You are currently browsing the monthly archive for May, 2008.
I have been in occasional e-mail contact with a dominant man on a BDSM forum. He wanted to meet with a view towards exploring his latent submissive side with me at the helm.
We live at what seem like opposite ends of the earth and opted to meet at a public fetish night a few weeks ago. I gave him a description of my appearance and apparel and asked him to say hello.
After a few hours I didn’t see anyone who resembled his profile photo and decided that public displays of flogging and bloodletting with needles weren’t stimulating, so I went home to a warm bed and soft pillow. He had left a message saying he liked my appearance but didn’t want to “intrude on the territory” of the person I was accompanying, and signed off asking when we could meet.
A quick way to raise my hackles is to assume I’m someone’s property — especially if I issue an invitation at a social event. And it’s even easier to make me snarl like a rabid dog when I’m covertly eyed off without being given an equal opportunity — grrrrrr to cheap power plays.
I received a new message saying the unfurling of his submissive leanings might work with me because he couldn’t with one of his subs or someone he knows.
Couldn’t? Ouch. That hurt more than a leather paddle to the posterior.
His reluctance to meddle with existing dominant/submissive dynamics is understandable, but saying it’s out of the question to be vulnerable with *anyone* who knows him? I smell a hint of shame in his underlying message and it stinks.
I asked him to clarify what submission means to him as an individual, in case I’m misinterpreting the written medium. Gut feel was correct; he wants to communicate through e-mail rather than the forum’s private messaging in case someone intercepts his messages “because some things are embarrassing.”
Submission is not a position of inferiority or shame and feeling the need to defend it pisses me off. If this man associates his desire with embarrassment, he can pay a professional for some secret humiliation because there’s nothing in it for me. I don’t want to be in the same room or scenario as a man who won’t acknowledge the masculinity and gift of his submission. It’s supposed to be grand, not degrading.
A lot of submissive men do nothing for the cause because they are over-eager to lie down and roll over for punishment. It’s too easy, too predictable, too tempting to hurt out of spite instead of mutual excitement. Where’s the challenge and thrill of earning the right to hurt and re-construct a man? Where’s the joy in uncovering a part of the inner self when it’s clouded with guilt?
Don’t give up out of weakness. Give because you are strong and not because you’ve found a keeper for your dirty little secret.
Give me strength.
Electronic tyre-kicking? The online equivalent of the local agricultural show? A never-ending cavalcade of dicks, clits and floppy bits?
The Drummer laughs when I turn on the computer and asks if I’m logging into Dick Pics Daily. He stopped smiling when I showed him a penis splayed atop a beer bottle in a novel attempt to demonstrate its breadth, macro photos of someone born with male and female genitalia, umpteen women with harlot-red lipstick and black eyeliner sucking cock in the style of their favourite cheap porn flicks, and dicks, lots of dicks.
I didn’t mind the images of the young man with the body of a Roman god and the head of Ben Stiller doing Zoolander’s ‘Blue Steel’. So sweet, so gloriously dumb, so corruptible.
The single naked photo of a police officer with lines carved from marble and a straighter-than-the-equator penis – fuck you for leaving a smile and not responding to my message. I dreamed of cladding you in a thick leather harness, breaking you down into a sobbing heap and re-building you with my tongue.
A profile picture of the peachiest rump ever placed on a male body that might need my fingers and thumbs digging into it went straight to my hot list for future contemplation.
A man with gently-angled eyes and chiselled cheekbones reminiscent of Lance Armstrong brought a smile.
The bi man I mentioned in my last diary entry (who may be referred to as Dr Jekyll from his delightfully evil ways – I will discover more tomorrow night) unlocked his private photo gallery and I viewed two pictures of him sucking his playmate’s cock. Dick photos are much more erotic when they have context and align with a fantasy. It might be worth sorting through the procession of penises to find more quality visual stimulation.
I shed penis photo fatigue and met one of the correspondents from my online advertising travails.
I’m glad I broke through last-minute nerves and thoughts of postponing because he has unknowingly created two delicious problems: managing my craving to see him again, and creating a suitable pseudonym because I want him to be part of this adventure for a while.
He is one of the bisexual playmate duo who sparked my curiosity — the other travels regularly so we met one-on-one rather than wait for three diaries to show a gap. He is more attractive than the photos, an engaging talker and interested listener, green eyes reddened from long hours at work but flashing with intelligence, radiating positive energy while whispering with a hint a danger. Being able to operate on two levels at once was sexy as fuck and made my mind wander through the many ways I’d like to arrange him naked.
We ventured on a tour of his office building’s dark and quiet places but he didn’t make a move to do anything in them, stood behind me so I could feel his breath on my neck and brushed my hair with his fingers, then broke the closeness and led me to the next place. Discussed things he’d like to try physically, but didn’t mention me specifically in his desires. Teased me lusciously, fucked with my mind on every level and made me want — crave — yearn — more.
