Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Oh, Big Purple Thing

I’ve never had my own big vibrator, and I’ve been wanting one for a while—something really insistent to shut my brain off and make me stop thinking about lesson plans for a few minutes.

So the other day when I was out window-shopping with my friend Angel Face, he helped me pick one out. It was big enough, had the right not-real look (I like the real thing a lot, but for whatever reason I don’t want a sex toy that looks real.) without too many bells and whistles or complicated punch-button controls. I was shy to ask the clerks if it was the bad plastic, so I just bought a box of condoms to go along with it.

It was the first box of condoms I purchased for myself. Sometimes I feel pretty worldly, what with the edge-play and all, but on this matter I am strikingly naïve and brand-new. Angel Face pointed out that condoms are available for free in, like, every queer space around town, and I made a mental note to start taking advantage of that.

When it came time to play with the Big Purple Thing with Sweetie, I felt ashamed. I guess I still feel penis-liking-shame around her (she has made her share of nasty comments over the years, though not recently) and this was almost like having a penis in the room, especially with putting a condom on it. (First time I put a condom on anything myself, actually—can that be right?) I felt like I was being disloyal to her, even as I was wrapped up in her arms.

It felt good, thought, of course it did, and I didn’t know how I’d gone without the sensation for so long. It vibrated my whole body and made me forget the pretty feather thing I was tickling Sweetie with. And then the memories came, and the regrets, somehow not being able to keep Bill in there, MKT and his perfect (but ultimately monogamous) penis, Mr. Popular who never called again afterwards. I miss them, I need them, not those men, but men.

My first time with a nice big dildo didn’t make me feel all sassy Sex-in-the-City-independent; it reminded me of just how needy I am on the inside. Instead of feeling empowered like a good sex-nerd should, I feel pathetic for needing a piece of plastic for something I should be able to get a human being to do. That’s not the right feeling, to be sure, but it’s the one I had.

Throughout my adventures, especially my self-adventures, I’ve noticed that new experiences can sometimes be triggering—the first time I put something up my ass, I had space-issues for days, but it didn’t stop me from trying again. The Big Purple Thing is upsetting to me specifically because I missed that sensation so much—needing something inside me that way has always made me feel too vulnerable, too out of control, and that’s exactly the reason I need to practice it. I’m resolving to try it again until it doesn’t scare me, and to go back to finding ways to let actual men into my life, even if it means answering even yet still more OK Cupid questions.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Best Hurricane Company (Besides Sweetie): Playing Well With Others

Yes, I managed to stop being starstruck long enough to talk to Lee Harrington and Mollena at one of their recent appearances--it was such a joy to spend time (and learn some knots!) with them.

Playing Well With Others has three of my favorite things--BDSM, etiquette, and cute little drawings. In my awkward-girl quest to figure out how the heck to be, I am always excited for advice, and these two give it in a way that's accessible and welcoming to people of all experience levels. I couldn't put the book down and I'm exited to go out into the world and start putting some of the advice into practice.


Monday, October 29, 2012

A Whole Bunch of Firsts, Part Three: I Heart the Knife

Hung up in those ropes, I felt relaxed in a special, extra consent-y way. Technically, I know I am supposed to negotiate things before the scene starts, but I think I was still capable of looking in my heart and knowing I was a yes.

“I could be really mean…” said HempRopes

“Well, not TOO mean, but…how mean?”

“I could get out the knife…”

Knives have been in my maybe pile for a while, and I felt safe enough to try it, so I said sure. I knew that Sweetie would furrow her brow in concern and confusion, but I also knew that she would support me. I gave the knife the go-ahead.

There was the old-fashioned swish of an opening switchblade near my ear. I was still blindfolded so I didn’t know where it would touch me first, or whether or not it would hurt. I felt a light stinging move up my leg, toward my knee. It didn’t hurt much, somewhere between a sting and a tickle. I liked it, of course—what’s not to like?

When I said I’d play with HR, I knew from classes that he was really good with the ropes, but I’m not sure I would have guessed that I’d be quite so turned on by him. But when the knife grazed the top of my breasts, I couldn’t stifle a sigh-moan.

