7. CollarMe? No Thanks

I’m going to come back to my fuckupperies, be sure. But I find that they are hard posts to write, and require much pulling on teeth and heartstrings. So in the meantime, my first (and probably last) thoughts on CollarMe.

Tonight I saw an incredibly weird play about the first feminist queen of Lapland. When I came home, I closed my CollarMe account. Strangely, these things do have something to do with one another. In the play, the queen is called “swashbuckling”. I had forgotten how much I love that word, swashbuckling. I realized there was a part of me that used to ache to inhabit such a word, and that the ache is still there.

And when I came home and signed online, looking at the messages in my inbox and the words coming up on the screen, I also realized that there is no place for swashbuckling women on CollarMe. There is some potential there, but most of it is buried and I don’t care enough to go digging. There is too much shit in the way.

When I clicked the button to close my account, this is the message that appeared, letter for letter:

http://collarme.com
Perminantly close your account?

Really, that about sums it up. And I would laugh, if it wasn’t just so fucking pathetic.

6. Fuck-Ups Part 1

I want to talk about fucking up. Because I have, and I think it’s not talked about enough. We speak to each other about the things we’ve done, what we’ve learned, how we’ve succeeded, but it’s hard to talk about the times we’ve failed. So I’m starting a series. That’s right. I’m going to tell you about every single time I’ve fucked up a scene. Because in the end, I learn from my mistakes, and that almost - almost - makes the mistakes worth making.

I fucked up my very first scene.

We played without communication, and that was the problem. I didn’t really know what I was doing. I knew if I ran my nails down his back just so, over and over, he sighed and hiccoughed and moaned in a way that made my stomach knot and my labia quiver. So I made him moan, and then I made him moan again, again, again, until he dropped to the floor and said “Please, please stop.” And I did stop, but I admit, not right away. He had no safeword and was too submissive (and too in love) to stop me. I look back now and wince at how stupid we were.

Afterward he pulled a shirt gingerly over his shoulders and we went downstairs and sat on a picnic table. He smoked a pipe and told me, slowly, how scared he was of me. That he wasn’t sure if he could ever trust me again. I’m not sure he ever did trust me again, not totally, not the way he wanted to. All through the thread of our relationship, for the next entire year, this was one of our defining questions: Do you trust me?

I cried at the time, and I learned fast and hard. I became a rabid communicator. I learned everything I could about power dynamics and safewords. I apologized to him. We laughed together and talked about how hot that scene was, once we’d both come down from the peak. And I was horribly, scarringly guilty. I still am. I keep that scene on the rotation, and there’s a part of me that knows I shouldn’t, that finds such conflicts wrong.

And he forgave me. I wonder, sometimes when I’m a titch on the tipsy side (like now), what would I be like if he hadn’t?

5. Kink For All! The Shameless Plug

Maymay and I had an idea. The idea sparked a project, the project sparked some brilliant interest, and now the project will become an event, and a reality. Please copy and cross post this message freely.

If you have already heard about KinkForAll through the grapevine, then consider this post a reminder. If you haven’t, then I hope you read, think, and ideally, join.

Kink For All: the Vitals
What: A no-limits sex-positive gender and sexuality unconference.

Why: To inspire a creative, interactive and open environment where everyone feels comfortable talking, learning, and being inspired by all kinds of sexuality.

When: March, 2009 (exact date yet to be determined)

Where: NYC (We’re still looking for a venue! Could you help us out with that? See ‘Get Involved,’ below!)

Who: Everyone

How much: Free (as in beer as well as freedom)

Details
KinkForAll is an ad-hoc gathering born from the desire for people of the kink, queer, sex-positive and related communities to share and learn in an open environment. It is an intense event with discussions, presentations, and interaction from all participants.  (It is inspired by the BarCamp community.)

Anyone with something to contribute or with the desire to learn is welcome and invited to join. When you attend, be prepared to share with others. When you leave, be prepared to share it with the world.

A KinkForAll is a special kind of gathering because there are no spectators, only participants. Attendees must give a talk or a presentation, help with one, or otherwise volunteer/contribute in some way to support the event. This is called sharing and we like it. All presentations are scheduled the day they happen—there are no pre-scheduled presentations or keynote addresses. The people present at the event will select the presentations they want to see.

Anyone can present, on any topic related to sexuality. You do not necessarily have to teach a new skill or idea. You might share an experience, review a product, or read a poem. The goal is to start a discussion, make connections, and exchange knowledge. Presentations promoting specific commercial products or companies are discouraged.

