Secret Confessions of a Smart Girl

“I am kinky. You are perverted. They are deviant.”
“Mmm… you can conjugate me any time… wait… does that make this a conjugate visit?”
*thwack*

I just added “No consuming any body parts not capable of short term regeneration” to my hard limit list.

In other words? You may be able to smell my spicy brains, but you are not allowed to eat them.

For the record, other things on my hard limit list (non-exhaustive) include:

1. Scenes involving lilies.
2. Anything that changes my physical appearance in a notable way without extensive prior notification (i.e. cutting my hair).
3. Sex without barriers.
4. Scat play
5. Forcing me to read Hemmingway (this is actually a corollary to 4.)

I can’t stop giggling over the fact that someone I am in the negotiation phase with just referred to my rather excessive missive on the topic of safe sex, STDs, and kink boundries as my “Terms of Service.”

Oh, double entendres, you bring me joy.

I’m totally stealing it. (Terms of service? Terms of servicing? Either way, it’s happy. Life. It’s in the little things.)

It was a quality of life issue.

The company was known for the many benefits it provided its employees - video games, free food, places to nap - but there was one area in which its services were lacking…. sex.

It was a strange oversight, really. Engineers spend a lot of time tensely staring at their screens waiting for code to compile and processes to run. A system of frustration relief could only benefit the company’s bottom line. After all, the longer you can keep a programmer at his workstations, the more coding that actually gets done.

It only took the right person’s vision to see oversight as opportunity, and, in a moment of brilliant inspiration, Project Underware was born.

I was one of the first hires. I suspect I was an obvious choice. Big brains turn me on. All it takes to get me on my knees is a facility with problem solving and an elegant use of command structure. In my experience, programmers have an enormous facility with commands.

The workers of Project Underware provide a multitude of services: A cunt to fuck, for quick release. A back to whip, meditatively, while searching for an answer. An ass for reaming, literally, on a frustrating day.

My favorite days, however, are those spent on my knees in the dark, deep wells of computer laden desks. I wait, patiently for the sound of a zipper being opened or fabric being raised and the feeling of a hand fisted in my hair drawing me towards service. I love the sensation of a cock growing hard in my mouth or a cunt growing wet under my tongue, feeling the urgency of their arousal wax and wane as they are drawn over and over again into the intellectual stimulation of their work. It thrills me, being an invisible mouth, a silent pair of hands, urging them to distraction, to completion, or to genius. I love that is is my work to bring them joy with theirs.

He was a waffle man.

When he got up in the morning, he was looking for crevices to fill, holes to overflow with the sweet, sticky syrup that spoke silently of satisfaction.

He liked to take his tongue and sweep it deep inside the indentations crafted by hand and nature. The heat on his face would make him sweat with desire in the moments before contact. Just the scent would arouse him as it reached his nose. It spoke of longing, a body waiting to be fulfilled and then devoured.

That first penetration, each morning, brought a rush of blood to his cheeks. Pushing, pushing, until he could slip under the surface with a shock and then a sigh. Taking each piece inside him, and savoring the textures of both the skin and the softness underneath. Teeth biting. Tongue tasting. Hands strong enough to rip everything apart, but holding back for simple surrender, a delicate dissection of a simple joy.

And then there was the bacon…

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…

I enjoy being taken advantage of. In fact, I must admit to taking unabashed pleasure in what I like to think of as Opportunistic Top Syndrome*…
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What is OTS? This condition, heretofore undescribed in the medical literature, refers to the propensity of certain individuals to take shameless advantage of pre-existing bruises in order to inflict the maximum amount of pain with the minimum amount of effort. In certain circles this condition is also known as LTS – lazy top syndrome – but current research has suggested that this moniker may actually discourage such forms of abuse instead of simply egging on the individuals in question to inflict additional damage, as was initially reported by earlier observers of this phenomenon (personal communication A.N. Mous.)

Quite interestingly, OTS is often observed in individuals who are not, otherwise, terribly inclined to the infliction of painful stimuli (referred to, in these cases, as sOTS – solely opportunistic topping syndrome). Apparently the fact that the damage has already been done induces a sort of disinhibition cascade that encourages Emphatic Poking accompanied by the occasional Evil Grin. This phenomenon has initiated several debates as to whether the sOTS individuals are, in fact, not actually normally interested in the generation of pain or are simply unwilling to do their own dirty work (see online responses to: Cookie, IM et al (2006)”The Switchy Snarkfest,” BDSM Quarterly 42(1):37-49.) More charitably inclined researchers have put forth the hypothesis that sOTS is actually far more closely related to Reaction Junkieism than OTS. Reaction junkies are thought to be aroused less by the infliction of pain than by the elicitation of a strong reaction – which can also be obtained through sensual or sexual stimuli. Although the origins of the sOTS phenomenon would seem of little relevance to its victims, they speak to the overall levels of sexual sadism present in the population, a statistic which is of great interest indeed.

