Anti-erotic Life Updates

Pleasant lashings of Vancouver rain beat down on the new city I call home, while I ineptly put together homemade pancakes (got the texture wrong because I eyeballed it and experimented with cake flour) and my long suffering roomie wrestles with their cold on sick day number two.

My body is a disgusting PMS mess, dry and oily and swollen, over sensitive and blotchy. Although, in theory, I see Brick this weekend I feel as erotic as a mud filled pinata. My mood, due to stuff not related to sex, is ok, but mostly I am just looking in the mirror and seeing one breast a D and the other a perky E, and feeling more prickle than warmth in my cunt.

Of course, dear reader, that was more honesty than titillation, and were this a viable commercial endeavor rather than a collection of curated truths and writing exercises, my supervisor would be having a talk right now.

Luckily for me, I am allowed to be honest, so you get bloated and itchy femdom eating flaccid (but surprisingly tastey) pancakes. That is probably someone’s fetish?

Life has been, largely, not about sex. It involves career chasing, and learning my new home and worrying about sickly family and adjusting to a climate where the air is mountain dry and ocean wet at the same time. Most of the commentary I have is how much I like the misty temperate parts, despite everyone warning me how challenging the endless rains of the North West are.

Assuming I don’t plunge into a cold, I will go to the US to spend time with my boyfriend, and we will probably not have especially good sex, because my body is being more concerned with a tantrum over my lack of pregnancy than getting more dick up in my cavities.

Friday Femdom Fiction: Jerk Off Instructions

“Take off your clothes.” She spoke,  abruptly, after breaking off the kissing.  She could still feel the stoftness of his lips against hers, the right amount of wet, and the taste-that-was-not-a-taste when she had licked them.

They’d been making out for maybe five minutes, although she tended not to keep track of the time, with a buzzing sort of urge starting to clamour at her to grab control. It always came like this, with the arousal, that as the curl of sensation built up her spine, her mind turned mean.

Her words got his attention, and a little bit of a challenge in the tilt of his head, as yet unlifted from the pillow.

“Yes. Do it.” Sitting up, she got a good look at the whole of him, skinny, very male, matched to her in casual but not shelpy clothes as he took a certain pride in his appearance: a fitted t-shirt in a dark grey, and slacks in khaki that emphasized his squareness.

He had the start of the haze of lust in his pale eyes, body warm and stretched out in her bed in the mounded up cradling of the heavy duvet. A lazy late spring breeze carried fair sounds from outside and the shaded window cast them in the filtered light of the weekend afternoon. There remained a louche, laziness about his movements, reminding her of a cat.

Gesturing, she tugged at the hem of his shirt, up over his flat stomach. He saw it and saw the lack of horizontal splits where his abs could be counted, she saw only the achingly erotic furrow of the vertical muscles and their trail of soft hair to his groin. At her urging, the shirt came off and he stretched with it, pleasing her. His nipples were small pink points on his chest, hair there almost more sandy blonde than rusty red.

“You’re so fucking hot.” She said his name after, tone heavy with how much she meant it. “Show me everything.”

She continued to watch as his hands went to the band of his pants, fingers undoing the button, parting and pulling off his slim hips. For that he was forced to go half upright. That left loose knit cotton boxers and socks. The consortium of female taste had at some point decided men looked stupid in just socks, but she found this belief incomprehensible. It was part of the cozy, naturalness of real sex and she often made it clear they could and should stay on, a little exertion of her will on his.

There was always the tiniest flash of shyness when he revealed his cock, in this case just starting to stir. Earlier, her body had been on his, her weight pressing his groin and her hand running over the obvious texture of his sensitive nipples under the thin fabric of his t-shirt.  This teasing was an appetizer to him, but she was quite content at the result.

Cut, balanced in size, nested in hair that was the reddest bright on his body, small curls that added to the sense of radiating warmth. She put a hand on his thigh and the other to cup his balls, “I’m going to want you to finish getting that hard for me.”

She liked to watch men. He had a simple technique, out of the ones she’s seen, always a little different, this one being less curl and tickle and more a motion of the hand and fingers,  a circle pulled from mid-length over the ridge of his cock head.

Her cunt gave an anticipatory twitch, hungry.  As she watched she let her palm slide slowly from her collar bone over the swell of her breast, land loose to follow the curve of her shape, “Keep going.”

His muscles began to hold tension, a pull in his belly, a squaring in his shoulders and his face taking on a slight expression of exertion.

“I want you to keep stroking and pulling your cock until you get hard for me. I want to see the first couple of drops of your precum. I’m not going to touch it, this time, but you’re going to come for me, when I say, because I want it.”

He said nothing, but his eyes met hers, cock now full erect in his hand. It was pale and pink, even shaded, alive and warm. She grinned.

“Pull back a bit on the sensations, but don’t let yourself get soft. I want you to draw it out for me.”

He gave a huff of breath by way of answer as he complied. Sex muzzled him as surely as tape over the mouth.  She grinned, nuzzling against the bottom of his ribs with her face and kissing. From there she pressed against him until her mouth was close to his nipple, tongue darting out to flick, and then a second swirl. She knew it was more teasing for him if he could look down and see the dark wetness of her tongue touch.

