Welcome.

The first time Benny tied me up, I had my underwear on. I hadn't brought my toybag, so we were stuck with what he had--toy handcuffs and about five feet of clothesline. (N00b.)

I was nervous, and made two things clear--no hurting me, no taking off his underwear. Not on my first time. I was green enough to be making dumb little "don't steal my wallet, kay?" comments.

He laid me down in the middle of the bed, on my back, and handcuffed me to the headboard. He tied my feet, spread, to the foot of the bed.

And all he did that first time was touch me. He started at my feet, stroking them, gently petting and massaging him way up my legs and at the top of my thighs, when I was already dying for him to just stop everything and fuck me, he just barely skimmed a single finger across the surface of my panties and moved on. He stroked up my belly almost reverently, over my breasts with only a quick squeeze to make me gasp, and ended at my face, his fingers in my mouth, and I carefully sucked and licked each one.

His hands went back to my breasts, grabbing them again, feeling my nipples hard through the bra and stroking them, bending down to lick at the exposed tops of my breasts.

Then, his body entirely on top of mine, he reached his hand down between my legs and didn't go under my panties but rubbed me hard through them. There wasn't a lot of technique but he put pure muscle on my cunt and I came quickly.

He had me untied before my breathing could slow down.

"Welcome to bondage," he said.

And then we both cracked up laughing pretty hard.

Self-portrait with rope and no face.

Small tits, big arms, a hogtie Houdini would break a sweat on, and goodwill towards men.


Oh, and if you stop breathing I know five different ways to fix that.

Full Frontal Feminism.

I just read Jessica Valenti's Full Frontal Feminism, an eminently reasonable and plain-spoken explanation of why young women today still need feminism. It's written from a very down-to-earth, mostly heterosexual (but not heteronormative!) perspective, and it manages to be non-academic without being stupid, if you know what I mean and that's not a common feat in this type of book.

In the past, I've been a little wary of feminism, because my initial exposure was way too academic and way too unrealistic. No, I don't feel that my life is unbearably suffused with phallic energy, and no, I don't believe that the world used to be a utopian matriarchy, and no, I don't think that having sex with boys--including nasty filthy sex, including sex on camera--is betraying the Sisters.

Fortunately it turns out that these things are not necessary to be a feminist. What is necessary is a desire for honest equality, and the understanding that it hasn't happened yet. To be honest it's the second part that I was slower to get to. I mean, I hold a job, I go to school, I vote, nobody ever says to my face that "you can't do this, you're a girl", so what was the big deal? Beer ads?

Actually, yeah, beer ads are a small part of it, but the main thing is a pervasive cultural mindset. It has very real, very obvious effects like women earning less than men and women being denied contraception and given abstinence education. And just the general idea--the feeling you can get from media and politics and casual conversation that men are people and women are a weird subcategory of people. It's everything from talk about "women voters" (men are just voters) to the reason this site doesn't feature my face and last name. (Not that a man could, but someone who didn't talk about sex could. And anti-sex sentiments are directly connected to anti-feminist ones.)

So I guess I'm a feminist because I'd like to be a person, not just a woman. Yeah, we're closer to the ideal than we were in the 1950's; no, we ain't nearly there yet.

And I'm also a feminist because I like to fuck, and I resent everything and everyone that would make that a secret shame. I fuck not to make marriages or babies but simply to fuck, and I am sick and fucking tired of the government and beer ads and my friends and fucking Cosmopolitan telling me there's something wrong with that.

I love men. I love them as partners and as friends and as people. I just want to be 100% certain that I'm people too.


(At least 50% of the people who read this know my face and last name. And home phone number for that matter. But it's the principle of the thing, okay?)

New Rope!

I bought new rope!


Lovely soft slinky silvery snakey rope!


Sexy rope!


Beautiful rope!

I just say "yes" and talk about Alan, but I'm a coward.

"So, do you have a boyfriend?" my coworkers ask me. They're just making idle chitchat. But to give the honest answer ("Two!") would make people extremely uncomfortable and could lose me my job if it's seen as an inappropriately sexual disclosure.

("Girlfriend, actually" probably wouldn't get me fired, but I bet it would lead to awkwardness.)

It's such an intrusive question anyway. Not that I mind sharing with the world, but when people clearly don't want me to share too much... then why are they asking me about my sex life?

