PRIDE - Even the Internalised Sort

I fancied you when I met you - oh, didn’t we all? Six-foot-something, heavily tattooed and pierced, one of those ridiculous to-die-for bodies, you quickly became the heart throb of our large cluster of misfits. I knew of at least five girls who had fallen head over heels for the tough guy looks and gorgeous smile, so I stuck to being your mate instead. Like I had a chance.

Maybe it felt once or twice like there was chemistry... I put it down to wishful thinking. At eighteen, you in your mid twenties seemed far too sophisticated. You had a girlfriend (have had ever since, for that matter) and too many girls after you, most of whom saw me as the safe platonic friend to ask “do you think he likes me?” and it was a stab wound, every time, to know you’d fancy them over me.

Only... I was completely, utterly wrong, and weren’t they all. Because under that hardcore exterior and behind closed doors you are THE single sissiest boywhore I have ever had the pleasure of, and my god have I had the pleasure of you in every way I can think of.

So next summer, whilst they are swooning over you in your vest top and cut-offs, I will be grinning at the memory of you in stockings and ribbons and frilled lace; in rubber; in cuffs and soaked underwear with the word ‘slut’ scrawled across that lovely washboard stomach. You ARE a slut, my slut, and a brilliantly imaginative and enthusiastic one at that. When they finish fishing for compliments and come to tell me that you’ve said they’ve got nice eyes, or you like their hair, I will smile and “oh really, wow”. I’ll be dying to tell them the things you’ve said to me, about me, about yourself, offered to do or in fact done in my name, but I’ll content myself with remembering how you sound whimpering, praying, begging not even for anything specific but purely groveling because I am your Goddess and you adore me.

And whilst I’m attached now and you should probably sort yourself out, I will forever take delight in remembering that you were my bitch.

St. Kink

I credit much of my current self confidence and my current attitude to one man. Before him, I was a wallflower slowly peeling from the brickwork and beginning to lean into the open air. After a few mere months of him (in real terms, ten days or so in his company) I had blossomed into... well, a raving pervert. Not so sure blossomed was the word I was looking for, now!

I’m not for a second saying he corrupted me. More that he, in gently revealing his own...tendencies, gave me a forum to reveal my darkest desires and showed me that it was alright to want things. Alright to experiment. Alright for things to go horribly wrong and if you ended up having to cringe/laugh hysterically/burn the evidence/call the paramedics you chalked it up to experience. As such, I tried more things for the first time with him than I can possibly put number to (although one day I might try)and know I won’t hold back on things I want to do in the future.

And my my, he was into some weird stuff. I say was, I presume I haven’t put him off any of it. And when I say weird, I mean... there are fetishes, and there are the fetishes that are taboo even amongst the fairly open minded, and he is off the end of that scale. And slightly to the side: there were things he came out with which were just baffling. Not even disgusting, just plain obscure, like he was making them up to find out if I’d say yes to everything.

I did.

And I did because I trusted him. Not to look after my heart, not to turn down hot local girls determined to sleep their way up the scene, but to be honest about it and not put me at risk. To stop when I said stop, to be open to my own little quirks and fantasies, to be patient whilst I learned and to laugh when it went horrendously wrong.

It was like a great big BDSM/Fetish checklist. We did pretty much everything I’ve every heard of, and a few things I’m convinced he made up. One or two maybe I did. At one point he genuinely had an Excel spreadsheet written up, because we knew our time was limited and you have to be organised to fit all this nonsense into a couple of hotel weekends a month. Sadly we left it with a few boxes yet to tick, although the rate we added to it, I don’t think we’d have run out of ideas in a lifetime of room service and individual Molton Brown hair and bodywash bottles.

This was how I went from having done virtually nothing to virtually everything in half a year. And I must say, I enjoyed all of it. The sex was fantastic, both in terms of technique/results and the balance of tenderness and humour with which it was conducted making it completely okay that I wasn’t loved, committed, or a ‘girlfriend’... it was fun, I was having a fantastic time and accepted that there was nothing to be ashamed of.

That’s not to say he was perfect: he was, after all, doing all this in spite of being in love with another woman; he was consumingly pretentious, vain to the point of parody; once we genuinely thought he’d given me herpes and on more than one occasion we had blazing rows that lasted days. But rare to find a man who could flatter me without being smarmy, teach without being patronising, idolise me without being lecherous... Given the volatile nature of the concepts we played with it could have gone so horribly wrong, but he took my fragile self esteem and handled it with such care that our twisted pastiche of a love life became the most enjoyable and fulfilling thing I had ever had.

