Lucky

I know that Robbie is still reading what I post here, because the other night he brought up tit-fucking. He once told me that it never particularly interested him, but I supposed something I wrote, said, or wore managed to attract his attention.

So when he mentioned it as we were lying in bed a few nights ago, I didn’t waste a lot of time responding. “When you were titty-fucked in the past,” he whispered, heavily, “did you lick up the cum or rub it in?”

“Lick it up,” I promptly answered.

“Good girl,” he purred, and straddled my chest.

I covered his cock and my chest with a liberal coating of saliva; I pushed my breasts up and over his body as he fucked my cleavage. It was interesting (and far more submissive) trying to figure out how to correctly control my boob-pressure to provide a good experience for him, rather than having him moosh my chest himself. And when he came I did, as promised, lick up every available, sweet-tasting drop. (Robbie smells and tastes better than any man I have ever met.)

Today, in a fit of non-submissive pique, I picked a fight with him about how I haven’t felt I’ve been getting the kind of sexual attention I want lately. After he managed to dial my nasty temper back from a flame to a small sizzle, he said, mostly (?) jokingly, “Anyway, I don’t know what you’re so upset about. You got tit-fucked the other night; you should be glad!”

He was right about that. I did indeed get very lucky.

Breasts from Shay’s collection of hentai an’ stuff.

 

Among the Wolves

I have been feeling profoundly dismal lately—partly because of PMS, and also because of things that are happening here. The “new things” I so delicately alluded to a couple of posts ago have, in fact, been further experiments in sex with other people. In my view, our difficulty in reaching a kind of common understanding or agreement about how to handle “the others stuff” is one of our biggest obstacles and among our largest sources of conflict. (His view, I think, is that our D/s dynamic is the “problem”, if there is one, in our sex life, and maybe between us in general.)

Whatever the reality, the last couple of weeks have been alternately wondrous and gloomy, with the gloom increasing steadily increasing, along with the amount of water I seem to be retaining. And still, last night as bedtime approached, my hormone-infused body eyed his opportunistically. Since nothing of note resulted, I am posting something I came across while cleaning out my desk–a fantasy from a few months ago that I apparently wrote down as soon as it occurred to me. (Actually, just after masturbating I wrote down my fantasies, which is why they’re not particularly coherent.)

Coincidentally (or not), persephone just posted about a real-life orgasm-predicament her owner recently placed her in. It seems to have worked on her.

* * *

I imagined, as I had the last time I’d been with Robbie, one of his fantasies just as he described it—I imagined him having me masturbate in front of a group of men. I imagined how I would feel with them staring at me. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to get aroused, certain I wouldn’t be able to turn myself on with a bunch of guys just sitting silently and looking at me.

But if he started talking to me, I thought, that would be a different matter. Ninety percent of the time the things that come out of his mouth inflame me. I thought of being on the long plateau where orgasm seems neither near nor far, and the thought of him turned the heat on under my imagination.

“Come on, cunt,” I imagined him saying, just the way he says it when we’re together. “Come on, come for me.” After working incredibly well for a few weeks, this actually has stopped working altogether; resisting his imagined comment, I actually shook my head, and the imaginary me did the same.

“No?” my fantasy-Robbie said. “I tell you what. You get until the count of ten to get whatever pleasure you can, because after that we’re just going to use you. You understand me?” he said, menacingly, getting up in my face, a fierce, twisted look on his. “And there will be none of this “red light”-“yellow light” crap, no ouch, no tears, or at least, it won’t matter if there are, because it just won’t make a difference.”

At this I got so excited I could feel myself start to gush. “Yeah, that’s right. You come now. And then we’re going to take turns fucking that cunt. Get it over with, get out of the way.” By this time I was plunging my hands through my folds in a way I know brings on violent orgasms, but in my mind he was the one with his fingers up inside me. “You cunt, come for me now!” I did while my mind spun out the rest of the fantasy in the endless freefall of climax: him grabbing me and flipping me over onto a horse and fucking me a bit to open me up while he hauled my head back by my hair so one of his guests could plunge himself all the way down my throat; him stepping aside to watch as the other me fucking me in turn, wherever they wanted to; and finally taking me himself, the last one, the first one, my only one, the one who owns me.

And the best, and worst part, was knowing all along that I’d have to, want to, thrill to tell him how crazily excited I got and how he is, I know he is, right when he says that given time he will get everything he wants from me.

First image by WinterWolf Studios, which I discovered thanks to Sexoteric. Second image by the tremendously imaginative Eugenio Recueno.

 

Hint, Hint

Robbie is not the blogophile I am, probably because he has other things to do with his life. At one point he banned sentences that began “I was reading in this blog that . . . “–it’s hard enough for us to talk briefly and clearly about what we want, never mind including what he calls “the footnotes” about other peoples’ thoughts and desires.

