Friday, December 30, 2011

My Sweet Banana

"I love you, my sweet banana. That's what my mother called you when you were a baby."

I was five months old when my grandmother died. I've seen photos, and have been told I look like her. I have no memory of her at all, though.

The one lasting impression she left on me was rather dubious. So the story goes: I was crying while in my high chair when my grandmother balled up my fist, pulled out my thumb, and stuck it in my mouth.

I sucked my thumb until age twenty (yes, 2-0). I only stopped when I got my tongue ring. I traded one oral fixation for another, with rather pleasant results. No one could get me to stop sucking my thumb, ever. Not even high school or college stopped me, though they did severely damper my addiction, relegating it to mostly at night as I drifted to sleep. The echo of my long lived habit manifests in my occasional humming as I lull myself to sleep some nights.

I'm not writing this post as a woe-is-me entry. It's just... my mother doesn't talk about her mother much. I know my mother loved her mom. I know it. And I know it was very hard for her when she died. My mother had a five month old, happy with her little girl, and suddenly her own mother, without warning, had a stroke and was gone just a few weeks before Christmas.

Out of the blue today, my mother, who has discovered the wonders of text messaging, sent me that message.  She texts me everyday, which is fine; it keeps her from freaking out when I don't call for long periods of time because I'm busy with work or my kink/social life.  But I didn't know my grandmother called me that. I'm twenty-eight years old and my mother is just now mentioning this.

Sometimes I wonder what my life would've been like to have had her in it. I was lucky enough to have had her sister, my Aunties, jump in and take up the responsibilities. My mother would drop me off at Aunties during the day while she worked, and she'd pick my up at night. Aunties, Uncles, and Ella were another family for the two of us.

It wasn't that my life was without love. Quite the opposite. Having talked to my friends about their childhoods, I feel very lucky for the experience I had growing up: no emotionally or physically abusive parents, a rather amicable custody situation, and, though we were far from rich, we were able to get by without my realizing how on the brink we sometimes stood.

Yet I find myself thinking about this woman, who I never knew, who loved me. I find myself imaging how I would try to tell her about my life now. I find myself postulating how I would be different as a person if she didn't have that stroke, if she wasn't taken away from us.

I guess this is the right time for this mental roller coaster ride. She died in December. I know the holidays bring back that memory for my mother each year.

With people around me who are pregnant, or trying to get pregnant, or already have kids, there is this quiet wanting in the back of my mind for the life I have yet to live. And, tonight, there is the dreaming of what it would have been like to have heard my grandmother's voice as she smiled at me, held me in her arms, and called me her sweet banana.


The scent of his hair lingered on her hand. The delicious smell wafted up her nostrils as she randomly rubbed her itchy nose. That scent, his scent, made her smile.

There time together had been innocent. She'd gone to the party to relax after a stressful week at work. They'd known each other for some time, having met through the friend who hosted that evening. They saw each other, sat on the comfy couch, chatted, and commiserated on their difficult work lives.

Then, randomly, he reached in for a hug. They had already greeted each other, so this gesture seemed a little odd to her, but she knew him and liked him, so she accepted the affection anyway. He squeezed her tight. The embrace was just this side of being painful.

As she felt his body against hers, somehow this hug was different from their initial greeting. There was even more warmth, more comfort than before. It came from a place of knowing they each needed more than the other had previously been aware.

He began to nuzzle his head against hers. She returned the move, switching her head back and forth, gently brushing her ear into his hair. Her hands began kneading his flesh. An audible sign escaped his lips.

She let her mouth join in on the affection. She lightly kissed his ear, then ever so slightly gripped the top of his lobe with her teeth. He moved his cheek onto hers, and lightly kissed the inside of her neck. His hands had started working on her back as well, kneading and massaging the tight flesh.

They kept their embrace, lost in their own world, while the rest of the party continued around them. Their lips never met. There was no sex. Instead they shared affection, a desire to be close to someone, and found in the other the comfort they each needed in that moment.

On her car ride home, as she still smelled him on her hand, a warm wave of comfort hugged her, and she smiled.

Wednesday, December 28, 2011

Three Words

Bravery. Forgiveness. Endurance.

Life has a way of falling into place for me as of late. I wanted to write something thought provoking tonight, but lacked a topic...that is until I read my friend Graydancer's blog. His latest got me thinking (again), and thus my entry started germinating.

His latest blog, Word Up, talks about an idea from Chris Brogen, using three words to "describe the themes you want to focus on for the upcoming year." These are not goals, but instead are touchstones for your year, ideas to go back to and strive to weave into your everyday life.

I knew mine before I even finished reading.


I think some people who know me would say I posses this quality. I try to live a very open life. I want to be truly me, always. But, right now, I must admit next year scares me.

I have a lot on my plate. I have opportunities in both my work, kink, and writing lives that get me all twitchy. I fear I will not be able to live up to who I want to be, what I want to do, how far I want to push myself in the next twelve months.

So, I shall hold tight to the idea of being brave.

I will take on new work responsibilities, viewing my new found leadership potential as a challenge (not a threat).

I will go to my events possibly knowing people. However, either way, I will hold up my head, introduce myself to many many people, and see where life takes me from there.

I will write, not thinking about how others will view my work, love or criticize, hail or trash. I will write for me, for the love of my stories, my characters. I will pour my heart out onto the page and see where life decides to let the words flow.

I will be brave, even when I'm scared. Even when all I want to do is curl up in a ball under the covers and snuggle with Tessie. I will not let myself be less than all I could possibly be, with or without the jitters.


I want to work on giving myself a fucking break. Often times I beat up myself for little missteps, mistakes, bumbles, opps, etc.

I am a much harsher judge of myself than I will ever be of anyone else. I seek a level of ability, or near perfection, I would never expect in others. I chastise myself for small mistakes when the same deeds in others I merely brush off.

This year, I will endeavor to not lecture myself on the simple faux pas. I will work to accept that whatever happened happened, that I do not need (nor should I ever expect) to be perfect, that people will still love and care about me if I do something stupid, or forget something minor, or just plain fuck up. I must learn to let things go, to release my anxiety, to let it roll off my back.

My friendships, and my life, are not balanced on the head of a pen. I need to stop believing that they are.


I have set myself up with multiple highly ambitious goals:

- attending ten (or more) events

- taking every Sunday off for my writing

- finishing at least one (if not two) novels

With that as just my baseline, I have more on my plate than most would ever dare eat. But, I have an ace in the hole: endurance.

Often people ask me how I survive at events. For those who don't know, I usually go to bed around 6am and am up around 9am. My standard answer is adrenaline and shear force of will.

To an extent, this is true. My job has assisted in teaching me how to function on low amounts of sleep. However, when I am at an event, for the most part, it is those two ingredients that get me through.

However, for the year, this will not work. Instead, I know I have to pace myself. I know I need to budget time for work, play, AND rest. I have to learn to endure not just a night or a weekend, but for weeks, months, my entire year.

I have faith in myself to be able to achieve all my goals. I will have excellent amazing sexy fun times at events. I will write and write and write. And I will finish, dammit; I will finish.

So, those are my three words. I encourage you to ponder the idea, and then head to Gray's blog and let him know what yours are.

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Charlie & David (pt. three)

I didn't return to Happy Hour the next week. Or the following week. This was a delicate game and I wanted the boys to stew a bit. I waited an entire month, in fact, before I returned.

And when I did, the room was abuzz with the tensions between the two men. It seemed my leaving was when the fracture began. Charlie wanted to go after me, but David was fine with finding new prey. Charlie didn't want to be bested by my ignorance, but David saw it as charming and was patient enough to wait for a week.

They ended up pouncing on another piece of fresh meat that night. The following week they waited for me, until around 11pm. Then they settled for coveting one of the older bears of the group, one who had secretly whispered to me that he expected to never be in their sights. I was glad to hear he had his storage closet moment. Two more hot new young things were the third and fourth weeks.

All the while, everyone wondered where I was. This had been the longest I'd been away, previously earning the status of "new regular". And everyone wanted to see what would happen when I returned. Charlie seemed antsy and David more cold and distant; most believed it had to do with their missed opportunity in me.

When I arrived, early, there were only a few people chatting and eating. They immediately grabbed me, brought me over to the table, dished on all that had happened, and asked why I'd been away. I gave my planned excuse, work, and everyone bought the lie.

Everyone also wanted to know if I was going to accept the advances of the Charlie and David that evening. I was coy, dodging around the questions, buying time until they arrived. No one needed to know what I had planned. I wanted to be sneaky; it was oh so much fun that way.

The duo arrived later than before, each with a haggard and worn look. Though they had performed their weekly spectacle, I wondered, as I saw them enter the bar, whether they did it anymore for fun. Or was it just out of habit. Or some weird belief in their obligation to the group. I wondered why it had started at all, and if it would ever stop.

It didn't take ten seconds for them to see me. It didn't take ten seconds for the table to clear. It didn't take ten seconds for them to surround me again, this time all at once, no hope of a swift exit. It didn't take ten seconds for my plans to continue.

"You're back," said Charlie.

