Real Life

It’s hard to feel sexy when you’re sick.  Sneezing, coughing, snotty nose…not-so-sexy. Add that I missed a play date with W because of it and I am one pissy woman.

But yeah, I am a real person, not always the HotSexGirl you see here, so I do get sick occasionally, I get whiney, I get snotty. Being sick sucks.

Then he sends me a picture. It’s on someone’s profile on FetLife, and it’s him, with this woman, probably at a convention of some sort…and fuck it’s hot.  (I won’t link to the exact page b/c I haven’t got permission to do so–you’ll just have to trust me on this.)  I am not usually stimulated in a visceral way from pictures.  That’s why I don’t always understand what people get out of looking at porn, at least static porn, even the stuff we have on Bondage Demons, which is more real and more “active” than most of the canned porn you see out there…but photos just tend to be too sterile, too still, for me.  There’s no story behind it, you can’t feel, hear, see, taste what it was like, what was happening.  Porn clips are a little better, but still…I’m just not built mentally that way, I suppose.

Total opposite reaction when I saw this picture.  There is my lover with this woman, her legs spread for him, his fingers in her cunt as he digs into her the way he does me…  God, instant flash of heat, of desire, instant flashback to the things he has done to me, to the feel of his hands on me, in me.  Is it because it is him, I know him, I know that look on his face, I know the feel and smell and taste of him?  I don’t know.  All I do know is that I am missing our play date, missing him, all that much more.

It sucks being sick.

Cherries Jubilee

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Tooling around on the blogosphere, finding new people to read, new fun to have, new ideas to get my own flowing (to speak nothing of getting my juices flowing), I ran across this blog: Pop My Cherry written by one Domina Doll, “sex advocate, sex-radical feminist, retail slut & smut shop sales girl, lifestyle dominatrix, filmmaker and photographer.”  She has a review of this lovely toy and a contest to win one (leave a comment, random drawing) as a Valentine’s Day giveaway.  

cherryI love glass dildos.  I can’t recall ever having used one before W used one on me the other weekend, and actually am not sure I ever wanted to try one before then, tho I’d looked at them & admired them for their beauty many times.  But I loved it, its hard, slick surface, the way it warms to your body, the way it looks as it slides in.  And now I see this…now I know I have to get one.

I also found Violet Blue’s blog quite by accident.  I had run across tinynibbles way back when, when I first began my journey into erotica & BDSM, and actually had the great good fortune of meeting her at an event one time, but lost track of her, not knowing, of course, that she is a Celebrity.  Well, now I know.  And am properly humbled and awed.

What a wide, wild world the internet is!

The Story of Pictures

I’ve been looking at photos of the scenes that W and I do. He’s a photography slut, it’s as much a part of his kink to photograph what happens between us as is the desire to push boundaries. He takes his pictures in the heat of our scenes, and often captures moments of raw emotion and vulnerability, although no matter how intense the pictures are, they can only hint at the true intensity of what we do.

There is a part of me that feels very exposed by photographs, but not in the obvious way, the way of “Hey, look here, there’s a picture of a girl doing nasty things.” It’s more an emotional exposure, an exposure inherent in both the act of being photographed and in the viewing of the pictures afterward.

I feel raw when I look at the pictures of some of our scenes. Raw and laid bare in a way that cuts as deep as the experience itself in some ways. I have a very visceral reaction to my own photos, a reaction that excited and troubled me in equal measure the first time I looked at the pictures of our first scene. It both personalized the experience and depersonalized it. Made it both about me and not, like watching something happen to someone else, and yet that someone else was me, looking like that, feeling those things.

Looking at the pictures I don’t exactly relive those feelings again…I do something else. I relive them from once removed. I relive them as a story, as something I am no longer intimate with. It is as though what is in the pictures is completely divorced from me, the me that is here, now, looking at them.

Sometimes it is as though an entirely different story is being told. It is like when I look at this series of pictures we call “after,” the scene upstairs after our first scene in the basement, and I see this emotionally quiescent woman, this depleted, exhausted thing, and I don’t even know her. I don’t remember being that girl. Yeah, subspace made me hazy and drifty, but it is more than that. It is like, looking at her, I am looking outside myself, seeing myself as a different being entirely. It’s a frightening perspective, and why it was so deeply disquieting the first time I saw my pictures. I put them away and couldn’t look at them for days, didn’t want to talk about them. How could that be me?

