Thanksgiving + Valentine’s Day = ?

Things between Robbie and me have finally come to what seems like a genuine end, right in time for the most ridiculously hyped romantic holiday of the year.  But I’m not feeling sad now.  Instead, I’m feeling like I ought to give thanks.

When Robbie was here over Thanksgiving, we broke up.  We had agreed to spend the week he was here being good to each other and talking, lovingly, about whether we could see ourselves sorting out the major obstacles to our being a couple.  And we did that.  We had a wonderful time, the best time we’d had in months.  We were affectionate and good to each other.  We identified our problems and for many of them, we found solutions.  But by the end of the trip, we’d both started to feel glum about our prospects, and finally, Robbie decided that it was time for us to part.  We said goodbye at the airport, lovingly and well.  And he asked me to spend the next few weeks thinking about all the things between us that were good, rather than recalling all our problems.

I did that then, to some extent, but mainly I put my energies into talking him into getting back together.  We did make up enough for the New Year’s visit, which was pretty disastrous.  And now I find us broken up, again because of Robbie’s decisiveness.  (I think he is probably doing the correct thing for both of us, for which I am not-so-secretly grateful to him.)  This time has been harder, with much more nastiness and hurt than we had at Thanksgiving.

But while we haven’t had the loving conversations, the laughter, the bittersweet tears, and the breathtaking breakup sex that we had over Thanksgiving, I am still trying to think of the good things about us.  It’s actually pretty easy to do.  There are many things I regret about our relationship–including my behavior for much of it–but there are things I will always cherish, and it’s worth putting some of them down, so I don’t forget them.

1.  We laughed, so very much.  I look back at the pages of this blog and I see so many things that were funny, and I realize I’ve captured perhaps .00001% of Robbie’s humor.  When he wanted to be, which was very often, he was lightness and whimsy and joy.  As I’ve said before, his smile was like the sun to me and being part of his circle of laughter was just golden.

2.  I learned what it means to open up to someone, to really share your whole self with him, and to dare to show him all of you.  It took well over a year, but I finally gave Robbie a chance to see the real me, and vice versa.  And that was a wonderful feeling.

3.  I learned what it meant to be loved.  Robbie loved me more than anyone else has.  He not only told me but showed me, again and again.  He followed through on his words at considerable cost to himself, repeatedly.  What was better was that I loved him back as fiercely and as loyally, to the extent that I could.  We helped each other through  many extraordinarily crappy events–some self-inflicted, others wildly and utterly unpredictable.  I was there when his father died, and I took care of two horses, two dogs, and a very rickety house while he and his family buried their dad.  I poured my heart and soul (and a whole lot of sweat) into his garden.  I gave him endless back rubs.  He moved me across the country, packing my boxes himself, and waited for me in hospitals after two life-threatening accidents.  He petted me and held me and cooked for me and pleased me.  We were partners, and we did for each other, and that was good.

4.  I dealt with boatloads of my own crap.  I am a rotten, flawed, imperfect human, as most of us are.  Robbie used to joke that I thought of myself as “Priscilla Perfect,” and it was true.  When we met, I thought I could do no relationship wrong.  After four years, I have the dubious honor of being thankful for the fact that I know I can be a royal bitch: temperamental, reactive, angry, and sometimes punitive.  I don’t want to treat loved ones this way for the rest of my life, and I have miles to go.  At least I’ve started.

5.  I learned about being a good parent from him.  Robbie has kids, and despite what he fears at times, he has been a good father to his kids.  I want kids, and want to be a good parent.  He never refused my many and endless requests to talk about kids or what the right thing to do for kids would be in a given situation; never withheld the benefit of his experience; and never, ever acted like the answers were pat or simple.

6.  I grew up.  This was partly because we spent four years together, and partly because Robbie is older than I am.  When I met Robbie, I was working at a job that had me spending most of my day with teenagers.  I felt very young–I was in my mid-30s but had the mindset of a teen myself.  Now, I feel like an adult, in a good way.  I know I’m not going to live forever and that that means there are opportunities I need to seize now.  I also understand that the one driving the bus of my life is me; no one else is making the decisions, and I’m the only one responsible for the direction I take.  That’s a pretty good thing to know when pushing 40.

