Secret Confessions of a Smart Girl

What does it say about me that when I see a friend write about sharpening a straight razor the first place my mind goes is “sex.” “Shaving” is a far distant second.

When I first conceived of this post, it was going to be about my werewolf fetish. Which, really, has very little to do with wolves or were-creatures, and everything to do with my sensual appreciation of tooth and claw. I love intimate violence. Pain is fun for me, in general, but if you can hurt me with your hands or your mouth it becomes almost automatically sexual. More importantly, it becomes sexual in a way I’m comfortable with, something not always true for… more gentle attentions. A few years ago I had the opportunity to play with someone who was wearing those wonderful metal finger claws you sometimes see at events. At that point I still had very strong limits against explicitly sexual play, but I seriously considered throwing them out the window. These days, I suspect I would find myself very easily convinced to do just about anything by someone skilled with long metal nails like knives they wore extending from their hands.

I have a knife fetish. I define fetish, in this context, by the less all-encompassing meaning. That is, I fixate sexually on knives and other bladed objects, but I do not require them for my sexual gratification. In my toy bag I have far more knives than any sane person would ever need. Unfortunately, I don’t get to play with them very often. I think that’s probably because you’re either a knife person or you’re not. It’s not the sort of thing you pick up because you’re curious. My experience is that novice tops are far more likely to want to experiment with a flogger than with a blade. The other factor is that for a lot of people knife play is about fear. For me it has nothing to do with fear. Knife play is about sex, sex and control. If you hold a knife to my throat expecting anything other than to see my spine flex in desire, you’re going to be disappointed. Unsurprisingly, knives are the one thing I really enjoy topping with. No matter how much I enjoy being hit, I don’t *get* why someone would want to hit someone. Knives, however… I could play on someone’s skin for hours. Which is, I suppose, the other reason I don’t get to play with them that often. I want to do knife play with people for whom sexual feelings are a reasonable option. It’s a pretty safe bet that knife play is going to make me want sex. I don’t need to act on that desire, but I prefer that it lands on someone appropriate.

What all this means is that when someone who I find attractive posts about needing to sharpen a straight razor… my first thought is an irrational flash of desire to have them run it across my skin.

A few days ago I received an instant message from the man I had cam sex with earlier this year. “I’ve moved to the area. I want you to go out with me.”

To be fair, the cam sex wasn’t our only interaction. We’ve had long discussions about life, work, and politics. We’ve realized that there’s a fair chance that we met as children, since our families went to second seder literally around the corner from each other. We’ve talked about sex with other people.

He phrased it the right way. He didn’t ask me, “Will you go out with me?” He said, “I want you to go out with me,” and by putting it that way pushed all the buttons he needed to to make sure I would.

I was lying in bed this morning, thinking about how this date would go, and so I present to you both the fantasy and the, far more probable, reality.

I must start this off by saying that frequently, when I go out on a date, I spend much of the time wondering how it’s going to end. “Is he going to try and kiss me?” “Do I want him to?” In TamLin, which is one of my favorite books, at one point a character kisses a girl at the very start of their first date to get the awkwardness out of the way. In some ways this seems like a really excellent idea. On the other hand, what if the answer to the second question is “No?”All that is, however, largely irrelevant to what I spent the last two hours fantasizing about.

The Fantasy:
I’d show up at his apartment wearing my short green and blue batik dress with no bra, and just the tiniest thong. I don’t know what time it would be, but I suspect our plans would be to go for lunch or dinner. Instead of having him come down to meet me, though, I’d ask him to buzz me up so that I could use the bathroom. He’d let me into the apartment, and I’d check him out. I have no idea if I’d find him attractive in person, but if I did, I’d excuse myself to the WC where I’d remove my underwear before returning to the living room to find him sitting on the couch.

“This is awkward,” I’d say, while looking at the books on his shelves, “I’ve never met you before, but you’ve already seen me naked. For that matter, in a very real way we’ve already had sex. And yet, now that I’m here, I have no idea what the expectations are.”

I’d walk towards him then, before continuing, “I don’t even know if you’re attracted to me in person, but I’d prefer you didn’t lie to me about it,” and then depending on his answer, depending on what I saw in his eyes, I’d tell him the truth, “It’s been a very long time since I’ve had a man’s hands on me when I didn’t know there were lines he wasn’t going to cross. I liked what you had me do on the camera. I liked when you told me about meeting that girl who you wanted to play with, but didn’t want to fuck. I’d be fine with that. But I don’t want to spend the whole time with you feeling awkward. I need you to know that I’m not wearing anything under this dress, and it’s entirely your choice whether or not, and when, you want to see.”

