we dance

I slept on the plane and dreamed of us spinning, dancing on a slick floor. Heels and wing tips and she wore a light thirties dress with fringe, I was in slacks. I led her by her wrists, shoulders, neck; she twirled and brushed against my arms and body like somewinged creature barely touching down, gliding, humming next to me.

I was a better lead in the dream than I really am; in the dream it was effortless. I wore a fedora, suspenders. It must’ve ben salsa we were dancing.

Her body is smaller than mine, petite. I understand what it tells me. I read her hips like braille, bones and muscles and oh she’s strong.

She does the swing-out and a small hand flourish, crisp head snap and she gives me those eyes as I pull her back in, so I pause, she runs her hand up the buttons of my shirt, tilts her head so our mouths are close. I tip my hat onto her head and she laughs.

I twirl her fast, once-twice-threetimes and then catch her neck, turn her body, dip her one-handed, my other arm out, and my hat falls from her head to the floor as we kiss.

*

Also on this plane flight was, in my same row, but on the other side of the isle, the boy I first messed around with in high school, also going back for the holidays. He was traveling with his girlfriend.

He was The Casanova in high school. All the girls swooned over him, and he and his long, greasy hair, black trenchcoat, and flirting meant that he gave long back rubs to all of them in the drama studio.

As far as I knew, though, the only one he was messing around with was me. Our relationship was not public – we would not flirt or barely even acknowledge each other at school. But after school, in the park, in the cemetery, we’d be kissing, touching for hours.

I wanted to be him sometimes, wanted that kind of seductive power and desire over those girls.

And now look. Here I was, so freshly fucked I could still taste her, still feel her cock inside me, and here he was, with a sweet girlfriend, no doubt, but still doing the same things he used to, the same silly flirts and methods, I saw him do it, he was barely a grown-up version of his high school self, really he was the same, just with a better haircut.

He told me later – we went out for drinks – that he didn’t lose his virginity until college. That he had a lot of trouble with girls, with relationships.

Not that I haven’t, certainly. But I’ve had big loves, I’ve had big romance, big heartbreak, beautiful women who have shared my bed, shared my life. I’m so grateful for the influence of the women in my life, of sexuality, of exploration, of eagerness to play and learn and just be.

I wanted to tell him about my adventures, wanted to tell him how much I appreciated messing around with him and how fun and safe that was for me, how grateful I was that he showed me his soft underbelly when the other girls thought he was this tough guy, how great it was to look up to him, to wish I was him and now, to realize the ways I’ve surpassed him, the ways I am on the way to becoming my own Casanova.

I didn’t say any of that. Funny, sometimes, what you know will be too much to reveal. Thank the blog gods for, finally, a space to (over)share.

the hotel room (part three)

Our story continues with our hero and heroine already in the midst of fucking in a hotel room near the Seattle airport. Read part one and part two.

For logistical sake, Miss DD reminded me that she didn’t actually take the spreader bar off until after she’d fucked me on all fours on the bed for a while.

She also had her hand in my ass, I’m pretty sure, while I was on my knees in front of her, while she was fucking me. Fingers, I mean; not her whole hand.

I forget how much I like double pentration. That feeling of being filled.

By then, I was practically insatiable. She had me by the hips, had my ass in her hands, in range of her slaps, my shoulders and arms stinging and sensitive to where she’d bitten me raw. Everything was sensation. I lost my sense of myself and only reacted to her touches, thrusts.

We detangled, she paused and removed the bar, and I dared walk to the bathroom, laughing at the look of myself with wrist and ankle cuffs, amused and deeply appreciative. It takes a lot for someone to get me into these. I can’t believe how uncomplex she makes it all seem; the minute I heard her laugh when she opened that hotel door, I was comfortable, comforted.

I came back to the hotel bed, pillows pulled onto the floor, white bedspread messy.

“Let’s have you bent over the edge of that bed, there,” she nodded to the side, near the wall, snapping another condom on her hard, huge cock, re-gloving her hand (one of them) over her makeup case that doubled as her domme kit.

(I too have one of those; of course, it is a black and orange toolbox. Oh we make quite the pair.)

I bent. Fiddled with my harness, she had losened it and the strap between my legs was completely unhooked now, cock lose and hanging a little awkwardly.

I stretched my arms in front of me, face down in the bedspread, and she lubed up her cock, slowly entered me, again, from behind, drew a finger into my ass – oh – and then a smallish plug.

“Don’t push this out,” she ordered, cock still sliding in me. I was dizzy, felt out of control of my body. If I’d been able to think about it any further I would’ve felt opened, vulnerable, exposed, but I could barely think, could only feel that distinct filling up embrace.

I am out of practice; the plug slipped out easily. I became aware enough of my muscles to clench, which made my cunt burn and throb.

“Better. Now keep it there,” she threatened, taking hold of my hips and fucking me harder.

She braced one boot behind her, on the wall, for better leverage.

I stretched my hands over my head, mouth gnawing at the bedspread. She had me at just the right angle and I was close to coming from her cock alone, a way in which I never come.

She felt it. “Put your hand on your clit.”

I did, but couldn’t get the right spot, the right release. I had no precision with my hand, felt like some big paw and all I could do was thrust against it.

I came nearly twice this way – I built up high to a thick peak, but without the precision of orgasm. Still, some sort of muscle clench and release.

She turned me onto my back and told me she wanted to see me come, wanted to feel me come around her cock, told me to do it, told me to remember my sweet revenge of topping her. It was all a blur, a fog, completely slowed down and every moment, every sensation happening at the same time.

I yelled out, screamed strings of obscenities, as I am prone to doing. She stood, my legs off the bed, then layed her body over mine as I came closer and closer, built up into a thick peak of sensation that gripped me in waves, moved through me. We both collapsed, wrapped up in each other for a sweet second, giggling and breathing heavy, moaning, still getting hold of my own body.

And, suddenly – “Roomservice!” – at the door.

I shit you not, the timing was that perfect.

I felt like hiding. Stripped, spent, and exposed, she scrambled for her slip – which she had removed to reveal amazing lingerie! black lace bra, garter! how could I not have mentioned that yet? – and answered the door.

She kept herself together beautifully and set down the roomservice she’d ordered, then scrambled back into bed, laughing.

“I can’t believe that just happened!”

“Me either.”

She put her arms around me, still on my back, and we laughed and grinned and I turned her over so I was on top and touched her skin, the curves of her hips, realized I had barely touched her body this whole time, barely felt her skin, and desire welled up thick in me to watch the way she would open, give in, give over.

“Put your cock back on,” she said. I did. “On the bed, on your back.” And she straddled over me, lowered her small tight body onto my cock and bent her head back, touched her clit.

God, oh god.

I was close to coming again, the way she rocked her hips back and forth, the curve of her neck exposed and vulnerable, one hand behind her as she knelt and rocked and slid against my cock. Oh it was gorgeous to watch. I thrust my hips in rhythm with hers. Brought mine up to meet her, pulled back, pressed.

She warned me she was close. Asked if it was okay – of course – and came, hard, let loose and ejaculated, my belly suddenly warm and wet with such a gush of liquid, and she shuddered, convulsed, collapsed.

My grey silk tie was soaked, practically ruined.

We kissed, held each other. I felt close to her, so close, under her skin, in all the creases of her.

But we were out of time. I had a flight to Alaska to catch. She rushed me into the shower, thankfully, and had a portabella burger waiting for me when I got out, the roomservice she’d ordered, complete with the most delicious wedge-fries I’ve ever had. That burger was about the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted, let me tell you – there is nothing like food after your body is desperately fucked. I don’t even like mushrooms, but this was so luscious, perfect, flavorful. We split it in half and shared it, kissed, chatted on the bed as we gathered up our things, got dressed. She had a slice of chocolate cake, too, and we ate some of it with the rest of the strawberries, then, reluctantly, left the sanctity of our hotel room, and checked out.

