I can’t pop in a pr0n DVD or idly browse a website without a secret lurking terror.

 

I don’t know if you have noticed this, but I sure have. 

 

Spitting.

 

 

Spitting EVERYWHERE. 

 

 

IN the face, ON the schvantz, UP the keister, all over the damned place.

 

 

What is a girl to do when she can’t settle in and watch 90 minutes of “THICK BLACK CHICKS WHO CRAVE THICK WHITE DICKS” in peace for fear of a nasty drooling saliva-shindig?

 

And this ain’t just the hardcore BDSM humiliation stuff neither.  Even the more mainstream porn seems to be lugiefied these days.

 

Once was the day you have to be watching some pretty edgy stuff to see a woman spitting on a guy’s tonsil tickler or a dude spread a gaping gal’s gash before him and using it like a #@!&^* spittoon in preparation for a bit of the old in and out.

 

And I hate it. HATE. IT.

 

How did one of the oddest squicks I have discovered in myself become part of mainstream porno oeuvre?

 

When I first came into the Leather Lifestyle, I’d already done my homework for a couple of years, mulling over whether or not this was something I truly wished to do. Being one of those types who goes whole hog and jumps in with both feet, I wanted to make sure that, if I did, I’d be as prepared as possible.

 

 

My first 2 years in the public Scene here in SF were spent in service with someone who was my partner, and training me for entrée into the world of M/s. After leaving that House, I had several long-term play relationships, one of which generated one of the more interesting and powerful moments in my time playing.

 

We were at a party and having done a fairly long bondage and flogging scene, I was wiped out. He went to get some water for us both, and I though it quite sexy when he took a mouthful of water, pressed his mouth to mine, and gave it to me that way. A few moments later, he playfully “buzzed” me with a mouthful of water, which sprayed all over my face. “Ick!!” I thought, and of course, my discomfort was immediately evident on my face. I am a pitifully easy “read”, I have been told. Sensing my discomfort, and being the sadist he is, he leaned over me, pulled my mouth open, and spit in my mouth. I felt my entire body convulse, I had this rushing sense of … what  … Disgust isn’t inclusive. Anger was a facet of it, shock and horror, and all of these emotions boiling up into a freakishly powerful emotional cocktail that sent me into instantaneous hysterical choking sobs.

 

My partner was bemused, but just held me and talked me down. In a few minutes, I was able to talk and respond shakily when he asked me if I was all right. I was confused by my own reaction. I tried to scan through my memories and recall if I’d had some sort of trauma associated with spitting.

 

Nothing presented itself.

 

A few minutes later, I was trying to make a joke out of the whole incident, and as I sat trying to gather my thoughts, he turned to me, looked me in the eye and spit in my face. My reaction was again instantaneous freak out sobbing shaking quivering wreck. This cycle of freakitude went round two more times, with no discernable reduction of my reaction. Even in the warm light of the next morning, while chatting over the Sunday paper and brunch, when my friend approached me and held me down making threatening throat-clearing noised, I was whimpering like a whipped pup left out in the rain within seconds.

 

This was too bizarre, I thought, and it makes no sense! My friend asked if I wanted to put this on my limit list, since I was obviously really bothered by it. Oy! I’ll confess to a big case of “Masochismo”, and my Sanctified Limits List is (generally) confined to the following:

 

• Scat.
• Play with minors.
• Involving non-consenting participants in my kink.
• Anything that MIGHT leave a permanent mark, unless previously approved. (I am keloid-prone, and you’d be surprised what marks even a knife-tip drawn lightly over the skin can leave!)
• Any play that willfully disregards common sense practices.
• Any play that goes against the spirit of my general character.

 

Because of the way I play and the way I structure my limits, I tend to have very few people I trust adequately in this arena. And my friend, knowing that the spitting thing, while bizarrely unexpectedly difficult, wouldn’t be something I’d redline outright without a thorough examination.That is the long way of me saying I did not, at that time, expressly forbid him the exploitation of this simple and efficient method for reducing me to a sobbing mess.

