quizzical pussy

I used to be a shy girl. I would blush when anyone I didn’t know very, very well spoke to me unexpectedly, then agonize for months afterward over how stupid whatever I’d responded with sounded. I was even rocking that stylish “hair-over-face…always” look for a few years. I still would have picked flying over invisibility as a superpower (obviously), but the latter was what I seemed to be working toward.

I don’t even know what happened to that, but it went away. I’m still awkward, mind, but not particularly shy. I no longer dread the sound of my own voice, and I’m fairly confident that people will respond to me positively more often than not (and if they don’t, the world still spins and the internet still has kitten pictures). But, though I’m not shrinking from people like their eyes spit acid, I remain fairly reserved until I really warm to someone. My impression of the first impression I make on most people (a category of speculation that is necessarily fallible in the extreme) is that I’m friendly–maybe even bubbly– on a surface level, but emotionally inaccessible.

I am mostly okay with this because it’s largely accurate.

It took Laramy and I about six months of dating before I’d admit to being his girlfriend. And we were a good match that way; neither of us dropped the l-word until even later. This pace felt managed and comfortable, but I will concede that it may have looked like Remedial Relationships 101 from the outside. And maybe it was.

Indeed, you could argue that my dating history in general has witnessed me choosing a lot of people who were not entirely emotionally available: people who detach, people who do not understand these crazy Earth emotions you humans have, people who maintain lovely but impenetrable shells. Those relationships, for some reason, felt safer to me. Although I do have an awful lot of feelings, I don’t enjoy laying them bare. Perhaps this is true of most people with detached tendencies; maybe we’re liars who enjoy dating liars. Or maybe not. Maybe we’re just struggling.

On an impersonal level, I love everyone. Maybe not everyone everyone, but I come damn close. People are so bright and fleeting and gorgeous, it’s hard not to let your heart flutter right out of your chest at their preciousness. It’s hard not to want good things for every one of them. Platonic love is also easy, though powerful and amazing. Attached, romantic love? The kind that steals you away and owns a part of you, your thoughts trapped and starving like Persephone before the Stockholm Syndrome took over? The kind that people become junkies for? That kind that’s such a juggernaut that people call it falling? Terrifying.

“I love you” means “you have the power to hurt me”. That isn’t all it means, and that isn’t a great part of it to focus on, but there is truth in it. By “hurt me” I don’t even mean the pain that comes with loss of that love. Loss happens, you realize the world still spins, and the internet is still full of kitten pictures, and you go on. The real threat, to me, is losing oneself to the juggernaut, to the swoon, to that other person and their expectations and their importance. The threat is the constant pressure to form yourself to your beloved’s wishes, spoken or implied. To become domesticated for them. Nothing hurts more than figuring out you’ve become as much a golem as yourself, and the words on your forehead read “I love you”. That is patent fuckery. And I have done that, and my entire being recoils from the idea of ever doing it again.

But really, it was not love doing that to me. It was not the other person doing it to me. It was always my choice to stop being entirely myself to try to please people who were presumably already pleased with me enough to want to be with me. We say, when we formalize love as marriage, that two people become one. That image may be useful in many ways (although I’m not sure I know how, come to think of it), but not as a directive for those two people to each dissolve into another messed up, flawed human being. That may feel sacrificial, but that doesn’t mean it’s loving. Really love someone? You owe them your authenticity, not their desires.

I wonder if I have learned to anchor myself to my self with detachment. When I remind myself that any relationship I have could end at any time– even though that’s absolutely true– is it to keep myself from being swept away? I’m much more secure in myself than I used to be, but still, I will do a lot to avoid the blur, the splitting of my will, that degradation.

And then, and then, what I’ve never much anticipated, but suspect might be a thing: there may be romantic relationships that bring us more fully into ourselves, and set us free. Maybe. May it be.

(image source)

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About ten years ago I read a book by some sex writer of some sort. I don’t remember who it was, and I don’t remember most of the book, but I vividly remember the part of it where the author was sitting on a airplane, having the kind of conversation you have on a plane with the man seated next to her. He asked her what she did for a living, she answered some variation of “I write about sex for a living, and you?” and the guy responded with basically “So do you have a connecting flight you have to make after this or can we go to my hotel room or possibly a public toilet and bone?”

Like saying “I write about sex” is some kind of strange airplane code for “I want to have sex with you”.