7.  Together, we found kink.  Robbie and I had the most deviant, most satisfying, most intimate, wildest, most passionate, most transcendent sex I’ve had in my life.  And he always did tongue-fuck better than anyone else I’ve known.

My take on us, for now, is this: We didn’t break up because we didn’t love each other.  We broke up because we are 600 miles away from each other with no way to relocate right now and different priorities in our respective lives.  That is a tough thing to have happen.  If I could feel it fully it would hurt terribly, and I know it will before it gets better.

But it is good to remember all the good things, all these things and more.  Thank you, my dear, for them.  Always–until the wheel turns round again for us.

 

Bi-Uni-Quasi-Meta-Pro-Semi-Post-Sexual?

(Check it out. This is actually an Oreo.)

I don’t think I’ve mentioned it here before, but I’m going to Dark Odyssey’s Winter Fire in a few weeks.  Squee. I could not be more excited.  For those who aren’t familiar with it, Dark Odyssey is “a wholly unique experience which brings together sexuality, spirituality, education, and play in a fun, supportive, non-judgmental, diverse environment where fantasy becomes reality.”  Basically, it’s a three-day sex-conference with workshops during the day and play at night.

The whole event is so well-organized that there’s a private web-page for those who are attending to post little profiles, FetLife style, to introduce themselves.  I finally got around to doing this the other day and listed myself as bisexual.  This gave me pause, and I’ve been thinking about it since.

I don’t really identify as bi.  As I mentioned, I’ve been to bed with women before; the problem isn’t that I’m not attracted to them, or that I wouldn’t consider a relationship with a woman.  The problem is political; if I identify as anything, I identify increasingly as queer because of my sexual politics.  But Robbie and I went to hear Sarah Sloane speak about polyamory earlier this year, and her quick-and-dirty take on listing yourself as “bi” v. “queer” was that, “If you’re trying to attract mostly men, put bi; if you want to date mostly women, put queer.”  I’m mostly trying to attract men, but it pisses me off that in putting “bi”, the sexist ones will think I’m going to fuck girls for their benefit.  I suppose the last thing I should think about is what the jerks I am not going to date might think . . . but that still leaves me with the question of what I actually think.

Perhaps “feel” is a better word than “think”.  Robbie and I met a woman he’s been interested in during this last visit, and I expected myself, from pictures and emails and descriptions, to be incredibly drawn to her as well.  (If you’re reading this, hi hon!)  But I wasn’t.  I just didn’t feel sexual tension there on first meet.  For awhile, I was thinking, “well, it’s just because  you really don’t feel that pull to women”.  But that’s not true either.

Today, I was thinking that I just feel drawn to some people.  It sounds like that cliche–”Oh, it’s the person, not the gender, that I love.”  But that’s not true either.  I’m not talking love.  I’m talking raw desire.  Most men I meet I have pretty much zero desire to touch, much less fuck.  So when Robbie used to tell me that he could tell that I “loved cock”, I was befuddled.  Mostly when I contemplate a new cock–and the person attached to it–my overriding thought is, “Is it going to be ugly or smell bad?”  Because I hate finding out that someone is mangled and stinky when he’s six inches from my mouth.

But every so often when contemplating that new cock and its owner, my overriding thought is, “I WANT.”  I want to tear the person apart, shove him into the nearest piece of furniture, get my hands up inside his shirt, and feel him pin my arms as payback for my enthusiasm.  This is a relatively rare feeling for me–rare in proportion to the actual numbers of men in the universe, frequent enough that I’ve managed to get laid more than the average number of times for an American woman (last time I checked the stats).  And it’s an even rarer feeling when it comes to women.  But when I find it, it’s magic.

So whatever the label is for people who get electrically turned on by some individuals in ways they can’t always predict but always enjoy–that’s what I am.

Clever photographs by Kevin Van Aelst, via Feature Shoot.

