Secret Confessions of a Smart Girl

“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds” - Ralph Waldo Emerson

I refuse to admit hobgoblins to the sphere of my sexuality, and therefore I choose not to mind that, despite the fact that I identify as a Kinsey 3, the nature of my attraction to men and women is profoundly different.

Ever since I grew into my sexual identity, I’ve always been somewhat proud of the fact that I truly believe I would be equally happy in a primary relationship with a man or a primary relationship with a woman. I still think that’s true. However, in the few months I’ve been writing this blog I’ve noticed something slightly disturbing.

I almost never write out sexual fantasies about women.

I find this odd for several reasons. First, the two erotic stories I’ve sold have both been kinky lesbian erotica. Second, in recent years my gender of attraction has skewed strongly towards the female. And yet… I almost never write out sexual fantasies about women.

I think a lot of this is due to the different ways my brain and body conceptualize attraction to people of different genders. I have trouble thinking sexual thoughts about “generic attractive woman”, but am more than capable of fantasizing about a nameless, faceless man. But even in person the way I *ping* female attractiveness is different than how I *pong* male.

Given a room full of interesting, intelligent women, I will probably find the vast majority of them attractive to one degree or another. I tend not to be bothered by concerns of age, physical type, or kink-orientation; I just think “shiny!” I also tend to be somewhat sluttier with women. I’m far more likely to fool around with a woman I barely know than a man. The nice thing is that my crushes on women don’t tend to be stupid crushes. They don’t, in general, make me crazy at all. And, although if I’m dating a woman I don’t want to ravish her any less than I’d want to ravish a man, I tend to feel more in control.

In contrast, given a room full of interesting, intelligent men, I will probably find only a small number of them attractive in anything but the most abstract sense. My threshold for memorable attraction to men is substantially higher than it is for women. I am, with men, far more likely to notice and care about age, physical type, and kink orientation, and they really have to be demonstrably engaging for me to be attracted to them at an early meeting. I also tend to become attracted to my male friends in a way that I don’t with long-standing female friends - i.e. with men I am far more likely to have that that startling moment when I know someone well enough that they become wildly sexy. That having been said, when I do develop a crush on a man it’s far more likely to be a stupid one. I’m much more likely to end up blindly focused on him as a Person of Interest, and get stressed out over whether he does or doesn’t like me back. I’m more likely to act like an idiot then I am when attracted to a woman and to over-think and over-analyze my every action. I’m also more likely to bang my head against the wall or come out of an interaction feeling depressed.

When lacking a blog and paragraphs of words in which to be self-indulgent I tend to describe the duality as my being “more attracted to men, but attracted to more women.” and yet… I don’t think that’s the root of the fantastical divide.

As I alluded to above, I think a large portion of the issue is explained by the fact that there are certain specific things that I like doing with men’s bodies that I fantasize about generically, but that my fantasies about women are about specific women. I want to do this with her, and that with her, and that one over there I just want to roll around with naked while giggling and eating cookies. So, since I’m not comfortable lusting in detail after specific identifiable individuals on this blog, I don’t write sexual fantasies about women.

There’s one more thing. My desire to write down sexual fantasies, at least recently, has tended to be closely tied to my drive for submission. Since I haven’t done a lot of D/s with women, I think that perhaps I don’t quite know how to fantasize about it. Perhaps I will have to work on that.

I have a decidedly mixed reaction to the concept of begging.

On one hand, it’s phenomenally hot to be brought to the point where you’re begging someone to fuck you, hurt you, use you, or make you bleed.

On the other hand, I hate to impose.

I am often terribly concerned about being an imposition. It’s difficult, sometimes, to resolve asking for a specific sensation, or even asking to play at all*, with wanting to be used as an instrument of someone else’s pleasure. Although, goodness knows, they can always say no, and sometimes it’s damn hot when they do.

I was playing a few weeks ago with someone who I am not having sex with. Someone who, in fact, I had specifically negotiated sexual contact as off the table with (this describes the vast majority of my regular play partners). He had stated, as a goal, that he wanted to get me to a point where I was begging him to fuck me just so that he could say “No.”

