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cock confidence

Will Anyone Else Want Strap-On Sex the Way I Do?

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

You might be worried that you love strap on sex too much.

You might be worried that you won’t find someone who wants to receive strap-on sex as often as you want to strap on. In general, as we get more aware of what our particular sexual interests are, it can seem like what we want becomes harder to find.

Which is true — we’re narrowing down what we want, so that means there are fewer things out there that will match our wants. But what’s also true is that our chances of being satisfied are getting higher and higher, because we better know ourselves and what we want.

In addition, we’re getting more specific with what we want, which actually means what we’re looking for becomes easy to find. If we’re looking for “someone to have sex with,” sure, there are lots of people who might fit into that scenario, but just anybody willing to have sex might not actually make for a satisfying time.

Getting more specific about our desires gets us more likely to get what we want, and also more likely to have a satisfying experience.

A Little Personal Story …

As I was coming into my own as a cock-centric person, I was worried that my interest wouldn’t match up with anyone else’s. I wanted to be strapped on when I had sex at least ninety percent of the time, and I didn’t know anybody who wanted that the same way I did.

I got a lot of push-back from other queer women I was dating at the time. One person even told me that if she wanted to have sex “like that,” meaning with some sort of penetrative instrument, she’d have sex with a man.

Associating strapping on with any particular gender is not only untrue, it deeply limits our abilities to explore and experiment with what our bodies do and the ways we can connect and play through sex. Wanting to play with penetrative sex, whether with fingers, a factory-installed penis, or a strapped on appendage, has nothing to do with gender and can be enjoyed — or rejected — by anyone of any gender. A few of the most cock-centric people that I know are high femmes, and I know a few gay men who do not want penetrative sex, giving or receiving, at all.

It took me some time to feel comfortable owning how frequently I wanted my sexual experiences to include me strapped on. It took talking to my friends, talking to lovers, and talking to other sex-positive educators to feel like I wasn’t the only one who wanted that, and to trust that I wasn’t a weird pervert freak because of it. It took trusting that someone was out there who wanted equal-but-opposite thing I wanted — for their partner to be strapped on for ninety percent of their sex life. It took experimenting and playing and being open about what I wanted.

Eventually, it has become one integral part of my personal sexuality, and if I was talking to a new potential sexual partner, it is something I would screen for.

On Stereotypes

It might seem like lesbians or queer women have rejected penetrative sex, because they are not attracted to men. It might seem like straight men would not be interested in being pegged, because they are heterosexual.

But liking the sensation of penetration and one’s sexual orientation are not the same thing. In all of my travels and coaching and teaching of strap-on technique, I have met with thousands of people, and I assure you: plenty of queer women enjoy penetration, and plenty of straight men enjoy pegging, and plenty of nonbinary folks and genderqueer folks of all kinds of genders enjoy things in their holes.

It might seem like you are looking for something that doesn’t exist, but I assure you: it does! You may have to just take it on faith for a little while, but if you look around and be open about the kind of sex life you want, you will find people who want the same things you do.

There are many, many people out there who want to receive. They might be looking for you, and thinking you’re hard to find, just as much as you are looking for them.

miscellany

Happy 14th Anniversary, Sugarbutch

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

Sugarbutch started on this day, April 29, 14 years ago in 2006.

I had been in New York City almost a year. I was drifting away from my girlfriend from college, who moved to New York with me; she was in law school, and I was miserable. We weren’t having sex — we barely felt like partners, to me, just roommates, and I was having no luck repairing things.

I had no internet connection at my apartment. I went around the corner to the cyber cafe to apply for jobs. But I had hopped through some temp work long enough to get a job at a finance firm, doing layout & design, where I stayed for about 3 years, which meant I was in front of a computer all day for the first time since I worked at Microsoft — my schedule in Seattle before I moved to New York had been a patchwork mix of writing groups & performances, working at a bookstore, college classes, and homework.

So once I got in front of a computer, I started diving in to the online worlds of personal expression: creative writings, the “personal essay” (or, if men were writing it, the “essay”), and blogs. I stumbled into a just-born world of sex blogs, particularly New York City based sex blogs, discussing their sex-capades and life in New York. Most of these folks weren’t queer, though some were. I started writing fantasies and stories and started liking what I was writing, so I shared them.

I’ve had dozens of lovers online. My first long-term-relationship I met in a telnet chatroom in 1994, we were together five years. I’ve courted, fucked, and wooed women online when I was dating men and not really out as a lesbian. I’ve met for dates, one night stands, and courtships through the internet.

And so I’m turning to the internet yet again, in this anonymous blog, to detail my overspilling desire and try to curtail some of the want that is really painful for me, since my needs aren’t being met. And, ultimately, to decide how much more of my own pleasure and desire and needs I’m going to sacrifice in order to stay in this relationship.
from the first post on Sugarbutch: Bed Death, Standard Variety

The early stuff is all password protected now. It was such a journal, so much personal writing, so much uncensored writing. I’m not sure I’d want to re-read it, but it is still there, buried in the archives. (It’s the old password, btw. Join the mailing list and get the password used to be the deal. But now it’s join the Patreon.)

Toward the end of 2006, I wrote a piece after a foursome and it got some notoriety, and Sugarbutch started building a little tiny audience.

After that, it’s such a whirlwind … falling for someone else, breaking up with the college girlfriend, taking about a year to try to get my life together before going after the person I fell for, the magic of that six month relationship, then the trauma of the breakup and the realization of how damaging that relationship was. That was another peak, and I started getting asked to teach places, to be part of sex blogger meetups and groups. Writing beautiful, heart-wrenching, raw things through that breakup. Then healing, slowly. Dating. Meeting and courting Kristen. Opening that relationship and dating other people. That was another peak, and I had two books come out in the same year. Meeting rife, and then my dad’s death, and then the breakup with Kristen, and moving to Oakland.

There are other posts about the first 7 years of Sugarbutch, the first 7 anniversaries:

Hard to believe I didn’t write anything for the ten year anniversary, but April 2016 was the beginning of the relationship crisis rife and I have been in the past few years. I have written about it some here, but not a lot, for two reasons: 1) it’s ever difficult to share deep emotional things when they are currently happening, because this does have a lot of readers now and the feedback, comments, or criticism I get is just unnecessary and the opposite of helpful; 2) part of what I uncovered is how, when I journal, I tell myself a version of my story that I want to hear, and that can actually just reiterate and solidify my story, rather than be supportive of it. Generally that’s not true of my relationship to writing — I write to discover what I don’t know that I already know, I use it as a tool of self-inquiry and growth. But when I’m in a triggered state, it can just keep me spinning out, rather than helping me re-center. So I have journaled a lot less in recent years in general.

(I’m trying to get back into journaling, now that I have a different relationship to the c-PTSD. But that’s still in progress, and offline.)

It’s more valuable to write a summary of the last seven years, since I have a lot of summaries of the first seven years. I’ve been with rife that whole time; I’ve been in Oakland, California that whole time. This is the most stable that I’ve ever been, probably my whole life. We had a collaring ceremony, we got married, we ran for two leather titles and won.

We started teaching online — we launched Submissive Playground, Mastering Dominance, Dom Club, which has now evolved to be D/s Playground (which is an on demand, downloadable course, free to the folks on Patreon who support at $5+).

I have traveled to do guest lectures and workshops at colleges, but in 2015 I re-entered the workforce and have had a few different jobs since. I’m looking for a full-time job now.

After rife and I had a major relationship conflict starting in 2016, we started couple’s therapy, which we’re still doing. I don’t know if we would have stayed together if it wasn’t for her — and for our stubborn commitment to each other. The conflict ignited all kinds of past traumas in both of us, and I have spent the last few years really teasing apart my history of relational trauma, my complex PTSD, and dealing with the wounds that happened because of a lot of emotional neglect in my childhood. We’ve been in a much more solid place in the past year and a half.

Making a full account of those seven years is more than I can do at the moment, but that’s a start of a summary.

I’m constantly thinking about how I’m going to evolve this space. In some ways, it is a ball and chain I carry around, rooted in the me from 2006 who was so naive, so young. Some of the peaks of this project have revolved around relationships and break-ups, and instances where I am not only not proud of my behavior, I am at times deeply ashamed. I’m working on forgiving myself for all of that. It isn’t easy. Sometimes I think: if I was starting a project today, would I write about my sex life on the internet? The answer is, emphatically, no. It’s a laughable idea. Too intimate, too vulnerable. I know that’s part of what makes it radical, but I’m also just more private than I used to be — and the internet is a lot less private than it used to be.

The last four years have been laying the foundation for a huge leveling up. Mostly laying the emotional foundation, but also the financial foundation, relational foundation, and spiritual foundation. I’ve been building three things in a much deeper, more intentional way: 1. roots in a geographic place – where do I want to live? 2. financial security, particularly having my own income that actually supports the life I want to live; 3. building a family, both as a head of household Dominant to my boy, but also expanding it.

I’m frustrated that it has taken me so long to prioritize these kinds of stability — my 20s and 30s were so much about transformation and not about the usual adult things of career path and saving money and “settling down.” I got a lot of value out of my deep studies of embodiment, leather, kink, queerness, gender, polyamory, relationships, and sex in general, but wow if it wouldn’t be nice to have some savings. I guess my mid-life crisis at 40 has been about reprioritizing things like that.

I believe in the ability to reinvent myself, and to make this space serve me. Ultimately, it’s a personal writing project about writing myself into the next phase of my life, using writing to level up myself, and it has served me well for that all along.

So, thank you, Sugarbutch, for fourteen years of support. Thank you for the structure. Thank you for the place to process and express and create and share.

Thank you, readers, for reading, commenting, engaging, sharing your stories, bringing me to your colleges and towns and community centers, buying my books, reading my books, sending links of my dirty stories to your lovers and folks you wish were your lovers.

Thank you, patrons, for casting some financial support my way. The last five years of Sugarbutch have been completely different because my expenses are paid. I feel more motivated. Thank you. Sign up on Patreon if you’d like to support my work.

Thank you, rife, for being with me on this journey, for letting me write about you, for trying out sex toys with me, for sharing your ideas and stories. Thank you for sticking with me, even when things were/are hard.

Much gratitude out into the world tonight.

journal entries, media

Hello, It Is Spring, Let’s Bloom (Playlist)

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

I was working on this through most of January & February but finally got it done in March. Our adventures leading up to the International contest were really meaningful to me, and I think that was a really valuable ordeal for our relationship to go through. And we came through it much stronger for it.

That is all to say, here is my latest in a long series of playlists of love songs for rife.

1. When Will I Learn – Rob Riccardo
“I guess I forget that I got all the answers.” trust the process, I’ve got this. I tell myself these things a lot these days, and to be honest I trust it all a lot more than I used to. something feels tethered to myself in a way that feels strong. the closing lines, “when will I learn that I’ve got all I need / when will I learn that I’m already free” gets so easily stuck in my head, it’s such a catchy, natural chord progression that really clicks.

2. bad guy – Billie Eilish
it’s just sexy. I can’t believe it took me so long to be introduced to her vocals, I really like her. I think she cheapens the line by adding the “duh”, but I try to just ignore that part.

3. You and I – Reuben and the Dark
the story isn’t quite our story … but the metaphor of it, the running and problems and being scared, and then “you and I are gonna be alright,” and the sweeping epicness of the chorus and the beats, it just feels like a sweeping last scene of a movie where things work out.

4. Indigo – Daniel Champagne
there’s something about these acoustic guitar instrumentals that always feel like they belong on mixes to you. they’re uncluttered, analog, and just happy to be just what they are, a simple acoustic instrument.

5. Golden – Becca Mancari
“there you go again turning golden.” reminds me of the “stay gold” line in the outsiders, a classic butch root for a lot of us, and reminds me of how we can keep coming back to ourselves and each other over and over, that neither of us has tarnished for the other — or rather, that you haven’t tarnished with me. even when things get rough and scratched up, we polish it back up, you do the work, we both do, and you turn golden, stay golden.

6. I’m Just Waiting for Your Love – Tomemitsu, Steady Holiday
you could read it like a solo person asking for a lover, but for us it feels like the waiting time when things are hard between us and I’m waiting for us to come back around and back together. we do that, you know? feels like it’s expand-contract, the nature of the universe. dreaming about your love, waiting for your love. sometimes it’s me that’s in the way of receiving it, but even then I’m still waiting for it to come back to me, and I know it will.

7. Light of a Clear Blue Morning – the Wailin Jennys
I love their harmonies so much. “everything’s gonna be alright / it’s gonna be okay.” I finished this mix in march so it was kind of before the worst of the covid sheltering in place, but it’s interesting how many of my choices are reassuring mantras.

8. You Mean the World To Me – Freya Ridings
it’s the lines “I know that I can be pretty mean / but you mean the world to me” that got me … it’s almost a breakup song, or could easily be read that way, but I think it doesn’t have to be; it’s more about a rift in a relationship, and it’s easy to assume that’s the end, but not necessarily. either way, her core message to the person is how important they are.

9. Swoon – Rising Appalachia
I love “drape me in jasmine vines in this crescent city swoon.”

10. Shine On – May Erlewine
feels like another mantra song, reminding myself and us to just keep shining. “it ain’t easy living in hard times.” (also, the tabs are on her website with the lyrics, might be a fun one to learn.)

11. Don’t Give Up On Me – Andy Grammer
“I’ll hold onto you / no matter what this world’ll throw / it won’t shake me loose,” I guess I have really needed to hear reassurances. it feels comforting, because they feel true. this one feels cheesier/pop-ier than the others, but I still get it stuck in my head and it feels right.

12. Face Your Fear – Curtis Harding
“by the way / maybe / don’t worry / it’s okay.” adding “just” to “face your fear” makes it sound easier than it really is, but in a way it IS that easy, too. well — simple, but not easy.

13. Servant of Love – Patty Griffin
kind of reminds me of the servant master archetype, but also the sweeping progression of her vocals and piano in this I find so incredibly emotional and intense. plus “I long to live by the ocean” … and “words from the deep calling to me.” I long to live like this.

14. Somebody Loved – Kina Grannis
it’s a cover of the Weepies, which I might have actually put on another mix, or maybe you did. they can be a little bit heavy on the twee cutsieness, but I love her voice and it’s such a sweet song. reminds me of the transformative power of a relationship: “you turn me in to somebody loved.”

journal entries

Rest Is Important, You’re Right It Isn’t Fair, and Other Things I Need To Hear Right Now

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

Things I need to hear:

It doesn’t matter if you’re not being productive, and also, it does. It is okay to take a break, to focus on resting, to lay in shock on the sofa eating cookies and drinking wine for a week. It is okay to be in pajamas that have been worn for just a few too many days such that you would feel guilty shoving your lover’s face down into them. But also, it’s good to keep going. It maybe even feels better to fold the laundry and put it away, to put on not only fresh pants, but pants at all. It maybe even feels good to do up your hair and wear a nice shirt, put something fancy together just because it’s Tuesday.

You have spent time focusing on feeling good, but you need to mix in some things that are good for you. Wine and cookies and lamenting is not particularly good for you. (You have learned these lessons so many times in so many ways. Yes. Here it is again.) It is extremely hard to go after the things that are the best for you, because you have to actively break some patterns, and breaking patterns is one of the hardest things of all to do, even though they are psychic and not physical. Maybe especially because they are psychic and not physical. Do it anyway.

And then rest. Rest rest rest. It’s okay to do that, too.

Old ways are crumbling, have been crumbling, and we don’t even know what these new ways are yet. What color they’ll be. What flavor. We don’t have any sense of how deep the change will be, how big the loss.

Log off of the social media, even Instagram, the one you say is the better one because people are actually sharing their lives on there and not just parroting headlines. Too much input is too much input. It feels better to write and create, even though it doesn’t seem like it. Even though it feels impossible to put pen to paper and you end up writing “I don’t like this pen” a dozen times before you write any other words.

It’s okay not to write, but it’s also good to write. It’s good to step up and do the hard thing, to practice discipline. To identify that which you are actively avoiding doing and do it. Do it.

Holding the line – long-term discipline – feels better than going after the short-term comfort. Maybe that doesn’t feel true right now, but try it for a little while and see. Does it feel true? If not, then stop. But when you’ve done this before, you remember how good it feels to hold the line.

You cannot solve capitalism by thinking thinking thinking. It isn’t fair. There are people working to make it better. How can you deeply accept the world, even in this state? How can you deeply love the world, even in this state? Keep going. You will make things that will help — yourself if no one else. You will find your feet again, find your grounding again, feel forward into the future again. It makes sense that this is hard, this is the hardest, this is so unusual, this is so unknown. So you get to make it up.

What is your best day? Let’s make that day tomorrow. What is your favorite way to spend an hour? Spend it on this next one. You have more control than you act like you do, and less. You have more power than you act like you do. Spend it. Coax it. Create it. Let’s go.

journal entries, kink

Some Notes That May Turn Into A Sex Manifesto

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

Because the boy & I have been together for 9 years, and because we are also adults with jobs and families and obligations and bodies that aren’t always in the mood for sex, and because even the most compatible people have phases of being mis-matched in their desires and drives.

Because it is of incredibly high priority to me to have a rich erotic life.

Because I crave sex frequently. Because I struggle to feel close without the addition of pheromones and the alchemy of fluids. Because I want the physical closeness of losing ourselves in each other, of getting skin-drunk, of the intoxication that comes from tasting you. Because I use it to let my guard down. Because I let my guard down to have it. Because I want my guard down but I don’t always know how to take it down. Because my guard goes up so intensively automatically that I don’t always even notice it’s there. Because I still think about the boner preservation society and what would be on my list.

Because sex is the best way I know how to pray. Because sex is the best way I know how to see god. Because I need the release of orgasm like some people need a workout, to wring things out of my body, to shake and release. Because I have no better way to experience the holiness of my body. Because I start feeling floaty when I don’t have someone on top of me for a little while. Because I crave the feeling of all my senses activated, and you feeling every one.

Sex Manifesto (first draft)

1. The boy should assume that all sexual and erotic play is intended to have some pleasure in it for him. If it is not pleasurable, he is not only invited but expected to speak up about that and let that be clearly known.

2. It is possible that the Dominant will want to engage in erotic play that is not pleasurable to the boy, and the boy should do his best to accept that. However, this play should be intentional and with full knowledge that it is not pleasurable.

3. The boy can expect to have basic needs met before engaging in erotic play, including: hunger, using the bathroom to relieve himself, temperature (especially being too cold), and tiredness. If those needs are not met, he is expected to speak up and let them be clearly known.

4. We have long engaged in erotic play without a safeword, but we do have certain code words and phrases that can and should be used. a) “Mercy” is an accepted code word, and the Dominant will always consider mercy when the boy asks for such. b) “If it pleases you,” can be used to mean “I don’t particularly want to do this, but I will do it because you want me to.” c) “Only if it pleases you,” can be used to mean, “I do not want to do this, but I will because you want me to.” d) “I am a tool for your pleasure,” can be used to mean, “I am focused on servicing you,” meaning, “this is not about my pleasure right now.”

5. Masturbation is encouraged, orgasms are not restricted, and there are no particular requirements for how either should be done. Asking permission to come pleases the Dominant, but is not required at this time.

6. Fantasies are encouraged, porn is encouraged, and other erotic explorations are not just allowed but encouraged.

7. Having sex with other people during dreams is allowed. (Let’s just make this explicit, since the boy’s dream-self sometimes feels guilty.)

guest posts

Take My Whip: Fantasy Date Night, Guest Post by rife

Posted on by rife

It’s Friday night and we keep this night blocked off on the calendar. 5:30 rolls around and you send me around the block to walk the dog once I wrap up my work for the day. When I come back, you’re sitting on the porch in your jeans with the leather crotch, a tight new black t shirt and the chest harness. All the deck furniture has been pushed off to the side and your Bluetooth speaker is playing a mixture of jazz and romantic pop music. You are wearing your heavy harness boots and you let your goatee grow out a little.

I giggle, suddenly feeling underdressed in my daytime pajamas and sneakers. I prance over and get up on my toes to kiss you. You let me. “Hi, Daddy! What’s all this?”

“I’m taking you dancing, boy. Go get dressed.”

“Mmmhm. I mean, yes, Sir.” I say softly and pad inside to feed the dog and put on that slinky grey dress you like and my combat boots with the soles that have worn down to slick nothing and the chain wrist cuffs that match my collar that you like to see on me. I wash the work day off my face and scrub dry until I’m pink.

You raise an eyebrow at my outfit choice but you’re smiling underneath it.

We dance for days and days on the porch as night falls and the bats come out to play. Sometimes the tempo is slow and our feet barely remember to shuffle while we kiss with lots of tongue and you run your fingers through my fresh soft buzz cut. The smell of wisteria finds its way to us across the breeze and if our neighbors see us, they pretend not to.

Sometimes the tempo is faster and you throw me across the boards in controlled chaos. It takes every ounce of concentration to just follow, to listen for the cues in your palm on my back, to remind myself of the rock step-triple-step beat, to give over to the music and your direction. There are moments when it is effortless and we are just flying, one creature.

Finally it is fully dark and you press me back against the one oak tree, breathless and sweaty on the warm summer night. Ed Sheeran or some other sensitive white guy is still crooning on but all I can feel is your dick hard against the fly of your jeans against me.

You press me hard enough that I’m sure the rough bark will leave marks, pinning my hands over my head, looping the chains around my wrists into that hook that usually holds the wind chime. I’m impressed by your forethought but the nation is quickly swept away my your hands doubled up on either side of my rib cage, stroking the length of me up and down from exposed armpits to the bottom curve of each hip. I shiver and swoon under your firm big hands that make me feel so small. You inch the bottom of the dress up teasingly slowly. I really hope the neighbors aren’t watching now.

