Jun 282018
 

Last night was a light affair because he knew he had to work the next morning, but they still made the most of it. It was so rare their paths crossed these days, he thought to himself.

The stirring of the small noise from his side came again. He reached down to remove the blanket gently from his companion, who still slept peacefully at his side, and finally found her. Pulling back the blanket, he revealed a beautiful pale face, young and smooth. Luscious lips that wore red lipstick the night before were now bare and gorgeous in their natural beauty. They slightly parted to release a small sigh as she slept.

In the puffy duvet cocoon, her features popped against the white fabric and gave her an angelic appearance. She looked so peaceful as she slept, so young and frozen in time. Removing more of the blanket, he revealed her slender shoulders, and that little sigh came again. It brought a smile to his lips. She was somewhere in that state between awake and asleep, where you could wake up with enough effort, but easily fall back into the dreamscapes you just left. He didn’t want to disturb her, not just yet.

That crooked smile that had crossed his lips accompanied the amusement in his steel blue eyes as he admired the young woman, half his age, lying beside him. He continued to lower the blanket, now revealing her breasts that were once as pale as the rest of her, but were now swollen and held a bright, angry pink glow from the cane he had used last night to strike them. She had laid on her back, bound to the four posts of his king size bed. In this spread-eagle position, he was able to leave mark after mark, line after line, from his wooden cane.

Perfectly thin lines matched symmetrically on each breast. He admired his work for a moment before he completely removed the warm blanket she slumbered in. The cool morning air greeted her skin, and her nipples became perky and erect.

They were no doubt sore to even the softest of touches.

He wanted to take one of them in his mouth this morning and suck on it as he did the night before, then graze his teeth along the tip. This morning, even his breath would make them scream in pain, so to bite them would be a wonderful way to start the day for his lovely little masochist.

Watching her breasts rise and fall with each breath she took in her sleep, he remembered last night’s events vividly. First, his fingers had caressed her gently, rolling her nipples between his fingertips until they became red, swollen, and hard. That was when they were the most ripe to bite, and that is exactly what he did. Her screams of ecstasy from the pain only encouraged him to bite harder. She ran her fingers through his hair and pulled, but this did not deter him from his course. He would release, open his mouth wider, and envelop a mouthful of her soft breast with his teeth and bite down hungrily.

He bit her much more deeply than he would any other partner because he knew this one could take it—this one was different. He could have drawn blood and she would have gently pushed him away, tasted it on her fingertips, and then pulled him back to whisper in his ear to continue. This girl was special.

While that particularly deep bite mark made the left breast different from the right, still bearing his teeth marks this morning, they were nearly identical as she laid next to him. As his eyes traveled from her face and down her body, he could feel her body heat radiate against him. The scent of sex, sweat, and natural body pheromones escaped in a musky wafts as lowered the blanket to the floor, fully revealing her naked body.

Her pussy was waxed and clean. Looking at it now only made his already hard cock ache with desire. Her thighs were covered in beautiful welts that would soon turn black and blue. They would then fade to a sickly yellowish green before their eventual departure from the skin.

Having played with her often enough, he knew these marks would only last five or six days maximum, and when he saw her again they would be long gone and he would have the pleasure of starting over again on a clean canvass. That is, if she didn’t find someone before him to leave new ones.

She was his go-to girl, what he considered his primary, but with the life he led, he didn’t have time for her as much as he wanted, and certainly not as much as she deserved.

He also damned well knew he didn’t deserve her. A man his age, currently kissing fifty years old on the ass next month with a job that kept him away all hours of the day and night, he didn’t deserve such a luxury. In fact, he was probably the last person worthy of her company.

She, however, was popular amongst the kink and polyamory circles alike. The fact she threw him a bone at all made him grateful. She could have anyone she wanted any day of the week, man or woman, and for all he knew, she did. But on their nights together she chose him, and hell if he knew why.

