December 2007


Jungle gym . . .I so love bondage. I have loved bondage since I was a kid swinging on jungle gyms that had those plastic loops you could put your hands into. I’d loop my third-grade-wrists into them, and hang, and feel a profound warmth and rightness come over me. My lover says I go wild when he binds me . . . I go crazy but I also relax, deeply, contentedly. I can feel that.

I wasn’t thinking about bondage at all walking down the street tonight, in the mid-winter dark, laden down by bags of groceries as my city prepares for a snowstorm. I was, in fact, thinking about hats. I didn’t have one. That was fine with me; I hate hats. I especially hate when people tell me I should wear a hat because “You lose most of your heat through your head.” (To me, it don’t make any sense, and that’s why I think it’s not true.)

Er, anyway. So yeah, I was feeling bitter about people (that would be: my lover–this seems to be turning into a bitchfest about my lover, although he is my favorite person in the world) telling me to wear a hat. As a matter of fact, I HATE things on my head. The one thing I can’t stand having restricted is my head. I hate having it confined.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.

Head bondage, anyone? Hoods? Hoods with gags, blindfolds, earplugs? These feature in his fantasies.

I suppose I will adapt . . . eventually.


violin.jpgStop the violins now . . .

Inserting images was hardly the drama it seemed. You’d think I didn’t know how to follow directions . . . hehe.

Merry Sex Toy Christmas!

The Sexmas sex toy gift lists are out now. Reading them, you’d think the sexy people of the world have nothing more pressing than the need for a $130 vibrator.

This year, I’m (mostly) being restrained, and buying him things besides the handcuffs and njoy wand we invested in last year. For one thing, we’re pacing ourselves. For another, there are plenty of vanilla things we want and need.

Most of all, though, I’m realizing that when it comes right down to it, we get the most enjoyment out of our bodies and our minds. Aside from our amazing collar and cuffs, a few sets of clips, and his gorgeous riding crop, most of the things we enjoy are either cheap pervertibles (clothespins, leashes, things-what-he-uses to whack my ass) or are attached to us 24-7.

Exhibit A: we own four “real” vibrators between the two of us, and none of them does a darn thing for me. (Okay, one of them does. But only when he takes the time to really work at it, and me.) Leaving out the rabbit vibe that he can make sing when he wants to . . . that’s $110 vibrating dollars, so far next-to-useless on me, and not for want of giving it a good college try.

I’m not sure why none of it appeals. It’s partly, I think, that we’re too lazy to get the toys out (because we’re both so compulsive about storing and cleaning them.) And partly because, with toys, they really have to work, and you never know what will do the job.

Take those four vibes. Not a one of them is a patch on the $20 Brookstone “face massager” I got almost ten years ago as a birthday present. I’d love to “upgrade” it to something that looks a little less industrial. But the wondrous thing about this little massager (besides the fat, satisfying curve of the version I have) is the pitch of the vibrations . . . they are slow, low, deep frequency, a seductive hum. Virtually every other vibrator I’ve known shocks my clit into total sensory overload, an upleasant numbing-out, within seconds.

Why is it so hard to find something similar, except cute? I don’t get it. They’ve started to advertise sex toys so much more clearly. They’ll tell me all about the materials, the color, the size, the specs, the designer . . . why can’t they just tell me what the damn thing feels like?! Is that really so hard?

And while I’m on my rant here (I mean, ’tis the season to rant–I hate the holidays), no one talks about this in reviews, either. I know. I’ve been reading reviews for months, searching for something that says “really low thrum vibe.” Can’t find it. So if anyone knows anything out there with about the vibratory intensity of a washing machine–except a little bit smaller–let me know. I’ll tell Santa.

Edit: I see that the ever-innovative Babeland gives vibes “intensity ratings.” Ohhhhhhhhh-kay. I’d use their rating if I hadn’t read what they had to say about how to get the most out of your power-vibe: “If you have a strong vibe, like the Hitachi Magic Wand, you can put a cloth, blanket or hand in between your clit and the vibe to diffuse the stimulation.”

I did know that–I’ve wanked through panties before. But come on. A blanket? Ooh, sexy. “Hey babe, want to watch me rub a giant white-and-blue wand all over my blanketed lower torso? Yeah, you know you do! Oh yeah baby, I’m hot, you know it.”

Edit 2: Okay, I think I can tell Santa myself. I just hope he has more money than I do . . . $37.99 for a pocket rocket?

Then again, it is pink . . .

I get off on pictures.  I don’t mean just sexually, although the right image can set off all kinds of sparks in my mind.  Porn, erotica, vintage nudes, fine art with nekkid people in it . . . even silly cartoons make up the way I perceive the world.  My life has its own little slide show the way others have their personal soundtracks.

So I really want to be able to post pictures here.  Like, yesterday.  I just need to figure out how.  And you know, something in my spider sense tells me I need to use that little “Insert/edit image” icon . . . somehow, some way.

There are many times in my life when I’ve thought, “I really should have read Nietzsche.” But none so often as lately, when every time I read even I few of his words, I see perversion laced through them.

The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, the most dangerous plaything.
~Friedrich Nietzsche

Thanks to Kinkerbelle . . .

Oh. oh. oh.  Oh yes. 

 I think I just had a braingasm.  Here’s a way-too-smart girllll posting about submission . . . Secret Confessions of a Smart Girl.

Damn internet crushes . . .

We’ve been talking about that–or I have–since we began playing with Domination and submission.  I haven’t been sure about the “s-word” (Sub, slave, slut–take your pick, I objected to all of them.)

He wasn’t sure about the s-word either: Switch.  That’s what I called myself, when I could get away with it, and that’s how I thought of myself for some time. (Although in practice–“unh, not so much,” as a friend says.)

 I finally found someone who explained how I feel better than I could.  So I’m a sub with attitude–I want to be me.  That sounds about right. 

 A friend of mine once said that BDSM is what everyone does . . . formalized.  In the end, if it doesn’t fit how you are,  how you really are . . . it won’t work.  It takes awhile though to see what works and what feels . . . “unh, not so much.”

A loooong talk last weekend.  We’ll try the switching thing–we just won’t trumpet it.  And meanwhile . . . I’m still figuring out what kind of submissive I am, really.  I don’t like the idea that I do or will obey just because.  I HATE it when he predicts what I will do.  And I hate it when he tells me what I’m like, or should be like.  My appetites have grown and shifted as we’ve explored our little golden, perverted cage . . . but it seems we’re both happier when we push the boundaries at the right pace.  So he doesn’t know what pace that is?  Neither do I.  But . . . we are learning.

Next Page »