At that point, he’d stand up, and run his hands down my back, feeling for bra straps or panty lines, looking for anything under the sheer cotton of the dress that wasn’t just girl. His hands would continue lower, over my ass, until they reached the hem of the fabric where it hit me mid thigh. “Really?” he’d ask, and slide his hands underneath the fabric to feel my naked skin. “You’re already wet.”

“Being scared, being bold, risking humiliation… well, it turns me on.”

At that point he’d test me with a finger, which would slide so easily into my cunt that I’d gasp. “Yes, I can see that,” and he’d drag his hand over my clit as he pulled the dress up and over my head…

The Probable Reality:
I’d show up at his apartment wearing my short green and blue batik dress with no bra, and just the tiniest thong. After he let me in, I’d scurry to the bathroom nervously, not even letting him take my jacket. I’d come out, then, as I went in, and we’d go and have a terribly awkward lunch. Afterwards, I’d run out of the place as fast as possible to avoid the chance of anything happening and go home feeling like a wimp. A horny wimp, who wishes she were half so bold in reality as she is in her head.

I’ve just realized that I hardly ever fantasize about having sex with women. I find this odd, because I really do consider myself to be pretty much a 50/50 bisexual. I date women just about as often as I do men, and could just as easily see myself in a long term monogamous relationship with one. There is nothing in me that requires a man to be happy. And yet… I don’t fantasize sexually about women.
I wonder if, to a degree, this is because I find sex with women to be more accessible than sex with men. If you put me in a room with 50 women and 50 men, I’ll probably be sexually attracted to at least 40 of the women and less than 10 of the men. I like women. I find them gorgeous and sensual in all types, shapes, and sizes. Men, on the other hand, I find attractive less often. I don’t have a particular “type,” but it’s far more rare that I’ll be attracted to a man before I actually get to know him. Men have to have substance behind their style for me to want to do them, but women just have to smell good. I like to touch them. They’re pretty.
I think it’s far more likely that my lack of fantasizing about women reflects the fact that I’m far more sexually omnivorous with women. I consider my primary sexual orientation to be “kinky” rather than “bisexual,” but with women my sensual preferences don’t fall as easily into any defined role. Men, particularly a certain sort of sarcastic and irreverent dominant men, make me want to do very specific things. Women, I’m happy if I just get to play with them like a cat toy. Plus, I have to admit, most dominant women do nothing for me, and since the vast majority of my sexual fantasies are submissive or masochistic, that probably explains the rest of the lack.
As I typed the above, I realized this is all related to why, in general, I’m far more comfortable being sexually aggressive with women. There are very few men who I enjoy being dominant with in bed, and my experience has been that with men, particularly with kinky men, an active approach from a woman often leads to expectation of my taking a more dominant role. Even, sometimes, when I’ve used my patented “Hi! You’re shiny, I don’t suppose I could interest you in doing horrible things to me” line. With women, either that expectation exists less often or I don’t mind acting on it. I’m not sure which.

I have often thought about the fact that what I fantasize about, and what I actually enjoy, are two very different things. This came up earlier in the week, because of a discussion a friend was having about orgasming from penetration. Penetration is often a huge part of my fantasy life. Whether it’s dreaming about getting gang banged by lesbians with strap-ons, dual- or triple- penetration fiction, or straightforward romance novel “he’s so huge, will it really fit?” fucking, penetration is often a central feature of my imaginary sex life. In my head, being filled to overflowing, fucked for hours in every hole, and stretched to my limits is hot. In reality? I like penetration, I like it a lot, but I prefer fingers or a small toy to a big cock. I am not a size queen. My first lover was an extremely well endowed man, and while the rest of our sex life was incredibly hot, fucking him just hurt, and not in a good way. I’m a masochist, but that kind of pain felt like damage, rather than the white hot ecstasy of a singletail or blade. Despite knowing this, however, it’s still what I fantasize about. I think, to an extent, it’s what I’ve been conditioned to fantasize about, and thinking about it gets me off.

I do wonder, though, if it would be possible to take advantage of my masochism for a man to turn size to his advantage. Perhaps part of the problem is that neither my partners nor I had the goal of making sex hurt, and so the pain was an unfortunate side effect rather than an intended consequence. What if, instead, the setup was different? What if the goal was pain, rather than pleasure? I think it would be almost unspeakably hot for someone to force me open, to make their cock fit, to move and shift inside me until I am able to accommodate his pleasure, and then fuck me until I scream. I know a man who collects large dildos. On one hand, they scare me. On the other, the thought of him finding ways to get them inside, slowly working them in, inch by inch, not for my pleasure, but for his own satisfaction makes my nipples go hard and my heart rate quicken. Imagining the sensation of stretching, of pain, of being told that that solid hunk of silicone is going to go in even if it takes all night gets me writhing. But thats fantasy.

