OK, this is, verbatim, from a profile on some…um. Let’s just say, a Kinky Dating Site.

O RLY?!?!

About Me:
I AM VERY AGERESIVE AND YOU WILL DO AS I SAY OR ELSE YOUR ASS IS MINE FOR THE SPANKING!!!!!

My Ideal Person:
I WANT A WOMAN WHO KNOWS HOW TO SATISFY A MAN. AND LOVES ANAL SEX AND I MEAN REALY LOVES ANALSEX.

I dunno…how much DO I love ANALSEX?

Do I REALY love it?

It is time…time for some personal reflection.

I find it very interesting that even the most jaded perverts seem to agree with my particular POV: kissing is an extremely intimate act.

I had an ongoing casual thing, for years, with someone who I don’t think I ever kissed. Perhaps the first time. Maybe. Once. However. When the stated purpose of the meeting is to fuck, it can seem like a dissembling and, frankly, somewhat misleading tactic to lean in for a kiss. In the cold light of day, this seems strange. But to me, kissing is an affectionate gesture that may or may not lead to more intimate clinches. If you have made a date with a fuck buddy, there is no nicety there. This may well just be me, and perhaps there are legions of people who make out with their casual fuck-buddies. If so, hey, school a sister!

But there it is.

I have known poly and non-monogamous people who have very
explicitly included kissing as part of sexual contact in their negotiations, and for casual play-dates, kissing was outside of the boundary.
Within the structure of a BDSM scene, it is easier to let kissing go by the wayside. There are so many entrances and exits to Scening, that the preliminary “Make-out session”  is hardly a requisite. In fact, even with people with whom I shared an intimate relationship, kissing wasn’t necessarily a part of the scene foreplay or warm-up.  In retrospect, my most formal d/s relationship involved little kissing. It wasn’t his preference to romanticise the Training Period framework of our relationship, and so intimate kissing was a rarity.

Of course, after being tied up / whipped / flogged / tormented to within a micron of sanity, having your tormenter lean in for a gently sweet seemingly incongruous kiss can be the zenith of ecstasy. That gesture, speaking so profoundly and quietly if intimacy, can undo even the most stalwart submissive.

I’ve noted, over the years, that players who do not kiss their scene partners are often perceived as “stand-offish” or cold…perhaps having “intimacy issues”.

The last person I dated was someone who enjoyed kissing, and it reminded me how intimate and delightful an act that can be. Having had previous relationships where kissing as an act wasn’t something that the other pasty concerned prioritised, it was a nice reminder that hanging out on first base can be a truly wonderful thing.

I attend quite a few Kink / Leather / BDSM events.

I don’t wear obvious symbols of ownership.*

I’m a pretty friendly person.

I can count on one hand the times I’ve been slimed by tops at these events. in over 11 years, it is an extremely rare occurrence.

But to read the fluttering panicky verbiage bandied about, Munches, Leather Events, and any place where more than three Perverts Gather for the Purposes of Pervery are hotbeds of Iniquity.

Submissive stalkery.

Poaching.

Wanton seduction by dominants intent on flogging flinging finagling and fucking their way in and out of your life, leaving you a shuddering confused mess.

Interestingly, when asked about this, quite a few people report this as what they have “heard” and often, hey now, mostly from dominants who “have their best interests at heart.”

Now, it might just be me. I could be so out of the range of desirability that people self-select and just don’t approach me.

In which case, poor me.

But how many people who DO attend events regularly THEMSELVES have seen, THEMSELVES, FIRST-HAND, this cadre of dominant slavering ill-behaved beastpeople?

Because I ain’t.

And not many people of my acquaintance complain of this issue either!

*my little Self-Commitment necklace has, interestingly, often lead people to ask what it means as it is a bit ambiguous. I do not believe it keeps people away in droves. And frankly, it is a new addition to my wardrobe and won’t account for a far longer history of being treated respectfully

About a week ago I received an invitation to a rather intriguing New Year’s Eve event.

For the uninitiated (this includes myself as I have never attended) you can read about the event here.

The gist is that the party focuses on setting a “Resolution,” of which other Debauched attendees will dutifully and gleefully do their best to relieve you.

Sounds intriguing, at the least. And when one of the Founders of the Feast personally invites you (kudos and thanks to you, Random!) how can one say no?

I hemmed and hawed and decided upon a resolution to display on my laminate, the purpose of which is to identify what fervid fantasy you are clinging to with a coy, faux intensity. A clue to the nature of which may be found in my recent post about that which I have yet to explore in my kinky travels, trials and travails.

In perusing the layout for the shindig, I started to ponder a reality about the party: unlike most kink events, tharr be booze! Lots of it.

Usually, kinky themed parties here in the Bay Area are dry. I’ve traveled to other cites where this is more relaxed. But not a sex party in a venue with not only a bar but specifically, and additionally, an Absinthe bar.

