Beautiful, depraved

the year of living almost celibately

2011-01-10T21:06:00.000-08:00

it's been a strange year.

for someone who advises people to have plenty of sex and plenty of wild sex, i've had little of late. I'm like a reverse-christian. they tell people not to have sex, but have it. i tell people to have sex, but don't.

i've made lots of new friends this year. i think all of them are in open relationships. i didn't set out to meet them. it's not like i went to swingers' clubs and could say, "oh, how strange, all my friends are into group sex." it just happened. well, it happens when i'm open about loving sex (the sex i'm not having). when i open up about that, other people open up and suddenly it's a room full of people who are open and everything is on the table.

i like the freedom in these people. they're open and they don't have judgment. the lack of judgment carries over into other parts of their lives. not all of them, i guess. i'm making a blanket statement here. but the ones i'm close to.

there have been some interesting men. men i did have sex with. but none of them were at the orgies. i was a voyeur at the orgies when i'm usually the exhibitionist.

one was a retired psychiatrist. jewish, brilliant and funny.

but i think my favorite was the filmmaker. this is how it went.

he didn't say much at first. there were a few questions back and forth and short, halted answers. i didn't get him, didn't recognize him until he asked me about the modigliani. i have a modigliani print on the wall. it's a nude; modigliani does the best nudes. they're tasteful and erotic.

he asked "is that you in the modigliani?"

I smiled because he asked the question with my answer already in it. people often don't know who modigliani was/is. and, if you aren't into art, you may not either. modigliani lived at the turn of the century. he painted sensual and beautiful nudes. in those days, you could paint a woman full frontal naked so long as you didn't paint her pubic hair. that was considered obscene. he painted women's pubic hair. he went to jail for obscenity.

the pathway to me is guarded by intricate tests like this one and i watch in amusement as people mostly stumble over them.

the answer i usually give people when they ask if it's me in the painting, is that it was me one-hundred years ago. they look puzzled and i leave it at that.

what a beautiful question he asked.

it was that question and the fact that his fingers lingered around my outer labia. a woman's outer labia are so much ignored that i had almost forgotten mine existed. but his fingers spoke to them and it was because of these two significant gestures that i decided to let my guard down.

i kissed him right away. i was in the middle of my period. i think i've had some of the best sex of my life when i've been bleeding. it's the man's acceptance of me--for all of me--and the animalistic feeling of blood everywhere.

i came violently with him, sobbing all over his shoulders. i explained, like i've gotten used to doing, that the crying is good. but he knew. "i've dated a cryer before," he said, smiling. i must have known intuitively that he could take it because i let it all go.

he was relentless. i'm very rarely matched, in fact, i don't know if i ever have been matched in bed. how does that not sound egotistical? it means that i want depth and authenticity and sexual skill and intelligence and an interest in spirit and the heart of an artist. altogether in one man. if you say that sex is just sex and all these other things don't matter in bed, oh, but you're wrong. give me the man in bed and i'll tell you all about the man in his life. it's all there.

so there he was, with his wide swathe of references, his relentless, thick cock that had no need for ejaculation. and his voice. he called me an elegant woman with a hot cunt. i liked that he could appreciate the dichotomy.

i just found this that modigliani wrote to a friend: "(hold sacred all) which can exalt and excite your intelligence... (and) ... seek to provoke ... and to perpetuate ... these fertile stimuli, because they can push the intelligence to its maximum creative power."

(it was on wikipedia. i wanted to make sure i got the obscenity story right. i don't think i did. an exhibit was closed, but i can't find mention of him being arrested. correct me if i'm wrong).

i guess that's what i'm trying to say in this post: "hold sacred all which can exalt and excite our intelligence... because they can push the intelligence to its maximum creative power."

oh, and i later found out he was/is an award-winning filmmaker and he's worked with some of my heroes. of which there are only a handful--okay, maybe two handfuls--on the planet. i rest my case--read the sexuality and you read the person.

Release

2009-08-07T18:46:00.000-07:00

The latest issue of F/lthy Gorgeous Th/ngs, which is Release, went live on Saturday (August 1st). With it, we have a new subscription model at $9.95-/month and the option to purchase individual articles and photo sets through a credit system.

I write a weekly column - Sacred, Profane - where I've so far put together a series on Tantra and am now working on a serial that tells the story, essentially, of my sexual awakening in Nymphology. I'd say that my life has been a flow of events that have helped open me, but there was definitely a particular time period where that growth was accelerated.

In the Release issue, I've also written about cervical orgasms in Orgasmapedia. An excerpt:

"I tend to access them through deep love and openness, or through really intense, pounding fucking. The latter are therapeutic in that I feel like something is locked up inside me and I can't reach it through words, or by a name, but if I'm fucked long enough and hard enough then it just tumbles out of me. In grunts, tears and unwinding. I get there through endurance and persistence. I need to have deep, cervical stimulation, usually when I’m being taken from behind, and I’m on my knees."

And I have a piece on the delightfulness of all the fluids we find in the sexual experience: Juice. Of course, I write about my love of come. I'm also fond of sweat and tears, in one big drippy, beautiful, excretory mess.

Needless to say, I'm doing most of my writing over at FGT these days. You'll find me there, and many others, including debauchette, who also has a column. I'll probably still post short notes here occasionally. We always leave a couple of pieces open to the public in each issue, and in this one it's my Juice piece and an interview with Erika Lust. There's a film clip of a very hot film she produced.

Hope to see you there!

Photo: Pierre dal Carso (full set at F/lthyGorgeousTh/ngs)

Modern Love and Legendary Cocks

2009-06-02T11:33:00.000-07:00

Many thanks to Madeline for Fleshbotting my Legendary Cocks post (written in a trembling, post-fucked frenzy) and making said cock even more legendary. It deserves it.

We've published our second issue over at F/lthy Gorgeous Th/ngs, called Modern Love. There are fantastic written pieces on love/lust in the modern age, including a Post-Porn Manifesto, debauchette's stories of epic sluttery and the men who love them, as well as pieces by me on Webcam Love, Intimacy in Numbers and Composite Loving. There you go; if I'm not writing about cocks I love, I'm writing about exhibitionism, marathon sex and group sex.

Enjoy!

K
xx

Cock Love ii. Tales of Legendary Cocks.

2009-05-28T17:05:00.000-07:00

I just had sex with the most phenomenal cock I've ever met.

I say 'cock' rather than 'person' because I'm going to venture that the cock is an extension of the man, and this man is a king among men. Alpha male to blast all alpha males. To fuck the source of all that energy - I'm still trembling, stars in my eyes and all a glow. I melt with this man, melt all over his cock. And let his cock melt inside me.

It also happens to be the biggest, most beautifully formed cock I've ever met. I've bragged about this cock - its breadth and responsiveness and how he has to carry it across the room. He never wears underwear. He just lets that magnificent thing swing loose, and able to be plucked freely out of his pants at any time by my mouth.

I'm totally in love.

It's the kind of cock I'd cross continents for. I can barely type, I'm jittery still.

I'd post an image of an almost similar cock, but it just wouldn't do it justice.

*sigh.*

F/lthy Gorgeous Th/ngs

2009-04-26T18:49:00.000-07:00

Without further ado, allow me to introduce:

filthygorgeousthings.com

If you are just tuning in, F/lthy Gorgeous Th/ngs, or ‘fgt’ is the creation of debauchette, myself, and a few others. It’s been borne out of a shared love of sex, art and transgression and is a home for intelligent and visceral sexual content in various forms: writing, photography, video and audio in the form of an online magazine. I’ve written about the site before in my Postmodern Pornography post and debauchette describes her take on ‘art porn’. In a sentence: it’s haute porn with a heart. Our ethos is to offer finely edited, quality content rather than ‘something for everyone.’

We publish a feature issue monthly and have regular columns that update from daily to biweekly. I write a column called ‘Sacred, Profane’. Initially, the site will be available gratis and we’ll be adding a subscription model in the coming weeks for our next issue. We also operate with a patron system, much like the art museum model. With it, we offer devoted connoisseurs the opportunity to commission original work and help fund more ambitious projects for the magazine. Future additions to the site include a retail boutique and a member’s area which will allow like-minded hedonists to connect. The Daily Fix, our fgt tumblr, will always be free.

If you are looking for a home for your risque work, please get in touch. We'd love to hear your feedback and suggestions on the site in general.

Excelsior!

Kasia

Images: the mofo and 'first time sinner' by art collective cuminthestreets

Open letter to photographers

2009-04-01T09:26:00.001-07:00

I just received an email yesterday from a photographer, the likes of which were as follows:

"You have a photo on your web site that you do not have permission to use. Take it down! Where did you get this photo? It's a photo of a girl on a bed with her but (sic) exposed."

At first, I was thinking that someone was impersonating said photographer: the language, the tone - it was so juvenile that I had a hard time believing this was written by any sort of professional. I double-checked and yes, definitely written by the photographer.

My response:

"Happily.

However, since I have about 175 pages on both of my sites, perhaps you could be a little more clear - such as sending me a link - as to where you saw this photo. "a girl on a bed with her but exposed" isn't quite enough to help me find it.

As to where I found your photo? I have no idea, at least not until I see it. I probably found it on another non-commercial site that posts pictures from photographers whose works they love. That's actually how I learn about photographers I like so I can pay them to do photo sets for me in the future. I believe you've already been in contact with debauchette, who is my partner in an upcoming online magazine, to do a paid photo set with her. I'll let her know you probably aren't suitable for us."

I will absolutely remove anyone's photographic work from my tumblr or blog - both non-commercial, not for profit sites - though I'd prefer that someone ask in a polite and dignified manner. Given the current climate of viral marketing and publicity, my posting a credited image (well, I think it was, I still don't know what image this person was referring to - oh wait, of course, it's the one of a girl's 'but') on a non-commercial site doesn't seem like it warrants an obnoxious request. However, in the end, the work belongs to that person and if they feel their rights are being encroached upon, it's their call to make.

What I'd like to say is this: before I started posting on my tumblr last year and by so doing, viewing many other people's tumblrs and resultant links in the process, I didn't know who 80% of the photographers were whose work I post. I learned about it through tumblrs I like - meaning we have similar taste and I look forward to their choices in content. A major impetus for even starting the tumblr, and restarting my blog for that matter, was to extend out into the vast web of like-minded people and find others like me. To connect.

When someone reprints blog pieces or excerpts of mine elsewhere online my first response is that I'm flattered. My second is that I am grateful for the additional influx of new traffic that I otherwise would not have had. Occasionally, people write to me for permission to repost my (written) work, which is a lovely and respectful gesture, but for me also not necessary. Apart from the strange aggregate mirrors of content I find once in a while that seem to duplicate my blog in its entirety, I'm absolutely fine with it.

There's a fantastic piece written by Courtney Love for Salon.com quite some time ago where she goes into her thoughts on music 'piracy.' I'm extending that to cover 'piracy' in general. The reality as I see it is that anything that's already online is both copyright and in a sense free for distribution with proper attribution. It's an unwritten code and sometimes written because in this online era, that's how news travels - everything is viral.

As debauchette and I step into launching fgt, we're faced with real questions such as: What value can we offer in original content (that we pay for) if it can just get lifted and reposted elsewhere? Do we pay for photographs that are already widely distributed online? Why would we?

Our intention is to create a venue that houses almost entirely original content. We'll pay for that. If we run something that is already out there, we'll gain permission to run it and not pay for it. In our minds, people are benefiting from their work being distributed to a wider audience. And we enjoy being able to introduce people we love to other people we love.

The thing I dislike about tumblrs is when people deliberately remove the name of the author/photographer. That's errant. An argument I've heard is: "It's my own personal scrapbook; I don't want all those messy names cluttering up my page." Em, right. I sometimes reblog/post images that are not credited, (only after searching through link after link in hopes of finding the artist). Reluctantly. I get the idea of wanting to collect something even when I can't attribute it to its rightful author, but I would never deliberately remove a credit.

My suggestion? Lighten up. Stop biting the hands that will feed you. Republishing your already published work seems like more of a compliment and a way of extending your reach. For free. Eventually, in gaining more fans and prospective clients, it will bring you money. I'll pay you. But I can't pay you if I never discover you.

I'm very curious to hear points of view from all parties involved in these situations.

Savage lust please

2009-03-17T22:45:00.000-07:00

debauchette and I are looking for reader submissions for a couple of areas on our new site. Hot, steamy, sweaty, lust and love filled somethings are what we're after. They can be pithy one-liners or paragraphs of seduction, confession or wanting. Perhaps a post (or during) coital snapshot. Be honest and raw. Heartfelt. Or loinfelt as the case may be. Think: a sexual Post Secret.

If you've seen both of our blogs and tumblrs (mine, hers), you have a sense of our aesthetic.

Your submission may be text, video, audio or photographic in format or some combination thereof. Please email to: editor@fgtmedia.com All personal information will remain in confidence and you may of course submit anonymously, with a pseudonym or receive credit for your entry. Sending us your secret grants us permission to edit, own and use it in the future.

Getting back in touch

2009-03-01T21:46:00.000-08:00

Hello there.

I've been awfully remiss in writing lately. debauchette and I have been focused on getting things together to launch fgt, which is set to go live mid-March (insert breath holding here). She refers to this project as our "webby love child," which seems perfectly apropos. Here's a little preview:

I also took a break from chronicling my post break up process because I needed to gain some distance from it all. I seem to have that now and feel like I can start gearing up in my life again. For a person who is decidedly sexual, I can go for periods where I'm rather asexual. But I think I just end up imploding on myself. It's not me in my most natural or exuberant state. It's me in suppression. When my libido is screeching, I'm usually in top form all around.

I'm going to attempt a friendship with my ex. I oscillate about it constantly but I'm going to see how we go. When I really accept that there are pieces of us that just aren't compatible, I can move beyond and accept the parts that are. No guy has ever been friends with me and tried not to fuck me though. I wish him luck.

I realized today that the most significant love relationships I've had have been with men who are outsiders. They do their own thing, they exist on the fringes of the cultural flow and in their self-made realities. It made me think about how I see myself that way. I've spent a long time shunning crowds and the all too human activity of um, socializing. I chipped away at a very large piece of armor today that I've worn for many years. It has prevented me from opening to life and people in ways that make everything more meaningful. I was keeping myself protected but cutting myself off at the same time. It was cathartic and a long time coming. I felt so sure about it today as I spoke to someone - sure about cleaning up the messes and hurts of the past and creating something instead which is about love and support. I let myself be vulnerable and expose what is probably my deepest wound thus far in this lifetime. Because when that wound happened, my whole world changed. And now, 13 years later, I'm changing it back.

It's funny. You know, there's a tempo you hit with people when you're both open. Something in the voice changes. It gets richer - it's infused with love. And when that's there, it's the only thing to hold onto. That tone, that depth and hearing it, whatever it takes to get there is the only journey worth taking.

Oh, and I have a twitter now. I thought it would be an interesting challenge to write these short 140 character sentences to bookmark parts of one's life. Like a haiku on the run. It's that, and it's a way to shout out to all sorts of people in abbreviated poetry - somewhat less intimidating than having entire conversations. I think the British take to it better though. They're all about the witty endnote, which I love.

I'm shy about these things so please introduce yourself there.

Much love,

K
xx

Photo: from our very cool fucking magazine about fucking.

Saddlebacking defined

2009-02-18T08:33:00.001-08:00

The verdict is in. Saddlebacking sad•dle•back•ing \ˈsa-dəl-ˈba-kiŋ\ vb [fr. Saddleback Church] is officially the term for: "the phenomenon of Christian teens engaging in unprotected anal sex in order to preserve their virginities."

Anything that further promotes anal sex is a good thing.

To fuckbuddy or not fuckbuddy

2009-02-01T07:44:00.000-08:00

I'm torn on this issue.

I prefer to: 1) fall in love or 2) have flings (contained arrangements, often induced by travel) or 3) spend my time creatively.

Overall, I prefer depth and purpose in my fucking. The sex is better and it's harnessed toward something. Empty sex bores me. Each person ought to be seduced to some degree, seduced enough to succumb.

I tend to be more of a one-time-only fuckbuddyist, since I find that while the thrill may be there for me once, it rarely lives on. I tend to pick men up and drop them quickly. Or I have flings I suppose, inspired by frequent travel. It's easy to encapsulate the best of the person for a short time and ignore their coke habit, lack of money, drive or intelligence. I like to fall in love for a few days or a week and then exit. It could be argued that I'm not really in love, but I'll argue back that at its essence, love is opening myself to someone.

Unless the person is exceedingly beautiful.

I like pretty things. I like them around me and I like them in me. The only fuckbuddy I've ever kept around for any length of time was: 1) Adonis-like in beauty, 2) could fuck me very, very hard, 3) had marathon regeneration power. Clearly, a keeper. At least for his physical offerings.

Said fuckbuddy has been calling and texting relentlessly for the past 18 months - since I told him I was involved with someone and wouldn't be participating in our sporadic rendezvous. He didn't believe me; I've never really said no to him. I've flown into town at 3am and met him at my place at 4. We simply had to collide bodies.

For months I've ignored his pleas. Until now. I felt excited to hear his voice, a slight leap in my chest and my groin. The thing I would struggle with is the urge to let myself fall and resisting it. Wanting to kiss him but denying myself. Knowing how nourished I want to be mind, emotions and body and feeling very little of that be acknowledged.

I've been imagining him on top of me, tasting his skin, his sweat, and the feel of his cock in my throat. I've been craving throatfucking lately even more than fucking fucking. It's the intensity I think. The eye-watering, suffocating, obliterating intensity of it.

I read somewhere that a fuckbuddy is just a really shitty relationship. Maybe. At least if it's honest, it has more on a lot of relationships I've seen. However, if it's something else I really am craving, then to be discriminating would say that I'm wasting my time. I told him this. He offered to be friends. I'm pretty sure his hope is that at some point during our 'friendship' my guard will be lowered and I'll be face down on the bed with my panties lowered as well. And I might enjoy playing with that tension for a while.

I think I will see him when he next comes into town.

** After writing this post I realized that 'fucking with a purpose' has been done before, albeit with a different perspective. See? We are all one.

Photo: unknown (via)

Saddlebacking

2009-01-18T21:20:00.000-08:00

I've been a fairly regular reader of sex advice columnist, Dan Savage of Savage Love, for several years now. I have to admit, I visit less for the advice (which happens to be excellent) and more for his witty and often merciless repartee.

I also became endeared to him several years back (in 2003) when he started the Smearing Santorum campaign. At the time, American Senator Rick Santorum, in an interview with AP, "grouped gay sex together with incest, polygamy and zoophilia as deviant sexual behavior threatening society and the family. He further stated that he believed consenting adults do not have a constitutional right to privacy with respect to sexual acts." (wiki)

Savage held a contest amongst readers to find a new definition for the word 'santorum', preferably something with disgusting connotations, that could rival and replace Santorum in popular consciousness and language. Someone came up with the definition: "that frothy mixture of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the byproduct of anal sex." Fantastic. With diligence and love, legions of internet users clicking on the site Savage created, spreadingsantorum.com, edged the actual Rick Santorum site out of its first place sitting on google.

Today, Savage has a new crusade: a definition for the term 'saddlebacking;' something befitting for Rick Warren, pastor of the Saddleback Church. Since Warren shares many of the same views as Santorum, it's apropos that he also be immortalized. You can read Savage's column on the subject here.

You can make a difference! Your vote counts!

Below is the reader submitted shortlist for the soon to be anointed 'saddlebacking' term. Take your pick and email your favorite to: saddleback@savagelove.net

(1) "Logically, if 'barebacking' means having butt sex with no condom, then 'saddlebacking' should mean having butt sex with a condom."

(2) "Saddleback (verb): to submit someone to any kind of humiliating, unreciprocal sex act, either literally or metaphorically, consented to by passive partner due to submissive/masochistic tendencies, desire for approval, or other darker motive. E.g., 'I don't know why Obama is letting Rick Warren saddleback him into presiding over his inauguration.'"

(3) "The saddleback position involves placing your lubed dick between the butt cheeks of your partner. This position can be performed on your sides or on top of a facedown partner (maybe with a pillow under his or her hips). My favorite way of finishing up the saddlebacking is to lift up and come on my wife's sweaty back. The saddleback is a nice compromise position when your partner won't allow anal entry."

