Archive for September, 2011
I’m starting to write a new column on SexIs Magazine, this time it’s an advice column called Mr. Sexsmith Says. The first one came out today, about stone identity and butches, and they’ll be published every other week.
I have a pretty decent stack of index cards from my workshops, as well as some unanswered questions from emails and from the Ask Me Anything Sugarbutch anniversary thread, so I already do have a lot of fodder for this new column.
However! I still get questions pretty frequently, and now that I have a place to put them, I invite you to ask me about things you’d like to know. No seriously, ask away. I can’t promise to answer all of them—I have no idea if I’ll get two or two hundred, so you know, I’ll have to do some experimenting here—but I will do my best.
So now there’s a sugarbutch.net/ask-me-anything URL, and a place specifically to submit questions. Please feel free to ask away.
Folks who live outside of New York City, you might not quite understand this one, but here in this ridiculous metropolis, people rarely do their own laundry. That’s not actually true for me and Kristen, since we actually do have laundry facilities in our building (three of which have been broken for months, but that’s a different post), but at other apartments I’ve had, especially when I was working a full time job, it was about the same amount of money to do my own laundry at the laundromat three blocks away as it was to drop it off and pick it up, and the latter did not include three hours of my time or putting up with laundromat culture. So I dropped it off to have done.
That’s rare now. Probably less than half a dozen times in the four years I’ve lived at this apartment. But after the weekend at camp, and our week being completely packed, Kristen and I decided to drop our laundry off nearby and just get it done with.
When we went to pick it up yesterday, this happened:
Launderer: There was something plastic in there, I didn’t want to put it in the dryer.
Me: (Noticing my Pete packing undies tucked next to the plastic bag in the laundry basket) Uh, no problem.
Launderer: I just didn’t want to … Hurt it.
Me: (Kinda speechless, realizing it was more than just the undies) I’m sure it’s okay.
Kristen said, in the car on the way home, that I have frequently left cocks in my laundry basket, and she kind of likes that. Finding them in there. Clearly I’ve gotten too comfortable doing my own laundry, and need to go through it just a bit more carefully if I send it out.
It’s not that big a deal, and really I’m sure the person at the laundromat has had worse things show up in people’s laundry baskets, things I don’t even want to know about. And in some ways I bet this is almost explanable for her, that two lesbians come in and the “mannish” one leaves a soft packing dick in her clothes, because of course I want to “be the man.” I cringe at reinforcing that stereotype, and want to explain the more complexities of gender, but it’s almost, kind of, true.
Ah, the adventures of being butch in New York City never end.
It started with an email with the subject line “butch at your service,” and an offer for a blow job. And I thought, hm. Well, you know, I do like those. But I’m not usually attracted to boys. So, we’ll see.
Then at Summer Camp, rife made a point to say hello. We chatted a bit, attended similar workshops. I was surprisingly affected by his energy, his tender sweetness, the way he was clear about what he wanted and owned his desires but still bashful and shy, submissive. I watched him blush and bruise and cringe, and take it, when the person he was serving for the weekend gave him some punches on the arm, and I felt the urge come from down low to see if I could make him respond to me that way.
I’m not usually attracted to boys, but I was attracted to this boy.
The next day, chatting, he said shyly, “What’s your schedule like? I would love the opportunity to play with you.” He wasn’t looking at me when he asked that, and had trouble sometimes maintaining eye contact when we spoke. When I came near him, his voice dropped, quieter, and so did his eyes. His mouth curled at the corner with the slightest little lines of dimples.
I said, “I don’t know my schedule yet, and I need to check with my girl, but I would like that.” Kristen and I had agreed that I could do things to practice skills before she came down and joined me at Summer Camp for the weekend, but that if I was going to be doing any fucking, I would wait until she arrived, and she could be there to witness.
I could tell he was experienced as I watched him get hit for fun, make dates, talk about his adventures at the dining table, and play. I kept my eye on him as I continued teaching and attending classes, and later picked up Kristen at the train station, telling her that I thought I would be interested in playing with him. “He’s really cute,” she said after they met. “I can see why. I don’t have to be involved, but it’s fine with me if you play. I’d like to be there.”
