Cruising with the Awesome Slut

and we're back!

2010-12-30T06:02:00.000-08:00

I missed you. Did you miss me?

During our hiatus imposed by the incorrect Google spam bots, I linked all of my old posts and actually updated here. Sugar Skeet started her own blog here. I'm not sure how/where we'll continue posting new material, but we'll get back to you.

Did you know that this blog won an award from the Village Voice for best sex blog? Check it out.

Anyway, hey! It feels good posting here - like putting on old jeans that fit perfectly. Should I have made a sexual reference? Whoops.

best dildo

2010-09-19T16:03:00.000-07:00

Christopher bought me a dildo.

I'm always excited to see him, but I don't think I've ever rushed to his house faster than when he told me it had arrived. When I got there I got shy. Instead of begging for it I stalled: asking for a beer, playing some records I brought over. Finally he suggested we go to his bedroom and there it was, hanging out on his bed. I sat down and held it--examined it--and he pushed me down, kissing me and rubbing my tits. I grabbed his cock through his pants and he helped me undo them.

So there we were. Me on my back, him on his knees, his cock in my mouth. He took the dildo and pushed it into me. Holy shit. The dildo is like the perfect size--big enough to be slightly uncomfortable but not big enough to hurt or anything. I sucked his dick while he fucked me with the dildo. I had a huge orgasm and he pulled it out.

"Uh, dude, you squirted everywhere."

I was a squirter when I first became sexually active. In fact, I remember the first orgasm I ever had (in the back of my car, with dinosaur jr playing on the tape deck) left a terrible mess. I don't think I've squirted in over 10 years, though, so it was a big shock.

We rolled over to the other side of the bed and Chris fucked me, telling me how good it felt for me to be all stretched out.

We changed the sheets and fell asleep. He's keeping the dildo at his house and I can't wait to use it again.

it's been awhile

2010-09-09T08:04:00.001-07:00

And I don't foresee me posting much but here's the article I mentioned. My editor sure has a sense of humor, running it during Rosh Hashanah.

That's Not Kosher

I finally fucked someone who reads this.

2010-09-06T01:49:00.000-07:00

I met Daniel outside of his office Friday afternoon. We went to a bar and had a few drinks. No pressure. I couldn't tell if he was into me or not but when he asked what we should do next I got the hint.

We took the train to my place. It was a humid, hot day and by the time we got there we were both sweaty.

I led him to the bathroom and he started kissing me. I took off my shirt. He felt my tits and complimented them. I got completely undressed and in the shower. He joined me and we quickly cleaned off. I was impressed by his cock- I had seen pictures but it is pretty much perfect. Big.

We toweled off and he told me to get on my knees. "You're going to suck my dick," he said. I grabbed it and licked it, put it down my throat. It's like the perfect cock to deep throat--the length is perfect and I could get it all the way in with minimum gagging. I'm pretty sure he enjoyed that. He definitely enjoyed slapping my face and tits.

He commanded me to get on my hands and knees. He slid what I think was 3 fingers in and finger fucked me for a while. I was close to orgasm but it never happened. He asked me if I wanted his cock.

"Yes," I gasped. He slid it in, it felt incredible. He fucked me like that for a while (me on my hands and knees on the end of the bed, him standing) and then he got on the bed too allowing him to go deeper and harder.

Eventually he rolled me over and fucked me with my legs pulled up, choking me, making me cum hard. He came too and we laid in bed feeling the air conditioning blasting on us.

We snuggled and talked for a while and both got kinda sleepy. He told me to suck his cock again so I got on my knees and put his dick in my mouth, making it hard again. After a while he stood up on the bed and told me to lick his balls and he jerked off all over my face, got dressed, and left.

Later on I met him and his friend at the bar. We got pretty drunk and Daniel left after a while. Jim and I had another drink and made out at the bar (so classy) and he suggested we go back to his house. Jim is a nice and funny guy, really cute, but I didn't get a dominant vibe from him. I went home with him anyway because fucking two friends in the same day is pretty awesome.

We got to his house, made out in bed for a while, and then he told me that he doesn't have flings and thus couldn't fuck me. Defeated, I rolled over and fell asleep. After I left in the morning he texted me that I'm a good kisser. My reply?

"if you think I'm a good kisser you should have tried fucking me. I guarantee that's even better."

Dirty stuff

2010-09-04T22:09:00.000-07:00

Andy and I were getting Mexican food when he announced that a few of his college friends from Memphis were coming to visit. "You'll love Scotty," he said, smirking. "He rides bikes, has shitty tattoos, and is a total asshole to women." He pulled out his phone and showed me his picture.

"He's hot!" I decided. "I love him."

The weekend came and Andy had a party. I was introduced to Scotty, who was incredibly debonair. I mingled, I drank, and when I saw Scotty go out to smoke a cigarette I followed him.

"I heard you have a little crush on me," he said, his blue eyes piercing through me. I nodded. "Well maybe I'll just make all your dreams come true tonight," he said, taking the last drag of his cigarette. I mentally lost it. I went inside and headed to the bathroom.

My pants were down and he came in. I shouted and he looked embarrassed. "I didn't know you were in here," he said, pushing me up against the wall when I stood up to wipe. He kissed me while fingering me. I unbuckled his pants and slid down the wall, putting his cock in my mouth.

Shortly after we decided that the bathroom wasn't a good place for what was going to happen next, but fortunately I knew where the guest room was. I took him by the hand and led him there. I sat on the bed, he pulled off his shoes, pants, and hoodie.

He was smooth. He stroked my cheek and told me I was pretty. We made out for a long time before he even tried to take off my clothes. But he did, and soon I was on my hands and knees and his cock was inside me. He fingered my ass and I was the perfect amount of drunk where it felt amazing. He pulled out and put his cock in my ass, no lube required. He switched back to my pussy. After a few pumps he went limp.

"Get me hard again," he commanded. I turned around and put his dick in my mouth. I was immediately reminded that it had just been in my ass. "So this is what ATM is like," I thought, laughing to myself. Well there's a first time for everything.

It wouldn't get hard and I was tired anyway. We got dressed and I wandered into Andy's bedroom and passed out. Not sure what Scotty did.

The next day was embarrassing as Andy and Justin grilled me about what happened. They both know I'm a slut, obviously, but the ATV (and ATM) apparently crossed the line, and I got a lecture about my health. A week later I got a bad itch and went to the STD clinic, but it was just a bacterial infection, don't worry.

2010-08-30T18:09:00.000-07:00

Joey and I closed down the bar. He asked me if I was going home. No. I was too drunk. He said I could stay at his place.

We got there and he went to the bathroom. Never one to be brazen, I took off all my clothes and got in his bed. He walked back in, took a long look at me, and finally asked, "How are your boobs?"

"They're cool," I replied, and watched him strip down to his boxers.

He grabbed his weed off his nightstand. "I'm going to smoke a bowl and you are going to suck my dick."

I got on my knees and reached into his boxers.

"Haha, really?" he asked. Yeah, totally.

I put his cock in my mouth. He took a hit. Exhaling, he told me how good it felt. He put down his pipe and pulled my hair. "You're such a dirty cocksucking whore," he whispered, as he pulled harder and put his hand on my throat. I did my thing while he choked me, pulled my hair, slapped my cheeks, and pinched my nipples.

He told me to get on my hands and knees--he was going to fuck my ass. He got up and got some oil out of his closet. He fingered my pussy, hard. He didn't stop until I came twice. Then he started in on my ass: One finger. Two fingers. Three fingers. He slid his cock in. I gasped. He was gentle with the fucking but slapped me hard, calling me a little whore the whole time.

We passed out and I woke up curled around him, vulnerable.

Marie's in town!

2010-08-26T20:37:00.000-07:00

Marie came to visit from wherever it is she's living now. I greeted her at the airport after midnight, she was jetlagged and exhausted. I asked her what she wanted to do and she said anything, as long as it was with me.

I took her to Christopher's. The plan was to see how drunk we could all get and then initiate a deep-throating contest on Chris's cock, but instead Marie passed out and Chris and I got drunk anyway.

He and I went to his room where he kissed me and pushed me on the bed. "Take your clothes off," he commanded. I did. He watched and unbuckled his pants. I reached for his buckle but he smacked my hand away. "You're too eager. Turn around." I did as I was told and gasped the same gasp I do every time someone or something penetrates me.

(side note: I've been getting fucked for half my life, why is it that the initial penetration feels so amazing EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.)

He pulled my hair so hard I yelped. "Are you being loud because you have an audience, you fucking hussy?" he asked. I answered no. "We have to be quiet, Marie is sleeping!" He pulled harder, then slapped my ass, then pounded into me so hard I couldn't keep quiet. I buried my head in a pillow but he pulled it away. I came quickly (and loudly... embarrassing) and he instructed me to turn over. I did and received a slap in the face. "I'm sorry your friend fell asleep, I wanted to use her as hard as I use you," he said. Then he pushed his chest into my face, suffocating me, and fucked me slowly as I silently freaked out over my loss of breath. Just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore he let me go and I quickly recovered. This was repeated several times until he pulled out, stood up, and busted his nut on my face and chest. We fell asleep.

Not enough hours later, I woke up to my phone alarm and a boner pressed against my butt. I shut off the alarm and rolled over, kissing him good morning and grabbing his morning wood. After a few strokes I moved down and put his cock in my mouth. He likes the way I stick my ass in the air while I blow him, so I positioned my ass in his hand's reach so he could slap me. He thrusted and fucked my throat hard till I pulled my mouth off and asked him to fuck me. "Only if you say please while my cock is down your throat," he said. I complied. I got pushed over and he pushed his cock in me, only having to pump a little bit till I was coming again.

This time he muffled my moans with a pillow as Marie was surely awake in the next room. He fucked me with my legs over his shoulders and depositied his load deep inside of me so I could have it drip out all day at work.

I got dressed and met Marie in the living room. I casually asked if she was ready to go and we left. "Your boyfriend seems like lots of fun," she said. I blushed.

probably soulmates. tragic.

2010-08-17T22:50:00.000-07:00

I've had sexual tension with Seth for years. We met at a house show- he was fresh out of jail and I was so drunk I could barely stand (I totally puked in the bathtub upstairs then passed out on the sidewalk next to my friend's car... cool life Meredith). His smile gave me goosebumps.

We had awkward sex in the summer of 2007 after sitting on my porch listening to Mineral all night. Next time I saw him he was with a girl. Scorned, I started dating Ira. Whatever.

I saw him a few weeks ago- I was walking out of my neighborhood coffee shop and he whizzed by on his bike. I called out for him and he circled around and blew me a kiss. Later I got a text apologizing for not stopping.

We ended up getting really stoned and going to a hardcore show that night. He complained about his girlfriend. I listened like a good friend.

Last night a bunch of people got together for a surprise birthday party. I showed up with Marie and Brianna. We greeted everyone and my heart skipped a beat when I saw Seth. He pulled me aside. "I've had dreams about you every night since the show," he said. "Break up with your girlfriend," I said. "I already did," he replied.

We broke apart, rejoined the group, drank a few pitchers of beer. I got a text message: Meet me in the bathroom. I followed him to the ladies room.

I pushed him up against the door and locked it. The kissing was so anxious. He stuck his hand in my pants, I stuck mine in his. "I've got a tampon in," I warned. "I don't give a fuck," he replied. I dropped to my knees and stuck his cock so far down my throat that I gagged. He pulled me up and buckled up his pants. Fuck.

We all went back to Brianna's house, completely drunk. Seth went upstairs to pee and I followed him. We ended up fucking on Brianna's bed until we passed out. I woke up a few hours later and slipped out, thinking we went unnoticed, but that was not the case. I got teased so much today! Totally worth it.

houseguest sex

2010-08-16T19:22:00.000-07:00

I've been having a decent amount of sex lately. Unfortunately, it's either been drunk blackout sex or in bed at night regular sex. I'm satisfied, but I don't have much to write about. Here's a good memory though:

I had been seeing Justin for about a month when he texted me one day after work. "At (hipster bar I won't name) with the guys. Come now." Anxious and nervous, I took a shower, tried to find something sexy to wear, and walked to the bar. I ran into Marie on the way. She asked me what I was doing, suggested meeting up later. Haha. I said I was just meeting Justin and I'd hit her up later. I didn't hit her up later.

I walked into the bar. Justin greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and went off to get my gin and tonic. Andy introduced himself and grabbed my tits. A little off-putting, but whatever. The other two dudes introduced themselves and we made small talk about work or whatever.

After a few drinks, Andy suggested that we go back to his house to drink from his Kegerator. We walked there, then Justin gave me a tour of the house. When we got to the guest bedroom he shut the door, grabbed my throat and pushed me against the wall, then stuck his hand down my pants and fingered me while we kissed. Then he ripped off my black lacy thong and shoved it in my mouth, pulled down my jeans, and pushed me on the bed. Andy knocked on the door and started to come in. Justin gave him a stern "NOT NOW," undid his pants, and slid his cock into me.

I came first. Then he announced that he was going to come. He pulled out of me and I got on my knees and swallowed his load. We pulled up our pants, I went to the bathroom, we left the party.

We walked to Justin's place, a condo with a pool in the back. We decided to skinny dip. We put our clothes back on, dripping wet, and went up to his 6th floor apartment. He made me another drink--a formality, I suppose--while I got in bed. Once in bed we fucked again. This time he choked me with his belt.

Man, Justin was a fun dude but absolutely insane. Why are the crazy ones always the best fucks?

Golden Showers

2010-08-11T21:15:00.000-07:00

When I was 19 I was dating this ridiculous older vegan straight edge guy from St Louis. He had a small dick and huge balls and his personality was way too dominant for me. We broke my bed. Every time we showered together he tried to pee on me and after 3 or 4 times I broke things off with him because it was just too weird.

10 years and countless partners later I decided that perhaps I would enjoy getting peed on. I was seeing this guy Joey and expressed this desire with him. Then one day we were in bed, I was on my knees and he was standing, fucking my throat. I took his cock and deep throated until I started gagging. He slapped my face, pulled me up, and led me to the bathroom where he instructed me to hold on to the towel rack while he fucked me. Then he pushed me in the tub, where I got on my knees, and he pushed his cock down my throat till I puked. Usually when I puke I get away from the cock, puke elsewhere, and then shit is done, but since we were in the tub he kept his cock down my throat (he wanted to feel my throat close up when i gagged) so I ended up with vomit all over me. He pulled his cock out, used it to smear the puke on my face, slapped me and called me a dumb whore, then pissed all over me to clean me up. I had tears streaming down my face and my makeup was a mess and he told me how beautiful I am. Then we took a real shower.

little punk boy

2010-08-01T14:33:00.000-07:00

An out of town friend e-introduced me to a friend of his who had recently moved to my city. Gabe and I texted for about a week and on Monday he asked me out for Friday. I wasn't sure that our mutual friend's intention was for the two of us to go out on dates, and honestly I am not sure I want to be going on dates with people who are not Christopher, but whatever. I accepted. The next day (Tuesday) I told him that I was going to be at Megan's house watching movies and drinking and he said that he'd be in that same neighborhood for a friend's birthday get together. So Megan and I guzzled the last of our whisky and headed his way.

These types of things are always so awkward. We got to the bar and ordered our drinks and I texted him that I didn't see him, but we were at the bar. He came up and met us and invited us to sit with his friends. I'm gonna be honest, after I drank the shot of whisky that came with my beer a lot of details are fuzzy. I remember talking to the lady sitting on the other side of Gabe. I remember Megan hitting it off with a really hot (albeit not as PUNK as Gabe) dude. I remember Gabe saying he needed to leave to catch his train and a lightbulb going on in my brain because I needed to catch the same train. So we departed, leaving Megan with the hottie.

Uh, we started making out on the sidewalk outside the bar. We missed our train. The next one wouldn't come by for an hour and a half. I suggested we take the bus but he said he'd pay for a cab. He was all like "Are you comfortable with the cab dropping us off at my house?" and I was like YES. We got to his house, I met all his housemates, and went to his room where he put on Jawbreaker (important mainly because earlier in the evening Megan and I were discussing high school crushes and I told her about the guy I fell in love with at a dumb local hardcore show who was wearing a Jawbreaker shirt. We both sighed and wished that we could have Jawbreaker loving boyfriends NOW).

He went down on me forever. It's not something I enjoy for more than a few minutes, but I always let dudes do it because I figure they probably enjoy it just as much as I enjoy sucking cock. So after a while I started sucking his cock, and he got a condom, I put it on, and got on top of him. Maybe I was too wet? I don't know, his dick was pretty big but it kept slipping out. He turned me over and fucked me from behind and I came once, then flipped me over and got on top of me and I came a few more times. By this point I was begging him to cum on my face so he pulled out, pulled off the condom, and did so. We wiped up and he turned off the Jawbreaker and I distinctly remember hearing music from the next bedroom and realizing that probably everyone in the house probably heard us.

I have a pretty strict "no sleepover" policy but I was too drunk to walk home alone at 3am so I stayed. The morning was so awkward! He started tossing and turning at like 6am. He didn't even press his boner against my butt. So I got up and got dressed and he walked me out.

I tried to hang out with him again Thursday night, since Megan and I were out and she was meeting up with the cute dude she met Tuesday, but when it was time to catch the train he wasn't responding to his texts, so I went home alone. He texted me right as I got home and apologized but then bombarded me with a ton of insecure messages. I haven't replied. I probably should, he's worth fucking again.

night and day

2010-07-31T16:45:00.000-07:00

Night and day, you are the one
Only you beneath the moon or under the sun
Whether near to me, or far
It's no matter darling where you are
I think of you

It's been barely a month and yet, everything feels right. Sure, we've had our little squabbles, mostly because of misunderstandings over blackberry messenger (total "first world problem") where you can't read tone or inflection. He amazes me; he impresses me. And somehow, I do the same for him.

He claims I begged him to fuck me in the ass last week while drunk and he obliged, especially when I panted, "harder, faster."
"I came inside your ass," he told me, and I grinned. "Cum was leaking out everywhere. It was hot."

Who is this Ms. Hyde that shows up when I have more than three glasses of wine? I don't know, but he seems to like her just as much as he adores the sober me. I won't complain about that.

twitter

2010-07-27T18:02:00.000-07:00

I set up a twitter. This achieves two goals:

1. my twitter friends on my real twitter will not have to be grossed out when I talk about watersports or puking on dicks or whatever

2. blog readers can be entertained

https://twitter.com/sugarskeet

I'll add anyone who adds me!

baby's first time watching porn whilst fucking

2010-07-27T17:34:00.000-07:00

My aforementioned nut-busting friend (let's call him Christopher--I have a feeling he will keep popping up in here and he deserves a name) invited me over to watch porn with him. We had some wine, and it wasn't long before I was sucking his dick and fucking myself with a dildo. When I came up for air we went to his bedroom where he turned on GANGLAND 18 on his ridiculously huge TV. Then he positioned me so we could both see and fucked me as we watched one woman take on three men. He pointed out that she coughed and gagged on cocks more than I do so I pointed out that the dicks she was sucking are like twice the size of the dicks I get to suck. I got slapped for that. He fast forwarded to the double penetration part since that is what we both wanted to watch anyway.

