Fuck Material

"Hi slut, i want to rent you from your guy and fuck your brains out. Do you think he will allow"

(My most recent friend request on Fetlife)

It's an interesting question. Will he allow?

Probably not. But not for the reasons you think. It mostly has to do with grammar, location, (this dude's from Belgium. I am not located anywhere near Belgium.), but most has to do with making assumptions. 

It's a natural human response, to make an assumption about someone else based on your own history, the impression you have of them, their behavior and actions. It's how we get along in life, how we form our own created families and relationships as adults. We call it social context, and friendships and families are based on it. There's this new modern complication (or maybe it's not that modern, we just didn't talk about it as a society as much) of created families rather than biological ("family of origin") ones, and those require, I think, even more emotional investment. That's part of how assumption works, it's a psychological tool humans use. 

Who am I to him? There are so many descriptors. I title myself "slave", but that's kind of a fantasy term, since legally there's no way to follow through on that. I'm a wife, a deputy, a "helpmeet" (I kind of love this one), an object, a warm hole or three, and sometimes a pain in the ass. 

We ran into another gentleman who was very interested in playing with me. Not particularly interested in playing with my owner, and the gentleman in question made a lot of assumptions about *how* we play, and what our dynamic is. How we function together, what turns us on (and off) and that, more than anything else, was the reason it was a no go. 

Making assumptions about people is a tool to use as we get closer to each other, we use it for safety purposes and for empathy, and closeness. It's also a dangerous edge tool, because making the wrong assumptions push you further apart. 

Ah, Polly.

"Sometimes when you lose your way to me

I think you don't care at all

If you don't get here soon

I'll tear that clock down from the wall"

- Billy Bragg

You surprised me, Polly. I've been riding this rollercoaster for weeks, and I've made a lot of assumptions. Some of which are incorrect. Some aren't. 

I'm still learning where the lines are, because they have been redrawn. Do you have lines? Where are they? Not where I thought they were. 

every day a sun rises

"Yeah, maybe when you're old enough
You'll realize that you're not so tough.
And some days the seas get rough,
You'll see.
You're too young to have it figured out.
You think you know what you're talkin' about."

- the raconteurs, "old enough"

i don't mean to come across like a know-it-all. maybe a know-it-some, though.

there's some knowledge that literally only comes with getting older. not experience, even, but age. it's a matter of waking up every day to whatever-it-is-you've-chosen, seeing the sun come up reliably again, the moon rising and flooding every month. these are dependable things, in a life that is rarely stable.

here's what i would tell you, if you sat still long and quietly enough:

there are people who love you, no matter what you do, or how you act, or what you say. they won't go away, because they know who you are, and you are valuable to them. it's not worth picking fights with them, it's not worth being sad or even happy about them, because they do exist and they do love you. they may not be what you expect, or what you want, but in that form, they are yours.

there are also people who do not love you, and who never will. that's the other side of this coin. i don't mean that they will hurt you as much as i mean that they do not love you. they do not know who you are, and they will sift through people like sand and will never be satisfied with what's left in their hands - which is nothing. so get over them - you're just moving sand to them, nothing more.

he loves you. stop fighting so hard.

let me explain why you were uncomfortable

the event played out unexpectedly for me. i was distracted with other thoughts and worries when he picked me up, and when i asked in the car "should i be nervous?" before we met, he said "yes." and then my world tipped sideways as i slid my panties down my legs and over my boots. we went in.

it's not that i don't like girls; i do. i love having girlfriends, i love the way they look, the things they say, the frank discussions and tight clothes. i love the comraderie and the understanding that our bodies work (mostly) the same way, and not like those aliens we call "men".

i've never been a toucher, and i've never been a good touchee. i don't like it when people touch me in general, and i don't like it any more when it's a woman. i could not look at you, i could only look at my owner, indignant that he was allowing it, encouraging it. wanting it. i did not hate him, and i did not hate you, but i did not want what was happening.

i did it because i am owned and because i did not have a choice. not because i was happy or comfortable or wanted it or turned on. because i saw the look on his face when he knew i did not like it and it solidified there as lust.

on the one hand

all things are not equal. this is a rule of life, of physics, and of relationships - no matter what the flavor. where there is a lack in one place there is an overage in another. it's just the way it works.

you cannot love her the way you love me. nor can you love me the way you love her. i understand this - all things are not equal.

the ease with which you love her does not come easily to us. there is a past, a history, a pedestal to balance on. we have had only a tentative time with a multitude of factors, and she is not the same as me, and we will never be equal.

different and equal, which has never been the same thing as fair.

but this isn't always fair, is it.

this sounds like i am angry or sad or dissatisfied, and it's none of those. i'm just now reaching an understanding that you asked me for earlier that i did not achieve then.

untitled

desperate note to self: it is not up to me to decide what he needs or does not need.

lather, rinse, repeat.

it's all cyclical, you know. and i'm far from perfect. my comfort is to make lists of what i am and what i am not, and how i can help and how i am a hindrance, and what she is and what she is not.

what she is not, is present. what she is not, is future. what she is not, is a happy person, or a helpful person, or what either of us wants anywhere near us. i hate that it brings my anxiety and tension and failings and personal drama to the forefront of what i think about.

i hate that she makes me cry, that she has that power.

this isn't about bdsm, this is about life, and me getting over my own damned self. because i owe it to you to be Better Than That. I owe it to Myself.

