So look, I love Charlie Brooker normally. I’ve loved him pretty much forever and ever. Certainly, since when he was just that snarky website. Maybe I identify with him someway somehow, but, o’ course he chose to snark about TV and here I am snarking about some ridiculous asshatted sexual sub culture that I choose to inhabit for reasons that escape me right now.

Charlie Brooker is funny and smart and I’ll always remember him saying that The Power of Nightmares was like someone coming along and washing all the bullshit off your TV with an industrial hose. And I even forgave him that lame sitcom. But sometimes, in the end, you are cruellest of all to the things you love, because, god, you just expect so much more.

So, see, let your eyes roll over this here as a (presumably – I’ve not checked or anything) heterosexual man gets all confused by men being a teensy bit nakeder than usual and allowing themselves to be a teensy bit more sexualised than usual and so decides that that makes it, um, ‘homoerotic’.

Incredibly, [Spartan is] not the gayest-looking male Gladiator. That honour goes to Atlas, who has a body made of raw, bulging muscle, but the head and face of a woman. In his introductory ident, he appears to shake his flowing locks and wink coquettishly at the viewer. They should’ve called him Dorothy and had done with it.

Yes, he winks at the *viewer* so that makes him gay, of course, because the viewer must be male. I mean there is no other way to deconstruct that paragraph is there? Strapping young Atlas flirts with the viewer – attempts to engage the viewer sexually - therefore Atlas is gay. Sorry, does Charlie Brooker (who I *heart*, remember) not know that women watch television? That women have eyes?

What the fuck is going on here that this is an acceptable way to talk about the stuff of things?

You don’t think it might be slightly repressive to label all male (potential) sexual interaction as ‘gay’, do you?

Um…

Keeping with the homoerotic theme, you may have noticed that all the male Gladiators have names that sound like gay nightclubs. Oblivion, for instance, sounds like a steaming 4am sinbox filled with strobe lights and shaved heads.

Yes, but Charlie, because of people thinking the way you do about male sexuality, everything to do with men being sexualised in any way sounds like a gay nightclub. Our entire vocabulary for sexualising men was invented by gay men ’cause they had the agency to do it. (Whatever the world has thought about gay men throughout time and space the one thing they don’t seem to have thought is that they don’t have sexual agency – if anything (’backs against the walls’) they are thought to have too much.)

All sexy macho stuff is has vaguely gay overtones because gay men led the way in demanding sexuality from men. I may have mentioned this before when explaining how submissive men – if they really wanted to be sex toys for women – ought to find ways of sexualising themselves that were less fucking unsexy.

Men, if you want to dress like a slut, (i.e you want to dress like your desperate screaming need for sexual humiliation overwhelms and degrades you – and really, please do) dress like a man-slut, damnit. Wear a white jockstrap and big black boots and a collar and shave your head and get some bits of metal slammed through your strategic points of interest. Yeah, you will look kinda gay. That is because gay men know how to sexualise men. In fact, if you look gay you’re doing it right.

And because of this whole thing where gay men practically invented the idea of men being sexy, straight women owe them a debt. There is no doubt that without them we would be stuck with the ‘ew, cocks, ew, smegma, beer belly, hairy arse…‘ idea of male physicality that (some) straight men seem to like to wallow in whenever anyone mentions the idea that men might be sexually attractive.

But having this vocabulary for sexualising men is also full of big problems. And Charlie shows us just where they crop up. Male sexiness is just too close to gayness for a lot of men to feel comfortable with being sexy or seen as sexually attractive *ever*. (Or even with other men being sexy.)

And because sexy = gay for men that makes it harder for us to demand sexuality from men because

(a) het men are scared of the gay - so scared that straight submissive men would rather sexualise themselves with women’s clothing (i.e in a way that doesnot actually look sexy on men) than dress the way a gay man would dress to mark himself as sexually available

(b) it means that any whinging for adequate man sexaulising porn can be responded to by being told to, well, look at gay erotica for that, darling.

God, you know, at least 17 people have emailed me to say that kink dot com are doing a gay porn BDSM site. And isn’t it a bit fucking strange that, god, really, that is so going to be more attractive to women who like men tied up that the site they already have featuring women tying men up!

Look, another disclaimer, I don’t find Gladiators particularly sexy – they are probably just too ridiculous for me - but they are sexualised in a way men mostly aren’t, and the idea that that makes them ‘gay’ is totally fucking offensive and another big eraser rubbing out any kind of female gaze/female desire/ female sexual wanting.

We need to stop filing every image of a naked/hot/aroused/sexy/sexually available man in ‘homoerotic’. Apart from anything else, last time I looked there were homosexual women and they aren’t a whole bunch about the sexualised images of men. I mean, do I even need to start about how if you are a woman a homoerotic image would be one of a sexualised woman - in fact if you are a woman you live in a sea of homoerotica. And yet, somehow, no one ever sees it that way.

But no, let’s look at it this way, and image can only be homo (or hetero) sexual if there is more than one person in it. Otherwise - like Wilde- it can only be sexual.

