Thursday, May 31, 2012
"Why yes, there is."
It had been on my mind for quite some time. Would I? Could I? Should I?
I'd even thought of a fun name, spunky and cute, yah know like me.
But then came the nerves. The self doubt.
I'll just be a student today; I don't need to present. I'll learn so much from all the people here; my voice isn't needed.
But when the white board still had open spots, when the opportunity flashed itself in front of me, I couldn't just let it go.
Still, there was the logistical problem.
"Gray, should I put up a class?"
"It's cigar play."
"Make it a discussion."
I quickly got up, got a piece of paper from Lqqkout, hastily scribbled down Cigar Play - poeticdesires, and added my passion to the board. (So much for the spunky name.)
After some rearranging, I was slated for 4:30pm in section 6 of the main room. Before flitting off to demo bottom for my first class, my friend Scotty approached.
"I'll help you with the cigar play class."
And then the moment came.
Funny enough, for the previous class session, I attended Inretrepida's Can You Tie Your Shoes? Great, Let's Have A Rope Scene in the same section of the ballroom where I would be teaching. Slut took pleasure in tying me up, pulling my hair, beating me, and sucking on my nipples. Quite a great way to warm up for my class.
As people cycled in and out of the rooms, I set my stuff to the side and pulled up a chair. Scotty also arrived and pulled up a seat.
"Oh, the chair I got was for you."
I put my chair to the side. He sat in his seat while I took my place on the floor. We began.
Cigar play is the one kink I exclusively bottom to, so with Scotty there, I felt the discussion would be complete. He would give the top's perspective and I would speak for the bottoms.
I introduced myself, as did Scotty, and then I started talking about my passion. I spoke about smoke, heat, and ash. I discussed safety hazards and tips for cigar bottoms. I went over three catergories of play: ritual, service, and submission.
And, of course, a few of my friends were in attendance, namely Gray & TwistedView. I'm not sure if they were hecklers or shills.
For their enjoyment, and the others in the class, I demonstrated how to wet the end of a cigar.
"Is there anything else you could use to wet the cigar?" Gray asked.
"Why yes, there is."
I mentioned how I could've used my pussy juices, but Scotty and I are not fluid bonded. There was also the suggestion of blood. And semen. This section was an interesting turn in our conversation.
As our time ran out, and everyone had to depart, I of course pimped an event that evening, Cigars, Boots, and Chocolate. It felt like I was giving people homework, but more fun. Hmm... maybe it was more like extra credit.
People dispersed. I flitted off to another class.
But, for a shiny thirty minutes, I got to speak about my passion. I sat in front of a group of people and talked to them about a subject I knew and loved.
For once, instead of being the Teacher's Pet, I was the presenter.
I had not attended the regular workshop, but with so many people I knew and admired sitting and talking intently, I could not help but drift towards them.
At first I was anxious. Like I said, I admired a lot of the people in that circle. And as they spoke, I was in awe of their conversation. Building community, reaching out to those looking for their kink home, nurturing connections beyond just play and fucking. It was all so deep, so important, so consequential.
It wasn't until Lochai looked up, saw me, gave a smile, and blew an air kiss that I remembered, Oh, yeah. I'm a part of this community.
I sat down on the edge of the circle, listened, and feverishly took notes. As they spoke about friendships rather than fuck buddies, encouraging openness and honesty, making safe spaces for new people, nervous people, and all others in between, I smiled.
I realized there are people out there who truly care about this kink world. Who care more about the people than the play. Who see us as people and not just the next lay.
As they talked, I thought on my kinky family. I thought on my home, and BFPKIF, and all the connections I've made since I took the leap and went to my first Happy Hour.
Funny that I'm writing this. As soon as I finish, I'm jumping in the shower to go see my friends at the bar. It's been over a month since I last visited. Work and life get in the way. But I am comforted daily knowing they will always be there for me.
Every Thursday night I have a place to come home to, a spot where I'm welcomed with open arms, hugged, embraced, and asked about my life and my kinky adventures. I have friends. I have family.
As I sat on the outer edge of the circle, as I listened to these amazing leaders in my community talking, throwing out ideas and adding to each others' thoughts, I realized not everyone has what I have.
And yet I hoped, spurred on by this and many other conversations, other people will someday have a Big Fat Poly Kinky Incestuous Family too.
Heading down stairs, I was more than excited. It felt like I was bouncing off the walls.
However, when I took a side elevator, I didn't realize I'd end up in a back hallway of the hotel. With some assistance from a hotel staffer, I found my way through the correct door and out into the fray.
The first person I glimpsed that I knew was TwistedView. He stood at the front of a small side room, RopenSpace t-shirt on, head set in ear. We greeted with a hug. Then I noticed his RopenSpace pin.
"Where can I get one of those?"
"The merch table."
He pointed not twenty-five feet behind me.
As I walked towards the table, Gray stepped into my path.
"You're suppose to go the other way."
"I was just grabbing a RopenSpace pin from the merch table."
"Go that way."
He turned me around.
"Um...Um... I'll get it later." I threw my decision over my shoulder to TwistedView as Gray ushered me and many others into the main ballroom.
There were multiple chairs setup around a small stage with aisles so you could easily walk up to the small platform. I took a front row seat and waited. Next to me sat some friends.
Before the festivities began, as more and more people took their seats, the topic of self suspension came up. All four of us had experience self suspending and began batting ideas off of one another. One person talked about an alternative to a normal chest harness, and then demonstrated the technique to us. Our RopenSpace started just a little early.
At the very front of the room stood a plain white board; it was our yet to be determined schedule. This day would be created by us, for us. This was to be my first open space experience.
As the chairs filled up, and more folks in black RopenSpace t-shirts arrived, I could feel the anticipation in the room swelling. It was like the slow climb up a roller coaster. The pulse of the nerves in your stomach. The want to get to the top. But also the fear, and, excitement of what would happen when you fell.
"Welcome everyone to Shibaricon's first RopenSpace!"
"Don't mind me; I'll do this til I die."
"Oh honey, you'll never fit in that."
"Our short sash marriage has included you judging me, and leaving me... and you didn't even give me any flowers."
"Everyone knows International Mr. BootBlack is treated like the red headed step child."
"I listened again, and I heard some slight snoring. So much for my sex appeal, bitch."
"Jim is the best sort of sash husband. We shared everything, including play partners."
"Jim was the first bootblack I ever met...Not really."
"I take the appropriate amount of time for each pair of boots. If it doesn't take me that long, I'm not into you."
"He's cute. I wonder what he looks like when he stands up."
"Jim, yeah, I didn't know he was funny."
Two amazing events occur in the same city at the same time every year: Shibaricon and International Mr. Leather. The two events draw an overlapping crowd, intertwining multiple cross sections of kink. For the crossovers among us, directions to get to IML, both with a vehicle and through public transit, were listed in my Shibaricon registration packet.
I knew, even before I stepped foot in Illinois, that I would try to make it to IML. My friend Jim was stepping down as International Mr. Bootblack, and I wanted to go support him.
Unfortunately his actual step down ceremony conflicted with Shibaricon obligations. However, Thursday night, before my Shibaricon officially started, there was the roast for the current IML and IMBB.
So I found myself, right after the Meet&Greet, in a friend's vehicle traveling to The Leather Archives and Museum to go see a roast.
Our trio arrived just in time. Technically the festivities had begun, but the guests of honor were not yet called to the stage. We quickly slipped in and sat in the back as the various roasters were introduced, followed by IML 2011 Eric Guttierez & IMBB 2011 Jim Deuder.
With their loins girded, the host brought forth the first speaker to the mic. It wasn't long before I was bent over, laughing uncontrollably.
Some of the best lines were sent from those not in attendance, as well as the current title holders' rebuttals.
When the laughing subsided, and the festivities ended, our little group made our way to the front. We greeted Jim, and were able to spend a little time chatting with him.
"So, if you don't mind me asking, what now?"
"What do you mean?"
"What now that your year is over? What will you do?"
"Go back to my life. I presented on leather and fetish before. I went to events before. Now I just don't have to wear the sash."
Though my first experience with bootblacking was at FetFest, Jim taught the first class I took on the subject. Jim sold me my first kit. Jim was the first person to black my boots.
If you'd asked me about bootblacking a year ago, I wouldn't have had an interest. I would've acknowledged my love for boots, but not understand the service and the skill. Now, with Jim's guidance and encouragement, as well as others, I feel like a different person, a fuller person. I am a bootblack.