He will patiently read articles I send him from the Times about new methods of rice farming, or a Control Tower column on polyamory, or a Fleshbot piece on how hardcore porn stars are, really. But it’s better if I can digest the stuff and talk about it myself.

Or in this case, post about it. I was reading in this blog that . . .

That at Alison Tyler’s house, there’s an understanding. As she puts it “when my clothes spring leaks—when the fishnets rip, when the t-shirts start to fray—they become fair game. In a word: shredable.” These cords were apparently the latest casualty of The Rule.

Robbie has threatened to rip, cut, or shear my clothes off dozens of times. We’ve even bought a few dirt-cheap tops for the purpose–but then we both end up liking the way the shoddy fabric is pretty much see-through.

So, my dear, if you happen to be reading this blog . . . what do you think? I have a pair of jeans that are just ripe for ripping, and you know those stockings we’ve been hoarding for occasions when you might want me to crawl? Those are definitely shredable, too.

Alison Tyler’s actual cords, and “Portrait of Stoya”, by the incredible Nikola Tamindzic.

 

A Change of Pace

I took a minute to shuffle some of the links under “visual bliss” at the bottom of my blogroll–and I added, among other things, modfetish, which was the source of the Deseo “samurai girl” illustration below.

We’re trying some new things around here too . . . and seeing how they go. A change of pace can be a good thing, I keep repeating to myself.

By the way, Deseo sells cute and curvy tank tops, for those of you looking for new things to add to your summer wardrobes, as well as half-a-dozen prints (including this pouty little samurai).

 

Pop Quiz!

I found this quiz over at Devastating Yet Inconsequential. I actually find the OK Cupid quizzes incredibly fun–and thought provoking, which is slightly unsettling to me. A dating website that makes me think? Harrumph.

TYPE N

You scored 71 imagination, 83 confidence, 46 dominance, and 88 generosity!

You are a KINKY, CONFIDENT, SUBMISSIVE lover who prefers to GIVE. This means that: You like relatively kinky sex, and you have the great imagination that will always keep your partner guessing and excited! There’s no getting bored with you around, you could never settle for dull sex, you want something fun and new all the time. You aren’t afraid to try out anything you hear about. You might just be an intelligent lover who needs to be mentally engaged, or perhaps you have some dirty dark secret kinky desires, but either way, you’re never boring. You are pretty confident in bed. This means that you know you can please your lover. Maybe you’ve read a lot of sex manuals {I’m a frickin’ librarian of sex manuals} or have the experience from previous lovers, or just tend to be skilled at whatever you get your hands on {oh, well, y’know . . . *blush*} , but you’re good and you know it. You can really get results and know that you have pure talent, so you won’t be hiding away shy, pretending to be all innocent. Your partners love your naughty self assurance, you don’t hesitate and this makes you a sensational lover. You tend {tend?} to be submissive in bed, so you prefer to go along with what your lover likes rather than your own plans. You might like being ordered around and acting out a slave/master fantasy {not like; love}, or perhaps you just get turned on by being helpless and unable to move {yes, yes, all of the above}. Or maybe it’s as simple as you lacking courage so prefering firm instructions in bed to make sure you are doing things right. Either way, you won’t be dominating your lover anytime soon, and might prefer the missionary position to any others. You prefer to give than recieve. This makes you a very unselfish lover, devoted to the needs of your partner rather than your own. You get your pleasure from seeing them get theirs, you are a model sex partner. {They haven’t talked to Robbie, clearly.} I’m sure plenty of people would love to have someone like you in bed with them! Remember though that if your partner gets pleasure from returning the favour it’s okay to let them, they might love giving as much as you do!

WE SUGGEST YOU: Get crazy with the kissing. It sounds basic, but perhaps with all your wonderful kinky antics and games, you have forgotten how good it can feel just to kiss someone all over, and have the same done to you! Practise with different kissing styles, kiss your lover in places you’ve never kissed them before. Kiss to tickle, kiss to seduce, kiss for hours, or kiss when you know you can’t go any furthur with it, like when you have to be at work soon. Rediscover kissing. {Unnecessary advice, but thanks!}

 

See No Evil

I am hardly the first person to object to Google’s Blogger: Content Warning messages. But today it occurred to me to wonder who precisely makes it his or her business to spend time objecting to “objectionable” blogs.

Though lots of my favorite blogs have content warning labels, I started thinking about this particular question on this particular day because Shay’s The S Spot just got slapped with that trademark orange-and-blue alert. The S Spot has a ton of patient, down-to-earth advice, easy-to-read reviews, and just general open sexy and fun humor. Shay doesn’t write about torture, breathplay, and blood (not that there’s anything wrong with that)–she really is, as she puts it, Your Friendly Neighborhood Sex Columnist.