Additional research is clearly needed in this area, not only to further elucidate the nature of the previously described conditions but to explore other related syndromes including the insidious MMS – masturbatory masochistic squirming – often found in the individuals who are the primary victims of OTS and sOTS sufferers. Early signs of MMS include choosing to sit on unpadded surfaces when comfortable chairs are available, strategic self-poking, and excessively vigorous leaning on solid objects. If you see an individual suffering from these disturbing predilections, remember that they need your help. Be wary, however, as it has been suggested that MMS is actually the form of OTS seen in carriers who, for some reason, are not fully susceptible to the disease’s pernicious influence.

The author is still extremely well supplied with the bruises necessary for continuing her studies of OTS, and she intends to pursue her research while doing so remains practical. She emphatically denies, however, suffering from any form of MMS and insists that all fidgeting merely reflects an underlying psychological resistance to remaining immobile.

Study subjects are being earnestly recruited. Volunteer screening will be done via e-mail. Compensation is negotiable.
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*Ooops. I seem to have found my digression far more entertaining to pursue than my original point.

1. Poly wanna cracker:

As I wrote the last time I was musing on polyamory, I’m not firmly in one camp or the other when it comes to relationship structure. I can do monogomy or I can do polyamory, and I have been drawn to both at different times throughout my life. Spending time as I did over the weekend, however, with a lot of poly people whose relationships really seem to work, always pushes me over a little farther onto the poly side of the scales. It’s always nice to see such an abundance of shmoop, and while I don’t think that monogamy in inimical to shmoop, it can be rather restrictive in determining who any given person gets to be shmoopy with. Shmoop shared is shmoop mutiplied… or something like that.

2. Whip cracker:

I got single-tailed three four five (six?) times over the weekend. I love single tails - even if I can’t quite keep track of how many of them I was hit with. Only one of those was actually a single-tail scene (rather than a single-tail interlude, or a single-tail en passant, or … I’m out of other things it could be,) and it was really nice (all but one of them were, honestly.) I was quite sad that I had to call it short because I had promised someone else they could birthday single-tail me and I wanted to make certain I had enough skin left for someone whose skills I wasn’t cognizant of. But while it lasted, it was lovely. Slice, slice, slice. Fire, intensity, pain. Yum. I wonder if people, in general, appreciate how much of a skill inflicting good pain is. It doesn’t simply require good technical skill with a particular implement, it requires some level of ability to read the person you’re inflicting it on so that you can tune it to something they enjoy or, if you want to, something that they don’t. I’m so not a top that I often feel guilty taking up the time of someone whose doing a really good job of beating me, since I have trouble imagining that they’re enjoying hurting me as much as I’m enjoying being hurt.

3. Crack(er)ing up

Laughing in scene, or in scene spaces, is joyful - if sometimes unexpected. It’s not so much a matter of “why do it if it doesn’t make you happy?”- since there are different ways of being happy and different things one can get out of a scene depending on the headspace with which one goes into it - as a matter of “a different way of enjoying it.” Shared laughter is just fun, as well as being a damn good ab work out. Serious is good, but so is silly. I’m still looking forward to doing that piercing scene with googly eye beads at some point…

4. Vanilla wafers

I’d like to pretend that I had something profound to say about vanilla sex here, but mostly I just wanted to put vanilla wafers into my box of crackers. Cuddling is good! Everyone should have regular smooching! There we go. Nom nom!

5. Totally crackers

I have 2-3 more substantial posts that are stalled on technicalities. Hopefully one or more of them will get off the ground sometime soon. It depends on how much work I feel like avoiding, and if I can write my way around the roadblocks.

Given that it’s my birthday next week, and one that I’m not looking forward to at that, I’ve made it my mission for the weekend to get as many birthday beatings as possible. Fortunately, this mission is aided by the fact that I am at a gathering where there are lots of kinky people and beatings are in good supply. Still, in the course of my first two, (three? Once I got beaten up to my new age and then back down the other side.) I discovered some unfortunate complications to my brilliant plan to get beaten senseless this weekend…

1. When asked to count, it is very difficult for me to count without enumerating interesting facts about the numbers: “Prime” “Perfect Square” “Product of Two Primes.”

