Handprints on the Hotel Window

Kristen and I spent the weekend in Chicago, in part to attend a concert, and in part because tomorrow, December 13th, is our third anniversary. This story does not involve daddy/girl play specifically, but there is once when she calls me Daddy. Because that’s what she does. It does involve some rough sex. Just a warning.

While Kristen showers, I put my cock on under my boxers, leaving my tank top on. She emerges with the white hotel towel wrapped around her, hair wet and dripping onto her shoulders. When she sits onto the bed I stand between her legs and pull her towel open, then grab her hand, lifting her to stand.

“Come on.”

I pull her to the hotel’s floor-to-ceiling window that looked out onto the Chicago river, Lake Michigan, and a dozen other skyscrapers nearby to our hotel, leaving her towel on the bed. I take each of her wrists and press her hands into the cold glass, feeling the outside freezing temperature through the thin barrier.

“Leave your hands there,” I say. I press into the back of her body, kissing her neck. She shivers, a ripple up her spine, and I feel it. “I’m going to take you down. You can stop me anytime, but you’ll have to safeword out. I don’t care if you cry or fight me.” She’d been emotional all day, it is possible she’ll cry. And I’m guessing she needs the release.

So do I.

She nods. “Red?” She doesn’t have a usual safeword aside from yellow and red.

“That’s fine.” I reply. “Okay?”

She nods again. I kick her legs open, press harder into her, and drag my hands along her naked body, the curve of her ribs down to her hip, then over her ass, and I plunge two fingers between her lips, hard and right deep into her. She gasps, arches her back a little to push against me harder. I pull my fingers out and spit on them for lube, inadequate but better than nothing, and work them back in. Pushing deep. Fingering her g-spot and cervix and reaching around with the other hand to touch her clit.

The first time she comes, she drops her hands from the window, tits still pressing into it, cheek against it, her breath fogging up the glass. “Who said you could drop your hands,” I growl at her, and she raises them back up to shoulder height, moaning.

“Come for me again.” I work my fingers inside, mouth on her neck and next to her ear. “You see all those windows out there?” She opens her eyes, looking. We’d remarked the night before that we could watch the TV in the person’s apartment across the way. It wasn’t close enough for much detail, but shapes and people surely.

She swallows. “Yes.”

“Wouldn’t take much for someone to notice you here, getting fucked, getting played with. My little toy. Pretty girl, you think someone is watching you right now?” She comes again, twice more, shuddering against the window, torn between wanting to press into it to hold herself up and pulling away from its chilling temperature.

I want to get rough with her. I know it’s easier to do that—for her; she can take more—if she’s already come a few times, hence the warm up. I want it quick, urgent, and dirty.

I pull back, twist her shoulders to swivel her body around. “Down,” I said, pushing on her shoulders. She almost stumbles down onto her knees on the scratchy hotel carpet. I pull my cock out, the big one I like to fuck with, my favorite, the one that is a little too big for blow jobs, especially in her tiny mouth, even considering her skill.

But right now, I couldn’t care less.

I feed it to her, sliding it onto her tongue. “Put your hands behind your back.” She doesn’t need to be doing the work, this time. She is just a hole. She closes her lips over the head but not much deeper. “Get it all wet.” I pull out and rub it against her mouth. She swallows, works her mouth for more saliva, and opens again, and I push inside, deeper this time.

“Come on, you can do better than that. Take it. Take it down, good girl. Let’s see what you can do.”

She tries, but it isn’t enough. I grip her hair at the base of her neck and push, trapping her between the pressure from my hand and my cock. I thrust in a little deeper each time. I can see the teeth marks in the saliva on my cock. I almost tell her to stop using her teeth, but I don’t really care. I can’t feel it, anyway. If she needs to regulate that way, it’s fine.

I push too deep and she gags, closing her mouth, twisting away so I’m not lined up anymore. “Come on,” I urge again. “You’re fine. Do it again.”

She parts her lips and I shove in. Deep again, more, in and out, until she gags again. I give her a moment and touch my cock back to her lips. “You’re not done yet. Again.”

She looks up at me and swallows, hands still behind her back. “Stick your tongue out,” I say. She does, and I slap it with my cock, four, five times, then shove it in. She closes her lips and sucks, and a jolt of something goes up my spine.

“That’s good. That’s my good girl. That’s right.”

She sucks it well and I grip her head again, forcing it in deeper, holding her against my cock at the deepest point until she recoils. “Breathe,” I remind her. She gasps, regains her breath. I slap her tongue again, slap her cheek, and shove it back in.

I’m hard and thick, pulsing, in her mouth. I can smell the come on her thighs, dripping. Her cheeks hollow as she sucks and looks at me with pleading eyes.

I pull out and shove her again. “Down.” She flattened onto her belly, twists, on to the carpet. “Hands and knees,” I say, kicking at her thighs. “Crawl. Go.”

She moans and picks herself up, slowing moving the short distance from the window to the bed. I shove my heel into the flesh of her ass, knock her off balance. “Keep going.” I get a few kicks in with my bare foot, light and easy, but I feel it reverberate through her. She has been so quiet so far, dropping so quickly into that space of submission and giving over, barely talking, and I suspect this—making her crawl, kicking her—will just exacerbate that. But she is in it, feeling every touch and every inch, showing me everything with her eyes and the flushes on her skin.

“Up,” I say, and she slowly moves to stand, faces away from me, and I shove her, bend her over the bed, hand finding her hole again, spreading her lips open with my hand and positioning my cock. I spit down between her legs, into the crack of her ass, as low as I can, and make circles with the head of my cock to rub it around before pushing inside her. I pull her hips up as I thrust. “Arch your back. Give me that hole.”

She pushes back into me just as I thrust and I get that angle, that tension, that friction that I love, that shoots energy right up through my core and into my heart, throat, and up and out, back into her. I reach around for her clit while thrusting and I thrum it and she comes again, I feel her tighten around my cock but she doesn’t push me out. But the bed is not quite the right height, my knees are bent and I’m pulling her hips up to me, and I need another angle.

I pull out and pushed her legs together. “Turn.” She does, quickly. I shove her back onto the large king hotel mattress and grip her thighs, pushing them apart as I climb onto the bed between her legs and palm my cock, rubbing it against her slit again.

She moans and arches her back. Her cunt is pink and swollen. I spit again but she doesn’t need it, she’s wet and dripping with come.

I keep my cock in my hand and thrust in and out of her, shallow, a few times. She opens her mouth, hands above her head, fists reaching to grip the sheets, pushing against the headboard. I slide closer to her, in the deep V of her legs, pull out and slap her cunt with my cock, aiming the ridge of the head right at her clit. It works, and she comes quickly, come spraying as I keep slapping. I see it splash onto her breasts, onto my boxers. Good thing the hotel towel is under her. She convulses, thrashing against the bed.

“That is so good. So good baby girl, you feel so good.” She whimpers, crying out as I get harder, releasing and open but not in a big dramatic display. “That’s my girl. Come for me again, come on pretty girl—right on my cock, do it for me. Come on.” And she does, almost on cue, thrashing between me and the bed. I take her wrists into one hand, push against her, keep fucking. I’m close, working my clit against the harness strap as much as I’m working into her.

“Thank you Daddy, thank you Daddy,” she manages. Her low sweet voice sends a jolt through me.

“Open your mouth.” I release her hands, though keep my forearm on her shoulder, holding her down, and slide three fingers into her mouth. Her tongue is wet and soft. “Come on, do it. Suck me down. Take me in to all your little holes so I can fill you up. Come for me again. Come on, do it.” She does, mouth open around my fingers, body rattling, legs kicking on either side of me, gasping. My cock stays inside and I work it. “That’s not enough,” I growl into her ear. “Again. More. Come on, I know you can do it.” She comes again, bigger this time, yelling out, spine undulating. “Good, yes, that’s what I wanted, very nice. That’s my girl. That’s my little toy to play with, my little holes to fuck. Such a good girl.”

She quiets and I pull up to slap my cock against her cunt again, making her come a few more times before I’m done with her, pulling back.

I didn’t come. I am still dressed, wearing the boxers and tank top I slept in. She barely touched me. But I’m as satisfied as if I came twice (a rarity), content and buzzing as I lay down next to her and gather her into my arms.

We kiss, curl into each other. When she gets her voice back, she takes a minute to tell me what she liked—”I liked it when you kicked me, made me crawl,” “I liked being against the window,” “I liked coming over and over for you,” “I like when you tell me what to do”—which she knows I like to hear as part of my aftercare. Lessens my top guilt. I hold her close and stroke her skin.

We lay together a while as our bodies quiet and calm, then I strip and get into the shower. Later in the day, doing one last sweep over the hotel room before we leave, I notice her handprints still on the window, and a lip print where her face was pressed up against it. Usually I hate leaving the oils of my hands in prints on glass, too aware of janitorial jobs that must clean up after carelessness, but this time, it’s so pretty, I can’t bring myself to wipe them away.

Piercing, Waxing, & Other Body Modifications as Sex Toys

EDIT: I scheduled this piece to publish today last week, when I was going through my drafts folder and discovered I’d never published it here (it originally appeared on Good Vibes Magazine). It seems a bit trite, after this weekend. More information about Cheryl is coming in the next few days, as we start planning what’s next.

Kristen and I drove to Philadelphia in February to see the piercing master Elayne Angel, to get Kristen’s nipples pierced and to have her pierce one of my cocks.

In all of the talk of piercing in the last few months since we both decided these piercings might be something we wanted to pursue, I started thinking about my tongue piercing again and that I would like to have it again. I had it pierced first in 2001 (ten years ago … is that right?! I think so) and then took it out in early 2006, only to have a piercer re-open the hole (which was only a tiny bit closed, so much easier the second time) in late 2007, and then took it out again in early 2009, which was before Kristen and I got together. So she never got the chance to kiss me with it. She said she’d kissed other people who have had one, but nothing more than that. And I had developed a few tricks with it, believe you me.

Of all the piercings I’ve had—and I’ve had 11 different ones, three below the neck, some of which I have had pierced more than once—my tongue is the one I like the most. But I have, as I tend to say, “a teeth thing,” which has in the past been a pretty serious dental phobia and now it just a former phobia (I think) and a general fear of breaking teeth or damaging teeth. So that doesn’t go very well with a metal bar through my tongue.

I took it out last time on a whim and then regretted it, wishing that I’d instead bought a spacer bar to keep it open instead of removing it entirely, or a bar with flat ends instead of the silver balls so it stays closer to my tongue and doesn’t click on my teeth when I talk or eat.

With all this talk of piercings, I started wishing I still had the bar in my tongue, and I decided about a week ago to see if I could get it through—and I could! It was quite easy, and while it was tender for a day or two it wasn’t more than adjusting, no actual damage. I found that I had actually bought a bar with flat ends (why didn’t I use that before? Not sure) and now that it feels back to normal, not swelling or sore, I slipped that in with the ball on top and the flat disc on the bottom just this morning.

It feels good. I like it.

I’ve noticed, in the week since I’ve had it in my mouth, that I am much more inclined to kiss Kristen with tongue, to touch it to her tongue, to get it into her mouth in some way than I was before. I wouldn’t say I dislike tongue kissing (at all!) but I do think generally people use their tongues too much when they kiss and that the lips are the good, best parts. But Kristen really likes tongue kisses generally … so this is a little bit different.

I’m also noticing that since Kristen got both nipples pierced that I want to touch them more. I can’t, really, yet, as they heal, for at least a week or so, but I find myself wanting to ask her to take her shirt off so I can see them, and wanting to touch or kiss or play with them already. She loves attention toward her tits, and probably generally I could do more of that, so this is a happy side effect of the piercing for her.

This morning, over breakfast, as we were discussing what we had to get done (on Kristen’s first real day off since her job started in early February), she mentioned she was going to get her pussy waxed. Which I love. Not because it’s something I expect her to do or require her to do or think is more feminine or part of any sort of beauty standard—I believe everyone has the right to sculpt or play with or explore their own body hair in whichever ways they want to, and that they can change that at any time—but because I love touching, kissing, playing with her pussy after she gets it done.

A friend of ours had hers waxed for the first time recently, and when I asked how it went she said, “My girlfriend could not keep her face out of my pussy for four days.”

Yeah. It’s like that. I see it all bare and I want to suck her lips into my mouth. Same with her nipples—I see them all pink and pert and I want to pinch them, lick them.

To Kristen this morning I said, “Between the waxing and the piercing, I’m going to have a hard time keeping my hands off you.”

Which, I expect, is at least part of the point! And which feels like a really good place to be in, given some of our recent complications.

It’s not that I expect any of these things—pierced tongue, pierced nipples, waxed pussy—to be something that anyone does, and if Kristen had showed no interest in nipple piercing or pussy waxing I never would push her to do either. But she was enthusiastic, interested in exploring what it would be like to modify her body in those ways, and personally, I think those are some significant ways to play with this amazing sexy tool of a body that we all have.

I don’t believe it should be a double standard, either—I too am responsible for the maintenance and upkeep of my own body hair, and in doing things that make her want to touch me or pleasure me. I’ve started to think of my gym routine as directly related to our sex life, because while it not only helps me build strength and stamina physically, it makes me feel stronger and more alive, with more confidence, something that can only help in the bedroom.

And I’m interested in enhancing my own body for sexual pleasure. I’m not sure if I’ll get another piercing. If I do, it’d be a clit piercing of some sort, probably a triangle, though I’m not sure about that. I’m especially not sure what it would be like to strap on and have a clit piercing, though I would hope it would make things better, which would be part of the point.

I often think of piercing as a way to enhance both sensation and attention toward a particular body part. Similarly to getting a tattoo—You may not notice someone’s forearms, but if they have a ring around it or a visual symbol of some sort, it draws much more attention to it. Plus piercings certainly give exhibitionists an excuse to take their shirts off (or lower their pants), since people are generally interested in how these things look and eager to say yes to an offer of, “Would you like to see?”

She’s definitely more willing to let out her exhibitionist these days. And given that she quite enjoyed the needle going through her nipples, I think she’s coming along quite nicely as a masochist, too. I referred to her as such at the dinner table last night, after the experience, and she protested. “Okay, a masochist-in-training, then,” I responded. That might be more accurate.

Rachel Kramer Bussel has a great recent piece about her experiences with waxing. I like looking at things like waxing that our culture files under “obligatory beauty regimens” as things that we actively choose, knowing full well what we are choosing (like the amount of time it takes to maintain hair removal is quite a lot), and that we choose because we like the way it looks or feels or the way it enhances our sex life. That is a perfectly valid reason to choose something.

Happy 28th Birthday, Kristen!

It’s Kristen’s 28th birthday tomorrow!

I am as ever grateful for her in my life. I’ve never been so in love, I’ve never been in a better relationship, and though we are in some rocky growth struggles, I am confident we’ll get through it and be better people because of it.

This is the third birthday I’ve been able to spend with her so far, and I love the ways that she is growing and blossoming and stepping into her power and doing amazing things in the world, and I know it’s just going to be more exciting to be with her as all her adventures continue.

Love you, darling. Happy birthday.

The Struggle for Growth

The couple’s therapy session last night went pretty well, and I think we’re going to see her again.

The therapist mentioned the stages of a relationship, first by saying, “What stage do you think you are in?” and later by reflecting back to us that she thinks (and I agree) we are in a conflict stage, which is completely normal, after 2+ years, for the development of a long term partnership.

I spent the morning looking up articles on relationship stages. I think most of us can pretty easily identify the Honeymoon phase, or the NRE (new relationship energy) phase, which is pretty commonly discussed in my world anyway. It’s clear Kristen and I are past that … though to be honest, I feel a little sad about that, even just writing down that we’re no longer in it, I don’t want to admit that, to myself or to you, I’d rather be one of those couples that says, “The honeymoon never ended,” and be all blissful and gooey eyed at each other. I think I am grieving for that loss a little. We stayed there for a long time, certainly longer than I’ve ever been in it before, and we even were able to get back into that blissful wrapped-up-in-each-other feeling for a good year and a half into our relationship, maybe even a little longer.