Just when I can feel myself start to squirm and rub my thighs together anxious of the wetness I can feel coming on… you pull back. I whimper a little and sigh involuntarily, which of course is what you want.

“Not now, pet. You’re going to wait.”

“Mmmrf. I mean, yes, Sir.”

Inside, we make pizzas — yours pesto and salami with a cauliflower crust, mine sourdough and jalapeños and onion. They are delicious, but I am distracted thinking of the packer still between your legs. After dinner you tell me to ignore the kitchen mess and follow you, so I do.

You strip my dress off like someone who has done it a hundred times before and nod approvingly at what is revealed: just mounds of tight exposed flesh with no underwear. I feel you press up against me from behind and your arm wraps around my throat.

“You’re going to take my whip, boy, and then you’re going to take my dick.”

“Mmmmmm… ! I mean, yes, Sir.”

The wood of the coffee table is shockingly cold at first and my nipples flinch against it, but I relax into it as you layer gentle strokes with your big fat deerskin flogger all across my back. I moan despite myself as you ramp up in intensity and land a few solid strikes across the curve where ass meets thighs. You always were a leg person.

You pause to lean over me and grow into my ear. “Mmm, beautiful. Good boy. Ten more. Count for me.”

This time, I do not hesitate. “Yes, Sir.”

You step back but your fingers trail across my reddening back like it pains you to be separated. I can still feel the energy of you reach out to me across the room.

Until it is concentrated into a fiery pinprick of the kiss of your single tail.

“One, Sir.”

I try to remind myself it is just sensation. I try to erase pain from my vocabulary and just feel it. Easier said than done.

“Two, Sir. Three, Sir. Oh…! Four, Sir.”

Now we are both flying, drunk on your power. You push me harder to see if you can draw blood and break in this whip. Make it bound to me like i am to you.

The lash falls hot across my shoulder and i squirm hard, but the trickle raised is just sweat.

“Five, Sir..!”

You love me but you quiet that part of yourself with reserve to get what you want. No, it’s not want. You will be nice later. You need blood.

“Fuck! Six, Sir. Seven! Ah!”

I squeak out with difficulty eight and nine. You tell me a hundred times i am a good boy for taking it so nice and it lands every time.

Finally the warm droplets are pooling for you and you can feel your dick hard and straining in your jeans. You laugh aloud as i flinch hard out of habit while you barely tease me with number ten.

“Ten, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

You run the tails and your fingertips over my back and ass, drawing in the red, savoring my flinching as you pass over the already raised welts. My breath is heaving and so is yours, in time, I think.

In a moment your fly is open and you are crammed against me, sliding in easily to the hilt of your open jeans. You pull my hips back into you with both hands and groan as you start thrusting slow and deep the length of you. You wrap your hands around my face and shove your fingers hard against my tongue. You are growling a steady stream of filthy words but my brain isn’t even processing it anymore. I am overwhelmed by you.

“Fuck, that’s so nice. That’s right. You just take it for me, you little whore. That’s Daddy’s slut. Unh, you feel so good. So tight baby. Daddy’s going to give it to you. Fuck…!!!”

I guess I came too, because the next thing I remember: I am in a puddle, dripping into the carpet and high and there is no pain anymore.

You scoop me up and guide me into the shower, lather down my dully aching back with peppermint soap and wrap me in your big soft Daddy robe.

We eat Girl Scout cookies and watch Steven Universe until I fall asleep on your shoulder.

identity politics, Interviews, kink

“There Are Others Like You:” Interview with Rowdy, rife’s Puppy

Posted on by rife

Recently, Betty Butch was doing some research for an article, and did a small interview with me about my puppy persona.

—

How shall I refer to you?

my pup name is rowdy and pup pronouns are he/him, but if you’re referring to me as the human, you can call me rife, property of Mx. Sexsmith, pronouns he or they.

Tell me about yourself

My pup is a husky-corgi mix named Rowdy. He is super friendly and loves wrestling and human attention. He enjoys the outdoors and– OMG BALL!!

When did you first hear about puppy play, and how did you come to participate?

I probably saw it first at Folsom street fair about ten years ago, and thought, cute! that looks fun. But was much more on the giving scritches side than getting them for a long time. I played one time with a pup who did a whole sled dog team and that was pretty inspiring.

What does puppy play mean to you? What does your experience of puppy play look like?

For me, it is a playful, nonsexual way to be extroverted in kink spaces without the anxiety of having to be verbal. It can look like wrestling or cuddling or playing fetch.

Can you tell me about a scene or moment that encapsulates your love of play / pup headspace?

I like to be told I’m a good boy, so training with my dominant/handler can be fun… but the most memorable was after my cis-pup died in a kind of tragic way, I happened to be at a kink event at the time and couldn’t bear people asking me how i was doing because i was devastated. So that was the first time I was in full pup mode in public, and it was healing… it felt like a way to be closer to my dog who had just passed, remembering her body language and enacting it. And after, we did a piercing ritual still in pup space.

Would people be surprised to know you engage in puppy play? Why or why not?

Depends on where they know me from. ;) We don’t talk about it much on the blog or as titleholders, but my pervert friends would not be surprised. I love animals and am a dog walker part time as one of my vanilla jobs.

If you could give advice to someone curious about puppy play (whether private play, or going to events/moshes), what would that advice be?

You don’t need any gear, just have fun. Practice nonverbal consent a lot and have a plan in place if your boundaries are pushed (standing up or saying “no” works). Pups come in all shapes, sizes, ability levels, and genders, so don’t sweat it if you’re the only one not on your knees or with your particular plumbing. I paw-mise, there are others like you!

journal entries

On Receiving a Full Scholarship to College, Twenty Years Later

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

Twenty years ago, in 2000, the Martin Family Foundation changed my life by giving me a full academic scholarship to the University of Washington.

I was 20. I’d cut my hair off the year before, split up with my high school boyfriend, and was now figuring out what it was to be out and loud and really really queer. I was struggling to afford community college and rent, and while I did have some support from my family, I was also an emancipated minor and had been living on my own for 3 years at that point.

I remember filling out the application. I remember, on the day of the interview, I missed my bus by mere moments and went to the pay phone outside of Pagliacci pizza to call the school and let them know I was going to be late. I was sure I had no chance of receiving the scholarship, based on being late, but they said no problem and switched my time slot with the person after me (who was early). (I think of this often when I’m late, the lesson being: just let them know.)

I blazed in to the interview, at a table full of silver-haired white men, a few of whom were taking notes on laptops (it was 2000, that was uncommon), and I talked about how I wanted to make queer art and write about liberational stories of sex and desire and the transformative potential for feminism to change the world.

When I left, I thought, well, there’s no way that room will give me money for my mission. But I was proud of myself for telling them what I really thought, what I really wanted to study — it was very vulnerable, to be so honest about something that felt so radical.

I remember that much more than I remember getting the call that I’d been accepted.

It meant so much to me that the Martin family heard my young adult queer ambitious heart and said, yes; not only do we believe in what you’re trying to do, we’d like to give you money so you can do that. It still means so much to me.

I never thought I would actually be a professional sexuality, gender, relationships, and kink writer — I didn’t expect to use my women, gender, sexuality studies degree so directly. (I just thought I’d be able to articulate the sexism & homophobia in whatever publishing company I worked at very well.)

In so many ways, my career started with this moment, when this group of men said yes. It gave me the opportunity to believe in myself a little stronger, a little more vigilantly. Someone else listened and said *yes, I’d like to give you money so you can do that* and they did, and I can honestly say it changed my life.

Happy 30th Anniversary, Martin Family Foundation. thank you for all you have done for me and for others at UW & beyond.

journal entries

I’m Still Not Tired of Your Company, aka A Valentine

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

Happy Valentine’s Day! To all of you: beloved friends, community acquaintances, readers, family, old friends, and new.

I appreciate you and I’m grateful we have this weird, modern medium to use to keep us connected. Valentine’s day is weird and can be isolating and too full of Hallmark for comfort, but I still think excuses to celebrate love, tell people we love them, and spend quality time together (well, that’s my love language anyway), are all generally positive and I gratefully accept an excuse to focus on it, and let you know that I am glad to know you all.

and:

To this incredible person, my partner, my spouse, my boy of almost 9 years, rife: I love you.

I’m grateful for our intense, beautiful, swoon-worthy courtship, grateful for our years of struggle to figure out how we fit together and what we are really going to do together and how we, two flawed humans, are going to make a life together, and grateful that we are looking forward into the future again with a vision for our partnership that stretches long beyond the horizon that I can see. I adore you. I never get tired of your company — ?? Which still confuses me, because I get tired of almost everybody else, massive introvert that I am. But I love you next to me on the couch, in the woods, crafting and listening to podcasts, or watching another episode of the Great British Baking Show when we should be sleeping. I love the way you take care of your chillest dog and my grouchy old lady cat, and how determined you are to make the world a better place by tending the earth, and how you are so patient and kind, and how you make art out of everything, even the flaws and things I used to label as decay or destruction. that you are in my life inspires me to be better, motivates me to step up and dream bigger, and makes me want to impress you.

I love you — today, & all the days we get to will have together, and the 3,072 days we’ve been together already.

miscellany

Sinclair & rife Are Leather Paper Dolls (& You Can Download Us!)

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

Since May 2019, rife & I have been leather title holders.

There are many outfits involved.

rife, being the artistic and very efficient boy he is, decided to make paper dolls of us, and all of our leather, so we could look through the outfits without having to try them all on.

Honestly, I’m not sure it saved any time, but it is damn cute!

(Yes, he can make a set for your, but he’s not cheap, and it takes about ten hours.)

If you want your very own Sinclair & rife Leather Paper Doll set, rife made a PDF for you to print and cut out.

Click here to download the PDFs of the Leather Paper Dolls

If you have any outfit ideas for us, we’d love to hear your suggestions!

cock confidence

Feeling Yourself: Getting Acquainted With Your New Strap On

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

So you bought a strap on harness and dildo — great! Exciting! Congratulations on choosing from the dozens of excellent products that are out there, and I hope it’s everything you wanted and more.

Ready to use it?

Sometimes, the distance between bringing the new toy home and actually using it with another person be a lot. Some of that might just be scheduling, and carving out the time for you and someone else to get sexy and lube up.

But some of it is fear, anxiety, or nervousness — and that can be harder to correct for. Sometimes our minds create barriers when there is none, even if — or perhaps especially if — it’s something we really want. If we don’t try, we don’t fail. We remain safer. But, in kink, and in sex toys and pleasure, taking a risk is very often where the pleasure is.

So perhaps it’s good to root out what kind of fear is happening. Actually listen to those voices in your head the next time they show up and rage at you: What if I screw up? What if I look ridiculous? What if I don’t know what I’m doing? What if I freeze? What if it slips out and I keep going and don’t notice because I can’t feel it? What if I like it, like, really a lot?

Just listen, and see what they’re saying. If it works to reason with yourself, you might be able to counter some of the concerns with facts or likelihood, but often, those kinds of voices don’t really run on fact-based logic, so it might not help.

And ya know, the fears might be founded. Some of those things might turn out to be true — but with time, and more confidence, and more experience, not only will there be less fear, but there will be more ability to shake off whatever potentially embarrassing things happen.

So. Let’s go.

Experiment with some of these things and see what feels best for you. These aren’t in any order, and they might not all work for you. That’s cool — just take what helps, & leave the rest.

And please — add your own ideas, if you have suggestions, in the comments.

1. Set It Up

First things first: Get it out of the packaging. Wash it thoroughly with mild soap and water. Sanitize it, if you like, by wiping it down with 10% bleach and 90% water, or running it through the dishwasher in the top shelf with no soap, or by boiling for a couple minutes.

Follow the directions about the harness that you bought and do a quick once-over clean of it. You don’t need to wash it in the washing machine, if it is machine-washable, or do a whole leather-safe soap and coat of oil, but you might want to wipe it down with a damp cloth.

It’s not so much because they are “dirty” and you should be worried about how they’ve been packaged so much as it’s about getting to know it’s care and feeding.

Depending on the harness you purchased, and what kind of body you have, you might also want to trim some of the excess off of your leg straps. Some of them come extra-long so to accommodate all kinds of body shapes, but if your body has been about the same size for a while, it’s probably safe for you to customize it to you, and trim it to fit. Assuming you’re not going to share it, of course.

2. Put It On

Yep, just put it on. Take some time for yourself and put it all the way on. Wear it around the house. Do the dishes. Answer some email.

You don’t have to stay in it too long — though it is useful to figure out where the harness might chafe, where the weight of the dildo pulls the harness, and how easily the straps slip. Plus, it’s excellent practice for putting it on and taking it off, for figuring out the fastest way to get the buckle and straps all in the right places, and for how to beat get it off.

Experiment with some different things to see what works best.

That means: put it on and wear it around a few times, not just once!

3. Get to Know It – aka, Masturbate, Masturbate, Masturbate

Jerk off with it! Read erotica, watch porn, or just let your mind wander. Thinking about the use of your strap on will help it be realistic, feel more like a part of you, and maybe even give you some insight about the kind of fantasies you might enjoy.

Take it in your hand and explore it. Imagine yourself feeling down into every inch of it, down all the way to the tip. When you touch it with your fingers, feel it where your fingertips meet it, but also try to feel it from the inside. Try a little harder. Strain for the feeling. You might find it more sensate than you expected.

Belladonna has a porn series called Strapped Dykes that could be inspiring, and of course there’s the Crash Pad series. Say Please and Best Lesbian Erotica 2012 have some of my favorite strap on stories in them. Give those a try.

4. Expand Your Proprioception

“Proprioception” is the felt sense of the edges of your body, and it’s changeable, possible to incorporate inanimate objects into your sense of yourself.

For example, consider when you’re wearing a big backpack. For a little while, for most of us, we will knock into things somewhat awkwardly when we first put it on. But if we wear it for a while, we can develop an expanded awareness and start to sense how far out behind us and to the side that it extends.

Same thing happened with driving a new car, or a bicycle.

This can happen with a strap on — or a whip, a flogger, a paddle — too.

Keep feeling into it. Keep trying it on and playing with it, feeling it in your body. It can take time, but it’s possible.

Add your own ideas, if you have suggestions, in the comments.

Thanks!

identity politics

Ready to Make Waves: Two Recent Inspirational Leather Speeches

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

I’ve heard more speeches in the leather community lately than I have ever in my life, and I gotta say — I’m moved. There is some beautiful oratory happening, some strong inspiration, some insight and sharing and vulnerability and power that I haven’t seen in a long time.

It’s how I used to feel, in feminist and queer activist circles. At all those rallies and meetings and events. But I haven’t felt that way about queer and feminist events in a while. Leather feels more at home, and more edgy, and like more relevant topics.

Here are two examples from this past year: Bianca Spencer, current Ms Rubber San Francisco, at the Ms Powerhouse Leather San Francisco contest, and Jack Thompson, at International Mr Leather in May of last year, delivering what became his winning speech.

Bianca Spencer’s speech from Ms Powerhouse Leather SF contest

Bianca, the current Ms Rubber San Francisco, gave this speech during the Ms Powerhouse Leather San Francisco contest — and I was moved. I mean, I think we all were. I haven’t been so inspired by a speech in a long time. Thank you, Bianca!

Congratulations Missy Boots on winning the title you have earned many times for over the past 14 years.

Thank you to Pedal Pups for letting The UnRuly Social Club take over their regular bar night for this amazing evening.

____

“Just for clarification purposes, I don’t care what gender the hospital assigned to you and then told your mama as they handed you off. But when I say women I mean ALL women. If you don’t know what that means, google. “

———

“We are blessed enough to live in a fetish rich area. Walking down the streets it’s not uncommon to see Corcoran’s or Wesco’s and a bar vest strolling down the Castro next to the tech bros in hoodies and rest of their awful fashion choices. But the moment I saw the leather pride flag displayed next to the bear flag at the Strut, it solidified my need to live here. 18 months later, I crossed the California border and haven’t looked back since. I was lucky, I had the access to pick up and live a whole new life. But not everyone is as lucky or has the same ability to find a home like ours. In most places I might be one of the only women nevermind the only black girl around.

In setting up the victory party, I was able to easily contact 4 separate groups predominately run by women to do the official after party. In less than 24hrs, we had 4 “yes’s” and official logos to boot. I didn’t need a directory or heavy online research to find them. Didn’t even need the search the dreaded dark pages of Fetlife. I just sent them a message on Facebook. But I also understand it wasn’t because of luck that I was able to find them. I wish it was that easy. The local women’s community is an example of hard work, dedication and nerve. They refused to give up. They joined leadership positions. They played the community politics. They took over corners of the bars with the best resting bitch face they could muster. And if it was a good night, they might have gone home bruised and bloody with a smile on their face instead of being chased out of whatever bar or party they tried to attend.

The Bay Area is home to some pretty big names, but its also filled with a plethora with unsung heroes who just came early to set up events, sold raffle tickets, showed up every weekend determined to get that bootblack shift, or even the femme with her crinoline and swing skirt who refused to give up and stood at that bar until someone served her. Non-male identifying Bootblacks elbowing to make space in the back of the bars because who was going to tell them they couldn’t. For every woman, non-binary person, trans person you know making space, there’s 5 more behind them who gave up the fight and went home because they are too tired and this must not be the space for them. And I’m not even going to begin to intersect race into this conversation….

As exhausted as we are, we still are fighting for visibility. Fighting for space. Today we get a lone rack of gendered clothing at one our most popular local leather stores and maybe one day I’ll see our bodies, complete with surgery scars, cellulite, body hair on a poster for a party or an major event without asking to be visible in the community we helped create. But even with all of the bullshit, we are still luckier than most. Most of the country is searching online looking for something someone anyone or anything that fits into what they feel in their heart or the deviant thoughts in their mind. We happen to live in an area where the groups of nonbinary folks, trans folks and women before us (and still us) hear the word no and think “oh honey. No isn’t a safe word”.

So we continue to fight. We continue to claim space. We continue to command the respect we deserve. We aren’t willing to let you forget that we are here. You will see us. And I’ll be damned, you will hear us.

For the majority of the kinky/fetish nonbinary, trans folks and women there are bars we don’t feel safe walking into, if we are even welcome to walk through the front door. Which we usually aren’t. We have to think about safety in a way cis man don’t. Thank you but the bathroom is NOT the only place where we need to feel safe.

We have to continually prove ourselves just to receive basic levels respect. (How many times do I need to give you my resume?) We are told to give up our precious time with family or fuck buddies to join a board , be on a committee, or we just do the damn work ourselves because my apparently voice isn’t important enough to listen to unless I dedicate how many volunteer hours?

There have been many discussions over women and non-binary bar titles. I have been asked about my experiences in and outside our little local leather bubble usually by gay cis men. After I tell them what happened the other day in a bar, online or while visiting a proprietor that I literally want to give my money to or where I might be one of the handful of women present. Typically I hear “I had no idea… I thought we fixed this…. I am so sorry but is it really the space for you?”. Yes. Yes it is. So I have decided that our marginalized communities don’t need to talk more, you need to listen better. As my first grade teacher Mrs. Costa instilled “use your listening ears” which easily translates to zip your lip and open your heart.

To quote a long forgotten white man: “don’t forget that Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did…backwards and in high heels.’ While those gender norms are antiquated, it showcases the amount of times we have bent over backwards and danced the danced. And for what? In the year of our Queen, in ‪Beyoncé‬’s 2019 , while hearing ‪Lizzo‬ blasting from every apartment and bar with a rainbow flag attached, I sometimes still can’t get served without a man ordering my drink for me. But you happily tell me to sashay and slay.

So one of the questions I would like to ask those running these contests “is this space safe for the person running for this title”? Do I see them as an ambassador to the community or as a box we checked off? Can they be here without me and feel welcomed? What about those without a winning patch on their back or a title to their name, Is their space for them here?”

I implore the first Ms. Powerhouse to not only make space for themselves but pave the way for others who will never grace this stage. Whose name isn’t regularly popping up on someone’s Facebook feed. Who hasn’t found community yet, but is getting ready to step foot into their first leather bar and is absolutely fucking terrified.

I hope you piss people off. I hope you stand firm in your beliefs. You might become tired and frustrated. But we are here with you. I will stand behind you when you start to stumble. Because while this might be “just another bar title” to some. I know you are much more than that. You have already made history. You are already courageous. You will speak in places that some of us will never get the opportunity to grace. Use your voice. Make it loud. Make it clear. and when you need to be louder, ask me for mine. As Malala Yousafzai once said “I raise up my voice—not so that I can shout, but so that those without a voice can be heard. … We cannot all succeed when half of us are held back.” Collectively we have been impatiently waiting to meet you and will do everything in our power to support you. “Individually we are one drop, together we are an ocean.”

And girl I’m ready to make waves.

Thank you.

Transcript of Bianca's speech
close

Jack Thompson’s speech at International Mr. Leather

I haven’t found the transcript for Jack’s speech yet, though I think I saw one at some point so I do think it’s out there somewhere. Jack is breaking down boundaries as an out, bi-racial, bisexual, HIV-positive trans man, and there has been some push back from the cis men in leather, but equally powerful support. It seems clear to me why he won, when I heard this. #JackIsMyIML

identity politics

Resources For Sex & Chronic Pain

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

A friend of mine recently asked me if I had any resources for chronic pain and sexuality. I knew of a few off the top of my head, but I started looking around, and querying in a few of the sex educator groups I’m in, and on Twitter, and compiled this list.

Thanks to everyone who weighed in and made suggestions!

What else do you all recommend? Please leave them in the comments.

Spoon Theory

Y’all probably know about the spoon theory — it is very widely popular in many circles, not only when talking about ability, written by Christine Miserandino. If you don’t, highly recommend you familiarize yourself with it — here’s the sweet article that started it all, over on ButYouDontLookSick.com.

