Digging through my stuff, finding some longhand writing from a couple years ago that might as well live somewhere outside of a dusty box.
I am three years old. On the bridge between two bastions of the playground fort I push down the front of my pants to show my vulva to my classmates.
A jumbled memory, maybe a teacher, maybe a tattletale, then bouncing in the back of a car, my father cursing in the front seat as he drives me away. I say something I don’t remember and I don’t remember what he slices back, except that it shuts me up.
I am naked in the living room, my fingers between my legs, twiddling against my labia.
My mother, gently– “It’s okay to do that, but do it in your room.” I am four years old.
I am two years old. My mother, with the anatomically correct dolls she has sewn for me. “This is a vagina, and this is the vulva. This is a penis, and these are testicles. These are breasts. If anyone ever touches you vulva, or your breasts, always remember you can tell me anything. Even if they tell you not to, you can tell me.”
I am in a classroom, on a carpet with two boys. I am four years old. A boy with blonde curls tells me that if I show them mine, they will show me theirs. We grip the elastic of our waistbands and count to three. I yank down my pants. Their hands still in place, the boys gape and giggle that I have actually done it. I demand that they reciprocate, bewildered that they have not, and yank my pants down again proudly, and joyfully.
The teacher –I think I try to pull my pants up before she can see– takes me away by the hand to the principal’s office. I am afraid. But the principal does not ask about showing my vulva, but asks how my day was, and gives me a puzzle to work on.
I am four or five years old. During playtime I and another girl concoct the earliest sadistic fantasy I can remember, with the empty chair in front of us. We discuss and debate elements that suit our children’s imaginations. There is a man, we agree, and rope, an egg, a vacuum cleaner.
The teacher hears us and quickly pulls me aside, and asks what we are doing. I think I tell her, quite plainly, and she hastily sets me to another activity.
There is social gathering in the living room. I am imagining weaving the form of my mother’s best friend’s fiance into my dominant fantasy. He is naked, helpless, vulnerable. I am five or six years old. There is a giant peanut butter sandwich involved. I share this with my mother’s best friend, and she kneels down beside me and says gently, “______, we don’t talk about things like that.”
In the basement of the church we are eating pizza and doing crafts. We are all seven or eight years old. At the table, I declare to my perennial friend-enemy who has just dismissed me, “I’m going to kiss your little ass off!”
There is dead silence. None of the other children look at me. They know I have done wrong. My face is heating. Our chaperone leans down over me as I fasten my eyes on the table and whispers, “We don’t say things like that.”
I am eight years old and the adults ask me what I am doing in my notebook. I am writing on my book, I tell them. They tell each other how creative I am and ignore me. I do not tell them about the naked women and men, the physical discipline, the slavery. I know they will not understand.
The internet has just reached the general public. I am still eight years old. I find a webpage with a full screen picture of a woman on her hands and knees on a snowy-soft surface, naked except for shackles on her wrists and ankles, and heels on her feet. The points of her nipples are just hidden by her arms as she stares at the viewer in defiant invitation. I stare at her for a long time, then quickly close the page. I come back to stare at her for days, adn I find more pictures, tiny thumbnails of naked men in chains, and I nearly cry when they never open to full sized photographs.
Finally, I open the page and call in my parents to tell them I have found a bad website.
I am ten years old and I have read my first book with a woman binding, controlling, and hurting a man, and he is completely hers. She is evil, he is good. She is broken and twisted by those who did the same to her; he is whole and strong and has the power to forgive her because she only mirrored her own torment.
I am twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen years old, lying in bed fantasizing about a man, bound, sobbing, screaming in pain. When I have exhausted myself, my shame sickens me. I reach down beneath my underwear, flick a finger up my labia to see if I am wet. Of course I am.
Cursing myself I jump up and run to the bathroom, pull down my underwear, sit on the toilet and wipe myself, staring at the stretchy, pearly, slick mass on the toilet paper. I think how disgusting I am, broken, my wires are crossed. I wet a washcloth and scrub my genitals until they are red, until every trace of stickiness is gone and I am panting. I will cure myself. I will never do it again.
