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30 Days of Kink: Day 3

December 28, 2012 Leave a comment

Day 3: How did you discover you were kinky?

It was my first boyfriend, with the kinky book, in a ’97 Jeep Wrangler.

B and I had been sort-of dating for about six weeks. I was fifteen, too-tall and too-thin, the pale ginger nerd with glasses. He was sixteen, three inches shorter than me, muscular and tan from surfing and sailing. I say sort-of dating because at first we were both too shy to call it that. There were dinner-and-movie nights, he didn’t laugh when I wiped out on the long board (on probably 90% of the waves I tried to catch. I’m a really terrible surfer), and he wasn’t too shy to respond when I kissed him. All pretty standard teenage stuff.

Then one day I noticed an orange 5-gallon bucket in the back of his brother’s Jeep. It was full of tangled rope. “What’s this for?”

He looked back. “Oh, I meant to leave that on the boat.”

Now, I’m kind of compulsive. B wasn’t acting like he was covering up a big secret. And that rope was tangled. So I started pulling and wrapping it into neater coils, at which point B almost crashed the car and shouted “Don’t do that!”

A little too late, because I’d already noticed the book in the bottom of the bucket, and I was not about to give it up without seeing what it was.

It was a badly battered copy of Screw the Roses, Send Me the Thorns. The cover is not exactly subtle.

I’m pretty sure B expected me to freak the hell out, demand to be taken home, and probably go on to tell everyone at both of our high schools that he was a pervert. Instead, I told him to shut up and started flipping through it. “Is this what you’re into?” I didn’t give him time to answer, just said “hot” and kept reading. He kept quiet and kept driving until we ended up parked at a beach downtown. Then we talked for a long time. I don’t remember a lot of details, though I’m sure it was awkward. He asked more than once if I thought he was a freak. I asked if I could borrow his book.

I couldn’t articulate any reason for the appeal at the time, but I found the whole idea of BDSM exciting. I had never been drawn to relationships as seen in Cosmo or on TV, but this book presented a whole different paradigm that I just had to try out. To be clear, B and I were just teenagers with a book. We made a lot of mistakes and weren’t actually all that well suited to each other. I’m glad we did it. Having someone to just be kinky with and try new things with and to just talk to without worrying that saying “I want…” would be met with “that’s insane” was invaluable to both of us.

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30 Days of Kink: Day 2

December 20, 2012 Leave a comment

(I am [obviously] not doing one of these every day.)

List your kinks.

But I hardly know you! You could at least buy me a drink first. Oh, all right.

This one I kept putting off because my kinks are somewhat varied and partner/situation specific. I can give a few general favorites, though.

Kissing. Not kinky? I don’t care. Kissing is the best activity known to man and I can’t get enough of it.

Impact is something I enjoy both as a top and as a bottom. This covers a lot: I like punching, slapping, and spanking. I prefer to wield a belt or strap if not using my bare hands. I would rather be hit with something at least a little “thuddy,” and will always take a paddle, cane, or PVC pipe over a crop or a switch. (I married a sadist. He favors the switch, obviously.) Biting, scratching, pulling hair, and teasing are also favorites. I will always insist, with pouting and stamping of feet, that I am not an exhibitionist. However I’m not shy about playing at parties, and am quite fond of naughty behavior in the very-secluded outdoors.

As a bottom I like breath play (from corsets to strangulation), wax (which we haven’t used in years because it’s such a mess), and electrical stimulation (I am addicted to my TENS unit for non-kink purposes as well. It does very nice things for sore shoulders.). Now that I’ve tried fire play with someone who knows what he’s doing, I can definitely say I like it (both fire wands and cupping). I have some trust issues when it comes to bondage, but I do like the results when my husband ties me up.