I have read many books on relationships and taken some relationship classes, so it kind of surprised me that I’m not more familiar with these relationship stage theories. Some of the articles I read have four stages, some have five, some have five or six, some have eight, but all of them mention this key stage of growth, which is where I think Kristen and I are, and most of them refer to it as The Power Struggle. One place writes that it is “sometimes also known as the “Growth Struggle” by those who like to think positively,” which I think is more apt, not just because I like to think positively but because growth requires the temporary suspension of security, and that as much as many of us gives lip service to wanting to “grow,” most people don’t seem to be capable of doing so. And “growth” is what the Power Struggle actually means—we are struggling against each other, with power dynamics, monsters, whatever, and if we can work through it, it will be a huge stage of growth for us, into the next stages.

So, before I keep going into my personal reactions to these stages, here’s what I understand from my readings to be the major relationship stages, as compiled from multiple sources.

1. The Honeymoon

New Relationship Energy, Bliss, Enchantment, Falling In Love, Romantic Love—this stage has many names, but all the models I read seems to be clear and in agreement about what it does. It brings two people together, blissfully, and makes everything seem great. Better than great—wonderful.

“When you see things that you don’t like, you might deny or at least minimize them. You tend to go above and beyond what is required or expected. You feel energized, alive, and filled with new dreams.” Dawn Lipthrott writes at The Relationship Learning Center. She also explains that, “Your brain is flooded with feel-good neurochemicals like dopamine and PEA (phenylethylamine). Like most endorphins, PEA increases energy, feelings of well being, positive outlook, and diminishes pain. It increases sexual desire. PEA is what allows you to skip meals and sleep. If you usually tend to be anxious, PEA may help you feel safe and calm. If you are usually depressed, you might have more energy and see things more positively.”

Seems like most of these places say it tends to last 6-8 months, but completely vary depending on the couple and can be longer or shorter.

2. Settling In

Some places have more phases between the Honeymoon and the Power Struggle, like Discovery, and Commitment, or Accommodation , but most of the others go right into the Power Growth Struggle.

But I think there is more to the beginning of a relationship than just the blissful honeymoon, and that most of the time, more things happen before going right into the Growth Struggle.

“The initial excitement of being together is subdued so you can actually discover who the other person really is. You and your partner begin to discover each other’s quirks and neurosis, and you uncover things that bug you about each other. You also begin to discover what you truly love and respect about one another. Your communication should deepen to a soulful level, where you begin to open up to each other,” love coach Rinatta writes.

“Roles are established, expectations are set and compromises are made,” Dr. Marty Tashman writes.

I think Kristen and I spent a bit of time in this, settling in to each other, building, working on foundations, having small fights but recovering, still holding that deep bond between us. In relationships I’ve had in the past, we skipped this stage, and I think it’s important for a strong foundation.

3. The Growth Struggle

“Eventually, for virtually all couples, the enchantment phase ends, the drugs wear off and are no longer secreted, the negative traits emerge with a greater impact, wounds and protections from childhood start being activated and the relationship moves into the “Power Struggle”. Where a partner once wanted to spend lots of time and energy in the relationship … now the partner is quiet, pre-occupied, unavailable. … Where a husband or wife was, in the Romantic Phase, kind and respectful and listening; now in the Power Struggle Phase, he or she becomes impatient, authoritative, unresponsive … somehow familiar from childhood or teen experiences. This can be very distressing and even frightening. At some point there is often the panicky thought, “What have I done? I’ve married my Mom!” from Stages in Love Relationships, Gary Brainerd

“This is the stage at which most couples split up. The power struggle can be a gut-wrenching, painful place for a couple to be. This can be a time of arguments or silence, a time that truly will test the couple’s love. Couples at this stage wonder how they got here since it can come on unexpectedly out of nowhere. This can be a shocking stage for a couple,” love coach Rinatta writes. She continues: “There are two prime stumbling blocks. One is that when couples get to this stage they do not realize it is a normal stage for all relationships, and that they can get through it. Instead, the couple thinks something is wrong – perhaps they are no longer compatible or they no longer love each other. The second stumbling block is that the couple can get stuck in this stage, with one or both partners being unwilling to move forward.”

Men’s relationship advice (I know, cheesy, but I’m only picking what I think is useful and, in my opinion, accurate) says that the Growth Struggle is “a troubled – but necessary (like puberty) – developmental stage.”

Aha—puberty, I like that correlation. Awkward, bumbling, coming of age, growing up, sometimes it feels like the world is ending.

“I like to call this stage, “The Invitation to Growth.” It’s also a struggle for protection. One of the biggest illusions in our culture is that Romantic Love will last forever, if you just find the right partner. We hear that love is supposed to continue happening ‘naturally’ and if you have to ‘work’ on it, it must not be real love,” writes Dawn Lipthrott at The Relationship Learning Center.

I think more commonly in my life there is a sense that “relationships take work,” but also a lot of confusion about how much work is okay, how much is good, and how much is too much. But I like the idea of this being an invitation to grow.

How easy it is to forget that conflict and problems are invitations for growth, change, and evolution in general! This is a basic principle of Buddhism that seems to pop up in my life frequently, but somehow I can’t seem to remember it before I am already dragged down into the mud of, “Oh my god this is never going to change this sucks argh stuck stuck stuck.”

“In this 2nd stage, you might start feeling anxious or disappointed. Things that you once liked about your partner have become sources of frustration and hurt feelings. … Anger and resentment can build. Sometimes it feels as if you are walking on eggshells. Little things seem to so easily turn into big things.” Dawn Lipthrott continues. “For some couples this stage can get to the point of desperation where you’ve tried everything you know and it seems the only option is to get out—temporarily or permanently. … This stage can be the door to deeper connection and intimacy, and a fulfilling relationship, if you learn and use some of the tools to transform it into the path to real love. Conflict is growth trying to happen to help you and your partner realize more of your potential as individuals and as a couple! Conflict can be a door to healing and personal growth. Conflict is NOT the problem. What you do or don’t do with it can be a big problem.”

“There are no simple solutions to a power struggle in a relationship. It’s a complicated phenomenon that is inevitable. But it is resolvable,” Rinatta writes.

“If your relationship is not completely compromised, this is where you need to get help! No, not well-meaning friends or a self-help book – what you need is qualified, impartial third party assistance. Choose [a] relationship counselor in your area,” writes Men’s relationship advice.

“The Power Struggle is growth and healing trying to happen,” writes Gary Brainerd.

I don’t know how people resolve this on their own. Some couples must be capable of it, but I know I can really use some assistance. I’m not sure if any of my relationships have moved out of this phase, to be honest. They always end here, often because, in the past, my conflict resolution skills have been awful, with my tendencies to shut down and run away. I am working hard on that in my individual therapy work, and I’m definitely in a new place.

Because I haven’t really gotten out of this, I’m not sure what the next stages are. But I’ll try to summarize and bring together as much as I can, according to what I’m reading.

It seems like there are two options from the Growth Struggle: unresolved, and resolution. I’m interested in what happens when people stay in an unresolved relationship, it probably would explain a lot of my parent’s marriage, for example, but I’m more interested in a model that I can possibly follow, and a place for which to aim. So you can go read up on the further unresolved stages, though I’m going to focus on what happens when a couple is working toward resolution in this particular relationship stages model.

4. Transformation

Assuming the couple makes it out of the Growth Struggle and stays together, which it seems most couples can’t, the next step is work, work, work. And developing skills. And developing a common language to talk about our individual monsters, our needs, and our relationship’s needs.

“Couples who choose this route will find themselves learning a lot about themselves, about their partner, about relationships,” writes Brainerd. “The emotional patterns of each are clear and they have established patterns of dealing with their differences. It is common for problems to arise in this stage, but because you have already experienced a great many shared challenges, you stand the best chance of working through these issues,” writes Tashman.

“This is the stage in which you not only recognize that your relationship can be more than it is, but also that you have the power to make real changes. You choose to become conscious and intentional, and begin a whole new chapter in co-creating the relationship you both dreamed of,” writes Lipthrott. “In this stage, when you use good communication skills, you can gain new information and insights about yourself, about your partner, and about the nature of marriage or relationship. You discover the hurts, fears and unmet needs that are the roots of conflict and you can find more effective ways to address the REAL problems, not just the symptoms. … you consciously practice the skills you are learning about communication, stretching into new behaviors, creating emotional safety, etc. You become partners in the healing and growth of the relationship, your self and your partner. You hold in your mind and heart the vision of the relationship you want and you work each day to make it a reality. You also find that you are realizing your potential more in other parts of your life.”

“It takes a lot of soul searching, self-discovery, intimacy work and deepened communication to break out of the power struggle and move beyond it. Now both partners must grow emotionally for the relationship to thrive. Those who are committed to their relationship do grow, no matter what may be required of them. Think of this period as your second chance to create the relationship you have always wanted with a partner you have always wanted to be with,” Rinatta writes.

“Beyond the power struggle, in the transformation stage you understand that avoiding conflict is not an option any longer, as it makes you angry and resentful, shuts you down, and breaks the trust. You realize that guilt trips, justifications, blame, criticism, sarcasm, and violent behaviors deeply damage your relationship, brake your partner’s heart and destroy her respect. As hard as it may be, you must stop wasting time on useless distractions (TV, games, shopping, pointless activities) and start spending time with YOURSELF. Walk, run, or sit in quiet meditation; let go of your mind and enter your heart – the answers you are looking for are here. It is time to find yourself again: your needs, your wants, your passions and your dreams. Write them down. Keep refining and upgrading the old ones until you feel ignited again! Little by little, you start seeing your partner with new eyes: she is your best friend and you are both in this together.” writes Men’s relationship advice

Does that ring a bell or what? It seems like I have almost written that paragraph here lately, at least from the part about wasting time and spending time on myself. I have been feeling a strong pull to do that lately, maybe it will help me pre-build this transformation stage. Or maybe we’re already starting to be in it, since we are finally breathing a little more freely around each other, and I know I feel more hopeful that we can get through this than I have before.

5. Gold

That’s how the therapist last night referred to it, anyway: as in, “you hit gold,” or “you’re golden.” I forget what she said exactly, but it’s The Point, I guess. Eventually. I don’t know how long it takes to get there—probably depends on the Growth & Transformation stages, and maybe even once you hit Gold you still go back and grow and transform sometimes again. That would make sense, given that life is ever-changing, ever-evolving, and that there are always crises to deal with.

“It’s not that there will never be hard work or hard times again, but you have reached a new stage in your relationship – a stage where you cherish and treasure each other, appreciate the good, and accept the bad. You have bonded, connected, joined. Now this is what love is all about. … Life happens to a more mature, seasoned, happy and vibrant couple. You move together and separately through your life and know when you need to connect and when you need time apart. You know how to meet each other’s needs and seek increasingly deeper connection. Your relationship is the rock, the wellspring of love in your life.” Rinatta writes.

“This is the stage of deep respect and cherishing of one another as separate and unique individuals without losing the sense of connection. It is a stage of joy, passion, intimacy, happiness and having fun together. It is the stage of living out the vision of true partnership, unconditional love and safety, and of coming to see your partner as your best friend. It is the stage of moving toward the spiritual potential of committed relationship the journey toward wholeness, the love in which you taste Divine Love in whatever way you imagine or language that,” writes Lipthrott.

“The final stage … is what is sometimes called “Realistic Love”. It is a much higher level of marital or relationship satisfaction, but unlike the Romantic Phase, it is based on a mature, realistic love that is grounded in understanding, healing and growth. It is a goal worthy of the best you have to offer,” writes Brainerd.

“The stage of real love, or blissful relationship, is what follows after the winded journey of discovering each other and consistent personal growth for mutual healing in committed relationships. According to researchers, if you reach this ultimate phase of complete acceptance and love you are part of the lucky 5% of the couples who make it. Much like the first infatuation stage, blissful love is full of joy, passion, fun, and deep physical and emotional intimacy. But unlike that phase of “no control and least awareness” you now live out your vision of collaborative partnership, deep respect, and true friendship,” via Men’s relationship advice.

I know I’m giving you a lot of quotes here, but I can’t write from experience about these stages as much. I can probably summarize them (and maybe I will condense this down and into my own words, and pitch it elsewhere, as I keep thinking about it) but I’m still now just trying to understand what the phases are and how we move through them. I have a much better sense of that evolution than I ever did before—not sure how exactly I’ve skipped this theory in all my readings on relationships, or maybe it just never quite resonated because I never got to the Growth Struggle phase and thought that I would actually get through it, and wondered what was next. It was so clear in past relationships that we weren’t going to get through it, so the struggle was simply to get out, rather than to move on.

Here, though, the struggle is to move forward, to open up, to face the growth and transformation, and to keep turning toward this wonderful person who has chosen me, as I’ve chosen her.

There Were Actually Two Porn Parties This Week …

The one on Twitter, and Rough Sex 3: Adrianna’s Dangerous Mind release party. Director (and general badass hottie) Tristan Taormino posted some shots from it on her Tumblr and on Facebook, including this one of my firecracker fierce hot girlfriend.

Oh and she’s framed by butches Davis and Lori, the geniuses behind Sexquire, which provides professional business solutions for the adult sex industry.


Photo by Nate “Igor” Smith (drivenbyboredom.com)

(Regularly scheduled posts will return next week, I swear.)

Good Girl, Bad Girl (Part Two)

WARNING: This story contains Daddy/girl play (and dirty talk). Read Part I.

Part II.

She is a bad girl.

There is very specific protocol if she wants me to fuck her. She is supposed to ask for it, nicely. If she’s embarrassed, she is to sit on my lap and tell me she has a secret.

She wants it, all the time. She is the first girl I’ve dated seriously who has a higher sex drive than I do.

I want her to own her desires. To know there’s nothing wrong or shameful about wanting to be fucked, to be opened, to be taken. But sometimes, she can’t. She forgets she’s supposed to ask, and instead drops hints and tries to turn me on, to entice me. Sometimes, this frustrates me. Sometimes, it becomes a game, reminding her she is a bad girl for wanting it and not being able to tell me.

This is what happens.

I sit on the couch reading a book and drinking tea after the dinner she made. For me. She finishes the dishes, brings her book out too, sits next to me. She doesn’t look at me as she finds the place marked by a small piece of paper and starts reading. I’m not paying attention; she’s watching me from the corner of her eye. Her legs stir, she shifts position, pull them underneath her as she inches closer to me.

I turn a page. She turns her eyes to the pages of her book, moves them along the words, not reading. She’s tried to get my attention all through dinner. Touched her foot to my ankle under the table. Gazed at me, lusty and devourous. Touched my hand and forearm, leaned across the table to display her breasts. Kept her thighs apart. Crossed them, rubbed her legs together.

She gets frustrated that I’m not paying attention. Starts pouting a little. She sighs, audibly.

I ignore her.

We read a while. I’m deeply involved in the middle of this book, and besides, didn’t she just get fucked this morning? I am impatient with this seduction routine, it makes me feel anxious, itchy. And simultaneously, something dark in me growls from down low.

I finish my tea, put my book down, and get up to brush my teeth. When I emerge, she watches me from the couch, waiting for some cue from me, and almost rolls her eyes when I give her none. She sets her book down on the coffee table a little harder than necessary and gets up to brush her teeth, wash her face, prepare for bed.

We cross next to each other in the hallway and I slam her up against the wall, face first. She whimpers, gasps. Breathes in.

“Is this what you wanted?” I grip her arm and twist it behind her, my mouth close to her cheek.

What Roses on Valentine’s Day Are For

Kristen spent the weekend at a work-related conference, and I spent the weekend watching Pushing Daisies, going to butch burlesque, reading, doing various housekeeping tasks, and gathering a few little things for Valentine’s Day.

I had the dozen long-stem red roses on the table when she got back last night, and I had bought the ingredients and was already preparing dinner: roasted beet, goat cheese, and candied walnut salad, and homemade butternut squash tortellini with a brown butter sauce. Most of the components were about done by the time she arrived home, so we got the wonton wrappers out and folded up the butternut squash puree.

Ravioli, tortellini, and other kinds of stuffed pasta are Kristen’s favorite, so I thought I’d just cook some up, but when I started looking for sauce recipes I found that Giada De Laurentiis recipe and figured it didn’t look too hard—I had no idea you could use wonton wrappers to make tortellini! It had a lot of components, and took a while to roast the squash, but it wasn’t all that difficult and was delicious. And we still have about a dozen tortellini in the freezer, all ready to be cooked.

But enough about the food.

We watched a flick and made out on the couch. Before we went back into the bedroom, I pulled a rose out from the vase.