He's experienced in that area. I'm not. It is my ultimate sex goal but it's a special thing--not something I could do with just anyone--and I've been waiting for the right time with the right people. So we watched and talked about how it could be me while we fucked and it was really hot. I had three great orgasms, he had a great orgasm, we snuggled and fell asleep.

This morning he woke up with a raging hard on. We had nice, sweet sex, finishing just as my alarm went off.

I went to work with him dripping out of me.

quickie

2010-07-25T14:19:00.000-07:00

Today my friend came over for a BJ and my lips were all the way on his pelvis as he fucked through my throat sphincter. He stripped me down to my undies and socks and kept one hand in my hair and the other on my ass. We went to my room where I got a condom and some lube, got him all ready, then got on my hands and knees. Since he didn't prep my ass it was a little difficult going in but once it was in it felt great. He positioned me all sorts of ways to hit me in different spots. I got out my vibe and had two super intense orgasms, then he pushed me flat on the bed with my legs together, choked me, gave my ass the hardest fucking it has ever had (at least sober). He pulled out and came into the condom (always fun to watch) then took a shower. We hung out for a while, then he went to work.

you may be wondering

2010-07-19T20:12:00.000-07:00

Where have I been? Oh, I've been busy having met my perfect pervert. He may well be everything I could ever want - handsome, smart, charming, and extremely talented in his industry. Success and ambition are extremely appealing. Sure, we may not work out, but I'd like to believe that dreams come true, and he and I could work out. We may not, but why bet on the negative horse? If you do, then I wonder, what's wrong with you?

So during my hiatus from blogging, I have brought on Meredith because she's a beautiful, intelligent and well-written slut who will provide you with the titillation and entertainment you so deservedly need.

I'll pop back in now and again to say hello, maybe write about something filthy and slutty, but please welcome Meredith. She's a gorgeous person and you will adore her as much as I do.

The Ultimate FWB

2010-07-19T11:38:00.000-07:00

Two nights ago I don't remember too well. I just remember being at the bar and running into this guy I've been friends with and fucked on and off for 10 years. Next thing I know we're walking home. We went down an alley and he leaned against a car and unzipped his pants and I was on my knees. I deep throated him and I gagged and puked all over everything, which was funny but maybe a little too attention grabbing.

We got to his house. I remember ripping his clothes off and blowing him again, sticking a finger in his ass. I know he fucked me in the pussy a little but asked for my ass and got my lube out of my bag. I definitely fingered my clit and apparently said a lot of nasty things. Uh then I don't know what happened but in the morning I woke him up with a BJ and he came in my mouth and I spit it all over him.

Ten years ago he was the first person to choke me. Four years ago he was the first person to slap me and call me names. It was a huge turn on back then and he's taken it to a whole new level now and it is SO HOT. I wish our relationship wasn't so complicated because we'd have so much fun all the time. I went back over last night, he was drunk but I wasn't. I didn't bring lube and he didn't have any. He was disappointed he couldn't get in my ass but it was probably too sore anyway. I blew him for a million years then got on top of him and rode him and had like 5 orgasms, then he got on top with his hands on my throat, slapping my face, tits, ass, calling me a whore and a slut. He came in my face and I opened my eyes to watch and got a serious case of semen eye. Then we played words with friends for a while then I walked home. Life isn't bad at all.

Let Me Clear My Throat

2010-07-18T17:57:00.000-07:00

Hi. I'm Meredith. I'm the midwestern version of Imogene and that is really all you need to know for now.

The most frustrating thing about being an awesome slut is the disjunction between dudes who want to fuck, dudes who want to love, and dudes that I find worthy of fucking and loving. A few weeks ago I met a guy I thought was all three. He seemed intelligent, punk, and slut-loving; he was handsome, and he told me he was looking for a relationship. Having recently declared that I was "over" casual sex, I waited until the third date to fuck him--and it was amazing. I'm not sure what happened after that. Suddenly he was too busy to see me. His texts dried up.

I get it. I may not know why he stopped being into me, and it hurt, but whatever. I recover easily. I remained friendly with him. I didn't spend any time on pursuing any other boys, focusing instead on spending time with my ladyfriends.

After two weeks he texted me, "come help me nut." I'm embarrassed to admit that I snapped to it. We snuggled on the couch, sober, talking about work (we work in similar fields), lame friends, whatever, for way too long. Eventually he grabbed my throat. We started kissing. I got on my knees, took his cock in my mouth. We moved to the bedroom. He undressed me and admired my new chest tattoo as I looked out the window at the guy next door who was watching TV. My lover asked if I wanted to close the blind. I didn't. He closed it anyway and returned to the bed to fuck my throat.

After a good deal of throat fucking I got shoved down on the bed and penetrated from behind. I came once, got flipped over, got slapped and called a whore. Got choked while I came again and again. And again. The bedroom was super hot and we were both sweating--usually pretty gross to me--but now it was awesome. He couldn't decide where to come but after much debate he exploded inside of me.

We peeled off each other. He put on Gehenna and left to take a shower while I laid there with my head hanging off the bed. Earlier in the evening he had kinda invited me out with his friends but when he asked if it would be a total asshole move to go out without me I was relieved. I was sticky, my makeup was a mess, and all I really wanted to do was go home and lie in front of a fan. He walked me to my car, kissed me goodbye, and I went to the grocery store to buy chex mix and apple juice.

I'll never be his girlfriend. A perfect guy is not a perfect guy if he can't make time to see me a couple of times a week. But I assure you, I'll be thinking about him during my magic wand sessions for the next couple of weeks, and the next time he needs help busting a nut, I will be there.

day six, day sex

2010-07-17T09:48:00.000-07:00

He positions me so that our genitals are directed at the floor to ceiling windows which face an office building. It's not even 7pm, and the sun has yet to set.
"But people can see," I protest.
"That's exactly the point," he laughs. "There's one guy in an office across the way right now watching."
"Oh, god," I mutter, attempting to hide my face beneath a pillow.
"You love it," he intones.
"You're right," I admit. "I do."

He creampies me fifteen minutes later, rubbing the semen all over my swollen, sticky vulva, and takes a phone call, leaving me exposed and raw for all to view. I lie there, helpless but not, reveling in the vulnerable state - this is me, giving up all dignity.

so it goes

2010-07-15T04:07:00.000-07:00

I met someone on Sunday. The first night, he held my hand the entire time we slept, despite having not even kissed.

Monday, we went to Eleven Madison Park, his fingers grazing the hemline of my dress while his palm rested on my knee as we sampled a decadent seven course tasting menu.

I asked him on Tuesday, "Is it OK if I call you 'Daddy?'" and his body trembled.
"I love that," he replied, reaching for my throat, kissing me hard.

here comes the truth

2010-07-10T05:44:00.000-07:00

I stood there in the market, smack dab in the middle of a bustling, gentrified neighborhood and realized I am a fucking yuppie. There I was, clutching a bag of organic, baked tortilla chips and three versions of jarred salsa that cost me nearly $30 (well, I did buy a six pack of beer). Firstly, I was concerned that it seemed OK to me to spend that much money on snacks and beer (though technically, I was going to eat the chips & salsa for dinner). Secondly, it was alarming that such a seemingly innocuous purchase could cost that exorbitant an amount.

I know I've been remiss lately in updates; this is because I am focusing on getting my life back together. The new job is great, though my boss sniffed out my hangover yesterday when he saw me eating french fries for breakfast. Oops. He's good. Then there's the academic stuff: I reapplied for graduate school earlier this year and should finish my MA this fall, barring another intellectual nervous breakdown.

And lastly, I started sort of seeing someone.

But no, that's not entirely true. We were seeing each other until he divulged that he is moving to the other side of the country in a few months. I shut down emotionally, unable to invest myself in a losing proposition. What's the point? Great sex? Big fucking deal. I can get that anywhere. (Also, I am not so secretly blaming him for my recent UTI, though I am prone to them.) He claims to understand me - and he seemingly does - but he lords it over me to the point where I resent him as a result. He appraises me as if I were also an investment, which irks me because I know right now I'm damaged, but a man with no life ambition has no right to tell me what's wrong with me.

He knows I have a "sex blog" but I won't share with him the URL, which he says shows that I am hiding myself from him. This is ironic since he is the first person I've been emotionally vulnerable for in years, and it frustrates me that he doesn't understand I'm trying.

Yet what's it matter? I'm not going to fall in love with him.

Ultimately, this blog is about love - finding it, nurturing it, keeping it, albeit under the guise of some filthy, deviant sexual predilections. Why can't they coexist? It is my fervent belief that they can and they will, someday, for me.

Maybe just not now.

thank christ

2010-07-05T20:41:00.000-07:00

All that stress really had my ovarian lining tied up in knots; it finally managed to shed out of my body at an alarmingly rapid rate. When I found myself considering a snack sized Snickers, I knew it was all going to be OK. Yeah, I hate sweets.

Work has kept me busy, heat has rendered me lethargic (moreso than usual, anyway). I haven't been keeping up because, well, there are things I need to focus on now, and that isn't getting my vagina crammed with cock.

Bear with me. Bare with me.

Best,
Imogene

not a good start

2010-06-28T01:46:00.000-07:00

Because I avoid reality so well, I figured I should put off peeing on a stick for a week or two; I need to focus on my new job which I start in, oh, T-minus four hours and some odd minutes. What on earth am I doing up at this ungodly hour? I attempted to go to sleep at 11:30pm and fitfully dozed. I was conscious most of that time, aware of the unpleasant and strange sensation of my forearms and hands going and remaining numb. These are all signs of anxiety - insomnia, hormonal fluctuations and extremities tingling. Excellent. Why did I stop taking Xanax again? Oh yeah, rolling blackouts of the non-electrical kind. Waking up naked and wondering, "Why is my apartment door unlocked? Who did I fuck last night?" Receiving a text later that reads, "Hahaha, it's a good thing my camera phone doesn't have a flash" from an acquaintance. This actually happened a few years ago, after a night of slugging down Maker's Mark and popping pills on the cusp of an anxiety attack.

That life is over.

I'd like to at least be conscious during my next sexual romp.

In the world of good news, I was asked to write my third article for the New York Press. It should run in a couple of weeks; this one is about fucking a married, former Orthodox Jew. I hope he reads it. Maybe then he'll stop calling me. Usually when someone doesn't return your numerous messages, it means she isn't interested.

Oh, I'm feeling quite cunty right now. You'll have to pardon me.

I'm going to attempt an hour of napping. My air conditioner doesn't seem to be as powerful as this apartment demands. Guess I'm going to have to trundle off to some hardware store soon. I can't sleep with two cats on my head when it's 90+ degrees out.

edited to add: Well, that didn't go so well. As I laid there naked on top of the sheets, I thought about things like, "Did I transfer my Con Ed account? I don't think I did" and leaped off the bed to check. So here I am. Awake still.

Wow, this blog is taking a particularly unsexy turn.

um.

2010-06-25T08:27:00.000-07:00

My period is over a week late.
Drinking a bottle of Lambrusco is not an option (at least for 11:22am) so I think it might behoove me to go to the pharmacy and purchase a kit and pee on the damn thing.
It is my way to avoid situations, like an ostrich with its head in the sand. This is probably not good, since it leaves my ass still exposed.
You know how I feel about anal sex.

Christ, this is the last thing that I need.

well, I tried to try

2010-06-22T16:38:00.000-07:00

Last night, I thought I could take an eight inch cock in the ass but after the tip, I hollered for mercy.
"You need lube," he suggested.
"More like an episiotomy and an epidural," I replied, scooting out from beneath him.

it just gets better

2010-06-16T04:54:00.000-07:00

Awkward second date sex improved to amazing third date sex despite the fact I was four drinks in and no dinner dispatched. What I remember even now: the feel of his enormous cock filling me deeply as I waited eagerly on all fours and waggling my ass at him, his appreciative groan the second round when he pulled out and finished down my throat.

This will keep me going throughout the day.

checking in

2010-06-14T20:08:00.000-07:00

Hello. I know, I've been reticent as of late, and I'm not sure why. It could be that I'm dealing with "real life" instead of escaping into the easy distraction that is sex, and the seeking of it, or I just haven't been feeling particularly inspired. I've wondered in the past if I have addiction problems, having been reliant upon alcohol and drugs to deal with my emotions and personal life situations instead of just, well, dealing with them. I've written in the past about how I abused various benzos, especially Xanax, slugging back hundreds of milligrams over a four year period. Late last year, I finally tapered off, also discontinuing my MSRI prescription. Since then, I've felt markedly better: a sense of clarity and stability, despite my recent financial and housing stress. It's not surprising for you to read that I was suicidal at various points of my life, is it? The closest I've ever come was about two years ago, when drinking a bottle and a half of wine after a three month period of sobriety, where I found myself clutching a dull steak knife in my hand and bawling hysterically. I called 911 on myself. The paramedics arrived and somehow, I stupidly tried to convince them I was OK because by the time they were in my apartment, I realized I couldn't actually go through with it. I'm a coward, maybe. Since then, I've promised that I would never let myself get to that point again. And I haven't, even when faced with eviction, and an apartment that was literally closing in on me.

So here we are, 2010, and I've lost someone I loved and I'll never know why. Max is gone without an explanation, and I'm OK with that. I have to be OK with that. His reappearance in my life last summer taught me that I should pursue what makes me happy, even if I may never find it again. Will I find joy with a married man with children? Will I find fulfillment alone? Will I find pleasure at the bottom of a cocktail glass? I am smart enough to know that two of those options are probably not the most healthy pursuits.

It's why I'm sober tonight. I went to a party last night to celebrate a friend's birthday and after drinking numerous glasses of wine and one half of a forty ounce of cheap domestic beer (I have no idea what it was doing in their refrigerator but when the bottles of red were drained, another guest and I thought it was a great idea, probably because we were drunk), I slipped out of the soiree knowing, "It's Sunday night and I have to be at work."

That is all I remember.

I woke up this morning, naked and alone, wondering how I managed to totter home the five blocks from her luxury complex to my tiny apartment. I was relieved, of course, but terrified. I don't live in the safest of areas and I could have been assaulted or worse. See, it's one thing when you get drunk at a date's apartment when you know you are spending the night or with friends who accompany you home safely or drink in house; it's another to wander home, inebriated and primed for a black out, especially as a woman. I have managed to escape unscathed my entire life. Now is not the time to tempt the fates.

This blog is dangerous in many ways for me too; I am constantly putting myself in harm's way by fucking so many people and then writing about it in a public space. The next random stranger I meet could be a murderer. And maybe I know I should not be throwing myself into possible situations from which I will not be able to extricate myself safely just for the sake of writing. For the sake of finding beauty in despair.

Fret not - I won't be writing about kittens and unicorns going forward. I will continue sleeping with people, but not simply just for volume or your vicarious thrill. I'm going to fuck for fuck's sake.

Having expressed all that, I guess now say, hey, I christened my apartment and I don't remember any of it because, yeah, I was drunk. Does this mean I can pretend it didn't happen and find someone else and fuck him while sober?

monday blahs

2010-06-07T19:04:00.000-07:00

I'm mostly settled into my new apartment and it pleases me to finally be released from the depression and sadness that permeated every square foot of my former apartment; yet, I can't help but feel a strange sort of wistfulness for something. I think that after the past two months worth of stress and anxiety, to now actually be free of it, it's left me sort of befuddled. Like, I'm left here to throw my hands up in the air and ask, "Well, what now?"

The correct answer is to keep moving forward. I still need to find a full time/permanent job because this freelance gig will not last forever. I went on an interview today and it seems promising, though maybe not the most prestigious of companies. Recently, I interviewed for a position that was perfectly suited for me, and I really liked the company and the people, and despite their high praise, they went with another candidate. As it turns out, that person never showed up and my recruiter is now pushing me for me to start there, though it would require me to immediately drop my current company. Not very professional! I declined and asked if I could have a week, but I fear this request will be looked upon badly. You know what? I would far rather do right by the people who've been paying me for the past three months instead of quickly jumping ship for another opportunity. I may be a slut but I'm not stupid. I won't burn bridges for a dollar.

Sometimes I think my inability to be utterly selfish leaves me fucked.

I can't help but think about the guy I wrote about in the previous entry and how perfect he seemingly is. A friend observed that he looks like Bradley Cooper and it kills me to know that someone so handsome, charming and intelligent cannot fulfill my dirty desires and needs. Am I doomed to dating paunchy older men who enjoy dominating and defiling young flesh? Is this what I've resigned myself to?

A woman wrote me today and her email was wonderful and enlightening. She detailed her own experiences as a submissive and a slut and it gave me hope to realize I'm not alone in my search. Most of my messages are from men, and when a woman writes me, it's a treat, especially if she has insight and knowledge.

Hmmm, a lover just wrote me to say, "I was thinking about the last time we were together and I was slapping you."

I have yet to christen the new apartment.

oh. fudge.

2010-06-05T16:11:00.000-07:00

I hate to reference this but as I was getting fucked this morning, all I could think about was the episode of "Sex and the City" where Samantha meets the perfect guy (tall, handsome, smart, charming) only his cock is too big. It was like being a pornographic version of Goldilocks. I've never been a "size queen," preferring men with average sized penises because they don't hurt. In fact, one of the best lovers I ever had was not well endowed but instead extremely perceptive. We fucked so often that I incurred a spate of constant urinary tract infections. Now that's dedication.

But no, this morning was awkward. I couldn't reconcile all the versions of me while with him; he is not aware of this blog or my predilections for BDSM. I blurted out at one point that I "like to be tied up" and he shrugged. Then I added, "Hey, I'm kind of a submissive" and his reaction was mild: "That's cool. Rock on." This was while he was fucking me, so you can gather just how discombobulated I was; also, I may have been still drunk from last night's four Ketel & soda tour at our mutual friend's bar. He solidly trounced me at video games, made fun of my hair and then fucked me. It's like dating a 16 year old boy, only he's 34 and...well, perfect.

Minus the big dick.

I suppose it's back to the well for me.

a reminder

2010-06-03T12:21:00.000-07:00

This blog is about my self-discovery as an admitted submissive and my journey to find a Daddy dominant, and for me to recount my numerous and varied sexual experiences. Ultimately, it is for me, a visual and literary reminder for me to own. I choose to share it with the world though, and that opens it up for criticism and attack, not just praise. I am accepting of that. This is what happens when you are public with what most people usually keep private. It is the nature of sharing and autobiography. However, I need to remind you that my blog is not for you to impose your own sexual desires upon me and then grow insulting when I do not acknowledge them or accept your advances.

That being said, I of course very much appreciate all your messages and emails, and due to the sheer volume of them, I simply cannot reply to them all. I have responded to many though (usually through email) and I'm not just erasing your well-worded missives. Please know that I do treasure you as readers. To know that I might somehow affect you with my writing, not my physical actions, means more to me than you could ever understand. As I have said before - I am much more impressed by the intellectual than the physical.

I do hope you understand and respect this clarification.

In the meantime, I've been quite busy with the move, having no internet, and oh yes, a week-long business trip that has me toiling 15 hour days. I am writing this entry during a surprising lull on an anxiety-filled Thursday afternoon. I sincerely hope your day is going better than mine. I'll most likely need more Steve Holmes on my laptop upon my return to the hotel room later this evening to relax. Wish me luck.