Websites

Chronic Sex – & their Podcast
KinkAcademy.com – Shanna Katz & Wintersong Tashlin have series on sex & disability
Sexability.com – Rafe Biggs
Disability After Dark – Andrew Gurza
SexAbled – Robin Wilson-Beattie

Twitter

SexAbled – Robin Wilson-Beattie

Corey Alexander

Articles

Books

Partners in Passion – short section starts p374, but there are resources throughout the book
The Monster Under the Bed: Sex, Depression, & the Conversations We Aren’t Having – JoEllen Notte’s new book, forthcoming March 2020
Am I Ugly? – from the author: “First third talks about chronic illness, and the last third talks about sex in relation to surgery scars.”

D/s Books

Kneeling in Spirit: Disabled Submissives

Conference

Sex & Disability conference – happened in 2017 but there are listings for presenters and resources here

miscellany

Which D/s Webinars Should rife + I Produce in 2020?

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

I didn’t expect the launch of the D/s webinars in 2018 to be such a big deal. The monthly webinars have become the primary way rife and I teach online, and I’m very excited to continue to have that platform to explore D/s topics, connect with other folks who are in D/s relationships, and talk about queer, nonbinary D/s.

This year, we did so many amazing topics:

  • Art of Ownership
  • Ask Us Anything
  • The Protocol Game
  • Fundamentals of Dominance
  • Self-Growth Through Dominance
  • Doctor D/s: Troubleshooting the Hard Stuff
  • … and more!

And, of course, we produced D/s Playground!

We turned our 8-week course Submissive Playground into an on demand ecourse for all kinds D/s orientations. It’s now online & live at dsplayground.com and you can sign up now! (Patrons get access to the course for as long as they are a patron.)

Now, it’s time to plan 2020

I took a poll over on Patreon early in December, and I have narrowed it down to some topics. My ideal is to do four webinars about D/s dynamics in general, four on submission, and four on dominance.

On Submission:

  • Actually I’m not sure yet. I didn’t break out many topics in the poll I did on Patreon, and rife & I haven’t sat down to talk about what topics for submissives would be best
  • Got any ideas?

On D/s dynamics in General

  • D/s as a Spiritual Path
  • Top/bottom vs Dominant/submissive
  • Nonbinary D/s
  • Feminist Sadism is not an oxymoron (and other things we feel guilty about)

Though, to be honest, I want to continue to do the Protocol Game in December as a way to prepare for the new year — it’s such a good time to do it! Maybe that’ll be a special bonus webinar? Hmm.

On Dominance

  • The Vulnerable Dominant
  • Self-Growth Through Dominance
  • Decision Fatigue & Other Responsibilities (receiving as a dom, giving orders, commanding presence, dominant aftercare – things like that)
  • ??

Secret Plan: Dominant Fireside Chats

I mentioned “dominant fireside chats” in the poll on Patreon, and it got quite a bit of votes! I love love love this idea, I’ve been thinking about it for years. So, I added it as a goal on Patreon — at a certain level of $, I’ll host one fireside chat a month (or maybe every other month? Is once a month too much? I’ll consider) and sit down to talk about dominance with another dominant, and take questions. That would be so much fun. There really aren’t enough dominant resources out there, I’d love to contribute to that conversation.

Support me on Patreon if you want to help me meet this goal and make this happen!

So, what do you think?

Got any other requests for 2020 webinars? What topics are you itching to explore? What are the kinks (hah) that come up in your D/s dynamic frequently? What kind of topics do you find yourself discussing with your friends all the time? I’d love to know.

guest posts

Let It All Go, Boy: Part Two, Guest Post by Sonya Bolus

Posted on by Sonya Bolus

Content: mommy/boy role play, sex. All characters are consenting adults. Read Part One here.

**

Mommy:

I pull away. Stand up, looking down at you.

“You need to stop. Now!”

You look stricken. Poor boy. Still dazed, struggling with your lust. You are embarrassed. And sorry. I can see it in your eyes. I soften my tone.

“Don’t worry, little one. I’m not angry. You’re not in trouble. I just need you to understand. Privilege like that is earned. When I want you to touch me, I will invite you. I will direct you.”

I step closer, bending down and touching your cheek. “I know you didn’t mean anything wrong. You are a very good, very sexy boy.” You smile tentatively.

I sit with you, stroking your cheek and hair for a while, like you are my creature: petting you, lulling you. Then, in a low voice, almost a whisper in your ear, I speak. “I know what you need, boy.” Your eyes get wide. I run my hand possessively over the length of your bared body. “And I’ll take what I want.”

When you breath out with a silent “oh”, I pull you to me and kiss your mouth with all of my hunger and desire exposed. Crush your lips with mine, use my teeth on you, press my mouth against you so you can’t turn away or catch your breath.

Then, using your short, disheveled hair, I roughly bend your head back, holding it there to stroke your throat with my nails, graze your jugular with my teeth. Then very gently, like a shadow touch, a hint, I wrap your neck with my hand, placing the slightest pressure on your throat.

Oh, sweet boy, how can I resist you? You don’t know how your pretty eyes make me ache, make my cunt drip, make my Femme-cock harden. Dear little boy, you make me ravenous, and I can’t help myself!

I release your wrists, shove you down. Run my hands firmly up your thighs. Over your torso and chest, your hard, small nipples brushing my flat palms.

Then down again. I want you open beneath me. Hungry now, I press your legs apart. I want you to give me your butch-virginity, again and again. All boy. All dyke. All stone melted, flowing. Searing hot lava pouring from my boy’s hungry cunt, slick and steaming on my hand, lubricating my entry as I slip my fingers into you, spreading you slowly wider until my folded hand slides into you, and I take possession. Mine. I have you.

For a moment, you panic and your body stiffens. I stop and hold my hand motionless inside you, swathed in your swollen, silky inner flesh. I allow a moment of stillness while your mind catches up with reality and sensation.

Then, beginning with minuscule movements, I start to gently pump you with my fist. Slowly, your tensed muscles melt. With each penetration and retreat, a slight twisting of my forearm eases the stroke. I’m moving languidly, gradually dipping my fist deeper into you, taking a little more, pushing further. Your legs are relaxed and unconsciously splayed, but your hips push up at me, thrusting almost imperceptibly. Your eyes are screwed shut, hands clenching the sheet at each side, like you’d fall through the bed if you let go. You are focused, tuned to the frequency of invasion and disconsonant sensation. Your lips are dry from panting and the guttural groans that accompany each thrust. You are opening beautifully, boy.

Now I move harder and quicken my stroke, fucking you rough and deep. Your moans are long, drawn out, filled with vibrato and pitching higher until you are wailing and keening. Your kegels are a tight band on my wrist and you unwittingly crush my fingers together inside you. Every part of you is tensed, straining. Thigh muscles, taut and shaking, hold your full cunt higher, seeking release.

I don’t let you come. No, not yet. I want to keep you straining for me, begging. So I pull out, amused by your surprise and taking a small thrill in the tears of frustration that wet your eyes.

“Silly, little boy. Did you forget?” I purr, “I own you tonight. You are my toy for the moment. You funny thing… to think I would let you get off so easily.”

I turn you over abruptly, press you face-down into the mattress. Move to your side and hold you down, my left forearm pressing the back of your neck and shoulders.

Don’t wriggle. Don’t cry. You did this to me. Your pretty-boy body, firm and yielding. Your pretty-boy face, flushed and bright. The tousled, sweaty hair. You must know how you provoke my desire. You, with your hopeful, wanting eyes. The mix of hunger and confusion and eagerness. Your surrender, peppered with fear and seasoned with arousal. This little boy is crying for Mama. Why should I resist?

I don’t.

I know you need it. But the first smack to your ass is unexpected. A shock. Yes! The electric snap of energy. The biting pain. I feel the sting on my hand when I strike you, and I watch your ass cheeks quiver and redden. It is a sharp surprise, and you yelp. I almost laugh out loud at such guilelessness. But I don’t want to bruise your pride along with your body.

“Time for a proper spanking, boy.”

I release your neck and teasingly rake my fingernails down your spine almost to your butt crack. Your ass reflexively tips up. Now that you know what I want, you steady yourself to accept it, lifting up onto hands and knees, ass completely available.

“Such a brave little lad,” I praise you. “What a fetching little boy you are, when you know your place.” I smack you soundly. Then again. And again, building a rhythm that makes us into a fluid machine, working together seamlessly toward some unnamed goal.

In a smooth, instinctive movement, I wrap my left arm around your lower back and drag you by your waist, unresisting, to me. Hold you close and tight across my lap where I’m kneeling on the bed, with your head resting face down on the mattress to my left. Your ass is perfectly positioned for me. With my dominant right hand, I whack your already hot and red-purple cheeks. Harder, now. You are doing so well, my little boy with tears in your eyes.

I ball my hand into a fist and punch the soft muscle of your bottom. I laugh lightly when you jump. “I need to bruise you, little one, so you can relive this moment when you examine yourself in the mirror tomorrow.”

Once, twice, three more times I punch your cheek. You give a little yelp with each blow. Then you groan, a husky sound filled with hurt and desire. I move to the other cheek, throw a smack like a whipcrack, then deliver three hard little punches in quick succession. You breathe in, sharply, and release it in a loud moan that breaks into a genuine sob.

Not much more tonight, then. This is too fragile, yet. It is too soon to push you further.

So when I strike you again, it is softer. And I leave my hand pressed motionless against your heated skin until your shuddering breath settles into a regular rhythm. Then I tenderly caress you with my fingertips, softly blowing cool air on your hurts. You relax into the gentle touch with a childlike sigh. I bend and very lightly kiss that hot skin. Another sigh. I pause, take a deep, quiet breath. Savor the moment before I move on you.

I almost denied you this proper finish. But I enjoy how you willingly suffer for me, and I believe you can take this last torment. So I grasp a pliable handful of your ass cheek and twist your hurting flesh, digging hard into the developing contusions, while you cry out in surprise and pain. I release my grip and then crush the flesh of your other bruised and burning cheek, driving my fingernails into you like teeth. I relish how you do your best to silence your cries, but I love the sounds of your pain when you can’t. Silence bores me.

I let go with a little shove, pushing you away before I go further, barely able to contain the ferocious hunger you inspire. You are on your belly, breathing hard, and I let you have a moment, while I gather myself and excruciatingly tamp my fire down to a less destructive flame. Then, I lay my hand flat against your back between your shoulder blades and help you steady, breathing with you. When your breath is even and calmed, you slightly tip up your butt, quietly offering it to me again.

“What a good boy,” I croon. “Hmmm … do you think you deserve more?”

I reach for the pump bottle full of J-lube sitting discreetly next to the table lamp, and I drizzle the slippery cool wetness over the crack of your ass, using my thumb to open you and get it up in there until your hole is as slick as your boy-cunt. I ignore the noises you are making as I slather lube over the length of my hard, black cock, stroking it like I can sense every touch. I feel the power of it, this extension of myself that you will accept as part of me. I pull your hips close to me and rest your dripping asshole against the head. I see you are shaking. Desire? Fear? Fatigue? There is a moment of holding back.

“Tell me you want this,” I demand in a low voice. “Be truthful. Don’t lie to me. I’ll know.”

No hesitation: “Yes! yes! Please!” You are flustered and so earnest. Heart-meltingly earnest. Your words tumble out like marbles falling all over each other.

“Yes! I want You… I mean this. I want this! I need to be Yours. Please, Ma’am? I mean… Mommy.
I want Your… uh… dick? I mean … Is that ok? I do, though. I want it. In me. Please? I mean … if you want me… Mommy? Do you?”

You take a deep breath. Then very softly, “Please fuck me, Mommy. I need… I need you to fuck me.”

So nervous, but so very genuine. You make me want to laugh and hug you and fuck you and hurt you and own you and take such good care of you. But mostly, I want to fuck you.

“Oh I want you, little boy,” I growl. “I want your Tight. Little. Hole.”

You suck in air. Mmmm… I love your hunger, love your need. Your trust and fear. It is all so… delightful and… delicious.

Then quietly, I answer your request, “Yes, you may have Mama’s cock. You have been very well behaved, very honest. And you deserve. To be fucked. By your Mommy.”

‘Your Mommy’. These are powerful words. I think you know that I don’t throw them around like they are anything but sacred. They are an invocation. A baptism. These words name you and claim you. I’m not Mommy to just any cute, horny, butch bottom. I can’t be Mommy for a scene and then walk away.

This is me, accepting responsibility for your body and heart, your want and need. And it is me letting down my guard and entrusting you with my dark and vulnerable self.

How is it that I know so soon … really know … that you are my boy. And I am your Mommy. It hasn’t been long enough. I never take on a D/s relationship like this so quickly, especially Mommy/boy. I don’t understand it, but I don’t have any question in my heart or mind that this is right. I feel a rush of almost painful joy, and I wonder if I’m going to spill tears on your back. I suddenly want to gather you up into my arms and whisper “My boy, My boy” into your ear over and over, kissing you and feeling you against me. But instead, I press gently against your tightness with the tip of the dildo that is also my dick. I need you. Like this. Now.

I take you slowly this first time, this exquisite first possession of your ass. I maintain an insistent, gentle pressure, moving very slightly in and out, nudging you open. I feel it when you release, the ripple of acceptance passing through your body. You sigh as I slide through and in. Filling you. All the way in. I stay there, sunk deep in you, your hot, sore flesh against my skin and the harness. Silence holds the moment. Then I begin to slowly stroke myself inside you. I watch my cock fucking in and out of you, see it stretch your distended hole, watch your tender skin hugging my shaft, moving with it. I listen to your groaning and the rhythmic, wet sound of slow fucking. God, I feel you. I feel myself inside you.

We are in our own small sphere of time and space. The room has faded, the apartment, dinner, personal ads… all faded into the outside world of everyday. Time stretches, somehow viscous. The air is denser, humid, hazy. In this moment we have our own microcosm of sensation, the synergistic dynamism of a perfectly crafted engine, a capsule universe webbing us with bright, breathless energy.

You moan: a low guttural howl. And I feel the fear finally, fully drain from you, weeping from you as if from a lanced wound. Your shoulders are shaking: silent sobs, (I keep slow-fucking you). You pull yourself together, groan and whimper, (I don’t stop). Then you grunt and push against me, wanting more, begging with your body for pleasure.

We begin moving together in a hard rhythm. Each thrust is a shared heartbeat, pumping the tide of heat flowing between us. I bend forward, take a gentle-firm grip on the back of your neck; you strain back toward me, like a bridled horse, unconsciously obeying my touch. I slip my hand up into your hair, combing through your soft, short curls, then grasp them in my fist, holding you, bending you back to me.

“Mine. I fuck you to make you Mine, boy,” I growl. And you give it to me. Your tears and sweat and your body fucking me back, insistent. Your asshole strained and accommodating, so willing.

I want to feel your body against me, so I bend forward, supported by my hands on either side of you. And you curl down and arch your back into me. My body envelops you, my breasts pressed to your skin. I shift my weight to my left arm. With my right hand, I reach around your pelvis to find your cunt hole dripping. I slip two fingers into you, thumb against your clit, and moan with the thrill of your heat, liquid fire lust. You pump against my hand, carnal animalistic grunts escaping your throat. But I can’t fuck you properly in this awkward position, and before long, I pull my fingers away, reach for your hand and guide it to your crotch.

“Be a good boy and make yourself come while I fuck your pretty ass.” My voice is husky and distant. You pant your tremorous reply. “Yes. Mommy.”

I kneel up, knees planted on the bed behind you, ready and eager to fuck you for my pleasure alone. My desire is blinding; I want the wild ride, driving you like a beast. But instead, I force myself to hold back, and I pace myself to you, listening to your body, matching your desire. Because… I want your come, boy. That is my pleasure tonight.

Your hand is busy. “Oh God! Oh yes!” you whisper, and say it again. “Yes. God, yes!” Chanting it in sync with each thrust I make. Your breath is quickening and the energy in the room pulses like a live thing. My mind dives deep into the blur of your pleasure and our synergy. I feel your orgasm gathering. “Oh my God! Yes!” You howl, “Yessss! Please!” Your muscles tighten, your ass tries to push me out. But I push back and give you just that much more until you convulse and shout, “Yours! I’m Yours!” and your body spasms and spasms again, and then again.

But you are still stroking yourself intently and still moaning: a long, drawn out, “Ohhhhhhh,” almost as if you are surprised by what you feel. Your moan pitches higher and suddenly all of your muscles clench, hard and juiced. You are frozen, tense and mute. Then the wave breaks; you wail and howl, riding the swell of pleasure I can see and feel pulsating through you. I press my cock deep in you, holding your hips and pulling you against my pubic bone, pulling your orgasm up against me. Your thighs are shaking. You cry so sexily, “Oh Mommy. Oh Mommy.” Over and over like a mantra.

And I cum from your cum. It always shocks me when I climax without physical stimulation. Not earth-shattering, but a surprising, gushing pleasure. My cunt contracts and throbs, and clear ejaculate sprays from me, drenching your ass, trickling hot down your thighs and mine. A lovely way to end things, you covered in my cum. Like an animal, marked and claimed. I hold myself stiff inside your ass and enjoy the bright moment. I deep inhale, tasting the sex in the air. Exhale and savor your exhaustion, satiation and post-come, starry-eyed pleasure. I am finished, so I pull out slowly, releasing your hips. You whimper just the tiniest bit and crumple to the soaked sheet below. I love what I can do to you, boy.

I lie down next to you and draw you very close, lifting a blanket over our bodies, murmuring softly, “Dear boy, sweet boy. My darling boy.” Kiss your head and face and stroke your shoulders until you drift into sleep nestled in my arms. Sleeping in your own wetness and mine. Sleeping like an angel. I live for this; these magical moments.

But, you don’t know.

You don’t know what goes on in my head.

Lying here with you sleeping in my tender embrace, I imagine all that I might do to you. There is a caged Tiger in me that hungers and wants release. My hunger is dangerous, darling boy. My hunger wants to violate you, tear you open, destroy your innocence.

Oh yes, Mommy wants her sweet boy to take it hard. Mommy wants to slip a hand over the boy’s mouth, keep you quiet while I use you. I’ll push my fingers into your mouth so you can suck for comfort while I force you. I’ll croon in your ear, “Be a good, quiet boy and I’ll give you what you really want. I’ll give you the fuck you need.”

I want to watch you try not to cry, try not to turn away or disobey, try so hard to offer yourself to me like a good boy. (I know you can do it. I know you can take it, boy. Make Mommy proud.) I’ll fuck you until you hurt. I’ll hurt you until you’re Mine. I’ll push up in there and give you the deepest drilling you’ve ever had. I’ll open you so wide. I’ll break you. Break you.

You know why I want to hurt you, don’t you, my boy? It’s because you are good. The sweeter you are, the more I want to beat you, cut you, choke you. You seduce me with your trust and naivete, and I can’t stop myself. I want your tears. I want to hear your suffering. The more you snuggle into my arms, the more I want to fuck your mind, blind-side you, turn you roughly over and ram into you, hurt you and take my pleasure in your pain and submission. You’re just a little boy, but I’ll use you for my fuck hole. My little rough-trade boy-bitch.

Someday, maybe soon, the Tiger will emerge, with claws and teeth, eager to devour you. Perhaps I will wrap your neck in my hands, choke you until I see your eyes roll back, until your lips are purple-blue and you start to go slack. Bring you back from the edge and do it again.

Perhaps, I will take a steel cane to you, bring up welts, maybe blood. Then fuck you from behind, wearing a spiked harness, scraping and abrading your hurt skin with every thrust.

Oh my boy, I will cum so hard in you, I will finally be truly gratified, fully satiated.

Exhausted, sweat dripping from my breasts and clinging to my hair. Pumping the last of my cum into you. My legs buckling so that I fall onto you. Collapse on you, pinning you down, breathing in gasps and shuddering, my cock still wedged hard in your ass, still owning you.

But, dear boy, before I destroy you, I need to love you first. I need to trust you. I need to know you. Because when I pull out of you and roll to my side, spent, for a brief moment I will be yours, letting it all go. Crying, maybe.

You see, I need your gratitude. I need your forgiveness. I need you to tell me “thank you”, so I know I didn’t hurt your spirit. Tell me you love me, that you are always mine. Then I’ll know I haven’t truly broken your mind or damaged your trust. Smile and kiss me, so I know you can take it, whatever I need to do to my boy. Rest in my arms, so I know you want me, Tiger and Lover. Mommy and Master.

I’ll float, while you stroke my back and hold me quietly until I can move. Until I am your Mama once more and can take care of you again.

Then I’ll hold my broken boy until my love can knit you back into joy, bright-eyed wonder, devotion. So you can stand proud and whole, my strong Leatherboy. Precious Mommy’s boy. Cling close, and I’ll embrace you until my own heart melts, and I’ll know I have loved you how you need it. How I need it. How it can only be for a Mommy and a boy.

kink

Cartography of Control: A Map For Areas of Dominance & Submission

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

When it comes to control in D/s dynamics, there are a lot of questions to ponder and theorize about.

How do you give over even more to your dominant? How do you take more from your submissive?

How do you work out what your limits are?

How do you take or give more control?

How do I start making rules and protocols outside of the bedroom?

Or maybe you’re just in a D/s dynamic that is excellent, but you both want a little … more? So perhaps the question is simply, How do you step up your D/s dynamic?

This theory can help address all of these.

The Cartography of Control is a Map

The cartography of control maps out areas of someone’s (generally the s-type) life, and codes them into categories to share which areas they would like to have under someone else’s control and which areas they would like to keep for themself.

