slightly sticky

I make no pretenses about liking physical contact with my lovers, and M elicits an incredibly strong reaction from me.  She runs a fingertip down the center of my back and I arch, my breath drawing in sharply as I mentally trace her path over my skin with my eyes closed—that line of contact spreads through my whole body and I go straight and shivering, my head thrown slightly back, my body both straining and relaxing into her touch.  It’s hard to resist, touch.  M tells me I am sensual, and I’m inclined to believe her; how else to explain how easily I’m stopped in my tracks by a breath, a whisper, a fingertip?

We were being good gender theory nerds and watching Paris is Burning, the documentary about vogueing balls in New York City, but we were also touching, slowly and deliberately.  My attention was torn between the screen and her hands on my shoulders, rubbing hard before sliding her palms down my arms until she was running her fingers over my exposed inner wrists.  I in turn had been rubbing her thigh a minute before, stroking my fingers over the denim of her jeans as I leaned against her shoulder and occasionally reached up to touch the side of her neck, her cheek.  We were actually doing a fairly good job of staying attentive to the movie, but every once in a while one or the other of us would shiver and a hand would slide a little closer, press a little harder or sharper.  It was both languorous and exciting; there was energy simmering, but it was still hiding just behind a thin veneer of relaxation, a pretense of casualness.  After the movie credits began she pulled me in front of her on the futon, and she began to rub my shoulders again.  As I leaned back into her hands, she bent forward and I felt her teeth lightly on my neck and I sighed.  She nipped me a little harder and I groaned, just barely, and that’s when she whispered in my ear.

Words are one of the sexiest things I know of.  Written or spoken, whispered, breathed, moaned: they make me catch my breath.  When M whispers to me, I shudder.  Sometimes her voice seems to tremble with energy; her voice is intense, sweet but with an edge, and I can feel her breath against my ear or the back of my neck just before she bites it.  The things she says to me move from how amazing I look under her hand to how exactly she would like to fuck me, and her gaze is so intent on me that I can’t help but shake. 

When she leaned forward, the first thing she said, low and soft, was this: “If a little bite like that can make you moan, what would it take to make you scream?” My body trembled and I felt myself arc stiffly, the rush of heat drawing me towards her lips and her teeth, her breath.   She kept whispering when her mouth wasn’t on me and it became less like a voice and more like another layer of sensation, merging with the feel of her nails on my back and her fingers trailing down my neck, her breath hot on my cheek and her intensity running over me and making me gasp and jerk.   The words were seamless within the texture.  She whispered:  You look incredible, the way you open yourself up and throw your head back.  I fucking love touching you.  You are shameless.  You are glorious.  And then: I want to fuck you and make you scream.  What can I do to make you scream?  Tell me what you want.  She had me disheveled—my skirt pushed up and my shirt pulled down—and lying on the futon as she kneeled, fully clothed, next to me.  She drew back from a caress and then her hand smacked lightly on my ass, a first slap that provoked an intake of air and a slightly hoarse whispered ‘yes please’ from me, because I knew what I was supposed to do.  She spanked me harder, the sound louder and crisper this time, and then she leaned forward and whispered again.

I’m going to wear my cock for you, and I’m going to make you suck it.  You’ll have one too, and while your mouth is around me I’ll make you jack off along with me, make you keep touching yourself even when I push you off me.  I’m going to pull your tie off and tie your hands behind your back, spank your ass until it’s nice and pink, make you ask for it.  Then I’ll open you up with my fingers and, when you’re ready, I’ll make you take me in, inch by inch, until I’m inside of you and then I’ll fuck you like the little twink you are.  As the voice in my ear transfixed me into silent shuddering, she was pushing my skirt even further out of the way and pulling my legs up so that I was bent at an angle, making the sound of her palm hitting muscle even cleaner, and she was warming me up before landing increasingly harder blows.  With every impact I became a little louder, the noise jerking out of me as in reaction to the heat of her hand on my skin, but I managed to choke out my ‘yes please’s’ in between.     

I still had on my underwear and she was still completely clothed when suddenly she slapped my cunt through the thin cloth of my old black panties.  I gasped sharply.  I was dripping wet; I could only imagine that she could smell me, how turned on I was by her voice and her control.  She leaned forward once more, her fingers pressing between my legs, and after her teeth left my neck she began whispering again.  I want to fuck you so hard.  I want to feel you come around my fingers, around my whole hand.  I want to be inside you when you scream.  Her hand continued rubbing me, harder and harder, and suddenly she drew back and spanked me again.  I cried out, and her fingers went back to my clit, rubbing me even harder through the material and I began making noises I couldn’t control, louder and louder, and she rubbed and pushed and suddenly I let out a loud cry and curled in on myself, my body at an extremity that made the world around me fuzz out as I focused solely on muscles clenching and the heat shooting all the way through my body.  She kept rubbing, and I cried out again, almost a sob, before I gave in entirely, unable to take anymore.

She wasn’t done.  She leaned in to my ear and bit the lobe; she whispered.  “You were probably… distracted, and didn’t see this, but I was touching myself while I was fucking you.”  And then she leaned back on her heels and I saw her hand stretching across her stomach.  I could barely speak.  I saw her begin to rub again and this time I knew the friction was focused on her own clit, and I moaned again as her head went back, her glorious hair straeming down her back as she clenched her teeth.  My fingers tightened into her thigh, the only part of her I could reach from my prone position, and I shook along with her until she collapsed onto me, finally speechless.

to be reduced to water and a little light

There are some things that have yet to become narratives. They are so far mostly contained within a series of images or memories or sensations, a wash of colors and scents and textures that I can’t get out of my head but also can’t put into words in the way that I want to. M is like that right now. When I think of her it’s difficult for me to speak clearly about what happens between us, because what I experience feels like some sort of continuum instead of a finite, compact incident that I can re-write for flow and preserve as just another thing that happened to me.

