Relationship Dynamics & Labels

I recently read a post on Fetlife (Every Relationship is Different, by Lady_Elsa, if you have access to FL) that really resonated with me. I posted it in the Twisted Tryst group on Fet because we are headed there next week, and it seemed to echo so much of the philosophy of that wonderful group and what I found the last time I was among them.

One of the tenets of Tryst is this idea of radical inclusivity, the idea that we are all welcome, no matter what our kink, gender, dynamics, sexual orientation or lifestyle is. Both the post and the comments are insightful and I believe would make good reading for anyone attending Tryst–or any camp event, where we are more likely to witness day-to-day interactions and relationship dynamics than we might at a hotel event, or a one-night play party. But really, it’s good reading for anyone that has to interact with other human beings (which most of us do), vanilla or kinky. ;-)

One of the things that I (occasionally) struggle with is trying to explain the dynamics of my relationship with W, and, to a lesser degree, Ad. Perhaps “struggle” is too harsh a word, and implies a dislike of the resulting back-and-forth discussion that often ensues. Frankly, I love talking about our dynamics, what works, what doesn’t, why it is the way it is and what it is that we do. It doesn’t fit into any of the boxes that I’ve checked on my profile, though, and other people might (and often do) chafe at the inability of these labels to completely or adequately describe their dynamic. To me, those labels are an excellent place to start.

But that’s the kicker: they are an excellent place to start.

I believe we need some labels, some way to begin the discussion about what and who we are. Others don’t, and that’s fine too. But for me, those labels actually facilitate discussion.

One of the oddities of my relationship dynamic is that while I label myself W’s submissive, while I consider myself his submissive, he doesn’t necessarily agree with this labeling. Oh, he agrees that this label, and how I use it, resonates to me, and is how I perceive our relationship, but he doesn’t necessarily agree that our relationship is one that falls under the purview of typical “D/s” dynamics.

And nope, it doesn’t.

Still, I am his submissive. It is a part of our dynamic that is always there, always a part of who I am with him, and who he is to me. That we don’t exhibit any of the typical behaviors, attitudes or conventions of a D/s dynamic matters not one whit to me. I know what I feel. And that’s enough.

W and I are lovers. Friends. Peers. He is my Owner and he is Onyx’s handler. I submit to him and I am subjugated by him. I also argue with him and push him and admire him and sometimes act like a brat and always respect him. Sometimes we are best friends, and sometimes we are adversaries in the push and pull that is coercion play. We nurture each other and care for each other. Some days we are deep in our kink, deep in this space that we inhabit where kink IS how we relate, some days the kink is beneath the surface.

And then there is how our relationship in regards to others works. He and I had some intense, convoluted, interesting and occasionally heated (in a good way) discussion about what it means to be open, poly, coerced, swingers. As you might expect, though I label myself poly with Ad and open with W, those labels don’t do justice nor encompass the complexity of what it is we do.

And I’m fine with that, because that is exactly when/where we can start talking about it. Where we can start parsing out what those labels mean to me, and in so doing, find out what they mean to you. And that is the beginning of dialogue, and understanding.

In Praise of “Normal Life”

Sometimes in my online readings, by coincidence or fate, I’ll read two very different pieces of writing that will spark thoughts on the same topic, though perhaps (as in this instance) from different perspectives.  A post by Kaya on the nature of her relationship and another on Fearless Press, Living a “Normal” Life, did just that the other day.

I so get where the author at Fearless Press is coming from when he talks about living and writing about his own poly life and relationships. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I haven’t updated APL in awhile. Not because I don’t have anything to write about, I have many topics in my Drafts folder that I’d like to noodle on regarding love and relationships and poly and family…but sometimes, well, the reality is that sometimes my life is just…”normal.” I just don’t feel like I have anything specific to share about it.  Aside from having some fantastically kinky sexplay to write about, our life together–Ad, me and W–is just…our life together. There’s my time with Ad, my time with the kids, my time with W and the time we all spend together.  Even my time with W isn’t all kink and sex. (What?! Oh no!)  Seriously, though, sometimes we just…hang out on his balcony. Talk about life and kids and books and diet and exercise and nothing. Sometimes (~gasp!~) I’m not even in heels, slutwear, make-up or some kind of bondage.  Sometimes we take walks to the park or the river or a restaurant. We’re just…us. Sometimes we even have sex like normal people, you know, in bed, in missionary position. (Okay he is usually pinning me down, but still.) Sometimes we go to bed…and don’t have sex at all. And sometimes–he’s tender. And sweet.  He holds my hand when we walk. He looks at me with something closer to love in his face than lust.

