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Okay, on a lighter note?

I didn’t mention it two weeks ago, when Penny and I had our last date, but we broke my cock that day. My infamous Silky/Mr. Bendy (named differently depending on where you buy it), my very favorite cock - because you can pack with it, and play with it, and it actually works - unfortunately, that’s incredibly rare in the world of cocks.

This was the blue one that Penny broke - uh, I mean, that Penny and I broke, together - and it’s the third one I’ve broken. (Remember broken, breaking? That was the second. The first time I broke it, with Callie, I wrote that up, too, but I can’t find the link.)

Unfortunately, that’s just one of the things about Silky’s reality - it doesn’t last.

So, Eden has a blue or a purple version of Silky, and Babeland has pink or black - but I’ve never actually seen the black one in stock. I’ve ordered it before, only to be sent the pink one. I started thinking it was the unicorn of cocks, a myth, an urban cock legend.

But? It’s in stock. And the one I reordered as a replacement came tonight. Man, they sure all nice all new and hard, spine all bendy and supple. Mmm, this weekend’s date with Penny is going to be fabulous.

If you want a black one, order it now - who knows how long it’ll stick around!

While we’re on the subject of things you should order while they’re in stock, take note of Bear Bergman’s book Butch is a Noun, published by the fantastic Suspect Thoughts - it’s gone into a second printing after being out of stock for a long time. I’ve got plenty to say about this book, I’m very fond of it - remember the video of Bear reading the opening chapter a few months ago? Snag a copy while you can.

I posted a sexmix last year, in August, but I’m constantly revising my playlists. This is the current sexmix tracklist.

This is not, however, the music I put on for a day of sex - I’d rather have a few albums on shuffle. The current favorites are Me’Shell N’degeOcello’s Bitter, as much Morphine as I have on my hard drive (especially the albums Like Swimming, Yes, and Good), and Chris Isaak’s album Heart Shaped World.

Here’s the sexmix:

1. Come - Kinnie Starr
2. All Your Way - Morphine
3. Sexual Animals - Sarah Fimm
4. Right Now & Right Here - Keren Ann
5. Sweet The Sting - Tori Amos
6. Wrong To Love You - Chris Isaak
7. Slow Like Honey - Fiona Apple
8. Beautiful - Meshell Ndegeocello
9. Volcano - Damien Rice
10. You Look Like Rain - Morphine
11. Alright - Kinnie Starr
12. Grace - Jeff Buckley
13. Tear You Apart - She Wants Revenge
14. Counting Bodies Like Sheep To The Rhythm Of The War Drums - A Perfect Circle
15. Forty Six & 2 - Tool
16. Sexyback - JT
17. In Tha Mood - Esthero
18. Satisfy - Meshell Ndegeocello
19. Swing It Low - Morphine

 So, lay it on me: what would you add? What’s your favorite music to fuck to? What’s the best seduction music? What tracks just need to be on this list?

I offered up answering any question that was asked today - you can still ask a question until, oh, let’s say, midnight tonight. These are some of the answers, posted as they’re coming in.

1. muse asks: what is your archetypical, eroticized gender-performance-y, fuckable femme outfit, from head to toe, outside in?

First: nothing too tight, I prefer movement in the fabric. Especially in skirts. Something form-fitting can be lovely and fun, yes, but I so prefer the hint of thigh that comes from the swing in the fabric.

So, this is a bit fancy, the dressed-up going-out showing-off outfit. Funny how much I feel hesitant to get super specific, because I love oh-so-much the display of femme in its many forms. But if we’re talking about archetypical, eroticized, most fuckable gender performance, (gulp) here it is:

Hair - up. I don’t care how, but pulled up off the neck. For one, I love to see the lines of the neck and jaw (very sexy), but also, I want to be the one who rips your hair down, later. I remember watching Ally McBeal as a teenager and being so overwhelmed by Nelle Porter (Portia De Rossi) and the way she wore her hair - she only ever wore it up in the office, but she would sometimes take it down when she was out in the bar after hours. It was so, so powerful and sexy. I also remember reading an erotica story (S Bear Bergman’s piece called “Silver Dollar Afternoon” Best Lesbian Erotica 2006): “I fall in love with her when anyone asks her why she doesn’t wear her beautiful long hair all the way down and she says, with just a hint of coolness: “A woman’s hair is for her husband,” which makes me remember every time she has unpinned her hair for my delighted eyes and even if I’m not quite a husband I still shiver in my blue jeans without fail.” I know there are deep problems with this idea of a husband owning a wife’s hair, but I love the idea of it being so sexual, such a turn on, when a femme lets her hair down, that it’s private, saved for me and me alone.

