play party etiquette

(This could alternatively be titled, “If Teppycat is Bottoming, It MUST Be Time to Talk to Her!”)

After my car’s iPod adapter was recently resurrected (yeah, first-world problems), I was listening to Graydancer’s podcast, Ropecast, on the way home from work today. One of the things he was talking about with a group of people was play party etiquette, and it reminded me of what has been a constant theme in my kinky public life: if I’m bottoming at a play party, *someone* WILL come up and start talking to me, my top, or both of us.

WTF, right??? I thought everyone knew that actually talking to people WHILE THEY’RE IN A SCENE is uncool. Unbelievably un-fucking-cool, man. But I apparently have a sign tatttooed on my ass that says, “Please, come talk to me; why would I want to achieve subspace or any sort of intimacy with my partner?”

Literally every party I’ve ever played at — except one, which I will describe below — when I’ve been the bottom, people walk right up and start talking to me. Once, at a play party at an event (which means, yeah, a BIG play party, where you’d think people would be adhering to the rules lest they get bounced by the DMs), I was bottoming to T. He had me tied with my wrists above my head, attached to the crossbar of a pillory post. Because I’m self-conscious and have body image issues, I had on underpants (but nothing else). I have a lower-back tattoo (not to be trendy [although it's nobody's business *why* I have it]; rather, I had back surgery 5 years ago, and the tattoo serves to partially cover the scar and to also re-claim that part of my body).

While T. was pausing to switch floggers, someone walked up to him and asked him if he would PULL DOWN MY UNDERPANTS SO SHE COULD SEE THE REST OF MY TATTOO.

I think my eyeballs fell out of my head. WHO DOES THAT?!? That’s so fucking rude. Because (1) hello, we’re PLAYING, HERE; and (2) you want to see my tattoo, you come around to my face and ask ME (I have big-time boundary issues when it comes to my body, although I will grant that, if someone had never met me before that event, and then the first thing they saw of me was to watch me bottoming, it wouldn’t be an absurd conclusion to think that I was owned, and the appropriate person to ask would be my master).

But still. Even if I were owned, you still don’t walk up and ask to see someone’s slave’s tattoo while the master is changing floggers!

(Interestingly — or, really, NOT — when *I* top T. at parties, NO ONE comes up to talk to me or him. I have a very effective “Do NOT fuck with me or I will KILL YOU DEAD” demeanor. Plus, I don’t make eye contact with anyone while I’m topping, because I’m just hyper-focused like that.)

As for the party that was the exception, where no one walked up to try to talk to either of us during the scene: I had grumbled at length to T. before the scene about the fact that people always interrupt, and I felt like putting up a sign that said “Stay the Fuck Away!” Because T. is a nicer person than I am, we compromised and, on the back of a chair that was between us and the rest of the party, taped a sign that said, “Do Not Talk To The Animals Or They’ll Bite! You Have Been Warned!”

Worked like a charm. But, seriously? It shouldn’t take a sign, you know?

 

the safecall: learn it, love it, USE IT

I tend to assume that, if *I* know about something, then surely everyone knows about it. After all, I’m appallingly naive for a 30-mumble-something woman. So when a friend had a bad experience playing with a new partner, I assumed that, at the very least, her safecall provided a built-in endpoint to the scene.

But she didn’t use a safecall. And I wonder: how many people do?

Her experience is not mine to share in any kind of detail; it was an unfortunately common story, though. She met a top at a local munch, they exchanged e-mail addresses, talked via e-mail for a week or two, went out to dinner once or twice, and then they decided to play. Alone, at her house.

You know, all of that is, more or less, what you’re “supposed” to do when you meet a new potential partner (in the kink world AND the vanilla world, really). I, personally, would be uncomfortable playing with a new partner for the first time in a setting where we were alone, but not everyone feels the way that I do. I’m excessively cautious about some stuff.

Anyway, my friend. The scene went wrong, I found out the next day (which was the first that I had even heard that she had decided to play with this new top). The top didn’t respect my friend’s limits, my friend got freaked out, and eventually they stopped, but the end result was that my friend was really, REALLY upset afterwards, which is quite understandable. She was upset for days, and, in truth, is still kind of spun by it, but is doing fine, basically, now that some time has passed.

When I was pretty new to the local BDSM community, I encountered people who expressed disdain for safecalls, because they found them “insulting.” OF COURSE nothing would go wrong, they insisted. Did I think they were some kind of psycho? How rude of me! These people were generally (but not always) tops/dominants, and I realized right away that they were not people I wanted to play with. If you can’t respect my need for safety, especially when we barely know each other (and, hey, what if *I’m* the psycho, huh? you ever think about that?), then I have no desire to play with you.

And I encountered people who cheerfully admitted that they didn’t use safecalls because they tended to lose track of time when playing, and if you lose track of time and don’t check in with your safecall person, they call the police, and, well THAT’S embarassing. (To which I say: stop viewing your flakiness as a charming quality and get a watch with a goddamn ALARM on it. Set the alarm, call your friend to check in, and then keep playing.)

But when I hear stories like my friend’s experience—and the ones that are even worse, that end with someone being gravely harmed or killed—then I tend to think that maybe the perceived “inconvenience” of setting up a safecall isn’t really an inconvenience at all. It might just save your ass.

 

fire on my back and staples in my arm

At a recent event, I volunteered to be both lit on fire and stapled in the arm with an electric staple gun (not at the same time). I saw a demo on fire play, which was totally fascinating. The presenter asked if anyone had questions, or wanted to do it (and by “do it,” he meant, be the person wielding the fire), and one of the people watching asked, “Can I do it…but as the person on the bottom?” The presenter said sure, and demonstrated on the volunteer, who kept up a running commentary telling us how it felt. (”Like an extremely hot tennis ball rolling over your back,” was the best description.)