I am in another country, seventeen, having one of a series of discussions with my friend who is open and confident about her identity as a submissive, a masochist, and a slut. I am trying to convince her that enjoying pain and allowing a man to control her sexually is not normal or healthy. I do not even remember my fantasies, do not even make the connection except once, almost, when she says, bemused by my arguments, “I’ve had these desires my entire life. I’ve had fantasies like this since I was three.”
Staring at the ceiling I trace the way the boards interlock over and over. I am twenty years old and I have just convinced myself that the emotional savagery of my father has made me a monster. And that one day, when I find a lover, I will have to confess myself, and let them decide if they still want me.
It is three months before and my boyfriend is confused and hurting that I will not let him kiss me. “You said my first kiss could be my way. That I could choose when and how. I told you, you promised.” My way, mine, when I’m ready, not stolen in his own romantic moment. He hurts, and does not understand.
I wanted him underneath me on the couch, his leg pulled up to his chest, open to me, my fist in his hair.
“So you want to initiate every time?” he asks, bewildered.
“Of course not.”
It is shortly after I have decided I am a monster, and I am masturbating for the first time since I was a toddler. I may be broken and twisted, but I will live with it. I have to have some kind of release, or I will die.
It is a year later and I have still not had an orgasm. I resort to a machine and overload my senses. The orgasm is painful, in the way that does not feel good. It wracks my body like a seizure. My vagina contracts, and contracts, and when my head is no longer snapping back on my spine, I lay there and contemplate how everything I was ever taught about sexuality is truly a myth.
A month before, I am whipping someone for the first time while they are tied beneath me, giving themselves to me so I can learn to be what I am. And it is beautiful.
I am nearly twenty-one years old, and I am coming to the turning point of a long and inevitable journey into the nature of the world around me. I have finally come to remember what I knew as a child. That trees speak, raccoons know mysteries I never will, and rocks are just as alive and intelligent as I am. And the culture of my birth is killing the planet. And it seems so perfectly clear, such an easy explanation for why I am the way I am.
Civilization broke me.
But I have to live this way. So I will live in a way that will make me happy. But let this twistedness die with me.
Six months later and I am drowning in shame and self-loathing, and a seed scattered by someone I have never met germinates and sets down roots.
What if I am not broken.
What if I am just a part of the myriad flavors of humanity.
What if my desires are not in fact mirrors of the travesties of this culture of destruction, but instead the culture took the things that were mine, that are ours, and maimed them to be used in conquer, assimilation, genocide.
What if I am wounded, but I am not wrong.
Today I was horny to the point of distraction. And having an allergy attack. It was not a productive combination. Yesterday I was also horny to distraction. The day before I was pretty damn horny and holding off on masturbating because I was going to see Bema, and knew that self-given orgasm would pretty much kill any potential for two-person sex. My arousal tends to come in spikes like this.
Three days ago my arousal was physical. I was wet, and actively wanting sex with Bema as opposed to sex with me. Sometimes that’s not the case. Sometimes I want sex with me and not sex with Bema. Which sometimes drives Bema nuts because with my libido for non-s/m-d/s sex already being pretty low, it seems to further limit when I want sex with Bema (which I’m not convinced is actually the case).
Yesterday and today though… I wanted sex with me, or, rather, what being able to fully focus on my fantasies and not the other person I’m sharing the experience with could give me. Thing was, I haven’t actually been physically aroused. It was a surprise, expecting to be wet and ready because how else could my body respond to the sheer arousal that was driving me to not be able to concentrate on well, anything else? But pretty dry vagina. Unresponsive clitoris.
I was d/s horny. I was s/m horny. Orgasm took the edge off, but really it was just an endorphin bandaid. I don’t need sex. I need to beat the crap out of someone. I need to push someone against a wall, and hold them down. I need their energy responding so willingly, hungrily to my own. Bema would probably be willing to go through some of the motions, might even get something out of it. Bema is not available right now. Even if they were, I doubt it would be quite enough.