That’s a dangerous line for me to walk. Because there is such a deep chasm in my life between wanting to have sex and being willing to have sex, I am frequently reluctant to admit the extent of how turned on I get when I’m playing. So it took quite a leap of faith to let myself go there. I had to trust that he was utterly sincere about his agreement to my negotiated limits, and wouldn’t try to take advantage of my honesty. It wasn’t easy for me. Still… I figured I’d let him try, but doubted it was going to be an issue. After all, it was the first time we were going to play outside of an impromptu scene at a public party, how susceptible could I be?

Very.

The man knew how to push my buttons. From having me show up in lingerie, to incorporating a strong D/s element in minor activities, to whispering very dirty things in my ears that fall into the “I wish I was the sort of person to act on my darkest sexual desires” category, to simply hurting me, and then hurting me again, and then hurting me more until I was a quivering mass of arousal and bruises lying on a bed, he pushed them over and over and over again. He didn’t quite manage to make me beg… but he did manage to make me admit that what I really wanted was to be fucked, and he managed to make me admit it in exquisitely humiliating detail.

And he said, “No.”

It was a little scary how good that felt. Stated denial turned sexual frustration into a bonus rather than a curse.

Sometimes I really like it when people don’t give me what I want. “I’m going to use you as I want, and what you want has very little to do with it,” is such a strong kink of mine that sometimes denial is better than acceptance. Yes, in the above circumstance it also engendered a strong feeling of trust, which is better for me than any drug, but it’s also just kind of hot to be told “No,” by someone who is clearly getting enjoyment from your body, and doesn’t want to diminish their pleasure by focusing on yours.

I suppose it’s sort of a “proof of orientation,” that sometimes when I am sincerely begging someone to fuck me that I actually think it would be hotter for them to say, “No. I want you to suck my cock until I come, and then I’m going to tie you to the bed so you can’t touch yourself and go to sleep.” Hotter still if they threw a beating in there as well. I’m musing about whether denial is similarly hot when I’m begging someone to hurt me. I think it’s probably a lot more variable, although it certainly comes up less often (mostly when I beg people to hurt me they just look gleeful and then try to make me wish I’d kept my mouth shut).

I started writing this post because last night when I was reviewing a really lovely vibrator I found myself, while masturbating, verbally begging an invisible “Sir” to fuck me and imagining him slapping me across the face and telling me, “No.” I had a bit of a meta moment, mid masturbation and started musing on my motivation for my method**. Did I:

1. Not really want to penetrate myself with the toy, but simply find the begging hot?
2. Actually want the sensation of penetration, but find the scenario of begging and being denied it more exciting?
3. Just not want to bother opening the lube, and so concoct the imaginary situation to give myself an excuse to be lazy?

I rolled my eyes at myself, continued with what I was doing, and eventually wrote a very favorable review, but then as I sat down at my computer this afternoon I came back to the question. I think that, if I am to be totally honest with myself, it was probably about 90% (2) and 10% (3). I mostly just really liked the mental image of someone telling me “You want an orgasm? You get it my way or not at all.”

You know… sometimes I suspect I may be a slightly kinky girl.

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*This I can generally resolve by saying something like “If at some point in the future you would like to hurt me, or play in some other way, I would really enjoy that,” and then walking away. I don’t mind, at all, making the initial approach, but it’s nice to firmly establish that I would say “yes,” and then put the ball in their court.
* *Oh shush. Alliteration is fun. Leave me alone!

Normally I’m pretty good about standing up for myself.

However, there are grey areas.

When someone is starting to annoy me with what they’re doing, but I’m somewhat flattered by it, I will try and get them to stop, but if they don’t I won’t make a big to do about it. Especially if I’m tired, if I don’t think they mean me ill, and I’m in a place where making a fuss seems like too much effort, I’ll eventually give up arguing.

That’s bad.

This happened back when I first met Maymay. I let some guy impose on me to a point where it was annoying me, but not to the point where I felt like I had to object. It happened again, to a much more minor, although far more retrospectively aggravating extent last night.