Best,
Imogene

things that suck

2010-05-30T04:08:00.000-07:00

Moving. Packing. Cleaning. The fact that it's 6:32am and I've been up since 4. The fact that the bar downstairs is still blasting music. Who on earth is still drinking at this hour? Rhetorical: cokeheads. I remember the weekend when my friends from Philadelphia came up and we were up until noon drinking and doing lines; we made a beer run at 10am on a Sunday where it's against the law to buy alcohol before noon. Classy!

I've been working on trying to interact more with readers here; it might help me feel less detached. I've been accused of this so many times that I believe it; heck, I've even referred to myself as such. I'm not sure if this is just how I've always been. Since high school, when I decided "I wanna be a writer!" (to which my dad replied, "No, but really, what are you going to do for a living?") I observed my life as if I were not actually living it, but as an outsider. I also purposely put myself into stupid or dangerous situations, thinking, "This might make for an interesting story...if I survive."

One such example of the above happened when I was 15. It was the summer between sophomore and junior year and I had decided I was fat. Not that I was, by any means, but I hated that my body was changing - breasts swelling, hips carving out where there once weren't any. I felt awkward so I did what any teenage girl would do: I went on a crash diet and started exercising obsessively. The not eating thing made me mean, which my friends noted loudly behind my back.

One afternoon, while sweating out a session on the rowing machine in my parents' basement, the phone rang. I answered, and a male voice said, "What are you doing right now?" It sounded just like my friend Rob's, so I replied, "Working out. Why, what are you doing?"
"Guess what I'm doing right now," he murmured.
"How the fuck should I know? Writing poetry?"
"Mmm, no." There was some faint "thwack thwack" sound in the background.
"Um...this isn't Rob, is it?" I asked dumbly.
"No, it's not."
Alarmed, I hung up and went back to the rowing machine but before I could get on, the phone rang again. I went back to answer it.
"Hello?"
"You don't want to know what I'm doing?" the voice asked.
"Not really," I answered.
"But I'm jerking off...just for you."
"Well, isn't that nice," I replied. I've always been a sarcastic brat.
I must have been bored because I actually continued to speak with him. He introduced himself as "Joe" and I told him my name. He asked how old I was and added that he was 26. We talked about music, and he said his favorite band was the Pixies. To 15 year old me, he seemed cool.

Over the course of the next few weeks, he continued to call regularly, often two times a day, and we'd talk for hours. Sometimes I'd have to listen to him masturbate, but mostly, we talked about our lives. I admitted that I'd recently lost my virginity, and he asked me to tell him about it in great detail. (The thwacking sound was particularly loud that time.) So it was not surprising when he suggested that we meet. I agreed, selecting the location: the very public and crowded Queens Center Mall that was located by an eight lane boulevard. I recruited my best friend Suzie and my sister Penelope to come with me.
We waited for an hour beyond the meet up time and he didn't show. I shrugged, somewhat disappointed but relieved. I had expected this, and figured he wouldn't call anymore. But no, when Penelope and I got home at 9pm, there was a phone call for me.
"Where were you?" Joe asked. "I waited for you for 45 minutes."
"No you didn't," I accused, "because we were there for an hour. You were the one who didn't show."
It turned out he was on the other side of the boulevard by the Roy Rogers and we'd been stationed outside of the mall.

The months passed and we continued to talk nearly every day. It was now November. This particular night, I'd just sat down to dinner with my parents (we were having spaghetti and meatballs, my favorite meal at the time) when the phone rang. It was Joe.
"I'm in your neighborhood," he said. "I've got my car. Let's meet."
I swallowed the mouthful of pasta and gave him a location: the movie theater that was located on a major street that was heavily trafficked. "I'll see you in ten minutes."
I excused myself from dinner and put on my coat and bumbled over to the theater. I waited about five minutes before a Honda pulled up. The passenger side window rolled down and a man's voice asked, "Are you Imogene?"
"Yes," I said, stepping off the curb to get a closer look.
"I'm Joe." He looked like a younger Scott Bakula. This was, at least by my 15 year old girl standards, not acceptable. In retrospect, I can admit Scott Bakula is not unattractive but the adolescent me had envisioned him looking more like, well, David Gahan of Depeche Mode. Even Martin Gore would have been OK.
I stood back, disappointed.
"Get in," Joe said. "Let's go for a ride."
What went through my mind right then and there is, He's probably going to kill you. He's an axe murderer. But if he's not a murderer, which he probably is, this might make for an interesting story. What kind of weirdo actually meets up with her obscene phone caller? OK, get in the car. You can always gouge his eyes out if he tries anything.

I got in the car.

We drove around for awhile, me staring at him, discomfited. He didn't seem to notice, instead at one point, leering at me while grabbing his business suited crotch.
"Um, I've got to get back home," I mumbled as the car passed my parents' house. "Can you take me back to the movie theater? Now?"
"What, you're not having fun?" he asked.
"My parents are waiting for me. We're having dinner."
He eventually relented and dropped me off at the theater. I made sure to take a roundabout way home, stopping in three shops and spending enough time in them to confuse him had he been trailing me.
I expected his calls to stop, but they didn't. However, the frequency declined, and that was enough for me.

It was around this time that the *69 feature was released by the phone company so you know exactly what I did: the next time he called, we spoke briefly and then I used it to call him back. He answered the phone, and upon hearing my voice, asked, "How did you get my number?" He sounded panicked. Then, he added, "Do not ever call me. Ever. Do you understand?"
I laughed and he hung up.
He never called my house again.

Wow, it's 7am. At least the bar downstairs seems to have quieted down.

perception

2010-05-28T06:20:00.000-07:00

Several years ago, I dated Denny, a Harvard pre-med graduate and NYU law student. We met through craigslist around the time of the MTA strike. I remember this clearly because I had to take a cab to work, and one morning, I shared a taxi with a handsome and charming man in a well-tailored, obviously expensive suit beneath his camel hair coat. In stark contrast, I wore my colored burgundy hair in snarls and corralled in a side ponytail, dirty jeans and vibrant red lipstick. He told me how he'd spent time in Asia for work (he was in finance) and added that he was fluent in Mandarin. I had recently broken up with a long term, live in boyfriend who was of the "hipster" varietal and was looking to expand my dating pool. Stupidly, I didn't ask this man out for a drink; instead, I waited a few days, idealizing the notion of a man in a suit, and thus, wrote a listing seeking a tall, educated man who wears a suit every day for work. Ridiculous in retrospect, but at the time, it made sense: I am tired of guys who are into graffiti, fixed gear bikes and limited edition Nikes so I should turn to men who like wine bars, BMWs and wingtips for refuge.

My first date with Denny was on Boxing Day, which is appropriate if only to note I wound up that evening with a fist sized bruise on my chin that took about a month to fade, and a permanent scar on my left breast. In short, we were back at his apartment, ostensibly watching the third installment of the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy when I, clad only in my underwear, leaned over to ash a cigarette and flew off of his satin-sheeted bed to pitch face first into his marble topped nightstand before landing on a wine glass full of vodka that shattered into my naked bosom. As mentioned previously, Denny graduated Harvard pre-med so he was able to deftly pluck the shards of glass from my chest before expertly bandaging me up.

Despite that horrific start (which is now, sadly, my favorite "bad first date" story, trumping the one where an MFA candidate told me about his novel that was "like Scooby Doo meets the X Files" and all I could do was stare quietly at his lips that looked like earthworms drying in the sun after a rainstorm), Denny and I continued to see one another. The sex was fantastic; I had my first "lunchtime quickie" with him. Another afternoon, he convinced me to wear my Burberry kilt without panties and fuck him in a private fitting room at the Macy's in Herald Square while he "tried on" various three piece suits. I am fairly certain the sales associate knew, especially after we left and the room smelled of my cunt and the suits were untouched on their hangers. Having worked in retail, I can confidently say that this is the least offensive of customer conduct; a former coworker once noted that someone had defecated in the fitting room at our shop.

So it's probably not surprising that my first experience with sex clubs was with Denny. He was familiar with an establishment on the Upper East Side (if you're interested, feel free to comment here or send me an email to learn the name/location of this venue) and after one evening of cocktails and cocaine, we went. Located in the basement of a townhouse, the rooms were mostly white and comfortably appointed with numerous surfaces on which patrons could perform whatever hedonistic act desired. I was anxious but excited, awkwardly clutching a towel around my naked body, as we made our way through the length of rooms inhabited by people in various stages of sex.

Denny fucked me on a padded platform as people wandered in to watch, some lingering, others choosing to continue elsewhere. Soon there were other hands and body parts entering the equation; lost in a drunk and drugged blur, I found myself tongue first in a cinnamon flavored pussy as Denny's huge cock continued to pummel into me. Another woman, then another with her male partner, joined in. Soon the room was filled with couples observing our ever growing tangle of bodies, writhing sensuously. We were the headline act (or, perhaps, a train wreck). It is what aroused me the most, knowing that I was being watched while being fucked and fucking someone, and that my actions were, in turn, arousing everyone else.

In the cab on the way back to Denny's, I relished the lingering scent of another woman's pussy on my lips and the adrenaline (not just drug fueled) that coursed through my body. I felt potent. This was, by all accounts, an extremely positive experience, one that I wanted to recreate over and over, so a few weeks later, when Denny suggested that we visit again, I readily accepted. In fact, it may have been me who brought up the topic of going back.

When asked by the attendant to sign in after paying the mandatory $200 fee for the evening, Denny deferred to me, adding, "I am going to be Attorney General one day." I gave him a withering stare as I jotted down my email address. High on cocaine and anticipation, I quickly jammed all of my clothing into the locker, wrapped the flimsy terry towel around my hips, leaving my breasts exposed, which seemed to be a silly and pointless display of modesty. I mean, come on, we were in a sex club; why should I even bother covering my cunt if I was perfectly OK with fucking total strangers or having these total strangers watch me fuck?

A petite brunette in her 40's accompanied by an older, paunchy man approached me; she slid a hand up my arm. "Do you want to play?" she asked me, and I looked to Denny for his approval. He nodded. I stroked her nipples and kissed her neck, slowly working my way down to her waxed pussy lips. She tasted oddly herbal. I pushed her down onto her back and continued to lap at her as her legs splayed out on each side of me. My now bare ass was face up in the air; I was hazily conscious of the fact that the brunette's partner had removed it, but I was certainly aware of him licking my drooling pussy, his fingers drilling in and out of me. My body reacted positively but my mind did not. I was not expecting this man, someone I was not at all attracted to, to participate, and I did not want to be fucked by him. This was a conflict I didn't know how to remedy, so I extricated myself from the equation by turning to Denny.
"I want to go now," I blurted after we politely excused ourselves from the other couple.
"What?" Denny exclaimed. "We just got here!"
"I want to go."
"Are you sure?"
"I want to go," I repeated, on the verge of tears.
Denny paused for a moment, looked around and groused, "But I didn't get my money's worth!"

He finally relented and we left shortly after, but the ridiculousness of that statement always remained. When I told someone what happened that night, she laughed and remarked, "That's like when Jeri Ryan's husband would insist on her going to sex clubs with him and she'd weep. His response was, 'Come on, honey! Crying isn't sexy!'"

I never discussed this with Denny until last night during an instant message session. "It's interesting that you see it that way," he noted. "I always thought you were just freaking out because you were high."
"No way," I replied. "I was not about to get fucked by that gross dude."
"You never would have been in such a situation," Denny assured me. "I would have made sure you were OK."

In retrospect, what really perplexes me is that I was so aroused at that moment, despite my complete and utter non-attraction to the older man, I probably would have let him fuck me. I would have hated every moment of it mentally, but loved it physically. This makes me question if I'm truly a slut. I am picky about who I fuck, despite the numerous notches on my proverbial bedpost that would indicate the contrary. Does a real slut care who she fucks, or does she just want to get fucked? There is passivity in her acceptance of sexual partners; I am aggressively selective about mine.

Just something to think about on a Memorial Day weekend...instead of packing.

well, fuck.

2010-05-26T05:09:00.000-07:00

I have four days before the move and still I continue to procrastinate; instead I choose to go out with friends for drinks, guzzling vodka until I am inebriated and incoherent. Remember the days of elementary school when you had a history report due two weeks from today? Were you the type of person to finish it immediately? I was not. I needed and relished the pressure of waiting until the night prior. One could surmise that I like a challenge. Others would say that I procrastinate. They would all be correct.

Last night, I fucked a reader of this blog and I'm not sure how I feel about it. Actually, he first found me on a dating site where I had put up a profile to direct traffic here (I am crafty, Chinese and wily) and we began an email correspondence. Despite my frosty communiques, he somehow convinced me to meet him. I was already out with a friend having drinks, so it was no trouble to share with him our location and he promptly arrived, buying us a round. (This is how you charm the ladies. Good work!) My friend confided, "He's cute; I'd fuck him" which was enough encouragement after three Ketel cocktails. The three of us adjourned to another bar where my friend tucked into some Irish concoction served over ice while he and I talked excitedly about film studies and the cinematic gaze. See, I am the sort of lady who appreciates the academic stroke, not the ego. Talk to me about cultural studies or postmodern film theory; do not tell me I am beautiful or sexy.

Not surprisingly, he agreed to walk me home, ever the gentleman, and as I perused the numerous programs my DVR had captured, we fucked. I wish I could describe it to you better but I was rather drunk, and I suspect I might still be now, a few hours before I am due at work. I have no complaints; instead I am left here wondering at what point does art intersect with real life? Can you become so enmeshed in creating some sort of facade or alternate reality that it becomes the actual reality? And also: shit, we really should have used a condom.

Tuesday morning questions for my readers

2010-05-25T03:49:00.000-07:00

I'm curious to learn:

How did you come across my blog?

Are you male or female?

What other blogs do you regularly read?

I'd like to interact more with my readers (not necessarily sexually, though if you'd like, send me a message as I appreciate any and all feedback).

Right now I'm in the midst of packing for my big move so sex has fallen by the wayside, as the saying goes. Fret not, as I do need to christen my new apartment with some lucky cock and there are some gorgeously delicious candidates in the running.

Yours always,
Imogene

fingers crossed

2010-05-19T16:14:00.000-07:00

On Friday, I am slated to sign a lease for a new, considerably less expensive apartment that will allow me some breathing room and relax somewhat regarding my finances. It will also give me a psychological release from this physical albatross in which I called home for so long. Imagine coming home to an apartment that you despise for years, hating it so much that you allow it to fall into complete and utter squalor. That is one physical manifestation of my psychological state, and it is exciting to know that within two weeks, I will be freed from some of the stress I kept deadbolted to my psyche.

Now if only I could motivate myself to pack or clean. Instead, I am nursing a beer and watching digitally recorded daytime programming on my television. Ah, baby steps, dear girl, baby steps.

here's a rerun

2010-05-18T04:41:00.000-07:00

Last summer, after showering and getting dressed for work, I received an email from my then-manager advising the team that the network was down for the day and that we didn't need to come in for work. It was only 10am and I was ready to do something. As all of my friends were already at their respective offices, I shrugged and decided to peruse the casual encounters section of craigslist. Most people would probably go out for breakfast and read the paper over a cup of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs; me, I decide, "I'm going to fuck a total stranger." I wasn't about to let my freshly shaved pussy go to waste.

It took but a few minutes to write an ad. Soon after, the responses began to clog my inbox. Despite my request that nobody send me photographs of their penises, I was flooded with visions of cock. There's something alarming to me about seeing random body parts, images of genitalia close up without some reference. Visually carved up through photography, I find the random dick pic a study in violence; it is something long argued by feminist theorists about the inherent dehumanization of women through media when advertisements focus on a model's backside or bosom, using her assets to promote a product generally unrelated to her perky tits. Much has been written on this, and if you're interested in reading further, I suggest Jean Kilbourne's Can't Buy My Love for an intelligent and informative discourse.

But, I digress. After I waded through all the poorly written missives, I finally connected with one responder who, as it turned out, lived only a few blocks away from me. Unfortunately, he was at work, but we continued to exchange emails, promising what naughty things we would do to each other once we were finally in the same room. However, arousal is never tempered by promises of future fulfillment so I went with the second best thing: I agreed to meet up with some random guy who had started to instant message me.

I headed toward the subway, feeling my upper thighs slick with excitement as I walked with brisk steps. His building was a luxurious one in the east village, complete with video surveillance. I tried to hide my face when I rang the bell because I am always awkward when aware of being captured by the camera. The door buzzed and I bounded up the steps to his apartment where he greeted me in a towel.

"I just got out of the shower," he apologized. "I'll go put on something now. In the meantime, may I offer you a bottle of water?"

I sat on the couch, nursing a Poland Spring and admiring his living room, when he stepped back into the room, clad in a tee shirt and madras shorts. He was well-built, extremely muscled. This is not my preferred body type, but he would do.

"Listen," I began. "I don't want to know your name. I'm going to call you Matt. After we fuck, you can tell me your name, but right now, you're Matt."
He laughed.

The fuck itself was awkward, sweaty, and leather-sticky. He'd poured out half of the contents of a glassine envelope's worth of cocaine for us to share, and I, having not partaken in nearly three years, relented because I was already feeling rather tawdry; why not go for the gusto? He had trouble maintaining an erection, but I somehow managed to eke out a less than earth shattering orgasm. We lounged naked afterward, chatting, when he admitted that his name was Mike. Whatever.

I stood up to go, buttoning my Liberty print dress. "Thank you for everything," I said, kissing him on the cheek.
"You're much prettier in real life," he blurted out. "When I saw your pictures, I thought you were like, a five or a six but when you got here and I saw you on the camera, you're easily an eight or a nine."
I didn't know how to respond so I tried to smile winningly, and shoved my feet into my shoes and left.

Home, still not fully sated and now twitchy from the drugs in my system, I thought it would be a great idea to drink a bottle of wine alone, as its soporific effects would counter the cocaine. Three glasses in, and still feeling a bit restless, is when the first man contacted me. "I'm taking a cab home. I'm going to come over and fuck you," he promised.
He arrived with another bottle of wine. By now, I was completely drunk and probably not the most charming. I'd changed into an oversized black tee shirt (one left behind by my former live-in boyfriend, making it particularly not sexy) and a pair of denim cut offs. Before I even managed to let him into my apartment, he had me up against the wall of the foyer, my entire body lifted up against his with my thighs wrapped around his waist.
This seemed promising.

Ultimately, it wasn't, because I was a drunk mess (finishing off the wine he'd brought), but we managed to connect despite that, and are now, well, he's my go-to "I want to have a threesome" guy. Doesn't everyone need a friend like that in their social circle?

on density

2010-05-15T05:27:00.000-07:00

When you send a friend a message stating that he should come over so you two can fuck and he actually does arrive only to watch television with you for two hours: exasperating. I could actually feel my pussy drying up, as if it were a rainwater puddle in the sun. After I expressed my dismay none too subtly (I think I actually said: "You're a fucking moron") he laughed and said, "I've been waiting for you." Oh. Was I supposed to make the first move? One would surmise that such a loaded invitation would allow the guest some freedom of expression. I would have loved it had he, immediately upon arrival, shoved me up against the door and started kissing my throat. Instead, we sat through three episodes of "Seinfeld" before he choked me and pressed his cock into me. Because I'd gotten so annoyed in the interim, I went to the liquor store and purchased a bottle of cheap Cab Sav. I was 2.5 glasses in before any sexual shenanigans started so alas, I was deprived of my orgasm despite the decent fuck and mouthful of semen I ended up with.

