On Non-Monogamy, Guest Post by Kristen

A piece by Kristen about our open relationship, dating other people, sex, a leather family vision, and BDSM. Follow her on Twitter @kitchentop.

You know where some of my fear came from when we dipped our toes into polyamory last fall? That Sugarbutch readers would make all kinds of judgments about me, think I’m some kind of doormat, judge our vision and our path for our relationship. But we came to poly from a place of deep strength, not out of weakness. That isn’t to say it hasn’t been difficult; it’s been very difficult, but that’s because we’re intense people with high standards for our lives and big dreams. And what makes it the hardest is not jealousy, it’s that there’s little support for dating other people while you have a long-term partner in this culture. We have to build on the narratives that people before us have created—and create our own.

And in fact, as soon as I looked around, I saw examples of sparkly poly couples—many of whom we already knew—who quietly date multiple people. And I probed deeper, and I realized there’s an entire network of kinky queers who fuck each other and each other’s friends, if you just look below the surface. Sinclair sent me a link about cabins to rent in New York, and I got a vision of five or six or seven of us, cooking and fucking and lazing around near a lake, and I thought, “Maybe that’s what people mean by ‘leather family.’ That’s the kind of adulthood I want.” Because for many of us, that white picket fence—even a gay white picket fence—just isn’t in the cards.

And y’all, I like sex too much to limit myself. I love fucking. I LOVE it. It keeps me grounded and helps me fly all at once, and I can’t really imagine fucking one person the rest of my life, as amazing as the person I spend most of my time fucking is. You’ve met a few guest stars (there have been about eleven in the last three and a half years, not counting erotic energy retreats) – and I would like to continue doing that. I was surprised, yes, when Sinclair’s interest in rife expanded beyond a one-time fuck, and I was even more surprised when that connection went beyond a sexual one. But it’s been just over six months since we had that first conversation, and I’m sold. The details are complicated, and the growing pains have been difficult, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t choose poly. What it actually means is that we are so steeped in monogamy in this culture, and the cultural walls around monogamy are so rigid, that it took me months (and fucking someone else, if we’re gonna be really honest here) to feel really solid.

We need MORE support around this, not less. Think about when you came out: I, for one, had many years of culture telling me queer was wrong, and I needed backup from homos around me reminding me it was okay to be a big dyke. After a few years, it was no big deal, but I teared up at my first pride parade. Maybe I should go to poly pride. Or maybe I should just have a lot of poly sex and I won’t need a parade. Or maybe after I have poly sex I should wave my hands around spirit fingers style and give myself a parade.

So what’s it like? It still feels sort of dangerous, honestly, because I still have a little bit of this “traditional relationship” lens that tells me fucking someone else is cheating. But it’s not—it’s consensual—and it’s incredibly exciting. What’s fun? I flirted before, but flirting with the possibility of actually playing with someone else is different. It challenges me to see myself more independently than I did before, and that’s both fun and nerve-wracking. (It’s much easier to fuck someone else when your Daddy arranges it for you than when you’re in a bar with your friends and you have to make the first move—or when you’ve played with someone once and you want it to happen again.)

Here’s the other thing: before I met Sinclair, dating was a lot more desperate, because I have a really high sex drive and I wasn’t getting fucked especially well. Now that I’m dedicated to my boyfriend but looking for people to play with, I can be very selective about who I choose, and I’m much narrower in what I’m looking for. I’m not going to go home with someone randomly because they’re the best option and I want to get laid, I’m going to hone in on exactly what I’m looking for and see what I can do to find that. I have much, much better boundaries, and I’m able to fuck friends or become friends with someone I’ve fucked (Hi Gabrielle … and the rest of y’all). Part of that is just maturity, but it’s also about a redefined vision of relationships. We don’t have to love everyone we fuck, or maybe we do, but it’s a different kind of love. Love is bigger than “date them fuck them live together get married pop out babies.” Sometimes when I’m feeling stuck between two options, Sinclair tells me, “There are always more than two choices.” This is a lovely example of that concept. There are always more ways to live than you might think. And it is so fucking beautiful that we get to redefine how we love. Our relationship gets to evolve, and we get to go through the hard stuff together, and we get to play with space and restrictions and sex and pain in a conscious, consensual way—which is far beyond what I’d ever imagined.

P.S. The BDSM in our relationship is a slightly different topic (and an old conversation), but rest assured, our relationship is consensual. For what it’s worth, I love getting punched, and that doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with me or us. It comes from a place of very deep trust.

A Hot Ride: Lovesong Playlist for Kristen

So I’m one of those people that makes a lot of mixes. It used to be mixed tapes (where I’d elaborately write all the tracks out in different color pens), then CDs, and now it’s iTunes playlists. I’m constantly downloading (and paying for!) new music, constantly updating my current “what I’m listening to” playlist, wiping it clean and starting again with whatever tone I’m currently craving.

I finished this playlist in December, for Kristen. It’d been a while since I’d made her a mix, probably since A Thousand Kisses in 2009, though I’d made some others that I’d shared with her, they just weren’t specifically for her. This one, though, is.

I love that I can share it—you can stream it on 8tracks, though I don’t love that 8tracks won’t let you play it in order. So I’m also uploading it to sendspace, you can download the whole thing there (though you’ll have to put it into your own playlist in order, I still can’t figure out how to include the iTunes playlist file).

a hot ride from mrsexsmith on 8tracks.

Cover image, if you want to download it, is here. And now, the tracklist:

A HOT RIDE playlist & liner notes, December 2011

Starling – Tori Amos
Gotta start out with a bang, y’know?

Safe in Your Arms – Paula Cole
Because there’s nowhere safer.

Sugar Buzz – kd lang & the Siss Boom Bang
Can’t help but think of you when I hear this song. (Also I totally mistype ‘Sugarbutch’ when I write out the title, every time. Such finger memory.) It’s like the song was made for us.

She’s Got To Be – Amy Ray
Though Amy Ray has said it’s about reconciling with an inner girl as a butch, it’s also a romantic love song about femininity & masculinity

Rich Woman – Robert Plant & Allison Krauss
‘Daddy everything is alright.’ love the rolling bass. So sexy.

Forever – Ben Harper
“Not talking about a year, no not three or four / I don’t want that kind of forever in my life anymore.”

