Things Seen and Unseen

Those who can’t watch… do.

While re-reading the last post, I realized that I have now become one of those people who plays in a way that I am uncomfortable watching.

Let me be more specific.

I am extremely uncomfortable watching scenes where the bottom seems to honestly want the top to stop doing whatever they are doing, but I sometimes find it extraordinarily hot to bottom (or more accurately submit) to a scene where I am honestly begging my partner to stop.

Thus, a question of ethics:

Is it responsible for me to publicly participate in a scene that, as an observer, I would want to stop*?

I am frequently acutely aware of this problem as I am playing. I generally actively try to make it clear to my partner that, even as I am honestly asking them to stop doing what they are doing,  I am okay with them continuing. I tend to be even more conscious of this if there is an audience to our play that may, for one reason or another, have difficulty leaving (i.e. if I am playing in a large room at a party instead of off in a quiet corner.) I become concerned about causing dismay.

It is an awkward thing, playing in public in a way that I know would bother me to see. Part of it is also that, as a professional sex educator, I am extremely conscious of wanting to set a good example with how I play. It may be a little ridiculous, but if I’m going to do something that I wouldn’t necessarily want other people to emulate, I try to do it in private.

*Note: I do not try and stop these scenes when I see them. I just walk out of the room. I may, occaisionally, check in with the bottom afterward to make certain they are okay if they are a friend of mine… or with a friend of theirs to see if that is how they normally play, but mostly I just leave. I have trouble watching people suffering if I am not able to tell they are enjoying it. Particularly people I care about… even if I know they’re masochists. I tend to want to drag the top off of my friend and beat THEM. I am a violent soul, just not particularly a sadist.

 


Interrogatives…

For some reason, I woke up from my afternoon nap fantasizing about interrogation scenes.

I stopped as soon as I was fully conscious, because that sort of role-play just isn’t my thing. (Role play where giggling is completely out of character? I don’t know if I could manage it. Also, I have to admit, I don’t find politically relevant torture hot. I find it scary and depressing.) Still, some of the trappings are quite erotic, and I suspect that that is what spawned the initial fantasy, and the more I think about it the more I’m getting turned on by the concept of being beautifully defiant.

I think the fantasy is mostly about the theater. This particular sort of public play, for me, is often about performance, and I’m picturing this almost cinematically. I’d like to blame the performance piece that Monk* posted the other week, because it was so darn pretty. I think it, combined with the fact that I spent yesterday dressed as Emma Peel, set things percolating in my brain.

INT. INTERROGATION ROOM.

Slightly off to the right of center is a woman tied to a plain metal chair. Her head is bowed as though she’s sleeping, but if you look carefully you can see her hands trying to work their way out of their bonds. A scrape is visible on her cheek, and her once elegant black dress is disheveled. The room is lit by a single overhead fixture that shines a circle of light on the chair. No other furniture is visible. POV is from above, implying the presence of a security camera in the room.

The Interrogator steps silently out of the shadows behind the chair and lightly touches the woman’s wrist. She jumps. She didn’t know he was there.

THE INTERROGATOR
There’s no point in trying to escape that way, you know. You’re just going to injure yourself. I’ll see about getting some salve for the skin on your wrists. You’ve managed to rub them raw. We wouldn’t want the abrasions to become infected.

He walks around to the front of the chair, and the woman glares up at him defiantly. She holds his gaze continues to try and loosen the ropes, but no longer tries to do it subtly. She knows she’s not going to escape while he is in the room, but she’s making a point.

THE INTERROGATOR
I suspect you think I will be impressed by your defiance. I am not. This is simply a job for me. A job you will be making more difficult if I have to call in the doctors, so I would appreciate it if you would not make that necessary.

The woman continues to struggle against her bonds while holding his gaze. She is almost smirking, as if in the belief that her defiance is something that can not be taken away from her.

THE INTERROGATOR
I will not ask you politely again.

With a movement that comes so quickly that it appears completely unmotivated, the interrogator slaps the woman hard across the face. She is, momentarily, stunned. During the next speech, the interrogator walks around the chair, checks the ropes, perhaps reties some of them to make struggling more pointless. He is cold and impersonal throughout.

THE INTERROGATOR
Pain is a tool, you see. One for me to use on you, and I can’t have you distracted by injuries you have selfishly inflicted on your own skin. I have to be able to hurt you, as I choose, to get the information I need, and your silly struggles could impede that. Therefore I need you to stop.

The interrogator walks back into the shadows and we hear, but do not see, him moving around equipment and shuffling through the paper. As he gets to the end of the speech below, he returns to the front of the chair where he stands with his hands behind his back looking down at the woman. He is utterly calm, and it is the sense of quiet about him that lends the scene an almost palpable sense of menace.

