I’m in a bit of a emotionally weird place right now. Have done some writing that is rather disjointed, but hey, I’ll put it here anyway. Some of it relates to what is happening now and is written by other wonderful writers, some is just stuff I needed to get out of the system.

Cold Tiles

‘Can I join you?’

Can we ever get close enough, comfortable enough with each other? You only asked that first question then. I ask myself the other questions now. Ask myself why I must be heard or seen to feel like I exist.

But that time, when I nodded and you entered the shower, I did not see anything else but you. Slightly shivering shoulders, face down, the small bathroom filling up with steam. I love the way he touch my body, with such care and devotion. Lathering my body with shower lotion, front and back. He kneeled and I put my foot on his knee, allowing him to soap it in. Then the other leg. Then showering it all off. All with the same devotion. Same care.

We exist in our bubble in this bathroom, in our shower. We exist and feel in this water because that is the only thing we can do, because that is where our bodies push us, our minds knowing without rationalising anything.

At first my fingers force their way into your mouth, then my whole fist. It can rest there, fill up that willing orifice of yours, you are still kneeling in the shower. The stream of water hits your face and you are hulking, both from the water that tricks its way up your nose and from my fingers that gently tickle the back of your throat. I remove my hand, move the shower head closer to your face and you try so hard to not loose your breath. You try so hard. The breathe that is left I steal through a kiss, try to suck as much oxygen from you as I can. It makes you dizzy, especially as I pull you up on your feet, press you against the tiled wall, press your face against the cold surface with one hand in your neck. You shiver and moan, I press. With my other hand, I trace the bones of your spine, the water is still showering across my back. It is a landscape, marked by valleys, muscles, smooth tanned skin, that skin with all that it contains. I can’t get enough of your skin, cannot dig deep enough into it.

I rest my hand at his lower back a minute or so, just at the curve of his ass. His buttocks tense first, then relaxing, pressing the ass against my hip I laugh quietly, pull his head back, force him to arch even more. Whisper in his ear something about how cold the tiles of the wall are, how easy it is to slam his body into that wall until it is not fun anymore. He moans, and then draws in his breath quickly, as my finger slowly slides into his arse. I don’t need a strap on to fuck this man, I don’t need my femme cock at all, it is in my head anyway, and the feeling of his arse around my finger make me want more. More of him. All him. Want to fill him, like a tide, want to fill him until he nearly drowns and I will have to kiss him to life again.
He arches his back now without me having to pull his head back, and his face fits so well against the tiles, I’m pressing him into the wall, pressing it, distorting it against the surface as I fuck his arse, grind my crotch against his arse, slow but hard, his hands trying supporting his weight by resting against the wall. It is like I have told him to puts his hands above his head, to surrender completely. But I have not uttered those words. I fuck his arse until I come. 1 finger. Two fingers. Three fingers. He shivers, not just his shoulders, but the whole of him. Kiss his back, I tell him I love him. That he did well. That he needs a shower. The water is still warm, the steam in the room has erased any possibility to see yourself in the mirror.
I step out of the shower, tell him to kneel, remove the shower head from the stand. Turn it to cold. He screams first when the ice cold water hits him. The whimpers. 30 seconds of ice cold water. His body must feel like it is burning from the cold. The human body can mistake cold for heat, the feeling of it becomes the same, a burning sensation.

I turn off the shower. ‘Stay there’. Don’t move. He is curled up, his hands resting on his neck. I want to watch him here. Watch the lines of his body, his shaking hands. Never want this to end, the lines of beauty. The lines of his tattoo, the sword of Jeanne D’arc. The crown on top of the sword, the lillies on the side. A masterpiece on his skin. He is cold though, his thin, lean body gets colder than most people. I quickly take one or two pictures, then wrap him up in a huge towel. Walk him to the bed, hug him until he has stopped shivering, then push his face down between my legs. When I come, I think about me inside of him, about his face against the white tiles, the arch of his back. The skin. He can always join me in the shower.

I am still inside you


“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn’t it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life…You give them a piece of you. They didn’t ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn’t your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so a simple phrase like ‘maybe we should just be friends’ turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It’s a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love. “

Neil Gaiman

How can I say if thy voice is beautiful.
I only know that it pierces
and makes me tremble like a leaf
and tears me into rags and pieces.

What do I know of thy skin and thy limbs.
It only shakes me that they are thine,
so that for me there is no sleep or rest,
till they are mine.

Karin Boye


So Thirsty

I’m flicking through memories in my mind. Can’t sleep. Yet again. So I’m thinking about that night. He was working late in the bar, I had picked up my computer, walked from his apartment to the bar and sit down for a glass of white wine and some writing.
In the corner of my eye I see him at work. I love it. His posture is different, he moves with such grace and ease. We acknowledge each other with a smile, no more no less for now. I have promised him and myself to not interrupt him. A promise I could never break, his work is far too important to him, this is his domain, and to be honest, to see him doing it is far too pleasing.

The first time I said I loved him, it came from nowhere; the words fell from my lips as I untied his long slim frame, releasing his limbs from his first suspension ever. We stood in the middle of the biggest square in the capital of Sweden and we were doing a rope flash mob. The sun made the square act like a pot on a pan, the sweat ran down my forehead and made my eyes sore. Thirsty stood on his knees, I untied the TK with my face buried in his hair. It had a strong smell of hairspray. It always does. There, in that moment, the words fell accidentally but perfectly from my lips: “I love you”. Tried to swallow the words back, rewind them into my moth, those words are dangerous, not neutral but can instead be full of expectations, those three words lack restraint and control, and they come from the heart, that aching heart.

Back into the bar. It is a weekday, a slow evening and when he pass by my table we exchange some words. Speaking to him in that context is almost like a game, trying to make the lust and the love sound and look as neutral as possible. Resisting throwing him against the wall; resisting kissing him until we scream breathlessness into each others mouths; resisting touching his lower lip. I wont do anything now, just smile, look into his eyes, detecting a reaction deep in there, a flush of desire and submission.

