Posts filed under ‘polyamory’

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.

April 26, 2009 at 1:06 pm 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

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

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

How to find a submissive houseboy on teh Intarwebs (in 12 easy steps or less)

  1. Spend at least half an hour writing a witty but firm advertisement for the appropriate section of the free online personals website of your choice. Briefly describe yourself without any overtly identifying characteristics. Specify that you are NOT a prodom. Explain that you are looking for a submissive man to come clean your house and then kneel naked on the floor while you beat his ass to a whimpering pulp. Specify that the lucky recipient of this honor should actually get off on it, as you will be getting off on (a) him cleaning your house for free and (b) beating him. A lot. With a riding crop. And his own belt. And your hands. And various other implements.
  2. Specify that you are not interested in meeting anyone who isn’t single or didn’t get the go-ahead from their girlfriend/wife/boyfriend/german shepherd/it’s-complicated. Make sure to mention other qualities that would disqualify him for service. Such disqualifying attributes might include illiteracy, slovenliness, desire to be used as a toilet, enclosure of a photograph of manjunk, or possession of a mullet.
  3. Prepare yourself for one or more of the following kinds of responses:
    • One-word responses with blurry headshots, “headless horseman” shots, or photos of manjunk attached.
    • Bilious diatribes about what a manipulative, perverted, sick bitch you must be.
    • A counteroffer: “why don’t you come over to my apartment instead, wash my dishes, and suck my dick?” Attached photograph of manjunk is optional.
    • “Why don’t you just hire a service the way I do?” (Is there a service that offers brawny men who clean your whole place, then strip on command and crawl across the room with their own belt in their mouths? Where’s the website? I wonder if I can afford it!)
    • One, two, or possibly (possibly) more serious inquiries.
    • A notice that your ad has been flagged off for violation of the website’s Terms of Service (you’ve read them and are clearly NOT in violation. Not unless all those sick perverts mandoms looking for girls to spank are, too, and yet their ads seems to stay on for months at a time)
  4. Ensure that you are using an anonymous (aka “slut”) email account to respond to the handful of serious inquiries you’ll receive. As comfort level increases, exchange given names, then photographs, discuss expectations and desires about the arrangements. I recommend limiting the email exchange portion of the screening to no more than one to two weeks (about 5-10 exchanges. And 10 is pushing it.) This helps you avoid the “face for radio” phenomenon. It also helps you screen out people who aren’t serious about meeting in person.
  5. When in possession of the applicant’s first and last name, run a superficial background check via Google, Zabasearch, and the National Sex Offender Registry. Encourage the applicant to do the same with you. If any unexpected results come up, discuss with the applicant. Bear in mind that sex offender registries sometimes include the names of people convicted of questionable “offenses” like 18-year-olds making love with their 17-year-old sweethearts.
  6. Pay attention to your gut. Pay attention to the wording of the applicant’s email. Read between the lines. Bear in mind that he doesn’t necessarily have to be a suave and well-written correspondent to get the job. But pay attention and trust that little inner voice. It doesn’t lie.
  7. Arrange to meet your potential new houseboy in a public place, preferably for lunch on a Saturday. Why lunch? Who knows whether broad daylight makes things any safer, but it puts me at ease. It also removes the “date” energy and makes it more like a job interview. Why Saturday? Because if, after lunch, you decide this is a good fit, you can take him directly home for a trial task. I usually have him do the dishes or vaccuum a single room. This will give you a sense of whether he’s actually any good at housework — and of how quickly he works.
  8. Make sure you get his mobile number beforehand, in case you need to call to let him know you’re running late. You might be running late, but he should be on time.Be prepared for the possibility of being stood up. Poor submissive men–especially the sincerely submissive ones you want for this type of work and not the ones who still think it’s all about them — are bound to have mixed feelings about their sexuality. He may chicken out. If he does, don’t bother trying to make contact again. If he calls or emails, ignore it. He broke something that never be unbroken when he broke your date and there’s no way to salvage the dynamic.
  9. If all goes well at lunch, invite him back for a tryout (see above). If you like him, offer him a little treat at the end. Like, say, having him get down on his hands and knees, putting your feet up on him, and lecturing him. Or make him kneel upright, grab him by the hair, and stand over him scolding him. You know, do what you do. That dom thing, which is why you’re reading this to begin with right? If you don’t know how to do this part, I’m surprised you made it past Step 1. Especially at the beginning, less is more.
  10. Make sure to treat your houseboy with respect, like a valuable new toy. Do all that stuff that good kinksters are supposed to do, like establishing consensus, using safewords, and making time for aftercare. Frame your time together appropriately, and you should be able to hold onto a good houseboy for quite some time. But bear in mind that this is a difficult kind of relationship to maintain over the long run unless he already has a primary partner elsewhere. I don’t recommend fucking the servants, but your houseboy is likely to have needs not directly related to service, submission, and titillation.
  11. Be prepared for the possibility that some stingy, demanding bitch will get her claws into him he will meet another dominant woman who wants to Own him. Try to keep the lines of communication open so that you can find yourself another one before he leaves your service.
  12. Repeat ad nauseum. Or until you get disgusted with the process. Bitch about how hard it is to find good help these days to your friends, or to the Internet. Laugh at yourself a lot when you do this. When you get tired of houseboys, call your maid service or consider *gasp* actually cleaning the house and sorting through your papers yourself.