I kept seeing rife all day, but hadn’t quite figured when we could play. In the morning we circled each other and didn’t talk, but I saw him looking at me, and he saw me looking back. The quiet attention got me hard. I made a point to go up to him and grip his upper arm, and whisper in his ear, “Good morning.” Later, I found him at dinner the next night and asked about his evening plans. “See me at the Cigars & Chocolate event,” I said, “and we’ll go do something after.”
He came in after I did, with his crew of folks, and I saw him scan the room looking for me. I got my boots done by a talented bootblacker, smoked a cigar, learned about ashtrays. When the place started thinning out, he came over to me. He and Kristen and I headed up to the barn, which was empty: one big room with a concrete floor, some platform bleachers on one side, and a mat and bondage trestle of sorts in one corner. Kristen sat herself on the bleachers. rife picked up a few unlubricated condoms from the bins laid out on the safer sex table.
I took hold of his unsnapped black shirt lapels, his binder and the skin of his stomach exposed underneath. He inhaled. I pushed with my fists to move him around a little, feeling our legs move together in a dance, feeling how he followed. Immediately he fell in to my direction.
“Anything I should know?”
He didn’t look at me, keeping his chin low and shoulders in a little bit of a shrug, letting me move his body around the room. “Bruises are fine. I like barriers. I’d like to suck your cock.” We said a few more things in negotiation that I can’t quite remember. He was direct and clear, but quiet, keeping his head curled down. I think this is when we kissed. Perhaps I asked if kissing was okay first. Then he asked, “Can I call you sir?”
I grinned. “Yes.”
He shifted his weight and started backing me up, moving me. I followed. “Where are you taking me?”
He stopped at the mat and trestle. “I’m a masochist, but not for concrete floors.” I found the pole of the trestle and leaned against it, pulling him to me and opening his knees a little with mine, finding his mouth again. He shuddered, body pliable, giving in easily and smoothly. There wasn’t a lot of kissing—so intimate with someone I don’t know—but we kept our heads close, him curled into my shoulder while I kept a grip on his body.
“Will you call me a faggot?” he asked quietly into my neck. I didn’t hear, asked him to repeat it.
“That’s what you like, huh, dirty boy.”
“Yes, sir,” he breathed out.
“Unh, god you’re so sweet,” my hands went to my belt, zipper, untucking from my harness. “Are you ready to suck my cock now?”
“Yes,” he didn’t move. I didn’t ask him to do it, but if he was ready.
I fingered the back of his head, his short and soft hair. “Do it,” I growled in his ear, and he dropped to his knees, in a flash had a condom in his hand, rolled it onto the tip and pushed it down the shaft with his mouth. I felt a surge of power and pleasure roll through me, up my legs into my core, as he sucked me in. I fumbled to tighten my harness, moved my hands back to his head.
He took the length of it down easily, his tongue gentle and persistent as he sucked. I leaned into the trestle, aware that Kristen was getting a show, that she doesn’t usually get to watch me receive from afar. I fingered his neck, cupped his jaw, touched his lips with my fingers and he sucked them into his mouth.
After a moment I broke away and leaned down to kiss him, his mouth wet. “You like that, faggot? Sucking my cock?”
“Yes, yes sir,” he managed, gasping a little.
“You’re good at it. Do it again,” and I slid back onto his tongue. “Mm,” I groaned. His hair was almost shaved all around except a wide mohawk patch on top, which I grabbed hold of to work in and out of his mouth, gently. Kind of.
“That is so good,” I leaned down to kiss him again. My cock was throbbing and hard. “You got me all hard, sweet little faggot.”
He swallowed and whispered up to me, “I want you to throw me down.”
“You do huh.” He was on his knees, thrown off balance with not very far to fall when I gripped his upper arms and pushed him to the floor. No fighting at all, just letting my weight take him, grounding him down into the mat. His eyes closed, he bit his lip, curled his small sweet body as he rearranged himself, getting his legs out from under him, and I worked a knee between his thighs. I held his shoulders down and reached between his legs, a little surprised he wasn’t packing, finding the heat and feeling my own cock harden in response, jutting out from my hips.
