A Conference with Myself, Part Two: Mr. Shiny Eyes! Cuddle Practice! Hair Pulling!

Before I float back into all the awesomeness, I should backtrack a little bit to say that Mr. Shiny Eyes was one of the guy pals I reached out to after my New Years resolution to remember how to have guy friends. In the thick of divorce grief a couple of years ago, I’d broken things off with him for no good reason, and I was superworried that I’d hurt him—and I had. I’m sad to say that I haven’t always been fully conscious of the fact that I can affect men’s feelings, and I was glad I asked him about it. We had a really nice call a few weeks before the conference, so it only took us a few minutes of being in the same building to get in kiss/cuddle/flirt mode that day. A day where I kiss three worthy men is a good one.

Also, I can’t overstate how much of a difference my extra introvert time made. It had been such a long time since I’d felt like I was on a magical adventure with my cute, slutty self—this was a reunion within a reunion.

Anyway, back to being excited/nervous/fluttery to meet up with The Professor at the Cuddle Party. I got into my PJs and nice warm socks and brought pillows and blankets downstairs to the party room. I was one of the first to arrive, so I made a little nest within the bigger nest of pillows and blankets and I stretched and breathed. The Cuddle Facilitator stamped my hand with a red heart that meant I could come and go as needed.

When The Professor showed up with The Kind Ma’am, I felt surprisingly shy for someone who’d spent the day raising my hand emphatically like a smutty Hermione in the workshops and smooching old and new pals. It was both like a first date and not a like first date at all. If all first dates involved wearing soft pants, (and like an hour of consent practice) the world would truly be a magical place.

Once The Professor was in his plaid flannel pajama pants, he sat down between me and The Kind Ma’am, his arms around both of us. They talked and I snuggled up against his shoulder, feeling the warmth that radiated from him all over. And who should sit down next to me on the other side but Mr. Shiny Eyes! Without much preamble, we started making out gleefully, and I got to feel the glow of being between two beautiful men, of being in a chain, no, a net of soft, snuggly vibes and comfy touch. The perfect mix of kissing and friendship, safety and adventure.

For technical stuff about Cuddle Parties this is a good post:  but basically the first loooooong time of the party was consent practice, practicing asking specifically for what we wanted and saying and getting nos and yesses. (Not doing the things yet, just the asking and answering.) We even had to say no to things that we really, really wanted and yes to things we hated—that way you can really feel what a no or a yes feels like in the body, the Cuddle Facilitator said, and I think it was true. I LOVE consent practice and often wish the world were more Cuddle Party-esque.

When the cuddles finally started in earnest, The Professor was occupied in a sort of two-person-seeming snuggle so I sat down on one of the chairs at the side of the room, breathed and waited to see what would happen next. I felt hesitant, but warm and hopeful. I was so pleased when The Kind Ma’am sat down next to me and asked “Can I put my arm around you?” Yes! I felt protected and friended, taken under her wing. I wondered aloud if she might be willing to pull my hair and guess what! She said yes!

Having been spinstering it for a couple of years, I hadn’t been too sure where I stood with my kinks, though I suspected they were still there. With her, it was as if no time had passed since my last adventures, like I always have been and always will be getting my hair pulled, forever and ever, amen. When she grabbed the hair near the nape of my neck, I let out a fairly un-Cuddle-Party-like groan/purr/wail. I tried really hard (and fairly unsuccessfully) not to disrupt the proceedings with my caterwauling, but no one seemed to mind.

I wound up sitting at her feet, feeling little and adored and silly. She arranged my hair into pigtails, played, pulled, and (after I asked very nicely) called me “Good girl.” Swoon. The Kind Ma’am was perfect and careful and sweet, but I got a little overwhelmed from the burgeoning energy of the room and the new/old/hurty/lovely sensations, so I thanked her and said I needed a little time. I curled up on my own for a bit, letting the relief and happiness and complicated homecoming emotions swirl around me and within me.

Next: Cuddling heartbreak a little, cuddling joy A LOT.

In Which I Realize I Am Really Lucky to Have Had My Adventure Years: Part Four

Back during my divorce summer, when I swam away from Sweetie and came to the realization that what I really wanted was a husband, what I wanted more than anything was a man to play with me in the waves. Wherein Sweetie was grumpy at the prospect of fighting the surf, I wanted someone strong and vital who would change into the water the way I did. I had a vision of being picked up and carried and kissed in the water. This night came so close to that picture that no wonder I ended up diving into him.

When we got back from dinner, it was dark and a huge orange moon was rising over the pretty/samey houses on view from his back yard. He’d told me many times that I didn’t need a bathing suit, but I’m still in my privacy phase. I wore my pretty blue one printed with hydrangeas. I am at my heaviest right now so I felt a lot of worry that he wouldn’t be attracted to me anymore when he saw my thighs.  We sat at the edge of the pool with our feet in the water on the little swim-out seat.

He said, “I think you’re scared of what’s gonna happen after this.”

“After the pool?”

“I’m scared too. I’m out of practice.”

“Me too, high five!” I may be more shy in some ways, but at least I’m still a high-fiver. “What I’m really scared of are the bonding chemicals that are gonna come afterwards. Because science.”