“This isn’t about you, this is about putting on a show for me. So make those strokes longer, from cock root to tip. I kinda like the idea of you a little frustrated and wanting more sensation.”

Obediently he complied, and she admired just how long his cock got. “You know you’re so fucking big, and every bit of that belongs to me. That’s my cock, mine to fuck and suck and tease when I feel like it. Right?”

He didn’t have any words, so she repeated it again, prompting with a purr in her voice. “Whose cock is that?”

“Yours… It’s yours, Miss”

“Ok, good boy,” she purred, “You can go back to touching yourself how you like. Go on and get yourself close, I want to hear it in your breathing.”

He wasn’t a big groaner or panter, just an ever increasing strain, like the arousal was a weight that increased, pound by pound with every quarter minute. She spied a little bit of wet, precum, and suppressed the urge to lick it away.

As he got closer to the moment, his face took on a different caste, eyes widening even as the small muscles tensed. There was a desperation, but it wasn’t time yet. She wanted him to feel like they was no choice but to come for her. “Almost, ease off again for me, I like watching your take your time with your cock.”

While she talked, she had a hand on her own groin, pressing through the layers of her drapey cotton skirt and the barrier of her panties.  “Fuck yourself for me. Yeah, ok, break’s done, get yourself close again for me. Do you want to come?”

“unhunhh…”

“You do want to come for me, don’t you? You want to let go?” She licked her thumb and then swirled it over his nipple in a spiral.

“uhhhh…”

She could tell he didn’t have any words left, just the sensation.  “Come for me, baby. Your balls are all tight, I know you can’t help it, you’re gonna pop, and then I’m going to lick up every creamy white string from your belly.”

“unnhhnrrrrrrrr…!” It became a growl. Her smile was full teeth, even as she pressed harder and ground her own clit.

“Let go and come for me.”

The growls continued, instinctual, as she watched the first pulse of white fountain, spurt after spurt.

“Good boy.”


If you liked this, there’s a full archive of my free femdom stories here. As usual read and leave comments as applicable! Or share it with people who also like porn.

Retrospective 2018 On My Femdom Life

Blisters from my sexual journey.Let’s look at the metaphoric hiking blisters and holiday snaps from my sexual journey, shall we? 😛

This blog has seen me through four relationships, and a significant part of my adult life, almost a third of it, actually. It was started as an effort to put content out there that resonated with me, in a world that did precious little, for various reasons, to cater to my niche. I knew, for example, when I saw a scene in a movie where an attractive man was tortured I got very alert and excited, but there was a distinct lack of stuff explicitly made for my gaze and desire.

I started chasing this in 2008, with my move to Montreal. I slipped from turgid sex chats and online role playing to visiting munches, getting a fetlife account and playing with real boys (and real girls and then real nbs). The blog grew out of fetlife- it wasn’t my first foray into autobiographical writing or fiction online, but a very successful effort, cataloging my exploits, fantasies and trying to be a representation of femdom life.

I got semi niche famous. I’m still a leading luminary, albeit never the most important. The blog doesn’t really turn a profit, but book sales almost cover hosting and the odd freelance writing gig gained through it sort of balance it out. I imagine if I decided to put more dedicated effort into content churn, particularly ramping up the spank bank material we’d be a better business.

Now, about a decade of exploration later, I get to look back on what precisely what the hell all this means in the context of the now.

I am thirty two. A little thinner than my youth, with more grey hair and a few permanent scars on my skin and psyche and a few hard won pieces of confidence and honed skills. My writing is better through raw practice and editing.  I tackled some truly awful people in the local community of Montreal, battled all sorts of bad theory (Karma Sutra still has me blocked), ran a successful munch until I basically aged out, and can largely be happy with much of it even if I chafe that I am now what passes for an elder-mentor when I still feel like a hot mess. I think that’s a millennial thing- we’re all adults in a world where the meaning of adulthood exploded.

I don’t regret my kink explorations but I also remain wistful that one thing I wanted remains very much out of reach, long term sexual satisfaction in a loving, respectful relationship. I of course, always attract and prefer commitment oriented partners. I’m in a relationship and happy with him, but I’m still fighting to explain what I am and feel I am being understood and more importantly, cherished for it.

I’m still feeling like a freakish femdom unicorn.

I want things to be better.

It is still very hard to find a contextual niche about femdom that doesn’t cater specifically to being an object of male desire. This supposition is either that your power is based on limitless male longing, or that you are working within a selection of specific fetishes held by a male partner. The Mistress Manual is one of the better books about this (the New Topping Book is the inverse option that presupposes no gender and a buffet approach) , but the former’s premise is shit for a female dominant doing things for her own sake. (And fabulous for when he is the kinky one).

Sites like Femmedomme Society and Elise Sutton  now have enough practical adults willing to call out the fantasy nonsense for what it is, but the norms of the work, one where female dominance is somehow all powerful through pent up male horniness, still lingers, with the consumer model omnipresent. People still try to hire me as a service provider, or offer me porn inspired activities as “service” despite being perfect strangers (and my hoary old age in no way deters them).

