Happy Tied-Up Tuesday (TUT) everyone!

As I said before, FetishCon was a magically delicious experience. I got to tie up so many lovelies!! Heh, sometimes it’s hard being 3rd Place Bondage Rigger

I think I have a secret fetish for bondage and furniture. I just like to tie up girls to lamps and chairs and disco balls and counters and yeah. You can’t really tell from this photo (mainly bc I’m in the way!!!!!) but the forefront girl is tied from the ottoman to the lamp and the girl in the back is tied to an upside down end table.

This is one of few “vanity” shots that I have. Though Catalina is trying to make me understand that it’s ok to be in the photos too!!

So here’s me next to one of my favorite pieces from the weekend (and by “pieces” I mean those hot girlie things in ropes beside me!!!). And yes, that’s a latex skirt…and yes, those are latex pasties.

So yeah…while at con I was “conned” into putting on this get up lmao!! This is funny because A) I put it on in the first place B) I allowed pictures to be taken and C) the pasties covered my entire bewbies! But hey, I’m trying to come out of my shell right?

So there you go!

Tags: alteredaperture, award winning bondage artist, Bondage, bondage photo, bondage pic

a love story in three acts and an overlong interlude

ACT I. You pussy!

“Hit me harder, you pussy,” she grunted, teeth her face twisted in a rictus of utter contempt. In the heat of the spank, she as submissive took on the demeanor of a Klingon warrior preparing to die in glorious battle (and pontificating endlessly on the pursuit of honor).

In other words, she wasn’t kidding.

This had been going on for the better part of an hour. There was Missy, my Worf-like warrior of the submissive arts, bound spread-eagle on the bed, her unblemished ass poofed up in the air like two sourdough boules. Well, two sourdough boules that had been spanked, whipped, cropped, paddled, strapped, caned, switched, stamped, stomped, and otherwise assaulted for approximately 51 minutes, yet betrayed absolutely no signs of either marking or proofing.

And then there was me. If Missy was a battle-tested Klingon warrior, I was Wesley Crusher. With a paddle. I was doing all the hitty stuff, yet I was the one who was dying. My arms felt like pipe cleaners that had been daisy-chained into a bad Shibari demo and then set on fire by the opportunistic pyro that inevitably crashes every BDSM munch at the local Denny’s. (You know that guy; the one with the wild eyes and an over-flicked Bic who’s dying to light the arms of all the girls aflame. Because Denny’s managers love watching their diners immolate.)

“Well?” she demanded (and she was quite the demanding little thing, even for a submissive). “Are you gonna hit me again or what?”

‘Or what’ was feeling like the better option. Once again I conducted a unilateral invasion of her toybox (Missy did not travel light; whence she went followed a coffin-sized trunk, a veritable hope-chest of dildos, dongs, vibrators, ass-smashers, and wet-naps) looking for WADs (Weapons of Ass Destruction), but finding only instruments to torture normal humanoids with.

“Are you sure you were born with nerve endings?” I asked, my chest sagging like the ass-end of an overweight cat trying to launch itself onto a higher surface.

“Bah,” she harrumphed.

It always wondered me that she used ‘bah’ so frequently as a term of dismissal. In all my life, I had only encountered two other people who employed this term. One of them was the Incredible Hulk, who ‘bah’ed his way through the Army, Air Force, Marines, and each state’s National Guard in the comics of my childhood. However, Missy hadn’t yet called me a ‘puny human’, so at least I still had that going for me. That and I have a strict ‘No Green Chicks’ dating policy.

I looked down at her. She wrinkled her nose at me and snorted. Missy was a lovely girl, part mutant, part munch-organizer (kinky munch organizers, by the way, are the only reason Denny’s is still in existence in many towns), and all cranky, all the time. Standing at a squat 5’2” in her regulation Starfleet mini-skirt (Missy really liked Star Trek), with beady little Hobbit eyes, she was the sort of girl who safeworded only for potty breaks and snacks. Otherwise she had a tendency to taunt her respective dominanta the way a drill sergeant dresses down his cadets. And for the record, it’s not bratting when it comes out sounding like R. Lee Ermey.

Missy didn’t top from the bottom; she bullied from the bottom.

To say that Missy was a pain-slut is to suggest that Missy actually felt pain. Which she did not. The term ‘leatherbutt’ comes to mind, but really, that is an insult both to leather and butts. What Missy had was some sort of indestructible organic metal alloy, like the stuff Wolverine’s claws were made of. Missy was the original Buns of Steel.

“So you’re not gonna hit me again,” she grumbled.

Fearing that my health insurance wouldn’t cover Tommy John surgery (a.k.a. Spanker’s Elbow), I thought it best to call an end to this particular beating, as I was the one soundly beaten.

“Um, no, I think I’m done.” I fashioned a thick leather strappy thing into a makeshift sling and collapsed onto the bed beside her as she finished gnawing her way through the restraints.

Missy regarded me with a disdainful eye, the way a cat gloats over a stray bit of lint that it has successfully hunted and killed. She rolled over, snatched up the remote, and flicked on Star Trek. It wasn’t the sexiest of BDSM rituals, but there it was. It’d beat her. She’d call me a pussy. I’d get tired. And then we’d watch Star Trek.

“Ooh, this is a good one. It’s got Ferengi in it.”

I gasped out my agreement that Ferengi were indeed the hallmark of any good Star Trek episode.

“Look at you,” she gloated, “you look like you just got beat with the ugly stick.”

At which point inspiration struck. It’s like finding the answer to ‘what do you get for the person who has everything?’ Gift cards? I was pretty confident that no amount of gift-card giving would sate Missy’s one true desire to feel a beating.

And I had the answer. The one that Rumsfeld and Cheney never imagined: if you can’t find the imaginary WMD/WADs, then you have to make them yourself.

I would build an ugly stick.

And Missy would be the one who got beat with it.

ACT II. The Lyin’, the Witch, and the Lack of Any Wardrobe Whatsoever

But first I needed some help. I I drove over to the house of my Wiccan priestess bondage queen friend Alethea, who herself built nearly every piece of furniture in the home she shared with her husband, her boyfriend, her girlfriend, his girlfriend, his boyfriend, and a gaggle of dirty naked hippy couch-surfers who seemingly were deposited on this earth to do nothing more than mooch cigarettes, lube, bondage rope, and the genitals of anyone passing by. These were the first polyamorists who had bumbled into my life, and I regarded them the same way Nixon regarded the Free Love set in the 60s. The only difference between the poly people and the Free Love movement seemed to be that, studying the newsreel, the hippies seemed a little less miserable. And they were all vegans, the lot of them, which lent Alethea’s house the unmistakably eye-watering aroma of rotting garlic. All in all, this house was both the wet dream of every sex-blogger ten years later, as well as the vividly realized fears of every jowly godbag.

Alethea was sort of the Home Depot of the local BDSM scene. Her garage was a veritable Acme of do-baddery, from the mundane (homemade floggers), to the slightly less-mundane (homemade catheters), to the not-at-all-mundane (her ‘magic circle’, where she retreated to summon the assistance of wind goddesses, friendly demons, and tofu recipes).

“What do you need to build?” Alethea asked while casting a moon-spell to dispel a little bit of the stink of a non-vegan.

“An ugly stick.”

“Ooh. You’re still dating Missy, aren’t you.”

Alethea lead me into her garage. She was a hippy in two senses; of course she was a filthy pot-smoking, indiscriminate sex-having hippy (which unfortunately did not include me); also she was extremely wide-hipped – she looked like an R. Crumb drawing brought to red-headed life, minus the hip street lingo.

It also didn’t hurt that she wore a tool-belt like no one else on earth. It was more like Batman’s tool belt, really; that is, if Batman was a weird Wiccan free-love chick. From her hippyness hung hammers, screwdrivers, vials of hair, semen, coke, throwing stars, and whatever pixie dust she had gathered from the latest Wiccan swap-meet. Judging by the irises of her squatters, I’d have to say that it was deeply narcotic, whatever it was.