I’m curious to see how the event flows. am sure that not everyone there will overindulge…but there will almost certainly be those who do. While I am not uncomfortable being around those simmering in boozification, I am not sure how I feel about being in a play or sexually open social scene with those who may be in a place of impairment.

So, in addition to my resolution to [REDACTED] in 2009, I’ve listed my name thusly:

Mollena Williams, Teetotaler

Because I’m not anonymous about being a kinky pervert, or about being sober!

Let’s see what adventures this may bring…any of my sober kinksters getting Debauched this NYE? Holler!

RIP.

When I was a kid there weren’t many bad-ass black ladies kicking butt and looking sexy doing it. And I wasn’t allowed to see Pam Grier flicks, so my role model for asswhippings was Eartha Kitt. Looking fine as hell in that catsuit…damn.

She’s obviously inspired a few perverts over the years as well…

She looked good for decades…and still makes me smile.  I hope her passing was peaceful.

Sugasm #155

HNT courtesy of Northern lights and sleepless nights.

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #156? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing directly to radicalvixenatgmaildotcom

This Week’s Picks
I’m kind of … insatiable.
“She’s gasping already. Each breath a moan, each touch connected to the noises she makes.”

The most spankable day of the year
“And for spankos, they are a high holy day to be approached with all the reverence and gaiety of a Pagan-cum Christian holiday.”

Private club
“It’s that kind of club – the kind you have to know about, the kind that doesn’t even have a name.”

Sugasm Editor
Sex Work And Honesty: Being Childfree

Editor’s Choice
I Wonder

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Autobiography of a Masturbator: Porn O’Graphicus, Part 5
Believing the Bullshit. Confession #202
Good Girl
Performance pressure
The Truth is, I’m Lonely

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
HNT: Tie
Purple Passion
Sibelle – Toyed
Vintage Kink Wednesday
What Santa Sees Through My Window….

Sex Work
Sex work and the right to choose

Sex Humor
Monday Mirage: Hundred Orgasm Woods
Who’s Your Daddy? Vader vs. Joker <– That’s me!
WTF To Do With a Botched Trim Job

BDSM & Fetish
A Boy and his Sleepsack
Call my name
Feast
I smell like sex
My First Over-The-Knee Spanking
The only DIY Leather Hood on the net
Sex Life Snapshot
Tie Me to the Ends of Love, Part 3

Sex News, Reviews, & Interviews

12 Days of Christmas Sex Toys List
Fetish Pinup – Bettie Page dead at 85
Fucking on Flickr
Hot Erotic Holiday E-books
On The 12th Day of Christmas: We-Vibe
Tribute to Bettie Page: Queen of Kink
Women In The Industry

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Almond’s Joy
Astrid, your mouth fucked my cock.
Casual Poetry
Headhunter
I Hurt
Mesmerizing Love
She Walks in Beauty Like the Night…
Windows

From 69Stories: One Pervert’s Tale: It was/is an autobiographical telling of bits of my life. None of it is slanderous, libelous, OR untrue These are the facts as I remember them and are retold with joy, and with fond recollection.

Mostly

FALLING 

Falling is something we usually associate with awkwardness, a loss of coordination. Scraped knees, a twisted wrist.

 
How interesting, then, that we refer to the emotional process of discovering intense feelings of affection and adoration to be “falling in love” it implies awkwardness, a loss of control, and imminent danger. I try to avoid it. Who needs it! Complicated mass of conflicting emotional hairballs. Nine times out of ten you can see it coming and take steps to avoid it.

 
But sometimes, the fall comes from no where. Smooth sailing, clear path you’ve gone down a thousand times before and the level floor reaches up and grabs you. There’s no defense against that. No amount of denial, defensiveness or dissembling is going to take the wallop out of that fall.

 
After a series of stumbles and near misses, I’d had enough. I forswore my days of sexual excess, and was firmly committed to keeping myself out of trouble.

 
HE was trouble from the first moment. The first feature of his that I became acquainted with was his ass.

Well, he was playing pool with a group of men at Barney’s Beanery in Hollywood. I was with two girlfriends, Lori and Anne, and we were seated in a booth next to the pool table area. It was cramped. The players had to practically enter the booths to take long table shots. I wasn’t entirely peeved when a fantastic specimen of male posteriorhood was presented to my gaze. Absolutely the finest ass I have ever seen on a white guy. I tapped it with my finger.

Oo! Nice!

Its owner turned, startled, then smiled at me.

 
“Excuse me, but we’re trying to eat over here, do you mind not putting your butt on our table?”

His smile broadened

“Sorry there, love! Hope I didn’t put you out none. Cheers!” his voice lilted with a (South London? Estuary? Slightly South Country?) British accent. My insides trip-hammer imploded.

 
“Oh….aha….no problem….!”