(4) "To saddleback is to rail against gay sex in public while secretly indulging in the same in private. Ted Haggard? Total saddlebacker. Larry Craig? Saddlebacker. Rick Warren? Probably a saddlebacker."

(5) "'Saddlebacking' should be the term for the phenomenon of Christian teens engaging in unprotected anal sex in order to preserve their virginities. 'After attending the Purity Ball, Heather and Bill saddlebacked all night because she's saving herself for marriage.' Please, please adopt this definition!"

(6) "Saddleback (verb): to ejaculate on the back of a partner at the culmination of doggy-style anal sex."

(7) "Before being invited to give the invocation, Mr. Warren was most noted for his book The Purpose Driven Life. Therefore, 'to saddleback' is to fuck with a purpose, i.e., to procreate. A heterosexual couple asked if they're trying to have children could reply, 'No, we're not ready for kids yet, but we'll probably start saddlebacking next year.'"

Hmm. Some tough choices. I think I'll go for #5. Number six is good as a sex term, but I'd really hate to do anything that denigrates the beauty and form of doggy-style pounding. Santorum (the substance) was unique in that it was gross and in need of labeling at the same time.

Ahh, I love the internet. Goes to show you what the will of a number of disgruntled individuals can achieve. Absolute pandemonium.

The inaugural cock suck

2009-01-11T14:40:00.000-08:00

I told myself I'd wait until the new year to recommence any sexual escapading. I wanted to be sure I wasn't running from anything and give myself time to clear my system.

But a girl's gotta eat.

Come, that is.

As a good omen bestowed by the gods of fuck, the lovely Madeline at Fleshbot included my 'Sexual endurance' piece in the best of the sex blogs round-up. Many thanks Madeline. Of course, many thanks to the cock of inspiration.

Photo: Natacha Merritt

Sexual endurance

2009-01-08T22:33:00.002-08:00

His cock is in my throat. I've slid underneath him so that he's straddling my face. I'm looking up at him, his sleek, flat stomach, his heavy eyes. He is panting. I focus on wrapping my throat around him like a hand or a pussy, feeling all the angles of my mouth massaging him. I experiment until I relax into a position I can hold for a long time. That's when I realize that one of my favorite things about any sexual encounter is the plateau. The zone.

Orgasms, while they can be powerful, are for amateurs. Anyone too intensely focused on their orgasm or too vulnerable to having one feels like an unworthy opponent. I've discarded lovers ruthlessly if I've ever ended up with one who didn't value extended pleasure.

David Deida has a theory that women need to be fucked for at least 45 minutes before they'll even have a decent cervical orgasm. (He divides female orgasms into three types: the clitoral, g-spot and cervical, and ranks them in the same order for level of profundity. Deida is the one person I've come across who does this and I agree with his assessment. More on this in another post.)

The only men I've ever taken seriously are those who can control their orgasms and who value fucking for a very long time. When I find a man who keeps me up all or most of the night, I hold on to him. He clearly values sex as much as I do and has put in the time to become an excellent lover.

On another level, I draw a correlation between his sexual fortitude and his intestinal one. Flimsy fuckers are flimsy men and vice versa. I've never met a fearless fucker who also wasn't a fearless man.

The only thing that can assuage my disappointment at a man's orgasm is his ever-ready cock responding again in a few minutes. Then all is right in the world again.

New beginnings

2009-01-01T16:49:00.000-08:00

"Anything or anyone that doesn't bring you alive - is too small for you."

–David Whyte

While I'm not much of a new year partier (I tend to stay indoors and do my best to avoid drunk people), I do like the symbolism of a fresh start. I also believe in having the discipline to make changes throughout the year, but to cast a line now seems fitting.

I've been settling into my 'single-ness' and my emotional parts are settling into their own resting places. I feel optimistic and excited about the future. I'd have to say that I feel even more myself, a new blossoming or uncovering of self than I've felt in the past eight or so months in the relationship I was in. I'm feeling light and effervescent.

I was watching Belle de Jour - The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl. In the second season, Belle falls in love. She agonizes about if and when to tell her lover about her day/night job. Eventually he finds out and she ends up changing herself in different ways to become someone he'd feel comfortable with and wouldn't be threatened by. She starts shrinking. Even he notices that she's no longer the woman with the spark in her eye he first met.

The proclamation I'm making is to live bigger and spend time with people who appreciate and support my outrageousness. I've had the most fun in my life when I've been able to openly be who I am. I realize as I get older, that discretion keeps doors open, but really, I think it's important to find ways to be all of who we are and still make that work for us in our lives. Too much compartmentalization is fragmenting internally. It's a hard life to sustain and frankly it's also boring.

I've been appreciating the gifts and synchronicities of timing in life. It's an acceptance that although events in the moment can seem crushing and senseless, with time, I can see deeper meanings behind all of it.

In the process of me sharing more in this space, I've come to know some amazing people. I appreciate the words and thoughts of everyone who has taken the time to write. Your encouragement and support mean a lot. Thank you.

Image: source unknown.

Hello libido.

2008-12-23T14:24:00.000-08:00

Oh, how I've missed you.

I know I've shunned you for the past month. It's not that I don't care for you deeply. The truth is, I've been afraid of you. I know you have a mind of your own and you can be relentless and unstoppable. So I've done a little dance, played a little hustle to distract you.

But you're back.

I was on a very long fucking bus ride, made excruciatingly longer by the snow. Long drives always give way to sexual fantasies for me. And I was in a hotel room alone for three days. Maybe it was the illicitness of hotels - transactions and secret fucking. I'd write and then masturbate, bringing myself to the point just before orgasm. Then I'd stop, write some more and masturbate again, keeping myself perpetually wanton.

On the bus, I'd undress every man, press myself into him and feel how he'd fuck me. And how I'd fuck him. Then I'd comb through my infinite library of group fucking scenes: me and oh so many men. I was wet and frenzied.

In the middle of my reverie I receive a text from an old lover:

"Tell me about Agent Provocateur." I want new lingerie. I think he should buy it for me.
"You'd come with me and I'd model pieces for you, straddling your lap as I come out of the fitting room. The shop girls in their tight pink mini dresses fondle me as they adjust my straps. I'd meet you back at my place, wearing my new ensemble. You'd come in and I'd pin you against the wall, then down on the floor, grinding against your cock, my very wet pussy staining your pants."
"Come on, I don't believe the girls fondling you part." He's not much of a sport here.
"They do 'private fittings'. Then I'd climb onto the table, spreading my legs and masturbate for you. "
"What's gotten into you?"

It's what's come back into me.

Image: source unknown

Timing is everything

2008-12-18T07:45:00.000-08:00

Knowing when to leap. Knowing when to leave.

There's always a moment, in the beginning of getting to know someone, when I'm faced with diving in. I can feel myself perched, hesitating, knowing that I either have to take the risk and jump, or I stay back. It's not a moment that offers itself again, so it's foolish to think my decision in that moment doesn't matter. It matters a lot. In that moment, everything can change.

I seem to stay in relationships longer than when I know it's time to go. Not because I'm in love with the person anymore - I usually know I'm not. I am in love with the idea of joining my life with someone and creating something together. It's sad to think of letting go of all the effort that brought us that far and starting again. So I end up working toward an ideal, an illusion really.

I've seen it a few times now. There's always a huge cost on both ends for not taking advantage of the portal that presents itself and using its momentum to fly off into another world.

It's all about trust. Trusting that I can leap when it feels right and my intuition tells me to. That something, somewhere, will catch me.

Stages

2008-12-13T08:45:00.000-08:00

I remember a friend whose Dad's passed away when she was in her early twenties. She'd done a lot of work around grief and she'd told me about Elizabeth Kubler Ross, and her ideas on the stages of grieving. Anger was one of them.

I felt angry the past couple of days. Fuck you kind of angry. I wanted the rest of my stuff back and was determined to get it. I didn't want to see him even - I was going to suggest he leave it on his porch. He was becoming an asshole in my head. I was thinking of some of the things he said to me in the last, painful moments of our demise and I felt wrongly accused and unseen.

From what I know about anger, it can be productive in that it can let us know when a boundary has been stepped over. It can be motivating - when I played soccer and I'd be tripped or body-checked, that would be the incentive I'd need to score a goal. When used in a healthy way, it can be fuel.

Or it can create false justification. It can be toxic. I could feel myself slipping into that place and that was the cue I needed to step out of it again. My anger shifted into action. And empowerment. And with that, back came my sex drive. Suddenly, in the knowing that I was going over there to pick up my stuff, I was imagining his cock, how wet my pussy would be the moment I saw him. I could feel his thighs with my hands and my mouth. Feel him on top of me. It was huge and overwhelming.

*sigh* I'm side-stepping that. I'm glad to see my sex drive is connected to this feeling of pushing forward, movement and growth. I'll be directing it elsewhere.

I went back to check out the other stages of grieving. According to Kubler Ross, they can happen in any order, and people don't necessarily experience all of them:

Denial: feeling in shock, unconscious refusal to accept the facts
Anger: why is this happening to me? Another shroud to deflect pain.
Bargaining: I promise I'll be a better person if...
Depression: withdrawal from life. I don't care anymore.
Acceptance: I can't fight it, I might as well prepare for it.

I haven't studied her work enough to know where sobbing uncontrollably fits into that. Maybe it's in acceptance. All the other stages feel like delaying the inevitable. Really crying it out seems to me the most truthful acknowledgment of what's happening.

(I'm summarizing from my experience and a few sources: this, this and this)

I also found this from Dr. Roberta Temes in the book, "Living With An Empty Chair - a guide through grief." Three types of behaviour seen in the grief-stricken:

Numbness (mechanical functioning and social insulation)
Disorganization (intensely painful feelings of loss)
Reorganization (re-entry into a more 'normal' social life.)

She speaks to the pain as a form of dismantling - pulling everything apart so that it can be put back together again. I think I'm actually pulling together well. I'm productive, energized, and still somewhat heavy. I have some restless anxiety that I think is more about me needing to channel myself elsewhere. What I'm missing right now are social outlets. So much of my time was spent with him, so much of my inner life I shared with him that I'm feeling like a tap that's been stopped up and needs to be released. The pressure is building up. Creating social situations has typically not been my forte. I'm not much of a small talker, but sometimes I surprise myself and I can jump right in and really enjoy myself. Or, I just direct the conversation toward sex and suddenly I have a lot to say.

Spoon me

2008-12-08T23:15:00.001-08:00

I was thinking about what I wrote in my last post, about me knowing I ought to leave and not leaving. There's something crazymaking about woulda/coulda/shoulda and I don't think it's healthy for me to dwell there. I had an insight, I overrode it. I am where I am. It's best if I just step forward from here.

I'm craving touch. I want to be held, spooned, encased in tenderness and warmth. I want the comfort of someone's breath next to me, inhaling his scent, the reassuring rise and fall of another body. Waking up in the night entwined. I'm slowly accepting this empty bed, but I'm still a bit shocked.

I miss having something/someone immediate to love. I guess this is where people get dogs.

Image source: unknown

Written on the body

2008-12-05T17:53:00.001-08:00

The past few days I've been feeling more emotionally settled. I question that a bit though. I don't want to numb myself and push forward too quickly. I believe in the power and importance of healing and going through whatever I need to to get there.

He (Mark) called me the other night. I've been starting to feel hopeful about the future, feeling myself disentangle and accept the idea of a life without him. I was getting ready for bed, lying with my laptop and writing. My oh-so-pretty new iphone tinkled and I saw his number. I wasn't expecting to hear from him, not for a while. He was in an anxious place. I think he could sense me moving away from him, and cutting the threads that bind us. I'm not in a place yet where I can be a support for him so I felt myself barricading against, feeling the need to quickly patch together my undone-ness while we spoke. The conversation was hollow. I got off the phone, noticing the anxiety simmering in me from hearing his voice, seeing his number come up on my phone. I spent the night a bit restless, wondering if he was going to show up. I think he would respect my space enough not to, but he still has my keys. I once welcomed him crawling into bed with me at 2am because he just couldn't sleep without me. Now I want my keys back. And my pounds of organic frozen strawberries I have stored in his freezer. I'd really love it if he tossed in his chili recipe too. But I don't want to ask for too much.

***

Yesterday I saw someone who does neural therapy. It's a type of injection that is performed at certain nerve junctures and into scar tissue. The concept behind it is fascinating: that a scar carries an electric charge five times that of normal skin and can create an area of 'interference'. Nerve and muscle function can be compromised and random pains can pop up in the body. By temporarily numbing the area with an anaesthetic and a mix of homeopathics, the nerve resets itself back to its original state. Scar tissue is also encouraged to resolve. Rather, dissolve. Any emotional trauma that's since ossified in the scar will be released.

I've had an issue with sciatica for months now. An issue which started when I first knew this relationship wouldn't carry on, but I buried that information. My body hadn't.

Six months ago I was at a workshop. I was sharing with someone about my relationship and she asked me a question that totally caught me off guard. It was about Mark and in that instant I knew we didn't have a future together. I broke down and couldn't stop crying (the workshop was nearly over). I knew it was the truth but I so didn't want it to be. I stayed, redoubling my efforts to revive things. There were moments when we'd surge and then we'd fall flat again. Our flat was never awful, but I was still tolerating.

I could feel when the needle went in, and it's definitely uncomfortable in a dull sort of way. Then I felt a rush of emotion come up in me. I cried, and since it's expected, the woman who injected me just stroked my forehead and encouraged me to stay with it. I did, letting myself breathe and sob and eventually it dissipated.

The site she injected me at is also where I miscarried. I was pregnant seven months ago. Although in all practical terms, it was not the time for me to be having a baby, it felt really right to be pregnant. Maybe all women's bodies feel that way as some kind of biological predisposition. I felt alive, electric, radiant and beautifully feminine. In a world where all things are possible, and all paths are just parallel universes, I could envision it happening.

He couldn't.

After an agonizing weekend that highlighted other issues, we came to the place of agreeing we wouldn't have a baby. In the next few days I could no longer feel the buzzing in my abdomen or the slight cramping that indicates the uterus is growing larger. The tenderness in my breasts was less acute. I felt vacated.

A few days later I bled. The pain and cramping were excruciating. I went out to the forest to bury the embryo. I carried it with me for a few days until I could make it out to the woods. I would palpate it, this partially formed, almost-thing, trying to feel where it would have taken shape.

Since then, I've had a dull ache in my abdomen that's slowly spread into my leg and been bothering me ever since. The epicenter of that pain is wrapped up in those nerves and ganglion, tight and twisted and sad and disappointed. When the naturopath injected me there I burst into tears for a life that could have been. For the possibility of someone's hand on my stomach, curious and excited. And for me not leaving when I knew I ought to have.

When I look at the sign I hadn't heeded about a life that wasn't meant to be, and its subsequent albatross in my abdomen, I'm sad. For not listening to myself and honoring my wisdom. I also see how it's an art to heal a wound gracefully. To not keep picking at it (by being in touch with Mark) and succumbing to the urge to itch. The urge subsides and if I nurture the wound, it leaves its mark, but doesn't get in the way of things to come.

Internal feng shui

2008-12-03T19:52:00.001-08:00

Nicolaa Tamindzic posted this image and quote on his tumblr the other day:

“Your soul is as disheveled as your apartment, and until you can clean it up a little you don’t want to invite anyone else inside.”— Jay McInerney, Bright Lights, Big City (quote via villagevegan)

I like this because one of the things that's given me forward momentum over the past week, is examining the state of my "home" and wondering where there's room for beautification. There's lots of room, of course. I'm scrubbing and mending and washing the debris I've let float in the ethers. It's uncomfortable to take honest stock, but I'd rather be growing than decaying.

And this:

"When love isn't in our lives, it's on its way; that is the nature of the universe. If you know that a special guest is coming at five o'clock, do you spend the day messing up the house? Of course not. You prepare. And that is what we should do for love." -- Marianne Williamson, Enchanted Love

The anxiety of falling out of love could only find repose... in love

2008-12-01T07:20:00.000-08:00

The sadness I can deal with - I know if I let it run its course it will eventually dissipate and transform into something like joy. It's the anxiety that debilitates me. I've been wondering what's causing it and it seems to kick in when I question the rightness of splitting up. Thinking I could be making a mistake. It's not logical, given the overview of everything, but it's there. A mild panic that if I'm going through all this, there'd better be a good reason for it. There is.

The thing that's enabled me to rise above that is to focus on releasing him, with love. Knowing that he has something he needs to do. And I have things I need to do and it seems better if we do them on our own. If I try to block the love, I feel stuck. When I open to it, even though that love will slowly transform into divine love or detached love rather than loverly love, everything feels much better and my anxiety dissolves. It's basically letting go.

I can feel myself recasting my dreams in other directions. I'm lightening, though still easily triggered. I went for a hike today somewhere we used to go and came to a spot we stopped at once when we were first seeing each other. He put his arms around me; he had this incredible way of holding me gentle but firm. His limbs always wound around me, like twining vines. It made me feel safe. Encapsulated.

When I got to that spot, I cried. I cry when I see someone's words about love. Or when I see a photo with a man's hands on a woman's body - even the image of skin touching skin moves me. I've been hunched over in bathroom stalls between meetings, and alone in the forest in tears. Someone (thank you) wrote to me today: "the pain is intrinsic to healing." I agree.

On another note, I'm ovulating. I'm a jittery, sensitized huntress. I see myself scanning rooms, scanning men, looking for a match. My sexual compatibility locator is fairly accurate and I can feel it activating. I'm going to sit on this for now though. (I guess we'll see how long). The Taoists say that we can convert our sexual energy into creative energy, so that's what I'm focusing on. Looking at art porn all day, however, does nothing to diminish my urges.

Photos: unknown and Su Blackwell (book-cut sculpture)

Freedom

2008-11-28T21:35:00.000-08:00

There's an axiom in the spiritual path I follow: freedom, or God-realization must be won anew every day. Unlike the Buddhists, who see enlightenment as a static, permanent destination, I (and obviously a few others) view it as something we have to struggle toward constantly . We can have it today and tomorrow we have to find it again. It's an equilibrium with an ever changing formula.

I slept about three hours last night. I was talking with (I'll call him) Mark (my ex-lover) and the conversation made me increasingly anxious. My body and mind were pulsing all night. And through the day. I had a big project I needed to finish so I just kept plugging away at it, intermittently sobbing at the computer, in my car and in-between conversations with my designer.

I spoke to a friend and she was talking about break-ups. Either I've deliberately chosen relationships where I'll feel less (which I have at times), or I've already been finished, or the reach of the person into my life was not so pervasive. In those cases, I seem to move on fairly quickly. My friend talked about how absolutely shitty break-ups are, how everyone avoids them because they're just so awful, often staying in relationships past their prime.

We talked about the trajectory of grief and the intense sobbing where I'm keeled over from the hurting. How I've been confusing the sense of loss with a desire to go back. She thinks like I do - it's worth inviting grief and letting it overtake her because generally it's a finite thing. There's only so much of it and the faster you get through, the faster you can move onto something else. Like joy.

I actually feel peaceful now. I've earned it though. It's been a hard day. I'm reaching out more to people, forcing myself to, because it's not something that comes naturally. I read something today about creating community in your life that witnesses and shares with you. I want more of that.

Self-portrait

2008-11-26T19:11:00.000-08:00

I write personally in this blog in the sense that I share intimate, sexual details about myself. I offer up my views and feelings on things. Mostly sexual things. But I deliberately keep big chunks of my life off the screen.

The biggest chunk has been the relationship I've been involved in over the past year. I've had urges to share, and parts of that life and that love spill over here in wafts, but I've never outlined them clearly. The reason I'm about to is that it's over. Just writing that word sends up another wave of grief. I'm hoping the writing will help me push past - push through - these feelings into something else because right now they feel crushing and huge. I feel like I have a fairly well developed ability to allow myself to feel things, with the faith that beyond the pain lies something else. In the past few days, there have been moments where that's very hard to imagine.

I'm disoriented. I have anxiety and when I cry, my tears run faster down my face than I've ever felt them. I go to bed feeling disoriented, without him there, and I wake up feeling the same. I lie there for a few moments to make sure I'm not wrong, that he's not in the bathroom or the kitchen or somewhere near but he's not. I think I hear his truck coming down the street but it isn't. I sleep with my arms around a pillow and my face tucked into it. I walked into my acupuncturist's office today with tears running down my face. I walked out calmer, but still with tears.

