Who’s A Pretty Boy* Then?

Hey, so, I have a question. And this is what it is:

How come submissive men aren’t the best looking bunch of fucking men in the fucking universe?

And I don’t just mean how come this isn’t true for my pathetic cheap frills in my otherwise pretty pointless window of wakey-wakey-consciousness.

And look, what I am talking about here is not submissive men being pulled from an above-average gene pool – I am talking about them taking care of themselves for the hottery. What I mean is why don’t submissive men dedicate themselves to looking hot? Like, a lot. What could be more submissive than that?

(And, don’t tell, but if you are really into humiliating feminisation, the tyranny of looking sexiliciously buffgasmic 24/7 is far more like what the submissive state of womenhood actually is than walking around knock-kneed in shoes you got off the internet, you woman-hating fucking twatburger.)

Look, just look! How come Club Pedestal or even one of those god-frighteningly awful looking footnight things (hmm, is femdom built on a fear and hatred of women, well I wonder… click for answers) aren’t full of the buffest most worked-on men available anywhere. How come the men on Men in Pain aren’t all modelicious lickables?

How come women aren’t queueing up for dominatrixing lessons? (Well they kind of are, vaguely, in palaces to offensively narrow definitions of female sexuality like Coco de Mer, to get their gas bill paid or project some kind of exotic sexuality on to their weary clit-worn selves.) But how come women aren’t all over this sexuality because the men are so fucorsomely hot, because their actual fucking kink – the thing that makes them hard and makes them wet – is to pay attention to what women want and deliver it to the best of their sweaty head-shaven muscle-toned genetic ability?

Wouldn’t that make the most sense? Every submissive man a strawberries and creamy dreamboat? More sense than the current eye-bleed inducing situation, no?

Hey you guys, female pleasure is your supposed thing, right? You’re all about it. All you want, you tell me, is to be a plaything for a superior mistress, a creature of delight for a harsh hatchett-faced horridious harridan. To put all your own wants and needs aside and exist purely for her pleasure.

Alrighty then.

So then how come so often you will see words like this – expressed, here, on the internet but that is not the only spot – in a written profile consisting of one sentence to that effect (why write more, when all you exist for is her pleasure, what else matters, right? You’re just fodder for her lust-canon; she ain’t going to want to be weighed down by the specifics of boring old you – little details like height and favourite colour and perso-fucking-nality), but, yuh, in this passionate urge to express nothing at all one thing will be expressed All I want is to please and serve and suffer and what the fuck ever and then, if there is a pic (mostly there isn’t a pic, but…) the pic will be, like, oh god here is me in a cheap pointless wig and a cheap pointy rubber bra – what a dumb slut, I am?

Er, whut? In what universe to these two things match? I just want to do whatever you want. I have preempted your desires by doing something to myself that no fucker in the known universe would ever require done. Seriously, you imagined that the first conversation with the woman of your dreams would go like this.

You: So I just want to do what ever you want and be your slave
Princess Amazing: Oh great, so could you dress up in ill-fitting man-made-fibred lingerie and stick a carrot up your arse
You: Baby, I am already two steps ahead! (Shows photograph)
Princess Amazing: Actually I was joking. And I am now crying so hard I can’t actually see the photo – so at least there is some benevolence in this cruelty zoo that is my sexuality. (Possibly you did not imagine this last bit – but there is no other possible ending.)

I present for your consideration, femdom, my hapless traveling companions: How did it all go so wrong?

But, look, right, let’s workshop. And by workshop I mean I’ll keep hitting these keys until feel less-sectionablely-hysterical and then we can all get on with our lives. What the fuck is an out of shape submissive man all about? How does that even make sense? If you really truly are all and only about my pleasure, how come you’re not all working out round the clock and living on egg whites just to see me smile?

How come you’re not all (or an above national average proportion of you) totally buff and groomed and lust scented like gay men?

How come submissive men aren’t all about well cut jeans and tight t shirts over their lickable torsos and expensively cut knicker-dampening suits and butchy boots and dirty looks. Yeah, not all women like the same thing, but their are vague ideas, there are archetypes women find hot and until you can buy a Hot Sissy Maid 2010 calendar in my supermarket I’m betting the look most submissive men are going for isn’t one of them.

I mean, why? Why are you doing something that no women want or like? Isn’t that, like, the opposite of your entire thing?

I mean sure, *you* might like the feel of silky fabrics on your skin or the restrictiveness of high heels or, god, those hideous zentai things – but this isn’t about you. How you feel, well that’s for you. How you look is for me. Oh and you might like filling your skin with curry and beer but don’t you get off on denying yourself just to please some goddess or other?

Well look, I’m not a goddess, but I have a vagina and that’s the same difference with you lot, isn’t it? If you want to please me, please my eyeballs.

If you’re a female supremacist – well one, you’re a fucking arsehole because deifying a culturally disempowered group is just as damaging as demonising them – but, hey, I’m not going to change your mind, because you are an idiot. But look, if you really do think you are inferior to all women, if you really do think that it is your role to enhance the lives of all women everywhere, why not take a tip from me. Here’s a way you can do that without having to dial down the ultra creepiness ten thousand notches so a woman who isn’t charging fee for being in the same room as you can speak to you without vomiting her own human dignity out of her eyeballs. Look hot. Work out and eat right and get an expensive haircut.

It. Is. So. Obvious.

Course I suppose it might be that the reason submissive men are not all toned, honed wonderlust-objects is because their sexuality is not really about satisfying female desire – whatever rocky course it sets them on – but about fulfilling some arbitrary crass and oh-so-often offensive set of dumb desires of their own. But that can’t be true, can it?

Look, I know you’re going to accuse me of all sorts. Of being shallow. Of buying into lamecore body-fascistic ideas. And I’d answer those points myself but I pretty much agree with (and was, in all honesty, partly inspired by) this essay on 1585 dot com. It’s not about kink, but the point he’s making applies so strongly to submissive men. And the overall point about how men feel they can’t be hot because it doesn’t work with some other image they have going, applies to submissive men as much as anyone. I can’t be buff ‘cause I’m a gimpyboy and who’d ever heard of a buff gimpyboy? Hey, honey, start a trend – and I’ll start saving up for a dungeon.

(Sort of disclaimer or warning or endorsement: I’ve been a fan of 1585 for a couple of years. I think they are genuinely very sharp and clever and do good atheism, which makes me wet and happy, but I’ve held off properly linking to them before because they seem so hung up on those ideas about female sexuality being all about being desired and male sexuality being not that. And those ideas piss me off mightily. And they have a bit of lame feminism-panic going on, which is a worry. Also they seem to think pics of the hot female author are far more important than pics of the hot male author. Clue: not they are not. And, for serious, couldn’t you just write a gender studies essay on the pics on the home page he = sexy in a private space, she = sexy in a pubic space. Oh, yes and WTF? Fugly shoes? Fugly shoes as tessellated wallpaper? Serious? Are you trying to turn me Christian? Because if it’s believing in supernatural oppressive dipshittery or looking at that graphic I’m kind of torn…

But if I haven’t completely put you off…, yeah this essay swung it. It was close (because OMG those shoes) but when I saw the illustration explaining that men should just make themselves into a cross between Wolverine and Shakespeare (just do this, dumbass), forget it. My link was so linking. And really, if you have ever read this blog thinking, OMMFG, how can I get Bitchy Jones to have sex with me, there is your answer right there. I would sell my house and charter a plane, motherfucker.)

*I’m kind of vaguely unhappy about using the word ‘boy’ when talking about submissive men. Just mainly ’cause my pref is all butchy and shit. And, hell, I am much more unhappy about the use of the word ‘girl’ to mean an adult woman. But I’m not going into that now because, really, if you don’t get that you’re just an idiot.

Good Arguments

Recently I received some plaintive emails from some hapless lover of sane argument and sane sanity, saying, Bitchy Jones, please come and be on Fetlife and be interesting and engaging on Fetlife.

I said no. I’m mean. But also, Fetlife is horrible.

I do sometimes type my name into the search on Informed Consent. IC is like Fetlife except it does not have white text on a black background and so is infinitely superior. (Seriously how long have we had computers with monitors for? Why is it still even possible to make websites with white text on a black background?)

But yeah, anyway, I do that and I am glad I do because then I find stuff like this

I click-stumbled over a thread about forced fem (quick, moar pink nylon on the men, I heard a woman somewhere in the world might be finding this hot), where some sanes were good enough to cite me as the only fucker who talks any sense on this subject ever. Now, I’m often coming across what I proclaim out loud (to no one but the whirring of my laptop’s fan) as the best defence of forced fem in the world ever. But surely, surely, this has to be the best defence of forced fem in the world ever. I take it all back. For serious, colour me told: a man dressing up as a woman for the purposes of degredation is not misogynistic because:

(Seriously, pause, make a drum roll sound or something, gird things, brace self)

It’s nothing to do with females being held in lower esteem than men. Really if that were the case they would not be approaching what they mistakenly believed to be a female dominant.

It sort of reminds me of a previous post about cuckolding because a guy found it a turn on for his wife to be fucked by a black guy. Many jumped the gun with the race card and how it was degrading for him to see his wife fucked by a black guy. When infact it’s actually the stereotype of a physically superior male the guy was getting off on.

Oh, well if it was *that* racial stereotype that’s, of course, fine. That’s the good kind of racism. I expect all those foolish gun jumpers who called this person as if they were exhibiting *bad* racism feel like idiots now.

Good racism. That’s what we need more of. I bet the people who try and defend forced fem as not misogynistic but being about ‘being less of a man and having my masculinity taken away and being a slut and being ridiculous and, and, and OH FUCKING SHUT UP BITCHY JONES, JUST SHUT UP, are delighted to have this argument to add to there arsenal of utterly thoroughly convincingly utterly throughly extremely good pro-forced fem good arguments.

(The best of these is probably ‘Women wear trousers!’ Because when you’re trying to deconstruct and evaluate what the position in femdom of forced feminisation as a way of diminishing men and what kind of ideas about men and women it reflects and endorses there really is nothing like an irrelevant non-sequitur to stop you in your misguided tracks.)

I have no idea what the person who posted this is really trying to say in the first paragraph before the weird stuff about race. But, whatever it is I’m sure I have it all wrong. So, it’s pure guesswork but I think he means that forced fem isn’t misogynistic because it is based on thinking women are inferior *but* *also* superior, which is just great. It would probably just be spoiling things if I said I’d like my kink to think of women as human beings rather than whatever fits the fantasy from a grab bag of stereotypes of goddesses and sluts, but hey.

Anyway, that’s the kind of slippery slope that might lead to me wanting control over my own reproductive system and the vote or some other krazy dreamtime.

And – cuh – chanow, any prejudices and horribles you see in kink are just fine and okay, no really, because they turn people on, which means there’s no possible political or sociological agenda to them. And if you’re offended by the casual denigration of black people or women by a bunch of straight white men, just shut the fuck right up, okay, because these straight white men are actually perverts and therefore horribly oppressed in ways you couldn’t possibly begin to imagine. And stereotyping black men as ‘physically superior’ fuck machines and animalistic, white-woman-raping mandingoes is, in fact, the opposite of racism. The opposite of bad racism that is.

