September 2008

I have only really ever wanted two things from the person I’m with.

I want him to tell me he loves me, and I want him to tell me it’s all going to be alright.  I want him to repeat these, as often as necessary, even when he’s not sure they’re true.

If you ever lie to me, lie to me about this.

Photograph via le Chagrin.

My description of our antics in Robbie’s fantabulous sex swing got fleshbotted the other day. Thank you aag! I owe you!

(Actually, I owe you a review of the supah-sexy Sabar vibe that you got EdenFantasy to send me, but that’s a whole ‘nother topic.)

Kinky robots created by Michael Sullivan, whose work is featured at Wired Magazine and at the Museum of Sex in New York.

When we were starting out with D/s, Robbie told me that the best way to “train” any creature, animal or human, was to give it positive reinforcement–but not all of the time. I expressed disbelief as well as minor outrage. (My minor outrage is like someone else’s all-out rant, by the way.)

“It’s true,” he said. “They’ve done lots of studies on it.”

I knew at the time he was right–I couldn’t say why but I knew. I think it had to do with taking things for granted. If you always get complimented on what you wear, you figure you’re owed it. Getting compliments, say, 75% percent of the time keeps you working for it, if compliments are what you crave.

So in my continuing excess surfing of teh innernet, I happened across an illuminating comment on Penny’s blog Birds Are Smart. The commentator was Helen, about whom I know nothing except that she writes quite colorful and interesting commentary several places. She said:

So, three mice, three cages. One mouse pushes a lever, gets a food pellet. Another mouse pushes the lever, gets nothing. The third mouse pushes the lever. Now this mouse, sometimes she gets a food pellet, and sometimes she doesn’t.

Which one do you think pushes the lever obsessively? That’s right, the third one. The first mouse eats until she’s not hungry, wanders off. The second mouse figures out there’s nothing going on and trots off to watch reruns of Seinfeld.

But the third mouse wants to understand. Why?

That’s the rub, isn’t it? Being the kind of beasts that want to understand, “why”?

Illustrations by Rob Bridges, via Lost At E Minor.

On one of my visits to Robbie’s this summer, we built a sex swing. Robbie is good with his hands. He took a piece of cargo netting and tied it to two beams that just happen to be lodged in the ceiling of his living room.

The cargo net was about five feet wide and seven feet long, and he suspended it from each corner by a piece of bright yellow nylon rope. I watched while Robbie lined up the ropes, looped and tied them, adjusted the height of the netting. Then he got into the swing and tested the strength of the contraption. He raised his legs in the air, against the ropes, and held his hands up, as if he were restrained hand and foot. He had the meditative, speculative, thoughtful look he gets on his face when doing anything with rope and a submissive woman.

“Okay,” he said, when he was satisfied with the swing’s setup. “Come on.” He unbuckled his shorts and pulled out his cock, motioning for me to get on hands and knees and get to work with my mouth.

After several seconds he stopped me. “Get in the swing,” he said. “Hurry up, get goin’.”

I pulled off my clothes and climbed in. I put my arms and legs up, just like he had done, arranging them as if they were cuffed and clipped to the chain we planned to substitute for the rope, eventually. The swing was amazingly comfortable—I was thrilled.

Then I watched as Robbie dropped his shorts and started to nose his fat-headed cock around my pussy.

“Wait!” I squealed in protest. “I’m not ready!” I thought back to the notable absence of foreplay–from my perspective. Any arousal I felt was a result of watching Robbie throw, drop, tie, and knot ropes—which, I admit, has a powerful effect on me.

“Not ready!” he said, but his eyes were kind and loving. “You silly goose. Is anyone fucking you? Is anyone’s cock in your cunt?”

“No . . . “ I acknowledged, as he continued to swirl his dick around my vulva in luscious circles.

“Sopping wet and she says she’s not ready,” he said, and shook his head in mock exasperation.

And as I calmed down and my muscles relaxed, welcoming him, he eased into me naturally.

“Not ready,” he grunted, as he pushed in and began to thrust. “I’ll tell you when you are ready.”

This is what I love about BDSM—the game of it. Robbie can tell me when I am ready, because he knows me better than any lover has—knows when I am hurting, aroused, scared, tender . . . he reads my body like a book, and I his. Even when his words say, “I don’t care about you one bit, you are unimportant,” his body tells me the opposite—that I am his most precious thing, that I am cherished. And the contrast fills me with a kind of awe.

Alyssa Bound, by Lochai.

Apologies, I’ve dropped the ball around here of late. Mostly I’ve been busy getting cranky angry at things I’ve read elsewhere, whether personal, political, or sexual.

Luckily Eileen recently linked to a picture that summed my recent behavior up for me:

At xkcd.

I was talking to Robbie about the Opening Ceremonies of the Olympics, and I mentioned how good one of the color commentators for NBC was. “What?” he said.

“The color commentator was really . . .”

“The what commentator?”

I took a breath and launched into an explanation. “It’s the guy who . . .”

Robbie suppressed a growl. He finds my innate inability to give him the answer to the question he’s actually asking, rather than the information I know he wants, profoundly irritating. “What’s the word you’re saying before ‘commentator?'”


“What’s a color commentator?”

My turn to not-growl. “He’s the guy who’s not the main commentator, but who adds little interesting facts to the commentary.”

“Oh. Okay, go on . . . “

Most of the time we converse this elliptically. I guess we like each other so much we are willing to slog through thigh-high verbal slush on a minute-by-minute basis. And despite the slog, we had great talks this visit, a great, kinky time, and very few fights.

“God, you’re an argumentative bitch”–said with a wicked smile before kissing me and bending me over to fuck me–doesn’t count as a fight. That’s just colorful commentary.

Images by Swedish photographer Knotan, courtesy, once more, of Sex in Art.