I haven't shared, not because there weren't moments I wanted to capture and describe and remember. I've kept silent because I think precious things have to be treated delicately. He didn't want to be written about, so I respected that. Mainly though, I think the things we cherish and value have to be honored. We might describe them to people, but I think opening that up for the world to watch is asking for trouble. Our relationship was ours, it wasn't public domain.

I'm confused sexually. I've always employed the "amnesia fuck" after a break up to help wash away the imprints of that person. Now I'm not so sure. I'm a girl who's done a lot of fucking for various reasons, but what's been so different for me this year is the relationship between my heart and my pussy. I met a man I could expose myself to more than I ever have. I could share everything - all the details of my compartmentalized life and still feel loved. I miss the companionship and the way that things come out of me with him that don't seem to come out with anyone else.

Sexually, I went deeper with him than anyone. I went deep with Andre, and I've been deep with a few other people but this had more permanence to it. I felt and hoped we'd be in it for the long haul. He was open, curious, accepting. He matched me sexually. He had a strong sex drive and could fuck with his heart and his cock. He had an amazing, conscious touch like no one else I've ever met. I felt held in all the vulnerable places I went to. And there were a lot.

I think I have my answer though. Yesterday, I thought I was feeling wanton, sexual, open, some embodiment of cunt, of femaleness. Craving a man, wanting to feel male energy. I rubbed up against (um, made out with) two different men. I had three orgasms but there was no kissing. And no actual fucking. I kinda felt better. But in the morning I felt numb.

Today, after crying, today after acknowledging how much I love this person and writing instead, I feel better. More in tune with myself. And more honest. It's him I miss, his brand of masculinity, his love, his touch, his cock. His. Smell. Hair. Arms around me. I'm sad, so so sad but at least it feels real.

Photo: Sam Taylor Wood, Self-Portrait as Tree

I posted this photo on my tumblr a few days ago, with a sad and pretty Goldfrapp song. I remember reading an interview with Sam Taylor Wood and she talked about taking this photograph. She'd been diagnosed with an awful disease and was staying out in the country. The light was hitting the tree in that surreal way it does at dusk. The other day when I posted it I was thinking of the solitariness. Now I think of that twilight - the hour when the door between worlds opens. It's the in-between hour, the time for portals. When things feel magical.

The oblique gaze and something real

2008-10-27T10:17:00.000-07:00

These two photographs by Araki are the most erotic pussy shots I've seen in a long time. It didn't sink in, at first glance, that I was looking at pussy, but a little tremor went through me and then I smiled.

Debauchette and I spend a lot of time talking about what makes compelling visual sexual content - in photography and film. When I think of films I've seen that I was really aroused by, I think back to Belle de Jour, Story of O. I like art. I like sex. I like depth. I like the combination of it all. Those viewing experiences are memorable and convey a richness that few others do.

The obvious thread in the films I've mentioned is that they actually tell a story. In the way that one dimensional sex is typically less satisfying than something richer and multi-layered (with many levels of connection), it's the same with films. The porn plots of: "Barbie came over to borrow a cup of sugar. Boy, did Candy give her some sugar!" are the Dick and Jane of porn. We can all predict the poses and shots from there. The former movies I mentioned are largely about sex, but it takes a role amongst other stories. In so doing, it's more palatable, much deeper and far more erotic.

I remember going to see a live sex show in Amsterdam. I was so excited. I'd met a local guy who volunteered to take me. We sat in a small movie theater showing porn before we could actually go inside. Though I'm disparaging simple plots, the film we watched ran perfectly along the lines of most of my masturbation fantasies: woman needs something, must fuck to get it. The woman in question had an unfortunate vehicle break down on a deserted road. Two men come along and offer to help, but not before she fucks them both. I liked it. I was getting aroused.

We went inside a small bar and there were some random acts of weirdness before the main show on the stage - a woman and a banana that a man eats out of her pussy, another unusual object that I can't remember. Finally we came to the main act. A motorcycle descended from the sky in a cloud of smoke. A man and woman came out, naked, vaguely attractive. And, well, they just start fucking on and off the motorcycle. It was literally 15 thrusts in missionary, 15 thrusts with him on top, another 15 with her ass in the air. They were absolutely expressionless.

I was so disappointed. What would have been the pinnacle of my visit to Amsterdam (I was 20), amounted to so little. Which pretty much summarizes my experiences of mainstream porn: empty, mechanical and mostly boring. Given the impending launch of our haute porn magazine, I also spend a lot of time asking other people what they like in porn. I find a surprising number of people telling me they don't actually like porn because it tends to turn them off rather than turn them on. Generally, I have to agree.

I think it has a lot to do with the oblique gaze - or the act of looking indirectly at something in order to see it better. To me, sex responds in the same way. As does love. To analyze it too much or speak of it too overtly diminishes it so that it eventually fades. The intricacy and delicacy of it doesn't survive a harsh spotlight.

Photos: Nobuyoshi Araki

Erections

2008-10-18T23:27:00.000-07:00

Nothing is more revealing of the state of a man's vitality, drive and masculinity than his erection. It's the divining rod of his power; the barometer of all that is strong and assertive in his psyche. It's the palpable backbone of his existence. When it's pulsing, firm and ever-ready, the man's ability to perform and penetrate the world is at its peak.

I've written about how I fall in love with cocks . A layer of that love is wound up in the admiration of firmness. A cock is nothing if not firm. In the same way, a pussy is nothing if not gushing. In a healthy, virile male, an erection is a thing of wonder - it's solid and available upon demand.

Know the cock and you know the man.

Even a man who needs to combat a tendency to be quick to the draw has more to offer than a man who can't achieve erection easily. It's a natural tendency in the polarity of the sexes, say the Taoists, for men to need to cultivate their staying power. Men are like fire: quick to ignite and quick to extinguish, whereas women are like water: slow to boil, but they keep on boiling. The aim is for both sexes to meet somewhere in the middle - for men to prolong the state of arousal and for women to access it more quickly.

These days, I prefer my lovers to come readymade. By the time a man is at least in his mid-twenties, he ought to have conquered the urge to release quickly. I've also found the occasional man with the wonderful ability to regenerate in minutes. Multiple times. It seems to be a quality they have been born with. On a sexual level at least, this is a keeper.

With men having the opposite problem - the inability to obtain erections or obtain them easily - I find that something deeper is usually at play. It's sometimes a physical issue, but more often it's a dissociation from their sexual energy. They no longer inhabit it and can't activate it; they are sexually dormant. Not only are they withdrawn sexually, but also withdrawn from life on some level. They've lost the urge to bend the world over and fuck it senseless. And in a man, this is a quality I cannot be without.

I tend to have excellent fuck radar (enough trial and error I suppose) and so the men I fall into bed with are generally keepers - so long as I have fallen into bed through a visceral, pussy-driven response. One that (it's cliche, I know, but it actually happens with me) makes me weak in the knees, a bit dizzy and very, very, nervous. Dry mouth, moist pussy, and sweat dripping down my armpits. Those would be the signs of well-matched libidos.

On a tangential note, I just looked up libido (wikipedia) because in words I like, I'm curious to see how many multi-dimensional meanings they have. In this entry, they say that libido is narrowly defined as the individual's urge to engage in sexual activity. Apparently though, Freud talked about the libido as the "instinct energy force" and in Jung's words: "the free creative—or psychic—energy an individual has to put toward personal development or individuation." I like the correlation.

Photo via

The lost art of fingerfucking

2008-09-21T19:23:00.000-07:00

It’s the domain of first dates, back seats and outdoor, stolen-moment sex. It’s the almost-fuck, the limbo sex act that lies in the nether regions of foreplay and digits dripping with post-coital fluids. A hand can be even more sentient than a cock (at times). It’s typically faster and more furious than cock. And most importantly, it can hone in on the g-spot immediately.

My g-spot orgasms are brought on most fiercely, breaking down every iota of my resistance, by a strong, steady and relentless hand. Cocks can do it, and hail the ones that can, but there’s a particular charm to three wildly splayed and hyper-kinetic fingers exploding inside me. Or a hand the practically lifts me by the cunt and across half of the bed.

The g-spot is also the home of the female squirting phenomenon. Stimulated in the right way, a woman can emit a small to an outrageous amount of fluid.

In a particularly ironic twist of fate, given our ass-tabooed and largely homophobic culture, the male g-spot, or prostate is located in the ass. The male prostate gland is akin to the female g-spot – it is located about the same distance inside, responds to the same curved finger that coaxes, grows, flicks and at times pounds into submission. It swells when happy, puffing out and hardening, and then finally releasing with its own version of homo triste.

Photo: Bela Borsodi

"I will make you open there."

2008-09-04T18:46:00.000-07:00

The Basque rinsed the soap off the brush. Now he brushed the vulva lips, up and down, gently. At first, Bijou contracted herself even more. The men’s heads leaned closer. The Basque, holding her legs against his erection, meticulously brushed the vulva and the tip of the clitoris. Then the men saw that Bijou could no longer contract her buttocks and sex, that as the brush moved, her buttocks rolled a little forwards, the lips of the vulva parted, at first imperceptibly. The nakedness exposed every nuance of her motion. Now the lips parted and exposed a second aura, of a paler shade, then a thrid, and now Bijou was pushing, pushing as if she would open. Her belly moved in accord, swelling and falling. The Basque leaned more firmly against her writhing legs.

"Stop," begged Bijou, "stop." The men could see the moisture oozing from her.

- Anais Nin, Delta of Venus

Photo: unknown

"6": Prettiness. ii. Beauty and resurrection

2008-08-29T18:13:00.000-07:00

I wrote in "6": Prettiness. i. about how I perceive beauty as something that's earned, rather than bestowed. It's hard won, a struggle and a triumph.

In my relationship with Andre, I gave him access to every part of my life. He stepped in and stripped from me all the things I had any attachment to: my hair, my beauty, my gender, the shape of my body, the way I dressed, the decisions I made, the direction of my entire life. I allowed to be taken from me all the things I let define me, things that possibly obscured rather than enhanced the essence of me. In the end, I was very glad to have let them go.

*

With many beautiful, long-haired women, you'll notice something they share. They have themselves and they have their hair. It's a separate entity, a being of its own. As is their beauty, but it's particularly noticeable with their hair. The woman enters the room and her hair does also. She flicks it around, she hides behind it, she lets it flirtatiously dangle over her face. It becomes caught between her mouth during lovemaking. She and her hair, this visage of feminine power, are inseparable.

I loved my hair too. It was a perfect, sexy, beyond the shoulder length. It fell to the same spot on my back since I was fourteen. I'd wash it, curl it, highlight it. Andre looked at it as a flimsy adversary. He'd often grab a fistful of it, pull it hard and say, "It's nearly time to cut your hair." He did this several times over the span of a few months. I'd smile nervously, not sure if he was serious. "Ahh," he'd say, letting go, "it's not time yet."

Then it was time.

I'd just had it colored and cut - a beautiful mass of highlights that took four hours to perfect. It shimmered and shone. I came to his place that evening, feeling particularly peacock-like. He looked over my hair appraisingly and grabbed it in his hand, close to my scalp. His grip was tight. Somehow, when he said it, I wasn't surprised and I knew he wasn't kidding. "It's time." I could feel sadness well up in me but I also knew I was ready. To shed.

He led me upstairs into the bathroom and had me take off my clothes. I did, laying everything on the counter. He left and came back with scissors. He gestured for me to get into the tub. I stepped in and kept my gaze down as he started cutting huge swathes of my hair. I watched it fall in clumps, the reds and browns and little bits of blonde, all catching the light in different ways.

When he was finished, he took me by the hand and led me to the mirror. I cried. I didn't recognize myself, or at least the image I had of myself. I felt formless. I looked like a boy, like a girl, my face looked pudgy from the weight he'd had me gain. I couldn't really define myself anymore. He brought me one of his shirts to put on - a huge, baggy button down oxford. I looked even more like a boy. It was unbearable.

He took me to bed and sucking his cock made me feel better. I sucked with everything I had, as I always did, but tonight there was something I was trying to rebirth and bring back to life. His cock became my lifeline since I felt I had little else to hold onto at that point. He came violently in my mouth, which was a minor catharsis. I fell asleep cradled in his arm with my head on his chest.

*

It took days of tears, disappointment. I'd put on make-up, trying to beautify myself, trying to paint away the deep, deep discomfort I felt. Slowly it faded. In a few days I began to feel at peace. I felt free. I remembered a friend of mine who cut off her glorious Rapunzel hair. "You can't hide from yourself anymore," she said. It was true. There's nothing left, no artifice or side-stepping.

It took me a while to settle into it, and once I did, the attention started. A man gave me his number in a bookstore, spontaneously scribbling poetry onto a card. I was approached on the streets. And by women. For the first time ever, pretty girls were flirting with me. The world was full of dykes. At the grocery store, the gym, in parking lots. They were suddenly everywhere. My shaved head was the key to some kind of secret Sapphic code that announced my sexual proclivity. Who knew? Now I was also being hunted by pussy.

Photos: Enrique Badulescu and unknown

"6": Prettiness. i.

2008-07-26T12:35:00.000-07:00

I recently saw Kill Bill 2 for the third time. There are very few movies I have seen or would see that many times. I love this film. I love what Tarantino does with characters. He gives them time to etch themselves slowly on the screen, filling in between the lines and bringing themselves to life. I love the archetypal journey of a woman, a hero, a fighter and conquistador who is courageous and fierce.

I'm with a male friend. We're at the scene where Uma has been buried alive in a nailed shut coffin. She's panicking - she's going to die there. She's sweating, crying, screaming and bleeding. Until she has an epiphany and realizes she has the ability to ratchet herself out of this impossible situation. And out she comes. Pounding, swinging and clawing her way through this mess. She's covered in dirt and blood and sweat and she's looks better than I've ever seen her.

"She's beautiful," I say. He looks at me quizzically. "Uma."

"I've always thought Uma Thurman was beautiful," he says.

"Hmm. Sort of. But she's gorgeous now. Her hair is matted, there's shit all over her, she's bleeding and she's a fucking mess. But she's more self-possessed than I've ever seen her. She's far more beautiful than when she's in her perfect dresses, dolled up or playing stupid hookers."(Smart hookers are fine.)

I remember reading an interview with Uma after the making of Kill Bill. She was talking about how Tarantino claimed to love her. "What kind of love is this?" she said. "He's constantly covering me in shit and dirt... This is love?" I think Tarantino knew exactly what he was doing. You take a born-pretty girl and you dress her up in pretty things, curl her pretty hair and she becomes empty. Vacuous. The only thing she can claim as a self identity is her one dimensional beauty. But take a pretty girl and throw some shit on her, and make her fight her way out of it and she'll grow to be other-worldly radiant and a force to be reckoned with.

Postmodern pornography

2008-07-08T16:07:00.000-07:00

Debauchette and I are finally coming to the point of being able to launch a project we’ve been working on over the past couple of years. We’re in LA, staying in a hotel suite that Helmut Newton lived in to put the last touches on and move forward to our debut.

Here’s the elevator pitch: Haute porn with a heart. Erotic material that’s authentic, intelligent and aesthetically beautiful. Postmodern porn. A sexual New Yorker.

We’ve created a forum for content that is difficult to find and hasn't been allowed to be produced, shown or published elsewhere. Smart porn. It's a website – an online magazine showcasing video, photography and written works. To borrow a term Reverse Cowgirl coined, it's Pornographic Coolhunting.

This blog is about beauty and depravity. How kinky, wild and outrageous sex can be incredibly self-actualizing. How acknowledging our deeply sensual selves can change our lives. How having my pussy in the air for 40 minutes and having someone photograph it (on Helmut’s desk) causes me to lose all traces of self-consciousness. Through these experiences, something in me changes alchemically. I lose my ego. This point is at the heart of every wild sexual thing – particularly every wild sexual submissive, exhibitionist thing I’ve ever done. I lose my ego and I can get back to being myself, unobstructed.

It’s soul Pilates: “According to practitioners, the central aim of Pilates is to create a fusion of mind and body, so that without thinking about it the body will move with economy, grace, and balance. The end goal is to produce an attention-free union of mind and body.” (wikipedia) And so it is with me shedding my ego: I can function without self-censoring. All my actions come forth spontaneously and I don’t think about who I have been or who I should be. I can just be.

This is what compels me to blog about my sexual experiences – to share about the power in them: the em-powerment. Further, it’s what’s compelled debauchette and I to create this venue: to house a space that gives permission. To publish kinky shit, beautiful cunts, dirty thoughts and unspeakable fantasies. To en-courage, to act on courage and to grow from it.

We have many delicious photos to post from our time spent in Helmut’s room. And the balcony. And on his desk. And all over the strange 50's style furniture. (Frolicking all over debauchette’s naked body has rekindled my passion for pussy. She’s as beautiful as her writing.)

Welcome filthy fuckers. You're all invited to partake in the new pornographic revolution. We'll be soliciting open calls for contributors in the very near future.

Photo under the desk: Helmut Newton, 1992
Photo on the desk: Saratoga, 2008

The anxiety of falling in love

2008-06-21T00:04:00.000-07:00

"The anxiety of falling in love could only find repose in bed."
- One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez

**

I get very anxious when I fall in love.

My stomach churns and I'm often fraught with uneasiness, in between periods of calm serenity. I fear loss, I fear falling adrift. I fear exposure and crave it at the same time.

I once had a lover; he was 55 (I like the old ones), and he had just the remedy for my ambivalence, my swaying on one foot to slip out the door, my restlessness: Fucking me senseless.

Our first night(s) together involved a weekend at his chalet. He fucked me night and day. Eight to ten times a night, and again two or three times in the morning after what might have been a handful of intermittent 45 minute naps to recharge. I remember feeling like he broke me. I felt soft and quaky, but it was different. "I feel so vulnerable," I said. "You can be that way in the right hands," he said.

It continued on like this - we were well matched in our appetites for marathon fucking. After the hours of wild sex passed, I felt reassured and euphoric. If the anxiety would bubble up in me again, I could rest easily in the knowledge that he would flip me over, shove his cock inside me and make me forget about any of it. All I was aware of was the free fall and the sense of being surrounded by his love. A soft, thick intimacy. Such is the power of penetration. And presence.

There's a message in this for the boys: Fuck your women hard and fuck them often. And just to shake them up a bit, be exceedingly gentle, gentler than gentle and watch them come from the brush of your hand.

Photo: Morten Bjarnhof

Gen X Dragon Karaoke

2008-06-11T12:43:00.000-07:00

I've written before on the power of music to shift mood, to act as a talisman to bring me somewhere else. When I find something that works, I'll carry it with me everywhere until its value expires. Then I need to go hunting again. I've occasionally had lovers who were music savvy and were constantly introducing me to new sounds. However, since this quality is negotiable in a relationship, I don't always have it. Then I'm forced to go hunting on my own.

I've been tagged now, by both the Reverse Cowgirl and debauchette with the task of revealing my personal music mantras of the moment, so here we go. In the process of tagging and being tagged by some kindred spirits, maybe I'll find more music to love.

"List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re not any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now, shaping your spring summer. Post these instructions in your blog along with your 7 songs. Then tag 7 other people to see what they’re listening to."

1) A Letter From Home - Ulrich Schnauss. German instrumental composer. Beautiful, lyrical.
2) Paper Planes - MIA. Playful and fun. She really is the cutest little rapstress.
3) Failsafe - The New Pornographers
4) There Goes the Fear - The Doves. A lovely refrain. And I have brown eyes.
5) Surround Me with Your Love - 3-11 Porter. This song was playing while I was wandering in the London Coco de Mer. The "Mental overdrive remix" is the funked up version and it's on the Best of Hotel Costes disc. Achingly beautiful.
6) Dayvan Cowboy - Boards of Canada. I first saw this in a skate video (Eric Koston and Mike Carroll). Skate videos have the best music. Seriously. I'm always amazed to see how they time their tricks to the music in the editing process. Langorously epic.
7) Mexican Radio - Kinky I've linked to the original Wall of Voodoo version as well. Both are crazy and chaotic. Love them.

Now I'm meant to tag seven other people. Who to tag? I'll add more names as I think of them or else I'll feel like the last link in a sonic chain letter. For now though, I invite Noah Kalina and the Mofo to share their current loves.