"Yeah. Work. Busy. You're Charlie, right?"

"You remembered."

"Yes. Chaplin, not Brown. And you're Dan?"


"Right. David. How have you been?"

"Hungry." David's one word answer was said low, almost whispered, full of bass, and was not talking about his stomach. Charlie shot him an angry look. David either didn't see it or ignored him. I pretended like I didn't know exactly what David wanted.

"Um, I know a good sushi place. It's close by, right around the block from my house. Field trip?"

"Great idea," said Charlie.

"Great." I hopped off the chair and swung on my jacket. David gripped his hand over mine as I pushed in my chair. He interlaced his fingers with mine, holding my hand.

"Not letting you go this time." Charlie again shot him a look, but this stare was filled with jealousy.

"I'm not going anywhere." I playfully pulled on David's arm and led the two men out the door.

As we walked, David continued to hold my hand. Charlie followed behind. I could feel his eyes on us.

David's grip was firm but soft. Lightly, he brushed his against the back of my hand. This was not as I had planned, but I liked holding David's hand. I decided to go with this new development.

When we got to the sushi place, we were informed the wait would be thirty minutes, an inconvenience I had anticipated.

"My place is just around the corner. Do you want to raid my fridge instead?" The grin on Charlie's face was a mile wide.

"That sounds like a great idea," said Charlie.

"You don't know us." David looked interested, but also concerned.

"Everyone at Happy Hour likes you. They told me so when I came in tonight. You know Jane? She's like my big sister. If she approves of you, I do too."

"Let's go raid a fridge then," Charlie said, a new glee in his eye, even as he glanced down at David's hand and my hand still interlocked.

(to be continued)

The Morning After


She awoke, no headache to speak of, but her throat was dry. She rolled over to grab her water bottle when it all came flooding back to her.

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no!

The company holiday party. Joining her boss and other coworkers on the back patio. They had cigarettes. He smoked a cigar.  

Why did he have to be smoking a cigar?

All she had wanted was to get away from the noise. All she had wanted was to be near him. But, in that moment, with his sweet scent wafting around her, all she wanted was him.

She leaned against the wall, taking in their aimless conversation, trying her best to not be noticed. They generally ignored her, granting a head nod or two. As the cigarettes slowly stamped out, soon it was only the two of them that remained.

She wasn't sure he had noticed her before the others had departed. He turned to her, took another puff, and tilted his head to the sky breathing out the smoke.

"What kind are you smoking?"

"You smoke?"

"No, I..."

She had drank too much. She peaked outside her bedroom window. The car was in the driveway. When had she gotten home? The drive back, and dropping off the intern, came back. The kid talked too much.

"I like to be around people, men, who smoke cigars." He gave a puzzled look. She grinned, bit her lip, and turned away. It was cold, so much so she would have shivered if the heat in her loins wasn't warming her.

"You look like you're almost done." She nodded towards his cigar. "Can you tell me when you are about to finish?"

"I have one puff left." He took it, filling his mouth with smoke, and slowly releasing it in her direction. She closed her eyes, took in the sweet scent, and relaxed back into the wall.

"May I do something for you, something I know you'll like?" He thought for a moment, then nodded his approval.

She pushed herself off the wall and slowly approached him. Her short skirt. Her low cut tank top. Her knee high leather boots. Her tights with the crotch cut out. All of it made her feel sexy. She could feel the heat of her desire pulsing towards him with her few but deliberate steps.

Standing in front of him, even in her boots, he towered over her. She lifted the cigar from his hand, turned up his palm, and rolled the ash into the worn flesh. Placing her hands behind her back, she tilted over, displaying her chest just a little more. Easing her head in, she paused just in front of his hand. Looking up into his eyes, a carnal passion filling his gaze, she grinned again.

Then, tilting her head back down, she began to lick the ash out of his hand. Long languid strokes into his palm, in between his fingers, all around. Softly she sucked on the small mounds at the base of each finger. She traced the lines of his palm with the tip of her tongue. She swiveled her head back and forth, licking, sucking, fucking his hand.

Before she understood what was happening, she was again against the wall. The hand which she had been loving now gripped her hair, pulling her head back. His body leaned into her. His other hand violently pushed her thighs open. He then learned her tights were crotchless and she wore no panties.

"Yes. Yes. Yes!"

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no!

With his foot, he shoved the metal trash can in front of the door. Meanwhile, two fingers played in her pussy while his thumb stroked circles around her clit.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!"

Shit. Shit. Shit.

"Open your eyes." His voice was booming, commanding. She would not dare defy him. His stare was calculating, controlled.

"Do you want me fuck to you?" Her voice was gone now. All she could do was pant or moan or whine at his manipulations. He brought his face closer still to hers. He would not unlock his eyes from hers.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" His voice had turned ice cold, threatening.

"Yes." She said it as a whimper, as a plea, as a secret she had promised never to reveal.

"Hmm."  He tilted his head, measuring her up, taking in her response.

Boom! Boom! Boom! 

Someone banged on the door. The noise broke his stare, broke her trance, broke the moment. He loosened his grip on her hair a little and paused his fingers in her pussy. Shocked, horrified, not knowing what else to do, she turned and ran, feeling his fingers slip out of her as she fled.

She hurried around the building, quickly found the intern, and sped away.

Oh god, what have I done? What have I done!?!

She paced her bedroom floor. She could still feel his grip in her hair, his fingers in her pussy, the smell of cigar smoke on her skin.

Her cell phone rang. She picked it up.   It was him.  She answered.


"Do you want me to fuck you?"

"I... Um..."

"Do you want me to fuck you?"


"Midnight. The patio. Bring your favorite cigar.  And this time, you won't be able to get away." 

Monday, December 26, 2011

The Hand

There are toys to be played with, laughter to be sung out, and gift cards to cash in. Therefore today I give you all another story I wrote some years back. Enjoy.

The Hand

She lay in bed, trying to pretend everything was normal. The radio was on. Her boyfriend was next to her. She was fine, in no danger at all. But she could not sleep.

It was the hand, his hand, back lit and shadowy, resting on his side. She couldn’t be certain; in fact she had to be wrong. The hand wasn’t looking at her, staring, waiting until she closed her eyes. Hands aren’t scary.

She tried to calm herself. Her boyfriend’s snoring began to grow louder. Her mind gripped onto that reality: her loving companion, asleep next to her. Maybe he would rollover, taking her view of the hand away. She waited. And waited. For once, he slept soundly.

She would convince herself this was silly. It was just the darkness of the room frightening her. She would overcome this foolishness. She closed her eyes. And opened them a nano second later. Did it move? No, she knew it hadn’t. It is a hand. Hands are not that quick, especially the hand of a sleeping lover.

She would do better. Count to five. Yes, she would close her eyes and count to five. She could do this. It was simple. She closed her eyes and counted 1 … 2 … 3…

She quickly opened her eyes. She had felt something touching her neck. But it had not moved, not even a fraction of an inch. That hand was still on his side. Yet, it felt like fingers, cold fingers, had tried to wrap around her neck.

But how could this be? The hand was exactly as it had been, unmoving, seeming to stalk her still.

This is in my head. I cannot let fear control me. I will do this.

She would close her eyes again. She could count to ten this time. She would do this, in hopes of willing herself to sleep. She closed her eyes. 1 … 2 … 3

Breath escaped her. She opened her eyes, reaching for her neck. Once again, she felt the cold fingers against her skin. And once again, the hand was there, unmoved.

She could not sleep. She could not think. Her fear gripped her mind. How would she survive this night with that hand always watching, waiting for her to close her eyes?

He can help me. I can rouse him.

Slowly, she reached over to his back and gently pushed him. No response. She tried again, harder. He stirred, finally.

Like many other nights, he turned over and pulled her close. She snuggled into his embrace, relieved she no longer saw the hand in the scary light.

He gripped her hip, as he was prone to do. The gesture sent soothing waves through her. She relaxed and closed her eyes, nuzzling into her pillow.

And as she began to dream of their coming beach vacation, feeling the warmth of the sun on her skin, and the breeze toss up her hair, she did not feel the cold fingers slip around her neck, as it squeezed the life out of her.

Sunday, December 25, 2011

Not Part Three

It's Christmas you perverts; did you really think I was going to have the time to be thoughtful and imaginative when I have family and roommates and presents (oh, presents) to handle. For fuck's sake, I stayed up til 3:15am finishing one of the gifts I gave (a blanket that was suppose to have been given back in August; yup, it took that long).

However, since you actually ventured to my little internet hideaway, I won't leave you wanting.  For your enjoyment, I've posted some of the pieces I wrote in my grimy poetry house days. Yes, that means I cheated. Good thing my Daddy hasn't arrived yet. Otherwise I'm sure my ass would have gotten a right good lashing (and he'd call it my Christmas gift).

So enjoy these oldies but goodies:


She laid across the chaise,
an odalisque of ebon marble,
with a kir in one hand,
and her raven coif flowing over her bare chest.
Con fuoco eyes seized me,
ordering my entrance into the chasm within her.
Our torrid bodies coagulated until,
in the cacophony of our screams,
my chastity escaped from my body into her.