It’s a heady mix of exhilaration and frustration to be circled and dared to move closer; being invited to pursue rather than be the online prey.
After the walk around, we settled in his office, facing each other and moving our chairs closer as the afternoon and conversation passed. When the furniture finally touched, my legs draped over his and his hands brushed my upper thighs, punctuating with a stealthy pinch as he talked. Testing me. He is Scorpio by horoscope and nature looking at the blue-black mark on my inner thigh. It must’ve been the one pinch that made me squeal. I didn’t ask him to stop.
I think he’ll be a magical mystery tour in a man. How can complexity like that be defined with a simple alias?
Folds of loose skin from shoulder blades and hips escaped with an almost audible cheer of liberation when she loosened the PVC corset’s laces. Breasts that had fed children and lost the battle against gravity fell out like crème caramels unpotted from ramekins. She arranged each piece of discarded clothing in an orderly pile to slow the clock and change into her mind’s safe space.
Onlookers clad universally in BDSM black huddled in a respectfully-distanced throng as she shed layers to a black g-string and stay-up stockings. She treaded carefully towards the St Andrew’s cross, feet moving out of a practised ritual of submission. The audience snuck glances in a ‘trying not to look’ way, relieved that someone else had volunteered to be first.
On the adjacent window sill rested a row of floggers from jewel-coloured warm-up implements to the star of the show: a hand-made cat-of-nine-tails with leather lashes like the gymnasium skipping ropes of old. The owner of the tools swung his arms in figure-eight patterns to warm up as the woman arranged herself against the apparatus. Her arms followed the dark wooden upright angles of the X, but her patent stiletto-clad feet pressed together firmly. She was ready for sacrifice.
A female body on show past its youthful bloom clashed with society’s doctrine that women of a certain age should dress appropriately, or fade away to allow the young and beautiful the spotlight. She became immaterial anyway because her identity and physicality as a woman became background material for the skilled whirl of dual-handed flogging with two suede pieces, a flurry of thwacking sounds like cooked spaghetti thrown on a wall taking over centre stage.
A pink blush radiated from her spine as her body warmed to the treatment. The ministrant continued swishing her body’s padding with his right hand as his left reached for the next flogger in the line-up. A soft leather tool with a sharper bite than the suede quickly intensified her colour to a peach’s blush in a step closer to the expected finale. He paused to exchange implements, confident in his judgement and timing.
She flinched when the first blows landed from a nylon flogger with knotted tails.
The spectators wanted her — willed her silently — to suffer nobly to meet their desire for a satisfying conclusion. The arms at the end of the floggers slowed their arcs to allow the woman time to re-balance and get the story on track. She steadied into the new weapon’s sharp form of hurt and the pace picked up again, a drumming pattern of soft leather from the left hand with a nylon smack on the four-beat from the right.
Her back turned the colour of sunburn that’s certain to peel. Attention moved to her still pale backside until it was the same inflamed hue. Slumping posture and hands gripping the wood told the crowd that victory wasn’t assured; perhaps she was peaking too early. The practitioner softened the tools’ landings but maintained a whirring of activity in a display of showmanship rather than punishment. She drove her head into the cross, trying to transfer the pain where she could control it.
Every submissive knew from experience that her shivering frame was in the yellow zone between being flogged and being broken. The nylon-tailed implement was placed reluctantly next to its team mates and he selected his pièce de résistance; she was past the moment of being ready but he was blinkered in the need to test his handiwork. All the work in preparing for this moment would be for nothing if he stopped now. Finally the inner voice of experience and responsibility spoke to him, and he paused for a whispered conversation with his subject. She nodded and re-adjusted herself against the frame, drawing on her inner reserves for the finale.
He stroked her back with soft leather strips, resting the cat-of-nine-tails in his other hand. Once the woman was back in her safe zone, he took aim with his prized implement, landing its leather strips across her left shoulder blade with a well-timed snap of his wrist. Gasps and exclamations of “Fuck” broke out and several people looked away. He brought her back to earth again with soft strokes and then matched the new burgundy welts with a matching set on her right shoulder blade. No one spoke this time.
It was like watching a bullfight on television, knowing the bull can’t win but holding hope for a resurrection just this once. Tears flowed silver down her cheeks and her hands lost their grip on the cross. He put the tools down and rubbed her arms, careful to avoid her tender areas.
She nodded she was all right and he sat with her on the floor as emotional outflow spilled from her crumpled form. The audience dispersed out of respect; newer people to the scene pondering the awkward and unspoken etiquette question of offering assistance or looking away to enable a private recovery.
He left her for a minute and returned with a jacket to relieve her uncontrollable shivering. After wrapping the protective layer around her, he clasped her hand briefly to complete the aftercare. The woman’s eyes were still glazed, unfocused on the movements around her. She stayed huddled in a ball, crying and alone. He moved away and played show and tell with his new flogger with passers-by on the way to the bar.
