Tag Archives: sex

Tidbits-tentacle pr0n and machine-fuckery

Due to this case has come to my attention, I will edit this post so no misunderstanding will come from it. First of all, this is a post about sexual fantasy, as well as performance art. Anyone else who consider it to be something else is a nutcase.

So, my exams are almost over, but I’ve still got procrastination to do.

What do you know of the history of fetishes?How old exactly is the wish to be flogged or the fetishization of feet?
Take a look at this and you might be surprised.
My favorite is the tentacles.

I think I can look at that picture and never get bored of it. It might sound odd, and I am quite terrified of my fascination. A couple of weeks ago there was a bondage performance at **** and **** was tied up, suspended and flogged with large squids, covered in color. It was an intense performance,but I was left somehow questioning it. All of the images I’ve seen so far with squids and octopus pr0n, have been with them being alive and active, engaging sexually with another body. The squids used in the performance were dead bodies, and so some of the fascination was removed.There was still the tactility of it, the shine and the gore, but many of the possibilities of the multiple legs were gone, as they were dead.
All in all though I’m really fascinated, because this really is on the border of fascination, at least if one considers the bestiality issue. The fantasy of sex with a tentacle-creature somehow transcend the usual notion of bestiality, or does it really? Is that something that we have made up in our heads, yet again? There is strong cultural connotations here, but we also have the mythical creatures of Medusa and her hair. Some more here for your viewing pleasure:

version of tentacle-pr0n is the funniest one though.

One more link before I have to dig deep down in to sociological theory.
This one is a list a couple of ‘impractical’ fetishes and while I can agree with some, and laugh at some other, what caught my attention this time, was the technosexuality/technophiliac. While everyone who knows me pretty much know I shag a lot of nerds (can’t help it) I am actually not that in to technology or even computers for that matter. But I always loved Bjork’s video:

And I can’t help finding the imagery so fucking hot. It is the same fascination that I hold of the concept of cyborgs, the merging of human and ‘machine’ as parts of each other. But then again, there is the concept of sex-dolls, those machines who are made in to looking exactly like a human woman, and even respond to touch, etc. This concept freaks me out, not because of it’s nature, but from where those who are engaging in this type of research and what kind of femininity they invent.

In any case, soon exams are over and I can breathe a bit. Strange that I keep on writing so much when I know I have exams. I think it is called procrastination.


Too Much Pussy! A Queer X-show

It’s cold, I’ve got a bad version of insomnia and February makes me feel miserable. I’m dreaming about warmer times and thinking about the summer. One amazing thing that I got to experience this summer was The Queer X-show.

By Deborah Degouts

The Queer X-show was 7 women who traveled through Europe in a van, performing on various stages and all this was filmed. The ‘first sexplicit, queer, documentary road movie’ was filmed by Emilie Jouvet. And it was awesome

The heroes of my summer became this amazing group, which consisted of DJ Metzgerei, Wendy Delorme, Judy Minx, Madison Young, Mad Kate, Sadie Lune, & Emilie Jouvet. But not only did I get to see them once but twice.First time was in Stockholm, during Stockholm Pride. Queer Allstars, organized by Wotever was one of the best parties during the week. Then they had already toured around Europe with their sexpositive message and full-frontal (femme) feminism and fuckery.
I did not really know anything about them, more than they were not to be missed. And the show itself started while I was snogging a gorgeous woman, not being entirely sober. So my concentration was maybe directed more at my fistfull of her hair than what happened at stage. But suddenly everything else stopped and I was breathing harder than ever. I don’t know which part of the show it was, except that it was spellbinding, terrifying, sexy and utterly in your face. A couple of people became upset, and I felt uneasy too, but not because of the show but because of some of the reactions from the audience. Undressed women carry many connotations, and I for one was sad when the biggest response from the audience came when someone showed their tits. Not because of the tits (they were stunning!) but because of the almost mandatory, general reaction in the audience. You know, the alpha male ‘rapture’. I know that a couple of people in the audience also felt uneasy, and some left because they were not able to reconcile their personal and political identities with what went on on stage.