Yeah, "boyfriend" is as much a social thing as a sexual one, but if I say I have social relationships with two guys and leave the rest tastefully implied, I still don't think that's gonna fly.


Why is a girl with one boyfriend dating him, and a girl with two boyfriends fucking them?

"How To Swallow Cum, Even Though You Hate It!"

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Birthdays.

"Wow, seems like everyone has a birthday in November. What's nine months before that? February? Why are people fucking in February?"

"Valentine's Day."

"Oh, good point. It seems like there's that, and then there's a lot of people conceived in the summer. Nice fucking weather in June and July."

"I wonder if we could correlate July conceptions with fenced back yards..."

"Not everyone thinks the way you do, Holly."

"Shame."

Naked Time.

When I go over to Alan's house, we haven't seen each other in days, maybe even a week, so of course we have to have sex right away. The first time is quick and utilitarian. But afterwards, if we're not planning to go out, we don't get dressed.

We just spend the next several hours together, ass-naked, hanging out. (Heh... "hanging out.") We read, cook, watch TV (we're big on schadenfreude reality shows like "Intervention", or anything of the format "World's Deadliest... Caught on Tape!"), play video games, nap--always naked, always in physical contact.

It's a nice feeling, not really a sexual one, but incredibly primally nice, to have warm skin pressed against your own. It's worth savoring. It's also a little arousing. At the end of naked time we have a lot of sex.

I guess you could do that every day if you were married. I wonder how many people do though. There's probably some cooling-off period after which you start wearing clothes or it's just gross.

Terms of Endearment.

"Cocksucker."
"Asshole."
"Slut."
"Pervert."
"Whore."
"Pig."
"Cum dumpster."

"...heh."

"Honey!"
"Aw, Punkin."

FEAR.

I got photographed for something called "The FEAR Project", about sexual assault. I didn't really mean to; they had a tent up and were actively soliciting passerby, explained very briefly that I'd be Fighting For The Sistahs and shoved a model release in my hands and a lens in my face. Smile, snap, thank you ma'am.

A few weeks later I saw the final display (which didn't contain my picture, they photographed a zillion people and only displayed about twenty photos), which consisted of various community-member portraits interspersed with text about how "sexual abuse affects us all." It's not that I disagree, but... the title of the project, combined with the shots' tendency to show people looking scared or hurt, kind of bothered me. Because these weren't portaits of sexual assault victims, just of people. The message seemed to be "we are all afraid."

FUCK THAT.

I am not afraid. Not because I live and work in safe neighborhoods, not because I take Krav Maga and carry mace, not even because one of my closest friends is a Washington State Patrolman (and avid gun collecter). It's not situational like that. It's because... I could get grandiose, but frankly it's because I'm just stupid enough.

I'm stupid enough to put my vulnerabilities out of mind and live my life as if I were in a First World country with internal peace and the rule of law. I'm stupid enough to think that fear is an assault commited upon me only if I allow it. I'm stupid enough to think that going out and speaking my mind and being sexual are fundamental rights, and if I wouldn't let them be outlawed by the entire government I'm sure as hell not letting some goon (who may not even exist) scare me out of them.

And I'm stupid enough to think "I'm only going to live once, and won't I feel stupid about all those missed opportunities if it turns out I die of a heart attack?"

Maybe I should be afraid. Maybe a little caution would save me a lot of pain and humiliation someday. Hey, isn't walking with a male escort or shutting up about your stupid kinky sex life an awfully small sacrifice compared to what an assailant or a stalker could do? But fuck it. I'm not talking about should. I'm talking about am.

And I am not fucking afraid. Of anything.

Seeya later, I'm gonna go swimming with alligators now.

Shirt.

When I was very young, a friend of mine told me that the first time you have sex with a guy, he gives you his shirt. It's a ritual, she said.

I haven't discovered any guys who know this ritual, so I've just had to steal their shirts.

Well, not steal. Borrow. Borrow and invariably sleep in, basking in their scent. Every guy I've been with has had a very distinct smell. It's not something you can notice until you're sex-close and they're all sweated up, but smells are as unique as faces. Alan's is smoky and deep, the smell of vice; Jon's is alkaline, very like semen, explicitly sexual. Kevin's was pure sweat, a runner's stink. (Alan wears Old Spice and Benny wears Axe, which is... so thematically perfect it shouldn't be real.)

I give the shirt back, but when I do, it's got my own smell on it. A little interest on the loan.