The problem was that I had all the technological skill of a crackhead trying to fix a teleprompter with a box of Crystal Light mix. In seventh grade, I was forced to construct a bird feeder in shop class by a surly German named Mṻller, whose motivational technique consisted of approaching a boy, shrieking at him in the way that only Germans can, “BAH! I AM GOINK TO GIFF YOO A SCHOTT!” Yes, Mṻller was the other person in my life who employed ‘bah’.

This shrieking of disapproval immediately followed by the shot itself – a stiff jab to the arm which usually produced a bruise in the shape of the Fatherland. If nothing else, seventh grade is the beginning of the end of childhood, because a boy will learn the meaning of stress through the difficulty of operating a band-saw with an angry German screaming at him and punching him into sniffly-nosed conformity. It is because of Mṻller that I later memorized the opening speech from Patton. Needless to say, I abandoned a possible career in the woodworking arts as soon as the semester turned over.

Nonetheless, I had a few rudimentary ideas. I was already aware that neither wood, nor steel, nor plastic, nor leather had made any sort of impression on Missy’s invincible ass. But what if I combined these things into a single unit of pain-delivery?

“You’re going to need to reinforce it,” Alethea mused, scanning her reserves. “Steel-on-wood-on-leather.”

“Okay,” I nodded.

“Though that still might not be enough to make an impression on Missy. How about I invoke a demon and try to trap it inside the structure of the stick?”

And here I was afraid that I’d have to ask. Alethea was very sensitive about her magical abilities; she didn’t share them with just anyone. It probably helped that Missy owed her money.

So we set about constructing this technological terror. I was careful not to include any exhaust ports big enough for a womp-rat. We started with an endoskeleton of steel, which was then be-slatted with long planks of cherry wood spanning out in a fearsome semi-circle. If Hollywood ever decided to create a new horror film villain who dispatched his teenage victims with a modified rake, we had the perfect weapon for him. It looked like it was capable of multiple decapitations in a single stroke.

Before we set about covering and adorning it, Alethea pulled up her cloak (never attempt magic without a cloak) and pulled out a trusty wand-stick. A bit of pig-Latin later, and she assured me that she had indeed conjured a demon into the frame of the ugly stick. At which point her husband and several of his consorts arrived, and she excused herself to conjure up a pot of boiled tofu and sweatsocks.

In her absence, I did my usual half-assed routine of taking a perfect, near-elegant design, and making it look like it had been rolled in a dirty ashtray. Bits of leather were glued on and then triple-wrapped in a codicil of thick black electrical tape. Sort of like Brandon Lee in The Crow, without the looking-cool part. Seriously, a kid born without arms or legs could have done a better job using just his teeth and a little well-blown snot.

I two-fisted it like my own twisted take on Excalibur and lifted it up. It made a lot of noise – weird, otherworldly kind of noises. It was the sort of fucked-up voodoo thing you could see Tom Waits shaking onstage. I raised it up over my head, as if ready to part the skies so that I through the ugly stick may receive my power from the gods. It was a total ‘by the power of Grayskull’ kind of moment.

It weighed approximately 8lbs, and looked like something Death might carry if he forgot his scythe. It was a cross between a trident, a baseball bat, and Darth Vader’s penis, assuming it wasn’t burned off. I went inside to show it off to Alethea, whose initial reaction was that she’d invoked too strong a demon.

“Somebody’s gonna get hurt,” she said, shaking her head as she dropped the vegan approximation of an eye of newt into the boiling pot of tofu and sweatsocks.

Which was precisely what I wanted to hear. I said my goodbyes, careful to thank the goddesses, wind, moon, and stars, and then proceeded to trip over a pile of dirty naked people slithering all over each other like some sort of sex-positive Mayan death ritual.

And then I raced toward Missy’s.

To be continued…

Download Episode #20 of Bedroom Radio (15MB, 24 minutes)

In this episode, I interview the amazing, prolific Rachel Kramer Bussel about her new book Spanked. We talk about our favorite ways to give and get spankings and she reads a very hot excerpt from the book.

Be sure to listen to learn about your chance to win a copy of Spanked for yourself! You have to hear the show to know the rules for the contest, but I’ll give you a hint. This picture of my tushy after a spanking is an important clue:

Other links of note for this episode:
The rest of the Spanked virtual book tour
The Spanked blog
Dark Odyssey Summer Camp

************************

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Tags: Books, contest, rachel kramer bussel, spanked, Spanking

I’m still new to this whole sex blogging thing, but I’ve found that it is a community unlike any other I have been part of. There is a sort of electricity when everyone is like-minded and kinky. Not that we all have the same kinks or the same philosophies or what have you, but the open mindedness is there. Plus there is this ever present reminder of sex in the air. We are all having sex, writing about it, thinking about it. Every conversation is somehow tinged with the erotic. It does make for interesting cups of coffee.

In looking at the sex-blogosphere I see lots of pockets of people. We pool together by age, by kink, by aesthetic or sometimes just by chance. It seems like there are a large number of us in the NYC/Tri-State area. We are all often close enough to meet, we are all often in similar socioeconomic situations. Not to say that the metro-sexbloggers are similar, but we do tend to look at certain things differently than our midwestern siblings, our west coast cousins or our international friends.

In light of this I started a new site called NYCSexBlogs.com. It is basically going to be a big list of NYC/Tri State area bloggers. People who live in New York City, work here or play here. I (hopefully “we” soon) will also profile hot NYC bloggers and list fun activities in the city for us kinksters.

If anyone would like to help, there are two things you can do. First off you can email me any links I have missed (which at this point is A LOT) or email me your ideas for a spotlight feature on a certain NYC blogger, a New York activity or something else this particular audience might be interested in. My email is jackwritesdirty@gmail.com.

Oh this city doesn’t sleep alright…

When I moved to New York in 1999, I was here to attend college at the New School. There was a Citibank branch right across the street at 5th Avenue and 13th Street, so that’s where I set up my checking and savings accounts. Over the past nine years, I’ve gotten a credit card there, opened CDs, all that banking stuff. When I created Waking Vixen Productions as a DBA (doing business as) in 2006, I opened my business account at Commerce Bank. A few weeks ago I decided to get all the accounts at one bank, so I went to Citibank and tried to open a checking and savings accounts for Waking Vixen Productions. And then I got this voicemail:

Click here to listen to the voicemail.

To paraphrase, the voicemail informs me that they cannot open the account for me because of “the line of business [I am] in.” Because I work in the adult industry, Citibank will not take my money.

When I did the account set up stuff with the guy at Citibank, he asked a lot of questions about my business, and I was straightforward about it. When asked what my business does at the beginning of our conversation, I told him that I do adult new media production and consulting (then of course I had to explain what new media is). I explained that I don’t have an office, work at home, its mostly web based, gave him my web address (this one, wakingvixen.com) and told him that Village Voice Media/New Times is my major client. All true stuff that didn’t seem to raise any red flags for him as we talked.

But later when the bank manager reviewed my application and they, as the voicemail says, had a look at my website they decided that “it’s obvious” that my work is adult and not a business they want to work with. As soon as I heard the message, I decided to close all my accounts with Citibank, and that’s what I did yesterday afternoon. When I marched in and told them my intentions, I explained, “Since you’ve told me in no uncertain terms that you don’t want money from the adult industry, I don’t want you to have any of my money. I would like to close my accounts.” They didn’t really argue much at first, though as we worked our way through the paperwork they explained that it wasn’t my personal accounts that were the problem, just the business. As you know, there isn’t a lot of separation in my mind between who I am as a business and who I am as a person, so this argument just isn’t going to fly with me. Also, my business is a DBA, which means it isn’t a separate legal entity (like a LLC or other corporation would be), it’s intimately tied to my personal finances in the legal sense. Who’s to say that at some point in the future, they wouldn’t get a hair across their asses and decide to close down all my accounts with them? That notion aside, no one who objects to how I make my money is going to get their hands on it. That is fundamental.