Shay understandingly writes that “it is somewhat flattering to be recognised for posting adult material”. I’m certainly quite happy that people have noticed that I have a little adult material here as well; it’s evidence that people who surf the internet are still literate. But I still don’t really understand people who feel it is their job to report adult bloggers to the principal.

So who are these folks? I had no idea the answer was either “the blog author” or “who the fuck knows“. Am I the last person on the planet to learn this? (Viviane or violet, surely, would have been among the first.)

Image from Strange Eros . . . still at large.

 

Stumbled Upon

Lately I’ve been thinking about stealth kinks: those things you didn’t even know you liked, and thought you probably hated, until you tried them. After which they entered your Pantheon of Favorite Fetishes.

sub lyn recently posted about how she started to enjoy one of my preferred predilections, the euphemistically-named “watersports“. (I hate most names for it. When I was 13 I first heard the phrase “golden shower” on a playground from some 14-year-old boys. I asked the most debauched peers I knew for a definition, which was not forthcoming. Finally a couple of liberated parents among our set disclosed the answer to a sleepover party full of curious girls, but added that in future, we should ask our own parents. Phwa–as if! Part of the fun was in figuring out what a naughty word meant via unsanctioned means.

“Watersports” also confused me when I first heard the term, years ago–I thought it meant waterpolo and synchronized swimming.)

* * *

Piss-play would not have been high on my list of desires when I met Robbie. Neither would spanking, nipple clamps, flogging, face-fucking, knife-play, or a variety of other things we do and love. Basically, the two of us knew we were into bondage from the get-go, and we got more gritty from there.

But I have had the benefit of other lovers in the past with some of their own kinks, and these I remember with fondness, knowing that although the same lures are not likely to crop up tomorrow with Robbie, they could be a part of future play. Tit-fucking, for instance–a favorite. Hand-jobs–not a favorite, but something I did adequately and now have, I fear, lost the knack for. And then a category of more unusual, one-off kinds of fetishry.

Packing my underwear last week to get ready to head to Robbie’s for the summer, I found a beautiful navy blue silk bra, unfortunately (or fortunately?) now much too small for me.

I didn’t know I still had it. The panties to that bra, long lost, were the sole item of clothing ever to have had a role in my enjoyment of sexualized, fetishized transvestism. (And if that phrasing isn’t more uptight than “watersports”, I don’t know what is.)

One evening, after an old boyfriend and I had gotten naked, if I recall correctly, but before I started blowing him in front of his bedroom mirror, he surprised me by picking up the silk panties in question and donning them. Then he posed, swinging his hips first one way, then the other; flexing in front of the mirror; making faces that looked as if he were waiting in line at the bank (innocent and bored expressions were ones he found particularly amusing). I laughed–and more, I was turned on. Part of it, I think, was that he was wearing my panties. Part of it was undoubtedly that he was wearing panties. But part of it was that he was uninhibited enough to think of such a thing, and then try it, and laugh, and fuck me silly afterwards.

Discovering these little pockets of guiltless pleasures, these areas where my Puritanical limits aren’t on patrol, is joyous. I know some submissives love discovering these areas because their Doms are pleased at having pushed their limits, but as far as I’m concerned, to me it’s a victory no matter which of us stubles upon a new, mutually delectable perversion.

But enough about me. Tell me, please–tell me about your stealth kinks. What has, to your surprise, turned you on and on?

Water woman from RopeRookie, thanks to fluffy Lychees. Blue woman by the haunting Carla van de Puttelaar.

 

A Season in Purgatory

So there I was, trying to get myself installed for the summer with Robbie in as sinful a manner as possible, when some kind of Karmic moral force decided to slap me on the wrist for it.

A very large and unpleasant burp occurred in my plans; the result was that I spent three days and nights in steaming hot weather alone in a hotel in the middle of nowhere, with no internet access.

And no sex.

On the fourth night, Robbie came to rescue me from hell’s waiting room. Being with him is always exciting, but compared to the last few days, being here now is most definitely paradise.

From the creepily sexy work of Michael Hutter, pervert extraordinaire.

 

Summer Lovin’

So we’re shacking up for the summer. As in, immediately. This is moving weekend. I doubt I will have much opportunity to wax lyrical (or less so) while my computer is in the back of a pickup truck.

More after I’m there, if I get a break from my duties. Until then, happy sexy happenings to everyone.

Drew Jarret, via Dadanoias.

 

Where’s the Smut??

I still feel like I owe everyone (that is, Robbie) smut. Especially a graphic account of the first three or four days of the last visit, which were absolutely amazing in smut terms (and in general).

I’ve written hunks of smut, but I find it much easier to write the emo soul-searching stuff than to describe how he can control me with just a look, just two fingers on my shoulder.