I don’t feel angry. I don’t feel desperate. I don’t feel devastatingly alone. I do feel sad, fairly often, that I don’t have that in my life right now. I do hold on to the belief that it will be there at some point.
So… new layer of self-understanding, no direct relief in sight. Progress?
So instead of my promised post on how I briefly got a playpartner (still coming), I have a request from myself and interested parties for poly resources. Specifically books or other in-depth material on the transition into non-monogamous/poly/open/multiple partner relationships. Because sometimes it’s something that people really want, not on principal, but in their bones, but all this deep emotional shit starts flying.
It’s personally relevant because of my relationship with Daos, Bema’s long term partner. We’ve gone through stages where Daos wanted to kill me, ignored me, verbally abused me, or treated me with manic cheerfulness. I took a lot of this extremely personally. Which was my choice. My feelings of hurt or rejection or judgment are my own shit to deal with. Because I know Daos. And I know that Daos is not actually a crazy, hateful person. That’s my own judgment and hurt bouncing right back. It’s all an expression of pain, and it’s a pain that I can’t fix, couldn’t fix even if Bema and I were not sexually and emotionally involved. I got to a point where even when my relationship with Daos was going smoothly and was superficially friendly that I was closed off to Daos. I just wanted the interaction to be over.
I spent some time away from both of them, and was able to get more of a big-picture image of things. The agreement the three of us have about how Bema and I interact in public and how we interact in front of Daos (which is to say, we don’t. Another post) was, and is, not working for me. And I was looking for all these practical, surface-level ways to fix it. Then I finally realized that the surface stuff isn’t going to fix it. I sat down with Daos and told them, “I think it all comes down to this: We have to have a real relationship. It doesn’t mean we have to be lovers, or best-buddies. It just has to be real, and open, or we’re going to go splat. I want to be open in my relationship with you. That’s the energy I want to put into this. Everything else will fall out from there.”
And things have shifted. A lot. It’s not perfect. It’s not ideal. I still question whether Bema and I not being affectionate or sexual in front of Daos is actually helping Daos. It’s a dialogue that’s ongoing. But when I look back to where we started a year ago- Wow. We went from Daos wanting to kill me, vetoing me, and me feeling like a devastated child to really being able to see each other and the challenges we’re both facing. And part of the reason we’ve gotten where we are is because Bema and I took it slow, and we did a lot to be sensitive to Daos’ emotional turmoil. And Daos, for their part, let go of a lot of control, and jumped off quite a few personal cliffs, and no one’s gone splat yet.
Caveat: Half the time being “sensitive” to Daos’ pain meant Bema and I were really just suppressing ourselves, and letting Daos control the situation. That was healthy for exactly none of us. And I reached a point where I just had to say, “I’m not making a stand. I am against no one. But I am standing. This is what I want, this is what I feel, and I can’t fix your pain by not acting on it.” But other times it was simply recognizing that this is a process, one that takes time and energy and mishaps and learning and talking and feeling and listening and it’s just messy.
And someone asked me to ask around the online community for resources about transitioning into poly, so, whatcha got?
So for the past six months I haven’t been writing here, largely because I’ve been in active sexual relationships and all of the interpersonal figuring-out that entails, and it was too overwhelming to write about it all here. Then it was too overwhelming not to. Then I wrote it, and it was too overwhelming to finish.
I wrote this two months ago, and a lot has changed. But as of May, this is where my relationship with Bema was at.
I was a little leery of another so-called “vanilla” partner. I kind of had the attitude of, “Been there, done that, know what I want.” But when the sexual tension between Bema and I was so strong, and I began to wonder. Really wonder if my sexuality was more fluid than I thought. I went back and forth, back and forth, for months, between “Bema is clearly not my sexual counterpart” and “I must fuck Bema now.” Part of the latter may have been due to the fact that I didn’t have sex for two decades, got to taste it for three months, then had a year dry spell. I finally realized I was never going to know what was there for us unless I just did it.