Anyhow, when Mad Kate, dressed in zentai suit, tied herself into a karada and masturbated with a Hitachi while having microphones enhancing every sound, I could feel the electricity in the whole room.

Pic by Jean Pol

Judy Minx then came out, all innocent, making you think about very naughty ageplay, spitting gruel all over the audience before stripping and pissing on stage. Her small-girl personae was really something else

A captivating technofiliac scene followed, with a doll-like performance and a nighmarish ghoul performing a slow, painfully slow, strip, finishing kissing each other and in the same time blood flowing en mass from their mouths. I think this was one of the performances that made me cry. This passive, made up doll being undressed by a tall, dark, deformed figure. These characters who rested in their relationship, taking each other so far as to streams of blood. It is so hard to describe all the feelings, but the interplay between Delorme and Mad Kate was heartbreakingly beautiful.

The final playpiercingstrip I could barely watch (at that point my needlephobia was still getting in the way), but I could not help but taking sneak peaks. The oriental theme, with a conclusion that gave me the connotations of a sense of community and love for eachother echoed throughout the evening in Stockholm. I even thought about it while being lovingly stroked and pampered in the dungeon afterwards.

Then, a week later, back in the south of Sweden we realize that the same show is going to be shown in our town. It was not hard to decide whether to go and see them again or not. As for the most of the summer I was feeling a bit odd as we drove down to the venue on our bicycles, and that evening I was feeling antisocial, to be more specific. But at some point, I got tired of that feeling and decided that it was rope that I needed. So I turned back on my bicycle, pedaled like a mad person back, fetched my rope and got first a hold of E and then K. And after some lemonade and some knots I felt better already.
So when they came onstage again, I could just sit back and enjoy the ride that these performers take you on. The venue was different and it was a very different crowd as well. The art-gallery made the setup very different, all in all.

Things that struck me in this show was how much closer you could come to the performers. At an early stage, Judy Minx performed her piece about BDSM, and I was crying so much that it felt like floodgates had burst. It reminded me of people I missed, touches that I had to imagine instead of feeling, and reminded me of a sense of loss, a loss of something that I almost never even had.

BDSM is the quiet, firm pressure of your arm on my skin, pushing into my flesh as if I were made of dough.
It is the way your eyes stare coldly at me sometimes, moving slowly on me, observing me, examining every inch of me.
It is the slightest gesture – a reassuring nod of your head, telling me I can hold ten more seconds, just ten more seconds, and be a good girl for you ; a quiet look in your eyes that says trust me ; a little patting on my head, to tell me you’re proud of me, to tell me how strong and good I’ve been ; a word or two, you know you don’t need more, I know what you expect from me, and I know how to obey ; or an interrogative look, with something of a warning in it, is this what I told you to do ? is this how a good girl should behave ? what’s getting into you, don’t you want to please me ? you wouldn’t want to disappoint me. you’ve been bratty enough for tonight. quit it. now.
BDSM is your hand at the back of my neck, just this slight, gentle pressure at the back of my neck that paralyzes me all the way down my spine, controlling my every moves.

BDSM is you to me
BDSM is you and me.

It is well worth it to visit Judy’s own blog and read the whole text. It sure made me cry more than usually, and I’ve been called waterworks more than one time. A different burlesque came from Wendy Delorme, captivating and almost hypnotic she carefully watered the flowers.

Wendy Delorme, by Emilie Jouvet

Mad Kate did one of her fast-paced aggressive numbers, forcefully making the audience think about the self, the participation of social networks on internet and how scewed the notion of being a member of such communities can become, in which every second is documented, written about/upon, every moment captured with the help of a camera-lense and all of the informations that we crave transferred every second by wires or wireless networks. Hearing her scream about how she had to update her Facebook, check the Twitter, has any one written?!, is there any change since she last checked?! , this was both fun and frightening. And I decided to stop being stressed about updating More Inches.

