Posts tagged ‘bisexuality’

Omnivore update: seven is the magic number

Seven things that have happened since March:

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

September 15, 2010 at 2:25 am Leave a comment

I guess I’m back in the game

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

January 31, 2010 at 2:39 pm Leave a comment

More hot three-way sex

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

Went through about three loads of sheets last weekend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

May 29, 2009 at 12:51 pm Leave a comment

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

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

Found femdom from the diva of pop

Madonna’s new album and the accompanying buzz in the blogosphere has had me reflecting on my own relationship with the diva of pop. The righteous babes at Feministing do an excellent job of summing up my own complicated relationship with this role model from my girlhood. And yes, she was a role model. But I was so clueless about so many things when her first album came out! I was about nine years old, and at the time it was still a toss-up who was going to be a bigger star: Madonna or Cindi Lauper. In many ways, I respect Cindi Lauper’s career more than Madonna’s even though it wasn’t as prolific. I think that Lauper remained more true to who she was; choosing an authentic voice over what will sell in the current zeitgeist requires a tremendous amount of integrity.

But I do admire Madonna as a woman who has always been unafraid to go for exactly what she wants. Her overt sexuality paved the way for other women to come out of the “slut” closet and proudly own the fact that we, too, enjoy sex. But her message is confusing at times.

I remember when “Express Yourself” came out on MTV (yes, once upon a time, Music Television actually showed music videos). I was a sullen drama chick at the time, disdainful of anything remotely mainstream. But twenty years later, the narrative of this piece really stands up on its own. The visuals express in a clear and yet question-raising way the power play inherent in sexual politics. Money, class, gender, and sexuality all bring with them their own kinds of power. It’s important to understand the power of each so that you can decide whether you want to own them, reject them, deny them, or appropriate them for your own purposes.

This was also the first time I saw the sinous muscles of Madonna’s back. Phew. A few years later, I’d realize I was more interested in the singer herself than the hunky guy down in the boiler room sweating away (although I know Bitchy likes that). Twenty years later, I’d realize I was also really, really interested in the woman at the top of the stairs dressed in the traditional trappings of male power.

PS: A tip of the hat to Axe’s awesome collection of found femdom. I could never compete.

May 8, 2008 at 4:41 pm 2 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

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

First orgy, worst orgy

It was right around this time of year, actually, perhaps a bit later. I was a junior in high school. We’d just finished our exams, so it was either mid-term or the end of the year. We all jumped into Rich’s car and headed north to April’s house. April, whose mother up in Maine had despaired of ever taming her wild daughter, finally threw up her hands and sent her to live down in Fairfield County with her dad. She lived in a little shack behind the main house. It had no indoor plumbing and relied on a wood stove for heat, but it did have something far more valuable to a wild 17-year-old: privacy.

The year was 1990, and Rich popped in a tape of all five radio remixes of Madonna’s Vogue. There were six of us: Rich, April, me, young Susan (a mere freshman), Hester, and April’s beau Thom. Aside from chiseled good looks, Thom had few redeeming qualities. But I don’t think she liked him for his conversation.

“I’ve got that feeling,” I said aloud as we sped north.

“Like you’re going to be bad?” said Susan. And I nodded. We were thrilled, glad to be alive, free of schoolwork, free of parents and obligations, free to be bad.

Once at April’s place, we clambered up the steps (more ladder than staircase) to the little loft above the main room. Someone produced a case of beer — the cheapest kind imaginable. There was some shotgunning of beers. And then people were passing a joint, tiny, mostly paper, and almost gone before I’d become aware of it. That was most likely the first time I saw anyone actually smoking pot.

And then someone–Thom or Rich, I’m sure–came up with the bright idea of tying up all the girls. We were all in the drama club except for Thom, whom I’d never even seen at school, and Rich was the flymaster. This meant he was adept at tying knots. He demonstrated this skill fairly well, and pretty soon we were all prettily trussed and bound on April’s rat’s nest of a bed.

When Rich first appeared on the scene at the beginning of the year, I’d developed a crush on him. Along with every other single female member of the drama club. Since then, I’d come to realize he was just a conceited ass. And yet there I was, hands bound above my head, undulating as he teased me with his hands.

“I’ve got to have more beer in me to do this,” I said. And shotgunned another beer. That turned out to be a big mistake, because pretty soon the bed and the room were spinning. “I’m going to throw up,” I said. And without further ado, I did. Right next to the bed.

Folks obviously weren’t too pleased, but I was too far gone to do much about it. I clambered downstairs without falling on my head and stumbled through the bright spring sunlight into the main house. I took a shower in her parents’ bathroom, then headed back out to the porch. Hester had quietly excused herself when the rope came out, and the two of us sat there talking and smoking cigarettes. Across the lawn, we heard the noises of our disporting friends through the open window of April’s shack.

April called to me through the open window. “I think I just had an orgasm!” she said.

Strange that she would call it out to me, with two boys and a girl right there in the bed beside her. But she did.

Later, she gave me a full-on kiss, lips, tongue, passion, and all. Hester told me she was surprised, since April had made some comments earlier in the year that expressed a clear dislike for lesbians. In vino veritas.