Which is why there are only eleven in the vase this morning; the 12th was dragged all over her body after I stripped her clothes off, the soft petals tickling her nipples and hips and inner thighs and cunt, then the long stem used as a makeshift cane on her inner thighs.

It didn’t last that long—it broke in two places before I could really get her warmed up and start delivering some harder swats. I don’t think I left any marks from the rose, but some gentle welts on her inner thighs were a bit raised last night. And this morning I noticed a couple handprint-shaped bruises on the backs of her thighs.

Valentine’s Day is off to a good start. Today, after I go to the gym and do some work, I’m going to make some extra-chocolatey brownies. And tonight’s plans are only a simpler dinner; I’ve requested her signature noodles with peanut sauce.

Good Girl, Bad Girl (Part One)

WARNING: This story contains Daddy/girl play (and dirty talk).

Part I.

Sometimes, I am a Bad Daddy: I hate it.

I hate it and I want it and I crave it and I hate that I want and crave it, this, this girl, this way that I use her, this way she uses me. Sometimes I resent it. Her, me, my own desires. Why do they run this way? Where did these wounds come from, or are they scars now?

I have to remind myself not to ask myself too many of those questions. That it’s okay to want what I want. That after the flash of feminist guilt, as Karlyn Lotney once wrote, it is quite the handy little fetish.

And it is a fetish, or maybe rather it is many fetishes wrapped up and tied with a big pretty satin red bow. Power. Gender. Age.

I hate it, but I have never loved any play more.

This is what happens.

I sit on the couch reading a book and drinking tea after the dinner she made. For me. She finishes the dishes, brings her book out too, sits next to me. I don’t watch her as I take another sip of my tea. This is what I practice: Not paying attention. But in not paying attention I still pay attention, I just don’t let her know that I’m paying attention. When I notice I’m focused on her, I try to turn the focus inward. What do I want right now? And I feel something stir.

She inches closer to me. I turn a page. She sighs inaudibly. I turn my eyes to the pages of my book, move them along the words, not reading.

“Daddy?”

I don’t look up, yet. “Yes?”

“Can I …”

“May I.” I correct.

“May I … sit on your lap please?” It comes out in one quick string.

I pull the bookmark out of the back of the book and slide it in between the pages, close the book, set it on the coffee table, look up at her. Her eyes gleam gently. Hopefully. Like she just asked for candy at the grocery store. Her dress is pushed up from how her legs are crossed on the couch and I can see a hint of her inner thigh, and I want my cheek on it, want to bite it, want to feel her squirm and hold her there between my teeth as I leave marks. I breathe in. Keep it under control.

“Yes, sure darling.” With the Good Daddy voice.

She climbs over, sits sideways on my lap, knees bent over my thighs. Wraps her arms around my shoulders and her face buried into my neck and collarbone. Her hair smells faintly of shampoo, clean and bright with a gently fruit-flavored hint. It’s soft and thin and I bring one hand up to the back of her head, play with the gentle curls there.

She settles in and drops one hand to my chest, resting it on my waist. I shift a little, a growl rising in my belly. My arms fold easily around her. I don’t notice the sigh I let out, a low hum, the precursor to the growl.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, darling.”

“I like to sit on your lap.” She snuggles a little closer. I can feel a tightness spreading in my groin. I don’t say anything. “Do you like it?”

“Yes, darling.”

“Does it feel good?” Her voice drops softer.

“Yes.”

“Does it feel good …” she’s whispering now. “In your pants?”

I stir. My cock stirs, jumps. The growl grows. My arms tingle and tense, a sensation I want to let out with a fist. “Yes.” I whisper too. Our mouths are close.

I am a Bad Daddy. I want my girl to do dirty things; I want to do dirty things to her. I know she’d let me if only I asked, but sometimes the desperation is more fun. The arguing with myself. The attempts at holding myself noble, resisting her sweet girlish body. Feeling dirty for wanting it so much that my palms ache.

“I feel you getting hard, Daddy,” she keeps her head low, shifts her hips to rock against my cock. My eyes roll back, wrists go slack. So soon. Fuck.

“Do you, now.”

“Yes.” She waits. “Can I feel it?”

“You want to?”

“Yes.” Again, a pause. “Please?”


My hands flex. “Please what?”

“Please can—may I touch your cock, Daddy?” She knows how I like to hear it. All the way through, from the ‘please’ to the way she should address me when we play.

I try not to groan audibly. I swallow instead, clear my throat. “Well, since you asked so nice and pretty. Yes, sweet girl, you may.”

She bites her lips and shifts her hips again, reaches down with one hand to grip the hard packer I’d slipped in after dinner. She strokes it through my trousers. She licks her lips unconsciously.

“Daddy,” she presses close to me, hand still stroking, and I feel her small, round breasts against my chest. “It’s too big. It should come out of your pants, Daddy.” Her lips are nearly touching my ear and she knows how I love that. My whole body shudders, relaxes, stomach muscles clench for a moment as I contract and release. I picture her pretty hands with her perfect sparkly red nails wrapped around my cock. I picture her lowering her lipstick-painted mouth toward it. I am a Bad Daddy, and she is so good.

“It’s big and hard in your pants, Daddy. Don’t you want to take it out? It’s too tight under there. Too big. Can I take it out? Daddy, can I?” Her lips are on my neck, earlobe, jaw. I can barely see straight.

I breathe out. “Yes. Yes, you may.”

She slips off my lap and crouches between my knees, staying on her tiptoes on the floor and unbuttons, unzips my pants, pulls the too-big cock from under my briefs and straightens it out, poking from my fly. She wraps one hand around it, then the other. “Mmmm,” she hums a little, smiling, stroking, biting her lower lip then keeping them parted, pressing them together.

Her lips are flushed red.

She watches her fingers stroking my cock for a quick minute, then looks up at me, still crouched. “Daddy …”

I bring one hand down to her jaw line and trace it gently with my thumb. She leans into it a little, eyelids half closed.

“Daddy,” she starts again. “I could put my mouth on it. Don’t you like that? You like it when I do that. And I like to make you feel good. It feels good when I put my mouth on it, Daddy. Can I?”

I stiffen, feel my cock jump. Breathe in. It is so dirty to want this so badly. To hear her beg, to hear her ask over and over at each step of the way. I fight every urge I have to just shove my cock into her mouth, slide it over her tongue, and instead do my best to resist, and the tension keeps my body cocked and loaded.

She flattens her tongue and runs it over the very tip, smiling up at me. “I’m a good girl, Daddy. I know how to make it feel good.”

That breaks me. I breathe out. “Yes, I know you do, sweet girl. Put your mouth on it for me.”

She swallows the spit her mouth is already excessively producing and opens her mouth, and that momentary flash of a pause burns my eyes as if I’d hit pause, her hovering open lips just centimeters away and closing in.

When she drops down, my cock slides in effortlessly, right into the vacant space she’s made for it, and I barely feel it until she’s got the head at the back of her throat and closes her lips around the shaft and pulls up, sucks, lips pushing out as she slides them up and over the ridge, until it pops free.

Mouth open, lips wet, she pauses to say quietly, “I like it in my mouth,” then bends her neck again and takes it deeper, sucking expertly.

I could watch her do this for an hour, two. What is it about this that gets me so hard and hot? I can’t feel it, but I can feel it, every stroke, every graze of her teeth, every swirl of her tongue, as if it was me filling with blood and swelling as she closes her mouth around it, again and again. My hips tighten and knees rotate open, just barely, pushing.

“That feels good,” I manage to mumble, eyes blurry, as I slide my hand into her hair, tangle my fingers into it.

She glows at the slightest praise. “You like that, Daddy? Does it make your cock feel good to be in my mouth?”

“Yes, darling.”

“I like it, Daddy. You can put it in my mouth when it gets big and hard. It feels good. I like to suck on it.”

“You’re getting it all wet.”

“Yes Daddy. My mouth gets wet when I suck on it. Want to see?”

I nod. She swallows a little again, pools the saliva on her tongue, dips her neck down to my cock and slides it deep, far back into her throat. I groan. She leaves it there for as many seconds as she can. When she opens her mouth to slide it out, it glistens slick with the thick spit from her throat. She smiles as it strings from the tip of my cock to her lips. Again, and she leaves even more wet behind. She laps at it with her tongue, moves it around.

I groan again. “Baby, that’s so good, you’re so good at that.”

She rubs her lips together, licks them, swallows. Shifts her legs and raises up to bring her mouth close to mine. I quickly bring my hands to her waist, squeeze the sweet curve of her hips, and bring her body in closer and bring her mouth to mine, kiss her hard. I’m practically panting. She knows it, too.

“I like it. It feels good for me too. See, Daddy?” She raises one knee up next to my thigh on the couch and pulls my hand from her body down between her legs, and I feel her pussy against my hand, swollen and slick, before she slides two of my fingers into her easily.

“Feel that? Sucking on your big cock makes my pussy all wet.” Her mouth is by my ear again. “It’s okay, Daddy. You can put your cock in all my little holes. You like it when we play this game. You can put it in my pussy, too. Want to put it in my pussy now, Daddy? Do you want to?” My fingers go in and out, pausing to rub circles over her clit. “See how wet my pussy is? It’s wet for your cock, Daddy. So it will slide right in and go in and out. It’s just for your cock. Don’t you want it in there? It’s okay, I want you to put it in, I want you to, Daddy …”

She shifts in my lap and knees on either side of my thighs, starts guiding my cock toward her hole. I watch, slip my fingers out, bring my eyes up to her face as she reaches for the shaft to guide it in. “Do it,” I growl low, already thick and pulsing just feeling her slick lips touch the tip. “Slide it in, baby. That’s good. Yeah, like that.” And she does, she slides it right inside, slow, and pushes all the way down until her thighs are pressed against mine.

We both shudder and sigh, and she rests her cheek on my shoulder for a second before clenching her thighs and lifting her body up and off of me until only the tip of my cock is touching her opening, then pressing down and letting her weight rest on me again, clenching, squeezing her thighs together.

My eyes roll back. I breathe in. I can’t stand it.

“I like it, Daddy. I like it going in and out. I like your big cock in my little pussy. Does it feel good, Daddy?”

I move my hands to her hips and hold her steady, start thrusting with my hips. I’m close. She’s got me so close. “So good, you’re such a good girl, baby, my good girl.” My lips can barely form words. She kisses me, sucks my tongue into her mouth, wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes me tight with her thighs and cunt.

“Do it more, Daddy. Do it harder. Please? Please put it in my pussy. Please, harder, Daddy, please, please …” She knows I’m close from the way my hips are shuddering, faster now, more of a shake than a thrust. She keeps her lips next to my ear. “Do it, Daddy, come in my pussy, make your cock come in my pussy Daddy, please, come Daddy, come Daddy …” And I do, I thrust harder up inside her and my groans and grunts turn into yelling, fuck, yeah, fuck, body pulsing, gushing, until I feel every drop squeezed out of me, and I collapse back, head rolling gently, eyes closed, as she kisses my neck and rocks gently against me.

I breathe out. Open my eyes. Smooth her hair, run my hand along the side of her body. “My good girl.”

She grins and brings her mouth down to mine again, sweet soft kisses, and I wrap my arms around her.

Second Anniversary

Yesterday marked two years together with Kristen. You can read all about our first date, if you wan

t to, since I used to write up everything, and since that night was particularly notable and so hot.

This was my gift to her, yesterday. I’ll post a shot of what she got me later.

It’s a garter flask. And if you promise not to tell Kristen, I’ll tell you that it came from You-Nique Garters on Etsy and they come in lots of colors.

Butches with Cute Animals

Kristen started it.

Submit photos or videos of yourself, your lover, or your friends along with cute animals … though please make sure you have their permission to post their image online first.

People have asked about the “butch” part … it doesn’t matter to her if you identify as butch or not, she is not on this side of the computer assessing the photos about whether or not that person is “butch enough.” Mostly, it’s a self-selection thing: if you’re willing to have your image on there, she’s willing to put it up! You can (as others have) write in the comments that you don’t identify as butch, if you’d like to specify that.

It’s been going nuts! She’s already had more than 100 submissions of photos with hottie masculine-of-center folks and cutie animals. This is the kind of thing I was intending to do with Queer Eye Candy, which, by the way, has pretty much expired at this point. I put that together just before Tumblr really took off, and now that that’s around, the image-submission sites are so different. In fact, I run fuckyeahbutches.tumblr.com, and am always looking for submissions if you’d like to contribute.

But meanwhile, check out butchesholdinganimals.tumblr.com if you need a little pick-me-up, or something to make you go “awww!” in the middle of your day, or a little bit of swooning, or if you need some good fashion tips. There are lots of many good shots on there already. You might even recognize some queer celebrities!

PS: While I’m pimping Kristen out (no, not in that way), take a look at her interview on AfterEllen about her new baking business, Kitchentop Catering.

Kristen’s Burlesque Debut

Remember the Butch Burlesque that happened at Dixon Place a few months back? Well, the instructor from that series did a series for the more feminine-id

entified folks, goddess burlesque, and Kristen decided to take part. Take her clothes off? In public? And have people admire her sexiness? Sure why not!

So she’s making her debut this weekend, Saturday November 20th at 9:30pm here in New York City, as Lavender Menace (look it up if you don’t get the reference). Come!

Crones, Ducks & Babes
Presented by Dixon Place & Victoria Libertore

Saturday, November 20th at 9:30 p.m.
Dixon Place
161 Chrystie Street (btn Rivington & Delancey)
$15/$12 (students & seniors)
GET TIX HERE

An evening of variety, merriment & surprise hosted by Howling Vic (as her alter ego Liza). Enjoy music, burlesque, clowns and free gifts! And the topper is five of Howling Vic’s students are making their burlesque debut! Audiences have said their faces hurt from laughing so hard!

Performers: Jessy Carolina & The Hot Mess 6 piece Old Time Jazz Band, James & JF: Emily James & Ishah Janssen-Faith and making their debut: Aqua Vulva, Crystal Balls, Lavender Menace, Sunshine Bloomfade and Priestess Moon Feather.

Manipulated by Victoria Libertore

Gabrielle, Guest Star

It is always different to fuck somebody new. New skin, new lips, new way she kisses, new way she writhes, new way she comes. I don’t keep a lot of assumptions the first time. I don’t expect us to get off, I don’t expect to be able to tell when she comes, if she does. I don’t expect dirty talk, I don’t expect a lot of communication about what’s what. Of course I do my best at all of those things—but with someone new, you just never know. Maybe it’s the chivalrous service top in me, but I watch for cues and tend to take them from her, as best as I can.

Which is how I ended up stroking my cock, still wearing my tee shirt, my back up against the wall in my room, watching Kristen get fisted. By someone else.

After watching her get seduced.

Kristen and I had both noticed Gabrielle when we met her at a queer event a month or so before, so when she was in town this time, we made sure to make plans to meet up for a drink. Who knows what will happen, I told myself. Kristen told me she thought Gabrielle was pretty, and slutty and smutty and loud-mouthed enough to be that big river of energy that Kristen often seeks in those close to her. Gabrielle was running late. No ETA exactly. When we went off to meet her, I was a little bit skeptical about whether she’d even show. “I half expect to get stood up,” I sort of joked.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see Gabrielle. When I thought about it later, I realized it was because I had no part in setting up this date. Kristen and Gabrielle arranged it, and though Kristen texted me to ask where we should meet up (the dyke bar in Brooklyn, of course), I had almost no part in the asking, the saying yes, the gauging of how interested or not Gabrielle might be.

All night, I had trouble reading Gabrielle. I was interested, and curious about her—she’s a smart, hot femme who it seems can make anybody laugh. Her style is cute and chic. She’s short, a little shorter than Kristen even, who is 5’2″, and not thin but not so heavy, just enough that I want to grip the flesh on her thighs. She talks a lot, and says interesting things about all sorts of things—being poly, education, being an artist. I liked her immediately when we met.

But I couldn’t tell what was going to happen. I couldn’t quite get a grasp on the conversation; I sometimes felt like the third wheel. I’d bring the conversation around to sex, but it didn’t take long for Kristen and Gabrielle to start talking about other things, like the socio-economic makeup of the cities in which they lived, or the queer community friend politics.

I didn’t try too hard. The conversation was interesting, I jumped in occasionally. Mostly, it was fun to watch them banter back and forth.