It’s interesting that the one thing I remember about this sex writer is not what she wrote about sex, but what she wrote some guy’s assumptions about being a sex writer. It’s also interesting and frankly insulting that no one ever asks me to fuck in public toilets after learning I have a sex blog.

Actually, no, I’m okay with it.

Question: Isn’t it common knowledge that after the end of a relationship, you are supposed to destroy/delete/completely get rid of any and all nude photos you have of your ex?

Maybe it is, but if it is I’m in violation. Viola Sharqtipus took naked pics of my ex Laramy Fuquerton and me last year, and as far as I know he and I both have a complete set of them. I’m not really stressed that he’s going to release them to one of those awful “REVENGE: My ex girlfriend naked!” sites. I personally keep them on my hard drive because they’re beautiful art, and because it’s a fun memory.

I think it’s common knowledge that if an ex requests you jettison nude pics of them, complete compliance is the only decent response. I think it is also common knowledge that any and all nude photos we have of our exes (also of current partners, friends, etc.) are for personal use only, and never to be shared without permission.

The last time my boyfriend was fucking me, it really wasn’t doing anything for me. Then I started imagining what it would be like to be the creamy center of a QP/Laramy sandwich, and I came and came. Yum. I suppose it really IS the thoought that counts!

Since we’re on the subject anyway, I am glad we could help. QP/Laramy sandwiches are a thing of the past, but the legend lives on…

Last weekend, my boyfriend managed to give me three of what were most likely the most intense orgasms of my life. I came so hard I had issues walking. I would try to stand and my legs would shake and shake like I had just run a marathon… it took a couple hours for the shaking to totally subside, but stairs were uncomfortable for quite a while after that.

It was hella impressive.

Sometimes sex is like this thing. Provided that thing is actually a thing that works in any way.

You know how sometimes when you orgasm, you get strange patterns and images floating through your mind/vision?
Yesterday I had an orgasm so intense that for a few seconds when it was over, I was beset (and absolutely convinced) by the notion that I had seven toes on one foot. I had to look closely at and physically feel my toes to check I only had five, and even then I didn’t quite believe myself. Then once the afterglow subsided, so did the… imaginary… toes. Yeah, has that happened to anyone else?!

Sometimes sex is like this too, apparently.

I’m so glad to have somewhere anonymous to boast! My husband is a research engineer, and, ahem, is brilliant at analyzing complex systems. As a squirting enthusiast, that son of a gun has figured out how to make me ejaculate at will. If I’m almost out of clean laundry, he can help me NOT ejaculate by touching me differently. *sigh* I love that kinky bastard.

Also, I just have to add that we’re a middle-aged married couple with grown children, and we look like Santa and Mrs. Claus. Heh.

Santa Claus, you are an evil genius and I love you. And I want a pony, dammit.

Okay – confession hog. I just read back over previous confessions where a woman wrote that she fantasizes about having sex like a man and where you both talk about the idea of having a cock. Sometimes when I’m on top of my boyfriend and the orgasm is being a little recalcitrant I find myself moving as if I have the cock and he has the vagina and I’m pretty sure he can tell what I’m doing and I have to say it gets both of us pretty fucking hot and bothered.

This ConTuesday, I think, no? To me, that’s very much what inverted missionary can feel like. With all the thrusting and stuff. Yum.

Just had my first threesome with my girlfriend and a mutual female friend of ours who was visiting us at college. I was kind of tentative going in, and we must have been the Most Awkward Threesome partners in the history of multi-partner sex (our friend fell off the bed at one point) but we had a COMPLETE FUCKING BLAST! Everyone got off, nobody had any emotional complications, and we all enjoyed ourselves immensely.

I am, in part, confessing this because reading ConTuesday submissions about threesomes helped motivate me to broach the subject with my girlfriend. Thanks everyone, and especially you QP!

Yes, QPsters! You too can make yummy, delightful sandwiches. This is the message I would like to spread to people on airplanes everywhere.

Tell me a secret, you.

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I’m stupid horny. I long for touch and desire and orgasms. My mind burrows again and again into a thousand dark places where lust, where friction breeds. I’m distracted, maybe even a little fixated. I want sex and sex and sex. Now, please.

So I should really be looking for rebound sex right now. Shallow, animal rebound sex with no strings attached and even fewer inhibitions.