In reality, I don’t know. I prefer a lover who can fuck me without making me feel damaged. I would, however, like to experiment one day. I’d like to be tied, spread-eagled, to a bed while someone penetrates me with a toy that for pleasure’s sake is a bit too big. I’d like them to work it in, focused on their task, not because they think it’s going to give me an orgasm, but just to see if they can.

Lately, I’ve been fantasizing about spanking. Specifically, over-the-knee, bare-bottom,naughty- schoolgirl, corporal-punishment-was-never-intended-to-be-this-hot spankings. I’ve been thinking about them so often that I’ve actually been masturbating to craigslist posts. I find this somewhat mortifying, but there are some dirty dirty men out there who, at least in a text medium, know how to push all my buttons. I don’t answer the ads, don’t even consider it, because I know that in real life they would almost certainly never give me what I want. If only because, at just under 5′9″, it takes a big strong man to throw me over his knee in a way that doesn’t make both of us end up feeling like idiots.

What do I dream about, though? Well that’s easy. The set-up is unimportant. I don’t care if you want to pretend to be my professor, my boss, or even my daddy. All that matters is that I’ve been very very bad. I want you to call me into your office, where you sit, all masculine and powerful behind your desk, to tell me that I should be ashamed of myself, thinking that I could get away with what I’ve done. I want you to respond to my feigned apologies with “sorry isn’t good enough, I think that punishment is in order,” and fist your hand in my hair to pull me over your knee. I want you to pull my skirt up to my waist and my panties down to my knees and for the spanking to begin. I want to feel your hand hard against my ass, over and over again. I want to feel that tenting in your trousers as I squirm against them, so I know that what you are doing to me turns you on. Then, as you run your hand over my ass to feel the warmth you’ve created there, I want your fingers to dip lower. I want you to notice the dampness in my cunt so that you know that I am a naughty naughty girl. I want you to brush your fingers across my clit, and then I want you to hit me harder.

Is it selfish that I want you to hurt me and make me come? To throw me, disheveled, to the floor afterwards, while you sit there almost perfectly composed in your navy pinstriped suit? Is it wrong that I want to kneel on the floor before you, eyes large with lust, dripping wet, smelling like sex, and see you sitting above me perfectly clean and composed? Afterwards, I’ll want to take you in my mouth, suck you until you come, and feel your hand fisted once again in my hair almost to the point of pain as you sit back, smile at me, zip up your pants, and toss me aside so that you can get back to work.

A few months ago, I had my first experience with web-cam sex. Technological malfunctions aside, it was one of the hottest things I’ve ever done in my life. For most of my adult years, I’ve had exhibitionist fantasies, and fantasies about public sex. However, my belief that it’s rude to impose your sexuality on others means that I never have indulged those desires. Then, out of the blue, I started corresponding with a man from an online personals site, and one night, while he was telling me about his web cam adventures, I thought “I want to do that.” So I did. I set up a tripod in my bedroom and took off my clothes for the camera. I didn’t want my face splashed across the internet along with my naked body, but that was okay with him, because what he wanted was a hardcore shot. He wanted my cunt, up close, and in detail, so that he could tell me what to do to my body, and make certain I was following instructions. I felt both embarrassed and aroused by the things he asked for, but such is my personality that the embarrassment mostly served to turn me on more. I would willingly, no happily, do it again. Excitedly open my legs, and my body, for the camera. Touch myself only by instruction, deny myself what I want, and give my watcher exactly what (s)he requests. I don’t think I’ve ever found it so easy to orgasm by my own hand as I did that night when it was directed by someone else’s words.

I think that part of the appeal of cam sex is that, for me, it is the ultimate in safe sex. I’m rather profoundly sexually submissive, so being told what to do to myself is an enormous turn-on, and the fact that I get to follow someone else’s desires without risking my health or wellbeing in any way is rather nice. I don’t entirely understand what the director/viewer gets out of it, but I would welcome insight, and I have to admit that it’s nice to feel free to be selfish in my pleasure.

I devoutly want to do it again. Preferably with fewer technological problems, because having to reboot the window every 5 minutes was a bit of a mood killer. I wish I was nervy enough to be that open in person. In person, I’m far more comfortable receiving pain from someone than sexual pleasure. No matter how much I might want the latter. The safety I feel from being on the other side of a computer screen is difficult to replicate in person.

I’ve written, and published, some erotica in the past. When I write for publication, I tend to focus on story. Lately, however, I’ve been wanting to focus on sex. I want to write about the things I wish I were doing. I find that there’s something about putting fantasies down on paper in a place where other people can see them that gives me an exhibitionistic thrill. There’s something both safe and exciting about writing a sex blog. I get to be naked in front of the world, without risking my dignity in front of my friends and family. It makes me want to type one handed…