Friday, August 31, 2007

Doin' it right.

I was talking to my friend Moogie a while back and I mentioned a situation where I said "safeword".

"You mean you said 'red'?" she asked.
"No, I mean, I literally said 'safeword'."
"That's wrong. That's not what you say. You say 'green', 'yellow', or 'red'."
"You can, yeah, but a safeword can be whatever you agree on, really."
"No it can't! A safeword has to be 'green', 'yellow', or 'red'! Didn't you read The Guide To Getting It On?"

Obviously this is silly. But I hear--or even more insidiously, think--similar things far too often.

Home Depot rope. Benny and I use Home Depot rope. Isn't that horrible? It's absolutely true that Twisted Monk rope is better; from what I hear it's woven from the treasure trails of the gods themselves. But what bothers me is the idea that Monk rope is right and Home Depot is wrong. Not lower quality, not more limited in uses, not requiring more caution, but... incorrect.

Bullshit. I'm not going to write a whole paragraph elaborating on this because my opinion fits in five words: Nothing that works is wrong. You can put Heinz on filet mignon if that's what tastes best to you.

And hey, while I'm speaking of safewords: Benny and I don't have one. If we wanted to stop, we'd just say "stop." And yes, I do sometimes say "stop" and not mean it. But I guess we just trust each other to know the difference between "ooh, stop stop stop," and "NO. STOP."

(By the way, one of the worst manifestations of the "gotta do it right!" attitude I'm thinking about here is the idea that what Benny and I do isn't even BDSM. Because, honestly? It's mostly just spanking, rough sex, and overhand knots. There's no medical-grade electrical boxes or 10-gauge needles or ultra-realistic walrus dildos. And I always feel oddly inferior, almost like a poser, for calling something BDSM that doesn't even draw blood half the time.)

I'm pretty sure this has to do with geekiness. Geekery and BDSM have a big overlap and overly serious thinking about a very silly activity is a symptom. I believe that the reason you can't wrap a girl's tits in deliciously harsh and earthy truck rope is intimately connected to the reason that an elven warlock can't wield a battleaxe.

And in both cases, really, it's a damn shame. It's fantasy, it's pleasure, it's private, fuck stupid little rules.


Today at work I saw an exposed human heart beating.

Thursday, August 30, 2007

Something in the Water

Is it just me or does it seem like all the good perverts are here in the Pacific Northwest?

Also all the serial killers.

I'm sure it's unrelated.


The first time I slept with Alan we couldn't have sex. I mean we just literally couldn't figure it out. Weirdest thing. He was hard, I was wet, he's not hilariously small and I'm not monstrously fat, but for some strange reason we just could not get Tab A to go in Slot B and stay there.

The next time was kind of a battle, there was a lot of falling out and a mid-sex re-condoming and in the end neither of us came, but at least it was basically sex.

The next time he came in the first 30 seconds.

The next time I came, but he couldn't get off and eventually we had to stop because we were both getting sore as hell.

The time after that was wild and frantic and sweaty and we both came deliciously hard and often. And every time after was just better.

And that, boys and girls, is the problem with one-night stands.

Unsafe Sex.

"Holly, I don't feel good. I was throwing up at work and now I'm all dizzy and weird."

"Aww, poor baby! I'll come over with Gatorade and chicken soup and make you comfy!"

"Aww, thanks for the nurseyness. Hey, as long as I'm in bed and you're right here, why don't you crawl in and get comfy with me, babe?"



"Alan, I don't feel good. I think I'm going to... urk."

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Because nobody does me like me.

At least half the time, at the end of a wild evening of multiple sex acts and repeated orgasms, when I come home and go to bed, before I fall asleep I masturbate.

I'm glad to be living in a culture and time where this sort of thing makes me only bemused and mildly worried, rather than seeking psychiatric help.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

I top sometimes too. But I'm, uh, not good yet.

There's nothing more demoralizing than finishing a scene, and your bottom says "Well, that was fun," and instantly slips their hands out of your carefully tied knots.


The difference.

The same act, in front of both men, on different nights: licking my own juices off their fingers.

Alan: "Augh! This seems so demeaning!"
Benny: "Oh yeah. That's sexy."

The same act, in front of both men, on different nights: telling them the story about a fake blood tank blowing up in my face.

Alan: "Wow. That's crazy! Your life is never boring, is it?"
Benny: "Oh, so that's all that happened? Whatever, kay, let me tell you my story..."

Of course we won't really do it... at least that's what I think NOW.

