Posts filed under ‘being a bad bisexual’

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

January 10, 2010 at 11:38 am Leave a comment

Things I’m not going to talk about

Bran asked me the other day if I was satisfied with our sex life.

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::

April 23, 2009 at 6:02 pm Leave a comment

100 sexxay things about Omnivore

Inspired by Wendy Blackheart at Heart Full of Black, I give you 100 things about me, the sex list (with some love and truth and beauty thrown in for good measure).

  1. I took my own virginity.
  2. No, really. With a small, pink, very ladylike bottle of roll-on deodorant. I broke my hymen, and that hurt a bit, and then I pushed the bottle in farther and it felt good. And then I stopped. Because I was afraid.
  3. This was after an aborted attempt to “give” my virginity to a boy in the back seat of a car.
  4. While he was pulling down my pants, I asked him if he had a condom. “No,” he said, rising up to kiss me, “but you don’t want a piece of plastic in you the first time, do you?”
  5. He couldn’t penetrate my little 13-year-old cunt.
  6. There was no foreplay, which probably didn’t help.
  7. We broke up soon afterward.
  8. I was 14 years old and a freshman in high school the first time I had sexual intercourse.
  9. I was 19 years old before I had sex without a condom.
  10. Twice I went to the same anonymous HIV-testing clinic with a man so we could fuck without a condom.
  11. I think it’s kind of romantic to go get STD screenings together.
  12. I paid attention during sex ed. Back then, they actually told you about the various forms of birth control and how to use them.
  13. According to the current abstinence-only curricula taught in public schools across the country, I am a piece of scotch tape that has been stuck to so many arms that it can no longer “bond” properly.
  14. I’d rather be a slut than a whore.
  15. I reclaimed the word “dyke” early on.
  16. I didn’t reclaim the word “slut” until I was over 30.
  17. I didn’t reclaim the word “bitch” until this year.
  18. I fell in love with a little red-haired girl when I was in the first grade.
  19. I fell in love with a little brown-haired boy when I was in the second grade.
  20. I told my fourth-grade teacher that I loved my best friend so much that if I could I would marry her. Her response shamed me deep into the closet for a decade.
  21. When I was a toddler, I remember discovering the interesting folds of my vagina while sitting in the living room watching TV. “That’s a private place to touch,” said my mother. “You should only touch that when you’re in the bath or in bed alone at night.”
  22. I didn’t have a real orgasm until I was in college.
  23. The boy who gave it to me was a black boy with a moustache. We were never really dating.
  24. He did it by going down on me with enthusiasm, and by doing it longer than anyone had done it before.
  25. The first time I ejaculated was with a small, hard plastic vibrator. I was about 19 years old.
  26. I had to throw away that futon less than a year later because it started to smell really funky.
  27. My boyfriend said “Are you sure it’s not pee?” the first time I came on his face.
  28. Later, I asked my girlfriend what it tasted like and she replied, “your hot, salty cum.”
  29. The first woman I fell in love with was a summer exchange student from a local community college.
  30. She gave me a tiny hickey, and when my mother asked me who had given it to me, I told her.
  31. My mother’s initial response was “Ew”.
  32. Later, my mother told me she loved me no matter who I was or who I was with. She bought me combat boots and a toolbox.
  33. It took me ten more years to realize I didn’t have to be butch to be a dyke.
  34. I didn’t come to terms with my bisexuality until five years after I came out of the closet.
  35. I used to call myself a traitor to my own kind.
  36. I am very, very good at eating pussy.
  37. I am very, very good at sucking cock.
  38. I can deep throat, but only if I’m really into the guy.
  39. Finger-fucking gives me carpal tunnel syndrome.
  40. I like 69ing, but I’d rather be on top.
  41. My favorite way to come is on my back, with intense stimulation on my clit.
  42. After I turned 30, I started having vaginal orgasms regularly and repeatedly.
  43. When I come during PIV sex, my cunt has been known to clench so hard it pushes my lover’s cock right out.
  44. I have been known to ejaculate from PIV sex.
  45. I have been known to ejaculate from a spanking.
  46. I think cybersex is cheating.