So we did.
And I was like, “What. Just. Happened.”
I was disappointed, and because I repressed that disappointment I was angry. My shit, not Bema’s. There were a variety of factors, including my unconscious expectations from my first partner, different sexual styles, our different sexualities, and our newness. It took a while for the sex to get better for me, and I was horribly confused. Sex with my first partner started out good. This may have been because I was coming off two decades of abstinence. I’m confident it’s not just a case of memories growing better with time; I checked in with my first partner’s ex-partner. It was just good sex. I also think my first partner’s sexuality was at least a few shades closer to mine than Bema’s is.
I don’t actually have radically different sex with Bema than I did with my first partner, except that there is actually more BDSM-type play with Bema because I’m in a much more confident place and Bema is very open to it. But there’s an energy difference. Bema doesn’t have the spark. My first partner did, at least a little.
The best sex I have with Bema is when I bring in rope, or enact a dominant role even though Bema isn’t submitting to me, or even bottoming. I think Bema sees it as something along the lines of bottoming, but to me it’s not. Even that energy isn’t there (except for two really, really sexy instances).
I’m more or less coming to the same conclusion I did with my first partner: That I can enjoy sex without BDSM-type elements, but I don’t want it very often. Once or twice a week, max. Bema, being firmly centered in that sexuality, wants it considerably more often.
I’ve been doing a lot of personal experimentation, poking my somewhat fluid sexuality and seeing what happens. Perhaps because I repressed almost any sexual expression for so long, my modus operendi has been to only seek sex, either with myself or another person, after I’m already horny. So I’ve been playing with being open to sex if Bema seduces me.
What’s made this tricky is that, unbeknownst to me, I’ve internalized some cultural conditioning that says I’m obligated to have sex, or that I should have sex to make someone feel better or keep them happy. To keep the peace. That is scary as fuck. Bema and I would be having a conversation about our mismatched sexualities and how to meet our respective sexual needs, and I would start getting aroused. And I wouldn’t know if I was aroused because I had real desire or if I was aroused in some subconscious effort to keep the peace. Scary. As. Fuck.
It was so scary that I would pull back emotionally and set an iron boundary that Bema felt helpless against. Bema would feel rejected and in turn pull away by becoming passive out of fear that they were forcing something on me. I would sense the passivity and encourage Bema to be more pro-active while I tried to be open to their desire for more frequent sex. But I was partially doing it to keep the peace out of fear of losing the other aspects of our intimate relationship. Add to the mix that Bema has internalized cultural conditioning of expecting sex, and we have a feedback loop of doom if we don’t pull ourselves out of it. Which is what we’re trying to do.
Bema has a lot of hurt that’s triggered by this situation. It’s not about me, or the circumstances, the hurt is about events that happened before I was ever in the picture. I know that intellectually, but part of me is terrified that without sex being central to our intimacy, Bema won’t want to be intimate at all. The thought of losing Bema’s skin, or any other expression of the profound connection I feel with them is devastating. Which helps me understand what Bema’s feeling about the possibility of us having rare or no sex. Sex is when Bema feels most connected. I feel most connected (in our particular relationship) during massage, or skin-time, or with the exchange of energy.
We’ve both been able to recognize what was happening for us, and more or less take ownership of our shit (which is always an ongoing process). I’ve really been working on not giving in to compulsions to sexually placate, and telling Bema about my sexual dissatisfaction and not secretly grow resentful.
Back to being seduced by Bema: When I tie someone up, or hurt them and get reactions, I’m pretty much instantly wet. Foreplay without d/s or s/m? It’s pretty hard for me to get aroused. It feels good, but it’s not what gets me hot and bothered. Without d/s or s/m it tends to take a lot of direct genital stimulation and fantasy on my part to get me aroused enough to have sex. I’ve always needed fantasy to orgasm, ever since I started having them with myself, with my first partner, with Bema. But now its’ like I”m compensating for the d/s or s/m energy that isn’t there by making it in my head. I think we all create the energy we’re craving, but it got to a point where it wasn’t healthy.