 

I’m sick like that.

 

But in general, that crap is WAY off limits.

 

So don’t go getting any ideas.

 

You know who you are.

 

I have since informally polled folks about the spitting thing. Interestingly, gender, sexual orientation and BDSM orientation seem to weigh heavily when it comes to thumps up or thumbs down on the Saliva Scene. Men seem to dig it, queer men the most often eroticize it, and by-and-large most women seem to be unimpressed.

 

I have no idea why some things that horrify most people are a walk in the park for me, but this spitting thing….gah.

 

Yum.

 

Lunchtime!

 

So may times over the years I see submissives fall “prey” to “predators” or fall  “victim” of a bad dom or exploitative wolf in leather clothing.

 

I recently made the online acquaintance of a woman who was going from an online to a real-time dominant / submissive (d/s) relationship.

 

The fairytale for which so many pine. You may know it, or a variation of it. All romance and flowers and “the beast within” and roses at midnight and kneeling in trembling submission and all of that gorgeous prose.

 

For reasons that are their business, it went south.  She had to make the call to change course and let go of this particular fantasy-turned-reality.

 

And you know what? She did.

 

She cut her losses, realized that it was not the right situation for her.

 

She ended it.

 

She did not sail in railing against him on public forums.

 

She did not pull “submissive sob sister” all over the kink and fetish groups available on the damned Internet.

 

She acted like a bloody adult. She said “No, this is not OK.” And she made sure her home remained a safe space.

 

Not such a big deal? You think?

 

Think again.

 

Women are not typically groomed to fiercely protect their emotional space, or to be defensive of their safety. Add to that a reflexive desire to obey and be pleasing, steeped in seething vats of kinky purple prose designed to titillate and not firmly rooted in fact, and you have a recipe for an emotional 58 car pile-up.

 

I applaud this woman because it surprised me that she saw this coming and did what was right.

 

I applaud her for not kowtowing to the idea that being submissive means you have to do whatever it takes to please one person, even if your gut is screaming no.

 

I applaud this woman for taking care of herself and her family.

 

I applaud this woman for her huge brass ovaries in remaining hopeful in the face of crappy odds.

 

I applaud this person, this woman, with little experience in the Leather “Community” who still had the sense that the Gods gave her and the temerity to step up to the plate when it was time to do what needed to be done.

 

I send a prayer of strength to anyone who has NOT obeyed his or her gut.

 

Who, despite misgivings, stayed in a bad relationship.

 

Who let their fear of being alone override their knowledge that their situation was unhealthy.

 

I pray that, if you are ever faced with a situation that is not-optimal or outright dangerous, that you have the strength to let go, to see your self worth, to know that there are  DECENT, WONDERFUL, CARING, RESPONSIBLE PEOPLE and if you put out that energy, that energy WILL be yours.

 

Perhaps not in the time you want.

 

Perhaps not in a fairy-tale sparkling coach.

 

Maybe not even in a guise that is recognizable to you.

 

But it will happen.

 

It will.

 

And this post is more for me, more to me, than it is to The Woman Who IS SO Very, Very Brave.

 

Because she did what I wasn’t able to do, and took care of her emotional self.

 

SO, this is my post to me.

 

Love yourself.

 

Love yourself better.

 

 

A hearty Huzzah!!! To those graduating today from the Journeyman III Academy.

Your commitment and dedication is an inspiration to those in the Leather Lifestyle who strive to better themselves and better serve.

I am proud to call many of you friends and a few of you Family.

There are many paths to choose when you begin to explore your self, your sexuality and your life through the lens of BDSM and for those dedicated enough to make this Lifestyle their focus, this singular honor is well earned and lovingly bestowed by your mentors, peers and teachers alike.

Thank you for your love, your service and your fortitude!

