Last Saturday, I hung out with the Magician. The plan was to hang out in the afternoon - watch a movie, probably, then I'd go home for dinner with Apollo (who had to work that day), then back out to see the Magician sing in a choral concert. I invited Apollo, who declined on the basis of Tired and Worn Out.
I got to his place sometime around three, and after enthusiastically greeting his cats and meeting his roommate, we decided on Batman Begins, since I'd yet to see it, and simply must see the one coming out in July (oh, Heath Ledger. Another teen crush in the Dead Guys pile, along with Jim Morrison and George Harrison). I really enjoyed the movie. Which means that I paid attention. There was minimal cuddling - some back rubbing and head-scratching, but that was it.
Left, picked up food for Apollo and myself on the way home, and had a lovely dinner (and a quickie! Whee!) before going back out to hear my first ever Requiem (Verdi's, for those interested). I thoroughly enjoyed it...though I had to restrain my laughter when I saw "Pie Jesu Domine/Dona eis requiem" in the lyrics/libretto? and realized that it's what the monks in The Quest for the Holy Grail are chanting.
Afterwards, the Magician mentioned that some folks were going to the Mellow Mushroom, and asked when I needed to be home. I called Apollo to find out where he was on the Going To Bed process - and found him very nearly there; thus, he didn't care if I stayed out later - he'd be sleeping either way. So, I decided to stay out. But upon further reflection, we decided that The Mellow Mushroom was very likely to be very, very crowded at 9:30 on a Saturday night. So we went back to his place and watched Spaceballs with his roommate - another first viewing for me! There was substantially more cuddling. There was also a mid-movie pause for the getting of ice-cream, then more cuddling. There was more cuddling after the movie ended.
And by cuddling, I mean deliberate, exquisite skritches - nails on the stomach, legs, arms, back and neck. Thorough backrubs. Fingers in my hair. And he was so careful, so conscientious, skirting the boundaries of being explicitly "sexual" - running his fingers right below my bra and right above my breasts, along, but not under, the edge of my skirt. Oh, shivers. Asking, low and compelling, "Do you want more?" My answer of an enthusiastic nod and a few incoherent syllables led to his hand suddenly on my breast, over my clothes, but still electric. Edging, patiently, under shirt, under bra to run those nails over my nipples as I clutched at him, writhing. His hands in my hair, pulling just right - large sections of hair, with steady, intense force. Acquiescing with no visible annoyance or distress to my need to keep it above the waist. And he held me, grounding and gentling me down, before I left that night.
As the song says,
"Mm, he's a magic man.
Ahh, he's got magic hands."
What an abundance I have at this time in my life. What plenitude of uniqueness. Even with all the work, the balancing, the scheduling, the schoolwork....even with all that, I can't imagine preferring monogamy. There's too much out there. Too many amazing people with too many exquisite talents/selves/bodies. There's too great a range of sexual/sensual experience and joy...from the comfortable, thrilling full-on intercourse with Apollo to random flirtation, with bites and skritches, at Rocky to playdates to militant cuddling on couches. I love it all. I want it all. I don't want to choose or exclude. I'm willing to work at it to have it all. Willing to continue working on communication and time management skills. Willing to keep examining and checking motives and ethical situations. Willing to accept that this...this...greed? ravenous-ness? expansiveness of affection? generosity with myself? ....whatever...is worthy of being nurtured and indulged, within the bounds of ethical behavior. Willing to keep listening to my boundaries for sexual and emotional connection, even when they seem silly to me...understanding that they don't have to make sense, they just are.
Life is so damn good.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
There is no smoking in the fucking theater...
- and no fucking in the smoking theater!
I leaned against the railing, breathing and allowing the Frankenfurter's voice to become background noise. Waiting.
"This is a loud venue, so hand signals will be important," he reminded me.
"Ok. One for yellow, two for red, yes?"
"Yes. Ready?"
"Yes."
Waiting. Then the thud begins. I can tell, even after just these couple of times, that he's hitting harder, faster. Not giving me as much warm-up time. And that's ok. I am pulling back, into the flogger's path, into the rhythm, encouraging a deeper hit. I feel myself floating away, easing out of normal space. He pauses to check in. I am still very good. He resumes. Suddenly, there are hands pulling at my hair while the flogger strikes my shoulders, ass and thighs. I gasp deeper, but don't look up. There are teeth in my neck, teeth on my shoulder. A hand, under my chin, raising my eyes. Oh, beautiful Cloaked Norseman, more serious than I'd previously seen, eyes half-lidded. He briefly confirms with RHF, that yes, it's is alright and even appreciated that he add his efforts to this scene. Then the hands in my hair, and the teeth on my neck, and the flogger on my ass. And suddenly, the flogger licks between my legs, my fishnet-and-underwear covered legs. I tremble. The sensations continue, building, until at some point, there are three sets of hands on me, for RHF's girlfriend has joined, and I'm shaking from the stimulation. Shaking.
"Are you good for now?"
"Yes. Oh yes."
"If I sit you down somewhere, will you stay there for a while?"
"....Yes. Yes."
I am seeing why one doesn't necessarily go to Rocky for the movie...you go for the kink and the company. Time to flirt, time to play, time to drop the seriousness of GradStudentTA self, and be Shining, Touch-Loving Joy.
I leaned against the railing, breathing and allowing the Frankenfurter's voice to become background noise. Waiting.
"This is a loud venue, so hand signals will be important," he reminded me.
"Ok. One for yellow, two for red, yes?"
"Yes. Ready?"
"Yes."
Waiting. Then the thud begins. I can tell, even after just these couple of times, that he's hitting harder, faster. Not giving me as much warm-up time. And that's ok. I am pulling back, into the flogger's path, into the rhythm, encouraging a deeper hit. I feel myself floating away, easing out of normal space. He pauses to check in. I am still very good. He resumes. Suddenly, there are hands pulling at my hair while the flogger strikes my shoulders, ass and thighs. I gasp deeper, but don't look up. There are teeth in my neck, teeth on my shoulder. A hand, under my chin, raising my eyes. Oh, beautiful Cloaked Norseman, more serious than I'd previously seen, eyes half-lidded. He briefly confirms with RHF, that yes, it's is alright and even appreciated that he add his efforts to this scene. Then the hands in my hair, and the teeth on my neck, and the flogger on my ass. And suddenly, the flogger licks between my legs, my fishnet-and-underwear covered legs. I tremble. The sensations continue, building, until at some point, there are three sets of hands on me, for RHF's girlfriend has joined, and I'm shaking from the stimulation. Shaking.
"Are you good for now?"
"Yes. Oh yes."
"If I sit you down somewhere, will you stay there for a while?"
"....Yes. Yes."
I am seeing why one doesn't necessarily go to Rocky for the movie...you go for the kink and the company. Time to flirt, time to play, time to drop the seriousness of GradStudentTA self, and be Shining, Touch-Loving Joy.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Send whips of opinion down my back, Give me more!
So. I may or may not finish out the Spring Break postings. Things are too exciting for me right now to want to go back and recap older events.
So. After last Saturday's first foray into the world of kink, I kept up with the guy who'd flogged me - RHF. Ceres gave him my IM name so he could serve as a contact between myself and the Magician...though I was happy to have an avenue of contact with him, as he was pretty fascinating in his own right. So, we talked via IM. And it became clear that he was interested in playing more. And I was interested in playing more. And he wanted...oh, he was interested in setting up a power dynamic. And immediately, I got a bit scared. What if I didn't like it? What if I *really* liked it, and the intensity got out of hand? What if his style of dominance doesn't match my (theoretical) style of submission? What if it's too soon? Isn't power exchange kinda the Point Of No Return, and once you make that part of a relationship, it's marked as that forever'n'always? But we continued discussing it, and he assured me that if a dynamic doesn't work for me, we could reconsider that, especially at this early point in the game. I felt better about it, talked to Apollo about it and received enthusiastic approval, and before I knew it, I'd scheduled a play date for Friday - yesterday.
We agreed that this scene would be 1. Primarily sensory exploration for me, with light focus on establishing a dynamic. 2. Focused on striking with different instruments. and 3. The explicitly sexual contact would stay above the waist.
Even after we set these boundaries, I found myself constantly worrying. My Inner 2nd Wave Feminist was shouting at me about allowing a Man To Tell Me What To Do, telling me that I Don't Need A Man To Define Me or Give Me Worth. I had to remind her that I can remain intact, as a strong, independent woman, and still submit, as I choose, when I choose, and to whom I choose. I had to remind her that I had already made it clear that humiliation/degradation play is a Hard Limit for me - I *am* worthy, dammit, whether I'm submitting or not. And being made to feel worthless is not my idea of a healthy or sexy time (I do understand that for some folks, this sort of play is cathartic and/or a way to deal with Stuff...but that's not what I Need). One of the funny parts is that I don't think she would have kicked up such a fuss if I were going to be submitting to a Domme...but because it was a man, the situation was much more loaded.
Once I was there, though, in the room, clothes in a pile, the cross cool against my back, it was ok. The fear and anxiety dissipated. I was breathing, slow and deep, staying calm, staying grounded. Then he put on the nipple clamps. They didn't hurt going on...but I will admit that although I know he was doing something else to me during that time, I don't for the life of me remember exactly what it was, except that there was some other sensation competing with the ever-increasing ache of the clamps for my attention. He checked in, and I admitted that the clamps were really pushing my tolerance. "Do you know how I like to take clamps off?" he asked. I shook my head, but inwardly I was accessing my SM101 info on the application and removal of clamps...and was fairly certain that I had a clear idea of what he planned to do. So I inhaled deeply, and held it. "Ready? 1...2..." And I exhaled as he slapped/jerked/otherwise abruptly removed the clamp. Oh gods. This, now this was Pain. And I wasn't sure that I liked it. The process repeated on the other breast, followed by a brief tweak of the nipple, which sent me cringing.
Fortunately, he then had me turn around, and put my hands and feet in cuffs - the cuffs for my hands were rather fancy - they had a bar for me to grip, which turned out to be most useful. From here, the experience blurs into a melange of flogging (ohgodsohgods, I was floating), knife play (I'd told him that I enjoy this...no actual cutting, but knives are sexxy), scratching, hair pulling, and kisses. Damn. Potent, potent combination. By the time he turned me around again to finish up, I was trembling and decidedly not quite with my body...having a beautiful time of it. His final choice was a long, narrow piece of wood, and he informed me that these strokes would be across my breasts. He also informed me that I would be counting these strokes. As the first blow fell on my right nipple, I realized that this, like the clamps, would be an experience of less-than-overtly-enjoyable pain. Once we reached four (I was very proud that my voice hadn't faltered), he paused to check in. "How are you doing now?" I was about to answer, when his mouth closed over my left nipple. I gasped, speechless. "I asked you a question," his mouth still hovering above my breast. I searched my brain, and came up with something to the effect of "Ok, but I can't take much more." "How many more can you take, then?" I thought, and decided on two. I could handle one more on each breast. He doled out these two strokes, then tweaked my nipples. At this, I came the closest to actually safewording, but he stopped there, kissing me and helping me down to the bed. He covered me with a furry blanket, and offered to leave me alone to process, or to stay with me. I asked him to stay, and he curled up behind me, spooning.