He didn’t seem to object to the bonding chemicals. Honestly, every step of the way, I was sure that he liked me. I still kind of am, though that doesn’t explain how things turned out. When I stepped into the pool, I put my foot down weird, so that the edge of the seat smashed me between my toes. My middle toe hurt so badly that I wondered if it was broken. Nonetheless, I jumped the rest of the way into the deep end, a little conscious of the nondainty splash I probably made.

After a few minutes of watching me swim (I loveloveloved when he watched me swim. I love the satisfied way he admired me—it’s been a long time since I’ve been looked at like that.) he jumped in too and it was like something I’d already lived, like I was fitting into one of my life’s puzzle pieces. The water was cold and it was a breezy evening, but the shivers came from somewhere down deeper. He held me and kissed me gently until I said “I’m torn between being really turned on and really cold, do you want to go in?”

I borrowed his shower to rinse off the chlorine and he lent me his scratchy grey robe. I wished I had nice warm pajamas to change into, but instead, I had nice warm him.

It hurts to remember how right our bodies felt (one of my poets wrote in a poem once that bodies are the easiest ways to fit), how well he kissed me, the softness of his skin, the scratchiness of his beard, the strength of his arms. More than anything, I loved remembering how sometimes sex just runs itself, how at first we knew what to do with each other like it was destiny, and in its own way, it was. I’ve never been more ready to have someone inside me, never this sure that what I was doing was real. I felt free to look in his face, in his eyes, and saw only kindness there. The barriers I’ve almost always felt to connecting with men were not there. It felt solid and sweet.

There were hardness issues at first, which he explained by saying that he had trouble with condoms, that he wasn’t used to them. It seemed bonkers to be talking about not-condoms at this (or any) stage of things and I felt a little surge of impatience. I was kind of like “Well, welcome to my world” but sympathized/rationalized that maybe he was just missing married sex. It tugged at my heart strings but at the same time I was (in my head) like dude, just grow up.

The hardness issues worked themselves out in good time, he lost all tentativeness and hard and long and perfect—that feeling that’s so delicious that I can’t even deal with how much I want it, how much I miss it. He pulled my hair and pinned me down and went deeper and I looked up at him and saw someone who was mine, not somebody else’s boyfriend whom I’d have to turn in at the end of the night like in the poly days. In that teensy spate of time, he belonged to me, there was nothing and no one else, and the inside of me was (just for right then) sated and quiet.

This happened a few more times until we ran out of condoms, at which point he mentioned again that what he really liked going without. He said that, although he didn’t like blow jobs (You guys! Was I really willing to give up blow jobs for someone? Yes, I was.) (Also, did he really not like them or just want a bargaining chip? Gross line of thought.) he might “Let me try it,” but I said no thanks, there were plenty of things he was enthusiastic about for me to do. (This turned out to be perfectly not the case in the end, but we’re still several posts away.) Because he kept perseverating about the no-condom thing after I’d said no a couple of times, I told him I was scared of him again. I asked him about his fantasy of being sleep-ravished, he wouldn’t do that to me, would he? “Not if you don’t want me to,” he said,

“Because then I wouldn’t be able to say yes…” I honestly wasn’t sure he saw the problem.

I slept badly. He snored and my body was so far beyond awake. Although he’d brought me an ice pack for my toe, it was throbbing. If it had been up to me, we’d have stayed up fucking and snuggling and chatting all night. I tossed and turned and apologized for tossing and turning. I got him to turn off the radio and all of the devices that beeped at random intervals.

I had maybe two hours of sleep and was awakened at six AM by an alert-in-every-way J. listing off the things we could do about being out of condoms. “We can not have any more sex today, we can go without, or we can go to the drugstore and get more condoms. Are you coming with me?”

All I wanted was to be asleep and I had this creepy obligated feeling-- he was treating his morning wood like a contract I’d already signed, possibly in my sleep. And I was PISSED that he mentioned going without again. I was beyond trying for patience and snapped “Not unless you want BABIES,” knowing he didn’t. Now I can’t help but wonder—did he not know how this thing works? How could he be married with kids and still seem like he skipped seventh grade health class?

“Just because I said it doesn’t mean it’s a real option. I honestly don’t think not having more sex is an option either.”

I jumped out of bed, found his robe, and ran down the steps. “Help me find my glasses, I need to get out of here now.”

“Wait, what? So you’re not going to my U.U. fellowship with me?” (Oh for Christ’s sake, just fucking call it church!)

“I’m not going anywhere with someone who says I have no fucking choice.”

I was too tired and upset to drive home so I lay down on his couch in the scratchy robe and cried. His golden-eyed black cat came over to see me, rubbed his ears against my hand. J. didn’t even bring me a blanket until I sniveled for one. He went out to get me some coffee and I simmered down.

When he got back, we talked and somehow made it back to cuddle mode. I had to give him credit for staying calm and weathering the triggers—I still couldn’t be sure if it was him or my baggage causing them, probably a combination of both. We went and got condoms, a picnic breakfast, and a toothbrush for me so I could make myself more comfy. We fucked through the morning and then dragged ourselves out of bed to go jump in the pool. It was a sunny, dazed feeling of fear, judgment, and bliss.