The ropes felt tight on my chest so he lifted me up and held me by the back of my harness. It was a flashback to babyhood, warm and rocked and cared for.

“Where did the knife go?”

The thigh-ropes were holding my legs up and apart, the perfect position for him to graze the knife around my ass, my thighs, and up the middle of the wet crotch of my pajamas-oh. That’s the moment I keep going back to, you know, during personal time. The knife grazing my clit through soft fabric. The pleasure of an almost-stranger doing such very-personal things.

He held my head and pulled the back of the knife gently across my neck—it reminded me of Bill and his tries at breath play, which is an admittedly odd thing to get wistful about. I wondered if I should stop and tell him about being protective of my throat, but it felt fine.

When I first wrote this installment down in my notebook last week, it felt like it might be the end of the Kitten Calendar story. That Saturday night, I felt like I’d come into my own. I felt empowered by the fact that I could go out and get what I needed, that getting what my body is asking for doesn’t necessarily need to be about romance—there was a deep fulfillment to playing with Old-Timey Guy and HempRopes, despite the fact that I don’t know what bands they like or even—gasp!—who they are going to vote for. I trusted them with my whole self, my whole body, and they thoroughly came through. That really means a lot to me. I spent a little time feeling like a triumphant Casual Girl, but that didn’t last long—that’s another story, though.

It only took a few minutes for HR to take me down. A friend I’ll call Bubbly Sub had been not-so-patiently waiting and watching for her turn for at least fifteen minutes—I don’t think I’ve ever been watched quite so closely.

“Can you stand on your own?” HR asked, and I found that I could. He helped pull me up and then took me over to the wall to take a picture of my pretty harness. Couples who were playing around us stopped to smile and watch me get my picture taken. We hugged goodbye and he said he would play with me anytime I wanted. I hugged Bubbly Sub, who was already stripped down to her undies and tape) goodbye, and after a few minutes of clearing my head, drove home.

I am really proud of how strong I was that night, how much I got to experience just because I put myself out there. I’ll keep posting adventures, of course, but at least for that night, I felt like the quest was complete, like I’d gotten myself where I needed to go.

Saturday, October 27, 2012

A Whole Bunch of Firsts Part Two: Suspension!!

After my flogging fun with Old-Timey Guy, I put my PJs back on and found a spot to stand and watch everybody play. I hovered near a rope-acquaintance of mine, who happens to share a name with the most vexing character on this blog, so I’ll just refer to him as HempRopes. I’d watched him before in rope class and admired his style, and earlier last Saturday night he’d offered to tie me up if he got time.

HempRopes was spotting a young man who was doing self-suspension. People who do ropes on themselves are my heroes; I’d really like to learn that for myself someday.

I was hoping I might be next after HR’s spotting task, and I was!

He gave me the option of clothes or not clothes, guess which I chose? I left my little pajama shorts on but of course opted for toplessness.

HR is kind of my type, stocky and vaguely nerdish. He had very warm hands as he basket-wove the ropes around my thighs. My favorite part of getting the harness on was when he said “Put your arms around my neck” and picked me up by the thigh ropes to make sure they were adjusted properly—I squealed.

I kept getting distracted watching Old-Timey Guy and Punk Rock Girl playing, so I asked for a blindfold. I was surprised to want one after the fainting time. He had a nice leather one that he bucked on loosely and I started to feel all soft and safe.

For weeks and weeks, my brain has been in a state of constant chatter; lesson plans, homework, discipline problems, all of the cerebral, not-sexy stuff that’s really important but can take me out of my body too much. As HR worked the ropes onto me, as his warm hands wove hemp gently around my chest, I heard something strange and wonderful in my brain: silence. Ahhhhhhh, relief.

He was apologetic whenever he had to adjust the ropes between my legs, but I told him he didn’t have to be quite so polite. When he was finished putting the harness on me, he put me in a chair and got to work doing the rigging on the suspension frame. It took quite a while. People strolled by oohing and ahhing about his work, and I felt like I wasn’t there, in a good way. Once the rigging was done on the frame, he came back over to the frame and tied on some comfy ankle supports—it felt like a one-column tie. then he picked up the ankle supports and led me over to the suspension frame.