She drove me back to the airport, dropped me off at departures.

“So, you want me to pick up your dry cleaning? The kids and I will miss you!” she joked. We kissed, and I teared up.

There’s something here. Something magic, something already under my skin. I didn’t beg to see her on the return trip, but I prayed she would want to.

I got back on a plane, headed off to see my family for the holidays, thinking of her, writing about her, the whole way.

the hotel room (part two)

Her cock slid in and out of my mouth.

It was not small. Mid-range, maybe; definitely bigger than the average dildo. Thicker and longer than many of my cocks, though not bigger than my largest. Long, too; a good eight inches at least. A light tan color very similar to her skin tone, and mine.

My hands clipped together in cuffs behind my back, I couldn’t grip it, couldn’t feel it in my fist and wanted to, but I also knew I’d be reaching for her, grabbing at her hips and sweet girl curves if let me free. I ached for her.

I sucked the head, tongued the shaft. I was out of practice, but not altogether bad.

“Look up at me,” she said, and took a photograph.

She kept her hands in my hair, on my shoulders, fingering my jawline. She felt the stubble I’d let grow, that I usually shave. I swallowed her cock, closed my eyes, hands straining against the leather cuffs. Took as much as I could down my throat. Watched her garter and thighs peeking from under the lace hem of her slip.

Sucked and swallowed and closed my lips over her cock as she held it, pressed into me.

“I think it’s time for you to be out of those clothes,” she said eventually, and pulled her cock from my mouth, let me up, and unhooked my wrists, but left the cuffs on. I pulled off my white button down, white tee shirt, boots, socks, jeans, briefs. “Leave the tie on,” she said. “And the cock.” I left my sports bra on too, and sat on the bed, kissing her again.

“You didn’t say I couldn’t play with these,” she said, sliding her hand against my breasts.

I was already breathless from her kisses. Sensitive, wound up tight. “That’s true, I didn’t.” She pinched my nipples, hard. I cried out, tried not to.

She kissed my cheeks, my neck. “I like this,” she said, kissing my chin where the stubble grew. “Oh, I like this a lot.” Fingers, tongue, lips – everywhere.

She attached ankle cuffs as I sat on the edge of the bed, slightly loose. Leather, soft and fur-lined. “Let’s have you on the bed,” she said. “On your back.”

I shivered, my skin tingling, and slid onto the bed.

“Put your hands on your cock,” she said. I did. “Grip it. Keep hold of it. I don’t want you to let go of your cock, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good boy.”

She hooked my ankles to the spreader she’d brought using clips, which gave me a little extra room to manouver. Really, if I tried, I could close my thighs, but my knees were still separated a bit. I liked the range it had. I couldn’t see it well, but I could feel it, and when she stepped away from the bed I pulled against it to see what I could and couldn’t do.

She slid on top of me, kissed me. Bit my shoulderblades, my sholders, my upper arms, then harder, harder, until I was writhing and she was biting hard, leaving marks, leaving deep bruises. The sharp pain jolted me into my body, jolted me right to the edges of my skin and I felt everything, felt every nerve in my body, felt my feet pulling against the leather. I make the kinds of noises that people make in sync with my breath, noise coming out whenever I breathe in or out. Gasping. I tried not to be too loud when I cried out.

It hurt. Oh, I liked it.

“You never told me you like pain this much,” she whispered in my ear, pinching my nipples. “You are the perfect combination of boy and girl,” she whispered as she palmed my breasts, bit my shoulder.

I felt exposed. “Really?”

She nodded, looked into my eyes. “Really.” And brought her cock to my mouth again. Straddled my chest and dipped it against my tongue. That position makes me nervous. I opened my mouth for it. Sucked. Lips swollen, red, tongue hot.

I tried to keep my hands on my cock. I wanted to reach for her, tear through her skin and silk lingerie. “I want to rip these stockings off you,” I said, cheek against her thigh when she withdrew from my mouth.

“Do you? Aww. Why don’t you kiss them,” she said, leaning to one side and offering me her thigh. “Only the part that’s covered. Not the skin,” she ordered. I kissed, brought my lips to the silky thin fabric, kissed and drew my tongue along the tight ring around her thigh where the stocking was held up by her garter. I could feel the tiny little ridges with my tongue and lips, the crosshaired pattern slightly rough against my mouth. I wanted my teeth tearing through it.

She moaned, and said, “enough.” She kissed me, worked her way down my body and paused for just a second too long at my cock with her mouth open just above it. My body shuddered and I ached, just ached to feel her lips close around it.

“Not this time,” she said, and slid off the bed, pushing the spreader bar up.

“Hold that there,” she said, and put it into my hands. I let go of my cock, bobbing from my pubic bone, and gripped the bar. My right leg was pulled up, knee bent, left leg higher, thigh pushed against my stomach by the bar, foot in the air, uneven.

“Stay here. Don’t move.” She moved around the room. I couldn’t see her, but she slid a condom on, grabbed my camera, and took another photograph. “You look gorgeous. So fucken hot,” she said, and touched my clit with something cold, so cold, I thought it was fingers full of lube but it just kept getting colder, and I didn’t connect it until she slid the glass dildo inside me, began working it in and out. My labia piercing conducted the temperature and hurt, ached, as though it was being pinched extremely hard.

I gasped, moaned, writhed on the bed, tried to keep my dick in my hand. Turned my head and yelled into the pillow. She shushed me, and repositioned to fuck me, loosened my g-string style harness so she could reach my cunt and slid inside slow.

“Don’t let go of that bar,” she threatened. I gripped it tight, felt my cock throbbing and pushing against my hand. “You feel that against your belly?” she said, low, next to my ear. “You feel your cock, all hard, between us?”

“Yes,” I breathed. I loved how she kept my cock in play, despite that I was not fucking her with it. Boyish. And god, she’s such a skilled top.

She fucked me like this for a while, legs spread and lifted, hips and ass curved up from the bed, my hands gripping the bar as she lowered herself onto me, cock thrusting. I saw red. Eyes rolling back. Gasping into her shoulder, sucking.

We kissed, kept our faces close. Smiled and giggled and gasped and rocked our bodies together. Eventually, she pulled away, slid back down my body, unhooked the spreader bar, and turned me over.

She smacked my ass, my shoulderblades, even the bottoms of my feet. Bit my shoulders again. I wished I could see her, watch her hips move. I was completely lost in the sensation. “I forgot I get your ass, too,” she mumbled at some point. Sure you did.

“Get up on your knees.”

She gave me her fingers first, then lubed up her cock and began fucking me from behind, entering slowly. My head was practically on the bed, holding myself up with my shoulders because my hands were between my legs, I couldn’t let go of my cock, which was fucken hard and thick and I felt it was going to pop in my hands. I kept it against my clit, kept my fingers circling the head, I love how that feels, the ridge of it against my thumb. Boyish. Masculine.

“You keeping hold of that cock of yours?”

“Yes,” I gasped into the pillow, pushing my hips back into her to get her to slide in deeper. She had her hands on my hips, pulled me back to her. I began whimpering, gasping louder into the pillows.

Fuck.

I don’t know how long we were like this. A long time. My sense of time in that hotel room was limited, having been told that I was not supposed to look at a clock and that she would be the timekeeper. She had full control of this situation, this scene, this interaction between us, and I gave in to her.

the hotel room

It’s really hard to write this up amidst family dynamics and wrapping gifts and visiting old haunts in my hometown – so this is just a very small snippet of the beginning of what happened between DateDyke and I yesterday. More to come.

She answered the hotel room door wearing a black vintage lingerie slip, black stockings, black knee high heeled boots. Grinning.

Oh, my god. Stunning.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” I said, laughing.