We all spend time together, as a three, making dinner or going out to eat, and we all spend time together with my kids as well.  We talk about college and growing up and boys and life with my daughter; about school and acting and video games and books and his friends with my son.  We play board games and eat ice cream.  W stays over and we spend the day puttering around the house with the kids watching TV and reading and on the computer.

For instance, over 4th of July weekend, W came over Saturday afternoon.  Ad and I made dinner while W hung out and talked about religion with the kids, then we had margaritas and all of us played a board game. Ad went to bed early and W and I stayed up with my daughter, watching something on TV and talking until he and I were ready for bed. When we got to bed…we cuddled up and went to sleep. I know–a naked woman, two men, and no wild sex! How wild is that? But that’s the point.  It was…comfortable. Settled. The next day we all hung out together until we went to a local fireworks display.  I rode the rides with my kids while Ad and W sat on the blanket, and then we watched the fireworks together, just like any “normal” family.  I can’t describe how peaceful and happy I was, laying on a blanket under the stars with the kids, Ad and W all around me, my head on Ad’s shoulder, my hip against W’s and our hands intertwined, as we watched the fireworks. Utter perfection.

Not much to write home about, though, right?

Kaya’s post sparked similar thoughts, but not so much about my poly life; more about my kinky life with W. I get where she is coming from in her relationship dynamic. What she gets out of it, how deep her enslavement goes, her commitment to the structure of their relationship.  Even when she is railing against it or struggling with it, I know (or get the feeling) that this is her true “place” and that she loves it. Even when it doesn’t sound like she does.

But when I read her post, where she talks about his “conditioning” of her, another part of me goes–no! Seriously? Can you truly be content with never feeling a tender hand on you? With never having the flip side to the objectifying, disconnected sex?  I know I couldn’t.  I need the tenderness.  The loving touch. I need to be “W’s girl” again after he’s done doing what he’s done to me.  And I need him to be my lover and partner again. Not that brutal, dispassionate, uncaring person that he has to turn himself into in order to do all those things to me.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love love love being what he turns me into, a “Collection of Holes.” But I live to be “his girl.” To come back to him and find the man I love waiting for me there on the other side.  I need to feel “normal” again with him, to take the kink out of our interactions for the time it takes to find that normal space again.

You know, so he can make it all wrong and twisted and dark and subversive again. Maybe I am teasing when I write that–or maybe not. Maybe it is the very fact that we can be in this normal space that allows me to go to that other place.  That makes me trust him to take me there.

When I originally read her post, that was the part that I missed–and misunderstood. After I re-read it, I realized I had missed something vitally important in what she said. It’s in this one, almost-throwaway line: “…until he’s put the tools in place to compensate for it.” I only saw the feeling of failure she had because she couldn’t internalize being an object, with no needs of her own, content with being used dispassionately and with no regard to her own needs.   I read this: “…maybe it’s something he’s done for so long, and does so often, that I was starting to internalize and believe how useless/unattractive/objectified it makes me feel…” and my brain kind of turned off, because those are not the things I feel when W objectifies me, uses me as a fuckhole or loans me out to be used as such.  Quite the opposite.  But would I feel that way if it was all he did?  If I never got the flipside?  I think so, and so when I read it, I missed what came after.  I missed that all-important concept of eventual compensation.  And I realized that although our dynamics are very, very different, in some ways we are very similar.

She is able to endure that because she knows that eventually she will be “compensated” for it.  Perhaps not in the way that I am, and that would probably not be the right kind of compensation for her anyway–we all have our own, individual, needs. But she knows that eventually, her needs, for “touch, voice, attention,” for humanity, if you will, will be met. Because she trusts him. And that’s what makes it work. That’s what allows her to feel, not resentment as he orders her back under the desk to be used as his masturbatory tool, but relief, and a sense of coming home.

Of normalcy, whatever that looks like.

The same feeling that I get as I curl into W’s arms after an intensely brutal or degrading scene, or when I crawl into bed naked with my two guys and we simply cuddle and sleep, or when we lay out on a lawn with my kids watching fireworks.

His Girl

“I want you to stay here after it’s over,” he said. “I’ll want to get my girl back.”

There are all sorts of aftercare.  I usually tend to think in terms of my needs for it, as do most people; a bottom’s needs for some kind of care after an intense or physically demanding scene are usually pretty obvious.  My needs vary, depending on the type (and severity) of the scene. Sometimes I bounce right back up, ready for more; sometimes I tease, play and joke; sometimes I need an hour or even a couple of days to recover, with commensurate aftercare by one or both guys.  Sometimes the aftercare I need is of a physical nature: a blanket, arms to hold me, hydration, a quiet space to come back to earth.  Other times it is emotional: kind words, a reconnecting, being told I did well or that he is proud of me. A lot of times, part of my own aftercare–especially after emotionally-charged scenes–is in allowing myself to noodle through the experience, to pull it apart and examine it, parsing the experience out piece by piece as I try to gain an understanding of what I went through, physically and emotionally.  All of these needs are well-documented and usually catered to very well; my guys like me to recover well and fully so that they can do it all over to me again.

