Home » Personal (Page 3)
Category Archives: Personal
I want to fuck you until your cock is so sore that you beg me not to touch you, for fear that the sweaty touch of my skin against you will arouse you again. I want to laugh, reminding you even as you protest that you have a safeword, and find that you can’t make yourself summon the will to use it as I sit my swollen pussy lips on your face, cumming on your equally swollen lips again and again. I want to hear your agonized groan as your cock inevitably and painfully gets hard again when I stick your fingers inside my pussy and clench around them, tempting you to fuck me again. I want to scream as you finally acquiesce, thrusting your sore cock into my bruised pussy. I want to feel you get harder inside me as the sounds of my screams and the sight of my agonized tears only arouses you further. I want to beg you for your cum, pleading with you to hurry and have mercy on me. I want you to laughingly ignore my pleas, and I want to not quite regret my decision to have asked for this.
The next morning, I want to wake up feeling like you’ve kicked me in the cunt because I’m so sore from your violent fucking. And I want your cock to be harder and swollen from your night’s sleep and from the memory of our pleasures than it was the night before. I want to plead with you to fuck my mouth and spare my pussy. And I want you to do it… For about a minute. I want you to laugh at my wriggling hips as my body betrays my desire even as–no, because–my pussy aches and trembles. I want you to pull out of my mouth without warning and shove your cock inside my pussy. And I want it to hurt you as much as it hurts me, our bodies screaming in pain even as the fleshy wet memory of so much shared pleasure comes rushing back to us. I want you to almost regret your decision, until we both forget how much it hurts. I want to get lost in the hard and unforgiving thrusts of our shared desire, until we are nothing but a pool of panting sweat and cum.
…Until, of course, the pleasure wears off, and we are both left laughing at how much our genitalia hurts.
All I want for Christmas is you.
There’s something kind of tacky about admitting that you want to fuck your ex, isn’t there? Most of my friends’ relationships failed in part because the sex/chemistry was bad. Honestly, in some ways, I envy them that—it sounds easier. But I know I’m not the only person out there whose nipples traitorously harden remembering the earth-shattering sex they had with someone they. Just. Can’t. Get. Along. With.
It feels like some sort of curse. Statistically, humans tend to forget bad things over time. Experimental evidence has shown time and again how perversely cheerfully we remember the past. I would like this to be true of my erotic memories of my ex. I would like to be able to tell myself, “That is an idealization of the past. It wasn’t anywhere near as awesome as you remember it.” Unfortunately, as you may have observed, I have a habit of obsessively chronicling my life (and you never see the hundreds of my journal pages that never find their way to the internet). This meticulous writing tendency permits me the unenviable luxury—which I mostly scrupulously deny myself—of strolling back through my past and confirming that, no, it really was that good, dammit.To keep myself sane, I usually only permit myself to read about my past in a detached way—with even more detachment than I would read about a fictional character’s life, actually. I try to maintain more of the kind of attitude I would keep to if I was going to, say, edit a friend’s novel. And yet, even with that emotional detachment, I irrevocably find that my body aches with memory at a long string of really good nights… afternoons… mornings. Sigh. You get the idea.
It’s pretty telling that I originally started writing this a year ago. I waited that long to post this because I wanted to see if what I wrote was still true after not having slept with him for longer than we slept together. After all, the conventional wisdom is that you can’t hold on to an unfulfilled sexual desire for that long, especially if you’re constantly surrounded by a sexy human buffet. I feel like our culture assures us that the heat of that kind of desire can only persist in some sort of sexual desert (You’ll forget! You’ll get over it! You’ll move on!). It’s not like I wander through life in a state of perpetual dissatisfaction, looking back to my time with my ex-boyfriend as the only time I was sexually fulfilled. Quite the contrary, actually. Up until pretty recently, my life really was a splendid banquet of fuck. None of that makes the memories of what I had with my ex any less mouth wateringly sexy. It was just that good. I am sorry to say that the conventional wisdom proved to be bullshit on this one.