I’m not sure why this is, but I don’t want to fight it and write something that feels less than true because that wouldn’t do her justice. The hardest things to describe are those that deeply affect me, that take me out of myself and to a new place; it’s just unfortunate that those are the things I most want to capture, the things that are the most important. What can I say about her? That I react to her as strongly as I’ve ever reacted to anyone, that her touch or her voice or even her eyes alone can make me writhe, that I feel myself straining towards her when we are together? That when she touches me all I can do is respond, throw my head back and give in to her hands and lips and tongue, and that the intensity of this makes me shake, vibrate with energy? That when I touch her, I feel like I could spend hours running my hands over her skin, but I am also sometimes almost unable to continue because she is so powerful and beautiful and present that I am in awe?

I don’t know if I’ve ever so enjoyed watching someone, or that I’ve ever felt so responsive to being watched. Someone asked me recently what I enjoy about spending time with M, and I told them that I felt like, unlike many people, she seems to be happy with me as I am; I don’t feel pressured to want to be any way other than the way I am, or that I myself want to be. I was talking about conversation and companionship, but the concept bleeds over into the physical as well. Her eyes on me don’t make me feel shame, but instead make me aware that she is drinking me in, watching my reactions and responding to them herself. It is so unbelievable sexy to know that you are being appreciated for who you are. It makes me shiver; we are tied together in our responsiveness, creating a loop where we are nearly infinitely circling around each other and connecting in more and more ways. We stay up all night, looking and touching and tasting, many times very slowly, taking our time and feeling our bodies play back and forth as we learn how to make each other shudder and release.

We talked last night about religious ecstasy, the way the saints look in classical artwork, that expression of agony and elation, pain and exaltation. I love to be touched; I love to give myself over entirely, and that release feels like a surrender, feels like those saints look. This wasn’t the first time I’d considered it. I knew that one of the words for what I feel is rapture. I want to throw my arms back and feel your fingertip trace me from the hollow of my collarbone to the curve of my hip, shiver from the friction between your skin and mine, the heat that follows our contact and reminds me of where you’ve been. I don’t know how to describe it other than it feels like love feels, some sort of physical approximation, the opening of the body mirroring the opening of the heart. It is both incredible and dangerous, because it is one of the most intimate things I know.

M makes me shiver. I remember so much, and I can describe so little of it; there are no words for some things. The physical memories—the scent of her hair, the texture of her skin under my palms, her teeth on my throat and her breath in my ear—are only part of the whole, and what escapes is what is perhaps the most important. How can I explain power and tension? The crackle of energy and connection? Tenderness and transcendence? What I am left with is a snapshot, something that can’t possibly convey either the simplicity or the nuance of reality. And so I go back to reviewing my memories, the salt and sweet and strain and release, and try to think of the words for what I want to say.

blur

There are so many things I enjoy and appreciate about sex.  Contact, exploration, pleasure, pain and so many other things all play their part in a really good experience, the kind that stays in my mind for days and distracts me on the bus as I blindly stare out the window into the sunlight and go into sensory recall.  (Oh, her fingers twisting my nipples, his teeth on my neck, my fingers rubbing her clit…)  Sometimes I almost come, closing my eyes and trying to control my facial muscles and breathing so that the people sitting near me don’t look at me funny as I shakily make my way out the door. 

But one of my favorite things about sex is definitely subversion.  I’m very quietly subversive in my daily life (although I seem to be getting a little bit louder lately, which is fairly exciting), but in my sex life I seem to have basically decided that most limits are essentially off, or at least on hold, and so I can be as kinky and unrestrained as I want.  What really makes me catch my breath and bite my lip is anything that simultaneously makes somebody come and also breaks boundaries, that blurs the lines between things that we have been raised to want to be clearly defined as separate, things like sex and violence, control and freedom, male and female.  I love watching the shift, knowing that these definitions aren’t as sharp and succinct as I grew up thinking they were.  Breaking the rules is what really makes my heart speed up.

P was over the other day, and while we were smoking cigarettes on the roof of my building I told him about a recent experience during which I was given a blowjob by a girl who wore her cowboy boots during the entire encounter.  He raised his eyebrows.  “That’s hot, right?” he said.  “I’ll have to give you a blowjob sometime.”  I raised my eyebrows back at him and nodded.  We moved on to a dream he’d had the night before, and then we walked back downstairs to my apartment. 

As soon as we got in the door he paused, and I felt the energy level between us shoot up.  He turned around, standing close to me as I locked the door and then pushing me back against the cool wood, pressing against me and kissing me.  When my knees were shaking we moved to the couch, kissing and breathing heavily, and then I straightened up and pushed him back, hard.  ”Wait here,” I told him, and then I slid over to my desk and opened the bottom drawer, pulling out my harness and my silicon dildo as well as a few condoms and a small bottle of lube.  I kept my eyes on him as I walked to the bathroom, gently shutting the door and quickly getting my gear on.  I pulled the last strap tight and opened the door, walking out of the bathroom to find P down to his undershirt and jockeys, waiting for me.

He was on his knees in front of the computer, looking for good music to fuck to, but when he saw me he closed it with a slam and slid on his knees over to the couch.  I slowly walked towards him and sat down, arching my back slightly and spreading my knees so that he could crawl between them.  I leaned forward and drew him towards me, kissing him hard before I grabbed his head and pulled him back, yanking on his hair until I heard him moan.  I let go of his hair, and then I drew back and slapped his face.  For the first time in one of our encounters, he didn’t slap me back, instead just staring at me with his mouth open for a long second; gone was the cocky assuredness of P’s top self, and instead I saw in his eyes a vulnerability that startled me.  His eyes were so full of desire in that moment that I touched his face instead of slapping him again, but he pulled back and pushed me down on the couch without taking his eyes from mine. 

He didn’t wait to let me get the condom on; he had his mouth on me too quickly for me to tear even open the wrapper.  I moaned when I felt the weight of him press against me.  He looked up at me through his eyelashes, letting my cock slide between his lips, and as he took me in I heard the sounds he was making in his eagerness and suddenly I was soaking wet.  I pushed my hips towards him, spreading my legs further as I reached forward to pull his head even closer and shuddering from the intense sensations of lust and control commingled.  He pulled back slightly and began licking me, his hand tight on the base of my shaft while he ran his tongue roughly up and down, looking up at me and groaning when he saw what the sight of him on his knees in front of me was doing.  He slid me back into his mouth, taking in more and more of my cock every time my hips pumped towards him. 

