The State of Me: Sex

So, FatherMaster handed me a link. To this.

Is that the vibrator I want, in the colour I want, for forty dollars cheaper? I do believe it is! AND FatherMaster offered to pay half, for a Giftmas present. Ee!

I have already ordered it. And talking to Dragon on the phone, he says sweetly "you should get it so I can use it on you". Oh my...

Of course, Dragon has all sorts of plans to use on me, and me on him. He plans on investing in candle wax and ice cubes before the next visit. I have a package of clothespins sitting on my desk. Vibrators, yarn, belts, ben-wa balls...ohhhhyes. All manner of excellence, there is.

Of course, he's far enough away that I can't go gallivanting off to see him whenever I choose. Which leads to an altogether rather frustrating relationship. We'll see, however. *smile*

Have a lovely day!

I would love to make a proper post, about what's going on in my life. Most importantly, I feel it's time to put my writing muscles to the test, and see what there is to say about Dragon, who is kinky, and switchy, and gorgeous and new, and visiting me tomorrow.

Plus, I keep reading The Over-Educated Nympho for hours at a time, and damn! There is something about good writing that just makes me want to write as well.

Unfortunately, I've got a date tonight with the Gentleman (unfortunate? Who am I kidding! We have progressed to the naked stage, and so dates are wonderous fun things!) and before that, I have to take a midterm, shower, wash my hair, shave, clean my room, do more cleaning of my room, and write a paper. Maybe if I'm really lucky, I'll remember to eat.

So stories will have to come (tee-hee) later. Sigh, being a grown-up is *so* not fun.


ETA: And this is really just a Note To Self (I'm not a good blogger yet, I can do that) but I really ought to write about the ShibariBoy, who has been teasing me most cleverly. I keep making the mistake of thinking he's merely a friend I can talk shop with, and then he'll surprise me by not only expressing an interest, but by doing so in such a way that makes me squirm. Bastard.

I hate having triggers.

I feel like I should be better than that, stronger, more sane. Like my metasexuality and my bibliophilia should override my personal problems and neuroses.

And so when something blindsides me...it hurts. It hurts like hell, and it's scary, both for the memorybomb released, and for the feeling of weakness, of insanity that comes from having given in to the memories.

---

I've spent the evening reading Under His Hand archives --I got to here, about face fucking. Full on, vomiting, choking, barely able to breathe, face fucking. Written about well, and strongly, and sure, a little bit scary, but it's okay. I can take it.

As background, I...have a severe squick regarding my neck. I do not like choking. I do not like gagging. In my world, there is no such thing as erotic asphyxiation, and any attempts to convince me otherwise is going to result in a mentally broken mesix for a little while. The concept of hands around my neck frightens me in ways that normal pain does not. Frightens me to the point that, as I write this, I'm shivering, crying, alone in an empty room with nothing around my neck at all but the hem of my t-shirt.

So when Kaya got to the bit about having to signal her master when she needed to breath, and if she did it incorrectly, he would just keep going and forcing and choking her...gods, I squeaked and started crying.

---

...And seeing as FatherMaster has just sent me a porn about reaching eighth base, which reads a bit like an xkcd comic, I think I'm okay again. Damn this girlish ability to swing moods so easily.

I do love him so. I shy away from the word with him --do not want to scare away the boy who is just for sex, but he takes care of me better than any of my other boys. He is a good and glorious man.

So, I've finally decided on/come up with/detremined/learned, whatever a word for describing my specific fetish. Or at least, my favourite fetish anyways.

Metasexuality. If someone else is turned on, it turns me on. If someone has a kink, and they write about it, explaining just why it is that such a strange and wonderful thing makes them all hot and bothered, man, for just a temporary moment, that fetish is the most intense, the sexiest in the world The world is funny and people are strange, there are so many absolutely bizzarre ways to be turned on, and I like to hear about all of 'em!

Maybe it's a biblophilia thing --I've always known that words are the fastest way to cream my panties nice and wet. Write me some delicate and delicious porn, and you'll have me wrapped around your finger, beegging at your feet. (This is one of the reasons why FatherMaster has such a hold over me)... I absolutely love words, and essays, and stories and cybering and any sort of textual way of explaining the hows and whys of just the sort of sex we enjoy.

