Some Kind of Climax

So, I guess it’s clear I’m not really updating anymore. There’s no big reason why… except, well, I’ve said it. I said it all, and then I kept talking quite a while after that.

In fact, I often think, I said it all within the first six months.

And although I could go on reiterating the same things because it’s not like this stuff is *fixed* now, or anything. (Apparently kink dot com have changed the name of Men in Pain to Divine Bitches, but we all knew that was coming. It was some kind of anomaly all along that a perversion porn site was called the name of what I like rather than what he likes. And the what he likes being a kind of she that is not me but in fact some kind of unreal dehumanised… see, I could go on. Maybe I should. I won’t.)

Kink’s broken. I hate it. I don’t really want to play. Something inside me does, but that something is trapped inside the meat of me that hates all this fucking pornified, PVC clad, patriarchy eroticising bullshit that stifles everything and anything good that kink could ever be. It is the enemy of any kind of creative artistic freedom and that’s a sad, sad thing, because it could be the opposite of that.

I’m more delicate than you know. More broken. More weak. I can’t keep trying to put these pieces together anymore. Not with so many people trampling over them in their boots. And I wouldn’t be the first, you know, to say it’s too hard, to say it’s not worth it…

No. It’s not all sad. Despite my penchant for the melodrama. This blog made an impact. A far bigger one than I ever dreamed. Most people in SM know about what I’ve said, the arguments I’ve made. They may not have changed their behaviour one bit but most kinky people understand what the Bitchy Jones view of femdom is. And that’s wild and out there now. And you can’t put the lube back in the tube.

People still email me – and I like, so do that – to tell me that this blog helped them, changed their views, explained their sexuality. That’s nice. You’re welcome.

I’m happy with what I did. There’s a little crack now that wasn’t there before. And maybe that’s enough. Keep me alive. Link to me and talk about me and that’s all it needs.

(Housekeeping: I’ll still respond to comments and emails now and then and I’ll tidy the site up and fix some kind of index over the next few months. I might write something else, but it could be a while. There are a couple of posts I promised and may finish, but regular blogging, no. Not here, anyway.)

THE END (you may now commence wild applause)

Kinky Sex Tips

So essentially, when it comes to kinky sex tips, I got nothing. I am not going to start telling you how to do bondage with cat litter or how to make a quick and effective bullwhip out of all the discarded thigh high fishnet hold ups you have lying around.

But I do got this.

How to make your kinky more fun and exciting with intertexuality. Now, honestly, I don’t really do stuff that involves much of a safe word, and also there are probably rules about how safe words are important and should be snappy and easy to recall in the heat of the oh-jesus-christ moment, but, look, fuck that. Here’s what’s fun.

Just tell him, just make it clear, that from now on there is only one effective safe word. And it is this: Do it to Julia! Do it to Julia!

And if you were wondering how awesome I was. Precisely that awesome is the answer.

Stop. It. Now.

Okay, so here’s the thing. You know me, I love a pun.Punning is the highest form of wit because it combines stupidity and poetry. And those are the two most beautiful things in the world. Well, after biceps and tears and cocks twinkle-sparkling with precome in the midsummer sunrise… (God, I started to sound a bit like a fucking pagan or something then. Which I’m not. (Although that may be surprising seeing as how I am a fat white woman that doesn’t like to wash so much.) But I am not. I heart science. Sorry. Sorry, science.)

So, look, the thing about punning and kink is that as kinky sex don’t change much, it is still, even after a thousand years of endless marching forward into infinite futures, still essentially about the same thing. So, see, most of the puns – you have to understand – kinda done. Especially the most common one where a phrase in common usage is made, uh, hilarious, because of certain context. Really. This has to stop.

There are certain words you associate with perversion: kink, ropes, whip, etc. And there are certain phrases in general use that might have those words in them. Those two true facts do not mean that using those general phrases in kinky contexts, or, say, kinktexts, counts a (a) funny (b) clever (c) acceptable in any way. (Really, not when you have your whole life ahead of you.)

Look, I’m not saying it was never funny, but let’s face it, it really probably wasn’t.