About this blog

2008-06-10T00:57:00.000-07:00

"If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. " - Jane Austen

The things I blog about here are somewhat removed from me. They are still things I love and value, but many things, things close to my heart, I keep closer. I believe that some things are sacred and that to speak of them is to dilute their value. There are echoes and ghosts of my present life in my writing, but I don't speak of them directly.

Raymond Carver titled one of his famous stories, "What we talk about when we talk about love." We talk about slicing onions, planting a garden, the taste of come, the softness of skin. Love is meant to be talked around, not talked about. That's why poetry expresses love best.

I struggled at first with chronicling my "6" adventures because they are meaningful to me. They are the story of my sexual opening, of me coming into my femininity and my self. In the end, I decided I wanted the challenge of conveying the depth of those experiences and hopefully blowing away some BSDM stereotypes in the process.

So here I overshare and I undershare.

What I enjoy reading and writing is depth. Beauty. Depravity and all the poetry within that, artfully revealed. I like witty irreverence and learning something about the world and myself. What's most fun is something that's delivered well, but without a lot of editing. There's a free flow, a spontaneity and uncensored feeling to it that allows some deeper truth to shine through.

That's what I'm working on.

Photo: Mary McCartney via

Naked as we came

2008-05-20T17:57:00.000-07:00

Photographer Sally Mann gained notoriety through the provocative pictures she took of her children, showcased in the book Immediate Family. Disarming in their insolence, truly owning their bodies, these children project boldly and defiantly - something we don't necessarily associate with the naked body or the naked self.

I imagine these children having the luxury of growing up barefoot, wild and free to roam; sylph-like, able to explore their strength, agility and grace, unencumbered by clothes, or shame.

It's unusual to see shots of adults with such raw, exuberant beauty. This quality of radiant self-possession is rare in general and nearly absent with the nude. I search a lot for this level of truth, self-love and raw empowerment. For something which is startlingly authentic. When I find it, it's disarming and it opens me. People comfortable being themselves give me permission to do the same.

Just being a porn star and being willing to go through the motions of reveal, doth not self-possession make. I do see traces of it in Sasha Grey, the wunderkind 20 year old who's myspace bio cites her loves for "rough sex, being silly like a pixie, true love and c.g. jung." I haven't seen much of her work but what I have seen and the way she describes it, it sounds like there is a sentient person engaging.

There is a beautiful closing scene in the film version of Story of O, the great Western treatise on de-civilizing. The way these children still have retained their self-confidence is something that O comes to after much unfolding and stripping down. One of the final frames in the movie is O naked amongst a group of people at a black tie party. She wears a beautiful mask of bird feathers and she stands open and vulnerable, yet exuding strength.

We humans come by it honestly, but often when it's removed, we need to return to it shockingly.

Photos: Sally Mann

Hipster Tantra

2008-05-08T09:33:00.000-07:00

I'm often asked about starting places for Tantra in terms of learning - i.e. books, workshops, teachers. There are primarily a couple of different "schools" of Tantra: Indian and Taoist. I resonate primarily with the Taoist school of philosophy. Tantra is a huge, expansive study, but I've extracted from it certain principles that I find useful:

Sexual energy is thought to be the most potent form of chi in the body - it's denser and stronger than regular chi. Tantra is all about cultivating this energy to be used for our own physical rejuvenation (see Zone fucking ii) and also as a catalyst. By drawing the energy up from the lower chakras and infusing it through our entire beings, we can 'ride' this current to access higher spiritual dimensions. The Taoists use the term 'sexual kung fu' which encompasses energy practices.

Marathon fucking. I like to get fucked a lot and I'm a marathon fucker. When I realized that I could share Tantra with my lovers to extend our experiences, I was all for it.

The sexual and the spiritual. I want depth. I always intuitively felt that sex had a more spiritual dimension to it than I could articulate. Sex and spirituality are highly polarized in western culture, and in a lot of modern eastern cultures. They meet in Tantra. I guess the only place I can stomach their meeting, that isn't infused with a lot of: "I am the goddess, and you are the god" (i.e. a lot of flowery ritual) is in the idea of being present. All the Tantric rituals (like eye-gazing and breathing) and exercises (deliberately moving energy) are about bringing us into our bodies, our selves and allowing us to be seen by another person. And to see. To slow down and value each other. When I let myself pause and feel into everything, I can orgasm almost without touch. Or just the lightest of touch because I'm so overwhelmed.

Say 'yes'. Another dimension to Tantra is something that is all embracing, not judging. Saying yes to experiences of all kinds. My "6" adventures embodied this marriage of wild acceding combined with a very powerful depth of learning.

The perpetual orgasm. The Tantric climax is not a finite thing. It's a series of stages that build and plateau, build and plateau and never really have to end. The idea is to walk away (physically) from an encounter perhaps with a feeling of release, but energized with the whole body still humming with arousal and desire.

Resources:

Mantak Chia: I've mentioned him before and I'll mention him again. He's done excellent work in bringing Taoist teachings to a western understanding. He has workshops and teachers all over the world and a beautiful residential retreat center in Thailand. His books can be dry reads and lately he's taken to pairing up with Western authors. I still think his best books are the earlier ones which are laden with heaps of fabulous information and techniques: Cultivating Female Sexual Energy and Cultivating Male Sexual Energy.

David Deida: He's modernized the Tantric language and ideology in a very playful, irreverent, fierce and beautiful way. He's also put forward a brilliant explanation and remedy for the ailing sex lives of modern humans. His books: The Enlightened Sex Manual (he reworks a lot of Taoist concepts into a more readable form), The Way of the Superior Man and Finding God Through Sex are all excellent choices.

Osho: You may remember mention of an Indian guru who owned a hundred Rolls Royces and had a penchant for big breasted women. He's also the founder of a couple of residential retreat centers I would advise for those looking for radical change in their lives. Osho is all about the "Just say yes" idea and then some. His work is wild and takes courage but the people I know who've done a lot of it come out vibrant, fearless and owning their own stuff. I can't recommend any books because his work really is more experiential. The two residential centers that exist are: Osho’s Multiversity in Pune or Humaniversity in the Netherlands. There are often local Osho communities in cities. Find them. Take some workshops, like the "Aum."

That said, Tantra is most importantly experiential. I've learned the most with a willing partner and a bit of information I'd read beforehand. Be open.

Photos: found via acidpez

Two men, a camera and me

2008-04-28T13:25:00.000-07:00

Usually it's more than two, but this picture is beautifully suggestive nonetheless.

Many thanks to Jefferson for Fleshbotting my Of love and human bondage post.

Photo: Steven Lyon

"Most scandalous woman of her day"

2008-04-26T13:28:00.000-07:00

I could live with that moniker. I could certainly see myself wandering naked under my furs. Someone has already offered to buy me the cheetah.

"Nude servants gilded in gold leaf attended her. Bizarre wax mannequins sat as guests at her dining table. She wore live snakes as jewelry, and she was infamous for her evening strolls, naked beneath her furs, parading cheetahs on diamond-studded leashes."

Marchesa Luisa Casati lived (1881-1957) in Italy at the turn of the century. When her father passed away, Casati's inheritance deemed her and her sister the wealthiest women in the country. Luisa had a penchant for outrageousness and a great love for the arts. She was patroness to a number of emerging artists, remaining close and advising them throughout their careers. A contemporary and inspiration to Proust, Colette and Kerouac, her dinner parties were the stuff of legends (and Bunuel films). She commissioned a host of artists to capture her likeness with the only requirement being a daring and innovative portrait. Modern icons such as Dita von Teese and Karl Lagerfeld attribute some of their vision to her.

She lived in the Palazzo Venier dei Leoni, on Grand Canal in Venice (now the home of the Peggy Guggenheim Collection). Peggy, who uttered one of my favorite quotes: "When asked how many husbands she'd had, Peggy replied: 'Do you mean my own or other people's?'"

The beauty of the eccentric and the wildly self-expressive is the permission they give to others to be themselves.

Photo: Camilla Akrans
Painting: Kerry Kate Patterson

Information sources: marchesacasati.com (quotes also) and wikipedia. Thanks G. for turning me onto her.

Zone fucking ii

2008-04-24T16:08:00.000-07:00

I've written about fucking in "the zone" and now I'm writing about the zones. Of fucking.

Think of reflexology - the foot is made up of an intricate map of all the body's organs and meridian systems. By massaging the foot and focusing on pressure points, one is said to be able to stimulate the corresponding areas of the body.

The same theory applies to the cock and pussy. By stimulating certain areas of the genitals, we vitalize different organ systems. In the same way, particular sexual positions actually help direct energy to and rejuvenate parts of the body. Missionary, with a woman's legs lying flat, is great for improving energy and reducing fatigue in the woman. Prolonged licking of a man's balls will (also) make his glands happy. Ancient Taoist physicians actually prescribed specific sexual positions to cure different ailments.

I tend to keep the genital reflexology in my mind when I'm giving someone a hand job - I'll aim to cover the entire surface area, and spend more time deliberately kneading and massaging. When I've been told by my TCM (Traditional Doctor of Chinese Medicine) that my kidneys are weak, I'll insert a lot of reverse cowgirl into my routine. Otherwise, a variety of sexual positions are fun to play with anyway. I strongly believe in intuition as a guiding factor in sexual play - my body will let me know just how I need to be fucked. It ought not to be something I need to *think* about very much.

There you have it. Let your sex be your medicine and your medicine be your sex. An excellent book on the subject, and the source for the above diagram is Mantak Chia's Sexual Reflexology.

Drawing: Michael von Zichy

"6": Of love and human bondage

2008-04-19T14:11:00.000-07:00

It is incredibly freeing to be tied up.

I have permission to relax. To receive. My legs are spread open, my will forced open and my cunt is the focus of the room. My arms splayed out by my sides exacerbate a feeling of helplessness and powerlessness. The restraints edge away the tiniest remnants of resistance and I am free to accede. I am the embodiment of "yes," of being able to accept whatever happens to me, on any level.

My fantasies constantly replay the motif of coercion. It's usually light, and I'm a willing participant, but the coercion is a catalyst - an excuse for me to be as slutty as I truly desire. The more I am tied up, the more I own my utter, dripping wantonness.

*
Andre was the first person to truly tie me up. It's one thing to be bound with fishnet stockings and pretend to go along for the ride. It's another to feel solid leather handcuffs around the wrists and hear the clasp of a metal carabineer fasten shut. There is no turning back.

He tied me up a few times in his home before we ventured out in public: Spread-eagled on the king size bed and in the door frame standing up; with my back on the floor and my legs up over my head, ass in the air. Bondage can be a contortionist’s art, a measure of endurance. Ultimately, the aim is to distract and quiet the mind and let the body take over - the body in its infinite wisdom.

The evening he first took me out into public *and* tied me up, was choreographed very carefully - he arranged with a dominatrix friend of his to set up a cadre of experienced players. He wanted to be sure that my first foray into group play would be positive and memorable. It was.

I'd just come back from a surf trip in the Mexico and my body was tanned, firm and striated. We'd gone shopping for a "display" piece for me to wear - a slightly cheesy stripper-esque ensemble: a bright orangey-red satin thong and matching bikini top with clusters of gold sequins. It was cheaply slutty - a look he liked to encourage in me.

When we arrived at his friend's apartment, a number of people were there already. "Lady Cynthia," dominatrix in residence, was attending to aperitifs in the kitchen, while a couple of nubile young slaves – one male, one female - scurried around her, carrying out her demands.

Cynthia was an Amazon. She looked like one of the voluptuous, crazy busty, narrow waisted women from Conan the Barbarian. Long, wavy, platinum hair, a corseted waist, black thigh high boots and topless. Her breasts were magnificent - large and full but with a lovely shape. She was dominant in the way that few people are - she commanded the entire room. No one would dare fuck with her. I was in love.

Her apartment was small, with a lot crammed into the space. Her bed was in one corner of the main living room and there were chairs and sofas filling the remainder. Andre greeted Cynthia with a kiss on the cheek. She was warm and seemed glad to see him. I stood waiting as they spoke for a few minutes and then she turned to me. She had a wicked look in her eye - fearless, but playful at the same time. I stared back at her, my breathing shallow. She held my gaze for a long time, with a slight smile. Finally she looked back at Andre. "Undress her," she said. I could feel the blood rush into my pussy. He looked at me and nodded. I kept my eyes riveted on him as I unclasped my top and slid the g-string down my hips. I placed my hands behind my back and opened my legs in a wide stance.

Others in the room stirred and began to watch us. Cynthia reached for my nipples and squeezed them hard. My labia were thick, heavy and swelling. She led me by my hands, still behind my back, into another room.

Her dungeon. It was also crammed full, but with pleasure and torture equipment: a huge black throne of worship, a padded wall rack, an X-frame, harnesses and stretcher bars hanging everywhere. She led me to one side of a device that looked like a human size scale of justice. There was a metal bar running across the top, suspended from the ceiling. A cable ran alongside it and then split into two cables dangling from either end. She secured my hands behind my back with a set of cuffs and then fastened my legs so they remained in an open stance. She pulled the two cables down to my chest, and adhered two clips to my nipples. She then pulled on the other end to create tension, hoisting my nipples up until I was forced to stand on tiptoe. The pull on my nipples was searing.

People wafted into the room. Her female submissive, a petite, loud, mulatto woman - half-Jamaican, half-German, with aqua colored eyes – strutted in, wearing only light pink panties and asked Cynthia if she could spank me. “Of course. You can do whatever you want with her.”

The mulatto woman slapped my ass with her hands, cackling. My nipples were starting to burn. Hands squeezed my breasts, brushed my pussy, groped my inner thighs. So many hands. I had no idea where they were coming from. I was awash with pleasure. Writhing. Throbbing. My head was bowed, hair falling over my face when I felt a sharp tug on my nipples. Cynthia’s other sub, a soft spoken twenty-something mural painter with wavy blond hair falling over his face, stood directly across from me, in the opposite position on the human scale. She began hooking him up in the same was she had me, except that she wrapped a thin rope around his testicles. We were now in a similar, complicit predicament. If I let my heels sink to relieve the pressure in my calves and nipples, I would pull up at his tightly wound testicles. And vice verse. We stared at each other with what I can only call love. I wanted to save his testicles. He wanted to protect my nipples.

Someone’s head buried itself in my chest; a man was nuzzling and kissing my breasts. Fingers danced around and in my pussy, flicking my g-spot. I wanted to collapse and float but my nipples constantly reminded me that I must remain standing.

*

At the point when I had become a mass of sensations, I was released. The combination of my nipples, my calves, my stretched feet, my pussy, the back of my neck, the slapping on my ass – I sunk into a well of pleasure, of feeling, an amorphous weave of just being. I had no thoughts anymore.

I was led back into the other room and placed on the bed, on all fours, with my ass facing the room and my head toward the wall. Cynthia dropped a pile of candles beside me and announced to the room: “You can fuck her with these.” By now, every sensation was becoming exquisite, slowed down into deliberate motion rendering only pleasure. My ass was slapped, my pussy gratifyingly prodded, my body squeezed and all I could do was laugh. I was absolutely euphoric. I loved this. Loved it.

Andre guided me onto the bed. The female submissive crouched on all fours, sucking the painter’s very hard cock. “Eat her pussy,” Andre said. I paused for a moment, looking at her, looking at him. This was my first pussy. I leaned forward, tasting her delicately. The taste was foreign – musky, sweet. I was slightly repulsed at first; it was so different than cock. I kept tasting, roaming around her with my tongue and I realized slowly that pussy is delicious. I was lost in her cunt. I could have stayed there a long time. She groaned and Andre pulled me back on top of him. I kissed him tenderly. I was so utterly open. Everything felt like it was in slow motion, like I was moving through syrup. Between my legs, painter sub boy spread my thighs apart and licked my pussy. I had never felt anything like it. Was it him? The evening? My endorphins? No matter. It was the best cunnilingus I'd ever received.

Andre flipped me on my back and climbed on top of me, fucking me slowly, gently. Someone else reached over for my nipples and squeezed hard, so hard and it only made me smile. I had completely melted. I felt gentleness and exquisite pleasure from everyone who touched me and a sense of being suspended in a thick, viscous warmth. I wanted them all to touch me. Again and again.

Photos: Unknown, Signe Vilstrup, Ellen von Unwerth (last two)

Feminine and masculine

2008-04-14T10:26:00.000-07:00

Photos: Jean Vidal

Paradox in porn

2008-04-11T10:51:00.000-07:00

I like the wet woman and the rubber boots. I like the pussy and the amusement park ride. I like it dirty, but I like it pretty. I can't take my porn too overt - it needs to be subtle-d down a bit. I appreciate (and celebrate) filthy acts, but I also appreciate good lighting, thoughtful composition and something arrestingly different. I'm ever so glad to find more and more contributors to this genre of "smart porn" or "genteel porn." I wouldn't have called myself a porn connoisseur until lately - until my discovery of the more aesthetically aware artists of the medium. Now I find myself excited to find someone new - someone with a fresh approach to eroticism.

I also find myself spending a lot of time picture surfing, which leads to masturbating, which often leads to writing. So. I'm still productive in the end.

Photos: Pau Ros
Henrik Pfeifer

The argument for the ass

2008-04-03T00:53:00.000-07:00

There is power in taboo. The sacred. Forbidden. Lucky for us, there are a ton of taboos around sex, making for endless adventures. Each time I shattered a taboo, piercing that particular hymen, something shifted in me. I could let go of one more layer of someone I was supposed to be, and become myself.

Which brings us to the ass.

There’s a fair amount of literature available on how. There’s very little on why. So I present:

The Argument for the Ass.

Ass fucking loosens up all the tightly wound tensions of the day. Even beyond vaginal penetration, there is a sanctity to the ass - it needs to be entered carefully, with respect. With sensitivity. The only way to enjoy anal sex is to let go. If you resist, if you tighten, it will hurt. If you aren’t ready to be entered, not willing to let someone deep, deep inside of you, it will hurt. The beauty of anal sex is that it becomes an physical barometer for intimacy. It’s the last great frontier of exposure, a gauge for openness.

The best anal sex is a step by step communication, a negotiating of boundaries that protect a very tender place. He prods me, I relent. I release and he moves deeper inside of me. Finally he’s in, the last vestiges of his cock, the last vestiges of whatever it is I hold onto are foregone and everything is easy from there. It’s only the journey to that place that’s tough. Beyond it is another realm. It can be unbelievable to feel him fucking my ass as hard as he does, as hard as he dares to, but therein lies the secret of his charm: he dares.

There are times when I feel I can’t reach myself, or something is buried I can’t access. That’s when I really need to get fucked in the ass. I need him, his ability to penetrate me and fuck me open. I need a cock in my ass so that I can forget myself.

There’s a reason why we call people “tight asses.” Well, I have just the remedy for them and their persnicketiness: A fat, fat cock up the ass. It does wonders for peace of mind.

“Beyond control lies God.”

- Toni Bentley in The Surrender (Who, by the way, has written the great ode to ass-fucking).

He flips me around and throws me down onto the bed as soon as I enter.

Anal sex serves the purpose of shaking up all that suppressed shit we don’t let rise to the surface. It’s the underbelly, the unconscious, being dredged up and splayed open. Unveiling. The great gift of cock is its ability to penetrate.

Slowly, steadily and then vigorously plowed. I need him to thrust me into submission, to a place of surrender where I am free from my mind and utterly in my body. Eventually, we get there, together, to an infinite free fall. Where trust and letting go are the only answers and pleasure is sublime.

Photos: Mirela Bratu, Tracey Emin, Uwe Spiller

"6": The 400 blows: Pain is pleasure is pain...

2008-03-24T10:40:00.000-07:00

I have a strong mind and an even stronger will. While I’d been waiting for years for someone who could subdue me, sometimes I wasn’t all that easy to subdue. Even if I wanted to be. Even if I wanted to reach that place of softness, of opening, of letting someone in, I couldn’t necessarily command it into being.

So he’d whip me.

There was an element of ritual to these whippings. A footstool was placed in the middle of his living room that he’d bend me over. I’d be on all fours, with my ass in the air, expectant. Scared. Sometimes the sweat would drip from my armpits, as I knelt poised on the edge of anything-could-happen. I could not move away or flinch or he’d whip me harder. The only recourse I had was acceptance. I could hear the whoosh of the crop through the air and its subsequent sting, slicing my ass, or my upper thighs, would reverberate through my entire body.