Mad Kate, by Emilie Jouve

One other highlight (among many, so many that I will not write of all of them here) was Sadie Lune’s invite from her to look at her cervix. All a part of the educational and sex-positive spirit in which the show was performed with. She sat down in a plush chair, started talking about anatomy and cunts and then she took out a plastic speculum which she inserted. With the help of a torch, she then did a cervix viewing, encouraging people to step forward and look at her cervix. While doing this, she also answered questions about female anatomy. Many people stepped forward, but it took some time before they dared to do so. This felt at no time inappropriate and no one behaved in an abusive manner. The performers were powerful subjects (or if objects, chosen to be such) with bodies of their own, and this was very much the strength of the whole of the Queer X-show. It might sound strange that I’m saying it at all, but there is such a twisted notion in the world, which is a notion about the female form that cannot be viewed without being exploited. And that is to a certain extent true, but what if we are still subjects? What if the exploitative model does not suit all situations? I think this is a very true case when speaking of Queer X show. They refuse the notion of the powerless hypersexualized body, in favour of one that is true to relating to a sex-positive message while still refusing the normative mode in which the female body is produced. Maybe it should be noted that even if all of them could be considered ‘pretty’ or beautiful (not always very useful notions them either) they were often reclaiming their bodies on stage, and controlled the way that we could view them. This meant that distortions were never far away, a stripping to the bone, or a body moulded after their own likings. ‘Uglyfied’ is maybe the wrong word, but definitely different from what we think a body of beauty should look like. This challenge was for me, personally, the largest turn on, in a way that made me participate but to also think about who is really watching who.

Sadie Lune by Emilie Jouvet

Another beautiful scene, was the last ceremony in which the group showed their solidarity which sex-workers ended the show it self, although the party continued afterwards with great music, friendly people and of course, a sauna on wheels, which was used by many. It stood outside the venue, half a meter from the water (we were in the harbor) and the evening became full of nekkid people who bathed, sat in the sauna, made out, had sex, drank, danced, talked, rode on bikes in the nude. You name it.
And what did I do? I took it all in, then continued tying. Dolly, the poor thing looked good in the middle of the night, naked and stuck.

And what is even better, the trailer for the movie shot by Jouvet, can be seen here

You can find Queer X show’s blog here

New horizons

Working away on other projects, such as returning to being social and meeting lovely people, as well as studying my ass off and finding my way back into the kinklife with one of the persons whom I love,  I’m just going to post  a small thing  about some added links in our blog-roll, as well as a link to a very interesting post about a different kind of petplay.

Oh, btw. Is there not a very exiting thing about getting to know people who are really, really interesting? It is very much like discovering new rooms or streets, and it makes you think. I’m doing a lot of introspective craft right now, and being surrounded by strong and wonderful people make life very much easier.

So, a new link to our blogroll is the fantastic Sex in Art. It is a must because art and sex is two good things that I really enjoy. This is just one of the fantastic examples that you might experience if you click on the link:

We also have ‘Letter from a Seraglio‘ with us.  I personally love the style of  this harem-girl’s writing, and hope you also will.

Finally, in this post we read a new take on pet-play. When thinking of petplay, we usually hear about things like cats, dogs, ponies, occasional pigs, but have you ever thought of birdplay?
It is so well worth a read, because it reminds me of exactly why I love the elements of sex in which you have to use your fantasy, dig deep, do research, make an effort. I crave the unexpected, the fantasy turning into reality, tales that materialize right in front of you. And also, because unexpected things, those that do not follow an automatic mode of producing kinky bodies and minds, are extremely hot. Suprise me, pass boundaries, challenge me, and it could be possible I’m interested.

So maybe, taking on a falcon could be something? My father, a very keen semi-amateur ornithologist, took me out birdwatching when I was a very small kid and although the wait was boring, the hot chocolate burned my tongue, the rain to cold and the warm socks not warm enough, I always turned silent when I saw the eagles soar. Is there someone in the world that can do that by emulating a bird? I don’t know, but let’s have a go!