 

Assorted

I am not sure what’s wrong with men.  (I accidentally typed “me” instead of “men”, but I’m 99% sure that I’m okay and they’re not.)  I went to a munch earlier this week and met a friendly, submissive-switch guy.  We hit it off well enough to chat for most of the evening about kinky things and mull over the possibility of playing together.  I have to be honest; as I’ve written about before, my interest often stops at the mulling stage, and I’ve learned not to be distressed that others actually want to act on their impulses.

What distressed me a leeetle was that when the guy went to leave, he asked me for a ride to his car, which was, by his choice, parked nearly a mile away from the bar hosting the munch.  It was bitterly cold, so I did the nice thing and drove him, although I would liked to have lingered longer.  When we got to his car, I figured there might be a peck on the cheek or something.  (I’d told him about Robbie.)  Instead, he turns to me and says, “Well, a kiss seems a little inappropriate, so how about I masturbate and you watch?”

Yeah.  No.  No thanks.

I informed him that the kiss was about 10000000% more appropriate than jizz would be, and so he gave me a very nice, sweet kiss.  Chalk up one for me in the “articulating my wants and desires” column.

* * *

I’ve started a few other writing projects in other places, which is distracting.  Every morning I get up to work on of the 15 short essay-lettes I have planned, and every day I end up staring at the computer screen jumping around from thing to thing to thing.  So, lots to say here, and hopefully I can pick up the pace a bit.

* * *

I had a huge lunch today at a famous restaurant and it really wasn’t that good.  (Don’t go to this famous restaurant whose name you don’t know, if you’re ever near it.)  I’m feeling ginormous post-holiday and I really, really want to get in better shape.  It’s a new year cliche, but I’m really hoping I can make some changes there.  I will never have legs like this woman–although I did once get to fuck a woman who had legs like this–but it’s not really a contest.  Feeling better in my own body is where it’s at.

* * *

Blah blah blah me.  Okay, well, that’s pretty much a post.

Cool pics by Franklin Obregon.  And if you really want to know, I steal most of my stuff from Sex in Art (as in this case), or ponyXpress, or the like.

 

The Impulse for Imprisonment

[I wrote most of this post last year, when I was living in a house with friends who had small children.]

The other day, one of the toddlers asked me to come outside and play.  “I need my batime,” he said to me, pointing to a long, shallow box filled with styrofoam cushions.  His elocution needs work.

“What is this–your Batcar?” I asked, referring to a recent obsession.

“NO!  It’s my BATIME!”

It took him crawling into the box and curling on his side for me to figure out that what he needed was his bedtime.  When I looked, I could see that the box was remarkably like a bed–the styrofoam cushions were topped with a pillow-sized block, and there was a piece of foam wrapping that served as the perfect blanket.  The day was cold, so I covered him up with it well.

And then he wanted me to shut the lid.

I balked.  I really did not want to scare him, and the whole getup looked way too much like a child-sized coffin for me to feel relaxed.  On the other hand, I was right there, the box was cardboard, and he seemed happy.  And very insistent.  So I closed the lid, lightly.

From inside came a high, hysterical sound–the sound of delighted giggles.

I opened up the box to see a smiling boy who wanted me to help fix his blanket and to shut his bed again.  So I did, again and again as giggles gripped him.  I got the idea to pick the box up and pretend I was carrying a package around, which induced more giggles, until the carrying went on a bit longer than he liked, and I heard “Want down!” from my parcel.  That scared us both off from that game for the rest of the afternoon.

Still, my young friend’s interest in enclosed spaces got me wondering, again, what it is in some of us that finds enclosure so comforting, and yet so very thrilling?

Sculpture by the German artist and sculptor Bithja Moor.

 

Carpet Bagger

I recently saw some of Frederic Fontenoy’s work somewhere . . . on another blog I read regularly, I just can’t remember which one.  I’ve known about his work for years.  The photos he takes are basically what I think the inside of Robbie’s fantasies must look like.  Although Robbie has a non-negligible appetite for the haute camp-trash-slut look–the porn queen with class–most of the time he goes for sheer, more traditional elegance: black and white; a crisp white blouse; the perfect waist cincher; stilettos with ankle straps; garters and vintage seamed stockings with cuban heels; masks, crinolines, opera gloves.  We own most of these things, and more.