Maybe it's an enthusiasm thing. I love it when people are enthusiastic about just about anything- geek is sexy, after all. Geek is *really* sexy. If people are getting enthusiastic about something in front of me, real, genuine passion, it doesn't matter who it is or what they're excited over. I'm turned on.

And that's why I'm metasexual. Because when other people are passionate, getting really into it, it just rubs off. That kind of passion is amazing to witness, so pure and total and complete. I want to be able to have that passion for things, I want *everyone* to be able to have that sort of passion, for something. If you have that passion for sex, well, why not. Good for you!

And so, I don't think I'd ever *really* like to be pissed on. My ass is an out hole, thankyouverymuch. Uniforms aren't any sexier than the rest of things people wear, and tentacles are something that ought to stay in my sushi, not my porn.

But *man* is it hot to read about those things when wrritten by the people who care about them.

Iiiiii just got a package in the mail.

It is blue, and slim, and comes from feeldoe.com

Ohh, BelovedDude and I are going to have *fun* when I go out to visit him next. Only three weeks!

When I'm not having a good old fashioned romp in the nearest bed, probably my absolute favourite thing to do is to dance. Dance by myself, dance with a partner, dance with an entire set of partners, whatever. Just moving my body to music is probably one of the most satisfactory activities I ever get into.

One of the forms of dancing I quite like, though I'm not particularly experienced at, is contra dancing. At a dance festival last February, I found myself doing a fair amount of contra, with a fair number of partners.

One partner...he was *good*. Not just at the dance, and all the little twirls and flourishes the male partners tend to throw in, but at moving, at matching me, at being a true gentleman. Reengergized, after the dance, I asked him to waltz. As we drew closer and closer, I decided to take a leap. "Would it be terribly impudent to ask to kiss you?"

He smiled. We kissed, and parted ways.

A later festival, the end of April. We remeet, and discover that we are quite near to one another --only a few blocks apart. That festival, we hardly get to dance, but we make plans, to attend the regular contra dance in the area together. The night arrives, and yes, the dancing is just as good. (But you of course don't care somuch about that, now do you?)

Sitting in his car, parked outside my house. We kiss, which leads to further kissing, and further. Near an hour, and all the debate of "we should really part ways" that often comes with such joyful madness. Nothing more than kissing, not this time. He is, like I said, a true gentleman.

"I have to return home for the summer" I tell him. He assures me it's alright. We'll just have to see what happens in September, when I'm back to my true home. At the very least, we've been chatting regularly.

Of course...he's in the city closest to me on Monday. Maybe nothing will happen. Maybe everything will. Regardless, I'm quite interested to see him again. Messer Gentleman.

Ah, tonight has been a productive evening, yes.

Spurred on by a particular post in the always delightful Erosblog.com, I have spent nearly the entirety of the last hour looking up sex toys on the internet.

In addition to the vibrating nipple clamps briefly mentioned in this entry, and the Feeldoe BelovedDude and I intend to get, I've *quite* solidly added something to my wish list:

The LELO Liv.

It comes in *green!* Oh be still, my fluttering heart!

((For what it's worth, that bright orange Sinnflut Phantasy described by ErosBlog looks just *amazing* as well. But if I'm going to drop a hundred dollars on a sex toy, well...FatherMaster has let me play with his little pink Liv before. It is *quite* a toy.))

...The fact that I'm going to use funds earned from being a bright smiley babysitter to a sweet little one year old to buy a feeldoe.

Oh dear, I *am* a girl next door, aren't I?

...Which is all to say, it's really really interesting when my dark moods become sexually charged. I'm not sure that's ever happened before --while sex and violence are happily tied up with each other in the back of my brain, normally when I want to cause myself pain, I'm about as far away from horny as one can get.

Like I said, I have some small ideas what's causing this --it's been a very long time since the mesix has gotten any more action than her hands and her vibrators, and I've made friends with a lot of frustration lately, plus I'm back home for the summer, which is a place I hate. But still. This is a kind of dark I'm not used to. Perhaps more later.

Something has put me into a dark mood. I have ideas as to what it is, but it's making what I want right now a pretty scary set of experiences.