Now, I had seen fire play demonstrations before, and it always struck me as nifty, but not for me. So I’m not real sure what crazy impulse seized me when the presenter asked, “Anyone else want to try?” But, sure enough, I asked, “Can I try? …I mean, will you light me on fire?”

I’m certain that’s a question I’ve never asked anyone before. Ever.

So…yeah. Being lit on fire. It was pretty much like the other volunteer said — like an extremely hot tennis ball being rolled over my back. Because the lit baton is passed over so quickly, it lights the alcohol, and then the presenter’s hand follows right behind to make sure nothing is still burning. He did that a couple of times, and even tapped, sort of, my back with the lit baton. Weird. And nifty. Afterwards, my back felt like it had been in front of a bonfire — that sort of warmed, tight-skin feeling — and that feeling lasted for about half an hour.

I’m glad I tried it, but I don’t really see me making a regular (or even irregular) thing out of it. It was nifty, but in more of a sideshow freak way than a kink way. For me.

And then, the staples.

There was also a demo of using a staple gun during play — not a medical stapler, not an office-supply type stapler; an electric goddamn staple gun from Home Depot. The presenters were a couple — top and bottom — who actually made getting stapled in the ass look fun. (Well, maybe not the ass.) They explained in detail all the safety stuff first — how to make sure that the staples and gun are exceedingly clean — clean enough to puncture human skin without running the risk of infection. And then they just started stapling. Well, first they put strips of duct tape (ouch, right???) on the areas where the staples were going to go — arms, legs, ass, stomach (yikes, ow, and no fucking way), and boobs (again I say, NO FUCKING WAY).

And then they started stapling. That staple gun has a lot of force, let me tell you. And yet, not all the staples made it “all the way in” (allegedly) so the top started pressing on them with his thumbs, and then (yikes!) punching some of them.

Really, it’s astonishing the kind of pain that people not only take, but *love.*

After the top was done stapling the bottom, and then removed all the staples, the top asked if we had any questions. He also asked, in a tone of voice that indicated that he didn’t expect anyone to say yes, if anyone wanted to get stapled.

And watching, it was clear how much force the staple gun has (hint: A LOT), but I still wondered what it felt like. You know, like maybe just one staple.

T. raised his hand to ask a question, which made *me* say, “You’re going to get stapled? Cool!” (I knew that wasn’t why he raised his hand; he’s just fun to fuck with.) “No!!!” he said. “I just have a question…which I apparently already forgot.”

“Maybe there was never a question — maybe you just want staples in your ass!” I’m such a loving girlfriend.

After more banter in this vein, I finally said to T., “If you do it, I’ll do it.”

“Aw, shit,” he said. “I can’t turn down a dare.”

“It’s not a dare,” I said. “I’m going to do it whether you do it or not.”

“Great — I can’t let my girlfriend do it and then not do it myself! All right, let’s go.”

So T. got stapled in the thigh (6 staples), and I got stapled in the arm (5 staples). I need to note that the top wielding the staple gun used a completely different, clean staple gun on us than he used on his partner, and even cleaned the staple gun between T. and me, and put in a fresh row of staples for me, not continuing from the row that T. was stapled from.

Yes, the staple gun has a lot of force, but it’s spread out over the staple, so it’s actually not that bad. And it’s kind of a delayed reaction — staples 1 and 2 were really okay, kind of like getting an allergy shot. But staples 3-5 were done in rapid succession, and they hurt. Not horrible, bad, stop-this-now pain (although I *did* say, “You know, I think 5 is plenty for me. I’m done now, thanks!”), but more of a dull, burn-y ache.

Having them pulled out, though (I had purple duct tape on my arm first), REALLY hurt. Jesus. And the rest of the day, even through a shower and ibuprofen, it just ached like the combo of a BIG allergy shot followed up by a good hard punch. And all I could think was, if 5 staples to my fat upper arm hurt like this after the fact, how much must the demo bottom be hurting, after taking staples ALL OVER?

When I saw her at the party that night, I showed her my staple marks (”I look like a gang of tiny vampires attacked me!”) and asked her how on earth she could take so many staples and not be sore all over. “I don’t know!” she exclaimed, like she was aware it was sheer luck that she had such a high pain threshold, and then she bounced off for more owie fun. I was impressed.

I’m not sorry I did it, but, much like the fire play, it’s not something I can see me making a regular (or irregular) practice of. That’s a bit much for me to handle.

But it’s a great story.

 

there are days when I know I’d make a splendid service submissive

My astrological sign is Cancer, and while I don’t put any serious credence in astrology, one of the strong characteristics of people born in Cancer is that they’re caretakers. And that’s “caretakers” in whatever way it manifests — I tend to feed people. Come through my front door, cross my path, sit next to me on the bus — I’ll offer you food. More than once. When I have guests in my home, I make every effort to make sure they’re comfortable (as well as well-fed), and sometimes I have to stop myself and just say, “Okay, I get obessive about making sure everyone has what they want, and that makes me ask ‘Do you need anything?’ WAY too often, and it’s been suggested that this drives people nuts. So…if you need anything, please tell me, or help yourself.”

But even after I say that, I still keep my eye on glasses that need refills, empty plates that are in the way, etc. It’s what I do. Caretaking is a tangible way for me to show love to people.

Which is why I think I’d be a splendid service submissive, given the right dominant and the right circumstances. I enjoy taking care of those who I love. It pleases me to make sure they have everything they need before they even have to ask. And when I know that they’re aware of what I’m doing, they never need to thank me. It’s when people take it for granted that I’m disinclined to lift a finger for them.

Sex Geek has a recent post on entitlement, and how that plays into D/s relationships that touches on this. It doesn’t focus on service submission specifically, as much as the larger issue of how a sense of entitlement plays into a power exchange. On the face of it, entitlement sounds like taking something for granted, without any appreciation. At least, that’s how I’ve always thought of entitlement.