I don’t know if W’s need to “have his girl back,” after it was over was exactly an expression of an aftercare need, but I do know that what he was saying, that he wanted me back, his Jade, not the piece of voiceless fuckmeat I had been reduced to, was as deep a need for me as it was for him.

I wanted to feel sex with him as a connection to him, as a bonding with him, not as something remote and emotionless and mechanical that was being done to me. I needed to feel him, to see him–the man, not what he had had to become in order to use me, and allow me to be used, the way he had.

Sex for us is always heavily charged with overtones of dominance and submission. It can’t help but be, that is who we are with each other, it drives our sexuality and feeds our arousal.  It is often rough and at times trips along the tricky line of consensual-non-consent. But even at its roughest, even when he is subjugating and dominating and forcing and hurting and pushing and taking, there is always a connection between us. There is at its core this thing between us, the emotional heart of what we feel for each other, and even as I am opening up my body to him I am opening up my heart, and I know that he is sharing his with me.

That was, of course, absent from the scene the night before.

I recognized very early on in the scene, before I went into that no-space, that having lost the ability to communicate–to speak–had a very profound affect on me.  In fact I think that may have been the strongest contributing factor to how deep I went, and how quickly.  For instance, that picture I posted in yesterday’s post? I had no idea that I had been smeared with the oils and paints that the other Top likes to use.  I remember one very clear detail: after they had shackled me, and the other Top had cut off my clothes, he came at me with the oil.  I recall that moment very clearly, and then seeing the paint container in his hand, but then nothing else of him painting me at all.  It was not until I saw the photo that I even realized he had covered me with it.  I was that removed from my own body and what was being done to it.  Oh, I came back, but that was later, after they had removed the “no speaking” restriction.  Then I was back to myself: I was playful, and laughed and teased and bratted. And even later, in the car on the way home, I was wildly aroused and excited, and tried to get W to let me fuck him while we drove (he didn’t. LOL)  But there is that whole space of time when I simply wasn’t there.

In thinking about it now, I actually recognize the space I went as being very similar to ponyspace. There, too, my voice is taken from me. There, too, I am a dumb animal, reduced to a body, an animal, although in the case of Onyx, a much-loved, cared-for, pampered animal. I don’t exactly disassociate with my body in ponyspace, as much as with W and Ad as men, as sexual partners.  They are my humans in that space, my handlers, not my lovers.

W was most certainly not my lover that night.  I lost all connection with him as my lover, and was definitely no longer “his girl.”  Which was exactly what he was looking for, I think. I was as much a collection of holes to him that night as I was to myself.  If it had that profound an affect on me, wouldn’t it have on him? His statement beforehand that he would need to “get his girl back” may have been for my benefit, but I don’t know.  Playing this way is edgy for us both.

So yesterday, even after being used that long and hard, even though I was so sore, I still needed sex with him.  Desperately.

That was the aftercare I needed.  And that I think he, too, needed.

And he obliged.  Oh, it wasn’t sweet love-making.  Even as aftercare it is never that (and wouldn’t work if it was.)  He hoisted me up on his desk and fucked me there next to my computer, whispering dirty things in my ear.  He pushed me to my knees in front of him on the couch and told me to hump myself on his leg until I came while giving him head.  And then he came, groaning as he filled my mouth.  He held me, one arm around my throat, while I masturbated to an orgasm, because I’d been distracted by giving him head (yeah, not so much a multi-tasker in that respect.) And later…later, in bed that night, he pushed himself into me and filled that empty space inside me, the space that was still “no-space” with his come as well.  And it was in that moment, as he held me tight, releasing himself into me, that I finally, truly, came back to myself.  That I became “his girl” again.

30 Days of Kink: Day 4 – Early Signs

Day 4: Any early experiences that, in retrospect, hint at your kinks?

I was such a shy, withdrawn teenager.  All I thought about was my horse & reading. And boys, but less so.  Kink would have been right outta there.