What a terrible Friday night.

encore performance

2010-05-12T15:53:00.001-07:00

I might well be doing something right; read my second NY Press article here. It's a collaboration piece inspired by the first date "rape" night. I didn't even mention the dog biting my face!

Your feedback and comments are always appreciated.

Happy Mother's Day

2010-05-09T07:47:00.000-07:00

Once again, the annual requisite time to fete our mothers has arrived, and this year my family and I will be going to celebrate by way of a ridiculous amount of beef served drenched in butter. Yes, I learned how to eat from my mother - she is a woman of fantastic appetite and I adore her for it since I'm certain that my inability to be satisfied is hereditary. I've watched her eat two lobsters and a sirloin steak in one sitting, finishing her meal with a cup of banana pudding. Good job, Mom!

Now, she'll never be reading this blog. Ever. So here I feel it's a fine time to think about the fact that I could have a six year old child. I probably shouldn't ruminate about it too much since all signs point to "GOOD THING YOU DIDN'T" as a brief examination of my current situation reveals I can barely take care of myself, let alone a child.

Yes, I had an abortion three months into my last long term, serious relationship. I wrote about the experience afterward but never felt comfortable enough to share it. But hey, time has passed and I am now ready. Below, you can read it in its entirety.

Yesterday I rose without the aid of my alarm clock, eyes snapping open every fifteen minutes to see the hazy red digital numbers across the room. If only every day I were that alert at 8am. Perhaps then my life would make some sense, and I'd at least be able to pay my portion of the cable bill without emailing my father every four weeks.

We walked in the early haze of the morning six blocks, me complaining the whole way about how hot it was already, "and it's only 9 am!" He held my hand, clutching a pinky when I slipped my palm out, claiming it was too sweaty to walk that way. A car turned the corner beside us; it was a sporty silver convertible. "That's the kind of guy who has a small dick," I muttered, glaring at the back of the driver's balding head.

The waiting room was cordoned off by a surly security guard who neglected to tell the girl ahead of me to take off her studded metal belt before walking through the detector. It was set off repeatedly until she finally slipped it off. I removed my own red leather belt and handed the guard my handbag to inspect as I walked silently through the threshold. My boyfriend deposited his keys into the basket and followed suit, equally silent.

The room was crowded with young women, some accompanied by young men. We knew they were there for the same reason we were. Other girls scrawled their names onto a seperate list, the one not marked "surgical and medical procedures." An ounce of prevention. We settled into two available corner seats, his arms snaking around mine, my head nestled in the crook between his neck and shoulder.

Half an hour later, my name was called. "Go home," I told him. "You don't need to sit here waiting. I will call you in a few hours."
"I wish I could go in with you. Are you sure you don't want me to wait for you?"
"Go home," I repeated, kissing his face. "I love you."
He smiled, lower lip catching on his fetchingly crooked tooth. "Remember," he said, "don't ask how old."
I nodded, and turned away.

A woman ushered me inside where I filled out forms, and was sent to another room upstairs where I was instructed to wait. I slumped in the chair, knees pressed tight, shoulders hunched and pulled forward, head bowed, trying to sleep. A technician called my name, and beckoned me into a room where I slid onto an examining table, the protective paper crinkling beneath my weight. The jelly was cold, and the roller ball was hard, especially when she pressed it against my uterus. I gasped and sucked in fast, the air cooling in little pools around my tongue.

I waited again in the reception area, the voice over of the nearby television instructing me how to apply jelly to a diaphragm properly. "Will it slip during sex?" a girl on the program asked. I tried to sleep, but my neck cramped. After a half hour, I was brought into another room, where another technician drew my blood, strapping a rubber tourniquet around my forearm. "Your veins have a tendency to roll," he informed me. I winced and looked away as he slid the tip of the needle into my skin.

Back in the reception area, the voice over was now discussing how to buy condoms in a drugstore. "Look at that," the male voice crowed, "I bought them and she didn't even bat an eye. She was totally cool with it!" An older blonde woman approached the receptionist and asked how long the wait would be. "About four hours," came the reply.
"So I can tell someone to come get me about four?" she quizzed, her hair as frazzled as her voice.
"That would be about right," the receptionist said, not unkindly.

I spent half an hour attempting to curl myself into some comfortable semblence of a position before I was instructed by a woman clutching a clipboard to enter another section. She was a Russian woman with unusually pretty green eyes. She introduced herself as Irina in a thick accent, and asked me to sign a battery of forms. As soon as I dropped the pen and shoved the papers back across the desk at her, she cleared her throat and said, "You are seven weeks and one day."

I immediately attempted to calculate silently when that was: June, May, April. What had we done that day? Where had we been? This was what I was not supposed to know. I bit my lip and thought, "Thursday in April."

"What is your reason for being here today?" she asked me.
I waved my hand dismissively. "Oh, you know, the usual. finances. bad timing."
She nodded. "Do you need to know about birth control?"
I laughed. "I've been on the pill for almost ten years. I have a case of OrthoTricyclen at home. I just missed a month and wouldn't you know it..." I muttered.
She brought up the topic of anaesthesia. "Twilight," I bleated. "I was told by my roommate who is a nursing student to get twilight."
"That's sedation with local anaesthesia," she replied. "Is that what you want?"
"Yes."

I looked across Irina's shoulder, watching the older blonde woman from the reception area on the telephone. "I have no money," she bawled. "Can you come and pick me up?" She ran a hand through her mess of frizzed curls, listening to the other person's response. "I can't do that. You want me to call my sister? You want me to bring my family into this?" she sobbed and hung up the telephone.

Irina stood up and handed me a clear plastic bag, instructing me to disrobe and place my belongings inside the bag. I was also given a robe and paper slippers to wear. I asked irina for latex gloves to remove my tongue ring, and she obliged. I twisted off the bottom ball and placed the barbell into my wallet before slipping out of my skirt and tee shirt with the sleeves cut off. The paper slippers crinkled as I crossed the floor into the last waiting area.

Six or seven girls watched "The Maury Povich Show" with disinterest. The topic: determining the paternity of children. Commercials bleated on about the beauty of motherhood. Toddlers crawled across the screen. I balled my fists and pressed them against my thighs. Next it was "Springer" where we were amused as a collective audience over the shenanigans of transsexual adulterous affairs. We watched, we waited.

"You look scared," one girl accused me. "What is this, your first one or something?"
I nodded.
"You have nothing to worry about," she said. "The first time, everyone's scared." She laughed. "Just ask to be knocked out with the local anaesthesia. You won't see or feel nothing."
"I asked for sedation," I quivered.
Another girl nodded consolingly. "Well you'll be all high. It'll be okay." She smiled at me. "I saw you with your man downstairs. You guys were real cute. A lot of girls don't even have a man like that."

One girl clutched her abdomen and announced she was five months. Another girl chimed, "At five months you know if it's a boy or a girl."

We waited.
We waited.
The doctors were out to lunch.
We waited.
We waited.

A nurse came in and suggested that we all emtpy our bladders. I obligingly went twice before being led into small operating room. The walls were salmon pink, and classical music was playing softly. "Lie down and legs back," the nurse said, assisting me by hefting my lower body up and onto the oversized stirrups.

The doctor snickered when she saw my arm full of tattoos. "Just use the other arm," I said, trying to be nice. "You can see the veins better there." She shook her head and jabbed me once. "I don't want twilight," I blurted nervous.
"There is no such thing as twilight," she responded nastily, pressing my wrist for a vein. "It's just sedation with local anaesthesia. You're conscious throughout the whole procedure."
"I want general," I stammered.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."

She flicked a needle and plunged it into my wrist. I could feel the heavy weight, like lead, pulsing through my arm, and congealing into my throat. I coughed violently twice, my body heaving off the table.
I was about to shout out, "stop" when someone tapped my face gently.

"You're done," she said. I was sitting in a generously spaced leather chair, a maternity pad tucked between my thighs. I peered down at it and saw the tell-tale drops of blood spread across the downy absorbent pad. "Did you stain?" she asked. "Yes," I mumbled. She steered me over to a table where I poured myself a cup of apple juice and opened a packet of saltines. I'd been instructed to not eat or drink since midnight the previous day, and it was 3pm the next. The crackers balled into a paste between my teeth; I dislodged it by slurping more juice.

Another aide walked me to a desk and signed off on a prescription for the "morning after" pill. "Just in case," she told me. Then she handed me a packet of OrthoTricyclen. I tucked it into my handbag. "Do you have someone to pick you up?" she asked, and gestured to the phone.
"Yes," I said. "My boyfriend."

The elevator wasn't working, and I stumbled down the flight of stairs, my hand clenched against the railing, other hand bracing myself against the wall. Outside, It wasn't as hot as it'd been earlier. My boyfriend pulled up in my roommate's car.

"I love you," he said.
"They told me," I said. "but I won't tell you."
"I love you," he repeated.
"I love you too," I said, gazing out the window at CBGB. June, July, August, September, October, November, December.

my interview

2010-05-05T16:26:00.001-07:00

Please check out my interview here at mrnycblogspot.com for a more in-depth understanding of what makes me tick.

Best,
Imogene

Sleepless in New York

2010-05-05T04:56:00.000-07:00

Insomnia returns, much to my dismay, especially now that I have since "kicked the habit" of downing 1+mg of Xanax a night combined with four glasses of Merlot. It's been months since I've refilled my prescription. This is impressive considering I spent the past four years relying on it for its soporific and relaxing effects. The four glasses of wine a night habit? Also gone. I'm not saying I don't drink at all; regular readers of this blog know I am quite fond of drinking, though last night, while out with someone, I could only manage 2.5 cocktails at dinner before declaring, "I'm tired. I'm full. I want to go to bed." I thought perhaps that small amount of vodka would help me to sleep last night but no, I stayed up late, exchanging messages with a previous subject of this blog, who tried his best to convince me to visit him at the hotel he's staying at in Chelsea. My reply was, "I'd have done this if you'd asked two hours earlier but now I've got some other guy's semen on my breath and I think it'd be most rude to show up in such a state."

"Ha," he responded, "I'd dig it. Come on over."

I didn't.

I've been preoccupied as of late, as you are probably aware. A recent strange development in my life is that I forwarded a link of this blog to the man I wrote about a few weeks ago, the married one I had an affair with when I was younger. He answered effusively, writing a rather lengthy message detailing our coupling. And I'd thought he wouldn't even remember me!

Here is an excerpt of my rejoinder to him:

i'm not sure how to reply to your opus of a message; it did thrill and delight me to realize that you have always held me most fondly in your thoughts. in retrospect, i suppose i assumed i was merely just another fuck for you on the road; i know how guys in bands are, having dated many of them in the past. while in college, after that tour, i wrote a short story about that experience, with you as the crux. i wish i could locate it now. i know that many years have passed since that time, but for some reason, it remains so poignant. i did not know it would affect me so deeply. i did not know you would affect me so deeply. and yet here we are, [so many years] later, still reminiscing fondly about those stolen six weeks, the beauty of our attraction, the clandestine affair. i recall the jealousy that seethed through me when you left the tour for two days with some random girl; how did you not know how upset i was? (do you even remember this?)

it's strange, despite all the drugs and people i've fucked since you, that i can remember so vividly our time together. i suppose that means something, right? that tour was...an experience. one of those nights, in a random rural motel, i recall taking a solitary swim in the outdoor pool and masturbating while a man watched from his balcony. i'm an exhibitionist, a submissive, a whore - surely you know this about me. you must have had some suspicions about me then - my overwhelming need to please and submit.

I was, and am still, very moved by him. There is more, but I won't post the rest of our exchange because as you can surmise, he is, and always be, very special to me.

On a different tangent, I have been communicating with someone for months via Craigslist, a man looking for some kind of solace from the mundane experience of his marriage. Despite numerous near-encounters, we never met, something he often berated me for, as I was the one who always flaked. He even repeatedly told me to "never speak to [him]" again, only to beg my forgiveness a day later, and ask to see me. "I just need you so bad," he'd write. I decided that yesterday we would finally meet, and promised that I'd take a brief trip up to see him at work during my lunch break. I put a special effort into looking particularly pretty, wanting to impress and charm him, shaving all the necessary body parts that might get penetrated or touched.

You can imagine what happened.

There are two kinds of married men looking to cheat: those who will do it and with much gusto, and those who idealize the fantasy and ultimately, are terrified of following through. He falls into the latter category.

I shouldn't have been surprised or disappointed; it is now, looking back, that I realize all of his rants were actually just an act, his way of presenting a front of false indignation. I'm done with that.

And now here we are, Wednesday morning, and I have so many professional obligations this afternoon that I am overwhelmed, mostly because I can barely remain conscious and coherent. I'll need an intravenous drip of caffeine to get me through the day. Then, perhaps a drink with a lucky reader of this blog to celebrate Cinco de Mayo, though neither of us want to have Mexican food or margaritas. Tequila gives me indigestion and a rancor that is most unbecoming.

advice needed

2010-04-29T09:24:00.000-07:00

How do I seduce my doctor? He's a handsome, older, Jewish man with twinkling blue eyes and a filthy mind. My sister went to see him today and jokingly expressed an interest in cheating on her husband and his response was, "Go to a swingers' club." Please note, I do not want to have to make an appointment because that would cost me $150. Yeah, this is a serious fuck you to not having insurance.

please forgive me

2010-04-26T16:29:00.000-07:00

I haven't been able to update much mostly because I feel like a mangled mouth attached to a pair of breasts. It doesn't render me the most useful of sluts, especially since I had my period last week and unleashed a torrential downpour that left me wondering how I did not pass out due to excessive blood loss. Two holes useless, and the third not available due to this so I opted to remain sequestered at home after work, turning down dates save for a few drinks out with the "rapist." I know this will sound silly, but having lacerations on the face and being hormonal will leave any woman, no matter how confident, feeling absolutely hideous. Combine that with my continued stress regarding finding a new apartment and the instability of my current freelance assignment and you have a very distracted little whore.

But this is a new week, and soon, a new month. I'm working on securing another job to continue my income flow, and desperately seeking a new place to hang my ho hat. Things will improve; I don't doubt that. The puncture wound in my mouth is mostly healed. I can't help but be positive because I have been in way worse situations emotionally, physically and financially. Soon, I'll be secure, stable and slutty enough for future play dates. In the meantime, this will suffice. After all, you're not reading this blog just for the sex, are you?

this is depressing

2010-04-23T19:59:00.001-07:00

Masturbating, right at the peak of orgasm when a cat pounces painfully close to your head and starts yowling for dinner. Way to ruin the mood, cat.

a friday night gone awry

2010-04-17T22:16:00.000-07:00

Last night I met up with someone for the first time after he contacted me on a dating site. When I learned that he is an accomplished writer and political pundit, I thought, "Aw, what the heck" and sent him a link to the article I'd written in the New York Press for feedback. Inevitably, it led him to this blog and for the rest of the evening, his messages were references to excerpts I'd written, generally lauding me for my talent (at writing, just to clarify, lest you think he was impressed by my blow job skills). Men, this is how you woo women; do not tell them that they are "pretty," "beautiful" or the dreaded "hot"; you compliment them on their intelligence. I would far rather be praised for something that isn't immediately visible, and something that I cannot help. My face? That's the result of my parents' coupling and genetics. My body? Ibid.

So here is a man who was not interested in me initially and specifically because I am a slut, even after reading this blog; he found me appealing because of my brain. I appreciated that.

We met up last night at his apartment, one that left me blurting, "Perhaps we should go back to my place" because it was in such disarray. And those of you who are regular readers know that I am not the neatest. It was that bad. But I stayed, accepting the vodka-based cocktail that he handed me in a mug. Jokingly, I asked, "Are you going to roofie me?" to which he responded, "What would be the purpose in that?" More points were accredited to him.

We sat on the couch, his arm slung casually over my shoulders, and we talked. He told me about his career, his life, all the while, a hyper little dog trying desperately to get our attention. As I don't have a canine of my own, I was eager to play with him, rubbing the belly he exposed to me.
"Elvis," my date barked, "get out of here."
"He's effectively cock-blocking you," I observed.
"No shit."

After the third or fourth refill of the mug, which we shared, he leaned over to kiss me, firmly planting his mouth over mine. We eventually retreated to his roommate's bedroom, tangled in a skein of limbs and clothing. Somehow, I found myself on my stomach, his hands pinning my wrists down, his body heavily pressed against mine. I could feel the tip of his cock poking at the exposed, shaved flesh of my cunt and proceeded to give him the signal: I arched my hips upward, allowing him access. And yet, at the same time, I said, "No, stop."

He didn't.

I pretended to struggle beneath his grasp, all the while moaning, "No, stop."

He didn't.

We fucked this way for ten minutes, me writhing, half-heartedly trying to buck him off of me, while actually pushing up against him, letting him penetrate me deeper and harder.

Please note that I do not, ever, condone rape. It is one of the worst crimes to commit against another human being, invading the only space that they completely own, violating their body and mind simultaneously. I have numerous friends who have been sexually assaulted, and have personally experienced a situation in high school that could be categorized as "a near miss" (a misnomer on the part of the airline industry).

And yet, there I was, playing rape victim. I'm still wondering why I did that. Part of it was thrilling - being overpowered, giving up control, two reasons I find bondage and domination so appealing, especially since I was in a safe situation. But there was a conflict - why was I getting off on an imaginary scenario that if, were actually real, would leave me horrified and disgusted?

"Rape fantasies" are common amongst some women (obviously those who have never been assaulted for actual victims would never want to relive their personal horrors). I do not wish that they ever actually have the authentic experience, but I believe it is certainly acceptable for them to role play to at least satisfy their curiosities. That is why mutual trust and respect must exist between the two partners engaging in such exploration. And while my date last night and I had not previously discussed our limits or parameters, simply because he had not expressed any interest in dominating me, there was just an implicit understanding.

Afterward, he told me it was "interesting," and when I asked if he would role play again, he replied in the positive. I would like to explore more with him, though truth be told, I would also be perfectly content to have regular old "fuck me harder, [guy who is not dominating me]" sex.

When he went to the kitchen to refresh the mug with more vodka, I leaned over to pet the dog, who was sprawled happily in my lap, lowering my face to his. The dog lunged forward and snapped, biting my face, lacerating my upper lip and nostril.

Ridiculous. I get play raped and wind up looking like an actual victim, thanks to a dog. My date brought me ice cubes wrapped in paper towels, which I quickly bled through, and as I write this, I can feel the skin of my upper lip stretched taut, threatening to split. I wonder if this is some sort of karmic retribution.

Edited to clarify: The sex was 100% consensual as we had actually been fucking before the rape/overpowering dynamic started, and we used condoms (admission: we fucked more than once). Due to the numerous responses, I felt I should address it lest you think I was actually never completely in control or safe.

a day off

2010-04-13T05:33:00.000-07:00

I've forgotten what it's like to have intimate physical contact with someone; so mired in my own financial and personal issues am I that I've neglected to indulge in the most inexpensive distraction possible: sex. Don't get me wrong - I've been masturbating up a proverbial storm, so much that I fear that my gorgeous blue dildo is now my best friend. Ladies, if you ever felt any sense of inadequacy while watching pornography at the impossibly tight, pert-bosomed female bodies festooning the screen, perhaps you should comfort yourself with this: most cocks will never measure up (pun intended) to the perfect silicone replica on which you've spent oodles of hard (ahem) earned cash. Yes, sour grapes.