Because, really, how exactly is pouting hair-tossing Atlas being so gay? He’s there on his own. A man on his own really isn’t going to get up to a whole bunch of gay sex.

(NB You know when I said I didn’t find gladiators particularly sexy I mostly meant the modern version, the idea of real gladiators, or gladiatorial combat, well, I’m just glad we don’t have that now – I’m conflicted enough about the stuff I like as it is. (Although I am also glad we don’t have them now because, obviously, it is also gross and wrong. (But also… (Ah, forget it))))

A non-unusual thing about me – and I guess it is unusual for me to have things about me that are non-unusual, as I do tend to feel a bit unicornish and outsidery – but here is the thing: the thing is this: I never realise when someone is chatting me up.

I am not particularly interesting to look at. I’m that kind of fat and plain and awkward that often translates into invisible. So, fact is, the reason I am so bad at spotting sexual interest in me might be because it hasn’t happened to me often enough for me to create any kind of model of it happening in my brain. Pretty people, I am sure, get it far better because (a) it is something they at least accept could possibly happen and (b) they have had it happen enough times that they kind of know what it’s like.

I’m a dominant woman. I get turned on by a pretence of power, by a fake status difference during sex, by telling him what to wear and how to stand and hurting him only because it makes me gasp and get wetterer. But all around me in my unelected culture is the message that this power, having this, deserving this, having him hold his legs open for a short little strap on his inner thighs, will all happen only because I am beautiful. That my weak female self can only hold the power of bewitchment. That I have no real right to power of command over men unless I am so aesthetically pleasing he is driven mad by it.

Not because he is brave and beautiful and wants to show me his manpower by giving it to me with his grunt and sweat. Not because he might find pleasure in my pleasure, might glory in my hot pulse and flush.

In femdom you simply have this doubled and trebled message that your pretty is your worth, brought on by all the weight of the femdom ideology revolving around a male idea of a very controlled form of female power. As your pretty is your worth for a woman, then if you want more worth (and power and value) just be more pretty.

Which is why sex working/burlesquing/wearing lipstick is somehow (mis)construed as *gaining* *power* because that’s where you get if you extrapolate far enough from female-worth = female-beauty. Even though nothing could really be less empowering than that central underlying fact that you are worth what men decide you are worth.

So it’s not like wearing lipstick in itself is disempowering - it’s neutral - but thinking or claiming it gains you power actual is.

And god, you know, if these days it is like the thing that we laugh at women who burnt their bras as a feministy thing I hope we are going to laugh ten times harder and longer at women who wear corsets and then say that is a feministy thing. I mean, god, wear a corset if you want, wear 12, but don’t start saying it’s empowering. Your underwear is not really doing anything to address the power differentials between men and women now is it? After you take your corset off the world is just that same. So you know, wear so many corsets you can’t get up off the floor if you want, but don’t tell me it’s political. It’s not.

And while we’re on the subject you can say burlesque to me as many times as you like I am still only going to hear stripping with class pretensions. Nothing wrong with it – but women taking their clothes off and being the looked-at-things is hardly new and revolutionary.

What is - or would be - new and revolutionary is this, very simply, men as sex objects for women.

Oh, come on! Give me a revolution and can get behind. Or better yet, underneath. Or better yet, in front of bent over with a folded up towel under my abdomen pulling me backwards. Oh yes, you know, if I’m going to put up with something constricting my pale, unstructured, mozzarella-touch belly I’d much rather it was something nice and firm and wide yanking me back onto his cock than a exoskeleton of metal and lace.

(But you know, this isn’t what we are talking about today. Maybe I can find a way back to my point and look like I had a structure and a plan or something.)

Here’s a weird thing, being a dominant woman you not only feel the intense pressure that you may only have your sexuality if you are some awestrickening goddess, you also witness how claustrophobic it can be actually being intensely desired by a whole bunch of men. The total fucking flipside is that *as* *well* you can even be a frumpy old mess with lame glasses and lamer hair like me and people will still want to get off with you because some submissive men are so liberated that they see past all that surface appearance nonsense and instead wank like monkeys over that fact that I get turned out hurting them. Because of course it so so much more validating to be reacted to based on some arbitrary bit of misfiring brain wiring than based on some arbitrary arrangement of my exterior topography.

But, that’s in kink - I am totally not ever prepared for men chatting me up in a vanilla context. Except for a bet. And so, when it happens (very rarely) I am very bad at spotting it.

But there’s being bad at spotting something… and then there’s this.

Last Saturday, late, me and Jack were drinking, walking in the street on our way to somewhere else. He needed the loo so decided to pop into a pub. Because we had an open can of lager I waited outside with it. It was a hot, hot night (it is unseasonably hot in the UK right now).

Jack had not been gone less than 30 seconds when a little tiny man came up to me. He looked exactly like Niles Crane except was about two feet shorter. He had an American accent and was peachily youthful. He said to me, from nowhere, standing in the street ‘So who do you think lies more, men or women?‘

I said, ‘Gosh, I have absolutely no idea.’ And as I said that I saw a second little tiny-weeny miniature man approaching. He was not so attractive as pocket-Niles – if pocket-Niles could be described as attractive in some generous and forgiving universe.