October – Rosie Thomas
“Make her a flower in late december when the sun is not shining on her.” “Take photographs of her on brooklyn streets on october.” Love the simplicity of this arrangement, and her sweet voice

Sweetness – The Waifs
“Music gets me in the mood / it kicks in and I sit back / and think of you,” and “you mean stuff to me.” Yeah.

On Your Arm – Schuyler Fisk
“You always felt like come / you knew my favourite song / I love the way you say my name / I love just about everything.” and it just gets better from there. I first found Schuyler because of her Paperweight duet with Joshua Radin, and her solo work is really excellent too.

Beautiful – Meshell Ndegeocello
One of my all-time favorite love songs.

Make a Name for Me And You – Rachel Cantu
It kind of sounds like a sad song, but the refrain is about making a name for ourselves, and as we’ve started to talk about that this song sticks to me. “I know your vices and those are your choices / and I want to be there for you.”

Somebody Loved – The Weepies
It’s kind of amazing to be somebody who is loved so deeply, so well.

Snow Cherries from France – Tori
I think of this when I travel sometimes. But now you know I’ll always bring back snow cherries.

Crystalised – The XX
“I’ve been down onto my knees / so don’t think that I’m pushing you away / and you just keep getting closer / when you’re the one that I’ve kept closest / go slow.”

The Sweets – The Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Something about spinning and “how will you want something to hit” and “what’s your crime, what’s your crime” that has me growling and hot.

Only Girl in the World – Rihanna
I want you to feel like this, that you’re the only girl in the world for me, and especially when we’re together, that you’re the one I’m drawn to like a magnet. ‘I want you to love me like I’m a hot ride.’ Yeah. I do. But I want to make sure I show you that, too.

Fancy – Drake
It’ll just always be a song for you. Also can you believe he rhymes “concealer”? Impressive.

Sexy and I Know It – LMAO
Because you blush when this song comes on, and that makes me smile.

Happy Third Anniversary, Kristen

Today is my third anniversary with Kristen.

Photo by Stacie Joy, September 2011

(Here’s the story of how we met (which I told on our first anniversary), our first date (which is the second most viewed post on Sugarbutch), second anniversary and what I got her, and what she bought me. I think there was a dirty story about last year’s anniversary (how could there not be, given what she was wearing) but I can’t seem to find it, I think I wrote it up later.)

I’m a little bit at a loss for words. I didn’t expect us to build this life together, to wrap around each other like we have. To be honest, I expected us to have a one night stand. But as Dan Savage says, sometimes partners are the one night stands who stay.

We knew from the beginning that we are sexually compatible, and that was certainly a very high priority for finding someone to build a life with. That we were long distance for six months meant that I had a chance to adjust my flight responses, to get used to the idea of being with someone again, after being skittish and afraid to get deeply intimate.

But it wasn’t scary with her. And in the three years since, I’ve grown and pushed myself and changed and made all sorts of progress with who I am, how I relate to the world, and where I’m going. I really think we’re more than the sum of our parts, more than just the two of us together, we are also this “us” that combines to strengthen and enliven each of us individually, too.

She’s so willing and eager to communicate, to grow, to change, and to integrate new information, and just that alone has been such a significant difference from any of my past relationships. We go together so well, with complimentary interests and overlapping values and similar ways of seeing the world. That’s not to say it hasn’t been hard, but we’ve been working so well on the things that have been a challenge, and we’ve made some serious, hard-won progress this year. The last few months have been particularly hard, but I think we’ve made it over that bump and I am really excited about where we’re going. I am significantly committed to keeping my sex life vibrant (I mistyped “vibrating”—that too) in something long term, and so is she, so lately we’ve been negotiating just how to have an experimental, fun, and dirty sex life while still navigating all the domestic things of sharing our day-to-day lives and an apartment and our daily stresses.

We keep coming together stronger and more loving than ever before, and it just keeps deepening, improving, getting better—our communication, our connection, and our sex.

Photo by Stacie Joy, September 2011

I love you, Kristen. Thanks for being on this incredible journey with me. I cherish every minute.

Photos were taken by Stacie Joy at Dark Odyssey this year. Thanks Stacie!

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.

A Queer, Divine Dissatisfaction

You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is a queer, divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive.
—Martha Graham

I find myself thinking about this quote often lately, the “queer, divine dissatisfaction” frequently bouncing around in my mind. There’s something up with me these last few months, something askew, something just not quite right that I can’t place.

Despite that my writing and freelance design (did you know I build websites professionally?) work is going quite well, despite the launch of Butch Lab last week after three months of work, despite having my very first erotica anthology in the works and the inbox filling up as the deadline approaches, something still feels unsatisfactory.

Unlike many folks, I actually enjoy the winter holidays, and I’m having a good time building a home out of my lovely apartment that I share with Kristen, especially since my former roommate left and we have the space to ourselves. It’s our first winter holiday season together—I haven’t been going back to where I grew up the past few years and Kristen decided not to go this year, so we are going through our families’ traditions and choosing our favorites, making up some new ones as we build our life together.

I feel better and better about New York City, I never would’ve guessed I’d be here this long and despite traveling to the West Coast four times this year, I had a dream a few months back that I had to move back to where I grew up, and I was all for it, excited to be returning, until I realized I would be leaving New York. No more Sideshow, no more readings at Happy Endings and the Bowery, no more D train across the Manhattan bridge and events at the Center, no more Lesbian Sex Mafia, no more Kelli and Cheryl and Dacia and Mamone and Anne and Em and Grace and Diana and IDP and Prospect Park. And I panicked, in the dream, and yelled NO I’m not ready! and I woke up realizing I really wasn’t. I’m not. My Brooklyn freelance life is great, the best way I’ve lived in New York so far. I’ve been in the same apartment for three-plus years, longer than I’ve lived in any single place since the house I grew up in. I’ve been in New York five and a half years, and I left Seattle after being there six and a half years, so I’m getting close to having lived here longer than anywhere else. And though I thought I’d be way ready to go after this long in this concrete jungle, that I’m staying and making a life here actually feels pretty good.