Stolen Sight

Small little peaks,
Small little moments,
Excite me.

He sat next to me,
Crouched over in the chair,
Angled away from me, just so.

His shirt slipped up, and,
At his belt line,
A patch of skin from his back was displayed.

With all my restraint
And all my strength,
I kept from brushing my fingertips,
Or just flat out licking,
That delicate exposed area
I longed to make mine.


What I want

If I wanted sex, I’d always look cute.
Primp my hair, makeup on my face.
Boots to the knee to keep up the pace.

If I wanted sex, no shoe would be flat.
Every skirt would be short,
Every shirt showing cleavage. No pants.

If I wanted sex, I would be demure, sweet
Smile on my face, roses on my cheek.

But I don’t want sex; I want to fuck.
Cause your pretty little sex just isn’t enough.

Saturday, December 24, 2011

Charlie & David (pt. two)


I don't think anyone realized I had never seen them before, but I knew as soon as they walked in together who they were. The pair, the infamous duo, gracing our Happy Hour once more.

Charlie wore a slightly wrinkled dress shirt, unbuttoned a few notches and without a tie, showing off his Asian-work-trip tan. David was sharp, all business, in a tailored suite with creases I almost feared would cut me.

When they arrived, the din of the bar lowered to a mutter.  It was obvious what everyone was talking about.

I sat in my usual spot in a cushioned corner window seat, sipping my Amstel Light. As they stood in the entrance, surveying the crowd, a quandary occurred to me: Yes, they played together, but did that extend beyond fucking up someone else's shit? Did they fuck each other? And, if so, who was the top?

Just as a devilish grin crept across my face at this new thought, they both locked in on me in my little corner. I felt a surge of nervous anticipation, wondering if they'd take the bait.  Wondering if my little scheme would actually have a shot at fruition.

I intentionally wore a low cut white buttoned shirt, a short skirt, white knee socks, and saddle shoes.  Like Charlie, I'd missed a few buttons. Most everyone at Happy Hour said I looked sexy.  I was like Dom catnip; I hoped I would get bit.

It was Charlie who first saw me. Once his stare was locked, David's gaze soon followed. I found this interesting, considering everyone seemed to believe David was the more dominant of the two. This small gesture, however, began my suspicions of an other-than-obvious dynamic at play.

It was also Charlie who first came over to ensnare their prey. When the people at my table saw the storm had set their sights on me, everyone thought it was time for another round.  With the table quickly cleared, Charlie swaggered over and sat directly opposite me. He flashed his signature smile.

"You're new. Who are you?" I took a sip of my beer but looked straight past him.

"I believe the proper phrasing is What is your name?."

"My name's Charlie. Thank you for asking." He flashed the smile again, turning on the charm.

"Really? Charlie? Like Charlie Brown, the cartoon nitwit." The smile went away. I took another small sip of my beer, and grimaced at the game.

"No, like Chaplin, the master entertainer."

"Isn't it the same?"

"No, it is not the same." An edge had entered his voice. I finally turned away from the game and looked into his eyes.  I also turned on the cute.

"Did I offend you? I didn't mean to offend you. I'm sorry."  I dipped my head down and brought my arms together, plumping my cleavage while twisting my hands nervously.  "You just said your name was Charlie and it was the first thing that came to my mind because I love the Peanuts."  I lifted my gaze past him again. "Oh gosh, the game is so close. I'm an alum. Well, it was nice to meet you Charlie." I flashed him a smile, then willed my eyes back to the far away television screen.

As I did, David slinked into the chair next to mine, sitting just a little too close. Without them noticing, I gazed Charlie catching David's eye in some sort of quiet language. It was David's turn.

"This must be your first Happy Hour. I'm David." He reached out his hand for me to shake it, but I pretended to not see it, instead pounding my hand on the table because of a bad play. "Why are you more concerned with a sporting event than interacting with anyone?"  He slipped his hand over mine and lightly squeezed it.

"Um, I guess I'm new? New-ish. It's just I forgot today was the big game and I had meant to DVR it at home but than I came here and saw it was on and now I think I just might go home. I really shouldn't miss this. I'll just come back next week."  I swirled around, looking flustered, but really just releasing my hand from David's grip.

"You're going to rush all the way home? The game will be over by the time you get there."

I gathered my things, being sure to not make eye contact with either of them.

"Oh no, I live just a few blocks away. And they just went to commercial. I should go." I turned away from both of them, bent over, and presented my ass as I reached for a small purse on the floor.  I was wearing a lacy thong. I pulled out some cash and arched my back as I rose. I placed the money on the table and grabbed my coat. The boys, when they again realized the situation, began protesting.  I just talked over them.

"It was really nice meeting the two of you. Charlie and Dave, right? I'll see you next week." 

I quickly rushed out the door.

No one had ever resisted them.  Ever.

(to be continued, tomorrow)

Friday, December 23, 2011

Charlie & David


Part One

The two of them were a terror. No, a force of fucking nature. Charlie, with his easy manner, wandering and inviting eyes, boyish smile, and his oh so slutty ways. David, with his brooding attitude, intense knowing stare, and the ability to bring any and everyone to their knees. The two of them, unleashed on any room, broke spirits, broke cherries, and broke furniture.

It didn't matter who you were. If Charlie and David set their sights on you, inevitably you would end up in the same position as everyone else: bent over, your mouth around David's cock, while Charlie pounded you from behind. The only variation seemed to be which hole you preferred. Charlie loved all of them.

David, when having his cock sucked, apparently seemed almost bored. Occasionally, he'd grab you by the hair, lift up your face, slap you a few times, just so you knew who was in charge and remembered whose dick you were sucking, and then shoved your face back down on his cock.

I wasn't new, but I was new-ish. Charlie had been away for some time on an extended company trip. David had also been busy with work, regrettably unable to come out to Happy Hour for the past few months.

I had been attending Happy Hour for about half a year. People took to my quiet easy nature, calling me a good listener when I didn't reveal any of my deep dark secrets, and nurtured me in the unspoken rules about the community. And everyone, everyone warned me about Charlie and David.

Well, warn is the wrong term. It was more like they bragged about their Charlie and David experience.

"Yeah, my third Happy Hour, in the women's bathroom. After about ten minutes, the banging on the door stopped when they realized I was with Charlie and David. They then just went to the men's room. Everyone understood."

"I didn't think I was into guys, but Charlie started massaging my back, my neck. I had had a stressful day at work, and the alcohol wasn't working. But Charlie's hands did. And before I understood what was about to happen, Charlie's tongue was down my throat, and I liked it. I really liked it. So now I call myself hetero-flexible."

"I'm a slut. They're both hot. So yeah, I did it.  And fuck, it was fun."

But the thing that always bugged me was that I never heard anyone's second Charlie & David story. Everyone had their experience in the eye of the storm, but it seemed to me that no one ever got caught up again, which was quite odd because everyone loved it. I mean it often was the start of conversations.

"I got this neck cramp yesterday that reminded me of how it felt while I was working on David's cock."

"Do you think Charlie's going to teach an anal class this summer? He did this one thing that I still can't figure out how to replicate."

All these recountings, all this conversation, but it all seemed to be instances of hit-it and quit-it. And me, the adopted baby sister, quietly sitting and hearing it all.

So, when the stormed tried to sweep me up, I had other ideas... (to be continued, tomorrow)

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

To Be Hers


Her lips brushed my lips.  My neck.  

Her tongue trailed down my sternum, catching my breath. The tip swirled around my belly button making me giggle. She smiled, then sunk her teeth into my flesh.  I gasped, and endured the pain.

She dragged her teeth up and down my thighs, taking care to avoid my hot and wanting cunt.

She looked into my eyes.  Caressed my cheek with her hand.  Then ground her nails into my throat, ceasing my breathing. When she released her hold, I could feel the individual pockets each nail left behind.

Again her lips kissed my body.  This time just above where I longed for her to traverse.

She toyed. Tempted. Teased. But never ever relented.

That is, not until I begged.

First, just a whisper, almost a prayer for my wanting to be fulfilled.

"Oh, god, please."
Then, a simple request, asking for what she already knew I wanted.

"Anything. I will do anything. Please."
Bargaining, which only made her now giggle.

"Please. Please, god, please! Fuck, please. Please! I am begging you, please."
Finally, the desperation. The need. The utter release of anything close to pride or reservation.

To be so at her mercy. To be so beholden to her whim. That was when she, finally, granted me my need.

Her lips. Her full, soft, subtle, beautiful lips around my clit. Her fingers inside my pussy. My hands in her hair. Fucking her face. Riding her hard til I came. And then came again. The ferocity of her tongue. Her hunger to have all of me. And my need to be hers so totally.


She wore it under her jacket. It was cinched tight. The strands laid above and below, as well as between her breasts. She choose soft poly nylon rope, though she would not feel the texture through her clothes.

She flung on a jacket and buttoned it up. No one would notice; no one would've cared, but she didn't feel like exampling it. She just wanted to be in rope.

The binding was like a constant hug. With each breath she felt the tight chest harness she'd placed around herself.