  47. I don’t think I’m really polyamorous, but I like to pretend when I’m single.
  48. I once spent seven years in a lesbian marriage (the old-school, illegal kind) that suffered from serious Lesbian Bed Death.
  49. I have cheated on more than one partner.
  50. The part of cheating I hate the most (in myself and in others) is the dishonesty.
  51. I like to have sex at least three times a week.
  52. I can go for extended periods of time without any kind of sexual contact, without missing it.
  53. Twice after long-term relationships I’ve used Craigslist to find and fuck a good assortment of lonely, horny men.
  54. Once I got an email from the girlfriend of a man I’d slept with once. It turned out that he had lied to me about being single. I apologized to her and confirmed that he and I had slept together.
  55. I have never had sex with a transgendered person.
  56. I find butch women very attractive, I’ve had sex with many “gay” men, but men in drag do nothing for me.
  57. I see transgendered people as my siblings in gender rebellion.
  58. I’ve fucked women with my “psychic cock” and made them come.
  59. I’ve come while fucking women with my psychic cock.
  60. All of my genderfuck is behavioral. On the outside, I’m very clearly a girl.
  61. I’ve taken people to task for using the word “queer” as a pejorative.
  62. I love the word “queer” because it includes all sorts of sexual and gender minorities.
  63. I have had lovers of many different races and nationalities.
  64. I lost count of the number of lovers I’ve been with sometime in my early 20s.
  65. I used to feel deeply ashamed for having so many sex partners.
  66. I have been deeply in love somewhere between four and six times in my life.
  67. I have never consistently enjoyed anal sex as much as I have with Bran.
  68. I didn’t come to terms with my BDSM tendencies until January 2008.
  69. The first time I heard about fisting was when Susie Bright came to speak at my college in the early 90s.
  70. Less than a month later, my tall, rangy boyfriend with the really large hands managed to fit all five fingers inside me.
  71. Cunnilingus is my favorite thing in the whole world.
  72. Sexual intercourse is my favorite thing in the whole world.
  73. Rubbing my face in a woman’s wet, juicy pussy is my favorite thing in the whole world.
  74. Group sex is my favorite thing in the whole world.
  75. The first time I made out with more than one boy was when I was 15 years old.
  76. My first threesome was with two men, as a freshman in college.
  77. FFM is my favorite threesome combination.
  78. Bran and I have fantasized about bringing a submissive woman to bed with us.
  79. I fall in love very easily.
  80. I’ve often confused lust for love.
  81. I’ve had sex in the back of a car on Highway One in Northern California, on the beach outside of Santa Cruz, in a hotel room with lots of other people having sex around me, on the kitchen floor, on a golf course, while driving, and probably lots of other places I can’t remember.
  82. I find double-penetration (one in the cock, one in the pussy) fascinating.
  83. I have never been fucked in the ass and the pussy at the same time by two actual men with actual penii.
  84. I have experienced double penetration twice with a man and a handy dildo, and each time it was AWESOME.
  85. Once, when I was walking by some neighbors, I heard them repeating something I’d shouted rather loudly the night before.
  86. The thing I’d shouted was, “Oh, baby, fuck me in the ASS!”
  87. The windows had been open.
  88. I was embarassed.
  89. I’ve let a butch woman get away with emotional and physical abuse I would never have tolerated from a man.
  90. I attended a support group at a local women’s shelter to get the moral support I needed to get out of that relationship.
  91. I thought I was different than all the other women in the room because I was gay and they were straight, but our stories ended up being exactly the same.
  92. On two separate occasions I have violently pushed my female lovers away from me.
  93. I used to think that men were made of iron, that I could say all sorts of mean things to them and they wouldn’t feel it.
  94. The only time I’ve ever hit a man was during a scene.
  95. I love to wrestle and win.
  96. I love to wrestle and lose.
  97. I love to dominate my lovers.
  98. With Ace, I discovered exactly how sexy it is to hurt someone.
  99. It’s only sexy if they’re into it too.
  100. I like to say I love power exchange more than sadomasochism, but sometimes I wonder if that’s true.