But right now I just can’t even imagine how to start to do that.

Sure, I love sex. Sure, I have no interest in only ever fucking my One True Love (and trust me, that ship has sailed), or even only having sex with people with whom I’m planning a future of furniture shopping and timeshare family holidays. And yeah, I have a sex blog where I write about boning. I’m fairly frank about what a freak I am.

That doesn’t mean sex comes easily for me. Because I increasingly have to trust you first, and that has never come easily for me. I can love you and not trust you. I can try to trust you, my newborn trust just trying to get its legs underneath it, and something that may seem trivial– a memory from my past or a reason to doubt your honesty– can crash down on it and snap its neck. I have a graveyard full of these dead beasts.

When Laramy and I started dating, it took me a couple months to be ready to have sex. Our personalities clicked almost instantly, and his patience and willingness to go at my pace helped me relax and let myself fall for him. Eventually, I felt so safe with Laramy that it somehow extended to other sexual relationships. I could trust new people more quickly and readily since I felt like I had the foundation of a solid relationship underneath it all. I believed someone had my back no matter what.

Now I don’t really know where I am. I don’t know what my present pattern is when it comes to trust and sex. The idea of truly casual sex makes me feel even more lonely. Still, I find it hard to imagine trusting someone new in the abstract. The pain is too fresh yet, and the thought of having something solid and comfortable with someone again feels unrealistic, even though I don’t subscribe to any One True Love philosophies. Will it still seem so hard once I’m actually in the middle of discovery and sexual tension and playful banter with someone awesome? Well, probably not. It will probably be as natural as breathing.

Although I’m not a champion breather, come to think of it.

I got massively, catastrophically hurt. It has happened before, and it may happen again. But I also now know for the first time that a relationship can be, for the most part, good. It can be a positive force in my life. And I want that again. Someday, if I can get there.

But why can’t I just get laid first and not worry about any of that? Why does it all have to be so fucking wrought? I don’t feel like I’m on the rebound; I just feel deflated.

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You may have already figured out that I am single now. You’re smart like that; smarter than I am subtle. But it’s high time I explicitly stated it here, it being an important part of the narrative and all.

Laramy and I aren’t together anymore.

No, it wasn’t my idea, and yeah, of course I was crushed. I’m still kind of crushed. If you’ve been reading this blog you may have noticed how smitten I was with him; that doesn’t fade overnight. But I’m not asking anyone to feel sorry for me or take sides. Fundamentally, we had a good thing together, I’m grateful for what time we had, and I respect his choice even if it’s hard for me to understand.

So that’s the official update and declaration of QP’s singlehood with special bonus resolution to stop moping about it.

(image source)

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It’s kind of a lonely feeling.

I’m excited about exploring BDSM and figuring out where I fit in that world and what I want from it, but I’m mostly doing it alone. I don’t have a partner who wants to tie me up, or hit me with things made out of leather, or have long discussions about what trips our respective kinks. I have a few friends I can compare notes with, and they are truly worth their weight in Lelo toys, but it’s not quite the same as someone I trust pushing my boundaries and giving me orgasms.

My intention here is not to gripe about the fact that Laramy isn’t interested in this stuff. I have absolutely no wish to force feed kink to my boyfriend or cram it into our relationship dynamic or sex life. I’m not even sure if it would be a good idea for me to introduce any significant kink involving power exchange into my primary relationship just yet, even if he was into the idea. No, actually, because of the wonders of open relationships, I’m griping that I don’t have any other kinky partners to experiment with at the moment. Glad we cleared this up. Good talk.

Because honestly, I’m feeling a little lost. Overwhelmed might be more accurate. I read about it, discuss it in the abstract, ponder it and fantasize about it, but for me, BDSM is still a tiny bit of experience and a long and jumbled string of thought experiments. It’s fantasies that I’m not even sure I’d enjoy in real life. It’s trepidation and fascination. It’s a slick and nimble creature that my mind can track but never catch.

More specifically, I’m unclear about when bottoming becomes submitting.

…Which wouldn’t matter so much if I weren’t so conflicted about submission. My fundamentalist Christian family aggressively taught me from birth that as a female I should submit to men like Jesus and my dad and my future husband, and I have never been a fan of any of that. My first romantic relationship was abusive, and I completely lost my sense of self trying to survive it. This is what submission has meant to me in the past. I fear it, and see it as personally nullifying and harmful¹. The idea that it would be all too easy for me to let go and dissolve back into that abused mindset haunts me.