Kristen had just made a pie, so we had a good excuse to take Gabrielle back to our place for a slice of it. They talked more. It was getting late. Finally, they started kissing, making out, on the couch. Gabrielle pushed Kristen down and worked her hand between Kristen’s legs, Kristen grasped at her back and shoulders and came once, twice.

“Can I take this off of you?” Kristen asked her, pulling at Gabrielle’s dress.

“Somewhere darker,” she answered. And we went into the bedroom.

Butch Voices Speed Friending Photos by Syd London

Syd London, the official photographer of Butch Voices NYC, has posted the first of the Butch Voices photos!

Here’s the Speed Friending event from Anti-Diva at Dixon Place on Friday, September 24th, 2010. I love how these shots turned out.

You might recognize me & Kristen in those shots. Or you might find a shot of Kristen flirting with the bartender. Maybe.

photo by Syd London, www.sydlondon.com

Thanks, Syd, for all your hard work! Can’t wait to see more of ’em.

Review: Talula

This is the Talula softskin dildo by the new company Vamp Silicone, who generously sent me two different cocks to review.

Shape:Doesn’t it look like it’s about to blast off? Shouldn’t it be secured to some sling-shot or something? That angle! I was pretty skeptical about how it’s shaped, it seems like it would be really pokey, awkward to wear.

But it’s not. The angle means that it can sit lower in a harness, almost between my legs, and instead of having a slight downward angle like most other cocks, it stays firmly upright. While Kristen and I tried it out she actually started moaning about “that spot right there that spot that spot,” which she almost never does, so it is clear it’s a very effective g-spot stimulator.

Material:It’s softskin—did you catch that in the introduction? So when I ran across this new company I wondered if this would be the Next Big Thing, the new version of super realistic, flesh-like silicone. But before I received them, I talked to a sex toy shop owner who said they didn’t think the softskin was really any different from their regular silicone, so I was prepared to be disappointed.

It’s nothing like that other famous kind of softskin, which, in my opinion, is more realistic-feeling and more fleshy, but it’s definitely softer than regular silicone. In fact, I like it quite a lot.

It was hard to find a good shot of it. The website has a shot of the three different sizes of Talula, in black, all right next to each other, but it’s not quite an accurate shot of what it looks like. I’ve got one in the cream color, shown above, and it apparently also comes in ruby, cocoa, and cafe au lait.

Size:The medium one, which I have, is 6.5″x1.5″, with the smaller one at 5″x1″ and the bigger one at 7″x2″. That must be including the length of the balls, which makes it a bit smaller insertable length. It was a little bit small to be my favorite cock for fucking, but it was just about right for blow jobs. Perhaps if I get my hands on the larger one, it’ll become my new favorite. I can see that as a possibility.

I’m definitely keeping this one at the top of the toy box.

Thanks to Vamp Silicone for sending this to me to review. Pick up your own Talula dildo over at their website, or at your local feminist sex-positive queer sex toy store.

The Ongoing Quest to be Sexually Fulfilled

That’s where that whole online writing project (aka blog) of mine started, really: in an attempt to write myself into a better sex life, and into personal relationships about my own sexuality, gender identity and expression, and sustaining relationships. For the first three years, I was attempting to write myself into a long term, stable, sane relationship, in part because I wanted to have a better sex life and in part for all the rest of the good stuff that comes with intimacy, cohabitation, and love.

And now, I’ve found the girl I’ve been with for a year and a half, Kristen. And the longer we’re together, the longer it seems we’ll last.

So, now what? Is my quest for a fulfilled sex life over?

To some degree, yes—many of the problems and questions that plagued me as a single butch top, such as, “When am I going to get laid next?” and “Who’s it going to be with?” and “How do I know if she’ll be into what I’m into?” are no longer a factor. I love that I am with someone as open and eager to explore sex as I am, if not more so. I love that our sex drives are pretty well matched. I love that I am with someone whom I can try out new toys with (it was much harder to be a toy reviewer when I was solo, that’s for sure).

But that is not necessarily a recipe for perfect sexual compatibility, or ongoing sexual fulfillment. Note the key word there: ongoing. A sex life is just that—a LIFE—which means it happens every day. And like any other aspect of life, it is interwoven tightly with all sorts of other aspects, and can be different, feel different, or present unique new obstacles at any time.

How does one navigate fulfillment with all sorts of other things—bills, work, health, family, projects, friends—are also vying for attention? How do you keep the spark going?

Perhaps this relates to my theories around general relationship intelligence and the lack of depiction of many stable, sane, healthy relationships in the various storytelling arts. Most romantic comedies or dramas, for example, focus on the part of a relationship story where the couple is overcoming obstacles in order to begin their life together. At the beginning of the film, the couple is not together; the dramatic action focuses around their miscommunications, struggles, possibly sex, expectations, who called (or didn’t call) who, and who can get over their issues in order to fully embark on a committed monogamous relationship; then the end of the movie shows the couple, triumphant, and we are happy, having been rooting for them all along.

But we see very little of what happens next in the relationship. How the couple communicates, negotiates, reaches consensus, struggles, forgives, fights, and maintains a balance between their individual separate selves and their collective togetherness. So rare is a film where the couple is together at the beginning and the end, where the dramatic action centers around the relationship trials or the couple coming together to solve outside problems.

Without such good models of problem solving in long term relationships, and with such high divorce rates, meaning that for folks my age it is rather rare for our parents to still be together, or even to have an older couple in our lives as mentors, how can we be expected to have the relationship skills to sustain our own long term relationships?

And isn’t it similar with sex: when we are single, we expect getting into a relationship will fulfill our sexual needs. The smarter folks among us know that getting into a relationship isn’t quite enough, but that we need to get into a relationship with a person with whom we are sexually compatible. A subtle but key difference!

Yet still—life happens. Even if you find that special someone, there is still ongoing navigation to keeping it up and getting off. And sharing a life with someone means distractions, miscommunications, unforeseen occasional tragedies, and our ever-changing bodies and lives.

This is what I have been puzzling through in my own relationship, as we are increasingly sharing space and continually sharing our lives.

My relationship with Kristen started as almost purely sexual. She lived a few hours away from me, and worked in another state, and would come visit on weekends. She’d lived in New York City before and planned to move back, which is how we met in the first place. We spent whole weekends in bed, rarely leaving my apartment, rarely leaving my room except to eat and shower and rest our bodies. After she left, I would spend the whole week playing over and over the last weekend, often writing about what we’d done, how we’d played, and planning some new ways to play when she came back.

I would pounce on her as soon as she walked in the door. Already hard packing and waiting anxiously to feel her again. Not even letting her put her things away before shoving her up against something, so eager and grateful to have someone who let me play with dominance, someone who was open to play.

It was erotic, connected, passionate, heated sex, full of longing and relief and release. Plus, we continued falling in love, discovering all the ways we enjoyed each other’s company outside of the bedroom.

It’s easy to look back and see the bliss, but equally present was the ache of longing, the fear of the fragility of a new relationship, those days when we would have given anything to come home to each other, all the fetishizing and idealizing of a shared domesticity. I brush over those feelings now because that wish was granted, I no longer have to long to share other parts of my life with her, as our lives are increasingly entwined.

Now we have the new obstacles of sustainment: Am I getting what I want in bed, in this relationship? Are we having sex often enough for me? Are we having the kind of sex I want, or am I longing for something else, something new? How do I ask for more, or different, sex? How do we keep the spark of eroticism, passion, longing, and eagerness when we are available to each other, in so many ways, constantly? How do we keep it fresh and new when we’re willing to do, and have done, so much experimenting already?

Maybe this sounds like a trite problem, especially to those who don’t have partners, don’t get laid, or don’t prioritize sex as a serious hobby the way Kristen and I do, but I suspect many people in reasonably satisfied relationships ask these questions at some point or another.

I’m sure all of our relationships have a unique set of circumstances behind these questions. For me, it seems to be that my girlfriend would like to have sex more often than we do, and in part because of our dynamic and the sexual roles we like to play with of Daddy/girl and domination/submission, she has a hard time asking for more. She feels greedy and unwarranted. I know I also have a hard time allowing myself to be seduced, so even when she does feel bold enough to make her desires clear, I don’t always respond with what she wants. I adore our dynamics and they are a key important part of this relationship, roles I have been eager to explore for years and I am grateful to do so. But precisely those dynamics erase my own desire for the chase, since she is constantly available to me, sometimes my desire runs a little low. I crave some denial, something to conquer, something to come up against in order to create friction.

We have discussed this; and of course I don’t want her denying me just for the sake of denying me, of turning me down when what she’s really interested in is playing, but we are still working out the details of dynamics we have chosen.

I’m pretty confident that we’ll figure this out, but I’m not exactly sure how. For now, we’re talking about it (though hopefully not too much), being open with each other, being honest about where we’re both at and what we want, and of course, working on our own shit in therapy. Every relationship is complicated. Every relationship has triumphs, low points, complications. I don’t know how things will get resolved, but things are improving, we are talking well to each other, still having great sex, and enjoying each other.

Really, does it get any better than that?

This post first appeared on the Good Vibrations Magazine.

Sweat & Summer

1.

I was being a jerk. Not sure the details are all that important, I just got up on the wrong side of the bed and everything was bothering me and it was 95 degrees outside and I was mad at the world. I made the mistake of thinking that running errands in Manhattan would make me feel better. Get some things done, knock things off the to do list. Did I forget that I don’t deal with heat well? (Can I stop complaining about the heat already?)

Plus, the errands were unsuccessful. I’m only a recent Mac owner, my MacBook is about a year old, and I’ve never had to go into the Apple Store for service before. My power cord shorted out over the weekend (anybody out there have an extra one lying around? Will trade) and I didn’t know I needed an appointment at the Genius Bar, so i just went in. Plus, my iPhone 4G, which replaced my ancient 3G since I broke the screen when I dropped it on a playground in Alaska, is getting a terrible signal and I’d just heard about the booster cases Apple is giving to 4G owners. Of course, you have to do that on the website, not at the store, and they’re unavailable/out of stock. We shall see how that goes.

Combine my disappointment, my not working cell phone, my powerless laptop, with the heat, not to mention the crowds of Soho and then Union Square, and I was ready for a drink.

What I’m saying is, I was spending all my energy trying to keep it together as Kristen and I shopped for peaches and tomatoes at the Farmer’s Market.

By the time we got home I’d picked a fight, then started to backpedal out of it. We were both upset. I was being a jerk. I couldn’t seem to calm myself down or shake this “everything sucks” mood. I apologized; I knew I was off, and I said so. I tried to state what I needed, I tried to remove myself to give myself time to calm down. I could have done better. I gave up and took a nap.

2.

Hours later I woke up a little reset, Kristen and I had a decent evening, dinner and a movie, sitting close on the couch, being more careful with each other.

Later still, after we got in bed, I pulled her close as we snuggled in together and kissed her, a physical apology for my distance that I was trying to make up for with closeness. I wanted to be closer still, feel her everywhere, make it up to her, be inside her. I still felt fragile and a little thin, but the want was growing as we kissed. I got flashes of my forearm across her chest, holding her down. Adding some extra bruises to the two on her inner thighs, which are blooming nicely. I saw flashes of fucking her fast and hard and furious and it made me hot, eager.

I kissed her again, let my hands slip under her green tank top, one fingertip into the top of her undies. She sighed, kissed me back, hands in my hair, and I felt myself melt a little into her.

“Play with me?” I asked, quiet, our mouths still nearly touching.

Her whole body responded with a flush of heat that rippled through her. “Of course baby. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.” C’mon, I chided myself. Say something. “I feel the instinct to be mean. But I don’t know if I can do that. I don’t know if that’d feel good, after how I treated you today.”

“You could be my mean Daddy. I like it when you do that. It would be okay.”

I was quiet. Not sure it was a good idea. I’d rather not be so torn. I’d been torn all day.

“Or you could be small,” she whispered close to my ear, stroking my hair.

Even the words felt like a relief. I nodded. “Just … take care of me for a while?” She nodded back and kissed me again, a little more commanding than usual. Her lips were sweet, tongue soft, warm, and I started to get lost in the kiss, in the feel of her next to me, touching me.

“Give me your hand,” she said, and took it up and under her shirt, to her breast, firm and round and soft in my palm. I ran my fingers over her nipple like it was a fence I was walking by, brushing it as it grew more stiff, then pinching it hard, and the arch of her back made the growl return to my stomach. Strength. Power. Maybe I need some of that. She squirmed and let out a little cry as I twisted and pulled, then took a huge handful and kissed her.

I like her nipples in my mouth. Supple and soft. I have never been, as they say, a “breast man,” never quite got it like others seem to. Don’t get me wrong, I feel and play and suck and pinch, especially when I know that’s what she likes, but maybe it’s because my own aren’t very sensitive that I didn’t used to derive a lot of my own pleasure from playing with them. Recently, though, that’s been different. (Have I written about this before?)

I was starting to salivate, to get that itch for that feeling of smallness and sucking, when she said, “Will you suck on my tities, sweet boy?” I smiled, then bit my lip to hide it. Pushed her shirt up farther and took my arm out from under her neck, lying back down over hers, a little bit of role reversal, allowing her to give me some needed comfort for perhaps the first time that day.

I lowered my mouth down to her nipple, rested my head on her arm and against her chest as her hands pulled my head closer, and sighed. Her areola puckered in my mouth, against my tongue. Her skin was sweet with that salty wisp of sweat and summer. I sucked her in deeper and used my teeth to hold her there. She gasped. I flicked my tongue, then widened it and lapped at her nipple, thick long strokes over and over.

“Ohh that’s good … that feels so good.”

I let myself get lost in the sucking. Let it feel like nourishment, let myself be filled. I pictured energy pouring out of her, down my throat, pooling in my belly, and kept drinking it in.

After a minute I shifted, brought my mouth slowly off and over to the other, brought my weight slightly over her so I could free up my right hand. I cupped her tits and kept the angle in my mouth, then dragged my hand down her stomach and hips to her thighs, which she easily parted, a nonverbal request. I slid my hand into her panties and found her wet, dipped my fingers in slow.

I lifted my mouth and looked up at her. “May I?”

“Yes, mmm yes,” she murmured, leaning back into the bed and pressing her cunt toward my hand.

I wet my fingertips and traced her lips around her clit, flicked it, stroked it. Bit at her nipple. It didn’t take long; she started writhing, breathing, “Oh that’s good, that’s my good boy, my good boy,” and came, shuddering against me.

I kissed her mouth again and she stroked my neck, held me to her. “That felt good baby.”

“I like to feel you do that. Like to touch you.”

“You made me all wet, you made me feel so good.” She kissed me again. “Suck my nipples again, sweet boy?”

I lowered my mouth again, settled next to her as she kept me cradled.

“Did that make your cock all hard?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said quietly, not looking up. “A little.”

“Did that make you want to touch it.”

I murmured something between an “um” and a “mm.” Hesitant and feeling shy. That boy-feeling of exposure, vulnerability; you can see how much I want this by the strain against my zipper, the uncomfortable hardness, the pressure.

Of course, I don’t really have that. But there are moments, like when she starts talking about it, that this feeling comes up, and this is the best I can do to explain it.

“Touch it,” she said quietly. “Touch it for me. Tell me how it feels.” She knew I wasn’t packing. She meant my cock, my other cock, my little cock I sometimes call it, my dick, my clit.

I reached down to feel under the boxers I’d pulled on to sleep in, found my cunt wet and lips swollen, my clit—my cock—hard and slick. It felt good to touch. Like I had permission, like I could take my time. Like relief from the tension that had mounted in my body during my bad mood all day. Like release.

I dragged my fingers along lazily for a minute, touching, relaxing, with a massaging touch, building arousal. I thought she might ask me to go get my big cock, so I didn’t want to come quickly. Let’s let it build.

“How does it feel?” she asked into my hair, arms still wrapped around me.

“It feels good. Hard. Thick and big.”

“Mmm. I like it when it gets hard and big. Then you put it inside me, don’t you, my sweet boy? You like to put it in my pussy.”

Quickly, the flash of pushing my cock into her, her tight resistance, the way she opens up and wraps around me was in my head. My cock pulsed harder. I could barely respond, her nipples still in my mouth, still needing the distraction and permission of sucking.

I started rubbing my clit cock faster, jerking it a little, keeping my fingertips wet. My muscles got harder, too, contracting in my thighs and ass and stomach, starting to clench down and press into my hand. My knees straightening out, toes curling, then knees opening out to the side, legs splayed.