There was one moment the first night I got there, after some preliminary beating, sucking, wax play, and other casual foolin’ around, when I ended up with my head on the pile of pillows at the foot of his bed.

He was lying on the bed, face next to mine, stroking my cheek. “Cunt,” he said softly, his thumb gentle against my skin. “Dirty little girl.” I stared up at him, my eyes glowing, waiting for what he would say next.

“Slut.”

“Co-conspirator.”

“Friend.”

“Lover.”

“Fucktoy.”

Is that the smut then?

By Kirill Zaitsev, found through Sexoteric.

 

Fancy Dress

We are going to parties this weekend. Not play parties–cocktail and formal parties. This is exciting. We have never done this. We rarely go out when we are together, and when we do, it’s with a small group of (often kinky) friends. So it’s exciting to venture out into Society (*snorfle snarfle*) with Robbie.

We both like social niceties, especially when we can fuck with them. Robbie in particular likes the idea of mixing elegant manners and perversion–very Story of O, him. For my part, I am an inveterate exhibitionist and can say or do some rather irreverent things, especially when I am mixed with alcohol. I expect it will be some weekend.

One of the best things about the weekend from my point of view is that we will have to dress up. Robbie lives in the country and spends most of his time in (sexy) jeans–and although he likes me in skirts, I persist while down on the farm in wearing really unattractive knit cotton pajama-like things from the Gap, which I can work in.

But today I bought the most gorgeous skirt ever. It’s so long I look 20 feet tall, and it’s so stunning I barely need to wear anything with it.

As it happens, I will be wearing some things with it: heels, underthings, a white t-shirt, and either a necklace or my collar, which I left at Robbie’s house when I left there, the last time, after the fight-to-end-all-fights, which was followed by reconciliation. We are nothing if not predictable.

And he will be wearing a suit. I have never seen him in a suit. When he walked into the place we were staying for our dirty weekend wearing a dress shirt (kind of), I almost fell over, I was so amazed at how he looked. So I am very much looking forward to seeing him in a suit.

And to seeing him again.

Images by Rebecca Beard and erocrush, via a flower a day.

 

Card Catalogue: A Polyamory Pamphlet

I wouldn’t presume to collect all the resources on polyamory out there. Other people have put together websites that have tons of information, and in this case, as in most, google is your friend.

However, I did run across something the other day that I wish I had read about 18 months ago, before Robbie and I started to get involved in what we persist in calling “the others stuff”. We (meaning I) couldn’t decide if we (I) wanted to have relationships or flings, to be with men, women, couples, or moresomes, to play separately or together . . . and every step of the way was an opportunity for confusion, miscommunication, and hurt feelings.

I feel much better about this issue now, in part because things are going well between us and I don’t feel insecure; in part because, looking back on what we’ve done, he’s actually played things safe and that gives me confidence in him; and in part because I now have read this: a list of practical monogamy tips from the folks over at freaksexual. This couldn’t be a better list of things to discuss–it’s a list of things you should think about, but might not.

If you are just dipping your toes into the topic, I’d suggest you start here, here, here, here, and all the places those places link to, in addition to buying your very own copy of the Ethical Slut. Happy reading!

Above: party people are part of a panoramic pic by Will Pearson

Edit: Robbie reminded me about Tristan Taormino’s Opening Up–the book and the website.  One of the very best places to start.

 

Brief Interviews With Curious Men

The other day, doing some errands, I ran into men. This happens with some regularity to me, given that I don’t live in a convent. Since I started dating Robbie, though, my casual male encounters have begun to feel different than before.

The first man I met was a boy, really—twenty if that. He had this color skin and dark black hair and eyes, and he was working in the Mexican restaurant where I stopped to get lunch. While he was fixing me a couple of chicken soft tacos, he explained that it was his first day–actually, it was painfully obvious. The neat thing was he wasn’t nervous. He just kept smiling a ten thousand gigawatt smile, and slowly preparing the food, and apologizing profusely but not grovelingly, and continuing to look stunning.

Five years ago I would have felt obligated to feign indifference to his beauty; after all, he might have noticed me staring at him and then . . . what? Might have thought I found him attractive? Yep, I did—big deal. He brightened my day and I didn’t do any damage to his, I don’t think—just soaked up the sunshine.

The second guy was selling magazines for a homeless charity. “Hi lady, pretty lady, oh lady, nice lady, oh I like that smile, I like that smile.” I have seen this guy in my town for going on ten years now, and his patter is always the same, so I didn’t take it to heart—but it was true that I had a big grin on my face and was slightly high on life, having just left the restaurant with the smiling server. So I told the guy he was a sweet talker and pulled a dollar out of my wallet for the paper. “Your smile is so pretty,” he said, “Where you from?”