In a situation like this, I essentially have no legal recourse - the Citibank policy doesn’t go against any protected rights. Businesses are totally within their rights to discriminate against people who work in any sector of the adult industry, regardless of the legality of that work. But I can (and did) take my money elsewhere, and I told them exactly why.

This is something that people who work in all adult-related businesses should think about, and if you feel comfortable, ask companies that you do big business with if they have a policy on adult entertainment. Some will look at you like you’re crazy - money is money, who cares where it comes from? - and others will say that of course they don’t do business with people in adult. I’ve had this experience at post production houses too, when trying to get screening copies made of The Bi Apple.

I took my business to Washington Mutual immediately after receiving my official checks from Citibank, and before I even sat down, I asked if they have a policy against opening accounts for adult businesses. They didn’t think so, but reviewed their policies anyway and there was nothing against my work. Upon explaining what I do, I was also told that it didn’t seem all that adult, because I don’t own or operate a strip club and my primary business isn’t porn production. It’s so fascinating to see what different people’s takes on “adult” are.

So the moral of the story is: if you work in the adult industry or are an ally of people who do, don’t do business with Citibank, even if you can conceal where your money comes from. Money is power. Bestow that power on companies that don’t judge you (and this goes for hairdressers, CPAs, etc as well).

I’ve posted my Twitter stream and replies from my Tweeple below so you can see some reactions to what was happening as it was going on, with the most recent entries at the top.

Tags: banking, citibank, finances, money

It’s hot. Really hot. Neither of us was expecting it to be so hot, and so all the clothes You ordered me to pack are too warm for the weather. But we’re in a walking city, so we’re venturing out anyway, despite the heat.

We get back to the hotel room, and the air conditioning is blissfully cool - for once we’re happy that the maid’s been messing around with the temperature control. But i can’t feel the cold air on nearly enough of my skin.

“Please, please, please, Master?” i beg. “May i please take off these sticky uncomfortable clothes? i’m just sooo hot.”

You tell me i may, and i strip quickly, then throw myself spread eagle on my stomach on the bed, soaking up every bit of the cool air that i can. i know the position i’m in is dangerous, and likely to give You all sorts of ideas, but i can’t help myself. And sure enough, You soon get an idea.

“Don’t move,” you tell me, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

When i hear the hotel room door open and close, i start to get curious. But You’re back before i’ve had much chance to think about it.

“Still feeling too warm?” you ask. i purr, enjoying Your care and attention.

“Yes, Sir. But it’s getting better.”

“Maybe this will help.”

And i feel the shock of a cold ice cube running down my spine. i flinch a little, involuntarily, but the cold just feels so nice on my overheated sweaty skin. You rub the ice cube all over my back, down the middle of each leg, and i start making little moans of appreciation.

“Turn over.”

i do as You ask, unsure whether to dread or anticipate what i know is going to happen next. i turn onto my back, and a fresh ice cube finds its way first to one nipple, then to the next. My nipples get instantly erect and hard, and my cunt lights up in in response. But it’s cold, and i can’t help but thrash a little, trying to get away.

“Lie still,” You order me, Your voice commanding and serious. As you continue to play with the ice cube on my nipples, neck, breasts and belly, it’s all i can do not to squirm, but instead i focus on breathing into the cold, breathing into my submission.

“That’s better,” You say, and i smile, pleased that i am pleasing You, that i am being Your good little girl. Then you quickly run an ice cube down the middle of my belly, and right onto my clit. i let out an “eek” and i can’t help myself, my legs snap together, trying to protect my tender bits from the cold.

You set the ice cube down and force my legs apart. “Do i have to tie you up?” You ask, “Or can you obey your Master and keep your legs apart?”

Shivering - not really so cold yet, but the very idea of it is making me shiver - and terrified of what i am saying, i promise You that i will keep my legs apart. As you return the ice cube to my clit, it takes every ounce of my submissive breathing to stay still, but i do, and i feel myself go deeper and deeper into my submission to You.

You run the ice cube all over my cunt lips, and down to my opening. It’s slippery - a combination of my own juices with the rivulets of melting water from the ice cube - and you slide the ice cube right up inside of me. i gasp, and begin to shudder ever so slightly.

“Oh, that’s beautiful,” You say, slipping another piece of ice into my cunt. As You slip in the third, Your thumb is on my clit, rubbing circles and making me groan with arousal.

“But i don’t want to get the bed too wet. Follow me, slavegirl, and don’t let those ice cubes fall out of your cunt when you do.”

i get up and follow You into the bathroom, tightening my cunt muscles to keep the melting ice inside, feeling the water dripping down the inside of my thighs. You push me up against the wall of the extra large shower stall, and set about seeing how many pieces of ice You can fit into my cunt. Too many, as far as i am concerned, but Your occasional finger flicks on my clit and nipples keep me in a state of arousal that offsets the cold. A little bit.

Finally You’re satisfied that i’m full, and You tell me to hold my legs tightly together. You step back, and lean against the wall. “Now, slavegirl,” You command, “Play with your nipples. And don’t stop until all that ice has melted and run down your legs.”

There’s a direct current from my nipples to my icy cold cunt, and as i rub my nipples, the growing heat in my cunt causes the ice to melt even faster, and water runs down the inside of my legs. i’m moaning with arousal, and can’t stop my hips from bucking as my attention to my nipples makes me want to come so badly i nearly can’t stand it. And all the time, You’re just standing there watching me, enjoying my mixture of arousal and discomfort, enjoying the view.

Finally, the drips slow and stop. “i think it’s done, Sir,” i gasp out. “i think it’s all melted.”

“Let me check,” You say, and You slide one finger, then another into my cunt. “Oh yes, all melted,” You say, and You begin to press Your fingers rhythmically against my g-spot.

“Please, Sir, please,” i beg, “May i please touch my clit?”

“Oh yes, my little slavegirl. Are you going to come for me?”

And as you speed up the thrusts of Your fingers in my cunt, my fingers rub my clit furiously, and then i am begging You for permission to come, begging for permission to give You my orgasm. “Yes. Yes you may. Do it NOW,” You command, and i do, screaming an orgasm that echoes in the enclosed space of the shower stall.

Spent, i slide down the wall and collapse on the floor of the shower. “Feeling cooler now?” You ask.

“Yes, Sir.”

Recently I attended a class in Denver at the Thunder in the Mountains kink convention on cutting. Cutting is, well, exactly what it sounds like - but in a kink context. That is, used as a means of…well, at its best, power exchange, artistry, sensation, intimacy, risk. I know people who get off on the invasion of the skin, on the blood being freed from the skin, of the joy of modifying their body, whether permanently or just for a short time. It’s an invasion of the skin, though, the most intimate barrier to the outside world there is, and yeah, there’s a bit of danger involved - let’s face it, there’s somebody with a knife who is deliberately cutting into someone else’s skin just for the fun of it. Kinda crazy, when you think about it.

I didn’t take the class for any of those reasons, though. I took the class because a girl I was dating at the time wanted me to. But it was quality instruction - Susan B. is the person who taught one of my heroes, Mistress Matisse, how to sling steel - and I enjoyed it more than I expected.

But there remained the task of finding a person who was willing to go under the knife, and who I was willing to cut. The girl who’d been the inspiration parted company with me, and…well, it’s kind of more complicated than finding someone to just tie up.

See, when you are going to cut, you have to be willing to accept the fact that the cutting may scar. You may be accepting permanent marks on your flesh, or (from my perspective) putting something permanently on someone else. I don’t know about you, but that word “permanent” gives me pause. Maybe it’s the midwestern boy in me, but it implies responsibility and a whole bunch of other deep words. So while I had the knowledge - and a little experience, on the practice model in Susan’s class - I didn’t have the opportunity.

Enter Symetrie. A dear friend, an occasional lover and play partner, and one of my performance models for the Asylum “Babes in Tieland” event in Minneapolis. After the performance we were talking, and the subject of cutting came up, and she said “You wanna?” and I said “Ummmm…”

Yeah, I know, real domly, right? Well, that’s the thing about Symetrie, I can talk with her about the whole permanent thing and she’ll understand. More than that, she has some of the loveliest tats and other body mods I’ve ever seen, so she’s no stranger to the concept. When I told her about my concern, her response was “Well, I think scars are cool!” And that was that.