THE INTERROGATOR
Up until now, we have been relatively kind to you. We have allowed you to maintain your dignity. We have not done anything that might cause you any significant physical or psychological damage. If you simply tell us the location of the tape, you can walk out of here pride and person intact. If, however, you persist in this stubbornness and petty defiance, we may need to resort to stronger tactics. It is, when it comes down to it, entirely your choice.

He takes a damp cloth from behind his back and dabs gently at the cut on her cheek.

THE INTERROGATOR
Therefore, I ask you again… Where have you taken the tape?

She spits in his face, and he doesn’t even wince. He just stands up, wipes his face with the same cloth, and walks back into the shadows.

THE INTERROGATOR
Very well then. I’d like you to remember that whatever comes next you’ve chosen as your fate. If at any time you’d like to provide me with the information I require, this can all stop. In the meantime, however…

He steps back into the light, which glints off the knife now held firmly in his dominant hand.

THE INTERROGATOR
…your precious dignity is the first thing that will have to go.

He pushes the POV camera so that it is focusing on a blank corner and we hear the sound of a knife ripping through fabric and the woman’s quickly cut off scream.


*Dear lord do I have a net crush on that man.

 


Sometimes When You’ve Been Really Good…

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 :)

 


Play Slut

I am a play slut.

I have, for the record, never denied this. I may be pretty phenomenally picky about who I have sex with, but I’ll play with anyone remotely interesting who looks my way.

Most of the time it’s a one off thing. We are two people who happened to be in the same place at the same time with cooperative interests. A good time is, hopefully, had by all. Sometimes we exchange phone numbers or hook up again at another party, but mostly we vanish into the ether like two ships passing in the night.

Here’s the thing, though… I’m senile. To quote my father, “I never remember a name, but I always forget a face.” I’m quite possible of not just playing with someone but enjoying playing with them and then completely forgetting the scene ever took place. I’m, in fact, SO bad with faces that I once chatted with someone I had dated for 4 months without realizing who he was*.

This fact has, occasionally, come back to bite me in the ass. Rarely is said biting anything other than horribly embarrassing for me, so… it’s okay. I somewhat enjoy making stories out of making an ass out of myself. Lemons and lemonade, you know?

To wit:

The other night I was sitting around chatting with Eileen and Victor talking about how most of the pro-dommes I know prefer to be submissive in their private play life, when I thought of a counter example.

“Oh! There was this guy P** I met at the TES New Years Eve party a few years ago. I bottomed to him and his pro-domme girlfriend. Gosh she was hot, and I had such a brain crush on him. We played again a couple of weeks later at Paddles and…”

I trailed off as I realized the name I had just said. I looked at Eileen and said…

“Oh my god. P… Is that the same P who we were just talking about? The P, I spent about a half an hour with chatting with at that party two weeks ago, trying to figure out how I knew him? Did he ever date a pro-domme? OH MY GOD I AM SUCH A MORON!!!!***

She lost it completely.

Apparently, P. claims not to be a play slut, and I had just provided her with objective proof to the contrary. She was quite amused. So was I, although I’m not certain if at that point I started cracking up completely or just banging my head on the wall. It could have gone either way.

So, I say it loud and I say it proud.

I am a play slut.

A senile play slut.

I should be ashamed.

I’m not though, because do you know what the truly sad thing about this story is?

I came out of it totally impressed with myself that I played with someone twice 5 years ago and actually remembered his name.

*sigh*

I think it’s time to go take a shower.

* In my defense, he had gone from waist length hair to shaved head, it was 2 years later, and I did know I _knew_ him, just not how. Okay. I admit that’s a crappy defense. The facial recognition portion of my brain is unreliable in the extreme. The only thing I’m good at is voices.

**Initials have been changed to protect the innocent.

***Because the reasons I had enjoyed chatting with him two weeks ago were EXACTLY THE SAME REASONS I had had a brain crush on him 5(?) years ago when we first met.

 


Playtime!

I am a happy girl, for I am covered in bruises.

Somehow I managed to play twice in a 24 hour period. The first time with a strange man, and the second time with a stranger man… but one I have known for years. Apparently the secret to getting me to play with you, if you are a strange man, is the following:

  1. Have a pretty woman attached to your hip. I am highly susceptible to women. They distract me very well from any doubts I might have about playing with someone I haven’t even really been introduced to.
  2. Be polite. Mention your consent fetish. Demonstrate it repeatedly. Impress me with the fact that you are going to be utterly respectful of my limits in ways I hadn’t even considered. Having someone yellow just to make sure you can trust them to do so? That’s pretty cool.
  3. Wear claws.

In the past, other tactics have worked equally well. They mostly require having either a deep store of geeky knowledge in either Math or Shakespeare or smelling really good. The secret of getting me to play with you if you’re a strange woman… well, just ask. I like strange women.