We stayed that way for over an hour - me alternately silent, laughing, pondering, and being amazed at just how high I was from that. He assured me that I'd done well. That he'd enjoyed it. That he loved my responsiveness, and was looking forward to playing more. Though, he did modify the last comment with the observation that if we were to play very frequently, at this level of sexual contact, things could get rather...frustrating. I thought this very understandable, and assured him that I did not see our play remaining at this level of overt sexual activity for an indeterminate time. Finally, I felt competent to drive, and he needed to go to work. So we parted ways, me still giddy. So giddy in fact that I went home and jumped on Apollo. Which just made me even more giddy. Not, of course, that I'm complaining about this.
Later on that evening, I decided to go out to Rocky in the hopes of seeing and flirting with the Magician. So I went. I did not dress up like I normally do for RHPS...I was going alone, and didn't want to be walking around downtown in my corset, fishnets, and undies...even a skirt over them would have been too risque for me without at least one other person with me. But I went. And boy, am I ever glad that I did. I didn't see the Magician right away, so I stood in the back of the theater, enjoying the pre-show madness. Not long after, I felt a hand brush my ass, and saw a beautiful, built boy scampering away with a guilty look - I smiled, and he said "Now, I had absolutely nothing to do with that!" But he was playful, and fabulously gay (and thus very safe to be physical with), so we poked at each other, hugging and exchanging pleasantries. He had very warm hands, and a charming smile, and he assured me that we'd share his prop bag. I told him that I generally prefer to simply shout obscenities...but that I'd be happy to partake in props. He ran off to help with pre-show banter, and the Magician showed up. For the rest of the night, with only brief breaks, I was surrounded by flirting and back rubs and hair pulling and much, much happy, friendly, sexually charged fun. There was Hyacinth, the beautiful gayboy, who periodically came to visit me in the lobby, where the Magician and I had migrated for easier talking, and sit on my lap. There was the Magician, whose back rubs were thorough and just slightly less amazing than the skritches from his *incredible* fingernails. Finally, there was the Cloaked Norseman (CN) who had long, soft hair and made appreciative noises when it was played with. He also gave exquisite, vampiric bites to the arm, neck, and shoulder regions. I was elated, lusciously in contact, feeling very free and very spoiled. Feeling, on the one hand, like a bit of a Huge Fucking Tease, but on the other hand knowing that it was all out in the open - that there were no expectations from any of the boys I flirted with, no pressure. They were willing to flirt and play without needing it to be more. Yay. Beautiful boys!
So. After last Saturday's first foray into the world of kink, I kept up with the guy who'd flogged me - RHF. Ceres gave him my IM name so he could serve as a contact between myself and the Magician...though I was happy to have an avenue of contact with him, as he was pretty fascinating in his own right. So, we talked via IM. And it became clear that he was interested in playing more. And I was interested in playing more. And he wanted...oh, he was interested in setting up a power dynamic. And immediately, I got a bit scared. What if I didn't like it? What if I *really* liked it, and the intensity got out of hand? What if his style of dominance doesn't match my (theoretical) style of submission? What if it's too soon? Isn't power exchange kinda the Point Of No Return, and once you make that part of a relationship, it's marked as that forever'n'always? But we continued discussing it, and he assured me that if a dynamic doesn't work for me, we could reconsider that, especially at this early point in the game. I felt better about it, talked to Apollo about it and received enthusiastic approval, and before I knew it, I'd scheduled a play date for Friday - yesterday.
We agreed that this scene would be 1. Primarily sensory exploration for me, with light focus on establishing a dynamic. 2. Focused on striking with different instruments. and 3. The explicitly sexual contact would stay above the waist.
Even after we set these boundaries, I found myself constantly worrying. My Inner 2nd Wave Feminist was shouting at me about allowing a Man To Tell Me What To Do, telling me that I Don't Need A Man To Define Me or Give Me Worth. I had to remind her that I can remain intact, as a strong, independent woman, and still submit, as I choose, when I choose, and to whom I choose. I had to remind her that I had already made it clear that humiliation/degradation play is a Hard Limit for me - I *am* worthy, dammit, whether I'm submitting or not. And being made to feel worthless is not my idea of a healthy or sexy time (I do understand that for some folks, this sort of play is cathartic and/or a way to deal with Stuff...but that's not what I Need). One of the funny parts is that I don't think she would have kicked up such a fuss if I were going to be submitting to a Domme...but because it was a man, the situation was much more loaded.
Once I was there, though, in the room, clothes in a pile, the cross cool against my back, it was ok. The fear and anxiety dissipated. I was breathing, slow and deep, staying calm, staying grounded. Then he put on the nipple clamps. They didn't hurt going on...but I will admit that although I know he was doing something else to me during that time, I don't for the life of me remember exactly what it was, except that there was some other sensation competing with the ever-increasing ache of the clamps for my attention. He checked in, and I admitted that the clamps were really pushing my tolerance. "Do you know how I like to take clamps off?" he asked. I shook my head, but inwardly I was accessing my SM101 info on the application and removal of clamps...and was fairly certain that I had a clear idea of what he planned to do. So I inhaled deeply, and held it. "Ready? 1...2..." And I exhaled as he slapped/jerked/otherwise abruptly removed the clamp. Oh gods. This, now this was Pain. And I wasn't sure that I liked it. The process repeated on the other breast, followed by a brief tweak of the nipple, which sent me cringing.
Fortunately, he then had me turn around, and put my hands and feet in cuffs - the cuffs for my hands were rather fancy - they had a bar for me to grip, which turned out to be most useful. From here, the experience blurs into a melange of flogging (ohgodsohgods, I was floating), knife play (I'd told him that I enjoy this...no actual cutting, but knives are sexxy), scratching, hair pulling, and kisses. Damn. Potent, potent combination. By the time he turned me around again to finish up, I was trembling and decidedly not quite with my body...having a beautiful time of it. His final choice was a long, narrow piece of wood, and he informed me that these strokes would be across my breasts. He also informed me that I would be counting these strokes. As the first blow fell on my right nipple, I realized that this, like the clamps, would be an experience of less-than-overtly-enjoyable pain. Once we reached four (I was very proud that my voice hadn't faltered), he paused to check in. "How are you doing now?" I was about to answer, when his mouth closed over my left nipple. I gasped, speechless. "I asked you a question," his mouth still hovering above my breast. I searched my brain, and came up with something to the effect of "Ok, but I can't take much more." "How many more can you take, then?" I thought, and decided on two. I could handle one more on each breast. He doled out these two strokes, then tweaked my nipples. At this, I came the closest to actually safewording, but he stopped there, kissing me and helping me down to the bed. He covered me with a furry blanket, and offered to leave me alone to process, or to stay with me. I asked him to stay, and he curled up behind me, spooning.
We stayed that way for over an hour - me alternately silent, laughing, pondering, and being amazed at just how high I was from that. He assured me that I'd done well. That he'd enjoyed it. That he loved my responsiveness, and was looking forward to playing more. Though, he did modify the last comment with the observation that if we were to play very frequently, at this level of sexual contact, things could get rather...frustrating. I thought this very understandable, and assured him that I did not see our play remaining at this level of overt sexual activity for an indeterminate time. Finally, I felt competent to drive, and he needed to go to work. So we parted ways, me still giddy. So giddy in fact that I went home and jumped on Apollo. Which just made me even more giddy. Not, of course, that I'm complaining about this.
Later on that evening, I decided to go out to Rocky in the hopes of seeing and flirting with the Magician. So I went. I did not dress up like I normally do for RHPS...I was going alone, and didn't want to be walking around downtown in my corset, fishnets, and undies...even a skirt over them would have been too risque for me without at least one other person with me. But I went. And boy, am I ever glad that I did. I didn't see the Magician right away, so I stood in the back of the theater, enjoying the pre-show madness. Not long after, I felt a hand brush my ass, and saw a beautiful, built boy scampering away with a guilty look - I smiled, and he said "Now, I had absolutely nothing to do with that!" But he was playful, and fabulously gay (and thus very safe to be physical with), so we poked at each other, hugging and exchanging pleasantries. He had very warm hands, and a charming smile, and he assured me that we'd share his prop bag. I told him that I generally prefer to simply shout obscenities...but that I'd be happy to partake in props. He ran off to help with pre-show banter, and the Magician showed up. For the rest of the night, with only brief breaks, I was surrounded by flirting and back rubs and hair pulling and much, much happy, friendly, sexually charged fun. There was Hyacinth, the beautiful gayboy, who periodically came to visit me in the lobby, where the Magician and I had migrated for easier talking, and sit on my lap. There was the Magician, whose back rubs were thorough and just slightly less amazing than the skritches from his *incredible* fingernails. Finally, there was the Cloaked Norseman (CN) who had long, soft hair and made appreciative noises when it was played with. He also gave exquisite, vampiric bites to the arm, neck, and shoulder regions. I was elated, lusciously in contact, feeling very free and very spoiled. Feeling, on the one hand, like a bit of a Huge Fucking Tease, but on the other hand knowing that it was all out in the open - that there were no expectations from any of the boys I flirted with, no pressure. They were willing to flirt and play without needing it to be more. Yay. Beautiful boys!
Sunday, April 6, 2008
A pause in the Spring Break Posts for First Time Kink
...which really do need to be written, but, then, this post also Really Needs to Be Written.
Last night, my friend Ceres invited me to go with her to "Temptation Night" at a local club - a goth/fetish night. There would be goth music, dancing, drinks (of course) and a playroom - and this last bit sealed the deal. I've been waiting, for awhile, for a safe set of circumstances under which to start my explorations of BDSM, and this seemed perfect. There wouldn't be anything too intense or too sexual going on - it is a normal club with a playroom, not a dungeon. I would have Ceres by my side, so she'd be watching out for me and could give me references as to the reputation/trustworthiness of folks. Finally, if I got there and discovered that I didn't want to actually *do* anything that night, there'd be no pressure - it would be easy to just watch.
So I went. I put on my scarlet corset, my black pinstripe skirt, my fishnets, high(ish) heels, and a tailored pinstripe jacket. Did my hair Rocky Horror style in two buns. Actually put on makeup, and was ready to go. (I did consider going for a schoolgirl look...but decided that I didn't want the sort/amount of attention that would get me. Not for my first night at a BDSM event, anyway.)