She wore it because she wanted to, because she needed to. She wore it to hold in her emotions, to comfort and quiet her thoughts, to feel free as she bound off this part of herself.

As she walked, as her body moved, she felt it. As she sat, stood, laughed, talked, she felt it. It was what her body desired, what she desired. It made her think of him.

It made her think of their weekend together on the beach. Of their cup of coffee on that cold January day. Of meeting, falling for, and saying goodbye to him.

It was January again, cold again, and she thought of him again. So she wore it.

She remembered the way he liked to tie it, remembered each bend, each knot. She copied his form because she could not copy the moments. The rope hugged her, loved and caressed her when he couldn't.

And as she played the young kinkster, the care free girl, the solo poly lover of life and fun, chatting with people who didn't know and would never know him, her thoughts drifted to that beach, to that weekend. To eyes meetings, lips brushing, and lives forever altered.

When she came home, she took off the jacket. She slipped into bed. And, though she knew she must remove it in the morning, she wore his harness all night to remember him.

Monday, December 19, 2011


A recent letter from a far away friend got me thinking.

Though I've spoken recently concerning what I love about myself and what makes me me, other than one or two choice entries, I have not extensively talked about my flaws.

As a mostly positive person, I tend to shy away from the aspects of myself I do not like. I've spoken about the undue pressure I put on myself, as well as my tendency to compare my life to others. I think, since I have talked about what I love about me, it's time to talk about some of the things I like less about myself. (I am not fool enough to think these are my only flaws, just the ones I can think of right now.)

Daddy issues/Insecurities

I suppose it is a cliche that I am a cis-gendered woman and have Daddy issues. But, to be fair, I did grow up in a situation that lent itself to this flaw.

I am the product of an affair, and never actually lived with my father. One of my half brothers did, a fact that rocked me to my core when I learned it. My mind took the leap that I was not good enough, not loved enough by my father to have earned this privilege. It didn't help that he was, and is, a man who lacks the ability to freely talked about his emotions and express his feelings.

Later I learned the living situation was due to certain issues in my brother's life. And, as an adult, I have grown closer to both my father and my brother. Yet still, it lingers. That feeling of not being good enough. Of not being loved enough. Of being less than.

This has migrated and morphed into a sense of insecurity around myself in general. When someone I like doesn't like me, I don't make the logical conclusion that we just didn't click. Instead I think that I'm not pretty enough, not funny enough, not submissive enough, not anything enough.

And I go into the blue donut of doom, and Green Eyes cackles at me, and no good happens from these moments.

Accepting my body

I've been larger than average for as long as I can remember. My mother is a very large woman and I grew up with her as my model. I ate my portion, thinking it was bad to leave any food on the plate, even if I was stuffing myself. My mother was very sedentary, often spending her weekends in front the television and doing little else. There was a time, as a child, where I craved physical play, but the neighborhood we moved to was less than ideal and my time outside was stopped.

Later on in life, while in college, I was so broke I spent only $10 a week on food. I often asked my friends if they were going to finish their meals. Food had become a commodity to me. I lost a lot of weight my junior year in college, so much so that people in my major noticed. But this was not a healthy way to do so, seeing as I was on the razor's edge of starving.

Now I know when things are going well in my life because I am not hungry, and I can, and do, eat when I want. Unfortunately, it is also when I gain weight.

That year in college found me at my lowest weight since the middle of high school. From then on, I've gained thirty pounds. Ideally, I'd want to find my way back to that body and that weight, just not in that way.

When I look in the mirror, sometimes I see my beauty. Other times, I feel angry, or sick, or worse pathetic. I know I've done this to myself and just want to scream.

I ate because it was comforting. I ate because it was pleasurable. I ate because I could. 

Recently, with my new found need to be physical six days a week, I eat because I'm hungry. I eat because if I don't I get dizzy when I run. I eat because I need to.

Yet still, when I look in the mirror, I can't always be happy with what I see.

Burying my Domme

There is a side of me that I'm nervous, and almost afraid, to let out.

My Domme persona has not been nourished near enough for my satisfaction.

It is easy for me to drop into my sub space. It's what I know. DeepEnd put it best when he said it can be like a mental vacation. Other times, it is allowing my emotional pain to manifest itself in my body. Often times, I am their for others, to serve them in whatever way they need.

But, when I am a Domme, when the mean little brat gets to romp around, I get nervous. 

She likes being mean. Like really really mean. She likes laughing at other people's pain. She loves toying with their bodies like they were her toys. She loves pushing them til they break. And though I know I shouldn't, I fear what that means about me, what that makes me.

So I bury her. She gets little food other than watching scenes, some fucking, and occasional fantasies. 

And I know this is wrong. I know I shouldn't push this part of myself aside, that I should embrace her and feed her needs. But I have yet to find a way to allow myself to go there, to truly sink in deep and gallop around in my darkness.

And I don't know how get there either.


This past Thanksgiving was the first time the actual dinner was hosted at my home. My previous years were spent with extended family at their houses. Over the course of my life, my final destination for each Thanksgiving has changed with the passing of older relatives and the development of my own adult life.

We had a bunch of people over our house; I think about twenty-five. Three of my relatives were in attendance, including the first time my parents had seen each other in years. SkinnyBitch had three relatives as well, while DeepEnd had five. We hosted about ten of our kinky friends and a few of their children. It was a very full house.

Our day started early, with DeepEnd & SkinnyBitch rising at 4:45am to put the turkey into the oven. This bird was, I shit you not, the size of a small child. SkinnyBitch had ordered a thirty pound bird, but the farm did not have any in that size. Instead DeepEnd picked up at 38.5lb beast of a turkey.

I happened to wake up at 4:48am, coughing because my throat was dry. I crept downstairs to fill my water bottle and found them prepping the turkey, marveled at it's enormity, and took a picture for posterity. 

Note the Morton's salt canister for size reference.

With the bird in the oven, SkinnyBitch & DeepEnd returned to their spots on the couch in the Family Room while I went back to bed. About thirty minutes later, though, we were woken up by the sound of the smoke alarm. Quickly rushing into action, all three of us hoping to not disturb the rest of the house, we set up a fan by the alarm, opened the garage door, and lowered the temperature on the oven. This would not be our only occurrence of smoke issues that day.

Up for good this time at 10am, I made a quick supplies run to the grocery store before heading to my hometown to pickup my mother. I arrived back at the house around 1pm. My mother fell into conversation with SkinnyBitch's mother, thank goodness, and the turkey soon came out of the oven.

Golden brown and delicious.

I helped out SkinnyBitch as much as I could around the kitchen, though with more food arriving with our guests the majority of the cooking was complete.

Our kinky friends slowly filtered in, along with the relatives who had not slept over Wednesday night.

The next big moment was the carving of the turkey.

I made that platter; it seemed appropriate.

This task fell to DeepEnd, who first setup a station in the Dining Room, and then began his work.

The first cut.

I especially liked this part of the day as I had no shame in my love of the turkey skin and DeepEnd had no qualms about giving me almost every juicy inch of it. (Oh yeah, that's what she said.) I shared the bounty of the deliciousness with MollyRen, my mother, and SkinnyBitch's Mom.

The carcass.

As dinner time approached, and more food as well as another table arrived, the roommates and I setup the buffet style meal in the kitchen.

The kids got their food first, and with the option of either sitting with the adults or taking their food downstairs to the basement, grown-ups it seemed were less appealing than a cache of Nerf guns.

After the kids, the rest of us dug in. With so much food, my first plate was only the veggies; my second round was the meat. My mother had brought a ham, we had tons of turkey, and the stuffing and dressing were to die for. SkinnyBitch is an excellent cook.

Though of course this was not on purpose, the dinner found us all separated by vanilla and kinky. For seating, we had arranged our Dining Room table in such a way to maximize the flow of foot traffic. SkinnyBitch and I made a Target run on Wednesday and picked up two folding tables and eight chairs. Our kinky friends had all been warned to bring their own seats, just in case. The family members stayed at the smaller Dining Room table while our kinky friends sat at the Target tables.

As the meal progressed, we soon moved on to desserts. Our kinky friends were asked to bring either a dessert or wine. We received two pies, a baking dish full of brownies, and seven bottles of wine. We finished four bottles of wine, half of each pie (apple & cherry), but all of the Godiva chocolate brownies.

After the meal, SkinnyBitch had already made it known she wanted a fire in the Family Room and to sip hot cocoa. DeepEnd attempted to set a fire, but instead found yet another instance of the smoke alarm going off. We opened windows and nixed the fire for that evening.

Slowly, the get together dissapated. Room assignments were already made for the evening, putting me on the couch with SkinnyBitch and DeepEnd.

My mother enjoyed my bed and bedroom after I extensively covered up some items on my walls (Boudoir Nation wallpaper, flagging codes, Rope Camp & Midori's Rope Dojo flyers), items on my dressers (cigar boxes, bootblacking kit, fox tail, erotic magic book), and the contents of my lamp table (burnt clothing, event name tags, empty cigar tube). I secured her promise that she would not snoop and then released my personal space to her for the night. So far, she has asked no questions, therefore I trust her at her word.

