A Place To Draw Blood Laughing

20. Body Topped

Sunday, January 4, 2009

Tonight I got sick, and Maymay crashed. I suspect he has some kind of mild food poisoning, although it’s also possible that he has simply pushed himself too far and his body is staging a rebellion. He is falling asleep now, next to me. This is a very early bedtime for us. In the past few weeks I have commonly seen the wrong side of the dawn.

I have the very beginning of a head cold. I can tell, the way my throat feels ticklish and round. This frustrates me. It derails the little stirrings of arousal that I like so much in the very late night. It’s hard to masturbate when I need to sneeze. It borders on the comical.

Maymay sick and horny is like a flopsy kitten ballet. On the one hand, he can barely move his body. But on the other, parts of him twitch and rotate without him even noticing. He makes small noises in his throat that echo the small noises of my squeaky, wheezing nose. It would be quite sexy, were it not mildly gross.

I have been feeling off, of late. My dominant instincts keep lying to me, telling me to try things I know don’t work. I have taken to pulling May’s hair, even when I can already see that he doesn’t want his hair pulled. It is like I’m trying to force the issue.

What is that, I wonder? Is my energy unfocused? Am I not paying attention? Am I looking for validation? Or am I just having a string of bad days?

It’s all right. every time I veer off, I always come back. It just takes a little while to learn to work the buttons again.

19. Feather Sink

Saturday, January 3, 2009

Went out to a friend’s for dinner last night, and we just got home. My friend is a chronic hostess; I don’t think I’ve been fed so well in months. May and I crashed out on a spare bed in her place for the night, and as I hit the pillow I thought to myself: Oh god, I forgot about real matresses.

When we moved here we did not buy a mattress. We were budgeting, and we didn’t know how long we’d stay, so we bought a foam pad, thin, soft, and malleable. We figured we could always replace it in the future.

Ten months later, our foam pad has dips carved where our bodies rest in the night, and we still have not replaced it. It is obvious now that we will not. We will only be here two more months; two months and three days, in fact.

Last night I sunk into this feather nest of pale green cotton, and May and I slept like dead and drunken logs. It felt amazing to sleep that way again. It makes it harder to think of sleeping on our foam for the next two months, and then the inevitable bumps of couch surfing and floors and whirlwind unsettlement that await us before we can finally start building our home again. I want to do it right this time. I want to find a place I can paint and push and pull and make just ours, just right. I have not had a chance to do that, yet.

11. Swinging About

Thursday, December 25, 2008

There’s a remarkable lack of holiday chatter on my feeds at the moment. I wonder if that’s a time zone thing, or if people have, as a whole, given up on the idea of showing off their holidays in public.

The holiday has made me nostalgic, and the nostalgia has really killed my sex drive. It’s sort of hard to be sexual when my body wants to curl up on a couch and eat cookies, and my brain swings back and forth between animal comfort and thundershower tears. I do miss my family today, and my friends. But it will be all right.

I find that sort of swinging emotional and sexual drive somewhat confusing. This morning I woke up feeling sick, as though I had been hung over for three days. I think my body revolted against my sleep schedule and lack of vegetables. Then mid-day I ate, went out, felt a bit of a tingle and maybe a goosebump here and there. I came home to my boy, and we put out candles and flowers on our couch and watched movies. I welled up briefly, in something akin to loneliness. And then we cuddled, I was better, but I could not rouse myself to sex. May’s skin against my own was far too soft and comfortable; I simply wished to stay in that bubble. I like it there.

I am sleepy, and it is far too late into this night. I will figure this sex-swinging body out in the morning.

8. Fuck-Ups Part 2

Sunday, December 21, 2008

Months later, with that same boy, during a scene late at night in my house, a moment of panic.

He was staying over with me for a little while, and we were curled up on the couch at a very tiny hour of the night, watching a movie. He wore a a high collar, a heavy leather corset that squeezed his ribs in and made a narrow waist appear in his silhouette. He lay on top of me, which was heavy and comfortable and made it a little hard to breathe. After a while, I pushed him down between my legs, and we alternated between my moans and the soundtrack, for a while.

I knew something was wrong when he started gasping, and then he stopped, puled back and said “I can’t breathe” before sliding off his knees and to the ground.

I remember I tore at the lacing of his corset with my fingers, and the cord had knotted. I cursed myself for not having scissors, and I can’t even remember how I got it off him. I remember him sitting on the floor, holding his head against the edge of the cushion, breathing weakly, waiting for me to fix it.

“I think the collar plus the corset plus the kneeling was just too much,” he said later, and I nodded regretfully. That possibility had not even crossed my mind when I pushed him down, although it does now, every time I pull May’s collar and he gasps into the air.

4. The Way of Small Things

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

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.