There had been many nights when he had requested her company and she had arrived with marks, both fresh and old, but he never asked about them and she never divulged their origin. Other times she would have cuts along her skin, some shallow and resembling scratches, others running deeper and still bandaged. Once again, don’t ask don’t tell. It wasn’t their way.

That was one of the cornerstones of their dynamic. Love had absolutely nothing to do with what they had; it was purely primal and sensual. They weren’t indebted to each other in the slightest, and they didn’t owe the other a single thing, far be it an explanation for the marks that graced her body. When they were together, it was their time to embrace the other’s company—nothing else, and no one else, mattered.

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Feb 262018
 

We finally arrived. The King commented on the grandeur of the grounds and the stateliness of the castle. The driver parked our carriage. As we walked toward the iron gates, Solomon carried my bag – I loved his willingness to serve me. Get used to it, darling – it’s going to be mandatory from now on.

We stepped upon the grand porch, and the doors slowly opened. A servant bowed and greeted us, and we were escorted into Leviathan’s Foyer.

Once we entered, I led the King to the banqueting table inside the dining hall. I lit some lamps and incense, making him comfortable. Praising his presence, I asked him to sit in the dragon’s chair.

Three stunning harpists, who happened to be part man and part woman, started to play, as the music so delightfully filled the room. The King sat and soaked in the moment. I excused myself and mixed an intoxicating potion for him to sip.

After I pampered myself, I repeatedly covered my body a second time with Bathsheba’s oils and painted my eyes. Once I pinned up my hair and slipped into my sheer black gown, I placed Zara’s spiked scarlet boots on my feet, and diamond studded gloves on my hands – a much more appropriate wardrobe, for what I had in mind.

As I walked out to the dining hall, his eyes studied my demeanor. I instantly became the personification of dominance. Incapable of hiding it, his soul was drawn by my power. He became wordless, and I liked it. His silence was submissively sexy. His stare was erotically familiar – flashbacks of Palace memories ignited my lust.

After giving him my insidious potion, he became instantly lovesick. I removed my studded right glove from my hand and untied the strings of his clothing. Slowly I traced my fingers through his loose braids and onto his shoulders, carefully scratching his back and digging my nails into his skin. As I reached his lower cheeks, I probed his forbidden hole. I sensed his nerves catching fire – his eyes torn between two worlds. His flesh weak – yielding to my persuasion. I reached inside his pants and clutched his bulbs; they were oddly warm – almost hot. He closed his eyes and submitted to my seduction as my exploration began. He must be so desperate to come.

Each time I grabbed his stem, I refused to be predictable. Initially, I would grip it tenderly, but then, I’d squeeze it until he squealed.

“Like a lily among thorns,” I jeered.

With fervor, I kissed his lips and murmured, “You make me wet.”

His hands wildly moved around my waist. When they came near to my sacred space, I slapped his mouth, seized his cheeks and firmly screamed, “No!”

He challenged me and attempted to pet my petals once more. It was then I turned his head toward me, and spit in his face.

“No!” I screamed again.

“Look at me when we kiss!” I demanded.

Whorishly, I licked my spit from his eyes and tenderly kissed him with it.

His countenance announced, He was overcome by my dominance.

My illicit love escalated for over an hour until the potion took full effect and he ultimately entered into a helpless dark trance. It was then I walked him into the lower dungeon that was reserved for royalty. The finest craftsmen in the world helped to turn it into a work of art. The ceiling and floor were gilded in pure gold. The beams were hammered bronze. The handles to the whips, floggers, belts, and boards were crafted in finely engraved silver. The room smelled like sex – and I liked it.

As we strolled toward the slave’s altar, I perceived he had fully surrendered himself to my will and his defenses had left him.

I unbraided his hair, and it flowed across his chest. I kneeled down and dropped his pants. His fleshly crown was light purple and pulsating, engorged with blood – precisely what the potion was meant to achieve.

