Secrets

I live a life of secrets. All of my friends know that I'm kinky, that I have a sex blog, that I do X, Y, and Z, and that I enjoy it immensely. They know this because I met them through either Jefferson or through the scene. Ulimately, many of us are keeping the same secrets, from our families, employers, school mates and teachers, the list could, potentially, go on and on.

For those of us keeping these secrets, it's a nessecity, we stand to lose our families, our jobs, and our standing in society. So we take on scene names, and write our smut under alias' to protect our identities. Kind of like bizarre super heros, someone should give us capes and we should start wearing our underwear on the outside of our clothes.

I was recently cleaning up in my bedroom, clearing out my closet (which looked like a bomb had gone off in it), and moving my summer clothes from my secondary dresser onto shelves in the closet. I threw out lots of shoes and old boxes. When I was digging through my dresser, I uncovered the box my Hitachi came in, and my first strap-on. I had relegated the one I have now to an antique minitature steamer trunk underneath my bed. I froze when I saw my strap-on, I had bargained for it in a Chelsea sex shop and got paid what I wanted to pay for it. It was ghetto fabulous while it lasted.

I sat there, staring at it, knowing it was time to throw it out, not quite sure how to accomplish it without getting caught. So I went downstairs and got a garbage bag, and came back upstairs. I threw out some old boxes and put my old strap on in the bottom of the bag. I went through my closet, clearing out old shoe boxes, breaking them down and putting them in the trash bag. I cursed loudly when the bag began to tear, so I ran downstairs and got two more, for the sake of covering all my bases, and placed the now shredding bag inside of the other two. It held. I filled another bag with shoes and old purses that I never wore before, and probably won't wear anytime in the future, no matter how much I try to convince myself I will.

I cleared my other sex toys with the exception of my Hitachi (which has a permanent home in my primary dresser) and my one pathetic porno into the small trunk with my strap-on. I hid it behind my much larger steamer trunk which holds my costumes for role playing and my fine bedding. I'm supposed to be getting a new computer that I'm going to stock full of my blog stories and scene pictures and plenty of other debaucherous things in addition to my less carnal daily files and programs, and then I'll proceed to password protect the hell out of it. Hence the cleaning, in preperation for the desk that will go in it's place.

I live a life of secrets, like so many of my friends. Sometimes secrets are nessecary, they allow us to keep our jobs, our families, sometimes they are the glue that holds our lives together. My mother discovered my blog a while back, I had gotten lazy and forgotten to clear the history, a mistake I can't afford to make again. I could very easily end up on the street, and I am in no position to handle a situation like that.

I have lived like this since I was 18 and went to my first TES meeting. I love my family, I don't want to hurt them. I made a stupid joke about SM once to my mother and she freaked out. That's when I knew for sure that no one in my family could ever know. Terra and I have a plan to get an apartment together with another friend of ours at the end of next year, I have one more year to live my life under lock and key. If our plan works out, then I'll have one more year of passwords and stories and secrets.

I will live my life of secrets because I have too, many of us do, it is a simple fact of life. But I do look forward to the day when my home life doesn't force me to lie and make up stories about what I'm doing and where I'm going and why I have bruises on my chest. Silence is golden for a reason, but damn, when the day comes, yelling is gonna be fun.

One More Sleep 'til Christmas!

(Muppet Christmas Carol)

Happy holidays to all'a'y'all from The Garden!!

Family ties

Terra and I met over a year ago at a TES tng meeting. I forget what the topic was, but I was telling someone about a series of books by Anne Bishop they might like when she stood up from the other end of the table, and proclaimed, loudly: "OH MY GOD! ANNE BISHOP'S BLACK JEWEL TRILOGY ARE THE BEST BOOKS EVER WRITTEN!!!" We've been best friends and leather sisters ever since.

She and I have seen each other through countless crisis and drama, we run to each other when we have a bad scene, or a bad day, taking comfort in one another's presence. We tell each other jokes and make fun of each other endlessly. We are almost always laughing when we are together. People often ask us if we're girlfriends, and we shake our heads no. If Terra and I ever had sex it would be beyond incest and would just destroy our friendship.

When it came to light that she would be an orphan for thanksgiving this year, I invited her to thanksgiving dinner with my family. So we all piled into the station wagon and drove off to my cousins house in Conn.

We faced little traffic, and along the way, Terra told me about her family tree, after informing me that I would be attending her family reunion with her, and that by the way, I would have to learn the electric and the cha-cha slide before we went down south.

We got there about noon, and I was starving, I kept eye balling the stuffing and the turkey, and I was consistently shooed out of the kitchen by my various family members. Terra and I started talking about inconsequential things, waiting for dinner to be served. Finally we all got out plates and lined up at the buffet to serve ourselves. Terra and I laughed over the fact that we had been relegated to the 'kiddie table' where we ate in stone cold silence until my aunt, ever the instigator, asked the question that turned my dinner into a stone in my belly.

"So, how did you two meet?" She asked. My entire family went dead quiet, and I was aware of everyone staring at me. I looked at Terra, and Terra stared at her plate. I was tempted to kick her under the table. "We met at a dinner party through a friend of ours, we were reading the same book, and just started talking about it," I said, amazed that I had managed to keep the note of uncertainty out of my voice.

The conversation went right back to politics, as if the question had never been asked, and we breathed a silent sigh of relief.