The censorship of FOSTA and SESTA and crack downs on global social media ranging from twitter to instagram, and the perennial shittiness of the monopoly of credit card providers on what is acceptable sex-art will be a problem into the next decade.

It’s not all a bleak, joyless sex dystopia, however.

Shoulders are tits for people who like make bodies.Ava Ex Machina and Ferns continue the good fight in the field of femdom life blogging. The tumblr user curated porn remains excellent, and there are deep strides among the young folks through the niche called “Gentle Femdom” to pull people away from the client and dominatrix model of how this works. There’s a pile of male bloggers and writers plugging away with dynamics that function, and of course Dreams Made Flesh launched .

On a larger porn front, women are now actively being recognized as consumers. We dominate (snrk) the erotica market, as both consumers and creators, and happily consume all sorts of other porn.  Women write, read, watch and aggressively pursue sex in a way that was just not a thing in the previous century. It’s getting better.

I am actually confident that if I buy femdom porn I won’t necessarily come away insulted, disgusted and alienated. Performers like Lance Hart, much like the male sub bloggers, go further in breaking down the implicit external power dynamics of classic femdom porn. Sweet artists like GracyGimp or the flat out wonderful Yumine bring a certain lively coziness to what was previously more than a little cold. BDSM, thanks largely to the work of submissive women advocating on their own behalf, is mainstream.

But I am still having a crap time getting a partner to actually give me what I want.

There, I said it, that in large part pursuit of sexual satisfaction has been the fulcrum that moved me from various relationships, first out of one that was destroying me as a person, then into an interlude with Strong that notably petered out when the fetish fun times did, then with Wildcard, much more painfully, for he had a lot to recommend him. With Brick, it is no wonder I am fixated on trying to get it right, because my actions tell me this is clearly something that matters to me a lot.

My relationship, at the moment, has a huge pile of pressure to perform on him because a decade of experimentation and poking leaves some impatience.  I like to invest heavily in my partners- I would describe I am moderate-maintenance, but thrive when I can nurture my partner. He’s pretty and fun and smart and our hobbies that line up, but the figurative elephant in the room is my feelings around sex.

And it is really sucking to try to talk about what I am into with the absolute expectation of getting my needs met, because I keep second guessing that any communication fuck up is my fault. Now some of this is the gulf between fantasy and reality, for example there is no such thing as limitless submission or universal sexual chemistry.

Writing out that I am sexually unsatisfied, however, is an exercise in anxiety. What if my partners think I am judging them?  What if I destroy the hope my readers have? What if the collective judgement uses this as an excuse why being a female dominant is a condition we need curing from? What if, indeed the problem is me?

Heady stuff, in a world that isn’t sure if it needs to send you money and semen or off to jail by way of a psyche ward. I’ve made it my work to talk about the personal and a lot of why there has been a hiatus is that I did not think that the world needed more sad femdoms. Bitter girl blog is all well and good, but just like there is a relative shortage of our porn, there’s a wealth of female dominants in anger, misery and crotchety despair.

Then again, Fuck Fear.

I have to trust that if I put myself out there, a partner I can be happy with will understand me. This isn’t really what I wanted- I’ve been basically trying to “settle down” for the entirety of my femdom exploits, and the hard lesson, repeatedly taught is that settling down domestically with a person cannot be subsuming my own happiness to the enterprise, in the broken idea that this will make me happier. Unfortunately it’s probably living your own authentic self to accept that with age must come honesty, and the next fifty years are probably even more tactless.

I love, and will love, but I will also love my femdom self and above all things be honest, because if I cannot do that with myself, what hope might I have that others can?

There are commercial links in this post. They are not affiliate links.

Not So Good Sex

We have not so good, hurried sex on Sunday night and neither one of us comes, although I get close.

He’s so pretty, but I think part of what went wrong is I think he just wanted to cuddle and my head’s in a bad place. Lesson learned.

Sometimes it just doesn’t come together. The weekend started with mixed promise: I was a bucket of grawr and he was at least just a little off  in his own mood. Friday night, he wasn’t feeling it, but his pheremones, weight and heat got me going.

I’ve been having a reoccurring fantasy of completely breaking him down. That plus his presence gave me a solid orgasm. I had another one on the washroom, almost as soon as I started to touch myself, the next morning while we got ready for a busy day.

I don’t think he noticed, brushing his teeth while my clit and fingers found me something as furtive as it was delicious.

Saturday, zipped into knee high black leather boots, knit lace and wrapped velvet, I teased him and teased myself. It showed such promise, feeling pretty and sexy, but by the time we got home from goth clubbing, my daydreams of shoving the length of his cock down my throat were derailed for sleep.

Sunday I got clotheslined by a morning headache, and then when that cleared, my stomach was off. I blame stress and restless nights where my body doesn’t want to sleep. We had sex after some home medical care of me on his part, but the sex still didn’t click.

I was the wrong kind of sensitive. I couldn’t get wet enough. My brain was scattered. I wanted cock, but like a child with a toothache in a candy store, I just wasn’t in a position to enjoy it.

