See, I told you guys Catholicism was kinky.

Rope and Orgasms

Jack and I went to a rope class a while back, and it was really cool. We'd never really been rope people (despite my not-so-subtle hints of buying rope, and books about rope, and entering online contests and winning rope) and I was really excited that jack was going to learn about tying me up. It was an awesome night and we learned a bunch and met and interacted with lots of cool people.

So last night, we were fooling around and he breaks out the rope. He tied my hands behind my back, and then tied my legs--ankle to thigh. I was pretty much completely immobilized. And then he fucked me.

It was great sex--I really like being unable to move during sex. It makes me feel used and powerless. However, in the past when I've been tied with scarves or neckties or held down with inexpensive velcro restraints, I've either been untied before orgasm (it's pretty easy to untie a scarf or necktie while in the middle of sex) or haven't really come.

But rope, real rope bondage tied tight with pretty blue nylon rope is really different. It's sexy as hell, which makes it pretty easy for me to come...but I'm a wiggler. I move around a fair amount while having an orgasm. I had a moment, immobilized with the rope, where it seemed like the orgasm would last forever. And then I realized I couldn't move. I was still coming, but I couldn't move. It felt really strange, and kind of distracting.

It's supposed to be the tying part that's tricky, that you have to learn and practice. But I think I need more practice being tied. And, you know, coming while tied up.

Hard to Offend?

It says in my profile that I like making people uncomfortable. This is kind of a throwback to my years in college, when we did lots of theatre that was offensive and in-your-face and often just...well...uncomfortable. Two of my favourite playwrights are Christopher Durang and Martin McDonagh. I had friends who delighted in saying horrible things in public just to get a laugh, and I always found it hilarious.

But lately I find myself really bothered by things that, on the surface, seem really innocuous. And I find that hard to reconcile with the hard-to-offend person that I thought I was.

The subtle things are creepier, though. And a play, at least, is not real life--though using the same sort of exaggerated language one would in a play to get a response offstage is a little more problematic--it's really different when a character onstage makes a sexist remark and when your friend does it. Durang plays in particular show us really horrible things framed by absurdity and humor to make a statement about what a weird, screwed up, sometimes horrible place the world is. And while I was not offended by the rape scene in Betty's Summer Vacation, I definitely was occasionally disturbed by the show on the whole.

Two of my favorite characters have been really, really unlikeable. An abusive mother and a violent, bullying teenage girl. Possibly the two most potentially offensive characters I've played, and I loved every second of being with them. However, when a critic referred to one of the characters as "sluttish" in a review, I was pretty upset--how is she a slut? Because she talks openly about her curiosity about sex? Because she swears and fights and takes charge of things? Because she isn't ashamed to talk about being sexually assaulted? That never seemed "sluttish" to me, it seemed strong.

This is kind of a disjointed post. Clearly it all has to do with context. A lot of media that I think people could characterize as "offensive" is wildly different from real life. There's a huge difference between Divine's speech about her beliefs in Pink Flamingos ("KILL EVERYONE NOW!") and my dumb friend from college calling a girl a skank. And as I write this, it becomes more and obvious why I'm offended by one of these things and not the other.

I think there was also something self-conscious in all the awful things we said in college. We were in on the joke, and it was like saying "This would be really horrible if it were true, but we know it's not so it's hilarious!" We were fucking with people, and that's not very nice, but there's a big difference between fucking with people on purpose and saying horrible things but not realizing they're horrible. But maybe I'm just defending it to avoid feeling guilty.

Making people uncomfortable at least gets a reaction. I'd rather get a reaction than never discuss anything ever and sweep everything under the rug.

On a lighter note...

There's a part of me that really wants James Spader's characters in Pretty in Pink and Secretary to be the same person. I'm not sure why, other than the fact that they are two of my favorite movies and I seem to be developing a bit of a thing for snotty rich kids.

I have seriously spent time trying to think of a name that the E in E. Edward Gray (Spader's character in Secretary) could stand for that could also be shortened to Steff (Spader's character in Pretty in Pink). I want Mr. Gray, when talking about his life, to say "I was kind of a jerk in high school. I grew up outside Chicago and my parents had a lot of money..."

Clearly I need more productive things to do with my spare time.

That one time when I got sexually assaulted.