If only there were more of this big black cock for my slut wife style cuckolding (like there’s any other style? Like that could be called a ‘style’?) going on I expect the world would finally be in peace and harmony; probably just like fucking piano keys do or something else black and white. Say, penguins. At the very least we’ll all be too busy to be hating each other what with the white women getting fucked by the black men and the white men looking on and wanking.

(Obviously, we can ignore black women. It’s fine, there’s a social precedent for just carrying on as if women of colour don’t exist anyway. They’ll be alright, having a great time getting physically superior fucking off of black men, I expect. Well, until those black men realise they could be doing it with white women! But that’s just the tough breaks, I guess. (Someone call Kanye West! I’ve figured out an ending for that song.))

Oh world of perverted sex, this is why you still need me. Even after all these years. And I am as sad for you as anyone that you need a whiny, ugly, woollily liberal, bad-hearted, profanity-ridden anti-capitalist dominatrix to save you.
But someone has to collect these things and half-arsedly post them on a free blogging platform and ridicule them in front of a handful of lazy, uninterested bored office workers who’ve mistyped something into google. And if not me, then who, baby? Then who?

Surrender Dorothy
Forced Feminisation in Black and White
The Last Cuckoo 

Never Confused

I don’t like to seem ungrateful. No, no, I really don’t. And of course I love to be included in lists. Especially list of top 100 things. 

But I really cannot understand why I am officially one of the top 100 LGBT blogs. 

I mean, I can understand how maybe, maybe, the fact that I have some kind of ALT sexuality makes me sort of queer. (Although probably a lot less queer than it might appear.) But that list’s acronym has no Q! It is L G B T. Which of those letters apply to me?

I love cock – but I don’t have one. I love my cunt – but no one else’s.

This still hasn’t dropped off the front page FFS

Plus the fact that most dominatrix bloggers actually make some big point of their biseckshooality. And I’m the only one that don’t. And I understand that if you wanted to include a woman who gets off on manpain in your list you’d want me because of the whole asshat situation, but I am, I am sure, the least LGBT one. (Which is a fact not a boast – I’m not trying to dazzle you with my hetness. Someone has to be the least gay one, and that somebody is me.)

I’m not complaining. I’m just confused. And I don’t normally get confused about sexuality.

Touch Wood

Oh Torchwood, I wish I could like you. I’m a huge Doctor Who fan (no, what? Does that make me sound like a geek? What, like there is some kind of huge geek/pervery cross over. For sereally? How come no one mentions it? (And talking of which, happy solstice, hippy types))

Also, I may have mentioned this before (you know how sometimes you lose track of what you’ve said to who) but I loved Doctor Who from a tiny age because of a scene where Peter Davidson was going to be executed. Beheaded. All kneeling and stuff. Woah and God, I do like kneeling. Real low. Forehead on the floor. Love, but… It frightens me, you know. That. How hard that fucking hits me. How deep it goes. Hate it, almost. Do not want. I push it away. Only glimpse out of the corner of my eye. It’s like the sun. It is for me. It’s too much and it overwhelms me and crushes me to bits and dust. My desires for strength and power don’t make me strong and powerful. They make me needy; make me weak. Wanting is weakness. Desire is misery. And I am nothing but a mess of desire that does not work because getting what I want destroys it.

When he kneels all I want is to be beneath him.

When he kneels, he’s my god, then.

(And this, you know, rarely flies with that average submissive man as a way to run happy times. And we haven’t even got to the fact I don’t do heels.)

Yeah, but I was writing about Torchwood. (See how I digressed off my digression into the thing this blog is mean to be about. ‘Mazin’ mind fuck.)

Yes, but really, Torchwood. Oh, if only I could like you. (Not just Doctor Who love really, also the whole British genre TV made for adults thing. Love that. So want it to be good.) Unfortunately the makers of Torchwood seem to have adopted a policy of never casting anyone with any acting ability or physical attractiveness of any kind. Which would be, you know fine, unless they were making a television program.

Oh, oopsiefuck!

Fuckers! I mean come on. It’s called television for a reason. And ‘tele’ I believe comes from the Greek for pretty looking people right in my field of

John Barrowman, for example, is apparently supposed to be some kind of version of attractiveness. But I think something must’ve gone horribly wrong because, even allowing for variations in human response, John Barrowman is about as sexually exciting as having nitric acid pipetted onto my clitoris. (And, god, you know, with my audience it is too fucking hard to find a neat metaphor to describe something sexually horrible. They’ll always be one. Or, well, with my blog a small faction. But I know you get what I mean so shut up.)

I don’t know how else to understand John Barrowman other than to assume he has some kind of super human cock sucking ability. I know that might sound like some kind of vague grazing homophobia, but it really isn’t. I just do wholly genuinely think there is no other explanation for his getting any work ever.

But the terminal unattractiveness (and intense unconvincingness – which is probably really the main problem) of John Barrowman is such a shame because he does get sort of chain up and tortured quite a lot. And normally, you know, I kind of fucking go for that.

But, just the once, I did kind of mildly enjoy this bit. (Bit, btw, is about a min and a half in.)

I seem to have lost my ability to embed things. But I’d feel dirty embedding some Torchwood anyway.

It’s probably the sideburns. Sideburns are my wolf in the woods. Nothing has made me stray off that path to grandma’s house as regularly and destructively as the right kind of facial hair. Although I never thought they were so powerful they would make me thrill to Barrowman. Even with electro torture. God.

I blame the 1970s.

Having said all this, how hot would that Edwardian-electrics thing be if Harkness was played by, well, by absolutely anyone else you can think of.

(I don’t moderate comments on this blog – mainly as a sort of high wire act – but I will delete you if you say you actually find a barefaced John Barrowman either attractive or convincing. I can do without your sort.)

Food related things in life I do not understand

Now, I know what you’re thinking: It’s just filler. Just bloody filler while I try and remember how to write a sex blog. And, you know, you’d be oh so wrong, because it actually mildly diverting, in fact, so screw you all to the nearest scratchy wall with jaggedy bits sticking out with a big fuck off power drill.

And that has, I believe, shown you. You’ll all be shutting up in my imagination now I’m sure. 

But forget that. Go: content!

Invite me to a dinner party (no, really, go on, I’m quite well behaved in person) and ask me if there’s anything I don’t eat and I will chippily reply that I like everything except pasta, prawns and unnecessary human suffering. And hur hur, you lose imaginary dinner party host because one of those isn’t even true.

But anyway and whatever the fuck and stuff, that was kind of the inspiration for this list. That and my lack of any inspiration for anything else and the fact this blog’s hymen had grown back. And because a list of two things isn’t really a list so much as a thing and an after thought – I trumped up a few more. Out of sheer love. Because I do love you. Every one of you. As soon as society crumbles to the level where marriage is so demeaned as to allow bloggers to marry all their readers I am so there with the fucking filth encrusted lot of you.

Pasta
Everyone in the world likes pasta apart from me. Bitchy, they say, with confused expressions on their bewilder-gogged faces, how can you not like pasta? 

I do not say, as I maybe should, by just not liking it obviously. Is what not liking is. I try harder. I say, I do not like the taste. They say, but pasta does to taste of anything. I say, exactly. That is the taste I do not like.

What is point of pasta? Instead of eating pasta why not eat the exact same meal without the pasta. There is no difference.

Tea in Starbucks
Starbucks and all other coffee places sell tea. They make the tea using that machine that they use to make coffee, which I am sure has some kind of a name, but I am equally sure I do not know what the fuck that name is. This machine does not dispense boiling water. This, I believe, would not make good coffee. (Did you see there how my crazy writins skills made it almost sound like I knew waht I was talking about there. No idea really – just vamping.)

But to make tea you need boiling water. (Or, technically I think just below boiling but surely it actually has to be just below boiling or would not be liquid water and no one wants tea in gas form, not unless it was either that or chai latte).

So, anyway, the tea in coffee shops is horrible. If you want tea you have to make it at home. Well, if you are British and therefore own a kettle. If you do not have a kettle you should not make tea. Trust me, if you really wanted tea you would own an electric kettle. Of this I am certain. Americans: that thing you make by warming water in the microwave, I have no idea what that is, but it isn’t tea.

Fizziness
No one will ever convince me that the adding of fizziness to any drink does anything except make it more unpleasant. I spent a lot of my teenage years with my first boyfriend smashing the bubbliciousness out of big bottles of cider, because that was the cheapest alcohol we could get and we both hated and were confused by fizziness. In truth that may have been all we had in common, but it got us through a good few years when we were so young that something like that was enough.

Brie
Actually it’s not that I don’t like brie, I just don’t understand why more people don’t ever mention how much it tastes like semen. It’s a very specific taste, and only found in these two places. And why, really, should this be? There should be science. Someone give me a research grant. Or really just some goggles and access to a bunsen burner and a naked man and a cheese board!

God, I would probably sacrifice a goat or something to make that last sentence come true. Just typing it has given me a happy.

Prawns
Okay, now, they look like aborted fetuses. I’m pro choice, but I don’t want to go that far. Any food where you cannot decide if its raw state (grey) or its cooked state (pink – and seriously WTF is going on there?) is the most disgusting looking is a food worth avoiding. I know you can get those big ones with claws and eyes and tentacles left on. I don’t know if they are shrimps or king prawns or crayfish or what the fuck ever, because I tend to avoid the whole grey-to-pink abortion issue, but, those, are actually, slightly better. Because they look more like dinosaur abortions than human ones.

I have no idea why that makes something slightly more acceptable as a food, but it does. And don’t mention eggs here. I don’t eat fertilised eggs, do I? Any kind of ‘roe’ is also a fucking bleegasm, but I’ve done five so I’m gone.

You are welcome to tell me your own lame food unlikes, but I probably won’t care very much. (I only care about the foods you hate when you’re tied up and your mouth is held open and then, really, well, who says it has to be food?)

*

Also there is this thing where I am sort of doing a Twitter thing. Mainly in a vain sort of hey, no, actually, I’m still alive, sort of way. (Which is kind of what Twitter is, all told, but hey, ’cause so are lots of things.) Anyway, obviously, as it is me, don’t get your hopes up. Ever. About anything. But, cuh, maybe I’ll make it into something scintillatingly good. (If that does happen please investigate in case some kind of Stepford blogger type scenario has taken place. K, thx.)

*

I am writing the novel (vaguely based on the blog). I have nothing to tell you about it yet except that I am enjoying writing it so very much. Catharsis, I has it. Oh fuck yes.

All There Is

On damnit you know this* picture over on Male Submission Art is so fucking nice. I could stare at it my whole life and then start wishing for reincarnation. (I’ll be fine. I have good karma right? What? That? That’s just some strap thing. It doesn’t hurt. Anyway I bought it off eBay so it can’t really be a sex toy. What? I’m coming back as a horse’s arse. Fuck! I hate you Buddha.)

But that thing in that pic? I could do with some of that right now. You know, that thing. I’m itchy because it has been months now since I was mean to some guy while his cock was in me. But guess what, you poor misguided fans of me, that is how it is going to stay. Even though it makes me cry bereft tears of spoilt baby rage to write it, my forced hiatus from all that fun stuff has transformed into a self selected hiatus. 