I was at a party that was not one of those parties, and someone kept trying to undress me. I told them, repeatedly, that I thought it was inappropriate, but I laughed because it was also funny. I allowed myself to be convinced that it wasn’t inappropriate, even though I was pretty sure it was, because I couldn’t bring myself to argue about it any more. But was annoying me and making me uncomfortable, and I didn’t say stop.

I hate that I did that. I hate that by doing that I became an untrustworthy person to myself and to others. I feel like I let myself and people I care about down. Now, I’m not super upset about this, being super upset about it would be counterproductive, but I recognize that this is something I dislike about myself that I really need to change. Since I pride myself on not being a doormat, I have to watch the times I am likely to become one. I have to firm up my boundaries. I don’t like myself when I let people do things to me that I don’t want them to do.

I’m realizing that I’m actually quite annoyed at myself. I need to not fail to be forceful about things because I don’t want to hurt someone’s feelings. I particularly need to not let the desire to be polite keep me from telling someone they’re being a problem, because it doesn’t help anyone. In this case, I didn’t want to make the person in question feel bad, because they’re basically quite nice, but I should have said much earlier on “I like you, but you’re drunk, I think it’s affecting your judgment, and it’s making me uncomfortable,” before it got out of hand. I don’t like it when I precipitate a problem. And, you know what? Failing to stand up for myself always does.

I need to work on it.

Being able to stand up for myself when things become a problem is not good enough. I need to start doing it a lot earlier. I know I can protect myself if I need to, but I need to start protecting myself the second I want to. Even when it feels rude. I can be rude if necessary, but I have got to start not being polite sooner. Otherwise I end up spending too much time apologizing for what I should have done, and wondering why on earth I didn’t.

Worse, when I do stuff like this it makes me end up wanting to avoid the person who made me uncomfortable because I’m embarrassed that I let them, and I’m not sure how to fix it without making them feel bad. Plus it makes me feel like I’m an unsafe person to be around, so I start avoiding any situations where whatever I did or didn’t do could be a problem.

It becomes a “How do I address this with them without blaming them?” issue. Because I accept utterly that it was equally my fault. Not, by any means, entirely my fault (also an easy trap for me to get sucked into), but I could have been more forceful about stopping it and I didn’t. Part of it is a generational thing, I was raised to say “no, no, it isn’t a problem” and assuming they won’t do it again when someone apologizes for something I didn’t like, when what I should say is “Thank you for apologizing. I’m not mad at you, but I agree that it was inappropriate and I would appreciate you not doing it again.”

None of this was terribly a big deal. I’m not terribly upset about it, my friends aren’t terribly upset about it, the only person who is actually terribly upset about it is the person who kept trying to undress me and I don’t think they should be terribly upset about it either. I only wrote this much about it, because I’m trying to figure out where exactly my problem comes from and writing is how I process. (And now I’ve processed to a great enough extent that I’m not annoyed with myself anymore. Yay!)

Ok. I think this is what it comes down to -

I don’t want to be rude to people. However, speaking up sooner rather than later when people are getting into grey areas with me isn’t rude, it’s sensible. It prevents me from getting into situations where the only out is anger. I just need to think of it as the social equivalent of safewording. It’s okay to yellow. It’s okay to say “I like that you’re here, but your doing something right now I’m not happy with.” It is, in fact, much better to yellow than to have to red or say “I need to not be around you right now.” It may create an awkward moment, but it’s much better to communicate my discomfort than to get into a cycle where I start avoiding social interaction.

Actually I’ve realized that until very recently (Thanks, Adam!) I’ve had this problem in a strictly BDSM sense as well. I had tended to be very concerned about disappointing or offending people by yellowing or otherwise indicating I had a problem. I never don’t red, if I have to, but I’m not always so great about heading off potential issues (except for sexual issues) before they happen. I figure that I can tolerate what I don’t like, and get over it later. But you know what happens? If things like that come up in a scene I end up not wanting to play with that person again later, when it all probably could have been solved by communication. Since playing with someone who actually pushes me to yellow to make certain that I’m going to do it if I have to, however, it’s become much easier to yellow with everyone else as well. I think that’s great. Things, in general, go much better.