Sometimes the whipping was sensuous. He’d alternate moderate strokes with rubbing my pussy, working me into an endorphin-fueled fever. Other times he was severe and I would be welted for days afterward. I never knew which it would be. He carried only one accoutrement with him when we ventured out, and when unused it lay on the footstool over which I bent when we were at his house. It was a riding crop and it easily wielded a fierce, sharp blow.

I remember going for a massage and when the woman came to my naked buttocks, I could hear her draw in her breath. I could sense her worry, her thought that I was being subjected to horrific things and that I might be in danger. She stuttered, trying to address the bruises on my ass that would have been in various states of transition – colored blue, purple, yellow - the remnants of that weekend's calisthenics. I enjoyed looking at them afterward, these symbols of my endurance and evidence of his ability to retrieve me and greater still, of his desire to. I dismissed her. She had no idea.

After a beating, I was malleable. Soft. Suppliant. Full of feeling. After each blow, he had me thank him. I didn’t understand the power of this until one day I was at my gym after a workout, in the communal showers. I turned the faucet all the way to cold and I felt the water hit my skin. Something curious had happened. I didn’t distinguish anymore that the water was cold or that it was uncomfortable. I was only aware of it as a sensation. I had no judgment of it, only the experience of noticing it was cold. I did not flinch, I did not back away, I accepted it completely. That’s when I realized that I’d ceased to let the fear of pain prevent me from living. Or more precisely, from loving. The thank yous became a thank you to life, and to all that it might bring me.

**

There is a gift in someone who dares to be so rough with me. Most men would never dare. I need to know that a man will be so bold, that at least he is capable of this sort of wielding. Then I can trust him. The flimsy men, the ones who would never dare to hurt me, to see me flinch, to bend me over and take me anywhere, anytime; I have no use for. Their trepidation is suffocating to me. And reflective of their behavior outside the bedroom. It always is. You can tell a lot about someone by how they fuck: Timid or decisive. Experimental or staid. Hard-driving and fierce or languid and droopy. My selection criteria is all about this crucial element: Can this man take charge? Does he dare?

Top photo: Bruno Bisang

Other photos: Sources unknown

For the voyeurs

2008-03-24T09:48:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Jefferson for including my Expose, exhibit post in last week's Fleshbot round-up.

Photo: Simon Emmett

The insatiable ones

2008-03-17T18:34:00.000-07:00

All women love sex.

I can prove it.

Rather, Robin Baker, PhD can. In his book “Sperm Wars,” he chronicles the summary of years of pioneering research into human sexuality. His findings turn a lot of commonly held beliefs upside down.

My favorite point in the book is the biological argument for female promiscuity. Baker bases his conclusion on the curious make-up of male sperm: Only 1% of them are actually designed to fertilize an egg. So what exactly are 99% of sperm built for? They exist to kill foreign sperm. Women are programmed to seek out the strongest reproductive candidate and have the top contenders battle out their viability in the womb.

Baker’s “survival of the fittest” sperm theory is also bolstered by evidence that women are most likely to stray when they are ovulating. They seek a variety of sperm so that only the strong survive.

Being voracious is in our genes.

I’ve never bought the idea that women have a lesser sex drive than men; that somehow they are built for one while men are built for many. In this regard, it’s women who are insatiable – we are naturally multi-orgasmic, with no refractory periods and thus have infinite sexual potential. I do understand the concepts of internalized oppression and learned behavior. But, and this is backed up from a physiological perspective, I truly believe that women are just as randy as men, provided they are given the space to be that way.

Some struggle against greater cultural barriers than others, and so perhaps that seed of the liberated slut is buried deeper. For the rest of us, it’s happily close to the surface and a major part of our identities.

Photo: Rankin

The sex carnival

2008-03-15T18:32:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Viviane for featuring my posts in her round-ups this week.

Photo: Morten Bjarnhof

"6": Expose, exhibit

2008-03-12T19:59:00.001-07:00

I never knew where we were headed. He'd call, give instructions about when he'd be picking me up, what I ought to wear or bring, and then he'd show up. Always precisely on time.

This evening he took me to a play club. Once a month, this venue held events by invitation, so the crowd was a carefully culled selection of players, all delightfully complicit.

When we entered, there was a grouping of people gathered around a bar. These places normally didn’t serve alcohol, to encourage coherence, but they served some kind of refreshments. The crowd was varied – 20 – 40 year olds in dark colors, leathers, all dressed in some manner of fetish attire. Many pretty topless women, some collared slaves. A particularly nubile blonde woman gyrated on the leash held by her Mistress - a rotund, beast of a woman who sat and ignored her pleas for attention. A very handsome young boytoy, shirtless and sculpted was being humbly led by his Mistress - a tall, willlowy brunette with long dark hair. The lighting was dim, and a variety of play stations were set up throughout the main area of the room, surrounded by an outer rim of tables and chairs. There were about 100 people in the space.

As per his instructions, I was wearing a severe black corset, a tiny black g-string and very high stilettos. When we entered, he had me remove my coat and stand before him as he sat and surveyed the room. “Take off your panties,” he said. I froze and then my fear thawed into excitement. I felt a rush to my groin as I noticed people staring at us out of the corner of my eye. I dutifully slid them down my thighs and let them drop to the floor, never taking my gaze off him. “Put your thumb in your ass and a finger in your pussy.” This was humbling and physically very awkward. My ass was dry and I struggled to actually stick my thumb inside it. I wiggled it as best I could and bowed my head. He then led me by the hair, as I hunched over, trying to walk and keep my fingers in place at the same time. He was diminishing me.

We approached a wooden rack that was built in the shape of an A-frame with horizontal slats. “Stand here,” he gestured as I stepped forward with my stomach leaning against the smooth wooden boards. He raised my arms up above my head. “Keep them here.” He reached down into the navy blue Adidas gym bag he carried with him whenever we went out to play in public. He pulled out some leather restraints and fastened them to my wrists, securing them to the slats above my head. He pulled out his riding crop, the handle of which I could always see poking out of the gym bag, like an ominous talisman. He began lightly tapping my ass with the crop. He used quick, light taps that, given the eroticism of the situation for me, only increased my arousal. He focused on my ass and my thighs, building the intensity of the tapping and I’d lean the weight of my body into the slats for support.

I let go. I didn't feel any pain. I had a heightened awareness of my body but still, even with the now stronger whipping, I only experienced pleasure. I was slipping into an altered state, my whole body vibrating like a giant erogenous zone. I stuck my ass out in the air, wanting my pussy to be exposed. My back was arched and I felt very sensuous and very sensitized. He’d press his body forcefully into mine, his stubble nuzzling against my neck as he spoke low and throaty. “Everyone is enjoying watching you.” His voice was like an anchor, and it left me feeling even wetter. I would look up out of the corner of my eye and I could see men, some standing against the wall, watching as he flogged me. One of them caught my attention. I recognized him from another life. My first reaction was panic, until I read the look on his face. He was enrapt and euphoric. The anxiety dissolved into a feeling of collusion and mutual secret-keeping. I didn't acknowledge him, nor he me.

I had waves of pleasure washing over me, and I felt near-orgasm when Andre would stop and press his body into mine. I loved seeing and feeling these men watch me. I could only see a handful of them, since my back was toward the center of the room.

Andre leaned into me again, this time reaching up above my head to untie me. He brought my hands down to my sides and held my wrists with one hand. He used his other hand to place a blindfold over my eyes. I stood and waited for his instructions. “Come this way,” he said steering me gently by my elbow to lead me to another station. I could see nothing as I walked gingerly, a little unsteady in my heels. He guided me to lie down and stretched my arms out to my sides and secured them. I could feel him placing my feet into stirrups, tying me in as well, and then spreading my legs open. I felt a wave of excitement. The gentleness of his movements was soothing and I felt I would let him do anything to me.

He placed clothespins on my inner thighs, and then fastened some that pulled and held open the lips of my pussy. My outer labia are large, so he was easily able to spread them open. Wide. I felt a rush of excitement heave from my groin into my stomach and chest. It was dizzying in its intensity. My pussy felt like it was on fire. Wet, throbbing, hungry. He continued placing pins, leaning over my chest at times to press his weight into me. “Many men,” he’d say, “are enjoying your open pussy.” I loved the thought of this room full of people staring at my cunt, my cunt being opened for them to look inside me. At their leisure. I could hear men coming up and talking to Andre. They would flatter me, flatter my cunt and he would repeat their words in his responses so I could hear. “You can touch her if you like.” I felt fingers, tentative hands, stroking my lips and the opening of my cunt. Someone's fingers edged inside and deftly probed me. I writhed and panted. I loved the thought of being a plaything for any random person who might approach me.

I loved the feeling of being stripped of any pretenses, with nowhere to run or hide. To reveal my cunt, my core, my vulnerable spot was to open to any possibility and to love it. Naked and raw, yet ready for anything. No pride, no fear.

Eventually he untied me, removed the pins and blindfold and very gently helped me to sit up. I felt unsteady with a rising feeling of euphoria. He led me with his arm around my shoulder across the room and back to the seating area to gather the rest of our things. I stood in front of him, with a warm feeling in my chest and a half-smile. I was soft, suppliant and peaceful.

A man came up to us and thanked us profusely. He was giddy. Andre smiled and nodded and made a little conversation. I felt flushed. I watched him but I had nothing to say.

As we left the building and walked back to the car, I marveled at how different I felt. My hips liquidized and diffused elation and satisfaction up and down the block. I walked slowly, with a deep, soft confidence and fearlessness.

Photos: Craig Morey, Aeric Meredith-Goujon

Drawing: Rodin

For the love of cock

2008-03-07T10:36:00.001-08:00

I've fallen in love with a fair number of cocks. What's a fair number? I won't say. What makes a cock special enough to fall in love with?

Aesthetics are one thing. Proportion, shape, texture, curvature. They all bear weight. Usage and execution are, of course, right up there in endearing me to a certain worship. However, the strongest determining factors in cock love are: confidence and sentience.

I've known men who owned their hungry cocks so utterly and completely, who were so shameless about the power of their cocks, that I could only succumb. Some men have cocks to be reckoned with. As an instrument of penetration, of opening, a cock needs to be wielded fiercely, sometimes gently, but always firmly. In a way, we could say that cock love starts at home. A man who exudes cock confidence will penetrate with that cock in a way the leaves a woman speechless and satiated. A cock that doesn't take no for an answer.

I also like an expressive cock. One that responds when I bend over to pick things up, that greets me as I open the door, that wakes up in the morning before I do; indeed, it becomes my alarm clock. Such a cock I will eagerly envelop, nestling it deep, deep into my throat, as I nearly orgasm with it filling my mouth, obliterating every thought (and almost every breath).

My relationship with the cock begins to take on a life of its own, independent of the man. Typically, I fall in love with them both. I miss each of them when they aren't around.

There was one man who changed things for me. Prior to him, I had always had amicable relationships with cock. I loved getting fucked. I *liked* giving head. I liked the pleasure it gave my partner. But with him, cock-sucking became a whole new animal, a savage dance, a tribute to his magnificent, power-wielding and relentless cock. I just couldn't lavish enough attention on his cock. From that moment on, I began to experience man love and cock love.

Photo: Tony Ward

The gestalt of my desires

2008-03-04T13:55:00.000-08:00

I love this. A map of my psyche. Sex, surrealism, and uh, more sex.

A compilation of the last 50 images on my tumblr.

"6": Fantasy and taboo

2008-02-27T08:48:00.000-08:00

My sexual fantasies generally follow a similar trajectory: uber-exhibitionism and being a fucktoy for many men. These are the fantasies I masturbate to, the images that inevitably bring me to clitoral orgasm.

It's always been like this, for a long as I can remember.

A friend sent me a link to this article in the Economist, Secret Cinema. A few highlights from the article: "Some people, not unexpectedly perhaps, fantasise about celebrities. A handful imagine romantic tenderness with their real-life partners. But many of those surveyed say they like thinking about doing disgusting things with, to, or in front of, total strangers, or (perhaps more unsettlingly) the people they love.... The upshot is that nine out of ten people have sexual fantasies, mostly pretty lurid ones—and Mr Kahr thinks the remaining tenth are crippled by shame, guilt or repression."

We all have them. Some of us (though I'd wager it's a small number) act on them. My first foray into playing out fantasies was with a very willing partner. He had an acting background, was very animated and could improvise very easily and convincingly. He was game for every fantasy scenario I suggested: Me, office slut interviewing for a job, must fuck every employee daily; me, on my way home from grocery shopping, I am thrown into my stairwell and molested by forceful stranger, etc. However, no matter how engaged he was, or we were, the fantasies were never quite satisfying. I never felt like I was completely in them, like they could take on a life of their own.

Until I met Andre. With him, the line between fantasy and reality was constantly blurred. Since I agreed early on to concede control to him, I never knew what was going to happen next. We journeyed together into my dark places and the territory felt very real, and very fraught with uncertainty and potential danger.

I could say no at any time but I had challenged myself not to. Ever. I was a perpetual yes. I exposed to him the underbelly of my desires and let myself succumb to them. To him. To myself. The more I *realized*, i.e. made real, my internal experiences, the more the nature of my own reality began to change. By unleashing my demons, the secret, masturbatory fantasies I'd carried with me for years, I found myself feeling different after these experiences. I felt less fear. More self-assured. More whole. I felt less concern about what other people thought of me and freer to be more of who I was/am. The less I judged myself (by owning my fantasies and sharing them openly, outwardly), the less I felt susceptible to judgment by others. I simply wasn't fazed any longer about what people thought of me. I felt free to be myself. I've also found that being able to share these parts of myself with a lover, someone who accepts me, and vice verse, has brought us closer together. I think a lot of us live in fear of judgment about our sexual desires, when in reality, these experiences are amazing portals to self-realization.

This idea that the key to wholeness lies in exploring and understanding our "dark sides" is a theme that is repeated consistently in mythology and psychology the world over. I'd hesitate to label these areas as truly "dark" though. They are secret, often uninhabited areas of our psyches and, from my own experience, fertile territories for growth. For example, the Greek story of Persephone sees her banished to spend six months (half the year; quite a long time when you think about it) in the underworld. When she returns to the earth's surface for the other six months, spring accompanies her - rebirth and illumination.

Jung talks about the shadow as being areas of the unconscious that are socially unacceptable, as well as undeveloped positive potential. He suggested that the more these thoughts and behaviors were suppressed, the larger the shadow grew. "In spite of its function as a reservoir for human darkness—or perhaps because of this—the shadow is the seat of creativity."

The Senoi dreamers of Malaysia apply the same concepts of approaching "darkness" to their dream travels: whenever encountering danger in a dream, the dreamer was encouraged to confront and conquer his or her attacker. Once obliterated, the dreamer asks this now defunct "demon" for a gift. There is transformation.

The greatest gifts I've received from the people in my life, Andre being one of them, was their understanding and utter acceptance of me and my myriad shadows. This lack of judgment - of ourselves and others - liberates us. It isn't achieved without courage though, both in the revealing and the accepting.

Photos: Lauren Bentley, "Where I buried my secrets"
Other photos: Sources unknown.

Find a place you trust and try trusting it for a while

2008-02-24T13:13:00.000-08:00

Rule #1 from Sister Corita's Immaculate Heart College (Art Department Rules).

I put in the brackets because I like the sound of a college where people go to build immaculate hearts.

*found via The Carrot Revolution

I play with, I photograph, myself

2008-02-22T13:19:00.000-08:00

From Uwe Ommer's "Do it Yourself."

Spreading the love and smut

2008-02-17T17:25:00.000-08:00

Thank you to Jefferson at Fleshbot. It's nice to share.

Photo: Nicola Ranaldi

"I never knew I wanted to be a geographer until I saw your body"

2008-02-14T15:39:00.000-08:00

"If I was more socially adept I probably wouldn’t take pictures. But I’m not. So I do. I look at you and all I need is a glass wall between the two of us for you to come alive, as if you weren’t alive already. To come alive for me specifically like one of those hothouse flowers that only bloom at night. I put the glass there and the machine here and I ask you for small things, little favors, lie down, open your blouse, lift your hair that way, pull your bra down the other way. You doing these things for me is a way of moving oceans, shifting continents, creating new landmasses, shadows, thunderstorms, earthquakes. I want to map all of your cavities. Pressing the button is my way of loving you more."

Text and photos Autumn Sonnischen

*

The same analogy I can apply to having lovers rather then deeper, more committed relationships. The structure of those relationships was the glass shield of the camera: An intimacy that was contrived (but not unreal) and emotionally safe (but not totally). Eventually, the heart wants what it wants. There comes a time to put down the camera and try without it.

Abandon

2008-02-08T09:50:00.000-08:00

Photo: Deborah Anderson

"6": Share me

2008-02-06T13:10:00.000-08:00

Andre shared me most often with his friend David, the entrepreneur. David lived in a breathtaking penthouse with floor to ceiling windows that looked out at the ocean from any angle. He was thirty floors up, high enough for me to both sweat and lubricate in the elevator to his suite. On this particular evening, David was there, along with another man I was to meet for the first time, Gabriel.

The three of them were a formidable lot. They were all tall, imposing, very masculine figures. Both Andre and David had shaved heads and strong, capable bodies. Large hands. Andre was born in Saudi Arabia but grew up attending boarding school in Germany. His demeanor and accent were unfailingly elegant. He spoke with hints of Arabic and German with an English overtone. He was very articulate so even when he'd be telling me to do dirty things, it was always couched in genteel speech. David was more of a lumbering farm-boy-made-it-big, who could throw me up against the wall, my hair in his hands, and devour me. He did. Frequently.

The two of them (and sometimes more) had a way of making me feel desired, encased and protected. I could let myself be soft and vulnerable.

*

David’s door is unlocked. As usual, when we arrive, Andre has me take off all my clothes the moment we walk in. Andre takes my coat and gestures to the center of the living room. “Go,” he says.

David's apartment is sparsely furnished - the kind of bachelor pad that's in need of a little woman love. He has a minimum of furniture - a few armchairs, a couch, coffee table, plasma TV and a massive stereo system. No decorating touches or color. Just the basics. David and Gabriel are already sitting in armchairs. There is light, chill out music playing and I see the city lights glistening through the windows, with the ocean filling up most of the panorama. There are lamps giving off a dim light. Andre sits down in another chair to watch me, leaning back with his hands on the armrests and his legs open. They all sit like this. There is an expectancy in their eyes that warms my chest. They watch as I remove my things, eyes bright, with half-smiles.

I am self-conscious and nervous, but very, very aroused. I unbutton my lacy black blouse and savor the moment of opening it, exposing my breasts. I let it fall to my feet. I love watching their eyes follow my hands. Roaming. Pausing. Like I can imagine their hands doing. I unzip my red leather mini skirt and slowly shimmy it down my hips. I immediately spread my legs and place my hands behind my back, jutting out my chest. My pussy is throbbing.

"Good," says Andre. "Now come here." He gestures to his lap. I straddle his legs, facing him, again placing my hands behind my back. These simple movements, that make me feel even more exposed, shoot fire into my cunt.

Andre strokes my nipples and I can feel my clitoris pulse. I must already be dripping because even from his view of my back and ass, my legs spread over Andre's thighs, David says, "Andre, she's wet." Andre's hand moves down to my pussy and he plunges his fingers inside. He flicks back and forth, untethering me. I collapse into his chest, my head resting on his breastbone, my hair falling into my face. "I'm telling you," he says, "she's always wet." He laughs. As he plays with my nipples, I feel my body vibrate. I'm going into a zone, almost a trance, where all I can think about is wanting to be touched and played with. I want them all to touch me. I feel like one huge tactile pussy, hungry for hands, mouths. Andre suddenly squeezes my nipples hard. I jolt. "Go down onto your hands and knees," His voice is soft but firm. I lose myself in that voice and let it hold me. He nods toward the ground. "Show us your pussy."

I stand up, my movements slow and jerky, feeling unsteady. I lower myself and crouch down on all fours, arching my back, feeling cool air hit my pussy. "Open wider," says Andre. "Move your ass up higher and spread your pussy for us." I open my legs wide and feel the weight in my pussy as it swells. I reach back over my hip and spread my lips for them.

I hear someone’s breath suck in. I am shaking on the ground, my head bowed, eyes half open, almost panting. My cunt is all a heave.