We had a nice scene. No toys, just claws and teeth and grabbing (I’m going to have a kick ass bruise on my inner thigh from him just sinking his fingers into the muscle and pulling. I feel it every time I cross my legs, but it hasn’t risen to the surface yet. Whee!) It was fun. Plus, I got to kiss the belly of the cute girl. She had a beautiful belly. I am so girl-a-sexual.

The second scene… was totally unfair. I realized when I started writing this blog that it would be possible for someone to use it to take shameless advantage of me by pushing every single button I mention… but I thought it was a distant possibility. I was wrong. His Royal Sillyness did a very good job of mining my writing for buttons and then pushing them over and over again. He also coined a name for this - Blog Topping. I, however, continue to call it simply unfair.

Which is not, by any means, to say that I had a bad time. I had a fabulous time. I got up this morning feeling pretty under the weather, but I didn’t want to cancel so I headed into the city feeling so zombie-like that I had told my carmates “I look so pathetic that he’s not going to want to do terrible things to me!” I was right… for about 15 minutes. Then we got past it.

This was an entirely different kind of scene from the night before. I was submitting (if, admittedly, rather snottily), rather than bottoming, which meant that the dynamic was… more intense. There was a lot of hitting. It was really good hitting. With canes. And fists. And singletails. My right bicep is a mass of bruises, as is my lower body pretty much from waist to knees (and some of those bruises are COOL looking). It hurts to walk, to stand, and to sit, and I love it. I love how the pain blossoms almost surprisingly when I shift my weight. I love the intensity of the sensation. I feel good.

This afternoon’s interlude had varying levels of intensity, and difficulty for me. With pain, sometimes it’s hard to process and then ask for more, but I want it. I want the fire under my skin, and the need to scream, and the feeling that it’s too much. I want to wonder whether any given stroke is going to hurt like the devil or feel like the gift of an incubus - incandescently arousing. I would think, occasionally, “why do I keep presenting for more?” and while part of it was “because he wants me to,” another part was just jonesing for the next ecstatic high.

The parts that I found the hardest would, for most of the population, not be even remotely difficult. But because I have often have Issues about things sexual, particularly when they are with men, my Danger Will Robinson moments are not the same as normal girls. (You’re caning my nose? You’re a freak. I trust you, and go for it, but you’re a freak.) I did some things I didn’t particularly want to do. During one of those things, the comment was made “I think you’re starting to enjoy that,” which was… not accurate. If I am going to do something, I want to do it well. If I am going to do something I don’t want to do…. I really want to do it well, because the thought of doing something I don’t want to do badly is just appalling. There is a certain turn on in doing something I don’t want to do for someone, just because they want it, but… it doesn’t make it something I want to do.

That having been said, the common thread between the two scenes was the fact that both men in question were remarkably respectful of my stated (and unstated) limits. The second man could have pushed me farther, if he had wanted to, in certain areas, and I probably would have let him, but the fact that he didn’t meant a lot.

So, to answer the question I was asked several times this afternoon… what about the scene will I masturbate to thoughts of? That’s easy. Thoughts of pain streaming across my skin, trying not to scream, writhing away, and then presenting for more.

 


On Assholes, Approaches, and Assumptions

This post in MayMay’s journal got me thinking about some of the things I don’t like about primarily heterosexual scene spaces. In particular, it made me want to tell the following story. Some variation on this has happened to me numerous times, and I continue to find it equal parts annoying, amusing, and incomprehensible.

I usually go to scene events alone. I’m almost always single, and although I can be quite shy I can usually find someone nice to talk to, if not to play with. However, almost once during every evening I have gone to Paddles the following scenario has happened: I will be standing chatting with a man, often one I have just met, when another man will come up and ask my conversational companion if I will top him.

Lets examine the problem here. Doing this requires such an absurdly confused set of assumptions that I do not understand how it has happened once, let alone the many times it has actually occurred.

  • Assumption 1: A woman is talking to a man, therefore she must belong to him.

By making this assumption you are giving me a good hint that I will not like you. I am somewhat willing to concede that in this environment there are men who would get offended if you did not make this assumption about their relationship to the women they are talking to, but I think those men are assholes. Nonetheless, there is an additional problem with this assumption, and that is its relationship to Assumption 2.

  • Assumption 2: A woman who has given a man control over her decisions is going to want to top you.

That one just doesn’t make any sense. You can’t have it both ways. While there are submissive tops, they are not so common that it is remotely logical to approach someone as though they are both at once.

For the record, if you really want to know if I am with the person I am talking to in a way that precludes my interacting with you, you should ask one of us that. I, personally, think it’s far ruder to make the assumption than to treat a person as an individual, but… l’autre temps l’autre mores. One must make allowances for local custom.

