Posts tagged ‘polyamory’

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

Stupid universe

Universal forces are aligning to suggest that a new houseboy is not in the cards for me right now. Sigh. Looks like I’ll be doing my own scrubbing and vaccuuming. Or figuring out what to cut out of the budget so I can afford my housecleaner again.

Kit has effectively broken up with us. Six weeks without messages, calls, or a date is a pretty clear indicator, n’est-ce pas?

Bran and I are still having pretty amazing sex, so why am I so ho-hum about it? Just spent 10 minutes trying to find reference to a study I remember reading that shows that boners are more intense with new partners. Of course, nobody gets funding to measure girl-boners.

Possibly the problem is that I’m not getting my fill of kink. Meaning bossy, haughty, dominating, demanding, bitchy get-on-your-knees-and-bring-me-your belt kink.

March 7, 2010 at 12:25 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

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

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

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

Love: I do not think it means what you think it means

This is the first of a three-part essay about semantics and a quote from The Princess Bride. I’ve been sitting on it for a month because I want it to be perrrrfect. But, of course, dissemination of information is never perfect. That’s why we have semantic professors and “information technology” professionals who pull in ridonculous amounts of money trying to figure out what a hammer is. Meanwhile, the people who swing the hammers may or may not have access to adequate health care.

But I digress.

There are three words I use that do not mean what you think they mean. They are: love, fuck, and god.

Love
Love is universal, god is love, love is all you need. People pay lip service to agape, a word from the Greek that connotes the way a community can come together for a shared experience like a rock concert (or a Greek tragedy). Agape love is by necessity unpossessive. Yet powerful. What happened in NYC after 9-11 was an expression of agape. Shopkeepers handing out food to people on the street. Folks talking to strangers on the way home (the only people who talk to strangers in the Northeast are tourists and the mentally ill.)

While we pay lip service to agape, we don’t celebrate it. The underlying message is that agape not quite as good as eros: the love between two people, especially the kind of love between two people that involves one man kissing one woman, a few shots of some indeterminate flesh, swirling sheets, and then a cut to a commercial.

The words “I love you” have been co-opted by this idealized, mass-media-ized notion of what love is. Any other love is not real love. It’s just practice rounds. The live ammo is what you see at the end of every romantic comedy: schmaltzy music, kiss, church bells, white wedding dress, house in the suburbs, mortgage, lawn-mowing, perfunctory sex when the kids are asleep.

Because of the constant, constant repetition of this message in music, movies, books, and perfume ads, “I love you,” no longer means just “I love you.” It means “I want to own you. I want to spend every Friday night on the couch with you, watching DVDs and eating takeout.” It means “I want to make a claim on you. I want to tell you who you can sleep with (not anyone besides me), how you will spend your vacations (with me and my family), where you will live (with me), and what you will eat (whatever we can both agree on).”

“I love you,” co-opted as it has been by these dumb-ass messages, has come to mean loss of freedom. It means no more lazy mornings alone in your apartment, writing in your journal, catching up with friends, watching bad TV. It means no more spontaneous weekend trips to the ocean. It means that you now have to factor in another human being’s wants and needs and desires into just about any decision you make about how you spend your money and your time. It means, in short, loss of autonomy.

But I don’t mean that when I say “I love you.”

Every morning I call my AA sponsor, an older gay man. Given the configurations of gender and sexuality, the possibility of erotic love is completely impossible. That’s why I love my gay sober men, actually: they’re the one kind of person I never have uncomfortable sexual energy with. My sponsor is not a romantic partner, nor is he related to me. But the love we feel for each other is deep and abiding, a love that’s different than the love I have for my family, whom I didn’t choose, different than the love I’ve had for my boyfriends and girlfriends, but which in 99% of cases ends in complete loss of contact.

Every morning, my sponsor and I say “I love you” to each other. I say it to a great number of my friends, too. Another gay friend of mine, not in AA, often starts his voice mail messages with “I called to tell you I love you.” And he does. I tell him too. It’s so easy to discount this kind of love in our society, which tells us over and over again that the only kind of love worth telling stories about is the kind that results in dead teenagers or a happy wedding with frilly dresses, or a house with a picket fence and a bunch of rug rats running around in the yard. But it’s the love of my friends and my family that has proved the most constant and sustaining.

I don’t think I will ever really have that Hollywood kind of love—not in this lifetime. I say that not in an angsty, self-pitying way because really, I’ve tried and I find that kind of love to be stifling and binding (and not in a hot, sexy way either). When I try to fit my sexuality and my heart into that little box of monogamy I stop being able to tell the truth. I abandon a part of myself in order to prove to myself and everyone else that I’m a nice girl, a good girl, a productive member of society who can get married and have babies and live in the suburbs like everybody else. I cut off my feet or my head to fit myself into that Procrustean bed. And often, I stop wanting to have sex, to write, even to live.

Sometimes I fall in love with strangers. Sometimes I love someone for a week and then never want to see them again. Sometimes I confuse sex with love, but love is still love even if it’s confused.

Carson McCullers wrote a short story about this kind of love. In it, a man walks up to a perfect stranger and tells him “I love you.” Of course that gets the usual crazy-person reaction. But the man begins telling him about the habit of loving he has been cultivating. Starting with a rock, a tree, a cloud. This is the kind of love that fills me up and feeds me the most.

Don’t get me wrong. I still get possessive. Sometimes I want to be special. Sometimes I want to be the only one. Sometimes I want to feel like I own someone. But I usually only feel like for the amount of time it takes to give a man a good spanking and fuck him up the ass. Or for the amount of time it takes to push a woman down on the bed and drive her crazy with my tongues and my hands. Maybe sometimes it lasts an afternoon, a day, a weekend. But no matter how much I love someone, I still want to be able to get up at 5:00 am and have the entire apartment to myself. So I can write essays like these.

February 14, 2008 at 3:47 pm 5 comments

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