In order to get situated on the frame, he had to tie me at my heart first—I liked the feeling of that first support rope pulling up from my heart, it stretched me out in a new way. When he was getting my back supported, I had to lean back a couple of times to get the rope into position. Then it was time to lean back all the way and I was suspended, just a few feet off the floor. It felt wonderful, like a cradle. He tied giving me a head-support, but that felt too choky, so my head just hung down, not-unpleasantly.

He rocked me. I felt warm and contained and cared-for. I’d heard other bottoms talk about feeling like they’re in a safe little bubble and I felt what they meant. The bulge in his pants was now friendly against my shoulder every time he rocked me back. I liked the way that it felt sexy but undemanding—kind of matter-of-fact.

Next time: I heart the knife.

A Dream, a Song

I was just thinking last night about how I was in a pretty unsentimental place right now when it comes to male partners, and then I had a dream wherein:

1. I was getting to be real friends with Bill.
2. I said the following to MKT's son: "Say hi to your dad for me, and tell him I'm sorry I missed the movie."

My waking life may be focused on other things, but my dreamlife is still emo.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

A Whole Bunch of First Times Part One: Flogging

Just when I was getting to the point where I thought I’d have no more paragraphs, a whole bunch of stuff happened all at once.

I went to our usual dungeon last night, and it was the first time I went by myself. It felt strange—there’s a whole new level of slutty to standing around in shorty pajamas, no bra, and heels when nobody in particular is looking after you. I was a little worried that I was humiliating myself, but I knew I’d just have to stand there and talk to people if I was ever going to have hope of finding guys to play with.

I sort of had somebody in mind. He was the first guy to spank me in front of Sweetie—his ceramic-star cane is now my nemesis—and also part of the couple who helped Sweetie rescue me when I fainted the time before last. They are both a little younger than me and vaguely steampunk—I’ll call them Punk Rock Girl and Old-Timey Guy. I knew ITG was enough of an expert to make my first flogging experience meaningful—and it was!

I think I may have been a little overeager last night—next time, I think I’ll let people settle in a little more before I ask them to do stuff to me. Old-Timey Guy made fun of me for being impatient (okay, so I may have jumped up and down a little) but agreed, making it clear that it was a strictly demo situation. He gave me the nickname he likes to give subs—“Little One”—which in my case is adorable/hilarious because I am a big giant Amazon.

He started hooking up carabiners to the St. Andrew’s cross. There was already a couple playing on the other side of the cross, an adorable switchy couple I’m quite used to playing next to. (It made for some cute “I know how you feel” moments while chained face-to-face to the girl) Old-Timey Guy instructed Punk Rock Girl to put shackles on my ankles and wrists and get me attached to the cross.  She took a lot of care to make sure that my wrists were comfortable—“I can fix them now, but once he starts, it’s too late.” She got me all snug and settled in and then moved away so that OTG could take over.

He leaned against me and asked “Do you think I’m a bad man?”

I laughed but nodded empathically. The truth is, his face is fundamentally good natured—all beardy and trustworthy. He makes me feel all silly and innocent, plus he is often wearing a hat with a feather in it, but I was overjoyed to play along:

“Oh yes, very bad man.”

“Do you want me to do bad things to you?” More smiling and supercheery nodding.

The first implement he brought out was a pretty silver filigreed thing, shaped like a little tiny garden rake, but dainty and fancy. He said, “Now I’m just gonna warm you up.” He raked the little filigree thing over my back, my shoulders, my neck, my hair, the backs of my knees. It felt firm sometimes and tickly other times. He tickled me with his fingers, too. I never thought that I would like that, but I did. I loved all of the squealing and wiggling. The dungeon owner says ticklers are the hardest on his furniture, and I can see why. Very squirmy!

All the while, PRG was watching and assisting. She was the one who took my glasses off when I needed her to, and the one who told me to keep my head forward so that it’d be a little more safe.