I expect this would be easier if he were a bad person, instead of being absurdly sweet and charming. If he actually broke my heart instead of just being jealous and judgmental and needy, I expect I could have convinced my body a long time ago that that awesome sex—sex we used to joke was “fictional sex” because it felt like sex described in an erotic novel—was fictitious, not merely fictional. But he didn’t really break my heart; he just bruised it to the point where even that goddess-damned sex wasn’t worth staying with him… Oh, but that was a hard call.
I never used to understand why people would keep sleeping with their exes, often over and over again. (And I still don’t understand why they do it with people who were cruel and hurtful). The problem is that for all that there is some overlap, sexual chemistry and relationship chemistry just really aren’t the same thing. One of the sayings in my tribe is “crazy smells good,” by which we mean that the kinds of people who will bring unwanted drama into your life are often exactly the kinds of people that you find most attractive. Sadly, realizing that the person is crazy is no real help for convincing your body that the sex isn’t amazing. And who wants to try to pretend to themselves that a night—and especially a long string of nights—that changed their life didn’t happen? That’s a lot to try to make yourself forget, and I know I don’t want to forget.
Is there a magic solution to this problem? I have a friend who has the same problem, and her solution was to limit herself to only sleeping with her sexy ex once a month. Those are the kinds of improbable solutions that poly people can sometimes indulge in, but fucked if I know what monogamous people do.
One of these days, I’m going to survey people and ask them how many have jerked off while thinking about an ex from more than 2 years ago. I suspect the number is much higher than that lie of conventional wisdom would tell us.
I decided to challenge myself to write “cuddle erotica.” This is what I came up with:
It’s easy to seduce me with kisses… The Right Look… Words of desire whispered into my ears… But you have the right touch, and your cuddles are as effective now as when I first succumbed to them long ago.
When you hug me, my heart doesn’t race; I don’t feel my body trembling with desire; I don’t feel fire or electricity flickering across my skin. I have felt these sensations before with others. But you are not seducing me with that aching trembling flash cotton of desire. You are seducing me with the impossibly sexy comfort of the long steady burn.
From the moment I first let you really touch me, your flesh confidently informed me that our bodies belong together. Though my brain futilely resisted it, your body kindly, but insistently, told me of the corporeal certainty of me it already possessed. Your simple embrace embodied the very idea of carnal knowledge, as if your body had already had a conversation with mine about what I longed for. Even with all our clothes on, laying together, I know now that my flesh wondered suspiciously if you were molding yourself to me, or if you really were so well molded to me that no adjustments were necessary.
Your hugs are a paradox of feeling: firm, but gentle; possessive, but open; desiring, but not insistent; loving, but a little nervous. Ironically, I know that hugging me does not arouse you as it arouses me, and yet I feel your desire down deep in my bones when you embrace me. Whether clothed or naked, when you hold me, in that moment, even if just for a moment, I am yours. Everything else holds still so that I can marvel again at the way you know exactly the way I like to be touched. Yet in my heart, I know that it is much more than just my skin that you are touching so thoroughly. You hold me. You hold… me.
At first I worried that you merely tolerated me twining around you in my habitual sinuous fashion. You gently mocked my perpetual need for constant physical contact. But then I saw you energized from it–a glow in your eyes from sharing space with me. Holding your hand is strangely intimate because it feels like you share your entire body with me when you do. Putting my arm around your fully clothed waist in public feels queerly like an excessive display of affection, as though we are actually standing naked with our entire bodies pressing in the middle of the street. I worry that you will feel over-exposed from these simple caresses, and that you will become tired of my curious, fascinated, and revealing touch. But every time I am afraid that I have outstayed my welcome, and think that surely I must have exhausted your patience with my clinging, you literally pull me back to you. You don’t have to force me to stay, of course. I want to; but I also want to be pulled. I feel captured; but I also feel captivated.
With my arms around you, alternately pillowing my head on your chest, and pillowing your head on mine, I am aware of the simple fact of our bodies. Not only that we have bodies, but that we have bodies. I feel how effortlessly our bodies occupy that space together, in spite of how much our brains fret. My wrist can share your back, your thigh can share my thigh, my knee can share your hip. Our bodies intuitively know and understand a shared language of skin, and their fluent communication would take my breath away if I weren’t so busy being relaxed by it. That sentence of skin to skin creates an entire story that I long to hear whispered and shouted again and again.
