When I was a kid I loved wearing my Mom’s wigs occasionally to play dress-up. Being the late 60’s, everybody had a few in the closet ready to go.
I wish I had the balls to wear wigs more often…it is a really fun way to play dress-up :-) Hair does so much to change one’s appearance and public opinion. When I wear my hair short, I get lots of compliments from other women who admire that I can wear my hair so short.
Short, long, blonde brunette redhead….meat head or skinhead, happy HND, y’all.
I have been exchanging emails with a dominant I had approached with the intent of getting to know him a little better.
I got several brushbacks. He found me “intimidating” somehow…but never elaborated on what that meant.
He doesn’t play casually, because his play partners tend to “fall for him” so rather than risk that, he avoids playing up until mutual levels of interest are met.
Well, OK, whatever works, right?
Then I got the serious emotional bean ball: the suckerpunch of being told I’m “not the type” he is usually attracted to…but my scintillating intellect intrigued him to the point where he considered the chance to get to know me a rare treat. A singular indulgence for his own formidable intellect.
I want nothing more than to be your Scheherazade while you go off being ego-stroked by the hordes of swooning submissives who ARE your type, even if their conversation, realness, intelligence and demeanor are no match for mine.
I need to be lusted after and ravished by a Man Who Wants Nothing More Than To Own Me.
Not a sparkly psychic bauble.
Not your mental whetstone.
My last long-term relationship was with a guy who would stop everything he was doing and fuck my brains out when he saw me naked. He thought my body was absolutely perfect. Oh and hey! He ADDITIONALLY admired my intelligence. Fancy that.
Too bad he was intimidated by my history as a kinkster. It took me 3 years to pass through that relationship.
But that is another story for another day.
I am pleased my turnaround time on weeding out mismatched partners is improving.
SO, back to the current issue…
After many MANY conversational miscues and missteps that left me feeling a bit battered, I closed my last communication with this prospective date thusly:
I value myself FAR to highly to be shoe-horned among the swooning mass of women with whom you won’t play because they “fall for you.”
I have been around the dungeon enough times to know that someone who is still sleeping with an ex “because they are fluid bonded” is not someone who is fully emotionally and physically and spiritually available.
I am not at all interested in waiting and hoping for the day you have the gumption and /or desire to let go of your ex and move on.
I will not compete with other women for your time.
I am free, unencumbered, emotionally available and have the ovaries to live alone and walk alone until someone who wants me as I am, and who appreciates all that I am comes along.
I am certainly not going to cobble together a scant meal from the crumbs and leavings of someone else’s table.
That is what you are offering me right now.
I wish I felt as strong as those words sound…because right now I feel lonely.
But I don’t feel lonely enough to fucking queue up for a man-raffle.
Since I taught a class on Tact and Diplomacy and yadda yadda and talked about shit like “gracious communication” and using “I feel” and “I think” statements, I sure as hell better practice what I preach.
Or at least give it my best fucking shot.
I was proud that, despite the occasional disappointment, fleeting moment of excruciating discomfort, and shrieking cliffs of self-doubt, I did manage to get through a 3 day event without a total nervous breakdown.
LOTS of that was due to the kick ass Twitterfolk with whom I met up at the event. I’d met a few of them last month in NY, and hooked up with even more Tweeterz at Dark Odyssey. I can’t say enough abut the benefit of having online friends with whom you can meet-up at these events.
The smoothness of the weekend is also due to the stellar job of organizing executed by the Dark Odyssey team.
I have been to a few perv conventions. And for an event of this scope to have had no major issues, for the attitude to be smooth and relaxed, for there to be so many presenters and so many guests, and for the small fires that did come up to have been resolved with such grace is stunning.
To the faces of Dark Odyssey, Tristan, Colten, Karri and Greg, I say
Holy fucking shit y’all kicked ALL kinds of ass!!
And a thanks to the dozens of volunteers who gave of themselves and their time. You rocked the mike.
Both of my classes were, I felt, well-attended considering they weren’t showy technique shindigs.
The promotional mixer I hosted on Saturday night went well too, and for that I am grateful.