After we had been released from the the table, we put on a movie, and started talking. "Great," I laughed. "My family thinks I'm a lesbian, it's partially true too, so no one will spaz if I ever get the girlfriend I've been trying to find and bring her to Christmas dinner or something." Terra laughed. "I want a video recording of that dinner when it happens."

We turned our attention to the movie, 'Dreamgirls', and talked intermittently about music stolen from black artists, relationships, dreams, and caught each other up on other things that we can't discuss in front of my family at dinner or in the car on the drive up.

When it was time to go, we all said goodbye to my family to begin the drive home. Only it was dark and we couldn't find our way back to the road. The thing about where my family is in Conn. is that its so isolated there are no street lamps to light the way, so you can't read the few street signs that there are when you need to get your bearings. We drove around the woods for about an hour before we finally got directions and made our way back to the main road that would ultimately take us to the high way.

On the drive home, Terra and I giggled and wrote notes to each other on our cell phones about the days events. When we got to the house, we just brushed our teeth and fell into bed, tomorrow, after all, was another day.

Lessons

I feel the need to give everything a disclaimer. But I'm thinking this will be my last one, with a few special exceptions. But this is all based on my experiences and on what other people have told me from their own experiences. Everyone is different, and I am but one voice in a chorus of many. That said; enjoy!

---

Pain is significant and beautiful. It exists for a very good, honest reason. It exists to tell us that something is very wrong, and/or needs attention. We feel it when we stub our toes, when we get a finger caught in the door, when we have cramps, when our hearts get broken, and for women, child birth. So with all of the billions of nerve endings that cover our bodies, it is no surprise that we experience uncomfortable feelings now and again.

As a masochist I have developed an intimate relationship with pain that continues to grow as my experiences increase and broaden. In my book there are two kinds of pain; erotic pain and bad pain. Both are pretty self explanatory; one gets me off, and the other hurts like fuck. When I dislocated my shoulder last year someone asked me if I enjoyed it, told me it must have been heaven for me. To which I replied "No dumbass, my arm was out of the socket for almost three hours, it hurt like hell and sex was the last thing on my mind."

The erotic pain I experience is by and large controlled by people who I trust and who know what they're doing. They are my friends and I trust them to take care of me when I am in such a vulnerable position. Although I have been known to get whacked by something or walk into something by accident and I'll giggle and get a nice little endorphin rush and then go on my merry way.

There are different ways of handling pain, I can't begin to tell you all of them. Everyone is different, and people have different reactions to pain. Personally when I'm in a scene I'm either really quiet, really loud, laughing hysterically, or some combination of the three.

Recently I was at Jefferson's, and we were fooling around as we are wont to do, and I found myself on top. I'm about ten pounds lighter than he is, we even fit the same size clothes, so I can hold my own against him pretty well.

I was straddling his belly and had his arms locked against his sides. I talked to him while I ran my fingers through the hair on his belly and chest. I pressed my thumbs against his nipples, and then tweaked them a little bit and he jumped. "I'm going to let you in on a little secret," I began slowly. "When you are dealing with pain, breathing helps a great deal. Alot of people find that pain amplifies if they stop breathing while they are playing. But if you can remember to breath through the pain, it won't hurt as much. See?" I pinched his nipples between thumb and forefingers, rubbing his nipples gently between my fingertips. He nodded mutely, gazing up at me and breathing deeply.

I was surprised to find myself enjoying the tentative control that Jefferson gave me. I stopped when he asked me to, I have no desire to abuse the trust that he gives me. But never before was I interested in getting on top and being the one in control with anyone; I'm happy to just be along for the ride. But I found myself enjoying this strange foreign top space, however brief my experience.

I doubt I'll be climbing back on top anytime soon, being the one in control has always been a bit of a mental strain for me. But that delicate thrumming in my clit was the same one that I get when I top in a strap-on scene, and that gives me quite a bit to think about.

Simpley gorgeous

My drawing teacher, who we've called Sexy since our first class with him, looks like Dane Cook. Even more so now that he cut his hair and grew a beard. He's tall, and on the first day of class he wore tight jeans and a t-shirt with a rip in it. And I gaped when I saw him, my mouth literally hung open as I stared at him. Later all of the girls in that class would admit to doing more than their share of ogling at our teacher over the course of that long ago semester.

One morning we were drawing portraits of the person next to us. I was sketching my friend Lila when he came over to give me a few pointers. I don't recall a word he said, but I remember staring at him, and breathing in his smell of tobacco and coffee, smells that seem to have turned women on since forever.

The tension in my body was unbearable. I wanted this man, pure and simple. Before I realized what I was doing, I started to lean forward as if I was going to kiss him. I stopped myself, physically stopped myself and leaned back and gripped the table in front of me to ensure I wouldn't try to do anything stupid. I tried to listen to him until he moved on to another person. I started laughing, a little hysterically, and Lila looked at me suspiciously. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" She demanded, a questioning look on her face.

"I almost kissed Sexy," I said in hushed tones. She stared at me for a moment and then shook her head. "Personally I'm gonna wait until after I finish this class before I try to stick my tongue down his throat. That man is so hot," she exclaimed quietly while I picked up my pencil and resume sketching her.

Leather

I woke up this morning and was surprised to find it snowing. I yawned and gathered my hair up onto my head before waddling into my office to turn on my computer. I went to the bathroom while it loaded, and in my waking state, I thought about how today would be the perfect day to play, and fantasized what about what that would entail. After I finished peeing and cleaned myself up, I went back to my computer and settled down to check my e-mail and various other sites that I like to keep up on.