I wanted to accept him, to embrace him without fear, to honor his (sometimes) generosity and the eagerness of his gorgeous penis, but I couldn’t stop finding reasons to be afraid.

Next time: My heart opens and I let him in.

In Which I Realize I Am Really Lucky to Have Had My Adventure Years, Part Three

That week, while my creative coaching client was collaging through her blocks, I made this. Both a staircase and a trapped butterfly, seems about right.

It should be said, friends, that my almost-year-and-a-half dry spell was a literal dry spell as well—I’ve always been the squishiest, but there was a while when I was so dry that I thought I might be starting menopause. I could just have stocked up on lube, but the idea of always having to was something I wasn’t ready to face, so I got by on spit and determination. From the moment I met J, the dry spell was over. I came home with soaked underpants every time, wetter than in all my adventures. It felt like a reunion, like a second chance at being alive, to be coursing with so much life, to be opening up like a flower. That’s why, no matter how it ended up, I’m glad I let my hoo-ha make the decisions for a while—that part of me (literally and figuratively) has been neglected for so long, I’m glad I didn’t begrudge myself a perilous treat.

When I met him, I was in a delicate but thriving state. It was the first time in my adult life that I could say I was truly happy to be single. I was teaching poetry in my pretty apartment, spending lots of time with my friends and at church, and starting to have faith about where I was going. However, back in February I had to resign from the school district due to acute stress disorder, and I’m still pretty jumpy and prone to panics about once a month. The fact that J. was triggering space issues seemed like it was partly due to my own recent and distant past, but typing the story to you makes it seem less likely that that was so. I am still brokeny, but I think I was scared of him because he was (unintentionally, I’m almost sure) scary—sometimes it’s not that deep.

Anyway, the day after our beautiful but ill-ended flower date, he sent a text apologizing and citing grief. I conceded that not everyone can be besties with their exes the way I (somewhat unhealthily) am with Sweetie. (Currently she and I work at the same three-employee store, she’s my boss, and we spend about an hour each morning processing my feelings about various things. All this with a person I once jumped out of a car to get away from. I know.) I told him to give me some time,  that I’d have to do some soul-searching, so we went to radio silence and a love poem proceeded to pour out of me in a way that hadn’t happened in a long time. I felt jangled but fired up. I made art all day that day.

(When I second-drafted the poem with my friends in poetry class, I noticed that it accidentally implied that I wanted to have babies, including feeling the vibration of his Apple watch as “Another little heartbeat.” and, seeing the children in the flower garden wearing glow bracelets, responding with “I want one” meaning but not really meaning the glow bracelets. I hid it pretty well before I posted it, but still, I was like, nicely done, subconscious! Got it.)

Anyway, maybe latent baby-wishes were what inspired me to give him a chance, or his prowess at planning dates, or the cuteness of his texting style. (It was the first time I’ve dated with emoji involved, and I can’t overstate the adorableness of a good morning sunflower rainbow kissy face…) Maybe (probably) it was just plain lust and curiosity. That Sunday, I took a beach trip by myself, to clear my head and make the right decision, and I knew (I always know things best in the ocean, even if it is with a bathing suit on these days.) that if I let him go, I would always wonder if there could have been something real between us. Also I have to admit there was the stupid “What if this is my last chance?” feeling that comes from being socialized to think of myself as ancient at almost-forty-one.

When he asked me a couple days before the date what I was in the mood for, I very brazenly and honestly said red meat. He sent me a couple of menus for fancy places I could dress up for, with very grown-up prices, and I thought, “Is this what regular dating women get all the time? I should start expecting more from life.” That was the central lesson of him, and I hope I can see it through.

The day before our third date, I had an enormous panic attack. The first week of classes is pretty much the only busy time our college bookstore job is stressful, just because of all the extroversion and sometimes-getting-trapped-behind-the-register it requires. The one rude kid on our super-adorable campus found me and I found myself with a pounding headache, unable to work or get myself home. A kind coworker brought me to the campus infirmary, where the nice nurse asked me why I had neither a therapist nor meds. Reasonable question. I got some good rest before the date, but I carried a residue of fear under my pretty black polka-dot dress. (Hello again, red satin heels!)

As I followed my GPS to the suburbs, everything started to look familiar, especially when I turned onto J’s block. Remember way back whenSteampunk Guy pulled over on a quiet suburban street for car sex? THIS RANDOM OKC GUY’S HOUSE WAS THE HOUSE WE PULLED OVER IN FRONT OF. J was one of the nice people I was trying not to wake with my sex yowls three summers ago. I didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad one, but I’ve never been more sure that my love life is a labyrinth. So where had I returned to?

I can’t overstate my delight at being properly dated, to be out in the world being shown off in a fancy outfit, being treated like someone who’s someone instead of a dance card afterthought. I ate rare filet mignon and felt like an animal, like a sexy lion, like a woman who’s thoroughly alive. He ordered a good pinot with the inauspicious name “Writer’s Block” but I seem to be overflowing with paragraphs nonetheless.

