The Rival Game

“I like feeling inadequate” he whispers from behind as his cock slowly glides in and out my pussy. “I don’t know why, I just do. I like feeling inadequate. Like I can’t please you.”

We’ve played this game before. The imaginary rival game. We steal the names of my past lovers and make them come alive which each of his thrusts. I tell him that their cocks are better and more resilient; that they could fuck me all night long. He asks repeatedly to tell me about all the times other men have been able to fuck my ass. And I don’t give details as much as I give him my lust-struck face, riddled with the memory of all those past orgasms. He struggles in response, cock constricted with jealousy. Then I tell him why he’s not allowed to fuck my ass at all.

And then he comes.

He tells me after that he would never be able to bear it if I was really fucking another man. That the jealousy would eat him alive. And I tell him that there will never be another man.

We’ve played this game the other way around. The real rival game. We borrow the real names of his other loves and let them metaphorically lay down next to me while he fingers my cunt.

“I’m sorry I get in the way so often” I croon, his knuckles digging into my wet flesh.

“You’re sorry you get in the way of what?” he says, eliciting the secrets that build up under my skin.

“I’m sorry I get in the way of your other relationship”.

“Whose?” he’s says, pumping deeper into my pussy.

I say her name with his fingers burrowing deeper, consumed with all my wet arousal. She is a real person and they have present day commitments. This is not ancient history, the way it is when we play this game the other way around. I say her name and tell him that sometimes I just get jealous, that is why I get in the way.

He fingers my cunt and tells me of his other loves. He tells me what they do. If I were to say those things to him about my other loves he would shot his load under the fantasy of his inadequacy.

But that is not how I cum when we play this real game the other way around.

I cum under the reality that my lover is a wanted man.

A quality man, woven from empathy and compassion. He has other lovers because he can build depth and build safety and it’s natural for other women to want to get as close as possible to him. It’s natural to want to touch something so refined. It’s natural to want to maintain a serious relationship with such a man and so it’s natural that each of his lovers is not a casual one-night stand.

When we play the rival game when I’m pitted against the potentials of all his present day lovers, I never orgasm to a feeling of inadequacy. I cum under the delicious reality that my lover is beautiful and that the presence of other women just confirms that reality.

The rivals do not make me feel worthless. Instead, they magnify his worth.

And so I cum like a lunatic, thinking of him with his other lovers, because I intuitively understand he’s a man with a lot of love to give, and even if sometimes I can feel jealousy it doesn’t erode my ability to access how incredible luckily I am to have sex with a man who’s attention is so coveted.

When we play the rival game, I don’t enjoy feeling inadequate the way he does.
I enjoy experiencing who he is and all the intensely explosive emotions that go with it.

Husband socks

The hallway is where straggler clothing loiter before finding their way to the hamper. There’s no sense in overcoming this habit of disorganization; it just feel so natural to surrender pieces onto the hardwood as I strip for the shower. So there is always a smattering of clothing parallel to the bathroom, like tumble weeds made out of poly blends and cotton. Like old snow that turns ashen with each passing day. This time, when I round the corner, a small patch of electric blue screams from the floor and catches my eye. A lone athletic sock, wadded into a ball, leaning against the molding stares up at me. For reasons too slippery for my tongue, when my sight absorbed my domestic negligence my brain labels the carelessness with “my husband’s sock”.

What the hell is that?

Because that is not my husband’s sock. I have no husband. I have a lover who loans me socks when I show up to teach classes in his gym without any of my own. I have a friend who listens to the victories and insecurities engraved on my cells; a priest who offers absolution just by stomaching my self-indulgent confessions. I have a companion who compassionately feeds me dinner and volleys back inquiry about any subject under the sun. I have a soul mate who tongues my mouth and cunt with equally engaged passion; a comrade to fondle flesh with as a means of resurrecting god.

I have a rare thing, an ingenuous thing, a thing so difficult it shreds my soul bare.

But I do not have a husband and I never will. He is not my husband and he will never be.

Then why does my mind apply words with a complete disregard for their meaning? Why is that ball of black and blue “my husband sock’s”?

I want to tell you it’s because “husband’s socks” makes it easy. That you would immediately understand the significance of this relationship if I could summarize it with just one word. I want to be like everyone else in the universe and use a language that is succinct and fulfilling; a language capable of highlighting the importance and the need for protection of a relationship that stands singular to all else.

I want to tell you, that like everything else in my life, I wish it was easier. I wish I could make you understand the burdens of that come with mind. I wish I could just say he was my husband even if I’m not built to withstand the monotony of being a wife. Husband and wife aren’t titles can handle the gravity of our relentless honesty; they aren’t labels with enough elasticity for the feelings we inspire in each other. But still, I wish I could say husband and you would know that this is about a meeting of mind; the purpose behind evolution, the fluke of sheer luck that we have made it this far.