I commanded him, “Tell me what’s going on in your mind.” I knew his thoughts were dirty, but I wanted to hear his dark confessions myself.

“Say it! What’s your desire?”

His eyes appeared like a helpless sheep as he passively whispered, “Bind me like Samson, I need to be chastened.”

My heart danced within me. “Tell me more,” I demanded.

“Restrain me, drive my burdens out with your heavy hand,” he desperately begged.

“Good boy,” I teased.

I unlatched the last hook of his shirt and removed it. Being suggestive, I sat him upon a sapphire throne and removed his boots – the King was fully naked.

With his full consent, I proceeded to fasten his wrists and ankles with the iron bands that dangled from the chair – clicking them in place until they locked.

Once his body was no longer free to move, I called on Zara’s maidens to dance and undress themselves as they masturbated before him. There were five in all. They were exquisitely beautiful and chosen from Moab and Egypt. I gave them strict orders to orgasm at least three times before him until they rested.

I seductively kissed the lead dancer, and we masturbated together and sucked one another’s breasts before the King. Damn, she’s on fire – I could get lost right here. Back up, Abby, you have a king to capture.

Solomon’s eyes were lost in the familiar demon’s power. He was filled with lust and envy.

“Watch us, Solomon!” I chanted.

“Do you want this in your Palace? Tell me!” I screamed.

He attempted to rise from the throne, but the shackles were too secure. He remained enslaved to my salacious agenda.

I forced my breasts in his face. Holding my left one with both hands, I squeezed it as I thrust my wet firm nipple into his mouth.

“Can you taste her? She sucked me good, didn’t she?”

“Do you like my breasts? They’ve grown, haven’t they?”

His face was altered and flushed with covetousness.

With thoughts of degradation, I grabbed the crown of his stem. Whispering in his ear, I tauntingly said, “Ah, I remember how small … is it too small to satisfy your concubines?” His face became painted with shame. I knew his conscience was re-haunted by the words I spoke to him so long ago.

He moaned in pleasure. He loved my humiliation. I caressed him until my tease-like seduction depleted him of all of his strength.

Order I am Bathsheba on Amazon

Feb 122018
 

“I’m kinky. NOW what?”

So, let me start by stating the painfully self-evident. You’ve realized that your specific needs and desires aren’t quite “the norm.” If you hadn’t, there’d be absolutely no point in you reading this book outside of morbid curiosity.

The first thing to do is not panic! Sit down, get a paper bag, breathe into it and hear me out.

Life is short! You might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

Statistically speaking, it is an absolute certainty that on a planet populated by nearly eight billion people, there are more than a few people out there who share and complement your particular desires, no matter how “weird” you think they are. This is known in kink circles as Ugol’s Law:

“For every specific kink or fetish any given person has, there is always at least one other person who shares this kink or fetish.”

Or, the tl;dr version: YOU ARE NOT ALONE!

Whether you secretly fantasize about being a 1950s housewife (regardless of your actual gender), reverting to age five as soon as you get home in the evening, being taken to a venue and “forced” to have sex with multiple partners or the traditional standbys of being tied up, beaten like a piñata, fucked like a fifty-cent whore and then cuddled like the most precious thing in the universe, Ugol’s Law assures there’s someone out there who complements your desires.

Your desires may be considered even further “out there.” Maybe you fantasize about having hardcore sex with the Decepticon leader Megatron in his aircraft form from the Bayverse. It could be that people dressed up in animal costumes get you hard or damp betwixt the thighs. You might even dream about being killed, defiled, grilled and eaten. (Yes, this is a real thing real people actually fantasize about doing or having done to them. And I’m not talking about Dahmer-esque psychos…some of these are mechanics, doctors, lawyers, engineers, judges and CEOs. I’m talking people with real, grown-up jobs!)

It doesn’t matter. You have the right to desire what you want without judgment. You may not necessarily have the right to act on these desires, for a number of possible reasons, but simply having them is not a bad thing in and of themselves. As a matter of fact, a rich and varied fantasy life is often the first step to finding ultimate fulfillment and satisfaction.