September 16, 2008 at 9:10 pm 9 comments

Orgasm control makes the heart grow fonder

We lay in the heat, the fan whirring cooler air from the evening into the room. I turned off the light and we talked, in the dark, about our families. It was too hot to touch much. It was also late, much later than we’d planned.

Eventually I leaned over and draped my arm across his side, my hand resting right under his belly. I stroked him idly through his boxer shorts, felt him harden in response. He began to undulate his hips and to moan. I slipped my hands under the waistband of his shorts to feel the smooth skin of him, hard now, completely hard. My hand was a bit too dry to properly run it up and down the length of him. I ran my tongue down my palm and returned it to its little nest of fabric and flesh and hair and hotness.

In unison I pulled away and he rolled onto his back, began to work himself, pulling up and down from the top, cupping his head in his palm. His breathing quickened.

“You can’t come,” I said.

“But…” he was plaintive. “But I want to come!”

“You can’t,” I said.

“Please,” he said. “Please let me come.”

“No. You can’t come until Saturday.”

And I pulled his hand away and began to stroke him again.

“Please, I want to come,” he said, begging me, and each time I said, No. No. No. Chanting it while I touched him, while I pulled down his shorts and just kissed the shaft of his cock with my lips, rubbing my cheek and my lips against him — soft skin, hard cock.

“Please.”

“No.”

And I flicked my tongue just beneath his frenulum, kissed him again with closed lips.

Please. No. Please. No. Please. No. Kissing him and teasing him and taunting him, now with him sprawled beneath me and beginning to not be able to speak.

I licked the place where his thigh met his belly, on either side of his cock, and his moans reached a new timbre. Holding his hands to either side, I licked and licked, tasting the salt on his skin, tracing the curve of the underside of his belly, dipping down again to that nexus of him, top and bottom, side and side, nexus genesis paradise. And ran my tongue up his side, to his right nipple, the first place I touched him and made him gasp. He shied away when he felt my tongue flick across it.

“No,” he gasped. “No, I don’t want you to hurt me.”

“I won’t hurt you,” I said. “I’ll be gentle with you tonight.”

“You get so excited,” he said, but I held him down and worked my tongue back and forth over his nipple until he was writhing and moaning, and I was gentle, I didn’t bite once.

“See?” I said.

And did it with his other nipple, stroking his belly and his cock, avoiding his ticklish sides, then licked my way up his chest and his neck and to his ear, where he gasped and moaned in a whole new way when I flicked the tip of my tongue against the little hairs that grow just outside his ear canal.

And I kissed him. Reared up over him in the dark, gently pinned his questing hands up above his head and worked my way down again.

He was bucking his hips. “Hold still,” I said. “Hold still or I’ll stop.” And I opened my mouth then to take all of him in — down to the very back of the throat. The angle was wrong. I couldn’t fit him in as far as I wanted, or maybe he was just extra hard. I swallowed him as far as I could, backed off again, licked him up and down, closed my mouth over the tip and sucked… He kept wanting to buck his hips, but I wouldn’t let him. I pushed him down with my hands and told him, again and again, to keep still. He trembled with the effort not to move.

He was still begging to come, and I was still denying him. “You can do it,” I said. “C’mon. Be a good boy. You’ve done it before.”

“I want to fuck!” he said. “I want to come.”

But I wouldn’t let him.

“Say it. Promise me,” I said, hovering over his face. He pursed his lips shut and screwed up his eyes. “Say it. Say ‘I promise not to come until Saturday.'”

“But…” he started.

“Say it!” I slapped his cheek lightly then, in time to my voice. “Say ‘I promise not to come.'”

“I promise…” he said, and stopped.

I had to drag it out of him, but he promised. And I sent him home still frustrated.

July 1, 2008 at 7:42 pm 4 comments

Identity politics: moral high ground or happiness?

I’ve been reading S/He, by Minnie Bruce Pratt, and also a new blog called Sugarbutch. This post in particular, where she backpedals on an earlier statement on not trusting femmes, really hit home with me.

Reading both these things makes me nostalgic. It’s taken me a long time to figure out who I am. In my early 20s, I tried on a lot of labels. Some of them stuck, sunk into the borg of my sense of self. But my identity changes. It’s fluid. It’s the curse and the… specialness, I suppose… of being a bisexual woman. In this society, it’s hard not to be a self-hating bisexual. Even after all those years of activism, still at the kernel of me is a voice whispering traitor, traitor, traitor.

Because the thing about identity politics is that they’re useless for me. In S/He, Minnie Bruce Pratt talks about a femme being a case of mistaken identity. People think that femmes are straight. Butch dykes claim to love us, but that love is conditional–at least in my experience. Am I still a femme if I sleep with men? Or am I something else? Something so slippery and undefinable that I belong in no camp at all?

Yes, yes, bisexual. That is what I am, ultimately. But even that changes. It slides, the same way my appetites slide. I’m neither fish nor fowl, a member of no tribe, but condemned, like Cain, to wander the earth forever, with no set home.

