I’m in on a bomb-ass collaboration with WritingHannah. She put together a bunch of YouTube, Blog and Twitter gals getting Medieval on “Love“.
Enjoy!! And please take a sec to click below to “Digg” it, kthxbai! :-D
I’m in on a bomb-ass collaboration with WritingHannah. She put together a bunch of YouTube, Blog and Twitter gals getting Medieval on “Love“.
Enjoy!! And please take a sec to click below to “Digg” it, kthxbai! :-D
Ms. S.F. Leather is holding its first title contest since 1999!!
Contest Weekend Events
Friday, Oct. 16 – Ms. SF Leather Meet & Greet – Emceed by the fabulous Sister Sarah Femme! Meet the contestants and judges! Try to figure out who the MYSTERY JUDGE might be! CA Community Bootblack, Blast will be there to get your leathers in top shape before the contest! Also, there will be a chance for you to submit questions that could be used on stage during the “pop question” portion of the contest! at the SF Eagle, 398 12th St., SF, 8:30pm-10:30pm, Cost: FREE
Saturday, Oct. 17 – Ms. San Francisco Leather Contest – Emceed by the incomparable Queen Cougar, Ms. S.F. Leather ‘93! Enjoy watching our 5 fabulous contestants be put through their paces! The contest evening features speech, pop question, and – everybody’s favorite – Fantasies! Silent Auction! CA Community Bootblack, Blast, available when the doors open and during intermission! Net proceeds will be donated to LYRIC and the Transgender Law Center!
Space is wheelchair accessible, and we will have sign-language interpreters.
Location: The Blue Macaw, 2565 Mission St., SF. Doors open at 5:30pm
Cost: General Admission: $10 in advance or $15 at the door. Please note: seating is limited, and a General Admission ticket does not guarantee a seat. Available seating is first-come, first-served*.
*If you require a seat for health reasons, please alert an usher upon arrival.
Also available: Preferred Seating for $20 in advance or $25 at the door. (if not sold out) Advanced tickets may be purchased online from www.Frantix.net
The Blue Macaw is a great, spacious venue with food and full bar available.
Getting There: Near the 24th St/Mission BART stop. Several muni lines run nearby, including the #14 Mission. There is also a nearby parking garage, on 21st St. between Valencia and Mission.
Open play party at the Citadel – membership requirement waived for contest attendees!
Drop by Wicked Grounds to re-hash your favorite moments. Sunday: Brunch at Dolores Park Cafe, 11:00.
I started noticing it when I was in the late-stages of my first kink relationship. The late stage where the sex and kink die-off, you aren’t playing as often, maybe the thrill is gone or you’re in line with 2-5 other women waiting to be slotted in at the dominant’s convenience.
And then it began.
I’d stub my toe three times in one day. Bang my arm into the wall of my cubicle. Smack my head on an open cabinet, and stumble back, wincing from the sudden pain that woke me out of whatever reverie I’d been in.
It didn’t take me too long to make an interesting connection.
Today’s Sunday Morning Sexytime Story is one some of y’all may have heard before and speaks to the power of a vivid imagination and suggestion.
And my extremely trusting inner paranoid!
Most of the people who post opinions contrary to mine on race play do not take the time to articulate much. As I mention, I take into account the opinions and feeling of dissenters whenever I speak or present on the topic.
I am posting here, unedited, and with the express written permission of the original author, LeatherTBird3, the following blog entry that he additionally cross-posted in response to the Race Play Interview conducted by Andrea Plaid.
I have great respect for ALT’s Senior Editor Mollena Williams in many aspects and on many levels. I can certainly acknowledge and admire the courage required to broach the sensitive subject of “race play” in her recent editorial INTERVIEW BDSM and playing with Race Sr Editor Mollena Williams interviewed by Andrea Plaid Parts 1 and 2. This is a hard subject for me. My own particular brand of “PC” dictates that someone’s kink is their kink and that is to be respected. We cannot control the way we are wired or what flips that switch in us. If I were to be pilloried for all the sick shit that goes through my “heads,” it would be a worse tribulation for me than have been the inequities I have endured due to my race.
That said, whatever turns someone on, that hurts no one else, is none of my business unless I am invited to join. However, I’m just not so sure that “race play” hurts no one else. Furthermore, I am not sure if “race play” alleviates the human need to be culturally and/or ethnically superior by working through it in the realm of fantasy, or simply perpetuates this flaw in the human design that has produced the ugliest of atrocities in our history.