I was especially delighted to see a crowd that was far more diverse than most BDSM events I attend. At one point, while in a cluster of folks chatting I noted that we’d reached historically illegal levels of Negrosity…so I immediately busted out and played my RACE cards. I was sure to share them with all the People of Color present. They came in handy later as well, with a kinkster of Jewish extraction. So watch out, people! Fuck around and you might find that friendly neighborhood minority playing a RACE card on ya. BOOYACHAKA!
Traveling solo and being single, I had little thought that I might have the opportunity to play or participate in a scene over the weekend.
But I’m foolishly optimistic, and so I had some hope that I might happen upon just the right situation and wind up playing.
On the first night I did receive a solicitation…from a slightly tipsy submissive man.
Not quite my speed, but he was very nice and totally a hoot! I’ll even forgive him for expressing his “disappointment” about the fact I wasn’t a dominant.
I get that so often I can’t even bother to be unsettled by the potential / implied lack of respect for my me-ness in that kind of attitude.
And frankly, there is no way he could know that is a nagging sticking place of mine and that I will, now and again, late at night squeeze my eyes shut real right and thump my heels together three times whispering “There’ s No Space Like Domme… There’ s No Space Like Domme…There’ s No Space Like Domme…” wondering if maybe, just maybe, if I wish hard enough…I’ll wake up in the morning with a thirst to have obedience poured across my lips like so much honeyed mead on the tongue of a Egyptian queen with a flinty gaze sparking from her kohl-rimmed smoky topaz-eyes… like so many rivulets of blood rushing over the burning feet of Kali as she devours her victims, willing or un…
But alas, I always seem to wake up and am, once again, a solo submissive, slaving away, schlepping kitteh poop, working all day to being home the Science Diet Senior to two four legged furry feline switches.
But Sunday morning…ah. Delight.
Please note: the time stamp is in PST and I was livin' in EST. No bloody fucking way was I up that fucking early on a Sunday. *pfft*
I was a little excited.
Long day and long story short, it was much later in the evening when, showered, stretched out, warmed up and ready to go I flitted downstairs to the main Dungeon space to track down and get busy with the play-partner with whom I was very excited to scene.
Alas, even from across the Dungeon I immediately sensed that tonight was not gonna be the night.
It wasn’t surprising that he was tired: it had been a long day. And of course I was am glad to have been asked, and there will, hopefully soon, be another opportunity for us to play in the future.
So “Mature Mollena” was smiling, being all calm and Zen, and understanding that hey, shit happens, and at least I had an afternoon of sweet anticipation. That is cool!
However “Inner Child Mo” wasn’t at all serene and was jiving more like this now infamous chick…
I was bummed out. Feeling disinclined to watch other people having the kind of fun I wanted to have, I was about to swiftly depart the Dungeon to hide in my room once more.
Just as I was grinding my teeth together in the middle of that external vs. internal split, I noted a gal who’d been in one of my classes standing several feet away, expectantly, but respectful of the several conversations in which I was engaged. I started chatting with her and wow was I glad I did.
It was stunning how, just as I was about to be a piteous poutygurl, I received the most precious gift of all: one person telling me that she was moved and changed by what I had to say in my class.
I had a catch in my throat because, I mean, holy shit. Seriously?
How beautiful that on the heels of nipping nipping nipping at at the blue-grey Eeyore-esque ass of self-pity was this bright-eyed lovely girl who shared with me the best feedback of all: I made a difference.
If I flew across the country for just that, Dayenu.
Day two of the Dark Odyssey event and frankly, it is pretty great.
My sleep patterns are crazy! My dreams are even crazier…last night involved a complicated play involving a friend of mine attempting to fuck me up the ass behind every door in the room of a 56 room Victorian mansion..yesh. It was, at the very least, a vivid fucking dream.
There are fewer things more surreal than walking through a hotel ballroom and knowing a scant few days before, the inhabitants had no idea that, only days later, well over eight hundred kinksters, newbies to veterans, would come together to meet up, hook up, hang out, and in some cases….get hooked up and hung from their very skin…
My first class on “Diplomacy and Tact in D/S” was on the opening round of classes. I was nervous because it is the top of the event, most folks aren’t even here yet, I’m up against some pretty zesty competition…all this. Yet, hey, I had a wonderful group of people who came to listen and to share their own experiences.