Though I rarely take things for granted, I do occasionally fail to step back and see the larger surreal picture. Seurat-a-tat-tat when I DO step back I inhale the myriad blots and splotches that resolve into a story told in moments.

Recovering from the abrupt rape of a badly decomposed molar was complicated by goddess-awful side-effects from the Amoxicillin and the Vicodin. I finally stopped taking everything. Fortunately my pain tolerance is fairly high.

My friend Patti was opening her first photo exhibit this evening at Stormy Leather and dadgummit, I did not want to miss that. The exhibit is all comprised of photographs of bondage, mostly of the rope bondage variety. Though I hadn’t planned well enough to have someone with whom I could piggyback around the gallery, I happened to run into a fellow kinkster as I was on the way to the event.

There was a rope bondage demo that was just wrapping up…well, unwrapping up as we walked into the store. The security gate was open to the warm evening, and I encountered my dear friends Mistress Heart and Cleo Dubois and chatted for a bit. They were both looking lovely, as is usual. I felt a bit frumped out, but there was no way I was corseting tonight. No. Way.

By the time I made it downstairs I was thrilled to see a good sized crowd, and Patti’s photos were first in the line-up, and that was pretty wonderful to see. There were no small number of corsets being worn by several women of all shapes and sizes and that is something I love to see.

The photography was lovely. I will add, though, not very diverse in terms of the subjects that the riggers choose to utilize. I should be accustomed to this, but I still always hope!

I suppose I will, soon enough, be able to do more than hope. Also in attendance at the reception, you see, was the supercalifragilisticexpialisexy Zille Defeu. And she, of all people, wants to photograph me, of all people.

This is very exciting for me. When you are of the fatter and browner persuasion, there aren’t a lot of representations of people who look like you being sexy and kinky. And I sincerely believe that it takes a photographer with admiration and respect for their subject to make a picture sparkle. And it takes a subject who trusts and respects their photographer to let their spirit shine in a picture. I think we will do well working together.

I spent quite a bit of the evening schmoozing, catching up and gossiping with Zille and her Husband/Master. He has been a friend for many years as well. The funny part of having over a decade in the kink community is that you are privileged to be in the eyes of friends for so many twists and turns, and likewise to have them observe and participate in the roller-coaster of your own life.

I found myself back upstairs later, a bit tired and overwhelmed by the heat in the basement, where the gallery is located. I couldn’t hold back on the snark as I watched the demo: when I was taught how to bottom well in rope, I was instructed to be responsive to the bondage, both as it was going on as well as when it was being removed, to honor the energy and the process. I am kind of a pickybitch about that shit.

On the way home, I counted the loot I’d won in the Goodie Bag raffle. I stopped in to a local diner for pancakes, and I passed a few minutes babbling like an asshole with the crazy adorable FiveStar and OMG so sexeh Jiz Lee. I am a dork when it comes to conversation. I demand tolerance and forgiveness for this crippling defect when it comes to friends I know fairly well, but I stumble around like Templeton the Rat on a bender when trying to be groovy and witty with teh coolkids.

I should just give up.

I am, after all, and after all is said and done, miss geeky girl.

I often hear people talk about pivotal moments in their lives with longing regret: wishing they’d known then how critical a moment this fleeting juncture would be. I have had the pleasure / terror of Total In-The-Moment-Surety that something was going to be a life altering event even as it happened.

The unifying theme is choice.

When I decided to say “Yes” to my boyfriend J.P. and move from The City to Los Angeles. When I decided to attend NYU instead of Carnegie-Mellon. When I said “Yes, OK.” and invited a Certain British Musician to sit at my table and change the face of my core sexuality within a scant 17 days…all of these were moments where I made a deliberate choice and knew that the ripples would lap at the shores of my internal ocean for the rest of my life.