Last night I went on a date with a married man and I felt somewhat guilty despite his attempts at assuaging me that she is most likely having her own affair. When I was 19, I went on tour with my friends' band across the US and became involved with a member of one of the headlining acts. I can still remember flashes of him: the way he ruffled my pixie cut when we first met, decreeing that I was "cute," the limp seawater green of his colored hair, his sonorous rumble of a voice, so deep I took to calling him "the white Barry White," the circle of gold wrapped around the ring finger of his left hand as I bandaged up his cuts when he accidentally broke a light bulb in the vanity back stage. After weeks of flirting, we finally consummated in a hotel room in South Carolina, where he'd purposely left the blinds half-drawn so that other tour members could watch. I found that out later when one of my friends confessed to having spied on us; my only question was, "Well, did I look good?" I had kept on my striped tube socks but nothing else. When the tour ended, and address books were exchanged so that we could all provide each other with our personal information (this was before the advent of cellular technology), he wrote his name, his wife's name and then their address.

I never wrote him.

This entry was supposed to be about last night but somehow I veered off path, straying to follow a pebble tossed into the thicket of my memories. And yes, I still remember dropping to my knees in the wooded area behind a venue to suck his glorious cock, as his thick fingers tangled through my short hair, his deep grunts indicating that what I was doing pleased him.

He's married to another woman now; I found this out after inputting his name in a Google search a few years ago after his band mate found me on a social networking site. The past is never more than a few keystrokes away.

Thank you, Kurt. I'll never forget you.

The 24 year old, whom I will now refer to as Jersey, invited himself over to my apartment the other night after I admitted to being extremely horny as a result of working on a freelance project at home where I tag porn scenes with their appropriate categories.
"Hurry up," I urged, "I might not make it before you get here."
He replied, "I am going to use you; I don't care if you last or not."

Wow.

rock of ages

2010-04-03T16:50:00.000-07:00

Out of boredom and a strange stain of sadness that permeates my current mood, I agreed to have dinner next week with the 50 year old whom I'd pushed away last month. He continues to pursue me, lavishing upon me sweet compliments, and I relented (or did I cave?). I don't know if it's that I need attention, as I turned down quite a few social invites, but his claim that he knows me, that he understands me resonated deeply. I jokingly said to him, "You are only kind to me because you want to fuck me" and his response was, "I've never hid from you the fact that I want to sleep with you but I also think you are capable of amazing things because you are very talented and I have so much faith in you."

How could you not be touched by that? (Perhaps I am a sucker.)

There is also the young man, the 24 year old, and we have been getting better acquainted via text messages and emails. He has expressed a great interest in dominating me, despite his lack of experience, and I have agreed to take him on as my Daddy, forgiving the age difference. That the 50 year old has a son who is his age amuses me, but I have always derived great pleasure from the uncomfortable and awkward.

Neither of them are aware of this blog, and I don't think I will ever give them the URL for fear of influencing them. When in college, where I was a cultural studies major, I theorized that ethnographers cannot actually unbiasedly write about their subjects if their presence is known. English philosopher and social theorist Jeremy Bentham designed a prison building in the mid 1700's called a panopticon, a creating an environment that did not allow the incarcerated to know if they were ever being observed, thusly influencing them to always behave for fear of the observer's omniscience. This blog is, somehow, my own personal prison, and the men I meet are the jailed. I would rather they not know they are being watched and have them behave naturally.

On a related note, there are plenty of men who contact me through this blog, interested in meeting me. I am very flattered but again, the reluctance is two-fold: firstly, I do not want to be viewed merely as a potential fuck toy simply because someone has read this blog and determined incorrectly that I will sink to my knees for just anyone and secondly, I don't want to meet someone through this medium and then have him expect or demand an entry.

However, when meeting men online in forums unrelated to this, where I have posited myself as someone without any darker interests and playing up my other appealing facets, I have directed a few of them to this blog, simply to allow them an alternate presentation of me, perhaps a more complete one. I would rather someone be initially attracted to me because of my intelligence and then learn I am a pervert, though I suppose the reverse process would not be too horrible. Yet it is not a risk I am willing to take at this time. I am terrified of revealing too much of myself to anyone in any sense.

And in that admission is the irony, that I am willing to be completely physically vulnerable at the hands of a man who could hurt me, but I won't allow him to see the recesses of my mind or the emotions I have kept tightly bundled. Friends have accused me on occasion of being distant, or even detached, something that upsets me greatly since I have always been empathetic to their experiences and needs. While I consider myself perceptive to others' emotions, I have put up countless reflective two way mirrors that will not let anyone see into me.

Is it possible that I am using my body and its perceived weakness as a strength?

on stress and sex

2010-03-28T10:40:00.000-07:00

There is something to be said about the healing power of the orgasm; whenever I am extremely agitated and anxious, I find my pussy dribbling and clit throbbing. I've come to rationalize this as my body is trying to distract me from the emotional turmoil by offering a physical release, a free gift wrapped with a flushed bow.

Not so convinced? Have you ever fucked someone who, after orgasm, started to laugh, or worse, cry? Chances are you are nodding your head in agreement. I am one of the former, and have baffled many lovers by bursting into peals of raucous laughter during sex to which I must then reassure them, "No, no, it's not you; it's just that the orgasm is such a huge release for me that it happens reflexively!" I had a boyfriend who would get offended if I wasn't rolling around in hysterics afterward.

I've got a lot of financial woes right now and my instincts are to run and hide or to bury my head in the sand, ostrich-style, but I am an adult and I need to learn how to function like one. I won't lie; I desperately would love a Daddy who could fuck me and take care of me, but the truth is, I am also a very proud and strong woman who would bristle at being "kept." This is, again, the dichotomy of me: mouthy and aggressive versus meek and compliant. Having written that out, I realize that it's quite apparent that they are two sides of the same coin. Perhaps I am not as compartmentalized as I thought. And that is something that is quite heartening; I was afraid that I might possibly be losing myself through the act of dissection.

strange days, here we come

2010-03-17T16:38:00.000-07:00

Please forgive me for butchering a Smiths' album title but I thought it appropriate. I've been very busy now that I'm working again, and it is a much appreciated relief. To celebrate, I met up with a man off of a dating website for tea. Well, he had tea. I had four glasses of the house red and a cheeseburger.

He is extremely handsome - the sort that photographs beautifully with wide set light eyes, a strong nose and sharp cheekbones. I gasped when I first saw his pictures, murmuring to myself, "My god, he is perfect!" He is also ten years younger, enrolled in an Ivy League university for graduate studies, and tattooed. There was nothing in his profile to indicate that he was at all into the darker perversions I so desperately seek, but I had a suspicion. This was confirmed during a pre-meet-up chat where, when I said that I was wearing a dirndl-styled dress, and his response was, "So, are you a submissive?" How on earth does one surmise this based on an outfit? I didn't answer his question directly, instead demurring with a "Let's discuss this tonight."

I was perched at the bar, the first of the four glasses of wine before me, chatting breezily on the phone with my sister when I saw him enter the foyer. His hair was styled in the 1950's manner, neatly slicked to the back and the side. "Christ," I said to my sister, "he looks like a goddamn movie star" before hanging up. He strolled over to me and gallantly hugged and kissed me genteelly on the cheek.

We talked about school and work, all the boring things you discuss when on a first date. But was it a date? Or were we merely just meeting as friends? It was hard to gauge, especially since he is reserved, a foil to my flirtatious and direct approach. When we finally broached the subject of D/s, he admitted that with certain people, he has a need to dominate them.
"In public?" I asked.
"No, in private."
I narrowed my eyes and nodded. "So, do you switch?"
"Yes, I have," he replied.
"Are you bisexual?"
"No," he laughed.
"But have you ever sucked a dick?" I'm blunt (but you already knew that).
"Yes," he answered, "but I didn't like it."
"Guess that makes you straight," I laughed.

I told him about my personal demons, the most recent of which involves a hoarding problem which resulted in my inability to throw anything away. "But," I concluded, "last autumn, when faced with eviction for being a 'health code violation' by my landlord, two friends intervened and helped me clean up."
"My mother was a hoarder," he nodded, understandingly.
"I guess my apartment is a metaphor for my life," I mused. "For years it was a disaster and I didn't want anyone to come inside. But since the cleaning, I've even had people stay over for a weekend."

He walked me home and I, slightly drunk, invited him up. "We can watch TV," I suggested, convinced that nothing would happen. I'd already determined based on his demeanor that we were just friends.
"OK," he agreed. "I'd like to see your apartment."
Once inside, he took a minute to observe and then said, "It's not bad. I was expecting worse."
"See," I shrugged, "I told you."

On the couch, we sat next to each other, chatting more, my leg slung casually over his. "I'm not sure where this is going," I said. "I mean, I told you when I saw your profile I thought you were kind of awesome."
He smiled, clasping his hands over my knee.
"But," I prattled on, "I get the feeling that isn't reciprocated."
"How do you know?" he asked.
"I just do," I said. "And I'm alright with that."
He reached one hand out, resting it beneath my chin to draw it closer to his face.
"Why don't we just see what happens?" he suggested before kissing me.

I will leave it at that in regards to him. Sure, I sucked his cock and swallowed his cum, but that doesn't matter. I don't expect anything to happen - I suspect we are too different, and I was probably too slutty that night by yanking down his jeans and attaching my mouth to his penis, but I wanted to write about it. Because I can. Also, I needed to update this blog.

wine fueled rambling

2010-03-11T18:14:00.000-08:00

Just how much does the average female breast weigh? I am a healthy and full C cup (surprisingly considering I'm Asian, slight and petite) and I often find myself grabbing my tit in a hand and marveling at its heft. Almost like a baby's head, it's comforting and rewarding. Somehow, my body made this!

Sometimes, at night, I fall asleep, hands crossed against my chest like a human bra, and I feel so very fulfilled. Is that silly? I would like to meet someone who can hold me from behind, his hands clasped securely across my tits, his cock nestled sweetly in the crest between my buttocks, as we slumber like two stupid kittens.

random update

2010-03-11T04:58:00.000-08:00

I started a new job yesterday, which was a huge relief on my overburdened psyche, having sat on my ass for the past five months, earning not nearly enough on unemployment. It's far too soon to gauge how this freelance assignment will be as my workload won't become available until next week. In the interim, I'm content to sit at my desk and surf the internet for a nice hourly rate.

I wish I had something sexy to write about but my life isn't all about orgasms and blow jobs. It'd certainly be exhausting if it were. So you'll have to suffer through my plodding posts about PMS, since I'm certain that is exactly what I'm experiencing right now. I have never been more cranky. Not even the threat of being disciplined for taking out my annoyance on someone could mollify me. Trust me, he tried last night via text message and I just deleted the conversation, rolling my eyes like marbles. Men are clueless when it comes to the hormonal rages of women; when we express we are grouchy, do yourselves and us a favor - leave us alone. Maybe bake us a pan of fresh brownies with chocolate chunks, but I'd prefer you just go away for a week, because I will do nothing but snap and froth about how you're not giving me enough space.

I am coming to accept that perhaps I'm not as interested in this Daddy as I wanted to be. It's a good thing we haven't fucked; I am seeking out methods of hasty escape. It doesn't help that my sister met him last weekend and thought him "dorky." Yes, thirty-something year old women still use that term, especially when it's painfully appropriate.

what a ride

2010-03-07T19:30:00.000-08:00

I'm hesitant to say that I've met The One because that would rule out so many options; however, I have met someone who seems to understand exactly the dynamic that I'm seeking. He apparently gets off on having "a pet" and I, of course, love being owned and petted. It helps that he's older than me. I had a recent conversation with someone who scoffed when I said that I could find a similar situation with someone who is younger. "How can you possibly call someone seven years younger than you 'Daddy?'" he laughed. "The whole purpose of the Daddy/daughter relationship is to be with someone who is older than you!"

This gentleman is older, nearly two decades my senior, complete with silver hair and paternal poise. He dotes on me, taking me to expensive lunches and dinners, lavishing upon me all that I could possibly want. Of course, there is a understood recompense; I spread my legs and let him play with my dripping wet cunt. Somehow, despite myself and my "strong, independent woman" stance, I find myself aroused when I'm with him. And this was painfully obvious when he drove me home this afternoon after a very expensive brunch.

As we sat in traffic, his hand casually grazed my breast, fingers slipping beneath my bra and deftly finding my nipple. He tweaked it as it stiffened beneath his touch, using two fingers to pinch and rub just enough to cause me to moan loudly. Stuck in an intersection, a woman walked by and peered in, her face twisted in disgust. It only served to moisten my pussy more.
"I think she saw," I said, grinning widely.
"Yes, I think she did," he laughed.

His hand snaked up my skirt, expertly finding my dripping slit. He rubbed my clit and I groaned. I looked down at myself, seeing my milky white thighs splayed lewdly open, his hand buried in my black panties. I felt like a whore and I liked it.
"Good girl," he said, and I shuddered.
His fingers were bringing me teasingly close to orgasm; I thrashed beneath his hand, feeling my body respond to his touch.
"Daddy, please let me cum," I whined, my breasts heaving, my mouth slack.
He withdrew his hand and grinned at me as he sucked his glistening finger. "No." He reached over and undid my hair which had been corralled in a messy bun. "With your hair down, you look fifteen," he murmured.
"Daddy, please let me cum," i repeated, but he would not relent. Naughty girl that I am, I stuffed my hand into my panties, shoving them aside, and started rubbing furiously. He laughed, grabbed my hand and said, "No. Not now, you little slut."

He dropped me off at home, and it was all I could do to not grab his fingers and shove them deep inside of me. I wobbled up the sidewalk to my building, a dreamy smile plastered across my face, something that did not go unnoticed by my neighbors who wondered just what I'd been doing.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" I simpered, inserting my key into the lock and heading up to my apartment.

first dates and the like

2010-03-02T05:21:00.000-08:00

I just received a text message that reads, "I'm horny. Why can't I bang you?"

I need to stop giving my phone number out to young boys I meet.

Last night I went to dinner with an older gentleman who responded to an ad I posted on craigslist seeking a "Daddy type." He is nearly twenty years my senior, which is about as opposite as you can get with my type (I have a penchant for younger men). With this age difference comes success, a family and a paunch. I could do with the two former, but the latter, oh, I don't know. Granted, I'm no tight bodied gym rat myself but I'm still slender and firm. Am I being a picky slut? Well, yes.

He took me to dinner at a lovely restaurant that I'd selected. I was fifteen minutes late and when I arrived, he was perched at the bar, sipping an old fashioned (yes, I realize the humor in that). I ordered a cocktail, settled onto a bar stool beside him and kissed him politely on the cheek. He looked considerably older than the photographs he'd sent me via email: fine lines radiated around his bright blue eyes. I wondered if perhaps he'd subtracted a decade from the age he gave me.

The conversation was easy and pleasant; laughter came easily. The host eventually seated us in the back of the restaurant, where we tucked into a comfortable corner banquette. A couple seated in our sight line gave us a curious look, perhaps amused by the age difference between us, or the fact that a business suited man was dining with a younger woman dressed like a teenager, and I was most obviously not his daughter.

Loosened by my drink, I found myself drawn to him despite his age and physique. He was, after all, intelligent, kind and sweet. Who was I to be judgmental? Wasn't I seeking exactly just that in someone?

In between courses, he would lean closer and tell me just how beautiful I was, and that I smelled wonderful. I did catch him peering down the neckline of my dress, but since I'd purposely worn something low cut, his action wasn't unwarranted. "Daddy, you are so good to me," I sighed when he put his arm around me to draw him closer. I could feel my dress riding up, exposing my bare thighs. His hand slipped up between my legs to burrow beneath my black cotton panties.
"You're dripping wet," he observed, retrieving a finger to suckle on it while smiling at me.
My body was betraying my mind! I excused myself to the restroom where I attempted to regain my composure. A brief glance in the mirror revealed I was flushed from the alcohol. Or was it excitement? I'm not sure what possessed me to do this, but I quickly slid off my underwear, bunching it into my fist, and returned to the table.
"This is for you," I smiled, pressing the black swatch of fabric into his hand.
His eyes widened in surprise.

Isn't that something women's magazines instruct their readers to do in all those "How to Sex up Your Life" articles? Well, it seemed ultimately kind of corny, at least to me, but his expression was one of pure joy, especially after he sniffed them. Oh my god. He sniffed my panties at the dinner table. I looked around, convinced that the couple who had recently been seated with their crying baby in a stroller were aware of what just transpired.

He politely escorted me home, kissed me genteelly on the cheek and asked if he could see me again. I didn't demur but I did not readily agree. An email from him this morning asked to see me tomorrow. I haven't responded because I'm not sure if I can do this. "Do what?" you might ask. "Surely you can fuck him. It's not like you haven't fucked guys you're not attracted to in the past." And yes, while this might be true, those couplings were brief, usually the result of some drunken encounter. I'm trying to maintain some semblance of sobriety and decency before I turn myself out into some depraved little girl whore. Also, he seems to actually like me, and had in passing referenced me meeting his teenage daughter. That is both sweet and scary to me. More scary than anything, though.

What would you do were you in my position?

embracing the lifestyle

2010-03-01T08:54:00.000-08:00

An old friend of mine from the punk rock days (yes, I used to be one of those) is a well-known professional dominatrix and always has a roster of slaves and stories to share. As I'd recently expressed interest in having my apartment cleaned - and not by myself - she offered up the services of one of her subordinates.

"He loves to be humiliated," she informed me. "And he has a tiny needle dick. You can point at it and laugh."
"How about if I ask him to wear a tutu and suck on my used tampon?" I replied, mostly joking.
"Sure, though I don't think he's into blood. You could just have him take a photo of himself with his penis sandwiched between two used maxi pads. I've done that before."

I'm not sure why I'm posting this but a group of us, including said slave, are going out for drinks and a comedy show tomorrow. "He pays for admission and cocktails. And he'll drive us all home," my friend added, sweetening the pot.

I suppose I should take her up on this offer. Who am I to turn down an evening of free entertainment? And a house maid in a tutu?

More on Me

2010-02-25T16:25:00.000-08:00

Alas, the title of this entry doesn't refer to semen, as much as I'd like for it to be. Earlier this afternoon, I had a conversation with an ex-boyfriend and now trusted friend, Denny*. He understands me more than most people nowadays, though we haven't been together in several years. We keep in touch, and he is one of the few who saw me at my unwitting sluttiest before I actually decided to embrace my true nature and expose it.

"I think you use sex as a substitute," Denny posited. "If you were in a good relationship, you'd be happy and stable."
"Of course I would," I replied. "All I want is the perfect pervert. And I think my blog is the result of that desire. This is my search."

The truth is, I don't want to fuck the whole planet; it would probably be fun, albeit somewhat exhausting. I've been selective about my partners, yet you would probably not believe that based on the sheer volume of men plunging in and out of my pussy. I often joke that my mantra is "Fuck Now, Talk Later," as if to determine emotional and intellectual compatibility, we must first ascertain a sexual and physical fluency. After all, what would be the point in falling desperately and head over heels for someone with the greatest mind and heart but with all the sexual appeal of a bowl of cold oatmeal?