That having been said, talking around me instead of to me, in the absence of a very clear indication that I am serving in the role of someone’s property, makes me rude. In general, I’m a very polite girl. If you ask me to play, nicely, I’ll say yes or no, nicely. I’m not going to be offended if you’re interested in doing something I don’t want to do. I only find it annoying when, as I’ve mentioned, someone talks around me instead of to me or is unable to take a polite no. Hell, sometimes I’ll apologize for saying no when I’ve been talking to someone I find delightful, but don’t feel there’s any kinky overlap. This mostly has been an issue with other submissives, since that is the group with whom I am least likely to be able to come up with any sort of public play activity that we’re going to both want to do. If I like a toppish sort as a human being, I can almost always find some mutually agreeable physical interaction, but normally if I’m doing something that appears toppy/dominant in public it’s because I’m doing it to please someone I love. For example, I’ll agree to let my dear friend G. lace me into my boots because it makes him really happy, and we’ve been friends for over a decade, but it’s not something I’m going to do casually with someone I just met because, most of the time, power dynamics with me on the dominant side make me profoundly uncomfortable. I do switch, as I mentioned in my last post, but I have to be either inspired or desperately desirous to jump the other person involved. Usually both.

The other thing that Maymay’s post made me want to talk about was the question that I asked in my response. “Why do certain types of dominant men think that any single submissive woman will be grateful for any drop of their attention?” To a certain extent, I think the answer may have to do with self esteem. I know a non trivial number of submissives who have, or have had, relatively low self esteem. They don’t think they’re beautiful enough, or interesting enough, or whatever enough to attract the people they want, and so they can sometimes be insanely grateful for any form of attention that seems like what they’re craving - even if it’s from someone who in any other situation they would see as being something of a jerk. So, these men have gotten that reaction the past, and successfully taken advantage of it, which feeds their egos and their belief that this is the Right And Proper Way to Be. Combine that with an endlessly renewing supply of young, wide-eyed submissives who want to give themselves to someone so very much, and who think that these morons are the only way to do it, because the good tops and dominants are too polite to be pushy, and you create the nucleus of a serious and self sustaining problem.

I could have been one of them. Fortunately, even though my self image was through the floor for most of my young adulthood, I was lucky. I may have thought I was ugly and unloveable, and walked around with a giant “fresh meat” sign blinking behind me for all the world to see, but I was smart enough, savvy enough, and strong enough to never be taken advantage of. It helped that I had safe places to get my urge for a good beating out, and that I was well read and empowered by my upbringing. It also, probably, helped that I very clearly stated that any and all sexual contact was off limits in scene situations, which probably made me uninteresting to the worst of the potential predators. (I should stop and say here that the vast majority of the people I have met in the scene, dominant and submissive, straight and gay, men and women, have been wonderful people. In my 12 years in the scene I have rarely felt unsafe in a public space. However, I’m cautious enough that I have always known better than to play in a private space with someone I didn’t know well, or consider an acceptable risk. There are people I know who have not been so smart, or so lucky.)

These days, when some dominant male approaches me in a way that suggests he thinks I should be grateful to bask in his graces for even a moment I laugh it off… and then I usually keep half an eye out for who else he is cornering in case they’re someone who doesn’t know how to get away.

Finally, a brief thought on my methods of getting to play, in which I present myself as a Very Silly Girl whose example should almost certainly not be followed by others. When I see someone interesting I want to casually bottom to (either because they’re pretty, nice, smart, or have some Exciting Technical Skill), it’s not usually that difficult for me to go up to them and make the request. (”Hi! You’re pretty! Do you want to play?” “Wow, that was really neat, if at some point you might be interested in trying that on me would you let me know?” “I like you, if you ever want to do painful things together, just ask!”) If someone asks to top me, they seem nice, and I’m even remotely in the mood I’ll probably say yes. The one exception is if I’m fixating on someone else. (If I have gotten it into my head that I really want to play with person X, it doesn’t matter how interesting person Y is… it can be very hard for me to refocus.)

And, on the reverse side, my tried and true method for not getting to play. The only time I’m really reluctant to ask someone to play is if my interest extends beyond a simple casual scene. The second I start to develop even the tiniest crush on someone I usually utterly lose my ability to bluntly approach them and express my appreciation for their shininess. I do recognize the irony in this. I suppose it’s because I have nothing invested in casual play except fun, but if I get rejected by someone I’m actually interested in it might hurt… and not in the fun bruise-y way. I have to admit, I did that this weekend. Several times this weekend I found myself almost saying to someone, “Just so you know, I am flirting with you,” and chickening out. It made me roll my eyes at myself repeatedly, because there were Perfect Conversational Openings and I was letting them slide by. Sometimes I am just an enormous dork.

 


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