The conversation turned again to his writing, which was a tricky subject. He’d told me before that he wrote erotic novels, and I (somewhat hypocritically) was scared to read them—I had a feeling we wouldn’t be able to go on if I read his stories, and probably I was right. He confirmed that “Well, let’s just say it’s not all consensual.” I didn’t ask him who in the stories was not consenting to what, only told him I was now A. Scared and B. Too tipsy to flee.

“But sometimes someone just needs a little…push…”

Okay, so this blog wouldn’t exist if that weren’t a little bit true, but I didn’t like hearing it from him. “That’s not up to you. It’s not up to you to decide what someone else needs.”

He rightly pointed out that he’d written it, not done it, but still, I felt so let down and sad. “I just want there to be one guy, one guy, who wants a real person next to him in bed.” Yes, there have been plenty, but I was having tunnel vision, heavy with the burden of trying to keep myself not-raped. In the do-over version, this is where I have the waitress split the check, wait around a bit to sober up, and grouse about it to my friends at brunch the next day. But as he paid the bill, the conversation simmered back to happy somehow and I admitted that what I wanted most in the world was just to tear. Him. Apart. I was getting in that pool, and no stupid thing he said was going to stop me.

Next time: Big moon, hot sex, more stupid things.

A Bittersweet Breakthrough “No”

I was over the moon. It was finally going to happen. Cute Master and Pretty Slave were

planning to come over Saturday night for dinner and a playdate and he was excited to be my (at long last) first ass guy. I’m super tired of that storyline, but because this quest is riddled with a Three’s Company level of misunderstandings and pratfalls, a six-letter word had to get in the way.

Day after yesterday, he was sending me a series of exuberantly smutty texts about how hard he was going to fuck me, and I was getting happier and happier. Turned on and glowing, I wrote their names on the calendar and added a cute little Snoopy sticker marked “sleepover.” And then he said this:

“I’m going to make you cum from raping your ass.”

*record scratch…*

What…huh? Raping? I thought we were friends? Doing this together for…fun?

We had a nice text-conversation about why not to use that word, but really, should this really be a thing I have to tell people not to say? What kind of a WORLD is this? I didn’t want to call off the plan but the trigger was triggered and…I just couldn’t. It hurt my heart to say no to a fun night with favorite pals, but I did. I don’t really know what it means for our friendship and I’m really hoping that Pretty Slave isn’t mad at me. But even if she is, I know I did the right thing.

It’s not that using the word in a sext means he’s likely to do it, in spite of rumored allegations to that effect, my body’s always felt mostly safe with him. It just represents a worldview that I just can’t be okay with. To me, using that word meant that we wouldn’t really be in it together, that one of us would get to be a person and the other one, just a thing. I don’t think that was his intention in saying it, but it’s the feeling I got.

I’ve always felt out of sync with the way people joke about rape and throw the word around, like it’s nothing, like it isn’t a deep horror. This is why watching a Seth MacFarlane movie feels more transgressive to me than, say, getting set on fire. To me, lighthearted use of the word "rape" feels contemptuous not just to rape victims, but to humanity in general. It’s a vicious and untenable thing that feels impossible to fight, pervasive as weather.

Because this attitude that the word “rape” is no big deal is so pervasive and rape culture is so much the norm and on the surface in my local BDSM community, I’ve tried to adapt and make peace with it. Because being a rape victim has caused me to overbuild my defenses, I’ve tried to be a little bit less dogmatic about how people speak and act when it comes to matters of consent. There’s the dungeon owner I really like but who regularly dispenses the advice “Don’t go over to someone’s house unless you are ready to have sex with him.” as if driving over there is somehow an implied yes. There’s the way even some of my favorite kinksters often dismiss rape accusations as “drama.” And of course there’s the Scary Party staff treating its patrons like an all-you-can-take-advantage-of buffet. None of it is okay at all but I’ve played happily right in the middle of it for a couple of years. So what does that say about me?

It’s complicated because parts of my inner fantasy life isn’t super-consensual, but I guess what I’m realizing is that that doesn’t mean that I have to accept a guy for whom rape is part of the fantasy. The idea of sexytimes in which one of the people isn’t enjoying it makes me sick, and I don’t want a partner who’s turned on by that, even as a casual playpal.

From a vanilla standpoint, most of this seems like, yeah, duh, but it has been a boundary that is surprisingly hard from me to draw. I have had this semiconscious compulsion for a couple of years that rape culture is something I need to accept, something I need to compromise with in order to move forward. Because hating it sends me to such a dark place, I thought it would be better to love and accept it, and I have loved a few embodiments of it (though this is not that) but it doesn’t make me any less dark. It tunnels the darkness down to a pinpoint and makes me blind to everything else.

I’ve sometimes grabbed myself by the metaphorical hair and shoved myself into unsafe situations because if I could learn to love the dark things that have happened to me, if I could desensitize myself and not wince at little everyday cruelties, I could somehow reclaim the dignity I’ve lost. If I could love it, then I could make it my fault somehow and just say I’m sorry and move on. But I can’t get the dignity back, I can only hold onto what I have now, which is a choice every time somebody gets in my space.

