Posts Tagged ‘my boy rife’

Treehouse Poem

Treehouse Poem

April 21, 2014  |  poetry  |  3 Comments

soundtrack for this poem

Once upon a time there was a boy who lived in sunny states like California and Texas and his beating heart of leather and gold, so big he had to be a lover with dimples and a dog. He liked berries heavy and ripe on the vine in the spring, bursting juice in his mouth. He liked to remember the shape of faces, hands, with his pen. He liked to feel the edges of his body thrown up against something solid.

Meanwhile, there was a poet who lived in northern states of Alaska and New York and their pine treehouse of aching fists. They were bursting open with gift and overspilling with a fountain of voice. They liked bergamot and the boy’s skin and tall mountains and sandwiches and smooth flat beach stones and getting fucked by the planet.

Their gravity together is undeniable. They make fingerpaintings of their inner visions on each other’s insoles, on each other’s tongues. They try on their places, their callings, in the haven of hotel room walls. Their pulses become synched.

On days in the north like this where the birds are flocking and the sky is clear, on days where the boy’s car is clean and ready for the yellow dotted line and return, there is little more than a single pane of glass between them. An arbitrary distance of separation, because the moonbeam pulled like taffy stretched between their chests keeps them imperceptibly drawn to the other’s orbital motion. The string between them keeps them ready to snap like rubber bands, ready to pounce like predators, ready to take their leather and gold hearts and suspend them on a chain to hang from the ceiling of their treehouse. They pull the ladder up and take it apart to use the rope, but put it back together anytime they needed kale or whiskey or tacos. Their bed is scraps of paper and scattered recordings of bliss and scars.

Happily ever after is many, many moments, strung together in lines of text and pressed leaves and sketches, and worn like a crown.

Vulnerability is a challenge

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April 15, 2014  |  journal entries  |  Enter your password to view comments.

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You’re Fucking Mine: from the unpublished dirty faggot archives

April 4, 2014  |  dirty stories  |  5 Comments

From one of the early dates with the boy. The story contains some sensual knife play.

This is how it began.

Two hotel rooms, one park, one bookstore, two restaurants, two—no, three—cocks, eight gloves, who knows how many condoms, who knows how many orgasms, dozens for you, one for me plus dozens of moments of shuddering energetic overwhelm, twice we were barged in on, three dams, one blade you put in my hand, three times you got your waterproof blanket out, at least two pairs of my briefs you soaked through, one tight little fist, four sets of three minutes, hundreds of kisses.

I took myself to the airport moments after gathering you in my arms, our hearts lined up, pounding. Waiting for my flight, I sat still, closed my eyes, to harvest the myriad sensations running through my body, to sink down into it, to catch my breath after running for an airport shuttle, after gender panic through security, after rushing to my gate.

I could feel my blood pressure like waves through my veins, rising and swelling, back and forth in an internal rocking. Connected to my heartbeat, no doubt, which, I’ve read, syncs up after hours of sex. That thrum through my veins was the same one that thrummed through yours, or had been, half an hour ago. What was your heart doing as you drove that twenty minutes north, as you returned to your little city on the Bay, as you went back to your partner with my marks covering your chest and thighs? Mine felt heavy, sore, thick and red, pulsing, alive. My whole body feels alive, each nerve ending aflame and perked, awake and eager for the feel of our skins, slick, against each other.

Maybe this even more than any particular action is what I remember: the aliveness. The awareness of my body, of all my edges, of all my pieces, weaving together.

And I remember your eyes. How shy you were to look at me, even after I asked you for eye contact while you sucked my fingers down, how rare it was to hold your gaze. I remember how little you said, patient, knowing how interesting your thoughts are when you do share them. I remember waiting for you to calm and soften, wanting that before moving in to take, play, shove, hurt.

The three afternoons come back to me in snippets, treasures, a rock in my pocket I’d forgotten I put there, a poem in my notebook I forgot I wrote, tucked away in my memories and then surprising when it emerges—was that real? Was I really there? Did I really leave? Why am I not there right now?