OTG started flogging my back—he’d asked if I liked thing more thud-y or sting-y and this was as thud-y as I had requested. I relaxed against the cross in a semi-subby state until the thuds got a little harder and I had to brace against the pain a little. I gritted my teeth and balled up my fists, but I didn’t cry out or make the stop signal.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No, but you could go a little, um, lower,” I said, wiggling my ass in his general direction.

“This looks like it can take some pain,” he said, and got started, first with the flogger, then with a strap thing that I really, really, REALLY loved. Rhythmically, one cheek, the other, I never wanted it to ever stop. But too soon, he leaned into me and said “My dear, you have now been flogged. Did you like it?”


As a finale, he pulled down my undies and left a heart shaped marked on one side and a star-shaped mark on the other. It hurt like a sonofabitch.

I was sad that it was over, that there wasn’t an aftercare factor, but I hugged and thanked him and helped get PRG into her shackles for their real play. (Really, she helped me help her into her shackles.) It was melancholy feeling, but centered and very warm about the back and ass.

Next: Hello, suspension!

Saturday, October 20, 2012

Why Do Republicans Hit on Me?!

Asking for a playlist is a useful assessment when it comes to finding out if someone's worth meeting. The last time I did this, I was surprised to find a Toby Keith song in my inbox, so I asked the guy if he was a Republican, and he said yes! That he hopes I'm "Okay with that, LOL." This always mystifies me! If you are a Republican, why are you on the FetLife? Shouldn't you be at church? Why would I let you enjoy my body when you want to take away its rights?

Anyway, I didn't say any of that, but I did send this list:

Hmm, well, Let's see. I am
1. Hoping to marry my wife legally some day.
2. A teacher in an inner-city school
3. A sex-positive woman
If your side wins, it will directly hurt my life in many ways. So, no, I am not okay with that.

And he sent back a note about being fiscally conservative, blah blah blah, but also this, which made me laugh:

If this side wins perhaps I should be there to tie you down so you don't hurt yourself. :-)

Oh, election season...

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Love Letter for This Time Last Year

Student teaching is really taking it out of me, friends. To the point where I don’t know how to find myself at all some days.

Loneliness, fatigue, and a way-too-early Christmas commercial have been making me a little pine-y for this time last year, when I met both the Mayor of Kittentown and Bill within the span of a few weeks. Though I really value everything that’s happened since then, they were something really special and I miss them every day. There’s a little piece of me always whispering come back to them. Not out loud, that would be creepy, just around the edges of my consciousness when I’m falling asleep at night or hitting the snooze in the morning. It’s a dusky feeling, a curl-up-by-the-door-and-wait.

For those few months that I had them, it was my first glimpse of what a real bisexual life could be like. It was what I told myself my whole life that I couldn’t have. I was getting along mostly with Sweetie, getting excellent vanilla satisfaction from MKT, and collecting consensual bruises from Bill.

After all those years without the welcome weight of a man on me, I finally had it, and though the transition was sometimes terrible between me and Sweetie (There were a series of couch-themed fights, and the phrase “go suck some dicks” often came into play…) (Don’t mind if I DO, btw.) but for the most part my mood and our sex life improved.

They were never going to be long term—besides being monogamous, they both had a deep lack of chivalry—but I still wishwishwish I could have kept them. It feels unlikely that I’ll ever settle into a man again the way that I settled into them. I would love to jump in the sex-TARDIS and go back to being curled up with MKT and his cats watching Mystery Science Theater, or underneath Bill as his eyes bored into me, as he marked me too much with his teeth. As MKT kissed the bruises without asking why they were there.

Of course, I’ve moved forward, had adventures that neither one of them was equipped for, but together, they showed me what it could be like, all the different things to want, how to be a woman who is wanted by men.

It all seems so far away now. I have plenty of offers for friendly and no doubt expert floggings, but the dream of romance (or even the approximation of romance) seems so far away.

I don’t know if I’ll find love like that again, if I’ll ever check my inbox again to find the perfect song. Sometimes this year has an air of finality, a midlife crisis I made the most of and now have to leave. Those two might not have been right, might not have been mine, but they were close, and I let them be close. So, even if I can’t really mean it, come back.