The first step is to brainstorm different life areas. These are probably endless, but there are some broad umbrella categories that applies to most folks. Here are some areas to start with:

Kink/BDSM activities
Orgasms/sex
Partners
Friends
Community
Family
Pets
Tidiness
Money
Spirituality
Gender
Emotions
Sleep
Speech
Stuff/possessions
Medical
Goals
Time Management
Media
Opinions
Education
Work/profession
Body modifications
Posture
Grooming
Dress
Politics
Hobbies
Fitness
Drugs
Therapy
Food
Alcohol

It’s always possible to think of more things, or to get a lot more specific about things within the categories — grooming, for example, could be divided into how someone keeps their hair, shaving, what products they use in the shower, makeup, their skincare routine — all sorts of things. But for now, we’ll keep the categories broad and divide it into specifics later.

Sort the Categories Into Yes, No, or Maybe

Now that you have a somewhat robust list — it doesn’t have to be exhaustive, but at least is a complete enough list for you to start — sort them into three different categories:

  1. Areas the submissive would like the dominant to have control over
  2. Areas that the dominant could possibly have control over, depending on [certain] circumstances
  3. Areas the submissive would like to retain their own control and final decisions over
One of the things rife often says is that he can’t give over any area where he himself does not have control. For example, if he was a smoker, he couldn’t give his nicotine addiction over to me, because he isn’t in control of it. I could help him with a plan to stop smoking, but I couldn’t just say, “You are no longer addicted,” and exercise control.
This is quite simplified; you could develop more categories to sort things in to, like “areas I will give over after the permanent collar is on,” or “areas you can control

For now, don’t worry about whether or not the dominant wants to control these categories. That’s a separate step. Just think about the submissive’s part in it, and whether they could or are willing to give up control.

One way to sort these is to write all your categories out on paper, then use different colors to denote which ones are which. Red could mean “no, I will keep control,” yellow/orange could mean, “maybe, depending on circumstances,” and green could mean, “yes, I would like my dominant to have control over these.”

Yes, you can change your mind — fine tune it, think through it, do thought experiments and make educated guesses about how future you would feel if certain areas were under someone else’s control.

Like this:

After you have the areas sorted, it’s time for the dominant’s part.

Next, make a separate chart of areas the dominant would like to have control over, could maybe take control over depending on circumstances, and would not like control over.

Now you should have two sets of lists. Time to compare them

Start with the yeses — those are the low-hanging fruit, the control that is easily on the table! Find the areas where you are both a yes — that’s your sweet spot. There are probably months of explorations inside just those areas alone!

But if you want to keep digging in, find the areas where one of you is a yes and one of you is a maybe, and discuss. Maybe you’ll discover some places where you want to grow more trust, or some parameters for the relationship that you hadn’t previously discussed.

When you’re ready to start exploring a particular area, brainstorm all kinds of things within that category that you could control, and start experimenting with protocol.

But first, a quick word about protocol:

Remember — only add one or two protocols at a time into a dynamic. It sets up the submissive to actually succeed at remembering what the protocols are, and doing them. Plus, it helps the dominant to remember and recognize when the protocol is or isn’t being done, and to act if it does not happen — which is another key piece of managing protocol.

You’re also perfectly set up to start playing with the Protocol Game, if that appeals to you! The cartography of control is a perfect way to figure out some of your training areas, and build the game from there.

Hopefully, figuring out your cartography of control will help identify areas where you can dive deeper into your dominance and submission.

journal entries

A Bullet-Point Decade

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

Inspired by Maggie Stiefvater, who has quickly become one of my favorite authors after reading the Raven Cycle series, here is a bullet-pointed list of what I’ve done this decade.

  • Published Say Please, Best Lesbian Erotica 2012, Sweet & Rough: Queer Kink Erotica, the novella series, Erotix, and Best Lesbian Erotica of the Year Volume 4 (2020) … basically, all of the books that I’ve published came out this decade
  • Published stories in 20+ books, not even sure I can count them all
  • Wrote a column on Autostraddle for a year and a half
  • Met & fell in love with rife … had countless adventures, had a collaring ceremony, received a cover from him in front of the monthly leather group we’ve attended for six years, threw the most incredible 5-day party/destination travel wedding in my hometown
  • Moved from Brooklyn to Oakland, in part to be with the boy and in part because I’ve always wanted to live in the San Francisco Bay Area and I felt complete with New York City
  • Ran for and won a leather title with rife (this is a tiny entry in this list but it is a really huge accomplishment)
  • Traveled to 34 states, 5 provinces in Canada, Puerto Rico, and Mexico
  • Finally figured out what was at the root of some of my health problems: got diagnosed with a systemic candida infection and spent two years (mostly successfully) trying to clear it from my system
  • Got top surgery / a breast reduction surgery that has greatly improved my body
  • Applied for 25+ jobs, 4 grad schools, 2 writing residencies, 5 writing awards that I did not receive
  • Received alumni of the year from my gender studies department at my undergrad college
  • Received three awards from the National Leather Association for my writing
  • Judged three different literary contests — National Leather Association, Lambda Literary Awards, and Publishing Triangle Awards — multiple times
  • Judged the International Ms Leather contest
  • Taught dozens of classes at dozens of venues across the US & Canada
  • Was completely rearranged by the sudden, unexpected death of my dad in 2012
  • Learned brush lettering, rekindled my love for tarot cards, stepped up my journal game with bullet journal techniques (though I was doing something similar to that before the craze started! #beforeitwascool)
  • Dug deep into my own mental health, eventually landing on a diagnosis of c-PTSD, which has been a huge relief slash one of the hardest things I’ve ever faced
  • Witnessed the spiraling out of control death of my ego in 2018 that rearranged me even more than the death and change of 2012 did
  • Committed myself to the spiritual practice of buddhism & kashmir shivism (with a good heap of pagan witchiness thrown in there too)
  • Became a teacher in a lineage in which I’ve studied since 1999 (through Body Trust); founded an erotic embodiment company with three beloveds!
  • Got the root canal in my front tooth rebuilt, which was needed for a long time and was probably a low-level infection in my body for ~ten years
  • Ran a queer reading series in New York City with Cheryl B, which enabled us to host and support incredible queer writers from all over
  • Spent time on the board of the BUTCH Voices conference, running their media team
  • Launched a Patreon for Sugarbutch, which has completely changed my life and finally, finally, finally enabled me to feel like people really do want me to keep writing and publishing here
  • Spent time doing yoga, running (3x 5k races), boxing, and weightlifting, and continue to practice finding the pleasure in moving my body
  • Completed a sacred intimate year-long training, which has been one of the biggest things I’ve ever done for spiritual growth in my life
  • Moved to an apartment in Oakland which is my favorite home I’ve ever lived in, aside from my childhood home … maybe even including that
  • Continue to live with a cat who is now an old lady who is only slightly grumpy and very very cuddly
  • Maintained & grew Sugarbutch! Posting around 5-7x a month for the last thirteen years, since 2006
  • Went back into the workforce after losing my job in 2009, worked at a wine store, a hyperbaric chamber spa, a gender & sexuality research center, and a queer speakers bureau
  • Am beginning the career change into tech by taking classes and learning the lingo, trying to figure out what I’m doing
  • Learned to ride a motorcycle & got a license
  • Had one flying lesson and flew an airplane, just for a minute!

I could probably keep going. Maggie’s list is far more precise and interesting, but “had two #1 NYT bestsellers” wasn’t on my list this decade — perhaps for the next one.

So many of these accomplishments are about teaching & writing, which makes sense, as they’re where I spend the majority of my time. I’m noticing there’s a lot about travel, spirituality, health, and relationships, too. I think I’d like more bucket list items on there, more exciting moments of interest, more hobbies.

It’d be interesting to write a 2030 (!!) decade in review list and vision some of the things I’d like to do in the next ten years. That feels a little too tender and vulnerable to share here, but perhaps I’ll make some notes in my notebook.

cock confidence

There’s A New Packer & Stroker From New York Toy Collective: Meet Jack

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith


So cute, right?

First of all: What’s a stroker?

There’s a growing number of “stroker” toys out there, which are usually around three inches long and contain a hole at one end, to be able to insert a large clit or small dick. For most folks, this means having taken a testosterone supplement for a while — though anatomy size varies, and there are folks who are large enough without it.

Once the stroker is on, it is made to create some suction and be able to be rocked back and forth. Sounds pretty great, right? The kicker is whether or not it’ll actually fit your body parts snugly and create the suction and sensation that it promises. If you already know your clit/dick is sizable, you’ll be fine, but if you tend to be on the small side, I hate to break it to ya, but you probably won’t fit. New York Toy Collective explains: “Jack can stretch to accommodate larger anatomy. Jack may work with smaller anatomy but will not create any suction during use.”

The opening on Jack is 1/2”. You could get a tape measure out and actually figure out your own diameter, if you really want to know. But if you haven’t taken testosterone and you don’t already know that you have a larger than average clit, it probably won’t fit.

But don’t worry — Jack has many talents!

He’s squishy and kinda small and neat and just cute! Jack is also a packer.

New York Toy Collective also makes a packing strap or a magnetic pouch that are optional add-ons, and works very well with Jack. You can make your own packing strap or pouch with a sock or two, too.

More Details on Jack

Four colors — cashew, caramel, hazelnut, chocolate
100% soft silicone
Internally ribbed
Will create suction for anatomy at least 1/2″ in diameter.

Outer Dimensions:
3 x 3 x 1 1/2″
3″ long shaft
1 1/2″ shaft diameter

Cavity Dimensions:
5/8″ max diameter (this silicone is very stretchy and can accommodate larger anatomy)
3/8″ min diameter (anatomy narrower than this will not activate product suction)
2 1/2″ depth

If you’re looking for a small silicone packer, this is a great option.

Head over to New York Toy Collective & purchase Jack — use code SUGARBUTCH on orders more than $50 to get $5 off

guest posts

Let It All Go, Boy: Part One, Guest Post by Sonya Bolus

Posted on by Sonya Bolus

Content: mama/boy age play, sex.

 

Dyke Mama seeks little boy. Leatherboy. Butch. Non-negotiable: compassion, integrity, Leather Heart. Any age, size, ethnicity, etc. Are you willing? Let’s play.

***

boy:

I’ve got my coffee, black. Cruise on through the back door of The Brew Zone coffee shop and find a metal bistro table with two chairs in the rear patio. The air is hot, but misters lightly cool my skin. Feels great, but my hair is starting to cling to my forehead in short, annoying, curls. Dammit, I’m trying to look my butch best here. And now my white tee, half tucked into well worn jeans, is damp, too. My feet are sweltering in heavy, polished boots. I sit down, attempt a pose, and wonder what the hell I’m doing.

Thirty-two, scrawny, butch leatherboy waiting on a blind date with some internet stranger. Is this stupid?

But what choice did I have?

I’m a boy, and after being ashamed and shy about it for years, I’ve finally accepted that I want to be with a Leather Mommy. Well, good for me. Hurray. Whoop-dee-doo. Problem is, Daddies are everywhere, whereas no-one even mentions Mommies without a bit of a sneer. Total double standard. So because of some fucked up taboo, it’s practically impossible to find a queer, femme, Leather Mommy. Screw that! I’m 32 and sick of hiding, done with waiting. My options few, I had to cowboy up and post a personals ad. Not cool. Except, on that same day, some “Dyke Mama” puts up an ad looking for someone just like me. 

I don’t believe in coincidences, so here I am.

I check the back door again, for the zillionth time. Nothing. Maybe she stood me up. Maybe she saw me, didn’t like the goods, and decided to leave. Fuck that shit! I’m not going to humiliate myself waiting on a no-show. I start to get up, ready to blow this off, and then the door opens and a woman walks out into the sun. Her. Olive skin, blue-black dyed hair, a bit fat, older than me by at least ten years. She looks around, sees me, smiles like a cat and heads toward my table.

I swear I can feel some sort of energy radiating from her. Smacks me right upside the head. I forget to be cool. Forget everything. I’m just a tongue-tied, butch lump-in-a-chair. Looking up at her.

“Hello, little boy,” she purrs. Heat rises up my neck and flushes my cheeks. Great. Real sexy. But at least I remember to stand up and pull out her chair like a civil gentlebutch.

I check her out while I’m holding her chair. Her hips are wide, and they spread when she sits, overflowing the chair. She’s wearing matte-black men’s leather boots, dark jeans, a thick, intimidating black-leather belt — the classic Leather Uniform — but she wears it with a sheer white blouse, at least 20 thin bangles clinking on her wrists, long earrings almost to her shoulders, cropped hair, black cat eyeliner and red, red lips. A black lace bra shows through the blouse and her cleavage is … fuck, it’s incredible! I tear my eyes away, worried she’ll think I’m disrespecting her.

She smiles like she’s amused. “A lemonade would be nice.”

And — “Yes, Ma’am!” — I head inside for the cold drink, happy to occupy myself with something she wants. When I get back, I see her forehead is beaded with perspiration, and she’s sweating a bit through the thin blouse. I should have had ice water waiting for her, I kick myself. Good thing there wasn’t a line to get the lemonade. I place it carefully before her, scrape my chair back, and she nods very slightly, so I sit. God, she has kind eyes! Finally, I can smile at her. I know it’s a big, goofy, shiny smile, but she seems to like it, so it’s all good.

She takes an icy lemonade sip. I lick my lips. Then we do the small talk thing, generally shooting shit about the heat, our hobbies, coming out, work, the scene. I pull myself together, and I’m very charming, I think. I hope.

She pauses for a moment, then abruptly asks me “What did you come here looking for? A Mommy? Tell me what that means to you.”

I stumble a bit. “Um … Not some mean, ego-bound Mistress, doing Leather as performance, that’s for sure.” I nurse my cooling coffee. “And not a role-player or a weekend player.” I think hard about it, trying to put it into words for the first time. “I want a genuine Leather Mommy. A kind-spirited, nurturing Mommy. One who can take charge of me and take care of me, teach me and love me and … take me down.”

She considers this. “Are you a little boy?”

“Well, yeah. Guess so.” I know I’m blushing again. “But I still like to play hard. Rough. And to serve. I want all that, too.” Long pause, then quietly, “I need it.”

She nods, really listening to me. Then we start talking about limits and wants, boundaries and experience. Our conversation ramps up. Consensual this and Safe that. And Sane whatever. And I’m thinking: Yes, yes. Thank you for caring and reassuring me. I will do the same for you, Ma’am. But let’s get real: What can we both expect if we do this? I mean, what comes next?

To be honest, I’m half terrified, half excited and half horny as fuck. Yeah, I know: too many halves; it’s called “being overwhelmed.” She must see my anxiety, because she takes my hand across the table and holds it in hers. My racing thoughts calm a bit.

“Okay, here’s what it would look like, if you were my boy.” Her voice is tender and yes, maternal. “We could play games together and draw pictures and play with toy cars. We might even go for ice cream or to the zoo. And you could sit on your Mommy’s lap any time you want. Even in the bar.” She squeezes my hand. “You will need to be a good boy, well behaved with good manners, and do as you’re told.” Then she smiles conspiratorially. “But you could be a bit naughty when it’s just us. Most important of all,” she continues, “you’d be cuddled and loved and treasured.” She looks right in my eyes. “I want to take care of you like that.”

I shiver at the last bit, feeling small and hopeful. I swallow and my chest aches, like something heavy and hurting is trapped inside, and I’m just now noticing it.

She continues, her tone a little firmer, “You would also be my Leatherboy, not just my little boy. My Leatherboy, with all that a D/s relationship implies: negotiations, expectations, protocols, SM, Leathersex, service, obedience. I expect you to be open and proud of who you are and who you serve. And I do not tolerate anything less than authenticity, honesty and integrity.”

This is a lot to take in. But I love almost everything she’s saying. I imagine living it, and it seems unreal. I can’t quite believe; Could it really happen?

Without warning, the patio lights click on, cuing dusk to fade in. How did the afternoon just slip away? She squeezes my hand again and lets it go. We exchange references and phone numbers. And then, it’s over. 

Except when we get up, she traps my wrist, pulls me close against her softness and kisses my cheek so gently it burns. In the span of that moment, as if a spell has been lifted, I suddenly see her incredible beauty. Striking. Alluring. A stunning, magnificent creature for whom I would willingly kneel. I am totally wrecked as I watch her navigate away from me. She doesn’t look back. But I keep staring at the door after she’s gone.

***

Two weeks later, references verified and ground rules established, we’ve shared three phone calls, two Skypes, dinner and a movie, one long, deep goodbye kiss, and a snail mail card from her to me, with a hot-as-fuck biker boot on the front, a romantic message inside and a dinosaur sticker slipped into the envelope.

But now we’re finally going to meet for dinner at her home. I think I know what that means. So I’m literally shaking with excitement when I arrive at her apartment.

“Perfect timing. I just finished making dinner,” she exclaims as we hug hello. So we go straight for the dining room.

The fish she prepared is probably very tasty, but I am far too distracted to notice. Later, after I clear the table and wash the dishes, loving this first small act of service, we move to the living room.

We are sitting on her couch, digesting and chatting for a while, as if that’s what this date is all about. But then, during a break in the conversation, she reaches for my hand and holds it in both of hers. I shift a bit closer on the couch. The warmth of her body hovers around her like a sweet, humid halo. I lean against her shoulder, holding my breath, feeling small and safe but also uncertain. The world seems to pause, listening.

She turns and gently pulls me into her embrace and her kiss, tender and soulful. I’m floating. I’m trembling. Every single molecule in my body vibrates. She stands up, gently bringing me with her. Looking into my eyes, she strokes my hair, then leads me silently to her small bedroom. Oh my God, yes!  

She lays me down on her bed and kisses me from above, like she’s searching for something deep inside me. She presses her leg up between mine and pushes against my crotch like she wants to fuck me through my jeans. Taking my hands, she holds them firmly down against the bed while she keeps kissing, kissing … and I am unresisting. Maybe she’s put me in a trance, because I can’t move, can’t make a move on her. This has never happened to me, I swear. Yeah, I’ve bottomed before, but this is so freaking gentle and slow, hypnotic.

A ceiling fan stirs the warm air. I notice it as she releases me from the spell and pulls me up to stand in front of her. We kiss again, and it fills me with want. Her tongue steadily becomes more possessive, then invasive, until it claims my mouth. She grips my jaw, holding my mouth open, the other hand on the back of my skull, keeping my head still, making me her receptacle. She runs her tongue over my palate, deep into the softness of my throat, then exploring between my lips and teeth. I can only receive her, and it provokes an almost delirious hunger. Nothing else exists except her filling my mouth.

She releases my jaw, but continues to kiss me as she covers my body with her hands, over my shirt, then up inside, seeking skin. Her hands under my shirt, moving up my back, fingers resting on my shoulder blades as her thumbs press sharply into my armpits, as if she’s testing my response. Her hands soften again, trailing down my chest, sliding fingertips an inch under my waistband and circling the inner fabric to my belt buckle. Releasing the buckle, opening my fly, she slips a hand down into my jeans, over my shorts, pausing to cup my dick in her palm: a soft packer that seems adolescent beneath her caress. She squeezes and fondles and strokes me like she wants me to stiffen in her hand. Her eyes are locked on mine now, hazed with lust and power; she almost looks high.

Her hands at my waistband again, she eases my jeans over my ass to the floor. As she slowly unbuttons and removes my shirt, she wets her lips then uses her palms and teeth and tongue on my skin. Everything is mesmerizing and so incredibly sexy. I feel disoriented, but I know I must want it; my cunt is so slick and my cock pushes hard against my shorts.

Before I can fully take in what is happening, she has pulled my underwear down past my knees, my packer with them. I’m suddenly so naked, with just a tangle of fabric at my ankles. 

She reaches down again, now staring impassively into my eyes but breathing roughly. With one finger tip, she slides between the folds of skin in my crotch. With a fluid motion, she dips slightly into my cunt and drags the wetness up over my clit and onto my belly, leaving a slick trail. I feel like I might cry. Like all my butch bravado has just fizzled out.

She steps back to get a look at me. “Such a sexy little boy,” she croons. I start to shake.

Feeling way too vulnerable, I kick off my jeans and briefs and move toward her, reaching for her, wanting to feel her body up against my skin. But she pushes me, and I stumble inelegantly backward onto the bed. With a soft chuckle and a wicked smile, she begins to undress. And I’m under her spell again. First the jewelry. Tinkling earrings, rings, long necklace. She unbuttons her sheer black blouse, and it flutters to the ground, exposing a satin bra with just a hint of lace. The flowy crepe black skirt slips off easily, to reveal a black leather harness already strapped on. Well, that makes things clear as crystal.

Finally, she removes her bra, releasing breasts, generous and natural, heavy with large areolas and nipples. She is thick and fleshy… and not perfect. But she is confident, seductive and erotic. And all woman! Without meaning to, I moan just a little, and it is a rough, throaty sound.

Flashing me a sly smile, she opens the bedside drawer and takes out a thick, black cock, stroking it suggestively. She inserts it into the silver o-ring at the front of the harness and tightens the straps. Then she wraps her hand around the shaft, like she’s ready to jack off. She slides her hand up to the head and circles it with a finger, then lightly strokes the tip, where the piss hole would be. Then she looks up at me and lets out a wicked little laugh. My body’s electrified, almost painfully aroused. When she stands above me, arms akimbo, naked and strong, her femme-cock sways and bobs gently in my direction.

“Mommy?” I murmur.

She closes her eyes. A wave seems to move through her, and she sighs soundlessly. Then, like a benediction, she breathes huskily, “Yes, boy.” And she leans to kiss me. Gentle and floaty, and then harder. Then deep and hungry and overpowering. Mid-kiss, she lies her body on top of mine pressing against me, soft and full, with her hard dick wedged between us. I moan a little. Can’t help myself. I am bursting with want, buzzing with it. Dying from it.