I finally told Bema the other day that sex just isn’t working for me. We’ve agrede to not have sex until I’m ready to rip Bema’s pants off. There are times when I honestly feel like I may never want to have sex again (I doubt this is actually true). Right now even my interest in d/s or s/m usually registers between between nil and mild interest. I’ve been having so much sex -for me, which is to say two times a week, at most- that my libido has gone on vacation. More than that, I’ve been having regular orgasms, and orgasms generally send my libido to sleep.
I’ve even played with not masturbating to “save up” my libido and help foster some sexual tension. I think a lot of times, when I’m really horny, I’m viewing Bema through submissive-tinted lenses even though that’s simply not who they are. And when I’m not independently horny it’s almost painfully obvious exactly how un-submissive Bema is. Bema’s not dominant, either. Bema does find the idea of being in charge exciting sometimes, and has some toppish fantasies I think they’re too afraid to act on. There have been times when I’ve welcomed Bema’s toppish energy because at least the energy was there, if not in my ideal proportions.
Just when I started drafting this post I had my first spontaneous fantasy in a long time. Orgasm control, strap on, collar. It wasn’t enough to inspire me to have sex, but the libido seemed to be recovering. I have masturbated once: It was real, unforced arousal, fantasizing about things that are actually hot to me in real life, not just my fantasy tropes of rape and torture. It was awesome.
When I started exploring with Bema, what I really saw for us was sensual intimacy around the powerful emotional connection we have, and maybe occasionally having sex. Even then Bema’s sexual expression of intimacy was very obvious, and stronger than mine. Bema wants sex with me bad. I love Bema’s skin, I love molding myself to them and touching and playing, and playing sexually without having sex, and maybe occasionally vigorously using Bema’s sex parts. I don’t know what kind of balance we’ll find to meet our needs, or if we will. Right now I feel at peace with that. At other times I’ve been afraid of losing the connection and sharing we have. I’ve experimented in Bema’s end of the sexual spectrum, both out of openness, and in an unhealthy attempt to keep the status quo. Now I’m going to go with my instincts, and see what happens.
So a lot as changed since I wrote that out by hand, and a lot remains the same. I want to renew my presence on the blog, both because I want to share my experience and because the online community is where I’ve found a lot of support in the past.
Next in the chronicles of the past six months, I’ll talk about the play partner I found under my nose. Seriously.
Bema is not into pain. They’re into enduring, but not in the sex way. Could definitely be hot in certain circumstances. So my sadism is not getting its rocks off. My masochism, on the other hand, is getting a fair bit of action. Bema is perfectly happy to give me pain that I enjoy and listen/watch my gaspy faces. Pretty cool.
Bema and I were skin on skin today, and the way we were interacting, it wasn’t exactly d/s, but it was something similar, enough to get me partially there. Bema was lying in my arms, and I just wanted to hurt them. I wanted it, and I was able to acknowledge it without squashing it, and acknowledge that it wasn’t going to happen without feeling desperate and hurt.
Bema sensed it, and we were talking later. Bema has been doing some independent research on BDSM, examining this thing that they had no real experience or draw to until until they became involved with me. Some stuff (I don’t specifically know which) they don’t really see how it could be anything but dysfunctional. Some part of me, the part that’s hurt, wanted to react to that, but mostly I just felt cool. They have their experiences and perceptions, and I have my experiences and perceptions. If those differ (and they might not even be that different; I think a lot of shit in the BDSM subculture is fucked up and dysfunctional), my experience doesn’t become unreal.
I felt suddenly ready to share this idea that has been growing in me for a while, an unfinished idea that seeps into my consciousness occasionally, then floats away again.