*

“Get yourself some champagne, and refill my glass. I’d like an orange slice too.”

I picked her champagne flute up from the dresser. It hummed a little in my hand, that sound of glass vibrating. Refilled hers. Poured mine. There was a glass dildo in the ice bucket, buried. Brought her an orange from the bowl of strawberries and orange slices, she took it from my fingers with her mouth.

It was my first act of servitude.

I leaned on the edge of the desk, and she said, “Umm, no, I’d like you right here,” and pointed. I sat on the edge of the bed, near her chair.

“So there were some things you were supposed to do,” she said a bit later, taking the empty champagne flute from my hand and pressing her thigh against mine, coming close, hand on the back of my neck where I’d just cut my hair short. “What were they?” she murmured. “Can you recite them for me?”

“I texted you when I landed.”

“Very good,” she murmured. I got a kiss as a reward. She kept her mouth so close I could feel her breath.

“I told you what time I need to be back at the airport.”

“Very good.” Another soft, soft kiss.

“I brought my camera.”

“Did you? Good. In a minute I want you to get it out and ready for me. What else?”

“I wore briefs, a tie and … my cock.”

“Very, very good.”

“Um … ”

“What else?”

Her lips brushed my jaw, my neck, my mouth. I couldn’t concentrate. I held my hands gently on the curves of her hips and wanted to twist her down behind me, throw her on the bed. I restrained. Every moment I restrained my impulses. I held my body on tight reigns, which created a swirl of energy, of reeling. Restrained, restrained, restrained.

What was the last thing I was supposed to do?

“I haven’t … gotten off … since Wednesday.”

“Really?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Very good. Oh, I’m very, very happy about that. Your balls must be so heavy … ” she kissed me again. Deeper. Her hand on my cock. “Now get that camera out.” I crossed the room and did. She played with the settings, took a few test shots, then set it down, took hold of my tie. “I’d like you here now,” she pulled, “kneeling on the floor in front of me.”

I sank to my knees, still fully clothed. Black boots freshly polished, jeans, black leather belt, white tee shirt, white button down, dark gray silk tie.

I kept my knees splayed without really realizing – my impulse, wearing a cock, and also more comfortable for my boots that way.

She noticed. “Oh, I like the way you did that.” Kissing me. Her hands down my belly onto my cock, rubbing. I inhaled sharply. Her mouth was luscious, soft, subtle. I struggled for composure. I wanted my hands on her body, wanted to feel her thighs, peel away her stockings.

“What,” she asked, reading something – hesitation? resistance? – in me.

“I am … not pouncing on you.”

“Oh that is very much not allowed.”

“I know.” I swallowed. “I just, want you to notice precisely how much I am not pouncing on you.”

She smiled. “Good boy,” she said. “I know that must be hard for you,” and she took hold of my forearm. “Unbutton those cuffs,” she said. Boyish, I felt so boyish. Not even butch, but like a teenage boy, eager, willing to learn, desperate to please. I began unbuttoning, kneeling in front of her, watching her face as she watched me, fingers suddenly fumbling. I looked at her. Noticed her hands, small, cute. I bet she could fist me. Her skin was so soft, so soft, and I could see her thighs where her stockings ended, could see on garter. I’d felt a harness under that slip, too, when she’d allowed me briefly, at the door, to feel her ass.

I finished the second wrist and raised my hands into her lap, offered them to her, open palmed.

“Beautiful,” she said. “You know what it’s like to have someone offer their wrists to you.”

I nodded. “Yes.” Barely a whisper.

“I like your new tattoo,” she said, touching it. She cuffed me, both wrists, leather cuffs with silver buckles, and tested the tension. I watched. “Something that we talked about, when we were planning this, is that I wanted you to suck my femme cock, do you remember that?”

“Yes.”

“I have really been looking forward to that.” She pulled my hands behind my back and linked them together. “I don’t trust your hands on your own. You’re gonna have to keep them there for a while. Now, stay there. Don’t move, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Very good.”

On my knees, facing the chair. Arms cuffed together behind my back. I could hear her rustling around the room. I struggled against the cuffs, just to see how far I could pull, how it would feel. I love the pressure on my wrists.

I kept my head low, shoulders pulled back by my wrists pulled together. She re-appeared, cock under her black silk slip, at the edge, next to the lace, hard and bobbing, nudging at the hemline.

My mouth salivated. I looked up at her, tried not to wonder about my gag reflex, and kissed it.

oops! an open apology

Madeleine, I so apologize – we definitely met through Sugarbutch, definitely slept together.

Wow, I have no idea how you could’ve possibly slipped my mind when I wrote that. As I’ve said, you were the first Sugarbutch Star, after you kept whispering let go, just let go into my ear that night after the Sex Blogger’s Tea Party last year.

I don’t know why I hadn’t made that connection – I guess it’s because it feels like we’re friends!

Do forgive me, sweetheart.

poll results: my ass is hers

The results of the poll, asking you, my favorite, loyal readers, how the sexy DateDyke and I are hooking up, are in.

But you already know what I’m going to report, because you were the ones who voted. (Traitors.)

You voted:

DateDyke tops me: 86
I top DateDyke: 50
We wrestle: 23

And we have two write-in votes, which were:

  • Wrestle for dominance, and loser gets to rule the day on your return flight
    and
  • I just want you to win!

Someone also commented, “I vote for your vote,” and I wondered, does that mean they’re voting for me to top, or for me to get topped? ‘Cause clearly, I’m not even sure what my own vote is. I had hoped not to lose by a margin that fucking huge, but, well, readers, I get it. I hear you loud and clear.

My two consultants told me a few days ago that I should’ve threatened not to write about it unless I won. Now that, I bet that would’ve worked.

Ironically, after the Sugarbutch Star contest this year, one of the things I took away from that was just how many submissive femmes were out there who were inviting me to top them, often in ways that were (note the past tense) beyond my topping capabilities, I felt – lots of force, domination, coercion. I was surprised, and extremely validated, that there were so many of my type, at least upon initial inspection, out there, and so excited that they felt I was capable of taking them down.

But this time … seems the tables have turned a little, eh?

I know, slightly different scenario.

I am managing myself well, I think, inside the flirting, the submission, the bottoming, in my chats with DD; I’m a bit nervous about tomorrow, but trying to re-frame that into excitement. Tonight, she told me, “I’m not nervous, not now. I’ve worked that out. I have a solid idea of what I want and what I need from you.”

Mmmm, when you put it that way, I have a solid idea of what I want and what I need from her, too. I think. But that still doesn’t quite make me feel ready … this territory is just new, I suppose.

And … then there’s the reality of what’s going to happen tomorrow, of that first kiss when I walk into that hotel room, of the spreader bar she’s threatened, of my ass – my ass, lord, it has been a really long time since my ass has been fucked by anyone other than me, years – in the air, of who knows what else, being exposed, being taken. I’m thinking, do I have pimples on my ass? When was the last time I did some hair grooming, down there? Will I, as they say, break? Cry? Or will I be able to take it, to submit actively, intentionally, to push back against her topping, to hold my own, in my own way, in a butch and boyish way?

I’ve also been thinking about the responsibility of bottoms lately, not only because I am faced with this (gulp) new scenario – it seems there are many ways to bottom, and if you’ve read the Topping and Bottoming Books (which I highly recommend), then you know something about that.

One of the common misconceptions is that bottoms don’t do anything – that “pillow queen” notion. The Topping Book calls these folks “bottom-less pits,” those who want and need and take and don’t offer anything up, don’t match their top’s energy and hold their own.

I know this feeling as a top, but I am not as experienced of a bottom, these days – I want to avoid this, if at all I can.

It’s the difference between this active submission, intentional surrender, and some other form of just taking from a top … and I can feel it, energetically, but I’m not sure how else to pinpoint. This is reminding me of this post of Dacia’s over at Live Girl Review and that look in Legs’s eyes … clearly, though she is submitting, she is very powerful, present, active, working just as hard as her top. Gorgeous.

