Rush

Author's Note: This post is about waterboarding, something that's been something of a news item lately. I demo-bottomed doing this at Floating World to a good friend of mine whom I trust (you may have read about it in the Star Ledger). We both talked about it a great deal in advance and he answered all of my questions to my satisfaction before I consented to doing this. So there you have it; we both consented.

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Fear and terror are two completely different things. I learned that that day. Fear is hot, fear, to me, is getting fucked while there's a rope tied around my throat, or being told that if I don't do what I'm told, when I'm told, that my top is going to rip out a toenail with a pair of pliers. Fear is hot, and a little intimidating, and uncertain. But terror, for me, is believing in every fiber of my being that I am going to die, in that really horrible this-is-not-a-drill kind of way.

The people that are debating whether or not waterboarding is torture or not have clearly never been waterboarded. It's torture. Pure and simple. I was convinced that I was going to die. I'm told that it's done to create the illusion of drowning, I disagree. There is no illusion; I was drowning and nothing can convince me otherwise. I recognize that what I did was very tame compared to whats going on in some parts of the world. But what I did was enough to get me thinking. Because right now, I am of the opinion that the illusion lies only within in the theory of waterboarding, and only in the theory. In reality, there is no illusion. You are drowning.

The demo started with Ward, my friend who was teaching the class, talking about different things and answering some questions. Much to the amusement of the audience, I took a sip of water from the bottle that was about to be used on me. Four people were restraining me, one of whom was my friend Marilyn. Then he pushed the wash cloth into my mouth, but I started gagging so he took it out and got it wet before pushing it back in, only not so deep. It took me a minute to get acclimated to it.

At first as he started sprinkling water on me I started to laugh, those sibilant notes that are so synonymous with me and play. Moisture formed in the back of my throat but most of the water went up my nose. I tried to inhale and found only water, like I had accidentally inhaled while swimming under water in a pool. I tried to push against the people holding me down, but found I couldn't move, which made me panic even more. I'm told that my eyes were darting around rapidly under my eyelids. It felt like water had flooded my throat, and I couldn't get a breath in. Before starting Ward had told them to let me go immediately when he gave the signal. He waved his hand and I was released. I rose up from the table so that I was leaning on my elbows while he pulled out the wash cloth. I coughed and gasped for air. I was angry and terror-stricken. Ward went on to say that it was intended to create the illusion of drowning. "Fuck you, I was drowning," I exclaimed, feeling upset and exposed.

After the class ended and people filed away I felt the full force of the chemicals that had been produced hit me; raw adrenaline and endorphins rushed into my system. I hugged Ward tight, frightened and wide-eyed. We went to a diner, but both of us barely ate. I felt physically ill, and I was upset and felt exposed and vulnerable. When we got back to the room I took a hot shower in the dark which helped a little bit and then I went and crawled back into bed and clung close.

Getting over that rush of chemicals took me a long time; every time I seemed to make some progress I would just crash back into feeling miserable all over again. I did finally manage to eat something that night, some of my famous mac & cheese and one of the brownies I had baked for the weekend. But it took me a few days to get over the full effects of what had been released into my system as a result.

I don't know if this is something that I would do again. I'm certainly not angry or upset with Ward or any of the people who were restraining me. I consented to doing that, and I own that fact. But the effects out lasted everything else, and I find the effects to be really rather disagreeable. And if I'm slammed from chemicals which make me feel horrible one or two days later, then is it really worth it for a scene that only lasts, at the very most, and this is really really pushing it, 15 seconds? Probably not.

Sigh. I don't know what else to say here. Except that I had an experience that no one I know, to my knowledge, has ever had. And I wish that I could tell someone who has a bigger voice than I do in the world what that felt like. On the tame level that I experienced that, it was easily one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. I can't imagine what those men are facing in places where these practices are occurring on a far more intense and overwhelming level. But I write a sex blog, sporadically at that, and it's very unlikely that anyone will hear my quiet little voice, telling the story about the time I got waterboarded.

Would you? Will you? Just remember.

Author's note: This post has been knocking around in my head for a while; I've been looking for a job for a while now, and not having much luck. This post is a result of going on interviews and looking for something while covering up the bruises and scars under my work-type clothes and hoping for the best.