I worry if subspace, which, as I understand it, is a type of dissociative state, will feel like a trauma-based flashback.

I’m confused about how the fact that my ex boyfriend used to hit me relates to the fact that I now want to be hit, and I know this is something I’ll eventually have to deal with. Is it messed up? Is it a craving for catharsis? It’s something I can’t even look at directly yet, but it lurks in my periphery, waiting. Right now when I’m bottoming I’m just after the endorphin rush. Just give me the sting and the swoon.

I have so much I still need to figure out. Is it any wonder I’d like a hand to hold through all this?

But that seems like kind of a long shot right now. I don’t know this for sure, but I don’t think I’m very good at attracting people. I know people who can find relationships and play partners like you can find D’anjou pears, in or out of season. I am convinced that those people are either sexier than I am (likely) or have luck dragons (less likely), but either way, I’m not of their tribe and cannot work their wonders. So I’m not in love with the odds that someone appropriate² will saunter up to me and observe, “I couldn’t help but notice that you have no idea what you’re doing. However, I find you oddly alluring. I would like to tie you up, possibly hit you with leather things, and lay bare your deepest fantasies. Would you be good with that?”³

Does anyone have a luck dragon I can borrow?

1. In my own case only. I want to make it very clear that I do not see submissives in general in this light. I just have my own personal issues to work out on the subject. [↩]
2. Someone who is responsible, mature, compassionate, experienced in BDSM, enjoys talking philosophy, and with whom I have chemistry. [↩]
3. And really, if this were to happen, who’s to say I wouldn’t try to crawl into my shit and hide? [↩]

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Here we have a wild ConTuesday in its natural habitat, with a resplendent display of sex confessions from anonymous donors. I have literally never been on a safari with this many dildos, have you?

I love my partner massively (oh dear, does any confession that starts that way end well?), but I’ve gotten into a vicious cycle with him that I don’t know how to fix. We went through a rough patch in terms of his sex drive, so that on the rare occasions he did want it, he’d want it at the most comfortable situation for him (late at night, when we’re both about half asleep) which is the total opposite of most comfortable for me (i am a morning person who really, really likes to talk before/during/after sex). Now, when our sex life is normal, this is no problem–we’ll have that sleepy sex sometimes, and wild, crazy early sex some other times, no problem. But when the former was all I was getting, I found I wasn’t really able to come very much (highly unusual for me), which dwindled to ”not at all” and then to ”it feels tickly and uncomfortable when you touch me sexually.” which I guess is some sort of half-burie d resentment about our sex life no longer being even a little bit about me. And so, to make matters worse, when I try to initiate sex and he goes for it, I only feel turned on for a minute or two before feeling all resentful and…tickly again. I can masturbate no problem, and we’re nonmonogamous, and I don’t have these feelings with other partners, so it’s definitely psychological rather than physical. I’m usually so good at talking out my feelings, but this one has gotten so tangled up (and has gone on so long–months!) that I don’t even know where to begin that might have some small chance of not being incredibly hurtful and unproductive. Any ideas, O Sex Guru of the Anonymous Internet?

Someone mature and experienced in positive relationship communication is going to come along and read this any minute now, I just know it, and they’re going to give some really killer advice.

Until then, I will take a stab. First, if you’ve neglected to tell your boyfriend any of what you described above, you should get cracking on that. He might think the status is quo, when for you it is, in fact, not. More specifically, you need some fully-awake energetic sex that is sometimes about you to be okay with your sex life; this cannot remain ambiguous. Those needs are healthy and okay, I swear.

Secondly, once he knows this you could benefit from a sex reset. Since I just now made up that term, I should probably explain: a weekend or even a day where you guys can make it a point to have a metric ton of amazing sex. Maybe there can be romantic shit too. Just rediscover each other and specifically try to stop taking sex for granted, and see if that helps you feel less resentful and maybe helps him take you less for granted.

Thirdly, you sent this in months ago and I just now got to it and I’m truly sincerely hoping things are better now and all this advice is completely redundant.

Last night I finally got to fuck the guy I’ve been crushing on for the last 8 months. He was hotter with his clothes off than I had imagined. It wasn’t quite up to what I had been fantasising, but man did he give good head.

