This is what I asked for:
Come in.
Take me with urgency - feigned passion or real.
Rip my clothes off, shove me up against the wall, bury your teeth in my shoulder, and fuck me hard.
When you’re done, let me slide to the floor, take the cash off the table by the door, and leave.
When push comes to shove, I always end up paying for what I want. Sometimes it’s easier to do it in cash.
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.
Words are my biggest turn on.
I chose the man to whom I would lose my virginity through his words. I remember the first line of the story that sold me on him even now, more than 10 years later, “I want to take you like an animal.”
I remember the first time I met him in person. It was in the hallway of the hotel one night at a science fiction convention. He turned my knees to jello… I don’t remember how he touched me or what he did. I don’t remember if he kissed me or fisted his hand in my hair, or if he put his teeth to my throat. I do, however, recall what he said to me… “Remember how you feel right now,” he whispered in my ear, “consider that a promise.” It still sends shivers down my spine to think about it.
When I think of memorable sexual moments, the vast majority of the time what sticks with me are not the specific sensations, but the words. What I hold in my head to think about later, the things that make me touch myself when I’m back in my own bed, aren’t the sensations of specific caresses… they’re the words.
Perhaps it’s because I spend so much time living in my head. Perhaps it’s because I’ve gotten my erotic imagination primarily from stories and books about sex. Perhaps its because I know that the surest way to get myself off is to pull out one of my favorite erotic stories and put myself in that world. I don’t know. What I do know is that the moments that feel like my heart has stopped in my chest, the moments that define my sexuality, the moments that I relive over and over again with my hand between my legs and my head thrown back in ecstasy are most often precipitated by words.
The words I quoted above, and others.
Dominant words.
“I think it might be appropriate for you to call me sir”
Dangerous words.
“We’re going to fuck you so hard it will hurt to even walk.”
Words of desire.
“I could do what I want to you right now and no one would come to stop me.”
So if you want me… talk to me.
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For the record, it’s this verbal kink that causes me to lust so strongly after other sex bloggers like Eileen, Sinclair, and many of the others in my blogroll. It’s also what made me want to be a sex blogger. I enjoy being turned on by words so much that I wanted to try to turn other people on with mine.
Ok. Apparently I was a little more inebriated last night than I thought I was… or at least more exhausted, since I don’t think that even I can get drunk on half a bottle of beer. I’ve edited this blog post for incomprehensibility. My apologies to anyone who read it already.
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I went to see a friend’s play tonight (well, 5 friends’ play) and the lickability quotient of the members of the cast who I didn’t know was way too high. There was pretty much no one in the show who wasn’t fuckable (in a theoretical sense), and I stupidly went out to drinks and dinner with all of them after my incredibly long day (I got up at 6 AM and headed into the city to tech and perform my own show today so at that point I had been up for 16 hours of constant running around) . I was bad. I was very bad. I groped one boy repeatedly, because he was as tactile as I am and it was fun (Alas, he has a girlfriend so I had to restrain myself to decorous molestation. It was not easy. I bit his quadricep. But I didn’t kiss him. or touch him anywhere inappropriate. Even though I wanted to.) And then I discovered at the end of the night that Insanely Hot Girl was not, in fact, heterosexual. Fucking mistaken friend. That girl had the most incredible legs, and ass, and… man. Not that “not heterosexual” implies interested, but…. SHINY. I wanted to do inappropriate things to her body. In particular I wanted to lick her thigh, and….
AHEM.
I’m overtired and overstressed and for some unknown reason that means that my sex drive is even higher than normal (so helpful!). Stick me at a table of oversexed theater folks who have just finished doing a highly erotically charged play and it makes it very difficult for me to act like a lady. Case in point: I spent around 30 minutes at dinner sitting in a gay man’s lap while he tried to figure out if he could use my hair clips as nipple clamps. My impression is that he’s something of an omnivorous gay man - mostly interested in men, but primarily just really fucking horny. For obvious reasons, I appreciate that in a person. According to a text message he sent after he left, his boyfriend is okay with my jumping him. I wonder if that’s true. I’ve always wanted to have sweaty naked time with a gay man*, and he’d be an excellent choice… all goofy and ridiculous. Probably never going to happen, but… man would it be fun.
I would like to say that I only had half a beer (and a few experimental tastes of other people’s drinks), so there’s no way I’m drunk, at least not on alcohol. Still, I’m acting like it, because I’m going to admit to the world that I’m so fucking horny that I might explode. A little touch tends to make me want a lot more. It’s quite easy to get me worked up and into attack mode. And, man, hands. HANDS.