I just have to work out how to apply that in social situations. I’m not, by any means, the most socially ept (as opposed to inept) monkey in the barrel, and so sometimes the intricacies of dealing with people sensibly are beyond me. The trick is, I think, not to get trapped in old habits and learn from new experiences. I’m trying! Most importantly, I have to be better about communicating clearly and honestly even when doing so makes me uncomfortable. Even though doing so does not represent a stunning mastery of the social graces, I always feel much better after I have clearly stated what I need to say - even when it makes me want to throw up. It’s really hard to say everything I need to say, my instinct is to preserve other people’s feelings over being honest, and that’s a bad instinct. Especially since, in general, not talking doesn’t actually accomplish that. Not in the long run, and frequently not even in the short run. And getting it all out there feels so good. I’m always amazed that it’s so hard for me to do it, and then afterwards its such a relief. Slowly, at least, I think I’m starting to learn.

And now that I’ve completely over-processed an minor event to the point where I am like cheese-whiz, I leave you with a picture of my boobs from the cool piercing scene I did the other day. Why? Cause it’s pretty and it makes me happy. Needles are awesome! Needles with manic giggling are even MORE awesome. Everyone should get to cackle hysterically while beautiful women poke them with sharp objects.

I’m beginning to really hate this time of the month. The 1-2 weeks a month when my hormones go so crazy that I think “If the right person asked me, I would load the dog in the car and drive 5 hours to have them beat the snot out of me and then fuck me silly.”

Do you know what I have been doing this afternoon?

Not writing for work. Nope. I’ve been doing push-ups, handstands, and teasers (Pilates) . I have been trying to take out my ridiculous levels of sexual frustration in physical exercise. You’d think I could just go review sex toys or masturbate or something, but I don’t want orgasms. I mean, I don’t not want them, but I want violence and connection and skin and teeth and control more.

I want to be wanted so much it hurts. Literally.

I want someone to want to get their hands on me so badly that we’ve barely closed the door before they shove me against the wall, or push me to my knees, or slap me across the face.

I want to be manhandled and used, hurt and desired.

I want to be someone’s outlet for their sexuality, their sadism, and their assumptions.

This is the time of the month when I’m almost stupid with longing for something I just do not have in my life and it makes me want to scream. Instead, however, I do push-ups and handstands and teasers. I write porn and read personal ads and manage not to punch the wall. I stretch and growl and dream. I get nothing done that isn’t so urgent it can’t be postponed, because all I can think of is being thrown up against the wall, being beaten, or being fucked. Preferably all three.

At least all this frustration is great for my biceps. I’ve done at least 30 push-ups since I started writing this post. Not to mention 2 handstands. I know how unattractive desperation is, so I’m going to try and restrain the desire to say “Will you please take me somewhere and hurt me and fuck me and make me scream,” to the next appropriate person who crosses my radar, but it’s going to be damn hard. As will keeping myself from using my newly powerful arms to rip off their clothing and throw them on the nearest bed.

Which reminds me… Can anyone teach me how to resolve wanting so much with also being very much a bottom/submissive? I often feel like I’m imposing when I want to ravish someone. Especially since when I’m at my most sexually aggressive I usually really want the person I’m attacking to fight back and win. “I attack to try and get you to take what you want,” generally feels not only counterintuitive but actively counterproductive. But, goodness, how I want. I want to bite and nibble and lick, to touch and tease and taste until they start to want me back enough to hurt me, enough to take me.

Time for more push-ups.

Hands on my wrists, weight working against mine, I like to be able to struggle and know there’s no way I’ll be able to move.

Bondage doesn’t always work for me, for various reasons . Among other things, it can get really uncomfortable, really suddenly, and then all that work is for nothing if I need to be out and need to be out now. Being held down, however, is nothing but good. First and foremost, it’s touch. Bare hand on bare skin is always something I crave. I like the connection, and the feeling that someone is there. Add that to the fact that I am being overpowered, something that is always quite hot for me, and being held down makes me very happy indeed. Plus, it’s just so personal.