I want to be done up in rope bondage, rough rope shoved around my tits. My arms bound behind me, unable to move. Gagged with duct tape or fear, and slapped around by someone who really cares. I want my hair to be pulled, my face to be slapped, my ass to be spanked. I want to be forced to my knees and have a cock forced into my throat, so far back it makes me freak out¹

I want to be called a worthless slut and a dirty whore and kicked in the ribs and forced to the ground. I want to lie, naked and tied, for hours, waiting for permission to move. I want to be bruised and battered and HURT, hurt so bad I can't think straight about anything but the pain.

Think of it as two person self injury. I'm not going to cut my skin up with a pretty little knife, I want someone else to do it for me. I want to be whipped and wounded until I can actually start to cry, and just sob it all out.

I'm not in the kink community. I'm not close to anyone who I know is. I can't always get what I want, which is honestly just okay right now. But I've got a dark interior right now, and I want the exterior to match.

Have a nice night.

1: I have neck issues. Choking, drowning --hell, even just hands approaching my neck make me freak out. Deep throat is not doable without me completely losing the mood.

Like all right-thinking geeks, xkcd is one of my favourite webcomics. In fact, it's where I've stolen two of my user icons from --my default "sex" one and my "romance" one.

A couple years ago, I was lucky enough to see Randall Munroe speak at a convention I attended. Somewhere in the midst of the talk, he said something I found just fascinating --that even though he just drew stick figures, when they were having sex, he actively tried to make it sexy.

Go look at the fourth panel of today's strip. It's amazing how well a few carefully curved lines can warm the nethers. That is some *hot* stick-cunnilingus.

So, I had a perfectly legitimate excuse to visit my favourite sex store today, Good Vibrations¹ --I needed batteries for my sweet little magic touch bullet, Donkey², and more importantly, I had a poor deprived friend who had no vibrator, needs one, and is currently a little short on cash.

While there, however, I found myself being enticed by the Pearl Drop Vibe. One of my only problems with Donkey is that it eats up batteries, and I've yet to ever see rechargable watch batteries for sale. The pearl solves this problem by taking a single AA battery --of which I have at least four rechargables just sitting around doing nothing. For eight dollars, I was certainly willing to embrace my inner hippie (as well as my inner cheapskate).

There was some frustration once I arrived home, being as the batteries in question hadn't been plugged into the charger for several months, and were thus completely run down. This evening, however, I got a chance to play with the vibe, and quite enjoyed myself. The vibrations are differently strong depending which end of the toy you use, and perfectly strong for my needs. It's not silent, but it's not super-loud, either. Altogether, I'm quite pleased with it.

What should its name be?

---

1: I deliberated for a moment whether or not to give the name --it rather destroys my locational anonymity-- but I love Good Vibes enough that I'm definitely willing to try and give them the extra traffic. Later on, I'll do a proper post explaining all the reasons I adore them.
2: Doesn't everyone name their sex toys?

I haven't the time to write a proper post at the moment, but this is really just to bring something cheerful to the top of my page. (Even if no one reads this)

So. In the past three weeks, I have made out with two lovely new boys. My life has gotten very more interesting.

...I'm going to have to think of some new names. Bloody *hell*

But yes, carry on. Proper posts will show up later.

Staying Silent hurts.

My university is participating in The Clothesline Project this week --a project designed to bring attention to the prevalence of sexual and domestic violence (especially against women).

I want to make a shirt. I'm still working out exactly what I want to put on it --"You said if I loved you, I'd fuck you. I say if you loved me, you wouldn't have forced" only more eloquent, better written --I am a writer at heart, and not writing well irritates me. Things go through constant rewrites in my mind.

But, to return to the point of the post, I haven't. I haven't tried to make a shirt. I've paused, ever so briefly at the table, tried to think through my words, but to no avail. I know I shouldn't keep being Silent --hell, staying so Silent hurts.

But I'm not strong enough to speak out.

And part of it is just social fear --it's not like CrazyEx *actually* raped me, it's not like he ever tried to use physical force against me, or hell, ever got his penis into me. The term rape? It can't possibly apply to me, because he never forced me into sexual intercourse, and that's what all the dictionary definitions seem to focus on.