All of this is a lot to get from one hapless and essentially harmless text, but I’m exhilarated by the breakthrough of it. Saying no to him because he used that word, even though it breaks my heart and makes my ass mad at me, means that I’ve stopped trying to compromise about this. The only rape I have to accept is what’s already happened to me. There’s never going to be a way to swoop in and save myself from the past, but I can do it in little calm ways every day in the present.

When I’m triggered, there’s a little voice in me that says I’m worthless, that if I say no to this person who made me feel yucky then I’ll never learn to be part of the world and I’ll never be loved, that I’ll never go to a party or have any friends. The little voice says no one will want me unless I can be exactly what they want, which sometimes means being nothing. As my readers well know, that voice has stopped me from taking care of myself too many times. I’m glad I was able to slow myself down this time, to see a choice instead of a catastrophe.

Today I kicked the bad little voice’s ass and closed the door on a whole set of compromises that I just don’t want to try and force myself to make anymore. Once the fear simmers down and the horizon widens out again, I think the world will look a whole lot brighter and freer. Welcome to me just not liking the stuff I don’t like. Personhood, huzzah.

Birthday Spanks and Unicorn Snuggles Part One: I Almost Let a Conversation Wreck My Fun

I was excited and nervous getting ready for Cute Master and Pretty Slave’s party yesterday. I left church a little early, came home and shaved (Jeez I should do that more often, it was a thicket!) put on lacy black and white polka-dot underpants and new fancy pushup bra. Over that I wore a short flowered skirt and a white tank top with the black bra showing through and the lacy straps exposed. I wore comfy shoes for driving but packed up my black and white heels in my suitcase, along with pajamas and a comfy bra in case I needed it for aftercare and/or decided to stay over.

I knew I wanted to play with the hosts, but I wasn’t sure how much. I know I haven’t fallen in love with everyone I’ve had PIV sex with (Only two out of all these recent adventures, I’m realizing…) but I know the risk is there and I didn’t want to end up wrecking/postponing any more friendships. Although they’re very affectionate, I know there aren’t lovey-dovey possibilities—they’re more on the swinger side of things than poly—so I hoped there were ways I could enjoy them without setting off the chemicals that make romantic fantasies happen. Spoiler alert! There were.

For the first few hours of the party I wasn’t sure if I’d end up feeling like playing at all. There was more of a laid back barbecue with friends feeling to it, delightful in its own way. There were a few pervy touches here and there, like Mardi Gras beads which yes, I did earn in the traditional way, adding to my I’m An Awesome Slut Checklist.

A conversation kept starting nearby that I was already in without joining it. A big, tall, dreamy Dom guy (He definitely earns a nickname in the next installment—please welcome the Huge-Handed Fireman.) was having online trouble with the leadership of the Scary Party, specifically with the same woman who’d “resolved” my issue by informing the internet that I was crazy. HHF kept talking about improvements that he thought should be made with security and the DMs because of incidents that had happened there.

By the third time I heard the conversation come around, I stopped resisting the temptation to join in. I went over to thank him and confess the role I’d played. Most of the people standing around agreed with HHF and seemed sympathetic, but there’s always one. Fucking. Mean. Girl.

I think every kind of community has versions of this Ratfaced Bitch Girl. She’s rotten all the way through, dead-to-malevolent behind the eyes, and graduated right from high school hallway bullying to running down outsiders as an adult.

She got her hackles up and started to lay into me about my method of reporting the incident with The Man, getting EVERY SINGLE FACT WRONG and saying there’s still no way to know the truth. I wish I’d been a reality show contestant with a drink to throw in her fucking face.

Since the HHF was talking about starting his own dungeon, I suggested that it would be helpful to have submissives as part of the leadership. Ratface Bitch Girl said that was a contradiction in terms, with in the same crazymaking rock-stupid voice that The Man used to tell me that “higher level” Doms are allowed to bypass consent.

I didn’t say this, but what the fuck does she think I’m doing in my daily life, sitting around waiting for some fucking Sir to tell me how to run my classroom? The assumption that submissives can’t lead just seems like an extension of good old fashioned sexism. If you’re saying that someone is incapable of leading, you’re on some level taking their agency away, and if you’re performing sexual acts on someone you’ve taken agency away from, that’s coercion at the very least. It’s the crux of the whole problem.

Ratface Bitch Girl added that besides, most of the Scary Party leadership are switches, so of course they could sympathize.she said it in the worst condescending snotrag voice.

Rage boiled up all the way from my belly and I expressed in with frosty controlled force:

“No. They. Couldn’t. And I HOPE it never happens to you.”

(Of course it WOULDN’T happen to her because she seems to be part of the Scary Party’s in-crowd and therefore would probably be deemed a person by them.)

Another girl, wonderfully ignorant and self-assured as only a 21-year-old can be, said she’d never had a bad experience there because she is “not a dumbass.”

“I’m not a dumbass. I was handcuffed. And if all the victims are dismissed as dumbasses, how is anything ever going to change?”

