Thursday, April 23, 2009

Police Brutality

Once upon a time, I and my strapping accomplice took a boy in off the street.

I threatened him with points,

And I threatened him with my pistol,

He was tied,

And he was frightened,

And hurt by my strapping accomplice,

And he was touched,


And it was good.

No boys were, in fact, kidnapped or harmed, nor any actual firearms used, during this production.
They were hurt quite a bit, though, and had trouble putting on their jeans the next day.
And they dripped all over my floor, too.

Saturday, March 14, 2009

May in March

Last weekend Boy and I went to Kink For All in New York City (where we introduced ourselves at Zac and Emms). We met people and heard talk and it were inspired and played with/as puppies and ate Chinese food and enjoyed ourselves, and when we left we brought back our friend, May.

He is an exceptional addition to our house, a force for tidiness and conversation and cuddles. In return for these things, we offer him an easy, semi-isolated space to write the book he's past due on, and to recover from sickness of the body and the heart. He sleeps in the office, and wakes slowly in the mornings, and works through the afternoons. He likes to sit in front of the heater, and adds Cayene pepper to all of his food (because we cannot supply him with fresh chilles). For the first three days here he drank tea by the potful, without ceasing, until a friend of ourse reminded him that drinking tea and nothing else can leave you dehydrated. Since then he has alternated tea, water, and a drink I made him one morning by pouring boiling water over sliced fresh ginger and honey and squeezing in a fat wedge of lemon.

He is sick, but cannot swallow pills, so we took him to the winter farmers market and bought him a tea to clear his sinuses and a tincture of echinacea and raw honey and vitamin C and other things too help his headache clear and his nose unclog and his throat tame its aching. Now he sits in the sunshine on the cushions in front of the heater, having removed his converse high tops, and codes CSS and eats Wheat Thin crackers, which he says he missed this whole past year in Australia.

I look at him alot. He is a strange new thing in my home, with big eyes and a big noble acquiline nose, and vibrant, mobile, tight little corkscrew curls the color of rust. I feel privaledged to watch him, lucky to be here in this time in his life, to lend a hand and love him while he puts pieces together in new ways. I feel as though I'm seeing a creature who hasn't existed before.

I watch him, and he watches Boy. May has lived in cyberspace and fastime since he was young, and watching Boy pull apart chairs and put their pieces back together in different combinations, or comune with metal and pieces of things that used to be, his eyes go wide and he points at Boy and says to me "He's magic!" I have known this for a while. I like especially to see May and Boy cuddle, these two slightly timid, ever-so-different boys who are so appreciative and so kind with eachother.

So it is March, and tomorrow is the first day of spring, and the sunshine is weak through the windows, and May complains about the cold, and snuffles, and washes the dishes, and cuddles with us, and shows us things we didn't know about the internet, and drinks tea. And we will keep him for a while, and when he goes, be here if he needs to wander back.

Friday, February 13, 2009

Mid-February, 3 years in

I have never been one for choosing a dreary day in the middle of a dreary month as the most important moment of the year to express my love. I would prefer to dedicate a day in early June or late May, or possibly in September, if a day had to be picked. But best of all, why pick a day at all? Every day is a good day for love. Still it was cute to watch befuddled men wandering around downtown today, armed against the event with bunches of roses and balloons.

Boy and I are cleaning the apartment in preparation for an onslaught of friends, converging on our town for the famous Fetish Flea. Tyr and Maya will be here, with two friends of theirs whom Boy and I can't remember if we've met, as well as our old friend Dragon, the fantastic Gem, her habit Hobbit, and of course The Irishman. We have decided that we are not averse to picking up a few more strays along the way, and tomorrow night promises to be on the far side of epic.

In the midst of all that, who has time to stop for chocolate and roses? Certainly not Boy and I. The darling bought me a celebratory bottle of Prosecco, and I did nothing for him ... except clean. And in cleaning, find, and read aloud, all sorts of love notes and poems and adoring bric-a-brac from the past six months and the years before. The best bit of which I shall post here, in testamant to the amazing man I love and live with, and the awesome thing we have.

Everyone Should Be So Lucky

I hate that you always
take more food than you can eat
and I hate when you leave
dishes so I can't use the sink
I hate it when you're
cranky and I don't understand

I worry sometimes that you
love me just because
you've been saying it
so long
I think that I'm a habit
and wonder if it's a good one

But then

you look at me when I am
shirtless or smiling or
making us food

and your eyes are so intent
and you radiate some emotion
uncountable of good

and I forget the food and
the dishes and the blank
joyless moments

and I love all of you
from socks to split ends,
from back fuzz to belly
fuzz to beard and beyond

and I know, of course,
obviously, that you love me
completely -- it's right in
that look

I love even the parts
that I hate

End Poem. Love happy.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

Top 5

So I have been reading the article in the NY Times magazine about what women want, and now I think it is time to relay to all of you what it is I want.