I’ve had a lot of comments, emails, and conversations, on & offline, from folks who follow Sugarbutch, about the notion of bottoming and butchness, especially for those of us whose butch identities are intertwined with a top identity.

I am not stone, have never been stone, and usually like and expect to get off during sex in some way. But that’s not to say that my sexual satisfaction is defined by my own orgasms – in fact, that’s not usually what makes me feel satiated after an interaction. Usually, it is the pleasure of the femme I’m with.

And, I’ve often said that just because I bottom, it does not have to conflict with my butchness. Those two things are not mutually exclusive, I’ve never felt that they are. I’ve been loud & proud about this, in fact, insisting that those two things can in fact go together and compliment each other quite well. I know butch bottoms, male subs, trans guy switches, all sorts of a range of masculine- and bottom-identified folks, and yeah, sure, have at it! You get on with your bad selves.

But … I guess the thing is that I’ve never quite occupied that space myself. And even in the past few years, when receiving or bottoming I guess I was doing so to women who did not go there, to celebrate the things that my boyishness brought to our scenario.

Certainly not in this way.

Interesting, how I thought I’d gone here, thought I’d played with this, and yet, these past few weeks has opened up whole new places to explore, new passageways, new ideas. I like that. I’m grateful for it, thankful to DD that she’s giving me the opportunity to explore these things, gender, submission, my own intersections.

Some folks have asked me about reading DateDyke’s dating chronicles, which are so steamy that she keeps them locked – she told me that she’d most likely grant permission, you’ll just have to ask nicely.

Also, to clarify – though both Red and DateDyke read Sugarbutch, I met them both offline, through friends. I have yet to sleep with someone who met me through Sugarbutch.

Want to be the first?

Things that happened Thursday:

  1. I got a replacement copy of The Leather Daddy and the Femme and read the first few chapters on the subway. The writing is smooth, eager, tumbling. So hot. I have more to say about this
  2. I stopped at Babeland and picked up primarily supplies – gloves, condoms, lube. Both by bucket of boy butter and my bottle of lube broke recently, the containers actually shattered. I also bought a softie sock and a leather cockring that fits around my wrist, which I like wearing as a bracelet. I played with the cocks (ohh, Vixskin) and whips and leather floggers and harnesses, looked curiously at the new bendy beads and that cone thing that is getting notice.
  3. I attended the reading for Best Lesbian Erotica 2008 and listened to sexy erotica read aloud. Words formed in mouths in a roomful of people.

What on earth was I thinking?

This was all entirely too much sex. Overstimulated, oversexed, I could think about nothing but getting off, which she had asked me – ordered me – not to do.

I went home and paced. Bit my lips. Walked briskly from room to room but with no recollection of my intention. Preoccupied with a glimpse in my mind of her, boots, heels, standing tall, looking up at her, she’s looking down at me, the way her voice breaks with a timber of callousness.

My body hummed, vibrated.

Everything was sex. The higher functions of my brain have been overridden by the animalistic urges, the desire to be fucked, give over, get off.

I tried to watch tv. Tried to do some freelance design work, to write some overdue articles. I continued to find myself staring into space, glassy-eyed.

I dropped to the floor. Began with push-ups, then sit-ups. Ten and ten. Ten more, then ten more. Crunches, then all the way up, until I was groaning and the muscles in my stomach were screaming and taught, breathing heavy, body tense begging for release.

Begging.

I beat my face to the floor until my arms couldn’t hold me up anymore, until I was panting.

When I collapsed, and my dick twitched against the hardwood. My hips wanted to buck against anything, everything. Thrusting and I put my hand there, just for some friction, some traction, and pressed my forehead to the floor, grinding against my palm through my jeans.

Too much, too much.

I could feel my clit through my jeans. Hard and slick already, eager against my hands and I let my hips wander, find rhythm, thighs clasping hard.

I couldn’t stop myself. I feared I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.

I stopped, throbbing, thrusting, frustrated. Beat the floor with my fist.

Twenty-four hours until the layover. I can make it.

a close call

Four weeks ago:

Second not-a-date with Red (remember the morning after?). We had drinks, saw a film, and then “got a piece of pie and talked about” the movie, told life stories.

I’m not on with her, and I like that. No game, no pomp-and-circumstance. I genuinely enjoy her company and she is knows how to push my buttons.

Good goddamn.

*

“Yo, it’s two women! It’s not two dudes, it’s awright, it’s awright. I could watch this aaaaaall night.”

We both have short hair. I guess that’s as much as it takes to be seen as a boy sometimes – like on the subway platform at Union Square at three am.

He was with a rather large group of young men, and I suddenly lost my hard-on and curled my fists instead. Danger. They’d circled us, predators and prey. But we were not men, so suddenly we were less of a threat. I wished desperately that I was not so fearful of physical confrontation, wished I knew how to throw a punch that would knock him off-center and not break my hand, wished that I knew he could punch me back and I’d be okay, wished that I could puff up my chest and say scary things that would make him squirm and never bother dykes in the subway again.

I wanted to protect her, above all. Kept my body between them and her. Maybe I shouldn’t send her home on the subway. Maybe I shouldn’t go home alone. Who was in more danger here?

I had walked her to the subway, waited with her while it came. She kissed me first, then she was up against the pillar and I gripped it hard behind her, pressing her between me and it.

“You can say no,” she said, “but, are you sure you don’t want to take me home?”

I can still feel her mouth on my earlobe, hot breath against the skin of my neck that was so cold, exposed.

“Since this isn’t a date,” she said, “I’m not going to do these things, but if it was …. I would want to be on my knees in front of you, and take your cock in my mouth.”

Unexpected. Caught off-guard.

“I want to look up at you with my mouth full, and I want to suck your cock till you come so hard in my mouth, so hard you can barely stand.”

So. Fucking. Hard.

“I want you to bend me over and fuck me.” Her breath on my ear. My hands tearing at the curves of her body. I wanted to rip something.

“I want you to take me on my back, to get your biggest, thickest cock and get on top of me, slide it in, because I want to be so full of you.”

It’s amazing the joints in my legs continued to function. I couldn’t speak.

“I want you to fuck me, and fuck me, until we both come and soak the sheets.”

“Yo, can I get a picher? Can I get a photo?” he had his phone out, aimed at us. “I’m from out of town. I gotta get a picher.”

“No.” We both said. He pleaded. “No.”

*

It really was an amazing evening. I was open and honest, more than I’d expected to be. Scorpios can bring that out of me. I told stories of my life. This is the interesting part, the getting-to-know-you early part, because we get to tell our best stories, tell our best jokes, be our best selves.

“So, are you not taking me home because you don’t know what to think in the morning? I’ll get another “let’s be friends” email?”

I take responsibility for my choices. I won’t regret them tomorrow. “No,” I said. “I’m not taking you home because … well, performance anxiety, for one.”

She laughed. “Are you kidding? You write a sexblog!”

Yes. Precisely. She intimidates me, and she reads Sugarbutch. Lucky for me, my cocks don’t fail me, but I can still be bad and awkward, and better in writing.

“So if you’re not taking me home … will I get a chance to do those things to you?”

“I think … that can be arranged.”

*

By the time we both got home (safely) she had a few additional details she wanted added to this forthcoming encounter.

When I’m on my knees sucking your cock, in just my red bra, panties, and shoes, I want your hands in my hair. When you need me to look at you, I want you to pull my head back, force me to see you watching me suck your cock.

When you’re on top of me, the first time your cock enters me, I want that first stroke to be so slow it’s excruciating, so slow I can feel you muscles filled with that restraint, that tension begging to be released. And just for that first stroke I can’t move, you have complete control for as long as you can make that first penetration last.

