Secret Confessions of a Smart Girl

We were sitting in the kitchen, watching live-action tentacle rape videos on the laptop, and discussing the flaws in production.

“The whole point of tentacle rape,” I kept insisting, ” is multiple penetration.”

I was feeling both extraordinarily horny and extremely frustrated, because the videos kept not being exactly what I’d want. A tentacle would tease the captive girl’s mouth, but not go in. One would fuck her cunt while another waved near her ass, but it was always just a tease.

The worst was the video that was advertised as tentacle rape, but just had puppet tentacles being used for bondage while human men “raped” the actresses pretending to be school girls. The latex molding on the tentacles was absolutely gorgeous, but instead of using them to brutally fuck the women they simply used them as props.

It was a terrible disappointment.

Oh, realistically speaking, I know it made sense. The problem with live-action tentacle rape, as opposed to the text-based stories I prefer, is that there are actual people involved having their actual bodies fucked. That means you have to restrict yourself to what they want, and what most people want is rarely as violent, painful, and degrading as the things that I fantasize about. The tentacle porn was hot enough to make me extremely horny but not quite what I needed it to be for me to find it satisfying. It made me think I was generally better off restricting myself to written erotica… well, written erotica and real life.

My partner in porn-appreciation didn’t argue with my critiques of the genre. He just kept pulling up more videos and ignoring my increasingly less subtle hints that we should stop watching porn and go have some violent sex of our own. One of his ,,endearing,, qualities is the way he likes to get me worked up and watch me squirm until I lose all dignity and start begging him for sex.

I finally gave up and asked him what he thought about consensual non-consent, because what I really wanted right then was not so much to go back to the bedroom and have hot, kinky sex but to be manhandled down the hall and viciously “raped.”

Margaret Atwood wrote a brilliant essay about rape fantasies in which she describes all the ways in which women’s rape fantasies have nothing to do with actual rape - and the truth in that is unarguable. I didn’t actually want to be raped. I wanted to be violated, hurt, degraded, and viciously used by someone who I trusted and adored while I screamed and cried and begged him to stop… but didn’t truly want him to.

This led to a discussion of the myriad problems involved in the two of us negotiating a “rape scene,” ranging from the highly emotionally charged issues of it not being hot without consent - and how do you maintain both the feeling of the scene and the comfort that there is consent? - to the practical problem where the only time I don’t want to have sex with him when he wants me is when I am physically ill.

Then we dropped the conversation, went and had earth-shatteringly-hot, violent, brutal sex where I came repeatedly from the combination of pleasure and pain, and while I was lying next to him feeling blissful, wrecked, and exhausted, I had a belated moment of revelation.

Most of what I dream about in my rape fantasies, I already get as an amazing component of my submission to him. Pain, degradation, humiliation, sex that is focused on his desires instead of mine, the only thing that’s missing is the one thing we both feel slightly creeped out by - and that I, honestly, don’t need - the falsehood and misdirection designed to imply that I don’t want to be exactly where I am, when I really, really do. The only thing I can’t do is try to save face by pretending that the pain and humiliation aren’t the very things that get me off.

And, in its own way, it’s insanely hot to own how much I like it when he calls me his whore, when he fucks me until my insides are raw and swollen and then keeps going so that every thrust is an inescapable mixture of pleasure and pain, when he makes me cry in pain and humiliation and then uses my misery to make me come. It’s wonderful for me to be able to get off on the fact that he gets off on hurting me, and for him to know how very much I like it.