It started maybe a year ago, during one of my phases of hurting so much about wanting to hurt people. This continuing question tumbling inside me, “Am I a monster?”
Then, thinking, what if I am? But what if a monster just isn’t what I thought it was?
I thought about the roles monsters play in children’s stories, not the ones meant to brainwash us into easy, malleable lines, but the ones that teach us about ourselves, the ones where the monsters are only our own reflections. Monsters show us the edges of ourselves.
Other ideas seeped in, joined, mutated, ideas about tricksters, and contraries. Those who do things backwards, do the opposite of what is expected. In hunter-gatherer and other primitive peoples, tricksters are the sacred boundary crossers. In many of those same cultures, gender-mixers and -crossers played the same role. And I wonder what role my sexuality plays in my human worldview, because I know it has one, and yet even accounting for the silent majority there seem to be so much fewer people who share my desires than those who share other common desires. It reminds me of a comment Delilah left around the time when I finally tipped over the edge into accepting and cherishing my sexuality and not thinking it was completely rooted in a legacy of cultural fucked-up-ness.
I actually *do* think of myself as engaging in some dark shit when I do some of the kink that I do. The difference is that I don’t think of darkness as a bad thing [...]. Darkness to me just means the wild, the free, the things that have been suppressed by the civilization you’re talking about when you talk about darkness.
The trouble with the wild and the free is that they often are dangerous. When my lover tests my tolerance by caning the fronts of my thighs and letting me bite into his arm to manage the pain while tears stream down his face, that’s pretty dark. When I restrict someone’s blood flow and whisper to them about how easily I could kill them and that makes them come – that’s fucking dark. It’s liberated, it’s admitting how close sex and death really are, it’s delving into parts of our psyche that are very old, and animal, and fierce. It’s not just wanting to fuck someone into a stupor, but to drink their blood while you do it.
And that’s hot, which is why I do it – not because it’s hip to play with the darkness.
At the time I was railing against the image of BDSM as taboo and dark, the way it’s commercialized and caricatured as such, but I saw her point, and looking at it through that lens, I resonated with what she said.
At my core, my sexuality doesn’t feel dark to me, or strange, or crossing any kind of boundaries. It feels like normality. And in a way, despite my self-alienation, I perceive everyone else as strange. But when I study myself in relation to the people around me, who I grow with, play with, get bitchy with, when I leave myself behind and step into them, then I can see it. I can understand how they can perceive it that way, because when I was so divorced from myself around my sexuality, I saw through the same lens, but with infinitely more judgment.
None of this is an argument about how BDSM is special and awesome and so much deeper than what anybody else does. It’s just random, utterly nonlinear driftings as I contemplate where I am in my life and where I’m going.
But on to things more mundane.
Someone wanted to call a girl’s spa night. Waxing. Facials. Hair masks. After my initial repulsion:
“I’m not putting that gunk on my face, but I will rip the hair from your body.”
Unfortunately, they’re not a screamer. Pretty unfazed by that kind of pain. Just knowing that it hurt anyway did at least a little something for me, but really, I’m just a reaction top. But it’s still a satisfying sensation, feeling all the hair rip out. Someone else, who is a screamer said they’d let me know if they decided to do it.
“I’d be honored to give you pleasure,” they laughed.
I’ll take it where I can get it.
So I’m in another sex V. But for real this time. Although, the fact that last time my partner’s former partner and I were not having concurrent sexual relationships didn’t really matter much. The messy emotional triggers and relationship work was all there, splattered across the walls like gore.
I shall call my new partner Bema. Bema’s long-term partner is Daos. Daos and I are both sexually involved with Bema, but not with each other. I trigger the fuck out of Daos.
