MY BANANA!

As you can probably tell by now, I don't feel particularly obligated to to this blog, but I feel bad when I don't post for months at a time. Frankly I'll be amazed if my stats go up after I post this. I just got in from a walk, and I feel the overwhelming need to go and take a shower, because I am a sweaty dirty girl, and not in the good way. But here I am, posting, wondering if my stories are still fresh in my memory. I guess I should start with the banana.

It was saturday night at tesfest, and I was told to go to the main dungeon at 10:20 with a banana. I had no idea what was going to happen, or why it was going to happen. I just went. This had been set up earlier in the day, and several people got me several different bananas. But I chose the one that I wanted to be mine, and a key detail here is that Brian was with me when I chose said banana.

So I get to the dungeon, and I'm wandering around, and I bump into Marilyn and several other CV people, and Marilyn keeps trying to take my banana away from me. After a few more minutes, Brian comes over to us. "Brian," I say. "Tell them to stop trying to take away my banana, it's mine, you were with me when I chose it." Ignoring me, he told me the rules of the game. "All you have to do is keep the banana from getting away from you. If you lose the banana, there will be terrible consequences," he had said. "Oh," I managed to say before five people pounced on me. Ripping off my overalls and bikini top, they lifted me up off the floor, four people holding up my legs, and Brian holding the rest of me up by my hair (I was not a happy camper). "You gonna give us the banana?" Someone said. "No! My banana!" I screamed back as they carried me to the far side of the room.

I was told later that I topped the dungeon that night, and frankly, I believe it. I screamed and yelled and berated them. And slowly as they struck me and bit me, I began to form a plan in my mind. The plan was simple: Get my clothes, and get to the hotel room, even if it means streaking the entire hotel. A deadbolt would hold them off for a while. I hung tight onto my banana, at one point placing a firm complaint and disallowed biting for the rest of the scene (biting makes me violently angry). I had a goal in mind, but getting away from everyone with the banana proved to be more difficult that I had hoped. Because Dov showed up, and with Dov comes rope, and he and another member of my beat down started tying me up. It's hard getting the leverage you need to get someone off of you when you have at least 4 other people hitting you.

Mind you, people are still trying to convince me to give them the banana, and I'm still screaming "No! My banana!"

Well, at one point another banana makes it's way onto the scene (pun not originally intended, but it is now that I think about it). "Are you sure you have the right banana? Maybe this banana is the right banana," Brian said. "But this is my banana, you were with me when I chose it, Aaron gave it to me, remember?" I replied. "But how do you know that's the real banana? Maybe you have it wrong, maybe this banana is your banana," He said. He confused me for a minute, so I did the only thing I could think of; I took the banana. I now had two bananas instead of one. Well I'll tell you this; it's alot easier holding onto one of them then 2 of them. People kept merrily hitting me until one of them remembered that I sang. "Hey, we should have music, sing something," Marilyn said. I floundered for a moment, and then I figured I had nothing to lose; I launched head long into Mimi's aria "Mi Chiamano Mimi" from Puccini's opera 'La Boheme'. I got about half way through it before someone hit me and I lost my breath and gave up. But my singing had attracted alot of attention from people including the Baroness herself.

"Why don't you give give me one of your bananas?" She asked, "I'll keep it safe". Just then someone hit me, causing me to drop the second banana, and a cry of victory arose from my tops. The Baroness took the banana and I guess she must've wandered off. Although someone mentioned she was going to the pool area for the pool party.

"Come on, give up your banana, you must be exhausted by now," Brian crooned. "No," I said stubbornly. "My banana." At one point my captors let up their guard, because I managed to break free. I was tied up in a sitting position with my legs bent and the rope reached around my hips. I couldn't really move very effectively, but I did make it about five feet by scooching myself along, not unlike a dog dragging it's patoot on the carpet.

I almost managed to pass a friend of mine who was playing before I was dragged back to the spot. Still holding the banana, which by now was bruised and squishy in my hands. The lot of them pushed me onto my back again and starting beating on me. A couple that I'm friends with showed up, and the boy in that couple is German. Well, I'm German by half, so I called out to him "Come on, we're both German, help me out here. Ich bin ein Berliner!" I called out, laughing at my joke. "Yes!" Everyone crowed back. "You are a donut!" "Exactly!" I laughed.