And because this is important. Trust me, my head is throbbing and my eyes are blurring and my ears are dripping blood like I’m about to start yelling for chrisitng Sookie!, just thinking about this. Here are the phrases you need to stop using in relation to anything kinky. i.e in kinktext (has that caught on yet?). We need a form of zero tolerance. I propose that we ban all these phrases from use as smug kinky in-jokes. And everyone reading this swears (just reading these words means you agree and swear properly and everything and I can flick you on the nipple if you don’t comply), but yeah, you swear you will absolutely not sex anyone who transgresses. Promise. If we all stick together we should have these cringers gone in about a year. It basically the plot of Lysistrata (I can wait while you google it, you blunt fucking pencil) with a few minor tweaks and a much more serious end goal.

We can add to the list, but these are the first phrases that need to be gone.

Ironing out the kinks
Anything like this. Just no. I think this is one for which mandoms are often responsible. ‘Cause, you know, men being funny is all macho and shit. Laddish. (Eurgh.) So there is a style of mandom that is full of the cracking of hilarious zingers just to show how heartless they are about their poor victim’s poor victimy predicament.

This would be fine if the jokes were actually funny. But most mandoms are thick (look, I don’t know why, but they are – maybe it’s a dominant trait seeing as how it’s uncanny how many dominant women have the exact same IQ scores as small piles of damp sawdust) and so the jokes are lame. And he never finds out just how lame because (a) thick and (b) assumes the lack of laughter is down to the gag. How wrong you are, captain, how very wrong.

(No really, I saw a mandom say this on some bit of low res crap on You Tube. (Hey, remember when you could get, like, anything on You Tube? Remember when all you had to do was type ‘bondage’ into the You Tube search box. Yeah, I got a lot less done then. (No, really, even if for that to be literally true I would have to be erasing things from my hard drive.)) But, yuh, mandom says this as he removes the gag off of tied up woman and replaces it with other – presumably more horribler gag, but I forget, my attention was waning fast – and he goes, between the two gags, just get the kinks out, or something. So obviously ha, ha, ha, don’t all swoon at once femsubs, he’s the whole package! And also he seemed somewhat unreasonably boastful about gettting one over on a woman who was tied to a chair. Yeah, dude, fiendish!)

(I am very sorry about the use of tense in the last paragraph. I don’t know what happened but we clearly lost a wheel.) (And I think we may have been on a unicycle.) (Which is really the most worrying thing of all.)

Whip Smart
I recently saw a new I was a prodom and here is my memoir book called this. (Well, I say “new”, I’m not exactly sure what the women writing these books are bringing to the table where we keep the reservoir of all human knowledge (it’s a big table – yeah, big enough to have a reservoir on it…um, anyways): Essentially there is a job called prodomming. It involves everyone dressing up. The men are creepy. It’s subtly different to other kinds of prostituion. Great. Thanks for taking the trouble to write that down, ma’am. Really, we could never have done it without you.

But, yuh, anyway, Whip Smart. Heh. Good title. Clever. Or, you know, it would be except that every other prodom memoir book ever written is, like, also called that.

Learning the Ropes
Hey Mandom, yes you, Master Bator. You rope top, Afficianado of the delights of the restrained female form or what ever fucking nonsensisical borderline misogynistic guff you have decided to spout today. (Oh, yeah, look, forget that. I know, I know, it not all about the woman hating. (Well except when it is. (But bondage is hardly unique there.))) But anyway, at least now I have your attention and I am going to use my direct line into your soul to say, look, sir, please, godamnit please, please,when you run your bondage “workshops” (quotes there purely to be facetious) just try not using the phrase ‘learning the ropes’. Really, like, just try it. You might like it. Not looking like a twat, that is. (Course if you find you enjoy not looking like a twat even more than you like tying up women you might have to rethink your sexual choices, but hey, that’s your problem, daddy cool.)

 All Tied Up at the Moment.
Femsubs, this one is mainly for you. (I know, I know, it was hard having to wait so long before you got any attention. Thank god you managed to do it without unleashing the big guns and getting ‘bratty’. I can’t tell you how grateful we all are.) But, yeah, so, you’re on a kinky forum. You’re making a profile page. You’re posting a pic of yourself. Or maybe, you’re the type to post several million pics of yourself (you know who you are), but look, anyway, fine, go for it. Enjoy. As I am pretty sure you have to wash your inbox out with boiling dettol every morning more power to you for grabbing your fun where you can. But, sister, wait! Wait right there. Photo caption time. Think once, think twice, think about rethinking captioning that pic of you upside down in the hempy harness that celebrates the ancient Japanese art of Atari as “I’m all tied up right now”.