My head was back and my grip on his hair was getting tighter and tighter.  I groaned loudly and began panting, grunting with every thrust and shaking hard now.  He was shaking too but he kept pulling me towards him, his hand pumping up and down with his lips, pressing back against me until I was on the verge of coming.  He was moaning in between thrusts, in little whimpering gasps, and that was what finally sent me over the edge, that muffled groan jerking out of his throat as his eyes squeezed shut and his hand tightened on me.  My back tightened and my hips thrust forward, every muscle in my body tensing as everything narrowed to the clenching of my cunt.  My teeth slammed together, and then my head went back as I stifled a cry.  I fell limp and he came up beside me, snuggling into me, and we stayed there until I could speak again.  He left shortly afterward, leaving me dreaming of my alternate life as a gay man.

receiving directions from her want

I’m happy to say I’m getting over this, but I used to have a sort of a general thing for people who looked queer.  It was mostly cultural conditioning; I think I just assumed that I had a better chance with somebody who had appearance cues that were earmarked in my brain as signifiers of “dyke” or “queer” or whatever other word it was that was setting me off that week.  When I met E, I’ll admit that I coded her as queer right away, what with her short spiky hair and slightly rebellious personality.  We played in orchestras together on and off for years, and while I didn’t do anything about it (one or the other of us were usually in a relationship, she with boys and I with girls), I’ve had a little crush on her for a while now.  I was pleased when she agreed to come to my birthday dinner this year, and amused when she became embroiled in a conversation (between my ex and future girlfriends, themselves exes–oh, queer girls) about polyamory.  I wasn’t surprised when she asked to borrow The Ethical Slut, and after she broke up with her boyfriend this year we had a series of dinners together where we talked about owning emotions and kinky sex, two of our mutual interests.  I suspected that she was interested in more than dinner, but it wasn’t until one drunken evening after she had left that I sent this infinitely embarrassing email: “So, should we have been making out tonight?”

Thank god she agreed, saving me from eternal facebook shame and whetting my appetite for our next dinner.  She further intrigued me by telling me that she’d had a dirty dream about me, and also that she’d never been with a girl before.  I have to admit that some part of me was excited about helping her lose her girl virginity, something I hadn’t done since I lost my own years ago; I sometimes get off on this kind of chauvinistic asshole vibe, and the between the thought of being somebody’s first and the kink we’d talked about–which led me to believe we were on approximately the same page, sex-wise–I felt like I was going to maybe get to be on the delivering end for once and that made my heart pound a bit.

The night she came over I was in a mood.  I hadn’t had a very good day, but I was also intrigued and excited about the possibilities for the evening and these conflicting emotions had me a little off-balance.  When she arrived I tried to be as normal as possible, greeting her warmly and helping her find what she needed to prepare dinner, but I could tell we were both thinking about later; it showed in a certain stiffness of speech, covert glances, the tense lines of her back underneath her shirt.  I sat on the couch, watching her as she chopped and sauteed; I appreciated that she was in my space, doing the work that I normally did for others.   I was also nervous; once the first kiss happens I’m generally able to shed my inhibitions easily, but getting to the first kiss is sometimes problematic.  I wait, I hesitate, I giggle inanely, it’s irritating.  But luckily for me, E is a bit more straightforward.  After we ate, as we sat on my couch, she leaned forward and asked me if I still wanted to make out.

That freed me to lean forward, and our lips met.  A minute later, I was leaning into her and my hands were cupping her breasts, and then they were under her shirt and I was tweaking her nipples softly, pulling her bra down so that I was touching flesh instead of cloth.  She moaned, and I tweaked a little harder.  Within moments her shirt was unbuttoned, and my lips and teeth were teasing her nipples while my hands slid up and down her body.  After a few minutes of this, when I had her leaning back on the couch with her head thrown back and her breath a little ragged, I paused.  She opened her eyes and looked at me expectantly.

“So tell me” I said, “what you dreamed about me.  What did I do to you in your dream?”

She looked slightly surprised, and then she propped herself up on her elbows and smiled.  “I dreamt you went down on me.  And it was so much better than when I guy goes down on me, like you really knew what to do.”

I held her gaze as I slid off the couch, moving to kneel in front of the desk drawer that holds my sex toys, lube, and  barriers.  I opened it and sifted while I felt for a dental dam and other niceties, taking in the way she looked.  Shirt unbuttoned, bra showing, leaning back and breathing just a little bit hard.  Flushed.  I stood up, looking down at her, and then I put the dam, gloves, and lube on the end table by the couch and dropped down to kiss her again.  My hands slid up her stomach, and then I pulled her towards me by the hanging edges of her shirt so that I could remove it from her entirely.  I slid my hands up her back and unhooked her bra, bending forward to softly bite her neck as my hand slid up to pull her closer to me.  While my mouth was busy I slid my hands down again and unbuckled her belt.  I licked her neck, dragging my tongue up to the  hollow just under the bottom curve of her ear where I breathed on the soft sensitive hairs before I began working my way down, making my way over her ribs.  I dug my fingers into her sides, pulling her closer as I nibbled and teased her stomach and breasts, and I felt her back stiffen under my hands. 

I didn’t wait.  I pushed her back, pulling her jeans and underwear over her hips and laughing at how she lifted herself up to help me slide them down.  I pulled back, and wordlessly she finished removing her clothing for me, pulling her jeans off while carefully leaving the cowboy boots she wore on.  I was still almost fully clothed, on my knees on the floor now in front of the almost completely naked girl on my couch.  I looked up at her again and saw the breath catch in her chest, the heat that she and I were both feeling reflected back at me in her gaze, and I pushed her back onto the couch roughly.  I leaned forward to kiss her again, teasing her until she was gasping, and then I pulled back to reach over to the small pile I’d left next to her; I held her gaze as I picked up the black latex gloves by feel and pulled them slowly over my hands.  After I’d pulled the fingers tight, I reached over again and ripped open the packaging on the dental dam.