Small sounds from his mouth as he groaned and pushed against me, testing the feeling of being trapped. I gripped his sports bra and ace bandage binder in one hand over his chest and worked the other hand between his legs, over his jeans, and could feel him bucking forward, wanting more. “That feel good on your dick, huh? Getting hard for me?” I asked. He panted. I realized I didn’t have a glove.
“Stay right here,” I said next to his ear, pushing my body on top of his, my arms holding me up on the mat. “I’m going to get a glove. Put your arms over your head.” He did. “Stay like that. I’ll be right back. You alright?”
He nodded, quickly. I didn’t want to get up but wanted a hand down his pants, wanted to feel him, and trusted that staying in this position I’d ordered him in would only deepen his submission. I stood and took the ten or so steps to the supply table, picked up a glove and some lube packets. I looked at Kristen as I went across the room, but in the dark shadows it was hard to decipher her expression. Upset? Okay? Turned on? All three? I trusted she would tell me if she needed anything.
When I returned, I let myself look at rife a moment before bringing myself back down to the floor. His body quivered a little, waiting for me, arms still extended over his head, one hand in the other. “Hi,” I said as I knelt next to him, my eyes scanning over his black button down shirt open, his tight stomach, smooth skin. I ran my hand along the skin that was exposed and pushed at his body again, felt him groan and shudder in response.
I unbuckled, unzipped his jeans, fast, eager, and pulled them down on his thighs, not past his knees, left them high to give some restriction to his legs and thighs, and then pulled on his hips. “Turn,” I said, impatient. “Over.” He did, flat until I pulled his ass up to kneeling, his elbows out in front of him to catch his body weight as I pushed him down into the mat. My gloved fingers easily found his hole and slid in, one then two, then out again and along the whole length of him, feeling how smooth and supple, testing his responses. He was sensitive, back arching at the slightest change in pressure or speed. I slid my fingers back inside, turned my hand over and worked his g-spot, massaging, and he moaned.
Tearing open a lube packet for my cock, I smeared it onto the length and pressed myself behind him, sliding in awkwardly but fully. My jeans and his jeans were in the way, mine not pushed down any farther than his, our legs tangled, the angle wasn’t quite right. I couldn’t get that good drive, all the way in and out, but I wanted him to feel me behind him for a while, taking hold of his hips and pulling him back onto me. His back and neck arched, spine curled. I managed a building rhythm for four, five, six strokes, pushed my hips hard into him, held him to me, shuddering a little as I felt myself diving into him.
He kept breathing hard, mouth open and drooling on the dirty mat. I gripped his hair again, pushed his shoulders down. “That’s it, good boy,” I murmured, thrusting still, opening him up, my hips pulsing. “Fuck.”
I switched to my hand again so I could better feel his muscles, his responses. Fingered his clit and his back rippled. Thrust in hard and he smashed his cheek into the floor.
“You’re dripping wet,” I growled into his ear. I slid my arm under his chest and pulled him up to his knees. There was a puddle on the mat beneath him, another damp place where his mouth had been on the mat. We knelt next to each other, his knees apart, jeans bunched under his calves.
He nodded in response.
“Yes sir, I’m wet, sir.”
“You didn’t tell me you do that.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“No, I like it. I just didn’t know.” The sleeve of my sweater was damp, but I couldn’t tell if it was from him or from sweating. I kissed him again, his mouth open and chest heaving, lips swollen as I ran my tongue on them. I brought my left hand up to his jaw and held him there as we kissed deeper, then slid two fingers into his mouth. He sighed and moaned, swallowed them deeper, bent his head back to open his throat, kept them deep, then slid them in and out.
“Oh, that’s good, faggot. Sweet boy, that is so good.” My own muscles shuddered in response throughout my body, thighs contracting, and for a second I thought I’d fall over. I kept my mouth next to his ear. “Touch your clit with your other hand. Come for me again. Will you?”
He nodded, eyes lidded and mostly closed, and he slowly brought his hand between his legs. I could barely see what he was doing but could feel his body respond, tightening, his stomach crunching in as his hips tightened and thrust, just a little.
“Is that good? Does that feel good?” I teased in his ear. He swallowed and I felt his throat contract around my fingers. “I like being deep in your throat like this. You suck cock really well, little fag. Does it feel good to touch down there? Are you going to come for me again?” I kept going, pushing a little with my voice and my fingers, until his body convulsed and he squirted again, falling against me. “Oh that’s nice, good boy,” I murmured, running my hands along his body as he quieted.