Ironically, of course, it is perpetually arousing to be so relaxed. Our lust is cozy because it is so easy, a simple fact of the universe of our mutual space. Your body cleverly charms me into letting down all of my guards, and leads me on with the tantalizing whisper, “you get this from a hug… What could you get from a fuck?”
If you’re into watching bondage, or into watching people being very strange in public, tune in to Morpheous Bondage Extravaganza’s live feed at http://mbeworldwide.com Saturday night! I’ll be rope bottoming at 8:15, 11:30, and 3:15 Eastern Standard Time as IPCookieMonster. I promise I’ll be sexy and pretty for the camera. I’ll also try to write a full report upon my return!
People often wonder how the hell poly people manage that sticky business of fluids. A couple of years ago, my partners and I decided to create an official contract so that we could be comfortable being “fluid-bound” with one another–meaning that we were going to stop using condoms with each other. Since I figured a lot of other people could use a model for creating those sorts of contracts for themselves, I decided to post ours here.
- The “polycule” defined here consists of a fluid-bound group of [partners list].
- For the purposes described here, “fluid-bonding” includes functionally all bodily fluids, both sexual and non-sexual.
- All anal and vaginal intercourse outside the polycule should be protected with barriers.
- All members of the polycule should keep an updated list of people outside of the polycule that they define as “current partners” in a shared google document.
- All members of the polycule should email the shared google group whenever they have anything that could reasonably be defined as sex with someone who is not on their list of “current partners” or in the polycule.
- Any sexual partners of anyone outside the polycule should be aware that anyone within it might ask them about their current testing status and their current partners. And they should be happy about this because it means we value each others’ safety!
- If a condom breaks or goes amiss during intercourse with anyone outside the polycule, it should be immediately reported to all members of the polycule, as should the outside partner’s current testing status, so that subsequent fluid-bonding can be re-evaluated.
- If an unintentional blood-based fluid-exchange occurs (mainly from needles), it should be immediately reported to all members of the polycule for subsequent fluid-bonding re-evaluation.
- The polycule will try to schedule a once-a-month group processing session. If there is nothing to discuss, then we will try to watch a movie together. All processing sessions are to conclude in sex.
- This polycule is not defined as “polyfidelitous”; however, there is an expectation that members will be limiting intercourse with people outside the polycule.
- Members are expected to get screened for STI’s at least once every six months and to check on the testing statuses of any partners outside the polycule.
- This agreement will be re-evaluated and re-negotiated after [date], pending the preferences of all involved, with the default assumption that it will dissolve at that time.
Our culture has a terrible habit of thinking that a relationship is only successful if the couple stays together until they die. You and I have said that we think we’re entitled to one successful relationship at least every 5 good years. That means we’ve had 3 good relationships together so far, with 1 of them as a pair of kids dating, 1 as a pretty normally married young adult couple, and 1 of them as a zanily married not-very-grown-up couple. I love the life we have built together, and I thank the gods constantly for the blessing you have been in my life. I hope that I am fortunate enough to have a lot more successful relationships with you; I certainly intend to. I don’t really like the idea of being old, but I hope with all my heart that if the gods are kind enough to let me grow old with you, we’ll be the crotchety old people shocking everyone else with the indecent amounts of fun we have. I am a better person because of who you are and what you bring to my life. I know of no better way to say “I love you” than that.
I didn’t believe in marriage when I met you, and I still have a lot of doubts about the institution as a whole. But I believe in the life we have made together, eccentric as it is.
Happy 10th anniversary, husband. May our very different gods continue to compromise and bless our peculiar union.
I love you.