She likes being pushed up against walls. Restrained. Forced. I want her wrists bound with rope. I want to smack her beautiful round ass until I leave marks.

Today, I am tightly wound.

Tonight, we have a date.

going down

The poll will officially close at midnight PST tomorrow, friday.

I know I haven’t done a very good job selling my topping Mistress DateDyke, but that doesn’t mean I’m going down without a fight.

If she wins by a margin of more than 30 votes, she gets my ass, too. That’s the deal. But she’s gonna have to earn it. I’m sure, by now, she knows that.

Do I pack daily?

Multiple people have asked me how often I pack, lately.

The short answer is: no, I don’t pack daily.

The longer answer is … I seem to be packing more and more often. Since I got my hands on that fabulous packing cock, it’s been easier to pack discreetly and comfortably, so I’ve done it increasingly.

I used to pack only when I had a hot date and having sex was a possibility; that began changing six or so months ago, when I began packing occasionally when going out, just for the boost of cock confidence.

I can see why it may seem that I pack often though. The narrators in my stories nearly always pack, and I do speak of my butch cock frequently. But I don’t pack in my daily life, and I would say I’ve never packed and gone to work (rather, I’d bring my cock and put it on at the end of the day) but that’s not a true statement anymore, because today, I am packing, and at work.

I did not choose the Silky cock I can actually use, rather I am wearing a flaccid cyberskin “mr. softie” cock that does not get hard and is made only for the purposes of tucking into undies, to feel the weight of something between the legs, to perhaps pass a hand squeeze upon inspection, or maybe to surprise someone I may brush up against.

Generally, I do not feel that I’m “missing something” when I don’t pack. I don’t really think about it, in fact. I think of a cock as part of my sexuality, primarily, and part of my gender secondarily, I suppose – I love the ways it plays with gender while I’m in the midst of sex, but I don’t know if I want to add it to my daily navigation-of-the-world type of gender.

This is one of the reasons why it is hard for me to wear suits to work functions, such as my holiday office party which happened last week. Last year, I wore a suit (it is formal, ties required) and I felt so very exposed. It’s not as if I am not visible or out at work, both are true; and I wear the men’s “corporate casual” office uniform, primarily consisting of polos, button-downs, and slacks; but somehow, a suit crossed over into a sexual presentation of my gender identity.

It was better this year – more comfortable, more of a gender thing and less sexual. I am simply more comfortable at workhaving been here nearly two years rather than it being my first major party, as was the case last year. I fit in better, I know more people, I can hold my own in conversations. I’m not the new guy anymore, which is nice, and I even have some authority of my own.

Back to the softie cock I have carefully tucked away into my briefs today like a present.

I was chatting with DateDyke this morning for a bit, primarily attempting to knock down her gloating at being currently five votes away from owning my ass, and she mentioned that she was particularly fond of those little softie cocks.

“It’s a teaser,” she wrote. “I like feeling it in passing. It’s a nice little shock.”

I do like that idea. A revealing of the way I own and use cocks. A subtle hint at the ways that I fuck.

So, no, I don’t pack daily. Cocks are an addition, as they’ve always been, though they are becoming more and more central to my presentation, sexuality, and gender.

butch/femme holiday guide

My Butch/Femme Holiday Gift List is getting out of control. I have four pages of notes in my journal, multiple notepad files with links and images. And I just can’t seem to polish it up enough to finish, and fuck, time is running out.

So, I’m going to pick five.

Gifts for the butch-leaning gal in your life:

Engraved hidden message collar stays
From Red EnvelopeI’m always losing collar stays in the wash, and these are super sweet, with messages like “You’re so handsome.” Awww.

Men’s accessories box
From Red EnvelopeBecause we still have watches, leather cuffs, chains, collar stays, rings, pocketwatches, cuff links … so of course, we must have somewhere fabulous to hold it all!

Red Envelope has many other excellent gifts, check em out.

Ties that Don’t Suck – by Cyberoptix TieLab on EtsyThese ties are so badass. Some of them are kinda spendy, but they’re beautiful, and so high quality.

For someone slightly more punk rock, consider Tomcat Threads for some awesome one-of-a-kind vintage silkscreened ties. I have one of these with a microphone on it, and it’s my favorite tie of all.

Look for somewhat slim, skinny, narrow ties, especially for female-bodied folks who are slender. Cyberoptix has many options in the narrow-tie style.

Whiskey Glasses
Via AmazonHandblown glass remake of a classic whiskey tumbler. Perfect for other refined liquors, even if she’s not a bourbon/whiskey/scotch kinda guy. Also consider a flask – even better if it’s engraved with some memorable phrase or image she will love. I wouldn’t recommend something like “to my sweetie, love, me” – it’ll be much more timeless with a personal touch, but not a personalization.

Tiffany Classic Money Clip
From Tiffany & CoEven if she’s more of a wallet kind of guy, a money clip is a good thing to have in the accessory box … and Tiffany’s engraves. Gorgeous, classic.

Also consider Cufflinks from Tiffany, there are some fantastic classic, plain, smooth sets that would be such a great gift.

Gifts for the femme-leaning gal in your life:

Perfume BottleI wouldn’t really presume to buy her her favorite perfume, or a new perfume, unless she asks for it (or hints at it!) specifically, but antique perfume bottles are so beautiful on a dresser or vanity, and hold the scents that she picks out.

LingerieOh, I know. It’s a tough one. You gotta know her size, and have an idea of what she likes – and what you like. Browse around through Princess Tamtam and Agent Provocateur for inspiring ideas.

(Yes, that’s Maggie Gyllanhall over there, modeling Agent Provocateur lingerie. Many other photos of her at the site.)

Shoes. Oh my god, shoes.Shoes are another tough one. I can recommend some good sites, but probably not specific shoes: the Red Door Store has a fantastic selection, as does Endless (and, as a sidenote, I really geek out on the navigation and interface for Endless. Gorgeous).

The Red Door Store has lingerie, costumes, and bondage gear, too …

shoe

Vintage Brush & Hand Mirror setThese are kinda hard to find; I bought a set on eBay as a gift for the Unholy ex last year (you may remember that, if you’ve been around. I can’t find the post on it) and I thought it was a brilliant suggestion. The beauty of these items alone, even if they are not used or functional, is such a lovely addition to a vanity or dresser top.
JewelryMan, I feel like I’m going with very cliche femme gifts. Perfume, jewelry, shoes, lingerie? Really, Sinclair? Somebody help me out here, leave more suggestions in the comments, please. Good thing I don’t have anybody special to buy for this year.

Meanwhile: I adore this necklace from Janet Jewelry. You can customize some text to go onto it, or choose some excellent phrases that Janet has already made, like “The best revenge is living well” or “whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” Super sexy.

More Jewelry … rings, this timeRings are loaded, I know, but if you can go for it, these rings from Amy Peters Studio are amazing and lovely. I want a set for myself, someday.It’s a ring set, three rings with different words on each one: Believe Dream Hope Wish / In About For For / Peace Magic Love Happiness. So they make a little sentence as they rotate on your finger.

I also really love her Message in a bottle pendants and double sided necklaces

I got some great comments from femmes about what they wanted for the holidays, so I’ll direct you over there for some more ideas. The iBuzz vibrator for two was suggested, and one last particular mention comes from a reader via email:

I am a submissive, by choice and nature. And though my butch is quite accomodating, there are some things I can’t even imagine her doing unless asked. Brushing my hair, painting my toenails, wearing a sleeveless tee, baggy jeans with a hint of boxers revealed, and Tims, donning toolbelt, hammering and drilling at my command, sweating and…wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. You get my point. In a nutshell, I want a day of servitude from my butch…anything I want for a whole day.

Sounds like a fabulous gift, to me.