This is not about shared property and rigid gender roles. Not about limiting the range of our independent explorations. Not about grand gestures in front of a superficial audience just to prove we’ve lived and made uninspired noise.

But this is about sickness and health. This is until death do us part but understanding that vast time and spaces away from each other is not the same as death. This is about letting love move in the way that love sees most fit.

None of that makes it easy but so much of that makes it magical. I pick up his lone sock and inhale; it still smells so much like him even if I dragged it through 60 minutes of intense sweating. There is so much of him inside my head, woven in the never-ending prattle of my subconscious. This is not my husband’s sock but I wish for some way to explain that this sock defies too many physical laws. How the fuck did this sock get here in the first place?

There are 8,420 days between our birthdays and 5,317 miles between our birthplaces. We were incubated in nonconsecutive generations, seeped in vastly different culture. How did we ever manage to have a conversation, let alone share garments? And yet here is his sock sauntering up against my dirty laundry; weird evidence of love’s lack of concern about logical prerequisites for its unfettered manifestation. And here is more evidence amassed in unpredictable fashion, over weeks and months and tear-soaked years. Here are the bruises from his kisses sometimes violent undertows, turning yellow like overripe fruit, mottling my thighs. Here is the poetry scrapped from our gums after a million small moments of emotion jostled our individual souls bare. Here is a story encrypted into my maneuvering of my veins; an impetus swirling behind my blood’s flow. Here is him crying in my arms over love lost, over his broken vows for a woman who was once the reason he rose out of bed. Here is me coddling the most tender facets of his psyche, spoon-feeding him perspective and chicken soup. Here is he cradling my insecurities and salvaging the sharp edges of my bravery from a depressive monsoon that swears I am a bad mom. Here is us listening to music in the back of an outdoor café at 11 pm on a Wednesday; here is us laughing too loud in downpour while we pluck sushi from square plates.

Here is us when we are beautiful: naked, glowing, open. So much electricity in our salvia and in our syllables. Here is us as immortals, male and female, vulnerable and oscillating, one into the other. The meaning of everything in motion.

But here is us when we are brutal: sterile, insensitive, cold, so full of rage the only color in our universe is red. Here is us as demons, selfish and explosive. Here is me erupting rage when he permits his other lover too close to my force field. Here is him stubbornly resolute about not caring about the outcomes of his actions. Here is us submerged in metallic silence. Here is us creating hell on earth.

We’re capable of forfeiting reality and creating either fantastical extreme: heaven on a Tuesday afternoon, Hell rattling off its slumber at the most unexpected of places. In the upheaval of either universe, emotive thought dilutes my blood, oxygenates me as if for the first time. How did we get here? How does anybody ever get to either of these places when they still have these lumbering mortal feet?

It can be jarring at times, to have a love like that. To be worn down the demands of this love’s honesty and passion. But we persist, throughout all the endless reasons to cease the connection. It is not about the intercourse; it has always been about the discourse. There is something cyclical and essential in how we speak to each other; something divinely inspired that heals wounds that each of us has housed way before we ever met. There is something restorative about heading to heaven only to fall back down to hell. We do not catch each other. We do not make promises about paradise forever upheld between our flesh.

We just tell each other of the journey and wet each other’s skin with our laughing tears.

He is not my husband and I am not his wife. I am just a woman who lets him be himself and he offers me the exact same privilege in return. I have no insurance if this relationship tanks; you would never be able to offer condolences the way one would if there was a divorce. If this ends badly, I suspect the damage would be much more complicated than a divorce. We share part brain and part heart. It seems so much easier to split a bank account.

I guess when my brain slips and says “my husband’s sock”, what it’s really trying to say is: I wish it were simpler. I wish I could make you understand what the risks are and why we take them.

Sometimes, I wish I were simpler, that he was simpler. Maybe then there’d be a better label for his dirty sock.  

Where the fuck am I on this Kink Spectrum?

Exploring sexuality is not new for me. I’ve been probing those borders for as long as I can remember; I was that kid whose curiosity bled beyond what we usually consider "childhood interests".  So in many ways my sexuality is almost as old I am. I've dragged it almost everywhere in my life and I've watched it shift and change, revert and move forward.

Kink is also not so new for me, though my awareness of it is younger than my awareness of my sexuality. I’ve had a lot of visceral and mind-altering sex. I’ve played with power, service, dipped in and out of roles. I’ve tongued cock and pussy, groped multiple limbs at once. I’ve been beaten and bruised, probed and pulled apart. These are all glorious and beautiful moments, where I’ve connected deeply with other people; moments that triggered my greatest growth in how I understand myself and how I express love.