Someone remarked that she had been given a “good” flogging.
No, there’s little good going too far in the interest of entertainment. He was skilled with his tools, but not caring towards her. He performed for the crowd, not for her edification.
I wondered how she felt in the sobering light of the following day. Did she have an ‘other’ to look after her properly?
I couldn’t allow someone to flog me in public. It’s too intimate.
The dust has settled on my inbox and my head has stopped spinning even though 200 ‘smiles’ and messages need answering. The Drummer can’t stop laughing at the encyclopaedia of dick pictures I have been sent — sweet revenge was gained by showing him images from females’ and couples’ responses filled with bulging, squeezed-together mammaries that look ready to burst through the computer monitor.
I’m more optimistic now some gems have revealed themselves in the rough.
Two bisexual men with whom I’ve exchanged a couple of e-mails come across as relaxed, mature and — importantly — comfortable with each other. They’re allowing me to step forward and take the lead at my pace. They have done this dance before. My curiosity is piqued.
A younger man purporting to be a police officer responded to my pre-occupation with men in uniform. It’s hard to tell if he’s telling the truth because his photo features nothing but a gloriously bare body and a camera flash. He could have pinned his badge to his chest. A devil-may-care attitude came across in his brief introduction and I will respond tonight. There’s an appealing energy about him.
Many couples’ profiles are filled with off-putting demands typed in capital letters and littered with exclamation points, such as the man can touch but cannot penetrate the second female, or only the women can play together. Boundaries are expected and respected but lists of rules become too much work. However, a local couple with enthusiasm for most scenarios sent a smile and we have exchanged some encouraging messages.
Deciding if a response strikes a yes, no or not sure reaction has come down to the inner voice. How do I feel after I’ve read a response and profile? Some information shouts ‘no’ immediately such as being in a different state or country, wordy responses of boilerplate text sent en masse like a net thrown by a fishing trawler, ads by couples that display the female like a trophy and omit information about the male, and not reading what I’ve written (massage my ego, please).
Photos are important but not vital, I’ve found — I haven’t seen what the bi men look like as I am enjoying our e-mail jousting. They will probably want me to ask for pictures as the next step of our dance. Re-used wedding photos are disconcerting, as are drunken party shots with faces blacked out or concealed with sunglasses and baseball caps. I’m not going fishing with you so put down the rod and trout that’s bigger than your head. Unless a penis glows in the dark or sports an interesting tattoo, I don’t need a photo right now. And I really don’t need half a dozen photos.
Must go, more dick pics to view.
At the risk of manipulating others with my flakiness, I posted an online ad for a long-term casual liaison to help distract myself from the MB experience. My profile was sober in tone, blunt and free of frivolity, almost an anti-ad. The section detailing who and what I was looking for was well specified and with enough fetish to scare tyre kickers. It screamed I am not an easy ride. There was no mention of the popular ‘fun’, ‘easy going’ and ‘naughty’ descriptors and the only image was a happy snap of my face caught on a mobile phone camera.
I got more than a 150 ‘smiles’ and messages in 48 hours. The public doesn’t swoon and fall at its feet when I pass in real life and this attention is new and unsettling. I wonder how many opportunistic advances photogenic women have to sift through to find genuine callers in the unsettling ‘snap up the new meat before she’s gone’ mentality of online meeting.
Only half a dozen respondents seemed to read the ad. People pride themselves on their listening skills; reading is the online version of listening but few do it. A pleasing picture doesn’t ensure compatibility in isolation to an honest and frank introduction, so fucking well read the text. It took me two hours to write so it takes you only two minutes to read.
I am a deer that’s stepped unintentionally into a paddock of hunters. There is no time to think when half a dozen messages flash up on the instant chat screen after logging on. It’s not flattering; it’s stressful. I made the mistake of responding out of politeness and had ravenous cyberpeople requesting ‘normal’ sex first before the weird stuff. Sorry, when did a stilted five-minute chat session turn into an assumption we were going to meet and have sex on your terms? Out of every dozen women you try this tactic on, how many bite? Truly?
No, you’re not getting my e-mail address, chat ID, phone number or free cybersex thrills right now. Not my game. I’m not even going to engage in twee banter of telling you I’m wearing something black and flimsy to provide masturbatory material when in fact I’m in last week’s tracksuit with spaghetti sauce stains down the front. The online fun police got me long ago, I’m afraid.
The virtual closeness created by instant communication doesn’t mean we’re familiar after a few lines of abbreviated text. Move at my pace or please move on. Call me old fashioned but I am choosing not to care because your pushiness detracts from my potential enjoyment.
Men often complain that they do too much chasing and women don’t do enough asking. Try slowing the fuck down and give women a chance to move first.
