January 2010

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

[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.

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.


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.

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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.  😦

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.