Learn more about what to expect at http://kinkforall.pbwiki.com/WhatToExpect

Learn more about the event guidelines at http://kinkforall.pbwiki.com/TheRulesOfKinkForAll

Get Involved
We need your help in spreading the word. Please help by participating.  

Here’s how:

1. Get excited by reading the ideas on http://kinkforall.pbwiki.com/KinkForAllNewYorkCity

2. Add your name or handle to the list of participants

3. Join the mailing list and introduce yourself by emailing kinkforall@googlegroups.com

If you have access to a venue, or know someone who has access to a venue, please email the kinkforall@googlegroups.com mailing list with that information.

Still have questions? Read the Frequently Asked Questions at http://kinkforall.pbwiki.com/FrequentlyAskedQuestions or email kinkforall@googlegroups.com for more details.

KinkForAll Online
Participate online before the event at your favorite social networking web site.

Homepage: http://KinkForAll.org

Google: http://groups.google.com/group/kinkforall

Twitter: http://twitter.com/KinkForAll

Identica: http://identi.ca/kinkforall

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/KinkForAll/40066342762

All primary organizational efforts are being coordinated via the mailing list. Join for free and help turn ideas into realities!

http://groups.google.com/group/kinkforall

4. The Way of Small Things

I have a touch of claustrophobia, at times. I will not be bound. I will bite if I cannot move, and when I take up space I stretch so far my joints make popcorn noises. 

Maymay, on the other hand, blisses out in tiny spaces. One night I folded his arms over his chest in a cross and tied them down that way. I’ve never seen him smile so wide. In bed, he wraps the blankets ’round himself like a burrito, or wedges his ass into my belly and folds his body into every nook and cranny of my own. Even day to day, in the way he sits and stands and walks, there is restraint. He holds his lips in, sometimes, and it makes me a little bit regretful because he has such lovely lips.

I joke that he is pocket sized. I want to create some sort of sac that I could fold him into, like fetal mummification. We play sometimes that he is verysmall and I am verylarge.

It is only when he sleeps that his restraint truly relaxes. When I wake up in the morning and shut off my alarm before he can roll over, he will be tumbled out along the sheets all fingers, legs, loose and parted lips. Then he is slinky long, and looks like a grown up, or a statue in white stone.

3. Fancy Things

I am slowly building a collection of very shmantz toys. It started with the njoy pure wand, which came from the wilds of the Boston Fetish Flea one weekend, and which I rarely use any more because doing so feels a bit like beating my gspot with a club. Not a bad sensation, that. Just, well, a bit much.

One of the things I’ve learned from sex blogging is that eventually you will find a way to get free sex toys, usually in exchange for reviews but sometimes just because they appear, in little puffs of lube and smoke. For example, our wooden prostate massager. I know what you’re thinking - wood? For a sex toy? The case to the thing says that it’s been treated with a sealant, but I don’t trust such statements. It works well, with condoms. May tells me it’s actually quite lovely. And when it’s not in his bum, it amuses me to set it on my night stand like a little abstract sculpture.

We do have a glass dildo (how could we not, when it was free?) but I have yet to try it out. It is quite pretty, in a frosted chandelier sort of way. And through the tricks and turns of kinky friends, we also own a Vergenza Mk. 1, which, well…it works. It is trying a bit too hard to be a high-end product, I think. Unfortunately it’s made from aircraft spun aluminum, lovely but a bit lightweight for the price tag (which we did not pay).

And finally, my joy, my favorite: the Omega. Not even for me, and so ridiculously over the top that it makes me giggle, when I’m not drooling. But when May wears it, it’s as though he’s been thrown back several centuries, across a few fantastical borders, and landed smack in the middle of my imaginary harem. I love it there. Oh yes.

Money is tight at the moment (quel supris), but once it loosens up a bit I may come back to my collection. Like many of you, I’m sure, I am still hankering over the Eleven. In the meantime, I have a little shelf of pretty thing, art objects that just happen to be for sex, or perhaps the other way around.

2. Fetish, Feet, and Goof

The other day while talking about fetishes, I managed to surprise Maymay by admitting I have something of a foot fetish. May thinks feet are generally either ugly or goofy looking. Actually, I tend to agree. My feet certainly have their share of goof. They are frequently dirty or bandaged or skinned. Honestly, I wouldn’t want to go there.

But I do have quite a thing for have my feet touched, massaged, or kissed. They’re a sensitive part of my body, and when May kisses the tops of my toes it gives me shivers that makes my hips roll and my neck tingle. 

