The move is finished. My stuff is still a mess of boxes and piled-up junk, but it's in a new place. I can stay here. I can make it my own.
This move totaled 5 carloads that I moved myself, plus one vanload that my friends were VERY kind to help me with. I haven't slept in... a while. I can sleep now. I have a home. I'm lucky that way.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
Squirt.
It amazes me that there is still a debate on whether female ejaculation exists. It's like hearing serious grown-ups intensely discuss the elusive cryptid known as the "mouse." Mice: are they real? The world may never know.
And "well, it doesn't taste like pee" is one of those arguments that you reveal a whole lot about yourself by making.
It's a little weird for me, actually, that I haven't ever ejaculated. I've certainly devoted enough love and affection to my G-spot, but the resultant fluid is more of a trickle than a gush. In my most paranoid moments I've wondered if maybe I've never really had an orgasm at all, but no, that is not even remotely possible. I've had times that I felt like I needed to pee during sex, but I'm pretty sure that I really needed to pee.
Maybe I just can't. Maybe it's genetic or something. Some people can't curl their tongue and I can't squirt. Considering the things I can so, I don't feel too inadequate about it. It's just strange.
P.S.: I know posting has kinda sucked lately. The problem is that with no computer, it's almost impossible for me to comment on anything outside, since tabbing around and copy-pasting is unbelievably difficult and unreliable on the iPod. It's also very difficult for me to edit my writing properly. And then there's the timesink of moving. Hopefully I'll have my computer back later this week and have more interesting things to say. For the next couple days, sucking may continue. :(
And "well, it doesn't taste like pee" is one of those arguments that you reveal a whole lot about yourself by making.
It's a little weird for me, actually, that I haven't ever ejaculated. I've certainly devoted enough love and affection to my G-spot, but the resultant fluid is more of a trickle than a gush. In my most paranoid moments I've wondered if maybe I've never really had an orgasm at all, but no, that is not even remotely possible. I've had times that I felt like I needed to pee during sex, but I'm pretty sure that I really needed to pee.
Maybe I just can't. Maybe it's genetic or something. Some people can't curl their tongue and I can't squirt. Considering the things I can so, I don't feel too inadequate about it. It's just strange.
P.S.: I know posting has kinda sucked lately. The problem is that with no computer, it's almost impossible for me to comment on anything outside, since tabbing around and copy-pasting is unbelievably difficult and unreliable on the iPod. It's also very difficult for me to edit my writing properly. And then there's the timesink of moving. Hopefully I'll have my computer back later this week and have more interesting things to say. For the next couple days, sucking may continue. :(
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Moving.
For the third time in sixth months, I'm moving. This is the least painful move--it's less than a mile and my new place is on the first floor (which in Somerville is still up a flight of stairs, but only one; my current room is up three flights)--but it still hurts. I moved a ton of crap today and I still have a ton of crap left to move.
If you have a thing for sweaty, smelly, grouchy girls then I guess I'm going to be pretty sexy for the next couple days.
If you have a thing for sweaty, smelly, grouchy girls then I guess I'm going to be pretty sexy for the next couple days.
Unfit.
My cousin Sam is raising another man's child. His wife already had a young daughter when they met, and as Sam and his wife became closer and got married, the daughter gradually came under his care. Now she lives in his house and calls him Dad and pretty much adores him, and they're a happy little family. Sam is investing huge amounts of money and time into another man's daughter, giving up his chance to have any genetic children of his own, and he's happy about it.
My other cousin Lucy has a simpler story. She just doesn't have any children and never plans to have any.
So they're two out of millions of people who have voluntarily given up on evolutionary fitness. Sam and Lucy's genes are going nowhere because of the choices they've made. And they're what I think of when I read those "evolutionary psychology" articles about how everything humans do is all about maximizing our fitness and making sure our kids are ours and our seed is spread. (These articles, incidentally, and I'd provide links if I had a proper computer to type this on, have a charming tendency to think fitness consists of getting laid, rather than getting laid and conceiving a child and raising them to adulthood. Steps 2 and 3 there are actually pretty significant.) It seems ridiculous to me to suggest that Lucy is somehow subconciously attracted to men with good genes for her children, when she very consciously isn't using anyone's genes for anything. Or that Sam and his wife's relationship is based in ensuring the fatherhood of children, when they know damn well he's not the genetic father.
Obviously humans are evolved animals, and our history has selected for those who passed on their genes. But in our case selection has led us toward intelligence, and that complicates things. It means that human behavior really can't all be explained in terms of reproduction. It has to be seen in light of us being human.
My other cousin Lucy has a simpler story. She just doesn't have any children and never plans to have any.
So they're two out of millions of people who have voluntarily given up on evolutionary fitness. Sam and Lucy's genes are going nowhere because of the choices they've made. And they're what I think of when I read those "evolutionary psychology" articles about how everything humans do is all about maximizing our fitness and making sure our kids are ours and our seed is spread. (These articles, incidentally, and I'd provide links if I had a proper computer to type this on, have a charming tendency to think fitness consists of getting laid, rather than getting laid and conceiving a child and raising them to adulthood. Steps 2 and 3 there are actually pretty significant.) It seems ridiculous to me to suggest that Lucy is somehow subconciously attracted to men with good genes for her children, when she very consciously isn't using anyone's genes for anything. Or that Sam and his wife's relationship is based in ensuring the fatherhood of children, when they know damn well he's not the genetic father.
Obviously humans are evolved animals, and our history has selected for those who passed on their genes. But in our case selection has led us toward intelligence, and that complicates things. It means that human behavior really can't all be explained in terms of reproduction. It has to be seen in light of us being human.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Guilty pleasure.
Confession: this guy's stories get me off like nothing else.
It's terrible. His web design is worse than incomptent-some of those letters don't even have any stories, the story links aren't lined up with the titles and descriptions, and I think some of the stories are posted in .doc format. His writing is terrible and the grammar is bad, and the stories almost never have proper endings. And the content is incredibly offensive and misogynistic stories of violent rape.
These stories get me off. I don't even know why. But I read them and masturbate and they just work for me. I hate the writing, hate the guy, am annoyed with myself--and wet as all hell.
I would kind of like to find some replacement erotica with the same themes of protracted struggle and assfucked innocence, only written by a sane person who knows how to craft a story and a webpage and doesn't make me worry that they're a sex offender, but... so far I haven't found one that has quite the same effect on me.
It's terrible. His web design is worse than incomptent-some of those letters don't even have any stories, the story links aren't lined up with the titles and descriptions, and I think some of the stories are posted in .doc format. His writing is terrible and the grammar is bad, and the stories almost never have proper endings. And the content is incredibly offensive and misogynistic stories of violent rape.
These stories get me off. I don't even know why. But I read them and masturbate and they just work for me. I hate the writing, hate the guy, am annoyed with myself--and wet as all hell.
I would kind of like to find some replacement erotica with the same themes of protracted struggle and assfucked innocence, only written by a sane person who knows how to craft a story and a webpage and doesn't make me worry that they're a sex offender, but... so far I haven't found one that has quite the same effect on me.
Things you should know about my vagina.
Something you should know about my vagina: it is not fragile. It is a big, tough muscle, as capable of stretching and flexing and holding its own as a bicep or a thigh. My vagina can take a hit. Every part is tough, gristly, firmly attached; it would take a very deliberate or completely insane attack to truly damage it. I may be sensitive in this area, my nerves may complain, but mt flesh itself is nowhere near its breaking point.
Something else you should know about my vagina: it's mine. Not idealogically mine like my soul is; literally mine, like my car is. I have a vested interest in keeping my car running and undented, but sometimes I'll do donuts or drive offroad or through puddles that are just a little too deep, because my car is mine to play with.
And one last thing about my vagina: it's temporary. We build things, sometimes, with no clear idea that they will end; companies do not plan to go out of business eventually, houses are not built to only stand for a while, governments do not conduct business keeping in mind that their rule has to end sometime. But they will. And on my vagina the deadline is even more clear: it's got about sixty years left. Maximum. After that, everything I might do to preserve my vagina's pristine and dignified nature becomes an extremely moot point. So... smoke 'em if you got 'em.
I am not am accidental slut. I am a slut by way of philosophical conviction.
Something else you should know about my vagina: it's mine. Not idealogically mine like my soul is; literally mine, like my car is. I have a vested interest in keeping my car running and undented, but sometimes I'll do donuts or drive offroad or through puddles that are just a little too deep, because my car is mine to play with.
And one last thing about my vagina: it's temporary. We build things, sometimes, with no clear idea that they will end; companies do not plan to go out of business eventually, houses are not built to only stand for a while, governments do not conduct business keeping in mind that their rule has to end sometime. But they will. And on my vagina the deadline is even more clear: it's got about sixty years left. Maximum. After that, everything I might do to preserve my vagina's pristine and dignified nature becomes an extremely moot point. So... smoke 'em if you got 'em.
I am not am accidental slut. I am a slut by way of philosophical conviction.
EtOH.
(I'm still computerless and painfully pecking these out on the iPod, but it's getting reduntant announcing it each time.)
Alcohol and I have a funny relationship. I don't drink all that often, or all that much. But when I do drink, two drinks are my absolute limit of rationality. I can hold one drink with dignity, and after two I'll be buzzed but coherent. After three (or sometimes two strong ones, honestly), "coherent" is not a word anyone would use. Particularly not me, because I won't be able to pronounce it.
I'm a cheery drunk, prone to a lot of giggling and not too much trouble-causing, but I am also a ragingly horny drunk. The slender thread of inhibition between me and rampant sexual advances on all my friends and a good number of strangers is dissolved. It's not a matter of me being unable to resist people "taking advantage of me"; I'm out there grabbing asses and taking names. Or occasionally forgetting to take names.
(I also tend to appear somewhat drunker than I am, both because my physical coordination is not much to begin with, and because I invariably start thinking it would be funny to "act drunk.")
Is it ethical to fuck me when I'm horny drunk? I think it is, and not just because I want it. Wait, no. I think it is, because I want it. I may be making different decisions than I would sober (although usually just the ones I wish I would), but I'm making decisions. To me that's consent. In some cases it may be wise to turn me down on a "no, that would be a really bad idea" level, but not on a "no, that would be rape" level. Rape is when a girl says "no" or says nothing or says "yes" under coercion, but I'm pretty sure it's not when a girl says "i'sh wanna fuck you, you shtud."
Because if you insist on waiting until I'm not under the influence, you'll be waiting a long time. I'm under the influence of society, of wanting attention and affection, of some seriously powerful hormones, of how long it's been since the last time, of feeling ugly or pretty or unsure, of a huge potent brew of totally unfair outside factors warping my thinking. If you want me to make a truly unimpeded decision, alcohol is the least of your concerns.
(I also--and this is just me--have a fairly laid-back approach to sexual regrets. If I have consensual, well-remembered sex with someone I really shouldn't have, my emotions don't go much beyond "well, I won't have sex with them again." I've never thought of it as some huge irreversible mistake.)
Drunk sex can be really good, too. I'm all giggly and tee-hee-I'm-so-vulnerable, I'm a bit less oversensitive than usual, and then there's the muscle relaxant effect...
Alcohol and I have a funny relationship. I don't drink all that often, or all that much. But when I do drink, two drinks are my absolute limit of rationality. I can hold one drink with dignity, and after two I'll be buzzed but coherent. After three (or sometimes two strong ones, honestly), "coherent" is not a word anyone would use. Particularly not me, because I won't be able to pronounce it.
I'm a cheery drunk, prone to a lot of giggling and not too much trouble-causing, but I am also a ragingly horny drunk. The slender thread of inhibition between me and rampant sexual advances on all my friends and a good number of strangers is dissolved. It's not a matter of me being unable to resist people "taking advantage of me"; I'm out there grabbing asses and taking names. Or occasionally forgetting to take names.
(I also tend to appear somewhat drunker than I am, both because my physical coordination is not much to begin with, and because I invariably start thinking it would be funny to "act drunk.")
Is it ethical to fuck me when I'm horny drunk? I think it is, and not just because I want it. Wait, no. I think it is, because I want it. I may be making different decisions than I would sober (although usually just the ones I wish I would), but I'm making decisions. To me that's consent. In some cases it may be wise to turn me down on a "no, that would be a really bad idea" level, but not on a "no, that would be rape" level. Rape is when a girl says "no" or says nothing or says "yes" under coercion, but I'm pretty sure it's not when a girl says "i'sh wanna fuck you, you shtud."
Because if you insist on waiting until I'm not under the influence, you'll be waiting a long time. I'm under the influence of society, of wanting attention and affection, of some seriously powerful hormones, of how long it's been since the last time, of feeling ugly or pretty or unsure, of a huge potent brew of totally unfair outside factors warping my thinking. If you want me to make a truly unimpeded decision, alcohol is the least of your concerns.
(I also--and this is just me--have a fairly laid-back approach to sexual regrets. If I have consensual, well-remembered sex with someone I really shouldn't have, my emotions don't go much beyond "well, I won't have sex with them again." I've never thought of it as some huge irreversible mistake.)
Drunk sex can be really good, too. I'm all giggly and tee-hee-I'm-so-vulnerable, I'm a bit less oversensitive than usual, and then there's the muscle relaxant effect...
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Short iPod Post: Another silly Youtube link.
In the extremely unlikely eventuality that you haven't seen "Fuck Me, Ray Bradbury" yet, you really should.
(If I were going to fuck a classic sci-fi writer... Hmm. Heinlein seems like he'd be more fun, but Clarke deserves it more. Harlan Ellison would traumatize me for life but it might be worth it. Maybe I'd just go ahead and show Damon Knight how I serve man.)
(If I were going to fuck a classic sci-fi writer... Hmm. Heinlein seems like he'd be more fun, but Clarke deserves it more. Harlan Ellison would traumatize me for life but it might be worth it. Maybe I'd just go ahead and show Damon Knight how I serve man.)
Short iPod Post: Sum of the parts.
Sometimes I'm frustrated that I don't know exactly what I'm into. I have some general ideas on the physical stuff--biting yes please, paddling no thank you, clit stimulation no thank you, G-spot stimulation OHHH FUCK FUCCCKK AHHH--but a lot of the big questions are unanswered. Like, would I ever be okay with monogamy? Do I want a relationship with a for-reals power dynamic or just play? Do I ever want to be forced into things I really don't want, or do I want to keep it strictly on the "oh no, not the briar patch" level? Do I ultimately want to settle down with a house and kids and a picket fence? Do I enjoy switching ever? Would I enjoy performing purely nonsexual service? How serious a relationship do I want at this point in my life, or do I prefer being single?
And the answer is not, I think, that I need to navel-gaze until I answer these things. The answer is "well, with whom?" Because it's no use thinking too hard about what I'd do with a faceless gray box of a partner who dropped out of the sky on me. In reality, every relationship I've had has developed a different dynamic, and one that was different from all my partner's previous relationships as well. Chemistry isn't about the elements that just sit there; it's about the reactions, and I can never predict what those will be. (Which is why I flunked out of pre-med.) What I want in a relationship is a moot point--I won't know until I find out what I want in a relationship with Joe.