(Though only after five long months of crying and whining and making a high pitched keening noise and contact details deleting and facebook unfriending and at one point I may have even watched Mamma Mia (so never say I don’t follow that dumb-assed white rabbit of my fucking emotions down any stinking rabbit hole it drags me for no good reason except to ensure I’ve felt every bit of it. In fact a friend of mine recently said I might be a super taster, but the truth is I think every part of me is calibrated wrong. Anyway, forget the Mamma Mia thing – I’m sure it was mostly incidental.))

Yes. I am saving up my temporal pennies in a bank marked: write your fucking novel, Bitchy Jones, if you think you are good at doing dumb fucking writings. I am really. I am writing a novel based on the stuff in this blog, but fiction so I can make up dweeby characters based on people I hate and then have them fall over. 

And I need the incentive of that right now (the falling over) because it is so hot where I live I feel like I am dating Vulcan (not *a* Vulcan – not that that would be bad, but it wouldn’t make sense here. Anyways they need to rebuild their race, they’re not going to be crossbreeding right now). Also, dating Vulcan, god, I wish! But look, forget that, it’s boiling hot outside and dubious looking men in skazzy gold chains are walking around with their tops off showing their prison tattoos and I am shutting myself away writing. So pity me.

I know, what is wrong with me? Could it be that for once in my life I have made a sensible decision re:life priorities. Maybe I’ve looked at too many hypnodomme free samples and gotten inadvertantly mind wiped.

Anyway, yes, so this is mainly an announcement in case you were frantically reloading this page waiting for the day I started updating with some sexomatic-antic with some kind of Jack-mark-two character (but slightly younger and sexier. And a brunette. With big thighs.) Well, that is not going to happen. No more perversion for me until 2010. Not even looking.

I will still be blogging though, no way I am neglecting this thing. I may well go back to my old much-loathed style of pissing all over other people’s kinks for my own dubious merriment. Yay! So expect, well, that, and some updates about my hard-worky writing life until I run out of uncreative swear words. (Oh, that’s weeks yet.)

*Okay so that pic I mean is at the top of the blog right now. But that’s not a perma-link because I am some kind of motherfucking brainache that cannot work tumblr. I am just hoping May will help me out with a proper link before anyone notices that I am some kind of hillbilly that has never seen the internet before and adjacently completely made of lose.

New BitchCraft (and side rant)

Right here

And while it makes this post look like a pretty little link farm, here I am in the Guardian. Oh, wait, there’s been some kind of mistake. It is not me, but a prodom in the media saying that women dominating men is not a sexual thing and if it *is* for sex and stuff that would be wrong, or, to use her (or that articles, not sure) word choices ‘non-traditional’. And that’s a shame, because I love traditions. Like Easter and pirates and capital punishment. 

(Are those things traditions? I started the list before I realised I had no idea. No wonder I’m a useless fucking dom. Also, when I say I love capital punishments, I don’t mean, well, you know, not in a tory back-bencher kind of way.)

Anyway, blah, blah, proper femdomming involves no female nudity (no pull back and reveal of the weak, wet cunt) – it’s just about men doing housework (which I have written about before). Anyway, yuh, I do apologise for taking the piss out of prodoms for dressing like the most unimaginative clod of a rugby player dressed as a fucking funny hooker for a stag night, or the fact they talk like sex is some kind of disease that infects weaker people, but, look, I don’t just make it up. I’m just not smart enough for that kind of creativity.

The Angelina Factor

Once, I was at a party. It was a small party. A little group of friends. Nothing odd or kinky about it. It was not, let’s be clear, a femdom tea party. (I don’t go to those. Not that I get invited. Not that I’d go if I did – I’m allergic to other dominant women – it’s a sad, sad thing. No, really, submissive men complain about the deathly dearth of non-insane dominant women, but that sad fact is just as brow-furrowing for me. ‘Cause it’s lonely at the top and ten times more lonely for the fact that everyone else up here is a crazy, sex-phobic, materialist, asshatter-o-bot.)

But, so, yes, normal party. Little gathering of people. A cluster around a table. Drink flows. Conversation, uh, also flows.

So, you get it, right, everything that ought to be flowing, is.

The talk is, as it often is, of popular culture. Celebrities we’d like to fuck. We, are seven or eight of us at a table, urbanites, almost exclusively thirtysomething, artsy professionals – basically, if you handed any of us a latte we would drink it – and then one woman, a good friend, says, yeah, but we’d all fuck Angeline Jolie, right?

Next to me, Pan tenses and turns. Amber alert. An eye roll as micro-expression. Now Pan – Pan is drop dead smart. Smart like a superpower. Sometimes I think Pan is like Doctor Who or Dungeon Master (not in *that* way). Or a giant chess-playing computer. It’s like he has always worked out every possible next move and evaluated them all against a probability algorithm. Pan is so stupid smart, it’s only a matter of time before the military take possession of him.

But in this case, Pan has no need of smart smarts to flash me an easy tiger. This one is as predictable as lung cancer in the Malboro Man.

‘Cause I’m cross about the Angelina factor, oh yeah, I’m seething and I would say something. But my little bleat of, I wouldn’t, ‘cause of my straight, gets lost, lost like my lost love Sayid, under a quick-smart barrage of everyone else in the gorram fucking world saying that, yes, they would, but of course, and how damn true. So I never get make my point that if they’re all queueing up for Jolie jollies does that mean Brad Pitt is at a loose end, cause that’s the end I’d rather be at, frankly, even if he hasn’t be really properly, actually hot since Twelve Monkeys Thelma and Louise. No chance. Nah, hush up Bitchy, everyone, yes everyone, would fuck Angelina Jolie. Some cultural memes are just bigger than any one person’s personal sexual preferences.

And you know what, this happened over a year ago. And I have been brooding about this event twelve long seethe-heavy months. Because, although it could have been the case that all the other women present were into women – not actually that unlikely in that particular gathering. Like I said before, young urban, urbane, liberated trendoid women have a practical obligation to recreational lesbianism. Anything else would be bad!feminism. ‘Cause not sleeping with women = hating women. That’s why. That’s why gay men are all such misogynists and straight men are… uh, hang on…

(Ah, gee, straight men, you know I love you, but you’re so fricking clumsy. I know, I know, growth spurt in teenage years, never quite got your body image back – and yet you park like wheel-whisperers so what’s all that about? – but, hey, you clumsy old daddy bears, any chance you could stop breaking, like, everything, with your big clumsy man paws and emotional autism. Hey, for me? Is that a no? God you’re such fucking bastards. And I don’t mean in, like, a hot way.)

Anyway, after a year of sulking about it seemingly unproductively, I realised what this shit is about. (So take that, dismissers of sulking as a way to get stuff done.) Not just that conversation, but every time ever I have been talking to a woman about some other woman, a girlfriend or a celebrity that she admired and adored and the accolades would end with the claim that my companion was so enamored of this other woman that she had a girl crush, or even more simply put that she would so totally sleep with her, or go gay for her, or whatever. You know these conversations you’ve probably had them. And, don’t think I don’t know, you have probably said it about me.

And don’t think that I think that if you are a straight woman and have said this about another woman that you are dumb or lazy or stupid or bad!feminist of a breaker of one of Bitchy Jones’s rules because I have done it, but I try not to do it now, because I have realised why people do it.

It is because the highest compliment you can pay a woman is to proclaim that you find her fuckable.

Always and forever and as simple as that.

If you admire a woman and like her, if you find her witty and attractive, if you like the way she thinks, well obviously, you want to fuck her. Because if you were a straight man, that’s where that would lead. But if you’re someone who isn’t sexually attracted to women, you might think you are feeling that too, you might even feel that you are insulting that woman if you don’t want to sleep with her (dishing out the ultimate insult by calling her unfuckable).

And, you know what, hey, let’s bring this around to me: Say you’re a straight woman (or a gay man – this can apply to you too, buttercup) reading this post and thinking all how it is, hey, awesome, and you might be feeling all kinds of emotions about me and want to express how simply damn great you obviously think I am. Well, you can call it a crush or an urge to want to sleep with me if you like, but chanow, all you really want there is to meet me, hang out, talk shit with me, drink tea and find out if I’m really so clever and witty in real life. (Clue: no. Did you get the part where I mentioned that I figured this out a year after the even that triggered it.)

But, yeah, back on the point (this blog’s most overused phrase), which is that this I’d-so-sleep-with-her phenomenon is pretty much just a side shoot from the whole damn dirty deal where women are mainly for fucking and generally supplying sex and men are the choosers and enjoyers of that sex. And also the whole thing that every piece of expression of anything ever should be expressed in the kind of terms and ideas straight men would use, as if that is some kind of default language because straight men will get confused if you don’t because they have never learned anything else, and they’ve never learned anything else because they are the default so they don’t need to. Like the circles that you find in the windmills of mostly annoying things – yeah, those windmills, okay. Just like how if you speak English you don’t need to bother learning anything else, or how everyone converts into American measurements and monies on the internet.

Hemingways, remember I mentioned gay misogyny earlier, well, that kind of links up here too. I’m not saying gay misogyny doesn’t exist (*cough*drag queens*cough*) because gay men live in the same patriarchal wilderness I do, and are therefore just as likely to display a bit of casual misogyny as anyone (that likeliness: sadly, quite likely. Shoot!) but, what often gets called out as specifically gay misogyny is actually gay men expressing an active personal sexual dislike of women’s bodies. I’m not saying that saying vaginas=gross is helpful for anyone in a culture where women’s bodies are simultaneously deified and demonised, just pointing out that I also find the idea of putting my tongue in a woman’s cunt gross (seriously, even Angelina’s. I know. Freak me!) and I know what it’s like to have the world assume I would fucking love it and what it is like to feel the need to keep on pointing out that, no, I don’t think that tits are the fucking last word in a sexay design feature on a human body

Plus, god, do we live in a fucking culture where it is perfectly okay to laugh at the supposed grossitude of cocks – just let me check, why, yes we do – and do any of the lesbians or straight men who faux-barf at the idea of a warm bed and a hot man get accused of misandry. Why, no.

Oh.

And this is because saying you don’t want to sleep with a man isn’t a personal insult to him, particularly if sleeping with men isn’t your thing. And saying sleeping with men isn’t your thing (even with graphic penis-repulsion-reenactments) is never called misandry. In fact the average gross-out comedy’s compulsory gay-panic scene will often get (rightly) called homophobic – never misandric. 

Saying you wouldn’t want to sleep with a woman is practically a slight – even if it just isn’t your port of call. And thusly and conversely any stream of praise for a woman must end with the claim you would sleep with her, or surely that is faint priase. Saying you’re not into women in general – if couched in the right squelchy terms – is called misogyny. This is because rejecting women as unfuckable is a far bigger deal (their lives now have, like No! Meaning!) Than rejecting men as unfuckable. (Like, whatever, dude)

In some ways the compulsory recreational woman-fucking liberal culture assumes of all its female members is down to some misrouted idea that not wanting to sleep with women would mean hatin’ on women. And we liberal woman don’t go hatin’ on women, do we?

So we make sappy-sexless claims that women smell nice and have soft skin (I mean, oh fuck that noise, women (or, men) who are actually into women don’t slime around with that shit about nice olfactory and tactile sensations. Where is the lust? Shit, if you’re using the word ‘nice’ about any damn thing, check your pants, ‘cause you’re not experiencing lust, baby.) When, fuck that, men smell of sex and their skin is a sensation playground with the hair and – if I’m lucky – the work-wrought rough patches. I feel this way because I am straight.