She wraps her embrace around me and My Whole World is contained within her arms. The sweet natural scent of her. The yielding spread of her breasts. Indulgent, she offers them to me, and I suckle, unquestioning. She pulls me into her voluptuous warmth with a heavy, sensual groan. But I am not focused on pleasuring her, sexing her, fucking. Not focused on my hard-on or whether she likes my body or what she’s going to do with me later. I just suck her heavenly nipple and let go into a dreamy bliss.

I feel like her all-grown-up, baby boy, and it is so natural and so good. I want to be snuggled and held. I want to love and be loved in a sort of innocent, childlike way. I want to trust her. I want to let down my guard.

And somehow, drifting in this euphoric haze, I do.

I let go of my embarrassment and fear, my bravado and the insecurity underneath. All the inner-child-longing I’ve hidden away from a judgemental world: that is Hers now. I let it all go. All of it. I give it to her while I nurse at her breast; a crazy moment of pure trust. I feel like her precious boy. Hers.

Maybe it’s too soon. Maybe I should be more cautious, guarded. But I know that this is right. I know that she really is my Mommy. I have no question. And she wants me, too! She She She. Wants me, her little one. Her leatherboy. Baby boy. Hungry boy. Grown up, sex-hungry boy.

Lust suddenly overtakes my other needs. I’m sure she can feel the shift, how I’m not so little anymore. Now, her breasts are making me hard and wet and horny. I drown myself in the softness of them, cupping and holding that pillowy flesh. Licking her nipples and biting and losing myself in her. Squeezing and kneading. My whole body is asking for her attention.

Please Mommy, I need your gentle fuck.

I need your deep, hard fuck. Your fingers. Your cock. Use me. Wear me out. Find the way to my tender self. Open me. Please. Fuck me open.

***


Read part two here.

identity politics

No, You Don’t “Get” Racism Because You Are Oppressed, Too

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

Gender discrimination and racial discrimination are not the same thing.

Some white folks say, “I understand racism — I’m [other marginalized identity], I’m oppressed, too.” Or, “I have experienced intense discrimination for being trans, I can imagine what it’s like to be black.”

But here’s the thing: you don’t.

Racial discrimination is not the same as sexism or transphobia or heterosexism or homophobia or classism or any other marginalized identities and experiences.

I — and all of us white folks — have no idea what it is really like to be a person of color and face racial discrimination.

I am educating myself to read the stories and memoirs and artistic creations to learn what it is like, but I still don’t have any lived experience of it. I’ll never really know how deep it goes, how intense it is — because I am not a person of color.

There are patterns to structures of oppression. So that means there are patterns in the activist strategies, too.

There are some systemic similarities with how marginalized and disempowered groups are treated and disenfranchised by institutions, for example. And there are some similarities in the activist strategies used to build up tolerance, acceptance, understanding, equal protection, and equity.

For example:

Like cis folks can step up and do some of the education and harm reduction with other cis folks to try to ease the emotional and educational burden on trans and non-binary folks, white folks can step up to do anti-racist work.

Like cis folks can learn about their privilege and learn to use their privilege to lift and amplify voices of trans and non-binary folks, white folks can learn about their racial privilege and step aside to support pox voices, attendance, and access.

Like cis folks reacting defensively and overreacting to misgendering someone or getting their pronoun wrong, white folks can work on their white fragility, and work through feelings of white guilt in order to better reflect on their own behavior when they do something racist or racially insensitive.

I do not know what it is like to live as a person of color. But I do know some structures for social activism — which hopefully support liberation — that parallel within both schools of activism.

miscellany

Sugarbutch is #1 on the Kinkly Erotica Blogs and LGBTQ Blogs Lists

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

Thank you.

I want to write about how I’m on the list of sex bloggers that Kinkly released at the beginning of this month. And about how I’m holding strong at #3 on their ranked overall list — not the annual one, but their database that calculates popularity. And about how this particular year I’m also on their Reader’s Choice list and on their erotica list and on their queer list. And those last two, I come in at number one.

They’ve been putting out this list for six years, so it isn’t new to me to be on it. I saw the results get posted, saw some chatter about it on social media, tweeted about it, emailed a few things about it, and then kept going. Honestly, I didn’t pay much attention to it. But about a week later, it kind of hit me. Wait … this site is ranked number one? In both the erotica category and the queer category? They’re saying that Sugarbutch is the best queer sex blog on the internet? And the best erotica blog?

What?!

Well … Thank you.

I think I want to write this, here, just to let myself sit in the discomfort of acknowledging that for a little bit longer. We don’t usually celebrate our wins enough, you know? And when it hit me, I really wanted to ensure that I “took it in,” somehow. Whatever that means, however you do that.

Sugarbutch is thirteen and a half years old, started in spring 2006 when I was 27. I have grown with it; it has grown with me. Pretty much all the major mistakes of my late twenties & all through my thirties are on here, archived. What I’m doing with it right now is my favorite version of it that has been yet — and, I still don’t know where it’ll go next. I have some ideas, but no set plan; just steering in a direction, aiming for a horizon, and I’ll fine-tune the plan as I go along. The internet is a completely different place now than it was when I started it. If I was starting a project now, this isn’t what I would do. So. I don’t know what’s next, but I’m chewing on it.

The patrons of Sugarbutch know I’ve been chewing on this — this is probably the fourth or fifth time I’ve written about it, and I still don’t have answers. I’m in a transition, though I think that transition is at least five years long, so it’s not immediate.

Being on the Kinkly list again, and being recognized as at the top of the class for what I do, and not being lumped in to all the general sex toy review blogs but being recognized for the particular skills and viewpoint that I bring, is just exhilarating. Thrilling. Gratifying. I’m so grateful. I’m so appreciative that you all keep reading and listening and being curious about the kinds of things I like to study and talk and write about.

So, back to where I started: thank you.

And because sex toy review blogs dominate the sex blog world these days, here are the two supplemental lists from Kinkly focusing on queer and erotica blogs. Check ’em out.

Top Erotica Blogs of 2019

Top LGBTQ Blogs of 2019

If you’re into this, you might also like to take a look at the queer sex blog list I compiled — this features sex blogs with a lot of queer erotica, if not all erotica.

advice, miscellany, reviews

Five Essential Apps for Sex Bloggers

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

Over the 13 and a half years of blogging about sex (that’s right — since April 2006!), many folks ask me about the tools that I use. Here are some of my favorite tools, the ones I’m in almost every day, the ones that are now the core of the work I do here at Sugarbutch.

All of these include affiliate links! If you sign up through one of them — first of all, thank you! Second, if you want me to help you set it up or walk you through how I use it, I’m glad to share some of my best practices as appreciation for using my links.

1. You must have a mailing list. Try Convertkit

You have a mailing list, right? You gotta set up a mailing list. The free services are great — don’t pay for something until you use the free service and outgrow it.

When you start noticing you want more features — like segments, or drip campaigns, or tags, or landing pages — take a look at Convertkit. It starts at $29 a month, and it does all the fancy email tricks that you can imagine, plus it’s beautifully designed, intuitive, and plugs in to all the major web apps. 

Sign up here (with my affiliate link — thank you!). 

2. And you want to promote your blog posts on social media. So, Coschedule, obviously

In 2019, it’s not a blog if there isn’t all kinds of social media attached to it.

Coschedule is a social media manager — like Buffer or MeetEdgar — plus an editorial calendar. You can have multiple users all working on the same blog and create to-do lists and other assignments. I love their “Requeue” feature, which will automatically recycle certain content on social media based on criteria. For example, I have about 25 tweets in a Requeue folder called “holidays,” and set it to be active around Thanksgiving and let it run through the New Year. It automatically rotates through the tweets, publishing one a day at the “best time” (as determined by Coschedule — but I could set specific times, if I want).

I use it to push all my WordPress posts out to social media after one is made. 

Starts at $40/month, but there is a referral and benefits program that cuts that in half if you write a blog post about it, and can get the price even less with more referrals.

Sign up here.

3.Once you grow, you might want to offer webinars! Crowdcast is the best

There are many platforms for this. Zoom is a common one, which is great for discussions and meetings where you want to see everyone on the call. But if you want to do more of a lecture type webinar, look at Crowdcast. It includes a chat, a place to ask questions and then mark if you are currently answering that question, polls, and the ability to bring someone on screen with video or audio to talk to you. Plus, replays at the exact same link. 

Starts at $49 a month. Worth it. Sign up here.

4. You gotta make everything pretty — Canva is better than Photoshop

Maybe don’t tell Photoshop I said that. I’ve been a photoshop user for e v e r  and I love that program, but honestly? I have barely opened it up since I started using Canva. It’s so much simpler and all of it is right there. 

It includes all sorts of design templates for just about any image you can imagine — book covers, instagram posts, facebook event covers, featured images, business cards, resumes, brochures, flyers. On and on. And they’re adding more all the time. Now there’s a Pexels integration, too (which is still one of my favorite photo stock sites). 

Check it out over here.

5. Once you’re ready, launch a Patreon

The only one on the list that gives you money, rather than costing you money.

You know what this is by now — Patreon has been making a splash in the blog world for years, and it seems to only be growing. I really hope they will get themselves sustainable, the creator world needs this service so desperately! It has seriously changed what Sugarbutch is for me the past five years. I’ll ever be grateful for the structure it offered, and all the people who support me through it. (Here’s my own Patreon, if you’d like to become a patron. Like a patron of the arts! Thank you!)

Sign up over here through my affiliate link, & I’ll help you launch yours.

 

5. Last, but not least: WordPress.org, not .com

First of all, watch out for the adult content rules on .com. Make sure you know what the guidelines are, whether or not you decide to adhere to them.

And while we’re talking about it …

It’s not a resource, but you gotta brush up on the kinds of content that are allowed on every platform. Guy New York has collected a round-up on the various content platforms and what is allowed and not allowed. 

WordPress.org is different, and gives you more control than the .com. Your mileage may vary here, and you should consult your web designer to figure what is really best for you. Even though there are small differences, sometimes they can mean everything. 
 

Those are the essentials, in my opinion!

What am I missing? Leave your very favorite, top five web apps for blogging in the comments.

 

guest posts

Down by the River, Guest Post by Anna Sansom

Posted on by Anna Sansom

Content: Surprise BDSM, flogging, singletail, daddy/girl, butch/femme, outdoor sex, fisting, biting.

My toes curl around the smooth pebbles as the cool water flows over the tops of my feet and swirls around my ankles. A few leaves float past and a small fish darts out from between the stones before quickly disappearing further downstream. I’ve been sitting on this bank for about twenty minutes and my bum is beginning to go to sleep. I shift a little to let the blood flow. You’ll be here soon.

I close my eyes and inhale the rich, earthy scent of the forest floor and the peaty water. The stream takes a meandering path through the trees. I’ve chosen a shallow spot but I know there are places where it runs deeper and faster. My emotions are like this river: I may feel relaxed now but I know it won’t be long before I quicken and traverse new depths. My body is like the water too: moisture already beginning to pool between my thighs in anticipation of your arrival; my mouth alternately dry when I think of what is to come and then salivating with desire.

Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up. The light is beginning to fade and I’m afraid of being alone in the dark.

The snap of a twig underfoot alerts me to your arrival. Your first command swiftly follows, “Don’t turn around. Stay just as you are.” I can hear you busying yourself behind me. Some of the sounds are familiar: the zipper of a bag being drawn back; the clank of your metal water bottle as you drop it on the ground. Others cause the hairs on the back of my neck to stand tall: makeshift antennae endeavouring to place the noises I know I have heard before but in a very different setting. Then I remember: I am listening to rope being uncoiled, knots being tied and tested with the weight of your body. The hairs on my arms stand tall now too and I shiver.

I feel you approach me: the heat of your body emanating several feet in front of you. Or maybe it is your energy I feel. Or perhaps simply your will. I feel suddenly small in the presence of you and the forest. You could easily be as tall as the oak trees that surround us. You are just as solid and strong too. I feel like a will-o’-the-wisp in comparison: insubstantial and transient. I wonder if you’ll be able to catch me before I disappear.

Your hands on my shoulders bring me back to my body and my solidity. Your touch grounds and reforms me. I am a woman again; dusk is falling; you have come for me.

The lanterns you placed around us begin to glow brighter as the daylight recedes. A few early moths stun themselves on the glass before flitting around in dizzying patterns. Your hands move from my shoulders to cover my eyes. “Are you ready?” your voice is deep with lust. Mine gets stuck in my throat and I merely nod my assent. Your fingers drag through my hair, scraping it back from my face, tugging a little on the ends before you let go. “Stand up – slowly.” I scramble upright, my wet feet quickly coated with dirt and decaying leaf matter. You reach to remove my clothing. As instructed, all I am wearing is the long smock dress you asked for: easy for you to take off and toss to the ground. My sudden nakedness is a stark contrast to your unchanged attire: well-worn jeans, a sleeveless t-shirt with low cut armholes that reveal just a glimpse of your breasts, and leather boots laced high around your ankles.

You bend to scoop water from the stream into your hands and then stroke the wetness over my torso. My nipples harden as a reaction to your touch and the cooling moisture. I see you eye them with a lascivious smile, then you check your impatience and take me by the hand, “Over here.”

The oak tree has been transformed into your playground: ropes tied around its girth and dangling from overhead branches; more lanterns placed around its base to light up the set. My peripheral vision lets me see the camera and tripod you’ve set up too. Just like we agreed. I feel a flush of excitement burning its way up my body. Fuck. We’re really going to do this.

You position me facing the trunk of the tree and carefully wind the ropes around my waist and wrists. The rough bark scratches my breasts and stomach and I lean into the discomfort. I’m going to need this tree to hold me. A long, slow exhale from you tells me you are satisfied with the quality and tightness of my bonds. Now you are able to release your practical, human, self and take on your animal form. The same forest that dissolves my edges only serves to strengthen yours: muscles thicken, your voice becomes a growl, you begin to pace. The hunger and want in the space between us is palpable. We can both smell and taste it. We lick our lips in unison.

You begin as you always do: rhythmic swats with a heavy flogger. You are the snake-charmer hypnotizing me into swaying my body for you and I move to the tempo you set. Your leather warms my skin; your attention warms my heart. I feel gifted with your presence. It’s just me and you. Just us. Only ever now.

The thuds from the flogger become heavier and I instinctively pull away from you and closer to the oak’s embrace. It doesn’t help. There’s nowhere left for me to go. My fear of being broken begins to rise and I know I need to lean in to the blows and welcome them as my lover’s vicious kiss.

There is a deceptive peacefulness when the flogging stops. I can hear the sounds of the forest bedding down for the night. Occasional whirs and buzzes from passing insects. A rustle high up in the leaves that suggests either a bird or a small mammal settling in despite the disturbance below. Then the sudden crack of leather behind me. A practice stroke. You are measuring the distance, the location of the overhanging branches, the level of the ground beneath your feet. Now the flogger’s kiss has ceased, it is time for the singletail to bite.

I welcome the pain. This is your gift to me: our bodies join along the length of the whip; energy flows from your heart, along the tail, through my skin, and fills me. I drink it in until the agonizing stings reach a crescendo that can only be released through my voice. I call out half-formed words, nonsensical pleas for more interspersed with my stuttered gratitude: “Thank-thank-thank-you, Sir.” We are both gasping with the intensity and the exertion.

My back burns with a fire that could easily ignite the fallen twigs around our feet. I fear we will consume the forest with our passion and, before we do, I force myself to profess, “Please, Sir, I can’t take any more.”

It’s not our safeword but you know me and my limits well. You lay down the whip and come to me: “Good girl. My girl.” You untie me quickly and turn me to face you, then press the mouth of the water bottle to my lips. “Drink.” I swig and gulp, splutter a little in my rush to obey.

I watch you reach inside your jeans and slide your hand into your underwear. My lips part in expectation and I am rewarded with your juice-coated fingers filling my mouth. I suck the taste of you inside me. I want to drop to my knees and taste even more of you: your clit must be achingly hard, your cunt sodden; I could drown myself in the river of you. But you have other plans to fulfill first. Despite the scent of you so fresh in my nostrils and on my palate, I can smell my own arousal and I know you won’t let me go until you have milked every last drop of want from me.

The front of my body is imprinted with the pattern of the tree’s bark and there are small pieces of moss and lichen stuck to my skin. The forest is claiming me as hers but you aren’t fooled by my camouflage: underneath the forest’s covering you know I already belong to you.

My nipples are firm against the cooling night air and you reach for them now. You have exhausted your patience and want now only to feed and devour. I flinch as you reach for me but I can’t escape your grip as you pull and twist. My gasps become cries and tears quickly prick the corners of my eyes. My beseeching begins again but only serves to make your touches crueler.

My brain warns me of what is to come while my body begs for more. I can feel sweat and my juices running down my inner thighs. My nipples are screaming for release while my cunt pleads for your attention. I cry freely from both the pain and the frustration. “Please fuck me.” It starts as a whisper; I doubt my capacity and my desire. Be careful what you wish for, my thoughts caution. “Please fuck me, Sir.” Bolder now, there’s no going back, you’ve heard me. You wait until my plea becomes a mantra: “Please, Sir. Please fuck me. Please, Sir. Please fuck me. Please, Sir.”

I have abandoned my rational, thinking self and now fully inhabit my soft, animal body. Belly side up, I am completely at your mercy. You snarl as you lunge at me, tearing into me, not with teeth and claws, but with your fingers thrusting inside my willing cunt. I am trapped between the unyielding tree behind me and the heavy weight of you in front. Two mighty beings holding me in place while I begin to dissolve and pour my offering into the earth beneath. The rough bark scratches my already bruised and inflamed flesh. You press against my throbbing breasts, your breath burning hot against my ear. “I’m going to fuck you into oblivion,” you growl, and I believe you.

I am fully liquid now. I flow over your hands and body, pool at your feet, form a new tributary and run to join the river. The current will carry me away from this place, out of the forest, towards the freedom of the sea. Except you won’t let me go. You sense the change in me and pull me back sharply with a slap to my cheek. I snap back into my body, abruptly feeling the shriek of every nerve ending and the firmness of my cunt walls clamped around your hand. I am no longer the free-flowing river; I am trapped prey and you are the hunter.

You latch onto my shoulder and hold me in your bite: a firm counterbalance to the pressure of your fist inside my cunt. Fingers from your other hand casually circle my clit. The forest seems to hold its breath along with me. You deliberately pump your fist in time with your fingers: callously slow movements that sink into me and vibrate throughout my whole body. You have lit a fire inside me that spreads through every muscle, organ and bone.

“Breathe.” Of course, fire needs air to burn: I exhale in order to draw in a deeper breath. You issue the command again, “Breathe.” Fucking me faster now, my breaths quicken to match your pace. I am molten, overflowing; unable to keep my form from merging with you, with the oak, the river, the decaying ground beneath and the star-filled sky above. I let go and a surge of bliss engulfs me, tipping me into the void.

You bring me back – again – but this time with your lips on mine, your tongue as insistent as the motion of your hips grinding against me. “My girl,” you breathe between kisses, “my glorious girl.”

I wrap my arms around you and hold on tight while my body trembles and jolts with the aftermath of my orgasm. I don’t want to let you go but, after a while, you gently ease me off of you and encourage me to sit at the base of the tree. “I’ll be back in a second,” you promise. I close my eyes and feel the safety of the earth holding me. I’m still in a liminal space and allow myself to drift for a moment.

You return and help me to my feet. You are naked now too and lust flutters in my stomach as I see the curly hairs on your mound slick with your longing. You have laid out blankets, your water bottle and a tub of trail mix. We sit together and drink and nibble. Your care for me is impeccable but I can sense your yearning and eagerness for more play. I take a swig from the bottle and hand it to you, “Thank you, Daddy,” head just a little bit bowed so I can look up at you as I speak. You swallow hard and take the offered bottle from my hands.

“Lie down.”

Your body is heavy on top of me and I allow you to press me into the earth beneath. Your weight is reassuring and comforting and, for a moment, I wish we could just go to sleep now. Then you shift your legs so you are straddling my thigh and I feel the heat and wet of your cunt sliding over my skin. My hunger rushes through me like a thundering train and my fingers hurriedly reach for you. I need to feel your slickness, your hardness; to feel you open and blossom under my touch.

You moan gratefully when my hand makes first contact with your cunt. With my arm sandwiched between our bodies, I am reliant on the fine motor movements of my fingertips dancing over your clit and around your opening. I’m not allowed inside you and I’m careful to keep to that promise as you slide yourself over and around my hand and thigh. You set the pace. You make the rules. I give everything I can in service to your pleasure.

You move yourself faster on top of me and drops of perspiration fall from your brow onto my face. Your sweat washes away the forest, the river, until I am solely yours again. “I love you, Daddy.” These are the words you have been waiting for. You tense and roar, pressing hard against my hand, as you let yourself climax again and again.

We wrap ourselves in each other’s arms and some more blankets. The night creatures of the forest are awake now but we are daytime animals and ready for sleep. As your breathing slows and I match mine to yours, I remember the video camera you set up, and whisper into the darkness, “Happy anniversary, my love.”

journal entries

These Eight Years

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

Eight years ago, you offered me a blow job and I didn’t usually date boys but you were so fucking cute. We immediately had chemistry and I immediately wanted to make you wince and melt, and I can guess what you wanted, so we had a scene.

Seven years ago, we were still talking. Getting more serious. Navigating the other partners we both had, navigating my crippling grief, navigating long distance D/s turning into M/s and what does that even mean how could we ever use those words. You were about to leave California and spend the winter in Texas, a slower life, with your dog and your horse and your family ranch, chopping wood and sending me photos of you topless with leather gloves and an axe. I came to visit you four times that winter, for weeks. We finished writing and signed our first temporary contact.