With everyone cleared out who was not going to sleep over, I nestled into the soft couch cushions, played some Jack Johnson on my iPhone, and drifted off to sleep.

Sunday, December 18, 2011



She was sweaty. From their combined body heat. From the tons of sex they'd had earlier. But not from the temperature, which was unpleasantly cool, but just shy of cold.

And as she tried to snooze, she felt a chill down her back, right where the covers parted between them.

Before, they had been snuggled together, naked and panting. Her head cradled in his arm. His hand softly gripping her breast. Her ass nestled against his half-hard cock. His breath tickling the back of her neck. The prickly feeling brought back fresh memories of his lips there. His tongue there. His teeth there.

But now they were turned in opposite directions, each curled up on their side of the bed, and a cool draft filling the new hole in the middle. The annoying chill had woken her.

Her wet body added to the wind's effect, making her shiver where earlier she'd pulsed with warmth, both on her skin and in her core. She silently cursed their bodies' unconscious separation, and turned to face his back.

Maybe if she nuzzled against him, in a funny mirror of their earlier spoon, the cold would go away. She scooted her body over. Brought her hips to his ass. Her arm above his head. Her other arm over his hip.

Instinctively, he grabbed her hand in his and brought it up to his heart, pulling her in closer. Her face rested on his back, her cheek against solid muscle.

Again she remembered. Her face brushing against his thigh just before she started sucking his cock. His slaps across her cheek. The way he delicately kissed her face, her forehead, her lips as they began that evening's play.

She let out a deep breath, and began relaxing back to sleep.

Saturday, December 17, 2011


My FetFest started Thursday evening.

It was the first time I'd driven to New York. GoogleMaps said it would take me about five hours, so I sped. With my newly acquired Easy Pass, the first few states breezed by. And then I hit the New Jersey Turnpike...

After that particular torture, I took a tunnel and found myself in the Big Apple, slowed down by rush hour traffic, but in the city at 5:30pm, an hour and a half ahead of schedule.

I headed to the address where Murphy instructed me to meet him. I texted him of my early arrival, and circled the surrounding blocks a few times before finding a spot. With my things for FetFest packed in my trunk, the only item visible from the outside of my car was Winnie, my stuffed penguin who sat by the back windshield.

Out of the car, and happy to be moving my legs around, I half skipped my way to the house. I texted him I was outside. I waited.

After a time, I called. "I'm outside."

"I know. You look sexy."

"What? You can't see me."

"Still, I know you look sexy."

He opened the front door and greeted me with a hug. He introduced me to his friend SwordSaint. All three of us departed.

As we walked, my smile hurt my mouth; I was so happy to be in the city and with Big Bro again. We stopped for impromptu ice cream and the boys explained their rules of padiddle to me. We hopped on the Subway and made our way to the sight of the Bomb.

I asked about NYC geography, and was soon confused. 

We scoped out the starting spot, making sure it would work. Satisfied that all was good, we headed to the diner. We ordered, we ate, and the people started streaming in.

I kept count as unfamiliar faces joined our ever growing group. The final headcount...40. Just about everyone who had ever participated in a Bomb attended this anniversary gathering. I had the sweet distinction of having this be my first rope bomb.

NYR Cabin was well represented, with Big Bro, myself, CabinMeat, CabinThug, and CabEx all in tow, and CabinElder due to arrive later.

Satisfied all possible participants were in attendance, we headed out. Murphy had us all shout out our names. He gave his bomb speech, and his CabinThug warning. (If you walked too slowly, CabinThug brought his whip.) We were off.

Once again, I was bouncy happy. As we walked, I chatted with Big Bro, congratulating him on the massive turnout.

At the first stop, Murphy gave everyone twenty minutes. We spread out like a web, with no one straying far out of sight. I, in error, left my rope bag in my car, thinking I would bottom that evening. Instead, there was a glut of willing rope bottoms, so I strolled around taking pictures with my iPhone. SwordSaint had Murphy's camera and captured images as well.

At our second site, we encountered a small hiccup with the authority. We moved on.

At the third sight, we were fifteen minutes into our twenty minutes allocated before the authority circled back. They explained, with a crowd of our size, we needed a permit. With apologies, their point was noted for next year. We moved on, much farther away this time.

It was closing in on midnight. Ten minutes for this third stop. With no rope of my own, and no one to tie me, my eagerness had waned. I wanted, needed something to jolt me back.

Enter Hermes, who said he need assistance as I jogged behind him and his two demo bottoms. I explained I knew basic harnesses and offered my help. He asked for a chest harness. "Arms tied or free?" He asked for a hip harness. "With or without a crotch rope?" As he worked on one, I worked on the other. We had them up, photos taken, and down within the alotted time. My heart sang again.

With the group reformed, and some fallen off by the late night, we stopped for refreshments. I bought two bottles of Gatorade, chugged one, and sipped the second slowly. Our night was far from done. We moved on.

While chatting, I mentioned how I lacked rope and wanted desparately to tie. A guy offered both himself and his rope for my assistance. At our next stop, I felt a rush as I tied a carada on him.

At our fourth, and final, stop, I wanted to feel rope on my body. After tying the man again, this time in a predicament with CabinMeat, I decided to self suspend. With just a hip harness, the guy helped me up onto my hard point: the metal railing of a walkway.

With the ropes secured, I sat into the harness and leaned my body back, extending my arms above my head, my body arching towards the ground. SwordSaint captured the moment.

With 3am approaching, and exhaustion creeping in on everyone, the Bomb-iversay disapated like a sweet mist.

Murphy, SwordSaint, and I crashed back at the house where I'd initially met them. Murphy took the couch while SwordSaint and I snuggled on a mattress on the floor. I was tired, sleepy, and ready to pass out. SwordSaint comforted me and kept me warm as I drifted into a deep, but brief, sleep.

Friday, December 16, 2011

Happy Hour

Tonight I was suppose to be working til 11:30pm.

Instead, I found myself at Happy Hour, arriving around 7:30pm. Immediately, PrudeNate came up to greet me. It had been a while since we last saw each other. We hugged, and he engaged me in conversation as I stripped off the trappings of my job: black zip up hoodie, black polo work shirt, and my hair tie. I flipped my head down, shook my hair about, and flung my head back up. I was off, and happy for it.

I continued my greetings around the room, hugging FancyDancer, PenBeatSword, Devi, and Amethyst. I was back home, which I had missed so very much.

I settled in, ordered dinner, retrieved a drink, and chatted.

As I relaxed into being with my friends for the first time in a month, The Doctor eased into the room with a wayward soul in tow. The Gent had settled in by the bar, not understanding the kinky happy hour was in the room through the bay doors. With the Doctor's assistance, the Gent found his intended destination.

I, noticing he seemed new and was a rather attractive black man, stood and waved him over. I introduced myself, along with the rest of the group, and we invited him to sit and chat. We were our normal friendly selves, though I occasionally snuck a whispered comment to Big Sis. Like I said, he was quite attractive.

The subject of my scene name came up. He seemed very interested in my writing. My friends praised my talent. He wanted to hear my poetry. Pulling out my iPhone, I looked up my blog and found Written Raw. Devi departed to get another drink from the bar; Amethyst accompanied her. I adjusted over to sit next to the Gent.

Though I was nervous, I managed to read my work aloud into his ear. Our legs touched as I willed myself to concentrate on my words, hoping beyond measure that my tempo would not falter, that I would be able to convey all my emotions in that moment to him.

I warned him this particular poem was not sexy, having already mentioned that I write erotica. When I concluded my reading, he disagreed with my assessment.

We then eased into a conversation about kink in general and my predilections in particular. He stated each question asking that I treat him as if he knew nothing. This was thought provoking and intriguing and challenging. I appreciated the mental exercise.

He could not stay long, though. Before he left, I gave him a hug goodbye.

With my distraction departed, I slipped back into my normal Happy Hour self, breezily socializing with folks, drinking, and having a blissful merry time.

As I stood in the doorway from the bar to our room, Pen passed by. I greeted him again, mentioning we had not seen each other since Halloween. He acknowledged the long hiatus, but slyly pulled out his knife. He asked if I would like another taste. You can guess what my answer was.

Though I've attended Happy Hour off and on for the past year and a half, I had yet to experience the closet...until tonight.

We slipped in and he flipped open his blade. The dulled edge danced against my throat, across the back of my neck, my cleavage. I ground my hips back into his crotch. I breathed heavily. I loved the feel of his blade.

He wanted more time, more fun, more play (just like before). He pulled my hair, he squeezed my hips, and we kissed. Our styles were the same, and I found myself not wanting to stop feeling his lips against mine.

There was mention of Winter Fire, and possibly playing before that. He wanted to do so much more with me. He dangled the carrot of tying Dig up. I was more than happy to nip at the request.

Exiting the closet, Big Sis schooled me in the one rule of the closet: secure a look-out. I then returned her favor soon after my exit; she enjoyed a midnight kiss while I chatted with FlostonParadise and SkinnyBitch.

My evening wound down as SkinnyBitch and I grew tired around 11:30pm. After a brief stop at McDonalds for salt and carbs, we were on our way home. I had a new boy to write about, my time in the closet to chronicle, and much sleep to be had.

