Secret Confessions of a Smart Girl

My initial plan for this evening was to be ravished.

I was rather looking forward to it. Nonetheless, when the ravishment had to be canceled because of various technical difficulties, I decided to look on the bright side. Lack of ravishment would become an opportunity to get work done before heading down to BRXX this weekend. It would, in fact, abrogate the need to work while I was down there. That would, in turn, hopefully provide more opportunities for kinky decadence.

So I got my work done.

Now I am insanely horny. Even more so than usual.

I am going to try and turn this to the benefit of one or more of my various jobs by writing about sex. Then, when that fails, I will go eat some chocolate, read some porn, and hope that I manage to be ravished sometime in the near future.

Oooh. Or maybe I’ll watch some porn. I forgot that I have two DVDs on the review queue that need to be dealt with. One of the DVDs is even something I requested, and therefore actually want to see. That will be a nice change. Most of the porn I get sent to review is more disturbing than hot. Sadly, I’ve already reviewed all the new sex toys. Have I mentioned how much I love it when masturbation counts as being productive? I mean, I’d do it anyway, but when its for the sake of work it’s twice as good.

Can it be tomorrow yet?

For me, the secret to successful orgasms is a good book.

Oh, in a pinch a good website will do, or some really raunchy content from alt.sex.stories (what are your search keywords? mine are nc and mmf) , but it’s words that are the most important component in my recipe for getting off. If I’m masturbating, no amount of even amazing sensation will give me an orgasm if I can’t engage my brain in the activity, and I frequently have trouble holding onto a fantasy to fulfillment without the presence of visual aids (literal aids? I do not think that means what I think it means.) In contrast, the right story, such as something from Shokushu High School, can get me off with little physical stimulation at all.

Am I weird? This is an honest question. I’m actually rather well educated about the academics of sex and sexuality, but the answer to this question I do not know. I know that, in general, there is more pornography consumption by men, but also that people who masturbate more consume more pornography - regardless of gender. A quick search of the literature suggests that men are more likely to use fantasy as part of masturbation than women, but nothing specifically on my, possibly ADD mediated, use of the written word.

I was thinking about this prior to my afternoon nap and post my afternoon pre-nap orgasm. It made me wonder, what the most important ingredient is in the orgasm recipe - and if it varies between masturbatory orgasms and interactive orgasms. I don’t know if it’s that they’re different for me, or if I just weigh the importance of orgasms differently in different situations. If I’m masturbating, it’s because I want to get off. I want the physical release and relaxation, either because I’m horny or because its better than drugs for helping me fall asleep. On the other hand sex with someone else can be good or even great, with no orgasms anywhere in sight. Not that they’re not nice there as well, but, for me, sex with other people is about the experience and the interaction - not achieving an orgasmic “goal.” Getting off isn’t an intrinsic desire for me in BDSM scenes, either. I just like having the crap beaten out of me… or whatever*.

Are these things that other people think about as well?

———-
*Here in the privacy of my anonymity I will admit that sometimes when I’m playing casually it’s not about the interaction at all. It’s about experiencing certain types of enjoyable sensations. There has been more than one time when I really could have cared less who was at the other end of a whip, candle, or hand as long as it was delivering enjoyable sensations. It’s certainly more fun to play when I’m playing with someone fun, but sometimes a girl just wants some good no-commitment bruises. Admitting this makes me feel terribly selfish, but it’s the truth.

(and yes, that was sung to the tune of Rawhide)

I’m very excited, because I have a caning date for Sunday. This makes me happy for several reasons. The first is the caning itself. I really like being caned. The second is getting to see the caner, who is a Delightful Human Being. The third is that I get to consciously watch the progression of my marks over the period of a week to see what I have to worry about on filming day before I’m scheduled to have the awkward conversation with my director. So, and I’m sure this will greatly distress my caner, I need to end up with some really impressive marks. You know, for the sake of science. Then, maybe I won’t have to say to my director and A.D. “How exactly will the partially nude shots be set up, and will whip marks be a problem for you on the day of the shoot?” To quote He Who Shall Aid Me in My Experiment “You just managed to make our scene practical. I am amazed.” Yes. It’s true, world. When it comes to pointless justifications… I’m Just That Good.

Speaking of which, I now have two good reasons to make blondies with dark chocolate chips (wanting to eat them is a reason, but it isn’t good.) I shall keep some, bring some to the Wielder of Destructive Implements, and send the rest to The Boy Formerly Known as Crush. When people I care about are distressed I want to make them baked goods. I’m just that sort of a girl, and I have the Donna Reed dress to prove it.

I have a million things to do today. I’m stressed over a film shoot, I have to find a substitute for my absent dog sitter, and I can’t manage to get out of bed because I’m thinking about sex. As I’ve mentioned in the past, I’m not a morning person. One of the side effects of not being a morning person is that if I’m lying in bed fantasizing my mind starts to wander just as it gets to the good parts. Or, alternatively, I end up on an endless loop of revisions until the early part of the fantasy is letter perfect, but I don’t actually get thoroughly and debasingly fucked. It’s not only extremely frustrating, it takes a long time. And, on mornings like this when I have Things to Do, it means I have to force myself out of bed and into the world at large when I’d rather would far rather lie there half asleep, touching myself just enough to enhance my imagination.