And it is a lovely image to see my boy crouch and fold his body on the tail end of our bed, or kneel in a ball on the floor. There is power there, in the way that action frames us. I usually don’t last long, though, pulling him up and away so I can get my hands on his skin. He kisses my feet, it turns me on, I am ridiculously impatient and I always steal him away and upward. I have never mastered the odd art of sitting regally while my toes are touched, that image that floats around in our kinky minds of a reclining queen who barely registers the man at her feet.

1. Again?

Yes, although at the time I said I’d probably never do drabbles again, I am taking the 200/words a day challenge up again. (I think I might only go 25 days this time, instead of 50.) I’ve found that I keep losing post ideas, in my bed or on the street or in the folds of our very squishy couch. I feel a sort of obligation to this space, as though I don’t want to release any of my thoughts until they’re fully formed and ripened. I’m trying to loosen that death-grip, a little bit. It is part of an ongoing project I have to trust myself more.

It seems strange to say that I don’t trust myself, but it’s true that I can see my own weaknesses, and they worry me. One that occurs to me tonight, as I sort over password requests and Fetlife messages, is that I am not an immediately good judge of character. I never have been; it takes me quite some time to solidify my understanding of a person. (This is one reason I like blogging, where I can mine the characters of people from the tunnels of their archives.)

Until my opinion settles, I always give people the benefit of the doubt. This is usually okay. Sometimes it is not. And it worries me. I alternately worry that I trust too much and not enough. I worry that I’m going to get myself hurt over and over. Then, I worry that I worry too much. Then I generally laugh at myself, until I am all right again.

Here, Now, This

I’ve been thinking recently about the defining questions in my life. I came about this backwards; I was confused and vaguely melancholy for a very long time, pulled every which-way like a glob of sticky taffy. I kept asking myself what I wanted, and harping on myself for not being able to answer the question.

For one thing, I have not yet sorted what I want to be from what I want to have. Everything is all mixed up, and in the meantime I look in the mirror and feel as though my skin is quicksilver and my eyes are changing color.

I want to use power tools and cook scones, and date women, and date men, and date everyone in between. I want to be a woman who wears suits and a boy who wears skirts. I want to start a PR business, and live on a sailboat, and bike across the country, and be a fashion designer, and run conferences the right way ’round. I want to be a country singer, and a travel writer, and a sex god. I want to make the world better, and I want to make the world work. I want high, rounded breasts like doves hung from my collarbones, and I want a girl with long hair to go exploring over. I want shoulders and arms like a man - like my first kinky boyfriend’s shoulders, triangular and etched in the hard flesh of military life - and I want a man to fuck who has those shoulders, and also long hair, and also the thick softness of a good life tucked into the curve of his swelling hips, ass in the air. I want people who love to cry for me, and with me. I want everything. I want to know who I am. 
The thing is, the question is wrong. It is too simplistic for subtlety of planning, and to big for specific action. It is the question of a girl nestled in grass looking at stars; I am not that girl, right now.
The questions I should be asking myself are cleaner, crystallised. 
Questions like these:
Do I want to integrate my queer identity with my professional career? How would I do that? What would it feel like? How would it hurt me, and how would it help me?
How should I manage my personal brand? How much energy should I invest into it, and is it worth investing in when split into two halves? Right now it is spinning and wobbling like a cloven coconut, and how do I put it back together without spilling all the juice out?
Should I keep up with my art? Should I focus on developing my design skills? Should I take up photography again, and does that mean I should buy a proper camera? Is oil painting worth my time; is any non-digital medium going to satisfy me?
What kind of work do I want to be doing? Is writing enough for me, or should I be looking into how to integrate my writing with activism, education, organization and social media? How do I do that?
How much of my activism is based upon my location and the people around me? Are the things I want still the same when I am by myself, alone?
Which of the hundreds of thousands of projects I conceptualise are worth developing? Should I be drawing comics, drafting book ideas, building websites?
What do I want to say to other people, and what is the best way to say it?
Where am I strongest?
These are better questions. I don’t have the answers, but these are my current thoughts. This is where I am, today.

Can a Cock Shot be Submissive?

In case you haven’t heard yet, Maymay and I have recently launched Male Submission Art, a new blog focused upon showcasing and crowdsourcing images of beautiful male submission. Thus far, the project has been not only successful, but a whole lot of fun. I open my email account to find massive files and link-fests, my favorite people sending their favorite porn? Amazing.

One of our first contributors sent us a range of very eclectic, very sexy photos, many of which were immediately re-blogged. Among them, ze sent a photograph of a bound, erect penis: essentially, a cock shot. Exactly as ze described it in hir email, the bondage is beautifully done. The man’s penis strains, his stomach muscles are tensed, his skin flushed with trapped blood. It is, undoubtedly, a beautiful cock in bondage.

