My fake wedding fantasy.

Someday, I want to get pseudo-married. I've been dreaming of this for years (seriously). I have it all planned out. I'm a veritable pseudo-Bridezilla. Here's how it's going to go down:

For the ceremony, we're going to pseudo-elope. We're going to run away to Vegas for a long weekend, drink and gamble ourselves stupid, catch Penn & Teller and Zumanity (this isn't exactly part of the fantasy; it's just something I have to do if I'm in Vegas), and at about 3 AM we're going to stagger into the 24-hour Elvis quickie wedding place. And then we are not going to sign papers. We're just going to tell Reverend Presley that we'll pay him to go ahead and do up the whole ceremony, walk me down the aisle and stand us up at the altar and say the words, but not do anything legal.

It will be the happiest day of my life.

For the reception, we're going to do it formal and proper, sometime in my life when I have enough money to do it right. (So maybe not right after Vegas. Hell, maybe not with the same person. Doesn't really matter who my partner is for this as long as they're into it and understand my intent.) You know how people's first weddings are usually their most lavish and elaborate? That's what I want from my zeroth wedding. I'm going to pick colors and hire a planner for all those little details and rent out a banquet hall and get a caterer and a DJ and a photographer and invite all my friends and relatives and I am going to wear an absolutely ludicrous dress. We're going to have a gigantic formal party until late into the night and I'll obsess over every detail and it'll be an absolute blast.

Then comes the pseudo-wedding night. Oh baby. Here's one part we're not faking.

Although I'd like to do these things with someone I at least like, honestly, I don't care if we stay Together Forever or whatever. Maybe I'll do that someday with somebody, but that's a totally separate thing. And whether I ever make it legal with someone is probably going to have more to do with legal or financial practicality than with fairy-tale romance. But that doesn't mean I don't want to have that fairy-tale day every girl supposedly dreams of. I just want only that day.

I don't want a marriage. Just a wedding.

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.

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Elsie has written yet another story based loosely on my sexual fantasies. Which is very weird for me, but very cool.

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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.

The checklist, and a story.

Today's update is gargantuan and somewhat tedious, but I wanted to write it up both for the edification of potential play partners and as a general way of taking my own pulse on how I feel about various fucked-up shit. So it's on its own page: The Grand BDSM Checklist.

Also, Elsie wrote a story inspired by my Sex Matrix fantasy. It's hot, well-written, and fucked-up (that's high praise), and I encourage you to read it if you don't feel like going through eighteen pages of "Animal play, dog, giving. Animal play, dog, receiving. Animal play, dog, dachshund, giving."

My secret garden is the Matrix.

I have some weird-ass sexual fantasies. To begin with, they're all set in the Matrix. I mean, in a fully immersive massively-multiplayer computer-generated world. I never think about people really having sex; I only think about people having Matrix sex which is indistinguishable from real sex. I think I do this because it lets me skip over all the nitpicky details--you don't need condoms in the Matrix, nobody has to eat or drink or go potty, and your body can't be damaged. The Matrix conceit also lets me shift scenarios and construct really bizarre ones without having to worry about realism.

(Because otherwise, yes, I would worry about realism. It would be a huge problem and I would write angry letters to myself about how I used to be a fan but I simply can't suspend disbelief any longer, and I wonder if I've lost respect for my audience.)

Other strange features of my fantasies:
-They're always third-person limited omniscient. It's "a woman" doing stuff, not me.
-No real people may appear. Not celebrities, not people I'm sleeping with, not crushes, no one. Someone who even looks like someone I know, or has a similar name, is unacceptable.
-It's all fairly extreme BDSM, where no one is just a bottom sometimes for fun, they're lifetime slaves who get fucked and/or tortured all day every day.
-The submissive women have names and are fairly deeply characterized. The men and dominant women are almost all faceless, one-dimensionally lecherous props.
-The entire fantasy is a continuous story that's been going on for around eight years now, in twenty-minute installments. It's a little fragmented and lacks narrative direction, as you might imagine, but it is all connected.

Obviously, my fantasies are not my aspirations for reality. I definitely perceive my sexual partners as people, and I only want to be a full-time fucked-all-day slave for an hour or two at a time.

All this is incredibly embarrassing to write about.

There's a stupidly elaborate story structure in my head, and I won't get into all nine major characters and their complex interrelationships, nor into the sinister underlying questions about whether it's possible to leave the Sex Matrix, but here are some of the more common scenarios:

-All slaves begin in a communal training facility, where they start out absurdly restricted and then gradually "earn" a few privileges. On the first day, they get labia piercings, which are then chained to the floor so tightly that they can't stand up. Standing up has to be earned. Wearing any clothing, even tiny slips of lingerie, is a major privilege mostly reserved for the upper-level slaves who teach and manage the newbies.