He refuse to serve someone due to them being too drunk. A little while later he decide to close early as the evening is really slow. I can remain sitting at my table, sipping the wine, writing, watching him going through the closing procedures. He is relaxed, a happiness I can easily detect. The soundsystem is playing Billie Holliday and Nina Simone, and the bar is completely empty. He walks past, stroke my neck and I catch his hand. We don’t really know how to dance but move to the music together, dancing to the husky voice of Billie, he drowns into my body, I can hear his breathe in my ear and I kiss him softly on the lips. A little while later, he follows me back to his apartment door, there is a couple of more things to finish and I need to sleep. He walks back, I open the balcony door and see him striding slowly through the park. Thirsty is sleeping at his primary partner’s place tonight, but even if the bed is empty I am not lonely. He has filled my arms, my heart.

Loved enough-lost enough

Having loved enough and lost enough,
I’m no longer searching
just opening,

no longer trying to make sense of pain
but trying to be a soft and sturdy home
in which real things can land.

These are the irritations
that rub into a pearl.

So we can talk for a while
but then we must listen,
the way rocks listen to the sea.

And we can churn at all that goes wrong
but then we must lay all distractions
down and water every living seed.

And yes, on nights like tonight
I too feel alone. But seldom do I
face it squarely enough
to see that it’s a door
into the endless breath
that has no breather,
into the surf that human
shells call God.

Mark Nepo


LFAJRB 2012 proudly Presents: The Ichinawa-Kai

So, finally the weekend that I had been waiting for arrived.  The London Shibari Festival, or rather, the London festival of the art of Japanese Rope Bondage. Don’t try to say it too quick to many times, it will just twist your tongue. The opening night of the festival had an all Japanese line-up with the members of Ichinawa-kai, a rope-collective from Tokyo, lead by Kinoko himself. A description of this group in the program read:

You could say that Ichinawa-kai is similar in many respects to the peer-rope projects that are taking place all over Europe these days, where both devotee’s and aficionado’s from all back grounds and age groups can meet upon common ground. Hajime Kinoko likes to refer to the group as a ‘Comprehensive Kinbaku Entertainment Organisation’ which in Western terms might be better described as affiliation, collective or co-operative. In simple terms; the kindred spirit. Everyone involved takes Kinbaku seriously and dedicates a great deal of time and energy to continually develop their wider understanding of the art. However, it is not all serious! Within the group there is a sense of openness and fun…

In the months leading up to the festival, a lovely letter came from Kinoko and with that more information about the group itself. You can read more of that here. On the first night of the festival, the lineup for the shows consisted of the members of the Ichinawa-Kai, i.e. that is a completely Japanese line-up in Europe. It must have been a first. I had 4 people visiting for this occation, including the amazing Niki who was my bunny, or a bunny (rope-slut <3)  for the weekend, and two new found friends, and one person who recently discovered rope, the Doctor. We made our way to the venue after a delicious Indonesian meal, and got seated on front row. And boy were we in for a treat!

First performance was with a favourite female kinbakushi of mine, Yoi. Her performance at Toubakutouched me deeply, and she was now back with the same model. The concept this time was much more simple, there was less play and a very much traditional, straightforward rope-session, displaying the models body but also torturing it through difficult poses or through suuchi-nawa, shame and exposure. Yoi is a very special rigger who has an incredibly calm presence, and a no fuss way of doing rope. A friend of mine described her as a very stern madam. That very same friend then developed a huge crush on this only female kinbakushi in the collective. I could definitely understand why. Yoi could be the kind of teacher that would show up and a whole class room would get quiet simply through her presence. With her tiny model, (who is going to to remain un-named) I got a sense that this scene was about disciplinary measures, the model very petite, rather school-girl like.

Photo by Mooschief Images

The model entered the stage carrying a single red candle. As she sat down, Yoi reached over her shoulder and opened the underskirt, lit another large white candle, took the red candle away and pushed the white one into the mouth of the model, remarkably deep. As the candle wax slowly dropped, the model sat still, only ever shivering ever so slightly, waiting.
Yoi’s tying is functional, but with beautiful lines and maximum exposure of the model. She is one heck of a rigger and a sadist; applying plenty of crotch-rope, while looking completely nonplussed as her model squirmed from the tight ropes. Yoi did not make any large movements, but it was in her calm presence and the precarious situation of her model that we as a audience could rest in. The stern madam, controlling the room she was in. The purposeful but still understated way of tying played with both the shame and the shyness of the model, where the part where the exposed genitals was not framed as a big reveal, instead it just was a simple development of what was already there. The model was tied into a demanding yoko zuri- sideways suspension, and once more had the candle in her mouth. Once untied from the suspension, the previously mentioned crotch-rope came into action.  As a result, the model was finally carried off stage, a faint smile mixed with a blissed out look.