Suddenly, out of no where, I was overcome by this intense desire to just smell leather. That had never happened to me out of the blue like that before. I mean, feet, totally, piss, sure, leather? Never happened like this. Now I love the smell and feel of leather, always have. It's always had a kind of subtle presence in my life, and apparently in it's absense, I found myself missing it.

I thought about this while I proceeded to tear the house apart, cursing myself for getting rid of my old leather jacket, nevermind that that coat was way past it's expiration date when I came into posession of it. I wore it for three seasons before passing it on into the cosmos.

Finally, after about 20 minutes of searching, I remembered my chaps. My beautiful black rawhide leather chaps from when I used to horseback ride. I dug into the endless piles of junk in my basement before unearthing them. I unwrapped them and buried my face into the folds of leather, breathing deeply. The smell was still there, faint, but present, and I felt a jolt between my legs that made my knees weak while I moaned, deep in my throat. An earthy gutteral sound that came from my soul.

I gave up drinking coffee about five years ago, I used to make it strong enough to make even the heaviest caffine addicts cringe. This was just as effective as those morning cups of coffee.

Untitled

I got Jeffersons at about 9 in the morning, I walked there from the subway in a daze. By then I had already been in shock for two days, and several times I had stomp the desire to scream as I walked down the street. Just stop and scream until there was nothing left of me.

I had gotten to his place before he got back from dropping off his kids. I stripped down to my underwear, and went into the bathroom to tend to my ministrations. I came back into the living room, and settled on the couch, and began reading my book. Periodically I would lean my head back against the couch cushions. I couldn't breath, I couldn't think, I was just overwhelmed.

I was rocking back and forth trying to calm myself. When Jefferson opened the door, I stopped, desperately trying to hide my panic. "Hey, how are you doing?" He asked, closing the door behind him. "I'm good," I croaked. "How are you?"

"I'm alright, you don't look so good though, you sure you're okay?" He asked, taking off his shoes. "My ex is dead," I said bluntly. I've never been good at being subtle. "Oh my god," he snapped to attention, sweeping into the kitchen to deposit his coffee cup on the counter, and coming back into the living room, he placed his book on the table and took off his coat. He came over and settled down next to me on the couch. He wrapped his arms around me. I numbly relayed the information.

"I got a phone call from a friend of mine on Tuesday, she and I share him as an ex. Apparently his mother had e-mailed her, telling her that he had died in a boating accident. The boat had capsized and caught him underneath, and he drowned. They didn't find his body until the next day. This happened about a month ago." I snuggled closer to him, taking comfort in his presence. "This was the bad ex," I murmured into his neck.

"I feel horrible," I moaned. "I want so desperately to be able to say good things about him. I want to tell loving stories of tender moments. But I would be lying if I did that, and I don't lie. This man raped me, he took away my right to consent, to safe words, to respect. I want so badly to say good things about him, but I can't do that. And I feel horrible. A man is dead, and I have nothing good to say about him. And what's worse is that I'm relieved. I am relieved that this man will never be able to hurt anyone else again."

"You're not a horrible person. You're honest, if you said anything different it would be a lie. Sure things started out alright in the beginning, but that changed. It's okay to feel the way you are feeling. And you're right, he will never be able to hurt you or anyone else again. You shouldn't feel as if you have eulogize him, it's okay to feel what you are feeling," Jefferson soothed.

"I am a deeply religious woman," I went on. "And part of what I believe in is karmic debt. That we have to pay for our sins, not to the people that we hurt, but to the universe. That's why I never sought revenge, never tried to do anything about what he did. Because I believed that the universe would take care of me. I know that I'm not the only person that he hurt, that man had a consistent pattern of abuse. But death? Was his debt really that great? How many people did he owe? How many people weighted the scale? And why?"

We sat there in silence for a long time, snuggled up on the couch. I groped desperately for a topic. "I got an internship," I said with an abrupt change of subject. I could feel Jefferson attempting to make the same mental leap I had just made. "Yeah," I acknowledged his confusion. "I'm good at changing the topic." "That's great, where's it at?" He asked. I told him about it, and after a few minutes we lapsed back into silence.

"Am I a horrible person?" I asked quietly, tears choking me. "No baby, you're not a horrible person at all," he said softly.

We sat there in silence for a few more moments, and I leaned my head back to look at him. He kissed me gently on the mouth, our tongues exploring one anothers mouths. I tugged ineffectively at his shirt. "Let's level the playing field," I said, attempting to get back onto solid ground. He pulled me into the bedroom, stripping off his clothes before wrapping his arms around me while he kissed me. He fumbled with my bra and managed to get it off after a moment. He took a step back and bent over to examine my panties. "Well Hello Kitty," he said, commenting on my pink 'hello kitty' underwear before slipping them off onto the floor.

We cuddled under the blanket, holding each other tightly, murmuring to one another for a while. I slowly switched gears, pushing the conflicting emotions aside, and allowing myself to enjoy Jefferson's company and our morning together.

After a while Jefferson started to idlly play with one of my breasts. "You can be such a tease, you know that?" I muttered. "Yeah?" He breathed. "Tell me about that." His touches became feather light and I squirmed as his hand played over my breasts, looping around my nipples and travelling down to carress my inner thighs before settling to gently knead my clit with his fingertips. I gasped as he drew my arm up above my head, and caught my foot under his leg.