"You know I could leave you like this. Just walk away and go to work and leave you tied this way all day."

"Yeah, nice fantasy, but I'd cramp up like hell and you know, I'd have to pee eventually."

"I know."


Monday, August 27, 2007

The Best Sex Toy in the World.

It's like it says on the Othello box: a minute to learn, a lifetime to master.

The other night I was lying in bed with Benny and rope and at a certain point in the night neither of us was tied up. The rope was just in the bed with us, lying in messy tangles over our bodies, coils looped loosely around my feet, my free hand idly stroking it and playing it over my chest. It was lovely. I like rope.

New Toy.

"I made you something." Benny says. Not bought, made. "I went to Home Depot." Oh shit. It's a quiveringly curious, only play-terrified oh shit. Play-terror won't make me run, but it does feel quite genuinely nervous.

"What is it?" I ask.

"You'll see." He thinks for a second, that lovely exaggerated hmm-what-will-I-do-with-this-one Dom chinscratch. "Actually, you won't see. Let's go upstairs."

Upstairs is the bed. It's got thick metal bars at the head and foot. Just decorative ones, it's not blatant bondage furniture, but it works well enough that way. "Lie down on your back," he says. I love the tone of his voice, like a doctor telling you to take a deep breath, cold and utterly assured. If I'd said it it would've been "Now you can, um, lie down, on your back I guess, I mean if you want to, okay?" But he knows exactly what he wants to do with me.

I lie down, and he blindfolds me. A blindfold looks so small and simple from the outside, but from the inside it blocks the whole world. I have nothing but sound and touch to guide me. The first touch I feel is him bringing my hands up over my head, between the bars of the headboard, and cold metal clicking over my wrists. It's slightly uncomfortable to have my arms at 180 degrees above my body; I feel stretched-out no matter how I scoot the rest of my body around. "Scoot" is never an erotic word.

I don't get to do a lot of scooting anyway, because the next touch I feel is rope on my ankle. Not just rope though, he's tying it to something hard. And the other ankle, and now I know what the new toy is.

It's a spreader bar. I'm wide open and can't close my legs. Can't bring my hands down to protect myself. I'm rapeable.

The next touch I feel is Benny between my legs, suddenly undressed. Slowly, taking his sweet time and speaking to me very little, he fucks me.

I don't know if good submissives are supposed to smile and giggle the entire time. It probably kills the mood horribly. I can't help it.

Sunday, August 26, 2007

The Two Boyfriends Problem.

So I have a little problem in my life right now. Two men. I'm sleeping with them both and neither knows.

Alan is:
Good-looking, affectionate, funny, talented, interesting, and emotionally open.

Benny is:
Frankly none of the above. But...

Benny is:
Willing to tie my wrists to my ankles, flip me ass-up, spank me red, and shove four fingers in my most special secret ladyplaces.

Rationally, I should dump Benny. It's not like Alan doesn't give me pleasure. Hell, he even gives me kink, albeit in small and achingly tentative ways. Alan's a good guy and perilously close to being my boyfriend, dammit, and I shouldn't be running out on that just because he's not good with a flogger. Alan has given me seven orgasms in an evening, for Christ's sake, how the hell can that be leaving me unfullfilled?

I don't have a great answer here. Just that I need my kink. I know you're supposed to be a lot older and further around the block before you get this jaded, but getting fucked without pain, submission, or restraint is just unsatisfying to me. I mean, it's great, I'd take it over gardening or tax preparation any day, but it's not what I need.

What I really need is to dump both guys and find an interesting, cute, affectionate Dom. And while I'm at it, a pony. A rainbow pony.

Saturday, August 25, 2007

Fucking geek.

"Don't rip the t-shirt! It's vintage!"

Hit by the sex truck.

An odd thing happened with Alan the other day. He was finger-fucking me and he curled his fingers up, hard, and turned them a little to the left. Several things happened at once. My entire body turned red, my back arched violently, and I grabbed him around the wrist and clamped his hand exactly in place.

"Don't you fucking dare move."

He didn't break a big sweat, he didn't thrust, he just curled his fingers further by a millimeter. I don't have clear memories of how long that went on. My body wanted to buck but I didn't dare move my pelvis. It started to hurt. "Take them out, take them out," I said. He didn't listen. Good boy. I came hard.

And collapsed. The instant I was done coming, every muscle in my body went totally limp. I slowly curled into the fetal position and stayed there. I couldn't move. Not tired-satisfied-afterglow couldn't move. Couldn't.