-A woman is put, crouched doggy-style, into a box with an opening for her ass and pussy to hang out, and a parade of "customers" come by. She can't see or control who touches her and how. Rough assfucking ensues.

-A woman performs on stage with fucking machines bearing Dildos Of Unusual Size. Often the dildos are based on animal cocks and she's humiliated for it. Audience members are invited up to help. Rough assfucking ensues.

-Sometimes slaves are just plain rented out to customers, or often large groups of customers who plan to share. Rough assfucking ensues.

-Between activities, women are sometimes put into "storage" in pods that continuously double-penetrate them until they're needed again, just to keep them in shape. There's generally more focus on the "rough assfucking" half of the double penetration that ensues.

-A woman goes to a club so decadent that they have low-ranked slaves impaled on dildos just decorating the walls. (They have footrests. See, I'm not weird or anything.) Generally she doesn't end up on the wall, but on one of the tables around the room, where she's bound for anyone at the club to come by and enjoy her any way they see fit. Rough assfucking ensues.

-Two slaves sneak a moment together, away from all the madness. They they fuck each other up the ass, roughly.

Uncomfortable fantasies.

I have rape fantasies. Not the worst kind, I don't really want to be hurt, just roughed up a bit and held down by someone I'd want anyway so they can force me to do things that I'd enjoy anyway. But I'm saying "no" and I mean it and they're not listening. And the "things that I'd enjoy anyway" can get pretty harsh. It's not just fucking, it's beating, binding, cutting, piercing, humiliation, being used for sex that hurts and I really don't enjoy--nasty stuff. Stuff that would be so not okay in the real world.

I'm always the victim, or in third-person I identify with the victim. I can't imagine myself hurting someone else. I can get off on being a sweet dominant, on giving someone what they really want, but even in my mind I need them to be very clear that they're really enjoying it.

This goes against pretty much all my values, but I'm okay with it since it's just fantasy. If I can play games where I kill human beings, I can have fantasies where I do other things that would be terrible in real life. The only time I get uncomfortable is when I read rape (ahem, "non-consent") stories written by other people--they turn me on, but I always worry about the writer. Some of them sound like they might not be nice people. I know it's hypocritical, but hearing someone else's rape fantasies creeps me out. And gets me off.

The explanation I've heard multiple places for rape fantasies is "oh, women want to think someone lusts for them so much that it's uncontrollable." Or "oh, women want sex without guilt, because it's not their fault." I think both of these are pretty much bullshit. Maybe they explain "bodice-ripper" rape fantasies, the kind where he's forceful but gentle, but my fantasies just seem meaner-spirited than that. I think it's just straight-up masochism. I don't think you can explain it away as something that's really sweet and fuzzy on the inside.

I'm not sure if I'd like rape play in reality or not. I know it would take a lot of trust, I couldn't do it casually. But I have this horrible suspicion that it would actually be kinda fun. "Fun" might not be the word? An experience worth having.

NaNoWriMo!

I'm getting a jump start on my NaNoWriMo project today. It was supposed to be an erotic novel, but four pages in it's turning into a grimdark existentialist erotic novel. "Kae paused and wondered if her real body had been forgotten and was rotting away at that very moment, then took another slurp of pussy."

I think I've expounded upon this idea before, but it's basically the Sex Matrix, which enables a hooker to service clients from all over the world without any risk to her real body, but then things... get weird. (No, she isn't The One. There is no One. There is only an endless procession of the helpless many. Just because there is no spoon doesn't mean you can bend it. Are you turned on yet?)

I can't pretend to be distressed by this. I like being weird! I'm excited to see where this goes!

Literotica boobytraps.

So there's this site Literotica that's a pretty huge repository of free, somewhat sorted filthy stories and, in that way, a great wanking resource. (Protip: they give out that little "honors" icon for anything sort of resembling English. Your browsing will go faster if you pretend the non-honors ones are invisible.)

But you have to be careful, because many of the stories are boobytrapped. You'll be going along enjoying the story and then...

"...Then Jane's mom walked into the room."
Oh no no no. I know where this is going. It's the second largest category on Literotica after their catchall "general sex" one and I don't know why. Close that one. Pick another.

"...Then Jane said 'I want you to taste me, lover,' and squatted over John's face and started to squeeze out..."
OH GOD. Close it. Try again.