I have developed a thing about strong hands. Strong hands grabbing my back muscles for a massage makes me want them to grab other things, and I get a bit… fixated. I just really enjoy being manhandled and when I see strong hands, I want them on me. A lot. Like that date I had 6 months ago where I spent the entire time looking at his hands and imagining them on me. Hurting me. Pleasing me. Maybe both at once. I just like the feeling of hands on my skin. It’s such an intimate kind of pain and control.
The boy of molestation walked back with me most of my way to my car, because his bus was leaving from along my route, and it took every inch of willpower I had not to shove him up against a building and do things I could have been arrested for doing in public.
I think I really have changed in the last year. I hope it’s for the better.
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*I certainly know a lot of lesbians who occasionally fuck men. It’s not completely a ridiculous thought. Although it’s less about sex, most of the time, than finding the gay leather scene really fucking hot. Still, getting to fool around with a frisky gay puppy… how would that not be fun for me?
I used to have a lot of issues about sex. I wasn’t really easy in my body, and although I was always suffused with wanting I wasn’t always comfortable with having. I think I’ve gotten better. Either that or I’m just meeting more people who I actually want and like enough, instinctively, to be comfortable with them. It’s hard to tell. I’ve engaged in some sort of sexual contact with more people in the past 12 months than I have in my entire life. I suppose it could just be that I’ve been meeting some really damn attractive (personally and physically) people lately, but it seems more likely that I’ve grown. (Ok. Maybe both. I keep meeting these insanely yummy people who are also smart, nice, and easy to be with. There are aliens among us, they like to hurt me, and they often let me chew on them. Yay for the happy, dominant, sadistic, tasty, aliens!)
As part of said growth, I’ve also become pretty damn certain that what I’d really like in my life right now is one of those people to be local and available enough that I could jump them on a nearly daily basis. I blame this realization, in part, on my inability to be alone in a room with my friend Kevin (of the distraction post) without having to actually sit on my hands to keep them off him. Damn inappropriate hormones. I bopped over to his apartment last night after 12 hours on set with absolutely _no_ intention of doing anything other than saying hello, giving him a hug for his bad day, and getting on the road home. Really I did. But when I got there I ended up treating him like a piece of really sexy meat. I should be ashamed. (I’m not. I am sleepy, though. Sleep is sort of like shame. They start with the same consonant!)
I do find it fascinating that right now I’m so wired in “I want to do what you want” mode that even when I’m topping I really want to follow every hint of a suggestion. I’m not a good top. It’s too easy to flip me. I think “Oh, I shouldn’t let him get away with that, but I really want him to get away with it,” and I let him get away with it. It’s because I’m really not a top. I’m a reaction junkie who likes to play with knives and put bits of people in her mouth (just shoulders! I was behaving! I have restraint. I can resist my base desires when they are contextually inappropriate. A little bit of antici-wait for it-pation never killed anyone. Right?)
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Oh, and on a completely separate note, the hysterically bad idea for tonight was a freeze tag (improv variant) orgy/group scene. For those of you who have never taken an improv class, freeze tag is when you watch a scene and call “freeze” when the people are in interesting positions. They freeze and then you tag in to one of the individuals, replicating the way they’re positioned, but then taking the action in a new direction. It’s a REALLY bad idea. Therefore the desire to orchestrate it with an appropriate group of people is almost irresistible. Kind of like my crazed desire to knit with human knitting needles.
Sometimes I think I really shouldn’t be allowed out in public.
I’m in an odd place right now. While in many areas of my life things are falling apart, in my love life I actually have options. I may not be getting any (sex or play) right now, but there are multiple possibilities on the horizon and some of them are quite good. Others are excellent. Not that I’m surprised. This is how all aspects of my life work, both professional and personal. It’s never “opportunities spread out nicely through time” it’s always “clumps of possibilities” followed by long periods of “nothing (and no one) to do.”
I’m actually really excited that the boy from the Northern Lands who I’m all gushy about is going to be in town this week. I don’t know if I’m actually going to get to see him, but even the possibility makes me all glowy. It’s lame really. I haven’t even managed to kiss him yet, but I like him, he likes me, and one of these days I’m going to back him into the corner and see if we can translate some of our conversational chemistry into physical chemistry**. Regardless of what happens, in the meantime I’m going to enjoy having someone who I can Like without being all conflicted about it or having people ask me “what do you see in him?”
Moving 90 minutes or so South, there’s that other guy. The one who keeps surprising me by not being who I expect him to be, and being far more fun instead. The one who is so good on paper that it’s like he stepped out of my high school romantic fantasies. The one about whom I have the odd feeling that, if and when we progress to the clothes ripping off stage, he will pleasantly surprise me in the bedroom (and maybe even the dungeon) as well. Plus, he just sent me an e-mail that accidentally made a literary fantasy come true. I will not share it with you because it proves conclusively that I’m even more of a dork than you would expect from my twin obsessions with Doctor Who and Alton Brown, and I’m just not ready for hard evidence.