I gasped and moaned, working myself towards my orgasm. My breathing hitched and I came quietly, jerking a little against his hand. He started to massage my labia, pressing his hand up inside of me. He began rubbing his whole hand against my vagina, and I could feel his hand pressing up against the bone. It hurt, but it felt good too.

He pulled his hand out and grabbed my ankle and pulled it over so that he was positioned between my legs. He pulled out a condom and we fucked quietly for a while until he rolled off of me and cuddled up next to me. We napped, curled up against each other. I must have fallen asleep at some point, but not for long.

After a while I leaned down and took his cock in my mouth. I pressed my fingers into his perineum and he moaned. I leaned back. "I wanna finger your ass while I'm going down on you, is that alright?" I asked quietly. He nodded, and we put some lube on my hand and I wiped it over two of my fingers. I gently played with his ass, slipping one finger in, taking my time. Eventually I slid another finger into his ass. He was incredibly tight, and I couldn't move my fingers very easily, but I managed. I slurped his cock into my mouth and sucked on him, my other hand alternated between playing with his balls and perineum. "God this is hot," I said. "I am fucking you so hard when I'm done down here."

I moved my hand back and forth in his ass gently. I quietly monitered his face, checking in on him from time to time. Eventually he asked me to stop, and I pulled my hand out, but kept going down on him for a few minutes more.

Eventually I stopped and leaned forward, kissing him on the mouth. "You have that 'i wanna fuck' look on your face," he said. I smiled widely and leaned over to his nightstand. Taking out a condom, I put it on him and mounted him. Some didn't feel quite right with it, but I started moving anyway. After a few minutes, I realized what was wrong. "Say something," I breathed. He was silent for a few moments, and I wondered if he had heard me. "Talk to me, if you talk to me this will get a whole lot better for both of us," I explained quietly.

So he talked.

He began slowly, weaving a quiet tale. Driving out to the woods, going for a hike. Making me strip down naked and walk out ahead of him, barefoot. How he would beat me with his walking stick if I were to slow down. Periodically making me stop so that I would suck his cock while it was so deep in my throat I couldn't breath.

My cunt tightened like a vice and I had a lake between my thighs as I rode him. I fucked him deep and long and hard. I fucked him in a way I hadn't fucked anyone in a very long time, with my whole body. My breasts were pressed flat against his chest, and all I was aware of was his cock sheathed between my thighs, his stubble against my cheek, and the sound of his voice.

He told me how he would fuck me, while I laid in the dirt, until he came, and then he would pee on me and make me get up and keep walking. How when people came along he would make me hide in a sticker bush and wait until they were gone, to keep quiet about my cuts and stratches.

It went on and on and I did not want it to stop. I wanted more. Hell, I'm turned on just thinking about it. When I stopped, I rolled onto my back and he rolled on top of me, putting his cock in my pussy he began fucking me. We breathed heavily into eachothers necks while we fucked. Eventually he gasped out that he was going to come. "Okay baby, come," I murmured, and he quaked. After he came, I smiled and smoothed his hair.

We snuggled up afterwards. Holding each other close for a few minutes until we roused ourselves enough to for him to eat some lunch and for us to get dressed and head on out together; me off to my bus, him off to get his kids.

It was a good date, for reasons beyond the obvious. It was good because for the first time since I got the news about my ex, I was able to say what I needed to say. I had spent two days trying to find the words I needed, and I finally found them. Jefferson wasn't the first person to tell me what he did, but it was the first time I finally heard what was being said to me.

As for my ex, all I can say is that I loved him until I couldn't. I wish I could say more than that, but I can't. I hope I can be forgiven for that.

Sorry

Sorry I haven't been around much, I've been busy trying to get an internship and taking care of a few loose ends. But I am working on a doozey of a post, so please bear with me.

In the meantime, here, listen to this:

This song does things to me.

Song title: Manowar - Master of the Winds

AMV: Haibane Renmei - created by Abe Yoshitoshi

My List

I keep a list of things that I want to do in my sex and play life that I have never done before:

-Pain orgasm

-G-spot orgasm

-Incest scene - with a consenting someone my age or older who isn't an actual familial relation; but I didn't need to tell you that, did I?

-Double Penetration

-Sex in the back seat of someones car

I have been obsessed with the last one on that list since I graduated high school. No joke. Maybe it's a Jersey Girl thing, but I can't shake the itch. I have the option of nice comfy beds, and I want to haul myself into the back of a car. But I gotta admit, there's just something about the feeling of upholstry on my bare ass and the awkward struggle of getting the condom on and slipping inside of me that's just so high school.

For my birthday Jefferson and I were going to go to the nude beach and then find a parking lot to have sex in. He was going to indulge my fantasy in the back of his car. But we got rained out and had to go back to the City. So I never got to do it.

Back before I took a break from dating, I was seeing this guy. He had a car. I almost fucked him in his car. But he had been trying to get into my pants since the beginning of 'Black Snake Moan' that evening (that reminds me, I also want to be chained to radiator, do a total mindfuck scene, let's add that to the list too) and I was feeling taken advantage of. He insisted on paying for food and stuff, even though he knew I wasn't looking for anything serious, and then expected me to put out.I would have paid for myself had he let me. The whole thing made me very uncomfortable, and I got out of there as fast I could.

So I never got to fuck in a car.

I gave head once in a car in this one spot near my town, but everyone gives head in their car up there. It's like a requirement or something. Come to think of it, I also gave head on an express train to Dover NJ once. Go figure.

But I never fucked anyone in a car. So I sit, grumbling about the cold, because that means that I have to wait even longer to try and pull this off.