For a very long time, I believed I was submissive. I liked the idea of being a submissive, in fact I still love that idea: to be at the mercy of an unyielding and powerful dominant, to be flooded in the feelings of it, to shine with love for him even in the midst of cruelty. I’m infatuated by that image and by that kind of connection. I've had several relationships that reach this summit and then… then reality comes back and I remember:

I don’t like the restriction of definitions. Which makes me kind of a lousy submissive. 

For a short while, I wanted so badly to not be so messy. It’s messy to not have a definition. Kink and BDSM offer a kind of relief for people who feel like their sexuality is radically different. There are words and labels for complicated feelings and situations. There is a whole juicy language that you can use to explore your desires. And so often, when I view people on Fetlife, I see people find joy in discovering words and phrases that convey what it is they seek and what it is that drives their relationships. Because there's really deep joy in being understood, in finding belonging. But sometimes, I'm envious of those exact people who appear to fit comfortably inside of the labels the BDSM community uses. Because I don't seem to fit comfortably. Because kinksters are outsiders of mainstream culture and if I am outsider of the outsiders’ then fuck what am I?

Well... I'm not a submissive.  

It's taken me a long time to come to terms with that, but it's supported by my experiences and the broad range of my desires, so it's kind of dumb to deny that fact any longer. In truth, I'm a bad submissive because I have a tremendous appetite and though the submissive impulse has been fun to satiate it doesn’t even chip away at the hunger within.

But what am I then?

Well... a women aflame with desire who adores manipulating emotions, who gets wet from pushing boundaries.

I desire huge emotions provoked from sincere expression with my partners. I desire confessions sung at the height of orgasms, taboos shredded down to their innocence. I desire the emotional jugular—I want to find where your pulse pivots into your soul and I want to stab right the fuck into it.

I desire the pain that deeply loving someone brings. I desire the pleasure in acting like we are not mortal when we try to kill our egos in our sex.

I desire pleasure in all its preposterous forms.

One day I will probably be a full-fledge dominant. That is where it feels like I am going but I am not there there yet. Being a responsible dominant requires a commitment of time and energy that my current life doesn’t allow. So currently, I'm in a strange grey space in how I connect intimately with other kink-minded people. I am realizing more and more that I can see deeply into the psychological underpinnings of my own and my lovers' behaviors. It is hard to be submissive when you see all that. It is hard for other people “to get ahead of me”, cause I'm typically 23 paces ahead, and also because, fuck, I love learning how to lead, I like being at the helm. But more than all that I realized: I want to use my sight to penetrate someone else. I want to explore stripping other people of their power, flex my own without apology. 

I want to bring pain with the intent to heal.

I wish I could comfortably say that I'm a switch. If there has to be a label, I guess that is the label. But I can't settle into it because even as these words come out the ratio of my desires shift, becomes something nuanced and more developed.

All I can tell you is that I used to be submissive and I've experienced what it does. 

And one day, I want to bring others to the places where submissiveness will bring you.


It's just that I'm still learning skills to get us there. 

The metamorphosis of skin

I dressed up like a high class whore. He slapped me across the face. It was sharp and sudden and my instincts flew to the surface in defense. I became the unfearful. I became the girl who can stomach the pain without a flinch. I became the defiant one who glares her prosecutor in the eye, refusing to react with weakness.

I did not plan on becoming that girl. I did not suspect he could yank her out so immediately. I did not think she would manifest as such as I hinged my corset together, as I slinked into high heels. I did not think I would ever see her again.

He resurrected her. But she dissolved fast. Because then soundless tears fell, turning my face into a ramshackle charcoal sketch. There were tears like inky punctuation marks. I’ve reached a point in my life where I am more alive than numb. Alive with tears, alive with contrast. Alive and bleeding mascara on the floor.

My kink-tastes are evolving. Pain has been such an integral part of the exploration; the impetus, actually, of the exploration. But the pain has started to shift its hues, started vibrating in a pitch that is hard to hear. How this evolution impacts our playdates after dinner, I’m not sure. I suspected yesterday that he needed a stomping ground, an arena that could mirror back his prowess. His tastes are violent, cruel and real, when he feels like that. And so often I love him like that. But the pain has started to change its definition in my skin. It’s started to be a thing that dwarfs needs I cannot seem to every directly address.

In the end, it seemed a loving thing to do: to sacrifice flesh to his wishes. To let him leave his mark even it burned and left my face and figure distressed. 

Adoration; an idea.

He had infiltrated, dissolved into her pores. The heat between their bodies lingered like a residue of memory, haloing her silhouette with the desire of what she couldn’t have.

He had lines of a Grecian statue and eyes made of the painful blue truths of the universe. His fingertips were youth incarnate. His torso, the athletic hinge from which all his strength surged.

He was a figure of design so sophisticated that time could not tarnish it.