Even with this being the end of his time as IMBB, Jim was still busy. He had a car waiting for him even as we spoke. He was off, and then we were off.
After a journey, with a detour to possible Mac & Cheese pizza (don't do it) and a drive-by of Wrigley Field, we found ourselves at a 24hr diner in the queer crossroads of Chicago. Over steak and eggs, french toast, and the best veggie burger I've ever seen, we chatted, relaxed, happy to be among friends.
We vented. We crushed. We hoped for what our weekends could be.
And then we made our way back to our temporary home, excited for the yet more fun to come.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
"Well either you're still exercising or you've seriously decreased your calories." - Slut, on our way to registration
"Where have you gone? You're disappearing... Well, not all of you is gone." - Gray, sliding his hand around my stomach, then ending up on my ass
Three different people, without prompting, told me I lost weight within my first few hours of Shibaricon. They just saw me, hugged me, and then casually mentioned this thing that it is so hard for me to believe.
When I look at myself in the mirror, occasionally I glimpse the beautiful person I wish to be. I see the smile in my eyes, the pinchable cheeks, and even, occasionally, the dimples. I see the curly hair and the easy grin.
But no matter how hard I try, because I live with this body every day, I don't see when I loose weight.
I feel it when I self suspend. My breathing is less labored. I hold positions longer. I've just started to work on transitions in air and more challenging poses. That I can feel; my body can feel it.
But when it comes to my weight...
The closest I came to seeing what my friends so sweetly pointed out was, in fact, as I got ready Thursday evening.
I packed two matching sundresses, one red and one blue. As I got prepared for the Thursday night Meet & Greet, I decided to wear my red one. I was in a good mood, having survived the eleven hour road trip, and now able to see my far away friends for an entire weekend.
All ready, showered, shaved, lotioned, and body sprayed, I looked at myself in the mirror. Cute, as per usual.
But that's when I noticed something a little different. Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was because I was happy bubbly. But it seemed... it seemed...
Okay, there is no subtle way to put this. My stomach wasn't as noticeable in my dress. I had come to accept that whenever I wore my sundresses, you would see every curve of my tummy. And I was okay with that. Best people see my shape from the onset, so then I'd know they were attracted to me, big girl and all.
But as I looked at myself in the mirror, for the briefest of moments I thought, Um, maybe they're right? As a person who had neglected my usual training schedule for the past month, I was more than a little shocked. But it was the briefest of moments, three blinks of the eye at most.
Pushing away the thought, I headed down stairs. And after snacking on grilled veggies and chatting, a friend and I walked over to greet Gray. His compliment, with accompanying hand slide and hug, was the first thing out of his mouth to me.
One person saying it, they're being nice. Two, thoughtful. Three...
Ok. I guess I've lost weight then.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
She was patient. I finally, really, heard her when classes were over. Few others were in the room.
I was tired. Dog tired. With each breath it felt like I could fall asleep or faint. I stayed upright through force of will, little pops of adrenalin, and the thought that I was helping a good friend.
When I finally made it back to my room, she now had my undivided attention. I couldn't run away, tired and ready to drop.
So I let myself drop.
I threw on my pajamas, slipped on my Zim hoodie, grabbed some tissues from the bathroom, and brought along my phone. Out on the patio, the swirl of the wind mixed with the din of cars and temperature control units. It was perfect.
I sat on the concrete floor. Unlocking my phone, I set my timer for ten minutes.
Before I was even outside... In fact, the second I grab those tissues, it began. By the time I decided on ten minutes, I already had a head start.
I let it out. I let. It. Out.
I cried. I wailed. I hyperventilated into screams. I hugged myself. My chest heaved. I cycled and cycled, never dropping low on my threshold, but merely finding moments to almost catch my breath. And then I started all over again.
As I wailed, as I wallowed, as I let the pain I'd been holding back all day come out of me, I found myself wondering if the noise were so loud that I did not hear my timer go off. Surely it had been ten minutes. Surely I had wailed that long. Surely this pain would end soon.
And yet still I wailed. Tears drenched my face. I almost feared some other hotel guest on their balcony would hear me. However, truly, I did not care. I sobbed, consoling myself in my pain.
I remembered what Doc said. This would not kill me. It is normal to feel pain. It is how we deal with it that dictates suffering. I let the little girl inside be oh so sad.
And then my alarm went off. It was nearly the longest ten minutes of my life.
And though my phone made it's cute little noise, which meant it was time for me to get up, I almost didn't want to. For a moment, I felt lost in the pain. For a moment, I still needed to sit. I still needed to be on that balcony.
But then I blew my nose. And I stood up. And I turned on some music.
I danced about. I took off my jacket. I smiled a bit.
I danced more. I liked it so much, I played another song. I picked up an apple and ate it while I bopped around the hotel room.
I found myself looking at my reflection in the sliding glass door, and eventually I stared at myself in the mirror. For a brief second, I thought I saw what others spoke about Thursday night. I thought I saw the weight they say I've lost.
As the second song ended, my apple finished, I smiled a cute grin at myself. My curly hair about. My clothes a mess.
I felt better.
Ten minutes later, there was Chicago style pizza, and then a nap before Cigars, Boots, and Chocolate.
Friday, May 25, 2012
In some ways this task is easy. In others it is quite difficult.
I know I want to finish Sticky. I know I want to publish it, sell butt loads of copies (physical and digital), and develop my main character into an entire series of books.
I know I want to live off of my writing. But, until I reach that goal, I want to make a certain money level in my current job.
I know I want to attend at least one new kink event a year, and make sure to stay close and connected with my current (and growing) kinky family.
But here is the rub. It is so much harder to talk about what I want from a life partner, from my romantic relationships.
I know I want to fall in love. I know I want to find someone to partner with and create a life together. In theory, I want marriage and at least one kid. I want a Daddy who will give me all this.
However, I am a slut. A big slut. A super-duper-huge-gleefully-naked-fuck-me-fist-me-forever slut. I am so very kinky. I love fists and cigars and boots and rope. I. Am. A. Slut.
I want my kinky fetish cake and to eat it too. I want to commit to someone, wholly and fully, and yet still have free leave to go play and fuck whomever I want. And I would freely extend this leave to my life partner.
Now ask yourself: do you know anyone like this? Cause, well, I don't. Can I really be owned if I have so much freedom? Is it even possible to have it all? The life, the kink, the fucking, and the love? Who could be strong enough to be by my side for all of that? Could I even be strong enough to be a partner to this person?
In a previous session, Doc asked me if I was trying to be someone I'm not. I told him about Green Eyes, and how I sometimes feel when watching others play.
He asked me why I thought I needed to be able to watch someone I care for with another? He insightfully pointed out all the things bothering me stemmed from my comparisons of myself to that other person. He encouraged me to have compassion for "the little girl inside me", the one who feels less than, not good enough.
If I can't do this now, when I am not partnered, when it is just friends, how can I hope to do it later? How can I hope to be that super strong poly cheerleader? How can I hope to be that uber-me? I am so far away from who I strive towards. Will I ever be her?
It feels more than a little odd, writing about this in the lobby of Shibaricon. How often does one have broad sweeping conversations with themself when they are suppose to be on vacation?
Even so, after I finish this blog, I'll pull out my journal, look at the bare bones of my lists, and add or do some tweeking.
I'll wonder about money, my job, my hopeful writing career. I'll think about my family and friends. I'll ponder if I want to stay a renter or someday own a home. One kid or more? Stay on the east coast or move some where else.
And, eventually, I'll crawl back upstairs, collapse into my bed, my mind still dancing around my life, in list form.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
There's just something
About the smell of his leathers,
The engulfing aroma,
When he is near,
That I can't let go.
There's just something
In his stare,
His eyes fixed
Through to my bones,
That I can't let go.
There's just something
In the way he squeezes
Digging into my flesh,
And the final
Bite of his nails
That I can't let go.
There's just something
In how he pulls my hair,
Craning my neck back,
Guiding me anywhere,
That I can't let go.
There's just something
In his worship of my ass,
Caressing my cheeks,
And the crack!
Of his spanks,
That I can't let go.
There's just something
About when he fingers my clit,
Teasing me mercilessly,
Til I beg him for release,
That I can't let go.
There's just something
About when I ride him,
My legs straddling his thighs,
Feeling like I'm
Even when I'm
That I can't let go.
There's just something
In his kisses,
His raw, passionate,
Never ending kisses,
That I can't let go.