She backpedaled after that but I knew I was past-due to leave the conversation. I’d only had a couple of drinks and one hit of some really good weed, more than an hour ago so I figured I’d be okay to drive before too long. I went into the nice cool house and found a quiet spot and a blanket, pissed off that I was panicking and unable to believe that I was probably going to cry at another party. It felt like the goddamned Man was never going to stop taking away my fun.

Scary Party, if you were a person I would punch you in your ugly, rapey face. The inhumanity and stupidity of every gaslighting host and victim-blaming poster from March and April came rushing back. I was so angry at them, and at every adorable Scary Party regular I’ve met who’s said “Oh, that was you?” when it felt like what they meant was “Oh, that was a person?” Because how could you watch anybody go through that and still want to be part of the event unless on some level you didn’t think of her as a fellow human? When I’m in that panicky state, it feels like otherwise kind and wonderful people cosign my violation every time they pay their 10$ at the door, and I am sick to fucking death of being hurt and confused about it. I spent the summer trying to be forgiving, but you know what, I’m not. Fuck them. Fuck the Scary Party forever.

As I sat watching the clock and wondering how long I should give myself before driving, people came and visited my self-aftercare spot. One lady about my age said she’d been through something similar—I wonder how much of the dismissiveness does have to do with being over 35.

Cute Master and Pretty Slave come in and showered me with hugs and sympathy. Snuggled up between them was when the tears started to come, but I was crying and laughing at the same time—indignant as I was about the mean girls, I saw the absurdity of crying at parties two weekends in a row.

Cute Master left Pretty Slave and me in an embrace. She petted my hair and spoke softly, telling me that it was okay, that it was rare.

During this exchange, Cutest Boy at the Party (lady-liking bear!!!) noticed what was happening and asked if I was okay. I felt so silly for having a panic even before the play had started. After Pretty Slave went off to tend to her guests, CBATP came in again to check on me. I said I was fine but would certainly take a hug. He had that amazing sweaty-dude smell and I told him so. We talked about all kinds of things, museums and music and munches.  Just from sitting down next to him and yammering, I started to simmer down and opened back up to the evening’s possibilities. It seems to happen that way—whenever I think I’ll never get past the hurt and fear, god sends a cute boy as an incentive to power through. And it always, always works.

Next: My quest to get spanked by everyone.

First Date With Steampunk Guy, Part One

My first date with Steampunk Guy was last Wednesday. Aside from a tough day at work, I’d been in such a good mood looking forward to him, especially after he’d told me he would bring pie and Manhattans. (Drinks on a school night, naughty!) He was coming over for dinner and, ostensibly, a couch-movie. I’m not sure why I didn’t just say I was inviting him over for sex, since that’s what I meant. I guess we could have conceivably watched a movie.

He was right on time, and just as cute as I remembered him. Tall and beardy, with such a warm, friendly expression that he would fit in in a Rankin and Bass Christmas special. After my dinner debacle with The Man, I’d been worried that cooking for him was a silly choice, but this is a guy who can keep his phone in his pants.

We had a nice time talking while he mixed drinks and I made dinner. I have somewhat of a Mad Men fetish, so I love cooking for guys, and he suggested that that meant that heels would go better than slippers with the apron and cute button-up dress I’d chosen. I promptly went to change into some coral-colored polka-dot wedge-heeled slingbacks, and he was right, much more gendery.

“So you don’t have a Fet account anymore, does that mean you don’t play publicly?” He asked.

Sigh.

“Um, should I tell you the whole ugly story?”

I hate that fucking story so much. He’d already mentioned that he is a regular at the Scary Party so I tried to be as diplomatic as possible. I really had to take my time and choose words carefully because I could feel the dread and other ugly emotions start to tumble out—not a good look for a first date. I got through telling him without actual tears coming out.

“I think I remember that.”

“Yep, that was me.”

We took our plates and cocktails out to the pretty bistro table in my apartment house’s side-yard. I was a gorgeous and just-warm-enough evening, but an icky silence came over us.

I said “So are you scared of me?”

He said he wasn’t. There’s nobody in the scene powerful enough to keep someone out. Your friends will always be there to support you.

At the time, I took that as encouragement—I’d been wondering aloud if I should wade back out into the local scene or if I’d be treated as a  whistleblowing pariah. He thought that was nonsense just like Sweetie does, and saw no reason why I shouldn’t return to my beloved Regular Dungeon. I talked a little about the support I’d received at the time, even from strangers, told him that that support meant a lot to me, that it was part of what I like about kink in general.

But some mornings I wake up feeling too close to the Scary Party again, unsure if it’s really sensible to play with one of its regulars. The fact that he was aware of what the security staff had done and still supporting the place, can I live with that, even with a very casual playpal? If doms’ friends will always protect them no matter what, how is any submissive safe? That same irksome question again. I feel guilty that I’m processing it here rather than directly, but again, dark topic for a first date. Or maybe a necessary one when things are about to get spanky, I don’t know.

I don’t like the idea that The Man’s mess-up could cost me fun with other guys, and I hate the way that the dom dating pool shrinks of you rule out that party’s regulars—it’s very popular.