We got to the club at about 11pm. There were lots of people there, but not a lot going on in the way of play. Possibly no one had found the playroom yet - it certainly took us a bit to do so! But, finally we discovered it. The doorway was nearly concealed in a corner, and the room was merely curtained off from the rest of the club. I couldn't bring myself to look, the first time we approached it. So I stood outside the door and read the rules for the room while Ceres went inside to scope it out. She reported to me that there was a bench, a St. Andrew's cross, and a chair - but not much else. After midnight, though, she said, it would probably take off and I'd be able to see some action.
Ceres wanted water, and I wanted a beer, so we meandered over to the bar where I got a Blue Moon (draught) for $2. $2!!! That alone would have made my night a fairly happy one. As we were drinking, Ceres glanced one of the folks she knew from the BDSM community and beckoned him over. We sat chatting until another man, known henceforward as Nemesis because that's how I thought of him all night, joined the first and began chatting with us. Ceres mentioned that I was "a virgin" (to which I said, "I am not! Not in the conventional sense, anyway." She assured me that anyone here would take "virgin" in the correct context.), and here to watch/try new things. Nemesis immediately offered me "some rope," pointing out that it would look wonderful against my corset, and implying that it would be a great pleasure for him to apply said rope. He assured me that it could be merely pretty - or restrictive, and that he had a great deal of experience in this area, and had tied several rope virgins. I immediately felt the wave of "Ooh...giddy!" but wasn't quite sure. I asked if I could have a bit of time to think about it, and find him later, which he said was fine by him. He left us, and I exploded into giggles.
As I reached for my half-drunk beer, I remembered everything I'd ever read about BDSM safety, and how one should not do BDSM while substantially intoxicated. Granted, even at my lightweight status, half a beer wasn't going to impair my judgment, but I was fairly sure now that I wanted to be tied, and perhaps more, in the course of the evening. I consulted Ceres about this, and she confirmed that one beer would probably not hurt me, but that if I planned to be flogged or hit in any way, I should probably start drinking water. We also agreed that it would probably be good if I limited myself to two discrete new experiences tonight - say, being tied up and a flogging. Those were on the top of my list. So, I got a cup of water, and we decided to go find Nemesis.
We found him putting the finishing touches on a woman's rope harness - on the stage, behind the dancers. I watched, fascinated. This was kink, and I was seeing it. This was rope bondage/play, and I was seeing it. After they descended, and the woman went off in another direction, we approached him. "Did you see that?" he asked. "Just the last bit - not the prep work. It was very lovely, though, and...I'd be interested. If you have a moment. When you have a moment." He smiled. "Just give me a few minutes." "Ok, thank you! I'll be in the playroom." The playroom, by this time, was much more active. There was a woman up on the cross, getting flogged. There was a violet wand, and a man using it on another man. There were chair massages being given, and a a signup sheet. There was a rack of tools out - crops, floggers, slappers, and even a bunch of feathers. There was tape of several sorts and a pair of competent-looking scissors laid out on the top of a crate. Ceres signed up for a chair massage, and I gazed at the flogging in process. What would it be like, I wondered, to be bound up to a cross for the express purpose of being hit? I had half expected that BDSM in person would not be as exciting as BDSM in writing/imagination. But it was. The cross, especially, brought up images of holy agony, martyrdom, fanatical monks beating themselves as penance...of all the ordeals that go with and all the ways that pain can play into a visceral, mystical spirituality.
As I was contemplating this, I felt a light touch at my shoulder, and saw that Nemesis had returned and was ready for me. The woman was just coming down off the cross, so we waited till she was clear, and took the space near the cross for our purposes. Nemesis started off by asking if I was claustrophobic, if I'd broken anything in my chest area, etc. He then asked if I wanted something merely pretty, or if I wanted to be restrained. I had thought about this, and told him that although my primary interest in rope is for purposes of restraint, it might be better not to try that my first time. He nodded, and suggested a box harness - a nice blend of pretty and restriction with my arms crossed behind my back. That didn't sound too extreme or too frightening, so I assented. He reminded me that if At Any Point I needed him to stop, he would. I could be cut out of the harness in less than 10 seconds, he assured me - and don't hesitate to ask for it. I nodded, grateful for the attention to safety.
He got out his rope - a lovely blue blend - and began by tying my wrists together. I was concentrating on breathing deeply, noticing how I felt, noting my sensations. I felt the slightest bit of panic when the rope tightened below my breasts, but a breath or two did the trick. The reality that I could not move/use my arms and hands began to come very clear to me. And that was ok. I was in a place of assurance, of peace. I was alright with letting go of the responsibility of using my own hands/arms, and being confident that my needs would be taken care of. He kept talking/chatting to me through the process in an effort to make this merely a tying-up of a rope virgin, rather than any sort of "scene" with serious headspace going on. I was appreciative of this, for while headspace is eventually the goal, I knew that I probably shouldn't be going there on my first night in a playspace. At the same time, though, I wanted to go there. I was almost annoyed by being continually asked to be verbal. I could have easily slid into that fuzzy, warm, non-verbal space that trance or sex put me into.
After he finished, he said something about calling for him or [someone else's name here] if I needed to get out of it. I suppose my face must have gone a bit panicky, because Ceres asked if I needed to come out of it right now. I had not even considered the possibility of walking around the club like that...of being helpless to keep up with my things in a place where I knew almost noone. That, now, was a bit too much. I apologized profusely, but said that I didn't think I could do that right now, in this situation. Nemesis was gracious, and untied me. The freedom to use my arms was...novel. I hadn't been bound for that long, but it was still neat to regain freedom of movement. Verdict: Rope bondage = Yay, and lots.
Directly after this, Ceres was getting up on the cross to get a flogging from one of her good friends in the scene, hereafter known as the Rocky Horror Flogger (RHF). As they were preparing, I began chatting about my rope experience with a guy Ceres had introduced me to earlier. Eventually, a small group formed, and when it came out to the newcomers that I was "trying new things," guy with a fantastic beard asked if I'd ever tried - or would want to try - the violet wand. Now, I've heard great things about this instrument. I know folks who are generally not-kinky who love it. I know kinky folks who love it. But...I had limited myself to two discrete experiences, right? And, well, I really wanted to get flogged for the first time. But...I didn't know if I'd have the opportunity, if there was anyone Ceres trusted to give a flogging gentle enough for me (RHF has a reputation for being rather rough). So I accepted the offer of getting acquainted with the violet wand. The Magician (because a magician has a wand...get it? Hee.) sat me down on the bench, and began explaining the wand to me. The swirly disc-like attachment that he started out with wasn't bad, but could easily be too much. And it wasn't really a sensation that turned me on. When he got out the little metal fingertip/claws, it got better. But, then, I love the sensation of nails or a point being dragged over my skin anyway. And the occasional sharp pain wasn't sexy...it just made me cringe. I felt kinda bad that I didn't enjoy it more - he was really very kind and doing his damndest to make it a good experience. But he didn't seem to take offense, and that's really part of learning, I suppose. Finding out what I don't like as well as what I do like. Verdict: Magician? Yes please! Violet wand? Not so much. Not at this point, at least.
Pretty soon after this, Ceres's beating was done, and we went to wander around and watch the dancers. Goth dancing is awesome. It's cute and hot and funny and overly dramatic. And did I mention the amount of hot boys on the dance floor? Ye-ah. Pretty boys dancing. It doesn't get a whole lot better (ok, it does. But still.). As we were watching, we saw a beautiful (and when I say beautiful, I mean goddamned gorgeous) Asian-looking man with hair nearly down to his ass and a large and lovely flogger at his waist. He was walking past us, and neither Ceres nor I could take our eyes off of him. Oy. Dangerous place, with such lovely boys! Ceres eventually got bored with the dancing, so we decided to go mingle. I popped back into the playroom to check out the waiting list for chair massages, and put my name down. As I was filling out the card, I came to the realization that Goddamned Gorgeous Man (GGM) was standing right beside me. Oh gods.
After I finished filling out the card, he turned to me, and mentioned that he'd seen me being tied up earlier, and asked how I liked it. We fell to chatting about it being my first time, and what the experience was like, and what brought me to BDSM in the first place. And then it was my turn to be massaged. Wow. I've had a few different professional massages in my brief life, and this one wasn't the best. But it was a Far Cry from being the worst, especially for a chair massage. Mm. When I got up from it, I was slightly saddened to see that GGM was no longer in the playroom. Ceres mentioned that he'd been popping in and out while I'd been getting my massage, so he'd probably be back. She also mentioned that her friend, RHF, had said that if I wanted a flogging, he would to his utmost to be gentle. I did some considering, decided that rules were made to be broken, and concluded that I shouldn't pass up the chance for a flogging when it presented itself.
At the moment, RHF was occupied with another girl, helping her into the cuffs, so I had awhile. During her flogging, GGM returned, and we continued chatting. I realized very clearly during this conversation something that had been bothering me all night: I should not expect to be at my most coherent/eloquent (especially with a beeautiful man) when I'm flying high on New Experience/Kinky Endorphins. I may have looked my best, but I'm sure I didn't come off as my normal, intelligent self. I was too busy grinning and searching for adjectives that wouldn't come to my harried brain. After a while, GGM decided to go find his friends - but not before expressing a hope to see me at future events of this nature. Everything from my waist down was begging me to ask him for a demonstration of that flogger of his...but I didn't know him and Ceres didn't either, so I decided that would have to stay in my fantasies for the time being.
RHF finished with the girl, and gestured to me. Here it was. The moment - I was going to be on a cross, getting hit. He fastened me into the cuffs and showed me the flogger he would use, assuring me that he'd start very, very light and check in often. He said I should flash one hand at him for "yellow", and both for "red." I stretched out my arms, grabbed the handles where the chains attached, and breathed. This time, I let myself slip, a little. The first touch of the flogger was whisper-light, more breeze than contact. He built into a rhythm of figure-8 strokes, more contact, but still more breeze. He increased the intensity a bit, and it began to hurt, just a little. He paused, rubbing my back, and asked if I was ok. I said yes, and he continued. The intensity kept building till suddenly there was a pause, and a discrete, distinct single blow on my shoulder, Then on the other shoulder. Then back - five or six times before resuming the figure-8. But oh, those strokes - definitely more contact that air, more thud, more shock, more jolting me out of normal consciousness. During those distinct strokes I could feel myself slipping, slipping into the rhythm, into the pattern. It was not truly painful, yet, but it was powerful. He paused again, checked, and continued. Again, the intensity heightened. This time, I could feel the single strokes pushing my tolerance - not dangerously, but making me aware of the fact that they did, in fact, hurt. When he checked in again, I told him that he was probably at the maximum intensity I could take for tonight. He nodded, and resumed, not going above that intensity. The next time he checked in, I told him I was ready to be done. I could have stayed there longer, but I would have gone farther away than I was ready to go that night. He brought out a fluffy, warm...ball of something, and rubbed my shoulders and arms, gentling and grounding me down. He unfastened me from the cuffs, helped me down, and hugged me. Verdict: Flogging? Yes. And more!!