The heaviest flannel jammies in the world aren't half as warm on a cold night as the dirty cotton t-shirt of That Boy I Like.


P.S. Stingray: you ruined my rope. A pox on your house.

Snapshots.

It's all reducible to still frames. There was motion in reality, but it was mostly back and forth, and there were words, but they were mostly stupid. I mean, they seemed hot at the time, but if you read a transcript back to me now, I would want to hide in a hole.

Me, facing an undecorated white wall, fully clothed, him seizing me from behind.

Me, on my knees, vibrator shoved up my cunt and held in place with rope, cock down my throat, a whip landing harshly on my back. Silently telling myself "You like this kind of thing. You asked to do this. I think you're even liking it right now."

Me, bent over his knee like a naughty child, being brought to orgasm by the most subtle motions of his fingers.

Him, now, hogtied wrists to ankles, leaned forward on his knees, mouth buried in my pussy as I lean back on a plushy couch and just relax with it. I can't get off on it, true, but that just means it can last as long as I'd like.

Him, sitting on that couch now and tied to it, me straddling his knees like a lapdance, except that this lapdance is no tease, no pantomime of what could have been. Believe me, buddy, it is.

Me, bent over the arm of the couch, whip landing on my ass, losing count of the strokes, panicking, screaming "Stop, stop," and he doesn't, that wasn't the safeword and we both know it, and I'm saying it clearer and calmer, using the authoritative voice I use on violent patients,"No. STOP." but that still isn't the safeword and he doesn't.

Me, still shoved down over that armrest, his whole hand inside me, a kind of pain in itself but not one I'd stop for the fucking world and he doesn't even have to do anything, God it's ecstasy just from the tiny movements of my hips and it doesn't fucking end.

Both of us, lying on the carpet side by side and hand in hand, kissing, giggling, teasing each other about the goofy shit we just did, kissing some more and promising to do it all again next time.

(They're software developers.)

"Welp, I better wash up before I go out with the guys."

"Yeah. Wouldn't want them to smell all that pussy on you."

"Honey, these guys don't know what pussy smells like."

Hite.

I've been reading Shere Hite's The Hite Report about female sexuality. It's interesting, but I'm amazed how little of it applies to me. One of her major points is "most women don't orgasm from intercourse," and then there's a ton of testimonies from women who don't and a long explanation of why they don't and a lot of ideas of what would make a woman orgasm. And it means nothing to me except that I'm in the minority.

I come during sex. I come from sex, with no special attention on my clit. I have orgasms while I'm getting fucked, because I'm getting fucked. And I don't even like receiving oral sex that much. (I wouldn't say no to any you've got lying around, but it doesn't get me off. It's too gentle.)

It's amazing how many women don't have orgasms at all. I have one, on estimate, every other day, and average maybe four or five each time I'm with a guy. I am an orgasm factory. And apparently a freak of nature. I can't pretend to be upset about that, but it's strange to think about. I always assume my experiences are the experiences anyone could have if they just tried.


P.S.: Does anyone know how to do a "cut" in Blogger (posting a long post behind a link)? There's a really interesting in-depth survey at the end of Hite's book, and I'd like to go through it with my own answers, but it'll be be extremely long and I don't want to stuff all that on the front page. How could I do this?

P.P.S.: Also, does anyone know how to wash rope? Mine's starting to smell kinda... well-loved. Like the Velveteen Rabbit. Only horrible.

Outside the codes.

I wish our words for emotions weren't package deals. I wish "love" meant "really like." Because I love Alan. I don't want to be with him forever and I don't want to marry him or have his babies. I just love him in the sweet, casual, almost fuckbuddy way we have things now. I wish I could say "I love you" and not have it mean "I want to own you."

If women are always watching out for sexually-predatory men, men seem to always be watching out for love predator women.

I'm not hunting a man. I'm not setting a trap with pussy as the bait. The pussy is its own reward, and it makes me so fucking happy. Happier than "empty" sex is supposed to.

I don't love my fuckbuddy boyfriend because I've lost my boundaries. I love him for being my fuckbuddy.

Birthday!

I'm twenty-two years old today! Hot damn!

Had some hot damn pre-birthday sex, too. Alan is the Lotus Elise of lovers--he only does one thing but he does it really, really, really well. No cargo space, no cupholder, no bud vase... just straight vaginal missionary done within a tenth of a millimeter of perfect.