This came up for me this weekend during the piercing scene, and, although I mentioned it in the original post, I wanted to discuss it in slightly more detail. I find that sometimes when I’m having trouble processing sensation that it helps to hold onto something. I want to do something with my hands - claw, grab, struggle, anything to physicalize the tension in a productive way (this isn’t just how I process pain, it happens during sex too or any other form of sensory overload. I want to grab and bite and struggle.) The issue during the piercing scene was that my flailing my arms indiscriminately was decidedly not safe when there was a woman sitting on my hips holding sharp pointy things, and since she is _not_ a masochist, and I didn’t want to muck up her aim, grabbing her thighs was not an acceptable plan either. I also kept inadvertently flailing in a “get your hands away from me” manner, which was not my goal, but I had rather lost control of my body at that point.

So I asked the beautiful woman standing next to the bed if she’d be willing to hold my arms down*. She agreed, and all of a sudden it was a lot easier to focus. Instead of fighting against the sensations, I could simply enjoy them and let all the fight and tension go out through my arms. I don’t really understand what process of sensory alchemy lets that happen, how being held down transforms the body’s desire to say “stop! stop! stop! too much!” into “oh yes, thank you, more,” but it works and it works well. I think it may be the neurochemical equivalent of “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

I got held down again later that night by the man who was scratching me, and I found that quite enjoyable as well. Being held down is a big component of most of my sexual fantasy scenarios. I think that perhaps I’m just wired to find being pinned down with my wrists above my head and someone’s weight on top of me incredibly erotic. Especially when pain is being inflicted. Somehow I suspect this is Not Unusual. It’s nice, I think, to be given permission to struggle without any risk that you’re going to get free.

—
*I admit it. I like women. I like them A LOT. Getting pierced by a beautiful woman is a glorious thing. However, getting held down by a second beautiful woman while the first beautiful woman is piercing you… is nothing to complain about either. I could have asked the man who was also watching, and I actually knew him slightly better, but the woman in question was Shiny! And a girl! And had boobies! (Lest you think I am entirely superficial, I must say that she also turns out to be quite a fabulous person who is fun and interesting and likes monkeys, but at the time all I could tell was that she was nice, had lovely friendly energy, and was gorgeous )

It was late.

I was tired.

I lay my head down in my friend S’s lap to take a rest while still remaining part of the conversation, and he put a clothespin on my earlobe and another on the cartilage along the top curve.

I think he expected me to protest and bite him, or something.

Instead I simply said “Huh” and squirmed a little bit.

He inquired as to the nature of my “huh,” and I explained that for some reason clothespins on my ear were really turning me on.

He was highly amused by this fact and proceeded to spend the next 45 minutes or so doing a range of things that should have been unpleasant to my ears to see if they would make me squirm more.

They did.

I actually ended up orgasming from, primarily, ear manipulation with a little bit of fully clothed dry humping and extraneous pain thrown in.

Apparently I’m part Ferengi*.

It probably didn’t hurt that this weekend coincided with the time of the month when I’ll turn on if you look at me funny, but the whole experience was still highly amusing and somewhat baffling to me. My physiology is weird. I mean, I can accept that if I want to have an orgasm with another person I’m normally going to need them to either hurt me, hold me down, or do something that my brain and body read as dominant, but the extent of the effect of hurting and otherwise violating my ears (my virgin ears!!!) was just bizarre.

I was also terribly amused when another friend, the one who would in less than 24 hours scare the crap out of me with a straight razor, came in, looked at what S. was doing, looked at my reaction to it, said “You’re being way too nice to her,” shook her head, and left. She was right, he was, but I didn’t mind. Especially since when I asked him to hurt me more he did.

I really am a play slut, although I must say that, in general, far fewer of my scenes involve orgasms than they would seem to from my tales of this past weekend. Not to say that I mind the shift…
–
*S’s joke, not mine

The universe gives you blood, bruises, and orgasms all in the same night.