The biggest thing to hold onto is that you may think you’re “abnormal” or even “crazy.” You may think there’s something wrong with you.

Nothing could be further from the truth!

Just because your sexual and emotional needs have a greater range than “missionary with the lights out on Saturday night and then back to watching Law and Order reruns while we pretend we didn’t just do what we done” doesn’t make you a bad person. There are certainly some acts which, if you took them out of the realm of fantasy or very carefully managed roleplay, could arguably be considered the acts of bad people. By and large, anything you can do with a living, breathing, consenting adult human being or to an inanimate object in your own home or in certain other designated locations is perfectly okay, absent quirks of local laws where you live.

Right now, someone’s reading this last sentence and asking, “Soooo…if I go out into my garage and stick my dick in the tailpipe of my car, or decide to use my gearshift to fuck myself stupid, that’s okay?”

YES!

Well…sort of.

Theoretically, you’re in your garage or another otherwise private location. (Don’t do this on a public street or in an open car park. It probably won’t end well.) And hey, it’s your car. And presumably you have enough sense to make sure the tailpipe isn’t hot, or that you have a way to call for help if you get yourself into an awkward situation or hurt yourself.

If you’re not doing this in your own garage with your own car, please make sure you have the enthusiastic permission and consent of the owner of either or both as applicable before you proceed. Some people would enjoy watching a woman mount the stick shift on a Lamborghini, whether she owns it or not. Some people would call the cops and kick the woman out of their home. Go figure.

While basic decency demands you probably shouldn’t be parading your business down Main Street on a Monday morning during rush hour, there’s nothing at all wrong with doing what works for you in the privacy of your own home or a designated area where such acts are permissible, so long as you do it in such a way as to offer a reasonable degree of safety.

The single most important thing to remember as you get started is the acronym MKINYK. It stands for

MY KINK IS NOT YOUR KINK!

This means you have every right to your fetishes, kinks and desires, no matter how dirty they seem. It also means the people around you have every right to theirs as well, even if they don’t share yours or vice versa. This basic principle is one of the main ideals of the kink community, although I must say it often seems to be honored more in the breach than the observance when we get down to actual cases. “It’s not wrong, it’s just not right for me” is a fairly common remark in the scene, and one I personally make often concerning kinks, fetishes and paraphilias I personally find unappealing.

No matter how you found out you’re kinky, or what kinks you want to explore, as long as you and any partners you have fully and enthusiastically consented to them and everyone comes away from the encounter breathing, healthy and (at least ideally) happy, you’re okay. And, as previously noted, you’ve got a potential pool of almost eight billion people to choose from.

No matter how ugly, homely, attractive, masculine, feminine, religious, atheistic, old, young (well…within the bounds of the age of consent for your area, usually with a hard minimum of 18 years old to be allowed into most kink venues and events) or whatever, you have no excuses for not being able to find someone who’s right for you and your needs.

So…now what?

Now we start looking for your special someone.

 

J.S. Wayne is an experienced kinkster under the nom de guerre “_Unicron_” and the author of Fantastic Dominants and Where to Find Them: A Player’s Guide to the Ultimate RPG. He is fascinated by the use of language, human sexuality, occultism, quantum physics and trying to figure out just what the hell the lyrics to “I Am The Walrus” were actually trying to say.

 

Oct 282016
 

bondagesorityWe fucked on the back of his Tercel. The hood was so hot that it nearly singed our thighs, the inside like a sauna from being out in the California sun all day. Even after the sky darkened to a Prussian blue, the trees of Woodward Park in silhouette against it, the air was as hot and humid as when the sun was right overhead. The memory of the day’s heat clung to the car, my ass scorching as I sat on the edge of the trunk, my panties dangling around my ankle, Jeremy’s hands tight on my hips. We’d been sticky with sweat before we even got to the park, and it cascaded off our bodies as he fucked me. I had to grab his hair just to keep my hands from slipping off of him.