Internet high five for you!

i keep a glass bottle on my desk. my boyfriend thinks it’s meant to be a bud vase, but i use it as a dildo nigh every night. even though i love with the man, i still need my ”me” time regularly.

See what I mean about dildos?

I have no basis for saying this whatsoever and am in fact just making shit up here, but what are the odds your boyfriend hasn’t looked at that bottle and had absolutely valid and realistic thoughts about what you’re doing with it? The coolest part is if he thought he was being impossibly lewd.

Again, no basis. None.

I’m the person who confessed about the husband and brother in law fantasy, and you’re dead right: my husband would be shattered if I ever told him. He and his brother are *very* competitive, and their relationship, like most siblings (I guess! I don’t have any) is pretty complicated. However, there are a lot of fantasies that are better left in your head, so it’s no biggie to have this lurking around back in my id, where I can safely let it out for a trot now and then, and then safely shut it back up. :)

You are a wise one.

The other day Laramy and I were talking about the “call me daddy” phenomenon (which has never been my thing, but I’m not knocking it) and he suggested I call him my father’s actual full name during sex, just to be really authentic. And while he was almost certainly kidding (I fervently hope, and need to believe), I can’t help but think that little gem would have been better off left in his head.

I recently purchased my first dildo. I’ve always had plenty of toys, I just never thought a dildo would be worthwhile because they seem so single-function… boy was I wrong! Me and Chakotay (as I have affectionately named it) are having a grand ol’ time.

Let me get this straight: you named your dildo after a Star Trek character? That is like a magical sex unicorn playing Holy Diver on an enchanted electric guitar made out of dildos and true love! Or, in layman’s terms, it’s awesome. And it brings us back to dildos.

Want to share a secret? Become the creature.

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It is a reality of chronic illness that some days you decide to get out of bed and conquer the world and your body laughs in your face and tells you to lie the fuck back down. Pain and having all the available energy of a newborn kitten never get any less convincing at times like these. So I was in bed at Laramy’s place on the morning of his day off, idly reading tvtropes¹ on my laptop while he did something or other on his computer across the room. Laramy would swoop down every so often to kiss me and ask me if I needed anything.

I wish I could be a better girlfriend. The kind who takes you on magical adventures and gets you adrenaline drunk hours after last call. The kind who spends energy like tap water, who doesn’t ration out every movement, moment, drive, and task. The kind you can take rock climbing. Not that Laramy climbs all that many rocks, but that’s not the point. The point is, if he wanted to I probably couldn’t go with him.

But today I just wanted to accompany him to the grocery store, and even that wasn’t looking good. “I’m sorry you’re feeling so bad,” Laramy nestled in beside me after refilling my water bottle. What I didn’t tell him is how normal this is. How often I spend all day in bed. How I have to save up energy to come see him and function at not-even-half his level. I don’t have to. He’s seen me much worse. Instead, we cuddle.

“Were you reading TV Tropes?” he asks me. For someone who ends up reading over my shoulder so often, he maintains that he doesn’t see what’s so interesting about it. But I like it. It’s a glorious waste of time when you’re too tired to do anything useful.

I shake my head and grimace in mock guilt. “No. Not at all. I would never! In a million” kiss “billion” kiss “years!” At least half of our dialog is pure nonsense. Always. But we laugh a lot.

But then his hands were on me. My laptop closed. Our kisses deepened. My hands were on him, stroking his belly, grabbing his ready cock. His fingers found my clit, lingering there and making me wriggle until they slammed into me. For a moment I considered how much energy an orgasm or six would cost me, and then he growled “Come for me,” in my ear. When he does that I always seem to drop everything and comply.

What we had likely approached the most incredibly stupendous sex possible considering one of us could barely move.

I wish I could be a better lay sometimes. The athletic, high-energy kind. The Cirque du Soleil kind who makes you wish you’d set up the camcorder beforehand because no one is ever going to believe this shit. But Laramy still grinned his sleepy grin at me and told me I’m amazing anyway. And I couldn’t not believe him because I was there and he was right: we have amazing sex and dammit, I’m half of it. Or at very least one-third. In your healthy fucking faces, circus folk.

“I’m feeling much better,” I informed him a few minutes after we’d untangled from each other. I got up and started putting on clothes. “Still want to go grocery shopping?”