If I showed up in your office for a job interview, would it scare you to know that I had bruises under my clothes? Would it scare you that I had gotten set on fire the day before? Cut with a knife? Electrocuted?

Would it repulse you to know that I came into your office with bruises behind my ears from pressure points? That mere hours ago I was slammed up against a wall with a hand on my throat being called a tramp and a whore? That I had been tied up and spit on? That I cried like a little girl while I got fucked? That I had never been more wet?

Would you give me a job knowing that afterwork, after I've filed papers and answered phones and designed art work for your company, I'm going to get on a subway train, and go to a friends house, and do it all over again?

And if you gave me that job, aside from my being qualified and capable, would it also be because of what you know about me, would you do it because you felt sorry for me? Because you envied me on some level? Because it makes you hot? Do you think I will let you call me into your office and allow you to do things to me you're embarrassed to admit to fantasizing about?

Well then, I'd have to tell you that I'm a lady, that I won't let you bend me over your desk while you lift up my skirt and spank me, I won't let you try to intimidate me either, or call me a whore or a little slut. I am very professional, and while my bruises come with me to work, my life style does not.

But what I want to know is that if you give me a job, knowing what you know about me, would you sit at your desk, fantasizing about doing those tantalizing things to do to me? Or maybe you dream about me doing them to you, binding you to your chair and wrapping duct tape about your mouth, pissing on you and call you a whore and baggage, and slapping you across the face? Or maybe, just maybe, you won't judge me, or feel sorry for me, maybe, just maybe, I'll intrigue you. And you'll do a little homework while your sitting at home on your computer in the dead of night, and you'll go to a class at an organization, or you'll go to a party where people do exactly what I do, publically and openly with one another. And maybe you find that you like watching, you like partaking in these gloriously painful acts. But now what?

Will you still judge me? Will you feel sorry for me? Will I turn you on? Or will I frighten or intimidate you? Knowing what you know, would you fire me? Or would you let me keep my job, never venturing outside of your comfort zone, watching me come into work day by day, week by week, until they fade into years? Curious about what causes me to move more slowly some mondays than others?

I don't know what you will do, that's something you have to figure out for yourself. Just remember when you're thinking about how I got those scars on my breasts, those shiny scars that look suspiciously like burns, remember that I still have to pay my rent, and put food on the table and clothes on my back. Remember that I am a good person who is never late to work, and is good at what she does. Remember that my masochism is a part of what I am, and that that fact does not completely define who I am; that I am so much more than just a person who likes to be hurt.

And if it's something that you cannot or will not accept, then please remember that you always have the power to grow, to become a bigger and better person. But also remember that no one can do that but you.

The Comprehensive Folsom Street East Post!

Folsom is one of my favorite days of the year. It's like a second Christmas. It's the one leather event where I feel completely comfortable walking about in my bra on my own. I helped whore out Kinklets, and Boymeat single-tailed me behind the TES table. And pinched and punched and bit me, and we made out between rounds in a way that I haven't made out with anyone in a long time. It was really really nice. Yeah, I can't stress how much I love Folsom.

I saw tons of people I don't normally get to see, and I even ran into Jefferson and a friend of his. Lolita took our picture, but I can't post it here, 'cause it's got our faces in it. But in it, I am wearing my lucky purple Folsom bra (and part of my nipple is popping out), I wore it to Folsom last year and I got beat up, and I wore it again this year, and the same thing happened. So it's my lucky Folsom bra. You may have seen me walking about in it, I had a Kinklets flyer tucked in between my tits.

My friend and I firmed up our plans, because she is being uber-wonderful and giving me a ride to TES Fest. And then I bounced around for a while. It started raining at one point, and I stood out in my bra, because I didn't want my shirt to get wet, since I still had the train ride and the walk home ahead of me.

Terra was poking fun of me at one point, and I gave the best come-back I have had in a long time. "Up your nose with a rubber hose!" And then I burst out laughing and leaned back to smack Jefferson on the knee. "I just made a 'Welcome Back Kotter' insult, I am completely on top of my game today," I exclaimed. "You go girl," he said back with a smile. Not many people get those references, but when they do, I swoon. 'Cause I'm a geek like that. (Nevermind that my sociology teacher back in college asked who a famous Puerto Rican Jew was, and without really thinking I responded with 'Juan Epstein'. Only one person got the joke).