I guess the truth is that when your relationship is structured around how much you want to give your partner everything, even when you don’t like it, rape scenes are a little redundant. Particularly when one of the hottest things about the pain and the violence is the fact that you are constantly choosing to give him consent. A “rape” scene might be a fun and exciting fantasy to play out, but I can’t imagine it being as overwhelmingly satisfying as actively embracing the choice to be someone’s toy.
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Mind you, if I could figure out a way to do it in a way that _I_ would consider to be safe, I would love to bottom to a take down, gang-rape scene where I’d fight until exhaustion as a group of (wo)men held me down and repeatedly used me however they wanted to until they were done with me and I was nothing but a quivering mass of pain, tears, and humiliation, but realistically speaking that’s never going to happen. I might be able to negotiate a sexual torture/humiliation/pseudo-rape scene involving more than one top that would come close, but the extent of safe-sex negotiations and precautions I require makes the fantasy scene I recently saw someone else live out impossible - at least for me. It was incredibly hot, and I was envious that the bottom was willing to take the risks she did to live out something I’d dreamed of, but the trade off is not my cup of tea. Fortunately, I get enough mind-blowing kinky sex from my solitary partner that I can’t really bring myself to be disappointed. If I want to get fantasy-gang-raped, I can always do it in my blog. Not only is text sex safe sex, when I write it I always get exactly what I want. Tentacle rape without multiple penetration? Don’t be ridiculous.

I fantasize about being an object of mass desire.

It is difficult, sometimes, to resolve this fantasy with my complete and utter obsession with safe sex, but I do what I can*.

In fact, I have concocted an elaborate party favor scenario that is so hot to me that it has become a regular source of masturbatory fantasies. It just will probably never happen because, among other reasons, I have trouble imagining it being equally hot to the anyone else**.

I am naked in a room, blindfolded with cuffs around my wrists and ankles, chained spread-eagled on a bed. Next to me, on a table, are a selection of toys for sensation and toys for sex - whips and canes, clamps and knives, and a whole pile of variously sized, shaped, and textured objects that could be used for penetration.

The rules would be as follows:

1. Anything on the table can be used to hurt me or please me, as long as it can be done safely.

2. My mouth and cunt may only be penetrated with the items on the table or with gloved fingers and hands. Other objects can be used to hurt me with the permission of the minder.

3. No drawing blood or leaving marks/alterations that could affect my appearance in normal clothes.

4. The minder can ask you to stop or leave at any time, and my safeword must be respected immediately.

In my fantasy, my eyes are blocked and I am overwhelmed by hands. They hurt and they tease while they explore my body as an object instead of a person. They use me as an idle distraction, pushing a cold piece of glass into my cunt and walking away, or making designs with clothespins on my skin and then leaving them there to ache. They cane my thighs until I am in agony, and then fuck me with the end of the rod - as a terrible, terrible tease.

The truth is, I want it to be about the sex. I want it to be about hands on my breasts and fingers teasing the line of my labia and threatening to dive in. I want to be given so much sexual attention that it morphs from pleasure to pain and back again. I want to be fucked when I do want it, when I don’t want it, and at every stage in between. I want to be begging for pain to distract from sex while secretly not knowing if I want the people to stop. I want to be begging to come and not allowed to do so or sent over the edge so many times that I honestly plead for it to stop.

I want to be gloriously and degradingly used, like the girls I used to read about in the stories I downloaded from alt.sex with headings like n/c and MMMMF. I want to be hurt and fucked until all I am is a vehicle for desire and pain. I want it to go on until I am so worn out that I can barely beg for it to stop… and I never want to know who touched me***.

I want to wonder who has such intimate knowledge of my body, but never quite be sure****.

–
_{*I recognize that it’s a bit sad that I have to have safe sex even in my fantasies, but they’re hotter if I can imagine them coming true, okay?}

_{**Although I certainly am an enormous fan of fucking girls, so you never really know.}

_{*** Okay. I’m actually not sure if that part is true or not.}

_{****But if it were, I would find it insanely hot to later read about it from their anonymous perspectives. Mmmm. Perspectives*****.}

_{*****And suddenly I think about the possibility of a post-gangbang support/review blog. “I found it was most satisfying to use her when someone was holding her feet up by her chest.” “Her cunt didn’t do much for me, but I had a lovely experience in her mouth.” “It was hot the way she cried while I was fucking her ass. You’d think it was her first time.” “I prefer bigger boobs, but it was fun to make her scream by slamming her cervix.” “Bring a friend, so that one of you can take her from each end.” “After the first three or four men, she whimpers beautifully every time someone new steps up to take her.” “I forgot my favorite lube, but she was very wet so it didn’t matter.” “I recommend being early in line so that you’re ready to take another go. Fucking her is a very different experience after five or six other men have had their turn.” Um. I think I need a drink.}

I recently did a little shopping*.