For the rest of the night (which was not very long), I was buzzing, flying, thrilled. I was encouraged by both the Magician and RHF to attend more of these events, or, due to the unpredictability of scheduling these things, they informed me that they could both be found at the weekly showing of RHPS, hanging out with the cast and crew, and that they both brought their "bag of tricks" with them. Hee.
This was *exactly* what my first experience with the BDSM scene/activities needed to be, for me. Low pressure, lots of support, and good, respectful, safety-conscious people. Wheee!
Last night, my friend Ceres invited me to go with her to "Temptation Night" at a local club - a goth/fetish night. There would be goth music, dancing, drinks (of course) and a playroom - and this last bit sealed the deal. I've been waiting, for awhile, for a safe set of circumstances under which to start my explorations of BDSM, and this seemed perfect. There wouldn't be anything too intense or too sexual going on - it is a normal club with a playroom, not a dungeon. I would have Ceres by my side, so she'd be watching out for me and could give me references as to the reputation/trustworthiness of folks. Finally, if I got there and discovered that I didn't want to actually *do* anything that night, there'd be no pressure - it would be easy to just watch.
So I went. I put on my scarlet corset, my black pinstripe skirt, my fishnets, high(ish) heels, and a tailored pinstripe jacket. Did my hair Rocky Horror style in two buns. Actually put on makeup, and was ready to go. (I did consider going for a schoolgirl look...but decided that I didn't want the sort/amount of attention that would get me. Not for my first night at a BDSM event, anyway.)
We got to the club at about 11pm. There were lots of people there, but not a lot going on in the way of play. Possibly no one had found the playroom yet - it certainly took us a bit to do so! But, finally we discovered it. The doorway was nearly concealed in a corner, and the room was merely curtained off from the rest of the club. I couldn't bring myself to look, the first time we approached it. So I stood outside the door and read the rules for the room while Ceres went inside to scope it out. She reported to me that there was a bench, a St. Andrew's cross, and a chair - but not much else. After midnight, though, she said, it would probably take off and I'd be able to see some action.
Ceres wanted water, and I wanted a beer, so we meandered over to the bar where I got a Blue Moon (draught) for $2. $2!!! That alone would have made my night a fairly happy one. As we were drinking, Ceres glanced one of the folks she knew from the BDSM community and beckoned him over. We sat chatting until another man, known henceforward as Nemesis because that's how I thought of him all night, joined the first and began chatting with us. Ceres mentioned that I was "a virgin" (to which I said, "I am not! Not in the conventional sense, anyway." She assured me that anyone here would take "virgin" in the correct context.), and here to watch/try new things. Nemesis immediately offered me "some rope," pointing out that it would look wonderful against my corset, and implying that it would be a great pleasure for him to apply said rope. He assured me that it could be merely pretty - or restrictive, and that he had a great deal of experience in this area, and had tied several rope virgins. I immediately felt the wave of "Ooh...giddy!" but wasn't quite sure. I asked if I could have a bit of time to think about it, and find him later, which he said was fine by him. He left us, and I exploded into giggles.
As I reached for my half-drunk beer, I remembered everything I'd ever read about BDSM safety, and how one should not do BDSM while substantially intoxicated. Granted, even at my lightweight status, half a beer wasn't going to impair my judgment, but I was fairly sure now that I wanted to be tied, and perhaps more, in the course of the evening. I consulted Ceres about this, and she confirmed that one beer would probably not hurt me, but that if I planned to be flogged or hit in any way, I should probably start drinking water. We also agreed that it would probably be good if I limited myself to two discrete new experiences tonight - say, being tied up and a flogging. Those were on the top of my list. So, I got a cup of water, and we decided to go find Nemesis.
We found him putting the finishing touches on a woman's rope harness - on the stage, behind the dancers. I watched, fascinated. This was kink, and I was seeing it. This was rope bondage/play, and I was seeing it. After they descended, and the woman went off in another direction, we approached him. "Did you see that?" he asked. "Just the last bit - not the prep work. It was very lovely, though, and...I'd be interested. If you have a moment. When you have a moment." He smiled. "Just give me a few minutes." "Ok, thank you! I'll be in the playroom." The playroom, by this time, was much more active. There was a woman up on the cross, getting flogged. There was a violet wand, and a man using it on another man. There were chair massages being given, and a a signup sheet. There was a rack of tools out - crops, floggers, slappers, and even a bunch of feathers. There was tape of several sorts and a pair of competent-looking scissors laid out on the top of a crate. Ceres signed up for a chair massage, and I gazed at the flogging in process. What would it be like, I wondered, to be bound up to a cross for the express purpose of being hit? I had half expected that BDSM in person would not be as exciting as BDSM in writing/imagination. But it was. The cross, especially, brought up images of holy agony, martyrdom, fanatical monks beating themselves as penance...of all the ordeals that go with and all the ways that pain can play into a visceral, mystical spirituality.
As I was contemplating this, I felt a light touch at my shoulder, and saw that Nemesis had returned and was ready for me. The woman was just coming down off the cross, so we waited till she was clear, and took the space near the cross for our purposes. Nemesis started off by asking if I was claustrophobic, if I'd broken anything in my chest area, etc. He then asked if I wanted something merely pretty, or if I wanted to be restrained. I had thought about this, and told him that although my primary interest in rope is for purposes of restraint, it might be better not to try that my first time. He nodded, and suggested a box harness - a nice blend of pretty and restriction with my arms crossed behind my back. That didn't sound too extreme or too frightening, so I assented. He reminded me that if At Any Point I needed him to stop, he would. I could be cut out of the harness in less than 10 seconds, he assured me - and don't hesitate to ask for it. I nodded, grateful for the attention to safety.
He got out his rope - a lovely blue blend - and began by tying my wrists together. I was concentrating on breathing deeply, noticing how I felt, noting my sensations. I felt the slightest bit of panic when the rope tightened below my breasts, but a breath or two did the trick. The reality that I could not move/use my arms and hands began to come very clear to me. And that was ok. I was in a place of assurance, of peace. I was alright with letting go of the responsibility of using my own hands/arms, and being confident that my needs would be taken care of. He kept talking/chatting to me through the process in an effort to make this merely a tying-up of a rope virgin, rather than any sort of "scene" with serious headspace going on. I was appreciative of this, for while headspace is eventually the goal, I knew that I probably shouldn't be going there on my first night in a playspace. At the same time, though, I wanted to go there. I was almost annoyed by being continually asked to be verbal. I could have easily slid into that fuzzy, warm, non-verbal space that trance or sex put me into.
After he finished, he said something about calling for him or [someone else's name here] if I needed to get out of it. I suppose my face must have gone a bit panicky, because Ceres asked if I needed to come out of it right now. I had not even considered the possibility of walking around the club like that...of being helpless to keep up with my things in a place where I knew almost noone. That, now, was a bit too much. I apologized profusely, but said that I didn't think I could do that right now, in this situation. Nemesis was gracious, and untied me. The freedom to use my arms was...novel. I hadn't been bound for that long, but it was still neat to regain freedom of movement. Verdict: Rope bondage = Yay, and lots.
Directly after this, Ceres was getting up on the cross to get a flogging from one of her good friends in the scene, hereafter known as the Rocky Horror Flogger (RHF). As they were preparing, I began chatting about my rope experience with a guy Ceres had introduced me to earlier. Eventually, a small group formed, and when it came out to the newcomers that I was "trying new things," guy with a fantastic beard asked if I'd ever tried - or would want to try - the violet wand. Now, I've heard great things about this instrument. I know folks who are generally not-kinky who love it. I know kinky folks who love it. But...I had limited myself to two discrete experiences, right? And, well, I really wanted to get flogged for the first time. But...I didn't know if I'd have the opportunity, if there was anyone Ceres trusted to give a flogging gentle enough for me (RHF has a reputation for being rather rough). So I accepted the offer of getting acquainted with the violet wand. The Magician (because a magician has a wand...get it? Hee.) sat me down on the bench, and began explaining the wand to me. The swirly disc-like attachment that he started out with wasn't bad, but could easily be too much. And it wasn't really a sensation that turned me on. When he got out the little metal fingertip/claws, it got better. But, then, I love the sensation of nails or a point being dragged over my skin anyway. And the occasional sharp pain wasn't sexy...it just made me cringe. I felt kinda bad that I didn't enjoy it more - he was really very kind and doing his damndest to make it a good experience. But he didn't seem to take offense, and that's really part of learning, I suppose. Finding out what I don't like as well as what I do like. Verdict: Magician? Yes please! Violet wand? Not so much. Not at this point, at least.
Pretty soon after this, Ceres's beating was done, and we went to wander around and watch the dancers. Goth dancing is awesome. It's cute and hot and funny and overly dramatic. And did I mention the amount of hot boys on the dance floor? Ye-ah. Pretty boys dancing. It doesn't get a whole lot better (ok, it does. But still.). As we were watching, we saw a beautiful (and when I say beautiful, I mean goddamned gorgeous) Asian-looking man with hair nearly down to his ass and a large and lovely flogger at his waist. He was walking past us, and neither Ceres nor I could take our eyes off of him. Oy. Dangerous place, with such lovely boys! Ceres eventually got bored with the dancing, so we decided to go mingle. I popped back into the playroom to check out the waiting list for chair massages, and put my name down. As I was filling out the card, I came to the realization that Goddamned Gorgeous Man (GGM) was standing right beside me. Oh gods.
After I finished filling out the card, he turned to me, and mentioned that he'd seen me being tied up earlier, and asked how I liked it. We fell to chatting about it being my first time, and what the experience was like, and what brought me to BDSM in the first place. And then it was my turn to be massaged. Wow. I've had a few different professional massages in my brief life, and this one wasn't the best. But it was a Far Cry from being the worst, especially for a chair massage. Mm. When I got up from it, I was slightly saddened to see that GGM was no longer in the playroom. Ceres mentioned that he'd been popping in and out while I'd been getting my massage, so he'd probably be back. She also mentioned that her friend, RHF, had said that if I wanted a flogging, he would to his utmost to be gentle. I did some considering, decided that rules were made to be broken, and concluded that I shouldn't pass up the chance for a flogging when it presented itself.
At the moment, RHF was occupied with another girl, helping her into the cuffs, so I had awhile. During her flogging, GGM returned, and we continued chatting. I realized very clearly during this conversation something that had been bothering me all night: I should not expect to be at my most coherent/eloquent (especially with a beeautiful man) when I'm flying high on New Experience/Kinky Endorphins. I may have looked my best, but I'm sure I didn't come off as my normal, intelligent self. I was too busy grinning and searching for adjectives that wouldn't come to my harried brain. After a while, GGM decided to go find his friends - but not before expressing a hope to see me at future events of this nature. Everything from my waist down was begging me to ask him for a demonstration of that flogger of his...but I didn't know him and Ceres didn't either, so I decided that would have to stay in my fantasies for the time being.