Shigure was next on stage. Him and his model was remarkably different, especially since she was not a very tiny one, even by Western standards. We get used to seeing the tiny models from photos and performances, but this was a very strong reminder of the wide spectra of people who love rope. Her body, although larger than usual was also strong and beautiful, and it was indeed liberating to see rope on this level with this kind of model. I must also say that this performance, although not extremely showy, was one of my favourites, because of their immensely strong connection, their relationship really shone through the ropes in an almost overpowering manner. There was a special way in how they interacted and how she was exposed to the audience, or rather, not as exposed as many of the other models. When she shifted position, he made sure her Juban was covering her, the way he looked at her and treated her made me as an onlooker almost ashamed of butting in on what seemed to be a very private session. But they still tied in front of an audience, and managed to merge that very special gap between creating something captivating and still staying true to themselves.  They both started out kneeling on stage, him closing his eyes and then opening them again, fixating them on a point just above her neck. Her eyes were closed, but it was possible to feel the focus of them both. As he started to tie, it became so clear that he tied so intensly with his whole heart, that he tied for both of their sake. It was the small things; the way in which he looked at her, the way in which he wiped the sweat of his forehead with a cloth, then he did the same thing for her. His hands were precise, seeing with them where the rope went rather than trying to look and she responded to every single touch, with a calm confidence. She was tied into another yoko zuri, but completely different from the previous one we saw with Yoi. When she was mid-air, Shigure took a tenugui and covered her face, to then pour water all over the cloth. Waterboarding mid suspension. Nothing forced or over theatrical, but still intense. After this she progressed beautifully into a guyaku ebi. There was a quiet moment here, when he took her face, held it with both of his hands and they looked into each others’ eyes. Both me and my friend the Doctor was deeply touched by this. He spoke about it later and said that it was a display of two people who were very happy together, and that they shared that happiness with us as an audience.It was a display of deep love and happiness. There was so many expressions of deep emotions and devotion to each other but it did not get sleazy, au contraire, it just was about their journey together. This intensity was palpable, and what made it more special was that they were one of the couples who wished to not have their performance recorded in any way. Instead it was a performance which they did for each other and chose to share it with the us, the audience. A truly unique experience.

Photo by Mooschief

Next on stage was Bingo, who got to represent a very interesting kind of sadism, the subtle sadism perhaps, if that is the correct word. Him and his model, the extraordinarily beautiful  Akane, came up on the stage together, her with purple rope wrapped around the neck.

He started by wrapping that rope up and showing how it was connected to the arms that werealready tied behind her back, then started to tie her into a takate kote.

Photo by Mooschief

This followed by tying her legs, then suspending her sideways, a sideways suspension which then progressed into an inverted suspension. It was beautiful to see the way in which he progressed in these, because it was not just about the shape, but also about the levels. It went from being a fairly low suspension to a higher one, as time went by. Incredibly dynamic. The way in which the sadism was ‘subdued’ then was that it was not the kind of sadism which utilise direct heavy force, but it was the little things, the small expressions of it, tugging slightly on a rope, the way in which the explosive parts came during the transitions and progressions of the suspension and the heavy handed smacks on Akane’s buttocks, which left huge marks, only after getting her arse hit two or three times. The best way I feel to describe this was through using the word graceful, there was so much grace and poise throughout the performance,subtle sadism and with a very strong soundtrack it was yet again a show which left me and my friends in a rather quiet and contemplative mood.

By Patrick Siboni

Next person up on stage was Ero Ouji and  his m’jo who was dressed in a white kimono with a red hairband, red which became a reoccurring colour during the performance. They started by her sitting right at the edge of the stage, him standing further back. Through the sound of his sandals slamming down into the stage, he marked his presence and she bowed for the audience (and him).

By Patrick Siboni

She bowed as deeply physically possible, remaining absolutely still, and the submission she displayed made the hairs in the neck stand right up. He walked closer, very slowly,while she remained in her deep bow. He took a hold of her very resolutely, tied a very strict 3TK, before starting to remove her kimono. She twitched, tensed up, then relaxed, before standing naked in front of the crowd. He removed the hairband, which was then transformed into a tightly tied fundoshi, savouring the moment of her squirming, forcing her to hold the front part of the fabric with her mouth. The way in which they interacted was electrical, the Doctor described it as if he ‘really, really wanted her’.

We then got to see how she was tied to a bamboo-pole that was suspended. All the transitions then took place through the pole, which acted as a mid-beam. When she was fully inverted he took out a large single tail which handle was encrusted with diamond-like stones and started whipping her. It looked amazingly impressive and was indeed a show, but I noticed somewhat of an interesting part which I would like to talk about a bit. When he started to tie the pole together with her, the focus shifted from being one which was about a very strong connection to one which was about the show, about the expressions and the technicalities of this very impressive rig. There is a balance there that all performers thread, and I really liked the showmanship together with the craft he displayed in this show. What we cannot forget was his wonderful rope-partner, expressive and incredibly strong.

Photo by Mooschief

By Patrick Siboni

The last performer of the evening was also one of the main performers, Kazami Ranki. Known as the ‘Atrocious Nawashi’ due to some very sadistic movies he has made. Seeing this man in action during the weekend actually wanted me to rename him as the ‘Smiling Nawashi’. Him and his model Gestalta had only met that very day, but this did not show at all in the performance. As it started, they flirted with each other in a very understated way, he smiled, their eyes met, he started tying, their eyes met again, he smiled even more. There was a great preciseness, no nonsense way in his style of tying, a preciseness that brought out so much of the elegant beauty of Gestalta, but moreover, how they moved together, how it was something they did together, and needed each other to do what they did. There was not much of the expected ‘atrociousness’, but instead we were treated to beautiful rope.At one point, Gestalta was suspended, he kneeled down, seemed to ask her is she was ok, she nodded and then he did a straight pull, pushing her into a single ankle inverted suspension. This, together with the insanely beautiful hair of Gestalta, which was revealed at this point, made it look like she was floating through the air, although she was in an intensely demanding position which very few people can pull off. This was indeed one of the main-acts, and it was wonderful to see him making the rope to be all about the one that he was tying, an understated way of introducing himself and what he loves to do. Later he wrote a letter which was published on Fetlife, explaining the way in which he tied and felt about it:

Dear everyone,

I truly appreciate that the organisers invited me and gave me such an opportunity.
Also thanks to all staff for looking after me very much.

This time, my Kinbaku performances were in the very simple form which does not include a whip nor a candle, unlike my ‘hard’ style which you have known.
It is because I thought that I would pull out M-jo gestalta’s beauty just by using only rope.
With her, detailed communication was taken through the interpreters.
Then my performance have become that form.
Although I am not sure how it was projected in your eyes,
I think that the view of the world of me and gestalta was able to be taken out.

