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May 16, 2008 at 5:02 pm Leave a comment

“I’m curious about which part of this you’re going to write about on your blog,” said Bran the other night as he was putting on his clothes.

It’s true that writing always involves selective description. Any art form, really, involves selective description. The photograph never looks as glorious as the sunset. The drawing never quite captures the sparkle of the glass itself. The painting never captures the exact line of the leaf, or curve of the land. Or curve of the hip.

And there’s no way I could capture the lovely, juicy, reassuring quality of that night. Wednesday night, yes, Wednesday, because on Tuesday, our regular night, I was still hip-deep in work. Which I won’t talk about here because, frankly, once the suit comes off, who cares?

And if I tried to capture everything we did, I think I’d just end up boring you. Who wants a laundry list of places we went or positions we tried? And who wants more lists anyway? That little trick is getting old and just seems to encourage bad, lazy writing.

This is turning into a post about writing instead of a post about what Bran and I did on Wednesday. And who wants to read that?

I know you’d rather hear about him disappearing while I was busy shoving a pill down my cat’s unwilling little throat. “I don’t want to see this,” he said. And left the room. My flat isn’t THAT big, so there were only a few other places he could have been. Once kitty’s dignity had been shredded, I went in search of him.

And found him in my messy bedroom (I did mention the hip-deep-in-work thing, and if you’re not a new viewer you’ll know I’m currently houseboyless), taking off the last of his clothes. Bran likes to get naked quickly. I like him naked, of course, but I do enjoy taking his clothes off myself. I love that tattoo in the center of his back. You’d never think of him as a tattoo kind of person, but there are lots of things you’d never think he’d be into or do. And does.

Like letting me hurt him.

As we spend more time together, as this evolves from a playmate sort of thing into something else, I find myself getting caught in the old gender role/relationship trap. Of wanting to give away my power. It’s partly gender-based, but I’ve done the same thing with women. Wednesday night, I was selfish. I had to force myself to be selfish. He was there, on all fours, on the bed (which is about one rambunctious fuck away from complete structural failure), and I was… what was I doing? There were my sharp little nails involved. I used my belt. And my hands. And I was careful, careful not to go too hard, at first or even after, because I know for him it’s not about the pain itself, it’s about doing something that he knows turns me on.

It’s so difficult to admit it, but yes, it turns me on.

“Do you like it when I hurt you?” I asked, after the fact, long after.

“Not as much as you like it,” he replied.

And there it is right there. So I can’t take pleasure in it the same way as I did with Ace, or would with a true pain slut — slut in the sense of someone who derives sexual pleasure from the noun or verb preceding. Slut. A word I’ve been meaning to write about. A word that needs to be reclaimed, like “bitch” or “dyke” or “cunt.” A powerful word, a word describing women’s power in particular, women’s power that has come to be shamed and labeled dangerous. Just imagine what would happen if every woman in the world owned her sluttiness? Society as we know it would end!

The word “sadist,” that’s a word I can’t say needs reclaiming. God, how can you ever want to take pride in hurting someone else? How can I say that I enjoy hurting other people? It’s more complicated than that, and it’s not. Yes, consensuality, yes, yes. But oh, the pain. The lovely pain and his reaction to it.

And I know myself the power and the pleasure and the all-mixed-up of bottoming, of taking pain for someone else. There was that time I actually came when he spanked me. Not just titillation but full-on orgasm. The kind you can’t mistake because there’s a mess and the sheets are soaked and my bedroom has that close, animal smell to it for days afterward. I took smacks harder than I ever might have. Sure, I used the safewords at first, asked him to slow down in a way that still allowed him to be in control, but then I took the hard smacks, took them for him. Took them for myself. To prove I was strong.

And male suffering, yes, it’s strong. Sexy. Beautiful. Bran is tough, has endurance and strength. When we wrestle, I know he’s careful with me, could probably always beat me — has more formal training — but I’m strong too, very strong, and happy to have found someone as strong as me. Someone who can put up a fight, can win.

And still gets on his back because I tell him to. Because I put the command in my voice. Still tells me when I ask him why I should suck his cock, knowing he’s straining for the feel of my mouth on him, “because it’s yours.”

Mine and not mine.

Another night, after I’d scratched him with my nails and bit him and maybe smacked him around a bit, I was on my back with him inside me, one of my favorite places to be, and he asked me (again), “You like hurting me?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” I said.

“Oh. You’re confused?” he said, and pinned my wrists to the bed and fucked me.

Yes. I’m often confused about that part of my sexuality. And about switching. Switching is confusing. But why should I be ashamed about being confused? Con-fused. Things that used to be separate, now put together.

I wasn’t confused on Wednesday night. Then, Bran was mine. Mine to order around. Mine to collar. Mine to send back down to my crotch for more cunnilingus, because I wasn’t done, because I wanted more. I’m often afraid to show him just how much more I want. But on Wednesday I let him see how powerful my orgasms can be — I know it’s not the first time he’s seen it, but the the old fear still comes back. I was afraid of Kristen’s orgasms sometimes, overwhelmed by them, and by Pura’s too. I still remember Kristen saying to me “I want more,” and wondering whether I’d ever be able to fill that hole of want. Why shouldn’t he be afraid of mine? The way I clamped around him and rode his hands and writhed and moaned and screamed. Who wouldn’t be afraid of that? Overwhelmed by it?

Who wouldn’t be afraid of anything as deep and powerful and neverending as sex?

There’s always more to want, more to try.

More.

Entry filed under: being a bad bisexual, bisexuality, Bran, courtship, dominance and why that's hot, female ejaculation, femdom, intimacy, kink, love, memoir, pleasure, rough sex, sadism, sluts have more fun, spanking, submission and why that's hot, switching. Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

First date, first kiss with Bran If you beat the servants but don’t fuck them, is that polyamory?

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