I haven't *earned* my right to use that term.

But...

But he did force me. He used his words, to get me to do ever so much more, guilt and coercion and even when I asked to stop, to take a step back, he refused. He yelled at me, calling me a prude, implying that there was something deeply wrong with me.

And yes, he told me, in so many words, that if I loved him, I would have sex with him. He pushed and pushed, and when I told him I wasn't in the mood for sex, he asked if he could just press against me, essentially use me as a sex toy, his cock pressed hard and rough against my ass. He knew I didn't want anal, fine, that didn't stop him from being so rough it hurt some times.

And on that last morning as his girlfriend I woke up with his finger in my ass, and I just knew it was over. Pushing me further and further to intercourse, grooming me to enjoy it, fuck him, I was no longer having it. I was strong enough to break up with him.

Eight months later, I was finally strong enough to completely remove him from my life, when it proved from his comments and IMs that he was just so very not healthy for me.

It was a little over a year before I was strong enough to take back my livejournal as my own, talk about relationships and people and things that had happened.

But here we are now. It's been a year and a half, almost. And I can't talk about it. My Best Friend, the girlfriend I would marry, if I thought marriage was a reasonable concept, the boy I've given my heart to, the boy I've given my *self* to, none of them know.

Part of it's charity. I know we had mutual friends, I know many of them are still mutual friends. I don't want him to be thought less of by then. I don't want to hurt him --his life has been so hard and so rough and I'm not willing to just push it over the edge.

Part of it's love. Rereading old chats --I really did love him. I cared about him. I wanted him to be happy. I don't fall out of love easily, to the point where I start to wonder if I ever really loved him at all. But regardless, he's human, and I love him for that.

But most of it?

I think it's fear. I'm scared of what people will think, of him, of me. Of what they'll say. That they'll think I'm an idiot for staying with him so long or letting him go so far. Because I am an idiot, I should've been strong enough to not get involved with the man who fucked up my brain more than anyone else there ever was has or will. If I had the strength to escape him all along, why did it take me so fucking long to stop letting him hurt me?

I'm ashamed of my weakness. I'm ashamed of my past.

And although I still don't feel I've earned the "right" to say it, maybe doing so's the next step. Even if it's just in an anonymous blog, that nobody reads, that's supposed to be about happy warm fluffy sex positive things.

I was raped.

I was raped.

...And I'm still too weak to stop being Silent.

---

(((I apologize to anyone reading that this is my first post in a month or something. Life has been kinda blah, and I haven't felt much like writing. But this wanted to be said, and it was so hard to hit the post button in the first place, that I refuse to negate it by hiding the entry away.

I will find the strength. It's just gonna take me a long long time.)))

I've stopped calling myself a virgin.

For much of my life, I've been calling myself a Proud Virgin, and it was utterly, completely true. I liked being a virgin, I planned to do it until I was married. I was, after all, not only asexual, but antisexual when I was thirteen and fourteen and fifteen and sixteen. All my friends were rushing into relationships, holding hands, kissing, groping, fingering, more and I was just firmly sitting on the sidelines, happy in my pretentious belief that one *really* didn't need sex to be happy, and throwing oneself away like that was just disgusting.

Even through my relationship with CrazyEx, where we were doing sexual things, I was still adamant in the fact that I was a virgin, and was planning to stay a virgin for a long time. Then, one day he called me on it. He said that, because of all the things we'd done, given each other orgasms curled up warm and naked in bed, he said he didn't think I was a virgin anymore. That I wasn't a virgin anymore.

(He later cited this as the turning point in our relationship, and it may well have been. I certainly was less inclined to sleep with him after that, distressed and hurt by his words and the shame of no longer being that which I so idolized. But that's somewhat of a different post.)

I was incredibly damaged by his words. Seventeen, maybe three months from turning eighteen, maybe five at that point, and this glorious beautiful ideal I had been holding for the last four years had just been torn from me. If I wasn't a virgin, I was clearly a slut, and I just couldn't deal with that. Not in application to me.