“Wow, you really are feeling better.”

“I just needed a good rogering all along!” It was a couple hours before I had to tuck myself in again. You can’t possibly know what 120 minutes of functioning is worth to me, unless you are me, but suffice to say it’s not nothing.

Have I mentioned? My boyfriend is my favorite. Endorphins are my second favorite.

(image source)

1. Warning: All links in this entry will take you directly to an online time-sucking device. QP Corp is not responsible for any lost productivity. In fact, QP Corp is not responsible for anything. Ever. [↩]

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I often forget I’m an extravert. Most of the time I don’t really feel like one. I’m normally not very shy, but I can be reserved at times, and I do eventually stop talking once I run out of things I can convince myself are at least the tiniest bit interesting to other people.

But my Myers-Briggs type starts with an E¹, for whatever that’s worth, and I’ve noticed that being social with people I like does indeed energize me more than time alone. In fact, quite often the former can feel like a euphoric drug. Which I suppose makes me some kind of junkie… besides the orgasm kind, which we already knew about.

But, strangely enough, the E doesn’t actually stand for “Everyone love me NOW!” Orientation isn’t skill, and as it turns out, a vowel doesn’t magically make me the life of the party.

For an instance, the people I already knew who attended last week’s poly munch with me all came back with at least one or two new Fetlife friends. In my case, not so much. I’m pretty sure this means I’m doing munches wrong, or at least that E is most definitely not for “makes friends Easily”. Which again, like my continuing addiction to orgasms, we (or at least I) already knew.

But even though I had moments of feeling like I had nothing to say and no one to say it to, the people were awesome and geeky and I’ve probably seen at least half of them wandering around local Sci Fi cons over the years. We’re not friends yet, obviously, but I could see it happening. Eventually.

So that’s cool.

Going back to vowels, Laramy’s a classic I, and wasn’t in the mood to meet a score of new people, no matter how enticingly geeky they might have been. But I think he might enjoy it another time.

A digression: To overgeneralize blatantly, I can imagine downsides and upsides to every introversion/extraversion configuration: Two Es never getting lonely, but also never shutting up, or two Is becoming blissfully happy shut-ins. An I and an E probably balance each other out fairly well, but it’s important to make sure the I’s needs for time alone are respected because it’s easy for Es to overbook their partners in the process of wanting to share the fun, and the Is can get burned out very quickly that way. When really Es can be social with other people while the Is recharge. So it needs to be I before E. Except after C, which is children. Once you have children you don’t get to be alone anymore, ever. Sorry.

(digression ends)

After mentioning jealousy in my last post, I realized that I didn’t make it clear that jealousy is not something I’m particularly struggling with right now. Rather, it’s just an example of a thing I wish I had someone to talk to about. Currently, there are a lot of things like that: my curiosity about kink, navigating my first open relationship, even just figuring out how to make sure my emotional needs get met.

I’m allowed to talk to Laramy about these things, but it’s difficult for me to make the conversations productive because he and I relate to these issues so differently (and in the case of kink, Laramy is more or less just not interested). I don’t know if it’s our vowels or if it’s other letters, or if it’s just that I have a really difficult time describing my wants and needs, but things don’t seem to go well when we try to have these talks. It seems like it’s better to have myself sorted out before I broach these subjects with him, otherwise I just end up making him think he’s doing something wrong.

But sometimes I want emotional support while I process things and explore all aspects of how I feel about them. I want to feel like it’s safe to explore new things. I don’t want to worry about things getting a little messy. It’s no one’s fault, unless perhaps it’s my own, but I don’t feel like I have that. Lately I’m feeling overwhelmed and lonely and frustrated.

Obviously I don’t expect anyone to step in and fix these issues for me. It would just be nice to have someone to talk to, at some point, who could relate to what I’m feeling, not think I’m ungrateful or talking shit about my boyfriend, not blame him, not blame our non-monogamy, and maybe give me some advice. Or, like, a hug. Most of all I want someone to tell me it’s okay– normal, even– to feel things and want things and need things. Right now I want so much. I feel ravenous with it, and it’s beginning to consume me.

Oh, god! I hope it doesn’t start on my ass…

(image source)

1. More precisely, I’m supposedly an ENTP, for those who are curious [↩]

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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.

(image source)

1. He knows who he is. [↩]

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