But Sex Geek explains it much better than I can — in a power exchange, entitlement is not taking something for granted; it’s expecting something that the other person wants to give, and expecting it with the knowledge that the other person wants to give it, and, more specifically, give it to YOU.

An example that Sex Geek gives is this:

Boi L once told me that if I were to take off my jacket and let go of it without even looking behind me to see if she was there to take it – if I assumed her to be paying attention, without feeling a need to check and make sure – that would be a high compliment, because it’s an indication of my trust in her service.

In that situation, that relationship, Sex Geek isn’t assuming from a place of arrogance that Boi L will take her jacket because that’s what she deserves. No, she’s aware that Boi L wants to serve in that capacity, and therefore Sex Geek can meet Boi L’s need to serve her by taking off her jacket and let it go, expecting Boi L to take it.

I guess I wouldn’t have called such a dynamic “entitlement,” but I see what Sex Geek means when she uses it.

In any case. I am, as always, switchy to the core, but there are times when — and people with whom — I know I could be a splendid service submissive. At the right time, and with the right person, who has that attitude that Sex Geek describes, I actually crave it. There’s something about caretaking that, for me, is deeply satisfying.

 

plays well with others

If I scene with someone who isn’t T., it’s only ever at a play party, never in private. That’s simply because, the way I’m wired, whenever I play with someone other than T. it’s a casual, less-intimate interaction to me. Enjoyable, but casual. And I think that playing in “public” (at a party) helps it to be more casual — for me, at least.

I’ve done electric play with one dom at parties, and I’ve done some impact play with another dom at parties, and it was really just about the sensation itself — the objective of the scene was just about giving and receiving pain/impact.

T. and I play differently than that with each other, because we (obviously) have a different relationship than I have with other play partners.

I guess the best way that I can explain it is that there can be, for me, different goals when I scene with someone. And I can have a scene that’s only about the pain/impact/sensation/etc. with a casual partner. We both have to know that from the start, but that’s the point of negotiation.

Or, to put it even more simply, sometimes I just need a good flogging. And that’s all it is.

T. tends to like harder impact play than I’m used to doing as a top, and so he’ll bottom to other people once in a while, and it’s just about getting his butt seriously kicked by someone who’s really good at it. He and I had to decide “ground rules” about what type of play we were comfortable with the other one doing with other people, but fortunately we have the same point of view, so it was easy to agree on what type of play was okay with other people and what type of play was not okay.

And it definitely helps if I know who he’s bottoming to (or vice versa). That makes things much more comfortable in my mind.

I know that there are countless ways for people to decide who they’ll play with, and under what circumstances, and what limits they have, etc. My way is no more “right” or “wrong” than anyone else’s — but it IS right for me.

 

turnabout

So, after my turn on top making T. have to ask for each stroke, I got my just desserts, and found myself on the bottom end of that scenario last week.

It was the first time that I had been the bottom in that particular mindfuck-y scene, and I have to say, I really loved it. Partly because I have a wimpy ass that can’t take a whole lot of intense pain, and partly because I just love a good mindfuck, whether I’m giving or receiving.

Being able to control how often I get hit, by asking “More, please, ma’am,” (which, by the way, is a MOUTHFUL, and feels like it takes about 5 minutes to say!) helps me to take a longer scene, because if any given stroke really hurt, I can wait as long as I need to before the next one. T. and I also worked out a way to ask for a specific implement, or even ask for a certain number of strokes with a given toy (like, “Ma’am, I can take 5 more with the crop, but then I need a different toy,”). Brilliant.

As for the mindfuck-y aspect — it’s almost like I’m mindfucking *myself,* because I got to a point where I was making deals with myself, like “Okay, just one more; I only have to take this one more, and then I can stop,” but then after T. gave me that one more — theoretically one *last* — stroke, I’d decide that no, I could take more, really I could, and I’d ask for another.

I found myself asking for more than I thought I would, and asking more quickly (i.e., not much time between swats) as well.

I assure you, my ass really hurt the next day. In a good way.

 

being mindful of manners

There are many other people in the BDSM world who have written about manners, and done so far more comprehensively than I’m about to. (And whose writing is undoubtedly better than mine, also.) Still, what’s a blog for, if not to spew forth one’s own opinions and crackpot theories?

In the past couple of weeks, I’ve experienced some surprisingly bad manners at munches. This morning, when I read Mistress Matisse’s description of some truly appalling behavior that happened to a friend of hers at a munch, I decided to offer up my 2 cents.

Honestly, people? I just don’t understand when people show up at a munch or a party and can’t even behave with the most rudimentary of manners. I’m talking the kind of manners that anyone, in any situation, whether vanilla or kink, should know and be able to actually USE. Don’t get me wrong; I am a big scaredy-teppycat when it comes to new situations and meeting new people. I totally understand that being in a new situation can make people feel awkward, and that can lead to some social gaffes. I totally get that. Hell, I’ve totally DONE that.

But I just don’t understand what thought process leads people to abandon even the facade of politeness in a situation where they are the newbie (meaning, yes, because you’re new, you’re being evaluated, since we don’t know whether you’re a kink god or a registered sex offender). It’s just common sense to bust out the good manners in order to make a good impression, no?

At one munch, I recommended a particular dessert to the people sitting around me (and, okay, by “recommended,” I actually mean “raved and swooned and extolled its virtues with terms befitting the food of the gods”), some of whom were new to the munch. They ordered the dessert, as did I, it was served, we ate, I made sounds of gastronomical bliss.

One of the new people, who had ordered the dessert on my recommendation, was sitting silently, having finished his dessert with no comment. Feeling flush in the postprandial glow of one truly kickass dessert, I leaned across the table and asked, “So? What do you think?”

The guy responded with an expression devoid of any reaction, save for his curled lip, and said, “Eh. I wasn’t impressed.” And so I just chuckled, hoping that he was trying to make one of those jokes-by-way-of-saying-the-opposite-of-what-you-mean.

He repeated, “Really. That wasn’t anything special.”

Okay.