I let it build until I was almost ready to come and then backed off, took my hand away for a second, concentrated on sucking at her tits again, a little harder, a little deeper into my mouth, tonguing her nipples and swallowing as I breathed and concentrated on the heat building between my legs.

Only a quick break, a quick moment before I reached back down and started rubbing my clit again. Moaning through my full mouth, pressing myself against her, her arms pulling me toward her chest and keeping me close to her as I got closer, closer. Stroking up and down and, if I was being really honest, I would tell you I was thinking about my other cock, my big cock, the go-to one I usually use, and whose weight I miss hanging from my hips if I don’t wear it a few times a week. The girth of it in my hand, what it’s like to slip over the head and feel the ridges, feel its tip against my palm. What it’s like to slide inside of her.

More noise from my mouth. Growls and grunts and heavy breathing and convulsions as my chest and stomach contracted.

“Are you getting closer, sweet boy? Come for me. Come on, jerk that cock for me.”

I kept my fingers low and felt the tension hard and swollen under my fingers. Just a couple more strokes, just—there—just—closer, my fingers in fierce rhythm getting harder, quicker, as fast as I could go, “Yeah, yeah, fuck,” I started trying to exhale more, I’m holding my breath, pushing my hips up to meet my strokes.

“That’s good baby, that’s so good,” she keeps murmuring.

I’m ready and it burst out of me as I pulsed and thrusted, stroking fast and hard once more, twice, three times, my body convulsing in the microseconds between, shuddering as the shock waves faded, gasping as I calmed and tried to keep letting go, still feeling ripples of release through my whole body. I realized her nipple was still in my mouth, loosely held so I could suck in air, and I let up to take a full breath, let it out slow. Still shuddering. Still tingly all over. And as I relaxed I released even more, letting something out, some tension I’d been holding on to, something bigger, who knows what, something stored deep in my muscles, and tears started rolling down my face and toward my ears, I started gulping, soft sobs between breaths. Just a few before it passed, faded, and my breath smoothed.

I turned toward her again and sighed, rested against her, kissed her. I was spent. It didn’t take long to fall asleep (in a slightly wider embrace, still affected by the heat).

I woke the next morning feeling scrubbed clean, not a trace of that bad mood left in my system, pulled her close, smelled her skin, felt her shoulder with my cheek. Everything is much better when I remember how lucky I am to wake up with this beautiful girl every day.


Have you nominated your favorite sex bloggers for the Top Sex Bloggers 2010 list yet? Just leave a comment with your favorites before July 31st.

Waking Up

I love waking up with Kristen.

For one, she usually sleeps naked. I still sleep lightly with someone else in my bed, and often wake before her and feel her next to me, shift from whatever sleeping position I’ve gotten myself into overnight and slide my arm back under her neck and pillow, cradle her close to me.

This particular morning, I woke already turned on. A dream, a feeling, the closeness of how we fell asleep together—who knows why. She was wearing a tiny cotton summer dress as a nightgown, and I knew she was bare under it. I knew she’d shaved her pussy recently, too, that it was all smooth and soft, that I could touch her lips without anything in the way.

I dozed a while, tried to wait until a more reasonable hour before waking her. Each time I woke she had shifted slightly closer, curled against my chest, in my embrace, one leg over mine, entangling.

Eventually I couldn’t wait any longer. I slowly touched her, her thighs, sliding my hand up between her legs.

She hums a little and nuzzles into my neck, spreads her thighs apart at my touch, not really awake yet.

This story contains some Daddy/girl dirty talk. If you’d like to read on …

Train Fantasy

Jiz Lee called Kristen to wish her happy birthday, too, and told this little fantasy about running into each other on a crowded train. Not so far off from the last time we had a drink with Jiz …

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Jiz & Kristen on the subway in New York; I snapped this from across the way
If you don’t know Jiz Lee’s porn work artistry, you are missing out. Check out her work on The Crash Pad Series, follow @jizlee on Twitter or check out her site, Jizlee.com.

“Sexy birthday wishes from sunny California”

Soooooo I asked some of my friends & mentors to do me a little favor and call up and record a voice mail of birthday wishes for Kristen, and I’ll be publishing a few of them today. Here’s the first one, from S.I.R. Productions’ and Good Vibes COO Jackie Strano: “Sexy birthday wishes from sunny California.”

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Photo borrowed from Jackie’s Facebook account.

Happy 27th Birthday, Kristen!

In case you haven’t heard, today is Kristen’s 27th birthday!


photo of Kristen from the Pin Up Finishing School

Head on over to Twitter and send her some lovely birthday wishes, won’t you? She’s @kitchentop. (And if you follow my Twitter stream, you know why: she’s always baking and cooking amazing things.)

I’ve got a little bit of a birthday surprise coming later (with the help of some of my friends, thank you very much, you know who you are!)—but for now, here’s something for your desktop: some pin-up photos of Kristen from after her above Finishing School shot, she came home all dressed up and had some other props (like that lollipop) and outfits that she hadn’t used in her final shots, so I got my camera out. Just in case you’d like to spice up your desktop for the weekend with my hot girlfriend.

Download the 1024×768 desktop wallpaper here.

Morning Bondage (Review: Scalloped Cuffs & Snap Hooks)

I woke early the other day, with that familiar urge to hold and protect and control Kristen, maybe it’s the subconscious absorption of her smooth naked skin all night long, how sweet her body feels in my arms as we both turn and slumber, maybe it’s when we go in and out of whatever tough times we’re having, either about each other or just our individual general struggles against the world, maybe it’s just how I am wired, to protect and shelter, and sometimes control and dominate.

I began touching her before she was fully awake. She and I have talked about this, I have permission to take her whenever I want to, particularly in the mornings, she likes to be awakened that way. I kissed her neck and collarbone and breasts and shoulders, let my hand trail slow and soft over her skin as she murmured little sighs and stirred gently, eyelids heavy, not really awake and not really trying to be.

Slipping her panties down and off of her, I stayed low on the bed and kept my hands on her hips, using my elbows to spread her thighs open, the soft and sweet indirect morning light just enough to see the pink and pretty lips of her pussy. Delicate and velvety and I wanted to taste her, lowered my mouth down to run my tongue along the length of her slit. Just the tip of my tongue, breath hot on her cunt, keeping my mouth hovering above her and my hands gripping her hips. She squirmed. Pressed her thighs into the bed, pressed up as high as she could against my mouth, tensed everywhere.

I let my tongue flatten and drag softly, softly along her pussy again, from her hole up to her clit, and rest there, using the soft inner part of my lips to suck and tease.

Kristen comes easily this way. Tongue on her clit, one finger just one knuckle in and circling around the opening of her cunt, she quickly thrashes her arms down into the mattress and gasps, twisting her head and jerking her legs straight. I soften the pressure and go back in, tongue wide and lapping again, with quicker, smaller movements over her clit, until she comes again, crying out a little louder this time, and I shift up the bed to kiss her, hold her close for a moment.

I had set it up a week ago: taken the new fleece-lined wrist cuffs and secured them to another set of cuffs I’d placed around the bars of my headboard with some snap hooks. Kristen likes to struggle, likes to thrash around, and a little bit of restraint goes a long way: it gives her the opportunity to push or pull against something, lets a few more of her muscles tense and tighten and release a little deeper (and plus she doesn’t hit me in the face quite as easily). I took the fleece-lined cuffs down and buckled them around her wrists, then the easy click of the snap hooks secured her wrists to the bedframe.

She immediately calmed and quieted, not out of boredom but out of relaxation, watching me as I moved back down between her legs and set again to tonguing her pussy, making her come. This time I slid two fingers into her pussy, sucking her lips into my mouth and spreading them open with my hands to get to her clit. She strained against the cuffs and I felt the muscles in her stomach and ass tighten every time she pulled against the headboard.

I lost track of how many times she came in my mouth. Sometimes I let up, gave her a break, paused between orgasms, other times I just kept going and she did, too. I brought my elbows up to press her legs apart, kept my fingers inside her or spreading her lips open. I held her hips, pinched her nipples, gripped her ankles, held her legs up by the back of her thighs. I reached for the conveniently located pump bottle of Maximus lube on the nightstand and got a dollop on my third finger so I could slide it into her ass, just a little, filling her up, sucking her clit as swollen as I could and letting up just as she was about to come, changing my stroke down to a tickle until she contracted hard around my fingers and came again, again, again.

I lost track of time. I stopped caring if she was being too loud for this time in the morning, whether my neighbors would be home. I wanted to get my camera out, take up-close macro shots of the curves and lines and folds of her pussy, oh so pink and swollen and beautiful.

Not that she would have minded me doing that, but I didn’t. Next time, perhaps. That image of her arms and legs and pussy spread is still so clear in my mind, still a lovely mental image I’ve replayed more than a few times since then.

The cuffs were easy to unhook, left no marks, no bruises, no dye, were very comfortable. I pulled her close and noticed it was well past time to get up. “Morning, beautiful girl,” I murmured into her hair.

The Fleece Lined Buckling Cuffs w/Scalloped Edge and KinkLab Nickel-Plated Snap Hooks (4-Pack) were sent to me to review from JT’s Stockroom. Check them out for all kinds of other fantastic bondage toys.

Kristen’s Birthday Project: Aaaaand GO!

Kristen’s birthday is next week, but we’ll be in Seattle, in part to celebrate her birthday (I think we’ll be going out to a fancy vegetarian restaurant, and yes of course there will be cake, and maybe The Seal will balance something on her head in Kristen’s honor).

I didn’t do much last year on here, just a call for birthday wishes. This year, I have a little bit of a surprise project cooking. Want to take part in Kristen’s Birthday Project? Email me, , and I’ll give you further instructions. I’m especially looking for butches and tops and dominants, but everybody is invited. It doesn’t matter where you live, you can participate from anywhere in the world. I’ll start actually posting the birthday wishes around her birthday, next week.

Aside from that, tonight is the Navel-Gazing (aka National Masturbation Month) Sideshow, and she is inviting folks to offer Kristen a birthday kiss. It will be scripted: you say, “Happy birthday, Kristen! May I offer you a birthday kiss?” and she’ll say, “Thank you, not right now,” or “Yes please, how sweet!” and offer you something to kiss, like her hand or her cheek or her lips.

Review: Moon Glass Plug, and How We Played With It

This, my friends and readers, is the Moon Glass Plug from Good Vibrations, and it is beautiful.

Can’t you tell already, just by looking at it? That blown glass with the gentle blue coming through it? (Maybe that’s just me. I do have a thing for blue glass. If I had it my way, all of my dishes would be blue glass.)

The other night, when Kristen and I were playing, I had her on her stomach in front of me, her chest down on the bed but her knees under her, ass up. We’d already been fucking for a while, she’d come three or four or eight times, who can keep track, and I slid my cock in from behind her while lubing up my fingers. For a while I just touched her asshole gently on the outside, I could feel her relaxing and starting to enjoy the feeling, opening up a little, pushing back against my finger and cock. I had the Moon Glass Plug out, ready to use, and touched it too against her asshole, but she wasn’t really ready for it, so I started with my fingers instead.

“Put your fingers on your clit,” I said.

She did, brought her hand down between her legs. I started sliding my finger into her asshole, just a little, really only knuckle-deep, just so she could feel it for a while. But it didn’t take long before she was getting all hot and squirming against me, bucking her hips harder, and I worked my finger a little faster in her ass, not deeper, just faster, which she liked, oh I could tell she liked it right away. I’m not sure what she did exactly, moaned maybe, or just responded physically in a way that was clear that was it, right there, perfect.

I noticed I’d kind of stopped moving my cock, so tried to get my hips going while she continued to work herself up. Now, this is a girl who can come by her own fingers in mere moments, so that it was taking much time at all was telling in that she must’ve been very worked up. I could feel her clenching hard on my cock, so hard in fact that she started to push me out, clenching her ass too, hand moving faster, gasping, as she came, hard.

So hard, in fact, that she ejaculated, gushed all over my cock and thighs. I silently thanked my Liberator Throe, and out loud, groaned. “That was so damn hot.”

I moved forward up to the pillow to hold her closer and kiss her for a while. She asked if I’d used the glass. “No,” I said, “that was my finger, just a little of it. Do you want to try it yourself?”

She took it from me and slowly worked it into her ass. For a while she said, “it’s too big, it’s too big!” but didn’t want to give up, and was certain she could do it if she moved slowly. I stayed next to her as she took the whole thing, finally, then brought her hands down to her cunt again to get off a few more times.

I told her I wanted to watch for a while, asked if she wanted my help.

“No,” she said. But then, later: “Lay on top of me?”

She likes the weight, holding her down. I spread my forearm across her breastbone and kissed her, my body slightly lifted from hers as she continued to work her hands between her legs. I like to watch the way her body gets all tense, then releasing as she comes.

I like to watch in general.

She came again, once nice and hard, then another for good measure, collapsing onto the bed. It took a little more work to get the plug out of her ass, since it’s pretty thick and spherical in the middle and has that skinny little neck before it flares to a plug. It’s only 3 1/4” long x 1 3/8” wide, but the shape makes a difference, and even makes it feel more thick than it actually is (though it is pretty thick).

And it’s gorgeous. Did I mention that it’s gorgeous? The most beautiful butt plug I own, though I don’t know if I usually describe them as “beautiful,” so perhaps that’s easy. The glass is smooth and hard, and very simple to clean. I haven’t tried it myself yet, but since it’s easily sterilizable, I will be. And I’m looking forward to seeing it in her ass again, too.

The beautiful Moon Glass Plug was sent to me for review by Good Vibrations. Get your own, or a different butt plug, or many other fabulous sex toys over at the Good Vibes website.

Anal Sex Week Starts Today

It’s long overdue, I know.

Remember back in September, I posted something about how I’d like to fuck Kristen’s ass? Then there was a bit of controversy, people thinking I was trying to use the Internet to get her to do something she didn’t want to do. Clearly that is not the case.

(Not to open an old can o’worms or anything.)

Even so, there was a follow-up post with some more details about what this meant for us and what I was intending when I put the first post up. There are some great tips from commentors for folks interested in getting started or having more anal sex, too, which I do recommend you read.

We are far from pros at this whole anal sex thing, but it’s been working quite well between us, and we’ve both got comfortable enough with it that I can slip it in (ha, ha) at various times when we’re doing other things, already playing, and we do that somewhat regularly.

I did get out the lovely Tantus Silk cock, that I got from Babeland, and strap it on and fuck her ass with it, but so far that’s only been once. We both express interest in doing that again, I guess from my perspective it just takes a bit of warm up, and preparation, and I tend to stick with what works. I get impatient, is what I’m saying.

But clearly that should change if I want to continue to help push our sexual explorations into new territory.

In the past six months since I first put that post up, I have collected a host of anal toys and resources that I want to share with y’all. Some of them I’ve already mentioned or written up, like the Njoy Fun Wand and Tristan’s famous butt plug, but there are more goodies that we’ve explored since and I want to share them with you, too.

So, in the next week, I’ll have for you a review of the Tantus Silk cock, perfectly sized for ass fucking; a beautiful glass butt plug from Good Vibes; and Tristan Taormino’s legendary book The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex For Women, sent to me by Eden Fantasys. I’ll write up some lubes that are particularly good for ass play, some tips for beginners, some of my very favorite anal scenes in queer porn, and write up a dirty story or two about what the anal exploration has been like here at Chez Sexsmith.

What about you out there? What are your favorite anal scenes in queer porn? What are your favorite toys to use? What’s your favorite lube? What position do you just love to be in? Let’s get the conversation going while I focus on the upcoming posts.

How Do I Let Go of a Past Hurt?

After some strong realizations about what really is the strength and foundation of my relationship with Kristen, I’ve been thinking a lot about healing past wounds, especially in terms of former lovers and broken hearts.

I often notice some sort of snag or conflict come up between Kristen and I, and using those things I mentioned are the super strong foundations of our relationship, we can usually talk through it, understand where we’re both coming from, and explain how we got there.

My part of that often looks like this: “You did x, and x is very familiar to me because in my past relationship x had this kind of role and did this kind of damage to me, so it’s really hard for me when you do x, because I feel triggered and panicked.”