One of the more unexpected hairpin turns I navigated in my “Coming Out” into BDSM involved a series of moments that were deceptively simple, perhaps even innocent, in a way. Imagine my surprise when the gossamer web of control and submission made itself known to me in the context of a children’s game. Which is bizarrely fitting. So much of what we do in BDSM is freeing our selves and rewinding, emotionally, to a trusting, open and daring and, dare I say, child-like psychology.

When I first took my steps into the Leather Community here in San Francisco, I was fortunate to be taken under the wings of some wonderful people, many of whom I am proud to call my friends to this day.

After attending and meeting some of the Big Kids at a Munch, I was invited to a kinky Truth or Dare party.

I was a little apprehensive. See, I had still never attended a play party, let alone done a scene, but I thought I could handle this sort of event. It is a game night, right? What could possibly happen?

The event was casual, in a private residence, with snacks and people sitting in a living room chatting and schmoozing. The game was played in the standard way. People are called out around the circle, and are able to choose whether or not they wish to reveal a personal truth, or take a dare.

Not really knowing what to expect, I stuck to “Truths” for the first round. My query was along the lines of “When did you have your first SM experience?” Since I had nothing else to go on, I replied by telling about The Musician, and our stunning affair, and how that altered my perception of what I needed from a relationship.

In theory, at least.

At the end of the round, there was only one person left. He was an imposing looking man, who I didn’t know personally but had seen at a Munch once. He was quite clearly a top. From his cool blue…or…grey…eyes (I couldn’t maintain eye contact for a sufficient duration to ascertain the precise shade) to his black leather vest to the buckle on his engineers boots, he was totally intimidating me.

Which was unnerving. He hardly seemed to blink.

He sat quietly, arms folded, through the entire round. Seemed No one wanted to truth OR dare him.

So who gets stuck with the last query? Of course, it was I.

“So, d’ya want a Truth or a Dare?”

He smiled, a small and enigmatic curl of the lip and said

“I’ll take a dare, please.”

(more…)

There are 47 reasons, on any given day, why kinky stuff gets my jeebies heebied.

One of the things I can enjoy, regardless of my emotional connection to my play partner, is rope bondage.

There are many aspects of kink that are intensely personal for me, things that get right into my head and places that remain locked away.

Not everyone gets to go there.

Hell, I don’t even go there most days.

Too dark and clammy.

But there are some types of play that I can enjoy purely on a physical level. So long as the top to whom I am bottoming is highly capable, and I am assured of their skill, I can “go there” and enjoy the ride.

Rope bondage is one of those play-styles

So…WTF?!?!

The loss of control over parts of your body is pretty intoxicating…the idea that your movement itself, the one thing since birth that you struggle to achieve and maintain, is now in the hands of someone else…that is something dangerous. Excitingly so.

It occurs to me that the secret wormhole I find when doing bondage is not just the loss of control: it is the deeper sense that every segment of rope is touched and energized by the person applying the bondage. That focused intent, that specificity, can elevate the inanimate rope to its own heightened state. It is as though every section of rope is imbued with, and carries the energy and control and caress of the one who is in control of it.

As the bondage becomes more binding or more complex, it is as though you are held in a physical manifestation of the thoughts of the person slowly taking from you the control of your limbs, skin, body…rope bondage can get to the point where even your breathing is restricted by the rope top. Imagine if every caress you felt while making love lasted and abraded and caressed and marked your skin in an after-shock of taut tension and sensation.

It is an echo that intensifies instead of fading.

It is a restriction that frees you to struggle and relinquish your control.

And if you add to that the many textures of rope, it is even more engaging. Slack silk ropes, slick serpentine nylon, earthy heady hemp, scritchy jute, stiff cotton. All of these have their own notes in the symphony of surrender. Simple, elusive, complex, difficult, joyous, terrifying, soft, brutal, beautiful.