I like submitting, but that’s a secret

Don’t tell that seriously hot piece of ass, DateDyke, but just between us, my confidence is slipping. She’s got double the votes so far, but aside from that … when I get around another top – a particularly skilled top, if discussion so far is any indication – it makes me all the more bottomy, all the more submissive. I become eager to observe her skills, and eager not to fuck up.

This is probably more about my psychology than my sex play.

Don’t mistake me; I do enjoy pain, I do enjoy submitting, I always have. I’ve never wanted to be the one who tops all the time. And in a one-time (or two-time, or maybe five-time) scenario, I would gladly negotiate bottoming. In the longer-term, though, I want to top most of the time.

It’s like that theory about relationships – if you talk 30% of the time, and listen 70% of the time, you just gotta find someone who talks 70% of the time, and listens 30% of the time.

Same thing applies to sex play, I think. I don’t really know what my topping/bottom ratio is, but probably something like 80/20 or maybe even 90/10. One in ten times, I’ll get under the flogger for you. One out of ten times, I’ll give you my ass. Sounds about right.

Here’s the interesting thing about what DD is doing, though – she knows how to treat me like a boy and a bottom at the same time, and the ways she treats me like a boy are expanding me, and so sexy, and I feel so matched and validated and complimented, that I’m all the more willing and eager to be and do as she wishes. Submitting is not in conflict with my identities when I’m treated boyishly. It totally makes sense – I just never quite realized that most of my submitting and bottoming experience was with the boy I dated for all those high school years. When I started dating women, I got more and more toppy.

I’ve never bottomed with a cock on, for example. I’ve never played with gender and submission quite in that way, and I want to.

She’s not gonna get away with not bottoming to me, sometime. I am salivating at the idea of that slow, hard fuck she’s gonna get. Hopefully it’ll be the return flight, though I’m not sure that’s guaranteed yet.

The other secret, if I may entrust you with it, is that I’d much rather bottom on the way up, because that means I have a higher chance of topping for the second playdate … though perhaps I shouldn’t admit that, quite this early on in negotiations. Never show weakness, right?

Yeah, that’s not quite my style. My heart may be newly behind barbed wire, but it’s still on my sleeve, regardless.

Review: Mia-Z (harness)

The Mia-Z Harness by Outlaw Leather, out of Seattle.

I’ll entice you with the one key little detail here, then you should head on over to Eden Fantasys and read my full review.

Here’s the thing about this harness. It’s gorgeous & comfortable, and you can strap a cock on, la la la, just like you usually would, but then … then? The way the front leather triangle is built, you can add a second cock that will slip right inside the harness wearer (assuming the wearer is female bodied).

It’s like an instant double, with any of the two cocks you choose.

I discount my own penetration pretty easily … but this reminded me how different orgasms are when my own cunt has something to grip.

Take a look at more photos, specs, and my full review …

the stakes have been raised

If she wins (i.e., gets to top me) by more than thirty votes, I have agreed that she gets to fuck my ass, too.

That’s the new deal.

Uh, so, you’re gonna help me win, right?

It has also been pointed out to me that I didn’t sell my topping her all that well in that last post. That is probably because I still have this vision of her ordering an entire roomful of people around while I was in Seattle, and, for whatever reason, I wanted to be kneeling in front of her with my hands on her leather boots, saying, “yes, ma’am.”

Now, though, I am telling her I want her in lingerie, garters and a bra and a thong, tall tall boots, blindfolded. Waiting for me on that hotel bed.

At that, she laughed. “I don’t think that’s what your readers want.”

Have I mentioned that she’s a grassroots organizer? She’s threatened to organize a voting block.

And yeah, I am hard and wanting with the ideas of submitting to her. A new place to be in, I don’t ever remember getting this worked up at the idea of bottoming to a femme. Yowza.

But, underneath it, all this talk just makes me want to take her down all the more.

I want to twist her arm around her back and shove her against a wall, kick her legs apart, fuck her until she comes, dripping down her legs and leaving a mess on the concrete at our feet. (I hear she’s a gusher.)

I want to feel my cock at the back of her throat as she swallows it in the car in the parking lot at the sketchy by-the-hour hotel.

I want to finger her while she blows me.

I want a fistful of her hair.

I want to split her open with that huge new cock of mine.

Like a watermelon, she wrote.

I want that look in her eyes, on her face, when she wallows in it, gives her body over to me, drops, opens. I want that stroking of her skin, after, when she’s shaken.

I don’t want her to be disappointed.

whatever you want

“I promise to go along with whatever your blog audience wants,” she wrote.

Our ongoing flirtation is continuing, and last night, I realized I would actually be in Seattle again this weekend, but only for a three-hour layover on my way to Alaska, where I was born & raised, where my parents still live, for the holidays.

I mentioned this, while discussing fisting and lube and condom sizes and butches who were not delivering, while playing with my newest addition to my cock collection, to the ridiculously hot DateDyke while we chatted last night.

Three hours is just about the perfect amount of time.

She wrote: “I would get a hotel room on international boulevard, pick you up, take you to the hotel, drop you off in time to go thru security, say hi to your sister, and you’d get on the plane. Maybe I’d feed you. Maybe not. You would be required to: 1) show up packing, 2) tell me how hot i am in my skirt, 3) beg me to be availableon the 29th [the return layover], 4) bite my shoulder while you’re unhooking my garter belt.”

“Those are not very high demands,” I wrote. “Anything else?”

“What are yours?”

“I was going to say garter belt, and packing of course, but you covered those. I don’t know what else. I’m awfully curious about you. I feel like many things could be on the table that I wouldn’t usually seek out.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you seem to be a bit of a top. We’ve discussed that before.”

“I’m a solid top. That is true. I get off on that. And I’m a sick bottom … it all depends. What if I sent you back in the security line, stretched out, sore, chapped lips and unsatisfied?”

“Ohh, fucking hell. That’d be … frustrating. To say the least.”

“Well, if I only had 3 hours with you I’d take advantage of what I wanted.”

“Though if I behaved extra well, it may increase my chances of seeing you on the return trip, yes?”

“I have high standards, but I suspect you are eager to please … I’d love to tie you up, get on top of you, use you for what I wanted, and stick you back in line.”

“I’d be eager to take you down. It’d be hard to resist taking control. That’d be a tough inner battle.”

“We could flip a coin? We could: 1. arm wrestle, 2. trade layovers, 3. ask for a blog vote …”

The idea of bottoming to her is increasingly appealing, I must say. There is something about her that makes me want to get on my knees … and I have never actually sucked femme cock.

“Maybe it’s time for you to open some new doors,” she concluded.

For my vote, I think I want her to top me on the trip up, and then I’ll get to have my revenge on the way back.

“I’m a bit of an exhibitionist,” she wrote. “Okay, I’m a big one. Ask your readers. I promise to go along with whatever they want.”

So … what should I do with this girl? What should she do with me?

[UPDATE: some of you can’t see the embedded javascript code, sorry about that. I think it has to do with the wordpress platform, still getting used to it. look at the URL up top and make sure it doesn’t have a “/#” at the end – if it does, delete it, so it just loads with www.sugarbutch.net, and that should make the poll load. That seems to work for me. If it doesn’t, sorry! I’m not sure how to fix it! Advice is welcome … ]

a little butch trick

Because I was showing off my tie tying skills, not only at the Pervert’s Saloon Tea Party today, but also at my office holiday party on Friday night, here is the video how-to of tying a tie in ten seconds.

I’m battling illness & going out of town again for the holiday, so I’m behind. More soon.


How To Tie A Tie Under 10 Seconds – Unbelievable!! – video powered by Metacafe

Trans vs Butch Identity

Excerpt from a letter I just wrote to one of my best friends in Seattle, after some conversations we had about butch & trans identities. I’m having a small (miniscule, tiny) gender crisis, and my week in Seattle opened up some very interesting ideas for me. I’ll be writing about it slowly here, as things get clearer.