What I didn’t realize until my last visit to see Robbie was 1) that the thing that Fontenoy is holding in his hand in the picture below is a vintage carpet beater and 2) that Robbie owns one.  He opened his toy closet during the last visit and there it was–something twisty, gorgeous, and unfamiliar.  When I asked, he explained that our friend, Marisa, had given it to him as a Christmas present last year.  He then had me bend over so that he could demonstrate its effects on me.

Wowsers!  The sensation was amazing.  I adore canes, and old carpet beaters are made from rattan, so their impact has a good stingy top-note.  At the same time (I’m speculating), there’s more skin-implement surface area contact when one of these woven beauties hits a bottom than when a cane does.  And that provides a really yummy, diffuse, thuddy feeling.  At least, that’s what it seemed like to me on the basis of receiving a few quick swats.  I would definitely like to get my hands on one of these again for more play time.

I found them for $20-45 at a few places online–including e-bay–though not at most kinky stores.  A few of the shops that carry them seem to hint ever-so-obliquely at their kinky capacity; for instance, Garrett Wade, a company that sells unique hand tools, intones in its product copy that, “This classic household tool has stood the test of time. It is also great fun.”  (For the carpet?)  Other sellers seem to focus mostly on the beauty of the thing; at Remodelista, a writer noted that she “saw this at DWR Tools for Living in New York yesterday and thought it made a great piece of wall art.”  (Hang it on a VERY convenient hook, people.)  The authentically perverted Maui Kink sells their own version, which is sort of a combination cane and paddle, but I’d try to get your hands on a vintage model first–theirs doesn’t have antique cred, and it also looks fierce as hell.  And who in their right mind would be into fierce pain?  I certainly wouldn’t know.

 

Byzantine

I love these eclectic images from the Toronto artist Jon Todd.  This first one in particular reminds me of a print Robbie owns of a beautiful Indian woman, bare-breasted, with her sari framing her face the way the iconic halo is framing this woman’s head.

I’ve always loved art with rich colors, and I especially appreciate the mosaic effect in a lot of Todd’s work.  In his “Snake Handler,” for instance, the woman’s entire eye and eyelid are covered in a grid of color, like her neck and the neck of the woman above.  (I also find the corset more than a little appealing.)  You can clearly see Mexican, Russian, and Japanese accents in the art, as well as the influence of tattoo artists.

Turns out Todd sells geisha t-shirts and other gear, although all but his extra-small geisha hoodies are sold out at the moment.  I hope that means he–and be-geisha’d goth girls–are having good times right now.

Down-low on Todd via Lost at E-Minor.

 

Protected: Bruised

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The Idiot’s Guide

Things here are pretty catastrophic.  We had a wonderful New Year’s, and then we had an appalling fuck-up right after that.  I’m not going to go into details about it without a little password protection; if you’ve been reading for awhile and I know you, feel free to send me an email and you can have access to the dirt.

We did have one moment of humor about it all, a few days after the incident that caused the biggest problems–caused them for me, anyway.  We were lying in bed after sex–the first and, as I recall, only sex we had in the week following the Bad Event.  Robbie had his arm draped cozily around me, and we were at that post-coital stage where you exchange a few words of mutual self-congratulation before drifting off into sleep.

Except, instead of saying, “that was great!”, Robbie said, “We could write a book you know.  Fucking Up Your Sex Life for Dummies.”

I laughed.  I knew exactly what he was talking about.  The bad event that happened was already costing us, and it was clear it was going to keep costing.

He went on.  “The Idiot’s Guide to Screwing Up Your Sex Life.  How to Ruin Your Sex Life in Twelve Easy Steps.  Making It Stop: 200 Tips and Tricks for Killing the Mood.”

Wanting to join the fun, I chimed in, “The Elements of Bad Sex.”

“No,” he said, in a sort of reflective tone.  “I don’t think so.  That sounds too much like first principles.  People want these things broken down.  They need answers here!”

We laughed and laughed, secure in the knowledge that we certainly had the answers, and fell asleep.

Edit: I feel I should add that the actual sex we had was really high quality, as it always is.  It’s just that the fighting and bad stuff that happens in between gets in the way. 