As a top, there are fewer particular activities that I go for (well, aside from the impact/biting/scratching &c mentioned above). I’m a fan of blindfolds and sensation play, and leather wrist cuffs. I’m a huge reaction junkie, so if I’m hitting someone and they just stand there still and silent, I’m going to get bored and possibly a little offended. On the other hand, if a guy is really into feet and shoes, I’ll get off on foot worship or trampling even though feet are a very boring body part to me. My favorite thing is getting a response, whether it’s facial expressions, moaning, writhing, or just verbal feedback (best if nervous and shy). I absolutely adore hearing someone beg. It’s an instant 100% guaranteed turn-on.  I appreciate it all the more because I just can’t do it. If I try to beg, I’ll say ‘please’ maybe twice and then start cussing, threatening, demanding, and otherwise acting like a complete brat.

I get unreasonably annoyed if a partner is taller than me. Thankfully, I am not short, and have many lovely pairs of high heels.

30 Days of Kink: Day 1

December 16, 2012 Leave a comment

So, there’s a thing floating around the Internet. A 30-question quiz that seems like a good idea for a blog that needs a brief pause to think about what it’s doing here. (Yes, my blog is in time-out. It’s been acting bratty and I feel like I shouldn’t give it too much leeway when it’s so new or it’ll just walk all over me. Forever.)

So! The thing! 30 days of kink, currently being undertaken on Lipstick and Ligature and trackable by stages back here. Now on to question one, with fanfare please.

Dom, sub, switch? What parts of BDSM interest you? Give us an interesting in-depth definition of what that means to you. Basically define your kinky self for us.

I really want to be snarky, look at the title of this blog, and say, “kinky? Goodness, I’m here to write laundry folding techniques.”*

For simplicity’s sake, I identify as a switch. For accuracy’s sake, I should probably say that I’m a sadomasochist, with a lot more experience in receiving pain than giving it. Masochism does a lot for me mentally–I have pretty severe anxiety and tend to overthink every aspect of everything I do until I’ve made myself miserable. Being spanked, beaten, shocked or choked seems to override that tendency most of the time, and it’s incredibly relaxing.  Sadism is a little more complicated because hurting someone else is conceptually terrifying. The  “what if?” machine that fuels so much of my anxiety starts going into overdrive: what if I screw up, if this is too much/not enough, what if my partner’s so quiet because s/he’s not enjoying this, what if wanting and enjoying this means I’m a sociopath? And so on. But I do enjoy it, the sensations and the reactions and the overwhelming awe that someone would trust me enough to hurt them.

I’m more than a little greedy, and I like things done a certain way. There’s certainly a strong appeal to the idea of being dominant, but it’s not something I’ve had the opportunity to more than play with.  I don’t do much on the D/s end of things these days.  My husband and I might introduce a power dynamic for the length of a scene, but we’re both rather too fond of getting our own way to have a consistent long term dynamic in either direction. We tried, early in our relationship, and I think I vetoed every domly thing he wanted and we had a pile of arguments before realizing that we were much happier without trying to include D/s in our S&M.

I don’t know if that counts as defining my kinky self or not, especially given that these things all change drastically depending on my partner, our relationship, and my mood, among other things. I feel like this was supposed to be an easy question but I fall outside of normal categories a bit too much to answer it simply.

*In all earnestness, there is only one right way to fold laundry. Unless you’re traveling, in which case there is a different only right way.

I Hit Like a Girl

December 9, 2012 Leave a comment

We’re not talking about straps and switches and crops here. With an implement, I can easily hold my own. But I have recently discovered that I love to be punched. My first reaction to any enjoyable new stimulus tends to be “ooh, I want to do this to somebody else.”

Which brings us to my problem. I talk a good talk. I wind on my black hand wraps nice and snug. But come show time, I can’t make myself put much force behind my fists. I pull my punches. I hit like a girl.

All dressed up and no one to punch. What is a girl to do?

They’re not such girly hands. I don’t wear pink nail polish or anything. That should be at least five not-hitting-like-a-girl points, right?

I don’t like this. Punching is amazing. The direct connection, the thud of fist on flesh and the reverberation that works its way all the way up my arm, all of it is just my kind of delicious. Yet still I hold back. Part of this is physical weakness. My workout routine consists of running and a few light sets on the bench press, nothing more. I know sustained heavy punching is beyond my abilities, while a series of sets of medium blows interspersed with lighter flurries is manageable.