One of these days I'll do it. One of these days I'll scratch the itch.

Until then I have all my other delightful indoor activities to work on accomplishing. Some people knit in the winter, I try to get cherries taken.

Pookie

Authors note: I am going to tell the events of Friday night as I remember them. All acts written here-in were completely consensual for both parties involved. This is tale of how I lost a cherry. Enjoy!

The orgy-goers and myself drove out to Brooklyn from Manhattan. I hung out with Jefferson, and periodically wandered off, fondling Wendy and some other friends that were there as well. I settled into a chair, and began talking with Boymeat and a friend of his, we laughed and joked until he declared that he was going to beat me.

We wandered into one of the back rooms, and I stripped off my clothes, we began making out, and he grabbed and pulled at my nipples. I moaned into his neck, pressing myself against him. He pushed me back onto the bed, murmuring to me before burying his face between my thighs. I gave myself up to it, moaning as his tongue washed my clit. He rose to his feet, and said something, I don't know what, all I knew was that I wanted to get into get into his pants. I buried my face in his crotch until he moaned. After a while he buttoned his pants, and we talked about what we wanted to do, and decided to go with the single tail.

We wandered around, looking for a space to do it in. We found ourselves in the main room, and up in one corner was a platform that you could climb up into. We climbed up, and I knelt on the couch while he began working over my back. I can't describe to you what a single tail feels like, I just can't, what I can tell you is that I liked it. I liked it alot. I did not always feel this way about single tails, I never knew until last night whether or not I liked them. Well, I certainly reached my conclusion, didn't I?

Boymeat was whipping my back and I panted and moaned and hugged the wall. He would stop periodically to check up on me, grabbing my hair and pulling my head back, murmuring into my ear. At some point my head snapped forward and I whacked my chin into the wall and we started laughing. At one such interlude he made me stand up with my back against the wall.

We started talking, I don't remember exactly how it came to this, but he said "I wanna cut you, but if I do that then I won't be able to use the whip again until I clean it. But who else am I going to single tail tonight?" "Oh, I'm not sure if I can do that," I said quietly. "Oh, I know you can do it," he said. "Turn around." So I turned around and he laid into my back. I gasped and cursed quietly, my nails dug into the wall until I felt him at my back. "Have you named the wall yet?" He had asked, toying with the hair at the nape of my neck. "Pookie," I breathed, and he started laughing.

Soon after we moved downstairs in search of a space where he could properly swing his whip in a way that he wanted. After some searching, we settled into a large hall, and I hugged the wall while the whip bit into my back. I cursed and gasped but took it. I don't know how much time passed before he came up behind me. "You're bleeding," he said, tapping his finger against my back and rubbing two of his fingers together. He counted the cuts. "You've got 6 cuts here," he said.

He led me back into the main sitting area and cuddled up with me on one of the sofas. I sat there, grinning widely and eventually I started laughing and slapping my thigh, everything seemed incredibly funny. "Do you want to thank me?" He asked, gazing steadily at me. I nodded mutely as he unbuttoned his pants. I buried my face back in his crotch for the second time that night.

Later on that night, when we arrived back at Jefferson's, Desire, Jefferson, and myself all went wearily into the building. When we got into his apartment, Jefferson tugged me into his bed; giving me a t-shirt to wear so that I wouldn't get blood on his sheets.

It took me a long time to find a position that I was comfortable enough to fall asleep in, but when I finally did fall asleep, I slept with a smile on my face.

Yeah, it was an awesome night.

The hitachi and the hair

Or: The fable Aesop forgot to mention.

I don't like being told to get myself off in front of people. It makes me nervous in the worst way. It makes me nervous because somewhere along the line I stopped being able to get myself off without props. Which is why I bought a hitachi. Periodically I bring it out, plug it in, and go to town. Some people swear by the attachments, but I find them to just frustrate me further. But still, I have alot of trouble getting myself off, it just doesn't always happen for me.

You see a back in January I was out and I mentioned the way that I like to play in a passing conversation, and the person I was talking to gave me this look. And that look stopped me short. I became very self concious, I began showering in the dark, I did not want to have sex with anyone, and I stopped being able to get myself off. It probably didn't help that I no longer wanted to try. It bothered me that I would be percieved in a negative way. After all, who is anyone to tell me how and with whom to play, least of all someone who barely knows me. It angered me, but it also hit a very sensitive nerve. And because of that my sex drive shut down. I became another woman who was unable to have an orgasm, and that had never happened to me before. I hated that it had happened to me. I grew ashamed of my breasts and the flat stomach that I had once been so proud of. My thighs were disgusting to me. So I started dressing conservatively and ignored my body to the best of my ability.

But then valentines day came around, and I detest valentines day, I detest it with an incredible passion. It would be another day that I would be completely alone. I never understood why no one adopted the Greek tradition of a mass orgies for valentines day. I would love to have meaningless sex on valentines day. Lots and lots of it. But, in the absense of a mass orgy, I bought a hitachi.

I had a lovely valentines day, thank you very much.

I'm sure it will come as a surprise to some of you that even that stopped working for me for a while. It too joined the myriad of sex toys collecting dust in my bottom dresser drawer.

But then one night, on the verge of my period and the absense of a date, I decided to have a go at myself. Why not? In the preceding months I had regained my comfort with my body, and began rejoicing in the pleasure that others could give me, even if I could not count myself among their numbers. So I plugged in my hitachi, but no matter how hard I tried, I could only ride the edge, never quite slipping into that sweet release. This frustrated me to no end.