I touched her for the first time then, gently rubbing her clit and then, after I discovered that she was gratifying wet, slipping first one finger and then two inside her.  She arched her back, pushing herself into my hand, and then groaning when I pulled my hand back so that I could unfold the square of latex.  I picked up my little bottle of lube and squeezed a drop into my hand, rubbing her again slowly as I positioned the barrier before leaning forward to nibble and lick and then bite her spread thighs.  I teased her a little, I’ll admit; I took my time leaving bite marks on the soft skin of her legs, nuzzling around the edges of the latex and exploring the outer edges of her cunt with my tongue.  When I finally pressed myself against her clit, she moaned louder, and I closed my lips around her.  I reached up and put my hand softly on the space between her collarbones, pushing her back as my mouth began to press more strongly against her, my tongue sliding over her clit and probing into her cunt as I worked against her, my motions soon beyond my control as I licked and pushed.  I lost myself in the motion, the working of muscles and the way she moved under me, until I felt the rhythm come together and suddenly she was shuddering under me, her cries becoming louder as she came into my mouth.

When she pushed me away, her chest heaving, I sat back on my heels and looked at her.  She was flushed, her mouth open, and she looked spent.  I came up to sit on the couch next to her, keeping my hands on her as I waited for her breath to slow.  “So, was I as good as I was in your dream?”  I asked her.  She nodded quickly.  “I think it’s you’re turn now,” I told her, and then I went back to my drawer.  When I pulled out the dildo and harness, her eyes fixed on them and she looked unmistakably excited.  “Wait here,” I ordered as I made my way to the bathroom.

When I came out she looked at me with half-closed eyes.  I was nervous, wearing my cock in front of someone for the first time, but her gaze was enough to reassure me and straighten my spine as I walked towards her.  She ripped open a condom as I approached, and then she touched me for the first time, rolling the latex over the tip and then slowly pushing it the rest of the way down, using her whole hand to grip the shaft and push against me.  Then she leaned forward, and I groaned as she slid my cock into her mouth.  I reached down and gripped her hair, pulling her back from me; I moved around her to sit on the couch, making her stay on her knees as she lowered her head once more towards me.

We groaned together for a few minutes, her licking and sucking on my cock and me pulling her towards me, hands tangled in her short hair.  But suddenly she pulled back.  “Do you have a belt?”  I nodded cautiously; I’d never used a belt on somebody before, and I was afraid of hurting her.  But after a minute, curiosity and hormones won out and I went to find my old worn brown leather belt.  She was on her knees on the couch, still wearing her cowboy boots, when I returned and I knelt in front of her, getting close before I reached behind her head and forced her head down to my cock again.  She began to suck on me, pushing back against my clit again and again until I was breathing hard and gripping the back of her neck hard, and then I smacked the doubled-up belt that I was holding in my hand lightly against her ass.

She moaned loudly, and I saw the red mark rising on her skin.  I pulled my arm back and swung again, a little harder this time, and yanked on her hair as the belt landed.  I kept her pulled close to me, and she began to pull me into her mouth even more quickly as I continued to swing the belt down onto her ass.  When I couldn’t take it anymore and she was covered in red marks, I pulled her back from me and reached back for my bottle of lube.  I laid down and and she straddled me; I poured a little lube in my hand, and reached between her legs to rub her clit.  I slid my fingers into her cunt, making sure that she was slick and wet before I pulled her down to straddle my hips, pushing inside her with a groan.  She sat on top of me, working her hips up and down and grunting as she ground down against me; I pinched her nipples, watching her face as I gripped harder.  Then I moved my hands down to her hips, pulling her down harder onto me, moving inside her while she moaned and closed her eyes.    Suddenly she began to shudder, her arms back and her legs tightening around me as she began to come.  I gripped her tighter until it was over and she relaxed, and after a minute she slid off of me while I went to clean up.  We stayed and talked for a while longer after we got a little less disheveled, but eventually she went home and I put my belt away before falling asleep.

everything in its right place

I’ll admit that I haven’t been writing as much as I’d like to lately, but life has been too amazing and amusing and, frankly, busy for me to be able to put it into words just yet.  I sometimes feel like I’ve fallen through some sort of sexual wormhole and ended up in an alternate universe where every third person I meet turns out to be a domme and talk about gender and sex and kink occurs too many times each week to keep track of.  ’All of this just from fucking my ex-boyfriend in the bathroom!’ I laugh to myself, which is only part of the truth but still relevant.  I’m enjoying it greatly.  I think that sometimes things just come together, and this seems like one of those times.  I’m enjoying the ride, most definitely.

I know that in a lot of ways I’m still pretty naive, but I’m definitely not as naive as I was a year ago or even six months ago.  I used to think I was pretty kinky, but what’s happening now seems like a whole new level that I only vaguely imagined existed.  Sometimes it intimidates me (piercing, for example), but I also feel kind of excited at how many possibilities I never knew existed before.  I feel willing to push my own boundaries, even if I’m not sure exactly how far yet, and that’s an exhilarating feeling.  Yes, I want to fuck on the stairs, the rooftop, in the stairwell or the elevator.  Yes, I like bruise and bite marks, and the fact that the nail marks on my thighs from my public flogging haven’t faded yet.  I like that half the people I know are all fucking each other and nobody seems to be freaking out all that much, and that I get to be a small part of that.  I like that I have conversations with my ex’s girlfriend about the crazy experience that she had at the dungeon this week, and that another friend showed me the fabric she’s ordered for her Alice in Wonderland corset. 

So yeah, life is amazing, and it’s giving me plenty to write about, as soon as I catch my breath.

to decide how naked i was willing to go where

The first time I got publicly flogged by a dominatrix was in the summer of 2005, at a drag king show with the theme of, I believe, “Camp Kink.”  After a few hours of kink-themed acts hinting at dark sexual tendencies (or, you know, a saran wrap fetish), they set up a few pieces of equipment onstage and announced that a public play space would constitute the afterparty.  Among other things, there was a domme with a bench and some floggers and paddles set up at the front, and mostly unacknowledged desire and several gin and tonics eventually prompted me, trembling, to approach her.  I think she acted with care, flogging me lightly because she could see I was really freaked out and had absolutely no idea what I was doing; she did flip my skirt over my head, which made me very glad that I was wearing decent underwear, but otherwise it was mostly just a slightly awkward but funny story.

