quizzical pussy

I like to think of this moment in my life as mirroring the nascent winter, when legends say the sun dies and is reborn.

It’s probably not, in actuality, quite so dramatic.

I feel dormant, but changes are afoot. I’m exhausted and restless, quiet and crouching. I’m an irritable, hopeful malcontent. I need a nap and a pick axe, among other things. I have a lot of needs, you see.

For most of my like I’ve felt like it was by far the most shameful thing of all to need things. Anything. Almost as horrible was being noticed.

In seventh grade I was supposed to go on a class field trip, which probably cost about twelve dollars. I decided that instead of asking my mom for the money to go I would just skip it. My family wasn’t desperately poor, but I remember worrying about money a lot as a child. My parents had so many kids, and what if they really couldn’t afford us?

My first period teacher noticed that I hadn’t turned in my permission slip and asked me about it. I shyly (I did nearly everything shyly in those days) told him I wasn’t going. Later that day the school counselor called me in to see her, and it became increasingly clear that “I’m not going” wasn’t a valid position to take. Why wasn’t I going? I answered honestly that I didn’t want to bother my parents for the money.

The last thing I wanted, in the entire world, was to be a bother to anyone.

The counselor told me they had a special field trip fund for students in need. I stammered out that it wasn’t necessarily that we didn’t have the money, understand, but things were kind of tight and I didn’t want to add to expenses if I didn’t have to. She assured me that she understood, and that’s exactly what the fund was for. I looked on in horror as she produced a permission slip and told me to just get it signed; the money part was taken care of. My plan to bother no one and skip the field trip had completely backfired and somehow I had scammed this woman into giving me twelve charity dollars.

I went on the trip, but it felt wrong. Between calling a great deal of attention to myself, miscommunicating my situation horribly, and possibly taking money from someone who needed it much more, things hadn’t quite gone the way I’d planned.

This is pretty much what happens whenever I ignore my needs, neglect to ask for things, try to make things smooth for everyone at my own expense. I make a mess of things. I steal twelve dollars. Every time. I am only recently realizing how reliably this happens.

So lately I’m feeling that quite a few things in my life (not the least of which being the way I treat myself) are going to change. Because I need them to. Because I’m ready. Because I’m restless. Because I am the sun returning triumphant from the land of ice and shadows.

Or I could be. You don’t know.

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Last Friday I went to my first BDSM play party. It was pretty much nothing like I expected, except that there wasn’t a complete lack of leather. As you may remember, I totally saw the leather coming. For the record, I wore jeans and a tank top under a hoodie. Arousing!

But I was expecting to arrive, feel awkward because I didn’t know anyone there very well, hang back and politely watch people tie each other up and whatnot, and maybe learn something about what kinds of BDSM play might appeal to me at an unspecified future time when I could experiment. My prime directive: not to watch them creepily.

I mean, I knew I was going to a place that was amazingly welcoming and fun, and everyone I’d met there at more casual, non-play events had been awesome. But I tend to just assume that my patented blend of social clumsiness and assuming people aren’t going to like me will pretty much always carry the day.

What actually happened is that before that party ended I was topless(!) and had a sexy welt on my back, courtesy of a man from who does things with whips that could make Indiana Jones weep from envy. I’d been set on fire several times. I’d discovered that knife play is probably going to be one of my favorite things ever. I’d participated in what I can only describe as a violet wand electro-orgy.

Perhaps the weirdest part, I was completely comfortable throughout. Eerily comfortable. Even the having-my-boobies-out part. I was nestled in some magical envelope of kinky trust that I truly didn’t expect to find anywhere, and certainly not at my first play party. People kept pulling out new toys and trying them on one person, and someone else would ask “Ooh. Do me next?”, eyes all bright. Giggling would intermingle with the hissing recoil of strikes, slaps, and sighs and harsher sounds of pleasure. It wasn’t too super serious. It didn’t feel like there was all this inaccessible, Byzantine protocol in play. It was glee and exploration and camaraderie. And yes, respect. And, full disclosure, I may have had an orgasm or two, just from the kind of pain that isn’t truly pain, but intensity.

I’d spent the evening, night, and very early morning with people who somehow felt like friends already. That would have been enough, but the delicious sensations didn’t hurt.

Er, they did hurt. Kind of. Just in a very surprising way.

And after all this, I lay in my bed back at home completely wired. My brain was crackling, mildly euphoric. Just a couple hours from dawn, I couldn’t get to sleep. Not until I rode out the strange, jittery aftermath of something. Something I knew I’d already begun to crave.