I have alluded to this in other places, and I have sort of told my two best friends from high school and laughed it off ha ha ha. But the only person I have ever really told about this, with all the details and emotions and feelings is Jack.

And I know this blog has been a little low on sexy BDSM-y content lately (as if anyone I don't know personally is reading this anyway) and I promise to remedy that soon, but between the comment that Tails posted on my last entry and this article I happened upon today (and its companion piece), I decided I should really write about this.

It was October, and I was 23, a year out of college and working two jobs. I was living with my parents, and had only just passed my road test. I took the bus pretty much everywhere, including to and from my primary job at the mall every day. On this particular day, I had gotten out of work early and was headed home to get ready to go to my much more interesting second job.

I was sitting in my usual seat, three rows back on the "passenger" side, window seat. I was listening to my mp3 player and reading Son of a Witch by Gregory Maguire. I forget which stop it was, but an older man (in his 60s or so) got on and sat down next to me, in the aisle seat. His hand, which I remember had unusually long and well-manicured nails, hovered just on the edge of my field of vision.

I concentrated on my book, barely even noticing as the hand brushed against my thigh. It actually took me a few minutes to figure out what was going on...and by then his hand was creeping higher and higher up my leg. In my head, I was panicking. I was convinced that if I caused a scene no one would believe me. I pushed my book down against my thighs, trying to block him from moving his hand higher and to my right, towards my inner thigh.

I think I was shaking. I was trapped in my seat, a few stops away from my usual stop. I had to do something, so I decided that I would act just like a normal passenger. "Excuse me," I said, "this is my stop." He didn't move, so I stood up as the bus stopped, figuring I'd just push past him. As I stood up, he grabbed my ass, his hand moving, trying to get between my legs. "I SAID THIS IS MY STOP!" I half-shouted, and shoved him into the aisle with my shoulder and ran off the bus. People looked up. He just laughed at me.

I know I was shaking once I got off the bus. I half-ran through the park, terrified. I could already imagine what people would say if I told them. My mom would call the police, my friends would say what they would have done--"I would've screamed," "I would've punched him"--and I couldn't stand the thought of those things.

I think I took a shower when I got home, thinking that I should want to get clean. I changed my clothes and forced down some food, got my Halloween costume together to change into for the party I was going to later. I waited for my ride to my second job, and she picked me up and we went to work. I acted like nothing had happened, though I knew that if anyone touched me at work that night I would lose it. I chugged a five-hour energy shot, so I would be "on" for work and the party. Nothing unusual happened.

Weirdly, coincidentally, the party that night was where Jack and I first got together. I told him what had happened, and then I promptly forgot all about it for about six months. I actually can barely remember it now, despite other events that same day being crystal clear. Jack and I hooked up, started dating, and started exploring our kinky proclivities and I didn't really give it a second thought.

About six months later, I was jumped walking home from the bus by a teenage girl I'd never seen before. She hit me until my nose started bleeding, while a group of girls watched, then she ran off. She didn't try to take anything--not my purse or my mp3 player or my cell phone. Some guys pulled up and offered me a ride, but I refused, terrified. I walked home, crying and covered in blood. My mother wouldn't let me wash my face until the police came. I remember everything about that with complete clarity, including what I was wearing and what song was playing when it happened.

After that, Jack and I had to dial some things back for a while. No hitting my face, of course, but it didn't occur to me until later why I would get so freaked out when he laughed while we were playing. It was because he, that other man, laughed at me when I shoved him and ran off the bus. Once I figured that out I started getting more and more uncomfortable on crowded buses. I had to sit in an aisle seat, in the first row where I'd be visible. Now I have a hard time even getting on a city bus.

I didn't really talk about it. I actually found myself one day posting a comment on a friend's blog that said "I've never been sexually assaulted..." and then I suddenly remembered that I had. I would like to forget this. My brain is apparently trying to forget this. But I don't really want to be quiet about it. I got groped on a bus by a horrible man and, while it wasn't the worst thing to ever happen to me, it was really awful. I don't think I can explain how or why just being touched can leave you feeling sick and violated and awful, but it can and it does.

It wasn't trivial or stupid or nothing. It wasn't just something to brush off or forget. It's something I'm going to talk about and call by name: sexual assault. He assaulted me. And saying that isn't causing drama or making a big deal out of nothing or blowing it out of proportion, it's simply saying what happened and telling the truth.