The trip was motivated by the fact that my girlfriend’s big blue cock was a bit too big for my liking, at least for extended playtime, and so I wanted to acquire a harnessable dildo that was more Rona sized. I’m not entirely certain I succeeded, but while I was shopping I also engaged in a little pre-emptive wish fulfillment.

I keep writing stories with remote control vibrators. Turning over that level of control to someone, possibly in a public or semi-public place, is a relatively long standing element of my fantasy life. It’s exciting just to imagine getting worked up solely for someone else’s amusement, having to control my reactions, becoming more and more desperate to jump them, and the like. I used to get all hot and bothered just looking at remote control toys in catalogs, and so I decided that I really should just acquire one because not having one made it much less likely that such a fantasy would ever come true.

This, however, is not a story about the remote control vibrator.

This is the story about the third thing I purchased - an alien rabbit.

I don’t know how I got to my ripe old age without ever having a rabbit-style vibrator, but I did - I never bought one and in my two years of working as a sex toy reviewer, I never came across one (so to speak.) People evangelized about them, but I was always weirded out by their little animal shapes (and particularly disturbed by a dolphin variant that actually made dolphin noises. Bad Idea. I actually screamed and ran out of the room when the demonstrator turned it on.) It was, however, clear to me that I should probably try one at some point. I am, after all, enormously fond of penetration, and the thought of a nice battery operated cock that would actually move around inside of me of it’s own electronic will was an exciting one. So,since I had a good discount coupon and was placing an order anyway…. I bought the alien rabbit.

I chose the alien rabbit for my first foray with a vibrator of its species for two reasons 1)it appealed to my tentacle porn fantasies (I, II) and 2) the shaft itself moves instead of just containing rotating beads. Together, those two qualities seemed like they would make the alien rabbit an excellent accessory to my fantasy life.

Unfortunately, when it arrived, I was in a blue period. I was depressed enough that I wasn’t particularly interested in sex. Still, though, I didn’t want to put it away in the drawer without at least testing it out, so I concocted a bit of a submissive fantasy to induce myself to use it. I was being told to insert it, and I would not be allowed to take it out until I had had at least one orgasm.

Helping along my fantasy was the fact that the toy is slightly bigger than I might generally prefer, which led to a nice sense of violation as I lubricated it and slowly slipped it in while protesting my discomfort and disinterest. The discomfort and sense of violation were starting to turn me on on their own (I may be a pervert), but the toy itself was also pretty damn impressive. I orgasmed within about 5 seconds of hitting the switch. As I put it later, when raving about the thing, it took me from zero to orgasm in less than 15 seconds - most of which was used up during the process of insertion. I didn’t even have time to start the vibration on my clit.

Thus, I declare my little alien rabbit to be very pleasing indeed. So pleasing, in fact, that I feel like I might need to work with a different sort of fantasy next time I use it, or at least a different set of rules. The whole experience, after all, was a bit overwhelming. It might be pretty awful to have to keep using it after that first orgasm.

Maybe I should go find out.
–
*For the record, nothing in this post is what I was talking about in my last post

This weekend I was fisted for the first time.

It wasn’t planned.

In fact, we’d had something entirely different planned and somehow got distracted. It happens. Gloriously.

The previous times my girlfriend and I had tried fisting, it hadn’t ended up working. I kept getting too nervous at the last moment. The last stretch felt too much like scary pain instead of good pain.

This time, however, I was apparently in the right headspace, and Oh My God Wow.

That is intense.

I expected that it would be, but not necessarily to the extent that it was.

I honestly don’t even know how to write about the experience, it was so overwhelming. It made me want to do nothing except curl up naked at her feet and just be.

Yum.

I am extraordinarily fond of being pounced by that woman. I look forward getting to pounce her again soon. Very soon.

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.

–
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.)

When my friend S. and I were waiting for the opening curtain of Spring Awakening the other week, she commented on the title of one of the songs.

“Totally Fucked?” she asked.
“I wonder if they mean in the good way or the bad way.” I responded, “Maybe both.”

For the record, the “Totally Fucked” in the title of this post is something I, unquestionably, mean in the good way. The very good way.