I feel like yesterday evening was such an excellent play party experience that I must have done something truly virtuous to deserve it. I got to play with a bunch of people I really like in a bunch of ways I really like, and I also got to fling myself annoyingly at an inexplicably hot boy. I was kind of obnoxiously flirtatious. There was Great Hotness everywhere, and I was full of endorphins and I could not shut up. Really, if I think about it too much, I will probably end up completely embarrassed at my behavior.

The first scene of the evening for me was needles. The first, and possibly only, time I had been pierced before was 10 years ago (I looked it up, because I knew the girl who pierced me became International Ms. Leather later that year.) I had liked it, but somehow I had never managed to do it again because most of the people I know who play-pierce are not people I want to play with. But last night I got to play with a wonderfully silly woman (let me know if you want to be identified, lady) who loves piercing and I had a blast. I spent most of the time she was sticking the needles in me (8 needles on each breast in a circle around my nipples with the needle tips poking them. It was so pretty that we took pictures, one of which I will post to this blog when I get a copy. I was so pleased with the aesthetics that I walked around showing people my breasts all night.) cackling in hysterical laughter - as did she. It was _fun_. A couple of times I had to safeword for oxygen (laughing too hard to breathe), but I was in a seriously happy headspace. I like needles. They hurt, when they hurt, in a very enjoyable way, and when they don’t hurt they just feel really really good. I also discovered that having someone hold my hands over my head so that I could have something to pull against was both Fun and Helpful since it meant I didn’t actually do anything dangerous and helped me process some of the silliest bits of the pain into pleasure.

I came out of that scene rather insanely giddy, and after eating some dinner found P., the friend with whom I had had one really good play date and one really disappointing play date, to try again. He decided to spare my Poor Abused Bosom (which is still really pleasantly achy even 12 hours later) and just beat the crap out of me with a variety of canes, floggers, single tails, and slappy things that ranged from nice to moderately evil. I had a really good time, even though I had to yellow several times on “things that scared me because they felt like they were going to damage me instead of just hurt me.” I’m trying to be better about that, because I like pain but damage stresses me out. Still, despite my moments of “eek!”, we managed to have a pretty intense scene and I came out of it covered with some relatively impressive bruises - something I didn’t realize until a friend commented on them about 20 minutes later.

After hanging out and eating a little more dinner (endorphins make me hungry!) I went into the other room to chat with some friends of mine and ended up making out with the Really Pretty Man who I seem to always end up making out with at this party (as opposed to the Really Pretty Woman who I seem to always end up making out with at this party). After a bit of that, and my ending up pressed against the wall with his thigh between my legs, vibrating against my clit, he asked me if I wanted to go have a scratching session, and after all the blood and pain I was feeling insanely horny so I said yes. So we went into the other room and he scratched the hell out of my back, grabbing my bruises, giving me deep bites, and commenting favorably on my pain tolerance until I was writhing under him like a cat in heat. At which point I considered my sexual limits, decided that fingers outside of the underwear would not set off problems for me and ended up with a screaming orgasm as he sucked on my much abused breast and did lovely things to me until I couldn’t breathe. (If I was capable of giving relative strangers oral sex it would have happened right then because dear lord did I want to suck his cock, but I’m not so… other solutions were found. I have to say that was one of the least stressful “here are my sexual limits” negotiations ever, and I think things were resolved to our mutual satisfaction.) It didn’t help my breathing that next to me people were discussing the sexual possibilities of a bouncy house and I couldn’t stop laughing.

That was my last semi-formal scene of the night. The rest of the evening was spent cuddling, being verbally ridiculous, making up stories for my friends, and trying not to pounce the boy who was, for some inexplicable reason, setting off my “WANT” hormones at full blast. At least I finally got up the nerve to tell him how pretty he was, and several hours later he let me bite him. But I kept embarrassing myself because I was so high on pain and over-stimulation that every time he walked by I’d say something stupid. I wish I could figure out what it was about him that made my brain and body decide he was so damn shiny since, although in retrospect it seems to have been a correct assessment, I have no idea where objectively it came from.