May 5, 2008 at 10:19 pm 3 comments

When in doubt, lists are good (restoring my freaky cred)

Bran says he’s boring my readers, because no one has commented on the last two posts. “I think they’re only interested when you’re branding me or something.”

Which I haven’t actually done, of course. Although I do have to admit that the idea is appealing, in an entirely fantasy-never-gonna-happen-story-of-O kind of way.

But just in case my last few posts have been too mushy and tame, I present to you the following pieces of evidence that I am still a huge freak.

  1. I came on Bran’s face. I can’t entirely tell if he likes it, since there is usually some choking and coughing involved. I actually did this on our first date, and he told me via IM that he felt like we was drowning. The implication, however, was that it was not an unenjoyable experience.
  2. Ace will be gratified (he would be more so, perhaps, if he were still in receipt of my attentions) that I’ve come to appreciate the joys of fucking a man up the ass with a strap-on. It’s true. I really do get into this place where I’m going buck-wild, and excited, and energized, and very very in-the-moment. I love not only the power of it but the sensual joy. Sure, it’s an act of giving. That’s why I’m picky about who gets to feel my cock up their ass. But it’s hott. With an extra T. For hottness. Because I can spell.

    All sorts of things I was sort of uncomfortable about before no longer seem to bother me with Bran. Probably because it’s completely reciprocal. And even though I do have a very strong streak of the femdom, there’s a reason why I go by the handle Omnivore. I like reciprocity. Reciprocity is hott, with two T’s. Another thing that happened on our first date is that he licked my little anus all around with that wicked tongue of his and made it feel AWESOME. He’s also mastered the art of fucking my various orifices with his tongue: mouth (which can be sort of creepy and yet turning-on-y at the same time), cunt (heaven), ass (gunh).

    I’ve learned a technique for assuaging my concerns about e-coli infection as relates to anal play. You sort of check out the region with your fingers and nose and eyes first. If it’s all clear, then you can use your tongue. If not, there’s always gloves, which I absolutely love for anal play because cleanup is a breeze (just pull off, and all incidental poop is contained nicely in an inverted latex package). And if you can’t deal with a little poop, as the Midwest Teen Sex Show points out so lucidly, you’re not ready for anal sex.

    Later, after all the sex and in an attempt to make our time together something other than just a booty call (he did arrive before the 9:00 pm this-is-definitely-just-a-booty-call cutoff time), we lay on the couch and watched some anime.

    “Heh,” I said. “You fucked me up the ass.”
    “I did,” he replied. “You begged me to do it.”

  3. While I was fucking Bran up the ass with the littlest dildo from the Bend Over Beginner Kit, he said something that made me come all over his leg. I wish I could remember what it was. But coming while fucking him was pretty awesome.
  4. Later, he made me come again by saying in that wonderful forceful way of his that he was fucking me while I was tied up. I know the latest magazine articles say that women don’t really make tons of noise when they come, that we’re all concentrating on the sensation of coming and that you can tell because of the tightening of our vaginal walls, but I am in fact a screamer. And I came. Noisily. Gushily. I’m glad one of the comforters was between me and the mattress because I’m out of upholstery cleaner.