Dress - or skirt, but something like this flirty hourglass dress from White House Black Market - not necessarily this exact dress (I’m not crazy about the bold pattern, though I can see how it’d work) but this type of shape of skirt, maybe even a little longer, below the knee, not necessarily above. Not necessarily strapless either, I just couldn’t find a good example of what I’m trying to describe other than this one. (Anyone know if there’s a particular name for this kind of skirt?) Layers of skirt are pretty fantastic, too - muse keeps making fun of me for a comment I made, something like, “but oh, it’s nice to be buried in crinoline.”

Shoes - You already know this one: the ribbons around the ankle fucken kill me. They don’t have to be too slutty, as some have told me that shoes like these are - the shoes Missy beautifully modeled are much more subtle and tasteful. (I’ve seen a few girls wearing this type of shoe around lately, but I cannot find them online - any help with links?) Strappy sandals work too. I prefer a couple inches of heels, though honestly, it’s more about how the sole of the shoe - the heel - fits in my hand.

Underneath - bare legs with some of those soft, thin thin thin panties that practically feel like skin, or a garter belt & stockings of any damn variety (preferably without undies). Those panties Belle modeled with the lacing up the back was also particularly impressive, but to tell the truth, aside from a thigh-high stockings of any sort, a garter belt, or freshly shaved bare legs, the details of the lingerie are often lost on me. I prefer simple lines, things that show off the curves of the body. I’m not crazy about bows or lace, but hey, anything can be fun - and everything is so pleasing, by the time we’re at the point where my hands have removed the rest of this lovely outfit.

2. green-eyed girl asks: Is there something that you have really wanted to do sexually but haven’t yet? What is it?

Two things come to mind - tantra, and some of the heavier topping skills. For example, I’d like to learn how to throw a singletail, I’d like to learn how to do play-piercing, I’d like to play (more than I have) with knives.

Both of these things require a longer-term lover who I deeply trust, and honestly, I’ve never actually had someone I could do that with.

3. saintchick asks: Can you please list a new & improved sex music mix? I know that you are dying to update it. Also what perfume is to be worn with above said outfit?

I’ll have to tell you about my updated sexmix from home later, but I off the top of my head: I’ve distinguished between a “sexmix,” which is usually really damn hot songs about sex or which sound like sex (Sexual Animals by Sarah Fimm, that techno French Kiss song, Sexyback - yeah, I said it) and a mix of songs that I want to fuck to, which are often much more subtle, and about crooning voices and excellent rhythm. Right now, my fucking mix technique is a shuffled playlist of many different albums, including Me’Shell N’degeOcello’s Bitter, as much Morphine as I have on my hard drive, and Chris Isaak’s album Heart Shaped World.

I’ll show you my revised sexmix later.

Perfume - I don’t have a specific preference to one scent. Everybody is so distinct, and even the same perfume smells different on two different people. But I do love a signature scent, so whatever you find and like, wear it - every day, continuously, for a long period, like a year at least. Then, eventually, even if you no longer wear that perfume, if I smell that perfume again, it’ll remind me of that time period. I love that creation of sense memory.

I’m not crazy about getting a mouthful of perfume while kissing your neck; not sure if there’s a better place to apply it (behind the ear?) or not - we should ask a perfume expert about this. Some girls do tend to do this more than others - or perhaps their perfume just tastes worse. Sometimes it unfortunately can be quite the buzzkill.

4. leo asked: i have a question about butch identity. you’ve written so eloquently about the concerns you faced in reconciling feminism and your gender identity, and especially about rejecting misogyny as a necessary element of masculinity. but you’ve also written that you wanted to throw up (i think?) when someone first called you butch. was that all about feminism? if not, what other feelings (positive or negative) and concerns have been central to the development of your sense of butch identity/female masculinity? did it frighten you at all, apart from the feminism issue, or was it love at first sight, or some combination?