 
SO sue me. I have a thing for British accents.

 
Eventually I worked up the nerve to invite him over to our table. His friends were hollering and applauding as he sat in our booth. Within five minutes I’d learned that He was a musician, was in LA on tour for a week or so, then he was flying up to San Francisco for another week and a half. He also had a girlfriend back home. And he played guitar and sang. I wondered why he felt compelled to tell me he had a girlfriend. I mean, he was only in LA for a week. And we had just met.

Whatever!

 
I asked him where he was going to be performing. He wasn’t sure, so he asked one of the Irish dudes at the other table. The guy pulls out a huge, and I mean fat freaking binder and flips through it…they were at the Shrine Auditorium that Tuesday.

I cracked the fuck up. 
 
“I have never heard of you. The Shrine Auditorium is where they hold, like, the Academy awards and shit.”

 
He explained it was not his gig, he was playing backup for another guy. He asked me if I’d heard of Van Morrison.

 
“Um, yeah I have heard of him. So, you are touring with Van Morrison, right?” I asked him if he could get tickets for my friends and me. He said he didn’t think that would be a problem. Frankly, I had my doubts about the whole story. Furthermore, I will confess to not be being a huge Van Morrison fan. But that didn’t really matter. This wasn’t about anyone but Him and me.

 The evening flew and I found I couldn’t stand to be away from Him. He’d look at me with this sly sort of grin and I’d giggle. He’d touch my arm or knee and I’d sweat. I was out of control. Helpless. He knew it. He felt it and there was nothing to be done to stop it.

 
He invited me back to his hotel, where he and his mates were going to continue partying. I’d have followed him anywhere, but my car was in fucking Pasadena and my girlfriends were less than supportive of my desire to trot off with this stranger. We exchanged numbers and promises to get together the following afternoon…

 
I reached to shake his hand and he laughed, grabbing my wrist and pulling me towards him his hands in my hair on either side of my face looking into my eyes and leaning down to kiss me what…now I cant breathe…my entire body…compressed…tight…hot…alive…numb and frozen…

 
He was a really good kisser.

I didn’t sleep. As soon as was feasible in the morning, I called my friends. I rescheduled my therapy appointment. In a panic, I told her what had happened and that I had to …I don’t know. Something was happening.

She was surprisingly calm.

“I’ll be here when you are done, do what you need to go. Call me.”

Huh.

I talked to my Boss…just in case…I needed a few days off.

I wondered what the fuck was happening.  I felt my life split in front of me. I could back out and take the path I was on, to whatever that would be. Or.

Or I could get on board this other ride that plummeted over an edge outside of my vision. I’d never in my life had a clearer moment of choice.

But there wasn’t ever a question.

Not really.
I picked Him up in front of  His Hotel, and we cruised down Melrose Avenue to my favorite bar, the SnakePit. This was, of course, for show. What I really wanted was to turn around and go back to his hotel room immediately, but I had only just committed to curbing my promiscuity! I thought about it.

 
“Look, I’ll feel really slutty if we go right back to your hotel room after our first date. Um…how about this. We can go to two more bars, then it will be like our third date, and then we can fuck. How’s that?”

 
He was amenable, and so off we went. We drove over to The Cat and Fiddle. Listened to some Screamin’ Jay Hawkins on the juke.

A couple rounds later, it was back in to my old ass Honda Accord, Set. I chauffeured Him to The Burgundy room

 It wasn’t long there. We were going to be 86ed if we kept up our lascivious behaviour at the bar.  He didn’t seem to care that people stared. He gazed at me with unnerving clarity and delight. His breath smoky, his smile bright his hands on my ass my hips my waist under my breast my neck…he would lean in and whisper and my entire nervous system would overload and I would be on the brink of orgasm, breath shallow and huffing past parted lips eyes wide and unblinking as I stared back at him trying to catch, in his dark green eyes, a trace of what it was he saw in me.

“God you are so fucking gorgeous….you have no idea what I’m going to do to you, love…”

He was right. I didn’t.  I’m not sure he really knew, either. Not really.

We left Burgundy room and I floored it back to the Sunset Marquis. We ran through the lobby and up to a pair of double French doors which suddenly swung open towards us and we almost collided with a stout short man, a bottle of brandy in one fist and the hand of a girl in the other. My Date smiled and told me he’d like to introduce me to his boss.  My eyes widened slightly.

“Oh! Hi, Mr. Morrison. Van, Van it is then!”

OK, jaded or not, this is Pretty Fucking Cool.

 
It was less fucking cool when we got back up to My Date’s huge suite, and Van decided to stick around for a while. We drank brandy while He and Van did horrific things to the lyrics of  Brown Eyed Girl. I chatted with the girl, who turned out to be the younger sister to the lead singer of the Pogues. She was amused I dug them.  Unlike her brother, she had a beautiful smile.