I feel like some people approach dating with an idea of what they want, and the question they want to answer is "how close is this person to what I'm looking for?" I don't. The only question I have is "do I like this person?", because the way in which I like them has to reach its own equilibrium.
And the answer is not, I think, that I need to navel-gaze until I answer these things. The answer is "well, with whom?" Because it's no use thinking too hard about what I'd do with a faceless gray box of a partner who dropped out of the sky on me. In reality, every relationship I've had has developed a different dynamic, and one that was different from all my partner's previous relationships as well. Chemistry isn't about the elements that just sit there; it's about the reactions, and I can never predict what those will be. (Which is why I flunked out of pre-med.) What I want in a relationship is a moot point--I won't know until I find out what I want in a relationship with Joe.
I feel like some people approach dating with an idea of what they want, and the question they want to answer is "how close is this person to what I'm looking for?" I don't. The only question I have is "do I like this person?", because the way in which I like them has to reach its own equilibrium.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Short iPod Post: Age.
(I am so very frustrated with my lack of a computer. Teeny tiny non-tactile buttons on a cracked screen with no flash and no tabbed browsing and cumbersome copy-paste sucks SO MUCH. Wahhhh.)
I saw an ad on TV the other day for a modeling show featuring women over 35. All the promo quotes were things like "after 35, I have no fear," and "I'm more beautiful now than ever." Well, no shit, lady, because you're barely middle-aged! You're not exactly a wise old silver fox enjoying her golden years at thirty-freaking-five. Hell, in Kinkland that's still TNG age! (The Next Generation, a group reserved for young kinkstersto keep out the goddamn creepy old chickenhawks.) But in TV years that makes you older than Yoda. God knows what they think a 45-year old is. I'm guessing "someone with the majority of their sexually active years still ahead of them" isn't the answer.
It still gets to me sometimes that Britney Spears is only four years older than me. I'm just barely starting at life and she's widely considered to be completely used up. ...Is four more years of sexiness all I'm gonna get? Shit.
I saw an ad for porn featuring 18- and 19-year-olds, and I wasn't enthralled by the prospect. Not because of the "they're making a life mistake" concern, but because most 18-year-olds kinda suck at sex. At 18 I really didn't know how to move, didn't know how to communicate, had no self-confidence at all, and had probably 10% of the still-immature skillset I have these days. "Innocence" is just another word for incomptence.
It's not that older is always better, but I'm dismayed by the idea that older is sexless, and by just how low the "old" bar is set. Old is, like, 80. 40 is just an adult. And lemme tell ya, some of those adults really know what they're doing.
I saw an ad on TV the other day for a modeling show featuring women over 35. All the promo quotes were things like "after 35, I have no fear," and "I'm more beautiful now than ever." Well, no shit, lady, because you're barely middle-aged! You're not exactly a wise old silver fox enjoying her golden years at thirty-freaking-five. Hell, in Kinkland that's still TNG age! (The Next Generation, a group reserved for young kinksters
It still gets to me sometimes that Britney Spears is only four years older than me. I'm just barely starting at life and she's widely considered to be completely used up. ...Is four more years of sexiness all I'm gonna get? Shit.
I saw an ad for porn featuring 18- and 19-year-olds, and I wasn't enthralled by the prospect. Not because of the "they're making a life mistake" concern, but because most 18-year-olds kinda suck at sex. At 18 I really didn't know how to move, didn't know how to communicate, had no self-confidence at all, and had probably 10% of the still-immature skillset I have these days. "Innocence" is just another word for incomptence.
It's not that older is always better, but I'm dismayed by the idea that older is sexless, and by just how low the "old" bar is set. Old is, like, 80. 40 is just an adult. And lemme tell ya, some of those adults really know what they're doing.
Short iPod Post: Overstimulated.
So last night I was having sex, as I am so wont to do, and it was going really well--I was coming my brains out and then some. And then too much. Sometime after the tenth orgasm I just couldn't take any more. I was in that state where every touch is amplified, only the touch in question was fast hard fucking. I had to stop. I couldn't take it.
For some reason I feel worse having any sexual inadequacies when it's in a kinky context. Like I was somehow misrepresenting myself as kinky if I can't perform at a certain level. I'm not kinky, I can't even get fucked properly and sometimes I only want to be beaten a little bit! If I was really kinky I'd have a vagina like a Fleshlight and an ass like leather. Instead some asshole went and put way too many nerves in them.
It's funny how I can have sex that involves knives and pee and being pounded with lead-filled sap gloves, then worry I just wasn't kinky enough.
Anyway, we took a break, he hit me a bit as my partners are so wont to do, and then we started fucking again. And this time I held back. Which kind of sucks--trying not to grind my hips against a guy or tighten my pussy around his cock is just wrong! But that meant I only came a couple times, so I was able to go the distance.
When a guy brags about having a huge cock and being able to go full throttle for hours, I don't think "wow, heavenly." I think, "wow, that's so much more than I need." When average sex is amazing for me, amazing sex is... just too damn much.
For some reason I feel worse having any sexual inadequacies when it's in a kinky context. Like I was somehow misrepresenting myself as kinky if I can't perform at a certain level. I'm not kinky, I can't even get fucked properly and sometimes I only want to be beaten a little bit! If I was really kinky I'd have a vagina like a Fleshlight and an ass like leather. Instead some asshole went and put way too many nerves in them.
It's funny how I can have sex that involves knives and pee and being pounded with lead-filled sap gloves, then worry I just wasn't kinky enough.
Anyway, we took a break, he hit me a bit as my partners are so wont to do, and then we started fucking again. And this time I held back. Which kind of sucks--trying not to grind my hips against a guy or tighten my pussy around his cock is just wrong! But that meant I only came a couple times, so I was able to go the distance.
When a guy brags about having a huge cock and being able to go full throttle for hours, I don't think "wow, heavenly." I think, "wow, that's so much more than I need." When average sex is amazing for me, amazing sex is... just too damn much.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Short iPod Post: Turkey.
If you have not seen this video, you really should.
(No nudity or anything, but might be a bit hard to explain to coworkers. Especially when it makes you laugh 'till you pee.)
(No nudity or anything, but might be a bit hard to explain to coworkers. Especially when it makes you laugh 'till you pee.)
Short iPod Post: Anticipation.
No matter how experienced I get, sometimes I feel like there's no way to wrap my head around the concept "I will be tortured tonight. I better not be late!" I'm both eager and fearful, and I always question my own sanity a little. I think it's because that's the moment when I reflect how I don't have to do any of this. I could walk away. I could even just ask them not to hurt me. Why the hell am I presenting myself for something that will hurt me?
Before I sound too much like a self-punishing neurotic, I should point out that I have this problem on rollercoasters and waterslides too. Now, I love rollercoasters as pure speedy joy and they don't cause me pain or make me sick. But if they stopped it at the top, after that long racha-racha-racha climb and in sight of the sheer hugeness of the first drop, and offered to let me off if I wanted... well, I wouldn't do it, but I imagine the feeling I'd have saying "no" is a whole lot like this one.
(Rollercoasters are really the perfect kink metaphor. You're strapped in, you're scared but trust there will be no real harm, whether you enjoy them is part psychology and part physiology, and they look so different from the outside than they do when you're on it.)
Before I sound too much like a self-punishing neurotic, I should point out that I have this problem on rollercoasters and waterslides too. Now, I love rollercoasters as pure speedy joy and they don't cause me pain or make me sick. But if they stopped it at the top, after that long racha-racha-racha climb and in sight of the sheer hugeness of the first drop, and offered to let me off if I wanted... well, I wouldn't do it, but I imagine the feeling I'd have saying "no" is a whole lot like this one.
(Rollercoasters are really the perfect kink metaphor. You're strapped in, you're scared but trust there will be no real harm, whether you enjoy them is part psychology and part physiology, and they look so different from the outside than they do when you're on it.)
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Short iPod post: Free Porn.
An ex-roommate came by and gave me free porn. I'm somewhere between proud and dismayed that it holds no interest for me. I mean, I'll watch it, once I have a computer again, but it really will just be to see if I can get a blog post out of it.
Because... well, it's just people fucking. Whatever, you know? I'm not so jaded that I don't still like to be just fucked myself, but in the absence of any other context or activities it seems pointless.
Actually, come to think of it, I don't like to be just fucked, and the reason has less to do with being jaded and more to do with needing my real-life sex to be based in something more interesting than "hey! These parts interlock!" If I wouldn't want real sex from a random stranger who doesn't have anything interesting about them, why would I want to watch them fuck?
Because... well, it's just people fucking. Whatever, you know? I'm not so jaded that I don't still like to be just fucked myself, but in the absence of any other context or activities it seems pointless.
Actually, come to think of it, I don't like to be just fucked, and the reason has less to do with being jaded and more to do with needing my real-life sex to be based in something more interesting than "hey! These parts interlock!" If I wouldn't want real sex from a random stranger who doesn't have anything interesting about them, why would I want to watch them fuck?
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Short iPod post: Toothy Bruises.
I have indiscreetly placed obvious bitemarks. Not nibbles. Heavily bruised CHOMPS. I have work soon. I'm doing my best with clothes and makeup, but I'm still not certain whether "I was helping a friend move [his human jaw collection?]", "it's none of your business [that I'm being horribly abused?]" or "it's none of your business *wink* [ewwww?]."
Probably A. I don't like lying when I haven't even done anything wrong, but I also don't like long awkward job-endangering "no, actually things are going GREAT at home" conversations.
Probably A. I don't like lying when I haven't even done anything wrong, but I also don't like long awkward job-endangering "no, actually things are going GREAT at home" conversations.
Short iPod post: Sensitivity.
My first orgasm of the night (or day, or funeral service, courtroom session, what have you) actually takes some warmup. It's only the subsequent ones that are really "you just think about my vagina and there I go."
One downside of having a really sensitive vagina: if something happens to make me sore--even just one mis-thrust or fingernail scrape--I can never get over it; I'm sore for the rest of the night. Good thing I kinda get off on painful sex or this could be some sort of problem.
One downside of having a really sensitive vagina: if something happens to make me sore--even just one mis-thrust or fingernail scrape--I can never get over it; I'm sore for the rest of the night. Good thing I kinda get off on painful sex or this could be some sort of problem.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Short iPod post: B/briar P/patch.
Sometimes I think I'd like to be forced to use Strict Capitalization Protocol, just because I hate it so much.
Short iPod post: Appearances.
I was watching some BDSM porn lately where a guy was verbally humiliating a girl as he fucked her. As she started getting up to her "gonnacomegonnacome" faces and noises, he really ramped it up--you're a worthless fucktoy, you're only good for getting fucked, you're just a hole for me to use.
And all I could think was "aw, what a sweet guy, he's really doing all he can to make it good for her."
And all I could think was "aw, what a sweet guy, he's really doing all he can to make it good for her."
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Tragedy!
I spilled water on my laptop and now it won't start! Horror, sorrow. Typing this on iPod. Blogging will be impaired until computer dries or is replaced.
Tonight fun though. Many bite marks. Do so love the biting.
Tonight fun though. Many bite marks. Do so love the biting.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Cosmocking: "S&M"!
The new Cosmo is here! Joy! I don't have time to do a full Cosmocking before work! Sorrow!
So I'll just do one article, because, well. The title is "Whips, Chains, Cages... Whoa" and it's about "S&M" in the media. They say "S&M" many times and each one is like aluminum foil in my teeth.
Quick terminology lesson: weird mean sex is generically called "BDSM." (Or more expansively "kink", or various evasions like "What it is that we do.") This consists of:
-"B/D", which is "bondage and discipline" and the part of the acronym that no one ever uses.
-"D/s", which is "dominance and submission" and refers to psychological control and power exchange. (Note goofy capitalization convention. Because a Dominant gets the Big Important Letters, and a submissive is only worthy of tiny puny letters.)
-"S/M" or just "SM", which is "sadism and masochism" (or "sadomasochism") and refers to the painful stuff. This is pretty much never, ever, ever called "S&M" or "S and M" by anyone in the community.
So saying "S&M" has roughly the same effect on dedicated perverts as saying "Captain Kirk, from The Star Wars." Bear that in mind as I finally get to the actual article.
When Rihanna appeared on the cover of one of her singles wearing barbed wire, our first thought was just, "Huh, that's racy." But combined with Shakira's recent cage dancing and Christina Augilera throwing on a sex hood and caressing a bound chick in a music video, it all points to a troubling trend.
Yes, it is troubling when people half-assedly appropriate BDSM imagery without knowing what the fuck they're actually referencing. It simultaneously creates the conceptions in the public minds that "BDSM is totally crazy and dark and underground" and "BDSM is basically just sex only sexier." And worst of all, "BDSM is a costume and a set design, but all anyone actually does is sort of stand around and wiggle."
These stars are successful enough that they can call the shots when it comes to what they wear and what themes they explore. Why, suddenly, are they embracing S&M?
Because they don't "call the shots"--no one in commercial entertainment does. They can't say "I'd like to do this one in a comfy t-shirt and gym shorts," because that's not what the Marketing Oracles are favoring this week. They have to constantly get attention to keep making money, and dressing up in My First Dominatrix Costume is one way to do that.
That they're tying themselves up makes a difference. According to psychologist James Houran, PhD, bondage circles call this topping from the bottom, which means the person who's being submissive is really in control.
Okay, that's not remotely what "topping from the bottom" means. Topping from the bottom means being bossy and fussy while nominally on the bottom, and is generally considered obnoxious behavior.
Also, I can't even express how annoyed I am that they consulted a psychologist instead of, you know, a kinky person. We can speak for ourselves, assholes; we don't need you to send in an anthropologist in a pith helmet to study our quaint ways.
When stars pose in PVC or handcuffs, they're pushing our buttons, not the other way around.
Sure, because they're not really kinky. I can't speak to PVC because I don't have much interest in that fetish, but when I wear handcuffs, I sure as hell get my buttons pushed.
And that's a good thing. If I were wearing handcuffs and didn't give a crap, well, that's kind of sad, isn't it? There's this weird media ideal that the woman with no desire of her own is the master of men, but really, having sexual power shouldn't preclude experiencing pleasure yourself.
"Men like the fantasy of a submissive woman, while women feel powerful when they're wanted," he says.
In other words, men are all tops and women don't really have sexual desires but like to be pretty. Or maybe this is just rationalizing a way to say "kids, kids, you're both the top" rather than admit that sometimes submission does actually mean, you know, submitting. Because it would be so wrong if that happened.
"People are interested in eroticizing their fears, but hurting someone or wanting to be hurt is unhealthy, so S&M remains unacceptable to most people," says Christopher Ryan, PhD.
Man, I always thought PhDs required a lot of work and research, but apparently I could get one just studying my own Saturday nights.
Anyway, the question of what "unhealthy" really means or why this might or might not be true is a big complicated one, so let's just go back to our safe place of "it's okay to wear slutty black clothes, but not if you actually enjoy it." Women should be seen and not come.