RHF finished with the girl, and gestured to me. Here it was. The moment - I was going to be on a cross, getting hit. He fastened me into the cuffs and showed me the flogger he would use, assuring me that he'd start very, very light and check in often. He said I should flash one hand at him for "yellow", and both for "red." I stretched out my arms, grabbed the handles where the chains attached, and breathed. This time, I let myself slip, a little. The first touch of the flogger was whisper-light, more breeze than contact. He built into a rhythm of figure-8 strokes, more contact, but still more breeze. He increased the intensity a bit, and it began to hurt, just a little. He paused, rubbing my back, and asked if I was ok. I said yes, and he continued. The intensity kept building till suddenly there was a pause, and a discrete, distinct single blow on my shoulder, Then on the other shoulder. Then back - five or six times before resuming the figure-8. But oh, those strokes - definitely more contact that air, more thud, more shock, more jolting me out of normal consciousness. During those distinct strokes I could feel myself slipping, slipping into the rhythm, into the pattern. It was not truly painful, yet, but it was powerful. He paused again, checked, and continued. Again, the intensity heightened. This time, I could feel the single strokes pushing my tolerance - not dangerously, but making me aware of the fact that they did, in fact, hurt. When he checked in again, I told him that he was probably at the maximum intensity I could take for tonight. He nodded, and resumed, not going above that intensity. The next time he checked in, I told him I was ready to be done. I could have stayed there longer, but I would have gone farther away than I was ready to go that night. He brought out a fluffy, warm...ball of something, and rubbed my shoulders and arms, gentling and grounding me down. He unfastened me from the cuffs, helped me down, and hugged me. Verdict: Flogging? Yes. And more!!
For the rest of the night (which was not very long), I was buzzing, flying, thrilled. I was encouraged by both the Magician and RHF to attend more of these events, or, due to the unpredictability of scheduling these things, they informed me that they could both be found at the weekly showing of RHPS, hanging out with the cast and crew, and that they both brought their "bag of tricks" with them. Hee.
This was *exactly* what my first experience with the BDSM scene/activities needed to be, for me. Low pressure, lots of support, and good, respectful, safety-conscious people. Wheee!
Monday, February 25, 2008
More about gender...and coyotes
*** Pagan/spiritual content ahead. If this offends you, or induces eye-rolling, please refrain from reading***
So, I've been thinking about gender, more. Sinclair says that I am not, as I put it here, "gender lazy" just because I don't put Work into my performance of gender. I'm thankful for that validation - there are lots of areas of my life in which I feel like I'm not "hardcore" enough or "taking it seriously enough" because I don't work at it.
But still. It's niggling me, poking me in the back of my brain, now that I'm aware of it. I want words for my gender. I want to name it, dammit. And I am not "femme." I am not "butch". I know that this is a spectrum, and a complex one...but I don't like those names as applied to me. Applied to other people, damn, they're sexy. But not on me, not for me. I'm not genderfuck or genderqueer because those imply, to me, a conscious playing with the spectrum. And I don't do that either. I mean, I do...it's costuming and ritual, but it's not what describes my everyday presence and performance.
My sex is female.
My sexual orientation is bisexual (probably closer to pansexual, but I haven't looked that up yet, so I won't officially use it).
My power preference is submissive/bottom.
My gender is _______
I don't know. I was talking to my Priestess from College Town, hereafter known as Magdalene, tonight about my gender issues and thoughts, and she asked "Why do you need to put your gender in a box?"
"So I can take it out again! Boxes are fun to play with."
And they are. Yes, names and categories can be reductive and restrictive and limiting. But Naming, oh, the act of Naming and claiming something for yourself...it's beautiful. And boxes were meant to be opened, to be broken down, to be played with. But they are still useful for communication, for organization, for figuring things out and sharing said things with others.
Magdalene agreed with me, and told me this story about the year she spend with Coyote:
"The year before I took my First Degree, I hung out with Coyote. I was with my first priest at the time, who described himself as "a male lesbian," and not just in the "haha, that's funny" way. This was also the year that I did my first Fools' Day Ritual, because the tricksters in my life insisted. I'm a Virgo, so I don't like to give them much attention. So, my priest and I planned and did the ritual - using all the wonderful and horribly wrong jokes we could think of - we cast Circle with mistletoe in honor of Loki and had pecan spinwheels for Delerium and Marlboros for Coyote. Now, our clothes did not come off during this ritual. But somewhere in the middle of it, my priest got thrown on the bed. And I was on top of him. Coyote and Mrs. Coyote decided to have fun with us. It was the first time a god had manifested through me. He was Mrs. Coyote, and very pleased to have breasts. He had never come that way before.
And my first degree name? Anansi. So, you see, gender issues are pretty usual around the time for your first degree."
I suppose so. But I really want a name for it.
Anansi, by the by, is an African spider god. When he came over to the Americas, he became, frequently, Aunt Nancy. Quite the genderfucking god.
Conversations like this, though, are why I adore my College Town folk. Less than a week. I see Shakti and DragonCat on Sunday. Mmmm.
So, I've been thinking about gender, more. Sinclair says that I am not, as I put it here, "gender lazy" just because I don't put Work into my performance of gender. I'm thankful for that validation - there are lots of areas of my life in which I feel like I'm not "hardcore" enough or "taking it seriously enough" because I don't work at it.
But still. It's niggling me, poking me in the back of my brain, now that I'm aware of it. I want words for my gender. I want to name it, dammit. And I am not "femme." I am not "butch". I know that this is a spectrum, and a complex one...but I don't like those names as applied to me. Applied to other people, damn, they're sexy. But not on me, not for me. I'm not genderfuck or genderqueer because those imply, to me, a conscious playing with the spectrum. And I don't do that either. I mean, I do...it's costuming and ritual, but it's not what describes my everyday presence and performance.
My sex is female.
My sexual orientation is bisexual (probably closer to pansexual, but I haven't looked that up yet, so I won't officially use it).
My power preference is submissive/bottom.
My gender is _______
I don't know. I was talking to my Priestess from College Town, hereafter known as Magdalene, tonight about my gender issues and thoughts, and she asked "Why do you need to put your gender in a box?"
"So I can take it out again! Boxes are fun to play with."
And they are. Yes, names and categories can be reductive and restrictive and limiting. But Naming, oh, the act of Naming and claiming something for yourself...it's beautiful. And boxes were meant to be opened, to be broken down, to be played with. But they are still useful for communication, for organization, for figuring things out and sharing said things with others.
Magdalene agreed with me, and told me this story about the year she spend with Coyote:
"The year before I took my First Degree, I hung out with Coyote. I was with my first priest at the time, who described himself as "a male lesbian," and not just in the "haha, that's funny" way. This was also the year that I did my first Fools' Day Ritual, because the tricksters in my life insisted. I'm a Virgo, so I don't like to give them much attention. So, my priest and I planned and did the ritual - using all the wonderful and horribly wrong jokes we could think of - we cast Circle with mistletoe in honor of Loki and had pecan spinwheels for Delerium and Marlboros for Coyote. Now, our clothes did not come off during this ritual. But somewhere in the middle of it, my priest got thrown on the bed. And I was on top of him. Coyote and Mrs. Coyote decided to have fun with us. It was the first time a god had manifested through me. He was Mrs. Coyote, and very pleased to have breasts. He had never come that way before.
And my first degree name? Anansi. So, you see, gender issues are pretty usual around the time for your first degree."
I suppose so. But I really want a name for it.
Anansi, by the by, is an African spider god. When he came over to the Americas, he became, frequently, Aunt Nancy. Quite the genderfucking god.
Conversations like this, though, are why I adore my College Town folk. Less than a week. I see Shakti and DragonCat on Sunday. Mmmm.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
A look back...
Because all is pretty quiet on the poly front right now (and because I have a paper glaring at me that I Do Not Want To Work On), I've decided to take a look back to my college days and share one or two of my more memorable Growing and Learning episodes with the Blogosphere. Don't worry, I'm going back to College Town in a couple of weeks for Spring Break...and hopefully I'll return with more current stories of friendly love and water-sharing. But, for now, a bit of a retrospective.
To start...my One Big Mistake.
Second semester, freshman year of college. I was taking my first upper division class (well...I came in with 30 hours of credit...I was a little ahead. All that meant was that I took my sweet time and finished in four years.). The class happened to be an interdisciplinary course called "The Grail in Film and Literature" - as a budding Arthurian nerd, I was stoked. I was the youngest person in the class. The oldest (other than the 60-year-old professor) was a grad student who shall be known as Ares (yes, I know I already have a Mars. Deal with it.). We got to chatting one night after class - he liked mythology, I liked mythology; he was a grad student, I was an impressionable freshman; I was worried about the first paper, he offered to help. No, really. He did help me. And on the way back from the library, he asked what I was doing for Valentine's Day. I told him that all my single friends were going to have a Lonely Hearts Club night (read: copious booze and illicit making out. Mm.), and I'd already promised to be there. "The day after, then?" he inquired.
"Uhh...nothing."
"Could I take you out, then?"
*grinning stupidly* "Sure!"
He wasn't even that cute. Let's get that straight. He was older and he was a Grad Student. In English. Who was down with Odin and Beowulf. And he was interested in me. Hot damn.
So, Valentine's came and went, with the aforementioned booze and making out. The next night, I dressed myself up prettily, but not scandalously - didn't want him getting the wrong impressions! I was still a Good Girl. He picked me up, presenting me with a white rose and a box of four Godiva (!!) chocolates. Damn. I was sufficiently wooed. He was not, however, quite as smooth with regard to dinner plans. We tried for a Japanese steakhouse (who doesn't make reservations on the day after Valentines? Really?), and ended up at a mid-range chain. I had a tasty steak, which he paid for, and was happy. On our way back to the car, I saw a flier for Rocky Horror Picture Show! Tonight! Midnight! I immediately squee'd. One of our local theaters had done the stage production during my high school years, and I was already something of a devotee (though only bold enough to dress as Janet). So I squee'd, and he asked if I wanted to go. Uh...yeah! And this was Cool Points for him, wanting to go to RHPS.
Being that we still had several hours until midnight, he suggested browsing in The Coolest Indie Bookstore until they closed. More points. Then we got coffee and chatted. Then we kissed in the car. Ooh. I was nervous, but it had all the excitement of doing something Not Quite Proper.
On the way to the theater, we had the Conversation. I had found out by this point in my college career that I needed to be very upfront about my inexperience and boundaries with the boys I fooled around with...otherwise things got awkward and uncomfortable. So I brought it up, saying something along the lines of how I didn't want to disappoint, but I really hadn't done very much and wasn't comfortable doing very much and...
"So...how innocent are you anyway?"
"Well...I've fooled around...never...er...given oral sex, but I've been...umm...manually stimulated..."
"So....you've never had Sex."
"No...and I'm not planning to. I'm just not ready."