Penetration has always been something I enjoy, but over the past year or so it has grown increasingly high in my esteem. In particular, I am becoming rather dreadfully fond of fucking. I don’t know if it’s that I’ve been having more sex, that I’ve been having better sex*, or that I’ve finally embraced the goodness that is lube, but there have been a growing number of instances where fucking has turned me into a ball of happy glowing girl in a way that is normally reserved for other sensations… like pain, or my vibrator.

Still, I don’t want to write about fucking in general. I want to write about fucking in particular. Specifically, I want to write that I finally got to live out my very long held (and strangely, previously unfulfilled) desire to be fucked by a woman** with a strap-on. Totally and thoroughly fucked. Eyes rolled back in my head, verbally incoherent, I seem to be on Mars fucked(originating the quote in this post.) It was totally worth waiting for, even though I have no idea why I did (other than lack of opportunity.)

I have to say that I would be quite happy to be having a lot more sex with women. In addition to the fact that women are, well, women***. I really like penetration from the other side too. Fucking girls is fun, and hot, and inspiring. Plus, there’s a certain sort of Science!tific joy figuring out if the same things you love having done to you work as well on someone else. And of course, one can’t forget the sheer sensual bliss of just touching women, and playing with them, and … Yum. For some reason, sex with my most recent ex-girlfriend didn’t involve a lot of penetration, and that was just a shame.

Okay, who am I kidding. Realistically speaking, I would be quite happy to be having a lot more sex in general. Good sex makes me want more sex, and I’m hoping that, if things with  shmoopy man continue to progress in  a positive direction, more sex will be on the menu****. This whole “one weekend of debauchery every couple of months” thing is frustrating in the extreme.

–
* I recently had an experience that I mentally described as OMG PEN1S!!!! (OMG PON1ES for reference) for the extent of joy that it induced in me. I do enjoy the sexual experiences that end with my lying on the bed, incapable of speech, thinking “If I died now, I would go happy.”
**A ridiculously beautiful, sexy, and silly woman who is way too much fun both in and out of bed, at that!
***and thus far more likely to be both shiny and possessed of great yumminess
****which is seeming more and more likely

I’ve been rereading the Anita Blake books this week. I loved the early books in the series as books, and I quite like the later books in the the series as porn, but the middle books (where I’m stuck now) aren’t entirely satisfying as either. So I read them, get caught up in the fantasies of violent, bloody sex, and end up feeling really, really frustrated*.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about fear and trust. Not entirely because of the books, although those themes are certainly an issue. It started because of something an ex of mine posted in his livejournal. I don’t think it was about me, but I’m not 100% certain, and the niggling doubt got me wondering. Not because I would have been offended if it it was about me, but because if it was I didn’t know if it was true.

He was writing about a girl who was turned on by fear. Specifically, in this instance, of a girl being turned on by the snap of a singletail near body parts where no whip was supposed to go. I thought to myself “I don’t remember that, it’s not me, and although that would turn me on it’s not because I was afraid…” but that’s not strictly true.

What turns me on is the combination of fear and trust. It’s not an easy balance to find, but there’s a great deal of power inherent in walking that line. Fear, real fear, doesn’t turn me on. If I think someone is actually trying to damage me then it’s not going to make me hot. On the other hand, if I trust someone enough that I truly believe that they won’t damage me and they can still scare me… oh baby.

Of course, trusting someone like that, alone, is hot. Even without the fear, really trusting someone is an enormous rush. It’s one of the reasons I’m sometimes a lazy negotiator. I don’t generally trust people enough to go to a place where I can’t enforce my limits and so I don’t feel that much of a need to have them spelled out and iron clad. While playing with Adam a few months back, someone who I had not negotiated sexual play with, he said to me something along the lines of “I’m going to make you beg me to fuck you and then I’m going to say ‘no’.” He did, and I did, and he didn’t, and that was incredibly hot. No, that’s a bad example, there was definitely fear there too.

It’s an aspect of submission, I think. I’ve said before that not wanting something doesn’t make the thing in question any hotter for me. That’s true. On the other hand, having someone want something from me enough not to care if I want it unquestionably does. I think fear comes into that category. I can’t imagine specifically negotiating a scene that is designed to scare the pants off of me, but I can imagine playing with people who will take things places that terrify me. I don’t even need to imagine it, I can remember it.