So I tried straddling it. Two pillows later and a great deal of patience, I managed to get myself off. Again and again and again, and I rode it out like a cowgirl on the back of a bull, my breasts bouncing up and down and my hair, my incredible hair that has always made me feel so sexy, bounced heavily on my shoulders, and I felt like walking sex, or rather cumming sex, as it were. I felt gloriously wonderously lush. I love cumming when I'm on top, but usually it's not feasible with another person, not with the way I'm known to cum. But damn. When you feel incredibly sexy while you are loving yourself, there is nothing quite like it.

Moral of the story? Honestly I can't think of a moral for this story.

Thought

I had a thought: If I put my ear up to a woman's cunt (oh hell) clam, will I hear the ocean?

Hands

I recently saw a photograph of a man holding a woman, and I was struck by the sight of his hands. He had beautiful hands, hands that I would call, for lack of a better word; masculine. They were hands that I wanted to hold, even though I probably never will. And I would go away from the picture, work on school work, check into various things, but I would always find myself being drawn back to the photo with the mans hands. I know men with similar hands, gorgeous, strong, masculine hands, and I can't help but feel lucky.

Hands are important. They are one of our primary senses, way to feel and explore the tangible world around us. They are how we do, well, everything; we cook and clean with them, we write and build and study with them, we use them when we eat, when we use the bathroom, when we bath, while we are doing just about anything productive (or unproductive) we use our hands. So I have taught myself use hands as a way to measure people. I gaze at their hands, quietly weighing them, making notes of callouses and scars, discolorations and other marks. I take in the strength that hands have; strong hands are very sexy to me; I find large palms and long thick fingers are very attractive on men. Although I don't think I've ever come across a pair of hands I didn't like.

In high school I loved looking at my chemistry teacher's hands, long tapered fingers with pale white nails beautiful broad palms. I love playing with Jefferson's hands, they are gorgeous to me; I love studying the soft underside of his fingers, tracing the lines on his palms, brushing my fingertips against his nails, feeling his strong bones flex in his hands. I find it strangely soothing and comforting to do this. There is also a man who attends Jefferson's orgies, I'm not sure if he has a blog name, but one night he picked me up and carried me back to the bedroom, and I swooned; I almost never get picked up or carried anywhere. Hands are important; they are also used to hold various forms of cargo, be it human or otherwise, even if you don't go anywhere.

A little over a year ago I went over to Boymeat's place help him clean his apartment, and one thing lead to another, and he asked me if I trusted him. I looked at him quietly for a long moment, and I looked at his hands, turning them over to gaze at the backs of his hands and his palms, he said it was the strangest thing, almost clinical, that no one had ever done that before, but he let me satisfy my odd curiousity and in return I gave him my trust. I went home that night with bruised-black thighs and a cane mark on my leg so bad that my eyes teared and my mind blanked momentarily every time something brushed against it; it was awesome.

Or a few weeks ago when Jefferson beat me up and I got scared and grabbed his hand, and would not let go until I managed to pull him down on top of me. That's another really really good thing hands are good for; holding other people's hands.

I'm sure I'm rambling at this point, and you're sick of reading this, or maybe you're wondering what I think of women's hands, honestly, I look at other things when I'm attracted to a woman, like her build, I find big girls sexy, and smaller hands are important to me on women because every so often I get it into my head that I can handle being fisted. But I digress.

I find hands, and arms for that matter, incredibly sexy. They hold us at night when we sleep, they give hugs and hold our children, they cook meals and write books and help people evolve and grow. They carry out the work that we formulate in our minds. And that's important, and as I struggle to find the words to draw this entry to a conclusion, I look down at my hands, typing my words on the keyboard, attempting to convey a message that I don't quite have words for. And think on the honesty of the work that they've done over the years; tending horses, working with children, feeding and changing and playing with my nephew, taking care of my baby cousins, quilting and embroidering, cooking and cleaning. And I can't help but smile.

On a completely unrelated note. . .

This really has nothing to do with anything, but I'm on my moontime, and don't feel I need any other excuse than that, sooo yeah. . .

I have had 2 Elvis sightings lately. I think he works or lives near my school, because I see him periodically when I'm walking to school or to the bank (which is right around the corner from my school). Elvis hasn't changed much; big sunglasses, black shirt, jeans, boots, kinda fat, thick black hair. You know; Elvis. And I both times I really wanted to say something to him, but I resisted, and afterwards I would always call Aimee or Terra to speculate. My mother is convinced he works for the Newark airport, delivering baggage to airplanes.

And here I was all these years thinking he was dead.

Panties

I got to the street fair at about 1 o'clock. I was running on the rumor that my friend Terra would be there, volunteering at the TES table. So I wandered down through the myriad of people, looking at the signs hanging from tables until I found the one I was looking for. Terra was there with some other people. She squealed and ran around to the table to jump on me. We walked up and down the street, and periodically I made out with people and got punched in the chest.

The day was unbearably hot. I went dressed in a slutty blue cotton shirt and a long green skirt. I wore a purple lace bra and pink gingham panties with cherries hanging off the front.

So I spent the day communing with friends I hadn't seen in ages. At one point Terra and another woman hiked up my skirt, exposing my panties and neither would let me put my skirt down. Terra wanted someone to take my cherries, just walk up to me, snip them off my panties, and walk away. Finally I took a stand and pulled my skirt down. The day was spent hanging out in the shade of the TES booth, hanging out at the boot blacking area, and flirting and laughing with a multitude of people. I got flogged at one point, and eventually went onto find myself licking the sweat off of my tops chest and belly.