There was still a week to go before I went off to college, but the air was charged with desperation to make that week last as long as possible, like we could push my departure away if we just kept screwing. We fucked a lot that summer, after we graduated from high school, when his dad was getting shitfaced at the bar, when my parents went to Michigan for a family reunion, after we went out for pizza, after we went to a movie, whenever we could snatch the time. Beds were nice, but we’d gotten used to Jeremy’s Tercel, the upholstery on his back seat cracking and tearing from our frequent fucks back there. All we had to do was sneak into Woodward Park through the rear gate – they never locked it – and I’d tear open a condom while Jeremy parked in a small lot, trees blocking us from the road so no one could catch us.

The weatherman on TV never shut up about it being the hottest summer on record. It was like the weather was trying to push me out to the coast, out to Pearl Springs, before I was ready to go. I didn’t think that I loved Jeremy, but I hadn’t felt love for anyone yet, at least not what I’d thought love was supposed to be. Still, his poetry was brilliant, he pissed off my parents, and the sex filled a part of me that I didn’t even know I had until that first night in the back of his Tercel. I’d fucked another boyfriend, and had a couple of one-night stands before we hooked up, but something changed that first moment Jeremy entered me, like everything that came before was just playing doctor.

He couldn’t come to Pearl Springs with me. Boys like him just didn’t go to good schools, and he was lucky just to get into Cal State Fresno after all the skipping we’d done senior year. Some C’s crept into my report card that last semester, but I’d already been accepted at Pearl Springs University and other schools. I got in at some colleges in the Midwest and New England, but they didn’t offer me any money. Pearl Springs gave me a full-ride scholarship. Maybe they saw more promise in my portfolio, or maybe both my parents being alums greased the wheels for me. Part of me wanted to leave California so I could get as far away from my parents as possible, but between staying close to Jeremy, and not having to pay my way – my parents wouldn’t co-sign for any loans – Pearl Springs was tolerable.

I tightened my legs around Jeremy’s body, crossing my ankles behind his back as we moaned and groaned our way towards climax. The air thrummed with buzzing sounds, high-pitched hiccups and cries from animals either fucking along with us or begging for some animal to come fuck them. Every time we screwed that summer, it felt like each climax was harder than the one before. It must have been the knowledge of our coming separation, that undercurrent making each fuck more desperate than the last one.
My back arched as the first rush of orgasm rippled through me, Jeremy growling as he came too. I rode the waves as long as I could, shivers coursing through my body, my hands slipping off his head from all the sweat. I laced my fingers together behind his neck so tightly that they hurt, just so I wouldn’t fall.
Still, I felt empty as I came down from my climax. I had a family dinner Sunday afternoon, and my mother wasn’t about to let me take Jeremy to it. He started at Cal State Fresno the day after, and between that and his work, and me needing to pack, I figured that we might grab a pizza but that would be it. That fuck would have to last us both a long time. It already felt like it wouldn’t be enough.

I slid over after he pulled out of me so we could sit on the back of his car. He offered me a Marlboro from his pack – I’d been smoking for a few years – and our cigarettes trailed gray smoke up to a sky so dark that I could barely make out the outline of the trees. Every August I could remember, as the days passed by, it was hard not to think about school starting soon, but that August felt so different. High school had started back up a few days earlier, and Jeremy would start at Cal State Fresno in a couple of days, but I still had that week to go, and even then I’d be going to school over a hundred miles away. It was like I had to remind myself that I was still going to school, that I hadn’t escaped that autumn-to-spring cycle that traps youth, the first of so many regimens designed to deaden kids’ minds, make them think that they only had a short space of time to themselves because “that’s just how the world is,” as Mom loved to say.

