Little Wonder

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I’m not in any kind of scene. I don’t go out a lot. I like to write my blog and think my thinks. I’m not even very active online. I’m not a big participator in forums or anything. I’m no one really. Not part of any gang. Never really found one that did it for me.

I went to a thing last week and there were a whole group of sex! positive! type people all talking about the fetish scene as if it were some kind of social thing. None of them were kinky in the kind of deep down my-vanilla-she-is-broken type way I am, but they all knew more about this ‘fetish scene’ than I did.

I felt kind of crappy and inadequate. Pan laughs about the times we have tried to go out to fetish niteclubs. Always my idea – I get excited if I find one without a dress code. He gets dragged along. I take one step inside and feel immediately how much I don’t belong. He’s there, dancing, drinking, talking to weird looking people. Fitting in.

I’m in a corner, lost, getting mistaken for a femsub, or Pan’s kink facilitating girlfriend, or a misdirected tourist. No one ever asks me to the after party/the VIP area/the secret society. Ever. I’m really no good.

Sometimes I feel like a I have a talent for not belonging. Maybe that is why I have decided to forge my own grumpy vulnerable dom-woman sexuality of one. No you can’t come in, fuck off.

I can pretty much feel out of place most anywhere. I could feel out of place in my own bed if I tried.

Which is why it is all rather weird that I had to go to town last week to be filmed for a documentary about female sex bloggers.

I am token pervert. So I had to say what BDSM stood for. I may have fucked it up. Oh god, who died and crowned me queen of the dominoes? I can’t even trot off the BDSM thing with a smug face. You remember the part where I failed basic. I think I just lost my provisional license too.

I think I forgot discipline. (Insert your own joke, clever boy)

Anyway, after I had been “filmed” for “the” “television”. I thought, god, I really ought to be more “real”.

So I went to Coffee, Cake and Kink.

CCK was not there when I made my last and laughable attempts at being part of a scene. It is newish. And I think says it is the only kinky café in the universe. Or something. Anyway it seemed like a good idea.

And they do tea.

They also do cake.

And making Bitchy cry.

Sitting downstairs in CCK I began to feel sad. Disappointed, I guess. Daunted. Because I saw how big my self-appointed task is. And I saw that it is impossible. There I sat wondering who ever said I could spin straw into gold. Hoping that Rumplestiltskin might turn up and sort this mess out for me.

It’s impossible isn’t it? You go somewhere modern and cool like CCK. Somewhere that is proud as punch about its recycling and fair-tradey-ness, and find it just as fucked up as every-fucking-where else.

Downstairs in CCK there were five women, two men and me. On the walls was a fetish art exhibition. CCK is also a gallery space. I like art. Most fetish art is shit, but this was rather good. Black and white inky sparse things. Kind of Beardsleyish.

Here is what they are of. A woman in a basque – this picture is called Mistress. That’s good – no one’s going to be mistaking it for a picture of me, then. Seeing as how I am not some arbitrary self-elected ‘mistress’. See my bank account for proof. I spend all my money on submissive men – paying for it gives me a rush like a gambling addict on a losing streak.

Next picture is of a woman’s arse. She is wearing stockings. Next is a woman tied up. Woman’s arse getting whipped. Another woman in lingerie. Another woman tied up.

There are also some big paintings. I think these are by a different artist. They are not as good. One is of a woman’s arse. She is wearing a corset and has no head. One is of a blindfolded woman. One is of a woman looking all moody. Grrr. Perhaps she has her period.

I decided to root around and see if I could find any evidence that CCK know that women experience sexual desire. That women can be viewers as well as viewed. Bite me, I’m radical.

Next to me was a very prettily lit cabinet. It contained four books with women on the covers. 2 DVDs of Preaching to the Peverted with an actress done up as a dominasty on the cover. She’s the main character. Guess what kind of dominant woman she is? Go on, guess.

Also there are 2 different ultra lame looking kink soft-pornos with women on the covers. One is called London Fetish Girls. Like the moody woman in the painting the 3 women pictured are also clearly all on their period. And, from how red and sticky their mouths look, are suffering from terrible cravings for jam.

On the floor of CCK are folders of pictures to buy as prints. In amongst thirty or so of women I find one man.

And much later, I find a line drawing of a bound man hidden behind the door. Really. Hidden. Like you needed to have directions to see it in case a het man got his sexuality broken by looking at another man tied up and his cock twitched. God, it’s such a shame that that happening would make the world end, isn’t it?

So… The fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking male gaze. Thing is, I know you can say, well male gaze is everywhere, deary, that’s the way of the world. This is true. But really, I don’t care so much about the rest of the world, partly because I am a sexual nimby, but also, I thought when it came to reactionary ideas about gender a kinky modern enlightened café might be, oh, slightly better than the rest of the world.

Just this crazy whacked out thought I had.

Once, while making an argument like this (albeit less coherently – if that is even possible) I was told off for being homophobic. Because I forgot to say that some women are bisexual. But look, if you will just allow me to live in heteronomativity land just for this argument that will benefit everyone.

Please trust me when I say I don’t hate gay and bisexual women. I just don’t fuck them anymore ’cause I got myself hooked on cock and stubble. And seriously, if that’s the only argument you have against me – women like to look at other women too, so it’s all okay – you know I’ve won.

I’m sad to say all this really, because I know CCK are a good place run by good people. But even their loyalty cards have a picture of a tied up woman on them.

So I write this in a loving way, in the hope that my harsh scathe will help them grow and be better. It’s a lot like the tricks my parents used on me.

Oh, I’ve just remembered how they don’t work. Those methods raised an ungrateful, confused pervert prone to tantrums if she doesn’t get her own way. Watch:

It isn’t fair that everything is this shit. I never wanted to work this hard. I never wanted to do this on my own. Fuck this shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck. And fuck you most of all you people who I know ought to be doing better.

So I was all enraged sitting in CCK and then Jack arrived. And everything got a whole lot better.

To be continued.

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