It didn’t have the bad kind of ouch, but I know what it is like to be so wet and swollen feeling the least little chance to devour him is pleasure in itself. This was not it.

To Brick’s credit, even really not into it, he puts on an admirable performance. As disappointed as I am that we both ended up unsatiated, I’m more hopeful of next weekend’s possibilities.

Kinky Sex On My Friend’s Couch

Kinky sex on my friend's couch happened.He’s not a novice to kinky sex, but I am the experienced one. He’s fucked piles, but here on the couch I’ve borrowed for this, I am more comfortable in this realm than he is. We’re not even doing anything particularly intense, nothing with hoops to leap through or collars and protocols, but I like what we are doing.

My control is mental.

I talk a stream of consciousness line of filth. Magicians have a patter, I spin out linked bits of carnal ideas, like I am giving a massage with my words. Each sentence slides out of my mouth, luring and inspiring him, until he is fucking me. His cock fits just right, nothing feeling pushed or rushed the wrong way, feeling like I am feeding a yearning.

He comes, back sprawled on the arm of the couch, body splayed, while I tell him dirty things. He asks for it, precise about the hows as he hands over the keys to his head. It’s not enough to be succinct, he wants a flow of words to drown him, a riff on a theme, not a closed statement.

“Fuck me, yeah, you want to? Fill me. Your cock belongs in me, belongs to me.  There isn’t a single thing I’m going to skip with you. Keep fucking me. That’s your job. You know how many women its been, you little slut. Use me. Make it hurt. Go on, I want it hard, I need more than that.”

I’d taught him a little bit about how his ass responds too, that afternoon. He is so shy, meticulous in the shower, but there’s nothing I find personally taboo about flicking my tongue. It’s the taste of soap on skin. He’s just a little bit mortified, as I trim my nails and let him try the tip of a finger in a glove, well slicked with pharmacy brand lube.

He wanted me to explore his ass.

Itself, taut, muscular. Spread, he has no pigmentation to speak of, just pink, the way the head of his cock or his nipples or lips are the same blush shade. We did it very modern, sharing lists of things we would like to try. He told me anecdotes of other men who confessed being penetrated, there. We both have a little bit of coy reverence for anal, but while he thinks he doesn’t want up in a woman, he wants me inside him.

He’s a paradox, modern and conservative, American South. I like that bashful boy next door. This weekend he’s stressed and grumpy about stuff well outside the confines and control of my reach, so it’s nice to make him vulnerable. I like his lean, long body.  I like making him nervous.

So far he’s learned a lot, including that a magic wand pressed beneath his balls makes the orgasm harder, one solid spurt of semen onto his belly.

And I push him into playing pain games.

Of course there’s this, too. I don’t have any pretense that I dislike pain, and I am enjoying breaking in his shyness. It makes me feel powerful. He doesn’t feel completely comfortable with that part of himself, with me. But he wants it, too.

It takes my affirmative consent to let him express that with me, uttering:

“I want you to hit me”

This way I make him stretch plays with his desires, sadistic but also protective and it fucks with his head. He needs to hear me demand it. I call it Madonna whore, he who has fucked any number of women to whatever kinky thing they want, more shy about this with me, the woman he loves and requests.

But I won’t tolerate hesitance, demand he overcomes cognitive dissonance to please me. He can respect me and give me what I want. Kinky sex isn’t just for friends with benefits and event hook ups. Just because his pretty face and outgoing manner leaves his bed post notched into toothpicks does not mean I expect him to be different with me. I am going to take everything.

My thighs burn from his hand slapping on the soft flesh of them, creamy insides as I worked my clit into coming. I finished with red sting mark-splotches on either side, as vivid as lipstick prints. Good. I’ll have more, later.

I am making him do it.

He’s not a masochist either, but he wants to please me so very badly.

When we fucked the other night, I whopped his back with my belt. If you think penetration is submissive, try slapping him like he’s a horse you are goading.

Hetero femdom needs metaphors like that. Horse. Bull. Big, muscular creatures. Even small past partner packed a punch. Healthy boys, particularly Brick, it can’t be about control through physical slam-downs. Not when the average man is 20% stronger than the average woman. Submission knows know gender, doesn’t care about your flesh. The small and frail can be dominant. But, to work, you need any sub to crave you in control.

I tease Brick about being slutty and innocent by turns. Poor man, he doesn’t sit well with either. After a liftime of being game to try, eager to say yes, I show him a Hitachi put against his perenium, my tongue and my fingers up his ass. First time.

I know what I am doing.

That’s the power, in kinky sex, not about holding the other party down, but about them wanting to be held.

Some of this is old ground for him: I take off his belt and loop it to hold his wrists. Safe bondage, other women have tied him up tighter.

He needs to deal with myself being a monster of sorts, as least as far as desire. I like to put the dear into him, make him suffer. He likes to please, but oh is he proud.

