulties finding another similar and suitable location for social meet-ups. I suppose I don't need the environment to actively support my lifestyle - but when London is bursting at the seams with every-other-sort-of-coffee-shop I am feeling a little left out and hanker after something similar to Gargoyle in Berlin. According to various people who run club nights, there's a problem with venue licensing in the UK, but I think that the main problem is attitudinal.
Put simply, there is something wrong with how we think of BDSM sex in the UK. And not wrong in a good way. The general consensus is that we are private people and therefore a bit embarrassed about the whole thing, however, high profile events and movements like Gay Pride would suggest that when our sexuality is important to us, when we view it as under threat, we are more than prepared to shout about it. Similarly, there are many clubs, bars and coffee shops that confer a strong sense of vanilla heterosexuality through their decor, attitude and even menu. But that is considered "normal" and therefore generally passes unnoticed.
What we have, in the BDSM community is a lack of public space and therefore a lack of public acknowledgement, public place and public pride. Why is this important? Because the more we live in corners the more we are expected to live in corners, the smaller we make ourselves, the smaller we are perceived to be and the less we speak of ourselves, the quieter our voices become. We are overshadowed by an outsiders opinion of what we are - either the silly, spanky world of Ann Summers where acceptably air-brushed models flirt with bits of fabric under the guise of "bondage" or we get the other extreme whereby sexual "difference" is sexual "deviance" and gets bundled up in government Bills about child molestation and thus spoken of in the same terms. Neither is acceptable to me.
My first visit to LAM on Sunday - shameful to have never been, I know, but Sundays are usually duvet days. It was a bitterly cold day which meant that the attendance was a bit low, but picked up towards the end. There were several interesting stalls which I was able to coo over, but really, the thing I was there for was people spotting. Social voyeurism. First impressions, putting my casual observer goggles on were that this was definitely a discrete subculture. The clothing gave it away - lots of black, lots of leather and a fair amount of dressing up: women were in heels, some had laced corsets, there were also some rather fine hats. The age range was comfortably middle aged - I felt very young - with a 50/50 split men and women. The majority were couples (mostly hetero, although not all), then single men. I attended a very interesting talk on how to do bondage without getting obsessed with knots, which has spurred me to suggest some rope practice with Different Drummer given we are both knot-idiots. The atmosphere was interesting, a little bit like a village fete: many people knew each other and were using it as a place to catch up on gossip. I was in the curious position of not spotting anyone I knew until much later on when it got busier, which proves something I'd long suspected, that I actually move in a very specific circle within what we term "the scene" and that the scene in its entirety is a lot wider than I had previously considered.
I consider myself to be on the scene but it's worth putting a bit of thought into what that means. Wikipedia, aka the internet's cobbled thoughts, is usually my first port of call for a general consensus of definition, so here's their link. Note the excitable use of images of tied-up naked women, only women and only beautiful women. If I ever wanted an outsider's view of what the scene meant, would this be it, or just the editor's wank fantasy? Hard to tell with wiki, but they've got the general gist right. The scene is the people in it, their acknowledgement of each other as belonging to the scene and it operates under certain social rules. Scenes are also very space specific - the New York scene is distinct from the London scene. Interesting that we use "scene" to mean both a BDSM interaction and the community as a whole, in the same way that the Hunt is both the central activity and the people involved in it. Which implies to me that are what we do, right? Not quite.
To be on the scene is more than being kinky. I've heard people refer to being on the scene in the same way as being out - you can be kinky but if you are not known to be kinky, then you aren't on the scene:"oh, I play with my partner but we are not on the scene" It's the public factor that makes the difference, not just whether you play in public but whether you are publicly known, not necessarily to your neighbours, but to the scene itself, and if you attend events other than clubs - there's certainly a separation of scenesters versus private players. Those who are known versus those who are not known. To be on the scene you have to be publicly known in three ways. I don't think that these happen in a particular order and this is only from my personal experience and observation, but those I know who can be called on the scene have these three things in common. Even if they have nothing else in common.