So we got a tarp (to catch any blood) and the technicare disinfectant (condom stretched over the bottle) and the latex gloves and the #15 scalpel and the gauze bandages and laid everything out and she laid down and disinfected the area in convexical circles and looked at her back and looked and looked…

And looked. I had no clue what I was going to cut. I’d seen other people do cuttings - ranging from just small incisions to let blood flow (not my thing) to amazing intricate tattoo-like designs across the flesh (sort of my thing, but not for a first time, ok?). But I teach people in kink that when you don’t know what to do next, do nothing, and the body will tell you what to hit, how to tie, or in this case: where to cut.

Specifically I saw, on her left shoulder, the red oval of a bite mark, souvenir of a previous play session with Amanda Wyldfyre. It drew my gaze, and then my finger, and I began to lightly trace it, letting my mind extend the lines into the skin, across it, letting an image, a design slowly grow in my mind. I picked up the scalpel in a gloved hand, the cap still on the blade, and traced the pattern I saw in my mind a few times. I centered myself. I breathed. I took the cap off the scalpel and lowered it towards her skin, noting with a bit of pride that my hand didn’t shake at all.

She turned her head to me and asked, quizzically, “Whatcha doin’?”

“Ummm…” I said, pulled out of the artistic miasma by the question. She smiled and turned towards me. I thought about the question. “Well, I was picturing what I was going to cut into your back, and then I was about to do it..”

“Ok, I see…I didn’t really specify things.” She grinned in a friendly way. “See, when I do cuttings, it’s more than just the artsy stuff. I like it to be a power exchange, a sensation ride, with warm up and aftercare and everything else.”

“Oh…you mean like a scene, then.” I was beginning to realize that I’d fallen into the classic kinksters trap: I knew how to do something, but I’d not given enough thought to why. Or where. Or when. Well, at least I’d gotten the who right. I smiled at her. “You know, I’ve never seen cutting in a scene before. It’s always been sort of people doing body art, more like a meditative trance.”

“Yeah, that’s all fine,” she allowed. “But…I wasn’t ready to go into a trance. I am, however, ready to have you hurt me!” She smiled merrily at that, and I smiled back.

I reckon I can do that, I thought, and put down the scalpel. Pressure points are neat things. So are pointy elbows, smacks with the flat of the hand, strikes on the skin followed by gentle kisses followed by sharp bites followed by growling dirty words whispered in the ear. After a bit of this and a lot of that, she was a grinning, blissful submissive, and I picked up my blade again.

And began to cut. I drew the first wavy line, and while I didn’t quite hear Susan’s voice in my ear, I was very aware of the concepts: drag the blade, don’t push…roll the wrist along the curve…confident, let the blood come, it wants to be free. Ok, she didn’t say that last bit, but as I pulled the skin apart along the cut, that’s what it felt like. It was a patient thing, and the stroke of the blade along the line I saw with my mind seemed as intimate as my tongue stroking through folds of labia. She was moaning with each cut, eyes shut, occasionally moving under the blade as it moved into her, and of necessity I moved with her, keeping her - well, not exactly out of harms way, I was cutting her, after all, but keeping things safe and sensual with just the frisson of pain over it.

I don’t know how long it took. I know the design grew past what I’d originally seen, but even as it told me what was needed, it also told me when it was done. She lay there, smiling, happy, and as I quickly discarded the gloves and knife, she hummed a happy, satisfied little sound.

Well, almost satisfied. Her eyes opened as I put the extra gauze back in the case. “Hey…are those needles?” she asked, seeing my play piercing supplies.

I allowed that they were.

Her smile grew wider. “So…wanna play?”

Tags: body mod, cutting, medical play

If you look at almost any book geared to femdom relationships they will all have a similar phrase somewhere at the beginning of the book:

“You probably bought this book because your husband or boyfriend has expressed interest in submitting to you”.

I’ve never seen a book for submissive men that says:

“You’re probably reading this book because your wife or girlfriend has expressed interest in dominating you”

It might be out there though.

If that book is out there, I hope it makes it to the Oprah book club soon.

There must be a reason why there are many websites and books dedicated to introducing girlfriends and wives to the subject of dominance and few (if any) dedicated to introducing a boyfriend/husband to the idea.

One could argue that a dominant woman wouldn’t need to introduce her guy to it because she would have naturally picked a submissive male for a partner.

Others might say that there are simply more men interested in submitting than there are women interested in dominating.

Yet another friend claims that “women just aren’t as into fucking as much as guys”. She pointed to the number of women charging for sex compared to guys as an example.

Interestingly enough, a different friend suggested I look into becoming a professional submissive. Claiming that some women might hire someone of my talents and desires.

I still can’t imagine charging for something I can’t give away for free.

x-posted from MsNikkiNefarious.com

Con is always a magical experience! This was my first time at FetishCon and it was the most magical of all. </fairydust> But seriously it was an amazing time for me.

I finally got to meet Isabella Sinclaire in person, and I even got to watch over her booth lol. I was asked by the FetishCon folk if I could shoot some pics of the con for them to send to Femme Fatales Magazine, so that was pretty cool. I didn’t book up any shoots before the con, so I figured I would play it by ear. The next few posts are pretty much going to chronicle a bit of what I did there, with pics of course, so stay tuned.

The pic above is of Engel Schrei who is amazingly amazing and was a dream to work with! So there, that’s your sneaky peak of some of the fun I had whilst at FetishCon. I actually got to do a few different photo/rigging sessions with her and of course mErocrush.  In fact mErocrush shot ME, as a model!! But that’s another post and shall be written another time ;)

Spending time with Steve Diet Goedde was great though, it’s been nearly a year since we got to go out partying lol!! I also got to spend the whole time with the folk from Stockroom.com, Andrea their Marketing Mistress is amazingly smart and funny as hell! I even got to borrow a latex dress from Syren to wear to a party, so I guess I was put to work a bit as a model lmao. The most fun was playing with beach balls in the pool with Jean Bardot and Kumi Monster, and then running around the vendor floor snapping pics of Tonya Kay, also known as Creature from Who Wants to be a SuperHero :)

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xvzBmtxYKqc]

That’s all I got for now. I’m sore, tired, and still haven’t packed yet. But I feel amazing! There is more to come, especially the bondage demo with Sabrina Fox for The Latex Store :)

I am very picky about bras. I rarely find one I like. I don’t like bras with thin fabric, because that just makes me nipply. In equal measure, I don’t like bras that are too padded, or even worse, just a pair of big stiff cups. (Worse of all, the situation where there is a space between your breast and the cup). I don’t like bras that are too ruffly, seamy or lumpy so that it can be seen through the material.  I don’t care for bras that jack my boobs up to my chin.  I want to be supported, not harnessed.

I’ve never heard a guy talk about it, but I imagine he’s got to have some opinions on the issue. Let’s say he meets an attractive woman one night and he’s been eyeballing her extremely attractive breasts all night. He can’t wait to get his hands on them and feel them. They go to her place and he lucks out and gets to feel them. He reaches under her shirt and gets his first feel. And….they’re massively padded. Or they’re big stiff cups. Wouldn’t he feel a little disappointed? A little deceived? Even if her actual breasts are quite nice, surely it’s a let down after what he expected, what he was led to believe.

I want a bra that has enough material so I’m not chronically nipply but thin enough so that when someone touches it they can feel my actual breast underneath.  I look and look and sometimes I finally find something that accomplishes this. However, it’s…beige. Or very practical looking. Can’t they make a comfortable, non-nipply, non-overly padded, non-lumpy, non-harnessy, non-cuppy bra and then sex it up a little?  Also, have it cost less than the earth?

Really not too much to ask.

A warning - this story contains non-consensual sex, something I am in no way advocating. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to write about it but the story seemed to go this way and I went along with it. And while I hope this doesn’t really need to be said, I will say it anyway, sex should always be between consenting adults . This is a fantasy. Carry on.