There's just something about him,
Dark dominant him,
That I can't let go.
And there's just something about me,
How I feel when I'm with him,
That I desperately can't let him go.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
"Belt, paddle, or hand?"
I had to choose.
If I'd chosen his hand, I thought he would've felt the pain as well, but possibly resented me for it, as if I were trying to punish him for the mistake I made. If I'd chosen a paddle, I thought he would've eventually tired from the strokes, but only after I was beyond black and blue. At least with the belt, I thought he would tire some as he pummeled my ass.
He pulled his belt off of his dress pants, sat on the bed, and waited. I made sure to not look at him; I was already in enough trouble.
With my head bent down, I slowly walked over, finding my place standing at his side. A hand on my back guided me over his knee. My forearms rested on his thigh. I turned my head towards the front of the room. At least this way my tears wouldn't stain his pants.
"Do you know why you are being punished?"
"Because I forgot about my assignment. Because I did not do as you asked. Because I was a naughty girl."
"Tell me, why did you forget?"
"Work. My other errands. And family commitments... It all bunched together, and in my eagerness to help everyone, get everything done, my mind lapsed, forgetting my assignment."
"Are you sorry for what you did?"
"Oh god yes! All I want to do is go back in time and do as you told me. But I can't do that. So I have to be punished."
"Oh, my girl. Such a sweet girl."
He stroked my hair softly, gently. The hand that held his belt caressed my ass.
"You are a good girl, just forgetful."
Even I could hear the pout in my voice.
"Okay, I'll make you a deal. From now on, you will carry around a small little planner. When you leave me, you will write down notes and your weekly assignment. This week, and only this week, you will get a reprieve."
I half jumped out of his lap, a huge smile on my face, beaming at him.
"I said you would get a reprieve, not go unpunished."
A hand on my back quickly pushed me down again.
"Seven days you forgot your assignment, so I will give you seven strokes, a far cry from the lashing I had planned."
"Thank you, thank you so for my reprieve."
"Well, most everyone deserves a second chance. Are you ready?"
"Yes, always as you wish."
Crack! Lashing was quite the appropriate term as I felt the bite of the leather into my flesh. Through gritted teeth, I counted. "One."
Crack! It was as if a quick searing pain licked across my ass. "Two."
Crack! Like the flick of a snake's tongue made of fire. "Three."
Crack! As before, I had my head turned away from him. And tears did indeed graze down my face. "Four."
Crack! As they slowly ran, their final home was his carpeted floor, falling from my face like raindrops. "Five."
Crack! I imagined them seeping into the fibers of the carpet, spreading like tiny fingers through the multitude of fuzz. "Six."
Crack! And for a brief moment, I wondered what it was like to be a teardrop. "Seven."
His hands lifted me; I pivoted, sitting in his lap gingerly. He brushed away my tears with his thumb, pushed my hair back off my face, and kissed me sweetly.
"That's my good girl. Now, what are you going to remember for next week?"
"My assignment and a pocket planner."
He held me, rocking me slowly; I sunk into his arms, having endured my reprieve, this time.
"Yes, they made a sequel."
"It got two stars."
"Ah, there's more there."
"It got two point two stars?"
"It got two point..."
Honey 2 never won an Oscar. I don't think it was nominated for anything either.
I didn't care.
I knew going in that the acting would be, most likely, sub par, along with a flat predictable plot.
I didn't care.
I love dance movies. LOVE dance movies.
When I selected the feature on Netflix, I knew what to expect.
Down on their luck lead, often a female but not always, seeks a new life, but the ghosts of their past often haunt them. Or our lead makes a mistake in the first few minutes of the story (See: Exposition, for those learned among you) that follows them throughout the film.
The nemesis/bad guy/villain is also a dancer, often viewed as better. Our lead must prove that they are in fact the superior performer, which is mostly likely accomplished through a dance competition or audition or a big dance showcase. At the end of the competition/audition/showcase, our hero ends up on top, whether by winning or choosing their own path in their art.
Like I said, I love dance movies. And, of course, it has nothing to do with the plot.
It's the dancing. It's seeing these amazing performers move their bodies, conveying all their emotions in their leaps, dives, back bends, flips, spins, tricks, turns, and booty shakes.
I own Center Stage and Save The Last Dance.
Currently I'm watching this Australian teen drama called Dance Academy. As with all teen dramas, as you can imagine, the acting is... meh. The storylines are predictable, mostly. But there is ballet every episode. The solos. The pas de deux. I love the show. Love it, even though the dumb teenage shit drives me crazy. (Just get to the damn dancing!)
Long lines, effortless movements, contemporary pieces mixed with classical masterpieces. Yes, I am hooked.
So, when I ticked my way through Netflix selections, and finally fell on Honey 2, I knew what I would watch.
Back when I had cable, I loved America's Best Dance Crew on MTV (yes, it still exists). Many of the crews I loved from the show are in Honey 2: Beat Freaks, Fanny Pack, Quest Crew, Super Crew.
And though it is one hour and fifty minutes of my life I will not get back, I don't regret my decision to watch yet another dance movie. Because even though the plot was so very predictable. Even though the acting was so poor, I didn't care. The dancing, in any dance movie, is why people watch.
The rest is just an excuse to put it on a movie screen.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Nausea. Short temper. Easier to tears. Micro naps while I drive. And, frankly, I stop giving a fuck, at times acting like a bitch.
It's the busy season; I am very sleep deprived.
When I woke up Sunday morning, my room was muggy and hot. I had gotten to sleep around 5am. It was 12:26pm when my body could not stand the heat any longer.
Even though I got a relatively good amount of rest, this followed multiple days of 3-5hrs of sleep and a few 20hr days.
As I laid in bed, I contemplated all the things I had to do. There were, in fact, many errands I wanted to run. It was my first day off since Tuesday.
I didn't want to get out of bed. I didn't want to do anything. But I had a mound of dirty clothes that I absolutely had to wash, not to mention health care paperwork to fill out and Shibaricon packing to start.
Forcing myself out of bed, I grabbed my clothes hamper and lumbered down the stairs. I heard my roommates laughing and talking in the dining room, but choose to not say hi.
In the laundry room, I put down my hamper and opened the washer; clothes inside. I checked the dryer; clothes inside.
I huffed, and then headed to the dining room.
"Whose clothes are in the dryer," I asked, I hope not grumpily.
"Doesn't matter," said DeepEnd. "The dryer's broken."
I stomped my feet. I put my head against the wall.
"I have to go."
I could feel the tears coming as I went back to the laundry room, grabbed my hamper, and rushed back into my room. I stripped off my pajamas. I crawled back into my bed. I cried into my covers, squeezing Tessie tight, wanting the world to go away.
All I wanted was to wash my fucking clothes. All I wanted was to get something, anything done. This was suppose to be my day off.
I was angry. I was upset. I was sleep deprived.
I needed to do something. I wanted to pound a wall, rip something apart.
With a start, I got back out of bed, put on my workout clothes, and went downstairs. In the kitchen, I grabbed a banana and poured a glass of Silk.
"Hun, what are you averaging? An hour of sleep a night?" It seemed SkinnyBitch had an idea of my problem. I gave her a grunt of an answer.
Quickly finishing my food, I went into the Sun Room.
On my iPhone, I started up my Dance/Pop Mix. I turned on the treadmill and started walking. After a minute, I increased the speed. And again. And again. Each minute or two I kept making it go faster, until I was running. Really running. My feet flying up in the air, breathing heavy running.
It was the first time I'd really ran on the tread. My workout is normally a mix of fast walking and jogging.
As my feet pounded on the tread, I imagined my footfalls pounding away my problems, pounding out my anger, pounding away all the bullshit that was my life.
After a few minutes, I lowered the speed. Slowly I came down. Slowly I returned to walking.
And, somehow, it made it all better.
I joined my roommates at the dining room table, feeling more like myself.
I completed no errands Sunday, and, frankly, I think I am the better for it.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Still, there is one rather large downside to this particular arrangement: the location of the company's warehouse.
I function in multiple different capacities for this company: general production had, crew lead, occasional shop worker, and truck driver.
On Wednesday night, as I drove the truck back to the shop, along with two other female coworkers in the cab, we all noticed something odd as I pulled into the lot: a man in his car, dome light on, alone and shirtless.
Apparently I was the lucky one of our trio. Being that I was concentrating on driving, I did not notice the man was indeed completely naked and jerking off in his car...in front of our warehouse...with no one else in sight.