There were two things that might have indicated where my future interests would lie, however. One I don’t consider “kink” but definitely is my sexuality, the other is definitely kink, but it’s hard for me to say that any 14 year old that read what I did wouldn’t become aroused…

I lived in a small mountain town with my mother and stepfather and spent summers with my father in Berkeley, CA. One summer, when I was about 14, and just becoming aware of myself as a sexual being, I was in a park near my dad’s apartment. I saw two women kissing there, and holding hands, and just acting like a normal couple.  I watched them, surreptitiously, for a long time.  I was deeply aroused, and also ashamed by that arousal. But I was also something else…something I can’t really name.  It was the first time I had ever considered women loving each other, both sexually and romantically. It was an eye–and heart–opening moment for me.

Later that week I looked up in an alternative paper where the local Gay/Lesbian Center was, and I walked by it several times that summer, but never worked up the nerve to go in.

The second memory has to do more directly with kink. I found a copy of Nancy Friday’s My Secret Garden, in which women told their sexual fantasies. The ones I remember most? The enema and alien sex ones. LOL But I remember paging through the book to get to the kinky ones, in whatever form.

Check out the list below for other kinky blogger’s answers to Day 4’s question!

Cinnamon

Scarlet Lotus

Mistress Says

Pornocracy

He Says She Says

Nimues World

Roles Defining Rules

Deviante

Perverted Imp

There’s also someone new doing the 30 Days, and though she hasn’t gotten to Day 4 yet, I wanted to point out her blog, because it’s lots of fun (and okay, hot and sexy too…):

Molly’s Daily Kiss

Don’t Change Me!

I was reading a post in one of my favorite discussion groups on Fet, “Not Quite Ready for Polite Company M/sers”–

Oh, wait. I’m not in an M/s relationship, so maybe I shouldn’t be part of the group, or comment in it. Actually, for the most part, I don’t comment much, due to the above, and feeling that since I am not in the dynamic they speak of, I really don’t have any place to comment. But I like the group’s (for the most part) no-nonsense approach to M/s relationships, and willingness to say what they think without a lot of the pussy-footing around that goes on in some of the other discussion groups.  I mean seriously–if you say you’re in a Master/slave relationship, then, um, haven’t you consented to give up those very rights that so many “slaves” claim to still have (and then bitch and moan about not having, or being asked to give up?)

I’m not talking about the person that says they’d jump in front of a bus if their Master told them to, but simple things, like…cutting or changing the color of their hair. Wearing (or not wearing) certain items of clothing. Wearing nail polish, shaving themselves a certain way, losing weight, eating certain foods, learning to do certain things to please their Master/Owner.  I mean, isn’t that what this type of relationship is about–submitting to the wishes and desires of another?  And that’s just in a D/s relationship, where, in my opinion, there is still “wiggle room” as one commenter said.  I mean, it’s submission, right? In an M/s or O/p relationship, the very basis of the relationship is slavehood, being owned, by the other. Within that context, it seems pretty simple to me. Any, and every, aspect of my appearance is subject to pleasing him and to submitting to his desire.

Having come from a D/s background when I met W, I was actually a little disconcerted/nonplussed that he didn’t have any requirements about such to me. But I soon learned that not having requirements didn’t mean he didn’t have a preference. I paid attention and have tried to incorporate the things he does prefer into the way I present myself to him.

Toenail polish was one. If you look at my pictures from two years ago, I am not wearing toenail polish in any of them. Then one summer day I got a pedicure and went over to his house. His reaction was overwhelmingly positive–and to this day I am seldom without it when I go to see him.  Yeah, sometimes that means I have to sit at my desk and paint my toenails just before I head over to his house–and I’m okay with that. ;-)  And the other day I was wearing fingernail polish–and he noticed, and made a point of praising it. I was ridiculously pleased that he had noticed, and though I had heard him remark that he liked painted fingernails before, it wasn’t really driven home until he noticed the other day.  Nail polish on my fingernails is harder to keep up in my profession, but I am already pretty certain that as often as I can, especially if we are going out somewhere, I’ll be doing them now too.

And then there’s my labia piercings. Do I even need to go into those?

But all that isn’t so much about submitting to his stated desires.  He doesn’t tell me to do those things, and is not upset when I don’t.  I do them because  I like to please him. I consider it a function of my submission to him to find the the things that please him and do those things for him. Pro-active submission? Maybe. But within the context of our dynamic, it works.

And he has made adjustments in his approach to this thing that we do as well. I have learned to be pro-active, yes, but he also recognizes my own need to, occasionally, have specific things that I am told to do.  He gives me more direction now on what to wear, and if I ask his preference directly, he will usually tell me.

And of course there’s the heels. ;-)

If our dynamic was different, though, if he did like to dictate my appearance, I would have no problem acceding to his wishes.  I know without a shadow of a doubt that he could tell me tomorrow to cut my hair off, dye it purple, get a new tattoo, remove an old one, pierce any part of my body, only wear skirts and fuzzy sweaters from now on…etc., etc., and I’d do so. Our agreement–the parameters of our O/p relationship–ostensibly only covers my sexuality, but my own internal parameters go far beyond that.  Internal slavery? Perhaps.