Six years ago, we were settling in to our first apartment together. My cat your dog all our baggage together. My moods and unresolved grief, your deep desire to serve. We made caramel apples and went to a pumpkin patch and I found out you love dressing up for Halloween. You set up a peg board in our bedroom with hooks for all the toys, a hard point in the wall for me to chain you to, a hand-made sling. We had a beautiful collaring ceremony and I told all of my closest folks that I was your owner, and what that meant to me.

Four years ago, I was recovering from some major physical health challenges. A digestive issue had me on a medical diet for six months and was way harder than I expected. A breast reduction surgery was easier than I expected, but significantly changed what I could do – soon, for the better. These changes were helping, they changed things. But it wasn’t enough.

Three years ago, we were in the depth of it. Deep trauma demons clashing in ways that I was pretty sure would be the end of us. My terror up against yours. We still don’t agree on the story of what happened, but that’s how I see it. It would get worse before it got better. But first, I would formally propose.

Two years ago was the summer we got married. It was a leap of faith and my deepest heart’s desire. We can manifest together so well. We visioned, we created. It was so much more beautiful than I expected. We were still in the deep battles, but they were more often our own, and less often each other’s.

One year ago, I was starting to see the forest and not just the trees. I was back to myself. We were still repairing, are still repairing, but we were ourselves again, and better. We were already preparing to run for the leather title in spring 2019 and spending a lot of time talking about our dynamic, our foundation. I had to revisit everything. I had to relearn everything to apply to where we now were, what I now knew. About myself, and about you. In some ways, we were starting over. In some ways, we were stronger than ever.

This year, it has been eight years since our first date, seven since our first contract, six since you were collared, two and a half since we got married. You have stayed past the trauma monsters that have shown up in every other relationship – of course they have – and you have persisted. You have turned toward me again and again where others have turned away.

I have witnessed you change and grow and evolve and strengthen. You are pursuing just what you want: your work, your relationship with the wilderness, your storytelling, your friendships, your community. Your family has grown, your work has grown.

I’ve never passed this precipice before, so I don’t really understand what comes next. How we just keep going, keep asking ourselves what our needs are now, keep asking each other. But apparently that’s ther plan. And I plan to carry it out, until I can’t.

I’ve learned so much about me and us and you. You continue to excite, entice, and enliven me. You bring my life so much joy.

Thank you.

Happy anniversary.

fiction

Touch, Devour, Swallow

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

One of my big hands holding your wrists together.

A pause while I whip the belt out of your belt loops, then: weave the leather around your wrists and tighten. It isn’t hard. You don’t struggle. You want this, you want to be bound, you want the freedom that comes with restriction.

There is nothing for you to do but be right where you are.

There is nothing for me to do but be right where I am, one hand gently holding the belt against the wall, one hand touching. Softly. Trailing my fingers. Exploring. Slow.

Not cruel. Not yet.

You look at me with pleading eyes. Your lips are bright, your eyes are soft from that place of surrender. You want me to kiss you, and I want to deny you what you want, so I don’t. You want me to fill the ache that comes rushing in when I take everything else away.

I want to devour your attention.

I hold the back of your head, thumb your neck. I feel your jawbone move as you swallow. My mouth waters and I want to suck you deep. I slide my fingers over your lips, press your cheek to the wall.

This is the moment. More than the pounding wrath of my lust or my greed, this soft part where you are open and trusting and I’m just about to fall down the crevasse where permission meets skill and I lose myself, but find someone I’d much rather be. This is the moment I meet you anew and we remind each other who we are.

But I long to kiss you every minute that I don’t, so I spit at you instead, mark you, claim you. You wince but you want all parts of me that touch you.

I want all parts of you.

Give me the small soft ones, the solid ones, the ones that will never break, the ones that have never been anything but broken. They aren’t mine but I’ll put each to bed, to pillows and furs and spice rose tea and white flannel sheets and the moon, and you can tend to them when you’re ready. On the good days, I put mine to bed, too.

I get lost in the desire stalking me like a lion when I get this close and restrain myself, hoping to follow my own plan. I get lost when I have to be out in the world making meaning, making due, making sense. So I keep coming here, to us, to this, where I do make sense, where I am not the monster inside. Where you meet the monster inside and bow in reverence, and ask, and ask, and ask.

I unclip the flogger from my hip and feel the weight of the baton like a friend, like my shaft, hard in my hand. The falls like a gown made for me and worn at all my transformative life events. I swing it once, twice. The heat roars up and shakes something under my heart loose and starts to crumble.

Before you take my first blows, I lean in. Lips touching not kissing: you are so good. Beautiful, beautiful. Thank you.

guest posts

A Good Beating, Guest Post by Xan West

Posted on by Xan West

This story contains: consensual kink including pain play, rough body play, boot play, edge play, D/s, playing with rage.

an excerpt from Shocking Violet

for Edith, who helped immensely in the eleventh hour

Hunter was one of those older leathermen who didn’t use the word play, called his scenes sessions, and took himself extremely seriously. Zak was certain he had never seen him smile.

This was one of the zillion ways that leather life would make no sense to outsiders. He’d never call Hunter a fuck buddy…because they would never be buddies. (Or fuck, for that matter.) But once a month, he beat the snot out of Zak for a couple hours. They’d been doing this for two years, and it was one of the steady constants that kept Zak going. He needed this.

He’d been surprised when Hunter approached him, because silver fox muscled cis leathermen didn’t generally line up to play with thirtysomething fat trans guys in thick glasses who were more cute than handsome. It had been a few weeks after Sam and Neo had dumped him. His friends had dragged Zak to the Eagle with them, even though he was absolutely certain he had “just dumped” stamped on his forehead and would be terrible company.

He’d seen Hunter around, of course, with his perfectly trimmed silver beard and well-used, extremely well-kept leathers. Zak knew his reputation as a heavy top who was very serious and respectful, and wanted no romance and no sex in his kink. But he was shocked as hell when Hunter approached him before he’d even ordered his usual seltzer, and had said, “You look like you could use a good beating.”

Zak was demiro and gray-ace, and had considered approaching Hunter for play, even though they’d never spoken. He’d thought Hunter would be a good fit, because of his boundaries around romance and sex. When they’d negotiated, Hunter had lead off with “I want to be real clear about something. I’m aroace, do you know what that means?” And Zak had sighed with relief, before sharing his own a-spec IDs. He’d never played with another a-spec person before, and that had him even more excited than the prospect of a good beating.

Though Zak had definitely needed a good beating that night. He’d needed to have the snot beaten out of him so damn badly. It was the best way to find his mad, which was blanketed over with numbness.

He needed a good beating today too. Needed the pain, and the intensity, and just the sheer physicality of it, as a way to move some of what had gotten stuck last night. All that rage he’d had to control when he was facing down Rickie’s asshole of an ex. He needed a way to let some of that out, or it would eat at him.

Sessions with Hunter gave him a way to release some of his rage. For all his formality, he was perfectly fine with Zak screaming, sobbing, and cursing him out. As long as Zak took everything he could, pushed himself, Hunter was happy. He actually seemed to like it when Zak cursed at him, though he would never smile. But his eyes would get this gleam…Zak was pretty sure Hunter was happiest when Zak called him a fucking asshole. What more could he ask for, really? It was rare to find a top that was up for that.

The first Sunday of the month at 1pm, Zak would show up at Hunter’s fancy place in DUMBO, to be methodically taken apart in the man’s living room. After all this time, his body knew what was coming, and was already running on adrenaline before he rang the bell. Hunter was in his full leathers, like always. The only thing that ever changed was the boots. Today it was Wesco Jobmasters, with red stitching, and Zak had a hard time paying attention to anything else for a moment because they were so beautiful. Those treads were going to feel so good.

After greeting Zak, and leading him to the living room, Hunter picked up his very fluffy light grey cat, Melisande. (Zak suspected, but had never confirmed, that she was named after the character in Kushiel’s Dart.) Hunter carried Melisande to her room, crooning to her, telling her she was beautiful and perfect and how very much he adored her. Yes, she had her own room, but of course she liked to roam freely through the apartment (aka her territory). So, when Zak came over for a session, Hunter always set her up in her room and put on Richard Attenborough’s Birds of Paradise for her—it was her favorite video, after all.

When he came back into the living room, he usually slid right into the scene, so Zak shucked down to his boxer briefs and boots, and got himself into headspace. Today was no different; Hunter stalked over and immediately bent him over the side of the couch, yanking his belt from his pants, and proceeded to beat Zak’s back. It was gloriously quick and jarring, and so much of Zak’s most favorite kind of pain all at once, with no traditional warm up at all. Zak couldn’t make words, or even sounds, everything went quiet for this. He was grateful for the couch, for its cool leather pressing into his cheek, the sturdy way it held him. He would not have been able to stand as Hunter poured this gorgeous blaze of pain into him, filled him up with it, methodically, ruthlessly. Yes. This was the way to start, pain swirling into every bit of him so there was nothing else at all. Nothing but the searing wonder of this.

This was the way they began, the way they re-learned each other, tested each other. Abundance, right from the start, a foundation of things to come. It would build and build until Zak bent, like always, and let the first drops of whatever was stuck, out. That meant tears. Sometimes it took 3 minutes of the belt, and sometimes it took 30. It rarely took more than that for Zak to let go. For Zak’s body, and psyche, to take in the reality that he could have as much pain as he needed, and that it was okay to let go.

For so many tops, tears were a signal to end a scene. In their sessions, Zak’s tears were a signal it was really beginning. It took a wonderfully long time to make a crack in the dam today. Such an incredible relief when it finally came, and the sobs were drawn from his body by the inexorable, patient blows of the belt he loved dearly.

It made him so angry to cry. He had always hated it, and most especially hated doing it in front of other people. That’s why this worked, tears were the best way to create an entry point for the rage. Hunter pulled Zak up to stand, and marched him over to the exposed brick wall he had in his fucking living room. That wall was the height of self-indulgence, and a marker of wealth funneled into kinky purpose. Hunter wanted a brick wall in his living room to slam boys into, so he made it happen. And really, who was Zak to complain? It felt so damned good, the roughness of the brick against the welts on his back.

Hunter was done with the belt. He put on his gloves, then pulled his leather sap from his back pocket, fitting the strap onto his hand as if he had all the time in the world. Which, Zak supposed, he did. They were on Hunter’s timetable now. Where he got to be patient and precise, and use as much thud as he wanted. Sting cracked the dam, but thud…thud pissed Zak the fuck off, so much that he let his rage flood out.

Zak thrust his chin out, anticipating what came next. When Hunter put a hand on his shoulder to hold him in place, and met his gaze, Zak glared. Hunter nodded, and began, the blows slow and methodical, driving into Zak’s bicep. They were jarring, in a deep way, made Zak feel off balance, even with the wall behind him and Hunter’s hand bracing him. The off balance was inside, this sense of being trapped and needing to prove himself and bubbling rage, already sparked by the tears still drying on his cheeks.

“Fuck you,” he spit into Hunter’s face. The man simply hit him harder, making it very clear that he was barely using his strength at all, didn’t need to, as the lead inside the sap did the work for him. Heat built under the pounding, bruises were blooming. Hunter was fucking relentless. The ball of anger grew inside him, the more Zak stood there, and took it, and glared; and Hunter’s face was this completely fucking inscrutable wall for Zak to throw himself against. Steady, constant, dependably there, poking and poking until Zak exploded, knowing that Hunter would stay steady all the way through, hold all of it.

Zak hated and loved Hunter’s inscrutability, because it made so much fucking room, because it meant that Zak had no impact. It wasn’t real, of course. He’d seen the man be completely gooey over his cat. He knew Hunter was deeply committed to raising as much money as he possibly could for AIDS research, and matched donations at the big leather fundraiser for it every single year. Hunter had a sweet queerplatonic partner named Xavier, who lived with him and whom he loved dearly, who always brought Zak a blanket, water, cocoa and cookies at the end of a session.

He knew Hunter wasn’t actually who he presented as during sessions. He might not smile, but outside of topspace he was affectionate toward Zak, and caring, offering an ear for whatever might pour out after a scene, checking on him at least once a day for a few days afterward. His inscrutability was a tool, one that suited his style as a top, one he offered to Zak along with his beautiful methodical sadism. Zak knew all of that, but in the middle of a beating, it floated away; he got to just have the room and the goad that it made for him.

Hunter began to knee Zak in the thigh. It forced Zak to concentrate, because his body wanted to curl in to protect itself. It made him grit his teeth and curse, focusing on staying still for it. There was nothing like rough body play to get his mad going, and he began to spit out curses incessantly, as Hunter drove his knee into his thighs, his fist into Zak’s pecs, in an irregular pattern that Zak couldn’t quite catch up to enough to predict. He just dug his boots into the floor and clenched his fists, so he wouldn’t inadvertently fight back.

That was the thing about allowing rage to build, it still demanded that he control the course of it; as adrenaline flooded him and emotion drove him, he was in charge. That’s part of what made it such a rush, because as much as he was now flooding Hunter’s living room with shouted curses, he wasn’t battling Hunter at all. He was fighting for control over his rage. Not by bottling it up, but by releasing it in exactly the way that he chose.

He focused on making sure his shoulders were back, his legs were steady, his chin was raised, as he glared into Hunter’s face and called him a fucking asshole for doing this to him. He saw that gleam in Hunter’s eyes that told him the man was pleased, and bared his teeth in satisfaction. Then, just as he caught himself swaying, and gripped the wall to steady himself, Hunter told him to lie on his back on the floor. The man was a fucking hawk. Nothing got past him. He always made Zak stand until he just fucking couldn’t anymore.

The floor was cool and hard and perfect against the welts on his back. Zak knew what was coming next. He was going to get to feel the treads of those spectacular boots. Not right away, though. First, Hunter began to kick, driving his boots into Zak’s arms, then his thighs, circling, delivering blow after shattering blow.

Being on the floor, with this miracle of a top towering over him, kicking him, made Zak more aware of his helplessness than anything else ever did. If there was one thing guaranteed to bring out his rage, it was that kind of awareness. This feeling was what had filled him last night, that there were things he could not control, however desperately he wanted to. That was what he had to release. So he concentrated on it, feeling it build inside him, this terrible rage-inducing feeling, as Hunter stoked it with every single blow.

He was screaming incoherent rage at Hunter, had lost words at this point, was just screaming and screaming, even though his throat was hoarse, and Hunter kept going until Zak’s voice was nearly gone altogether, before he lifted his boot, and ground it into Zak’s thigh. Zak felt himself growl, as he glared up at Hunter, who nodded, and, bracing himself on the wall, lifted his other boot, so his entire weight was on Zak’s thighs. Then he slowly, methodically, began to grind first one boot, then the other, into Zak, whose growl turned into a sob, and transformed into a shout.

“Fuck you, you fucking asshole!” Zak shouted at full volume, before breaking into sobs again. Hunter slowly removed his weight, then sank into his chair nearby, and crooked his finger at Zak, who crawled over to him, and grabbed onto his boots like they were a fucking lifeline. He kept on sobbing, Hunter’s hand stroking his hair, until he was spent. Then he just lay there for a good long while, his cheek pressed into Hunter’s boot, enjoying the man’s hand in his hair.

He raised his head finally, and Hunter told him to sit at his feet and drink some water. Zak sat between Hunter’s thighs, drank the water Xavier gave him, and listened, as Hunter told him what a good boy he had been, how brave and strong, and how much he had pushed himself, but Hunter knew he would, that was one of the things Hunter liked most about their sessions, and that was why he’d chosen to wear his new boots for the first time with Zak. Because Zak had earned this. His tears should be the first ones to touch them.

Zak breathed that in, wanting to set this memory in his mind as one he could draw on whenever he doubted his own strength. It was a beautiful gift, and he thanked Hunter for the honor and babbled a bit about how beautiful the boots were. Then he let Xavier fuss at him, and wrap him in a blanket, and concentrated on drinking his cocoa and eating his cookies—Xavier had baked the gluten free almond ones that he loved. As Zak focused on sweets, Hunter drank his own water and leaned into Xavier, who stood next to his chair, a pillar of support, telling him about the dinner he’d made for them.

identity politics

Bi-Erasure, Community, and Other Thoughts on Bisexual Visibility Day

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

It’s Bisexual Visibility Day!

Here’s a few things I want to put out there that are often misunderstood or stereotypes about bi folks.

Bisexual Doesn’t Necessarily Mean Two Genders

Some folks think “bisexual” is antiquated because bi means two, and it’s referring to being attracted to two genders. I have seen some great breakdowns about “bi” from a linguistic standpoint, and that the prefix bi can mean “from one end of the polarity to the other,” not necessarily “one thing and it’s opposite” or “two things.”

People can use whatever identity words they decide for themselves, let me be clear! If the word doesn’t work for someone, cool. I’ve heard people say that even agreeing that bisexual means attraction to lots of genders, they still don’t want to use the word, because the predominant understanding of it in culture is still meaning two. I always intend to support whatever words work best for you to describe yourself.

Bisexuality is Not A Phase

It is a legitimate sexual orientation, not a stop-over between compulsory heterosexuality and coming out as queer.

Except, you know, when it sometimes is, which is also fine.

Bisexual people belong at Pride.

And bisexual people are not always visibly queer, so there can be judgement, exclusion, and dirty looks at queer gatherings and pride events. This lack of inclusivity is part of bi-erasure, where bisexual folks are accidentally or intentionally excluded from queer community and events.

People, c’mon: do better.

You can’t necessarily tell if someone is queer by looking at them. Repeat that until it’s embedded in your brain. Also repeat, you can’t necessarily tell someone’s gender by looking at them.

Trans People Can Be Bisexual!

Many trans people identify as bisexual, just as many cis people do. Sexuality & gender are different things!

Bisexual Folks Aren’t Necessarily Polyamorous

Bisexual people aren’t necessarily polyamorous or generally slutty. They can be just as monogamous, polyamorous, open, slutty, or kinky as any other person of any other sexual orientation!

And that leads me to: people are still bisexual even if they’re in a monogamous relationship.

And on a personal note …

I’ve been thinking about being bisexual lately, and my own relationship to it, which is what is prompting me to write this.

Being a butch who has historically dated femmes, now that I’m dating a trans genderqueer boy/boi, I sometimes feel like part of my identity is lost or invisible.

I’ve had a lot of pushback for dating a boy, especially because I was so visible as a writer on butch/femme theories and smut. People have expressed disappointment, sent hate mail, left mean comments, and even accusations of misogyny (which, actually, I take very seriously, but it seems to be exclusively based in not dating a femme anymore, which in my definition isn’t the same as misogyny).

It’s been hard to have lost that visible identity as a butch who loves femmes, as well as receiving criticism.

I don’t usually think of myself as bisexual, partly because he is (so) exceptional and I still feel oriented to femmes, and partly because I’m not really involved with explicitly bisexual community so it’s not something that I’m around. (See how that implies that bisexual community is not within queer community? I believe it should be, & should be very welcome, but in practice, in my experience, it is separate.)

A lot of the concepts about bi-erasure and bisexual invisibility are really resonating with me at the moment. I’m really curious about folks who are bisexual go through some sort of process when they become monogamous — which doesn’t exclude who they are attracted to, but it excludes acting on those attractions, to some arranged and agreed upon degree. Is that something that is mourned by bisexual folks? Is there literature on that? As you can tell, I haven’t done any research on it yet — I’m just starting to articulate it myself.

I have heard people talk about that the difficulty when they are in a relationship with someone who transitions, and their sexual orientation is perceived to have changed by others, when in fact it may not have. It can create a feeling of invisibility, too.

I’m curious about the way the world — and the queer community specifically — perceives bisexual identities, and how much the orientation perception is really limited to who that person is with at the moment.

I primarily call myself queer when referring to my sexual orientation, though I do resonate with the lineage of lesbian and dyke. I wouldn’t correct someone if they used those terms. Bisexual still feels uncomfortable and not quite right, personally, but I am curious about some of the theory and how it relates to my current relationship structure.

Happy bisexual visibility day, all!

media

Table of Contents for Best Lesbian Erotica Volume 4 (2020)

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

I have been eagerly waiting to share with you the work from the next Best Lesbian Erotica volume — and I can’t, yet, because it doesn’t come out until December — but here is the table of contents!

The book write-up for publicity things:

A mysterious warrior at the Renaissance Faire.
An elder reunited with a lost love.
A bottom with chronic pain.
A new play party for a long-term couple.
A fantasy speed-dating night.
A dress-up doll.
A femme gangbang…

Best Lesbian Erotica of the Year, Volume 4 has it all!

Written by a refreshing group of individuals of various genders and sexualities, this arousing anthology explores identities and stories beyond the usual lesbian erotica. A diverse group of multi-talented authors explore a myriad of erotic delights: from fruit to silk scarves to spanking to whips, from the cozy home to the leather dungeon to the wrong side of the tracks. Award-winning editor Sinclair Sexsmith has put together a collection of varied sensual textures and flavors, but they all explore what it feels like to step fully into one’s own power, and feel deeply into one’s own body.

Table of Contents

Introduction, Sinclair Sexsmith

  1. Do Tell — Foster Joy
  2. My Sweet Femme Nightmare — June Amelia Rose
  3. Of Sword and Sorcery — Maria Chiara Ferro
  4. Pinked — Avery Cassell
  5. Pleasure With Her Pain — Ada Lowell
  6. Leviathan — Catherine Collinsworth
  7. Good Girls Do — Marie Carlson
  8. Here Comes the Sun — Mx. Nillin Fuchs
  9. Gina, Across the Tracks — Fallen Matthews
  10. Adventure in Palm Springs — Dorothy Freed
  11. The Strip — J. Mork
  12. The Butler, the Flapper, and the Stable Boy — Gigi Frost
  13. All Dolled Up — Olivia Dromen
  14. What I Want — Laurel Isaacs
  15. Brunch Service — Tobi Hill-Meyer
  16. Pay Me No Mind — R. Magdalen
  17. Modern Lovers (You Probably Haven’t Heard of Them) — T.R. Verten
  18. Because Today Has Been the Most Beautiful Day — BD Swain
  19. Crave — Xan West
  20. Love Remembers — Angora Shade

I love each & every of these stories. They are very different from each other, but the thread through is a personal empowerment through playing with sexuality, eroticism, power, and BDSM.