"i love my Master so much He is the only One who knows what is right for me and i spend all day worshipping at His feet and i only breathe at His command and there is no actual sex in this story just so much deliriously capitalized F/fawning."
Well, whatever floats your boat, honey, but I can't wank to it.

"Then he started to fuck my pussy! Oh my god! It was so exciting! It was like the sexiest thing ever!"
Like, OMG, sex! OMG!

"then he fuked huer in teh pusy and tehn the as and it ws sexy cus shw was a re\l hrny biatc"
Sometimes these have "honors" marks. It's unsettling. And possibly randomly generated by machine.

I should write my own Literotica stories if I have such high fancy-pants standards, I suppose. Maybe I will. It's kind of discouraging adding your story to a pile 50,000 deep in mompoopsex, but I don't really know of any other major, free, web 2.0-y, topic-sorted Internet sex story venues. I'd appreciate any recommendations.

My Birth Control Utopia.

In my benevolent-dictator utopia, a totally safe, dosage-unimportant, man and child safe, otherwise perfect birth control is in the water supply and fortified into basic foods. To be fertile, you have to take the antidote for a month or two.

The antidote is widely available over-the-counter for about a dollar per hundred pills. No questions asked, no licensing, no counseling, no credit check, no home visit, it's easier to get than Tylenol. But to get pregnant you have to actively, deliberately take the antidote and you have to stick to it for a little while.

I think this would improve the world tremendously.

Nothing to hide.

I've finally gotten to the point in my life where it's okay for me to be sexual. My roommate doesn't mind if I have random dudes over; hell, we've gone shopping for porn and sex toys together. My parents have no way of knowing, don't try to find out, and don't really care in any case. And no one else even potentially cares.

Frustrating, isn't it? I'm coming out of a teenagerhood where sex had to be furtively sneaked around like nuclear secrets, into an adulthood where I could be doing donkeys in here and all anyone would say is "hey, make sure his hooves don't wreck the carpet."

I kinda miss sex being wrong. I've tried so hard to at least have wrong kinds of sex, but nobody seems interested in persecuting me for it. Sometimes I seek out people in the media or blogosphere who are against sex just so I can be reassured that someone disapproves of me.

Of course this is all playacting, because I don't want my sex to be so wrong that there'd actually be consequences for it. And it's egotistical as well; imagining oneself as a member of La Résistance always is. As if I were the only person on Earth who realized that orgasms feel kinda nice and I was standing against an army of prudish Miss Wormwoods by valiantly fucking random dudes.

The sad truth is, I'm within one standard deviation of totally ordinary. That's okay though. Forbidden fruit is overrated. The mindful, loving cultivation of perfectly ordinary fruit is vastly underrated.

Unfeasible.

When I was old enough to be horny but too young to fully understand how these things worked, I had a recurrent sexual fantasy of coupling up with a guy and staying that way all night, falling asleep with him inside me. I was slightly crushed when I figured out this wouldn't work.

Honesty.

Too much goddamn honesty on this blog, that's my problem!

I'm a hot slinky 110-pound double-D cup who's "known," if you know what I mean, in the Manhattan social scene, but in my other life I'm a high-priced callgirl. I pick my clients--they have to be rich, hot, suave and genuinely caring if they want the privilege of paying $1000/hour. Often they don't even fuck me but just pay my rate to have me on their arm for a haute social function. Sometimes they take me to Bermuda. I use the money to buy perfectly-chosen designer outfits and get schmancy spa treatments and decorate my huge private apartment with tasteful art that doesn't have wolves or Bruce Campbell on it.

I have manageable hair.

Every time I fuck I blow men's minds with skills you don't even know the name of. I can take it in every hole all the time with ease and class. If he wants to hit me I take it like a champ, and if he wants me to hit him I'm not awkward and fumbling at all. I know exactly what all my limits are and I always express them perfectly honestly upfront. Men always respect them and never try to play any headgames with me, because they know me better than that.

The sex always goes perfectly; I'm always wet, he's always hard, we both always come and we both always love every minute of it. Afterwards we drink fancy wine and talk about those things that really smart sophisticated people talk about. Then he offers to let me sleep over, but I tell him that would cost extra and I'm on my way; I'm an emotional rock who can take or leave anyone.

This is my sex blog, and it's about all the awesome sex I have when I deign to make men's fantasies come true.

I never get any weird ingrown pubes.

Wankability Paradox.