I found that I had underestimated how long I could keep the beast caged. In my mind I see my beast like a demonic panther, a jungle cat juiced on steroids and crack. It pants as it paces, I see fangs dripping with saliva and black eyes glowing as blood-red as the core of burning coals, muscles rippling as it strides until finally it sits utterly motionless, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

When Isabella agreed to come home with me for a final drink and an espresso, I quickly paid the bill. Though I doubted she would, I didn’t want her changing her mind. My car was parked just a few doors down from the bar. My friends tell me I’m crazy and I should just cab around Manhattan but I drive everywhere; I’m sure it’s just another manifestation of my need to control everything. To imagine myself at the mercy of some non-English speaking suicide commando of a taxi driver is anathema to me.

I now, after years of living in an overpriced, cramped Upper West Side apartment, live in Williamsburg. I got in at a good time, just before it turned trendy, when artists could actually afford lofts here. My home has three floors, a garage and a cellar. When I found it, it had been uninhabited for years, an abandoned guitar factory. I knew it was perfect, though at the time I didn’t have abduction and torture in mind. That’s a lie; actually I always have torture somewhere in the recesses of my mind. The cellar gave me the ability to transform my thoughts into reality.

Do you know how easy it is to make yourself a fully equipped dungeon? Between Home Depot and a few trips to a shop on Christopher Street that sells leather restraints which rival the best of British workmanship, the cellar now serves that purpose. If you look closely you can find evidence of my love of BDSM in all rooms of my house, but they tend to be veiled, like the wrought iron chandelier in my bedroom that can either be lit with candles or is anchored in solidly enough for me to restrain you. In the basement there is no such pretext. God, thinking about getting Isabella down there, her clothes tattered and torn, tears streaking her cheeks that still bear my crimson hand print, makes it uncomfortable sitting here next to her. I feel the rumble of the beast as its growl reverberates through my throat.

But I behave. I sit Isabella on my sofa, pour her a glass of Chardonnay and converse with her. I want to know all about her before I strike. My patience serves a purpose. I want to learn her strengths and her weaknesses to better manipulate her later. She tells me of her parents, both born of wealth and powerful in the corporate world, and her eyes fill with sadness. She was constantly attended by a string of nannies and then left to her own devices by the age of fifteen. Given everything that money could buy to placate their guilt at having a child after it became quite clear neither of them had the temperament or time to raise her. A childhood of disappointment is reflected in her eyes. I laugh to myself; she couldn’t make it easier for me to manipulate her. Of course, I don’t have to. I could and will simply overpower her, but brute force bores me after a while, to possess her body and her mind, now that, that is appealing.

I pour us another glass of wine, one that she will never get to finish and I excuse myself for a moment. She smiles up at me and I reflect that this is the last smile I’ll see from her for a long while. Going to my bedroom, I close the door behind me and take a moment before collecting the gear I want and laying it out on the bed: leather wrist and ankles restraints, thick and padded on the inside, studded with heavy steel rings, a collar, a crop, a few canes, clover clamps and a pair of floggers. I leave the knife in my bedside drawer, knowing it will be there when I need it. My erection throbs as I take a final glance at the tools of my depravity. As an after thought, I take a half empty roll of duct tape from my drawer and shove it into the back of my trousers. I smile to myself and close the door behind me, thinking about how she deserves this, how she asked for it with those fucking eyes of hers. I get even harder thinking about how beautiful she’ll look when those eyes reflect terror.

I walk over and stand directly in front of her, keeping my voice calm and level, I know my face betrays no emotion, and I like it that way.

“Stand the fuck up, bitch,” I say staring into her brown eyes and absorbing the look of shock that comes over her face.

“What did you say,” she stammers.

I reach over, grab her hair at the base of her scalp and pull her to her feet. I hold her there for a moment as she struggles, twisting, trying to escape. My grip is so tight she can barely move her head. I look into those brown orbs for a moment, relishing the pain and confusion, before my left hand arcs back and I swing even harder then I expected, my open palm connecting with her cheek and knocking her so off balance that she staggers back and falls onto the sofa and with me on top of her.

Tears form in heavy droplets at the corner of her eyes, as my hold on her hair tightens and I move my left hand to gently cup her throat. I watch her mouth move, but no words escape. Shock has stolen her voice temporarily and I release her hair, reach behind my back and retrieve the roll of tape, tearing off a length that will cover her soft lips and make even her words dependent on my discretion and kindness.

She attempts to push me away; small delicate hands push at my chest ineffectually until I tire of her pathetic efforts and slap her face again.

“Stop struggling, Isabella. From this moment on you will do precisely what I tell you, no matter how hard it may be. Disobedience will be met with punishment. I am fair, Isabella, but I am harsh. I advise you not to push me. Nod if you understand.”

I watch as she shakes her head vigorously up and down, nodding her comprehension. I lean over and kiss the top of her head before rising up and standing in front of her. I have excellent posture; it makes me seem even taller than I am. One particular woman told me that when I stood over her as she was sprawled out on the floor of my cellar, she could think of no other word than looming.

“Good, now stand the fuck up.”

This time, she complies. Standing in front of me, looking down at her feet, she’s afraid to meet my eyes. I reach over and delicately lift her chin, “Look at me unless I tell you not to.” Those damn eyes of her. I want to see everything she feels through them: shame, fear, lust, pain, disappointment, anger, acceptance.

I tell her to stay put, turn my back on her and walk to a chair across the room. I sit and drink her in as she shivers in spite of the heat.

“Remove your dress, lift it over your head and place it on the coffee table.”

She hesitates for a moment, I expected nothing less and I say nothing. It’s too soon to annihilate her though that panther in my soul will not be still until his bloodlust is sated. I control him as well; I want to enjoy her increments. And thanks to my fucking supervisor, I have three weeks before I even have to contemplate leaving her. Three weeks to own and possess her. I am rock hard at the thought and the sight of her, arms raised over her head as she shimmies out of her dress making me picture how she’ll look, arms tied above her head to the whipping post in the cellar, is enough to make me want to explode. I can see my hot come, pearly white against pale skin, covering her beautiful face.

She turns and puts her dress on the table and returns her glance to me.

“Good, Isabella. You’ve earned a reward. Would you like the tape off your mouth?”

It is not evidence of my kindness or generosity, though I want her to think it is, I want to hear her breathing, her sighs, her groans and her screams. I want her to repeat the vilest words. But if the silly bitch thinks it’s a reward, well, so be it.

“Walk over to me,” I say.

She does.

“Kneel between my thighs.”

She does, but her eyes are downcast again. The warmth of her cheek against my leg causes my cock to surge again.

“Look up at me, cunt,” I growl.

She does and her eyes register confusion at my change in tone. She doesn’t know what to expect and she shouldn’t. I want her like this, completely off balance. And this time, it’s all about what I want. In the past, the needs of the women I dated always came first, I have always been a strict and severe man (I hate to use the word dom, I hate buttonholing myself like that) but my focus had been on giving the woman what she needed while taking what I need. It was always about balance. Here, now, Isabella’s needs mean nothing to me. She exists to please me. And that thought makes me feel lighter, like I can almost float.

I ground myself by reaching for an edge of the tape and pulling it off her mouth in one swift tear. She gasps and I see she has cut her lip on her teeth when I slapped her. The tape leaves a livid red rash around her mouth.

“If you want the tape to stay off, Isabella, you will do exactly as I say, when I say it. Your comfort doesn’t matter to me. Not in the least. If it matters to you, well, I have told you what you need to do.”

“Please,” she starts to say and I press a finger to her lips shushing her.

“First rule, cunt, you do not speak unless directed to do so. Whimper, scream, moan all you like, but no talking. Do you understand?”

A whisper – “Yes.”

And so here she is, in one of the many positions I had imagined her. Kneeling at my feet, dressed only in a black bra and black lace panties, my thighs pressed against her upper arms. I slide forward so that I am at the very edge of the chair and push her face against my erection.