 

Cellar Girl

Robbie lives in an old house, built about 1906.  It has “potential”.  It has peeling paint, no water pressure, and only one bathroom.  It also has marvelous beams in roof and in barns, pressed tin ceilings, gingerbread trim on porches and roofs, a wood stove–and two separate cellars.

These cellars are the real deal.  Carved out of the local limestone, one has a huge cistern inside it, enough for emergency water for months.  Both have dirty, damp floors, and little-to-no light.  I think one might have a one foot square window.  I think the other has no window.

I have long and uncreatively fantasized about being locked in various dungeons, towers, taverns, pens, cells, and dirt shacks.  A favorite fantasy–one I have had since I was a teenager and still cannot get out of my mind–is being forced to serve royalty in a palace.  In the fantasy, a nasty, lecherous duke or ambassador tries to fondle me; I resist and get into trouble.  I get locked in a remote tower as punishment–or a young, not-nasty prince or earl locks me away in order to “protect” me.   The key part of this story is that, in the tower, there’s a bedstead with no mattress or blankets and nothing else in the room, that I’m chained and cuffed to the bedstead.  Cold stone and cold metal, with the occasional dashing visitor who eventually ravishes me–that’s romance to me. 

Like much of the rest of the stuff of my erotic imagination, this little scene seemed for years to be totally unique to me, idiosyncratic and quirky, and impossible to realize without time travel.  I didn’t know anyone who locked anyone up outside of fairy tales and adventure stories, and I didn’t know of anyone dashing who was in position of a stone tower.

Of course, you see where this is going.  As it turns out, lots of people find high towers and dark cellars hot–a glimpse at any of the sets at Kink.com illustrates that.  (Device Bondage is a particular favorite of mine, for its damsel-in-antique-distress aesthetic.)  And that bare mattress?  Positively a cliche! 

That doesn’t mean it’s not still hot to me.  In fact, it’s only gotten hotter since a couple of summers ago, when Robbie was showing me the cellars.  I can’t remember why we were down there.  We might have been trying to figure out which side would be best for a root cellar. We might have been looking for some tools.  It might even have been the time I used the central vacuum and vacuumed up something important, then had to go rooting through the bin full of lint that’s in the back cellar to find it. 

But anyway, we were down there, I was looking around the cellar, and all of a sudden . . . Robbie shut the cellar door on me.  I couldn’t see anything–the back cellar has only a 3×4″ glass panel in its (heavy) metal door.  I couldn’t move, because I couldn’t see a thing.  I was really terrified.  And in that moment of pure terror, I was as turned on as I have ever been in my life.  It wasn’t just the fear–usually fear turns me off rather than on.  It was the idea that Robbie might, really might, keep me down there.  The rational part of my mind knew that that time, he wouldn’t–and in fact, after no more than 3 or 4 seconds, he opened the door with a broad grin on his face.  The irrational part of my mind feared and desired that he’d keep me down there indefinitely, caged or chained, without any indication of when I could leave–increasingly cold, increasingly hungry, increasingly desperate. 

 

Because one of the very best parts of my cellar fantasy is that, as I imagine it, the more desperate I get, the more I’ll do for him for some relief.  I kink on bargains.  You want a blanket?  Blow me.  You need food?  Take it up the ass.  You have to get out of here?  Service enough of my acquaintances and I’ll think about it.  That’s the dark, seamy, dirtiness of what goes on in the cellar, in my mind. 

At one point, I felt some guilt about the cellar fantasy.  Why, I thought, does the scenario have to be so dark, dirty, and even cruel for me to find anal sex hot?  Why couldn’t I be in the Ritz on silk sheets and find the idea just as erotic?  Now, I both understand my desire to be in the basement better–a subject for another time–and don’t feel distressed about the desires.  If this is what turns my crank and Robbie is up for it, what we do is between him, me, and the cellar.

A few weeks ago, Robbie started sending me emails entitled “Cellar Girl”, along with pictures by the photographer who shot these images.  I about died of a combination of arousal and tenderness at a new kinky nickname.  I’m hoping that we finally get to live out some of the cellar girl fantasies, and to produce some pictures on our own.  I’ll keep you posted, of course.

Absolutely riveting pictures, film, stories, and even furniture at icantmove.