YKINOK

most of life is compartmentalizing. before or after. old or young. pretty or ugly. vanilla or kinky.

good or bad.

one of the inherent differences in western philosophy as opposed to eastern philosophy is the concept of opposite things having different values. things that are "good" have a high value, and things that are "bad" have a low value. eastern philosophy as i understand it doesn't necessarily make that valuation - it's more about understanding that opposites exist, and that one has no more value than the other.

in the last few weeks, i've written some things that have caused controversy. not surprisingly (to myself, and anyone who knows me personally) this was surprising to me. i come at issues and topics of discussion fairly neutrally, from an "eastern" perspective: both sides of the discussion are neither high- or low-value (since that's really only relative to each other) but being unaware of all the facets of the issue and/or ones' own self is the lower valued perspective to me.

okay, i'm getting to the kinky part ("finally," you're thinking.)

when i started playing publicly, and acknowledging more about myself and the life i wanted to lead, the community i was in had a term called "YKINOK": "Your Kink Is Not Okay". when people used this term, it was usually meant derogatorily, against someone who was making a value judgement when they had no leg to stand on. "calling the kettle black," kind of thing.

there are so many different ways of playing that don't work for me: puppy play, sensual eroticism, religious role play, mummification, scat play, incest role play. finding someone who likes (mostly) the same things i do is obviously high on my list - matching up sexual chemistry is pretty damned important to someone who's lifestyle is based on sexuality. i'm lucky in this regard - i've made zero compromises with my owner about what works and what doesn't (although that's a larger conversation), and i like to think the same is true for him.

your kink is just fine with me. and while this would, literarily speaking, be the place for me to say something like "so please be respectful of mine," i'm not going to say that. because you're right;

i don't care what you think.

value

a quick stab again of needle-thin jealousy.

jealousy, as pointed out somewhere recently, is not the same thing as betrayal. jealousy is fear, and fear turns me on. risk, turns me on. it starts low in my belly as a cold sweat panic until i identify what it is, and then it becomes something wholly different, something masochistic and gasping.

an invitation: i know i would suffer for her, too.

kiss and tell me

i'm still getting off on the memories of last week. well, "getting off" being an operative term because i've actually been cut off from getting off in the traditional usage of the word. no, i don't know when this particular interlude will conclude, i only know that whining about it won't help my odds.

but back to the subject at hand: kissing. i've long held a fantasy about being the toy between a couple. there's a scene in laura antoniou's the slave where robin is blindfolded and used simply as a sex toy for her trainer, chris, and his friend rachel. of course, in *my* version, it's much more violent and degrading, but still. it's a taste. at any rate, i keep circling back to this inner photograph of the couple kissing above me.

i do like kissing. it's not my favorite aspect of intimacy, or sex, but i do like it. but the intimacy of face-to-face contact, the general lack of aggression, makes it a more egalitarian part of the act than seems worthwhile, when i could be enjoying myself enormously more as an object instead. in fact, one of the absolute-hottest-moments-of-my-life was last week when my owner was sharing this lovely intimate moment. with someone else while fucking me violently.

i can't get this out of my head. i now know what it looks like, the way he moves and touches and hurts and fucks. and for some people, the intimacy of kissing is a giant no-no, even in the world of polyamory, because of exactly the vanilla connotations. usually folks don't like to see their partner sharing that with someone else. but for me, watching this, thinking about it, imagining it over and over and over has become my favorite goddamned porn movie ever. and i'm a lucky, lucky bitch - for a moment or three, i really was just the toy.