There’s another kind of fear play that really gets to me, though, and this is the kind that the Anita books make me wet just thinking of. The kind of fear play where it’s all about passion and control. I like knives. I really like knives. I like to play with knives with people who like knives in ways that anyone in their right mind would consider to be both literally and figuratively edge play. And one thing I like, other than the sensation of the blade against my skin, and the knowledge of how easily it could slip right through, is seeing the look in someone’s eyes when they’re teetering on the edge of control. I like watching them want to push just a little harder, just a fraction more, and seeing them hold themselves back. I like seeing the look in their eyes when they realize that there’s a little part of me that wants them to do it too, that we both want to see the blood pour red across my skin, and the way the world stops completely for a second as the two of us don’t even breathe for danger of stepping over that line of control.

One day, I’m going to have the opportunity to play with someone who likes knives as much as I do (a very rare commodity), and who I’m also willing to fuck (or be otherwise sexual with, another rare commodity), and very bad things are going to happen. Glorious, dangerous things involving steel and skin, passion and pain, fear, frustration, and control or the lack thereof. It makes me growl just thinking of it.
–
*Which I can’t do anything about because my friend’s two dogs are staying in my house and won’t let me out of their sight. I might corrupt them or something. *sigh* Puppy love is great, but it’s not quite what I’m in the mood for at the moment.

Lately when I’ve had things on my mind that I want to get off my mind I only have one thing on my mind… fucking.

To which I say, what the fuck?

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m quite fond of fucking, but for most of my life I’ve been far more interested in pain than I have been in sex. Not lately. Lately all I’ve been thinking about is sex, and, in particular, sex with penises. Which is not necessarily sex with men. It’s just that my brain has been very cock-centric lately.

And that is odd in and of itself, because while I really enjoy sucking cock, I often prefer to be fucked with other things… like fingers, or whip handles, or knives. But lately, when I want to get out of my head, my preferred methods of travel are low tech. Hands in my hair, teeth in my shoulder, what I’m longing for is to be fucked senseless. A little pain, a lot of control, and my brain too dissolved by desire to even contemplate contemplating anything else.

–
Two other thoughts:

1. I need someone to come over to my house right now and tie me up so that I stop injuring myself. In the last hour I’ve spilled boiling water on my thumb and bashed my funny bone into the car door. There are much more pleasant ways to be in pain, and I suspect some of them might start after I were tied up and unable to damage myself further.

2. I resent stealth porn. I was reading “The Queen’s Bastard” while experiencing commercial hair removal, and suddenly found myself in the middle of some incredibly hot implied kinky sex. I had to try and think myself into a cold shower, because that was not the right moment to let myself get turned on as my brain wandered away to follow the implied action. A violent sexual encounter with the master of the house. The servant’s envious hands pressing on the welts left behind, wishing he dared to be so bold. The formerly gentle lover digging his hands into the wounds, asking”Do you like this?” and knowing that the answer is yes.

Hurt me more.

Take out your anger at his residue on my skin.

Let me see how much my pain arouses you and then use my poor aching and abused body until I scream.

…

Um. Yes. That was where I was trying not to go when there was some random woman hanging out in the general vicinity of my bikini area. Still, I’m home now… so I have absolutely no idea why I’m still sitting at the computer when there are perfectly good sex toys in the other room. Bye!!!

When I’m stressed, I tend to get a bit obsessed over getting things done. Unfortunately, the more stressed I am, the more I focus on getting things done that don’t actually need to be done, rather than on getting things done that have deadlines (and that are therefore contributing to my stress.) To wit, in the past week, I’ve worked on my band’s webpage, written music, sewn a dress for my friend’s wedding this weekend, hung two light fixtures (one of them twice!), installed fencing, painted, (f)re(e)cycled large amounts of crap I didn’t need, and generally gotten a lot of stuff done that really could have waited a week or two… or even longer.

