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


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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