Coconuts Spotted in Cyberland

And so it came to pass after only about ten bazillion years or something that Hot Female Dominant Hot Dominant Utopia got updated.

I shall be in my bunk - with a laptop and a vibrator.

*skips*

(by *skips* I mean, er, *masturbates* really)

Control

It’s late and dark and still. I’m tired. I’m in bed. So is Jack. We were fighting before. The bad kind. But we’re not now. It’s done. Now we’re sleepy.

Jack asks if I want to have sex. I am so tired I can barely move. Before we went to bed – after we had been fighting - I had fallen asleep on the sofa watching The Apprentice. I like The Apprentice. I think we might have had a fight about The Apprentice too. But we’re not fighting now. Sleeping now. Or sleeping soon. Any second…

- No. Let’s have sex in the morning. I’m half drifting then, nearly gone
- You’re right. In the morning.
- Shame though, ’cause we didn’t do it this morning. So if we don’t have sex now we won’t have had sex at all today.

I roll over and touch Jack’s side. Kiss him just above the hip. I think about his cock in my mouth.

- That’s true, he says. But it’s late.

I don’t plan to have sex with Jack. I plan to sleep. I don’t think I’m even capable of sex. But just before I turn away again I put my mouth over his nipple. And I look at him. And he looks at me.

And so I bite him. Just hard enough that he gasps. And then I climb on top of him. Straddle his chest. I just look at him and then he says, Spit on me.
- Beg me. Beg me to do it
- Please. Please spit on me. Degrade me. Make me a thing.

So I do. And then I push my fingers in his mouth. And then I slap his face. And then I have him kiss my open palm and slap him again. And again and again.

And then he says, Shall I get a condom then?

Crying Men

Men crying. It’s a such a secret thing. To see a (stoic, macho, my-kind-of) man cry you often have to be in a pretty intimate space with him and something rather relentlessly unpleasant has to be going on. (So you can kind of join the me-likey dots here.)

These pictures are from a 2005 project by Sam Taylor Wood called Crying Men, but I’d never seen them before. I think they (mostly) fit pretty well with this blog’s remit of finding images of male suffering that are beautiful and emotional and masculine, rather that stupid campy anti-sex panto.

More pictures are here. Also an annoyingly-out-of-print book

I also love Taylor-Wood’s David Sleeping. (Is it still at the National Portrait Gallery? I should go again…)

‘But I Thought “Vernon Kaye” Was My Safe Word’

Saturday morning. Weather like April. ‘Cause it is April. Sunny and rainy.

Never start with weather. Especially when you are writing about sex. Never start with the weather.

Saturday night then. Instead. Jack’s here. I missed him so much and now he’s back I feel a little like I still miss him. Like there’s still a bruise there. Like I can only feel close enough if I crawl inside his skin.

His skin. He is naked. As it happens, I am naked too. But I am in bed under a duvet so thick it is like being drowned in marshmallow. So I am incidentally naked. He is naked by design.

My design. Such that it is.

For example: He stands like I like him to stand. Legs a little apart and his hands clasped behind his head. This is one of my favourite positions. It is so totally macho hokey captured-warrior-prince. I am so simple. So simple that lots later, when I push my now-available-in-the-UK, finally, thanks to innovative importers Magic Wand, between my legs, he begs me not to send him back to mines, or he tells me how much he charges per hour for me to get to do anything I want with him.

But before that - way, way before - I ask Jack to kneel. And he does. And it is wonderful. I pass him my nipple clamps. The mean ones. The only ones. The ones that bite where others pinch.

He says – Do you want me to put these on myself?

And I nod. And he does it. Kissing each one first. I don’t ask for that. He knows it. And he remembers how much I like to see that more often than I do. And he probably hurts himself putting them on more than I ever would. The look in his face. I can see it hurt and I can see the way he means it. That every nerve firing its anger is firing for me.

I have him tell me he likes it, loves it. And I also have him beg me to let him take them off. I give him the words I want: ‘Please can I take them off’

- Please can I take them off.

- No.

And then - out of nowhere, nothing - then I cry. I crash my heart. So sudden. Blue screen of death. No warning. I see myself. And I’m crying. I hate being a sadist. It’s so fucking lame. What kind of stupid fucking loser needs this to believe he loves her. And Jack’s on the bed. And I’m in his arms. And he’s saying: ‘It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s really fine.’ And he still has the clamps on. They still hurt.