I pulled you to me at every possible red light while you drove. Teasing you on my one-way trip to the last hotel, on the freeway, first your knuckles against my lips, then sliding one of your small fingers into my mouth to hear you gasp and shudder. My fingers on your tongue, my hand at your throat, just for a minute. Your heat. The way you squirm.

Eager and impatient within hours of arriving, making out in the sunshine and already drunk on your smell, your everything, I couldn’t help myself and had two fingers in you until you said gloves please and I had to unzip my suitcase, dig into my toy bag. It is different to keep my hand gloved, but I can still feel so much: how you liked it deep, that spot by your cervix I reached twice when I got deep enough and both times you said ohh right there.

That moment of sliding my cock inside you. Every time. The first day I thought I’d shoot and lose it the moment the tip of me touched your hole and I felt you give way, hips upturned, and a firework exploded up my spine. I thought I’m going to collapse right here and that will be that. Done. But that was when you opened your eyes, brought your arms around my shoulders, and I was so bolstered, held up, supported, that I could fuck for hours. And we did.

Look at me while you’re sucking my dick, boy; where are your manners. You can do it, just a little more. That’s it. Mm, nice. I like that. That’s what I wanted. That’s exactly what I wanted.

You kept shying away from me. Squirming, hiding, closing your eyes. I can tell you like to drink in the sensations, but I want that exposure that comes from your eyes open. From seeing. From knowing what your eyes are tracking and watching your responses. So I started calling you on it. Teasing. Pushing. Where do you think you’re going? Do you think your hand over your face really hides you from me? You like it. Tell me you like it. It doesn’t matter; I’m going to take from you whether you like it or not.

Thank you sir.

Good boy. You said I could. You said I could have you. You said you’re mine. Can you take it? I think you can. You keep squirming; lie fucking still. Trying to get away from me? Do you think you can? Go ahead, try. Let’s see what you’ve got. Go ahead and twist, try to get away from my punches, I can hit you other places, too.

I’m fucking yours.

Look at me while you’re sucking my dick, boy; where are your manners. You can do it, just a little more. That’s it. Mm, nice. I like that. That’s what I wanted. That’s exactly what I wanted.

I’m not shy about taking what I want, but you are. How many minutes did it take for you to sit back and pull that knife from your pocket? When I opened up my palm between us and the weight of it dropped, something clicked. Something clicked and I wanted to open you up, do some damage, mark you. Instinctively I could see the scar I wanted to leave, but knew better than to follow that. That didn’t mean I was going to hold back: I let it pour out of me, almost as good as the thing itself, watching that flash of fear come up through you: would I do it? Mark you, take you, own you like that? Not this time. Not yet. There’s more, so much more, to come.

Your hand in mine while I held you down and spread open your chest, blade to skin, I remember it was the fourth slice that brought the first beads of blood, your mouth open and swollen under mine, ankle turned around mine, entwined as we opened together.

Could you feel how I split open with your tongue on the pulse of me? Could you feel my heart in your palm when you curled inside me? (Go get a glove. A small one, for you.) Messy, red, bleeding out, nonetheless translucent and whole, and tastes like sugar when it touches your mouth.

When you touch my mouth you taste like fall. Like falling. Like I’ve fallen from whatever I thought I was reaching for and find myself at the mercy of gravity. I couldn’t keep my mouth off of you. I didn’t have to. Most of the bruises happened the last day, though there were a few in the afternoons before. But these, I didn’t hold myself back for, even though you squirmed and hissed through your teeth and gasped and cried out. I loved watching them bloom on your skin, marks so deep you could see the impressions of my crooked teeth.