She considered Fate a merciful planner. They had met in the twilight of his prime and the crescendo of hers. To meet him any earlier would have meant a quicker death, as the fragile tapestry of the shore cannot withstand the thrashing of the tide. The blatant vitality of his younger years consumed everything it touched and in early development her perceptions lacked their current precision. Between these two facts of time past—the force of his intellectual and physical charms and the naiveté of her intuition and romanticism—he would have flooded all her resolve, like the sun blotting out the retinas of the fool who stares at it directly. Fate had been kind by orchestrating their meeting after experience had granted her steelier wits and had tempered his attractiveness into something less intimidating.

Hours, decades, infinity.  

She wanted to savor the soft fur of his belly, careening her lips and nostrils over him, satiating taste and smell in one long, winding gesture. His body made her vividly aware of an ideal she harbored at the core of her identity: adoration. She craved to smolder feelings through her caresses, transcribe longing in laps of her tongue, probe the poles of his body until she had understood and blessed all the subtleties of its landscape. She sought this for adoration—the ideal of loving so completely the self becomes secondary, drowned in the celebration of an external. To adore him like no one else could, she awoke the heroine inside herself.

It was in this waking that she saw more clearly, the world was a flux of ideas, the most unblemished of such were ideals worth fighting and dying for.

Entombed inside the ideal of adoration, lay the ideal of perpetual defense. The adage that one is “a lover and not a fighter” is not true: to love something is to fight for something.  To adore something so purely one must be willing to combat for its significance and survival; to adore an idea so thoroughly, belief in its existences means being incapable of ever turning away from it. The catholic martyrs throughout the ages, dying in adoration of their Christ, intimately knew this dichotomy of adoration and defense.  In the core of such dedication is the spirit of a fighter unwilling to relent on her belief in an idea; an adoration so steady and focused that dying in the name of this dedication is the only option. To do anything else would mean having to release this adoration into the atmosphere, let it diffuse and lose it power. Adoring is equally an act of aggression as much as an act of romance; it forcefully creates meaning in an otherwise lax and meaningless world. To harbor adoration for anything or anyone creates the deepest groove of significance, a depth so profound one is willing to defend the adored to one’s death.

That was how she felt when she thought of him. She adored the expansive quality of their relationship, the sprawling freedom they allowed each other in their movements and commitments. He injected his stylized capriciousness into their connection and the intoxicating swirls of its uncertainty demanded independence and receptivity. She adored what he was to her—stripped of gender, status, age, cultural conventions—he was a human and a god, a precocious boy and a seasoned man, an unrepentant warrior and a compassionate forgiver. In his skin, lay the entire spectrum of human possibility; in his heart, the culmination of emotions for epic tragedies and comedies alike.

She could see this in him from the initial moments of their introductions. This foresight sent her down the path of adoration, and with each successive step the impetus to defend him swelled. The adoration that latched onto him upheaved her heroine in all its irrational grandeur. He was a kaleidoscope of wonder and idealism, a prism of never-ending potential, and she could not being fatally inspired and vowing to safeguard him eternally.

A letter to my lover, on the 1 year anniversary of our sex

My love,

The mysterious has always intrigued me. If there is depth beyond the obvious, I want to keep staring deeply into it, dumbfounded with its complexity. To feel stupid, I think, is the quintessential situation in which I feel most vibrantly alive. It’s an experience that humbles and simultaneously terrifies me.

That’s what happens, I think, when you make me cum the way you do. I become beautifully and frighteningly stupid.

I’ve never cried from orgasm before. But I think that experience is really just a concise example of what happens almost all the time when we have sex: I’ve never before felt what I feel when we have sex. Crying is just one manifestation of your unique effect on me.

You overwhelm me.

Mentally, emotionally, physically when we do the sexual things that we do. It is so much sensation that you overwhelm me spiritually too. I used to play around with this idea of “overwhelmed-ness” in a lot of my past sexual shenanigans. That sense of overwhelmed-ness is probably what compelled me to explore D/s in the first place, although in the initial stages I didn’t have the language or experiences to corroborate that hunch. The idea of a dominant completely trumping my rationality and my body in sexual acts seemed to encapsulate something that every part of my being desires.

But rough sex and power exchange are only small dimensions of this ethereal yearning of “overwhelmed-ness”. Those experiences were both enjoyable and worthwhile but they never seemed to penetrate as deeply as my experiences with you. What’s interesting is that I never even knew I was missing such a critical understanding of sex until we started having it. Kink and BDSM infused so much joy and profundity to my life that I couldn’t imagine there being “more”.

Our sex is “more” and when it’s happening I’m almost always rendered inarticulate while simultaneously being flooded with intense intuitions and sensations. It’s as if all the secrets of the universe course through your body into mine but I literally have no tools to convey any of it.