First, you need to go out and about within the BDSM community and start the act of fitting in. Attendance at clubs, munches, meet-ups is key. To be on the scene you have to be seen. Just being on the internet is not usually considered enough, and the term can be used to separate the Internet perverts from those who "don't cyber", as if the scene is only a physical space, not one that could exist in chatrooms or online communities. I don't really hold with that view, partly because I'm a nerd and therefore stand up for the validity of electronic exchange. Certainly the perceived proliferation of kinkiness since the advent of the internet one could argue that the internet scene has been key in increasing additions, discussions and interactions to what some would term the scene proper. For many, the internet is about maintaining and supporting their position within the scene, not the sole means of generating it - a lot of people would hold that in order to do things "properly" you need to go and attend a munch, for example.
Secondly, you have to self-identify as belonging to the scene and this has to be announced in some way to people who have previously not known about it. Whether this is to other people on the scene or to those outside it, doesn't really matter (although both is generally considered to be more "out" and therefore in some people's eyes - better). This is roughly the equivalent of pinning a badge to yourself. Though some people may shout through microphones, or set up blogs, for example.
Finally, there has to be an acceptance from those that are already on the scene. This does mean that scene is also a clique, or rather a group of cliques - people might be a member of any number of cliques or only one. What matters is that other people in the clique accept you as one of them. This can sound snobbish, exclusive and intimidating. Which it can be. Certainly people - often those who fall foul of the unwritten rules - can be very critical of these groups (or indeed the need for groups at all), sometimes with good reason, sometimes because they are clinging to geek social fallacy number one - that ostracisors are evil. The group acceptance, when it works, is not just about keeping people out, though it can be, it's about keeping the group safe, sane and consensual for those in it. Part of this is a very natural response to the semi-legal activities we do: we want to keep away those who might do us damage through bad publicity, raids and closing down of venues. Another part is the desire to ensure that those who are on the scene have an understanding and appreciation for what it is - the acceptance of other group members is in many respects a validation of your knowledge, your abilities or your personality as being a good fit.
Today I learned some things about myself and about what I want, which is good. I feel as if I have slightly messed someone around in order to do it, which is bad. I've been going on for a while about being interested in some nubile submissive boything without (it turns out) really thinking about what that meant. I worked it out today. It would have been better if I'd worked it out last week.
I met up with someone today who by all accounts fitted my bill perfectly. He was young, cute, smart and very self-aware. He'd had the balls to take his submission by the balls: go to clubs, see a pro-domme and generally worked at exploring what he wanted. He understood the psychology of it and we were on a level with what we considered to be "good" and "bad" BDSM, many of the things we wanted and issues we'd encountered were very similar - I could empathise with his problems with trying to turn vanilla relationships kinky (been there, done that, got really bothered by it) and many other things besides. That is, we seemed to like the same sort of things. Yet, despite all of that, as I walked away and spent the rest of the afternoon thinking about our meeting, I realised that there was a disconnect. Not just between us, but within me. What I wanted to give him, what I said I could give him, I realised I couldn't.
The type of top I'm interested in being does not fit with the type of sub that I am: I couldn't be a dom to myself. Which is curious because I'd always thought of it as two sides of the same coin, in that if I like receiving a certain thing surely I must be able to deliver it? Not so. Whilst I enjoy certain things as a sub, and can therefore understand why people enjoy having those experiences, I'm not sure I could deliver them in the same way. I'm sure I could replicate the activity, but that's not enough for a submissive - it's unfair to just go through the motions and anyone with half a neurone would be able to spot that straight away. I used the words "top" and "sub" very specifically in this context, because I'm drawing a line between one type of play and another. Green Man mentioned to me a while ago in an email that he thought the times when I wrote about submission always seemed to be more powerful than the times I wrote about topping. I have been wrangling with this for a while, putting in "ifs" and "buts" and referring constantly to the fact that my major Ds relationships have been with those on the D side of things, so my material contains more submissive elements. Which is true, but only part of the truth.