Just because we live in a culture where all of everything ever has been defined by straight men doesn’t mean we have to fall for it. Dumb lies that women are just the sexual bullseye. And the dark heart of that is that even if you like being bully, even if you – no shit – find it empowering, when women get to be the sexual it thing, you know what, not all women get to be that.

I don’t.

I know this post can be read as somewhat, uh, dismissive of ideas of sexual fluidity. I do appreciate that there is a whole Kinsey scale and everything. And that wherever you might think of yourself on that scale it isn’t fixed for life, but I didn’t want to clutter up my beayootifuel writins with endless qualifications about how this might not apply if you are bisexual or some other kind of self identified sexual lucky dipper. But sexual fluidity can be used to wash away women’s own sexual identities. Too much fluidity, too much choice, ends – bizarrely – in homogeny.

And I hid, rather well I think, the fact that even I am blinded my own preferences to the point that I simply refuse to believe that anyone, anyone, not matter what their magic number would prefer Maggie over Jake.

Ah, damn me and my straight. Mea bloody culpa. As cupla as us all.

Dominatriz Style Bulletin

I’m so fucking lucky. There aren’t many niche sexualities that get so much coverage in the fashion pages. In fact, I can’t think of any others. Does that mean I win?

And when I say win, I of course mean, lose. At life. (What’s my prize? Is it getting to write a blog about it? Oh, say it is!)

Anyway, apparently this is what I am wearing these days. (Really, could they say ‘dominatrix’ any more often? Is it an SEO thing?) And I am so fucoresome that I am even influencing domestic violence victim pop stars to dress super stylishly and just like me in really fugly stockings. Like I do. Every day. Because my sexuality is, of course, mostly a costume. Like how Superman suits really make you actually able to fly.

Jezeus – these things look like crimes against humanity. There should be a trial at the Hague for whoever manufactured them. With death penalties. On TV. And that’s not my sado-shit showing – I just really hate those stockings.

And look, is it just me, or does anyone else think it is just bizarre that you can get horribly beaten by your boyfriend with revolting and upsetting pictures of your brutalised face all over TMZ and you will still get called a dominatrix if you wear wet-look fabric in a way that makes me cry and want to stab myself and be sick. From my eyes.

Which is not meant to say that being a dominatrix is the exact polar opposite of being someone who gets beaten up by their boyfriend. Or I’m even going anywhere near saying what you wear has anything to do with how much you ought to get smacked in the face. I mean, well, as if. In fact you could line up everyone in the world based only on how likely they were to say that and you would have to put me on the moon or something. (Ah, sense making, I has it – convolutedly.) But I do think that fact adds an extra level of WTF? Maybe the Daily Mail thinks Rhianna is all empowered now she is dressing more like someone who might whip a man for money. And how right they’d be. There is nothing so empowering as having a sexuality like mine. (Or dressing like you might pretend to if you were paid to.) Nothing at all.

Doggie Style Bromance

I saw the Wolverine Movie with poor long-suffering Pan this week (I asked *so* *many* people to go with me and then, when they’d all turned me down, I told him it was his damn job) and was genuinely (not-unexpectedly) physically aroused by quite a lot of it.

You do have to be quite down with the man/man aspects (which I have mixed feeling about – although it is very obviously very hot – but I do need to write an essay about that forced-bi thing, because it really bothers me.) Seriously, it is a very, very gay movie. The part where Jean Luc Picard turns up in a heliocopter is actually the *least* queer thing that happens in the entire film.

But there is a woman (actually the only woman in the film) who gets to press the worst-pain-ever-now button, which probably made me happier than it ought to’ve . Anyway in heaven, that’s what I get to do. Or possibly in hell. Your hell, baby, but at least we’ll be together. 

Because I’m the best there is at what I do, and what I do is write a pointless whiny sex-adjacent blog on an internet. 

Fashions

More me? Obviously. There. Can. Never. Be Enough.

Over here: new BitchCraft: Fully Fashioned.

The Filth

Of course I love men all smeared in grime. Dirt and mud and engine oil. Hard labour produces sweat and smudges. Miners with coal-coated faces. Fire fighters with sooty streaks like badges of bravery and sacrifice. Great big monstrous hands rough and scarred and dirty from the earth he has shaped into new and shiny things. I don’t go in for trinkets and treasures, but I’d happily coo over any gift that he has wrought and riven from where the unstoppable earth meets his immovable body. 

You love me? Well why not work out for a hundred years so you can climb into a volcano for me then? Because I’m nothing really, baby, merely an amped up romantic. There’s nothing mysterious about what works it for me. I just like to feel special. And I like to go to extremes. More, now, again. Higher, faster stronger. Bigger, harder, deeper. 

My favourite flavour is more. 

My heart is bruised like Rocky’s face on nothing more than the number of times it crashed into my own dumb intensity. I’m an idealist. And like all idealists – I never learn better. That’s the idealism deal. 

But there’s nothing to see there. That’s not what I’m talking about. I want to talk about filth. Actual filth. Dirt. There is nothing so real as dirt. It’s the stuff the world is made of. Dirt. Filth. And not the filth of him. Much as I crumble into love-dust for his blood, sweat, tears and semen. The filth of me. 

Of all the shameful over-exposing things I have ever said in this space of mine, here is one that even in my darkest moments I recoil from a little: I do not like to wash so much. 

And if you want to leave now, you can, because that is where we are going today.

I do not own a shower, a fact I never really noticed until recently when people who slept in my bed apparently emerged from it so soiled they required more ablution than a bath could offer. So, yes, I have a bath, which I probably use with the frequency of the average Victorian. 

Washing: it’s just all a bit wet and boring for your ultra-hedonic heroine. 

I’ve always been this way. And, now that I have a job that doesn’t involve me leaving the house all that much and certainly doesn’t require a great deal of sitting with other victims in open plan formation in badly lit, badly air conditioned, modern hell, I am probably getting worse. 

I love the acid taste of sweat on my fingers, the ever-popular musk in my armpits. (Last shaved: Valentine’s Day – but that was a whole weird episode by itself.) I really, really genuine love the the sweet sourness of the patch of skin under my boobs after a long day. Ah, god, did you ever think my desire to tell the truth would bring you this close to all the things that are wrong with me? Well, here you are.

My ever problematic hair looks better if it doesn’t get washed to much. Everyone’s skin is better from less products being rubbed all over them. I don’t want to show the dirty commie shades of my soul too much but there’s really no need to be buying all this perfumed crap. It’s just a body, there’s really no need to hide it completely in a kind of olfactory burka of unguents. Oh, and I don’t use deodorant. I just never have. Maybe I don’t sweat so much, but even with my casual attitude to washing it’s never seemed like something I needed.

And I don’t smell bad. I don’t smell like a floral vacuum like some people do, but I don’t smell any kind of nasty.  Even by normal social definitions  of nasty (- rather than my definitions of nasty – which are laxer than the norm.).

Really as unpleasant and taboo as this all sounds – you’d probably never really notice any of it if you met me. I don’t wash much and I don’t find the way my body is from not washing so much at all repellent. And despite this obvious deviance – you’d have to get very, very close to me before you could tell. Mind-reader close. 

The only part of my body that sometimes has a dirtybadwrong smell that maybe would be defined as not okay, is my cunt. But the thing is, I love that smell most of all. I love the way my cunt smells more than I love the smell of a darkly sweaty man. 

I’ve already said many times that I love the smell of piss. And I love, love, *love* the nostalgic high-romance of the combination of my blood and my cunt and blossoming red ghosts staining everywhere I’ve been. Look I’m not some kind of fertility culty pagan hippy or anything – I love modernity liek woah, I love shiny and chromic and rockets to the moon – but, I can’t help it if nothing touches my heart like seeing my insides coming flooding out of me and turning the world (or the bed sheets) the colour of passion. 

I love the dirty centre of me. The sticky gloss that leaves silver snail-trails. (Which might sound gross but is a metaphor that hits in a way talk of honey or cream never does. It often looks to me like I’ve been walking around all day with a knicker-gusset filled with snails.) Sometimes it tastes sharp, sometimes sweet. It doesn’t smell like fish to me. It doesn’t smell like anything else in the world. 

It smells like me. Like my best and favourite part. And I love it. I love that smell that is only mine and would rate it right up there with lavender and vanilla and coffee and rubber.

And the day after sex I smell different. Sometimes a little like rubber, for added perky kicks. Sometimes not. Mainly just harder, darker. Who’s been sleeping in my bed?

I just hate to wash that away too soon.

And I know what you’re thinking: Eurgh, Bitchy Jones, I used to think you were quite attractive because of all the filth you talked and I was happily ignoring the way you continually explained how ugly you are – but now, blee. You’re all skanky and shit. Well never fear. I do usually wash if I have a date. At least in the first blush/head rush early stages. After that, though, you’re on your own. Although, actually, I kind of hope that most people I get entangled with come around to my way of thinking. 

And anyway, if you think that my attitude to washing is unsexy, just be glad I didn’t tell you how I feel about cleaning my teeth. 

PS I am well aware that writing an essay like this with so much in about my actual physical body and its squicky-sensuality I am practically inviting some of my more creeptastic readers to be horribly brand-creepy in my ever popular unmoderated kick-me forum aka the comments. 

Just pointing out now, that I knew you were going to do that.

In the Future There Will Be Man Pain

 

Seriously though, I know this is mostly an addendum to the last post, but, god, how can I not talk about this. It’s practically some  kind of endurance test. So actually, although you might not think it from this two posts in a row splurge, I mostly stay away from IO9 because I am scared of getting spoiled for the end of Battlestar Galactica, but, for fuck’s sake, every time I do sneak in the top post seems to have some kind of pornstravaganzagasm of this magnitude. 

So I got to ask IO9, I stay away for a couple of months to avoid spoilers and you turn this place into a manpain carnival? 

The fuck? I mean really. The? Fuck?

Just quit it, IO9, with the endless manpainporn. I will be back and reading properly in the summer. I know you miss me – and who wouldn’t because I am beyawesome – but stop your sireniesque behaviour. I know you might be singing of pretty, pretty, pretties but the reality is you will dash my glass heart on your spoileriffic rocks. I’ve met your sort before.

You might want to read the rest of the article from where I swiped pic as it seems to cover quite a lot of man-pain of the mental anguish variety. Although it’s lost on me even though I know a lot of dominant non-asshat women get their jollies in the comic shop. 

I’ve decided my problem with comic books is that whenever they feature a hot-bodied perma-naked man they either make him blue or green. What’s up with that? (Also, actually, while I think of it, could the Hulk spend more than £5 on a haircut sometime, that might be nice.) But cuh-sure, make your naked men the colour of actual naked men found in nature and we’ll talk. Or, you know, have speech bubbles coming out of our mouths. Or something. (I should stop this because I have no idea what I am talking about and this is the internet where comic books are revered like ancient scrolls and I’m about to look foolish-level foolish because those speech bubbles probably have a special name and just for not knowing it I will get hunted down, or well not, actually hunted down as that would involve leaving the bedroom, but, you know…

Stopping. Stopping now… Please don’t kill me with your mind.)