And to think, I was suppose to work tonight.

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Music Saves Me

When you walk by every night/Talking sweet and looking fine/I get kinda hectic inside/Baby I'm so into you/Darling if you only knew/All the things that go through my mind
Mariah Carey - Fantasy

I wanna dance with somebody/I wanna feel the heat with somebody/Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody/With somebody who loves me
Whitney Houston - I Wanna Dance With Somebody

What a difference...

So I wrote, I think, two years ago about a rather unpleasant experience. I was driving my then SO, now Ex, to work as he slept in the passenger seat. Along the ride, the song "Let's Get Married" by Jagged Edge came on. I loved this song, and would normally sing along, but instead I found myself teary eyed. So much so, in fact, I had to switch stations.

I soon realized this was because I was in a relationship with someone who, indeed, did not want to get married, a fact that knawed at me, but I didn't realize how much until that particular tune came on.

Fast forward to tonight, when the DJ played that song. Instead of being upset, on the verge of tears, I smiled. I sang along. I was, dare I say it, hopeful. No, I'm not in a long term relationship currently, but I have faith it will happen. I believe I will find my LTP(s) and I will have my wedding(s) someday.

This is so much more than I can say for back then, when the most I received was a shared life but no formal commitment, pulling teeth when it came to the question of children, and the constant worry I was being over emotional.

As the DJ continued his set list, I found myself singing along to more and more songs. Michael Jackson was heavily favored, including PYT (a personal favorite), Billie Jean, and Beat It. The Whitney and Mariah songs quoted above were also featured, two more I just had to sing along with.

When I'm happy, when I'm sad. When I'm lonely, or just need something...else, I turn to music. The name of my first iPod was MusicSavesMe. This is the hashtag I use on Twitter when I feature a song I've downloaded.

That simple statement is a truth in my life. I've linked so many special moments, sad moments, life changing and mundane occurences to music. It is like my heart beat, like the tempo of my breaths. Without it, I'm left emotionally raw and in need.

Music has this special way of piercing the veil around my heart, sinking in its teeth, and swallowing me whole. And I am so grateful for it.

A Moment At Work

He asked me what I thought of the bar. I said it looked mildly obscene. He huffed a sort of laugh. He knew my humor; this was nothing new.

We slowly, gracefully, made our way to the back left corner of the room, delicately cutting in between guests. We stood, quietly watching everyone mingle.

We started chatting about nothing important. Seeing him with his hands behind his back, I put mine there as well.

I found my wrists gripping my forearms, my limbs in a familiar position. I smiled to myself.

I remembered a few of the times when my arms were like that, but bound in rope, unable to move forward.

I remembered walking around in my underwear with cigars tucked into my chest harness. I remembered going to Ava's class and her tips on maneuvering your arms to keep them from cramping. Demo bottoming for Dov, with the ache and the rush. Murphy flying me sideways.

I brushed the delicate skin of my inner arm with my thumb. A soft flow of warmth pulsed through my body. I grinned a little wider.

I delighted in how no one knew the naughty thoughts going through my mind. No one suspected the life I lived, the adventures I'd experienced, the stories I had to tell. I'm sure, to them, I looked like just another business casual party-goer.

He talked about something. I kept up my end of the conversation, knowing full well neither one us actually cared what was said. He departed soon after, leaving me with the space to care for.

The guests mingled, and ate, and danced. I just smiled, and caressed my skin, and held my arms behind my back.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Love On Top

"But I know it's gonna take a little work/Nothing's perfect/But it's worth it/After fighting through my tears/And finally you put me first/Baby, it's you/You the one I love/You're the one I need/You're the only one I see/Come one baby it's you/You're the one that gives your all/You're the one I can always call/When I need you, you make everything stop/Finally you put my love on top"

Recently, when I was driving home, I was enjoying the radio and found myself listening to one of Beyonce's recent singles. Though my mother loves and adores the woman, I find Beyonce's music to be just okay.

However, for some reason, as I listened to Love On Top, it spoke to me. With each new lyric, I identified with another piece of what she was saying, but in a completely different way. As Beyonce went on and on about her now husband, Jay-Z, I kept finding the love she had for him reflected in myself.

Looking back on the year I've had (which I will delve into more in a future post), things have been pretty fucking fantastic. No, not perfect, but damn good. I did not escape this year without tears, but my win column far exceeds my losses.

Talking to my friends, it seems the strands of my view of myself and the way others view me are weaving together.

I was chatting with my friend N3rddom after a She Wants Revenge concert, speaking about how I was unpartnered poly. Randomly, he stated he was sure I would have partners in the future. I just sort of looked at him and said, "Really?" He seemed confused that I didn't realize this was going to happen. He started listing some awesome aspects of myself that of course I knew about but in that moment had not thought of. And the realization came to me. Oh yeah, I forgot. I'm fucking awesome.

I was chatting with my friend SkinnyBitch and she flippantly said I lived the life of a queen. "Yeah, sure." But then, in a less kidding and more real tone, she spoke about how I live my life the way I want, interact with whomever I want, when I want. I have a ton of freedom and use it to foster awesome friendships. Oh yeah, I forgot. I'm fucking awesome.

So, loosely quoting from the song...

I know it will take some work, because I am by no means perfect, but I'm worth that effort. Yes, there will be tears, as anyone who knows me knows I cry, a lot, but it's time I put myself first.

I love me. I need me to be me, no matter what. That person looking back at me in the morning in the mirror, brushing her teeth and smiling, is not all I want, but, for now, is all I need.

When I wake up each morning, I will love the person I see, because I give my all. I'm the one all my good friends call because I'm am there for them, but I must now also be there for myself.

I cannot make all my pain stop, but I can put me, and loving myself, on top.

Monday, December 12, 2011

ASA: The Words

The ruler was made out of cedar, lacquered, with a metal straight edge. The numbers were a deep black, with inches as their only measurement. When it struck my hands, there was a snap in the air, not just from the sound but from the tidal shift in my world.

Mr. Ebon's class on Monday was just as brutal as ever. A pop quiz on the weekend's reading greeting his beleaguered students. I breezed through the questions and sat patiently as the rest trudged through it. As I waited, hands crossed on the desk, staring straight at the chalk board, though I never saw even a whisper of a glance from his direction, it felt like his eyes were always on me, always watching, always noting even my slightest twitch. It was unnerving, and exhilarating.

We passed all our quizzes, after the fifteen minute limit, to Hilda. Her desk was the most to the left, the closest to Mr. Ebon's. She left the pile on the desk next to hers and never dared look at them again. Once, when she happened to lean over to straighten the messy pile she'd originally left them in, Mr. Ebon burned her with a searing stare. His voice, though its same volume, took on a chilled quality. "Ms. Caron, don't." She never did, again.

Class over, the period bell rang, and our night's assignment given, everyone filtered out. As we all gathered our things to go, I had hoped maybe he would acknowledge me in some way. Maybe he would ask me to stay after, if only for a moment. Maybe he would give me a subtle cue, a knowing glance, something. I left his classroom, nary a whisper from his lips.

At 5:15pm, around the same time as my stroll on Friday, I made my way up to the History wing. Just like before, his was the only classroom who's door was closed. I stood outside, taking deep breaths, trying to quiet my nerves. Why was I nervous? Why did my heart flutter, my chest feel light as air?

"Come in, Ms. Ivory." I hadn't knocked, and yet he knew I was there. A second later, I realized half of the door was clouded glass. Who else would be at his door at so late an hour? I bit my lip from the slight embarrassment, and walked in.

I stood, just inside the door, my back against the wall. Though I'd done this before, though I'd been in this very room just a few hours before, it all seemed different. Holding my hands behind my back, I lightly brushed the wall for balance.

"You may sit as you did before."

Hesitantly, after screaming at my legs to move, I took my spot like last time, cross legged on the top of the desk. I pulled out my knitting and started a new row. I wanted to look up, but wanted just as much to breathe. After a few rows, and my breath nearing normal, I dared to tilt my head.

He sat, arms crossed, eyes locked on me. I had no idea what was going on in his head. Had no idea what he thought of me. Had no idea the next word to emanate from his lips. But I yearned for him to speak, to say something, to do something besides concentrate on me. He sat there for what seemed like forever.

"Do you know what domination is?" It seemed like an obvious question.

"To have control over someone or something."

"Do you know what a Dominant is?" Though I could not see it myself, I'm sure my face looked puzzled.

"Um, someone who has control over someone or something?"

"Yes. And do you know what submission is?"

"Giving up control or allowing oneself to be controlled."

"Good." He let a breath out, uncrossed his arms, and rested his hands on his desk. "Ms. Ivory, do you know what a submissive is?"

"Uh, one who gives up control, who allows oneself to be controlled."

"Yes." He leaned forward, looking very intently at me. "Ms. Ivory, are you a submissive?"

The question made no sense, and yet made perfect sense. I was at a loss for words.

I tried multiple times to find something, anything, to say. Finally, leaning back in his chair, he spoke again.