Another important part of this is: it’s pretty likely that she wasn’t intentionally doing x, or at least she certainly didn’t mean to hurt me; I do keep that in mind. Probably it was a by-product of her attempting to do something else. And usually she can express that explanation and I can hear her and I don’t get mad at her for doing it, generally I understand what she was trying to do.

But somehow I am still stuck in this past relationship, this past me, where that feeling was true and x meant something specific and my reaction is to PANIC. And I am starting to ask myself: is that happening in this relationship, right now? No, usually it isn’t. That is something else, that is in my past, that is an old wound that this new thing is pulling on, but it’s not the same wound. I am not becoming re-wounded there. I am not at danger of falling back into that wound.

So. Clearly, I need to “let go” of that old reaction. But how does one do that? How do you let something go when it feels like it’s so fucking hard-wired into the way my brain works? How do I not be scared and feel triggered and panicked when these things come back up?

This is what I’ve been contemplating lately, as things between Kristen and I are improving after another brief panic. One of the things about relationships that I deeply believe, indeed one of the POINTS of being in an intimate, loving, romantic, sexual relationship, is that they teach you things about yourself that you perhaps wouldn’t otherwise have the opportunity to learn, and if they are strong and founded and good, they also can be the space in which you have enough support to actually practice the growing, someone who is patient with you and who recognizes how hard you’re working to rewire yourself, who can gently remind you when you’re falling back into old patterns, and who can support you and encourage you as you try on new ones. Plus, they provide endless opportunities to use those new patterns, since conflict and difficulty and triggers from old broken hearts come up in relationship all the time. Isn’t that lucky!

I think what I’m talking about, in this question of “how do I let go,” is becoming more aware, becoming more mindful of what triggers what and what means what, especially in my relationship. I’m tired of all these old ghosts coming up. I have done a shit-ton of work to put these ghosts to rest, but the pathways in my brain are still carved out in many ways.

So I guess it kind of looks like this:

  1. I have a reaction to something that’s happening in my relationship (usually a negative, bad, “unreasonable” emotional reaction)
  2. I realize where my reaction is coming from (usually a past lover, wound, broken heart)
  3. Let go of the old reaction, be in the present (instead of gripping onto and explaining myself through the past). How to do that?
    1. Well first, I need to be able to release my grip on #2, to be able to ask myself, How did I come to this reaction? Where did it come from, and how did it serve me? What remains unacknowledged about this old wound that means I still think I need this protection? Can I heal that wound and know I no longer need that protection? What is asking me for acceptance?
    2. Then, I need to be in the present. I’ve noticed myself grasping at these old stories, justifying my high emotions, so much that I am not sitting with what is. So I must learn to ask myself: What is happening now? Is this old pattern that I fear actually present?
  4. After letting go of that old reaction, I can have a reaction to what’s happening now, with Kristen, with me, and aim, as always, to respond and react with lovingkindness and care and awareness and openness and love.

That seems fairly straightforward, actually. I think that is possible.

I spoke with a lovely friend and mentor recently about this exact problem, and she suggested a fairly simple rephrasing of relationship needs. I think that too will help in conquering this “how to let go” question. For example, if I notice this process happening, and get to step #2, realizing that I’m being triggered because it’s relating to a past hurt of mine, if I go on to say, “Okay, I need you to not be x like my ex,” that brings a lot of baggage into the conversation, a lot of layers and complicated past ghosts and old wounds and old ways of working and whoa suddenly it’s a whole lot more than just me and my beautiful girlfriend trying to talk through a little snag in communication or interaction.

Let me be a little more specific for this example, I think it’ll make more sense that way.

So one of the things that triggers me heavily is when someone in a relationship with me is withholding. It reminds me of my former lesbian bed death relationship, among others, and I get panicked that I’ll never again know what’s happening in her head and will spend years trying and it will eat me up. Ahem.

But this plays on other ways I work too, especially in that I am a very insightful, observant person who often knows what’s going on with another person’s emotional landscape even better than they do (especially if they aren’t too self-aware), and I have the tendency to constantly check in with them (silently, emotionally) to see where they’re at. If they aren’t telling me where they’re at, and in fact are deliberately putting up a wall and withholding that information, saying “I’m fine,” or “I don’t want to talk about it,” when I ask, I tend to assume something is brewing and will bubble up and explode later, which makes me way anxious.

I know, this is a totally unique situation that nobody else has ever been in, right? Nobody else has this problem, ever.

So, instead of having the reaction of “I need you to not be withholding like my ex!” I can rephrase it to something like, “it’s really important for me to know what’s going on with your mental/emotional landscape.” Not that we have to spend hours processing that, but I can briefly explain why I need that, and if she can just say, “oh, I’m feeling anxious about work, but I don’t want to talk about it,” that’s enough. Some broad-stroke explanation of what “that feeling” is that I am reading on her face but she’s not expressing.

Knowing what is going on with someone else’s emotional landscape one of my basic relationship needs, in fact! And in some ways it has nothing to do with my ex, it has to do with ME. It just reminds me of a time when this basic relationship need wasn’t met (and was probably taken advantage of), and what’s important is that the need be acknowledged and get met, not that there was a time in my past when it wasn’t met. (I mean, that’s important too, but I have done enough healing to hopefully not stick a rock in that wound to keep it open.)

Whew. That feels like a lot, but it feels like a relief, and like I’ve hit on something important.

One of the things about the ways that I work, and the ways I grow and change and get over capitol-i Issues that plague me, is that generally, as soon as I can articulate what’s going on for me and write—that’s the key here, WRITE—out a possible solution, or at least a path to try, I often find that I can rewire myself through that process. By time I articulate it, by time I name it and label it and say OH that’s what’s going on, and OH here’s what I can do to do that differently, those skills and awareness have kind of already integrated. This isn’t a 100%-true-always theory, but I have noticed that this tends to be true, and that too feels like a relief.

Okay so: how about y’all? How have you addressed this problem of past hurts in your current relationships? Any tips for me? Any tricks to keeping your own mindfulness and awareness up while dealing with things that are triggering and hard? Anything I might be missing here? Does this make sense? Can you relate to it? Or does it seem like I’m way off base?

PS: A teeny colophon note: I’ve been making some changes to this site’s sidebar and structure in general. A little bitta spring cleaning, if you will. And as such, the category formerly known as SSU has been renamed Critical Theory. It might change again, there are an awful lot of C categories over there in the list, but that works for now. Do not be alarmed, it’s still there.

Also, if you aren’t following my Tumblr log, mrsexsmith.tumblr.com, you might be missing out on some of the things I used to frequently put on Sugarbutch, like for example calls for submission for queer and kinky and feminist anthologies, eye candy photos of hot butches and femmes, media like youtube videos, announcements for other events, and more. It’s easy to subscribe by RSS or pop over there and check out what’s going on.

Desperation & Dominance

“Want to know what I was thinking about when I got off yesterday?” she asks. We’re lying in bed, tangled limbs and sheets, a little sweaty, breathing heavily still, hearts calming. She’s nude now. I’m still in boxers and an undershirt. I’ve taken advantage of the ongoing permission I have to fuck her, take her, if I wake in the middle of the night or before her in the morning, as I often do, like this morning, hands on her, fingers in her, forearm holding her down by her collarbone until she thrashed and came and muffled a scream into my shoulder.

“Yes,” I answer, arm under her neck, the other hand on her hip and curved under her thigh and ass as she drapes herself over me partly.

“I was thinking about … you using me,” she starts in a small voice, quiet, by my ear. I can feel her breath. “Filling me up. Fucking me and fucking me without caring how it was for me. I was thinking about tears streaming down my cheeks, and you not stopping, just … taking me, until you get what you want, and you come.”

I bow my head a little to find her mouth by feel in the dark bedroom. “I like to use you like that,” I say. She nods. “Let’s play later.” She nods again, pulls closer to me.

This story contains Daddy/girl roles in sex play, some domination and submission, and lots of tender loving care. Continue reading with that knowledge, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Love Letter #4 (Growing Pains)

“Relationships take work,” they say. But as someone who now knows I spent way too long in failed or failing relationships, desperately clinging to any fragment of hope or chance of ‘making it work,’ as someone who stayed with abusers, bought their bullshit and was convinced by their smooth-talking blame-the-victim manipulations, as someone trying to wake up to my own power and control and confidence (and yes, maybe I’m spectrum-banging there a little bit, but I think sometimes that’s how I learn), as someone finally finally able to say, “I feel when you because,” and “you’re right, I’m sorry,” as someone who is still prone to overgiving and overwhelm and losing myself, my tendencies go the other way: to RUN. That this, this one, this time, this sign is The Sign, that any red flag is a Red Flag and is grounds to be a dealbreaker, that in six months I’ll look back to now and say there, that’s when it all went to hell, that was the point of no return, I should have listened to my gut, why’d I stay, why’d I trust her, again, how did I get here, I lost myself again, I swore that would never happen and here I am …

But that is not this relationship.

I am still skittish. I am still prone to explosions of emotion when I get scared. I am still unsure—not so much of her, or of this beautiful shiny strong relationship we are building, but of myself, my own ability to keep myself strong, solid, taken care of, whole.

It comes up again and again, especially lately, since she’s been in crisis and I want to help. I am a helper, and a service top, after all. My job is to take and care (but not caretake). My role is to comfort and protect. And when we both started realizing it was too much, and our parts in that, that I took on too much responsibility for her well-being and that she was leaning on me too much and not taking care of herself, I was left unsure of my standing.

What does she need me for, if she doesn’t need me for this?

Then came the silence, and look we stumbled upon another one of my many triggers: withdrawing. And we discovered containment doesn’t mean withdraw, and that I still need to learn how to listen without giving advice.

I need to remember who it is I am dating: her, this girl, only her, not any of my exes. How does one undo triggers, once they’re found? Or will they just always be there, like an old skiing injury, something to be constantly aware of and work around?

I need to remember this, rely on it: here are the things she and I are particularly good at:

  1. Telling each other, as openly, kindly, and honestly as possible, how we feel about where we’re coming from
  2. Taking responsibility for the parts that we own, and not blaming the other person
  3. Being totally willing to work on ourselves individually, and the relationship
  4. Being quick, thorough, vigilant learners, willing to do extensive research to get somewhere faster

I have never had any of these things, truthfully, in practice, in previous relationships, though I and my exes have often given lip service to many of them. Some of that was certainly my fault—it really is only recently that I was capable of executing them, the first one especially.

She keeps saying, “we love each other, we’ll get through this,” but that is not as comforting as those four traits, to me. This is about skill, this is about commitment, this is about patience. And yes sure, this is about love, too, and I am way too in love with this gorgeous, fierce, extraordinary person to stop the hard work it may take to get through these growing pains. They are as much mine as they are hers, and when we get through to the other side, we will know each other and ourselves better, we’ll be stronger and have more tools and skills to weather the changing emotional landscapes of love and relationships.

This continues to be a huge opportunity to grow and evolve and unstick the stuck places, and what better way to take that on than with a kind, loving person who knows me practically as well as I know myself? Together we are more than the sum of us separately, together we are stronger, bigger, more capable, more supported, buoyed by the magic strength that is sharing one’s life with another. Nothing cuts through the muscle, the bone, exposing the marrow, like love, does it? There is never so much to lose, so there is never so much to gain; with the highest stakes come the highest rewards.

I know relationships take work. I am willing to do the work, I just have to be certain that the work is worth doing. And perhaps for the first time, really, for the first authentic time, for the first awake and aware and really fully known time, I have someone who knows this takes work, who is certain the work is worth doing, and who is willing to do the work to be with me, too.

My Hands Are My Heart (Valentine’s Day)

So … what are you doing for Valentine’s Day this Sunday?


“My Hands Are My Heart,” Gabriel Orozco, 1991

Remember what Kristen and I did last year? I planned a little surprise trip up to a winery, which was lovely. This year, though, I’m broke and Kristen doesn’t like spending money, so we’re taking swing dancing lessons through February (which we both LOVE) and staying in this weekend, cooking and holing up with each other.

All I really want to do lately is get lost in her, talk to her, touch her, explore her. I’ll probably make a little card or love note too … I’d love to write a perfect poem for her, one of these days. I ran into this lovely haiku the other day, and you know how sometimes you read things and they are just like so fucking perfect that you feel like you’ll never write something that good? I kind of love that feeling. And I really love this haiku.

I have never felt
more completely like myself
than when I hold you.

Daily Haiku on Love by Tyler Knott Gregson

Not that I’ll stop trying to write her a perfect poem. I will, I am. Just that I keep running into things that are so perfect. Like this: “She wasn’t doing a thing that I could see, except standing there, leaning on the balcony railing, holding the universe together.” — J.D. Salinger (posted on my tumblr media log recently). Maybe I just need to do some sort of collage or compilation.

On a related note, I was listening to Dan Savage’s podcast Savage Love, which, if you don’t listen to, I highly HIGHLY recommend, he’s sometimes a bit of a jerk, yes, and occasionally has some bad slips of the tongue about plenty of hot-button things, but he’s honest, and very sex-positive, and I’ve learned a LOT from his work over the past ten years. Last week, at the beginning of his podcast, he had this to say:

Valentine’s Day is a week and change away, and when you’re a sex advice professional, as I am, you get a lot of calls on the run up to Valentine’s Day, asking for boiler-plate love and romance advice from bullshit publications that the rest of the year pretend that sex doesn’t really exist. And what they want is usually this bullshit deep-fried funnel cake sugar coated romance crap, and not real romance: you know, “how do you sex up your Valentine’s? How do you make it more erotic?” And what they want to hear is candles, and dinner, and wine, and flowers.

What’s crazy about all the standard Valentine’s Day gifts is that they all have narcotic effects, really! Go out and have some wine, and eat a big rich meal, and you’re really not going to want to fuck when you get home! You’re going to want to fall the fuck asleep. And then you get all these letters—if you’re a sex advice professional, as I am—the day after Valentine’s Day, from people who are worried about the health of their relationship, or whether their partner is really attracted to them, because they went out and had this big romantic Valentine’s Day date and dinner, and then they didn’t fuck because they fell asleep, or he fell asleep. Well of course he fell asleep. He had a gut full of steak and booze and rich crap.

You know, if you want to spice up your sex life, on Valentine’s Day, stay the fuck home, do something that gets your blood pumping, like move your ass, don’t feed your face, and then bone each other! Done! The end, right? Don’t make reservations. Don’t fall into the restaurant industrial chocolate complex conspiracy that is Valentine’s Day, and think you have to mark it by pouring money into … whatever! You need to pour your own bodily fluids into each other (if you are fluid bonded, if not please use condoms and barriers and whatever)! And you can do that best if you stay the fuck home!

You know what you should do, if you do go to the restaurant—and you probably should go the restaurant, waiters gotta eat, I put myself through school waiting tables, I don’t want to like kill the restaurant industry (I don’t think I have that power)—FUCK FIRST. Fuck at four o’clock, if you have dinner reservations at eight. Fuck twice if you have dinner reservations at eight, then go to the restaurant. And toast the awesome relationship you have, and the amazing sex you just had, and then go home and collapse into bed, and fall the fuck asleep.

—Dan Savage, Savage Love Podcast episode 172 (transcribed by me, errors are probably my fault)

Now, I’ve always been a sex-at-night kind of person, probably because I like staying up late, but my days are often so jam-packed lately that I’m finding Kristen and I do this quite often—we go out to some awesome event, or for a great meal, then we end up crashing. This definitely made me think about planning the evening (and the sex play) with a little bit more intention.

I know, I know, Valentine’s Day is a cheesy corporate and capitalistic holiday, and we shouldn’t need excuses to show our loved ones that we care. But, to be honest … I’m a romantic, and I like the excuses. I also fight with my tendency to over-shower, over-give, over-love someone, and an event gives permission to channel those tendencies into gifts or romance.

So the question remains: what are you doing for Valentine’s Day this Sunday? What do you wish you were doing? What’s the romantic Valentine’s Day that you will always remember?

“On Dichotomies that (No Longer) Jail Me” and More From KinkForAll Providence

I really admire & adore Maymay.

He is one of the big minds behind both KinkForAll, which is an “unconference” of folks coming together to skill-share and discuss topics relating to kink and bdsm, and also Kink on Tap, which is a weekly internet video show where participants and special guests discuss the week in kink and what’s been going on in the media, as well as dozens of other things (tune in live at 8pm EST/5pm PST on Sunday nights at live.kinkontap.com and chat with other folks watching it in the chatroom!).

