Omnivore update: seven is the magic number

Seven things that have happened since March:

1. We’re officially quits with Kit. No, really. No hard feelings. Just no… squishy feelings.
2. I’ve been directing energy to other, more vanilla writing venues.
3. This summer we went on a couple of dates with the cutest, curviest, most innocent-looking little Midwesterner you ever did meet. And I learned about an interesting difference in dating styles between myself and Bran. I don’t do well with ambiguity. Or teasing. He does. So he’s still chatting with her while I’ve moved on to more promising prospects.
4. Our innocent little Midwesterner is not really all that innocent. She’ll blush as she tells you all about her explorations and her sideline as a sex toy reviewer. Bran finds the blushing cute. I find the stories exciting, but am less excited about her obvious hesitation to take the leap into the land of actual queerdom. Here’s a fact most straight men don’t consider while watching “lesbian” porn: the same fears and uncertainties that hold men back from adventures in cocksucking happen to women, too. Being fetishized does not make the coming-out process easier. And it’s not even clear if she’s really into girls. I suppose I’d rather not have another “I know we just made out and stuff but I really don’t think I’m gay” conversation. I already did that with a cute, curvy, dark-haired girl — back when people were trying to figure out whether this hypertext thing was just a flash in a pan or the Next Big Thing.
   Our innocent Midwesterner did, however, inspire me to sign up with the Good Vibrations affiliate program. If it goes well, I might consider signing on with Toys in Babeland as well. But — as the dearth of posts in the last few months might indcate — I do actually have other interests besides sex, porn, sex toys, and porn. And kink. What was I saying again?
5. Fuck Me in the Ass Man found me on FetLife and asked me if I was still accepting applications for houseboys. As far as I can tell, I’m not.
6. I signed up for a smut writing course that starts in October. Hopefully you guys will benefit. If there are any of you left.
7. Bran’s mother was killed in a car accident. There is nothing at all sexy about that. This event and other stressors have caused us to put a moratorium on dating or trolling the intartubes for a little while.

Stupid universe

Universal forces are aligning to suggest that a new houseboy is not in the cards for me right now. Sigh. Looks like I’ll be doing my own scrubbing and vaccuuming. Or figuring out what to cut out of the budget so I can afford my housecleaner again.

Kit has effectively broken up with us. Six weeks without messages, calls, or a date is a pretty clear indicator, n’est-ce pas?

Bran and I are still having pretty amazing sex, so why am I so ho-hum about it? Just spent 10 minutes trying to find reference to a study I remember reading that shows that boners are more intense with new partners. Of course, nobody gets funding to measure girl-boners.

Possibly the problem is that I’m not getting my fill of kink. Meaning bossy, haughty, dominating, demanding, bitchy get-on-your-knees-and-bring-me-your belt kink.

Email FAIL

I was just about to throw up my hands in despair over the houseboy search when I discovered that the email account I was using to reply to applications wasn’t forwarding to my regular inbox.

How gratifying to log into my “slut” account today to find it filled with desperate responses from men eager to serve!

And how mortifying to discover I’d left them unanswered for weeks!

Time to roll up my sleeves and play catch-up.

Truth-telling: ur doin it wrong

The joy of an anonymous blog is that you can tell the truth without fear of consequences. But both Bran and Kit read this blog, so is it really anonymous? And can I tell the truth about them, about me and him, about us and her? Can I take that risk? Is it an either/or proposition? If I tell the truth, will I lose them both?

This was too train-wreck good not to share

Worst response so far to my ad. Names have been changed to protect the ignorant.

Listen! I’m on a mission to find some woman to fuck my ass. If you want housework done I can do it. I’ve seen your posting for a while now…you obviously haven’t found anyone yet. make a decision and let me know if i’m in or not.
— Fuck Me in the Ass Man

I was feeling generous, so instead of deleting the email outright, I tried to school the poor boy a little. It’s not his fault he grew up in a society that taught him women were there to serve his every need, right? Right? Anyone? Bueller?