No one has to share my opinion of dessert (or any other topic, come to that). And anyone who disagrees with my opinion shouldn’t lie to me if asked. But I just feel like maybe, just maybe, sneering at me and dissing something that I had praised to high heaven isn’t the best way to make a good impression on me.

There’s always a tactful way to indicate that you don’t agree with someone. Sure, I’m not known for being the queen of tact (or even possessing one iota of tact, actually), but I know how to behave with strangers upon whom I might wish to make a good impression.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m being too judgey, but when I have a very limited amount of interaction with someone as the basis for forming my opinion, I’m going to be feeling less than warmly towards someone who sneers at me and my choice of dessert.

It might be silly, but there it is.

One of the most comprehensive Web pages I’ve read on etiquette in the BDSM scene is by Ambrosio, who I also have linked in my sidebar. His page on protocol/etiquette covers a wide variety of situations, ranging from basic good manners that everyone ought to know for all venues, both kink-related and vanilla, all the way to etiquette at play parties, high protocol, and even the protocol surrounding the hanky code. It’s an excellent resource, and I highly recommend it.

 

you have to ask me for it

Ye gods, it’s been a whole MONTH since I last posted! It really didn’t seem that long, I swear.

Of course, you’re thinking that a month’s hiatus must mean that I have bushels full of salacious stories and torrid tales about all of my kinky exploits. But….not so much. Sure, there are some, one of which I’m about to share, but I really am a boring Teppycat when it comes right down to it.

Seriously. Last night, I cut out coupons. Hand to god. How’s THAT for edgeplay?

Recently, however, I did manage to get fierce on T.’s ass for a while. And — this is truly shocking — I managed to leave marks on him that were still visible the next day. You have to understand, he NEVER marks. Ever.

What we did was basically a reprise of the night that I made him ASK for each stroke with the cane/crop/whatever. (I originally got my inspiration for that from Dev and her own wicked ways.)

Because T. enjoys self-bondage — and because both I’m a lazy top and a voyeur — I told him to tie himself so that he could lie on his back and yet his ass would be, for the most part, accessible for beating. I wanted him to lie on his back because I wanted to be able to maintain eye contact with him. I love that connection when he’s asking me to cane him again and I can see the arousal and pain and enjoyment and submission in his eyes. Yum.

He tied his wrists to his ankles, same side to same side, and then I tied the ends off to the headboard, which allowed him to keep his legs up over his head, more or less. (He’s VERY flexible. I like that in a guy.) Then I reminded him of the rules — I wouldn’t give him the next stroke unless he asked for it by saying, “More, please, ma’am.” He could also ask me to switch implements of ass destruction in a similar way, as well as ask me to slow down, reduce the intensity, or stop altogether.

I used a cane on his ass for a long time; in fact, when I moved to switch to something different, he asked if I would continue using the cane. I ask you, HOW could I ever say no to such a delightful request? I actually caned him for so long that the cane broke. (Okay, it wasn’t a rattan/bamboo/wood cane; it was an acrylic cane, but I’d had it — and used it — for a few years. It was pretty sturdy. Operative word being “was.”)

While I was using the cane on his ass, he kept asking for the next stroke immediately, even though I could tell it was really hurting him. And I complied, but I admit that there was a point where I almost called yellow to stop for a minute and make sure he was okay, because even though he was readily and quickly asking for the next stroke, he was also yelping and practically hyperventilating. I didn’t, in the end, call yellow, but I did pause and tell him that I was switching to the riding crop, and I stroked his hair for a minute and waited until his breath was under control again.

(He was, he informed me later, in a lot of pain BUT ALSO incredibly turned on and rock-hard. The combination was exquisite torment and was kind of blowing his mind. But hyperventilation makes me uneasy, so I’m not sorry that I switched to a different toy.)

Throughout the scene, I alternated between the cane, the riding crop, a long skinny flat wooden paddle that really resembles a paint stirrer on steroids (i.e., longer and thicker than a paint stirrer, but the same general shape), and a bamboo back-scratcher. I tried to flog his ass with my bullhide flogger, but the angle was all wrong and just frustrated me.

It was a really good scene for both of us; for T., because he likes HARD impact play, and for me, because I really enjoy being able to evoke such a complex, multi-layered response from him. Pain, pleasure, begging for more, wanting it to stop, powerful arousal — *I* did all that. That’s what I love about being a top. (Well, that, and how utterly fucking gorgeous T. is when he’s restrained and/or in pain. Yum.)

 

enduring

The other day, I was listening to the Ropecast (Graydancer’s podcast about shibari and other kinky things), and much to my delight, Midori was a guest. She and Graydancer talked about a variety of topics, including her “Elements of Suffering” performance.

In describing “Elements of Suffering,” Midori talked about the Japanese cultural virtue of enduring. She didn’t elaborate on the reasons that enduring is a Japanese virtue; she just explained that it’s a common theme. And then she related that back in to her “Elements of Suffering” performance, talking about the idea of enduring hardship (or suffering).

When I first started reading books about BDSM (thank you, Amazon.com, for making it easy for shy kinksters to get their hands on good reading material!), one of the first books I read was Janet Hardy and Dossie Easton’s New Bottoming Book. In it, they tell the reader to think about what it is that he or she wants to get out of bottoming. In other words, what are you looking for, what do you want to achieve — why are you doing this?

It wasn’t a question I could answer right away; certainly not until I got involved with other kinky people and started playing at parties. Even then, I was just trying to learn everything I could, experience everything I could (or what I was willing to experience), and see what I liked.

Figuring out why I liked it could come later.

And, eventually, what I realized was that, when I bottom, what I want is to endure. I want to take the flogging/beating/pain and get through it, get past it, and see what’s on the other side. (I also want to be praised for taking the pain, to be told I’m a good girl, but that’s not my primary motivator in bottoming.)