Whether you realize it or not, you may indulge in some aspects of S&M yourself.
WHOA NO SHIT REALLY?
Just like how barely there hoo-ha hair came from porn, nose piercings, cutout dresses, and zip-up strappy heels got their start in S&M.
It really is just a fucking costume, huh?
The last time I indulged in some aspects of S&M, I was wearing a cotton sundress and my partner was in a geek-logo t-shirt and cargo shorts. It's too bad I left my zip-up strappy heels at home, because otherwise the way I was slapping and biting him could have been kinky or something!
Incorporating S&M into fashion is one way for us to show you're badass without venturing too far into taboo territory.
But you're not badass! I'm badass! I have been set on fire! (Actually not particularly painful with alcohol fuel. But still. It takes nerves of steel, if nothing else.) You want to be badass, go get set on fire and then wear your goddamn strappy heels.
There's nothing wrong with not being kinky. Most people aren't. It doesn't make your sex less interesting or less intense or less anything. But don't go putting on some goofy costume and telling me you're a super kinky "S&M" badass now. That's posing, it's insulting, and it's really really dumb.
So I'll just do one article, because, well. The title is "Whips, Chains, Cages... Whoa" and it's about "S&M" in the media. They say "S&M" many times and each one is like aluminum foil in my teeth.
Quick terminology lesson: weird mean sex is generically called "BDSM." (Or more expansively "kink", or various evasions like "What it is that we do.") This consists of:
-"B/D", which is "bondage and discipline" and the part of the acronym that no one ever uses.
-"D/s", which is "dominance and submission" and refers to psychological control and power exchange. (Note goofy capitalization convention. Because a Dominant gets the Big Important Letters, and a submissive is only worthy of tiny puny letters.)
-"S/M" or just "SM", which is "sadism and masochism" (or "sadomasochism") and refers to the painful stuff. This is pretty much never, ever, ever called "S&M" or "S and M" by anyone in the community.
So saying "S&M" has roughly the same effect on dedicated perverts as saying "Captain Kirk, from The Star Wars." Bear that in mind as I finally get to the actual article.
When Rihanna appeared on the cover of one of her singles wearing barbed wire, our first thought was just, "Huh, that's racy." But combined with Shakira's recent cage dancing and Christina Augilera throwing on a sex hood and caressing a bound chick in a music video, it all points to a troubling trend.
Yes, it is troubling when people half-assedly appropriate BDSM imagery without knowing what the fuck they're actually referencing. It simultaneously creates the conceptions in the public minds that "BDSM is totally crazy and dark and underground" and "BDSM is basically just sex only sexier." And worst of all, "BDSM is a costume and a set design, but all anyone actually does is sort of stand around and wiggle."
These stars are successful enough that they can call the shots when it comes to what they wear and what themes they explore. Why, suddenly, are they embracing S&M?
Because they don't "call the shots"--no one in commercial entertainment does. They can't say "I'd like to do this one in a comfy t-shirt and gym shorts," because that's not what the Marketing Oracles are favoring this week. They have to constantly get attention to keep making money, and dressing up in My First Dominatrix Costume is one way to do that.
That they're tying themselves up makes a difference. According to psychologist James Houran, PhD, bondage circles call this topping from the bottom, which means the person who's being submissive is really in control.
Okay, that's not remotely what "topping from the bottom" means. Topping from the bottom means being bossy and fussy while nominally on the bottom, and is generally considered obnoxious behavior.
Also, I can't even express how annoyed I am that they consulted a psychologist instead of, you know, a kinky person. We can speak for ourselves, assholes; we don't need you to send in an anthropologist in a pith helmet to study our quaint ways.
When stars pose in PVC or handcuffs, they're pushing our buttons, not the other way around.
Sure, because they're not really kinky. I can't speak to PVC because I don't have much interest in that fetish, but when I wear handcuffs, I sure as hell get my buttons pushed.
And that's a good thing. If I were wearing handcuffs and didn't give a crap, well, that's kind of sad, isn't it? There's this weird media ideal that the woman with no desire of her own is the master of men, but really, having sexual power shouldn't preclude experiencing pleasure yourself.
"Men like the fantasy of a submissive woman, while women feel powerful when they're wanted," he says.
In other words, men are all tops and women don't really have sexual desires but like to be pretty. Or maybe this is just rationalizing a way to say "kids, kids, you're both the top" rather than admit that sometimes submission does actually mean, you know, submitting. Because it would be so wrong if that happened.
"People are interested in eroticizing their fears, but hurting someone or wanting to be hurt is unhealthy, so S&M remains unacceptable to most people," says Christopher Ryan, PhD.
Man, I always thought PhDs required a lot of work and research, but apparently I could get one just studying my own Saturday nights.
Anyway, the question of what "unhealthy" really means or why this might or might not be true is a big complicated one, so let's just go back to our safe place of "it's okay to wear slutty black clothes, but not if you actually enjoy it." Women should be seen and not come.
Whether you realize it or not, you may indulge in some aspects of S&M yourself.
WHOA NO SHIT REALLY?
Just like how barely there hoo-ha hair came from porn, nose piercings, cutout dresses, and zip-up strappy heels got their start in S&M.
It really is just a fucking costume, huh?
The last time I indulged in some aspects of S&M, I was wearing a cotton sundress and my partner was in a geek-logo t-shirt and cargo shorts. It's too bad I left my zip-up strappy heels at home, because otherwise the way I was slapping and biting him could have been kinky or something!
Incorporating S&M into fashion is one way for us to show you're badass without venturing too far into taboo territory.
But you're not badass! I'm badass! I have been set on fire! (Actually not particularly painful with alcohol fuel. But still. It takes nerves of steel, if nothing else.) You want to be badass, go get set on fire and then wear your goddamn strappy heels.
There's nothing wrong with not being kinky. Most people aren't. It doesn't make your sex less interesting or less intense or less anything. But don't go putting on some goofy costume and telling me you're a super kinky "S&M" badass now. That's posing, it's insulting, and it's really really dumb.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Vanilla Life: Three Stories.
Junior year of college, I spend spring break at a "retreat" to a Zen monastery. It's much weirder than I expected--everyone, male and female, sleeps on the floor in a big pile, for about five hours a night. Our days are split between the chores and maintenance of the monastery and hours of meditation. Hours. This is how I discover I am unable to meditate. I kneel, and am quiet, and cannot still my mind. I feel every minute of those hours. I flit through sexual fantasies, recounting the plots of movies in my head, doing math, wondering if everyone besides me is in some state of transcendent bliss while I just wish I had something to read.
I am very uncomfortable and very concerned about being polite. The idea that I could simply leave--either in the sense of catching a ride back to town, or merely stepping outside the meditation hall when I damn well feel like it--does not cross my mind. The monks are harsh as drill sergeants, chastising anyone who moves out of the prescribed position for an instant. My feet fall asleep, so badly once that I can't get up because my foot is completely dead, numb and paralyzed and floppy for a minute before it can bear weight, and they tell me to stop being disruptive. They tell a lactose intolerant student that he will eat cheese or not eat; they tell all of us that the only water we may have with meals is the water we rinse our bowls with, and without complaining we drink warm dishwater. I am consumed with the idea that all my fellow students are deriving great pleasure from this experience and viewing it as a great privilege, and I am the only exception. I must not be taking this in good faith, I must not be trying hard enough.
I never do figure out what to make of this experience. It's not a simple case of "then it all turned out to be an evil cult!" The monks put a lot of effort into us and didn't get an inordinate amount of money or work from us. Most of what they did was accepted Zen practice. Maybe it was me; maybe I was not culturally or psychologically prepared for spiritual self-deprivation, and so it became plain old deprivation. Maybe if I had been able to experience meditation the entire character of the trip would have been changed for me. Maybe Zen practice itself is actually kinda fucked up.
They hit us with a stick. This is called Keisaku, it's a real thing. It's supposed to shock and focus your mind. They hit you only upon request, but they hit quite hard, a gigantic thud across your entire back. I request one every time they come down the line of students with the stick. It's not to clear my mind--I've given up on that--and it's not for some kinky thrill. It's just to get some stimulation.
---
---
Eight years old. I've just read about Harry Houdini. His life sounds so exciting! MAGIC! I get some rope and beg everyone I know to tie me to a chair so I can escape. If I get out, I tell them to do it better. If I can't get out, I don't really mind; in a weird way it's comforting. This is one of my favorite games.
Another one is getting into the cages at the vet's office (where I nominally "volunteer" but mostly just hang out). The other volunteer can only fit in the dog cages, but I'm kind of a tiny kid and can get in the cat cages with effort. I don't come out until I have to.
Any time I watch cartoons, my favorite parts are the ones where the heroes get tortured. The scene in Star Wars where the Emperor electrocutes Luke, or various cartoon shows where the enemies imprison or interrogate their captives using an Ill-Defined Blue Force Field Of Pain, hold a special fascination for me. I masturbate (although I don't know that's what it is at the time; I just touch myself a place that feels good and then there's wet stuff, masturbation is some icky complicated grownup thing) thinking about these scenes. I grind myself on the floor when I reenact them with my action figures.
I am very uncomfortable and very concerned about being polite. The idea that I could simply leave--either in the sense of catching a ride back to town, or merely stepping outside the meditation hall when I damn well feel like it--does not cross my mind. The monks are harsh as drill sergeants, chastising anyone who moves out of the prescribed position for an instant. My feet fall asleep, so badly once that I can't get up because my foot is completely dead, numb and paralyzed and floppy for a minute before it can bear weight, and they tell me to stop being disruptive. They tell a lactose intolerant student that he will eat cheese or not eat; they tell all of us that the only water we may have with meals is the water we rinse our bowls with, and without complaining we drink warm dishwater. I am consumed with the idea that all my fellow students are deriving great pleasure from this experience and viewing it as a great privilege, and I am the only exception. I must not be taking this in good faith, I must not be trying hard enough.
I never do figure out what to make of this experience. It's not a simple case of "then it all turned out to be an evil cult!" The monks put a lot of effort into us and didn't get an inordinate amount of money or work from us. Most of what they did was accepted Zen practice. Maybe it was me; maybe I was not culturally or psychologically prepared for spiritual self-deprivation, and so it became plain old deprivation. Maybe if I had been able to experience meditation the entire character of the trip would have been changed for me. Maybe Zen practice itself is actually kinda fucked up.
They hit us with a stick. This is called Keisaku, it's a real thing. It's supposed to shock and focus your mind. They hit you only upon request, but they hit quite hard, a gigantic thud across your entire back. I request one every time they come down the line of students with the stick. It's not to clear my mind--I've given up on that--and it's not for some kinky thrill. It's just to get some stimulation.
---
---
Eight years old. I've just read about Harry Houdini. His life sounds so exciting! MAGIC! I get some rope and beg everyone I know to tie me to a chair so I can escape. If I get out, I tell them to do it better. If I can't get out, I don't really mind; in a weird way it's comforting. This is one of my favorite games.
Another one is getting into the cages at the vet's office (where I nominally "volunteer" but mostly just hang out). The other volunteer can only fit in the dog cages, but I'm kind of a tiny kid and can get in the cat cages with effort. I don't come out until I have to.
Any time I watch cartoons, my favorite parts are the ones where the heroes get tortured. The scene in Star Wars where the Emperor electrocutes Luke, or various cartoon shows where the enemies imprison or interrogate their captives using an Ill-Defined Blue Force Field Of Pain, hold a special fascination for me. I masturbate (although I don't know that's what it is at the time; I just touch myself a place that feels good and then there's wet stuff, masturbation is some icky complicated grownup thing) thinking about these scenes. I grind myself on the floor when I reenact them with my action figures.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Not a prerequisite but a precursor.
Since I came to Boston, my troubles in life have really shifted from "help, boys don't like me, what do I do?" to "help, boys like me, what do I do?" The second problem is obviously a much better one to have, but also much more complex in its management.
So one of my new rules (extremely breakable, but in effect unless I decide otherwise) is that I will not get sweaty with a guy until we have some sort of intimacy. Now, "intimacy" to me doesn't mean "I wuv u 4eva, u r my cuddlebear." It's more like "you're not a total fucking stranger." It means we've spoken and touched in a nonsexual way first and we feel like we know each other to some degree. Lately I've been really needing my friends-with-benefits to be friends--someone I have at least some enjoyable pants-on interactions with.
From the outside, I think this could be mistaken as trading sex for intimacy. As if I really just wanted guys to take me to dinner and cuddle with me, and I was willing to tolerate the rest of it. It's a well-worn stereotype that us ladypeople just put up with sex because it's sort of like being hugged.
But for me, it's more of a peanut butter and jelly situation. (I have a new favorite metaphor.) I'm not tolerating peanut butter to eat jelly, I'm enjoying the synergy. Sex is better with guys I feel some connection with. But here's the thing: I don't mean fuzzy-wuzzy lovey-dovey better. I mean orgasms better.
If a guy is human to me, if I know about how he broke his leg when he was little and he keeps a cat even though he's allergic, that makes him sexier. It makes me get wetter for him faster, it makes me grind on him harder, it makes me swallow his cock deeper. I want that former broken-legged-kid inside me. Sometimes inside my ass. Telling me that you're from Connecticut originally but you moved up here for college isn't awkward chitchat or time-wasting; it's part of the mysterious alchemy that leads up to "I want you to fuck me until it hurts."
So my problem with anonymous sex, with the supposed eroticism of "I don't even want to know your name, baby," isn't that I'm secretly angling for a white picket fence. It's that I won't come nearly as hard.
So one of my new rules (extremely breakable, but in effect unless I decide otherwise) is that I will not get sweaty with a guy until we have some sort of intimacy. Now, "intimacy" to me doesn't mean "I wuv u 4eva, u r my cuddlebear." It's more like "you're not a total fucking stranger." It means we've spoken and touched in a nonsexual way first and we feel like we know each other to some degree. Lately I've been really needing my friends-with-benefits to be friends--someone I have at least some enjoyable pants-on interactions with.
From the outside, I think this could be mistaken as trading sex for intimacy. As if I really just wanted guys to take me to dinner and cuddle with me, and I was willing to tolerate the rest of it. It's a well-worn stereotype that us ladypeople just put up with sex because it's sort of like being hugged.
But for me, it's more of a peanut butter and jelly situation. (I have a new favorite metaphor.) I'm not tolerating peanut butter to eat jelly, I'm enjoying the synergy. Sex is better with guys I feel some connection with. But here's the thing: I don't mean fuzzy-wuzzy lovey-dovey better. I mean orgasms better.
If a guy is human to me, if I know about how he broke his leg when he was little and he keeps a cat even though he's allergic, that makes him sexier. It makes me get wetter for him faster, it makes me grind on him harder, it makes me swallow his cock deeper. I want that former broken-legged-kid inside me. Sometimes inside my ass. Telling me that you're from Connecticut originally but you moved up here for college isn't awkward chitchat or time-wasting; it's part of the mysterious alchemy that leads up to "I want you to fuck me until it hurts."