It was fantastic.
Despite my intense fretting, I felt very good about the class.
I would like to personally thank all of the people who came to that first class, and who came up afterwards to express their enjoyment of it.
It is tough to put yourself out there again and again. To me, it feels like a tightrope walk with the stakes being an embarrassing splat and leaving people feeling as though the one thing I cannot give back to them, their time, wasn’t well spent.
I am feeling grateful that people take the time to not only come to listen to my ideas and also share their own experiences. And I am SUPREMELY grateful to the people who, after the class, came up to express their thanks and enjoyment…and those who, throughout the day, came up with a smile and shared that they enjoyed the class. Those moments are our compensation for our work.
And for that I am profoundy appreciative.
I did some networking with some folks I knew from Twitter, and I find it miraculous how the camaraderie of that fucking network has, universally, translated to my meeting wonderful people.
And then to see them play.
It is always thrilling to walk into a play party and watch the myriad ways people play, from brand newbies performing tentative spanks in a shadowy corner to a woman in an inverted 2-point suspension on a winch… blissed out…to the acrid nose-wrinkling stink of burned hair from fire play to the burst of raw energy as flesh-hooks pull a woman five feet from the floor…a Wendy without a Peter Pan, flying flying flying amidst a circle of smiling friends and admirers.
There is a wistful feeling in watching so much energy exchanged when you are solo…but it is still fascinating to be able to share the joy and pain and joyous pain of those fortunate enough be able to play in this dark fantasyland.
I’m a little lonely today.
Isn’t it odd how, even with so many smiling people around, loneliness can still creep in with prickly little claws that eke out glittering lachrymal tribute, when you least expect it…?
Now. Let’s see if I have the smile left in me to venture forth into the late night Dungeon…
I value the relationships I have formed within the BDSM community. It is not only that we have the commonality of kink, it is that being a pervert means that you smite the artifice of sexual Gerrymandering.
I am living a charmed life in some ways. My lifestyle as an “Out Kinky Pervert” actually was pivotal in landing me my current job. I am out to everyone who knows me, and I am pleased about that. I have done a lifestyle mash-up with kink and theater, kink and employment, kink and my social life. This makes for awesome stories. And a pretty groovy life. Most importantly, I have made friends who, outside of BDSM, it is highly unlikely I’d ever have known.
Two friends of mine fall into this category. Lady Thendara and her husband, Mustang, are the kind of loving and happy couple you’d see at dinner, going to a movie, shopping, whatever and have no idea that, when they “got hitched”, he was actually in full pony gear, and proudly pulled his bride in a pony cart.
Well, that was the ceremony for “kink family” at least.
Grant us all the freedom to play our heart's desire.
I was the caterer for that phenomenal soirée, and it was pretty awesome to be a part of such a singular event. There is nothing that makes me smile quite like the memory of drawing up a menu that included appetizers, a carving station, beverages and…pony-treats. Think quartered apples, (but NO green ones!) and whole carrot sticks alongside people-sized crudité .
I feel so blessed to have folks in my life who are an example of a couple who have found kinky compatibility and share their joy with others. I am happy in their company whether playing Scrabble, enjoying play-time in a Dungeon, gossiping over dinner or wriggling in bondage.
I’ve played with the both of them before. Mustang is a switchy player both in and out of his Pony Headspace. And Lady Thendara has enough experience on both sides of the crop to be a double threat. Female Switches, y’all!! Much like the Wu-Tang clan, they ain’t nothing to fuck with.
I was a bit apprehensive when Thendara invited me to visit with them for the weekend, despite the fact I really wanted to. Of late I have been having some pretty radical internal conflicts about my role in BDSM. Partially this is the same shit I grind myself through whenever I’m single for a while. But playing with a couple, for me, has its own wistfulness. It can underscore my being single…here I am, alone, and there they are, all happy and blah blah blah… but mostly it was my fear of not being “enough.”