    Bran is so shy about tying me up. I had to beg him to do it, and sort of helped him along. But it’s true what one of my subs from last year had to say about bondage. It does sort of intensify the feeling — of intercourse, of orgasm. An extra frisson, a tension between what you want and what you can have. And, I suppose, there’s some sort of Freudian thing about security and being held tightly. I always get excited in the middle of sex with bondage and scrabble to get the bonds off so I can touch the man (or woman) fucking me. This time, when I tried, he pushed my hand away. Which was even hotter. And when I finally did get one wrist free he just pushed me down with those wonderful strong arms of his.

  5. He gave me a lovely spanking as well. I’m glad that he responds to feedback and direction. Not all of my lovers have had the emotional security to do so.
  6. I’m still in need of a good houseboy. The one I’ve got actually canceled on me last-minute so he could go do something involving the earning of money. Really, now, where are the boy’s priorities? As we discussed over lunch last week, it’s clear that he’s not really kinky. And the important learning I’ve gotten from his service is that you can’t instill kink any more than you can iron it out. I think he’d make a great personal assistant, but it’ll only work if the payoff for him is sufficient. This is where sub men once again prove their worthiness: sexuality, especially of the unfulfilled variety, can be a powerful motivator for service. ViciousWishes asked me some questions about protocol related to the search for and screening of a good houseboy. I’ll share those in a separate post. Once I’ve got some applicants, I know what to do. But for the time being, I’m stymied as to how to find new applicants. Craigslist has been the best source so far for potentials, but someone on Craigslist has decided I’m either a spambot or a whore and flags my posts within minutes of publication. This really irks me because it is the sexual exchange I’m seeking. My posts don’t belong in erotic services, dammit! Men who clean my house really do make me hot. And I want a man who gets hot cleaning house for me. Who enjoys pain. Ah, well. In the meantime, I’ll soldier on as best I can. And perhaps consider reactivating my profiles on Collarme and Bondage.com. Yawn.
  7. Chiquitita and I are still orbiting around one another. In an email this morning, she wrote “Rarely have I met someone whose every message to me would make me want to say ‘awwwww.'” Girls require more effort than boys, but the payoff is almost always worth it.

April 22, 2008 at 4:34 pm 7 comments

Saturday night sex (plus: panties! on men!)

I can’t even begin to tell you how happy I am with Bran. We’re settling into a bit of a regular pattern. No, let’s make that a definite regular pattern. It was Tuesdays for a while and then he slipped into Saturday evenings as well. Which may, in the long run, prove problematic as things progress with Chiquitita, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. The hardest thing about polyamory? Fitting infinite sexual and relational possibilities into finite resources of time, space, and energy.

Regardless. In the present, he’s my Saturday date. Last Saturday evening he rang the bell right around 6pm, all of half an hour after I got home from a lovely salon of women artists. The day was pretty exhausting. But of course I was eager to see Bran. And after our initial exertions, I felt rejuvenated.

Okay. It’s a sex blog. You want details, I know. So the details, well, I’ll do my best, but to tell you the truth, after weeks and weeks of amazing sex, the sequence of events sort of blurs together. And I’m not sure that a catalog of sexual acts really makes for the most compelling reading. The fact that we were both exhausted — him from the last stretch of grad school exertions, me from pursuing my multiple non-sexxay interests — probably doesn’t help. But we do like to talk about it later on the phone. We live on opposite sides of town from each other. And while I live in a smallish city, schlepping across town can be a major pain in the tuckus. Especially during certain times of day. I’d never really gotten into phone sex before Bran, but it’s a fairly regular part of our interactions now.

So Saturday. The moment I kissed him as I let him in downstairs, I knew we weren’t going to get out of the house without taking our clothes off. His face was smooth — I’d made a point of telling him I wanted him to lick me on the phone, since it had been a while — and his breath was sweet. After a whole week of not seeing him, it felt good to hold him in my arms again. Later, I came all over that smooth face, and licked it off. But first, he did that thing with his tongue — must have been taking notes as I described how to find my shy little clit, and how I liked to be licked (with a hard, pointy tongue, and fast). Because I was screaming fairly soon, in the bedroom. He came hard and long and fast inside me, filled half the condom. Later, I came copious amounts, a veritable fountain. Before and after dinner. He was there above me, touching himself and saying in that wondering, admiring, encouraging voice, “look at you!”

This is all jumbled I know, but it’s how I remember it. Him taking his belt off, folding it in half, and smacking me once, hard, on the ass. I think my panties were gone by then. The ones with the frills around the edge. He’d finally brought back the pair he’d taken from me weeks ago, the purple ones with the black lace around the legs and “spoiled” written across the back. He came back wearing them under his cargo pants. They look very different on him than they do on me — if I may be so egotistical, I fill them out much more nicely.

