20. Body Topped

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.

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?

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.

In Giving Gifts, Attitude > Activity

There’s a new post over on Axe’s blog that has pulled out some immediate, visceral, negative reactions. I suggest you read his post in order to put mine in context, but as a brief overview, he relates a story about a dominant woman who expected him to take her shopping, and assumed he would pay for her. The comments condemn this woman as an asshat, a dishonest prat, and a whore.
Okay. I think this deserves another look. I want to talk about the giving and receiving of gifts.
What’s the issue in Axe’s scenario? Is it that she wanted him to buy her presents? Because I have to admit, I love being bought presents. I have expensive tastes, sensual obsessions, and gifts give me the warm fuzzies. In the right context, gifts turn me on. The idea of tribute turns me on. The idea of making Maymay pay for his orgasms definitely turns me on.
Don’t worry, I will not be offended if my blog stats have halved when I wake up tomorrow.
But is that really the issue? Or is it that she assumed he would buy her presents, bullied him and attempted to coerce him?
Let’s be absolutely clear. I don’t think there’s an intrinsic problem with giving presents as a form of submission, or receiving them as a form of domination (or tribute). And making the logical jump, I don’t think there is an intrinsic problem with financial domination, when done responsibly. I do think, however, that the attitudes surrounding these kinks are far too complicated to leave it at that.
Sometimes I make Maymay buy me things. It gets me off. I think it gets him off as well. It also causes me a welter of confusion, guilt, worry and self-doubt, the likes of which not even sadism can rival. Seriously. There is no other kink I claim that can make me feel like shit.
I suspect that giving money to fiercely independent women is a recipe for disaster. It’s certainly provoked some personal shipwrecks for me. Being paid for, given gifts, or being financially spoiled makes me feel weak. And ashamed, and dirty. And all sorts of other crap that I don’t think I should have to deal with. I know that I am not these things: weak, shameful, unclean. 
I also love giving gifts, but I have never stopped to consider that giving Maymay a gift might make him feel bad. There are some deeply gendered issues in that statement. And I have managed to ply arrogance from its negative connotations and embrace it as a tool and a perspective, but I cannot seem to do the same with being spoiled. I can’t get through the issues to find the guilt-free good.
When we talk about financial domination, or the giving of gifts, there seems to be a feeling of general distaste. There is talk of advantages taken, and services exchanged, and it’s all layered over with the still-lingering residue of the dirt that has been culturally ingrained into the concept of prostitution. Money is too dirty an issue for us all to play nice. 
We can talk about the exchange of power, and of control, and of pain. But we can’t have a conversation about the exchange of money without that knee-jerk distaste. And where does that leave women like me? The stigma of money has influenced my life in so many directions that I can barely speak about financial exchanges coherently.
And frankly, that pisses me off. Not only because it messes with my potential enjoyment of a kink, but because it messes with my future as a professional in any field of business. 
What if, in some possible future, I quit my job and am financially supported by my partner? Should I feel ashamed? The way I am right now, I couldn’t bring myself to be supported willingly by someone else. And I think that’s a pretty crap attitude, on my part. I don’t like that my intrinsic worth as a person is so wrapped up in how much money I can make, or my ability to pay off my debts. I find the perspective short-sighted, and self-damaging.
Let me bring this back on track. I will say spoil me. That’s right. Buy me gifts. I love gifts. (If you can manage to spoil me and not make me feel like shit, you’re probably a miracle worker. Or Maymay.)
But I will never, ever expect that of anyone. I can barely accept gifts as it is. I have worked very hard to be gracious when people give me things, and honestly, I’m not very good at it. Gifts make me feel indebted, because for me, feeling indebted is safer than feeling spoiled. Feeling indebted and uncomfortable is a better place for me than feeling like a silver-spoon, rich-kid brat. 
This says realms about me, and my relationship with money, and my relationship with myself. This is a terrific example of how my personal problems fuck with my sexuality. It’s probably the best example I have, because it is the most irrational trigger.
Taking money from others makes me feel like a bad person. It makes me afraid I will turn into the woman Axe wrote about.
It’s not just my personal hang-ups that keep me from embracing this kink. It’s that we rarely take the time to acknowledge the distinction between taking money as a kink and being a spoiled bitch, or a whore. Because if you go play in the comments over on Axe’s post, you’ll notice that no one explicitly condemned that woman for trying to pull a non-consensual scene. They condemned her for expecting to be bought gifts. Those are two different things. The first one is the real problem. The money clouds the issue.
I find it critical that we draw a perspective between the kink and the attitude. Attutide is greater than activity. I kink on gifts. I do not feel entitled to gifts. I consider inappropriate entitlement to be shameful, and non-consensual scenes to be wrong. 
Only my attitude excuses me. Only my attitude separates me from her.
It hurts me that because of her, and people like her, and because of my issues regarding money, and because of the way the scene treats money, I can’t claim this kink in good conscience. It hurts me to have to say that a part of my sexuality makes me feel ashamed. That my work to act responsibly, consensually, and wisely is not enough to break that prejudice down in my bedroom, and in my mind.