Have something about kink that you’d like me to cover on a future WTF Wednesday? Contact me!

best of craigslist > SF bay area > The Prize for the LAMEST Booty Call I have endured goes to….
Originally Posted: Thu, 6 May 13:39 PDT

---

Date: 2004-05-06, 1:39PM PDT

I suppose it is my fault for agreeing to an early morning hook-up. You see, I am not, NOT, a morning person. When I say this, I don’t simply mean that I am groggy in the morning. I mean that I am actually emotionally impaired, reduced cognitive function, excruciatingly slow reflexes, the whole kebab. So behaviours that world normally elicit a BITCHSLAP of Brobdingnagian proportions are met merely with a bemused look of disgust.

All that being said and documented…I still must rant.

HEY! Lame Ass Booty Call Dude! (Heretofore referred to as LABCD.) Let us review this morning’s performance:

You went on and on about how much you wanted to hook up, and soon. I took this as a matter of desire and a matter of wanting to have some hot nasty sex. Not the fact that you are obviously possessed with the attention span (and phallic fortitude, but more on that later) of a hummingbird on E.

Against my better judgment, I agreed to do you this morning, at an obscenely early time. “Why not?” I thought. “What a way to start the day!”

When you showed up, you called to explain that you found a space that would only let you park until 8:00 AM. I checked the clock. It was 7:46 AM. I gently suggested you FIND ANOTHER BLOODY PARKING SPOT, YOU GODDAMED IDIOT. (But without the “bloody” and the “goddamned” or the “idiot”.

I should have called the whole thing off then and there. Why? Big clue: this was a precursor to my later discovery that 14 minutes of “hang time” is about 8 more minutes than you actually need to finish YOUR end of the bargain. But you caught me at my weakest moment, LABCD. A pox on you.

Upon arrival, I am sorry to report that you looked about as intelligent as you sounded on the phone. Now, intellectual prowess and sexual prowess are not necessarily trotting hand-in-hand all of the time. But in your case, LABCD, it would seem that both sexual prowess and intelligence have been liquefied into some foul effluent by whatever passes for your cerebral cortex. Sorry, sorry, I used a few too many polysyllabic words. Put simply: a sack of wet weasels has more going on upstairs than you do. But whatever. I can overlook that. It is way too goddamned early to nit-pick, and I really just want to fuck.

Now, LABCD, let me run a few names by you: Right Guard. Mitchum. Arrid. Sound like anything with whom you are familiar? Tom’s of Maine?!? Anything? Bueller?!?! But hey, you’re a workin’ man, and sometimes workin’ men get sweaty. But hopefully, with some of the fruits of their labor, they take a minute to wash and freshen up the pits.
I know some people just like to go natural and all that. Let the pheromones do their work, yeah? But Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, why not default and use a little Irish Spring?

At least you didn’t waste my time trying to talk to me at the top of the act, LABCD. You got right to business. And hey! Look! You have an erection within moments! How nice for you. And so very thoughtful of you to attempt to ram your cock down my throat at an angle so oblique as to render any finessing of this act on my part totally moot. But it didn’t seem to matter to you, LABCD, because you were moaning fit to beat the band anyway. My guess is that your dick really just wants to be someplace warm and wet. You probably creamed your shorts during the pastry-fucking scene in “American Pie” and went right home for some hot Sara Lee lovin’.

Now. You might or might not be aware of this, LABCD, but sucking dick for 3 minutes isn’t usually going to get a girl all hot and ready to go. And you know what else, LABCD? When you go to try to stick your dick in someone’s cunt and you can’t get it in because she isn’t aroused, the solution is to do something to arouse her. Not push harder. But I forget…YOU had a hard-on, so all is right with the world. At this point, LABCD, I ought have cleared my throat and said “Hey, old chap! How about a little turnabout on the oral sex thing?” but the thought of your stupid head between my legs was enough for me to just go ahead and stimulate myself, at least to alleviate the non-effect of your pathetic thrusts.