Comedy is a tricky thing. A subjective thing. Not here though.

Pleasure Bound
Yeah, ‘cause, like pleasure is nice and so is bondage (you know, if you like bondage). And then bound also means heading towards (or whatever, I’m a tetchy, low-frequency blogger not Dr fucking Johnson). So yeah, cool. Lots of meanings. Cle-vah!

Yeah, great, sadly biggest meaning of all if you use that phrase to title your kinky website, or niteclub, or life, is I am either so clueless I don’t know this has been done a hundred times before OR I’m just an idiot. Don’t advertise these things about yourself. They are not sexy. Hey, free advice: if you’re trying to get someone interested in your action, try and hide your flaws. Then when they are later revealed they may provide a useful early get out for a relationship that is beginning it’s natural painfully-disappointing wane.

See also Bound to Please. Or don’t. In fact, instead, poke your eyes out. With pokers. That’s what they’re for after all. That’s why they’re called that. Pokers. See? Or rather don’t see. ‘Cause you poked your… anyway. Fuck, though, Bound to Please. It’s so clever it’s stupid. And, it’s not actually even clever.

Women on Top (or, alternatively Girls on Top if you like pluck at one of my most hopeless, gossamer-flimsy, hair triggers and call women over 18 girls. Unless you want me to be thinking pigtails and lollipops, the word you want is women, you pathetic, wilfully ignorant fucktard).
This phrase is actually especially hateful. It the first femdom specific one and I hate every single last thing in femdom that carries an implied ooh weird, women in charge OMG whatever next vibe) which is shit for me as that means I basically end up hating the whole of femdom: from the ridiculous caution! caution! of making the word dom into the word domme, right up to the fuck me that’s so submissive sub-man iconography where he’s doing the fucking ironing (Jezeus!).

So, multiple bleh points to Women on Top. Which is (a), like the others in this list, lame and tired like my poor ransacked heart. But, yeah, also (b) implies utter sexist shit i.e. the lamity-crap that women being in charge is so unusual and weird and down right wrong that it need to have a fucking lampshade hung on it every time it happens (I do not like this – I am shy and sensitive and lampshades itch) (see also Girl Power)

I’m sure there are more over used stupid kink phrases. Kinky cliches, or kinkliches (come on!). Why not tell me yours. (And if you are feeling creative – why not be your own cut out and keep Bitchy Jones by adding a paragraph of pointless swearing to illustrate your frustration. Really, it comes easier than you’d think.)  

(I would also like to see the end of the cleverly (aka stupidly lamely unimaginatively) co-opted song title. ‘You Always Hurt the One You Love’ , ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’.)

Of course, I suppose, the problem is, without these things, most kinky magazine articles, conferences and workshops are now not called anything at all. Which is a shame, of course, but I can’t solve everything. There are only so many hours in the day. And I need 22 and a half of them for sorting out my own problems. (Or messing up my own life. End result is pretty much the same.)

Fun: Games

This was inspired by a reader comment, but I forget which one. I think it was someone asking me to write about the stuff I like to do. And I was all, like, wah, there is no stuff! But, actually ’cause, hey, there is still stuff I like. It’s still there. Just ’cause I’m not doing it right now. So…

It made me think how long it’s been since I wrote properly about that kind of stuff. The stuff I really like to do. And I should because, really, I still think it all the time. But, writing this blog I’ve come a long way since I wrote this.

And although that is the truth, the real deal with me is so much more geeky and weird and just basically permanently vibrating between the smallest inconveniences for him and outrageous fantasy death match abhorations that will never actually happen because of time and money and not wanting to go to jail and great yawning maw between my occasional nocturnal purple passion and the reality where I tie a guy up and smack them a tiny bit and then get all weepy and loseriffic because, ‘oh and oh and oh I don’t like the idea of you being hurt, baby.’

See, I am lame. I am no good at this kind of sex even though it is officially the world’s easiest kind of sex and all it involves is lying on your arse whining. And, really, you would think I’d be good at that, but I am not. Well, I suppose, by some measure I am good at *that* but I am not good at the dominatrixin version of that.