Finally, it was time to go and after hugging and smooching on everyone I could find (shiny boy gives excellent full body hugs) I went to say good by to my first play partner of the night and found her chatting with the woman who had straight razored me the evening before. They made it very hard to leave (literally. You can’t go anywhere when someone is holding your hair that tightly. Even over to the other person who is trying to bite you. Those two are a scary scary combination.) until I made it clear that I would see both of them again very soon, and then I headed out for the drive home. Fortunately the combination of hopped up on pain, not having gone to bed before 4:30 a.m. for 3 days in a row, good music, good company, and ghastly coffee meant that I didn’t start to crash until I was so close to home that I could do the rest of the drive in my sleep and I got into the house, threw my clothes on the floor and… slept for all of 4 hours.

I am insane. I am also tired, pleasantly achy, and very very happy. I had a lovely weekend with good friends and tonight when my dog is back home I suspect I will sleep like the dead. Now I need to try and get something done today. First, however I’m going to have to stop pulling down my shirt to stare at my boobs, but it’s hard cause the marks are so pretty. I am a loooooser

Knife play is completely different when you know that it’s going to end in the spilling of your blood.

I didn’t really expect that, although in reality it may have been less about the knowledge that I was going to end up bleeding than about the mindfuck my top was so deeply enjoying playing out.

Last night I bottomed to a friend of mine and her straight razor.

The straight razor was definitely a character in the scene, she had been teasing me with the thought of it for almost 24 hours, knowing how much I like sharp objects and the thought of my own red blood.

The razor was sharp. She demonstrated by shaving the fine hairs off the skin of my back and showing them to me on the blade. I could feel it catch and cut them as she moved it along my skin and spoke of flaying me, strip by strip. Cutting out specific muscles, vivisecting me, damaging me irreparably as I lay there on the bed. She cut off my underwear to prove she could.

I haven’t processed knife play as fear in a long time. Normally, to me, knives are sex, and the feel of them against my skin is arousing. When they’re on my neck they make me still, but on my chest, my back, or my cunt they make me writhe. Sometimes I press into them a little too hard for true safety, knowing that most of the knives I play with aren’t sharp enough to do real damage unless you work at it. Just the other week the person topping me said “One day I should really fuck you with a knife hilt, shouldn’t I.” “Yes,” I said, “you should.” That is how I process most blades. But this one, this one came with threats of torture, and I knew the top just well enough to believe she might actually do it. This one was sharp enough to do what she threatened, and I was scared, and it was hot. When she actually sliced along my shoulder blade hard enough to draw blood I screamed, but I enjoyed the sight of my blood on her gloves way too much for my own good.

It was a very fun scene.
–

On a more practical note, I have a seriously fucked up sense of self preservation. I really need to learn to not crack jokes when someone is holding a razor-sharp blade to my skin. That is not a good time to play tease the top. She managed not to accidentally damage me any of the times I did it. Still… not the wisest choice on the planet.

In a previous post I made an oblique reference to “inexplicable reasons why I won’t fuck people I’m madly attracted to.”

Although there are such inexplicable reasons, mostly dealing with the weird and wonderful world of emotional comfort, there’s also a very explicable reason that I tend not to talk about because I feel like it’s going to come across as judgmental.

I don’t want to have sex with people who are having sex (and I include oral sex in this definition) with more than a few other, stable, people at the same time.

I don’t judge people for going to sex parties, or having sex with strangers, or even engaging in prostitution, I’m just really incredibly uncomfortable having sex with people who are having sex with moderate to large numbers of other people who are having sex with moderate to large numbers of other people.

A lot of this is because in my other job I’m an STD expert. Now, that means I know how effective condoms are at preventing most, but not all, STDs, but it also means that I know a great deal about how many of my friends in the poly/kink community, or their partners, or their partners partners, have been diagnosed with what, and when. People have been seeking my advice about their STD diagnoses for more than 10 years… and to be perfectly frank it does not make me want to sleep with them. No matter how often I’d rather be having sex, I tend to think in terms of risk/benefit ratios and sleeping with people in vast, open sexual networks makes me really unhappy. The one time I’ve done it I felt so bad about myself afterwards that I pretty much decided against ever doing it again. I don’t disagree with the advice I give out, that herpes and HPV are extremely common and, generally, not that big a deal… but it doesn’t mean I want to get either one of them if I can avoid it. I may like sex, but I don’t need to have it all the time, particularly not if it’s going to stress me out. And, right or wrong, sex with people in open sexual networks is hugely stressful for me.