It was honorable that I could teach rope bondage to non-Japanese students in the workshop in London.
At first I thought that bad things would be checked and corrected according to the method of your own style of Kinbaku.
However, when I heard that you wanted to learn Kazami’s own style, I really was moved and I appreciated it.
I hope there will be another opportunity which I can teach more Kazami’s Kinbaku style.

I would like to do my very best so that people in the world may further raise their passion and stronger love for Kinbaku.
I am looking forward to meeting everyone again.

Kazami Ranki

Thank you for reading this far. There are plenty of more posts in the pipeline, after all, this was only the beginning of the festival…


I’m behind on all posts. Again. It has been an intense summer, and I’m still finding myself having a very extensive hangover from the last month or so. This post will be about performing in front of a crowd and how it felt to do my first public show ever.

After a big event such as Shibaricon, or the Stockholm Pride there is a lot of things to write about. I usually brain-storm afterwards, trying to sort through the memories, the feelings, the important bits and to also consider that which is perhaps not important at all, as it can be exactly the opposite. Our minds are brilliant at hiding small details that then emerge with full force. One such detail is from the Tuesday party night, at Wish ( a womens’ only playparty), when D and I was preparing for the show. We had rehearsed the day before, she was still bearing the ropemarks. That very evening, before the door opened, I had set up the suspensionpoint, got help setting up the light, organised the playlist together with the brilliant DJ, then quitely sitting and preparing the coils of rope exactly to how I wanted them. The first rope of the TK in a slightly larger coil than the first, the tenugui folded properly, candles and lighter, the vicious antique Japanese scissors, a short hitty stick. But the other preparation took place minutes before we went on. She got dressed, we checked the kit, then sat down in the staff room in a quiet corner, leaning us against and feeling each other. Those precious moments, sitting quietly without speaking, while breathing, stroking each others hair, massaging her shoulders, helping her to warm up.

I have never ever done a ‘proper show’. I do play in public, but the set up is different in this case. D and I have played with rope before and know each other fairly well, the rehersal had gone well, and if we knew that if we just would focus on each other, we could probably get out on the other side without having looked like fools. Performances are interesting for many reasons. There are the purely theatrical, which can be good but also seem to be somewhat of a mime instead of showing something interesting (no, I don’t like mime, deal with it!). Then there are the ones with stories, the theatre which comes to life and make you live through that which is in front of you. And then there are those which you perhaps can’t judge if it is just something that is happening as a scheduled performance or intimate, private play. I am aware that a performance as such often has to give something extra, be faster and display the action, the model and the movement more clearly. Thus, in the back of my mind was also the way in which I as a rigger needed to position myself in order to not block the view too much, as well as how to best show how amazing D looks in rope. I was also seeking to actively attempt to show the audience a rope-session which would be about communication and interaction.

She was dressed in a very simple kimono, with rope as a belt  that would get undone if pulled. As she stood in the spotlight and the music started, I got closer to her with every beat of the music, pulling the kimono over her shoulders, stroking her skin, grabbing the rope-belt that started to get undone. I moved to the front, trying to be as invisible as possible, hunching on the floor as the rope came undone, falling off and with that, the kimono fell to the floor. She became exposed and as I uncoiled the first rope close to her skin, the music had already set the pace. Pushing shoulders back, making her arch her back (trick learned from a dirty old man) and my fingertips felt her shiver, my cheek close to her neck, feeling her pulse beating. The ropes came alive, and then all of a sudden the performance was over in no time. But before that I several things: what ever you think that you might do, it will be slightly different or very different; even if you checked that everything is working, you have forgotten something; the light is in all likelihood be even darker than you expected; when you think you are too fast, you are going slower and vice versa; the person you are tying are going to shine so bloody bright just because they are wonderful; it is essential that you keep on doing those things that make it ‘right’ from the beginning rather than trying to alter your style and finally: wearing latex is going to make you sweat like…eh. insert appropriate description here.

D was more than magnificent, she was shining so incredibly bright in the ropes and played together with me and the ropes in a way that can only be described as surreal to see. There is some kind of adrenaline so special to this kind of performance/public play, and yes, it was over far too soon.

Afterwards, someone who I deeply respect and admire came up and told us that she now understand Shibari as more than just pretty knots.  Then D smiled, sitting on the floor, drinking a glass of water. It was the only thing I needed to see.

The City

It is windy. Very windy. At my left I can see the harbor and the lights from the The City. At my right, the open waters. Right in front of me, I see the Golden Gate Bridge. It is the last evening of a whirlwhind 48 hour short visit to San Francisco, where I travelled after Shibaricon. It feels like I could stand at this spot for the rest of my life. The air, the wind, the sea, the breathing that is possible to do, how every breath fills the lungs with such intense life. It is strangely grounding, a moment in time where everything else stops, except for time itself, as it keeps on getting darker and darker and colder and colder. My trip in the US is coming to an end, and it is here that I’m reminded of the experiences I’ve been lucky enough to have, they move through my mind like flashing images, or a brief reminder of a sensory experience; skin twitching or a muscle aching slightly, remembering the sound of a creaking rope or leather gloves, slowly closing over my mouth.  Not even 2 weeks in the US and it feels like I know who I am again. Like the skin is fits around the body and the mind can distribute itself over the thoughts in an even fashion.

The 48 hours in The City were made possible by two people whom I am honored to have met and eternally grateful for their hospitality; Bus Driver and Pink.  They happened to be two of the first people I met at Shibaricon on the first day, and Bus Driver also helped at one point to spot during a demanding suspension. They, together with other awesome and wonderful people, made the con even better.
In the end of  Shibaricon I was looking for somewhere to go as I would have a couple of extra days before the flight back to Europe, and had thus put up a note on a notice board saying something like Busty Swedish Blonde seeking Bedspace. With a limited budget, crashing at someones’ couch seemed like the best option. Not before long, I was suddenly invited to stay at Bus and Pink, an offer which was impossible to refuse. Said and done, ticket bought and bag packed, leaving O’Hare landing in San Francisco. Slightly dazed and rather confused due to tiredness from Shibaricon but  in the same time on a strange adrenaline high  I made my way through the airport and was met (after getting lost…) by my hosts, and their adorable Peanut.