The second time was two nights ago.  My friend N, P’s girlfriend, is a pro domme; we sometimes spend hours talking about our families, our love lives, and kink, among other things, and I’ve learned a lot from her about different ways of thinking about relationships and sex.  I was at a monthly event for her dungeon, basically a public play party at a bar in a trendy part of town, enjoying a beer while I watched women in amazing fetish clothing walking around the room and mingling.  It was my first visit and I’d been informed by N early on that I’d be taking a turn on the cross, which was making it a little difficult for me to focus because I was so intrigued and excited but also nervous at the prospect.  P calls N his Amazon warrior and seeing her with her game face on, all dressed up and wearing heels that accentuated her considerable height, was like seeing a whole new side of somebody familiar, in a good way.  There are so many parts of each of us; I enjoy seeing new layers, new ideas of self, being revealed.  It creates depth.  That was part of why I was here: I wanted more depth of my own.

She gestured towards me as she walked up.  “Come on, I want you on the bed,” she said, grabbing my hand and sending me a smile as she pulled me to the back of the room.  We wound our way through the people standing near the oversized padded bench pushed against the back wall until we were next to it, and we stood there until she told me to kneel.  N then called her friend over to help tie me up and she did so with alacrity, wrapping the rope around my torso and between my breasts until she had me in a secure chest harness.  She used the extra rope to bind my hands together, palm to wrist, crossed behind my back.  I looked down at myself, at the cords crossing my body, and decided that I was in for as much as I could take; from the second I’d knelt on the bed I’d silently agreed to let this happen, whatever this was exactly, and now I was going to see if those ever-elusive boundaries were finally going to be reached.  The thought of pushing myself, of seeing what I could do, was exciting, and I shifted my weight a little bit in pleasurable anxiety.

As I knelt, bound by ropes and shivering with anticipation, N walked behind me.  “Do you do hair pulling?” she asked me, and I had time to nod before she grabbed the back of my head, twisting my hair around her fist and pulling me backwards hard.  I gasped.  She held on as she slowly walked around to the front of the table, watching me.  I could feel the other woman behind me, tugging on the ropes, and then N leaned forward and said, “I’m going to slap your face now, is that okay?”  Once again, I got a nod out before her hand connected with my cheek.  Another gasp, but I held myself steady and kept my face up, feeling the heat where her hand had landed and letting myself go into the sensation of release, of submission.  I was bound on my knees before a group of strangers and awaiting whatever might be coming; it was essential to give myself over, to empty out my expectation and fear and let N dictate the course of things if I was going to really do this and get what I desired out of it.  I wanted it.  I wanted to give myself over.  I wanted it to become a whole new way to connect with somebody else, to expand the way I defined pain and pleasure and sex. 

I continued to kneel upright and she slapped me again; then she looked me in the eye and spit on my face.  Her hand came up, rubbing the saliva over my chin and jaw, and then her fingers were in my mouth, roughly inside of me.  Before I could breathe she pulled back and grabbed my chin forcefully, pushing my head to the side as she examined my reddening cheek.  Just as quickly she dropped her hands from me, bending over and coming up with a blindfold which she gently placed over my eyes.   

She grabbed my hair and pushed me down again, bent over my knees and with my forehead pressed against the cool surface of the bench.  There were fingers on my back fluttering softly, I imagined plotting courses of action over my flesh; they withdrew and then I felt hands grabbing my ass, nails biting into the skin and muscle.  After a moment they drew back and then I felt the impact of a palm against the curved fleshy part of my ass; as I jerked involuntarily I could hear the breath the audience drew in and I remembered that there were people watching this, that not only was this shocking thing happening but people were here with us, witnessing it.  After a moment of forced shame, I let go and simply accepted and then revelled in the fact that they were there, that this intimate moment was being revealed and might show me or them something we hadn’t known before.  All this in a second and then I could feel the impact and hear the sharp noises as she repeatedly spanked me, and then my own breath as she stepped back for something I could only imagine until it came down on my back and it was a riding crop.

It went on for a long time, or so it seemed.  She pulled my hair, yanking my head back, and reached around and pinched my nipples so hard they became white points of light on the insides of my dark eyelids.  There were paddles and floggers.  There were stinging patches of warmth on nearly every part of my body, my back and breasts and arms and legs and ass.  Through it I was biting my lip, trembling, letting my mind go more and more into the moment as the intensity sped up.  When she paused I was lying on my stomach panting, thinking very little but existing so clearly inside of my body that my awareness of it was like nothing I’d ever felt before.  I was focused on my skin and muscles, how they felt and what would happen next and how this wasn’t exactly pain but some other sensation that was something else, good and bad mixed until they were indistinguishable and became something new and powerful.  All of this floating free inside my head, wordless until I had the time and space to articulate it, but still fully formed as ideas.  After a moment she pulled me upright, yanking me by the rope harness and hair until I was back on my knees.  With one last hard nipple twist that bent me double she released me, and I sat back on my heels while the other girl untied my bonds and N removed the blindfold.  I opened my eyes, dazed, and took in all the people standing around me.  N helped me to my feet and gave me a long hug, and then we went to the bathroom together and washed the sweat and saliva from ourselves.    

 Before the night was over N pulled me up for a turn at the cross, an X of wood with cuffs for my wrists and large metal rings for my hands to grip as I was flogged.  She spanked me again and then used floggers, moving from soft to not as soft and ending by saying quietly “This one will hurt more” before she used something that stung and brought a new level of heat to my skin.  Every time she finished one round of blows I would find myself standing on my toes, gripping the rings with straining arms and biting my lip while I waited for the next to fall, and I would have to force my feet back down flat to the floor.  When it was over and she removed the blindfold I opened my eyes wide, feeling both so clear and so far away from my brain that it was all I could do to walk over and sit on the bench beside N and slump backwards while the next person was fastened into the cuffs.   