Now, I am a generous person. And easily aroused, and endlessly optimistic. So, after the first few minutes, I decided to make the best of it. Your penis wasn’t spectacular, but I was AWARE of its presence, and I’d had the good sense to not allow you to fuck me face-to-face, so I could easily pretend Michael Madsen was mounting me and get on with the fucking. Lo, the blessed and sought-after climax was not to be.

Well, it was to be for YOU, LABCD, in about another 3 minutes, but not for me. Alas, alack.

I couldn’t even be pissed off when I realized that the whole situation had played itself out in about eight minutes. I suppose in my Womanpower brain, I was shrieking for reciprocity, for justice, for an orgasm, for christsake!! But really, at this point, I wanted your funky-armpit-having-no-kind-of-stamina-ass out of my flat. But wait!! Now you are going to make small talk! How thoughtful. Standing there naked with your pecker drooping and telling me that you’d heard that “The Illuminatus! Trilogy” was “weird” is just not going to in-fucking-gratiate you to me, LABCD.

Mercifully, you took some kind of hint when I lay there staring at the inside of my eyelids for the duration of your other puerile conversational gambits. And then you did the best thing in the whole goddamed lame encounter, LABCD: you left as quickly as you came. Buh bye!

I know, I know. I certainly COULD have said something, and I certainly COULD have stopped it at any point. But the experiment helped me to remember that I should never, ever take a good fuck-buddy for granted.

…Also, I can’t be too mad…I did get nicely fucked last night by a completely adorable personal trainer (Thanks, V!!) and he WILL, unlike you, LABCD, be asked back for seconds.
PostingID: 30555300

I have decided that Christianity has the unsexiest god fucking IMAGINABLE. Seriously. Even his son isn’t all that. Sure, the walking on water thing is kind of cool, it would probably have gotten the girls kinda hot back in Galilee and all. OK, Goth chicks could SO be into Jesus what with the stigmata and robes and hair and thorny headgear and all.

In general, I am sorry; The Judeo-Christian thing just doesn’t mush my sledteam.

I could so not bottom to Jesus.

But go to pretty much any other religious practice, and hoo boy, it gets MUCH hotter.

Look at the ancient Egyptian gods. You got Sekhmet, woman with lioness head.

She parties like a rock star and gets drunk from the steaming entrails-n- blood of the wicked. Tell me a few hours with her and a roll in the hay would not that be the shit! She could claw my back and growl in my ear ’till Hathor came home.

I would personally also do Anubis…love the jackal headed look. Big old long tongue coupled with a ripped godlike male body, just going at you from all sides…oh. Yes. Dark, brooding, sociopathic, definitely hot dom material.

The Vodoun Loas do not mess around. They do not even need to manifest in order to fuck your brains out: they will do that shit to you in front of a houngan, backed up by a room full of tranced out worshipers. Hell, they might possess a few bystanders just to make sure that they get a reach around. Mindfuck, much???

Let us look at Buddha. Hey, the man obviously is feeling good. ALL the time. Big belly, baldhead, and OBVIOUSLY flexible despite his OM-belly. I am willing to bet he’d be a FANtastic romp.

Zeus would probably be good for a few weeks of fun, what with his propensity for turning into Bulls, pillars of light, swans, you name it. the master role-playing top. Problem is, he does not do poly well, and you would probably wind up a tree, a spider, or some shit when Hera finds out. Like a lot of strutting Über-tops, he is totally topped by his primary partner. Who is super jealous. And a goddess. And vengeful. On second thought….Lame.

Screw that. Zeus is SO off my list.

Now, there are plenty of mythic creatures who pique my interest. Satyrs, for the OBVIOUS reason…merpeople, because that shit would just be freakyhot…centaurs, though I am a little baffled by the logistics. Probably be best to have, like, two of ‘em…

Nevertheless, there is one god who I find not only totally all off the chain sexy, in a really perverted yet religiously wholesome and reverent kind of way. He has got it ALL going on.