I thanked him a while ago, sincerely, for giving me the safe learning environment which has opened my mind and, dare I say it, enriched my life. And for doing so without once letting me feel used, dirty, hurt or anything on that spectrum. What he considers common decency has been above many of the people I’ve encountered, and I truly appreciate it.

“I’ll be alright when you go to write your autobiography then? Like a madman, obviously, but a decent one?”

“Oh yeah,” I replied. “When I write my biography, you’re going to come across as the Patron Saint of Perverts.”

Dealbreakers

Now, my limits aren't where some girls' might be, and my standards may be a bit odd, but I am NOT sleeping with anyone who says things like this, and this is PASTED from IM, for god's sake:

shot deep inside one of your hungry fuckholes

..Let's take a look at that phrasing. "...shot deep inside one of your hungry fuckholes..."

...Shot?
..hungry?!
...FUCKHOLES?! "one of"; indiscriminate?

...Hunrgy fuckholes? No, sorry, just no.

The Berlin Incindent

Wow, it's been a while. Sorry about that - much more doing, much less writing about, but truth be told I prefer it that way so I'm not THAT sorry. Still, I've peen promising this story so here it is, in all the detail I remember. Every word the truth.

Berlin was weird.


I always felt that, not drinking, I'd missed the whole 'mad night out in a foreign city' thing. Hand on heart, I planned the Berlin weekend for entirely different reasons, but there was a boy there I had unfinished business with. That is to say, for huge amounts of kink, experimentation and general messing about, I'd never had actual sex with him. In fact, I was still in the rather uncomfortable situation of only ever having had sex with one guy (sort of, that serves for argument's sake) and felt an immediate need to break the claim my ex of six years had over my sexual experience.

So, yes, I'd wanted to have sex with him. I'd dithered and delayed and missed my chance - so I thought - when he moved back to Berlin in the summer and had met other people, moved on, dismissed all of it to dream-like memory

But I was going to Berlin, for just one night. Could I say no to one more night of dancing, laughing, and whatever the night brought, with him? Like so many happy memories from London? not a chance. so despite a migraine, a post-migraine panic attack and having been awake for 38 hours, I bade my mother goodnight and meandered off to get the u-bahn, dressed to the nines. (For the record, my mother doesn't let me walk to the shops in my hometown alone, Christ only knows what was going on in her head to let me 'meet a guy I know, back in time for breakfast!' in Berlin...)

Not sure why I was surprised when he turned up, on time as always. Tall, skinny, femininely gorgeous as always, strutting down the platform in jeans tucked into knee-high boots, gloves, belted-coat and scarf, all black, laying starkly against his pale skin, the sweep of blonde hair, the bright blue eyes lined with kohl and mascara. for the same record, my own black coat covered a floor length but thigh-slit PVC skirt and a red vinyl corset top, and for a while we just stood there, in the tube station ,drinking in the strangely effortless attraction that had always crackled between us, however unlikely we were. All the pleasantries and small talk were somewhere between breathy and entirely breathless, just context for the tone of voice to tell each other what we actually wanted to say

We took a walk by the river, chatted in a way we hadn't managed since a weird London weekend when a mutual friend had ended up dead and everyone else hugely shaken. Time was a healer, and the distance even moreso. He was home, and I was there to enjoy just one night of the city he loved.

It was just us, too, which made it all so easy. None of the bitchy hangers-on he'd acquired in the London clubs, no drugs, no one particular friend who runs around licking people.

We started at Boheme Noir, a notorious yearly fetish event with some of the most bizarre cabaret I've ever encountered. Flashes that spring to mind now include a guy doing hula hoop with glowing things inside a giant bubble, a weird live-sex thing about faeries, fire and a woman in a business suit sitting on an actual stuffed alligator

We danced, we drank red bull, we laughed at a montage about boobs in horror movies and sang johnny cash songs and acquired a friend who was wearing a judge's wig. To say the night had taken on a hallucinatory feel doesn't even nearly cut it.