“Feel that. That will soon be in every orifice of your body. My cock will penetrate your pretty mouth, your slick cunt, your ass. Think about it, Isabella, the head of my cock pushing into that tight little ass of yours.”

I am rewarded by her muffled whimpering as she tries to shake her head no.

“Open your mouth. Swallow my cock through my trousers. Do a good job, bitch,” I say as I recline back a bit to enjoy her mouth. Her breath and saliva soak through my pants as she attempts to please me.

I abruptly stand, knocking her backwards onto her ass. I loom over her and a look of apprehension fills her eyes as I extend my hand down and help pull her to her feet. I place one hand on her throat, watching those brown eyes widen as I squeeze just a bit, and the other hand reaches insider her bra. My fingers assault her nipple, pulling and twisting it so hard that I won’t be surprised if it bruises. She gasps and I hush her, my eyes never leaving hers, enjoying, fuck relishing the pain I see there.

My best laid plans change right there and then. Those eyes, fuck the bedroom, I want her in my dungeon. I want her cuffed to my handmade St. Andrews Cross, naked and shivering in the perpetual damp. I release her, tell her to turn around and place her hands behind her back. She obeys beautifully. I grip her wrists in one hand and push her to the cellar door.

Of course there are lights but I leave them off. I know my way and having her stumble, I won’t let her fall, reinforces her dependence on me. And it makes me so fucking hard. A win-win situation. At the bottom of the stairs, I release her for a moment and unlock the door to the dungeon, turn on the light and stand back allowing her to enter before closing door again. Her eyes fill with tears as she takes it all in; the cross, the whipping post, the high back wood chair with heavy iron rings attached to the arms and legs, the spanking bench, the rings embedded in the floor and walls, and the array of whips and canes displayed on the wall.

“Oh god,” she cries, “please, please just…..”

I can’t help but smirk as I cut her off, “Just what, bitch? Let you go? Do you really believe that’s an option?”

The beast is hungry, so damn ravenous, he needs to be sated or at least have a snack to tide him over. The taste of blood, sharp and metallic, will suffice to quench his thirst; but just a taste. I know I’ll have to hold myself back but I need to have a little, I deserve it for my patience.

I push her over to the cross I constructed, a simple X design, bolted together in the center. I like the look of ancient things, all the hardware is old, no stainless steel for me but iron rings that I scoured flea markets, salvage and junk yards to find. The only steel is on the leather restraints that are fastened to the cross. I gently remove her platinum watch and place it safely out of the way on the long wooden trestle table I found at a barn sale upstate. Next, I wrap the thick leather snugly around her delicate wrists and test to make sure they’re secure.

Her legs are trembling so beautifully by the time I bend to attach her ankles in similar fashion. When she is secure I step back to admire her; long ebony hair flows over one side of her face like when I first saw her, but her hands are unavailable to brush the liquid strands back. Her skin is so beautifully pale against her black lingerie. I shut my eyes for a moment and contemplate that pristine skin laced with red slash marks from my newest cane. I take a deep centering breath, remind myself to enjoy her in increments and open my eyes.

“You look stunning, Isabella. Being so helpless and afraid makes you look even lovelier.”

She merely sobs in response making my erection twitch.

I walk over to a large chest, open the lid and am treated to my collection of knives. I chose one with a long steel shaft that is perfectly weighted in my hand. It catches the light and Isabella’s attention.

As I get closer to her, she struggles against her bonds fiercely. I am glad to see she has some fight in her, so far she has been a lamb; she no doubt believed her compliance would spare her, but presented with the evidence that this isn’t the case, she fights.

And while I am glad to see she has it in her, I want it quashed at the moment. I slide the knife under one strap of her bra and then the other, a mere flick of my wrist cuts through them. I do the same to the sides of her panties, tugging the lacey fabric along her slit, enjoying how she squirms as I let it massage her clit by sliding the scrap of her panties back and forth before pulling them free and exposing her shaved pussy. Her aroma fills my nostrils and it takes all my strength not let myself dip my tongue into her sweetness. Increments, I remind myself.

Then I return to her bra. I slide the knife under the center, between her breasts and when I cut through the fabric there, I let the blade nick her skin, a shallow enough cut, but deep enough to weep a thin line of blood, and am treated to a rapid intake of breath followed by tears that now flow silvery down her cheeks. I look up at her eyes, wide and terrified, and lick the tears from her cheeks. My lips find her mouth but she turns her head away and surprises me with a loud shout, “No.”

I hold the blade to her throat and softly ask her if she thinks that a wise decision.

“Fuck you,” she spits at me.

I have to say I am impressed with her spirit, still I can’t have this. I place the tip of the knife at her nipple.

“Your choice,” I whisper, “your choice. Your lips or your nipple. I want your decision now.”

The air barely stirs as the words escape her mouth.

“Louder. Loud enough so that I can hear you.”

“My lips.”

“Be polite, Isabella, It’s in your interest to be polite. Now say it again.

I know I’ve got her now; I see hate and fear both clearly written on her face and in her angry eyes but her fear wins. Her instinct for self preservation wins.

A whisper again – “My lips…..please.”

I kiss her, despite the fact that I’d like it louder, I only have so much patience and I want to taste her. Her lips are dry but they yield to mine, becoming softer as my tongue invades her mouth and wraps around hers. I take a step back and look at my conquest displayed so lewdly; her bottom half bare, her bra falling away from her heavy tear drop shaped breasts, aureoles a soft cotton candy pink, nipples erect from the chill and fear, and the blood that flows from the cut between them slowly crawling down her taut belly.

The blood calls to the animal inside of me and I press my lips to her wound and let the tip of my tongue trace the line all the down to her belly.

“Look at me, Isabella. Look into my eyes,” I say as I kiss her, never letting my eyes leave hers, letting her taste the blood that stains my lips.

“We have just begun,” I say as I make my way to the table and light the stub of a candle that remains in the candlestick.

I head to the door and shut the lights.

“Where are you going,” she asks in a voice betraying panic. I know she has seen how low the candle is and is trying to determine how much time she has before the cellar goes dark. Yes, I am that cruel, though I would never have cut off her nipple. It’s all about playing the odds, and I am excellent at calculating such things. I knew she’d never choose such mutilation over a kiss.

I take a final look at her, falling under the spell of those eyes that reflect the golden radiance of the candle, and then I close the door behind me, only lingering long enough to hear her sweet voice begging me to come back, please come back before I head up the stairs.

A while back I was sitting at my desk job, bored, and decided to read an article on this cool technique for running meetings called “Open Space Technology.” It was based on the knowledge that, at any conference, convention, or structured meeting, the most productive stuff happens in the spontaneous gatherings outside the planned events. The group that huddles in the hall, that goes out for coffee, that sparks a conversation in between the structured speakers.

The “Unconference,” as it was proposed by the business & tech geeks who founded it, was an attempt to have nothing but those kinds of moments. To come up with a structure that would be self-organizing, self-running, and see what came of it.

“Huh,” I remember thinking. “Wonder if that would work for a kink event?” And like any good top, I decided to experiment on my friends. I chose the catchy title of “Graydancer’s Ropetastic Unconference Extravaganza,” (aka the GRUE) and, well, the rest was history.

Since then we’ve had GRUE’s in Madison, WI, Lansing, MI, Minneapolis, MN and St. Louis, MO. If you plot it on a map it looks kind of like one of those CDC contagious disease forecasters…and we’re about to make it international.

TORO! TORO! TORO-GRUE!

Thanks to my friend the Control Enthusiast, we have a venue, we have time, and we have interest, so we’re throwing a GRUE over the border. You can read about the details here, and we’ll be sure to keep you posted. If you’ve been a participant in a past GRUE - and there are hundreds of you out there, at this point - I’d love to hear what you think of the idea now, long after it’s done. And if you’re interested in knowing more…well, let’s talk. I hear Toronto is very nice in October…

Tags: Graydancer, grue, Rope Bondage

Don’t forget to click on The Obama for President Coupon so that you can get 10% off your next order with VibeReview!