In relationship with April, with Angie, and with Kristen, I often referred to myself as a lesbian, or a dyke. It was easier than the constant qualifying — lesbian-identified bisexual, woman who has been in love with men and fucked a lot of men but is now in love with a woman, in a committed, monogamous relationship with a woman. Who, while looking gender-typical, is in many ways not because she likes to be on top and in control in the bedroom. But also wants someone to flip her.

At times, I’ve lived the good, virtuous lesbian lifestyle. At other times, I’ve lived the life of a kinky bi poly slut. At times I’ve loved men deeply, faithfully. These things shift. I’d like to live in a world where people don’t make assumptions about my sexuality, about the potentiality of it, by whom I’m sleeping with. I know this post-modern sexuality is all the rage these days. All the kids are going pomosexual, or so I hear. But I’m not a product of those days. Identity politics are still important to me. Useless perhaps in describing my sexuality, but still important.

But not so important that I don’t know a good thing when I see it. Angie, for all that she gave me lesbian cred, was a terrible partner. She constantly shamed me about my sexuality, took advantage of my own shame around it. Worse yet, she was controlling, manipulative, and emotionally abusive. She withheld all sorts of nurture from me and neglected to perform the most basic of courtesies. Not only did she never validate my emotions, but she never held the door for me, or even thanked me when I held it for her.

These patterns present themselves again and again, regardless of my lovers’ gender. On this blog, I mostly talk about the things I do with Bran in the bedroom. But it’s the things that happen outside of the bedroom that have made me love him. He possesses the rare ability to listen to me, to validate my feelings, and to express his own in a responsible, respectful way. He shows up. I’m terrified, of course. I can’t believe it’s happening, and I can’t help but wonder if my own perceptions are blinded by love and hormones. But my inner voice — the good one, the one who knows things, not the one who calls me a traitor — tells me that he’s a rare gift and that I should hold onto him. I think I’d rather be happy with him than unhappy with anyone else.

June 16, 2008 at 6:33 pm 3 comments

Top drop. Forgot about that

My head is still in a daze as I’m writing this. My houseboy came over and did some tidying for me. We really didn’t have enough time — ideally I like a good two to three hours of service and discipline at a time. The fault was all mine. I had a meeting downtown that ran longer than I thought it would and he could only stay until 3:30.

I had a huge long list of chores for him: vaccuuming, mopping, dishes, scrubbing the bathroom, cleaning my closets. Of course he was only able to do a small amount of it. He does a very decent job in a very small amount of time, actually. I’m very pleased with the level of his service. And I’m even more pleased with how much pain he can take.

But I totally wasn’t prepared for how spaced out I would be right now. I’ve still got work to do, AND I’ve got evening plans I can’t cancel. This is why aftercare is so important. And I feel like an awful, awful top for sending him out into the world without giving him proper aftercare.

Or myself.

What does aftercare consist of exactly? And how does one do aftercare with someone one doesn’t want to touch? He was sweating like a pig, and the smell of him was extremely unpleasant. It reminded me, actually, of something that Kristen told me. She told me the worst part of being a professional dominatrix was the smell. The smell of men you’re not attracted to, their sweat. Their stink.

This houseboy is very nice. He’s a good boy. But he does stink. And when your houseboy is doing your housework, he is bound to schvitz. They can’t help it. So they smell.

Smell is such a subtle, important factor in attraction. I love the way Bran smells. Mostly he smells like clean laundry, but of course there’s his own scent which can’t really be described except to say that it smells like Bran. The other day, when we were having dirty, dirty sex during a heat wave, we both worked up such a sweat that it mingled between our bodies and lubricated our flesh as we slid against one another.

Bran’s sweat, his smell, I love. This houseboy’s sweat, his smell, not so much.

And I can’t help but wonder whether it’s selfish of me to keep a houseboy while my relationship with Bran deepens. Not because I’m being greedy now, but because… well, for two reasons. First, because I think there is a part of Bran who doesn’t want to share me, not even my dirty dishes and my cruelty. And second, because keeping a houseboy means maintaining a relationship. I was relieved when Chiquitita and I decided not to pursue a serious relationship because I felt stretched between her and Bran. A houseboy doesn’t require nearly the same kind of care and feeding as a lover, but Bran knows that there is a sexual element to it. He says he’s fine with it, but I wonder if that’s really how he feels. I wonder if that will change. I think, if he asked me to give him up, I would. But that’s what happens when I fall in love. I do things, give up things, that I never would have when I’m not in love. When I’m not in a mild state of insanity.