In one of the final scenes of the classic kinky rom com Secretary, Maggie Gyllenhaal’s character tries to prove herself to the man she wants to become her Dom by remaining seated and unmoving for… a really long time. She’s haunted by various hallucinations while she sits there, one of whom asks, “Lee, are you doing something sexual right now?” Fiercely, she responds, “Does this look sexual to you?!” The question is left rhetorical in the film, and I’ve never been satisfied with my own answer to it. She’s sitting, fully dressed in her wedding dress, swaying with exhaustion, and the film even shows her peeing herself at one point. But my gut response to her question has always been an uncomfortable and unsatisfying, “Well, maybe-sort-of-kind-of-a-little-yeah.” I found the question so thought-provoking that I made it one of my research questions for my project on BDSM. I also meandered around the question a bit recently when I was interviewed by The People of Kink
But this post isn’t about other people, or what BDSM means to other people, or how different BDSM microcultures construct sex and sexuality. I just spent the last month frantically assembling that shit. This post is about me, dammit. Because the whole time I was putting that darned presentation together, I kept asking myself how would I answer the question–is BDSM/kink sexual/about sex–if I interviewed myself. And this post is what I would say.
When I first entered the Scene several years ago, it never in a million years crossed my mind that kink could be anything other than sexual. At that point, kink was all about sex for me: what could make me cum harder, what could make my partners cum harder, what could make them aroused and wanting to fuck me? Whether playing with violet wands, getting poked with needles, getting my clothes cut off with knives, or scratching people with my claws: it was really all about sex for me. The first time I got suspended in rope, I got fucked with a glass dildo; the third time I got suspended, it was so I could fuck a girl in the air. I really had no idea there were kink events that forbade sex, and I couldn’t really wrap my brain around the idea that there were BDSM activities that people engaged in for reasons other than sex. Once I started talking to people who claimed that they engaged in BDSM for non-sexual reasons, my brain tended to give them patronizing looks even as the rest of me sometimes tried to hang on to a poker face. Why the fuck were they doing this shit if not for sex?
Then one night I flogged a guy I wasn’t attracted to just because my fingers were itching to beat the crap out of someone. It was sexy to hurt someone like that, but I don’t know that I could really call it sexual. It made me excited, but I couldn’t really say that it made my clit hard. Pretty much the same thing happened a few weeks later when I got tied up in a really uncomfortable position for the first time: it was sexy and fun and exciting, but I couldn’t really say it got me hard. In both cases, the exhiliration I experienced wasn’t that different from doing other things that I find really sexy that are physically challenging, like poledancing or dancing with fire. The analogy is extremely apt for me: I’ve done competitive poledancing, which didn’t get my clit hard at all–it’s art and an athletic competition; it’s sensual and fun, but that’s it. But I’ve poledanced at kink events, and it’s an entirely different experience that leaves my pussy smelling like I’ve just been fucked. Ditto with firedancing. For both poledancing and firedancing, I will readily admit that I’ve jerked off fantasizing about doing those things in specific contexts, but they certainly aren’t inherently sexual. And I’ve learned to think of a lot of kink activities the same way.
Conversely, I’ve done scenes that I didn’t expect to get my clit hard that did. One of the first fetish photography shoots I did was mostly just me, naked, doing sensual and sexy things that I enjoy for three enthusiastic photographers. Totally unattracted to anyone there, I was startled when I got dressed later and realized that I smelled like I had been having sex. I didn’t just smell like I was aroused; I smelled like I had actually been having sex. The same thing happened when I just observed at a kinky wrestling party (I reeeeeally like to watch sexy people wrestle sexily…). Then another time, a couple of years ago, I bought a single-tail, and my friend InspiredIniquity gamely volunteered to let me hit him with it, even though I’d never wielded one before. I was really a downright lousy whip top, and he was being very good about letting me know what I was doing wrong and what I needed to modify, and he and I were just friends… but somehow, whip practice devolved into something that felt supiciously like a scene that definitely left both of us panting. There was absolutely nothing overtly sexual about what we were doing–we were standing a good 3 feet apart–and yet both of us left with hard-ons. We both like single-tails a lot, but much more was happening than a shared kink: there was chemistry in that interaction that had nothing to do with the whip. (He quipped that he could have been teaching me to sautee vegetables, and it still would have been arousing, because that’s what the best chemistry does).