I made my way back up to our coltish little orgy, intending to clean up the mess I’d left. But my friends had beaten me to it. And then Rich was guiding my hand into Susan’s pants. I pulled down her fly and slid my hands into her panties, felt her wetness, probed further, intrigued and amazed at myself at the same time. “Too hard,” she said, and I pulled my hand out, too awkward and afraid (afraid of what? everything.) to try again. Susan was soft and chocolate-colored, with a fine nimbus of black hair framing her round face and green eyes. I loved her body, had always thought she was gorgeous. But she was also like my little sister. I lay with my chin on her chest and talked. Next to us, April and Thom writhed against each other.

Much later, Hester drove Susan and me back to our crappy little downtown apartments. I watch the green, green lawns slide by. The sky was grey and overcast, like my head in the aftermath of all that beer and transgressive sex.

March 27, 2008 at 5:39 pm 3 comments

Friends and lovers

I had a long talk two nights ago with R. He lives down in DC with his partner Z. The two of them are on my short list of friends whom I love with the love of a chosen family. I think R is probably one of the few people I’m still in touch with who knew me when I was a teenager. One of the formative experiences of my young life was a summer program for the gifted. I went for two years: the summer before my freshman year of high school, and the summer after. That first summer, I’d just discovered kissing boys, and proceeded to find and kiss as many boys as possible in the three weeks I was there. My RA (Residence Advisor, or, in this context, glorified babysitter) gave me the “Most Likely to Be Late for a Hall Meeting Because She’s Off with Some Guy” prize at the end of the session.

The SATs were not the only thing I was precocious about.

The second summer is when I met R. He was a teaching assistant, which meant that he actually got to develop the minds of the insufferable brats who took college-level courses, instead of having to deal with their hormonal drama. My first memory of him is giving him a hard time while he tried to drive us out of our dorm rooms and off to the afternoon program of “mandatory fun.” I was laying on the grotty carpeting in the hallway, my feet up against the opposite wall, and I think I said something smart to him as he came walking toward us.

He looked at me, and he spoke to me like a fellow human being instead of a child. I was both, of course, but when you’re 14 years old and no longer a virgin it’s vitally important that no one remind you of the fact that you’re still a child. It was that, more than anything, that motivated me to get up off that grotty carpeting.

Later, R took the time to teach me theatrical lighting, something I’d begged our stage manager back in high school to teach me all year. He was always very appropriate with me. But the skater dude I’d been trying unsuccessfully to shag all summer (they scheduled us to our eyeballs just for that purpose!) dumped me because I was spending all my spare time in a dark theater with a grad student. There was, in fact, another teaching assistant who was not as scrupulous as R. He grabbed me once during the weekly dances and made my little 14-year-old knees go weak during a slow song.

I kept in touch with both R and his unscrupulous colleague for a while using this now-obsolete technology called pen and paper. I also corresponded with classmates. But these friendships eventually went the way of all pen pals. Someone forgets to write, someone moves, a letter comes back undeliverable.

When I was in my late 20s, I got an email from R. He’d found me via a website I ran under my given name. Fifteen years later, it was like we’d never stopped being friends. At the time, of course, I was living with Angie, who kept me on a very short leash. She eyed my renewed correspondence with R with suspicion, but Angie eyed almost everything I did with suspicion. Later, I left Angie. And dated Badger. And split up with Badger. And eventually, R and I finally saw one another in person again. The first time, I was down in DC for a weekend sailing trip and we met up in Annapolis. Over dinner, he told my friends what I was like at that summer program. His description was so drastically different than my own memories of the summer, it was like he was talking about someone else. It was very flattering, though.

The next time I saw R, he came to visit me. I was rather lonely, and asked him to cuddle with me. Cuddling turned to kissing, which turned to what kissing usually turns into in my bed. Sex with R was amazing. He’s one of those rare kinds of men: sweet and kind and giving and well-hung to boot.

R and I had already corresponded about his open relationship with Z, but I still blushed and cowered when he called her afterward. My own forays into the world of polyamory had almost always ended up with heartbreak or guilt–although I’m not sure how my forays into the world of monogamy have really differed. She thanked me for making her partner feel so welcome. Later, I went down to visit them both in DC, which is where I confirmed what I’d assumed would be the case: R’s partner Z is bright, articulate, sexy, and sweet. I felt really honored when she invited me into their bed together. Threesomes are a rich treat in my experience, like caviar. They’re delicious, intense, and rather hard to come by.

Everything happened so quickly that year. I’d begun dating Kristen just a few months prior, and after that weekend in DC I came home both glowing from my time with R and Z and guilty. Kristen knew what would likely happen during my visit. But I could also sense it wasn’t what she wanted. And sure enough, she laid it out for me over dinner that night. She never told me I couldn’t do what I wanted, just that if I kept sleeping with other people she wouldn’t take me seriously. She wanted the picket fence and all. I wanted a picket fence with a gate in it. But I thought I’d try to be a good lesbian again.

Three years later, Kristen isn’t speaking to me, but R and Z stood by me through the rough months of the breakup. Last night, R told me he’s been happy to hear me talk and write so openly about my adventures in kink. We got to talking about early indicators of sexual predelictions. “You were always pretty alpha,” he said.

I’m going to see him and Z again in April, and possibly March. I don’t know if sex will be on the menu. If it is, it’s not likely to be kinky. I hope I remember how to be soft and sweet. I hope I get to cuddle with them both. They’re a very special couple of people and I’m glad to have them in my life.

February 1, 2008 at 11:55 pm 2 comments

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