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Jan 182016
 

disorientation18 Our first date was at a vegan restaurant in Echo Park; our second, at an S&M club. I’d never had any particular interest in BDSM: I hadn’t grown up with a spanking fetish, and I wasn’t turned on by leather.

But I’d seen Secretary, and the occasional S&M porn, and I’d gone to a bondage show at Burning Man — so the concept intrigued me. Surely there was something to it — I just wasn’t sure what.

I dressed in black shirt and dark pants, as the dress code suggested, and parked on an industrial street by the LAX airport. A man at the front desk collected the entry fee and asked me to sign a liability waiver.

“Remember,” he said, “always get permission before joining a scene. And blood is off-limits.”

The night’s event was a cabaret performance, themed around superheroes and science fiction; it was also a “play party”, which meant that participants could, if they chose, continue the action in semi-private rooms.

Most of the crowd was dressed up in some kind of costume or another: not the traditional leather and chains that I’d expected, but kinky space suits and superhero outfits, like a sexed-up cosplay convention.

On the stage, a man in a Severus Snape costume casually whipped a woman dressed as Harry Potter. Nearby, a scantily-clad Lt. Ripley stood guarding a shackled man resembling Charlton Heston from Planet of the Apes.

When Ophelia arrived, we each ordered a drink and sat to watch some of the show. While I knew that she had a kinky side, she explained, in a bit more detail, that she liked to tie up and dominate skinny young men like me.

“Dominate?” I asked.

She nodded. “I love finding new submissives to play with.”

I wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by that — did that mean she wanted to fuck me? — but I didn’t know how to ask without getting too personal.

We wandered about the club, poking our heads into this room and that. Some of the rooms were themed: a classroom, a doctor’s office. There was less nudity than I’d thought there would be; the scenes were more erotic than overtly sexual.

In one room, a woman whipped a half-dressed man tied to a St. Andrew’s cross. In another, a guy my own age stood above a blindfolded girl tied down on a bed. He was slowly and methodically swatting at her breasts and crotch with what looked like a miniature flyswatter. She moaned appreciatively.

Could I be that guy, I wondered? Could I learn to give pleasure to a woman in that way? Or was this what Ophelia wanted to do to me? I didn’t know which role I identified with; maybe, as Ophelia kindly suggested, I was a switch. I admitted that I might be willing to let her tie me up.

She smiled and looked me up and down, as if considering the possibilities. “I promise, it won’t hurt a bit.”

 

****

A few nights later, I drove to her apartment; she welcomed me with a glass of white wine and a playlist of Leonard Cohen songs. We lit a joint and sat on the couch for a bit. “Should I get my ropes?” she asked.

She led me to an upright chair, tied a handkerchief over my eyes, and began to loop several ropes around my arms and legs. I felt her hands tightening the knots, her full concentration and attention on me.

A wave of relaxation washed over me. This was an impulse that I hadn’t even known I’d had, a desire that had been lying dormant in me — to let a woman take control over me and take possession of my body.

She picked up a glass of wine and pressed it to my lips, forcing me to drink. Then she reversed the process, loosening the ropes and untying me.

“What did you think?” she asked.

“I felt … relaxed,” I said. “It was … meditative … ” I immediately regretted my choice of words. I hadn’t been sure, when we’d made plans, whether this had been intended as a platonic bondage lesson or a more sensual encounter — but surely relaxed was not the right answer.

She tied me up again, in a different position, with me lying on the floor, my range of motion more constrained. I felt anxious and aroused at once. It was a trance-like moment; neither of us spoke until she’d untied me again.

We sat back down on the couch, pausing to relight the joint. She looked at me over her glass of white wine. “How about if I tie you up with nothing on?”

My eyes widened. An hour or so had passed since I’d arrived, and the weed and wine had given the night a dream-like, fantastical quality. “Sure,” I mumbled.

We moved into the bedroom, where I took off my shirt and pants and then paused, aware of the hard-on beneath my boxers. “Literally everything?”