So my problem with anonymous sex, with the supposed eroticism of "I don't even want to know your name, baby," isn't that I'm secretly angling for a white picket fence. It's that I won't come nearly as hard.
"You're like a cat."
(Theoretically PG but probably NWS hairy man-chest.)
Fun fact: cats can actually have different numbers of nipples depending on their breeding, and sometimes it's an odd number.
Fun fact: cats can actually have different numbers of nipples depending on their breeding, and sometimes it's an odd number.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
I topped a boy and I liked it.
(Men! Tell me about your orgasms!)
So tonight was interesting. Tonight I topped.
I used to top Benny, but this was a very different experience. With Benny it was more like service topping, or paying him back for topping me; tonight it evolved a lot more organically.
I met a friend--someone I met through the blog, actually, but someone who I also talked to as a friend for several months before the idea of us playing together ever came up--and invited him back to my house. We showed each other our BDSM toys, and played the time-honored "BDSM show and tell" ritual of hitting each other on the forearm with everything.
Then we just cuddled for a while. A long while, actually; we might have spent two hours just hugging and petting and scritching, meanwhile having a long, digressive, highly geeky conversation about everything that came to mind. Although sex was most of what came to mind. At one point I got intolerably horny from all the physical contact, asked him how I might most elegantly resolve this situation, and ended up humping his leg to orgasm. (Not the most efficient or intense route, but it's more relieving than nothing and more entertaining than just doing myself.) This didn't really change anything and we kept cuddling after that.
Then he nibbled me, and with my permission bit me quite hard. I love being bitten. No; I loooove being bitten. If you want to get me seriously moaning and squirming with my pants still on, all you need is a set of teeth. But in this case it didn't just get me turned on, it got me asking him if I could bite back. (Actually, I believe the specific question was "Are you noms?" See, kids, consent can be fun!) He confirmed that he was, indeed, noms, and I bit him. I bit him several times, hard, working my teeth around, getting almost to the point of tearing his skin before backing off. And he loved it. He threw his head back and tensed his muscles and made the most amazing noises.
So I kept going. He took off his shirt and I gnawed on his chest and his nipples, biting his nipple hard and rolling it between my teeth and hearing nothing but joy from him. I went down onto his ribs and sucked up a big chunk of flesh in my mouth, biting and sucking up a giant hickey--then made a matching one on the other side.
At this point I was getting quite into hurting him. He turned around and I scratched his back, making long red trails until his whole back was pink and warm, then digging my fingers deep into the tender flesh. I moved down a little and started slapping his ass, but I just couldn't do enough with my hands. I grabbed a hairbrush.
The man was a glutton for pain, I gotta tell ya. I've always had a secret theory that on average male masochists are into more fucked-up shit than female ones, and he was no exception--I was pounding his bare ass with a wooden hairbrush as hard as I could muster and he just begged for more. I turned it around and ground the stiff bristles into his sore red ass and he begged for more. (Okay, it's a little gross remembering I have to brush my hair with that. Oh well, his ass was clean and I'm not squeamish.)
He'd brought a flogger with him. A big, heavy, rubber flogger, a serious son-of-a-bitch. I'd taken a couple test shots with this flogger earlier in the night and it hurt; three or four full-strength blows from it was enough to wear me down.
He didn't wear down. I was almost incredulous and kept checking in with him, and he kept just taking it and loving it. I was pounding on him with this incredibly mean-ass flogger and he never reached his limit--I don't think he came close to his limit. He just soaked it up.
This is all just physical, though; the part that amazed me was that I was... kind of toppy. I wasn't just going through the motions, I was messing with him both physically and verbally (in a fairly light and semi-silly way, but not insincere) and I was liking it. It wasn't just the feeling of pleasing him. I got a strange tingly rush and an amazing feeling of power. Even afterwards, the tingles lingered.
This isn't some kind of declaration that I'm a switch now. I'm pretty much a sub and I think this was a one-off that happened to have a particular chemistry. But I'm always amazed where chemistry can lead me. I live in a world of wonderful possibilities. Boom de yada.
So tonight was interesting. Tonight I topped.
I used to top Benny, but this was a very different experience. With Benny it was more like service topping, or paying him back for topping me; tonight it evolved a lot more organically.
I met a friend--someone I met through the blog, actually, but someone who I also talked to as a friend for several months before the idea of us playing together ever came up--and invited him back to my house. We showed each other our BDSM toys, and played the time-honored "BDSM show and tell" ritual of hitting each other on the forearm with everything.
Then we just cuddled for a while. A long while, actually; we might have spent two hours just hugging and petting and scritching, meanwhile having a long, digressive, highly geeky conversation about everything that came to mind. Although sex was most of what came to mind. At one point I got intolerably horny from all the physical contact, asked him how I might most elegantly resolve this situation, and ended up humping his leg to orgasm. (Not the most efficient or intense route, but it's more relieving than nothing and more entertaining than just doing myself.) This didn't really change anything and we kept cuddling after that.
Then he nibbled me, and with my permission bit me quite hard. I love being bitten. No; I loooove being bitten. If you want to get me seriously moaning and squirming with my pants still on, all you need is a set of teeth. But in this case it didn't just get me turned on, it got me asking him if I could bite back. (Actually, I believe the specific question was "Are you noms?" See, kids, consent can be fun!) He confirmed that he was, indeed, noms, and I bit him. I bit him several times, hard, working my teeth around, getting almost to the point of tearing his skin before backing off. And he loved it. He threw his head back and tensed his muscles and made the most amazing noises.
So I kept going. He took off his shirt and I gnawed on his chest and his nipples, biting his nipple hard and rolling it between my teeth and hearing nothing but joy from him. I went down onto his ribs and sucked up a big chunk of flesh in my mouth, biting and sucking up a giant hickey--then made a matching one on the other side.
At this point I was getting quite into hurting him. He turned around and I scratched his back, making long red trails until his whole back was pink and warm, then digging my fingers deep into the tender flesh. I moved down a little and started slapping his ass, but I just couldn't do enough with my hands. I grabbed a hairbrush.
The man was a glutton for pain, I gotta tell ya. I've always had a secret theory that on average male masochists are into more fucked-up shit than female ones, and he was no exception--I was pounding his bare ass with a wooden hairbrush as hard as I could muster and he just begged for more. I turned it around and ground the stiff bristles into his sore red ass and he begged for more. (Okay, it's a little gross remembering I have to brush my hair with that. Oh well, his ass was clean and I'm not squeamish.)
He'd brought a flogger with him. A big, heavy, rubber flogger, a serious son-of-a-bitch. I'd taken a couple test shots with this flogger earlier in the night and it hurt; three or four full-strength blows from it was enough to wear me down.
He didn't wear down. I was almost incredulous and kept checking in with him, and he kept just taking it and loving it. I was pounding on him with this incredibly mean-ass flogger and he never reached his limit--I don't think he came close to his limit. He just soaked it up.
This is all just physical, though; the part that amazed me was that I was... kind of toppy. I wasn't just going through the motions, I was messing with him both physically and verbally (in a fairly light and semi-silly way, but not insincere) and I was liking it. It wasn't just the feeling of pleasing him. I got a strange tingly rush and an amazing feeling of power. Even afterwards, the tingles lingered.
This isn't some kind of declaration that I'm a switch now. I'm pretty much a sub and I think this was a one-off that happened to have a particular chemistry. But I'm always amazed where chemistry can lead me. I live in a world of wonderful possibilities. Boom de yada.
The Male Orgasm Project.
CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS!
For all the emphasis we put on male attraction and titillation, male orgasm is often unexamined in our culture--dismissed as a joke, taken for granted, and not credited with the beauty and complexity of female orgasms. It's ignored via sexism, either by assuming that the male experience is default and thus need not be explored, or by worrying that to do so would be gaaaaay, or by brushing it off as comical or disgusting rather than erotic. I've had sex with enough men that I write a little tilde on the Planned Parenthood forms ("number of sexual partners: ~23") and I still don't really know.
I want to remedy this. I want to put together an essay on experiences of male orgasm. I want to do it to provide an educational resource for women, to learn about variation in men's experiences, and simply to honor male sexuality as a complex subject that goes far deeper than liking bikinis and blowjobs.
So this is an invitation for all male-identified people to tell me: what is it like to have an orgasm? Physically, emotionally, whatever it means to you. Use as many or as few words as you need. Your words may be reposted on this site but no identifying information will be used (unless you want to plug your blog or site, then I'll put in a link for you).
Email your description to pervocracy@gmail.com, or if you want to be completely anonymous, use the comments to this post. (I don't track IPs or anything of anonymous comments.)
For all the emphasis we put on male attraction and titillation, male orgasm is often unexamined in our culture--dismissed as a joke, taken for granted, and not credited with the beauty and complexity of female orgasms. It's ignored via sexism, either by assuming that the male experience is default and thus need not be explored, or by worrying that to do so would be gaaaaay, or by brushing it off as comical or disgusting rather than erotic. I've had sex with enough men that I write a little tilde on the Planned Parenthood forms ("number of sexual partners: ~23") and I still don't really know.
I want to remedy this. I want to put together an essay on experiences of male orgasm. I want to do it to provide an educational resource for women, to learn about variation in men's experiences, and simply to honor male sexuality as a complex subject that goes far deeper than liking bikinis and blowjobs.
So this is an invitation for all male-identified people to tell me: what is it like to have an orgasm? Physically, emotionally, whatever it means to you. Use as many or as few words as you need. Your words may be reposted on this site but no identifying information will be used (unless you want to plug your blog or site, then I'll put in a link for you).
Email your description to pervocracy@gmail.com, or if you want to be completely anonymous, use the comments to this post. (I don't track IPs or anything of anonymous comments.)
Blue balls.
Man, theoretically non-sexual BDSM always leaves me ragingly horny. I can certainly work this out myself--at nearly 4 AM it's too late for a booty call and I wouldn't treat them right anyway--but it seems like a shame.
This is what the nJoy Pure Wand is perfect for, by the way. When it's just a "get my rocks off and out of the way so I can sleep" situation, a vibrator does the trick, but when I want to enjoy myself, when I want to really thoroughly fuck myself and luxuriate in it, the wand is perfect. It's not just "pleasure" that thing gives me, it's eyes-rolled-back, shallow-panting, uncontrolled-spasming ecstasy. And the really wonderful thing is, I can draw it out. I can really work out my horny, give myself a proper massage that hits all the spots, and only then make myself come big and hard. If I can't call a real cock up here at 4 AM to stunt-fuck me and then leave immediately (I can't), the Pure Wand is definitely the next best thing.
Separating sex and BDSM is, for me, like separating the bread with the jelly from the bread with the peanut butter. I can do it, it's still a decent meal, but it doesn't seem quite right to me and it means I never achieve that perfect sandwich feng shui. I like my PB all mixed up in my J.
This is what the nJoy Pure Wand is perfect for, by the way. When it's just a "get my rocks off and out of the way so I can sleep" situation, a vibrator does the trick, but when I want to enjoy myself, when I want to really thoroughly fuck myself and luxuriate in it, the wand is perfect. It's not just "pleasure" that thing gives me, it's eyes-rolled-back, shallow-panting, uncontrolled-spasming ecstasy. And the really wonderful thing is, I can draw it out. I can really work out my horny, give myself a proper massage that hits all the spots, and only then make myself come big and hard. If I can't call a real cock up here at 4 AM to stunt-fuck me and then leave immediately (I can't), the Pure Wand is definitely the next best thing.
Separating sex and BDSM is, for me, like separating the bread with the jelly from the bread with the peanut butter. I can do it, it's still a decent meal, but it doesn't seem quite right to me and it means I never achieve that perfect sandwich feng shui. I like my PB all mixed up in my J.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Ostention.
Every threesome that I've ever been involved in has, at some point, included a high-five and/or fist-bump over the third person's back.
I mean, how can you not?
I mean, how can you not?
Friday, August 13, 2010
Risk management.
"You go to weird perverted sex parties? Whoa, how wild and crazy! I mean, playing in the bedroom, that's one thing, but going out and doing it in front of lots of people, that's way out there."
Not really. I certainly go to play parties because I'm a bit of an exhibitionist, and because I like to mix it up with lots of new people. (And, in one of those things that never occurs to "so you're like a dominatrix or something?" types, because the kink community is a community and I enjoy connecting with friends as well as partners at events.) But I also go because it's safer.
With reasonable use of condoms and common sense, having sex and playing with strangers are not tremendously risky activities. Being alone with strangers--that's a risky activity. I'm not worried about letting some random goon tie me up. I'm worried about letting some random goon tie me up where other people can't hear me safeword.
The times that I've gotten alone with a stranger for sex, my worries were never "pregnancy, herpes, AIDS"--I've thought "does he have a weapon, will he respect limits, will he try and restrain me?" There's no condoms for that. Safecalls? Good for body recovery. Weapons? Hard to keep handy when I'm rolling around naked. Self-defense training? I'm 5'1", have impaired physical coordination, and I shwing for guys who are built like brick shithouses.
I'm not a paranoid person. I don't hate or fear dudes (boy do I not) and I often will decide I've considered the risks and I'll get alone with them anyway. My only point here is that it's the isolation, not the sex or play, that strikes me as risky. Going to a stranger's house to watch a movie is more dangerous than letting a stranger beat you bloody and fuck you up the ass at a party.
Since Benny, I've played alone with people a few times, but I haven't let myself be restrained when I'm alone. I'm sure I will again but it's going to take a lot more trust and carry a lot more weight than it did before.
So to me, a sex or BDSM party isn't a venture into the wild underground; it's the safest possible way I can pursue my desires. Sure there's a kinky thrill to getting tied up in front of people, but those people aren't just voyeurs--they're witnesses. Playing publicly isn't just my kink, it's my safety net.
Not really. I certainly go to play parties because I'm a bit of an exhibitionist, and because I like to mix it up with lots of new people. (And, in one of those things that never occurs to "so you're like a dominatrix or something?" types, because the kink community is a community and I enjoy connecting with friends as well as partners at events.) But I also go because it's safer.
With reasonable use of condoms and common sense, having sex and playing with strangers are not tremendously risky activities. Being alone with strangers--that's a risky activity. I'm not worried about letting some random goon tie me up. I'm worried about letting some random goon tie me up where other people can't hear me safeword.
The times that I've gotten alone with a stranger for sex, my worries were never "pregnancy, herpes, AIDS"--I've thought "does he have a weapon, will he respect limits, will he try and restrain me?" There's no condoms for that. Safecalls? Good for body recovery. Weapons? Hard to keep handy when I'm rolling around naked. Self-defense training? I'm 5'1", have impaired physical coordination, and I shwing for guys who are built like brick shithouses.
I'm not a paranoid person. I don't hate or fear dudes (boy do I not) and I often will decide I've considered the risks and I'll get alone with them anyway. My only point here is that it's the isolation, not the sex or play, that strikes me as risky. Going to a stranger's house to watch a movie is more dangerous than letting a stranger beat you bloody and fuck you up the ass at a party.