Bondage Happy

Should I be so excited that Science Fiction web magazine IO9 has compiled a list of the tied-up man-fun in soon to be released summer blockbusters, complete with commentary about why it is hot? Well, never mind ’should’, actually – because I AM! People in the (geek, fringe) mainstream declaring tied-up men hot. 

What a great thing!

Course, I could point out (as if you wouldn’t get it from the many mentions of homoeroticism) that all these hot bondage moments seem to be about men being dominated by other men. This, actually is usually fine. It is when men are dominated by women (in bedrooms, in dungeons, in culture) that things start to go, well, a bit strange. Men submitting to men – well that’s okay, even good, the world turns on men doing what other men tell them to. It still seems to be okay if it gets a bit sexual, because at least it isn’t upsetting gender power dynamics as we know them, which, weirdly, more scary than the gay. Men submitting to women very different and very far from being represented in the mainstream in any way that isn’t offensive or stupid or both. It’s always both.

ETA: From the same website – I may be officially – if ill-advisedly – in love with this picture.

Blood Sugar

It’s that weekend. You know the one. That one. The one where everything comes up Bitchy.

I shall be spending my time looking at pictures of a hot guy being nailed to some wood (perhaps with pre-nailing scourging) and eating the face off a chocolate bunny. And then maybe look at the pictures again. Chocolate, crucifixion…. which is best. Maybe I will try and decide. And maybe I won’t. 

Nails, cocoa, My god, my god why have you forsaken me?, bunny rabbits. Seriously, how could anyone prefer Xmas?

I get the feeling this post could be more coherent. Then again, I often get that feeling. And not only when I am blogging.

Wind Me Up: Watch Me Go

And obviously you know that when I say ‘wind me up’ I’m not talking clockwork – steampunky dominatroid, I ain’t. Sorry. Oh, stop crying. In another life maybe: the one where we all get it right.

But before utopia, let’s enjoy my latest prodom complaint in full

Bitchy,

Just a few thoughts I wanted to share.

There’s a lot I like about your writing and your blog, but I take argument with your statements about pro dommes.

I am a pro domme. I am also kinky and dominant in my personal life and was for many years before going pro. I agree with you that much of what happens in pro sessions is geared around client fantasies and that the commercial power dynamic trumps authentic D/s in the pro realm most of the time. I also agree that this is something that the industry doesn’t readily admit and both subs and pro dommes are often personally confused as to the difference.

Commercial sexual fantasy fulfillment services of every type are available for both vanilla and kinky tastes, and everywhere in between.

If pro dommes and “latexy” porn are ruining authentic, personal, non-commercial kink, is it also true that escorts, strippers, and mainstream porn are ruining vanilla sex for vanilla women? [1]

Certainly there are vanilla men whose sexualities are influenced by commercial sex, and who would prefer a woman who embodied those images and fantasies and also just happened to be the girl next door.

But do we blame the vanilla sex industry if a guy can’t deal with real women? Some do. Some feminists also think porn is responsible for rape. [2]

You yourself seem to identify more with sex-positive feminism generally, as do I. [3]

Why so anti sex-worker? Isn’t it just so typical to blame the whores for the downfall of all that is pure and holy about sex? To hold women responsible for the way men behave? How is this different if we are talking about pro dommes?

If men have difficulty distinguishing a commercial fantasy from reality, why not place responsibility with them? Or are they innocent, helpless, pure little angels who have been corrupted by the evil women of the night, with no ability to think for themselves?

Ah, the perfect little male which would stay happily at home with the wife if the homewrecking temptress had not lured him astray… it is all her fault! Do you see the comparison? 

So, yus. First of all thanks for patronising me. Maybe you should have taken off the catsuit an’ clown make up before you started typing so you could speak to me like a normal person. 

I love that this comment is on way-back-when post Professional Dominatrix Memoir Book Club. That one always gets the prodom’s latex knickers in a chafing twist because I dare to suggest that their thrilling ‘How I Done It: Prodom’ books are all stupid, empty, badly-written noise rather than *coff* literature. All prodoms have either written one of these books or plan to. Because they (very oso wrongly) think that professional dominatrixing is so fucking fascinating and they are all such great writers. 

Woah, yes, such excellent wordsmiths are they all (it’s actually in the job description along with being able to make the *bitch* version of SexyFace) that the average bit of dialogue on prodom porno gawp fest Men in Pain(where the men wear hoods and the women where stripper shoes – can you say empowermental?) has (presumedly improvised (god I hope!)) dialogue like this

 Something tells me you’re an unappreciative little bitch… That’s a nice little grunting you’ve got. I don’t know, all talk and not much going on down there are we? Uncircumcised, that means that it’s that much more sensitive. That much more sensitive, huh? Mmmm-ah. Ha ha ha ha. Ooh, nice noise you made, hmm?

I transcribed that. Are you proud? (Or just a little appalled?) 

And once the contents of the prodom brain have been typed and edited and, also, rewritten by, well one would assume a ghost writer but in some cases I would say they have interpreted the word ‘ghost’ rather loosely and just got someone who has been pronounced brain dead. That or a zombie with all its fingers rotted off.  Because, really, horrendous writing seems to be the main punishment factor with these books.

But back to the post and back in the room.

So, you seem to be saying that I am bad! feminist! because I complain about pros and let mansubs off the hook (but, you know, they like it on the hook). ‘Cause obviously feminism means blaming men for stuff. Exclusively. Well look, just because I spank at prodoms means I think mansubs are all innocent and great. Hello? Can I just get you to take a drag on this cigarette which has been dipped in proper logical thinking?

I am complaining about the entire dominatrix culture. The pros, the clients, the culture within BDSM that foregrounds this image of dominant womanness above anything normal and female-driven and the wider-world culture that tells kinky women who are not part of the BDSM world that being a woman who gets off on hurting men is a vocation not a sexual preference. 

It’s all fucked. 

Why don’t I laugh more at mansubs?What, like, take the piss out of their tiny cocks and gimpy ways? Well, obviously, as a prodom, that’s your job. Isn’t it? Isn’t that, like, what you do?

Of course mansubs are full of shit. And I’ve only written about that fifty million times. But maybe I write more funny piss takes of prodoms, but, huh?, isn’t the reason for that obvious?

I don’t make this stuff about prodoms up. It’s like Tina Fey’s Sarah Palin skits. To make jokes about prodoms all I have to do is repeat stuff prodoms say. The articles I quote about not fucking sub men are all true. I didn’t invent the phrase MIND! BUZZ! I read it in fucking Forum. Prodoms are just way, way, WAY funnier than mansubs. Prodoms call themselves Bitchtress and Goddess and Baroness and Marquessa. Prodoms have websites where they make ridiculous self-aggrandising statements about their unique beauty and suggest that any man who encounters them is instantly turned submissive by their aura of magisterial doom. (And then make an amusing typo – ‘cause their powers are somewhat limited by reality. (Yeah I make tons of typos – but I’m not claiming any superiority powers)). It would be impossible to write about the hilarious and depressing inadequacies in femdom culture without mostly writing about prodoms. (The depressing inadequacies in mansubs are notable, but often much less frequent or frequently hilarious.)

To look at your other questions: Do vanilla porn and shit affect vanilla women. [1] Um, would it be crass to say duh, Sherlock? (And isn’t it handy when sunday supplement articles take up the slack). Yes, yes and yes. Read a book sometime. It’s different here of course. In the vanilla world a prostitute isn’t the default kind of woman. (Well, you know, not yet.) Sometimes I think femdom is like a horrible warning. This is what can happen if you replace actual women being turned on with women’s whose job it is to pretend to be turned on. Thing about that horrible warning though: not really being heeded. 

The real awful fucking trouble with the idea that the sex industry is identical to female sexuality, with prodom default (and – coming soon – the problem with all images of female sexaulity everywhere) is that the pay-for model is that it gives far too much weight to the things that women (caution: generalisations ahead) find less sexy and far less to things that women find more sexy.

The prevailing culture of prodom puts lots of focus on unsexy, woman-squicking shit like forced fem, strap on play, foot worship, CBT and the generalised inadequacy stuff that mansubs like but are not really anything to do with female pleasure from male submission. (Not to mention the love, love, love of never fucking). There is very little about the kind of masculine, brutish, chained-pirate suffering that most women who actually like this stuff actually like.

I know lots of you are now jumping up and down ready to tell me that I am just talking about my own preferences, but, okay, can I ask, why does dominatrix culture look nothing like my preferences? Am I so weird? And why does femdom look nothing like gay SM porn?

Because it has nothing to do with sexualising men, that’s why. And that’s because no one is paying for that. And that is eroding any real representation of female desire. In fact it has eroded it. It’s gone.

As for the feminist credentials stuff, oh dears, I believe you have fallen into a terrible dichotomy trap there. [2], [3] I know what your trying to say. That thing. The thing people say to try and break feminism. (and kind of works.) You’re trying to push me into either being a rad feminist lez-by-choice, anti-porn, anti-sex kissing-up-to-the-religious-right, hating big style on sex workers for being whores, cutting off men’s dicks for breakfast OR I can be a sex pos feminist and go hang out at the playboy mansion in a tissue paper bikini. And those are the only options. (Other than not being a feminist at all. Which sucks all round. If you answer the question ‘Are you a feminist?’ with anything other than a plain and immediate ‘yes’, fuck off. You are banned from my blog forever for being a cunt. Most dichotomies are false (like the rad-feminist/porno-feminist one), except the one where your either a feminist (who owns up to it) or you are entirely made of your own arse.) 

But as for the only ways to be feminist being either by believing that all sex is rape or empowering myself with lipstick and my tits out – this is the biggest trick the patriarchy-devil ever pulled. 

Hey, you know, sex and gender, it is just more complicated than that. And I believe there is a third way. Or, you know, just a way, that isn’t stupid and about discrediting sane ideas by bundling them with stupid ones. I’m just a blogger, sitting here with a macbook and a bit of googling luck and jarred, scarred Achilles heart (healing, but not healed), but I think I might be right on this one. Sex positive feminism doesn’t mean accepting everything to do with sex as yay-fucoresome, without question. 

Of course I’m sex positive. I write a sex blog. And it is hard to think of any group of women who say more negative things about sex and sex work than professional dominatrixes who regularly claim that intercourse is ‘undominant’ ‘upsets the power relationship’, get hissy to shit if anyone calls them sex workers and often claim that being a prodom is such a great job because you don’t have to have sex in it. (Confusingly, for me, as this is actually the case, with, you know, most jobs.)

*I’m* the one not being sex positive enough. What do you want? Masters and Johnson penis-cam shots? 

Prodoms are completely sex-negative. And they have extra flamey power of negation around authentic female desire. And they have the keys to this kingdom. They define the culture. The fact is culture – prevailing ideologies – effect everything. Foucalt says that sex – in an of itself – has no meaning. It’s just bodies flapping about in space. Just nerves and friction. The only way to give it meaning is to apply culture to it.  And you’re the culture not me. And you understand how the culture around things effects them, right? If you didn’t why complain about what I’m saying. If what you do doesn’t effect me (clue: it does) then what I say shouldn’t effect you. Either you think things in the world effect other things (you know, for example, the laws of physics: The Newtonian stuff) or you don’t. And nothing is connected to anything and nothing affects anything else. 