Blaming myself

In the past few years, I think as the actual events get more distant, I've gotten really weird about the emotionally abusive relationship I was in when I was a teenager.

When I tell people about it, I think because emotional abuse is difficult to explain, I kind of blame myself a little. And that's starting to creep me out. I say things like "Well, he cut me off from my friends and told me how to dress and got angry when I went to the movies with my parents, but it was partially my own fault for not standing up to him."

You know what? I tried to stand up to him, so fuck that. But it is really difficult to explain how completely I was manipulated by guilt and fear. He never hit me. He just said things, like "If you really loved me..." and "Well, I did this for you, so why can't you do the same for me?" It doesn't sound like anything too terrible, but he could send me into a panic. I always had to prove myself. I always had to apologize and beg (literally beg) for forgiveness for every slight. Awful things like...commenting that an actor in a movie was attractive.

That was abuse. And it wasn't my fault. It wasn't because I was weak or inadequate. It wasn't my fault.

Please refer me back to this post the next time I'm in a conversation where I dismiss this as "not a big deal" or "partially my own fault."

Becoming Lucy

A lot of people I know these days have what you call "scene names." If you go through my phone, it's really obvious who I know from kinky stuff, because I only know their nickname or don't know their last name. It reminds me of a scene in Live Nude Girls Unite (which is a fascinating movie, btw) where Julia Query talks about running into a bunch of her peep show coworkers with her mom and only knowing their stage names.

Personally, I never feel like coming up with fake names for anything. My real name, the name my parents and grandparents call me, is unique and unlikely enough that most people assume it's not my real name, anyway. But that's way too easily tied back to, well, real life.

So Lucy...

I was really into vampires when I was a kid. I think it started off as a power thing--I was a pretty miserable kid, at a snobby private school where most of the girls had more money and different interests. I was an outcast. For some reason, my version of the "turns out I'm really the long-lost child of millionaires who will reclaim me and take me away from all of this" or "I'm secretly a princess" fantasy was the idea that some epically handsome, ;powerful vampire dude would see how special I was and turn me into a vampire and take me away from all of this.

It gradually turned into a sex thing. The movie version of Interview With the Vampire was released on video right around the time I had my first inklings of sexual feelings. And then I read Dracula. And while I didn't realize it at the time, there are now passages in Stoker's novel that I can point to and say "That's it. That's what turns me on."

The embodiment of what I wanted to be then was Lucy Westenra. Now if you've seen film versions of Dracula but not read the book, you don't know Lucy. Lucy is not the saucy bad girl that she somehow got turned into in film adaptations--Lucy is all sweetness and light. Lucy is adored by those around her, she's sweet and rich and a little frivolous. And, most importantly for me as a teenager, Lucy is the one female character in the book that we actually see transition from human to vampire. And I wanted (desperately wanted) Dracula to choose me--and so I wanted to be Lucy.

It makes even more sense considering my life now that Lucy represents me. Lucy starts out, like I said, as a perfect and lovely good girl. So sweet and sunshiney is our Lucy that three men propose to her in one day! But Lucy, being a sweet, pure Victorian girl, has absolutely no knowledge of sex or sexual power. She only gains these things through her interaction with Dracula. Dracula drinks Lucy's blood (which, as everyone knows, is a stand-in for sex in an era where sex was incredibly taboo) and Lucy gains knowledge and control of sex. She starts demanding "kisses" from her suitors, and eventually becomes a sexually powerful vampire herself.

While I realize that to Victorian readers this is all supposed to be A Very Bad Thing, I think it's a pretty apt metaphor for my own self-discovery these days. I used to be prim and proper enough to give pre-vampirism Lucy a run for her money. I was so hung up on the idea of sex that I didn't have any for six years. But these days, thanks to the deliciously dark influence of...well...lots of people, I'm taking control of my sexual side.

Lucy Weston is what they changed Lucy Westenra's name to in the 1931 film version of Dracula, which is boring and painful to watch unless (like me) your first crush was on Bela Lugosi. It also holds onto the Dracula reference while still being generic enough that it's not immediately, irrevocably tied to the novel. And the Jane? That was just my own whim, 'cause I think it sounds nice.