Since Benny, I've played alone with people a few times, but I haven't let myself be restrained when I'm alone. I'm sure I will again but it's going to take a lot more trust and carry a lot more weight than it did before.
So to me, a sex or BDSM party isn't a venture into the wild underground; it's the safest possible way I can pursue my desires. Sure there's a kinky thrill to getting tied up in front of people, but those people aren't just voyeurs--they're witnesses. Playing publicly isn't just my kink, it's my safety net.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Yes I do but not with you.
I want to have dirty wrong demeaning sex. I also want to have just plain a lot of sex. I want to have sex with a lot of people. Sometimes I dress slutty. Sometimes I let people I don't know so well grope me or even fuck me. I am horny, slutty, kinky, and sometimes a little bit indiscriminate about it.
And none of this means I'm going to do it with you. "You" in the generic, that is. You unless otherwise specified. "You" as in a person who is aware of my existence, but has not received my consent.
Because I am asking for it. Just not from you. Check out my short skirt, my pushed-up tits, my giggle and my ass-wiggle--I'm gagging for it... but not from you. The fact that I'm out for sex does not imply that I'm out for sex with you.
Does this mean that you must never hit on me, that you have no chance at all? No! But it does mean that you can't see me across the room--or read my blog--and take me as some sort of given thing. There's a huge difference between approaching a woman with "hi, let's talk and see if we get along... baby" and approaching her with "welp, seems you're looking for a guy to fuck, and I am technically a guy, so let's get this over with." The second case has been happening a lot to me lately and they tend to take rejection poorly.
If they invented a short skirt that could only be seen by attractive, available, acceptable-smelling, personable, respectful dominant men and butch women (and appeared as baggy sweatpants to everyone else), I'd wear that. Until then, I'm stuck with omnidirectional short skirts, and all the "even though she doesn't know my name, she wore that for me" that seems to come with them.
And none of this means I'm going to do it with you. "You" in the generic, that is. You unless otherwise specified. "You" as in a person who is aware of my existence, but has not received my consent.
Because I am asking for it. Just not from you. Check out my short skirt, my pushed-up tits, my giggle and my ass-wiggle--I'm gagging for it... but not from you. The fact that I'm out for sex does not imply that I'm out for sex with you.
Does this mean that you must never hit on me, that you have no chance at all? No! But it does mean that you can't see me across the room--or read my blog--and take me as some sort of given thing. There's a huge difference between approaching a woman with "hi, let's talk and see if we get along... baby" and approaching her with "welp, seems you're looking for a guy to fuck, and I am technically a guy, so let's get this over with." The second case has been happening a lot to me lately and they tend to take rejection poorly.
If they invented a short skirt that could only be seen by attractive, available, acceptable-smelling, personable, respectful dominant men and butch women (and appeared as baggy sweatpants to everyone else), I'd wear that. Until then, I'm stuck with omnidirectional short skirts, and all the "even though she doesn't know my name, she wore that for me" that seems to come with them.
What's it like to come?
Sex and kink... um, person? I'm not really sure what her title is, maybe "bigwig"--Midori has put out a call for women's descriptions of their orgasms.
(Male orgasms are not interesting, of course. Because women's orgasms are like intricate flowers blown in fierce waves under a sky of fireworks, and men's orgasms are like "splurt." Sigh. It's tough being a flower, but at least my sexuality isn't comic relief. Instead it's the experience of the Other and must be documented for the edification of humans. But anyway.)
For me, orgasms are all about losing control. From the moment I feel one building, until it has come and faded, I have no choice in what my mind and body do. I'm on ecstatic autopilot.
It starts with my hips. When I'm approaching orgasm they roll and thrust of their own accord, finding their own rhythm. Warm, delicious feelings build inside me--starting under my pubic mound and deep inside my pelvis, spreading to my breasts and asscheeks, and making my whole skin sensitive to pleasure.
Troubles go away. Minor discomforts don't matter. Pain is just "intensity," just another way to feel pleasure, and it sinks my mind and body even further into their trance. My capacity is still not bottomless, but I crave the pain that five minutes ago I could barely tolerate.
I get soaking fucking wet. I've never squirted, but I... ooze. Clear thin wetness, slippery and salty and hot, runs onto my thighs. My pussy relaxes, able to take bigger things and deeper. I want deep touch, hard touch, not necessarily fast but firm--I have no use for wispy little caresses. Touch is everything. I don't care what I see or hear.
I don't know what I look like when I come. I suspect it's not glamorous. I've been told that I tend to flush red, and that I make faces like I'm in pain. I do know that I make legendarily stupid noises. I moan, groan, pant, grunt, rant, babble, swear, cry, and scream. Loudly. And I've been accused of barking.
Then I actually come. It's an implosion. My muscles tighten in waves. It's so fucking good, and more than that, it's so fucking much. I am overwhelmed, I am made irrelevant, I am orgasm. It's a warm, hard contraction that begins in my cunt and asshole and goes through my whole body. It's overwhelming and exhausting and the best thing in the entire world. Sometimes it goes on for a few seconds, or chains right into the next one, and I can'tmovecan'tbreathecan'tthinkOH.MY.GOD.
Afterwards, I'm completely used up. I have no physical or mental capacity at all. The severity of this impairment ranges, from just being a little sleepy and subdued after masturbating, to being literally unable to stand up or speak after multiple orgasms in a BDSM scene. I'm very sensitive to touch during this time, and cuddling or continued sex is magnified a thousandfold.
By the time I've come all the way down from the high of coming, I'm just about ready to go again.
(Male orgasms are not interesting, of course. Because women's orgasms are like intricate flowers blown in fierce waves under a sky of fireworks, and men's orgasms are like "splurt." Sigh. It's tough being a flower, but at least my sexuality isn't comic relief. Instead it's the experience of the Other and must be documented for the edification of humans. But anyway.)
For me, orgasms are all about losing control. From the moment I feel one building, until it has come and faded, I have no choice in what my mind and body do. I'm on ecstatic autopilot.
It starts with my hips. When I'm approaching orgasm they roll and thrust of their own accord, finding their own rhythm. Warm, delicious feelings build inside me--starting under my pubic mound and deep inside my pelvis, spreading to my breasts and asscheeks, and making my whole skin sensitive to pleasure.
Troubles go away. Minor discomforts don't matter. Pain is just "intensity," just another way to feel pleasure, and it sinks my mind and body even further into their trance. My capacity is still not bottomless, but I crave the pain that five minutes ago I could barely tolerate.
I get soaking fucking wet. I've never squirted, but I... ooze. Clear thin wetness, slippery and salty and hot, runs onto my thighs. My pussy relaxes, able to take bigger things and deeper. I want deep touch, hard touch, not necessarily fast but firm--I have no use for wispy little caresses. Touch is everything. I don't care what I see or hear.
I don't know what I look like when I come. I suspect it's not glamorous. I've been told that I tend to flush red, and that I make faces like I'm in pain. I do know that I make legendarily stupid noises. I moan, groan, pant, grunt, rant, babble, swear, cry, and scream. Loudly. And I've been accused of barking.
Then I actually come. It's an implosion. My muscles tighten in waves. It's so fucking good, and more than that, it's so fucking much. I am overwhelmed, I am made irrelevant, I am orgasm. It's a warm, hard contraction that begins in my cunt and asshole and goes through my whole body. It's overwhelming and exhausting and the best thing in the entire world. Sometimes it goes on for a few seconds, or chains right into the next one, and I can'tmovecan'tbreathecan'tthinkOH.MY.GOD.
Afterwards, I'm completely used up. I have no physical or mental capacity at all. The severity of this impairment ranges, from just being a little sleepy and subdued after masturbating, to being literally unable to stand up or speak after multiple orgasms in a BDSM scene. I'm very sensitive to touch during this time, and cuddling or continued sex is magnified a thousandfold.
By the time I've come all the way down from the high of coming, I'm just about ready to go again.
Sleep deprivation.
For some reason being extremely tired makes me horny as all fuck. I'm not sure that I have the wherewithal to actually have decent sex, but when I'm running on 90 minutes of sleep I think about sex more than anything. Certain memories always seem to come up and roll around in my mind when I'm exhausted, and I can feel it in my whole body. I want to have my nipples pinched, I want to be shoved to my knees with a cock stuffed in my mouth, I want come on my face, I want to be bitten and slapped, and I want to be fucked so hard it hurts.
Meanwhile, what I need--and the only thing I'm realistically capable of--is crawling into bed and collapsing.
It's the memories, more than anything. When I'm very tired everything has the flavor of a dream, and memories become immersive, not distant pictures but something I can feel under my skin. The little flashes--a hand holding my hair, a cock between my asscheeks, fingers sliding into my pussy, a mere word a man said to me--are enough to make me flush and shiver.
I almost never have sex dreams. I have a lot of almost-sex dreams: I'll be cuddling with someone, we'll get naked, we'll be talking about sex, and it'll never happen. For whatever reason, when I'm genuinely dreaming I tend to blueball myself. (Also, there are a lot of sharks. Not quite sure why.) But when I'm awake and yet close to sleep, when the membrane of reality has worn thin, just to think of fucking is to experience it.
And I think of fucking a lot.
Meanwhile, what I need--and the only thing I'm realistically capable of--is crawling into bed and collapsing.
It's the memories, more than anything. When I'm very tired everything has the flavor of a dream, and memories become immersive, not distant pictures but something I can feel under my skin. The little flashes--a hand holding my hair, a cock between my asscheeks, fingers sliding into my pussy, a mere word a man said to me--are enough to make me flush and shiver.
I almost never have sex dreams. I have a lot of almost-sex dreams: I'll be cuddling with someone, we'll get naked, we'll be talking about sex, and it'll never happen. For whatever reason, when I'm genuinely dreaming I tend to blueball myself. (Also, there are a lot of sharks. Not quite sure why.) But when I'm awake and yet close to sleep, when the membrane of reality has worn thin, just to think of fucking is to experience it.
And I think of fucking a lot.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Girly girl.
I'm not a girl, not yet a woman...
I have a habit of thinking of myself as a "girl," socially. When I'm operating in the grownup world, when I'm speaking as a feminist or an EMT, I'm pretty strict about calling myself and anyone else over 18 a "woman." But when I'm in less uptight contexts... well, for one thing, I tend to refer to "grownups." And I'm not one of those.
In one sense, it's literally true; I'm younger than almost all of my friends. There are some 20- and 21-year-olds in the BDSM scene, but on the whole the crowd skews older than me. It's a combination of people tending to take a while to get comfortable with public kinkiness, and people not being inclined to bow out gracefully when they reach unsexy age. (That's a joke; of course people can be sexy at any age, at least to other gross old people.) I'm also a kid in my life situation: I work an entry-level gofer job, I'm single and playing the field pretty hard, and I live in a big messy shared house in a college area.
But it's also part of my personality. When I'm happy I tend to be very bouncy and silly and a little ditzy, and can have a very "ooh Daddy can I play with the ponies?" demeanor to me. I'm also still a little shy and inexperienced in BDSM--despite being in the scene to some degree for a few years now, I'm still finding my footing in the social and sexual nuances. So I appreciate partners who will take a slightly mentor-ish role and let me be a little bit of a kid in comparison. ("Slightly mentor-ish" does not mean "do my thinking for me"; I do plenty of my own reconnaissance and research and reflection. But it does mean "understand that you're introducing me to some things for the first time and that I appreciate a little bit of education and guidance.") I also have a tendency to be just goofy in bed and love the kind of play where I'm laughing my ass off almost as much the kind where I'm screaming in pain.
I do wonder if I'll ever become a woman. I have a feeling I won't. I can see myself in about twenty years, possibly living in a grown-up house with a grown-up job, and still referring to them in exactly those terms. Is it a submissive thing, or is just a Holly thing? Potato potahto, but I think it's a Holly thing. A certain sense of silliness and wonder is just a part of me, and neither biological age nor sexuality changes anything about that.
Feministically, this is terrible, of course. It makes me undercut my own power and authority constantly, and makes me act like less than a full adult. Infantalizing oneself, even subtly, is no way to gain power and respect in society. But I don't think women are girls. I just think Holly is.
I have a habit of thinking of myself as a "girl," socially. When I'm operating in the grownup world, when I'm speaking as a feminist or an EMT, I'm pretty strict about calling myself and anyone else over 18 a "woman." But when I'm in less uptight contexts... well, for one thing, I tend to refer to "grownups." And I'm not one of those.
In one sense, it's literally true; I'm younger than almost all of my friends. There are some 20- and 21-year-olds in the BDSM scene, but on the whole the crowd skews older than me. It's a combination of people tending to take a while to get comfortable with public kinkiness, and people not being inclined to bow out gracefully when they reach unsexy age. (That's a joke; of course people can be sexy at any age, at least to other gross old people.) I'm also a kid in my life situation: I work an entry-level gofer job, I'm single and playing the field pretty hard, and I live in a big messy shared house in a college area.
But it's also part of my personality. When I'm happy I tend to be very bouncy and silly and a little ditzy, and can have a very "ooh Daddy can I play with the ponies?" demeanor to me. I'm also still a little shy and inexperienced in BDSM--despite being in the scene to some degree for a few years now, I'm still finding my footing in the social and sexual nuances. So I appreciate partners who will take a slightly mentor-ish role and let me be a little bit of a kid in comparison. ("Slightly mentor-ish" does not mean "do my thinking for me"; I do plenty of my own reconnaissance and research and reflection. But it does mean "understand that you're introducing me to some things for the first time and that I appreciate a little bit of education and guidance.") I also have a tendency to be just goofy in bed and love the kind of play where I'm laughing my ass off almost as much the kind where I'm screaming in pain.
I do wonder if I'll ever become a woman. I have a feeling I won't. I can see myself in about twenty years, possibly living in a grown-up house with a grown-up job, and still referring to them in exactly those terms. Is it a submissive thing, or is just a Holly thing? Potato potahto, but I think it's a Holly thing. A certain sense of silliness and wonder is just a part of me, and neither biological age nor sexuality changes anything about that.
Feministically, this is terrible, of course. It makes me undercut my own power and authority constantly, and makes me act like less than a full adult. Infantalizing oneself, even subtly, is no way to gain power and respect in society. But I don't think women are girls. I just think Holly is.
Grouchy quiz!
1) You see a girl at a BDSM event and you notice people coming up and manhandling her without so much as a how-do-you-do, to which she reacts with amusement and delight and offers of oral gratification. You should think:
A) "This girl has pre-existing 'manhandle me anytime' understandings with certain people, and if I have to ask I'm not one of them."
B) "This girl is a community manhandling resource and I will be treated just as nicely if I manhandle her."
2) You read a blog written by a woman who's very open about her sexual desires and adventures. Writing her "What is your deepest darkest fantasy?" is:
A) A terrible idea, because you're asking a total stranger to write erotica for your private use for free.