There's a fundamental problem with reading or writing sex stories: two separate and almost exclusive standards of quality. There's good writing and then there's wankable writing. One has effective characterization, a creative premise, lush sensual detail, and high technical standards. The other pushes the right buttons in rapid sequence with wild abandon. Good writing is something people can often agree upon; wankable writing depends on your individual buttons. And wankable writing generally can only be identified mid-wank; it turns to sand in your fingers (or incoherent rambling on your screen) at the moment of orgasm.

Printed "erotica" (I don't like that word, it's like they think they're better than plain ol' porn) anthologies tend to be nothing but good writing. Absolutely useless for wank. I'd rather read pages 936-944 of my anatomy textbook.

To be honest I almost never read good sex fiction. When my pants are zipped, I tend to realize that sex just isn't that rich a topic for a short story; there's really only so many variations on the ol' in-and-out, and the writing gets caught in an awkward spot where it's too committed to sex to work as full-fledged fiction. It's like reading about someone eating--I'm not getting bored of eating itself anytime soon, but do I really get much intellectual stimulation out of "once again he lifted the fork to his dripping piehole"?

What's really funny is that the things I enjoy reading about aren't entirely connected to what I enjoy in reality. I love being spanked and giving blowjobs, but they do nothing for me in writing. On the other hand I'm not that into the buttlove in reality, but it's practically a prerequisite for a story to pass the Left Hand Test.

So you can keep your Best American Erotica; I'll be on the Internet looking for the Most Frothingly Analcentric Probably-Not-American-Judging-By-The-Grammar Erotica.

TMI... uh, Wednesday.

My Internet's being very on and off, but while it's on, some silly meme-questions stolen from figleaf...

1. Are you truly politically correct? Be honest.

Not really. I try to be a good person, in the ways that count, and I try to be at least sort of aware of the political implications of my words and actions, but... I also like to be sarcastic and use mean words, and although I don't want to be a total jerk I also don't believe in a right to not be offended.

2. Will you ever streak in public during rush hour?

Will, or have? I've run the Naked Mile, buddy. That was a group event though; I'm not sure if I have the nerve for solo-streakery. I probably do though. I hope so.

3. Would you ever do something sexual in public (more than 20 people around)?

Would, or have? I've literally had sex up on a stage in front of people. I'm, um, not shy. (Actually, I kind of am shy. But not about my body.)

4. Do you ever not have good table manners?

I know how to have good table manners, but a depressing number of my meals are eaten off a dashboard or my lap; when I'm at a table I have manners, at least.

5. Do you ever fantasize about a public sexual act? Describe.

I always wanted to sit out in the park with a guy on a warm sunny day, me in a skirt with no panties and him in pants that unzip. And I'd sit in his lap and wiggle and grind and there would be people around us who wouldn't even know what as going on.

Curse you, Mara Jade!

It's sort of queasy to imagine Luke Skywalker having sex. Han Solo, certainly, the man must've gotten around. Lando Calrissian, even moreso. Leia... well, Leia had the bad fortune to look like Carrie Fisher which is no doubt prejudicing me here, but it doesn't disturb or surprise me to imagine Leia having sex.

Darth Vader (original trilogy Darth Vader, in costume) is sexy as hell.

But Luke Skywalker can't have sex because he seems like a symbolic child. Not just that he's boyish but that he's too closely entwined with my own childhood. I watched Star Wars for the first time when I was very young and I identified with Luke. Now when I rewatch it (which, despite how this entry sounds, isn't that often, I swear) I don't see a twentyish space adventurer--I see a five-year-old Holly.

Halfway related: I have a pair of stuffed animals, a horse and a cow, that I've had since birth. I've always slept with them in my bed; when I was little they kept away monsters. But I've developed a sort of superstition that Horsie and Cowie must never "see" me having sex or masturbating. They have to go under a pillow or into a drawer every time.


Nearly everyone involved with BDSM is a huge geek. The reasons why deserve their own entry. But in case you weren't aware: the correspondence between BDSM enthusiasts and sci-fi/fantasy/Ren Faire/anime/"graphic novel" enthusiasts is essentially one to one. The debauched, naked, bruised-ass underbelly really digs on Firefly.

God WHY.

Last night marks my second queasily sexual dream about Barack Obama.

Subconcious, whhhhyyyy?


(Last time he cuddled naked with me. This time he told me we couldn't have sex because of Michelle, but he whipped out a riding crop and told me that just playing wasn't cheating. WHAT IS WRONG IN MY HEAD?)

In Dreams.

I almost never have sex dreams. The nerves won't work while I'm asleep, or something, so I'm always having dreams where I'm just about to have amazing sex but wake up an instant before it actually happens.