As Denny and I discussed our literally ass-backwards approach to dating and love, I remembered why I started this blog last summer. I have alluded to it in previous entries, but I wasn't ready at the time to really admit to myself or to anyone the impetus behind my new identity. But I am now.

When I was 18 and attending a local university, I met a fellow student, Max*, who introduced me to many new sexual experiences. The last time I saw him was the night he sucked his much older male friend's cock in front of me...until the summer of 2009. Suffering from a bout of insomnia, I Googled my name and was surprised to find a link on craigslist's "Missed Connections" section. It was expired (cruelly by a mere three days) but there was enough history on the site to see that the person who'd initially posted had referenced my high school nickname. It was the one I'd used on a senior year writing thesis project. I had lent that collection to Max only to have him disappear a few months later - he moved out of his East Village apartment and didn't leave a forwarding address. I was no longer enrolled at the same university and there was no way of finding him, as this was pre-internet and I couldn't simply search for him on Google. But for some reason, I didn't despair; I knew that someday, somehow, I would find him again.

I posted an ad of my own under the Missed Connections section, asking if someone had been searching for [name redacted], adding that I was waiting for the return of my book afer all these years. The next day, I received a response from him and we agreed to meet up for dinner at his place.
"I'm making shrimp stir fry," he said before suggesting I bring a bottle of wine.
"And flowers? Would you like those?" I replied.
"If you wish."

Anxious, I perused the selection of flowers at the local deli by his apartment building, settling on a bunch of daisies. When he opened the door, his eyes widened in pleasure and surprise: "You look exactly the same," he said. I pressed the flowers and wine into his hands and he smiled upon inspecting them. "Daisies," he intoned. "Such lovely flowers. They are the sort of flowers a little girl would pick." He smiled at me, his grin tucking up into the corner of his still boyishly handsome face.

Instinctively, my body quivered when I heard the words little girl. Max had always had this effect on me. I still remember, even now, nearly 18 years later, the way he revealed a long coil of rope in his bedroom as I laid in bed, idly observing him. With deft precision, he overpowered me with his long, lean body, pressing it up against mine, before lashing me in expert knots to the wooden frame of his loft bed. I couldn't move, forced to rest on my side in a near fetal position. He leaned close into my ear, whispered, "Good girl," and then slid his hand down my back. His leg was thrown casually over my hip, almost as if we were innocently spooning, only he jiggled his leg slowly and deliberately, causing my knees to rub together. The space between my thighs burned as I felt the sensations ride upward to where my pussy radiated heat. For over an hour he repeated these movements, occasionally leaving the room while I moaned in agony as my clit quivered and pulsed, needing attention. I closed my eyes, fixating on the sounds of him, focusing on his touch, the torturous sensation of being brought so close to orgasm by the simple friction without ever reaching its culmination.

He laughed. And then - nothing. He was gone, the ropes were suddenly slack, and I was free.

How I described my first experience with bondage is exactly how our reunion was. Enraptured, enthralled, I was bound to him for a period of time that was not long enough. Heady from the declarations of his pleasure at having "found [his] little girl" after all these years, I reveled in the comfort of his presence. He promised to love me, protect me, take care of me. It was as if the fifteen years of separation had never occurred. And then...the last night we spent together, upon our return from a weekend in the country, I knew he would be gone again. It was obvious in the way he got out of the car to hug me, as if he were releasing me from the stays he'd fastened to the mizzenmast. I was no longer his captured maiden. I was no longer his little girl.

I have been lost ever since.

*names have been changed to protect the privacy of others

the Professor

2010-02-24T18:58:00.001-08:00

I should write about this now to capture how I feel. It's taken a few hours since his departure for the inevitable crash to occur and now here I am, left on the verge of tears. I'm not quite certain as to why I am experiencing this disconsolate sadness, but if I were forced to (did you see what I did there?) explain, I would reckon that it is because I feel cheap and used.

"Whoa, whoa," you might interject, "isn't that the point, you dirty little slut?"

I met someone off of a BDSM-centric networking site and we connected after a volley of emails and text messages. We appeared to have the same interests, and based off his photographs, I found him good-looking. We agreed to meet at my place this afternoon, despite both of us expressing some apprehension. Nobody wants to make a "date" with an axe murderer. Well, at least not me. I might enjoy being dominated, but I don't enjoy being butchered.

He arrived on time. It was awkward but as we'd both expressed our mutual trepidation, our fears seemed to be mollified. As soon as I had the apartment door shut, he extended his hand and clenched it around my throat, pushing me backwards, hard so that the door bounced in the jamb. His face loomed close, threateningly so, next to mine. I could feel his hot breath against my skin. I quivered, pinned at the neck by his hand. Slowly, so slowly, he brought his mouth to mine and his tongue pressed between my lips. Still caught by the throat, I could only moan, the sound echoing in our mouths, my knees quaking uncontrollably.

Suddenly, he grabbed me by the hair (I was wearing it in a bun at the top of my head) and dragged me to my bedroom, wrenching me forcefully and nearly spraining my neck. Hand still entangled in my hair, he pushed me down, throwing me down onto my knees and positioning me in front of the bulge of his jeans. I knew what he wanted as I peered up at him, so I gingerly undid the button and withdrew his hard cock.

"You're a dirty whore, making me jerk off thinking about you today at work," he hissed, grabbing his cock and jamming it between my lips.

I choked. I couldn't help it - it was suddenly filling my mouth, crushed against my tongue, jabbing at my uvula. With his free hand, he caressed the side of my face before abruptly hooking his thumb into my mouth, pushing hard down against my tongue. I felt my throat close up and I gagged, tears welling in my eyes. But dutifully, like the good little slut I had promised to be, I continued to suck his cock, deftly bringing it deeper and deeper until my nose was hitting the front of his pubic bone. I was still sputtering and this seemed to annoy him because he pulled out of my mouth and yanked me onto the bed, lifting my dress to expose my bare bottom. I wasn't wearing panties. Then came the slaps, the quick, hard and repetitive spanks to my naked ass. Over and over, the deft strokes rained down on my skin, loud and hard and flat.

"Daddy, stop, that hurts," I cried, wrenching from his grasp. The spell, the one we'd so carefully crafted together, was broken.

To his credit, he wasn't a true sadist; he licked expertly at my dribbling wet pussy, stuffing the fingers that had earlier been in my mouth up into my cunt, wriggling them in an attempt to coax out an orgasm for me. But I was no longer in the magical moment. I let him jerk off onto my tits, and he left shortly thereafter.

After rereading the preceeding, I realize that I was wrong to write that I felt cheap and used. I portrayed myself as someone who enjoys BDSM but I didn't thoroughly explain just what aspects of it that I enjoy and like the most. I am not an avid pain slut. Gentle slaps at my nipples, at the sides of my tits are great. Moderate spanking is fine. But the sort of spanking that leaves me, even hours later, sitting here wincing in pain, is not what I enjoy.

It's not his fault. I hope he doesn't read this and think that he did anything wrong. The onus is on me for having not explaining in great enough detail just what I can and cannot physically handle. And I'm sure, over time, with the right person, I'll be able to take more and more intense pain training, but right now my focus is to find someone with whom I feel safe and loved and respected.

And that leaves us at the "Daddy/daughter" dynamic, which I will save for another entry.

things i masturbate to

2010-02-24T14:05:00.000-08:00

Would you like a visit inside of my mind? This is what I watch when I play with my very wet pussy:

This is so hot. Steve Holmes can do no wrong.

Again, more work from the genius that is Steve Holmes.

Oh, my! Two times the fun!

the facets of life

2010-02-24T10:46:00.000-08:00

I've stated before that I am not at all averse to "switching" since I've been a professional dominatrix in the past. Recently, I joined a networking site specifically targeted to the BDSM community (god, I am so ashamed I wrote that because it conjures up unpleasant images of people who still live in their parents' basements, attend renaissance fairs or really, really like "Star Trek" - no offense to those of you who do, of course, enjoy such activities, except for the basement dwelling!) and have been contacted by many men who have expressed an interest in me dominating them. I'm grateful for my past life education in that it allows me to create imagined scenarios for them to wallow happily in, all while I am safely ensconced at home and not having to strap on a corset and shimmy into seven inch spike heels. I'm amused by how easily I can maneuver through the different emails I get, playing a dirty little girl who has soiled her panties with her own wet girl juices and then becoming a demanding bitch goddess making her slave crawl across the floor on his hands and knees.

I fear I might be compartmentalizing - dividing portions of myself into different boxes: dirty little slut; beautiful exalted goddess; woman you date and take home. Will I ever be able to reconcile them? Years ago, I was with someone who appreciated every facet of my sexuality and loved the complete version of me. Am I doing myself a great disservice by only presenting mere slices to each person based on what I think they want me to be?

That question was rhetorical. The purpose of this blog is to chronicle my search to find someone who wants the whole awesome slut. I dare say, it's a rather amazing package, even if a bit bruised. But that's probably exactly just how he would want me.

Sunday, fun day

2010-02-22T05:21:00.001-08:00

Well, yesterday was certainly interesting, gentle readers. I invited a friend over during the afternoon and gave him a perfunctory but satisfying blow job before his band played, letting his cum dribble all over my face. "Thank you for being so nice," he said. Nice. That's what I do.

After attending said show and a birthday dinner nearby, a female friend and I decided to call up one of my lovers for a threesome. Of course he quickly bounded over, six pack, cigarettes and chocolate in tow. What a gentleman! He fucked me hard while I sucked on her tits before fucking her. I watched her toes curl in pleasure as he came all over her face, coating one of her pretty blue eyes in thick semen.
"Lick it off her," he commanded.
So I did, my tongue scraping across her eyelid.

This post has it all: blowjobs, threesomes, eyeball licking, cum eating.

Was that enough for you? It wasn't for me. I need more. I constantly crave sex and orgasms. The Buzzcocks were right when they penned the song about being addicted.

perfection

2010-02-21T08:03:00.001-08:00

An old friend invited me to his band's anniversary show last night so I went. Feeling generous after the few free drinks and VIP/backstage passes he lobbed my way, I allowed him to take me by the hand into a nearby private bathroom where I greedily sucked his enormous cock. But to be a proper good slut, I left him wanting more and departed for home. Alone.

If you were to look up the definition of "cock tease" in the dictionary, there probably would be an illustration of me. Well, today, at least. Tomorrow, I'll be back under "good little slut."

he'll be disappointed but...

2010-02-19T09:44:00.000-08:00

All I will write about him is that not much could ever top what he said to me yesterday before he got me naked and plumbed my pussy with his perfect young cock: "You smell so good when you get wet."

oh, dear

2010-02-17T08:22:00.000-08:00

When you have to send a text message to someone asking, "Did we fuck last night?" it's a sure sign that you probably shouldn't have had five shots of Jameson. I woke up naked and with sore nipples so I can only surmise that we did. I've known him for nearly ten years, and apparently I was the one who initiated him into the wonderful world of Asian women (yes, I am Asian). He now exclusively dates Asian women and a mutual friend observed that it was because of me. Last night, he admitted that he will forever recognize my personal scent (a mixture of a Bulgari perfume, cigarettes and desperation, ha ha) and link it with me fondly. Oh, if only I weren't so jaded and if he didn't always have a girlfriend...

Did I just admit to having feelings? No way. That guy is a scumbag and I only fuck him because I can. He wants me, he claims he loves me, and that's his problem. Not mine.

frat boys are not fun

2010-02-16T08:18:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I met up with a 24 year old Princeton graduate who works in finance. He seemed like he would be a good match, all cocksure and confident, blue eyes, an easy smile. Imagine my disappointment when I realized he was just a fucking frat dude who was a waste of lipstick. A horrific kisser, tongue thrusting like a piston, he sucked desperately on my nipple. I lost interest, and pretty much admitted this to which he responded, "Well, I'm not interested anyway" and left. I shrugged and finished the bottle of wine, but not before locking the door.

Me & Germany

2010-02-12T12:16:00.000-08:00

Last night I went on a date with a 6'4 tall German executive who politely got me very tanked on numerous rounds of Sazeracs (side note: here's the recipe if you'd like to replicate the drink at home). I'm 5'3. I don't really drink all that much anymore. You can imagine what happened next.

We wound up at my apartment with his long and thick cock tucked so comfortably into my wet cunt. Tall men with big cocks - so proportionate, so pleasing to my pussy. Since I was so inebriated, I couldn't have an orgasm, but I sucked him off and greedily swallowed his hot cum.

Now that's a nightcap.

After he left, I went on chatroulette.com and showed some boy in Atlanta my tits. He responded by pulling out his penis and masturbating. He wanted me to show him my pussy but I draw the line at waving my gash around on webcam. I'd rather show people it in person.

HELP!

2010-02-12T08:17:00.000-08:00

I can't stop masturbating.

new developments

2010-02-04T07:34:00.000-08:00

For years, if not forever, I was unable to have an orgasm during sex that was not in missionary position. How boring, right? Sure, I love all positions and enjoy running the gamut of gymnastics during, but at the very end, when I'm ready to climax, I always say to my partner, "Flip me onto my back and fuck me until I cum." That's always just been the way it was, and nobody's ever complained. I mean, it's not like I only want to be fucked while on my back; I'm not a goddamn turtle.

I've been transitioning off my antidepressant after several years of being medicinally placated and what I've noticed is my sex drive has returned. With a vengeance. Like, it is Steven Seagal and penises are the bad guys who raped and killed his teenage daughter. OK, that was a terrible simile but let's not quibble. What I'm trying to say is, for the past few years, I was like, an orgasmic dromedary, able to carry on without masturbating or having sex for weeks, if not months. It just didn't occur to me, or, I was plain lazy. I actually used to think, "Man, I really should whack off but that would require some effort and my wrist could cramp up so...nah, time to just go to sleep."

So, cut to me now, completely overwhelmed with this flood of sensations in my pussy. I've become a chronic masturbator! And my beloved large blue dildo is getting its day in the sun (or in my cunt). Last night, I thought, why not try fucking it like it's attached to a guy who's on his back? In other words, instead of being a lazy fuck (no pun intended), get on up. So I did. And perhaps it was that I was so turned on and slick between my thighs, but within a few minutes, I was cumming hard, over and over again, in a position that I'd never been able to before. This is great news! Now I can't wait to fuck a penis attached to a real, live human being again (while not drunk) so that I can get the full experience.

And believe me you, my last serious boyfriend tried repeatedly to get me to orgasm while in doggy style, or with me on top, but it just wasn't working. And before anyone blames him, it just was never possible with anyone else either. This is like having a mediocre mobile phone for years and then discovering it has some applications that are kind of amazing, like it will give you a breathalyzer before you make any drunk dials. Did I just liken my body to a fucking cell phone? Whatever.

Now to go ensure it wasn't just a lark...

saturday slut

2010-01-31T11:34:00.000-08:00

Forget this "Sunday Girl" shit; I am all about being a Saturday Slut.

I've been in correspondence with this handsome man from a dating website (one of the "classier" options where you need to subscribe for a fee if you want to contact people) for a few months. We exchanged emails for quite some time before graduating to text messages. He suggested that I join him for the weekend at his parents' "country home" in PA last night, but because that would be our first meeting, I declined since...well, I might enjoy getting fucked, but I sure as shit don't enjoy getting slaughtered. He assured me he was just a "cereal killer, not a serial killer" but I remained unconvinced.

Instead, we met up in my neighborhood and had a few drinks before I invited him back to my apartment where before I even realized it, his face was buried between my thighs. "You are so wet," he observed, lapping at my cunt. Unfortunately for me, I am unable to have an orgasm after three glasses of wine. It's an exquisite torture since I become extremely aroused but I can't achieve release! However, it's always a good thing for the guy since I want to fuck and fuck and fuck some more.

His cock was long and thick and felt so perfect sliding deep into my swollen pussy. Fuck, just remembering its delectable shape and size is making my clit tingle. As soon as I am done writing this, I will rub my cunt and finally get the release for which I am so desperate and aching for.

File him under: someone I am definitely going to see again.

Now, to go find my dildo.

naughty girl!

2010-01-24T09:02:00.000-08:00

Last night I went to a friend's fundraiser event at a local bar. It was crowded and I was painfully bored. You know what the cure for that is: vodka. After a few Ketel & sodas (no lime), I found myself chatting with a short Italian man who regaled me with stories about his family and recipes for osso buco. He was handsome, or at least cocky, which made him attractive. We wound up going for a few more cocktails at a nearby Gallic restaurant and then he politely escorted me home where we fucked. Twice. On my couch. He unwound the strand of pearls from my neck and threatened to bind me with them. Alas, he didn't follow through. Empty promises!

He left and I invited another man over to jerk off all over my face. His load was hot and thick.

Well, that wasn't very boring at all.

well, shit

2010-01-22T10:42:00.001-08:00

So, I went on a date last night with a friend of a friend. I guess getting drunk and naked wasn't the best way to impress him because I woke up alone. At least I was naked.

pubic hair. or pubic bare

2010-01-09T20:36:00.000-08:00

How do most men feel about pubic hair? I know the general consensus, at least due to contemporary porn, tends to err on the side of hairless. While I'm not going to tell people what to do with their pubes, I know how I prefer mine: gone! I'm not averse to a small patch on the front (a visual reminder that I am old enough to take a licking and keep on sticking), but when is what appears to be a Chia Pet sprouting between my thighs, it's time to make friends with a wax technician or a sharp, new razor. It's not just for my partner's pleasure - it's for me! I still remember the sensations of sex after my first Brazilian bikini wax; every touch was magnified tenfold and I couldn't stop running my fingers along my pussy lips, marveling at how soft and sensitive everything was. I must have masturbated about fifteen times in the three days that followed. My boyfriend at the time reaped the benefits of my multiple orgasms at the end of his cock.

There seems to be a swing towards a more natural bush, or at least not the fully-denuded look that so many women are compelled to sport, be it for the reasons I have, or because they believe that men prefer it. I'm OK with that - you do your own thing, girl! - but the idea of fucking a woman with a full-on Brillo pad covering her cunt is nauseating. And I can say this because I have eaten a fully hairy pussy and the smell wafting up was stomach-churning, so much that I suggested we shower, and I shave her (she agreed). Perhaps it was just her (post-shower, she still tasted strange). I haven't become a pussy-phile (I grappled with "cunt connoisseur" but went with the former) but most of the women I've been with didn't have that problem.

This is just some late night rambling. Tomorrow I am to meet with a recurring performer in my fuck parade and I will deforest for him. He wouldn't have it any other way. And neither would I.

the brit

2010-01-07T11:40:00.000-08:00

Last night I went out with a British man that I met on a social networking site. He was handsome enough, reminding me of Michael Caine crossed with Dudley Moore. We met up for drinks at a local restaurant, sharing a plate of fries that I dunked in mayo. "You have a little strut," he noted as I sashayed back from the restroom. Fortified with five drinks, I suggested that we go to the corner bar, and he agreed, so we tottered off into the cold.