This is very much in contrast with T.’s goal in bottoming; he very often wants to be broken, to be pushed to the point where he can’t take the pain any more. And as much as I’ve gone there with him, as his top, it’s not something I want to experience as a bottom.

Neither way is “right,” of course; when it comes to kink, there’s only what’s right for any given person. And it’s endlessly fascinating to me to see just how many permutations there can be, how many different ways people have to embrace and express their kink.

 

even when I’m asleep, I’m kinky (also very, very geeky)

The ultimate proof of how geeky-yet-kinky I am happened the other night.

I had a dream that I was using Photoshop, and it had a filter/action that would let me put corsets and collars on people in the photos. And it was all perfectly proportioned to the person’s measurements, etc.

The only way it could have been geekier is if I started talking about semi-colons or particle physics.

But note how well I integrate the kinkiness and the geekiness, even in my dreams….

Oh yeah. I’m a HUGE geek. Was there ever any doubt?

 

CBT

I don’t have a hell of a lot of experience with CBT; although I always have nefarious intentions, it’s something we never seem to get around to.

However, the other night T. suggested it, and I was certainly up for the challenge. He laid on his back, and I tied his wrists to his ankles (right wrist to right ankle, left to left); he had thoughtfully tied his knees so that they were attached to the bed and spread wide open. (Having a bottom who’s into self-bondage can be SUCH a help.) He wore his hood as well, and a wide collar, and we were off to the races.

I have some skinny black cord, which I tied in a modified karada around his cock, finishing it by making a secure loop around his balls. When that was finished, I had a lot of cord left, so I brought it up towards T.’s head and ran it through the loop on his collar and then tied it off. That way, if he arched his back or threw his head back, etc., he was just tightening up the cord on his cock and balls.

I love predicament bondage.

Then I set about with the torture part of CBT, flogging his cock with a small rubber flogger (which, let me tell you, stings like crazy), hitting it with a paint stirrer, running a Wartenburg wheel over it, etc.

Then I remembered I have a set of vibrating nipple clamps in my toybag. I didn’t attach them to T.’s nipples. I just clamped them to different parts of the cord around his cock and balls. They’re bulky (for nipple clamps) and heavy-ish (ditto), so at first all I did was lift them up and let them fall, repeatedly.

Then I turned them on.

I’m pretty sure he didn’t realize that they were vibrating nipple clamps when I attached them to the cord. (I doubt he was thinking very clearly — or in any linear fashion — at that point.) So suffice it to say that when I turned them on, it was one HELL of a surprise.

I played with that for a while, just increasing and decreasing the vibrations (the control is a slider, so there’s gradations of intensity, rather than just a couple of fixed settings). And then I added other things back in while the clamps were vibrating — the rubber flogger, the Wartenburg wheel, etc., all the while increasing and decreasing the vibrations. Sometimes just turning them all the way off.

I’d say that T. enjoyed it. Actually, that’s an understatement.

We’ll definitely be doing that again. Soonish rather than laterish.

 

this is me, sitting very carefully

So, last night’s party. I got my ass beaten well and thoroughly. And I was stubborn and didn’t want to call yellow to get T. to tone it down, so I’m really fucking sore today, and I have massive sub drop.

It was pretty basic beating: me, bent over a bench, and T. just pounding on my ass, upper back, the backs of my thighs, and, oh, MY ASS some more. He alternated various floggers (thuddy deerskin, sting-y owie rubber) with a riding crop and his own evil hands (in leather gloves). He warmed me up, but it was one of those nights where my ass just couldn’t take a lot of pain.

[I have a weird, weird ass. Most other subs/bottoms I know are able to take *more* pain as they warm up and get into the beating, rather than *less* pain. Not me. It's like my ass has a pre-set amount of pain it can take, and then it's finished.]

I tend to not be extremely vocal when I’m bottoming, even when I’m getting beaten. I’ll yelp once in a while, or make some other noise of approval/discomfort, but in general I’m a pretty quiet bottom.

Not last night. Because everything just *hurt,* I kept actually saying “Ow,” repeatedly. And loudly. More like yelling. And I got kind of irritated with T., because he knows how I bottom, and knows that I don’t get vocal, so I assumed that when he realized how vocal I was being, he’d take that as a cue to either (1) dial back how hard he was hitting, or (2) move to a different target, rather than hitting the same spot over and over and over. But he didn’t (at least, not as quickly as I would have liked).

I couldn’t tell if he was *trying* to get me to call yellow, or not. (And I’m well aware that “Ow” is not a safeword.)

I’m a big believer in safewords (I wrote about this a few entries back), but I *don’t* consider safewords to be an excuse for the top to ignore all other signs of distress. I consider safewords to be a failsafe, a last resort. But if you’re my top, and I’m reacting in a different way to a type of play we’ve done countless times before, maybe you should stop and think about WHY THAT IS.

We played for about 45 minutes, and I did call yellow once, when T. just wouldn’t stop with the really hard strokes to my ass, and I asked him to please leave my ass alone for a while. And he acquiesced, but I was still annoyed that he wasn’t reading my reactions as quickly and clearly as I thought he should. I was starting to think he *was* aware that I was reacting in an unusual manner (for me), but was choosing to ignore it. (He wasn’t. Choosing to ignore it, that is.)

I was completely endorphin-stupid when we were finished, and I ate all the cake in the WORLD. I’m starving today — T. already made us a huge brunch with cheese-o-riffic eggs, potatoes, turkey bacon (for me), english muffins, strawberries, and coffee; still, I feel like I could eat anything that isn’t actively decomposing. And I have big time sub drop. Stupid endorphins.

T. and I talked this morning about the “Hey, did you notice that I was reacting in a way I *never had before*? Then why didn’t you DO SOMETHING about it?” issue. And he did say that, yeah, he noticed that I was reacting in an atypical manner, but he didn’t think it was cause for alarm.