B) A great idea, because the poor lonely girl has probably never gotten the chance to reveal her secret kinky side to anyone before, and opening up about this will flood her with arousal as she's finally able to tell someone--anyone!--that deep down she dreams of someday putting a man's wee-wee in her nu-nu.
3) You know a girl who has fairly ready access to penis, but is still single. This probably means she is waiting for:
A) Someone with a strong personality and attractive body with whom she can form an emotionally intimate bond and also fulfill her rather specific kinky desires.
B) Your penis.
A) "This girl has pre-existing 'manhandle me anytime' understandings with certain people, and if I have to ask I'm not one of them."
B) "This girl is a community manhandling resource and I will be treated just as nicely if I manhandle her."
2) You read a blog written by a woman who's very open about her sexual desires and adventures. Writing her "What is your deepest darkest fantasy?" is:
A) A terrible idea, because you're asking a total stranger to write erotica for your private use for free.
B) A great idea, because the poor lonely girl has probably never gotten the chance to reveal her secret kinky side to anyone before, and opening up about this will flood her with arousal as she's finally able to tell someone--anyone!--that deep down she dreams of someday putting a man's wee-wee in her nu-nu.
3) You know a girl who has fairly ready access to penis, but is still single. This probably means she is waiting for:
A) Someone with a strong personality and attractive body with whom she can form an emotionally intimate bond and also fulfill her rather specific kinky desires.
B) Your penis.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Normal?
My social circle these days is pretty much all perverts. I got to Boston and I met people three ways: through the blog (perverts), through munches and other BDSM activities (perverts), and through the friends I already had here (disgusting, dangerous perverts). If I didn't have to work I think I would have forgotten what normal even looks like.
In fact, in some senses I don't know what normal is like. Like hair-pulling. Do normal people pull hair during sex? I have no idea. I think of hair-pulling as a mildly kinky thing, but then I hear that apparently it's not weird at all to some people? And there's that bumper sticker, "If you're going to ride my ass, at least pull my hair." If it's a bumper sticker that means it must be normal, right?
Or, conversely, scritching. Casually scratching someone on the scalp or behind the ear doesn't seem like a particularly perverted thing to do, but I've only ever seen perverts do it. Does it have to do with the "pet" connotations? Is it just a subcultural thing? Or is it my hallucination and normal people scritch too?
Of course the "right" answer is that there is no normal and people who like BDSM and people who don't all touch in a variety of ways according to their own habits and desires. But still, normal people sometimes seem very concerned with what is normal, so I figure they have standards. And I'm drifting farther and farther from being able to remember what those standards are.
All I know is that if I have to sit through another conversation at work on the topic of "my husband and I are never in bed together and that's awesome because gosh it's such a pain having to deal with those icky things he wants", I'm going to explode and tell them everything.
(I already did let slip that I own a vibrator--they were judging just a little too harshly on a patient who had one in their pocket--and everyone was like "OOOH SO INTRIGUING HOLLY IS A WILD GIRL WHOAAAA." There goes any hope of talking about what I did this very evening, let alone on weekends.)
In fact, in some senses I don't know what normal is like. Like hair-pulling. Do normal people pull hair during sex? I have no idea. I think of hair-pulling as a mildly kinky thing, but then I hear that apparently it's not weird at all to some people? And there's that bumper sticker, "If you're going to ride my ass, at least pull my hair." If it's a bumper sticker that means it must be normal, right?
Or, conversely, scritching. Casually scratching someone on the scalp or behind the ear doesn't seem like a particularly perverted thing to do, but I've only ever seen perverts do it. Does it have to do with the "pet" connotations? Is it just a subcultural thing? Or is it my hallucination and normal people scritch too?
Of course the "right" answer is that there is no normal and people who like BDSM and people who don't all touch in a variety of ways according to their own habits and desires. But still, normal people sometimes seem very concerned with what is normal, so I figure they have standards. And I'm drifting farther and farther from being able to remember what those standards are.
All I know is that if I have to sit through another conversation at work on the topic of "my husband and I are never in bed together and that's awesome because gosh it's such a pain having to deal with those icky things he wants", I'm going to explode and tell them everything.
(I already did let slip that I own a vibrator--they were judging just a little too harshly on a patient who had one in their pocket--and everyone was like "OOOH SO INTRIGUING HOLLY IS A WILD GIRL WHOAAAA." There goes any hope of talking about what I did this very evening, let alone on weekends.)
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Hit me because you like me.
An interesting realization I had, pondering how kink in reality compares with fantasy kink: I'm really not into the dynamic of "the Dom doesn't like the sub." It came up in comments a couple posts back, with a person in a 24/7 D/s relationship remarking that they would never be called a "worthless worm." And it occurred to me that I've never been called anything of the sort either, and I wouldn't want to be. For all the hitting, the BDSM scenes I enjoy are based on the pretext "the Dom really likes using the sub." It's not quite the "precious gift of submission," but it's the idea that I'm an enjoyable toy, not an object of hate or disdain.
I haven't seen too much genuine-dislike-play in reality. I've seen a shit-ton on the Internet. The worst seems to be in financial domination sites (which are weird as hell anyway; I'm half split between "hey, I want in on that racket" and "god, this is the saddest thing I've ever seen")--check out this for an example of the dynamic that makes me a lot more sad than aroused.
Which is funny, because I am into some fairly icky humiliation play, but it's a different kind of humiliation. It's humiliation about "I can do whatever I want with you," which is very different from "I don't like you." It's the difference between "look at you, you'll fucking drink my piss, you'll do anything" and "look at you, you'll fucking drink my piss, you're revolting."
I guess it might sound sort of funny if you don't have real-life BDSM experience, but causing someone every kind of physical and psychological misery for your sexual pleasure doesn't mean you have to be unpleasant to them.
I haven't seen too much genuine-dislike-play in reality. I've seen a shit-ton on the Internet. The worst seems to be in financial domination sites (which are weird as hell anyway; I'm half split between "hey, I want in on that racket" and "god, this is the saddest thing I've ever seen")--check out this for an example of the dynamic that makes me a lot more sad than aroused.
Which is funny, because I am into some fairly icky humiliation play, but it's a different kind of humiliation. It's humiliation about "I can do whatever I want with you," which is very different from "I don't like you." It's the difference between "look at you, you'll fucking drink my piss, you'll do anything" and "look at you, you'll fucking drink my piss, you're revolting."
I guess it might sound sort of funny if you don't have real-life BDSM experience, but causing someone every kind of physical and psychological misery for your sexual pleasure doesn't mean you have to be unpleasant to them.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Safeword.
I was recently required to take a self-defense and conflict resolution (i.e., Loony Wrasslin') class for work. Before the class they informed us: "Since this class will involve physical contact and roleplaying violent scenarios, if at any time something hurts you or you're uncomfortable with a situation, just say 'blue' and we'll stop immediately and make sure everyone's okay."
I tried very hard not to audibly snicker like a sixth-grader, but I have no doubt my smirk was visible from the Moon.
And I'm very lucky that I never needed the safeword (actually, as younger and stronger and way more gung-ho than most of the other participants, I had way too much fun tossing my coworkers over my hip repeatedly), because I spent the class in mortal terror that I was going to yell out "red" instead of "blue."
I tried very hard not to audibly snicker like a sixth-grader, but I have no doubt my smirk was visible from the Moon.
And I'm very lucky that I never needed the safeword (actually, as younger and stronger and way more gung-ho than most of the other participants, I had way too much fun tossing my coworkers over my hip repeatedly), because I spent the class in mortal terror that I was going to yell out "red" instead of "blue."
Action reaction.
Some guys, getting a blowjob, squeeze their eyes shut and go "oh oh oh nnnggghhh ahhh yes." Some guys pretty much go "yep, you're blowing me alright, how bout that" in a totally unfazed tone of voice. Some guys start out unfazed but let out a few grunts just as they get up to their orgasm. And a surprising number of guys seem unfazed by their orgasms! I have a couple of male friends whose external reaction to coming amounts to not much more than "welp, there it goes."
This is particularly hard for me to understand because I'm way over at the other end of the spectrum, the one where a fingertip brushing against me sends me into the Screams Of The Damned. Sometimes I try to suss out how voluntary this is for me. (I've sometimes fantasized about a scene where I was strongly encouraged not to make a peep; I have no idea how successful I'd be at that.) I know I'm able to get the noise level down to relatively subdued pants and moans, but I don't know if I'm capable of keeping a totally level face and voice. I suspect I'm not. The sheer intensity of what I feel during sex is just too goddamn much for me to keep inside.
I've only seen one woman able to do the "welp, there it goes," and it was tremendously frustrating for me. I was plowing away at her with an enormous strap-on, and she was kinda just lying there like I was doing her nails, then gave out a single little "oh" like she was almost starting to feel something, but stopped. Afterwards she told me that I made her come. That was the "oh." Wow.
The funny thing is that the noise a guy makes seems utterly unconnected to how sexually enthusiastic he is. I have a friend who does the "yep, I just came, how bout that," and he's a horny bastard who absolutely loves to fuck and is famed for jerking off any time he's not fucking. So clearly he's feeling something intense internally. I always wonder if sex actually feels different to more reactive people or if only their reactions are different, but ultimately it's a "does the blue I see look like the blue you see?" problem--there's no way to know.
All I know is that when fucking makes me literally scream, it's not a form of attention-seeking or even deliberate self-expression; it's just one of many things my body does pretty much without me when it's getting fucked. I just can't feel "OH MY GOD OOOHHHHHH" without saying "OH MY GOD OOOOHHHHH," and I'm fascinated that anyone can.
This is particularly hard for me to understand because I'm way over at the other end of the spectrum, the one where a fingertip brushing against me sends me into the Screams Of The Damned. Sometimes I try to suss out how voluntary this is for me. (I've sometimes fantasized about a scene where I was strongly encouraged not to make a peep; I have no idea how successful I'd be at that.) I know I'm able to get the noise level down to relatively subdued pants and moans, but I don't know if I'm capable of keeping a totally level face and voice. I suspect I'm not. The sheer intensity of what I feel during sex is just too goddamn much for me to keep inside.
I've only seen one woman able to do the "welp, there it goes," and it was tremendously frustrating for me. I was plowing away at her with an enormous strap-on, and she was kinda just lying there like I was doing her nails, then gave out a single little "oh" like she was almost starting to feel something, but stopped. Afterwards she told me that I made her come. That was the "oh." Wow.
The funny thing is that the noise a guy makes seems utterly unconnected to how sexually enthusiastic he is. I have a friend who does the "yep, I just came, how bout that," and he's a horny bastard who absolutely loves to fuck and is famed for jerking off any time he's not fucking. So clearly he's feeling something intense internally. I always wonder if sex actually feels different to more reactive people or if only their reactions are different, but ultimately it's a "does the blue I see look like the blue you see?" problem--there's no way to know.
All I know is that when fucking makes me literally scream, it's not a form of attention-seeking or even deliberate self-expression; it's just one of many things my body does pretty much without me when it's getting fucked. I just can't feel "OH MY GOD OOOHHHHHH" without saying "OH MY GOD OOOOHHHHH," and I'm fascinated that anyone can.
Menstrual Miracle!
Holy shit, I got my period!
Why "holy shit"? Because I haven't had a period since April... 2008. They just stopped. I realize I should have gone to the doctor with "holy shit my ladyparts are broken" about two years ago, but, you know, why question a good thing? I just made sure to keep up on pregnancy tests and enjoyed it. (Thus adding "never has a period" to the hair-trigger vaginal orgasms and Etch-a-Sketch skin among reasons my physiology is clearly some sort of experiment by clandestine male-chauvinist biologists.)
And then this. For no reason, I just got a completely normal period! Jesus Christ, I'm a woman! I have a uterus and hormones! I'm possibly even fertile! It's amazing!
...Okay, this is really gross and uncomfortable. I get the picture, body, you're a woman, how lovely for you. Let's do this again in another two years.
Why "holy shit"? Because I haven't had a period since April... 2008. They just stopped. I realize I should have gone to the doctor with "holy shit my ladyparts are broken" about two years ago, but, you know, why question a good thing? I just made sure to keep up on pregnancy tests and enjoyed it. (Thus adding "never has a period" to the hair-trigger vaginal orgasms and Etch-a-Sketch skin among reasons my physiology is clearly some sort of experiment by clandestine male-chauvinist biologists.)
And then this. For no reason, I just got a completely normal period! Jesus Christ, I'm a woman! I have a uterus and hormones! I'm possibly even fertile! It's amazing!
...Okay, this is really gross and uncomfortable. I get the picture, body, you're a woman, how lovely for you. Let's do this again in another two years.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Your Kink Is Not My Kink (And Your Kink Is Pretty Fucked Up)
I had an upsetting conversation today with a guy. It started out with him just complimenting my tummy and round cheeks, actually rather charmingly. I have no problem enjoying a certain symbiosis with chubby chasers--I'm kinda chubby, they like chubby, and so goes the great Circle of Life.
Then he started talking about feeding me cake. Hey, cake, fine by me. Cake's good. I realize this is a part of the fat thing, but if me eating cake turns your weird pervert crank, well... that's not exactly a painful and demanding fetish, is it now?
Then he started talking about wanting to feed me so much all the time that I got to be huge and couldn't leave the house and he would just take care of me all the time because I would be so huge I would be helpless. He started talking about this very seriously, emphasizing several times that it was "a lifestyle, not a fantasy."
WHOA WHOA WHOA SHIT JUST GOT WEIRD.
I have this thing about people who have impractical fantasies and won't acknowledge that they're fantasy. If you acknowledge it, that's okay; I'll eat your cake and lie on your couch for an afternoon and we can play all "wow, I fed you so much you can't move, now let's have amazing sex." And after the amazing sex I will go back to eating lentil soup and walking several miles a day because c'mon, I've got my own life. But if you refuse to acknowledge the fourth wall here, if you continually insist that you really want to make me really unable to move... you creep the fuck out of me.
Maybe it's just a communication failure. I get the feeling that saying "no, it's really for real" is part of the fantasy, and I'm being too stubbornly literal by not going along with that. (Although even in this case, he's still the asshole for not being able to step out of character long enough to explain this.)
Or fuck, maybe not. Maybe he really does want to give me goddamn bedsores. In which case, dammit, he shouldn't have gotten quite so put out and "you're being mean" when I told him that was creepy. Because it is creepy. Maybe I'm closed-minded, but I don't think I can say that wanting to literally cripple someone is a okay kink. He was talking about functionally ending my life--making me unable to enjoy the outdoors, to work outside the home, to visit friends--fuck. To say nothing of what happens to the skin and general bodily function of an immobile person.
There's people out there who think what I do isn't okay. I'm sensitive to that. I know how it feels. I know that proper kink etiquette is to say "If you find a girl who consents to that and enjoys it, mazel tov to ya both." But I just couldn't. I kept thinking about all the bedsores I've seen. Some had things living in them. I told him as much.
I really hate to say something is not okay. It's not my life or my business. But fuck, man, bedsores.