But he reaches out and he brings me back. He rescues me.

He kneels again. On the bed this time. I play with the chain between the clamps, pulling it and kissing it. Putting it in his mouth.

And when I suddenly take them off he yells and falls away from me. Not prepared. That’s so hot. But probably not as hot as watching him put them on.

Sometimes all I can feel is how much I want to show him what the things he does do to me. I am always taking his wrist and pushing his fingers between my legs. I always feel like I have to prove it. Like I have to force my unicornself into existence. Wet and soft. Real with it all.

I like to know it’s real. That we aren’t just playing parts. Stuck in kinky ruts. Going though the motions. Getting off on shocking ourselves. The other night someone emailed me on Informed Consent and said ‘If you hate BDSM so much why do you come here?’ I didn’t know what to say. ‘I don’t have a choice.’ No other sex works for me. It doesn’t make me come.

I like to know that underneath it all is something that I am and cannot change. And something he is too.

On Saturday morning Jack fucked me. And I put a hand in his hair at the back of his neck and pulled. He snarled like a Thundercat and moved back against it. Showing his teeth to me and twisting his neck. I liked that. I liked it so much I put both hands in his hair and pulled again. Two hands. Two directions. No easy way to twist with the pull and ease it.

And when I did that Jack had to slip is cock right out of me and breathe a sec or he would have come from my hands in his hair. I love that. That’s the hottest fucking thing. *Fucking* thing. He’s the hottest fucking thing. Filth. Thing for sex. Thing to fuck me.

When we started again - when he asked if he could come – I had my hands on him again. I was slapping his face. Normally he asks when he’s close. He likes me to tell him when. But this time, when he was close enough to come on command (Command! Shit, sorry. I don’t actually do commands.) When he was there, I told him to come when I hit him.

And I slapped his face again. And it made him come.

Sometimes – and Sunday night was one of those times – Jack and I argue about which of us is the most annoying. It is him – he is the one that does stupid voices. But he says it is me because I sometimes flick him.

But I am the *sadistic* *one*. I was the sadistic one when or relationship was based on him reading my blog and me not knowing he existed. I’m the sadist and the boss and the dominant and the top and I can’t flick?

Sometimes – rarely - I cock my hand for flicking (pressing the back of my index finger against the pad of my thumb and letting the whole thing quiver with potential) and let it hover hear his C and B region, threatening CBF. And then I start laughing.

(And, oh, btw, the only thing I have to say – so far after the fact – about the whole Max Mosely deal is this: How the fuck did those women do all nazificated loonery without cracking up laughing? I mean, really?

They were prodoms. At least I think so – or some were. And in any case all kinds of freestyle kinky sex/not-sex providers refer to themselves as ‘dominatrixes’ in their glossy brochures. Well, maybe I have early onset dementia but I don’t really get why any woman who does kneeling or getting hit for pay is also a ‘dominatrix’. That’s weird. Perhaps it is simply that they are so cruel that there is nothing they won’t abuse – even the English language.

But, anyway, yes, the son of Mosely affair has taught me why prodoms are all so tight-ass-fucking-humourless (they are, trust me, I have read their memoir books): they must have to have some kind of medical sense of humour fucking bypass to get through four hours of that ridiculous ‘Allo ‘Allo shit without laughing and pointing and laughing again so hard they get a stitch. )

But yes, annoyance. Annoyance and flicking and me. And the other time I slapped Jack’s face that weekend.

Sunday evening I’m being annoying. Flicking and smacking and saying I want to watch films with Freddie Prince Jnr in them.

Jack doesn’t remember who Freddie Prince Jnr is, so I explain
- He’s not really such a good actor – but he looks nice
- Like Keanu?
- Without the charisma
- What’s the point of that?
- He’s a model. I think.
- Vernon Kaye is a model

I slap Jack’s face. Not hard. Just in an annoying way

- What? Vernon Kaye *is* a model.

I slap again.

- I know. I just thought I would slap you every time you say Vernon Kaye

(See I do protocol.)

- But I thought Vernon Kaye was my safe word.

Thirst

I live in a temperate climate. By the sea, in fact. It rains. It’s windy. It’s April and the weather is cruelest-month-typical, with sun turningabout into rain and squall quicker than my moods.

But some nights in my bed, in my head it’s wetter even than April showers. And wettest of all when my mind of full of dry, dry heat.