The weirdest point of convergence for me happened just a couple of weeks ago at Winterfire. I arrived there wicked horny because my pre-birthday orgy got genitalia-blocked by a snowstorm. I started asking around for “Trouble” (it’s my generic term for kink and/or sex), and B offered me rope. Now, a sensible person would have said, “Could there be sex first, please?,” but I’m not always a sensible person. I’m a spoiled slut, and I’ve learned that sometimes, sexy, weird, and delightful things come my way when I don’t ask for what I want (it’s not a strategy I’d recommend to other people. I live a strange life). The thing was, I’d never done a rope scene with him when I was that horny since he and I started sleeping together, and I wanted to see what it would feel like. And…alkalgohotgih… that’s not a typo. That’s my brain on rope. It’s just a scramble of unwords…
He was fully clothed and I was still in my underwear, but whatever it was we were doing felt far more intimate than sex. I’m not normally a twue rope slut (people who space out just from the pleasures of rope on their skin), but the moment his ropes touched my flesh, I felt like I was being completely encased in his body. I started spacing out from a simple TK, which is a tie I don’t even like very much. In no time, I found myself wishing that he would choke me, and without me ever saying a word, he did. I don’t really have a clue what that tie consisted of. It started out with me hanging low, then hanging higher, then higher still, with my back got arched at some fairly outrageous angle. But while I usually let myself have an energy orgasm in rope like that, this time, I kept holding back, torturing myself with energy and desire and letting myself be relatively gently tortured with rope and manipulated desires that I couldn’t control. By the time he let me down onto the ground, still very tied, I found myself desperately grinding my crotch into the top of his boot. I never did quite orgasm from all of that, but when all was said and done, I felt like rope had been a dizzying and intense substitution for sex. “Substitution” is a major disservice there. Maybe I should say that it was a dizzying and intense “upgrade.”
…And so that is the gamut of my experience with the relationships between sex and kink: from obviously kinky sex to not particularly sexy kink to kink that just plain felt like sex. To this day, 99% of my non-rope bottoming is sexual, and the idea of taking most forms of pain without getting to cum is just awful, and I can take a lot more pain when I get to cum. However, about 80% of my rope bottoming is not-very-sexual (although I usually have energy orgasms from it, which certainly calls the “non-sexual” part into question). Pretty much 100% of my switching is sexual. I actually mostly refuse to wrestle people I’m not at least minimally sexually involved with because it feels too much like sex to me (although I feel the same way about most forms of partner dancing as well). At the same time, about 75% of my (unswitchy) topping is not-very-sexual. I’ve even made people cum by hurting them without getting a particularly sexual thrill out of the experience (although it was certainly enjoyable for other reasons).
Does it look sexual to me? Much of the time, yes. But so does wrestling, massage, most forms of dance, many sung duets, and lots of other creative and sensual things that people do together. I still mostly do kink because of sex and because of the intimate and sexual connections I feel with people when I do it. Even ostensibly “non-sexual” scenes almost always lead me to just go off and fuck somebody else. When I kink with people I have sexual chemistry with, the scenes pretty much always make me obviously aroused; when I kink with people I’m not sure if I have sexual chemistry with, the scenes often leave me feeling vaguely aroused; and when I kink with people I’m definitely not attracted to, the scenes often leave me feeling excited, but not particularly aroused. So I guess my final answer my own question is: kink isn’t inherently sexual, but it’s mostly sexual for me most of the time.
Some cocks cast a long shadow…
My husband tied the strap-on on our favorite droid.
So it’s time for a good old fashioned peeps dungeon. Every kinky household needs one of these, right?
My husband and I made this a crazy labor of love awhile back. There’s a St. Andrew’s Cross, a bondage table, a metal suspension rig with a peep in a gas mask, a bondage wheel, a wooden suspension rig, a metal cage, and a peep in saran wrap bondage. I made silly peep pin-up pics and a leather daddy peep for the background just to add color. This was definitely the most entertaining arts and crafts project I’ve ever done. Even more fun than the threesome barbies.