I’ve been turning that conversation about butches & trans guys over in my head, especially the question of, what’s the difference between us? I guess I find it easy to understand that there are very few differences between you & me, specifically, because of the ways we get along & get each other, but when it comes to the broader categories of butches vs trans guys, I feel like there must be something different about those identities. I’d never given it that much thought, but it seems like I had always assumed that trans had more to do with this disconnection from the female body – but I guess it’s moreso a disconnection from the “female experience”? Butches have that too, I suppose, but perhaps in a different way.

So what the heck is the difference, then?

I feel like steps 1-10 of “how I became butch” are match steps 1-10 for “how I became trans” when I’ve compared the identity development process between myself and my trans guy friends, but then that crutial step 11 for them is “and then I’m trans,” and mine is, “and then I’m butch.”

So what is the difference? Why the different conclusions to the same process?

Also, when you asked me if I’d ever considered transitioning … man, I’ve been tripping on that for a week now. Honestly, I’ve almost never considered it. I feel like it’s just something I “knew” about myself – “oh, transitioning, that’s cool, but that’s not me” – without really questioning it or thinking too deeply about it.

It’s only in the past year or so that I’ve considered my own genderqueerness to be a sort of trans identity, this masculinity on a female body, and the ways I’m claiming it anew have made it feel like a deliberate crossing of boundaries and gender lines, which I really like. Funny, ’cause I feel like I’ve been writing about this for a long time, but am still just now really figuring it out and owning it.

Four of my closest friends and very favorite people ever in Seattle – you included – are masculine-identified in some form, ranging from boi to butch to trans, which is interesting because I’m really surrounded by femmes in New York City. I gotta make some more butch/FTM friends here.

Point being, I went away from my visit to Seattle with my brain just spinning with identities and masculinity, and I’ve been in a bit of a mini-teeny gender crisis since.

That sounds dramatic.

What I’m thinking about is bodies, and how much the body you have affects the way you move through the world, access, privilege, how people respond and treat you, all of that. It’s amazing how much we know about the ways our bodies work now, we can basically have the body we want, if we want to be blonde & blue eyed, we can do it, if we want to be a size 0, we can do it – I mean it takes a hellofa lot of work (or surgery), but it’s possible.

And gender, of course, we can change the way we present entirely. Given how much happens on and to the body, I think we should consciously choose the body we want to have, and work toward it, in whatever way is best for us.

But then … what is the body that I want? I have in the past noticed how some of my (masculine-identitified, female bodied, though not necessarily self-identifying as) butch friends covet male bodies, the little “bubble boy butt” for example, and I just never noticed male bodies with any sort of interest really, I guess I’ve always been pretty female-focused. I remember thinking, when these friends have said those things, “huh, interesting, I’ve never noticed that, I’ve never thought of guy’s pecs or biceps or thighs or butt” and wondering what that meant, for my own gender. I guess now I think it means that I’ve just never given it that much thought.

but now that I’m actively thinking about it, I think I would like some more masculine characteristics to my body. Which freaks me out and totally excites me at the same time.

a queer symbol, a pagan symbol


I have returned from Seattle, and there is much to write about. Most of my closest friends in Seattle are very masculine-identified, some of them have transitioned, and I have returned with some new ideas about butches, masculinity, transfolks, my own body, my own sense of self.Also, I got a tattoo. That white star on the underside of my right wrist that I’ve been talking about for a long time. It’s visible especially when shaking someone’s hand. I love it.

I still want the birds. They’ll be next.

The Sugarbutch Star contest is so close to done, I can practically taste it. I’ll have a roundup post coming, with excerpts from each entry and links to the full thing, to remind you of them, before we start voting. I’m hoping to to a reading (“Sinclair’s” first real appearance) of the finalists and announce the winner.

late, late sugasm #108

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants.

This Week’s Picks

From virgin cocksucker to blowjob queen” I love to play and tease with my hand and tongue, lightly licking, sometimes using my panties or another soft fabric to run across the shaft.”

Interlopers“Oh yes, I’ve seen it all before, I know what you’re here for.”

Old Friends“His cultured voice warm, approving, promising; it makes me wet every time, an uncontrollable Pavlovian response.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself The Count
Editor’s Choice Hot and Cold

More Sugasm Join the Sugasm See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

on playing with control

I’m on my way to the airport back to New York City from Seattle; the trip has been fantastic. I may post a few more guest treats tomorrow, but expect some writings of mine soon. Meanwhile, here’s something from lily on control and kink.

when i began playing with control, it was the ideas of being bound and hurt i liked. these were surrounded by a swirl of pleasing associations~ ribbons, bites on my skin, an underground of beautiful ones whose abuses heightened each other’s allure. what i had was sometimes like this, other times wonderfully improvised. a boy was begging to be gagged, and the closest fabric at hand was a washcloth- regardless of the tools, the emotional aspects were powerful. yeah, at times neither i nor the other knew the first thing about where this was going. we laughed, and made things up.

in the beginning i was the shy, the taken one. i’d enjoy certain pain and bondage, and the accompanying lust in my partner/s. then, after telling another these stories, it became apparent they wanted to be the tied one. they asked half with words and half with posture, and i took a deep breath and began to take control. it took a great deal of focus- i’m quiet, mostly, and unused to controlling circumstances. but when you’re intimate with someone, you can read their skin and face and cries to learn how they react to you. when someone loses conscious control, they can no longer play the social, kindly deceptive games people engage in together. they’re utterly honest- this was part of the appeal of topping, along of course with the sensuality of observing and drawing out lust-

and the giving and receiving of control. at some point, while being played with, i began to understand submission. i talked to someone who conflated passivity with submission, but these are quite different. submission is an active process, or it begins as one- to give someone control of you, you have to first gather this self-control. you have to trust the situation, give yourself to someone, and then- i suppose its like using an opponent’s chi against him, but this isn’t competitive. someone touches you, and in a submissive headspace you draw out the touch, move with it- if i can use a physics analogy, its like constructive interference. you move towards a peak or a well together.

i experienced submission first, and then its converse. it also takes a great deal of control over yourself to top someone and not only this, you must be strong enough and… have enough capacity… to hold them while they’re vulnerable and hurt. holding someone while they cry, or while you hit them in the face and growl abuses, takes understanding as well. you must be responding to their headspace every moment, not your own lust. you can’t become carried away, because guiding someone near their edges is tricky. you must be very aware, and connected.

being brought to my limits, and bringing others, shows me things i take into the rest of my life. playing with control, whichever side you are on- opens you up, brings you strength and self-awareness. you find not just edges, but centers. you’re left sometimes strong and immense, feeling able enough to cradle the entire world like a baby; at other times fragile and needing to be held. either way, the aftermath is delicately intimate. sweetness is at the end of all things, especially the cruel ones.

miss scarlett in the library

another lovely piece from tongue-tied blue … thank you for being my guest!miss scarlett in the library

spent, breathless
and rosy red
she laid across my lap
on that welcoming sofa
her lovely black lacy panties
twisted at her knees
her slinky skirt up around her waist
and her supple comeliness
presented exactly so
spent, breathless
and rosy red

::: contented sigh :::

moments before
she had been writhing at the end
of my insistent fingertip
gasping, sweating, gurgling
my other hand alternating between
strikes of varying speed & intensity
and then pressing down her lower back
accentuating that eager curve
that hungry opening

before that, there was a point
where the words erupted from me
they always do
where i’m coaxing her along my story line
tonguing honey and pepper into her
part of me listening along
we heard together
“i’ve never stopped wanting you”
and the air in the room sucked in
my ears popped
and i became only aware of the finer quality
the delicate threads weaving
and the nobler, the enduring spilling
spilling, the tears were right there
was she going to cry or come?
or both?
in that ethereal moment
was i?