Fast forward two years. I'm nineteen now. I've become sexual, and in such a way that I can view it as natural, as something fun and worth doing and all those little reasons why people have sex in the first place. I still find the thought of thirteen and fourteen and fifteen and sixteen year olds having sex to be extremely frightening, but I no longer think of it with as much fervour and bile as I used to.

CrazyEx never took my virginity. I figured that out at some point --that he had absolutely no right to try and define who and what I was for me. That it was my job, and my choice to define myself, how I saw fit. We had sex, but he never deflowered me, we never had that last step between merely close and truly intimate.

Somewhere in the first six months of our relationship, I saw BelovedDude refer to herself as a nonvirgin in some meme or another. And that set me to thinking --of course she's not. If she's a lesbian (or a heterosexual male) and she's had sex with me, she has no reason to feel as though she's a virgin. Which would logically imply that I'm not a virgin either.

That realization didn't spook me nearly as much as CrazyEx's accusation. I still didn't feel like a nonvirgin, but at least I didn't feel the shame associated with the idea to nearly so much an extent. As 2008 went on, and I became more sexual, with more people and in more ways, my responses to people got more and more complicated.

"Well, yeah, I'm a virgin. My boyfriend and I have just kinda done everything but." This was later defined to me as a 'dirty virgin', a term I used for awhile, before finally dropping it.

Because honestly? I'm not a virgin anymore. I'm not pure, I'm not innocent, I'm not maidenly or unsoiled or any of that. I've never had a penis in my vagina, but I've had sex, fantastic, wonderful sex, with multiple people in multiple ways, and I've enjoyed it. I've actively sought it out. Forget the past tense, I do enjoy it, and I do actively seek it out.*

I suppose if anything, I'm closer to the traditional definition of a slut. And I'm okay with that.

I used to call myself a Proud Virgin. I think it's formally time to start calling myself a Proud Slut.

---

I feel it should be noted that the lack of PIV sex is not for lack of trying at the moment. Unfortunately for both of us, BelovedBoy's other girlfriend, GirlfriendInLaw, is having a particularly stressful semester at her school in another state, and, when he brought the topic up to her, said that she really didn't feel like she'd be able to handle both the fact that I get to see BelovedBoy more often than she does *and* have real live proper sex with him.

On the one hand, this really really pisses me off, because honestly? Sex is more than just sticking a penis in a vagina, and there are a good number of ways to do it that are just as beautiful and intimate and hot. Why should just that one be off-limits to me? But I do understand that it's a closeness thing, and a societal norm to be the most important and significant part of sex, and I can see where she's coming from with this. It's not like I was in any particular rush to have my cherry properly popped.

I will be *incredibly* amused though if BelovedDude gets ahold of that feeldoe she wants, and she gets to take my v-card before BelovedBoy ever does.

*I am not, however, having sex at the time of this writing. Unfortunately.

I'm 19 years of age, but throughout my entire teenaged years, I've only rarely felt like your stereotypical American teen. I've got a lot of pretentious reasons for this, but it basically boils down to the fact that I am mentally older than most of my peer group, which I think is the significant factor in my repeated interest in older men.

Over my winter break from college, when I was back home, well...I managed to have one of those rare moments. I actually felt my age.

Over the break, I had a lovely period of time in which both BelovedDude and BelovedBoy were visiting. That led to a number of Happy Poly Moments in and of itself, but because of the ways things worked out, I was either sharing a bed with both of them, and another close friend, or it was just BelovedDude and myself curled up in my room.

This, unfortunately for BelovedBoy, meant that as the week progressed, he was getting steadily more horny, without any real way to relieve himself. I was being no help to him, teasing and petting him in our spare moments together, never actually doing anything risky in my parents house, but certainly getting close.

(What can I say, I'm a tease!)

The day after BelovedDude had left, BelovedBoy was scheduled to leave, and was planning to unfortunately do so while I was at work. Around two or so, I get a text message asking whether I had taken my break or not. I replied that I wasn't on break until three, and asked why.

His response remains one of my favourite text messages ever.

"Was thinking I might kidnap you so I could screw you silly somewhere..."