But that’s not the main issue. The hard part is that hitting someone, really hitting hard with nothing but a few layers of fabric to absorb the blow, is terrifying for all the same reasons that it’s so tempting. A solid punch connects too well, is too personal and vicious. There’s something in the back of my head saying “Hands are not for hitting!” in my third-grade teacher’s voice. There’s a part of me that wants to be nice, even through the predatory urge to hit, and it unravels me. I don’t know yet how to ignore it, but I plan to learn.

On a related note, maybe it’s time to look into a boxing class.

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Raw Nerve

December 3, 2012 2 comments

It’s a little embarrassing to admit that I still read Nerve.com. Not that it’s a bad website–it’s a fun little place doing its very best to be sex-positive for young people–but it’s definitely catering to the Cosmo crowd, doesn’t want to talk about important sexual issues, and definitely isn’t about to endorse anything far from the mainstream.

House of Tears

Pictured: not mainstream (from House of Tears)

 

But I do still read it. I read the advice columns and the articles and the confessions (dear God, the confessions. It’s like PostSecret without images or a moderator to filter out the dull ones. Yet strangely captivating.) And today I read this: a “true story” by a woman who describes being forced to be a domme for her husband. I don’t want to get into the reasons I suspect the story to be untrue, because even though it’s six kinds of ridiculous the truth/falsehood of it is irrelevant. I’m not going to start explaining that what it describes is not BDSM, it’s abuse, because that discussion deserves a more nuanced approach than the story allows for.

I read it, and sat here thinking about it for twenty minutes, because despite not being about BDSM and despite being 50 shades of crazy, it struck a nerve. I read it and thought, this is the special hell of femdoms in pornography. I thought, this is what I was afraid of, when I was so young and new to BDSM.

Rewind too many years. I had already had my first D/s relationship, heady and exciting despite all the mistakes and stupidity that come with teenaged relationships. I can’t remember if this was while that first Dom and I were on a break, or after he was out of the picture entirely. I was definitely single, too young to have yet realized that monogamy was not the only option. There was a boy, a good friend, around whom I had no filter. (Hell, I still have no filter with this boy.) Some combination of a hope to catch his interest and a desire to shock him, added to the fact that he was a long-term crush, led me to tell him about it, the ropes and the collar and all the rest. I’m pretty sure I bragged about how awesome it was to be a submissive (I was a TERRIBLE submissive), because that’s exactly the sort of thing teenaged Nicole would do. I don’t really remember what I said at all, though. What I remember is my friend confessing his own fantasies about being submissive.

Huh, what?

Teenage Nicole had never heard of such a thing. It was glossed over, if mentioned at all, in the battered copy of Screw the Roses that my first Dom treated like a holy book. I was intrigued. Partly because this boy, as I’ve mentioned, was a long-term crush; if he’d said he was interested in gladiatorial combat in a pit full of snakes and poison spikes, I probably would have started looking into it. Partly, though, I just liked the idea of taking charge.

So I looked into it. I read some femdom erotica, and was thoroughly put off by the anger and hatred of men in just about every story, baffled by the prevalence of chastity devices (why would these women lock their men up instead of using them?), and the men just made me sad: they hated themselves just as much as their dommes did. I didn’t see anything that depicted the excitement and mutual pleasure I’d experienced as a sub.

Well, okay. That’s fiction. I couldn’t find any books locally on the subject, and certainly wasn’t going to order any to my parents’ house. That left the Internet. I found a BDSM related IRC channel and joined with a name like MistressSomethingRidiculous, just to ask some questions, just to try to feel a little less out of my depth.

Within five minutes I had a private message from a purported submissive man telling me he was worthless and demanding that I verbally abuse him.

I left quickly. I was disappointed, but I couldn’t see any way around it. The entire visible narrative of F/m relationships was unattractive to me, so I wrote it off.

I know better now. I know actual real-world dominant women who have fantastic, enviable relationships. I read blogs by women who can articulate beautifully what D/s dynamics mean to them. But I feel like I spent years ignoring something amazing and wonderful and happy-making just because there was this image of what female domination was and nothing easily found to counter it.

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