The reason, I suspect, that I am not good is because I actually like it and therefore care. For serious. I got this really inneresting email a while back from a woman who has friends who are prodoms (I often hear from these mysterious women) who told me that a lot of pros are sub in their real lives and, that it makes a lot of sense when you think about it because sub women would make better pros. Not because of my snark that, god you’d have to be into humiliation to want to dress like that etc, etc, yawngasm…but because someone who has submissive fantasies is better at making a submissive fantasy come true. And, you know, I think there is a lot of truth in that. And if it’s true I think it comes with problems attached, because although I think submissive women are great and cool and have their own barrel full of shit to deal with about how their sexuality is portrayed (not as big as my barrel, just saying, but mine is the biggest barrel. I got here first. I assigned the barrels) but I think problems could be astemming from the fact that the authors of my sexuality are (a) submissive men (aka men who fetishise imaginary idealised women who don’t want sexual contact with men) and (b) a bunch of submissive women who know just how to be mean in that way where it’s hot, but just aren’t really into the idea of being dominant themselves really, in their own time, for the sexy kick back.

But, never forget these women from group (b) are going to be way better at fulfillling your dom-dom fantasy than me. Which is why you pay them and have them standing on the doors at all the nightclubs and ignore me, which is understandable as I am, at best, completely annoying.

‘Cause me? Your fantasies? I fulfill my fantasies. Although, as covered in depressing detail, this happens entirely cerebrally.

But when he comes along: I like games. Cards. I like bridge best and poker also. I like odds and abstraction. I like a simple set of rules that sends one tumbling into endless possibilities. I’m a bit too spacially-spazzed to play chess well – but chess is super high romance to me, and I’ve had more than one crush entirely fuelled by omg, he’s good at chess. In fact my first crush of adulthood (aptly named because it actually did feel like the medieval method of execution -a subject that you are no doubt unsurprised to find me well versed in. Ah, yes, moving on…) was on the guy who taught me chess. When, in fact, I already knew how to play chess. But, guh! Crush! I LET HIM TEACH ME AGAIN!

I like to lie in bed and rework the Marilyn vos Savant puzzle. (Because I find the counter intuitive nature of it so beguiling I have to rework it every time I think of it). I love probability .Probability is the big bad wolf. I love the way it can lead one down the wrong path if you don’t watch every step.

It twinkles and confuses. The helpless, hopeless, kludged together, built-for-another-world human mind trips in the same way over and over.

Chance. Odds. Oh yes, and I also love to be outrageously blatantly unfair just because I can. I make the rule. I skew.

Dice make me excited. It’s true. I must have spent too much time thinking hot thoughts about die so, now, rolling a dice around in my hand is like a sex thing now. All I think of is his face, how he needs to roll a six to have even the tiniest chance.

I like to add new rules. Like those weird endless online games. I like to make it so complex neither of us can remember. It doesn’t matter. I’m in charge. So a roll of four means the cane not that you come. Of course I’m sure. So don’t roll again. Roll over.

Course, a game like that, he wouldn’t stand a chance. And that bores me. Black. White. Who likes to play on grey?

‘Cause, see I like him to have a chance.

No really. Just not a big chance.

But I like the idea that if he risks enough he could win. That there’s a chance it could be me that loses. That it could be his triumph. My Waterloo.

That he could win and win big. Because that way he could be persuaded to gamble everything he has. His dignity, his cock, his life, on that one roll. Gambling, see, is so, so pretty. And that, for me, that is where romance is. Always. Did I mention that romance is what this is all about.

‘Cause some people seem to think it is about these weird guys who, if you are mean to them, take you shopping and do the ironing. And, really, you know, I have no idea who those guys are, or what they are on about almost all the time, but I really wish I didn’t keep getting their mail.

Hands Down

I was a lonely girl. I grew up in the countryside. As a teenager I was an socially graceless frumpy mess, who made her own clothes and would turn down each and every social engagement for an evening knitting and listening to Radio 4 (on a valve driven radio I still own and prize despite my new pink Sony digital thing and the fact that Pan threatens to leave me every time he is reminded I still have it. We live in a small flat – it’s a large radio.)

And yes, I know you’ve lapped me, in so many ways, nothing has changed. 22 years on I am still that awkward fourteen year old mess with greasy finger marks on my glasses and all the social skills of crisps.

Anyway I would recommend this isolationist method of child rearing if you would rather your spawn were good at writing than at speaking other humans because the other thing I did, while hanging out in the attic of my parents house was write.