 

The Pleasures and Pains of Mocking the Top

Robbie and I did not get to spend Christmas together, which was, all in all, a royal bummer.  I have thought for a long time that it just would not be right to spend Christmas away from my family.  And this year–which was the best family Christmas in a long time–I felt as though there was no need for me to be with them at all.  I probably feel this way because I’ve moved back to my home town, and so get to see my parents far more often than I do Robbie, while for the past three Christmases, I’ve seen much more of him during the year than I have of those genetically closest to me.  In any case, whatever we do in future, we are spending this New Year’s together.  I’m at his place now, and he has been eager to get me up here so he can experiment on me.

Robbie has spent much of the last six months building all sorts of totally perverted devices, and investing in all kinds of contraptions and kits for edge play.  This is almost entirely my fault.  Sometime last summer I pointed out to him that we had gotten into a rut, sexually speaking.  With a flippancy and a tendency toward hyperbole that I think of as part of my sense of humor and Robbie thinks of as fucking annoying, I told him that our pattern had two steps: “You beat me and then I blow you.”

This wounded Robbie, as he actually is a creative and sensitive lover who wants me to enjoy myself while he hurts me–I think.  And as much as he likes the fact that I can, on occasion, orgasm from a beating or from providing oral sex, I think he got the message that those weren’t everyday occurrences, and a little more direct stimulation might be needed.

So, between last summer and now, he has made, acquired, or refitted:

• materials for play piercings
• a cell-popping kit
• sisal rope
• cotton rope that he hand-dyed black (take that, Twisted Monk)
• a fuckzall (made from attaching a saw to this thing and then to a dildo)
• a bouncy-ball that the fuckzall dildo attaches to, so I can bounce-fuck myself
• a five-foot bamboo fuck-pole, to which he can attach (of course) a dildo for Hogtied-style action
• a special punishment stool (part of a longterm fantasy of mine), with dildo attachments
• a French maid outfit that I’m to wear to tonight’s New Year’s Eve pahtee
• a sexy black duvet cover and sheets, just ‘coz; black boots; black leather pants (ohmyhot); tight black t-shirts; hot black boxers; undoubtedly more . . .
• mysterious pumping contraptions (hinted at, but as yet unseen-by-me)
• a CD-player for his bedroom, with scene music, to block out the noise of beating and moaning from the people who share his house
• various clips, clamps, and other pieces of shiny metal he can attach to my pink bits–in one case, a pair of cleverly adapted clip-on earrings
• a Hitachi wand, with Gonzo attachment.  I keep forgetting this on the list, because it both scares the shit out of me and intrigues me.

There are so many things that I’m certain I’ve left some off the list; I’ll have him check this twice before I hit publish.   And there are so many, now, that it’s hard to find time to play with them all.  The beating-and-blowjob pattern–to the extent it was there–was there for a reason; it was fast and didn’t take a lot of time, planning, prep, or cleanup.  We’ve always had the toys–finding the ways and will to use them is harder.  As he said last night, “You pretty much have to have a real relationship with someone just to find time for it all!”  He was only half-joking.

* * *

There’s one more thing on the list, but it’s not anything new, borrowed, or Gonzo-blue.  It’s something very, very old, something we’ve talked about for a long time, one of my very darkest fantasies.  He’s started to mention it in every email to me, and I have hopes it might happen sooner-rather-than later.  And tomorrow, I’ll tell you what it is. 

Photos by Katja Hentschel, via ponyXpress.

 

Merry Christmas

. . . and peace.

Work by Victor Eredel, via Fubiz.

 

Ho Ho Ho

I’ve written before about how much I love games, poker, and every type of wager.  I can’t imagine much that could make the sexy game of poker sexier.  But it’s important never to say never, and now a lovely, kinky friend of mine has designed the back of this deck of fetish-and-Mardi-Gras-themed poker cards.  She and three other artists have all chipped in to create the face cards–masked men and women in bondage or doing lovely, awful, wonderful, nasty things to each other.  Robbie and I have joked for months about how these are the real definition of stocking stuffers, and now the cards are out, just in time for the holidays.  $20 per deck, available through the Deck of Art.  I get nothing in kickbacks, but I do confess that I’m hoping for a little smooch for being such a good girl this year.  *Mwah* to the lovely tartdesweet, whose own paintings can be found on her website.