In part 1 of the interview Mollena suggests that fear is what makes the practice of race “play” taboo. I beg to differ with she whom I hold in high esteem. I simply do not have the heart to “play” at that which is still so real in the human psyche and is still a real live affliction suffered by many. This to me is like picking at a wound that you know is infected. It is like giving children toy guns to pretend to shoot each other while bombarding them with images of feigned brutality and bloodshed and then wondering why we live in an increasingly violent society.
There is a paradoxical dichotomy within me that comes part and parcel with my African-American heritage. It is the need to learn the lessons, reap the benefits and garner the strength that seethes within my culture without dragging along the anger spawned of the pain, despair, degradation and indignities which are linked inexorably with being black in America for my generation and the generations before me. Starting with not knowing from which African nation and culture the African contingent of my family actually came from, to being the target of racial epithets right here on our beloved ALT and having the powers that be fail to enforce their own rules regarding racial attacks, my race, my family and I have fought to attain this small and tenuous measure of equality.
My job as a human is to distill the power and strength of character that can be derived from a culture achieving this new-found equality while casting aside the bitter dregs of anger which can only impede further progress despite its justification. The struggle is to identify with my African-American heritage without being defined by it. The struggle to be “just a man” while both holding on to and letting go of the experience upon which that man is built. Many have died and suffered to make this paradox possible. It took quite a bit of soul searching to come to these conclusions and I will not have that which we have struggled for generation to attain reduced to a sex toy.
Mo goes on to say that her pussy is not interested in uplifting the race. I am not trying to “hate” on Mo but admitting freely to thinking with her genitals on issues of such import supports racist stereotypes and smacks of the “I’m gonna get mine,” slave culture mentality that continues to plague our proud race. I know that Mo was trying to be humorous but this statement is akin to a patriot who is willing to sellout his country for a blow job.
Miss Williams further suggests that the subjugation of a race or culture is a part of human nature; an assertion with which I am prepared to agree. I would even go one step further as to say that Dominance and submission is a part of our animal nature; That part of us that so many wish to deny and yet never can quell. We as humans are the only creatures on this planet with the intellect to govern the instincts we have found to be ineffective, effectively bringing about and guiding our own intellectual evolution. It is this need to rule our own passions that has spawned the concepts of law and morality.
The overwhelming majority of the world’s governments have deemed racial discrimination to be unlawful and amoral and for good reason. To play with race in this fashion is to spit in the face of Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X and the thousands of black soldiers who fought in American wars as men only to come “home” to be treated as they were less than other men who did not do as much for their country. Abolition of racial and cultural discrimination is the only way to purge it from society. To make a game out of our on going struggle for sexual satisfaction is to make a mockery of all efforts toward that end.
I try to take HNTs right before I post them, if they aren’t schmancy photos that fit the theme and are already extant. I woke up, remembered I’d forgotten to post, and opened one eye enough to grab the old Android phone.
And here you go.
Being submissive and desiring slavery, craving physical and emotional ownership would seem to place me at a disadvantage, relationship-wise
I have to be the one looking to fit into the right “place,” right? I mean, there is the topdominantowner, fully formed and domly and all, needing me to be what THEY need in order to get the fucking equation to balance.
Chameleon, cuttlefish, octopus, me. All my life shifting colour texture shape size and the very fabric of my spirit to be pleasing.
Submission seemed to be just the thing for me. Easy. Natural.
After all, I am an Adept in these skills. It is nothing for me to build emotional dams, aqueducts, sewers and channels so that my emotional slop didn’t muss the hair of my partners. You don’t like that about me? It is gone. Sorry to have bothered you.
Of course, it never works that way. A placid pool, minding its own business, can be thrashed to fury by the mere suggestion of change. I am sure I thought I was handling myself well, damming up my emotions and kneeling and serving and trying, trying so hard, to be perfect.
But I seeped through the cracks. My very transparency gave lie to my struggle.
And when that didn’t work out, I was told I wasn’t “slave material.”
That I lacked the “heart of a slave.”
Which is a pretty shitty thing to hear because, Ganesha knows, it took years to get to the place where I could even acknowledge who I felt I was. To have spiritual insurgents in my heart conquer my city and then find it lacking was more than devastating.
It was killing.
The problem with the Henry Higgenses of the BDSM community is this: We Eliza Doolittles step up to the plate. We lose our flavor, willingly slaughter our ego, suppress our id. We talk pretty one day, and we have the spit-shine and the downcast eye.