“Is that enough, or do you want some more?”
He straightened up and looked at me, a little sly. “I could … take a little more.”
“Oh, you could, huh.” I could hit him, I thought, but I loved how sensitive he is to touch. Loved how he curls in response, gives in, takes it. I loved watching him come. I pushed him down again, on his back this time, pushed his jeans a little further down, and slid my fingers down his cunt again, still dripping and wet everywhere. I slid two fingers in easily and held his chest down with my forearm, then gripped his binder again, pulling at it, leaning my weight into him.
He held my wrist, groaned. “More,” he managed to say, and I slid another finger in, pushed harder in and out, twisted my hand so my thumb was up on his clit and pinky finger was below his hole, and thrust in. I anchored my hand above his shoulder so I could go in harder. He twisted under me but couldn’t move away from my grip, my knees holding his thighs apart.
“Is that what you wanted? More?”
“Say thank you.”
“Thank you, sir,” he whispered, just barely audible, in my ear.
“Thank you, sir!”
“Again,” as I thrust harder inside, fingering his g-spot, felt him tightening.
“Thank you, sir! Thank you, sir thank you … ” He trailed off, coming again, pushing my fingers out, and I didn’t let up, flicked his clit as he continued shuddering, mouth open so I slid my fingers back in, working them in and out, fucking his mouth and feeling his tongue swollen on my knuckles. I cupped my hand around him for a moment, then tapped and started slapping, which got a moan from his mouth and more convulsing from his stomach and hips, so I kept going, slapping, and I felt him squirt again, wetness dripping from my hand. Probably I was saying other dirty things while I touched him, I don’t remember. This time I got to watch more directly, and that’s what I wanted. I watched his muscles ripple and settle, ran my hands up under his shirt, clamored up next to him to feel his body along mine.
“You smell like a boy,” I said, his musky scent so different than what I’m used to. He laughed, and had this smile on his face by then, a grin, ecstatic and giddy, and I wanted to kiss him, slap his face, get him back on his knees. The hunger was still palpable, I wanted more. I also figured he had other plans, didn’t want to take up his whole night, and knew I should check in with Kristen. He sat up, pulled his shirt and tangled binder off. I tugged my jeans up, took my sweater off, my button down shirt underneath totally soaked through with sweat. I gathered the condom and glove, ripped lube packets, brought them over to the other side of the room, and grabbed some wet wipes for the mat. He took them from my hand, “Let me, I made the mess,” with that shy little side smile with the lines, dimples, at the corners of his mouth, and we composed ourselves to go back out into the dark night.
He walked Kristen and I back up to our room and went off to find trouble. It’s been an interesting experiment, for Kristen and I to play with other people, and we have been talking about it openly and being interested and careful with each other about it. That’s kind of another post I have brewing, how we are dealing with our particular version of monogamish openness. And don’t worry, Kristen wasn’t left out—she had her own adventures during Summer Camp weekend.
… is #23, Sabina! I’ll contact you individually to follow up.
Hope you all get a chance to see Tara Hardy perform, please do seek her out. Sabina, I hope you enjoy the book!
Sabina mentioned Tamiko Beyer as her favorite, another queer femme poet of whom I am a big fan. Tamiko read at Sideshow last year, and I’ve seen her perform a few times around the New York area. Actually, I have a piece in the literary journal that she edits, Drunken Boat, that you might recognize called Rocking Chair Blow Job.
When I visited the Bay Area in the end of August I met up with Shilo McCabe, the photographer who is behind The Sex Positive Photo Project, and we wandered around my friend’s houseboat where I was staying.
I had a great time and she made me feel very comfortable in front of the lens. These are my favorites of the photos she’s sent me so far.
This one is my favorite.
Thank you, Shilo.