The point is, this is about submission. Submitting to the desires of another. And what could be more basic than submitting to their desire for how you should look? It’s a no-brainer, IMO.

30 Days of Kink: Day 3 – Discovering Myself

Day 3: How did you discover you were kinky?

One of my first memories of being aroused sexually was while I was reading one of those “bodice ripper” romances. I don’t remember the title, but I do remember the exact scene: a highwayman waylays a young gentlewoman’s carriage and proceeds to rape her.  Roughly, and yet gently too, and of course she climaxes as well, and she can never forget him, and, after a lot of rough, steamy, half-raping sex, they admit their love for one another and live happily ever after.  Heh, now that I think about it, I recall that it even had elements of one of W’s fantasies: blackmail. She offers herself to him if he will let her brother live, or maybe keep him out of jail or something, and later he uses that against her to affect her acquiescence several more times, until she discovers that his supposed hold over her is all a lie…and well, it’s a smarmy romance.  You get the idea.

That’s not actually when I “discovered” I was kinky, but in looking back it certainly is a pretty clear indication of one of my kinks. I remember feeling ashamed of my arousal even then.  I don’t know if my shame was about being aroused, about feeling sexual, or if it was shame over what had aroused me, though.

It seems that I have felt shame over being sexual, feeling sexual & liking sex for as long as I have been sexual.  I’ve been doing some cogitating and talking about that with W and Ad…working thru some of my own hang-ups, parsing out why I am me, and why I react/feel the way I do about certain things. Hopefully some of that will make it’s way here, although it’s an awful lot to digest in one sitting, so who knows.

In any case, I was introduced “properly” to kink via a couple that I dated for a short time. They weren’t kinky per se, but he was quite dominant, and did some dominating things to her sexually when we were together that I was at first shocked to witness, and then surprised to discover I really liked and that really turned me on. That was my first inkling. Then when I went to one of the websites that she recommended and started reading about this so-called “lifestyle,” well it was like a lightbulb turned on in my head. I was so fired up in fact, that I didn’t even bother with the 12 months of exploring in secret online and instead jumped right into the local, real life scene. When I saw a woman get tied up at a PEP meeting as the demo bottom, I knew right then that I’d found my place. I was “home.” And I haven’t looked back since.

For the rest of this series, and to see who else is participating, visit here: 30 Days of Kink.

Two-Timing

I’ve been working on this picture post about a scene that W and I and Ad had…hours long it was, and they took a couple hundred pics between them.  It was an amazing scene, and those pictures show so much of what it is that I love about being the property–and lover, and toy, and play partner–of two men.  So I’ve been weeding through pictures and trying to capture and illuminate the essence of each photo and of the scene itself, which has been a long process.  In the process of doing that, though, I started kind of musing on how we got here, to this place where we all play together.  And so goddamned well.

One thing that I really like about having both guys play with me is the multi-layered, multi-part dimension to the play. Each session tends to have two or more distinct “scenes” within it, each with its own intensity all by itself, but combined, what I end up with is a feeling of perpetual play, of concerted and focused intensity, sometimes for hours at a time.  We move and flow from one activity to another, from one style of play to another, my body and my sex and my self being handed off from one to the other of them, back and forth, until finally, at some point in time discernible only to them, they deem me “finis,” and I collapse in a heap at their feet, or on the floor, or in bed, or in their outstretched arms (outstretched specifically to keep me from falling, usually.)

From what they’ve said afterward, these scenes are seldom actively choreographed.  They don’t actually plan to go from A to B to C, but from within it, from where I sit, it all happens so seamlessly that it might as well be.  And in the end I get these lovely, long, drawn-out scenes in which I have peaks and valleys and more peaks, another valley, another peak…until I am an exhausted (happy) mess on the floor.

This is one of the things that I was first attracted to in playing with W, as a matter of fact: right from that first time we played at his house he moved me through a succession of mini-scenes within the larger session, something I had never experienced in quite that way before.  He was as tirelessly enthusiastic for placing me in one bondage predicament after another, for going from one painful–or bone-shudderingly orgasmic–activity after another, for pushing me until I was clearly and glaringly “done,” unable to handle one thing more, as I was to have him do so.  And while it is true that we have fewer of those long, drawn out, mutli-part sessions than we did in the beginning, it is probably a consequence of having the opportunity to play more often, though in shorter duration, than we used to, as opposed to less of a desire to do so.  This isn’t in and of itself a bad thing–we just have the opportunity to do many shorter scenes over several days, nights or weeks, as opposed to all in one or two nights in a row.