Can’t wait for you to read the whole thing!

miscellany

Call For Submissions: Best Lesbian Erotica of the Year Volume 5 (2021), due October 31, 2019

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

Editor: Sinclair Sexsmith

Publisher: Cleis Press

Deadline: October 31, 2019 (earlier encouraged)

Payment: $50 and 1 copy of the book within 90 days of publication

Rights: non-exclusive right to publish the story in this anthology in print, ebook and audiobook form. Authors will retain copyright to their stories.

Sinclair Sexsmith is editing the next volume of Best Lesbian Erotica, and is looking for your best sexy stories about queer women.

Representations of queer women, non-binary, and trans women’s sexuality that are not as frequently seen — with ability, race, ethnicity, class, neurodiversity, ace-spectrum, age, religion, or other marginalized viewpoints — are particularly of interest.

Writers who have not previously published are encouraged.

#Ownvoices stories are encouraged and will be prioritized.

The anthology is not limited to certain kinds of sex acts. “Vanilla,” BDSM, fetish, ace, and all kinds of sensual and sexual expression are welcome. I will be looking for a wide variety of sexual identities: mommy, mistress, sir, puppy, girl, servant, etc.

I will consider a few reprints published in 2019, but prefer unpublished stories. No simultaneous submissions.

Up to two submissions per author.

Stories should be between 2500-4000 words.

No poetry or speculative fiction.

Please submit your work through this Google form: http://bitly.com/bestlesbianerotica

If it does not work to submit your story via this form, please contact Sinclair directly at sinclair@sugarbutch.net with the subject line “Best Lesbian Erotica submission” and include your story as an attachment in .doc, .docx or .rtf format. Include the story title, your legal name, pseudonym (if applicable), 150-word bio, previous publication information for the story (if applicable), and mailing address.

Queries are welcome; contact sinclair@sugarbutch.net.

cock confidence

Plus Size Pegging: A Longer Dildo & Comfortable Harness

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

My wife and I have been dabbling in pegging. She has mentioned to me that the harness is uncomfortable and that it would probably be better if we found a longer dildo, because we are a bit on the plus size. Currently we have a 6”, 7”, and 8”, so I’m thinking 10 or 12 “ length would be fine. I have looked for longer dildos but have come up empty handed and not real sure the best route to take in this hunt.

Any suggestion on a website or a product that could help us out? Thanks.
— C

Sure, I’ve got a few recommendations for you.

You’re totally right about a longer dildo. You have an 8″ already? Most of the ones made with high quality silicone don’t get too much longer than 8. SheVibe.com has some, but primarily Doc Johnson brand — which are usually made from very poor materials and have that very strong plastic off-gassing smell.

  • Gambler by Vixen Creations
    also comes in vanilla, caramel, chocolate
  • Leroy by New York Toy Collective
    also available in rose & seafoam

One of the high quality ones is Gambler by Vixen Creations. It’s gorgeous — and huge! 11″ long, 3″ circumference. It’s kind hard to tell just how big it is by the photos on their site & other sites.

(Maybe someone will send me one so that I can take some photos for you with comparable objects for size … hint.)

But honestly — that one might be too big!

Here’s another: try Leroy, from New York Toy Collective — It’s 9.5″ long, 2.5″ wide, so it’s pretty big. Duo-density, which means it has a hard core but a soft squishy outside, so it’s not like plastic so much as a toy. Plus the inner core is ‘posable’ so it can bend and stay in place. New York Toy Collective gives $5 off with code SUGARBUTCH.

As far as harnesses go: the one you want, in my opinion, is the Joque by SpareParts.

the Joque harness by SpareParts

They have a size A that goes to 50″ waist and a size B to a 65″ waist. It’s stretchy and comfortable, more like wearing underwear, and gives a lot of tight control — more than the panty-style ones. Which also means the straps are wider and softer, so it doesn’t dig in to squishy parts like other harnesses do. It comes in some colors (red, black, purple) if the black is too boyish. It velcros, which makes it really easy to step into and you don’t have to fuss with buckles. It’s also easy to wash in the washing machine.

The Joque is jock-strap style, meaning it has two straps that go under the butt, not in between the butt cheeks. They do have a thong-style version, too, called Theo.

Hope that helps!

identity politics

What Are You Going To Do With That Women, Gender, Sexuality Studies Degree?

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

I wrote & performed a poem called “What I’m Going To Do With My Women* Studies Degree” at the Gender, Women, Sexuality Studies graduation in 2004.

Ever since I saw it, I’ve been thinking of this tweet. Things are changing so, so much. I’m so grateful.

One of my favorite parts of the poem? “People ask me — ‘what are you going to do with that degree? Go work at the women studies factory?'”

(That poem is called Every Single Day on my 2004 spoken word poetry album, For the Record.)

When I took my first feminist theory class, at Seattle Central Community College in 2000 (wish I remembered the professor’s name to give credit), I had such a lightbulb moment that I felt bowled over. Oh. I’m a women studies major. Right. I forgot. Well, it’s not that I forgot, it’s that I had never thought that thought before, but now that I had, I knew completely that it was correct.

I needed that degree because I needed to understand the suffering I had related to my nonbinary (though we weren’t using that word then) gender and my queerness, and I came out of it with a bigger understanding of other intersectional identities like my artist/semi-working class background and my whiteness. That degree was survival, was key for me to be able to be an adult in the world and not be completely shut down by my experiences as a person with marginalized identities.

I was also a Creative Writing/English major, and my tentative plan was to work in book publishing. I figured I’d be writing eloquent emails and identifying the sexism in the workplace, and that’s what I’d be doing with it.

I used to feel some envy — or even jealousy — when other people would write eloquently about intersectional oppression, because I wanted so badly to do that. but jealousy is often the best teacher, because I doubled down and studied and wrote and wove my experience in with all the things I was learning. Sometimes I say Sugarbutch is my graduate degree, only partly in jest.

I never expected to have the tiny platform (very well known in very few places) that I have, talking about sexuality, gender, kink, and relationships. so much of what I know comes from that degree, and from the queer education my first queer roommate led me through when I was 20, 21, 22.

So I saw this tweet the other day and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. It stopped me and I had to pause my scrolling and let it settle in.

Things are changing so, so much. I’m so grateful.

Seeing so many people picking up this conversation and doing so much work, in such huge ways … instead of feeling jealousy, I just feel relief.

Relief that the racism, sexism, homophobia, xenophobia, transphobia, heterosexism, cissexism, is being called out from within tiny communities to a national level. Not everywhere, I know, and I’m in a self-selected bubble on the internet just like I’m in a self-selected bubble in the liberal cities I’ve lived in all my adult life. But because of the internet, and advancing technology, and because of the marginalization and terror we are feeling so hard due to this presidency, it is happening in such larger ways.

And I’m feeling this slow ungripping, this letting go, this holding on to it softer. I’m still so invested, and I still get in there and get my hands and face and feet and whole self dirty sometimes, but I don’t feel obligated the way I did before.

Still, often, I feel like there is so much to do and so little has changed. But when I pull back a little, there are such significant differences even in my lifetime.

I’m so grateful for the strides.

And thank you, Earth, first for teaching me so much, and now for continuing to catch up.

*The degree at University of Washington Seattle at the time was called Women Studies, definitively with no apostrophe-s, because it was studies about women, not studies that women do. It’s now changed to Gender, Women, Sexuality Studies, which they abbreviate to GWSS and pronounce g-whiz. (Love it!) As a student, my class petitioned the department to change the name and expand to gender and sexuality, even to use the word ‘queer.’ This is one of the oldest Women Studies programs in the country, however; started in the early 80s (I think), and the first batch of professors were just then starting to retire. They said, you have no idea how hard we fought to use the word women, to convince the university that women studies is legit. I learned a lot from those conversations, and while I’m glad they changed the name, I respect the roots and think it’s important to name the lineage it comes from. Much love to the professors there who changed my life.

kink

Methods of Control in Your D/s Relationship: Defining Rules, Tasks, Protocol, and Ritual

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

Relationships with authority exchange, using dominance and submission, are usually centered around control: who makes decisions, who dictates what happens, whose standards are upheld, who tells who to do what.

For lots of us, telling someone else what to do — or being told what to do — is the core of the fetish. It’s the thing that makes us feel all tingly and yummy and taken care of and important and good.

So, D/s relationships use a lot of rules, tasks, protocol, and ritual.

These words are often used interchangeably, but have nuanced differences. In my personal relationship, we’ve spent a lot of time ironing out what the key distinctions are and how to use them.

Your mileage may vary here — please, find and use the language that works for you. Sometimes I short-hand these in my work, so hopefully it’ll be useful to have a reference point for the definitions I’m using when I do.

”Rules” Are The Big Picture Guidelines

“Rules,” as I use them, are like a moral compass, like the underlying ethical values in the relationship.

You’ve probably been in a workshop or a classroom where the instructor set some expectations at the beginning, such as “One Mic: one person talks at a time.” (I’m sure you can think of many other examples of these.) This is a way we set community agreements with each other about the values we hold collectively, so we can be clear about the kind of behavior we expect.

Same goes for a relationship — these are the overarching guidelines we are agreeing to follow as part of our foundation.

Sometimes people call these things like guidelines, principles, or philosophies, but we call them rules — sometimes we refer to them as “capital-R Rules.” They are best when simple, clear, and straightforward (though that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re easy) — I suggest between 5-10, not very many. Because these rules are often words that have multiple definitions, being very clear about what they mean is important.

Examples of rules:

  • Transparency — be forthcoming about what is happening in your life
  • Respect — communication expectations, how we treat each other

”Protocols” Happen Ongoing

You can have dozens, even hundreds, of protocols underneath the rules. Sometimes they are directly related to the rules, but sometimes they are not.

Protocols are the instructions that are followed on a day to day basis. They are recuring and time-specific, meaning they have some sort of trigger that makes them happen. If they can be explained by the statement “if this, then that,” then I consider it a protocol.

Sometimes people call this “procedures” or “rules” in a relationship, though D/s folks tend to really like the word “protocol.” Sometimes I use “protocol” and “rules” interchangeably — such as, “rife has a rule that he asks permission to get in bed.” Meaning, that is a protocol. Or, “Whether or not he uses furniture isn’t a rule for us.” But what I mean is, we don’t have that protocol. (Mostly I do this in speech and am more careful in writing, for clarity.)

Most of us have lots of little protocols like this for ourselves, things that dictate our style and habits. Examples are things like, I never wear a blue shirt with blue jeans; I always wash my dishes after I eat; I never go to bed without a cup of tea. (I bet you can think of at least five that you already have, off the top of your head.)

They should be fluid — especially when one person is making protocols for another. They can be added or removed as the needs or desires of the folks involve change and grow. Sometimes they become so integrated that they are invisible. rife and I call our protocol notes a “living document” — sometimes it changes organically, sometimes we need to have a formal check-in about it and assess.

When introducing new protocols in a relationship, do so slowly, and a few (one or two) at a time. It can be so tempting — for all of us! — to pile on the protocols and get hot and excited about it, but that quickly can become overwhelming, which both means it’s hard for the dominant to track what’s happening and it’s hard for the submissive to implement. Make sure to let everyone have time to integrate and practice the new protocol before adding more.

I’m not going to go in to enforcing protocol, but there are many complicated things to say about it.

How do you figure out which protocols you want to make? Well, that’s a process! I have a lot of theories through my workshops like The Protocol Game and the Discipline Unit of D/s Playground.

Examples of protocol:

  • Brush, floss, and use mouthwash immediately after you wake up
  • No screen time after 9pm
  • Always wear matching bra & panties
  • Get a manicure once every two weeks with a polish of my choice

”Procedures” Are How Things Are Done

Protocol is what I want to be done, and the procedure is how I want it done. “Do the dishes every night before bed” is a protocol; “wash the dishes with this type of soap; put them this way in the drying rack organized by size; wipe down all the counters, sink, and stove; set up the coffee pot to be ready in the morning” might be the procedures underneath that protocol.

Usually, the procedure can be taught once (and perhaps guided or corrected, as time goes on) and documented clearly, and the submissive will have a point of reference. The protocol might happen daily, but the procedure is explained and then enforced.

Procedures are slightly different than rituals because while they reinforce the dynamic through controlled behavior, they aren’t necessarily intending to generate D/s headspace or a spiritual connection. They do often have multiple steps within them, but they are usually concrete steps.

Often, people include how a protocol is done in the definition of the protocol itself. Nothing wrong with that! I’m just breaking down the two different concepts for clarity.

Examples of procedures:

  • “Make my coffee:” add creamer until the color matches this paint chip, approximately two tablespoons; add one dash of simple syrup
  • “Make the bed:” military corners, fluff the pillows, put pillows on top of the sheet and blanket

“Tasks” Are One-Time Assignments

Tasks are assignments which are done one time. Sometimes they have deadlines, sometimes they are open ended.

Tasks could evolve into protocols, particularly over time — for example, “Pick up my dry cleaning tomorrow,” is a task, but “Pick up my dry cleaning every Thursday,” is a protocol.

With tasks … the sky’s the limit! Tasks are great when starting out in a relationship, because the people involved can get a sense of what they like and don’t like, what the dominant’s style is, what works, and what doesn’t. Plus, they are great opportunities for rewards (even if the reward is a spanking).

One fun way to do task assignments is to give them a task with the instructions that they will get another one when they complete this one. That way they can take their time with it — if they have an incredibly busy schedule, or if it is very elaborate, it could take a month, but if it is simpler or they have more time, it could take a day.

Some task examples:

  • Run an errand and pick up [object] at [place]
  • Write me an email with short descriptions of five fantasies
  • Clean the kitchen and bathroom before [date]
  • Make me [this particular] piece of art

“Rituals” Remind Us of D/s Headspace

This could sometimes be known as “routines,” though I use the word “ritual” because it has a slightly different intention behind it — the word “routine” sounds a little more like being on auto-pilot. I think of the intention as being connection to the D/s dynamic, each other, and possibly a larger purpose — a spiritual path. Either way, rituals are intended to get us deeper into a D/s headspace, to bring more consciousness and intention. Toutines are generally intended to become background habits that propel us through our lives.

Routines are often used more in the day-to-day, and rituals are used for more special occasions, but using the word ritual for the day to day — hopefully — brings more consciousness to it.

Rituals are larger events that usually have multiple steps or aspects of protocol. They also have a particular trigger, such as: when we wake up together, then do the morning ritual.

Rituals might be daily or occasionally. We might have morning/evening ritual, or a New Year’s Eve ritual, or we might have a once in a lifetime ritual of a bat mitzvah upon turning 13.

Examples of rituals:

  • When your alarm goes off at 6:30am, get up from your sleeping spot and kneel on my side of the bed until I acknowledge you. I will rise and stand above you, and we will recite our morning poem. I will go to the shower and you will begin cooking
  • When someone graduates from school, we go to our favorite restaurant and invite the whole family
  • When we have been apart, before anything else, the submissive kneels and kisses their dominants boots

That’s my thoughts — how do you use these words?

Do you use them in similar ways that we do? Or different? Do you prefer to call these concepts something different? Totally cool. These are ideas to jump-start what works best for you, and have clarity in the different categories of control in D/s relationships.

Hopefully, having different categories makes it easier to create and brainstorm protocols to try out.

essays

Decks, Books, & Spreads: Getting Started with a Tarot Practice

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

I’ve been sharing more of my tarot practice (particularly on my personal Instagram) lately, and getting some questions.

With the rise of self-publishing, artists from around the world have been able to create and publish their own decks through places like Kickstarter and on-demand — so there are literally hundreds of decks.

And then, once you have a deck, where do you start?

Three Decks

You only need one deck, technically, but a lot of folks end up collecting a few 9or a lot). Here are three of my favorites (and the most popular and accessible), with a few others thrown in. Ultimately, tarot decks are works of art, and you want to choose one where the art speaks to you, and you find meaning to sit with and absorb in the imagery.

The Wild Unknown, by Kim Kranz

The Wild Unknown is the most popular tarot deck right now, usurping the classic Rider-Waite deck (more on that next). Kim Kranz’s illustrations are clear, accessible, beautiful. The accompanying guidebook is simple and straightforward. It’s a great modern, simple interpretation of the concepts, and a fantastic deck to start with.

There are two websites which have catalogued all the cards in the Wild Unknown and written some of their own interpretations, and those can drop you in to even deeper meanings of the cards: Carrie Mallon, and Mira Sol Wisdom. Order it at your favorite local bookstore or new age store, or, if you must, from Amazon.

Rider-Waite-Smith, traditional

If the archetypes and hero’s journey of the tarot speaks to you, you might want to start diving in to the traditional theory a little more. Most of the deep theory of the tarot uses the traditional Rider-Waite, or Rider-Waite-Smith deck.

Why am I referring to it with two different names? Rider is the publisher, Waite is the writer, and Patricia Coleman Smith is the illustrator. The deck has been called Rider or Rider-Waite for decades, but many folks now are moving toward calling it the Smith deck, as the imagery is one of the most intense and lasting thing about the deck itself.

Rachel Pollack and Mary Greer are two of the most renowned tarot theorists, and all of their work focuses on this deck. They have many books (more on that below). Jessica Dore is a modern tarot reader who is using social media — Twitter and Instagram — to share interpretations based on psychotherapy concepts and models. She has online courses and classes, too.

This deck is usually less than $20, and pretty much all stores which carry tarot decks will have it. Try your local crystal – new age – witchy store, or grab it on Amazon.

Spacious Tarot, forthcoming by Annie Ruygt and Carrie Mallon

Carrie Mallon is a bit of a modern tarot celebrity. I found her through her Wild Unknown interpretations and have followed her work ever since.

She has just finished her own tarot deck, the Spacious Tarot, illustrated by Annie Ruygt, and it is b e a u t i f u l. I’m already anticipating that it will be one of my most-loved and most-used decks when it arrives. Her kickstarter closes July 20th, go grab it there.

I also really love …

Inner Hue’s Lumina Tarot, Raven’s Prophecy, Anima Mundi, Wayhome. I’m really excited about a few more decks coming out this summer: The Witch’s Insurrection and Modern Witch Tarot.

And then there are the queer decks!

There are quite a few which have explicitly reimagined some of the more patriarchal themes. Some of them, like Carrie’s Spacious Tarot above, move away from the patriarchal imagery, but still aren’t explicitly queer. But even more of them are explicitly queer, and many of the interpretations are much more modern, using queer activist language.

They often re-interpret the court cards, for example — instead of “page / knight / queen / king,” or “daughter / son / mother / father,” they might interpret them more as stages of a wisdom practice, like “seeker / apprentice / artist / mentor” (The Collective Tarot) or “beast / witch / grandmother / shadow” (Tarot of the Crone).

Rather than compile my own list, here are a few good ones: Autostraddle has a list of eight queer tarot decks, and Queer Tarot has a great list too.

Three books

Some come with books, and some don’t, so you might want a book or two of interpretations of the cards in addition to your deck. I tend to pick my favorite deck, then use multiple books to read interpretations of the cards until I feel like I have a sense of what it means and how it applies.

Queering the Tarot by Cassandra Snow

This book started as a series on a great queer tarot website (now shut down), but lucky for us, it turned into a book. Cassandra Snow dives into the traditional meanings of the cards and offers new interpretations based on lived queer experience and

Order it at your favorite local bookstore, or, if you must, from Amazon.

Seventy-Eight Degrees of Wisdom by Rachel Pollack

One of the best interpretation and theory books I can recommend. If you want to go deep, here’s the one to go to. It has in-depth writings for each of the cards, of course, but it features more philosophy about the progression of the Major Arcana than most books do, and more connection between the cards and the journeys embodied in the cards. For example, in the six of swords, it might reference how it’s a bridge from the five to the seven — things like that. Highly recommend it if you want to get more into the archetypes, hero’s journey, and interwoven connections of the tarot. Order it at your favorite local bookstore, or, if you must, from Amazon.

Tarot For Your Self: A Workbook for Personal Transformation by Mary K. Greer

Mary K. Greer is considered one of the great tarot leaders, and this workbook will make it obvious why. It is a great resource to keep unfolding all the ways that tarot can be used for personal insight and growth.

Order it from your local bookstore or new age store, or, if you must, from Amazon.

Soul Tarot School by Lindsay Mack

I have to mention Lindsay Mack and Soul Tarot School — she has a variety of ecourses, but also her tarot podcast has been hugely influential for me. I look forward to her “monthly medicine” episodes every month, and it’s one of the few podcasts I actually keep up with.

Daily practice

One of the best ways to get to know your deck is by pulling a card daily.

  • Sit still and bring your focus in. Get centered. Breathe. Ground. Whatever your practice is to get in touch with yourself, do that for a minute or two.
  • Shuffle the cards. Most tarot folks use the overhand shuffle method, rather than the riffle shuffle, I suppose because it prevents the cards from bending. Tarot decks can be many different sizes, too, so it is easier for bigger decks.
  • Ask: What energy would support me today? What should I be calling in? Where should my energy focus? Your wording may vary, so find words that work for you. Focus on that request.
  • Choose one card. It could be the one on top, or a random one from the deck that is calling to you.
  • Sit with the imagery for a minute and see what you feel. How would you interpret it?
  • If you want, look it up in whatever books or online sources that you’d like. Some folks read entirely intuitively, from the imagery, and don’t use other sources, but you can use none or one or seven or however many you’d like. I like to pull a variety of books down, and see the different interpretations of the cards in each one. Sometimes I look through the corresponding hashtag for that particular card on Instagram to see even more artistic interpretations of the card, and the posts often include some write-up interpretations, too. For example: #fiveofswords, #thehierophant, #kingofwands.