From there we moved to KitKat, still where the original was and apparently famous for being the most hedonistic club in Europe. It's unmarked, a doorway behind a gate down the side of a building, with a bell I was too scared to push. We arrived at three or so, when entry cover should have been the unfriendly side of thirty Euros but we were young and beautiful - we smiled at them and they signed us in, checked our coats and waved us on. Apparently the dress code is fetish or naked, enforced to the extent that if you turn up in street or club clothes they hand you a sort of tie dyed sarong thing and make you strip. You then get the German equivalent of "towel skirt!" shouted at you by the regulars.

KitKat was all sorts of crazy, neon and swirly with sculptures and sex gear and too many levels and side rooms. Without a firm arm around my waist I'd have been lost in seconds, and I'm not sure I'd have wanted to be found. suddenly I have a sweet drink and a lollipop, I'm dancing happily to music which is far more pulse than tune amidst the naked and the bizarre, everyone as at home as everyone else, people talking and meeting, dancing and kissing, a timeless freedom within which i feel that the norms of outside... of my outside, not theirs, from what I've seen of this city... are truly forgotten.

We get tired, retire to the chill out room to roll about on inflatable furniture, beneath an angel statue which is missing its genitalia ("It's hole-y! see? Holy?" laughs a cheerful German guy who looks like a musketeer).

We meet, make friends with and both alternately make out with a truly breathtaking boy of about our age who's wearing startling bright blue contact lenses, and it takes me an hour or so to work out that's not something which usually happens. Nor, I suppose, was laying intertwined with them both, although favouring the company I'd arrived with, absently talking to an Italian guy and translating because he spoke English but no German, whilst watching someone on the other side of the chill out area being fisted by a procession of people, none of whom I'm convinced she knew. I don't call that chilling out, really.

Suddenly, or maybe over hours, who knows? the mood changed. At once I'm alone with my... date? Is that the word? and wordlessly, the decision is made. On what could be - but isn't - our last meet up, I'm giving that voice that chimed up in my head the first time I ever set eyes on him the answer it's always wanted. Hand in hand, we shun a number of more logically appropriate places because they're overcrowded, too cold, too noisy. We spot a caged seating area, twelve feet or so above the dancefloor and awkwardly scramble up the narrow blocks that lead to it, all decision making and forethought required already over with.

So, what I've spent arguably a couple of hours or a couple of years trying to second guess happens there and then, behind bars and with an audience of a packed, sweating dancefloor of hundreds and a working bar, if i look one way, and throbbing total darkness if I look the other, underneath black-lit neon swirls and glowing ethereally violet under blacklights. He reads my hesitation but I push the nerves away: now is right, this is all so right in its utter wrongness.

It hurts. It hurts so fucking much, and even if my mind is totally ready for the actual milestone, my body is nowhere near ready for the physical necessities but all I can think, with a determined smiles as the pain slices as high as it's going to, is 'there. I am myself again now.I can do this because I want to.' And I do want to, and soon it becomes enjoyable for both of us. I still wouldn't by any stretch describe it as fundamentally good sex: he is held back by nerves and I am kept in check by discomfort and inexperience, but we soon regain our old dynamic of roughness, nails and teeth and I hope, if any of those watching from the level below (and they ARE watching) commit an image to memory, it is of me astride him, head back half because I'd thrown it there in abandon, half because he's yanked it there with his hand in my hair, his teeth sunk firmly into my neck and our chests pressed together.

We waited a while, after, in case we got heckled or applauded or something, I'm not sure, and then mostly fell down the padded step-blocks we'd used to ascend to wander off and get drinks. We laughed and chatted again, back to our easy company, until I realised that it was light outside and that, being November, this meant I had likely missed breakfast and had half an hour's journey across central Berlin for an earful from my mother and a day of sightseeing. we said our goodbyes, I think he called out 'see you in London'; I didn't turn round.

Winter morning sunshine is a funny sort of light to be delirious in, it doesn't help the lucidity when you've been awake for forty something hours. It was all in danger of becoming one of those things I merely imagined I'd done: after all, it played back in my head like something I'd read about, not something that happened to real people, least of all me. I quickly text one or two safe people, confessing the brief details, subconsciously pleading for absolution. I was cold, dizzy, tired and hungry. The sex had left me bleeding, i was conspicuously hiding a plastic outfit under a coat. it wasn't a nice time to be trudging around a strange city on my own. Still, i made it to the hotel in time for a shower (at which point I found feathers and glitter down my bra, always signs of a good night) and immediately took back to the street in jeans, t-shirt, a hoodie and a clean face.