I wanted to hurt you, and I did. My fists contract around you, hips shift and switch and I want to throw you up against walls, push you down to the floor, drag you by your hair. (Not enough of that yet. Just wait. I want to scare you.) Punch you. Use my knuckles. Leave bruises. I pulled your belt out from your jeans and the leather in my hands made my shoulders and cock ache. What are you going to do with that belt, you whispered. So eager, aren’t you. I hadn’t decided yet. Curl it around your wrists, around your throat. Snap it at your skin. Which is what I did, eventually, rolling the buckle and letting it fall from my hands onto your body. Oh the growl that comes up from somewhere low and dark in me. Then there were the boxing wraps, something to protect me as I threw. You took it so well, so nice and good. Every time I got heavy you tensed, shouted into the hotel sheets, braced yourself against the bed. Relax, I kept telling you. I’m going to keep hitting you one way or the other, you may as well relax. I can tell you want it. I can feel how wet you are on my thigh.

Another time I pulled out a glove and fucked you, watched you come, held you down, got you off five, ten, a dozen times, before I started really hurting you. Pain is easier to take when the pleasure comes first, and I’d learned from the first day that you get worked up and need release. Such whimpering, such desperation, I couldn’t tell if I should back off or go harder, but now I know: harder. More. You can take so much. After your eyes got starry and your smile got lopsided, I started in on the punching, the biting, the slapping. (It stings, you said. Take it, I said. You like it. And you whispered back, I do like it sir. I know you do.) Shoving your face with my open palm. Knuckles against your jaw bone.

Spitting onto my fingers and between your legs as I steadied myself to slide inside.

It was when I said my sweet boy and you said thank you … thank you … thank you (breathing out that missing word with your mouth shaped around it) that something in my chest cracked open. I didn’t know I was looking for you, didn’t know I was missing you, but now you are here and I’m not sure how I could have not seen this you-shaped space in my life before. I want to throw open my arms and show you the full body embrace you are invited to come into.

Maybe you should tell me what your limits are, you said. I can’t imagine anything you would ask for that I would deny you, I said.

Later you said fuck me sir fuck me sir fuck me and I spread my forearm across your sternum and what else could I do but everything you wanted.

I’m yours.

And you’re fucking mine.

Featured image from Indie Porn Revolution.

The Beautiful Permission

The Beautiful Permission

March 25, 2014  |  poetry  |  3 Comments

The grass under our feet (as much as

your dimples) was responsible for offering

sacrifice, so we could slide smile, court

coy glances, and balance tenacity over



roots, rocks, sloping curves. We circled

each other, noticing, observing, that way

we do. Negotiation peeled off slowly

from my heartbeat heist as a ripe



cream moon cracked open dark. You

whispered, whimpered; my pen tore

through slick paper as soon as it could,

desperate for the inky release. How



could I know your upturned mouth

and skin would split open in me

such grace, such monstrous want,

such a taste for marrow? I keep



my own hungers in check, for fear

I will devour too much, open too wide

overstep, explode—myself or others.

What could happen, you asked. What



would you do? If only I had the beautiful

permission, perhaps I would find out.

Perhaps I will, when your heart is placed

under mine, under a bursting sky, again.

Counting Down

Counting Down

March 17, 2014  |  dirty stories  |  1 Comment

“Come, now. Do it for me.”

He quivers under me: hips splayed open, on his stomach, lower back curled so his ass is in the air. He has been waiting. He has been holding back.

“Now, faggot. This is your one chance.”

He comes easily, so of course it is something I like to control, withhold. Our sexual play isn’t about his pleasure.

“Five … four … three … ”

He bucks back into me, buried to the hilt in his ass. I can feel his other hole convulsing just from having my fingers on the outside. He starts shaking, his tight faggot hole slick from lube and my come already pushed deep inside him. I’m not moving. I’m just buried deep, holding him.

He comes. Bucking, clawing at the sheets.

“That’s it.” I relax. “That’s what I wanted.”

Featured photo courtesy of the Crash Pad Series episode 16, Syd & Dallas.

When I'm getting off

When I’m getting off

March 3, 2014  |  journal entries  |  2 Comments

Sometimes I just think of the simplest of things.