I saw two people that I know in my vanilla life, one of them I said hello to out of pure shock, and the other one I ducked behind someone when I saw him. He was dressed in full leathers with the exception of his shirt, which was for a fetish event. Every time I see him now, I'm going to picture him in his leather cap. I saw both of them within 15 minutes of each other, and nearly had a coronary right there on the street.

When I was walking back to the TES table at one point, I ran across a guy in a blue latex wresters suit flexing his pec muscles. I told him I used to be able to do that, and he turned to me and said "well can you do this?" and started rolling his stomach muscles. "Honey, I belly dance, of course I can do that!" I replied, and did it in kind and even put in a little bit of hip, and then I added a few Ohmis and a couple figure eight shimmies (it has a Middle Eastern name that I don't know how to spell), and some Turkish flat steps, and his boyfriend and this chick were laughing while we did this, and then I excused myself to skip off and talk to the Gay Men's Chorus about joining. So I now have something to think about and work on.

I left a little bit after it had started raining. I had gone on the Kinklet's trip to the aquarium on Saturday, and spent the night in the City, so I was pretty exhausted by the time that evening rolled around. I got on the train, and crashed. I read my book and listened to music and became really really anti-social. I was starving by the time my train rolled into the station, so I was going to go to the market and get some food (ironically an Eden's gourmet market opened up in the next town over where I catch the train), so I went in there, and got some food. I tuned into my music and schlepped on home to a shower and a nice warm meal.

Folsom totally rocked this year.

Pumpkin

The world was silent.

It was as though the City had gone to sleep, and the only ones awake in the night were Adit and myself. I laid in his bed, which seemed impossibly high up off the ground. My nerves sang in a chorus as tension rippled through my body.

Our conversations and desires had brought us to this night, to the decision to do this with each other. Our leanings towards giving our friendship a twist, but staying friends all the same, something we both felt was important. And then, after a couple weeks of talking and texting, I found myself back in his bed. Still a friend and an equal, somewhere in that time, I had become the little girl to his daddy.

So there I laid in his bed, nervous and scared, the darkness was almost oppressive, like it was keeping it's own council on what it was about to lay witness to. Adit caressed my face and shoulder and breasts, laying himself down next to me and wrapping one arm around me. "Are you going to be a good girl for Daddy?" He asked. "Because I want to play a special game with you, but remember, this is a secret, you can never tell anyone that we're playing this game. Do you understand?" I nodded mutely in the dark as he slipped his hand down into the silky folds between my thighs and began kneading my clit.

The tension mounted in my chest before it began to break up inside of me like waves on a beach. I buried my face against his chest. "Now Pumpkin," he said. "I want you to touch your special place, show Daddy what you like." I tentatively reached my hand down and grazed my fingertips against my clit. "There's a good girl," he said softly in the dark before his hand replaced my own.

He began rubbing his fingers against my clit, making me gasp and moan. "Daddy," I said softly. "It feels funny." "I know it does, it's supposed to, and if you do this enough, it will feel good all over, don't you want that sweety?" He asked. "Yes Daddy," I said softly. His fingers flicked over my clit, drawing me closer and closer to the edge. "Oh, oh Daddy," I breathed softly into his chest. "Yes, come for me, come for your Daddy little girl," he breathed into my hair.

As the tension rose within me, something in me began to give way, and I slipped into Little space. I came, gasping and moaning against his hand, holding him against my sex as my hips bucked against his hand. When I finished, Adit stroked my hair and told me what a good girl I was before climbing up to kneel between my thighs. I watched him roll on a condom in the dark, while he spoke. "Now it's time for Daddy to feel good, don't you want that? For Daddy to feel good?" "Yes Daddy," I said softly. He pressed up inside of me and began thrusting into me. "Now remember, you can never tell anyone that you play these special games with Daddy, do you understand?" He asked in the darkness. A ball of wariness had settled into my stomach. "Yes Daddy," I said softly. "Such a good little girl," he breathed as he began to move faster. After a few moments of silence, he came long and hard.

He pulled out and laid down next to me. "Daddy, do other daddies play these games with their little girls?" I had asked, gazing up at the dark ceiling. "Some daddies play these games with their little girls, but only because they are special, and you must never tell anyone that we play these games because some little girls don't play these games with their daddies, and you don't want them to be sad, do you?" Adit had asked me. "No Daddy, I don't want that," I said softly.

