October 2008

I just read a synapse-stretching post by Matisse. In it, she answers a reader’s letter. Usually I very much dislike it when she does this, because her general attitude is a riff on one or more of the following: *sigh*-*you dimwit*-*I don’t know and I don’t care*-*how can you not know*-*how can you not know that I don’t care*-*sigh*. But since my own overwhelming response to the internet lately has been profound irritation, and since in this case, her bafflement seems quite justified, I repost her comment here.

Her reader asked her to explain his kink to him. Trouble is, his kink seemed to be to get nothing from friendships with women to whom he was attracted but who were not at all interested in him. I can identify. For years I went through long patches of platonic “relationships” in which I imagined myself in love and went to great lengths for the other person, and my other half mostly ignored me and my needs. It takes a lot of hard work and far more talking than I would ever have expected to do in any relationship, but Robbie meets my needs. MINE.

And I do try to meet his . . . though there is always more to do, I know.

Here’s Matisse:

You’re only 25, so nip this in the bud now and learn how to have real relationships, because whether you’re vanilla or kinky or somewhere in between, being attracted to unavailability is a recipe for frustration and unhappiness.

There are many different motivations to be a submissive, and I’m not one to say “Your motives are valid – but you over there, yours are not.” But I think a spell of good talk therapy would teach you a lot about yourself that you need to know, and then you can make a better decision about whether you really want to be controlled by another person.

There are many different motivations for being submissive. Exorcising and reveling in “bad” feelings that we shouldn’t enjoy–degradation, humiliation, pain–these all are routes to an emotional and erotic thrill that comes from (almost) being harmed. They can be cathartic, allowing those strong feelings, and the reactions to them, to take place in a safe and loving place.

But too often I read things written by women who sound like emotional masochists. As if they feel lucky that the Doms they are with grace them with their presence, their sexuality, the right to share them with other women, the right to be *nothing* to them. Literally nothing. I want to scream and hit the screen when I read this. That kind of weakness, that kind of submission, does not impress me, and I want to deny that I am submissive at all. Of course, that’s not the right reaction either. I read a wonderful thing Bitchy Jones wrote the other day about truly owning your own desires. (Well, actually it was about cock, but part of it was about desire, too.):

. . . understanding and acting on your desires can never be weak. And saying that it does doesn’t actually have anything to do with real feminism. Or any kind of equality. Having desire and acting on it is strength. Knowing your desires is to know yourself, is strength, fulfilling your desires is to acknowledge your strength.

It may well be–and must be, given the way the world works–that there are equal numbers of male submissives who lack this confidence. And I dare say that there are Doms out there (I know one or two) who have their own insecurities, their own soft spots and vulnerable places, the missing scales in their dragon-armor.

I’m not thinking of anyone or specifically when I say this. I’ve been glad to watch over the past two years and see internet and real life acquaintances grow, see Robbie and I get more comfortable and confident with each other and our own desires. But I am glad to read people say repetitively and outright what Robbie used to tell me often at the start of our relationship: “Unrequited love’s a bore.” Amen to that, baby.

Moderately assertive pics from le Chagrin and Darker Sights and Sounds, respectively.

Many of you may have seen this on Twisted Monk’s site already. All I have to say is that this bondage tie looks like a switch’s dream.

Or as Midori says: “But wait! Not just for catchers–good for pitchers.”

Photograph by Marcello Aquilio

Robbie and I have been together for over two and a half years now; I have been wearing his collar for almost two years. As I type this, I feel, on one level, that I have no idea how long we will be together; I frequently feel that. At the same time, the longer I wear his collar, the more a part of me it feels, and the more difficulty I have imagining my life without it and without him.

I thought it might be appropriate to spend some time reflecting on what being collared to him actually means to me. I often read other bloggers writing about what it means to them to be owned, to be a slave, to belong to someone, and I don’t feel that that applies to me. I don’t think of myself that way; I balk at many of those terms.

At the same time, every morning, when I look at myself in the mirror, my eye goes immediately to my collar. When I catch sight of myself in a window walking down the street, I see my long hair–the hair that Robbie had me grow long, for him–trailing behind me, and I think of him. When I put on makeup, when I dress myself, when I am around others, when I am by myself, I feel what Doms and subs call ownership. Just because I dislike the word doesn’t mean I don’t feel the feeling.

And so I’d like to spend some time “reviewing and renewing”, as sub lyn calls it. I want to start with Robbie’s words to me, almost two years ago, when he gave me my first collar. He made it himself, a twined winding gold wire pendant, grasping a rhinestone, hung from a leather choker. I lost it less than a month after he gave it to me–which I deeply regret–but I still have the poem that he wrote and enclosed with his gift:


Some hearts don’t have rhinestones

strong and pure themselves

elegance and aching places to fill.

Some hearts a little bent—

‘Original,’ on dit?—like real leather

perfect imperfect pores, driftwood grained

gnarled Neptune’s runnels, gods’ fingermarks

scratched soft down the sand flats

where the wind and seabirds grow.

Hearts cannot, are not to be

tied and trained, teased, bound or chained

or sent splashing against the wall for release

surging, shuddering, spent—for more.

hearts are not but flesh is; some flesh

and some hearts demand it.

November 21, 2006

I think it’s clear by now that I’m an incurable romantic. At least, I do hope I am incurable.

Luckily, there are a few people in the world who pander to folks like me. Here’s something by one of ’em:

A SHORT LOVE STORY IN STOP MOTION from Carlos Lascano on Vimeo.