He was from North Carolina, originally. I flashed my weak Southern credentials—I grew up near that city of Southern efficiency and Northern charm, Washington, DC-–and we got to chatting about life up North versus life down South. He asked whether I felt lonely in this big unfriendly city . . . did I have a family? Did I live alone? As his questions multiplied, I started to feel the slight frantic fuzz I generally feel when a man is making anything resembling a pass at me.

I knew I could mention Robbie; I also knew that doing so wouldn’t work as the deterrent I imagined it would when I was younger, less sexually experience, and unaware of the word “poly”. Besides, mentioning Robbie usually invited questions about why we don’t live together, how Robbie could let a woman like me (I’m not that great—I’m quoting, I swear!) live on my own, and so on and so forth.

But suddenly, I was calm. It occurred to me that I didn’t have to perceive myself as the victim of this guy’s attentions. I could consider them a compliment–and still not let him control the direction of the conversation. (It’s nice to spend time with a dominant; it teaches you how to assert yourself.) I thought, “Right, well, the thing is, if you don’t want to flirt with the guy anymore, don’t flirt. Problem solved.” So I mentioned Robbie, but mostly I steered the conversation back to the guy’s family, and whether he missed North Carolina, and when he was going back home, and what the food was like down there. Pretty soon we were swapping stories about summer heat and lemonade, which was fine by me.

I’ve tried to talk about men and attention with Robbie, to figure out what’s different since I met him, with mixed success. Robbie certainly understands it when I tell him that men have been hitting on me with increased frequency since we started dating, and he’s mostly quite cool with that. “I could be having the worst dry spell of my life,” he says, “and then I start getting it regular and boom! Women are jumping into my shopping cart at the grocery store.”

What he didn’t quite get, at first, was that the attention made me uncomfortable. One evening I was indignantly ranting about the way some men at a play party he and I had gone to together were ogling me, and he said, puzzled, “But you must have gotten that all your life.” Well, yes and no. I have gotten some attention—but I usually go out of my way to avoid the kind of attention you get when you’re dressed at your slutty best.

I don’t expect Robbie to get the Madonna-whore-complex in its full neurotic glory (yet). I do expect myself to find a way to balance the two. Being with a man who makes me feel like a sex goddess in most ways absolutely helps. I feel sexy/ier. I act sexy/ier. But most vitally, I’ve acquired a little more comfort with the idea of men’s sexual attraction to me. It doesn’t seem unreasonable that they would approach me as a sexual being any more. It doesn’t seem like some sign that they are rabid, insane, serial killers, or ill-mannered. It seems like a plausible thing for them to do.

And so there is no reason for me to be coy about things with them, to do my I’m-ignoring-your-innuendo act (which only encouraged them to be more overt). I am, I hope, starting to behave like what I want to be–a woman who gets fucked with satisfying regularity, who is not necessarily looking for more sex but doesn’t mind recognizing the sexuality we swim in, who doesn’t have to close her eyes to the pleasure of a smile or a compliment in order to feel good, or faithful, or safe. I’m not done yet, but I’m getting closer, one lemonade at a time.

Yet more work by Yuko Shimizu, whose stuff is scrumptious.

 

Three Thousand Years

“When we’re in bed,” I say, “I feel like I’ve know you for three thousand years.”

“I know,” he says. His voice is rich, loving. Then it turns flip. “But what are you gonna do with that?”

“What do you mean?” I say. (I think: Base my life plans on it.)

“Oh, you know, clearly, we’ve been through all kinds of incarnations together and we have the fucking thing down. It’s the rest of it we need to work on.”

He has an excellent point.

“There are supposed to be 1600 iterations of the spirit,” he says. “Next time I figure I’ll come back as a cricket or a duck, something kind of easy, low-key.”

I’m thinking, next time I’ll come back as whatever he is and try this again, until we get the rest of it right, too.

“Naayika, the Heroine” by Jamini Roy.

 

Blowjob Lessons: Part 2

“Okay okay okay,” my best friend said, tossing her head and flashing her eyes at us. “Listen up. There are four steps to giving a good blowjob.” The rest of us sat rapt in the sunlight filtering down from the street. It was that nameless hour between afternoon and evening, the one before sunset, where all the light turns golden and time stands still. My favorite time of day.

“Number one: Kiss and tease. You start kissing his chest, licking his nipples, kissing down his belly, touching his thighs—everything but his dick. Do not touch his dick. Do this for as long as you can. It will drive him crazy. Lick his inner thighs, lick right up next to his cock—but don’t lick his cock.”

Three heads nodded at what she said. We sat in a tight circle around a pitcher of cheap beer and four plastic cups, gigglingly nervous and predator-serious. Everyone in the circle had applied tongue to cock before, but our friend was the acknowledged expert.