After a few moments, I lifted my head and looked over at him. "Adit, is there something wrong with us for doing this?" I asked seriously. "No Eden, there isn't. I've spent alot of time studying sexuality, and what we did is good and beautiful. We're both consenting adults, neither of us have any interest in doing anything like that with a family member, especially an actual child. That's disgusting. This is role playing, it's different, it's okay to do this because it's not real, do you understand?" I nodded quietly, then realized he couldn't see me. "I'm nodding," I told him.

The next day I kissed Adit, and left for the City where I met up with Terra. I told her what had happened the previous night, and as I did, I began freaking out. "How did you handle this?!" I had asked desperately.

"Oh I spent a good weekend just lying in Conor's bed, I didn't really eat, just laid there. He took it just as hard as I did, he did it for me, not realizing that he would actually like it," she explained. "You're only in part 1 of your freak out though, and you'll feel like this for a good long time. And then it will come easily to you, and that will fuck with you also." "You mean there's more?" I moaned, munching on my chicken. "Yup. Pretty soon you'll be calling him 'daddy' in public without a second thought. 'Candy Land' will never be the same again. And if he's anything like my daddy, he'll make you show where you like to be touched on your teddy bear," she said matter-of-factly. "But I've had my teddy bear since I was a babe-in-arms, I can't do that!" I squealed. "I had mine since I was 4, and I did it," she said. "He's even saying that I'm gonna have to wear white underwear for him at some point, I can't do that," I said indignantly. "Next thing you know I'm gonna be wearing ruffled socks and licking one of those huge lolli-pops. This is too surreal Terra, I can't be doing this. And what makes it worse is that I liked it. I really liked it."

"You've been talking about this for a year and a half, and you finally got what you wanted. You know you're gonna do it again, don't you?" She had asked. "Yeah, I know I'm gonna do it again. And what's really gonna mess with me is that I'm gonna keep on liking it. And then the day will come when I'll be used to it. And that, well, I'll deal with that when the time comes. One step at a time, right?"

I continued to freak out over the next couple days, hiding in my nest and watching horror movies to distract me from dealing with the emotions churning inside of me until I found myself asking myself what was wrong with me. Why did I want this, why did I like it. I pushed my back up against the wall, murmuring 'no no no' over and over again. Feeling scared and alone, I texted Adit who called me several minutes later. I was upset and began yelling at him for being so calm in the face of this. I was angry that he seemed oblivious as to why I was upset. The poor dear deserves better than me sometimes, but most of the time I'm pretty good. He asked me calmly not to yell at him, and to explain to him what was wrong.

"We're role-playing incest!" I had wailed. "Incest is wrong and dirty and disgusting, what is wrong with me?! I shouldn't like this, I can't like this, I'm not a sick person! I'm sane and healthy, I'm not like those disgusting perverts who hang out in play grounds watching children! I have normal healthy desires, what is wrong with me?!" "Nothing is wrong, it's role playing, those are the key words, it's not real. Do you really think that I would be interested in my daughter? Or any child or family member for that matter?" Adit asked, his logical tone cutting into my panic. "No, of course not," I said crossly. "And I don't think you're interested in doing these things with any one in your family either," he said. "No, I'm not," I said quietly. "We aren't sick people, we are sane and healthy consenting adults role playing this. But it doesn't make us worser people for doing it, and if it really bothers you then we can stop, and we never have to do it again. I know you're frightened by this, it's okay to be, but there's nothing wrong with us for doing this, alright?" He asked. "I just feel awful, because I want to do this again, like, I really want to do this again, but I feel like there's something wrong with me. And I'm having a really hard time owning that," I said, my voice sounded strung out to me from all the anxiety. "There's nothing wrong with you Eden, it's okay to want this. You're safe with me, I'm not gonna let you fall, it's okay," he said. He joked with me a little bit, and I laughed, and we got off the phone a few minutes later with his insistences that I call him no matter what if I had any further problems.

I felt a little better after the phone call, but my emotions still sat in the pit of my stomach, and I worried and wondered about what my next step would be. I'm still not sure what that step is, but I do know I'm seeing Adit soon. I'm wearing my overalls and a t-shirt. I'm learning how to own my new found fetish, it's not easy. It's really fucking hard, actually. But in it's own strange way, it works for me.