2. Fetish, Feet, and Goof

Sunday, December 14, 2008

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.

Can a Cock Shot be Submissive?

Friday, November 21, 2008

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?

Protected: That Dull Thud

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Newly Sprouted

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

First off, hello to bestsexbloggers.com! This is my first cross-post to the new sex blogger repository set up by the stunning ladies Catalina Loves and Essin’ Em. Considering how little I talk about actual sex on my sex blog, I’m surprised to be included. But hey, look’it the technology go.

Sinclair wrote a great post about butch body hair that has sparked off some really interesting comparative experiences. I hung around in her comment box chattering away until I realized I’d written an entire blog post of my own, and yanked it back over here.

So. Hair. Prepare for some personal information dumping.

I’m trying to figure out where I fit in the gender galaxy. I’m content to make this a slow, meandering process; I feel no burning need, at this very instant, to figure out exactly what I am and how I fit into the boxes. At the moment, if anyone asks I’ll say I’m standing at the intersections of queer and butch and dom and quirky, staring at the street signs quizzically and wondering how to get to the nearest deli.

But I have recently changed my attitude to my body hair, and the change is, in that peculiar meandering way, somehow connected to my gender identity.

My body hair is naturally light. I don’t grow hair on my face except my thin, arched eybrows, and my arms are barely covered in tiny glinting blonde strands.

I shave my legs. I barely have to, as the hair only really grows from mid-calf downward. But I do. For three reasons: the ritual, the texture and the look. I love folding leg shaving in with a good long bath and some relaxation. And I am obsessed with texture; when my legs are smooth and moisturized they feel amazing. I like how having shaved legs makes my sheets feel slippery. Sort of hard to explain, that.

But it is also because I still connect the look of shaved legs with the cultural images of grace and femininity. I wonder sometimes if I still shave my legs because the wealth of my body hair is still something intimately private to me. Or if I’m just not brave enough to display myself grown out. Or if I’ve still got a little femme in me. I probably do, and I think I like her there.

I pluck the stray hairs that grow on my nipples. (And yes, if you didn’t know, women do grow pubic hair on their nipples.) I don’t really care about having hairy nipples, but I like plucking them in the same way I like picking at scabs and cutting my toenails. These are the weird little body quirks that interest me.

I wrote ages and ages ago that I was growing my pubic hair out. That lasted for a while. Then I trimmed it, then I shaved it. Then I grew it out and trimmed it again. Then I had some ill-fated adventures into complicated landscaping. Now I’m growing it out again. It’s longer that the hair on my head. I like it. I also found a company that sells pubic hair dye, and am flirting with the thought of turning it blue. Because hey, why not?

The major result of my change in attitude is that I’ve grown out my underarms. I’ve never done this before. My underarms have been shaved smooth since they first started sprouting fifteen years ago. But again I thought, what the hell, why not?

The first thing I noticed of these budding new hairs is that they’re very different in texture that I expected. I had thought my underarms would sport the same wiry, rich brown hairs as my vagina. But no. They’re thin and soft and silky. They feel a bit like having a tiny, expensive fur muff wedged under each arm.

The second thing I noticed is that my smell has changed. I bear odd resemblances to the people whose smells fascinate me: Maymay, Stitch, Bear. In short, I smell like a boy. It was a disconcerting experience at the time. Standing in our kitchen I’d turn my head expecting Maymay to be standing next to me, and find no one. The scent of skin and powder has vanished, replaced by sweat and light musk.

I loved how boys dressed, and then realized I could dress the same way. I loved how boys sat in chairs like little sprawling kings, and then began to sprawl myself. I loved how boys smelled, but I always thought that particular smell was something that didn’t make it into my portion of the biological soup.

I was wrong.

38. Fuzz

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

I’m an extremely tactile person. I choose fabrics and clothing based largely upon touch. I often refuse to eat delicious foods that have an unpleasant mouth feel. I insist on soft comforters, high water pressure, and thin curtains.

And right there, teetering at the very top of my textured, tactile love, is hair. Long hair that curls around my fingers. Short hair that tickles my palms. Stubble, curls, silky fronds of pubic hair escaping from between my fingers. And of course, it does help that running my hands through someone else’s hair is both intimate, and, to me, dominant.

Last night I went to the shopping center by my workplace and bought mascara, a length of ribbon, and an electric shaver. I went home and gave myself a three-quarter-inch buzz cut. I learned several things, besides how to operate a shaver:

That my skull is remarkably round and smooth.

That I can carry this butch look with confidence.

That the line of my cheekbone is at the same angle as the line of the front of my ear.

And that I cannot keep from running my hands over the crown of my head and feeling that soft, erotic tickle. Does that count as a masturbatory impulse? At the very least, it is delicious.