As a masochist, I can play very heavily. The operative word in that sentence being the modifier. I can, but that does not mean I will. And it doesn’t always mean I want to. Being a submissive or a slave sometimes means subsuming your will, and then you better be down to take one for the sake of your service-oriented ass.
Many people see that highly-charged over-the-top play-style and assume that is the way that I play all of the time. But it isn’t. It is just what people remember and talk about at the next Munch. My “heavy bottoming” has terms, conditions, infrastructure, caverns caves sinkholes and fucking punji-pits within. And you can’t see that. All you see is me being thrown to the ground and shocked with dog collars, poked with a few dozen needles, brutally anally assaulted, OR groveling and licking the boots of a man I’d just met.
But these are the exception, rather than the rule, and I am ill-suited, right now, for heavy play. Because I have no one to whom I can turn for the unpredictable repair process I need to “come back” from that edge. And for me to want to take that pain, I realize I need that emotional connection.
Yet I live in apprehension of the thought of disappointing my friends.
So, I scurry around the edges and hope that my Dom Charming will soon ride in in his gleaming creaking leathers and sweep me off of my quivering feet.
But I couldn’t resist the sunny warmth of my friend’s offer to play, and the instantaneous relaxing of the bands of anxiety circling my heart when I blurted out that I really can’t do any heavy play and Thendara laughed.
“We’re service tops, sweetie! It’s all good!”
Oh. Right. You WANT me to enjoy myself.
So, right now, I have something better than obsessing and moping, and that is letting myself enjoy the company of friends, knowing that they are looking forward to seeing me, and that it is OK to say “Be gentle, care for me, and hold me after.” and they will do that, with love and affection.
You know you’re in for a witty treat of a writer when there is a line that involves the term “Jacks-off Pollock.” It only gets better from there. Mollena is the Perverted Negress, and her blog is a delightful mix of news, the occasional review of a sex toy/sexuality item, pictures of her lovely self, and thoughts about sex, BDSM, and more. Also on her site are a great blogroll, a biography, an attention whoring alert level key, and a way to contact her. Updated almost daily, this site seems to be filled with much amusement, deep thoughts, wit, and sexy pictures; everything you’d want and expect from a kinky sex blog. – EssinEm
Identities. I do not even feel compelled to list them all lest they take on the glib slickness I am striving to escape even now.
I do not want to be looked at.
I need to be seen.
And using attitude as costuming, my history as the stage, this blog as the lights, and my defenses at the makeup might make for a great show.
hold for applause
But when the paint comes off and the smoke clears out and the house is dark, all I am left with is the ghost light that bear-baits fear.
Fear of being alone. Fear that I have / am forgotten. Fear that I have no fucking idea what the hell I am talking about.
I am single, right? I have had that check mark ticked on my profiles for a while now. No, I do not know what tomorrow holds and, sure! Yeah! The love of my life could even now be 45 hours away from walking into me on the corner of Mission and 3rd. Or it could be I don’t met them until I’m 45.
The point is, I don’t know.
And with that I am, usually, content.
But the body I’m inhabiting at present has its own ideas. It roams hungry. It wants to be touched, fed, opened. It wants all manner of lotions, unguents, tiny curved pieces of silicone to help its failed attempts at vision. Barring that, it insists on a rig of plastic and hinges to sit on its face so that it wont run into shit or fall down. It wants pizza too, but can’t digest it, so then it insists on pills to assist in that process. It wants to be somewhere else. It wants to hide. It needs to be touched. Sometimes very roughly. Sometimes so cruelly that it wonders why it is in this situation again, please..? For a long time it wanted to stop feeling so deeply. It enjoyed, then wanted, then craved, then needed, than was addicted to, alcohol which was for a time, highly effective at suffocating the emotional stomata that choked on bottle after bottle of whiskey.
Then it decided it wanted to live. and a curious thing happened. it stopped wanting destructing, oblivion, a dissolution. It stopped feeling the need to erase.
And today it wants, most of all, to never ever be so adrift that nothingness feels like a viable option ever ever ever again.
