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.

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.

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? 

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.

It All Comes Together: Why Boy is Awesome

Happy Secular Humantist Appreciation Hour (past), Happy Nondenominational Winter Festival Week (past), Happy New Year: 2009 (just getting started)!

Over the past few weeks I have spent quality time with my family and Boy's family and have finally returned to home-base, only to spend our first day here rearranging it in a rather important way. From a two bedroom (one for me, one for him) apartment, we have consolidated into a one bedroom (for us) one office (for us, and a bed for guests) home. Tonight will be the first night in Our Bed. We are psyched. Another little commitment, but in the end it felt like we only slept apart when we were grumpy, and we'd rather not program that into our lives.

While we were staying at Boy's house (read: Boy's Family's Complex of Barns and Workshops and Outbuildings and Stuff), on New Years Eve, I got to watch him turn a hunk of solid aluminum into a beautiful, polished butt-plug. He did this on a very large lathe, and was very good about explaining each step to me as he went, and I paid attention. Mostly. Occasionally my mind wandered and I watched his hands.

In order to turn things on a lathe, you have to move a cutting point in two directions at once. At the same time you must move it parallel to the item you are turning, from the tip to the base where it is grasped by the lathe and spun, and you must move it in and out to form the curves you desire. This is accomplished by turning one wheel with one hand and another with the other, at the same time, with very slow, very precise, very careful movements, so that you do not cut too much too deeply all at once.

Here is what he made:

(The one on the left. He made the one on the right by himself, while I was off with my family.)

And I looked at his hands, each operating carefully and precisely, separate from the other but in conjunction to create the same thing, working towards the same goal, and I thought: Oh!

No wonder he's such a damn fine lover.



Flotsam and Jetsam:

The Great Sex Toy Project took a left turn at Albuquerque , but will be moving forward as scheduled, if not as planned. We are psyched. If you know of anybody who had already seen some of the stuff Boy makes and would be interested in talking to us about it, please direct them to the comments section of the blog or to clockstone.studios@gmail.com, for the time being.

Since going on Hormonal Birthcontrol (Yazmin, or actually Ocella, the off-brand of the same) about 5 months ago, I have noted a marked drop in my sex drive. Of course, my life has turned itself over about 15 times since then, so it could be due to a wide variety of Other Things, but if anybody has any thoughts on this or on how to get it back (herbal supplements, perhaps?) please drop a line.

Visit http://kinkforall.org. It's very cool.

Send me love.

Switch Out.