And I said no, not cause for alarm per se, but damn close enough to make me think about ending the scene, which ruins the fun for me AND you, buddy. So he said he’d pay closer attention to my reaction in the future, and adjust accordingly (like alternating really hard strokes with some less-hard ones, instead of all hard, all the time).

Man, my ass is SORE.

On edit: I’m afraid that I made T. sound like a dick in this entry, and that’s not at all what I mean. A lot of my irritation was because *I* thought he should have picked up on the nuances of my reactions with telepathic clarity. And that’s not fair on my part. Also, I was really reluctant to call yellow, because I feel like a big wimp whenever I call yellow. Again, that’s not fair to T., when it’s an issue of *my* stubborn pride.

He also wasn’t just whomping on one area of my ass over and over and over again for long stretches of time; it just felt like it to my ass. Frankly, all it takes is more than one hard stroke in a row to the same area, and that’s enough to qualify (to my ass) as “over and over.” He *did* move to different targets, and *did* alternate how hard/soft he was hitting; it just didn’t seem like it happened quickly enough to make my ass happy.

My upper back can take a hell of a lot more abuse than my ass can, which, again, is freaking weird.

Anyway. T. wasn’t being a dick; he was being a top. He wasn’t being telepathic, but then, that wasn’t part of the scene.

 

party tonight

One of the local groups is having a play party tonight.

T. has informed me that he’s feeling toppy.

::shiver::

Full report later.

[edit] I think I’ll do some yoga, so that I can move all my parts tomorrow….

 

what a switch is NOT

Bitchy Jones has a recent post describing the stereotypical asshat male dom (it’s pretty accurate, IMO). Here is her take on the attitude that asshat male doms have about switches:

“there is nothing worse than…

“Switches! Switches are worse than mansubs, because like bisexuals in straightland, they look normal….

“But, really, switches! That lovely M/f couple with him all puffy chest and her knowing her place and then, OMG, he says he switches. Ew. Ew!. EW! Switches are all wrong because being submissive (if you are a woman) or dominant (if you are a man) is something you ARE, not something you try on for fun. Goddamnit. When will people understand. This is not about sex!”

I would accuse Bitchy of shortsighted stereotyping, but the thing is, I encounter that attitude All. The. Fucking. Time. And not just from male doms, but from female subs, female doms, male subs — at some point, my existence as a switch has been met with incredulity by people in pretty much any role other than switch.

That, in and of itself, pisses me off, because *I* don’t doubt others’ self-proclaimed roles, and I’m not known for being (1) a liar or (b) schizophrenic, so I haven’t given others any reason to doubt *me*.

But what pisses me off more, what this entry is about, is the assumption that, because I switch roles when it comes to BDSM, I also switch how I interact with the world outside the dungeon. Uh, no. Who I am is who I am.

An example: I was at a meeting of the local BDSM group, and we were splitting into small groups to get some administrative crap done. It was like herding cats, and, because I’m bossy and anal and would have made an excellent dictator of a small island nation, I took charge and directed the groups to where they should sit, made sure everyone had pens and paper, etc.

The president of the group (who happens to be a male dom) snarkily commented, “Well, I see which way *you’re* switching today!”

Uh, no. My whole life, I’ve been bossy and pushy and anal-retentive and really good at organizing things and people. I’ve never been shy and retiring or too timid to speak up, EVER. Just because I’m being outspoken doesn’t mean that I’m “being toppy.” If I *were* taciturn, that wouldn’t mean I was “being submissive.”

Seriously, that pisses me off more and more just thinking about it. I switch when it comes to kinky shit. That’s it. How hard is that for people to grasp?

It’s the same line of reasoning that gets trotted out to sneer at submissives who speak their mind — just because someone identifies as a submissive, sexually (and let’s not forget that this is really what it’s all about, okay — SEX), doesn’t mean that she’s a timid shrinking violet who can’t speak up in a social situation. The other side of that coin, of course, is that just because someone identifies as a dom definitely doesn’t mean he’s a good leader. I’m sick and fucking tired of seeing doms put in leadership positions of BDSM groups, just because they’re doms — yup, it happens all the time — only to have them step down from the leadership position because it turns out that they’re crap at actually, you know, LEADING.

The role a person chooses when it comes to BDSM has nothing to do with how he or she acts in the rest of his or her life. It *can* match up — see also, timid submissives, loud-mouthed doms — but it doesn’t have to, and, frankly, is insulting when people assume it does.

Because where does that leave the lowly switch, the spork of the BDSM world? Getting pummeled with asinine assumptions about things that have NOTHING to do with our switchiness, that’s where.

 

New Year’s Eve and face bondage

T. and I went to a local BDSM group’s party for New Year’s Eve. It was a small group, but still ended up being a lot of fun. (Which is, I should say, uncommon for me; it’s been my track record that New Year’s Eve ends up sucking, or at least being disappointing. With all the hype, how could it *not* be at least a little disappointing? In the past 5 years, 2 of those New Year’s Eves I’ve just stayed home and been asleep before midnight, and I was perfectly happy. But this year’s was low-key kinky fun, with some sparkling wine and Dick Clark at midnight.)

For a change, I was the bottom this time, and T. busted out his Christmas gift from me (one of them) — Twisted Monk’s “White Linen” hemp rope (made from hemp, looks and feels linen-ish) — and, after I asked nicely, performed some face/head bondage (that picture is NOT of me; it’s just an illustration for anyone unfamiliar with face bondage).

The White Linen hemp is REALLY nice rope, folks. It’s soft like well-washed cotton line or magician’s rope (which is cotton), so it feels SO nice on skin, and doesn’t have any roughness. (Actually, I kind of like hemp’s small amount of roughness on my wrists, arms, legs, ankles, etc., but not on my face. I have sensitive skin, and I didn’t want to explain an intricate pattern of rope burn/rash on my face to my co-workers on January 2!)

It has virtually zero “burn” when it’s dragged at high speed across bare skin, which, again, is stellar for face bondage. And, because it actually IS hemp, it holds knots like all other hemp rope does (i.e., very well). It’s good stuff.