Then he started talking about feeding me cake. Hey, cake, fine by me. Cake's good. I realize this is a part of the fat thing, but if me eating cake turns your weird pervert crank, well... that's not exactly a painful and demanding fetish, is it now?
Then he started talking about wanting to feed me so much all the time that I got to be huge and couldn't leave the house and he would just take care of me all the time because I would be so huge I would be helpless. He started talking about this very seriously, emphasizing several times that it was "a lifestyle, not a fantasy."
WHOA WHOA WHOA SHIT JUST GOT WEIRD.
I have this thing about people who have impractical fantasies and won't acknowledge that they're fantasy. If you acknowledge it, that's okay; I'll eat your cake and lie on your couch for an afternoon and we can play all "wow, I fed you so much you can't move, now let's have amazing sex." And after the amazing sex I will go back to eating lentil soup and walking several miles a day because c'mon, I've got my own life. But if you refuse to acknowledge the fourth wall here, if you continually insist that you really want to make me really unable to move... you creep the fuck out of me.
Maybe it's just a communication failure. I get the feeling that saying "no, it's really for real" is part of the fantasy, and I'm being too stubbornly literal by not going along with that. (Although even in this case, he's still the asshole for not being able to step out of character long enough to explain this.)
Or fuck, maybe not. Maybe he really does want to give me goddamn bedsores. In which case, dammit, he shouldn't have gotten quite so put out and "you're being mean" when I told him that was creepy. Because it is creepy. Maybe I'm closed-minded, but I don't think I can say that wanting to literally cripple someone is a okay kink. He was talking about functionally ending my life--making me unable to enjoy the outdoors, to work outside the home, to visit friends--fuck. To say nothing of what happens to the skin and general bodily function of an immobile person.
There's people out there who think what I do isn't okay. I'm sensitive to that. I know how it feels. I know that proper kink etiquette is to say "If you find a girl who consents to that and enjoys it, mazel tov to ya both." But I just couldn't. I kept thinking about all the bedsores I've seen. Some had things living in them. I told him as much.
I really hate to say something is not okay. It's not my life or my business. But fuck, man, bedsores.
Incompetent cowgirl.
You know what I'm shockingly bad at? Fucking on top. I just don't know how to do it right. I think everyone has a few surprising gaps in their knowledge--someone gets to be a mostly competent adult and just never learned how to use a record player, or how to crack ice cubes out of the tray--and this is one of mine. I was out sick on the day they covered it in school, or something.
(Pointless digression: I actually was out sick for my first sex-ed class. They just gave me the book to read at home. My mom came by and asked very awkwardly if I had any, um, questions. I said "no" and we were both greatly relieved by this lie.)
Part of the problem is that it doesn't actually feel good to me. It's relatively difficult for me to come when I'm on top; the whole "you can control the speed and depth precisely" thing so often used as a selling point is no fun at all for me. Who wants control? But a lot of guys seem to particularly enjoy being ridden, so I feel it's a skill I ought to have in my repertoire. Plus, asking guys to always be on top is lazy! I don't want to seem lazy!
To be fair, there's two kinds of fucking on top, and I'm only bad at one of them. I'm fine at the kind where the guy is thrusting upward, and I only have to respond to his movements. But the kind where he just lies there--I don't know what the fuck to do with myself. Bounce straight up and down? Lean forward and kinda slide back and forth? Do my hands brace on him or the bed or myself or nowhere? Do I rotate at the hips or knees or both? Is there a way to just move my pelvis or does my whole self have to move? Why does this look so easy in porn? Is it a problem that I have absolutely no innate sense of rhythm? Does he really expect me to go that fast with my entire body? Is it supposed to be this goddamn tiring?
Maybe the problem is that I've never really been taught. In every situation where I'd been expected to perform girl-on-top, the guy just lay back and waited for me to do my thing, and I never admitted I didn't know the thing, I just climbed on and half-heartededly wiggled around until he flipped me over in exasperation. I need someone who's willing to actually tutor me here, allow me a few mistakes and give me pointers until I succeed.
...then lay me down and fuck me in a way I actually enjoy.
(Weird fact: I can give a lap dance like nobody's business. It's only when it actually becomes penetrative that my mind and body lapse into total stupidity.)
(Pointless digression: I actually was out sick for my first sex-ed class. They just gave me the book to read at home. My mom came by and asked very awkwardly if I had any, um, questions. I said "no" and we were both greatly relieved by this lie.)
Part of the problem is that it doesn't actually feel good to me. It's relatively difficult for me to come when I'm on top; the whole "you can control the speed and depth precisely" thing so often used as a selling point is no fun at all for me. Who wants control? But a lot of guys seem to particularly enjoy being ridden, so I feel it's a skill I ought to have in my repertoire. Plus, asking guys to always be on top is lazy! I don't want to seem lazy!
To be fair, there's two kinds of fucking on top, and I'm only bad at one of them. I'm fine at the kind where the guy is thrusting upward, and I only have to respond to his movements. But the kind where he just lies there--I don't know what the fuck to do with myself. Bounce straight up and down? Lean forward and kinda slide back and forth? Do my hands brace on him or the bed or myself or nowhere? Do I rotate at the hips or knees or both? Is there a way to just move my pelvis or does my whole self have to move? Why does this look so easy in porn? Is it a problem that I have absolutely no innate sense of rhythm? Does he really expect me to go that fast with my entire body? Is it supposed to be this goddamn tiring?
Maybe the problem is that I've never really been taught. In every situation where I'd been expected to perform girl-on-top, the guy just lay back and waited for me to do my thing, and I never admitted I didn't know the thing, I just climbed on and half-heartededly wiggled around until he flipped me over in exasperation. I need someone who's willing to actually tutor me here, allow me a few mistakes and give me pointers until I succeed.
...then lay me down and fuck me in a way I actually enjoy.
(Weird fact: I can give a lap dance like nobody's business. It's only when it actually becomes penetrative that my mind and body lapse into total stupidity.)
Thursday, August 5, 2010
More fun you can have with a hatchet.
I had another hatchet-play photo on my computer, and I kept waiting until I had some kind of context to use it in, but really, what kind of context is there for something like this?
Do I have to tell you it's NWS?
Do I have to tell you it's NWS?
Doubt.
[The following is a composite description of a common scenario, and does not describe any individual patient.]
You are an emergency medical services provider. A woman walks into your facility stating that she's been raped.
There's a fairly extensive procedure for this. Immediate placement in a private room, contact the police, examine and treat injuries, do a rape kit, write a super-detailed report, treat everything as evidence and turn everything over to the police, and connect the victim to community resources to support her in the aftermath and recovery. And as a good provider, you want to follow this procedure to the letter and supplement it with as much victim advocacy and hand-holding as you can possibly spare time for. You know that your actions could make the difference between a rapist getting caught or going free, and between this woman being psychologically supported or devastated.
The problem is, the woman who says she's been raped is a psychiatric patient with numerous paranoid delusions. She's a "frequent flyer" at your facility and is well known for fabricating bizarre stories. Last week she was here because "the men are stealing my thoughts," the week before that she was here because "the CIA put a chip in my eyeball," and this week she says she's been raped.
The details she gives you are sketchy and inconsistent, but this is the case with everything she says, whether it's about the CIA or about where she sleeps at night. You know that mentally ill people are more vulnerable to rape, because they are less able to detect red flags and defend themselves--and because attackers know their stories will be doubted. But you also know that sexual abuse is a common paranoid delusion.
Taking a rape accusation seriously is, to be blunt, a huge pain in the ass. It'll cost tens of thousands of dollars that will never be paid back, and more importantly, it'll take up a tremendous amount of staff time--basically a nurse's entire shift and more than an hour of a doctor's time. This isn't your bon-bon eating time; this is coming out of the treatment of other patients. Every other patient in the facility, everyone suffering pain or distress or risk to their life, is going to have their care delayed because of this.
There's also tremendous staff resistance to playing along with delusions. The patient's assigned nurse argues that doing a rape kit (and all that entails) will encourage attention-seeking behavior and reinforce the patient's belief that her delusions are real. The nurse recommends the patient be evaluated for psychiatric treatment.
Last month, this woman came in claiming she was raped, you did a rape kit, and you found no evidence of rape and the police found no suspects. Doesn't mean she definitely wasn't raped then, just means there was no evidence. And now she's back again, with the same story.
What do you do?
You are an emergency medical services provider. A woman walks into your facility stating that she's been raped.
There's a fairly extensive procedure for this. Immediate placement in a private room, contact the police, examine and treat injuries, do a rape kit, write a super-detailed report, treat everything as evidence and turn everything over to the police, and connect the victim to community resources to support her in the aftermath and recovery. And as a good provider, you want to follow this procedure to the letter and supplement it with as much victim advocacy and hand-holding as you can possibly spare time for. You know that your actions could make the difference between a rapist getting caught or going free, and between this woman being psychologically supported or devastated.
The problem is, the woman who says she's been raped is a psychiatric patient with numerous paranoid delusions. She's a "frequent flyer" at your facility and is well known for fabricating bizarre stories. Last week she was here because "the men are stealing my thoughts," the week before that she was here because "the CIA put a chip in my eyeball," and this week she says she's been raped.
The details she gives you are sketchy and inconsistent, but this is the case with everything she says, whether it's about the CIA or about where she sleeps at night. You know that mentally ill people are more vulnerable to rape, because they are less able to detect red flags and defend themselves--and because attackers know their stories will be doubted. But you also know that sexual abuse is a common paranoid delusion.
Taking a rape accusation seriously is, to be blunt, a huge pain in the ass. It'll cost tens of thousands of dollars that will never be paid back, and more importantly, it'll take up a tremendous amount of staff time--basically a nurse's entire shift and more than an hour of a doctor's time. This isn't your bon-bon eating time; this is coming out of the treatment of other patients. Every other patient in the facility, everyone suffering pain or distress or risk to their life, is going to have their care delayed because of this.
There's also tremendous staff resistance to playing along with delusions. The patient's assigned nurse argues that doing a rape kit (and all that entails) will encourage attention-seeking behavior and reinforce the patient's belief that her delusions are real. The nurse recommends the patient be evaluated for psychiatric treatment.
Last month, this woman came in claiming she was raped, you did a rape kit, and you found no evidence of rape and the police found no suspects. Doesn't mean she definitely wasn't raped then, just means there was no evidence. And now she's back again, with the same story.
What do you do?
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
A Grand Game.
[This was the "too grouchy" post. Since people are talking about it anyway, what the hell. Just let me note that I don't think all guys are like this and I don't play stupid games with all guys--this applies only to guys who answer "you're nice but you're not my type" with "no, no, you need to give me a chance."]
I invented a game to play on OkCupid! It's called the...
Get A Guy To Stop Talking To You Game!
Here's how you play:
-Have an OkCupid account with a reasonably appealing picture and profile, identifying yourself as a straight woman.
-Log on to the IM system, and wait for a guy to message you. Doesn't take long, generally.
-Talk to him in good faith long enough to determine what sort of guy he is. If he seems like a cool and attractive guy, ask him out or arrange to talk again. If he's not your type, let him down easy. If letting him down easy doesn't work, play the game.
-The game has only two rules:
1) Promptly reply to all of his IMs. Within a couple minutes at the most, preferably instantly, write something back to whatever he says.
2) Try, without hitting "ignore" or logging off or ceasing your responses, to get him to stop talking to you.
-Within the framework of "keep replying," you can say anything. You can make yourself sound bugfuck insane or hilariously bitchy--usually both! You can tell stories about being dangerously obsessed with all your previous partners or speculate how tiny the guy's penis is. You can whip out racist jokes, confessions that you never bathe, and direct insults against the guy and everything he cares about. You can even tell the guy that you're playing this game! And you can most certainly say every variation on "No, I'm not interested, please stop talking to me."
-The game can go on for hours, and I usually run out of time and have to hit "ignore" or shut down IM before I win. My win rate is definitely well under 50%.
I think this game teaches us two things: first, that sometimes I'm an asshole on the Internet; and secondly, that this is what they call "rape culture." The acting crazy/mean is just fucking around, but the shocking part is how my stated wishes don't count for shit. It's truly amazing how many times I can say, in so many words, "stop talking to me," and yet as long as I keep responding the guy will never do what I explicitly asked him to. (And if I merely act very uncomfortable and chilly and reluctant but don't actually say no... forget it, that never stops anyone.) As long as I stay "in the room" with him, it doesn't matter how many times I say in clear blunt words to leave me alone, he never will.
I think the reason this happens is because I don't open with "fuck off"; I do the initial feeling-out stage in genuine good faith. So they get this image of me as a relatively nice and open person before I turn into a person who's repeatedly telling them to fuck off, and somehow the mental transition never happens. I can't be nice and not want to talk to them! DISSONANCE! So they persist, literally forever, and disregard my stated wishes over and over in doing so.
There's probably also some sense that I'm "shit testing" them, that I'm making a game of pushing them away just so they can prove their ardor. I suppose I am, in that I keep talking to them at all, but still--why would a guy want to play this game with a woman? And isn't it a little scary that there's literally no way I can use words to tell him I'm not playing?
And this is why women don't smile at strangers.
After I lose the game and have to hit "ignore" or "log off", most of these guys send me followup emails, saying they'd really like to talk some more or clear up any misunderstandings.
I invented a game to play on OkCupid! It's called the...
Get A Guy To Stop Talking To You Game!
Here's how you play:
-Have an OkCupid account with a reasonably appealing picture and profile, identifying yourself as a straight woman.
-Log on to the IM system, and wait for a guy to message you. Doesn't take long, generally.
-Talk to him in good faith long enough to determine what sort of guy he is. If he seems like a cool and attractive guy, ask him out or arrange to talk again. If he's not your type, let him down easy. If letting him down easy doesn't work, play the game.
-The game has only two rules:
1) Promptly reply to all of his IMs. Within a couple minutes at the most, preferably instantly, write something back to whatever he says.
2) Try, without hitting "ignore" or logging off or ceasing your responses, to get him to stop talking to you.
-Within the framework of "keep replying," you can say anything. You can make yourself sound bugfuck insane or hilariously bitchy--usually both! You can tell stories about being dangerously obsessed with all your previous partners or speculate how tiny the guy's penis is. You can whip out racist jokes, confessions that you never bathe, and direct insults against the guy and everything he cares about. You can even tell the guy that you're playing this game! And you can most certainly say every variation on "No, I'm not interested, please stop talking to me."
-The game can go on for hours, and I usually run out of time and have to hit "ignore" or shut down IM before I win. My win rate is definitely well under 50%.
I think this game teaches us two things: first, that sometimes I'm an asshole on the Internet; and secondly, that this is what they call "rape culture." The acting crazy/mean is just fucking around, but the shocking part is how my stated wishes don't count for shit. It's truly amazing how many times I can say, in so many words, "stop talking to me," and yet as long as I keep responding the guy will never do what I explicitly asked him to. (And if I merely act very uncomfortable and chilly and reluctant but don't actually say no... forget it, that never stops anyone.) As long as I stay "in the room" with him, it doesn't matter how many times I say in clear blunt words to leave me alone, he never will.