Your mouth. That look on your face, that look, when you’re giving over even more, just a little deeper, giving in to the sensation, giving in to wherever I’m moving your body, however I’m touching you. Your skin. The way your hands feel in mine. The way my fingers close around your wrist or throat or earlobe. The back of your head in my palm.

I think of these little flashes of your body, of us.

Other times, a more elaborate story.

What happens when I pick you up and drive you somewhere deserted and quiet, an empty kind of creepy parking lot where no one is around, no other cars, and lock the doors before I force your head into my lap. You struggle against me, but you know I will have my way, no matter what you do. You know it’s better to go easy, but not too easy, because then I’ll beat you for liking it.

I don’t really need an excuse to take you, or to hurt you, or to use you. It is so comforting, so deeply validating, to be able to have you in this way. To know that if you are in arm’s reach, I can use you for anything I may need, from fetching me a glass of water to your hands as an ashtray to your holes for my cock or fingers or tongue or whatever I might want to do with them.

Lately, I think a lot about rough sex. Pressure and strain and resistance and using my weight against gravity to hold you down. I think about going too far, pushing too hard, making you gag, spit, sputter, making you cry out and bleed, bruises under my fingers holding you so tight, making you beg and cry, making you take it anyway. There’s something about the release on that level that is different—deeper?—than most other releases for me … knowing I can just pour into someone else and they can hold it, they have to. I love how you do this for me.

You release me in so many other ways, too, though. Moments of energetic intensity come to mind, times we’ve been outside with your hand in me in some way, the earth underneath shooting up and connecting me with … everything. I miss being somewhere with grass, with places to fuck outside.

On the road again ... Portland + Princeton

On the road again … Portland + Princeton

February 4, 2014  |  miscellany  |  1 Comment

I’m dotting my i’s and crossing my t’s and fucking the boy one last time and packing a bag (as soon as I can find my suitcase? How did I misplace that?) and having a few meetings and setting up the last week of the Submissive Playground and fighting with the airlines about last minute tickets and getting ready to leave on a round-the-country adventure tomorrow!

FIRST: I will be in Portland at Lewis & Clark tomorrow night, doing my signature college class FUCKING WITH GENDER.

5pm, Gregg Pavilion, Wednesday 5 February

Let’s explore gender expression, identities, labels, transcending the mutually exclusive binaries, queer culture, and hot sweaty sex. Academics love deconstructing gender—and yet, we still have to navigate this gendered world. How do you build your gender intentionally? Are there ways gender can “hurt” less? And how do you develop your gender in ways that enhance and sustain a satisfying sex life?

THEN: I’ll be hopping a plane (hopefully after visiting Erika) and heading over to IvyQ, held this year at Princeton. Last year was a blast, and though we all got snowed in at Yale, I got to spend some lovely extra time with Mollena and Charlie Glickman and Erika Moen and it was fantastic.

So this time, I’m doing a new workshop that is based on my Advanced Cock Confidence and my Fucking with Gender classes, called FROM PRAXIS TO FETISH: ADVANCED GENDER FUCKERY

4pm, Friday February 7, Princeton campus.

Beyond the deconstructions of the gender binary, beyond radical gender performance, lies a cornucopia of genderfuckery: self-creation and unicorn pronouns, responsible masculinity and radical femininity, trans* riots and kinky unquiets. Join Sinclair Sexsmith to discuss gender, sex, and the intersectionalities of transgressing the norm, asking questions like: What is “advanced gender”? How do we move beyond deconstruction of gender into embodiment of our fluid and shimmering selves? Are we post-identity or post-post-identity? Is gender a language you speak fluently? How does it intersect with other anti-oppression politics? What happens when our politics don’t go along with the personal desires of our boners? When is sex a political act, and when is it dirty pleasure?