When visiting people who generously open up their home to a Busty Swedish Blonde they have only met a couple of days earlier, I was hoping intensely for not being one of those annoying guests and pointed out I could be fairly self-sufficient so they would not have to interrupt their day to day life due to the Busty Swedish Blonde. Lets just say that I had no idea they would have none of it, as the following two days I was so well taken care, showed all the sites, taken to the kink-shops, parties, et cetera et cetera. After meeting the housemates, having a good night sleep and taking it slow in the morning, Pink showed all the kink-shops, including  MR S and a visit to Good Vibrations, which was fairly awesome to say at least. During lunch time, we spoke about the kink scene and leather and her and her partners involvement in the community. It is organised on such a different level that would make London look pretty much like a bunch of party obsessed perverts. Which we kind of are, but that is beside the point :). Pink  also showed me the SF Citadel, a great permanent BDSM space which was really huge and well equipped.
I the end I visited Wicked Grounds  more than 3(?) times in less two days, had one great lunch, a huge milkshake and just hanging out. After a quick change of clothes, I was dropped off at Wicked Grounds one more time, waiting for Bus who took me to Bondage a Go-Go (BaGG). Now, if there is something that is awesome, it is to experience different kinds of scenes different parties. I become like a horny sociologist, trying to take in as much as possible. BaGG had a great feeling to it, although I must admit that we spent most of the time in the play area so did not see much of the rest of the club. What I did gather though, was that BaGG managed to fuse a couple of things together which another club in London has tried but not succeeded  in doing: fusing the industrial/goth scene with kink. This was mainly done through the awesome music (as an industrial chick, it was heaven to get to play to so many great tracks). In either case, it was a really great place, with a small albeit very well managed play area.

As I had expressed an interest in Bus’ flogging skills (with Pink  politely pointed out that he is a sadist..) I felt slightly nervous, but also strangely centered as we entered the play area. Was strapped to the cross, and not before long the falls of the floggers started to rain over my back. This was one of those floggings which takes you so far away you are in lala-land. A warm up which was exactly that, not just a short interlude before the ‘real’ thing, but  carefully tempered and ministered. And it was the tempo and the sensations that got me;  florentine flogging at its best, moving with the music, but also creating music on its own; syncopations, emphasised beats, the sounds coming out from my mouth all of a sudden. It is like letting bodies do the talking, instead of the vocal chords it is the warm skin, the muscles, the un-planned guttural sounds, goose-bumps, the breathing, the pulse, skin involuntarily twitching, the back arching, moving away from but still drawn towards the pain. You simply don’t want it to end, but it always does. Something which was very special during many of the experiences in the US was that it felt ok taking time. Taking time sitting down and talk properly for a starter, but also, when in that state of bliss after play, it could take the time it took. Not always, but sometimes, it feels like I has to get myself together in a orderly fashion not too long after the play has finished, especially at parties (not on the private parties, but regular ones). But here I was, in lala land but also sitting at the floor, with Bus assuring me there was all the time in the world. Everything was like it was wrapped up in cotton, even the music was muted. And sitting there, at the floor, was like the most natural place to be in. It became a reminder to the self; to stay present in the moment. Around us, there were others playing, and the passion and skill people showed made my warm body feel even warmer.

A while later, when having landed, there was this little itch; I needed to tie someone. Was introduced to a lovely lass and we spoke a bit. She felt like playing, and I was borrowed a suspension ring. We set up, first rope is out of the bag, heart pounding already. People are busy chatting, standing next to the playspace with drinks, dancing. The suddenly, there is a stronger light and a voice announcing that a guest from abroad is here to demonstrate some of her rigging skills; and obviously people turn immediately around. For a brief moment I think something like: “SHITFUCKITYOHDEARGODSAVEME”, while pretending like I’m tying something really important behind the lovely girls’ back in order to hide what is probably written all over my face. Then one of those VNV Nation tracks comes on; a steady beat and a baseline,  a deep breath and then go. The adrenaline hits, the light makes it harder to see who is watching, and her body become the only thing that matters. With the adrenaline and the pace of the tying, it is almost like trying to scratch into her, dig deeply, removing layer after layer. It is not really pretty the rope, off centre and unbalanced, but god damn, it is so fun. Encasing her in a cocoon of rope and then just physical rope and bodies in motion; toying with her mind, moving in like an attack, forcing her off balance; a fistful of hair, her neck exposed. As the wham bam adrenaline wears off, I want to continue with the rope but with a less barrage of the senses, so the untying takes place on the floor, while sitting down, the rope is warm and so is her body, resting my cheek against her shoulder, controlling every movement, pushing her with my chest, adding tension rather than removing it even if the ropes are coming off. The last wrap around her wrists comes off; we have both forgot everything about the crowd. The evening continues, with more awesomeness, and when we walk back to the car, it feels like being wrapped up in cotton.

On the second day, I get showed around a very special and interesting place; my jaw dropping for each and every door that was opened. Suffice to say, I did not think about anything else than what horrible acts could be committed or was being committed. Those really abject, filthy, degrading, sadistic…..see, it is even hard to type anything about it!
Pink then fetched me and showed the touristy things, including Lombard street. We also found some sushi, and dear me, that sushi was basically perfect. Also walked on the Castro, which felt strangely touching. All this queer history and activism, the significance really struck, especially when visiting a LGBT-history museum. I am so grateful for those who paved the way, who fought back and stood their ground.

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That evening then finished with a visit to view the scenery described in the beginning of this post but also biting someone very cute in a dark parking lot.

I would like to thank Pink and Bus Driver who made the visit so unforgettable with your generosity and kindness. There is probably not words enough to express this gratitude, so I’ll just stop waffling.


