A response to Under The Boot, about kink and arousal.

Since undertheboot is linking this post I wrote last August and now a bunch of people are reading it, I feel like I need to clarify some things about what I said there. 

I wrote the post in a certain frame of mind and under certain circumstances that have changed since then.

Some kinky things do turn me on.  Pushing a boy up against the wall and being rough with him.  Holding the knife to his throat, knowing and letting him know that I lust to cut him.  Imagining licking trails of blood left by my fingernails.  Seeing his dick swell when I hit him, knowing that he hates it even as it arouses him.  Closing my hand around his throat and feeling the thrill of having his life, or death, in my grasp.  Hearing his ragged breath and knowing how much it arouses him, and me, when my ass ripples as he spanks me.  Watching him bend so gracefully, with an attitude of such perfect devotion, over my feet as he kisses them.  Having the freedom to demand the things I want when we’re fucking.  Making him insane with desire and denying him release, seeing how much I can turn him on, how hot he gets for me.  Hearing him beg.  Seeing him cry when I hurt him.

Yeah, kinky shit can definitely get my bits lubricated.  It’s just unfortunate that the first six years of my experience with it didn’t include those aspects.  That’s the whole reason I dropped out of the scene for a while, and it’s one of the reasons I have ended up being so thrilled with Derek, and one of the things I’m excited about exploring with Xel.

 

These other entries I’ve written also touch on the subject in relevant ways: touch-a touch-a touch me ; business or pleasure? ; to drink life ; clip - where’s the passion?

 

Xel.

A couple of weeks ago I mentioned in here that Xel and his girlfriend were going to be attending the retreat I went to last week.  And… it was just about as hard to handle as I expected.  Every time I saw him, or his girlfriend, or especially the two of them together, it was like a stab in the heart.  Envy and bitterness, grief and anger and nervousness in a little hard knot of pain in my chest.  And I seemed to see them everywhere.  Consequently, my moods were swinging out of control during the whole gathering.

Turns out Xel and I were bunked in the same building (though not the same room) for the weekend.  For the first day or two he avoided me, in increasingly comical ways.  He saw me on the porch as he was walking toward the cabin and quickly veered away.  Standing ten feet away in a crowd, his eyes skated over me like I wasn’t there (which is especially laughable since my hair is bright blue at the moment).  The wall became intensely fascninating as he passed me on the way to the bathroom. 

I was perusing the dungeon two nights ago and found him standing almost right in front of me.  I put on a dazzling smile, stepped close enough that he there was no way he could pretend not to see me, held out my hand and said, ”Hi!  I don’t know if you remember me, but we met last year.. my name’s [AlmostMagic].”  He took my hand as a distinctly nervous smile flickered across his face.  “Hi… Yeah…” 

With a teasing smile of my own, “I believe I noticed you avoiding me the past couple of days.”  He denied it.  We both knew he was full of shit.

“So.. the silent treatment!  Wow.”  He grimaced and shamefacedly said, “Yeah… about that…”

“I gotta say, I expected a lot more from you.  You are older than me, after all.  Shouldn’t you should be the mature one?” Still with a lighthearted tone of voice, but daggers in my smile.  He stammered a lot and looked like he was going to bolt and run at any moment. 

I was stern, without being bitchy.  “All you had to do was send an email, leave a voicemail.  Even if it was just one line: ‘Hey, this isn’t working out.’ ‘I’m really sorry but I’m freaking out right now.’ ‘You’re a creep and I never want to see you again.’  Tell me something.  We are adults, I can handle it.” 

He apologized, almost as much as I wanted him to.  And repeated himself a lot as he attempted to explain that he had had kind of a breakdown, that he had stressed out and shut down and couldn’t find the words to tell me.  I couldn’t help thinking that his eyes are fucking beautiful and felt an ashamedly strong impulse to press myself against his body.  I’m about 95% sure it didn’t show on my face.

“That’s fine, I would have been happy to leave you alone to sort your shit out.  All you had to do was tell me.  Tell me something, anything.  It wouldn’t have mattered how you said it or even what you said.”

More apologies, and I think he called himself a jerk at least five times.  The velvet-covered steel smile stayed on my face, but inside I was cheering.  Because I did it!  I stood up for myself!  I confronted him, I was in control and said what I needed to say, how I needed to say it.  I’m not sure I can express how amazingly wonderful that was.  Generally I am terrible at confrontation.  You know those situations where you think of the right thing to say, 5 hours after the conversation?  Well, that’s me all the time.  But not this time. 

At the end of the exchange he said, “I’d like to talk to you again before the weekend’s over.”  The smile fell off my face with the weight of my skeptical incredulity. “Do you actually mean that?”  “Well, yeah.”  “Seriously?  Look, don’t give me platitudes.  It’s bullshit and I don’t want that crap, all I want is honesty.”  He made a joke, but when I gave him a look he nodded like a scolded schoolboy and looked earnest.  “Yes.  I would really like to talk to you some more.” 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Last night he buried his face in my neck and clung to me like a child.  In a broken, tear-infused half-whisper he said, “Thank you - thank you so much for allowing me this.  I’m so grateful.” 

 

This morning as we were saying good-byes he framed my face in his hands and just looked at me, more closely and fully than I think anyone ever has, and he had such an expression of happy tenderness that it almost made up for the months of silence.