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47. Annoyance

I wrote in my very first, very precocious post in this blog that I would eventually talk about my relationship with annoyance. That was sixteen months ago. I think it’s taken me this long to come back to the topic because frankly, while saying that I’m easily annoyed is a telling insight into my character, it isn’t a riveting, full-length blog post.

I am very, very easily annoyed. Things can get under my skin like lighting, and once there they have a tendency to fester. But I’ve specified annoyance rather than anger here because such things never bring me to full blown anger. I rarely experience pure anger. In fact, I can count the number of times I’ve been genuinely angry, undiluted vengeful rage, on three fingers. Each time in relation to a single person, by the way. I have a thing about being personally wronged, and I include wrongs to my friends in the same category.

But while anger is a rare emotion for me, annoyance is a part of my everyday life. Little things annoy me: bad service at restaurants, lights that don’t turn green fast enough, not having correct change. Big things annoy me: human stupidity, inelegant systems, being patronized. I’ve caught myself making a particular face, a raised-eyebrow, wrinkled-forehead narrowing of my eyes, my mouth pulled to one side.

And yes, this has in the past filtered into my play, and my kinks. But not very often, and not with very much strength. I try to leave my shit at the door when I play, so to speak. Annoyance is not the right kind of emotion for me to work my way through via physical expression. It tends on the catty, sly side. I am much more physically direct. Anger, yes, I’ll work out anger physically, although not upon another person. Commonly upon myself, through bruises, music, mosh pits.

Sometimes the wry cattiness of my annoyed, demanding, *ahem* overbearing self shows up in scenes. But when it does, I beat it back. I flip the coin, so to speak.

42. What Kind Of A Man: Part 1

When I was much younger, I fell a little bit in love with Marlon Brando. Not the reedy, rounded Brando of The Godfather, but the young blunt Brando of A Streetcar Named Desire, and the nasal, quick-talking gangster in the pinstripe suit of Guys and Dolls. Oh, and Terry, let’s not forget Terry Malloy.

I have still not seen him play Johnny in The Wild One, but I don’t need to see the post-production photos to know I had a crush on a rebel.

I had a lot of trouble when I was a teenager trying to figure out what kind of man I wanted. Remember that this is pre-queer, pre-kink awareness, that I was still just a weird kid with weird friends and weird thoughts. And I loved Brando then. But now I wonder if I didn’t want to fuck him, so much as I wanted to be him. I watched Guys and Dolls again a few days ago and realized that he’s the only character I relate to. He’s also the only character with true agency and sexual power in the film, swinging as it does in its candy-colored 1940s New York. Go figure.

This crush was a strange one, because while I liked the man, and I liked the idea of the rebel, I didn’t see a space for me in his counterparts, in Stella or Sarah with their nice neat clothes. So I sort of gave up on him, and on the idea of falling for a rebel.

The undertone we can pick up in retrospect, of course, was that Brando’s image, and therefore my image of a rebel was a dominant man. I hadn’t learned yet how to sort the strength it takes to embrace countercultures from the overtly sexual nature of said strength. So I turned away from rebel crushes, though I do still have a soft spot in my heart for Brando.

I moved on to white knights.

Protected: 36. Bloodlust

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30. Wood, Leather, Hemp, Stone

I’m caught in a bit of a curious no-man’s-land, at the moment.

On the one hand, I love jewelry. If I wore a single different piece of jewelry each day, I’ve estimated that it would take me a little more than a year to go through my entire collection. And I make jewelry. I’ve made about half of my collection. I love the colors. I love the spark. I am, as previously harped upon, obsessive compulsive creative.

On the other hand, I’m currently exploring the much more butch side of performativity. And I love it too, right down to my toes, to the tips of my cuffs, I love it. But there is almost no intersection between that kind of performative dress, and my brightly colored mounds of jewels. So I’ve been making new things, and running up against new questions. How is men’s jewelry different from femme jewelry different from butch jewelry? Is it different at all? Google is no help, of course. Someone must have asked this question before me.

I’ve been doing new work in wood, and in hemp and in leather. I’m still trying to figure out if I can make pearls butch. Believe it or not, I think I can.

I have images in my head of what femme is starting to mean to me, what butch is starting to mean. More and more I find that it’s the mix I like more than the far reaches of either image. All juxtapositions and inherent contradictions, as broad as my legs sprawled out in a skirt, as small as a beaded tie.

I feel like I’ve tossed a coin in the air, and I don’t know which side it’s going to come down on. In the end, I suspect, it won’t come down at all.