Secret Confessions of a Smart Girl

I spent approximately 36 of the last 42 hours naked in bed with the guy I’ve been dating*. Knowing that there was an imminent snow storm, I arrived at his apartment two nights ago, declared “it’s a snow day! You’re stuck with me!” took off my clothes, and accosted him.

He didn’t seem to mind.

It’s a good thing that we’re both “dog people,” by which I mean that we’re the sort of people who will take any opportunity to get as much physical contact with those we care for as is geometrically possible (… as opposed to “cat people” who like to lie and pose just out of reach, then make you work for the attention.) That meant that, even when the two of us were working on our laptops, there were always entwined limbs. When he was working and I was uninspired, I’d just cuddle up next to him, skin to skin from shoulders to toes, and think while he typed… or nuzzle him. It’s hard not to be distracting when there’s a naked person next to you and you want your hands on them. I’d be writing and have a dirty thought, and I’d have to twist around underneath him to kiss him senseless before I could get back to work.

We had lots of sex**, or at least lots of heavy petting, with ridiculous quantities of making out and a few interludes for nourishment, work, and chatting. At some point I got a text message from my mother asking me how the roads were up by where I was, and I realized that I didn’t know if it was snowing. I also pretty much didn’t care.

As it turned out, there actually was snow. I just didn’t bother to check until I’d spent almost 24 hours in sybaritic bliss, because even if there wasn’t I was still going to enjoy my snow day.
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* i.e. shmoopy boy

**Man is shmoopy-boy incredibly good in bed. I kind of covered him in bite marks, and only some of them were voluntary. Fortunately he sees marks in the same way as I do - “souvenirs of you.” *sigh* I like him A LOT.

I have a bit of a thing for hands.

A slap across the face, hands fisted in my hair, being grabbed so hard it hurts, punching, spanking, I like how personal hands make pain.

Beat me with a flogger, a single tail, a cane, and it’s great, but there’s a sense of immediacy and intimacy that is most present when a person is hurting me with their body.

Strong hands turn me on. I like to feel both safe and overpowered. When I can fight with all my strength and be completely outclassed, it makes me wet. The other day, when I complimented someone on the strength in his fingers, he threw me on the bed, pressed his thumb into one of my intercostal muscles and said, “If I pushed hard enough, I could reach in and touch your heart.” It made me gasp.

It was incredibly hot knowing that, if he wanted to, it would take very little effort for him to break me in half.

I also associate hands with sex. If a person has strong, capable hands, I often find that I want them on my body, in my body. I’m dating a guitarist and he plays me like an instrument. I like his fingers inside me.

I like to be fucked, with fingers, with hands. I like how flexible they are, how easy it is for them to twist, to move, to change, to be too much or not enough, to tease, and to torment.

I was almost fisted a few days ago. It was incredible, up to and including the moment I got scared and backed out. I’ve been thinking about it, a lot. About pushing just a little farther. About not giving in to fear. About what it would be like to feel someone’s whole hand inside of me.

I have a bit of a thing for hands.

I could fuck her for hours.

I want to.

I like the feeling of her muscles clenching around my fingers.

I like feeling her body moving around my hand.

It’s so fucking hot.

You can’t touch yourself this way, explore your own insides, feel the softness of the skin, the textures that lead to different responses. But with someone else, a soft, responsive, beautiful girl, there’s so much to play with. What if I move my hand this way? Press here? Pull like that?

I finally understand fisting from the top’s perspective. It’s not about being goal oriented, it’s an exploration. An achievement as well, I suppose, but oh the process of getting there is fine. As much as I get off from being penetrated, as much as I love it when someone works their way inside me or finds a way to get under my skin, I find it equally fascinating to get under theirs.

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On a related front, after soliciting his help for some location information, I recently sent Shmoopy Boy a piece of lesbian erotica I was editing for an anthology submission and he both liked it and provided excellent editorial suggestions. I’m thrilled that I didn’t die of embarrassment and wuss out. He remains quite shmoopy. We spent much of Tuesday evening shamelessly making out on the NYC subway system. I apologize to anyone who had to witness it, but it was kind of romantic and hot all at the same time and there was NO way I was backing away. He continues to make me all gushy with little gestures like leaning over to kiss my temple during applause at the theater and being seemingly incapable of walking down the street without having his arm around me or at least holding my hand. (Okay, part of that is me. I probably grab his hand as least as often as he grabs mine, but the important fact is there’s LOTS of hand holding and that’s awesome. So there. Hmph.)

I willingly enact the prophesies that trumpet my own doom.

Go me.

Sometimes you think you want something, and then you get it and realize that it wasn’t what you wanted after all. It was only what you thought you wanted, and the reality had nothing to do with the fantasy. Of course, sometimes you get what you want and you were exactly right.

I am a submissive masochist. That means that there are certain sexual fantasies of mine that are best suited to being acted out with a dominant sadist. As luck would have it, I recently met one who has rather sublimely compatible interests to mine, who I (and this is the sticking point for woefully picky me) actually want to sleep with. So I’ve been getting to have fantasy sex. Sex that makes me not so much lose language as abjure it. I refuse its hold on me so that I can curl up warm and content in my lizard brain and appreciate having someone who will fuck me and hurt me and use me like a toy. Any communication other than mindless begging is too humanizing when you’re enjoying feeling like a plaything or a wanton piece of meat.