It wasn’t just the physical side of things that floored me, it was the mental aspects.  The connectedness with my physicality, the feeling that I was aware of my body in a different way than I had been before, the power I felt in accepting pain and appreciating it for itself.  The trust I felt in N, not only that she would stop if I asked her to but that she would be careful enough that I wouldn’t have to ask her to stop.  The eyes of the strangers watching me.  I felt like I’d pushed beyond whole new boundaries, that from now on my definitions of so many things were going to be different, and that experiencing was a lot different than imagining or reading about.  It was deeply thrilling, a kind of freedom I’d never quite felt before, to let go of so much of what I was “supposed” to like and instead explore without bias the many ways there are to feel things. 

I had one more drink and then smoked outside with N before I turned my bike tires toward home.  I rode off through the cool summer air and breathed deeply, straightening my back and feeling the slight pull of muscles, the tingle of fading blows and tang of scratch marks reminding me of the body I’d been so inside of within the past hour.  I bent over my handlebars and moved forward.

wet

“Most women spend their lives giving half-hearted blowjobs.”

-The First Time She Kneels by Anonymous, from Master/Slave

I’ve already written about blowjobs, and I can assure you that I do not give them half-heartedly.  Nor do I skimp when going down on a female-bodied person; I like my sex to be all-encompassing, an action that I can lose myself in, mentally and physically, until the only thing in my head is that cock between my lips, that clit under my tongue.  There’s something almost more vulnerable about giving head than having “real” sex, because it generally mostly or only involves the body of the other person.  Not always, but sometimes, I am merely what happens to be there to get my partner off, an orifice as is so often noted in feminist writings, a hole for something to be inserted into or a surface for something to be rubbed upon. 

That’s not entirely true.  I like being a person when I’m giving head, not just an item or an object.  I like to glance up through my eyelashes as my partner moans, I like hands grabbing and pulling at my hair, I like being pulled deeper and harder and faster.  But I also like the idea of giving myself up, of becoming a living tool to promote someone else’s orgasm.  I like feeling like I’m at their mercy, that my pain or pleasure is secondary to their enjoyment.  When I consider a whole-hearted version of oral sex, that’s what I imagine: being completely there for the other person, caring less about my own aching jaw or bloody tongue than I do about their screams and gasps and whimpers. 

I’ve already noted the pleasure I take in blowjobs, especially with silicon dicks (less chance of either biting too hard or of encountering sperm, which is one of my least favorite tastes ever–sorry, bio-boys), but I also have a deep love for the act of giving head to a woman’s body.  I vividly remember my first taste of female juices, how tangy and rich they were compared to the bitter male cum I’d previously encountered.  I loved, from the very first, how it felt to run my tongue up, opening folds and lingering over ridges, how it felt the first time I ran my tongue over the mouth of another’s cunt.  With boys it usually seemed to be over fairly quickly, but with a woman I felt like I could sometimes take a little more time.  My formula was simple: do unto others as you would have done unto you.  If I heard her moaning the way I moaned when I wanted a rough tongue dragged slowly over my clit again and again, that’s what I did.  If I could tell that she wanted me to move faster, to focus on her clit and fuck her with one-two-three fingers inside her, to suck on her as my hand worked inside her, that’s what happened.  I laid underneath, I balanced on top, I sucked and licked and nibbled, I explored cunts and assholes and all the divine spaces in between.  I took my time, or I hurried up and showed my own urgency.

I love the spasm, the shudder, the moan.  The thighs pressing in, holding my head between legs with bent knees and heels digging into my back.  I love the sweat, the pain of a prolonged bout where my shoulders and jaw and tongue ache.  If I honestly can’t go any farther, I run my fingers into the wet and come up to kiss my lovers, forcing them to accept the tang and scent of themselves on my lips.  I love making girls taste themselves; it’s such a filthy and wonderful feeling, saying ‘here is your cunt, the most personal part of yourself that you were told to never share with anyone, smeared all over my face and yours.’  I love getting dirty, rubbing them all over myself, rubbing myself all over them.  I love it when they do the same to me.

I can’t help it; I like my sex dirty, rough, outside of what I was taught it should be when I was growing up.  I get off on transgression.  And so: I want to suck your cock.  I want to lick your clit.  I want to make you scream.  I want you to pull me into yourself until I can barely breathe, until I’m catching air in gasps between thrusts and grinds.  I want to taste you, even if it’s only in my mind because we’re having safe sex.  I want to leave bruises on your thighs because I’m pulling myself into you so hard.  I want your clit hard under my tongue, your cunt tight and wet around my fingers, you begging for more, faster, harder, please more.  I want to feel you tense immobile, the shudder as you come down from whatever peak my mouth forced you to.  I want you to come.  I want to stroke you after, to feel you shake, and then turn to me and ask for more.

a brief moment

I need to write about somebody other than P soon, but it’s been a while so here’s a short vignette.

He came over tonight to pick something up; I was tired and he was exhausted, and we made small talk while he snacked and we caught up on the past week.  We were both a little goofy and it felt slightly awkward, but we’re good enough friends that it was more or less fine.  At some point it came up that I recently acquired a new dress when I was visiting my parents, and for whatever reason he asked me if I would try it on for him; I didn’t think we were going to fuck, but I like preening for him because I know he appreciates me and so I ducked into the closet and changed into my new outfit.  It’s a dark brown with pin-stripes, faux-businesswoman, perhaps from a decade or two ago; I like the contradiction of wearing something sexy that’s based on something that is supposed to somewhat negate sex appeal, which is why I bought it in the first place.  P gave the dress an appraising thumbs-up, and it seemed somewhat silly to change right back out so I left it on as I settled back onto the couch to continue talking.

I swear I wasn’t trying to start anything; I can’t speak for him, but I don’t really think he was either.  Exhaustion tends to be a libido killer.  We talked for a bit and he said he should be going, but suddenly he put his hand on my knee and slid it just under the hem of my dress.  “Sorry,” he said, and I looked at him like he was crazy. He lifted an eyebrow and slid his hand farther up, slowly stretching his fingers below the fabric and over my skin.  I groaned softly, and things started moving in slow motion.  His palm on my thigh, fingers brushing the hem of my panties, and then his mouth suddenly on mine, rough and pressing me back into the couch and I spread my legs without even realizing I was doing it.  He bit my neck and slipped his hand inside my panties, first rubbing my clit and then, when he was sure I was slick and wet, pushing inside of me.  I clutched his back, moaning louder and pushing into his hand, wanting to feel as much of him as possible.  My dress rode up over my hips and the top button came open, my bra and the tops of my breasts showing.  I pulled him into me until he gasped and grew stiff on top of me–I love that he can come just from touching me, and it makes me feel incredibly sexy and turns me on just to think about it.  I held him as he slowed his motion, gasping from the suddenness and excitement of the unexpected encounter.  We were both sweaty and exhausted, and so after a few minutes of recovery I gave him a glass of water and sent him on his way with a kiss and a smile. 