One of my coworkers yelped and started laughing. I can't remember what the other did. I kept driving the truck, past our warehouse entrance, further up the parking lot. I turned sideways, able to glimpse the man about one hundred feet away. Thankfully he quickly drove off.
Both of my coworkers found the incident funny. I would have too, except a dark thought came over me.
There have been times when I've been alone at the warehouse, returning the truck, no one else with me. There were times when not only did I return the gear, I also offloaded the cases by myself. This has not happened in quite some time, but it bothered me all the same.
This most recent happening is not the first incident to occur in the industrial complex we house. Twice I've seen men in their cars, enjoying the services of a prostitute.
Once I happened to drive past an SUV, my lights washing the vehicle, and a lady's headed pop up from the distraction. For some reason, I distinctly remember there being a handicapped tag on the rear view mirror.
During the other sighting, I drove by and saw a man standing by the back driver-side door. It seemed like his pants were down. As I kept going, it finally clicked what he was doing.
Amorous dealings aside, other not-so-amusing activities have also peppered the area. Drag racing down a long stretch of road leading up to and past our building. Multiple car fires, the exact number of which I'm not quite sure.
And then there was this morning.
Today I woke up at 7am to make it to the warehouse by 8:30am to pick up the truck for our gig. As I pulled into a 7-11 near the warehouse, hoping to grab breakfast before work, three cop cars sat in the parking lot, one specifically blocking a vehicle entrance. I popped a U-turned and instead got food from a small Mom&Pop eatery.
When I parked at the warehouse, I popped my trunk and put on my work shoes. As I sat, tying my laces, I heard a vehicle pass by, blaring Latin music. I didn't think much of this, except it kept playing rather loudly. The person had not turned their car off.
One of the company trucks blocked my view of the vehicle, so I walked past the truck and into the line of sight. I saw a man's back. He stood near a bush. I did not see his actual anatomy, but understood he was relieving himself about seventy-five feet away.
I turned and walked towards the office door. As I entered, a second vehicle passed by. This was turning out to be a busy morning.
Inside I grabbed my truck keys, the pertinent paperwork for today's event, and departed.
As I walked towards my truck, parked all the way at the end of the lot, I saw that there were now about three or four men standing around. I kept my head down, and gave myself about twenty feet of cushion between myself and the small crowd.
When I passed them, no one followed. No one said anything to me, in fact. I opened my truck, got inside, locked the door, and drove off.
I'm not sure what to make of the situation. I love this job, and do not plan on leaving anytime soon. And seeing as they comprise about 60% of my income, I make far too much money to not work for them.
Still, it would be nice to not show up to the warehouse wondering what new story I will have to impart about my job.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
As I undressed, I thought I heard something fall downstairs in the kitchen. I always leave my bedroom door open as I disrobe at night, allowing some air into my normally stagnant room.
I was...am spooked.
When I quietly walked to the bathroom, I took my cellphone along, just in case. I checked that there was no one inside the tub, hiding behind the shower curtain.
I stopped and listened, wondering if I'd hear something more.
I washed my hands. I flossed and brushed my teeth.
I held my breath before I opened the bathroom door. There was no one there to greet me.
I closed the door behind me and quickly scurried the ten feet to my room anyway.
As I closed the door, I realized a fact forgotten. My door knob doesn't lock. It's been stuck since we moved in. I just never think about it because I never lock it.
As I fiddled with it, trying to force it to lock, I thought I heard movement outside my door. With nothing else left to do, I slid my clothes hamper, full of my sweaty discarded work attire, in front of the door.
I leaped into my bed. I pulled over my netbook. I started typing.
So far I have heard no other sounds.
There are no less than three other people in this house currently. Plus a dog. A loud obnoxious dog. All of them are asleep, I think.
And still, even though I should be sleeping, I can't.
I know this fear is irrational. I know I must curl up and close my eyes as soon as possible. If I am lucky, I will get five hours of sleep before I must again wake and go to work. A sixteen hour day awaits me in the morning.
But I can't just lie down. I can't just close my eyes. I can't just relax.
Fear is fear.
Friday, May 18, 2012
"I want to teach you why I love rope."
He smiled, and gave a nod of assent.
"Take off your shirt."
He stood, flinging his t-shirt aside, revealing the chiseled body that still sent my heart a flutter.
I picked up a red 30' coil. With a flick of my wrist, I watched as the hemp released, rolling through the air.
Biting my lip, I dared look up at him. He was staring at me, right in my eyes. Somehow I knew he would.
Slowly I walked towards him.
"There are many reasons why I like rope."
Lazily I dragged the hemp across his shoulder as I moved to stand behind him.
"There's the feel on my skin. The fragrance of natural fiber. The bite of the rope as it cinches in my flesh."
Standing behind him, I grabbed the rope and pulled his hips back towards my crotch, his ass bumping against me.
"There is the practical aspect."
I kissed him across the top of his back. On my tippy toes, I nipped his ear, and whispered.
"But then there is the intangible."
Gently, I moved his arms into the place. I bound his wrists together. I slowly pulled the rope across his chest, my cheek against his flesh as I reached around him. I cinched the rope tight on his torso.
"There is a moment when I start to fall."
Again I wound around him and cinched.
"My breathing changes."
Again my ropes encircled him.
"I feel at once completely here and yet far away."
And once more I reached my rope around him, finishing by tying off the chest harness at his back.
"And though I am bound, I feel free."
His eyes were closed. His breathing had slowed.
I walked around him, brought my lips to his, and we softly kissed.
My thigh lightly grazed his pants. I knew he now understood why I loved rope.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
It is a cliche to say that parents drive their adult children crazy. It just so happens, in my case, to be true.
I met up with my mother at 2:30pm Sunday. It was Mother's Day, therefore a nice meal and a movie were required. After picking up my Mom's friend, a woman I call my aunt, we headed off to a seafood restaurant they both love.
As is predictable for a weekend holiday, the place was packed. We arrived around 4pm, but didn't get seated til after 5. They wanted to wait; I just wanted to eat.
My aunt passed the time reading her Bible. My mother got into a conversation with a woman. I stood around, pacing slightly, trying to get my mind off my stomach. Eventually I pulled out a book, which helped a little.
As we waited for the buzzer to go off, I tried to be the good daughter. The whole day, of course, was about me playing that role.
When we finally were seated, our waiter cracked a joke "informing us" the restaurant was out of crab cakes, their claim to fame. Bad call later, we ordered and waited a little more. Our salads and bread came out, as well a Margarita I ordered, and suddenly everything was better.
Even so, as we finished up our appetizers, my mother complained to myself and my aunt, wanting her entree immediately. I said nothing as I noticed how hard the wait staff was working, how they quickly got butts into seats, served their customers, but also helped one another. The restaurant was dancing over fire but not getting burned. I was impressed; my mother was impatient.
Our conversation veered to politics. My aunt and I often speak on the subject. The presidential race came up, as did the North Carolina Constitutional Amendment.
I then found myself going off on a tirade, saying how upset I was. I talked about how gay marriage has nothing to do with religion. How marriage, when it comes to the state and most of history, is a legal contract. How gay rights is about civil rights, trying to protect partners from vengeful families, keeping children with the parents they know and love, making it so no one can discredit another's life.
My aunt talked about how her mind changed on gay marriage.
My mother was noticeably silent.
As the waiter cleared our appetizer plates, my mother asked for her gift. It was the usual, a gift card to her favorite makeup store. She had insisted, as per usual, that I also buy her a greeting card. My mother loves them; I hate them. To me they are a waste of paper.
As I handed over her card, I remembered how I hated picking it out. I read sentiment after sentiment and thought how much I didn't feel the bullshit written. I found one that didn't nauseate me and bought it.
When our meals came, I inhaled my food. I had ordered a smaller portion than both my mother and my aunt, not wanting to have leftovers. I finished all my food before them.
As I sat and waited, I knew I had no desire to see the movie they'd chosen, Think Like A Man, a Steve Harvey (read: black) film.
On a cultural level, I am pleased that someone besides Tyler Perry has put out a film for the black audience. Still, though, I knew it would be two hours of pandering to black cultural norms, not to mention I've heard Steve Harvey's thoughts on women and relationships. We differ, greatly.
As the check came, I paid. My mother and aunt gave me some cash to go towards the not small bill. As we left out, it was decided we would not, in fact, see the movie. My aunt had to be to work at 11pm and it was already 6:30pm. By the time we drove her home, it was after 7.