Dear Fuck Me in the Ass Man:

With an attitude like that I’m not surprised you haven’t been able to
find a woman willing to bend you over. Try Strap-on Jo if that’s what
you’re after (http://straponjo.com/)

If you don’t want to pay, try suffering through the dating scene like
all the rest of the kinky men in the world. Here’s one I’m especially fond of: Unspeakable Axe

Your message suggests I’ve been having trouble finding myself a
houseboy. Far from it, actually. I’m weeding through responses and
interviewing now. I have posted twice in the past two weeks with very
good results. I can afford to be picky, and Craiglist always throws up
a lot of old boots with the fish. If I weren’t amused by your
cluelessness I wouldn’t have bothered responding at all.

I recommend you study the notion of service before you attempt
approaching another Domme. We’re not here to fulfill your fantasies.
That’s that whole point, you know. It’s about us and what we want. Why
not start with the dictionary definition of the word service? Then
research kink/BDSM etiquette. I’ve got news for you: dominant women
have the upper hand in this arena. You’ve got to learn to behave
yourself in a way most straight men never need to.

There’s probably some woman out there looking for a brat like you to
take in hand. Good luck in your search. Dating’s a rough sport. Be
sure to wear protective gear.

Omnivore

I guess I’m back in the game

It’s been nigh on a year (maybe more) since I last had a houseboy in service. Bran and I are still a couple, we’re still seeing Kit, and the sex is still good. I’ve been dealing with a boatload of health problems, most of which I blame on job stress. Bran’s been working 70 hour weeks and commuting two hours a day on top of it.

Given all of that, it’s kind of a miracle that we manage to find time to spend together at all, let alone do the horizontal mambo. The nasty. The wild thing. You get the idea.

The good news is that, as I recover some of my energy, I find the idea of finding and training a new houseboy appealing. I’d love a housegirl too, actually — Kit threw a party a while back with lots of hot, kinky people, and one cute little submissive girl in particular got me thinking. But housegirls are even harder to find than good houseboys. Half the fun of kink, after all, comes from reversals and taboos.

So I’m back in the game. I updated my fetlife profile (that site has really exploded since it started a year or so ago!) and got a few interesting messages.

I also decided to cast my bread upon the waters of Craigslist again. This time, I used more standard kink/BDSM wording in my ad. As a result, the ad hasn’t been flagged off, and so far I haven’t gotten one nasty email suggesting that I come over and suck off some guy after doing his dishes.

That’s not to say that the screening process isn’t as fraught with peril as ever. And then, of course, there’s the whole polyamory piece of it. Bran is fine with my pursuit of a houseboy, although I know he doesn’t understand it. For me, it’s a complicated mix of desire for attention, nurture, control, and — yes, I admit it — sadism.

My last post about this process may have overstated that last desire. I definitely took suboy to new depths of subspace — and myself to new depths of sadism — but I don’t think I’m interested in that sort of heavy play right now. The top drop afterward can be way too intense.

A lot of my work these days has been about staying grounded and present. The sort of intense power and energy exchange involved in a serious whipping is not something I think I could deal with right now. Instead, what I’d like to explore is the possibility of accepting love and nurture from a man in the form of service. As the dominant party in a service submission relationship, I feel a sense of control that I don’t in my relationship with Bran. And it’s not the sort of role I want to be stuck in with a life partner (or a right-now partner, or whatever Bran and I are to each other right now). It is, however, something I want in my life, in one form or another.

There was one young man (early 20s) who served with me for a short period of time. He’d just begun to touch his foot to the tip of the iceberg of his submission. One day, I sat at my desk on a conference call while he kneeled at my feet, dressed only in shorts. I laid his head against my thigh, alternately petting him and grabbing his hair. Later, he went back to sorting through my papers. It was delicious. Light and delicious, like flan.

The pull, the delightful frisson of that sort of arrangement — that’s what I’m longing for now.