And then, we outshine you. We have outgrown you.
And you have no fucking idea how to use us.
Your assumption that you have the capacity to MAKE US WHO YOU WANT US TO BE is fucking hubris.
Hubristic and damaging.
And we let you do it.
I let you do it.
I don’t know how long it will be, if ever, that I find the worthy person who, when they look at me, really see me and understand who I am, and not only that, are convicted that I am who they must have in their lives.
I’ve spent many years making myself ready to prove myself to the right person.
But I recently realized that I have no control over what people want. I don’t even have control over how people see me. Sure, I can set up smoke, mirrors, costumes, masks, curtains and soundtracks to keep up my desperate duplicitous dance.
Love me love me love me but please do that from over there. DO NOT get too close, because then you’ll see me for what I really am and THAT Mollena can’t bear any but the softest touch. She isn’t tough. She isn’t strong. She isn’t confidant and she needs more love than I trust you to give her so back the fuck off and leave us alone.
Next show at 10:00.
My relationships have been based on compromises. Some massive. But sometimes, a series of seemingly small compromises. And frankly, that was OK. Because they met some or most of needs.
Maybe I wasn’t your ideal physical type. But you liked me anyway. Sure I may be too heavy to get your dick hard, but I was also a heavy masochist and that got you hard, and I was proud to be able to take that. And that was enough.
Maybe you really didn’t want to date someone as twisted and perverted as I was, and you judged me deeply. But my nature meant you could do anything to me you wanted, and I was essentially obedient, and that was endlessly fascinating to you. And that was enough.
Maybe you relished the unnerving instantaneous bond that we immediately felt, but distance and your “Real” relationship would never permit that to blossom. Yet it was pleasing to you to let that fire smoulder , with occasional stoking with stolen phone calls and the grandest larceny of all: giving me hope that one day, you would change your mind. If music be the food of love, you fed me so over a decade. And that was enough.
Maybe I was not suited to the type of service you were convinced you needed, but you were patient and would teach me to silence my needs and my wants and my spirit and my fire and be the silent invisible slave you sought to adorn your stable. And I was giving up myself for you. And that was enough.
And throughout all of that what I sit with now is a battered steamer trunk of memento mori, and maudlin yet meaningful memories.
I had had that trunk under control, I thought. And I had left mostly silent the whispering submissive, craving ownership, craving a place, wanting to be seen for who I am and accepted.
But of late that has been kind of fucked up. Ganesha, remover of obstacles, put me into a situation, in a time and a place where my defences folded like night flowers at sunrise.
I can’t sit on top of it any more. Those previously dormant emotions and feelings are chattering and clawing and dinging cracks through which they can escape.
They have quite a bit to say.
And I can only sit and listen. To my own desires. My own fears. And I have nowhere to escape. Alcohol’s oblivion isn’t available. Running away to dilute my pain with the pain of others isn’t appealing either.
Listening. Listening to myself. Scared because I rarely know what I am going to hear.
But it is not painful, listening to my desires, my needs.
Noisy. Gods yes, noisy, yes. Many many voices. Many fingers hands, many eyes blinking in the new light. Many voices finding themselves.
My desires and fears are hungry. Starved, really, and they want to be fed, please.
Whenever you get the chance, but please, don’t let us die.
I don’t want them to die. I want to be all of me. And I now know, and I accept, that I cannot do that alone.
As much as I’ve had pounded, beaten and etched into my psyche that I HAD TO BE independent, that I could never rely on anyone, that people are only human and WILL disappoint you, I have to be OK with that.
That emotion, that desire, that longing, is NECESSARY.
How else will you feel the quicksilvershaprmess of that desire being fulfilled if you don’t fucking let it breathe and speak its name?
Pain is to be felt. That is what it is there for. Avoid pain at your own peril.
Part of who I am…a substantial part of who I am…doesn’t thrive unless it is in concert with another.
I cannot be the performer I am unless I have collaborators, an audience, a director.
I cannot be the writer I am unless I have readers, people who can hear me, and support me.
I cannot be the bottom, submissive, slave, girl I need to be until I risk, again and again and fucking again, if necessary, putting myself in front of the oncoming train of my emotional process so that I can feel the impact and absorb that energy.
The most precious expensive, rare and dear things on earth aren’t for everyone. They are often volatile, often hard to find and even more difficult to keep.
I am not suitable for most people.