Gracias to unspeakableaxe for the film.

Awhile back, Robbie drew my attention to this discussion on Fetlife. He has long wondered if I could have an orgasm just from giving him a blowjob, and thought that would be a rather fine thing for me to do, or to be trained to do.

On reading the thread, I did an internal and (I trusted) invisible eye-roll. I figured I would come from blowing him when he figured out a way to hook the controls on a remote vibe to the back of my throat.

Lest anyone think that I am the one getting all the pleasure, the pounding, the pampering in this relationship, I want to reassure you that Robbie gets his share (though possibly not his fair share) of attention. He can ask me for a blowjob any time, in any circumstance; he knows he has my explicit consent for that. He also requires back rubs, foot rubs, and other massages as part of the regular service I provide for him. And, as I think the number of posts here categorized under “blowjobs” show, on the whole I am very happy to provide these services. Just not, you know, ecstatic about them. Or so I thought.

So a few nights back, I was in a new kind of chest harness, trussed up tightly with by breasts bound into Madonna-like cones, kneeling with my knees spread on the ground in front of him, the object of all kinds of sadistic moves on his part, when I got my cue to start with The Oral Sex.

Lately I have been getting more and more raw in everything I do, but especially with The Oral Sex. If I don’t gag myself within the first five minutes, and work up to a rather steady gag-fest, I feel disappointed with the whole thing. I am not sure what this is about but in general, lately, I have been pushing myself rather viciously, and liking it.

Anyway . . . partway into my rather fervent throat-fucking, I started to get incredibly turned on. (I take it you all see where this is going?) Between my own sense of abandon, Robbie’s obvious enjoyment of it, and my mind’s smutty little tapes, telling me what a slut, cum-hole, cum-receptacle, yadda yadda yadda object of objectification I was, I was getting pretty turned on. Robbie was rock-hard, my hands were tied behind my back, my breasts felt as though they were going to burst, and I was finding it hard to breathe in the it’s-arousing-not-suffocating kind of way. Or so I thought.

Within seconds I was having a body-rending orgasm. My hips were bucking, my arms were pulling against their bonds, my throat was sliding, jerkily, back and forth along Robbie’s cock, and my lungs were bursting, struggling between the fact that my throat was blocked and that my abdominal muscles had spasmodic plans of their own.

My brain was loving every second of it.

Robbie, though, seemed to think otherwise, because he pushed my shoulders back hard, prying my face off his crotch, and pulled up on my torso with his considerable strength. He hauled me up from the floor, gasping and choking as I was, and held me close. “Shh,” he soothed. “It’s okay, it’s going to be okay, you’re fine, you can breathe, you can breathe, it’s okay.”

I struggled for air, coughing and frothing at the mouth like a wild thing. I wanted so desperately to get back down there, back to my orgasm, back to what I had planned would be his. At times like these–and there have been a few–I get incredibly confused and frustrated at being yanked out of subspace.

“Bu-but-couahghahck!” I said.


“But Inomnombcoughspatsktic!”

“Sh, shhh, now,” he whispered, and smoothed my long hair down against my shoulders.

“But I was cumming!” I finally managed to say, pulling back a bit to look him in the eye.

He looked straight back at me, and with his perfect deadpan, replied, “That’s no excuse.” Then he twinkled at me and I caught a grin lighting his face as he pulled me into him again and hugged me tight, until the sobs and shakes and sniffles and coughs had left me, and the shudders too, and we continued on, laughing and fucking, for the rest of the evening.

Unsurprisingly, I miss Robbie most just after seeing him . . . that, I suppose, and after not having seen him for quite awhile.

But when I leave his house and drive home, I find myself launched on a days-long jag of feeling achey, uncomfortable, out-of-sorts. I think he feels it too, because we act bizarre towards each other. We fumble for the rhythm of nightly phone calls and friendly chats that we share for most of the 3-or-4 weeks between visits. And when I fall asleep at night, I feel the ghost of his arms around me; and when I wake up in the morning, I imagine I am in his bed.

I have no plans tonight, and I can think of little to do except perhaps to curl up with a glass of wine and some reading. He tells me it’s a waste of energy and emotion to wish that things were different than they are, and I know he’s right. But right after I see him, just after I am home, I sometimes give myself permission to indulge in those silly, wasteful wishes, and I think about what I would do if he were here, instead of there.

This photo and similar at the appropriately-named Just blowjobs. Via Bend Me Over.

I’m officially a pervert.

Often, in the two-and-a-half years that Robbie and I have been exploring the world of perversion together, one of us would become nervous that the other was not really interested in kink. (I finally read enough to realize that this was a relatively common fear, like worrying constantly about whether you really love the other person more. At the end of the day, as long as you are both kinky and both in love, it’s all good.)

Enter Franklin Veaux, the man whose really helpful intro-to-BDSM pages started us off in our internet meanderings, google-searches, frothing emails, and frantic scenes.

Veaux has recently published a map of the world of fetishes, which, he says, has been getting a lot of attention. You can see it here. I am proud to say that both Robbie and I have almost all the imaginable fetishes, minus a few of the more disturbing ones (but I’ll even admit to a few disturbing fantasies–the ones beyond the Squick Peaks, in his drawing. It doesn’t bother me to say I have them, as long as you don’t know what they are.)

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to continue my exploration.

Thanks to ErosBlog for the tip . . .

And an EDIT . . . new and improved versions of Veaux’s sexmaps that let you mark places you’ve been and places you want to go.  Thanks to trinity-pup.

Next Page »