But it does. Experiences shape beliefs. It works like this. Prodoms and dominatrix latexy culture define what femdom gets to be. I don’t pretend this is true for the fucking LULZ. I see it every time I try and work with this mess I got given instead of a normal easy non-fucked up by a culture based on commoditising it sexuality. 

Don’t you get it? I’m honest like sunlight here. What haven’t I shown you, from the dirt in my heart to the exciting roller coaster ride of a relationship when I backed the wrong fucking horse and took you all along with me. (Yes, a horse, on a roller coaster.) Why the fuck would I do all that, write all that down and share it with the uncaring universe and then waste my fucking time sniping at prodoms if I didn’t think it was fucking important.

You know I’m right, because you know everything about this culture is wrong. There are no women here. Male submission is about men are fetishising the fact that what gets them off is not getting women off, my feet are more important than my cunt. It all sucks. I’ve had enough. 

Well, I’d had enough ages ago, really, but nothing really changes. And I don’t know why you’re complaining – because you know I’m never going to win.

Ashton Kutcher Getting Waxed

Yeah, well, you have to work a bit to make it so very hot… but he is all dirty and pretty and stuff being hurt for his job.

And shouty. I love that.

It’s a link because I can’t work out why it won’t embed. 

Foxy (not a reference to the dumper bound DJ Dr Fox – in case you were wondering)

So here’s interesting. It’s an article from Fox News site sent in by a kindly reader about how to become a prodom. 

This article isn’t going to be heading all snarkily for Fox News, even though I understand them to be read by the kind of people who like using the ‘gay’ as an insult. (Seriously, why is this getting more and more okay? It’s just not okay. And if you are pathetic enough to think it’s fucking edgy or some shit – like you’ve had some kind of imagationobotomy – why not use racist insults? – yeah, exactly. I don’t want this blog to become all gay rights all the time – but some things just piss me off.)

But anyway, Fox News, pshaw: I am British, I have the BBC, I don’t need to get involved. 

And I could snark it from my usual point of view – stop comoditising my sexuality you bastwards, etc. But really, that does seem everso slightly not on the point here as the article is purely about my sexuality as a way to make money. Not one single nod is given to the fact is might be something a woman would ever do for the sheer blissy hot of it. Nah, nah, nah, nah, NAH! In fact, in this context, that would probably be beyond horridious.

And isn’t that kind of weird. Dominatrixing something for money is far more okay (and even kind of family friendly) than dominatrixing for sexual kicks. And you’ve got to wonder why that might be (really – I have no idea here, nothing clever to offer as per) – it’s certainly not the case in vanilla sex, where doing it for fun is – while not morally okay – is usually morally better than doing it for money. Well, maybe things flip at the sluttier ends of the scale.

But I’m not talking about that today. (Or probably ever as it sounds too much like it might involve actual intellectual thought not just swearing and hyphenating words together.) 

Being a professional dominatrix might not be in most careers advisors manuals, ew, but it sometimes seems like there is no job on earth that it is more easy to find how-to guides about. 

Even I’ve written one. Although, obviously, I don’t actually know anything about how to get started as a prodom. I just guessed – but I’m a good guesser. 

Essentially in femdom there are two kinds of self help articles every-the-fuck-a-where. For submissive men there are those lovely, mumsy, hand-holdy guides to meeting dominant women that tend to miss the only real bit of basic advice needed – don’t be so fucking creepy, Jesus! - and sort of casually ignores any other reason why it might be hard for submissive men to meet dominant women (like the fact that there aren’t really any that aren’t made of insanity – ‘cept me and that’s because I am unique in all the world: the dominatrix cursed with a soul, trying desperately to atone for all the asshattery done in my name. At least until Spike turns up and we fight in a cave; something I am looking forward too much less than you might think).

And then, for dominant women there are the other articles about how to become a prodom. 

Oh, are there ever. Go google-fish for it. Nothing prodoms and lazy sex journalists like better than explaining how to turn this camp circus vision of my sexuality into a source of free money. With added pointless neutered lasciviousness. 

And, you know, if anyone really still wonders what the fucking problem is with femdom, why everyone is so unhappy and dissatisfied and writing ass-grumping blogs about it rather than exploding in a frenzy of desire and whip-crack-away – well, isn’t thing just the pip? Men get told how to find women for sex, women get told how to charge men for sex. 

Sex? Men demand and women supply. That’s it.

My desires? Ha! obviously as a dominant woman I don’t want sex. I want money so I can buy shoes and chocolate. And, well, toys, but not for any kind of sexy fun for me – the toys are to expand my business so I can increase my earning of shoes and chocolate potential (whilst sort of maintaining that special prodom non-threatening version of dominant female desire: sensual sadist and giggling at cocks, mainly. Jesus Christ internet, will you stop being so full of women talking about doing the stuff I like to do because they find it funny. I do not do my sexuality because it is funny. When did you last hear that a mandom tied a femsub up and then had a jolly good laugh. No! He did it because it gave him a fucking erection. Watch some gay SM porn. See how much laughing goes on. 

Just, gah, for money or for funny, but never for proper guh!)

I have, I know MSTd particularly hilarious articles about how to be a prodom before, but this one is interesting because it is somewhat mainstream. And there, I assume, aimed at vanilla women. (Although actually, this article pretty much ignores the issue of women having any kind of sexual desires at all ever – no change there then.) Of course, the usual articles about how to do prodom aren’t necessarily aimed at not-vanilla women. (Although truly, and I may have said it before, the people best suited to being prodoms are submissive women with a real hardcore kink for discomfort, humiliation and sexual dissatisfaction – but that’s for another day.)

So, it begins (I almost can’t be bothered now – but without the article this would just be a stream of pathetic swear-enladen consciousness (What?)):

When it comes to career aspirations, most women don’t think whips, ropes and handcuffs.

Well not unless they have ever read on of these lazy articles before. Honestly I think if you asked anyone in the street to name four different jobs a woman might do they would probably include dominatrix. It’s like the author of this article thinks she is the first one to have discovered women tying men up for money. Betcha never thought of this! As if it, like, had a low profile or something.

Yeah, yeah, you are investigative journalist genius exposing this crackpotty profession literally no one ever knew existed before now. 

With “kink” more mainstream than ever, educated, professional women are putting on their leather. And they have many wondering: What’s the appeal of being a dominatrix?

Well, of course regular readers will know that the appeal is, of course, MIND BUZZ. (MIND BUZZ is what happens to dominant women instead of messy stuff like getting turned on. It’s hard to know whether MIND BUZZ is actually nice. Us civilians who don’t get paid to do dominatrixing probably can’t even begin to imagine what it feels like. It is beyond our puny mind. I expect.)

Strangely though this article doesn’t mention MIND BUZZ (lazy journo!) but it does offer some other reasons why prodomming might be a great career options for, oh, anyone.

(Oh and do you love those double quotes around the word kink – like she’s holding it at arms length in a pair of lead tongs.)

Becoming a dominatrix — a female who takes a dominant role in bondage, discipline, domination and submission — is an attractive option for these women because:

— It offers the convenience of early or nightshift work;

— It enables cute women with bodies bigger than the Barbie-esque figure desired of strippers to work in the sex industry;

— It provides a woman with the opportunity to flog some of the bankers responsible for the current financial mess.

(Woman in that sentence is a hyperlink to a moisturiser ad. Um, okay. What? Whut?)

I do like the first, um, reason (is that the right word? – it seems somehow wrong) because, as we all know, nightshift work is ‘convenient’ if you hate your friends and your life… and doesn’t it give you cancer or something?

The second “reason” is that lie that comes out of the same box as Beyonce and Kate Winslet are curvaceous plus-size mammas, in that, because the standard of beauty for women is so (and literally – wordplay fans) narrow a slightly wider one – that still excludes probably 98% of women – is celebrated as some kind of model of inclusion. (See crap like Suicide Girls for more pretence that replacing one set of physical ideals with another is in some way empowering and inclusioning and about anything other than perceived fuckability.) Also, you know, you can actually get work as a standard prostitute (shock tactics I know but the sex industry ain’t just about strippers) if you don’t look like Barbie. There’s more to prostitution that Julia Roberts and Bell de Jour. Some prozzies are even working class!

And the third “reason”, god, fuck’s sake. Apart from the crappy stuff about how my sexuality isn’t about hurting men for revenge (it’s about sex – god – do we ever get to call it that) – this makes no sense. How are the bankers responsible for the financial crisis going to afford prodoms? With the fucking bail out money?

First, they need to be trained in techniques like whipping and caning. They need to learn how to use the tools for sex acts involving bondage, paddling and sexual torture.

Okay, so, I know what paddling is (boring) but I do so want to make a joke about a dominatrix in a canoe. She’s already wearing the wetsuit. 

The mistress must be:

— Sensitive to others’ sexual fantasies, thoughts and emotions;

— Open-minded and self-confident;

— Empathetic to others’ wants and desires;

— Good in the art of seduction.

Just an aside. I tick the box marked no for all of these. Yay for me. Empathetic to others’ wants and desires is a good one. What like the presumably sexy one in Star Trek TNG? You can just ask, you know. I find that works better than the use of psychic powers I don’t have as a real life person. (Although quite an annoying proportion of male submissives like to keep what they like a secret. I know it’s a stigmatised sexuality – but I am not fucking Sherlock Holmes. (That’d be Watson.))

You can imagine that the intensity of focusing on another person — the individual’s feelings and body language — with behaviors labeled atypical by most, is exhausting. While offering the glorified, Hollywood-style dominatrix experience, these women handle what some call girls and prostitutes can’t or won’t. So is it any wonder that many mistresses and clients consider this a bonding experience?

Yeah, I do tend to find sex a bonding experience. You know, having sex with another person. The bonding. That. 

The industry stands to expand if the economic crisis doesn’t end soon. And with that, some women, although it may sound strange to others, are perfectly fine with going to a job where they’re actually called “ma’am.”

Being called Ma’am is so great. Not as great as being called goddess. It’s a sign of respect you know, being deified. Not dehumaising at all in any way.

And yeah, dominatrixing is immune to the kind of puny economic factors that affect the rest of us (what?).  Why should the cry-sis make the industry (‘industry’? Really? Really?) expand. Yeah, right, ‘cause kinky sex services are in much more demand in less affluent places. The less money people have the more they want to spend on specialised sexual services. Whut?

Why will a recession will ‘cause more prodomming. I kind of thought it might cause a rise in things that are fun and cost nothing and can be done at home. Like mutual fun for fun sex.

Sux!

Bondage Awards not (Actually) Sexist (On Purpose)

So, yes, where was I? 

Well, a while ago I wrote about the irritating banners for the bondage awards and how they were so totally and shittily women-wearing-ball-gags-is-completely-all-of-what-bondage-is-hurrah!. Obviously, fuck that shit. And I mentioned that when they had a voting page last year the sexism went from yeah, but: sexist, to oh my christ what are you guys on? Some form of injectable misogyny?

Well, the page is back up – as voting is open – and guess what, it totally sucks in the exact same way. Great. (By which I mean, of course, not great in any way.)