After a few more drinks, he was leaning over to sniff my neck, nuzzling at it. I could feel my pussy moisten - it's one of my major turn-ons. I'd already admitted to him that I had masturbated before our date and that I wasn't wearing any knickers; I suppose the natural progression was for him to find out. I had on a slinky black dress and kept crossing my legs. "It's like a scene out of 'Basic Instinct,'" he observed, scooting closer to me. I took his hand and slid it underneath the hem of my dress. We were seated in the corner of the bar so no one took notice of the man with his finger inside my wet cunt.

Ever the polite gentleman, he escorted me home and I invited him up. He asked to use the bathroom. While he was in there, I did what seemed like the most normal thing to do: I pulled my dress up off over my head, doffed it into a pile and stood there, naked in my heels.
"My god, you have an amazing body," he said, shock registering on his handsome face when he came back out. "Is this how you greet everyone?"
"Just you."

I sucked his cock, he came on my tits, and he gallantly kissed me goodnight when he left.

a memory

2010-01-05T20:53:00.000-08:00

The first boy I ever kissed didn't know where the clitoris was. That is not to say that he tried to find mine; we never got that far. He is now a well-known party promoter/club owner in NYC and is often photographed with the likes of Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton.

I was 14 years old, a high school sophomore, awkward and insecure with my puffy lips and burgeoning bosom. "Those are dick sucking lips," my best friend Suzie declared one day, watching me apply my signature fire engine red lipstick. It took me about fifteen minutes to put on because of the intricate nature of lining my mouth with a red pencil before filling in with matching lipstick and repeating the process two or three more times, blotting with a napkin in between each application. We spent our free periods in the high school auditorium, ostensibly studying, but really, we gossiped and flirted with boys.

His name was Neal (name changed). He and his friend, Zac, often loped over to hang out with me and Suzie. Zac seemed to have "a thing" for me, but I rebuffed him, preferring Neal for his grey-blue eyes and easy smile. One morning, in between algebra and chemistry, Neal suggested that we go for a walk.
"Where?" I asked dumbly.
"Wherever."

We wound up in the stairwell near the boys' locker room. I could smell the fetid hot air. Nearby, the football team was probably working out in the weight room. Neal stopped and leaned up against the wall, a grin spreading.
"Come here," he said, reaching his hand out and pulling me close to him.
I bumbled into his embrace, his face looming uncomfortably close.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey." The smile never wavered. "Happy birthday," he whispered.
I started to say "thank you" but his mouth was on mine. I felt his tongue thrusting into mine, thick, wide and wet. Not knowing what else to do, I sucked on his lower lip. I may have bitten him in the process.

I still remember what I was wearing that day - fitted black jeans and a salmon colored angora sweater. His hand moved gingerly across my shoulder before nestling on top of my left breast. It was, and still is, the bigger one. Abruptly, I pulled away.
"Hey. I think we should go back. Suzie's probably waiting for me," I stammered, wiping the saliva from my chin.
He laughed, took my hand, and we sauntered back to the auditorium where Suzie was recounting some story to a group of our classmates. I broke from Neal's grasp and bounded over to her, relieved to be away from him.
Suzie looked up at me. Her eye brow, perfectly arched, raised. "What happened to your lipstick? It's all fucked up."

Some years later, much after I lost my virginity to someone who wasn't Neal, I was thumbing through a now-defunct women's magazine. There was an article asking various men on the street "Do You Know Where the Clitoris Is?" and I saw his face at the top of the page. Beneath his photograph was a scientific diagram of the female genitals and an arrow indicating where he thought the clitoris is located.

He picked the urethra.

oh, YOU

2009-12-02T11:39:00.000-08:00

The other week I was performing a blow job after countless vodka-based drinks and I thought I was doing a bang up job until I heard him say, "I like how you are leaving your vomit on my leg" and I looked up to see that I had indeed expelled a good mouthful of booze and bile on his upper thigh. To my credit, I dutifully mopped it up with a paper towel, before continuing to suck his dick. To his credit, he thought it was funny. Well, he must have, because he bought me dinner afterward, and it wasn't like, two dollar tacos.

I wish I had more to share with you readers (are there any left after my hiatus?) but I've been considerably more chaste than I was this summer where it was footloose and panty free.

on abjection

2009-11-09T14:14:00.001-08:00

Abjection is subjective - it takes an "I" to experience the revulsion, and a web of consciousness and connotations to create the feeling. What may be degrading and repulsive to some may well be appealing to others. What creates the lure of the sordid? Julia Kristeva postulates that it is conditional narcissism: "The abject confronts us, on the one hand, with those fragile states where man strays on the territories of animal. Thus, by way of abjection, primitive societies have marked out a precise area of their culture in order to remove it from the threatening world of animals or animalism, which were imagined as representatives of sex and murder." Confrontation of what is considered abject results in a violence within the self, an internal struggle that is not unlike a voluntary castration. Kristeva continues, "The more or less beautiful image in which I behold or recognize myself rests upon an abjection that sunders it as soon as repression, the constant watchman, is relaxed."

and i'm back

2009-10-26T07:12:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking a lot about the concept of degradation. There are different forms and layers - from being called "slut" to having someone take a shit on your face to being collared and leashed and led around town like someone's pet. The latter two do not appeal to me at all, and being referred to as a "slut" is no big deal considering I refer to myself as such.

In a recent online chat, someone asked me how I felt about the movie "Requiem for a Dream."
"You mean the 'ass to ass' scene?" I replied. "I'm not putting on a donkey sex show, if that's what you're asking. But I do admit to a secret thrill."
"No, that she has the sex for drugs. And the scene after, where she curls up at home on the couch with a small, pleased smile."
"Oh, that. Yes, I totally understand and can relate. There are many things I've done that during the act, I felt absolutely debased but when I was home, safe in my own comfort zone, I felt such satisfaction doing something that most other people would condemn."
"I don't even want to know."

it's so hard to say goodbye

2009-10-04T12:35:00.000-07:00

But alas, for now, this blog is going on hiatus.

Yours,
AS

collar me, set me free

2009-09-26T18:48:00.000-07:00

All I want is to belong to someone, to be his little doll and behave properly when he requires me to. I am ready to be forced to my knees or all fours and be instructed what to do next.

apparently i'm not slutty enough

2009-09-26T09:59:00.001-07:00

Recent comments on this blog indicate that I'm not slutty enough because I haven't posted about the sex (or lack of) I've had lately. Sometimes, there are things I'd like to keep relatively private because they're moments I want to cherish. Yes, I'm nostalgic, sentimental and I have a heart.

Now if you don't mind, I will be playing with my hello kitty dolls and polishing my collection of my little ponies.

the holy grail that is anal sex

2009-09-19T05:11:00.000-07:00

For many folks, anal sex is an immediate NO. "You're going to put that where? I don't think so!"

I've never been an avid fan of anal sex, though I will admit, I have had some amazing experiences with lovers I trust. A lot of work and consideration is required before you can go shoving a cock or butt plug in the tightest and most sacred of orifices. It's a delicate dance of fingers, tongues and lubrication that doesn't always end in a curtsy. When performed correctly though, the orgasm result is glorious - completely different from the clitoral or vaginal varietals.

Some years ago I remember sneaking a young man back into my bedroom at my parents' house after a punk rock show, and we fucked. I won't write about the extraneous crap because it was just sex, but I let him fuck me in the ass. He knew exactly how to proceed - gentle teasing of my anus, perceptively probing me with his fingers until my body relaxed just enough to allow him entrance. It hurt, but in a good way. (Yes, I know, that is cliche.) Expertly, as he penetrated me from behind, his hand slithered across my hips and toward my empty cunt, which he filled with his fingers. Ah, the reach-around! Any man worth his semen knows about the beauty of this maneuver. Within thrusts, I was groaning, bucking my hips back against his pelvis, drawing his cock deeper into my ass. One of his hands playing with my pussy, the other against my mouth so that I could suckle his fingers - this is human origami, but with much sexier results.

It was my first anal orgasm, though not my last. Since then I've allowed a select group of lovers fuck me in the ass with nary a problem...

Unfortunately, a few years ago, I had a boyfriend who was well-endowed and extremely dominant. One might suggest he was actually just selfish, but I won't get into that right now. That night, he expressed the desire to fuck me in my ass, and I acquiesced with the stipulation that I have a safe word should the proceedings become unbearably painful. Initially, he was gentle, slowly rubbing the head of his cock up against my asshole, using spit and lube to guide his entrance. I tensed up a few times, and he reassured me.
"Relax," he said. "I'm not going to hurt you."
I felt his cock start to penetrate me, and it was as if I were being torn apart by wolves. A red veil of pain and rage descended over my vision and I thrashed.
"BANANA!" I shouted. "BANANA!" (Yes, I chose the most unsexy word possible - who fucks and wants a fruit salad?)
But he didn't stop. Hot spikes shot up my spine and I wrenched free from him.

I don't remember how the rest of that night ended, but I'm fairly certain I went home without an orgasm. But for the first time, I think he did too. Since then, I've been extremely wary of anal sex and haven't had a cock up my ass. Buttplugs? Fine. Fingers? Maybe. Salad tossing? OK. But full on anal sex? No thanks.

Lesson to you lads out there: respect your lady's limits.

I'd like to think that one day I will feel safe and relaxed enough with someone to let him fuck me in my ass again. But until I am certain, sorry, the traffic signs will direct you to my pussy or mouth. If someone is going to balk over that, well then, go fuck another slut. I'm not your Real Doll.

in a past life...

2009-09-14T13:52:00.000-07:00

I am often asked, "Are you a natural sub?" This is certainly not the type of question most people would expect lobbed at them over a glass of wine or appetizers but I am unfazed by it. It's difficult to date in the traditional manner because I don't want to show up wearing a designer dress and an albatross, hence why I resort to CraigsList and other dating sites where I can stipulate my interests up front.

When I was in grad school six years ago and found myself unemployed, a brief panic led me to consider working as a professional dominatrix after spotting an open call ad in the back of the Village Voice. Since I was studying feminist theory, I wanted to see if I could "put my money where my mouth is." After years of spouting that I surely had no issues with sex workers, I needed to know: did I?

I called my then-boyfriend and asked if he had an issue with it. He was thoughtful and considerate. And honest. "You can do whatever you want, honey," he replied, "but I don't want to know about any of it. At the end of the day, you come home to me."

The hiring process was this: lift up my shirt to show her my abs (or lack of). "You need a wig," I was told. My magenta streaked faux-hawk just wasn't dominant enough.

Training was ridiculous. The dungeon owner, a recovering heroin addict and time-ravaged, constantly lost her small baggies of marijuana, accusing her personal sub, of stealing from her, only to find them tucked in her wallet later. (Of course she never apologized.) One time, she asked me to go to the nearby cafe to get her a coffee and a cookie. When I returned, she threw a tantrum, insisting she could never drink from a medium sized cup. Oh, and she hates chocolate chip cookies! Perhaps had she told me this prior to my departure, this would have been avoided.

Things I learned during training:

- dominant women stand with their toes pointed out - never in
- never apologize
- no sex with clients
- handjobs are OK, but you call it "manual release"
- how to perform CBT, aka "cock & ball torture"
- how to tie a body harness
- how to properly flog a slave
- how to use hot candle wax
- how to use clothespins and other such devices to create pain
- i really like holding the riding crop, even claiming a favorite

In one training session, I used the wrong clamps on the slave's testicles and he bellowed. "I'm sorry!" I blurted out repeatedly. Yeah, never apologize.

During orientation we were told that if we were willing to "switch," we could make more money. Already realizing the dangerous situation I was willingly placing myself into, I wasn't about to increase my chances of being harmed at work. It's one thing to give a hapless girl a whip and set her up with a guy who worships and respects woman, it's another to give a strange man who wants to hurt a girl and is willing to pay for it a cat o'nine tails and tell him to "giddy up." (Yes, I am aware of the irony of this statement.) I declined, realizing that I was not about to add my sexuality to an already-sexualized job. What I was doing could surely be considered "sexy" by some, but I wasn't going to enjoy it at all. If I'd derived any sexual pleasure from my work, it could jeopardize my relationship with my boyfriend. I needed to keep everything compartmentalized.

And here I am now, not really more sure about anything other than I still really relish the feel of a riding crop - both holding one in my hand and now, against my bare ass.

Sunday, not the day of the lord

2009-08-31T16:24:00.001-07:00

Naked, on my hands & knees, with my pussy and asshole spread in the face of a handsome man is how I spent yesterday afternoon. He inspected me thoroughly, running a finger or his tongue along my silken skin and tasting my flesh. "Such a pretty little cunt," he observed, spanking my bare ass cheeks repeatedly.
I moaned loudly in response, grinding against him.
"You like this, don't you?" he asked, rhetorically. "You little whore."
"Yes," I gasped.
"Tell me," he said. "Louder. Tell me how much you like this."
"I like it very much," I bleated.
"Good girl."
Another smack against my ass.

"I want to see your pretty eyes flowing with tears as you gag on my cock," he announced, flipping me over and positioning my face in front of his crotch. With eager hands I yanked at his belt, freeing his cock and relishing the feel of it as it grew more and more hard in my grasp.
"Suck it," he intoned, pressing his delicious cock between my lips.
He grabbed the back of my head and pushed it deeper onto the length of his shaft. I felt my throat convulse around him.
"Good girl," he repeated.

I heard the sounds of gagging and sucking, distanced myself from the fact that it was my face and throat being brutally rammed and fucked. Alienated from my own body, it was as if I were trapped in a porn flick, hearing the sounds but not really feeling anything. I pulled back, afraid I might throw up on him, something decidedly not sexy.

"Your pussy is so wet," he observed, sliding a finger deep into me. Eager, I clutched at his hand and shoved it into my mouth, licking all of my own juices off.
"You like that, don't you?"
"Yes, Daddy. I taste so good." I beamed up at him winsomely.
His eyes were steely blue. "I'm going to fuck you now."
I heard his jeans fall to the floor, the belt buckle clanking.

I felt the tip of his cock penetrate me. Already well lubricated, it slid in easily and I groaned, so thankful to feel physically filled. He pumped rhythmically into me, leading me very close to the edge of my orgasm before he abruptly pulled out and laughed. "Not just yet," he snickered, slapping me across the face.
"Please, please fuck me, Daddy," I begged.
"You're a bad girl. You wanted to stay there for another drink." He jammed his cock back into my mouth and I gagged again. Rivulets of tears streamed down my cheeks. "Bad girl. You don't deserve to cum."

But he was kind to me. He teased me to the brink two more times before I wrapped my legs around his slim hips and clutched at him, drawing him deep into me and gyrated to orgasm. I felt my cunt snap tight around him in spasms.
"I'm going to cum for you now, slut," he said, sitting me up and bringing me to my knees. "Open your mouth."
Hot semen splashed across my cheeks and into my mouth.
"Stick your tongue out," he commanded. "Show me my cum."
I did, before swallowing in large gulps. His body shuddered and then relaxed.
"I need a paper towel," I muttered, and we both laughed.

i'm such a slut

2009-08-20T13:20:00.000-07:00

Last night I went back to an old lover's hotel room where he stripped me naked and positioned me on the bed on my knees. then he spanked me, kissed the nape of my neck and fucked me twice. "This is the stuff fantasies are made of," he murmured as I swallowed the length of his cock. "You should teach classes on the art," he added.

I asked that he deposit his cum all over my face, which he readily did, nearly blinding me in the process. It could be why my contact slipped out later that night. Unfazed, I popped it into my mouth for moisture and then shoved it back into my eye. He was amused.

when sex goes horribly wrong

2009-08-09T15:58:00.000-07:00

In college I had a lover who wooed me by teaching me how to core a fresh pineapple and then ate it off my naked body with sticky and sweet fervor. He was the first man I ever let tie me up, and I still remember how he left the room for what seemed to be an eternity, returning periodically to caress me until I screeched for him to fuck me. He was the first man I ever had anal sex with, and I remember it being painful and awkward, though I'd drank an entire bottle of champagne beforehand.

One night, he gallantly offered to escort me home at 2am, which was at least a 45 minute train ride. It was summer, and I was wearing a tight white tee shirt without a bra. On the train, he gestured with his head at an attractive woman and said, "She likes you. She keeps smiling at you. You should say hi."
I blushed. "No she isn't smiling at me."
"She is checking you out. She likes you," he repeated.
I shyly peeked at her from beneath my hair and saw that the blonde was indeed gazing at me. Her eyes darted to my chest, as my nipples were now hard from the combination of sexual excitement and the cold air conditioning on the train car.
"Hey," I mumbled.
"Hello," she replied in an Eastern European accent.
I gave her a weak smile and that was it.

Another evening, I met up with him and his considerably older friend, the carpenter who built his loft bed (the very one I'd been tied to). My lover mentioned this to his friend, who gave us a lecherous nod as he used a razor blade to chop the pile of cocaine into dusty lines on the kitchen countertop. After I inhaled my share, I felt the familiar tingle spread through me, a radiating warmth that always seemed to generate from my pussy.
Shooting my lover a mischievous grin, I invited him to join me in the bedroom.
"And leave him alone?" he replied, referring to his friend.
"It won't take long," I coaxed.
He dipped his finger into the pile of cocaine and rubbed it along my clit. It throbbed in response beneath the pressure of his touch and I moaned loudly.
"Do you want me to invite in my friend?" he asked.
"No," I said. "I'm not interested in him. I just want you."

Afterward, we redressed and went to the other room to chat with the friend. "I want you to see something," my lover said.
"Alright. What is it?"
The three of us went back into the bedroom where his friend laid face up on the bed and my lover knelt over his body. I watched as he unbuckled his friend's belt and tugged out his penis.
"Watch us," he said, as I shifted uncomfortably in the doorway.
He lowered his mouth onto his friend's penis and it disappeared into his throat. His head bobbed, his cheeks pursed. Just moments ago, those lips had been on my pussy and now they were on his friend's cock. I was alarmed.
Minutes later, my lover swallowed loudly and rose from the bed, a smile splayed out on his face.

"We're all friends in here," the friend murmured.

two boys, one day

2009-08-01T12:26:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I decided it would be OK to fuck a ginger. Wow, bad idea - all that waxy, pale skin, speckled with freckles, fluttery translucent lashes framing large blue eyes. He kept asking, "Is this pussy mine?" and "Whose pussy is this?" and I repeatedly muttered, "Yes" and "Yours, daddy" respectively. Then he blew a bitter flavored load on my face, nearly blinding me.

"Here, let me get you a towel," he offered, tossing a damp and mildew-scented one over my head.

I laughed because I didn't know what else to do. Plus, he didn't even let me have an orgasm. How rude! I told him I had a date later that evening and promptly left.

I went home and showered, washing my face thoroughly, as it would have been terrible to go out with someone covered in the semen of another man. "It's like every time he kisses you, he sucks my dick," the ginger observed.

Wow, what a jerk, right? Never seeing him again! Fucking Malachai from "Children of the Corn," no thanks.

Luckily, all vestiges of that creep were rinsed off in a soapy lather down my shower drain and my dinner date was very nice. I won't get into details here other than to say he is very well-endowed and he owns a pair of self-release handcuffs.

notes on what i want

2009-07-27T19:07:00.001-07:00

It is so hard to find someone who understands exactly what I want sexually. I play all the facets of the feminine stereotypes: demure virgin, slutty whore, and the gamut in between. Faced with so many options, how does a guy deal with this and handle all the various personalities of my sexuality?