The Basement Body

The bus is moving and I want to moan out loud. His smile is barely visible but he know as well as I do that it takes a certain amount of self-discipline to not yell out loud. Under my coat small wires lead down in my panties, thin wires attached to small sticky notes of paper. It may seem completely innocent, but it is everything but innocent. He sits next to me, stroking my hair with one of his hands, the other he keeps in his pocket. The double-decker keeps on moving like only double-deckers in London move, with harsh jumps forward and twitchy stops. Like a small animal that is not sure of weather to move forward or to stay in the same spot. I know what the little device in his pocket looks like, imagine a electronical key for a car. But the reason why it rests perfectly between his fingers is not because that he is a proud owner of a Volvo or a Toyota, it is because of the electric impulses it controls. Small, battery-driven electrical impulses shoot out from the little black box attached to the belt of my trousers, hidden under my leatherjacket.  The goal for these impulses is my cunt. Or rather the lips of my cunt, close, close to my clit. A deep, tickling massage that by time intensifies. I try to concentrate on looking at London but the view is pretty uninteresting. And I don’t want to meet his eyes. His eyes that undress me in his mind.

What are you thinking about?

How come you make me want to much. And I think about how it is weird that it is still so bright outside, the sun is still shining although it is seven o’clock.

It’ll the nice going to Club Fukk. Cool and nice. Don’t forget to take care of my stuff in the wardrobe. I’ll take care of the rest.


He laughs, scratches me in the neck and place a light kiss on my cheek. He is dressed in black, well cut trousers, a white shirt and a jacket. The tie is in the bag, the big black bag.
We are headed towards a club were the heat comes from bodies that press against eachother, not from the sun. We know that everything we might need can be found there, close friends, fuck buddies, the possibility of voyeurism and exhibitionism. Condoms, latexgloves and lube. But we want more. I want more. I want to feel hands pressing against my skin and I want adrenaline. That is where the big, heavy, black bag comes in to the picture. The content of this bag is one that only he knows about. That is how we do it. That is how we always do it.

This is our stop
I’m wearing what I was asked to wear. A simple, white tanktop, a sportsbra and military-green cargo pants. A leatherjacket and sunglasses together with my darkbrown hair in a braid, a leatherbracelet. I like walking through the neighborhood with him, passing a thai-restaurant but I am hungry for something else. He presses down the button on the little device in his pocket, and as we pass alleyway after alleyway I silently moan and ask him to either Stop or fuck me here and now among the rubbish.

Not yet. Get a grip of yourself.

There is a chilling tone in his voice that I am not prepared for. It showers me with a cold feeling, silences me trying to get attention and then we arrive to the club, not a minute too late.
As we walk through the door a welcoming and familiar voice greets us. The warm hugs happen all while still having the electrics pounding the lips of my cunt.
I take care of all the items that are going in to the cloak room.  I can hear their voices while doing this, and fragments of their discussion makes me curious.
…just wanted to tell you, so there is no uncomfortable misunderstandings.

That is very appreciated, but there should really be no problems.

Have fun!
As he walks over to me, I can’t help but ask.
What was that about?


In the same split second I’m pushed against the uneven stonewall, arms locked behind my back. A cloth is pulled over my head, an in that moment I am the willing victim, trapped, the one who want to run away but still stay. I’m pushed ahead of him, against a wall that proves to be a door, stumbling along. My memory tells me that we are inside the club now, going in the direction of the dancefloor. The world looks different from under the cloth with nothing to orientate myself with. Automatically I stop to try to figure out my position, but he continues pushing me ahead, pushing me away from the dancefloor and then one more wall against my cheek. Uneven, cold and slightly sticky. His fingers slowly move inside me while he whispers to me that I should only speak if asked. And he will ask me only about the last 24 hours. And I will tell him everything.

So, it started to happen, the dangerous, all of those things we have talked so much about. And I know that I only have to express the words
‘I’ve only slept and nothing else’  and it will all stop. But I want to go there, become challenged, used, scared, cum hard and long. And I want to use lust with him. All that he can give, all that he want to give.

You can’t go anywhere. You can’t anything else but what I tell you and right now I want you to tell me everything. There is no other way to make this stop.