 

 

 

 

You Won’t Guess How I Use A Magic Wand…

Yes I photographed my new magic wand on a friend's patioI just ordered not one but two Magic Wands, the workhorse dependable of the sex toy set, one for me and one for a friend. There’s some standards you get used to, the rabbit (really not very trendy anymore), the Aneros, a bullet vibe, a vibrating cock ring, the CB(whatevernumber)000 in all its ugly clear plastic glory. But, if I could only have one famous sex toy it would be the Magic “stop calling it a Hitachi” Wand. The Magic Wand is just so standard it would be hard to have modern sex and not be aware it exists.

In makeup, they make a big deal about products that get branded “holy grail” or “ride or die” or whatever hyperbolic nonesense you want. The video game version is calling things iconic. Sex toy review haven’t as obviously come up with a cliche for that (although the intelligent snark in the blog genre is well worth a read, I’ve scattered the end of the post with a few who’s whos and invite you to share your favourite reviewer in the comments). In the sea of items that humans have created to get off with, The Magic Wand just is. It’s a platonic ideal of a sex toy, so standard and effective that even porn uses them with a more casual attitude than lube.

But after all that puffery: They don’t really work for me as a sex thing, but I use them happily with partners. I could skip them in the bedroom.

So, let’s review this supposed miracle of plastic and wire!

Allegedly the vibrator is one of the oldest patented electric appliances, which is unsurprising. The tech is simple, an electric motor and a mechanism to transmit the vibrations. A washing machine would give you that effect unintentionally.  Although I tried a washing machine and alas, no dice, although I have good things to say about the right shape of a chair and the seam of a pair of jeans, albeit only vaguely pleasant. But I digress…

The Magic Wand is ugly. White that can eventually age a bit, with a big chunky control switch and meaty head, if it didn’t have such a legacy as a sex toy, it would look just like the vintage wellness appliance it was created to be. Hitachi’s little embarrassment, its popularity is such that they have a love/hate relationship with their product. On the one hand, incredibly profitable, on the other hand, even to this day Hitachi is synonymous with vibrator the way that Kleenex is with facial tissue. Since people are understandably shy about sexuality, wanting both money and anonymity, their subsidiary Vibratex took over.

Aficionados tell me the Magic Wand got a slight change for the better during this period, more strength, with a lighter body. These improvements are welcomed, but are about the only updates it has received since its debut in 1968. There are great grandmothers (and great grandfathers) extant who got a good buzz out of this toy, but it generally is considered to sit at perfection.

Instead the market is full of knock off and imitations of the design. Most of these are disappointments, except for augmentations like the “Doxy”, which simply blows its muse out of the water for pure power, and is the pounding vibration favourite of many. But if you don’t have almost a hundred or so extra dollars to throw on the earthshaker version, you can get the Original Magic Wand for about $60 US.

Everybody has heard of a Magic Wand, reviewing it feels almost redundant.

The Magic Wand is so common, if you want, you can buy special nubby hats that go on the meaty bit, from a wide bunch of manufacturers. I wouldn’t bother, the Magic Wand’s main strength is that it turns virtually anything else into a vibe, from his thigh (straddle!) to the butt plug you have poked into him just so.

For me, the biggest payoff of having a Magic Wand around is using them on other people. Whether causing a friend to have her eyes roll like a slot machine, or taking a handjob up to the next level, it’s a sensory play toy for anyone with nerve endings.

If you are going to share it, the plastic head of the Magic Wand is probably one of the draw backs- it’s not going to give you cancer, but not only does it yellow a bit over time and take smudges (the worse being when I used one to vibe a steal cock cage- lesson learned, although the guy came because cock cages are not very effective. Put a large sized condom on it and laugh at how silly it looks. Phhhppppplllllttttt!

I, alas, can’t get off from vibrations. An up/down motion does it for me with very firm grinding, so while I have used them as a sexual enhancement, alas I remain bitterly jealous of all the cooing women who touch it to their clits and BLAM, orgasm. All I get is sensation, followed by numbness.

On other people. >:)

The place this toy shone for me is discovering how much of a cheat code it was with partners. Lube up his dick, cup in in your hand and rub it up and down the shaft. Boom, ropes of milky come everywhere. At a play party? Press it to her crotch through her panties and have a couple of friends hold her arms. Whee!

Is use on penis having people is a dearly neglected part of the value of the toy, so if you are into teasing and getting guys off as part of your femdom, and it hasn’t occurred to you, try bringing it out of the toy box to try on his squirmy, bound body.  Degender your sex toys.

Then, when you’re done, swab it down with a bleach wipe like it’s a piece of gym equipment. It sure looks ugly, but boy does is do the job it is supposed to (on most people). Heck, be a sex party hero and throw and extension cord into your bag.

I use the Magic Wand for its original intended purpose…

I hate to be NLOB (not like other bloggers) but this guy will never, ever be my own personal orgasm factory. Despite this, I had to get it.

I get migraines about monthly, biweekly if I am not taking good care of myself. They range from merely obnoxious, giving me days of fuzzy headedness, to accute, evening long sessions of screaming pain where I end up in the bathroom completely helpless. Over a lifetime of dealing with them I’ve learned tricks- advil or muscle relaxants at the first symptoms, dark rooms, gentle exercise if they go into a lull. All this is blissfully complimented by jamming a Magic Wand against the sinus under my eye and letting it buzz the pain right out of me.