I wrote stories. Fantasy epics. Frankly because actual table top gaming would probably have involved too much human social interaction (and also because the only group playing at my school were writing their own future cliches so dedicatedly they did not allow girls to play – but it’s a weird truth that when someone tells me about their D&D playing youth I am all, wow, you were one of the cool kids). And, I can’t remember much about that epic story except that it involved a lot of brutey men and capture and cruelty and floggings and public execution… and who the fuck am I kidding here I remember every last damn detail.

My self insertion character was very smart but short and fat so no one wanted her. (Shut *up* – I was a teenager). She was in love with some kind of spin on Prince Charming. And my god, was he charming. Fuck’s sake I knew how to knit my own boyfriends back then. But she was married to some earthy worthy type who was some kind of Lord Chancellor. I’m sort of ashamed of typing that. Lord Chancellor, Zeus god, geek much? But I have avoided so far telling you that my self insertion was an enchantress so at least I’m holding onto some shreds of dignity.

Here’s a confusing aside. The Chancellor husband character was, in my head, played by Michael J Fox. I had a huge crush on Michael J Fox (if you want to make some kind of Parkinson’s Disease/good in bed type joke, take it, but please bear in mind you are talking about THE MAN I LOVE.) My crush on Fox was entirely based on one tiny mistake. In the opening of Back to the Future* Marty McFly is in bed asleep and it looks at little bit as if his hands are tied behind his back. They actually aren’t. And, yes, really, that’s it. That is how starved of filth I was (and still fucking am), which kind of neatly brings me back to my teenaged felt-tip driven attempts at happy one-handed  reading materials.

In the story the land where my enchantress heroine and her husband and her desperate and doomed crush is invaded by and ultra baddie – who is of course built for badness with oozing muscle and has evil villain hair. Pretty much exactly like this. (God, the shame.) Anyway, here’s what I am trying to tell you – in order to get the heroine (yeah, me) to do what he wants ‘cause she is all super powerful and fucking magic and shit he threatens Michael J Fox, specifically he asks her to do, god, well, spells, I expect and she says no way and he says, fine, cut his fucking hand off.**

Oh, hands.

Hands are so it.

Hands are where I look. Really, even before crotch. (Actually I am far to nineteenth century to really look straight at a man’s crotch.) Hands first. Everyone does, don’t they? (No one really looks at eyes. Who cares. Mouth, sure, but what are his eyes going to do? No one’s gaze is *that* penetrating.) Hands. Every straight woman. Everyone with a vagina, even. Or everyone with a hole in their body that they like to sometimes not be a hole. Long fingers, big bumpy knuckles like aching tree knots. That’s your magic wand, Harry.

Hands. Oh hands and to be marooned on a pacific island with a piano playing spinal surgeon.

I like his hands. And because my lust always drops into certain grooves sooner or later, I want to take them away. Or one. The dominant one. So nine out of ten times the right one. His dexter. His starboard.***

Locked behind his back. Via mechanisms I would bother to research if this constant craving were ever coming up off this page. (Feel free to design me some kind of harness if you are bored.) Watching him fumble with his wrong hand. For sore and crampy hours. In bed, or not. I just love the idea of taking something so small away and seeing how long it would take for that to break him.

Sometimes I think about him wearing a gag and having to communicate by writing. Because watching him having to write stuff for me is delicious anyway. Lines – god. Watching him write wrong handed, letter by painstaking letter, some please may I whatever randomness, is almost autogasmically hot.

Sometimes he wants out. He can’t bear it. He wants his hand back. He offers to buy it. Not with money, silly, that’s hella dull compared with, well, compared with him buying his way out with pain. Time without his right hand weighed against strokes, implements or swapped for time in clamps, time without orgasms, time in cages.

Sometimes I just watch him, leaning in the kitchen doorway. He’s washing up one-handed, swearing under his breath. Then he sees me and, holding my dumb, mouth-open, over-wrought gaze, says, super-soft, I love the things you do to me. And he’s naked. And he has an erection. And then he fucks me in his stupid chains. The chains of my stupid desire.

And that’s nice.

*Oh, I checked and it’s not the opening scene. It’s a little later. You can view the moment my little heart went ping in all it’s 7 second ultra low res glory here (skip to about 6.40)

**Yeah, I am well aware of this familiar theme, in that I am not the perp of the violence (or the threats). In some ways the me in this story is one of the victims. And yet, what I like, is the power. I’m not the baddie, but I have the power to make the bad things stop. Slice that up any way you like.