Some part of me denies that it is. I am me, the one who is sitting here now, analyzing this stuff, thinking about all this, not that…that body part; that woman allowing herself to be used that way; that quiet docile woman; that woman in pain; that woman in ecstasy.

I look at what I call the “hand pictures.” His hand, his fingers, pulling, pinching, mauling my breasts in close-up, no body, no face connected to them. Utterly impersonal, and yet achingly intimate. Intimate because looking at the pictures I can feel his hands on me; I see the pictures and feel him again. And yet because you can’t see anything but a body part you are left with no connection to the human beings there. It is just a disembodied hand, pulling and pinching, squeezing a tit, a body part, an object. I am only that, just a body for his use, to be poked and prodded and molded, exploited by his pictures.

It is interesting in that when I was being photographed in that first scene that is not exactly what I felt; what I felt then was simply acute self-consciousness and embarrassment; it was not until later, looking at the photos, that I saw the objectification. But then once having recognized it, that feeling repeats itself when he photographs me now; I can’t escape it. So in that way the pictures have not merely recorded history, but also influenced the present.

And yet there is another part. In seemingly direct opposition to this feeling of disconnect and removal, the pictures also pull me into the story, make me relive the feelings I had, make me feel viscerally what I can only remember in words and images in my head otherwise. And part of what I see in those pictures are the moments not captured. The woman that is zinging with pleasure, that is moaning, thrusting, reaching, begging for his hands on her, his fingers in her, his mouth on hers. He does this thing, where he breathes into me when I am feeling at the end of my tether, he breathes into me and makes me okay. It is the most intensely sexual and sexy and sensual feeling, his mouth on my lips around the gag, the taste of his breath, the feel of his mouth around mine, as though devouring me, and by devouring me he is also feeding me. Or the moments when, after he has hurt me, he stands so close to me, his breath on my neck, his body molded to mine, and wraps his arms around me, holding me together, breathing with me, protecting me, letting me know I am safe and cared for.

Those are the moments you don’t get to see in the photos, and it is their very omission that makes me recall them, like a Rorschach inkblot—the story is in the omissions as well as in the inclusions. And perhaps it is to reconcile those omissions and inclusions, to make the story whole, that I return again and again to look at the photos, and have come to appreciate them in a way I never would have guessed I could, before I started all this.

First Post

First posts are hard.  So much to say, but no idea where to start.

I’ve been here before.  I’ve journalled in one place and another for years, I’ve kept handwritten journals since I was young, but still, it’s always hard to start.  And, in this instance, my journal is about something specific, it’s not random daily thoughts and life, but about my life as a sexual being.  I have another space to talk about my kids, my viewpoint on that news story, my work life, my hobbies and plans and all the other minutia that goes with being a human being.  Here I want to talk about sex.  Sex and love and relationships and BDSM and kink.  And okay, the occasional post about the daily stuff might get in there too.  Otherwise you might start to think I’m making all this other stuff up.

So I’m a pretty kinky girl.  That’s what most of this will be about.  My adventures as a bi/poly/kinky woman involved with two exceptional men…one with whom I live (aka A or the SO), the other with whom I play (aka W, or the Mean Guy.)  Although play is perhaps too casual a term for what Mr. Mean Guy and I do, and I oftentimes play with the the SO as well.  Yeah, a lot of overlap, a lot of boundaries that aren’t really boundaries after all, continually evolving as our relationships do.  In fact in a conversation I just had with the SO today, he talked about spending more time hanging with W, learning to do some of those things that I associate with the Mean Guy’s realm.  Hmm.  Stuff to talk about when W gets back from vacation.  Turning the nice one into an evil one.  Can I deal with two mean ones?

I don’t think A would be a mean one anyway.  He’s still all about play, even when he’s playing hard.  It could be a lot of fun, having them play off each other, as long as I still got the specific things from each that I need and want.

Sounds like it’s all about me, doesn’t it?  It’s not, but here it’s okay to talk about what I want, what I need.  I want them both.  I need them both.