Which I guess is part of the challenge with sex writing, as it’s so damn personal. In a world of gspot orgasms and squirting and people who like being rope bunnies, there’s so much yum that feels ubiquitous but when you look up close is a lot more custom to the person.

I will probably never get off from vibrations alone, my tiny clit doesn’t like that kind of lovin’.  But I think, as this blog suggests, that my approach to my sexuality will be as unorthodox as it is honest, that there is no one wrong way to do it and not having a migraine is well worth the sticker price.

Yeah there’s an affiliate link here. Yes, I tried and tested the product in question. I like it so much that I bought it.

Here’s a list of bloggers who are better at talking about sex toys than me:

First Month In Vancouver

Meanwhile in Vancouver. The weather is perfect, days of clear sun or misting rain while the east coast gets hammered in snow. I fight off either a tail of a head cold or pollen allergies and try to be good about job hunting on a borrowed couch. I research about wrestling holds for a story commission, chasing my muse to corner it. This is important. I can barely write lately, stringing words together is a chore, but I’m making myself sit still and type this as a warm up.

Weekends I steal away to screw myself silly, passport in hand, jumping on the dick of an American. He looks at me wistfully and checks if all he is to me is sex.  No, but it sure helps, as I have a cunt-hunger that I try to respect. Fuck me. I told him that, fuck me properly and the rest would work itself out.

He’s cute and funny and handsome, and I like playing pretend with him. I also want him between my legs, slim hips driving piston style. I want what I want, and Brick does it.  Trophy boyfriend, handsome enough random girls ask to snap a picture of him with them.

The condo where I am staying has a little gym in the basement (it also has a sauna) and as my breathing lets me (damn cold/pollen) I’ve started awakening myself from the uncomfortable slumber of my limbs.  My body is less than thrilled to be roused, like all living things it prefers to conserve calories.  That’s my goal for 2018, to take opportunities when they are offered- as long as there’s a free treadmill in the basement there’s no excuse not to go.

My limbs are now unhappy at the joints, but my brain is clearer. Up here the air tastes clean and sweet and when I crest a hill, suddenly radiant grey-glow mountains, luminous and white capped. It feels silly, like someone put a matter painting up on a set. Eventually I will need to get closer ot one of those and prove it is real.

I have a reasonable level of stress for a person who has upended their life, but not so much that I feel rash. A little overwhelmed and concerned I could push myself harder, as well as grumpy at losing days to sleepiness (yesterday demanded and extra 2 hour nap out of nowhere) but also immensely happy to be having an adventure.

On fetlife I poke at the kink scene, but I haven’t yet had the free time to make it worth looking into.

#EuphOff2018: The Semi-Moist Treat Stick Edition

In which I enter a bad sex competition. Wish me luck as I try to pack the most cringes into a sub 500 word story, in my chosen genre.

Worst Intentional Femdom Story of 2018!


She was not like other dommes. Of course she charged hundreds of dollars to provide intimate and erotic control, accepting the gift of cash as a part of the sacred gift of submission. But she was a nice normal girl who was only doing it to pay her way through college. Not like that competitive jerk who was her age but much more unhinged and also working at the dungeon.

Mama Mistress had mentored and trained her, and matched her with the hunky Mediterranean millionaire she was now training. He was a captain of industry who needed to let go, that’s why he paid thousands of dollars an hour to have a stunningly (conventionally) attractive woman play out his exact and detailed fantasy.

“Oh, Mistress,” he moaned. “Only you know how to get inside my head and know how fragile submissives are.”

“That’s right, mon cherie,” she injected, her french accent thick on her tongue and as natural as that yellow scurf that adults who don’t drink enough water get. “Give yourself to me wholy. Open your heart and soul as you have opened the cleft of your tushy”

Of course because she was not like other dominas she wore white leather, her angel hair a halo around her head like her crimson lipstick on her lips, mimicking the lurid red of the buttholes she stuffed to only pay the bills, and not because she liked it. She had a little brother she was supporting. Her mother had died while she was in college. It was the only way.

She would show up that competitive jerk in a whip off on stage tonight, which would prove who was the best dominatrix, but first she must drive Shlmo Abdel Nour deep into subspace. Only the strongest, European house trained d0minants could unlock a submissive’s true potential.

Shlmo looked over his shoulder at her, ass open to receive the full girth of her turgid buckle falsie, needing only the slightest touch of spit from his mouth to fit. So deep was he in submission already that this sacred rite had made him have a ruined orgasm. His body was smooth with a special cream that not only perfectly depilated him, but made the hair never return and also made him more sensitive and lusty, like a goat that had been raised in Plato’s dark shadow cave, only to be finally released to an Elysian field of real live nanny goats.

She lingered for a moment behind him, semi-moist treat stick held steady in her hand before she began to slowly plunder his crevice-swirl.

“Ah! Ma pet! Ma Cher!”