"Ms. Ivory, what happened on Friday was inappropriate. I am your teacher and you are my student. That conflict alone is... difficult. But I see in you what I felt in myself at your age: longing and a desperation to understand this part of you that, I suspect until a few minutes ago, lacked a name.

"You are a submissive. You do not fully realize what that all entails, but I see it. I saw it as soon as you walked into my classroom that first day. You are brilliant, and will do great things with your life, but you will not feel fulfilled unless you acknowledge this side of yourself and find an outlet for your desires."

Desires. What a perfect word for the swirling emotions in my head. Because, in that moment, all I wanted was to please him. To be at his beck and call. To do whatever it took to be his. I desired Mr. Ebon, had for almost as long as I'd known him, and now I possessed the words.

"Submissive." I let it roll on my tongue like a piece of hard candy. "Mr. Ebon, are you a Dominant?"

"Yes, Ms. Ivory. I am a Dom."

"Then, you can teach me to be a...Sub."

"Ms. Ivory..."

"You can teach me to be a Sub! You're my teacher. Teach me."

"Ms. Ivory, it's not that simple."

"Yes, it is! You're a Dom and I'm a Sub. You're my teacher, I need to learn, so teach me."

"Ms. Ivory, I'm your History teacher, not your..."

"Oh please, I'm acing your class just fine and probably could do it without your instruction." 

My hand hit my mouth before I finished my next breath. His eyes grew wide, and his lips pursed. I couldn't see it, but I'm sure he started grinding his teeth.  A moment later, he relaxed his face.

"Stand up." His voice was cold, calculating, chillier than even when he'd reprimanded Hilda. I put my knitting to the side, which I'd been holding the entire time, and slowly slid off the desk. He stood as well, once again towering over me.

"Turn around." I gulped hard and turned to the back of the classroom. My heart thumped in my chest.

"Bend over the desk, hands and arms flat." I carefully leaned into the position. The warmth of my breath bounced off the wood of the desk. I heard the drawer with the ruler open and close.

He stood beside me, his leg brushing up against mine.

"Five strokes this time for making the same mistake, twice in a row."  Using the ruler, he lifted my skirt. I, like most of the girls, wore boxer shorts over my panties. Again using the ruler, he hooked the elastic waist band to help pull the shorts down. He let my panties stay on.

He placed his hand on the small of my back.

"You will count each stroke and follow the number with a Sir at the end. Do you understand?"

"Yes." He grabbed me by my hair and pulled my head back. His mouth was on my ear.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes Sir." He shoved my head back down.

Smack! "One Sir." It stung like a hundred bees stings.

Smack! "Two Sir." The sound was louder than on Friday, cracking through the entire room.

Smack! "Three Sir." I could tell he swung harder than before.

Smack! "Four Sir." My ass began to ache, but so did something else...

Smack! "Five Sir." I breathed hard, heavy. I knew I would go home and think of this tonight while in bed.

He walked back to his desk and sat down.

"You may stand and pull up your shorts." I fixed my clothes, but remained looking towards the back of the room. "For now, Mondays and Fridays. You will come to this classroom and I will teach you. But, if anyone finds out about this, and I think you know this, I will loose my job. Are you worthy of me taking such a risk, Ms. Ivory?"

"Yes Sir." I tried to convey all of my gratitude, all of my wanting and yearning for both his lessons and him into those two words.

"Very well. Gather your things and go. I will see you again on Friday."

Like before, I hurriedly grabbed my bag and knitting. Like before, I quietly slipped out of the room. But, not like before, I dared a glance at his direction as I left. He sat, staring at me, the whisper of a grin on his lips.

Sunday, December 11, 2011


I mentioned recently listening to one of my FetFest audio recordings. This reminded me; I have not written anything on my blog about this inaugural event yet. So, in the coming month, I will recount some of the highlights of my time that weekend.

However, for this entry, I want to get something out of the way. There was one incident that was not fun or sexy. It was, well, just wrong.

I was getting ready for the slave auction held Saturday night. As per usual for any event I've attended, I was in a hurry. I showered, changed, and was in the process of leaving out.

Though I spent the majority of my time in Rope Village, my bed was in TNG Village. The cabin was empty, save for myself.

As I got ready, a guy walked in. I could tell he was drunk, but thought nothing of it. It was an event, and I felt anyone could choose to spend their time as they wished. As I prepared to go, he asked what I was getting ready for. I casually said I was going to the slave auction to be sold.

"Really? Well then let me get a look at the goods." He reached over, put his hand down my shirt, and groped my breast. I grabbed him by the wrist and pulled his hand out, while saying, "No. I did not give you consent." I was stern and forceful, but I didn't yell. He could tell I was upset; he immediately began apologizing. I told him to just go, just leave. He walked out of the cabin.

I walked into the bathroom and took one last look at myself. I didn't know whether to scream or to cry, so I didn't do either. I grabbed my Hello Kitty bag and walked out of the cabin towards the Pavilion.

I can't really remember what the guy looked like. I never knew his name. When I recounted the story to one friend, he told me I should have slapped the guy. Another asked me if I reported him. It was as if they were both speaking another language.

One, I don't hit in anger or malice. I don't let violence enter me in that manner, ever.

Two, report him? I didn't know his name and he just was a stupid drunk. He stopped when I told him to and apologized. Yes, I felt violated and shitty, but in the moment I just wanted him gone. I just wanted to be left alone. I just wanted to feel better. Report him? Fuck him!

So, yeah. That happened. It was shitty. 

But, thankfully, I soon felt better. I found people to talk to and cuddle with. Save for an awkward moment with an awkward man, I had a good time at the auction. And my night got better from there.

It was, and is, so shocking for me because it happened at an event.  I always felt safe at events, sheltered and loved at events.  I was with my people, my family, loving and caring and nurturing.  I always felt looked after and cared for.  And then I got accosted by an asshole.
So I guess, in a long round about way, this is just another person saying consent counts. Consent counts. 


Saturday, December 10, 2011

Woo-ing Myself

I read a recent post by my friend Gray Miller on his blog This particular entry focused on learning to love oneself. He concluded his entry with a simple question:

What do you love about yourself?

This got me thinking. So, I answered it.

- My eyes. They say more than I can ever put into words. The dark brown luster speaks to me whenever I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror or passing window. The hint of what lies beneath the mask I wear for the world is at times engaging, playful, lustful, and intense. I can have whole conversations with you using just my eyes.

- My breasts are awesome. They're full and squeezable. The perfect amount to fill your hands, to rest your head on, or to nuzzle up to. In the right bra, or with the proper arm positioning, my cleavage is quite distracting.

My nipples are pierced, a tempting delight to all who venture a lick. I love the way they look when they're erect, presenting the jewelry and asking, begging, to be pinched and sucked.

- My ass. It's My ass is so sexy. There is a reason why I wrote poetry about it. It's big and round and sits up just right, begging to be spanked, slapped, caressed, fucked.

Once, randomly, a guy tried to balance a beer bottle on my ass. Granted, this was not a wanted advance, but I understand how one can be mesmerized by the wonder that is my rump. In fact, I have many a fond memory involving other people enjoying the wonder that is my ass.

- My hair. It's curly and wild and often begs to be loose and free. When I was young, I wore it in two braids at my sides. I loved flinging my head back and forth, wiping my braids from side to side, daring anyone to come near. The hard plastic ties at the ends were like weapons, ready to lash out at anyone who ventured too close. I loved the thump they made against my skin as the braids wrapped around my neck and hit my back.

When I grew older, and still wore it long, I'd flat iron it.  My locks would brushed the top of my ass, and flow on the wind. Now, when I masturbate, with my hair out, I often walk into the bathroom afterwards and admire my "freshly fucked" locks, which look better than hours of primping could ever accomplish. 

My hair makes me feel beautiful, feel sexy, feel special.

- On occasion, I have a way with words. I've been writing since forever. There are still stories I wrote years ago that when I read them my blood runs hot with lust and I am thrown right back into its sensuous world. I paint pictures, spin tales, and chronicle my truths with words. Without them, without my words, I don't know who I'd be.

- I often say this, and it is very true: I cultivate my childlike whimsy everyday. I look at the world as I did when I was young: with wonder and amazement. I appreciate little things, which to me seem huge.

Today, at the venue in which I'm currently working, there was an assortment of artistic photographs. I was enamored by each shot, diving in, and letting myself get lost in the stories. There were interesting modern art sculptures that I could draw similarities to that were at once thought provoking and hilarious (a fat owl, the head of a rooster, the negative space of a key hole). I keep things light, care free, reminding myself to smile and breathe in each moment, appreciating just being alive.

- I am one of the best friends you will ever have. I go above and beyond to be there for the people I love. I trek hundred of miles, perform any number of small and large tasks, and try all I can to be the best friend possible. I give and give and give, and then give more. I am a fierce protector, soothing comforter, and steadfast confidant. I sacrifice myself for the happiness of those I care for. Above all else, this is what I love about myself the most.

So, what do you love about yourself?

Friday, December 9, 2011

Being Present

A close friend of mine recently paid me the oddest compliment. Well, it seemed odd to me.