But, weirdly, the management of the bondage awards has put up a post explaining that some people have been emailing them to point out that they are sexistly assuming that bondage images can only be of tied up women. (And also a lot of weird other sexist confusa-shit ideas about how sexy images are created and consumed by men and women’s only role is to be in them. Basically if you are a woman and you want to be part of sexual culture in any way, being wanked over is the only possible option. If you don’t want to be on your back at the bukkake party, you might as well have your vagina sewn shut right now. )

Well, before I jump up and down and froth too much (like I ever..) let’s see what the awards people have to say: they point out patiently, that right-minded, sane complaints are all very well, but really, they – the awards – are not actually sexist because they never meant to be sexist. 

Yes, it’s unfortunate that in the page inviting nominations women are pictured tied up, being drawn tied up and, um, surfing the net wearing a ball gag. (WHAT? People do that? Or is it just a way of making a woman who is looking at porn still a looked at bondage-sexay thing – because, god, women can’t just look at porn without also putting on some kind of sexy pantomime for anyone looking on (who? who surfs porn for an audience)). Really, though, really, I have never seen anything so stubbornly insist that women have to be the sexual display object even when they are consuming porn. And what is she even looking at. Sites featuring sneering mandoms? Do they exist? I’m guessing no. Meanwhile the guys (who are – irrelevant aside – hot) get to be riggers (ahem), photographers, artists, retailers, owners of fetish companies, consumers of pay-for porn (yeah women only surf free sites – wearing ball gags – so no one ever make any porn for them. There’s no money in it.) In other words, the men get to be sexual agents. 

But, yeah, just unfortunate. Because, the most fabulous and rigorous argument against sexist arsehattery (or other retrograde arsehattery) is wheeled out here: it is just this way because it is, okay! It just turned out this way. In fact, all representation of anything ever that seems to endorse only the majority viewpoint and tastes is just a fucking coincidence, okay, and stop whining or, you know, pointing it out.

Apparently, the guy who runs the awards just took a bunch of his favourite pictures off of his hardest drive and sent them to an artist who drew the pics. And that is just what happened, okay, so shut up. No one is trying to be sexist. Calm down, dear.

Oh, hell. Well, yes. And you know, I think that is so true for so much of the imagery around kink that is just tied up women forever. Not everyone (even the mandoms on top) are sitting around in some fucking mandom fucking batcave somewhere twirling their mustaches and thinking, bwahahaha – I will never allow women to see pictures of men tied up because they might like it and I never want women to have any fun because I HATE THEM. Grrr.

But, if you are part of a sexual minority, if you are putting together some form of awards you need to make some kind of effort to be inclusive.

I know pictures of men tied up are slightly harder to come by than pictures of women tied up. This is a sad, sad situation, but maybe, just maybe, slightly more inclusion might be possible if you looked a bit further than your own fucking hard drive. 

Kinky sex suffers hugely in the mainstream from the idea that it is just for wanky men frothing over pictures of nasty things happening to women. The idea that kink is something that is actually enjoyable and even passionately desired by women is often seen as incredulous. And why? Don’t even dream of blaming closed-minded officialdom. The vanilla world think that about us because kinky people who create kinky culture make it look like that. 

So I look forward to next year’s bondage awards including so utterly lamecore images of dominasties and having to call that progress. 

Oh and talking of stupid lazy try-softer sexism, I wrote a post a few days ago about the film Lesbian Vampire Killers. If you think I should shut up and not be mean about poor widdle comedy film, read this article about lesbian women in Africa being raped and killed and change your mind because jesus fuck – this shit is real. 

Suddenly James Corden’s comedy fat-face seems rather less fucking funny.

“Truly, there’s nothing that makes a woman feel more confident than aching feet and immobility”

Oh Hadley Freeman, my heart. My heart!

Word! Word on fire. 

Word on fire in a puff pastry case. 

(And wanky idiot submissive men, shut up before you start, you stupid crying baby babies. If you are hot like pie filling for a woman making herself uncomfortable and immobile for your stiffened thrills, well, fine, but that makes you pretty much a mandom. So grow a beard, grow a pot belly, grow a leather waistcoat, grow a speech impediment, grow a penis and face facts.)

Jesus Wept! (Tears of my fucking menstrual blood out of the end of his immaculate cock.)

Why is this happening?

No, go again. I mis-punctuated

Why. Is. This. Happening?

I mean, really, why? Why is this a thing? Why are there posters for this in the street like it is a thing that is actually really happening and being allowed to happen? Should there not be, like, riots, or something.

Seriously? Lesbian Vampire Killers?

What? Let’s enjoy the site of women fucking (okay, in all likelihood kissing and writhing around with) other women, and then, what, kill them, because they’re not actually human beings or anything. In fact let’s stake them. Oh, it’s not like that’s a tricky bit of subtext. I’ve read Christopher Frayling. 

So, what? wait? this is a film about how women with deviant non-normative autonomous sexualities should be wanked over and then raped to death.

Really? Really?

Sorry, again, why is this happening?

I haven’t seen it. Partly because my delicate sensibilities can barely cope with even knowing it exists let alone having to really and fully and once and for all properly accepting that it really is a real thing that actually exists and got made, and partly because – as I think they said on Jezebel, every time you buy a ticket to see a film think of it as a ballot paper where you are voting for the type of films you want to get made. 

And this film could probably break a box office record simply if everyone who was so outraged it even existed went to see it just so they could feel fully qualified to write enraged blog posts about it. Damn this modern hell 2.0

And, then, oh god and fuck, maybe they’d make  a sequel, or something. Something like: Let’s go gay bashing! Gay men aren’t really human so it’s fine!

Oh no, sorry, that won’t happen ‘cause it wouldn’t be as – sheesh – sexy*.

WHY IS THIS HAPPENING?

You might be keen to point out that this film is a joke. That this is mean to be funny. And of course I will respond with relief because, oh yeah, comedy, jokes, the things people choose to make fun of have no political or ethical or moral meaning whatsoever. 

The, um, joke essentially here appears to be that kind of ironic sexism thing. You know that thing. That thing whereby it is okay to be sexist or stupid or lame or all of them – oh let’s face it, it’s always all of them – because we were sexist in the past, which makes it some-fucking-how okay to be sexist now. In fact the reason we are all allowed to be sexist now is because sexism is now over and we live in some kind of post-patriarchal u-fucking, shitting-topia. In fact, being sexist in this way just proves that sexism is all finished now. Or something. 

WHAT?

What sort of shit-monkey-with-cancer logic is that?

But, hey, when it comes to irony and nostalgia – when it comes to the past – I have a better idea: let’s learn a lesson from it. Like grown ups. (Like I might be doing right now – Beej-angst fans). The past is built of stuff that has already happened. Hence the name: the past. It’s too late to change the past because that’s what the past is, things it is too late to change. What we could with the past is learn from it. Or, you know, just repeat it using a retro font, whatever. 

Learn *or* just do the same stuff over but deciding its okay now because it *wasn’t* okay then. You know, like how the second world war was fine and no one really died or got hurt because it was just and ironic, nostalgic tribute to the first world war.

Seriously? Things were shit in the past so let’s keep them shit as some kind of comedy. I suppose that is kind of funny. Funny if you are some kind of moral, ethical void, with a heart made of utter fucking awfulness and piss mixed with shit mixed with my actual vomit. (Easy now, sick puppies, I’m not trying to turn you on. I know, I know, sometimes I just can’t help it!)

Oh, dear citizens of universe, it is over to you, would you like to live in a better world? Or would you like to carry on like this? Building castles in the shit. 

*That’s sexy to straight men, obviously, which is the only kind of sexy allowed in films ever. It’s the law. The law of stupid. And tits. 

PS HAPPY BIRTHDAY JACK (Not that any of this post has anything to do with Jack’s birthday. Not that I can work out anyway.)

New BitchCraft

Thinking by Numbers

The only real advice contained herein is this: Don’t ask me.

It’s probably unsurprising that I get very few letters asking me for advice about how to have femdom relationships. It would be a it like saying, ooh, I think I’ll learn to drive – maybe I should get lessons off of that woman who has just driven her car off the road into a ditch full of pirahana lions that are also in fire. And have acid for blood. And acid for piss. And snot.

Or, you know, for a more concise sentence (on Beej? Never!) asking me for relationships advice would be also exactly as futile and stupid-fueled as asking me for driving lessons.

But, hey, someone did. And their questions were a weird combination of obvious and baffling. And I will now present my answers. And by my answers I mean I will not really answer anything (basically because I do not know anything unless you want to know how to do a pirate role play) and just use this poor well-meaning soul’s letter as an excuse to bang on about some much favoured enragementing hobby horses.

Which is mean and uncalled for, but, really, what did you expect from me? Pink candy floss? On a stick?

Yeah, don’t ask me for advice. Or do, but, you know…

The subject line of the email was this:

Is Showing Your Excitement to Your Slave a Sign of Weakness?

No.

I mean, is there more to say? Does being excited about things make you weak? Is it wrong to have desires? Are these even questions?

I get excited all the time. I am, frankly, and excitable person. My emotions are uncut. My skin is thin and my heart is smashed open. My veins run with blue fire and filth and confusion. I’m real. Is that weak? I get excited. And I mean that in the usual sense and the one I think you mean here. Hiding your desires is the real sign of weakness. But that, maybe is the point of this whole post.

If being excited by dominance makes a person less dominant that would be an unfortunate bit of negative feedback.

So, done. Except… Oh yes, that was just the subject line.

The email goes on. And is full of so much femdom asshattery influence and ideas that – if nothing else – I can see how clearly I am right. That when people say to me, hey, Beej, why not just enjoy yourself doing your own hot, horrible, bucking against the grain, maverick perversion thing and stop worrying about the fact you are a tiny island in a big sea of molten shit-larva? Who cares, right, if you’re getting off?

And, great as that argument is, here’s why I care. Um, I’m a human. I care about other people. And I care about the fact that culture influences thought. Dominant (har) culture influences thought the most. It matters. It counts.

Stop trying to tell me it doesn’t matter.

Who cares about how society sees people with different sexualities? It’s the hot sex (behind closed doors) that counts, right?

Wrong. Wrong on fire.

I’m new to this role-playing, and it’s really my bf who requested all this b&d play. 

Um, yeah, so, vanilla-conversion-project alarm going off.

Weird isn’t it, how this is the origin story of so many femdom relationships. He romances her, she falls in love, he suddenly goes all Elise Sutton on her soon-to-be-latex-clad arse.

The Sutton thing – for all it professes to some kind of evangelical monkeybollocks about women being actually superior (yeah, really, why don’t we just start weighing brains if we like that kind of practical magic) – is actually about something subtler. It’s about the idea that being sexually dominant is something that anyone would want if they thought about it. And when it’s portrayed as lots of oral sex and knicker folding in return for looking a bit bitchface, well, it all sounds sort of okay.

But here’s the thing about human relationships: they are more complicated than that.

Try having one sometime.

Also, and I won’t write an essay about it (maybe some other sunnier day) but the fact that my sexuality is the one where there are actual books *on* *amazon* dedicated to explaining to men how to convince women to adopt a sexuality that isn’t the one they have chosen for themselves, is reason 859 why this is all broken.

No one’s actual sexuality – actual real beating in the pulse at the center of their being *desire* for hard and wet – is something that needs to be explained to them by a book. Or a partner with an erection.