See ask me anything: about butch identity.

5. Mm asks: How does one (or more appropriately two) keep passion from waning in a long term monogamous relationship? It’s been done, but how?

…

6. Dosia asks: What would you say is the best way for a girl to approach a hot butch in a bar/at a dyke march/behind the counter in a cafe/in class? How do we make those connections — not just for sex, but for friendship? Hell, it doesn’t have to be specific to butch/femme dynamics, how does it work, this meeting other queer women?

…

7. Cyn asks: Do you have a day job and what is it? Yes - sadly, Sugarbutch doesn’t support me (yet). I work as a graphic designer at a finance firm in Midtown Manhattan, so I commute into the city with the nine-to-five office crowd, in my almost-blending-in business casual.

Who is your fav band/musical artist? I am a very big Tori Amos fan (at perhaps some points in my past the word “fanatic” may’ve been more appropriate). My top artists (according to Last.fm) are Tori Amos, PJ Harvey, Patty Griffin, Ani Difranco, Morphine, KD Lang, Ingrid Michaelson, Jack Johnson, Joshua Radin, Melissa Ferrick, Imogen Heap, Kinnie Starr, Regina Spektor, Holly Williams, Erin McKeown, the Beatles - and that about covers it. I’m a bit of a music collector, though, and in fact have over 10,000 tracks in my iTunes library recently.

What is your fave dyke/queer blog? I’ve been reading Pure as the Driven Slush by Heather Corinna for years, and have had a crush on her for at least as long. She’s femme, partnered with a guy for the past few years, and completely brilliant. She doesn’t update much anymore but she’s still one of my top queer blogs ever. I aspire to write like Mark Morford’s column (he’s queer, isn’t he? I’m pretty sure. If he’s not, he’s an honorary queer). Those are blogs I’ve been reading for years - more recently, I particularly enjoy Dorothy Surrenders and Lesbian Dad. I don’t read many good gay boy blogs - any recommendations?

Why, as a butch, do you … post butch eye candy on your site? Do you know/believe most of your readers to want/desire butch eye candy? The butch eye candy is, at least in part, about my own ego, because femme readers fawn over the lovely butches, and I breathe a sigh of relief in the validation and desirability of displays female masculinity. Yes, the majority of my readers (or, at least, the majority of the readers who are in contact with me) are femme-identified in some way (perhaps I’ll do a survey one of these days), and they do seem to appreciate the eye candy.

The reasons I started featuring eye candy, though, are specific: there was a particularly nasty thread on New York Craigslist a while back bashing butches - and all masculine-leaning lesbians - and so, posting photos of the butch aesthetic started as a way to celebrate the displays of masculinity. Eye candy got such great feedback, though, that I pursued it, turning it into a regular feature. I especially liked when my straight female audience started emailing me all hot-&-bothered under the collar, saying how hot the eye candy photos are … my response is twofold: “Yes! That’s right!” and also, “Hey wait! There’s not enough butch to go around, we’re for the femmes, dammit.”

8. Duck asks: Could you explain how the remaking of femininity has been “successful?”

…

Man, these are good questions! I’ll keep working on the answers, didn’t have time to do any writing tonight. Will post these tomorrow.

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This guest post comes from Muse, as part of a response to my post on the sadistic impulse. She adds this PS: “the quote in the story is direct from Big Bad Daddy Lee.”

The first thing I think of when I conjure up images of sex: a fist in my hair, yanking hard, holding me motionless.

I want to be taken, to be thrown around and kicked down and tied up and fucked and spanked and twisted and slapped and bitten and pinched and pulled and made to endure. But I don’t want you to worry about what I want. I want you to know what you want, and I want you to take it. Without asking. I’m along for the ride, I can let myself go, I can be yours to play with. Trust me, I want you to.

But sometimes, I want to fight. I won’t go down without a struggle. I’ll run, bite, wrestle, kick you away. And I’m very wily, very quick, very strong. I’ll twist out of your grip, force you to catch me, grab me harder, pin me up against the wall or down on the floor, drag me by the hair and throw me into bed. I’ll make you do something to wipe the smirk off my face, to get my attention, to stop me in my tracks. I’ll make you restrain me, so I can’t get away again, even if I try. (I will try, at first.)