But rather than assuming that this lowers my value and that this is my fault and I need to stoop to be conquered, I think I am going to try this new thing.
Yeah, I fucking rule.
You think you got game?
I’ll be at the Sex 2.0 Un-Conference in May, and I’ll be hosting a dee-lightful Salon entitled…
Perhaps you are a full blown pervert, but shy about exposing yourself online? Or maybe you are a fledgling kinkster, and unsure of how to remain true to your self while bridging the gap between fantasy and realty, taking the online to the flesh?
There are so many vectors and venues available, it can be tricky, and it can be daunting. But have no fear, you aren’t alone!
This discussion will cover the pros and cons of being out, of maintaining a kinky personae online, on the common pitfalls of finding yourself moving from one world to the other, and how one can maintain one’s humor while maintaining your integrity as a feminist and as a pervert.
Join Mollena Williams, BDSM Educator, kinky blogger, and Executive Pervert as she discusses and explores online kink and real-time perversions, and offers tips, suggestions and a few amusing cautionary tales to get your gears turning on how to maintain your humor and your integrity as an individual as you cross from pixels to playtime!
Props to Viviane for turning me on to this event!
Trusting myself enables me to do truly miraculous things…like trust others.
Trusting others enables us to do truly miraculous things, like make pain transcendent and find new ways to access our souls.
In addition to this past weekend being my second anniversary of being sober (whee!) I was in Chicago to talk about a play-style that many people consider to be pretty edgy, and one I am always walking into with part of my heart quailing apprehensively and shaking with fear.
But now in the fluorescent safety of the Monday morning workday, I think I feel safe in saying: “WIN.”
I’ve done the “Race Play” class a few times now, and even though I am nervous to sickness each and every fucking time I do it, the overwhelmingly positive feedback helps me to see this IS a valuable class for folks.
The GD2 crowd was comprised on a lot of new kinksters, as their outreach mission includes free (!!!!!!) classes with national presenters and so the place brings in people from all over to teach and present.
It was a FULL house, which was awesome. They said it was one of the more well-attended classes they’d hosted.
I initially wasn’t going to do a demo, but it seems the universe has smiled on me of late in that arena. Seems like my Homeboy, Ganesha, has been fucking up many, many obstacles on my behalf…even the ones I put in my own way.
Last I did the Race Play class, Minax was with me in the mix for The Exiles edition, and to all reports she survived it ;-)
Since I was gonna be traveling I wasn’t planning on doing a demo in Chicago but a new “Con-Acquaintance” friend of mine mentioned he was gonna be coming in to town for my GD2 class and would be happy to help if such help was needed.
[More like “OMFG are you kidding??? HELLZ YEAH!!” but we wouldn’t want to overfeed his ego, would we?]
Though I haven’t spent much time with Graydancer, I thought him cool and I had one of those gut level things happen.
Non-crunchy people, avert your eyes…
You know you meet someone and just feel “OK, yeah, this is one of the Soul Family People, and it is great to have you come around again!” This was one of those. I meet hundreds of people a year and have feelings like that, of immediacy and comfort and such VERY rarely. I try to trust that feeling. It hasn’t yet been wrong.
OK, non-crunchy types, you can pick up here again.
So I said “OK, why not!
Mind, I’d only seen him do ropework, and hadn’t played with him before.
But for several reasons, I felt absolutely fine about saying yes.
I scraped together the gumption to send him some of the extra-flowery un-PC bodice ripping period pr0n I’d started writing for The Limey Who Shall Not Be Named back in the day.
Of course I was then all “Shit…he’s gonna hate it and be all “Ugh what is this corny ass shit?!” and then not want anything to do with me at all.”
But that didn’t happen either, so that was a relief.
The class went really really well.
It was one of those deals where I felt very much in touch with the people there, even the ones who were somewhat guarded. And even though the room was hot as FUCK and I was sweating with nerves and not at all sure what was going to happen, I took a deep breath and forged ahead.
If the class was good, the demo was fucking AWESOME.
Well, for me, anyway.
I’d had little clue that I was dealing with someone who was highly adept in role-playing but duh, shoulda known. He is a performer and an instructor, so there is gonna be that advantage.
Plus, he’d totally cheated and was sporting my very favourite style of boots. And he was wearing black leather gloves.
Evidently, this also…uh…works for me.
I honestly couldn’t even LOOK at his feet too long. I’d forgotten about my thing with the boots…how does one forget that objects can become so deeply imbued with their own life that the right person at the right place in the right time can bring that all back again…?