“When he can’t stand it anymore, grip his penis at the base, like this.” She demonstrated a solid thumb-and-forefingers cock ring. “Do whatever you want, whatever feels good. Kisskisskiss it up and down, swirl your tongue around the head like it’s an ice cream cone, dart all along the length . . . “

“There’s that vein . . . “ the blonde interjected.

“Yep, you can run your tongue along that vein. Just, you know, whatever feels good.” She spread her hands wide—she talked with her hands as much as with her words.

“Okay, now you’re gonna start going down on him for real. You want to make sure that you have your teeth covered up.”

“How do you . . . ?” I started.

Two or three of my friends started talking at once. “You cover them with your lips.” “Put your lips over your teeth.”

The speaker took over again. “Look, Sera, like this.” And she showed me, her perfectly lipsticked mouth curving into an “o”, then an oval. “You can do it a couple of ways. You guys—everyone do it.” We all practiced blowjob embouchure. We all drank.

“Alright, step three. Put your mouth on him and move up and down the shaft, slowly. DO NOT SUCK! You’re gonna tire yourself out waaay before he comes if you start sucking right off the bat. You don’t want to start sucking until he’s almost there.”

The other two nodded sagely. They had clearly been there, been tired.

“So you’re moving up and down. You want to try to feel his rhythm—but do not. let. any guy. put his hand on your head.”

We nodded, a little less confidently this time. She was so in control as she told us how to keep things in control. Her level of cool and confidence set a high standard, even as it reassured.

“So, step four. You’re probably going to start going faster and he’s going to get harder, and when you feel that happen, THEN you suck. Still no teeth, just make a vacuum in your mouth like you do when you’re sucking a straw. Suck HARD. And then he’ll come. And that’s it.” She sat back in her chair, smiled a cat-like smile, stopped short of licking her lips, and drank again.

The blonde and the raven-haired girl started peppering her with questions about cum—how to swallow it, how to avoid swallowing it, the swallowing debate of centuries. I didn’t, not that I remember. I was busy memorizing the steps. One. Two. Three. Four. And when next opportunity came, a mere seven months later, I remembered them to perfection, which is, possibly, a story for another time.

* * *

I have had trouble finishing this post, and have been sitting on it for days now. I want to say something about my friend—but I don’t know what I want to say yet. That’s okay. Often we write to find out what we think.

There is something I want to say about my friend, something to do with who we were then and who we are now. It is hard to say it without explaining everything that happened in time that has passed, in hectic changes and slow growth.

She has done more life adventuring than many people, so when I first began exploring kinkiness with Robbie, I called her often–to ask for advice, to brag, to compare notes, to get consolation when things felt odd or strange. Almost two decades after we first met, more than fifteen years since that introduction to blowjobs in a tacky bar that doesn’t exist anymore, my friend is still my guide on matters sexual. The authority, experience, and candor she showed then have mellowed, become graciousness, self-knowledge, and a compassionate openness. My own woeful insecurity and inexperience have softened—especially since knowing Robbie—into the beginnings of comfort and, I gather from talking to Robbie, a lingering wholesomeness, despite his unceasing efforts to corrupt me.

For the past year, aside from my immediate family, these two people have been unstintingly generous with me. I keep learning from both of them that lessons about sex are often lessons in love, too. And that is not a bad thing to have learned.

Photograph of couple by Samantha Wolov, whose work is also here. Illustration of girls with headphones by Yuko Shimizu, recolored and otherwise photoshopped on seraglioletters premises.

 

Two-whit, Two-who

The birds are back and I just can’t keep from feeling happy these days. I don’t know what it is.

And this is a piece of fluff post with pretty pictures that doesn’t say anything insightful about me or sex. It’s just a little non-Twitter tweet. I like this graphic and website designer, Kamil Katarba, who seems to be one of several Polish artists I am obsessing over lately. I might have to learn the language.

It’s the end of May and things feel bright. Robbie and I had a couple of good conversations over the weekend. I’ve been writing and reading. I’m sleepy, but in a good way. That’s my news.

 

Brown-Haired Girl

Advice, please?

I want to dye my hair. I’m not old enough to be going as gray as I am going. Robbie wants me to dye my hair as per his instructions, which I find hawt. (Actually, he says he wants control over the “cut, color, and style of your hair”. When I told him he already had control over the cut and style, he said, “I do?!” like an eight-year-old who’d just been given permission to shop for a new bicycle.)

The problem is, neither one of us knows anything about dying hair. I realize I may be making this overly complex, but the whole thing seems challenging, especially after midnight and a bottle of beer. Can I do it myself? Do I need to get highlights or lowlights if I don’t want it to look like shoe-polish? Meep.

mia, I’m talkin’ to you here . . .

My own hair is ash-brown with lots of blonde highlights in the summer and increasing strands of gray. You can, if desired, click here for a peek at my mane, in all its grayness. (These are my not-naked-non-Thursday pictures.)