Three spreads

Three-card

If I want to go a little deeper than one card, if I have some time or a bigger psychoemotional puzzle, I might do a three card spread instead. Labyrinthos has a list of 18 simple 3-card tarot spreads, and I use these frequently for just a little more than a single daily pull. I particularly like Situation – Action – Outcome, and use that often.


Deck Introduction

Katey Flowers has a tarot deck interview spread that I usually conduct any time I get a new deck. It feels like a way to ground into the new imagery and tone of the deck. It asks things like, how can we work together? What can you teach me? Describe yourself; describe me. I find it insightful and helpful, like a first date with the deck.

Spreads for special occasions

One of my favorite things to do is to pull out the cards on a particularly meaningful day. Sometimes that’s my birthday, a holiday, the solstices and equinoxes, an eclipse, a new moon or full moon, a life-changing event. There are dozens of spreads for all of these, depending on what you’re looking for. A quick Google search for whatever you’re looking for will bring up many options, as will some looking around on Instagram.

For example, I recently used this spread by @lionharts on Instagram on July 2nd, for the Total New Moon Solar Eclipse in the sign of cancer. But it could be any particular occasion — try Pinterest, Instagram, or just a Google image search for the occasion + “tarot”, and plenty of spread options will come up.

Ultimately, tarot is a personal journey.

Discard everything I’m saying here if it doesn’t resonate — Find what works for you.

kink

Kinky Summer Camps You Should Definitely Attend

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

I spent two weekends in June at kink events that were primarily outdoors — Desire: Leather Women and Boundless. Both were here in California, Desire in Palm Springs and Boundless near Ukiah.

I had a great time — I’d been to both events before. While they’re wildly different in terms of who they attract, the tone of it, the cross-section of the leather community, the classes, and even the location, I was struck by what they had in common.

I spend a lot of time observing — at these events, but also in general. As I sat in a chair in the shade by the pool at Desire, and as I sat on a picnic bench eating lunch at Boundless, I had the same thought:

I hope all adults do this.

At least once, if not every summer, if not all the time.

Not just the kink part of the sex part, but the body positivity. People wore whatever they wanted to wear: head to toe leather, suits, fancy dresses I would even call gowns, sarong wraps, mesh jock straps, wrist and ankle cuffs with nothing else, or just completely nude. (I wished them much sunscreen.)

I wouldn’t think of an outfit that would stand out in a way that they would “look weird,” be judged, shamed, or not fit in. Maybe a military or police uniform? But even that has a place in kink, as many have uniform fetishes (though it is problematic at best, and outright violent at worst, as they are symbols of racist and classist systems. Still, they are seen in kink spaces).

I don’t think there’s a body that would stand out, either. There are so many people of so many sizes, abilities, appearances. I’m sure that body shaming, fat phobia, and ablism all still happen, I’m not trying to say they don’t — this community is a microcosm, after all, not some magical safe haven where the cultural biases don’t exist.

But generally, there’s a different standard of body acceptance at these retreats. There are tiny women with big burly men on leashes, there are round men in kilts with three submissive girls in tow, there are conventionally gorgeous women who are just there to watch, there are fat non-binary folks with a different play partner every time they turn around, there are gender-fabulous people with beards and high heels.

It’s every configuration I can think of, and some I would probably never think of; my own bias is frequently questioned.

And I love it.

The folks who attend are, for the most part, cultural outsiders. Sure, many are conventionally attractive and some have “beauty privilege,” but many (even most?) don’t. To many, we’ve always been the weirdos. But there’s no being the weirdo here — or maybe more accurately, we’re all weirdos here, in a reclaimed, honored way.

Beyond the body acceptance, it also struck me just how unique, unparalleled, and embodied play these spaces encourage. They really are adult playgrounds, places we can explore connection with others; temperature like the swimming pool, hot tub, fire play, body bags; sensation on the skin and muscles and fascia from bold to subtle to sensual to violent; ways to move and run and jump and wrestle and chase; ways we make up the rules to our games and get others to play along, follow the leader and tag and laughter and interpersonal group social politics.

Of course, with all our adult knowledge of complexities — like consent, psychology, authority exchange, systems of oppression patters of trauma and habit and conditioning — it’s not easy play. But that, too, is part of what makes it fun — the challenge, the risk, the thrill.

I hope everyone spends time in these environments.

That they are held outdoors in clothing-optional spaces (in summer) is key — we can wear anything, we can be on leashes or stilts, in bondage or pajamas. We can have our bellies hanging out, showing our scars in all their glory and history, our genitals touched by the sunshine (again with the sunscreen wishes!).

I hope everyone gets to experience this at least once in their lives. Even if it isn’t comfortable for them to be nude, or to not bind, or to not wear makeup, or show their desires to anyone watching, it is incredible to see so many people doing so. It is incredible to see so much permission to take up space, to go for it — to play with our bodies in every and any sense of the word.

I’m sure I don’t know all of the events that are like this, but here’s a list of a few you can check out if you want to attend something like this. They really are worth flying across the country to attend.

Check out these events:

Boundless — in Northern California, about half an hour from Ukiah. Outdoors, food provided, wonderful education, dungeons and activities in the evenings. Most attendees bring their own tents and camp, but there are some cabins and some shared rooms in the lodge available. The event center, Saratoga Springs, hosts other kink events, too.

Desire Leather Women — in Palm Springs, California. It’s a women-only event, which means trans and cis women. As with any event that is gender-specific, they’ve received some criticism about their policies, but in my experience it’s been a welcoming, inclusive environment. As two transmasculine / trans-ish people, rife & I have loved attending.

Dark Odyssey Fusion, and Dark Odyssey Summer Camp — Summer Camp is where rife and I met (and, later, where I threw a scavenger hunt engagement party, so obviously I’m biased, because I think it’s the best event ever. More specifically though, it’s held at Camp Ramblewood near Baltimore, Maryland, which hosts many kink events through the year. They’re mostly pansexual, lots of amazing education and celebrations, I love having a pool and huge grass lawn and as much outdoor play as we want. If I lived closer, I would be there every time.

I haven’t attended any of these, but here are some others to check out — if y’all have been there, I’d love to hear what you thought.

If you have other events like this to recommend, please leave them in the comments!

I imagine this kind of liberation is what many people find at events like Burning Man, circus arts gatherings, or other hotel-based kink and sexuality conferences. It’s different, to me, to have them all combined — outside, kink, sex, all clothing optional.

If you’ve attended any of these, I’d love to know what your experience was like. Often people particularly ask me how it was to be there as a queer nonbinary person — most kink events are largely white, cis, and straight, so finding ones that have a strong queer component, or aren’t that way at all, is a concern for a lot of folks.

I’ve experienced this in the summer 5-day residential retreat that my spiritual community produces, called Portals of Pleasure. We producers/facilitators have been doing this for 11 years now, and I’ve been part of the planning and facilitation team since the beginning. It’s challenging to describe, though we tried on our recent podcast episode. What’s the most different about it compared to these others is that Portals is 25 people maximum, and these others have hundreds of people. It’s also much more personal, tailored, curated … there’s no pickup play, it’s all very intentional and, for me, much more intense and deeper.

Portals is happening at the end of July. If that kind of group erotic embodiment / sacred somatic work is something you’re already familiar with, I invite you to reach out and learn more, and see if it is a good fit for you.

If you aren’t familiar with it, take a look at the workshops I’m cofacilitating in Seattle this coming year about BDSM and energy. They aren’t beginner workshops, but they are suitable to folks who haven’t done erotic/spiritual group work in the past but who are familiar with play parties, kink, and play. They will be near the solstices and equinoxes as part of our Year Wheel series.

Glad to talk more about them, just send me a note and let’s talk.

But meanwhile — find one of those kinky summer camps! And let me know what you think.

guest posts

A Moaning Mess of a Girl, Guest Post by Kiki DeLovely

Posted on by Kiki DeLovely

I wake with a start, reaching for my phone. 5:35am. Shit, which way is it again? Could be either 2:35 or 8:35 where you’re at. This should be quick and easy math in my head but I keep going back and forth between adding the threes for you and subtracting them for me. Both of these options seem like impossible times in my hazy, dream-laden mind. Subtract the three. Yes, it’s definitely subtraction on my end. But it doesn’t matter. Both of these preposterous times mean that you’re probably asleep…and I unquestionably ought to be as well. I roll over and barely have a minute of self-indulgent pouting before I realize something is vibrating in my hand.

“Good morning, gorgeous.”

I blush, curling into a tiny ball, beaming into the phone. Your voice is cracked, raspy with slumber heavy on your tongue, honey to my ears. My lugubrious lips quickly arc upwards, forming the sweetest smile.

“Good morning, handsome.”

“Do something for me.” You politely await my reply even though this favorite line of yours has long since ceased being a question. Really, more of a call and response because my answer is always the same:

“Anything.”

“Roll over. Touch yourself for me. Be a good girl for Daddy.”

I can tell from the tone in your voice how hard you are already. The desire drips from each slow syllable. And these few simple words have an immediate, palpable effect on my body. My clit began to throb before you completed that first sentence. My pussy quivers, glistening so soon. I can barely form words when you talk to me like that. You know how to make me so fucking shy. Delighting in it. Add to that my mounting orgasm and I’m a non-verbal, moaning mess of a girl. Lucky for me, you’re perfectly content to hear nothing but those inarticulate melodies as I come for you, writhing in between my crimson sheets. And then again.

My butch Daddy, your unique flavor of female masculinity and dominance was set to high heat the moment you laid eyes on me, stirred to a quick boil that first night we spent in your precariously lofted bed, bubbling up and spilling all over my body every day since. I feel blessed to witness you coming into your own so thoroughly, to get to experience it firsthand. Mmmm…your hands. How I long for them. So rough and strong, you never knew to have pride in them until I purred under your touch as you stroked them down my exposed back, cupping my ass. I cooed my craving into the curve of your neck, letting you know just how much the ascendancy of those hands turn me on. My femme instinct smelled the butch all over you long before you ever used the word to describe yourself. I sensed it burning inside of you, eagerly awaiting a femme like me to show you just how desirable female masculinity can be. To express how it’s one of the many parts of you I honor and cherish. To prove to you that I just can’t get enough. And even with all the distance between us now, we don’t let that get in our way. We simply search out other methods to stay connected.

Email, Facetime, mobile-to-mobile, texting (sexting), voicemail. Damn, you’ve got me going against everything I believe in. I detest technology. In all of its many, varied forms. Yet here I find myself. Sleeping with my phone turned on in case you call, sending endless fantasies on the tiniest keyboard until my thumbs cramp up, last night you even put me to bed over the computer. I normally resist sleeping in the same room with anything electronic, let alone something connected to wifi. But I’ll admit that the sound of your voice singing me to sleep and that of your shallow breathing when I awoke in the middle of the night was so sweetly comforting. And such a turn on. Instead of waking you though I let you sleep.

This time. Next time you’re going to be roused with quite the little show. I decide to pour all my mid-night lust into mid-day distractions that’ll make your hours at work fly by faster.

2:57pm. Subtract the three. Noon is just as good a time as any to get this started. Text is my weapon of choice today.

I lick my lips. Slowly. You groan, fighting hard against your instinctual impulses. My mouth is watering, Daddy. May I please give you a little kiss?

The minutes crawl by too slowly as I impatiently check my phone for the hundredth time. I want to keep going but I can’t. Not without your express permission. So I squirm around in my bed, jilling off lazily, feeling more and more desperate for your response. Proud of myself for only sending one frantic pleading message in the meantime as I wait out each of those torturous, interminable forty-seven minutes before you reply.

Lick your lips again and kiss Daddy.

I nearly come when you send me such lascivious demands. But I can’t be distracted now. My aim is to distract you.

 I bend forward and gradually lower my mouth. My pretty little mouth that you so love inching closer and closer to your hard-on, the tip of my tongue gliding across my upper lip. Looking up at you with big brown eyes, I pucker my lips and kiss the head of your cock. An electric volt of desire starts there, shooting straight through you, making your whole body jump.

The current running through your body is so intense that you don’t even notice until it’s too late that I’ve gone and gotten greedy, wrapping my hand around the base of your cock and going in for another kiss. Sans permission. Bad girl. It’s not until your feel the warmth of my lips opening a little wider this time that you realize. You feel the pressure of my tongue ease across the tip of your cock. Very bad girl. So you grab me by the back of my hair with such force that I cry out.

You drag me up and throw me down on the bed. Your patience was bound to break and I pushed you over the edge sooner than you’d have liked. So now I’m gonna get it. Fear and desire shine in my eyes, a lustful tempest in yours, as you shove my legs apart. You hear the lace of my panties ripping as you tear them to the side, not giving a fuck what you tear. You drive your cock into me, taking me rougher than ever before. Taking it all in one single thrust. Taking what’s yours.

I look down at my phone, grinning and gratified at having ruined you for the rest of your day.

*       *       *

I can feel my phone trill in my pocket but I’m in the middle of a story, surrounded by my family. Receiving anything from you while I’m around them makes me nervous. So I wait until an opportune moment presents itself to make my way to the bathroom. Closing the door while fumbling with the touch screen, I see the little red circle above “Mail” has increased in number many times over. Most of them are photos – which I love, don’t get me wrong, my eyes drinking in every pixel of you, the beauty you’ve encountered in your journeyings – but it’s your words that do me in:

I look into your eyes, your wanting eyes, and return the gaze with mine. Bending you over slowly, you grip your ankles for support as I take my cock in hand and place it between your legs. But I don’t go inside you, I don’t touch anything, actually. I hold it there beneath your pussy and wait, like waiting for raindrops. Opening your pussy with my right hand, I exhale with satisfaction. It is as I hoped. You are wet enough for this. Your wet is all over my cock now, dripping onto it as I hold it at your hole. It’s running up to your clit, it wants to make its way to your inner thighs. This. This is what I wanted. I pull away from you and run my hand all over your juices. All over me. I can feel it all over me.

These words go straight to my cunt and now I’m unbuttoning my jeans one-handedly, struggling to get to my clit fast enough. Fuck, I’m so fucking wet. Just like in your fantasy. Rereading it two and a half more times before I’m coming hard and fast, I wash my hands and rejoin my sisters, hoping they won’t smell how much I need you.

God, my jaw is aching. You make me too happy. The muscles in my cheeks are out of practice. It seems like my head is constantly thrown back these days – either in a fit of laughter or of passion. I suppose the jaw-ache could also be all the blow jobs I’ve been giving you. Still I can’t stop myself. I glance at the hands on the wall. Quarter to four. You’re off at 3:00pm today. Add the three. That gives me plenty of time to get myself going and leave you a voicemail.    

Before dialing yours, I call mine and search out my very favorite message. I want to be so close when I call so that nerves don’t take over and I’m actually able to orgasm. I know you’ll hear the difference if I don’t. Hitting the four, I replay your words once more. “That’s my good girl. Oh, I’m so close. Fuck. You get me so hard. I’m gonna take my cock out and come all over your pussy. Ohhh, I’m coming for you. Fuck. So fucking hard. All over you. Reach down and put that cum in your pussy now. Do it for me. Do it for me, babygirl. Shove it in with your fingers. Now rub it up all over your clit. You like that? I want my cum all over you.”

Despite being quite the filthy girl, I had never imagined myself getting off to such a thought. And you never dared dream a dyke would find your secret fantasies so arousing. Yet here we are. Reveling in every last drop. And you know my screams are genuine when you skip out of work early to take a listen. Leaving you throbbing the rest of the day.

I wake with a moan, clutching at the covers. You know I’m yours, all of me, so you’re allowed to take whatever you want, whenever you want it. And so you do. 4:44am. Subtract the three. You must be just getting home from your gig. Horny. We both sleep weird and few hours. Fewer and fewer since we first met. The unpredictable hours kept by a musician and a writer. Between band practice, random deadlines, my insomnia on top of yours, we’re lucky if either of us gets more than a few hours’ sleep at any given time. Still you can’t help yourself. Or rather, you do. You help yourself quite generously. There may be 2,818 miles between us, but I still know when you’re jacking off to me. You take me in my dreams, I awake with the sheets soaking wet.

I wake with a start, reaching for my laptop. 5:51am. I don’t bother with the math – it’s not you I need to write this time, it’s a story that needs to surface. Fuck, it’s been too long since I woke with a story itching at my fingertips. And this one is all you. You and me. Us. I’ve been waiting for you for so long. I need to give it a voice. One of my favorite love stories of all time. One that’s so brimming with lust it pours out all around us. Unlike so many of my fantasy-filled favorites that exist only between the covers, this one is real. So painfully and beautifully real. Plagued with writer’s block for frustratingly drawn-out months, you came along and broke the spell.

Thank you, my muse, my butch, my Daddy. I whisper a blessing of gratitude to whomever is listening. Hoping you hear me as well. Knowing you’re feeling me. Because I’m feeling you.

nonbinary diaries

The Singular “They” Is Grammatically Correct, Dammit

Posted on by Sinclair Sexsmith

Hello!

I just read your identity pronoun piece on Medium and I would like to converse with you about a few questions I have.

My child is currently identifying as non-binary. My only issue is from a grammar stand point. I struggle with referring to an individual in a plural way due to years of grammar education. I truly feel that I (and possibly others) may catch on quicker if it didn’t seem like we were being incorrect with the grammar by being correct in addressing the person.

I truly ask this with an open heart and mind. Do you think due to the creation of the subset — or acknowledgement as it were- that it may be easier for those outside the set to be mindful and those in the set to become recognized?

I look forward to your commentary.

Regards,
Renee’

This is a real email that I received, though I did edit it to be shorter. 

Here is my reply.

Hi Renee’,

I hear ya with the kind intention of this question. You’re not alone in asking it — many, many people do not like the use of the “singular they” as a nonbinary pronoun.

Here are a few resources for you.

Other options for third person pronouns:

Many transgender, gender non-confirming (GNC), and nonbinary folks in the US have been using pronouns aside from he or she for decades. Ze, hir, zir, xie, ey, and per are just a few that some of my community has used over the years. Here is a table of many of the different third-person gender pronouns used in English.

In GNC communities, people choose which pronoun they feel best fits them and resonates for them. The use of the singular they was always one of many, but it is only recently that it has become widely accepted in the mainstream English speaking / US environment.

Why singular they is okay:

Singular they was declared the word of the year by the American Dialect Society in 2015.

It has been in consistent use as a third person singular pronoun since the 1300s. Shakespeare, Chaucer, and Emily Dickinson all use it in their work. The wikipedia entry on it breaks it down quite well. Here is another longer history of the usage of the singular they.

Whether or not you realize it, most people already use the singular they. It is just used more generically, rather than individually. Teen Vogue has a good write-up of the common questions asked about nonbinary pronouns.

Because singular they has been used for so long, it is generally the easiest third person nonbinary pronoun for people to grasp.

Which do you think is easier to say?

  • they went to the store
  • ze went to the store
  • pe went to the store

On changing language:

I get that it’s hard to change the use of something that has always been one way. But language changes all the time. Here’s a list of TED talks that discuss how language is fluid and changes.

Language is solidified by those in power. Those who have been in power have been (are) cisgender people. But language is more of a living thing that both reflects and shapes cultural norms. Changing the language changes the oppression of marginalized people.

Using singular ‘they’ also helps with another major feminist linguistic issue: the way we default to using he/him pronouns as general examples in English. Using they/them solves that problem, and is much less awkward than using “s/he” or “she or he,” and challenges the use of maleness as the norm.

Here are two books for you:

A Quick & Easy Guide to
They/Them Pronouns		The Gender Book


Perhaps this part is the most important:

It takes uncomfortable change to be inclusive and supportive of marginalized people.

Yes, it can be uncomfortable to use the singular they. Yes, it means you will probably mess up as you are getting used to it, and perhaps hurt some people’s feelings, and perhaps have to apologize and learn and do better, and that is uncomfortable. But it is essential to try in order to make a world that can be more welcoming, inclusive, and celebratory of marginalized and oppressed folks.

This is a very clear, very concrete way that nonbinary people are asking to be supportive. Please do it.

Last, but not least:

Please consider doing your own Google research before asking nonbinary people, such as myself, to do research and explain things to you. This has taken an hour of my time that I could be otherwise working for money, being with my friends, or creating my own art.

I decided to do this for you because I am going to use this as my next article and make it public. But next time, please use Google — or a librarian, whose job it is to help you find information! — and educate yourself. There are thousands and thousands of articles, videos, and offerings online that already explain the things you’re asking me.

Things you could Google for additional research:

  • how to use the singular they
  • why use singular they
  • history of singular they
  • is singular they grammatically correct
  • how to be supportive of nonbinary people
  • alternative third person pronouns
  • use of singular they in literature
  • changing language over time

Asking nonbinary people to do work to educate cis people is a form of emotional labor that costs us time, effort, and energy. It is incredibly common for nonbinary people to be asked to educate cis people, and it is exhausting.

Next time you ask for labor like this, at least offer to compensate. I do coach people on gender, sexuality, and relationship issues, and I would be happy to consider coach you further. Contact me if you wish to pursue that.

In conclusion: 

If you agree with me, great. Please share this.

Perhaps you do not agree with me, and you’re one of those people who only uses “cool” to describe temperature. But if you insist on prioritizing grammar rules above honoring nonbinary people, I insist on thinking you’re a jerk.

Sincerely,
Sinclair

Pronouns: they/them

PS: If you appreciate the time I put into this article, please consider supporting me on Patreon or making a PayPal donation to my email address, sinclair@gmail.com