Bitchy Jones has a lot to say about how annoying the whole sissification phenomenon is, and in general I have to agree with her. But I’ve come to realize that so much of whether I kink for something has to do with the intention behind the activity. See, Bran is undoubtedly a guy. Not super-macho in an annoying way, but most definitely a guy. In the same way, I’m very much a woman (although from the inside I’m aware of my two-spirit nature). When Bran wears my panties, it’s not because he wants to be humiliated into being a woman. It’s because… well, in his own words:

-It reminds me of how wet and open you get.

I remember going to his house one day and, as per usual, he sported a hard-on pretty much from the first kiss hello. Of course, bending over a bit on his bed probably helped encourage it — he does love my ass so. But we were both very hungry. In fact, you’ll notice a pattern of competing drives when we spend time together, often between food and sex. So I told him to put it away. I took the pair of black cotton panties he’d had under his pillow for a week and slipped them up over his legs, binding his hard cock nicely to his belly. Then, his boxers went over that and a pair of pants over that. Then we walked in the rain to Doyle’s and had lunch.

Later, I lay next to him on his bed, touching him and encouraging him to touch himself, telling him dirty stories, his cock and balls emerging from that black cotton binding, and flicked my tongue across his nipple while he came, long and hard, across his belly. He stayed there, up there, in that place where we stay after we’ve come.

“You don’t have to come down,” I said, holding him, rocking him, stroking him. “You can just stay up there.” And we floated there together, coming down to earth as delicate as a soap bubble.

April 15, 2008 at 4:42 pm 1 comment

Hope springs eternal

I posted another ad for a houseboy in the Miscellaneous Romance section of Craigslist.

The last one got flagged off so fast only one serious response came through before it was gone. Some trick-ass bitch on Craigslist must really hate dominant women, or thinks that bona fide bitches who do it for the sexxay don’t really exist.

[EDIT: The post was up for all of five minutes before it got flagged again]

I was corresponding nicely with the one serious inquirer, but he balked when I asked for his first and last name. It’s just protocol, yo. You’re coming to my house, after all, touching all of my intimate things. Don’t I deserve to do a quick Google and sex offender registry search on you first?

I’m sure that you are all weeping for me in the face of my desperate plight, especially you poor submissive men in search of an owner. “Really, Omnivore,” you’re probably saying. “Aren’t you just a tad greedy? After all, you’ve got that delicious Bran playing puppy with you and fucking you hello, not to mention that young new boy who likes to kneel at your feet and sort your mail.”

To which I will reply, “Yes, that’s true. And I haven’t even told you about that sweet, curvy girl with the pixie haircut and the funky sense of style with whom I’ve only been on two dates.

“BUT!

“But,” I will say, “I am indeed a greedy bitch, and after 20 years of dating people, I’ve decided to stop feeling ashamed of asking for what I want. Bran’s too busy with grad school to clean and it’s not really his kink anyway. And while the sexxay is awesome, he’s not a pure submissive. The new houseboy shows promise in the personal secretary department but doesn’t really know how to vaccuum a room properly and doesn’t like pain. And Ace spoiled me forever in that department; I want another submissive boy with a high threshold for pain who will sweat and stretch and scrub until the place is spotless and then take off his clothes and kneel when I order him to. I want him to look up at me with that look, that look that maybe only Ace had but which I’m hoping to see on the face of another sub, a sort of dark and hooded and completely surrendered look that says I’m yours. Use me. Hurt me. I love it. And you love it. Please.

“I’m greedy enough to want two houseboys, not just one. AND a boyfriend. AND a girlfriend.”

Yeah. That’s what I want.

Is that so wrong?

April 10, 2008 at 7:07 pm 7 comments

Puppy play

I did a lot of shopping online but none of the collars seemed to be much better than what I could find in the local pet store. And it was really instant gratification I was after, anyhow. The newest man in my life (whose name is adamantly not Bran) was coming over that evening and I wanted to surprise him.

In the pet store, I compared all the various leather collars available. I tried to guestimate the size of Bran’s neck, which is not insubstantial, although not in that gross no-neck-linebacker kind of way. The leashes happened to be right next to the register, and I chatted with the owner while I fingered and stroked the wares. Shut up, it’s just shopping.