Finally I’ll look up at you, eyes and mouth wide, wounded, shocked, and I will relent. I will give up. Give in. Give myself over to you.

When I do, you lean over and growl in my ear: “That’s right. I can fuck you any way I want, whenever I want. I can do anything to you. Because you’re mine, aren’t you. And you like it rough, don’t you, you dirty girl. You are such a bad girl. I’m going to have to teach you a lesson. You’re going to get it now.”

Oh, handsome. What you’ve got to give, this naughty girl is going to take so well.

Please, put me in my place.

I dare you.

I have yet to write up my experiences at the most recent Body Electric Celebrating the Body Erotic workshop that happened just at the end of March (I’m so behind on my writing), but I cannot recommend these highly enough. If you are in the Bay Area, or Seattle, or have access to those two places, it really is worth it.  Ask me if you have more questions, I’ll tell you all about it.

---

JUST ADDED - June 20-22
Seattle Celebrating the Body Erotic for Women
We heard your requests for more opportunities to experience this amazing workshop. Please come join a circle of women in a safe, serious and playful space to explore and celebrate empowered sexuality and spiritually integrated eros. Through breath, movement, communication, touch and massage:
* Feel more alive, curious and safe in your body
* Deeply tune in to your body, mind, heart and spirit
* Expand awareness, sensation and pleasure
* Receive and give without losing yourself
* Release fear, shame and negative patterns
* Communicate your desires and boundaries more clearly
* Accept yourself just as you are
* Enjoy sex more and have more fun
* Discover the healing potential of sexual/spiritual energy
This workshop starts Friday night and ends Sunday and is for women of all ages and sexual orientations who are open to learn about their own power to illuminate and enjoy sensuality and sexuality. Please share this email with any friends who might be interested.* June 20-22 - Seattle - Led by Lizz Randall - contact Robyn Lynn at 206-579-2603 or robyn@thepresentsense.com
Tuition: $395
Take advantage of one of two offers (cannot be combined):
1. Pay in full by May 30 and receive $30 off
2. Register with a friend and you both receive a 10% reduction

Power, Surrender & Intimacy
After an absence of several years this powerful exploration into the nature of trust, exquisite attention and heightened sensations returns. Join with like-minded women who are ready to go beyond the life ordinary. In a grounded, respectful container discover and clarify edges of liberation, empowerment and embodiment. Learn to recognize aspects of yourself that are continually engaged in power dynamics, and hence become more choiceful about how you can share power with compassion and skill. Led by Alex Jade.
  * June 20-22 - New York City - Contact Debi Soler at 212-726-0679 or
  passionjustice@gmail.com
  Tuition: $395
  Prerequisite: Celebrating the Body Erotic
  Take advantage of one of two offers (cannot be combined):
  1. Pay in full by May 30 and receive $30 off
  2. Register with a friend and you both receive a 10% reduction

Oakland Celebrating the Body Erotic
 In addition to the upcoming Seattle CBE, you also have the option of attending a CBE in Oakland if that fits your schedule better.
* May 16-18 - Oakland - Led by Lizz Randall - Contact Ursula Goulet at 510-333-4721 or bodyelectricforwomen@yahoo.com
* October 3-5 - Oakland - Led by Elfi Dillon-Shaw - Contact Ursula Goulet at 510-333-4721 or bodyelectricforwomen@yahoo.com
Tuition: $395
Take advantage of one of two offers (cannot be combined):
1. Pay in full by April 25 (spring) or September 12 (fall) and receive $30 off
2. Register with a friend and you both receive a 10% reduction

The Body Electric School Website 
Contact Information: 510-653-1594, info@theBodyElectricSchool.com

Happy birthday, Belle! 

 I finally dug up this part three of “The Last Time I Saw Belle” posts (that should really be called “The Last Time I Fucked Belle,” as I’ve seen her a few times since then) that I was working on back in December. See part one, where I watch her get tattooed and get hard watching her in pain, and part two, where she unbuckles my belt and jeans with her mouth before blowing me, if you want to refresh your memory of what happened.