Rage

I came to the leather scene when I was 18, two weeks after my 18th birthday, I wandered into my first TES meeting, and never really wandered out. I had the crappy abusive relationship that all guppy subs seem to have to have before they get to the good stuff in the scene. I met people and made friends. I'm very lucky to have met the people I have, to have had the opportunity to make friends within my community. Of course, when I first came to TES, I had no idea that TNG existed. In fact it would be about two years before I was taken to a meeting, where I met Terra, my leather sister and best friend. Ironically the meeting I first went to was run by one of the founders of the TNG movement, but that's another story.

This story, I'm sorry to say, is steeped in rage.

I often tell people that my best friend when dealing with the community is the buddy system. And people laugh, I even laugh, but the truth is I utilize the buddy system because I don't feel safe in my own community. I don't feel that I can go to a party, or any other kind of kinky event alone because I get hit on constantly and obviously by creepy men who have no concept of personal space or finesse. Men who get all up in my junk because at 21, I still look like a 16 year old girl. And you know what? It sucks. It sucks that I don't feel like I can go out and enjoy my own community and feel safe. And I am outraged by this.

I'm not the same girl I was when I came to the scene, in the time that I've been here, I've learned how to stand up for myself. I've evolved into a heavy bottom, and I'm smart about it. I have rules, very strict rules that govern who I play with and how I play with them. I don't deviate from my rules. I had a scene that went bad a while back. I'm not blaming anyone, it's just that I had medical staples in my chest, and we couldn't find the staple remover, so we wound up having to remove them using pliers. It was one of the most painful things I've ever experienced in a scene. I've learned that the most painful things that happen to me during a scene are never intentional. And one of these aforementioned creepy men, who shall remain nameless showed up and was watching this like it was some hot amazing scene. And I looked at him, already in an intense amount of pain and said loudly and firmly that he needed to go away because I couldn't deal with him.

Or at the Pirate Party a while back, I did my first single tail scene. I was whacked out of my gourd on endorphins and adrenaline and feeling more than a little bit fragile. My top had gone to get some water for us, and this man saw me sitting there topless and staring off into space. He came over and actually had the audacity to touch me, I don't even remember what he wanted, all I registered was a threat. I said as loudly as I could "Get your hands off of me!" He backed away quickly, and I was grateful when my top came back.

I'm tired of these men who really need to stop using the same tired old 'Wanna look at my toy bag?' line. I'm tired of having to literally hug the wall on my way to the ladies after a scene, because chances are I'm still naked and probably more than a little bit spacey. It's like those construction workers who constantly hit on women on the streets, catcalling and yelling sexual comments at these women. They never seem to change their tact, they seem to think that eventually it will work in their favor. It's the same thing in the scene, the same sad, pathetic, terrifying approach is used time after time on whoever their target is. You think they'd get the clue.

I've told Terra that I want to teach a Miss Manners class, and she continues to remind me that I will in all likelihood get up there and revert to my Jersey girl nature and spaz out and start ranting for an hour and a half solid at these people about why they can't get anyone to play with them. Us Jersey girls play dirty sometimes, Aimee speculates that it's something in the air that comes to us by way of Refinery Row and the Pulaski Skyway. Personally I've always said that it's something in the water.

But the point is is that this has to stop, I desperately want to be able to go to a party on my own, or maybe meet people there and get there early and not feel obligated to stand outside in the dark street because I would rather take my chances getting mugged than having to deal with people who never learned the concept of personal space.

It seems to me that these behaviors are so common that they are accepted and tolerated by the rest of the scene. Now, I know that my paltry three and a half years doesn't come close to some of my friends' time spent in the scene, so I might be missing some really big piece of the puzzle here, but why is this tolerated? Why are these people just accepted and ignored?

There seems to be a new strain of classes about how to get people to play with you. It seems odd to me that we need classes on common sense things. I think it's idiotic that people need to pay some small fee to be told to act how they would in a vanilla situation. I just want to understand this. I want to work towards a better community for everyone. I can't be the only one who wants this, but sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who wonders why this is, and tries to figure out how it can be changed.