"Uh-huh," said in a we'll-see-about-that tone, "Well, when you get to be my age, you'll find that the physical stuff doesn't matter so much."
Cue the uneasy feelings in the tummy.
"So, I guess that brings up the question...How old are you?"
"19. You?"
*uneasy laugh* "28"
Wow. Nine years. I'm a mature girl, I think. Age is just a number, I think. He's a Grad Student, I think. We're at the theater. Thank God.
Once inside, we're waiting. The cast is drifting around the theater, calling out dirty banter. One says something about whips and chains. I respond with "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but whips and chains excite me."
"Do they?" he asks. I blush a deep red.
"Oh...uh...I don't know anything about that. It's just something we say around the dorm."
"Oh...well...I do."
"....oh...." And the show begins, and I lose myself to transvestites and good, strange sex, and dancing Transylvanians. Afterwards, he drives me home, and we kiss more. I thank him for the night, and he leaves.
A week later, he calls me, asking if I want to come over and watch a movie. He'll pick me up since I don't know where his place is. We visit the Local Indie Video Store, and he vetoes my interest in Fellini's Satyricon (which I still haven't seen) for Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (which I had already seen). We go back to his place, and watch about fifteen minutes of the movie before we abandon the pretense. I'm uneasy, but we've had the Conversation, so I'm sure he'll respect my boundaries. I should have stopped him there, but I had not found my No in such situations. We moved to his bed, and he removed my shirt. He told me what amazing "little titties" I had (I hadn't yet progressed to my current full-C-cup), and proceeded to lick, suck and maul them. I enjoyed it. I was uneasy, but I was enjoying it, so it was ok, right? After awhile, he turned me over, stroking my back. I heard him pause, fumbling. Then I felt a gentle strike of his doubled leather belt on my shoulder blade. I had only barely heard of safewords, and though I knew I liked to be bitten, I didn't know what to make of most kink, except that I didn't think it made people perverted or evil. I wasn't sure that I liked him hitting me. After a couple of gentle strokes, I turned over, implying discomfort. He took the hint, and resumed kissing and fondling me, moving to biting my neck and shoulders - this was much better. I began to relax.
Until he went for my pants. I really wasn't sure that I wanted him to do that. Sure, I'd had fingers down there before, even a brief tongue (one of my then-sporadic forays with Apollo)...but I didn't know about him. But my No was elusive, so I let him. He turned on the light as he explored me, admiring my "little pink pussy". I did not know half so much about my vagina as I do now, but even then, she didn't like being called a pussy. But I was enjoying his fingers, enjoying the sensation...so it was ok, right? I came. I always came, in those days. It was even easier than it is now (and it's still pretty damn easy). But when he bent his head, when he leaned in to taste, I shook my head.
"Don't you want me to eat you? Don't you want me to make you feel good?"
"No, not now, no." Finally, that No that had been hiding all night. Finally he pushed me enough to tell him he didn't have that right.
"I have to go home," I said. It was true...I had class in the morning.
"Aww, you can stay here." Uhh...No. No. No. I am NOT staying the night with you. Presumptuous bastard. My No was stronger, more confident now that arousal was fading.
"Um, you don't want to get up to take me to my 9am class."
"You're right, I don't. Ok. I'll take you home in a few minutes."
"Ok." Silence.
"I want to ask you something first."
"Ok...sure." He leaned back, and pulled at the waistband of his pants.
"What do you think of this?" I found myself staring at the first cock I had seen in full light, peeking out over his pants. And it had a ring in the tip. Hell, I thought, I don't care what you have done to your cock...but...this wasn't how I imagined getting my first good look at one....
"Uh...I don't care," I fumbled.
"Ok. Just thought you should know about it before you were expected to do anything with it." Expected?!?! Oh, buddy. You've got another think coming. Fuck expectations. Any attention I give to your cock is a Gift, of trust and respect. It's a damn sight easier to give my body to your hands and tongue than it is for me to play with yours. (I know it's a double standard, but it was where I was sexually. I was annoyed with myself for it too.) But all I said was:
"Ok...I really need to go home."
"Ok." So he took me back to the dorm. I thought it through...I felt exposed, vulnerable, and not in a good way. I realized that I didn't trust him enough to have given him as much as I did, and I certainly didn't trust him enough to give him what he wanted of me. I was not angry. After all, I had consented, right? And when I didn't, he didn't force me. He didn't rape me. He just pulled out his dick. So I was embarrassed, sad, and vulnerable...but resigned.
Until I told my guy friends. See, I had this amazing coterie of guys who were my friends/brothers/fucking-around-buddies: Dionysus, Anansi, Lugh, and Eros. You'll hear more about them later, I'm sure. But I told them the story, in the dining hall, and they all asked, "Did you slap him? Did you break it off?"
"C'mon guys, he didn't force me to do anything...it's not a slap-worthy offense."
"Oh yes it damn well is! The guy's an asshole. Do you want us to beat him up for you? We will."
Now, apart from Lugh of the Long [Fiddle] Bow, none of these guys could've stood up to Ares in a fight. But their anger, their righteous outrage that anyone would have presumed to ask more of me than I offered (they, too, picked up on that "expected") - that gave me the strength to be angry about it. The strength to expect my boundaries to be respected, to know that though I failed myself in not speaking up sooner, that he knew my stated boundaries, and I should be able to expect those to be kept.
Ares confronted me a few days later, asking if we could get together again. I said no, that I thought we were rather putting the cart before the horse, that I wasn't comfortable with how things were progressing. He protested that I was being silly, that that's the way relationships worked. That sex wasn't a big deal. I told him pointedly that it was a big deal to me, and walked off.
We pointedly ignored each other for the rest of the semester. I felt smugly pleased when he screwed up his final presentation. I also found out that he was rather in the habit of randomly showing off his genital jewelery at random moments, usually in semi-public environments. I found that very funny, and wondered how many other girls in town knew just how his junk was adorned.
Obviously, I've changed a lot since this happened. Sex isn't as big a deal...but it is a big deal. It's not something that I, personally, can do happily and joyfully without a certain Connection. I'm exploring kink...but consciously, with people I trust and in small, talked-about, negotiated steps, not out of the blue on a second date. I am not clinging to someone's dominance and confidence to give me courage to be in a situation...I will enjoy someone's dominance and confidence because I have the courage to be in that situation on my own terms.
This was my one big screw-up in college. It could've been a lot worse. Fortunately, this can turn into a much shorter, funnier story for those gossipy, worst-dating-story-ever nights. I mainly laugh about it now...but I am still angry sometimes. And glad that I can let myself be so.
To start...my One Big Mistake.
Second semester, freshman year of college. I was taking my first upper division class (well...I came in with 30 hours of credit...I was a little ahead. All that meant was that I took my sweet time and finished in four years.). The class happened to be an interdisciplinary course called "The Grail in Film and Literature" - as a budding Arthurian nerd, I was stoked. I was the youngest person in the class. The oldest (other than the 60-year-old professor) was a grad student who shall be known as Ares (yes, I know I already have a Mars. Deal with it.). We got to chatting one night after class - he liked mythology, I liked mythology; he was a grad student, I was an impressionable freshman; I was worried about the first paper, he offered to help. No, really. He did help me. And on the way back from the library, he asked what I was doing for Valentine's Day. I told him that all my single friends were going to have a Lonely Hearts Club night (read: copious booze and illicit making out. Mm.), and I'd already promised to be there. "The day after, then?" he inquired.
"Uhh...nothing."
"Could I take you out, then?"
*grinning stupidly* "Sure!"
He wasn't even that cute. Let's get that straight. He was older and he was a Grad Student. In English. Who was down with Odin and Beowulf. And he was interested in me. Hot damn.
So, Valentine's came and went, with the aforementioned booze and making out. The next night, I dressed myself up prettily, but not scandalously - didn't want him getting the wrong impressions! I was still a Good Girl. He picked me up, presenting me with a white rose and a box of four Godiva (!!) chocolates. Damn. I was sufficiently wooed. He was not, however, quite as smooth with regard to dinner plans. We tried for a Japanese steakhouse (who doesn't make reservations on the day after Valentines? Really?), and ended up at a mid-range chain. I had a tasty steak, which he paid for, and was happy. On our way back to the car, I saw a flier for Rocky Horror Picture Show! Tonight! Midnight! I immediately squee'd. One of our local theaters had done the stage production during my high school years, and I was already something of a devotee (though only bold enough to dress as Janet). So I squee'd, and he asked if I wanted to go. Uh...yeah! And this was Cool Points for him, wanting to go to RHPS.
Being that we still had several hours until midnight, he suggested browsing in The Coolest Indie Bookstore until they closed. More points. Then we got coffee and chatted. Then we kissed in the car. Ooh. I was nervous, but it had all the excitement of doing something Not Quite Proper.
On the way to the theater, we had the Conversation. I had found out by this point in my college career that I needed to be very upfront about my inexperience and boundaries with the boys I fooled around with...otherwise things got awkward and uncomfortable. So I brought it up, saying something along the lines of how I didn't want to disappoint, but I really hadn't done very much and wasn't comfortable doing very much and...
"So...how innocent are you anyway?"
"Well...I've fooled around...never...er...given oral sex, but I've been...umm...manually stimulated..."
"So....you've never had Sex."
"No...and I'm not planning to. I'm just not ready."
"Uh-huh," said in a we'll-see-about-that tone, "Well, when you get to be my age, you'll find that the physical stuff doesn't matter so much."
Cue the uneasy feelings in the tummy.
"So, I guess that brings up the question...How old are you?"
"19. You?"
*uneasy laugh* "28"
Wow. Nine years. I'm a mature girl, I think. Age is just a number, I think. He's a Grad Student, I think. We're at the theater. Thank God.
Once inside, we're waiting. The cast is drifting around the theater, calling out dirty banter. One says something about whips and chains. I respond with "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but whips and chains excite me."
"Do they?" he asks. I blush a deep red.
"Oh...uh...I don't know anything about that. It's just something we say around the dorm."
"Oh...well...I do."
"....oh...." And the show begins, and I lose myself to transvestites and good, strange sex, and dancing Transylvanians. Afterwards, he drives me home, and we kiss more. I thank him for the night, and he leaves.
A week later, he calls me, asking if I want to come over and watch a movie. He'll pick me up since I don't know where his place is. We visit the Local Indie Video Store, and he vetoes my interest in Fellini's Satyricon (which I still haven't seen) for Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (which I had already seen). We go back to his place, and watch about fifteen minutes of the movie before we abandon the pretense. I'm uneasy, but we've had the Conversation, so I'm sure he'll respect my boundaries. I should have stopped him there, but I had not found my No in such situations. We moved to his bed, and he removed my shirt. He told me what amazing "little titties" I had (I hadn't yet progressed to my current full-C-cup), and proceeded to lick, suck and maul them. I enjoyed it. I was uneasy, but I was enjoying it, so it was ok, right? After awhile, he turned me over, stroking my back. I heard him pause, fumbling. Then I felt a gentle strike of his doubled leather belt on my shoulder blade. I had only barely heard of safewords, and though I knew I liked to be bitten, I didn't know what to make of most kink, except that I didn't think it made people perverted or evil. I wasn't sure that I liked him hitting me. After a couple of gentle strokes, I turned over, implying discomfort. He took the hint, and resumed kissing and fondling me, moving to biting my neck and shoulders - this was much better. I began to relax.