Here is the hair (and face?) I would like to have. A “chestnut brown” is what Robbie (and I) settled on.

Oh, and just for comparison purposes–this is the picture of the chestnut color that Robbie has in mind. He sent it to me when I asked. Remeber, boys and girls: this is why it’s important not to bother Master or Mistress with silly questions. (*Snort*)

 

Dating Myself

I love Robbie enormously. But everyone, Robbie especially, agrees that I ought to spend time with myself right now.

This means cleaning house, organizing things, earning money, rediscovering real life friends, and all the other things people with full existences do. It also means “cultivating laziness”, as I persist in believing that the writer Robert Penn Warren once said despite a total lack of evidence that he did. It means silliness and time with my cats and grandiose projects and free rein to my curiosity. It absolutely means downloading Madonna’s Hard Candy.

And it means something deeper. For the last two years I have devoted at least half of every conversation to talk of Robbie. (This might be why I am short on friends, by the way.) He takes up a tremendous amount of my mental space. He is my best friend. But for quite a while it has felt like there’s no one in here, inside me.

Buried in work and frittering away my spare time, I infrequently noticed my increasing sense of emptiness; when I did, I expressed it as feeling either tired or busy. All the things I might have done for myself when I was down got pushed to the side—not because of D/s or because of distance or because of anything else between us, but because I was letting my relationship with him take up the place where my relationship with myself used to be. I haven’t had true leisure in my life apart from the time we spent together. I was counting on him, funny, exuberant, and adventurous as he can be, to provide relaxation and sunshine as well as many of the other kinds of support we expect partners will cough up for each other.

I suppose this is common enough; I certainly don’t want to make it sound tragic. The tragedy for me will be if my failure to balance my needs and our needs has torpedoed us (though believe me, there were plenty of other missiles in the water).

The point is that for the moment, instead of focusing on Robbie, I’m mostly trying to date myself.

* * *

Myself and I have only been dating for a week, so any predictions I might make about myself would be totally out of line and probably disrespectful to me, as well. On the other hand, I’ve dated me before—we are one of those on-again, off-again couples that end up together in the end, no matter how rough the ride may be. I mean, I went for years in college and after graduation not really being very close to me. I’m sure the fact that I didn’t treat me right didn’t help, but the larger problem was that I wasn’t sure how much I cared for me. Looking back I see I loved me all along, though neither I nor myself saw that at the time.

Of course, many relationships later, I realize it takes more than caring and closeness to make a good couple. It takes commitment, for one thing. I haven’t really been there for myself lately, and vice versa. And then there’s compatibility. There are lots of times where I honestly can’t stand what myself is doing. Myself can be a real bitch, and me says I can be uptight.

But this week, I’m diggin’ me. Mind you, I haven’t had sex with myself yet. Oh, yeah, I’ve done it with me—tons of times. I’ve had a rocking, rolicking sex life with myself. And I could get busy with me–sure I could. But I just don’t have the urge, and me hasn’t been sending out any feelers either. I’m guessing its awkwardness, nerves, shyness– plus the fact that myself and I haven’t been back together long. Maybe this weekend we’ll feel like getting it on. I bought some stuff for cocktails just in case, and I think I’m going to give me a nice, long, steamy shower tomorrow night—that should spice things up for me, I think.

Until then, I and me have just been hanging out. I’ve made myself lots of meals, which me really appreciates—I can neglect feeding myself well, and me understandably resents that I’m not willing to put in that effort for myself. I’ve taken myself on walks, made efforts to dress up for me—those little things that really count. I even bought a few books for myself today; me seemed pretty touched by it, although me thinks me might return them because me knows I can get them cheaper on Amazon.

The one thing I stress about is how Robbie will deal with things between me and I. Like I said, I want me in my life and I want him, but me doesn’t feel that way. Myself is kinda possessive, I have to say. Sometimes, listening to me, I think that I could happily spend the rest of my life just with myself. Most of the time, though, I see clearly that I need all kinds of relationships besides my relationship with myself to feel fulfilled. Me gets pissed off then and says I’ve been reading the Ethical Slut too much—me really doesn’t have a lot of time for poly. The important thing for myself and I though is that we’re talking. Communication, communication, communication. I feel good about where I and me are going these days.

Irresistible portraits by June Miller, via fluffy Lychees. More irresistibility at her blog.

 

Blowjob Lessons: Part 1

The first time I gave head was with my first college boyfriend. His roommate was out of town, and we had made plans for me to stay over. I remember how tentative we had both been when he asked whether, I, y’know, wanted to, well, stay if I liked, y’know–

I felt like sleeping together meant, y’know, sleeping together . . . or at least something close to it. So as I lay astride him, we comfortably made out and dry humped and went through all the other moves we’d rehearsed together before, effortlessly and easily. But my mind was turned in on itself, focused on fretful questions: “When? When do we get naked? Do I? Does he? How does this happen?” The boyfriend gave no hint of what should come next, so I decided that I should take control. After all, I was the older woman, by eleven months.