And like I mentioned, I attended KinkForAll Providence this past weekend. Kristen and I drove up from New York City for just the day, and we co-presented a workshop on Gendering Power (the short version—only twenty minutes—and I’ll be doing it full-length at the LSM here in New York City a few weeks!). And of course I saw many fantastic workshops—they are only twenty minutes long, in unconference style, very compact and specific, so you gotta really be precise about what you want to get across, and go for it.

Maymay’s was phenomenal. It’s called “On Dichotomies that (No Longer) Jail Me” and it kinda blew my brain. Now that I’ve re-watched it (and read along), I think it’s even more brilliant, and I highly urge you to set aside just twenty minutes, sometime today, and watch it.

The full text is available over at Maymay’s blog, which you should possibly follow along with in a side-by-side window situation when you finally watch this video of his presentation. There were so many parts that I loved, but in particular, this quote:

People speak of ’sexual morality,’ but that is a misleading expression. There is no special morality for sex. No matter what you do with yourself, whether you go to bed with girls or with boys, and no matter what it occurs to you to do with them or with yourself, no moral rule applies to that sphere of activity other than the principles that govern every aspect of life: honesty, courage, common humanity, consideration. —Jens Bjørnboe

[And then Maymay goes on to say:] What Jens understood that I think is so valuable is that people who dichotomize consensual sexual activity into obscene and decent acts also tend to approach morality as a dichotomy; they couple obscene with immoral and decent with moral. Indeed, Jens sees that the failure to recognize one false dichotomy actually blurs one’s view of which other dichotomies are true and which are not. On the other hand, when you begin to see the gradations between things you once simplistically believed were absolutes, you empower yourself to break out of all false dichotomies.

Now, before I go any further, it’s important to mention that false dichotomies are not inherently bad things; they can be useful, as I mentioned, and they can be a lot of fun. Case in point, I think dichotomies of power are really fucking sexy! Specifically, I have always loved (and still love) playing—but not being—powerless. That is, I enjoy being sexually submissive.

Trouble is, I’m a man. Yes, I know what you’re thinking: DUH! Thing is, the fact that I’m a man wasn’t always clear to me. In fact, thanks to this really strong tendency that false dichotomies, when we incorrectly believe they are true, have of reinforcing one another, for the longest time I thought I was actually a woman! Yeah! Let me tell you why.” —Read the full text over at Maymay’s blog!

Maymay goes on to explain what I’ve called identity alignment assumptions, though in a much more illustrative and specific way than I ever did in that post. Dichotomies can be so jailing, so harmful, so specific—but we also have an infinite number of tools we can use to break out of those and come into ourselves, fully.

Watch it. Seriously. This is really good stuff.

On Dichotomies that (No Longer) Jail Me – KinkForAll Providence from maymay on Vimeo.

And because Maymay has been working probably non-stop since Saturday to get these videos working and live, here are a few more talks from KinkForAll Providence which were PHENOMENAL.

In this KinkForAll Providence presentation, Marty, Brown University Alumn (Class of 2008), reads from his impassioned graduate college application personal statement. “One reason I have chosen to out myself is to legitimize my identity and the identities of those I care about,” he says. By the end of obtaining his linguistics undergraduate degree at Brown University, Marty was already an accomplished sexuality freedom advocate. While in high school, he started a date-rape awareness theatre troupe, he helped found and run an ongoing male sexuality workshop at Brown University, and wrote a sex education and advice column for a local newspaper. Now, he works at Planned Parenthood in Boston and volunteers for Men Against Sexism.

I’m looking forward to talking to Marty more, especially about masculinity and his work as a sexuality freedom advocate. I think that might make for a great Radical Masculinity interview, don’t you?

How and Why I Came Out as Pan/Poly/Kinky on my Law School Applications – KinkForAll Providence from maymay on Vimeo.

If you were following my twitter stream over the weekend, you also know that Kristen and I got to spend some time hanging out with Megan Andelloux, and her two talks were fantastic. She recently opened The Center for Sexual Pleasure and Health in Pawtucket, Rhode Island—and she showed us around! It is such a cool space, if I lived closer I would go hang out there all the time, read a book on the comfy couches or browse my RSS reader and chat with the visitors about what’s going on in the world of sex. If you’re anywhere nearby, I urge you to check it out.

But it wasn’t as easy as just “hey, I’m going to open a center, kthxbye!”—Megan was threatened and barricaded from opening for more than five months. In her second talk at KinkForAll, she explained what happened, and how she fought it—and won. Check it out:

When Megan Andelloux wanted to open the Center for Sexual Pleasure and Health in Pawtucket, RI, “freaked out” residents barricaded her opening for 5 months and the local police threatened to arrest her. At KinkForAll Providence, 1 week after Megan’s education center opened, she gives a talk about the “sex panic” that swept the state and captured national headlines. Megan tells of a University of Rhode Island professor who waged a “war” to stop her from educating adults about sex, how locals demanded that “we should outlaw sex!” and how Megan fought for your sexual freedoms—and won! Learn more about Megan Andelloux at OhMegan.com and about the Center for Sexual Pleasure and Health at TheCSPH.org

Sex Panic in Pawtucket – KinkForAll Providence from maymay on Vimeo.

I hear there’s talk for a KinkForAll NYC3 sometime soon. And as always, find out more than you probably need to know on the KinkForAll wiki.

Lipstick Blow Job

Kristen: perfect. well i will come by around 9 then. that is late for dinner but oh well
Sinclair: okay, will be home. that will be our one plan
Kristen: ok
Sinclair: that + a blow job
Kristen: oh yes. yay
Sinclair: so, wear lipstick
Kristen: to yoga? :-)
Sinclair: ha! probably putting it on after is better. but, if you like …
Kristen: hehe

She bought new lipstick recently, thanks to a Sugarbutch reader who recommended her particular shade. It’s bright, but lovely and femme, and it doesn’t come off on anything, even tacos.

She walked into my place wearing lipstick, still in her yoga clothes. Not the new lipstick, one of her others that is more sticky and means I tend not to kiss her when she wears it, lest she get it all over my mouth. Sometimes I don’t care about that, of course. But we kiss all the time, so the wanting-and-not-having is kind of fun, for a little while.

I’ve been craving roasted garlic lately so I spread some on some toasted bread, then baked some sweet potato and potato fries with cumin, and constructed a pretty decent veggie burger (sauteed onions, pepperjack, goddess dressing, sprouts, lettuce). (I’ve had this recent revelation that I really like sandwiches, so I’m indulging in that a little these days. Plus, Kristen is a new vegetarian, and is skeptical of the veggie burger, but I’m a big fan.) We may have also had a beer or three.

So we had a nice dinner. Enough about the food.

We cleaned up, did the dishes, had a few bites of ice cream. Her lipstick had mostly wiped off after eating and I pulled her close before going into my bedroom. Though much of the last few weeks has been a struggle, we are also closer, more clear, creating something lovely and excited to dip back into each other. My weekend with her went smoothly and the things that are coming up between us are more conversations than anxious explosions, which feels good, great, but I’ve been missing the power play, which we haven’t done much of lately. I’ve been careful, wanting to really recalibrate before taking too much on or slipping into the wrong places, but we have talked about how we both miss it.

In my bedroom, I slip on my cock while she reapplies her lipstick. I pull her on top of me as I lay down on the bed and kiss her neck, her face. She gets breathless. Sucks in air as her mouth waters and tongue swells, I can see it, despite her lips already being darkened. I slide two fingers into her mouth, feel her tongue, push them just past the first knuckle so she can lick around the pads with her tongue. She closes her eyes and moans.

“Hmm, you like that?”

She moans a little. It’s not really a question I expect an answer to.

“Ready to get that lipstick all over my cock?” She looks up at me, gasps and her chest collapses a little, shuddering and giving in toward me. I grab her hair. Our lips are nearly touching. I run my fingers down her cheek and jaw and notice a smear of lipstick that must’ve been on them, from putting them in her mouth.

“Yes, ohhh,” she breathes softly. “I want to make you feel good.”

I lay back on the bed, hand in her hair, the other on her shoulder or arm or wrist. She positions her mouth over my cock. rings her fingers around the shaft slowly as she lets her mouth water, parts her lips, watches it in her hand as if it is getting bigger at her touch. I practically feel it quivering. Underneath, my clit swells and strains to feel her lips, to be swallowed in her mouth too.

When her lips finally touch it, it is always a revelation, always a surprise, how much I feel it, how much tenderness is in her light kisses, the soft soft pillows of her inner lips, her sweet wet mouth and tongue. She coos a little and I can’t help but to moan, she gulps down thick breaths of air when she pulls her mouth up and off, holds my cock her in her hand softly. Licks just the tip with her tongue.

My cock is covered in rings of lipstick now, smeared around the head and the little ridges of the underside. She gulps it down again, pushes it all the way back into her throat and holds it there while I push and press and pulse against her, eyes rolling back until they close and my back arches to go farther, get deeper inside her.

She gags a little and pulls off, smooth and quick, smiles, looks at me, a little shy, a little desperate. She knows how hot this gets me. I know how much she likes to be stretched open, filled. She’s wet between her legs by now, she likes sucking cock that much.

She does it again, swallows deep, deeper now, her lips all the way to the base and grazing my harness. She holds it way far back in her mouth again and I am tempted to grab hold of her by the hair, start shoving in and out of her at my own pace. She wouldn’t mind. She would like it. I grip her hair but don’t pressure her head down, just remind her of my arm strength and presence and control.

She takes it as long as she can, then pulls back again, gasping a litlte, wipes the spit from her chin. Her lipstick is gone, smeared all over my cock.

“Kiss me,” I say, and sit up, pulling her toward me.

She rises to her knees to kiss me, her mouth sweet and swollen. I kiss her hard and long, wanting, eager, remembering the feel of being thick insider her and still feeling my dick swell.

I pull back. “Oh thank you, baby,” I say between kisses on her cheek and jaw and neck, “you do that so well, god, I love how you suck it.”

She smiles, hums a little in satisfaction, a little sheepish, cute, sweet. “You like that? Do I make you feel good?”

“Yes, yes baby, so much.”

“I like to do it.”

“Mmm, my sweet girl. Take your shirt off, let me up.” I lean back a little, shift my weight, and stand next to the bed as she slides her tee shirt and thin bra over her head. She still has pants on, too, comfortable black ones she wore to yoga earlier. She looks at me expectantly. “On your stomach,” I say, pushing her down and pulling her over toward me.

I want to fuck her mouth from the side of the bed.

I’m not actually sure that will work, but I want to try. It’s a very different angle than her being above me or on her knees in front of me. Luckily (and not by accident), my bed is on risers, raised just to my hip height. She stretches out sideways on the bed and I pull her forward, mouth to my cock, and keep my hand on her head to guide my cock in and out of it as she stretches her tongue forward and looks up at me. I shift my feet to get more power and thrust in again, hips bucking. I like this. Go figure. I like having control of the depth and speed. I like how she looks up at me with just a hint of discomfort in her eyes, a little bit nervous, not sure she wants me to keep going, but so turned on. Oh hell yeah I like this. I feel the tension building in my cunt and want to fuck her, want inside of her; I keep thrusting for a moment but want us to be more connected, want to suck at her lips and pinch her nipples and hold her down while pounding into her. I hold her head a little harder, cock against the back of her mouth, and pull out swiftly: “Take your pants off.”

She breaths heavy, gasping for the air filling her lungs, and lies back on the bed, slipping her pants down her legs. I strip off my harness and pull out my other cock, my favorite cock, the one I love to fuck with, that is a little thicker and longer than the one I’ve been using for her mouth. (Plus, I bet it’s not great to get lipstick in her.)

She watches me, and her hand hovers a little between her legs. She looks from my cock to my face, one of her hands up on her chest, arm brushing her nipples absently, now totally unclothed and a little chilly in my drafty bedroom. “Can I …?” She starts.

I’m still buckling, adjusting. She wants to touch her clit. “Sure,” I answer, watching her as she does.

When I finish strapping on, smooth some lube over my cock, and lie over her on the bed, she’s breathing heavy and arching her lower back, still touching her clit, watching me. I grip her inner thigh with one hand and guide my cock with the other, touching her lips and skin softly, feeling how wet she is. She’s murmuring “yes, yes, please, ohhh … ” and I’m trying to draw it out, to wait, looking up at her and smiling at her gasping, that arc in her body straining for me, for that moment of contact, of friction between us.

When I slide in, it is slow and fully, all the way, and I lie my weight down on her simultaneously, pushing my forearm down into her chest and shoulders. She closes her eyes, opens her mouth in a silent tense moan. She comes so easily, gets there so fast, I don’t want it to be over yet, not that I can’t keep going but I just want to drag it out a little longer, she hasn’t come yet and she doesn’t usually go this long without doing so. I slow down, deliberate and hard, but she just tightens and tenses until her pussy pushes my cock out of her completely.

“Oh, you done with that?” I tease her, kissing her pretty mouth, hand in her hair while I hold my cock with the other, touching it lightly to her slick lips and hole. “You got enough, you don’t want any more?”

“No no no,” she starts, small and steady, “I want it, I want it, give it to me … ”

“Please?”

Please, please, give it to me, put it back in my pussy, please fuck me with it, please … ”

I do, of course I do, slide it back inside, she lifts her knees high and rocks back her pelvis so I can get deeper, shoving inside as she throws her hands up and back to grasp at the blankets, the edge of the mattress, the headboard, as she pushes against me harder.

Minutes pass, I don’t know how long, I can lose myself in this part, the soft melding of our curves together and the rhythms we create while we circle in and out of each other, cycle through pressure and pain and pleasure, the kisses, the grasping at each other. She sometimes comes like this, I sometimes come like this, but neither of us do so after a few minutes (or ten or forty) I shift to my knees and pull her hips up higher, my hands grabbing hold of her inner thighs to pull her to and from me, pulse my cock in and out of her, slapping her thigh for surprise and that shocking spasm of sting before moving my fingers to her clit, flicking it gently, and she starts to shudder, mouth agape, shoulders and arms and wrists held tense and flailing as she clenches everything tight, tight, tighter, pushing my cock out again … until she releases, groans in a long moan, relaxes back, breathes hard, and reaches for me, eyes still closed, to come closer to her.

I wrap my arms around her, lay my body out over hers, and kiss her, both of us catching our breath, vibrating in the aftermath, until we’re ready to go at it again.

Year One With Kristen (Happy Anniversary)

Today, December 13th, marks the anniversary of my first date with Kristen. I didn’t actually tell the story of how we met, so here’s a short version:

I was invited by a friend of mine, Mr. M, to speaking on a panel at the university where he went to school, in Connecticut, in November last year. It was one of the first big speaking gigs I’ve done, actually. Kristen also went to school there, and they knew each other. Mr. M introduced Kristen and I at the panel before it was starting, we said polite hellos. I remember her smile, remember thinking she was cute and femme. As it got a bit busier, and Mr. M and I got comfortable at the front of the room, Kristen approached us again and stood in front of us.

“My ex just walked in,” she said.

“Want me to beat him up?” I looked up at her, presuming her ex was a trans guy.

“She’s a she,” she said, “and no.” She thought I didn’t know she was queer. Oh, I knew.

“Well then,” I shifted, “want to make out with me?” To make her ex jealous, of course.

She blushed a little, looked down, giggled, “Um … nooo.”

Oh yeah she did. Interesting.

I think we said some other things about exes and shared space and events, but she took her seat shortly after and the panel began. I was listed on this panel under my other name, so I introduced myself, saying, “I’m also known as Sinclair Sexsmith, and I run the online writing project Sugarbutch Chronicles.”

There were a couple of gasps. One girl dug her nails into the arm of the girl next to her and widened her eyes. Kristen, meanwhile, had this little knowing smirky smile on her face (a smile I would later get to know quite well).

Later, she tagged along with the panel as we all went out to dinner after, and I knew there was chemistry. I’m not sure how it happened exactly, but eventually I took the empty seat next to her, and everyone else was at the opposite end of the long table.

“I have a confession to make,” she said.

I raised my eyebrows. Oh? Already?

“I read your blog.”

“Ah.”

“I have so much to talk to you about!” And so we did. I remember specifically a big conversation about books, and how much she loves reading fiction; I recommended The Book of Salt as something queer that my bookgroup had just read. She mentioned that she was planning to move back to New York City and that she came and visited Mr. M very frequently, nearly every weekend. She lived in Connecticut, but I gave her my email address, and we got in touch and made a date for the next time she was in New York. And, well, you already know all about that first date.