“Fuck me,” she gasped into my ear, on her back, legs open, my fingers already slid inside her panties and jeans, still on. “I want your cock.”

I lifted myself to my knees, laying between her legs, and gripped my cock, stroked it a little. “Do you have a condom?”

“Uh … ” her face was apologetic.

“Really?!” I swore I’d leave one in my wallet for moments like this. Dykes do not always remember we should use them with our toys - and I always use one with my (now infamous) favorite packing cock (it’s porous, so not sterilizable).

We laughed. I slid off the bed and began to locate my sweater and polo shirt, now scattered. “I’ll go to the bodega.”

“No, no. My neighbor’s still around, I bet he has some.”

“Uh, what?” He so saw me come into her apartment with her. Would he know why we needed it? That was a little too … exposing.

“He’s grateful we shared the wine with him. He’ll have some.”

“C’mon, no way. I’ll go get some.”

She gave me a coy look. “Don’t you go anywhere.”

“Look, I’m already dressed,” I said, picking up one boot after sliding my swater on.

She was still topless and smirked at me. “Maybe. But I’m faster.” She zipped her jeans and darted for the door, arms folded over her large round breasts, hands over her nipples. I was too surprised to stop her.

Laughing, topless, still holding her hands over her nipples, she came back in a minute later, and tossed one wrapped NYC condom to me.

“You’re amazing,” I said, ripping it open, laughing, embarrassed, surprised at her ability to go after what she wants so boldly. “… But we may need more than one.”

I unzipped again and pulled out my cock, slid the condom on easily. It felt swollen and thick. She’d gone out there topless for this. Made me want to take her out into the courtyard of her apartment building and fuck her, hard, make her come long and loud, make her scream fuck me, fuck me, and hear her say please in that delicious begging voice she gets when she is hot and frustrated. A whine, but not annoyingly so. A plea. So soft and vulnerable. It thrums against something deep in my pelvis, something hard, that wants to go into that same voice that says please and make her sob.

I tore off her jeans, a little rougher than I’d meant to, and she slid her thighs around my waist.

We fucked until we were sweaty, sticky in places, nude, panting on her bed, both of us laying back, looking up at the ceiling, catching our breath.

She turned onto her knees and began backing off the bed.

“Where do you think you’re going?” I asked, low-voiced.

“You’re going to fuck me, bent over like this,” she answered, hips swaying a little, toes on the ground, arms out in front of her, bent over the bed.

I groaned, slid off the bed, and took hold of her hips, slid my fingers hard inside her. The condom was spent, hung limp from my cock. I fingered her hard, pressed my way inside her, made her come once but didn’t let up, twice, three times, before letting her collapse on the bed.

And that was the last time I fucked Belle.

For Datedyke, because she asked me for this story, with thanks for reading the early draft and commenting things like “Make my character more mean,” “Don’t say thank you,” and “Just take me down,” and for providing the details of her outfit, and picking out my tie. “Swift thrust of cock,” one of my very favorite lines, was written by DD, not me; and DD informs me that “Lea” is pronounced “Lee.”*

“Honey!” Lea calls from the bathroom while she’s doing her hair and makeup. “Which tie are you going to wear?”

I’m dressed, plain black slacks and a black button-down, sitting on her bed, fidgeting with three ties in my fist I know will fit her desired houseboy fare. I bring them to her, gaze at her in the mirror as she applies something to her eyes with a fine brush.

“Either this silver, or this dark purple, or the dark blue with the white dots?” I offer.

“No no. This one.” She turns around fast and points, chooses the silver, the one she bought for me over the holidays. I nod and set the other two on the counter, start to tie the silver one. She glances at me in the mirror, aware that I’m watching her, narrowing her eyes a little, then finishes with the brush, tosses it into her makeup case.

She’s a little annoyed. She doesn’t like it when I watch her get ready. “Hand me those earrings, will you?” I see small diamond studs on the counter and hand them over.

“Not those,” she says. She’s beginning to get stressed. Three of her closest friends will be here any minute. It is my first time as her houseboy for a group.