Angelus Novus- The Renaissance

Angelus Novus by Paul Klee

The last couple of weeks, I’ve written more than I probably have ever done in this blog. After catching up with all the posts from Shibaricon, it was easy to continue writing, because it felt right. One thing which I have not touched upon at all are the recent changes in my personal life, probably because it has been too painful. This is still very much so. Went out dancing the other night, a man looked like him so much I had to go out for some fresh air.  This will be a very introspective ‘memememememe’ post, so if you are not up for some egotistical soul-searching, click on another post or just scroll down to read something else. You have been warned.

I don’t think there has been a more difficult time in my life, ever. At some point this Spring, while juggling university, there was a shift, an emotional and rational shift in how I felt about my relationship with J. I had been with him for almost 3 years at this point but was not prepared at all when it started to dawn on me that although I care about him greatly, and am extremely grateful and lucky about the amazing time we had together, I did not feel that I could continue the relationship. It was for me, at least, about being honest, both to myself and to him. During the time this took to realise, it felt like my whole body and mind was in pain. How could I even consider hurting someone like him by ending our relationship? But somehow, I came to the conclusion that it was the only thing I could do, unless there would have been more sadness and more frustration rather than mutual affection, trust and love. I’m not used to this, not used to listen to emotion but I’ll rather rationalise and ‘think things through’. It is probably my one and largest difficulty; to listen and to trust my emotions while still reasoning. But somewhere, through the stress and the pressure of finishing my university degree, there were so many cracks that the emotional reasoning became so loud I could not ignore it. There was something there that needed to come out, to be listened too. Almost like an internal scratching, that did not stop until it was listened too.

I guess it is typical for all things to come crashing down in the same time. There is never a right moment,  but somehow, my situation just became the perfect storm; an emotional crisis; finishing my dissertation and three other essays; relationship breakdown; hurting someone whom I cared about greatly; a decision having to be taken in regards to remaining in London; giving up my apartment back home in Sweden, revising for exams; preparing for the presentation at Shibaricon and my first trip ever to the States. And so on and so forth. I guess it became too much in the end, and had it not been for my friends I would probably not have made it through the final weeks in May. I remember being so scared of exactly everything; of myself, of others, of being alone, of being amongst people, of eating, of sleeping (nightmares), of staying awake. It took a phonecall to a friend in Sweden who said to me I had to reach out to someone nearby that made me realise I could not stay sane on my own. Another phonecall later and in no time, two very special people wrapped me up in their care. No bullshitting, no morale speeches, just them reaching out and offering a safe haven. As I stayed with them, the days became bareable; as they gave support, but also space and time. We worked together, ate together, I was reminded of how to relax, could speak to them if there was a need. I was fed copious amounts of meat, watched TV, helped with proof-reading. Dreamt about what we would do when it was finally all over. Went jogging in the morning, cuddled with a dog. Was prodded into writing by being promised to be tied up after 2500 word more. Before moving on to the next chapter, I would like to repeat this; there is no way I would have made it through without you, B & L. Also, Thot who proof-read, cuddled, pep-talked and supported in every single way, with so much patience.

And the deadlines came, and the exams were done, and suddenly, I was boarding the flight to Chicago. There was a strange feeling, arriving to the massive conference hotel on a continent I’ve never visited before, a Lost in Translation moment, when just sitting in my hotel-room on my own. A hotel room is a strange space and as Electronic Doll describes it, also perfect for BDSM. But right now, except for having rope and latex hanging around everywhere, it was not about BDSM, but it was about spending time with myself. The room was big and airy, a strangely silent space, filled with past encounters and guests but still empty.  Strangely, I did not panic about being alone, I decided to take some time and spend it with myself, as that was something I had not done for such a long time. That afternoon, night, following morning and day spent in the room became like an existence separate from what ever it was that frightened me so. Spending time with myself and taking the time do so. Eating, relaxing, taking one shower after the other, working on the presentation, unpack, listen to music, iron (!) the clothes, un-coiling and re-coiling the ropes, thinking about classes and the program, where to go next after Chicago. Defeaning silence with music, or turning off the Ipod to look through the huge windows at the rain  that came crashing down from a grey sky.

And then: the convention started. Pushed out from the bubble of the room, into something else, something completely different. And loving so much of it. Not only was I first forced to spend time with myself, but after that I had to push myself to the limit socially, I could not hide myself, there was nothing to hide behing because rope does not conceal the self, it reveals every millimeter of your skin, strips you raw. At times it became difficult, especially after I’ve tied so much and felt like I was draining myself. But after a couple of scenes with remarkable riggers the balance was back. And during the week, I started to believe in DS again, on a personal level. It was all the amazing DS, the loving, sadistic, twisted DS that was everywhere. And here something started to dawn upon me. What kind of DS I seek, who I am and a re-start of what kink means in this life that I live.

I am a switch. But it is through the role as a bottom/sub that resonates the strongest. It is not until now that I’ve actually started to understand this. I am a submissive, and I switch; indeed I do, but it is the submission, the focus of my mind and my body that I wish to emphasise, it is through those mindsets I really understand myself, a continous becoming rather than solid being. As I have said before;

This is not about a ‘gift’ of submission, given away to be unwrapped/discovered/fostered and placed on a mantelpiece; but an active, ongoing relational action and reaction of dominance and submission, an act of submission in which the only thing that exist is that focus of knowing the self enough to just let go, knowing the self so well that the self is forgotten except for the action/behavior which is required.