1) I want sex without control. I do not want to be in control or under control, I want to be out of control. I want to meet my partner halfway and glue myself to him like I was coated in epoxy. I want to meet fully dressed, to be down on the bed when he breaks for a moment to pull of his shirt and reveal gorgeous, golden, perfect shoulders. I want to scramble to the top and kiss my way down from there. I want it all, hot and focused and with untouchable equality, touch for touch, scratch for scratch, bite for bite, moan for moan, beginning from two fully clothed people standing across the room and ending with two naked, sweat drenched, heaving people who can do nothing but giggle and, with any luck, eat ice cream. Not sex like the first time. Sex like the first time with him, sex like how the first time out to be, sex like in an alleyway or on a fire escape. Just plain, gorgeous, raw sex.

2) I want strength. I want a man in the archway between my rooms, spread eagled and well muscled and unbreakable, and then I want to hit him till he breaks. I want to rip away layer up on layer of stoic silence until I pull the whimpers and show the vulnerable, pale underbelly, the boy in the darkness. I want to start slowly, build slowly, stroke for stroke with never a not of hurry, adding pain to pain to ache to groan to skin red and blood at the surface and nerves on fire. I want somebody who doesn't want to want me to take them and break them into bits, and then I want to break them into bits and hand them back and I want the response to be thank you. Oh, thank you.

3) I want somebody who is small but naughty, interesting and wicked and in need of being bent over a cushion and taking for me strokes with the cane, stroke after stroke, rapid and fast, deep and slow, welt raising and skin searing and gasp inducing. I want to see the blood on the inside of his lip where he's bitten it through trying not to cry out (and he failed).

4) I want trust. I want to feel golden in my power, to feel I can do no wrong. I want a boy tied spinning in the archway, one foot on the ground and the other stretched near his head (which he can do because he stretched before hand), and I want to stroke and to touch and to add rope to rope until just holding it is pain enough, but so beautiful, and he spins and I spin and he believes I can place the ropes, believes I have placed them right and that he is lovely and that is my doing.

5) I want to be wanted. I want to be needed. I want to be under power, taken down, taken apart and put back together with patience, with confidence, with planning and care. I want to be beautiful, nude, tied, desired. I want to be hurt and comforted and hurt again. I want to be beaten bloody and screaming and broken and then taken care of for hours if need be. I want to hang from the ropes with the candle above me and say yes, light it, light them all, it will hurt but I want to see the glow. I want submit to something, but I need something to submit to. I want strength, my own. I want to hold it in my hands and give it to someone to trust someone with it and when they have my strength, they can break it till I'm weak, and when they have my weakness, they can give me back my strength. With kisses, the way they want and not the way they think I want. With the bits of my body they love and not the ones they think they ought to love. I want somebody who wants me for no other reason than that they do.

Yeah, that. And also sex.

Feeling Fertile

It is 8:57 in the morning. I am about to do my daily round of chores -- a pile of dishes, preparing a meal so that it will be ready when the people I work with come to eat it, tidying. I have been reading blogs about changes of blogs, and about writing.

It perhaps will not come to you as a surprise that I have spent a considerable quantity of my life in writing. I wrote a small volume of a hundred pages, what a hope was a humorous history of food and eating in England from the Saxons through WWII.

I also write stories and even poems. I like words, a lot, but for one reason or another outside of this blog I have pretty much let them go.

But I was describing to a dear and lovely friend of mine his beauty, and how and why I wanted to touch it, and he asked me why I don't write more straight out erotica.

And I'm asking myself why I don't write more straight out anything. I used to post poems on this blog sometimes. Maybe I will again.

I don't have any poems or stories in my head right now, but I have a place for them again. I'm feeling fertile.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

Gem and the Irishman

I have always assumed that I would be no good at polyamory. I can handle the idea of having a lot of lovers who were also my friends, and Boy having the same, but somehow the idea of having more than one relationship, I mean capital R Relationship, I couldn't do. Two boyfriends I do not have, nor do I intend to.

I have one Boyfriend, and one Irishman, and at the moment that's more or less it. Not that I'm complaining, I'm blessed. I'm a happy girl. This is a thing that makes me happy.

Now when there is something that makes me happy, a book or a TV show or a meal or a song, I share it with the people I love. I like to make them happy, too.

And that I think, is why I decided that my old and very dear friend Gem needed to bone the Irishman.