What I haven’t been doing is writing. Not here, and not for work. Here isn’t necessarily a problem, no one beats me for lack of productivity or anything (Alas! Although I suppose it would actually be more effective for someone to beat me as a reward for productivity…), but work actually needs to get done. So having gotten everything done about the house that I can think of, I’m going to write here instead of writing for work. That’ll show ‘em!*

While reading the time-sucking-leviathan-otherwise-known-as-livejournal this morning, I came across a post looking for links to “object insertion porn,” which reminded me of one of my favorite erotica stories. In Cecilia Tan’s anthology Black Feathers : Erotic Dreams, there is a story titled “Penetration,” where a woman ties up her lover and basically fucks her with everything in the house except a dildo. It’s a very hot story, but what I find interesting is that, when I went to look up the title, I had remembered it completely incorrectly. Oh, the story was the same, but it’s written from the perspective of the top and I had remembered it as being from the perspective of the bottom. I had remembered the bottom begging to be fucked and the top denying her, when what is actually going on is that we’re reading the top’s internal monologue and she specifically mentions several times that the bottom looks like she wants to beg but is holding herself back. It’s funny how the mind works. The scene stayed in my mind, largely as written, but the writing I recalled was completely different than what was actually on the page.

I suspect it all comes back to the fact that, when I read, I fall into the world that I’m reading about and live the story. That is why I can read a book for the 12th time and still need to finish it to see what happens - I may have read it many times before but when I’m living it I’m in the moment. With erotica, most of the time I remember the hot scenes from the perspective of the role I would want to be playing in them, no matter how they are written. Do most people do this? I suspect that I may have a very different relationship with the written word than most of the population.

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*Who is this em? And why do they want to be shown me not doing what I’m supposed to be doing? One of the mysteries of the universe.

**Well, except when unidentified people leave me incomprehensible phone messages where the only understandable word is “Indiana.” Then I feel free to make it mean whatever the hell I want

I really like multiple penetration in my written (as opposed to visual) porn. Back in the heyday of alt.sex.stories, my favorite keywords were “mmf” and “nc” because they brought up a lot of gang rape porn. Gang rape porn also frequently involves bondage, pain, and humiliation, so there’s really very little about it that I don’t like.

Sadly, those days are over. Every six months or so I’ll get a hankering for new masturbation fodder and run a keyword search over at a.s.s., but nobody writes anything new any more. It’s all stuff I’ve read before, advertisements for photo sites, or just textual garbage.

But then, a few years ago, I discovered the joy of hentai. I’d heard of it for years, and knew basically what it was, but I’d never seen or read any hentai porn*. I was totally missing out. I’m slightly mortified by how much I enjoy reading about aliens restraining women with their tentacles, abusing them horribly, and probing their various orifices, but I find a lot of it incredibly hot. One of the nice thing about most of the hentai I read, and I still haven’t actually watched any - although I’ve seen still images, is that within the construction of force the women generally end up enjoying what’s being done to them**. I would totally be willing to negotiate an alien tentacle rape scene!

Ok. Maybe not This is one of those “would it really be hot if I actually did it? I have no idea!” things, but on paper, or screen, I can not deny that it works for me. Fortunately as there is a distinct lack of alien tentacle monsters pursuing me at the moment, it really isn’t an issue. If I was walking down the street and an adorable little green alien tentacle monster tapped me on the shoulder, tipped his black felt bowler hat, and said “excuse me, miss, but I would like to transgress against you with my multiple muscular protrusions,” I think that I’d at least take a moment to consider the proposition***. Well, at least I would after I’d recovered from my faint.

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*I used to have a messenger bag that said “hentai inside” as an alteration on the Intel logo. Whenever I carried it I always acquired the most interesting stalkers. One followed me into a shoe store once to accost me in, relative, privacy.

**My not-so-inner feminist occasionally screams at me about this, but I like the illusion of force in my sex life after I have clearly consented to whatever is going to happen. “Make me,” is an enormous turn on after I’ve already agreed to something in principle. I know it’s horrible, and it goes against all my beliefs about “(wo)men should say yes if they mean yes and no if they mean no,” but it’s one of my kinks and I apply consensuality to it! So there! Hmph!

***There’s just something about a tentacle monster in a bowler…