Weirdly, at something like 11 am, I was blatantly propositioned by a middle aged guy, just randomly in the street. I had a moment of sheer mortification - the word 'slut' seemed to be lipstick-ed onto my forehead, or he could still smell the night on me through the hotel soap and the Chanel No. 5. Maybe he'd been there, maybe I wasn't as anonymous as I felt in the country I consider my home-from-home. Maybe it was just like every other time that's happened to me, magnified by the perceived enormity of what I'd done.

So... so what? I drank hot chocolate, stayed awake for another fifteen hours before a brief sleep and going back to work. I analysed, and was baffled, and recount the story occasionally to those who are easily shocked by my less-scandalous behaviour, purely to amuse myself.

I've never regretted it for a second.

Flingers

I have had the great pleasure in my life to encounter more than one flinger.

Know what I mean? Are you one yourself? The type of lover who will pull an item of clothing, normally your underwear, off and fling it haphazardly into the middle distance. Sometimes they don't even know they're doing it, something's in the way and they are removing the obstacle. Others, it's a very deliberate "you won't be needing these..." In either case, it's fun and the noise as such items hit the floor (usually) a metre or so away is delicious. Flingers, never stop, you are truly fantastic.

This, however, is why my flatmate remarks when doing the washing that I seem to get through twice as much underwear as I reasonably should. The logic behind this is that I never put the same underwear back on after sex:
A) It feels a bit weird, and
B) I normally can't find it.

Also, come laundry day, I have normally found at least one tangled lace item on top of my wardrobe, behind my radiator or bunched up in a bit of my curtain. Sorry, grim but true. At least you now know they were relatively clean.

On a final point, just don't fling condoms. I mean, I know there's used as in rolled on and taken off and used as in used, but even the former... come on, that was dry-clean only.

On Being a Dodgy Perv in an Overcoat

I bring you this blog from an exhibition, where I'm very well dressed, handing out business cards and causing designer handbag envy. Makes it all the more delicious, I feel.

Ahhh, there's nothing like a proper knee length belted mac for making you feel and look like a grade A pervert. Particularly when what's visible below said mac is freshly-shined black moulded rubber stockings and seven and a half inch stiletto heels, as it was when I deigned to horrify a perfectly respectable woman in a hotel lobby.

I'd like you to picture the scene, because I find it incomparably amusing. Dressed thusly -


I held my head high and took three brave steps out of the lifts into the hotel lobby… where we were faced by an average middle aged couple. The bloke, bless him, gave us a cursory glance and walked on. The woman gave us a genuine triple take.

The first look was barely registering our obstruction of the path to the lift.

the second was a gawp of enthralled disgust. A thinly veied 'people like you really exist?' Indeed. And the fact neither of us are the fat, balding loner men associated with such stereotypes but in fact, may I say it myself, relatively attractive examples of the species probably did nothing for her confusion.

She made herself look away, of course, and then couldn't resist a look back. The last one was definitely fascinated contempt, for some reason aimed far more squarely at me than my actually more rubbery date, and then when she attempted to avert her eyes, they went to the floor, got stuck on my shoes and I almost tripped over it as I continued to saunter along, suppressing a lot of giggles.

Was all that really called for? Other than the overtly sexual connotations, there was nothing obscene or visually offensive about it - so the thought process is then 'what am I missing out on, here? What pleasures do they know of that I don't?'
A fair few, if that face was anything to go by, you miserable trout.

It's half eleven, madam, we're consenting adults. Let's face it: what you don't like about this picture is that I am having more fun than you. Does my composure in such hip tilting shoes threaten you? Does my comfort in attire that speaks such filthy volumes about my proclivities unnerve you? Does it make you uncomfortable? Good. Does it maybe turn you on a bit? i do hope so.

So here's to you, Ms. Face like a slapped arse - not only were you the source of much immediate amusement which i'm still having a chuckle at several days later, but I thought about you. Oh yes. However many hours later, drowned in pounding music, surrounded by darkness, enjoying the admiring stares of strangers whilst being thoroughly fucked, what remained intact of my outfit still on, apart from where it counted, I thought of you. I thought how absolutely horrified you'd be by the entire scene, let alone my inadvertently involving you in it. I knew you'd be entirely appalled and just maybe the tiniest bit jealous, and nothing turns me on quite like that. If only you knew.