Back to the date, the conversation went on to cheerier things and I enjoyed talking to him so much. I love it when I’m so excited about someone that I kind of turn into a muppet. As Steampunk Guy and I chatted and ate, my downstairs neighbor and his little son came out to play in the yard and all of us were completely adorable-the platonic ideal of a summer evening.

The rest of this story is (I promise) very hot. He has the most AMAZING hands and his other extremities get gold stars as well. I’ll write my way through it and see where I get.

Next: Spanked before kissed.

The Horror: My Adventure in FetLife Rape Culture

I feel very alone in the world right now.

When it became clear to me that nothing was going to change at the Scary Party (The owners had given me lip service about improving safety but The Man was kept as head of security) I decided to post my story on the local public Fet forums. When followed was a terrible experience that is in many ways more frightening than the original violation/harassment.

I don’t usually wade into internet discussions—I’ve never been awesome at filtering out feedback, so it’s just a recipe for hurt. But I knew I was going to feel guilty unless I did everything I could to warn people that this might happen to them if they go.

Here’s what I learned:

1. The owner announced that he never really took my story seriously because The Man broke up with me during the process of me reporting it. He told them I was making up details because I was heartbroken. They claimed to have been having an “investigation” but that really amounted to just finding ways to dismiss the story.

2. The Man is still claiming that I “consented” mid-scene and everyone seems to be accepting that, even though he was breaking pre-negotiated limits and breaking the party’s own rules. The creepiest part was when he said “She said she was enjoying it.” That doesn’t make it any more consensual!

3. The number of doms who run that party and are willing to attack me and try to keep me silent went up significantly. One woman yelled at me for “muddying the investigation” by saying what happened to me--shouldn’t my point of view have been part of the investigation in the first place?

4. More than one person read the post and decided that the real problem was me cross-posting.

5. Lots of people who told me it was my fault because I hadn’t called red. What is the point of negotiating if it’s okay for the dom to do whatever he wants anyway?  I said in the post that I wished I had called red, but that I was in subspace and my voice was (non-consensually) restricted. A few people said that he’d done wrong, but they were far outnumbered by people who told me to quit whining, just get used to it, it happens to everybody. It was mostly ladies yelling at me in this way.

6. The part that made me laugh the most was when The Man asked me what he could do to “make amends” Um, stop lying about what happened?

7. Even my “friend” who wrote to send me support made it clear that she had no quarrel with the venue itself.

8. Sweetie wrote the most beautiful post in my defense. I love her so much and I hope someday soon that I can be able to feel the warmth of my own home again.

Right now, it seems as though the entire local community is attacking me and telling me that my safety is not worth protecting. It seems like there is not a safe place anywhere in the world. People work so hard to protect the rights of predators, they argue so hard against anyone who tries to change things, it’s hard to imagine things ever getting better.

I wish that I would have had the sense to break up with him right away. I can’t explain why I didn’t, except that he seemed to understand what he’d done wrong and I liked him a lot. I wish I had just gotten myself home that night, reported the incident, and put myself to bed, but I didn’t. I tried to stay close to someone who’d showed me he didn’t think I was worthy of care. It doesn’t make me deserve what happened, but I hate that it wrecked my credibility and made it less likely that something would be done.

The amount of crazymaking doublethink that came from The Man and the rest of the posters makes me wonder if I’ll ever be able to participate publicly in kink again.

I did everything I could do. I stood up to dom after dom in those conversations. I overcame the desire to be a good girl that has kept me silent in the past. Maybe that’s enough to break the pattern, to keep me from putting myself in harm’s way again.

It’s a beautiful spring day. The leaves on the trees are budding and we have the whole weekend to ourselves. I am going to try to stay away from Fet’s black background, both literally and metaphorically. I deserved a safe place to play, to be as happy and cared for as anyone else there. Even if nobody else believes that, I do.

Send Good Wishes if You Heart Consent

I’m feeling really sad and scared right now. I feel like trying to change what happens at the Scary Venue has become kind of a creepy part-time job. The owner has been very kind and deliberate, acknowledging that his staff needs to be more respectful and that something has to be done to make the venue safer. He let me know that he met with The Man yesterday and is taking a few days to process before he decides what to do about him.

Imagining the conversation between them fills me with a deep sadness and dread. I know that The Man saw me as possessive and overly nervous, and I am afraid that he must’ve used that to somehow justify what happened. I am so afraid that it will be dismissed as a He Said/She Said situation, when really it’s a He Said/She Said/She Said situation where one of the Shes didn’t ask to play with the other. (and where it’s two doms’ word against one sub’s)

Obviously I know I just never have to go back to the party, but I just don’t know how I’ll handle it if they keep those two on their security staff—I honestly don’t know how I could go back to ANY local party if that happens. It all just seems like a huge power imbalance between the in-crowd and those who are new. I can’t stand the idea that what happened to me could be happening right next to me any time I’m playing out in the world. The whole thing gives me deep moral misgivings not just about engaging in BDSM, but about engaging with the world at all. How can I participate in a system that allows such scary power imbalances? How can I ever feel safe again?