Thirst: I like to think about his mouth. Lips glass-shiny. Cracking. Blistered. Tongue thick and slow, moving like velvet. He’s so thirsty – so dry - he can’t speak. No words. The endless pleading mantra ‘Water‘ is just a shape without a sound.

Thirst: When I press some hard plastic vibrating thing between by legs and push close to Jack so my fingers can twist the silver-fox hair on his chest and he tells me a story about pirates and plunder and cruelty on the high seas – he always talks about thirst. He knows to talk about men tied to the mast, taunted as their mouths grow drier and drier. He knows to talk about salt spray and cages dipped into viciously undrinkable water.

Thirst. Salt. Heat. Desert dryness.

Thirst: Men staked out in the sun and left behind to bake as their jubilant captors ride away. Cowboys tied to trees in the heartless heat. I saw this in some TV show once where they could see the river they couldn’t reach even as their faces seemed to crack with sores.

Thirst: All my thoughts of cruel toil, of men digging great dirty holes in chains, involve water being held back until the job is done and dirt and dust and thirst are more of a prison than the clanking, rusting metal bondage.

And you know that bit in Willow where Val Kilmer is shut in that cage at a crossroads begging for water. In the cage, in Willow, Val Kilmer begs for water from anyone. Everyone who passes him has that power. That runs deep for me too. Like bolts on cages instead of locks. I like that anyone could help. That bolts-not -locks thing might be part of his imprisonment in the film too – it certainly is in my head.

God, and I couldn’t tell you a single other thing that happens in Willow.

Thirst: Just a sadists oral fixation taken to extremes. Just another part of the part of me that loves of kissing and dirty talk and gags and drool and piss and vinegar and soap and dog bowls.

Thirst: It’s about frustration. After pain and humiliation, frustration is the middle way – a little from column A, a little from column B. Frustration is where bondage often falls when bondage isn’t about pain or humiliation.

So for all I love hurting and humiliating him with his mouth. I adore frustrating him with his mouth. And I love denial.

Water. Food. Freedom. Light. Air. Heat.

That thwarted desire. That ache. The same ache as when he edges so close he can feel the tip of the orgasm he isn’t going to get.

Or better yet when he’s inside me trying to meet each gutter-stutter moan of mine for it to be harder, faster, harder still and not come. Not come, because today is not the day. Or it is, but not, not yet.

Because his pleasure is the end of pleasure and for all that can be like a curse, sometimes I wish it had been my own idea.

For as often as that scene from Willow plays in my head as wallpaper to my masturbation, a scene of a guy tied to a bed – a half remembered X Tube find – taken to his edge and then no further as he squirmed and wanted and begged…, well, that plays just as often.

X was a smoker. Hooked on his cancer sticks the way he never would be on me. But that was such a perfect tease. Unlike thirst – which scares me and never steps out of my fantasies - there I could deny and deny and never feel like I might be damaging him.

Oh but, maybe, really, that is why thirst is better. The fear. The dark shadow. The valley. Abandonment. The oubliette.

Course frustrated denial is rampant in femdom. Except that usually the thing that Goddess Marvelous (or, as I saw the other day Madame von Bitch – I am not lying, and, oh, but how this stuff is beyond my parodic skills) is denying is herself. You don’t get to touch me. That crap. Like dominant women have evolved beyond that lame human weak spot where being touched is nice. That we are so empowermented now that we cover our weak woman-skin with rubber and climb up safe on a pedestal. Untouchable, unfuckable… what misery – no wonder they never crack a painted smile.

That – The Untouchable Madame von Bitch - is just a lazy version of frustration based on mansub’s dumb misogynistic pro-and-porn fuelled ideas of what dominant women ever are. (Just like forced feminisation is such a lazy version of humiliation based on so much useless double think it falls apart with one little poke)

I like to be touched. I never really deny men water – that’s scary shit. I never really do a lot of the stuff that’s in my head. But I like to think about not him hot and sweaty. Dry mouthed and thirsty. Even as he’s fucking me.

In my head he’s staked to the sandy ground in a cruelly white-hot dazzling desert, sweat in his eyes and cracks in his lips. I climb on top of him and reach for his scrape of a mouth, but all I have for him in my hands is salt.

Oh but and he’s brave. He looks me in the eye, quirky still. And he’s loving and defiant even though I bring him the last thing he wants.

Because, oh and here is my beating broken heart, for all that I want to be liked. For all my needy. For all that there are parts of me that need my jokes laughed at and my ego stroked and my ideas praised and my sins absolved and hair petted and clit enervated and my love reflected back a hundred fold…

I will always want to be the very last thing he wants in the world.