Submission changes the way I process pain. It hurts more, because I like it to, and sometimes I fight because I want the person I’m submitting to to do it anyway. These are not conscious decisions. When I’m bottoming I’m doing it because I like pain, or stimulation. When I’m submitting, I’m doing it because I want someone to do what they want to me.

I honestly thought I was telling the truth when I said, a while back, that things aren’t hotter for me when they are things I don’t want, but evidence suggests that may not be strictly true. Get me in the right headspace, and I will beg for things I normally don’t like. I end up wanting, so vividly, the things that I would normally think of as too much precisely because they are too much. It’s extraordinarily selfish, but when I really trust someone I’m submitting to I want to show that I can take more for them, that I want to take more for them, so that they will push that line and ask for whatever they want. Or take it. I love how it feels to be in a place in my mind where crying “too much” is almost a prayer - keep going. Where I simultaneously sincerely want to beg someone to stop and simply want them to tell me “This is what I want. Take it for me.” and continue on.

I said I’d write porn about it.
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Never say, “anything you want.”

That’s what they tell you, when you’re a young, naive bottom just getting started in the world of BDSM. They’re right of course. It’s a dangerous thing. But what if that’s what you want? For someone to use you according to their desires without thinking of your own? What if that’s what turns you on?

I can’t say it and mean it - not literally anything. There are things someone could want that I would not consent to. But the longing is there. It hits the right place in my gut, in your ears. It’s what I mean, when the underlying understanding is there that there exist limits. If I must, however, strive for caution, if I must follow the rules I try to impose upon others, if I must be sensible then I must look for a more literal phrasing of my desires. It’s not “Do what you want to me.” That isn’t good enough. It doesn’t communicate what I mean.

“Be selfish.”

That’s what I beg, as he fucks me.

“Please, oh god, use me how you want.”

Normally I get scared when sex hurts. I don’t like it when my cervix is battered, because it’s a deep type of unexpected pain. But I want it. I want that pain. The fact that he can hurt me so much while simply fucking me is an incredible aphrodisiac. Every time he thrusts himself deep inside me I want to scream stop and I want him to do it again.

I recently had an amazing weekend at an out of town play party. It was full of pain, sex, laughter, art, friends (new and old), music, geeking, kissing, and cuteness. I’m never going to be able to write it all down, because three days of enormous amounts of fun and minuscule amounts of sleep left everything kind of blurry, but it was awesome. It absolutely and completely does not suck to be me…

It also absurdly does not suck to be me. One of the funniest, and strangest, moments of the weekend was when I had a word problem scene with the guy who initiated the fibonacci spanking. What is a word problem scene? Well, we hadn’t figured that out in advance, we had just negotiated that it was going to take place. It turns out that a word problem scene is my kneeling naked on the floor doing sets of 5 word problems and getting hit 10 times for each wrong answer. (I was not trying to get wrong answers, but sometimes I fail at simple math - my complex reasoning and abstract logic is fine, but I screw up my addition.) There is no logical reason why this should have been fun, and in point of fact I got very frustrated whenever I got something wrong or had trouble answering a question, but despite how indignant it made me to make any mistakes at all I had a GREAT time. Plus, at one point I was right and the BOOK was wrong. God damn it. (I would have done better had I not been copy editing the test as I took it, but… what can I say. It’s who I am!!!)

More tales to come…

Some people know just what to say. You’ve got to like the sort of person whose response to your inability to decide whether you’re more in the mood for pain or sex is to say…

“I could just hurt you while I fuck you.”

Now that’s customer service. Talk about an offer you can’t refuse. Well, an offer I can’t refuse. I suppose there are people who would find the concept utterly unappealing. They have no idea what they’re missing. Pain and sex are a pretty phenomenal combination. Add in a little power exchange, maybe even a little unrestrained violence and some consensual throwing away of consent, and you make Rona a very happy girl.
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I have been working on being a bad influence.

Apparently the secret to being a bad influence is saying naughty things in an unassuming, innocent voice. “You could bite me harder if you wanted to. I wouldn’t mind,” for example, worked very well on the Boy of Shmoop. I seem to be corrupting him. He’s going to be kinky before he knows it.

It’s good to be a bottom. I rarely have much trouble getting people to do terrible things to me when I bat my eyes at them. I imagine the instant feedback is quite encouraging. It’s generally quite clear that terrible things make me extremely happy, and since almost everyone has at least a little bit of a reaction junkie living inside them… I get to be a bad influence. I like it when people make me squirm, even though I vastly prefer if doing so is a pleasure for them as well.

I imagine it’s a lot more difficult if you’re on the other side trying to convince people to let you do horrible things to them. Saying to someone “I want you to do whatever you want to me, whether I like it or not*” is substantially more socially acceptable than asking someone if they’d be willing to let you take advantage of them.

*Within expressly noted limits, of course

I have often said that my world view would be greatly improved by vast quantities of sex, but I have had very little opportunity to determine if that statement was actually correct. I haven’t had more than a day or two to spend with a regular sex partner in years, and, even when I have had someone around for that long, other priorities have generally intruded. Therefore, when I recently had the chance to spend four days having large amounts of extremely hot kinky sex, I was pleased to discover that I had not been misleading myself. Vast quantities of sex do, in fact, make me quite happy. Being fucked into incoherence today does not make me any less interested in doing it again tomorrow. I am highly in favor of the frequent pants invasions. Sex is fun.