When May and I sat down and opened the email to look through the images, the cock caught our attention.

“Should we post that?” I asked.

May shrugged. “My instinct is yes.”

“Hmm,” I said. “My instinct is no.”

We have yet to resolve this between the two of us, so I thought I’d throw it open to a bit of discussion here, and find out what you, the audience of the blog, think.

Can a cock shot be submissive?

I can explain, to some degree, why my initial instinct was to say no. The reasoning is threefold.

Firstly, because I do have a personal wariness around cocks that should be acknowledged. I am not a big fan of the penis, in general. I find the entire contraption a little off-putting, and wont to spit acrid goo at me. And where erotica is concerned, they’re just not to my taste. I have thousands of images in my porn collection, and not a cock shot to be found.

Secondly, because I do see a tricky distinction here between masochism and submission. I have often identified scenes that focused intensely upon the weapons and gear of kink as sadomasochistic, but not as D/s. This is another instance of the nuances between top/bottom and dom/sub, many of which are fluidly defined from person to person. A person in pain is not submissive. A person in bondage is not necessarily submissive either. But how to convey that distinction, merely a matter of attitude, in a photo?

Following from that point, the third: I’ve realized that I make a connection between character and submission. That is, for me to feel that a photo portrays an instance of beautiful submission, it must first convey a person who will enact that submission. An amputated body part is not, to me, enough.

In my gut, this is a matter of emotional connection. I have no emotional connection to this particular body part. As such, while I find the photo evocative and masochistic, nothing about it says submission to me. The cock has no eyes to cry with, no lip to quiver, no knees to kneel upon, no body to hunch, to protect, to evoke my dominant instincts. I do not care about it, beautifully bound though it is.

But perhaps this is an unfair bias I’m inflicting upon the Male Submission Art audience, to shy away from cock shots and their ilk. In all honesty, I don’t know. I know my personal tastes run deep, and are often counter-culture. We don’t have enough suggestions yet to get a truly fair sampling of what people are interested in.

So tell me. Can a cock shot be submissive? What do you think?

Sans Weapons, Sans Gear

Maymay reviews for Eden Fantasies, and last time around he and I sat down and picked out something resembling a cock case. It’s a strap-on with a hollow center that he can wear over his own penis during sex to essentially give himself an eternal, non-stimlating erection. Sounds delicious, no?

But when it arrived, all shrouded in bubble wrap and cardboard, I laughed aloud. I had failed to realize the essential flaw in this sexy plan: the thing is fucking huge. It is the size of my forearm; I feel vaguely as though it could be used to skewer a donkey.

Needless to say, at this point in time I have no intention of having sex with it.

So it’s sitting on our dresser now, alongside its case, my library books, and glasses cleaner. Every once and a while I pick it up and wave it at my boy. I’d attach it to the strap-on harness, but we don’t have a ring big enough to hold the monster.

Eventually I’ll find a place for it, somewhere in our teak box between the nylon and the hemp. The box is overflowing these days, as the weapons and gear of our sexuality gather to us.

I like that we still work without the toys, that we are still kinky naked, with nothing but our hands and mouths and tongues. Last night I wrapped my arm around May’s shoulders and held his wrists in my hand. With my other hand I cupped his cock, and stroked the tip of my thumb up and down the length of him over and over, until he had tears in his eyes and he whimpered like an angry child. He still had his t-shirt on, a soft cotton thing that smells like Old Spice. When I stopped he was angry, although I saw him try to hide it. His frustration was very sharp, and he thrashed on the bed and whined.

I rested a little while, while he struggled and pouted at me, his hands writhing inside mine. I closed my eyes and drifted toward the very edge of sleep. But I could feel the scene still in the air, like ending a concerto on an open tone.

“I like you like this, when you feel owned,” I said to him. I like him when every breath on his skin thrills him. I kissed his ear, his neck, pulled down his collar and licked his collarbone, pulled up his shirt and dragged my teeth against the barbell through his nipple. I kissed down his stomach and when I put my lips to the head of his cock he shrieked, almost sobbed into the pillow.

When he came, arching his ribs so that he stood off the bed like a bridge of flesh through the air, he shot so far he hit his own neck and shoulder, white streaks all over the thin cotton. And as he came I couldn’t help but think of water guns.

“Ah ga buh,” he said, when he could say things again.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” I smiled.

“Buz ugu ma.” He slurred the sounds, closed his eyes, long fingers sprawled across his sticky belly.

“I think I have broken you. Have you forgotten how to speak?”

He nodded. We giggled a little, and when I pushed him off the bed to shower he walked in zigzags, holding one hand to the wall to keep himself upright, all fluid, heavy limbs.