It’s in this way that our sex brings me to the pinnacles and pains of mortality. To be able to feel the immense pleasure you give me, I have to have a body. I have to accept there are parts of this body that I can’t activate the way that you can (such as hitting my gspot just so), so I have to accept that pleasure is partially dependent on a partner. When you make me cum, it literally feels like energy is surging through all of me, in my cunt and out my mouth, in my ass and through my scalp. It feels like I’m drowning in too much of everything. It feels like your hands and cock and kisses are portals to things I can’t understand—the catalysis that start a trans-dimensional revolution that I didn’t see coming.

But after all that pleasure, you overwhelm me to the fringe of my mortality. And what I mean by that is that I become acutely aware that our sex is a bodily act that represents something “beyond the body”, something spiritual and electric, something bigger than being human. To reach this understanding immediately post-orgasm, just makes me shake with unease: we have fatal conditions called humanity. That’s why I cry: the sheer magnitude of that realization cripples me. There is so much I don’t understand in this universe and even something as mundane and essential as sex has depths that I know nothing about. Post-glow, sometimes, I feel acutely how insignificant I am within the larger picture, probably because while orgasming I am so totally swept up into pleasure that I feel like all of me has merged with the environment. That is not to say I don’t feel necessary in this universe, just so insignificant my smallness becomes terrifying.

These ideas seem so far away from sex. Who thinks of death and the excruciating meaning of life nanoseconds after cumming? I guess I do, even if I don’t do it deliberately. I think this is the primary reason why I cried yesterday. It was this feeling of “it’s over” and the ultimate “it’s over” is death and somehow this sense of hopeless momentum dragged up the awareness of fatality.

You had mentioned something about being vulnerable yesterday and maybe that’s a secondary part. The feeling of vulnerability is most concentrated on the realization that my experience of our sex is not the same as your experience as our sex. Of course, this is a phenomenon that happens in every context and happens to everyone. For me though, the depths of feelings, ideals, ideas, and symbolisms that our sex conjures in me make me feel nearly hysterical: the depth makes me feel achingly alone and desperate to try to explain it afterwards.

You experience the sex differently, of course.  And I know on an intellectual level that this difference in experiences doesn’t mean you don’t highly value our sex in a similar fashion to the way that I do.

It’s just sometimes when I am gripped with tears, riddled with intangible syllables, overpowered by the limited precision of my perceptions, I feel very much like a crazy bat-shit-insane freak for crying when it’s something as simple as friction between your parts and mine.

I realize now that I guess I have always had an inherent desire to digest and symbolize my experiences after they’ve occurred. In a way, it is not enough to just experience them. I want to unpack them, explain them and transcribe them.

Even if it hurts or proves to be impossible.

Explaining what our sex does to me is kind of a vanity venture: it’s a subjective experience that even with the most sophisticated of metaphors will always just be my experience. I have a hard time deciphering if this is a neurotic impulse or a creative one. Perhaps it’s both.

This is also where I feel vulnerable: my impulse to share and pick apart all the layers of moods that happen in our sex is something that makes me worry that you’ll get annoyed with it. Sex is sensation and a lot of it is immediate. I wonder what it’s like for you to fuck ever inquisitive, listless me: "why does it feel so good? How is this happening? I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand!"[1]

Those are statements that float in and out of our rhythms and they are exactly the kinds of ideas that I try to tease apart when we’re away from each other. I don’t understand how our sex does what it does. I don’t understand how the sexual acts I’ve employed my whole adult life never manifested the kind of spiritual portal your body and my body create together. I’m so deeply affected by the caliber of our time together that it always extends for days and hours after the climax. I honestly have never experienced anything as profoundly awe-inspiring as this.

And part of my vulnerability and hence worry is that my pre-occupation with HOW THE FUCK DOES THIS FEEL SO GOOD is going to be spoil the pleasure for you, that my constant inquiries have left the realm of quaint for pestering.
I don’t think that’s the case, but sometimes, because I often feel capitulated into so many directions at once during our sex, I worry that you’ve peeved I can’t just accept being within the just the immediacy of the moment.

I’ve never experienced physical intimacy like our sex, K. I’ve always thought of intimacy as “closeness”. And I still think closeness is the foundation of that word. But something so unexpected has happened. In the closeness of our sex, there is such a colossal expansiveness. Our sex constellates every aspect of my self—mind, body, spirit—and it’s in this constellation that I realize that intimacy is not just about the duality of you and I. Intimacy is also an submerging into things that extend beyond sense perception and it’s in that immersion that everything is connected to everything. Everything melds in vibrations of pleasure, everything breathes.

It’s not just me and you. And it’s not just one moment on my couch. Our sex transcends so much of what I understand to be existence. It connects me to something higher. And sometimes I am so overwhelmed by it, so overwhelmed by you, that all I can manage to do is embrace how I feel and cry.