(No, I am in no way affiliated with Twisted Monk; I’m just a satisfied and rope-intoxicated customer.)

If you’ve never been the recipient of face/head bondage, I highly recommend it. It’s very intimate, as you might suspect, which leads to some amazing energy between the top and bottom; at least, it did with T. and me. I haven’t yet tried to perform face bondage, so I don’t know what it’s like from the top’s POV, but I can tell you how it *seemed* to affect T.

He was practically buzzing with power, if that makes any sense. It was clear that T. was fully aware of just how powerful putting rope on someone’s head can be. And as the bottom, let me be clear: it’s VERY powerful. It’s intimate and hypnotic, and the feel of the rope is soft and soothing, yet I was really aware of the fact that, yeah, my HEAD was restrained, and T. had the rope in his hands.

Enjoying the feel of the ropes, and the amazing intimacy and vulnerability and awareness of how powerful T. felt all combined to make the experience one huge rush for me. I’ve heard the term “ropespace” used before, and I think I finally get it now.

Happy New Year, indeed.

 

safewords

A recent question at Fetish Meme asks, “Do you require a safeword? Did you always? Would you refuse to play with someone who refused to either adopt or allow one?”

T. and I have been in this relationship for almost 2 years, and have been playing together for almost 3. We’ve always used — and still do — safewords. They function mostly as a failsafe, at this point; by now, T. and I know each other and know each other’s responses well enough to differentiate enjoyable distress from end-this-NOW-you-asshat! distress.

However, when I top, I’m still getting used to playing as hard as T. often likes it. Despite knowing that he wants me to play that hard, despite knowing that he likes it and needs it, I can’t entirely quiet my inner worrier who keeps exclaiming, “Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod, that’s too much too hard too painful!” So knowing that he has a safeword, knowing that he’s perfectly willing to call yellow or red if he needs to, makes it a lot easier for me to go hard on him and not hold back.

When I bottom, I always have safewords available, and I don’t hesitate to use them. I haven’t had to use them often, but I *have* used them. And knowing that they were available for me to use didn’t take *anything* away from the power exchange-y-ness of the scene.

Safewords are there to prevent harm. Because if someone gets hurt — physically or mentally — even if it’s unintentional, it’s not a power exchange any more; it’s a problem. Safewords help avoid problems.

I know that there are submissives who don’t like safewords because they think it means that they aren’t totally helpless. But all I want to ask them is this: Is being “totally helpless” worth getting injured or emotionally traumatized because you can’t stop something from happening that you *could* have stopped with a safeword?

I know that there are dominants who don’t like their submissives to have safewords because they like the feeling of being in Total And Utter Control(TM). All I want to say to them is this: When you have to take your submissive to the ER with second-degree burns, tell me how great that Total And Utter Control is, okay?

Frankly, I don’t trust people who won’t use a safeword with me. [Please note: I said "with ME." If you really want to forgo safewords amongst yourselves, that's up to you.] If a dom/top won’t give me that failsafe so that I can protect myself, then I damn well don’t trust them. Because unexpected shit happens, and if I’m tied up and I notice it first, I want to be able to call attention to it and get out of those ropes before I get permanently hurt.

If a sub/bottom wants to play without a safeword with me, I won’t do it. The person who I have tied up knows if their hands are getting numb, and they will likely know a hell of a lot sooner than I will, even if I do regular check-ins. I don’t want my partner getting hurt; as a top, I am absolutely vigilant during a scene, but, like I said, there are some things that a restrained person will notice sooner than their top will.

Safewords are absolutely NOT antithetical to power exchange. They’re smart. We’re all human, we’re all breakable, in a million different ways, and sooner or later (usually sooner) the unexpected happens. Safewords are just a way of breaking glass in case of emergency.

 

aftercare

Over at Fetish Meme, Richard asks, “Do you — bottom or top — ever or always require aftercare at the end of an intense BDSM experience? What elements are important to you for good aftercare?”

I had this conversation with T. just the other day. Back in the days before I ever did any sort of kinky activity with another human being, back before I joined the local group and started playing at parties and in private, I read a LOT of BDSM-related books. I’m a big bookworm wordnerd, and the wonders of online commerce meant that I could order all the books that are commonly recommended to newbies, and then hide them under my bed (even though I lived alone….shut up) and read them at my leisure.

Due to all my reading, I knew about aftercare — what it was, why it was important, why it should be included in pre-play negotiation, etc. And based on everything I had read, combined with what I know about myself, I just assumed that I would be the type of bottom who would need a lot of squishy, snuggly, attentive aftercare. (I tend to be emotionally needy, although being in a relationship with T. has reduced that to almost nil; however, in the past, I could be a giant sucking black hole of emotional neediness.)

Turns out that, no, I *don’t* need much in the way of aftercare. (At least, up to this point in my kinky travails I haven’t needed much — if any — aftercare.) We’re done, I’m good, I could use some water and help in finding my shoes, but that’s about it. I’ve been that way with T. as well as with the small handful of other people I’ve played with (people who are my friends, but with whom I don’t have a close emotional relationship).

I’m not really sure why that is. If I had to guess, a lot of it probably comes from the fact that I’m a control freak and I’m — “standoffish” isn’t the right word — very guarded when it comes to how emotionally close I let anyone get. And since bottoming is a very vulnerable state to willingly put myself in, I think maybe I don’t *want* aftercare because once the beat-y, ouchie part of the scene is done, I want control of my vulnerability back *right now,* thankyouverymuch.

That’s just a guess, though; I haven’t really given it any thought until right this moment.

T., on the other hand, needs/wants/likes lots of snuggly, attentive aftercare. When he bottoms, he likes to play hard enough that he either is (1) broken (in the sense of “I will break your fighting spirit!”), or (2) exhausted from struggling. After a scene like that, he just wants to collapse and be snuggly and wrapped up in a blanket and be cuddled. And then he gets water, and later food.