And want him to love me for it. (For the ingenuity if nothing else.)

Red Walls

What gets me, what makes me cringe when I have to tell people who and what I am (which I don’t do often, but maybe a little more often than you might think) is the fact that I know that as soon as they hear I have a small predilection for tied-up smacky-smack excitement in the bedroom, their brrrrains will forever associate the me and the sex with the dumb and the cliché.

For example if I see one more fucking ‘dungeon’ (call it what it is – it’s a back bedroom) with the walls painted red I will cry tears of my own blood. No one has painted their walls red willingly since Changing Rooms last aired. It is not nice. And in a ‘dungeon’ ‘back bedroom’ it just looks like you have no imagination. Or eyeballs. Or wider-world type view on your sense of pompous propostery.

(Shut *up*. I so do.)

The last red painted walls I saw were on the website of a prodom who offered something called bi-Wednesdays – special sessions for bisexual and bi-curious submissive men. Is there anyone else in the world who was as amused as me by the fact that bi-Wednesdays were advertised as happening *every* Wednesday?

Also - and talking of the dumb and the cliche- ooh look. Does this mean there is another fun, fun, FUN documentary about a prodom coming out? Actually she might not be a pro, but she does refer to clients and let’s face it she probably is. I’ve already ticked the box marked asshat, certainly.

So handcuffs up who’s excited? She’s articulate, isn’t she? And her views on being spoilt - so refreshing.

My Favourite Comic Book Cover

Dreaming’s All I Do

Lately, in my head, has been a man. And he is quite insistent. Not going anywhere. His hands are tied behind his back.

Tied with rope. That’s odd for me. Not handcuffs. Not duct tape. Rope. Rough, tight rope. Tight and firm enough to make his muscles bulge as he tests its strength.

I have to imagine all this you understand. Finding any kind of representation of what is in my head outside of the barrier of my skull just isn’t happening.

This is partly ’cause I am very specific and partly ’cause I am continually and, yes, still, frustrated by the persistent idea that tied up women are some kind of default in kink. That if an image is of someone tied up it is always – always! - of a woman. Like here, here and here.

A lot of times you see the idea that women tied up somehow ‘works’ better. Like women are more flexible, more aesthetic, more sexily helpless. Such bollocks. Men faced with a clumsy doof like me need any number of layers of bondage to make them helpless. And bondage enhances the male physique so much better than the female. Hands tied behind the back makes arm muscles flex. (Remember the bicep? The man muscle. The let me see how big your muscles are so I can assess how long you can fuck hard for muscle).

Hands tied behind back also enhances that beautiful triangle. It pushes the chest out and makes the shoulders wider. (Not that you’d ever know this unless you get a man an tie him up yourself. Or look at gay porn or prodom sites until you cry about how excluded you are from your own sexuality)

I propose that for one week only - how about the first week of May? - every picture posted on the internet of a person tied up should be of a man tied up. Right there in the mainstream. Not only in the gay and for-pay ghettos. Let’s do that. See if the fucking world explodes, eh?

Fucking, *fucking* kink. Thinks it’s so fucking liberal and is so fucking obviously only about the pleasures of men. (and sometimes the pleasures of queer women, but really, that’s just a titillating side order to the pleasures of men. (And don’t think I don’t know that most submissive men are so self-hating/gender confused they would rather look at pictures of tied up women too.))

And I, meanwhile, get nothing. Nothing ‘cept the pictures in my head. It’s nicer there.

His hands are tied behind his back. And he’s gagged. Gagged in a lazy brutish way with a wadded strip of white material. (Gags aren’t really about preventing speech so much as humiliation. That’s all they’re really for. Putting something into someone’s mouth they can’t get out. That’s just a little power kick. And, anyway, I like talk.)

His gag could be a large handkerchief, tea towel or – in a different fantasy – his own tie, but here it’s a strip torn from his shirt. And he’s still wearing the shirt. Mostly. It’s unbuttoned and fallen half way down his upper arms. And it’s destroyed. Not just the strip ripped off for the gag but also the back of it is shredded. Cut to ribbons.

He has facial bruising, a cut lip, a black eye. He’s being supported by two more men, because he can hardly stand. He’s looking at me, eyes flashing evils.

And I haven’t laid a finger on him. But he knows who I am, what I am, I’m the person who could make it stop…

And I’m lazy. I’m like Pilate. I’m shaking my fucking head, baby.