As we parted, having already set another date for the three of us getting together, a promise was made. We are to see the movie then. Great...
I drove my mother home. We hugged, as we are both huggers, and parted.
The whole time I was with my mother, all I wanted to do was scream. But I didn't.
I really wanted to talk to her about therapy, about the progress I've made, and how I think she could benefit from counseling. But I didn't.
I didn't want to tell her she taught me love is being someone's doormat. I didn't want to say that I never want to be like her, loving a man who could not give the life I wanted or deserved. I didn't want to say how angry I am at the both of them, how part of my progress is acknowledging my anger at their fuck ups, how I now recognize the massive effects their fuck ups have had on me.
But I didn't say any of that because it was Mother's Day.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
"I haven't decided if I'm going to fuck you tonight."
It was the first time I'd seen him since right after my spring break. The first time I'd seen him since he told me he had a girlfriend. The first time we'd gotten together in a month.
He'd canceled on me twice since, so I didn't actually think I was going to see the Gent last night, but then he showed up.
"How are you going to feel if we fuck?"
"I'll be fine. Wait, am I lying to myself? My emotions are my emotions. It is not your job to take care of me."
"You're my friend, so of course I want to take care of you. Of course I care about your emotions."
I wanted to fuck him. I really wanted to fuck him. I didn't want to think about how I'd feel after.
Since I decided to be completely open and honest with him, no longer censoring my thoughts, stopping myself from asking questions or relaying my opinions, words that I never thought I'd say left my lips Tuesday night over french fries among the din of the bar/pool hall.
"You know you are going to break up with her. She wants to wait til marriage for sex, and you are such a sexual person.
"I mean, it's obvious, it is so fucking obvious that you should be with me.
"So when you break up with her, because you are going to break up with her, I'll be here, and I'll say, 'Alright, let's do this.'
"And I'm not saying that this is it or I've found the one or some bullshit like that. But our chemistry is amazing. And you're a good friend. And you make me laugh. So I think we should give this a try."
When we finally did touch, it was outside while we stood beneath an overhang away from the light rain. He asked me my odds on us fucking that night.
"Not really. It's just favorable."
He had been playing a song over and over again for the past week. I said I had as well.
"Wouldn't it be weird if it were the same song?"
"It's not the same song."
But he was right; it would've been weird.
His endless repeat reminded me of European pop rock, trance-like, with unintelligible lyrics, though I thought the vocalist was singing about waiting.
As I listened, his phone resting on his right arm, we both leaned over the railing. My left arm snuck up against his. It didn't matter that three layers of clothing stood between our skin. It felt intense to be near him.
I closed my eyes and took in the music. I swiveled my hips, finding myself wanting to dance.
My endless repeat was J. Cole feat. Missy Elliott - Nobody's Perfect. Truth be told, J. Cole has nothing to do with why I love the song. The back beat and Missy Elliott's chorus make me want to hear the single over and over again.
Nobody's perfect, Nobody's perfect, A, A
But you're perfect for me
Nobody's perfect, Nobody's perfect, A, A
But you're perfect for me
We rumbling, we riding
He like to go inside and
I love to go all night and
We rock the boat Poseidon
I love to call your name, name, name
And baby I love to call your name, name, name, yeah...
This wasn't a marathon session, unfortunately; we only hung out for a few hours at the bar. He walked me to my car and said he was going home, alone. No reason why, other than the time. It was around 10:30pm.
"If we start fucking, I won't want to stop."
"I've trained myself to survive on an hour's sleep."
I looped a finger through his belt.
"Not in public."
"Right, your job."
"You could use your job as an excuse for just about anything."
We finally hugged. He let me linger in his arms as I took in his scent, a scent I caught in passing throughout our evening. I had almost forgotten how good he smells.
As we parted, and he strolled away, for a moment he paused, spinning his keys on his finger, a large grin on his face. This is how I remember him.
With Shibaricon in eight days, his now frequent travel for his job, and me neck deep in busy season, I don't know when I'll see the Gent again. But I do so look forward to our next encounter.
I'm guessing when I bring this up to Doc, he'll praise me for sticking up for myself, not sitting idly by and letting life shit on me.
I did something different. What comes of it, though, is yet to be seen.
Photo courtesy of A Couple of Wankers
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Kink & Fetish
A Pixie Calls Me Daddy
Another Try at Topping
Bent Over and Exposed
Female Orgasm: Where Do You Get Off?
Letting the Sadist Out to Play
pain & sadism: how they intertwine
Tied Up and Tossed in a Corner
Waiting My Turn
Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor
Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships
Buying a Toy: What You Need to Know
Bring on the wanks
I want your sex
My Mother, The Whore
Poly Fallacies #4
Q&A # 3: Childhood BDSM Fantasies
Sticks and Stones...
Small World of Swinging
White and Nerdy
Around and 'round
Hot sunny sex on a rainy day
It Ain't Sex
I Want to be Watched
I made him watch me masturbate
Lost in Submission
Pussy Eating- The Fun Way
Rack and Ruin part II
The Third Date
Waiting for It
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
With a free evening I had two choices: Happy Hour or rigging time.
With Shibaricon so close (holy shit!), I opted to spend some time under my point at home.
Dressed in my current practice uniform, tight black cotton stretch capris and a black tank top, I warmed up, opened my box of hemp, and began.
Since I randomly had this evening free, I wanted to try something random. Taking a fifteen foot piece, I tied a two column tie around my calves, just below my knees.
Hilarity ensued when I realized two snafus. 1- I was sitting on the ground, and 2- I had forgotten to rig my Shibari ring first.
Rolling up onto my knees, I slowly back pedaled to reach my ring. Gingerly standing up, I hobbled to my point and rigged it. I then wound both a simple hip and simple chest harness around my body.
Bending down, I larks-headed all my lifting lines to myself before any went through my ring. After securing both my chest and hip points, I sat back and worked on lifting my legs.
Less than a minute into my suspension, I realized a major flaw. The hip harness I chose was not appropriate. It failed to stay in place and did not give me adequate support for the maneuver I wanted to do.
Lowering myself, I decided to keep the calves and chest pieces in tact, but I needed to rework my hips. I opted for a gunslinger harness, which again gave me giggles. Because I kept my calves cinched together, I had to shove my ropes through my thighs multiple times. This practice session seemed to be full of funny moments.
Hip harness bound, I again lifted myself into the air. With better support and coverage, I sunk into the feel of my ropes.
And then came the tricky part. I wanted to go inverted. I wanted to see if I could support myself with just my hips and calves.
What I did not anticipate was my chest line being too short, my calves not being used to the asked for endurance, and my lack of eagerness to see my maneuver through to the end.
Instead of floating upside down, I opted to just come down.
With ropes still wrapped around me, I unhooked my carabiners from my ring and sat on the floor. I undid the lifting lines and flung the hemp, ropekake and all.
But I wasn't finished.
I loved the feel of my tight chest and hip harnesses, as well as the rope around my calves. I loved the hemp around my calves so much that I did not remove the binding's lifting line. Instead I wound the rope around my ankles, wondering if I could hogtie myself.
Standing on my knees, I pulled the line, separated the two ends of the strand, and weaved the pieces over my shoulders and through my hip harness. Bringing the rope back up, I ran the strands across the back of my neck and allowed myself to settle on my stomach.
And then I tied the rope around the front of my neck.
Just a simple over hand tie, not a secure knot at all.
I loved the feel of the rope across and around my neck. Loved the pressure of the ropes all over my body. Loved leaning into my neck rope, feeling the hemp bite against my skin.
I laid there on the floor of my basement, our dungeon, perfectly pleased, happy in my bindings, at first wanting no more. I allowed myself to stay in this position for a time, but then I wanted more.
Hooking my index finger, with one simple pull I released my neck rope. Letting my legs down some, I then wound the rope through my hip harness again, this time from the side, cinching my ankles again and tying off to my chest.
I then reached and found two fifteen foot coils. Making a cuff on my left wrist with my right hand, I wound the rope around the back of my neck, through my hip harness, and then back up, tying to the cuff.
With my teeth, and occasionally with my left hand behind my head, I tied a cuff on my right wrist, again wound the rope through my hip harness, and again tied it off at my wrist.
Lying on the floor, I tested the limits of my bindings. My left arm was basically in a sloppy chicken wing. My right only had half it's extension. My knees had maybe a few inches of play. I was wrapped up in my ropes.
I again sunk into the feeling of my ties, resting, perfectly bound by my hemp, messy and ill-formed and all.