But I am responsible woman, and I have dragged myself out of bed, walked the dog, and sat down at the computer to exorcise the fantasy from my fevered brain so that I can then throw myself into the shower and make myself pretty in time to go be brilliant and glamorous on film.

————

“I’ll give you a choice,” he said, while we were walking to the car after I picked him up at the airport. “You can suck me off here, in the car, before we drive home, and then maybe I’ll want to fuck you when we get there, or you can wait until we get home and suck me off there and then I’ll just go to sleep afterwards.”

He’d been gone for a month. There wasn’t really any choice at all. I blushed, and muttered softly, “here please.”

“What did you say?” he asked, leaning against the side of the car where it was parked in the middle of the crowded parking lot.

I knelt down on the cold concrete and looked up at him, “Here please.”

“Good girl,” he said, and I moaned softly as his hand went to the button of his pants…

I used to have a t-shirt that said “Bite me, literally.” It was better than any pick-up line. I got nibbled on constantly. Once, at DragonCon, a bunch of Klingons passed me around like a mid-afternoon snack. I like being bitten. It’s a nice combination of intimacy and pain.

I wonder what happened to that shirt.

In the good old days, when I was spending a great deal more time in scene space, I used to do a lot of what I call “stunt bottoming.” For those of you who do not have a direct line to the translation center of my brain, what I call “stunt bottoming” is bottoming to someone who is learning a new trick. A lot of times I did this because that “someone” was a hot girl, and any excuse to play with a hot girl is a good excuse to play with a hot girl, but I also did it because it pings the ‘helpful’ aspect of my personality… and I’m good at it.

What I think makes me useful as a stunt bottom, or teaching tool, is that I’m quite capable of having a lovely time being hit with things, or poked with things, or otherwise manipulated, without being in any sort of headspace that impairs my ability to communicate. I’m also perfectly comfortable giving not just descriptive feedback “that feels like ‘x’“, but constructive feedback “you’re starting to wrap a little on my neck,” to tops without feeling, somehow, that I’m infringing on their toply prerogatives. Plus, as I told the girl whose topping virginity I took a few months ago, “I’m not going to get mad at you if you make a mistake and miss a target or hit me too hard. I can take care of myself.”

*sigh* I miss having a fabulous local play space. It’s fun to make new friends and get hit by people.

When I lived in Baltimore, I used to spend a lot of time at the best playspace in the world. That’s not its name, of course, but if you’ve been there you know where I mean, and if you haven’t it’s no longer open to the public. TBPITW was run by a female couple, and I adored both of them. I helped out, a lot, at the space and I also played with one of them quite frequently. Sometimes, explicitly, and other times she’d just come up and choke me before moving on to do something else. It was… comfortable. There were lots of incredibly hot women there, and I loved playing with them, and hanging out with them, and making out with them… well you get the picture. It amused me to no end that the owners of TBPITW insisted that I was really gay. I maintained, and still do, my bisexuality, but I was never annoyed by this insistence, which was always made with good humor. If anything, I was flattered. The dykes I respected accepted me as one of their own. Even if the local lesbian leather organization did not. When I tried to spend time at the Baltimore leather women’s group I almost always felt… decidedly unwelcome. Not everyone made me feel that way, not at all, but I never just never felt like I fit in. I wasn’t sure what it was, if it was my girlyness, my shyness, my admitted bisexuality, or just me rubbing people the wrong way. Maybe it was all three.

Fast forward to about six months ago when I nervously made my first forays into the local women’s leather organization in New York. It was so much more welcoming. I met a ton of really amazing women, and even started dating one of them. It was nice. It is nice. Other than the fact that I frequently feel like an old lady, I feel like I fit in much better than I did with the women’s group in Baltimore. I’m kind of enjoying it. Even though I still firmly insist upon my identification as bisexual.

Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Since the “lady” is me, it’s probably a good bet that I’m right. Unfortunately, I already wrote the obvious post for a half awake girl, so instead I’m going to talk about what I was doing on the Internet last night. No, I did not give in to my desire to once again be a web cam girl. Instead, I got sucked into a web site that was selling fucking machines.

I find them interesting. I also find them, in the abstract, somewhat hot. I say in the abstract, because when, in the past, I’ve had the opportunity to try out the Sybian; I’ve declined. Now, part of that is probably due to my lack of comfort, at the time, with my own sexuality, but in a conversation last night I realized that there was something else going on. I don’t want to fuck a machine. I want a machine to fuck me.

The machines that I found exciting, were the ones that would be like a robot pounding away. In particular, there was a terribly arousing looking machine where the “victim” was shackled into a metal rack that held her on her hands and knees while the machine fucked her from behind. Hot.