I am a sucker for glass dildos, they are my absolute favorite kind of dildos out there, and that’s saying a lot because I love dildos. Though I have never owned a steel or wooden dildo and I have a feeling I would love them just as much since the main reason I love glass is because of the hardness. I love the way rock hard dildos feel within me: sleek, smooth, and, well, hard. The sensual bulb is no exception.

The Sensual Bulb is only about 4 1/2 inches long, which is somewhat small for a glass dildo, and definitely smaller than I was expecting. This isn’t bad, however, and I’ve found that the length is just about perfect for great g-spot stimulation, the bulb at the end of the toy can press against the g-spot nicely while the flared base is easy to hold and perfect for maneuvering it to just the right angle.

This toy is also wonderful for anal play as well, as the base is nice and wide (you always want to use toys with bases anally so that they don’t get sucked up inside!) and it’s not too big for those of us who don’t want anything humongous going into our ass. I wouldn’t recommend it for long-term plug wearing because the base is rather wide and could be uncomfortable after a short amount of time, but it is a wonderful toy to use anally. I also generally love glass dildos anally again because of the hardness. Not to mention that glass dildos are non-porous and very easy to clean and disinfect, which is something I look for in any toy I get but especially toys that I want to put up my ass.

The Sensual Bulb is absolutely gorgeous, I love the cute butterfly etched in the base, and the purpley pink color of it, which I believe just adds to the beauty of the toy. All in all The Sensual Bulb is a wonderful shape and perfect for both vaginal and anal play. Obviously since it is not too large it won’t satisfy those who desire a lot of girth to their toys, but if you want to enjoy a well-crafted glass toy that will hit the g-spot or to use anally, this is a wonderful toy to have on hand!

And don’t forget about the The Obama for President Coupon! Who wouldn’t want 10% off?

Tags: anal sex, dildos, g-spot, glass, Glass dildos, Reviews, Scarlet Lotus, Sex Toy Reviews, vibereview

Hush now dont cry
Wipe away the teardrop from your eye
Youre lying safe in bed
It was all a bad dream
Spinning in your head
Your mind tricked you to feel the pain
Of someone close to you leaving the game of life
So here it is, another chance
Wide awake you face the day
Your dream is over…or has it just begun?

Theres a place I like to hide
A doorway that I run to in the night
Relax child, you were there
But only didnt realize it and you were scared
Its a place where you will learn
To face your fears, retrace the tears
And ride the whims of your mind
Commanding in another world
Suddenly, you hear and see
This magic new dimension

I-will be watching over you
I-am gonna help you see it through
I-will protect you in the night
I-am smiling next to you…in silent lucidity

If you open your mind for me
You wont rely on open eyes to see
The walls you built within
Come tumblng down, and a new world will begin
Living twice at once you learn
You7re safe froom pain in the dream domain
A soul set free to fly
A round trip journey in your head
Master of illusion, can you realize
Your dreams alive, you can be the guide but…

Tags: commUNITY, fundraising, Lochai, Margaret Mead, NCSF, raffle, weam

As many of you may know, particularly from awesomeness like the Team Gina Butch/Femme Music Video, the history of the Butch identity is tied in with blue stars on the wrist. Because of various reasons that prevented them from expressing their true identity, many Butches got blue stars tattooed on the inside of their wrists to show, in a slightly secret way, that they were queer, and identified as Butch. Nowadays, many Butches I know and have met (and have oogled from across the room at the local dyke bar) are resurrecting this tradition, tattooing one or more blue stars upon their wrists and arms. I think this is hot, sexy, historical (which IS hot and sexy) and is awesome.

However, I think the Femmes are missing out. As a Femme who almost always gets read as “a straight, alternative girl,” I’m constantly looking for ways to out myself in conversation, so the cute Butches, bois, transmen, etc, realize that I’m queer and flirting, and just just straight and striking up conversation. I have a glass rainbow pendant that I wear, I got to dyke bars, I slip my identity into conversations. But why can’t we Femmes have a symbol of our identity, a symbol that shows others (at least those in the know) a little about our identity.

I propose a spiral (a simple example is above). There are many reasons; it’s a basic concept, that can be changed and altered to fit the personality of each Femme getting it tattooed. It’s pretty (I *am* a Femme!). It’s a simple concept, but also slightly complicated (more than a circle, or a triangle, or _____). Just like Femmes; we’re a simple idea, but with a lot more depth and complicatedness behind our hottness.

I mentioned this on Sexuality Happens a while ago. I know several other Femmes that said they’d do this if I could get it off the ground. So yeah. Who is in? Who would get a small spiral tattooed on their wrist to display and embrace their Femme identity?

-Essin’ Em

Tags: butch/femme, Essin' Em, femmes, gender, Queer, tattoos

I wrote Isabella’s Eyes quite awhile back. Dark, dangerous and forbidden, It remains one of my personal favorites. Though I completed sixteen chapters, I never finished it. I hope that by publishing it here, re-reading and editing as I go, and getting new feedback, I’ll be motivated to write what has been in my head for so many months.

Her eyes are what drew me to her in the first place; deep brown orbs flecked with gold that reflected the candlelight whenever she bent over the bar, an emerald ring surrounded her irises. I had never seen eyes like those and I am a man who studies these things. They were so brilliantly white, and the contrast between that pure whiteness and her inky pupils, so fully dilated in the dim of the bar, was hypnotizing. I had been watching her from across the bar for about half an hour - watching as her impatience grew each time she glanced at the delicate platinum watch encircling her fragile wrist. I watched her eyes when she picked up her silent cell phone and then placed it back on the bar, each progressive time with a louder thud. I liked that she was impatient. It made me think of the ways I could play off her edginess, delightfully torment her.

She was stunning all around; about five foot seven in her heels which added a good three inches, her body a rolling landscape of soft peaks flowing smoothly into the plain of her belly, the delta of her mound outlined where her simple black jersey dress stubbornly clung, her repeated tugging making it cling even more persistently adding to her irritation, hips that flowed voluptuously from a waist tiny enough for me to wrap my hands around. Her raven hair, a glossy sheet of onyx, fell straight down her back ending just above her ripe ass. I could see that she avoided the sun, though she didn’t look unhealthy, far from it, while very pale, her skin glowed from deep within. I knew that running my hands down that luscious thigh would feel as if I was stroking a length of velvet.

No one had spoken to her since she arrived, her impatience, her aloof beauty, the fact that she was quite clearly waiting for someone no doubt made lesser men keep their distance. She first looked at me with her hair obscuring one of those mesmerizing eyes, until she brushed it from her face, getting it momentarily snared on a ragged edge of a long crimson fingernail. Then both her eyes fixed on me. She took me in, evaluated and dismissed me in that one brief glance. Her eyes clouded with disinterest as she politely refused my offer to buy her a drink with a simple, no thank you, as if those were all the words she could bother to spare. It made me think of all the words I could make her say; words that would be so damn hard for her to utter, but she would, oh yes, she certainly would whether to avoid more pain or in the hope of some ambiguous reward.

I’m a good looking man by all accounts, tall, six foot three and athletic, dark hair and darker eyes. I work hard, I play harder. I turned thirty-four a month ago. I am a physician, though I chose research over working with patients. I am smart and charming. But my charm can rapidly turn and with equal ease I am quite capable of eviscerating you with one sentence. I could be called a metro-sexual and I take no issue with that. I like things in order. My clothing, my hair, and my exercise program all reflect my need to maintain a certain image. I am always in control. I don’t take rejection well. And I am a sadistic bastard. I control it well, as I do everything else, but there is no escaping it.

Schadenfreude; I derive pleasure from the misfortune of others. I have been this way for as long as I can remember. I don’t torture cats or drown puppies. My sadism doesn’t work that way. I like it to be personal. I don’t take joy from natural disasters, earthquakes, tornados, tsunamis, but you won’t find me shedding any tears either. There is life and there is death. Simple really, the strong survive and sometimes even the strong are felled by the hand of God. Still it’s mainly survival of the fittest and so I keep myself very fit.