I recounted the highlights of my recent excursion to New Jersey and the awesome event that was Tied Down. I told her about the classes and my scene with Gray. I then explained how I didn't allow any of the feelings I had spoil my time at the event. I waited until after to let it all out. She admired how I could be fully present for it all when an ocean of whirling emotions laid just around the bend.

It never occurred to me that this was some skill or gift. It is just something I do, something I thought everyone did. She explained it was what she tried to do.

When I'm in a scene, or focused on someone, I'm there and only there. I push the rest out, to the side, for another day. I lock off that corner of my thoughts, that place in my heart, promising to visit it later.

In truth, I have to visit it later. The emotions are not present in the moment; I make sure to tuck them far below. But they start building again from the moment my interaction ends, and, if not acknowledged and processed, find their way out in quite inconvenient ways (shortened temper, easily annoyed, crying fits over nothing).

I don't know why I'm able to do this. DeepEnd compared my skill to one who's dealing with the passing of an ailing loved one. The way you cherish the time you have because soon there will be no more moments.

I don't like the analogy, but there is truth to it. Those are the very thoughts that float through my mind in the middle of it all. I have to be here. I have to be present. Because, soon, this moment will pass and I will have lost my time if I don't seize it fully, now.

I have dealt with the passing of a close loved one, but I don't think that is why I am able to do this. I was a wreck for most of that, when I wasn't searing with anger at my family. Instead, I think my being present is more a matter of training and patience.

Patience was ground into me through my youth. I lived in a single parent household and often had to wait for my mother to get off work before we could go home. Each day, for hours, I found things to fill my time: homework, my Walkman, writing. But, inevitably, it would boil down to me sitting by the school door, waiting for her car to approach. Just sitting and waiting.

I learned discipline to keep myself from raging in anger or despairing in helplessness. I learned patience, knowing relief and release was close at hand. I learned to temper my wants, trained myself to be there without flashing my insides out. I learned to just be, in a sort of cross between acceptance and mediation.  

Because it didn't matter if I raged, or cried, or hated.  She could get there no faster and I couldn't make time do my biding.  Therefore, why be a big ball of madness or a seeping selfish child?  

The same holds true for scenes.  I can't change my world in that moment, can't change what will happen the next day or even later that evening.  But I can appreciate what I do have in those breaths.  Why not just be and leave those emotions elsewhere?

So, now, I can just be. I can just enjoy. I can just submit to how my life is in that moment, push my rushing emotions aside, and delight in each second for what it is: special and fleeting.

Thursday, December 8, 2011



Most of the girls hated the job. The grabby hands. The disgusting looks on their faces. The wayward palm right there, unable to even pretend to have any sense of decorum.

Lux didn't care. In fact, she kind of liked that it was all out in the open, all nasty and raunchy. They were pole dancers; what did these girls expect?

Some of the girls called themselves erotic entertainers, but Lux liked calling herself a pole dancer. She even liked the double entendre when, on occasion, she did ride the pole in a man's lap.

To the other girls, it was about making quick money. A few were in college. A large number were single Moms with babies to feed. Lux was neither. This was her chosen occupation, for the moment. Yes, she liked the money, considering she earned the most of all the girls. And she loved to dance. But it was the power she truly craved.

Maybe that's why the other girls didn't get her. She didn't hate coming to work, didn't loathe her turn on the main-stage pole, and was no more happy walking out than in.

When Lux was on stage, more than any other woman in the club's menagerie, she commanded all the attention of everyone in the room. When she danced, Lux aimed to seduce everyone in attendance, from the cheapskate in the corner to the high roller walking towards a private room. The lucky few who got front row seats to her dances were rewarded with locked stares, licked lips, swiveled hips that timed out their heartbeats, and throbbing erections that never went down til morning.

As Lux slowly crawled across the stage, accentuating her ass in a serpentine enticement to her prey, she knew just how to pull them in, to open their wallets, and to walk home with rent paid in under two hours.

The touched, the blessed, were those who could wrangle her for a private dance. Lux was not cheap; to her, extracting as much money from her prey was liked sucking the venom from a snake, weakening him til he no longer had a weapon against her, and she broke him. Each song was $100, minimum. Her prey either balked or were shocked at such a low price.

Alone, just you and her in a room, she never let you think of anywhere else. From the moment the door clicked shut to the sadness of her exit, her prey's eyes never left her body. What had just been out of their hand's reach now lay against them, grinding, caressing, rolling her body up and down theirs. Her eyes, which had shimmered in the club's lighting, now smoldered, burning through them.

And just when they couldn't take it anymore, just when they couldn't control the urge to touch her, to ravage her, to grasp her and never ever let her go, the song would end. She'd stand up, turn, pop her hips as she walked out, saluting them with her ass, and was gone.    

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Oral History

I'm a bit quirky. At least that's what I call it.

When I go to events, I always, always, carry a few things: my cell phone, my Hello Kitty bag, a pen, and, most important of all, my notebooks. I go to many classes. When I attend a presentation, I sit front row center and take notes (Teacher's Pet here). Periodically during the day, I take a moment to jot down bullet points on the happenings thus far.

I do this because I want to remember everything. Everything.  I know I can't, but I try.

Even from my first event, I knew I needed to write about what I was going through. It was too intense, too life altering, too amazing not to chronicle. I love the story of my kinky life so much, I carry all my old notebooks with me to each new event. I currently have two small notebooks and one rather large one which holds my current pages to fill.

Ask me about any event, and I'll try to recall the details you need. When in doubt, though, I refer to my notebooks.

However, my notebooks are not the end, but the means to an end.

I use my notes from my events for my
pièce de résistance, my voice memos.

I have an iPhone and one of the lovely applications is basically a dictaphone. When I come back from each event, I sit alone in my room, pull out my notebook, and I talk. I tell myself the story of my adventure, from the little moments to the awesome experiences. I relive my ecstasy, remembering all I can, and am once again joyous because of all I went through.

In the days following each event, when I'm a bit down, or just want to feel there again, I play my voice memos. I've lulled myself to sleep with my recountings, drifted away on my stories, been comforted by these experiences.

Today, I needed to listen to one of my memos. This afternoon, when I had the house to myself, I masturbated. And then I cried. And it wasn't the good kind of cry. It was tears of loneliness, of wanting, of pain.

New Year's Eve in coming up, and as a single girl there will be that magical moment when everyone else has someone to kiss. And I'll be there, happy I'm with my friends, but a little sad. Everyone says you can't look for love cause then you'll never find it. You have to just wait. And I am a very patient person. But sometimes...

And so I listened to my first day of FetFest. And I remembered writing my message in the shimenawa. And giving away the plaques to the boys. And my takedown rehearsal. And my sideways suspension with Big Bro. And the NCSF Cigar, Boots, and Chocolate fundraiser. And putting Gray to bed. And I felt better.

I have my story, told in my voice, for me to hear. It is possibly the most personal intimate...thing I have. No one listens to it but me. I see it as my oral history, a kinky history of major moments in my life.

So when you see me up at whatever o'clock in the morning, long past when most people have gone to bed, scribbling as fast as I can into a notebook, now you know what I'm doing and why I do it.

Monday, December 5, 2011


My mother's best friend's father died the day before Thanksgiving. Today was his funeral.

I didn't know this man. I had maybe met him once when I was a child, too young to remember the encounter, but I found myself at his signing off all the same.

I was there for the family, with whom I am an honorary member. I grew up with the cousins, call my mother's best friend, along with her brothers and sisters, my aunts and uncles. I see them at holidays. They came to my college graduation. In most ways I am closer to them than my own blood relations.

Though I did not know him, I saw this man's influence in the crowd of faces who sat, quietly crying, remembering their father, grandfather, or great grandfather. He lived to the bright young age of 93. We should all be so lucky.

As the family processed in, I found myself slipping my hand into my mother's palm. Being witness to the ceremony of saying goodbye to a loved one makes you appreciate even more those you still have.

This was a black funeral, which meant a few things were going to happen.

1- Singing. There were plenty of gospel songs, including His Eye Is On The Sparrow, which is basically a cliche occurrence at black funerals.

2- At least one, if not two, preachers/pastors/reverends were going to speak. There were lots of mentions of God, Christ, Jesus, the Savior, the Redeemer, etc.

3- Are you saved? Everyone needs to be saved. Do you have a church home? The only way to get to heaven is through Christ... You get the drift. As one who questions her beliefs on spirituality and religion on an almost daily basis, I sat patiently waiting.

Thankfully, the Pastor who gave the Eulogy, before he spun into his speech on number three, elicited a few chuckles from the attendees. He explained his job was to lift us up, and he seemed to do that quite well, as well as move the proceedings along at a relatively brisk pace.

As experiences go, it could've been worse.

I hadn't been to a funeral since the death of Ella, my cousin who was more like my third parent, a few years ago. They read the same poem that I had to read after I finished her obituary: I'm Free. Seeing those words in the program made me tear up a bit.

Funerals are for the living, remembering the dead and saying goodbye. As one who had no particular attachment to this man, but a deep love for his family, I hoped the day gave them some peace.
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