 

Cheap Shots

I have an urge to post about a million things, but the fastest thing I can slap up on the internet right now is a picture of me in a karada that Robbie whipped up over Thanksgiving. His rope technique is getting much better; he’s been reading and studying for a long time–before he met me, really. He very much wants to learn more, and he has all the ingredients I imagine would make a good rope top: 1) toppiness; 2) the ability to tie things–he has been using knots for practical purposes since he was a kid; 3) an OCD-type focus on learning things–he’s willing to look at a picture of someone in rope until he figures out what’s going on, whereas I look at it until I get distrac–squirrel!

What he doesn’t have is a rope bunny (at least one that’s close to hand) or a mentor. A few weeks ago, he got to go to a rope workshop, and then he got to come see his preferred bunny. The rope workshop was awesome for him–he learned a lot, got a lot of feedback on his ties, and felt, I think, like he was doing it well enough.  Certainly when he got his paws on me at Thanksgiving, I could tell the difference; he was much more confident and much faster.

Lots of our previous attempts at rope ties have been abortive, because I get so turned on by rope that I hyperventilate and get dizzy within seconds and we have to stop.  (I gather, too, that I’m not supposed to lock my knees?)  This time, he sat me down on a stool for the first part of the tie, and had me in this body harness in under 5 minutes; I was comfortable and happy the whole time, and he was talking to me and checking in.  Because I was talking to him, I didn’t spin off into loopy la-la sub-land . . . at least, not until after he got the rope on and got about 500 pictures of me.  He spent an hour or an hour and a half watching me gradually cream myself before he fucked me.  Such is the hard, hard life of a bunny.

 

Locked

Could someone with the merest scrap of WordPress sense take a few moments to explain to me, either in comments or via email, how to password protect a post?  I have some thoughts I really would like to get out, and perhaps publicly publish at some point, but they are refusing to even consider coming out to play without a little more privacy.

Or perhaps they are just pouting, waiting for a pretty lock, like the ones The Curious Nomad collects, at flickr and etsy.

 

Rocky Mountain High

I’m leaving in a few hours for a 46-hour visit with my sister in the Rockies.  My father insists that I’ll be breathless the whole time.  (I think that’d be sort of endearing.)  I can’t wait.

The location of this photo is not exactly where we’ll be.  I can’t give away any more information about our secret bunker than I already have.

Robbie is highly jealous.  Like my sister, he’s fit, outdoorsy, and athletic.  I’m adventuresome-ish, but only if one of them is there to watch out for me.

Not much point to this post, except to gloat, preen, and brag.  I’m walking on air–or soon will be!

 

Stars

When I first started blogging, I had huge crushes on other bloggers out there.  I absolutely adored chelseagirl and wanted to be her; I even emailed her for advice.  I wanted to fuck Jefferson, with Robbie and three or four other guys there.  I eventually got up the nerve to email him, too (though not to fuck him).

After I’d been blogging for awhile, I got more comfortable with bloggers, and started to feel, rightly or wrongly, as though most of them were colleagues and some of them friends.  I think this is pretty common.  We admire what others do, and if we’re lucky or smart or foolhardy, we get up enough nerve to try it ourselves.  Once we try it, it doesn’t seem superhuman or impossible.  It’s just normal.  It’s kind of like the awe you felt for grown-ups until you were one.

About a year or a year and a half ago, though, something distressing began.  Blogs started to disappear.  The blogs I loved the most died off in a giant wave of blog extinction.  The first one to go, as I recall, was spiral submissive’s.  She was a young woman in Virginia, very devoted to a rather strict Sir, and I often worried about her after her web page disappeared and her url sported a title in Arabic.  Puppy Tales, Brooke’s outrageous and filthy fantasies about humiliation, was next, deleted, so the story went, by a moody and (over?)protective Master.  Then came chelseagirl, who gave up blogging in a the wake of a wave of post-breakup mourning.  One Life Take Two went dark when Jefferson’s ex-wife sued him for custody of their children on the basis of information she’d discovered in his blog.  Kitten in Chains petered out because Kitten and her master decided that D/s was not for them anymore.  And various other people, like Marianne at Indiscretion, just decided to stop.