So, without further adieu, my #1 top pick of god or mythic creature I’d like to have hitting this ass:

Ganesha.

Aum Shri Ganeshaya Nama, bitches.

Seriously.

OK, check it.

He dances, which I like. Good sense of humor, he is the Lord of success and destroyer of evils and obstacles. He is also the god of education, knowledge, wisdom, writing and wealth. All very Good Things.

He has not one, not two, not three, but FOUR arms. F-O-U-R. That is TWENTY fingers. And, check out those mudras he is constantly working. Homeboy has serious digital dexterity going ON.

…and that trunk…. swoon The imagination just goes wild. You know that your standard issue elephant can pick up a pea with its trunk, don’t you? OK, so we have an elephant headed GOD with a trunk for a nose. Imagine THAT doing its thing. Word.

Plus he has his own toy-bag. Rope, a broken tusk, a knife, AND SNACKS.

Come on.

SNACKS, people!

WHo000oooOO0o.

OK, enough sacrilege for the evening…I am going to fall asleep wistfully pondering my list of the top 10 trunk-assisted sexual positions.

What, you don’t know The Lord G’s story?

Well here you go, sillybeans! Sister Unity of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence Explains it all For you!

 

I just spoke with Robin, the delightful Programming Director of The Exiles.  I’m stoked to have been invited back to present a class for them!

 

Especially after The Incident at the last class.

 

Oy vey ish meir.

 

 

Um, anyway, yeah!

 

 

This is going to be the “Taboos: Playing With Race” class.

 

 

I imagine that some of the more PC people may be more than a little squicked by that.

 

I also happen to know for a fact that some of the most conservative uptight outta site people are the most freaky in their bedrooms.

 

Back when I was first spit-roasted for suggesting that sexual role-playing that embraces darker edges of historical events was HOT as HELL, there was one woman in particular…a “Friend”… who went out of her way to  pour gasoline on my effigy, incinerate it  flame-thrower stylee, and add viscid napalm-esque heaps of derision on its head via a couple of mailing lists. 

 

I was a traitor to the race, sick in the head, yeah. All of that. And evidently had the power, with the application of a bandanna to my nappy head, of setting Our People back 300 years.

 

 

For The Record: If I had that much power, I’d set us back three THOUSAND! Because we were KICKIN’ ASS then.

 

 

But I digress.

 

 

Her Waterloo came when she cross-posted from a closed to an open discussion group the details of this tumult.

 

 

The owner of the group she posted FROM immediately banned and barred her, and asked the list owner of the second group to do the same. He, on the other hand, did nothing. Encouraging even more over-the-top assassination of my character, sanity, and Blackness.

 

  

I have these batshit insane ideas.  Like the idea the freedom to fly my freak flag in whichever direction I feel works best for me IS EXACTLY what “Progress” is.

 

In the words of the Wiccans, and Digital Underground, “Doowutchalike“

 

 

What we do when we fuck how we want to fuck and play house how we wanna play house is to slam-dunk freedom.  Liberty passes the pill and Uncle Sam takes it to the rim.

 

But to the question of my “Friend”. I found out, a year or so later, that she and I had a former play-partner in common.

 

 

When he heard about the big ass meltdown, he laughed so hard I thought he may well rupture an ass gasket. Once he composed himself, he was able to tell me that he found it terribly amusing that she would take me publicly to task for playing with racial stereotypes in the Dungeon, because not long before this whole thing had broken out, he’d had her on hands and kneed in his kitchen, playing Aunt Jemima and muttering all sorts of twisted Politically Incorrect endearments to her as she toiled under his stern gaze. And yes, he is White.

 

What was my point…oh yeah.

 

 

So I’ll be talking about some fucked up shit in front of an auditorium full of Exile’s Members in February.

 

 

Possibly even with a demo, if a certain Dom I know is available.

 

*drools*

 

 

Y’all come round now, y’hear?