Suddenly someone is behind me, lightly fingering my cunt, playing with my lips between his fingers. "She has a beautiful pussy, Andre." I can feel his breath first. Then his mouth. Wet, soft, gentle. Little groaning noises emerge from my throat. His mouth is slowly more vigorous as he sucks on my pussy lips, chewing them lightly, winding his tongue in a circle around them. I drop to my knees, feeling weak to hold myself up. Whoever it is, grabs my hips, digging his fingernails into me and pulls me onto his face, licking my cunt hungrily. I’m sinking. "Roll over onto your back," says Andre. I obey him, flipping over and lying down, immediately opening my legs. As wide as I can.

It’s David’s mouth that’s been exploring me. He now has his hands on my knees and he’s pushing them open, staring at my cunt. The other two flank him and they now hold my legs open as David unfastens his pants. He keeps his eyes riveted on mine, then his gaze wanders down to my breasts. He stands to remove his jeans and his cock juts out.

He’s long, thick and perfectly proportioned. A beautiful cock and a very hard cock, perpendicular to the ground now. I love it when a man is so erect that his cock shoots straight out from his body. I’m squirming as I see the pre-cum glistening on its tip. I want it in my mouth, the slightly salty taste. I want it on my face. I involuntarily move my head toward him but the others push me back down and keep me pinned.

David kneels in front of me, stroking his cock, moving his hand slowly up and down his thick shaft. “Hold her open for me,” he mutters. The other two, also naked and kneeling now, reach down to my pussy and stretch open my labia, from either side. I love this feeling of being opened. Forcibly. Andre reaches inside me, feeling my wetness and spreads it over my lips. “Fuck,” he mumbles. He does this again, and my back starts to arch up. He pulls my knee open wider. “Massage my cock,” his voice is thick and guttural. “And Gabriel’s.” I reach up to grab them. They are both a little smaller than David, but just as hard. They are so hot in my hands. Gabriel’s cock is straining and all I can think of is that I want to liberate it.

David rolls a condom onto his cock. I have the other two in my hands, and I’m moving up and down their shafts, my hands gripping hard. David bends over a little further, so he can mount me. I’ve always loved this moment, the first probe, feeling the head of a cock pushing into me. He’s thick, so he’s working himself in slowly.

I’m tremendously excited. Gabriel thrusts two fingers inside my mouth and I fasten my lips and tongue on them. Andre seizes my nipples. I’m groaning and euphoric and frenzied. Gabriel holds my face as he readjusts his body so he’s lying next to me. Rather, his pelvis is lying next to me. I can smell his cock, his balls as he pulls my face into his groin, nuzzling my face in his pubic hair. I’m rooting for his cock to fill my mouth.

David has worked his cock inside me, calmly edging it. I can feel him on the walls of my cunt, the way I can feel anyone with a slightly thicker cock. He’s glorious. Thrusting. Slowly in and out. My body is rocking with the movements of his hips. I have Gabriel in my mouth and I’m trying to draw him deeper, I want them all deeper. I love his taste. Musky, salty.

“Turn her over, I want to fuck her ass,” says Andre. Gabriel pulls his cock out of my mouth, my saliva following it in a string. David, goliath that he is, grabs my hips, pulling me close to him, kissing me. I lose myself in his mouth. He’s biting my neck, grasping my hair with one hand as he uses his other to fasten my ass to him as he flips us. He’s now on his back, with me on top of him, still engulfing his cock. He pumps me solidly, faster, deeper, that hardy cock of his bringing me to near-delirium. I’m crying out and he’s murmuring, “That’s a good girl.” He’s nailing my hips with those huge hands, plunging me down on him hard. "That's a good girl." His voice pushes me over the edge. I'm coming and my body is wracked with spasms.

Andre is behind me, his hands cupping my breasts, his chest pressing firmly into my back, supporting me. Gabriel is pulling my hair, reaching for me to kiss him. His mouth is fierce and I can feel his stubble scratching my lips and my chin. I'm utterly soft and pliable.

But they aren't finished with me yet.

***

Photo: Roy Stuart

Better bondage

2008-02-05T17:16:00.000-08:00

Originally, I thought this sculpture by Philippe Meste was just a tribute to a fine, fine positioning of limbs. It's more than that though - when a woman kneels into it, it encloses her so that only her breasts and her pussy are exposed, effectively locking her into place. I can't imagine needing to be locked, but I suppose such a device would reduce mobility and increase precision.

I *can* imagine somehow getting myself into that thing (though it looks like I'd need help) and arranging myself so that I'd be in view for my lover when he walks in the door. I'd have to time it well, so I wouldn't be waiting very long, but a little anticipation would be worthwhile.

"6": On availability

2008-01-31T12:08:00.000-08:00

My sole purpose in my relationship with Andre was to make myself thoroughly, constantly available. To him or anyone he might choose to offer me to. I loved this. I loved walking around with the feeling that anyone, anytime, could grope me, manhandle me, shove me up against a wall and lift my skirt, part my pussy and impale me. I felt open. Open to my sexuality, open to life.

For as long as I can remember, I've imagined myself amongst groups of men, their plaything, at their service, absolutely willing to do anything that will please them. And make them come. There's a part of me that could happily spend the remainder of my days as a fuck-cum-slut whose only purpose is to please men. I love this idea and it turns me on immeasurably.

From the beginning, I felt that this experience with Andre would be a powerful one if I was willing to give myself completely to it. And so I did. There could be no half measures, or I might as well not be doing it at all. This required complete trust. There were a few ground rules in this dynamic: 1) I was to tell him everything and keep nothing back. 2) I deferred all sexual activity to him – including masturbation and other partners. My entire being – my body, my thoughts, my feelings – all were his domain. My autonomy no longer existed.

This access extended to my inner life. He had me keep a journal (my book of revelation) of my experiences and my fantasies and to note any changes in them. These notes I was to present to him at the end of each week for his perusal. It was a very intimate act, to write openly for myself and let him see all of that. Sometimes I would hesitate in the writing, knowing he'd be reading in the future. But I'd write whatever it was anyway.

He’d mine my writing for cues, directions of where to take me, of which part of my psyche was begging to be uncovered next. My deepest fears and most secret desires became the scripts for our adventures. He’d extract them from my writing, these confessions, (mostly a desire for cock) and amplify them in real life situations. He was a master director, and I gave him free reign. He created opportunities for me to face my demons and disintegrate them. I would come out of these evenings - later spent with my head on his chest, his strong arms around me, encircling me - transformed. He took me demon-hunting.

During my first group sex adventure with Andre, I met a beautiful artist boy. He was very pretty, with wavy, dirty blond hair, full, ruby lips and a shy smile. By the end of the evening, I was lying on a bed with about five other people. I was on my back, with my head tilted to the side, softly kissing Andre, utterly melting. Another man stood over me and rubbed my nipples between his fingers. The boy who painted murals buried his face between my legs. He was very passionate, sucking on my lips while thrusting his tongue inside me. Very focused. Very loving. It was the best cunnilingus I'd ever received in my life. I worried that acknowledging this in my writing might hurt Andre but I wrote it. This bred an incredible intimacy because instead of a haggling, “Will you still love me if I tell you this?” there was instead a complete acceptance of desires, demons and weaknesses. Without judgment.

There were other rules. I was to always wear skirts or dresses. With no panties. (It's something I still do when I wear skirts, except when I know I'll be in the company of someone who makes me very wet. For the sake of saving my pretty silk dresses from being stained, I'll wear panties.) I was always to stand and sit with my legs parted, arms and hands behind my back, and my mouth open, constantly embodying these symbols of accessibility. When he took me out, depending on where we went, these rules always applied, and usually in greater degree.

If we went to visit his friends, I was to strip naked upon entering their homes and immediately make myself fully available to them. He would place me in the center of the room, naked in some kind of position that allowed my legs to be spread. I might be kneeling with my legs open, lying down on the ground with my knees up and pussy exposed. Or, I’d be on all fours in the middle of the room with my cunt thrust high in the air. The men would be sitting on couches around me, talking about their days and their businesses. Every once in a while, one of them would come over and play with me as the others would comment in low voices. Appreciative. Encouraging. Andre chose with whom, when and how. There was a beautiful thrill in the uncertainty of never knowing who might touch, enter or use me.

I loved being the center of attention, loved my cunt being the focus of the room. Loved the fact that any of them, anytime, might reach over and explore my pussy. My pussy, that would slowly start to swell and lubricate itself, involuntarily. Welcoming.

In my day to day life, I found that men could sense and smell my availability. I'd be in a grocery store and a man would react to me. He'd be standing with his wife, waiting to pay when he'd notice me and become slack-jawed. I'd smile, warm, inviting and imagine spreading my legs for him. And I'd smile some more. I'd look at him with a look that said he could have me. Right there. Right then. On the floor. With his wife watching us. Or joining us. Either was fine with me.

Photos: Cynthia Cortes and Chip Willis

My inner exhibitionist

2008-01-26T15:05:00.000-08:00

Would like to thank debauchette and Jefferson at Fleshbot for the added exposure this week.

Photo: Andru Chrisst

The one thing about Tantra I lament

2008-01-26T12:49:00.000-08:00

The No Sperm Left Behind Policy.

Tantric purists will tell you that the ultimate male aim is to orgasm without ejaculating, since they believe that the latter act depletes men. Many of the body's vital nutrients are stored in the ejaculate - a rich and potent blend of energy.

I’ve been able to teach men to retain a lot of their vitality even if they ejaculate, but the consensus seems to be that some energy is still lost. If I a was a devout Tantric exponent I would be encouraging my lovers to learn semen retention. I do this, because I like my lovers to have a lot of stamina. However, I also like being covered in cum. So if I encourage the former, what this means is:

No come for me.

And l love come.

Can’t get enough of the stuff. If you guys don't want it, I'll certainly take it. There is nothing quite like going out after a liaison, knowing there is come lingering on my cheeks and the taste of it in my mouth. To me, it's a gauge of how consumed I am with someone - how much of him I want to linger. I like being anointed. I like the air that I breathe to be his scent and the flavors of him remaining on my tongue and in my brain.

I love it on me although I prefer it in me – a magic elixir. I can go without sleep if I can eat a lot of come. There is a story about the Yellow Girl in the emperor’s court of China who weakened all the resident warriors by savoring the emissions bestowed upon her. She rose to become a very powerful woman.

This idea is also echoed in the western tale of the birth of Venus – the most beautiful love goddess ever arises from a sea of foamy come.

If only I could harvest random come in the same way. However, times being what they are, I am committed to safe sex with all but a chosen few.

Off sabbatical

2008-01-19T13:29:00.000-08:00

I've a love of all things sexual. I'm interested in the transformational power of sex. I’ve studied Tantra for 14 years, I’ve played in the BDSM realm and courted almost every taboo imaginable. I believe that sex is an amazing portal. It is the arena where we can play the biggest and wildest and express every innermost desire, every nuance of our beautiful and depraved beings. Through this, something in us is touched and changed irrevocably. We are reborn. That’s the territory I’m most interested in - moments that open us.

I first started this blog when I was active in another life. I’ve been on a long writing hiatus but have kept some of my old blog intact, minus many comments. I’m re-inaugurating it because I enjoy the outlet. Plus, I have another story I want to tell. I’ll be chronicling the time in my life when I was actively and devotedly a love slave and fucktoy extraordinaire. So amongst my general sexual meanderings will be excerpts from my (never quite ended) love slut era. I'll dub this the "6" series and they'll be ongoing.

Photo: Cynthia Cortes

"6": An oral history

2008-01-18T16:13:00.000-08:00

I loved the feeling of being owned by him. Of being his property. I thrilled at the idea that he could use me any time he desired and that my primary purpose was for his sexual gratification. His, and anyone else he might choose to have me service.

I loved that he had the balls to take me naked into rooms full of people, his ownership revealed by the collar around my neck, the tattoo of his name on my belly and my utter and complete subservience to him. I adored the insolence of these rooms full of men staring pointedly at my pussy. My ass. My tits. For as long as they desired. They didn’t need to look at my face or ask my permission for anything. I loved every second of it and found it endlessly arousing.

I am a sexually voracious woman. However, no matter how much I am fucked, or how thoroughly, I always, always want more. I used to fantasize about the scene in Last Exit to Brooklyn where Tralala rips off her blouse in a bar and invites 30 men to fuck her. Or the scene in Suspicious River where Leila is held captive and made to fuck a room full of men. I like being a sexual object whose only purpose is to suck, fuck and be a receptacle for cum. I like the idea that men can do whatever they want to me. I will please them over and over and over again until they are utterly satisfied. I love the idea of them taking turns with me, one at a time. Or more at a time. One with his cock in my pussy, the other in my mouth. Those two will cum, just barely pulling their cocks out of me and then others will take their places. By the time they’ve all finished, the initial set of men will be hard again and ready to fuck me once more. Or twice more.

I love this idea of being taken and used. That I exist only for their pleasure. My own is an afterthought. Or rather, my own pleasure is derived by how effectively and thoroughly I can please them.

These are the things I dream about.

So when A proposed owning me and making me his sex slave, it was a dream come true. Thus “6” was born. Or perhaps just unveiled, as my alter ego. But, the more I indulge her, the more lucid and whole I feel in my “other” life. Sometimes I wonder if my incessant love of cock and its incessant use on me is some kind of metaphor for a type of penetration I crave – being fully opened emotionally and spiritually. Perhaps it is. Or maybe it’s just that I love to get fucked.

A lot.

Photo: Cynthia Cortes

Must be love.

2008-01-04T19:26:00.001-08:00

Question for sex advice columnist, Dan Savage:

"Q: (1) What is your definition of love? (2) How do you know if you're in "love"? (3) How do you know if they're the "one"?

A: (1) Love is making out with someone after you've blown a load on his/her face. (2) You know you're in love when you're eating breakfast in a restaurant together the morning after he/she blew a load on your face and you suddenly realize that you didn't wash your face when you got out of bed that morning and you don't care. (3) You know he/she is the one when you've just realized that you're eating breakfast in a restaurant the morning after he/she blew a load on your face and you didn't wash your face when you got out of bed that morning and he/she smiles, leans over the table, and gives you a kiss."

A warrior in my doorway

2007-05-15T22:49:00.000-07:00

I like doorways. Entrances, hallways, stairwells. In-between places. The preludes to a bed. The places that we don't quite make it out of because we are entranced with each other. Fumbling with each others' clothes, because I can't take another step without my face in his neck, inhaling him. Our hands drifting over each other's bodies, remembering. All a tremble with breath heavy. Right here, standing, as I've pinned him against the wall, I want to feel the hard bulge in his pants between my thighs.

Right now, there is an archetype in my doorway. His whole body is unbelievably hard. This is a man who uses his body for a living. Every square inch of him must be impenetrable. He is male personified. My hands glide over all his bulges, and I notice something. The touch he responds to most is softness. Feather light. This man, who sells being hard, is craving my gentleness. This is good. The men I respond to are like this. They are hard enough that I can allow myself to be soft, softer than soft. I can let go of control, because I trust that they can take the reins. I need this. Sometimes. Very much. I love being the softness that he is drawn to. This well of suppliance. All things wet and delicate.

We stay in the hallway for a long time. I'd be happy to fuck right there. Once the bed enters the picture, all spontanaeity dissolves for me. There's a destination, and of course there is, but I've always been about possibilities. And somehow, when we linger where we're not supposed to be, or where things haven't been delineated yet, there's more of them.

Because today, and now, and tonight, I want to stay open to the idea that I have no answers to anything. That every moment is the portal to everything unknown. And that that's okay. This is a place I need to remain in.

Cunt love, heart love

2007-03-03T23:56:00.000-08:00

I'm trembling in my chest, my eyes watering, throbbing in my pussy and utterly receptive to his touch.

Deep love and deep fucking.

I've reached a place with someone where my heart and my cunt are intertwined. A nexus where one expresses the desire of the other. He whispers, but even his whispers are fierce and assertive. Firm.

He's probing me, penetrating me with his questions and at the same time, he seizes my lower lip with his teeth and plunges his finger into my ass. "Tell me, K" and he's broken down any resistance I had. I gasp the answer out, involutarily. He's found these keys to me.

He kisses me. Soft, wet and my heart opens. My pussy opens.

For me, the beauty in sex and love comes down to surrender and trust. When that's there, on a deep, deep level, a kind of alchemy takes place. The very air is charged and miasmic. Four words out of my lover's mouth have rendered we wet. A one line text message has made me weak in the knees.

Cunt love and heart love have become the same. I love equally with both now. Eddie Murphy in raw/delirious has this fantastic segment where he's fucked this woman senseless and he's asking her – "Who’s pussy is it? Who's pussy is it?" Anyone who has been well and truly fucked, knows whose pussy it is. It isn’t yours anymore. And that’s how it ought to be.

Talking and Fucking

2007-02-25T20:20:00.000-08:00

This restless hunger. I’ve been masturbating three times a day, locking myself in the bathroom, in the darkness, imagining him. Fucking me up and down the room, knocking-over-furniture-type fucking.

Talking and fucking.

Somehow that’s really done it to me. This voice of his I first noticed on the phone: Deep, sexy, hypnotic. I immediately felt myself open a bit, my breath catch. I’ve come to the sound of his voice, without him even touching me. His voice and his words have become additional instruments of pleasure in our repertoire that keep me on edge. They are relentless and penetrating, like his cock, like his hands. I have the sense of being fucked on so many different levels: verbally, physically.

“I like to talk,” he says, the first time we’re together.

“Okay…” I say.

“Do you like my body?” He has a beautiful body.

“I love it. You’re so toned and sculpted. You must work out a lot,” I say, sliding my hands down the ripples in his back.

“I do.”

Inside, I’m shaking and my body is glistening with nervous sweat. He touches my back, it’s wet and he looks at me, he knows. Knows I’m affected. Afflicted. My thighs are slick from the moment he walks in the door. I feel so naked.

“Do you like my cock?” I look at him. He’s very hard. Solid. Quivering.

“I love your cock.” I grab him firmly in my hand. “I want to taste you…” I fall to my knees.

His voice has unlocked me, taken me to this involuntary place of surrender. It seeps in and fills me.

“You are sooo wet.”

“Yes. I am. I am going to turn around and I want you to slam your cock into me. Hard. I love the sound of your balls slapping against my ass.”

The words orchestrate.

The sum total is that I can’t get enough of him. I want him coming on my ass, my mouth, my face, my chest. The effect of some people lasts an hour. He lasts for days. Weeks even. Echoing, reverberating inside me. And I’m still weak in the knees every time I hear his voice.

Zone fucking

2006-09-09T23:40:00.000-07:00

I was in my yoga class tonight. It’s an advanced Power/Ashtanga class with lots of wild balancing postures – things that even look unfathomable. Like balancing on two palms, my whole body perched on my tricep. I’ve been slowly getting better at these, but tonight I just stepped into each one and executed them. There was no thought involved. I just did them and was hardly fazed that I did.

I was in the zone, which I often experience in sports – like snowboarding and surfing and with work sometimes. Everything falls into place and exists on a slightly hyper-real plane. Every motion is pure grace and art.

There’s also that in the fuck. Maybe it’s chemistry in certain couplings that lends itself to getting there faster. Zone fucking. With others, you have to work a little harder to find it. But when you do, it’s ecstasy. Just sheer wordless flow and intuition, riding an edge and staying in the sweet spot where every touch, every angle shift meshes perfectly. A drop of his sweat on my arched back, his heavy lidded eyes, the heavenly taste of his cock in my mouth. All exist in slow motion. A gorgeous dance.

Afterward, I’m floating. A little shaken, smiling, my eyes starry and wild. Stumbling around the grocery store, dropping boxes of green tea. Sometimes I’m shaking for days afterwards.

It’s these moments I live for.

What are you waiting for?

2006-09-05T00:28:00.000-07:00

ZSOLDT

Why are you all so afraid of
the only game in town?

Tear open your heart with both hands. Rip off your face. You
are the hero you've been waiting for. It's up to you:

sleepwalk until you fall down,

or burst into flame!
*

Ever so kinky

2006-08-13T22:02:00.000-07:00

I like to think I’m a kinky girl in sex – a contrarian in that as well as everything I do. I’ve explored fetish play, girls, many girls and many boys. I like older men most of the time. My fantasies are usually of group sex with unsavory types. I’m a total exhibitionist and my motto is “Anywhere but a bed.”