Still closer, in fact all the way past me and out less than an hour in the other direction, there’s that poly couple. They may be currently off limits, but it has been suggested to me that that will not be the case forever, at which point there will be much jumping. I like them, a lot, in a completely non-stressful way, and also seriously want to rip both of their clothes off. Thank goodness that I enjoy that delicious sense of sexual frustration when you know you both want, but are being good, because every time I hang out with one of them it’s just a constant struggle to keep my mouth to myself. Still, I have self control and respect for their relationship so I content myself with enjoying the little internal sizzle. But man it’s nice to have local friends who I want to, and may one day be able to, jump.
It’s odd, feeling like there’s hope out there, not just for hot sex and fun play, but possibly for even more. Not that I would turn down some hot sex or fun play right now if they were offered. Anything but! I really think I’m getting easier about including sex as part of my casual play. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s just that I’m finding more friends who I like enough, in the right way, to be easy with. I like being easy. Especially with this job.
Can I just say that getting paid to write and talk about sex all day when I’m not having any sex makes me want to believe in a sentient universe just so that I can picture it laughing at me and stick out my tongue in defiance? I really need to state, for the record, that I have not consented to submitting to the universe. If I’m going to get worked up into a state of extreme sexual frustration and just left to simmer there unfulfilled, I’d much rather it be for the pleasure of an actual human being. Not for some slightly sadistic, but not generally malevolent, force of nature. Oh. No. Wait. That’s actually a pretty good description of exactly what sort of person I prefer to take me to such places. Bloody universe. It’s not nice to take advantage of me just because I’m so damn predictable. I stick my tongue out at the sky.
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*Does anyone other than me remember the show referenced in the title? I always enjoyed it because it had a strong, sexy bisexual female character all of whose songs were in a key I could sing.
**Oddly enough, one of the things that physical chemistry focuses on is state changes. *sigh* That’s probably only going to be a funny comment to me and Patricia. Thank goodness she reads this blog and is as dorky as I am.
It would seem unfair to blame Axe for my sexual frustration, since although he seems like a sweetie he’s utterly not my type, but, to be perfectly honest, it is ENTIRELY his fault that I started trolling the craigslist casual encounters ads, and so he’s getting the blame*.
The ad that did me in got to me because I have a dirty little not-so-secret. I have a major case of raging hormones for Sinclair. I have since the first time we met, when I was so absorbed in my conversation with Eileen that it’s amazing I noticed anyone else at all. Still, Sinclair’s kind of hard to miss**. And this ad… while it wasn’t anywhere near as well written as what is on Sugarbutch, it was written by a dominant butch woman who likes submissive girls with glasses and the scenario described was not inconsistent with the incredibly hot stories I’ve read on the site and…
I’m incredibly horny, had to cancel weekend plans that would have potentially led to some quality naked time with a very sexy woman, and have no shame! Yes, I’m pathetic. I know. You can all shut up. Still, I’m not going to answer it. I never do with these ads. No matter how perfectly they speak to my fantasies or desires, I remain extraordinarily leery about picking someone up on craigslist for casual sex. It’s only been somewhat recently that I’ve grown even slightly comfortable having casual sex with people I know! Which is a shame. I just have to be so phenomenally attracted to someone to want to sleep with them that I don’t end up getting laid all that often. And although I’m much less particular about SM play than I am about sex, lately I’ve been busier than six overstimulated kittens***… and so I haven’t been getting beaten all that often either.
Maybe I’ll see if the date who had to cancel last night wants to get together this evening. It seems unlikely, but you never know. Even if she could, it would probably just end up being a coffee date, but one can hope for snogging… or maybe a little biting… or possibly frantic groping in the front seat of the…
Who am I kidding. I sense that it’s either going to be a “stay at home with some freshly baked dark chocolate biscuits” or “go to Paddles and hope that I bump into someone I want to play with before the creepy guys scare me out of the building” evening. I’m not really sure which. Normally to get me out to Paddles it would take either a) a women’s party or b) knowing that friends would be there, but with the kind of mood I’m in at the moment the lure of chocolate and a possibly futile search for beatings are just about equal.
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*Sure, I was jonesing for sex before I read his post. Sure, I’d just woken up from a frustratingly abbreviated sex dream. I’ve never let honesty prevent me from passing the blame before, so why should I start now?
**And I will freely admit that I immediately went home and blog-stalked my hormones into their current fire-y state. That sexy AND a top. A queer, kinky bottom’s wet dream.
***Where the hell do these metaphors come from?
Almost having a really hot sex dream, and being thwarted at every turn by the version of your mother that lives in your subconscious. Seriously, dream sex is an utterly guilt free joy and if I’m not getting any in real life then I should be at least be able to get some virtually without a parent who I haven’t lived with in MORE THAN FIFTEEN YEARS getting in the way!!!! It’s very frustrating.