All in all, it was an awesome day.

But the day had it's drawbacks. I sweated and moistened my panties. Needless to say I was incredibly uncomfortable by the time I left the fair. When I got to Penn Station to catch my train I found myself with a few minutes to run into the bathroom and remove my underwear. So I slipped into a stall and removed the offending garment, sticking it into my purse. I still remember how liberated I felt to be free of those disgusting, fluid soaked panties.

So I went and got on my train, and opened my bag to pull out my book for the trip home, without zipping my bag up all the way; not noticing that my underwear was right on top. I sat there, waiting for the train to pull out of the station and whisk me away home, when a much older man (I figured him to be in his 70s) went to sit in the seat next to me where my bag was sitting. I looked up at him from my book and he stood there, looking back at me suggestively. I turned back to my book, ignoring the man, oblivious to the fact that my underwear was sitting there for all the world to see. It was then that I happened to notice that my underwear was showing out of the corner of my eye. And instead of making excuses for myself, instead of putting it away, I continued to ignore the very obvious presence of my panties sitting there. And the man, after a very long time, walked away. I heaved a sigh and tucked my panties away deeper into my bag and stuck my nose back into the pages of my book.

Pure and simple

I lost my virginity at 15 to the most submissive man I have ever met. It was during the pre-college art program at SVA. He and I had had this tension between us for about a week. He was the first man I had ever found truly attractive, with long dark hair, and dark mysterious eyes. I still wonder about him sometimes, wonder if he found what he was looking for in life. I barely knew him, but it was easy to fool around with him because I knew that my heart wouldn't be broken when he left.

We were staying the college dorms SVA used during the school year (it was summertime). The rooms were little more than shoe boxes, some rooms had bath tubs, others didn't. The building had once been a grand hotel in the 1920s, then it was a whore house in the 50s and 60s, and then SVA finally bought it to use as its dorms in the 1970s.

We laid on his bed in his shoe box of a room; I held him to my chest. It was raining lightly outside, and I mentioned something about having sex while it was raining. He quietly got up, got a condom, and turned out the lights, we went down on each other for a few minutes and then he rolled on the rubber and slid up inside me. I thought it would hurt, but oddly, it didn't. I remember laughing as I rode him in the darkened room while the rain fell outside. Neither of us came. I didn't experience the pain that many women feel in their first time, there was no blood. The simplicity of it made it easier for me to sleep alone that night.

Afterwards we lay in his bed for a long time holding each other and talking for what seemed like hours. Eventually friends of ours came and knocked on the door, collecting us for dinner.

No means no

I never classified the assault placed on me as 'rape' until about a year ago. It's such a loaded ugly word. Rape. I find it hard to believe that I would be raped. After all, I go out of my way to move worms off the sidewalk into the grass, I talk to homeless people on the street, and I enjoy spending time with the elderly. Why would anyone want to rape me? I'm a good person who did nothing to deserve it. So I disregarded my now ex-boyfriend/dominant's assault on my ass as rape until I relayed the story to a friend of mine who replied: "Dude, that's rape."

I often asked myself "Well, I'm submissive, and I was submissive to him, so even though he disregarded the fact that I said no but didn't press the matter because I was afraid of him, it's still not rape, because that was my role." Right? Wrong. I said no, but him being larger and stronger than myself forced my face into the pillows while he forced himself into my ass. My being submissive does not equate me being less than human, and therefore denied certain inalienable rights. This was the unfortunate event that made it clear to me that he did not get that memo.

My opinion was not asked during the course of that relationship, I had no rights or privledges. I was not even awarded the common courtesy of asking to consent to blanket consent, something I never would have done given the choice. None of the fetishes that I enjoy today flourished then, even though I did them on a regular basis.

I'm not one to write in anger, but after keeping my silence for almost two years, I feel that I'm allowed to write about my anger towards what was done to me. I strive to be strong, to take what happens to me in stride, but even the best of us get stopped in our tracks, completely floored by certain events or circumstances. Some people grieve, some people get angry.

I got angry. But my anger came later, much later, when there was nothing left to gain from it. It never occurred to me to grieve for myself.

It was months before I worked up the courage to leave him, and it didn't happen right after what I have come to term as The Incident. It was four months after that that I finally broke free. I never reported him to the authorities. The physical evidence of what was done to me has been washed away.

I, for the most part, have healed. I enjoy power exchanges today, I greatly enjoy service and, since that relationship, I have never encountered the problems that I did then. I have fetishes that I did not have then, and I allow myself to play with some people with a certain amount of abandon. I'm in service now, and very very happy with what we are doing. I am also due to graduate in March. In short, I'm a person who is being given a second chance. I'm furious at the man who did that to me, but I don't allow my anger to bleed over into the other parts of my life, because my life is too good right now to let that man take it all away from me again.

I do, however, get angry at the people who get all uppity about topics like rape. We did not invite it. We are not accountable for what happened to us. How can we be? By it's very definition it's impossible. How can anyone say those things when from 1992-1995 20,000 to 70,000 women a year were being taken to 6 DIFFERENT RAPE CAMPS in Bosnia as a systematic tactic of war. That every 15 minutes a woman in South Africa will be raped, and that those are the only ones that are reported. This is to say nothing of that fact that every 2 and 1/2 minutes someone is being sexually assaulted in the US. Don't tell me that I asked for it to happen when I laid there underneath that terrifying sweaty man and begged to die. And if you tell it to my face, then be prepared to tell it to those women in Bosnia, Yugoslavia, and Croatia. Be prepared to tell it to all the women, and yes, men who were victims of horrible hate crimes and terrible circumstances.