I love you, so, so, so, so, much. I don’t understand how you do what you do to me but I don’t ever want you to stop.

-C

[1] I just realized: I love it when you answer/respond to these statements while we’re fucking. I LOVE it when you say things like “Because you love me”, “Because I’m fucking your brain”, etc. One time you whispered in my ear “Because this is the meaning of life” and every nerve on my body washed over with your words. Seriously one of the sexiest moments ever. Can we play around with this idea more? When I start crooning that I don’t understand how it feels so good, tell me something like “It’s because I’m the sexiest man you’ve ever seen” and I swear to god, I might instantly cum!

Jealousy; exercise of social familiarity

(written 4/10/2012)

It floods me. It wipes my compassion clean like a day old baguette mercilessly sopping up gravy. All the tender crevices of poorly protected sore spots are smothered to near irreparable disarray as it course through my bloodstream.  The lot of my triggers is tripped. And when it’s coated all my insides, thick and sloppy, I am stunned into my impressionable, vulnerable mortality.

Nothing ever permeates to such an emotional pitch as coagulated jealousy.  And nothing has ever glittered quiet as magnificently as the pinnacle beacon of my stylized loving. Where there is love, there is jealousy, trumping on toes of adoring resolve. Elemental but compelling, my emotional terrain blossoms like a 2 year old psyche.

From here, tucked under the linens of familiar blankets while nestled on reliability of my couch, it should be safe. A million miles of virtual space fortified by hundreds of actualized mileage stretched between you and me. From here, you cannot see or hear me; you cannot smell if I am recently showered or if I’ve eaten too much garlic. From the fortress of my cocoon couch, safety from your influence seems steadfast. Oh, couch, my enclosure of anonymity.

Despite the padding of distance, it’s the silence that’s the loudest scream, penetrating so deep, nerve fibers repeatedly loop negative feedback for weeks after week. You cannot see or hear me nor know if I’ve refused to shower. But it’s vibrant with all the virtual mileage and three dimensional space sledge-hammered between me: a screaming, sustained silence of disconnect. Disinterest. Dislike. I can hear you the most clearly when you say nothing at all. Your message dissolves my protections. What space, what couch, what blanket.

Secrets & taboos

...I want to tell you a secret...

...because I want to gauge reaction to something I'm interested in writing about/exploring.

Recently, something really unexpected but very, very hot made its way into my sex life. I’ve found myself role-playing with a friend in a very sexualized manner. Our relationship is extremely flirtatious, very explicitly honest and yet only on the cusp of concretely sexual. We have made out and groped each other but never had sex (...that's a complex story as to why. But it's mostly because we looooove the prolonged tension.)

Today we had phone sex. And it was one of the hottest, most psychologically intense experiences I've had in a long time.

It's because he was a little boy and I was Mommy.

To hear all that vulnerability in his voice, to hear that perverse mixture of arousal and tension because we’re playing with such dangerous ideas was so fucking hot. Words cannot encapsulate this. It was just so incredibly sexy for him to ask mommy if he could cum and responding with “Yes, baby, cum for Mommy. Be a good boy and let Mommy hear you cum baby….”

This is so taboo. Like the ultimate incest taboo.

I've spent a long time in BDSM cyber circles and the Daddy/girl dynamic is alive and well. People identify as "Daddies" or "baby girls"; those are viable labels in such social networks like Fetlife (that's like kinky Facebook, if you didn't know). In broader strokes, "dominant male/submissive female" is overwhelmingly the most prevalent and seemly accepted dynamic. Mommies and little boys seem so few and far between in what I've come across. There is no option to label yourself as "Mommy" or "baby boy" on Fetlife, despite being a kink-website with a multitude of options for specifying your quirks. As such, the Mommy/boy dynamic seems to be sequestered out of the public view, even amongst the kinksters. The “Mommies” I have seen appear to actually look like real life mommies: overweight, saddle-bag titted, matronly and old.

This is not me. I'm 29, vivacious and have an ass like granite.

To be a mommy seems freakish, even among the freaks. To be a little boy seems pathetic and less cherished than being a “baby girl” to her adoring “Daddy”.  And that is not what my very-sophisticated-friend-turned-momentary-little-boy feels like at all to me. I love him for his strength, his intuitive ability to handle the many layers of the human psyche, his independence and his mind's flexibility. To have him personify the complete opposite of himself--to be timid, to forfeit all his worldly experience--is what makes it so fucking hot. It's hot to expose a side of him I didn't know he had.

I really want to go down this twisted-as-fuck road. To allow it to shake up my morals, drag me out of my comfort zone, and bond—on such an eccentric and intimate level—with someone else. To write about it, expose it, savor it, exploit it.