First I don’t believe him. Test him. His grip around my wrists relaxes slightly when we move through the club and I give it a try. Or my legs try to run, but the cloth over my head and my arms and hands behind my back makes it harder than I thought.
Two seconds later and then I can feel his body again, gripping and pushing me down on the floor.

Was that you trying to escape? Was that really you trying to escape from all this? You probably have to try harder than that. Have you not realized you are mine? That you are mine and you are going to tell me everything. If your vocabulary feels restriced I got things here that can help you. I got water, a knife, electricity, a gun and of course my hands. Amongst many other things. Tell me all about every step you took, all your slutty thoughts, everyone you spoke to, what you said, how often you touched yourself. If you do good I might even reward you, but if you keep information from me I have no other choice than to use those resources that I got at hand. And I might already have to use some of those in other to make you realize that I am serious

And then I can feel the cold metal. It starts with metallcuffs around my ankles, then my wrists. And then the chains, heavy and icing cold, pulled between the cuffs, force me into a sitting fetus-position, making my back ache. He keeps me there, can feel his eyes crawling over my body.
He lies me down on the side, the concrete floor feels sticky and the grovel press in to my skin, almost in search of where it hurts the most.

You don’t think I’m serious do you? That I can’t beat you until you are a wet heap of blood and then leave you here? Or is it water that you want? Something to drink, something that will help you loose that tongue and start to speak.
And that is something I really want. Water. To get the cloth off my head and get away the dry sensation and to be able to breathe. I nod and start to try to lift my head but instead I feel water running down my face, slowly drenching the cloth that start to try to find its way into my nose and mouth. I try to move, change how the cloth falls over my face but then he firmly press my head down. And then, I just try to adapt, to control my breathing trough the wet fabric and my whole body aches, and my cunt is pulsating and I feel the beat of my heart, not trying to give anything away.

In my own world, I hardly notice when he first grips me, and then push me over on to my back. The wet concrete floor is cold and again his boot is pressing against me, against my chest and then his hands around my throat.
I can strangle you right here and now. But you are not saying anything. Is that because you are stupid and don’t realize that you can get away from all of this?

The wet clothes are sticky against my skin and the small stones dig their way deep into my shoulderblades.  The chains are still there, but not as tight. I can move now but know what happened last time I tried to move.
His boot is removed from my chest and the cloth is pulled off from my face. A torch light up in my face, making me blind, disorientates and distorts all shadows. A faceslap and I have to breathe to be able to remain in a upright position.
These are in the way. You wear your clothes like armour. Sit still, don’t move a millimeter.
I hear a click and a cold blade. A knife opens the tank top, cutting it slowly while the torch still lights up my face, blinding.  He rips the top off, then cut my sports-bra,  grabbing each breast and clamp them, clamps that are connected with the little evil black box, I know because the my breasts start to pulsate.
Faceslaps and now my eyes are watering, tears streaming down my red, sore cheeks. But I don’t say anything. When he starts to hit my back with the palm of his hands I can also somewhere in those hits feel gentler strokes. Maybe it’s my imagination or maybe he actually strokes me. It is a fact that confuses me even more, and the hot flashes from his beating hands travels over my back in the speed of light.  But the rush that follows make me strong, convinced of how strong I can be in my helplessness. I can only give him what I want to give, and I feed on what he wants to give me.
Time pass, time that is relative. The intensity of the electricity is boosted, but I can’t pay attention to that when he continues to beat me. Instead I scream, first time out loud and guttural. I yell something about that I want him to stop, but he does not stop. Instead he lies me down, on the ground, I can feel his sweat, locate exactly where his body is for the first time; I can  feel him and his heartbeats next to me.
You will be free as son as you tell me what I want to hear. You remember it all and you know what I want to hear, is that not true, yes? Answer me.
My head nods, but I don’t say anything. I say nothing.
That was what I thought

He pulls me up on the knees. Heavy arms weighed down by chains. My head drop and I am as heavy in my body as I am light.  A body heavy as a thousand tons but yet a body light as a feather. He grips my plaited hair, turn my face towards him and give my forehead a brief, light kiss. And in that moment I come.

Heavy as a thousand tons but still a body light as a feather.