 

So maybe I’m a sucker.  But right now I’m a happy one.

 

From hope to belief.

There are so very many other things I should be doing right now, but it’s been a long time since I wrote a decent post in here.  Or anywhere, for that matter.

The big thing on my mind lately is Beltane.  (And the continuously precarious nature of the relationship with MJ, but I’ve beaten that dead horse quite enough, thank you.)

On the first day of Beltane last year I conversed with a lovely gentleman who helped me set my intention for the weekend.  So I did, and got something very close to what I wanted.  This year, my intentions and hopes are the same.  But I am not.

I still hope, and intend, to find a partner.  For some sex, and ideally for something long term.  Not for what monogamists refer to as a “serious relationship,” but I wouldn’t call what I want “casual” either.  Hot sex, intimate connection, respect, and affection.  And did I mention hot sex?  Transcendent experiences.  An intense, reciprocal attraction.  Someone who’s willing to spend time and energy pleasing me.  As of course, I want to do in return.

But anyhoo.  I could go on at great length about passion and fucking and kissing and connection and cuddling and hands that dance across my body and swollen cock in my mouth.  But in a nutshell, it’s all the same stuff I wanted last year, the same desires that have always simmered in the back of my mind.

Last year… last year was an amazing experience.  I don’t think I ever fully captured the whole story of Xel with words.  Being with him was so incredibly much of what I wanted but didn’t expect to find.  So much so that just the fact of it having existed brings tears to my eyes. 

I grasped too hard though and it slipped through my fingers.

But I am not the same person who ached for fulfillment last year.  This year, I know that it is possible.  This year, I know more about myself.  This year, I have known Xel and his unintended revelations, I have known Derek and his submission.  I have been through another year of the rollercoaster ride with MJ.  I have worked the final year of my first full-time job and made plans for the future that I know I can accomplish.

This year, I believe myself capable of the things I’ve wished for for years. 

And that’s it, that’s the difference.  It boils down to the transformation of hope into belief.  What an amazing thing that is.  And what an amazing year it’s been. 

And now, I’m off to make things happen.

 

 

 

touch-a touch-a touch me?

The last scene with Derek has had me navel-gazing about a lot of things.  One thing in particular that I’ve been pondering is my feelings about touching. 

 A guy I used to work with told me once that I don’t let people relate to me.  And he was right.  I’m often uncomfortable letting people get close to me, emotionally and physically.  When I work at my cashiering job, I avoid touching people’s hands when we exchange money, and generallly don’t look them in the eye.  I’ve actually gone whole days without once meeting another person’s gaze.  It’s a very isolated feeling. 

Somewhere along the way I put up some very thick walls.  I wrote a poem several years ago, about protection becoming a prison.  Very apt.

So I keep myself aloof, though I don’t think it’s at all obvious to most people.  But at the same time I crave touch, and I long for connection.  I think physical affection is almost as much of a need for me as food or water, and I think a total lack of it is one of the reasons I was very depressed during high school and college.

Maybe it’s because I want it that I shy away from being touched.  Maybe I want it too much, maybe I like it too much.  And I don’t want people to know that.  It’s a weakness, a neediness that I conceal behind a facade of coldness.

And of course there’s all the old insecurities about my body.  But I don’t really think that’s as a big a factor as it could be.

All that being said, that almost-last part of the scene on Saturday, with Derek and his hands and the dildo, was wonderful.   Very little awkwardness, and it just felt good.  I think it helped a lot that he assured me in an earlier IM conversation that he really wanted to do that for me.  And we’ve been playing together for a while now, there’s a higher level of comfort and intimacy that is starting to develop, at least for me.  (Derek, if you’re reading, I’d love to hear your thoughts on that.  And don’t forget that I’m a comment whore. :D)

I actually had an “aha!” moment the time we played before that, where I realized that even after 9 months or so of playing together, I almost never touched Derek with anything but my hands or an implement.  I was maintaining a distance, barely even brushing against him or putting my body or face close to his.  The one exception was a scene where I pinned him to the wall with my body while I whispered evil things and bit his shoulder.  And that was one of the hottest scenes with him.  So I made it a point this last time to stop being distant, to let myself get close, to let myself enjoy that contact.  It made such a difference.  And it made me hot.  Good stuff.

 

playing. dress up.

[This was written as a comment on one of devastatingyet's posts, but I want to put it here too, because it's something I have strong feelings about but haven't actually posted yet.]

I feel totally awkward when I try to dress up for bdsm, especially playing at home. I’ve been trying to explain to my play partner how all the “sexy dominatrix” paraphernalia makes me feel but he doesn’t seem to get it. I’ll have to show him this blog post.

The most sterotypically femininely sexy thing I’ve felt comfortable sceneing in was a red cotton skirt with a black tank top. And bare feet. (It is so much more physically and mentally comfortable to scene in bare feet.)

I am all about the cargo shorts and tank tops in the summer.

I think it comes down to power. I want to feel powerful when I scene, in fact that’s why I do this stuff. Wearing uncomfortable, expensive, restrictive clothes that are so blatantly made to conform to beauty standards that piss me off… yeah, no feeling of power in that. Wearing clothes I’m comfortable in, that I can move in, that reflect *my* ideas of attractiveness, clothes that I can forget about while I’m doing all the stuff that *does* make me feel powerful… that feels good.