And hi, have you seen my very sexy, gorgeous, radiant girlfriend? Not to objectify her, except well, yes, to objectify her just a little, because she likes that and I generally have permission to do so here in my little online world, and because her sexy gorgeousness is just one part of her and one part of what I’m madly in love with about her, other things being: her adventurous baking experiments, her kitchen tenacity in general, her extraordinary ability to communicate emotionally, the way she can work a room at a party, the shade of blue her eyes sparkle when she’s excited, the shade of pink her skin flushes, her high high sex drive, her openness to playing, how determined she is to make a place for herself in the world, how incredibly thoughtful she is at making the people around her feel comfortable and safe and interesting, her sensitive big heart.

I could go on.

Not to brag, except well, yes, to brag just a little bit, out of an honoring of what I’m grateful for, and because I really thought I’d never find somebody this amazing, and I was starting to get really convinced that I’d have to settle, that I wouldn’t find someone this good for me.

I almost feel stable! I love what I’m doing, I love where I’m going and what plans I have in 2011, this last year has been probably my favorite time period my whole life, I’ve never been this happy or satisfied … so why am I feeling a little bit unhappy and unsatisfied? My logical brain can’t quite wrap my head around it, but there’s something kind of shadowy that I get a glimpse of every once in a while, lurking behind my lungs somewhere.

And … well, that’s about it. On the one hand, my beautiful life. On the other hand, this shadow. I don’t know what it is. Hello, shadow, what are you? Who are you? Where do you come from? I’m not that scared of you right now, more just … curious. Tell me what it is you came here for. Let me know what you’re hiding from me.

It seems to be so quiet, subtle. I’m not sure I can force a shadow to reveal itself, especially not if I go after it with a spotlight.

So I’ll try to wait, and make a space for it to show itself, and be ready to hear whatever is going on, when it is ready to reveal itself.

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.

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 …

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?

Follow-up: I’d Like To Fuck Her Ass

Okay, some clarifications:

1) Kristen has made it very clear that she’s game to try anal sex, from the beginning, from the very first conversation. That the idea intrigues her, even. She’s very GGG in bed, and if she expressed that she wasn’t so into something (and there have been things she has said she’s not so into), I’d drop it. I’d never push her to do something she didn’t want to do.

2) We talked about this before and after this post went up, and she was a bit concerned I hadn’t made it clear that she was into it. And, I don’t think I did. Is this clear yet? She has expressed an interest in trying it. But even with both of our expressed interest, we still haven’t quite done it, and I’m not sure why exactly. I thought we’d talked about it various times in depth, but given this post, and the many reader comments, I am realizing we really haven’t delved into it very deeply. I also think my own nervousness is a factor, and the ways that having sex focused on me is really hard for me, which is, ultimately, the main point of this post. Yes, I couched it in other things, because it’s hard to have attention on me, my needs, and my shortcomings. I guess that worked a little too well.

3) Asking for reader contribution here was for two reasons, but NOT as an attempt to convince Kristen that it was a good idea. Not for peer pressure, absolutely not. Not for me to be able to point to and say, “See! Comment #4 says it hurts, but eventually you like it! Just try it!” Hello, no, I don’t do that. The purpose of asking for reader comments was because a) sometimes Kristen feels – and I do too! – very validated seeing her own trepidations and hesitations shared by other people, and I thought that perhaps if someone expressed their own experience with it in a way she identified with, we’d have some starting points to discuss the parts of it that were making her – or both of us – nervous, and b) because I like it when readers express their own experiences. I love encouraging that to happen in the comments on this site, I love reading about it, I love how some people that I know well will write a thesis on a particular topic and share their knowledge and write about their story, sometimes things that they haven’t (or won’t) share on their own blog even. One of my favorite posts lately was the “share some sex thing you’ve done / you wish you’d done / you want to do this summer,” because whoa, I have some kinky readers. Y’all are awesome. Asking you for advice is a big big way to encourage those personal stories of experience, so that is what I did.

4) The comment that said “focus more on her pleasure and less on your cock.” You’re a bit misguided. For one, she is into it. For two, I always, always am focused on her pleasure. I know I have been writing less and less about our personal sex life here, and that’s for lots of reasons, the most of which is that my 9-to-5 job is ending and I don’t have access to my site at work anymore, which means I have a lot less time to work on it. But our sex life continues to be fucking awesome, and I wish I was writing up a story every time. As uh, everybody knows, I am very cock-centric, but that does not mean I am not focused on Kristen’s pleasure – or the pleasure of any girl with which I am sleeping. In fact, I am SO focused on their pleasure, most of the time, that I often bypass my own. This is actually a problem, which is the real point I tried to make in this post, but I think it got buried beneath the anal-anal-anal-make-Kristen-try-anal part that seems to have distracted everyone. And, the point is, there is no shortage whatsoever on Kristen’s pleasure. I guess you’ll just have to take my word for that, unless she wants to jump in and write a guest post, but the girl is spoiled in bed, and she gets what she wants. She doesn’t have to ask for anything twice, any toy she wants I either have or can get for her, and I pay a lot of attention to her detailed reactions and responses, and often can tell if something is uncomfortable before she expresses anything. The issue here is not her pleasure at all: it’s mine. That’s what needs some work, in this relationship, and in my relationships in general.

“Can I come? Please?”

Kristen gets off easily. When we were discussing it last night, she said there’s a point after we’ve been fucking for a bit where she can simply tighten and it happens, so after a while she can basically come on demand. I start murmuring, “do it again, come for me, do it now,” and she does, almost every time.

It’s a bit of a miracle to me, as someone who takes a while to gear up and get off, and as someone who dated someone pre-orgasmic for four years (four years! We weren’t even open, I didn’t make any single person (except me) come in four years, it was torture). I have written about how it’s hard for me to get off around here somewhere.

I love that she comes like that. It is one of the things I crave most about sex: being able to give someone else that feeling of orgasm, of momentary loss of control, of la petite mort. I love the power of that exchange, the way she wants it from me, the way I keep her poised on my fingers or tongue or cock. I have tried to keep track, but I always get distracted, or loose count, or can’t tell when one ends and the next begins, sometimes she just goes and goes. I have asked her to count, telling her I’ll let her out of the ropes after she gets to ten.

Lately, we have been playing more with the torture of waiting, with making her beg for it, with keeping her writhing but not touched until she can’t stand it. She has noticed has orgasms are stronger and bigger the longer she waits, so that made us implement something else new: to make her ask permission before she can come.