That’s not your sexuality. That’s, well, there isn’t really a word for what that is. A potentially relationship destroying quasi-convenience. Well, maybe…

The problem with the men of vanilla conversion projects is that they have spent years and years and years – and pots and pots and pots of lotion – thinking good and hard about how this relationship of wonderment will play out, and the fact is, none of that fantasising has necessarily involved you. Or if it has, it is a different version of you. One with a different personality (versions of you with a different personality: also know as not you). It may even have involved a version of you with a different personality being played by Uma Thurman.

I’m not saying that no one should ever ask a lover to tie them up once in a while. I get GGG, but there is a difference between sharing a fantasy in bed and asking your partner to actually be someone else. All the time. Which is what most vanilla-conversions are all about.

For the most part our play has been enjoyable, but I am at a loss about how to have a knee-bending orgasm when he’s “worshiping my pink shrine” and still stay in command.  Any suggestions?

Suggestions? You can bet I’ve got at least one!

Pink shrine?

He’s worshipping your pink shrine? I mean, is that even a euphemism, or do you have an actual pink shrine? Are you some kind of Paris Hilton cultists? If that’s the case I’m not hugely surprised you’re not getting off. That kink? Okay? Not so much.

But it’s in quotes as if, well huh, that’s irony or something. (So probably not a literal pink shrine then.) But, god, maybe the quotes just mean that that is what he calls it.

And that wouldn’t surprise me because submissive men seem to have this genius skill for making oral sex seem like the most unwelcome offer ever made. Which is, I guess, some kind of a skill. Except that we haven’t yet discovered the planet on which it is useful. (Come ON, NASA – or whoever is doing this stuff now America is made of the broken.)

But, look, if he’s licking your cunt and it doesn’t make you come, maybe that is because this is not the kind of sex you like. Because usually, the kind of sex you like, makes you come. It’s a great system that way.

Don’t make excuses that you can’t come because it’s not dominant. You can’t come because you’re not dominant.

See here’s the thing. Being dominant makes me come. You can imagine how tetchy I would be if being dominant *also* made me unable to come. Picture my grumpy face if that were the situation. Go on, picture it! If you like you carry on imagining me being played by Uma Thurman. Bearing in mind that most days, I’m not.

You’d be surprised how rarely I am involved in a body swap caper with a famous Hollywood actress whose skeleton is made entirely out of femurs. (And whose body is made entirely out of skeleton.) Oh, Bitch, please. No, I’m joking. Skeletons can’t be made just out of femurs. Not so close to Darwin Day.
 

While I have your ear….he’s just an OK slave in that I’m not really calling the shots; he tells me (in normal conversations) what he’d like me to do to him (patronize him, tie him up, spit on him, test him), but he also tells me what NOT to do to him (touch his balls, hit too hard, pull his hair).  Again, this is NOT during our playtime, this is just in avg. discourse, but this has me in a conundrum. 

Er, yeah, this might be because of what I mentioned earlier. He has lapped you many times. With wanking. He has spent his whole life preparing for this precious golden moment. (He might even have specific ideas about what makes it golden.)

Also, fact is, so, what? He says ‘don’t hit me too hard?’ That is actually okay.

To misquote-from-memory quote and old, old Fry and Laurie sketch from the days before Stephen Fry was the king of Twitter (Bitchy Jones Twitter? Yes? No? (Yes voters would need to teach me to work Twitter. In my house. In the nude. Except not because I am not ready for that – but I can’t seem to stop thinking I am in my weaker moments.)

‘Too hard is exactly that quantity which would be excessive”

But more to the point (if any of this post could be considered a point), er, yeah, just because he’s the submissive and you’re the dominant doesn’t mean he doesn’t get to say what you do. That’s how sex is. Kind of mutual fun and enjoyment, kind of thing.

If the reason it’s not a negotiation is because you are just doing something he wants, well, that might be why you are finding his ‘don’t twist my balls right off’ suggestions annoying. But really, the part where he’s communicating his desires with you in a normal conversational way is the only part where I don’t think he’s a manipulative dick.

I’m a fairly dominant person in real life, so while I’m mostly getting pleasure from dominating him, I do feel that keeping his requests in mind are impinging my ability to really get into this. 

Yeah, if you *were* really into this. Which isn’t anything to do with ‘being a dominating person’ btw – I’m about as dominating as a fluff molecule (and that’s while I’m doing the sex too – shit! But yeah, before you take me too seriously here (just in case you were thinking of it) bear in mind I suck at the actual femdom sex. I’m pretty much 360 degrees of suck. Like a dyson. See pointless nonsense disguised as a joke right here for more evidence of universality of suck.)

Having a dominant personality is nothing really to do with having a dominant sexuality. What you are saying is like saying you think you might be gay because you have, like, a gay personality. It doesn’t actually work like that.

And “finding a new slave” isn’t an option as we’re in a monogamous, satisfying relationship. 

That would also be taking your new found for-him dominance a bit far. Although I expect he could wank to that. Also, trust me, ‘finding a new slave’? Path of misery. Just saying.
 

You may not have time for my ninny-whining, but perhaps you could point me to a forum or some such who may be able to help?  And if not, thanks for reading this and I’m really enjoying your blog!

Weirdly, I found a lot of time for it. And forums? About BDSM? On the internet? Well there must be some. If only there was some way of tracking them down.

Anyway the best advice I can give you about how to fulfill your partners dark and stupid and quite likely irrelevant to you on every possible level desires is that you could consider bringing your own desires to the table and compare notes and find places you intersect or swap your idea of fun for his. Perhaps with some kind of rota. Or lucky dip. Or fight for control. This, in general, makes for a better relationship all round than you just becoming a roaring mistress of the night all the time (even during the day) whether that makes sense for you or not.

Or, if you have no actual desires of your own, you could just find out the going rate and charge him. But that rate is getting lower everyday. (Browsing prodom websites for the LULZ gleaned from scrolling banners (in purple and curlz, with spangles, plz) about price drops: bad, bad hobby. Bad, bad Bitchy Jones.)

What Happens Next?

Mid-month, I ran away to the world’s first industrialised city. I stayed with a friend who has known me nearly 20 years. He has a loft apartment. A cocoon that was a cinematic concoction of floor to ceiling windows and a wrap around balcony. A night he sparks up red fairy lights that match the air craft warning signals on the top of the tallest buildings that crowd outside.

He is a traditional serial monogamist. Four relationships, he tells me, and four affairs. He’s friends with all his exes. That’s all I want to know about.

Later that evening we will go out together for Valentine’s. I will wear an evening dress and he will wear a dinner suit. We will claim ‘being ridiculously over-dressed’ is the theme of our night out. We will eat Chinese food and after sharing a bottle of wine I will give him my phone. ‘Don’t give it back to me. No matter what I say.’

Then we will go to a cocktail bar. I will play up to the waiters, do that cute spoilt thing that is my trademark, my win and my downfall, and persuade them to make me something ‘creamy and amaretto-y’. The waiter will build an enormous delight in front of my eyes. Knickerbocker-normous. I will nod yes for ‘really amaretto-y?’ and he will laugh, add extra, and top the whole thing off with strawberries. I will climb up on my bar stool to reach the peak of it for a sip and then high five him with happiness. It will get me drunk from the back of my brain first. Slowly seeping into conscious places only when it is too late.

Later, even later, I will find the only straight man in a gay pub and kiss him outside while eerily young men try and sell me drugs. ‘Do you take cocaine, love?‘ ‘Not since I was your age.‘ The guy I kiss will be so Northern that I will have trouble understanding what he is saying. But it won’t really matter. 

And my Valentine’s will be nothing like a box of chocolates; but it will be a lot like life. 

But before all that, my oldest friend will explain to me that he likes staying friends. He likes finding out ‘what happens next’. I like that idea. I hold onto it. I like stories. 

I keep coming back to my favourite Phillip Larkin poem. Not Jack’s favourite, which I love too, but the one that ends ‘What will survive of us is love’. 

I ask what happens to the love. When you say friends and wait for the next chapter. Does it go or stay. Does it turn from a dinosaur to a bird? Unimaginably different but just as awesome. How do you sit and be and laugh when the chemistry is still there, the desire. Doesn’t that always press heavy and sad on every exchange? Or does it fade away?

Because we – Jack and I – didn’t tire of each other. I don’t think we had forever left, but it did end prematurely. We didn’t run out our clock. We didn’t run out of love. Then and now would have been easier if we did. 

We are talking now. Just email. Little tiny exchanges. Stilted and unsure. Every one of them pulses with meaning. And they scare me sometimes, because I am wishing so hard for this to work but too often I don’t see how it can. Once, while we were negotiating our break up, I said to Jack that I didn’t see how we could be friends and know what we know about who we are to each other. And he said that we would be something that there wasn’t a word for.  But I don’t know if he remembers saying that.

In the north, in the loft, surrounded by glittering red lights and a far, far away city, I ask what happens to the love. With the old lovers, now friends, what does the love feel like? Does it turn to caring? Affection? To nothing? Does it settle into a nice comfortable thing. Or is always hard. A battle of negotiations of feelings and careful treading around things still left unsaid. 

But he didn’t know, my oldest friend, he flipped his way back through his ex-partners, now friends, and shook his head and said, Oh, I don’t think I ever loved any of them. Not really.     

The Reversal of Fortune

I’ve not been posting much. The reason is probably obvious. The things I am most preoccupied with are things I’m not quite ready to write about in more than the vaguest grazing detail. 

But don’t worry. Stick with me and I will show you it all. In time. Every bruise on my heart, every cut on my soul, every little piece of my dumb broken dreams and where they fell. 

Just not yet. I can’t yet. Because, well, more than anything, I just hate being wrong. 

I am weak and usually delusional. I get carried away by small pieces of crazy. I throw it all away for the right kind of sex. I did that. And I was wrong. 

So now it is me that gets to crawl. Because love shuns stairs: fall in, crawl out. 

But while I’m doing that, there’s no reason for you to wallow down here with me. I’m posting something I found on Informed Consent again. But this time, it’s really good.

Yeah, I am spending too much time on IC. I am not trolling for a new wonderful. Not really. I am more just trying to find a little distraction and salve and balm from the horrors my brain would otherwise prod me with. Like the killing-every-part-of-me fact that while my first Valentine’s day without him was low and blue and bereft, he spent that same day having his first Valentine’s day with his thrilling new thing. No grief for him. All for me.  

And that, as if I needed to explain, hurts just as much as you might want to imagine. And now, truly, he has hurt me more than ever hurt him. (Although, he never did let me borrow his blow torch.) 

But on to nicer things and nicer places in my heart. And facts more cheering than item (1) I cry when I come now and item (2) I appear to have taken up smoking.

It’s from a German film called Punish Me. (But don’t let that put you off.)

 

I really like the slow quietness of it. I think that really captures something. The weird loneliness of having to do this kind of crap for sex. 

Innerestingly this trope, older dominant woman and young submissive man is not my favourite – even though pretty man is (clearly) pretty. My favourite is an older submissive man an a woman a little younger. Not the much-seen gormless gimpy older man, but a real proper *hot* older man. Giving it up when he has something to give up. Offering everything, and an everything of real value. Sometimes I think the things I like aren’t kinky at all – just some kind of romance extreme. 

And that, I used to think I had that once. But now I’m not so sure. 

Maybe I just need to give it time.