Still, I miss those kind of sessions at times, and look forward, with hope and a certain avarice, to having them again.  Yes, it is all about greed in this case.  And, in fact, I keep trying to engineer a time frame where I can stay at W’s and we can explore this kind of scenario again, but it hasn’t worked out recently, for various reasons.  I’m ever hopeful, though. ;-)

I can see that it is a lot easier on W when he has someone he can pass me off to so he can take a break, though. Kind of like that sex thing, yanno?  Apparently, according to the guys, it takes a lot of energy to keep up with me. (I know, whodda thunk?)  I’m easy to please, in that I like just about everything, but I like a lot of it!  So I can see where having a teammate could be a relief.  LOL  (I say that as though it’s a hardship, a chore, having to play with me.  Like the guys are all “Oh, noooooes we have to go beat that girl again! ZOMG, she wants us to fuck her again!”  I think they might have a bit more fun at it than that.)

I think it’s interesting how this all came about, the way they play with me, and their incredible adeptness at it.  It really grew fairly organically, after some initial “getting to know each other” time. I do think that I had to set it in motion the first time, but after that it developed on its own.

Ad had been familiar with double-topping me, as he had done it on more than one occasion with my Ex and with the occasional play partner. He’s always enjoyed being the foil, the “assist,” but wasn’t as comfortable taking a front-and-center role. W’s original, hands-off approach to double-topping was actually perfect for this situation in the beginning, almost forcing Ad into a primary role (in the beginning either W or Ad would play camera man, while the other did naughty, nasty, depraved things to me, but not take an active role in the play) while still giving him the sense that W was there to assist if anything went wrong.  As Ad became more confident in what he was doing, as well as his own style–and became more cognizant of the differences in his style as compared to W’s–he even began enjoying being in the spotlight and showing off the way he plays.  I think this time period gave W some time to observe Ad’s playstyle as well, but it wasn’t until I told him that I wanted them to play with me together–not with one as an observer all the time–that he tried it at last.  And oh what a successful experiment that was!

And now, here we are.  A place where they each act as photographer occasionally, or sometimes double-up on me, as they did at a recent play party.  Joy both ways.

As usual, I seem to have lucked in to the best of both worlds. ;-)

Now, on to that picture post.  Keep an eye out for it soon.

30 Days of Kink: Day 2 – Kinks

Day 2: List your kinks.

Good heavens, what do I not find kinky? What doesn’t turn me on? Oh, hmmm…actually, there are a few things, as I discovered in talking with W the other night.  Although (sigh) I wonder if, in the middle of the things he does to me, in the middle of being taken, being used, being fucked, if even those things would turn me on. Sometimes I wonder…what are my limits?  Where are my boundaries?

But perhaps that should be discussed in a different post.

The short answer to the question is that there are too many to list.  But I’ll name a few off the top of my head.

  • Being controlled/loss of control. This is a big one, and probably informs everything else that follows.
  • Being forced to do things that I don’t want to
  • Being exhibited
  • Being given away or used by others
  • Being talked dirty to, whether that is being called names or being told dirty stories about what he wants to do to me/have me do/have others do to me
  • Hands on my mouth or throat
  • Being restrained, either by hand, with rope or any other material
  • Consensual non-consent
  • Rough sex/fighting back/being overpowered
  • Feeling small, humbled, embarrassed

Geez, the list seems so short. I guess I am trying to list things that specifically get me hot and bothered, as opposed to things that I just enjoy during BDSM play. I mean, I like gags, anal sex/toys, being filled and stretched, crops, canes and other implements, piss play, objectification, etc., but really, any of those things–as well as, let’s face it, any of the others listed–are all under the umbrella of having my control stripped from me. That is my true kink. And under that umbrella, if I was told to do, or forced to do, anything else, it could, and would, become kinky.

Here’s a few things that don’t really trip my sexual trigger (which is how I define a “kink”):

  • Ageplay
  • Playing a top
  • Blood play (although doing some things that might cause bleeding are hot, it’s not the blood itself that gets me)
  • Scat (although being enema’d is a huge turn on)
  • Death themes

And no, you don’t see anything on that list having to do with the truly non-consensual, because–duh.

There are some things that I do get off on from a non-sexual kink perspective. Needles would fall in that category. Some predicament bondage as well. And some pain play.  W usually eroticizes our pain play so that pain = some form of pleasure, but occasionally he does not, and yet I still enjoy it (enjoy not enjoying it, lol.)