I don't know, I've only been here for so long. And my so long is really very limited. Maybe I don't know something everyone else does. But if we all know the same things, then why isn't anything being done to change it? My goal here is not to offend, it's to learn, to understand why things are the way they are. It's to help stop people from being hurt, to bring people into our folds instead of turning them away. There are so many wonderful people in our folds. There are wonderful people from age 18 up through 110 and beyond. Truly lovely people who are worth your time and energy and love and trust. They are people who can teach you things, and learn from you as well. I know they can be found, because I found them, they are my friends. But I also know that I had to drag myself through countless leering stares and bad pick-up lines. I had my bad relationship with an abusive man, who I later discovered had a pattern to go with it. I know that I wasn't the only one.

I want things to change so that people can come to our community and see that everyone is worth their time and energy and affections, and that they don't have to sift through the predators and creeps to find the diamonds in the rough. Everyone should be a diamond. There's no reason why it should be a mix of coal and gems. No reason at all.

So why tolerate the predators?

Impact

I was in a book store recently, browsing the shelves before I had to saunter off to work a few blocks away. I wandered in between the aisles, through the bargain books, on into fiction, down through biology and up into history. Eventually I found myself in the section on sexuality. My eyes skimmed over the titles, I wasn't terribly interested in the books. Mostly revised versions of the 'Kama Sutra', and other books on positions. I've given up on elaborate positions, getting off is already hard enough with having to worry about my aching knees or the muscles burning in my back from the strain.

My eye was caught by a book, and I picked it up, and read the back of it. 'Working Sex: Sex Workers Write About a Changing Industry', was the title. And as I began to read it, I fell inside of it. Because it was exactly what I had been looking for for the longest time. Now, I'm not a sex worker, I can't offer you views on that because I have no experience in that arena, but what struck me about this book was the actual stories, not the money that exchanged hands, but the men and women who had these experiences. I feel like we never hear from sex workers because they get pushed down so often, but I think that their voices need to be heard.

I often think of one of Eve Ensler's monologues from 'The Vagina Monologues' titled 'I was twelve. My mother slapped me,' when I think of sex. Because in her intro she says that when she interviewed women about their periods, their stories began to show similarities and patterns in their experiences.

I believe that the same thing applies to sex.

I believe this because when we start to tell our stories, similarities begin to shine through. Love, hate, need, passion, fear, desperation, happiness, joy, elation, fun, healing, and so much more. When we begin to talk about our experiences, we weave together a cloth full of stories that have many different feelings and meanings attached to them.

When I began blogging, I wanted to write about my stories and experiences, I had thoughts and opinions that I wanted to share with the world. But it was never really my intent to write erotica. I wanted to get past the smut, because I honestly believe that sex impacts our lives. I took a guy's virginity last year, how do you think that effected him? How did it effect me? I also fisted a girl for the first time, her first time getting successfully fisted, what about that?

After Jefferson got back from Camp last year, I showed up on his door step with my strap-on, and that night he straddled me, pressing my dildo up into his ass. And we cried and I held him and told him that I had him, that I would never let him fall, and he kept saying over and over again 'I know, I know' while we wept. I think about that sometimes, about the fact that the night that we did that, I did not get turned on, not like I usually do. What transpired between us went so much deeper than sex. Lying there, staring up at him, I felt submissive in a way I hadn't felt in a long time. Deep down inside of my soul something vibrated, and it broke and reformed. Something inside of me had changed, had healed.

So I'm sure you can understand why it frustrates me when I hear people talking about how sex is evil and wrong. How can something be evil and wrong when it has effected so many lives so deeply, for better or for worse? I have friendships with people that I met at orgies, these are people that I talk about music and movies and relationships and everything else with. Back in March I e-mailed Jefferson about an afternoon of casual sex and we've been friends ever since. Sex brings people together, after all it takes two to tango, three can be company, and the more the merrier.

Now, don't get me wrong, I have nothing but respect for the people of this world who have chosen to be celibate for one reason or another. I was celibate for 13 months once, and I applaude the people who have done it successfully. But it's not for me, I can't imagine it's for most people. No, my issue lies with the people who try to erase their sex drives, and encourage other people to do the same, the people who tell boys their penis' will fall off if they masturbate, or the circumcision of girls in Africa, or the people who try to 'reprogram' gay men and lesbian women to fit into their concept of what people should really be, instead of what they actually are, which is human.

