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.

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.

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?

Breath

It was so quiet. In the very early hours of the morning, when neither of us had found sleep. His party had tapered off into nothing. The world was silent as he slammed me up against a wall. Pushing my pants down over my hips and pulling my shirt off over my head. He grabbed my hair and drove me back against the wall several times, hard.

He pushed me down across his bed. Wrenching me into position with a hand in my hair. He tied my wrists to his headboard, a few moments passed before I felt something hot and liquid land on my bare skin. The wax kissed my breasts and belly as he moved the candle along my body. After a while, I ventured to open my eyes, and I gazed up into his face, the flame lighting his features. I found myself getting lost in his eyes, the intensity of his concentration running like an electric current throughout my body.

Soon he put aside the candle, and kissed me, gently, exploring. His hand ran along my torso, rolling my nipples between his finger tips. His hand slowly, tentatively ran down to the dark thatch of hair between my thighs, pressing up against my clit. His fingers danced, and my breathe quickened. He drew his hand away and took up the knife.

He began to slowly, methodically cut away at the wax from my body. I laid there, gazing up at him; it was as though I was witnessing the rapture. I was aware of the intense silence. As though the world were holding it's breath. When he was satisfied, he untied me, and we laid there, and snuggled up close and talked to one another. In time I gathered myself together and went to find a place to sleep among the bodies in his living room.

Sometime in the hours of the morning, while we slept, the world began to breath again.

Tidbit

I always laugh at myself when I remember this. It happened a couple years ago, in August. I was playing with Boymeat when he asked me if I came from pain. Problem was I was so high on my own endorphins, all I could do was stare at him stupidly and mentally run through my world geography, desperately trying to locate the country 'Pain'. I kept thinking 'No, my family has western European roots, I don't come from Pain at all.'

I was about to ask him what he meant, tell him that I my roots weren't terribly exotic when it dawned on me what he had asked. "It hasn't happened yet," I replied with a quiet smile, and laid my head back in my arms while he continued working over my backside with a cane.

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.

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.

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?

Untitled

Friday night after Jefferson's g and p-spot class at Floating World, we met up with Jocasta and Zelda. They wanted to suspend me and one of the people we were with. Jefferson copied Jocasta's moves with the rope, he listened to their guiding words, and I drifted in and out of awareness. People came over and said hi, I smiled, kissing a friend on the cheek. Then I began to drift into space, meditating on what was to come. I had never been suspended before, and time seemed to slow down and then stop as the rope was wound around my naked limbs and torso.

Zelda and Jocasta checked his work throughout the construction of the harness. When it was completed I was lead over to one of the smaller suspension frames, I slipped in and out of space, aware of some things and not aware of others. Finally after standing on one leg for an indeterminate period of time, I was hoisted off the ground, and I started laughing.

It was amazing, like flying. Time ceased to flow. I laid there, being gently pushed back and forth by someone, I don't remember who. After that, I drifted like a man lost at sea, only far more comforting. Someone asked me if I wanted my photo taken, I vaguely remember nodding. I felt at peace, I wasn't worried about anything. I am usually loud when I play, but after my initial laughter, I was silent. Someone hit me, but as far as I know, after a few strikes, they stopped, or maybe I just stopped being aware of it. Jefferson tells me that he touched and caressed me, but I don't remember that either. I opened and closed my eyes. It didn't matter though, I wasn't seeing what everyone else saw, the ceiling of some warehouse, I saw something else that I don't know how to describe. I swear, I came close to a heaven that I could believe in while I hung there. And when I closed my eyes for the last time in that harness, I was somewhere else.

I had transcended.

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?