Other hilarity includes being bumped to a suite bigger than my entire flat because they'd originally allocated us a room with two single beds pushed together. The temptation, had they not been cooperative, to spill the contents of two suitcases of kink onto the reception desk and inform them that really, a double room would be better would have been overwhelming. And it might have sidestepped the moment when room service knocked a bottle of latex polish off the table. Or we once again spectacularly failed to notice something conspicuously dodgy in full view before ordering food. And actually, it's just occurred to me that I may have been upside down on the sofa reading in none too conservative underwear and a duran duran t-shirt when they came in, and that on the scale of the weekend's weirdness, this was normal enough to have escaped my attention until reflecting several days later.

My turn

Fetish clubbing tonight, which should be fairly brilliant, followed by a weekend in the city making the most of hotel facilities and as much pervery as you can fit into two reasonably sized suitcases. I sat on mine to get it done up and, on triumphantly padlocking the two halves of the zip together, realised I hasn't actually got proper clothes with me. Probably irrelevant, I doubt I'll need more than what I'm travelling in.

A chance, tonight, to dredge up and tick off a few of my long term fantasies. Not that things so far have been by any means one-sided, but we've mostly gone for things he's suggested and I've thought were a great idea, or decided were worth a try and ended up loving. I think all of tonight's set up was my idea first, and this is pleasingly new to me. I'm excited.

What's not as new to me as he thinks is the club sex. I'm not hiding much, it's just that when playmate du jour was first warned of my relative inexperience, his reaction was interesting, and I may have been laying it on a little thick since then. You know, the "why, no... I've never done that..." which I might possibly have lead him to the impression covers sex with an audience. White lies, white lies, I figured I'd be best off not telling the Berlin Story, particularly as aforementioned playmate and I were already seeing each other when I had that little interlude.

I haven't even posted any club sex stories yet, have I? Shame on me, bad girl, etc. My very next post, promise.

Payment in Kind

Actually, my handmade custom rubber outfits (enthusiastically donated by playmates who would enjoy my wearing them as much as I do) are worth a damn sight more than the Louis Vuitton purse your fiance bought you. And I'm not making dinner.

Arse: Knowing my elbow from, etc.

It takes a lot to confuse me about my sexuality.

I like men. I like women. I like all shades of everything in between. I seem to be able to top and bottom and D and s, I'll try everything else that's going and if I like it, I'll do it again. That's about the size and shape of it. No confusion there.

He and I are supposed to be all about kink. My pure-sex attraction is supposed to be about kink. So when we wake up in the early hours and the odd brush of skin turns into a warm hand, the press of bodies, soft lips but no teeth and we screw like that, gentle and slow and electrifying, and then lay there kissing and stroking hair and cuddling close, intertwining bodies until we fall asleep or can't survive any longer without coffee...

...and I like it...

...this confuses me.

Sometimes I'm lucky.

I got my miracle. I got spanked, I got fucked, I got called names and tied to things and kissed and petted and treated like a princess. Mmm,mm mm. More when I'm more coherent.

As an afterthought, it never occurred to me that having child-sized hands would mean wrist restraints (quite fortunately, when you think about it) don't go down to my size. I could wriggle out of just about anything, if I wanted to, i could be bondage Houdini.

But what would be the fun in that?

An Embuggerance

Ladies, gents... mostly ladies, actually: The contraceptive pills.

Wonderous invention. Accredited with female sexual liberation, with preventing countless unwanted pregnancies. It decreases your risk of certain cancers, helps with acne and other hormonal problems, and theoretically prevents you getting your period when your weekend plans include an expensive hotel and a very attractive man who would have you lick his boots, or put you over his knees, give you a sharp spank and call you a fucking filthy slut.

Theoretically.

The word 'fail' springs to mind, although I'd prefer something a little less internet speak-y, but I'm more concerned with making contingency plans. Mostly, these include praying that the additional hormones will kick back in, working out what can be done in spite of the interference and drafting the apology/request for prompt rescheduling that may otherwise be necessary.

If I get my miracle, you'll get the full story, so cross your fingers for me.