Well, a new fantasy has shown up, quite perverse for me:

Sex with hot men my own age.

I’m adding it to the list.

I live in a beach town. Any sweltering day will find me bringing my mobile office to the beach and working from there. Or just sleeping in the sun. Sunbathing is one of the few passive things I enjoy doing. Well, sometimes I like being tied up and fucked by several men. Immensely.

I’m lying on my stomach, topless, wearing a tiny little bikini bottom. A man passes by. Okay, not just any man, a perfect specimen of a man - really, if I was inventing a dream lover, this would be him.

He returns, hovering. Smiling at me. Wow, this is all so…obvious. And dream-like. He slowly walks down to the water, looking back at me. I feel like Pan is leading me into the forest.

I get up and follow him.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” I smile. “How’s it going?”

“I’m checking you out.” We wade in.

“I noticed.” I slowly tilt my head back into the water to wet my hair. “Swim out with me,” I say.

We dive, we talk. “What do you do?” he asks.

“When I’m not seducing gorgeous men?”

He’s quick to smile and I can’t stop smiling. He oozes, just oozes sensuality. We walk out of the water and his cock is hard, very obvious in his boardshorts. I’m looking down. He smiles.

A little while later we are making out in the bushes. A secret favorite past time of mine. Anything clandestine, a furtive, stolen fuck. Actually, this forest is rather famous for hook-ups, but oh well. He just steps right out of his shorts and his cock is straight, so hard. So inviting.

He stands there, a dark Adonis. Every square inch of him is sculpted perfection, every turn of his body, his face, every lock of his hair. He’s like an apparition.

I’m on my knees, my mouth just lightly brushing the head of his cock, taking forever to plunge him into his mouth. He is salty and wick-ed-ly hard. I may be easy, but I’m not cheap. No, sometimes I’m just plain free.

I’m a little curious about his behavior. “I’m 25,” he says, “I’m in my prime. Sex is natural, it’s healthy.” I’m staring at him a little funny. I’m usually the one saying things like that. Oooo….kay then.

My girlfriend looks on as I punch his number into my phone. When he leaves, she’s looking at me, slightly shocked. “He doesn’t even have to say anything,” she says, shaking her head a bit. “All he has to do is stand there.

“Yeah,” I smile, nodding. “I know.”

These people are all just coming out of the woodwork.

It really is true. Having a goal list is just such an efficient means of getting things accomplished. What did Goethe say about that?

Before you commit, there is hesitation. If you dream you can do something, begin it now, then all the forces of heaven and earth conspire to bring you what you want.

Right now I want lots of gorgeous men with very hard cocks and marathon-worthy stamina.

Guess I’m in my prime.

Girls girls girls

2006-07-25T22:02:00.000-07:00

I went to an all girl play party this weekend. I’ve been wanting to explore this particular scenario for quite some time.

The room is ambient, with an Arabian nights theme. Flowing pieces of organza cascading from the ceiling, couches in various corners, candlelight. A small dungeon space is set up in one corner of the room, a dancefloor in the center, and a see-through curtained area with mattresses, sheets, pillows. Women draped everywhere. Some naked, some topless, others in lingerie, latex, a lady cop. In the mattress area, many naked, heaving women. A gorgeous woman with long dark hair to her waist and perfect, full breasts is straddling another. Bodies rolling.

I’m vaguely in huntress mode. As always, I constantly scan the room, narrowing down until I find the person who lights up for me.

“DIRTY LITTLE SLUT” catches my eye. Or at least, that’s the name on her t-shirt. Ah, a woman after my own…heart. I watch her dance for a while.

I lean on a post and keep scanning. I know the kind of boy-girls I like and I haven’t really seen any yet.

Until now.

A group of boy-girls come in, they all have short, shaved hair and baggy clothes. There is one with a very feminine, beautiful face. Think Natalie Portman, post 'V.' She swaggers with the confidence of a teenage boy. I can’t take my eyes off her.

I’m waiting for her to notice me.

I talk to a couple of women. One looks like Erykah Badu with a shaved head. She asks me to dance. The music steps up, a racy techno beat. I'm all legs and hips and ass.

My other girl/boy steps onto the dancefloor with her little posse.

Now she notices me.

I’m wearing a black bustier and little see-through boy panties and tall black boots. I rotate my hips a lot. There is girl-porn playing on a screen behind me: women stripping in sexy lingerie, women and strap-ons. Two girls, one in a little schoolgirl outfit, step into a cage next to me and grind against each other. The schoolgirl is getting her skirt lifted.

My boy/girl moves closer to me on the dancefloor. She doesn’t look at me, but she keeps bumping into me, practically shoving me. I wonder if this girl I’m dancing with can see that I am so distracted.

Erykah asks me if I’d like to join her on the mattresses. We wander over and kneel next to each other, hands gliding over skin. Hands pausing.

I’m aware that I’m really not that hot for her. Not like the swaggering teenage boy. And, as the goal says, I want to be really hot for this girl.

So, I break away. The evening is winding down and finally my boy is on her own. It's now or never. I approach her.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi.” Big smile.

“I like the way you dance.” Bigger smile.

"I like the way you dance."

I lower my head a little and look up softly. "The way someone inhabits their body tells me a lot about how they'll inhabit mine."

On the way to crossing one off the list. Ah, but still more work to do. A girl must remain steadfast to be productive.

The birthday presence

2006-07-12T16:30:00.000-07:00

David Deida gives a great analogy about the core desires of men and women, in The Way of the Superior Man. In this book/chapter, he is addressing men.

"…Because what she really wants is a man who can figure it out for himself. She wants a man who loves her, and escorts her with his loving, without having to ask her what she wants all the time.

One of the deepest feminine desires in intimacy is precisely not to have to figure it out for her man and guide him. She wants to be able to trust him in his direction. There are some times when she does want to figure it out for you, but far more often she feels your gift when you offer her a direction in your intimacy without her having to ask you for it or tell you what she wants.

Suppose it’s your woman’s birthday. If it were your birthday, you’d love it if your woman would do anything you wanted. So you think she’d like that, too. You say to her, “Happy Birthday! For your birthday, we can do anything you want. We can go anywhere and do anything. And I’ll do anything for you. What do you want to do?”

This is exactly the opposite of most women’s idea of an ideal birthday present. Most women would get far more excited if you were to say, “You’ve got 30 minutes to pack your bags for the weekend. Everything is taken care of. Just pack your bags, and leave the rest to me. I’m going to give you the best birthday you’ve ever had.”

One of the deepest feminine desires in intimacy (though not in business or simple friendship) is to be able to relax and surrender, knowing that her man is taking care of everything. Then, she can simply enjoy without having to plan it all herself and tell her man what to do. She can be pure energy, pure motion, pure love, without having to analyze all the options and decide which ones are best. She can enjoy her man taking responsibility for the direction, so she can be what the feminine is: pure energy.

A happy woman is a woman relaxed in her body and heart: powerful, unpredictable, deep, potentially wild and destructive, or calm and serene, but always full of life, surrendered to and moved by the great force of her oceanic heart. When you ask her to analyze her heart’s emotions, it’s like building walls around a part of the ocean and turning it into a swimming pool. It’s safer and more predictable, but far less alive and enlivening. Most men have made their women into swimming pools by continually treating them like men, talking with them about their feelings as if they can be analyzed to the point of “fixing” them.

Women do not become free by analyzing themselves. They become free by surrendering into love. Not your love. Their love. They become free by surrendering to the immense flow of love that is native to their core and allowing their lives to be moved by this force in their heart. It may involve moments of analysis, but primarily it involves deep trust.

Be so full in your loving, so strong and stable in your presence, that she can just let go and surrender the limits she has put on her feelings. Let the emotions of her heart flow unguarded. Let her love be expressed with no limits. Let her go mad with love."

If it was going to happen, it would look something like this

2006-07-12T00:18:00.000-07:00

Hermalinda was the only young woman in all the land – a female they could see and count on, one with a heady mixture of blood in her veins and a hearty taste for a good time. She was in the business of solace out of pure and simple vocation, she liked almost all men in general, and many in particular. She reigned among them like a queen bee. She loved their smell of work and desire, their harsh voices, their unshaven cheeks, their bodies, so vigorous and at the same time so pliable in her hands, their pugnacious natures and naïve hearts. She knew the illusory strength and extreme vulnerability of her clients, but she never took advantage of those weaknesses, on the contrary, she was moved by both. Her rambunctious nature was tempered by traces of maternal tenderness, and night often found her sewing patches on a shirt, stewing a chicken for some sick drover, or writing love letters for distant sweethearts. She made her fortune on a mattress stuffed with raw wool under a leaky zinc roof that moaned like lute and oboes when the wind blew. Hermalinda’s flesh was firm and her skin unblemished, she laughed with gusto and had grit to spare. In every embrace, however brief, she proved herself an enthusiastic and playful friend. Word of her firm horsewoman’s legs and breasts without a trace of wear had spread across the six hundred kilometers of that wild province, and lovers traveled many miles to spend a while in her company.

Hermalinda had conceived a plan to turn a sure profit without cheating anyone. In addition to cards and dice, the men could try their hand at a number of games in which the prize was her person. The losers handed over their money to her, as did those who won, but the winners gained the right to dally briefly in her company, without pretext or preliminary – not because she was unwilling but because she lacked time to give each man special attention.

A man could lose a month’s pay in fifteen minutes playing the game of Toad’s Mouth. Hermalinda would draw a chalk line on the floor and four steps away draw a large circle in which she lay down on her back, knees spread wide, legs golden in the light of the spirit lamps. The dark center of her body would be revealed as open as a fruit, as a merry toad’s mouth, while the air in the room grew heavy and hot. The players took a position behind the chalk line and tossed their coins toward the target. Some were expert marksmen, with a hand so steady they could stop a panicked animal running at full speed by slinging two stone bolas between its legs, but Hermalina had an evasive way of sliding her body, shifting it so that at the last instant the coin missed its mark. Those that landed inside the chalk circle belonged to her. If one chanced to enter the gate of heaven, it won for its owner a sultan’s treasure: two hours alone with her behind the curtain in absolute ecstasy, seeking consolation for all past wants and dreams of the pleasures of paradise. They told, the men who had lived those two precious hours, that Hermalinda knew ancient love secrets and could lead a man to the threshold of death and bring him back transformed into a wise man.

Until the day that an Asturian named Pablo appeared, very few had won that pair of wondrous hours, although several had enjoyed similar pleasure – but for half their salary, not a few coins. By then, Hermalinda had accumulated a small fortune, but the idea of retiring to a more conventional life had never occurred to her; in fact, she took great pleasure in her work and was proud of the sparks of pleasure she afforded the drovers. This Pablo was known to be a surly, pugnacious loner who ridiculed the weather, the sheep and the English. He had no fixed home and he admitted to no loves or obligations, but he was not getting any younger and solitude was seeping into his bones. Sometimes when he awoke at dawn on the icy ground, wrapped in his black Castilian cape and with his saddle for a pillow, every inch of his body ached. The pain was not the pain of stiff muscles but an accumulation of sorrow and neglect. He was tired of living like a lone wolf, but neither was he cut out for domestication. He had come south because he had heard the rumor that at the end of the world there was a woman who could change the way the wind blew, and he wanted to see her with his own eyes. The vast distance and the risks of the road had not dampened his determination, and when finally he found Hermalinda’s saloon and had her in arm’s reach, he could see she was forged of the same hard metal as he, and he decided that after such a long journey life would not be worth living without her. He settled into a corner of the room to study her and calculate his possibilities.

El Asturiano had guts of steel, even after several glasses of Hermalinda’s liquor his eyes were still clear. He refused to remove his clothes for the other contests he frankly found infantile, but toward the end of the evening, when it was time for the crowning moment – The Toad – he shook off the fumes of the alcohol and joined the chorus of men around the chalk circle. To him, Hermalinda was as beautiful and wild as a puma. He felt the stirrings of his hunter’s instinct, and the undefined pain of the alienation that had tormented hin during his journey turning to tingling anticipation. He saw the feet shod in low boots, the woven stockings rolled below the knee, the long bones and tense muscles of those legs of gold in the froth of full petticoats, and he knew that he would have but one opportunity to win. He took his position, planting his feet on the floor and rocking back and forth until he found the true axis of his being, he transfixed Hermalinda with a knifelike gaze, forcing her to abandon her contortionist’s tricks. Or that may not have been how it was, it may be that she chose him from among the others to honor with her company. Pablo squinted, exhaled a deep breath, and tossed his coin. Everyone watched as it formed a perfect arc and entered cleanly in the slot. A salvo of applause and envious whistles celebrated the feat. Nonchalantly, the smuggler hitched up his pants, took three steps forward, seized Hermalinda’s hand and pulled her to her feet, prepared to prove in two hours that she could not do without him. He almost dragged her from the room, the men stood around drinking and checking their watches until the period of the reward had passed, but neither Hermalinda nor the foreigner appeared. Three hours went by, four, the whole night; morning dawned and the bells rang for work, and still the door did not open.

At noon the lovers emerged. Pablo, without a glance for anyone, went outside to saddle his horse, a horse for Hermalinda, and a mule to carry their belongings. Hermalinda was wearing riding pants and jacket, and a canvas bag filled with coins was tied to her waist. There was a new expression in her eyes and a satisfied swish to her memorable rump. Solemnly, they strapped their gold onto the mule, mounted their horses, and set off. Hermalinda made a vague wave of farewell to her desolate admirers, and followed El Asturiano across the barren plains without a backward glance. She never returned.

** The Toad's Mouth is from Isabelle Allende's collection, The Stories of Eva Luna. I first read the book about 15 years ago, and this story is the only one I've ever been able to remember.

My composite lover

2006-07-11T21:45:00.000-07:00

I’ve come to read so much in the braille of my lovers’ bodies: Soft, pliable flesh of a gentle soul. Ripply hardness of a fiery polo player and ruthless deal-maker. All of my lovers form one, big composite lover who inspire me to bring out different parts of myself to meet them. In bed and out. Some are gentle, and surprise me that a thousand feather light touches can penetrate so deeply. Someone else will slam me up against the wall, meeting me in that bed-shaking hardness that I so often crave. It’s sexual homeopathy – like cures like. *

With some, I drop into my intellect and wit. I miss that sometimes. Others are more heartfelt and emotional so my poet I become - we float in the sea of that “never-ending simple tenderness” that Neruda speaks of.

It is a conscious gear shifting I do within myself. As much as I lead them, they lead me.

* This concept I first saw on a blog – Sexual Homeopathy - Myths and Metawhores.

Tantra demystified

2006-07-06T14:42:00.000-07:00

I was talking to my hairdresser about this recently. I finally found one of those stylists, the infamous ones you can tell everything to. I gained her respect when I told her the story about bringing home a sexy Argentinian for a threesome with my former fiance. I also invited her to a Taoist Jade Egg class I was taking: vaginal weight lifting exercises for women.

Me: “What is tantra to you?”

My stylist/confidante: “Being present while you’re humping.”

That pretty much sums it up.

The science of trust

2006-07-03T23:43:00.000-07:00

A cell cannot be in growth and protection mode at the same time. If it's in protection, it stops growing.

Ah, the implications.

- Dr. Bruce Lipton's research on cellular biology

Spirituality vs. I'm a great big slut

2006-06-28T07:22:00.000-07:00

This comment came in a as a response to my “To Do List” post. I think the questions are totally valid, so I’m going to publish my response here.

I'm English, therefore sexual repression is probably in my genes as well as coming from my upbringing and the relatively conservative society that we live in here in Blighty, but I can't seem to equate being feminine, spiritual and sexy with these kind of sexual fantasies. Even as I write this though I question myself. I was about to ask this question: how can you be really spiritual and still crave all this raucous sexual activity? But then I thought to myself to deny the fantasy would be repression and therefore destructive. Hmmm....

Why though, do you want to have sex with all these men? Do you think it is a healthy thing? Don't you think you would be demeaned by the experience? It doesn't seem like there is anything particularly deep about your relationships with these men. Wouldn't it be a case of mere genital rubbing? I'm confused because I can see from your blog that you also relate to David Deida's work, which I have recently become so inspired by. He has helped change my view of relationships, myself and helped me understand what I am looking for in a man. You seem like a very open, courageous, feminine explorer, but at the same time I can't relate to the side of you that is sexually voracious. But then, I don't even know you! Maybe I am a little jealous. I feel like I am dried up. I need some new ideas. Some sexual food. I know you must get so many replies each day, so I totally understand if you can't reply, but if you could I would be so grateful. Or even if you could point me in the direction of some good sites? I don't mind if you print this post on your site. Thanks. xox

A lady in the streets and a freak between the sheets? Don’t we all want that? I certainly want a man like that.

Beautiful, intelligent, charming woman. I have an excellent eye for art, fashion and presentation (although I'm becoming quite partial to "cheap hooker" look. It seems to really work for me). I’m warm-hearted and spiritual – I volunteer within my community on a number of different levels. I have a decent intellect but prefer the languages of the heart and the body. I practice yoga and have been devoted to my spiritual path for 13 years. I teach a satsang class where I live.

And I like to get fucked.

A lot.

There are certainly a number of themes we can toss about here.

1) Women who openly admit to a “voracious” sexual appetite are usually labeled sluts. Men who do the same are revered.

I will venture to say that I am not that different from many women out there in having a desire to be very sexual – only that I acknowledge it to myself and to other people. The ‘slut’ word doesn’t scare me anymore. :)

2) From a very young age, after having lots of great sex, I still thought: “there has to be something more to sex.” I knew instinctively that it was some kind of portal, but it wasn’t until I found Tantra that I had a framework to express that concept within. Tantric and Taoist study both consider sexual energy to be extremely potent – the most powerful energy on the planet – and that CONSCIOUSLY channeled, it can be used for amazing things like:

a) revitalizing physical health – ancient Taoist physicians would prescribe different sexual positions to cure different ailments – by directing the energy to certain organs, etc. The best acupressure treatment going.
b) using sexual energy as a catalyst to reach higher spiritual/cosmic states
c) and, a very modern application and one that I play with a lot has to do with all the taboos and repression (you said it) that sex carries these days. People carry and hold a lot of energy in their repressed desires. When that stuff is explored consciously, very powerful things happen.

When I first went into fantasy play (and still), amazing things have taken place. There is something about taking these scenarios that I carry around with me, that are usually my secret, masturbatory fantasies and letting them loose that actually changes the nature of my reality. My inner world starts to mesh with my outer and vice versa and I feel extremely empowered. Our fantasies, our deepest sexual desires are often a source of shame. My experiences in acting these out in safe, sane and consensual environments has brought me more into a sense of my true self and given me incredible freedom to be all of who I am.

I play in the BDSM realm. I have a Master. I am his slave.

Or, as he once described it, the dominant becomes the mind and the submissive, the body.

BDSM really isn’t about pain or whips and chains or any other stereotypes most people conjure up. (Not entirely, anyway. ;) It has been an incredible vehicle for me to act out many of my fantasies. Would I really go into a gas station and fuck 10 random strangers? Probably not. (But who knows? ;) Instead, my Master might set up some similar scenario amongst seasoned players. Because I trust him implicitly, I can completely let go into the experience that he will orchestrate and through it I will experience some kind of transformation.

Is it mere genital rubbing? My primary connection is with myself and with him. I’m basically ‘using’ the other participants and they are ‘using’ me to create this. Even the voyeurs are participating since I want an audience. To me, any experience approached consciously has value.

I probably ought to add that my Master is a very conscious being. He is a Master martial artist, and a true shaman in that he can fearlessly move through many worlds and guide me into new/old places within myself. Neither of us uses drugs or alcohol.

On not being able to equate the sexy with the spiritual and feminine. In the past month, since my Master has taken me on again, I already notice so many changes within myself:

I walk around wanting to spread my legs for every man I see. I see a man look at me hungrily, with sex in his eyes and my instinct is to open my legs, my mouth a little wider.

I am smiling at people more, connecting with them, seeing how lots of people actually genuinely smile at me. I’m taking the first step in initiating contact and conversation with people.

I feel more capable of love and intimacy and more open to the world around me, as though the openness of my cunt is related to how I interact in the world. My own self-acceptance makes me accept other people more. I feel happier.

