One of the things I keep noticing is that people light up when they grok the Kink For All/Bar Camp/unconference concept. It’s like something very remote and intangible has suddenly taken a dramatic leap closer in their minds. I loved explaining it tonight to our new friends, over mango daquiris. And I loved, in particular, how my friend immediately jumped from the event concept to the potential to create and share lasting information. “That’s so cool,” she said excitedly, “Will you tape it? Will you keep that information around for people who can’t attend?” And we laughed, and kept on talking. I wished she could be there when it happens.

I am excited for March already, and for bringing the concept to San Francisco if someone doesn’t beat us to it. It seems almost silly, this mix of activism and organisation and drive, but I like inhabiting it. I like feeling as though we all might do something that makes the world shift, just a little bit. Because how amazing is that? The thought that together, we can shift the world.

Yesterday morning I woke May up very slowly. He wakes up one slitted eye at a time, very sleek and small. “C’we try the three corners chains on’a'bed?” he mumbled. 

We have a few lengths of chain lying about. Advantages: cheap, incredibly adjustable. Disadvantages: Very loud on the bedframe. Also, dealing with padlocks. The real advantage: He loves them, I love him in them.

I found padlocks and unearthed keys from our keysafe and my jewelry box, and chained him down in a spreadeagle. He had barely opened his eyes, and was smiling and moving against them like a lazy sloth. I put a blanket over him, another over me, and crawled on top of him. I curled up on his chest, put my face in the hollow of his shoulder, and we fell asleep that way. Both of us blissed out, him drifting, me cozy. Perfect.

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.

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.

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It’s easy to guess (writer, musical theater geek) that I am inclined toward lyric-heavy music. But it goes a bit beyond that; I often stick to musicians simply because I think their lyrics are sexy.

That seems like a simple thing to say, and sort of obvious as a general statement. But then, throw an alternate sexuality in the mix. Kinky themes show up in odd places in music, in ways that often seem fake, wires crossed, something not-quite-right. Rarely genuine.

So tonight, when I put my iTunes on shuffle and let the program work its way through the 35-odd gigs of music, I caught myself perking up, swinging my hips a little more to the sexy, kinky favorites. I get an irrational shot of joy to hear my life in music; it seems like a cultural acknowledgement of the possibility of viable kinky love.

Yes, I will give you some of my favorites. I know you were gearing up for the link-fest.

I met one of my former partners through a question he posted on an LJ community, looking for kinky lyrics. My contribution was “Blood, Sex, and Booze” by Greenday. I remember writing out the words in the comment form before I surfed over to his journal and found out he lived in New York:

Waiting in a room
All dressed up and bound and gagged
Tied to a chair, it’s so unfair
I don’t dare to move, for the pain she puts me through
is what I need, so make it bleed

I’m in distress
Oh mistress I confess, so do it one more time
These handcuffs are too tight, well
You know I will obey,
So please don’t make me beg
For blood, sex and booze you give me

Almost painfully obvious, no? But I think there’s a good pornographic film somewhere in that song.

Or then, we could talk about The Magnitic Fields, whose 69 Love Songs became the background noise of my rushed-by graduation days, just when May and I were meeting. They swing around from sweet:

Andy would bicycle across town in the rain to bring you
candy, and John would buy the gown for you to wear to the
prom, with Tom the astronomer who’d name a star for you
But I’m the luckiest guy on the Lower East Side
cause I’ve got wheels and you want to go for a ride

To brilliantly disturbing:

A pretty girl is like a violent crime
If you do it wrong you could do time
But if you do it right it is sublime…

And I still love Great Big Sea, not only because they give a thrilling live perfomance, but because they are overflowing-full with these little gems, often from older covers:

Sally Ann, Sally Ann, oh when you dance
Every move that you make is amazing…
See me swallowing my pride
She got me crawling on the floor

Then, once upon a time, Maymay handed me a mix CD that I almost wore a hole in. On it, Sting:

It would make a prison of my life
If you become another’s wife
With every prison blown to dust
My enemies walk free
I’m mad about you
I’m mad about you

And really, no list of mine is complete without the bitter-chocolate-orange voice of Leonard Cohen. The first time I heard “I’m Your Man,” I almost cried of appreciation and want.

If you want a lover
I’ll do anything you ask me to
And if you want another kind of love
I’ll wear a mask for you
If you want a partner
Take my hand
Or if you want to strike me down in anger
Here I stand
I’m your man

All right. Maybe music is more pivotal that I’ve admitted. These songs get under my skin. There’s something sensual there; they thrum with me.

“When are you going to fuck me?” he said in a tiny, tiny voice.

Now, I thought. I didn’t say it out loud. Instead I hooked a finger behind the steel ring around his neck and dragged him to his feet and through the bedroom door. I stripped his clothes off and left them in a trail of little satin puddles. I pulled tan leather straps and silicone from our new teak toy chest. When I bought the chest it came with a little card, detailing the history of the ships the teak was salvaged from.

I pressed him into the bed with one hand on the dip of his spine. He arched his back in the air with his ass pointing straight up, and I laughed and had to push him back down to get him in a position I could actually penetrate from.

He made the most amazing noises. He started by moaning vowels out low in his throat, like music. When I thrust faster he gave low boar-grunts that ended in little mouse-squeaks, and when I finally stopped and lay across his back he sighed so deep I could feel it curl his toes.

I held my lips over the skin of his throat and growled, feeling my lips peel back from my teeth. I climbed on top of him and ran my fingers through the air around his skin. He writhed upward, trying to make contact somewhere. Anywhere. I hid my laughter in his curls. He moaned. The bright pink tip of his cock slipped out the waist of the satin, and waved back and forth in the air.

After a little while I caught him up in a little ball, his legs folded close to his chest and my arms around his entire body. He tucked his chin down to his collar bone and looked up at me. Red eyelashes. He has red eyelashes. His mouth was trembling open, his eyes enormous.

“I love that look,” I murmured to him, just to watch him being sweet and coy. He flutters those eyelashes sometimes, when he’s pretty, when I compliment him. It goes right through my chest like a dart when he does that. I pressed my lips to his cheekbone, right at the corner of his eye. I smiled in his ear.

“You are so beautiful, precious, precious boy.”

Tight blue jeans, preferably on the dark side of blue, tight through the thighs and stretched round and swelling over the ass. A button fly, a belt with maybe a little punk edge. Quirky, comfortable shoes. On boys, sneakers, on girls, cute low heels.

Gah.

On me: Black a-line tank top. Tight denim jeans, my heavy studded belt, my Converse rip-off sneakers. Hair cut short and in my face. Wallet in one pocket, knife in the other. Whip in my hand. It doesn’t matter what I look like, in the end.

There’s a place for the classics of fetish, and I do like leather sometimes. I do like those chest harnesses with o-rings in the center, and I do love a girl in a garter belt. But I would really, really love to go to a fetish party someday and be surrounded by beautiful bottoms dressed in casual white, and all the tops in Cons.