This was one of the moments when I remembered why I love rope, why I want to learn more, why I always want more.
Eventually I slipped my wrist cuffs off and untied myself. Eventually I repacked my hemp and made my way upstairs, where dinner and Iron Man 2 awaited. Eventually.
But for a few precious, potent, powerful minutes, I laid on the floor of my basement, alone, self-tied, perfectly bound in my hemp.
Monday, May 14, 2012
- You were being difficult.
* No I wasn't.
- Yes, you were.
* I was being specific, detailed, precise.
* Who has who bound?
- Who is inside of whom?
* Just because I'm... riding... you... doesn't... mean... fuck... Doesn't mean... Doesn't mean... I couldn't do... whatever I want... to you... right... now...
- Yes, but eventually you know I'll be out of your ropes, and then you'll have some. Explaining. To. Do.
* Point... taken... Oh, and in case you were curious, the binding around your wrist is... called... is... called...
- It's. Called. What?
- No. No. Try. Again.
* A two... A two... A two column tie...
- A two column tie?
* Yes... With half hitches... around the bed post.
- Are my ankles tied the same way?
* Yes. I keep things...sim...ple...
- Really? Simple?
* Kiss kiss.
- You wish.
* No. I. Want. Do you like. My hands. Around. Your neck? Do you like it. When I'm. Riding. You? Do you like it. When I'm. Fucking. You? What? Can't. Speak? Didn't. Think. So.
* What? I thought you liked teeth. Besides, how else. Will I properly. Teach. You. To worship. My breasts?
* Biting to begin not. So. Fun. Is it? You have to caress... pinch... lightly... then harder. And harder. Til you get...
* A reaction. And then you release... caress... lick... suck...
* Nip... Bite... Harder...
* Til you get a greater response. And then your tongue makes it all better. Do you like it when my tongue makes it all better? Do you like it?
- Yes! Yes, I like it.
* Good. And last. Lesson. For. The. Day... shit...
- Last. Lesson.
* Make. Things. Even.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
It began like any other night.
I came home late, cause that's the way my job was. I dragged my tired body into the house, trying to be quiet. I filled the dishwasher, checked the locks on the doors, and walked up to my bedroom.
I stripped off my work clothes, discarding them on the floor, happy I wouldn't have to wear them for a few days. I left my door open to let the cool hallway air in.
Naked, I grabbed my sleep clothes from the bed. I slipped on my comfy pants, tank top, and hoody.
And then I turned around.
I didn't know how long he'd been standing there. Had he watched it all, my disrobing as well as me putting on my pj's.
Why had he said nothing?
And then I saw the look in his eyes.
In three breathtaking steps, he bounded forward, his hands upon me. My pants slid just as easily off as they had on. Grabbing the opening of my jacket, which I hadn't zipped up, he peeled it off like the rind of an orange on a hot summer day. My tank top almost flew in the air.
At once I was on my back on my bed. His hands held down my arms. His lips were on my neck, his teeth sinking in.
We had never, ever, done this before. Had he even seen me naked before?
He'd begun sucking on my neck, the best way to make me melt.
His left hand, his dominant hand, had released my arm and now played in my cunt. I bridged my hips, riding his hand hard.
I felt it building, felt my body tensing, until finally, wonderfully, my cunt clamped around his fingers. He'd given me a hard cum, tingly warmth racing throughout my body.
I sunk into my bed, completely at ease.
As soon as I came, his lips released from my neck and his fingers slipped out of my cunt. I spied him licking his digits as he walked towards my door.
"Wait!" I called after. "Why?"
"You looked like you needed to... relax."
He closed the door behind him. I rolled over, smiled, and fell right to sleep.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
"I like spending time with you guys, whether we are doing something or not."
There was snow on the ground the last time I saw my two friends who I will affectionately call The Lesbians. Back then we sat in a restaurant eating burgers, and they informed me they were "a little bit" pregnant. It was within the first ten weeks, so I kept my fingers crossed and thought good thoughts for them.
Now, many months later, they are a lot pregnant.
I love The Lesbians. I've known them since high school, since before they started dating, since before their first kiss. One of The Lesbians was in a friendship triad with myself and our best friend. That was an amazing time in my life, feeling like I belonged with a quirky yet awesome group of people (sounding familiar).
However, as is so often in life, our lives some where along the way diverged. I went to college an hour's drive away. They did not. I still came back to visit on weekends, but so much life happens Monday through Friday.
As I drifted apart from my hometown folk, I still made it a point to always come back. Christmas. Fourth of July. Thanksgiving. Easter. Memorial Day. And random weekends. I wanted to remain their friend. I wanted to still have a part of my life less complicated than the rest.
Today I was able to see The Lesbians. They are married, own a home and a dog, and are about to have a child. They thought they were having a boy, but then learned that no it is a girl. For want of a better name, as they are still in the deciding phase, they have been calling her Katniss. I personally love it, but they squashed my hopes on the latest teen hero being emblazoned on their birth certificate.
I sat with both, eating and chatting. Then there were errands to run: grocery shopping and a run by the in-laws home. We played cards, drank beer, ate barbecue with more friends that came over, and caught up on each others' lives.
I talked about work, my roommates, and my kinky friends. I talked about stupid boys and how everything is going well with my new therapist. We talked and talked and talked.
And then it was time for me to go. Another activity awaited, seeing The Avengers with a work friend. As I walked the hug circle around the table on their back deck, I embraced all my friends, and my niece (she is so big!).
I grabbed my bag and headed out, not looking back. I didn't want to be tempted to bail on my work friend, and I was looking forward to seeing the movie.
But I made it a point to mark in my calendar another day to come visit, another day to say hi to the belly, another day to catch up with my vanilla friends, enjoying time on their back deck, just sitting.
Friday, May 11, 2012
I sat with a group of kinky folks in a large room in the basement of a mansion. The floor was polished hardwood; the room temperate but completely empty, save for us. The walls were tall, white, about two stories high, but completely bare.
We sat on the floor in a semicircle, all facing our friend. He stood, barefoot, smiling, ready to teach his class. I was giggly was anticipation.
We broke for lunch, everyone congregating at a nearby diner. And by nearby, I mean down a long muddy road, across a two lane highway, and inside of a small strip mall. The mansion sat in the middle of a cornfield in the middle of almost nowhere. The nearest neighbor was about a quarter mile away.
I sat with my friend, eating and chatting, but we decided to leave the group early. Riding back in my car, we crept into the mansion, wanting to explore the many rooms. Instead of descending the wide winding staircase down into the basement, we went up the smaller carpeted staircase.
On the floor above, there were many bedrooms. We chose one to the far right, at the very end of the hallway. As he walked in front of me, I nipped at his neck, grazed my nails against his lower back, nuzzled my nose and ran my teeth along the top of his back, and of course felt his crotch.
He just kept smiling and calmly walking, but then finally opened the door and pulled me into the room.
The bedroom had a small amount of furniture: a dresser, a few chairs, and a high four post queen sized bed. On top was a fluffy white comforter. He threw me onto the bed, my body sinking into the feathery fabric. Slowly lifting one leg, and then the other, he loomed above me on his hands and knees.
Dipping his head down, he kissed me like a thirsty cat lapping up its first sips of milk. My hands went for his hair, my legs for his hips, locking my ankles to hold onto him tight.
He riped open my shirt. Being as I was in class, I had again wore my school girl outfit. Buttons flew; I made a mental note to collect them later.
He began massaging my body up and down, licking and sucking as he wished. I moaned and writhed, enjoying the feel of him against me again. It had been too long.
He sat back and my body followed, hugging him tight.
"Do you feel hotter as you get thicker?"
"I feel hotter as you get thicker."
My hand slid down the front of his pants. His rock hard erection stuck out at the top of his waist band. His hand glided to my crotch and began massaging my clit.
"You know I'd love to stay."
"You know I want to stay."
"And I'm already late getting back."
"But you brought me here to teach your friends."
"However, in my stead..."
Wearing a tight black t-shirt, tight black jeans, and a pair of leather boots, Jason Statham stepped into my line of vision, looming behind my friend.
Grabbing my neck, my friend pulled me forward, kissed me hard, and then shoved me back down on the bed. My friend then slid off, and Jason Statham climbed on the bed, and on top of me.
"Have fun," my friend said, smiling widely as he left.
As my friend closed the door, Jason immediately went for my wrists, pinning me down. His head lowered to just above mine, and he gave me this look of evil glee.
