Patience is not a goddamn virtue

Just when the anti-depressant residues are leaching out of my system and I want to road-test my new ‘old’ self that orgasms, it feels like I couldn’t score a fuck in a brothel with a fistful of fifties. “I’m here!” I feel like shouting to the world, “You, person with a dick, come and get me.”

The Drummer apologised recently for his current lack of interest in sex. I’m more amazed than annoyed as he’s the man who can get himself off up to five times a day and I used to worry about not keeping up with him. I helped masturbate him to orgasm yesterday and everything still works, but self-tinkering with prescription medication seems to be messing with his sex drive. I fixed myself up later in the day with some lube and the buzzing gift from heaven I bought on my last shopping trip.

Mother Nature threw a spanner in the sexual works a couple of days ago. I don’t like penetration when I’m bleeding, smelly (my sense of smell amplifies at that stage of my cycle and I dislike the merest whiff of my purging), cramping and double checking that tampons are out and towels are down if sex is on the menu. Too much fucking about but that doesn’t stop my mind spinning like a kinky porn DVD of everything I’d like to be doing.

With a bout of warmer weather shining on the southern hemisphere, Jekyll and I explored a park yesterday to determine its suitability to play out some outdoor fantasies. On first glance it was everything we hoped for: isolated car parks, bushland, sturdy outdoor furniture and undercover picnic benches. I want him to sit at a bench as I kneel on the ground and suck his cock while he controls and manoeuvres me with the lead attached to my collar. I also want to be on all-fours atop a picnic bench as he stands on the seat and takes me from behind. If that doesn’t wear us out, I also envision him bracing himself against a tree as I remove his jeans and tongue his arse until he’s so lust-crazed we collect scratches attacking each other on the ground. I wonder if Hyde is into the great outdoors. He’ll get an invitation, too.

On a more detailed recce the park’s features became everything the fun police have stuck their noses into: every stick of furniture is in open spaces under a light aircraft flight path and the scrub is too sparce (I trotted off to pee in the densest bush I could find and Jekyll wolf-whistled when my pants came off – an unconventional but effective way of testing visibility).

We traipsed around until sunset and returned to his car. I sucked him off as he reclined in the driver’s seat before we went our separate ways. He set me a challenge of masturbating but not climaxing for two days and I may have already broken his rules once or twice. I hope for a darn good spanking as punishment next time we meet.

Tensions are rising with ArmyDude. He has returned to his former workplace and we have been flirting incorrigibly with text messages and guardedly in code using e-mail. I keep thinking about his arms in short-sleeved shirts: forearms muscular and sinewy from years of weight training but tapering to refined wrists in contrast, as if he could snap me like a twig or seduce me with a velvet touch at will. Right now I’d like a lot of both. We were thinking about meeting this weekend but his plans changed at the last minute; I’m somewhat relieved as I might eat the poor man alive and scare him off. And I want to feel him inside me discovering, feeling, pushing, pulling, pleasuring, until we’re both sweaty and hurting. And not worry about tampons and towels.

Frustration doesn’t become me.

Final impressions of M1

The rest

The past suddenly bores me (seems to be a reflection of my present worldly ennui) so time to hit the ‘publish’ button and close this chapter of the past before returning to my ‘now’.

I accuse myself of thinking and analysing too much and sometimes taking too little action. The mental side of bondage and discipline is one of the few things that makes me live in the now: when I was bent over M1’s knees with my bare backside catching the breeze and trying to predict when a blow would land, I’d know I was alive. The guesswork of trying to sense when, where and how hard I’d feel an impact clears my mind of all other thoughts and makes me live each second. The constant anticipation is unexpectedly draining and the only time I’ve needed my safeword was not from physical pain, but because I had hit mental and sensory overload.

When my left wrist and left ankle cuffs were clipped together and my right side was a mirror image, nothing existed in life except the moment and trying to predict the next few seconds of my life. Would M1 straddle me and make me gag on his uncircumcised cock? Or find the uninterrupted view of my wet cunt too much to handle and fuck me in this defenceless state? If he was in a pleased frame of mind, he’d pull the collar so my neck and head were suspended in controlled animation as he fucked me. I will walk barefoot to the end of the earth across molten lava fields to experience that mix of control and helplessness again; joyfully, Jekyll has developed his own spin of biting my ear while holding a hand around my throat. I don’t know how and don’t know why but I get lost in a rush of conflicting but compatible discomforts and pleasures.

One day M1 took me to a shop that specialises in fetish clothing and accessories. My eyeballs almost exploded from the phantasmagoria of books, clothing, collars, toys, chastity devices, footwear and hitting implements. I wish, though, it wasn’t one of those uncomfortable pauses in people’s conversations that I said a little too loudly, “It’s like a big jewellery shop … but … with really cool stuff.” I received a glare from M1 for slipping out of role but the man at the counter and I shared a secret smile.