30 Days of Kink: Day 1 – Defining My Kinky Self

So, I did it. Sent off my first day of the 30 Days of Kink meme to Rayne of Insatiabledesire to post as a guest on her blog.  You can see that post here: 30DoK: Define Your Kinky Self by Jade. Go on, take a look, and while you’re at it, catch up on all the other posts in the series. There are some bright, beautiful, interesting kinksters out there.

As I continue this meme, I’ll be updating and posting the links to a new Page I’ve created here: 30 Days of Kink.

In conjunction with that, here’s a different kind of snapshot of my kinky self than what I wrote there (I had to be all, like, intellectual there, yanno.)

I was at W’s for the first time since my surgery. Not quite feeling 100% yet, but just on the verge of feeling “good enough.” Earlier that morning he had managed to fend me off when I tried to force him to have sex with me, even going so far as to try and climb on top of him and put it in before he knew what I was doing. I’m so sneaky. ;-)  I didn’t succeed.  He has SO much willpower, the bastard. (This all makes sense if you understand that I was still on a “no sex” rule after my surgery, lol.)

Anyhow, I don’t know how it started. In fact everything before “The Radiator” is fuzzy to me. One minute we were sitting across from each other, each on our own computers, as sometimes we do in the afternoons, and the next…he had his hand in my hair and his cock down my throat as I crouched with my back against the radiator, trying to open my throat to him without gagging while managing to keep my head from smacking against the radiator with each thrust.  I didn’t succeed. (Apparently I was doomed to failure in everything I tried that weekend.) I gagged, he pressed harder, deeper; my head bobbed back and forth, slamming into the radiator every time he pushed himself deeper into my mouth.  I think at one point, he may have said something about enjoying ramming my head against it.  The bastard. (Did I already say that?)

And me? Oh yeah, I enjoyed every thrust. I savored the taste of him in my mouth, his musky man-smell in my nostrils, the feel of him filling my throat, of his hand gripping my hair in a tight fist and forcing me against him, holding me there when I struggled to pull away.  That and the knowledge that he could and would do this, any time, simply because he felt like it.

And then he pulled abruptly away, pushed me aside, and told me to get ready to go home.  I fell back on my butt and sat there, momentarily bemused; quiescent.

And wet.  So fucking wet.

My bemusement rapidly turned into a voracious “I wanna get fucked!”-ness and I stood up and wrapped myself around him, rubbing against him and panting and mewling against his throat as I tried to convince him that I really was ready for sex. No matter what that pesky doctor said. Again, I didn’t succeed.

Of course…this weekend was another story. ;-)

For more fun, here’s another snapshot, with something else stuck in my mouth (and a bit of wetness dribbling down my chin):

First Orgasm

Once upon a time W put me in a cage and told me to write a list of all the men I have had sex with. The result was a list of ~50 men, written on a couple sheets of lined paper, that ended up in my computer bag, folded over and over and gradually, as time has gone on, getting longer.  The paper is worn and soft now, the creases in it deep from folding and refolding it.  As an assignment during his absence this past month, W asked me to transcribe “The List,” as we began to call, to a computerized document.

Actually, he asked me to do so a long time ago, but only made the request formal, a dictate, during this trip.

In creating the digitized list, he asked me to jot down at least one tidbit–a fact, a memory, something specific–about each encounter. He wanted me to “remember and think about every time that I was fucked,” as I wrote about them.  I was sure I wouldn’t remember a thing about most of them.  And, maybe, I won’t.  I am only up to number 9 or 10 (!)  But I have surprised myself by remembering a surprising number of details about the ones I’ve covered so far, and those were from my early teens. (Of course, later years may have been clouded by alcohol at times, so we’ll see how well I do on those. ~wink~)

There’s one story that I do recall in absolute clarity however, and it’s too long to relegate to the cell of an Excel spreadsheet, so I thought I would relate it here.

It’s the story of my first orgasm.

Actually, it’s the story of my first orgasm during sex.  Years before, at the age of about 14 or so, I’d discovered how to make myself orgasm by masturbation, but I was an odd girl, and once I started having sex (later that same year) I stopped masturbating. I assumed that sex would give me orgasms, and that I didn’t need (or shouldn’t need) to masturbate. Now that I had men to do it for me, that was all I’d need, right?

Wrong (of course.)  First of all, I get a lot of orgasms with my men now, and I still enjoy masturbating. But to speak more specifically to that young girl’s misconceptions: although I believed that once I was having sex orgasms would just happen, spontaneously, all the time, that (of course) wasn’t the case. The boys were young and inexperienced, or the men were selfish and didn’t care, or were simply unskilled, and I just didn’t know enough to know that maybe they needed some guidance about how to do it, about what I wanted and needed.  I just thought they’d “know” somehow.