She nodded, so I took them off, too, and lay face-down on the white, fluffy comforter. She tied my hands gently to the bedpost.

I caught a glimpse of her undressing from the corner of my eye, saw a flash of her breasts in the bedroom mirror, and then felt her body on top of mine, soft and firm, as she lowered herself close to my upper back and shoulders.

She snapped the ropes against my back, running their rough strands up and down my body. I felt myself shivering, cold and naked and excited. And then, finally, she untied me and turned me over, hands on my cock, and grabbed a condom from the bedside drawer, wordlessly slipping it on.

My body rose up to meet hers, mouth reaching upward toward her breasts, hands on her sides, cock sliding easily inside of her.

We moved slowly at first, still meditative, in no hurry to orgasm; and then gained speed, my throat making sounds that I hadn’t heard in years, echoed by her own soft and rhythmic breathing.

I felt an alignment of physical and mental and emotional connection that I’d been waiting for for so long: this was sex as I’d always imagined it — rich in context and full of meaning — in a way that made all of my previous adventures seem out-dated, over-written, obsolete.

______________

Sanctuary: My Night at an S&M Club

an excerpt from The Pansexual Labyrinth: A Polyamorous Search for Love and Connection

by Saul Of-Hearts

Twitter: @saulofhearts

website: multi.love

Buy the book on Amazon!

 

May 272015
 

gloria

A Fetish For Men: By Gloria G. Brame

Men filled in the time while I waited for a love miracle to occur.

Besides, every new man was a universe of unanswered questions

and unknown potentials. Any one of them might be The

One. You couldn’t know until you talked to them whether they

were the one who had the key to the gate that let you onto the

path to a happy new life. So, when I met someone who seemed

to penetrate to my inner reality, someone sexy, someone different

from the others, how could I not fling myself with abandon

into the relationship in hopes that I could be on the road to

discovering a new home, a new family, a new life?

By the summer of 1972, when I was turning seventeen, though,

I was starting to think that there were just too many men in the

world ever to commit to any one of them. It wasn’t because I

couldn’t limit myself, it’s just that there was such a profusion, it

was impossible to sort them out or take them seriously, even

when they acted serious.

Never mind the catcalls and whistles, the muscle cars that

rolled up to ask if I wanted a lift, and forget the generic lustbots

who suddenly materialized like there was a magnet in my ass.

They were the wallpaper of urban life. Every Brooklyn girl knew

how to deflect them with a swift but murderous side-glare.

The bigger problem was that the number of men hitting on me

was growing incrementally while my appetite for them was unchanged.

I didn’t know how to deal with the new ratio. It wasn’t my looks:

I vanished in any crowd of ethnic girls. All my girlfriends

were prettier than me. I wasn’t sexy like the snobby girls

who wore tight sweaters and lipsticks that matched their

moods. I was a grungy hippie.

It was my tits. I just knew it. They were a curse on my life. So

many of my girlfriends had perky tits, tits that didn’t require

massive brassieres with three hooks in the back and shoulder

straps that left deep welts. My natural D-cups were, to me, unnatural

monstrosities, insulting vestiges of the primal past. The

only good purpose they had ever served was tit fucking boys

so I could watch them shoot off right under my chin.

But no matter how much I tried to play them down with army

shirts and chino pants, my tits drew men in like moths to a

Mosquito-Deleto. It was like they invisibly leaked an intoxicating

fuck me” fume.

 

This mysterious animal magnetism led to situations where your

only choice was to run or to suffer and doubt your own identity.

 

Buy the Book Here

May 032015
 

My-Life-on-the-Swingset-Book-CoverComing Out Swinging

 

I’m sorta out about my lifestyle. In the sense that those important to me know not the details of what I do, but know that I am intimate with many different people. By those important to me I mean those who we might have conversations about sex with, i.e. my friends. I’ve never said “no” when someone asked me point blank, “Are you a swinger?” and I hope to never have to.