I was completely shot for the next hour of productivity. When I wasn't texting back and forth with him debating where to go, I was fidgeting madly, trying to fight the urge to smile like an idiot. As he pulled up in his car, I said a quick goodbye to the boss --"back in half an hour!"-- and scrambled into the passenger seat. Not having been able to think of any convinient places to go, we had decided his car would probably be the best place. A quick cruise around the hardcore suburbia I grew up in, and we found a semi-secluded dead end, a block from my elementary school.

There was a moment of awkwardness, neither of us quite sure how to proceed, before we kissed, releasing all the tension at once. Twisted against each other, our hands soon found their ways into each other's pants. It was rough, it was messy, and it was quick, but it ultimately worked --we came within a couple minutes of each other, just before I had to head back to work.

After pausing long enough to laugh at the fact that the windows really had steamed up, we started to collect our bearings. "I feel like a teenager." I laughed, and he chuckled. "Yeah, me too."

The rest of the day, I'm surprised I managed to get anything done at all, not with an afterglow that warm.

(((I tried posting this to bad_sex and lost out, presumably because it just wasn't terrible enough. Oh well. I can't help it that most of my sex tends to be really quite wonderfully good. *grins*)))

So, BelovedBoy just underwent surgery for an RSI, and hasn't been able to use one of his arms. This has left him feeling lethargic and frustrated from not being able to move right, and just generally not as sexy. Fine, whatever, I have a vibrator, it's all good.

So, the other night, we go out to visit friends. There is dinner, and chatting, and naked hottubbing, and loads of cuddling, and it's all wonderful. At one point during the cuddling, he winds up slipping his hand inside my top and stroking my breasts for a minute (to prove I wasn't wearing a bra) which just drives me up a wall, it feels so good. We get back in the car, drive home, I'm torn between unbelievably horny and completely exhausted from a really long weekend.

I'm curled up close against him in bed, at that awkward point where it's unclear whether or not there will be sex happening or not.

Him: "So, my brain is weird."
Me: "Yeah? I know that. What this time?"
Him: "It just said "No sex!". In the "No Capes!!" voice from The Incredibles."

Bad_Sex is being cockblocked by Edna Mode

BelovedDude has been doing various ftm transitiony things lately, not the least of which has been drawing on facial hair and packing.

During our chats tonight s/he said this:
3:01:49 AM BelovedDude: (My penis fell out my pantleg, how embarrassing)

Such a lovely entertaining message. Alas, for plane tickets across the country and a feeldoe, what I would do...

My favourite day? Oh, it is most certainly Half-Naked Thursday, especially now that I've discovered the blog HNT Anonymous.

A place chock full of real live people shyly showing off their stuff? Mrrrow! Sign me up. Possibly literally. *smiles wickedly*

((In all seriousness, man did that first discovery get me hot. I heartily urge you all to add it to your blog roll, today.))

Well, now, *that* was a new experience.

Teasing with FatherMaster led him to pouting about the fact that I wasn't flashing him. This flowed to it's natural conclusion, with me getting on video chat with him, so I theoretically could.

If I so chose.

I was however, less silly (the mood required to flash people) and more horny. And, as we all know, a horny Mesix trapped at home is inevitably going to lay her hands on her trusty little vibrator.

*smiles wickedly*

I am, just maybe, a little tiny bit of an exhibitionist. Just a bit. Especially with him -FatherMaster just brings out the absolute *worst* in me. (Or maybe that's the best...) So when you have a horny Mesix and a webcam, along with a boy who appreciates sexy women giving themselves pleasure...well.

There was only one thing to be done, and that was masturbate. Masturbate, with the cam aimed at my face, and let him figure out for himself just what I was doing to myself. And all the while, typing back replies one handed to the wonderful ideas he was telling me, the beautiful...suggestions.

(He used to write porn. Some of the words he writes me make the past tense of that phrase incorrect.)

And I let slip I was feeling, oh, submissive. The bastard tailored his porn, just for that, just the way a little sub girl wants to hear, and I let myself slip into the sort of voice a good little girl would use when talking to her master. He made me ask permission before he would let me cum, but when he finally did...

Oh, it was lovely. All the moreso to catch glimpse of his hungry face as I arced and shook.

I never thought of myself as a webcam girl. But really. I'm not at all displeased with the experience.