I say nothing, shakes, but not because I’m cold but because of the adrenaline. I have said nothing.

Gush! G-spotting?

So, ‘recent’ research has showed that apparently the G-spot does not exist. Or does it?
I don’t have any scientific credentials, but here is my own take on the matter:

The G-spot phenomena has been thoroughly exploited on many levels. This is nothing unusual when it comes to female anatomy and sex. While Dr. Whipple and John Perry in 1982 coined the term for a sensitive area right after the entrance of the vagina they probably could never imagine what it would lead to, in terms of hype. Let us consider how this can be and how the issues concerning female sexuality are so easily exploited and how they constructed as truths or falsifications. We can do that by looking at another part of the female body that has been considered, used, reconsidered and now even re-named. I will not at any point claim there is or is not a ‘ G-spot’ though, for that I’m not enough qualified.
But my main theme in this text is about control. The control over women’s bodies. So, let’s take the hymen as an example that has to do with female anatomy and power over women’s bodies.
It is now proven there is actually not any membrane covering the entrance of the vagina and thusly, the patriarchal invention is one of mythological proportions A mythology that still haunts our modern society as well as many other societies. I’m not going to dwell to much of the impact it has had, but let’s just say that people has died because of it, and that there is a huge business, now, in the 21st century, in to ‘restoring’ something that has not ever existed. It’s big bucks…to maintain an idea about the whore and the madonna.

For those interested, it is more of a wreath, following the anatomic contours. That is why in Sweden, they have renamed it to ‘vaginal wreath’ in order to dismantle to dangerous notion of a membrane.

Now, what the fuck has this to do with anything? Well. I would not dare to say that there is not areas within the body that react in certain ways, and that gushing does not happen. What I do doubt though, is the exact specifics of it and how it’s been used as a holy grail.In one sense we need more research, but it comes with a problem. The problem of how science can become ridden by assumptions that are not scientific. Bodies change, lust is not the same for everyone, and sexual activity is not always streamlined.
The G-spot phenomena has been an amazing thing to exploit, and also something that has benefited many women. But as many as swear by it, there is also many who claim to never found, no matter how many hooked fingers with a bit of a bent, pressuring against the wall of the vagina they have experienced.That does not mean that one is right or the other is wrong. It means that we are different, and react differently.

I soaked the sheets less than a week ago, but for years I did not understand what people were going on and on about. The toys specified for g-spotting was ridiculous. And I would not say that my gushing has anything to do with the spot and it might be that my largest objection is against the name. The Spot.
I had a reaction on a action at is was very pleasurable and fun. I had the benefit of being able to enjoy that and is that not what it comes down to? Enjoying your body in a way that gives you pleasure that is not haunted by a competition.

It can be hard though. I’ve meet so many women who have been frustrated because of their partners frustration in the quest of g-spotting. I remember a moment that I’ve classifed as the biggest turn off ever. The guy was fingering me, kinda nice, then did something with his fingers, and very smugly said “And there..!..is the G-spot.” The expecting look of his face, very much like a kid waiting to recieve an applaud for doing something, implied that I would turn into a gushing mess, screaming like a banshee while orgasming. I might add I did not. Instead, it became boring and I was annoyed. My body is not a map, or a quest. I am not a problem to solve or a puzzle to piece together.

The competition to find the map to the g-spot is utterly bonkers, not helped by porn, crap sex-industry, ill-informed advisors and wrong focus on lust and education. Not helped by bad research, ridden by old and weird assumptions of the female body and lust. Assumptions that haunts the appreciation of the male lust as well.

So, how about trying to move away from the competition, appreciate that there is an AREA inside the vagina that can react in a very distinct way, but that it is not only technique that create a reaction, it is not about a direct correlation between action and reaction? In the same way that our sex-drive is not constantly exactly the same, our sensitivity is not.
NO-ONE, NO-ONE has the right to make you or anyone else feel pressured when it comes to sexual activities. You are the person who can decide what you want, and roam around in any way that you need to make that decision. Make mistakes, laugh about them, hit the right notes and come in any way you like, but always, always remain sceptical. And you don’t ‘need’ to come. Don’t allow anyone to treat your sexuality like a problem, or non-consensually turning you into an experiment, and

For more, really, really good reading on the G-spot take a look at this link:
Yes, there is a G-spot

I’m all tied up at the moment

The story about the bound hugfriend:

He is quite dominant, my hugfriend. So I tied him up. Not really like that maybe, but basically.