Here's how it breaks down. I am interested in topping, in playing with someone in a public environment where the focus is on transactional BDSM exchange - a few hours worth of hedonistic pleasure at having someone under my control, then we shake hands and go our seperate ways. I can also top within the context of a well-established relationship, one in which I know my partner inside and out, occasionally enjoying the role-reversal, the ability to cater to their other needs and to my other needs. The submission and the topping stem have as their basis the same things - the desire to please someone else, to make them happy, to deliver amazing sensations, to be thought wonderful and special and an unique provider of satisfaction: the font of desire. Submission gives me more than that though. When I'm in a position to do it to the full, I get to really let go, I get to give it all up and someone else takes control. When I'm topping I am the active one, the one in charge, the one who knows what to do and that can be exhilerating, powerful and really hot but also sometimes difficult, pressured and intimate in a way I'm not prepared for, especially when it stops being topping and starts being domination. I can't handle that level of responsibility, certainly not with someone I don't really know. What if I fuck it up?
Submission is perhaps where my mind most wants to go, for the majority of my experiences, it's a more comfortable and "natural" way for me. With the right person, of course: I'm extremely choosy about who I submit to, for a start, taking a lot of time and effort in picking people who I think could be a good fit, who are worth giving myself up to. Because I don't want them to fuck it up, I don't want to give my mind and body over to someone who will drop it. And that's a huge thing to ask, which is why, when meeting someone whose tastes seem so similar to my own, I realise I can't deliver. And feel like a fool. I also feel annoyed with myself; a little guilty for giving off mixed signals, for my lack of self-awareness. For not knowing precisely what I wanted without first being offered something of value from someone who thought that I did.
I'm pretty low today - it might be that the end of this year has not really turned out how I planned and I'm finding myself at a bit of a loss. I missed The Photographer very badly this morning, cried for a while. I'm still feeling run-down and a bit lonely - another milestone gone without him there, a sharpening realisation that he really, really isn't coming back. Another chance to wonder what I did wrong, what was wrong with me. And when it will be fixed. Because it really isn't yet.
I'm trying to shake it off by thinking about this as the beginning of the year. Fresh and smooth as unblemished skin. A very usual time for reflection on things that have gone, things yet to come. A time for lists, in other words. I usually fashion my lists from activities, but recently I've lost connection with the idea that has much importance. Also, out of most of the things I had never done, I've pretty much done all of them. The better plan, is to revisit all the things I've enjoyed, and work out why. Which isn't to say I'm not going to try anything new this year (that would be terrible) but I'm certainly going to take my time and really investigate what it is I want. And how I want it.
I've realised that I have a strong separation in myself between the desire for a close, intimate, loving relationship and the desire for a powerful, connected BDSM relationship. The former is something I am not ready for, the latter is something that I would very much like. They share features, but are distinctly different. They are both "relationships" in the sense of two people having a relationship to each other, and have other similarities. Certainly there should be passion and intensity, I suppose that's something I can't really do without - either do something or don't, but don't do it half-heartedly or carelessly. Both involve knowing the other person and caring about their well-being. Both involve a validation of some kind, that both partners acknowledge the importance of the other to some aspect of their lives. They might even look similar, to an outsider: meeting for drinks, holding hands, kissing. But that's where the two diverge. It's about expectations.
There's a tendency to divide relationships into casual and serious, which tends to cause a lot of problems with definitions. I'm pretty serious about my kink, all of my kink is serious. Even when it is deeply silly. There's something awful, to me, about the word "casual". Casual implies ambivalence, a lack of really giving a toss. I can't stand casual. Even less so with the awful term "fuck-buddy". I realise that it is curious for someone who enjoys objectification to dislike these terms, but for me they lack a basic human essence to them, they are cold and merely go through the motions, never touching the sides. I don't want that, that's too removed from anything even vaguely sexual to be sexy. Like blank faced strippers, writing shopping lists in their heads. No connection between the image of desire and myself.
I know what I want, I have it in my mind. Someone, on the other end of a phone or email, who knew enough about me to not have to be concerned with preliminaries, we like each other and like each other's bodies. We know our sexual desires and are turned on by what the other wants. We are grown-ups about expressing our needs, friendly enough to hang around for coffee and curling up on the sofa afterwards. We take time for each other when we can, because we want to, and have no expectations of anything else, beyond the next time one or the other picks up the phone because they were horny or just wanted a bit of kinky companionship away from everything else. That would be a fine thing indeed.
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