I believe this is one of the great failings of teenaged sex, or perhaps of a society that has such taboos against talking about sexual pleasure. We’ve finally gotten to a place where (most) parents will talk about sex at all, but to actually talk about pleasure during sex? Yikes! Bad bad bad.

So, the sad truth was that, in the two years that I lived with my first boyfriend, and in the several casual sexual encounters I had had both before and after, I had never had an orgasm during sex, and damn few of them when I wasn’t having sex.

I had been with my ex for somewhere around 6 or 8 months, maybe a little longer, by this time.  This is not the Ex, as in my second husband, to whom I was married for 15 years. No, this was my first husband. I was…19 or 20 at the time. And our relationship…was a rough one. He was young, and when he drank he was violent. We had huge fights, and about every six months or so, he would get abusive, verbally or physically.  And then, for the next six months, he was the most penitent, remorseful, loving boyfriend ever, begging me to give him one more chance, swearing he’d changed, promising to never hurt me again.

Until the next time.

But there was a reason I was attracted to him.  There was a reason I couldn’t stay away from him, kept going back to him, over and over. I was fascinated by his violence. It terrified me–and yet, somewhere, deep inside, it thrilled me.  Now, I understand my needs much better, and I know whence that fascination comes–and how to get it fed in a safe way.  Then, I was as terrified of myself, of needing and wanting–and yes, instigating–that violence as I was of him.  I was attracted to the danger, to the wild ups and downs, to how desperately he loved me–and how violently he fucked me. I loved it that he took every inch of me: sweetly, gently, achingly, when he was in the honeymoon phase;  desperately, violently, holding me down and fucking me with a fury that bordered on–and may have been a manifestation of–hatred when he was in that other phase.

And I loved it.

And yet, still, I had not had an orgasm.  Some fantastic (and yes, I know, fucked up) sex; and had gotten pretty darn close to coming, but had never quite gotten there.

Then one afternoon K, my ex, came home. He’d had a bad day; we argued. He wasn’t drinking, but there was an edge to him that I recognized…and, truthfully, I really was afraid of him by that point. The thrill had worn off, and I was smart enough to recognize that while there was something that excited me in the situation, his uncontrolled violence wasn’t it, and wasn’t healthy or desired.  But still, when he grabbed my arm and drug me into the bedroom, then shoved me down on the bed and, holding me down with one hand, pushed my knees apart with one knee, I felt myself flood with heat.  I had a feeling that the kind of violence he was going to resort to was violent sex, not the other kind, and I was relieved and excited.

I was surprised, though, after he had pulled my panties down, when he pulled me to my feet and hauled me into the front room, then pushed me to my knees in front of the couch.

“What–” I started to say, but he shoved my head down, pushed my skirt up and got behind me.  I was already excited, and opened my legs eagerly to him as he shoved deeply into me with one thrust.  He fucked me that way for a while, pinning me down with his body and thrusting deep and hard into me, slamming into my cervix and making me cry out, before abruptly stopping and pulling out.  I gasped and instinctively pushed back towards him, but he shoved me down onto the couch again.

“I’m gonna fuck your ass,” he said, low, in my ear.

I’d never had anal sex, never even considered it.

“No,” I said, struggling suddenly. “Please–!” But he didn’t stop. He held me down easily (he was a large man, 6’3″ to my 5’2″) and I felt him pushing his cock between my butt cheeks.  His cock was slippery, and slid between my cheeks and nudged at the tight opening of my asshole.  I realized that he must have put lube on himself. 

He really meant to do this.

I began to struggle harder, but when I flailed back at him he grabbed my hands and pinned them down against my back, twisting them painfully.  I had managed to knock him out of position, but he was a lot bigger than me, and determined, and soon I ran out of strength.  And out of will.  I felt his aggression and his power and my own helplessness…and I knew I couldn’t win.  Finally I gave in and lay still beneath him, but I refused to aide him.  I closed my legs tightly, but knew it was futile even as I did it. And it was.  He simply pushed, and shoved, until the head of his cock was against that tight opening again, and then, finally, was pushing inside.

And to my shame, as he shoved his way into me, as he pushed and tore and forced himself into me, I began to get excited again.  I could feel the wetness dripping down between my thighs.  As he held me down and, for all intents and purposes, raped me, as the tears spilled and as he grunted and growled at me about what he was doing to me, I felt my body responding to him just as it always did. I found myself pushing back against him, wanting to take him deeper, and then screaming into the couch as he did so.

And then it happened.  As he thrust one final time into me, as he spilled his semen into my ass, I came, screaming and writhing and crying beneath him.

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Sometimes, when I am feeling philosophical, I wonder: Am I the way I am because of this first experience, or did I react the way I did to this experience because of the way I am?