This is actually a big part of why I look for relationships outside of the poly-kinky community. My area of the poly-kinky community tends to have a lot of sex with a lot of people. My profound dislike of being part of an open sexual network has, to an extent, spelled the death of most of my previous sexual relationships. I try to get past it, but it bugs me enough that I can’t. Since I would never ask my partners to change who they are or how they love for me, it always seems easier to just leave. I often don’t even admit, to myself or them, that that’s why I’m going. *sigh* I’d love to be more open and free about sex, but I’m not. Given a choice between having really great sex that stresses me out and having no sex I choose no sex… no matter how much I want it.

I don’t know why when I woke up this morning I felt such a need to say this, but I did. It’s a really hard thing for me to tell people “I like you. I’m attracted to you. I’m happy to play with you, but I’m not going to have sex with you because you’re having sex with more people than I feel comfortable having sex with once removed.” I need to learn to admit to people that there are things I fantasize about that I’m never going to do. I like to think that “maybe one day I’ll be comfortable with it,” but it’s probably never going to happen, and I have to be okay with that. More importantly, I have to be honest about that.

Realistically speaking, it’s just another form of limit. I don’t judge myself for being unwilling to date smokers. I don’t judge myself for not wanting to do certain kinds of play. Why do I feel like not being willing to have sex with people makes me a worse person? I suspect it’s because it sounds judgmental. It’s not though. To a really great extent I envy people who are comfortable having sex with whomever they want whenever they want. I just don’t want to have sex with them.

And yet… saying this makes me feel like a bad person. Saying this makes me feel unlovable, undateable, and unfuckable. Saying this makes me feel weak, and vulnerable, and somewhat depressed. Saying this makes me feel like I’m guaranteed to spend the rest of my days single.

You know, the ironic thing is that in the parts of the world I don’t live in this would probably be the standard world view… just for entirely different reasons. It’s not jealousy. It’s just my perverted version of common sense.

Gah. I’m running an hour behind schedule. So, against my better judgment, I’m going to hit publish and run out the door.

This is why I do not sign up for kinky dating websites, in general. Out of the blue in the mailbox of the same site that spawned this post I received the following missive.

Good Morning

While you are with your Master you will feel protected from everything, you will find desires that have been dormant and I will color them for you. When I look at you, you will tremble, not out of fear, but out of desire to be mine. Even with your eyes closed you will feel my gaze with an intensity that will excite you and carry you to a world that dream of. I, as your Master, will bring you forth and place you in positions that will bring both you and your Master complete pleasure. As I picture you before me, you will view me as a Master who will instruct you firmly but in a loving way. My creative talents will make hungry for another session and will control your moments in between. You will be able to excite your self by just thinking of your Master and what he will do to you. When I touch you in any way it will leave an indelible imprint that will stay with you long after that actual touch fades. You have found the master to guide you in your exploration, and so it begins.

Master ****** (I almost kept his name. I really almost did. The number of * is correct.)

The response I want to send is…

Um. Yeah.

Not so much.

Bit of an arrogant ass, aren’t you?

If you really want to find a submissive you might try either treating women like they have brains or finding someone who doesn’t have one.

At the very least, you should try reading a person’s profile instead of simply sending the same ridiculous Form Message of Idiotically Improbable Seduction to any submissive female who appears on the site. Which is, frankly, what I have to assume you do because if you had read my profile, and had even the smallest bit of brain in _your_ head, you’d know that there was no way in hell I would respond to something like this with anything but mockery.

Please, sir (and I use that term only out of respect for your age and not for the title you seem to believe is your honor without you doing anything to earn it,) get a life.

Can I, please? Please? With sugar and a non-consensual beating about the head on top? It feels a bit like flaming, but I want to be a bitch so badly this morning I can taste it.

—

*Mandoms of the Bitchy Jones variety, that is. I have no problem with dominant men in general.