Public Relationships

Today Jack gets back.

Although I won’t see him until the weekend, I would like to know his plans. When his feet touch shore. And I can’t help feeling that I ought to know. That, as his girlfriend, I ought to be more connected.

For all that I am so controlling in certain specific instances; for all that I am a control freak in general - I feel like I am not so much in control now.

It’s hard with Jack, a lot of the time, to feel like we are really girlfriend and boyfriend. Like we are proper.

I am polyamorous. He is too. Although in some ways our relationship is more like an open one. He is not in love with anyone else as far as I know. But he sees other woman and they, unlike me, live in the same city as him. I get jealous of them sometimes. Mostly of their proximity. And the easy lightness of those relationships. The spontaneous dates. The weeknights. The flexibility.

For various and differing reasons we have not met each other’s families (after 8 months). I have only met few of his friends and I when I do I don’t feel like his friends know who I am to him.

Sometimes - worsetimes - I feel less like a girlfriend and more like some kind of weird perversion that he travels to at the weekend (even if he does it every weekend). I feel more like a fuck buddy than a partner. Even with the love. Because, oh, I love him, and I know he loves me. But I often feel like the him I love is so little of him. That he has such a life of work and friends and women that I am so far away from.

Most of the relationships I have had with power exchanges like the one me and Jack have, have been more casual. But the truth is that has always been the decision of the man involved. I would always prefer validation and commitment. I am sucky at casual sex. Because the only kind of sex that works for me is something that pummels my emotions so hard I know I can’t do it on a revolving door basis. (Some people can. I don’t think that’s wrong. Most people do not have their emotional firewall missing like I do – that or they are better fakers.)

Usually the guy doesn’t want me anywhere near his life. Usually he is closeted about what we do. Sometimes he is ashamed. And sometimes he is ashamed of me.

Jack isn’t. I know he isn’t. But my history is dynamite – cartoony and volatile and liable to blow things out of all proportion.

The Missing

I lie in bed. Replaying things we’ve done in my head. What he wore. What he said. Him.

I have this metal bar. It has holes for ankles at each end and holes for wrists nearer the middle. The whole thing opens right up on a hinge and fixes closed with a nut and bolt. It’s heavy and brutish and clumsy. It’s the sexiest thing I own.

I use it to fix Jack’s ankles. I use rigid handcuffs to hold his wrist in front of his body. I put a collar round his neck. I use rope to string all this together so he’s held tight and still: his ankles to his wrists to the D ring at his neck.

When I take his gag off, he gasps and chokes a moment. He doesn’t notice what I’m doing. And then he does. He turns his head and sees I am holding a bar of soap on my hand. And his face, in his face, I see every part of how much he doesn’t want to have to hold that soap in his mouth. I see his reaction and I know how he feels.

He wails as it goes in. Like he wants to be anywhere but here. And I’m wet. Then – when I did it. Last night – when I masturbated over it. Now – as I write this.

I move close enough to whisper in his ear. ‘I love you.’

Sometimes I like him to say he loves me. I make him look me in the eye and say it when I hurt him. I also tell him to say ‘I like this‘ and ‘I love this‘. And I ask him to say it again and again. In time with the belt or as the weights go on the clamps.

- I love this. I love this.
- I. Love. This.

And his voice falters and cracks. He can’t help sneering. He slows his words and puts heavy emphasis on each one so I can hear what he really feels running like a baseline underneath it.

- I hate this.

But there are more layers than that because when I ask him why. *Why* he likes it. *Why* he loves it.

- Because it’s degrading. Dehumanising.’
- And you like that?
- Yes. I like it. I like to be degraded.

And every word of that is true.

And in bed, in the dark, I remember that and my fingers slip-slide on how wet I am. And I come and come. And I say his name. And I hear his voice. ‘I like to be degraded.’

It’s his face I miss the most.

It’s the looks on his face.

I told Jack this once. It’s the look on his face when he’s in pain. When he’s dealing with pain. It’s the look on his face when he’s being brave. When he’s trying to find a place to put the pain so he can take a little more for me.

That’s when I love him most.

That’s what I miss. The way his nostrils flare when he does than hard inhale because it hurts. It hurts.

When I told him, back before he left, how much I saw in his face, he said, ‘God, at last my over reactions serve some purpose.’

I love you. I miss you so much. (And not just your cock I swear.)