It’s pleasant state of insanity.

A relationship with a houseboy is not the same as any other kind of relationship. A houseboy is not a friend. He’s definitely not a lover. He is a servant. And servants require an entirely different kind of interaction. It’s important to stay in control, to underline the power exchange part of the agreement. Houseboy is very good at doing this. Mostly I’m good at giving orders and maintaining an aura of cool authority. Oftentimes I feel silly inside but sometimes I get drunk off the power, get into the role, inhabit it. I think that I would have been an excellent Duchess in a former life. Preferably a widowed Duchess. But I digress.

It’s a nice feeling to be served. I really like receiving good service, in all areas of my life. There’s nothing like being able to order someone around, someone who has agreed to give me his power for a short period of time. But I’ll settle for good table service at a restaurant.

What I got drunk off today, though, was not power. It was pain. Giving pain, and the enjoyment of giving pain. Submission and pain, and both in combination, can be incredibly intoxicating.

It’s a very scary feeling, actually. And what I am feeling now is the blowback from a really intense, heavy session of hitting a man. It didn’t feel like hard work, but I certainly did put my arm into it. There was an exchange not only of power, but of energy. Kinetic energy, and psychic energy.

Afterward, he mentioned that he had never really taken that much pain before, that it wasn’t the sort of play he’d done. See, this is hard for me to hear. I feel like… I can’t help but feel ashamed at how much pleasure I take in the groans when I come down really hard with the belt. But it’s what I like. It’s visceral, almost sexual. It’s…. drunk on power, drunk on pain.

“If it’s too much we don’t have to go that hard,” I said. And given my current state of mind, that’s probably not a bad idea — for myself, if not for him. He didn’t want to stop, though. He told me that he’d come to the edge of this kind of play before, but that the person topping him had backed off. “It wasn’t my choice,” he said.

And then he said something that made me very happy. He said, “I appreciate that you do it in such a safe way.”

It’s something I worry about constantly, actually. It’s what makes topping difficult: the responsibility that comes with power. Paying attention to how your bottom is doing. And I do pay attention.

Sigh. I think I’d better pay attention to myself for a little while, and rest before I go out this evening. Right after I do this one last thing for work…

June 13, 2008 at 9:01 pm Leave a comment

Kink/BDSM dating sites

“Omnivore,” you ask, “where do you find all these kinky people to hurt and order around and do other perverted things with?”

I laugh carelessly, lean back in my smoking jacket, and say, “Why, the Internets, of course!”

Internet dating has been good to me. Craigslist played an instrumental part in my reclamation of my sexuality at the end of a five-year dry marriage — and based on the other posts I’ve seen on Best of Craigslist, I’m not alone in that regard.

Craigslist is, alas, notoriously unreliable for anything other than casual sexual encounters (men really do seem to like to fuck — a lot — and will make repeated attempts to get laid even against the worst sort of odds). About a year ago, I had good luck finding serious candidates for houseboys on Craigslist as well. There was plenty of dross to sort through, of course. But for every 20 inappropriate responses, I’d hear from at least two or three sincere applicants. More recently, though, my Craigslist posts have been flagged off within moments of appearing. Given that they never violated the Craigslist Terms of Service (I know — I read them) and given that M4W posts of the same type remain undisturbed, I can’t help but feel like an oppressed minority. Perhaps it was the housework piece that pissed people off. Or perhaps folks just couldn’t believe that there are people out there who get off on domestic servitude — men, specifically, who want a woman to order them around and then beat them afterward. I know the technology behind the Craigslist flagging system, and it’s possible for one very determined person to flag a post. Whatever the reason, Craigslist is no longer a viable option for me.

Ace introduced me to two websites that appear to have been around for a long time: Collarme.com and Bondage.com. Both of them claim to be the biggest online BDSM community in the Universe or something. The Collarme site is painful to look at, but I was incredibly flattered at the number of responses I got when I first put up my profile. Ace told me it was primarily creepy guys and prodoms, and now that I’ve been on there for about five months, I’m afraid I’m no longer fresh meat. None of the submissive men who initially contacted me panned out into actual meetings, but frankly I was overwhelmed by the initial number of responses. At the time I signed up, I also had two houseboys and was enjoying myself thoroughly with Ace.