Next time, I’m wearing that dress with some sexy panties and high heels.  I anticipate good things.

they always said that sex would change you

Sometimes there’s a moment where everything changes.  When I kissed a woman for the first time, when I was first carried away by sexual heat, when I fell in love with P: these are all pivotal moments that I’ve written about here.  But I haven’t really talked about the one particular moment that is the entire reason this blog exists at all,  the split second when my head went into another realm and I decided that sex and kink needed to become a larger part of my life.

Shortly after I became aware that P had fully become himself, we slept together on accident one sunny afternoon when I had invited him over for a friendly lunch.  It truly wasn’t anticipated; we were attempting to be friends, but when we were alone the goddamn electricity between us got the best of us and we ended up fucking on my futon when we were just supposed to be making polite chit-chat.  I had long given up on feeling too guilty about our periodic slips in behavior, and so I was completely thrilled when I received a text a few days later.  “I just had a dream about you,” was how he started, but soon we were writing back and forth furiously.  I’ve written this part already, the part where I was so full of heat and couldn’t masturbate for days and eventually he came over and we had really great sex.  But I didn’t write it all.

After we had sex the first time, we took a dinner break.  Naked (or nearly naked; I was wearing panties again) on my futon, we ate pasta and talked about things completely unrelated to our nudity and sweat and rising bruises, but as soon as we were done he was on me again.  I was writhing under him, his hands on my breasts and his mouth on my neck, when suddenly he pulled back and ordered me to my feet.  I was surprised, but I immediately rose to my feet.  He told me to go to the bathroom, and suddenly I knew exactly what was going to happen; we were going to fuck with me bent over and braced against the sink, so that he could see my face in the mirror.  I’d had been thinking of this for the last twenty minutes or so, and so my breath was already beginning to quicken as I stepped into the tiny bathroom of my studio apartment.

All of this is kinky, but nothing terribly out of the ordinary.  But what happened next was… hard to describe.  We went into the bathroom; he pushed me to the sink and stood behind me as we stared at each other in the mirror, his cock pressed against my ass but neither of us doing anything about it yet.  Suddenly I felt his fingers on my waist, and then they were curling into hooks and he was tearing apart the panties I was wearing, his fingers ripping the lace of the waistband as I gasped and looked at him in the mirror with shocked amazement.  He stared back at me impassively as he tore my clothing from my body, shredding the flimsy material as he pressed even harder into my back, and I felt myself get wet at the sound and feel of the cloth being ripped against my skin.  When the panties were gone he grabbed my hair, forcing my head forward as his hand slipped down and groped between my legs. 

Up until this point I had been a willing and eager participant, and that didn’t change.  But somehow, for really the first time, I began to move into a different sort of emotional space than I’d ever been in previously.  Before, I’d been excited, nervous, scared, joyous, but I’d also been just the slightest bit hesitant, afraid to let myself go completely.  I’d been holding back, even if only with a small part of my brain.  But now, my torn panties around my ankles and my own wide eyes staring back at me from the bathroom mirror, that shifted, and I was suddenly and completely willing to give myself to him; in that moment, I would have done nearly anything that he wanted, because I wanted it too.

He pulled me back by my hair and I practically bared my teeth at him.  With his other hand he slipped a lubed finger in, rubbing me slowly and watching me bite my lip in the mirror, and then he was pushing his cock into me while he pulled my head back.  My neck was straining as I pushed my ass back into him and struggled to bring my head forward, letting him pull my hair even harder as we fought against each other.  I could see him watching me in the mirror, could see him behind me and the cords in his arm as he held me in place while he thrust into me and my hips and knees crashed repeatedly into the small vanity.  Suddenly he released his pull on my hair and then he was pushing my head forward again until my face was smashed up against the mirror, pushing my hips farther back so he could keep fucking me harder and harder.  My forehead against the cool glass and my hands gripping the edges of the vanity so hard that my knuckles were white, we kept sliding farther and farther down until he pulled me back again by the hair and suddenly my face was in the sink.

I was so fully in my body that absolutely nothing else mattered.  I was too far gone to really speak, but in my mind all I was thinking–insofar as I could still think at that point, bent double with my head in the sink, his cock ramming into me over and over as we both moaned and grunted and gasped–was that I wanted to do anything, whatever he wanted me to do.  It wasn’t just that I would do it but that I truly desired to, for myself as well as for him.  Yes, please push my head farther into the sink, smash my mouth into the dirty stained porcelain, I would kiss it and gladly if it would make you come, pull my hair, HARDER, leave a bruise, show me how strong and beautiful and amazing I am while you fuck me senseless in the bathroom.  

Giving up some degree of my own volition, giving myself to him like that: it sounds wrong.  It sounds dirty, bad, weak.  But really, it felt so amazing that even the mental high was almost enough to make me come under him.  What was physically happening was fucking amazing, but there was such a power in the giving of myself that it still makes me shiver months later.  By asking for and allowing myself to be physically humiliated and controlled, I was able to see how powerful I am.  Opening up that mental space was, simply put, transcendant.