What I have, endlessly, are cuddling dreams.

It's so sad waking up afterwards in an empty bed.

This is what happens when you go off the pill.

Fuck, I can't understand any complex feminist issues because I'm too fucking horny! I was reading blogs with this talk about "rape culture" and "enthusiasm not consent" and all I can think about is how enthusiastic I'd be with most anybody (okay, anybody cute) right now! I spent all day looking at random dudes on the street and wondering if I just pulled over and told them how horny I was how many fucks I could get. There was one tall blond guy in a tie I woulda paid.

This is crude and dehumanizing to me and the men ("hey bro, you've got a dick and you're not ugly, fulfill my needs!"), it's pointless and I know my horniness eyes are bigger than my emotions stomach anyway. It's the way I've been feeling all day today.


(Also, I'm breaking out like a teenager. Cripes.)

An unsettling conversation.

Benny (mostly teasing): You should have your sister over here sometime with us.
Me: Ugh.
Benny (wistful now): I actually think it'd be kinda hot...
Me: It'd be incest.
Benny (suddenly awkward now): Well, that's, uh, kinda... I know... well, it's a taboo, isn't it, you know? I mean... as a fantasy...
Me: Oh god, please tell me you and your sisters never...
Benny: No, no. They're much older than me.

Giving In.

I have trouble submitting. Not masochisting (or however you verb that); physically intense things are easy for me. But the same thick-skinned-ness that makes me able to take punishment keeps me from internalizing it, from going from "there's something hurting my skin" to "I am helpless." (The fact that I still have feminist and psychological reservations about whether internalizing that sort of thing is even a good idea only makes it harder.)

I backtalk a lot. It's some nervousness, some disliking Benny, but a lot of it comes from an inability to let go. To accept that for this fleeting instant my life isn't about me, isn't (directly) about what I want. To not just get on my knees and follow directions, but to actually give up control.

I want to. Maybe it's a stupid fantasy, maybe I wouldn't actually like it or it's not possible, but I really want Benny to somehow break through my ego and make me stop being me for a few minutes. I want to be made (very temporarily!) into this... animal... that isn't Holly, that doesn't have a big mess of thoughts and worries and desires and reservations, it just fucks and feels and is.

BDSM as meditation, maybe. I never did get the hang of real meditation. I kept thinking.

We could work out a scene for this, I think. With me blindfolded, immobilized, kept from speaking, and given pain beyond my limits, maybe I'd stop caring so damn much about myself. Or maybe even a scene where I'm free physically, but absolutely not allowed to express or act in service of my own desires. A habit I have worse than the backtalk is the small adjustment. "No, hit me a little lower." "Hangon, gotta cramp." "Loosen my knee, it's bent all funny." If I were kept in a scene where no such allowances were made, long enough and strictly enough, would I reach that state?

Being made selfless, thoughtless, not-me.... I don't want to live there, but someday I want to visit.

Life in Heworld.

(I wrote a version of this post last year and it prompted Bruno to coin the word "Pervocracy." So there's great sentimental value.)

In my sexual utopia, everyone is a man. Everyone is called "he," every boy has two fathers, every board has a chairman and fires are fought by firemen. Pilots are all men, presidents are all men, and kindergarten teachers are all men.

Of course, biologically, there are male men and female men, but frequently it isn't obvious and unless you're a doctor or very intimate it's insanely rude to ask about or comment upon it. It's private parts, dammit, and whether someone has a vagina or a penis is as inappropriate for public discourse as speculating how much pubic hair they have. (Obviously body shape and whatnot do give you some clue, but it's still not polite to comment. And moreover, it's not interesting; sure you can guess that a five-foot man with large breasts and wide hips is female, but that doesn't tell you anything important. It's like knowing his blood type; who really cares?)

And there are men who like to wear makeup and long hair and skirts, and men who'd rather have a buzz cut and cargos (and some sexy bastards with a buzz cut and a skirt), but it doesn't correlate with maleness or femaleness, it's just a personal choice. As are personalities and family and community roles. And when two men have sex or marry--well, every relationship is between two men so there's no real difference, is there?

(It'd be interesting to let this experiment run for a couple hundred years and see if female men behaved any differently from male men. My guess is probably a little bit, but nowhere near as extremely or consistently as in our current society.)

I guess the concept of a genderless society is hardly a new one, and all I'm adding is the idea of making everyone male. That's partly because English is already structured around male-default, and it avoids awkwardly artificial constructions like "hir", and partly because I think it's funny.

This is what the world would be like if I were King.