 

The bottom line is my parents don’t really need to know what I get up to in the bedroom, and it’s just as unnecessary to tell them about it as it would be to tell them what position I used last night. I am out at work. My boss & coworkers know what sort of shenanigans my weekends often involve and have no issue with it, with the “Don’t fuck anyone in the office” caveat, of course. I’m lucky I work somewhere that’s…let’s just say…strange.

 

Why did I come out to my friends, then? They also don’t need to know about my experience with double penetration. Mainly it was so I didn’t feel I needed to hide my new friends from my old friends, or be concerned that there might be cross bleed from the two sides of my world. As it stands now, I can be perfectly comfortable when one of my swinger friends shows up to a vanilla party. Though, understandably, it’s harder to convince my vanilla friends to give the swinger parties a try.

 

The cork is certainly out of the bottle, and the smoke can never all be crammed back in, so I’m ostensibly out. It’s a bit of a preemptive strike, too. I read an article earlier this year about a couple in my neck of the woods who were outed by a neighbor. This sad human sent an email to what seemed like their entire neighborhood; friends, family, PTA, local parents, staff at their children’s school, etcetera, notifying them of the “swingers in their midst.” This horrendous act isn’t horrendous just because I agree with the harmed party, it’s horrendous because it’s an instance of someone in no way affected by something making it their business, and that’s a little thing I call bullshit.

 

This left me thinking about something I’ve grappled with a lot since opening up. I’m out, but not all the way. I am hiding. In plain sight. With my friends, I’m open, wanting to talk about it, etcetera— but not with everybody. I’m not the model “Oh yeah, I know a swinger, he’s pretty normal” guy. We must remember, in times where we feel we’re not out enough, that the closet is not a binary. We don’t have to be “in” or “out.” We can straddle the line.

 

Coming out is a massive and complicated process. This is why I may still be inside the closet, but the door is open, and I’m shaking hands with everybody willing to shake mine. If swinging seems “normal” because we see swingers around us, then it’s really hard to suggest that we’re seriously awful people who are going to burn in a fiery pit, etcetera. It is our duty, as non-vanilla thinkers, to stand strong and admit to the world that we exist, that we like these things that we like, that we may be wearing a mask, but we’re still here.

 

I can tell you that being out amongst my friends is wonderful. I can truly be myself without having to worry about someone getting the wrong idea. It has hiccupped my relationships with a few people, and lost me one or two friends as well. But fuck them if they don’t respect something I’m doing that has literally changed my life and made me the happiest I’ve ever been. If you can’t respect that enough to accept it, I don’t want you in my life.

 

Am I telling you to come out? Maybe a little. Am I telling you to take care in doing so? Certainly. Am I as all-over-the-map as to be expected at 1:38 on a Monday morning? Probably close, but slightly more coherent. Did I use any brackets? Not this time, baby! One thing I can tell you about coming out is that it has allowed me to surround myself with people who support me, and there is no greater feeling in the world than having that community.

 

Jan 312014
 

DeliciousTorment_hiresJack stroked me all over with his bare hands. Up and down. Not leaving any part of my body untouched. I’m trained as a masseuse, and yet I’m one of those strange creatures who don’t like to be massaged. In fact, if I don’t know someone well, I don’t like to be touched at all. I don’t hug people on greeting. I don’t spontaneously hold hands with my friends. I have a history of being stand- offish in this way.

And yet…

When Jack used his bare hands to stroke from the tops of my shoulders down to my feet, he made me purr like a relaxed panther. My body was humming, electrified. He didn’t tickle me. He didn’t touch me too gently. He used firm strokes, over and over, until I felt as if I were flying. Only then, after he’d put me into an almost hypnotic trance of pleasure, did he bend close on the bed, press his face near the nape of my neck, and say, “You worried me.”

He’d lulled me, tricked me, created this false sense of safeness in my surroundings, and now that was replaced by instant awareness. My skin prickled. My muscles tightened.

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