We got in bed. He gave me almost no foreplay; I don't always need it. Knowing I would see him tonight and and thinking about it all day was the foreplay. (And so, in its own way, was the discomfort from starting when I was a little unready. I kinda dig that.) He just slammed his cock in me and that was that. I hooked my legs around his thighs, pulling myself up to him, doing my damndest to fuck him from underneath.

And we just fucked. There's nothing to tell you about, no bizarre adventures; just good hard steady fucking and I kept coming but it didn't fucking stop. The first time I came I went limp and panting for a moment but he didn't break his stride and I had no choice but to recover fast and keep going. But each time I came was harder than the time before. Until finally, maybe the fifth time, I started coming and didn''t stop. It just kept going, an endless explosion, an instant of pure bliss dragged out for thirty seconds until I collapsed completely, unable to even speak.

He never did come. (Well, that time; we'd had less remarkable sex earlier in the evening, but he missed out on a second orgasm.) I feel kind of bad about that. I couldn't go on with the sex and he couldn't finish in my mouth or his hand. He told me he didn't mind though, it was worth it just to see me. I'll take him on his word there.

I couldn't find my panties afterward. Had to go home commando. It's just as well though. When I come back to pick up my undies, I can make him do that again.

Of course, sex is a mutual decision and not something the woman makes the man "earn." Right?

I've worked 33 hours over the last three days. 33 goddamn hours of lifting and turning and pushing and pulling the hundred-plus-pound dead weights we call "our valued customers." (I kid! I love sick crazy people! They're my best friends! Actually many of them are very sweet. But it doesn't make them weigh less.)

Tonight, I'm finally off work, and I'm going to go spend the night with Alan.

If he wants sex, that boy is going to backrub like he never backrubbed before.

Taming the fantasy (to death).

I want to be raped.

Okay, now, I don't want to be raped by a stranger, they might have diseases or something and they might smell funny and they might not be cute. So it should probably be someone I already know. Someone I'm already sleeping with, really.

And I don't care if it hurts a little but I'm not that good a masochist so I don't want it to hurt a lot, and I definitely don't want it to, you know, do damage. So I guess we could fight a little but when it comes to the actual fucking he should just be kinda rough. Of course I'll have no control over the situation because he'll be forcing me to bend to his will, but his will should be to fuck me good and hard but be very careful about it.

And the whole resisting thing I think might be creepy, so I won't overdo it. I'll just play at resisting a little bit, kinda wrestle with him, but make it real clear I'm giving in and I actually like it. Otherwise I'm just going to hurt both our feelings. Also I need a safeword of course, and if I have any little adjustments he needs to make in the middle of my rape he should listen to those. And afterwards we'll cuddle of course, just to reaffirm that it was all play and there's no hard feelings.

Oh yeah. I want to be raped.

You know how it is?

I very often have the feeling that I'm faking an orgasm at the exact moment that I am also having an orgasm.

Sister's Doin' it for Herself.

Masturbation is interesting only because it's everything about sex that doesn't matter. It's all the physical pleasure and release that I can going to get out of a sex act, but it lasts ten minutes and means nothing. I don't come out of it happy, or affectionate, or laughing. Just sleepy and suddenly disinterested in whatever I was using as porn. (I've actually thrown good porn away during that "Now this is boring and slightly disgusting to me!" post-orgasm time. Very stupid.)

And for all my near-compulsive sexual explorations with partners, I masturbate in exactly the same way I did when I was twelve years old. Lying face down on a mattress, left hand cupped over clitoris, right hand on left breast, thrust hips against hand until porn becomes boring. It only works that one way. I can't do it sitting up, I can't do it on my back, I can't do it with my right hand.

So there is a physical difference between masturbation and sex. A guy can get me off in near to any position and with a wide variety of techniques. And frankly, even if I don't like him it still feels better. Sex and selfsex are different things for reasons that have nothing to do with fuzzy emotions, they have to do with the difference between a quiet sigh into my pillow and a fullthroated scream over his shoulder. I don't know why.

I just wish it worked the same way for guys. Obviously they do get something out of it, at least visually and mentally, but I've had a few tell me that getting their dick worked feels almost the same no matter what's doing it.

Male readers, please tell me "WHAT THE HELL THAT'S TOTALLY NOT TRUE" because otherwise I'll feel so sad for men.