Bondage.com’s design is slicker, but I’m really not too thrilled with the “pay extra to see naked pictures of people” thing. I know websites have to make money, but I get really squicked by a trend I see a lot in the kink community: namely, perverting genuine female desire into a money-making opportunity. Bitchy Jones does a good job of articulating why commodifying female desire hurts EVERY kinkster (see #3 here). Axe also talks about it from the male sub side. So I’m not going to spend more time on that point right now, especially since I’m really here to talk about finding kinksters through the Internets.

What I do want to say is that I was delighted to discover these websites but disappointed at actual meeting-people results. I’ve had MUCH better luck with OKCupid.com. OKCupid is not a kink site. It’s just one of the coolest online dating sites I’ve ever visited. Aside from all the fun quizes and the fact that — at least when I was using it a lot back in January/February/March of 2008 — there are lots of like-minded, interesting people there, it also has something I came to rely on a great deal: the kink badge. The site was created by a bunch of smartypants from Harvard (which doesn’t have quite the cachet as a bunch of smartypants from MIT). As a result, it’s got a fun design, that light-hearted insouciance of the early Intarwebs (in the late 90s, people were more interested in making cool websites and less in monetizing them), and complex algorithms that take your answers to various questions, compare them to other people on the site, and award you little personality badges based on the result. You have to take them with a grain of salt, but overall I’ve found that if someone has the kinky badge on their profile, chances are better that we’ll be sexually compatible. I met Ace, Bran, and Chiquitita on that site.

The other thing I really like about OKC is that people are less deterministic about their dating goals than they are on other websites. Most dating sites seem to fall into one of two categories: “let’s fuck and never talk to each other again,” or “let’s get married and have babies/a house/a dog.” The majority of dating sites also have an annoying habit of requiring you to specify that you are looking for EITHER a man OR a woman. OKC lets you choose “either.” And you can guess what the Omnivore is selecting.

More recently, Axe introduced me to Fetlife.com. It’s a very, very new website put together by some folks from Montreal. I recently discovered that a good number of people on my blogroll are there, and got one promising message from someone interested in becoming my houseboy. So we’ll see.

May 20, 2008 at 12:21 pm 3 comments

If you beat the servants but don’t fuck them, is that polyamory?

Bran isn’t crazy about polyamory. I’m not crazy about monogamy. Yes, I’m one of those bad bisexuals who actually DOES want to sleep with people of different genders. I know, I know, bisexuals are absolutely capable of monogamy–about as capable as anyone of any other sexual orientation. I’ve certainly been capable of monogamy for long stretches of time. Hell, I’ve been capable of not cheating on a partner who refused to have sex with me. I have my reasons for wanting a gate in my little picket fence, though. I’ll tell you all about them later.

There’s sex and then there’s sex, though. I know, I know, polyamory is about more than sex. But right now I’m talking about sex. Relationship-wise, I’m really at capacity. Things resolved with Chiquitita nicely in that respect: she balked at the prospect of getting the sexxay on, and I was relieved because I know exactly how much work women are. So does she. So we snuggled all night, slept over (something I have yet to do with Bran in spite of all our @w3$0me sexing), and now we talk about sex with boys. Which is easy and fun and relatively drama-free. I’ve reassured her that the not-calling-after-the-first-date thing is some sort of XY-chromosome-related phenomenon and nothing to do with her.

Bran has, however, said on more than one occasion, “you need a houseboy.” Which is promising and true. Especially since Bran clearly doesn’t enjoy the domestic stuff. In fact, he’s diagnosed my houseboyless state precisely on occasions when I’ve asked him to do domestic things for me. Like, say, lint-brush the cat hair off my black cardigan.

I do need a houseboy. And not just because I’d rather spend my money on something besides professional housecleaners. I can train a houseboy to clean AND tidy exactly the way I want. I can teach them how to fold and hang up the clothes that pile up in my bedroom — and know that they get a kick out of doing it because it’s such an intimate act. And I can do other stuff with a houseboy I’d never dream of doing with a professional housecleaner. Like, say, tell him to strip naked, throw his belt across the room, and make him crawl across the floor to me with it in his teeth. So I can beat him with it.

I’d pretty much given up on finding a new one, though. The last few prospects petered out — my so-promising young curious one just freaked out one day on his way over here and stood me up. The other prospect I’d been emailing with canceled on me at the last minute and then got snippy with me when I told him he wasn’t serious about meeting. Dynamics are important. I don’t need a brat. I need a good boy who knows how to clean. I recently got a message from someone on Fetlife who sounds very promising. But they all sound promising via email. The proof is in the pudding. Or the cleaning and the beating.