Keywords: gender, genderqueer, queer, intersectional, theory, praxis, sexuality, fetish, kink, participatory, Q&A, ask me anything, identity, labels. Trigger warnings: dirty words, frank talk about sex

I’m nervous AND thrillingly excited to be visiting IvyQ again—they haven’t even announced who else is doing workshops there this year, but I’m sure there will be awesome amazing folks and I’m looking forward to hanging out, meeting a bunch of students, and talking to them about what’s going on in the worlds of gender and queerness in colleges these days. I always learn so much when I get to actually hang out and talk to people!

Plus: I’m bringing these little brochures that rife made (he’s such an incredibly talented designer, I had no idea that having a designer as a service submissive would be so incredibly useful to my business, but hey, it really is)! They are super cute and kind of based on my “Unsolicited Advice to a New Butch” mini-book poems, but they have a bunch of quirky text and photos and information about my workshops and how to contact my booking agent, Ripley.

(Ripley decided to get his very own phone number and it’s (512) 93-SEXED, which I kind of think should be (512) 93-SEX-ED, but he likes that it says “sexed!” as in “I am so thoroughly sexed, baby.” These are the kinds of things we have meetings about.)

bringme

Aren’t they cute?

I’ll miss being at home in my little Oakland house where I’m trying to grow some things in our yard and have a routine and train for a 5K run (gulp) and write a bunch of things, but I also really love my job. I feel so lucky.

So hey, want to come out and chat with me? I’d love to meet you. See you in Portland, or at Princeton.

How I make my boy do the dishes

January 27, 2014  |  dirty stories  |  4 Comments

We’ve been working on discipline and service over in the Submissive Playground course, so I’ve been thinking a lot about both.

Earlier this week, rife didn’t want to do the dishes. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he was being “naughty” (though he did apologize for being so later). It was getting late, and I gave him a direct order—”Go do the dishes”—and instead of heading into the kitchen, he hopped onto my lap, kissing me, flirting.

“What if you can’t resist my boyish charms?” He giggled, and I laughed and kissed him back, and he gave me that dimpled smile that I can never resist. But … I’d been thinking about discipline. About order. And, about what it’s like to be a Daddy to someone who grows up, and what it’s like to be a Dominant who is firmly In Charge.

His task this week is to get off every day, and as such I lifted all orgasm restrictions that are usually in place: he can touch himself, he can use any toys he wants, he can come anytime I touch him—he doesn’t have to ask. I did leave one restriction in place, and that’s that he cannot use any toys in his ass without my permission, that hole being my domain exclusively for almost two years now. Having all this permission lifted seems to have made him a bit more bold this week, a bit more playful.

I like it.

(It has also helped that we both are finally, finally recovered from the Holiday flu, which lasted almost a month.)

He rocked his hips on my lap a little, and immediately I felt myself getting hard. He wanted to play. I wanted to play.

I caught his wrists with my hand and said, “I gave you a direct order: “Go do the dishes.” You think you get to just play whenever you want? You think you don’t have to do what I say?”

He backed off a little, sweet and shy, and started to defend himself with a comment, but I pulled his body up and started shoving him toward the bedroom, with a plan. He tried to dig his feet in to the floor and resist, but I slid him easily just by pushing. (Halfway through the kitchen, he mumbled, “Stupid socks!” and we both burst out laughing.)

I know from experience that he can take me. He was a wrestler, he plays rugby. I am a poet who likes to hike. He pinned me five times in a row when we wrestled on an LA beach. I’m bigger than him, so sometimes my size can pin him, but he’s fast and strong and knows the tricks. But that’s part of what makes it fun—I know, on some level, that he doesn’t want to win. That he resists because he likes me to push him.

When I shove him face-first onto the bed, I pull his pants down to his knees, his shirt over his head. We’re both laughing and breathing hard. I gather a few things from the shelves and use them, one by one. First the gag. Then the hanky tie around his wrists. Neither of us are laughing now. Then the little tube of lube to fill up his ass, followed by my fingers—”You may as well relax, boy, it’s going in one way or the other”—and finally, the thick butt plug.