Men stare at me, mouths open, eyes hungry. Left, right and center. They can just sense this openness in me. And I’m energetically telling them they can have it. I love it. Especially middle-aged, slovenly kinds of men. I pass them an energetic fuck and squeeze them with my thighs and smile invitingly as I walk past them.

“I don’t mind if you print this post on your site.”

I bet you don’t! ;) I’m happy to assist you with a little bit of exposure. As for where to point you, I’d say just follow your nose (or rather, your pussy). It knows. One thing I embark upon tends to lead to another. David Deida has his strong points. Anyone who uses the words “cock” and “pussy” and then says something intelligent is all right in my books. Body Electric does some very good workshops. Osho’s Multiversity in Pune or Humaniversity in the Netherlands will shake you up. Or spend a weekend with me.

Dress you up in my trash

2006-06-27T01:47:00.000-07:00

My Master parks the car, we get out and I follow him down the street. I have no idea where we are going. We come up to a pretty boutique. I start veering instinctually toward it.

He keeps walking.

Another pretty boutique.

Uh unh. He keeps walking. I know what’s at the end of the street. I’m starting to clue in that this may be where we are headed.

We are. The Salvation Army thrift store.

He starts giving me instructions. “I want you to look for really small, sleazy kinds of things, like plastic skirts and little tops. Look for bright colors like red... show me what you find.”

We are heading to a play party next weekend. I recently told him how I was put off by someone’s “cheap hooker” look. So here we are, shopping for new outfits.

He’s even at the children’s section, looking for really tiny, tiny tight t-shirts. He pulls things out, holds them up to me and says, “Will this fit you?” I look at the neck hole. If my head looks like it will fit through, I say yes.

I take a stack of things into the dressing room. I take off my pretty dress, put down my designer sunglasses and bag and dump the pile of clothes onto the floor.

I’m trying on little denim shorts and mini-skirts, tight t-shirts, some leopard print thing. I open the door to show him each outfit and he nods yes or no. His eyes light up when I put on a little black t-shirt with a bull on it.

I also told him about a man who asked me out on a civilian date. I describe the guy, there’s some attraction there for me, but it’s not really strong. My Master tells me to accept the date. My date, let’s call him J, wants to pick me up on his motorcycle and take me out of the city for a serious hike up a mountain. Maybe dinner afterwards.

We take this stack of stuff up to the counter. Grand total: $14.95-.

We go back to his place and he wants me to try everything on again. I put on a little fashion show. He tells me to go look in the mirror after every outfit change.

“How do you feel?”

“Like trailer trash.”

“Good,” he smiles. “This is what you are wearing on your date.”

I’m half laughing, half horrified. I can’t imagine going out in public in this stuff, never mind a date.

“Do you have a belt, something cheap looking?” he asks. I have a glittery sequined belt to go with the very, very short denim mini skirt (no panties), the black bull t-shirt (no bra) and, um, running shoes. “Fantastic,” he says. “I’m giving you a break, eh? I’ll let you take the price tags off. But don’t wash these things.” He picks up a t-shirt and smells it and shakes his head. He looks at me and laughs.

Fast forward to date morning. I have to meet some friends before I head out to meet J. I decide to wear the outfit – it will save me changing again. Plus, it’s kind of growing on me.

A friend: “WHAT are you wearing? Where did you get that… outfit?”

Me: “What do you mean? Is there something wrong with it?”

Friend, looking stumped: “Well, where did you get it?”

I meet a few other friends on the way. All are staring at the bull. I’m really enjoying this now.

I meet up with J. The outfit doesn’t seem to faze him. At all. Aww. I guess he likes me just the way I am. How sweet.

So I climb onto the bike; I’m pretty sure it’s clear I’m not wearing panties. Still not fazed. I’m straddling him on the drive out, sometimes leaning forward to push my breasts against his back.

There’s a bit of tension, of crackle. We hike to the summit, me hopping over logs, jumping off rocks; I come alive in the forest, nymph that I am.

He’s packed a picnic lunch for us, and we actually manage to find a ledge that is completely secluded and shaded by a rogue tree on this rock face. I’m waiting for him to make his move. Here it comes. He picks up my hand and starts very deliberately massaging my fingers, in between my fingers even. It feels good. I let myself succumb for a little while until I feel my breath catching a bit, then I bring my attention back to my solar plexus. My pussy is fired up, I’m sitting with my legs open and he is lightly trailing my thighs, ever so close but not quite touching my swollen pussy.

I lean up higher against the rock wall, stopping the interaction. I’m in a heightened, sensuous space as we descend.

We stop at a cold, rushing creek. I want to swim so I strip down naked and plunge in. J keeps his shorts on. Another couple is there and the man looks at me and I look at him. This other man takes off his shorts and jumps in as well. I keep staring at him, his beautiful 60 year old body and bold spirit.

This is the moment when everything changes. I lay on a rock, letting the sun dry me. I open my legs so I can feel the sun on my pussy. (Ancient Taoist energy reviving technique). J. is trying to lie directly across from me, putting his leg between my legs somewhat. I get up and move to another rock to lie down, still naked, my breasts full and luminous in the sun, my pussy so happy to feel the heat and me just languorously, softly naked. After some time, I dress and climb past the rock J. is on. He pulls me to him for a hug, pressing me tight. He kisses me but I extract myself and we head out.

Excuse the obvious metaphors to follow, but it’s pretty much downhill from there. We get back to the bike and he’s actually left the keys in the ignition and the battery’s dead.

Later as I’m telling my Master about the day, he says: “I knew if you were in your truth, you would not have sex with him. He lost his power and you stayed in yours.” It’s this dynamic that I’m beginning to understand more and more. How I can still feel and connect with the other person, but stay in my own center, even if someone is trying to pull me off it.

P.S. The aforementioned outfit has since become my favorite.

To do list

2006-06-26T22:43:00.000-07:00

- Falling in love with a woman I’m hot for. Maybe a boy-girl – FTM. Very boyish looking tomboy girls – fit, crew cuts, bulging biceps and wife-beaters - girls with strong boy arms and bodies.
- Fucking a room full of men – many variations on this theme:
- I’ve had my car repaired at a seedy garage. I’ve “forgotten my wallet.” I’m suggesting another way to pay. I unbutton my blouse. The manager calls in the other attendants. He locks the door behind them. They take turns fucking me, some of them filming me. They keep me there all night. Until every one of them is absolutely, totally satisfied.
- I go in for an interview as a secretary. I suggest many ways I could perform duties in the office, such as staying late and working LOTS of overtime. My potential boss calls in other associates who line up to be serviced. It takes all night to fuck them. Several times.
- A slave auction. I’m on stage, tied up, my arms above my head. I am naked. People are openly, lustfully staring at my pussy, my breasts. A very crowded room is bidding pathetic amounts for my company for 2 full days and nights. I am finally auctioned off to some sleazy pot-bellied men who drag me out with them. Driving off, they are already groping me and making me suck their cocks and fuck them in the car before we even arrive at some shithole. For two days I am their sex slave; I hardly sleep. I am made to service them constantly. They bring over more friends who I am made to fuck and please around the clock as the rest of them watch.

Writing this and imagining it all is making me so excited, so wet.

I would love to kiss you

2006-06-23T20:36:00.000-07:00

I would love to kiss you
The price of kissing is your life

Now my loving is running toward my life shouting,
What a bargain, let's buy it

- Rumi, Open Secret

Instigators and Demigods of Sexual Pursuit: #2

2006-06-22T14:13:00.000-07:00

O - Story of O

Truly one of my all time favorite heroines. She starts her journey as a pretty, successful girl, has a charming lover. All is well until he throws her to the dogs, subjecting her to all number of debasements, humiliation, pain and chastisement. Slowly, as she is broken down, a beautiful chrysalis occurs. With nothing left to hold onto of her former self, she emerges totally free. There is no taboo, there is no ‘bad’ since she has experienced it all, faced it all in herself and now there is nothing left to fear.

I had a lover (well, still have) like this. He throws me into wild situations – anything that I am attached to or have any ‘preciousness’ about, he destroys. I was afraid of gaining weight. He made me gain 15 pounds. I was attached to my pretty girl hair. He shaved it off. I was intimidated by one of his other lovers. He made me eat her pussy and I fell in love with her within minutes. I have fantasies of pure exhibitionism – he puts me in rooms full of people with my cunt on display for all to view. I love group sex. He brought me 6 gorgeous, sexy people for my birthday. And so on. Although I have been apart from him for several years, I sought him out again recently. I needed a catapult into the next dimension and I knew he could help me.

What are our relationships - especially the sexual ones – if they are not catalytic in some way? I really need them to be - the arena where I can play the wildest.

Instigators and Demigods of Sexual Pursuit: #1

2006-06-12T20:16:00.000-07:00

I'd like to start a sexual heroes series - a tribute to people who have paved the way to a more erotically open existence. Renegades and pioneers who have made it easier for the rest of us to be the XXX we all really are.

Lalla's Naked Song

There is tell of a mystical Sufi poet named Lalla. She was known for wandering naked, singing, through the 14th century streets of Kashmir. She gave up garments altogether - her body seemed clothing enough. One day she was off to the village well to fetch water. She danced gracefully on the way home, the jar of water balanced on her head. Her husband, seething with envy, tired of her impervious, wanton displays, threw a rock at the jar. It shattered; sending pieces of glass everywhere, but the water remained intact on the top of her head. And Lalla kept singing.

Twenty moments of seduction: Moment #3

2006-06-10T12:02:00.000-07:00

"It's the only defense I have."

When I would ask D. how he could be so vulnerable with me, always flattering me, telling me how big he saw me, that's what he would say. Something along the lines of: If you know your weaknesses then you're not weak anymore. His openness disarmed me. By acknowledging his vulnerability and speaking his truth, he was replacing fear with love. And in so doing, the whole world changes.

I tried it with someone recently, someone who totally blows me away. Let myself fumble through my vulnerability and express how I really felt. I was scared shitless (I took that as a good sign). After doing it, I could let go of any attachment to the outcome, because I had done the best I could, there was nothing left to say - nothing less than the truth.

And in so doing, the whole world changed.

I like the old ones

2006-05-14T19:44:00.000-07:00

I’ve had an “over 50 only” rule for many years and it has served me quite well.

I like the king. A man who has made something of himself. He has a quiet confidence borne of years of victory, of having stretched himself, proved his mettle, and it’s now something that infuses his being and needs no advertising. So previously baffled by the erratic female in his younger years, he has begun to understand women. I always tell people, it’s really quite simple. Telephone her often and make love to her frequently. Settle all her demons and open her up to love. She must feel your presence with her, a protective shield to her opening. And it is precisely this love and openness that energizes a man. Something he eventually realizes he desperately needs. But he usually doesn’t realize it until he’s over 45. Yes, men can love before that, but it’s not the same – at least it hasn’t been for me. Until a man of that age really loved me, I would have never known.

There have been moments where I have faltered, though. Moments where I have let myself fall under the spell of a beautiful, noble prince. A moment of weakness, thinking, wouldn’t it be nice to be with a man who has the same cultural references I do? Someone whose belly is as taut as mine? It’s an indulgence, really. Being deeply loved and cherished cannot compare to someone also really liking Death Cab for Cutie. (Although you’d be surprised what the old guys like ;) It’s nice for a moment or two, an evening at most, and then I realize what I’m missing. I can sense his lack of embrace – it’s an energetic cape that the king weaves around me; he wants me to know he is mine and for me he will do anything. The young ones see that as a sign of weakness and aren’t secure enough yet to offer it.

Three of my favorite and most prolific lovers have been 50,55 and, would you believe it, 65. An occasional foray into younger flesh will satisfy my cravings when they arise. The same way that I will go to a night club every six months just to know that I’m not missing anything. It satisfies my appetite and I forget about it for about half a year.

Having said that, I’m still open to wisdom and adventure wherever I can find it. Perhaps one day it will surprise me in the guise of firmer flesh, but until then... I like the old ones.

Invitation

2006-04-27T10:33:00.000-07:00

Stumbling into you
All the marks I left on your body
I would have remain
As evidence, proof
Until I could make them again
I wanted to take your jacket, your scent
With me
To remember the dream
To keep it close to me
To let it sleep between my thighs, wrapped, woven
Transfusing you into my blood
I want to decode your tattoo
Unravel your jacket thread by thread
Unravel myself and each thread
Gently wrap around you to forge a bed
A hand on my stomach
Your tongue dragging from one hip to my other hip
Entering me, opening me further softer wiser wilder
You fit me
I reach across the earth to touch you
Meet me

Soundtrack:

Haunted
By your eyes
By your voice
By your smile
By your mouth
By your soul
Haunted

Track: Haunted…When the Minutes Drag
Artist: Love and Rockets
Album: Seventh Dream of Teenage Heaven

Film fetish 2005

2006-04-01T09:08:00.000-08:00

The discovery of a new film, the feeling of being submersed in it, is a spiritual experience for me. I rarely sit still - watching a great movie is one of the few things that actually enables me to do so. Therefore, I relish finding gems of the genre that suspend disbelief and lead me into another realm, oh so willingly.

I welcome any suggestions for the list.

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. I am not normally a fan of Robert Downey Jr. nor Val Kilmer but this movie changed all that. Very distinctive, quirky and human characters. That sentence itself pretty much sums up what I look for in a film, since all on this list have that qualifier. It was billed as a thriller in my hotel. Perhaps comedy/thriller if such a genre exists. I guess it does - Guy Ritchie has pulled it off a couple of times.

Me, You and Everyone We Know. Independent film written and directed by Miranda July, who also stars. Highlights the awkward, fumbling moments of attraction with such compelling honesty. Encapsulates two of my favorite themes: love and humor.

The Aristocrats. Once I got over the initial shock at hearing so many naughty things done in entirely new and unheard of ways, it has to be the most gut laugh inducing film I saw all year. A totally visceral experience of humor - the kind when you're with a friend and he/she is laughing so hard that you start laughing at their laughing.

Walk the Line. Only for the last scene. Whilst decent enough, the only scene that was for me, over the top brilliant, and worth watching the entire film for, was the last scene - letting love in.

It's All Gone Pete Tong. Maybe it's nostalgia for my coming of age days. Or my love for a fantastic soundtrack. The storyline and theme are amazing though: drug-addled, madcap, brilliant d.j. goes deaf and downward spirals. He eventually finds his will to live again, finds love and returns to create incredible music and become the world's first deaf d.j. How can that be? You'll have to watch the movie. Surprisingly uplifting.

My DVD television discoveries. I don't have cable, so I'm somewhat out of the T.V. land loop. I was turned on to both 24 and Arrested Development this year and went back to devour all the previous seasons. Two totally different genres, both of them fantastically engaging.

Mystical chocolatiers

2006-02-14T11:27:00.000-08:00

It is the missing ingredient that takes any food, any experience and transforms it from the ordinary to the extraordinary. The experience, like eating the chocolate, may be fleeting, but the addition of love as an ingredient will enable its effects to outlast simple digestion.

Occasionally, on my travels, I stumble upon a cosmic chef who knows a thing or two about inviting love into the mix. Sometimes patrons don’t even realize what it was that effected them – they just know they feel fantastic afterwards. So far, El Atrio (suitably named) housed in La Capilla restaurant in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico is number one on my list. I had the experience of accidentally switching dimensions and finding not only the most loved up chocolates ever, but also discovering on the walls, the erotic drawings of Gary Slipper: Surreal, magical, dreamy pieces. I’ve since commissioned him to do further work for my bedroom.

Number two on the list: Dutch Girl Chocolates on Commercial Drive in Vancouver (604-251-3221). If you ask nicely, one of the Dutch girls will pull out a special basket, the Kama Sutra collection, hidden underneath the counter. Therein lies a writhing mass of gods and goddesses forever immortalized in chocolate. The Dutch girls speak enough English to do mail order.

Twenty moments of seduction: #2

2006-02-07T17:49:00.000-08:00

Moment #2: A texture

The labored breathing of a man I have excited. Heavy, dilated and out of control.

All because of me!

A spell I have cast: it flows and wraps itself around me; an ethereal, glowing cape. I speak more magically, I move more gracefully, I embody more of my own beauty. It highlights me.

Something epic

2006-01-15T23:13:00.000-08:00

I ran into an ex-lover a few weeks ago. A significant ex-lover. His name, in a beautiful Arab script, is tattooed on my belly. He was something of a mentor to me. I have had a few Bill-Beatrix Kiddo type relationships – wise, older, teacher-type men. Very confident, alpha male, cosmic shaper men who I could actually surrender to and learn from. I like to feel that my growth is being accelerated in my relationships – that I’m not just hanging out, pausing, seeking comfort. Whenever I try to have conventional boyfriend type relationships, they usually end messily and in retrospect seem like a waste of my time.

He.

Opened me. If there was something taboo, we explored it. Any fear I had, he drew it out into the open to expel it. When I saw him last month, I could feel that there was still something to explore between us. We weren’t finished yet. He can play big. And, as I like to say: Go big or go home.

So, it was with some apprehension, excitement, that I spent a week thinking about it and finally called him today. Because…?? It is like getting on a train and I’m surrendering some control, letting life lead me instead of me navigating every turn. I’ll let someone else guide at times because at some core level I really trust him. I gave myself to him like I have no other and he helped sculpt and free my passion and courage. So. I don’t know. Anything could happen. That’s what he used to say to me: “It’s beautiful not to know.”

Soundtrack: “So lift those heavy eyes/
People say that you’ll die/
Faster than without water

Artist: The Arcade Fire
Album: Funeral
Track: Rebellion (Lies) (via Amazon.com)

Which is what I’m hoping for. To shed old skin and take on new ones, ever more beautiful, ever more heartfelt and raw.

P.S. You’ll notice the proliferation of Arcade Fire. I’m in love with them right now. A reviewer (E.A Solinas) on Amazon summed them up: “Wild, mad and beautiful.” Sounds like a nice life.

Twenty moments of seduction

2006-01-14T18:30:00.001-08:00

I believe in the power of the moment. The moment as a portal,
a blueprint for future possibility. A life can begin in a single moment, and end in another one. A decision I make right now can change the course of my entire life. Life is best, at its most acute, when we recognize the power of those moments to alter our course. We rise up to meet a challenge, dare to go for something we really want. I think the art and skill of living an extremely fulfilling life lies in the acted upon courage of those moments.

Hence we embark upon Twenty Moments of Seduction. Little coup d’etats of attraction, of being led over the resistance threshold, the precursors to “Yes.” A collection for you. Starting with:

A moment of truth. (About the author)

“I like sleeping with somebody”
- Anon, 12th century AD

I like sleeping with somebody
Different
Often
It’s nicest when my husband is
In a foreign country
And there’s rain in the streets at night
And wind
And nobody

Translated from Sanskrit

"The anxiety of falling in love could only find repose in bed."

2006-01-14T18:05:00.000-08:00

It's a quote from One Hundred Years of Solitude. Osho also said: Make love first, ask questions later. These days I am tending to agree with this sentiment more and more. If I am sexually incompatible with someone, we are incompatible, period. I’m not sure if this is because: 1) Sex is the core expression of who we are and at that fundamental level there exists a map, roads I can follow. I can take that as a symbolic reflection of where we can go together outside of the bedchamber. Or 2) Sex is the glue. I find that a lot can be worked out sexually. The tussle as therapy, wordless communication. After a couple of hours of lovemaking, tension is diffused, we are reconnected at some primal, cellular level and we can speak from a higher place. Our lovemaking has swept clear loads of debris that might have taken hours of conversation to get to. A shortcut to the soul.

Welcome!

2006-01-11T11:38:00.000-08:00

I’ve been wondering from what perspective to write this blog. From a place of distance, dispensing information? Then I was thinking, that all I’m really craving, all I think anyone’s really craving, is intimacy. Something real and honest and raw.

I want to feel closer to you, not further apart.

So that would mean, I’d write from a place of vulnerability. Everyone wants a moment that will shake them up. A moment when you realize that you can change your world, you are poised on the edge of something important, something risky. So that is what I hope to offer you. Moments that will shake you up so that the universe opens itself to you, just a crack, as I do, and suddenly in the revelation, we’re not so alone anymore.

Soundtrack: "Looking for someone to trust/
Without a fight"

Artist: Joseph Arthur
Album: Redemption's Son
Track: Honey and the Moon (via Amazon.com)