And I admitted once and for all that there exists a not insignificant chance that I might, in fact, be kinky.

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Hey, there! It being Tuesday and all, what do you say we take a look at some internet confessions? That seems like it could be pretty sweet.

There’s this guy. We work together. He’s a nice guy but because I’m very shy and socially awkward, we never talk. A couple of weeks ago I noticed his body. I have known him for several months and yet it was one of those moments I never believed in. When you look at someone and suddenly realise… ”sweet!”.
He’s not my type. He’s the opposite of every guy I’ve ever (wanted to) shag(ged). And I don’t notice him the same way. I don’t want to jump him. It’s not the same feeling.
Instead, I want to kiss. I want to lie somewhere and kiss. Him. And talk. Nothing else. The thought of having sex with him doesn’t do it for me. And believe me, I’ve tried, just to make it a little less weird.
Just thinking these things, of how I want to kiss him, of how I definitely want there to be strawberries and cream involved (random, huh?), it feels dirty. Far more dirty than thinking about shagging that really hot guy who works a couple of desks down. And more intense. I want to kiss this guy more than I want to shag that really hot guy. Even if there are no orgasm involved.
Strange.

I have a theory that sexual orientation is much, much more complicated and gloriously varied than most people have the time or inclination to think about. This would be an example.

I hope you get a chance to make out. I hear that office holiday parties are good for hook-ups, so if that’s not just TV and movies making shit up like they do, you have a little time to screw your courage to the snogging place.

I like to play with myself after good p in v sex. Because really, what’s better than orgasms than more orgasms? There’s something awesome about getting another while he’s in the kitchen pouring our next drink, and I’m in the living room continuing the fun.

I can find absolutely no flaw in your logic here.

My wife asked me to fuck her.
In our pool.
In the backyard.
Outdoors.
At 4 p.m.
In full view of the neighbors.
Neither of us came, but it was enthralling nonetheless. She did, however, follow it up with jerking me off in the shower. Then later that night she jerked me off while massaging my asshole. The next morning I made her scream like a pot star while licking her clit. It was a GREAT weekend.

This sounds hot. I’m clean distracted, though, trying to decide whether I should assumptively correct “pot star” to “porn star”, or if it’s possible that the former is a real thing and I should get with the times. Best to just leave it.

I have a drama I want to figure out on my sex blog, only I can’t, because the guy involved reads it. AIIIIIEEEEEE!

I never realized how dependent I was on the blog for my processing until I suddenly couldn’t have it.

Sometimes I wish I could just write exactly what’s going on with my love/sex life, and be completely honest, and more vulnerable, and a hell of a lot dirtier on my sex blog. But at this point way too many people I know read it, and there’s just no way. So I really feel you on this.

ConTuesday to the rescue? I hope?

I’m the girl who’s having an affair with the guy who’s 8 years younger. I guess I should say ’had’ since I haven’t seen him in 3 months. I’ve still had more sex this year with him than with my husband. Is it bad that I’m counting?

You know, there was a time when women weren’t allowed to learn math at all! So no, it’s never bad to count. But I hope that either you and your husband have caught up by now or that you don’t mind the disparity. I hate to see people feeling stuck in sexually frustrating relationships, and I hope that’s not you right now.

Now go here, everyone, and spill your sexy secrets!

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I’ve been researching lucid dreaming lately. Why? Because sex in space, that’s why. And other awesomely impossible things that I will totally get to do whenever I feel like it.

I read somewhere that the first step is keeping a dream journal, which I always thought sounded all New Age and twee, but the reasoning turns out to be sound. If your brain knows that you’re going to be writing down what’s happening in your dreams it will start paying more attention to remembering them, and attentive dreaming is only a few rungs down from lucid dreaming.

As someone who can barely ever remember her dreams, my dream journal entries so far are each only one or two sentences long, and I’ve only been able to write anything at all for four days in the past seven.

So far, I have:

14 Oct 2011

I had a feeling I couldn’t trust the red blotchy stone.

16 Oct 2011

A snarky commando guy was annoying. Someone was attacking us.

17 Oct 2011

Party planning of some kind, possibly with high school marching band director. I sucked at cake decorating.

And, my personal favorite, this morning’s scintillating

20 Oct 2011

Someone sent me an email survey.

Yes, seriously. So that is the entire week’s dreams as I’ve been able to remember them. Keep in mind that I sleep about nine hours a night rather than, oh, say fifteen minutes. Operation: Lucid Dreaming is going to be a resounding success; I can just feel it.