I don't quite know when the beating shifted, but everyone started punching me to the theme of the Imperial March, from the original Star Wars movies. And I had trouble drawing breath, I started to panic and hyperventilate. I began crying hysterically, screaming that I couldn't breath. After they let up, I continued to cry harsh tears.

When I finally calmed down I wandered, and actually threw out my banana, thinking that the scene was over. Foolish me. Scenes are apparently never over at events; at least not for me. Eventually Brian cornered me and slammed me into a wall, holding a knife to my throat. "Where's your banana?" He asked, dead serious. "I threw it out, I thought the scene was over," I replied, suddenly unsure of myself. "Well you have to go to the Baroness and get the other one," he said. "I can't," I said, suddenly feeling as small as a field mouse. "What do you mean you can't?" He asked. "I just can't," I said stubbornly, feeling the subtle onset of an anxiety attack. "Is this an anxiety thing? Or for some other reason?" He asked. "Anxiety," I said quietly. "Okay, then I'll go with you," he said. And I got up and put my clothes on, and we tromped over to the pool area together. We waited for her to show up, and when she did, we requested our banana back.

Brian left me with her to collect our wayward fruit, and left back for the dungeon. I stood there nervously while she collected the fruit, and then she and her cohorts went into the bathroom. They cut the banana into pieces and wrote a note, which I still have tucked away in my bedroom mirror (I keep meaning to put it in my scrap book). I retrieved our now maimed fruit, and returned to the dungeon. Apparently that was the end of the scene, because Brian really didn't know what to do with it, so I found someone who wanted it, and left it at that.

The next day people kept giving me bananas. I stuck them in my back right pocket, after all, who needs the hankie code when you can flag fruit? I didn't eat much that weekend because of my nerves, but whenever I was overcome with hunger, I could just reach into my back pocket and pull out a banana.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Boot scene

We had plotted a boot scene for saturday night. It had been a while since we'd done one, and were eager for the experience. Jefferson and I settled into a quiet corner, and began making out. He removed my bra, and my breasts hung free and loose in the cool air of the dungeon. He fondled my them and toyed with my nipples. I got onto my knees and he caressed my face, quieting my racing mind. I nuzzled his crotch through his jeans, and after a few moments, he pulled it out, and I went down on him, frenzied by the smell of boy and the heat of his cock against my tongue. I slid down onto the hard floor and removed one of his shoes and sock. I breathed in the smell of his foot, the texture of his sole against my cheek causing a jolt of pleasure between my thighs.

I licked his foot, cleaning off the accumulated sweat from the day. He reached under the chair he was sitting in, where I was lying and unbuttoned my pants. He slid off my jeans and reached his hand under my pink panties and fingered me. I arched up against him, moaning around his big toe. I removed his other shoe and sock, careful not to let his foot touch the dirty floor. He pulled at one of my breasts with his foot, causing me to moan. I was well into hog heaven. He wrapped his feet around my face, pressing down, and I gasped inwardly. I did not want this to stop.

Finally I pulled back and began to put his socks on his feet, I put on the first boot and began lacing it up, I gazed up at Jefferson, and he gazed back down at me, periodically brushing his hand against my cheek. I would stop occasionally, pressing my lips against the cool leather, allowing my tongue to momentarily wash over the boot. By the time I finished the first one, my hands were shaking.

I began on the second boot, putting his foot in and lacing it up, I gazed up at him as my hands worked, stopping periodically to check my work, and make sure everything was properly lined up. When the second boot was laced, I leaned down, kissing and licking the side of his boot, the smell of leather was intoxicating, the bitter taste was like a drug to me. When I got to the top of the boot, I began pulling his pant leg down with my teeth, it didn't occur to me to use my hands. We kissed and then he said something to me, I'm not sure what, but I responded with "Why don't you get down here and make me?"

He pushed me back onto the ground, straddling my chest, and he spat on my face. I tried to wipe it off, but he cuffed me on the cheek, arresting the progress of my hand. I tried to catch him off guard by whacking him in the head, but he caught my ankle, licked his thumb, and stuck it up my ass.

He looked up. "The cross is free," he said. "You wanna use it?" I asked. He nodded, and we went over to it. He tied me to the cross and starting flogging me, I kept saying 'ow' over and over until I started to sound like a dying cat. Periodically I would laugh, at one point I started singing 'sexy back', and that's when we knew it was just over. He tried to put my panties in my mouth without success just to shut me up. The scene petered out not long after, but damn, it was nice. I love me a good boot scene.