If you are my friend I will no doubt hurt you eventually. Most chose to remain friends; I am almost pathologically loyal. I will be there for a friend who needs me even when it’s to my own detriment. But there is a price and that price is pain and hurt. The degrees vary with how much I love you. The more I love you, the more I’ll hurt you. And get off on it, but I’ll also be there to comfort you afterwards.

I walked nonchalantly back to my former spot at the bar but inwardly I was raging. I felt the red storm rising inside me as its crimson clouds encroached and began to obscure the landscape of my vision. This was the first night of my forced vacation. After a year and a half of working non-stop, my superior had firmly insisted that I take three weeks – NOW. Seeing her had taken my mind off the fact that I had only planned to use the time to do some renovations in my townhouse. I enjoy working with my hands, it helps to bleed off my rage. And now that bitch had awakened the slumbering dragon and my rage was stronger then it had been in years.

While I may be a sadist, I have always practiced my craft on willing victims. The wild, wide eyed looks I elicit when I place a lemon, salt and a blade on a tray are forever etched into my psyche and still make me smile. But now, I was feeling something very different.

That bitch and those fucking eyes.

If her look had been less reductive perhaps my reaction wouldn’t have been so visceral. I have always been able to maintain my logic even while the storm within me rages at gale force but this time I felt my sanity get picked up in those winds and tossed about like a cork in a raging sea. I was at the mercy of the darkness and it was consuming me, compelling me to act. Not voices in my head, but my own voice coming from my blackest center, telling me how much she damn well deserves it, deserves every moan I can already hear emerging from her pouty, parted lips, every bruise seemingly painted on with the jewel tones of a winter’s sunset; amethyst, sapphire and onyx.

I continued to watch her, though she never noticed. I watched as her phone rang, playing the repetitive notes of some pop song. I watched the line of her mouth harden as the bad news was related. I watched her slam her phone shut and fling it disgustedly to the bar. I watched and I took in her disappointment as I decided how best to approach her.

Striding back to her side, I flashed my million dollar smile, the smile that so well hides the corruption of my soul, “You’ve taken too much care to look ravishing tonight to be let down,” I said softly, “have a drink on me, it won’t make it better but it won’t make it worse either.”

First she looked as if she would refuse, her anger overflowing and staining her civility, but I kept my smile painted on and she finally gave in with an exasperated, “Why not.”

I motioned to the bartender for refills and got a bit closer to her but still maintained enough space not to make her feel crowded. I had already decided this bitch was going home with me, one way or another, but that willingly would be much less trouble. Once I had her safely ensconced in my townhouse, well, that’s when the willingly would end.

I have had years of practice, of being able to refine the way I hide the crimson tide that rises in ever increasing waves until it floods my soul. I can feel it rising from my toes, to my groin, to my chest until finally my vision relents to this tidal wave of scarlet. Until the moment I strike, I am able to smile at you so affably you’d never know the turmoil in my gut.

Talking to her was easy once I breached that wall she surrounded herself with. I learned her name – Isabella, call me Isa. I told her no; Isabella has a regal sound more befitting her. She looked at me as if I was feeding her a line, which I was, but she smiled nonetheless. Actually I had my own reasons. Say Isabella. Let it slowly run over your tongue, savor it. It’s a name I can feast on. I would be taking no shortcuts. I was ravenous and I was gluttonous.

I learned enough about her to make her utterly comfortable with me. I lied to her and believed my own lies as they rolled effortlessly out of my mouth. “You’re a teacher, Isabella? You love working with children. Amazing. I’m a pediatrician. I would never want to do anything else.”

We had each had another two drinks, before I asked her to come home with me. Those fucking eyes of hers were less focused due to the alcohol; they regarded me with tenderness. And why shouldn’t they? I had come to her rescue. I had stroked her ego. I had found more and more points of commonality, prevaricated though they may be. I had been the consummate gentleman, never touching her anywhere but on her arm.

I knew she’d agree. As I said earlier, I am a good looking, urbane man; women like me. At least at the beginning.

And with Isabella, I was going to allow her to like me for as long as my beast could be contained.

I figured she had another hour.

As I read through other blogs, I have to say I loved this post about the Evolution of Subtleties by Wendy Blackheart.

So I created my own “evolution” of trying to hit on people. You know, at that point where you REALLY want to hook up with someone (whatever that definition of hook up means to you at the time). This is not the approaching people; none of the “so, where do you get your ink done” or “what do those cards mean to you?” This is the “ok, so now that we’re talked a lot/have been dating for a while/just need to have sex” pick up line.

Here is my evolution:

In High School: Hey, want to come watch a movie in my basement? (READ: come over, watch a movie we’ll never actually see because we’re making out the whole time)

College: Hey, want to go to a coffee shop, and wander around the local awesome sex toy shop? (READ: coffee is good for conversation, and if you can’t handle me in a sex toy shop, you can’t handle me. And if you can, it’s good foreplay and we can learn about what each of us likes)

Grad school: Want to come over and see my awesome collection/trunk of sex toys and/or porn? (READ: Come over, look at what I have, tell me what you’re into, and then let’s get it on!)

Current: So, um, what initial would you like to be on my sex blog? (READ: I’m going to write about you, regardless. I’d rather write about us having good communication and hot sex, but otherwise, I’m going to just write to process shit. So choose a letter, damn it!)

Granted, these are not used 100% of the time, and occasionally, I’ve used both. Also, I’ve totally gone to sex toy stores, and shared my sex toy collection with people I didn’t want to fuck. So it’s not completely accurate…but it’s as close as you’ll get.

And I’m am highly amused by this. If only it worked more often ;) I guess at least they’re still better than your stereotypical and tradition pick up lines!

What does your evolution look like?

-Essin’ Em

Tags: amusing, dating, Essin' Em, pick up, Queer

As most of you know this past week sss and I have been very stressed for reasons that we could not talk about at the time. We are now able to share with you what has been going on in our exciting and ever changing life (as most of you know OUR life is NEVER dull…even when we want it to be).

I went for a mammogram at the beginning of August. Two days later I got a phone call that I needed to come back in and have further tests done. They would not tell me why I needed these tests done just that they were necessary. That is when our life got turned upside down, inside out and backwards. I returned early this week (2 different days) for the other tests they needed to do while still waiting patiently. One of the techs at the diagnostic center was nice enough to share with me the previous pictures that had been taken and showed me a circle about the size of a baby finger nail in one of my breasts. This made my whole nightmare a reality. Today was my doctors appointment to talk about results. Guess who did not get any sleep last night? I know lots of women end up with no serious problem, but it is hard to keep yourself together and think positive and not let the “what if’s?” in. That is why we asked you all to send positive thoughts our way.

AND THE NEWS IS……..
The doctor had good news to report today. We do to need to worry about anything at this point. They are fairly certain the spot is just dense breast tissue and she has requested that I return for another mammogram in 6 months so they can compare pictures.

Thanks to everyone for their support through all this.

♀ & sss

Her period started the day after the doctors appointment so PMS combined with a good reason to get emotional and her breasts often get tender and achy during that week, but in those circumstances…well you can just imagine.

I really did try to stay positive and upbeat, but it’s hard not to let your mind wander. Also, neither of us are any good at hiding our emotions from each other. It didn’t matter what we were saying, she could see the worry in my eyes and I could see the fear in hers.

We tried several times to make love during those nine days, but she was only able to come once. It was a small orgasm and she was crying (again) when it finished.

“You don’t touch them like you did before.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It’s so not fair. My boobs are the one part of my body that I really like and now there might be something wrong with them.”

“Everything is going to be fine. I really believe that.” It was dark enough that she couldn’t see my eyes and I managed to keep my voice steady.

“What if it’s not? What if it’s something….bad?” Neither of us have said ‘it’ out loud.

“If you lost a tit, you could borrow one of mine. See, there’s another advantage to being married to a sissy.”

The wait: Interminable. The stress: Palpable.

We took the stairs rather then the elevator after we left the doctors office and she stopped at a landing between floors and threw her arms around me. We kissed long and deep and passionately and I fondled her with great gusto and she was very pleased.

We didn’t h