But, it's hard for me to place this experience, hard for me to conceptualize its appeal to people beyond myself. "Dominant female" is something that fits me better as I grow; I've developed beyond the original naiveté I possessed when I first started exploring submission and BDSM. But Mommy? I never thought I could find myself fleshing out that role--coddling the vulnerability of a grown man, pretending to make his sexuality something new and delicate and off limits and getting soooooooo wet doing it.

My kinks are evolving and something about it is a little unnerving; I am on such feral and psychologically penetrating territory. It’s a little scary.

But I suppose the one thing that has stayed so steadfast in all my time exploring my kinks is this: fear makes me wet.

My favortiest boy-toy is coming over...

...and I am writing lesbian prose in the dark ;)

The Peculiarities of the Couch; a doppelganger in the most improbable of places

I’m not actually sure why I’ve come here, as we’re saddled thigh by thigh on the couch. He’s showing me the artwork of his mentor but I’m noticing the pressure of his leg against mine and the sensation of compact security haloed around me from my seat. He’s talking about something I’m not listening to and almost lackadaisically, my hand lands at the base of his neck. “Uhuh, yeah that’s amazing…” I say mechanically, masquerading the nonchalantly flirtation of my fingertips as they commence massaging his scalp. His breathy exhalation reveals that I’ve infiltrated his attention. It’s in this place that my hands start to say everything that festers in the depravity of my heart.

I know that I can court him with the malleable texture of my affection, with the heat generated from my brain to fingertips. I can weave oceans of words into touch. I can luxuriate in all his skin’s warmth, translating emotions into sweeping sprawls of caresses. I want to make him feel good because that makes me feel good. Nothing is as empowering as being a transmitter of pleasure, to coax the beast out of his sleeping haven with glimmers of hedonistic hope. 

Nothing is as empowering as being a woman honing her seductive arts on a canvas of fervent male skin.

We laugh, in a kind of feigned disbelief, as his head droops idly into my chest. Another fragmentary moan escapes in a low grumble for his mouth. At the darkest pitch of that sound, like a harsh exclamation point, his mouth clamps the milky flesh that cascades from my shoulder into my breast. He bites and bites hard, it makes me gasp and coo encouragingly. He takes another penetrative bite through the fabric of my dress, the padding of my bra, to the approximate place of my right breast’s areola. It’s a desirous, greedy bite. On naked skin, he’d christen that place purple.

We laugh, because we are friends behaving as curious friends with mischievous impulses do. There is always something askew about the way our body language synchronizes together like there’s a hidden instinct with no discernible origin. It doesn’t matter that we legitimatize a dozen reinforcements for the platonic fencing; we relocate that line more often than I can count. It’s become a game now, a kind of social chess that makes me eager to see how ingenuously I can conceal my next flirtation.

We go back and forth like this for just 15 minutes. 15 minutes of friendship muddled with distractions and vice.

There’s a demon running revolutions in the core of him; an overcharged impulse to savor the presence of women. I can see this tear at his direction and his commitments.  He’s propelled by sensual momentum and when I touch him it feels as if I am yanking him around by the very sins that define him. Touching him means I can drag him by his demons, seduce him into relieving his unquenchable desires in my hands. It’s so empowering, intoxicating to smear my intuitive touch all up and down the masculine definition of his body. I do it sweetly, calculatingly, just to watch him react and let his guard down. I peel his shirt up and graze the trail of dark hair that trims the well-developed lines  of his abdominal muscles. I look at him with simulated innocence and bite my lower lip as if conflicted by a growing sense of passion. I am not innocent at all. There is no internal conflict. This is how I play this game. I bite my lower lip because I can smell his pheromones. It makes me want to score his scent underneath my finger nails by carving my initials into his flesh.

Because we are just friends but my body jolts behaving as if I forgot.

Because, perhaps, if I remember his weakness is women, he knows that mine is men.

His lips meet mine, lifting his nuzzled face from my embrace. His mouth tastes so fresh and familiar; so inviting and devious, oscillating from the electricity of a first kiss to the familiarity of soul mates. Our kisses never had an uncooperative adjustment, not even the first. Our kisses, much like our exchanges, are about teasing, allusion, craft. His tongue just barely rounds mine and the flavor of his salvia makes my pussy response as if salivating back.

When it feels like he is slipping away from the kiss, I bring him back with my bites and nibbles. I want to devour his mouth a little more, distract him with my kisses so I can keep caressing the silk and fur of his body. Without even having to look I know that the stubble of his chin and lip are reddening the skin around my mouth. It’s doesn’t matter about the aesthetics, the abrasion of stubble makes it so painfully clear that I am kissing a man. A man with rough edges of muscularity and the smooth, deep aromas of experience permeating through his pores.

I kiss him because I like knowing that I shouldn’t.