I leave him there for a minute, pressing against him. I whisper some things in his ear … things like, you’re not actually in trouble. I like it when you flirt with me. But I like it when you do what I tell you to do even more. I love the way you make me want you, make me pull in the reigns. I love you. Good boy.

He softens and lets out a couple little moans. I feel our bodies line up, then pull his briefs back up and say, “Leave your jeans. And go. Do. The. Dishes.”

He lifts his head and there’s a pool of drool on the bedspread. He gets up, still with the gag and the wrist tie and the plug, goes to the kitchen; I heard the water start to run and the clink of dishes in the sink. I sit on the small couch in our bedroom and write, thinking about power, thinking about what I am going to do to him when he was done. After a page or so I hear some clattering in the kitchen, and it doesn’t stop, and I know the tie on his wrists are in the way of his task, so I go to remove it, playing with the plug in his ass as cost for this convenience. He bends over the sink to give me his ass, moaning and drooling around the gag. I leave him, briefs now wet, to finish the few things left and go back to writing a little longer.

When he comes into the bedroom, I barely look up. “Down,” I point next to me, our signal for kneeling, and he does, leaning his head on my thigh. I finish my thoughts in my notebook and stand up, strip my pajama pants and briefs, spread my legs around him and pull his head to my cunt.

“Ohh, you still have that gag, isn’t that unfortunate,” I tease. He moans, trying to rub against me, feeling that I’m already hard … and dripping. I let him struggle for a minute, but want his open mouth too much so I undo the gag and toss it aside.

“Thank you, Sir,” he says, and lowers his mouth to my dick, tongue cupping and sucking. In the right mood, I can let him do this for a long time, but I’m a little too eager to relax tonight. I want his fist, I want a thrashing come, I want to shove in, I want to be shaken at my core.

I start working his head on my dick, then holding him steady while I move my hips so I thrust into his mouth. “It’s been a while since you came with my dick in your mouth,” I lean down so my mouth is close to his ear. “Do it for me.” I pull his head away and hold him by his collar, bring my hand down to jerk myself off. “Can you do it if I come all over your face and I make you watch?” He strains at his collar, stretches his tongue to lick me. I can feel his body taut and getting close. He’s straddling my leg and I can feel him rock the butt plug against me. The denial will tip him over the edge. Maybe I’ll just shoot down his open mouth, maybe I’ll not let him touch me. I feel … something … building in me and I want to use him to get myself there, to work it out of me. I jerk it and he gasps, shakes, thrusts forward. I feel his body tighten, and open, then relax, and he collapses against me.

I say some little reassurance things, telling him he’s a good boy and I like using him, and we sit for a minute, touching softly, that sweet pillow talk kind of mood, until I stand up. “Come on,” I say, lying on the bed; he follows me, and I shove him where I want him. “Inside.” I say. “Your fingers. Now.” He works in one, then two; I hand him the bottle of lube and he works in more. I float, working myself up, sliding my fingers around my clit and feeling my tissues swollen and hard, needing, eager. Sometimes it is hard for me to come, but I am determined to tonight. I barely notice when he slides his fist all the way in, just feel that full pressure of being stretched inside.

It is hard to describe my own orgasms. Maybe they have become increasingly internal and complex over the years I’ve done more bodywork, maybe because I’m shy. Sometimes I see kaleidoscope colored patterns, or have visions. Sometimes I feel like I’m scrunching up my face and trying so hard, never quite sure if I’m actually going to reach the kind of release my body is craving.

But sometimes, like last night, it all just comes together, and I have someone so perfectly willing to do precisely what I need, that I can have transcendent experiences in my own bed, with my boy, with just our bodies and our love and our power.