"I've heard things about you."
I gently slid my leg against his crotch, lightly massaging him through his jeans.
"I see what I've heard about you is true."
Releasing one of my wrists, he grabbed my hips and pulled me up, my ankles again locking behind a man's back.
"We're gonna have some fun."
"Oh god, I hope so..."
Thursday, May 10, 2012
"Yes, but first you have to believe you deserve a seat at the table."
This past session with Doc was full of aha moments.
Doc talked about how, even if I found myself in a relationship, unless I love myself I won't be able to accept or believe the love my partner would give to me. I can't take in love unless I first believe and love myself. If I tried (and I have), I'd most likely see (and have seen) the affections of another as a lie, or me tricking them, or a result of me emotionally bribing them.
The more I look at my life, I more I see what I don't want to happen happening. And then, of course, Doc made the point that the more we don't want to be something, the more we become it.
One of my notes from our session was passing the doormat.
After our first session, Doc gave me a packet of papers to fill out with background information. It asked general questions about my life. The one section that sticks with me, even now, were adjectives for my parents. He told me not to think about the questions, just whatever came to mind as soon as I read them. For both my parents I put distant. For my Dad, I put strained. For my Mom, I put doormat.
I see myself inadvertently emulating my mother's behavior. She spent time with my Dad twice a week, always on the same days. She accepted that all she could get were these small moments with him. She loved him, and I believe still does. She still has a picture of him on her end table, even though she broke up with him almost ten years ago.
My mother accepted less and called it love. What the fuck do I think I've been doing?
"How do you feel right now?"
"Very raw, and emotionally open."
"I don't let others see my pain."
It is really shitty to say this, but I don't know if I ever felt love and affection from my father, nor do I know if I was appreciated from either of parents as a child unless it boiled down to my intelligence.
When I was young, I was complimented on my grades, even paid money as a reward each time my report card came around. And yes, that made me feel awesome. I most definitely excelled in school and drunk in the praise.
But, and Doc pointed this out, I don't know if I was ever complimented, praised, loved for just being me. Not the smart little girl, but just their little girl.
So again the subject of me crying in front of people came up, though in a round about way. I cried in front of Doc because we were talking about me growing up, how I felt about my parents. And I started to clover, talking logically about my life, and Doc made me go back. He made me stay there, talking about my feelings, and I cried, and thus the quote above.
I don't like to talk about how much pain I am basically always in. I have learned to adapt and survive, putting on a smile and going on. But, inside, I could rip apart the world. I could tear and rage forever.
My parents taught me I was not good enough: not good enough to have a full time father, not good enough to live with my father (and thus loose out on an entire half of my family), not good enough of a daughter. Not fucking good enough, no matter how hard I tried.
"My mother always called me her smart girl, but it wasn't until I was in my mid-teens until she called me beautiful. So, for the longest time, I thought I was ugly."
Yeah, that one still pisses me off.
Doc talked about how everyone is broken, and parents end up projecting their faults on their children. Me, being logical, asked when it stopped. If everyone is just passing the shit along, from parent to child ad infinitum, does it ever stop?
"It stops with you."
I know I deserve love. I know I deserve more than I am asking from my life, from the people in my life. I know that instead of quietly asking, I need to start loudly demanding. And I also know that unless I do, I will forever be walked on, never finding or accepting the love I so desperately desire should it come my way. I will be another doormat.
"You stood up for yourself. That's progress."
"But I was bitchy. And I didn't properly express my emotions. And..."
"My god, you're not cured?"
During my first session with Doc, he made note that our work is not perfect. At best, therapy is a series of close approximations.
The problem though is that I have this mindset where I believe things, no people, can be fixed. More specifically, I keep thinking I can be fixed; please fix me. Thankfully Doc is kind (for now) and keeps reminding me how wrong I am.
"To a certain extent, you will be like this for the rest of your life. And that's okay. It's not your fault. There is no other way you would've ended up. When you're old, say 85, you'll probably still be like this, but hopefully you'll have learned, you'll have grown, because when you stop growing emotionally, you're dead."
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
I was visiting a friend, either in the mid-west or west coast. It may have been San Francisco. It may have been Chicago. The area was industrial, in the middle of a sprawling city.
Three of us stood in a small side ballroom of a hotel/conference center.
It was me, a guy friend, and a vampire.
My friend wore leather boots, leather chaps, black cloth underwear, a black t-shirt, and a leather vest.
The vampire looked like Spike from Buffy, but much younger, as if he were about 23. Also he had dark brown almost-black hair, and his skinned was a golden brown, tanned, which I thought was odd for a vampire. He donned a long leather trench coat, and lingered in the corner of the ballroom, smiling.
There were road cases against the air-wall that separated our small room from the rather large ballroom next door, in which a fancy dinner was taking place.
I began talking to my friend about my life at home.
"Well, there is this boy..."
"Take your clothes off."
I wore my black boots, a gray cotton stretch skirt, and a white collared shirt. When I heard his request, I immediately bent over, presenting my ass, as I slipped my underwear down my legs.
When I stood up and turned back around, my friend was already naked, save for his boots.
I then began unbuttoning my shirt, but took his order to mean only remove my underthings. I slipped my bra out from my sleeve. I kept my skirt, shirt, and boots on.
As I continued to chat, I smoothly popped up on a roadcase. After years of practice, waiting for gigs to finish, the move had become second nature, giving the small leap a cat-like look and feel.
As soon as my feet left the ground, my friend's hands went for my hips, lifting my cunt to his lips. His tongue on my clit, I gasped, my right hand finding and gripping his hair. With my legs on his shoulders, I locked my ankles behind his back, the feel of soft leather-on-leather delicious against my skin.
My left hand found the air-wall, but thought better of it. I placed it instead on the road case. Using the leverage to lift my hips more, I began fucking my friend's face.
Knowing there were people just behind the air-wall made the entire scene that much hotter. I bit my lower lip, trying not to scream, as an orgasm raced through me.
Cuming hard, I laid back on the road case, the fabric of my shirt slipping away to reveal my breasts. My friend's hands immediately went for my chest, pinching the nipples, gripping my flesh. His face followed, lips teasing, tongue tracing, mouth sucking, enjoying my cleavage happily.
I could feel his quite hard cock so near my cunt. He kept it at bay, my hips trying so hard to encourage him into me. When I finally relented my efforts, no hands were required for him to drive his cock deep into my cunt.
I couldn't help but yell "Fuck!" as he entered me.
At first he fucked me slowly, gently. My hands gripped the edge of the road case for purchase. His thrusts grew harder, deeper, more urgent. The case began to tip and tap against the air-wall. I bit my lip, but found it near impossible to not scream.
I came again, my nails driving into the wood of the road case.
His hands, his nails dug into my breasts as he came, driving deep into me.
During our amorous interlude, the vampire had just stood in the corner, watching.
Once, a group of people opened a door right next to him to peek in on the fun. He, smiling politely, bared his teeth and asked them to close the door. They did so quickly.
My friends clothes back on, my underwear tucked away for his safe keeping, we three re-congregated. The vampire smiled still. I thanked him for his assistance.
He looked on me with a grin that incited both fear and arousal. It was as if I could tell he was smelling the blood rushing through me, as if I could feel his lips on my pussy, ready to drink my blood mixed with my cunt juices.
As we left the building, exiting through a back door, I wondered what other amorous activities I would be getting into that night.
Monday, May 7, 2012
There was this boy. His name was Alan.
I really liked him. He was smart and cute and a genuinely sweet person. We went to the same school and often were paired near each other because our last names both began with the same letter.
I liked Alan a lot, but, being nervous, I didn't know how to show it. So instead I was competitive with him, always trying to out quiz, out test, top him in whatever way I could (academically).
Then, one day, we got our quizzes or tests back, each person called to the front to pick up their piece of paper. As I walked back to my seat, my seat right behind Alan, I saw he had scored a 92 whereas I had scored a 93.
"Ha! Beat you!"
I quickly shoved the piece of paper in front of his face and pulled it back. I smiled, sitting behind him.
That day, during break, a teacher approached me. She asked me to never speak to Alan in that way again. She was, indeed, speaking to me on his behalf. He'd spoken with her about how much that moment, and other moments I can't (or rather don't want to) recall upset him.
We barely, if ever, spoke after that.
I was devastated. Not only did this boy, who I really liked, not want to speak to me, I had actually hurt him.
I was eleven.
Now, the incident:
I have a friend; we'll call them Bic.