(for a much more pornographic reference to the scene itself, please refer to a beautiful girl. i don't think you'll be sorry.) (pic by thesescarz on deviantART)

witness, part II

i was the witness this time. i never got to watch your face before, when you strike, or when pleasure crosses paths with sadism on your face. i know my lips were open and i waited for your eyes to catch mine as i knew they would. i am usually the recipient, the sufferer, and the result of your work, but this time i watched it from a small distance.

i know you must wonder, as all people do, how it looks. it looks like this:

my owner, his face suffused with the headiness of needs met and lust not yet sated and the piercing eyes and lips set firmly and cruelly. both of us, she and i, were caught in his net and couldn't have escaped if we'd wanted to. i don't want to. you would imagine someone at a moment like this showing an achilles heel, a vulnerability, but there was none. i'd fantasized about how it would look, what his face would show me. my fingers still remember at night. i recall his face and the back of his hand clamped on her head, forcing and using. a thrusting hip bone and a set jaw. her pinched voice begging and a murmuring from his throat that i know in my skin.

i wish i was a photographer, to show you again and again.

i want, i want

i'm fighting a want to be disobedient. i'm fighting a nasty side breeze of "take that." i know why, but it's not important.

conversation yesterday about wants and needs. i've been reminded so many times that what i want is not always relevant. rarely, even. what i want, muttered under my breath in small breaths is slapped out of me because it is just a want. but my wants do not go away, despite the fact that they remain unvoiced.

how to measure a want against a need?

i'm not always that smart.

photo "lost at sea" by ed freeman.

for a friend

compost

i picture you among the debris
she left
turning it over and over until
it's something rich for you
to grow again in

nincompoopery

sometimes i just want to take someone by the throat and shake them until they see reason. or their eyes fall out. one or the other.

i am so done with drama.

comfortably numb

"i married a boxer to keep me from fighting
i married a brewer to keep me from drinking..."

-kristin hersh

there's a difference between being comfortable, and being numb. i spent a lot of time numb, complacent and resigned, in what i thought was the only available path for me.

you're doomed if you take the easy way. complacency and resignation are deadly.

i read something a while ago about the difference between "agreement" and "submission". if i agree that everything that's done to me is erotic and comfortable and makes me happy, then i am not submitting, i am *agreeing* to obey. i submit when i comply and obey and am forced to do things that i am not in agreement with.

there is no reasoning with dominance. there is no negotiation, no discussion, no caution.

the return of polly

polly's been a returning, recurring theme, one that i've found to be pretty disturbing to a lot of people. since posting the original story, i've had a number of explanatory conversations with people, to provide some context. no, i'm not obligated to do so, but since polly's hit such a nerve, i thought it worthwhile.

as a comparison piece, here's another version of polly:

---------------------
_proof_

you're tired of talking about it, and i'm tired of wanting it. her spectre, ghostlike and without detail, floats around and between us. it doesn't matter who she is. it doesn't matter what she looks like - i've said it before she arrived and i'll say it again - there will always be a polly.

so one day, in a quiet mood, your fingers slowly grasping tighter and tighter until round red ovals appear on my hips, you slowly tie me with the soft ropes we've come to love. softness and tightness together. it's excrutiating, the time it takes, and i'm hot from the fire you've built, unable to wipe the sweat starting to roll down my skin.

slowly, slowly, and you're not speaking until you've got me placed exactly right, immobilized, your favorite knots in all the places you wanted them, pressuring me in the places you intended. my mouth agape, my eyes glued to you, not as much locked down as held, the ropes extensions of your arms. you watch me, taking small sips of your wine, watching my skin turn pink and my breath come in gasps in the firelight.

there's a knock at the door, and my heart jumps. you watch my reaction, with that look on your face somewhere between lust and fascination, until you answer the door. i hear her voice before i see her, and my panic rises. but i'm remembering your words, that everything will be okay, and i choke back my tears and fate.

she's not talking much, but i can hear her happiness tumbling through the small words she uses. you've got her in a grip, the one i know, the one i can feel even when you're not there. her head down, until she catches sight of me in the corner of her eye, stares, and gasps. there's only silence for moments, only my harsh breathing.

you push her down to her knees, facing me. you strip her clothes from her quickly, grasping and squeezing. she's trying to turn away, trying to not watch me, and her protests land like pebbles on me. eventually you're inside her, and i don't know who's crying first, but i can only hear your words, telling her to look at what it really is, this is the proof.

polly

it was brought to my attention that while i've referred to "Polly" a great deal, and she's quite a character who's come to represent a whole thing about jealousy and polyamory all mixed together in one warped package, i've never actually posted the story i wrote about Polly.

Polly didn't exist when i wrote this, sometime last summer, way before even the start of my contract. i don't really feel like defending the difficult parts of my psyche that produced this, so if you're thinking i'm way too sick and twisted because of this, then, well, don't worry too much.

i already know that.

Enjoy.

**edit** i posted this the other day in my other blog, forgetting to put it here as well. the response there was hugely dramatic. apparently the polly story touches quite a nerve, almost like my anger post a while ago.

i never said it was pretty, living inside my head.