Creepy Dudes (and the people who defend them)

So there's been a lot of semi-heated debate in a lot of the groups I'm in online lately about creeps. Particularly about creepy dudes, though of course ladies can be creepy, too. I've contributed, and listed off the attitudes and behaviors that I, personally, find creepy, as did lots of other people. I feel like no one actually said anything about looks, and yet there's this pervasive, infuriating idea that when a woman (and always, only, specifically a woman) says a guy is creepy, it's because she's decided he's "not hot enough" to be "worthy" of her.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is complete bullshit.

It is sexist, entitled, bullshit, which perpetuates the idea that men are allowed to treat women however the hell they want and women are supposed to be flattered by the attention. And I'm pissed off and sick of it.

The main interaction that I think of when I think of a creepy dude at a play party was a guy Jack and I once chatted with at one of our favorite monthly parties. He was an ordinary-looking guy, in semi-dressy clothes, around our age. It was his first party, and he told us how he wound up there and we told him how cool the group usually is...and then the conversation turned to our specific kinks. And I remember the way this guy looked at me as he said to Jack "What's the kinkiest thing you do to her? Does she let you do anal?" At that point, I made some sort of excuse and got the hell out of there.

What I felt at the time, and what I feel in other interacting-with-creepy-dudes situations, was that this guy wasn't really thinking of me as a person. It would have been far less weird if he'd actually engaged with both of us and talked about...well, whatever. If he'd said "Are you guys into anal? 'Cause that's hot!" it would've been much less creepy. But instead I felt, well, objectified. Like a thing rather than a person.

So basically, what I'm saying is that women are people. And people like to be talked with, and looked at, and generally interacted with as if they are people--with thoughts and feelings and things like that. Not like objects onto which someone else's fantasies are projected. And not just that, but it's totally okay and acceptable to NOT like it when someone treats you as less than human.

So no more of this "She's only saying he was creepy because she doesn't think he's hot" nonsense, okay guys? If Mr. Does-She-Let-You-Do-Anal had looked like Johnny Depp, it still would have been an intensely uncomfortable situation. And that's a general "guys," not a gender-specific "guys," since it seems like other women say this even more often than men do. Saying that is kind of creepy on its own.

Subspace with Tails

A few days ago, our friend Tails came over. She was one of the very first kinky people Jack and I met, months before we even started going out to play parties. She's very sweet and very fun, and we always have a really great time.

This most recent date was seriously beyond all our previous ones. It's taken me almost a week to process it enough to sit down and figure out how to write about it. I think also I'm having a hard time actually figuring how to write about the specifics of a sexual encounter - the who did what to whom part. It's scary, and I'm worried I won't do it justice.

Tails was the first girl I ever had sex with. And the first few times, I definitely felt like there was a learning curve...I knew where the right bits and pieces were, and I knew what I was supposed to do, but I'm pretty sure it was apparent how inexperienced I was despite my enthusiasm.

This time...I don't know how else to describe it, other than to use words like "beautiful" and "moving." I was going down on her, and I basically never wanted it to stop. I was completely focused on what I was doing, completely absorbed, and blissfully happy. I just wanted to keep giving her pleasure, to keep feeling her grind and wriggle against my tongue and contract around my fingers.

When I was younger, I read Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain by Betty Edwards. When you're drawing (and I've felt this while drawing) and your concentration is complete, and your brain shifts into the drawing-place, you don't notice anything else. You can't hear music, and distractions cease to exist, and everything else in your life just fades into the background. That's what this sex was like - complete concentration, my senses completely absorbed in the act. Amazing.

Eventually, she pulled me up into a sitting position and hugged me. I was shaking, almost crying. On some level, I didn't know what was going on at all. I was someplace else. I kept saying "thank you" over and over again, I felt so honored that she'd allowed me to have this amazing, earth-shattering experience. She and Jack hugged me, and stroked my hair and told me I was a good girl, and eventually I came back to myself.

I feel like a lot of the time people I know talk about subspace being reached through pain. And that's awesome (and I'm totally back to loving pain, btw) and exciting and wonderful, but it's much rarer for me to hit subspace just through sex, to lose myself in someone else's body, to be in that place of complete concentration and wanting nothing else in the world but to pleasure this person. I've always had this idea of losing myself in sex, and I'd always thought that was only possible for the moment when a particularly amazing orgasm takes hold. But what I'm learning is that I can lose myself in someone else, and that's even more exciting.