That she was familiar with my work online wasn’t a problem. That I wanted to write about her and the sex we were having wasn’t a problem, either – she has often said she likes to be written about, a lot. I have written less about her and the details of our relationship here than I have about other girls, mostly because I am busy telling her about my interpretations of our relationship, instead of everybody except her. I don’t want to write myself into a relationship I’m not having. Sometimes, I want to keep the things between us just between us.

Also, some of the sex and power dynamics we’ve been exploring are hard to write about. The Daddy/girl roles, the d/s that we’ve taken outside of the bedroom are hard to explain and articulate – but I would like to try, and I do hope to keep challenging myself to articulate the things that we play with.

I am so, so lucky to have found someone to explore these things with, someone I trust deeply, someone who I know will tell me if things don’t feel right, someone who will push back on me and stand up for the things she thinks are important, someone who is not afraid to be honest. It’s hard to find someone to go this deep into sex play with, it’s hard to find someone stable, who knows themselves, who is strong and capable. I’m so, so lucky.

I’m actually writing this (and setting it to publish in the future) two days ago, because this weekend, right now in fact, Kristen and I rented a cabin out in the woods with a big fireplace and a well-stocked kitchen outside of cell phone range. I packed two of my For Your Nymphomation cases (the Flogger case and the XL Adult Toybox) with toys and ropes and cocks and restraints and the spreader bar and the throe and a particular special piece of jewelry I expect her to wear for part of the weekend. She’s packing some very nice things, the liberator lingerie, her red apron, and lots of food. She’s in charge of cooking this weekend, and she has an extensive, romantic menu planned, including fondue, peanut butter cookies, stir-fried vegetables, her famous buttermilk biscuits, bloody marys, brownies – all my favorites. She will also be providing me with wine and whiskey, as needed, on demand.

What a year it’s been.

I’ve never known myself as well as I do now, and I’ve never felt so good about a relationship. One year into my relationship with The Ex (who maybe needs a name at this point) we were already falling apart, already not having enough sex, already fallen into lesbian bed death patterns, already not talking to each other, already not being honest. None of my relationship/flings since have reached a year, none of them have lasted longer than six months, and most of them were much shorter. Not to compare her to others – really she is incomparable. The places we have reached are so far beyond what any of my past relationships have been able to get to. And things are just consistently good, consistently building – even when we have disagreements, or when we don’t understand each other, we are so good at talking through it, we are so good at being honest and kind to each other in ways that have been so important and impressive to me.

There are a lot more places I want to go, and she and I always have a list of things we want to do more of (rope and other restraints, anal, daddy/girl scenes instead of just talk), and this relationship just feels so full of potential, so full of promise, so full of love.

The Dirtiest Kristen Stories

Today is my one year anniversary of dating Kristen. There’s another post coming shortly about our year together, but while that’s coming, here are some of my favorite stories of her from this past year. Many of the most viewed posts on Sugarbutch are stories about Kristen, though to be honest we have had sex probably hundreds of times more than are written about on this site. Sometimes I feel guilty for not keeping you updated about all of the awesome fun we have in bed, but hey, I bet you would rather I was having this awesome fun than interrupting it in order to write about it, right?

Here are some of my – and your – favorites:

My Slutty Little Girl, April 2, 2009:

I pushed her back on the bed easily. Kneed her legs apart and pressed my cock up against her, bare, through my slacks. Kissed her, hard, felt her body under me.

I pulled back after a minute and lifted myself up. “Take my dick out,” I ordered softly.

She did. Unbuckled, unzipped, palmed it in her hand, let out a low satisfied hum of pleasure when she touched it. I tightened my harness, lowered myself back on top of her, kissed her neck. “I want to fuck your mouth.”

She arched in response, but whispered, “But I want you to fuck me.”

I almost laughed. Her desire handed to me on a silver platter, I took it gratefully. “No.”

“Please, baby, I need it, I want you to fuck my pussy.”

I do like the way she begs. I nearly acquiesced, but said “no” again, pulled back to shift to my knees on the bed. Took her hair in my fist as she bent in front of me. “Do it real pretty, and I’ll fuck you.”

(Read the entire story)

Wait For Me On Your Knees, January 29, 2009:

t the dining room table in her living room. She sits on my lap, kisses me. I pull her hair and move my mouth to her neck.

“Ohh yes, yes,” she breathes.

“Mmm, I like it when you say that. Say yes again,” I demand softly, next to her ear. She hears me, and says nothing. She bites her lip and looks right at me, which tells me she’s refusing to say it. Am I pushing her too far? Does she know – she must know – that saying yes is playing with consent, that I am warming her up for saying no. Does she feel pressed? Pressured? I study her face, wait for her to say it for what seems like minutes. “Say it,” I say again, low, with a grip on her hair, desire and dominance building in me. I pull back a little to get enough distance between us so I can hit her. I wonder how fast I’ll have to do it for her to not see it coming. I want her to be surprised.

Underneath her resistance, she’s got that tiny self-satisfied smirk on her face.

She is surprised. A quick, hard smack against her cheek. Then five, six, softer, in rapid succession, warming her up. And another, stronger. Another. Her whole head turns on impact. I don’t stop. Harder. I vary the rhythm and let her have a breath, a quiet moment in between, when she straightens her body and feels the sting.

This is the hardest I’ve slapped her, but I can feel the way she can take it, now, differently. She’s not scared or wincing but open and accepting, drinking in the sensation.

I stop. Pull back a little and watch her recover.

When she can, she whispers, “yes,” hand to her stinging cheek, eyes dark and smoky and submissive, that look, that look, that strong and active giving over that makes my knees weak (and oh I’m glad I’m sitting down).

I kiss her. Smooth her cheek with my fingertips, feel the warmth with my lips. “Good,” I say between kisses. “Good girl.”

(Read the entire thing)

“I’m Kind of … Insatiable.” (aka, our first date), December 15, 2008:

We lay together and I catch my breath, flex and stretch my fingers. I run my palm along her hips, the sides of her body, and she is all nerve endings and sensitive skin, writhing under my touch, rubbing her feet against the blanket on the bed. I could take her again. Could roll her into her back and listen to her breathe and moan.

I like the way her moaning becomes practically laughter as she gets closer. How she turns her head to the side and strains with every muscle like she’s trying to press all the edges of her, like she’s going to tear her way out of herself, la petite mort indeed.

She shifts next to me, I balance on my elbows on top of her again. I still have my tee shirt, my slacks, on. She’s stripped bare.

“Did I mention I’m kind of … insatiable?” she asks, a little embarrassed, a little shy, a little excited.

I grin. So am I.

My hand between her legs again, my mouth at her neck. “You’re wet.”

“Yes,” she breathes in my ear.

(Read the entire thing.)

Her Dirty Talk Got Me Off. Twice. March 31, 2009:

“Fuck my hole,” she whispered, “take me, fuck me hard, pound your big cock in me deep. I’m your slutty little girl.”

(Read the entire thing.)

Rocking Chair Blow Job, January 12, 2009:

“That’s right baby, suck it.”

I lean back again and my dick swells, puckers when she sucks hard and fast. She keeps it deep in her mouth and pulses and I cry out. Fuck.

I pull her up again and lean forward to kiss her, mouth swollen and red, opening for me as I keep my hand on the back of her head, on her cheek, on her jaw, holding her just where I want her, tongue in her mouth and she sucks that too. I reach my other hand down between her legs and push the thin fabric of her panties aside, enter her easily with two fingers and swirl them over her clit. She gasps.

“I like the way you suck me off,” I say, low, into her ear. “Your mouth feels so good. Oh god you’re so wet,” I trace my fingers along her lips and flick her clit, swollen, thick and sensitive. She moans.

“I want you to stand up, bend over, pull off your panties and hand them to me. Understand?” I pull back and remove my hand and she nods. “Do it then.”

She does.

(Read the entire thing.)

Hogtied, May 28, 2009:

After a minute I catch her by the hair. “You’re starting to squirm.” I say, low in her ear.

She breathes out, a tiny voice. “Uh huh.”

I’m still mostly clothed, but my cock is out, hard, stiff from my fly. I kneel behind her, push on her shoulderblades so she’s facedown on the bed again, and tease her pussy with the head of it. “Waiting to get fucked?”

“Yes,” she says in a small voice.

“What?”

“Yes.” Louder.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I’m waiting to get fucked. Fuck me, please, please, put your cock in me, baby, ohhh … ” and I do, of course I do, when she asks so pretty like that.

(Read the entire thing.)

Am I forgetting your favorite Kristen story?

Fucking & Making Love

She looked so damn hot yesterday.

I don’t know what it was exactly. She was in an outfit I’ve seen, tight slim jeans, her girly black tank top with the silver star pattern, little yellow sweater with the clear buttons. Maybe it was her hair, she’s been letting it grow and it’s getting longer, almost to her chin, it’s thin so it’s starting to flip up at the ends. So. Fucking. Cute. Maybe it was the earrings, simple large silver hoops, the ones she’s worried are a cliche but I keep trying to assure her they’re classic, sexy.

Off hand, she said yesterday that I am obsessed with my hair. I said ‘obsessed’ was a bit strong, but I see her point. Maybe it’s not just my hair, either, but hair in general. Still, I don’t want to pressure her into doing things like growing her hair long because that’s what I like – I hope it’s okay for me to state my personal preference while at the same time accepting however she prefers to present. Because while it’s true, I do prefer long hair, even more than that I prefer her to make decisions based on her own wants and needs and personal expression, not on what I desire.

Still. Her hair was so much shorter when we met, nearly as short as mine is now; I’ve been growing mine too, going for that early Elvis look. I’d dye it blue-black like his but I really like the few strands of gray that are coming in at my temples.

I guess I really am obsessed with hair.

Point is: she looked so, so good. Fun, flirty. Femme.

We chatted on the couch after I got to her house. How are you, how’s your day, how’s your sister. Maybe it was that I hadn’t seen her in more than a day after spending many days in a row with her. I felt my appetite for her growing, bubbling up. At one point she tipped her head just slightly sideways, her hair doing this little flip on both sides, the lines of her silhouette so perfect, those big hoop earrings brushing her neck, and she gave me a little smile, eyes twinkling. If I’d been on a TV show, it would’ve cut to a shot of me, my spine becoming jelly, my hands to my face, crying OH GOD as I slide off the couch before springing up and throwing myself on her, wrapping around her and kissing her hard, my mouth wherever she’d let me put it, then the camera would snap back to the shot of us on the couch as we were before and nothing would’ve actually happened, just me, sitting there blinking, in awe, probably totally transparent and readable and ooey gooey in love. Am I so obvious? Moments like that I feel oafish, bull in a china shop, too big and awkward next to such grace and elegance, like I am certain how much she knows she’s got me wrapped around her little finger.

Oh and here I am being all dramatic and admirational again. Are you bored of this femme-worship yet? Three and a half years of Sugarbutch and I only love femmes more, I am only more certain of my orientation to them in such a specific way. Only three and a half years of Sugarbutch, but I met my first femme nine years ago, and I knew then … what? Something. The way she shocked me to life, lit up the night like a shower of sparks from fireworks.

And I’ve never had it this good. I tell myself that every day: every day of this relationship I am grateful, so appreciative of every minute we have together. I’ve not known a bliss like this and I’ve never known it to last this long.

When Jesse was here, she had a brief little snag with Violet, some conversation where it wasn’t quite perfect, but she didn’t let it phase her or lose her unwavering faith in their relationship. “We’ve always been able to talk it through, whatever it is,” she said. And so far, Kristen and I have that too – not big explosive fights and feelings getting deeply hurt, but conversations of honesty and self-awareness and accountability and care. There are some things looming, a little, I’ve felt their weight lately, our differences and complications and inadequacies and places where we need more support, but we have always been able to talk things through, even if the journey is more illuminating than the destination, even if the only conclusion is, “well, now we know, that’s how we work, that’s my particular quirks and assumptions coming up against yours in our unique relationship way. We’ll just have to watch how this plays out.” We still come back together, appreciate each other, speak the deep truths. I feel like I am heard, always. And oh how important that is, what a relief to have it in my relationship, with her.

Dacia has a piece she’s read in public a few times lately which has the lines, “I write about the relationship I wish I was having,” and “I buy my own bullshit.” I’ve done that, here, in the past. I’ve written myself into love, used this site to woo and court. I haven’t wanted to do that with Kristen. It’s too precious, too real; I’ve learned from my mistakes, or rather, I am learning, I am trying to learn. That is a major reason why I haven’t written about her like I have others.

Plus, I’m all the more protective of my heart these days. How many heartbreaks is one heart made to withstand, anyway? I love writing about my relationships, but it can also be a crutch – I become obsessed with micro-articulating my feelings and emotional landscapes in writing, sometimes to my own detriment, overdramatizing and letting the articulation of the emotion be more important than the experience, the story, the audience, the effects.

I don’t want to do that anymore.

So I am protective of this relationship, as it has swelled and sometimes burst, its ups and downs. I haven’t chronicled it all here, preferring instead to articulate it to her as best I can. And there are things, snags, places between us which are murky and lurking a little for me right now, things that have come up and we’ve said “we should talk about that more later,” but now it’s later and I don’t even remember what they were, so that makes me all the more nervous. The unknown rather than the known. I should’ve kept a list, I keep thinking. But I’ve got to calm my nerves about this, not let it affect the really good highs inside of which we still so easily slip. So far, we’ve been able to talk through everything, and for now I’ll rest comfortable on presuming we’ll be able to do that in the future, too.

Yes, I was high when I reached out for her upper arm and pulled her onto my lap, and she’d just told me about how she’d done her homework this morning by playing with her ass while getting off, but that doesn’t mean that I wasn’t also in love, wanting to make love, wanting to be inside of her, drinking her in as I sucked her nipples into my mouth and left bite marks on her neck and shoulders. She cried out and I thought, someone should be videotaping this she is so goddamn hot.

In the bedroom we slipped off her clothes. “Take off your shirt.” I slid her tight jeans down her legs. She was in this matching bra and panties I hadn’t seen her wear before – she does wear the bra, a little white one with pink polka dots and pink satin bows, very femme, but the matching panties have layers of ruffles. I’ve never seen her in them.

I didn’t take them off.

“I want to see your ass. Turn over.” She does, gets on all fours. “Show it to me. Get down on your elbows.” She parts her knees a little and arches her back, I run my hand over her curves and feel the outline of her cunt and ass under the thin fabric. I let my fingers trail over her softly, slowly. My mind raced. There’s so much I wanted to do to her, with her. All that ass talk earlier made me want my fingers in her there, to get out the little plug I’d brought to leave at her place (her further homework), wanted to plow her ass hard and make her scream. I won’t do that, yet, of course, it’ll take some time to work up to it. I wanted her to stay on her knees, ass in the air, while I gripped her hips and fucked her slow and hard. I wanted her on her knees, mouth full of spit eyes looking up at me as she sucked me down.

But most of all I wanted to be close, pressed against her, kissing her, wrapped around each other. So I strapped on, peeled off her pretty bra and panties, told her to turn over, slid inside, and got lost in her, got lost in the way we wind around and hold each other. We barely spoke, just felt each other, just took it all in with our bodies.

There were a few times I slowed down, savored her, looked at her, but the vibration was so strong between us, I couldn’t didn’t want to stop. Sometimes I wondered if I should, if her hips were okay, if she needed more of a break, but I kept getting so close and ultimately was able to come inside of her for the first time in a long time, I was glad I didn’t stop. (I don’t know why I haven’t been coming lately. I broke out the Spartacus harness I’d retired hoping that would help. It did, apparently.)

Later, she said, “I thought you were going to stop … but you didn’t. That was good.”

Yeah, that was good. And I’m glad she said that. Always affirming to know I wasn’t pushing her. I want to push her, I want to have that kind of power and trust and knowledge and skill, but that has to be earned, that has to be worthy. I want to do so much more with her, to her, want to take her to all sorts of dirty places and cradle her and worship her and honor her and fuck her and smack her around and force her and hold her and let go with her and trust her.

There’s time. It’s been almost a year, but I know enough to know that we’re in this. And that we’ll keep building, and exploring, as this keeps getting deeper and stronger.