He pulled his fist out when it was too much, and teased just the right spot with his fingertips while I jerked my small dick. Every part of me tensed and gathered. The climax was a relief, a release I can never quite control, where I yell hard, my throat chafed and voice horse afterward, and I groan, and I squeeze out everything I can, until it’s just all flowing so smoothly that I burst open, and the yells turn into sobs, those full-body, chest heaving, I’m-not-sure-I’m-going-to-stop-crying kind of sobs. I breathe. I cry. I trust the sweet feeling of my boy’s body, resting gently on mine, know that he’s there if I need anything. Grateful that he’s there. Grateful that he can hold me the way he does, that he can serve me, that he can take my need for controlled behavior and instructions and tasks and turn it into a way to make us closer together. Lucky to have found him. Lucky that he chose me.

I pull him up to me and wipe my face, catch my breath, as my crying stops. We hold each other in the quiet for a little while. “Thank you for doing the dishes,” I say.

“Thank you for motivating me,” he says.

I fell asleep thinking, That, right there, is the kind of discipline and service that I like.

Featured image borrowed from The Crash Pad Series. More about the featured images is coming soon!

Protected: The Threat of Folding In

January 22, 2014  |  journal entries  |  Enter your password to view comments.

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So what ARE the different kinds of s-types? And more about the s-type quiz

So what ARE the different kinds of s-types? And more about the s-type quiz

December 11, 2013  |  essays  |  5 Comments

So, the quiz! “What kind of s-type are you?” quiz, that rife + I co-created, was launched November 30th as a fun game, and an interesting tool, and the beginnings of a conversation about how many different ways that submissive folks explore their own submission.

And what the heck do we mean by “submission,” anyway? Do I mean “the person receiving the sensation or sexual touch in a BDSM scene”? Or do I mean “the person who takes the orders in a relationship”? Well … both, or either. And that is precisely the point: To begin asking what it is we mean when we say these things, to think deeper about them, and, ultimately, to make better informed choices about the parts in these power games that we want to play.

Here’s the quiz, in case you missed it:

THANK YOU for all of your thoughts and feedback. It’s been so fun to read and engage with you about this. There are more than 50 comments on the thread where I posted the quiz the first time, and each one I read and thought about … I replied to some, but I get overwhelmed by that level of correspondence sometimes, so I didn’t reply to everyone. I did have quite a few people who identified as kitties or puppies tell me that they weren’t represented, and it’s true that I didn’t include very many “vanilla” or non-s-type options. There was a bit of an agenda with the quiz, which was to determine which of the six s-types we separated out best matched the answers you’d give when you took the quiz. We added the “Not an s-type” option, just to make it a bit more inclusive.

And of course, it’s impossible to actually determine how it is that YOU identify just based on ten questions with seven options each! There is much more nuance to each person than that.

But, overwhelmingly, the response has been that the quiz is fairly accurate! And I love that! I hope it begins some conversations about what the different types of s-types are, and where you fit and what that means to you.

If I did a quiz again, I’d look for a different quiz host that gave the answers in percents, rather than just showed you ONE answer. (70% submissive, 30% servicey, for example.) But for this time, we didn’t do that.

The quiz has been taken more than 2,000 times (wow!). Here’s the statistics about what results were given:

Screen Shot 2013-12-11 at 1.59.28 PM

I find it pretty fascinating. I never would have guessed that Slave would be so common of a result, or that Bottom and Service were the most uncommon.

For the sakes of THIS quiz, the “Slave” answer was determined by a lot of questions that were about ownership and possession, “Bottom” was determined by receiving sensation and play (kind of from a service top), and “Service” was … well, about service. I think many, many s-types incorporate service into other s-type identities, and the service part isn’t necessarily the strongest reaction for them—but that’s just a theory.

Here’s the descriptions of ALL of the s-types that we broke the quiz down into.


Hey wait, you’re not an s-type!


Slut by day, slut by night.


Naughty, naughty, naughty


Bottom’s Up


Service


Slave


Classic Submissive

Whatcha think? Do you still think the quiz results you got were the most accurate description of you? Do you agree with my write-ups of what each one means?

It’s been a fascinating experiment! Thanks for playing!