Plus, it’d be nice to have someone else doing my dishes and my filing.

Found femdom: Avril Lavigne’s video “Hot”

It’s very subtle, but the hat-and-veil outfit had me wondering. And sure enough, later in the video, she’s brandishing a riding crop. My gaydar is beeping after watching this video and “Girlfriend” back to back, too. It could just be that her marketers have decided to play the lesbo-eroticism-sells-to-men card, but I find it interesting that men are almost completely absent from both videos. The relationship of most importance in “Girlfriend” is actually the competitive one between the two girls. And in a telling gesture, Lavigne plays both roles.

I’ll have to check the Girlfriend is a Homo blog to see if there have been any rumors or paparazzi sightings. I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating crackers, although I’d like to see her ass after she’s put a few more carbs back into her diet.

Link to the video on Youtube in case the embed fails

Lady Gaga is a great big freak

Fetish wear, power play, lesbo-eroticism, slave auctions, and twisted relationship dynamics. What’s not to love.

Axe, you’ll love the long legs too.

Is it just me, or is high fashion totally fascinated with femdom? I suppose it’s not that surprising, since both milieus share a simultaneous misogyny and worship of the “ideal” female form.

More hot three-way sex

Don’t have time to write a full-on post about this, so here’s a brief sex sketch:

Went through about three loads of sheets last weekend.

In the wee hours, Bran arrived after carousing with coworkers. “Get in the bed,” we chorused.
“Is there room for me?” he asked.
“Of course!” we answered.
Slipping in between our warm, soft, half-asleep bodies, he said, “I’m a lucky boy.”
A few minutes later, I said, “I’m a lucky girl.”
“And I’m lucky too!” said Kit.
In unison, the two of us said, “I’m lucky, you’re lucky, he’s lucky, we’re all lucky, the bannister’s lucky!”
“..the bannister’s sticky!” she finished, one-upping me on the Rocky Horror geekdom.

We did everything once and in most cases twice, but Bran couldn’t come. “You broke it!” he said.

In the morning, Kit sleeping on the floor next to the too-soft bed, he came across my belly, soft, sharp, matter-of-fact. Trembled. And set out across town for an unavoidable errand.

I leaned out the window to wave him goodbye, breasts shielded under the windowsill.

Later I came home to find Kit being naughty with my Hitachi. At the same moment, Bran called. “Get over here,” I said. And so he did.

Kit texted me last night asking if we wanted to do it again. It’s nice to know she likes us as much as we like her.

This is what really happens in the sexy world of three-way dating

“Do you want to hang out with Kit tonight?” he asked.

I was halfway across town on the way to his house — my car is dying — and cranky anyway. Kit lives on my side of town. But when I’m wound tight like this, it’s better to have more people around. And besides… we both like Kit.

When I got to his street, the light was just beginning to die. Ah, 8:00 PM and still light in the sky! Springtime. Everywhere, plants having sex with each other, the glorious breeze, winter’s cold grip removed, going outside without armoring up first. And sex. Sex, sex, sex. Procreation, rebirth, sex.

Something in my middle sitting not quite right, difficult to describe. Maybe because it was Friday and Fridays are always hard, maybe because I’d spent the day in an airless room answering the same questions over and over again, hearing criticisms of a project I’ve been busting my ass on for more than two years.

But I parked my car on that street full of well-painted Victorians, the daffodils and the grape hyacinth and even the trees out in flower. And around the corner, down the block, in the twilight, comes Bran, orange shirt, khaki shorts, muscular legs, hands in pockets, calling my name. Smiling.

This time, we take his car across town. He listens to me try to untangle the tightly-wound, listens. Something most of my girlfriends never could do, despite their ovaries.

When we get to Kit’s house, she’s already dressed — a first. When I called her, on the way over, I told her I was going to have to grab her tits, and I do, as she’s leaning over to tie her shoes. Tomboy with big tits, that’s Kit. I’ve generally thought of myself more of an ass-man, but in truth I just like girls’ bodies, all their individual curves and crenelations.