The minutes stretched hours. I pondered the irony. I mean, here I was in the presence of a musical legend! Lots of people would give their right arm to be here!! And all I could do was wish he’d leave so that I could screw his guitarist. Feh.

 
And I had to pee.

 
By the time I left the luxuriously appointed bathroom, I had decided to just make the best of things and relax a bit…enjoy the ride!

…to be continued…

Have a ménage à trois that involved multiple men.

I don’t think, if memory serves (which it often doesn’t because my memory usually is behind a dumpster somewhere skulking and smoking clove cigarettes and refusing to fetch and carry anything so far as ONE synaptic gap, thankyouverymuch) that I have even had a co-topping scene that has been male-male. Multiple women, yes. Male and female, sure. But not 2 male tops doing winsome evils to me simultaneously. I have The Curiosity about playing with 2 men at once and if they were bi-curious and would spank slap and abuse me than maybe one another too….OK, um. No, I gotta stop. If I keep going I won’t get to the next thing I’ve never done, which would be to

Do a scene in a public dungeon where sexual intercourse is involved

I think the most I’ve done is been fingered, or ordered to orgasm. I certainly have been sexed up, as there are more ways to be fucked on heaven and earth than one can achieve with mere phalluses. But I’ve never been straight up fucked. I think this is a combination of being involved with people for whom that was outside of our play relationship (due to their obligations, or mine, at the time.) and a not unusual performance anxiety among lots of people when it comes to public fucking. Sure, using a strap-on would obviate that issue. which brings me to the third thing I have yet to do…

Get fucked with a strap-on.

I kinda did a mock-strap-on fucking for a scene I did years back in one of them there Good Vibrations pr0n flicks. But it was kind of a cheat because the configuration was wrong and…well the deal was never completed. Yeah. I am not sure how that has fallen by the wayside, but it has. Go figure.

Be fisted.

This is not for lack of trying. Believe, me, several women with very small hands have tried. I’m just not built for it. Those “child bearing hips?” all on the outside, baby. My pubic bones jealously guard my gooey center from manual assault.

Have a monogamous full-time D/S relationship.

Oh boy…This one stings.

My first relationship was D/S based and not contained within the context of a romantic relationship. That boundary was strenuously maintained. My last serious relationship, thought it lasted for several years, and had a D/S flavor to it by default (since that is my default dynamic) was mostly a bedroom kinky / 50’s era household traditional kind of situation. I am dismayed to think that, in the 12 years that I have been exploring BDSM, I have yet to have what I’ve sought, which is a primary monogamously oriented partner in a D/S relationship.

I hopefully have a few more days in which to catch up…I hope

One of the myths I dispelled immediately among my friends was that being a masochist means that ALL pain is delectable.

And that being submissive meant that I’d be doing their dishes.

I still hate gong to the dentist, and apart from the supercalifragilisticexpialimasochist dude in Little Shop of Horrors, I know few people who fetishized, say, dental pain.

And I loathe dish-washing.

Context is everything.

This morning I overheard a (non-kink-identified) co-worker mulling whether or not he should “make” his girlfriend wear her hair a certain way for the Holiday Party.

I bristled fiendishly.

“Who the fuck does he think he is?!?” I thought.

The dichotomy never ceases to amuse me. That which is horrible abuse when performed without informed consent is hotly erotic with consent.

Context.

I love to be ordered to comply with the will of a partner for whom it is hot to give those orders.

I hate to be bossed around.

Go fucking figure.

Control is a turn-on for me, yet only within certain degrees. And ONLY with particular people.  Even a moue of presumptuous bossiness can get my hackles up, the claws out and my spikiness activated. This nonsense of “total control / no limit” submission is foolishness. If my partner, to whom I have sworn my fealty, goes Postal-Nutso-Twinkie on me, I sure as fuck am out of there.

I am quite uncertain precisely how the few who have managed to avert the major emotional battle-trenches, slip over my internal spiritual moat, under the armed guard of my NY-bred psychological defenses and grab the neck of my submissive self have managed to do so.

Perhaps it was their attention to detail?  The fact that my bravado didn’t fool them, and that I reacted genuinely to their dominance rather than their having to take on a domineering tone.

Chemistry plays a part. People to whom I have felt submissive have never GROWN on me as dominants. It has always been a given. Not that it couldn’t develop that way. It simply has not, thus far. And those relationships that were greyer in scope did not work out to be long-term d/s relationships.

Communication. Whether verbal or pheremonal. Something is communicated when you submit to another person. Something beyond blatant obsequiousness. There is a real sense that their wish simply is your command. No fighting, no struggling, it just is.

All of that, to me, is missing in a controlling / domineering relationship. Where one partner uses threats, coercion and bulling tactics to control the other. Context. Communication. Chemistry. Control.

Delicious.

Bossiness?

Fail.