The squelching of his eager yielding sucked all eighteen inches deep inside him. She could feel the thrusting deep inside her clit as she drove him to a crescendo of ecstasy. But something was different. Their connection transported them to a world of pure submission based simultaneous orgasms.

With a noise not unlike the Tardis sound effects being played in reverse, she collapsed on top of him, utterly spent.


Writing intentionally badly is an art form in and of itself. OtherLivvy has carried on the annual tradition of the #EuphOff and you have until March 30th, 2018 to get your contribution in. 

Fantasies On The Weekend

I wonder about how he’d look helpless. We haven’t had that opportunity to restrain him completely, although I know he’s game (no leashes though, no! Noooo! It’s kinda cute how resistive he is, even if I’m going to respect that hard limit). Coy man will hide what he wants behind what I want, but occasionally can be pushed to state a preference.

My cunt’s a cleft of wet, panties carrying the stamp of my thoughts in white on black, fingers smelling of the apple scented hand soap after I carefully remove my own scent from my fingers after another orgasm. I come easily and frequently, sometimes with the width of a thick toy eased inside me, sometimes just plain old fingers like since I was a teenager.

It’s a mixture between the ostensibly vanilla and the overtly kinky. I have a want to engulf his cock down my throat and the poor man keeps telling me that he’s hard to get off that way and blah, blah… Maybe I just want what I want. It’s not about getting him off, it’s the taste and the sensation of fullness. My mouth is all nerves, more complex than my cunt, which is either pleasure, touch or ouch but cannot, for example, enjoy texture because I cannot feel fine details, only pressure.

I think about straddling his lap and having him hilt in me. He likes all sorts of positions, but me on top is his go to, says he likes giving the girl control over the depth. While he is not monstrous he is on the larger side of normal, surprisingly hard for me to cram into my mouth.

Maybe I need to tie him to a chair and interrogate him about fantasies.  Poor man doesn’t want to take a little torture, but even if my clips and clamps and bits of leather and wood and the sharp bite of the claws on the ends of my fingers are all exempt, I will leave his soft, pale skin unmarked. It follows then to see just how he will react to a little teasing instead. Do you think he’s break after an hour or just be left grinning and daring me to continue?

Really only one way to find out, practice until I can learn his body as well as my own and edge him, practice until his mind’s my playground.

I like a challenge sometimes.

Writing About Porn Panic and Porn Influence

If you want to boil Porn Panic into a single concept: It’s about the breathless trembling shock  people write about facials with.

In porn, it makes a great visual to have the guy finish by wanking all over the model’s face.  The visual nature of the medium means that the positioning and nature of communication of the erotic puts the semen produced somewhere into the picture and facials are an alternative to creampies, pearl necklaces, whatever slang term for festooning the buttocks, etc. Something particular about putting semen on the face causes a tizzy.

It’s a newer behaviour in the sense that it meandered over from Japanese porn in my teenage years to be a standard in pretty much all western porn.  It is extremely fair to say that porn influences the sex we are having because of it’s ubiquity.  And inevitably the discussion leads to articles like this., in the NYTimes, discussing what teens might be learning from getting a sexual education from porn.

Writing about the influence sexual media has on sex is hard to do without tut tutting.

I hypothesize that the piece we are missing from all this is that sex is supposed to be a conversation, not some static, platonic idea of sexy, and porn influencing sex is a feature not a bug.

For a while, after he came, LDR style, Brick would send me a snap of a palmful of cum, all shiny as “proof”.  I don’t know if he found this erotic for the sake of the act or presumed that I must like “proof” and was doing it for my benefit. It’s not something that, prior to him, it would have occurred to me to ask for. But curiously enough, he stopped doing it (probably because changes in living situations eliminated privacy for him) and I find with this introduction of what is in effect a fetish activity, I actually kinda liked it and now miss it.

Sexy is social. Social is communication. Art is communication. Sexy is art. 

I don’t think we’re very good at acknowledging the flow of sex-as-a-conversation  without bringing in mortality. For example recently as a think piece, Hylas and the Nymphs, by Waterhouse, was removed from it’s place in the gallery it lives in. I think it’s a beautiful enough painting I put a print of it in my bathroom. It is, however, a pretty good piece to use for the conversation about why great art so often means shit that gets a wealthy straight male audience off and we value this sort of thing so much we don’t think particularly hard about trotting people we want to be educated past glorified excuses to look at idealized titties.

Framing matters. Sometimes literal framing in gilt. Porn gets slapped around because it doesn’t even get to wear the crown of art (and people sneak their porn in by calling it ‘art’ because we’re bad at acknowledging that lowly pop art is still art but Hylas and the Nymphs is no more or less dignified than the carefully made up fake PoV shot of a model getting cetaphil flung at her face because it makes a better visual than the variable amounts of semen produced by a human male.

I’m going to go against the grain and make a statement:  Sex is supposed to be performative.

That’s the weirdness about all this, an unspoken part of the conversation where people have an idea of pure and good sex that is normal, a porn influenced sex that is a cabaret show of perversity, but sex doesn’t actually work like that, and what sex it, is a variable conversation and set of fungible norms. It is not a penis churning a vagina, although it could be.