This is mostly because I can’t always tell when she gets close, can’t even always tell when she starts coming, sometimes it’s a cry of ecstasy not unlike being bitten hard or fucked well and I can’t tell if she’s close or expressive. So she has to ask.

She waits until she’s so, so close, as if she’s forgotten she has to ask, then forces out the word: “Please?”

“Please what?”

“Please can I?” Gasping.

“Please can you what?” I don’t let up with my fingers thrumming her clit, my cock shoving inside her. I know she’s on the verge.

“Please, can I come!”

“… No.”

Seems I need to remind her that she has to ask if I want it to be ongoing, though, which I think I do. It is easy for both of us to skip over the asking and go right to the coming. And sometimes having one or two orgasms seems to open her up, make her able to take more, deeper, harder. So sometimes perhaps it’s best to let her come a few times before starting to deny her more, to build up to a larger release.

We’ve added this element of asking permission into sex on various occasions in the last few months, but I think it’s worth continuing to explore. I don’t really know how it’ll work yet, but I love the power dynamic of it, love the extra element of control over her body and her orgasm that I get to play with having. Love how she gives that over to me. Love how I can feel like I can sculpt her rise and fall of energy and release – no, not yet, not yet, keep it building, just a little longer, you can hold it in, hold it back, wait, wait … now: let go. This is what I love about being a top, too, at its very best – being able to sculpt someone else’s experience of their body, sensation, release.

Last night, I wanted her to wait until I was coming, until I came, to let herself come, but I couldn’t quite say that, I wasn’t quite confident of my own ability to get off. I wish it was more consistent for me. I can never quite tell when or if it’s going to happen, I can’t seem to make it happen. The factors all seem variable: sometimes I feel disconnected from her and I come anyway, sometimes I feel totally connected and can’t. Sometimes I don’t expect it and it happens, sometimes I do expect it and it happens. Sometimes I don’t try and it surprises me. I came twice on Saturday, that’s rare, but somehow I had the angle, or the harness placement, or the mental turn-on, and it worked.

Someday, that’s what I want. To use her like that, to be oblivious to her pleasure until I get mine. To take what I need.

That feels extremely vulnerable, because it goes against what I’ve been taught – to be respectful and conscious and interactive in our sex lives. But consent in this kind of play can sometimes trump what is “supposed” to happen, and perhaps will move me into new realms, to explore new interactions, to move into new personal realms, weave knowledge into our bones. And oh my god the very idea makes me so incredibly hot.

There is so much to explore here, with her, I still feel we’ve barely scratched the surface. And I just want more, and more, and more.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen, when we have sex,” she said last night. “I don’t know if it’ll be sweet and lovely, or some crazy tantric energy release shit, or if I’ll be your little girl, or if it’ll be dirty and kinky.”

We seem to be moving from one into another more and more fluidly these days, able to turn on a dime and make something that was full of dirty talk and name-calling and control and, occasionally, pain, into something sweet and sensual, or into some deep-breathing chakra release. We seem to have a little bit of all of it, all the time, and that is near perfection.

A Thousand Kisses

I mentioned that last weekend marked six months that Kristen and I have been together … one of the things I did was to finally finish the lovesong mix that I’ve been working on for a and have felt particularly resistant to doing with her, exactly because of the ways that it is romantic and sometimes intense, but it made sense; we finally gathered enough songs to while. Mixes are one of those courtship things that I have often done too quickly in the past, make a whole CD, and it felt good to compile.

Just to further illustrate my reluctance to make a lovesong mix, the first draft of this CD was called “If Love Was a War, This Is How You Win,” a reference to the Feist song I chose, the lyric is “now I know I’m gonna win the war.” Kristen saw this title over my shoulder and was like, no. You can’t call it that. The second draft was called “Happy Through Rain or Whatever,” another lyrical refernece, this time to the Alice Smith song, and that too she wasn’t thrilled about. A Thousand Kisses, yes, romantic, but also a reference to the Mil Besos song by Patty Griffin.

Also: funny thing about the cover. I spent a few hours working on the image, searching for photos of famous kisses, finally using the Rodin sculpture. I printed everything up and got the CD and cover and insert all together … and was practically gagging with the sweet gross romanticness of it.

So I rebuilt the cover.

1000kisses_splatter

Ahh, so much better. Still a bit romantic, but no longer over the top. Whew.

So here’s the mix!

8tracks.com is a legal way to upload and share music in mixes like this (I found out about them through Bitch Magazine), so here’s the mix in its entirety. The only negative is that after you listen to it once, it has to shuffle the songs, so they’re out of order – and the order does mean something, in fact I spent a lot of time on the order, the precise space between the end of one song and the beginning of the next, so I don’t really love showing you the mix like this, but what can I do, seems like the best way to share music. (If you’ve got other suggestions, let me know.)

Snippets

These are some of the moments I remember, some of the flashes of motion that still play in my mind.

Her arms bound to her chest; fifty feet of rope wrapped around and bound. Then her knees bent up and back and bound to her wrists. Wrapped around again. The way her muscles strained to the edges of the rope. Her eyes when she came, her face open, hips open, straining.

In that sunny summer dress in the park, without panties. I layed out my jacket for her to sit on. My mind racing the whole time we sat in the grass. Stop thinking about it, stop thinking about it, but I couldn’t, I wanted her lifted against that tree, dress pushed up around her waist, with everybody watching as she screamed while she came over and over.

Her mouth on my cock. That look on her face. Oh so many times. Eyes wide and glancing up at me, filling with tears when I push too hard. My hand on the back of her head. Yeah, suck it, suck it deep. More, baby, take it deeper. Good girl. Slapping it on her tongue. She wants it. Opens her mouth and I shove it in.

The moments I resist, wait, torture her just a little. Tip of my cockhead against her pussy lips, rubbing upagainst her clit, up and down, and she pushes into me, starts wriggling her hips. Oh, you want something? Whatcha trying to do, baby? Slap it against her, she’s wet, I hear it. She starts saying please, please please please, in that voice that undoes me, and of course I slide it in. I can deny her nothing.

All the aftercare pillowtalk when her eyes sparkle and she is flushed, glowing. All that light in her laugh and feather-soft touches make me feel easier, like I make sense. I’ve said it before but she is very easy to love, easy to spend time with, easy to adore, easy to shower with affection.