She gives us each a kiss and in the last of the fading light we walk past the pond, down a bike path, to the restaurant. In the dark, we hold hands, all three. At one point, Bran stops and puts his arms around us both, turns us to look down the darkening path, at the long line of the pavement bisected with a painted line, at the pleasing repetition of low fence-posts, curving between the trees, still bare and reaching toward the deep-blue sky. He holds us close to him, to each other. I kiss him. I kiss her. She kisses him. We kiss each other. In the darkening sky, paused on the path, beside the water.

Kit brings out another side of me, the alterna-hipster-sex-positive-activist-radical-intellectual side of me. I wonder sometimes what it’s like for Bran to watch the two of us interacting. Does he think that this is somehow my authentic self, and not the quieter person I am when I’m with him? They’re both me, aspects of me, part of me, not all of me. Kit reminds me of myself at the age of 24.

As we turn from the path to the sidewalk, toward my sleepy little town center, she’s reading raunchy puns from her iPhone — a website that explains the hanky code. A moment ago I told them both about its origins in the Gold Rush days outside of San Francisco, when men outnumbered women ten to one, and men would place a hanky in their pocket to signal whether they would dance with other men — be the follower, as they call it now, in today’s less gender-specific partner-dancing venues.

Kit’s experience of the hanky code is more immediate. She knows the details: left for top and right for bottom. She looks up the colors on her iPhone.

“So I wear a red hanky in my left pocket because I’m a fisting top,” she says.

“These are my neighbors,” I remind her, as we approach the restaurant. And she is quieter than usual as we begin our meal. I have a sudden memory of my times with Angie, stifling myself, fitting myself into the boxes I thought would please her. But it’s too late. And at 35, with a corporate job, I do care what people think.

As we stand to leave, I forget myself, lean down to kiss her.

The ice cream place is closed, and Kit points out the little Indian grocery I always overlook. We go inside and she knows the names of all the pastries in the case, what is made with what. She makes this sleepy little neighborhood exciting and multicultural. She knows how to look.

She’s had GI surgery recently and dinner doesn’t sit well with her. She disappears into the bathroom for half an hour. Bran and I eat our Indian pastries, flip through my comic book collection. I step close to him, hold his head against my side. Lean down to kiss him.

We go into the bedroom to cuddle, Kit still in the bathroom. I have friends with IBD, Crohns, I know the best thing is just to let them be. But still, a guest in the house. “Leave your clothes on,” I tell Bran.

But after a few moments in the bed, I’ve shed my jeans. “I thought you said we had to leave our clothes on,” he counters.

“Is that what I said?”

“I don’t know. You make the rules.”

I like kissing Bran. I like breaking rules.

And still Kit in the bathroom, a little worried about her, not wanting to be rude, not wanting to start eating until everyone is served.

When she comes out, Bran and I are both fully dressed again. I pull her into my arms. “How do you feel?” I ask.

“I want to go home,” she says, little-girl, laughing at herself.

“I thought you might,” I reply.

“I feel drained,” she says.

“Well, it is all out of you now,” says Bran.

“So did I hear some spanking while I was in the bathroom?” she asks.

“Yes,” says Bran. “She almost came, you know.”

“I have come before, from him spanking me. Ejaculated and everything.”

“Hyperorgasmich bitch!”

We laugh. I take her in my arms again.

And we drive her home, kiss her good night, head back to his side of town.

“So next time, we take her to dinner afterward,” he says. The cool air through both windows, the night sky through the sun roof. Dinner in my tummy.

“I thought about that. But I wanted to eat, too.”

“So this was all part of your plan!”

“Yes, my evil plan! To… not have sex with Kit!”

Sex is nice. Sex is awesome. Sex with Kit and Bran together is especially awesome. But it’s not the only thing I like about Bran and me and our new girlfriend.