For example, a performance: Brick likes mouths a lot when we have sex so there’s a particular maneuver I do where I lift my head a little bit to flick my tongue over his nipple while getting my long dark hair out of the way that really Does It For Him. Why? He learned his nipples are sensitive from a past partner with outlandish oral skills, but who knows where she picked up the idea of putting her mouth on nipples. No single sexual behavior is universal across all humans.  It didn’t occur to him to ask her to do that until she put her mouth there and from whatever source she learned it from, now I get asked to lick because we’re smart adults who can talk about desire.

Why am I going to the trouble of slightly angling my neck so her can see my tongue pull over his nipple? There’s a diagonal perspective where I can watch him react to what I am doing and if I get it just right, his eyes take on a haze I find incredibly sexy.  Although I like his penis and this act is usually accompanied by him with is clutched in his fist wanking into the general area of a potential orgasm,  the social and psychological aspect of sex means where we put our eyes and the emotional intimacy is a huge part of this.

Bless the NYTimes article I linked to, they at least mentioned that part of the appeal of people doing facials (from the awkward teen conversations) is the eye contact with the people involved. I wish we could get beyond the idea that porn is teaching kids to be rapists, which is one of the points that that NYtimes article was hammering out. (I don’t think that’s porn, I think the norms of the factor we call rape culture are in every facet of our life including porn- people raped perfectly happily before the wide availability of porn, and even if civilization and its medias vanished they will carry right on raping until our species fundamentally changes.)

When we try to talk about sex, it’s such a big topic that bits and pieces get left out.

For example a significant percent of women get pain from vaginal intercourse or no orgasm from any sexual activity ever including masturbation (1 in 10) and we don’t know why.

Millennials as the TNG  Munch demographic, the people aged 18-35 to whom the internet was a factor in our life but not simply the background radiation.  Usually we get lumped into the batch of up and comers, that next swathe of kiddos maturing away- although Gen X is somehow able to keeping well clear. And the inevitability of this is that people will also talk about the peculiar challenge that is Porn and Sexual Norms.

The internet exploded the community around having sex, by allowing disparate people wealthy enough to afford a connection the ability to access material for titilation. Everything about the modern BDSM community is not, despite what some people wanking themselves into a coma will tell you, the work of Old Guard guys, although they were a culturally relevant factor, but the newsgroups crawling out of the medium of safe communication behind usernames and into the first “Munch”. Which, btw, was organized by a woman. But the other side effect of internet connectivity was a golden age of relatively unfettered access to sexual materials.

Porn drove internet innovation- technologies to deliver video and static images, like it or not, were motivated in huge part by desire to look at things that got people off.  They sure as skippy didn’t invent sex though- porn is ancient. The oldest known paintings include illustrations of little stick figures with erections, including fucking wildlife. (Ahem it’s about man’s dominance over ANIMALS, OK! It’s SYMBOLIC!  Not! Freaky! Prehistoric! Beast! Porn! Side note: although the cave paintings usually depict skinny tanned white guys doing the painting 3/4 of the handprints in the work appear to be women based on typical sexual diamorphism in finger length, so this is another case of women making nasty tumblr worthy filth about boys) .

But Porn Panic should not supersede nuanced critique

When I say Porn Panic, I mean the idea that somehow erotic art is a thing that is actively inherently toxic, and gets combated as an intrusive external force.

We’re in an awkward period right now, where enough people have gotten on the web that rather than being the privileged domain of largely straight white wealthy people with leisure time and some specialized knowledge, enough of the population enjoys connectivity that there’s a backlash- places like the UK are not entirely comfortable with the idea that huge amounts of sexual materials are out there and thus because porn makes a part of a conversation about what people Should Be Allowed To Have.

This is the wrong conversation- excepting naked imagery produced in the absence of consent, which is a separate issue to image content, the idea of toxic art is pernicious.

The conversation about how media was teaching people they were doing sex in a problematic fashion did not start with internet porn- prior to this there was “MTV music videos” or other fretting about

Make Love Not Porn and Porn Literacy are both trying to combat that, but the former bites the hand that feeds, seeking to define porn as the things that do sex in a way that they do not agree with, with the idea that they should from there make explicit erotic art they get to call not porn. Basically it’s Porn Panic with the idea that if you rebrand things “erotic, softcore, Not Porn) you are excising the poison without losing the medium. This is implausible, and more than a little be self-deluded that you don’t have your own norms that may be equally problematic- particularly if you become the new dominant voice.

For instance, we live in a culture that penalizes being fat, and prioritizes being skinny. Good work is done to help people who are not skinny feel sexy. However, cultures that are fat dominant in their aesthetic are not any less oppressive.

Where Porn Literacy can, but not necessarily, fall flat is that while they are correct that the larger world of sex exceeds the limited window of what porn lets views see and is a dialogue of norms not passive entertainment, there remains this search for innocence as a moving target, a time before the nastiness intruded.

This is why while it would be socially beneficial for me to say I write “erotica” or dress myself in the language of anti-porn, I prefer to say I write and consume porn