I wish I were less picky, but no matter how much I would like to be having more sex, there are startlingly few people out there who I actually would want to have said more sex with… and the vast majority of them either live waaaaaay too far away, are uninterested, or both. Alas! And I have had absolutely no interest in hitting up my ex- for IM sex, even though he’s pinged me a couple of times late at night in a way that I suspect was his version of a virtual booty call. I don’t want words right now. I want skin, and heat, and violence. I want bruises and to be overwhelmed to the point that my brain starts to spin. I want all of the little voices in my head to turn off for a few hours and not have to form any sound more consequential than a gasp, no word more substantive than a senseless scream. I want to abjure responsibility in favor of thoughtless, wanton abandon.
But I’m not going to get it so instead of fantasizing about it, I think I’ll go get some work done. Then maybe, if I’m inspired, I’ll come back and expand on my comments on Eileen’s accidentally idea-inducing post. The bitch is profound even when she’s drunk off her ass. No wonder I’m crazy about her. 
for today I am awash in temptation.
It all started with an e-mail suggesting that the long-awaited-date might actually happen this weekend, which got me thinking fond thoughts about the possibility of snogging, and then I got the second e-mail - the dangerous one.
Actually, no, the second e-mail wasn’t dangerous, it was just tempting. The possibility of singletails with one of my favorite play partners was mentioned. The proposed timing was problematic, but I spent the entire day thinking about the whip slicing up my skin. It was making it very difficult to get work done. I kept spacing out at the prospect and getting progressively more turned on. Which I decided he should know. It’s nice, I believe, to inform people when their e-mails have such a stimulating effect. So I sent him an e-mail blaming his invitation for my lack of productivity, and I got back the third e-mail. It said, and I quote…
“Blame me all you want. Just figure out a way to get your naked flesh in front of my whip. “
E-mails like that tend to make my clothing fall off*. It made me suddenly extremely sad to have to go to rehearsal tonight and even more sad that there was no way that I could manage to pull it off for at least 48 hours.
I’ve been musing about what exactly it was in the phrasing of that message that was so profoundly arousing. I think it was two things. The first was the “Just figure it out,” the assumption that I’m going to find a way to make it happen. The second was the phrase “naked flesh,” which is so… deliciously depersonalizing. Those are two very complementary buttons.
I’ve got to get it together. I keep zoning out into daydreams which are only increasing my desire for someone to hurt me right now, and since that’s not going to happen I need to go do something distracting. Possibly work on my inability to do pull-ups without letting myself think about how delicious they’d feel with singletail marks strewn across my back.
On second thought, maybe that’s not the best idea…
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*Well, e-mails like that from specific people.
I had a dream. A wonderful dream baby. A dream about you…
Ok. Not about you. Not unless you’re Brian from Queer as Folk. Which is pretty much impossible, since even the actor who played that character on QaF isn’t Brian*. Still, if I didn’t make musical theater references when they occur to me then my soul might wither away and die. It would be tragic. Besides, you can’t hear me singing from the other side of the Internet so you have nothing to complain about.
Anyway, the dream.
I dreamed that I had picked up Brian in a bar because he had decided that it would be fun to have a woman bottom to him for once. You know, different body parts to play with and all that. He had beaten me really nicely when he decided that he wanted to fist me. In my dream I was kind of shocked that I was agreeing to that, since I’ve never been fisted and I always thought I’d pick either someone I really cared about or someone with small hands, but he was really really hot and apparently I was feeling really really agreeable. We had just gotten through the negotiation stages and he was pulling on a glove when this insanely sexy African American guy slid open the metal door to the loft.
Apparently the two of them had a date, and Brian had forgotten. How terribly in character. But, being the slutty egomaniac he is, he decided to play with us both. At some point, as things progressed, he told me to suck his cock.
I tried, but discovered that doing so with my bite block in was absolutely impossible. So I took out my bite block and tried again and discovered that doing so with my bite block in was absolutely impossible. So I took out my bite block and tried again and discovered that doing so with my bite block in was absolutely impossible. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Eventually, after numerous failed bite block removal attempts, my alarm went off and I woke up frustrated and cursing.
The moral of this story?
If you go to bed horny, and there is any possibility that you may have the opportunity to perform oral sex on a really lickable man in your dreams, you should, under no circumstances, put in your bite block to sleep.
This is the kind of thing that people really need to teach you in school. Not doing so is just cruel.
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*I discovered this when I did background work on a film he was acting in. He looked vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t until I was walking home from the 14 hour shoot that I figured out who he was, since in the role he was playing he didn’t have Brian’s killer charisma. That guy is a seriously good actor - he was a completely different person.
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