Posts tagged ‘polyamory’

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

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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