Seeing the right people, wearing conservative clothes, all of those things do not protect us from being raped. I am no virgin by any means, I know that there are naked pictures of me floating around out in the world, I know that there is one 'home video' out there starring me and an old ex. Yes; I fuck and play with different people, but that does not automatically mean that my right as a human being to say 'no' should be taken away because I'm a woman who is comfortable in her skin.

Virgins are just as likely to get raped as whores are. No matter what our sexual status, we are still daughters and sons, mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters, and friends and somewhere along the line, that concept that the offended belonged to someone went missing. And my heart bleeds, not just for myself, but for every one who was forced into a situation against their will. Because the wounds are not always reparable, and scars can be ugly.

Almost two years later, and I still get tears in my eyes at how furious I am at what was done to me. I have nothing but admiration at the people who have the courage to write about their experiences. I am in awe at what College Callgirl wrote, and her courage should be commended for putting herself out there like that. I also felt very much in agreement with Calico's righteous anger. Living in fear, powerlessness and pain is a horrible thing, but to blame ourselves, to let these crimes against us go unspoken is just not cool. Those of us who are survivors of sexual assault and/or rape did nothing to deserve it, we are not worthless. It doesn't matter who raped us; boyfriends, girlfriends, acquaintances, clients, employers, random strangers, doesn't change the fact that they violated us and made us feel small in that terrible way that makes you feel like you are going to vanish and no one will notice.

Rape and assault are rape and assault, no matter what the circumstances, and we cannot make excuses for those people any more. It's just not acceptable. I don't know how else to put it. Rape, assault, abuse, they are just not acceptable. Don't tell us that it didn't happen, that we 'imagined' it, because to me that just perpetuates the myth that rape and assault are okay. And it's not. It's just not acceptable. No means no.

Mind vs. Body and the ever present Edge

I have a strange relationship with face slapping.

Simon learned that if he cuffed me lightly on the cheek, I would start to bottom out.

Jefferson learned that if he slapped me full across the face I tried to fight back.

It's generally an activity that I like to avoid. My reactions are completely unpredictable. So why, all of a sudden, do I just want to be slapped heavily across the face? I guess because I find it hot. And, at the same time, violating and more than a little humiliating.

It's one of those things. Like if I'm told to do something or say something that I have trouble with, especially during sex, my mind will grow wary and I'll start to question why you are making me do this, whereas my cunt will tighten like a vice and I'll practically see stars I'm so turned on. And what I hate the most about it is that my physical response is so obvious. I want to be this prim lady-like creature who is perfect in every way, when in truth I shave my legs, I get PMS, and I usually say the wrong things in social situations.

So I try to put on my poker face, because I want the pleasure I derive from being humiliated to be ignored, but at same time I can't help but hope that I'll be called on it. In those moments I am all too aware of my nose scrunching, or my eyes closing for a moment in recognition of the flood between my legs. A reaction I often hope that will pass unnoticed, and when it does, I can't help but feel a twinge of disappointment.

I hate myself for loving this so much.

I love myself for loving this so much.

I used to hate being humiliated. I found it degrading, hell, I still find it degrading. I am inclined to whack people who try, and most I will stop before they get too far. I can count the number of people who are allowed to do this to me on one hand. Humiliation is an edge for me, and it's not one I am inclined to venture too closely to very often. But when I do, I love it.

It takes a certain finesse to do it properly, get up in my face, pull my hair back, and in that quiet, intense, aggressive, dominant tone of voice that I have to come look for in so many of my scenes, I am verbally run through. And then it becomes a sort of kinky ping pong. Beat me up, call me a pig, cane me purple, tell me if I'm not a good girl for daddy I'll be raped, punch my chest, slap me across the face, kick my cunt, threaten to leave me tied up and naked on the neighbors doormat. Lather, rinse, repeat. You get the idea. 

So why the sudden desire for dancing on this edge of mine?

Pure and simple need. Yes. I need to play at least once every 2 months, it helps keep me balanced. It's one of the few things I am willing to admit to being completely selfish in. I play for others, certainly, I want to make the fantasies of whomever I am with come true. But primarily, I play for myself. I play for the endorphin rush, I play for the fact that I can see my gods in that headspace, and that I can laugh and talk the talk of the innocent. I play because it makes me feel beautiful and sexy and whole. I play because it turns me on both physically and mentally. I play because I like it. I am submissive and masochist, hear me roar.

But the question lingers, why the edge?

Well, sometimes I just need to know that I can. I like having my limits pushed, I like going to newer and greater heights in my play. And the last time I had a limit pushed was when I helped demo in Boymeat's electricity class back in January. I still have the mark, and it was awesome. I'm one of those people who finds having her limits pushed both frightening and incrediblly funny and interesting.

For me play is like life; it's a grand adventure to be had. And with a few minor exceptions (death and permanent maiming, for instance), I wanna try it all. So I'll be slapped across the face, and made to endure various cruelties and undergo all sorts of interesting and different experiences, and some will be edges, and others won't. But all in all it'll be just awesome, because that's what life is, an awesome amazing gift that should be protected and cherished and honored.