Camping last weekend and we created our own sanctuary in the small tent, we couldn’t even stand up. The woods are easy for me, no struggle, everything takes less work, though for her it takes a bit more. She is more of a city kid than I am, despite my current reisdence in the one-zero-zero-zero-zero zip codes. We wriggle out of our clothes and I have such a grip on the ground that I can be even deeper inside her, even harder, even faster. Birds and trees and smoky campfire and even the thunderstorms all afternoon, all night, and though I was not exactly relaxed I enjoyed every minute of being with her, and I wouldn’t have chosen to be anywhere else.

Trying out my Hitatchi before she decided she wanted one of her own, keeping it shoved hard against her cunt, no stop I can’t take anymore she’d say, then come again, and again.

Whispering at her neck, into her ear, you’re mine, you’re mine, and she moans yes, yes, take me however you want, I’m yours, take me how you like it, take me, I’m yours, please, please.

There is so much. The sex memories are running together and sometimes I can’t remember what happened yesterday. It’s been six months, can you believe it? Six months this past weekend since we started dating, and I still can’t get enough of her, still want more of her, still there are so many things to do and explore. Our future continues to expand as we build this deeper, stronger, more solid. I don’t know if we really “took it slow,” we’re both such passionate, intense, emotional people who fall hard and fast, but I kept myself solid, I did not lose myself (did you hear that? I just said I did not lose myself and that’s a big deal), and it’s just so fucking good.

Hogtied.

cnvax-b-hogKristen sits on the edge of the bed. I kneel, take her calves in my hands, shackle the ankle cuffs on her one at a time, then rise and hold out my hand for her wrists.

I love this part. A tiny moment of patience and waiting as I’m not sure if she really will give me her hands, or if I’ll have to take them. After one breath too long, she looks up at me, brings her hands together, and pushes them forward.

“One at a time,” I say, and wrap black rope around one, then the other. Four points of tension, four points of restriction, four points of restraint. She’s ready. I can see it in her eyes, that impulse to struggle, to strain against the edges of what is possible.

I pull her by the dangling rope back onto the bed. Push her down, push her legs open, hold her there, then turn her over.

I love that meditative bell-like sound of metal on metal that belts, cuffs, and leather straps with D rings made into hogties make.

She knows what I’m going to do. I’m nervous, haven’t used this before. I use clips to get the cuffs connected to the hogtie, tie the rope directly. She’s on her stomach. It makes an x over her back that is beautiful, seems like a natural object to put onto her body, contoured to her curves like jewelry. There’s more room in the tie than I expected. I thought her limbs would be pulled taut, but in reality she can move around quite a bit, though at some cost. She gets her hands under her shoulders to lift herself up, can pull her knees under her to get her ass in the air.

(I like that.)

I let her try out the restriction, the limitations. She’s not tied to anything, only to herself, and she’s small, so there’s quite a bit she can do.

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.

I leave her hogtied for a while, taking her as I want her, telling her to put her ass in the air for me, get up on your knees, head down, face still shoved into the blankets of the bed as I pound her, biting her shoulders, slide in and out, she’s so wet, slamming into her hard, from behind, from above, until we both collapse, my mouth at her ear, at her cheek, at her neck.

Later, I untie her hands and leave her legs bound. Then unhook her ankles and hold her, weave our bodies together, faces nearly touching on the pillow.

Thanks to a particular sex toy store for providing the hogtie, one of their many bondage items. Kristen thanks you, too.

Sublimation

It was the build-up and release from this weekend that has stuck with me well into today’s Monday afternoon.

The way we rock together, slow and sweet, the way the friction between us builds and rises like waves, then cresting and crashing, leaving a perfectly smooth beach full of tiny worlds in its wake.

How I can feel it swell palpably between us. Sometimes it is something I can touch so easily that I feel I can cradle it in my hand, mold it into something new.

And it builds. Oh god it builds. Clinging to each other and we both start holding our breath, crying out, at the same moment, precise sounds from our throats in ecstacy and pleasure, pushing all the way to the edges of our bodies, into each other’s.

Two moments:

The quiet build before she began thrashing under me, arms spread wide like wings, grasping at the edges of the bed, mouth open throat open chest open, until her back curled and she cried ohhh god with such purity that I still feel her syllables reverberating in my chest every time I think of it.

And then coming. Inside her, again on top. (I could have her any way I want and that’s what I want: her legs wrapped around my waist, my hands gripping her shoulders, so close to her, so I can feel her mouth.) I loose track of how many times she’s come, can feel myself getting close and shift positions. She can tell I’m close when I start moving my hips like this, faster I think, maybe more shallow but still intense, precise. I’m still not exactly sure what I do to make it happen, but it’s starting to get easier. Every weekend now, though not every day. Challenging when I can start to tell that she’s paying attention and thinks I’m close, I get self-conscious, but when I can tell what she’s feeling and how much she likes what I’m doing and that she’s lost in it all, I can let go too, and that’s what happened on Saturday, she started coming, again, crying out, oh I love the way she sounds, and it was enough, just enough, just what I needed to tip me over the edge and I felt it hit my clit, shake through my pelvis in waves, tumbling through me, through both of us, each time I slid in again, and again, she felt it too, I could feel the pulse of it between us, pure energy, unblocked and unhindered, just flowing, sweeping, rippling, with uninterrupted ease.

Holding Back

I’m restraining myself. Holding back. In so many ways that feel so unnatural, like stopping an object already in motion, changing trajectories when the path is already clearly cut in front of me.

A runner in a crouch waiting for the gun to go off.

A horse behind the racetrack doors, hoofing at the ground.

Even my friends are commenting on it lately. “You’re really restraining yourself here, aren’tcha,” my buddy from Seattle commented last week. He’s not used to seeing the emotions so heavy in me without the extensive expression.

“She’s just … I have such … I think I …” I swallowed, started again. Can’t finish those sentences. “Ilikeherlots.”

He laughed. “I can tell!”

It’s hard, I continued. Scary. Frightening when my body remembers what happened last time these emotions ran through me, what happened the last time I thought I could be with someone, last time I saw the future stretch out in front of me, paths parallel and touching and intertwining. I know how that ends. My brain knows that is still possible and wants it to be possible and aches for it to be possible and pretends like I can operate from a place where I still believe that is possible, but my body stops me cold. No, no, danger, danger. Don’t feel this, don’t like it, don’t fall, don’t.