In about those words, I informed both Gem and the Irishman of this fact, and the pair of them, they waffled, until finally Gem suggested that perhaps she might come down and visit us, and perhaps while she was at it I might invite somebody else, perhaps, somebody specific, to come and visit too.

So yesterday there we all were, in my sunny apartment, eating gingersnaps and hanging out. Sitting around and chatting, the Irishman and Boy and I occasionally sticking our heads together and plotting a bit, and then asking Gem over to stand just there, and maybe she might take her shirt off, and could I have her ankle, until she was half-suspended from the hardpoint in the arch between our two main rooms, rope-bedecked and spinning when she lost her footing.

It was a lovely thing, and we all had a go at her. Boy, as is his wont whenever he has the option, hung in the background, doing technical things, rigging and re-rigging and handing various implements of destruction to the Irishman or myself. I hit her in was I have hit her before and ways that I have not, and as ever when I play with her, I was overwhelmed by her big blue eyes and my desire to take care of her. The Irishman stood behind her and fisted his hand in her hair and held her, doing ever-so-subtle things with his hand to cause her to writhe and gasp.

And there were times that I thought that I wanted to be where she was, but the truth is that just changing places wouldn't have given me that. She was in a place where three people, two who knew her very well and one not at all, were slowly feeling their way through a scene with her at the center, and one of them had real potential and charge. If I had been tied up I would have been with the only two people I regularly sleep with and my sweet but definitively submissive best friend. Gem would likely have grinned alot and done her part, but the Irishman and Boy would not have been gently feeling things out. They would be on me like a hurricane made of grizzly bears, and I would be the frantic, turned on, terrified ball of energy I am when stuff like that happens.

Eventually we took her down and the night petered off into dinner and Dr. Who? and silliness, and Gem and the Irishman cuddled, sometimes with me or Boy and me, sometimes on their own. And eventually they shared a single bed, and they left together in the morning, and what exactly went on between then I don't know.

I am happy for them. They are two great people who could have a great thing, and by a great thing I mean great sex. Actually, who knows? Maybe more.

But it is an odd thing for me, to have decided that my lover needed to sleep with my friend, and put so much effort into making it happen. I have hooked my friends up with ex-boyfriends in the past, but I have never shared before.

I just hope that sharing it remains.

Saturday, January 24, 2009

Less than a month ... let's get this ball rolling!

It is January 24th. The Flea comes rolling to town February 13th. 
We have less than a month, but the Great Sex Toy Project is rolling. 
Boy has a brand new toy, and production will, we hope come thick and fast with it's aid. Now all that's left to worry about is packaging. Boy, ever one for aesthetics, has spent his every spare moment creating patterns and logos. As soon as we figure out how to get it printed, we'll be a go. 
I forsee some packing parties in the future. Gem? Lend a hand? 

Thursday, January 15, 2009

January, 2009

Dear Diary,
On Sunday I went to Boston to visit the Irishman, where we learned that the floor can be comfortable, Metal can be melodic, cheesefries are awesome, trenchcoats are cute and contrary to popular opinion, the Irishman is a deeply accomplished cuddler. The Irishman managed to combine Guinness, Metal, and Blowjobs into "Basically Awsome," and I looked very cute in SaranWrap, thanks very much.

Then I started a job, which began by hosting an Alaskan Native American boy in my house for two days, and feeding him and watching him hang by his feet. Also a crazy, zenlike, life-adoring old man brought me 5 liters of Franzia Fruity Sangria Wine. The job is disorganized, intense, inspiring, awesome.

Then I had house guests and talked about sustainability a lot. Wandered the Italian district. Made food. Watched "Yellow Submarine" and sang along and ate brownies and blueberries with lime juice.

Applied for and got interviews for two super neat, utterly fantastic and right-up-my-alley tutoring gigs.

Tomorrow I am going to Boy's home in order to help out with and attend Momzilla's amazing 60th birthday bash. It is "Black Tie Optional." We are totally going for it. One of our chores is to raid Boy's home town for all of the yummy food possible in order to feed an army of Momzilla's friends a smörgåsbord brunch.

On Monday Jugs -- actually, she blushes every time I call her that, and splutters and it's really quite cruel, so I think I'll take pity and call her Gem from now on -- Gem is coming down to visit, and there will be rope, and if I'm lucky there will be bungee cord, and fun will be had by all.

Next week, job for real.

Saturday, Gem and the Irishman both come down for something that is sure to be both sublime and ridiculous. The Irishman has suggested scheming, and I heartily concur. Sorry, Gem. Best of luck.

I lead a bizarre, spectacular, amazing, charmed kind of life some times.