His fingertips languidly trace the intangible line between my inner thigh and cunt. He takes his mouth off mine and smirks; my scent will radiate off his clothes when goes to see his evening playmate in 10 minutes. I laugh because it’s more likely that one of my renegade blonde hairs will stowaway on his sleeve. He stands up from the couch and pulls his shirt overhead, lingering in front of me shirtless, asking me what I think of his body. It’s so lean, so smothered in linear muscles, so strong and earnest. The type of body that could pick a woman up by her hips and shake her into orgasm. Rugged. Masculine. Beautiful. I touch the thick ridge of his oblique and involuntarily bite my lip. This time I mean it. The uninterrupted view of his torso stuns me into covetous surprise. I want to smoke out all the carnal places that will give him the sweetest pleasure.

And now I want to kiss him where his hips meld with his waist. I caress my mouth down the front of his stomach, puckering my lips into the heat hiding behind the elastic of his briefs. He laughs when I kiss right there. A laugh that holds so many words in such a fleeting sound. The evening is quickening, his mistress is waiting. Not enough time for poignant allusions, and definitely not enough time to dapple his manhood with suction and tender kisses.

I stand, kissing his mouth and grazing my fingernails across the broad of his shoulders, careening into his triceps. He makes approving, lustful sounds. He stretches his arms into fresh, navy material; he asked me what I think as he soothes the fabric across his body, admiring its cut in his reflection. The shirt accentuates the ripples of his biceps, the graceful definition of his chest. It’s the kind of shirt that advertises that he would look good in absolutely any environment, any blend of synthetics, any set of crumpled bed sheets across the country. He looks so good because he makes it look effortless.

I tell him it looks just a smidge too tight.

He slips into his bedroom and reemerges in the door frame, wearing a leather jacket, forcing the impression that the girl he’s about to see is young. I tease him about it and when I turn, shimmy my ass into his crotch.  His hands unhesitatingly go up my dress and dig into my hips while I rotate them around. In one fast pull, he yanks my thong and leggings downwards, clawing his nails into my bare flesh.

And then I hear that sound: the metallic unfastening of his belt prongs, the jangle of yearning produced from the shifting of unzipped denim. His cock is at the vestibule of my ass crack, idly rubbing around. Instinctually, I push back and swivel into his advances. For only a handful of seconds, we play around with this blatant transgression of our friendship. “Oh baby I want to but… maybe… when…” he says.

But we know that maybe’s subjective. Maybe definitely, maybe never. I coyly snap my panties back into their proper place, giggling and satisfied with my brazenness. He tucks his member back into the constriction of his grey briefs. We laugh, because we are friends, behaving shamelessly.

At his front door, he kisses me again, slowly, meaningfully. He tells me that he loves me, that’s he think I am awesome. He’s staring at my mouth as he says it, a gleam of appreciation for the complex niceties I bring into his life twinkling in his eyes. I know that he’s a charmer, a seducer with a never-ending stream of adoring words. But for this moment, I opt to believe what he says, and I let him briefly washing my psyche in his magic.

We bound together in our naturally swift paces towards our respective cars. He places his hand around the crook of my elbow, trying to escort me with his cultural antiquities. I cut off his courtship rituals; bothering with contrived formalities doesn’t interest me. On the street, I have no desire for him to soften my hard-head independence. On the street, we blithely kiss and I climb inside my car.

My movements slow once tucked into the confines of my vehicle. I watch his car abruptly accelerate to his destination before I even have the key in my ignition. In this lull of transition, my thoughts are clear, objective. We are so the same, possessing comparable histories of bloody battles fought between freedom and security. We are big egos and inquisitive minds who surround ourselves with people who can stomach our insensitivities, our identical self-preoccupations. We ply similar brands of manipulations to everything around us, tweaking details and intuitively sensing options, employing charm like a Band-Aid when we are too lazy. We have the same intolerance for restrictions on our mobility, our natural needs to wander after wonder, resenting having to justify why. On our good days we craft landscapes of beautiful social harmony; on our bad days, we are mere beasts dressed in tarnished clothes, demanding more and more and more. Everything I hate about him is exactly the stuff I hate in myself. And everything I find interesting about him rest on the hope that, despite our shape-shifting morality, his intent is pure even if he’s hands and mouth aren’t.

Maybe that is what attracts us but also why we will never have sex. We are like con-artists flashing wares and exploits, marveling at each other’s somber skills, but never really revealing the full arsenal because the thrill is in the hunt. Neither one of us is willing to forfeit anything. That is why we’re friends. But it sure is enticing to imagine that we could.

We are so the same.

Except that he is a man, rushing fluidly into the next sequence of his conquest as I watch his headlights slip over the horizon. I am a woman, lingering in my driver’s seat, readying my language, reflecting on my ambivalent heart. I know I must seek rest. I cannot keep rushing on like him. I must first birth all the thoughts he spawns inside my head.