And I stand by those words, except that I very much can understand elements of ‘training’ and a fostering of a DS relationship. And then there is the whole switch-malarkey  or switchcraft and how I allow myself to speak of what roles I take. I love the play I do, otherwise I would not do it, and there is certainly a sadist and dominant that is a part of what I do. But fact remains, that if I top/dom more than bottom/submitting a feeling of unbalance and anxiety starts to mount. This is not the case the other way around strangely. So here it is, I am a submissive who switch, a bloody sadomasochist that cannot get enough. There is nothing I regret about this, it is more about me being able to navigate and acknowledge parts of myself that has long been neglected.  Furthermore, kink is a central element in my life. It is a large part of how I know and feel myself and others. I don’t want to be a one trick pony or one dimensional obsessive, but it is so integral to my day to day life; thus pretty much non-negotiable. When I started this, all of this kinky shit, I knew what it meant to me. I knew it was a practice that I did, how it affected me, and who I was in relation to it: I am not my practices; I am not submissive, I practice submission. Now, this has been the backbone of my personal politics in relation to kink. But I’m not sure about this anymore, I’m not sure about who I am and that identity in relation to kink. What I do know is that the practices are a part of me, in that they make me find a ground where I feel like I know myself better.

There has also been a resistance from me in identification, because I feel like it comes with assumptions and labels which are not mine. Just the practical thing about putting ‘submissive’ down on a website or internet community such as Fetlife , it is a simple action, but immediately, I feel like I claim something which is not mine, nor ideas and assumptions which does not fit the person whom I am. This resistance is double, in that it is both about me, but also, how often how fucked other people’s appreciation of submission in relationship to dominance is. These are strange politics that are going on both in my own head, but also in the real world of public kink, both off and online. I know, I know, I think too much, newsflash…

The thing is, that there are safe spaces, such as much of the social group I’m lucky enough to be a part of. They know who I am and respect me. So tonight, I’ll be going to a party and stay within the mindset of bottom/submissive. Last time I did this it did not really work out, but that was mainly because I did not plan it or spill it out as well. Today, I know that emails have been sent, people have been spoken to, ‘negotiations’ been made and we are on the same page.

Tattoo with the quote from Walter Benjamin's 9th Thesis on History

This post has been extremely difficult to write, but thank you for reading. Now, it is time to prep for the evening.

The sunbeams across the floor

We have known each other for years, mainly through the spoken word scene and mutual aqaintances. I must have been 16 the first time we ran in to each other, and two summers ago he made delicious cocktails in the bar around the corner from where I lived a short summer. He is tall, with a distinct look, somewhat rockabilly style, shy smile and a very nice voice. I never really thought there was any interest from his part, which was why I was so surprised when he emailed and asked about next time I would be in Sweden and if I wanted to meet up. It was a busy but very sunny week, and drinks felt like a perfect break from DIY and random annoying stuffs that needed taking care of.  We headed down towards the beach with cider and swimwear, ending up walking along the coast-line talking, before finding a a spot in the hot sand. It felt good, no, it felt better than good. It was relaxing, like a rekindling of a friendship, even though we never been very close. The first dip in the sea this year was refreshing, and I started to feel almost like a teenager again, in that very silly way. The sky was clear blue, a light breeze easing the burning rays of the sun. We spoke about our tattoos, what they meant to us, continued talking about poly and how respectivley finding our poly-identities had changed our lives. There was something… different about him, something more open, settled, and grounded. I think he kissed my hand first, then I kissed him. A slight taste of cigarettes, his gold-tooth feeling smooth, a hint of cider, the skin smelling of sun. My head rested on his chest, and I could hear his heartbeats.

There is something in the way he kissed, and how we spent the rest of the evening together.  We have a drink, talk. And time after time again, it feels so simple. We speak of kink, just by accident, finding common grounds. When returning to his, we make out on the couch for hours, my lips are become sore after all the kissing and it is a bit like being a teenager again. Then there is something rather special when I play with his nipples. It is like playing with an instrument  of flesh. Low moans, deep breaths, half-open mouth, closed eyes, whimpering. In the morning, the sun trickles through the window, beams dancing over the floor.

We continue to meet each other during the following week and we talk, cuddle, kiss, eat ice cream, dance, talk more. There is a security with him, in that he knows what he wants from poly and feel very secure about it. The last evening, we meet for some ice-cream and then decide that we should really go for an evening swim after he has finished his work shift. Said and done. The beach is almost empty around nine in the evening, but we have blankets and swim suits and sit down eating strawberries. It becomes almost a bit kitsch, watching the sunset; the rays of the sun turning dark pink. I run into the water, thinking it should be very cold but it is not. The evening air is now colder than the water. We walk further out, the waters are still shallow, and then I just have to attack him. As he loose the balance we end up sitting in the water, he gasp as I straddle him, pressing my legs tightly against him. Dunking him into the water, seeing how his eyes are so still under the water turns somewhat other worldly, he is so very still, pushed under the surface.

When we dry up, he pretend like he does not need the large, warm cardigan he bought and give it to me. I quickly realise he is just pretending, as his tall body is shaking after the swim and we swap. It means that I can move better now as well, and there is both an element of care there, but also practicality. How am I supposed to tie someone up if their muscles are so cold they cannot move? He is a sweet romantic guy, but I want him, his body and his mind completely focussed on us, on me, on the sensations, not to be shaking due to being cold. Stawberry eating, heart to heart, kissing, watching the sun disappearing into the sea. After literally lying on top of him to make sure he is not shaking anymore we swap sweaters so I can tie more easily. The blindfold goes on, again to make him focus on the feeling of the experience, to focus on us, on me.

