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.

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.

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.

Once upon a time, when I was young and less full of beans and had no stretch marks on my FUPA, I had no problem calling myself a poet, a writer. I was full of it, in every sense of the word. I read in public, I entered and won competitions, I shone like a bright, bright star. The night sky is the same size everywhere you go, don’t fool yourself. I was young, but I had promise. No experience, but the chops, at least. Young and full of promise.

As you get older, promises get broken. I’d like to blame my college, my professors, The New Yorker, my dad the crazy drummer, my mom the crazy pianist, my brother the not-crazy-enough-to-be-a-full-time-painter programmer. I’d like to blame myself. But I’m done with all that blaming. Things break. And then they’re stronger in the broken spots.

I’m broken. I’ve healed some. And I’m not getting any younger.

And I’m an artist. There, I said it.

Even at the height of my I’m-fucking-awesome-and-I’m-going-to-win-the-Nobel-prize-for-poetry phase, I wouldn’t call myself an artist. Artists were painters. Or batshit crazy, not sure which. My mother was the musician. My brother was the painter. I was the writer. And also pragmatic. I’d grown up without the shoes, the food, the heat, the safety. I wasn’t going to throw myself to the winds of the West Village and see what happened. I was going to major in Couch, so I could have something to fall back on.

And the problem with majoring in Couch, and with growing up crazy without enough security, is that you become attached to material things. You become afraid. You become judgmental–resentful, even–of anyone whose life seems easier than yours. In your desperation and your fear of falling, in your grasping, you offer up for trade things that should never be given away.

This concept of trading away the one sacred thing you should not trade is an old one, and for good reason. People call it different things: selling your soul, selling out. I call my sacred thing telling the truth. I gave up telling the truth for a chance at security, only to discover that not telling the truth was driving me crazy. I spent five years in a sexless marriage (it wasn’t loveless, although whatever version of love we practiced was more twisted than anything you’ll find at the Hellfire Club), and more years than that pursuing the Golden Calf of financial security. And every day I pushed down my own truth a little more, I got sicker in my soul, sicker in my body.

It’s still tempting to give up the truth. But my body doesn’t have the stamina it did when it was 24. If I ignore the truth that I know in my gut today, it doesn’t go away today. I get diarrhea instead.

So I’m working on telling the truth, and working on creating the space for being an artist again. I’m working on letting go of this false dichotomy that wormed its way into my head somehow when I was growing up: art vs security. It doesn’t work like that. If I don’t make room for art, I lose everything, including security. So I have to tell the truth, as risky as that is, and I have to make room for art.

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?

Either/or is another enemy of art.

As is perfectionism, also known as the inner critic — what JSmooth calls the Little Hater. Or what LOLCats call Ur doin it wrong.

Perfectionism is about fear. Fear is the enemy of truth. Truth is essential to art — at least to my art.

Just needed to get that out there. As to what, exactly, the truth is about me and Bran, I’m still not sure I know. Or am ready to say.

Except that sometimes I’m dissatisfied.

And Kit never wants to have sex with us anymore.

And I still like girls. Still want to have sex with girls. Still want to have hot, three-way sex with girls with Bran.

And I miss the heady new-relationship-energy days of dating Bran, although I don’t miss the insecurity of wondering whether he was feeling the same way.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

Well, duh!

Let’s see ::counts on fingers::

Actually, I don’t really feel like listing the clinical evidence that proves the sexy quotient of our relationship is above, say, 164. S.Q. — like IQ, only sexier.

I don’t feel like exposing myself to the Intarwebs anymore. I don’t feel like sharing the intimate, deep moments when Bran is moving inside of me and I’ve got my hands on his back and we’re barely apart and he rises up to get a better angle, or maybe so he can move more quickly, but I pull him back down even though it’s probably causing him pain, and I know, because I’ve been on top, of him, and of girls, and I know the hard work involved in fucking,

in making love

in making another person come.

Yeah, I don’t feel like talking about that stuff.

Nor do I feel like talking about the great miracle of a successful threesome — our experience with Strap-on Jo was so good that we agreed to go out and find a playmate. As if finding one compatible sex-and-love-and-romance-and-hanging-out-and-reading-comix-with partner wasn’t difficult enough! Just try finding three people who not only like hanging out, but are also attracted to one another. So yeah, that was fun. But, as my sponsor points out, group sex is tiring.

“We have a new girlfriend,” he said, the evening after our playdate.

“Yes,” I said. I can’t even begin to tell you — let alone him — how fucking thrilled I am to have a third for bridge, in a situation where everyone seems to be on the same page.

“That’s kind of weird,” he said.

I suppose it it, to him. To me, it’s just like finally daring to believe that I might be able to get what I want.

Which is a strong, happy, committed relationship with someone. And some fun on the side. With everyone involved.

We haven’t seen her in a couple of weeks. Apparently, she’s a big Bruins fan. She invited us over to watch the playoffs with her last night, but mid-week is hard for me regardless, and my Wednesday meeting doesn’t get out until 8pm.

But Bran asked if I were satisfied because, in my last entry, I said “back to my boring vanilla life.” I was going to use the word “corporate,” but I chose the word “vanilla” instead, because this is a sex blog. And if you knew I worked in a corporate environment, you might be able to track me down, point at me, and shout whore!

Because nobody at my job knows that I’m even slightly alternative in my “lifestyle choices”. ::rolls eyes::

No time for that, though. So I’ll just say this:

Does fantasizing about putting this on Bran make me a bad person? I don’t think he’d ever really let me. But it gets me all hot and bothered to think about it. To own his cock like that. Mmmmm….

Back to my vanilla, asexual life.

From my Fetlife inbox:

written about 1 month ago:
Hello there gorgeous lady, how are you today? i was wondering if I could ask you a kinky question. If not, its ok:)

- takeitfrombehind 29M

written 15 days ago:
Hello:

You can ask, but I reserve the right to refuse any answers. What shall I call you?

- Omnivore 35F

written 14 days ago:
Would you be interested to be handcuff and let a guy have his way with you? For example, hammer you from behind, slaping your nice ass, and pulling your hair? Assfingering and pussyfingering until you get wet and your pussy is stating dripping that nice nectar?? Later on, before the guy cums, you would let him cum in your mouth, gorgeous boobs or ass? Afterwards, you would wear or use a strap on or a dildo on a guy and fuck his ass while your jerking him at the same time? And when both of you are done, you would fall in each others arms and fall asleep:)Now, sorry if I have offended you in anyway, cause I asked you this, I hope you still will be willing to talk with me:) I am just trying to make some friends to hang out and play some hanky panky a bit, is it that bad? I am not trying to be a big, sorry if it looked like I am:)

- takeitfrombehind 29M

written 14 days ago:
Too much information. I suggest that you study the rules of kink and online etiquette before you try this sort of proposition. Men and women are different animals and require different approaches. Those requirements remain the same as in the vanilla world.

It’s also clear you haven’t read my profile if you’re asking these sorts of questions.

Don’t contact me again.

- Omnivore 35F

A few weeks ago, Bran surprised me with a playdate with Strap-on Jo. After about my fifteenth orgasm, he said, “You sound like your old self again.”

More to follow, hopefully.

In memory of Brandon Teena.

In memory of Venus Xtravanganza.

In memory of my unnamed ancestors.

In honor of my trans friends, my trans loved ones.

Because living without fear of violence is a basic human right — and because transfolk are denied that right daily. Right here in the USA.

Because these are my brothers and sisters.

Because there is no difference between them and me.

Nov. 20: Transgender Day of Remembrance