Monday, October 1, 2012

Ohno, I Fainted in the Dungeon

It’s possible that I have been pushing myself too hard. Student teaching is taking up almost every second of my life and it is rewarding but stressful.

I really needed to think about other things, so I was really looking forward to last Saturday, which for the most part turned out to be one of my favorite kink-themed days yet. Our regular dungeon was hosting a poly-and-kink day of workshops, and I went without Sweetie so I’d be more likely to talk to people—it worked! I got to sit and talk with people I usually only get to watch and be watched by. It gave me a wonderful sense of community, and I even made the acquaintance of another fire dom—I would have gotten to be set on fire, too, if it hadn’t been for some bad judgment on Sweetie’s and my part.

The DM had just built the above piece of furniture. It was meant for tickle play, but I spent a fair amount of the day daydreaming about ways to be tied to it.

As has become usual, I was the first one to strip down when the play party was even close to starting. Suspension frames were still being assembled when Sweetie started roping me up, as I danced a little bit to some (oddly appropriate) Chumbawamba: I get knocked down and (spoiler alert) I do, in fact, get up again.

I was feeling extra lovey-dovey with Sweetie and she put my harness on—I hadn’t seen her much during the week and I was full of endorphins from all of the poly chattering I’d done throughout the day. We stopped to kiss more often than we usually do, and I encouraged her to be a little more handsy—as long as she was careful with my Hello Kitty tape. I think it’s the sexiest she and I have ever been out in public.

Then it was time to climb onto the contraption. She strapped my arms onto the Y-shaped cross thing first, and then wound ropes around my waist and thighs to tie me to the back. She kept having to push my glasses up to keep them from falling off. She pulled the thigh ropes rhythmically, the way I like, and I moaned and sighed and nuzzled her. I felt so turned on.

She put the blindfold on me and tied my feet together, making sort of a spreader bar with ropes. She started to spank me right after that, but I told her my foot felt funny. I told her it was time to get down, but I was realizing it too late—I was starting to really freak out because I realized how much time it would take to get me free. I felt trapped, terrified—it’s a feeling that occasionally has to come out, but I would prefer it in less woozy doses.

“Get the blindfold off. All the way off.” I was getting really upset and I felt myself slip out of consciousness as a wave of nausea came over me—I really didn’t want to be the girl who throws up on the dungeon floor, and I didn’t. I became dimly aware that people were helping Sweetie unwind the ropes—it was the guy who spanked me with a star-cane a few months ago and his punk rock girlfriend—gentle voices and people working purposefully at the knots, telling me it was okay,

“You can get out now,” said Sweetie, but I was still tied to the frame.

“Nonono I can’t, I can’t get out yet.”

Finally I was able to climb/fall out of the contraption and into/onto the punk rock girl. I wanted to lay right down on the floor but I was still heaving like I was going to throw up, so Sweetie rushed me to the loo. I am not a heavy drinker, so this is the first time I’ve ever found myself sobbing into a bar toilet. I couldn’t throw up, but I couldn’t stand up without feeling sick. So I just stayed there and cried. More nice, soothing voices, kind people bringing a wet towel for my burning forehead, the Punk Rock Girl making sure we knew there was a spot clear to lay down.

There was something oddly normal about laying on a bench in the dungeon, crying my eyes out. I was covered in a scarf and shivering until I could find the strength to put my clothes on. A kind soul brought over a clean tablecloth to wrap me up in. I was too freaked out for Sweetie to even touch me, but the tears? They seemed okay. I felt like myself. So much myself that I cried because I worried that I wouldn’t be well enough to make lesson plans for my guided reading groups on Monday.

I feel fine as I’m writing this, even if I still feel stupid for kneeling in a constricted position for as long as I did. I might have to be a little vanilla for a few weeks ‘til the scare wears off, but I’m okay. Part of the goal of my adventures is to build a community, to make myself safer by making connections, and my stupid faint let me know that I am reaching that goal. Sweetie and I are not alone. There are nice people in special outfits who will help us when we need it. That is a big comfort.

I am completely exhausted about student teaching and about the other changes I have been going through. I think that Saturday’s shutdown was my body’s way of asking me to please find it some rest. I’ll really try to—it’s the least I can do.