I’ve returned from Dark Odyssey’s Summer Camp, which was phenomenal and I have so much to say about it, like all the retreat/weekends I’ve been on lately—and since there’s so much to say it’s so much harder to say it, because I get overwhelmed, so I don’t write anything at all. The weather at Summer Camp—cloudy, sometimes rainy, not very warm—was excellent for my butch outfits (v-neck sweater or sweater vest over button down and a tie, suit jacket, leather jacket, jeans, boots) but not so excellent for Kristen’s outfits, who wanted to bring sundresses and the tiny little bow shirt but instead brought jeans and boots and sweater dresses, no less sexy but less exhibitionist fun perhaps. I mention that mostly because someone asked. But thankfully the sun was out when we had a quick portrait session with Stacie Joy, so there might be some shots of Kristen’s (gorgeous) tits in the future, we’ll see how they turn out.
My processing of the fourth amazing erotic retreat/weekend in three months is derailed a little bit by today’s date: it’s Cheryl’s birthday. Nicole Fix, who spoke at Cheryl’s memorial, wrote a lovely piece for GO magazine about it.
This weekend, at a lovely moment in bed, I don’t remember which one, Kristen was wearing these hoop earrings in square shapes, and I suddenly had a strong remembrance of exactly their source. I didn’t want to interrupt the moment, but I felt a strong surge of emotion, grief and sadness and the tragedy of it all.
Later, when we were just chatting, I said, “I love those earrings. Do you remember where they came from?”
She had shadows in her eyes right away. “Cheryl.”
“Yes,” I had taken them from Cheryl’s jewelry collection, when I was helping Kelli clean out Cheryl’s apartment, to give to Kristen. Cheryl was known for her hoops, one of her signature looks, along with her red lipstick, and I snagged a lot of the ones that Cheryl wore regularly. “But also, I gave them to her. On her birthday last year, you and I bought them together, but I picked them out. We brought them to Sideshow along with some little cupcakes.” I’m kind of good at picking out jewelry. I love that skill, love being able to provide just the right thing for the femmes in my life. I’m glad Kristen has some of her jewelry, but sometimes it’s shocking and catches me off guard.
We held each other in silence for a few minutes, remembering. That was such a great night. Sideshow was just starting to take off. We had a fabulous line up, Back to School. I miss Sideshow. Cheryl hadn’t been diagnosed with cancer yet. No one knew that would be her last birthday.
“Wasn’t that about a year ago?” Kristen asked. We couldn’t remember Cheryl’s exact birth date, but it was in the fall, right? Was it September or October Sideshow?
When I got back to my computer this morning, the first thing in my Facebook feed was all sorts of folks posting on Cheryl’s wall, “happy birthday!” as if they don’t know. As if they were wishing her to have a happy, celebratory day. I know that’s what Facebook does—”so and so has a birthday today, wish them a happy birthday”—and that’s how folks respond, by doing what a social network program automatically tells them what to do, so the response becomes “happy birthday,” regardless of the relationship or the knowledge we may have missed in the last few months.
I cringed, and teared up, but more than that feel protective of Kelli, and of Cheryl becoming some sort of public persona/domain figure which people don’t really know, but on to which they project. Apparently that is an ongoing problem for close friends who have died, especially in the queer/performance worlds. This is new for me.
Thinking a lot of Cheryl lately, and especially today. I miss her so much.
Via email, Katy asks:
I will be going to my first BDSM convention next weekend … I have a question. I’m not particularly a fetishwear kinda guy… What would you wear? I feel like you and I have similar style and kinks.
I would probably wear jeans, a button down shirt, a tie, and nice shoes, because that tends to be what I wear. Definitely a belt, I never wear a button down shirt without a belt, I always think you need a belt if you’re going to be tucking in a shirt, and these days I wear a belt with everything, it makes the outfit seem much more pulled together.
Sometimes I fetish that up by wearing a bondage belt or wrist cuff, but generally a tie is enough. Oh, but if it were me, I would definitely get the right color hanky and flag according to the hanky code.
I’d say that you should wear what makes you feel most sexy and hot, not necessarily something fetish-y but something that makes you feel attractive and confident.
(If I was fancy, I’d do up an image for this outfit dooce-style, but I have to get some workshop prep done. Next time!)
Gotta look snappy for Dark Odyssey! I thought I was going to head down to Baltimore tonight for that workshop at Sugar and head right to camp, but instead I’m going to stay in New York for two more nights and head in early on Thursday morning. I definitely want to be there for the first workshop (uh and I think I am teaching a workshop that hour, so I better be), and preferably for orientation at noon, so I’m going to aim for early. Earlier than I like to get up. As much as I would have liked to be at Sugar tonight, I’m glad to have two more nights here at home to prepare and get some more details for my workshops worked out.