Especially when my instinct is my chest broken open, heart wide and deep wine red, bursting, fingers spread wide, arms spread wide, head thrown back and laughing, five-points spread, everything aligned.

But part of me thinks, I know better now. I can’t do that, yet.

So instead I say, “I’m holding back. I can feel myself holding back.”

Kristen wrote to me yesterday: “The thought occurred to me that you might not be able to open up to the extent that you want to with me, that I might have to be “heart practice” or something, but that you wouldn’t ever get all the way there.”

But that’s not it. I know I can open up how I want to. I’ve done it before and it feels like my natural instinct here, like I am fighting against it constantly. I can do it. It’s just not time yet for me to unleash what I know I’m capable of, the full expression of the feelings I am already feeling.

I looked yesterday, I have ten emails to her in my drafts folder, from heartsore ramblings about missing her to links that I think she should read to poems I haven’t finished to lists of what I want to do to her. Instead, all I say is, “I’m holding back.”

But what that means is this: desire. I can’t say I want to hold your heart on my tongue, poised, sweet and succulent, so I say I’m holding back. I can’t say I am catching the first train to your house right after work and I know I’ll have to turn right around and go back home in order to get any actual sleep tonight but I have to, I have to, see you, even just for a few minutes, to see the light behind the blue of your eyes and smell your skin and taste your mouth, so I say I’m holding back. I can’t say I’m ready, I can hold you, bring it on, so I say I’m holding back.

But I aim for that expression of these feelings. And every week, every month that goes by [we just passed the four months on the 13th, officially the longest since], every weekend of deeper exploration of each other, I get closer. There is a softening around my heart. There is more confidence in my own space, more healing of the old wounds still weaving and seeping.

I can’t not hold back right now. But I’m also moving forward with lightning speed, thick walls cracking and falling into rubble, shaking sometimes with fear but looking it all right in the face, eyes wide open, wide open.

My slutty little girl.

Or, how her dirty talk got me off. Twice.

In my bedroom. We both knew we only had a few hours until she would leave, back to her city, an hour and a half drive away.

I didn’t waste time. Pulled her by her hair toward me and thrust my tongue in her mouth. Moved her around, hands hard and thick on her torso. Pressed against me. She feels good in my arms.

I stripped her and left my office clothes on, for now. I was already hard packing (not with Silky but with Rick, I broke my Silky again), and hard, and wanted to fuck.

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.”

She lowered her lips to my cock and kissed. Swallowed. Lapped with her tongue, ran it along her lips. I didn’t stop with the talking. “Baby, you suck it so good. That’s so pretty in your mouth, suck it deeper, yeah that’s it, good girl.”

I pulled her up to kiss me a few times, mostly so I could feel how her lips and tongue get swollen and wet when she sucks me off, and so I can have that moment of thrusting her head back down to my cock, pushing on the back of her skull.

She started taking it deeper, deep as she could, nearly the whole thing, kept it there while her throat contracted around it and she fought her gag reflex, then pulled up and kneeled.

“Do it again,” I said, and she looked up at me, mouth open tongue thick, and lowered her mouth back down, sucking me all the way again. “Deeper. Good girl. Take that cock in your throat. Swallow it. Good, that’s so good.”

And again she came up for air.

“Do that one more time,” I said, caressing the back of her head, “and I’ll fuck you.”

She quivered a little, I could see it ripple through her back, and then she did: brought her mouth down on my cock once more, took it deeper this time, pretty, so pretty, so far back in her throat.

When she started to resist I pulled her up by her hair, shifted next to her, put my hands on her hips and turned her over to her back, slid between her legs again.

She was so wet I barely needed lube. “Oh, you liked that, huh.”

“Yes.”

“You like my cock in your mouth.” My hand on it, putting it in place.

“Yes.”

“You like to suck it. You like when I fuck your pretty mouth.” I guided it in, hard, and started fucking her sweet but steady, deep. She moaned. Tried to say “yes” but it came out in a slur.

“I like it too. I like my cock in your mouth, I like how you suck it. You get me so hard, I just have to fuck you.” I continued, cock thrusting in and out as I took her wrists in one hand, held her down, kissed her jaw and neck. “I like it in your pussy too.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, put it in my pussy. Fuck my pussy hard.” She shifted her hips up and back and I thrust an inch deeper, reached around her thigh to get a nice grip on her ass.

Somehow, she was set off and kept a steady stream of words at my ear, every time I thrust harder into her I’d get a nice reward of her lovely voice saying dirty things: oh yeah baby just like that, fuck me hard, you know how I like it, you know how I love your big dick in my pussy, put it in me, harder baby, fuck me, fuck me hard, and when she gets closer it becomes ooh baby you fuck me so good, you fuck me so good, baby that feels so good, so good, you fuck me so good, baby, baby –

And somewhere in there I lost it. Blurted “I’m gonna come” as it started happening. Groaning, harness against clit, thrusting my cock deep in her; I don’t even know what I do exactly when I come like that because I’m so unpracticed at it that my body goes and releases and moves and I’m not sure what I’m doing.

She wrapped her arms and legs around me, held me close as my breathing evened and my pulse calmed.

Her dirty talk got me off. Twice.

“So,” Kristen said, arms around my neck, looking up from under me, my legs between hers but bent and wrapped around each other, both of us naked, skin to skin, sheened with sweat and still a little bit out of breath. “I guess we figured out what gets you off.”

Not that I – and she – and, let’s be honest, the entire fucking internet – didn’t already know what I like: blow jobs, strapping on, fingering a girl until I make her squirt. But this was different: I came twice in the few recent hours we’d been fucking. Probably mostly thanks to what Kristen was saying.

We’d talked about it the day before. “I want to be used,” she’d said. “Just … fucked with no regard for my pleasure.”

And so I did. And we liked it, a lot, both of us.

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

Just typing that makes my knees go a little weak. Why does that turn me on so goddamn much? Makes my head spin. I feel guilty for it, really, somewhere, just a little, a small piece of me that fears that treating a beautiful, smart, strong woman like that – objectifying, humiliating – is bad and wrong. I know fantasies and role play are so much more complicated than that, that the problematic power play and gender play that we oversexualize for pleasure is just that – oversexualized – in a very specific context, and it doesn’t mean I would ever do those things outside of that context. In fact, the context is what makes them hot at all – the consent – the way she asked for it, explicitly and specifically.