There is one question for which my infant dream journal provides no answers, though: Why did I wake up with a desperate longing to feel someone’s fingers push inside me and beckon me, coax me into a frenzy? The crush of my orgasm, the spray, the prayerful breath, the deep, deep swoon. The thought was there fully-formed when I opened my eyes, a real and complete thing, indivisible. Not cock, not tongue, not toy, and you’d better believe not my own god damn fingers would do. I wanted this like the day was born to see me want it.

So obviously I’m wondering what was in that email survey.

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I think I’ll go to my second munch tonight. This one isn’t for kinksters so much as poly people, although the fact that I found this group on Fetlife coupled with the well-known high degree of crossover between these two groups (I mean, they’re practically Doctor Who and Torchwood) suggests to me that at least a few of these people do indeed own floggers.

Personally, I don’t identify as polyamorous because normally one relationship is quite complicated enough for me, thank you very much. I suppose I just identify as slutty. But that’s just semantics, especially considering I have next to no interest in fucking people I don’t know reasonably well. I’m sure the poly people won’t stone me because I’m not christening everyone I bone a significant other.

I’m reasonably sure.

I’d like to know more successfully non-monogamous people. I’m in a relationship with someone who doesn’t feel or understand jealousy as a concept whatsoever, so whenever I get a twinge of jealousy and feel threatened I feel like I’ve just sprouted antlers. How do you sit down and calmly discuss your antlers when clearly the whole thing is so preposterous and wrong and silly?

So maybe knowing more people who can say “Oh, yeah, antlers happen sometimes, dude,” would be a good thing. Besides, maybe there will be some awesome people there.

I mean, there obviously will because I’m bringing a couple with me, just in case, but maybe there will be more!

Sluts are greedy, you know.

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Of course this is relevant. I'm insulted you even ask.

Thursday night. Just another chain restaurant at the tail end of the dinner rush. But what lurked there beneath the preformed burgers? What waited just beyond the salad bar sneeze guard? Pulsing debauchery. Desires dark and unspeakable. People everywhere, naked under their clothes! And munching. Yes! Munching!

I don’t mean to alarm you, but there’s a chance this is happening in your city too. I wonder sometimes if anyone even bothers to please, think of the children!

And of course by all this I mean that I made it to my first munch last week. The table was easy to find in the sense that it was in a detached section marked “reserved” that was literally right next to the entrance. I didn’t see a non-kinky diner all night, even by accident. It was a relief not to have to do any pervert profiling on-the-spot.

Everyone was friendly and welcoming as Laramy and I walked in. At a glance, they didn’t look like what I expected. I expected it to look like a gathering of the Sci Fi nerds I tend to hang out with, which would mean mostly nerds, many in nerd-themed t-shirts, probably (as Holly pointed out in comments) a lot of black clothing, some unnatural hair colors, and at least one guy wearing a hoodie with the sleeves cut off¹. These people didn’t look like that. They just looked like regular people having dinner at T.G.I. Appletuesday & Erma’s. Every time I try to form one nice, modest little stereotype, you non-me people ruin it. What gives?

Everyone else seemed to know one another well, and were seated at a long table. Laramy and I sat down at the free end. The munch organizer immediately visited us there, and gave us a little information about a BDSM education group the munch is affiliated with. As a curious kink novice, this has me very interested.

Then our friends came in, and everyone ordered food, and we didn’t get a chance to officially meet most of the group, and I didn’t feel an overwhelming sense of “these are my people and this is my tribe”, per se, but that would probably be sort of like finding your soul mate on your first blind date ever, or something.

Bottom line: BDSM community, you are promising. I shall forge ahead.

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1. He knows who he is. [↩]

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I’m planning to attend my first munch this evening. I’ve wanted to start infiltrating the local BDSM scene for a while now, ever since I noticed a curious dearth of dorky pale chicks with crazy hair in same, an oversight I am all too happy to correct because it will hopefully eventually get me spankings and other lovely things.

Actually, let’s be honest. No local BDSM scene anywhere, to my knowledge, lacks dorky pale chicks with crazy hair, but currently none of them are me. I find that alarming. Rest easy, local kinksters. Help is on the way, coming to a bar and grill chain in your area! Tonight!

Eep. Tonight.

I have no idea what to expect. Social gatherings can be crackling, intoxicating for me, or they can drain all the color out of the room. In a new situation it’s so often a gamble which will happen. Is it going to be awkward or like stumbling upon a chattering of old, favorite-hoodie-comfortable friends? Maybe some of them will be even be sexy and enticing in an awkward, or friendly, way. Maybe not so much…

But I’m reasonably sure there will be a salad bar. So we have that going for us. And I’ve got Laramy and a couple friends coming, so it can’t get too terribly awkward as long as I have three people to hide behind. Overall, I think I’ll be glad we went.