even earlier, years before now
a rain forest of an afternoon
twilit and hot and green and raining and still
when i first took her up in my arms
when i gave in and really held her
the way she needed holding
the way i needed to hold her
when i looked down into her naked, nervous eyes
and said, “god, i want you”
as much as a surprise to me
as to her

the arc of surrender
finds no endpoint
only mileposts

against the door frame

I’m still in Seattle for one more day … meanwhile, here is a great piece from tongue-tied blue. Thank you!

against the door frame

space holding wonderland
my tongue tied blue
trying to out-dream in the front of my head
the suspicious lizard stem at the rear
the skull fulcrums, spins there

on my left hand i smell her still
her coming flash powder burned
brilliant into my breasts
my belly, my thighs, my ears
my heart
my kidneys are still astonished

the lizard licks her lips
her eyes and
the sweat that ran down

i never knew i could be
so rapt wide-eyed, secret door
surprise present
gratefully me

Femme, A Matter of Intent

This comes from Miss Avarice, and is an excerpt from The Gender Paper, a.k.a. “Bitch, I’m as queer as you, end of story!” Thank you for the guest post, Miss A!

Femme, A Matter of Intent

Is gender innate?

They say gender is a set of learned behaviors that make “man” and “woman” out of “male” and “female.” They make it out to be such a victory because “finally” we are not born with masculine and feminine personalities already in place. I find it difficult to agree because I have always been femme in the way that my butch friends have always been butch, regardless of any gendered upbringing. They were still butches in their Easter dresses. I was still femme with the grass stains on my jeans. When some of these butch friends were little girls, they squeezed and contorted their boyishness into a feminine mask because they were punished for it. In that very same way I tried to compress and disfigure my girlness because I was punished for it too – although not by my parents, but by boys. Later on I learned to de-emphasize my womanly shape when I grew it, and I tried to play tough. Finally, somewhere in our teens or twenties, we realized our true genders and have discovered the bravery to act them out publicly. I cannot deny that some part of gender is (or at least feels) innate, but must not mistakenly think that any one gender is meant for any particular sex. Femme, my femininity never felt comfortable until it was queer.

What it feels like for the girls.

But femmes are the epitome of what you see is (not) what you get – they are the very definition of “too good to be true” for heterosexual males because femme is sexy, womanly, and kisses other girls – what more could he want? But it’s a dirty trick he plays on himself. The fact that a femme kisses other girls means that she is not sexually available to him. To him, this is a cruel sabotage.

I almost wish I could actually have that proverbial “dyke card” which I could flash if I ever need to become visible at a moment’s notice. Do they let you into the Gay and Lesbian Film Festival without your membership card? And if I am ever alone at a bar again, trying to swat away that polite but determined gentleman, hellbent on winning my affections, then I will be able to put a stop to his insistent, “But why? What does she have that I don’t have?” [ hullo: a vagina! go figure!] simply by showing my smiling face on a shiny laminate card labeled “Dyke // Class: Femme // Name: None of Your Business.” But it is not that simple. I think maybe the only way femme queers can become visible is to redefine femininity, otherwise it is not possible.

Now what?

The gentleman I met at the bar last month had to ask me how long I have been a lesbian and why I decided to “change” before he could be convinced that I truly was not interested in him! I guess he thought I was lying? Imagine if I had not had such an effective alibi – imagine if I had been a straight woman. What would I have said? I want to live in a world where femmes and other feminine people can say “no” and not have to repeat or explain themselves to heterosexual men, regardless of their own sexual orientation. I want to be taken at my word; no means no, not yes. We must have an effective way to ward off unwanted sexual comments and advances from people we are not interested in. Females must be allowed to choose their gender and present it accordingly without facing discrimination or erasure of their significance as part of queer society.

I want to encourage the people who revel in contradictions to continue to do this revolutionary work, and not to limit themselves to like-minded communities – go out and become a missionary to the masses and show them that some dykes are girly, and many gay men are masculine, and that transgender and genderqueer people exist! That is an extravagant dream, and I wonder how many brave souls there are who will actually pursue it despite the prejudice and discrimination that persists. Femmes themselves will be the most important catalysts in changing the “female = feminine = straight” thought process by putting on their big girl panties and going out, loud and proud, into the world. Femme must start speaking up for herself and writing herself back into the history of women’s movement and into lesbian history, where whoever’s in charge has made her existence insignificant.

do you wanna?

Oh – I forgot – this is the point of what I just wrote out:I’m extremely busy, and heading out of town for the next week. I need a few guest posts while I’m gone. I’d love the writing to be in the general area of sex, gender, and relationships, but I’m quite flexible as to the exact content.

Interested?

Email me – aspiringstud at gmail.com – and include a link to your blog, or a writing sample, or writing idea, if you don’t have a blog.

I’ve got some ideas for suggested topics, if you’re interested in writing a short (couple paragraphs is all) essay or two for Sugarbutch, but are not sure where to start. If you’d like to do all ~5 days while I’m gone, I could take just one person, but I’d love to have five or so different people writing one per day, that’d be more conversational. It’d be like Coffee Talk: “talk amongst yourselves … I’ll give you a topic: a blow job is neither a blow nor a job, discuss!”

In exchange, you will get my gratitude, of course; and promanent links on the posts which will drive some traffic over to your blog.

And, for what it’s worth, you’ll be able to say you’ve been on Sugarbutch …

gratitude from a new place

I’m in the eye of a storm at the moment, meaning I’m going to have to move through it again before it passes entirely. But hopefully, this time next week, it will be smooth sailing again …A very brief update: this past weekend I did something very Noo Yawk, and moved from a third-floor walkup to a third-floor walkup without movers. Well, without formal movers that I paid, anyway – some fantastic friends (and surprising acquaintances!) came out to help my sister & I transfer the mountains of crap from one apartment to the next, and here we are, snug in the new place.

It’s really great. Loads better than the old place. Big huge thanks go out to C + J + J + J + T, and of course my sister Bee. We are all sore as hell, bruised, and battered today, but hell if they don’t have some serious moving karma coming back to ’em! It was a big deal to have so much support, so I have to thank these folks in any big way I can. I was thinking about it, and last year when I moved, when The Ex and I split up and moved out of our joint apartment into two separate places, some excellent, important friends helped us both move as well, but it was one of the most hurried, unorganized, difficult moves I’ve ever done.

This move, it was so smooth. Possibly the easiest move I’ve ever made.

Don’t forget, it’s not easy to move a writer. Two-thirds of my posessions are either books or boxes of paper – archives of writing, articles, clippings, journals. Many boxes of books. The friends didn’t know what they were getting themselves into.

I think we – my sister & I – are in a much better place now. I’m really excited to be here.

So, that was Saturday. Yes, just Saturday. Sunday, my writing group had a big publishing panel where we contacted all these editors, authors, agents, writers, we knew and got four people to come and give us a bunch of advice on our careers, MFA programs, how to get published, what to do.

I went away from that panel with the distinct advice that I need an agent. So, I’m gonna be working on that.

The panel, though, and the whole writing group, really, often gets me in this state of awe about New York City. The opportunities here are just boundless, and I am so grateful to be making connections.

Tomorrow, I head to Seattle for about a week. I’ve got a performance on Thursday night while I’m there – contact me if you’re in the Pacific Northwest and would like to attend – I won’t be reading much smut, probably, but will be doing my performance poetry. I’ll also be visiting with college friends, primarily.

I love Seattle. I miss it, it’s hard to be in New York sometimes, to be so far away from my adult home, from the family of friends who went through my early 20s with me. But at the same time, I wouldn’t be doing what I’m doing if I wasn’t here, in this particular location, in New York.

And I’m oh so grateful that I’m here, now.