And so we have turned from that.
That path is a haze distant illusion that is illusory in its distance because it is the parallel ghost road that isn’t far no not fucking bloody far at all my friend. “You take the high road and I’ll take the low road,” grinds my addiction, slavering and starved with jaws all the more terrifying because they have been denied “…take the high road and I’ll skulk this low road and if you ever ever decide to come back down here we can walk again no problemo no problem I’ll wait if you decide to come on down…”
But I do not.
So much of what I want is shifting in the bumps of this journey. Packing crates of lust desire and perversion collide against delicious sick fucked up reality even more fucked up that fantasy for its meat solidity.
But it fades. All desires. All desires fade. That is what they do. Entropy Sucks.
I look at a former play partner and a tiny shock reverberates and I am confounded because it isn’t longing it isn’t wistfulness it isn’t remorse it is amazement at what WAS. That which has gone on before. Shit I thought I’d always have and always want is now in a new limbo.
I look at a potential play partner and I think “Why?”
Right at this moment the idea of someone hitting me sends my mind calmly to a soft dark place where a stiletto looms before me handle toward my hand cold and ready to sink silently into the throat of anyone fucking dumb enough to touch me. Stepping razor. Don’t you watch my size…I’m dangerous.
But isn’t that what we need? Don’t we need that anymore?
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
And that empty questioning might be all manner of Zen but it is a cold ringing chime that doesn’t really comfort me much.
Not at all, really.
Because In order to see if that is what I need, I need to have before me solid and breathing the person for whom receiving that deeply is natural. effortless. unfettered.
It has been a long time since I have participated in a full-bore ass to the ground mind in the ether scene.
I wonder if “Use it or lose it!” applies here?
I remember my first scenes. And how the pain was such a strange flavour. Garlic ice cream peppery cotton candy chocolate bacon flavours.
Will I ever have cravings for that again?
More interesting is having such a reputation for being possessed of a really high tolerance for pain and extremity of submitting to it, will I just not want that? It is a bit difficult to have a “History” and “Reputation.” It clings to you dispassionately, regardless of how much you have changed, grown, matured or regressed.
Part of me thinks it won’t happen again, I’m too over it to start learning to crave those strange fruits again. I wonder if I could go back and, knowing what I know now, do anything differently. Wishing for the impossible seems futile. But what is it to wish for that “perfect someone” if not the most buoyant and hopeful of futility’s children?
Another part of me is. So. Tired! When I look at yet another e-mail flirtation from someone far too far away, get an inappropriate message or have a chat exchange that quickly devolves into some cybering nightmare. Or some fool who thinks it is a fun game to pretend to be single when they are not, who plays fast and loose with labels and adjectives, all the while hoping you’ll overlook their status and blindly give your body over to their whims sneaks up on me.
Part of my resolve to have my needs met in a partner, to avoid casual play when it leaves me feeling somewhat collapsed afterwards, part of that erodes daily with every wave of loneliness. Every surge of neediness pulls away at that wall of resolve revealing it as the the child’s abandoned sandcastle that it truly is.
Part of me wants to let go of this “hope.” I don’t want to go through this again. The hoping. he excitement. Wondering how I can be pleasing, hoping I am, hoping they love me back.
Hoping I won’t give up.
But there aren’t “Do-overs” and I cannot give up.
I might be just that stupid.
When I was about 3, something on Sesame Street sent me into a hysterical paroxysm of laughter. I was rolling in the floor, kicking my legs in the air, and then blindly jumped up to run to the back of the apartment to tell my Mom what was so funny. My nearsightedness compounded by my laughing sent me headfirst into the cinder block wall. I yelped and fell to the floor, a knot already rising on my head. My Mom came running over, sighed, and went to get a bandanna and a penny, to strap tightly on the bump. In the midst of this very grave operation, I burst out laughing again. My Mom, (I am sure) thinking that this time I had truly lost my mind, asked me what was so funny
“Did you hear the noise I made when I hit my head! It was so silly!” and I laughed even as I winced form the huge-ass bruise on my forehead.
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.
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 ;-)
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