“Those,” she points again and I see favorite pair of gold hoops. Of course. They match the black heels with the gold trim that she has on with her cocktail dress.

I fetch the earrings and she fastens them to her ears. I attempt to kiss her shoulders, neck, slip my hands around her waist, touch the curves of her hips in her sleek black cocktail dress. She shrugs me off, turns around, kisses me swiftly, dismissively. “Darling,” she says, “You look great. Really. I’m excited for the party.” And then she’s gone, running downstairs to check on the kitchen, fuss over food and drinks.

I sigh at my reflection, take a breath. Check my eyebrows, my teeth, my perfectly messy hair. I’m nervous, but ready for this, excited to be shown off, a trophy boy, look at my tricks. I want to please her. I adjust the dimple in my tie and then my cock under my harness strap.

The Oscars start at four and her friends have one of those pools where they’ve all guessed the winners and someone wins the whole pot. Lea gives me significant glances when the doorbell rings and I take coats to the closet, take drink requests, and practice my sweet “hi, hello” submission as they come in the door. Her friends are dressed up: The Cuban Genius, BB, and the Butch Daddy.

BB giggles at my predicament and hugs me, eyes twinkling, flirtatious, amused. The Butch Daddy eyes me like we’re fags and she’s cruising. I feel myself stiffen and try to relax.

Lea shines, says hello, hugs and smiles and laughter and greetings. She is subtly maneuvering this whole interaction, sparkling in her element; her earrings catch the light, glitter, and her makeup is flawless, soft. Her dress flirts around her knees, off her shoulders.

I serve martinis and cosmos, smiling and making myself as unnoticeable as I can be while I watch her. My attention is tuned fully into her body language, her eye contact, her hands. Not only for her cues at service, but to see her, to observe, to take in. I admire her like this. That external expert persona of hers is so appealing, I see her through her friend’s eyes, strong, poised, capable. I am blessed to see the soft parts, too.

Conversation flows, they catch up on jobs, girlfriends, America’s Next Top Model, the weather for upcoming kayaking, hiking. I try to participate, but Lea keeps interrupting me with glances and gestures every time I sit.

“Boy! More wieners!” she calls while I’m in the kitchen fetching a glass of water for the Butch Daddy, and everyone laughs. She’s been waiting to use that command. I bring the next plate of cocktail wieners onto the coffee table with a bow and a smile, as if I’m in on the joke.

Lea brings one up to her lips and leaves it poised. “Mmm, I love wieners,” she says, winking dramatically. Everyone’s still giggling; BB is giving me suggestive glances, the Cuban Genius mimics Lea’s movement of a wiener to her mouth and gives it a mock blow job, eyes low, looking at the Butch Daddy. I blush and try to laugh, adjust my silver tie nervously.

Lea takes inventory of the living room. “Refill BB’s drink,” she whispers loudly, for everyone to hear, and I take BB’s glass. He gives me a smug flirty smile. I mix his martini like he said, three olives, and I am careful careful careful not to spill in the long walk from the kitchen to the couch, and hand it to BB.

“BB likes his martinis dirtier than that,” Lea hisses at me as I resume my perch on the edge of the chair. “Make it right next time.”

I look to Lea in a glance, apologetically and to see her face, to see what’s under these commands, pleasure or embarrassment, gratitude or heat, but she’s already engaged back in her conversation with the Cuban Genius, laughing about something, talking about someone whose name I don’t recognize, who is that, who are these people I don’t know? She feels me looking at her and glances at me briefly, and for just a fraction of a second I see her features soften with deep appreciation, lust, care.

Then it’s gone; her body languages changes and she holds her near-empty cosmo up at me. “You’ve got another one of these ready, right? I shouldn’t have to even be asking you.”

I duck my head, go back to the kitchen.

A few minutes later she’s calling me, but I don’t recognize the call of “boy” fast enough, don’t hear her for a moment too long. Finally she uses my name: “Sinclair!” And I look up, caught off guard.

She inclines her head quickly to mean, come here, with that look on her face of hard exasperation and displeasure. She’s sitting on the arm of her couch, it makes her feel taller, and I approach. “No, here,” she says as I stop, pointing at the space next to her.

“Take your cock out,” she says.

[Read more →]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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