I’m falling asleep at the keyboard so my defenses are low enough that I have to admit that I have no idea where this obsession with fucking that fills this blog has come from. I mean, I like penetration, but, on the list of sensations that turn me on, actual fucking is probably pretty low. Why, then, is it such a mental button? I think about it all the time. I suspect that some of it is the intimacy. More, probably, is that it speaks to physical desire. But neither of those things explains the attraction of the machines.

Realistically speaking, being fucked by a machine probably wouldn’t be that enjoyable of an experience - at least not from a purely physical standpoint. The machine I’ve turned down, the Sybian, is actually the one best designed for female pleasure. So, then, presumably the attraction is psychological. I don’t want to use the machine to get off, I want it to be used on me as a game for someone else. In fact, the thought of writhing to orgasm on a Sybian, with my hands on the controls, is hardly appealing at all. On the other hand, the thought of being held on it, whether or not I want to be there, with someone pushing buttons just to see what they make me do… is actually kind of hot.

Once again, it’s all about the thought of being used as a sex toy. In this case, not even used as one for someone else’s physical pleasure, just for their amusement. I’m far more comfortable with expressions of my sexuality, particularly public ones, when they’re not about my pleasure. Someone else’s pleasure, sure. My humiliation, great. But if it’s about me getting off, then all of a sudden it becomes stressful instead of exciting or fun. Too much pressure. So much of orgasm is psychological, and, for me, having to be goal oriented for myself is not a terribly conducive head space.

———-

He rolled off me satiated, and got up to get a drink of water.

When he returned, I was still lying on the bed. He touched my arm and I turned towards him hopefully, writhing slightly under his gaze.

“Why you little slut. That wasn’t enough for you?,” he leaned down to breathe the next words in my ear, “What, do you want me to fuck you again?”

I moaned at the feeling of his breath on my skin.

“I’m not a teenager anymore, and I’m tired. Me, inside you, is something you are not going to get.”

I tried not to show my disappointment, but I must have failed.

He laughed, cruelly, “I’m going to give you what you think you want, and you’re not going to like it one bit.”

Pulling me up by my hair, he dragged me into the other room where he pushed me over the ottoman, and than bound my wrists to and used a bar to separate my knees. First shoving two fingers in my cunt, he then pulled them out and came around to wipe them on my cheek. “So wet,” he said, “the little slut thinks she wants more. She thinks a good fucking is exactly what she desires.” He fisted his hand tightly in my hair again and whispered in my ear, “she’s wrong.”

I heard him leave the room for a moment, and then come back dragging a heavy object. The next thing I felt was a dildo pushing between my legs. He thrust it in deeply, until it was snug up against my cervix, and then I heard the sound of metal dials being set. “Be careful what you wish for,” he continued, and then simultaneously two things happened. I heard a motor start up, and I felt the dildo start pulling out.

In and out, the dildo was relentless. The sensation was incredible, but it wasn’t giving me what I needed. With each stroke I grew hotter, and more aroused, but with no other stimulation, it wasn’t enough to get me off. It continued for what seemed like hours, the only interruptions when he came back into the room at the sound of my whimpering to add some artificial lubricant and whisper cruel chastisements in my ear.

When, eventually, he turned the machine off, I lay on the floor and cried.

“I’m ready to fuck you again,” he said, and I was torn between wanting to deny him and desperately hoping that him doing so would provide me some form of release.

He flipped me over, and, as he entered me, he pressed his teeth against my neck and his thumb against my clit and I came, screaming, the raw sensation of him inside me pushing me over the edge again and again.

It’s the good kind of love, too. A solid mixture of appreciation for her intelligence, admiration of her wit, and lust for her incredibly sexy body. In other words… last night I went to see her burlesque show, “Margaret Cho’s Sensuous Woman.”

I had a fabulous time. The show is smart. I’ve always loved Margaret’s standup, and it was a blast to see her do other things (dance, strip, be silly). The other members of her cast were also fabulous. The one disappointment was that the comedian who I like so much on LOGO did pretty much the same act I had already seen on TV. It was still funny, but once I figured out why I knew where all the jokes were going I was kind of disappointed.

All things considered, though, I think the show was very well done. It was funny, queer, and sexy. I also loved that there were a bevy of gorgeous women, and one stunning man, and not one of them fit the “standard” image of American beauty. Which, as Margaret Cho said, was part of the point of the show. Some idiot radio show host actually said to her “What would you do if one morning you woke up and you were beautiful?” She talks about it here, and that discussion doesn’t hold a candle to what she had to say about it in the show. Where she stood, wearing little more than tassels in front of a room full of people… all of whom thought that she was fucking gorgeous.

I recommend the show highly. It’s fun, sexy, and the audience is a show in and unto themselves. Everything from adorable baby dykes perched on each others’ laps to older straight couples who sit in the lounge wondering what they’ve gotten themselves into. Plus, the venue is pretty damn awesome. A sight to behold, and you can drink during the main event. Go, if you can, before it goes away. It will make you laugh, it will make you sigh, and, maybe best of all, it will make you feel beautiful.