by Leonard Cohen

I saw you this morning.
You were moving so fast.
Can’t seem to loosen my grip
On the past.
And I miss you so much.
There’s no one in sight.
And we’re still making love
In my secret life.

I smile when I’m angry.
I cheat and I lie.
I do what I have to do
To get by.
But I know what is wrong,
And I know what is right.
And I’d die for the truth
In my secret life.

Hold on, hold on, my brother.
My sister, hold on tight.
I finally got my orders.
I’ll be marching through the morning,
Marching through the night,
Moving cross the borders
Of my secret life.

Looked through the paper.
Makes you want to cry.
Nobody cares if the people
Live or die.
And the dealer wants you thinking
That it’s either black or white.
Thank God it’s not that simple
In my secret life.

I bite my lip.
I buy what I’m told:
From the latest hit,
To the wisdom of old.
But I’m always alone.
And my heart is like ice.
And it’s crowded and cold
In my secret life.

I’m getting on with my life, and so much is going well.

But I miss him so much, and it seems like half the things that happen haven’t really happened unless he knows about them.

Just the way it goes, I know, and time wounds all heels.

First-rate portraits by Noah Kalina.

(Check it out. This is actually an Oreo.)

I don’t think I’ve mentioned it here before, but I’m going to Dark Odyssey’s Winter Fire in a few weeks.  Squee. I could not be more excited.  For those who aren’t familiar with it, Dark Odyssey is “a wholly unique experience which brings together sexuality, spirituality, education, and play in a fun, supportive, non-judgmental, diverse environment where fantasy becomes reality.”  Basically, it’s a three-day sex-conference with workshops during the day and play at night.

The whole event is so well-organized that there’s a private web-page for those who are attending to post little profiles, FetLife style, to introduce themselves.  I finally got around to doing this the other day and listed myself as bisexual.  This gave me pause, and I’ve been thinking about it since.

I don’t really identify as bi.  As I mentioned, I’ve been to bed with women before; the problem isn’t that I’m not attracted to them, or that I wouldn’t consider a relationship with a woman.  The problem is political; if I identify as anything, I identify increasingly as queer because of my sexual politics.  But Robbie and I went to hear Sarah Sloane speak about polyamory earlier this year, and her quick-and-dirty take on listing yourself as “bi” v. “queer” was that, “If you’re trying to attract mostly men, put bi; if you want to date mostly women, put queer.”  I’m mostly trying to attract men, but it pisses me off that in putting “bi”, the sexist ones will think I’m going to fuck girls for their benefit.  I suppose the last thing I should think about is what the jerks I am not going to date might think . . . but that still leaves me with the question of what I actually think.

Perhaps “feel” is a better word than “think”.  Robbie and I met a woman he’s been interested in during this last visit, and I expected myself, from pictures and emails and descriptions, to be incredibly drawn to her as well.  (If you’re reading this, hi hon!)  But I wasn’t.  I just didn’t feel sexual tension there on first meet.  For awhile, I was thinking, “well, it’s just because  you really don’t feel that pull to women”.  But that’s not true either.

Today, I was thinking that I just feel drawn to some people.  It sounds like that cliche–“Oh, it’s the person, not the gender, that I love.”  But that’s not true either.  I’m not talking love.  I’m talking raw desire.  Most men I meet I have pretty much zero desire to touch, much less fuck.  So when Robbie used to tell me that he could tell that I “loved cock”, I was befuddled.  Mostly when I contemplate a new cock–and the person attached to it–my overriding thought is, “Is it going to be ugly or smell bad?”  Because I hate finding out that someone is mangled and stinky when he’s six inches from my mouth.

But every so often when contemplating that new cock and its owner, my overriding thought is, “I WANT.”  I want to tear the person apart, shove him into the nearest piece of furniture, get my hands up inside his shirt, and feel him pin my arms as payback for my enthusiasm.  This is a relatively rare feeling for me–rare in proportion to the actual numbers of men in the universe, frequent enough that I’ve managed to get laid more than the average number of times for an American woman (last time I checked the stats).  And it’s an even rarer feeling when it comes to women.  But when I find it, it’s magic.

So whatever the label is for people who get electrically turned on by some individuals in ways they can’t always predict but always enjoy–that’s what I am.

Clever photographs by Kevin Van Aelst, via Feature Shoot.

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.

* * *

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.

* * *

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.

* * *

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 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 have an urge to post about a million things, but the fastest thing I can slap up on the internet right now is a picture of me in a karada that Robbie whipped up over Thanksgiving. His rope technique is getting much better; he’s been reading and studying for a long time–before he met me, really. He very much wants to learn more, and he has all the ingredients I imagine would make a good rope top: 1) toppiness; 2) the ability to tie things–he has been using knots for practical purposes since he was a kid; 3) an OCD-type focus on learning things–he’s willing to look at a picture of someone in rope until he figures out what’s going on, whereas I look at it until I get distrac–squirrel!