***Bitchy Jones fact file: Starboard is my favourite word.

My Quiet Night In

I just want to state for the record that last night I had the most enjoyable Saturday night for a long, long while, alone but for the company of this blog and an electronic device. Enough almost to make me think I could actually become a separatist – you know, if it ever actually comes to that.

(Although the fact this blog is written by a man does actually contribute to the way it thoroughly does for me, so that’s a thing, I guess.)

If you are pushed for time, or wish to make some kind of desire graph of me: here and here, were, um, highlights and by highlights I mean exactly what you think I mean.

(ETA: And a quick read through reveals that this post is probably now the top google search result for the word ‘actually’ – because my writing! it has the word crutches!)

In which I am as wet as a puddle but not as deep

I’ve been reading a few radical feminist bloggers for a post I want to write – and, you know, maybe actually will write if I ever get off twitter and put my knickers on. But, it made me think about me and my, you know, thing as a feminist who writes about female dominance. ‘Cause occassionally in a comment thread someone will say that someone else ought to read me (and the three million other people will come along and go GOD NO, DON’T READ THAT POLEMICAL SHREW – SHE THINKS ALL WOMEN HAVE VAGINAS. Or something. Damn those haterz.)

It’s odd that a lot of my best known writings are about trying to prise femdom out of the paws of patriarchal structures where it is being dutifully reshaped into something that looks exactly like mandom but just with men being the ones with the weak dripping pussies and women being the ones with the towering phalluses of power. Not that mandom is bad so it is bad for femdom to look like that – it’s just that femdom isn’t mandom. That, for me at least, is something of the point. I do not want to be a mandom for a million reasons – but one of them is that I do not actually want to unleash my cock-dragon on some slutbitch-hoar.

In fact it strikes me more and more that what I am actually looking at when I look at femdom’s *stuff* is some kind of cross dressing version of mandom (like a mandom panto version) that has been somehow misfiled as femdom. And actual femdom has been lost in the cataloguing system.

And that makes BJ cry.

So, cross-dressed mandom has become the femdom norm. And that’s annoying. And that’s a lot of what I write about. And thoughts I have had in my head (which is where I mostly think) about why that should be the case has led me to write a lot about gender and sex and feminism.

But here is this. I never meant to do that.

When I wrote about strap ons being rubbish, my main point wasn’t really that this being the femdom sex norm has rather heavy implications about the whole of BDSM being about the en-phallused person being the dominananant and power wielding sex partner. And if that’s what BDSM is about that’s somewhat problematic. *coff*. I wrote it purely because I didn’t like the come-shot of femdom sex being a kind of sex where I didn’t get to feel a whole bunch of pleasurable sensations all over my body. (And by my body, I mean my vagina – and with that kind of reductive thinking about women’s bodies I could probably get a job as a man. (Ha! Bullseye – told you I was a feminist.))

Really, all the other stuff about strap ons sucking and having an offensive level of presence in femdom is true, but I was never motivated by that so much as by my own frustrations about the sex I like having such deep foundations in acts that stop me getting pleasure.

‘Cause, for serious, I like to get fucked. I don’t think every woman alive likes to get fucked. But I do think a lot of them do. And that’s why I think sex were the woman is dominant needs to wiggling around a bit so that getting fucked can actually be part of it. Because it feels nice (I don’t mean the wiggling around – though if you’re in the mood). And I want nice feeling stuff in my sex. Don’t tell, but I may well be more of a hedonist than I am a feminist.

Similarly I mainly complain about forced fem because I don’t find cross dressed men hot. The whole thing where it automatically equates femininity with submission and femaleness with a kind of lesser-ness is one thing. And I do care about that. And forced fem always made me uncomfy for that reason. But truly, the main thing that pisses me off about it is the fact that I want submissive men to look utterly hot. I want to look at pictures of male submission and grab a vibe not a sick bag.

I say all this because if I do write what I am going to write next week, it will be all hard and thinky and use the word patriarchy a lot. So I’m just here right now to remind you that, really, deep, deep, not-really-very-deep down, I’m all about the fucking fun, baby. All about the fucking fun.

So, yuh, radFem/BDSM debate. I am a-coming. Running all the way. A truly, this brain of mine that you love so much, ‘tis a-fire. Though not necesarily with anything that useful. And if you’re reading this thinking I’m going to be on your side, whoever you are, I’m probably not.