I’ve known this is what deeply gets me off. This isn’t new. I discovered that I could come while strapped on and fucking with Callie, and this is precisely what we used to play with, precisely the language we used, precisely the kind of thing she wanted. I had trouble with it, sometimes, partially because I wasn’t sure I could trust her (go figure) and because of how she demanded it, and that if I didn’t deliver correctly there were consequences.

So this kind of play does open me up in sensitive places, triggers me a little bit, pulls on old wounds of trauma.

I’ve known how much these concepts, this play, turns me on, but I haven’t really brought it up with Kristen before. Well – no, that’s not entirely true. We’ve been building to this, been learning each other and building trust and playing with consent and dirty talk and power play. We’ve been building to this, and it’s of course I wouldn’t have come to her on the first date – or in the first month! The first three months! – and say, I want to take you down like this. I want to fuck you until I get off and disregard what you feel, whether you like it or not. I wouldn’t say that! Even now, I have trouble writing it out – it’s more complicated than that being what I want, what I crave, because while it is, I just can’t get there to do that until I know for certain that my respect and honor for her are in place – and that I know she knows that, too. That I know some of her history and why she craves to be degraded in these ways. I need the trust to be there, and a deeply feminist understanding of sex and power play such that the issues of consent and degradation are clear, understood between us, and ultimately irrelevant to the way we play.

So I didn’t say it first. Honestly, it never occurred to me to this extent – if it had, I might’ve brought it up. We have played with elements of this, but nothing quite so specific or elaborate as we did yesterday. But I so needed that extra little piece of consent, that explicit permission which came from her – so I know I didn’t coerce her into it – that says take me. Overpower me. Use me.

We talked about this a bit recently – I wrote about it – about how hard it was for me to get off and how much she wants – we both want – me to get off more, and one of my major conclusions in exploring that has been that I pay so much attention to her, how she feels, what I can read from her tones and moans and body language, that I forget to pay attention to myself. It’s a strength of mine, to be observant, thoughtful, to pay attention to the person I’m with, I think it makes me a good lover and friend, but it doesn’t always serve me well: I loose myself sometimes, in ways even that I don’t always recognize at the time.

(I wonder how this relates to my history with Callie too, the ways I lost myself so totally and terribly with her. Maybe my getting off (easily) with her wasn’t actually deep connection with myself – or perhaps that’s unfair, since honestly that’s precisely the benefit that I took from that relationship: knowing that I needed to learn to deeply trust myself. But maybe the ways I came with her were about something else. Regardless, whatever connection to myself I began culminating with her was so challenging to keep while dealing with her neuroses and insecurities.)

And that’s precisely what Kristen brought up when we talked about it later: it makes sense that it is a big relief, and release, for me, when I stop doing that. When I no longer put someone else’s needs above my own, and in fact allow myself to override theirs with mine. I never do that, sometimes to my own determent. So being able – and being asked explicitly – to do that sexually is a huge, huge turn-on.

What I’m trying to say is, Kristen & I opened up something deep and wounded and complicated and beautiful and fucking powerful yesterday evening. It brings up guilt, it triggers some old wounds, brings some of my issues of overattentiveness to the surface, and makes me feel so strong and powerful, like the king of the world.

I know you want to know more about what it was we actually were saying, those dirty, filthy things that got me to come inside her twice while strapped on, during a blow job, during a punishment spanking for her being such a dirty girl, during some intense fucking with her ass in my hands and her legs in the air. It’s taken me all day to get through this, unfortunately, so I’ll have to write up the dialogue tonight and get it to you tomorrow.

Did I mention how much I am just totally loving my life? I can’t believe what an amazingly dirty filthy sexy hot freak I’ve found. And? She likes me as much as I like her. Grateful, grateful, grateful.

A Resplendent Image

Some days just the memory of her is enough to drive me wild.

I’ve been holding on to the image of her in my bed last Sunday all week, rolling it over in my mind like I roll my ring on my finger.

We’d already been fucking, all day really. Woke and I couldn’t keep my hands off her, stayed in bed until hunger forced us up after one. Back home and I wanted more. Cradled her, fucked a while, until I wanted to watch.

I’m perhaps more of a voyeur than even I know. And she is such an expert at her own body, I love watching her as her skin flushes, fingers move, hands hover above her own pussy as she shakes, then opens her eyes to look at me: “want me to do it again?”

This time, she was on her back, on my bed. I wished aloud for a spreader bar and then made one, makeshift, from a white-tipped straight black cane and black rope, her ankles as far apart as they could go, she couldn’t close her knees.

Then: clamps on her nipples. Tighter than I expected, but I know she likes the pressure, likes it when I bite hard.

Then: I got a cock out, a big one, the widest I have, I can’t even get my thumb and forefinger all the way around the narrowest part. It is short, so, hard to strap-on. I keep it in my hand as I watch her writhe for one, two orgasms on her own, as she can’t take something that big until she’s warmed up.

I tug at the chain of the nipple clamps, twist them around for more of a pinch. She moans. She likes it.

I watch her come and lube up the cock, slide it in without much resistance, watch her face change, her hips open, as she starts working her clit again right away.

And these are the images that flash in my mind: that thick red cock shoved all the way in; her hands, both, between her legs, upper arms pushing her breasts together as the clamps and chain accent her nipples and swollen aureole; knees up and rocking back and forth, straining against the bar holding her ankles apart.

I’m kneeling at the foot of the bed, knees apart, stroking my cock, still strapped on, watching from slightly above as she writhes and moans.

Then: next to her, my hand working the cock in and out, my mouth at her neck, shoulder.

“Kiss me,” she whispers, as I refuse to close the distance and keep her straining to reach my mouth.

I grin, and slap her instead, three four five six times in rapid succession. She moans, I hit her again. “Or slap me, that’s good too,” she breathes, nearly under her breath, as I continue to make her cheek pinker, and I do, again, and she starts coming, harder, so I slap her a few more times before leaning in to kiss her, until she starts jerking as she comes and nearly knocks me in the nose with her forehead.

“Fuck me, please,” she is unhinged like this and asking for just what she wants, and I love that.

I shift between her legs, the bar holding her ankles apart now behind my knees and I keep some pressure on it so she can strain against it, and slide inside easily, wrap my arms around her, kiss her hard, and we lose ourselves in it, rocking against each other, going deep.