I think the reason this happens is because I don't open with "fuck off"; I do the initial feeling-out stage in genuine good faith. So they get this image of me as a relatively nice and open person before I turn into a person who's repeatedly telling them to fuck off, and somehow the mental transition never happens. I can't be nice and not want to talk to them! DISSONANCE! So they persist, literally forever, and disregard my stated wishes over and over in doing so.
There's probably also some sense that I'm "shit testing" them, that I'm making a game of pushing them away just so they can prove their ardor. I suppose I am, in that I keep talking to them at all, but still--why would a guy want to play this game with a woman? And isn't it a little scary that there's literally no way I can use words to tell him I'm not playing?
And this is why women don't smile at strangers.
After I lose the game and have to hit "ignore" or "log off", most of these guys send me followup emails, saying they'd really like to talk some more or clear up any misunderstandings.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Assholish / Fantasy / Malleable.
I took down an excessively grouchy post. Sometimes I fall into the trap of going "ugh, men" when what I really mean is "ugh, assholes." Since I'm a straight woman, most of the assholes I deal with in the sex and dating arenas are men, but there are plenty of nonassholish men and assholish women out there, and I don't want to imply otherwise. I don't want to be an assholish woman myself.
---
Elsie has written yet another story based loosely on my sexual fantasies. Which is very weird for me, but very cool.
---
To a weird degree, I find that serving others' kinks is, for me, a kink in itself. The archetypal example is foot fetishism. It does, really, nothing for me. Feets is feets, and might as well be elbows or nostrils for all I care. But when a guy is into feet--that does something for me. The nothing-in-particular I feel having my toes sucked turns into an oh holy God YES when I see what it does to him. I don't want my toes sucked, but I want my toes sucked by a foot fetishist.
---
Elsie has written yet another story based loosely on my sexual fantasies. Which is very weird for me, but very cool.
---
To a weird degree, I find that serving others' kinks is, for me, a kink in itself. The archetypal example is foot fetishism. It does, really, nothing for me. Feets is feets, and might as well be elbows or nostrils for all I care. But when a guy is into feet--that does something for me. The nothing-in-particular I feel having my toes sucked turns into an oh holy God YES when I see what it does to him. I don't want my toes sucked, but I want my toes sucked by a foot fetishist.
Milestone.
Last night marked the first time a stranger actually tried the "you're a submissive, right, so I order you to suck my cock" gambit on me.
It didn't go so well for him.
It didn't go so well for him.
Monday, August 2, 2010
I don't want cock.
I got a random message on OkCupid today, and checking it meant my status got reset to "Online Today," and that meant that I got clusterfucked with messages from dudes. (I'm hot. Oh yeah.) Which led to making one date (Wednesday, and it's more of a "let's be friends" thing, but hey, I like friends) and ignoring about fifty guys in disgust.
Why? Because they wanted to fuck me, and nothing else. They were, to be fair, very clear about this. On some level I appreciate that. But on another level I can't help but be insulted by guys offering their cocks but specifying with a sort of terrified urgency that this doesn't mean they would date me or anything.
It made me realize that, at this point in my life, I don't want cock. Whaaa? That is, I don't want just cock. The offer of vanilla sex without strings means nothing to me. Not to call a thousand MRAs down on my ass, but I can get laid. (That's Thursday night.) If "laid" comes with absolutely no other benefits--BDSM play or a relationship that's at least friendly--it's really not interesting to me.
I also have issues with any guy who's too vociferous on the "but I wouldn't date you, are you crazy?" I'm not opposed to friends-with-benefits arrangements, but that means friends with benefits, not frosty strangers with exactly one benefit. I also like my friends-with-benefits to find a way to negotiate the arrangement without practically spelling out that I'm not good enough to date but this is my exciting consolation prize.
I have an OkCupid account to meet people. I've got two penises in my bedside drawer already, and I guarantee you at least one of them is bigger than yours.
Why? Because they wanted to fuck me, and nothing else. They were, to be fair, very clear about this. On some level I appreciate that. But on another level I can't help but be insulted by guys offering their cocks but specifying with a sort of terrified urgency that this doesn't mean they would date me or anything.
It made me realize that, at this point in my life, I don't want cock. Whaaa? That is, I don't want just cock. The offer of vanilla sex without strings means nothing to me. Not to call a thousand MRAs down on my ass, but I can get laid. (That's Thursday night.) If "laid" comes with absolutely no other benefits--BDSM play or a relationship that's at least friendly--it's really not interesting to me.
I also have issues with any guy who's too vociferous on the "but I wouldn't date you, are you crazy?" I'm not opposed to friends-with-benefits arrangements, but that means friends with benefits, not frosty strangers with exactly one benefit. I also like my friends-with-benefits to find a way to negotiate the arrangement without practically spelling out that I'm not good enough to date but this is my exciting consolation prize.
I have an OkCupid account to meet people. I've got two penises in my bedside drawer already, and I guarantee you at least one of them is bigger than yours.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
A brief glossary of PUA terminology.
For future reference and current amusement.
PUA: Pick-Up Artist. A man who believes that fucking and (to a lesser extent) forming relationships with women is a matter of outsmarting and manipulating the women in very specific ways. The basic premise is that your behavior affects whether you get laid, which is obviously true--but the behaviors they recommend adopting, and the mental framework they use to justify these behaviors, range from absurd to horrifying. PUA also refers to the activity of Pick-Up Artistry, also called "Game" or "sarging."
1-10 scale: This is how women are rated. Despite the fact that it's called a "scale," it consists almost entirely of 1-3, which are hilariously monstrous, and 7-9, which are hottie supermodel beach babes like in Daddy's secret magazines. This scale is absolutely objective and entirely physical, and to suggest otherwise would be laughably Beta. (10 is customarily not awarded, as to do so would imply that you had lost your manly objectivity and discernment.) A woman in the upper range may also be an "HB"--"Hot Babe"--or ranked as HB8, HB9 etcetera.
Alpha/Beta: This is how men are rated. Betas represent 80% of all men and cannot get laid ever. Weirdly, this is generally held against women even by purported Alphas, as if it's really unfair and cruel of women to be more attracted to men who are more attractive. A man's Alpha/Beta status is almost entirely determined by his behavior--an Alpha is high in "status" and a demanding, demeaning asshole. A Beta may also be known as an "AFC": "Average Frustrated Chump," the specific implication being that the average non-PUA man on the street has never even heard a description of a vagina. Or a Beta may be a "Nice Guy," because being good and kind to humans is like being allergic to pussy.
(Note that the idea that "no Alpha would want anything less than a 7" and the idea "all the women are sleeping with Alphas" coexist quite comfortably.)
Approach: The only way to meet a woman is to come up to a complete stranger at a bar with a prefab opening line. This is the only way. It is within the bounds of possibility that you'd be at a club or maybe even a house party, but that's as far as it goes.
Close: This is how you win the game. Ideally it means you have sex, but getting a phone number or a kiss are also "closes" of some sort. There's even a "name close" for the truly desperate. I'm Holly, you win, congratulations, now go home.
Friend Zone: If closing is a man's goal in the game, friendzoning is the woman's goal. Women do not want, initially, to date or fuck men--they want to be "friends" which means that they will assert their dominance by continually not fucking you. Not-fucking a man is the cruelest thing a woman can do without using a chainsaw, and for that reason women love to do it. Rumors that friends engage in any activities or relationship dynamics other than not-fucking are completely worthless propaganda spread by feminazis.
Neg: This is probably the most famous PUA technique. You tell a stuck-up hot bitch that she ain't all that, so she'll fuck you to prove that she is all that. There are many related techniques that have their own stupid names, but all basically come down to withholding your affection so that the woman will jump all over you to get some of it.
Is this unkind or manipulative, or does it deliberately select for women with terrible self-esteem and the intelligence of a damp rock? Yes. Yes it is and it does. But hey, denying men sex, that's what's really unkind here. All this shit wouldn't be necessary if women would just be reasonable and have sex with literally every and any guy who asked. Or who didn't ask but wanted to.
Cocky and Funny: This is the attitude a PUA is supposed to project, and for once I don't have anything really bad to say about it, because I do like guys who are cocky and funny. Although when attempted by guys who have absolutely no internal confidence or sense of humor, it often turns into "Arrogant and Cheesy."
Kino: To touch a woman you're picking up in a totally natural and subtle and not creepy at all way. For example, you could just naturally happen to run your hand through her hair or rest your hand on her leg, the way normal people always do during normal conversation.
DHV: Demonstration of Higher Value. Talking about how super special and important you are and how in-demand your cock is. And if that works, you might as well tell her that "gullible" is written on your dick and see where that leads.
IOI: Indication Of Interest. (Also "DOI" for "Demonstration" or SOI for "Signs" or whatever.) This is how a woman shows you she's interested: by making eye contact, smiling, laughing at your jokes, talking to you, or acknowledging your existence in any way. Latch onto any IOI like a lamprey and refuse to be shaken off until you've sucked all her fish guts out.
Shit Test: When a woman insults you or tells you "no," she is testing how you'll react. It never ever means she actually doesn't like you. The way to pass the shit test is to sarge right ahead and show her that her little tricks don't fool you, you know she wants you.
If a woman asks you for any kind of favor, this is also a shit test--if you do anything for her, she'll see you as submissive and never fuck you. Therefore, if a woman says "could you watch my bag?" or "could you get me a drink while you're up?", the only correct answer is "HAHA NO WAY BITCH I'M ON TO YOUR LITTLE GAME." She'll love it.
Bitch Shield: Basically the same thing as the first type of shit test, this is where a woman acts deliberately unfriendly to get rid of you. As with shit tests, this just means you need to try even harder. Women don't get to just say no to your attention like they're in control of the whole world or something.
Anti-Slut Defense: One possible reason a woman might say "no" to you, other than game-playing or sheer insanity, is that she doesn't want to seem like a slut. Yeah, that must be why she doesn't want to fuck you, that's the only explanation that makes sense.
Peacocking: Wearing fucking ridiculous clothing.
PUA: Pick-Up Artist. A man who believes that fucking and (to a lesser extent) forming relationships with women is a matter of outsmarting and manipulating the women in very specific ways. The basic premise is that your behavior affects whether you get laid, which is obviously true--but the behaviors they recommend adopting, and the mental framework they use to justify these behaviors, range from absurd to horrifying. PUA also refers to the activity of Pick-Up Artistry, also called "Game" or "sarging."
1-10 scale: This is how women are rated. Despite the fact that it's called a "scale," it consists almost entirely of 1-3, which are hilariously monstrous, and 7-9, which are hottie supermodel beach babes like in Daddy's secret magazines. This scale is absolutely objective and entirely physical, and to suggest otherwise would be laughably Beta. (10 is customarily not awarded, as to do so would imply that you had lost your manly objectivity and discernment.) A woman in the upper range may also be an "HB"--"Hot Babe"--or ranked as HB8, HB9 etcetera.
Alpha/Beta: This is how men are rated. Betas represent 80% of all men and cannot get laid ever. Weirdly, this is generally held against women even by purported Alphas, as if it's really unfair and cruel of women to be more attracted to men who are more attractive. A man's Alpha/Beta status is almost entirely determined by his behavior--an Alpha is high in "status" and a demanding, demeaning asshole. A Beta may also be known as an "AFC": "Average Frustrated Chump," the specific implication being that the average non-PUA man on the street has never even heard a description of a vagina. Or a Beta may be a "Nice Guy," because being good and kind to humans is like being allergic to pussy.
(Note that the idea that "no Alpha would want anything less than a 7" and the idea "all the women are sleeping with Alphas" coexist quite comfortably.)
Approach: The only way to meet a woman is to come up to a complete stranger at a bar with a prefab opening line. This is the only way. It is within the bounds of possibility that you'd be at a club or maybe even a house party, but that's as far as it goes.
Close: This is how you win the game. Ideally it means you have sex, but getting a phone number or a kiss are also "closes" of some sort. There's even a "name close" for the truly desperate. I'm Holly, you win, congratulations, now go home.
Friend Zone: If closing is a man's goal in the game, friendzoning is the woman's goal. Women do not want, initially, to date or fuck men--they want to be "friends" which means that they will assert their dominance by continually not fucking you. Not-fucking a man is the cruelest thing a woman can do without using a chainsaw, and for that reason women love to do it. Rumors that friends engage in any activities or relationship dynamics other than not-fucking are completely worthless propaganda spread by feminazis.
Neg: This is probably the most famous PUA technique. You tell a stuck-up hot bitch that she ain't all that, so she'll fuck you to prove that she is all that. There are many related techniques that have their own stupid names, but all basically come down to withholding your affection so that the woman will jump all over you to get some of it.
Is this unkind or manipulative, or does it deliberately select for women with terrible self-esteem and the intelligence of a damp rock? Yes. Yes it is and it does. But hey, denying men sex, that's what's really unkind here. All this shit wouldn't be necessary if women would just be reasonable and have sex with literally every and any guy who asked. Or who didn't ask but wanted to.
Cocky and Funny: This is the attitude a PUA is supposed to project, and for once I don't have anything really bad to say about it, because I do like guys who are cocky and funny. Although when attempted by guys who have absolutely no internal confidence or sense of humor, it often turns into "Arrogant and Cheesy."
Kino: To touch a woman you're picking up in a totally natural and subtle and not creepy at all way. For example, you could just naturally happen to run your hand through her hair or rest your hand on her leg, the way normal people always do during normal conversation.
DHV: Demonstration of Higher Value. Talking about how super special and important you are and how in-demand your cock is. And if that works, you might as well tell her that "gullible" is written on your dick and see where that leads.
IOI: Indication Of Interest. (Also "DOI" for "Demonstration" or SOI for "Signs" or whatever.) This is how a woman shows you she's interested: by making eye contact, smiling, laughing at your jokes, talking to you, or acknowledging your existence in any way. Latch onto any IOI like a lamprey and refuse to be shaken off until you've sucked all her fish guts out.
Shit Test: When a woman insults you or tells you "no," she is testing how you'll react. It never ever means she actually doesn't like you. The way to pass the shit test is to sarge right ahead and show her that her little tricks don't fool you, you know she wants you.
If a woman asks you for any kind of favor, this is also a shit test--if you do anything for her, she'll see you as submissive and never fuck you. Therefore, if a woman says "could you watch my bag?" or "could you get me a drink while you're up?", the only correct answer is "HAHA NO WAY BITCH I'M ON TO YOUR LITTLE GAME." She'll love it.
Bitch Shield: Basically the same thing as the first type of shit test, this is where a woman acts deliberately unfriendly to get rid of you. As with shit tests, this just means you need to try even harder. Women don't get to just say no to your attention like they're in control of the whole world or something.
Anti-Slut Defense: One possible reason a woman might say "no" to you, other than game-playing or sheer insanity, is that she doesn't want to seem like a slut. Yeah, that must be why she doesn't want to fuck you, that's the only explanation that makes sense.
Peacocking: Wearing fucking ridiculous clothing.
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