Daos and I did not know each other deeply, but it was a relationship I valued, and now it is unalterably changed. We are all doing some serious kind of relationship and personal work, which is an amazing opportunity, but sometimes it is messy, messy, messy. I tend to take Daos’ reactions to me personally, and I perceive it as rejection. Early in our exploration, I behaved very acceptingly of what Daos was going through, but with this underlying expectation that by accepting, I could change it, that Daos would stop having issues. And I had to let it go, let go of the expectation that our relationship was ever going to be the same again. Sometimes, when I feel hurt or threatened, I want to think of Daos as a crazy psycho for their reactions to me, because if Daos is a crazy psycho, I don’t have to care or empathize with what they’re going through. But in reality I know Daos’ stuff isn’t about me. It’s about stuff that happened before I was born, or in diapers. It isn’t personal. Not only that, but Daos is doing quite a lot to work with themselves on what’s coming up for them, just like I’m working on what’s coming up for me.
Funnily enough, one of the strongest things that has come up for me is the scarlet letter complex. I used to worship an ancient, undead Jewish man (essentially, a zombie). Even into my young adulthood I expected to sign a piece of paper and hold a ceremony to legally, economically, and socially bind me to the one person I would have sex with for the rest of my life. And now, in part because I feel triggered by Daos being triggered, sometimes I feel like an adulterer. Cultural indoctrination is hilarious.
Sometimes Daos and I can communicate with a minimum of tension. Some days we just avoid each other. Have I mentioned we all live in the same building?
So that is my shit with Daos. On to Bema.
Bema does not have a submissive bone in their body. In retrospect, I understand that my first partner had at least one or two switchy bones, but we recognize now that neither of us was in the psycho-emotional place to explore as deeply as we could. We were both too afraid. But sometimes our d/s energies matched up, locked, and it was beautiful.
Bema is incredibly open to my sexuality, and to trying new things (totally game on the good, giving, and game scale). I wasn’t even sure anything could work sexually because Bema has not an iota of submissive energy, but my cunt talked me into it. Tying up someone who isn’t submissive isn’t the same as tying up someone who is. It’s fun, but the energy isn’t there. I don’t go into headspace. Our culture has so many associations with the whoever gets tied up automatically submitting, and it’s just fundamentally untrue. My submissive geiger counter registers nil. So we’re playing and exploring and learning, gradually finding out where we match up and where we don’t.
This was almost as much of a mindfuck for me as my relationship with Daos. Early on I just felt so unsure, whether I should, or would, or wanted to have sex with Bema if it wasn’t going to be d/s or s/m. I had kind of made a decision after my first partner that “Been there, done that, don’t need to do it again” about “vanilla” partners. It is now proven two out of two that I am actually capable of enjoying sex without d/s or s/m elements. I wasn’t so sure before I tried. But it’s not all I want. Having one chunk of my sexual hungers satisfied makes the others bite less sharply, but it doesn’t make them go away. I’m going to put out some more feelers for a play partner. Whenever I’ve started looking before, I was coming from a place of desperation, and it inevitably left me feeling frustrated and icky. I want to see what it’s like not coming from a place of desperation.
One thing I wasn’t prepared for, seeing as my former partner was also my first partner, was the unconscious expectations I had about sex from partner number one. Their bodies are shaped differently, they fuck differently, their parts are at different angles, their arousal patterns are different, their faces are so different when they come. We have different experiences of how long sex lasts and how often it happens and who’s the loud one.
So basically I’m in a glorious mess, one that I’m grateful to be a part of, and also frightened. Stay tuned.
The big ones that haven’t been trimmed down, when they get all dehydrated and wrinkly but still have some heft. Hold the skinny end and hit with the top. Very satisfying impact. I bruise really easy, and I usually sport half a dozen bruises I couldn’t tell you where they came from. One day I couldn’t figure out why I had all these regular bruises up my thighs, and suddenly I burst out laughing. After explaining, my housemates teased me for the rest of the day.
Pretty good makeshift flogger. Unbalanced, and you have to be careful about the whippy ends and wrapping, but nice impact/sting.
The big six-inch ones with reall fine threads. Feels really good scraped down an arm, or across palms and fingers. Not sharp enough to draw blood, but sharp enough to leave white lines like a plowed field.