I like Bic, a lot. We've hung out quite a bit, but not lately because of our jobs. Both of us have been incredibly busy, to the point that Bic had to cancel on me twice, and I have to schedule a week in advance. So, I've been peeved.
Bic randomly texted me this past Friday, and we chatted briefly over text before I asked if I could see them prior to my leaving to attend to Dirty Things. Once again, no good. Bic had plans with a another friend that evening.
And then this happened:
Me: I've decided to stop worrying about/editing what I say to you.
Bic: Its a shame you felt like you ever had to.
- Um yeah... "It's a shame" (fixed your typo) is a condescending phrase. Please reframe [sic] from using it in reference to me.
* Wow. Sounds good. Enjoy your night.
- I like you, and I don't want to be hurt by you, so please be nice.
* Are you kidding me? Me be nice? I'm being condescending? Fixing my typos? We are clearly on different pages at the moment.
- I know you didn't mean to be, but it felt like you were talking down to me. Since I don't want to be hurt by you, and I know you don't want to hurt me, I thought I should speak up. You've used that phrase before and it stung then, too, but I didn't say anything. (And my fixing your typo was a bit bitchy; I'll own that.)
About seven hours later...
- Sorry I was bitchy earlier. I was... frustrated, and took it out on you. For that I apologize.
So... yeah... That happened.
When I like someone, and I don't get what I want, be it small or large, occasionally I get miffed, and my inner 12 yr old boy comes out.
I lash out, feeling completely justified at the moment, but then incredibly sorrowful later, after I've realized what I've done. I apologize, and we move on...hopefully, assuming I don't lash out so badly whomever is in my cross hairs has not been so offended or hurt that they don't want to talk to me again.
I still feel bad about what I did to Alan, and it's been eighteen years.
The last time I remember this happening, before Friday, was when I was a freshman in college, going out with friends on a Saturday night to play pool. My best friend invited a few guys along, one of which was absolutely gorgeous. Like disarmingly beautiful. Quiet, but engaging.
As I drove him home, with two others chatting in my back seat, he inquired about my music. I was playing Maroon 5 (judge me as you will), and he said it sounded nice.
I don't remember why, but I lashed out, saying something to the effect of, "Do you actually like this? Cause I don't want to talk about it if you're not actually interested."
Yup. I said that. Did it then, and did it again.
Not five minutes after I opened my mouth, I knew I had fucked up. This awesome guy had shown an interest in me, and I blew it.
With Bic, we are friends. I'm open to us being more than that, but life is getting in the way, stoking the fires of my inner 12 yr old.
I'm wondering when, or if, I'll ever grow out of this. Maybe, someday, I'll learn to not snap because I happen to be in a crappy mood and don't get what I want from a person I like.
And, hopefully, it's sometime soon, before I, you know... lash out at anyone else I like.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
"Yeah, you just have to kick it."
I saw the scale on the floor of the warehouse, and thought, Why not?
I should have just kept walking.
Then again, maybe I'm better off knowing for sure.
It was as I expected; not good.
Two weeks of vacation. The busy season kicking in. Stressing about work. Stressing about money. And sleep as an absentee friend.
Of course I gained weight. I had decreased my workouts from 5-6 times a week to once or twice. I haven't been able to dine at home more than one meal a day since before April.
Imparted with this knowledge, the next day I ventured back onto the treadmill. I warmed up for a quarter mile, then ran my normal thirty minute routine. I had to skip a bit of the jogging, but I finished.
Still, I felt deflated. I figured this was a perfect time to wallow. I tried to cry and stay sad for my twenty minutes.
But I ended up cheating. I texted friends. I felt shitty when they didn't respond, which in turn helped me wallow more.
And then I danced, smiling and laughing and tossing my hair about. I sat with DeepEnd and ate my lunch, a salad. And afterwards I rigged.
I used my new hemp, playing around, trying different body positions and points on my
frame to hang from.
And then, in a moment of happiness, it hit me: I was still stronger and more fit than when I started this journey so many months ago. I did not tire out. My legs, though aching from effort, endured all I asked of them. Yes, I'd gained a little back, but I had not lost the stamina I'd worked hard to build up.
Every busy season is the same. I want to do X. I get huge amount of work Z. In the end, I land somewhere in the middle, Y.
So I've got to get myself into training mode again. Shibaricon is less than three weeks away (HOLY SHIT!) and I want to be ready, more than ready, for a weekend of awesome rope-y fun.
Because, despite what some might think, big girls can, and love, to fly too.
The first Friday of the month meant Dirty Things.
I prepped in SkinnyBitch's room and chatted with her, asking for her opinions as I dressed, before leaving out for the party clad in my usual fare, a school girl outfit.
Upon arrival, I could tell this would be a low key affair. I was in a rather chill mood and that seemed to fit the crowd for the night, which ended up being smaller than normal.
Among those in attendance were TwistedView and BrighidsCross. I watched both their rope scene and a highly physical takedown rope scene before heading down to the cigar lounge.
Taking in the haze, I lazed about, chatting with folks, and having a pleasant time.
Then TwistedView entered the room. My eyes grew wide.
"You have shot gloves," I noted, as a huge grin formed on my face.
"Well I guess this means we're having a scene then."
After surveying the space available, we settled under an open arch.
"Murphy showed me the wave punch."
I asked what he wanted me to take off. My new vest. My tie. My white shirt.
"May I give you a show?"
He leaned against the wall as I delighted in giving him a small strip tease. I slowly unsnapped the front of my shirt, one at a time, then turned around and slowly slid the fabric down my back, flinging the garment to the side.
Without warning, TwistedView grabbed me from behind, using one of my pony tails to pull me, slamming me against the wall.
He started by punching my chest lightly, warming me up. This didn't last long.
Like the last time he was in a punchy mood, the music was dubstep. He used the rhythm of the music in our scene again, increasing and decreasing the intensity of his punches with the tone of the music. At one point, he began smacking my nipples.
"Pause, just for a second."
I pulled out my cigar lighter and cutter from my bra, tossing them to BrighidsCross.
"Forgot those were in there."
TwistedView went back to his assaults.
Turning me suddenly, my face against the wall, he punched my back. I can take much more pain on my shoulder blades, which he gratefully gave.
Foolishly, I at first pulled my face from the wall. When he began wave punching my back, I couldn't help but hit my head and/or chin against the wall. When I finally began resting my forehead on the wall, my teeth now chattered with his strikes.
Flinging me back around, he ordered me, "On your knees."
Sitting in seiza, not only were my chest and nipples his targets, but now too my thighs received his assaults. I whimpered especially when he hit my inner thighs. This he took note of.
"Haven't you heard of chub rub?"
"I didn't know they had a term for it."
Even as my thighs burned from the leg position, I was thankful for his punches to the front of my flesh. It was almost as if his pain kneaded out the oncoming cramping my legs wanted to inflict.
Wrapping his arm around me, he pulled my body towards him. I gripped him tight, my hands on his back as he again punched my back. I felt the sweat of him, the heat of him as he worked over my body. I held him tight, breathed heavy, took his pain into my flesh.
Throughout the scene, I caught the sounds of his growls.
My eyes opened and closed randomly. I didn't want to look, but if I peered on him I would not flinch before his punches. On the occasions I did close my eyes, more often than not I heard his growls in my ears as I gasped or moaned from pain, especially we he waved punched me, pressing into my flesh to accentuate the blows.
Finished with my back, I begged to be allowed to sit cross legged. I accepted the fact this gave him even more access to my inner thighs. I didn't care; my legs hated the fatigue of working so hard to keep me up more the possible pain from TwistedView.
Predictably, he punched at his now very open target. I whimpered and cried, once trying to grip the wall I leaned against, once trying to move away.
Unpredictably, he stood, and then placed his left boot on my right thigh. For a second I whimpered, but then I moaned. As he slid the edge of his heel into my flesh, my cry was a mix of pain and pleasure. I had not told him how much I liked to be stepped on.
"You like boots, and you like pain, so I thought 'Why not?'."
He pressed into my left thigh, and then, happily, his boot found my chest, pressing into the right and left sides equally. Once, his heel caught my necklace and jammed the metal into my skin. Even with this unexpected (and surprisingly excruciating) pain, I did not care. I was getting stood on, therefore I was happy.
With the music tempo slowed, he softly hit me, slowing down the scene, finishing up.
His aggression let out, and me happy-floaty, BrighidsCross fetched us refreshments, and all three of us chatted as I came back down to earth.