What he doesn’t have is a rope bunny (at least one that’s close to hand) or a mentor. A few weeks ago, he got to go to a rope workshop, and then he got to come see his preferred bunny. The rope workshop was awesome for him–he learned a lot, got a lot of feedback on his ties, and felt, I think, like he was doing it well enough.  Certainly when he got his paws on me at Thanksgiving, I could tell the difference; he was much more confident and much faster.

Lots of our previous attempts at rope ties have been abortive, because I get so turned on by rope that I hyperventilate and get dizzy within seconds and we have to stop.  (I gather, too, that I’m not supposed to lock my knees?)  This time, he sat me down on a stool for the first part of the tie, and had me in this body harness in under 5 minutes; I was comfortable and happy the whole time, and he was talking to me and checking in.  Because I was talking to him, I didn’t spin off into loopy la-la sub-land . . . at least, not until after he got the rope on and got about 500 pictures of me.  He spent an hour or an hour and a half watching me gradually cream myself before he fucked me.  Such is the hard, hard life of a bunny.

Could someone with the merest scrap of WordPress sense take a few moments to explain to me, either in comments or via email, how to password protect a post?  I have some thoughts I really would like to get out, and perhaps publicly publish at some point, but they are refusing to even consider coming out to play without a little more privacy.

Or perhaps they are just pouting, waiting for a pretty lock, like the ones The Curious Nomad collects, at flickr and etsy.


My wonderful and generous internet buddy trinity-pup “gave” me this sexy blogger award (aka meme).  Because I adore her and because she and her latex catsuit are sexy indeed, I am now addressing the challenge of listing 5 sexy things about myself.

I have a hard time knowing what is sexy about myself.  I know what I think is pretty or attractive or even beautiful about myself, but that is because my other women notice it and tell me.  It’s not usually what men find sexy.

Robbie gave me the best understanding I have of what is sexy about me.  He told me all the time why I was sexy–not just to flatter me but because he really wanted me to understand and see it in myself, I think.  Or maybe to get into my pants, again, and again and again.

In any case, seeing myself through his eyes was a wonderful experience.  So here is what Robbie would say was sexy about me:

1.  My breasts.  He once told me that I have “nearly perfect” breasts.  I don’t see anything imperfect about them; they have always been ample without being saggy.  I have have medium-sized brownish-pink nipples that are very sensitive but can also take a lot of pain and tugging and all that good stuff.

I have spilling-out-of-my-dress breasts.

2. lipsMy mouth, which according to Robbie is “generous”.  This is, I assume, his way of telling me I have a big mouth.  (It’s genetic–people in my family can fit god-awfully large objects into their mouths, and I am no exception.)  It’s also his way of saying that I give good and plenteous head, which I hope is true.  My lips are full and I have a big, open smile, which makes me happy, or more accurately, is the result of my happiness.

3.  My mind.  It’s pretty devious at times.

4.  The fact that I orgasm easily.  For a long time it would never have occurred to me that this was sexy, but that’s because I wasn’t having sex in front of, or with, multiple people.  Having been parties where I have come without much provocation, I can say that people seem to find this aspect of me sexy.  You’d think they’d never heard anyone moan in ecstasy before.

5.  And my favorite: the way I walk.  I don’t know that it actually looks good, but it feels great. I learned to walk this way when I was living in Paris.  It used to drive me crazy to see French women walking all over Paris with these impossibly sexy, runway walks and haughty expressions.  They were doing some kind of rolling thing with their pelvises, like pivoting on an imaginary dildo as they walked.  So I copied them, and when I am feeling sexy, I walk like that.  That walk makes me feel sexier, and feeling sexy, as everyone knows, is the best way to be sexy.

The first day I met Robbie I put on this sexy French saunter as I was walking towards his car, with him behind me, and he told me later that he had noticed my hips swaying.  He said at that moment all he could think about was ass-fucking me.  My take on it is that he would have thought about ass-fucking me the first chance he had to look at my ass, however I was walking.  I’m just that ass-fuckable.

* * * * *

I’m incredibly grateful to trinity-pup for linking to me; I’ve had a total block about what to write and this was a good way to get going.  So I’m going to send the award to four sexy ladies who have written about how they occasionally get stuck for something to say, or are particularly stuck now.

~ mia.  we all want to know how things are going with you and the radiator–are they hot and heavy?

~ kitten in change.  I know you’re sexy, with or without the slavery.

~ penny.  sexy in a freeform way.  😉

~ hannah.  Incredibly beautiful, incredibly sexy, a fabulous sex-positive role-model, and incredibly quiet at the moment.

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