Of course, I couldn’t think any of this at the time; I was too busy getting fucked.  But I sensed it, and even in my animal brain I knew that this was important and that I needed to know more, to explore and play and understand.  But even that slipped away as he pounded me against the sink harder and harder, growling as he bit my neck, rocking the vanity against the wall every time he pushed into me.  My legs couldn’t support me any more, but he was holding me up and still he was fucking me.  My head was back up and I caught a glimpse of us in the mirror, slit-eyed and red-faced, mouths agape as we struggled against each other, me pushing back into him as he thrust me forward over and over.  After what seemed like an unimaginably long time, we each let out our separate cries and stayed there for a minute, tense, until I nearly collapsed forward into the sink.  After a few minutes, I had the energy to drag myself back to the couch, where we held each other without speaking.

the most amazing things are also the most terrifying

I’m a big believer in love, actually, but I don’t think it’s the big bad monster that people seem to see it as. I love many people: my friends, my lovers, myself. And while of course I understand that there are different types of love (friendly love and romantic love may be sides of the same coin but they are definitely different beasts) I think that it’s possible to apply the non-scariness of friend love to romantic love as well. If I love you, does the world end? Does it matter how long it’s been, how casual the relationship is, whether you love me back? I’ve said it too early, I’ve said it too late, I’ve forced others to say it first and I’ve perhaps jumped the gun once or twice. (I told my first girlfriend that I was in love with her before we even started dating, while I was sprawled drunkenly across a canopied bed in a themed bed and breakfast. It worked out okay, but that was definitely not my finest moment.) In my experience love usually comes relatively slowly, growing out of my interactions with the object of my affection until one day I realize with surprise that I’ve passed beyond like into the realm of something else. But once I’ve made the discovery, I frankly find it a little silly now to not just say something; even if it’s unreciprocated, I just can’t be dishonest like that anymore.

With P, it was different. It would be easy to trivialize what happened between us: we were both recently out of serious long-term relationships, we’d only been sleeping together for a few weeks at most, and so far things had been relatively casual. But despite all of these things, what passed between us when we fell in love all in one night was so powerful that I still believe in its truth. I’ve never sat still and realized, all in a moment, that I loved somebody, but with P it rang clear as a bell inside my head and I literally felt it happen. It was like the cells in my body changed: one moment I was me, and the next I was me but in love, connected with somebody else in a seemingly inextricable way.

P, like many trans/queer/genderqueer/female-bodied people, has a history of sexual abuse. Before I met him, I was essentially as naive as it’s possible to be; I’d never talked knowingly with somebody who had been raped or assaulted in any way, and I had never had anything remotely threatening happen to me. I still haven’t, but now it seems almost like a miracle and I’m grateful for it. Before P I didn’t realize how fucking lucky I’d been all my life, and it still hurts me so badly to realize that people I love (some of whom have almost certainly never even mentioned it to me) have been hurt in physical and psychic ways that are simply beyond my ability to really understand. A conversation that personal is always going to make an impact, but with P it literally changed my life.

We were in bed, and we had just had pretty amazing sex. I’ve tried to write about what it feels like between P and I, but it’s hard to explain how connected we were even at the beginning, even before the love entered the equation. It has always (or as close to always as anyone could hope for) been effortless, with very few false moves or coded responses; it’s like we know what the other person wants, and so we just do it. The energy crackles. On this particular night we hadn’t been seeing each other for very long, but we’d just had relatively kinky sex (at least, kinky for my experience level at the time), and as we lounged on the pillows together he suddenly got serious and turned to me. ” I want to tell you some of the reasons why I like the things I do,” is what he said, and then it was like a dam had burst and he was telling me things that were so painful that we were both sobbing. As I cried, in shock and disbelief and sorrow and the realization that I would never fully be able to understand what his life had been like, his tears came too and we clung to each other.

I don’t know how to say this, because it sounds wrong. In this moment of extreme emotional intimacy and vulnerability, I clung to him and suddenly the electricity was back, crackling between us stronger than ever. “Hold me,” he begged, and I did, and then we were clinging to each other and smearing our tears and snot and sweat on each other and sobbing. Without my even wanting it to exactly, suddenly my hand was between his legs and my fingers were inside of him. I needed to be closer. I can’t even tell you how this felt; I needed to crawl inside him, to shelter him from these things that were already so far in the past that I had nothing to do with them, to be closer than I’d ever been to anybody before. We were both shaking, not with lust but with fear and need and a terrifying closeness that I couldn’t wrap my head around. Every touch felt like fire. And this is when I felt it, the switch from like and lust into love. Despite all logic and reason and sense–my main characteristics at the time–I was gone, dissolved in the heat of this connection that I could barely understand. It seemed inexorable, and everything that has followed since then has had an air of inevitability that nearly makes me believe in fate. We stayed pressed together that way until he spasmed around my fingers, crying the whole time. When I pulled my slick hand back I wrapped both arms around his neck and clung to him, voiceless and overcome, but as soon as I got close to him it happened again and we stayed locked into each other for longer than I would have thought possible until our bodies gave out. I slept, exhausted and scared but also resigned, and woke up the next morning to see what the day looked like.

We parted awkwardly, not talking about what had happened, only to meet up later at a diner with excellent musical choices six hours later. We ate dinner, still avoiding what had happened, and after we had lingered for several hours, giggling and shy, I asked him if he wanted me to come home with him. We walked there in the rain, holding hands publically for the first time awkwardly while balancing our leftovers, and when we got home and went straight to bed the same exact thing happened. I think we had both been secretly hoping that the previous night was an abberation; to go from fucking or having sex to making love is pretty intimidating, especially for a pair as recently close as we were. But again, as soon as I touched him I felt this incredible flow of power and energy between us, this deep and powerful connection that seemed to fasten me to him in a way that I was not prepared to deal with. It literally felt to me like a cord between my chest and his, tying me not exactly to his heart but to something deeper.

We didn’t say the words for another day or two, but I remember when we did. I already knew and I was too afraid to just blurt it out, but when we were at my place–which was much less private and so safely away from the scene at his apartment–I pushed my luck. I was lying on top of him, and he balked at saying something and I grabbed his wrists and hissed “Say it!” as I pushed him back. I needed the bravado to force him, to make him say what I was too afraid to. And he did, stammering out an ‘I love you’ as I pressed down into him, relieved to be in the same place and headed in the same direction. “I love you too,” I whispered as I bent down to kiss him. And even though things have moved in entirely unforeseeable directions since that day and our connection had transformed into something different (and, thank god, healthier), I would never say that I regretted it. Love, no matter the circumstances past present or future, is beautiful.