All of this has left my blogroll rather patchy.  And yet, even though dead links have always infuriated me, I’ve intentionally not updated mine.  When spiral submissive disappeared, I wanted to keep her name in my personal lights, because of what her existence had meant to me at a time when I needed very desperately to figure out what kinky sex was.  It was the bad old days—that’s right, before FetLife—and knowing she was out there, and might still be, was comforting to me.  And when each of the bloggers who followed her winked out, I kept that tradition of tribute.

Time has passed, things have changed.  chelseagirl and Jefferson are back, their writing as fine as ever.  Brooke and Kitten have returned, as has a blogger named milla, whom I love.  And I have met or stumbled upon many, many new bloggers who work I want to honor and note.  So I’ll be changing my blog roll soon and gradually.  But before I do, I wanted to pay a small tribute to the people whose names will of necessity be removed from it, as well as to the people, like aag and TBK, who continue to write day in and day out.  I want to say thank you, and to say, along with Confucius, that “Words are the voice of the heart”.  Thank you to everyone who shares their hearts in this ethereal, fragile medium.

 

Lust for Lists

I want to toast Rori over at Between My Sheets for her hard work on her second annual list of Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2009.  I was one of over half-a-dozen people who helped judge the entrants, so I have a glimpse into how much effort must have gone into organizing the whole undertaking.  I also was lucky enough to show up on the list, which I swear has nothing to do with any attempt I may or may not have made at padding my own score in the tallying process.  Ahem.

In any case, the real virtue of Rori’s list–and of blogrolls, contests, e-zines, and so on–lies in introducing curious readers to good writing.  I hope people will find something that entertains, amuses, delights, moves, or touches them among this year’s offerings.

Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2009:

1. Coquitten (website)
2. Alexa (website)
3. AAG (website)
4. Bad, Bad Girl (website)
5. TBK (website)
6. Mistress Matisse (website)
7. Miss Mia (website)
8. Thursday’s Child (website)
9. Roger (website)
10. Sinclair (website)

 

Objects of Desire

From Italian design shop Itunube, little cuffs for your wrist–kind of like wrist collars, but better.  I do seem obsessed with this type of thing.  Robbie says he will get me all of it, and more, when he wins the lottery.  So basically any day now.

(Actually, neither of us is very big on conspicuous consumption–we just like to think we’d do it well if we ever needed to.)

Bracelaces, $25 through my beloved Lost at E Minor; more amazing jewelry and design items at the Itunube site.

 

Vampires

I have so much to say here, and so very little time.  Work has me running crazy, and something is causing me to feel profoundly exhausted.

So this is just a post to say I am still alive, despite whatever demons are feeding on me at night.

Painting by Randis Albion, via Sex in Art.

 

Misperception

I was noodling around Amazon.com tonight, looking for some new books to read, when my eye fell on the “active discussion in related forums” list at the bottom of my page.  (Seriously, I have no idea what this is.  The internet has so many weird features these days that I can’t keep up.  Who is using Amazon as a BBS, and why?)

Anyway, the title of the discussion was “Is spanking a lovable or harmful form of disipline?“, and according to the helpful statistics in the sidebar, during the half hour the discussion had been going on, it had garnered 6,000 replies.  My goodness! I thought.  First Amazon decides to sell sex toys, and the next thing you know, people are discussing Domestic Discipline on its forums.  What next?! I clicked on the discussion to discover as-yet-unimagined pros and cons of spanking.

Um.  More perceptive readers will probably have already guessed that the discussion was about whether or not to spank one’s children.  (I probably didn’t pick up on that debate because I take it for granted that the answer is no–at least, not unless one’s children are on the verge of swallowing a gallon of poison as a practical “joke”.)

I’d be tempted to say that that’s all you can find about kink at what the New York Times has called “the world’s general store” . . . but it wouldn’t be true.  You and I know better, don’t we?

Cartoon by the epically perverse Martin van Maele; work and other scant information here, here, here, and here.