My only real and unrelenting concern, though, is how do we find the table? Do we say we’re with the local munch when we reach the restaurant’s host stand? That doesn’t seem right, somehow. Everyone will be in casual clothing, so it’s not like I can scan the dining area for fetish gear. Maybe there’s a password and I don’t know it.

Fuck it. It’s probably “Batman”. Let’s do this.

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It is, objectively speaking, what dead wigs hope they’ll become every time a bell rings. It’s long and layered, wavy, two different shades of blue, and just vampy as fuck. Worth every penny I paid. I’ve never worn it out of the house, but I’ve taken crappy webcam pictures with it on, and when I look at them there’s something strange and unsettling about them.

The girl in the pictures isn’t me. To be perfectly honest, she’s sexy.

It isn’t just her long, blue tresses, although she has mindbogglingly fabulous hair. There’s more to her allure. Framed by that tide, the landscape of her face is no detestable nation. Her waist nips in and her curves bloom out in ways I appreciate. Her skin looks soft and her lips sweet and kissable. At the risk of sounding horribly narcissistic here, she’s actually kind of my type as long as I forget she’s me.

I’ve been clean through a rainbow and yards of hair over the years, and I’ve had a lot of different looks, but somehow I’ve never looked quite like I do in that wig. I guess the biggest difference is that when I wear it I don’t feel like me at all. I’m someone different. Different enough, at least, to stop maniacally tallying the dark circles under my eyes and stretch marks and 15 lbs I wouldn’t mind losing instead of looking. Really looking.

And I don’t hate what I see again until the wig comes off. How fucked up is that? How perfectly normal.

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Remember that bra color meme on Facebook? Okay, actually, I’ll probably have to back up for some of you. Remember when Facebook was a thing?

Early last year a bunch of people started posting random colors as their Facebook status, and it turned out they were referring to what colors their bras were. And it turned out that was for breast cancer awareness! Surprise!

I don’t know how effective this exercise was, mostly because I’m pretty sure most people are aware of breast cancer and are more or less against it. If it caused just one person to donate to breast cancer research, or prompted one person to start doing regular self-exams, or started one person on the path to learning potentially life-saving facts about early diagnosis, or anything along those lines, though, I’m all for it.

But something occurred to me the other day when sex education activist and Scarleteen founder Heather Corinna tweeted this link, an article from the Duke Journal of Gender Law & Policy that covers sexual harassment/assault, and what survivors were wearing. From the article (also quoted in Heather’s tweet): “While people perceive dress to have an impact on who is assaulted, studies of rapists suggest that victim attire is not a significant factor.” In fact, it may even be the contrary. The article goes on to say, “Instead, rapists look for signs of passiveness and submissiveness, which, studies suggest, are more likely to coincide with more body-concealing clothing.”

The cliche, of course, is the woman in the tiny skirt and the low-cut top who, essentially, sickeningly, people seem to think got what she was asking for. Now, I don’t think anyone is about to run amok with the above quoted statement and start telling women not to wear long skirts and Cosby sweaters lest they appear like they’re looking for trouble. That would be preposterous. I think the key takeaway here, for anyone missing it, is that whenever you’re tempted to blame someone for getting raped, you should shut your fucking mouth, take your fingers off your fucking keyboard, and think again.

Repeat as needed.

This is the awareness I’d like spread. And as I was thinking that, I remembered the bygone bra meme, and I wondered something. What if all the rape survivors with access to social media did something similar. What if we all posted what we were wearing when we were sexually assaulted? Would the world learn anything? Would people finally realize that in all the jeans and hoodies, microdresses, niqabs, soccer uniforms, Comme des Garçons couture, vinyl bra sets, three-piece suits, pajamas, and polo shirts, there is really only one constant: there was always, always a rapist nearby.

I’m not suggesting we actually do this. On most social networks it would mean potentially letting all your family, friends, and acquaintances know something very personal and raw, and I’m not sure I’m up to that myself. But still, I think it would be interesting, and I wonder what would happen, if it would make any difference in the way people see sexual assault. I’d like to think it would. I’d like to think that when faced with enough truth people eventually have to stop being assholes. But, you know, you’d also think that when a sex blogger is faced with enough truth about assholes she’d eventually stop being naive, and that might never happen either.

Still. Jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt.

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Serving suggestion.

Turns out they’re not nearly as scary as I thought they’d be. But they do make me awfully giggly…

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