Tomcats is still my favorite barber shop in New York. Joey is my favorite, but Olivia did a really amazing job with Kristen’s hair on Sunday—I’ll see if I can snap a good shot of her new haircut and show it off for y’all, it looks fierce and fun and serious. Plus, her hanky flower came last weekend, so I want to show y’all a photo of that anyway.
I see from my Facebook feed that a few friends of mine have started going to Tomcats regularly … I hope they’re treating you as well as they have me.
Check out the Poppy Playground 400 thread count, 100% cotton sheets by Vice Merchants. They’re airy, pretty, floral linens (also available in Taupe)—except they’re kinda dirty, too. Check out the pattern up close—naked girls!
“Vice Merchants, headed by artist Miriam Carothers creates using carnality. Like Laura Ashley’s devotion to flora and fauna, Vice Merchants’ emblematic, prints and patterns showcase scintillating sirens and lascivious lovelies engaged in scenes of erotic amour, drawn to torrid perfection in Carothers signature style. This design house is taking a postmodern approach to sexual taboos and appropriating the forbidden as a something to be celebrated in the objects and accessories of everyday life.”
I thought the pink might be a little much, but Kristen said, “Finally! Some femme in the bedroom.” Oh. I thought my dark brown and tan and white and wine colored sheets weren’t too gendered, but apparently they are.
These sheets are beautiful and flirty and so, so soft, and have quickly become my favorites. Thanks, Vice Merchants, for sending them on.
Dear friends & fans & folks who just happened across this website and have no idea who I am:
As I gaze longingly at my ever-filling fall and spring schedule, I can’t help but wonder: Is there somewhere I’m missing? Is there somewhere I should be aiming to go that I don’t even know about yet?
That’s where you come in. Where would you like me to travel this year? Do you have any contacts for colleges, arts venues, spoken word nights, queer/feminist toy shops, or queer/feminist bookstores in your area that you’d just love to help me book?
I’ve got quite a few workshops aimed at college students and ready for community centers and toy shops, like “Radical & Responsible Gender” and the acclaimed “Fucking with Gender,” and I’d love to get out there and meet more of you, chat, learn about what’s going on, and talk to you about my ideas for all of this stuff.
If you have any thoughts about where you’d like to see me perform, or what kind of workshops you’d like me to do, I would love your input.
SINCLAIR SEXSMITH: NOW BOOKING 2011-2012
Press kit and materials available upon request
Please forward to colleges, universities, students, and organizations.
Represented by PhinLi Bookings, LLC, in New York City, SINCLAIR SEXSMITH is a writer, performer, student, and teacher of sex, gender, and relationships. Visit Sinclair online at sugarbutch.net, mrsexsmith.com, or on Twitter @mrsexsmith.
“Sinclair Sexsmith writes with such rare clarity and passion that she is one of the best reminders we have that sex and gender are not abstractions of theory, but essential to our everyday humanity.”
—Chris Hall, editor of CarnalNation.com
Speaks, performs, and facilitates on the issues of:
Creative writing, social justice, LGBTQ activism, intentional gender, feminism, healing, sexual liberation and enlightenment, communication skills, accessible feminist theory, queer liberation, archetypes, social change activism, sexual freedom, and writing as a tool for self-awareness.
Past performances and workshops of note:
Butch Voices National Conference, Oakland, CA
The Center for Sex and Culture, Seattle, WA
Rainbow Book Fair at the LGBT Center, New York, NY
Lesbian Sex Mafia, New York, NY
SXSW Interactive, Austin, TX
Chapbook Festival, New York, NY
Sex 2.0, Seattle, WA
Butch Voices NYC, New York, NY
The Center for Sexual Pleasure & Health, Pawtucket, RI
Columbia University, New York, NY
Smith College, Northampton, MA
NYU, New York, NY
Hamline University, Minneaplis, MN
UW Madison, Madison, WI
Syracuse University, Syracuse, NY
Harvard University, Boston, MA
Drew University, Madison, NJ
Brown University, Providence, RI