Lots of other really awesome things happened that day. Tails spanked me until I couldn't take anymore, Jack spanked her until he bruised his hand, she showed us some cool new rope bondage stuff she's been learning, there was some candle wax and some squirting. Tails is turning into quite a mean top. But probably the thing that will stick in my mind is how I felt when she pulled me into her arms and I was shaking and on the verge of tears and thanking her over and over again for allowing me to experience her like that. It was amazing.

I have a tentative date with a female friend to go shopping for a dildo for her strap-on harness. Jack just said to me "If you guys go shopping tomorrow, and you buy a dildo, will you take a picture of it so I can see it?"

He said this not because he's jealous, but because he's really, really excited.

A post about body image...

Like every other girl in the world, I have body image issues.

I'm not overweight. I have been in the past, but at present I'm supposedly a healthy weight for my height - about 5'2" and 135 pounds. My measurements, on a good day, are 35.5-27-38. That's pretty normal. I've had a couple jobs where I spent 40 hours a week (or more) going through people's measurements, and if I came across my own, I'd think I had an okay figure.

...but when I actually look at myself in the mirror, or go shopping for clothes, I make myself miserable. I hate my hips, I hate my ass, I hate my breasts. I feel fat, like I'll never be attractive. I hate my fat, jiggly arms. I hate that sometimes the only jeans that fit are a size 11, even though I know that women's sizes are completely arbitrary numbers and sometimes the jeans that fit are a size 6. And beauty standards change at random and are also arbitrary and have very little to do with what people actually find attractive, anyway.

The really crazy thing is that knowing all of that just doesn't help that much. And even crazier is that I'm not even especially attracted to the super-skinny girls that we're being sold as the current beauty standard. I think curvy girls are hot, I like hips and breasts and if I see one more picture of a size 0 model in a corset that's just sort of vaguely encircling her waist instead of cinching it in (because there's so little there to cinch), I'm gonna scream. And actually, more than anything else I'm attracted to people's personalities, so this whole conversation is really moot.

I think the thing that makes it hard for me is clothes. Pants suck, I hate buying pants. Every pair of pants in the world makes my hips and butt look huge, except for this one pair of cotton capris I own. When I iron those so they have a sharp crease and wear them with heels, I look (or maybe mostly feel) like a 1950s movie star. And I know how to shop for the things that flatter my body type, that are supposed to cover my flaws...but especially here in New York, I find myself insanely jealous of these rail-thin girls who can wear absolutely anything. Skinny jeans, bubble skirts, any garment made out of latex. I see them and I want to look like that. It's hard to tell yourself that you're perfect just the way you are when you pass an actual model on the street while fabric shopping.

Even if I work out every single day, even if I starve myself, even if I had a perfectly flat stomach and skinny arms, my hips and butt aren't going anywhere. Those hips are part of my bone structure, and I'm never going to be a size zero. My freshman year og high school, I weighed 115 pounds, I looked like a crack addict, and I still had wide hips and a big ass. I know this, and I know I should not let it get to me, but somehow it feels like a personal failing.

One of my goals this year is to get the fuck over this nonsense. I want to learn to love my body, as ridiculous as that sounds. I want to stop wishing for a "bikini body" and instead celebrate how awesome it is that 1950s dresses fit like they're made for me. And I'm going to wear my goddamn skinny jeans, regardless of whether or not girls with 38" hips are "supposed" to wear them. I spent so many years trying to lose weight, made myself crazy with impossible diets, and now I give up! I'm going to learn to love myself the way I am, and say "fuck you" to anyone who says the way I am isn't good enough.

Happy New Year!

So I know lots of people are down on 2009, saying it was the worst year ever and stuff, but I had a pretty good time. One year ago, I had never been to a BDSM play party, I'd never been spanked by anyone other than Jack, I'd never had sex with a girl, I'd never been flogged...the list goes on. Now I've done all of those things and more!

This past year definitely involved some occasional growing pains, but oh, boy did I grow! I made a ton of amazing new friends, I got much more comfortable in my body and with a lot of the quirks of my sexuality, and I've learned probably more about myself than I did during any other single year. Sometimes learning and growing kind of suck while in progress, but the results this time definitely have me feeling awesome.

I spent a lot of time in 2009 figuring out what the life I wanted to live should be like. In 2010, I want to start living that life.