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?

Starting fresh

How do I begin this? I've never done anything like this before, write about my sex life? Never had I dreamed of doing anything like this in such a public forum. But here I am. Doing things I never dreamed of.

After getting out of a difficult relationship, I decided to take time off from dating. I knew that I didn't want a relationship, but I didn't want to be celibate either. So one night I plucked up the courage to write the author of a blog that I had been reading for several months. This is what I wrote:

I’m sure you get this a lot, and I suppose this is kinda coming out of left field, but you only live once, right? I came across your blog a couple of months ago, and I noticed a trend: You have hot sex. And I would like to have hot sex, for once. I’m in the city on an almost daily basis, so if you are interested, drop me a line.

Take care,

Eden

Jefferson and I exchanged e-mails over the course of a week, he requested photos and asked about fantasies I had, and I responded in kind.

The day came for me to go and meet him. I took care in dressing myself, not sure what one wore to something like this. When I got to his building, I rode the elevator up to his floor, and after a few moments, found his apartment. I stood there, terrified, my hand literally frozen in the air. I almost turned around and walked away. But I didn't, I gathered what little courage I could muster, and knocked on the door. I heard sounds behind the door, and after a moment, the deadbolt slid back and the door was opened to reveal a blonde man a few inches taller than myself. I was drawn inside, he took my bag and sweatshirt, and drew me into a kiss. He slowly undressed me, drawing off my shirt and bra, pulling off my pants and panties until I stood there nude.

He continued kissing me, running his hands over my breasts, and down my belly, slipping between my thighs. I hadn't realized how much I wanted this until I felt my own heat and moisture against his fingers; I was soaking wet. Completely and utterly drenched.

"Get on your knees," he said. "I want you to suck my dick."

I sank to my knees, and settled myself on the cool wood floor. He pulled it out of his pants, and I gazed at him for a moment. "Are you clean?" I asked tentatively. "Yes, I am," he said. And I set to work.

I was nervous, but I am also a Jersey girl, and we have a tradition to uphold. I took as much of him in my mouth as I could, and lapped at him with the tip and flat of my tongue, moving my head back and forth. After a while, he pulled me off of him and took my hair in his hand. I dropped to my hands and knees and let him lead me back through his apartment to his bedroom. I got the impression of a brightly colored rug before I was brought to kneel in front of a chair. I heard him undress behind me, and then saw him settle nude into the chair in front of me. I resumed my ministrations. I was lost in the silence of his apartment, I had no sense of time or the world around me.

After a while, he told me to get up on his bed, and I obeyed, laying back among the pillows. "I never cum from this," I told him. "Doesn't matter, I just want your taste," he replied. He settled between my thighs, tonguing my clit. I forced myself to relax as I began to chase my orgasm. I shuddered as I came, rolling my hips as ectasy swept over me.

"No one's ever done that before," I said, suddenly feeling less nervous.

"Well I'm pleased to join such select company," he said, coming up to kneel in front of me. He took a condom out of a drawer, and rolled it on, and pressed himself down inside of me.

"You have a remarkably tight pussy Eden," he said.

"So I've been told," I replied quietly. We fucked for a long time, we were both quiet. Then he leaned back and slapped me, shocked by the blow, I tried to pull away. After a moment, he slapped me again, and I repeated my actions. "Eden, stop that!" He ordered. "You could hurt yourself." Then he slapped me again, and I stayed still, though my nostrils flared.

"You're a bit of a brat, aren't you?" He asked me.

"So I've been told," I replied through clenched teeth.

"Shhh, no more slaps, we'll just fuck for now," he said softly, kissing me.

We continued to fuck until he came. I smiled into his shoulder; I am always pleased when the people I bed cum.

Afterwards, we laid there, talking for a bit, and began fucking again after a little while. He caned me for a bit, and then sent me off to shower.

I left his apartment that afternoon with marks on my backside and an invitation to return soon. It was awesome, and marked the beginning of a very new and interesting path for me.

Since meeting Jefferson, I've met a number of wonderful and interesting people, some of whom I've slept with, some of whom I've played with, and some of whom I've only spoken with. But all-in-all, it's been awesome.

This journal chronicles my new path for myself, wherever it may take me.