How is it I keep forgetting that I actually really am a pervert?
Gray managed to somehow pull together a scene from the story I’d written and make it work in the context of this demo.
This is revelatory for me on several levels.
I’m still running through this so please, bear with me, I’m kind of scattered in my thinking. But the writing helps me get it out and hell, while I’m pulling apart this humming burning ball of energy, you might as well peek in :-)
I think it was really remarkable to be able to voice this very simple type of fantasy, not worry that other people would find it either “grindingly offensive ” or, worse yet, “too pedestrian and boring.” Let me say this (I know, kind of surprising) but I’d never even DONE a “Old School master / slave plantation thing” because, well, I know it is the obvious fucking thing to do and I have steered clear of it.
But I figure hey, I might as well have one of my fantasies addressed, yes?
And I am glad I did.
Um, so, the scene.
It was fantastic.
I’d inaccurately calibrated this man’s capacity for cold-bloodedness, so it was a bit of a genuine shock that he was SUCH a BASTARD!
I think it is pretty much all I have to say about that right now. I might do a straight-up scene report one of these days, we’ll see how generous I’m feeling about that memory.
Yes, we did play later in the evening, and that was also rather phenomenal.
It is wondrous to me that, no matter how many years I do this, there is always something new that will sneak up on you and fuck your shit up so flawlessly, you can’t do anything except ride it.
I also newly re-discovered was something that I’d already had, but suffered the fate of being squashed down and buried for the past few years.
When I am single and feeling lonely MY default of late has been to walk away from those feelings of longing and let them do their own thing. I don’t want to try to suppress them, not anymore. But I do not want to dwell on what I do not have, because that sets me up in a poor place.
But for lots of reasons Gray was able to get in…just enough…to a few unused places and that lead me back to a simple sweet truth: I love “This.”
All the pain and beatings and bondage and all of that was compressed to one moment where I was prostrated with my cheek and lips against the warm instep of one of his boots, the other boot firmly on the back of my neck and his hand in my hair.
There was an absolutely clear moment of connectedness with the memory of the very first time I’d been in a place like that, almost eleven years ago.
And …sorry crunchy people, but it was one of those sacred moments where you get a revelation. it was this: despite all that had happened, that has happened to me in those years, all of the people that have come and gone, all that I thought I would have and all that I never expected, there IS a place where I can feel safe and even if it doesn’t look like anyone else’s safe space and even if it is just for RIGHT NOW, that is all any of us EVER have.
So breathe it in.
It was SO. Huge.
I’m getting all crying and snuffly even as I try to write.
I have absolute faith in my ability to feel, to intuit, to trust when it is right to do so. And that is precious.
Well, massive kudos to Gray, because he let me sob like a dork all over his boots for some amount of time. Dunno know long…you know how that goes.
And hands-down one of the most emotionally attentive people with whom I’ve had the honor to play.
Oh, yes, and *Squee*
Furthermore, my absolute embargo on facial hair has been conditionally lifted.
Of course, the next morning, part of my brain is all “OMG OMG yeah, yeah, OK, I know, I know…you’re not poly and LDRs never work and you DO NOT do LDR shit with D/s for chrissake but OMG this may be your last chance to ever and we are scared to be alone again and blah blah blah blah.”
Chittering. This is one of Bubbles’ excellent new voices. She does fear REALLY well.
But you know, something very different happened.
I was glad to feel that affection, and that openness to being submissive, and all those feelings. I didn’t criticise myself for having them, I tacked to the wind for the impact of sub-space and PMS**
And I enjoyed myself. It felt / feels great.
I’m not afraid. If anything, I am SO happy to have had that scene and those feelings because I haven’t had them in so long.
Rather than freaking out at the prospect of being alone, my thought this morning as I sort through e-mail and try to get to work is this:
These moments are a gift, precious precious precious and to try to shuffle my emotions to suit the external surroundings is hubris.
What is real emotionally is real emotionally.
Nothing less, and nothing more.
I CAN feel, even feel very profoundly, and enjoy that fully, and stand on my own feet afterward, and marvel at the magnificence of it.
I know that right now, I have to be present. By remaining present, I’ll be where I am supposed to be.
And this morning I love myself for that.
**Ladies: never, never EVER tell a sadist you are PMSing and that your boobs are sore. The likelihood that they will be compassionate and easier on them because of this is abysmally low. Just don’t mention it and hope for the best :-P