Pocket-Niles said something about how men lie more but women tell the really big lies because they are better liars. I didn’t answer by saying ‘you obviously haven’t dated many submissive men.’

Or, well, you know that guy in Austria with the cellar under his house full of his incestuous family – I think he maybe told a few ‘really big’ lies. And maybe, oh maybe, the biggest lies are the kind of genocidal, warmongering type of lies, but I’m sure you’d get the answer that ‘women tell the really big lies’ if you asked Tony Blair or George Bush or Hitler who they think lies more.

I never said all of this to them. Being clever and funny after the fact is the true preserve of the blogger.

Because there are many, many other clever answers to this question I never said. Because, oh, damn, I wish I had been smart enough to give this question the headfuck it deserves. I didn’t spend my adolescence reading books on logic problems for nothing (or did I? (See what I did there?)) - and actually maybe my misdirected youthful activities might explain why I don’t know when someone is trying to fuck me

How do I know that isn’t a lie?
How do you know this isn’t a lie?
Women always tell the truth.. or do they? (- see what I did there?)

Or best of all

I can tell you for a fact that all women lie all of the time

What I did say was, ‘So what’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told a woman?‘

And little tiny-weeny gnome one finally squeaked up with some suggestions (a) I love you (b) your bum doesn’t look big in that. Whereas pocket-Niles went all quiet and looked a bit confused.

Then Jack appeared out of the pub and the two tiny creatures *ran* away. I tried to involve Jack in the conversation (because I honestly did think it was a conversation) by asking him who lied most men or women, but it was too late, my new friends were not interested in talking to me once Jack had alphaed his way onto there hopeful territory.

And then, when I told Jack exactly what had happened, he said, ‘That was the pick up artist thing. Like that book The Game? They were doing The Game on you.’ Jack is supasmart. He has read, like, ten million books and he can remember things. He is very not like me. I am smart in a far more smart-brut kind of a way. (Although, I suppose Jack is more of a smart brute than me if you see the subtle differences.).

But, despite knowing that Jack probably knew what he was talking about I was very incredulous because , come on, people who do some thing like The Game don’t do it so they can pick up low-scoring drab looking women like me. Don’t be silly, why would anyone be doing the Pick Up Artist Game thing on me?

But Jack ignored this flapping. ‘In fact I think ‘Who lies most men or women?’ is in that book The Game. It’s one of their questions. There is probably even an acronym for it. They’re geeks. They have given everything an acronym.’

A little online searching reveal that that opener wasn’t just something people doing The Pick Artist thing use, it is like the main thing they seem to use. It is like code for hello I am doing that lame pick up artist thing.

- But there were two of them? Was I meant to have sex with both of them?
- No, the little gnome one was the “wing-man” (Please note that Jack really did do air-quotes here and that he does them *a* *lot*. I would say, rough estimate, every other word he says.)
- Oh, right. But actually, how come you know so much about The Game?
- I just read the book
- Do you do The Game? Did you do it on me?
- Yes, the game has a whole section on impressing women by buying nipple clamps and getting your tongue pierced

But the tiny men didn’t pick me up with their tried and tested. Which is some what sad ’cause if they had just squeaked to me: sex? We have those urgent hair-trigger erections of youth and or cocks are in no way in proportion to our tiny weeny statures. And we’ll gay up. I’m not saying it would have been a sure thing – but that *might* have worked. And it would have required a seismic cultural shifting. The Game/Pick Up Artist thing is fully entrenched in the idea that sex is something only men desire and only women control.

But it’s hardly the fault of The Game that the world is like this. The Game didn’t cause this – it just reflects it back. But, then again, everything that reflects this sad state of affairs (and really big lie) back just enhances it. Every reflection makes it stronger. Endorses it over and over.

It the same as the thing that underlies all those kinds of fake ‘empowerment’ where women are the sex-product and men are the sex-consumers. All the same fucked up thing. None of them are the cause and all of them are the cause

So what is the real cause. Well there isn’t one. Oh, except prodoms.

Sorry that was a little joke – prodoms are reflectors too - they are sex-product (yes you are your fucking bitch-majesty – no matter how much you are into it for the real – you even come gift wrapped for fuck’s sake) and men are sex-consumers. Men paying women for sex is all the same thing.

But I still had to go make that joke about prodoms there and once again bait a bunch of people who’s job it is to know how to hurt and humiliate people. But luckily for me I’m pretty much immune to being called ‘a cockhungry slut-whore’, I mean, and?

And, obviously, also, this entire post has been a lie

And obviously also, also, who does lie most, men or women? Answer in the comments. And see if you can convince me to believe anything you say is true.

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

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

*skips*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My design. Such that it is.

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

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

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

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

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

- Please can I take them off.

- No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- What? Vernon Kaye *is* a model.

I slap again.

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

(See I do protocol.)

- But I thought Vernon Kaye was my safe word.

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

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

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

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

Thirst. Salt. Heat. Desert dryness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Shut *up*. I so do.)

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

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

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