This is bad for several reasons. First off, it makes the top think that you’re not paying sufficient attention to the beating - which is not necessarily true. I just really like numbers. If I have to talk about them anyway I might as well get the most out of it. Second, when you’re being beaten by someone who has taught math more recently than you’ve taken it you sometimes get screwed by your own initiative. I was forced to go back twice because I kept screwing up the perfect triangle, since I had completely forgotten what a perfect triangle _was_. Oh endorphins, you are so not good for my brain!

2. I get so distracted thinking about the numbers that I… lose track of the numbers.

Not once in those three tries did I make it to my birthday correctly. Yes, I am an adult woman with a DEGREE IN MATHEMATICS who can not count. I’d blame the beatings, but it would just be an excuse… and a dishonest one at that.

In other words… I appear to already be senseless. No beatings required. *sigh*

This is further proven by the fact that my brain has decided to like giggle-space again - the place in my head where people hitting me makes me cackle like a madwoman. This used to be the case all the time, but giggle-space is not terribly compatible with sub-space and I’ve been playing in sub-space more often lately than just getting ridiculous beatings. (In sub-space being hit with things makes me horny. In giggle-space it makes me happy. ) Although, come to think of it, the piercing scene I posted pictures of way back when also sent me into mad giggle-space. It’s fun to be a masochist. Everyone should try it. Even though people look at you funny when pain makes you cackle. Still, I’m kind of used to that.

3. I’m surrounded by people just as geeky, or even geekier, than I am (, and can I say how happy it makes me to be surrounded by people who are insanely sexy both in body and in brain? YUM.) This means that they come up with horrible suggestions… like factorial beatings. Fortunately, utterly impractical at my advanced age. Still… slightly scary. In the hot way.

So, I’m seeing this woman for the second time later this week, and I still have no idea if I’m Seeing her, with a capital S, or seeing her, with a lower case s.

Now, the sensible thing to do would be to say to her something along the lines of “I think you’re very spiffy, do you like girls?”* Therefore, clearly, I can’t do that. Sensible is, after all, what other people do. I pride myself in my ability to make things needlessly complex!

I’m very bad at negotiating attraction with women outside of scene spaces. I managed to throw myself at my most recent ex-girlfriend solely because we were at a play party and, after talking to her for several hours and finding her Delightfully Charming and Adorable, I realized I could offer myself to her as a training bottom… and then request the kissing.

In general, when it comes to dating women, if they’re not forward nothing ever happens. In the past year I have had discussions with two former significant girl-crushes where, in both cases, both of us thought the other one wasn’t interested. I may think I’m being extremely clear with the flirtation, but I’m usually completely wrong.

Anyway, since I think this woman is quite spiffy, and would like to snog her and, perhaps, have some Hot Lesbian Sex and maybe even Toasty Lesbian Dating, I have done the following ridiculous things to attempt to discover if her sexual orientation is anything other than hetero (something I feel I should do before making an attempt to clarify whether or not these outings are dates):

1. Described our first outing in detail to one of the lesbians I keep on retainer, including all possible signs of non-heterosexuality, for a professional interpretation.
2. Showed her picture to said lesbian, and her girlfriend, to see if their gaydar had more of a clue than I did. (One voted yes, the other abstained)
3. Googled her to see if she had published any academic work on queer issues (not impossible considering her field.)
4. Googled myself to see what the result of a similar query on me would be if, for instance, she was curious about whether or not I was into girls.**
5. Had a discussion with another queer academic about the fact that not all queer academics advertise their sexual orientation by publishing on queer issues… and that not all academics who publish on queer issues are queer.
6. Rationalized with myself that most of the time when I hit it off with attractive women I don’t start thinking about them in terms of possible sexual interest so, perhaps, the fact that my instinctive response to her from the moment we met was *ZING* should be a sign.
7. Stared at her fingernails.

I have not done any of the following:

1. Made it clear that I find her attractive as well as interesting by saying so in a way that can not be misinterpreted.
2. Made my own sexual orientation clear by somehow working an ex-girlfriend into the conversation at a relavent moment.
3. Just asked her.

Having established that three is out of the question, because it would make too much sense, and that one is far too bold for my to get away with sober***, I’m stuck with two. I can probably manage two. However, I thought that with this lovely audience I have here on this blog I could also do something Bold and Innovative. I could ask ALL OF YOU for other ridiculous things that I could do to attempt to determine her sexual orientation. Extra points for suggestions that are both practical and manage to make me snort whatever liquid I am drinking at the time I read them

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*Only phrased less like something that would come out of a 5th grader.
**Googling my real name along with “lesbian” or “bisexual” would make it clear, on close inspection, that I am interested in girls and, on a more superficial glance, that I am at least open-minded about queer issues.
***I.e. not high on other people’s energy or endorphins. I don’t drink all that much, but I get far bolder when someone has been beating me or when I’m around happy hyper people.