Until he went for my pants. I really wasn't sure that I wanted him to do that. Sure, I'd had fingers down there before, even a brief tongue (one of my then-sporadic forays with Apollo)...but I didn't know about him. But my No was elusive, so I let him. He turned on the light as he explored me, admiring my "little pink pussy". I did not know half so much about my vagina as I do now, but even then, she didn't like being called a pussy. But I was enjoying his fingers, enjoying the sensation...so it was ok, right? I came. I always came, in those days. It was even easier than it is now (and it's still pretty damn easy). But when he bent his head, when he leaned in to taste, I shook my head.
"Don't you want me to eat you? Don't you want me to make you feel good?"
"No, not now, no." Finally, that No that had been hiding all night. Finally he pushed me enough to tell him he didn't have that right.
"I have to go home," I said. It was true...I had class in the morning.
"Aww, you can stay here." Uhh...No. No. No. I am NOT staying the night with you. Presumptuous bastard. My No was stronger, more confident now that arousal was fading.
"Um, you don't want to get up to take me to my 9am class."
"You're right, I don't. Ok. I'll take you home in a few minutes."
"Ok." Silence.
"I want to ask you something first."
"Ok...sure." He leaned back, and pulled at the waistband of his pants.
"What do you think of this?" I found myself staring at the first cock I had seen in full light, peeking out over his pants. And it had a ring in the tip. Hell, I thought, I don't care what you have done to your cock...but...this wasn't how I imagined getting my first good look at one....
"Uh...I don't care," I fumbled.
"Ok. Just thought you should know about it before you were expected to do anything with it." Expected?!?! Oh, buddy. You've got another think coming. Fuck expectations. Any attention I give to your cock is a Gift, of trust and respect. It's a damn sight easier to give my body to your hands and tongue than it is for me to play with yours. (I know it's a double standard, but it was where I was sexually. I was annoyed with myself for it too.) But all I said was:
"Ok...I really need to go home."
"Ok." So he took me back to the dorm. I thought it through...I felt exposed, vulnerable, and not in a good way. I realized that I didn't trust him enough to have given him as much as I did, and I certainly didn't trust him enough to give him what he wanted of me. I was not angry. After all, I had consented, right? And when I didn't, he didn't force me. He didn't rape me. He just pulled out his dick. So I was embarrassed, sad, and vulnerable...but resigned.
Until I told my guy friends. See, I had this amazing coterie of guys who were my friends/brothers/fucking-around-buddies: Dionysus, Anansi, Lugh, and Eros. You'll hear more about them later, I'm sure. But I told them the story, in the dining hall, and they all asked, "Did you slap him? Did you break it off?"
"C'mon guys, he didn't force me to do anything...it's not a slap-worthy offense."
"Oh yes it damn well is! The guy's an asshole. Do you want us to beat him up for you? We will."
Now, apart from Lugh of the Long [Fiddle] Bow, none of these guys could've stood up to Ares in a fight. But their anger, their righteous outrage that anyone would have presumed to ask more of me than I offered (they, too, picked up on that "expected") - that gave me the strength to be angry about it. The strength to expect my boundaries to be respected, to know that though I failed myself in not speaking up sooner, that he knew my stated boundaries, and I should be able to expect those to be kept.
Ares confronted me a few days later, asking if we could get together again. I said no, that I thought we were rather putting the cart before the horse, that I wasn't comfortable with how things were progressing. He protested that I was being silly, that that's the way relationships worked. That sex wasn't a big deal. I told him pointedly that it was a big deal to me, and walked off.
We pointedly ignored each other for the rest of the semester. I felt smugly pleased when he screwed up his final presentation. I also found out that he was rather in the habit of randomly showing off his genital jewelery at random moments, usually in semi-public environments. I found that very funny, and wondered how many other girls in town knew just how his junk was adorned.
Obviously, I've changed a lot since this happened. Sex isn't as big a deal...but it is a big deal. It's not something that I, personally, can do happily and joyfully without a certain Connection. I'm exploring kink...but consciously, with people I trust and in small, talked-about, negotiated steps, not out of the blue on a second date. I am not clinging to someone's dominance and confidence to give me courage to be in a situation...I will enjoy someone's dominance and confidence because I have the courage to be in that situation on my own terms.
This was my one big screw-up in college. It could've been a lot worse. Fortunately, this can turn into a much shorter, funnier story for those gossipy, worst-dating-story-ever nights. I mainly laugh about it now...but I am still angry sometimes. And glad that I can let myself be so.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
In Which Things Get Literotic
Ladies and Gentlemen (and everyone in between), my paen to my literary loves.
To My First Roommate:
You told me
in high school,
“You’re such a book slut,
giving your mental
passions to every suave
motif, every deft
allusion – and
the more multilayered,
the better.
Length is of some
consequence – but
girth of meaning
really gets you off –
admit it.”
“With pleasure,”
I replied.
And I continued my epic tryst
into the narrow top bunk
of the dorm room we shared.
You took to your bed
every paperback pagan priest
with a pretty cover and a big
dragon, and devoured him
in one night – you were
a plot-only kind of gal,
no frills, no eloquence,
just the beginning,
middle and
end.
Dry, and without
organic structure –
like a ninth grader’s
5-paragraph essay –
your one-night novels.
Each predictable, disposable,
each a temporary
bedtime companion
to drown the day’s bitterness
with adventure like
a dinner-and-movie date
and love like
a half-hearted kiss.
You observed the etiquette of
library-rented lovers:
no rough handling, no doggy-
eared pages or pen-stain
hickeys to commemorate
your brief affair.
Even those bought and kept
retained their virginal shine,
never showing evidence
of fervent handling.
But 3 feet above you
I took works of character –
though not always noble or pure.
In these knightly poems
and libertine fictions,
I found literotic loves,
compelling me to return even
after the last page was spent.
I was not gentle, nor polite,
ravishing regularly those whose
words tangled in my hair
and left their letters in my clothes
until their spines broke
and their pages grew worn,
bruised by my pen’s exclamations.
They wore their duct-tape braces
with pride, and compared marks
to see who was loved more.
They remain my harem –
my fine bookshelf of
roguish novels, tender
gothic tales, voracious verses,
and the occasional,
thrilling philosopher –
but chief above them all
are the well-worn works
whose inky whispers leave my
pages ruffled, my binding weak,
and my bookmark right
at the best part.
You see, this is really how it goes. I had serious literary crushes before I had a crush on an actual boy. The short list goes something like this:
Peter Pevensie and Prince Caspian (Chronicles of Narnia) - Childhood. These boys were probably my first literary loves. Boys in shining armor, in a land of magic and chivalry and Greek gods and creatures? Oh yeah. I still think Prince Caspian is truly sexy, and am really looking forward to lusting after him on the big screen this May.
Mr. Rochester (Jane Eyre) - 6th grade. Ok. This was my first sexual crush. I wanted...oooh, I wanted Mr. Rochester to do terrible things to me. And the things just kept getting more terrible the older I got. Some would say that this should've been my first clue that I'm submissiveish.
Petruchio (Taming of the Shrew) - 10th grade. I know, it's reeeely dorky to have a crush on a Shakespearean character. But the guy who played Petruchio in the school production was so compellingly hot...I fell in love with the character. Another dominant man. Hm.
Micheal Valentine Smith (Stranger In A Strange Land) - Sophomore year of college. Mm. A man who knows *exactly* what I want. Mmm. I hadn't had sex yet, but I knew that was a good good thing. And, he's just darling.
Wizard Howl (Howl's Moving Castle) - Jr. year of college. It's probably kinda wrong to find a literary crush in a children's lit class...but Howl is most certainly of age. And he's got the Rochesterian infuriating/dominant attitude. *melts*
The Vampire Lestat (Vampire Chronicles) - Jr. year. *bites lip* I feel a little guilty about this one. I mean...it's pop lit. But he's so damn sexy and compelling. He can bite me any day of the week.
Those are the major ones, the ones I like to spend a long afternoon with. There are other books that are on this level, but these are my literary men.
To My First Roommate:
You told me
in high school,
“You’re such a book slut,
giving your mental
passions to every suave
motif, every deft
allusion – and
the more multilayered,
the better.
Length is of some
consequence – but
girth of meaning
really gets you off –
admit it.”
“With pleasure,”
I replied.
And I continued my epic tryst
into the narrow top bunk
of the dorm room we shared.
You took to your bed
every paperback pagan priest
with a pretty cover and a big
dragon, and devoured him
in one night – you were
a plot-only kind of gal,
no frills, no eloquence,
just the beginning,
middle and
end.
Dry, and without
organic structure –
like a ninth grader’s
5-paragraph essay –
your one-night novels.
Each predictable, disposable,
each a temporary
bedtime companion
to drown the day’s bitterness
with adventure like
a dinner-and-movie date
and love like
a half-hearted kiss.
You observed the etiquette of
library-rented lovers:
no rough handling, no doggy-
eared pages or pen-stain
hickeys to commemorate
your brief affair.
Even those bought and kept
retained their virginal shine,
never showing evidence
of fervent handling.
But 3 feet above you
I took works of character –
though not always noble or pure.
In these knightly poems
and libertine fictions,
I found literotic loves,
compelling me to return even
after the last page was spent.
I was not gentle, nor polite,
ravishing regularly those whose
words tangled in my hair
and left their letters in my clothes
until their spines broke
and their pages grew worn,
bruised by my pen’s exclamations.
They wore their duct-tape braces
with pride, and compared marks
to see who was loved more.
They remain my harem –
my fine bookshelf of
roguish novels, tender
gothic tales, voracious verses,
and the occasional,
thrilling philosopher –
but chief above them all
are the well-worn works
whose inky whispers leave my
pages ruffled, my binding weak,
and my bookmark right
at the best part.
You see, this is really how it goes. I had serious literary crushes before I had a crush on an actual boy. The short list goes something like this:
Peter Pevensie and Prince Caspian (Chronicles of Narnia) - Childhood. These boys were probably my first literary loves. Boys in shining armor, in a land of magic and chivalry and Greek gods and creatures? Oh yeah. I still think Prince Caspian is truly sexy, and am really looking forward to lusting after him on the big screen this May.
Mr. Rochester (Jane Eyre) - 6th grade. Ok. This was my first sexual crush. I wanted...oooh, I wanted Mr. Rochester to do terrible things to me. And the things just kept getting more terrible the older I got. Some would say that this should've been my first clue that I'm submissiveish.