“The dog’s not in the car, is he?” asked the owner.
“No, he’s at home,” I said, suppressing a smirk. “If it doesn’t fit, can I bring it back and exchange it?”
“Sure. You just have to fill out a form.”
“I think I can do that.”

At the last minute, I put back the leather leash and got a chain one instead. Mmm, chains. So far, I’ve been more into rope restraints than chains, but I can see why Bitchy prefers the ease and quickness of handcuffs. One of these days I’ll spring for some leather cuffs, too. Bran is too strong to be properly restrained by my current under-the-bed system. I have one of those memory-foam mattresses (the cheaper ones made in Ireland, not the Tempurexpensive ones), and one of the drawbacks is that the sides of the mattress are not very firm. Plus, he’s a struggler. Some men lay still as soon as they feel the bonds, but the thing I love about Bran is that he fights me for control. And sometimes he wins.

Later that evening, after a very civilized dinner in which we talked about stuff that did not relate to sex (I found myself getting up at one point to rub his shoulders, and the heat rose up between us again, my hand on his tight, tight upper trapezius, wandering down his chest, clad in his professional Oxford shirt with the undershirt underneath. And had to stop myself and sit down again. But I digress.), I told him I had a surprise for him.

“I went to the pet store today,” I said.

And he was very happy. He knew what that meant right away.

I got up to get my new purchases from my briefcase. I bought them on my way home from work and try to avoid using disposable shopping bags whenever possible. Plus, I get a thrill out of having an object in my professional drag that’s simultaneously innocent and naughty. As I was bending over I felt an insistent butting against the backs of my thighs. He was on all fours, butting me just like a dog eager to play.

“Oh, good boy,” I said. “Do you like your new collar?”

Dogs don’t talk, of course. He panted for me, shook his little head up and down. And I buckled it on him. I’d guestimated the size right — the shortest hole fit him perfectly. I’ve never collared anyone before, and I worried a bit about circulation, but I figured he would let me know if it was too tight, and I slipped a finger in between the leather and his neck just to check. Personally, I hate the feel of a choker necklace around my neck. I am sort of curious about the idea of being collared, though.

Oh, he was so happy to be my puppy. I’m pretty sure he was already naked at this point (don’t ask me how that happened because I don’t remember). I petted him and petted him, and wrestled with him a little bit. He growled. I pulled the chain lead out of the bag as well — we were too far into the play for me to even bother removing the tag. And I walked into the other room, sprawled on the couch, and told him to carry it to me.

GOD, there is nothing sexier than a man naked, on his knees, carrying something to me in his mouth. Something that shows my dominance over him. When he crawls across the room, naked, with it in his mouth, looking up at me all eager and soft, I know that he’s submitting willingly. And it’s his submission I crave, just as much I crave the sounds he makes when I’m causing him pain, the sounds that say yes god oh please yes more, not holy fuck ow bad.

My new puppy (I haven’t decided whether to call him Bruiser, or Buddy, or something else entirely), when he ducked his head down and took the chain lead in his mouth, it was a little bit different. It wasn’t about the anticipation of pain. It was about playfulness. And Bran knows how do the playfulness. He mentioned once that his family owned a kennel, so I think he knows dogs pretty well. Halfway across the room, he balked just a bit. I recognized the gesture from the times I’ve played with the dogs of friends and neighbors. It was hot. And authentic. And precious.

“C’mon, puppy! Don’t you want to go for walkies?” I injected that bit of enthusiasm into my voice, the one that dogs respond to so well with tail-wagging and frisking. And it worked. He came toward me. I took the lead from his mouth and hooked it to the ring on his collar. I walked him to the bedroom.

And then there was some sexing.

Later, I told him that within the BDSM community, putting a collar on a playmate can have a special significance.

“Oh yeah?” he said.

“Yes. It means that you’re my property.”

The idea of him as my property gives me a thrill. The idea that I belong to him gives me a thrill, too. It’s a paradox, since I’ve been very up-front about being polyamorous. I’m not sure how I feel about going exclusive again. It’s never worked out well in the past. But I find myself caring more and more about his feelings. I want to proceed very, very carefully with him. I could love him. My body already thinks it loves him, in the afterglow of orgasm. I can be patient, though. Age does that. It teaches patience. And experience.

I’m practicing the principle of nonattachment with him. Every lover has something to teach me. I wonder what this lesson will be?

March 13, 2008 at 2:31 pm 10 comments

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