-------------
_rules_

"That's the door. Go get it." I quickly glance at you, I have no idea what this is about. I go to the door, and let her in. You're smiling - you're happy. That makes me nervous, when we play.
"This is Polly," you say, looking at her, smiling. I think, who the fuck is Polly? I'm quiet, I'm down. I'm not sure what this is about, but I know that it's a surprise meant for me, and you like surprises. I don't.

"Polly's here to teach you a lesson," you say. My mouth drops open. We've talked about this - while we've agreed that there's no real limits, I'm surprised at the girl. You laugh. "No, no. Not like that," you say. But you're practically giggling, and I'm still a little in shock, because I don't know what the hell is going on.

Polly does, though. Polly's cute. Polly's clearly in the know about the situation, and she's looking at me with a mixture of naivete, lust, and curiousity. She's happy, though. I look down at the floor. You grab my chin, pull my head up to look at you. You say clearly, "I want you to get a good look at Polly. Polly's here tonight because of you. Polly's going to teach you a valuable lesson." You let go of my chin, but grab my hair, twist it around so I'm looking at Polly - her mouth is open, wet, and she's watching me, and her breath catches. "Get a good goddamned look at Polly." you say again.

You bring me to my knees by my hair, and push my head down to the floor, and then get down next to me to whisper in my ear. "You thought I'd forget about our conversation, didn't you. You thought I'd forget you said you'd lied." My heart pounds, my mouth goes dry. You continue to speak in my ear. "You thought I'd think it was no big deal, with your big speech about no punishment and no rules." Your hand pushes on my neck down so I'm mashed into the carpet. You speak into my ear, quietly and carefully. "You thought wrong, you little bitch."

It's much later, and I'm bound tightly to the chair. My legs are splayed out, my arms snug, and you've shoved a gag in my mouth. I'm crying. Polly's been watching me, but now she's more interested in you. You've gotten her to strip, you've put her in her place, and now she's facing me on all fours, on the bed. Her face is a perfect picture of lust as you play behind her, smacking her lightly while she groans. You're watching me as I weep. I can hear you speaking to her lightly, and she twists and bucks against your fingers. You push her closer to me, so we're almost face to face, and then you're speaking to me.

"This is your punishment." you say, as you ram into her while she groans and yells. "Watch this," you say. "Watch what's happening, what's yours, what you wanted." The words are spinning in my mind I'm sorry I'm sorry stop stop and I'm watching you fuck her harder and harder. "Don't you turn your face away, bitch," you say and I don't. I'm dripping onto the floor while I watch you take her and I know what I've done, who I am. I'm crying through the gag, and your eyes grab mine and don't let go.

what it's like

when it thunders through my skin right after i'm pricked by a thousand needles and i'm not sure i can breathe, every muscle in my body pulls tight.

sometimes you watch me. sometimes your bright eyes fasten on my face, an invisible leash pulling. your breathing is quick and untroubled, you watch my cheeks flush and neck arch. i still don't know what it looks like. i never watch myself then, unable to bear witness to that intimacy of myself, the orgasm. as much as i'd like to say each one is a gift for you, it's not. you force them from me, and take them away - my version of bon-bons, i suppose.

i want to tell her that that's what it's like. i want to tell her that the release following, when your body expands as far as it will go and holds there - the beating of your heart a sonic wave that roars out everything else...

the letting go. letting it happen. letting it happen *to* you. there is no longer a sense that anything belongs to you, even of the things you don't want to happen, the things you are most afraid of.

you don't allow me to filter what i'm thinking - there is no privacy. i may not have walls up, i may not be secretive or private or choosy with my words.

i want to tell her this: that if she is yours, if she wants this, she will have what she wants and craves. and also,

everything she doesn't.

photo "the art of losing", credit to kaddy courtesy of flickr.

what i learned

a strange aerie place where the words i want to write just can't filter through correctly. i feel high. you asked me "is the damage already done?", and yes - i'm damaged.

but i didn't break.

that's what i learned.

being damaged is, perhaps, a place i need to be sometimes. or at least, acknowledge that i am not a continuous smoothed over path of strength. i'm not that strong. i'm just a girl, a thing on the way, and i need to be reminded of that - my place in the world is never guaranteed, no matter what anyone might say or do.

the trust i have in you is enormous, and i think i realized that through this, along with anything else. i trust that you will only break me for your own purposes, and not for someone else's.

jealous. jealous again.

"...Somebody bring me some water
Can't you see its out of control
Baby's got my heart and my baby's got my mind
But tonight the sweet devil's got my soul..."

-Melissa Etheridge

it stabbed me, quick and deep, and then was gone.

but the thing is, i wanted it back again, that sensation that brings me out of my muted self, the feeling that makes me gasp for air like something alive again.

yes, i use her for my own purposes. and i'll take the jealousy, because it's one of those things that makes me remember that i am alive, that being alive involves pain sometimes. sweet stinging - it's no different than a whip.