"Haha, that was really great," Alan said. I didn't say anything. "Um... Are you okay?"

I had to gather far too much strength just to say "I'm okay." I wasn't completely. My voice and mind were foggy, far away. I was stoned.

I just lay there for a while, limp. Alan gave me a glass of water, and I could barely lift my head to drink. He fed me blueberries, slipping them one at a time between my lips. He lay by me and talked until I got some strength back. Even when I was walking and talking, I wasn't alright. I still felt high, silly, slightly confused. My skin was on fire. A touch felt like a fuck. Alan kissed me standing up, and my knees nearly buckled.

"Seriously, are you okay to drive home?"

It took about an hour until I was. Even then, I felt deeply drunk.

I've never experienced anything like that before. Or since. But it's only been a few days. I'm sure he remembers what he did.

Friday, August 24, 2007

Second Hottest.

The second hottest sexual moment of my life was during a one-night stand with an uncomfortably older man while I was working on a film in Idaho. He had me facedown on the bed with him on top, grinding his cock hard between my buttocks, grinding my clit into the bedsheets as almost a side effect to his pleasure. He was much bigger than me and his body covered mine, pinning me, almost smothering. His face was right at my ear and he was whispering his fantasies.

"If you were my girlfriend I'd get a buttplug and make you wear it all day, to work and everything, and as soon as you could take it I'd get a bigger one, and bigger, and make you stretch that little ass out and I wouldn't care if everyone knew and I wouldn't care if it hurt. You'd LIKE it if it hurt."

The content was almost beside the point. The point was his frantic whisper, and the absolute purity of his fantasy. It wasn't something he'd made up to please me or watered down to spare himself embarassment. He was speaking straight from the dirt in his head, this ridiculous, impractical, cruel, disgusting place where a girl crying from anal tearing is so hot it makes you quiver.

Every guy I've been with since, I've asked "what are your fantasies?" and they've lied. They've paused too long and then said "just really enthusiastic sex, I guess" or something lame like that. Maybe it's true, maybe not everyone has a dark place to speak from.

But if a man does, I want to hear it. You think I'll be disgusted? You think I'll judge you? You should hear what I'd whisper in your ear, if I had the courage.

Punishment and Crime.

"If you keep criticizing me, I'm going to keep doing this."

"Okay... You have weird ears."

Thirty-Minute Blowjob.

There's parts of sex that don't get a lot of publicity. Publicity seems to be mostly for either mushy loving sex or, more often, wild monkey sex. But when in book or movie or pornography do they talk about the joy of relaxing friendly sex?

Wednesday night, I gave Alan a thirty-minute blowjob. It wasn't furiously passionate (I've only got about ten minutes of continuous furypassion in me, I need to work out more or something), it was more like an intense kind of cuddling. We were talking the whole time. Mostly about bass playing. He had his goofy indie music on in the background and kept pointing out "See where it goes 'da da da da' after the lead guitar there, I love that part" and such. It's hard to relate this without making him sound insensitive. It really wasn't. It was... comfortable.

It's unambiguously sexual to have a man's hard penis in your mouth, I guess. But there was no moaning, no thrusting or headgrabbing, no dirty talk, barely any acknowledgement that we were doing anything but lying in bed together. No pressure to do it faster, better, harder, finish it up already. Just keep doing that as long as you like.

At the end I jerked him off onto my breasts (which he apologized for, because he is a big geek and emphatically Not Kinky) and we cuddled the regular way.

"You don't have to apologize for things like that, you know."
"Oh... I'm sorry."


I'm Holly. I'm 21 years old, female, pre-med, near Seattle, and working as a nursing assistant. This is my sex blog.

I'm really unqualified to have a sex blog. I am not:
a) An industry insider. The most I've ever been paid for sex was a half-empty bottle of Bacardi 151. Not that it wasn't damn good rum, but I'm pretty sure that doesn't put me in a position to be a "proud sacred harlot" or whatnot.
b) Wildly sexually experienced. I've been with about five guys and one girl, counting one-night stands. Actual relationships: two guys. Never been in an orgy or even a "party", never had or been an erotic slave, never even taken it up the ass, which I believe kindergarteners are doing these days. Their parents think it's "cute."

However, I am:
a) Honest and open to the point of compulsion.
b) Relentlessly, voraciously horny.

Honestly, the main reason I set up this blog is to keep the filth off my LiveJounal. I think it was starting to bother my friends.