I don’t think that either one of us is “right,” because what you need (or don’t) is just…what you need (or don’t).

 

search terms

While I’m always curious about the search terms that led people to find this blog, I’m particularly amused by this recent one:

“brain + crossdressing + selfbondage”

All I can picture is a grey, squishy brain, wearing black lace lingerie, with red hemp rope wound around it.

Perhaps this is a sign that I need more caffeine….

 

nom de flogger

Over at Fetish Meme, Richard talks about titles and honorifics.

I have really complex feelings about using honorifics with people in the lifestyle with whom I don’t have a power exchange relationship (i.e., I don’t play with “Sir Geoffrey,” and never have, which makes me much more inclined to call him “Jeff” when we’re hanging out, but what it he’s That Type Of Dom who wants to be addressed by one and all as “Sir Geoffrey”?), and I’ll save all those musings for a different post.

For now, I just want to talk about How The Switches Do It. Or, rather, how T. and I do it. (No way in hell could I try to speak on behalf of all switches. Besides, how T. and I handle titles doesn’t have anything to do with the fact we’re switches; it all has to do with, well, what we like.)

I’m not “Mistress.” I can’t carry it. I don’t feel like a “Mistress,” even in my most kick-ass, I-rule-the-WORLD moments. I dislike “Lady,” and “Goddess” — while I know of women who use that honorific and carry it off well — makes me giggle helplessly. And I’d prefer my title, such as it is, to not make me actually snort with laughter *while* I’m using it.

We settled on “Ma’am” for me, and T. uses it only within scenes. (Occasionally at home — or elsewhere — if I ask [or, okay, TELL] him to do something, he’ll reply with “Yes, Miss [lastname],” which I think is cute as hell, but it doesn’t really have anything to do with our power exchange-y-ness.)

I think “Lord” is as silly as “Lady,” and “Sir” would never work for T. In fact, when T. tops, he’s always cross-dressed, and, somehow, “Mistress” suits T. perfectly at those times. And it feels *right* when I say it.

We don’t *need* the titles, but they do serve a purpose within the scene: they underscore the power exchange. They’re a simple way to add that emphasis: Right now, you’re MINE. And it works.

 

two doms for the price of one!

Saturday night, T. and I went to the party I mentioned earlier. There was Christmas-themed merriment, and even a low-budget kinky gift exchange (we got a bag full of wooden clothespins, embroidery floss [good for CBT], and thick black rope, all of which we will put to good use [and by "good," I mean "devious and evil"]). 

One of the other guests was a femdom who plays pretty hard, and that’s what T. was really wanting. So that’s what he got. I helped a little, but mostly I watched, which was fucking HOT. I forgot how much of a voyeur I am. (Voyeuse?) 

I secured T. to a St. Andrew’s cross — his wrists were tied with rope, but his legs were secured to the cross with pallet wrap (green for one leg, red for the the other — holiday cheer abounded). He asked for a blindfold, because he likes to wallow in the beating and not be distracted by anything else in the room. 

The femdom told him that, since they had never played before, she was going to start off pretty hard, to see at what point he’d call yellow, so that she could get a sense of his limits. Heh. She worked him over with a vast and vicious variety of floggers, from a soft thuddy deerskin one, to one made of WIDE strips of leather (about 2 inches each), and some nasty ones that sting like hell. The only time T. called yellow was when she used a riding crop with a cat-shaped end (not the exact one in the link, but close) on his ass. He can take canes and crops and such, but has to warm up to them, and that’s not really what she did with him. So she went back to flogging with a mesmerizing force. 

Seriously, it was hot as hell to watch. First of all, her form with the flogger is really lovely — fluid (but controlled); in fact, so fluid that you don’t really realize just how fucking hard she’s hitting until the poor victim yelps and yowls and screams.  

Mostly, though, watching T. react to each blow, trying to twist away but unable to, yanking on the ropes around his wrists and pulling his legs away from the cross as much as the wrap would let him — yeah. So hot. He’s so beautiful like that, and I admit that part of it is purely aesthetic, because I love watching the muscles in his back work as he struggles in the ropes. But I also like the struggle itself. 

After about 15 minutes, the femdom paused and came over to me and said, “You’ll have to tell me when he’s had enough, because I’m not familiar with his reactions.” I chuckled and said that I would, but that T. has a wide masochistic streak and probably wasn’t close to having enough. And I went over to T.’s side, and stroked his back and told him what a good boy he was being, and adjusted his blindfold, and asked him if he wanted more. He immediately nodded and said yes. I rolled my eyes and gestured to the femdom to keep on beating. She handed me a flogger and told me to join in if I liked. (Of course I like!) 

I flogged T. a little, but it was a little difficult with an unfamiliar flogger — you get used to the weight of your own floggers, and their length, so that you know how far away to stand to get the desired impact on a naked ass. But I adjusted decently, and flogged a little bit. 

Then I picked up the kitty riding crop (yeah, the one that had made T. call yellow earlier), and started just tapping him lightly with it, all over his back and shoulders. Tapping very very quickly, though, with the flat of the cat end, which stings, but in a brief, staccato way. He didn’t call yellow, but it made him squirm and struggle mightily (though futilely). 

Then we tag-teamed on the flogging for a little while, and then I let her finish up. I could tell that T. was getting tired, although he was doggedly hanging in there, not wanting to be finished. I could ALSO tell that the femdom was getting tired — beating on someone for that long, that strenuously, is WORK! So I asked T. if he was ready to be finished (rather than asking him if he wanted more, because he probably would have said yes to more), and he nodded slowly and said yes. 

I got him down from the cross and gave him water and a blanket and super-snuggly aftercare for a while. And then he got dressed and we rejoined the party.  

I felt a teeny bit guilty later, that I got so much enjoyment from so little (comparatively) work on my part. But, really, not *that* much guilt.