I feel like some people have lost sight of the bigger picture, so I'm writing this in attempt to make the bigger picture a little bit clearer. To try to erase some of the tarnish that sex has somehow accumulated over the years, and let's face it, those are some pretty substantial years. The people that I've talked to about sex have told me some of the most incredible stories, and I'm so pleased that they entrusted me to be one of the keepers of their tales. When they tell me these stories I hear wistful longing and unfinished business in their voices, I hear regret and pain, and joy, I hear people giggling like they were children again, on rare occasions I've witnessed tears, goodness knows I'm shedding them now, as I write this.

I will probably never understand why some people have such close minded views on sex. I can't help but wonder who hurt them so badly that they decided it was acceptable to destroy one of the pillars of healthy human development. I can only hope that they can find it in themselves to let go and try to heal, to try to see that they are safe and sound now.

Because in an era when we are confronted with AIDS and a host of other STDs, many treatable, others not, with teen pregnancies and botched abortions, where men, women, and children and members of the LGBT community face horrible indecencies, you'd think that more people would be willing to open their eyes and see the full magnitude of what is happening.

It seems like everyone is preaching abstinence, but human beings on a base physical level are wired to want to have sex; it's biological destiny. I would think that knowing what we know now, we would make more of an effort to inform people about birth control and the importance of using protection when having sexual relations. We need to stop trying to be perfect images of control, no man is a god, and no woman is a goddess, we are all human beings, no better and no worse than anyone else. Human beings cannot afford to let hubris win over common sense. The more people know about sex, the better off the whole human race will be.

I honestly don't know how to conclude this post, because if I'm not saying it, then somebody else is. There is no real way to end something like this, it will keep going on, long after I press the 'publish' button below my little window here. So I'm just going to leave it at that and hope that maybe some good will come of this.

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!

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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.

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.

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.

The Why

A friend recently said something to me in regards to playing; why do it? This got me thinking about why I play, or why anyone plays, for that matter. Does it go beyond sex? Is this how some people de-stress, or reach greater states of conciousness? Certainly it's been proven that when we get hurt, the brain releases endorphins which dull the pain, and endorphins resemble opiates in their chemical structure, that certainly helps get rid of stress. We hear about things like bottom space, top space, little space, puppy and pony space, the list goes on and on. While we may not achieve enlightenment in these head spaces, we are certainly percieving the world around us very differently than we normally would.

Is SM an inherently sexual act? Yes and no. Certainly there are people who get turned on by giving and receiving pain, goodness knows it makes me wetter than the ocean, but do I always want to have sex when I play? No, most of the time I just want to lie there after a scene and be talked too; be told that I'm a pretty girl and did a very good job in taking what I was told to. Of course there are people who love to have sex after they play, and that is just awesome too. Sometimes, I want to fuck, I love getting fucked after a nice boot scene or a foot scene, I can't get enough. But in most cases, like after being flogged or single tailed, in a scene where I am actually getting hurt for an extended period of time, I don't want to fuck, it just becomes too much for me to handle.

I know many people who have play partners where the play is perfectly fun and hot without being sexual. One of my play pals, when he and I get together to hash it out, he's not interested in my breasts or my cooch, it's all about the pain, and I laugh my ass off as we wrestle on the floor. He and I do not have a sexual component to our relationship.

Certainly a distinction has been made between play and sex. While I am a fairly easy girl to get into bed, many people would have a hell of a time trying to get me onto some play table in a dungeon. I'm slutty, not stupid.

For me there is certainly the aspect that it is sexual, I am known for stubbing my toe or whacking my elbow by accident and getting turned on. I enjoy pain. But I also play with the intensity that I do to prove to myself that I can, and I push myself to be able to take more. That I can handle a certain intensity of pain without freaking out or trying to back out of the scene is important to me. I am always pushing myself to be a better person than I am, in scene and out. I would love to be mass of scars, each set telling a different story, to know in my mind that I did those things and I did them well, with grace and dignity, or at the very least with a sense of humor and laughter.

Of course, I see myself looking over my scars when I am in my 70s or 80s when I think about this. Gazing at my wrinkled body in a mirror, remembering the entire journey of my life up til then. But today I am a young woman with tight skin who still has a few years left on her odeometer, and as much as I hate to admit it, I am vain, and I worry that having a mass of scars on my back will make people turn away from me; view me as less desirable because of it. I tend to have a higher rate of infection than most people and I have to accept the fact that there is a large chance I won't heal as cleanly.