I have been chatting with someone who replied to a CL ad that i placed last week who seems to comprehend the complexity of my sexuality. Already I have masturbated at least three times to our conversations. I admitted that when I masturbate, I do not have fantasies; I concentrate solely on me. "It's a selfish act. When I am with someone, it is selfless," I said.

He is polite, intelligent, thoughtful, considerate and very sexual. His knowledge of BDSM and toys is exciting. "A spreader bar? Yeah, I left that at my last girlfriend's," he said.

This morning, our very bawdy discussion led me to masturbate. I came in under two minutes. "That was fast," he remarked. "Next time," he suggested, "you stop right when you're about to, and calm down a little. Then keep going. Repeat twice and then let yourself go. That's what I want you to do."

"Does it turn you on knowing that I am dripping wet with all of this talk we've been having?" I asked.

"More than you know," he replied.

I took his advice, followed his direction and had an intense orgasm where I spasmed hard on my hand. He called shortly afterward, when I was smoking a cigarette.

"You have a sexy voice," he said as I licked the sweet sticky slime from my fingers.

an email from a one-off

2009-07-27T11:24:00.000-07:00

hey [name redacted], how are things?

so i'm wondering if you might be interested in a threesome? i don't know how we would do this but perhaps one time with another guy and another time with a girl. i'm pretty open. i think we could have a lot of fun. we could do it at my place.

well, i hope you are doing well. i did want to keep in touch with you, if you'd like to. i thought you were cool.

[his name]

I'm insulted by this because as much of an awesome slut as I may be, I do not appreciate being viewed as a "just add puzzle piece to a threesome" component. Also, this guy was a creep in that he, within moments of meeting me, stared down the neckline of my dress, commented on how nice my breasts are and waited until I got drunk before he tried to make his move. Also, crackly lips reminiscent of fried pork rinds. Not sexy, not awesome, not getting laid.

even sluts have slumps

2009-07-27T09:43:00.000-07:00

I thought this weekend would prove to be rather raunchy but no, due to my date's ingestion of too much beer, he was unable to perform. Not so secretly, I was relieved.

Last night I went out for wine and dinner with a 35 year old lawyer from San Diego and nothing happened. Well, that isn't true. He kept pressuring me to do more than just kiss but I wasn't in the mood after four glasses of Montepulciano D'Abruzzo. I insisted that he leave and promptly fell asleep on my couch.

just another friday night

2009-07-25T19:38:00.000-07:00

Last night I made out with one guy, went home with another. Nothing happened though because he was too drunk to get his equipment to work.

and you may ask yourself...well, how did i get here?

2009-07-23T09:12:00.001-07:00

It's not that I hatched fully grown from an ostrich egg, clutching a dildo and anal beads and festooned with a sash that reads, "LET'S FUCK!" Years ago, I had a long-term, committed serious relationship with a live-in boyfriend. He was four years my junior, tall, blue eyed and had a tooth that jutted out charmingly and caught on his lower lip whenever he would grin at me. We joked that if we were to ever have children, they would need kickstands welded to their skulls because we both have big heads. Talk like that leads you to believe you'll get married at some point, maybe expel some chewed up anagrams of your DNA and live happily ever after.

But this didn't happen, and my dreams went down the medical waste tube along with our aborted fetus.

So fast forward to now. Clutching at the tattered seams of something I created in my mind, I realized - the fairy tale will not happen. Perhaps I won't let it. Maybe I don't want it. Mostly though, I don't know what it is that I want, and sex is the only thing I've ever been good at. A former lover told me that I had this vulnerable quality about me that made men want to have sex with me, and it is something I have honed over the years. Do I even like sex? Sure I do.

Am I so numb inside that I have to fuck and get punched to feel anything?

wow

2009-07-23T08:46:00.000-07:00

a message from steve holmes, my current porn star crush:

Dear (name redacted),

it is very exciting for me, that you like my scenes in Sex & Submission and masturbate to them.

I hope I don't disappoint you but I don't live an BDSM lifestyle. It was very new to me when Kink.com booked me the first time. I was requested by a girl who just likes fucking me.

I like very intense sex and I like to play and for sure I would like to tie you up and fuck the shit out of you if I ever come to New York.

Just a few days ago I did a scene in Budapest which was much harder than what Kink would ever shoot. But it was with a friend of mine who likes it really extreme. The cane broke several times. Is that what you have in mind? (see picture attached).

Kisses
Steve Holmes

How to be a "an awesome slut" volume 1

2009-07-20T19:33:00.001-07:00

By request, I am going to provide an occasional feature detailing, yes, you guessed it, how to be an awesome slut.

First and foremost - you need to sit down and assess why you are doing this. Is it because you like sex? Well, skip to the front of the line. If it is because you are bored, you may have back cuts, but dare I suggest other hobbies, like gardening or macrame? If it is because you are looking for love, or seeking affirmation of your appeal or attractiveness, do not, I repeat, do not proceed, do not pass go. This indulgent behavior will not make you feel better about yourself. It takes a strong and healthy ego to understand that your partners will most likely not call you again. They will not shower you with flowers. You'll be lucky if you ever see them afterward, and if you do, it may be an awkward passing on the street. You are not doing this to reaffirm that you are a beautiful, strong, intelligent and lovely woman. You should know this about yourself already. I cannot stress this enough.

Secondly, please be safe. That should go without saying. Just because someone says, "I don't have herpes" doesn't mean he doesn't have herpes ever. He might just not have an outbreak right now. See? Do you really want to wake up in a week with your urethra crusted with blood and your vagina seeping cottage cheese and pus? Rhetorical question. Look, just because most sexually transmitted diseases can be cured or at least kept at bay is no reason to throw yourself in front of an unprotected penis. And if you, awesome-slut-in-training, should have any communicable diseases, you should be upfront and honest with your partner before engaging in any body fluid exchange. Play fair. Play clean.

Continuing with the safety theme, we need to discuss how to screen out creeps and serial killers. Most of my partners I meet off of social networking sites, including the oft-maligned craigslist.org. With the recent spate of murders of sex workers and other NSA seekers, you must exercise judicious caution if you are going to meet with someone.

I admit I am part of the grammar police and automatically delete any emails where the writer cannot discern the difference between "your" and "you're" or if everything is typed in all-caps. Does this make me a snob? Yes, but at least it ensures I won't be fucking someone who is a moron.

I always request a photograph in the ads I place because if someone is not willing to send you a photograph of his face, most likely he is hiding something. Always request more than one photo. It cuts down on the possibility that the "hot blond" image you're drooling over wasn't just culled from some creepy jerk who trolls Myspace or Facebook for comely male images.

When writing your ad, be sure to list out what you want. It may seem easy to just say "I want to get fucked" but your inbox is going to be jammed full of dick. I guarantee this, and most of it will be replies like "I WANA FUK U." Not sexy. Not awesome. The more exacting you are in your request and description, the more likely you will screen out the hard-up hard-ons who are just looking for any wet hole they can plug for free.

If you specifically request "Do not send nude photos" and a guy sends one anyway, delete. He is not reading your ad. Ditto if he is copying and pasting something that seems like he is just sending out cover letters to ten thousand agents hoping to get a pussy nibble. You can figure out who these copy & paste cruisers are because they usually don't respond in particular to the nuances of your ad. You know what a form letter looks like. That's what these are. You deserve more than just that.

Following this screening procedure, you will probably have a few possible interesting leads, assuming that you find their visages and words appealing. From here, it is crucial that you engage in at least three rounds of emails - even if they're just short missives, you need to establish a rapport and learn more about each other. Establish your boundaries and parameters during this volley. Talk about what you are willing to do, and what you don't want to do. Also, ask personal questions, whatever seems relevant and crucial based on the conversation. If he writes, "I've never done this before," he's lying. But that's OK.

If any of these men are able to pass your filters after this, you may choose to engage in some instant messaging. Again, this doesn't have to go on for weeks or days. A day or two is fine. Even less if you are so moved by his words. Now we move on to the meet and greet! Exchange phone numbers, names and determine a convenient location.

PICK A PUBLIC PLACE.
GIVE THIS NUMBER & NAME TO A FRIEND YOU TRUST.

Let your date know that you will be sharing his information with someone and that if you do not contact your pal by (insert established date/time here), your friend will call the police. If your date is not a total axe wielding maniac, he will be fine with this and not balk. If he does, it is up to you if you want to proceed further, but why would he have qualms about you and your friend ensuring your safety? Think about that.

During your public meeting, it is absolutely essential that you study your date to ensure he is not a social leper and cannot interact. Is he well groomed? Can he look you in the eye? Can he hold a conversation? Yes? OK, those are good signs. Granted, there were plenty of charming and clean-shaven serial killers but trust your gut instinct. I have left dates before because I just felt uneasy, and maybe it was just something as ridiculous as I didn't like their cologne or they were rude to the server, your own instinct is important. And it's better to think, "Oh well, who knows" than to never be able to think again.

Are all lights green? If so, depart to your predetermined rendezvous (if you're not comfortable taking him back to your place, and you don't want to go to his place, rent a motel room! It adds to the sexy seediness of the experience) and proceed to fuck your brains out. Afterward, smoke the obligatory post-coital cigarette and don't stay too long. Nobody likes the guest who overstays her welcome at a party. As rockstars all know, "Always leave them wanting more." And this is exactly what you want to do, even if you will never give an encore performance.

the aftermath

2009-07-20T12:01:00.000-07:00

My ass is covered in small mottled fingerprint bruises. Thinking this would not be a good look for an arranged first date last night, I canceled. It's a pity because he lives a few stops from me on the train and he's offered to use his nipple clamps on me. He has a fetish for "shiny things" including baby oil, lip gloss and leggings. "Do you want to wear those items?" I asked, a little taken aback by the idea of a man wearing MAC's lip glass product and a pair of gold lamé leggings from American Apparel.

"No, I want my partner to wear them," he said.

"Oh, OK."

"But I guess if she's wearing them, by transfer, I will be too," he mused.

I reminded him that baby oil is comedogenic and suggested that we look into other substitutes, such as jojoba oil.

So that's rescheduled for tomorrow.

I have been really into watching this video clip (totally NSFW) but only the first segment. The rest is OK, a little too violent and rough for my tastes.

OH DADDY!

the slav

2009-07-19T06:12:00.000-07:00

There's some sense in perseverance as I've discovered: the man who responded to a recent post of mine kept writing and writing until I finally agreed to meet up with him. He is a tall, wiry, older intellectual. You could describe him as "dark and brooding" but that usually comes with the territory of being an eastern European. We met up for supper at a local cafe where he had a watermelon salad (he was amazed by the combination of fruit, feta and mint despite me telling him it was a classic combination) and I ordered a tomato, mozzarella and basil salad (which desperately needed salt). Before we even sat down he'd surmised I wasn't wearing any underwear, which I proved to him after a couple of drinks and I glazed the tip of his cigarette filter with my wet pussy. He smoked that greedily.

We departed for his beautiful apartment, a mere three blocks from my own, where he watched me pee and licked my cunt afterward as if he were starving. He asked if I could suck my own toes so I did. That was a little weird but I was freshly showered so I obliged.

"You sleep like an angel," he declared this morning before finger fucking me and licking my asshole simultaneously. I was splayed out on his couch, glorious. "And you should be naked all the time."
"I'm very comfortable being naked," I agreed.
"You have the perfect skin tone to do so." The morning sunlight was pouring through the floor to ceiling windows. I'd already wandered out onto the roof deck and observed the day. "You're such an exhibitionist," he added.
"I am," I laughed. "Do you want me to stay when your sublet comes by?"
"You're not part of the package," he sighed. "No naked Asian girl."
"Alas," I shrugged, tugging my flimsy dress over my head. "Then I shall go."

ruminations

2009-07-17T16:23:00.001-07:00

When I told an old friend and former lover about all of the sex I've been having, he shook his head and looked dismayed. He said, "While I am all for fucking, your recent tear - and let's face it, you are on a tear - is indicative of something more troubling." He is familiar with my recent romantic disappointment, which I have chronicled on my other blog. "I love you," he said, "and I'm worried. I think what you're doing is a cry for help."
"Maybe I'm just having fun," I suggested. "I've always been a slut."
"Yes, and so have I, but I know you're upset about what happened."
"Of course I am," I replied. "But why can't I just have fun? Maybe I'm not meant to be in a conventional relationship."
"Yeah, sure," he scoffed. "You were plenty happy with that snowboarding dude," he added, referencing my last serious long-term relationship.

I know myself enough to realize I am acting out in some way, but in a less self-destructive manner than delving back into the world of drugs. Yes, sex is just another hobby, another distraction, another salve, but at least this one is free. And yes, my partners and I are using protection.

I'm not sure where this is going, really, other than that I want to remember what I've done, and muse about what I'm doing. Someone observed that I am "so dead inside" recently and that made me wince. Am I? Part of me thinks I am being funny, blase, irreverent, but it probably is some way of distancing myself from truly feeling anything other than orgasms and reveling in being alone. Am I reclaiming myself? Or am I just distracting myself from the true issues at hand?

guys are such shit heads

2009-07-16T21:28:00.000-07:00

So tonight I met up with a friend and we had a few drinks. History brief: we used to have sex and are fairly good friends. However, he is now in a serious relationship and we spent the past few hours talking about how much he loves her. Yet after a few beers he was face first in my cleavage.

I'll be honest - I was turned on by him, and have always been. But the idea of possibly ruining his love and relationship was not enough of catalyst for me to let him fuck me. I'm ethical, you guys! I kissed him on his forehead and sent him on his way. I don't want to be that girl. I won't be someone who purposely fucks with other people's happiness and derive pleasure from the failure of relationships.

the dynamic

2009-07-16T18:17:00.001-07:00

Someone asked me today, "What is it exactly that you're looking for?" and my response was not succinct or eloquent.
"I guess an ongoing exploration of the D/s dynamic," i replied.
"Like what?" he pressed.
"Bondage, having my boundaries pushed, I don't know...stuff."

Some people may suggest that this is something I could explore with just anyone as long as there is trust and respect. But no, I wouldn't want to engage in this exploration of sexuality with someone who is doing it to appease my desires. I want my partner to be experienced and actually enjoy what he is doing, not be a friend or lover who shrugs and says, "Yeah, OK, sure I'll tie you up" and looks alarmed by the fifty feet of nylon rope that you've removed from a closet or drawer. It's like doing the dishes after your partner has made dinner - you just feel obligated into doing it. That's not fun at all. Worse yet are the guys who are laboring under the misapprehension that "submissive" means I want to be degraded, humiliated or treated like a fuck hole. It's not about that, at least with me. There is a sensuality to being teased and dominated. There are psychologically appealing aspects to D/s and that is what I find most intriguing. I don't want to be used as a rutting source and toilet. Hey, if you're into that, cool, but it's just not my thing.

Tomorrow I am meeting with an older European man who is experienced in the Dominant/submissive realm. I think he's German. Oh, those kinky Teutons! Fret not, for we shall be meeting in a public space where we can inspect one another and determine if we are compatible before proceeding.

this is getting bad

2009-07-16T13:14:00.000-07:00

Last night I sucked a guy's cock in my building hallway because I was bored. He didn't even buy me a drink first. What was I thinking? I was thinking, "Boy, I am drunk, bored and holy god, this dick is fucking huge and I can't even get it in my mouth."

a promising pre-date exchange

2009-07-15T13:43:00.001-07:00

sent via text message:

"shave your pussy and i'll talk to you when i get out of my meeting."

intellectual masturbation

2009-07-14T15:18:00.000-07:00

from wikipedia re: andrea dworkin

Intercourse
Main article: Intercourse (book)

In 1987 Dworkin published Intercourse, in which she extended her analysis from pornography to sexual intercourse itself, and argued that the sort of sexual subordination depicted in pornography was central to men's and women's experiences of heterosexual intercourse in a male supremacist society. In the book, she argues that all heterosexual sex in our patriarchal society is coercive and degrading to women, and sexual penetration may by its very nature doom women to inferiority and submission, and "may be immune to reform."[36]

Citing from both pornography and literature—including The Kreutzer Sonata, Madame Bovary, and Dracula—Dworkin argued that depictions of intercourse in mainstream art and culture consistently emphasized heterosexual intercourse as the only kind of "real" sex, portrayed intercourse in violent or invasive terms, portrayed the violence or invasiveness as central to its eroticism, and often united it with male contempt for, revulsion towards, or even murder of, the "carnal" woman. She argued that this kind of depiction enforced a male-centric and coercive view of sexuality, and that, when the cultural attitudes combine with the material conditions of women's lives in a sexist society, the experience of heterosexual intercourse itself becomes a central part of men's subordination of women, experienced as a form of "occupation" that is nevertheless expected to be pleasurable for women and to define their very status as women.[37]

Such descriptions are often cited by Dworkin's critics, interpreting (sometimes even falsely quoting) the book as supposedly claiming 'all' heterosexual intercourse is rape, or more generally that the anatomical machinations of sexual intercourse make it intrinsically harmful to women's equality. However, critics such as Cathy Young point out that numerous statements in the book, such as "Intercourse is the pure, sterile, formal expression of men's contempt for women,"[36] are difficult to misinterpret.

Dworkin rejected that interpretation of her argument,[38] stating in a later interview that "I think both intercourse and sexual pleasure can and will survive equality"[39] and suggesting that the misunderstanding came about because of the very sexual ideology she was criticizing: "Since the paradigm for sex has been one of conquest, possession, and violation, I think many men believe they need an unfair advantage, which at its extreme would be called rape. I do not think they need it."[39] (For discussion of the controversy, see: Intercourse)

when i was in college studying feminist theory, dworkin's theories really incited a rage within me that i could not -and still cannot- verbalize. heterosexual sex, by her definition, is tinged with female degradation and promotes male superiority, and could be considered rape.

as someone who is, by nature, an extremely aggressively sexual female, yet into sexual submission, i am conflicted by her postulation because rape is, in my opinion, an act of power and violence. through dworkin's lens, i would be a victim every time i engaged in sex because it perpetuates male contempt. but how could this be if i am the one authorizing the act? by removing the efficacy of power at its root, by giving consent, am i not neutralizing that point of power, or in fact, granting it to myself? this is what has been cheekily referred to as "topping from the bottom" to borrow jargon from BDSM vernacular.

i'm sure she would argue that i am so steeped in cultural teachings, both subliminal and conscious, that i have learned over the years to grant a type of sexual pleasure to my preferences because it is both socially acceptable if not a given, and yet, simultaneously taboo or "kinky." doubling the severity of her argument would be that i'm an asian female, already weighted with the stereotype of being meek and submissive. yet my personality, loud, brash, confident and even abrasive at times, defies that image. it is only in my private realm where i enjoy giving up control, an act that grants me the power of control in itself. what does this mean? have i really internalized a societal understanding and compliance that women are inferior to men and should be coddled or beaten? why are there two extremes? and why is there a stigma attached to wanting to have either done?

i am not into humiliation, and i do not engage in extreme submission in which i would happily sleep at the foot of my lover's bed or authorize him complete control over me physically. there are sexual acts i do not like and that is always understood and respected by my lovers. what is wrong with liking being pinned down or choked? does it suggest that i am in acceptance of being equated "less than" in a male-dominated society? why do i like the smell of skunk in the woods?