I’ll always remember the night M1 was driving us home from the fetish club and we were pulled over by police for roadside breath testing. I relaxed in the passenger seat as he had his alcohol level tested, knowing he’d be under the limit, but forgetting I was still clad in collar, cuffs and the leash draped in my lap until the policeman’s torch illuminated my side of the cabin. Whoops. Hello. That was the start of many policeman fantasies that are yet to be fulfilled.

M1 was the medium through which I found ways of creating lightness in what was a pit of cerebral darkness. And gave me the first sex I’ve had on a New Year’s Eve – brief, sweaty and uncomfortable in stifling humidity but this year is the only one I’ve started with a bang and a smack.

An anniversary of sorts – Part II

The good (and the funny)

From a deeply depressed period when physical pain and disrespect were what I craved and thought I wanted, I underwent a period of sexual evolution like a child left in a lolly shop after the doors were locked for the night. I’ll have a big, big bag of B(ondage), fill this box with D(omination), give me a few packets of S(ubmission), a handful of the other S S(adism) and I’m not sure I’ll like the aftertaste of M(asochism) so I’ll leave that for now.

Shedding the importance placed on others’ labels of people based on rituals, roles, pleasure and pain has made it easier for me to say, “I’m just me and I like what I like.” I’m not dominant, I’m not submissive, I don’t like the use of ‘switch’ in its derogative form to label those as people who don’t seem to know what they want. I’m not straight but I’m not what I think of as truly bisexual; I think ‘fluid’ is the closest term to describing my preferences. I’ll dress to my body type and not to stereotype, and if I laugh when I’m being urinated on and upset a serious humiliation session, so be it.

I like lots of things – perhaps the liquorice allsort of sexuality — and I’m sure there’s plenty I haven’t discovered yet. Try to worship my feet and I’ll use them to run a mile, but offer to bind them and I’ll be your best friend. Dress in a nappy and pretend to be infantile for me? Not in my worst nightmares. Dress in nothing and show me the vulnerability that’s usually hidden by strength? I’ll respect and honour that trust.

M1 helped that process of growth actively through his discretion and encouragement, and reflectively when I realised I had outgrown his sexual groupset and wanted to test my new self elsewhere.

M1 and I went to a BDSM club night a few times. He seemed to like that although I was collared and attached to his hand with a leather leash, I radiated a sense of the untouchable rather than possessed. Several past partners have commented on the wall I have around the core of my psyche – I didn’t know how or when I was doing it in those times, but when kneeling on the fetish club’s ageing carpet I could channel a reasonable Greta Garbo façade when I didn’t want the unaccompanied, leather-vested dominants leering at me like a potential late supper.

I liked to use the unspoken social code that others’ submissives are not spoken to without permission. In any other situation I’d treat what I consider as idiocy with disregard, but I used the periods of solitude to gaze at others going about their hidden lives. Fetish venues are a lifeline for those who have no other outlet, especially for cross-dressing men who were avoided by almost everyone (myth smashed that BDSMers were generally more open-minded than the ‘normal’ population!) but they could at least indulge their desires safely.

A female dominant caused confusion one night when she was preparing her two male slaves for a suspension bondage demonstration. Her corset so tightly bound her abundant figure that she appeared to have breasts spilling out the front and back of her body. My near-sighted eyes couldn’t tell if she was coming or going.

The Drummer may not have understood my yearnings but my roaming with M1 allowed new erotic material to fill his mind. On many occasions I’d arrive home with swollen lips, aching jaws, battered vagina and second-hand anus and The Drummer would be almost manic with lustful images of me being used by M1. Within minutes of hauling my weary frame in the door he would push me on the closest piece of floor, bedding or lounge suite and demand his fill. If we were canine, I’m sure it would have been the equivalent of re-marking his territory.

The Drummer’s protectiveness towards my personal safety didn’t align with some aspects of bondage, such as not being able to use a mobile phone at times. One morning M1 had me tied to the bed, fantasising I was his pony girl as he smacked me bright red with my riding crop. We lost track of time and I didn’t leave until later than expected, and I had forgotten to turn my phone on. Feeling refreshed and tingling after an enjoyable session, I stopped at the local shopping centre to take home lunch, having no idea The Drummer had left a dozen messages, contacted my parents and called the local police saying he thought I had fallen victim to foul play.

At the same time, I had parked my car immediately outside the police station he called because the shopping centre car park was full. I stopped to check my messages before getting out of the car and nearly died from embarrassment when I heard the panic that had ensued in my post-flogging daze. The Drummer was thankful I was alive but furious I had caused him such alarm, my parents had become aware that I sometimes disappear for the night (they haven’t mentioned anything since, thankfully) and the police – some of whom I know professionally – were on the lookout for me. I slinked home with my tail between my legs (and asked The Drummer to call off the police search rather than have me drop by the front counter to say I was alive and well).