I managed to unbutton his jeans while maintaining eye contact and what I hoped was an alluring smile. I managed to get the zipper down without too much furrowing of my brow. And then I was stuck. An expanse of white fruit-of-the-loom packed tightly inside his jeans gave no hint of how to continue.

I looked at him and put on my game face again. “Here, let’s get you out of those,” I purred—or tried to. I eased the jeans over his hips with a reasonable amount of participation from him—enough to encourage me—and pulled with what I thought was a smooth motion. The jeans stuck at his upper-calf. I decided to plough ahead; his briefs ended up there too. I fought back a sinking feeling as I bent my head to his penis.

From where I lay, at his hip, it seemed huge: engorged, purple, stiff. I had no idea what to do with it, there and then. If I’d had my druthers, I’d have looked at it–privately, in my own time, playing with it and seeing how it worked without his presence to distract me or make me self-conscious. (Come to think of it, I still want that. I never seem to have enough time and freedom to simply experiment with cock. I wish I could treat a man’s body as Robbie does mine, at times—as though I am entirely absent from it.)

But I didn’t gaze, rapt, at my college boyfriend’s penis. I wanted to please him, and fast, so I began to lick it, in long licks, and to swallow it whole, sucking up and down the shaft. It fell out of my mouth. Fuck. How the hell did this work?

“I’m afraid I’m not very experienced,” I murmured to his crotch. “Can you tell me what you want?” I felt my face flush almost as deeply as his sex; felt something suspiciously lump-like start to form in my throat–the harbinger of tears. Being the Last American Virgin was getting less and less bearable with each passing month.

“I think . . .” he said. “It’s . . . “ he tried again. Finally he finished a sentence. “I think this would be going a little better if I had had less to drink.”

What did the . . . oh. That. I thought back to the party we’d just attended. He’d had two, maybe three drinks as I recalled it–not enough, I would have thought, to seriously affect performance. But I had to admit–something wasn’t working here, and it was probably time to stop pushing the issue.

I lay my head on his chest and he kissed me. I felt ignorant and thoughtless, for manhandling him, jeans, briefs, and all; for not knowing how to touch him; for pushing us both past our comfort levels when there was no need, no rush. At the same time, some part of me knew even then—and knows far more strongly now—that he must have been as puzzled and embarrassed, as eager and as nervous as I was. The eternity of awkwardness that I felt lasted less than five minutes, my baptism in the vulnerability that is the heart of physical intimacy.

“Come here,” he whispered to me, hugging me close. I felt safe in his embrace, knew that whatever mistake I had just made, it was okay now, smoothed out for both of us—we were back in synch. I slept there that night, as we’d planned, curled back-to-back with him, dozing fitfully, awed at the reality of being that close to another human.

He was a nice, thoughtful boy. We broke up when school ended a month later, and I didn’t try to date someone that kind for another two years. By then, although I had learned almost nothing more about the meaning of sex, I knew a great deal more about its mechanics, thanks to my best friend.

* * *

Thinking about my beginner blowjob bumbles reminds me of something I love about submission, something I rarely see discussed. When I submit, I don’t have to get things “right”. I am relieved of the burden of figuring out “When?” and “How does this work?” If I’m doing something badly or inadequately, I hear about it–usually gently, directly, and with an eye towards improving my technique.

All that falls under the general label of “control”, but it also relates to responsibilty. It’s less about me being unwilling to take responsbility for my sexual choices–at this point, I can (mostly) admit that I like pain, anal sex, and a half-dozen other things that I would never have imagined embracing two years ago. But I don’t feel responsible for ensuring that either of us has a good time. I know that the more I follow Robbie’s lead, the more pliable and “biddable” (his word) I am, the more we enjoy each other.

I consider myself a switch, but I will only top when I feel confident in what I am doing: when I know that I can make sure that my partner at least will have fun and that I might have a chance at getting some of the things I need. Submission lets me please in so many more ways. And since Robbie says domination gives him the freedom to please, things work out very well between us when we can let go of everything else and play our parts.

Photos by Katie West, via unscathedcorpse.

 

Cleaning House

Whenever I get back from time away I need time to catch up.  Whenever busy times wind down, I have a feeling of starting my life from scratch.  Combine the two and I feel like a newborn plopped into the middle of a thirty-something’s life.   I feel glued to my computer screen, scared to do grown-up things.

So for now I’m cleaning house–online and in real life.

Thanks to kinkerbelle for getting Vargas’ name to scroll to the top of my mental Rolodex.