On Butches: Coming Inside

The truth is, it feels embarrassing, really, to come while strapped on and fucking. The amount I have to let go and risk is sometimes too much for my heart to open up.

It isn’t fair to say that she doesn’t have to do the same amount of risk and letting go when I throw her down onto the bed, shove my hand between her legs, push my fingers inside until she’s screaming and thrashing under my forearm holding her down.

But it’s different, isn’t it?

Let’s not say one is harder than the other, it isn’t about hierarchy: only that one is not the same as the other. But, why? Maybe because that’s the way her body is “supposed” to work, biologically it is built to take inside, to be invaded, to tilt the bowl of her pelvis up and open the hinge of her hips back.

I don’t like making generalized statements like that: “women are made to x because biologically, bodies are built like y,” there is so much unfinished in that statement, and there is some sort of deeper, inner sense of gender and self that is discounted because of our binary system of classification under biology.

But there is something, something about the ways that entering inside, being permitted to come inside, being permitted to invade, to be permitted to take and thrust and enter, is not what my body is made to do, so I am on shaky ground, out of synch with what my cells know. There is something so vulnerable about having sex organs (like a silicone cock) outside the body, something so exposing about the ways I get … hungry, desperate for a safe haven, so dependent upon another for fulfillment and satisfaction.

And there is the moment of orgasm: shuddering and losing control momentarily and I don’t even know if my eyes are rolling back and my mouth is lolling open, such a moment of unconsciousness when I usually have such precise purpose when I am on top, fucking her, sliding in and out, rocking against her. I know exactly how this feels and exactly where to put my hands and such confidence in the ways that I am moving. But in that moment I lose that and all I can think of are those guys, those stupid guys in every bad movie where they are completely lost in their own world and the girl is looking up at them with a face like, really? Really. You’re just going to keep going and you can’t even tell that I’m totally disconnected, and that might be my worst fear, that I am alone in those moments of pleasure, so wrapped up in how my dick feels in her pussy that I don’t even know the ways she is not enjoying this.

And then I am spent and small and soft and dribbling and drained.

I know there’s more to it than that. I know.

But there’s a tiny aspect of it that infiltrates my mind when I find myself close, when I feel my cock tighten and balls lift, muscles pinching. I can’t do that, I can’t let go.

Maybe that’s why it has been nearly impossible to come while strapped on with anyone since Callie. It happens, sure, but it is inconsistent and unpredictable, which makes it all the more embarrassing and exposing. Maybe I haven’t trusted enough. Maybe it’s all mental. Maybe I am still terrified to expose myself, now that I see how easily I have lost myself in the recent past. On the inside of every cell wall in me has YOU CAN’T HAVE ME written a hundred times in tiny print. But maybe I need to go in there with a delicate eraser and figure out what pen it was I used, and write something else. Or maybe I need to leave the walls blank and clear so I can see right through them.

Because when I come inside her, and then come back to myself, and to her, like I did on Sunday morning, nearly falling off of the bed, sheets and blankets completely askew, light coming in the slatted blinds behind us, and she looks at me with those blue blue eyes with so much clarity and witness, so much reverence and strength, though there is a part of me that panics, there is also a part of me that has come home.

Gendered Sources of Physical Power: Beauty vs Strength

I don’t know exactly where I first heard it, but somewhere I read once: men want to feel powerful, and women want to feel beautiful.

Now: calm your “oh my god social construction of genderrrrr!” self and let’s start with some further clarification. Women feeling beautiful, in this expression, is also actually a source of power; and men feeling powerful, here, actually means “feeling physically strong.” At least mostly. Agreed?

So really, it’s saying that men want to feel strong, and women want to feel beautiful. These are two – of many – major sources of power based in the physical body.

I know this is a cliche. I probably read it in the context of gender deconstruction and the socialization process of gender. I know this goes along with conventional, normative, often damaging gender role assumptions that value men for their physical strength and women for their physical beauty.

And as much as I am aware that those concepts are socially constructed, I also have seen the ways that they are played out and real for many, many people. So maybe we’ve internalized the values of the culture. This is one of the problems with social constructionism in general – if something is created socially, then in theory it can be uncreated socially, right? But just because something is done socially – rather than biologically, say – doesn’t make it any less real or “authentic” or deeply ingrained in many of us.

And this gendered source of physical power is amplified, I think, in butch/femme culture, where we go inside these roles with purpose to explode them, exploring the socialization and de-essentializing traits said to be inherent in biology. Is it as easy as explaining that we are continuing to internalize the compulsory mutually exclusive gender paradigm? I don’t know, maybe. Certainly that probably accounts for (to pick a completely arbitrary number) 45% of it. But there is something else in there, something deep-seated underneath in me that swoons and grows and stretches its wings and feels so greatly alive when she whispers, “you are so strong, so strong” like she did last night.

And I remembered all the times I gazed in awe at her beauty (every time I see her) and remember the ways she swoons to be seen, femme and whole and holy, and I wondered if I should be saying more about strength and less about her physical attractiveness. Am I just buying into what the culture tells us we should be or say or value?

[ Yet – oh I do tell her I value her other qualities (don’t I? Yes). The depth of her calm understanding and respect feels like such a gift each time I encounter it. I fear it could so easily go the other way, yet she has the connection to the world at her core which means she values others’ experiences. And she’s strong enough in herself to know that my feelings are not about her, and to accept that with grace and clarity. And then there’s her wonderful good moods, her energy, her interest in keeping the spark lit behind her eyes. Her deep ability to feel, to observe, to respond. Her analytic skills, and how she can dissect things into pieces (while still respecting the whole!) and look at how it all fits together. There is much more to her than her beauty, heaven knows I know this. ]

And yet: in the deeply intimate moments, this is what comes out of my mouth: pretty girl, pretty girl. you are so gorgeous. I love the curves of you – here, and here. your skin glows so beautiful in the morning light.

And in that moment last night, when she commented on my strength, my heart swelled and burst like a wave cresting, and the inner cavern of my chest was smooth as a sandy beach, just for a minute, perfectly even, soft, made up of a thousand tiny grains, the breakdown of everywhere I’ve ever been.

I don’t know why it matters so much that I am seen as strong. But it does, it does.