Petruchio (Taming of the Shrew) - 10th grade. I know, it's reeeely dorky to have a crush on a Shakespearean character. But the guy who played Petruchio in the school production was so compellingly hot...I fell in love with the character. Another dominant man. Hm.
Micheal Valentine Smith (Stranger In A Strange Land) - Sophomore year of college. Mm. A man who knows *exactly* what I want. Mmm. I hadn't had sex yet, but I knew that was a good good thing. And, he's just darling.
Wizard Howl (Howl's Moving Castle) - Jr. year of college. It's probably kinda wrong to find a literary crush in a children's lit class...but Howl is most certainly of age. And he's got the Rochesterian infuriating/dominant attitude. *melts*
The Vampire Lestat (Vampire Chronicles) - Jr. year. *bites lip* I feel a little guilty about this one. I mean...it's pop lit. But he's so damn sexy and compelling. He can bite me any day of the week.
Those are the major ones, the ones I like to spend a long afternoon with. There are other books that are on this level, but these are my literary men.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
My gender...
Ariel has recently been posting about gender, and what hers looks like. I got fascinated, and started thinking about how gender applies to me. Ariel mentions that "I have a lot of gender but very little direction," meaning that she likes to present a wide variety of gender-y appearances.
I think, perhaps, that I have a lot of sex (as in, identification with my biological sex, being female), and just enough gender to come down on the side of "feminine". I read about Sinclair finding her butch identity, and performing gender - and I wonder at the amount of work it seems like, to have to be so deliberately oneself. But, on the other hand, the intentionality appeals to me - gender must matter if folks are willing to take such pains with it.
But I'm gender-lazy. As I said in my comment on Ariel's blog, I am high nothing. Not high femme, not high butch, not high tomboy, not even high-scholarly, for crying out loud. I am female, and generally somewhat feminine, but that's about it.
I love my RHPS corset, fishnets, and heels, with heavy makeup and space-age hair.
I love dressing hippie-boho-girly and sharply elegant with makeup to suit.
That's about 5% of the time, though. The rest of the time, I wear sweaters and t-shirts and comfy pants and Birkenstocks and the occasional skirt. I just got a pair of nice brown flats and a pair of tall black boots (with no heels) for Christmas, and that was a huge step for me. I don't want to put so much effort into how people see me, how I appear, most of the time.
I was a dancer for many years. From sixth grade until my senior year in high school, I was in at least one full-length ballet per year. I learned, through those experiences, to love the high-maintenance required by performing - but it was a special thing. Only a few nights out of the year does one put on the makeup, slick the hair, and wear the costume - take on the part. It's ritual, this dressing-up, which requires adequate scenery and lights and music to go with it. I couldn't do it every day. Dressing up, performing, is for me a way to explore and relish the sides of me that are not the everyday me.
For instance, I absolutely LOVE going to Rocky Horror, once in awhile. I love yelling the callbacks, love putting on my eyeliner and darker eyeshadow to go with my crimson corset, black panties, and fishnets. I love putting my hair up in those two, Leia-esque buns. This is my Shadow, my overtly sexual and crude self, my self who seduces. My self who revels in the sounds of the woman being flogged in the back of the theater, and the looks the ticket-taker gives me as I walk past.
But this is not someone I want to be any more frequently than once or twice a month (in public, at least). I need and crave that outlet, that stage...but only on occasion.
I understand that, to one degree or another, I am performing my gender everyday whether I think I am or not. But it does not feel like it...I'm really not even sure what my gender is. Comfortably feminine? Low-maintenance? I associate gender so much with appearance and fashion that I can't separate the two. I know gender is more than appearance....but I think it's reflected in appearance, at least when in "high" forms. I don't know, though. Hm.
This is what I know: I am feminine. I am female. I am submissiveish. I like boys and girls and girls who used to be boys (and probably the other way round, if I ever meet one). I am attracted to androgyny, femininity (not girly-ness), and masculinity. I am attracted to dominance and confidence, in men and women. I love being bitten and having my hair pulled. I'm fascinated by kink and power exchange. I'm deeply spiritual, and conceive of God'dess as Lover. I wear my hair down as much as possible. I am poly.
Some of this is biological sex, some is sexual orientation, some is preference...does all this together make gender? Maybe?
I think, perhaps, that I have a lot of sex (as in, identification with my biological sex, being female), and just enough gender to come down on the side of "feminine". I read about Sinclair finding her butch identity, and performing gender - and I wonder at the amount of work it seems like, to have to be so deliberately oneself. But, on the other hand, the intentionality appeals to me - gender must matter if folks are willing to take such pains with it.
But I'm gender-lazy. As I said in my comment on Ariel's blog, I am high nothing. Not high femme, not high butch, not high tomboy, not even high-scholarly, for crying out loud. I am female, and generally somewhat feminine, but that's about it.
I love my RHPS corset, fishnets, and heels, with heavy makeup and space-age hair.
I love dressing hippie-boho-girly and sharply elegant with makeup to suit.
That's about 5% of the time, though. The rest of the time, I wear sweaters and t-shirts and comfy pants and Birkenstocks and the occasional skirt. I just got a pair of nice brown flats and a pair of tall black boots (with no heels) for Christmas, and that was a huge step for me. I don't want to put so much effort into how people see me, how I appear, most of the time.
I was a dancer for many years. From sixth grade until my senior year in high school, I was in at least one full-length ballet per year. I learned, through those experiences, to love the high-maintenance required by performing - but it was a special thing. Only a few nights out of the year does one put on the makeup, slick the hair, and wear the costume - take on the part. It's ritual, this dressing-up, which requires adequate scenery and lights and music to go with it. I couldn't do it every day. Dressing up, performing, is for me a way to explore and relish the sides of me that are not the everyday me.
For instance, I absolutely LOVE going to Rocky Horror, once in awhile. I love yelling the callbacks, love putting on my eyeliner and darker eyeshadow to go with my crimson corset, black panties, and fishnets. I love putting my hair up in those two, Leia-esque buns. This is my Shadow, my overtly sexual and crude self, my self who seduces. My self who revels in the sounds of the woman being flogged in the back of the theater, and the looks the ticket-taker gives me as I walk past.
But this is not someone I want to be any more frequently than once or twice a month (in public, at least). I need and crave that outlet, that stage...but only on occasion.
I understand that, to one degree or another, I am performing my gender everyday whether I think I am or not. But it does not feel like it...I'm really not even sure what my gender is. Comfortably feminine? Low-maintenance? I associate gender so much with appearance and fashion that I can't separate the two. I know gender is more than appearance....but I think it's reflected in appearance, at least when in "high" forms. I don't know, though. Hm.
This is what I know: I am feminine. I am female. I am submissiveish. I like boys and girls and girls who used to be boys (and probably the other way round, if I ever meet one). I am attracted to androgyny, femininity (not girly-ness), and masculinity. I am attracted to dominance and confidence, in men and women. I love being bitten and having my hair pulled. I'm fascinated by kink and power exchange. I'm deeply spiritual, and conceive of God'dess as Lover. I wear my hair down as much as possible. I am poly.
Some of this is biological sex, some is sexual orientation, some is preference...does all this together make gender? Maybe?
Saturday, January 19, 2008
So, a few weeks ago, I informed Apollo that this year, for my birthday, I want him to round up all the highly unattainable men with whom I'm in lust and schedule a week of debauchery for me. He said that he'd get right on that, as long as he could have his way with Kaylee.
I think that's perfectly reasonable, as Kaylee is Really Hot.
Anyway, we began discussing the lineup for my Week Of Sex With Highly Unattainable Men, and this is what we came up with, in no particular order:
I think that's perfectly reasonable, as Kaylee is Really Hot.
Anyway, we began discussing the lineup for my Week Of Sex With Highly Unattainable Men, and this is what we came up with, in no particular order:
Nathan Fillian. Mal is Sex Incarnate. I realize that this makes me a Firefly Fangirl, but I don't quite care.
Damien Rice. Melancholy Irish singer-songwriter with a penchant for allusions to the darker sides of sex and relationships: "Amie, come sit on my wall and read me the Story of O", "Don't hold yourself like that, you'll hurt your knees." And, well, he just gets downright sexy at times. Mmmm.
Ryan Adams. Not Bryan Adams...Ryan Adams. Exceptionally eclectic singer-songwriter with an attitude and a feeling for good rock-n-roll (except when it's not. Namely, Rock and Roll and Easy Tiger). He has a little bit of the junkie look about him...but on him, it's hot.
Colin Firth. Sexy accent, good actor, and damn, not many folks are as good at the on-screen kisses as he is.
Neil Gaiman. Ok. Yes. I'm a Gaiman Girl too. Not so much because he's hot....though his is...but because his books move me. You know - laughing aloud one minute, throwing the book across the room the next, weeping the next moment...then laughing again....books like that make me want to have the author's babies. And I don't want children.
Johnny Depp. Yes, yes. I know. How typical. But, well...I can't say no to this. Or this.
So that's only six. I imagine I'd need a day of rest after that week. This list was my Still-Alive-and-Good-Looking list, as it's the most realistic (as these fantasies go). My Would've Fucked 30 Years Ago, Hot Dead Guys, and Fictional Fantasies lists are all much less...shall we say, tangible? Though someday, I may share them for the helluvit.
So, folks. 7 days, your choice of any 7 living people - who'd be on your list?
Damien Rice. Melancholy Irish singer-songwriter with a penchant for allusions to the darker sides of sex and relationships: "Amie, come sit on my wall and read me the Story of O", "Don't hold yourself like that, you'll hurt your knees." And, well, he just gets downright sexy at times. Mmmm.
Ryan Adams. Not Bryan Adams...Ryan Adams. Exceptionally eclectic singer-songwriter with an attitude and a feeling for good rock-n-roll (except when it's not. Namely, Rock and Roll and Easy Tiger). He has a little bit of the junkie look about him...but on him, it's hot.
Colin Firth. Sexy accent, good actor, and damn, not many folks are as good at the on-screen kisses as he is.
Neil Gaiman. Ok. Yes. I'm a Gaiman Girl too. Not so much because he's hot....though his is...but because his books move me. You know - laughing aloud one minute, throwing the book across the room the next, weeping the next moment...then laughing again....books like that make me want to have the author's babies. And I don't want children.
Johnny Depp. Yes, yes. I know. How typical. But, well...I can't say no to this. Or this.
So that's only six. I imagine I'd need a day of rest after that week. This list was my Still-Alive-and-Good-Looking list, as it's the most realistic (as these fantasies go). My Would've Fucked 30 Years Ago, Hot Dead Guys, and Fictional Fantasies lists are all much less...shall we say, tangible? Though someday, I may share them for the helluvit.
So, folks. 7 days, your choice of any 7 living people - who'd be on your list?
Friday, January 18, 2008
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