I know that removing him from the staff or barring him from one party won’t take away the fear, hurt, and sense of loss that comes from his boneheaded behavior that night—what happened will have always happened. I know that only time and kindness to myself will heal what was broken.

Sweetie says I won’t have to withdraw all the way, that there’s no reason to give up other parties. She’s probably right that when this passes, I’ll be naked in a room full of friends soon enough, but for now, my world is narrowed to a little tunnel of fear, wondering what lies he told about that night, wondering if, in the end, I’ll count for anything.

Scene Failure and the Scary Party Part Two: Aftercare?

I was so angry and hurt and sad that I couldn’t speak. I got out the blanket (purple velvet with a white fleecy inside, I bought it just for our scenes) and climbed into his lap. It’s scary and stupid that I was relying on the same person who’d just fucked me over to help bring me back to life—this system is a mess unless you really play with the right person.

He brushed my hair and said nice things that sounded hollow. He said that he wanted me to be an important person in his life, that he’d find a cute pet name/honorific for me like he has for his wife (To him, she’s The Girl. Which is kind of telling...)

“If you wanted me to be someone important in your life, then why did you treat me like I wasn’t? Why did you act just like I wasn’t even there at all?”

“I want you to know my friends. I guess you should take some time with (Sadist Girl) outside of scenes.”

“You expect me to be friends with someone who just did that to me? I would punch her in the face if I could. And she should at least learn what my fucking NAME IS.”

“But you don’t understand. She plays at a whole different level that you and I do.” He said this with an annoying admiration in his voice.

“You mean a level without negotiation or consent?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

The thing I am tired of finding out is that guys SAY that they want to know what I want, that they want me to voice my concerns and needs. They SAY they believe in talking things through and having a real relationship, but what I keep finding at the core of them (Not ALL of them, to be sure) is a fantasy of no limits, for a sex doll who just shuts the fuck up and does what she’s told and never stops a scene or pipes up with a worry.

Sadist Girl popped back in throughout aftercare. The Man was making an effort to be attentive to me, but she kept asking things like “Where should I take a pussy-eating break? The bathroom?”

“Yeah, whatever,” he said, taking her security armband for safekeeping. Not to be a stick-in-the-mud (Though that seems to be my role in this story.) but at a no-sex party, the answer should have been “Nowhere.” He is truly not awesome with boundaries.

Sadist Girl stopped back in later (Presumably after the pussy-eating) to stand over us and say “Isn’t that adorable. Isn’t that just fucking adorable.”

I guess I should say at this point that I didn’t get the idea that he was attracted to her or anything. She’s trans (I think that’s why he thought we’d like each other, because all queer people are automatically friends somehow) and he seems a little bit overly straight for anyone creatively-gendered. I couldn’t figure out the weird energy between them. It was like he was in her thrall—he acted like a toadie and it’s hard to respect a toadie.

All of this confusion and bad energy was heavy on my heart as we kept kissing and talking and trying to get back to something good. I knew it was over, full of the same dread that I’d had that last day on the couch with Bill, but I didn’t want to give up. I wanted to just blame Sadist Girl or the venue, but was hard to deny that he’d made things the way they were.

I called Sweetie as we were getting ready to leave, trying to figure out what to do. It must have taken enormous strength for her not just to insist that I come home. I feel terrible that she had to experience a call like that.

“Come home with me,” he said as I finished my phone call. And we kissed and pushed and shoved and struggled against each other in the room with the good music.

“See, if you’re angry with me, I want you to be angry. It’s better than when you are all helpless and can barely stand. Then I just don’t know what to say.”

I did like shoving him around but if HELPLESS is a turnoff then a. Why a submissive? and b. Don’t be a douchebag and wreck a scene with some meaningless nonsense that has nothing to do with anything! Is what I wish I’d said.

Sadist Girl came by and he lead her sweetly away by the elbow. The conversation started with “I fucked up,” but I didn’t hear the rest. She came back to pack up her gear and said goodbye without apologizing, so I decided to talk to her about it too.

“I don’t think that I was in a position to really consent. You can’t just change a scene in the middle like that.”

In an authoritative voice she said “Actually, you can. You really need to work on your…”

And I have no idea what she was going to tell me I needed to work on because by the end of the sentence I was snapping at her semi-coherently. I could not believe that this stranger was telling me when I could and could not consent.

“If I were you,” she snarled “I wouldn’t come back to MY place.”

The Man hustled me out the door. I felt so ashamed, behaving like a Real Housewife of BDSM, sniping at another girl at a party and causing a (ha) scene.

Dignity wasn’t happening that night. I yelled at him on the way to the car, all about consent and respect and triggers, balling up my fists and jumping up and down in my pretty red satin heels. 

“GOD DAMMIT.” I snarled “What was I not doing? Why can’t I ever just fucking be enough for somebody.”

I was so lost and frustrated and livid with him for fucking up the worthwhile thing I thought we had.

I have to give him credit for getting in the car with me when I was in that state.

Sometimes my city driving is a little iffy, but on this drive, I had the motherfucking eye of the tiger. I turned up the music, seethed, and drove.