And it does have to be a boy. I’m sorry, but I like genderfuck. I like making a man do women’s work. Maybe it’s my way of getting back at my slovenly family of origin (I’d say it was my slovenly brother but really, Mom was just as bad). Maybe it’s my way of getting back at men in general. Fuckers with their baseball talk and their 30%-on-average higher salaries. Whatever it is, it’s my kink and I’m not apologizing for it. I mean, aside from apologizing for it at the beginning of this paragraph.

The problem, of course, is that my relationship with my houseboys is sexual. Even if I always keep my clothes on, it’s sexual. Once, I acted against my better instincts and let a married man come over and vacuum my floors in the early mornings. Married in the traditional sense. Vacuuming my floors was a sexual act for him. And for me. I felt horrible, because I knew there was a woman whom I’d never met whom I was helping to harm. Even if she never knew, I was harming her. And him. And, most importantly, myself. I had to stop. It was bad. I still feel bad. I’d never even mention this if you knew my name. It was the one thing I said I’d never do. I never had intercourse with him, but it was still sexual.

Part of my journey of accepting my kink has been acknowledging the sexual nature of domestic servitude. Honesty, dignity and respect. These are my baselines. I’m not comfortable with myself if I’m not honest with myself and others. This really sucks sometimes, because denial and lies are very convenient. But once I’ve acknowledged something I can’t lie about it.

Which may, in the long run, lead to some problems between myself and Bran. Or perhaps not. Perhaps we’ll be able to figure out a way to help him feel special and valued. It would certainly relieve him (and me) of expectations for him to fulfill a role he’s not cut out for. Bran is not a houseboy, a true sub, or a pain slut. Submissive men are awesome. I love so many things about them. But in terms of the person who walks beside me, I need a different sort of power dynamic.

I want both. I need a lot of love, a lot of caretaking. I’m a big woman with big appetites. And I’m tired of apologizing for it.

May 17, 2008 at 9:38 pm Leave a comment

More

“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.

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

First date, first kiss with Bran

It was back when it was still cold out. We met in Central Square and chatted a bit in a coffeehouse before dinner. His first impression of me was that I was angry, but really I was just thrown off by the Scally cap he was wearing. While we sat and talked over my cooling pot of tea, I remember an attraction blooming in spite of myself. It was something about the set of his neck.

I was still dressed for work in fairly dour clothes, a very utilitarian pair of pants and a long black cardigan. Over dinner, I remember his enthusiasm for the food, the way each of us was careful and generous with each other, gesturing to the other to have more. It was an Ethiopian restaurant, which means that you eat from the same plate with your hands. The plate itself is a sort of spongy bread that you eat as well. It’s a very intimate meal to share.

It was the set of his neck, that moment in the coffee shop, that really sealed the deal. But his conversation over dinner was pleasant and that helped as well. I invited him home to meet my cats. Heh. On the way back to my car, we linked arms, and he shivered in the cold and mentioned that he was tired, and I said, “if you’re really tired, you can go home now.”

“No,” he replied. “I want to see… what’s up.”

When we got home, I offered him a drink of water. I was so nervous standing there in the kitchen, trying to make conversation, that I dropped one of my good, stemmed water glasses. In my fumble to try to catch it, I dashed it against the sink. It shattered and left glass everywhere.

We sat on the couch and I put my feet up in his lap. But he wasn’t interested in my feet.

“You have an amazing ass,” he said.

“Yeah?” I said, flattered. And shifted so that I was sitting with my back to him, against his open legs. He put his arms around me, and our hips undulated. I turned to kiss him. Held him down, hovered with my lips close to his, savoring the moment.

I slid my hand under his sweater, his shirt, his undershirt, and pinched his right nipple, hard. He gasped. That harsh intake of breath, I’ve come to love it over the intervening months.

I kissed him then.

May 14, 2008 at 2:07 am 1 comment

Older Posts


The search for truth, love, beauty, and mind-blowing orgasms

This blog contains sexually explicit material. If you are under 18 or offended by sex-talk, smut, kinksters, liberals, bisexuals, queers, poets, switches, bitches, or outspoken women, it's a free Internet (mostly) and you can go someplace else.

Sign up for email notification of new posts (you don't have to have a WordPress account).

Join 5 other followers


Click here to explore Good Releasing's various lines of adult titles and educational films representing independent artists who create authentic and diverse content.

Feeds