So why do it if I am so concerned about becoming less attractive? The only answer I can give is that I won't be less attractive. I will still have a body that looks like it was pulled from a painting, but even more importantly I will still be the same person inside. Our desires may shape who we are to a certain degree, but at the end of the day, every one is just a regular human being like everyone else. So I guess it doesn't really matter why we do what we do, we enjoy it, for whatever reason, we like to do it, otherwise we wouldn't bother doing it at all.

Don't you love rambling discourses that eventually lead you up to a point that should have taken you two minutes to get to in the first place?

Thoughts from the bottom

I'll write about my weekend this weekend, it was my first ever BDSM con, it was nice, that has several posts of it's own coming up. Lots of fun stuff happened.

This here is my own ramblings, and I'm just gonna come out with my little disclaimer here, this isn't meant to ruffle any feathers. I know plenty of people who are content with a light spanking, and that is awesome! They are some of my dearest friends, and there is nothing wrong with being happy with just that, the same goes for tops, there is nothing wrong with not being interested in cutting someones back open with a single tail, and hobbling their feet with a cane, thats totally awesome too. Personally I consider myself to be a fairly heavy bottom, so I'll be writing more along where I'm at in terms of that.

I consider myself to be a pretty heavy player, I like to get worked and challenged on a fairly regular basis, it keeps me sharp and on my toes. I appreciate that, and I can appreciate someone who can dish it out and know exactly what they are doing. I don't mess around with my SM, I have rules that I never deviate from when it comes to my play. The first and foremost rule being if I don't know you, I won't play with you. Period. End of story. Do not pass go, do not collect $200 dollars. It's that simple.

So what do we do if we can't get the dream cane scene? Where do we find the daddy or mommy or whatever who will take control? Where are the stun guns and piss play? I cannot tell you that. If I could, I would have found these things a long time ago and (for the most part) hung up my bratty princess crown.

So how do we handle this internal push for our dream scene? How do we control our desires for this? Some people are lucky enough to have a friend who tops that they know and trust and can go to and ask for a scene, that is certainly one way of dealing with it. Others find other ways to occupy their time and minds. I like to quilt and bake, personally. I go for long walks and sing, whatever I feel like, jazz, opera, whatever, sometimes I sing along to 'Ultimate Dance Party' and shake my ass in my living room. It's okay to cry and get frustrated, goodness knows I have. I get angry, I WANT someone to pull my hair and call me a fucking pig and make me do whatever it is I've been told to do, even though in any other case I would've just shrugged and gone off to do it.

On the otherside of that same coin, last August I had a breakdown one afternoon. You see, I had gone from a relationship where the play had plateaued, I wasn't feeling challenged, to a relationship where I was being introduced to much heavier players who were interested in say, caning the tops of my thighs and tying my hair to my feet, and, pfft, I dunno, flogging me until their arm got tired from whacking me so hard. I reached a point where I literally did not know how far I was prepared to go. A year later, I still don't. I haven't reached my limit for pain yet. I consider it a point of pride that I called a safeword once, and it only because I felt it was an unsafe scene for me to be in. The equipment was shoddy. I entertain dark fears that I will end up in a hospital because I let it go too far. But that is why I am so picky about my tops, so very very picky. They generally know to call the scene when I don't.

It doesn't help that I've been known to pull out books to read while I'm being beaten because I get bored. Yes, I get bored sometimes. I'm not interested in stopping pulling my shit, I guess I'm just afraid that I'll misread someone one day, and wind up waaay in over my head. And then what? Will I be told that I did it to myself and be made to clean up my own mess, will I be able to get up at all? I have no idea.

These are real concerns of mine as a bottom, not as a sub, as a bottom, trying to find that balance. Balance, what an amazing word, it evokes so much. But it is so important to find that balance. If I sit around bitching that I'm never gonna get my dream scene, well then, I'm doing it to myself at a certain point, now aren't I? But if I don't know what I'm about when I go out to play, then I am setting myself up for a real downfall that could have potentially serious consequences. I dunno, these are just my thoughts, meandering as they are. Maybe I'll have answers to my questions one day, maybe I won't. Whose to say what the future holds in store for any of us?