It is getting darker and darker outside and the mosquitoes are out in full force, and I have never really tied while being under attack from mosquitoes. Got the thin ropes with me, and decide quickly to only do a short scene, in order for us to come out alive and with a drip of blood left in our bodies. Bloodplay took a whole different dimension that evening. It is his first experience of rope, and even if the tie is a standard one, his expressions of the experience become nothing like a standard one. Prepare for gross generalisation: Usually, I find men having a harder time letting go into the experience, they try to pre-empt the next move, or can’t stop anxiously twitching, requiring a high level of intense and often physical stimuli to settle into what is happening  and to remain present in the moment. Sometimes this can be really interesting and intense, but sometimes, like when sitting on a beach, the mood is different. His body dances beneath my fingers, but not twitching or moving anxiously, it his pulse and heart, slightly shivering skin, that lush mouth open, breathing deeply in and out, only a tiny, barely noticeable gasp. When the shape of the tie is done, I start moving the ropes again, leaning him back into my arms, closing my hand around his nose and mouth, stealing his breath, pulling a wrap of the rope tighter with the other hand. Kissing his forehead, it becomes clear that the bugs are biting through his sweater, and the untying clearly has to start. Sometimes, tying up the ropes is just as good, if not better, than the build up towards the finished tie. But here, it is just as good as everything else. He is first quiet, when we cuddle. Then saying something, and after expressing a wish to go back to his in order to remove my clothes I simply lift my dress and sit on his face. His tongue is working away, the beach is completely dark, can hear the waves, and the geese which are the only ones present except for us. I ride his face, pin his head and upper body down, pinching his nose shut, his licking gets more frantic, the lack of oxygen give him a sense of urgency. I sit there, grinding my wet cunt against his face until I come.

Back home at his, we end up in the sofa again.  Unbuckling the belt while his eyes meeting mine, then tightening it around his neck, pulling the noose tighter and tighter. Holding him down by the knees then releasing the pressure. The evening is now pretty warm, and we go out for some fresh air on the small balcony. It is passed 2 in the morning, and the city is completely dead, a Sunday night, only one or two people out walking. And he looks so incredibly dapper in his smoke robe, it is gold and the decadence it gives to the whole situation only gets better as he kneels down, yet again. This time I just kick back, relax, he knows exactly what to do, and the only thing I need to do is not to get loud, as the people standing underneath the balcony having an evening cigarette would appreciate a bit too much.

Before we both pass out I hurt him some more, he definitely had earned such pleasures, the metal sticks are scratching his back, pressing against his balls, making him whimper and shake. The skin of his back is warm when we fall asleep in each others arms. I wake up in the morning, looking at him sleeping, following the patterns created once more by the sun beams.

Now I’m back in London now and I miss him already.


He splurts when the water hits his face, a look of surprise, a look of anger and confusion. His white shirt is ripped open, showing off a ripped chest and strong muscles, but also; exposed skin, vulnerable. We all consist of flesh, skin, nerves, muscles. So does J, a man who I consider a friend, a brilliant brain and right now, my punching bag, entertainment, toy and bottom.

For this occasion, he is dressed in a full Eastern German uniform, and he wears it so well. Like a Tom of Finland archetype, but with the added extra touch of…well, the uniform. We are also in a very interesting space, decorated like an interrogation room in Eastern Germany. All the concrete, the weird furnitures, the hard wooden chair and the desk, with a sharp lamp, a separate small room for solitary confinement. Even a nice flag and a framed print of a communist leader and comrade. It is, simply put: perfect.I am, on the other hand, dressed in a sequined see-through dress. Earlier, when seeing us entering the club, it was easy to assume him as the top and me as a bottom. I had assumed that I would be a bottom myself, not bringing any toys what so ever. It quickly changed though, an urge to turn the tables, step out of an assumed role into one what perhaps would suit better for this mood. Feeling that urge to hurt something, to bring someone to that place where bodies clash. Me and J spoke a bit, I pointed out the scene I had in mind was not really pretty at all and that I had to trust him to be able to not lash back at me, if this was something that he wanted to do as well. It is only recently I’ve started playing with people much stronger than myself. A strange rush, as it is possible for them to at any point turn the tables. I’m curvy and have strong legs, but also short and would be no match for J. But as we start to play, it is that tension which makes it interesting, that potential threat, but also about the scene being one in which we are challenging each other and other peoples’ notion of what they see or think they see each and every day. I found a couple of pieces of kit, not much really, but a chain (always good), a water bottle, a piece of rope and that was about it.

Take off your coat”. I sit in front of him, he stands next to the wooden chair and looks a bit amused, but also slightly perturbed. I am comfortable now. Look straight at him as the coat unveils that chest, a rather proud and composed chest and his chisled jawline, proud but now under more objectification than anything else.My softer chair denotes a dominant position, and I tell him to sit down on his wooden one. I stand up and push my body against him, he is so warm, a mix of body heat and the soft feeling of the white shirt. The black tie is like a flag around the neck. Too much fabric in the way, to many layers. His white shirt tears open easily, the buttons fly all over. He seems surprised at first, but then settles again. A rope around his wrists, raising them over his head, tying them so that magnificent chest is completely exposed.I sit down again, look at him, his skin, and when our eyes meet while I press my brown brogue against his crotch he probably understands what I meant that it is not going to be pretty. Arms spread above his head,held up by the rope and expose that vulnerability and strength. He grunts, shoulders shaking,a low moan rising to a barytone that carries over the sound of the party. He can see me still, meet my eyes, breathing. The brown leather belt in his trousers is removed, it is perfect to act as a blind-fold. The tie, a marker of masculinity turns into a noose, he struggles as I am pulling it. I start to slap his face,punch his stomach,feeling the tensed muscles under my fist as it lands in his side. I straddle him as he sits on the wooden chair. And it feels like it is not possible to get closer to someone, it is not possible to get closer to another human being than we are now. He is not naked, nor am I, but this closeness is about vulnerability and allowing oneself to bask in the sensations. I have to brace myself to not slap his face with the back of my hand, but to use the palm instead. The slaps rains over his face, first slower, calculated, then faster and faster. He shouts, first grunts, then a “Come on! Bring it!”, like he wants to know how much he is willing to take. I step up to the challenge, he tenses more against the restraints now. The slaps now pours over his face, and the rope is pushed, he shouts, yells and feed off me in the same way as I feed off him. Every now and again I throw that water into his face, to force him to stay composed, to force him to remain in this moment.

We all wear uniforms, every day. But they only define us if we want them to, and allow them to.