I’m not the ma/ist/e/ress of ropes at all, and he isn’t either, so I figured we should play around and workshop a bit in a nonsexual way to see what we could accomplish with our 10 metres of rope. Turns out that “nonsexual” was not one of the things.

I started out tying his feet together and attaching that to a rope I then attached to a leg in each corner of the bed (two lower corners, you know). He couldn’t move much, but a little. There was enough space though for me to put a knee between his thighs and force his legs apart (fun!). After checking he got blood to his feet and everything was tied securely enough I tied up his arms in a way that he could get out of with a little work, but that would feel sturdy enough. Took some work, but I had a lot of fun (fun!). Turned out he had to. Or well, fun might not be the right word here. But he did like it. I never heard anyone so angrily ask pretty please to get to fuck me.

Had fun, got a bit unsecure about my role and dropped out of dommie headspace, loosened up the knots. Then my turn. He tied me up in some strange kneebending way that was actually both quite comfy and good, I was impressed. And much closer to a good subspace than I’ve been with anyone in ages. Interesting change is that when he untied me, I was the opposite of what I would have thought. I wasn’t all Oh THANK you LORD mighty HUGFRIEND of supersexay sir whatever, but what I said was “I’m not finished, fuck me with your hand, now”. And he said “oh, ok”. And there was light (possibly fireworks). I came out of subspace into a new and improved silia deluxe. I sort of liked that. I usually never asks for things sexually, but I realized that if I want those orgasms, I better tell. Even if he gives them often enough, I can’t just wait around like some christian girl hoping jesus will fulfill her wishes anyway. If the prophet isn’t coming to the mountain, the mountain will have to shape up and move it’s ass to the prophet.

Good night it was anyway. And I’m gonna think about it for a while longer, since it’s a month until I see him again and I just can’t bring myself to go out and pick up random person for sex in the meantime. I’m getting old and lazy.
Speaking of no sex for me, anybody have any good altporn links?

This whole sub-thing, I’m doing it wrong

Ok, people, a question for you:

How the heck do you ever manage?

I find myself constantly mixing up my roles and getting even more confused. So please, pretty pretty readers, tell me how you do to separate that subby little person inside of you with the one who is supposed to have a normal functioning relationship.
I know that if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m intelligent (enough intelligent, at least) and can see through myself (a bit) I’d end up in an abusive relationship where I’d just succumb to this deep desire to just you know, be punished for being me. Since according to me, I’m always wrong. And probably needs to be punished. Possibly killed.

To be sexually submissive (switchy, really, but mostly submissive) and combine that with a mind that constantly tells me that I’m horrible, is not the best of ideas.

I really just want to tell the hugfriend “Take away my rights, control everything, and please hurt me a lot.”. I’m not doing that though, because I’m not a teenager and I do understand that I’d only get even more fucked up in the process. Please note that I’m not a painslut, so I would more suffer than enjoy myself anyhow most of the time.

Can anyone else reckognize themselves in this? I’m aiming for the overkill while writing this, but you know, the general feeling.

I mean, how normal is it to oh-gazm while thinking of your hugfriend drowning you, because you accidentically woke him up by calling to early. (The calling did happen in real life, and popped up in my mind while working my way towards the Oh.)

I know normal might not be a concept we really aim for here, but I’d say even a very liberal therapist would think that’s over the line.

So how do you do it people? How do you keep yourself sane and functional, without turning into a complete doormat, when the option is within reach?

(Ok, hugfriend would never let me go doormat on him, but if I’d lowered my standards far enough, I’m sure there’s plenty of middle aged men with redeveloped babyfat that would just love to assist me on my road to doom.)

If I'm gonna be a doormat, this is the doormat I want to be.